Dick finds an old album of Bruce in his highschool years, like 16-19, and there is like 3 photos all from the same birthday party, where Bruce is seemingly jokingly dressed in some sequinced coctail dress and a cheap wig. He is smiling like Dick has never seen before
-imsorrybruce
We chose trans!bruce and bad!alfred for this so be warned
Bruce looks up as Dick enters his office, giving him a nod, and finishes inputting a few figures into the spreadsheet open on his screen, before closing the lid of his laptop and preparing for whatever set of the nervous tick Dick is failing to hide. "Son."
"B."
Silence falls over them.
"Dick?"
"I found an old photo album," Dick blurts, setting it on his desk. Bruce smiles and clears a space for it, opening up the memories of his late teens. Dick edges closer, perching on the edge of Bruce's chair, and he draws his son and the book closer, remembering how Dick used to do this years ago, bring him the albums of his youth and demand the stories behind each one.
So he does the same now, talking Dick through each photograph, relishing in the moment as Dick relaxes into his side, and he relives the good parts of his teen years, around everything else at the time.
Then he turns the page towards the end of the book, and stills. Dick goes stiff against him, pulling away, and Bruce wants to claw him back. No please, please, he stopped doing it, you have to stay, please, he knows it was wrong—
"This is what I meant to ask you about," Dick says quietly. His mouth flickers between a frown and a smile, looking down at the picture.
"I forgot these were in here," Bruce croaks. He moves to close the book, but Dick stops him, lips settling into something more smile than frown.
"Tell me about it?"
"I'm not meant to..." Bruce trails off, glancing at the study door, then back to his son. "It was my friend's birthday. It was themed. We all had a good night."
"I can tell," Dick chuckles. "You look so happy."
I was Bruce swallows down. He can't— He isn't meant to talk about this. "It was a nice night," he settles on, voice tight. "We didn't do it again."
"You could, if you wanted to." Dick's voice is level, probing, and Bruce feels his defenses rise as Dick pokes too close to the truth. He isn't sure what would happen if Dick found out. Would he threaten to leave Bruce too? Would he—
"I don't," Bruce answers. Short. Clipped. Not harsh enough to start a fight, firm enough to dissuade him. He does he does he does—
"Are you sure?" It would dissuade Dick if Bruce hadn't raised him to be a detective. "You looked like you were having the time of your life."
I was.
"You know we..." Dick trails off for a beat. A hand lands on Bruce's shoulder. "We wouldn't mind if you were into cross dressing, Bruce?"
"Crossdressing."
Oh thank God.
"Ye... Is that not what this is?"
"No, no, of course." Shit. "What else would it be? Just a night to experiment while I was drunk, son, nothing more."
Dick stares at him, analytical eyes scanning Bruce's face, dipping lower, scanning the rest of his body, taking in the tension pulled taught in his form, and his entire face softens with surprise. His eyes widen slightly, and the deduction pulls his lips ajar.
Bruce closes the album with a slam, and Dick startles, leaping from the chair. Bruce stands too, moving in the other direction.
"Bruce, I—"
"Don't."
"I'm sorry, I didn't—"
"Stop, Dick. I don't want to talk about this."
"Why? Bruce this—"
The door opens, and Bruce's blood runs cold. Alfred looks to the desk first, because that's where Bruce usually is, and the tea tray rattles some as the butler's hands clench into fists when his eyes alight upon the album. Then they leap to Dick, then to Bruce, and his lips purse.
"Master Bruce," he says, something warning in his voice. "Reminiscing?"
"Dick brought it down. Wanted to look through it together."
Alfred's stern expression doesn't waver as he walks neatly across the room to collect the album. "Then I suggest you find another," he instructs, "one less likely to influence the next generation into making the same poor choices as you."
"Indeed," Bruce agrees. "I shall look for another now, Alfred."
"Yes, you shall. Because that behaviour is in the past, is it not? Where we agreed you would leave it?"
"Yes."
"And you are telling me the truth, Master Bruce?"
Bruce manages to summom a smile under Alfred's stern brow. "Of course, Alfred. That sort of behaviour was unbecoming of a Wayne, and we agreed that it was not to happen again."
"Indeed we did." Alfred rests a hand on the doorknob, preparing to leave. "See that I do not need to teach you that lesson again."
No no no no no no no—
"That won't be necessary, Alfred, thank you."
The butler leaves with a quiet exhale through his nostrils. He does not offer the tea he brought.
"B—"
Bruce holds up a hand. Dick falls obediently silent after that breath of a letter, and stays that way until they hear the butler's footsteps actually depart.
"Bruce."
"That is enough, Dick."
"Bruce, please tell me that I'm wrong and Alfred didn't—"
"ENOUGH!" Bruce glares at his son. "I have told you that that night was in the past, Dick, and I expect you to accept that. Whatever you think, you are wrong. Whatever you want to do, you are wrong. Whatever you presume to have figured out, forget it from now. Forget you ever saw those pictures."
Bruce stops, chest heaving, and Dick watches him, something heartbroken, something angry, and something that Bruce can't place in his gaze.
"Okay," he agrees softly.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
Silence falls between them, suffocating, and Bruce turns to leave.
"Bruce?"
"Mm?"
"What was the theme?"
Bruce swallows, and glances back at his son. When he speaks, his voice is thick, and when he leaves, his own words chase him down the hallway, ringing in his ears, Dick's crushed expression burned onto his eyes.
But it doesn't matter. It was in the past.
Bruce knows it's wrong, now. Alfred made that clear. Old aches, his oldest scars making themselved known, and he blinks away the tears that fill his eyes.
Beuce Wayne not only smokes- he also puts down the cig on his skin as lil punishment for giving in to the bad habit
FYI, this ask has been haunting me for a week because wtf I never knew I needed to write this out. I might post this on my AO3 and or write another part for the boys finding out :p
TW for suicidal ideation, referenced past suicide attempt, and descriptive self-harm.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maybe it was the cooling burn when he finally gave in.
Bruce found himself doing it again. Fucking cigarettes that he bought at the damn corner store in the batsuit, as if he cared anymore. Staring at the files pulled up on the batcomputer, he took a long drag of his first cigarette in years. Another fight with Damien, and Dick, along with Jason and Tim, took his side. Maybe he was wrong for not wanting his fucking twelve-year-old riding on a motorcycle while fighting crime with his delinquent brothers. It was much safer, especially now that it was January, for Robin to be inside the Batmobile. Although he had been Robin for over a year now, Damien still often ignored direct orders if they did not align with his personal agenda.
So what. He hadn’t smoked since Dick was a kid, not counting the pack he bought when Selina called it quits. Not the one when Hal turned down his advances. Not since that night in the watchtower with Clark, which led to them getting engaged last month. Another drag.
He was grateful Alfred hadn’t thrown out the bat-ashtray that he kept by the computer, since Jason and Tim often used it when they would smoke while following leads. Minutes passed without him realizing, and just as always, his left sleeve was already pulled up. If Bruce thought about it for more than a few minutes, he probably figured he pulled it up just as he threw the plastic wrap away and before smacking the pack against the heel of his hand. With a bite to his inner cheek, the burning bud was pressed into his left forearm. The fresh red dot etched into his skin, standing out against the whitened razor lines and similar dots of his past. Before he could second-guess himself, why he needed to hurt himself when everything was going right in his life until yesterday, he flicked the lighter and quickly dragged the next cigarette. And another, and another until a sixth cigarette was tickling his sore throat.
Just before he took another drag, the echo of clacking nails filled the cave. Ace had passed last year, so Titus was the sole dog of their home. When Damien was at school, the dog melted into Bruce’s shadow. It was only a matter of time until he was found again. Drooling, the 150 LB giant galloped to Bruce’s chair from across the cave. Bruce raised his right hand high in the air, attempting to keep the smoke of the almost finished cigarette from the large dog’s face as Titus buried his head into Bruce’s stomach for pets.
“Down, Titus. This isn’t good for you, either. If you get lung cancer, I’ll never hear the end of it.” Bruce speculated as he signaled for the dog to back up and mindlessly brought the bud to his arm.
Maybe it was just muscle memory. Smoothly, Bruce pressed the amber light into his skin, barely flinching at the searing pain lighting his nerves, littering his already dotted left arm. Five, now six, fresh burns had already been pressed onto his flesh in the last hour. Just as he flicked the stub into the ashtray, blue and red zoomed into the cave. Bruce gently pet Titus as he wiggled the sleeve of his turtleneck down. It was only pulled half down until it was tugged into the grasp of his concerned fiancée.
“Bruce, what the hell are you doing?”
Clearly, he wasn’t quick enough.
“I’m working on the Riddler’s file.”
Maybe Clark would ignore it.
“You- did you burn yourself?”
Of course, he wouldn’t.
“Hmf.” Bruce tugged his arm back as Clark loosened his grip.
Clark’s face twisted in shock. Bruce could only look away, turning back to the computer, his back rigid in the chair. All he wanted was to go to fucking bed.
“Bruce, baby. What…”
Clark zapped the rest of the cigarette box with his laser vision, incinerating the remaining ones. Bruce huffed before he could stop himself. Clark pressed a hand on his shoulder. Rather than shrugging it off, Bruce kept his eyes on the computer, quickly clicking back through all his open tabs of data.
“You’re hurting.”
“Clark, drop it.”
“How am I expected to let go of you burning yourself alone and pretend my fiancé is fine? I’m worried about you, Bruce.”
He was spun back around just to be faced with Clark’s dark, watering eyes staring into him, reading all his secrets. It was useless hiding it. Bruce was sure Dick had already tattled. He was really pathetic, mocking his kids. Dick needed to tell Clark, and he was just villainizing his son.
“It does not matter. I’m fine.”
“You’re hurting.”
“Stop saying that.”
Clark grabbed his wrist, hard, forcing a hiss of pain out of Bruce. One of Clark’s fingers pressed against the last burn, already blistering. Inspecting his wrist, Clark saw it was pressed against Bruce’s deepest mark. The same one Bruce whispered the origin story while drunk and naked late one night after a bad mission. That time Alfred found him on the floor of the bathroom and almost lost him. How his stomach had to be pumped from the pills, and how he lost a majority of his left hand’s grip strength from the cut nerve.
“You’re punishing yourself.”
“I quit the week I found one in Dick’s mouth when he was thirteen. He stole them out of my desk.” Bruce confessed, looking anywhere but at Clark’s face.
“You’re hurting yourself, Bruce. I’m here for you.” A long pause filled the space between them. “You’re a good dad, Bruce.”
The chatter of the bats became loud. So loud. And the hand was tighter and tighter on his shoulder.
“You cannot punish yourself for wanting Damien to be safe. You are right this time, Bruce.”
“That’s it, Clark. Just this time I am right, not all the other times.”
“We can’t always be right. I’m not with Jon and Connor. You try so hard and love them so much, and it will take time for him to understand.”
“I don’t have that much time left, Clark. He’s hopefully my youngest I’ll have, and he hates me, and I barely know him as I should.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I just can’t blame Talia for this one. He’s been here for two years, and every time I think I am a step closer to gaining his full love and trust, I take three steps back. When I was gone, Dick cared for him in a way I couldn't.” The last word was forced out of him with a sob, breaking all he held back. “I want that so badly.”
Wordlessly, Bruce allowed Clark to wrap him up close and tight before zipping them up to the master bedroom. Now crying, Bruce heaved as Clark pulled his clothes off.
“Rest, honey. You need to sleep before we continue this conversation. You are so loved.” He allowed Clark to rag doll him into the bed, keeping his left forearm over the duvet, palm up.
Bruce hummed in irritation, only hissing slightly with his eyes closed as Clark pressed a cold pack to his arm. Only when he wanted peace did his fiancée decide that he needed to hum a song. Usually, Bruce recognizes them, but maybe his sleep was keeping him dull. Cracking open an eye at the sensation of fingers in his hair, Bruce finds a weeping Clark standing over him. He reaches up and wipes away the Kryptonian’s tears with his right hand.
“Promise me, Bruce, promise that you’ll come find me before you do something like this and tell me. I can’t lose you, and neither can our sons.”
“Promise.”
“Good, because we have too many boys that need their loving, brooding father.”
the utterly insane implications of dean, fundamentally just a Guy, somehow capable of trapping an archangel in his mind via sheer force of will. that man took forty years of gay repression and weaponised it. go repression boy go your mind is literal steel trap
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