Chapter four
Bruce stopped the bike in front of the building, and had checked the address again. Yes, there was no mistake. He had to admit it was a good location and cover for a lair. It was an old warehouse, dating from the days when steam vessels plied Gotham harbor, and Bruce doubted if it had looked any less ominous when it was new. If the series of large deductions from Dick's trust fund were any indication, however, inside it had been transformed into a securely fortified, state-of-the-art base of operations that rivaled the Batcave. It pleased him to know that Dick had taken his advice in this, at least.
It irritated him, though, that Dick had flat out refused to tell him the location. Alfred knew, of course, and Bruce was fairly certain that both Tim and Barbara had been here, but no matter what argument Bruce had given about security and trust, Nightwing's headquarters had remained off-limits to Batman. They both knew that it was a matter of a few minutes research to discover the location, but that wasn't the point; the point was, Batman wasn't welcome. One more brick in the wall that grew between them.
It irritated Bruce even more to realize that he himself was the ultimate cause of it. Him, and his stubbornness, his unwillingness to yield to what he knew, ultimately, to be the truth.
He was in love with Dick. Had been, probably for years.
This was the same child he'd taken into his home, the boy who'd been his son in all but name, who'd fought at his side, who'd shared his life as well as his home. This was the boy he'd comforted when Dick had nightmares of his parents' death, holding the small, sobbing form in his lap, stroking his hair and holding him close. Dick Grayson, child prodigy aerialist, orphan taken in by the wealthiest man in Gotham City. Straight A student, superb athlete, graduated from college with high honors. Dedicated crime fighter. His ward, his surrogate son, his legal heir, his pride and joy, his responsibility.
His lover?
Bruce just couldn't wrap his mind around it. He was NOT a pedophile, he knew this with all his being. He could think of nothing more loathsome, no more heinous crime. The criminals he fought every night were shoplifters compared to a man who would so abuse and misuse a child. He had a child in his home now, and he sure as hell did not have these kind of feelings for Tim, thank God; that thought gave him some comfort, at least. No, there was no way that he was like that, he knew it in his very soul.
Yet, he knew just as strongly that he was, indeed, in love with his ward.
His former ward, who was hardly a child any longer, but that didn't change the nature of their relationship for all those years.
Did it?
Bruce pulled around to the rear of the building, where he saw a ramp and a sheltered area that had probably been a loading dock. He drove the Hog up, and after setting all the security alarms, looked up at the building.
It wasn't such a dump as he'd first thought. It looked sound enough, no broken windows, the fire escapes in good shape. He walked around the building, and saw that it had excellent camouflage; the bottom story looked to be a well-used flop for street people. Of course, his trained eye could tell that the various pallets, boxes and other remnants had been placed as carefully as a stage set, but the average passerby wouldn't give it a second thought. He also noted discreet but impressive security alarms and other measures that would prevent any unauthorized entry. There was a door in the rear that had the standard buzzer system, and a small mailbox with the name Dick Grayson on it; so, he didn't hide that he lived here. That in itself was not a bad cover; gentrification of the old warehouse district had been very successful in the past few years, so it was not beyond the realms of belief for a trust fund baby to try his hand at it here in the old docks. If Dick wasn't careful, he'd start a trend, and end up living in an upscale neighborhood. Not bad. Not as soundly protected as Wayne Manor, but not bad.
The upper stories were darkened, save for one bank of windows on the top floor.
Eschewing the more obvious means of entry, he returned to the side of the building, checked to ensure no one was near to see, and threw a line to catch the third floor fire escape. He climbed up to the roof, and climbed down over the side to a darkened window on the top floor. He let himself in, noting with some pride that Dick had installed additional security measures that weren't visible from the street. Of course, these were nothing to Batman, and he was inside in a heartbeat.
He found himself in the bedroom, and after giving himself a few minutes to adjust to the dimness, silently shut the window behind him. He looked around the room, surprised at the size of the space; he'd expected some sort of tenement slum, but this was fairly nice, not at all shabby or run down. He wondered how much of that was inherent and how much was Dick's doing.
No time for such musings now. He stood still, and listened. Yes, someone was here all right. He heard the soft click-click of a computer keyboard, and from the doorway he saw a faint glimmer of light; yes, Dick was home. No matter how many times he'd been warned about ruining his eyesight, he still worked in near darkness.
Moving silently, Bruce made his way out into the main living area of the loft, until he was standing directly behind the figure bent over the computer screen.
He was about to speak, when Dick beat him to it, not even bothering to turn from his work. "Please, feel free to sneak in through my window, Bruce. Developed a fear of doors or something?"
Bruce was startled, but also pleased; Dick maintained constant vigil, as he'd been taught. "You have a good security system here." He tried to put into his voice the pride that he felt, but somehow, the words sounded hollow and flat. Bruce could have kicked himself; they'd not spoken in two years, and this is the best he could do?
"Nice to know you don't think I'm totally incompetent, at least."
"I - I didn't mean it like that," Bruce said, chagrined. "I - I'm sorry." A pause. "It's good to see you."
"I know it's difficult for you to accept, but I am an adult," Dick said, rising and turning to face him. "I've been taking care of myself for a long time now."
Bruce stared at Dick, shocked beyond words. Two years had brought about remarkable changes.
Dick was taller now, nearly as tall as he was. As he wore only a pair of workout shorts, his physical condition was obvious, and it was impressive. He might have been a statue by Michelangelo, so perfectly developed and proportioned was his body; not one muscle group ignored, not one muscle group over emphasized, everything balanced and geared toward optimum physical performance. His abs alone would make a washboard jealous; hell, it made Bruce jealous, and he knew himself to be in prime shape. Dick had always been fit, but the child and the adolescent who'd fought by Batman's side had barely hinted at the adult who stood before him now.
As Bruce continued to stare, unable to pull his gaze away, he noted other more subtle changes. An earring glinted in one ear; he wondered how long it had taken Dick to have that done, remembering the arguments between Dick and himself, and Dick and Alfred, over the propriety of such a thing. Now, though, even he had to admit, it didn't look quite so bad as he'd imagined. The hair, now, that was something else. A pony tail hung down his back, not over long by any means, but shockingly different from the brief, conservative cut he'd kept while under Bruce's roof. His face had thinned out some, too, the slight roundness of boyhood now gone entirely, revealing prominent cheekbones and a strong jaw line.
"Bruce? Hello?"
Dick was speaking to him, he realized. He rubbed his eyes with a gloved hand, desperate to regain some kind of control of himself. "I'm sorry," he said, meeting Dick's eyes evenly. "It was a long ride."
"I know," Dick said, smiling slightly. "I've made it a few times myself."
There was a long silence, which neither of them seemed willing or able to break. Finally, etiquette came to the rescue.
"So, Bruce, you want a beer or something?" Dick asked, waving toward the small kitchen.
Bruce made a mental note to thank Alfred for insisting upon good manners. "Actually, I don't think that would be a good idea, " Bruce removed his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair. "I've just been on a bike for the past couple of hours."
Dick stared at him for a moment, and then grinned. "Gotcha. The "Bat-Room," huh?" He chuckled. "It's through the bedroom, far end of the room."
Bruce grinned back, shaking his head at the old, but still terrible, joke. After tending to that bit of necessary business, he returned to the kitchen.
"Now, do you want something to drink?" Dick asked. "Beer, coffee, soda, anything?"
"Don't go to any trouble," Bruce replied, stretching the kinks out of his back and legs.
"Okay," Dick opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a bottle, handing it to Bruce. "Here, I believe this is your brand?"
Bruce took the proffered beer, and nodded his thanks. "You always keep this stuff around, or is it just for my benefit?"
"You always taught me, be prepared." He opened a bottle of soda for himself, and dropped into a chair. He toyed with the soda bottle, not looking at Bruce. "It's good to see you, too. Really, it is."
Bruce took a long pull on the beer, and then took a deep breath. "I believe we have some things to work out."
Dick looked up. "Yes, we do. And I told you, it won't happen in a day." Now he took a deep breath. "Are you sure you're ready to deal with this? Because, I'm telling you right now, if you're not prepared to take this as far as it needs to go, if you're going to back out, or pull another little trick like what happened in your bedroom, you might as well leave now." He leaned forward across the table, his eyes burning with an intensity Bruce had seldom seen before. "I can't take that again, Bruce. I can't. I'm only human, I can't deal with that kind of rejection, not from you, not a second time. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand completely," Bruce replied. "I wouldn't have come if I didn't intend to see it through. Whatever the consequences, Dick. I'm here because -" He paused, unsure himself of why he'd come. What had driven him to leave home on a whim, him, the man who never did anything without planning it to death, preparing for every possible eventuality? Why had he taken off in the night, abandoning his sworn duty, a duty he'd seldom, if ever, abandoned before? When the answer came to him, he found it was almost a relief to say it.
"I came because I want you in my life, one way or another. This can't go on. I hate it, you hate it. We have to work this out, because we're both miserable the way things are." Now it was his turn to lean forward, the desperation he felt evident in his voice. "I came because I love you, Dick. I don't understand it, I don't even know if I like it or not, but I cannot deny it any longer. I'm in love with you, damn it!" He slumped in his chair, suddenly exhausted, and put his face in his hands, pressing his knuckles against his eyes.
There was silence in the small kitchen, for several minutes. Then, Bruce felt an arm around his shoulders.
"It's okay, Bruce," Dick said gently. "I know how you feel, I understand. It's okay, really."
Bruce found it very difficult to speak, his throat felt tight and it seemed impossible to draw a breath. After a moment, he regained control of himself. "Dick," he looked at him, meeting his gaze, and allowing himself for the first time to notice how deep and soulfully brown those eyes were. "My God, I am so sorry, about - what happened."
"I know, Bruce." The voice was still soft, not a trace of accusation, no resentment. "But you understand, don't you? I can't go through that, not again."
"No, I can see that." He pulled himself together, fearing that if he didn't, he'd either get up and leave, or break down in tears. "I was wrong, Dick. I shouldn't have - pushed you away. Not like that. You deserve better."
"You're damned right I do," Dick replied, standing and moving back to his seat across the table. Despite the hint of anger now present in his voice, Bruce was relieved; anger he could handle, he'd been expecting it. It gave him something to focus upon, something besides his own confused emotions.
"You have every right to be angry," he admitted. "But I thought we were going to try to deal with this without anger." He raised an eyebrow. "'Drop the attitude,' I believe those were your words?"
Dick sighed. "You're right, Bruce. Sorry about the 'tude." He rubbed absently at the back of his neck. "I guess we're both carrying a lot of baggage. Something else we have to work out."
"I'm willing to try if you are."
"Are you? Are you truly?"
Bruce gave him his most penetrating look, the one that always had the criminals shaking in their boots. "What do you think?"
This time, it didn't have the reaction he'd anticipated.
"And that's another thing." Dick crossed his arms, and returned the look with one of his own, one that Bruce had never seen before, belligerent, determined, no-nonsense. "I am not, do you hear me? I am NOT going to deal with the Bat. Do you understand? This is us, you and me. I will only deal with you. You, Bruce Thomas Wayne. Not Batman!"
Chapter Five
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