Fanfic - Unspoken [Bat-verse: Bruce/Dick]
Fandom: Bat-verse
Pairing: miiiild Bruce/Dick. Could in fact be read as platonic.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: First time attempting the boys. Intended only as a sketch, to play around with character interpretation. areale knows how long it takes me to settle into a character I want to write. Consider this experimentation. Therefore, er, consider yourself warned. XD
Written for demon_faith's prompt: Bruce/Dick rooftop fight (villains optional ;)). I'm not sure this entirely qualifies, but it was getting there before they were so rudely interrupted. *laughs*
Unspoken
He landed as lightly as he could, willing himself not to gasp as his ankle protested violently. Sliding to the ground, he extended his foot and stared at it, steadily ignoring the shadowy presence behind him. It didn’t seem broken.
“The theatrics were unnecessary,” Batman told him stiffly. Nightwing refused to dignify that with a response. Besides, it seemed that every time they spoke these days they just ended up sniping at each other, so he might as well save himself some grief. If he told himself enough times that Batman’s words were not the cause of his sleepless nights and/or salty wet pillows in the mornings, maybe he’d start believing it.
“Nightwing,” Batman said, and the younger man detected that familiar edge of impatience in his old mentor’s voice. Resentment flared up in him - well fine, if he wanted a fight - and he rose, pointedly not favouring his leg, and turned to respond with something that would have driven an even bigger wedge between them.
The bullet struck him square in the chest and he toppled off the edge of the roof, a surprised look on his face.
As he fell, he thought he heard someone say his name. Gunfire. Voices. No, screams. How had he failed to realise he’d been followed? How had Batman? He couldn’t breathe. His chest was tight, ribs flat against his lungs and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t -
He flung out his arms, barely breaking his fall. He rather thought he might have broken the ankle for real this time. Pity. Batman would be disappointed. Would Bruce be? He didn’t - no, Bruce wouldn’t - why would he, poor excuse for a ward that Dick had proven to be, running away at the first opportunity, and Bruce never had tried to bring him back. Cape rustling and Batman’s silhouette against the moon, and it’s such a cliché, really, is this what the criminals see and does that mean Dick’s in the wrong again like he always is and was that desperation he heard in Batman’s voice but no he must be imagining things because Batman didn’t care about him Bruce didn’t…
He woke up in his old room. Wayne Manor had a peculiar stillness about him that he was able to identify even with his eyes closed. It was so very different from his circus days, but he’d come to identify the manor’s quiet dignity with security.
Shouldn’t he have been in Blüdhaven?
There was a weight flattening his arm to the bed. Trying to move it didn’t work. Trying to move his legs did - which was unfortunate, because the movement sent a sharp pain through his ankles, which forced an involuntary gasp from him, which made his lungs protest and his chest ache and - shit, now he remembered. He’d never been more grateful that he’d listened to Batman and integrated Kevlar into his suit.
The weight disappeared from his arm. When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking straight into relieved blue eyes.
“’Lo,” he murmured. He didn’t have the breath to say any more.
“Hello,” Bruce replied quietly, and let the soft brush of his lips lull Dick back to sleep.
~fin
Pairing: miiiild Bruce/Dick. Could in fact be read as platonic.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: First time attempting the boys. Intended only as a sketch, to play around with character interpretation. areale knows how long it takes me to settle into a character I want to write. Consider this experimentation. Therefore, er, consider yourself warned. XD
Written for demon_faith's prompt: Bruce/Dick rooftop fight (villains optional ;)). I'm not sure this entirely qualifies, but it was getting there before they were so rudely interrupted. *laughs*
Unspoken
He landed as lightly as he could, willing himself not to gasp as his ankle protested violently. Sliding to the ground, he extended his foot and stared at it, steadily ignoring the shadowy presence behind him. It didn’t seem broken.
“The theatrics were unnecessary,” Batman told him stiffly. Nightwing refused to dignify that with a response. Besides, it seemed that every time they spoke these days they just ended up sniping at each other, so he might as well save himself some grief. If he told himself enough times that Batman’s words were not the cause of his sleepless nights and/or salty wet pillows in the mornings, maybe he’d start believing it.
“Nightwing,” Batman said, and the younger man detected that familiar edge of impatience in his old mentor’s voice. Resentment flared up in him - well fine, if he wanted a fight - and he rose, pointedly not favouring his leg, and turned to respond with something that would have driven an even bigger wedge between them.
The bullet struck him square in the chest and he toppled off the edge of the roof, a surprised look on his face.
As he fell, he thought he heard someone say his name. Gunfire. Voices. No, screams. How had he failed to realise he’d been followed? How had Batman? He couldn’t breathe. His chest was tight, ribs flat against his lungs and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t -
He flung out his arms, barely breaking his fall. He rather thought he might have broken the ankle for real this time. Pity. Batman would be disappointed. Would Bruce be? He didn’t - no, Bruce wouldn’t - why would he, poor excuse for a ward that Dick had proven to be, running away at the first opportunity, and Bruce never had tried to bring him back. Cape rustling and Batman’s silhouette against the moon, and it’s such a cliché, really, is this what the criminals see and does that mean Dick’s in the wrong again like he always is and was that desperation he heard in Batman’s voice but no he must be imagining things because Batman didn’t care about him Bruce didn’t…
He woke up in his old room. Wayne Manor had a peculiar stillness about him that he was able to identify even with his eyes closed. It was so very different from his circus days, but he’d come to identify the manor’s quiet dignity with security.
Shouldn’t he have been in Blüdhaven?
There was a weight flattening his arm to the bed. Trying to move it didn’t work. Trying to move his legs did - which was unfortunate, because the movement sent a sharp pain through his ankles, which forced an involuntary gasp from him, which made his lungs protest and his chest ache and - shit, now he remembered. He’d never been more grateful that he’d listened to Batman and integrated Kevlar into his suit.
The weight disappeared from his arm. When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking straight into relieved blue eyes.
“’Lo,” he murmured. He didn’t have the breath to say any more.
“Hello,” Bruce replied quietly, and let the soft brush of his lips lull Dick back to sleep.
~fin