Just a short little scene, I hope you'll also get a longer fill and that you like this one until then.
“You're really not going to have it rebuilt?”
Dick was sitting on what remained of the wall between what had once been the manor's main parlour and the corridor. The afternoon sun was filtering through half-crumbled, blackened walls, ragged shadows dancing over his face, his hands folded in his lap. He looked younger with his eyes so wide and sad, gleaming just enough that Bruce wondered if there were tears in them.
He looked away.
“What for? For most of my life, this house was a tomb. Too big, too empty, filled with nothing but remnants of generations past.” Even now Bruce's mind could retrace the rooms and corridors of the manor effortlessly, he remembered every door, every window, every carpet, every piece of art on the walls. He probably could have rebuilt it from memory alone. And there wasn't a single room that hadn't been filled with memories of his parents, of his own childhood, of his sons. He continued quietly, “After my parents … this place didn't feel like a home until …”
He interrupted himself again. If Dick didn't understand, he wasn't sure he could explain it.
“Until?” Dick prompted.
“You. And …”
“Jason.”
The name was like an iron vice around Bruce's chest. He wasn't sure he'd said it out loud even once since finding his son's broken, burnt body in the ruins of his family home.
“He's gone.” Bruce blinked once, twice, took a steadying breath. He still couldn't bring himself to look at Dick. “You're gone. I don't need to rebuild an empty mausoleum.”
“I'm not gone, Bruce,” and there was an almost pleading tone in Dick's voice. “You told me not to come back.”
“After you left.”
“I never wanted to leave for good. This was my home, too, you know? Not just yours. Maybe I'd like to have a place to remember him by. The place we shared growing up.” Reproach now, anger even, or maybe Bruce just imagined that, imagined that Dick had to hate him as much as Bruce hated himself.
“I can't.” He turned to leave, and he could feel Dick's gaze in his back, so sorrowful and lonely, a painful reminder that Bruce had failed him as much as he'd failed Jason. But maybe there was at least something he could offer Dick, even if he couldn't give him back his home nor his family.
“You're welcome to stay the night at the lake house. There's only one bed, but I won't be back until morning.”
Dick had slept in his bed for years, for far longer than he'd probably had to just to stave off the nightmares, but Bruce had never been bothered by it. He'd enjoyed the company, the warmth, the steady breathing against his neck, the smile on Dick's lips when they woke up curled into each other. Back then he'd wondered how he'd ever managed to live without Dick. Now he knew that living without Dick wasn't much of a life, and yet he couldn't ask him to come home. He had work to do, work too dangerous to get Nightwing involved. He had already caused the death of one of his sons, he wasn't going to watch the other one die as well, crushed under Superman's fists, ripped apart by those laser eyes. He hadn't only pushed Dick away out of grief, but out of necessity. It was the only way to keep him safe. And keeping him safe now mattered more than even that pleading, despairing look in Dick's eyes.
He came home in the early morning hours to a still warm bed, slept in, but empty. Bruce fell asleep with Dick's scent in his nostrils and hoped that he'd survive long enough to beg his son's forgiveness one day.
[Mini-fill] Bitter Memories, Bruce & Dick, Wayne Manor
“You're really not going to have it rebuilt?”
Dick was sitting on what remained of the wall between what had once been the manor's main parlour and the corridor. The afternoon sun was filtering through half-crumbled, blackened walls, ragged shadows dancing over his face, his hands folded in his lap. He looked younger with his eyes so wide and sad, gleaming just enough that Bruce wondered if there were tears in them.
He looked away.
“What for? For most of my life, this house was a tomb. Too big, too empty, filled with nothing but remnants of generations past.” Even now Bruce's mind could retrace the rooms and corridors of the manor effortlessly, he remembered every door, every window, every carpet, every piece of art on the walls. He probably could have rebuilt it from memory alone. And there wasn't a single room that hadn't been filled with memories of his parents, of his own childhood, of his sons. He continued quietly, “After my parents … this place didn't feel like a home until …”
He interrupted himself again. If Dick didn't understand, he wasn't sure he could explain it.
“Until?” Dick prompted.
“You. And …”
“Jason.”
The name was like an iron vice around Bruce's chest. He wasn't sure he'd said it out loud even once since finding his son's broken, burnt body in the ruins of his family home.
“He's gone.” Bruce blinked once, twice, took a steadying breath. He still couldn't bring himself to look at Dick. “You're gone. I don't need to rebuild an empty mausoleum.”
“I'm not gone, Bruce,” and there was an almost pleading tone in Dick's voice. “You told me not to come back.”
“After you left.”
“I never wanted to leave for good. This was my home, too, you know? Not just yours. Maybe I'd like to have a place to remember him by. The place we shared growing up.” Reproach now, anger even, or maybe Bruce just imagined that, imagined that Dick had to hate him as much as Bruce hated himself.
“I can't.” He turned to leave, and he could feel Dick's gaze in his back, so sorrowful and lonely, a painful reminder that Bruce had failed him as much as he'd failed Jason. But maybe there was at least something he could offer Dick, even if he couldn't give him back his home nor his family.
“You're welcome to stay the night at the lake house. There's only one bed, but I won't be back until morning.”
Dick had slept in his bed for years, for far longer than he'd probably had to just to stave off the nightmares, but Bruce had never been bothered by it. He'd enjoyed the company, the warmth, the steady breathing against his neck, the smile on Dick's lips when they woke up curled into each other. Back then he'd wondered how he'd ever managed to live without Dick. Now he knew that living without Dick wasn't much of a life, and yet he couldn't ask him to come home. He had work to do, work too dangerous to get Nightwing involved. He had already caused the death of one of his sons, he wasn't going to watch the other one die as well, crushed under Superman's fists, ripped apart by those laser eyes. He hadn't only pushed Dick away out of grief, but out of necessity. It was the only way to keep him safe. And keeping him safe now mattered more than even that pleading, despairing look in Dick's eyes.
He came home in the early morning hours to a still warm bed, slept in, but empty. Bruce fell asleep with Dick's scent in his nostrils and hoped that he'd survive long enough to beg his son's forgiveness one day.