Chapter Text
Raise your right hand,
Tell me you want me in your life,
Or raise your red flag,
Just when I want you in my life
“I swear to God, Dick, you are such a fucking control freak,” Jason hissed. “Why the fuck couldn’t I drive? You weren’t even meant to be coming.”
“What’s the harm in me driving?” Dick asked amusedly, shifting the gears and listening to the Ferrari F80 growl underneath him in a satisfying way. “I’m a great driver.”
“That’s not my fucking point,” Jason gritted out, shifting in his seat. Dick stole a glance at him and had to stifle a snort at the way his legs were bunched up uncomfortably in the low seat.
“You wouldn’t be any less tall if you were the one driving,” Dick pointed out.
“Shut up,” Jason snapped, moving his knees awkwardly to the side in a futile attempt to prevent them knocking against the brushed suede dashboard. “Anyway, why are you coming tonight?” His voice dropped into a familiar sneer. “Didn’t trust me on my own, I assume?”
Dick tried not to sigh as he cornered an intersection in a tight, efficient move that sent Jason thudding against the passenger door. “I just thought it’d be nice to hang out,” he said. “Especially since Bruce bailed.” That had definitely been the wrong thing to say, because Jason was now growing still and silent in the way that meant he was quite fucking angry. Dick cleared his throat. “Well, bailed is the wrong word-” he tried.
“Why the fuck do you think I’d want to hang out with you?” Jason interrupted.
Dick glanced sideways again and immediately wished that he hadn’t. Jason was staring back at him, his face set in a type of disdain that had never been there before his death. “Uh,” Dick said stupidly.
“I don’t need a fucking babysitter,” Jason spat, turning away to glare out of the passenger window. Dick looked at his tight, tense shoulders for what was probably a little too long, considering he was driving. When he turned back to the road, he did so with a pit of something sick and bitter in his stomach.
“I’m not here to babysit you,” Dick said quietly, trying to ignore his now-churning gut. “We just haven’t hung out much recently, and-”
“And you hadn’t figured out that that was by design?” Jason sneered.
Dick’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I guess I was hoping that it wasn’t,” he said. “Especially since I have no idea what I’ve done wrong.”
Jason gave a harsh bark of laughter at that. “Of course you haven’t done anything wrong,” he spat out. “Dick Grayson never does anything wrong.”
Dick didn’t really know how to respond to that, so he just stared out at the road. They were on the outskirts of the city now, driving through neighbourhoods where people could barely afford a bicycle to get to the zip code where Bruce’s F80 would look positively proletariat. Dick took a breath. He knew this was a bad idea even before he said it. But maybe this time Jason would just hear the words without projecting something warped onto them. “Bruce was really disappointed he couldn’t come tonight,” Dick said, regretting each word as he spoke it. “He told me he was looking forward to spending the evening with you.”
Jason let out a loud, derisive snort. “Fucking hell. You don’t need to comfort me, you condescending asshole,” he said. “I’m a big boy, Dick. I understand that when Lex Luthor is doing something dumb and evil in Shanghai, Batman can’t ignore the need for a full League response.” With a sharp turn of his head, Jason finally looked back at Dick again. “I know we’re not all League superstars, but I can understand that much at least.”
Resisting the urge to groan at how much he was fucking this up, Dick tightened his grip on the steering wheel again. “I’m not trying to be an asshole,” he said in a measured tone. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”
Jason snorted again and turned back to his side window. “Whatever,” he said.
A tense silence thudded through the cabin of the car for several seconds before Dick’s need to be a glutton for punishment reared its head again. “Bruce said you were looking forward to checking out Edward Ormond’s library during the gala,” he tried. “I visited it once years ago and it’s pretty cool. It’s got a ton of rare books and-”
“Don’t worry, Dick,” Jason said, cold and contemptuous. “I’m not gonna steal any.”
After that, Dick gave up. They spent the rest of the drive in complete silence as Dick contemplated dumping Jason on the steps of the Edward Ormond summer gala and then taking the F80 on an unsanctioned joy ride down the coast. It had been a year since Jason and Bruce had publicly announced that the rumours of Jason’s death had been greatly exaggerated. Now, when he made his rare appearance at galas, Jason was no longer the subject of excitable questions about where he’d been during his mysterious absence from Gotham. He was old news, as Bruce had assured him he’d become. There was no real reason for Dick to feel this great, yawning chasm in his chest that urged him to keep his brother safe and in sight. But, he did. And Jason duly appreciated his efforts, clearly.
Even though the idea of screaming down the coast with the windows down and the radio blaring out sounded fucking wonderful, Dick knew he wouldn’t do it. Instead, he would hand over the F80’s keys to the gala’s valet and he would make another fruitless attempt to convince his brother like him.
Dick couldn’t quite pinpoint when exactly he’d realised that he and Jason were in such a weird place. All things considered, Dick thought he’d had the patience of a fucking saint since Jason had decided to properly integrate back into the family. He’d forgotten all the shitty things Red Hood had done to him, and he’d welcomed Jason back with open arms. And if Jason actually wanted those open arms, then Dick was sure their relationship would be great. But, instead, it seemed like Jason would rather use the opportunity to slide a knife into Dick’s gut. And Dick was only half-sure that he meant that metaphorically.
They didn’t speak again until Dick had joined the queue that stretched down the block in front of Edward Ormond’s gigantic Gilded Age mansion. Dick drummed his fingers idly against the steering wheel. He considered how strange it was to be in a queue of supercars when less than ten minutes prior they’d been in the middle of the slums.
Jason was clearly thinking something similar, because he scoffed in derision. “That car is obscene,” he said, nodding at the Chrysler D’Elegance in front of them. “Why the fuck is it gold?”
“That’s Rawling Winthrop’s car,” Dick said, letting the F80 inch forward as the queue moved.
Jason shot him a glance. “Did you just sneeze?” he asked.
Dick laughed and met Jason’s eyes. “He’s a nice guy,” he said. “Even if his taste in cars is a little…”
“Obscene?” Jason suggested.
“Ostentatious,” Dick finished, hiding his smile by turning back to the front. “I think that car’s his baby,” he said. “I always wonder why he ever drives it when he loves it so much. It’s a miracle it hasn’t been stolen yet.”
Jason gave a noncommittal grunt as he considered the Chrysler’s rear end. “Jesus,” he said in new horror. “It’s got a personalised license plate.”
Dick leaned forward and then laughed again when he saw the RAWL1N license plate. “Now that’s classy,” he said. “I’m not surprised though. He restored that car from a shell. It makes sense that he'd want to put his name on it.”
“He restored it, did he?” Jason snorted, his knee beginning to bounce in a way where it was drumming rhythmically against the dashboard. “Or did he pay an extortionate amount of money for someone else to do it?”
Dick shot Jason an amused look. “Not everyone knows their way around a car like you do,” he said, thinking of all the times he’d seen a young Jason appear out from underneath the Batmobile with grease streaked over his grinning face.
But Jason’s face wasn’t grinning now. Instead, it was shuttering closed with a violent snap. “Bruce told you all about that, then?” he snapped.
“Huh?” Dick asked intelligently, but the damage had been done. Jason was turning back to the front with his arms tightly folded and his knee thudding even harder against the dash.
Completely nonplussed at what he’d got wrong now, Dick tightened his hands on the steering wheel again. His knuckles were a stark white contrast to the golden hue of his skin. Dick stared at them as if they would let him know where he’d fucked up.
“You’re not like them, y’know,” Jason said in a cold, quiet tone. “Neither of us are.”
“Huh?” Dick repeated, his face creasing with confusion even as he continued staring at his white knuckles.
“It’s just fucking embarrassing watching you suck up to the stupid fuckers at these events,” Jason continued, just as cold and quiet. “You’re never going to be one of them, Dick.”
“Jason,” Dick said softly. “I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”
With a loud, nasty sigh, Jason turned his whole body to face Dick. “I mean,” he said, before pausing until Dick reluctantly turned his head to meet Jason’s eyes. “I’m not going to be the only piece of trash at this gala.”
Dick felt his face flicker. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked. “No one thinks you’re trash, Jason.”
Jason squinted at Dick, as though he was trying to figure out whether Dick was telling the truth. After a long moment, he laughed. “Oh god, you really think that, don’t you?” he said, landing back in his seat heavily. “You really don’t see it.”
“Don’t see what?” Dick asked, completely baffled now.
Jason didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked back to the front. “The cars are moving,” he said.
“Oh, shit,” Dick said, quickly shifting the car into gear and closing the gap that had appeared. As he pulled the handbrake on, Jason looked straight at him.
“We’re not like Tim or Damian,” he said quietly. “Our parents didn’t have a last name that meant money or power. Neither of us had a silver spoon shoved in our mouth until we arrived at that mansion.” Jason held Dick’s gaze. “Biologically,” he continued. “We’re trash.”
Dick blinked, a little speechless. “No one thinks of us that way,” he finally said.
Jason snorted and looked back at Rawling’s gold Chrysler. “You’re dreaming, Dick,” he said. “You don’t think he would throw you under his obscene car’s wheels if it suited him?”
“Rawling?” Dick asked, turning to the front and wondering whether Rawling was watching Dick’s tense argument with his brother in his rear view mirror. “I told you. Rawling is a great guy. I’ve known him since I was eight. I met him at my very first gala.”
“Entertained him, did you?” Jason drawled, leaning back in his seat. “Let me guess. You flipped off a table and stuck the landing?”
“No,” Dick said, a little too quickly. Jason snorted, but said nothing. “He was nice,” Dick insisted. “He’d just turned eighteen, but he hung out with me for most of the evening. He made an effort to include me, when he could have just ignored me completely.” Dick leaned forward and tried to catch Jason’s eye. “I know some of them are assholes,” he said. “But they’re not all like that.”
“Right,” Jason said, sounding amused. “Some of Gotham’s wealthy elite are actually just really misunderstood, and we should feel sorry for them.”
“No, that’s not what I said,” Dick said, trying not to sound frustrated. “I just think you’re judging them unnecessarily. I mean, why are you even here if you hate them so much? You don’t have to go to the galas if you don’t want to.”
A muscle in Jason’s jaw flickered. “You said it yourself,” he said tightly. “This rich fucker’s got a library filled with rare books. Who wouldn’t want to see an original Shakespeare First Folio?”
Dick couldn’t think of anything he cared about less, but he didn’t volunteer that information. “Yeah, because Bruce hasn’t got any rare books,” he said sarcastically instead. “I call bullshit.”
“Oh, really?” Jason snapped. “Enlighten me, then,” he said. “Because I clearly need Dick fucking Grayson to explain why the fuck I’m here.”
“You’re here because you wanted to spend time with Bruce,” Dick snapped back. “You’re upset that he couldn’t make it, and now you’re taking your anger out on me, like you always do. I just wanted to spend time with you, and, for some godforsaken reason, you’re determined to punish me for it. You’re purposefully misunderstanding everything I say, even though I’m just trying to be your friend.”
Silence fell through the F80’s cabin as Jason’s face grew stonier and Dick remembered why it was rarely a good idea for him to speak without thinking. He stared ahead at Rawling’s license plate and wished he could rewind time by about twenty seconds so that he could prevent his idiot self from opening his idiot mouth. If he thought that apologising would smooth things over, Dick would do it. But, no matter how poorly Dick understood his brother, he understood this; there was nothing he could say to make this better.
“When…” Jason seethed out quietly. “When have I ever given you any indication that I wanted to be your friend?”
The car fell silent again, but it hurt a little more this time. Dick closed his eyes and tried to pretend he didn’t feel something hot prickling behind his eyelids. “I guess you didn’t,” he said softly.
“We’re not friends, Dick,” Jason said, cold and angry. “Sure, we’re brothers. But we’re not friends.”
Dick swallowed hard and opened his eyes in time to see Rawling’s gold Chrysler pull up to the valet. “Noted,” he said, hoping Jason somehow couldn’t hear the obvious tightness in his voice. “We’re not friends. I got it.”
An excruciating minute crawled by. They both watched Rawling chat amiably with the valet as he pressed a wad of notes and his car keys into the man’s hand. When the Chrysler finally pulled away, Dick tried not to breathe out a sigh of relief. He pulled the F80 forward and watched Jason unfasten his seatbelt. Just before Jason got out of the car, he paused and looked back at him. “You coming or what?” he snapped.
No, Dick wanted to say. You’re on your own. Enjoy the Shakespeare First Folio and I’ll see you approximately never, you gigantic fucking asshole. “Yeah,” he said instead as he turned off the engine. “I’m coming.”
Jason was already slamming the passenger door behind himself while Dick was still unfastening his own seatbelt. When he glanced to his side, he saw that Jason was already striding up the steps to Ormond mansion. With a sigh, Dick got out of the car.
“He was in a rush,” the valet said with a smile, nodding his head after Jason.
“Yeah, I think he needs a shit,” Dick said, before immediately feeling bad at the way the valet laughed. He handed the keys over with a fat tip and slowly followed Jason’s path up the stairs. His brother - who was not his friend - was long gone, and Dick’s desire to be at any kind of party had completely evaporated. He supposed there was nothing to stop him from turning on his heel and grabbing the keys back from the valet, but Dick knew that he wouldn’t. He’d never leave Jason alone in a place where he felt like trash.
Of course, no matter how noble Dick’s intentions were, the fact that he couldn’t fucking find Jason somewhat stymied them. He spent a pointless fifteen minutes walking through an endless maze of rooms before he figured that Jason had just headed straight to the library. For a moment, Dick considered making his own way there. But then he contemplated how very well every other conversation he’d had with Jason that evening had gone, and he gave up on the idea. Ormond’s library wasn’t exactly a novelty to Gotham’s upper crust. No other guest would visit it that evening. If Jason wanted some space, then Dick would give him some fucking space.
With the sense that his evening had now fallen into pointless farce, Dick found his way to the bar. He wasn’t a big drinker, and he especially wasn’t so at galas. But he was pissed off enough that a glass of something strong almost sounded appealing.
“Hi,” he said tiredly to the bartender as he leaned against the bar. “Are you doing any cocktails tonight?”
“Straight onto the hard stuff, I see,” Rawling’s amused voice came from beside him.
“Rawling,” Dick said in surprise, a little embarrassed he hadn’t noticed him. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Ah, I do like to maintain an air of mystery,” Rawling laughed, lifting his scotch to his lips.
“We’re serving Martinis, Manhattans and Bradley Martins tonight,” the bartender offered.
Dick frowned. “What’s a Bradley Martin?” he asked.
The bartender’s lips twitched in a way that betrayed his own amusement. “It’s a request from Mr Ormond,” he said carefully. “It’s a cocktail from the early twentieth century that’s, uh, since fallen out of fashion.”
Dick leaned forward on the bar in interest. “What’s in it?” he asked curiously.
“Créme de menthe and raspberry syrup,” the bartender said with a barely straight face.
Dick felt his face drop at the same time as Rawling’s. “Together?” they both asked in unison, before shooting each other a look and laughing.
“Mm-hm,” the bartender confirmed. “It’s… an experience.”
“Well, sign me up, I guess,” Dick snorted, taking a seat next to Rawling. “It can’t possibly make my evening any worse.”
“Tough night?” Rawling asked sympathetically. When Dick grunted in reply, he paused for a moment. “I wasn’t being nosy, but…” he trailed off.
“Oh, god, did you see my argument with my idiot brother?” Dick groaned, slumping down onto the bar as he watched the bartender pour out a measure of a spirit with a toxic-green shade that vaguely reminded him of Joker gas.
“Um, I didn’t not see it,” Rawling said. When Dick sighed heavily, he patted his arm gently. “He looked like he was being an asshole,” he offered, letting his hand rest on top of Dick’s forearm.
“No, he wasn’t,” Dick argued weakly, even though he didn’t really believe that. He reached forward to steal a straw from behind the bar when the bartender’s back was turned, dislodging Rawling’s hand from his arm. “I think he gets nervous when he goes to these things,” he mumbled, fiddling with the straw. “They intimidate him.”
“I can understand why,” Rawling said, taking a sip of his scotch. “They must feel like visiting an alien planet to him.”
Dick wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. Before he could figure it out, the bartender placed a cocktail glass in front of him. Its base was a deep red, while the neon of the créme de menthe laid on top with a single raspberry garnish. “Looks, uh, strangely festive,” Dick said, trying not to sound as dubious as he felt.
“It’s an open bar. Just let me know if you get bored of that and want to try something else,” the bartender laughed, taking the tip that Dick was now offering between his fingers.
Dick smiled and picked up the drink. “Thanks,” he said. The bartender nodded with a smile, then wandered down the bar to serve someone else. Dick turned to Rawling. “Well, bottoms up, I guess,” he said.
“Cheers,” Rawling said, holding his scotch out.
Dick clinked their glasses together and felt his fingers brush against Rawling’s. “Your hands are freezing,” he laughed in surprise. “How much ice did the bartender put in your scotch?”
Rawling smiled and took a quick drink. “I just run cold,” he said, shrugging a little. “Poor circulation, I guess.”
“I can’t relate,” Dick said, poking the raspberry floating atop the cocktail he didn’t really want. “I’ve always run hot. Even in the middle of winter, I hate wearing coats.”
“Lucky you,” Rawling grinned, nudging Dick’s elbow with his own. “I bet no one ever kicks you out of bed during our New Jersey winters.”
Dick gave a quiet laugh. “It doesn’t hurt, I guess,” he said. He squinted down at the cocktail. “How bad do you think this is?” he asked, using the straw he’d stolen earlier to mix the drink together.
“Only one way to find out,” Rawling mused.
“I can’t argue with that,” Dick sighed, gathering his courage and lifting his glass to his lips. He took a tentative sip while Rawling waited curiously for his assessment. “Huh,” Dick said, before taking another sip. “That’s actually not bad.”
“Really?” Rawling laughed. “It looks like some kind of toxic sludge.”
“I must just like toxic sludge,” Dick said, taking another drink before offering the glass to Rawland. “Want to try?”
“Oh, why not,” Rawland said. His icy fingers brushed against Dick’s again as he took the glass. His face fell into a contemplative expression as he drank, before immediately dropping in disgust. “That’s awful,” he laughed, shoving the glass back in Dick’s hands. “It’s sickly sweet.”
“It’s just the right amount of sweet,” Dick snorted, taking another long drink until he’d drained the glass dry. He leaned forward in his chair in an attempt to catch the bartender’s attention. “Can I get another of these?” he asked, waving the glass in the air.
“Really?” the bartender called from further down the bar.
“They’re not bad,” Dick informed him. The man laughed in a way that suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced, but he made his way back down the bar with the bottle of raspberry syrup in hand.
Three Bradley Martins later, and Dick could finally feel some of the tension thrumming through his body begin to drain away. “I just wish he’d be nicer sometimes,” he sighed, using his straw to mash the raspberry garnish into a mess at the bottom of his latest glass. “It feels like he only ever assumes the worst in me.”
“That must be tough,” Rawling said sympathetically, still nursing the same scotch he’d had when Dick had arrived. “Has it always been like that?”
“No,” Dick said quietly, staring at the indistinguishable smushed remains of the raspberry. “There was a time when he looked at me with…” Dick trailed off and remembered a gap-toothed twelve year old Jason grinning up at him. And then he remembered the resentment that had boiled through his own blood at being replaced so thoroughly. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” Dick said briskly, peering down the bar where the bartender was making another Bradley Martin for him. “Now he’s a fucking asshole.” He looked at Rawling. “You don’t have any siblings, do you?” he asked.
“Nope,” Rawling said. “But I’ve heard they’re weird.” He tilted his scotch at Dick. “Everyone at boarding school seemed to hate theirs,” he said with a wry smile.
“I don’t hate him,” Dick said immediately, looking at Rawling. “He’s my brother.”
Rawling’s face did something a little strange. “Is he?” he asked. When he saw whatever expression Dick must have been making, he quickly seemed to shift gears. “I just mean, does he see you as his brother? Because it doesn’t really seem like he treats you like one.”
What would you know? Dick wanted to snap back, but he managed to restrain himself just in time. He’d already alienated one person this evening, he didn’t need to alienate another. “He’s my brother,” Dick repeated quietly, wishing his fourth Bradley Martin was already in his hands. “Nothing could ever change that.”
For a moment, they sat in silence. Then the bartender placed Dick’s new drink in front of him. “You’re going to drain our créme de menthe dry,” he joked. “I never thought the drink would be this popular.”
“Your other patrons just have bad taste,” Dick informed him, sliding another tip across the bar.
“If you say so,” the bartender laughed, wandering away again.
Dick took a long sip from his drink and wished its fruity, minty taste could wash away how fucking shit he felt.
“I think you’re wasted on him,” Rawling said quietly beside him. Dick turned to look at him in surprise, and Rawling shrugged without looking at him. He just stared down at his scotch. “You’re a fun guy, Dick,” he said. “Everyone likes you. I’ve only met Jason a couple of times over the past year, but he’s just…” Rawling seemed to struggle for his words. “He doesn’t make an effort to fit in like you do,” he said finally. “I always feel like you want to be here, but he looks like he’d rather be in a Crime Alley dive bar instead.”
He probably would prefer that, Dick thought, but he didn’t say it out loud. “He does want to be here,” he said instead. If only to ignore me completely and disappear to look at a stupid fucking Shakespeare First Folio.
Rawling shrugged and took another small sip of scotch. “If you say so,” he said. “But I remember what he was like when he was young. He was rude then, too.”
Dick frowned to himself. That didn’t sound like Jason before his death. He opened his mouth to defend his brother, then realised that he didn’t quite like Jason enough to do that right now, so took a long drink instead. “Fuck, these go straight to your head,” he said as he placed the empty glass down on the bar.
“Maybe that’s because you’ve had four in quick succession,” Rawling suggested, sounding amused.
“That might have something to do with it,” Dick admitted, already looking down the bar in search of the bartender. He pouted to himself when he saw that the man was deep in conversation with a group of middle-aged women. “Damn, I should have ordered two,” he said.
“I can sort that for you,” Rawling said with a wink, leaning forward and grabbing a bottle of scotch when the bartender’s back was turned. When Dick gave him an incredulous look, Rawling snorted. “What?” he said, pouring a healthy serving of scotch into Dick’s empty glass. “It’s an open bar.”
“I don’t even like scotch,” Dick hissed, shooting worried looks down the bar at the oblivious bartender.
Rawling snorted even louder. “As if you’re sober enough to taste anything anymore,” he said, placing the bottle back behind the bar and shoving Dick’s glass towards him. “Bottoms up,” he said.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Dick joked, pulling the glass closer to himself in a stupid attempt to hide the scotch’s amber in case the bartender looked over.
“Just try that, Grayson,” Rawling laughed, taking another sip of his own. “And enjoy a real man’s drink.”
Dick rolled his eyes a little too genuinely at that, but he obeyed Rawling’s instruction anyway. And then, three seconds later, began spluttering in a very unattractive way. “Christ,” he said hoarsely. “How can you drink that?”
“You’d better finish it,” Rawling said in quiet warning. “The bartender’s coming back.”
“Oh, fuck,” Dick said, feeling a thrum of guilty panic at Rawling’s theft. He drained the glass dry and was trying to restrain a coughing fit when the bartender arrived.
“You finally got sick of those?” the bartender laughed.
Dick couldn’t quite trust himself to speak yet, so he just shook his head.
“He wants a scotch,” Rawling said from beside him.
Dick shot Rawling a glare, but the bartender had already picked up the bottle Rawling had just stolen from. “I see you’re being a good influence on him,” he grinned, turning to pick up a fresh glass. “A single or double.”
With his back turned, the bartender didn’t see the single finger Dick held up.
“A double, of course,” Rawling said, smiling innocently at Dick’s second glare. “It’s not like we can take advantage of our host’s hospitality every week.”
By the time the double scotch appeared in front of Dick, he’d recovered enough to give the bartender a hoarse thanks with his tip. As the man walked away, he picked up the drink and sighed into it. “I should probably slow down,” he mumbled. “I can’t remember the last time I got this drunk.” Dick had a sudden thud of realisation. “Fuck,” he grimaced. “I’m pretty sure I was meant to be the designated driver.”
Rawling snorted loudly. “I hate to break it to you, but I think that horse has bolted the stable now,” he said.
Dick groaned and took a large sip, swallowing the scotch down with only slightly more ease than before. “I think you might be right,” he said, trying to resist the urge to slam his head face-first into the bar. “God, I’ve fucked tonight up.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Rawling said matter-of-factly. “I think your adopted brother was an asshole to you.”
“Just brother,” Dick mumbled, swirling the scotch and hazily watching the way the liquid hit against the glass. “You don’t need to say adopted.”
Rawling made a noncommittal noise. “He’s not a nice guy, Dick,” he said. “I could tell that just from watching your argument in my rearview mirror.”
Dick stared into his glass as his hand stilled its movement. The scotch continued to swirl around the glass in a halfhearted way, even though Dick was no longer moving. “Maybe I should go find him,” Dick said, mostly to himself. “He needs to know that I can’t drive us back.”
Rawling shifted in his seat. “Maybe you should let yourself calm down first,” he suggested. “You still seem pretty angry to me.”
Am I angry? Dick asked himself. Or am I just sad? “I’ll finish this, and then I’ll go,” Dick decided out loud. “I’ll apologise for the shitty things I said. I’ll let him make fun of me for getting so stupidly drunk. He can drive me back to the manor, and then we probably won’t speak to each other for a couple of months.” Dick raised his scotch glass in a sardonic way. “Excellent idea, Dick,” he said to himself. “You’re a fantastic older brother, as always.”
As Dick took a large gulp and placed the half-empty glass back on the bar, Rawling looked behind himself. “Is that him?” he asked.
Dick peered blearily behind himself. “Where?” he asked, squinting through a crowd of people that was a lot thicker than when he’d arrived. “By the door?”
“No,” Rawling said distractedly. “By the fireplace.”
Dick leaned so far back in his stool that he almost fell off it. “I don’t see him,” he said, gripping the bar blindly with his hand. He turned back around. “Are you sure he was there?” he asked Rawling, who was withdrawing his hand from his inner jacket pocket.
“I must have been mistaken,” Rawling said without even looking back to check. He clasped his hands tightly around his own drink. “After you’ve finished that, I think you should have some water,” he said. “It might help you sober up a little.”
“Yeah,” Dick sighed despondently, picking up the last of his scotch and necking it in one smooth motion. As he put the glass down, he grimaced again, “Fuck, that had a weird aftertaste,” he said.
“Must have been the end of the bottle,” Rawling said, leaning forward in his seat to flag down the bartender again. “Scotch can be like that sometimes.”
“Can it?” Dick mumbled to himself.
“Hey, can you get my friend here a water?” Rawling said as the bartender ambled over. “I think all those Bradley Martins have ganged up on him.”
“I hear they can do that,” the bartender laughed, turning to fill up a large glass from a pitcher of icy water. He garnished it with a few lemon slices, and then placed it in front of Dick. “Maybe the antioxidants will prevent tomorrow’s hangover,” he grinned.
Dick gave a weak snort. “Thanks,” he said as Rawling tipped the bartender for him. “God, this is embarrassing,” Dick said in dull realisation. “I’ve never gotten absolutely shitfaced at a gala before.”
“It happens to the best of us,” Rawling said amiably, placing a hand on Dick’s arm. Dick could feel its iciness even through the cotton of his shirt. “I’m sure you’ve seen me in a compromised state over the years.”
“Not really,” Dick said, taking a sip of water. “You’re usually like me. You don’t seem to be a big drinker.”
Rawling shrugged. “I’m just a control freak, I guess,” he said casually. His eyes lingered on Dick’s face. “How are you feeling?” he asked. “Is the water helping?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Dick said, trying to sound grateful for Rawling’s intervention, even though he felt just as drunk as he had before. He slumped down on his barstool, resting his temple on his hand as he propped himself up with his elbow. “What do you think I should say to Jason?” he asked in a way that didn’t even sound particularly coherent to himself.
“Maybe tell him to grow up?” Rawling said, his eyes flicking over Dick’s face. “And that no amount of expensive tailoring can disguise the fact that he slouches.”
Dick frowned confusedly, but before he could argue that Jason didn’t slouch, Rawling preempted him. “You know what would make you sober up,” he said.
“What?” Dick mumbled.
“Some fresh air,” Rawling said, sliding down from his stool and shoving his half-empty scotch back from the bar. “Come on,” he said, offering out his hand.
With no intention of taking said hand, Dick got off his own stool. But when his feet hit the ground and his knees immediately threatened to buckle, he ended up grasping Rawling’s ice-cold hand anyway. “Fuck,” he said, filled with deep, deep regret. “I’m really drunk.” He turned to give the bartender, who was now chatting to an elderly man at the other end of the bar, a halfhearted glare. “What the hell was in those Bradley Martins?” Dick complained, gripping Rawling’s hand tight.
“Créme de menthe and raspberry syrup, I believe,” Rawling said distractedly. His eyes darted around the room. “Come on, let’s go this way,” he said, pulling Dick towards one of the exits. “I think there’s a balcony somewhere down here.”
Dick sighed and followed, even though he knew that the balcony was in the opposite direction. Rawling hadn’t exactly been wrong when he’d called himself a control freak. Dick had made the mistake of trying to correct him at previous galas, and all it ever earned him was a stare as icy as the man’s hands. Besides, it was good of Rawling to look after Dick when he was so sloppily drunk that he was clearly annoying the other man. Rawling obviously had more in common with Jason than he assumed, Dick thought hazily as he was pulled through the crowd. They were both pissed off with a fucking idiot.
As he dutifully followed Rawling through all of the rooms that definitely weren’t leading towards the balcony, Dick wondered when he could suggest trying a different direction. “I would have thought there’d be more people when we got closer to the balcony, not less,” he attempted.
“How strange,” Rawling said vaguely, and Dick grimaced to himself. He was really starting to feel like shit now. His head was swimming, his gut was churning and his feet were dragging tiredly along the floor. But, as Rawling pulled him around another corner, something shifted.
If he’d felt drunk before, he was fucked now. Dick stumbled over his feet, falling to his knees. His hands landed in the plush carpet. “Fuck,” he tried to breathe out, although he wasn’t sure he formed the word properly.
Rawling crouched down beside him. “We’re almost at the balcony,” he said. Dick could smell his Baccarat Rouge cologne, and it made him want to be sick. “Just a little further.”
“S’other way,” Dick slurred, feeling heat begin to prickle over his body. He reached up to tug at his tie. “M’hot,” he said.
“Not here,” Rawling said, slapping Dick’s hand away from his tie. “We’re not far now.” He gripped Dick’s arm and pulled him up to his feet, working his arm underneath Dick’s shoulder.
“Don’ wanna,” Dick said, sounding childish even to himself. “Juss wann’ fin’ J’son.”
“Oh my god, will you shut up about that street rat,” Rawling snapped. “I’m trying to concentrate and you’re heavier than you look.”
Dick blinked. “S’the muscles,” he explained.
That seemed to amuse Rawling. “I can feel,” he said, his voice shifting to become dark and low in a way that Dick had never heard before. “Do you spend your entire life in the gym?” he asked.
Dick would have answered that, but he couldn’t quite seem to pull his thoughts together. All he knew was that he was very drunk, he didn’t know where his brother was, and if it wasn’t for Rawling, then he’d be completely alone. As he stumbled along the hallway, Dick peered blearily around him. He knew where he was, he realised. He’d been to this part of Ormond’s mansion before.
“Li-br’y,” Dick said with great difficulty. He would have repeated the word, but he wasn’t quite sure he could.
“The library?” Rawling repeated, sounding even more amused. “Sure, we can go to the library instead.” He pulled him along a few more steps. “Lots of privacy in there,” he said, leaning his head close to Dick’s. “The door even locks,” he murmured, his breath rustling Dick’s hair.
Rawling reached out and opened the door. It creaked open and Dick tried to wrench himself away from Rawling, but only succeeded in falling through the doorway. “Fuck,” he tried to mumble into the carpet. “J’son?”
“He’s not here,” Rawling said, sounding annoyed all over again as he picked Dick up off the floor for a second time. “Why the fuck would he be in a library, of all places?” Dick’s feet no longer seemed to be working, so Rawling practically dragged him across the room until he could dump him on something that felt like it was meant to be cushioned.
“That’s an antique,” Rawling said over his shoulder as he strode back to the door. “So, don’t throw up on it.”
Dick wasn’t sure that was within his control anymore. He stared up at the ceiling, watching it spin and warp in a way that seemed concerning. It wasn’t an ordinary ceiling. A painted battle was breaking out above him; armoured knights on horses rearing up on their hind legs. One held a sword aloft, a bright red strip of fabric fluttering in the wind. “Help,” Dick asked the knight in a whispered plea. “Help me.”
“I am helping you,” Rawling’s voice came in a low growl as footsteps advanced through the room. “I’m your friend, Richard.”
Dick didn’t think that was true, but he got the sense that it wouldn’t have been wise to argue. Besides, it wasn’t like he could form words anymore, let alone full sentences. He just stared up at the ceiling, watching the battle rage on while cold hands began to pluck at his suit.
Alfred used to undress him like this, Dick’s muddled thoughts pulled together. After a gala, Dick would stumble tiredly into his bedroom and Alfred would laugh at his fumbled attempts to unbutton his shirt. But his laugh was never mean or unkind. It was always fond and filled with love, even after Dick’s very first gala. They’d only known each other for a few weeks at that point.
He’d been young back then, Dick thought. Only eight years old. Someone was telling him that they’d loved him since the first moment they’d seen him, and Dick guessed he should take that as a compliment. Alfred had said something kind of similar once. Although, he hadn’t said it as he’d been pulling Dick’s trousers down. He’d always let Dick do that himself.
No, Alfred’s cold hands had never run down Dick’s bare chest, stomach and legs like this. But that was partly because Alfred’s hands had never been cold. He’d never smelled like obnoxious cologne either. He usually smelled of whatever he’d been cooking that night. Dick always liked the way Alfred smelled, but he especially liked it after Alfred had made a traditional borscht. When he was young, Dick liked to hug Alfred tight, close his eyes and breathe in the borscht. Like that, he could almost pretend that his dad was still there.
Dick considered Bruce his dad now too, of course. But they didn’t really hug. Not in the way John Grayson had hugged him. He’d hugged Dick like he was something special. Like he was the rarest gem in the world in the soft body of a child. His dad would have never let anything bad happen to him.
Frowning at the battle above him, Dick wondered whether John Grayson had let something bad happen to him by dying. Technically, he guessed so. Although it didn’t really feel fair to blame him.
With a soft gasp, Dick suddenly became aware that he’d been thinking about his dad while someone’s slick, wet mouth was around his cock. That was probably weird, he thought as he tried in vain to squirm away from the sensation. As he tried to lift heavy hands to push the person’s face away, they chuckled in a way that sent electric buzzes up his spine. Then two cold hands captured his wrists, holding them gently in place.
“Help,” Dick mouthed up to the knight with the red scrap of fabric on his sword. “Help me.”
But the knight was busy with his own battle. His white horse was charging towards the enemy, its eyes wild and roving in their sockets. Maybe it was afraid, Dick thought with a sudden pang. Were horses afraid before battles? Did they know that they were facing their own mortality?
Dick never felt fear before a battle anymore. He just felt the weight of everyone that depended on him. He couldn’t lose, so he didn’t lose. Not anymore, anyway. Not when it really, really counted. Not when people needed to be saved.
Electricity was fizzing through Dick’s body, even though he was studiously trying to ignore it. He refocused what pathetic scraps of his attention he could dredge together on the red knight’s battle. He was protecting someone, Dick realised. His fallen comrade was lying behind him, blood spilling out from a gut wound. Selfishly, Dick wished the red knight would stop protecting him. He wished he would protect Dick instead. Hadn’t Dick earned that? Hadn’t he protected other people when they’d needed him?
Suddenly, Dick couldn’t see the red knight anymore. His body caught up with his lost sight a moment later, lurching in an unwelcome way as he was flipped so that his face was pressed against a rough, scratchy fabric.
He could feel cool air ghosting down his back, prickling against his over-heated skin. Dick tried to turn his face to find the red knight, but cold fingers trapped his head in stillness.
Dick had a bad habit of watching nature documentaries late at night. It was always after a tough patrol. He would sit, hollow-eyed and blank, staring at his TV screen in an otherwise dark room. It was always difficult to figure out who he identified with more; the lion or the gazelle. The wolf or the deer. The predator or the prey. Some nights, he hated the lion’s hunt. Other nights, he hated the deer’s defeat more.
Get up, he would whisper into his living room as he stared at the TV. Get up and fight, you pathetic asshole. But, they never did. The lion’s fangs would rip into the gazelle’s hindquarters, tearing a deep gouge that really fucking hurt, actually. The wolf never kissed it better afterwards though. Not in this soft, gentle way. It almost felt like the wolf cared about that stupid, stupid deer.
Dick whimpered something unintelligible into the fabric, and felt someone run calming hands down his flank. They were murmuring something back to him, but none of it made sense. None of it could pierce through the thick cloud enveloping him.
Throughout his life, it had happened three times. Being stabbed, that is. More specifically, being stabbed in the gut. The first had been a mugger with a knife that Dick hadn’t seen until he’d looked down to see its handle sticking out from the Robin suit. Bruce had been wild with panic as Dick had slowly bled out in the passenger seat of the Batmobile. Dick had found Bruce’s shaky words comforting, even if his brain hadn’t fully been able to comprehend their meaning at the time.
The second time hadn’t been any less embarrassing. The Joker had sent a flailed kick that had looked so weak that Dick hadn’t bothered to block it. When the shoe’s hidden trick knife had sliced down his side, Dick had regretted that lack of foresight.
Slade had given him that third scar. He’d buried his sword so deep that Dick had honestly thought he’d been skewered clean through. Usually, Slade liked to gloat. But, he hadn’t said a word that time. He’d almost looked disappointed that Dick hadn’t put up a better fight. After a long, inscrutable look, Slade had ripped his blade free and left Dick lying there, coughing blood onto the hot summer asphalt as his team had crowded around him.
Anyway, Dick guessed he had to add a fourth failure to the list, because there was fire burning through his gut. It was ripping and tearing him apart. The lion had sunk its claws in, and the wolf wasn’t letting go. The sword was rending his body in two, cleaving it into ragged halves. The Joker’s trick blade was slicing him up, and Bruce would never be able to get Dick back to the Cave in time before the knife sticking out of his gut shifted in a lethal way.
If Dick could have screamed, he would have done it. He didn’t judge himself for that. Being stabbed really fucking hurt, after all. But, maybe it was for the best that he could barely even voice a weak, pained moan. Some predators liked the sound of their prey.
Dick did. When he heard the terrified shouts of criminals, he smiled. The only sound sweeter than that was their panicked footsteps as they ran away from him. Did that make him any better than the lion, he wondered as the knife withdrew from his gut completely. After all, the wolf had to kill to survive. Dick just hunted for the thrill of it.
This time, Dick felt the movement before he saw the red knight. His gut was jolted afire with agony, and he let out a small, pathetic noise. Someone was shushing him. Their cold fingers were wiping away wetness on his cheeks that Dick hadn’t even realised was there. Was he crying? That seemed embarrassing.
There was no point in asking the red knight for help, Dick thought dully to himself. There was no point in even looking at him. Which was just as well, because his eyes had closed of their own accord. Had his body given up on him? Or had his mind just decided to vacate the premises and leave his body to weather the pain by itself. That didn’t seem fair, Dick thought as a hot copper burst over his tongue. The bitter metal didn’t taste good, and Dick would have screwed up his face in disgust if he’d been able to move at all.
It was hard to breathe now, and Dick wondered whether he’d somehow drunk so much that he’d accidentally given himself alcohol poisoning. Now that really would be embarrassing, he thought to himself. Bruce would never live down the shame of it. His eldest son found dead in a pool of his own vomit on an antique couch right next to a Shakespeare First Folio.
Would Jason find a way to be mad about that too? Should Dick have found a different place to curl up and die? Maybe he’d just ruined Shakespeare for Jason forever. Dick wanted to give an inappropriate snort at that, but there was something lodged in his throat that wouldn’t let him breathe.
He hoped it disappeared soon, because Dick was almost certain that he was about to throw up, and he didn’t actually want to choke to death on his own vomit. Luckily, when Dick’s body convulsed of its own accord, his throat quickly cleared and Dick was turned on his side. After that, someone was disgusted with him. Which was understandable, because Dick was disgusted with himself. He could feel the vomit soaking into his hair, and he couldn’t imagine that it was doing the antique couch any favours either.
When Dick couldn’t breathe again, it felt like it was in a meaner, more vindictive way. The air wasn’t just constricted, it was punched out of him. Again and again. Dick thought he might retch again soon, but the person’s cold hands weren’t deterred. They just held him in place with a tight, icy grip.
It went on like that for a while. It felt like Dick was being balanced on a precarious knife edge between pain and nothingness. Every time he thought he couldn’t possibly endure any more, another second ticked by. He wanted it to end. He wanted the red knight to fly down on his white horse and slay the terrible lion. He wanted so many things, and he didn’t think he’d ever see any of them again.
When something bitter flooded Dick’s mouth, he tried fruitlessly to push it out again. But the clumsy workings of his tongue weren’t any match for the cold hands that swept the bitterness back inside, murmuring instructions for him to swallow.
The cold hands didn’t leave him, even though Dick was relatively sure they’d taken everything they could have possibly taken. They ghosted up and down his body, joined by cold lips that pressed themselves wherever they wished to go.
The lion’s fangs sunk into the gazelle’s flesh again. On his chest. And then on his thigh. Dick supposed the deer was lucky, because the wolf could have eaten it whole.
As it was, someone was clothing him now. His trousers were being pulled up. His shirt rustled over his chest, and Alfred was doing up the buttons for him.
“You did very well,” Alfred whispered, stroking his cold fingers over Dick’s face. “I love you so much. I wish you only knew how much I love you.” His movements stilled until ten pinpricks of ice dug into Dick’s skin. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he breathed. “I’d almost given up hope. I never thought I’d get my chance.”
The ice left, and then some fabric tugged gently at the sore skin around Dick’s mouth. “I’m just cleaning you up,” Alfred murmured. “We got a little messy, but it’ll be okay.” The fabric worked a little harder at the side of Dick’s mouth, before a cold, wet finger replaced it for a moment. “Sorry,” Alfred said quietly. “The blood had dried.” He hesitated. “You’ll be okay in the morning,” he said as he fiddled with something above Dick’s chest. It was only when a strip of fabric thudded against him that Dick realised it was probably his tie. “We got a little rougher than we meant to, but you won’t even notice it,” Alfred promised.
Cold hands framed Dick’s face, and then cold lips pressed themselves against his mouth. “I love you,” Alfred whispered. His hands smelled of blood and Baccarat Rouge. “I love you so much, Richard Grayson.”
And then Alfred was gone.
But only for a moment, because then he was back. “I should probably put you on your side,” he said, as if to himself. Cold hands gripped Dick’s arm, tugging him until his gut was afire again and he was lying on his side. His face was perilously close to the pool of vomit he’d produced earlier, but Dick couldn’t find the ability to point that out.
Besides, Alfred wasn’t there anymore. Dick was alone on the antique couch. Bleeding out from Slade’s sword and lying next to a Shakespeare First Folio as the red knight watched overhead.
There was a fire flickering in the corner, Dick thought. Then he realised that his eyes had opened themselves to see it. It was crackling away, sending up the occasional short-lived spark. If Dick was very lucky, one of those sparks would find its way onto the antique rug. The fire would spread through the room and burn all of this away. Goodbye, First Folio. Goodbye, red knight. Goodbye, Dick Grayson. Good riddance to them all.
The smell of vomit had grown stronger, and Dick squinted open his eyes to see that he’d thrown up for a second time. He hadn’t even realised that he’d shut them again.
Dick found himself wishing that Alfred had at least cleared up the first pile of vomit. Maybe then his gut wouldn’t be on a hair trigger. It wasn’t his fault he had a weak stomach. It wasn’t his fault that the smell of bile made him want to puke. It wasn’t his fault that he’d thrown up when he’d seen his first dead body.
A junkie slashed up by a serial killer’s knife. A needle still hanging from their arm. Their blood painted up the sides of the alleyway. Their vomit sprayed down their chest. Copper and bile so thick and heavy in the air that Dick had still been able to smell it when he’d fallen to his knees on the rooftop above the crime scene. His vomit had spilled out over the tiles, and he’d felt completely and utterly worthless.
Maybe whoever discovered his body would do the same. Perhaps Edward Ormond would fall to his knees on the thick silk carpets that lined his hallways, and he would ruin them with his own bile. His trembling fingers would curl into the carpet’s fibres and he would wonder who on earth had murdered Dick Grayson.
Because Dick wasn’t sure that he was going to get out of this. His fevered mind couldn’t stop racing. And his body couldn’t stop throwing up. And the wound in his gut couldn’t stop bleeding. Even under the thick blanket of alcohol, Dick knew that he was terrified. Something was wrong. Something was really, really wrong.
By the time a door creaked open, the fire had died out. The room was cold and dark as footsteps padded quietly over the thick carpet. Someone knelt down next to the antique couch. The smell of motor oil and cheap cologne wafted through the rancid stink of vomit.
Two warm, trembling fingers rested along the exposed length of Dick’s throat.
“Dick?”