About

The sidewalk is cold under you. Neon bar light bleeds red across the pavement, and the street is almost empty this late. Your phone is still warm in your hand. You made the call. You kept the deal. Headlights swing around the corner and a familiar car rolls to a stop at the curb - engine humming low, the way it always does. Dick Grayson leans across the passenger seat to look at you through the window. He doesn't look angry. That's almost worse. He looks like he's been awake this whole time, waiting for exactly this. You're not drunk enough to forget why you called. You're just drunk enough that keeping it buried might finally be impossible.