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Dick opens his eyes and immediately regrets it.
His head is throbbing, the pressure behind his eyes is so intense that Dick thinks they might actually pop right out of their sockets. His mouth tastes like—something his sluggish brain still can't identify, but whatever it is, it's not pleasant. Instinctively, he licks his lips, his throat burning when he tries to swallow.
He finds himself staring at the ceiling, waiting for his brain to form a useful thought. Dick tries to look around, groaning when the bright light filtering through the curtains hits him directly in the face, making his killer headache even worse.
Dick rolls onto his side and tries to push himself up with trembling arms, one hand sinking into the mattress while the other completely misses its target, sending him tumbling off the bed along with the sheets.
His head hits the ground with a loud thunk, and for a second, Dick thinks his skull has cracked open like a goddamn coconut.
Dick hisses as he runs his fingers over his forehead, where a baseball-sized bump will inevitably form later. It hurts like a bitch. With a defeated sigh, Dick rests his cheek against the cold wooden floor, ignoring the dull ache in his ribs and the sharp twinge in the elbow he tried to use to break his fall.
He blinks, lifts his gaze, and finds himself face-to-face with someone underneath the bed.
The scream that escapes him is anything but manly.
''AHH! WHAT THE FUCK?!''
At the same time Dick scrambles backward, the sheets still tangled around his legs, the mysterious person under the bed suddenly jerks up and hits their head against the slats supporting the mattress.
''Wha—? Ack!''
Dick presses himself against the wall, clutching the sheets as he listens to the mysterious man curse under his breath.
"Fuck—son of a bitch, that fucking hurts."
Wait a second.
"Jason?" Dick asks tentatively, hoping with all his heart that the sailor-mouthed man under the bed is his brother and not a total stranger.
"Huh?" The man turns to look at him, his hands still clutching the spot where he hit his head, and, well, turns out the stranger isn't actually a stranger. Dick would recognize that white streak anywhere.
"Dick, what—? Ow! Motherfucker!" Jason hisses after hitting his head again while trying to sit up from underneath the bed.
"Oh thank God." Dick exhales the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Once the initial shock passes, he immediately frowns. "Also, what the hell is wrong with you? You almost gave me a heart attack!''
"With me? You're the one who started screaming!''
"That's because your ugly face gave me a good scare!"
"My face—! Oh my God, why are you yelling, why am I yelling. My head is fucking killing me," Jason groans.
"Yeah, shut up," Dick mutters.
Jason shoots him a look, "You shut up!"
Dick would roll his eyes, but that would probably make his headache worse. Instead he flips his brother off. Jason returns the gesture with both hands.
He huffs and rests his head against the wall, listening to Jason's muffled complaints as he crawls out from under the bed.
The calm doesn't last long.
Dick feels weird, like something is missing, but what?
It takes him a second to figure it out, and he straightens in alarm when realization hits him.
He's missing a brother.
He's missing Tim.
"Holy shit, Tim!" he turns toward Jason. "I forgot about—" Dick cuts himself off abruptly.
He blinks, then blinks again, just to make sure it isn't his hangover brain making him see things.
"Jason, what on earth are you wearing?"
Jason gives him a questioning look.
"What are you talking about?" he says, looking himself up and down, only to stare down at his chest as his brain finally catches up. "The fuck?"
"That's what I'm saying!" Dick gestures toward Jason's chest.
Jason stares, mouthed agape, at the bra. The red lace bra that he is currently wearing underneath his unbuttoned shirt.
"You know what? I'm way too hangover to be embarrassed about this," he admits.
"Please tell me you're not wearing a thong too," Dick blurts out.
Now that—that actually makes Jason freeze.
Dick watches in horror as Jason stretches his legs. Twice.
"Uh, I don't think so?" The fact that he doesn't sound sure of himself doesn't make it any better.
Dick lets out a long sigh and wisely decides not to ask any more questions.
"Forget it. Do you have any idea where Tim might be?"
"How would I know? I just woke up too," Jason says, reaching behind his back as he tries to unhook the bra. "Damn it, why is this so hard? Hey, have you tried checking the bathroom?"
That... hadn't even occurred to Dick.
"I'll go check it right now."
He is a bit disoriented, but he manages to make his way to what he hopes is the bathroom door without tripping over the sheets on the floor.
Dick stops with his hand on the handle, a wave of anxiety washing over him.
"Scared there's a dead body in there?"
"Jesus!" Dick jumps.
"Nah, just me."
"Jason, could you please stop doing that?" Dick says, rubbing his temple. "I feel like I've aged ten years in the last five minutes."
"Again, not really my fault. But if it makes you feel better, I don't think there's a corpse in there. It doesn't smell like one."
"And how would you know that?"
Jason raises an eyebrow at him.
"Yeah, fair point."
Still, Dick takes a deep breath before turning the handle.
The bathroom lights are off, making it a little difficult to see inside, but Dick doesn't want to risk having a stroke if he turns them on. Jason would probably strangle him if he tried it anyway, so he discards the idea.
At first glance, nothing seems out of the ordinary, but Dick notices that the shower curtain is slightly askew, which makes him step further inside.
The relief he feels upon finding Tim in the bathtub is instant.
"Thank God."
Jason looks over his shoulder and snorts.
"He looks like a cat."
Dick nods in agreement. Tim really does look like a cat like this, curled up in the bathtub. It reminds him of those huge cats that somehow manage to squeeze themselves into the tiniest spaces.
"I should take a picture, this is prime blackmail material."
"Jason."
"As if you weren't thinking the same thing."
Of course he was, but Jason doesn't need to know that.
"You're the worst," he says instead, ignoring the "buzzkill" muttered behind him.
"Tim," Dick calls, kneeling in front of the bathtub to gently shake him by the shoulder. "Timmy, wake up."
Tim simply mumbles something incomprehensible and continues pretending to be asleep. Dick noticed the change in his breathing right after Jason made the cat comment.
He may be hungover, but his inner detective never fully rests.
"Timbo, we know you're awake. Quit pretending."
Tim whines and curls up even tighter. "Five more minutes."
"Nope, get up. I need to make sure you weren't stabbed or lost a tooth last night."
"Why is that a concern?" asks Jason, sounding both curious and confused.
"I'll let Tim explain that one to you," Dick replies, a shiver running through him as he remembers that fateful night when Tim decided it would be a good idea to try alcohol specially made to knock out a speedster. "Tim, I'm serious. Up."
Tim simply rolls onto his other side, turning his back to him.
"That's it." Dick stands up and turns on the shower.
The effect is immediate.
Tim yelps when the cold water hits his skin. His hands shoot up over his head, as if he could physically block the stream of water.
"Dude, what the fuck?!" Tim protests, coughing from the water that got up his nose.
"That should wake you up," Dick says, turning off the water, barely suppressing his laugh.
Jason doesn't even bother doing the same.
"Ha! He looks like a wet cat!" Tim's murderous glare only makes him laugh harder.
"And you look like a squashed banana," Tim retorts.
Jason's laughter slowly dies.
"Wait, what? Why?"
Tim frowns. "Because of your black eye? Duh. Why else?"
Jason doesn't say anything. Instead he turns around and goes straight for the mirror, gasping at his reflection.
"What the hell?" Jason mutters. "Why didn't you tell me I had a black eye, Dickface?"
"I—honestly, I was too surprised by you wearing a bra."
Jason considers this, then shrugs. "Makes sense."
"What?" Tim covers his mouth with one hand, as if that could hide his grin. "Oh my God, how did you notice the bra and not the black eye? No, no, even more importantly, how did it fit you?" he asks between laughs.
Jason finally seems capable of being embarrassed, because despite the darkness, Dick can see the tips of his ears turning red.
"Shut up, Timothy," Jason hisses.
Far from shutting up, Tim barks out a laugh.
"I just—I just picture it—pfft."
Well, now Dick's laughing too.
"Oh come on! Not you too."
"Sorry, Little Wing, but Tim's right," Dick snorts, Tim wheezing in the background.
"Fuck you," Jason grumbles, flinching as he presses against the bruise. "I don't even remember how I got it."
"You—you got into a fight with a stop sign," Tim supplies, before dissolving into laughter again.
"He what?" Dick gasps, laughing so hard that both his head and stomach are starting to hurt.
The thought of Jason in the middle of the street, fighting a stop sign and losing, is so ridiculous and so damn funny at the same time.
God, Dick hopes he wasn't too drunk to record it, because this is gold.
"What—? How?! How do I not remember that and you do?"
It takes a couple of seconds, but Tim manages to catch his breath enough to answer.
"Man, that was good." Jason throws the roll of toilet paper at Tim, but misses, sending it tumbling into the bathtub with a splat. "Jeez. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed."
"I woke up under the bed—"
"Anyway, this is all Dick's fault," Tim accuses.
Dick's smile falls.
"Wait, how is him picking a fight with an inanimate object and getting a black eye my fault? I don't even remember half of last night!"
"You kinda did that to yourself."
"Hey!"
Tim ignores Dick's indignant noise, which—rude.
"Though, if you go back to the beginning, then it's Bruce's fault for making us to go with him to that damn fancy-ass club." Jason curses Bruce under his breath. "But Dick is the one who convinced you to go get a drink. Everything went downhill after that."
Dick can practically feel the daggers Jason is shooting him, and he thanks whatever higher power is up there that there aren't any sharp objects nearby. He's not sure he'd be able to dodge one a hangover this bad.
"I think you two danced on a table at some point."
Yeah, Dick is not drinking again.
"So you remember the whole night?"
"No, just the memorable parts," Tim says with a shit-eating grin.
"I'm going to strangle you," Jason threatens, giving Tim his classic "I put severed heads in a duffel bag" look.
"You already tried that. Didn't work. Change tactics. Now shush, it may not seem like it but I feel like my skull is being drilled, and I don't want to pass out in the bathtub again," Tim mutters at the end, but Dick is close enough to hear him.
"What do you mean by 'again'?"
Tim looks away.
"Tim," Dick presses, and Tim starts whistling, still refusing to look at him.
Jason snorts. "Now I understand why you wanted to make sure he wasn't actively bleeding out."
Dick feels along Tim's arms and sides for any injuries.
Tim lets Dick examine him, complaining the whole time, only shutting up when Dick makes him open his mouth to check that he hasn't lost any teeth, like last time.
Dick manages to pull his fingers away just in time before Tim can bite him.
"Happy?"
"Pretty much," Dick reaches toward Tim again, this time to brush back the strands of hair that had stuck to his forehead.
The sight that greets him makes Dick freeze, and then he's cupping Tim's face with both hands.
"Uh, Dick?" Tim manages to say, even with his cheeks being squished.
Dick ignores him, paying more attention to the two shiny metal pieces in Tim's eyebrow.
Bruce is going to have an aneurysm.
"Is that...?" Jason starts, amusement evident in his voice.
Dick sighs. "Yes, it is."
A piercing. Tim has an eyebrow piercing.
"What? What am I missing?" Tim asks, looking back and forth between Dick and Jason.
Dick says nothing, simply takes Tim's hand and guides it to his eyebrow, his eyes going wide when his fingers brush against one of the tiny metal balls.
"Is that a piercing? Did I get an eyebrow piercing?" There is a moment of silence. And then Tim bolts out of the bathtub to look in the mirror. "Fuck me, I got an eyebrow piercing."
"Look on the bright side, at least it's not a tattoo." Jason offers.
Tim slowly turns toward him, horror reflected on his face for an entirely different reason.
The smug look on Jason's face drops too, and Dick's immediately follows.
"You think that...?" Jason starts.
"...one of us got a tattoo?" Dick finishes.
"I mean, none of us fully remember the events of last night. And seeing how things are going, would it really be that far-fetched to think that at least one of us got a tattoo?" Tim explains.
"I hate that you're making sense."
Dick checks his chest and arms, also running his hands over his legs through his wrinkled dress pants, but thankfully nothing hurts or stings.
"Believe it or not, I hate it too." Tim says as he lifts his wet shirt to look at his back in the mirror. "Well, looks like drunk me didn't make too many bad decisions last night. Thank God."
Dick turns to look at Jason, who watches them, arms crossed, from where he's leaning against the wall.
"Don't look at me. The only things that hurts are my head and my back, but that's because I slept on the floor."
Dick presses his lips into a thin line and exchanges a long sideways glance with Tim.
"Does it sting?" Tim asks to break the ice.
"...A little, but it's normal, right?"
None of them answer.
"Right?" he asks again, this time a little more desperately.
"Jay...turn around."
Jason muffles a groan behind his hands. Tim pats him on the shoulder with a sympathetic grimace.
"I'm never going to drink again," Jason mutters, lifting his shirt and turning around to show them his back.
Dick slaps his hand over his mouth. Tim gasps.
"Oh my God."
"What?" Jason asks, trying to look over his shoulder.
"I—Jason."
"What?!" he yells, and Dick notices the exact moment his eyes land on the tattoo. "Is that... is that a fucking tramp stamp?"
Dick snorts, drawing his attention.
"Why are you laughing? Dickhead, why—Tim, why the fuck are you laughing too?"
Dick doubles over, one hand still covering his mouth but not doing much to muffle his laughter.
Tim isn't doing much better. He's gripping Dick's arm so tightly that his fingertips have gone white.
"Look in the mirror." he says between laughs.
The look on Jason's face when he sees the tattoo reflected in the mirror makes Dick smack his thigh repeatedly, struggling to catch his breath.
Because yes, Jason has a tramp stamp tattoo. But that's not the best part. No.
The best part is the design.
A design featuring a bow and multiple arrows.
"You've got to be kidding me," Jason stammers mortified, his cheeks growing red with every passing second.
"Jason." Dick tries one more time, only to dissolve into another fit of laughter.
"I hate you guys. You two are the worst brothers ever."
"Oh, so me getting a piercing is funny, but you having a tattoo isn't?"
"Those are two completely different things! Now I can't ever change in the Batcave again!"
"It's not like you go there very often." Tim rolls his eyes.
"That's not the point!" Jason exclaims, tugging at his hair. "Fuck, how am I supposed to look Roy in the face now?"
"Give him your back?"
"Tim!"
"Yeah, I bet Roy would like that," Dick adds, laughing along with Tim.
Jason turns even redder, a mix of embarrassment and anger.
It makes the whole thing ten times funnier.
Jason is so easy to embarrass sometimes, Dick just can't pass up the opportunity. It's his duty as the older brother. And this is something Dick is going to tease Jason about for a long, long time.
"You're both dead to me," Jason says, dramatically storming out of the bathroom.
Dick and Tim exchange a look.
"Think they're finally gonna get together after this?"
"God, I hope so. Their pining is painful to watch."
There's a series of hurried footsteps, and then the bathroom door slams shut.
"Dead to me!" Jason shouts from the other side of the door.
Dick laughs so hard his eyes start watering.
"So, any idea where our phones are?" Dick asks.
Tim shrugs from his spot on the floor next to Jason, who is lying face-down on the floor, probably reconsidering every decision that led him to this moment.
"No idea. Hopefully, we didn't lose them on our way to—wherever the hell we are. I think I documented some parts of last night," Tim says, curling up in the bright pink, ridiculously fluffy robe he found in the bathroom's dressing room.
"Why are you wearing that? Didn't you find any pants?"
"There were pants. But they were way too tight. Besides, this is more comfortable."
Dick sighs and pokes Jason in the cheek, who remains motionless on the ground.
"Jay, stop being dramatic. Your life isn't over." Before his brother can say anything, Dick cuts him off. "Whatever comes out of your mouth better not be a death joke."
Jason slaps Dick's thigh in retaliation.
Dick snorts, ruffling Jason's hair before getting to his feet, barely avoiding another hit.
"Come on. I refuse to go face whatever horror is waiting for us in the living room alone." He shudders. "I've already seen enough."
Enough means dried vomit stains on the floor and a closet full of things Dick would've preferred to remain blissfully ignorant about.
"My back hurts," Jason grumbles, dragging his feet.
"It didn't seem to hurt that much before," Tim says.
"That's because I wasn't aware of the nature of it before."
"You're such a drama queen," Dick rolls his eyes and wincing when the movement makes his head throb."
"Easy for you to say. You don't have a tattoo above your ass."
"And thank God for that. I don't know what I would've done if I—Jesus Christ."
Dick stops abruptly in the doorway, causing his brothers to bump into each other behind him.
"Ow, Dick, why do you—? Oh, shit."
"I should've stayed on the floor."
There, on the table in the middle of the room, sits a half-full bag of some mysterious white powder. The other half is scattered across the table and floor, along with what appear to be little rolled-up pieces of paper.
"Please, please tell me that's not cocaine."
"Okay, It's not cocaine."
"Jason."
"What? I'm doing what you asked!"
"No, you're being a bitch and a—Tim, Tim, what are you doing?"
Dick stops arguing with Jason to look at the other reason for his growing migraine, which happens to be Tim with the tip of one white-covered finger halfway to his mouth.
"Tim," Dick warns.
Tim blinks at him, then licks his potentially cocaine-covered finger.
"It's sweet," Tim declares, then dips his finger in the bag and does it again.
"Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne!"
"Ooooh, full name," Jason teases, only making Dick's temple start throbbing.
"Calm your ass cheeks, it's just sugar."
Jason barks out a laugh. Dick opens and closes his mouth, unsure whether to feel relieved that none of them did drugs or offended by what Tim just said.
"You little shit." He drops onto the couch beside the table, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Couldn't you have said that the first time?"
"I wanted to be sure," Tim shrugs.
Dick gives him a look that makes Tim look at least a little sheepish. Jason, on the other hand, doesn't seem to give a damn, per usual.
"Why the hell did we try to smoke sugar yesterday?" Jason asks no one in particular.
"Looks like our drunk selves like to mess with our sober selves."
"Yeah, I've noticed."
"Hopefully we won't find anything worse than... that." Dick gestures toward the table.
"What could possibly be worse than this?"
Tim punches him on the shoulder.
"What was that for?!"
"Don't jinx us, idiot!"
"How could this possibly jinx us if all this shit already happened?!"
Dick lets his brothers' bickering fade into background noise. He's way too hungover to listen to them, let alone join in
"...and that's why—our phones!"
That snaps Dick right back to his horrible reality.
"Are they still usable?" he rasps. God, his throat hurts.
"I think so."
Tim holds out his phone. There's a crack across the screen, but aside from that, it looks completely fine.
The low-battery warning when Dick tries to turn it on makes him slump back onto the couch.
"Dead battery?" Jason asks.
"Hmn, yours?"
"Same."
Jason sighs, wincing as he leans back against the couch.
"What about yours, Tim?"
Tim shows them the screen, the battery sitting at ten percent. Better than nothing.
"Now let's figure out where the hell we are so we can get back to the hotel."
Barely a second after he finishes speaking, there's a ping. Then another. And another. And another. They just keep coming. Tim's phone is blowing up with notifications, messages, and a shitload of missed calls.
Dick feels his blood pressure drop when he sees the thirty-eight missed calls.
All from Bruce.
We're so fucked.
"We're so fucked," Tim voices his thoughts out loud.
Jason groans. "What kind of alcohol was in those drinks?"
"I wish I'd drowned in my own vomit," Dick mutters, resting his head against Jason's shoulder.
"Me too, bro. Me too." Jason agrees, throwing an arm around his shoulders in a strange gesture of solidarity.
Tim gasps at something on his phone, and Dick watches in real time as his face goes from horror, to regret, to amusement, and back to horror.
Dick has a feeling he's not going to like this. Not that he's liked anything that's happened in the last hour, but this looks like it might be worse.
"What is it now?"
Tim hands him the phone without saying a word.
Before Dick can look at the screen, Tim squeezes his cheeks and forces him to make eye contact.
"Don't panic."
"Tim, I'm already panicking. How bad is it?"
Tim tightens his grip slightly.
"Just... be grateful that our dad is a billionaire."
"That bad?"
Tim waves his hand in a so-so motion.
"We're trending on Twitter."
Oh.
It's bad. Bad.
"Fuck."
"Just play the damn video, Dickface," Jason grumbles.
As if he were cutting the wire on a bomb, Dick slowly brings his finger toward the screen and, with a fear equivalent to that caused by the fear toxin, hits play on the video.
The first thing that catches his attention when the video starts playing is the sirens in the background, along with the deafening music. The camera takes a moment to focus, and when it finally does, Dick feels his soul leave his body.
"Oh my God," he breathes, at the exact same time as the Dick in the video lets out a completely unhinged laugh.
"Go faster, go faster!" Jason is shouting in the video, his voice barely audible over the blaring music coming from the car's speakers, which Dick recognizes as Bruce's.
And Dick, drunk and with more alcohol than blood running through his veins at that point, does exactly what his brother asks and speeds up. The roar of the engine makes Tim and Jason cheer at the same time.
"Eat dust, assholes!" Jason sticks his head out the window and flips off the cops.
"Don't stop me now" keeps playing in the background, louder than the sirens now that they are a good distance from the patrols.
"Oh, here comes my favorite part! Turn it up, Timbo!"
Dick has no idea how none of them have gone deaf.
"I'M BURNING THROUGH THE SKY, YEAH! " Jason starts. "TWO HUNDRED DEGREES THAT'S WHY THEY CALL ME MISTER FAHRENHEIT!"
"I'M TRAVELING AT THE SPEED OF LIGHT!" Tim follows.
"¡I WANNA MAKE A SUPERSONIC WOMAN OF YOU!" Dick joins in. "Everyone together!"
And then the three of them are singing—or more like screaming—the chorus together at the top of their lungs.
"DON'T STOP ME, DON'T STOP ME, DON'T STOP ME! ¡HEY, HEY, HEY...!"
Dick has to admit that, despite the circumstances, they actually seemed to be having a good time. Seeing himself and his brothers enjoying the moment brings a smile to his face.
"Play Thunderstruck next!"
The video cuts five seconds after the song's intro starts, right as they're in the middle of whooping.
Dick scrolls down and finds more posts with the #WayneWasted hashtag.
"Fuck, there's more," Jason mutters.
Instead of answering, Dick clicks on another video. This one is short, only a few seconds long.
Unlike the previous video, Dick is the one recording this time.
"Hey, Timmers," Jason calls out, his voice hoarse. He elbows Tim in the side to get his attention.
"What?"
"Since—since when did you get your own Bat-Signal?"
Tim turns to look at Jason with a frown, his fingers loosely wrapped around the neck of a half-empty bottle. Dick has to squint at the label on the bottle shown in the video.
It's Pisco.
"I don't have one?"
Jason looks like he's barely holding back his laughter.
"Then what's that?" He points toward something off-camera. Dick follows his gaze and spots a rainbow-colored laser beam coming from a bar at the end of the street.
The camera shakes with Dick's laughter.
A second later, Tim lunges at Jason with the bottle raised.
"Son of a—!"
The video cuts off mid-scream.
"Wow." Tim turns to look at Jason. "Your jokes are just as terrible as Dick's."
Jason gasps and Dick—Dick doesn't have the energy to feel offended anymore.
"First of all, don't insult me like that. Second, that's not an excuse to smash a bottle on my head!"
"Be grateful it wasn't a crowbar," Tim whispers.
Jason lunges at him and starts choking him.
Dick ignores them and moves on to the next post. There's another video, but what makes Dick want to dig a hole in the ground and bury his head in it until the next decade is the fact that this one is posted by the Gotham Gazette.
Logically, Dick knew this was bound to happen, but that doesn't mean he was mentally prepared for it.
GothamGazette ✓ @GothamGazette
CHAOS IN BARCELONA: Bruce Wayne's sons cause an embarrassing spectacle while under the influence of alcohol: The two oldest brothers, Dick Grayson and Jason Todd-Wayne, were spotted twerking on tables at a famous club in Barcelona.
WATCH THE EXCLUSIVE VIDEO AND DETAILS: [gothamgazette.com/barcelona-scandal]
Dick opens the video and realizes that no amount of Bruce's fortune will be enough to repair their public image after this.
"Jason," Dick chokes out. "I know where the bra came from."
In the blink of an eye, Jason materializes beside him, and Tim's upper half is on the floor.
"You fucker—" Tim croaks.
"Shut up," Jason hisses without taking his eyes off the screen. Dick watches the horror slowly spread across his face.
The video is exactly what the tweet said. Dick and Jason are twerking on a table with five other strangers.
The people around them are obviously enjoying the show. Some of them even start handing them money, like they're fucking strippers. Hell, they look like fucking strippers.
By the end of the video, Dick has a bunch of bills tucked around the waistband of his pants, while Jason is wearing the bra someone threw at him so people can put money in it.
"Is it too late to be legally dead again?"
"I don't want to go back to Gotham. The paparazzi are going to be unbearable, more than usual."
Jason gives the video one last look and lets out a long sigh.
"Well, at least now I know I can dance while I'm drunk and still look good doing it."
Dick raises an eyebrow. "You don't seem as worried as I thought you'd be."
Jason shrugs. "I mean, the press probably expects this kind of stunt from me after all the shit I've pulled to piss Bruce off since I was legally declared alive again, so the attention won't last long. You, on the other hand..."
"I know, I know." Dick runs a hand through his hair. "It's gonna be hell doing damage control once we get back to Gotham."
"Speak for yourselves. I only got a piercing."
Dick wants to wipe the smug smile off Tim's face. He exchanges a look with Jason and nods. That's all Jason needs to shove Tim off the couch,again.
"Again?!"
"You asked for it."
Tim gives them the middle finger. They both flip him off in return.
"Well, I think the worst of it is over. There are only pictures and... opinions. I'm definitely skipping those."
Most of the pictures are blurry. In one, Dick is carrying Tim on his shoulders, the two of them leaning dangerously to one side. There's another one, a selfie Tim is taking, with Jason and Dick in the background, each drinking from a bottle with their arms linked. There are also pictures from the studio where Tim got his piercing and Jason got his tattoo, but Dick isn't going to tell Jason that there's a picture of him showing off his tramp stamp.
He doesn't want to deal with his dramatic ass again.
"Ugh, do I want to know what they're saying?" Tim asks from the floor.
"Uhhh." Dick glances briefly at the screen and turns to Tim with a grimace. "I don't think so."
Dick keeps scrolling a little further, then stops abruptly when a picture catches his attention.
A very particular photo.
"What in the actual fuck—"
"I don't even want to ask."
"I definitely want to ask. What did Timberlina do this time?" Jason asks, looking over Dick's shoulder.
Jason chokes on absolutely nothing and starts cackling.
"What the fuck, Tim?! Oh, fu—You're never going to live this down!" Jason points at him while laughing.
Tim snatches the phone from his hands, glances at the screen, and his face goes bright red.
"You've got to be shitting me."
The picture in question shows Tim standing in the middle of the road wearing one of those traffic vests, directing traffic. Where he got that vest is beside the point, because what makes the picture so striking is that instead of using traffic batons to direct traffic, Tim is holding two fucking huge neon dildos.
"What the fuck? Why are they glowing? Since when are there fucking giant glowing dildos?"
"That your biggest concern?!"
"It's the first thing that caught my attention! Fuck, what possessed me to do this?" Tim grumbles.
"Alcohol."
"The gay spirit."
Dick and Jason burst out laughing.
"I hope your pillows are warm on both sides tonight, I hate you so mu—Oh, great. Now my phone's dead too. Just what I needed."
Dick snorts at Tim's pout.
"Man, that was good." Jason wipes the tears from the corners of his eyes. "Though my head feels like it's about to explode."
"Same."
Dick gets to his feet with cracking knees, his steps a little unsteady as he tries to make his way around the coffee table.
"Alright, up you two. I want to get out of here before I discover anything else about my drunk self."
Dick grabs a pair of sunglasses he finds on his way to the front door. The sound of dragging feet follows behind him.
He isn't as surprised as he probably should be when he notices that the door lock is broken.
"I guess this means we're adding breaking and entering to the list of illegal things we did in the last twenty-four hours," Tim says.
Jason frowns. "You're making a list? Also, why are you carrying the sugar?" He points out the bag Tim is carrying.
"It's a mental list. And I'm carrying the sugar in case we need money."
"You planning to sell sugar in the middle of the street?"
"No, I'm going to sell cocaine in the nearest park we can find."
Jason freezes mid-step, and so does Dick. they both slowly turn to look at Tim.
"You said it was sugar."
"It is sugar."
"Then why—?"
"Because," Tim begins, still walking down the hallway, which Dick is starting to notice looks suspiciously familiar, "we can pass it off as cocaine and use the money to take a taxi in case we are on the other side of the city. We already look like drug addicts, so finding buyers shouldn't be too hard."
Dick is speechless. One, because his brain must be even more fried than he thought if it didn't occur to him at all that they might need money later; and two, how did Tim plan that so quickly?
"Tim, is this something you came up with on the spot, or is it a contingency plan for things that have a 0.001% chance of happening? Because this sounds weirdly specific."
"....I don't know? The idea came to me naturally."
"Naturally, he says." Jason mutters.
"Alright, maybe I made a contingency plan for this type of situation in my spare time a while ago."
"Who in their right mind makes contingency plans in their spare time?" Jason asks exasperatedly as he presses the elevator button. "I swear, sometimes it seems like you're more Bruce's biological son than Damian. Are you sure your mom didn't sleep with him at least once?"
"Jason, we could all pass as Bruce's biological kids. You even have his bone structure." Tim teases him.
Once they're inside the elevator, Jason snatches the sunglasses off Tim's face.
"Hey!"
"Jason." Dick tries to scold him.
"What? I'm hungover. My eyes are sensitive to light."
"We're inside an elevator, dumbass! And we're all hungover!" Tim complains, trying and failing to get his sunglasses back.
"Yeah, but if you have the energy to be a whiny little bitch, then you're not hungover enough," Jason argues. "So naturally, I need them more."
"You're the one who started being a bitch, bitch!"
Dick leans against one of the elevator walls and lets them fight. Hopefully, he'll pass out and won't have to listen to either them or the elevator music, which is painfully slow and contrasts horribly with his brothers trying to beat the shit out of each other.
Jason has Tim in a headlock when the doors finally open.
Bruce is standing on the other side.
And he does not look happy.
"Hey...Bruce." Dick greets him with a nervous laugh.
Bruce crosses his arms and gives the three of them a look that conveys his complete regret at ever having children.
"Boys."
Dick has to suppress a shudder.
Tim elbows Jason.
"Jason, play the dad card," he whispers.
Jason clears his throat and adjusts his sunglasses, as if they could somehow hide his black eye.
"Hi, Dad."
Bruce's gaze hardens.
"I love you?" Jason tries again.
Bruce let's out a tired dad sigh.
"I love you too, son. But that's not going to work. Not this time."
Jason's shoulders slump, and he lets out a resigned sigh.
"Well, I tried."
Once they're out of the elevator, Dick recognizes the lobby almost instantly.
It's good to know their drunk asses didn't check into a different hotel than the one they'd originally been staying at.
"Boys, I'm very disapoi—Tim, what the hell is that?"
Tim looks between Bruce, his brothers, and the bag in his arms.
"Uh... cocaine?"
Jason bursts out laughing right there in the middle of the lobby, where a bunch of people are watching and listening to the damn circus they're putting on.
Bruce's eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, and Dick has to press his lips together to keep from cracking up and joining Jason on the floor.
"What the fuck?" Bruce turns to Dick for an explanation. "What happened last night?"
"I've been asking myself the same question all day, Bruce."
Bruce groans and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers.
"I should've stopped at one."
Dick couldn't agree more.