#fancy event

“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.

~~~~~~~

They presented their invitation languidly to the doorman, who announced their names with eyes wide and hands shaking. The superstitions around avians would always be at the back of people's minds, no matter how 'progressive' some may claim to be.

Whumper was one of the few bold enough to investigate the rumors themself.

One of the few who knew for certain they could be caught. That they could be tamed, styled, and presented.

For some, it might be cruelty.

Whumpee wasn't even human. Why should Whumper care?

Of course, they made sure to paint a picture of a well-kept pet, hiding bruises under clothing and makeup, taking care to never harm the massive black-feathered wings nor the smaller feathers on Whumpee's face. The cuffs on Whumpee's wrists and ankles, used to chain them to the gilded cage in Whumper's home, resembled golden bracelets, another sign of wealth. Not to mention the lovely and expensive outfit Whumper had dressed them in, designed specifically to show off the wings.

Then, of course, the accessories decorating the wings. All gold, of course. The gold complimented Whumpee's warm undertones of their skin in such a beautiful way that they almost didn't need the wings to draw attention.

Almost.

Whumpee's muscles were tense as they descended the grand staircase. They never liked large crowds.

Whumper lay a comforting hand on their shoulder. "Relax," they whispered, "they won't touch you. I'll make sure of it."

Whumpee pursed their lips, not fully convinced, but by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, they had calmed, an expression of serenity on their face. Whumper knew it was fake, but it was better than terror. Terror could start rumors, and Whumper couldn't abide those.

The other guests gave them a wide berth, all eyes on Whumpee's wings. Whumper doubted they even noticed the avian attached to them.

Someone emerged from the crowd. One of Whumper's old friends. "That's new," they remarked, gaze darting up and down Whumpee, taking in everything from the wings to the outfit to the accessories. "You were never one for subtlety."

Whumper couldn't help grinning. "Never indeed, old friend."

Their friend drew closer, examining the feathers, how they gleamed under the lights. "Impressive…" they muttered, "Impressive indeed." They reached out a hand.

Whumper pulled Whumpee away from them and stepped between them and their friend, their smile wiped from their face in an instant. "No. They are mine."

Their friend chuckled. "Please, I only meant---"

"Get your own avian. This one is mine."

Their friend scowled and stalked away. Whumper glared after them until they disappeared into the crowd, the guests near enough to hear tittering and muttering to each other. They spared a glance back at Whumpee, whose gaze lingered on the spot where their friend had been. "Better watch out for that one. They may do something foolish."

Whumpee bit their lip, but nodded, forcing their expression back into faux calm.

---

“-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…