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The music at the gala was faint, a background hum of violins and piano that felt disconnected from the chatter of Gotham’s elite. The chandelier above sparkled like false stars, and Dick Grayson stood in the middle of it all, smiling like he was born to. His tailored suit clung perfectly to his broad shoulders, his tie loose in that charming, devil-may-care way that made everyone look twice.
It was second nature now, the subtle tilt of his head, the easy laugh that warmed every conversation like a fire in winter. People gravitated to him. Men and women alike were drawn by his charm, and he could already feel the weight of lingering eyes on him as he moved through the crowd. It was a familiar sensation, one he’d grown up with, one he’d learned to master and wield to his advantage.
But tonight, the attention made his skin itch.
A soft hand brushed his forearm, and he turned, a smile already plastered in place. It was a woman—blonde, mid-thirties, dripping in designer jewelry that probably cost more than his rent. “Dick Grayson,” she purred, her voice low. “You’re even more handsome in person. I’ve heard so much about you.”
He chuckled, the sound practiced and effortless. “I hope all good things.”
“Oh, absolutely. Though I’m sure some things are better experienced firsthand.” Her gaze trailed down his chest, lingering just a beat too long.
Dick’s smile didn’t falter, but his stomach twisted. He knew this dance, knew it better than most. A comment here, a touch there, a suggestion whispered in passing. He’d played along a thousand times before, slipping into the role of the flirt, the charmer, the man who always left them wanting more.
He let out another laugh, this one lighter, more distant, and excused himself with a promise to “catch up later.” As he walked away, he could feel her eyes on him, a burning weight between his shoulder blades.
Later, when the guests were too drunk or distracted to notice, Dick slipped onto the balcony. The cold air hit him like a slap, and he inhaled deeply, grateful for the quiet. The city stretched out before him, a sea of glittering lights that felt more distant than ever.
He leaned against the railing, rolling his shoulders to release some of the tension that had built up over the evening. His mask of charm and confidence was starting to crack, and beneath it was the same gnawing emptiness that had been with him for as long as he could remember.
It wasn’t always like this, he reminded himself. There was a time when the world didn’t see him as a body first, a face second, and a person last. Back when he was just Dick Grayson, acrobat, Robin, the boy who loved Kory and dreamed of being more than Gotham’s tragedy.
But those days felt like a lifetime ago.
The first time someone told him he was “beautiful,” he was fourteen. It was during his early days as Robin, back when the costume was brighter, back when the city felt just a little less suffocating. Back when he was still figuring out how to walk the fine line between being a symbol of hope and being a target.
He’d been chasing a lead through the Narrows, the rain slicking the rooftops as he darted between them with practiced ease. The fight had been quick—too quick. He’d miscalculated, gotten careless. A villain—one of the nameless ones he’d long since forgotten—had cornered him in an alley, shoving him against the brick wall.
“Pretty little bird,” the man sneered, his voice a low rasp that sent a shiver crawling up Dick’s spine. His breath reeked of stale cigarettes and alcohol, hot against Dick’s cheek as he leaned in closer. “What’s someone like you doing in a place like this?”
The hand that gripped Dick’s shoulder was rough, calloused, but it was the other hand that made his stomach twist. The way it trailed up to his face, brushing against his cheek, fingers lingering too long. And then the weight of the man pressed against him, solid and unyielding, pinning him in place.
Dick could feel every inch of him—too close, too heavy, too wrong. His instincts screamed at him to move, to fight, to do something. He could think of fifteen ways to get out of this situation: a sharp elbow to the ribs, a knee to the groin, a perfectly timed backflip to escape the man’s grip. But all he did was stay still.
He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the way the man’s eyes raked over him, stripping him bare despite the mask and cape. Maybe it was the way his voice curled around those words, “pretty little bird,” like a knife sliding between his ribs. Maybe it was the realization that, in this moment, he wasn’t Robin, wasn’t the Boy Wonder, wasn’t a hero. He was just a boy.
“Bet you’re used to people looking at you like this,” the man murmured, his thumb brushing over Dick’s jaw. “Bet you don’t even realize what you do to people.”
Dick’s heart pounded in his chest, his breaths coming quick and shallow. The weight of the man’s body against his own felt suffocating, like a cage he couldn’t break out of. He hated how small he felt, how powerless. He hated the way the man’s words sank into his skin like barbs, lodging themselves deep where he couldn’t reach them.
And then, suddenly, the pressure was gone.
Batman’s shadow loomed over the alley, a dark and terrible force that made the man freeze. Within seconds, Bruce had taken him down, the fight ending before it could even begin.
“Robin,” Batman’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding. “Are you hurt?”
Dick shook his head quickly, his voice caught in his throat. He didn’t trust himself to speak, didn’t trust his voice not to crack and betray the storm raging inside him.
The man was carted off, cuffed and unconscious, and the night moved on like nothing had happened. But for Dick, the damage had already been done.
After that, the comments came more frequently.
From villains, from civilians, even from some of the people he worked alongside. Compliments that felt like weapons, disguised as praise.
“Looking good, kid.”
“Bet you break a lot of hearts.”
“Who knew heroes could be so... pretty?”
At first, he flinched at the words, recoiled at the way people looked at him like he was something to be consumed. But eventually, he learned how to mask it.
By the time he became Nightwing, he’d stopped flinching altogether.
He’d learned to laugh it off, to deflect with jokes and winks, to lean into the attention instead of shying away from it. If people wanted him for his body, his looks, then fine. He’d give them what they wanted.
Because deep down, he believed that was all he was good for.
xAs Nightwing, Dick had perfected the mask. It wasn’t the one he wore on patrol, not the domino that covered his face but left his eyes free to sparkle with mischief. No, this was the mask he wore off the battlefield, the one he wore when the comments came too close and he needed to protect himself.
When someone said, "Damn, Nightwing, do you even own a shirt?"
He’d wink. "Shirts are overrated."
When a villain grabbed at him during a fight, their grip lingering on his waist or shoulder just a second too long, he’d smirk. "Careful, I’m spoken for."
When a crowd of fans catcalled him during a public rescue, he’d laugh, throwing out a playful "I’m flattered, really. One at a time, though, I’m only human."
It was easier to play along than to push back. Easier to let people think he enjoyed the attention than to deal with the uncomfortable truth: he didn’t know who he was without it.
It wasn’t always this way. There were moments—fleeting, fragile—where the mask slipped, where he let himself wonder if there was more to him than this.
He remembered Kory, the way she used to look at him. Not at him, but through him, as if she could see past the winks and the jokes to the boy who wasn’t sure he was worth anything at all.
“You’re more than your looks, Dick,” she’d said once, her voice so earnest it hurt.
They were lying on the rooftop of titans tower, the night sky sprawling above them. The stars were dim compared to the ones she knew on Tamaran, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her hair fanned out around her like a fiery halo, her fingers lazily tracing patterns on his chest as they lay side by side.
Dick chuckled, though the sound felt hollow even to him. “What, are you saying you don’t like my looks? That’s harsh, Kory.”
She turned her head to face him, her green eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. There was no humor in them, no teasing. Just quiet sincerity.
“You know that’s not what I mean,” she said gently.
He tried to deflect again, to brush it off. “Come on, I’m just—”
“Dick.” She sat up, interrupting him, and her hand moved to cup his cheek. The sudden shift in her tone, the way she said his name, made his breath catch. “I need you to hear this.”
He froze under her touch, his throat tightening. Kory wasn’t one to mince words, and when she looked at him like this—like she could see every piece of him, even the ones he didn’t want anyone to see—it was hard to keep up the act.
“You’re more than your looks,” she repeated, her thumb brushing against his cheekbone. “More than your body, more than what people think of you. There’s so much inside you, Dick. Your heart, your kindness, your determination. Your capacity to love others, even when you’re hurting.”
Her words sank into him, heavy and warm, but he couldn’t help the way his stomach twisted in response.
“People don’t see all that,” he muttered, his gaze falling to the rooftop. “They don’t care about any of that. They just see... this.” He gestured vaguely at himself, the familiar bitterness creeping into his voice.
“That is their failing,” Kory said, her tone firm. “Not yours.”
He shook his head, pulling away from her hand. “You don’t get it, Kory. You’re... you’re different. You’ve never had to deal with—”
She cut him off, her voice rising ever so slightly. “I do get it, Dick. More than you think.”
That startled him into looking at her, and she held his gaze, unwavering.
“On Tamaran, my body was not my own for a very long time,” she said, her voice quieter now but no less powerful. “I was taken, sold, used. I know what it means to feel like all you are is something to be looked at, to be wanted for what you can give and nothing more.”
Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He’d known about her past, of course, but she rarely spoke about it in such raw terms.
“And I know how hard it is to believe otherwise,” she continued, her hand finding his again. “But you are more, Dick. I see it every day. When you fight for the people who can’t fight for themselves. When you make me laugh with your terrible jokes. When you refuse to give up, no matter how much the world tries to break you.”
He didn’t realize he was crying until Kory brushed a tear from his cheek, her touch so gentle it made his chest ache. The apology was already on the tip of his tongue, guilt clawing at him.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Kory blinked, her glowing green eyes softening further as she tilted her head. “Why are you apologizing, Dick?”
“For... for making this about me,” he said, his throat tightening as the words tumbled out. “After everything you’ve been through—what happened to you was so much worse. I shouldn’t—”
“Stop.” Her voice was calm but firm, cutting through his spiraling thoughts. She took his face in both hands now, her warmth grounding him. “Do not diminish your pain just because mine is different. There is no need to compare.”
“But—”
“No,” she interrupted, her thumbs brushing the edges of his jaw. “You listen to me now.” Her tone softened, the corners of her mouth lifting into a faint, sad smile. “Yes, I went through terrible things. I was taken from my home, my family. I was... used in ways that broke me.” Her voice wavered for a moment, but she held his gaze steadily. “But I also had the Titans. I had you. You gave me a place where I could heal. Where I could remember who I am, not what was done to me.”
Dick swallowed hard, his heart squeezing painfully at her words. “Kory...”
She leaned in closer, her forehead resting lightly against his. “You do not need to apologize to me, my love,” she said gently. “You gave me the time and the space to recover, to rebuild myself. Let me offer you the same.”
His breath hitched, the lump in his throat making it hard to speak. “I don’t know how to do that,” he admitted, the confession slipping out before he could stop it.
“That is okay,” she said, her fingers still cradling his face. “You do not need to know everything right away. Healing is not a straight path. It is messy and long, and some days, it feels impossible. But you are not alone in this.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, the weight of her words settling over him like a blanket. She was right. He didn’t have to figure it all out at once. Maybe he didn’t even have to figure it out on his own.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he said, his voice cracking slightly.
Kory chuckled softly, her laughter warm and light. “Perhaps it is not about what you deserve, but about what we give to each other.”
When he opened his eyes, she was smiling at him, her expression so full of love it made his chest ache all over again.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as broken as he thought. And if Kory saw something in him worth saving, maybe he could try to see it too.
The city glittered below, golden lights stretching across Gotham like a sea of stars. The distant hum of traffic, the occasional honk of a horn—it was all a dull backdrop to the sound of laughter and clinking glasses from inside the gala.
Dick stood at the balcony’s edge, fingers curled around the railing, the cold metal biting into his palms. He took a slow breath, his shoulders rising and falling with practiced ease. A performance, even when he was alone.
Inside, he’d been on. Smiling, laughing, charming the right people with effortless ease. Every lingering gaze, every hushed whisper—he’d soaked them in like he always did. Let them remind him that he was wanted.
Needed.
Useful.
His reflection in the glass doors showed a picture-perfect image: the tux tailored just right, the bowtie loosened just enough to be casual, the easy smirk on his lips. The illusion of someone in control.
But out here, alone, his mask started to slip.
The echoes of past words clung to him, as heavy as the night air.
"You’re more than your looks, Dick."
Kory’s voice. Warm. Unwavering.
"I see it every day."
But did anyone else?
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face, smudging away the exhaustion that threatened to surface.
Then, the balcony door creaked open.
"Didn’t take you for the ‘brooding alone’ type," Jason’s voice drawled.
Dick didn’t turn. "Didn’t take you for the ‘show up to a Wayne gala’ type."
A snort. "Yeah, well. Free booze."
Jason stepped up beside him, resting his forearms on the railing, two whiskey glass dangling from his fingers. The streetlights cast a faint glow over his scar, the bruised knuckles peeking out from his sleeves.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Dick welcomed the silence.
Then Jason let out a slow breath, like he was bracing himself. "Alright, I’ll bite. What’s wrong?"
Dick smirked, forcing himself back into something lighthearted, something easy. "What, I can’t enjoy a quiet moment under the Gotham sky? Savor the ambiance?"
Jason gave him a flat look. "You’ve got that look."
"What look?"
"The one you get when you’re convincing yourself you’re fine but you’re actually two seconds away from spiraling."
Dick let out a dry laugh. "Damn. You should be a therapist, Jay."
"Yeah, right. You’d be my first and only patient, and I’d charge a fortune." Jason took a slow sip of his drink before eyeing him again. "So. You gonna tell me what’s up, or are we doing this the hard way?"
Dick rolled his shoulders, eyes flicking back toward the gala. Through the glass doors, he could see the sea of people inside—socialites, politicians, models. He’d spent the last two hours navigating them like second nature. Letting their eyes roam, offering flirtatious smiles, dodging hands that lingered just a second too long.
Letting them have what they wanted from him.
"It’s nothing," he said, the lie automatic.
Jason scoffed. "Yeah, sure. And I’m the next Batman." He paused, then muttered, "Well. Actually, knowing Bruce, that might be a real possibility. But whatever. Point is, you’re full of shit."
Dick exhaled through his nose, tilting his head back to stare at the sky.
"...Do you ever wonder if people only like you for what you can give them?"
Jason blinked. "Uh. That’s... vague as hell. You talking emotionally? Physically? Financially?"
"All of it," Dick admitted.
Jason studied him, then let out a low whistle. "Damn. Okay. That’s... heavier than I expected. Thought you were just gonna tell me some rich asshole groped you again and you didn’t wanna make a scene."
Dick huffed out something like a laugh. "Happens so often it’s not even worth mentioning anymore."
Jason’s jaw clenched. "That’s not normal, Dick."
"It’s expected," he corrected. Then, with a humorless smile, "Welcome, even."
Jason narrowed his eyes. "You say that like you believe it."
Dick shrugged, the movement too casual. "If it’s all people want, who am I to disappoint?"
Jason swore under his breath. " Jesus, Dick."
The words came out sharp, angry, like they physically hurt him to say. He set his glass down on the stone railing with more force than necessary, the amber liquid inside sloshing against the sides.
"You think that’s all you are? Some… thing for people to use?"
Dick let out a breathy laugh, tilting his head back to stare at the sky. The stars were barely visible past Gotham’s smog, and the air carried the distant scent of exhaust and expensive perfume.
Jason was waiting for an answer.
Dick was so tired.
He was always tired, really—of playing a role, of putting on that damn mask even when he wasn’t in the suit. Of being the perfect brother, the perfect son, the perfect leader. Always handling things with grace, with patience, with a smile that made it seem like none of it ever touched him.
But tonight?
Tonight, the champagne was warm in his stomach, making his head light and his tongue loose. And for once, just this once, he wanted to be selfish. He wanted to stop pretending.
So he turned to Jason, met his eyes, and let himself crack.
"I’ve been playing this game for so long," he murmured, voice quieter than it should have been. "Before I was even legal."
He lifted his fingers in air quotes as he said it, a wry, humorless smirk tugging at his lips. But Jason wasn’t laughing. His hands were fisted against the railing, jaw tight, like he was holding himself back from—something.
Dick took another slow sip of champagne. His fourth glass. Maybe fifth. He wasn’t really counting anymore.
"I don’t even know how it started," he admitted, voice light, like they were talking about the weather. "Maybe it was the first time some villain got a little too handsy. Or maybe it was the comments—the ones that started before my voice even dropped." His fingers curled around the stem of his glass. "Pretty little bird," he mocked, voice dipping into a husky purr before his mouth twisted in disgust. "God. They all said it like it was a compliment."
Jason was dead silent beside him.
Dick laughed again, light and bitter. "And you know what’s funny?" He gestured vaguely towards the gala behind them. "Now, it doesn’t even bother me. Not really. It’s just expected."
Jason’s breath hitched. "Dick—"
"I mean, what else do they want me for?" he continued, ignoring the warning in Jason’s tone. "Look at me, Jay." He spread his arms wide, as if displaying himself. The tux fit him like a glove, the fabric clinging to muscle in a way that made it clear his tailor knew exactly what they were doing. "I’m good for this. The charm. The body. The way I can make people want me." He took another slow sip, swallowing down something bitter. "Nothing else."
Jason made a sharp sound—almost a growl—and reached out, gripping Dick’s wrist. Not hard, not yet, but firm enough that Dick felt it. "That’s bullshit, and you know it."
Dick’s smile didn’t falter, but his fingers trembled against the glass. He tried to pull back, but Jason held on.
"You don’t get it," he murmured, and the words cracked, just a little. "I’ve spent my whole life making myself into something people want." He exhaled shakily, staring down at the city below them. "Because what if that’s all I have? "
Jason’s grip tightened. " That is not all you have."
Dick let out a sharp breath. "Then what, Jason? What else am I good for?" His voice wavered, something fragile bleeding into the words. "Tell me. Because I don’t—I don’t know."
Jason’s jaw clenched. "You— fuck, Dick, you’re more than this. You always have been. And if some asshole can’t see past what you can give them—" His breath came out sharp. "Then they don’t deserve you in the first place."
Dick let out a quiet laugh. "Deserve me? Jason, no one stays unless I give them what they want." His voice dipped lower. "I learned that a long time ago."
Jason flinched like he’d been struck. Like the words had landed with a force so sharp, so visceral, they carved something raw into his bones. His fingers twitched against the stone railing, and for a second, just a second, Dick thought Jason might actually swing at something— someone. But there was nothing to hit. No enemy to take down, no villain to punish. Just this. Just him.
And Jason— Jason —looked at him like he didn’t know whether to break something or break for him.
"That’s not fucking true," Jason said, voice ragged, but there was something else beneath the anger—something shattered. "You’re not just what you can give people. You’re not—" He stopped, exhaled sharply through his nose. "Jesus, Dick. Who the hell made you think that?"
Dick let out a sharp, breathy laugh, tipping his glass toward Jason like he’d asked the million-dollar question. The golden liquid inside swayed, catching the dim city lights, and for a moment, he just stared at it.
"Take your pick," he murmured. "Who didn’t? "
Jason’s eyes darkened. "That’s not an answer."
"No?" Dick took a slow sip, let the bubbles settle against his tongue before swallowing. "Feels like one."
Jason took a step closer, his whole body tense, like he was bracing for something he didn’t want to hear but already knew was coming. "Dick—"
"You know," Dick cut in, voice light, conversational, like they were just two brothers catching up, "even grown women wanted me in bed." He rolled his wrist, watched Jason’s expression tighten at the words. "Some of them didn’t even pretend it was anything else."
Jason’s fingers curled into fists. "Who? " His voice was low, dangerous
Dick swirled the champagne in his glass, watching the bubbles fizz and pop. The golden liquid caught the light, sparkling like something bright, something celebratory. It was a cruel illusion, really. The whole night was—this gala, the tuxes, the polite conversations, the manufactured charm.
It was all just another stage, another costume, another role to play.
And he was good at it. He’d been good at it since he was a kid. Smile just enough, laugh at the right times, let people look without ever seeing anything real.
He took his last sip, let it sit on his tongue before swallowing it down.
Jason was still watching him, his whole body tense, like he was bracing for something he already knew he wasn’t going to like.
Dick licked his lips, exhaled through his nose. Then he said it.
"Liu."
The name landed heavy between them, a weight that neither of them wanted to hold.
Jason’s brows pulled together, confusion flickering over his face before it was swallowed up by something darker.
Dick let out a dry, humourless laugh. "Man, I really thought I had something special there." He shook his head, setting the empty glass down on the stone railing. "Sixteen. Just turned sixteen. On my own for the first time, and she—" His throat bobbed, fingers tapping once against the smooth surface of the glass before curling into his palm. "She made me think I mattered to her."
Jason’s breath came out sharp, like the words had physically cut him. His hands trembled, barely-contained rage seeping through the cracks. "What? "
Dick smirked, but it wasn’t real. "Yeah. She—she made me feel like she saw me, you know?" He scoffed, shaking his head at his own fucking naivety. "I actually believed it."
Jason’s jaw clenched. "Dick. "
"Oh, come on, Jay," Dick waved a hand, grinning like this was all just a joke, like it wasn’t ripping him apart from the inside. "Who wouldn’t want a young, eager-to-please billionaire’s ward in their bed, right? It’s like hitting the jackpot."
Jason’s nostrils flared. "The fuck is wrong with you? "
Dick just hummed, reaching for Jason’s glass. He was blocked by Jason’s swatting hand, guess this was him being cut off. "She was older, sophisticated, wanted me," he continued, voice turning mocking, bitter, but it wasn’t directed at Liu. Not really. "And I wanted her to want me." He dragged a hand through his hair, his shoulders rising and falling in a humorless laugh. "Turns out she just wanted access to Wayne Enterprises."
Jason swore under his breath, muscles twitching like he was barely keeping himself from putting his fist through the wall. "That’s not—"
"I knew it, " Dick cut in, voice quiet but sharp. "I knew that’s what she was doing, and I let it happen anyway."
Jason looked like he wanted to punch something. His hands curled into fists, but he didn’t move. "That’s not fucking right, Dick."
Dick shrugged, leaning heavier against the railing, his body swaying slightly. "Didn’t feel wrong at the time."
Jason swore again, louder this time, running a hand through his hair. "That was rape. "
Dick’s stomach twisted, something ugly and tangled curling inside him, but he forced out a laugh, shaking his head. "No, it wasn’t." His voice was too light, too casual, like he was explaining something simple. "I was mature. I knew what I was doing. I—I wanted it."
Jason’s eyes flashed, and his hands curled into fists at his sides. "No, you fucking didn’t."
"I did! " Dick shot back, voice rising, desperate, like saying it loud enough would make it true. "I wasn’t some dumb kid who didn’t know better, Jason. I made choices. I wasn’t—" He cut himself off, chest rising and falling too fast, hands gripping the railing so tight his knuckles went white. "I wasn’t a victim."
Jason inhaled sharply, like the words physically hurt him. His jaw clenched, his whole body rigid. "She was a grown-ass woman, Dick. She knew exactly what she was doing. You were fucking sixteen."
Dick shook his head again, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. "I wasn’t some helpless kid, Jay. I flirted back. I let it happen. I wanted her to want me. Hell, I was" He let out a sharp, breathy laugh. "I was fucking flattered."
Jason’s expression twisted, something dark and pained flickering behind his eyes. "Flattered? " His voice was low, incredulous. "Dick, do you hear yourself right now? "
"Come on, Jason," Dick scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "I wasn’t some innocent little thing, okay? I was fighting full-grown mob bosses at fifteen. I was getting shot at before I even hit puberty. I—I was leading the fucking Titans. I wasn't some kid who needed protecting."
"You were still sixteen!" Jason snarled.
"And I was already an adult by then! " Dick fired back. " I had a mortgage, I was paying bills, I had responsibilities—"
"That doesn't mean you weren’t a kid! " Jason cut him off, eyes blazing. "That just means you didn’t get to be one! "
Dick’s breath hitched.
Jason pressed forward, his voice lower now, but still vibrating with barely-contained fury. "What if it had been me, huh? What if it was Cass? Damian? Tim? Duke? If some grown-ass adult had taken advantage of them at sixteen, would you be standing here telling me it wasn’t their fault? That they asked for it?"
"God, no!" The words ripped out of Dick before he could even think, his whole body recoiling. "It’s different!"
Jason’s eyes narrowed, sharp as a knife. "Why?"
Dick opened his mouth. Then shut it. His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts, his pulse hammering against his ribs. "Because-"
Jason didn’t let him escape. "Why is it different, Dick? "
Dick gritted his teeth, shaking his head. "Because it’s me." His voice was barely more than a whisper now, something fragile, something frayed. "Because I’m different."
Jason exhaled sharply, his jaw locking. "That’s bullshit, and you know it."
"Do I?" Dick shot back, but it wasn’t anger fuelling his words anymore. It was something else. Something raw. Something broken. "Because it sure as hell feels different."
Jason’s throat bobbed. "Why?"
Dick inhaled sharply through his nose, pressing his fingers into the stone railing like it could hold him together. "Because I let it happen," he murmured, voice cracking. "Because I wanted to feel wanted. Because if I wasn’t giving people what they wanted, what the hell else was I even good for?"
Jason flinched, like the words physically hurt him.
And suddenly, the weight of it was too much.
The champagne was buzzing in his veins, his head was spinning, and he couldn’t—he couldn’t do this anymore.
His shoulders shook. His face crumpled.
And then Jason was there, right there, strong arms wrapping around him, holding him up as he finally, finally broke.
Dick clung to him, hands fisting into the fabric of Jason’s jacket like a lifeline, like he was afraid he might disappear if he let go. His chest heaved with quiet, gasping sobs, his breath coming in stuttering, uneven bursts.
Jason didn’t say anything. He just held him, hand cradling the back of Dick’s head, grounding him, keeping him.
Dick was so tired.
So goddamn tired.
And for once—just this once—he let himself stop pretending.
He couldn’t stop. His whole body shook with it, chest caving in, breaths coming too fast, too shallow, like he’d been running for miles and had nowhere left to go. His fingers were clenched in Jason’s jacket, gripping like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Jason didn’t pull away. He just held on, one hand firm on the back of Dick’s head, the other gripping his shoulder like he was physically keeping him from coming apart. He didn’t shush him, didn’t tell him to breathe, didn’t try to fix it.
He just stayed.
It took a long time for the sobs to slow.
Dick hated how it sounded, hated how he could hear himself breaking, raw and wrecked, pressed against Jason’s shoulder like a damn kid. He wasn’t supposed to do this. He wasn’t supposed to need this.
But for once, he didn’t fight it.
His breathing was still shaky when he finally pulled back, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to rub away the evidence of—whatever the hell that had been. His throat felt raw, his limbs heavy.
Jason let him go, but stayed close, eyes still sharp, still watching him like he was waiting for the next collapse.
Dick sniffled, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and let out a weak, breathless chuckle. "Man, this is not the kind of emotional breakthrough I was expecting to have tonight."
Jason huffed, crossing his arms. "Yeah? What were you expecting?"
"I don’t know," Dick said, sniffling again, "maybe just a little light repression, some champagne, a mild existential crisis. You know, the classics."
Jason rolled his eyes but didn’t move away.
Dick sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "You know what’s funny?" His voice was hoarse, but there was something sharp at the edges now. "Society tells me I should hate sex. That I should be repulsed by it, considering... everything." He gestured vaguely, his hand shaking a little. "But I’m not. I mean, I should be, right? That’s what people expect. That’s what would make sense."
Jason didn’t say anything. He was listening.
"But I’m not, " Dick repeated, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "If anything, I play into it. I lean into it. I make it part of who I am." He let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "And that makes me sick."
Jason’s jaw tightened. " Why? "
"Because it means they win," Dick said simply. "The people who touched me when I didn’t want it. The ones who looked at me and decided I was something to be used. They took something from me, Jay. And instead of fighting it, I just... made it part of me." He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers before curling them into fists. "That’s fucked up, right?"
Jason exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. "That’s not—fuck, Dick, that’s not on you. That’s not your fault. You don't have to be some god damn nun to be considered 'worthy' of respect."
Dick laughed again, too light, too bitter. " Yeah, well. Doesn’t really change anything, does it? "
Jason didn’t have an answer to that.
For a long moment, they just stood there, the city buzzing quietly below them, the sounds of the gala still drifting from inside.
Dick sighed, rubbing at his face again. "Jesus, I need another drink."
Jason arched an eyebrow. "No, you fucking don’t."
Dick groaned, tilting his head back. "God, you’re the worst."
"Yeah, well," Jason muttered, you’re stuck with me."
Dick let out a slow, uneven breath, his body still thrumming with the aftermath of—whatever that was. His chest felt hollow, his limbs heavy, his face hot from the lingering embarrassment of completely breaking down.
But there was no taking it back now.
He wiped at his eyes again, hating the way his fingers came away damp. "God, I probably look like a mess."
"You do," Jason confirmed.
Dick groaned, tipping his head back against the cool stone railing. "Bruce is gonna notice. Tim, too."
"Yeah." Jason snorted. "And Tim’s gonna write a whole-ass report about why Dick Grayson leaving the gala early is statistically improbable."
"He’s gonna make a fucking spreadsheet, " Dick muttered. "Probably cross-reference it with past galas to figure out how ‘off’ my behaviour was tonight."
"Exactly." Jason clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Which is why we should avoid that situation altogether and get the hell outta here before they start asking questions."
Dick sighed, rubbing at his face. "Sneaking out of a party early? That’s just bad form, Jay."
Jason arched an eyebrow. "Yeah? You wanna walk back in there looking like you just cried for twenty minutes?"
Dick winced. "Okay, fair point."
They both turned toward the balcony railing at the same time.
Jason looked at him. "We’re actually doing this, huh?"
"I mean," Dick shrugged, "it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve snuck out of a high-society event."
"Yeah, but last time I wasn’t in a fucking tux." Jason tugged at his tie in irritation. "This shit’s not exactly flexible."
"Speak for yourself," Dick muttered, but he was already rolling his shoulders, testing the fabric. His movements were restricted—tight dress shoes, stiff suit jacket, and he was definitely not wearing an acrobatics-approved belt.
But they could make it work.
Jason went first, swinging one leg over the railing before carefully easing himself down. He took a slower, more controlled route, climbing with deliberate movements, adjusting for the lack of range in his suit.
Dick followed, but where Jason moved with caution, he moved with instinct. He flipped over the railing, catching himself on a lower ledge before climbing down—albeit less smoothly than usual. The sound of fabric ripping freed him, although he knew if Alfred found out that he would have some... choice words for Dick.
"You’re so fucking extra," Jason called from below.
"It’s called style, Jay." Dick smirked. "Maybe try it sometime."
They landed in the alley behind the venue, straightening their suits as they stepped away from the building. No alarms, no security.
No one to stop them.
For a moment, Dick just breathed.
It was quieter out here. No flashing cameras, no wandering hands, no hungry eyes tracking his every move. No one expecting him to perform.
Just Jason.
"Alright," Jason said, fixing his cuffs. "Now that we’re out of there, I gotta say something."
Dick groaned. "Oh, here we go."
"You need therapy."
"Wow." Dick pressed a hand to his chest, feigning offence. "What a groundbreaking take."
"Dick." Jason gave him a look. "I’m serious."
The teasing faded from Dick’s expression, just a little. He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. "Yeah," he admitted. "I know."
Jason exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. "Good. ‘Cause if you don’t get one, I’m gonna tie you to a chair and start dragging you to mine."
Dick blinked. "Wait—you have a therapist? "
"Yeah." Jason shot him a dry look. "Believe it or not, I actually deal with my trauma, unlike some people."
"Wow." Dick huffed a small laugh. "Growth."
"Yeah, yeah, shut up."
Dick smirked, shoving his hands in his pockets as they started walking.
Everything wasn’t fine.
His problems weren’t fixed. His chest still felt tight, his head was still buzzing, and when he closed his eyes, he still saw too many hands, heard too many voices saying things he didn’t want to remember.
But for the tiniest moment—for the first time in a long time—he felt just a little bit lighter.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.