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Five Times Dick Gave Someone Their First Dick!Hug, and One Time Someone Gave Him A Hug
Dick gives the best hugs. It’s common knowledge. Seriously. Had a bad day? Hug Dick. Boyfriend or girlfriend broke up with you? Hug Dick. Your dad dies? Hug Dick.
Dick is the master of hugs. Nothing can make you feel better about yourself than Dick’s arms holding you tight.
About two weeks into summer vacation, the first year Dick lived with Bruce, Dick noticed that Bruce had gotten into a sort of funk.
He would come down to breakfast in the morning, grab a cup of coffee to go, then leave for the office. Dick would spend the day hovering around the manor, under Alfred’s feet, distinctly not asking what was wrong with Bruce. When he got home at night, he would eat dinner, then spend the rest of his time before bed in his office. The first few nights, Dick would knock on Bruce’s office door, and gently ask if Bruce wanted to watch the new hammock act Dick came up with. Each time, Bruce would say he was busy, maybe later.
Finally Dick reached his breaking point. Bruce hadn’t even gotten coffee this morning, just left, his hair a wet mess from his shower, only half of his shirt tucked in, and his tie knotted loosely around his neck.
“Alfie?” Dick picked at his cereal with his spoon, pushing the flakes around the bowl.
Alfred put the frying pan in the water and turned around, wiping his hands on a dish towel as he moved to the breakfast nook, where Dick sat. “Yes, Master Dick? Is there something you require?”
“What’s been up with Bruce lately? I mean-” does he regret taking me in? Dick didn’t finish the thought, but Alfred’s telepathic, so it didn’t matter.
“He - hmm.” Alfred sat down next to Dick, placing the towel in front of him. “You know that Master Bruce is an orphan, the same as yourself?” Dick nodded, remembering the story of an eight year old and a man with a gun. “The anniversary of his parents’ death is today.” Dick’s eyes widened. “It was worse when he was younger. The first anniversary, he didn’t leave his bedroom, didn’t leave his bed, merely cried all day, curled under the duvet.”
Dick bit his lip. He looked down at his tangled fingers and asked, almost under his breath, “Does it make me a bad person to not be as affected by my parents’ deaths?” Dick looked up at Alfred, who looked stricken.
“Of course not, Master Dick! Master Bruce was at an age that...he could only be affected that strongly. He was affected so severely because he didn’t understand. You, on the other hand, were, and are, at the age that you can. However, I see no reason why Master Bruce sees the need to neglect you! Indeed, I have half a mind to take him over my knee, and treat him like the child for whom he’s acting!”
That got a laugh out of Dick, which brightened his day, and resigned him to set his guardian straight.
That evening, Dick waited until after dinner, which Bruce didn’t attend, and went to stand outside the office door. He had pilfered the key from Alfred while the butler was fixing dinner.
When Dick opened the door, he was unprepared for the sight he saw. Bruce had always seemed like...a man’s man. Fast cars and faster women, expensive wines and suits that cost more than all of Haly’s Circus.
But here that man was, sitting cross legged on the floor, staring up at his parent’s faces, crying. “Bruce?” Dick asked.
Bruce stiffened, hastily pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes, and stood in one swift motion. “Dick. The door was locked for a rea-” But Dick interrupted his sentence.
“BruceIknowIcanneverreplaceyourparentsbutIstillthinkwe’refamilyandinGraysonfamiliesyouhugsoImmahugyounow.” And before Bruce could blink, he had a thirteen year old in his lap and wrapped around him. Dick’s arms were tight around his neck, pressing his warm breath into Bruce’s neck. Dick straddled Bruce’s hips, wrapping his legs around him. “Just because they aren’t here anymore, doesn’t mean they don’t still love you, or that you can’t talk about them. Of anyone you know, I’d probably understand that the most.” All of this was muffled into Bruce’s neck. He smelt like musk, like a more expensive version of his father’s Old Spice.
Bruce just turned his face into Dick’s hair, nodding into the crown of Dick’s head.
Dick has nightmares. He’ll wake up in a cold sweat, finding his throat sore from screaming, hands grasping to a woman’s hand that will never be there again. Usually his grasping hands are grabbed by Bruce’s large, strong fingers, and he’s promptly pulled into Bruce’s lap, to be held and rocked through the worst of the memories.
This time, though, Bruce is on a business venture in Japan with Doctor Tommy, therefore Dick just wakes to air and the encompassing urge to go to the gym Bruce had installed in the basement and fall over and over again, catching himself the last possible second.
It happens twice more that week.
On Thursday, he decides to just forgo sleep, instead staying up to read. Except Dick has never been the type to pull an all-nighter and falls asleep by eleven.
An almighty bang. Gasps from the audience. “Mom! Dad!” A lone boy, crying on his knees center ring, between two broken bodies.
“No!” Dick’s eyes burst open, landing on almond shaped blue eyes at the foot of his bed. “Jason.”
“I had a ba-” Dick could tell Jason was biting his lip, even in the low light. Jason’s top sheet from his bed was wrapped around him and over his head, like a makeshift cloak and hood. “I heard screaming and wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Dick shifted over and pulled his comforter and quilt back, patting the spot next to him. Jason crawled into the bed, dropping the sheet on the floor. He rested his head on Dick’s outstretched arm. Dick wrapped his free arm around Jason’s chest, his hand stopping between his shoulder blades. He pulled the younger boy to him, slipping his leg between Jason’s.
“It’s okay to have bad dreams, Jason.” Jason buried his face into Dick’s neck. “I have them. Bruce has them. Alfred even. We’ve all had real terrors in our past, Hoodie, and there is no shame in mourning or regretting. It’s what makes us human.” Dick felt right, his arms around Jason. Like they were supposed to be there, helping each other, not bickering like they usually did. “I know you’ve been through a lot, Jay, and whenever you feel comfortable talking about it, we’re all here.”
Jason nodded against his neck, breath evening out until small snores came from his slightly opened mouth.
Hospitals have always been the one place that Dick could never stand. It was probably because once, in some shit hole in Nowhere, Idaho, his father had gotten pneumonia, and Haly’s circus was going to have to move on without the Flying Graysons. Dick never let go of the fact that his father was in a hospital and that was the reason why all Dick’s friends would be leaving him behind.
This wasn’t about Dick, though. This is about little Timmy Drake, who’s had a crush on Dick since Dick could remember. Little Timmy Drake who just lost his mom and may loose his dad.
Bruce was talking to a doctor a few feet down the hall, Alfred had taken Jason to the cafeteria, and Dick was here with Timmy, who was sitting in one of the waiting room chairs, staring just past his feet.
Dick sat down next to him, sort of mimicking Timmy’s pose before pulling the foot close to Tim underneath himself and turning to the younger boy, slipping an arm behind Timmy, resting it on the back of his chair.
Timmy looked up at him, face blank, and it was weird for Dick to not see Timmy’s adoring eyes staring up at him.
“Hey, Timmy.”
“Tim. I’ve never liked ‘Timmy’ and Bernard says it’s for babies.” Tim says in a detatched tone, like it’s something he has to say a lot.
“Who’s Bernard?” Dick really didn’t care, but he wanted Tim to think of something besides his mom in the basement and his dad down the hall.
“Kid at my new school. Apparently he’s taken me under his wing.”
“Why did you change schools?”
“Da-Dad thought I wasn’t reaching my potential at the public school. Said that the people and knowledge gained there were plebeian, and therefore, beneath me.”
Dick narrows his eyes at the thought for a second, and says without thinking, “You’re thirteen! You shouldn’t even know what plebeian means!”
Tim shrugs and looks back to the ground. “Dad was always talking like that. ‘Money makes the man, Timmy-Boy, never let anyone tell you different!’ Like he knows anything about making money! He inherited D.I. from Grandpa, and the Board handles everything while he and mom run around the world.” Tim’s eyes started to water when he mentioned his mom. “He took her away from me. She-she-he never cared what she wanted. What I wanted. He left me all alone and she-she-she was so beautiful and it’s all his fault!” Tim started sobbing, so Dick pulled the boy to his chest.
Dick just held the boy to him, wrapping him in his arms and holding him tight. “Tim. Tim. Shh, I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Shh.” He pulled the small boy into his lap, pressed his face into his neck merely held on for the long haul.
Eventually, Bruce came up to him, and when Dick asked with his eyes, whether the notorious Jack Drake had made it, Bruce shook his head, and sat in Tim’s vacated seat, placing a consolling hand on the boy’s shoulder and joined his ex-ward in consoling the thirteen year old.
She was probably the weirdest addition to Bruce’s little collection. Dick remembered hearing her name mentioned once or twice by Jason (who, according to Tim, has an epic crush, verging on love, on her), but he didn’t know that she had been in foster care.
Well, in all actualities, even Jason hadn’t known. Apparently, she couldn’t talk. They (‘they’ being the almighty, all knowing ‘them’ of the federal government) had thought that she just didn’t talk, didn’t want to, or that it was a psychological issue due to her father’s abuse. But that didn’t seem to be the case. Bruce has determined, via his pretentious doctorate in adolescent psychology (So what if he and Dick are fighting? Bruce doesn’t need to have so many damn degrees, he might have well have his office wallpapered in certificate paper), that Cass doesn’t know how to speak. That she never learned how.
“Third person, feminine, to walk,” Dick heard Bruce say, as he passed his office door, on his way to the library.
In a soft, feminine voice, Dick heard Cass say, “She walks, she walked, she will walk, she has walked, she had walked, she will have walked.”
“First person, plural, to teach.”
“We teach, we taught, we shall teach, we have taught, we had taught, we shall have taught.”
“That’s the end of the hour, Cass. We’ll pick up tomorrow,” Bruce said, then a shuffle of papers. “You did very well, Cassandra.”
When the Asian girl emerged from Bruce’s office, Dick wrapped her up in a hug. The girl froze, but quickly relaxed when she realized that he wasn’t attacking her in any way.
He held her tight, lifting her lightly off the ground.
1. Damian (also 73. Bitter Silence)
The silence was palpable.
Bruce looked wide eyed at the young boy in front of him. Dick was shooting his eyes from one of them to the other, like they were playing an intense tennis match. Jason looked vaguely disinterested and turned his attention back to the book in his hand (which was beyond suspicious to Dick, but now definitely wasn’t the time). Tim looked horrified and vaguely betrayed, but mostly like he wanted to kill the ten year old in front of him. Cass cocked her head to the side, and looked almost like she wanted to poke him.
Alfred merely took the child’s jacket to the coat closet.
“You are my father. My mother is missing. I wish to be domiciled here, until she is found.” The boy was standing back straight, shoulders square, stomach in. He said his spiel with an aristocratic air. An Al Ghul air.
Bruce’s eyes widened, his eyebrows jumping high on his forehead, he gaped like a fish for a moment, then just closed his mouth. Tim whispered furiously, “We don’t even know your name.”
“My name is Damian Al Ghul, not that it matters for you. You’re not his real son. He doesn’t need you, anymore.” Dick’s eyebrows flew to meet his hair line, Jason’s book snapped shut, Tim’s mouth turned into a tight line, and Cass visibly flinched.
“You have no proof that you are! Talia could have whipped you up in a jar, somewhere!” Tim shouted, furious that the boy would imply that Bruce didn’t care about his boys.
Then, out of nowhere, the boy pulls out a fucking katana and is going at Tim. Cass leaps into action, grabbing Bruce’s floor lamp and battling with the boy. They fight for a few moments, the clang of metal filling the air, the entire room slack jawed, before Bruce seemed to realize what was happening in front of him.
“ENOUGH!” he shouted, and both Damian and Cass dropped their weapons (well “weapon” in Cass’s case). “Boy, if you’re going to be a member of this family, that kind of behavior will never happen again! Very rarely do I allow second chances, so you better take this to heart, you do not fight people and you most certainly don’t kill people! This isn’t the League of Assassins. This is the Wayne family. These boys, Dick, Jason, and Tim, and this girl, Cass, they are your brothers and sister and you’ll treat them as such.”
It wasn’t until later, when Dick was showing Damian to his room, that Damian asked. “Why do you love my father?”
And wasn’t that a shit loaded question. Dick didn’t know why. Didn’t even know how, which was probably why he didn’t trust this entire situation. “I’m probably not the one to ask that. Or Jason. Maybe Tim or Cass, they’re still at the point where Bruce walks on water.”
Damian looked confused for a second. “But doesn’t he? I mean in the metaphorical sense, of course. That’s physically impossible. You Christians are dumb for thinking your savior could do any such thing, as it hasn’t been proven he had any meta human powers. Nonetheless, he adopts four orphans because he wants to, he funded Drake’s Neon Knights, and the free psychological care there, donates easily forty percent of his yearly earnings to other charities. He’s a good man, why don’t you and the ginger see that? Are you imbeciles?”
“Bruce and I...we were too close in age to really adopt a father-son relationship. Also, I had a father that was my father, unlike Jason, who’s father abandoned him, unlike Tim, who’s father neglected him, unlike Cass, who’s father abused her, unlike you. Bruce isn’t my dad, or any kind of dad to me, but I love him. And I hope he loves me, too.”
“What about the ginger?”
“Hoodie - Jay - Jason. He. He blames Bruce for not saving him, or maybe for saving him. I’m not sure.” Dick looked at the boy on the bed. He was sitting as if he had all the confidence in the world, but there was something in his eyes that seemed...broken.
Dick moved closer to him, made it clear he wasn’t going to attack him. Not that Dick could take him, at all. Dick may have circus roots, but he’d been above upper class since he was twelve, forget the fact that he was in a hardcore punk band. He grabbed onto the younger boy’s tiny, calloused hand (they shouldn’t be calloused). He pulled the boy up to him, wrapping his arms around the boy’s tiny, muscular waist. Damian’s arms fell like limp noodles over Dick’s shoulders.
“Grayson, what are you doing to me, and why does my stomach feel...odd?”
Dick let the boy go and smiled. “Those are butterflies. They’re telling you that you have a family now.”
“Then he said that I was a disappointment. That I was wasting my potential if I did the band.” Dick swirled his spoon in his cup, watching the cyclone appear and slow until the hot tea settled. A warm June breeze blew through the opened window, reminding Dick that it was that time of year. The time of year Bruce got depressed and took it out on everyone around him, but mostly on himself. He would throw himself into his work, donate more money to anti-crime agencies, and hole himself up in his home office, even during meals. Dick had expected that to lessen with Jason and him around, but well, he was wrong. If anything it had gotten worse as the years wore on him.
Clark hummed, so Dick looked up. He had his own large hand wrapped around, and dwarfing, his own mug. “Well, Dick, he’s right, to an extent.”
Dick stood up. “Right, well. I guess you would agree with him.” He would go back to Gotham, to Roy’s apartment. He should have gone there to begin with. Roy would have called Bruce an ass, said the band would make it big, and kissed Dick, pulled him to the couch, and given him a blow job. Because to Roy, there was nothing blow jobs couldn’t fix.
“Oh, really?” And Dick realized that he’d said that all out loud. Well, that’s embarrassing, and not how he wanted Clark to find out that he was a lot less than straight. The man stood up, and moved to Dick. “Is that what you want?”
Dick looked at Clark. A body builder’s form and a journalist’s piercing eyes. That sense of alienation and loneliness that seemed to always pull Dick into his relationships. It would be a lie to say that he hadn’t been attracted to Clark pretty much since he found out what Little Dick was for, but he never thought he would get this. Actually, on the list of things in his head that he thought he’d never get, Clark was only just below Bruce. And maybe this was the closest he’d ever get. The closest Clark and him would get to the real thing that they wanted.
Dick stood up.
“Yes,” he said, falling into Clark’s arms.