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Dick wouldn't consider himself a violent person.
Like, okay, sure, he gets that his night job is kind of revolved around violence. He gets that he spends a majority of his life working in the service of a job that involves quite a lot of just...beating people up. That he helps design his own weapons for specifically the purpose of more effective violence.
But still, it's a job. It's taking down bad guys, it's what he does. A job he likes, sure, but not for the beating-people-up part. The saving-people part is why he's in this business. (Getting to work out some of his issues on the streets of Gotham is a small bonus, not a driving force. And nearly every superhero is guilty of that, not just him.)
But these days...Dick might have to rethink that about himself. The not-being-a-violent-person thing. Because he is currently standing in the middle of a lavish ballroom, surrounded by Gotham's elite and dressed to the nines in a tailored tux, and all he is thinking about is the best way to bash a person's skull in.
To be fair to himself, he isn't thinking about that generally. Like, he's not sitting here as a budding serial killer eyeing all the people around him looking for his first victim. No, he has a target in mind. One very specific target who is currently standing at a table just a few feet away, roguish grin in place and a drink held aloft as he delights his company with some outlandish tale or another.
Hush. Thomas Elliot. The man wearing Bruce Wayne's face. The villain who has stuck himself in Dick's sphere, in his day to day life. The monster that has crawled out from under the bed and made itself absolutely impossible to ignore.
Dick wants to punch him so badly it nearly consumes him, takes his breath away. His hand is tight around his own glass, one he has actually drained of its contents instead of pretending to sip at all night. Probably not the best move, but. But he needed something to dull his rage a little.
Because life is never fucking fair, the liquor has done nothing to quell his anger. In fact, he's pretty sure it's only exacerbated the problem. (Golly gee, Batman, who could've seen that coming! Alcohol, making a problem worse? Wild!) His violent thoughts have only gotten progressively more and more vivid the more he drank, and he's not one for excessive violence but fuck what he wouldn't give to slam his fist into that smug smile over and over and over again—
"You're staring," comes a dry voice.
Dick doesn't bother to look at her, continuing his staring without shame as Hush leans in close to someone Dick thinks is a model and whispers in her ear, clearly coming onto her, going by the way the woman blushes and titters and leans into him. Using Bruce Wayne's face and name to fuck women. Classy.
"I am," Dick agrees, and Barbara sighs at him. Dick isn't entirely sure why she's here—she hates these kinds of events even more than he does and, unlike him, she doesn't have any requirement to attend. Maybe she's here as Jim's plus one, supporting her dad. Or maybe she's actually just here to keep an eye on him.
That's probably what Dick resents the most about this whole Hush thing. The way he's watched in the hero community, the way people treat him. There's a wariness now, a readiness, like they're all just waiting for him to snap and lunge across the room to tear out Hush's throat. Which, while appealing, come on. He has far better fucking control than that. Even intoxicated as he is.
(And, no, that's probably not what Dick resents the most about this whole thing. What Dick resents the most is that Bruce is dead and a psycho has taken his place. Bruce is dead and Dick will never again get to talk to him, hear his voice, see his smile. Never get to spar with him or laugh with him or sit on the top of a very tall building and breathe Gotham in together in the way so very few people will ever get to experience—
Dick's father, brother, friend, mentor, more is dead and there's a wraith in his place, and Dick has to not only let Hush remain, but actively work with him. Actively perpetuate the lie. In what fucking universe is that fair?)
"I need some air," Dick mutters, setting his glass down (gently, despite how he wants to slam it) and then turning away from Hush and Barbara both. Barbara doesn't try to stop him or call after him, and he appreciates it; their relationship might be full of question marks right now but it doesn't mean she doesn't know him better than most, and knows when he needs to be left alone instead of comforted.
This is definitely a time he needs to be alone. Because if someone tries to comfort him right now, he's going to put his fist through a wall.
Forcing himself to give polite smiles and comments as he weaves through the den of vultures, Dick eventually makes it to the glass doors on the side of the ballroom and then out onto the balcony that overlooks the gardens. It's a blessedly cold night, so no one else is out here, leaving Dick to the solitude he craves.
He'll give himself five minutes. Five minutes to be alone, to breathe everything in and let it out, and then he'll go back inside. Make the rounds, be the person everyone needs him to be. The person so many are counting on. But he just needs five minutes to—not be.
Cold stone bites into his palms as his hands curl around the banister, and he pulls frosty air into his lungs on a slow, long breath, trying to relax the tense line of his shoulders. God, he feels too old for all of this. He's only twenty-four and he feels too fucking old for this. That's what starting a vigilante career when you're eight will get you, he supposes. He's been in this business longer than most. And he is...so very tired.
"Why so glum, chum?"
Dick startles despite himself, and then bristles when the voice—and the term—register. He doesn't look back though, instead glaring off into the Gotham night as footsteps approach. The tension he was just managing to get rid of has come roaring back to the surface, and he clenches at the banister so his hands don't do something stupid like punch the guy wearing Bruce Wayne's face.
That's just what they need, a fucking scandal: Wayne Heir Seen Punching Bruce Wayne! The last fucking thing that could help.
"Can I help you?" Dick asks bitingly, because there's no one around he needs to perform for. He'd rather be more in control of himself around Hush, more casually powerful like he was when they struck their bargain, but honestly he doesn't give a fuck about that right now. He's pissed, and hateful, and he doesn't care if Hush sees it. Not like it'll change a single goddamn thing.
"Maybe," Hush says lightly, and Dick can hear the smile in his voice because Dick knows what it sounds like after years of learning. He knows Bruce, inside and out, and Hush has him down pat. That tone, that body language, that everything. It's not hard to see why he has everybody fooled. He is Bruce Wayne.
It breaks Dick's fucking heart.
"It's freezing out here," Hush says, and Dick rolls his eyes because oh, good, they're going to dance around whatever it is Hush wants. Going to pretend they really are the best of pals, having a chat outside a glamorous party. Such fun for Dick.
Yeah, no thanks. "Get to the point, Elliot."
Hush chuckles quietly, and out of the corner of his eye Dick sees the man step up beside him. He's—close, far closer than Dick is comfortable with, their arms nearly brushing. But like hell is he ceding any ground to this asshole. He's not backing away when he was here first.
To his alcohol-addled mind, that really feels like a metaphor for this whole fucking thing.
"Always so serious," Hush says, voice dry and softly warm, Bruce all over in the private moments between them. Dick pictures punching Hush until the man is wheezing on every breath. "You have to take a load off sometime, Richard. Don't think this much stress is good for someone so young."
("You should go out, have some fun. I know I've put a lot on you but you're...You're still young, Dick. Try to enjoy your youth while you have it."
"I'd rather be here with you, if that's alright."
"...That's always alright, chum.")
"Thanks for the tip," Dick snaps back at him, eyes stinging from either the cold or the memory that got dragged up to the surface. He'd like to say it's the cold, but... "Great advice, really appreciate it."
Hush hums thoughtfully; Dick can see him looking at him with Bruce's eyes. "You should, actually."
Dick frowns. "Should what?"
"Appreciate it," Hush explains, instantly making Dick scowl. "Appreciate me, at least."
Dick barks a laugh, startled enough by the utterly ridiculous words that he turns to look at Hush head on, smiling incredulously. They're still standing far too close. Dick hates it, mainly for how badly he's craving being closer, how his body instinctively wants to hold Bruce tight even if his brain knows this isn't Bruce.
"And how the hell do you figure that?"
Hush smiles at him, the look nearly pitying, and it has Dick bristling, hands curling into fists. He's never been able to stand pity, and coming from this man? Yeah, fuck to the no thanks.
"I know you miss him," Hush says, his voice dropping into something soft, all the more threatening for its intimacy. "Miss him in ways you can't tell other people about, right?"
Dick goes rigid, teeth baring. "I don't know what you're implying—"
"I'm right here, Dick," Hush interrupts, and it deepens Dick's scowl. "I'm right here."
And then his hand settles on top of Dick's on the banister.
Dick is—frozen. His mind is screaming at him, two warring impulses that have the end result of making him utterly incapable of moving. That's Bruce's hand. It has Bruce's calluses, and his long fingers, and it's—it's—it's Bruce's hand on top of his.
Hush is touching him with Bruce's hand and Dick is going to be sick. (Dick is going to burst into tears.)
It's far harder than he wishes it was, but Dick finally gets the strength inside himself to rip his hand away—but he can't, because Hush wraps his fingers tight around Dick's wrist instead, holding him in place.
"What is it that you think you're doing?" Dick hisses, but doesn't try to yank out of the grip, not wanting to turn this into a fight if he can avoid it. He might want to hit Hush more than anything, but rationality is still winning out—they can't make a scene like that, not here, not with so many civilians just a glass door away.
(Please, god, please, let that be the reason Dick isn't yanking away.)
"Chum—"
"Don't call me that!" Dick snaps, voice rising almost to a yell. His eyes dart immediately to the door, checking to see if his break in composure has drawn anyone's attention, and then releases a breath when he sees no one turning their way. The noise of the room has covered him—for now. More quietly, he repeats, "Do not call me that."
"Why not?" Hush asks, glib. "Because it pisses you off? Or because you might like it a little bit too much."
Dick laughs again, nearly breathless. This is—this is all insane. "Get this through your head, Hush—you might have everyone in there fooled, but you are not Bruce Wayne, and you never will be. You are a parasite that I have to deal with for now. Don't mistake your usefulness for permanence."
"Let's say you're right," Hush says, shrugging a shoulder carelessly. "Let's say I'll be gone soon enough. If that's the case, what's the harm in...indulging?"
He moves closer, his chest brushing against Dick's. His breath puffs, hot and heavy, across Dick's face as his head tilts down. Dick is frozen in place as Hush's lips brush so very lightly across Dick's temple.
"You miss him," Hush repeats, voice a low murmur. "But nobody has to know."
When Dick doesn't move, doesn't say anything, Hush slides even closer. His free hand settles in the small of Dick's back, large and firm. That brush of his lips solidifies into a kiss.
Dick jerks back like a jolt of electricity has gone through him. He stumbles, tripping over his own two feet in his haste to get away. Hush lets him go, simply watching as Dick sucks in large gulps of air and does his best to get himself under control, to push past the storm of emotions that has his chest in a vice grip. Pain, longing, rage, hatred, grief, desperation, all of it making him feel like an absolute mess.
He wishes Bruce were here. He wishes Bruce were here.
"Don't touch me," Dick commands, but the way his voice wavers makes it far less powerful a statement than he wanted it to be.
Hush only blinks placidly. He spreads his hands in an innocent gesture, like he's harmless, like he isn't a fucking monster wearing the face of the best man Dick knows. He takes a step backwards towards the glass doors, then another, his gaze never leaving Dick.
"You know where to find me," he says, a slow drawl like every time it was late at night and it was just Dick and Bruce, at ease with each other sitting in front of a fire, sure they were safe and happy and nothing could touch them— "when you change your mind."
Then he's gone, back through the doors and into the masses who celebrate his return like he's a king amongst men.
Dick stands outside on the balcony for a while longer, trying—and failing—to not feel like he's falling apart.