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This blows.
Dick decides as much around hour one, and it’s only solidified when hour three rolls around and he alternates between ducking away from people who want to pinch his cheeks and Bruce curtly reminding him not to climb on things. (He wasn’t going to, by the way. He was just eying the chandelier because oh, glass cut by hand and intricately wired together, you don’t say?) It’s awful for a good number of reasons, not only because he doesn’t want to be there in the first place.
To begin with, now he has to play nice with strangers who really just want to pity him and hem and haw over his dead parents, how tragic, what a poor boy, which he’d rather not talk about. Being around crowds and playing showman isn’t exactly new, but that usually doesn’t come with ladies three times his age cooing over him and reminding him his mom died, while also pointedly eying his new guardian every time they hint at oh gosh, a young boy needs a mother, don’t they?
Yeah, they’re not exactly subtle.
Second, Alfred and Bruce got him a tailored suit, which Dick supposes is cool, all things considered. He feels almost like James Bond, except Alfred reminded him that the suit is certainly not for roughhousing in, and the sleeves are too restrictive anyway. He feels kind of cool, but he almost feels kind of lame. What’s the point of dressing up if you can’t do anything?
Thirdly, and most important, Dick Grayson is starving.
Formal galas must be a form of capital punishment, because the only food they serve is stuff he’s never heard and never wanted to. (Duck con-feet? Sounds more like thanks, but no thanks.) He’d like to think he’s well-traveled, open to and willing to try new things, and mom always encouraged trying new food at least once to see if he liked it.
The food here though? Absolutely gross. (Caviar is fish eggs! And they put it on bread! Who hurt these people?)
It doesn’t help that most of what they have to drink is alcohol, since apparently no one here has ever heard of children or forgot they exist. He’s also kind of the odd one out since the person closest in age to him is the mayor’s niece, but she’s also like... twenty-six. People keep looking at him like they're surprised to see him, and then continue to talk about him to Bruce like he's not even there. It's awkward and kind of rude, but he's done his best to keep the eye-rolling to a minimum.
So basically: duck and champagne. Which he also pronounced as champ-ag-knee at first, to which Bruce corrected him and then Dick felt dumb for a minute. Bruce tried to make him feel better by saying he used to call it mer-lot when he was his age, but that joke definitely missed its mark. This party sucks.
Heck, he’ll take some of Alfred’s cucumber sandwiches over this, and he barely even likes those.
They fed him better at juvie.
Thus far he’s survived off a diet of crackers and grapes, downing them with some water like a prisoner of war. Dick Grayson versus Gotham’s Richest of the Rich. Remember him well, Zitka. May his legacy live on and never be forgotten.
Even the grapes aren’t that great.
Bruce is in the middle of a conversation with his friend Dr. Elliot—something about hospitals and gentrification, because apparently if you throw around enough big words anyone can sound like a genius—when he glances over to watch Dick roll a couple grapes across his plate. They’re racing; right now the green one is winning. Dick glances up as Dr. Elliot excuses him and wanders off to go talk to a lady he recognizes as being introduced as Vicki Vale. He shoots Bruce a quick glance out of the corner of his eye.
“What is it, chum?” he asks, a term he’s elected to use instead of Richard or Dick, which is kind of endearing—or would be more if Dick hadn’t looked it up and found out in meant shark bait.
“Um,” Dick offers. The green grape wins the race and rolls back to the other side of his plate amidst the cracker crumbs left behind. He kind of feels bad, but it isn’t like Bruce or Alfred did the cooking, and he usually tries not to be a picky eater, but... “I’m hungry.”
Bruce frowns, and Dick just wants to sink into the collar of his suit like a turtle, where no one can pinch his cheeks and he can hoard his crackers to himself. “There’s a large food spread at the buffet table.”
“Well yeah, but...” Dick says, face hot and the tips of his ears pink. He ducks his chin into his collar and gives his grapes a good stare down. “I don’t like the food here.”
Bruce is quiet for a minute, and people keep glancing their way like they have been all night, and Dick really just wants to hide under the table and slip away. He wishes they could have just stayed at the Manor tonight instead of coming here. Maybe he could have convinced Bruce to go outside and look at the stars with him where it was nice and quiet and they weren't surrounded by people who don't know him pretending that they do, or maybe Bruce would have thought that was dumb.
“What do you like?” Bruce asks, and it’s a genuine question, face open when Dick glances up at him again. He straightens a little, brow furrowing, considering, and he tilts his head. The first thing that comes to mind is Frosted Flakes and Alfred’s cooking, but he doubts they have the first and nothing they have here would compare to Alfred’s chicken noodle soup. He likes pasta, but Bruce said it was mostly finger foods here. Bruce chuckles a bit and then: “Besides chips and football.”
Dick smiles a little and fully raises his head to look at Bruce. “I like... chicken nuggets? With barbecue sauce?”
The expression on Bruce’s face is unreadable for a minute, and Dick considers hiding in his suit again. He’d be like the Headless Horseman, but that would probably just draw more attention. Bruce makes a hmm noise and glances away, which pretty much tells Dick nothing.
“Come with me,” he says, and Dick thinks oh great, he’s gotten himself in trouble somehow by saying he liked chicken but none of the food here, but he pushes his chair away from the table nonetheless. He pauses to push it back in, and then has to jog around the table to catch up to Bruce as he steps away. (Is he gonna make him apologize to catering because he said he didn't like their food? Bruce, come on.)
If he has to grab the sleeve to Bruce’s suit it’s definitely just because he doesn’t want to get lost in a large crowd, doesn’t want to get lost in a sea of rich ladies and drown in coos and pinch-y fingers. Bruce’s legs are also a lot longer than his are and even his normal speed is walking way too fast, so Dick gives a quick tug in order to slow him down.
There are eyes on them, but Bruce either doesn’t notice or doesn’t seem to care, and then they skirt around the ice sculpture of the Lady of Gotham Statue, and Dick still maintains his grip on his suit sleeve as they make a beeline for the catering table.
“Excuse me,” Bruce says to the first person there, who promptly blanches before schooling her expression. She’s probably expecting a complaint about something, or for someone to ask to talk to her boss, and Dick has a white knuckle grip on Bruce’s suit made by some designer he’s never heard of.
But then Bruce smiles. It’s different from the one he had with Dr. Elliot, or the one with those other businessmen whose names Dick can’t remember. It’s closer to the one he gave Captain Gordon earlier, or to Dr. Thompkins, or the one he had when Dick told him a story about Zitka on the way here. There’s a kind of gleam in his eye, or maybe it’s the light, and Dick glances between him and the caterer.
“Do you happen to have anything of the chicken nugget variety?”
Dick wants to die. Or he wants the floor to open between him and swallow him up whole. People are staring and it’s not like performing an act in front of a crowd and Bruce has barely done anything and he’s made a scene and it’s embarrassing. But Dick’s also hungry, so hunger wins out in the battle over embarrassment and wishing to be sucked into a chasm. (Maybe after he’s eaten.)
“I...” the caterer starts, and Dick thinks great, they’re gonna say no and he’s gonna have to live off more grapes and everyone’s still gonna stare at him and galas are awful. She glances down at him and he grins a little, offering a wave. She looks back at Bruce and they’re probably gonna be asked to leave. But then she smiles and motions for one of her co-workers, and Dick’s grip on Bruce’s sleeve loosens only marginally. “I’m sure we can find something.”
It takes a minute, but Bruce leads him back to another table, one that’s closer to the buffet, and he says something to one of the caterers Dick doesn’t catch, but they only laugh and nod. A couple people are still looking, but others seem to have gotten bored when they didn’t get a front row view of the scene they were expecting.
Dick kicks his leg, foot knocking against the chair leg, and he’d like to think he’s pretty well-behaved, minding his own business when the caterer from earlier sets a thin glass down in front of him, and Dick shoots her a look because he’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to have champagne. She just winks and says it’s sparkling grape juice and they’ve had it all night, and Dick only takes a tentative sip when Bruce looks over to make eye contact with him and nods.
They’re not exactly chicken nuggets, but Dick will take breaded chicken strips over duck confit and caviar any day. (And someone whipped up barbecue sauce? He could have asked for this hours ago?)
Having finished up his conversation, Bruce takes a seat beside him with his own glass of not-grape juice, and asks how the chicken is.
“You can have one if you’ll let me stay up later tonight,” Dick says around a mouthful of chicken and breadcrumbs, a smear of barbecue sauce at the corner of his mouth. Bruce raises an eyebrow at him and for a second he fears he’s overstepped, but then he only snickers.
“I think you’re already up later to begin with,” Bruce says, cutting a chicken nugget in half with the utensils Dick isn’t using but probably should be.
“Yeah, but that’s against my will.”
“Is it?” Bruce asks, and Dick stares at him for a second because who eats chicken nuggets with a fork and knife? (Bruce Wayne apparently. He probably eats grilled cheese sandwiches and burgers the same way.) He hums. “We should do chicken nuggets more often.”
Dick nods and leaves a streak of barbecue sauce across his plate. “Maybe without the fancy galas next time?”
Bruce laughs and dabs at his mouth with a napkin Dick also isn't using. “Maybe. Just don’t tell Alfred.”
After, Bruce swaps out Dick’s empty flute for another glass of water and has a small plate of carrot and celery sticks made up for him, citing him needing to eat his veggies before they go home.
Dick just grins and says or, they could just not tell Alfred.
He eats the celery anyway. Galas aren’t that bad, but a few months in he finds a suit he’s much more fond of.