Title: Attempting to stare Fandom: DCU (Nightwing, nebulous time, no spoilers) Pairing: Bruce/Dick Summary: It's taken a long time for Dick to realize that a sexual relationship with Bruce isn't going to make anything better between them, but he's made up his mind. (1500 words) Rating: No sexual content Disclaimer: They belong to DC Comics. Notes: Thanks to Te for the prompt and Mael and Ny for encouragement. This story is not connected with any series. There is no way that Dick can pack his belongings unobtrusively. When he's not dealing with the world's greatest detective, he's dealing with the world's greatest valet. He opts to tangle with Alfred first. Three seconds after he pulls out the suitcase. "Are you sure about this, Master Dick?" He's not wearing a mask, and even if he were, Alfred's been reading people through masks for years. The conflict probably shows up on his face like block lettering. "Yes." "Will you be going back to Blüdhaven?" "No." The laundry, at least, is all clean and pressed. No rooting through a pile of stuff in the corner, no underwear flung over the lamp in a moment of passion. The moments of passion were months ago. Now they only show up in the middle of fights -- where they belong, maybe. But if Dick's leaving town, he's going to have to get used to fighting most of his battles alone again, without Bruce at his back. Without the best backup he's ever known. For everything except what he needs. Alfred says, "May I inquire as to your destination?" and the arch tone is worse than a straight-out accusation. "I'm sorry," Dick says, and pulls out the sweaters from the bottom drawer. "Really. I thought --" "I suspect it was a mutual assumption, sir." "It's not my fault." The suitcase closes easily. It's all the material possessions he'll need for however long it is -- the books are mostly Bruce's, or presents, and the weapons are all Bruce's, at this point. He should have to sit on the suitcase to close it. But it's not that much stuff. Running away from home -- No. Leaving someone shouldn't be this easy. If he knew he wasn't coming back, it would be easier. More boxes, maybe, but then there wouldn't be holidays and -- He'll be back before the holidays. He'll be back as soon as -- as soon as Batman needs him. Bruce is -- isn't part of that. But Alfred is standing right there. Dick says, "This is what I've got." "There are more of your possessions --" "I don't want them." Dick picks up the suitcase. "If he throws them out, fine. I really don't care." Alfred frowns. That means everything he can get moved before Bruce comes back is going to go in a locked attic, where it can mildew to its heart's content. "And -- and I'm sorry." Dick starts for the door. He wants Alfred to stop him. To hug him, to make him stay, to offer him anything and everything that could possibly change his mind. Alfred opens the door for him. "Will you be taking a vehicle?" "Grand theft auto is a bad way to start a new life." "Sir --" "No, I'm being picked up. Off the grounds." He checks his watch. "Soon." "I see." Dick goes out into the hallway and says, "I'm sorry," again. Alfred doesn't twitch. Forgiveness is going to have to wait until he's somewhere a long way away. It feels weird to walk off the estate and weirder still to have someone pull up, as if he's hitchhiking. Gorgeous women in convertibles probably don't pick up hitchhikers very often. "Hey," Helena says. "Hi," Dick says, and she pops the trunk, so he puts his suitcase in the back. They're driving before she says anything. A mile later, "You think we're out of range?" Dick makes himself smile. It hurts, but not because of the wind. "You work for Oracle and you have to ask?" "Okay, fine. So where are you headed?" Dick sighs. "There isn't anywhere that's far enough to get away. So. Plain sight." Helena glances at him. "So you're not leaving the Outsiders again." "No." "That's good, anyway." "Maybe." She looks over again and shakes her head. "Are you sure you're in the right line of work?" Dick says, "No." And for once, he almost means it. She doesn't say anything for a while. He doesn't have to break the silence, so he lets it stay. It's simpler to meditate and think about nothing than it would be to keep his mind off of -- everything. Helena drops him off at the train station, as per orders. He calls Bruce at work. Mr. Wayne may be "in a meeting" to the peons, but when Dick identifies himself -- the secretary thinks it's all very sweet, or that's what her tone says. Time for a root canal. "Hello, Dick," Bruce says. "Hi." The silence would be too long if it wasn't Bruce on the other end. It is too long. But Bruce doesn't say anything. Simple interrogation tactics, and Dick is panicking. "I -- I called to say I'm leaving town." A gasp. Was that a gasp, or was it just the train? "Are you." As if Alfred hadn't called him yet, as if he hadn't checked any of the cameras in the house. As if he can't read Dick's emotions through a brick wall, if he bothers to pay attention. "I figured -- if we talked -- if -- we'd just fight." Dick feels like a chickenshit, but he also knows exactly how  little expression there is on Bruce's face, right now, and how much he'd have to react to that if he could see it. "If your mind's made up." So cold. So iron-controlled. "I love you," Dick says, and it's the worst thing to say. He's not getting choked up, not when the little old lady sitting across the aisle is watching him talk on the phone. "I -- you can't -- it's not working." "Wasn't it?" That may be the first real question Bruce has asked him in months. It makes the inner child in the red tunic scream that things can work out, that Bruce doesn't always, always assume he knows what Dick is thinking, that maybe things can change. He's not the only voice in Dick's head anymore. "People change," he says, and it's all so trite, so useless. "You -- you don't want to. I, god, I changed for you, over and over, and -- and you didn't give me anything." There's silence so long Dick is sure the connection is broken, but he's too afraid to move the phone away from his ear to check. If the call got lost and Bruce has something to say, he'll call back, after all. "You never asked me for anything," Bruce says. It's not an excuse. It's the truth. That doesn't make it hurt less. "I thought you knew what I needed. I thought you knew me," Dick says, "but -- but -- I didn't even know who I was." "Do you know now?" "No." Another pause, filled with the train noises. "Then --" Bruce trails off. Bruce never trails off. Dick should get off at the next station and buy a ticket in the opposite direction. Dick should go home and hug him and make everything all right. Nothing will make everything all right. Nothing. Bruce says nothing. Dick can read anything he wants into the silence. He's been good at that for years, and he's gotten better lately. Silence can mean "I love you" or "I want you" or "Hold me" or "I'm worried about you" or "I'm angry" or "I'm busy." He tries not to read this silence, to just let it be silent, like meditation. He fails. He says, "Say something," and he knows how much of a surrender that is. "The professional aspects of our relationship --" Batman says. "I'm dumping you, not becoming spectacularly irresponsible," Dick says, and it's easy to couch it as a joke, even if it's a bad joke. Especially because it's a bad joke. "Hm," Batman says. It's better than silence. "I have to do this," Dick says. Another silence. "If you must." "I really have to." Dick bites his lip, hard, because the little old lady is still watching him and he's not losing anything that's important. Batman isn't firing him, Bruce won't disown him. The rest of it -- might never have been there at all. The most addictive set of assumptions ever, and Bruce never -- never -- gave him a reason to doubt them. Or confirmation. "I have to get off the phone," Dick says, and that's true, if only because if he tries any harder to not think and think at the same time, he's going to lose it. "Where can I reach you?" Batman asks. "Babs has my contact information." He waits a beat. Stops himself from the habitual, embarrassing, inappropriate, still painfully true, "I love you." Hangs up. The world whirling by outside the window doesn't seem any brighter, but it doesn't seem any drearier, either. The train goes into a tunnel, and all he's looking at is his own reflection. He sees a man who's learning to be responsible to himself. It's not a face he can smile at, yet, but it looks like someone he can learn to love. Te gave me this prompt which is the source of the title:  "... I have grown stronger   than you can imagine So strong I say to you "Leave me alone" and you vanish like smoke up the flue. I am   always alone. And I walk where I want in this strange land, attempting to stare with no memory when the black hawk descends to the neck of the hare." -- from "Deadwood" by Kathryn Stripling Byer
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