FIC: Lion's den (Bruce, Dick, PG-13)
I surprised myself with a Dick bunny! I had written him like, twice before. But he wanted to chat, so.. here we go! Set in some limbo thing during Morrison's Batman run but Vic Sage is alive and.. stuff. Whatever.
Title: Lion's den
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Bruce, Dick, mentions of Bruce/Clark
Word Count: 2100+
Summary: Afterhours at the Manor's kitchen. You know, shameless domestic schmoop.
He’s tired, but he needs to get this done. He’s been putting it off for too long.
When he set up a forum where the main purpose was for people to speculate about politics, social issues, health care, pop culture, art, marketing, science, crime, and just generally paranoia inducing issues, and he asked Vic Sage to moderate it, he knew he was asking for trouble.
First, people are very paranoid and crazy. Second, not all paranoid and crazy people are very smart, so a lot of the topics in the forum were ridiculously stupid. Third, the list daddy was very paranoid and at least a little bit crazy, though very smart, and that made a lot of the discussions, let’s say, pretty crazy.
Also, he’s a little paranoid himself and he had put off checking the PiranhaTank for a week (the name of the forum, chosen by Oracle, is somehow very fitting), and has ended up doing it at four a.m. while drinking mate and chewing cherries, which means there is a high risk of the discussions he participates in becoming something that gets a smidge out of hand, paranoia-wise.
It’s good fun, though. He can’t stop grinning about the way Vic is blowing a fuse over calamari sweets being related to a cephalopodan religious cult trying to infiltrate a dietary niche as a step towards inducing the alimentary crisis.
He puts a cherry in his mouth and laughs as he refreshes the page, looking at the accumulating posts.
Checking the PiranhaTank is time consuming, headache inducing, and usually not a lot of useful information can be mined from the discussions. But sometimes there are rumors or lateral mental jumps that make the whole thing worth it.
Well, that, and Vic. Online Vic is a lot of fun.
He hears steps coming up the stairs from the cave. He looks at the clock and scowls. Its four a.m., and he isn't expecting anyone coming from downstairs. The concealed door in the back of the pantry opens with a whisper, and the figure turns the light of the kitchen on as he walks in. He stops, surprised when he sees Bruce at the table.
“What are you doing in the dark?” Dick blurts.
Bruce picks another cherry, gestures at the computer, the bowl of fruit and the cup of tea without looking up from the screen. “Research.”
Dick’s expression eases into a grin and he starts again towards one of the fridges. “I’m here for some late night ‘research’ too, hopefully with more calories and less caffeine than whatever you’re having.”
“Didn’t know you were in Gotham.”
“I didn’t know I was going to be, either. A favorite snitch of mine seems to have been forced to migrate. Can you imagine? Choosing to move to Gotham ‘cause it’s safer here?”
Bruce makes an agreeing sound, chewing on another cherry. He checks the next threads. He skips the subjects.
He’s really just looking for posts from Vic.
He’s had a long, tedious day with the Justice League, dealing with interstellar diplomacy -he isn’t sure why they have to get involved in that, but there you go. He deserves some entertainment.
“You want a sandwich?” Dick offers.
“Sure,” he says, though he knows Dick hasn’t waited for his answer and is already in the process of making a bunch of ‘Dick’s Specials’. They don’t have a fixed recipe, the Dick’s Specials. His adopted son just grabs anything that he can find that looks remotely like it should be in a sandwich. They look gross, and should by all means taste terrible, but Bruce has been subjected to them since Dick was a boy, and in truth, they aren’t all that bad. Alfred disapproves of them as much as he disapproves of Bruce getting anywhere near the stove, but then, Bruce got used to survival food a long time ago. Some freaky sandwiches aren’t going to kill him.
Bruce looks at Dick work over the top of the notebook screen. His movements are easy and fluid. He’s humming to himself as he works. His black hair is messy but dark and shiny, maybe a bit long. But Dick and long hair is something that Bruce associates with the young man’s buoyant moods and less stressful times, though it hasn’t always been so. Dick turns, feeling his gaze on him, and grins. His eyes are clear, he looks tired but not worn. He just needs some sleep. He isn’t hurt. He isn’t hurting. He seems happy and healthy. Bruce answers his grin with a small smile and goes back to the forum threads.
“So, how are you? What are you up to?” Dick asks while he works.
Bruce makes a long, non-committal noise. He’s found another thread where Vic is sharing his genius. He clicks the reply button. “I’m fine. I’m checking the Tank, I hadn’t had the time in a while.”
“The freak forum? Anything interesting going on?”
Bruce chuckles. “Always.”
“You and Babs and your freaks. One for every occasion, hmm?”
Bruce shakes his head without making a sound, engrossed in his reading. Aztec gold, orthodontists and the rise of the Amero. It would be ridiculous if it wasn’t because it makes a bit of sense. Not much, definitely not the part of the orthodontists, but…
“There. Eat something. You really shouldn’t be drinking that at this hour with an empty stomach. Besides, don’t you have work tomorrow?”
“Yes. And squash at 7 at the club.” He grabs a sandwich while Dick makes a disgusted sound around a mouthful of food. “I don’t plan on sleeping until later.”
Dick swallows and shakes his head. “Nice. That’s disgustingly early. Who are you playing with? Vin Carelli?”
“Donny Hall, you remember him? His daughter was always very fond of you.”
“Jessica Hall? Oh man, I remember. Sweet girl most of the time, but… you know. Kind of psycho.”
Bruce smiles and nods. He takes a bite and they sit in silence for a while. In no time, Dick has devoured a second sandwich and is looking at the last one. “Please, go ahead.” Bruce says. Dick barely manages to say thanks before he’s munching on bread and chicken and ham. Bruce stands up and gets a mug of milk out of the fridge and a bowl of strawberries.
“Mind if I check the forum?”
“Go ahead.” He says as he pours a glass of milk, then puts it in front of Dick. “You’re going to choke,” he says, like the glass needs an explanation.
“Thank you, Batman,” Dick says with a singsong voice.
Bruce snorts. “Don’t eat the cherries.”
“No? why not?” Dick says as he picks one up, sitting behind the small computer. On the other side of the kitchen table he can also keep an eye on Bruce as he moves around the kitchen.
“Well, they’re mine. For later.”
“You were eating them just now.”
“But I’m not eating them anymore.”
Dick pops the small fruit into his mouth, “Alfred would say to share.”
Bruce growls, a small noise in the back of his throat that doesn’t belong to the Bat at all, but to the Robins, in the sense that only his charges can elicit it; a mix between annoyance and defeat that somehow manages to sound fond. He grabs a cutting board and starts slicing the strawberries. One long cut along the fruit, two cuts across. Six pieces. Another strawberry. One long cut, two cuts across. Another. One cut, two cuts. Eighteen pieces fall to an empty bowl. One long cut. Two cuts across. Another.
“Wow, who knew orthodontists were behind everything!” Dick said. “This is crazy stuff.”
“I know.”
“Good for staying awake all night.”
“I know.”
“Aren’t there better ways to stay up all night than reading crazy stuff? Where is Clark?”
Bruce turns to look at Dick over his shoulder and chuckles, waiting for Dick to look up from the computer and look horrified at his own questions.
Dick meets his eyes and immediately backpedals. “No, no, Bruce! Like scrabble or chess or something! That’s just wrong,” he says, shaking an accusing finger at him. “You, sir, are a very bad man.”
Bruce just laughs and keeps slicing the strawberries.
“Well?” Dick prompts.
“Patrolling.”
Dick makes a pained sound. “That sucks. It’s late.”
“Late here, early somewhere else.”
“Did you go patrolling?”
“Tim did. I was with the League."
“Go Robin! How is he?”
“Okay.”
Dick pauses. “No, I mean, really. How is he?”
Bruce turns, leaning on the counter. “Okay, I think. Steph being back has helped somewhat.” He shrugs. “It’s hard to tell.”
Dick is looking at him, a concerned look on his face. Bruce fights the urge to shrug again. He does what he can, but there are demons that he can’t help them fight. He turns around again to finish slicing the strawberries.
He opens one of the cabins and grabs the sugar. He sprinkles the fruits, then sprinkles them some more. With a wooden spoon, he starts to mix, lost in thought. Tim does seem a bit better, he thinks. Life has been hard for his adopted son the last few years. Tim is too young to be dealing with so much grief and loss. He will find a way to return Cassandra to the fold, at least, for the sake of all of them. Losing Cass hurts like a stab wound, unexpected, sharp and cold. He should be angry. Maybe he is. It’s hard to tell what he feels, sometimes, beyond wanting the young woman to be back with his little urban pride of hunters, where he can keep her somewhat safe. So much to do. It’s not always easy to let his young hunters take their own stand beyond the confines of his protection. Another lesson he needs to learn from Alfred.
Dick’s laugh breaks his train of thought. “What?”
Dick stands up, walks towards him, leaning on the counter. “You’re so obsessive.”
“What?” Bruce says again, offended.
“The mixing,” Dick points to the bowl. “One turn of the spoon, a fifteen degrees turn of the bowl. Not a degree more or less. Repeat for three circuits.”
Bruce glares. “Well, I’m not the one who’s counting,” he says, annoyed. Dick laughs.
“Yes, yes you are!”
Bruce growls again and grabs the sugar, sprinkling the fruit again.
“That’s a lot of sugar.”
Bruce rolls his eyes. “Well, do you want to take over?”
Dick raises his hands, still laughing. “No, no, that’s fine. I like them sweet.”
Bruce grunts, beginning to mix again. He knows. He’s not the only one who likes them sweet, either, and he expects Clark to come back for breakfast before Bruce has to head to the club and Clark has to get ready for work. Bruce would rather have his cherries, if Dick has left any, but he’s hanging to the thought of the sweetness of the strawberries in Clark’s mouth, one long kiss stolen before he leaves for Metropolis. Bruce turns the bowl -exactly fifteen degrees-, mixes the fruit, turns the bowl again.
“I hope Clark can make it for breakfast,” Dick says, his smile softened.
Bruce smiles too, a little embarrassed, mostly proud. Teaching Dick to read people was probably the most important part of the detective training. It helps in other areas, too.
Bruce doesn’t have to say too much, just like he doesn’t have to ask too much. “I hope so,” he says, his gaze on the bowl.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” Dick says.
Bruce looks at him and smiles, realizing he’s tired but not worn, all he needs is some sleep, and he’s healthy and not hurt. For a moment, he’s let's the feeling sink in. He's happy.
“Do you think Alfred would want to make pancakes to go with that?” Dick says, pointing at the bowl of fruit.
“I’m sure he’ll be happy to make some for you and Clark.”
“For Clark? Uh-uh, the pancakes are mine.”
Bruce grabs a fork and gives one to Dick, trying the strawberries and prompting the young man to do the same. “Alfred would say to share,” he says, grinning at Dick’s fake scowl.
The berries are too sweet, of course, but Dick seems to like them and is attacking them with a vengeance. He moves the bowl to the kitchen table, sitting in front of the notebook again, thinking about stolen kisses and the lingering sweetness in his mouth.
Passing the time idly chatting -with words and without them- with his oldest charge, the son of his heart, he waits for the dawn to bring him his morning star.
Title: Lion's den
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Bruce, Dick, mentions of Bruce/Clark
Word Count: 2100+
Summary: Afterhours at the Manor's kitchen. You know, shameless domestic schmoop.
He’s tired, but he needs to get this done. He’s been putting it off for too long.
When he set up a forum where the main purpose was for people to speculate about politics, social issues, health care, pop culture, art, marketing, science, crime, and just generally paranoia inducing issues, and he asked Vic Sage to moderate it, he knew he was asking for trouble.
First, people are very paranoid and crazy. Second, not all paranoid and crazy people are very smart, so a lot of the topics in the forum were ridiculously stupid. Third, the list daddy was very paranoid and at least a little bit crazy, though very smart, and that made a lot of the discussions, let’s say, pretty crazy.
Also, he’s a little paranoid himself and he had put off checking the PiranhaTank for a week (the name of the forum, chosen by Oracle, is somehow very fitting), and has ended up doing it at four a.m. while drinking mate and chewing cherries, which means there is a high risk of the discussions he participates in becoming something that gets a smidge out of hand, paranoia-wise.
It’s good fun, though. He can’t stop grinning about the way Vic is blowing a fuse over calamari sweets being related to a cephalopodan religious cult trying to infiltrate a dietary niche as a step towards inducing the alimentary crisis.
He puts a cherry in his mouth and laughs as he refreshes the page, looking at the accumulating posts.
Checking the PiranhaTank is time consuming, headache inducing, and usually not a lot of useful information can be mined from the discussions. But sometimes there are rumors or lateral mental jumps that make the whole thing worth it.
Well, that, and Vic. Online Vic is a lot of fun.
He hears steps coming up the stairs from the cave. He looks at the clock and scowls. Its four a.m., and he isn't expecting anyone coming from downstairs. The concealed door in the back of the pantry opens with a whisper, and the figure turns the light of the kitchen on as he walks in. He stops, surprised when he sees Bruce at the table.
“What are you doing in the dark?” Dick blurts.
Bruce picks another cherry, gestures at the computer, the bowl of fruit and the cup of tea without looking up from the screen. “Research.”
Dick’s expression eases into a grin and he starts again towards one of the fridges. “I’m here for some late night ‘research’ too, hopefully with more calories and less caffeine than whatever you’re having.”
“Didn’t know you were in Gotham.”
“I didn’t know I was going to be, either. A favorite snitch of mine seems to have been forced to migrate. Can you imagine? Choosing to move to Gotham ‘cause it’s safer here?”
Bruce makes an agreeing sound, chewing on another cherry. He checks the next threads. He skips the subjects.
He’s really just looking for posts from Vic.
He’s had a long, tedious day with the Justice League, dealing with interstellar diplomacy -he isn’t sure why they have to get involved in that, but there you go. He deserves some entertainment.
“You want a sandwich?” Dick offers.
“Sure,” he says, though he knows Dick hasn’t waited for his answer and is already in the process of making a bunch of ‘Dick’s Specials’. They don’t have a fixed recipe, the Dick’s Specials. His adopted son just grabs anything that he can find that looks remotely like it should be in a sandwich. They look gross, and should by all means taste terrible, but Bruce has been subjected to them since Dick was a boy, and in truth, they aren’t all that bad. Alfred disapproves of them as much as he disapproves of Bruce getting anywhere near the stove, but then, Bruce got used to survival food a long time ago. Some freaky sandwiches aren’t going to kill him.
Bruce looks at Dick work over the top of the notebook screen. His movements are easy and fluid. He’s humming to himself as he works. His black hair is messy but dark and shiny, maybe a bit long. But Dick and long hair is something that Bruce associates with the young man’s buoyant moods and less stressful times, though it hasn’t always been so. Dick turns, feeling his gaze on him, and grins. His eyes are clear, he looks tired but not worn. He just needs some sleep. He isn’t hurt. He isn’t hurting. He seems happy and healthy. Bruce answers his grin with a small smile and goes back to the forum threads.
“So, how are you? What are you up to?” Dick asks while he works.
Bruce makes a long, non-committal noise. He’s found another thread where Vic is sharing his genius. He clicks the reply button. “I’m fine. I’m checking the Tank, I hadn’t had the time in a while.”
“The freak forum? Anything interesting going on?”
Bruce chuckles. “Always.”
“You and Babs and your freaks. One for every occasion, hmm?”
Bruce shakes his head without making a sound, engrossed in his reading. Aztec gold, orthodontists and the rise of the Amero. It would be ridiculous if it wasn’t because it makes a bit of sense. Not much, definitely not the part of the orthodontists, but…
“There. Eat something. You really shouldn’t be drinking that at this hour with an empty stomach. Besides, don’t you have work tomorrow?”
“Yes. And squash at 7 at the club.” He grabs a sandwich while Dick makes a disgusted sound around a mouthful of food. “I don’t plan on sleeping until later.”
Dick swallows and shakes his head. “Nice. That’s disgustingly early. Who are you playing with? Vin Carelli?”
“Donny Hall, you remember him? His daughter was always very fond of you.”
“Jessica Hall? Oh man, I remember. Sweet girl most of the time, but… you know. Kind of psycho.”
Bruce smiles and nods. He takes a bite and they sit in silence for a while. In no time, Dick has devoured a second sandwich and is looking at the last one. “Please, go ahead.” Bruce says. Dick barely manages to say thanks before he’s munching on bread and chicken and ham. Bruce stands up and gets a mug of milk out of the fridge and a bowl of strawberries.
“Mind if I check the forum?”
“Go ahead.” He says as he pours a glass of milk, then puts it in front of Dick. “You’re going to choke,” he says, like the glass needs an explanation.
“Thank you, Batman,” Dick says with a singsong voice.
Bruce snorts. “Don’t eat the cherries.”
“No? why not?” Dick says as he picks one up, sitting behind the small computer. On the other side of the kitchen table he can also keep an eye on Bruce as he moves around the kitchen.
“Well, they’re mine. For later.”
“You were eating them just now.”
“But I’m not eating them anymore.”
Dick pops the small fruit into his mouth, “Alfred would say to share.”
Bruce growls, a small noise in the back of his throat that doesn’t belong to the Bat at all, but to the Robins, in the sense that only his charges can elicit it; a mix between annoyance and defeat that somehow manages to sound fond. He grabs a cutting board and starts slicing the strawberries. One long cut along the fruit, two cuts across. Six pieces. Another strawberry. One long cut, two cuts across. Another. One cut, two cuts. Eighteen pieces fall to an empty bowl. One long cut. Two cuts across. Another.
“Wow, who knew orthodontists were behind everything!” Dick said. “This is crazy stuff.”
“I know.”
“Good for staying awake all night.”
“I know.”
“Aren’t there better ways to stay up all night than reading crazy stuff? Where is Clark?”
Bruce turns to look at Dick over his shoulder and chuckles, waiting for Dick to look up from the computer and look horrified at his own questions.
Dick meets his eyes and immediately backpedals. “No, no, Bruce! Like scrabble or chess or something! That’s just wrong,” he says, shaking an accusing finger at him. “You, sir, are a very bad man.”
Bruce just laughs and keeps slicing the strawberries.
“Well?” Dick prompts.
“Patrolling.”
Dick makes a pained sound. “That sucks. It’s late.”
“Late here, early somewhere else.”
“Did you go patrolling?”
“Tim did. I was with the League."
“Go Robin! How is he?”
“Okay.”
Dick pauses. “No, I mean, really. How is he?”
Bruce turns, leaning on the counter. “Okay, I think. Steph being back has helped somewhat.” He shrugs. “It’s hard to tell.”
Dick is looking at him, a concerned look on his face. Bruce fights the urge to shrug again. He does what he can, but there are demons that he can’t help them fight. He turns around again to finish slicing the strawberries.
He opens one of the cabins and grabs the sugar. He sprinkles the fruits, then sprinkles them some more. With a wooden spoon, he starts to mix, lost in thought. Tim does seem a bit better, he thinks. Life has been hard for his adopted son the last few years. Tim is too young to be dealing with so much grief and loss. He will find a way to return Cassandra to the fold, at least, for the sake of all of them. Losing Cass hurts like a stab wound, unexpected, sharp and cold. He should be angry. Maybe he is. It’s hard to tell what he feels, sometimes, beyond wanting the young woman to be back with his little urban pride of hunters, where he can keep her somewhat safe. So much to do. It’s not always easy to let his young hunters take their own stand beyond the confines of his protection. Another lesson he needs to learn from Alfred.
Dick’s laugh breaks his train of thought. “What?”
Dick stands up, walks towards him, leaning on the counter. “You’re so obsessive.”
“What?” Bruce says again, offended.
“The mixing,” Dick points to the bowl. “One turn of the spoon, a fifteen degrees turn of the bowl. Not a degree more or less. Repeat for three circuits.”
Bruce glares. “Well, I’m not the one who’s counting,” he says, annoyed. Dick laughs.
“Yes, yes you are!”
Bruce growls again and grabs the sugar, sprinkling the fruit again.
“That’s a lot of sugar.”
Bruce rolls his eyes. “Well, do you want to take over?”
Dick raises his hands, still laughing. “No, no, that’s fine. I like them sweet.”
Bruce grunts, beginning to mix again. He knows. He’s not the only one who likes them sweet, either, and he expects Clark to come back for breakfast before Bruce has to head to the club and Clark has to get ready for work. Bruce would rather have his cherries, if Dick has left any, but he’s hanging to the thought of the sweetness of the strawberries in Clark’s mouth, one long kiss stolen before he leaves for Metropolis. Bruce turns the bowl -exactly fifteen degrees-, mixes the fruit, turns the bowl again.
“I hope Clark can make it for breakfast,” Dick says, his smile softened.
Bruce smiles too, a little embarrassed, mostly proud. Teaching Dick to read people was probably the most important part of the detective training. It helps in other areas, too.
Bruce doesn’t have to say too much, just like he doesn’t have to ask too much. “I hope so,” he says, his gaze on the bowl.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” Dick says.
Bruce looks at him and smiles, realizing he’s tired but not worn, all he needs is some sleep, and he’s healthy and not hurt. For a moment, he’s let's the feeling sink in. He's happy.
“Do you think Alfred would want to make pancakes to go with that?” Dick says, pointing at the bowl of fruit.
“I’m sure he’ll be happy to make some for you and Clark.”
“For Clark? Uh-uh, the pancakes are mine.”
Bruce grabs a fork and gives one to Dick, trying the strawberries and prompting the young man to do the same. “Alfred would say to share,” he says, grinning at Dick’s fake scowl.
The berries are too sweet, of course, but Dick seems to like them and is attacking them with a vengeance. He moves the bowl to the kitchen table, sitting in front of the notebook again, thinking about stolen kisses and the lingering sweetness in his mouth.
Passing the time idly chatting -with words and without them- with his oldest charge, the son of his heart, he waits for the dawn to bring him his morning star.