Chapter Text
He didn't want to ask Bruce for money -- the man had already taken in a new kid to fill the void Dick left behind, and it'd be especially wrong to freeload at a time like that. Not to mention a sense of pride, no matter how misplaced, that prevented him from accepting handouts.
Dick had wanted to be a social worker. After his own life collapsed in on itself within a single night, he felt a desperate need to help people. Young people. Meeting Jason only strengthened that desire. The kid was fucked up. However, Dick hadn't met that goal despite his lofty credentials -- not enough work experience. Not enough references. Not enough of anything. It was a real bruise to his already weak ego.
For the time being, he was a library assistant. That only barely paid the bills.
Let nobody tell you that Dick Grayson couldn't think on his feet, though. Moving from a studio to a two-bed-one-bath sounded like a terrible idea on paper, but he decided he'd get a roommate. Rent the other room out and in return have half of his utilities paid for every month. This would, in the long run, be cheaper than that studio he had. It was either that or skip town to Bludhaven, which would've been tempting if not for the somehow even higher crime rate, plus he wasn't prepared to start job-hunting again so soon.
This was where he slipped up big.
After rejecting a handful of applicants, he met Roy Harper.
Thin, practically a scarecrow. Not tall enough to be one, but thin enough, for sure. Pale, too. Translucent. Skin like wet washi paper, sick and sallow and yellowish. A dusting of freckles across his cheeks, his nose, skittering down his neck and presumably across his shoulders. A cape of freckles. Ginger hair greasy, almost matted. Big, shiny, wet eyes. He was probably beautiful at some point. Dick could see the remnants of a Roman catamite somewhere behind his taut-pulled flesh.
All of that had been sucked up through the track marks on his arm. Another smattering of freckles, these ones in red and purple, where needles entered and exited.
He did have a job, though he was cagey about it. He called himself a 'delivery boy', so he probably ran drugs. But he swore on his life that it paid enough, he'd pitch in on rent and other stuff. Nowhere else to go, he said. His old man kicked him to the curb when he got caught shooting up china white in his bedroom. Most people like him would join art communes, smoke hand-rolled cigarettes and do fluxus performances in Gotham Square Park, but Roy didn't bother. Dick couldn't blame him -- most of those people would stay in obscurity until the end of time. At least he'd be renting and not squatting in an abandoned warehouse full of shitty musicians.
The kid needed him. He needed someplace to stay, and there weren't many options for a junkhead teenage boy. Dick was all he had.
Briefly, Dick saw himself as the hero Bruce was to him all those years ago. He'd be like a big brother or something. Get him clean, maybe send him to school. All the things teenage boys ought to be doing instead of overdosing on street corners. This was a selfish pipe-dream and Dick knew it, but what do intentions matter when the results are positive?
None of that came to pass. In fact, Dick hardly ever saw Roy. The two slowly fell into a routine: Dick worked in the daytime and slept at night, Roy did the opposite. Roy would also disappear a lot. Usually only for two to three days, but it made Dick ill with worry every time. He'd leave his rent contributions on the kitchen counter once a month -- the amount he paid was rarely consistent. Dick cut him a lot of slack. The kid would usually do his own dishes, and ate very little from the fridge. He'd even take both his and Dick's clothes down to the 24-hour laundromat once a week.
He was an okay roommate. Perfectly serviceable. At least for a few months.
Over time, Roy's hours got odder and odder. There was no consistency to his waking times. Extra quarters were going missing during the week.
"Were you rifling through the change pot?", Dick asked. Roy looked up at him, a deer in headlights.
"Got some stuff dirty. Needed to do extra laundry."
That started happening a lot. From once a week to twice a week to every day. But things were fine. Roy didn't bother Dick, and Dick didn't bother Roy. It's amazing how fast things can change.
It was October. Dick was sure of that. October 21st, brisk and cool and rainy.
Roy stormed up out of his room, with a look on his face that Dick had never seen. Roy, dressed only in his underwear and a wifebeater. He was frazzled, red-eyed and breathing heavy. Saliva seemed to leak from the edges of his mouth, hair pressed to his forehead with sweat. He only said three words,
"You took it."
Dick had no clue what he meant, and didn't get a moment to ask before Roy was screaming at him. He didn't understand much of what was coming out of the kid's mouth. If it weren't for his meager build, Roy would've been pretty threatening. But he was all shaky, twiggy limbs and his face was red as anything had ever been. He could barely stand, Dick pulled up a chair and he collapsed in it, sobbing his eyes out.
The sound of hissing, trickling water. A patch formed on the crotch of Roy's underpants, the white briefs turning yellow. It quickly leaked out onto the chair, dripped into a puddle below him. Apologies burst forth from his mouth, words almost smearing together as he babbled. He was messy like an infant, hacked up phlegm onto himself and teetered upright in his seat. His face was burning up.
It seemed prudent to call the hospital, but Dick feared the outcome. He didn't know much of Roy's home life, but anything that leads to you doing heroin at an early age is usually bad. He didn't want Roy sent back to an abusive household, or trapped in the unending cycle of foster care. There was a hint of selfishness too -- Dick would rather die than have to seek out a third roomie. He ran a washcloth under some cold water and pressed it to Roy's forehead.
"Don't pass out, alright?" Dick begged. Roy moaned sorely. His stomach gurgled, and he tried to stand, but ultimately just... Couldn't. "You gonna be sick?"
"Mhm," he nodded. "Baffroom."
"Um-" Dick swallowed roughly and grabbed the nearby trash bin, popping the top open. "Just do it in here for now."
For a moment, knelt in front of Roy, Dick saw the real him. The sweaty sheen on his freckled face, nose pitifully crinkled and runny. His hands clasping the sides of the garbage bin as his guts upturned. Bile spurted from his belly, clear and bubbly and thick with mucus. Strands dangled from his lips. Gossamer threads of spittle. Another jet of piss soaked through his clothes. "Roy. Roy, stay with me, kid."
"Mnnh."
"Do you need the toilet? Do you need to go number two?" Unintentionally, Dick found himself handling Roy like all those troubled children he'd wanted to help. Roy shook his head.
"Haven't eaten."
"Since when?"
"Don't know..."
"Christ." Dick wiped the sweat from Roy's brow, startled when the kid leaned into his touch. "Um, just sit there a second, don't try to get up... Scream if you need anything."
"Needa hit, needit bad. Got cash in my top drawer."
"I can't..."
Roy had pitiful eyes, and if he were asking for just about anything else, it would've been impossible to say no. At least until suddenly he flared up with anger and shouted,
"'s my goddamn money, you don't even have to pay for it!"
His impotent rage was only cut off by another gurgle of stomach contents that made him burst out sobbing all over again. Dick didn't like the idea of leaving him alone for more than a minute, but he fought off that instinct for the greater good.
His girlfriend, Babs, she was working at a pharmacy these days. Girlfriend. She didn't seem to like the term, but they fucked and they kissed and they dated, they did all the things couples usually do. Babs. Smartest girl he knew. Had a free ride to the title of Police Commissioner, but never took it. She hated the police system, didn't wanna associate with the GCPD in any way shape or form, so she pursued medicine. Dick needed her help. Roy needed her help. He must've sounded desperate, she picked up and said,
"Gotham Square Pharmacy, how can I help you--"
and his voice cracked,
"Babs, it's me, I'm in- there's- I've got a situation, please help-"
"Dick? You- I told you not to call my workplace-"
"It's really important, I- my roommate, he's this kid, he's... Nobody can hear this, right...?"
"...No?"
"Drug addict. Withdrawal." Long pause. "Heroin."
"How old...?"
"Um... Sixteen, I think?"
"Why- how-"
"If I didn't let him live with me, he'd be homeless, he'd- he'd probably be blowing his dealer to sleep on a piss-stained mattress somewhere and- look, just-"
"Calm down. Is he conscious?"
Dick peered back into the kitchen. Roy was still sitting up, and gave an ambiguous gesture with his hand.
"Yeah. Barely. Fever, puking, hasn't eaten, pissed his pants."
"Okay. I'm coming there. I'm bringing some paracetamol, bottled water, saltine crackers... Methadone... Sleeping meds... Adult diapers..."
"Where the hell are you gonna get metha--"
"Don't ask questions, just hang up and go make sure he's not shitting himself."
"Right. Yeah. Bye--"
She hung up on him.
He found Roy passed out in his seat, and gently woke him. The next forty minutes or so were a hazy nightmare. Dick held Roy close, the kid had chills and fever, too cold, too hot. Unwittingly, Dick imagined himself the Virgin Mary, with a sweaty little heroin Jesus pieta-posed in his lap. Skinny from his crucifiction. Skinny from his habit. Holy wounds made by needles. But with little arms like those, Roy had no chance of shifting a stone from the door of his tomb.
Spit ran from his lip. Dick realized how plump those lips were, the last survivors of Roy's hobby. Though right now they were bitten bloody and dry.
Hopefully he wouldn't die before his first kiss.