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Dick continued to shake. He'd had so many pots of tea it didn't taste like anything, anymore. Just hot and brown and sharp against his tongue. Just more down the hatch, more to piss out as the hours wore on, more optimistic foolery tea would wash the pain and the betrayal away.
Bruce sat with him on the sofa. They were quiet--not a shared silence--trying to find a way to talk.
Not easy on a normally given day.
There was nothing about this day normal or given.
Dick had held a press conference two mornings ago. Everyone but everyone had shown up, shoved microphones and recorders and cameras in his face, waited on tenterhooks to see what the Ward of Wayne Manor had to say for himself.
Bruce Wayne is a monster. He's been molesting me for years. With the arrival of Tim Drake to the household, I could keep my painful silence, this dark secret, no longer. He is not the man you all think he is.
What a headline it'd made. What a stir. What a buzz.
He'd detailed things--nothing salacious, it was for the public sphere, after all, and some decorum must be kept even if Mr Bruce Wayne held to none at all--things he claimed had happened to him all the terrible years kept in the imposing mansion along the sea.
An outskirts palace that everyone had boggled and whispered that yes, no wonder it was built so far away, kept so remote. Just like its current owner. Master. Beast. They'd wondered about Bruce's father and if this was yet another legacy. They'd cast aspersions, almost immediately, believed with unquestioning alacrity.
Dick had blinked back real tears as he'd described the fear of his youth, supposedly rescued from madness and misery after the murder of his parents, only to find himself in the clutches of much, much worse. His voice had trembled; Lucius had put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed.
Steady now, Son. Steady.
He hadn't answered any questions. Hadn't felt guilty or numb or relieved. Hadn't felt anything.
It's as if his speech was rehearsed, called up from somewhere that wasn't part of him, words that weren't his at all. He had gone to a penthouse in an exclusive hotel, begged for anonymity, and there he'd remained.
Dick had turned off his phone. He had closed himself away from the repercussions, from any potential contact with Bruce. He'd taken a long shower--the accusations clung to him, sinister and slimy and made him feel violated simply from being spoken--forced down food then retreated to the downy soft haven of the bed deep in an interior room of the spacious top-floor suite.
He hadn't cried.
As he'd slept he'd remembered.
Kisses and touches and the scent and heat of Bruce. Coming in Bruce's hand, in Bruce's mouth, in Bruce's bed. Moaning and pleading and pulling away--so much want. Turning sixteen and demanding a kiss. Turning seventeen and demanding it all. Turning eighteen and leaving.
Turning around then, returning to Bruce. Bruce wanting him back.
When he'd woken up Dick hadn't known where he was, had no idea what was true.
Bruce--crags and sneers and dead-cold eyes. Clammy hands in his shirt, down his pants, up his ass; clammy hands he hadn't wanted, couldn't fight.
Or.
Bruce, just Bruce. Beautiful and alive, vulnerable and soft sweet, finally, finally his. Loving hands in his hair, skimming down his arms, teasing up his sides; loving hands he hadn't wanted to live any longer without.
His waking visions were nightmares, coercion and demands and Bruce's rough voice never, ever tell a soul of this, Dick. When he slept the beauty of it reasserted, capitulation and delight and Bruce's raw voice we can never, ever tell a soul of this, Dick.
Regardless, images flashed in his mind--nakedness and sweat and come.
He just didn't know if what he was remembering was good. Or bad. Or even true.
Dick's face had burned when he thought of what Bruce had done to him, for so long. His body had burned when he imagined all the things done to him.
Three days he'd been an automaton, a spout for the same words that always seemed on cue, ready to go, lined up ahead of time. Three days of Lucius Fox agreeing with him that Bruce Wayne had a dark, evil secret self hidden deep inside. Three days of twisting and turning in that strange hotel bed, wishing Bruce were there with him.
"Something to eat, Master Dick?"
Alfred's voice was gentle, solicitous. He had a tray of light bits, fruit, cheese, tea biscuits, some scones. Dick took one and proceeded to tear it to nothing, listened to the crumbs hit the plate Alfred had rested on his knee.
His tea was refilled. Cream, no sugar.
Bruce sat next to him.
Dick worried his fingers over the edge of the disappearing scone, then fiddled in the pile of debris on his plate. He stared into the swirl of cream in his tea, down there on the coffee table, thought funny, we never have coffee on the coffee table. Only tea.
He swallowed and felt sick--again--nausea and rebellion and disbelief.
For years I lived under the strain of being Bruce Wayne's plaything. For years I maintained that all was well and that I had no complaints. The truth was I didn't know how to get away. I was too afraid to speak out. I can't let that happen to Tim. I won't.
The words chased round and round through his brain. Fevered and frenzied and he'd said them with such conviction, such ease, such truth. The second time he'd faced the outside world--a day after his official press conference, a day after his long confusing, broken hours in bed--he'd answered questions.
Yes. It began soon after I was moved into the Manor. No. No one else was ever aware. Yes. I was warned that if I told bad things would happen to me, to us. No. I never thought about telling anyone or getting help.
He hadn't seen Bruce the whole time--had thought he hadn't wanted to. There'd been no rebut from Bruce, no cold or angry or logical statement to refute it. From Bruce there had been, only, nothing.
Somehow, that had been the worst of all.
Lucius had talked of a domineering man who ran his business with ruthless autocratic ambition. Lucius had said that he'd walked in on Bruce and young Dick, once, doing 'bad things,' but had believed what Bruce had covered the incident with, never saw anything after that. Lucius had, much as anyone could, confirmed Dick's story and further undermined Bruce in the public eye.
The crumbs were all too small to even pick up between his fingers. The scone was nearly dust, grains of golden brown. His fingernails scratched the plate--tiny whispers--and he wanted the crumbs even smaller.
Reduced to nothing.
Dick started when Bruce slowly took the plate, other hand tender, warm, fingers circled around his wrist. He blinked hard--blinked back tears--when Bruce turned, tugged him near. He sobbed. It broke from him, pained and raw- as he burrowed into Bruce's neck.
Bruce held his wrist, soothed up and down his spine, murmured there there, Dick, it's okay.
He cried into Bruce, a flood of tears and spit and snot, his hands convulsed fists up under Bruce's shirt so he could be that much closer. Have that measure of skin, of contact, of appeasement.
"I'm sorry," he stuttered. "I'm so sorry," barely a breath. He should have been stronger. He should have fought it, somehow.
Bruce cupped his cheek and Dick couldn't prevent being lifted up, couldn't keep his eyes from meeting Bruce's.
Strong thumbs swept away his tears, caressed his cheeks, ran the line of his lips.
"It isn't your fault," Bruce answered. So calm, so sure, so forgiving.
Dick nodded, wanted to let go and agree and let himself be absolved, but he didn't feel he should, that he was allowed.
Bruce smiled. Not laughing at Dick, just that Dick--how I love you gentle curl. He crooked his finger and pulled Dick's chin, brought them together for a kiss.
They sighed--together--lips wet from Dick's tears and blubbering. Bruce's arm came around Dick and he fit himself in, side to side squirm, kept fitting until there was no tighter he could get. His hands were aching, splayed one on each of Bruce's shoulderblades.
The kiss was long, thorough, tasted like tea and them and the last of Dick's bitterness.
When Bruce moved away Dick followed--kissed again, short--and Bruce leaned back and tucked him close. He wriggled, snuggled, settled with his ear over Bruce's heart, hip on the soft cushion between Bruce's legs, eyes again on his now cold tea.
Bruce combed his hair with slow sweeps, other hand vital heat and wrapped won't let go around Dick's shoulder.
"I never believed it. I said it but couldn't quite believe it. Something in me--something wouldn't let me."
"It's all right, Dick. You didn't know what you were saying."
Dick shook his head. True enough. The third day Batman had discovered a tiny device stuck behind Lucius' left ear, a complex circuit of this and that and who knew what. The minute he'd plucked it off Lucius had been groggy, disoriented, had no memory of the last few days or what he'd said.
Batman had waited for him to recover, all of five minutes, then told him to do the same to Dick.
Jervis Tetch. The Mad Hatter. In cahoots with a business rival to burn Bruce Wayne and Wayne Enterprises to the ground.
Tetch had been more than happy to comply, wanted a chance to use his newest improvements to his mind-control implements. He'd been gleeful to see Lucuis and Dick controlled; the rival had gleefully fed him all the false info to make the two of them disclose in the hopes to see Wayne ruined.
But for Batman, it might have worked.
"Maybe not. But I still knew somehow it wasn't the truth."
It comforted him, that idea. It dulled the pangs of regret and the heavy weight that rested in his heart that he'd even thought such things, much less said them aloud to all of Gotham. It gave him a bit of satisfaction that even under the influence of brain-wave-mumbo-jumbos he'd known he was in love with Bruce. That Bruce loved him in return.
That the ugliness--the molestation and dark years and fear for Tim--were nothing more than an uglier fabrication.
The rival had faced an even greater field day once the plot had been detected and exposed. Tetch was once again in Arkham. Things were settling, more or less, back to normal. A few people continued to talk, wagging tongues of dissent that this was too pat, too easy for Wayne, yet again. But then people always talk, and no one who was important believed.
What was important was Dick never had honestly been swayed, despite all appearances--and Bruce had never, ever believed he'd been acting of his own volition.
Bruce Wayne hadn't rebutted the charges because Batman had been on it, from the first second. Bruce Wayne hadn't held his own press conference because Batman was sleepless in the Cave and running down snitches. Bruce Wayne hadn't snapped back at the world because Batman had been too busy saving the only thing in it that mattered to them.
The first few hours had been awkward, mostly because of Dick, but they'd gotten past that. Would get past it. Tim had managed to make them laugh and Alfred had been there, calm and constant as always, and home had been exactly that--home--with Bruce and them and just as it should be.
Dick had been a presence at one more press conference, that detailing the villainous plot against Bruce and disavowing all knowledge of it and all his claims of the past days of mind-control helplessness.
Talk about being violated, he'd retorted, wry, to one of the many stupid questions from one of the many stupid reporters.
Nothing else of them had been asked.
Bruce held him tighter, warm and perfect.
Just another bad guy, just another despicable set of actions, just another taking care of business. They were here and the bad stuff was yet again defeated and yeah, he and Bruce had messed around when Dick was only sixteen and he'd been told sternly that no one else could know. Thing was--it'd been Dick that had pressed for it, Bruce who had taken care of him, always, both that had made it possible. Both who had been in love. Thing was--it had been their decision, and that's all that mattered.
Dick sighed, nuzzled and kissed here and there, let his eyes slip closed.
All that mattered.