Poker Face | Bruce Wayne

twenty five

PRESENT DAY

Dick made his way towards the study where he knew he'd find Bruce. He entered the large wooden doors, sunlight filtering in from the large floor-to-ceiling windows. Off to the corner sat Bruce hunched over a laptop with a thousand different papers tossed around the sizable wooden desk.

"Hey, B," he greeted. The man barely spared him as much as a nod.

Dick walked closer to the desk, hands in his jacket pockets. "Alf told me you haven't slept in a few days."

The billionaire made an incoherent noise of recognition.

"Have you eaten anything today?" It wasn't unusual for Bruce to skip meals, even with his rigorous training schedule. Dick didn't understand how the man was sitting here relatively conscious, but he'd learned to ignore it as he'd gotten older.

There was no response.

"How's the work coming along?"

Bruce finally sighed in irritation, sitting back in the maroon armchair. He stared at Dick with tired eyes.

"Yikes," Dick commented as he crossed his arms. "I'll take that as not good."

Dick walked around the desk, lightly shoving Bruce's shoulder. "How about dinner? Alf's making meatballs."

"I have work to do." Bruce's voice was dry and scratchy.

"I can see that. The work will still be here in half an hour after you eat. The meatballs, however, will be cold. So choose your fighter."

Bruce stared at him for a moment, before sighing in defeat. Dick offered a small smile as the man stood up to his full height, an inch or two taller than him.

"We have a thing called an oven," Bruce said as he stepped around the desk. "It's for heating food."

Dick snickered as he followed his father out of the study. "C'mon, you know it's not the same."

Bruce didn't reply as they walked into the kitchen, but Dick could see the man visibly relax at the smell of the food and the steam wafting from the stovetop.

"I know it's the last thing you want to talk about," Dick finally brought up as he walked to one of the many cabinets to grab a glass of water. "But I think Tim should be coming back from his tour with Meredith soon."

Bruce didn't have any reaction as he took a seat at the counter.

Dick placed the glass of ice water in front of his father. "If it's any consolation, there's a good chance he'll hate it. Right, Alf?"

The butler tilted his head towards the two of them from his place at the opposing counter. "If that is what's going to make Master Bruce feel better, then, yes. Absolutely."

Dick frowned. Freakin' British sarcasm.

Okay, so, there was a very slim chance that Tim was going to hate it. Probably even slimmer considering it's now something that Bruce is actively against, and all of Bruce's kids' favorite thing to do was disobey him. But there was still a chance, technically speaking.

Dick's ears picked up on one of the doors leading to the garage opening. A few moments later, Tim walked into the kitchen in a navy suit, beaming from ear to ear.

So much for a slim chance.

Dick still gave his brother a smile regardless. "Heya, Timmy. How was it?"

Tim dropped the briefcase near the doorway with a thunk. "It was so incredible!"

Dick raised his brows in interest, purposefully making sure to turn his back away from Bruce. "No kidding— let's hear about it, then."