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It's the yearly Wayne’s Christmas Charity Gala for Orphaned Children, an event that Bruce has held every year since he’d become an adult, and it was a yearly pain for all of the Wayne Heirs. Being one of the few events held in the manor itself, none of them are able to keep safe, with the city’s night being protected by the Skeleton crew, most of them are simply left to “mingle” with the upper crust of the city.
Bruce was able to convince all 5 of his kids to make it, and all were currently trying to entertain themselves.
Damien was sticking close to his father, comedically copying his movements — Much to Tim’s distress. Spitting his champagne onto the banker he’s “listening” to is low on his to do list.
Jason was busy, clearly trying to impress his extremely unimpressed date, a rather dower red headed woman who looked like she wanted to be anywhere but here. She'd disappeared a few minutes prior.
Dick was sure Cassandra was here at the start, but he hasn’t seen more than three heads of brooding black hair since. Oh well, maybe she’d gone off patrolling with Steph. She’d be having a better time than him if that were the case. She’s left behind bad company in the form of Jean Paul Valley, though. He’d tried to give Dick a smile and a wave earlier. Left a bitter taste in his mouth that could only be masked by another glass of champagne.
It’s good. Bruce imports it for the occasion.
Dick flitted around the ballroom, the very picture of the perfect socialite, raising his champagne glass and throwing a smile to passerby. Making his way from the center of the room to the hors d'oeuvres table to the kitchen door, he leans in with his hand over the frame.
“Alfred,” he said, repeating when there’s no response from the man leaning over an industrial oven, a baster in hand. “Alfred, you have got to save me.”
“Please Master Richard,” his hands find his knees and he stands, slow but with the sharp gaze of a sharper mind. “If you’d refrain for one evening.”
“From what? Trying to have a good time?” he set down his glass on the counter, crossing his arms. “I’ve had about four big wigs try to force their daughters down my throat since we started, and Bruce is too busy using Damien to make a good impression to fend them off.”
Alfred raised one, quizzical eyebrow. “I would assume one such as you would be quite capable, of fending off assailants. How many glasses to drink have you had?”
He shrugged. “So so. I’m not drunk.”
“Master Grayson?”
“Yeah?” he burps, only managing to hide it in his sleeve halfway.
“Remove yourself from my kitchen, please.”
Throwing both hands up in faux exasperation, he takes his leave.
A number of speeches take place during events like this. Bruce kickstarts the shindig with his own — A shining effigy to commemorate his parents and his story, and a short message to the orphans within the sponsored orphanages. The whole thing is heartfelt. If you haven’t seen it every year for the past twelve — and leaves an open mic for any donor to come up and give whatever kind words they have.
There’s a man up there now, halfway through a speech he’s sure he’s heard before. He’s hardly paying attention, but when the sound of the ballroom grinds to a slow droll and its collective gaze becomes fixated, he can’t help but follow it.
“—Like the Waynes, we must instill a strong sense of traditional, familial values in the children of Gotham. These are children that come from broken, just, tough, tough backgrounds. And it is our responsibility as those involved with the adoption funding, to ensure that these children are adopted by healthy, normal parents of opposite sexes—”
You could hear a pin drop.
He continued as Dick tries to find Bruce in the crowd. It’s not hard, not what with him being a head taller than most there, and when he catches his gaze he shakes his head, message loud and clear
Don’t make a scene.
Somewhere in the series of minute gestures they share, there’s also the implication that Bruce will take care of it. Eventually.
He's sure he’d only gone through a flute or two of champagne, but he’s feeling bold, and intent. He knows there are certain things not to say at a gala like this. He also knows Bruce would never get into this kind of conflict, not worth it.
So, he resolves to plan his newest, instant scandal.
There’s only one person here who can help him with this endeavor, and he’s across the ballroom. Somewhere in his sober hindbrain, he realizes this is a bad idea. Bad enough is his current plan, but this only adds an extra layer of issue for Bruce to chew him out for later. His current state of mind, however, knows there’s only one man that can create the kind of reaction he wants.
“Hey,” he claps Jason on the shoulder, swinging himself back around to huddle in with him and Tim for a few seconds after finding them. “I found your girlfriend, she’s smoking in the upstairs bathroom” he points at Tim. “Mind distracting Damien because Bruce is incompetent? Thanks.”
Bee-lining off before either can respond, he swerves through the crowd, Jean Paul Valley in mind.
***
Jean-Paul Valley had been standing awkwardly near the grazing table, clearly having been abandoned by his “date”. Cass had insisted on bringing him — despite the fact they had told her multiple times that she was not obligated to bring a plus one — and she had clearly had a plan in mind, which was quite apparent as she had him glued to her for her brief time here.
Now he’s standing alone, chewing his lip as he pretends to sip his drink and desperately trying to avoid getting pulled into any conversations about who he is by the incredibly wealthy people around him.
Too out of it to look for Cass, but too polite to just leave. Easy target.
He jumps when Dick slid next to him. The grin across his face was so deeply uncharacteristic when pointed at Jean-Paul, that he knew he was about to get roped into something. Before he could think up an excuse to hide in the bathroom, the other man was leaning far too close to him.
“Hey,” he whispers, almost sultry. "I need your help with something- just follow my lead, alright?”
Before he could even utter a word in reply, Dick Grayson had grabbed his hand and was guiding him toward the center of the room. This is when Jean-Paul began to panic.
“Woah! Would you look at that!” Dick said, yelled, clearly intended to get the attention of those around them. He pointed up, where a mistletoe sprig hung innocently.
Jean-Paul wasn't sure what he was expecting, but before he could even breath, Dick's mouth was on his, a hand on his back dipping him theatrically.
The first thing Dick Grayson notices is that Jean Paul has soft lips.
His own are still chapped from patrol; The biting winds of Gotham. A small, surprised noise makes its way from Jean Paul’s throat to their mouths and he swallows it, throat bobbing. Hand moving across his jaw to thread through the hair at the base of his neck and lips chafing — He tastes like pears. Lipbalm? — Dick enjoys it.
Which, oh.
Hm.
Well, he’d already gotten ahead of himself, hadn’t he? He doesn’t need to commit to a makeout, just needs a few more seconds. To really get his point across.
Jean Paul’s shaky hand clasped his shoulder in support of himself, so he placed a hand on his waist. He hates this fitted, green wool sweater, a gift from Bruce from the previous year. Hates his voice, softer and higher than it ever was as Azrael. Hates the glasses that bump against the bridge of his nose when he licks into Jean Paul’s mouth, or maybe it was the other way around? It’s hard to tell. Hard to think.
As he pulls back — remembering to breathe — he gazed down at Jean-Paul. Eyes wide with shock, his pupils blown even wider, the glisten of spit still connecting their warm mouths. It’s a look he’d never seen from the other man, and one he’s not sure about.
He pulled away sharply, the force of it spilling droplets of champagne onto the floor, his shoes, and Jean Paul’s sweater. Hoisting the glass into the air, he fixed his gaze on asshole-donor and proudly proclaims;
“Love is love.” He nods towards the leaf above them, “-And Bruce Wayne would agree.”
He walked with long, running strides to the grand staircase, another glass of champagne plucked from a server's tray in his hand and proclaiming a celebratory toast to love in all its forms. After an unsure pause, he spots Bruce clap first and begin a wave of applause. His head pounds with the knowledge that somewhere within the crowd, Jean Paul's pale eyes are on him.
Or maybe it’s just the champagne talking.
***
Dick sat down heavily at the dining room table. An absolute feast of English breakfast was on display, Alfred had cooked up a storm that morning, most likely in preparation for the many tired, cranky Bats wandering down, all in different states of hungover. A serving bowl of baked beans sits at the far end, with sausage, toast, poached eggs, bacon — In an array of colors from crispy pink-gold to burnt black, to accommodate their tastes — and roasted mushrooms arranged to its right. He could hear Alfred’s hum somewhere in the kitchen, where he’s probably preparing something particular for Damien, who’s blessedly not at the table yet. He doesn’t think he can deal with any teenager right now. Not what with the pounding in his head.
Tim had already sat down, apparently having already had an early start, judging from the 2 empty Zesti cans among his carnage, with a 3rd already open. Dick had already filled up his plate when Jason stumbled in, looking miserable. Dick was paying far too much attention to his own breakfast when he heard what he assumed was Jason talking to him.
“What'd you say?” He asked.
Jason rolled his eyes as he leaned over, filling his plate with food “What happened to your boyfriend?”
What?
He huffed, and repeats himself before squinting. "Y'know, blonde guy? Glasses, long hair? The one you were swapping spit with last night?”
“Oh fuck, yeah,” Tim chimed in. “I thought you hated Jean Paul's guts.”
Oh
Oh.
His horror must be evident on his face, because Jason's brow furrows and he opens his mouth to say something that Dick can’t hear over the sound of despair drowning out his last livable moments in Gotham City.
He’s well and truly fucked. How is he ever going to look at Cassandra again? Barbara? It's one thing to stay friends after a mutual breakup, but to make out with one of her best friends at one of Gotham's most publicized events? And forget Barbara, he hates Azrael. Has had a longstanding rivalry with the man since he impersonated Batman and went murderous on the city. The only explanation can be that he didn’t do that. Or, if he did, it was with another, glasses wearing blonde haired man.
He stood, pushing his chair out.
“Well, I hate to miss breakfast but I have a taxi to Bludhaven waiting for me. Crime never sleeps, and all that—”
“You’re leaving already?”
Cass entered, her appearance suggesting sleep was the last thing she got last night.
“Yes,” he says at the same time Jason says “Absolutely not,”
She shrugs. “Oh, okay,”
“Do you know where Jean Paul went?” Tim cuts in. Asshole. He’s too flustered to think of a revenge plan now, but Tim will be the primary target. Eventually. He needs the safety of his apartment, first.
She frowned. “He should be upstairs. He drank more than he could handle, so he had to go to bed early.
“Fuckin’ lightweight,” he muttered, despite himself.
“What?”
“Nothing. Hey, look, I’ve gotta go but let me know—”
“Oh my god,” Tim announces. Dick turns to sidestep Cassandra and get out the door. “Dick’s trending on twitter.”
He whirled around to see Jason leaning over his chair, eyes fixated on Tim's phone.
“No I’m not,” he said automatically. Because he can’t be. Bruce wouldn’t let him do something so stupid as to kiss their public family friend, right?
Cass snorts as she brushes past him, taking a plate off the stack and sliding a number of pancakes on it. It seems to come as no surprise to her that he’s done something.
“Really?” she asks. Tim nods, turning the screen around to show her. She bursts out laughing at whatever’s on there — Dick doesn’t try to lean in and see. Or maybe he just can’t bring himself to — and keeps going until she’s heaving for air, and she composes herself enough to turn around and grin at him, smug.
“Are you still leaving, then? Jean Paul will be downstairs soon.”
“Yeah,” Jason starts. “You gonna run away now?”
“You’ll have to face it eventually,” Tim said, voice muffled by a forkful of egg.
As if at the mention of his name, Jean-Paul enters the dining room. Unlike the sorry, hungover state the rest of them are in, he seems unaffected by last night's escapades. His hair is tied up, neat, and his glasses are perched even on his nose, a stark contrast to how crooked they were after Dick had his way with him the night before. He’s still sporting his sweater from the night before — suspiciously devoid of any stains — but has seemingly changed into different jeans.
At the sight of Dick, he froze.
The rest of the table goes about eating their breakfast, eyes carefully avoiding his and waiting for something to break the tension.
They don’t have to wait long, because Alfred nudges the door open with his hip, carrying in a silver tray of porridge and mint tea — For Damien, he remembers distantly. He doesn’t like English Breakfast — and gives the room a bright smile.
“Good morning,” Jean Paul snaps his gaze elsewhere, and promptly folds his long legs into the chair beside Cassandra’s. “I trust everyone is enjoying their breakfast?”
Nods and mhms sound out, alongside Cass’s simple yes. Dick doesn’t even realize he’s still standing till Alfred cocks his head and says “Master Richard? Is everything alright?”
“No,” he says automatically. “No, I mean, yes,” he pulls his chair back out and sits, hands blindly reaching out to pile whatever onto his plate.
“It was a long night,” he ends with.
Across the table, Jean Paul chokes and hacks on something till Cass pats his back.
“Hmph, I’ll say. The sheer number of guests who complained about the wine tasting when I had gone out of my way for Master Bruce to hire the best sommelier within the country…”
And really, what would he do without Alfred? Conversation redirected to snobby guests, he’s successfully avoided the real problem. For now.
It’s going to be a long day in Wayne Manor.