Author's Note: rated T for language and, well, nothing else really. Just angst and one-sided feelings. Bummer

Disclaimer: don't own anything

You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go

You're gonna make me wonder what I'm doing,

Staying far behind without you.

You're gonna make me wonder what I'm saying,

You're gonna make me give myself a good talking to.

- Bob Dylan, You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go

When he realized it, he was kissing Poison Ivy.

Or Poison Ivy was kissing him.

They were kissing each other?

At this point, he wasn't sure anymore.

After the initial lip-lock, it seemed to be a mutual thing, and lasted as long as Ivy wanted it to.

Except this time - this time Nightwing could tell that she was having trouble. Or an off day. Or maybe her lips (pheromones?) just weren't into him that day. He could never be sure when it came to meta-humans even though so many of his closest friends were. The point being, she wasn't able to fully grasp the mind of Richard John Grayson, known to her solely as Nightwing. He could feel it in the way her lips tensed more than usual, her slow movements becoming harder, brash. The hand on his face curled and her nails scratched him, to try to make him lose himself in her kiss. But she couldn't.

And it was all his fault.

Alfred had called him up at around two that afternoon, wondering if 'Master Dick' could come over for dinner that night. Of course Dick had kindly tried to refuse, maybe setting up a rain check, because calls like this were happening much too frequently for his liking. But it was Alfred and one was hard-pressed when it came to refusing Alfred.

Dick knew what the butler (grandfather, doctor, eyes in the sky and so much more) was trying to do. The first Robin had moved out just a few months ago, after figuring out that Red Hood was Jason and Tim took over the mantle of Robin. To say he had moved out at a particularly bad time was an understatement - said Tim. Dick couldn't have picked a better time though in his mind.

He had been moonlighting as Nightwing for a little over two years, traveling to Blüdhaven whenever Bruce could afford him to not be in Gotham. His adopted father was very encouraging with his upgrade to solo vigilante - not so much with his intended career choice. Since the ripe old age of fourteen, Dick knew he wanted to be greater than anything he's ever been, to help, to be needed, to save. So being the spoiled, playboy son of a spoiled, playboy billionaire was not something that particularly intrigued him. So he decided to put his amazing capabilities into a job that would allow him to help citizens and make sure nothing underhanded went afoot with the law.

A cop.

A detective.

A common hero.

Dick likened his choice of career with the word honorable.

Bruce liked the word liability. He liked the word reckless. He liked the words unsafe, stupid, foolish - and let's not forget endangering secret identities.

Dick liked to believe he was 'pulling a Clark Kent'. Getting close to the situation so he was more than a few steps ahead of the game. And with his deductive reasoning that Batman had instilled in him since the, also, ripe old of age of nine, Dick could take down crime in Blüdhaven better than Bruce could do as Batman in Gotham. He'd be working both sides, able to mess around with the darker, less legal side of the city, while also having the pull and trust of the people Batman so often butted heads with.

This caused many arguments between himself and the man who was the closest thing he had to a father figure within the last decade. Arguments that lasted well into the night, long after patrol, and made breakfast very awkward. They wouldn't come to an understanding, but the older gentleman eventually learned to live with it. And while Bruce and him eventually parted on better terms than he thought could be possible despite that fact that neither could understand why the other didn't understand, Dick knew the man would be there for him if he ever needed him.

So the butler called him, every Tuesday like clockwork, to tell him that he was making Dick's favorite dinner - and blueberry pie. Pie. Blueberry pie. Alfred knew him too well.

And Dick swallowed his pride, got on his bike, and rode over to Gotham to have an early dinner with his odd little family, because if they were to have dinner together it needed to always be early. Early dinner, late breakfast. Something they had all at one point had to change from the norm of early breakfast, late dinner.

Of course Dick would obviously go out on patrol because it was impossible to say no to Tim's face. That ever calm, ever loving, little brother face. And coming off the horrible high of realizing his first little brother was back from the dead and wanted nothing to do with his once adopted family, Dick was a little over-protective.

He wished he had a better resolve when it came to those closest to him.

That's where he found himself right now, wondering why he always let Alfred talk him into coming over, pondering Tim's ability to make him go on patrol in Gotham instead of the city he was beginning to grow fond of, a city to really call his own. Because not being able to properly stand up for himself brought him into circumstances like these.

Kissing a villain.

Who gains power over people by kissing them.

He is seriously going to have to organize his priorities.

But then it hits him - or, in this case, doesn't hit him.

That feeling of needing to please this psychotic, deranged woman. The want to follow her around like a puppy dog. That desire to give her anything she wanted.

He'll blame it on the resemblance, later, when he's out drinking and trying to convince himself that it was because of the resemblance, it had to be her hair and her eyes and because he hadn't seen anyone but his co-workers and family in the last two weeks. When he's moving onto his fifth shot, praying to god the commissioner didn't call him in, and hoping that his partner really would make sure he got home safe, he'll be able to convince himself for five seconds that it's not true.

That when Ivy kissed him, it wasn't Wally that he wanted to please, wasn't Wally that he wanted to do everything in his power to make happy, wasn't Wally that he wanted to be kissing.

He couldn't believe it, so he let himself think it was because he hadn't had sex in over three months and that's why he had moaned and leaned into the kiss.

Because he just. couldn't. believe. it.

It wasn't possible.

Nope.

No.

Impossible.

He wasn't in love with his best friend.

When he denies it, he's watching them kiss.

In his mind, he can't help but feel sorry for Wally. It's a shitty situation at an even shittier time. Wally and Artemis had just finished the long haul of finals, had finally graduated, able to become what they've wanted for the past five years. Normal. Dick had just finished his first year as a regular beat cop. In the next few months he should be moving up to junior (he laughs at himself when he realizes how ironic and infuriating that is) detective. Him and Wally had finally gotten past the 'you need to come back and be a superhero'/'I don't want to die and I need some form of normality in my life' spiel. The name is Tim's; Dick really needs to teach the kid better code-names. But he'll live with it because it's easier for him to swallow than 'lovers spat.'

It was about a month after Wally's and Artemis' graduation ceremony that Dick started to deny what he had learned almost a year ago. He had to deny it because it started to punch him in the gut with every visit to Palo Alto.

He wasn't in love with Wally.

But the distance was hard not to notice. He wondered why Roy hadn't mentioned anything, because he sure as hell saw the pair more than Dick managed to. But Roy wasn't a detective like Dick. His friend didn't go through years and years and years of training from the most paranoid man on earth; Roy never had to deduce where the Joker could have stashed the bomb, if the people in that building were innocents or henchmen, didn't have to figure out what words that came out of that mouth were true or not - which ones would save a life and which ones would kill.

Roy never had to fight the fear gas of Scarecrow, never had to talk himself into believing that his parents weren't there, his mom and dad weren't inviting him into their open arms. He never had to figure out a way to cure himself in the three second gap from lucidity to insanity.

Roy never had to play Two-Faces games, never had to pick one persons life over the other and never had to realize choosing wasn't an option. He never had to save them both and still not get shot by one of Dick's worst nightmares.

So in hindsight, Dick could see why Roy wouldn't have told him. He wouldn't have noticed.

But Dick did.

He noticed the distance with which the pair sat. How Artemis had used to keep a knee or a hand or a shoulder free to touch him, to know he was there. How wally used to dart his eyes towards her every thirty seconds, his eyes gleaming just a bit more, his smile stretching in the easiest way possible. How they now kept an invisible wall between them. That Dick really did have all of Wally's undivided attention when talking, not bothering to turn when Artemis got up to go to bed or work or clean. His eyes never traced her movements like they had done in the past.

And Dick denied that fluttering in his chest.

He visits one night, and he hears the yelling from two floors down, thanking the heavens for the thick walls in his apartment complex and feeling sorry for the obviously thin walls at Wally's. And he notices how it's Wally's building. Not Artemis and Wally, like it used to be. Somewhere he had already made the distinction and he was tracing his steps back, trying to figure out when, as he slowly climbed the stairs.

When he knocked on the door, because it was still light out and he didn't want anyone to see him sneaking in the window, it became silent. He thinks his last knock may have even echoed down the hall. Suddenly Wally had the door open, fake plastic smile in place and, "Dude! You're early."

"Not all of us can be late, Wally," he managed before he had time to really process (not that he wanted to) what the two had been arguing about. He can see the tense back of Artemis, almost calling out to her to be more discreet before he realizes she's been out of the game for some time so she probably couldn't even tell she'd been visible.

They were suppose to be going to the bar, get a few drinks in, mostly for Dick's sake since Wally can't get drunk easily. Tim and Babs had Blüdhaven covered, something Dick rarely allowed because it was his city, his town, his people - and suddenly Dick understood Bruce. Understood his possessiveness, his desire to protect and shield and dammit it all, he was turning into the damn man.

But Dick made time for Wally, despite not really wanting to at the moment, because this was his best friend. And his best friend was in need of some help whether he knew it or not.

So the black haired man smirked and watched - cringed, frowned, damn-near sneered - when they kissed because right then and there he knew. This wasn't going to last. He gave it three weeks top. They didn't need each other anymore, no matter how much they loved each other, they've run their course.

And that's what keeps him denying it.

That's what he can't handle.

The fact that the couple he could see staying together through it all - isn't staying together through it all.

So he denies it with every fiber of his being.

Because he doesn't love Wally.

When he admits to it, he's drunk.

Drunker than he's even been. Dick has never made it a habit to drink - his necessity to stay up past normal hours and be alert at any time left little room to actually enjoy the tradition of drinks. Lately he's been finding himself doing it more and more.

On this particular occasion he's with Tim. Or, to be more precise, Tim found him in his apartment, blasting music and attempting to cook. Tim came just in time to put Dick's fire extinguisher to good use.

"Glad to know that works," the older man all but laughed. Tim poked the burnt lasagna, watching as it bubbled and let off more steam. After opening the window, he turned back towards his brother.

Dick had always been a very good cook - too good in his opinion, but Dick had had more time with Alfred than he did, so it's only natural that he picked up much more than Tim ever would. And looking at the smoking, foam covered food, he took it as a testament to how drunk Dick really was. If anything, Dick was a perfectionist. So him watching Tim poke his failed (it's the third one, but Dick doesn't admit to that) dinner and shrugs, Tim knows he's not making it back to Gotham.

After calling Bruce and most definitely lying to him about the situation, somehow telling Dick that, no the music really didn't need to be that loud, realizing that Bruce knew when Dick giggle-cackled (another for the Dicktionary), and trying to drag a plastered acrobat to the couch, Tim grudgingly took the offered shot. Because, while he was Tim he was also a teenager.

And Tim knew that whatever could make Dick drink this much, he'd have to have a few in him to possibly handle it.

"Dude," Dick drawled. "I am so...so...so not ebriated."

Tim took another shot.

"Like, not ebriated at all..." Dick sounded as if he was rolling his tongue around the word. "Inebriated. In."

One more couldn't hurt.

"It should be outebriated. Because it's not in. It's out. So I'm not outebriated. I'm inebriated. God I'm glad in not ebriated."

Tim scoffed.

"How many have you had, bro?"

Dick had, at this point, rolled off the couch and onto the floor, watching as the ceiling seemed to move closer and farther away, trying to decide if one more shot would make it stop. He guessed it would so he grabbed the bottle from Tim.

"I live by the rule of one tequila, two tequila, three... But I think I made it to twelve. Or seven. What comes after nine?"

"You're the mathlete. Nerd."

"Don't be envious. You hafta...gotta to be vious."

"You sit on stake-outs thinking of words, don't you?"

"I sit on stake-outs thinking of Wally."

There it was. There was the reason for Dick's thirteenth (eighth, tenth?) shot. If Tim hadn't already taken two shots (here went the third...) he would have put those words together immediately. Instead he snorted and said, "Your relationship is weird."

He stopped taking his fourth shot halfway through, coughing as the tequila stung his nose and eyes.

Because know he did put the words together. Right as Dick decided to turn up the music, effectively cutting off Tim's choked, "Wait, what?"

And he stares hard at the man he calls a brother, the man who is taking another swig from the bottle and he really debates calling Lesley because Dick might actually get alcohol poisoning, stares at the man who is crying softly to the insane sounds of hard rock and Tim can't believe that he is not surprised by this.

He can see it, can see how this would happen because, duh. Wally has been with Dick since the man was a boy, since he was eleven. Dick trusted Wally like he trusted Bruce - with his life. And he would take a bullet, a punch, a kick, a freaking alien ray gun for the guy. And he can't believe how easy it is.

How easy it is that he can see Dick loving Wally.

He can see Dick and Wally.

And then he can see that Dick can't.

Dick can't see Dick and Wally.

All Dick sees is the bottom of the trash can as he throws up whatever he had for dinner that night.

And when he finally accepts it, he laughs.

Because what else was he supposed to do?

Artemis and Wally had broken up a few months ago, and Dick suddenly wished that he could go back to the time that he never saw Wally. Because that was easy. He could deny and ignore it to his hearts content, calling and texting the red head when it was convenient for his heart and mind. But now - now Wally was everywhere.

He was over every Monday and Thursday, because he knew Dick took it easy on those days, that is if crime takes it easy. Dick goes out later, comes home earlier, likes to have dinner those nights. And Wally knows this, so he runs over to Dick's, all the way from Central where he's staying with Barry and Iris, to make sure that Dick remembers the amazing-ness of take-out Chinese. Because Dick's buying.

And Wally laughs and jokes and touches and smiles and is just goddamn Wally, dammit.

And what's Dick supposed to do - but laugh right back.

So he pushes it back, like he's been trained to since the age of nine, because Wally needs him right now. It's shoved back right along with his parents and his fights with Bruce, with the death of Jason and Jason being Red Hood, with his lost childhood and what he could have had. He could have been a Flying Grayson, a legend of legends, could have let the world know that Richard John Grayson can fly. Could have had Wally and his family and never known pain and anger and hate and bitter resentment at the world.

So he pushes it back.

But he'll catch himself thinking about it, from time to time.

Because, honestly, things like this just didn't happen.

Not to him.

He's smarter and better equipped for things like this.

So he pushes it back.

Pushes the fact that...

Dick loves Wally.

Dick loves Wally.

Dick loves Wally.

He does.

He loves his best friend.

And when Wally tells another one of his lame jokes, he laughs. Laughs through the pain. Laughs like he always has. Laughs because this is his best friend.

Laughs like it was the easiest thing in the world.

There's another part! I just have to write it...

Thanks

Eva