Chapter 2: The Clock Strikes One
Dick waited as Connor left, his ear pressed against the tiny crack between the wall and the door. He didn't move till the sound of heavy footsteps faded into obscureness. His shoulders visibly sagged as he turned, leaning back till his hair caught on the grainy wood of the door, closing his eyes for a few moments. Allowing himself to catch his breath. The flats of Dick's palms levelled against the entrance, pushing himself forward towards his living room. An angry glare was sent towards the bottle that sat on the table parallel to his new spot sprawled over the couch. Calloused hands snaked around the bottle, allowing it to lay loosely in one hand, both eyes focused on it and nothing else. His loss in the odd staring contest was inevitable, though no less frustrating. Dick traced the outline of letters in the bottle's label, "Bottoms up." He whispered to himself, allowing fire to slip down his throat.
It had been four hours since Connor left Dick's apartment building, and he felt numb. Empty cans of beer lay scattered around the room, he wasn't sure how many, exactly, everything was too hazy to remember.
He sat on the floor against the arm of his couch, his legs splayed out in front of him, the carpet bristling and tugging against his clothes.
He couldn't feel anything now. That had been the goal, actually. I
n all honesty, Dick didn't like to drink. In a social setting sure, but never alone. The only reason he was drinking now was because acohol helps you forget.
You don't have to deal with all the reasons you're angry at yourself for just a few hours. He could forget how bad he messed up.
If choking down bitter poison meant he could have some fleeting peace, then he'd do it without hesitation.
At this point, he wasn't thinking straight. Some annoying little voice in the back of his head begged him to go to sleep, which was selectively ignored.
The cool glass of a nearly empty bottle sent a chill through his fingertips as he screwed his eyes shut and took another swig.
His throat was burning, with the pain came the revoked pass to blissful unawareness. He had trouble remembering why he was by himself at one in the morning, drunk and tired.
Dick pinched the bridge of his nose, the dizziness and uncertainty once again coming back full force, tugging him from reality.
Everything was wrong, like a inverted filter had been passed over the world and he was the only one who noticed. Because it was his fault, wasn't it? That's why he could tell?
He had made the plans.
He had gone to Artemis for help.
He had gotten Wally killed.
Now things were off balance, life was a constant balancing act with only one working foot and sooner or later, Dick knew he'd fall.
Wave after wave of guilt washed over him, cold and unrelenting. With shaking hands he dug through his pockets in search of his phone.
The sleek screen threw a darker image of himself back, and with the alcohol messing with his head it was nothing short of unnerving.
Tremors passed through his figures as he dialled the number drilled into his mind, listening to the uncomfortable ringing.
A ghosting voice came from the speaker, "You've reached Wally's phone, leave your name and I'll call you back later!"
Then, the tone. Dick took a shaky breath. "Hey Walls."
AN: Shorter chapter this time but its building up to next chapter so theres that to look forward to! Thanks a lot to everyone who followed and to Bluewater7 for the review. I'll try to keep updating at a decent pace.
