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Dick saw himself as a peacekeeper, he felt had to be, when he had no family or friends. He saw his own amiable nature as a sort of security blanket that softened any rough edges of his adolescent personality. He was insecure about his place in the manor and in the world.
Bruce had brought him to the manor when he was eight years old, the very same age Bruce’s own parents had been murdered. It was something they shared, and Dick saw Bruce as a sort of older version of himself, he naturally thought that Bruce saw him as his younger self. Like purchasing the inner child work interactive experience.
So even he himself was surprised when he had accidentally referred to Bruce as his ‘dad’, his cheeks had burned with shame at his mistake.
He felt them burn hotter still at the memory of Bruce’s frozen frame in the doorway to the kitchen, and how he hadn’t said anything, then turned and left. How Dick didn’t see him the rest of that evening and Alfred looked at him with what he thought to be a mixture of an apology and pity.
Dick loathed the pity. Though he understood its importance as a reminder of where he stood in the house. He was not Bruce Wayne’s son, he was not Alfred’s grandson, and his place here was temporary, conditional depending on how well he performed. He had to complete more dangerous tricks than he ever did in the circus to ensure his position beside the larger-than-life Bruce Wayne.
He had often wondered to himself when the nights were quiet, the only sound to be heard being the rustle of his own bedsheets if tomorrow would be the day the other shoe dropped, that he would have to leave. Be an orphan on his own and brave the world alone, but then Bruce would paint his room a color Dick had been eyeing when they had been at the mall, and then purchase the accessories to accompany it. Or Alfred would make his favorite meal and save the rest to take to his new school— he was evidently smart enough to attend now and not tarnish Bruce’s legacy, it had been his elementary school after all.
He had often looked at the grand baroque oil paintings that hung along numerous staircases in the manor, in the study, and in the foyer and wondered what the people in them were like— he found that he thought the same when he looked at a painting of a young Bruce. Even the postcards of his family felt like that now, it had been in his desk drawer ever since.
There always seemed to be a suffocating amount of pressure and at the same time never enough. After all, he only felt like he had an image to uphold, he didn’t really , he wasn’t actually Bruce's son. Bruce’s child would have expectations and a polished image, a future plan, and the accompanying ego. Dick felt very lacking, and yet somewhere in his mind, Bruce held a different title. One that had slipped out and ruined everything.
So here he was, inside Jack’s Diner at Ten o’clock in the evening. The table he was seated at was sticky, the edge of his coat kept getting stuck when he had first put his elbows on it. Alfred would have a field day— both at the stickiness, and how it had inadvertently managed to help maintain Dick’s manners.
He wanted somewhere to rest his head, there was a heaviness creeping into the front of his face and it made his eyes start to droop. He hadn’t ‘ran away', he had just not gone home after his last class. Instead, he had gone to the Gotham city railyard and hopped on a cargo train leaving the station, and simply stowed away.
He had been on the train for a few hours when he felt he had gained enough distance for a real meltdown. Sure, Maybe he ‘hadn’t thought it all the way through' when he had left Gotham but it had been oh-so-enticing to literally run away from his problems, though he knew that the big one would still be waiting for him in Gotham if he ever showed his face there. If he ever found his way back there.
Around the two-hour mark, he realized that he had left without telling anyone, including his ride back from school— Alfred. He would've been waiting for a long time for Dick to come out of school, he hoped he wasn’t worried, he wished he could’ve left a note. It wasn’t all that difficult jumping off the train when it slowed and walking to the nearest diner to grab something to eat, and more importantly, to deal with his feelings on the crisis at hand.
The waitress had brought him a glass of water and eyed him a bit when he downed it in one go. He ordered a plate of pancakes, an orange Fanta, and a refill for his glass of water.
When the water was brought out first he discreetly took about five napkins and dipped them into it, using the partially wet pieces to scrub at the table's surface. When he was done he let it dry and by the time his food came out his elbows were comfortable resting on the table with his head in his hands like a weeping angel, but with slightly more drama— his fingertips were making his hair spike up at odd angles.
He sipped his Fanta dejectedly and had a few bites of pancake as he contemplated what to do.
There was a hard ‘Thunk’ outside in the parking lot, Dick’s eyes peered into the partial darkness not sure what he was looking for until he spotted a splash of red and blue spandex. Dick practically liquefied in his chair and rematerialized under his booth’s table.
Why was uncle Clark— Supes’— why was Superman in a random diner’s parking lot in the middle of nowhere? He could hear footsteps approach his panel of window and then retreat. Maybe he hadn’t seen him?
The ‘ding’ of the Diner’s door being opened shattered his teacup of hope, each step closer crunching shards underfoot until it became a fine power, choking him.
“What are you doing here, kid?” Clark’s voice was low and careful, in a way that he only used when he spoke to children in crisis. He slid into a one-knee crouch in order to reach Dick’s eye level.
He thought Dick was in crisis. Only Dick was allowed to think he was having a crisis.
With a small huff he slid back up and into his chair, shoveling pancake into his mouth as if Superman wasn’t still crouched next to him, his cape probably getting dirty from the floor— which Dick offhandedly thought was probably sticky too. Clark took the seat across from him and flagged down the waitress, ordering a cappuccino for dine-in.
By the time Clark really looked at Dick again, he had almost finished his pancakes.
“If you don’t wanna tell me that’s fine, it’s your business,” Clark’s voice remained carefully neutral.
Dick eyed him warily, waiting for the catch, the follow-up, the ‘but’.
“– But it’s not safe for you to be all the way out here on your own. So, I’ll stay here with you until you’re ready to go back.” Clark didn’t seem put out by the situation, not a hint of annoyance on his face. His expression resembled Alfred’s the evening prior, the one he couldn’t quite place.
By the time Clark finished speaking Dick’s expression had shifted from standoffish to surprised with startling speed.
The few bites left of his pancakes had gone cold, he took another sip of his Fanta while he thought of something to say. Clark's cappuccino was brought to the table and he thanked the waitress. It was when Clark broke eye contact to look back down at his drink that Dick got the courage to let the words come out.
“I called Bruce something I didn’t mean yesterday— Well, I mean— I meant it, I just didn’t mean to say it. Then he just… just left and I couldn’t fix it. I’m not gonna be the one to stay when I’m not wanted, so I thought I’d save ‘em the trouble.”
Dick picked up his Fanta to stop the shakiness in his hands, he focused on the precipitation on the glass, watching a bead of water race down onto the table, forming a ring of water underneath. Clark had been quiet for more than four full breaths so Dick darted his eyes up quickly to gauge his reaction.
He looked crestfallen, his lips were pressed together and his eyes looked misty, though it could have been Dick’s own eyes fogging up with tears. Who could say?
"I just sometimes feel like my life would've made more sense if I'd died with my parents, not that I don't love Bruce— and Alfred— I just don't know what I'm doing, who I'm fighting and why I'm so angry." Tears fell freely down Dick’s face now, but his eyes had slipped shut, he felt so tired and somehow very numb.
“Dick,” Clark’s sigh somehow didn’t sound either annoyed or exasperated, “You’re wanted in the manor, by both Alfred and Bruce. You’re a part of their family. And I’m sort of friends with Bruce by proxy so that makes you a part of my family too.”
Dick looked skeptically at Clark until he realized his face felt wet, he discreetly scratched his cheek with an index finger to stop the new tears from falling. Clark reached for the napkins and handed him one.
“Thanks. How did you know I was here, anyways?”
“Heartbeat.”
“What, really? That’s creepy.”
“I know, but I don’t listen to them all the time.”
“So you can tune them out. Like a radio?”
“Sort of.”
“Wow. So you intentionally spy on people. I thought Superman was supposed to be a good person.”
Clark huffed a laugh and took a sip of his coffee, the taste of it was okay, if a bit weak. He preferred his coffee scalding, he liked the feeling of it when he held it in his hands, not quite warm— kind of a tingly feeling. He was not going to use his laser eyes in front of the kid though.
Dick kept his eyes mostly on his near-empty Fanta glass, turning it every so often, watching the water ring underneath.
He let Dick set the tone, family tended to be a heavy topic, and he understood to a degree as someone who had lost their biological family. Though for himself it had happened much younger. He couldn’t relate to knowing them as people, he only had a vague image, a feeling of being ensconced in warmth and love. His adoptive family in Smallville had their own warmth too, they were all too happy to give him all of it, everything he needed emotionally, and even still. There would always be a part of him that would mourn the loss of his people, as well as his biological family.
Dick was so young, only thirteen, and the people he had been raised by in his formative years died in front of him. Where did he put all that anger, fear, and mistrust? Where did it fit? What did he see as his place in the world?
The sun had set, and the sky that was once a soft purple had faded into a beautiful cobalt color. Dick was facing the window, just focusing on his breathing, soon he found his voice again.
“Is Bruce mad at me?” Dick’s voice was small, still raw from crying.
“No kid, he was just worried about you when I saw him.”
“You saw him?”
“Yeah, he’s the one that asked me to find you. To bring you home .”
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
Dick processes the new information and filed it away in his brain, that Bruce was looking for him— he was worried about him, and that he had called Superman.
“Did you tell him where I am?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he on his way here?”
“Most likely.”
“Check.”
“What?”
“Use your heartbeat locator and check, please.”
Clark’s eyes focused a little to Dick’s left for just a moment.
“He’s on his way, almost here actually— Woah. I’m pretty sure that was a red. Wow, Bruce does not like following traffic laws. He’s about five minutes out.”
Dick processed the information and was mentally preparing himself to face Bruce, who was not mad apparently. Clark continued to talk as Dick mentally rehearsed what he was going to say to him. Oh, god. What was he going to say?
“– I’m surprised he didn’t take the plane, though I suppose finding a place to park it must take up almost as much time as it saves.”
They were both quiet for a beat before Clark broke it.
“If you don’t mind me asking… What did you call Bruce?— The thing that made him leave.”
Dick debated the pros and cons of sharing the embarrassing blunder, the biggest mistake of his young life— save for maybe going by ‘BatKid’ for a brief period when he was nine, the same year the idea of Batman really clicked.
“What? It can’t be anything worse than the names I’ve called him.”
Dick purposely mumbled gibberish because he knew Clark would be able to hear it.
Clark looked amused but made a ‘go on’ motion with his hand.
“I called him ‘Dad’.”
When Bruce had gotten Clark’s message he was already in the car. What probably should have been around an hour and some drive Bruce had somehow turned into thirty-six minutes. Dick left money on the table— enough to cover everything, Clark's cappuccino, and a generous tip— Then made his way outside to the front of the Diner he felt Clark follow behind him.
There was a new car that had just come into the lot, fancy and sleek and expensive, driving faster than what was appropriate in a parking lot in the evening, there was no question who was driving that car.
After he parked— surprisingly well, considering his speed— He got out and practically ran to where Dick and Clark were standing out front of the diner.
Bruce looked worried, more haggard than even Dick’s seen him before. His hair looked unkempt like he had been running his hands through it. His Wayne Incorporated suit was wrinkled and he was holding a folded piece of paper in his hand.
The paper crinkled when Bruce pulled him into a hug, his breathing was a little ragged— it couldn’t have been from the short run— the embrace was tight as if Bruce thought he might disappear if his grasp wasn’t firm enough.
“I thought that— since you were okay with it, without my influence or suggestion — it would be a nice surprise.” Bruce seemed nervous now, colored with a splash of hopefulness as pulled away to hold up the piece of paper.
The writing was hard for him to focus on at first to actually read them, and then a step further to comprehend them. It only took one word— ‘Adoption’ to send him reeling. Bruce had been Dick’s legal guardian for five years. Now Dick would— at least legally— be his son.
What the fuck?
After all the trouble… the running away, the expectations, the inadequacy, the insecurity… the— the everything. How dare he, do it so easily. Something that had meant so much to him.
Dick’s tidal wave of emotion, first relief, then happiness, then a sharp annoyance crested at anger.
“Are you serious?”
Bruce had looked nervous before, now he looked almost scared— as scared as Bats could look— as insecure as Dick felt.
“You just left, I thought that… I thought you hated it!”
“Hated what?
“Me calling you— the idea of being my dad!”
Bruce looked somber now— at least to Dick, he was starting to realize that the most obvious and clear expressions, to him, were more from familiarity rather than Bruce's expressiveness. Then he hung his head, looking somehow more tired than before.
Quietly he heard Bruce thank Clark, and then after a few cautionary steps back he was off like a rocket.
“Let’s go home.”
The ride back to the manor took an hour, presumable because Bruce was driving carefully. There was a palpable thick tension that made it difficult to breathe, or maybe that was just nerves.
Would Bruce take it back, after Dick left? No— he wouldn’t he had still brought the paper all the way out to show Dick why he had left in such a hurry.
The exhaustion that had been weighing on Dick’s shoulders made him sag a bit in his seat, the excitement from his day finally leaching the energy from his muscles. Dick fell asleep in the car, the flashes of streetlights and white noise of the engine lulled him into a deep sleep.
A sensation of being picked up out of his seat roused him— but like his training reflexes automatically kicked in— making him feign sleep, the transition was smooth, there hadn’t even a hitch in his breathing— he had been trained by the best.
Bruce carried him all the way upstairs and into Dick’s bedroom, one-handedly threw back the covers and deposited him on the bed, removed his coat with light, quick movements, and then he slipped off his shoes. Then he was under his fluffy duvet and he was pulled back into sleep.
The next morning was a Saturday, but Dick didn’t feel like sleeping in. He took a shower, and changed into his usual loungewear— a soft long-sleeve cashmere sweater, plaid pajama pants— and then he was slowly descending the stairs, he ran his hand along the banister and then switched to a wall as he made his way to the kitchen.
It was grounding to touch his surroundings, knowing he almost left them for good. The dining room was empty, save for some understated small decorations Alfred had positioned in the center for ‘homeyness’. He made his way into the kitchen, where Alfred was doing what looked like the food prep work for the next month at least .
As Dick’s foot stepped into the kitchen Alfred did a prim turn, sleeves rolled up, apron on, a slightly surprised quirk of his brow.
“Good morning Master Dick,” Alfred gave him a genuine smile, before turning to remove what looked to be sliced pieces of sweet potato and carrots, “We thought you would sleep for at least a few hours yet.”
Dick looked around at the organized chaos as his hand bunched in the soft material of his pants, where his pockets would be if they were ‘sweat pants’ as Alfred called them, what he had on were ‘sleep pants’— there were no pockets necessary in sleep, ‘what would you possibly put in there’ Alfred’s position on the manner had been made very clear. I amused Dick to no end.
“I couldn’t sleep anymore, can I help with anything?”
Alfred looked at him with fondness, the lack of surprise in his expression made him feel better though. At least he didn’t see him as useless, of course, he could pack containers and cut vegetables. He hadn’t done it too often but he was sure it was intuitive, and he could always ask… for help.
Oh. Oh.
“Of course my boy, there are a few packed containers over there— no, a little to your— perfect, those containers. Could you put them in the fridge, the order isn’t important, I would do it but my hands are a little—” Alfred gestured to the raw chicken he was currently de-boning, Dick internally sighed in relief that he hadn’t asked Dick to do that .
The containers were heavier than Dick had thought, though he still managed to get them all into the fridge with a modicum of flair and flourish. Alfred had looked to— what Dick assumes would be where a higher power would be— or maybe he was just rolling his eyes. Dick didn’t mind either, after all, he didn’t really look annoyed.
“Why did Bruce leave like that the other day if he wasn’t mad?”
Alfred set the pieces of chicken to the side and washed his hands, as he dried them with a hand towel he looked thoughtful— like he was putting the words together.
“Master Bruce, as you well know, isn’t the most emotionally available person. It was by no means a fault on your part, but rather something he himself is still working through.” Alfred hung the towel back up to dry and turned away to fill up the water kettle, placing it on the burner. He turned back to Dick with a sad look.
“He often needs some time to feel his emotions, before he is ever able to express them I’m afraid. Though I’m sure Bruce never intended to hurt your feelings, well— he’ll tell you himself I’m sure. I can say it but I’m sure it will have a greater effect coming from him.” Alfred finished just as the kettle started to squeal.
His deft hands readied two mugs with a teabag each of chamomile and added a dollop of honey to Dick’s— he always loved his tea on the sweeter side— it was testament again to how well the man knew him. He both wished and didn’t wish Bruce were here to share the moment.
“Now, what would you like for breakfast?”
Dick was seated at the table now, a plate of waffles scrambled eggs, and pan-roasted whole cherry tomatoes, with local honey and a homemade blueberry jam on the side. Bruce's seat at the table was empty, but his placemat and cutlery had been laid out. Alfred took the seat next to Dick, at the end of the table, his own plate filled with a small salad with quinoa and chickpeas topped with a balsamic, and on a small plate next to it was a pain au chocolat, and an even smaller plate held an espresso.
He wasn’t the biggest fan of the taste of coffee, so he had opted for freshly squeezed orange juice.
Dick had just taken his first bite of eggs when Bruce entered the dining room. Alfred— who had somehow sensed Bruce’s imminent arrival— had only been sipping from his espresso in wait. He left quickly and came back from the kitchen with a plate that had been kept covered to keep warm, placed in front of a now seated Bruce was almost identical to Dick’s, except more of everything— Bruce was at least a full two feet taller, so it only made sense.
Breakfast was a quiet affair, he didn't have the energy to make conversation and there was a small part of him that wanted to see how Bruce would handle his silence.
He found himself losing his patience with his second waffle, didn’t he have anything to say? Was there truly nothing he wanted to tell him, to share? If not for his own sake then for himself to get off his chest.
Dick would take anything over this silence.
He knew that it would be difficult to change and that it would be a change and even a sacrifice, but if Bruce was going to make one couldn’t it be for him?
Wasn’t he worth a little discomfort? Maybe that was selfish, but he didn’t care. He loved Bruce, and Bruce had said that he loved him. Dick needed him to show him, to feel it, not just to hear it. Dick saw his love, his gifts, his time, and his attention, and Dick wanted more . He wanted him to tell him why he loved him. What he thought of him, what was expected from him. He wanted to feel important.
The clattering of his silverware being neatly positioned on his plate cut the silence, the next was his chair being pushed back. He took his plate and cutlery to the dishwasher and then went back to his room. The click of his door being shut felt like a gunshot to the blood rushing in Dick’s ears.
A few minutes later, as Dick was flipping absentmindedly through the book assigned from his English class— Great Expectations by Charles Dickens— his eyes had trouble focusing on the words. There was a knock on his bedroom door.
“Can I come in, chum?”
Dick’s previous disappointment, though fresh, was newly replaced with hope.
“Sure.”
Bruce opened the door but waited for Dick to invite him inside. Dick was feeling petty but he reluctantly moved to sit on his neatly made bed and gestured to the empty spot next to him for Bruce to sit.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce looked at him earnestly, he wasn’t looking at Dick— his eyes were locked on one of the posters on his walls— But just the fact that he had gotten the words out meant the world. The small expression so rarely uttered, Dick felt his eyes go misty but didn’t move out of fear that Bruce might leave. “I haven’t been as open, as you need. I’m trying to show you that I love you but–”
“I know you love me–” Dick’s interruption only makes Bruce take pause for a moment before he continues on.
“– I should have known, by now that you need to hear it too— that the reasoning behind the things I do for you, and the choices I made as your guardian, are important to explain. Because you need to know that I love you, and that everything I do for you is because I love you. And I chose you to be here, with me. I wanted to guide you through actions but I forgot to use my words alongside them, and for that, I’m sorry, because I know it hurt you.”
“... Okay.” Dick was speechless, any other words he thought to speak would undoubtedly get caught too by the thickness he felt in his throat.
Dick felt too small for his body— like his eight-year-old self was stuffed and stretched into the stature of his current body— He felt old and unbelievably young.
He felt the words come out before he had the chance to turn them over in his mind, maybe it was for the best, maybe, for the worst.
"I know you don't want me to ‘end up like you’, but I don't fully get why… but not talking to me and walking away instead of reacting— or responding… I know you don't want me to get hurt as Robin so you are overbearing as Batman. But I need Bruce too!–" His voice came out a lilting soft, transitioning into a pained rough. He wasn’t finished though so he braved on, "I need you to— to tell me what you need from me."
Bruce’s eyes— which had been fixed on his wall for most of their conversation, finally came to rest on his face, he looked determined.
The next moment, he was on his feet, Bruce muttering about something he had to show him. They walked for a few moments past the well-used current study, towards the much less used, previous study. Dick had only gone in a handful of times, never really taking in the room, only ever the last place he looked for Bruce to call him for dinner.
As he looked around it now he felt awe, where he had felt like Bruce had locked up his feelings about his parents, cultivating a mausoleum of grief, he had somehow turned it into— what Dick could only describe as— a shrine. There were two paintings, side by side, one of Bruce’s parents presumably when they had first gotten married— and the other of Alfred standing next to Bruce, whose hand rested on an eight-year-old Dick Grayson’s shoulder.
“I have always seen you as a part of this family, however small it may be, you’ll always have a place here. It’s yours whenever you want,” Bruce spoke softly, in a pensive way, as if he too was hanging on every word waiting for the next to appear. “I just wanted you to have something that represented that– you’ll always be a Grayson, of course, but it would mean the world to me if you’d be a Wayne too."
Dick couldn’t take his eyes off the painting of Bruce, Alfred, and himself. Bruce’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, mirroring the one in the painting. He knew what Bruce was thinking, and as he maintained eye contact with painting-Dick, he found that he felt different than his younger self.
He wasn’t only an orphan, he had another family, a second chance. He had a home, a dad, and a granddad, and if Dick found the right moment to bring it up— a dog. He had a purpose.
After they had left the study Dick was on cloud nine, to both Bruce's and his own surprise he had quickly wrapped his arms around Bruce's middle, squeezing twice for good measure, he felt Burce’s returning hug.
The next time Dick called Bruce 'dad' had been accidental, they had been comfortably seated on the enormous couch— Alfred had been ‘convinced’ to join one of the many times he had entered to ask about ‘the refreshments’ with his eyes lingering on the screen too much for it not to be from interest. When Dick had asked Bruce to turn up the volume of the movie, his tired state had resulted in Dick not calling him by name. Bruce had gone a bit wide-eyed but played it off very naturally with a yawn. The smile that broke out on his face though, he didn't try to hide.
The one time Bruce tried to call Dick 'son' to his face, Dick had gagged and told him he sounded like Superman. Bruce had made a sour face and nodded solemnly.
Dick had suggested he use the term when he’s not around.
Alfred had looked pleased, and Bruce had given him a broad smile.