Chapter Text
“All you have to do is distract her. I'm sure you'll be able to figure something out.”
It's not an unreasonable ask. Dick feels the smile freeze on his face as she puts a hand on his bicep, her interest immediate and obvious. She doesn't seem to notice his discomfort, which he reminds himself is good for the mission.
So why does it make him feel so bad?
“You already have everything she's looking for. It's not like you'll need to do much, anyways.”
He finds himself breaking Bruce's cardinal rule, downing a few flutes of champagne in as many minutes instead of dumping them in a nearby plant or on a passing tray. He needs the liquid distraction, his mind moving too much to go without it while keeping up the ruse.
She tightens her grip, trying to tug him away, and he finds a reason to look over at Donna, who is laughing at something the socialite she’s talking to is saying. She catches his eye and makes a motion with her eyebrows. Get her out of here.
Dick turns back to the woman, his smile saccharine. He fights back bile. It’s not like she’s terrible to look at: she has gorgeous blonde hair that curls down her back like rays of sun through a curved vase, her eyes a lovely brown and her makeup perfect. Even her figure is immaculate in the way it really only is if someone is able to really devote the time to themselves.
But it’s the way she looks at him, the way her posture curls towards him possessively and her smile sharpens when her eyes drag over him…
“Feel like getting out of here?” He murmurs the words in her ear, swallowing around the rising panic as she nearly vibrates in response.
“Of my own party? Are you bored, Mr. Grayson?”
Dick grins at her, all innocence and coyness. “Of course not, Dahlia. But one can only wonder if the rest of your estate is so grand. I’ve only ventured through the foyer and ballroom, you know.”
She giggles, already tugging him towards the door. To his horror, they’re heading towards an exterior door, but this is even better than they could have hoped for. His friends need to get into the upstairs study for the proof they’re looking for, and if they can get Dahlia Jennings out of her house while they do it, it’s even better.
But for him, the slight coolness of the night air brings back memories he’d rather forget. The way the moon bounces off her waves, the spray of a nearby sprinkler as she leads him through the gardens. It’s almost enough to make him call everything off. “I’m not sure–”
And then Dahlia grabs his tie and pulls his lips to hers. Her mouth is wet and warm, and suddenly he’s too hot even though the air is pretty cold for September.
He pulls away, trying to make it so it’s not so quickly that she’ll get offended. He grabs her hands that have somehow found their way around his neck and holds them in his own. “I’m not sure I…how about we–?” –just talk? is how he means to end the question, but he isn’t sure he can stomach a flirty conversation when she’s looking at him like she wants nothing more than to see him beneath her. He knows that look, has seen it countless times on other people’s faces, has been seeing it since he was old enough to know what it meant.
“No more teasing,” she says in a deliberate baby voice, her expression pouty and playful. It sends a shock of terror up his spine. (And isn’t it funny, Nightwing being afraid of a small woman with no specialized weapon or martial arts training? Isn’t it funny how he should so easily be able to overpower her, but somehow she has all of the power over him? Isn’t it?)
Her hands find their way all over his body – chest, hips, ribs, sides, butt – and they seem to change shape between touches, sometimes the overwarm confident touches of Catalina, sometimes the soft teases of Mirage, sometimes someone else entirely. Dick closes his eyes and he's no longer in the garden, but in a bed or a closet or a rooftop or a pool table, everyone's and no one's hands on him.
It's in your head, he tells himself. What are five things you can see? But his normal grounding techniques only work when the flashbacks are just that: flashbacks. This memory is happening in real time, Dahlia's possessive hands all over him in a way that makes panic flush his vision, whistle through his ears and nose, clog his throat. Nothing he can say or do will stop this. This is how it has to be.
A hand slides up his shirt and his vision goes black. When he tries to blink it away there's only a rainy sky to greet him, a voice in the dark saying, “Mi querido.” His breath hitches around a scream. He needs to finish the mission. He needs to ask her to stop. He needs to find out if anyone was hurt in the explosion. He needs to keep Dahlia away from her study. He needs to report Blockbuster's murder. He needs….
He needs this to stop. Right now.
“Cat, no,” he chokes out, and abruptly, blissfully, the touches stop.
When he opens his eyes, it’s to the blazing anger of Dahlia Jennings. There’s a sharp pain across his cheek, but it’s the only touch that’s felt right all night. “Who the hell is Cat!? You’re thinking of some whore right now?”
There’s a buzz in his pocket, two quick doubles, and he knows that they’ve gotten what they need.
“I gotta go,” he chokes out, ducking around her. Bits of dead leaves crunch under his fancy dress shoes, the only sound he can hear over his own blood rushing in his ears and her indignant shrieks coming from deeper in the garden as he makes his escape.
“Dick! Great work!” Is what he’s greeted with when he ducks inside, and his heart clenches at the words. Good job. It’s not like you’ll need to do much anyways. All you had to do was give up your body for a minute.
He ducks his head, but a sharp intake of breath lets him know that whoever’s in front of him (why can’t he figure out who it is? He should know their voice) caught whatever god-awful look is on his face right now.
“Dick, what-?”
“I gotta go. Don’t wait up.” He pushes past them, beelining towards the bathroom he had clocked when they first arrived, back when his brain was working better.
Once he’s inside (no line, thankfully), he locks the door behind him and sinks down to sit on top of the closed toilet lid, bringing clammy hands to his face and scrubbing roughly. Spiraling now doesn't do anyone any good. He can't lose it in here, in the house of an entitled socialite while his team gets further away and the cause of his freakout is on the other side of the door somewhere.
But it feels like no matter how many breaths he tries to take his inhales are still shaky. He stands and his legs threaten to give out from under him. He opens his mouth but his, “I'm fine,” comes out high pitched and thin, and the panic in his chest keeps on rising. He realizes, suddenly and mortifyingly, that he needs help.
Dick's no stranger to calling on a friend in a time of need, but this situation isn't the average “cash-in-on-a-favor” phone call. Honestly, he's tempted to call Bruce, but Batman is on a stealth mission for another day or so, and while he knows that B would drop it if he asked for help, it's really not worth the hassle. He isn’t worth the hassle. Alfred is pretty high on the list too, but him and Damian are on patrol duty together alongside Tim, and Dick doesn't really want to leave Tim and Dames without Cave backup. He also doesn't want to clue them in on what's happening. Is it even time for patrol yet? He can't seem to turn on his phone to check.
The Titans are out, not because he doesn't love them, but because he doesn't think he can handle another reaction like it was with Mirage. The thought makes him physically ill, and he spends a moment desperately swallowing the spit filling his mouth and trying not to vomit up bile into the sink. Jason is out for obvious reasons, Babs because of similar reasons to the Titans, Cass and Spoiler because he doesn't want to burden them with his bullshit. They don't need to take care of their older brother.
He pulls his phone from his pocket, fingers shaking, and swipes away the notifications from the Titans. Most of them are check-ins, some are worried messages from the members who had seen how shaken he was. He doesn't have the energy to answer them. Doesn't even know what he would say. They'd laugh a little, to know that media-trained Dick Grayson can be reduced to so little words when confronted with his own personal failings. He can see Wally laughing now. “Call a press conference!” He’d say. “Nightwing's about to show is the chinks in his armor!” He wishes Wally was here.
The only press conference he’d willingly go to would be one where the only questions are asked by Lois and--
Clark.
“Anytime! Just call for me and I’ll show up, Robin.”
Dick wipes at his face messily, hands still shaking as he tries to compose himself.
It's mortifying to think, but he needs the comfort of hearing Clark's voice right now, so he digs his phone from his pocket (when had he put it away? When was there time to?) and swipes away the increasingly worried texts from his friends so that he can pull up his contacts. He sends up an idle prayer that Clark isn't Super-manning and hits his contact. It rings once before he hears the click.
"Heya kiddo!" He sounds so happy to hear from Dick. Like there's nothing he'd rather be doing on a Friday night than talking with his oldest nephew. It almost makes Dick want to put on a brave face just so they can have a normal conversation. He aches for it. Instead, he bursts into tears.
"Clark," he says, voice thick and uncontrolled, and he can already hear the rustling on the other side of the phone.
"Say my name again, kiddo. I'll be right there."
"Clark, please." Dick only has time to stifle a sob into the receiver after his plea when he hears a light tapping at the door.
"Kiddo, it's me."
Dick hurries to stand, dropping his phone in the process, and flicks the lock on the door. Clark pushes his way inside, locking it behind him again, his eyes wide and concerned behind his glasses. He's dressed like he recently got off of work, clad in jeans and a soft t-shirt with an oversized track jacket to make it look like he can actually feel the chill. He can't imagine how much of a mess he looks right now, dressed in an immaculate Dickie Grayson ensemble but his hair and face ruined from his anxiety.
"What happened?" Clark looks ready to fight the entire world on Dick's behalf. It's such a relief to see him, this pinnacle of strength and resilience, so ready to be strong for Dick when he can't be it himself. It would be humiliating if it wasn't so damn appreciated.
"I…" Dick starts, then realizes that he has no idea how to articulate what's happening. Clark doesn't know the details of the mission. He doesn't know the intricacies of Dick's life, of why a woman's uninvited hands on him might send him spiraling so far that he has to lock himself in a socialite's bathroom during one of the many events of the season. He tries to start again. "I. She-- I mean, we, we were-- and…."
"Hey, hey, it's alright," Clark's lilting south-midwestern accent is like a balm, and he takes a step towards Dick, hands up in a placating gesture. "You don't need to tell me right now. Can I hug you?”
Dick nods so sharply it makes his head ache, and the second Clark's arms are around him he collapses inward, dampening Clark's shirt with his hot breaths and weeping eyes and runny nose. Clark doesn't seem to care, holding Dick tightly to him, the touch so different from Dahlia's that it almost washes the memory of her hands away. "It'll be alright," Clark soothes, and Dick believes him. He runs a hand up and down Dick's back, holding him like a child even though Dick hasn't been that in over five years. He feels like a child right now, as raw and newborn as when he had his entire world ripped away from him and had to act like life continued after his parents died. It was a hard lesson to learn, but eventually he didn't have to pretend anymore, because life did continue. He imagines that it will after this, too. It always seems to.
"Is it alright if I take you back to the manor? I know you might not want to go, but you shouldn't be alone," Clark asks gently after an undetermined amount of time. He's confused for a moment, because Oh, right. Dick and Bruce are fighting again. He had completely forgotten, doesn't even remember what they were fighting about to begin with. He nods into Clark's chest.
"That's fine." His voice is nothing but a croak, and it makes Clark's arms tighten slightly, holding him closer, before he lets go.
"Let's get all your stuff, then we can escape outside and I'll fly us back." Clark picks up the fallen phone, straightens Dick's jacket, and then pauses for a moment at the door before opening it, an arm around Dick's shoulders as he hurries them towards the nearest external door. Dick is grateful that it's a different door from the one that leads to the garden, and the second they're out of sight Clark scoops him up and they begin the flight to Wayne Manor.
It's slow, almost meandering, and Dick knows they're going at that pace for his benefit. Clark looks down at him with such tenderness as he asks, "Okay so far?" that it makes Dick's chest hurt. Clark looks at him like he's going to try to take away every single thing that's ever pained him, and it hits like a physical ache that he can't. Dick might even let him if it was possible.
"I'm sorry," he says, squeezing his eyes shut and burrowing further into his uncle's arms.
Clark holds him tighter. "You have nothing to apologize for." Dick almost laughs. He has plenty to apologize for. For dragging Clark away from his family, or from citizens who actually need his help. For agreeing to a honeypot mission that he knew would trigger him, but hoped wouldn't. For letting Clark touch him even though he's filthy. If Clark knew, he wouldn't want to touch him. If he knew how unclean Dick's skin was, how differently would he look at him? How would he politely excuse himself from Dick's presence?
He wants to shake the thoughts off, knowing that it's just the anxious and terrible part of his brain trying to convince him that someone who's shown him nothing but unconditional love suddenly has conditions. Nevertheless, he keeps his eyes closed and repeats the apology in his head over and over. Maybe one day Clark will even forgive him.