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Jason is not nervous, and screw anyone who suggests otherwise. This is far from his first gala and, unfortunately, far from his last, either. It’s not even his first gala as a Wayne—and before he went and got himself blown up, he’d gotten pretty fucking good at them, at least if you asked him.
Not that he’s going to this party as a Wayne. Just… with a Wayne. Even if said Wayne hadn't taken the name.
The point is. Jason knows what he’s doing. He knows how to be charming, with just the right amount of roguish to make the high society folks titter instead of clutch their pearls. He knows how to walk, and talk, and eat, and even dance. (Much as he’d wrinkled his nose when Alfred first suggested the lessons.) He can blend in, or at least not attract too many snide glances.
It is, he’ll admit, a little different going with Dick as like—a date, not as... people who happened to be connected to the same man.
It's a good different, though—means he doesn't have to hide the way he stares, when he exits his apartment to find Dick lounging against Jason's favorite of Bruce's sports cars. He's wrapped in a blue-and-black tux, looking like nothing short of a gift.
Dick catches his eye and grins, looking very much like the cat who got the canary. Jason whistles obnoxiously, just to pretend he’s not half as flustered as he feels.
Dick laughs. "Not so bad yourself, handsome," he says, giving Jason his own appreciative once-over.
Jason shivers, a blush stinging the back of his neck. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, Dickface, an’ I don’t think we’re gonna make it t’ the party.” They'd probably have a better time, too; tangled up together in Jason's bed, or the back seat of the car if they were really impatient.
“Well. It’d be a shame to waste all your hard work, little wing,” Dick says, and this time, when he drags his eyes down Jason's body, his gaze lingers. Jason feels warm in the chilly night air, like he’s wearing a sweater in summer; not a tux on the sidewalk in late autumn.
Before he can think of something else to say—or maybe just grab that stupid tie around Dick’s neck and haul him up the stairs to his apartment—Dick is opening the door for him, inviting him into the passenger seat of Bruce's sports car.
Jason slides in, rather than embarrass himself, or ruin their plans for the evening. Not that it isn't tempting, or that he doesn't think they'd have more fun tangled up in his bed—or the backseat of the car, he's not picky—but. He did promise Dick he'd go, and he'd hate to break his promise.
Dick slips gracefully into the driver’s seat; reaching out and taking Jason’s hand as soon as they’re on the road. Jason tangles their fingers together. Their hands fit together perfectly. Just the thought is cheesy, and he knows Dick would coo embarrassingly if he shared it aloud, so. Just like every time it comes up, he keeps it to himself.
For once, the drive is absent of any of Dick's playlists. Jason is grateful for the peace—not that he doesn't appreciate 80s power ballads, musicals, or disco. (Well. Okay. He doesn't miss the disco. At all.) It gives him time to compose himself. This is important. He wants to do it right. For Dick.
The drive takes less time than Jason expected, even with Dick—for probably the first time in his fucking life—obeying all traffic laws. They roll to a stop outside the venue. Dick untangles their fingers, stepping out of the car a beat before Jason. Dick passes the keys to the valet with a smile and an extravagant tip, before joining Jason on the steps. Their shoulders brush.
“You good?” he asks, under his breath.
“Peachy. Just tryin’ to remember how I let you convince me to walk into a viper pit.”
That gets a laugh from Dick—though he suppresses it quickly. “You can hold my hand, if it makes you feel safer,” he offers, holding his hand up between them.
“Baby,” Jason says, “I always wanna hold your hand.” But this time, he ignores the offered hand, instead settling his palm on the small of Dick's back. He smiles when Dick leans into it; winding his arm around Jason's waist in turn.
“Stop, you’re going to make me blush,” Dick says. Despite the sarcasm, his ears look pinker than usual. Their steps fall in sync as they approach the large double doors.
“Well, can’t have that.” Jason’s grinning now. “I’m the only one who gets to see you blush.”
Dick laughs again, and this time, he doesn’t bother suppressing it, despite the way it turns a few heads as they walk through the doors. He ignores them, looking up at Jason instead. “You’re a menace,” he says, fondly.
"You knew that before you brought me. Just don't forget—this whole thing was your idea."
“Oh, I know,” Dick says. He stops them, just before coat check-in, and rises onto his toes. His lips brush the corner of Jason’s mouth. “Still think it was one of my best.” The words are spoken softly, meant for Jason alone.
There’s no stopping the blush that blooms across his cheeks. “Night’s still young.” He's proud when the words comes out mostly even.
Dick's smile is so wide his eyes are almost shut. "I could never regret a night spent with you, Jason."