Poker Face | Bruce Wayne

thirty five

Dick sat perched on the railing of a random fire escape, opposite from the current bachelor party happening on the roof across the street. And he'd be the biggest, fattest liar in all of Gotham City if he didn't say he wasn't insanely jealous of Oliver stupid-hair-color Queen.

The young vigilante didn't know what it was about the archer that brought out such a... dare he say goofy side of Bruce. Because up until a few weeks ago, Bruce Wayne would've rather taken a knife to the kidney before anyone described him with positively-correlated words such as goofy.

Some could argue that it was all an act— that it was nothing more than the typical playboy facade Bruce put on every day— but Dick knew his father better. Because the sly grins and chuckles the man was currently trying and failing to hide behind glasses of champagne-but-really-ginger-ale weren't the carefully concocted trust fund baby smiles and suave voice that Bruce typically sported at galas— they were genuine.

Sure, Bruce had his softer moments with his kids— the gentle hand on the shoulder, rare approving smile, and his usual two-word sarcastic remarks. But the billionaire always had an air of professionalism about him, which Dick had simply chalked up to just being a part of Bruce's person, at least until Oliver Queen stepped into the picture.

Now, Dick realized that Bruce's professional nature was just another version of him— the version he presented to his kids. Why? Dick had no answer to that question. Maybe Bruce wanted to set a good example for them? After all, there was really no reason for him to be a shining, exemplary model of moral correctness in front of Oliver, his alleged very first partner in crime, long before Batman or Robin had even existed.

In Bruce's eyes, as Dick had started to discover, his children were his lessers. They apparently didn't have the security clearance required to unlock goofy Bruce— only stoic, sparingly kind, father Bruce. Oliver Queen, however, appeared to be seen as his equal. And so the blond got funny Bruce— the Bruce that Dick had always dreamt of— the Bruce that made secret, nearly-missable-if-you-didn't-catch-it-quickly-enough faces at someone when they weren't looking, the Bruce that openly judged people for the way they dressed, the Bruce that genuinely chuckled at your jokes and sang songs with you under his breath in the corner of fancy events and oh boy did it burn.

It physically ached to watch his father quietly mouth the words to "Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy" by Queen with Oliver— an irony in itself, because, although Dick didn't know the blond particularly well, he figured the archer probably loved the fact that the band was basically named after him.

And as Dick sat there on the rusty fire escape in the bitter cold, with wind ripping against his exposed cheeks, he studied the way Oliver and Bruce moved through the party like a well-oiled machine, idly chatting with fellow socialites while wearing matching Giovanni suits in varying shades of gray. The rooftop atmosphere was warm and glowing, with flowing drinks and loud music and laughter that echoed down the block.

Either Bruce had suddenly become the world's best actor, or he just genuinely wanted to be there.

The latter— the one Dick knew was undoubtedly the case— made his chest burn with envy.

Dick slouched on the railing, letting his feet dangle off the nine-story drop carelessly.

He tapped the side of his mask. "You seein' this too, Babs?"

"Seeing?" the feminine voice answered in his earpiece. "Yes. Believing? Not so much."

"All these years," Dick grumbled. "Asshat's been holding out on us."

"Yeah, it's... definitely something."

Dick ran a frustrated, gloved hand through his hair. "I—" He scoffed. "—Does he not feel like he can be... I don't know, genuine with me?"