Chapter Text
Dick wakes to the sounds of high society.
He ought to know them by now, after all — he's been learning them since he was eight years old, pressed and proper in a suit and tie to stand beside Bruce on the nights of grand events. For all of about half an hour, at least, before he inevitably ran off to crawl under the table or slide down the banisters or make a game of how many desserts he could snitch from the dessert display before the caterer attending it noticed him.
It sounds exactly like those nights now.
The low murmur of polite conversation and the quiet titter of genteel laughter serves as a quiet background hum. The clink of cutlery on plates and the click of high heels on marble flooring swells in his ears. The soft harmony of a string quartet and the ringing of glasses brought together in a toast round out the soundscape. The drinkware's real crystal, judging by the high, pure, ringing quality. Fancy stuff.
For a moment, Dick wonders if he's at some Wayne Foundation event with Bruce and fell asleep.
For a moment, he even feels guilty about it. If Bruce asked him to forego a night in Blüdhaven to attend, it must be something important, surely something that's a big enough occasion to avoid napping in the corner. He's long past the days when he can crawl under the tables and hide out for a while, more's the pity.
If it's important enough for him to be here, he should be out there charming donors.
But he feels a little groggy, like he's had too much to drink; opening his eyes seems like an impossible task. And Dick doesn't remember drinking — doesn't remember anything for the Wayne Foundation being on the schedule at all, come to think of it, much less getting ready for it or arriving.
The next thought stumbles into place on the heels of the first one, and he feels himself go cold with it. If not fancy champagne, it's entirely possible that someone spiked the punch bowl with something stronger than liquor. Or worse: it was targeted, slipped into Dick's glass specifically.
It would explain why he can't seem to remember what he was doing last — wherever he is, however he got here, he has a gap in his memory that he could drive the Wingcycle through.
For a long handful of moments, he stays still, feigning unconsciousness, just cataloguing the symptoms: grogginess, dizziness, and a splitting headache. That doesn't do much to narrow it down, honestly. He can think of a solid dozen drugs off the top of his head that exhibit the symptoms he's displaying.
Still, he seems to be coming around now, and at very least he hasn't been taken to a second location. He's in public, so there's nothing too nefarious to worry about, yet.
Dick makes a show of stirring and stretching, the way he might if he drifted off for a cat nap in the corner of a gala. He runs through what he'll say to whoever's seated next to him — "Think someone had a little too much fun with the punch bowl," with a crooked, sheepish grin. He arches his back and puts on a too-wide yawn, reaching to shove his arms up above his head to complete the image.
But his arms, he discovers, aren't in the mood to cooperate. They stay just where they are, at his sides, and something tugs at his wrists, hard and sharp, when he tries to shift them.
And, oh. Oh, that's not good.
Things just catapulted way past nefarious and into This Is Definitely Going to Be a Bad Time.
Because Dick's sort of a connoisseur of being tied up. At this point, he's pretty much a professional hostage. He's been getting grabbed since he was eight years old, both as the Boy Wonder and as Bruce Wayne's ward. Before that, once or twice, he got a feel for different kinds of ropes and chains with the Haley's Circus escape artist, practicing worming his way out of different setups on long train rides while he was bored.
So Dick knows right away: whoever tied him up, it was someone who's serious about it.
Not sexy-times fuzzy handcuffs, not cheap hardware-store rope.
The manacles around his wrist are thin and sleek and tight, flush against his skin. They're bound in turn to something anchored at his waist or at his thighs. The attachment keeps him from moving his wrists away from his own body, either lifting them or lowering them.
Whoever did this isn't playing around.
And the worst part, Dick thinks, with a sinking sensation somewhere in in his gut, is that he just advertised to anyone watching that he's awake now.
Well — no helping it. He already let the cat out of the bag.
He opens his eyes, to finish his surveillance of the area.
The sinking sensation chills like a blast from Mr. Freeze's tech as he realizes he's still in his Nightwing suit, fully dressed as if he was plucked off the streets during patrol. He's lying flat on a long table in the center of what looks to be a ballroom. Elaborate, glimmering chandeliers hang overhead, and the table further down is set with elegant centerpieces of tapered white flowers and mottled feathers in brown and cream. The place settings feature fine china and gold cutlery.
Men and women in opulent formalwear go about their dinners, chattering and simpering and ignoring Dick's presence altogether. Each and every one of them, Dick sees with a growing sense of foreboding, wears a stark white mask carved into the likeness of an owl.
Okay. So maybe he's in trouble.
Surely he's had worse odds before, but as he scans the room, taking in the Court, he's hard pressed to think of any off the top of his head. There are at least a hundred people here, and that's just what he can see from his angle.
Still, they don't seem to be paying him any mind yet, so he shifts slightly, onto his back — provides coverage for his wrists, so that it's more difficult to clock when he starts twisting his hands around, trying to find leeway to slip the cuffs.
When he rolls, though, he doesn't get far before runs into something warm and solid just beside him, perhaps five inches to his left. Another shift of weight, and Dick rocks up onto his side enough to get a look.
As soon as he catches a glimpse, he sucks a sharp breath in through his nose — because there beside him, lying bound on the elegant dining table in metal straps to match Dick's own, is Tim.
He's not awake yet, but he seems to be stirring; even as Dick watches, the white lenses in Red Robin's domino blink open, matching the motion of the eyes behind it.
He can read the subtle shift in Tim's expression, even if no one else probably can: the faint tightening in the jaw, the way the flex of muscle presses his lips together. He knows Tim well enough to know what alarm looks like, when he's trying to hide it.
Dick can't tell where Tim is looking with the domino's lenses obscuring his eyes, but he can guess — makes out the faintest tilt of a chin as Tim cants in toward him. It lasts only a second or two, and then there's a shift of weight and his little brother turns toward the rest of the room, putting them back to back.
Tim's all business as he surveys the situation. When his voice comes, it's low, quiet enough to be lost under the hum of polite conversation. "How long was I out?"
Dick pitches his voice just as soft. "Not sure. I just woke up, too."
Tim must not like their odds any more than Dick does; as he takes in the glittering gala and its owl-masked attendees, the tension in his shoulders ratchets up, and his fingers twitch toward the spot where his bo staff ought to be secured but isn't.
"What's our play?" says Dick, quiet. He trusts Tim's plans, knows he thinks best on his feet. But more importantly, he knows having a plan will calm Tim down.
A pause, like Tim's buffering, maybe working through the grogginess that still clings to Dick's brain from whatever they got drugged with. Then: "We'll need a distraction. Or a more secluded area."
They might not get one right away.
Here and there across the room, people have started to notice that they're awake. The woman five seats down, gray-haired and wrinkled, leans in to whisper something to the young lady behind her, something mischievous in the tilt of her head. The burly, bald man nearest Tim is watching them with blatant interest, staring in the same way someone might settle on the couch with their favorite tv show.
From somewhere behind Dick, out of sight — another table? Dancers in the ballroom? — there comes an uproarious burst of laughter and a follow-up smattering of a voice: "It might not be the Bat, but they'll still be a good time."
Dick turns back toward Tim; for just an instant, they share a glance, and then the sound of a delicate ringing reaches them, the ting ting ting of fine cutlery chiming against a crystal goblet to call a toast.
"Excuse me," says a stately middle-aged woman. "Excuse me."
Her mask is more elaborate than the others, gilt on the ridges and gleaming. She wears pauldrons on her shoulders, like it's the 1700s or something, and a ceremonial cloak so ostentatious that Ra's al Ghul would have murdered a man to get his hands on it.
"It seems our guests are awake," says the woman, and in almost eerie synchronicity, a hundred white owl masks swing in their direction. "Perhaps it is time that we welcomed them."
"Oh, no need to go to all the trouble," says Dick, breezy. "We're feeling plenty welcome already."
"Practically rolled out the red carpet," Tim cuts in, dry. "You really shouldn't have."
"As you can tell," says the woman, tone bright with amusement, "they are still recovering from the medications used to subdue them."
A titter rises up from the gathered crowd.
Behind Dick, Tim shifts slightly, easing toward him. A second later, it's evident what he's doing; from this position, Dick shields his hand from view, and he's working at some piece of the restraints pressed snug against the small of Dick's back in an attempt to loosen them. Maybe there's a hinge there, or a lock.
"Now," the woman is saying. "I'm sure you all recall the rules. I'm Madame Ninox, and I'll be your host this evening."
Ninox. A genus of owls. Too much to hope they'd be using real names, but oh well. It'll take longer to hunt everyone down when they get out of here, but they are still absolutely going to hunt everyone down.
Sooner rather than later, maybe — Tim's still working at the restraints, feeling carefully along the curve of the metal. Dick's a hell of an escape artist, but Tim's not far behind him; he can't think of anyone he'd rather have trying to jailbreak him right now.
"Do recall that we're raising money for a good cause tonight," Madame Ninox adds, tone almost carelessly casual, "so be generous in your bids, won't you?"
Something cold squirms in Dick's chest, at that.
It's not like he's never been up for auction before — in this business, he's pretty sure he's had every over-the-top threat from a villain of the week at least once — but he doesn't love that Tim's here for it. The thought of any of these monsters in formalwear laying a hand on his baby brother sort of makes him want to puke, actually.
Still — an auction means they have time. After the bidding ends, it isn't likely the winner will cart them off straight away. They'll probably have hours until the event is over. If they're lucky, they might get tucked away in a back room for storage until then, where they can squirm their way free without any watching eyes.
There's a pause and the ruffle of pages as Madame Ninox shuffles through a sheaf of paper attached to a clipboard.
Behind Dick, Tim's fingers are still working at the bindings. He seems to have found some sort of weak spot, because his focus keeps coming back to the same location, over and over again. Whatever it is, though, he doesn't seem to be able to get enough purchase. It's a bad angle, maybe.
"Now," says Madame Ninox. "First up: a bid for the opening volley."
It's such odd phrasing. Dick wonders what exactly the masked means by that for the space of about a heartbeat before she's carrying on and making it all too clear. "Five minutes with our guests of honor, to set the tone for the rest of the evening."
He can just make out the sharp hiss of Tim's indrawn breath — is aware of the way those fingers redouble their efforts to loosen the bindings, as though they've been spurred to greater urgency.
"We'll start the bidding at twenty thousand. Do I have twenty thousand?"
The bidding flies by quickly — quicker than Dick wants it to. A minute and a half later, when it settles on an eye-watering sum, he's wishing it had gone on longer. He's fairly certain that his bonds aren't quite so snug anymore, but Tim hasn't managed to get them all the way open yet.
Well. Small favors. Nothing too terrible can happen in five minutes, right?
He'll keep whatever creep just won the time clear of Tim, power through it, and then they'll have a breather in whatever room the guests are meant to do the entertaining in. Should be a solid shot at getting the hell out, after that. Then all they've got to do is take note of the venue and come back later when they've got the rest of their gear to punch some owls straight in their stupid carved beaks. Easy.
"Ladies and gentlemen," croons Madame Ninox. "We have our winning bidder."
On Tim's other side, there's the scrape of a chair, and the burly man comes to his feet. Instantly, Tim's fingers still, doubtless afraid the man's new angle will offer a view of the escape attempt.
The bruiser isn't, Dick notes, the winning bidder.
That dubious honor belongs to a rail-thin gentleman in a top hat in the back corner of the room. He's dressed to the nines like he's starring in a regency period piece Jason would've loved, right down to the cravat, which honestly looks a little silly on him.
"Sorry, big guy," says Dick. "Think somebody else has dibs."
The man grunts, displeased. He folds his arms over his chest, and he doesn't budge.
"Oh, no," says Madame Ninox. "I'm afraid you misunderstand. Our winning bidders are the directors, if you will. They set the scene. Our stage hand here will carry out the instructions."
"Not a great auction," says Tim, deadpan, "if the winners don't get what they're paying for."
Maybe he's seen the winning bidder, too — is calculating their odds against Mr. Historical Reenactment Buff in the corner versus tall, gruff, and burly over here.
Knowing Tim, that's what he's aiming for — trying to get the winner to speak up and insist. If they can get themselves alone in a room with that guy, bound or no, it's gonna be a cakewalk.
Madame Ninox doesn't seem like she's buying it. She tilts her head, the gesture somehow condescending even without being able to glimpse her expression through the mask.
"On the contrary," she says. "They get every bit of what they want." She turns toward the winning bidder, the wide, dark owl eyes on her mask seeming to stare directly at him. "What would you prefer for your time, Mr. Surnia?"
More owls, a part of Dick's brain supplies helpfully, aiming for levity even as something behind his rib cage twists with impending dread. Is it ever not owls with these weirdos?
Even as his thoughts struggle to improve morale, Dick twists around to get the best view of the high bidder's face that's available from this angle. Madame Ninox had said that this request will set the tone for the rest of the evening.
Whatever comes out of this man's mouth is about to decide exactly how screwed they are until they can slip these restraints.
"I don't like Red Robin's tone," says Mr. Surnia. His voice is cultivated and polished, perfectly even. He spreads one hand, the gesture aristocratic and elegant, gloved palm up. "Sew his mouth shut."
And oh.
Oh, okay. They are very screwed.