Note: This is Bruce/Dick giftfic for Maelithil, set sometime after Prodigal and before War Games, while Tim was still Robin.
Nightwing dives into the alley and into the fight. Guns and knives go flying. Five, six, seven petty hoods crash to the pavement under Nightwing's fists, boots, elbows, knees, and shuriken. Gazing down on him from a fire escape six flights up, Batman considers each movement, recalls the performance of Ballet Gotham he attended the week before. One of the dancers had reminded him greatly of Dick with his tousled black hair and perfectly honed body. Spinning below him, Nightwing could be reenacting the performance, if not for the violence.
When the criminals are bound and the cops are en route, Nightwing launches a grapple upwards and follows. It isn't what he intended, though Bruce shouldn't be surprised. He did train the boy after all, even though he isn't a boy anymore. A half dozen rooftops over, he stops and allows Dick to catch up.
When he does, Dick doesn't say anything and the silence is both a comfort and relief. There's still a large section of the city left to patrol tonight. He doesn't have time for Dick to babble on like a child on too much sugar. Adrenaline.
It's adrenaline. It was always adrenaline. An inconvenient part of being male, as he told the boy often enough when he was a young adolescent. Ignore it and it will pass.
Dick's crossing the last bit of rooftop to where Bruce is perched on a gargoyle, living up to his legend. Dick used to mock him for it back when he was Robin. Bruce can see the memory pass over Dick's face now in the line of the smirk curling his mouth. He waits for words, but Dick still says nothing.
"Is something wrong?" Bruce asks finally. Dick's silence is unnerving.
Dick spares him a slice of a smile and shakes his head. Bruce frowns back and he knows that Dick can guess the puzzlement in his eyes behind the cowl from the set of his mouth. He can't see Dick's eyes behind the Nightwing mask, but the lines in his forehead and cheeks imply a kind of wry amusement Bruce hasn't seen much of in years. Perhaps Dick is learning some perspective finally.
Dick steps up to the crenellation next to the gargoyle, moves a foot in, and pushes Bruce back from the security of the sculpture's back and wings to the graveled surface of the rooftop. Dick follows, pushing into his space, pushing the cape back and gripping his shoulders tight.
"Dick, what are you doing?"
"Nothing," Dick mumbles. He presses his body against Bruce's and tightens his arms around his neck. It's longer than it should be before Bruce realizes he's being hugged. Hugged completely, in that way Dick always had of throwing himself fully into everything he attempted. They used to be so physical together. Hands, shoulders, arms. They used to laugh together...when Dick was a youth, when Dick was still innocent.
Dick's face is moving, sliding against the edge of the cowl and rubbing forward against Bruce's skin. Dick needs to shave again. His stubble bites into Bruce's face. Dick rubs their chins together, grinds down against his other cheek and reverses the move. They're both going to have stubble-burn.
Bruce is too confused to push him back. It isn't a kiss. It isn't a fondle or nibble or grope. It's isn't accompanied by a plea for his touch or an accusation of stone-heartedness. It is what it is, and what they are.
Dick pulls away and cups his right hand around Bruce's face. The gauntlet is textured and warm to the touch. The thumb strokes his cheek.
"I missed you," Dick says and the wry smile is back.
Bruce opens his mouth to say You're doing good work, but the words won't form. "Me, too," is on his lips when Dick takes his hand away and steps back.
"Oh, I almost forgot!" Dick grins like he used to, and Bruce swears he can see his eyes sparkle, even through the lenses. "Clark says hi."
"Dick—" Bruce calls, following, and then Dick is in his space again and Bruce is kissing him hard, tasting Dick's mouth and learning the feel of his tongue against his own. His mind is flooded with images of everything he never allowed them to do, and he pushes his fingers through Dick's hair, cradling his head.
"Stop," Dick says, pulling away again. "No more."
"I don't understand," Bruce says after a moment.
"I'm twenty-five years old," Dick answers, as if that should explain it. When Bruce doesn't say anything, Dick scowls and says, "Look, I'm not a child, this isn't illegal, in this state at least, and I'm not going to do it anymore."
"I wasn't aware we were doing anything in the first place." Bruce's voice is cold.
Dick shrugs and starts walking backwards. "That's all you. You know what I want. All you have to do is follow through."
"Dick, wait."
"Uh-uh. Life's too short for that."
"And you think this will help?"
"Dinner, maybe a movie? It's a place to start."
Bruce stares, mouth set in a firm line. The boy is incorrigible as ever. Hardly a boy, though. "Legally, you're my son," he snipes. He doesn't have time for this.
Dick stops, spreads his hands, and draws Bruce's eye back down his body. "It's your choice, but I'm tired of waiting and I'm not going to argue this anymore." Dick turns away, calling, "I'll take a swing through the Narrows on my way out of town."
Bruce watches him launch a line, executing a perfect acrobatic dive into the canyon of skyscrapers below. Better with age, yes, and no, no longer a child at all.
A moment later, the radio chirps and Robin reports in that the East side is clear and he's headed home to grab a few hours sleep before school in the morning. Bruce acknowledges and turns south, toward Penguin's territory and the docks. His face is set and his senses are alert, but his cheeks still feel raw and the taste of their kiss still lingers in his mouth.