Chapter Text
Dick’s heart was in his throat and his head felt like it was floating from the moment his eyes flew open. His sweaty fingers twisted in the blankets. Carefully, he checked if Bruce was still there. He was gone. That was a little sad, but also Dick sighed in relief, and flopped his head back onto the pillow, staring up at the brightening ceiling.
Finally.
He’d waited so long. There was a fire inside of him, deep inside, and the more he thought the brighter it grew.
When his breaths slowed down, he sat up and ran a hand through his crazy hair.
Okay. He needed Alfred.
Dick wrapped one of the fluffy blankets around his shoulders and jumped out of bed, and he was tearing down the hallway in seconds.
When he rounded the corner into the kitchen, he blurted out “Can I have the boxes from my trailer?” without even checking to make sure Alfred was there.
Of course, he was. He was making breakfast—omelets, this time, and Dick’s traitorous stomach made grumbling and creaking noises.
Alfred blinked at Dick’s excited entrance, and said “Of course.” Dick could tell he wanted to ask why, but also that he didn’t want to make Dick cry because Bruce was already gone for work and then he’d have to give him a hug instead, so he decided not to ask. “I’ll get them from storage when we’ve finished eating.”
While they were eating, Dick bided his time, and then, when Alfred looked the most distracted and thoughtful while reading Bruce’s letters, he asked, “When is my doctor’s appointment?”
“Hm?” Alfred grunted. “Oh. Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Nice.
“So we can do something today?” Dick asked, pretending it didn’t matter that much and shoveling some more omelet in his mouth.
Alfred raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t say no. Actually, he said, “I suppose.” Then, he said, “What do you have in mind?”
The library was like a glass shoebox smacked down in the middle of the giant skyscraper spears. The doors were gigantic—two times the size of Alfred, Dick made him stand next to them to check—but they looked like tiny stamps stuck on the giant flat walls. When Dick stood there for a moment, staring at the huge building and wondering if the person who built it thought it was pretty and why , Alfred asked if he wanted to go across the street for a better view. Dick kind of wanted to laugh, because it probably looked just as ugly from a little farther away, but he didn’t want to be rude, so he just shook his head and took Alfred’s hand, tugging them to the huge-tiny doors.
Dick could barely push them open. He hadn’t ever thought glass could be so heavy. Alfred had to help.
“Holy cow,” Dick said, as soon as they stepped through. Even though the library was very, very ugly from outside, seeing rows and rows of books all crammed together always made him really happy.
“Where would you like to start?” Alfred asked.
Dick’s eyes scanned around. The inside of the library was smaller than the glass walls, so you could see into every single level. You could see a big section at the top with brown books that were falling apart, a middle part with computers and couches and a little cafe, and the ground floor was covered in flowers and trees, and murals covered every wall with fairy tales and storybook characters Tata used to read to him while Mama tried to fix whatever new thing was broken in the trailer while he was distracted and couldn’t be offended. The books on the shelves were every color in the rainbow, and the couches and tables in the middle were bright and soft-looking—Dick loved Bruce’s house, because it was beautiful in the way the museums Mama loved were beautiful, but those looked like home.
And the Waynes’ library was enormous and amazing and there were so many things he wanted to read there, but there weren’t any fairy tales, and there weren’t any books with glossy pages and nice pictures.
Dick looked up at the computers.
“Dick?” Alfred asked, and his gray eyebrows bunched up a little.
Dick sucked in a breath and squeezed his fingers around Alfred’s big, strong ones. “Can I… Can I look around here first?”
Alfred smiled a very confused smile and said, “Of course—” and Dick was already running off.
There were fifty books stacked up on the table next to him. Dick was pretending to look at one. His head was just too loud to even think about trying to figure out English.
He imagined Mama sitting next to him. Her face was cold, like it got when she was angry and far away.
I’m sorry, Dick wanted to say. It was terrible. He’d chickened out. Of course Mama was mad. But a small part of him that only kept getting bigger said I don’t want to. He could just see her mouth get all tight in the corners.
Dick flipped his baseball hat backwards because having it in his face was too much—Alfred said it was so people didn’t recognize him, but Dick had thought it’d probably make more people look at him because who wears hats indoors?—and wrapped his arms around himself. The sweatshirt he was wearing was one of Bruce’s he’d pulled out of the drawers in his room. It was black and white, and it had Squires on the front, and the number Bruce used to play on the back. It helped a little bit.
He needed to go.
There were two men in suits who were ridiculously out of place with all the fun colors and patterns in the children’s section. They were pretty bad at bodyguarding though. They were talking together and hadn’t looked up at Dick in fifteen minutes. Alfred was gone checking out fifty more books that Dick had picked out.
Dick slipped off the couch. Nobody even looked at him.
It was ridiculously easy to sneak to the elevator (the stairs were out in the open, very bad idea) and up to the second floor.
He got to a computer. It only took a few minutes, but they felt like hours—looking over his shoulder every time he heard the tiniest noise, barely breathing so he could listen. He memorized everything he found, letting it run over and over in his head.
Then, when he was finished, he went to the cafe. The teenager working there had her hair in pigtails, and she talked to Dick like he was a real person, not just a little kid, and it made him happy even though his heart felt like it was going to jump out of his throat. He put $20 in her tip jar. Just when she was handing him his order, he heard fancy shoes clicking on the floor, and the third thunk of a cane.
“Richard Grayson!” Alfred yelled, but also whispered—that was a scary skill. “Where have you– Do you have any idea–”
“I got you a tea,” Dick said, and held out the mug. “It’s oolong.”
Alfred paused, but not for long. “You can’t do that, Richard. I won’t allow it. Your guards nearly phoned the police.”
“They’re bad guards,” Dick said, smiling a little, “it wasn’t even hard.”
That didn’t make Alfred less mad, but he stopped talking now; he just stared at Dick with a tight mouth and cold eyes. (Just like Mama.)
Dick shifted on his feet and bit his lip. He really did feel bad, but then again, he’d been feeling bad all day. “I’m sorry I made you scared,” he said, and his shoulders hunched forward a little. “I just wanted to do something nice for you.”
Alfred’s angry mask cracked, and he ran a hand down his face—the other one shook on the cane, just a tiny bit, and Dick wanted to throw up, because he’d only been gone for five minutes and this happened. The older man took the mug from Dick’s hands, and Dick started to back away when a thick arm trapped him up against Alfred’s side.
Oh. This hadn’t ever happened before.
“My boy…” It was so quiet that Dick was convinced he wasn’t supposed to hear it. But he did. He had to cut at the inside of his cheek with his teeth to keep tears from spilling over, and wrapped his arms around Alfred too.
They stayed like that for a very long time. The girl behind the counter definitely took a picture.
Finally Alfred pulled away with an awkward cough, and sipped at his tea. Dick just tried to get a handle on himself.
“Have you ever had crumpets?” Alfred said, after a while.
Dick made a face and said “Nooo. We didn’t go to England a lot. Tata hated your tea.”
“Well,” Alfred said, obviously trying not to talk about that too much and make Dick sad, even though he also obviously wanted to say something. “Would you like one? There are some in the cupboard at home—freshly baked.”
“Oh!” Dick brightened. “I didn’t know Dory came by!”
“Whelp,” Alfred scoffed, and reached down to twist his ear. Dick was too happy and distracted to dodge. His chest felt like it was going to explode, and his head felt floaty. Alfred had hugged him, and he’d gotten to a computer.
He was going after Tony Zucco tonight.
-
Dick’s hands were still a little sticky from the honey. He didn’t want to wash them. He kept touching his fingertips together and pulling them apart—the tacky feeling distracted him from the burning in his eyes and the rock stuck in his throat.
He was sitting on a little stool that Alfred said was actually for scraping off your shoes, watching the elevator and waiting for the little ding that would mean Bruce was on his way up.
Across from him was the portrait that Dick had looked at on his first night here, with the sitting woman and the man behind her. He knew that those were Bruce’s parents now. Thomas and Martha Wayne was written in carved-out gold letters on the bottom of the picture frame. Their eyes looked sadder than they had before.
I’m sorry, Dick thought, and screwed his fingers together tight. I have to. He’ll understand. That was a lie. But maybe if he thought it hard enough it would be true.
Tony Zucco.
The warehouses by the southern docks. Dark eyes, dark hair, a long deep scar in his left cheek.
Tony Zucco.
Alfred’s arm wrapping around his shoulders, strong and muscly under his boring butler shirt, and Dick hadn’t ever seen him hug anyone before. When Dick had hugged him back, probably a little too hard, he’d said “Oh!” but the happy kind, and Dick had thought he’d cry right then and there and completely ruin everything.
Dick wouldn’t ever eat breakfast with him again, while Alfred read his newspaper and letters and told him stories every once in a while about England and the places he used to travel (when he definitely wasn’t a spy) and maybe even about Bruce as a kid.
And Bruce.
Tears stung Dick’s eyes. Bruce gave even better hugs than Alfred. Which was saying something, because Bruce’s hugs were really bad. He remembered all those weeks ago, when everything hurt and nothing mattered and a creepy man walked into the elephant cage, and sat down, and his eyes weren’t sad for him, they just understood. Even though Dick had tried to keep his heart safe and tucked away, thinking about leaving Bruce for good made him feel like it was getting ripped out all over again.
The hot fire was still there, deep down inside him, but it was very small, now, and he kept wondering if he really had to do this. And then he’d get angrier and his face would go red and he’d think how awful and selfish he was, Mama would do this for him, he just had to stop being such a baby.
He just needed something good—a nice memory, that made saying goodbye not so hard.
The elevator dinged. A jolt went up Dick’s spine, and he didn’t know what to do all of a sudden. Did his stand up, or stay sitting down? What did he do with his hands? His face didn’t look normal, how did he make his face normal? He was in an awkward half-standing, half-falling-over slouch when the doors slid open, and Bruce stalked through.
Dick fell over his feet.
He rolled and jumped back up and tried to pretend that nothing had happened. “Hi Bruce!” Dick smiled his biggest smile. “How was work? Did you yell at anybody? Alfred and I went to the library, it was awesome and super ugly and I got so many books. I don’t know where to put them all. Can I keep them in your library for now?”
He spent the entire time looking at Bruce’s eyes—he’d stopped and held out a hand when Dick fell and now he was just kind of standing there—and trying to see what was going on behind them. But it was like a wall. Nothing was coming in or out. Dick heard a tiny little bit of concern when he said, “Are you alright?” but when Dick nodded Bruce hummed and walked away.
And that’s how it was all night. Dick would say things, ask questions, tell funny jokes, and Alfred would respond, but Bruce wouldn’t. Bruce would look at something far away and hum and nod at the wrong times, and he wouldn’t even stop when Alfred kicked him under the table.
As soon as dinner was over, Bruce stood up, walked to his office, and closed the door.
Dick sat in his chair and just looked at the closed door, feeling like he could cry and scream and break it down, and the food in his stomach churned.
“He’s had a very tiring day,” said Alfred. He was trying to make Dick feel better. Dick gave Alfred a weak smile and scraped his chair away from the table. When he’d carried his plate and glass all the way into the kitchen, he went into his room, grabbed Le Petit Prince, and sat cross-legged in front of Bruce’s study door. Alfred looked sad, but he didn’t try to stop him.
He couldn’t leave while Bruce was being a jerk. He had to say goodbye the right way. While Dick tried to read the words that swam across the yellow pages, one hand kept drifting into his pocket, to the little folded-up note there. The edges were soft now because he’d touched it so many times that day. It was supposed to be laying on his pillow by now.
But he couldn’t leave. Not yet.
He gave up pretending to read and just stared at the closed door. It was made of a dark wood, with little branches and leaves and birds carved into it.
Dick sat there for hours.
When his eyes finally started to slide closed even though he tried to force them open, and his head kept falling back against the wall, his fingers stopped tracing the words on the note—the words he had memorized, that had been screaming in his head all day so loud he’d been terrified someone would be able to hear them.
I love you Bruce. And I love you Alfred. I’m really sorry. I left it all crazy in here so you can pretend I got kidnapped for the news, but I promise I’m okay. I have to do this.
Love,
Dick