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Alfred hummed under his breath as he finished snipping the withered ends from a bouquet of flowers.
They were a gift, delivered just that morning along with the mail.
Attached to the flowers has been a simple note.
All my love.
—Dick
The arrangement was beautiful, truly. The pink and blue and purple petals unfurling with a single white lily in the middle.
Alfred reached up to fetch a crystal vase, filling it with water and adding a spoonful of sugar and dash of vinegar to keep the flowers fresh as long as possible.
He turned back to the flowers, studying them.
Now that he really thought about it, Dick’s arrangement choice was a bit odd. Weren’t lilies generally considered funeral flowers?
White chrysanthemums, too, symbolized grief. Death. Endings.
Forget-me-nots: a symbol of everlasting remembrance and bittersweet love.
Pink Camellias: longing.
The crystal vase slipped from Alfred’s fingers and shattered on the tile floor with an ear-splitting crash.
He hardly noticed. His gaze was still fixed on the purple hyacinths clustered around the outside of the bouquet.
Their meaning? I’m sorry.
Alfred dialed Dick’s number on his mobile, hands shaking. The call went straight to voicemail.
Bruce rushed into the kitchen, “Alfred? Is everything alright?”
“Not remotely.”
“What is it?”
Alfred’s expression was grave. “It’s Master Dick. He’s in danger. We…we may already be too late.”
Bruce dropped the book he was holding, letting it flutter to the ground as he sprinted in the direction of the nearest bat cave entrance. Alfred followed, moving as fast as his creaky joints would allow.
Instead of bothering with the Batsuit, Bruce just popped in a comm and started up the bat jet, the fastest vehicle they owned. Alfred moved to the batcomputer, already pulling up Dick’s tracker on the map. It was still in his apartment in Bludhaven. It hadn’t moved in thirteen hours.
Alfred’s heart sank into his toes.
On the flight to Bludhaven, Alfred explained everything. The flowers, the tracker, what Bruce might find when he got there—
No. Dick was going to make it out alive. He had to.
…
As Bruce pushed the Batjet as fast as it would go, a horrible sense of deja vu washed over him. Just a few years prior, he had been flying the jet halfway across the world, in pursuit of a robin who would die in his arms.
His hands were shaking, his breaths coming in short gasps. He was simultaneously going to pass out and never sleep again.
Bruce landed the Batjet right on top of Dick’s apartment building (thank Gotham for 360 degree thrusters). Though, to be fair, Jet was a generous name for the two-passenger aircraft, it was really more of a Batglider, or perhaps a Batcessna.
He tore out of the vehicle, down the fire escape a few stories, then pried open Dick’s window. A quick survey of the main room yielded no results, so Bruce threw open Dick’s bedroom door.
Bruce’s breath caught in his throat.
There, lying tucked under a mass of blankets, his dark hair sprawled across the silk pillowcase, was Dick. If Bruce didn’t know any better, he would say the boy almost looked peaceful.
Bruce crossed the length of the room in two strides. When he squeezed Dick’s shoulder, it was still warm. “Dick, wake up. God, Dick, please, wake up. Please .”
The sight of bright blue eyes blinking open was the most beautiful thing Bruce had ever seen.
“B?”
Bruce sank to his knees, the relief barreling into him like a truck. He made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You’re alive.”
“...yeah?” Dick sat up slowly. “What happened? Is everything ok?”
Rather than answer, Bruce wrapped Dick in a bone-crushing hug. “Oh, my son. You’re alive ,” He tapped the comm once. “Everything’s alright, Alfred. He’s safe.”
Slowly, Dick brought his arms up to return the embrace. “Bruce, you’re scaring me.”
Bruce pulled back, incredulous. “I’m scaring you ?”
“Yeah, you are. What are you even doing here?”
“I thought you were in danger.”
“Uh, nope. I’m all good.”
Bruce tore a hand through his hair. “But the flowers—and your tracker hasn’t moved in ages—I thought—“
“Yeah, I got off a crazy shift and crashed in bed as soon as I got home—wait, what do you mean the flowers ? The ones I got for Alf?”
“Their meaning.”
“…Happy Early Birthday, Alfred?”
“No, the individual flower meanings.“
Dick blinked. “Flowers have meanings?”
“Clearly!”
“I just picked them out because they were pretty! I didn’t know they had, like, special meanings.”
Bruce just stared.
“…what did they say?”
“You basically sent Alfred a message saying that you—-you were—about to die. By your own hand.”
Dick’s mouth dropped open. “…shit. How the hell do you say that with flowers? I didn’t mean to, I swear—”
“We know that now.”
“God, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” Dick’s eyes were huge,
Bruce offered a sad smile, relaying one last message from over the comm line before clicking it off. “Alfred says that all is forgiven, just as long as you drop by for tea next week.”
Dick laughed wetly. “Of course.”
Bruce dragged a hand down his face, the exhaustion of the last few sleepless nights catching up to him. “I’m very glad you’re not dead.”
Yeah, me too.”
And…now it was awkward.
“I can go—-“ Bruce began.
“Why don’t you stay awhile?” Dick offered a smile, patting the bed next to him. “I’ve got all ten seasons of my little pony: friendship is magic queued up.”
“I suppose I could. Far be it from me to neglect my studies in friendship.” Bruce grinned, nicking the spare blankets from the end of the bed to settle in beside Dick.
Bruce fell asleep five minutes into the first episode, his arm around his son, and propped up with a mountain of pillows.
Dick laid his head on Bruce’s shoulder with a soft smile, texting Alfred about what he should arrive for tea next Tuesday as Twilight Sparkle chattered and trotted about onscreen.
Next time he was buying flowers, Dick assured Alfred, he would definitely look up their meanings first.