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"Not your style?" He ventures in the carefully light tone he adopts whenever he approaches the topic of your nonexistent romantic conquests. His elbow slides on the bar as he moves to take the space the other man had just vacated. He'd stepped away easily then, and he steps back in just the same.
You give him a sidelong glance. "Of?"
Dick smirks, just a little. Jerk. "Man," he says. "Seemed handsome to me, but I know for a fact you have discerning taste."
He knocks shoulders with you, just a nudge. You roll your eyes and nudge him back before he can start pouting. He's talking about himself, of course, and that's gonna become an inside joke faster than you can think of a way to stop it. He's mentioned it two times tonight already, the little elephant always in the room. How you'd liked him. Believed, for just a moment, that he liked you back. It's fine, really, you're—you're getting over it. You've made your peace with the fact. It's just the sting that lingers.
Maybe you should set him up with that blond giving him eyes over by the booths. The only reason Dick's bringing up your non-affair is because he's feeling guilty about choosing this bar without realizing the night could only end in him ditching you for some hot and flashy thing and you crawling back home alone a bit more tipsy than you should be. You don't mind it so badly; it's hardly the first time. Dick doesn't know that, though, and it's not the sort of thing you can admit to. Dick would turn his big, wet eyes to you, full of love and miserable pity and—and you simply couldn't stand it. To say it is usual for me to be disregarded and you needn't worry about it, and to then have to bear his indignation, or, worse, his understanding.
"He was flirting with you," Dick continues, because there's no bear he won't poke.
You sigh. He's not gonna let that go, is he? "Yep. He wanted a drink."
Dick's eyebrows shoot up. "He wanted you to pay for his drink?"
"No!" You hurry to deny, lest he march over to the poor guy still hovering at the sidelines of the room, by the pool table. "I'm not that much of a chump, okay? He wanted my spot at the bar for a moment, said he'd give it back after a minute. Stayed for a chat while the bartender got his Cubas ready, which I wouldn't have to explain to you if you hadn't immediately high-tailed it out of here the moment he said hi."
Exasperation bleeds into your words, even though you try to tamp it down as much as you can. Dick is chill, but sometimes he just starts... hovering like a fretful mother. You'd be more touched if it wasn't a little insulting. You can hold your own. You press a hand over your throat, grounding yourself.
"Right," he says, appeasing. His eyes flick down to your hand. "Sorry." A beat. And then, "but he didn't need to flirt to do that."
You blink at him. "We're at a bar?"
"Yes, we are?" Dick questions back.
"It's—" It's customary, you begin to say, but the words get stuck in your throat. It's the sort of white lie you can tell yourself and be happy with, but not one that can stand to Dick's scrutiny. It's bullshit, of course, but you don't know that until you know it. Until you've said it out loud. You stare at Dick at a loss. Nobody else questions these things about you.
"Time and place?" He supplies after a moment of searching your face.
You slump back against the bar. "Sure. Sure. Exactly," you say, fluttering your hand halfheartedly.
Dick catches it in the air before you can place it back on your neck. "You're scratching again," he scolds, prying your fingers open to slide his palm against yours. His hand is as warm and pleasant as ever, his thumb rubbing against your pulse point. You glance down at your neck and sure enough, a patch of irritated skin pops up under the neon pink light of the bar. Right.
You hold your hands low between your bodies, almost hidden, knuckles knocking against the polished wood of the stools or brushing the outside of one another's thighs. It's a long, slow moment, even though the world rushes in sound and color around you. You try not to savor it too much.
"I'm fine," you mumble, to break the magic. He's got a finger on your pulse, anyway, he knows how you're feeling. He just doesn't—doesn't care.
Dick hums, uninterested, and doesn't let go. "I think," he says, careful not to look at you straight on, "that he really meant it."
"Do you," you say, throat dry.
He glances over and then his eyes dart away again. They're tracking the guy, you realize when you follow his gaze, and feel a hot shiver wreck through your body. Embarrassment, surely.
"I think the drinks were an excuse to come talk to you," Dick says, pointing his chin at the pool table. "He hasn't touched his glass in forever."
Sure enough, Dick's eyes are as keen as ever. The guy's not really drinking. He didn't seem like the type when he'd come around, to be honest, a little too put together and not in the way that hinted at deep wells of perversion the way some other people did. He just seemed like a nice, normal guy who rarely ever strayed from his good, old three to four cans of PBR. And he isn't ugly, that much is true. His hair's a little short, and his clothes are very run of the mill, and you know nothing about him. But he's handsome in an inoffensive way, and his shoulders are broad, and when he'd come over to order his drinks, he'd crouched a little so you didn't crane your neck to carry the conversation.
The man looks up. A lopsided little smile. You smile back somehow and he waves. Cute.
Shit. Are you really doing this?
Your heart speeds up. Dick must feel it, thumb against the pounding blood. It's him that prompts it. It's always him. You've never been as reckless and stupid as you are with him.
So you ask, "should I go there?"
Everything fills the silence that follows. The chattering from the tables, rhythmic cacophony of conflicting meaning. The clang of the pool balls as they smash against one another. The smooth crooning of Etta James mocking you.
At last, my love has come along / My lonely days are over / And life is like a song...
You turn your face to watch him, but Dick's already looking back at you. Something in his face you haven't seen before. Not the tepid politeness of the every day, nor the intimate teasing that riles you up in every way. Not the difficult sorrow of an untold tale, or the devastating openness pressed against your neck. Something else. Something new. An understanding. Of what?
You almost don't speak. Stay quiet just to watch him a little longer, to keep his hand steady against you. Traitorous, your lips part anyway, and his eyes flick down to watch them do it. Watch 'em move, watch 'em wrap around the words. His tongue darts to wet his mouth, blush pink over glossy rose. Like he wants—like he wants at all.
Don't, you think miserably, feeling stupid hope blossom between rib and rib. Don't do this to me again.
"Dick?" You whisper, unsure.
Dick's eyes dart back again to yours, and he blinks. Once, twice, like a lost kid. And then, when your eyebrows knit together, it all comes back rushing into him, the familiar mask slipping back into place. A blinding smile spreads over his face, charming and toothy, and causing a chain of gasps nearby.
"Yes," he says radiantly. The cheer feels off, the smile seems brittle, but he—he squeezes your hand, and clears his throat, and when he speaks again, he means it. You can tell he does. "You should go talk to him."
"Okay," you say numbly, sliding off the stool before you chicken out. Before one thought can chase the next away. One foot and then the other. The lovely man keeps glancing back at you and your queasy-looking face, and perhaps he looks a little unsure himself and that's very gallant of him, to care about your own uncertainty. You should keep that in mind. You can't even remember why you were afraid of him in the first place. "Okay."
You take a step away, only to be tugged back by Dick's hand still gripping yours, as tight as ever.
"Oh," he says, like he didn't realize sending you over meant letting go as well. He laughs a little choppy, embarrassed laugh, and drops your hand a beat later. "I," he starts, and then shakes his head, thinking better of it. Braces his hands against his knees. "Good luck."
"Right." You swallow. "Thank you."
Dick's right, by the way, but only halfway. When you approach the pool table with a warm smile and a tentative, "Daniel?" the man you'd spoken to lights up, but you know then and there it's not going to go anywhere. It's the little glances behind you, the way his smile strains when he looks back at you, that tells you he wasn't looking at you. He must've been disappointed when he saw you approach alone. You would've been a better wingman if you'd known.
Still, this makes it easier. Daniel is 24, an electrical engineer, and by the end of the night, your new friend. The group he's in is good fun, too, and they take well to introductions. You beat Daniel's ass at pool, and chant chug, chug! at his best friend when they lose a bet, and all throughout you feel Dick's eyes following you, tucked at the side of the blond from earlier, who must've made his way over without your help.
When the thing with Daniel fizzles out—when you tire of the pantomime, really—you search Dick out across the bar. He lifts his head up from wherever he has it, looking so like a prairie dog you forget to look bummed out when you point to Daniel and shrug in defeat. Dick disengages from his leggy blond, his hair ruffled and the collar of his shirt askew, and bounces over to your group with a happy smile.
"Bye, guys! My ride's here," you announce, standing up and pointing your thumb at Dick, who smothers you in a hug in retaliation. The chorus of goodbyes turn into laughter as you fake put upon. "Ugh! C'mon, man."
Dick plants a noisy kiss to the top of your head. "Took your sweet time," he whispers against your hair.
You roll your eyes and pinch him underneath his leather jacket. Dick only shivers and noses at your scalp. Lunatic. You sigh in defeat. "Lovely to meet you guys," you reiterate, and then point at Daniel. "Text me the details, Dani. I'll see what I can do."
"Right on," Daniel says, glancing at Dick and hiding a smile. You wink at him as you turn, Dick's arm slung over your shoulders.
"So," Dick says nonchalantly, once outside. The air's just that side of tepid, but without the mingling of bodies to huff and puff, it might as well be a cold shower. Refreshing and open. It does smell like piss, but that's Gotham for you. "Dani, huh?"
You elbow him off you and walk away without him. "He was just being nice! I'm never listening to you again."
"Oh, come on," Dick says, catching himself mid stumble and trailing behind you with a stupid smile on his face that only grows when you glance back at him and scoff. "A guy is wrong once and suddenly his credibility's on the floor?"
"Once?!" You exclaim.
"A guy is wrong twice—"
"Oh, fuck off."
Dick jogs up to you and then spins backwards to face you, hands on the pockets of his jacket and a shit-eating grin on his face. He whips out the keys to his Mazda. "No can do, sweetheart. I've got the keys to the car. You wanna walk all the way to Burnsley on this lovely night?"
You lunge for the keys and he jumps out of reach with delight. "I'll hot wire it," you yell after him.
"You don't know how," he taunts.
"I'll call your brother to teach me."
Dick whirls around with a gasp, stumbling over the gravel of the parking lot. "You wouldn't dare."
"I've got his number." You stick your tongue out. "Mr. Pennyworth said it was okay to ask."
The Mazda, an unassuming, kinda bet up black number, is surprisingly not hard to find in the dark. He'd parked close to the entrance, anyway. It's still got all its wheels on, which is the real miracle. Luck of the devil.
"So first Dani, and now Jason," he says airily, fixing to open the door to the passenger's seat. "Night of conquests, is it? Aren't you a little heartbreaker?"
"I'm going to beat your ass, Dick Grayson," you warn, leaning against the back door and folding your arms over your chest as he jiggles the keys.
He opens the door for you and steps back. "Mortal Kombat or Super Smash Bros?" He asks, completely seriously.
You step in, not inside the car just yet, and stare at him incredulously, a hand on the open door. "You wanna go play video games at 2 am after a failed bar crawl? On a Saturday?"
"Unless you don't think you can win," he shrugs.
"You're so stupid," you sneer, which is a yes.
"I guess we'll find out," he says haughtily. "My place?"
"Sure," you say, and almost crawl in before you think better of it. "Toby and Hansol are probably awake. Should we call them in? Make a night of it?"
Dick studies you for a second, and then briefly steps forward, corralling you against the gaping hole of the passenger seat. You take the breach of personal space in stride. "You want them there?"
You press your lips together. "I'm just asking."
"I'm fine with you," Dick says. "I just want you."
"Okay," you say. "Alright."
Dick beams, and taps the roof of the car with a whoop. You shake your head and slide in, closing the door behind you. Dick jogs around the car, checking that the tires are actually on while you sit there in silence.
This is stupid. You're both so stupid. It's a city-wide affliction. Probably the water.
You wait until Dick's crouched right under the mirror and about to stand up to call out, "dibs on Bowser!"
From outside the car a bang, and then an echoey, "Fuck!" You wait a beat for the incoming whine and sure enough: "No fair!"
You recline back with a grin.
Oh and then the spell was cast
And here we are in heaven
For you are mine
At last