Duos and Don'ts

Parties And 3 Hours Of Sleep

Dick ripped open the passenger-side door and launched himself inside, seatbelt yanked across his chest like he was strapping into a fighter jet.

“DRIVE!” Dick yelled, slapping the dashboard for emphasis.

Bruce slid into the driver’s seat with the calm urgency of a man who absolutely did not feel calm, digging through his pockets. “I’m working on it.”

Dick twisted around, eyes huge, staring at Bruce’s hands in horror. “Bruce. DRIVE.”

“I would if I had the keys,” Bruce snapped, checking one pocket, then another. “Alfred had them.”

Dick made a small, distressed noise. “…If Alfred had the keys, how did we get here?!”

Bruce froze.

Dick leaned forward. “Bruce.”

Bruce checked the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Nothing.

“BRUCE.”

Dick glanced out the window just in time to see it: reporters pouring out of the building like a swarm of angry bees, cameras already up, flashes popping.

“They’re coming,” Dick whispered, then immediately panicked louder. “THEY’RE COMING.”

Dick sank into the leather seat, physically trying to become smaller. “Bruce—”

“Ah!” Bruce finally yanked the keys free from some absurd hidden pocket with a triumphant little noise and shoved them into the ignition. The engine roared to life just as reporters slammed into Dick’s side of the car.

Flashes exploded.

Dick slapped a hand over his face. “I DON’T KNOW HOW TO POSE FOR THIS.”

Bruce floored it.

The car peeled away from the curb like they were actively escaping a crime scene, tires screaming, cameras blurring into streaks of light behind them.

Dick exhaled so hard it was dramatic. He slumped back into the seat. “Whew. Wow. Okay. That was crazy.”

He turned to Bruce, immediately smug. “Sure took your sweet time, old man.”

Bruce shot him a look. “We wouldn’t have had reporters chasing us if you hadn’t jumped off the railing to show off.”

Dick scoffed, arms crossed. “That is NOT why they were chasing us. It was probably because you stepped on that old lady’s cat.”

“I did not step on the cat,” Bruce huffed. “I brushed it with my shoe.”

“It screamed, Bruce.”

“Who brings a cat to a charity ball?”

“A rich person,” Dick said immediately.

“And how was I supposed to know it was a star-winning purebred?” Bruce sighed.

Dick snorted. “That whole party was weird.”

That was putting it lightly.

They had both survived the event on approximately three combined hours of sleep after finishing a case at an ungodly hour—only for Alfred to wake them with the devastating news that they had a charity appearance in less than sixty minutes.

So billionaire Bruce Wayne had stumbled into the ballroom in a perfectly pressed suit, with a glassy-eyed, sleep-deprived acrobat trailing behind him.

To their credit, they lasted a solid ten minutes.

Then Bruce stepped on the prize-winning Persian.

Then Dick knocked over a wine table.
Then a woman jumped back, her towering hairdo catching on fire from an actual decorative flame, which Bruce immediately extinguished by dumping an entire punch bowl over her head.
Then someone asked Dick if he was “really an acrobat.”

Which was how Dick ended up flipping off a railing in a full suit.

Which was how the heirloom wooden decor shattered.

Which was how Bruce calmly told a waiter to bill him.

And then the press had smelled blood.

“So,” Dick said cautiously, fiddling with his gloves. “We don’t tell Alfred.”

Bruce nodded. “Agreed. But if we get home too quickly, he’ll know we left early.”

Dick’s eyes lit up. “So… we stop?”

Bruce smiled just a little.

“HECK YES,” Dick cheered.

~~~~~~~

An hour later, their very shiny car rolled back through the gates of Wayne Manor.

“Okay,” Dick whispered, clutching two empty ice cream cups behind his back. “You distract him. I’ll dump the evidence.”

Bruce nodded gravely, like this was a stealth operation.

They moved in sync.

Bruce opened the door.

Alfred was immediately there.

“How was the party, sir?” Alfred asked pleasantly.

Bruce stepped forward, blocking the vision of Dick as he sprinted for the kitchen. “Oh, it was… uneventful. Someone brought their prize-winning cat.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “I saw.”

Bruce stiffened.

Dick froze mid-trash-can reach.

“Saw what?” Bruce asked carefully.

Alfred stepped aside.

The television was on.

A news anchor smiled far too brightly.
“Billionaire Bruce Wayne Seen Kicking Prize-Winning Persian.”

Dick snorted so hard it echoed. “You kick cats!”

The screen changed.

A picture of Dick mid-flip, railing splintering beneath him.

“RETIRED ACROBAT DESTROYS HEIRLOOM RAILING.”

Dick scowled. “RETIRED? Also—who has a heirloom railing?!”

Alfred looked between them. “Uneventful, Master Bruce?”

Bruce cleared his throat awkwardly. “It was uneventful after we left.” He amended.

Alfred sighed, then turned to Dick. “I suggest that you and Master Bruce take a nap before your nightly activities.”

“I’m fine!” Dick said instantly.

Alfred gave him the look.

Dick backed away. “Okay, wow, noted.”

Then he grinned at Bruce and bolted, sprinting up the stairs and flipping cleanly over the railing.

Bruce winced.

Alfred closed his eyes.

And somewhere in the manor, Dick laughed like a menace.