Chapter Text
When Dick had walked into the office that morning, smile on face, Peter in tow, fedora on head- and god did he hate the thing, he hadn’t been expecting anything more than your run of the mill, “here is your mortgage fraud” kind of day. The “It seems I have misplaced my will to live” kind of day. Truth be told, he hadn’t really been expecting any kind of day, when he and Peter had crossed the short distance from the elevators to the bullpen some hours prior. Neal Caffrey had in fact been a little preoccupied in his attempt to keep everybody’s coffee in the cups, off the floor, and to its owners. (Or so face the wrath of Diana).
To be fair, most days started like this. Most days were like this day was panning out to be.
Boring. Soul killing. Mind numbing, monotonous, tedious, civilian work.
And don’t get him wrong, it’s not like he has a problem with civilian work- he was a cop, after all, (and a damn good one, at that), it’s just…
It’s just boring, really.
He misses patrol, misses helping people, yes, of course- but since Neal Caffrey had come into play, Dick Grayson had found himself grounded.
No more Grayson, no more flying. Two sides of the same coin, they were. You couldn’t have one without the other.
He keeps catching himself staring at Jones’s stapler, its black and blue frame hitting a little too close to home. Those were his colours, he should be wearing them, not a damn stapler, of all things. And then he’ll catch himself, does so two or three times a day. Tells himself; you’re losing it, Dick, you’re jealous of a stapler. Get it together, and never, ever, under any circumstances, let Jason hear you're envying the stationary now. Or Tim, for that matter.
He has to remind himself: its not even like you're not Nightwing anymore. Its not like you’ll ever let that happen.
And then, momentary crisis duct-taped, throttled and booted to the depths of hell, (a successful dealing with, if you asked him), he would resume his underwhelming, very very boring, barely tolerable, mundane, dull, uninspiring, nondescript, archetypal, repetitive, monotonous, mind-numbing, soul-killing, tedious, wooden. Fucking. Day.
...
Actually maybe he was a little too stressed right now.
Maybe he just needed a Nightwing-flavoured holiday.
Just a day, maybe a week or two, out there.
Just a chance to be reminded of, instead of remembering, the swish of the air as he slipped through it, the way it felt to fly without the reassurance of a net or a harness. The absence of a reachable kind of ground.
Damn it. He had been staring at that plagiarising stapler again.
He really should get back to Neal’s paperwork.
Too bad.
Anyway, all this isn’t to say that he’d stopped training, nohoho, he was far too paranoid for that. And besides, training was imbued in him; first by his parents- so we can do our best, no matter what- and then by Bruce; because we must help, no matter what. And then, he and Damian, in the time B had been ‘absent’, had come up with their own version, composite of the two; we train because we must do our best to help.
Truthfully, Dick’s pretty sure there’s a better way to word it, but Damian had approved, so its not like he can bring himself to change it now, even if only internally.
Hence, he keeps up with his training.
And, it’s a good thing he does, since it’s come in- “Neal.”
Dick’s attention wobbled really quite pathetically across the metaphorical bullpen to metaphorically sit on Peter, just in time for Dick to catch the two fingered gesture Jason had so graciously named the “Come Hither, Fool”.
Distracted again, (damn you, feeble mind), Dick rose from his desk and followed his attention-jello across the bullpen, all the while torn with the sudden need to hightail it back to Gotham and his family.
Luckily, though, he was raised by the best. (Or worst, depending on where you stand.)
He shoved the feeling to the side, taking the seconds between the top of the stairs and the handle of Peter’s door to re-apply the ‘Caffrey’ mask and urge his mind-jello to get a little more sturdy.
“Peter?” Oops. Yes, he may have been raised by the best, but certainly that didn’t make him Bruce.
He cleared his throat, hoping Peter didn’t notice the slight off-ness of the ‘Caffrey voice’. Though judging from the look his handler sent him, Dick was inclined to believe Peter had. Luckily, it seemed whatever bad news Peter was evidently about to disclose- there are certain expressions one doesn’t wear unless something unfortunate is occurring- was working in his favour, as Peter apparently decided that discussing whatever it was was a more pressing issue than questioning his CI about why he couldn’t speak right.
Dick flopped- as gracefully as Caffrey could flop- into the chair opposite his handler, and the man in question seemed to deflate a little. Ever the gentleman, Dick Neal inquired, “Something wrong, Peter?”
And Peter seemed to hesitate before speaking, sending him some inscrutable look.
“White Collar is going to Gotham.”