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He's in Vegas.
Dick had been to Las Vegas once before, back when he was still a kid, when he was still with the circus. He hadn't seen much of the city then — his parents had kept him away from all the crowds of people gambling and drinking — but he remembers just how bright the place was. Big neon lights illuminating the whole place, seeping into every corner. He thought it was amazing, back then, how alive the place had seemed.
Now, it looks dark and dead. Hazy. There are still neon signs all around him, showcasing casinos, hotels, strip clubs — but there's also darkness. Shadowy alleyways where the bright lights don't even begin to touch, cars with tinted windows and smoke billowing out of them, and women wearing smoky makeup and skimpy clothes.
And him.
He's not even sure how he got there. It's like he blinked and there he was, LAX, and then another blink and he's in some shitty motel and on a creaky, piss-stained mattress with Cat forcing him to drink something. Whatever it is tastes gross, but he can't be bothered to spit it out. Besides, it's wet and cool and soothes his dry mouth. Cat croons at him as she wipes up some of the drink that dribbles out of his mouth.
Catalina.
She must be how he got there, he thinks. While Dick may not be as good of a detective as Bruce or Tim, he knows enough to deduce that the woman with him must be how he's halfway across the country.
Catalina.
The woman he trained. Tarantula. The woman he's failed.
He was supposed to teach her. He knew she had a dark side — they all did, every one of them, people who decide to put on a mask — but he was so sure he could help her toe the line and stay on the more moral side of crime-fighting. Instead, he just stepped aside.
If he tries really hard, that's probably the last thing he remembers with any clarity. She had raised her gun, pointed it at the man who was tormenting him — the man who was killing everyone who he even looked at, who blew up his apartment building, who had ordered the destruction of Haly's circus — and told him to step aside.
Bang!
That noise has been playing on repeat ever since that night.
Bang!
He had fled from the scene, sick at the sight of the blood and brain matter, and he thinks he had made it up to the roof. He remembers it was raining, remembers it was cold. So, so cold. He couldn't breathe. Why couldn't he breathe?
He remembers her on the rooftop too. He could see her long hair and smell her perfume. Feel her.
He'd feel sick, remembering what followed, if he had the capability to feel much of anything. Since then he's been kind of switched off.
Blinking again, he's dressed in a suit and no longer in their motel room. Catalina is beside him, pressed up against his side. And they're not alone. There's a man standing across from them, dressed like Elvis? He thinks it's meant to be Elvis, but the costume isn't very good. More like Elvis towards the end of his life, swollen and sweaty. Dick remembers hearing somewhere that Elvis had died on the toilet. He wonders if that's true or just something someone made up. He'll have to search.
"Dick," Cat hisses, elbow jabbing into his ribs.
Her bony elbow hurts, but not as much as focusing does. He's been floating for a while — he's not sure exactly how long, but long enough for him to be in Vegas — and to be forcibly made to focus is so overwhelming.
"Huh?" he croaks, voice hoarse from disuse. He can't remember the last time he spoke. Surely I spoke at the airport? He must have done, for someone to let him on a plane. Right? The man across from him — Elvis — is looking at him quizzically. What was the question?
"Do you take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife?" The man asks again, looking between him and Cat.
Wife?
Catalina elbows him again, her grip on his arm growing tighter. Sluggishly, he looks down at her. The last he can remember seeing her was when they were still at the motel, both of them naked in bed. Now, she's in a dress — a short, black number that hugs close to her figure. That's not a wedding dress, he thinks. Well, it must be if they're getting married.
Marriage.
It's weird, he thinks, that he and Cat are getting married. He can't remember them ever even talking about it. They must have done, though, for them to be here. Right? He'd never given it much thought before, had briefly pictured it when he and Babs had started getting serious, and sometimes even let himself imagine how he'd propose and what kind of ring he'd get her. He misses her — his Babs — and wishes she was here. He looks around the small room they're in and notices a distinct lack of anyone besides him, Cat, and Elvis. Did they not invite his family? He hopes that they hadn't invited them — that that's the reason why they're not here, and not the alternative. That they actually did invite them, and they all decided not to come. He'd be really sad if that's the case. He hopes not.
"Dick," she says again – Catalina, not Babs. She's glaring up at him now, nails practically piercing through the thin material of his tux jacket. "Come on, querido. Say 'I do', and then we can go."
I do. Two words, three letters. It wouldn't take a lot of energy to follow her orders — well, continue following her orders — and just say it. If he does what she says, then they can go. He's not exactly sure where they'd go — maybe back to their motel? — but it sounds better than staying here, where it's bright and there's a bad Elvis impersonator and he's wearing an uncomfortable suit.
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He tries again, wetting his cotton mouth and trying to force the words out so that he could let Cat take the reins again, but he only gets as far as saying "I" before his voice gives out. What is wrong with me? he thinks, as he struggles to say two measly words. He used to be able to talk non-stop; hell, people would literally beg him to shut up. Why can't he just say two small words and let himself be done?
"I—"
Bang!
Dick would think the noise was just in his head — the way it has been since that night — if not for the way that both Catalina and not-Elvis jump and look towards the double doors. Turning slowly, not having enough energy for anything more, Dick spots the intrusion.
His family?
At the forefront of the group is Bruce. His dad. He's here, standing tall in the doorway. He's flanked on both sides by two of his brothers — Jason on his left and Tim on his right. The three of them look haggard — clothes rumpled and hair ruffled.
That's not wedding attire, Dick thinks.
Surveying the group, he notices that Damian isn't with them, and all the girls are absent as well. For some reason he finds that he's happy they're not here, which baffles him because surely he should want them present at his wedding. Why wouldn't he?
Dick can't make himself look at his dad for too long, a sense of shame welling up inside of him when he does try. He's going to be so disappointed, he thinks, in a voice that sounds a lot like Catalina's. Instead, he lets his eyes sweep back and forth between his younger brothers. Jason looks angry, but that's normal for him, so it doesn't worry Dick. Tim looks tired and sad, but, again, that's typical for him as well. Now that he's thinking about it, maybe he should talk to Tim about that. He hates to think about his little brother being sad — maybe he can pass along his therapists' details? He'll be sure to bring it up after the wedding.
Too busy planning on helping out Tim, he missed the moment that Bruce decided to speak. Or well, continue to speak, he thinks. Bruce is worriedly looking at him, like he's already said something that Dick didn't hear. What did he say?
"Dick?" Bruce asks quietly, eyes boring into him. "Chum?"
Chum.
Dick can't remember the last time Bruce had called him that. It feels like a lifetime ago — even before Jason had joined their family, back when Dick wasn't so angry at Bruce all the time. It had felt like a punishment back then when he had noticed that Bruce had stopped calling him that. It's nice, he thinks, to hear it again in his dad's deep, soothing voice — the same way he used to say it when he was a freshly orphaned boy. Chum.
Blinking again, and now Jason is in front of them and yelling at him. No, not him. Yelling at Cat? He doesn't think they've ever met before — why is Jason mad at her?
"What the fuck did you give him?!" he hears, tuning back in to the world around him. He's used to Jason yelling — both in and out of costume — and so it shouldn't be as shocking as it is right now.
Him? Who is Jason talking about? Elvis? Catalina must have given their officiant something — their IDs, paperwork, something — for this to take place. Why would Jason care what she gave him, though? His little brother can be weird like that, though.
"Jay," Dick manages to croak out, trying to reach out and keep his brother from attacking his… fiance? Huh, fiancé. He can't remember even proposing to Cat and wonders how long they've been betrothed to each other. They've not even known each other that long. Getting lost in thought once again, his intended action is aborted, his arm (the one Cat isn't gripping for dear life) rising only a little bit before falling back to his side.
He's really tired.
It all kind of hits him at once. There's more talking now — shouting, really, from all angles. Even Not-Elvis joins in, and Dick thinks he'd be laughing at how similar the guy actually sounds to Elvis if he had enough energy to. He notices how bright the room is — way brighter than their dingy motel room was — and how those lights appear to be swaying right now. It's hot, too. Like, really hot. Dick knows Vegas is a warm place, most places are warmer than Gotham in comparison, but he didn't realise how hot he was until just now. Gotham, his home. Regardless of all the terrible shit that has happened to him there, he still misses it. Why'd he leave again?
Somebody grabs onto his free arm and pulls, with just enough force to dislodge Cat's vice-like grip on his other arm. Even with the minimal amount of power they put into the action, Dick falls into the motion, his would-be descent to the floor cushioned by the mystery someone's broad chest.
This is nice, he thinks, as he sinks further into whomever's chest he's against — probably Jason or Bruce if he had to guess; Tim is built much more like he is, less muscly, more lithe. There are arms encircling him, keeping him held tight, and instead of being freaked out by this, Dick finds himself comforted by the fact. It feels like he's wrapped up in his favourite blanket. It feels safe.
Time disappears from him again. Another benefit of his position is how it manages to block out most of the sounds and lights from the commotion that is happening around him. Like this, he can doze a bit — shut his eyes and finally take in a deep breath. He smells leather and a cologne he knows to be Jason's. He can remember making fun of his little brother for buying it, a scent that is supposed to smell like the pages of a book with a hint of coffee, calling him such a nerd. It's weird, Dick thinks as he takes in another big breath, that he can remember that — something small that had happened years and years ago — and yet can't remember putting on the suit he's wearing or, more importantly, going to Las Vegas.
It scares him, what's happening to him. How he can't seem to recall anything, how sick and shaky and sweaty he feels, how absolutely bone-tired he is. It's terrifying, being as unmoored as he is in this moment. He just wants it all to be over with — this wedding, these feelings, all the bright lights and loud noises.
He's crying now. He can feel the tears running down his face and a lump in his already sore throat. He wishes he could stop; he's always hated crying. It always leaves him with a headache afterwards, and he already has a headache, so he could really do without making it worse.
Luckily though, the cacophony around him seems to have died down some. That should help with his headache. Now if only someone could turn off some of the lights. He's still crying, little gasping breaths unwittingly escaping him.
"Please don't cry, Dickie," Jason begs somewhat awkwardly, swaying them side to side in a soothing manner. "Don't worry, we've got you."
This makes him cry even more but also makes him kind of want to laugh. His little brother has never been the best at comforting people, leading to some inelegant handling of victims when suited up, and it looks like it applies to family members as well.
"Dick."
Using the rest of the very small amount of energy he has left, Dick manages to lift his head up off Jason's chest to look up at who spoke.
"Dad," he rasps, tasting snot and tears as they slide into his open mouth.
"Oh, chum," Bruce says, sounding sorrowful as he collects them both – Dick and Jason – into his arms. Dick leans into them even more now, practically being held up by the two of them. They stay like that for what feels like an hour but could really only be a few minutes before Dick blinks out of reality again and then finds himself fully cradled against Bruce's chest, being taken somewhere in a bridal carry. Heh, bridal carry, he jokes to himself. Even when feeling so poorly he's still cracking jokes. Is the wedding done? Are they going back to the motel?
"Where?" he mumbles, nuzzling his cheek against the soft material of Bruce's blazer and blearily looking up at his dad.
They stop walking, outside now, and Dick hears the beep-beep of a car unlocking and the sound of his brothers fighting, bickering really.
"Home," Bruce says, looking down fondly at him, "we're taking you home."
Safe and sound with his family, Dick lets himself pass out.