"I hate these things," Tim sulked as he slipped into the shadowy corner he'd noticed Dick hiding in a few minutes before.

"That's some strong language."

"It fits the situation. Tuxedos, flirty heiresses, and classical music is not my scene."

The man beside him chuckled. "Ah, c'mon, little brother. It could be worse."

Tim glanced at him sideways. "Says the man who can numb his pain with alcohol."

"This?" Dick held up a narrow champagne flute. "This is doing very little for me right now, to be honest. But I'm surprised you aren't used to these things by now. Didn't your parents ever make you go to them?"

"Yeah, and they were always awful. I mean...I don't know how Bruce keeps a straight face. Some of these people – most of them – have said terrible things about him in the past, and he just...acts like it never happened. It's not like him at all, you know?" He stared out to where the billionaire was busy socializing in the middle of the ballroom. The brunette on his left said something, and he gave a hearty laugh that only his sons could tell was faked. For at least the dozenth time that night, he found himself impressed by his guardian's Oscar-level performance. "...He should have been an actor."

"He should have been a lot of things. But instead he's here, at a gala that he didn't really want to either put on or attend." Dick shrugged. "Watching him out there...it's a good learning opportunity, you know."

"What, you mean I should be taking notes? No thanks. I can pretty much guarantee you that I will never throw something like this."

"Maybe not, but you're still going to have to attend those given by others."

"Says who?"

"Bruce and Alfred."

He slumped, defeated by the truth. "...Yeah." He'd been given no choice about attending tonight, he recalled, and if Dick's presence was any indication then the pressure to come to such functions didn't let up once one had left the proverbial nest. "Damn." Still, he supposed that the man beside him had it worse. "You're going to be expected to play host someday, you know."

"Yup."

"That sucks."

"Eh. I don't know, Timmy...the parties aren't so bad."

"You're kidding, right? They're terrible. Seriously, Dick, when Bruce decides that he's done being the king of Gotham society you should just let it stop. I know you hate this as much as I do; why torture yourself?"

"...A lot of people before Bruce have been responsible for throwing parties in this house. I'd feel bad for being the one who let the tradition die."

"It's not your tradition, Dick," he answered bluntly. "Don't take that the wrong way, but it's not. These aren't your people any more than they're mine or Bruce's, and we were born into their ranks. If you don't want to do it, then don't." A distant, downcast look came over the older male's face, and Tim felt a bolt of guilt. "Um...something wrong?"

"It's not that I'm not interested in throwing parties," Dick spoke in a quiet voice. "I am. I'm just not interested in throwing stodgy events like this."

...Oh. Oops. He'd misread him, and had ended up hurting his feelings. It wasn't like him to let his own feelings get in the way of his analysis, he frowned, but maybe it was just a side effect of how much he loathed these to-dos. Still, he should have known that his brother, always the natural entertainer, would want his chance to amuse Gotham society. "Well...what are you interest in throwing, then?" he asked, trying to mend the breach he'd caused.

"I want people to actually have fun at these things. Alfred would have a fit if he heard me say this, but...I'd like to try theme parties. Very...upscale theme parties, with verve and panache. You see the occasional hoity-toity masquerade ball, sure, but I'm thinking bigger." Dick's hands flailed as he began to sketch out his visions. "For instance, everybody was doing Gatsby parties a year ago, right?"

"Right." Tim wasn't sure that Gatsby parties had actually gone out of style – there were some dresses out on the floor tonight that certainly qualified as period replicas based on their sequin count alone – but he went along with it, curious as to where his brother's flight of fancy was headed.

"Why didn't anyone turn it on its head? Don't throw a Gatsby party; throw a speakeasy party. The guests could dress up like laborers and factory girls, you could have a secret password at the door instead of presenting your invitation, all of that good stuff. The challenge there, at least for ones like them," he waved to indicate the crowd, "would be to look poor or, at best, middle-class, while still making it clear that they were actually wearing designer brands. 'Yes, this necklace is costume jewelry, but it's a twenty thousand dollar piece of costume jewelry that I ordered from Paris.' 'My husband's shirt may look like that of a railway worker, but it's actually Armani.' That kind of thing."

"Let me get this straight," Tim scratched at his neck. "...You want to throw a party where anyone who wants to come has to be rich enough to be invited but also willing to dress up like they're poor?" It was either a terrible plan or one of the best party ideas he'd ever heard.

"Yeah! And the setting would have to match, too. There wouldn't be any bright, high ceilings and big windows like tonight; we're talking dark, kind of smoky, and with a few hired people skulking around looking like they're up to no good. Everyone would know that they were safe, but the illusion of danger, the idea that the police might bust in and shake down the joint or that someone might try to pick your pocket...that would get people going. They'd enjoy that. It would give them a thrill."

Tim had turned his full attention on his brother now. It was clear that the man could see what he was outlining as if it was that event, not the bread-and-butter soiree that was actually going on, they were looking out over. If he wanted to be honest with himself, what had just been proposed sounded like the kind of thing he might get some pleasure out of himself. "Okay, so a reverse Gatsby party," he nodded. "What else?"

"Um...well..." Dick blushed, a bit of color rising into his cheeks. "A circus."

"Heh. Naturally."

"No, really! I'm not talking about a cliché circus, I'm talking about polish and flash. Think about it; you turn around, looking for a fresh drink, and instead of a hired guy carrying a tray someone drops down from the ceiling to hand you a glass and take your old one. Once the switch is done, he disappears back into the rafters. You could make this whole place look like a really ritzy big top, with lots of draped silk and tapestries...maybe put the tables and chairs out along the edges where the stands would be, and have the dance floor be the center ring. Instead of a canape buffet or, god forbid, more platter-bearers, you set up a few carts decorated like the food booths that always lead up to the tent's entrance. You could even put them out in the hall and dim the lights so it felt like people were going outside for a snack. Heck, maybe there could even be a show, right there in the middle of the ball. Not with animals or anything, but with acrobats, at least."

"Do you actually know any acrobats who would be willing to 'drop down' and serve drinks to rich snobs all night?" Tim arched an eyebrow. "Isn't that kind of a, you know, pride of profession issue?"

"I'm the only rich acrobat I've ever known, little brother. For the right money, and the right person...most of them wouldn't think of it as damaging to the pride of the profession at all. They'd think of it as a way to put food in the mouths of their children for a few more weeks and maybe entertain a few people at the same time. There's no shame in those things. After all, taking care of your family by doing or making something that pleases or serves others...that's what lies at the heart of all good professions, at least in my opinion."

"...Huh." He'd never thought about it quite that way before now, but what he'd just absorbed agreed with him. Busy processing the idea that had been put forth, he didn't speak for a minute. "...Dick?"

"Hmm?"

"I think I'd like your parties. They sound fun."

The man grinned. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he smiled back. "They'd be a hell of a lot better than these things that we get roped into all the time."

"...You know, there's nothing saying we can't take this gathering up a notch, if you want."

A dangerous tingle ran down Tim's spine. "Bruce will be upset if we wreck his party."

"Would I do that?"

"Well, no, but...you have been drinking."

"Timmy, Timmy, Timmy," Dick shook his head. "So little faith. Bruce and I both took alcohol neutralizers before we left our rooms."

"Oh." Of course they had, he kicked himself. It was going to be too late for patrol by the time the gala wound down, but neither man would want to risk a hangover in the morning, or worse, give their mouths an opportunity to run in public while their minds were clouded by booze. "I guess I should have known that." I am just not on par tonight, he grumbled at himself. Civilian parties had always had a tendency to cloud his senses, but this was getting downright annoying.

"Nah. It's not something you have to worry about yet, so why would you have thought about it?"

"I don't know, it's just-"

"Just that you're the smart one, so you have to have all of the answers?"

He felt his ears grow hot. "Um..."

"Relax, bro. You are the smart one, but that doesn't mean that you have to always think of everything all by yourself."

"Yeah, well, still," he mumbled.

"Ah, come on." A hand landed on his shoulder. "Let it go, okay? This party could be a lot better if a certain pair of irreverent attendees took it upon themselves to do something about it. The civilized dullness that seems to have infected everyone here is fixing to put me to sleep, and I don't see anyone else around who looks ready to cause some boyish shenanigans, so...I guess it's us or no one." He shook him gently. "You up for it?"

Tim caught sight of the eager glint in his brother's eye and felt something playful spark to life in his stomach in response. "...Nothing too risque, right?" Dick could go back to Bludhaven in the morning if they went too far, but he would be left behind to deal with the wrath of Bruce and Alfred.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to get either one of us in trouble. To be honest, I just want to hear a few real laughs tonight. These people are just as bored by this as you and I are, they're just suppressing it. Some of them have been suppressing it for so many years that they don't even know that they aren't having fun anymore. If we can get them to laugh, though...that's when I'll consider this party to be a success."

It wasn't a bad idea, he had to admit, and if people ended up legitimately laughing then Bruce couldn't possibly get mad at them. He smiled and committed himself. "Okay, I'm in. What's first?"

A ponderous waltz began at that moment, emptying out the dance floor with a speed that was almost indecent. "...I vote we go see how much more interesting this song is when we dance to it in triple time with invisible partners," Dick grinned.

"They won't stay invisible for long. Yours won't, at least."

"Poor jailbait Timmy, doomed to dance alone for another six months."

"Poor you, doomed to dance with whichever girl can elbow her way to you first."

"Ugh. Thanks for reminding me. Now I don't ever want to leave this corner again."

"No way," Tim shook his head. "You said we were going to dance with invisible partners, and I want to see if you can keep your countenance when someone cuts in on your 'girl'."

"...Okay, but there should be bonus points if you make it look like you're stepping on your 'partner's' feet."

"You want us to look clumsy?"

"Yes. It throws people off of the fact that we aren't," he said with a meaningful look. "Also...if someone really awful grabs me while you're still alone, save me, would you?"

"You're telling me to snub one of the illustrious heiresses of Gotham in order to dance with my brother? That's not going to go over well."

"You don't have to snub her. Just tell her your name was already on my card."

"Oh, jesus...we're going to come out of this looking like idiots, aren't we?"

"Like 'Brucie' Wayne level imps, yes. Yes we are. But what's so bad about that?"

"Being invited to every one of these tedious things for the rest of time springs to mind."

"That's going to happen anyway, Timmy, so we might as well enjoy it."

"...We are totally doomed, aren't we?"

"Totally. This is the dark side of being taken in by Bruce; you have to go to mind-numbing parties where the only décor is the host's net worth. The key is to try and do something to make them worth your time."

"Ah, shit. Well, then," he sighed, "may I have this dance, Mr. Grayson?"

Dick snorted with mirth and pretended to fan himself. "Why, Mr. Drake, I never thought you'd ask little old me! Lawks-a-mercy!"

"That's it. I'm not rescuing you from any heiresses if you're going to talk like that," Tim ribbed, crossing his arms.

"Aww..."

"Kidding."

"Race you to the parquet."

"Don't knock over any little old ladies on the way."

"Or stop to talk to any, either."

"Negative ten points per takeout or talking-to?"

"Done." Dick winked. "See you on the floor, little brother."

Tim let him go ahead, hoping that he could gain an early lead by sneaking past once the man got caught up by some matron with an eligible daughter or grand-daughter. As he'd expected, the hens closed ranks as soon as they saw the man they knew to be Bruce Wayne's heir coming, blocking his progress with their simpering smiles and false praise. Seeing his opening, Tim bolted from the corner, dodged a waiter, and made for the goal. On his way by he waved at the beleaguered Dick and signed '-10' to him, drawing a pained grimace. It made him smile, as did the anticipatory expression he saw roll across Bruce's face when he passed him a second later.

He was first to the open space in the middle of the room, but his brother managed to come in close behind him through some charming magic that he hadn't been able to see being worked. For a moment he was nervous; all eyes had turned to them, the sole figures on the dance floor, and what they were about to do was very, very silly. Then Dick bowed to him, and he bowed back automatically. They shared an absurdly serious nod, drawing a few murmurs from the crowd, and began to spin with their invisible partners locked in their arms.

The audience's laughter, a sound that was amused for once rather than teasing, grew as the seconds passed and their steps became more and more exaggerated. Mixed in with the general cacophony was Bruce's real baritone chuckle and, Tim was surprised to find, his own hum of enjoyment. People were suddenly having fun; real, honest fun. Tonight, he realized, his brother had made him an entertainer. Even more surprisingly, he'd managed to make him enjoy being one.

They wrapped up to widespread applause and bowed once more to each other and to their watchers. Now, he knew, they wouldn't be able to retreat into the shadows again, at least not tonight. Their performance had bound them to the mingling hundreds, and the sudden rush of handshakes and girlishly delighted titters threatened to overwhelm him. Dick's hand materialized on his elbow just in time and steered him to Bruce before either of them could be smothered. The billionaire greeted them with an indulgent smirk and, playing the slightly drunken Brucie, slung an arm over each of their shoulders. "Well, ladies," he announced, "now you know they can dance as well as their old man, huh?"

A fresh wave of laughter rippled outward, and some of the pressure in his chest released. Bruce had taken back center stage, and Tim was content to hang to the side of the limelight once again. His moment in the sun had been beautiful, and for perhaps the first time he understood why his brother and guardian didn't mind performing their respective roles for the crowd, but it wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to get into the habit of. It just wasn't him.

He was still glad it had happened, though, and he knew exactly who to thank when the room had emptied and they could have another quiet parlay in the corner.