#friend bits

It’s not that Allie doesn’t get it, or thinks he’s wrong, because she agrees with his premise and conclusion; it’s just frustrating to have to meta-think her own thought processes when she’s certain of the outcome.

Whatever, right now, honestly—it’s nothing actively dangerous, even if her spidey sense or whatever has her cautious.

“Hey, Allie,” Dick calls once she’s closed and relocked the door and is kicking her sandals off at the entryway. “Got company.”

“Figured,” she calls back. They must be at the dining seating by the kitchen; she can see the living room and the doors to the bedrooms and bathroom from here. So she rounds the little not-hallway, her duffle bag still on her shoulder, and yep, Dick’s sat at the two-top dining table with someone else.

Well, the first thing of note is that while Dick isn’t tense, he doesn’t look naturally casual. Something about how far he’s manspreading combined with the overly easy tone of voice he'd just used.

The new person, then—fuccboi, is Allie’s first thought. Like, wow. Sixteen, she’d guess, give or take a year, based on the build; school uniform of khakis and a polo with an embroidered logo for Gotham Academy on the breast, unbuttoned; sneakers that someone else would probably have as a collectible, and which are still on despite the shoe rack at the entry; black hair with an excruciatingly perfect fade, and beautifully formed curls up top; stud earrings in the lobes; a watch that also looks like a status symbol even if she’s not close enough to make out the brand. And then there’s his face. Look, she lives with Dick Grayson and she still thinks whoever this guy is is unfairly good-looking. Except where Dick is the sort of good-looking that invites you in and makes you want to hang around, this guy is the sort of good-looking that has Allie acutely aware of how she’s still sweaty from soccer practice, and that she’s only at the beginning of her growth spurt and awkward for it.

It hits her at once. The Maserati she’d seen parked outside, this teenage fuccboi that Dick clearly knows, Gotham Academy—this guy’s related to Bruce Wayne and showed up out of the blue.

“Allie, Korvin. Korvin, Allie,” Dick introduces with none of his usual charm.

Allie spares Korvin a glance and a “Hey,” but he doesn’t seem overly interested in her, gracing—and boy does she mean gracing—her with a half-nod of acknowledgment.

She looks back to Dick. “Are we doing dinner soon?”

He glances towards the fridge, and she can see him thinking about its contents.

“We’d need to get takeout if you want to eat enough protein for an actual meal,” she interrupts his thought process. They’re both too active for a single chicken breast to satisfy. “Grocery store soon.”

“Tomorrow,” Dick agrees, mouth quirking at her in a half-smile that she returns on reflex. “Takeout, you said?”

“Why don’t we go out to eat?” Korvin says, his expression one that’s smiling but—what’s the phrase? Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Give you a chance to drive the Mas, Dick. Just for fun.”

From the way Dick considers that, it’s a genuine temptation.

Christ.

Dick says, “Sounds like you’re having fun—too much fun. How none of the county police clocked you is sheer, dumb luck.” His expression is one of instant regret as soon as he speaks, and Korvin looks as if he’s about to gleefully fulfill that regret.

But he doesn’t, and his smile goes back to the “butter won’t melt” version like he’s bestowing some great mercy on Dick, and Dick’s too good to twitch at it.

“You really think they’re gonna give me a ticket?” He asks instead. There’s no obvious emphasis on ‘me,’ but his attitude is loud and clear at this point. He’s special. Ugh, gag. Entitled rich boy, got it.

“I have to shower,” Allie says, since dinner out now seems like the agreed-on solution. There’s no way she’s going into a restaurant of any kind as she is.

“We can wait.” Korvin still has that smile on. “Dick and I have some stuff to finish catching up on.”

Yeah, that’s not ominous at all, okay. Sure.

But whatever. Allie dumps her bag, grabs some fresh clothes—or, in the case of her jeans, fresh enough—and rinses off quickly and thoroughly. Seriously, the sweat. Ugh. She doesn’t bother with blow-drying her hair, just clips it up still damp. And then she takes her hamper and sweaty clothes and dumps them in the washer tucked into the utility closet, so she can put the load in the dryer when they get back. Economy.

“Has the location been decided?” she asks Dick as he rises to put on shoes, and she slides the hamper through the open door of her bedroom with a kick. She wards off the hair ruffle he reaches to give her. Korvin’s still sat at the table, for all intents and purposes ignoring them as he looks at something on his phone, which is the latest high-tech brick, because of course it is.

“How are you with steak?”

“Does anyone who eats meat actually complain about steak for dinner?” she wonders. Still, ‘steak as the defining trait of a restaurant’ is a bit of a departure from their usual ‘steak as it exists in a taco’ style of consumption. Though again, not complaining.

“I’ve yet to hear it, but I’m sure it happens,” he returns. “And I didn’t ask yet—good day?”

“Nothing outstanding.”

“Practice?”

“Equally unimpressive, but not a waste of time.”

Dick snorts. “Damned with faint praise, it is.”

“Oh, there was no praise on offer,” she assures him. Her middle school’s soccer team is uninspired, and her coach is more of a drill sergeant than his coaching ability justifies, but she’s of the opinion that no practice is wasted. (She may also be the coach’s favorite, but that’s neither here nor there, in her opinion, as it has more to do with her scoring ability and how she runs whatever laps he deems necessary than anything about her as a person.)

She slips her sandals back on, at which point Korvin brings up the rear, the pleasant expression he’s wearing having a similar quality as his earlier smile. There’s something seriously fucking wrong with this guy.

Dick locks up, they file down the stairs, and then it’s Allie actively trying not to make a face at this fucking car. Good god. She’d seen it parked down the block coming in and not thought much of it besides the owner basically asking to have it stolen, but. Well.

Ah, shit, this thing only has two doors, which means she has to run the debate of whether she’s getting in behind Dick on the driver’s side, and thus risking Blüdhaven traffic more than is strictly required, or she has to get in behind Korvin, which feels self-explanatory at this point.

Maybe she shouldn’t be so mean? He’s barely said ‘boo’ to her.

Ultimately, she decides she fears Blüdhaven drivers more than she dislikes Korvin, and crawls into the backseat passenger-side. Of course, being inside the car is interesting on its own merits.

It’s been driven enough to have lost the new car smell, but otherwise it’s one pine-tree-shaped air freshener away from having been driven off the lot. Seriously, no personalization? Not even a package of Kleenex?

Wait, no, that’s a lie: there’s an ornament dangling on a red ribbon from the base of the signal stalk.

At least Dick is having a good time? He adjusts the seat and the mirrors with obvious relish, anyhow. Korvin gives him a good five minutes of enjoying himself on the road before he speaks up.

“I’m sure you’d be able to swing your own Mas as a ‘welcome back’ gift,” Korvin says. He’s not looking at Dick, but leaning next to his window and looking out.

“What, you actually miss me?” Dick says teasingly, quickly flicking a look at him and then back towards the front.

“I’d hardly have to see you if I didn’t want to in that crypt.” Allie can see him look away from the window—towards Dick—in the reflection. “Just saying for your benefit. Hers, too” —oh Jesus, what. Why is she part of this now?— “if you’re tired of slumming it one day.”

Can their lifestyle really be called ‘slumming it’? Dick affords all that takeout no problem, anyhow. She’s fed, clothed, comfortably housed, and he got her new cleats for the season and contacts when they had a conversation about playing in glasses. Obviously, it’s not living in Bristol, but Allie doesn’t have a problem with it, and if Dick did, he wouldn’t be a cop of all things.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Dick says, and that tone of pleasant means he has no plans to keep it in mind.

What the hell is Korvin prodding at him for if he doesn’t even want him around? Why does Allie have the sinking suspicion it has to do with her?

Korvin scoffs. “Do,” he then says, clearly reading Dick’s tone. “You’ve had time to get used to life without fancy toys. Thought you might've wanted an upgrade for someone following you along, is all.”

“Life’s fine as-is.” Dick breezily ignores the—whatever those undertones are. Allie thinks she grasps the implication, but the idea of her following Dick into vigilantism is absurd on its face in the first place, and, coming from Korvin, is requiring her to rearrange a few key pieces of information. “Wouldn’t say no to a vacation, even, but PTO’s at a premium at the moment.”

“City jobs are supposed to have rights, I thought,” Korvin muses. “Shame. Guess it’s just you, starring yourself, most nights, isn’t it, Allie?” Him addressing her, though abrupt, is casual like he hasn’t been throwing subliminals and ignoring her previously.

Is he asking her if Dick is out being Nightwing and she’s feeling neglected or something? What.

He cuts in before she has a chance to respond, his tone dry and amused. “Probably better that way—I’ve seen him burn PopTarts onto the microwave before.”

“Not shocking,” Allie inserts. “Or at least, not like the time he forgot to take them out of the packaging before microwaving them was.”

“I can imagine, but I’m always up for a dramatic retelling.”

“Mercy,” Dick begs, good-naturedly.

“I have none,” Allie says, but they’re pulling to the side of a restaurant that’s fancier than she’d thought ‘steak’ implied before she can make good on the threat of her narrative style in relating his antics.

“Valet,” Korvin answers Dick before he can ask. “I know better than to leave my car unattended in this hell county.”

“Fair enough.”

How is she with steak. She’s going to kill Dick later, is what, letting her come somewhere this nice while she’s in jeans, a tank top, and a plaid shirt. Maybe she should have dried her hair. Of course, Dick’s fine, slacks and a button-down that are his workday clothes, because he’s a goody two shoes.

Whatever. No one cares what a thirteen year-old wears. It’s fine. At least she didn’t wear a t-shirt.

Allie scours the menu once they sit down, practiced now at finding the things she can digest without event. It was sort of funny—she’d never outright told Dick that she was gluten or dairy intolerant, especially as she hadn’t had the luxury of eating that way regularly before living with him, but he’d picked up on it within a week. She thinks it only took him that long because he forgot that eggs don’t count as dairy.

“Get as much as you want, Allie-cat,” he tells her. “Turn it into an eating competition. Order multiple steaks.”

“Am I comparing cuts?” she asks, amused. She’d rather one larger steak and more vegetables, especially since she’s willing to compromise on the butter. Ooh, roasted brussels sprouts, she wants those.

“If you want, sure.”

The conversation throughout dinner stays tame, none of the poking about Dick slinking back over money and ‘toys’ and potential references to vigilantism.

Allie considers that as she sucks down a lemonade. If Korvin was referencing Dick’s role as Nightwing—well. That’s as good as confirming that Bruce Wayne is Batman, isn’t it? She’d suspected before, because Dick’s gear wasn’t the sort of thing that a police officer’s salary would support, and neither would whatever inheritance he got from his parents. He also clearly had been trained before the police academy, since not many cops knew martial arts like that.

And who had unreasonable amounts of money, and who had raised Dick after his parents’ deaths? Bruce Wayne. Just Occam’s Razor, honestly.

She’d gathered that there had been some sort of falling out, but also that they were on speaking terms. She’d also used a search engine to tell her more than Dick’s vague statement of not being “the only kid Bruce has or had taken in; just the first.” So she’d known that Korvin existed, just like she knows that there’s a dead adopted son who was the same age. It’d been enough that she hadn’t felt like digging further.

Maybe she should have? Probably it was too optimistic for her to think it wasn’t information that would be relevant to her day-to-day, or that Dick would tell her more if necessary. Honestly, he’d probably be the first to tell her that any information she can find is fair game and good recon.

“Allie, Allison? Alice? Something Patterson?” Korvin watches her squinch at being full-named and laughs. Damn it all for not being unpleasant or obnoxious to listen to. “Guessing you and Dick met while he was on night shift.”

She actually grimaces at thinking about how she and Dick met. “Allie, for Alice. How we met isn’t really dinner conversation.”

His face adopts a sympathetic expression. “Figured. I’m not one to pry, either way—Gotham Survival 101.” He brings it back to a lighter tone. “Hopefully school’s the worst that you have it right now. Where do you go?”

Allie knows the whole song and dance with school talks, and she rattles off basic information about her middle school, but she can’t say she finds it that interesting a topic. The subject then naturally transitions to extracurriculars, him mentioning playing lacrosse, and, “Oh, you play soccer? Thinking about joining the varsity team in high school?”

“I’m planning to play in high school, yeah.”

‘Joining the varsity team’ as though that’s something she can just choose to do. Hilarious. Suppose it’s that easy for someone like him, a high school junior—she was right about his age—and apparently captain of the boys’ varsity lacrosse team. She has a hard time imagining him playing, much less in a position of leadership; he seems like he finds the very concept of sweat offensive.

“I don’t know about Blüd besides the usual Gothamite propaganda, but we have the better sports programs by far. Might want to look into transferring if soccer’s something you want to keep doing.” He cuts into his filet mignon as he talks, the serving comically tiny in comparison to the portions on her and Dick’s plates. What teen boy orders a six ounce filet mignon? Much less one who plays a contact sport and looks like he’s still in the midst of a growth spurt, ready to clear six feet?

His whole vibe is just off. He’s technically well-mannered, but she feels like she’s been caught in an impromptu business meeting with the project lead possessing the body of a rich fuccboi. She feels like she’s stuck in an elevator with a Young Republican trying to be sly about networking.

But no, he’d button his polo if he were a Young Republican. And be worse at all of this, and even more insufferable, though that’s a hard state to contemplate.

He still eats like a prissy bird.

Why is he even here? Because of his dad? And if so, in what capacity—Bruce Wayne or Batman? He doesn’t seem—hm. With the plausibly deniable references he’s made towards vigilantism, and all the leading statements about toys and upgrades, he’s clearly in-the-know, and involved in some capacity if he’s that comfortable leveraging his dad’s resources. But not a vigilante himself?

Allie does an excellent job of staying in her lane, but now that she’s mostly got confirmation that Bruce Wayne is Batman, it’s easy to connect Dick to Robin. But regarding timelines, obviously there would have had to have been a successor. Not Korvin, not with that attitude, but—ah. The dead brother. Yikes. Oh, ouch, and she’d be willing to bet the actual circumstances of Jason Todd’s death were related to—

She revises: Korvin probably hates vigilantism. At least resents it.

Probably not here for his dad. His own agenda, then. And it involves her, except he keeps making it seem like it’s a given that she’d be following Dick’s example—no thanks—

“—one of the Bristol boarding schools?” The sympathetic mask is still on Korvin’s face, but now it’s being aimed at Dick. “Things are coming to a head for you, aren’t they? You’re only going to get busier; the lifestyle’s not really conducive to having quality time together.”

Real rich coming from a guy who looks like he’d rather do Spring Break in the Keys, snorting cocaine on a yacht, than spend quality time with anyone.

“Our lifestyle is fine,” Allie says, a little flatly. “It works for us. My social worker has no complaints.”

Korvin brushes off the comment with a laugh and good-natured, “Suppose so.” He then looks over at Dick again. “If time spent together was the sole determiner of a relationship, you’d hardly be able to call us anything like brothers, right?”

Another fucking angle, again.

Dick stills for a microsecond before going back to his steak. She wouldn’t have caught it, except she’s been nearly giving herself an aneurysm trying to figure this guy out for the past hour. It happens two more times throughout dinner, each little dig getting deeper under Dick’s skin with how his pauses get more noticeable. By the time Korvin caps off his passive-aggressive campaign against Dick by grabbing the check ahead of him, and handing his credit card to the server with a smarmy, “It’s the least he can do for us,” Allie’s ready to take out his knees. Kick his ankles. ‘Accidentally’ grind on his toes with her heel.

He’s doing it on purpose. Not just being an asshole, but specifically coming out to Blüdhaven to be an asshole at them. Of course, wildly successful, truly none can do it like you, sir—but why. Why make the effort? Why come out all this way to bother a sort-of brother he rarely sees or talks to and the kid he’s fostering? Korvin strikes her as the type to ignore rather than antagonize when he doesn’t like someone, unless the antagonism is to generate a particular outcome.

Even if so, though, what the fuck.

Dick ends up driving them back to their apartment, once Korvin ‘innocuously’ tells him not to go an hour out of his way to supervise him back to Bristol.

“Nice having dinner with you, Allie-cat,” Korvin quips. “Dick make that up? His naming sense’s really improved.”

Allie has never understood the phrase ‘seeing red,’ and she still doesn’t, exactly, but she’s a little closer.

“You don’t get to call me that,” she says faster than she can stop herself, and colder, too. She’s generally much better at reining that type of response in, but she decides to afford herself some grace. He’s been carefully working his way under her skin all night, and now he’s—not making fun exactly, but he sure doesn’t get to use Dick’s cute nickname for her.

“Hissy, okay, my bad,” he laughs.

She contemplates the back of the seat before her. If she places her knee against it just right and thrusts that hip forward—

“It’s cute you’re so attached. But maybe you shouldn’t be.” As if she doesn’t fucking know. Not that she wants to hear it from this asshole.

“I’m guessing there was a point to your visit, Korvin,” Dick says, more cutting than is strictly polite. He kills the engine. “Or did you just get bored and decide to stir the pot?”

Korvin has that insufferable, smug smile on his face until he grabs the keys from Dick’s hand, and he climbs out of the car without answering. Allie’s out faster than Dick, not wanting to be in the backseat any longer, wanting to get away, except that as soon as her feet hit the sidewalk and she’s straightened, she’s pinned with a nearly affectless look of assessment. It’s utterly different from every other face Korvin’s worn tonight, and, her gut tells her, more sincere.

“I’m giving you friendly advice; if you were thinking about joining ‘the mission’—” He pauses to let it sink in, and then he chuckles, though his face still relaxes back into a blank expression. “Hopefully you won’t need an ‘I’m sorry’ gift for your sweet-sixteen,” he says, miming a little knock onto his jaw, and then he gives the frame of his car a dramatic pat-pat before going towards the driver’s side. “Night, nice meeting you. See you maybe, Dick.”

He gets in, starts the car, and leaves without another look back at them.

Allie’s going to puke up her steak. He was absolutely implying what she thinks he was implying. He was—he—

“Allie—”

“What the fuck goes on in that house, Dick,” she demands, turning to face her guardian. Dick looks uncomfortable, like he’s had an epiphany he didn’t want to have. “Does his dad hit him, Dick? Did you know about this?”

“That’s not—”

“Joining ‘the mission,’” she repeats, and everything falls into place, not least of which why Korvin can sound resentful of vigilantism at the same time as he has a front row seat to it. She stares at Dick’s face, watching every twitch. “So this was after Jason died. One son dies and he decides he might as well beat the other? What the fuck is going on?”

Dick now looks slightly ill amidst his expression of frustration.

“You did know,” she realizes, though she instantly corrects herself. “Or, you knew part of it. He said something to you and you didn’t take it that way?”

Yeah, she’s on the money. She hates seeing Dick like this, hates that Korvin might’ve been right about her attachment to Dick not being a good idea. But it’s not—it’s not definite.

He still looks ill, and it strikes her that— “He hit you, too.” Wow, she wants to take a baseball bat to this guy’s hands, see if he ever hits anyone again. “What the fuck.”

She stands there on the sidewalk, her hands tightened into fists, streetlamps turned on against the coming night. She breathes in and out through her nose.

Dick lets out a weak laugh. “Put you in an interrogation room and no suspect stands a chance.”

“Don’t joke about this, Dick,” she says, voice hard, staring now at the curb. “It’s not funny.”

A sigh. “It’s not.”

“He’s still in that house.” Allie feels the thought out, and it feels awful. “He should not be in that house. What did he call it? A crypt? No goddamn wonder.”

“It’s not that simple.” Dick gives a frustrated sigh, tense as he runs his hand through his hair, and then bringing his fingers to pinch his nose bridge. “I’ll obviously go look, but there might not be anything I can do.”

“Nothing you can do. Not that simple.” She stares at him again, and he ought to look smaller to her now. She scoffs, turns on her heel, and makes for the apartment building.

“Allie—”

“Better not go out tonight with that attitude.”

“Allie,” he snaps at her, and something about his tone freezes her in place and makes her skin crawl. “Enough. Do you know what it takes to remove someone from their parents, especially at that age, and with someone as economically stable—thriving, even, let’s say—as Korvin’s dad?”

She does have an idea, actually. Kind of like how she knows she would’ve had almost no chance of getting a long-term placement if Dick hadn’t been there; she’d be in a group home or a series of fosters until she aged out of the system, and chances are good she’d be homeless after. Seriously, who does he think he’s lecturing?

And maybe she’s being unfair to Dick, but he’s the one—he’s Nightwing. He’s the one who’s supposed to think it’s simple, that something can always be done. Is she being unfair to hold him to his own standard, just because his standard is basically superhuman? She doesn’t know.

“Like I said—I’ll check in, and I can level with Bruce. I will level with Bruce. We’ll see where it goes from there, okay?”

Maybe what’s unfair is asking Dick to treat his own family the way he would someone else’s. To ‘level with’ the man who raised him, but hit him anyways.

Even so. “If he needs out, you’ll get him out?”

“If he really is in danger, I have the means to get him out of there. Promise, Allie-cat.”