Chapter Text
Cars.
Car chases, and Peter can’t drive.
Normal Monday. Just a typical weekday where Dick was constantly under rain of bullet fire and the car he had stolen was missing it’s top half, but normal Monday.
“Drive, drive, drive! Aren’t you an agent?? Why can’t you drive?” Dick screams at Peter as he grips the side of his seat, hands turning cherry red.
“Well, maybe if the trunk wasn’t pelleted with bullets every five seconds and the rearview mirror wasn’t broken and wait, maybe if the top of the car,” Peter retorts back, pointing to the open blue sky above their heads, “Wasn’t missing, then I could drive safely.”
They swerve dangerously to the right before taking a heart wrenching turn to the left, Dick holding back screams that would’ve summoned Superman from a Kryptonite infused chamber.
God, he was a full time vigilante but this was the scariest car chase of his life. Usually he had a roof over his head.
The evil-doer rushing after them repeatedly shoots shot after shot at Peter’s terrible driving, seemingly never running out of bullets. Their aim sucks. Not that Dick’s complaining. Jason could give them a good run for their money.
Dick had to take control of the wheel somehow.
Even though Peter would die with the car precariously preached on the edge of a tree infested cliff instead of letting someone without a driver’s license drive.
So Dick did whatever normal people who don’t spend half their day chasing down a green haired psychopath and working with mini-assassins and leant over to take control of his partner’s wheel.
“Neal! GET YOUR HANDS OFF! YOU CAN’T DRIVE FOR YOUR LIFE, SAYS IN YOUR FILE!” Dick shoved a piece of Wrigley’s gum in his mouth and chews till soft before he swallows it.
Yeah. That was so cool. Even though he jumps off rooftops.
Dick swerved them cleanly to the right as they approached a ‘Welcome to Las Vegas!’ sign in bright blue letters.
Dick rushed past multiple shops as the gunfire seized, but continued the moment they arrived in a more remote area. Cold wind brushes against Dick’s skin, leaving goosebumps in it’s wake.
Dick fully had his back to Peter, and shoved him unceremoniously to the right passenger seat.
“Neal! Oh, wow, that’s a uh, really clean turn. Aren’t you terrible at driving a car?” Dick motions to the bottom half of the car.
“This is barely a car. This is, say, a r.”
“A r? That’s not how english works,” Peter argues, holding on tightly to the frame of the car window, momentarily distracted.
“Well sorry I’m not purebred english. Do you want me to attend to your highness with crumpets?” Dick bitterly says, before pulling over to Walgreens.
“Why are we stopping?” Peter says the last word like it’s personally challenged him.
“For chips.”
“FOR CHIPS?! We are in a car chase, for god’s sake!” Dick shrugs, entering the building as the enemies car stops in a parking spot, takes a bag of chips and lines up behind a redheaded woman, paying as the woman with a gun strides in confidently, eyes trained on Dick.
Evil, but still parking. Thinking of which, how do evil people get by, like Talia, does she run around taking subways? That’s a funny thought, he’ll tell that to Damian later.
Dick offers her a Cheese-Sour-&-Cream-Ruffles chip.
She takes it before wiping her fingers on her jeans, leaving behind a orange trail of crumbs. Dick adjusts his tie before turning and willing his feet to run away, Peter nearly tripping as he follows, sliding into another actual car, sleek and sage green with brown maple wood details and a black steering wheel.
Peter raises an eyebrow when Dick gets into the driver’s seat.
The supposed owner of the car shouts at them.
“What’s your name?” Dick hollers, rolling down his window as Peter shuffles in hurriedly.
“B-Bart Frivoseski.” That was one hell pf a name.
“Bart, just call Bruce Wayne. Say it’s from Neal. Thanks for the car. It’s really niceeee!” Dick speeds off with the woman still chewing on the chip.
Okay, maybe just telling someone to go call Bruce Wayne casually would be insane. It’s fine. This car seems about twenty thousand.
Dick would repay him about two million. He sounded like a spoiled brat.
“Now this is really theft and driving without a license. How do you even know how to drive?” Oh how Peter’s skepticism drives daggers through his heart.
“I learnt through Youtube tutorials.” Ah, the world’s most plausible lie. He learned when he was ten in the Batmobile.
Peter seems unconvinced. Dick’s wouldn’t be either.
Or maybe he would’ve. He learnt how to use nail polish to kill someone on there. And how to fix broken Target cart wheels.
“I have to take you in, you know.”
“Can we worry about the literal gunfire instead of me knowing how to drive, one of the most commonly known skills?” Peter narrows his eyes. Dick bites his lower lip, holding back a grin. That was too Dick-esque. Dick peeks out before narrowly missing a bullet to the face.
Only this because someone made a bounty on his head? He’s faced better.
“I’ll be watching you,” Peter says, index finger balanced in
“Okay, Sting.”
“Sting? Who’s Sting? Are you going to sting me?”
“Peter, get on the internet more. And search up how to swerve, I saw my life flash by.”