Homecoming

[_nightwing_]

Tim may only have been up front talking to Jason for a few minutes, but those minutes were long enough. Long enough for Dick Grayson to finally close his eyes and fall asleep at Bruce's side.

And as he does so,

Comments

[_alfred_]

"Master Dick?" The Englishman's voice is gentle, though his tone is definitely puzzled. "Master Dick, I fear you will find no breakfast under the bed."

[_nightwing_]

The mound of blankets beneath the bed stirs, a bleary face peering back at the older man as daylight streams in the palatial windows. He then turns away, pulling the pilfered sheets over his head as he remembers where he is.

Don' wanna.

[_alfred_]

"There is no food under there, young sir." Alfred reaches out to him, not trying to grab him or pull the covers away, merely offering assistance. "If you would care to accompany me to the kitchen, I would be happy to prepare breakfast for you. Do you like pancakes?"

[_nightwing_]

'm not hungry.

He is, as his rumbling stomach attests, but he's busy sulking. He sniffs, rubbing his face on his pajama sleeve.

[_darkknight_]

Already in the kitchen is the master of the house, coffee in one hand and a large chocolate chip cookie in the other. His bare back is to the rest of the room - he has at least showered and donned fresh sweatpants after his evening escapades - as he stands over the counter near the cookie jar reading the newspaper.

[_alfred_]

"Master Bruce," Alfred says severely, "that is not intended as a breakfast pastry."

[_nightwing_]

The young boy draws just a little closer to the butler, in an unconscious gesture of intimidation, eyes watching him intently.

[_darkknight_]

"Hungry," Bruce mumbles without contrition as he closes up the newspaper and turns around.

Hey, he's been in a fight.

Bruce's brows shoot up immediately as he sees Dick, and he straightens self-consciously, then smiles. "Uh, hey. How'd you sleep? I'm betting not so hot."

[_alfred_]

"Your pancakes, sir." Alfred sets a plate of buckwheat pancakes in front of the boy, then arranges the selection of condiments: butter, honey, three flavors of jam, and maple syrup.

[_nightwing_]

The napkin is taken and quickly forgotten as he stares at the sheer array of choices in front of him. Then he looks down at the dark brown pancakes, and frowns.

Pancakes aren't supposed to look like that.

[_alfred_]

"Er...." Alfred blinks. "What are pancakes supposed to look like, sir?"

[_darkknight_]

Your average pancake is pale and golden, that's true," Bruce notes as he looks behind Dick to see when his own plate will be ready, "but Alfred's look different because they're special and terrific. Listen, I wouldn't lie to you about this. He still has to yell at me to eat my spinach."

[_alfred_]

"Really? Er, Master Dick, who is Zitka? And Sahara and Sheba?"

[_nightwing_]

Zitka's one of the elephants, an' Sahara and Sheba are lions. They're in the fourth act now.

He balls a hand into a fist and rubs his tired eyes, suppressing a yawn.

[_alfred_]

"Dear me. I trust you will not find life around here too dreadfully dull."

[_nightwing_]

There's a non-comittal shrug. The jury's still out right now.

Are there any toys here? Does Mr. Wayne really have ten cars?

They enter the large bedroom once more, and the boy dutifully makes an attempt to tidy his few belongings, before climbing onto the bed in an effort to straighten the sheets. Unfortunately, the bed being far larger than he is, it becomes rapidly apparent that his attempts are futile; resulting only in further rumpling of the blankets.