Making Rafayel suffer again for today's @whumptober fic
Prompts Used: Symptomatic, Fancy Event, Resignation
Fandom: Love and Deepspace
Character: Rafayel
~~~~~~~~
Ariadne forgot that it was Ebb Day and Rafayel suffers more than usual at a gallery party.
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Drifting with the Tide
The gallery was packed, the party in full swing. I stood off to one side with Rafayel, both of us watching Thomas speak to the guests, showing off Rafayel’s newest pieces.
“Why do you never show off your own work?” I asked him.
“Don’t you think that’s tacky? Why would I have a manager if he didn’t do manger-y things for me?”
“I guess?”
“Besides, Thomas will come up with more marketable concepts,” Rafayel sighed. “It doesn’t matter if they aren’t accurate. Most people don’t care about the artist’s vision anyway. They can’t see beyond the composition and colors.”
“I’m sure some would appreciate it,” I coaxed. “Come on, why don’t you try it for tonight?”
“I already came here, didn’t I? Isn’t that enough for you?” Rafayel sipped at a glass of sparkling wine and tugged at his collar for the umpteenth time that night. “Ugh, isn’t it hot in here?”
“A little,” I said. But I was wearing a sleeveless dress and Rafayel was wearing a suit, so he would definitely be feeling it more.
Rafayel had been irritable all night, even for him. I knew he wasn’t happy to be here, but he didn’t have to be so grumpy.
I poked his cheek teasingly. “Cheer up, you only have to hang around for a couple more hours at least. Then Thomas will be off your back for a few weeks at least before he wants you to finish another project.”
“Oh good, a few weeks to myself,” he replied sarcastically.
I huffed a sigh, starting to feel a little annoyed at his attitude. “Why do you even come to these if you don’t like anything about them?”
He gave me a look. “I wouldn’t have come tonight if you hadn’t ordered me to.”
“What? I did that on Thomas’s behalf—”
“And he knows I can’t say no to you,” Rafayel muttered. “Today of all days too. You do play dirty.”
“What do you mean? You didn’t have to come if you really didn’t want to. You’ve skipped out before, plenty of times.”
He narrowed his eyes accusingly. “Did you miss the part where I said you ordered me to come?”
He loosened his tie and I caught a very brief glint of azure scales on his neck.
“Rafayel, you’re—”
I froze, suddenly remembering the first time I had seen his scales. It had been about this time last year. Did that mean…
“Rafayel,” I took his hand and found that it was clammy, my heart sinking. “Is this…um…because of Ebb Day?”
He gave me a baleful look and drank the rest of his wine. “Forgot?”
“Why didn’t you remind me?!” I demanded. “You should be home resting!”
“Yeah, I know,” Rafayel scoffed. “But you’re the one who ordered me to come, so I had to come.”
I opened my mouth, but remembered earlier when I had shown up at the studio to remind Rafayel that the gallery was that night. He’d refused as usual, saying he had better things to do, so I had put my hands on my hips and told him that he would come and he would stop complaining about it.
Thinking back, the look on his face had been a bit odd, and he had acquiesced rather easily for Rafayel.
I remembered last year when Rafayel had explained about Ebb Day, how he said that Lemurians were weaker, more suggestible, especially ones who held binding pacts with humans. I’d seen it in action before and it was indeed powerful. Well, at least in getting him to do anything but stop complaining, it seemed.
Still, I felt awful about forcing him to leave the house when he was sick.
“Rafayel, I’m sorry. I should have remembered.”
He shrugged, putting the wineglass down on the tray of a passing waiter. “Whatever. You’ll just owe me, I guess.” His face suddenly scrunched up as he staggered, leaning back against the wall rather heavily.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I asked, grabbing his arm to steady him.
“That’s new,” he muttered, hand going to his thigh and rubbing gently.
“Raf?”
He pushed himself off the wall, still a little shaky. “I can’t breathe in here, I need some fresh air.”
He passed me, pushing his way through the crowd, ignoring anyone who called out to him as he made his way toward the back door.
Instead of following him, I decided to give him a couple minutes while I went to find Thomas.
The young gallery manager was currently in a discussion with a couple who seemed interested in one of Rafayel’s pieces.
“Of course, we can have it delivered tomorrow. Thank you so much.”
I stepped up to him as he was putting a sign up to indicate the painting had been bought. He glanced at me, sighing as he saw I was alone.
“Where did he run off to now?”
“Thomas, I need to take Rafayel home,” I told him. “He’s not feeling well.”
“Is he,” Thomas deadpanned. “What excuse did he use this time?”
“No excuse, he’s actually sick, Thomas.”
Sympathy washed the manager’s eyes. “He is? Well, in that case, make sure he rests. I trust you to look after him.”
I nodded and smiled at him in thanks before heading outside to find Rafayel.
He was sitting on a bench that sat on one side of the gallery in a small garden area. He was currently bent over his knees, head propped in one hand.
“Rafayel?” I called.
He looked up, straightening slightly, but I could see the discomfort clear in his eyes.
“I told Thomas I’m taking you home,” I said.
“Finally,” he muttered. “That place was too stuffy—too many people in there.”
He pushed himself up but wobbled and sat back down heavily.
“Are you okay?” I asked, reaching down to grab his arm.
“It’s…my legs. They really hurt,” he admitted, a furrow in his brow.
“Is that not normal?” I asked.
“No, at least it’s never happened to me before. But it’s like…really sharp pain shoots through them every once in a while.”
I offered him my hands so he could stand up. “Maybe a bath will help soothe you when we get home? I’ll ask for the next couple days off so I can take care of you.”
Rafayel leaned against me and I could feel the fever radiating from him. “I guess I’ll accept that as an apology.”
I got him to the car and took the keys from my bag. He leaned against the window, eyes closed. I pursed my lips in worry but made a silent promise that I would care for him and pamper him to make up for my mistake earlier. And for forgetting such an important event. I would make sure to mark it on my calendar next year.
Rafayel’s legs seemed stiffer by the time we got back; he could barely walk into the house and I had to put him on the couch instead of getting him up to his room.
“Do you normally have different symptoms when it comes to Ebb Day?” I asked him as I set up his bath.
“Sometimes it’s worse than others.” Rafayel admitted, unbuttoning his shirt halfway down his chest. I could see how much trouble he was having breathing so I got the water running as quickly as possible.
He groaned, raising and arm to place over his eyes and I bent to gently brush his hair back.
“The bath is ready. I’m gonna go grab a few things. You can get in whenever you want.”
He grunted and I made my way around the large house to collect all the things I would need to take care of Rafayel: thermometer, fever medicine, towels, bottles of water—I wasn’t really sure if any of this would do much, but I figured it was better to try.
By the time I got back, I was surprised to see Rafayel still sitting on the couch. He had stripped his shirt off, random patterns of scales showing across his ribs, making me do a doubletake, feeling my cheeks heat slightly. But it wasn’t time to get flustered, especially with the look of panic Rafayel shot me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I-I can’t move my legs,” he admitted.
“What do you mean? Are they hurting again, or—?”
“I mean they won’t move,” Rafayel snapped, shifting on the couch. “They’re just…aching. But I can’t make them move.”
I didn’t know what to do. “Maybe you need a hospital—”
“No!” Rafayel cut in instantly, eyes wide. “Do you have any idea what they would do to me? I’m not…human and I can’t even pass right now.”
“What about Talia? Could you talk to her?”
“I’m sure she’s going through her own issues right now,” Rafayel replied, jaw tightening with obvious pain and discomfort. “I just…need to get in the water. I can’t breathe enough to deal with this. Can I lean on you?”
“If you can’t move your legs, that’s not going to help,” I told him, walking over, eyeing Rafayel briefly before making my decision. I bent over. “Can you put your arms around my neck?”
He wrapped his arms around my neck loosely. “What are you…hey!”
As soon as his arms were around me, I slid my other arm under his knees and lifted. He was certainly heavier than he looked and I realized that Rafayel’s slim frame was all muscle. Still, I’d done a lot of training and after centering my weight I was able to steady us both.
“P-put me down! How dare you carry me like a princess?!” he demanded, covering his face with a hand, but I could still see how red his ears were.
I smirked a little as I moved over to the tub. “Stop complaining or I’ll just throw you over my shoulder next time.”
Rafayel’s face was blazing under the scales on his cheeks. “You’re too bold. I can see no one bothered to teach you manners. You think you’re one of those old sailors in the stories who would go looking for Lemurians on Ebb Day and steal them off to be their brides? I’m not like that, I bite back!”
“Oh, so you’re my Lemurian bride now?” I teased.
“That not what I meant! Stop bullying me!”
I ignored his indignant babbling and lowered him into the bathtub with a little difficulty, but managed not to drop him.
Rafayel settled back with a groan, reaching for his throat. I quickly grabbed a cloth and wet it, pressing it to his forehead.
“You think I need to steal you away?” I teased. “Aren’t you already bound to me?”
His throat bobbed and I felt my stomach flip a little, realizing the joke had fallen flat.
“Here, drink some water,” I coaxed, opening one of the bottles and handing it to him.
Rafayel grabbed it with shaky hands and drank thirstily.
“How are your legs?” I asked.
“Hurting,” he said. “It’s like, really bad, I don’t get it. Why does it always have to be something new?”
“Are they going to turn back into a tail?”
“What? No! I-I…don’t think so,” he amended.
“Can you even do that?” I asked. “I mean, I never see you change even when you’ve gone underwater, so…”
“You are just full of questions tonight,” he murmured, reaching up to rub his head, his other fist clenching on the side of the tub.
“I’m just trying to figure out how best to help you,” I told him sincerely, sitting down behind his head and making him lean back against a rolled towel before I massaged his temples.
He grunted, but seemed to relax from the motion, eyes fluttering shut.
“It seems to get worse every year I’m on land,” he admitted, reaching down to rub at his thighs, shifting uncomfortably. “I…sometimes wonder if some year I’ll be too weak to move or speak.”
“If you are, then I’ll be there,” I assured him softly, picking up the cloth and running the cool water over his neck and face. He nuzzled into it slightly with a small groan of relief.
“But you forgot what today was,” he said, not accusing but sounding more scared and lost.
I shifted so I could cup his chin, tilting his head back so he could look up at me. “I won’t forget again. I’ll mark it on my calendar every year and take the week off. I’ll make sure Thomas knows not to schedule anything during that time, and I’ll spend it taking care of you.
His eyes seemed to melt a little, but his face soon crumpled with pain, a whimper escaping his throat.
I pursed my lips. “Let me get you some pain medicine.”
I went to get up and he caught my wrist, doe eyes looking up at me. “Ari…”
“I’ll be right back,” I promised.
He reluctantly let me go and I headed upstairs to his room, grabbing pain pills, some comfortable clothes for him and quickly changing into some lounge clothes myself so I could get out of the uncomfortable dress.
As I was coming back down the stairs, I heard a large splash and the sounds indicating Rafayel was in pain. I hurried the rest of the way into his studio only to come to a halt when I saw him in the bath.
Rafayel was gripping the sides of the tub, while over the end, flopped a massive fishtail. It was gorgeous, the iridescent blue scales catching the dim studio lights.
“Rafayel, you…you do actually have a tail,” I managed to say stupidly.
He turned to give me a slightly baleful look. “Really? That’s all you have to say?”
I hurried over, kneeling beside him again, unable to stop catching glances at his tail. “Does it still hurt?”
“Not as much, but I don’t feel good,” Rafayel moaned, looking a little dizzy.
I reached out to stroke his damp hair back from his eyes. “What can I do, Rafayel?”
I was surprised when he grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the tub. I let out a shriek. “Rafayel! What are you doing?”
I struggled, but he held me firm, looking up at me with eyes that held distrust and years of hurt, combating his current needs.
“What will you do now that you’ve seen me like this?” he asked, voice slightly hoarse, extremely vulnerable. “I’m no better than a beached whale. You could do anything to me right now.”
“Rafayel…”
“Will you sell me to the highest bidder? Or will you keep me for yourself; put me in a fishtank and make me entertain you?”
I took his chin and his breath hitched as I forced him to look at me.
“Rafayel, I know this is the fever talking, so calm down. You know I will never hurt you.”
His eyes welled, but he looked away before any tears fell. I leaned in to kiss his eyelids and felt him shudder.
“Tell me what you need,” I said more firmly.
A frustrated whine escaped his throat. “I just…need you to stay with me. Don’t leave me. Share your warmth with me.”
He pulled me closer to his chest so that I was laying on top of him, his tail shifting behind me.
I normally would protest, but despite the cool water, he was so warm I didn’t feel cold. It felt…right, like in some universe this hadn’t been the first time we’d laid like this.
“You really won’t take advantage of me while I’m like this?” he murmured, nuzzling my hair.
“Why do you keep asking me that?” I demanded, pulling back slightly.
“Because I can’t say no if you command me to do something,” he admitted. “And I’m afraid you…might make me do something to hurt you.”
“Then I won’t,” I promised. “I will only ask pleasantly, like this:” I cleared my throat. “Dear Rafayel, if you wish, may I kiss your forehead?”
He huffed, cheeks tinting a little, but nodded. “Yes, but that’s not really what I’m talking about…”
I kissed his forehead anyway and pulled back to meet his eyes, seeing them look distant before he took my hand and kissed my palm, pressing it to his cheek.
“Promise me that you won’t ever ask me to do something you know I would never do with my own hands,” he said suddenly.
I frowned, and realized this had never been about Rafayel pretending to be prudish after all. I felt an odd unease in my stomach as if I were forgetting something important. Something I should remember.
“Rafayel…?”
“Never mind, it’s not important,” he said quickly. “Just…promise me?”
I nodded firmly and took his hands in mine. “I promise.”
He seemed to relax slightly, eyes still a little distant and glassy with fever. I stroked his cheek, and decided to tease him a little again to make him feel better.
“So, it looks like I was lucky enough to catch a merman on Ebb Day after all. And quite a handsome one with a very fine tail—and beautiful scales.”
He flushed enormously, his scales becoming more prominent. “Stop saying stuff like that,” he mumbled, genuinely flustered.
I smiled, endeared. It was hard to actually fluster Rafayel since he was usually so cheeky, but he was more vulnerable right now. I wrapped my arms around his neck. “Perhaps I should get a nice big pool for my pretty fishie to swim around it.”
“You’ll be disappointed, I’m most likely to turn into just a man when you wake up tomorrow,” Rafayel replied blandly.
“Well, if that’s the case,” I said, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth, “I will make sure he gets put into bed and pampered until he feels better.”
Rafayel smirked a little. “Oh? So you really are sorry for forgetting.”
“Maybe,” I said as he pulled me closer, hands pressed against the small of my back. “Or maybe I just like taking care of you.”
Rafayel’s breath exhaled with some surprise, but he finally seemed to relax. “I suppose I can allow that then.”
I closed my eyes as I nestled on his chest, feeling Rafayel’s breathing even out as well. Whether I woke to a man or a Lemurian the next morning didn’t really matter—he would still be my Rafayel either way.
~~~~~~~
Tag list: @musicalcellojelly @scullysfraser @packer-chu @kestrelwings-blog @lumi-s-garlic @melpomenelamusa @delulu44uu (if anyone wants to be added or taken off the tag list, see link at top of post)
Summary: There’s no way you’re leaving him behind. Even if it means you die too.
The road stretched on for miles, empty and gray beneath a heavy sky. The world was too quiet now. Even the walkers seemed to have vanished into the trees. That should’ve been a comfort, but it wasn’t. Not when Daryl was burning up with fever in the back of a half-collapsed barn off the side of the highway.
Rick had called for a stop that morning when Daryl stumbled and nearly went down face-first in the dirt. The others had caught him and helped him to the shade, but it hadn’t taken long to see this wasn’t just exhaustion. His skin was hot to the touch, sweat beading at his temples, lips cracked and pale. The cough started soon after, deep and raw.
By nightfall, he couldn’t stand.
Rick paced outside the barn, hands on his hips, jaw tight. “If it’s somethin’ contagious like back at the prison, we can’t risk it spreadin’ through everyone.” He said quietly. “Not with—not with Carl and Judith.”
You stood beside the open doors, arms crossed tightly over your chest. “You wanna just leave him?”
Rick shook his head. “We’ll leave what water and food we can, but if it’s bad, we can’t—”
“I’m not leaving him.” You said before he could finish. The tone in your voice stopped him cold.
He looked at you for a long moment, something like sympathy flickering in his eyes. “You stay, you might get it too.”
“I don’t care.” Inside, Daryl shifted weakly on his bedroll, the motion drawing your eyes. “I get it, Rick. I do.” Dragging your eyes back to Rick, you lifted your chin slightly. “Do what you need to do to keep the kids safe. To keep everyone safe.” You turned to enter, calling back over your shoulder, “I’m staying.”
You knelt beside Daryl, brushing damp hair off his forehead. His skin was burning, his breath shallow. “Ain’t lookin’ too good, huh?” He rasped, voice barely a whisper.
“You’ll pull through.” You said softly.
“Don’t lie to me.” His cracked lips twisted into something that might’ve been a smile if it weren’t so tired. “Ya gotta go with ‘em. Ain’t no sense in both’a us dyin’ out here.”
You shook your head. “Not leaving you, Dixon.” Getting yourself a little more comfortable next to him, you cupped his cheek, patting it softly. “And neither of us are gonna die.”
He stared at you a long while, eyes glassy with fever but still carrying that stubborn fire. Finally, he huffed, too weak to argue more. “Hardheaded damn woman.”
The group left at dawn. Rick said he’d mark a trail ahead every few miles in case you caught up. You watched them disappear into the mist and then turned back to Daryl, your chest tightening.
For days, it was a blur of fever dreams and half-conscious mumbles. You kept him cool with what water you could spare for rags to lay across his skin. He couldn’t seem to swallow solid food, so you drained the liquid from cans of beans to spoon for him. It was likely wretched but he was too far gone to realize or comment. His fever spiked again and again. Each time, you thought it would break him.
At night, when he thrashed and called out for people long gone—Merle and his mother—you whispered to him, grounding him back in the present.
“I’m here, Daryl. I’m right here.”
You barricaded the barn door as best as you could and traveled as far as you dared in every direction to scavenge through old gas stations, risking walkers and worse for anything useful—medicine, canned peaches, even a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol that felt like a miracle.
One morning, after nearly a week, the fever finally broke. You woke to find him drenched in sweat but breathing steadily, color creeping back into his cheeks. When his eyes finally opened—clear and sharp again—you nearly cried.
He blinked up at you. “Ya look like hell.” He croaked.
You laughed wetly. “You should see yourself.”
He pushed himself up with a groan, staring at the makeshift camp you’d built inside that dilapidated barn. “Ya did all this?”
You shrugged. “Didn’t have much choice.”
He looked at you then—really looked—and there was something in his eyes that went deeper than words. “Told ya to leave me.”
“And I told you I wouldn’t.”
A week later, the two of you stumbled out onto the main road again, Daryl still pale but strong enough to walk beside you. The trail markers Rick had left led straight towards an old church where the group had set up camp.
When they saw you both coming up the road, Rick’s relief was written all over his face. Carol ran to you first, hugging you so tightly that you could barely breathe.
Daryl leaned against the railing by the steps, arms crossed and smirking faintly. “Ain’t dead yet.” He muttered.
Rick clapped his shoulder. “Guess you’re too damn stubborn.”
You looked at Daryl, smiling tiredly. “Told you neither of us were dying.”
He met your gaze, eyes softer than you’d ever seen. “Yeah.” He said quietly. “Reckon ya did.”
And as the sun dipped low over the ruined world, it felt—for just a moment—like you both might actually survive it.
It’s not like Don didn’t understand why his family was on edge but for some imaginary semblance of peace, for them, he put on a brave face. He stifled any shivers, swallowed coughs. He pretended not to notice everyone tensing whenever he was too late to muffle a sneeze. This time the sound like a wet thunderclap was not a signal of a greater storm ahead. Really.
It was just a cold. His first genuine cold since the last attack on his immune system mutated into an attack on everything he was.
He couldn’t blame them for their strong reactions: Mikey cooking more remedial soups than anyone knew what to do with; Raph citing every excuse in the book to plant himself at Don’s side, shooting him none-too-subtle glances; Leo not much better, lurking grimly in every doorway as if he expected Bishop or the reaper to come knocking.
Donnie couldn’t say the same dread and doubts hadn’t already breached the sloshy, congested fog to settle like boulders on his brain…Truth be told, he had been keeping private notes since he first woke with gluey, itchy eyes and his nose oozing.
General fatigue, soreness. Head, nose, throat, chest discomfort. Sneezing, cough.
Classic cold symptoms. Common. Normal.
When the others eventually let their guard down and went to bed, he could finally cave.
He tested everything he could think of. Sputum, urine, blood. As he waited on printouts, flighty, fearful fingers grazed over the scar tissue in his thigh. It ached, as did the lump in his throat that had nothing to do with postnasal drip.
At least the tissues were already nearby for the moment his eyes welled, the persistent prickle triggering another strident sneeze to cut off the sob at the pass. Crying would only worsen the headache.
Follow me. Smile. Nod. Talk as little as necessary. Bruce was very clear in his instructions. But it's getting harder and harder to walk along and fake laugh when his brain is trying to explode out of his skull and his body feels like it's been through a wood chipper. And despite how crappy he feels, there's only one thing on Dick’s mind:
He really misses his mom.
---
“-see Giselle Finn’s dress? It’s so ridiculously-”
“-couldn’t afford a valet service! I had to walk all the way from-”
“-not sure what he’s thinking. He’s cheated twice now, and-”
The chatter is constant. It blurs together, melding into a gossip stew dripping with high-society scandal. For the most part, the words are meaningless, vapid, and unimportant. But one topic tonight catches Dick’s attention, making his ears burn red.
“-Wayne took in some street urchin-”
“-no, he’s that boy from the circus-”
“-uneducated folk. He’s lucky if he knows how to read-”
Dick wants to say something. It’s really not in his nature to block it out and keep smiling. But if the firm hand on his shoulder is any indication, that’s exactly what Bruce expects him to do. Just keep walking. Just keep smiling.
But they’re talking about Haley’s troupe - about Dick’s family - like they’re brain-dead rodents. The socialites don’t even know the troupe. How can they say such awful things?
“B-”
“Relax,” Bruce hums. “Ignore it.”
Dick balls his fists, but he does his best to tune the gossipers out. Instead, he tries to focus on the meaningless conversations Bruce is holding. It’s small talk, and it’s boring Dick to tears, but it’s still better than fighting the urge to kick the slanderous gala people in the shins.
“-a father now?”
Dick realizes belatedly that Bruce’s conversation has drifted in his direction.
“Oh, well, not exactly a father.” Bruce laughs. It’s a stiff, false puff of air. Nothing close to a real laugh.
(Dick knows what a real laugh sounds like. It’s warm and unrestrained. It rings through the night. Lights up the caravan. Decorates the high wire and warms the winter nights. Part of him worries he’ll never hear a real laugh again.)
“I’m his guardian,” Bruce explains to the young woman.
“My dad’s dead,” Dick adds for clarity. Bruce squeezes his shoulder. It’s their designated signal for Dick to shut up.
“Oh, you poor thing,” the woman fawns. And darn, if Bruce wasn’t right. Dick shouldn’t have said anything. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. But I’m sure Bruce will make a… good guardian.” Even she doesn’t sound convinced.
“He’s very gracious,” Dick replies, the practiced line rolling off his tongue. Bruce taught him that “gracious” is an excellent word to use when you have no true compliment for someone. When you just need to sound like you’re being nice.
If Bruce is bothered that his own fake compliment is being used against him, he doesn’t let it show. “And Dick is a gracious guest.”
Wow. Rude. Fair, but rude.
The young woman has no idea that a whole conversation has secretly passed between guardian and ward. She just laughs. Her laugh is better than Bruce’s, if only because it sounds lighter. Still fake, but easier. “I’m glad. I’m sure you’ll be very happy here,” she assures Dick. It’s doubtful - very doubtful - but Dick isn’t in the mood to discuss it. So instead, he just nods.
“It’s a big change for the both of us,” Bruce says, resolving the topic of conversation and steering Dick past the woman. “I have to speak to someone, but it was great catching up.”
“It was,” the woman agrees, and Dick doesn’t miss the way her shoulder bumps Bruce’s as they part ways. Dick tries to turn around and see Bruce’s face, but Bruce keeps pushing him forward.
“Cut it out,” Dick hisses, swatting Bruce’s arm, but his hand glances off without so much as a flinch.
“A bit longer, chum.”
“I’m serious, B,” Dick argues, voice rising. “Let me go.”
Something about his tone must convey his distress. Bruce’s hand immediately lifts. “Stick with me,” he orders, taking the lead.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dick grumbles. “‘m not a baby. I won’t get lost.”
They continue their walk through the party, painfully slow as Bruce is stopped every other minute by some old man chewing on a cigar or a young woman who blinks too much. He chats with them every time, an easy stage smile lighting his eyes. It’s interesting, because Dick has a smile like that too, for when he had a bad show but had to pretend like everything was fine for the crowd. For people who hate carnies, the wealthy elite seem to love stage personas.
The longer Dick and Bruce are at the party, the worse Dick feels, but it’s not even about Haley’s anymore. It’s not about the horrible things rich people say when they think someone is beneath them.
Maybe it’s nerves or the sheer number of people in the room, but Dick’s stomach aches, and the air is hot and stuffy. The lights are spinning, people talking too loudly and crowding him way too closely. Every time he feels someone pinch his cheek or clap him on the shoulder or shake his hand, his skin crawls, and he wants to shrink away and hide under a table. Bruce does his best to mitigate things, drawing the guests’ attentions or gently pulling Dick to his side, out of the reach of any touchy old ladies, but it's only making the experience barely tolerable.
“Excuse me,” Dick says at minute twenty-two of Mrs. Delevingne’s harrowing tale of visiting Walmart with her impoverished sister. He tugs on Bruce’s sleeve, knowing that this is just the kind of behavior that he was told to avoid. The only thing the rich and famous hate more than taxes is being interrupted by a poor orphan. Or so Bruce informed him. (As Bruce grew up a rich orphan, Dick isn't sure how he knows this, but he doesn’t question it.)
Mrs. Delevingne holds a hand over her mouth, apparently so affronted that she's finally shut up.
“Not now, chum,” Bruce mutters before sliding into a smooth apology to Mrs. Delevingne.
Dick sighs. He really doesn't feel well. Not at all. His insides twist, and his head pounds. So rather than wait for the snotty lady to finish her story about upper class entitlement, he shoves his way through the crowd. He needs to get out of here. Now.
There's a window along the eastern wall that's cracked to help with air circulation. Dick doesn't wait for a second option. He slides the pane open, slips out into the darkness, and lands in a hedge.
Even out here, in the relative chill of the September night, it feels too hot. Dick shucks his suit jacket and throws his tie on the ground. Then he sits in the dirt and cradles his head in his hands. Everything just won't stop spinning. He coughs something up - phlegm, bile, or vomit, take your pick, it doesn’t matter much - and then wipes his mouth with his shirt sleeve and hugs his knees.
Dick wishes he wasn’t here right now. He wishes he was anywhere else. The manor. Patrol. The dentist or math class or kidnapped by the Joker. (Yes, this party is that bad.)
But most of all, truthfully and honestly, Dick wishes he was in his mother’s arms. He wishes his dad was sitting beside him, a protective arm around them. His mom always knew how to cure any headache or illness. His dad always spoke to him with the calmest voice when he was sick, lulling him to sleep even when coughing kept him awake.
Dick’s never been sick without his parents there to ease the ache. He’s not sure he’ll survive it. His eyes start to water, and he curls in on himself, closing his eyes and trying to pretend that it’s his parents holding him tightly and not his own hands weakly grasping his shirt.
---
Dick is lost. Bruce took his eye off the boy for thirty seconds, and Dick managed to run off. In an instant, Bruce’s every concern and insecurity about taking in a child are validated.
You’re too busy for him. You’re too irresponsible for him. You’re too inept for him.
And Bruce had ignored every fear. Damn him, he’d looked at the boy’s eyes and he could only see himself in the reflection. He saw an orphan kid who desperately needed help and caved.
“Sorry,” Bruce says, turning away from Marcia Delevingne and frantically searching the crowd for a little kid. “Sorry, did you see where-?” He cuts himself off, dread growing in his throat.
“Where the boy went?” Marcia raises an eyebrow, half-curious and half-judgmental. “I’m not sure. Weren’t you watching him?”
No. Dammit, no. He hadn’t been watching, and he’d thought it would be okay because Dick promised he’d stay close and-
And now he’s blaming an eight-year-old for his own damn stupidity.
“Nevermind,” Bruce says, waving Marcia off and pushing through the crowd.
“Oh, Bruce, it’s so-”
“Mr. Wayne, how-?”
“Brucie, what’s wr-”
“Sorry, sorry,” Bruce apologizes distractedly. He doesn’t even look at the partygoers trying to speak to him. If they’re not four feet tall, he can’t waste time worrying about them.
“Dick!” he calls. “Dick!”
For the most part, the ambient chatter covers his shouts, but people still stare. Bruce can feel their harsh glares, but he can’t worry about the gossip right now.
“Oh, you’re looking for the boy, aren’t you?”
Bruce spins to see a young man holding a serving tray with champagne. “Yes,” he says, trying his hardest to mask his desperation. “Yes. Eight years old, dark hair, very bad at following instructions. Have you seen him?”
The server nods, gesturing to a window with his free hand. “He hopped out the window not too long ago.”
The panic quickly dissolves into annoyance. “Oh,” Bruce replies flatly. Because of course Dick jumped out the window. Why hadn't he guessed that first? The kid is a literal flight risk. Just last week, he jumped off the chandelier, and in his defense, he stated, “I’m a Flying Grayson. I have to fly.”
Bruce weaves his way back through the crowd, ignoring more shouts for his attention. He’d love nothing more than to spare himself the effort and just jump out the window, but he’s been trying all night to adjust Brucie Wayne’s reputation to something more family-friendly, and leaping from the window would only undo all of this, convincing the people that he’s either high or drunk.
Of course, he’s also undoing his hard work by shouting in a formal event for his lost child. God, why is this so difficult? Bruce never required this much oversight as a kid, did he?
The sky is dark, the air chilly, when Bruce makes it out the front door. Here, in the wealthy, sparsely populated neighborhood of Bristol, stars stretch across the horizon and over the Earth. The Gotham smog and light pollution is minimal, letting each dot of light make itself known to the people below, and the moon stands guard over all. Because of this, it’s bright enough for Bruce to spot the boy hidden under a hydrangea bush, face pressed into his knees and sniffling softly.
All the anger at Dick’s exit dissipates in an instant. Bruce kneels down beside him, hands awkward at his sides. “Dick,” he says, and the boy’s head slowly lifts.
“Oh. Hey, B.” Dick tries to come off as cool and unbothered, but the red face and the hiccups make it obvious that he’s anything but. “What’re you doing out here?”
Bruce squints. “Looking for you. I told you to stay with me.”
Dick shrugs, hugging his legs and looking away. “I… didn’t feel good.”
And that’s something that hits close to Bruce’s heart. He remembers how torturous galas were when he was a kid. Even more unbearable than now. With it being Dick’s first high-society event, he really shouldn’t be surprised. It occurs to him that maybe he should feel guilty for even expecting Dick to tolerate it for more than a couple hours.
“Because of what people were saying?” The rumors were particularly vicious tonight. Circus boys aren’t exactly looked highly upon by the disgustingly wealthy.
Another shrug. Dick wipes his eyes with a hand. “Sorta. Not really.” He shivers.
Bruce notes the suit jacket and tie thrown in a heap on the ground. He slides his own jacket off and drapes it over Dick’s shoulders, one cautious hand on the boy’s arm. “What do you mean by that?” he asks simply.
Dick seems to finally realize he’s safe at Bruce’s hesitant touch, leaning against him and reverting to the kind of cuddle monster Bruce has only ever seen when Dick is injured or has a nightmare. “Feel dizzy,” Dick murmurs.
As if possessed by the spirit of Martha Wayne (and perhaps he is), Bruce mirrors a motion he saw a million times as a kid and presses the back of his hand to Dick’s cheek. He feels a little too warm to be explained by the heat of the gala. “I think we should get you home,” Bruce offers gently.
“I can’t go home,” Dick mumbles, leaning heavier into Bruce’s side. “I can’t…” He sighs. “It’s gone.” He sniffs loudly, and Bruce wraps a protective arm around him.
“I… I know. I’m sorry. Let’s go back to the manor.”
“I’ve never been sick without them, B,” Dick says forlornly. “I don’t know how to… I just want Mom and Dad.”
Bruce wants to tell the boy that it’s alright. That he and Alfred will take care of him. But he’s been there. He remembers his first cold since his parents’ deaths. He remembers how inconsolable he was, hoping beyond hope that his mother would open his door and sing him to sleep. Praying beyond prayer that his father would bring him comic books and gatorade. Alfred was always there for him, of course, but…
It was different after they died. The safety net had frayed and snapped. There was a type of comfort that he so loved that he would never feel again, and it hurt more than his head or his body ever would.
So Bruce doesn’t remind Dick that there’s still someone around to take care of him, because that’s cold comfort. The boy doesn’t want care. He wants care from his parents. They’re two very different things. Instead, Bruce takes him into his arms and carries him to the car. As Bruce walks, Dick snuggles against his chest and says words that tear his heart in half.
“Please don’t leave me, B. I can’t lose you too.”
“Oh, chum,” Bruce sighs, holding the boy closer. “I’ve got you.”
When they arrive at the manor twenty minutes later, Alfred puts on a kettle and takes the boy’s temperature, tutting with disapproval when he looks at the reading. “Take him to bed, sir,” he tells Bruce.
And Bruce doesn’t know how to care for a child (god, he’s been at this for how many months now, and he still doesn’t know what he’s doing), so he’s happy to take direction. He brings the boy upstairs, helps him into his pajamas, and tucks him into bed.
“Can you stay?” Dick asks, and he looks like a sad puppy. It would be cruel for Bruce to deny him this.
“Of course, bud,” Bruce assures him, sitting beside Dick on the bed. “Of course.”
Dick returns to his default cuddly octopus state, nuzzling against Bruce and sighing. “Thanks, Dad,” he mumbles as he finally drifts off to sleep.
Bruce doesn’t sleep at all, the words playing over and over in his head. He knows that Dick just mistook him for his real father, but…
Selfishly, Bruce pretends that Dick was calling him “Dad” on purpose. At least for the moment, he can entertain the thought that he’s not doing such a horrible job at this. Maybe he’ll be a decent parent after all.
it's fashionably late, but here it is! Enjoy my token 'Wayne Gala' fic! Be wary of the tags on this one, or check the notes on my ao3 for a slightly more detailed description of content. Stay safe! <3
Mature, Gen, DCU - Batman - Nightwing
It's All in the Eyes
Dick Grayson looked around the ballroom and let out a sigh. Ah, the annual Wayne Gala. A breeding ground of society where the influential and affluent fostered in new business, commerce, and opportunities. Unfortunately for the Waynes, the influential and affluent were not always the paragons of society they made themselves out to be. Because swimming in their social circles lived piranhas, pariahs of society who managed to blend in with the rest due to their wealth and status.
Having attended these galas for over a decade now, Dick was quite familiar with this fact, and so he kept a sharp lookout for any troublesome warning signs that were typically symptomatic of the gala spiraling south.
Hands were touching him, roving over his body, slick from the rain. Above him, a dulcet voice crooned. “I knew we would be together eventually, mi amor. Nothing is in our way now.”
Through the haze and the dark and the dissociation, Dick couldn't remember seeing much, but one thing stood out in his memory: Tarantula's eyes meeting his. They were intense and narrowed, like the focused gaze of a predator hunting its prey.
Those eyes were forever burned in his memory, so when Dick caught sight of a woman staring so intently at Jason during the annual Wayne gala, he bolted directly into action, intercepting the woman on her way towards the young man and engaging her with a charming smile. He rambled and chattered and flirted until her gaze turned on him instead, the look sending chills down his spine like slithering snakes of ice. But it was okay. He could deal with the predatory looks, just as he'd been doing for years now, so long as Jason was safe.
_|>•<|_
Jason was enjoying himself at the gala, well, as much as one could when they were forced to be there. He'd struck up some small talk with the help, a young woman, who was gushing about how grateful she was to be assigned to the Wayne Gala as the tips were generous and plentiful. She was lovely and earnest, but Jason couldn't quite focus on the conversation as something across the room caught his eye. Tim was talking to several party-goers, likely boring them with his latest investment details, judging by their polite expressions of interest. But one man was clearly more than interested.
“Hey, little boy. Betcha you's hungry, right? If you help me out I'll give you some money for food.”
“You look cold, sugar. I've got a nice, warm bed we can share if you come inside with me.”
“Don't tell me to fuck off, brat. I gave you the money, now do what I say or you'll get this pretty little knife in your gullet.”
Every voice was different, every method a little varied, but all of Jason's assailants had the same eyes. Wide eyes that screamed hunger, eyes that viewed him as a tasty morsel and little else.
So when Jason looked at the eyes of that man hanging onto Tim's every word, he knew exactly what was going through that man's head, and it made him sick. He excused himself as politely as possible from his conversation and threaded his way through the crowd, not to the man, but to one of the waiters, giving him a message to relay to the man.
Jason then called Tim away from the group, distracting him for a good ten minutes or so before Jason saw his target get the message and head outside after a surprised look Tim's way. Jason slipped away from Tim after another five minutes passed and made his way to the alley behind the building where the man was waiting for who he thought would be Tim.
Jason grinned when the man caught sight of him instead, greeting him cheerfully before he suckerpunched him hard, sending the man to the ground as he yowled from the pain of his broken nose. Jason grabbed him by his shirt collar and leaned in close, snarling a warning at him to stay away from his brother. He left him there in a sad puddle of terror and piss, returning to the party like nothing had happened.
_|>•<|_
Tim wandered away from Jason, grateful that his brother had pulled him out of the boring conversation with some of their shareholders (and that one creepy guy) so he could meander towards the buffet for some refreshments to soothe his dry throat. There, he found Damian talking to a woman who was at least five times his age. His little brother was standing stiffly, doing his best to seem polite, as Bruce had told him to be on his best behavior which meant no swords at the Gala.
The woman said something about Bruce that Tim couldn't quite hear and nudged Damian in a flirtatious manner, and Tim stiffened at the same time Damian did.
Ra's Al Ghul was intrigued with the Bat, with his cunning and intelligence. But when his path crossed with Tim's he became obsessed with Bruce's protégé, claiming that Tim's intelligence was far beyond that of the Batman. Ra's became obsessed with Tim, claiming that their bloodlines had to merge to procure an offspring that would have Tim's intelligence with Ra's cunning and strength.
It was perverted, and nauseating, and Tim still had nightmares about their altercations. So when Tim saw that same obsessed and manic look in the eyes of the woman talking to Damian, he couldn't just stand by and watch her prey on his brother. But this was a Wayne Gala, and Tim had to tread carefully.
There would be time to ruin her later, but for now, his only goal was to protect Damian. So he walked up to the pair, interrupting a disgusting remark that would have cost the woman her tongue had Damian been carrying his sword on him, and sent Damian off with a false request from Bruce for his presence. He then turned to the woman with a cold smile that Tim inherited from his mother and leaned in, making a rather blunt remark about the woman's actions being in poor taste. It was a warning and a promise in one, and Tim knew she understood what he meant when her wrinkled face went pale. Already plotting her demise in the social circles of Gotham, Tim walked away to get those refreshments he'd been craving.
_|>•<|_
Damian had been summoned to Bruce's side, but it wasn't Bruce he spotted first. His gaze landed on Dick, out on the terrace with a woman. At first, he thought nothing of it, but then Dick turned slightly, and Damian saw his eyes.
It had been a girl, a servant of his mother, that Damian had stumbled upon as one of the League's assassins made advances towards her. She had backed away, her eyes pained and haunted, yet she hadn't screamed. Damian knew not why she had no voice to speak her mind, but her eyes had said volumes. In the span of ten seconds, Damian had dispatched the assassin, sheathing his sword with a solemn look on his face as the girl thanked him profusely before starting at footsteps down the hall and running off with a plea for him not to mention her.
Dick's eyes had that same haunted look now, and it was those eyes that made Damian curse the promise he'd made to Bruce. He had not his sword, but Damian was nothing if not resourceful.
Forcing a loud yawn out of his mouth as he stepped out onto the terrace, Damian pretended not to notice the tension in the air and the defensive posture Dick was displaying as the girl leaned towards him. He just walked right up to his brother and tugged on his jacket with a slight whine, asking if they could go home yet.
Thrown off, the woman stepped back, and Dick relaxed, ruffling Damian's hair in a way that would cost any of his other siblings their hand. Damian leaned into it, slumping against Dick's side to sell the act of exhaustion, mumbling sleepily about being tired.
Just as Damian predicted, Dick picked him up, effectively forming a barrier between himself and the woman.
Excuses made, Dick turned to carry Damian out, and Damian allowed himself to glare darkly at the woman over Dick's shoulder. If she were to ever cross his path when Damian had his sword, he would make sure that Dick never had to see her again.
