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Days off are few and hard to come by. Depending on how the weeks leading up to them have been, Dick more often than not wants to just lie around in his pajamas, eating an offensive—even by his standards—amount of cereal and binge watching Netflix in between naps. Maybe some slow, lazy sex that actually happens in a bed and not a dirty rooftop if he happens to have a partner.
He definitely never wants to spend them drinking at a hole in the wall bar, but it's been a long month, and Jason actually invited him out, so Dick accepts, although he does offend all of Jason's sensibilities by ordering a giant fishbowl monstrosity and putting it on Jason's tab. "I cannot believe I'm paying real-life American dollars for this," Jason complains. "Your next drink is going to be a neat whiskey or a beer, and you're going to like it."
Dick grins in response and pulls out the rubber duck, honking it in Jason's face and tapping his nose. It's a testament to how far they've come in the past few years that Jason doesn't just punch him right in the jaw. In fact, he almost looks like he's trying not to smile.
It's just a hole in the wall sort of dive bar. There is no dance floor, which Dick would much prefer and would absolutely love to drag Jason out onto. It's a place far more suited to Jason's tastes, dimly lit, a little bit sticky—although Dick has seen Jason's safe houses; he would die if his own counters were like this—and people mind their own business. The waitress is attentive and polite and seems familiar enough with Jason. She brings their refills quickly. There is never really a point they don't have a drink in hand.
They don't do this often, actually go hang out in public. The life of a vigilante is busy, even more so when you tack on son of a billionaire or crime lord. Mostly they have to make due with when they run into each other on patrol or scramble and rework their schedules to get part of the night together. Not that they are embarrassed about what they do together, it's just a lot to explain to the family. And the family isn't always so understanding.
Dick slides closer to Jason on the booth. He has half lost track of the conversation, but he still enjoys listening to the low rumble of Jason's voice. "What," Jason asks, ducking his head down. The tuff of white hair falls over his right eye. Dick pushes it back.
"Nothing," Dick says. "Just enjoying the company."
"Fucking dope," Jason responds, part fond, part I-can't-believe-you-seriously-say-things-like-that-and-mean-it.
"You love it," Dick says with a sing-song tone.
Jason heaves a longsuffering sigh. "Can't figure out why," he admits, and Dick grins. Jason drops his forehead against Dick's, and Dick wants to forgo any social niceties and crawl right into his lap. But they don't get many nights to just hang out together like this, so Dick settles for just staying pressed up against Jason's side. Besides, there's always later.
There is a rusty old jukebox playing music. The thing is ancient, probably hasn't been updated or maintained in a few decades, so despite the low motown tunes, it's very easy to hear the ringtone coming from the bar.
"It's a beautiful night. We're looking for something dumb to do. Hey, baby, I think I wanna marry you."
Jason snorts a bit. "Really?"
"I hope you're not about to insult Bruno Mars in front of me," Dick warns him.
"And you better not start singing Uptown Funk. If you start singing that song again, I will not uptown fuck you up later. I will gladly fall on the no sex grenade," Jason threatens right back.
Dick honestly debates it for a minute. On the one hand, he loves messing with Jason. He loves that they're in a good enough place that he can mess with him. But on the other hand, he really wants Jason to throw him on the bed and just go to town until Dick can't really feel his toes anymore.
"Fine," Dick relents. "What's wrong with this as a ringtone?"
"It's just a weird choice," Jason says.
"I'll bet she has a reason," Dick says, and then he stands up, waving his arms to catch the girl's attention. "Hey, miss!" The girl and her three male friends turn in their stools to look at him. Jason tries to pull him back down. "Hey, sorry, just curious. Why is that your ringtone?"
"Are you serious," Jason snaps, wrapping an arm around Dick's neck and tugging him down. "Leave them alone."
The girl laughs. "No, it's ok," she says. "I'm getting married on Saturday, so I made it my ringtone for the week. Just for fun."
"See," Dick tells Jason. "And congratulations!" He flags down their waitress. "Ask that lady what shot she wants, anything her heart desires, and we'll all take a round."
The shot ends up being some electric blue thing that tastes like cotton candy. "Of fucking course it is," Jason growls, throwing it back. He gags a little. "Ugh, it's like something a sorority freshman would order." He looks down at Dick, who happened to enjoy it immensely. "So of course you like it. Ugh."
"Complains the man who always asks for extra syrups and whipped cream in his mochas," Dick counters. "Complains the man who can't even drink lattes because they aren't sweet enough."
A few drinks later, when they are both feeling pretty loopy, the conversation, while still generally on the topic of the ringtone, has taken a hard left turn. "What if we did that," Jason suggests. "What if we just did that? How big do you think the blast radius of Bruce's brain would be?"
"If we got married," Dick asks. Jason nods enthusiastically. "I think we'd break Tim," Dick says.
Jason throws his head back and howls with laughter. "We'd break his tiny, mechanical little heart."
"He's not a robot," Dick scolds. "He's just—the sex stuff is hard for him—shut up, not like that." Jason is almost crying from the whiskey that went up his nose.
Jason takes a wary sip of his drink. "It's legal now," he says. "We could totally do it."
"It's legal," Dick says, "but you aren't."
Jason considers this. "Shit," he says. "This being legally dead thing is as much of an annoyance as it is awesome. But hell, I don't need my real ID. My fakes ones are all just as good."
Dick laughs. "Sure," he drawls. "No setbacks to this plan at all. Adopted son of billionaire elopes to Vegas for quickie wedding with man who has no history older than—when did you make the ID?"
"Nothing's older than six years," Jason answers. "But it's cool. The whole thing would probably give Bruce an aneurysm, so I assume Clark and Lois both would write us a glowing article just for kicks."
Dick snorts. He reaches out and pushes back the white tuff of hair again. "You would make a pretty house wife," he hums.
"Ok, first off," Jason declares, "I am not the pretty one. You are without question the pretty one. And second, I would so not be the house wife."
"You don't have a job," Dick argues, and Jason spares him a look. "A real job," Dick amends. Jason's expression doesn't change. Dick cries, "A legal job!" Jason grins. "I'm the one with health insurance—fudged as the records might be—a 401K, plus Lucius manages my trust."
"And I'm the owner of a lucrative business," Jason says, dropping his chin in his palm. "By definition I'm not qualified for the position of housewife. You aren't even working right now. You're the housewife. I mean, I can still totally get on your Wayne benefits, but I'm definitely not going to be a housewife. I'm out there bringing home the bacon—the delicious illegal bacon. You're home with the kids."
Dick almost chokes on his drink. "Kids?"
Jason laughs. "You know that's always the next question when people tie the knot. Sooooooo when are you gonna start trying for kids? You've been married all of three days. When are we going to hear the little pitter patter of tiny feet? That's on you, buddy."
"Why am I the one who has to raise the kids," Dick asks.
"You're kidding, right," Jason asks. "Your phone's home screen, is it or is it not a picture of you taking Damian to the aquarium?"
"He'd never been before," Dick argues. "What am I supposed to do with that information? Not buy him a ticket?"
"You're going to spoil the children rotten," Jason chides.
"Says the big, tough mob-boss vigilante who brings rescued kids through the McDonald's line before he takes them home," Dick counters. "And don't think I missed that you had full sized candy bars to give out last Halloween."
"Ok fine, so we'd both spoil the kids," Jason relents. Dick snuggles up next to him, pressing his nose under Jason's jaw. "We should do it," he laughs. "And our wedding album can just be everyone's reaction images. Fucking golden. How long do you think it would take for your demon child to attack me to defend your honor?"
Dick has possibly made a mistake in starting to kiss Jason's neck. He wanted to enjoy the company for a while, but now that he's started this, he doesn't want to stop. "Hmm," he hums, "less than ten seconds, accounting for the shock to settle." He presses a light kiss over the batarang scar, and Jason shudders. "It would be really funny if that's how we came out to the family."
"You think this is a secret," Jason asks, sliding his hand through Dick's hair. "Like in the general hi, hello, dad, we aren't very straight or more of a maybe you should have had a talk with the kids about incest? Do you think Timmers and Steph count as incest too? She was a Robin."
Dick pinches his side, and Jason lets out a shrill noise that he refuses to call a giggle. "We don't broadcast this around other people," Dick says. "We're careful."
"I'm sure Bruce and Selina used to say that too," Jason comments. Dick makes a face, and Jason laughs.
Dick scoffs. "I doubt they ever had this conversation," he says. "Not exactly the couple to emulate."
Jason laughs and pulls him closer. "We're having this conversation while stumbling drunk and talking about eloping."
"But we're having it," Dick sing-songs. "Better than anything they did, I bet. And we are totally responsible. We talked about you getting on my insurance."
"Setting a good example for the other kids in the family," Jason agrees.
``
Jason wakes up the next morning with horrible cotton mouth, a severe aversion to keeping his eyes open, and aching joints. All sure signs of a massive hangover. He tries to sit up, but that's a bad idea, and thankfully there is a heavy body sprawled on top of him that keeps him from getting too far. Dick grumbles something unintelligible—or maybe just not in English—and buries his face in Jason's neck. His hand flops down from Jason's chest and slips under his arm, ready to move into clinging sloth position, but something sharp drags against the skin, and Jason hisses, "Ow, Dick, fuck."
Which is another bad idea, because opening his mouth just makes the cotton feeling worse. He needs to brush his teeth and chug down some water and coffee. Then greasy, heavy foods. He wonders if there's any place in Gotham that delivers steak and eggs.
Jason slowly pries his eyes open and immediately sees that there is a fundamental problem with the delivery plan, mainly that he isn't in Gotham and definitely not in either his or Dick's place. They're in a hotel room—a very nice one—with large windows, the curtains thrown open to reveal a different skyline than what he is used to. Smaller buildings. Brighter skies. The Eiffel Tower? Jason squints, trying to make the gears in his brain turn faster. Vegas? Are they in Vegas?
Oh, shit, they're in Vegas.
"Dick, wake up," Jason says.
"No," Dick whines. "I'm trying to die in peace over here. I can't believe you did this to me. Why did I let you talk me into this?"
"Wait until you see what else I apparently talked you into," Jason says. Dick finally pulls his head up from Jason's neck. His expression is extremely crowded, his hair sticking up in every direction imaginable. Dick usually wakes up much easier than Jason, so he doesn't really get many opportunities to see him like this. Damn shame that it's being pushed to the back burner for more important matters.
Jason inclines his head towards the window, and Dick looks over. It takes him about as many seconds to recognize what he's seeing as it did Jason. Then his jaw drops open. "Why the hell are we in Las Vegas?"
He sits up, looking a little gray at the sudden movement. Jason rubs a hand over his face and stops short. He pulls it back and stares. "Um, might have something to do with this," he says, unable to take his eyes off the gold band on his left ring finger.
Dick gapes for a moment and then looks down at his own left hand. He balks. "What the hell is this?"
There is a ring on his finger, yes, but it's nothing like Jason's simple band. The center diamond alone is about the size of his knuckle. Jason buries his face in his hands, trying so hard not to laugh—more for the sake of his headache than in sympathy with Dick. He loses the battle when the memory of going through the jewelry store resurfaces. He snorts, "Mob wife."
Dick blinks at him.
"You're my mob wife," Jason howls, dropping back into the pillows and kicking his legs. "We got you the biggest, gaudiest ring in the whole store so everyone knows you're the boss's lady."
Dick shoves his fist against his mouth, which means he is trying very hard to not laugh. He obviously has more respect for his own headache than Jason does. He looks down at the ring again. "You don't think this is real, do you," he asks.
"Hey," Jason says, sitting up again and dragging his fingers through Dick's hair. "Nothing but the best for my woman."
"Shut up," Dick says, pushing him. He smiles. "But seriously. You think it's real?"
"I have a vague recollection of suggesting to the jeweler that I would be disappointed if we were not given his most quality merchandise," Jason says.
Dick levels him with a look. "You screamed that you'd burn down the place if he gave us any of that, and I quote, 'old lady costume bullshit.'"
"To-mate-o, to-mat-o," Jason says with a shrug. He grabs Dick's hand and studies the ring. "Hell of a choice, sweetheart. I've seen Bruce's mom's ring. This sucker's probably twice as big."
"Yeah, my man apparently likes to make up for quickie weddings with grand material gestures," Dick says dryly.
Jason blows his bangs from his face. "Holy shit, we actually did it. Get up, Dickface; we need to find the certificate. I want to see what IDs we used."
He doesn't have to go far. It's right over on the table by the window. He reads it and makes a face. "What," Dick asks. Jason brings it back over to the bed, and Dick slides up to him, chin on his shoulder. "That can't be viable in court," Dick says.
The documentation is official. They both can tell that easily, but it's signed by both Richard John Grayson and Jason Peter Todd. Which, sure, it wouldn't be hard to just sign whatever they pleased, but it's an official document, with all their official information, and Jason is sort of officially dead.
"Huh," Jason says, his gut twisting strangely.
"What," Dick asks, fingers trailing up and down his spine.
"Considering how plastered we were," Jason says, making a grand gesture about the room, "I kind of also thought we'd use some ridiculous IDs. Wouldn't be too hard to make them up, even drunk."
Dick hesitates for a second, and Jason knows what he says next is going to be one of those things that makes him both really uncomfortable and also really, really blown away. Dick's arms wrap around his waist. "Well, I can only speak for myself," he starts, voice low and gentle, "but if I was actually going to be marrying you, I would want to marry you."
He kisses the back of Jason's shoulder, and Jason is surprised that the blown away feeling outweighs the discomfort. His gut continues to churn. He hates calling this feeling butterflies, but damn, that's exactly what it is. He twists in Dick's arms, his hand slipping around Dick's neck to pull their foreheads together. Dick smiles, grinning even wider when Jason kisses him.
Jason pushes him down to the bed. "How do you think the divorce process goes for this," he asks around teasing kisses along Dick's jaw. "Can you divorce a dead man?"
"Well, I married a dead man, so," Dick counters a little breathily.
"Which says something a little disturbing about your kinks," Jason comments.
"Shut up," Dick says, opening his legs and grabbing Jason's ass to grind their hips together. Jason moans low in his throat. "I have an idea," Dick continues, hips rolling slowly. The friction is amazing. "Instead of immediately talking about the legality of the issue and what we're going to do to settle everything, why don't we just enjoy our honeymoon?"
Jason grins widely and flips Dick onto his stomach. "I think I can manage that."
``
An interesting piece of trivia—Jason refuses to call it cute, but it really is—about Dick Grayson is that orgasms tend to make him forget English. The longer it takes for him to remember Jason can't always understand him, the better Jason knows he did. And Jason doesn't know more than a few words of Romani, but that's basically a neon sign that he brought the A Game.
So when it's a full five minutes after Jason pulls out that Dick lies bonelessly next to him muttering words Jason can't understand with a dazed expression, Jason figures he did particularly excellent work. "More romps like that, baby," he asks.
"Devla, hai," Dick sighs. Jason leans over him, pushing back his sweat soaked hair and kissing his forehead, down his nose, and then slowly over his lips. "'Mma just say it," Dick mumbles, finally back to English. "Married sex is our best sex. Feel free to do that to me for the rest of forever."
"Whatever you want, sweetheart," Jason says.
They laze around for a while, tangled in the sheets and trading light kisses and the occasional slow roll of their hips. Their fingers drag over hot skin, trailing along scars they have already mapped out and memorized. Every once and a while, one of their phones buzzes. The most attention they pay to that is Jason growling, "Fuck off, asshole," when his rings while Dick is sucking what is going to turn into an impressive hickey on his neck.
They eventually give some attention to the world outside of the bed when Jason's stomach starts growling, and he leans over to fish the room service menu from the side table drawer. He orders roughly half the menu. Between himself and Dick and all the physical activity they've been up to, even that might not be enough.
When the knock sounds at the door, Jason rolls out of Dick's arms, grabbing a pair of boxer briefs and batting at Dick's groping grabby hands. Dick drops back with a moan of complaint and a pout that should look ridiculous on a man his age but somehow manages to stir Jason's interest. He walks maybe a little faster to the door than can be considered a leisurely stroll and collects the food.
"I am so disappointed that you put on pants," Dick says lazily.
Jason pushes the door shut with his heel. "You'd prefer I give the room service guy a show?"
"I'm even more disappointed that you've gotten up from the bed," Dick continues.
Jason rolls the tray over. "Food, Dick," he says. "We need to put something in our stomachs." Dick's answering grin as he rolls to the edge of the bed and dips his fingers into the band of Jason's shorts is absolutely sinful. "I didn't mean that," Jason says, "but, please, feel free."
``
Eventually they have to head back to Gotham. They can only keep their texts so vague, and Babs is on the verge of threatening to stop holding back Bruce's attempts at hacking Dick's phone's GPS. Plus the bill is already getting into atrocious territory, and they have been called a couple of times about noise complaints.
"I still can't believe we actually did this," Dick says as they walk through the airport, his hand curled around Jason's. "I can't believe I actually made it. Me! I've got the worst luck with this kind of thing."
"Third time's the charm," Jason says. "Or maybe it's the drunk decision making. Or the gay factor."
"Ok," Dick says dryly.
"Or maybe it's that I'm not part of your usual thirst for redheads," Jason continues.
"Ok," Dick says again, this time laughing. He tugs Jason down enough to kiss. "Or does the helmet count?"
Jason grins against his lips. "I knew you liked it," he says.
"I can neither confirm nor deny that accusation," Dick declares.
They splurge for the first class seats. No ticket purchases have showed up in any of their accounts, so they assume they took zeta tubes out to Vegas. Settled in, Dick leans on Jason's shoulder and twirls at the ring Jason is still wearing. "So what's our game plan with this," he asks.
"The only thing I know for sure is that I want to have a nice sit down dinner with the family and tell them, no warning, just throw our hands up with the rings like surprise!" Jason says with a wide grin. "Make sure one of our phones is recording, because it's going to need to be immortalized."
Dick chuckles. "Your petty antagonism never fails to disappoint," he says.
"At least I'm not trying to blow anyone up," Jason retorts. "Come on, Dickie, let's do it. It'll be fun."
"It would set a bad precedent in the marriage to start indulging your bad habits so soon," Dick says.
But of course Dick does indulge him, both because he loves him and because he does really want to see the family's reactions. They don't disappoint. Tim completely shuts down like someone pulled the power cord out from the wall. Damian sits still for about five full seconds, and thank God that Cassandra is the one sitting beside him, because she grabs him in time to prevent him from jumping across the table and stabbing Jason with a—oh, it's just one of his chicken fingers. Stephanie wails that she was not given ample time to throw them a shower (Roy and Kori have similar concerns later, although theirs is focused a little more on lack of bachelor parties), and Babs cracks a fairly brutal shotgun wedding joke.
For whatever reason, that's what pulls Bruce out of his twitching processing mode.
Dinner ends with a lot of screaming and Jason throwing out more West Side Story quotes than is strictly necessary.