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Dick all but snatched the opportunity to get out of town, because, God, he thought he was over it, over Jason, but seeing him on the street the other week had ripped off the thin scab that he had been able to pretend was true healing.
And it wasn’t even officially winter yet, but November had been cold even for Gotham, and Dick tolerated the cold, had slowly grown used to it over the years, but fundamentally he was still the child who’d spent his winters in Florida off the Gulf Coast. Maybe a change of climate, a view of a different ocean, some trees that still had actual leaves on them, would be good for him. No snow, no bare branched trees, just balmy beaches and 70 degree weather.
Dick deliberately ignores the voice in his head that tells him that his quick agreement to run B’s errands in California had nothing to do with the fact it would dramatically reduce his chances of seeing Jason for the duration of the trip.
“La la la denial,” he sings quietly to himself to the tune of ‘Silent Night.’
The grand foyer of the hotel has swaths of real pine garland, a giant fake tree decked in tasteful gold and crystal, and a grand piano playing soft holiday music. While he’s standing in line to check in, the musician moves to a few bars of Jingle Bells, then starts the melody line of ‘The River.’
Dick closes his eyes.
He’s not that kind of guest, but part of him wants to find someone in charge and complain about them playing such a depressing song at this time of year. It wouldn’t even be that out of character, really, since he is checking in as Richard Grayson-Wayne, billionaire’s son. Though Dick doesn’t want to risk TMZ running an article speculating on why a song about a broken relationship and heartbreak provoked such a reaction. And if this song hits a bit close to home, well, that’s hardly the piano player’s fault.
When had Jason bought the ring? Why did he finally decide to sell it, two years after they broke up?
Two years after Dick broke up with Jason.
Dick steps forward when he realizes that the clerk has been calling him for at least a few seconds. He plasters on his smile, the smile that has earned him more than one headline in gossip magazines and tabloids, more than a couple of flirtatious comments from Extra hosts. The check in process goes smoothly, but he still has to endure the rest of the song, thinking of all the times he fucked up, was too needy, too demanding, expecting Jason to change. And now he’s lost the best relationship he ever had.
He’s moving to the elevator as quickly as he can, but not before the song has finished.
Before the encounter on the rainy street, Dick had barely seen Jason in civilian clothes since the break up. Nightwing and Red Hood had managed to carve out a respectable, if cooly civil, working relationship - Bruce’s training in emotional suppression for the win! But that’s it. Nothing else. Not a word.
He knew that Jason had eased away from the whole drug lord mob boss thing. Red Hood rarely even killed these days.
But scathing words can’t be unsaid.
Not for the first time, Dick wishes he could fly away.
The business that brought him here was a felicitous overlap of Wayne Enterprises and Batman interests. Dick is going to ceremonially break ground at a new wing of the Children’s Hospital, and have a few “for the sake of appearances only” meetings with some West Coast executives. Meanwhile, Nightwing needs to deliver a new form of Kryptonite to Star Labs and wait for them to stabilize it before returning it to Batman. B didn’t want to risk transporting the mercurial element through the Zeta tubes, and there were very few people he trusted enough to travel across country with it.
Richard Grayson-Wayne smiles for the cameras. He goes shopping on Rodeo Drive. He eats at a trendy vegan restaurant in West Hollywood that just happens to have some of the best cocktails and spicy margaritas on the West Coast. He perhaps drinks one too many in an attempt to suppress memories of Jason carefully learning to cook a vegetarian version of khoresh bademjan. After Damian decided to quit eating meat, but missed the Iranian eggplant stew usually cooked with lamb, Jason made it a personal mission to replicate the dish as closely as possible.
The combination of chiles and tequila burn going down, though they can’t quite disguise the tang of regret.
He spends an early morning at El Porto Beach, catching some winter waves. He’s not a great surfer, but he took a week’s worth of lessons in Hawaii as a young teenager. This had been back when Bruce and Alfred actually went on occasional family vacations, and the key skills of surfing are balance and flexibility, something that Dick has been granted from birth and worked hard his entire life to enhance.
The feel of the Pacific Ocean at his back, the thought of thousands of miles of undulating waves, the unexplored depths, the unknown cold crevices, reassures him in a bleak midwinter kind of way. He thinks of fish that are luminous in the dark, of scudding sail boats, krakens and storms, stretches of nothing but water and sky, of mermaids. Here there be monsters.
Dick has always loved too well and not wisely. He loves slowly, softly at first, and then sudden and all at once, like sand falling from an hourglass. He’s needy and emotional, yet not always conscientious of his lovers own emotional issues.
As the beach starts to fill with tourists, he heads back to his rental car. He unzips and peels off the top half of his wetsuit, so similar to his Nightwing costume. Sand sticks to his feet in the outdoor shower. He ignores the glances from the others at the beach. Whether it’s for his scars or his muscles, it doesn’t matter to him. Their speculation washes off him easier than the sand. Easier than regret.
Back in the car, Dick checks his cellphone out of habit more than expectation.
There’s a text from Jason. His pulse quickens.
“Dickie. Let’s get coffee when you’re back in Gotham. -J”
He scrubs his hands through his hair, already drying salty and wavy. The phone sits heavy in his hand.
Thumbs slow and uncertain, Dick types back, “Sure. Sounds good.”
As an afterthought, he sends a second text. “Come to LA. I’ll teach you how to surf.”
Dick sits for he doesn’t know how long waiting for a reply before giving up and driving back to his hotel. He curses himself for being an idiot. Yet when he’s walking through the lobby again, he hears the chime of a text alert over the sounds of the piano hitting a minor chord, then a major lift.
“I already know how to surf, Goldie. Used to live on a tropical island with Kori and Roy.”
Dick bites his lip. He wishes he could skate away from here on a river of ice. Or at least go back to the beach and let the ocean pull him away with the rock of the waves and the inexorable pull of the tides.
Then his phone lights up with another text. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”