Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s been a long time since Dick came to one of these fundraising galas. He forgot how awful they can be, but more importantly, it's fucking astounding how many of the same rich assholes are still coming to these parties; he's still trying to extricate himself from the same boring conversations with the same handsy millionaire's wives. He should get used to it again, now that Jay’s on the board of Neon Knights.  

This gala is particularly over-the-top, which makes sense given what Dick knows about Tony Stark. They haven't seen each other in years, but they ran in the same circles when Dick was in his early twenties. He doesn't remember most of those years, though. He suspects Tony doesn't either. 

He runs a hand through his hair and scans the crowd hopefully for his wayward husband, who should be returning with his champagne any second now. 

The purple suit catches his eye first. It’s shockingly bright against the sea of sedate blacks and blues, eggplant-colored jacquard with metallic silver and blue flowers. Dick thought his own turquoise silk tux was pushing the envelope. He’s so caught up in admiring the suit that it takes him a second to recognize the person wearing it, but then Clint turns slightly to greet someone, and Dick gets a glimpse of his smile. 

He’d know that smile anywhere. 

Good thing I don’t have a glass in my hand, because I would’ve dropped it, he thinks, in the distant part of his brain that’s still working.  

Their eyes meet, and it’s one of those slow-motion moments that Dick didn’t think happened outside of movies. Clint’s eyes go wide, and he goes pale. For a moment he sways on the spot, like he might pass out; then he sits down hard on the closest surface, which happens to be the step of the speaker’s podium. 

Dick closes the distance between them like he’s floating, and Clint just stares up at him. 

“Jesus, I thought you were dead,” Dick says numbly, and holds out a hand to help Clint up. The momentum carries them into a hug, and Dick melts into it. He squeezes his eyes shut and holds on tight.

“I’m so sorry,” Clint whispers. “Fuck, Dick, I’m so fucking sorry.”

It’s been years since he boxed up his feelings about Clint’s disappearance, along with the sweet, innocent part of himself that was capable of things like love at first sight. He forced himself to move on, and then the world forced him to grow up. 

He’s not even sure he wants to know, at this point. But now that they’re here, after all those years — 

“What happened?” he whispers, without letting go. 

“Long story,” Clint says. “Short version is I got arrested. Took the fall for Barney.” 

For just a moment, Dick feels a dizzying sense of relief, more than anything else, because he spent so long telling himself that Clint just moved on, that he wasn’t interested in Dick beyond the physical. That Dick wasn’t worth saying goodbye to. 

Then he feels sickeningly guilty. 

“Shit,” he says. 

He takes an unsteady step back, holding Clint at arm’s length to look him up and down. Clint’s eyes are suspiciously wet. Dick’s might be too. He’s shaking. 

“I did try, once I got everything cleared up," Clint says hurriedly. "Tried to get in touch, but the only number I could find was for Bruce fucking Wayne, and I think his secretary thought I was psychotic.” He gives Dick a watery smile and a sheepish shrug. “But — god, I missed you.” The last part is an exhale, more than a sentence. 

Dick lets out a long breath too, and for a moment he feels like a kid again. 

He’s eleven years old again, waving shyly at a blond boy who’s watching the newcomers from the shelter of a tree branch. Introducing himself. Showing off, jumping up into the tree like a monkey in his haste to impress his new friend, doing a flip to get out of the tree, and Clint is trying to copy him, but he ends up spreadeagled in the dust, wheezing for breath, sandy blond hair spread around his freckled face like a halo. 

Dick is frantic with worry as he leans over Clint to check his pupils, because he’s been learning about the dangers of concussions since he was old enough to attempt a cartwheel, and he asks, “How many fingers am I holding up?” 

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Clint deadpans, and shoves his middle finger into Dick’s face to poke him right between the eyes. 

And it’s that easy; they’re best friends. 

Clint is a year older than him. He’s snarky and irreverent and reckless. Dick’s parents think he’s trouble; Dick thinks he’s perfect. 

They’re inseparable for the four months that the Graysons are with Carson’s, and the next summer it’s like no time has passed at all. 

Dick’s fourteen, and he’s noticing that Clint grew while his family was with Haly’s for the last eight months, and Clint’s explaining what “bisexual” means. Clint gives him his first beer and his first cigarette; Dick decides he doesn’t need to repeat either experience any time soon. Later that summer, Dick gives Clint his first blowjob, and they both decide to repeat that experience as often as possible for the remaining month of the summer.  

Dick’s fifteen, and it’s different, somehow, when they see each other again — different in the best possible way. It’s not just fumbling through the physical things together, now, although they do plenty of that; every moment they spend together is thrilling in a way that feels like flying. 

Dick’s been coaching him on the tightrope one night, reminding him to keep his head up, to never look down, but Clint can't stop second-guessing himself. He falls into the safety net, yet again. Dick leaps after him just to watch him bounce with the impact, and Clint laughs with his face all lit-up and joyful, and when gravity pulls them together in the cradle of the net, Dick blurts it out: “I love you. You don’t have to say it back, but — I love you.” 

Clint hesitates, breath caught like the words are stuck in his throat, until eventually he just grabs Dick’s hand and squeezes it tight and kisses him, and that’s okay, because Dick’s starting to understand that he has an easier time than Clint, when it comes to love. That maybe this is something he’ll have to teach Clint, too. 

When it’s time to say goodbye for the next eight months, Dick says it again: “I love you.” 

Clint gives him one last biting kiss and a shaky smile, and it’s not until Dick’s turning to leave that Clint grabs him by the hand, pulls him back, and whispers, “You too.” 

He counts down the days. He misses Clint like a hole in the heart. But when they see each other again, it’s like nothing has changed. They pick up where they left off. 

It’s the first and last time in his life that love feels like a simple thing. That love is pure and straightforward and easy, as natural as gravity. 

“Dick?” comes Jason’s voice, and Dick starts. 

He forgot they were in public; he forgot about goddamn near everything. 

He turns, feeling hot and cold and dizzy. “Jay. This is —” 

“You’re Clint,” Jason says quietly. Dick can see him turning on autopilot, going through the motions, the way he does when he panics. “I — wow. Okay.” He shoves Dick’s champagne glass into his hands and reaches out to shake Clint’s, his smile wooden and tight-lipped. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

For a moment Dick wonders how he knew, but then he remembers the picture of the two of them, arm in arm, gangly and giddy, at sixteen and seventeen respectively. Dick’s mom took the picture just a few weeks before she died, and he kept it on his desk in the Manor for the first couple years. 

Jason moved in a year after he did. At that point, Dick and Clint were still in touch, still planning to find each other when Dick was eighteen and could move out on his own. Jason heard plenty of stories about him, before Dick burned the picture in a vodka-soaked depression haze and stopped bringing Clint up altogether. 

“Oh,” Clint says. “Jason? Likewise. You’re his —” 

“Husband,” Jason supplies. 

“— foster brother, right?” Clint says at the same time. 

They both blink at each other in shocked silence, and Dick’s stomach sinks. 

“Hey, darlin’, there you are,” says a low, warm voice, and then there’s a man sliding an arm around Clint’s waist, turning bright blue eyes on Dick and Jason, cocking his head and studying them before letting out a quiet, “Oh.” 

“This is my fiance,” Clint says, with a wan attempt at a smile. 

“James Barnes,” he says. Handshakes all around, followed by a long, awkward moment of silence. 

Dick’s head is still spinning. His immediate instinct, still, is to pretend everything is fine, to brush it off and chatter away, to act like this isn’t affecting him the way it is. To act like this is easy. But he knows better. 

And if this was even five years ago, Jason would be steely-eyed and silent, a gathering storm of insecurities and abandonment issues. He'd be snarling, or retreating into himself. Instead he gives Dick a tiny, sad half-smile. It’s not his trademark fierce grin, but it’s genuine. 

“You guys probably have a lot to talk about, huh?” Jason says hoarsely. He clears his throat uncomfortably, looking down at his glass, and Dick loves him so fucking much he can barely breathe. “You should, uh. Do that.” 

“Yeah?” Dick says, a quiet plea. 

“Yeah, sweetheart.” Jason gives his hand a little squeeze. “I know how important he is to you.” 

A few steps away, James and Clint seem to be having a similar exchange; Clint looks wildly uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck, but James gives him a little push and raises his glass to Dick before melting back into the crowd. 

Dick turns to Jason again, leaning in close to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he whispers, “Thank you.” 

Then it’s just him and Clint and the enormity of all these years apart, and for a moment he’s not sure he has anything in common with the kid who said I love you like it was the easiest thing in the world. 

“You wanna get some air?” he asks, and Clint nods, and they head for the balcony. 

Jason drives them home. He’s quiet as he navigates the Manhattan traffic, but when they get on the highway he asks, blunt and gruff, “So?” 

“It was good to see him,” Dick says, forcing a smile, but his voice shakes. 

“C’mon, Dick, it’s me,” Jason says. “Put Richie away and tell me the truth.” 

Dick’s breath hitches. “You were right. We had a lot to talk about. It had been a while.” His voice falters. 

He’s not sure if he has the words; he’s not sure he can explain the pressure in his chest right now, or why it feels so crushing. It’s the weight of time, maybe. The weight of all those years, everything Dick’s lived through, everything he’s done. The difference between the person he used to be and the person he is now.  

“Never mind. It can wait,” Jason says, and reaches out for Dick’s hand. “Let’s get home.” 

“God, I love you,” Dick blurts out, with a shaky sigh. "It's not — it's not about that. You know that, right?" 

Jason squeezes his hand and says, “Yeah, I know.” 

It feels like a century of shitty Jersey drivers before they get back to their place. They have a small bungalow with a decent yard, not quite in city limits, but not in Bristol proper, either. Jason has a vegetable garden in the back, and they grill every Sunday. 

Jason unlocks the front door with steady hands. Dick doesn’t feel so steady. He goes immediately into their room to change into comfortable clothes, and when he comes back out he sees Jason on the back porch, smoking and sitting on the big swing where so many of their important conversations have happened. 

Dick joins him, rocking the swing with one foot and leaning on Jason’s shoulder, and Jason settles an arm around him. 

Jason finally says, “What’s going on in your head right now?” 

Dick takes a deep breath, and the tears spill over, and for a moment he’s still not sure he can get the words out. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so aware of time before.” His laugh comes out cracked and bitter. “Time, and all the ways I’ve gotten screwed up since then. Seeing him just put me right back there in a way nothing else has. Just... back to the kid I used to be. Sorry, that probably sounds stupid, but —" 

“No, it doesn’t,” Jason says, and kisses the top of his head. 

“I didn’t have any fucking clue what I was in for, back then,” Dick whispers. “All the shit that happened along the road — I didn’t think it’d be like that. Didn’t think I’d be like that.” 

“It’s okay to mourn that kid,” Jason says, cutting right to the point in his usual blisteringly perceptive way. “Growing up is hard."

And Jason of all people would know, wouldn’t he? He grew up a lot earlier than Dick did.

Dick’s reminded of the Jason he met, angry and unstable and terrified, and the one he’s with now. Of all the things that have changed over the years, Jason is the best of them. 

"I can't stop thinking about how sure I was, back then. That I loved him. Everything was so fucking easy. Falling in love, and being loved." Words are failing him again; that's always been Jason's forte, not his. "It feels like nothing," Dick admits. "Compared to this. Compared to all the work we put in. Does that make sense?" 

"Sure." 

“You always make it sound like it was love at first sight for you,” he says, still resting his head on Jason’s shoulder. He looks out at the overgrown yard, watching bugs criss-cross his field of vision on their way up to the yellow bulb that illuminates the porch. "But you weren't sure back then. There's no way you could've known —"  

“I think that’s the difference between us,” Jason says. “I never thought of love as something easy. I just knew you’d be worth the work.”

Dick takes a deep, shuddering breath and burrows deeper into Jason's shoulder. Jason crushes his cigarette butt and wraps his other arm around Dick too, encircling him in familiar warmth, sheltering him with a body that Dick knows just as well as he knows his own.

It took them both years to get here, to learn to let themselves be loved without doubting it, without looking down waiting for the self-fulfilling prophecy of an inevitable stumble. It was worth the work. There’s no doubt in his mind. But he misses the days when he never thought twice about all the open space under that tightrope. 

Dick lets the tears come. Lets himself mourn the kid who thought love was as easy as gravity, and who’d never had any reason to be afraid of falling.