anonymous asked: "I'm so proud of you" bruce and dick

Thanks to MJ for donating! Here's your Bruce and Dick kidnapped content!

A soft call of his name is the first thing that Dick registers through the haze fogging up his brain. He's at half-processing speed right now, and it takes him an uncomfortably long time to even recognize the voice he should know in his sleep. Not enough Batman, but not enough charm to be Brucie Wayne. So that just leaves plain old—

"Bruce?" Dick groans. His head is hanging, and he doesn't have enough energy to do anything but roll it sort of in the direction from where he thinks his name had been called. Maybe. It's hard to remember anything. Or move. Or think.

"Can you open your eyes for me, chum?"

Dick hums, grimacing when he peels his eyelids open.

The world around him is a hazy, blurry mess. Too bright, too dark. Too much, but not enough. He doesn't recognize anything past fuzzy shapes and dark colors, and the effort of keeping his eyes open leaves him absolutely drained. They slip closed again, and he lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"Dick," Bruce calls again, more urgent than the first time.

He sounds close. Close enough that he would have seen Dick's attempt to do as he asked. Dick wonders if he's going to be asked to open his eyes again, and if he's going to have to keep them open. He hates to admit it, but he's too tired. Too exhausted. If Bruce asks, though, Dick's going to do it. Whether he wants to or not. It's been beat into him for the past seven years.

"Dick," Bruce says. "I need you to look at me."

And there it is. Dick tries to fight.

"I'm tired," he croaks, and something bubbles up in his chest. He doesn't want to open his eyes. He doesn't want to look at Bruce. He wants to sleep. "Bruce, I'm really tired."

"You were hit in the head, Dick," Bruce tells him, and there's a softness to his voice that Dick remembers from his childhood.

When he was nine, freshly orphaned and nightmare-ridden, he'd always seemed to find his way to Bruce's room. Sobs hitching in his chest as he watched his parents fall again and again, and he'd thought Bruce is Batman. Bruce will make this go away, and he'd slip under the covers of Bruce's bed. Bruce would wake up and curl around him, holding him and whispering reassurances in that deep, gentle voice until he fell asleep.

Better days, Dick thinks somewhat bitterly. Now, Dick's sixteen and it's hard to go to Bruce for anything anymore. Dick's not stupid. He knows Bruce is doing it on purpose. Pushing him away. Dick doesn't know why, and he's angry enough that he pushes back, until the words turn to silence.

There are rarely good days, now.

"Stay with me, Dick," Bruce says.

Dick makes a face. "I didn't go anywhere," he murmurs.

"You did," Bruce tells him.

There's a pause, and Dick lets the silence wash over him a moment, feeling that haze come back to try and claim his brain again. The haze is much more welcome to consume him than the pain of the real world. He's tired, and he can't remember where he is or how he even got here, or why there's—

Is there rope binding his hands behind his back?

Dick's eyes slam open, and his breath hitches in his chest. He takes in the dark surroundings of the warehouse around him. Things are still blurry and hazy, and his brain's a gigantic mess, but he can make out the empty space in front of him. The people-shaped blurs across it. The mound of something (boxes?) to his right. Bruce to his left, in much the same position as he is.

He can't make out Bruce's face, no matter how much he blinks—can't get his eyes to focus on much of anything—but he thinks that Bruce is looking at him a little wary.

That's when Dick's training kicks in. He forces himself to calm down. To take an actual breath. He closes his eyes and lets his chin drop back to his chest. He doesn't think anyone's around them, but there are definitely people—they're captors, probably—across the room, and Dick doesn't want them to realize he's awake quite yet.

Unless they already saw him freak out. Then there's probably no point. But he's going to go the optimistic route and hope that they hadn't. Plus, Bruce hasn't said anything about them. He's probably in the clear to keep pretending.

"Are you alright?" Bruce asks, that soft tone back.

Dick swallows, and he assesses himself. His hands are tied behind his back. His head is throbbing, making his thoughts fuzzy, and he can barely keep his eyes open. Everything's aching, but there's nothing that particularly stands out, so he's probably in the clear.

"Concussion," Dick murmurs. "I think. Besides that, bruises."

"Stay awake," Bruce reminds him. "Help's on the way."

Dick wants to laugh bitterly. What help? Batman and Robin are sitting here, in a warehouse, hands tied behind their backs. Figuratively and literally. The Justice League is off world, too—and even if they weren't, they probably couldn't get away with saving Bruce and Dick out of the blue without good reason—and Barbara's not in town, either. At some college camp thing she's been raving about for a good month.

Their only help would be the police, but would the GCPD even be able to—

"FREEZE!" a familiar voice shouts, and Dick sags even further. Commissioner Gordon. The GCPD. Cops. There's a scuffle that Dick can't bother to pay attention to, and he just lets himself go for a few seconds.

He realizes now that he'd been preparing himself to figure out a plan to get him and Bruce out of here. He'd been thinking that there'd been no other option but to save themselves, and some part of Dick feels so bitter about it. When had he stopped trusting the cops to do their jobs?

Maybe. Maybe, he needs to put a little more trust into the cops. Maybe.

Commissioner Gordon's always been someone who he's trusted without question, never doubting that the man was trying his best to work with the hand he'd been dealt with, and there's no way that the man would ever leave Bruce and Dick to the wolves, right?

And there are good cops, too. Officers he's worked and chatted with. Ones that send him small smiles every time he cracks a joke or tries to banter with the dark stone wall that's Batman.

When had he become so jaded, that he didn't trust anyone else to come for them? Is it a product of spending too much time with Bruce, or is it because he's spent the past few months arguing with Bruce. He's not sure if he knows, and he doesn't like the picture either paints.

"Dick?" Bruce says. His name again. It takes another moment to register, but then Dick jerks his head up, pries his eyes open to see Bruce's worried expression swimming in front of his face. Someone's undone the ropes on both of them, and Bruce is crouching in front of him. There's blood on his face, and he looks so—scared. He looks scared. "You with me, chum?"

"Yeah," Dick breathes. He doesn't dare nod. "Yeah, I'm with you."

Bruce nods, something that almost looks like relief on his face. Except, that's too many emotions for Bruce Wayne. For Batman. He's got like, three, and Dick's pretty sure relief's not one of them. Hasn't been for a long time.

"I'm proud of you," Bruce tells him, and it's quiet.

Dick's lips twist into a grimace. "I didn't do anything. The police saved us."

"You opened your eyes." Bruce's hand hesitates just a beat, and then he's pushing Dick's hair away from his forehead. "You stayed awake."

"Barely."

"You still did it."

Dick hums, and he lets himself tilt forward, burying his nose into Bruce's shirt. His hands are free, though he has no recollection of that actually happening. But he brings them up, twisting his fingers into Bruce's shirt as Bruce hesitantly pulls him in for a hug.

They're both so bad at this, now. That easiness from the early years is gone, replaced with the tension from months of arguing, but as Dick lets himself melt into his dad's arms, everything from just hours comes rushing back—

A gala. One where Dick's expected to play the Lucky Charity Case. They're stormed by gunmen. Gordon's furious face. Gunmen surrounding Bruce, aiming a gun at his temple. Dick's heart leaps into his throat, and he wants to slip away, thinking maybe he could come back as Robin and do something other than stand here uselessly, but one of the gunmen sees him when he tries to duck away, and he's told to—

"Stop! Or I blow daddy's brains out, brat!"

Bruce's eyes are hard, gaze flicking to the door closest to Dick. A clear sign to run and not worry about Bruce. Like hell. Dick doesn't go anywhere.

Dick only has a second to register the butt of the gun swinging at him before his world explodes with pain. He hears distant shouting and there's this nauseating feeling of being carried over someone's shoulders.

Bruce's voice breaks through his haze, just for a moment. Just a burst, of "Don't you dare touch my son!" and then the dark trickles in, and Dick knows no more.

"Are you okay?" Dick wonders, his voice barely a whisper as he murmurs into Bruce's shirt. He's not even sure his words were actually audible, but Bruce seems to understand, anyways.

"Am I okay?" Bruce asks, something like disbelief in his voice. It's hard to tell when Dick still has trouble focusing on anything but the way his heart is hammering in his chest and his breath won't stay steady no matter how many breathing techniques he tries.

"Bruce," Dick pleads, grip on the fabric tightening. "Please."

Bruce is quiet a moment, and then, "I'm fine. The paramedics are here to look at you."

Dick feels a stab of irritation. He doesn't want paramedics. He wants—well. He wants to not move. He wants to sleep. He wants him and Bruce to stop fighting all the damn time. He wants to have one patrol where Bruce doesn't give him a stupid order that makes it seem like Dick's not trustworthy.

"Fuck the paramedics," Dick decides.

"Dick," Bruce is quick to reprimand, but Dick cuts him off before Bruce can go anywhere.

"I just wanna go home," Dick tells him, letting go of the front of Bruce's shirt to snake his arms around Bruce's back and shove himself into a proper hug. Bruce, luckily, doesn't let go. He just sighs. "Bruce, please. Just let me go home."

"You're hurt, Dick." There's a frown in Bruce's voice.

"Please," Dick says. His head is so messed up and he has about zero control over his emotions, and if this goes on any longer, Dick's afraid he's going to start crying. As it is, he's practically blubbering already. "Alfred can. I just. Please. Bruce."

Bruce's hold tightens, one hand going to gently cup the back of Dick's head. "Just let them look you over, Dick," Bruce says, and. There's a hitch to his breath. A weakness to it that no one but maybe Alfred and Clark would pick up on. "You're hurt."

Scared, Dick's brain reminds him. Bruce had looked scared. Probably still is. Dick swallows past a lump in his throat, and he knows that the only way Bruce is going to be okay is if Dick agrees. He doesn't want to, everything in him wanting to rebel against Bruce again and again until Bruce stops suffocating him and starts trusting him, but he also loves Bruce like a dad. Enough that he can hardly stand to hear that tremble, even concussed as he is.

"Okay," Dick finally relents. "But you have to stay with me. And then we go home."

Bruce's fingers run through his hair again, and Dick can feel his movements when he nods. "Paramedics, and then we go home," Bruce agrees.