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And I wake with your memory over me
That's a real fucking legacy
— — —
Dick watches Bruce speak at the podium, commanding the entire ballroom’s attention with his words. The ballroom is meticulously decorated in Christmas decor, dark reds and greens and golds adorning every inch of the room. On stage, Bruce wears a dark green velvet jacket with black dress pants, everything tailored to perfection—on theme while still being the executive director of the Martha Wayne foundation, outlining the achievements of the past year and the goals of the next.
He’s the most gorgeous man Dick has ever seen.
Fundamentally, Dick knows this line of thinking is wrong. He’s very familiar with the concept of daddy issues and how he should probably see a confidential therapist.
He knows it’s wrong—at best, morally questionable and at worst, basically incest.
Well, no. That would require legal adoption, which Bruce never did. Originally that had been at Dick’s request. A legal adoption would replace his birth certificate, and he hadn’t been ready to lose such a claim to his parents. He had made that decision 10 years ago, and Bruce hadn’t brought it up since. On paper, Bruce was his legal guardian until he turned 18. Now the only thing that legally tied them together was his trust fund and Bruce’s will.
So, not technically incest. But definitely still extremely, morally reprehensible.
Besides, Bruce had never done anything physically or mentally odious towards Dick. If anything, Bruce kept his touches in public more modest than a Catholic school dance. There had been rumors when Bruce first took him in, the sleazy paparazzi hurling disgusting remarks anytime they were in Gotham proper.
Bruce would never harm a child. And as Dick was seen out and about in society, the rumors died down.
Dick is 22 now, and hasn’t been living at the manor since he was 18.
He’d always had some type of hero worship towards Bruce, even in the early days. But Dick knows exactly when that crush morphed into something more complicated.
Nudity was never a problem for Dick before, growing up in the circus made him used to quick changes. And after becoming Robin, it wasn’t uncommon to be in some state of undress, especially in the med bay and the locker rooms. The showers had stalls, but that still left little to the imagination.
He was newly 14, coming off the tail end of puberty. He had forgotten a towel, so he stepped out to grab one. On his way back, towel in hand, he caught a glimpse of Bruce stepping into his stall, completely naked.
Dick had sucked in a breath then dashed into his own, heart racing. He’d seen Bruce naked before, but this time felt different. When he closed his eyes, the image of Bruce was burned into his brain: hair tangled and matted from the cowl, sweat droplets clinging to his chest, a light dusting of black hair on his abdomen leading down to—well.
Dick had taken the coldest shower of his life that night.
In his darkest thoughts, Dick wonders if he was made for Bruce, divine intervention bringing them together on the worst day of his life. Hand-picked, orphan to orphan, the sunshine to Bruce’s midnight rain.
Until one day Babs brought it up when he was 17. And he didn’t even try to lie to her. How could he when everything was laid bare right in front of him, like photos and red string on an evidence board.
So, Dick tried to fight it. He picked fights with Bruce to get him riled up and angry–to purposefully try to put distance between them. He’d say that Bruce didn’t trust him enough for independence. And while Dick did partly think that, he was more worried about trusting himself. There was a moral line, and he wasn’t going to cross it. Finally, he suggested that he attend college and get an apartment of his own.
Leaving was the hardest thing he’s ever done. So many heated arguments where Dick let his emotions get the better of him, while trying to keep his true feelings a secret.
The arrival and subsequent death of Jason had shattered what little tolerance he had.
But then Tim entered their lives, becoming the unstoppable force against their unmoving objects.
Their mutual appreciation for Tim brought Dick back to Gotham more and more, and it was getting harder to keep his resolve.
In a moment of weakness this morning, Dick had thought about not coming. But he knew how much this event meant to Bruce, to the Wayne legacy. He may be upset with the older man, but he wasn’t going to let his inner turmoil get in the way of supporting Bruce during the biggest Martha Wayne Foundation charity event of the year.
So here he stands in the back of the crowd near the oeur d'oeuvres table with Tim, shoving his feelings down as tight as he can.
Bruce wraps up his speech, flashing his bright teeth to the room, but the corners of his mouth don’t meet his eyes.
Dick quickly pops another bruschetta in his mouth to free up his hands to clap along with the crowd.
The string quartet swells back to life with the opening notes of “Let It Snow.”
“I’m going to do one more lap,” Dick said, turning to face Tim. “Wanna come with?”
Tim shrugs and replies with a quiet, “Sure.”
This wasn’t Tim’s first gala since his father passed, but socialites would still give him obnoxious, pitying looks from time to time.
Dick scans the crowd, hoping to find the least offensive circle he can. However, neither he nor Tim seem to be lucky tonight.
“Timothy!” Maria Powers exclaims, waving to the boys to come over. Mrs. Powers stands with Olivia Otis and Cressida Clarke on either side.
Dick and Tim make their way over to the three ladies. After hand clasps are exchanged, Tim pulls back right next to Dick’s side.
“Oh, Timothy, it’s so good to see you out and about,” Mrs. Powers continues. “How have you been?”
All three ladies have that pitying smile.
But Tim puts on his best gala face, which honestly scares Dick a little bit, reminding him of Janet Drake.
Tim starts his answer, but Dick doesn’t hear it.
He sees Bruce moving towards the gaggle around him from the corner of his peripheral just before he feels the harsh hand on his shoulder.
Dick turns his shoulder to brace for the impact, but Bruce moves with him, the wine glass in Bruce’s other hand leading with the momentum.
The glass tilts in Bruce’s fingers and hits Dick squarely in the chest, darkening the stiff white material instantly with the large splash.
The ladies all gasp, and Dick feels blood rushing to his cheeks.
“Oops!” Bruce pulls back and sets the wine glass on a table next to them. “Sorry there, chum.”
Bruce pulls out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and starts patting Dick’s chest. Dick grabs Bruce’s elbow to stop him and forces a smile on his face.
“Well, ladies, if you don’t mind.” Dick looks over at Bruce, trying to be fake annoyed, but real emotions leaking in. He didn’t mind being Bruce’s escape route when he wanted to leave, he just wished it hadn’t involved such a public display of embarrassment and–and close proximity.
Hand still on Bruce’s elbow, Dick leads them towards the door. His cheeks are still burning.
“Come on, big guy. I think it’s time to head home.”
Dick motions at Tim to follow them.
–
Both Alfred and Tim had retired for bed, but Dick had asked Bruce to join him for a top off.
Instead of heading to the study with the stocked bar, Dick had suggested opening a bottle of pantry screw-top rosé, one of his guilty pleasures that Alfred kept for him during the holidays.
They somehow end up on the kitchen floor, backs against the island. Dick’s legs drape over Bruce’s knees, their shoulders almost touching. Both suit jackets and bow ties lay on the top of the island. Dick’s still wearing the stained shirt–now dry–but the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. It’s dark save the light above the stove that casts harsh shadows above them.
In these rare, quiet moments, Dick thinks back to how things were when he was younger. Bruce’s face is so relaxed, it’s almost hard to imagine the neutral expression Bruce wears nowadays. Almost.
Dick takes a swig from the bottle then hands it to the older man.
Bruce also drinks, despite grimacing while doing so. He glares at the white label with blue swirls around the name.
“Why does Alfred have this stocked for you?” Bruce asks, handing the bottle back over to Dick. “We have actual rosé wine in the cellar, you know.”
Dick laughs and takes another sip. The bottle’s almost empty.
“You’ve never gotten drunk off cheap-ass wine? I know not all of the Brucie drinking is fake.”
“Hn,” Bruce replies, which Dick takes as a yes.
He shakes the bottle, then holds it up for Bruce to take. Bruce shakes his head, so Dick downs the rest. He sets the empty bottle down on the marble tile, a soft clink echoing around them.
Dick turns his face towards Bruce, about to quip more, but the look in Bruce’s eyes stops him.
“Thank you for coming tonight,” Bruce says. “I know things have been… challenging recently, but I really do appreciate it.”
Dick knows this is as close to an apology over their last fight as he’s ever going to get, but it still stuns him how much it hits him.
“Of course,” Dick replies solemnly. “I would never miss a Foundation event.”
Bruce points to Dick’s wine-stained shirt, the dark burgundy almost black in this light–like a blood stain. “Sorry you didn’t leave completely unscathed.”
Dick looks down at the stain, then back up, as he lightly laughs. “I can handle Brucie, and the high society vultures, just fine.”
This close, Dick can smell the rosé lingering on Bruce’s breath, contrasting with the overdone, expensive cologne that Bruce wears to charity events. He can see the small upturn in the corners of his mouth, and the long eyelashes that frame those icy blue eyes, dilated from the wine.
Between all this and the alcohol coursing through his veins, Dick feels light-headed and unbearingly hot all at once. His dress pants suddenly feel too tight.
“Chum?” Bruce asks, eyebrows knitting together and head leaning forward.
Suddenly Dick can’t remember why he put up such a fight. Morals be damned–he can’t fight the magnetic pull anymore.
Before he can stop himself, Dick grabs onto Bruce’s shirt and presses their lips together.
Bruce’s hands fly up to Dick’s jaw. Dick braces himself, savoring the fingertips against his skin. But the hands don’t immediately push him away. Instead, Bruce’s mouth opens slightly, deepening the kiss.
Bruce is actually kissing him back.
Dick can taste watermelon and strawberry on his tongue. Bruce’s fingers slowly move towards the back of his neck, getting tangled in the baby hairs.
Bruce’s cologne fills Dick’s nostrils, but there’s something else there too, like worn leather and anise.
He’s never been so hard in his life, his cock straining against his zipper. He can’t stop a moan from escaping his lips as he pushes his hips up against the fabric.
Bruce freezes.
“Stop,” he yells, too loud, and shoves his hands against Dick’s shoulders.
The sudden movement causes Dick’s mind to swim, the kitchen spinning in slow motion. His legs fall out of Bruce’s lap.
“We can’t.”
Dick feels a flimsy counterargument, albeit slurred, on the tip of his tongue. “We can’t, or we shouldn’t?”
“I can’t-” Bruce stutters out. A pained look flashes across Bruce’s face, his crow’s feet wrinkling around his eyes.
Dick can’t help but notice the red flush on Bruce’s cheeks. Or the tent in his dress pants.
Oh, fuck.
They stare at each other for a moment, labored breaths filling the air.
“You’re my kid, Dick,” Bruce breaks the silence, face sliding back into the neutral default expression, making Bruce look suddenly sober.
“Not legally-” Dick starts to say, but Bruce cuts him off.
“You should head to bed.” Bruce jumps to his feet, only slightly swaying on the way up. He backs up slowly towards the doorway.
“Bruce-” Dick tries again, body motionless, like he’s frozen to the floor.
“We’ll talk. Later.” Bruce stops for a moment in the hallway, his eyes wide. He shakes his head then turns suddenly towards the stairwell.
Dick finally moves, slamming his fist against the cabinet door behind him.
His cock is still painfully hard.
— — —
Dick wakes with a start. He gasps for breath, fingers clenching the bed sheets. The dream recedes slowly from the back of his eyes, leaving only the painful memory in its wake.
Blinking slowly, Dick rubs a hand in his eyes. The outside light filters in through the gaps in the curtains, casting a soft glow in the master bedroom of the penthouse.
Dick reaches for his phone on the nightstand to check the time.
9:21AM.
He sighs, locks the screen, and sets the phone back down. Was there any point in trying to get some more sleep? Alfred would still be out running errands after dropping Damian off at school. Maybe he would ask the man to make him some tea when he gets back.
Dick hadn’t had that dream in a while.
Bruce had promised that they would talk about what happened, but the man had tactically avoided him for a few weeks.
And then Damian arrived.
And then…
Well, then Bruce died.
Dick takes in a sharp breath. Just thinking that thought brings tears to his eyes.
Bruce is dead. And Dick is never going to talk to Bruce again. About anything.
He looks over at the dresser on the opposite side of the room. The top is mostly cluttered with junk and personal hygiene products, but on the very back corner sits the empty tinted-pink bottle. His eyes slowly trace the swirl pattern on the logo.
Dick feels the anger bubble up inside his chest, threatening to spill out.
“Fuck,” he whispers to the empty room, his voice wet.
He rolls sharply in the opposite direction, pulling the sheets with him. He sucks in another breath. Bruce had been dead for six months. Dick tries to keep it together, for Damian’s sake, for Tim’s sake-
A wave of nausea rolls over him.
Right. Tim had also left, fully believing that Bruce was alive, out there somewhere.
But Dick knows. The weight in his chest, the tightness in his muscles, the pure ache in his bones tell him that Bruce is gone. And somehow he feels like it’s all his fault.
His fingers ghost over his mouth, thinking back to the dream, feeling the feather-light memory of Bruce’s lips on his. He had foolishly thought that maybe those lips could be home—had hoped with his entire heart that Bruce felt the same way.
He’s never regretted anything more in his entire life.
Dick would take it all back in a heartbeat if he could. The pain he felt back then from keeping his crush to himself is nothing compared to this. He laughs bitterly at his past self, pushing his hands into his eyes.
All the things left unsaid, unresolved.
And now he’s stuck here in Gotham with the damned cowl, trying to move on and mentor Damian as best he can. Trying to console Damian through the boy’s own grief, despite how short of a time he and Bruce had known each other.
The tears start spilling down Dick’s face. He chokes back a sob.
He’d take their strained mentorship, the yelling and the fighting, the rust that grew between their telephones, and keep his secret, dirty, filthy thoughts about Bruce to himself, regardless of how the older man had reacted to the kiss—if it meant that Bruce was still here.
Alive.
— — —
And I wake with your memory over me
That's a real fucking legacy (to leave)