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It was dark when Bruce woke to the weight of Dick’s gaze.
The clock on his nightstand let him know it was four in the morning, still far from dawn. It was a small miracle that Bruce had managed to sleep until that late in the first place. Alfred’s comments about the perils of his nocturnal life and the consequences it would bring to his circadian rhythm came to mind.
“B,” Dick whispered, deathly still by the side of his bed.
Bruce tried to slow his thumping heart. Dick would be able to smell his nerves and it would make him sad, even if they were born from instinct and nothing more, the natural reaction of a prey at the face of a predator.
He banished the thought as soon as it crossed his head, swallowing bile at the crass cruelty of it.
It was all his fault to begin with.
For allowing Dick to be in a position where he could be taken, failing to identify the threat the kidnapper posed and being too late to keep them from doing the unthinkable.
Dick hardly looked like a threat. He was barefoot, wearing his pajamas though he had probably been awake for hours, and was hugging Zitka close to his chest. His anguish was palpable, face drenched in distress.
“What is it, chum?” He asked softly.
“B,” he sounded near tears. “I’m hungry.”
There was an unvoiced apology that Bruce heard all the same. He wondered if Dick could hear it in his lips every time he spoke to him as of late.
“Alright,” he forced lightness into his tone. “Let’s go get you something to eat.”
Feigning normalcy helped a little.
Bruce got up and gathered him in his arms. Dick seemed surprised despite his sharp reflexes, but he quickly threw an arm around Bruce’s neck and buried himself into his chest.
He was such a slip of a boy, barely over four feet tall.
And he would never grow any taller. The thought made his eyes burn.
He attempted to focus on the matter at hand as he led them towards the living room. Bruce fought the need to rub Dick’s back to warm him up. He was cold through the pajamas and unnaturally stiff, flesh smooth and unyielding to the touch.
Bruce placed him on the couch and turned on the TV, leaving some old cartoon reruns playing on the back. It was all that Dick saw nowadays, as he slept through the regular programme. Old cartoons and sitcoms from when Bruce was a boy, frozen in time just like Dick.
He was chewing his lower lip, white tiny fangs poking out in anticipation.
It was a good thing that Alfred was asleep, as he would not approve what he was about to do. In fact, he would probably raise his voice quite a bit as he argued about the many, many dangers he was putting himself into.
He would probably find the reason noble though, not unlike how he perceived his crusade: a reckless, foolish, if noble endeavor.
Dick’s eyes widened as Bruce undid the first three buttons of his silk sleeping shirt.
“You shouldn’t,” he said in a small voice. “I might hurt you.”
Bruce ignored the pang that went though his chest.
“You won’t,” he promised.
I would deserve it, he did not say. It was not the reason why he was doing it either. Whatever punishment he deserved, Dick was not the whip that would deliver it.
I would stop you, he did not say. It was an empty reassurance, one whose truthfulness he was uncertain of.
A few nights ago, in another attempt at feigning normalcy, they had been playing on top of the roof when Dick slipped from the wet dome. His hand quickly found a gargoyle before he could fall, and the stone beast crumbled under the strength of his tiny fingers.
“The fridge is full,” Dick argued lamely, giving him as many outs as he could.
Bruce managed a half smile. “You don’t like it from the fridge.”
If he still had been able to, Dick would have surely blushed angrily.
“I don’t have to like it!” He croaked, eyes so sad that Bruce regretted ever opening his mouth. “It’s like… medicine.”
That’s how Alfred had put it, when Dick downed bag after bag those dreadful first days after his turning. He was ravenous, appetite insatiable, yet it was evident he hated every sip that went down his throat.
Warm it was just a tad more bearable. They were lucky to count with the equipment for transfusions down in the Batcave. The picture of Alfred warming the blood on the stove was a bit too ridiculous.
In an effort to help, Alfred had presented the boy with a caged rabbit. Perhaps he needed some live prey, something to stimulate those new instincts of his.
Dick had wept, or the closest he could manage nowadays, which was just some of the most awful sounds Bruce had the misfortune to ever hear, produced by a face that could not grow red or pale, but merely twist in agony.
He refused to even try it, wounded at the mere suggestion that he would kill it. So the rabbit lived, only until Alfred took it out of sight and slaughtered it for its blood.
As it turned out, animal blood was worse than cold human blood out of a bag from the fridge. So as not to let the sacrifice go to waste, Dick still drank it all. Alfred made a rabbit stew that Bruce ate with a queasy stomach.
They had a small discussion after that, at the callousness of his initiative.
“I want to,” he insisted, and that was true enough.
He sat on the other end of the couch, body loose and arms uncrossed, welcoming.
Dick bit his lip and hesitantly moved towards him, stopping an inch short of Bruce’s knees.
“I didn’t wake you up for this,” he swore.
“I know.”
The machine that warmed the blood’s temperature for transfusions had trouble recognizing the touch of Dick’s cold fingers, so he needed Alfred or Bruce to operate it. Bruce had not gotten around replacing it for a more accessible model yet.
Everything was still so… fresh. They were still learning and adapting. Soon, things would be easier.
Dick’s hand twitched by his thigh, a gesture so human that Bruce let out a breath he did not know he had been holding in.
“Come here,” he palmed his knee.
Almost shyly, Dick climbed onto his lap, balancing himself on his shoulders.
“I won’t-”
“Have as much as you need.”
Bruce ran a hand through his hair. Dick gave a nod and slowly, as if not to spook Bruce, moved his head towards his neck.
He suppressed a shiver at the first touch of his cold lips and the glass-sharpness of the fangs. Dick did not waste any time.
His eyebrows furrowed when the fangs sank and blood poured out, but Bruce did not make a sound, cradling Dick closer. The neck was not the best place to take a bite of the sort, but it was one of the only places that Dick could bite while being hugged.
Dick’s need for blood had settled in a moderate amount after the first weeks of his turning. A pint could last him for days, but Bruce had no desire to test the limits of his hunger, so he made him consume at least a quarter a day.
Growing boys need to finish their food, Alfred had said. Dick had only managed a sad smile in response. Bruce had resisted the urge to put his fist through the kitchen cabinet.
Bruce had been worried about his instincts when he returned to the field. Batman and Robin used no guns, yet they saw plenty of blood. It was a relief to see that other than some appreciative sniffs, Dick could handle himself very well.
Yet, one time in the Batcave after some goon had broken Batman’s nose, Dick got… a look on his face.
Blood poured down Bruce’s face, two streams of crimson that showed no sign of stopping. He met Dick’s eyes to find his pupils dilated, mouth parted as it took in the metallic tang. The fangs came out on their own accord and Dick was so mortified that he practically flew out of the Batcave.
Something about familiar blood, Bruce suspected, stirred his appetite.
He drank eagerly, as if every sip was a blessing rather than the bane of his existence. Bruce felt lightheaded at the rushing loss, yet he let Dick feast. The boy licked his skin clean before leaning back with a gleeful glint in his eyes.
“Thanks, B.”
There was red at the corners of his lips, which Bruce numbly wiped away.
“You’re welcome, Dick. Do you feel better?”
“I feel alive.”
He seemed revitalized.
Bruce’s chest hurt.
“That’s good,” he slurred, bringing him close again. “I’m glad, chum, I really am.”