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The music in the Iceberg Lounge was obnoxiously loud, the bass pulsating through the floor as it blared from every working speaker. Bodies swarmed the dance floor, filling the space completely. As expected for a Saturday evening in Gotham.
Dick was nursing his second drink of the night, perched at one of the tables overlooking the full room. Jason was to his left, on what seemed to be his third bottle of beer that evening. Neither of them seemed very interested in dancing, but it was the easiest place to do ‘brotherly bonding’ or whatever Bruce called it. They were trying, alright? It seemed to be working, anyway.
“This is stupid,” Jason muttered, taking a swig of his beer. “What’s the point in being here if we aren’t going to dance? You’re single again, anyway, go pick someone up or something.”
“I really don’t think that’s something I want to do tonight,” Dick replied, rolling his eyes at Jason’s obvious attempts to get him to go away. “You just want me to leave you alone so you can sneak out of the back and go home.”
Jason’s resounding grumble confirmed his plan, but Dick just ignored him in favour of finishing his drink. Neither of them spoke for perhaps ten minutes, content to sit and listen to whatever pop song was blaring, until Jason pointed something out. He leaned over, pointing to the far right of the dance floor, where they could see very clearly Cobblepot trying to talk someone down from the top of one of the tables.
“Would you look at that?” Jason scoffed, although it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Looks like someone’s gotten a little bit too drunk. Cobblepot can’t seem to get them off the table.”
Dick, in his infinite wisdom, shifted from his seat to stand. “Yeah, well, maybe I can help. Cobblepot isn’t going to get through to a drunk person by yelling at them.”
The drunk man, who looked to be in his early twenties, was ignoring Cobblepots yelling, too focused on the beat of the music, his hands moving up and down his body as he swayed with the sounds around him. Hands moved to grip at his hair, his eyes shut as he moved with the rhythm. He looked like he was having a good time, his lip caught between his teeth. Up close, Dick almost thought he looked familiar.
“Hey!” Dick called out, also ignoring Cobblepot’s attempt to get the guy to move. “You look a little too drunk, do you want me to call you a cab?”
When that didn’t get his attention, Dick moved to grab the guy’s waist, tugging him down from the table. The guy protested, of course, but seemed to snap into focus when he got a good look at Dick’s face. “I know you!” The guy shouted over the music. “You were my sister’s phone screen for a long time!”
This wasn’t exactly ground-breaking news to anyone around Gotham. Dick’s face was plastered almost everywhere, from magazines to billboards. One quick internet search would bring up a whole collection of teenage-girl-created lock screens and home screens.
No, what really made Dick pause was what the guy said after that.
“Yeah, Barbara said you were so emotionally unavailable! Said that if it weren’t for the fact that you grew up together, she would have beat your ass! Was that what she said? Whatever,” he waved his hands a little. “That’s what she said.”
Wait, Barbara? Dick only knew one Barbara.
“Hey,” Dick said, a tense smile on his face, “Can you unlock your phone for me? Just for a second?”
The guy - apparently Barbara’s brother - fumbled with his pockets for a moment before he pulled out his phone, handing it over to Dick with a huff. “Why,” he asked, leaning a little closer to Dick, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath. Dick could smell it; that familiar scent of coconut rum and coke that clung to your breath when you drank it. “Do you want my number? I’ll take yours if you're offering.”
Dick somehow ignored the guy in favour of scrolling through his contact list before he found the number he was looking for. There it was, Barbara Gordon.
She picked up on the second ring.
“Jesse, I swear to all things holy, if you ask me one more time to call a cab for you, I will never forgive you.”
“It’s not Jesse,” Dick replied, scratching his neck as he tried to speak into the phone over the music. “But it’s nice to know his name.”
“Dick? Why do you have Jesse’s phone? And why does it sound like you’re in a club?” Barbara asked, her tone softening slightly as she realised that she wasn’t talking to her idiot brother. “Are you in a club? He’s not hurt, is he?”
“No, no,” Dick’s voice got a little clearer as he dragged Jesse out of the club and into the crisp Gotham air outside. “He’s not hurt. Just… drunk. Very drunk. He was dancing on top of a table and making Cobblepot break a blood vessel.”
Barbara’s sigh was tinged with annoyance and resignation, the love she had for her brother leaking through regardless. “Yeah, that sounds like Jesse. I take it you want his address to call him a cab? I can send it over. God knows you won’t get it out of him if he’s drunk enough to start dancing on tables.”
Dick chuckled, his head twisting to the side slightly to cast a glance towards the drunk guy in question, his breath hitching slightly when Jesse slipped his hand into his. “That would be appreciated,” he softened, “I’d rather not let your brother try and get into a cab by himself.”
The call ended shortly after, with a text popping up on the screen from Barbara: Jesse’s address, his building code and the location of his spare key. Dick smiled. Babs never messed around with getting the information to him quickly.
Calling the cab was easy. Getting Jesse in it was not.
“Jesse, please, just get in the cab,” Dick’s voice was pleading, his frustration mounting. “You’re drunk, you need to go home.”
“Just one more drink, pretty boy, please? Just one more. I’ll buy you a drink, I swear!”
Jesse didn't remember getting home. He didn’t remember how he got into sweatpants and into bed. But he was, and he was comfortable, pounding head be damned.
He twisted his head slightly, trying to blink away the headache brewing behind his eyes, only to catch sight of a glass of water on his nightstand, two ibuprofen and a handwritten note, haphazardly scribbled on the back of a receipt.
‘Take these when you finally wake up, drunkard. Try not to dance on the top of any more tables. Call me - R. Grayson’
One word ran through Jesse’s hungover brain.
Fuck.