for sabinelagrande: Some Enchanted Evening (DC - The New Frontier, Robin & Flash, PG)
Title: Some Enchanted Evening
Author: gloss
Recipient: sabinelagrande
Fandom: DC - The New Frontier
Characters/pairing: Robin, The Flash, Bruce Wayne/Selina Kyle/Ted Grant
Setting/Timeline: NF #2, the Vegas match between Ted Grant and Cassius Clay
Rating: PG
Word count: 3,000
Summary: Barry Allen might be the original fanboy, but Robin can give him a run for his money.
Disclaimer: Darwyn Cooke made NEW FRONTIER from the Silver Age of the DC comics and I make this from his work.
Notes: Some characters and details - such as the length of time that Robin has worked with Batman and the presence of Aunt Harriet - were lifted from the Golden and Silver Ages, rather than Cooke's book. Thanks to petronelle, buggery and thete1 for audiencing and encouragement. thenotoriousg beta'd kindly.
"Don't even know why you made me come," Dick says and yanks back the bedclothes. His face burns and his chest *hurts*; he hears himself yelling and hates it.
Bruce leans against the doorframe, his tie undone and collar open. "You begged to come along."
"On account of the fight!" His anger huffed out in one last big sigh, Dick flops back on the bed. "Never mind."
Bruce doesn't say anything for a bit, not even when his friend Oliver starts banging on the door to their suite. Then the bed dips a little and Bruce clasps Dick's hand. "Would you prefer I stay in?"
Oliver seems to have made his way inside the suite, despite Aunt Harriet's protests. "Great Lord above, Wayne, are you fixing your garters or crimping your hair? Get your lazy ass out here!"
"Language, Mr. Queen!" Aunt Harriet's tone is as sharp as her hatpins.
Dick rolls his eyes as he pats Bruce's hand. "You should go."
"I --" Bruce glances at the door, then back to Dick. "Are you sure?"
"I'm not a *baby*," Dick says. He can't stop himself from muttering, "no matter what anyone says."
He doesn't blame Bruce, even if he just threw a tantrum *at* Bruce. It's Aunt Harriet's fault, like it usually is. She barged into their suite this afternoon, all the way from Gotham; Dick hid in the washroom while he listened.
Bruce hemmed and hawed as Harriet quoted various child-psychology experts to convince Bruce that a spotlighted center ring in a packed arena where men sprayed blood and tried to hurt each other wasn't, quite, the best venue for a "wee, traumatized orphan".
So that was that. No Grant-Clay match for Dick and he's stuck here while Bruce goes out to have fun and Harriet works on her knitting.
"Of course you're not a baby." Bruce kisses Dick's forehead. "We both know better."
Thumps and curses sound from the living room. "Infernal blazes, Brucie, you comin' or do I have to knock that door *down*?"
Before Bruce can slip away, Dick grabs his arm. "What about the Catwoman?"
"This isn't Gotham," Bruce reminds him.
"But she's *here*!"
"We'll deal with her later," Bruce says softly. From the doorway, the light from the living room painting his silhouette gold and green, he adds, "You get some rest now."
As if that's possible.
Dick isn't just mad that he's missing the big fight. That's bad enough, but the situation is much, much worse. He's *convinced* that he saw Selina Kyle waltz into the Sands this morning. The woman wore big sunglasses and had a green chiffon scarf tied over her hair, but it *had* to be her. Dick's seen Catwoman in action more times than he count, and no one moves like her. Not even close.
It cannot be a coincidence, further, that in honor of the Sands's hosting the big fight, there's an exhibit of jewelled cats just off the lobby.
If he were the superstitious sort, Dick might believe that this was *designed* to lure Catwoman and her greed.
Once Bruce and Oliver have departed and Aunt Harriet's tuned in the radio, Dick slips out from under the covers. It's a tough fit, wearing his Robin-suit beneath the suit he had all picked out for the fight, but he manages it. He folds up his cape and tucks it into his waistband; if he has to fight, it will feel funny wearing dress shoes, but he figures he can get by.
Sneaking past Harriet is the hardest part, or so he thinks, until he realizes she has snuck downstairs, probably back to the slot machines.
*
Three hours later, Dick has learned that the one thing he *hadn't* planned on was how much these dress shoes pinch when he's crouched in one place.
In a nook off the balcony overlooking the cocktail lounge, he shifts from foot to foot, pulling a face. He doesn't know how grown-ups like Bruce *do* it. They're down there, standing around, chatting and dancing, tipping back flutes of bubbly and weaving to the music.
Dick likes meeting people. He even likes going to dances at school, because everyone gets so dressed up, it's a sight to see, but *this*, down there -- it looks boring.
Maybe that's just because he's up here, hugging his knees and watching the exhibit's entrance.
No one's even gone near it all night. They're all too busy on the dance floor.
You'd think they didn't have a care in the world, the way they're carrying on.
Just to be sure, even though he already checked for back exits and open windows, Dick sneaks down for another circuit of the exhibit.
It's hard to walk quietly in these shoes, but he does his best. Everything *looks* okay.
He's just about to take one last look when he hears a high tinkle of laughter and two gruff male voices.
They're up near the front, so Dick slides along the wall, up on his toes, until he's hidden behind a display case.
He has to squint to see in the dark. At first, all he can make out is the bright chrome-sheen of a lady's dress, her bosoms sharp as two tailfins, the waist nipped in, the skirt full and rustling. She's throwing back her head, laughing, looking up and back at one big daddy with a thick neck and broad shoulders. Her hand, sparkling with jewels, comes up to touch the arm of the other man.
Dick sucks in a disgusted breath through his teeth. That's *Bruce*, laughing with -- *touching* -- Selina Kyle, and the other man, the older and broader one, must be the champ.
"Isn't *this* a tickle?" Selina's saying, twisting around in the champ's arms and kissing his bruised face. "Bruce is -"
Bruce lifts Selina's hand and kisses it, but his eyes look like they're locked on Mr. Grant's face. "At your service. Both of you."
Dick would like to believe that this is just Bruce's way of following up the case. He tries, very hard, to believe that, but now Mr. Grant's giving off a rumbling chuckle that reminds Dick of Lefebvre, the strong man back at the circus. And Selina is smiling, and so is Bruce.
"Stop goofing, Wayne. There's a lady present." Grant sounds amused, despite what he's *saying*.
Bruce shrugs just one shoulder and, still holding Selina's hand, puts the other on Grant's shoulder. "Rock-bottom serious here, friend."
Dick has to close his eyes. Bruce's weakness for the Catwoman is one thing, alternately disappointing and irritating, but this is just -- out of this *world*. They were, all three of them, inclining together, and --.
He claps his hands over his ears so he doesn't have to hear the giggles and chuckles, low, teasing voices and sounds of *kissing*.
Dick knows that there are many predilections out there in the world. There are tastes and appetites that he has yet to comprehend fully, let alone appreciate. Like caviar, and jet aircraft rather than railroads, and, it would seem, kissing girls *or* boys. He supposes, furthermore, that he ought to be relieved that Bruce's preference in these matters runs to handsome, well-built men like the champ, rather than weaselly types like his friend Oliver.
He can't help wanting to scream at Bruce all the same.
But Dick is Robin now, in spirit if not costume, and he cannot let himself be bothered with -- all of *that*. Foibles and excesses and the like. He has a job to do.
Even if, as Bruce continues to remind him, Las Vegas is not Gotham, not their city, Robin took an oath. He's bound to help and protect.
So he's both relieved and alarmed when he hears the explosions and shrieks coming from the cocktail lounge. Relieved, because Bruce and his...friends are hightailing it out of the exhibit; alarmed, because it sounds like serious trouble.
When the exit is clear, Dick sheds his suit jacket and rips at his dress shirt, buttons spraying as he bounds for the door. He has to flatten himself against the wall, however, because a crowd is rushing madly away from the cocktail lounge.
Then, in a moment, everything goes eerily quiet. In the distance, somewhere above, he can hear the strange insectoid-mechanical hum of a helicopter.
Before he can focus, Dick is rocked back on his feet by a blast of desert air. He sees a red blur at the back of the lounge, which resolves up at the stage into --.
Dick gasps, and doesn't care if that blows his cover, because that's the *Flash* up there. The Flash!
He's smaller than Dick has pictured, but very handsome. He's skinny, like the pictures of Bruce from prep school, and his arms are windmilling as he argues with Captain Cold.
*Wow*. Dick has never met another costumed vigilante (Bruce always says, a little dreamily but still quite *firmly*, "someday, someday" when Dick asks) and now here's one *in the flesh*.
He could only be more excited if it were Superman up there.
Dick blinks, and the Flash is gone, but the quiet -- save for the helicopter's blades beating the air -- remains. The vehicle is probably Cold's escape, so Dick backs up as quietly but swiftly as he can, until he's in the lobby proper, and then he runs for the elevator.
From the top floor of the hotel, he darts up the service stairs to the fire exit onto the roof. He can barely hear his panting breaths over the roar of the helicopter, and when he bursts out the door, he runs into a wall of light and blaring noise.
Dick stumbles back, shielding his face with his arm, and sees the helicopter rocking in the air, dipping and swaying like one of the inebriated ladies on the dance floor. There's a burst of red and ice-blue, traveling downward, and before he can stop himself, he dashes to the edge of the roof.
In the fountain below, the Flash and Captain Cold are wrestling wildly. This far up, Dick can only make out their colors and the crystalline splashes of water. Two more blinks, as his chest heaves and legs burn, and then the Flash is *gone*.
Just like that. Dick's mouth is hanging open, awe and wonderment gluing him in place, when something starts to tickle his face.
He looks down, because his hands are tickling, too, then up, and he gasps for the third time that night.
It's snowing. Like confetti and fireworks, white flakes shower from the sky, spinning and spiralling out of the dark.
Dick sticks his tongue out and catches several flakes at once. They melt away almost instantly, but not before he can savor their quick-flaring numbness.
Behind him, someone laughs. It's a nice laugh, not at all threatening, but he needs to be careful whatever he's doing, so Dick turns around slowly.
And then he's sorry he didn't move faster, because the Flash is leaning against the fire exit, grinning at him. The snow between them softens his outlines; when it hits his boots, it steams away with soft little hisses that make Dick think of the lion cubs asleep in their cages.
"Hi," Dick says, suddenly shy. "You're the Flash."
The Flash twiddles with one of his earpieces. "So I've heard. Enjoying the night?"
"Oh --" Dick looks down at himself and realizes he's still wearing his dress shirt and trousers, not to mention these terrible shoes. He must look like a *kid*, nothing like Robin, not like he feels inside. "Yes, thank you." He remembers his manners in time and adds, "You?"
The Flash blurs a little, steaming puddles appearing around his yellow boots. When he snaps back into focus, he replies, "Never been to Vegas before. You?"
"No, sir," Dick says. The snow is slowing down now and he catches the last flake on his tongue. When he looks back toward the door, the Flash is doing the same. "I couldn't live in a desert all the time."
"I hear you, kiddo." Flash nods and grins and even though he called Dick a kid, he doesn't seem all that much older. Especially not when he drops down to one knee to draw his finger through the snow. He's drawing something, but in order to see, Dick has to move to his side.
It's a big, round heart with *I.W. + B.A.* scratched in the middle.
"Put an arrow through," Dick advises him. "That means Cupid's going to make it come true."
The Flash cocks his head, looking up at Dick. His eyes seem to glimmer between very blue and something near *gold*. "Yeah?"
Dick nods vehemently. "That's what my mom always said."
"Huh. Here goes --" The Flash's hand blurs red-yellow across the snow, and when he's finished, there's a big pointy arrow poking through the heart, its tailfeathers drawn in perfect detail. "Like that?"
"Oh, it's pretty!" Dick claps his hand over his mouth, remembering too late that he can be, oft-times, a little too effusive. He swallows and tries to drop his voice. "Very nice."
When the Flash grins at him again, Dick knows that it's just an illusion, how *warm* he feels, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy it, right? He grins back and offers his hand to help the Flash back to his feet.
"So what brings you out to the desert?" Flash laps the roof a couple times, finishing his question by skidding back in front of Dick.
Dick never thought anyone could be as fidgety and restless as he often feels. "The fight, mostly, but then I wasn't allowed to go, and I --" He bites his lip and reminds himself sternly to make the most of this opportunity. "How about you? Were you on Captain Cold's trail or something? Did you track him down using a variety of tantalizing clues? Did he taunt you from the classified section of the newspaper?"
The Flash snorts softly. "Something like that. You some kind of detective fan?"
"Well." Dick takes a breath. "I like Mickey Spillane and Raymond Chandler, Nero Wolfe and Dottie Sayers, but --" He leans in a bit, bracing his hand on Flash's silky red arm. "Can I tell you a secret?"
The Flash nods, his mouth and eyes very serious. "Sure."
Dick checks behind them and to either side before tugging his shirttails out of his waistband. "You could say I'm in the business myself."
Flash's eyes widen, going all blue, bright as *diamonds*. "You're Robin?"
"You've heard of me?"
"Who hasn't? You work with the Bat-Man! You're a *legend*! My girl--I mean, this lady I know, she did a photo-essay on the two of you a couple months back."
"The Foto-Spy spread?" Dick asks. He has several copies of the issue secreted around the manor, hidden from Aunt Harriet's prying eyes. "You know Iris West?"
"Uh-huh." The Flash is nodding so fast his ear-pieces jangle and glow. "You like her work?"
"Do I? Do I!"
"Wow," they say at the same time and, later on, Dick will never be quite sure which one of them laughs first, but it doesn't matter.
"So you ran all the way out here?" Dick asks, after the laughter has slowed and they're sitting in the last of the snow, leaning against the fire exit.
"Yep," Flash replies. "Gotta go where the crime's being done. Wherever people need help."
"That's what *I* say!" Dick jabs Flash excitedly with his elbow. "It's never just in, in -- *Gotham*, or Central City --"
"World over, kiddo, it's the world over," Flash says. He listens to Dick's tale of staking out the Catwoman with full attention, gasping in all the right places, clapping Dick's shoulder and nodding along.
Bruce is Dick's best friend, but the Flash feels like a *brother*.
"Welp --" When the story's done, all the questions answered, Flash sighs, then pulls himself to his feet. He helps Dick up and squeezes Dick's hand between both of his. His hands, even without the gloves -- which are tucked in his belt -- seem too big for him. It reminds Dick of his own feet after his last growth spurt, the one that sent Aunt Harriet into a tizzy about the cost of shoes.
"You should probably head home," Dick says and tries his hardest to keep his disappointment unvoiced.
The Flash winks at him -- his eyes are glowing gold again -- and squeezes one last time. "Something tells me we'll run into each other again."
"Run?" Dick repeats and mimes jogging in place. "You're faster than *Superman*, I bet."
"Maybe so," Flash says and dashes to the edge of the roof. "You ever come to Central City, look up my buddy Barry Allen. He knows how to get in touch with me."
"Will do! Bye!" Dick calls and waves as vigorously as he can.
He loiters a little longer on the roof, hugging himself against the excitement. When he turns to head back inside, the snow has melted and evaporated. He had meant to take another look at the valentine-heart -- something about the initials was tugging at his memory -- but it's melted away with the rest.
*
Having slipped back into the suite undetected, Dick strips off both suit and costume before climbing into bed. He's suddenly very tired, flushed with an unexpectedly wonderful night, and only thinks of Bruce when he's on the edge of sleep.
He'll tell Bruce about meeting the one and only Flash if and when Bruce sees fit to admit he was canoodling with the Cats. Until then, Dick thinks as he buries his face in the pillow, then pulls it over his head to drown out the bangs and yells of Oliver in the hallway, it's going to be his little secret.
In the morning, he finds his suit jacket hung over his knob. There's a note inside on green paper in purple ink that reads Meow, signed with a fake pawprint.
Grinning, Dick crumples the note and tosses it in the waste-basket before joining Bruce at breakfast. Dick *might* be talking a little more loudly than necessary, clanging silverware and glassware, but if it bothers Bruce, then maybe he shouldn't drink champagne and make kissy-faces with various Cats.
Like a heart pierced by Cupid, secrets are sweeter when they're invisible.
[end]
Author: gloss
Recipient: sabinelagrande
Fandom: DC - The New Frontier
Characters/pairing: Robin, The Flash, Bruce Wayne/Selina Kyle/Ted Grant
Setting/Timeline: NF #2, the Vegas match between Ted Grant and Cassius Clay
Rating: PG
Word count: 3,000
Summary: Barry Allen might be the original fanboy, but Robin can give him a run for his money.
Disclaimer: Darwyn Cooke made NEW FRONTIER from the Silver Age of the DC comics and I make this from his work.
Notes: Some characters and details - such as the length of time that Robin has worked with Batman and the presence of Aunt Harriet - were lifted from the Golden and Silver Ages, rather than Cooke's book. Thanks to petronelle, buggery and thete1 for audiencing and encouragement. thenotoriousg beta'd kindly.
"Don't even know why you made me come," Dick says and yanks back the bedclothes. His face burns and his chest *hurts*; he hears himself yelling and hates it.
Bruce leans against the doorframe, his tie undone and collar open. "You begged to come along."
"On account of the fight!" His anger huffed out in one last big sigh, Dick flops back on the bed. "Never mind."
Bruce doesn't say anything for a bit, not even when his friend Oliver starts banging on the door to their suite. Then the bed dips a little and Bruce clasps Dick's hand. "Would you prefer I stay in?"
Oliver seems to have made his way inside the suite, despite Aunt Harriet's protests. "Great Lord above, Wayne, are you fixing your garters or crimping your hair? Get your lazy ass out here!"
"Language, Mr. Queen!" Aunt Harriet's tone is as sharp as her hatpins.
Dick rolls his eyes as he pats Bruce's hand. "You should go."
"I --" Bruce glances at the door, then back to Dick. "Are you sure?"
"I'm not a *baby*," Dick says. He can't stop himself from muttering, "no matter what anyone says."
He doesn't blame Bruce, even if he just threw a tantrum *at* Bruce. It's Aunt Harriet's fault, like it usually is. She barged into their suite this afternoon, all the way from Gotham; Dick hid in the washroom while he listened.
Bruce hemmed and hawed as Harriet quoted various child-psychology experts to convince Bruce that a spotlighted center ring in a packed arena where men sprayed blood and tried to hurt each other wasn't, quite, the best venue for a "wee, traumatized orphan".
So that was that. No Grant-Clay match for Dick and he's stuck here while Bruce goes out to have fun and Harriet works on her knitting.
"Of course you're not a baby." Bruce kisses Dick's forehead. "We both know better."
Thumps and curses sound from the living room. "Infernal blazes, Brucie, you comin' or do I have to knock that door *down*?"
Before Bruce can slip away, Dick grabs his arm. "What about the Catwoman?"
"This isn't Gotham," Bruce reminds him.
"But she's *here*!"
"We'll deal with her later," Bruce says softly. From the doorway, the light from the living room painting his silhouette gold and green, he adds, "You get some rest now."
As if that's possible.
Dick isn't just mad that he's missing the big fight. That's bad enough, but the situation is much, much worse. He's *convinced* that he saw Selina Kyle waltz into the Sands this morning. The woman wore big sunglasses and had a green chiffon scarf tied over her hair, but it *had* to be her. Dick's seen Catwoman in action more times than he count, and no one moves like her. Not even close.
It cannot be a coincidence, further, that in honor of the Sands's hosting the big fight, there's an exhibit of jewelled cats just off the lobby.
If he were the superstitious sort, Dick might believe that this was *designed* to lure Catwoman and her greed.
Once Bruce and Oliver have departed and Aunt Harriet's tuned in the radio, Dick slips out from under the covers. It's a tough fit, wearing his Robin-suit beneath the suit he had all picked out for the fight, but he manages it. He folds up his cape and tucks it into his waistband; if he has to fight, it will feel funny wearing dress shoes, but he figures he can get by.
Sneaking past Harriet is the hardest part, or so he thinks, until he realizes she has snuck downstairs, probably back to the slot machines.
*
Three hours later, Dick has learned that the one thing he *hadn't* planned on was how much these dress shoes pinch when he's crouched in one place.
In a nook off the balcony overlooking the cocktail lounge, he shifts from foot to foot, pulling a face. He doesn't know how grown-ups like Bruce *do* it. They're down there, standing around, chatting and dancing, tipping back flutes of bubbly and weaving to the music.
Dick likes meeting people. He even likes going to dances at school, because everyone gets so dressed up, it's a sight to see, but *this*, down there -- it looks boring.
Maybe that's just because he's up here, hugging his knees and watching the exhibit's entrance.
No one's even gone near it all night. They're all too busy on the dance floor.
You'd think they didn't have a care in the world, the way they're carrying on.
Just to be sure, even though he already checked for back exits and open windows, Dick sneaks down for another circuit of the exhibit.
It's hard to walk quietly in these shoes, but he does his best. Everything *looks* okay.
He's just about to take one last look when he hears a high tinkle of laughter and two gruff male voices.
They're up near the front, so Dick slides along the wall, up on his toes, until he's hidden behind a display case.
He has to squint to see in the dark. At first, all he can make out is the bright chrome-sheen of a lady's dress, her bosoms sharp as two tailfins, the waist nipped in, the skirt full and rustling. She's throwing back her head, laughing, looking up and back at one big daddy with a thick neck and broad shoulders. Her hand, sparkling with jewels, comes up to touch the arm of the other man.
Dick sucks in a disgusted breath through his teeth. That's *Bruce*, laughing with -- *touching* -- Selina Kyle, and the other man, the older and broader one, must be the champ.
"Isn't *this* a tickle?" Selina's saying, twisting around in the champ's arms and kissing his bruised face. "Bruce is -"
Bruce lifts Selina's hand and kisses it, but his eyes look like they're locked on Mr. Grant's face. "At your service. Both of you."
Dick would like to believe that this is just Bruce's way of following up the case. He tries, very hard, to believe that, but now Mr. Grant's giving off a rumbling chuckle that reminds Dick of Lefebvre, the strong man back at the circus. And Selina is smiling, and so is Bruce.
"Stop goofing, Wayne. There's a lady present." Grant sounds amused, despite what he's *saying*.
Bruce shrugs just one shoulder and, still holding Selina's hand, puts the other on Grant's shoulder. "Rock-bottom serious here, friend."
Dick has to close his eyes. Bruce's weakness for the Catwoman is one thing, alternately disappointing and irritating, but this is just -- out of this *world*. They were, all three of them, inclining together, and --.
He claps his hands over his ears so he doesn't have to hear the giggles and chuckles, low, teasing voices and sounds of *kissing*.
Dick knows that there are many predilections out there in the world. There are tastes and appetites that he has yet to comprehend fully, let alone appreciate. Like caviar, and jet aircraft rather than railroads, and, it would seem, kissing girls *or* boys. He supposes, furthermore, that he ought to be relieved that Bruce's preference in these matters runs to handsome, well-built men like the champ, rather than weaselly types like his friend Oliver.
He can't help wanting to scream at Bruce all the same.
But Dick is Robin now, in spirit if not costume, and he cannot let himself be bothered with -- all of *that*. Foibles and excesses and the like. He has a job to do.
Even if, as Bruce continues to remind him, Las Vegas is not Gotham, not their city, Robin took an oath. He's bound to help and protect.
So he's both relieved and alarmed when he hears the explosions and shrieks coming from the cocktail lounge. Relieved, because Bruce and his...friends are hightailing it out of the exhibit; alarmed, because it sounds like serious trouble.
When the exit is clear, Dick sheds his suit jacket and rips at his dress shirt, buttons spraying as he bounds for the door. He has to flatten himself against the wall, however, because a crowd is rushing madly away from the cocktail lounge.
Then, in a moment, everything goes eerily quiet. In the distance, somewhere above, he can hear the strange insectoid-mechanical hum of a helicopter.
Before he can focus, Dick is rocked back on his feet by a blast of desert air. He sees a red blur at the back of the lounge, which resolves up at the stage into --.
Dick gasps, and doesn't care if that blows his cover, because that's the *Flash* up there. The Flash!
He's smaller than Dick has pictured, but very handsome. He's skinny, like the pictures of Bruce from prep school, and his arms are windmilling as he argues with Captain Cold.
*Wow*. Dick has never met another costumed vigilante (Bruce always says, a little dreamily but still quite *firmly*, "someday, someday" when Dick asks) and now here's one *in the flesh*.
He could only be more excited if it were Superman up there.
Dick blinks, and the Flash is gone, but the quiet -- save for the helicopter's blades beating the air -- remains. The vehicle is probably Cold's escape, so Dick backs up as quietly but swiftly as he can, until he's in the lobby proper, and then he runs for the elevator.
From the top floor of the hotel, he darts up the service stairs to the fire exit onto the roof. He can barely hear his panting breaths over the roar of the helicopter, and when he bursts out the door, he runs into a wall of light and blaring noise.
Dick stumbles back, shielding his face with his arm, and sees the helicopter rocking in the air, dipping and swaying like one of the inebriated ladies on the dance floor. There's a burst of red and ice-blue, traveling downward, and before he can stop himself, he dashes to the edge of the roof.
In the fountain below, the Flash and Captain Cold are wrestling wildly. This far up, Dick can only make out their colors and the crystalline splashes of water. Two more blinks, as his chest heaves and legs burn, and then the Flash is *gone*.
Just like that. Dick's mouth is hanging open, awe and wonderment gluing him in place, when something starts to tickle his face.
He looks down, because his hands are tickling, too, then up, and he gasps for the third time that night.
It's snowing. Like confetti and fireworks, white flakes shower from the sky, spinning and spiralling out of the dark.
Dick sticks his tongue out and catches several flakes at once. They melt away almost instantly, but not before he can savor their quick-flaring numbness.
Behind him, someone laughs. It's a nice laugh, not at all threatening, but he needs to be careful whatever he's doing, so Dick turns around slowly.
And then he's sorry he didn't move faster, because the Flash is leaning against the fire exit, grinning at him. The snow between them softens his outlines; when it hits his boots, it steams away with soft little hisses that make Dick think of the lion cubs asleep in their cages.
"Hi," Dick says, suddenly shy. "You're the Flash."
The Flash twiddles with one of his earpieces. "So I've heard. Enjoying the night?"
"Oh --" Dick looks down at himself and realizes he's still wearing his dress shirt and trousers, not to mention these terrible shoes. He must look like a *kid*, nothing like Robin, not like he feels inside. "Yes, thank you." He remembers his manners in time and adds, "You?"
The Flash blurs a little, steaming puddles appearing around his yellow boots. When he snaps back into focus, he replies, "Never been to Vegas before. You?"
"No, sir," Dick says. The snow is slowing down now and he catches the last flake on his tongue. When he looks back toward the door, the Flash is doing the same. "I couldn't live in a desert all the time."
"I hear you, kiddo." Flash nods and grins and even though he called Dick a kid, he doesn't seem all that much older. Especially not when he drops down to one knee to draw his finger through the snow. He's drawing something, but in order to see, Dick has to move to his side.
It's a big, round heart with *I.W. + B.A.* scratched in the middle.
"Put an arrow through," Dick advises him. "That means Cupid's going to make it come true."
The Flash cocks his head, looking up at Dick. His eyes seem to glimmer between very blue and something near *gold*. "Yeah?"
Dick nods vehemently. "That's what my mom always said."
"Huh. Here goes --" The Flash's hand blurs red-yellow across the snow, and when he's finished, there's a big pointy arrow poking through the heart, its tailfeathers drawn in perfect detail. "Like that?"
"Oh, it's pretty!" Dick claps his hand over his mouth, remembering too late that he can be, oft-times, a little too effusive. He swallows and tries to drop his voice. "Very nice."
When the Flash grins at him again, Dick knows that it's just an illusion, how *warm* he feels, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy it, right? He grins back and offers his hand to help the Flash back to his feet.
"So what brings you out to the desert?" Flash laps the roof a couple times, finishing his question by skidding back in front of Dick.
Dick never thought anyone could be as fidgety and restless as he often feels. "The fight, mostly, but then I wasn't allowed to go, and I --" He bites his lip and reminds himself sternly to make the most of this opportunity. "How about you? Were you on Captain Cold's trail or something? Did you track him down using a variety of tantalizing clues? Did he taunt you from the classified section of the newspaper?"
The Flash snorts softly. "Something like that. You some kind of detective fan?"
"Well." Dick takes a breath. "I like Mickey Spillane and Raymond Chandler, Nero Wolfe and Dottie Sayers, but --" He leans in a bit, bracing his hand on Flash's silky red arm. "Can I tell you a secret?"
The Flash nods, his mouth and eyes very serious. "Sure."
Dick checks behind them and to either side before tugging his shirttails out of his waistband. "You could say I'm in the business myself."
Flash's eyes widen, going all blue, bright as *diamonds*. "You're Robin?"
"You've heard of me?"
"Who hasn't? You work with the Bat-Man! You're a *legend*! My girl--I mean, this lady I know, she did a photo-essay on the two of you a couple months back."
"The Foto-Spy spread?" Dick asks. He has several copies of the issue secreted around the manor, hidden from Aunt Harriet's prying eyes. "You know Iris West?"
"Uh-huh." The Flash is nodding so fast his ear-pieces jangle and glow. "You like her work?"
"Do I? Do I!"
"Wow," they say at the same time and, later on, Dick will never be quite sure which one of them laughs first, but it doesn't matter.
"So you ran all the way out here?" Dick asks, after the laughter has slowed and they're sitting in the last of the snow, leaning against the fire exit.
"Yep," Flash replies. "Gotta go where the crime's being done. Wherever people need help."
"That's what *I* say!" Dick jabs Flash excitedly with his elbow. "It's never just in, in -- *Gotham*, or Central City --"
"World over, kiddo, it's the world over," Flash says. He listens to Dick's tale of staking out the Catwoman with full attention, gasping in all the right places, clapping Dick's shoulder and nodding along.
Bruce is Dick's best friend, but the Flash feels like a *brother*.
"Welp --" When the story's done, all the questions answered, Flash sighs, then pulls himself to his feet. He helps Dick up and squeezes Dick's hand between both of his. His hands, even without the gloves -- which are tucked in his belt -- seem too big for him. It reminds Dick of his own feet after his last growth spurt, the one that sent Aunt Harriet into a tizzy about the cost of shoes.
"You should probably head home," Dick says and tries his hardest to keep his disappointment unvoiced.
The Flash winks at him -- his eyes are glowing gold again -- and squeezes one last time. "Something tells me we'll run into each other again."
"Run?" Dick repeats and mimes jogging in place. "You're faster than *Superman*, I bet."
"Maybe so," Flash says and dashes to the edge of the roof. "You ever come to Central City, look up my buddy Barry Allen. He knows how to get in touch with me."
"Will do! Bye!" Dick calls and waves as vigorously as he can.
He loiters a little longer on the roof, hugging himself against the excitement. When he turns to head back inside, the snow has melted and evaporated. He had meant to take another look at the valentine-heart -- something about the initials was tugging at his memory -- but it's melted away with the rest.
*
Having slipped back into the suite undetected, Dick strips off both suit and costume before climbing into bed. He's suddenly very tired, flushed with an unexpectedly wonderful night, and only thinks of Bruce when he's on the edge of sleep.
He'll tell Bruce about meeting the one and only Flash if and when Bruce sees fit to admit he was canoodling with the Cats. Until then, Dick thinks as he buries his face in the pillow, then pulls it over his head to drown out the bangs and yells of Oliver in the hallway, it's going to be his little secret.
In the morning, he finds his suit jacket hung over his knob. There's a note inside on green paper in purple ink that reads Meow, signed with a fake pawprint.
Grinning, Dick crumples the note and tosses it in the waste-basket before joining Bruce at breakfast. Dick *might* be talking a little more loudly than necessary, clanging silverware and glassware, but if it bothers Bruce, then maybe he shouldn't drink champagne and make kissy-faces with various Cats.
Like a heart pierced by Cupid, secrets are sweeter when they're invisible.
[end]