#dick;

from joey.

Attraction Bingo

ASKS—ACCEPTING: UNKNOWN OOPS

"Yeah? You must look gorgeous then."

That is something on its own, isn't it? The way the pulse of Dick's humor still slips past any attempt at being sardonic, sounds too sincere despite his best efforts. The underside of memory is the stark bruising, a heavy reality welting a contusion across the bridge of his cracked nose, dusting dark under his blackening eyes.

He's lifting the ice off his face to try and scowl at him but it comes out sideways, the world turning in loops and the smile that pulls weak across his features better suits him anyway. For a brief moment, the blood stretching out beneath his skin looks painted on, flashing the white of his teeth, his canines too sharp if one were to press on the mirage for too long. He is decidedly more bat than Dick at the moment, but then Roy comes swimming into focus and something heaves then softens inside of him.

He allows his body to reconcile with the exhaustion, and with it comes the pain. Again, yes, even though he knows Roy's landscape, the weight of his footsteps, he still startles, the room abruptly full. The brittle night hangs irrelevant, Roy's head stalling over the lip of the couch and Dick seams one eye shut, the other, indigo and idle but better suited for sight, dilates and swells.

"It's raining. Here to avoid the rust or just to kick me while I'm down?" His tone is syrup, thick and sweltering with exhaustion, but he's not biting, pressing his palm into Roy's shoulder, a lingering greeting and then, an after thought to help himself sit up.

Drunken Confessions⟶ ACCEPTING

Her words, slow and slurred and sweet, hit him with a surprising tenderness. He looks down at her, the way she's curled slightly into his side, all the usual sharp, formidable edges of Oracle softened by a slurry of alcohol. Now she was just Babs, unguarded and openly affectionate in a way she so scarcely allowed herself to be. A quiet, contemplative moment passes as he absorbs the sight of her. He loved the fierce, brilliant woman she was every other day of the week, but he cherished these rare, vulnerable moments just as deeply. Dick so often misstepped, and so he hesitates to move at first, as though she might think better of the vulnerability if he were too brazen, but then the sight of her, blurred and moonlit behind his own intoxication melts his resolve and leaves him huffing out a strong laugh, his gaze drifting to the moon, a silver coin glinting in the vast Gotham sky, before turning to her.

"The moon, huh?" Gently, his fingers find a loose strand of her hair, deftly braiding the ends, his touch light as not to disturb her. A smile blooms on his face then, lacking the performance, the usual charm, but something quieter and more profound. It even reaches his eyes, illuminating his countenance in warmth.

"Flattery will get you nowhere. If you have a request for your birthday, you might as well ask," he teases, the callous of his fingers lingering on the soft swell of her cheeks, then softer, barely a whisper as he tucks the tiny braid behind her ear.

Where it Hurts— ACCEPTING

Dick is weightless. There is a moment, brief and thinning where he is free falling, a plummet of limbs as he reaches out, nearly catches himself, shifts to correct, a fraction short and he is splitting through the drywall, a obscene crunch as his back hits asphalt, the air shattered from his lungs. In an instant his body is obscuring the agony, his vision fuzzy and swimming but the sound is enough to twist a brutal nausea in his stomach. Still, he is without anchor, spinning in the dark.

Warehouse. Raid. Snow. Falling. Blood.

His own blood.

It escapes him impossibly quick, a sticky heat painting his back. Was he outside or inside? He could not be sure. Somewhere else, trudging through the heavy water of his subconscious. Each exhale ropes a fraction tighter around his lungs until he is suffocating in the churning fog of nightfall.

You're safe now. Just breathe.

Her voice catches, tears him from a dream.

Dick does not wake with a start, doesn't jar upright, sucking down breath. He is simply asleep, and then he is not, a cold sweat beading his brow and the slow, painful reality of his body tiding back in. It has not surrendered its grip around his heart, beating frantic and out of time, paralyzing him in place. He peaks open one eye, testing his surroundings, and Barbara is a sudden, splendor of reprieve, resolution behind the soft, pale blue glass of just before dawn. How could he breathe? His bruised ribs caging his lungs? his panic? most of all, his heart, doing weak somersaults at the sight of her marsh green eyes, her long lashes and the billow of her disheveled hair, an inferno bleeding through the blue of sunrise.

He hopes she can’t see his embarrassment, a rush of blood flushing up his neck. He feigns at casual, tries to shift and sit up as though it had been nothing, but the white heat of agony blares through his abdomen, dropping him back against the mattress, fighting for breath. Right. That.

His adrenaline was quickly fleeting, leaving him cold and aching all over with a mild tremor. Still, Barbara's direction feels like permission somewhere and he chances a deep, steading breath, glancing at her sheepishly.

"Remind me, will ya? How to breathe— How's a guy supposed to catch his breath with you looking like that, hm? C'mere." It is a faintly cloaked quip, shying away from vulnerability, though the trust, sure and tender rings clear in his gaze, reserved for few else, if ever, than her.

"Were you watching me sleep?" he tries to tease, a half hazardous smirk twisting at his lips, but when he moves to cluck his tongue, he sputters into a cacophony of coughs, burning through his chest.