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His daily routine went something like this: Wake up. Wish he didn’t. Contemplate his agonizing existence. Get up. Grit his teeth. Move through exercises and stretches that in theory would help his body feel better. Feel like shit. Choke down breakfast while feeling like shit. Get on with his day; try to get outside, try to do something fun, nap at least once, eat lunch, eat dinner, blah blah. Go to bed, wake up the next morning, rinse and repeat.
Once, when he was a teenager, Bruce had gotten him a therapist, probably because he’d read that he should in some parenting book, and thought out-sourcing dealing with all of Dick’s complicated emotions was a good idea. She had been nice, and comfortable, and told him that he didn’t need to keep any secrets from her, because she was safe and wouldn’t tell anyone.
Yeah, right. He wasn’t stupid even then, as a teenager angry about his inability to do things his peers were doing and perpetually grieving his parents and launched into Bruce’s world of money. So he’d smiled and said okay, and then never ever told her anything real.
Here was a secret, though. Sometimes, he wished he hadn’t survived the fall. Sometimes, he cursed his father for catching him and cushioning his landing just enough that he didn’t splatter his brains all over the arena floor like his mother. Sometimes, he wished that he was buried next to his parents, at rest and unable to feel pain any more.
“Dick, so glad you could make it.”
The words carried censure, a condemnation for all the other times Dick hadn’t made it.
“Hey, Bruce,” he said, smile frozen on his face. It felt natural in that it was practiced, not in that it was real. “I’m glad I could make it, too.” He felt brittle, but he’d been brittle for so long that it felt natural, too.
He wanted to be anywhere but here.
“Well, help yourself to some hors d’oerves,” Bruce said, clapping him on the shoulder before walking off to say hello to another group of people. Dick bit down a flinch, forcing out a smile that he held until Bruce’s back was turned, then let it slide off his face as he made his way to the bar. Thank every god out there that Bruce didn’t skimp on the booze; an open bar was half the draw for these things.
He took his glass of wine and headed for a seat. If he didn’t sit down and rest immediately, he was going to have a real problem standing later. It was a miracle that he could stand and walk at all. Years of surgeries and medications and physical therapy had gotten him to this point, after his skeleton turned into what amounted to a pile of broken glass shattered on the ground under the trapeze, and all his medical needs paid for by Bruce, for which he was endlessly grateful.
Ha.
As much as he hated it sometimes, the fact was, he was lucky. Bruce paid for his apartment and his living expenses, and had so generously provided him with a trust fund so he wouldn’t have to work for the rest of his life, if he didn’t want to. However. The fund wasn’t fully in his name until he was twenty-four. Which he would be in three years. And boy, did Bruce like to remind him that “neglecting his family was irresponsible” and that he “needed to learn to behave like an adult,” which really all boiled down to “It’s my money until you turn twenty-four so you need to show up at a few events and make nice.”
He sagged into a chair and settled in to people watch for a bit. If he only had a little more energy and a little less pain, these events would be twice as much fun. People really went all out, dressing up in designer looks, pulling out the shiniest bling. Luckily for him, people watching was a low-intensity activity.
“You look nice,” a familiar voice said behind him, breaking him out of his thoughts.
“Ms. Gordon,” he said, smiling at her as she wheeled her chair to sit beside him. “Ravishing, as always.”
“Mr. Grayson, such a flatterer,” she said, smiling back. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” he said. A pang of guilt went through him; he’d been bad about messaging people back lately.
“What are you doing, hiding over here?” she asked.
“Resting,” he said with a shrug.
“I don’t know why you don’t just use your chair for these things,” Babs said, shaking her head. The you idiot was fondly implied.
“You know why,” Dick said, swirling his wine in the glass. “People make... comments, and sometimes it’s just not worth it.”
Babs sighed. “Yeah. If only we could all be so lucky as to have that option.”
The guilt-trip was comically obvious, as was the sly, teasing look on her face. He couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, “No one wins in the suffering Olympics, I know.”
“Barbara, good to see you,” Bruce said, walking up to them, a girl who looked to be Dick’s age glued to his side. “Dick, should you really be drinking, with all the medications you’re taking?”
Dick had to consciously keep his hands from tensing enough to snap the stem off the wineglass. Bruce just always had to bring up his… issues in public. “My doctor said it’s fine,” he said through gritted teeth.
“You know I’m just looking out for you,” Bruce said, and Dick could almost see hearts appearing in the girl’s eyes as she watched Bruce, adoringly lovesick. Ugh.
“I appreciate it, but I’m good,” he said. “One glass of wine won’t make things worse.”
Barbara’s face was filled with sympathy, as Bruce changed the topic onto some new invention in the works at his company, and Dick safely tuned out the conversation until he could escape with Babs again and hopefully avoid Bruce for the rest of the night.
His daily routine for several days after the gala looked something like this: Wake up. Wish he didn’t. Contemplate his agonizing existence. Feel like shit. Choke down painkillers. Go back to sleep.