Forgetting
By
Angelina
Dick questioned how he got here. Trying to find the answers to his problems at the bottom of a bottle had sounded so good three shots ago. Now he was hopelessly drunk and still hadn't found the answers he wanted.
He would never understand how a good brandy could relax Bruce so much. Right now all he felt was a swirling mush of thoughts and a churning stomach. He wondered vaguely when he would get his brain back.
Sometime in the last few minutes his head had found a passable resting place on the cool bar. The view of the bartender was obscured by the shot glass of amber liquid in front of his face.
"Another?" asked the bartender as he adjusted the volume for the Gotham Knights game from migraine inducing to blaring.
Dick dragged himself off of the bar and wiped a miniscule amount of drool from his chin. "Nah. I shoul' be going."
The bartender shrugged, "I'll call you a cab, kid."
"Nah," Dick downed the last of his scotch. "The walk'll do meh good."
"Suit yourself," the bartender impassively collected the tip Dick had dropped on the counter. The bell above the bar door tinkled obnoxiously as Dick left.
It was raining in Bludhaven. It always seemed to be raining in Bludhaven. Dick could count on both hands the times he had seen the sun since moving to the city several years ago.
The night was bitterly cold. The wind whistled through the skyscrapers, pushing and pulling at his figure. Air escaped from his mouth in little puffs of steam, even with the majority of his face hidden behind an old wool scarf. Dick was sure he would have been more aware of the cold if it wasn't for the fire of alcohol still coursing through his veins and clouding his vision.
He walked on, vaguely annoyed at the general noise he had come to associate with Bludhaven. Although Bludhaven was a city unto itself, its atmosphere and noises reminded him so much of Gotham. Dick's teeth ground together at the thought of his former home. He couldn't exactly remember why, but he had a feeling that Gotham was part of the reason he now found himself hopelessly intoxicated.
Dick had never been a drinker, though he had reached the legal age well over a year ago. He had sworn never to overindulge in the stuff after too many years on the job, being forced to see the fallout of its curse night after night. He had seen enough broken families in his lifetime to throw away what little family he had left to the liquid's influence.
His musings carried him several blocks over, feet making a journey that his brain would never quite remember come morning. He estimated he was two blocks over from his apartment. The place was not much more than a tenement, but Dick was having trouble putting down roots and wasn't there enough to call the two ramshackle rooms home. As long as the apartment had a bed, fridge, roof, and some heat (albeit horribly untrustworthy "I'll stand here in the corner broken most of the time" heat) he didn't care. Feet continued to splash through the rain, now soaked through to his woolen socks. His apartment was in sight.
"Give us your money, kid!" the threat came out of nowhere. One thug seemed to materialize out of the smog in front of Dick as another stepped out from an alleyway behind him. They wavered for a moment, dividing into four thugs before swimming back nauseously into two. The one in front of him waved a knife wildly. Dick cursed his luck.
Even hopelessly intoxicated, Dick still managed to keep his wits about him. The two thugs were thoroughly surprised as one received a fist to the face and the other a boot to his solar plexus. Before either could react, Dick had a strong hand around the thug-with-the-knife's wrist. Quick pressure and a little bit of bending saw the knife clatter uselessly to the ground seconds later as the thug cradled a limp and painful wrist to his chest. Dick reached behind him to grab the other thug by his neck, the thug's struggles useless against his strong grip.
It was then that everything went wrong. The alcohol churning in his stomach finally caught up to him. Before he could stop himself, Dick was bent double heaving the entire contents of his stomach onto the pavement. The grip on both thugs was forgotten as bile and alcohol burnt its way up his esophagus and out of his mouth into a steaming pile. The stench was overwhelming.
Dick hadn't even finished heaving before a foot connected solidly with his ribs. One, two, three kicks and he found himself on his back in the alleyway behind his apartment. Bile pooled at the back of his throat and he began to choke hopelessly. The burn spread to his lungs.
"Jus' grab 'is wallet and let's get out of 'ere," one of the thug's scared voice penetrated Dick's wringing skull and aching body. His accent was thick and his English poor.
"Fine," the thug delivered another pointed kick to Dick's ribs before rolling him over with a worn boot into the puddle of Dick's vomit.
After another moment Dick was aware of hands groping through his back pockets. "Man, it stinks like hell. Damn kid can't hold his liquor."
Dick's choking came to an abrupt stop as he finally managed to expel vomit from his lungs. Everything hurt, but he continued to retch the last of the alcohol into a puddle beneath his face.
"Ye got what ye wanted 'Arry, let's get out 'o here," the scared thug called out as soon as Harry's hands left Dick's pockets.
Retreating footsteps answered him and soon Dick found himself alone. Alone, cold, wet, drunk, and in pain in the alley behind his apartment. His wallet was gone and with it was the paycheck he had been determined to drink away. He was vaguely thankful he had paid rent forward for three months, because he had just lost everything. Even the pictures of his family (and a few of Damian, though he would never admit to that) which he kept tucked away in his wallet were now gone.
Dick sighed, his scarf had vanished and his breath collected in a small cloud above his head before being whipped off by the wind. He really should get up and go inside, but the cold concrete felt soothing against his aching head and ribs. The stench of his vomit wasn't quite strong enough to deter his foggy mind and he fell asleep on the Bludhaven alley in a puddle of his own sick.
Several hours passed before Dick lurched back to consciousness. The first thing he was aware of was the pounding in his head. So this was the infamous hangover.
The next thing he was aware of was his sore ribs. His face cracked into a winch and he realized that something was crusted on it, pulling at his skin. Shallow breaths puffed into the frigid air as he rolled over onto his back, a hand clasped to his side. It was then that the overwhelming stench it him.
Sitting up with a groan, Dick remembered what had led him to pass out in the alley. Standing up was harder than he anticipated as the cold had numbed his hands and feet and his ribs throbbed. Once he was on his feet he managed to stagger into his building and up four flights of stairs to the only two rooms he had to his name.
A hand in his pocket saw him cursing as he realized that it was covered in frozen vomit and that his keys were gone. Bending over to dig through his frozen sock tugged on his ribs, but he was grateful that he kept a set of picks stowed away. He thought wistfully of the utility belt he had abandoned years ago as he finagled his door open.
Run down was the best phrase to describe his apartment. Filthy came in at a close second. The walls were bare and moldy; the linoleum on the floor cracked and peeling away. Dick was never sure if the tiles had once been white, or if they had always been that disgusting shade of brown. The kitchenette was small and the few appliances at least 30 years old and yellowed. His sink was piled high with dishes. A cockroach scurried under the table laden with half eaten pizza and forgotten takeout boxes. A moth-eaten couch sat in the corner under heaps of files, research, and dirty clothes.
A whirring thunk sounded from the corner. As if it had sensed his presence, the heater stopped working. Dick sighed and glared at the useless contraption as the cold leeched back into his apartment.
Shoes were kicked off of sodden feet and a vomit covered jacket hit the floor with a dull thud as Dick trudged to his bedroom. His clothes were stripped quickly and thrown unceremoniously in the general direction of his overflowing hamper. Wrapped in nothing but a bed sheet, Dick collapsed into bed. He promised himself he would shower in the morning.
His headache throbbed in time with something beeping in the room. Dick groaned and pulled a pillow over his head, determined to ignore the beeping. It only took thirty seconds of the steady beeping before Dick's hand flew out from his cocoon and groped blindly along the milk crate that served as a bedside table. A minute later his cellphone was held gingerly to his ear. "What?"
"Dick," Bruce's voice on the other end flooded Dick's foggy brain with memories the alcohol had temporarily banished.
The argument had started as all pointless arguments with Bruce did, over their night job. Several years ago Bruce had let him step out as his own hero, even let him move to his own city. Over the years the friction of two dominant personalities had lapsed into an understanding that still made them the best partnership the Justice League had ever seen.
All was well and good overall, until two weeks ago when Batman had taken an arrow to the knee, literally. The unfortunate incident had required surgery and Dr. Leslie was enforcing strict recovery parameters. She had essentially benched Batman for three weeks. That had started the arguments about Dick's decreasing presence in Gotham. Bruce wanted Dick in Gotham more and in turn Dick had refused to abandon Bludhaven.
Disagreement had led to stony silence which had erupted one day into the yelling match of the year between the two heroes. Both had hurled barbed insults and dragged out the most offensive things they could think to say. Neither was willing to listen to the other. Eventually even Alfred had run for cover. The argument had ended abruptly when Bruce had crossed a line. Bruce's question shocked even the billionaire as soon as it had left his mouth, "Were you as much trouble for your parents as you are for me?"
Dick remembered staring shocked at Bruce for a full minute before storming out of the house. Upon reaching Bludhaven, he had detoured to a local pub, determined to forget the argument ever happened.
"Dick, don't ignore me." Bruce's voice brought Dick back to the present. The boy groaned and rolled onto his back, hissing when he jostled his sore ribs.
"What, Bruce?" What Dick had meant to be laced with venom instead sounded exhausted and defeated. He groaned again.
There was a pause on the other end. Dick could nearly feel the glare through the phone.
"I'm sorry." That was all Bruce said before the line went dead. Dick sat upright in bed for several minutes, shock lining his features. He could count on one hand the number of times he had witnessed Bruce apologizing to anyone.
A deep laugh bubbled up through his chest, and Dick let himself go. Collapsing back into the tangle of sheets on his bed, Dick laughed until his injured ribs positively ached and his eyes streamed with tears. His laughter carried him over the edge of exhaustion and the boy finally fell asleep to the sound of his own softening chuckles.
In the morning Dick found his wallet with all its contents intact, a bag of Alfred's homemade pastries, and a suspicious looking jar of liquid arranged neatly on his table. A small note attached to lid of the jar read Wayne Family Hangover Cure. With a splitting headache, Dick couldn't help but appreciate the sentiment.
Extracting his phone from a pile of newspapers several months old, Dick texted the man he knew was responsible for the gift. Thanks Bruce. That was all that needed to be said.
Several minutes later the annoying text alert Dick had assigned to his guardian blared through the apartment, grating against the raw nerves in his head. He glanced at the screen before smiling bitterly. Bruce's text read simply, You're welcome. Clean your apartment, it's a pigsty.
Angelina: Well, junior year is well underway. I'm adjusting to life without Charlie.
Arthur: She has been bloody difficult about getting over her separation anxiety.
Angelina: And my boyfriend, Jeff, blew out his knee six months ago. They tried reconstructive surgery, but he's lost too much mobilization and has been separated from the Marine Corps (discharged). He'll be returning to Virginia to hopefully get a job there. If not, he's going to try transferring into college next term.
Arthur: The story is late, again. Hopefully Angelina will keep up enough to update once every 4-6 weeks.
