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“How about this?” Dick asks.
Plucked from the cave's closet for undercover work, this one is cream colored; he smooths his hands along his arms to feel the soft, silky fur encasing them. It's an addictive sensation, along with the way the coat had slid onto an equally silky shirt, how it lays against his thighs. Like being draped in butter.
Bruce assesses him for what must be less than a second before he makes a face and shakes his head. “Too expensive,” he says. “It wouldn't fit.”
Resignation starts to finally set in for Dick. Up until now, he'd been holding it at bay with willful optimism. “That's what you said about the other ones.”
“That's because you don't need a coat. Or even a jacket, for that matter.”
“How am I supposed to play the part without the full costume, B? This is the thing I look forward to,” Dick insists, wrapping his arms around himself as if to prevent the coat being taken from him. Bruce barely glances over. “Come on, what if I get cold?”
They both know that he won't get cold. That this is a total reach. Dick waits for a response with raised eyebrows anyway, petting his furry sides all the while. And knowing deep down that it's already a lost cause, he tacks on, “I get cold very easily, actually. All those years with the shorts? I was freezing my ass off the whole time.”
At this, Bruce cracks a smile. Dick insists that, It's true, I was, but his own smile betrays the jest.
“Well, that means you have plenty of experience,” Bruce says. “I think you'll be just fine.”
“Okay,“ Dick says after a moment, surrendering. He gives his arm one...two last strokes before sliding out of the coat. “Alright. You better just hope that this guy doesn't have the ac cranked at his place.”
-
Dick's eyes flick back and forth from Bruce to the mark as they talk. This conversation has dragged out much, much longer than he'd expected. Bruce seems to feel the same, keeps glancing over at him, but the man – Mr. Gold, very subtle – doesn't notice, just shares yet another anecdote about one of his girls from his sketchy escort service, or one of his boys, or his business partners, or anything else that he can think of.
It'd be almost unbelievable, concerning even, if it weren't for the fact that they'd been tailing this guy off and on for weeks and had, as a consequence, borne witness to his love of long winded speeches. Still, this is pushing it. Dick's patience is fraying and he's antsy to do anything besides standing here. He'd already resorted to leaning against Bruce, who'd simply glanced at him in the way you might glance at an ant on your shoe. “So needy,” Bruce had said to the man. His own little anecdote, and a valiant effort to remind everyone of why they were even there.
Mr. Gold didn't pick up the hint. He'd only laughed and gestured at one of the various girls sitting around them – lounging would be a more accurate term, Dick thinks, figures reclined on throw pillows and velvet upholstery – before he went off into a tangent about her. She's the same way, that one. Have to pry her offa me half the time.
Dick looks again at the girl in question. Her eyes are closed, her once blue features smoothed out; he doubts that she's really asleep, although it's possible that this familiar kind of chatter is like white noise to her.
His envy grows. Why can't he sit on one of those couches? He knows he doesn't have to be here for this conversation. His direct involvement had ended after Mr. Gold looked him up and down, inspected his hands, caressed his arms. When he said, Good stock, and nodded at Bruce. Anything after 'Mind sparing him for the night?' hasn't mattered to Dick. The only reason he's still standing right here, in this spot, is because he's on display.
He's glad that he isn't wearing a coat, anyway. Mr. Gold's air conditioning unit is apparently in disrepair, and the dim, humid room smells faintly of sweat. Bruce is surely sweating too, wrapped up in his signature jacket, but Dick knows he won't even consider taking it off.
A question is asked of 'Rabbit' – his fake, somewhat suggestive name for the day – and the dull answer drifts past his lips, almost subconscious; even though it was carefully considered on some level inside of his head and deemed acceptable, he's operating more or less on autopilot by now.
Bruce would say that he should pay more attention – you don't want to miss any intel, what if the mark says something important, what if he says something to inform how you should act around him? Something that you can use against him? But Dick is paying attention, is the thing. He'd just rather do it over there. On the couches. With the girls.
Bruce would also probably tell him that this is immature, not to mention unreasonable considering how much training and experience he has with stakeouts. He knows how to hold still for long periods of time. How to be patient. How is this any different, Bruce would ask. And sure, he might have a point in this theoretical scenario. Admittedly, Dick can't quite put his finger on what the difference is.
I wasn't even supposed to be here, he thinks. He'd volunteered, but that doesn't mean anything.
Okay, and maybe he's a little bit tired and regrets agreeing to this. He'd just – he figured he'd take one for the team. 'Rabbit' either lures the man into taking him to rooms that are typically off limits or he otherwise sneaks into them. He snatches the required documents when no one's looking – records of seedy, under the table deals, offshore bank accounts, forged identities, basic and standard stuff. Then he leaves, and the only person who could get the blame is someone who doesn't exist. And, ideally, nothing would be noted as missing until other suspects had already passed through and muddied the waters anyway.
Unfortunately, this wasn't even Bruce's idea, it was his own, but they'd both agreed that this would be marginally more efficient than breaking into Mr. Gold's compound. Might raise less questions.
For some reason, Dick also thought it might be fun. In a vaguely nostalgic sort of way. It sounded simple enough; could be a light, refreshing excursion. Which, truthfully, is most of why he'd insisted.
As Mr. Gold goes into grating, excruciating detail about one of his many 'conquests', Dick knows it was a mistake to suggest this course of action. Later, Bruce will just as likely be irritated that Dick convinced him this would be easier, instead of being grateful for his sacrifice. Not that he would've conveyed the gratitude in any meaningful way, but Dick would know. Probably.
Dick at last looks away from the sleeping girl – he's been staring for too long, and he blinks – only to see Mr. Gold's lecherous gaze on him again. It's fleeting, he looks away when their eyes meet, but the sentiment was clear and Dick's dread grows with a twist in his stomach. He's starting to suspect that the man is trying to drag this out as long as possible on purpose. For anticipation, or something.
This is pointless, he thinks. This isn't fair, and the childish tint of the thought inspires him to finally detach from Bruce's side. He takes a step away, then another, focused on plush red.
He's stopped in his tracks when a hand wraps around his wrist, just above the ostentatious bracelet he'd put on for this performance. The sigh is caught in his lungs before it can escape. He turns to face Bruce.
“Where are you going?” Bruce asks, and he puts extra emphasis on the you. Implication being that Dick has no right to go anywhere without express permission. It chafes at him. The question is in character of course, it's not Bruce saying that and not to the real Dick, but – it also kind of is. He could've just let him go.
“I'm bored,” Dick says, throwing on a pout; he's decided that indignance is a reasonable response from his character at this point. Internally, he mourns the aborted attempt at freedom. At least he tried.
He's expecting Bruce to pull him back over, and so he isn't surprised at the tug on his wrist, the couple of dragging steps back into his place -
SMACKK
His head snaps back with the force of the slap. Shocked, cheek stinging, he stares at Bruce. He wasn't prepared for that. Maybe he should've been, but he wasn't. They hadn't discussed this. That was – that was uncalled for, unnecessary, and he opens his mouth, defiant. Doesn't even know what he's going to say yet, stay in character, you have to stay in character, but any words he might have completely evaporate when Bruce slaps him again.
His teeth click together and he keeps his mouth shut this time, electric heat tingling from his cheek to the rest of him, senses lighting up. He swallows, makes an effort to slow his breathing. The hits weren't particularly hard, no need to damage the goods, but it's Bruce. They were still hard enough to hurt.
“You got anything else to add?” Bruce asks him, gruff. “Besides that you're bored.” His expression is unsympathetic. Dick shakes his head before looking down, hiding his own face. Nothing to add.
It's anger, he tells himself. That was needless escalation, some sort of frustration misdirected at him, and he's pissed off about it. That's why his heart is racing, and his face is hot, and there's something desperate curling in his gut. Symptoms of anger.
A big hand suddenly grips the back of his neck and he figures there's no need to conceal the flinch.
That hand tightens, scruffs him as if he's nothing more than an unruly kitten. It jostles him slightly as Dick forces himself to look up again. “He's usually well behaved,” Bruce says, talking to Mr. Gold. “Don't know what's gotten into him. Must be PMS.”
They have a real good, hearty laugh about that.
Out of the corner of his eye he can see some of the girls looking at him. Not with pity, or anything like that. Judgment. They aren't overt about it, yet it's visible on their faces anyway. Like he had it coming for being stupid enough to talk back; any good whore should know better.
He isn't bored anymore.
“Sorry, as you were saying-,” Bruce starts, apologetic for the misbehaving, but the man interrupts him.
“Oh, it's fine, I like it when they're a little feisty sometimes. Makes it more fun to put 'em in their place.” This is spoken with a special kind of grime that beats out what Dick has been suffering through for the past – what, hour? – as Mr. Gold reaches for the nearest poor girl and throws an arm around her elegant shoulders, squeezes her. He looks at Dick and winks.
Dick does his best to not clench his jaw. He's grateful, in a way. The disgust latches onto the lingering embers of ire he was feeling, and together they just barely manage to cover up the shame.
He asks himself, ashamed about what? He hasn't done anything wrong. It's fine. Everything is going fine.
The weight and warmth on the back of his neck disappears, leaving him bereft.
So needy. So desperate.
“So, about payment-”
“Oh, come on, don't worry about that,” Bruce says. “Just keep him in one piece, that's all I ask.”
Somehow, the two continue to talk for what feels like another five or ten minutes. It might as well be an eternity.
He doesn't try to butt in, or do anything at all. His blood simmers and cools as he waits.
Another girl appears to be taking a nap, he notices. Her blonde locks are tousled over a turquoise pillow, lovely and soft. She looks at peace, luxuriating mere feet away. It's hard for him to understand how this is possible, considering the circumstances, though he really tries. He's still thinking about this when Bruce turns him around with a hand on his shoulder.
Bruce points at him sternly. “I'm leaving now. You be nice to Mr. Gold, here. Be respectful.” He pauses. Glances over at the other man, grins all sleazy and confident with that stupid matchstick in his mouth. Dick wants to roll his eyes at this theatrical display, but doesn't. Despite himself, there's always something weirdly enchanting about it. Such a strange expression to see on Bruce, who now taps at his cheek – right on the one he decided to wake Dick up with.
“Or not, I guess,” Bruce adds. “Give him something to work with.”
So this is it, then. Dick demurely lowers his gaze, flutters his lashes. Showing that he's conceded, docile for whatever they want. A display of his own.
Then, leaning in, he grabs onto Bruce's arm and presses against him. The smell of smoke wafts up from the old jacket and curls around Dick, which is useful if unpleasant. It helps him to stay in character. He flicks his eyes up to meet Bruce's, those shadows behind darkened glass. When he opens his mouth this time, no one stops him.
“Yes, daddy,” he says, as sweet as a child searching for forgiveness, utterly brimming over with hope. I'll be good, the voice says. Can I have a goodbye kiss now?
Almost as soon as he's said it, he wishes he hadn't – and he doesn't know what exactly possessed him to retaliate in this way. Maybe he had a feeling, a petty one, that it would irk Bruce, or throw him off balance. They had agreed that if the need ever arose, and they had doubted it would, Dick would refer to him as 'sir' in this scenario. It was simple and easy, showed that he could defer. Impersonal.
He shouldn't have deviated from the plan; Bruce won't be hurt or affected by this act, let alone in the same way that Dick was affected just a few minutes ago. All he's done is make a fool out of himself for no reason.
Yet as he watches the reaction with painful, bated breath, it almost seems like the word was a physical thing. As if he actually had hit Bruce. Or, well. Maybe not that far, but restrained surprise is written across his features, clear even where he's partially hidden by the disguise. It's subtle enough that Dick knows no one else here can see it, that anyone without years of experience with the man would be hard pressed to notice.
It's blatant to him. And it's more than Dick was prepared for, frankly, even if it's what he was angling at.
Another reason to regret getting himself into this position.
A mere moment later, Bruce has himself back under control. His eyes narrow under the glasses, the phony smirk that had faltered a little is back. The stiffness melts away.
Bruce lays his hand on Dick's shoulder again, though not with aggression – just a solid pressure as he squeezes it before letting go.
“Good boy,” he says. He punctuates his words with a genial pat to the cheek. Whole palm like before, but now friendly and warm. It burns like a brand.
Crooked as always, dirty, the smile grows. It's subdued compared to before, not in its full glory. Dick still has to look away from it as Bruce winks cheekily at him and says, “Remember: respectful.” As Bruce's thumb gently runs along his skin, grazes the corner of his lips. And lingers there, inescapable.
Dick doesn't think he really deserves this.
There's movement against him then, a tectonic shift of fabric, and this is what makes him realize that he's still clinging to Bruce's arm. He lets go, takes a step back. The touch drops away from him.
Suppressing a shiver and schooling his expression, he throws a glance over his shoulder at Mr. Gold, at the girls watching this. Nothing out of the ordinary, he tries to remember. The man's eyes dart down to his mouth, and he reminds himself to not forget where he is or what he's doing. He just has to focus; this will be easy once he's free of distractions. A piece of cake.
“I'll treat him well,” Mr. Gold says, “don't worry. He'll be perfectly intact.”
Parting words, Dick thinks. Great. They can finally, at last, move on to the next phase. Bruce gives him a pat on the back – it's supposed to be reassuring, Dick guesses – before pushing him forward.
“Have fun."
The sound of the door opening and then shutting behind him, creaky hinges going silent, is a veritable palette cleanser. Dick breaks into his most winning smile and tilts his head at the man who remains.
Time for business.
“So, Mr. Gold. Is that your legal name?”
The man chuckles.
-
Dick drops his handful of folders next to Bruce, and the satisfying smack as they hit the desk echoes throughout the cave. He waits for an acknowledgment of any kind; a good job, maybe. Or a nod. He'd even take just a glance, but it quickly becomes clear that nothing is forthcoming. He sighs over the clacking of the keyboard.
“Fine, I'll start,” he says. “Was that really necessary?”
Bruce asks, “Was what necessary?”
Predictable.
“The love taps. To my face. Those were a bit rougher than they needed to be, by the way. And actually, now that I think about it,” Dick says, raising his voice, “I can't see why that needed to happen at all!”
Finally, Bruce turns to him. Stares at him as if he's expecting Dick to spontaneously answer all of his own questions – like he already knows the answers if he just thinks about it – and the frustration festers. He's not in the mood to hold both sides of the conversation right now.
“I'm not the only one who changed the plan,” Bruce says.
“The plan? What plan? You know, I don't recall changing anything! I thought the plan was to have a brief, short talk with the guy before you left me with him, but that didn't happen-”
“You didn't have to be so impatient. Yes, he was obviously dragging it out, but it was coming to a close when you decided to wander-”
“-That's absurd. How would it have changed anything if I sat down? I would've been five feet away! What justified-”
“-You had a bad attitude before. I did you a favor. He was more sympathetic to you, wasn't he? Nicer? He thought you were more fun after that, that's for sure. You'd know that if you were listening to what he was saying.”
Dick face twists up in disbelief. “What?” he asks. “No, he wasn't nicer, Bruce. And I was listening to what he said. I heard everything, not that I even needed to – he didn't exactly drop anything crucial to the mission.” Petulantly, he adds, “You'd know that if you were listening.”
In lieu of a real response, Bruce turns away again. This too is predictable, although he should really know by now that this tactic doesn't work on Dick.
“You're welcome, by the way. You're not the one who spent the night getting groped and trying to find ways to get this dude off your back for two seconds. He wouldn't leave the room. I had to climb out the window when he turned around to refill my drink.”
“I'm sure climbing out of a window was very difficult for you,” Bruce says, voice dry. “This was your idea, Dick.”
There it is.
The comment would upset him more if he hadn't been waiting for it. And if it wasn't true. He deflates a little.
“Well, why'd you agree to it? It was a stupid plan. You could've been in and out of there in just a few minutes if you wanted.”
“You were persistent.”
“I wasn't being that persistent. I remember.” He scoffs, “Are you trying to say that you did this for me? Or, no, you're saying that it was actually just easier to go along with it.”
“...What's your point?”
“Either you agreed to the plan because you legitimately thought it was a good idea,” Dick says, starting a count on his fingers, “or you thought that I'd be less annoying or something if you agreed, which is ridiculous because I wouldn't have cared if you hadn't, or,” he pauses for effect, “you thought it would be fun. Which one is it?”
To his surprise, Bruce actually humors him and says, “Can't I have more than one reason?” The tone isn't particularly teasing, mostly just annoyed. Still. It wears at him.
“Sure,” Dick tells him, “I just have a hard time believing it.”
“Dick, I fail to see how any of this is relevant.” Bruce picks up one of the retrieved folders and starts thumbing through its contents. “The whole situation only took a couple of hours and we got what we needed without too much fuss. It's done. It was clean enough.”
Past the quiet rustling of paper, Dick can see what's happening here: an attempt to mollify him with something approaching praise, get him to forget how this argument even started, and if he's being honest, it does sort of work. Not entirely though, not yet, and so he says, “I don't know about that. Why did you...hit me? I know you were in character or whatever, but it wasn't necessary. It didn't hurt, I don't care about that, I just – want to understand. Why you did it.”
Bruce gives him a hm, and then nothing, skimming words and figures with a singular, focused gaze. This is enough to encourage Dick to lean back. Maybe consider walking away, because this talk has clearly reached its natural, inevitable end. And what sort of answer was he really expecting, he wonders. If pressed, he'd suppose that he was hoping for something cruel – that perhaps it would help him feel better, if he could really believe it.
In this fantasy, it could convince him to feel differently. Distract him from his fixation.
Of course, that's what makes it a fantasy. Even if he did get an explanation, one ugly and genuine enough to hurt him, he knows that it wouldn't change anything. It would barely be a blip on the radar. This is his condition; he's come to understand that. His reaction to the initial incident of the day, the zap to his core, was telling enough.
I should leave, he thinks, but before he can turn away, Bruce speaks up again. Quietly, as if he doesn't truly want to be heard. “Why did you?”
The shushing of the papers isn't nearly loud enough to drown out his murmur, and Dick is confused at first. It feels like a non sequitur. Why did he – what? He turns it over and over in his mind, trying to make sense of it. Why did you?
Eventually, he asks, “What do you mean?”
Bruce glances at him, seemingly nonplussed. He hesitates though, the paper in his hand carefully lowered to the desk and his shoulders kept deceptively loose. It makes Dick nervous.
“Your performance was stellar,” Bruce says. “In general, even if I could tell when you started phoning it in. I noticed that it really improved when it became clear that I was about to leave.”
Nerves fraying, Dick shakes his head. “Please,” he laughs. “That was for flavor.”
An almost smile curves onto Bruce's face as he raises a hand in agreement. Like Dick got the answer right. Ding! “Exactly,” he says.
Dick understands.
Personal offenses don't mean anything if they're just part of an act. No matter how needless they are. Not slaps to the face, nor too strong, overt endearments. It's all...flavor. He can't really argue with this either, stuck in a stalemate where any steps forward could lead to more questions and thinner excuses. It's difficult to explain your actions when you don't fully understand them yourself – and he realizes that in part, this could be what Bruce is thinking too. How convenient for him, then. To be able to end this with just a question of his own.
Dick sighs.
“You did good,” Bruce adds, that almost smile still lingering around. “You stayed in character.”
And the masochistic urge to keep arguing slips away from him, just like that.