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In all honesty, Dick probably could have snuck out already.

It would hardly even be considered sneaking out at this point—everyone’s been gone for at least half an hour, and no one has come back even once because they’d forgotten this or that—but Dick is forcing himself to be as patient as he can, and then even more patient than that. He can’t risk getting caught.

If he’s caught, it would ruin everything.

He manages to wait another ten minutes or so before he threatens to burst with nerves. He declares it as safe as it can be—waiting too long will also come with its own risks—and slips out his window and into the night.

The walk to the outskirts of the castle grounds takes longer on foot, but Dick doesn’t want to chance taking a horse. He arrives at his destination just as the bells of the clock tower toll nine, a bit sweatier and dirtier than he would have preferred, but it would have to do.

He checks three times to make sure the road is clear, then emerges from behind the bushes and knocks on the door. It opens just a few seconds later, and Dick slips inside without a moment of hesitation.

“You’re late,” says the king of Defiance, his single pale eye flicking to Dick’s dusty boots as he shuts the door.

Dick kicks the boots off. “I couldn’t risk anyone seeing me.”

“No, you couldn’t, could you.” Slade smirks lazily, and, not for the first time, Dick wishes there were anyone else he could have gone to for help. “And here I was, thinking you’d regained your senses.”

“You say that like you didn’t want me to come.”

“Now, we both know that isn’t true,” Slade says, voice low enough that Dick shivers despite himself.

He walks deeper into the villa that Slade had been granted for the duration of his visit to Gotham. The inner city is currently full of royalty and nobility from far and wide—Kandor and Themyscira, Defiance and Nanda Parbat—all here for the three nights of the masquerade ball.

All here for the chance to win King Bruce’s hand.

“Where’s Rose?” Dick says, gaze sweeping around the villa. It appears to be empty, save for him and Slade, but when they ran into each other in town a few days before, Slade had indicated he’d only come because Rose had wanted to.

Dick isn’t sure if he believes him or not. Granted, it’s been a few years since Dick’s seen Rose, back when he was a war prisoner in Defiance, and she would no longer be the small thirteen-year-old to his eighteen, but back then, she had much more interest in learning to fight than learning to dance.

“I sent her on ahead with Wintergreen.” Slade brushes past Dick—highly unnecessarily, given the amount of space in the room, but not out of the norm for Slade—and leads Dick into a bedroom. “I didn’t think you’d want an audience for this part.”

Oddly considerate of him; Dick refuses to be thankful for it. “Just give it to me.”

Slade smiles and holds out a small vial of a pale blue liquid. “Everything else you requested is there,” he says, gesturing to the screen set up in a corner of the room. “If you need help, I’d be happy to assist.”

Dick snatches the vial from him. “I’ll manage.”

He sweeps toward the screen, Slade chuckling behind him, like he finds all of this deeply amusing.

In a certain sense, Dick can’t blame him. Slade may have agreed to help him, but they both know that Dick’s endeavor is doomed to fail, even before he’s begun. There is no possible future in which Dick will be king consort of Gotham.

He just wants, for three nights, to be able to dream.

The gown that’s waiting for him behind the screen is gorgeous enough to take his breath away. The bodice is a deep blue, decorated with silver gems that shine like starlight. The gems spill down into the full skirt, made of wispy layers of blue and black, and embedded there are constellations of birds, soaring across the fabric.

He’s immeasurably glad Slade can’t see his reaction from behind the screen. For as much of a brute as the warrior-king can be, he has a remarkable eye for beauty.

Dick quickly takes off his clothes and slips into the dress—a perfect fit, not that he would have expected any less. Even though Dick hadn’t stepped a single foot in the dressmaker’s shop, Slade had taken his sweet time taking exacting measurements. For enduring all that, Dick made it clear he would only accept the very best—and if there’s one thing everyone agrees on about Slade, it’s that he holds up his end of his bargains.

Dick picks up the vial of liquid, holding it up to the lamplight. It’s meant to disguise his features by altering them slightly, shifting bone and muscle and fat—not to make him completely different, but different enough.

Of course, whether or not this is the potion Slade claims it is remains to be seen. Dick’s not going to be able to tell whether or not it will kill him by sight alone, and there are no other tests he can run in this room. His only reassurance is that Slade wouldn’t go through all this effort just to murder him by poison.

He uncorks the vial, tips his head back, and downs the entire contents at once. A prickling erupts beneath his skin, which quickly turns into a burning itch that swallows him whole. He gasps, and distantly registers the sound of glass breaking as he plants his hands on the walls and tries to breathe through the sensation of being burned alive from the inside out.

This was an awful idea. He’s going to die here after making the worst deal of his life, and then—

And then the feeling fades.

Dick takes a fortifying breath, then pushes back from the wall to stand on only slightly shaky legs. Everything is at it was, save for the shattered vial on the ground and the hair that he feels brushing his shoulder blades. He runs his fingers through thick, wavy strands in wonder. If only there were a mirror back here—but knowing Slade, it’s intentional that there isn’t.

Dick breathes again, and once he’s sure he’s ready, he carefully sidesteps the broken glass and leaves the shelter of the screen.

Slade is lounging on the settee, legs spread languidly wide and an arm thrown over the back. He stands as Dick emerges, looking over him with clear appreciation. “Exquisite.”

Dick scowls at him. “I’m not doing this for y—” He slaps a hand against his throat. “What happened to my voice?”

He wouldn’t call it high, exactly, but it’s higher enough as to be barely recognizably his—higher than he was planning to pitch it. It sounds strange coming out of his body, as though it doesn’t belong to him—and it doesn’t. Not really.

“All part of the package.” Slade comes up to him and holds out his arm in a mockery of gentlemanly manners. “I won’t have you claim I’ve sabotaged your efforts in any way.”

Dick scowls, but he can’t exactly fault Slade for fulfilling his requests too well, so he settles for a stony silence.

He accepts Slade’s arm, though, and allows himself to be guided to a seat. He’s just sat down when Slade’s fingers slip into his hair, and Dick opens his mouth to snap at him, but closes it when Slade’s movements turn out to be quick and perfunctory, manipulating his hair into an updo style preferred by the nobles of Defiance.

“You’ll have three hours,” Slade says as he pins a section of hair to Dick’s head. “The potion will feel the same wearing off as it did settling in. I’ll give you one vial for each night of the ball. And you remember what will happen if you don’t secure a proposal from Wayne by the end.”

“Yes,” Dick says, while privately amending it to when he doesn’t secure a proposal. He and Slade both know that Dick doesn’t stand a single chance—the only reason Slade offered to help at all, he’s sure.

Because, when Dick fails, he’ll be forced to accept Slade’s proposal, instead.

Once his hair has been tugged and pinned to Slade’s satisfaction, Slade rounds the chair and holds out his arm. Dick lets himself be led to the other side of the room, where a full-length mirror stands against the wall.

Dick’s hair is braided around to the back, and pinned up in an elaborate updo on the back of his head. A few strands have been left loose to fall around his face, framing his potion-altered features. As promised, he doesn’t look entirely different, but enough has changed here and there—the slant of his cheekbones, the fat in his cheeks, the line of his jaw—that he looks more like a relation of himself than himself. The muscles of his arms have slimmed down, too, some of his tone seeming to have been replaced by fat; the bodice is also noticeably more filled than before, but not uncomfortably so.

Dick gives Slade a suspicious look, but Slade only smiles and holds up an ornate masquerade mask. Dick stays in place as Slade presses it to Dick’s skin, concealing the top half of his face behind the intricate lacework of black and silver.

When Slade pulls his hands away, Dick doesn’t recognize himself at all.

Slade’s hands rest heavily on his shoulders. “You’ll have every head in the room turned your way.”

“If this is how you prefer me,” Dick says in his strange, strange voice, “then I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.”

“I prefer you in your armor just as well as I do you in your dress.” Slade tucks a strand of hair behind Dick’s ear, and Dick shivers at the brush of fingers. “For your sake, let’s hope your King Wayne will feel the same.”

Dick hoped for a relatively quiet entrance, but he should have known that it would be impossible at Slade’s side.

“Announcing King Slade Wilson of Defiance,” the Master of Ceremonies calls out as they stand at the top of the marble staircase leading down to the ballroom. “And the Lady Robin of Defiance.”

The room seems quieter as they descend, but Dick is certain that’s because his blood is pounding in his ears as he stares unseeingly somewhere in front of him, trusting Slade to catch him if he stumbles.

He must have been mad, to think that he could pull this off.

“You have until midnight,” Slade says as they walk across the room, either not noticing or not caring about Dick’s attack of nerves. “I’ll be waiting outside with a carriage when it’s time. Lord Wintergreen, why don’t you do our Lady Robin the honor of a first dance?”

William Wintergreen, Slade’s second, gives Slade an unimpressed look, but he holds out his hand and guides Dick to the dance floor.

“I hope he hasn’t been too unbearable,” Wintergreen says, which answers the question of whether or not he’s been privy to Slade’s scheming.

“Not more so than usual,” Dick says.

They take their positions on the floor as other couples begin to settle around him, Wintergreen in the lead dancer position with his hand high on Dick’s shoulder blade.

Dick rests his arm atop Wintergreen’s, completing the frame. “I take it you disapprove.”

“I only hope you know what you’re doing,” Wintergreen says. “Because Slade certainly does.”

The musicians begin a steady waltz, and their conversation falls silent as Wintergreen leads Dick around the floor.

Wintergreen’s a confident dancer, if not the most stylish; his steps are basic, lacking the flourishes of some of the other dancers around them, but they’re solid—solid enough to help Defiance’s princess learn, anyway. Dick suspects that task had fallen more onto Wintergreen. Slade can likely dance well enough, but Dick has his doubts that Slade has the patience to be a good teacher, even when it comes to his own daughter.

Dick catches a glimpse of her stark silver hair perhaps five couples behind them in the circle, dancing with someone in a black suit and a black and red mask. He wonders again if she’s actually interested in winning the king’s hand, or if she’d just come for the experience. It’s not often that so many powerful people from across the kingdoms all gather in one place, which makes it a unique opportunity to make connections.

Though most are likely here in a bid to make the most powerful connection of all.

Rose is still so young, though, and while Gotham’s king isn’t as old as Defiance’s, Dick thinks Slade would disapprove of the match. Even when Dick first met him, in the middle of a war during which Dick was held hostage in Defiance for three months, Dick had gotten the sense that Slade was more interested in protecting his family than in power. He can’t imagine Slade permitting his daughter to marry a semi-hostile king, even if it would be politically favorable.

Dick is lost enough in his thoughts that he’s slightly startled by the dance coming to an end. He quickly curtseys to match Wintergreen’s bow of thanks for the dance, and Wintergreen silently takes his hand again, escorting him off the floor.

Wintergreen has just let his hand drop when someone steps into their path. “If I might cut in?”

Dick’s heart flutters in his chest. He takes a quick breath, then looks up.

The man standing before them is wearing an elegant grey and black suit, and a sleek black mask that covers his nose with a pointed beak. It does nothing to conceal his identity from anyone who has ever seen him longer than a second in passing.

“Your Highness.” Dick dips his head and curtseys low, and he sees Wintergreen bowing beside him.

“Please, call me Bruce.” Bruce’s voice is rich and warm and decadent, and Dick’s insides melt immediately at the sound of it. “Lord Wintergreen. I hope you’ve been well.”

“Same to you, Your Highness.” Wintergreen gives Dick a brief, pointed look before turning his attention back to Bruce. “I’ll leave Lady Robin in your care, then.”

“Shall we?” Bruce holds out his hand, palm up.

Dick places his hand gingerly atop the awaiting one, at once thankful for and hating the gloves that prevent him from feeling the warm, sword-callused skin beneath.

Bruce closes his fingers gently around Dick’s, leading him back onto the dance floor. “Lady Robin,” he says, as if testing the name on his tongue. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Dick glances up at Bruce through his eyelashes as they settle in place across from each other. “Robin is fine, Your Highness. And we wouldn’t have had reason to.”

“Bruce,” Bruce reminds him, and Dick remembers, but—it feels dangerous, to use his name now.

It feels like it will make what Dick’s doing all too real.

The musicians begin the introduction to the next song. It’s an intricate Gotham court dance, usually only practiced by the nobility—and even then, not many can dance it well enough to chance embarrassing themselves in front of the king. It’s likely why the floor is much emptier, compared to the previous waltz.

“Are you familiar with the Fledermaus Quadrille?” Bruce says, and it feels like a test.

Dick takes a step back into the starting position in place of a verbal answer.

Bruce smiles slightly and steps back so that they’re side-by-side.

Then the musicians strike the starting chord, and the dance begins.

They step to face each other, Bruce bowing and Dick curtseying in greeting. Then they turn together to greet the dancers in the line across from them, and Dick’s smile stiffens when he sees that their partners for the dance will be Slade and Talia al Ghul, who Dick would recognize anywhere, even with her flowering gold mask. He hadn’t thought Slade would know this dance, but he shouldn’t be surprised—like Bruce, Slade never goes anywhere unprepared.

Dick’s body moves on autopilot, all his effort focused on keeping a pleasant smile on his face as their lines cross and he’s forced face-to-face with a smirking Slade. But even Slade’s presence is bearable, Dick thinks, for the way that Bruce’s hand lands low on the small of his back as he guides him around in a small promenade.

And when he and Bruce come back together at the end of the figure, hands joined high between them as they circle around each other, Bruce’s smile widens, just a little, and Dick loses his breath all over again.

As they move from one figure of the dance to the next, it becomes easier to forget Slade’s presence entirely. He’s just another dancer—another step. What matters is the feeling of Bruce’s hand in Dick’s, and the dizzy rush Dick gets whenever Bruce’s hand settles onto his waist.

Dick curtseys low when the dance ends—far too soon—and Bruce guides him off the floor.

“You’ll be in attendance tomorrow night?” Bruce says.

“Yes,” Dick says, still flushed from the dance. “Of course.”

Bruce smiles lightly and raises Dick’s hand, and for one heart-stopping moment Dick thinks Bruce is going to press his lips to it—but he only runs his thumb briefly over Dick’s knuckles before releasing it. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

Bruce steps back, offers him a small bow—to which Dick performs a clumsy bow-turned-curtsey on instinct—and leaves.

And that’s—that’s so much more than Dick had hoped for, and so much sooner than he had hoped for it. But it’s a good thing, then, that he’ll be able to leave with plenty of time before the potion wears off, because he’ll have little chance of spending any time with Bruce for the rest of the night.

This ball is for Bruce to find his consort, but it’s still a political event, so it wouldn’t do on the first night to show too much favoritism—and especially not to Defiance. They may not have been a direct enemy to Gotham ever since the war, but it doesn’t make them a friend, either.

“Excuse me— Lady Robin, was it?”

Dick pastes on a pleasant smile and turns. “Yes?”

“Donna of Themyscira.” Donna introduces herself with a shallow bow, one hand to her chest. She’s wearing a black suit, with a long, starry half-skirt flowing behind her, and a simple silver mask. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?”

Dick wants to say no; the more people he dances with, the more of an impression he makes, and the more attention he draws to himself—all things that could potentially lead to trouble, down the line.

But appearing only to dance with the king sends a message, as well. Dick wouldn’t mind it—Lady Robin likely won’t exist after this—but since he’s been presented as part of Slade’s entourage, his actions would reflect negatively upon Defiance. It’s a thought that doesn’t sit well with Dick.

So he agrees, against his good sense.

Luckily the dance is a quicker waltz, one that doesn’t leave them much space to talk. Dick is a fairly good dancer, and Donna is, too—she picks up on his ability quickly, and he’s forced to pay close attention to keep up with her as she leads him through complicated turns and step sequences.

He’s out of breath when the dance finally ends—it was quick, and he isn’t used to dancing in such heavy skirts.

“Have we met before?” Donna says once they’re off the floor. “The way you dance is familiar.”

“You must be mistaking me for someone else,” Dick says lightly. “Unless you’ve been to Defiance before?”

“Never,” Donna says, but she’s still looking at him speculatively enough that it makes Dick uneasy—especially knowing how close she is to Lady Diana, one of Bruce’s dearest friends.

He ducks his head and curtseys before she can think to interrogate him more. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for the dance.”

It would be rude for Donna to insist on her company after that, so she’s forced by propriety to let him go.

He manages to rest for one song before he accepts another invitation to dance, then another. He carefully times his rests as the night goes on to avoid dancing with anyone like Donna, who might end up asking too many questions. In between, he keeps half an eye on Bruce, who seems to spend as much time on the dance floor as he does standing near the musicians, speaking with various guests. Occasionally, Bruce seems to notice Dick looking, and turns his way, unerringly catching Dick’s gaze.

Dick looks away very quickly whenever that happens, and avoids looking in Bruce’s direction for at least a few songs.

Dick’s just finished another dance when he chances a peek, and nearly does a double-take when he sees Bruce talking to Slade.

It’s not that strange a sight—or shouldn’t be, at least. They’re both kings, and Bruce certainly spent a good amount of time talking to King Kal-El of Kandor tonight.

But when they both glance over to meet his gaze, it’s hard not to feel as though he’s been caught doing something wrong.

Dick turns away from them, his chest suddenly feeling tight.

He needs air.

He sweeps through the crowd and stumbles his way out into the gardens, mindlessly wandering through the rows of hedges until he finds a stone bench he can collapse onto. He closes his eyes, burying his face in his hands as he lets the sound of water flowing from the fountain calm his racing heart.

He doesn’t even know why he’s so nervous. Slade would hardly spill Dick’s secrets to Bruce; he’d much rather watch Dick struggle and fail on his own.

But the wrongness of what Dick is doing, combined with the fact that Bruce would want nothing more to do with him if he knew the truth, combined with the fact that Slade is the one who allowed Dick to both live out his desires and ruin his own life at the same time—

In hindsight, he wonders why he wasn’t more nervous at the start.

He shouldn’t have done this.

He shouldn’t have done this at all.

“Are you all right?”

Dick flies to his feet, skirts swirling around him as he turns to face Bruce, standing in the middle of the path. “Your Highness! What are you doing out here?”

“Do I need a reason to be in my own gardens?” Bruce says, amusement clear in his voice as he wanders closer. “I should ask how it is you’ve found your way out here.”

“I needed some fresh air.”

“As did I,” Bruce says. He pauses for a second. “Would you mind if I joined you?”

Dick’s heart flutters in his chest, but he steps away from the bench, leaving plenty of room for Bruce to take a seat. “Not at all. Please.”

Bruce sits on one side, and looks expectantly at Dick. Dick considers making an escape, but can’t think of a way to do it without risking offense—and he doesn’t really want to escape, besides.

He sits down, careful to leave space between his skirts and Bruce’s leg, and stares resolutely at the water streaming down the levels of the fountain.

After a lengthy silence, Bruce says, “I spoke with King Wilson,” and Dick bites his tongue to avoid giving any kind of reaction. “He only had the best of things to say about you.”

“Did he?”

Bruce hums in confirmation. “He indicated you weren’t part of the royal family, yet you’re part of his entourage. You aren’t a relation of Wintergreen, are you?”

“No,” Dick says, and wonders if Bruce is testing him again. It would be reasonable for Bruce to suspect that Dick might be some kind of spy for Defiance. “The king and I met by chance. I believe he found me interesting. When he heard I wanted to come to Gotham for the ball, he decided to sponsor me.”

“Why did you want to come?”

Dick blinks at Bruce, uncertain if that’s a trick question or not. “To meet you, of course.”

“Why?” Bruce says again. “Were you impressed by the war stories? Or was it simply that you wanted to meet another king?”

The words seem harsh, but Bruce’s delivery is quiet. Dick looks at the fountain as he considers his words.

“There was a boy,” Dick says finally. He turns to Bruce, who’s regarding him thoughtfully from behind his mask. “When you came to Defiance, to free the hostages.”

Bruce nods his head, remembering.

Dick folds his hands in his lap and continues. “He’d fallen down a hill—was pushed, by some bullies—and ended up by the side of the road. He wasn’t in your path, and he wasn’t even crying, either. He probably would have been just fine. But you went and helped him up anyway, with your own two hands.”

Bruce is frowning now. “Is that really so remarkable?”

“You were surrounded by knights,” Dick says. “You could have sent any one of them to help. But you, the ruler of an entire kingdom, knelt down in the dirt and helped an orphan boy you’ve never met before back to his feet. I knew then you were a very kind man, and there aren’t many kind men—much less kind kings. Who wouldn’t fall in love, seeing that?”

Bruce stares at him, taken aback, and Dick thinks that, for once, Bruce doesn’t know what to say.

Dick holds his gaze, chin held high. Everything else aside, this—this deep love that he feels for Bruce—is something that he will never be ashamed of. Others may know Bruce for his prowess on the battlefield, for his unfailing stratagems, for his ruthless efficiency, but Dick knows that Bruce’s true power lies in the strength of his heart.

How could Dick have ever avoided falling headfirst, once he learned the kind of man Bruce was?

How could he have ever resisted the opportunity to have Bruce beside him tonight, looking at him like the secrets of the universe are hidden behind Dick’s eyes?

“I’m afraid you have me at a great disadvantage,” Bruce says softly, “for I have nothing nearly so insightful to express to you in return.”

“I’m not expecting anything,” Dick says. “We’ve only just met.”

“Apparently not,” Bruce says pointedly.

Dick smiles lightly. “I wouldn’t consider that a meeting; we hardly exchanged words. You likely didn’t even know I was there.”

“I did not,” Bruce says, “but…” He places his hand on the bench, deliberately, so that the tips of his fingers land over Dick’s. “As we sit here, part of me can’t help but think that we’ve met before—perhaps in another life.” He smiles a small, almost shy smile as he meets Dick’s gaze. “The other part thinks it may just be that I wish we could have met sooner in this one.”

Dick feels the flush travel all the way up his face as his heart beats madly, attempting to escape through his throat.

“I think we met at just the right time,” Dick whispers.

Bruce leans closer, slowly, so slowly that Dick has enough time to consider whether or not he should really let this happen—whether or not he should really let this fantasy go on for any longer—

But Dick has always known what the answer would be.

He tilts his chin up and leans forward just as Bruce leans down to meet him, and their lips brush once, twice, three times before Bruce is kissing him firmly. Dick places his hand against Bruce’s chest and parts his lips in a gasp as the world fades around them, the rushing water of the fountain replaced by the pounding of his heart ad Bruce’s hand gently cups the back of his head.

Distantly, the bells begin to toll.

Dick jerks back, turning to the clock tower and feeling horror rise in him as he registers the two hands, pointed straight up.

He leaps off the bench, gathering his skirts. “I’m sorry, I—I have to go.”

Bruce stands with him, clearly bewildered. “Now?”

“Strict curfew,” Dick says, anxiously waiting for the itch to build underneath his skin and desperately hoping it will wait a few moments longer. “I’m very sorry, but King Slade is waiting for me.”

“Of course.” Bruce still seems uncertain, but he holds out his arm. “Allow me to escort you—”

“No,” Dick says, too-quickly enough that Bruce visibly startles. “No, I— Please enjoy the ball. I can handle myself. I’ll see you again tomorrow?”

That, at least, gets Bruce to relax slightly. “Tomorrow, then.” He takes Dick’s hand, and this time he presses his lips against the gloved knuckles, making Dick’s knees buckle. “Good night, Robin.”

Dick smiles, and hope it doesn’t look as shaky as he feels. “Good night, Bruce.”

He hurries out of the garden, feeling Bruce’s gaze burning into his back until he disappears behind a row of hedges, skirting the edges of the castle to make his way out to the front, where the carriage bearing Defiance colors is waiting.

He climbs in, and the door has just closed behind him when he feels his skin begin to prickle.

“Cutting it close,” Slade says as Dick slumps into his seat.

Dick closes his eyes as the prickling turns distinctively itchy. “As if you wouldn’t find it entertaining if I failed.”

“It would hardly be entertaining if the game ended too soon due to your own carelessness,” Slade says. He might say something else, too, but it’s lost in Dick’s hiss of pain as the burning feeling overtakes him once more.

At least he knows what to expect this time, and knows that, as painful as it is, it won’t last long. He breathes through the feeling of being flayed alive, and lets out a sigh of relief once the sensation finally recedes.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s to see Slade studying him, a hand curled over his mouth.

“What,” Dick says.

“Nothing at all.” Slade hands him a handkerchief, and stays silent while Dick wipes his brow. “You seem to have left a good impression on the king. What’s your plan for if he does propose to the fair Lady Robin?”

“He won’t.”

“And if he does?”

“He won’t.”

“Indulge me.”

Dick looks at him, exhausted. “Lady Robin is a Defiance noble, and I’ve told him that you’re my sponsor. If he wants my hand, he’ll need to ask you for it.”

Slade stares at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Then it seems to dawn on him. “And you want me to say no.” When Dick doesn’t refute him, he leans back in his seat and laughs incredulously. “You were never planning to marry him regardless.”

“How could I?” Dick snaps. “He’s king of Gotham, and I’m...”

“And you’re you.” Slade taps his fingers on his thigh. “You’re painfully pathetic when it comes to him, aren’t you?”

Dick bristles. “So what if I am? No longer interested in my hand?”

Slade smirks. “I’ll endure. It’s no hardship to me to bring the Lady Robin on future visits, if it will keep you happy. Though I don’t have to tell you that Wayne is an intelligent man. He’ll realize the truth sooner or later.”

“I know,” Dick says, and closes his eyes to Slade’s answering expression.

The villa is still empty by the time they arrive, Wintergreen and Rose likely still at the ball. Dick changes back into his clothes, hangs the gown carefully behind the screen, and goes to pull on his boots.

“Same time tomorrow,” Slade says. He still has that same expression on his face, the one Dick can’t bear to look at.

“Same time tomorrow,” Dick says, and slips out into the night without a glance back.

He can handle a great number of things from Slade; pity is not one of them.

Dick’s stomach is still churning with nerves when he makes his way downstairs for breakfast the next morning.

He’d gotten everything he wanted, and more: at most, he’d hoped for a dance and a warm smile—and he’d gotten the sensation of Bruce’s lips, hot and perfect against his. He’s flying high on wings of wax, and he should stop before it’s too late—should take the memory of his one perfect night and let that be enough to carry him through the rest of his life.

But he’s too weak for that—too pathetic, as Slade would say.

He wants every night that he can get.

Breakfast is already ready and waiting by the time he arrives in the tea room—as well as a judgmental eyebrow, courtesy of the butler—and Dick winces as he hurries into his seat.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“I certainly can’t blame you, what with all the commotion of the ball,” Alfred says dryly as he pours Dick a steaming cup of tea. “It’s a wonder that Master Bruce is as awake as he is.”

Bruce smiles. “It was a good night.”

“I’m glad for you, sir,” Alfred says sincerely.

“You’re still welcome to attend, you know,” Bruce says to Dick. “I know you said you weren’t interested, but I want to make sure you don’t feel excluded, just because you aren’t officially a prince. You’re still my ward, and there are plenty of people who were looking forward to seeing you—even Clark asked after you.”

“Maybe he can come dine with us, after,” Dick says. “I don’t want to start any gossip—you know how some of the nobles feel about me. I know this is important to you.”

“You’re important to me, too,” Bruce reminds him, and Dick rewards him with a soft smile.

It’s not fair, that he can’t have it all.

“You said it was a good night,” Dick says as he butters his bread. “Does that mean you met someone you liked?”

“I think I may have,” Bruce says, and the words are hesitant, but the shy smile is familiar, and Dick’s heart soars, knowing the memory of him is what’s putting that expression on Bruce’s face. “But it’s only been one night, so it’s too soon to say anything for certain.”

Dick doesn’t look directly at Bruce when he says, “You’re meeting her again, then?”

Bruce’s smile widens. “I certainly hope so.”

This will only lead to disaster, Dick is sure, and heartbreak—both for him and for Bruce—but, for that smile, Dick has no choice but to fly straight into the sun.

“I hope so, too,” Dick says, and smiles back.