Poker Face | Bruce Wayne

eight

PRESENT DAY

"Of course, Danielle, it's always wonderful to see your gorgeous face."

Dick kissed the top of the woman's hand, who giggled before walking away. Jacob, her husband, flashed him a teasing look.

"Better not get any smart ideas, Grayson, or I might have to talk to Bruce."

Dick chuckled, putting a hand on the man's shoulder. "Please, Jacob. We both know Bruce is hardly any better."

The older man let out a hardy laugh, patting Dick on the arm and exchanging a few more pleasantries before walking after his wife. Dick turned around, making his way back through the crowd with a ghost of a smile on his face. As he'd gotten older, Dick had come to almost enjoy all of the high-class events he had to attend. It meant he got to put on a show, shmooze around and flirt with pretty women in fancy dresses. He almost always got away with it too— he was one of the Wayne children, after all, everyone already expected it out of him.

He arrived back at the round table decorated in lavish gold arrangements, shining glasses filled with apple cider, and silverware that sparkled from the chandeliers above. He adjusted his suit jacket as he took his seat next to Damian, who was still sulking at the fact that Bruce had forced him to come.

"Liven up, Little D," he nudged the child's arm. "Some of the people here are actually fun if you get to know them."

Damian swatted his hand away, but it's not like Dick wasn't anticipating that. "Don't call me that, you imbecile. And unlike you, I have better things to do than socialize with fools. Everyone here is just hungry for father's money."

"You're such a joy to bring to a party," Tim commented from his place on the other side of Damian, not looking up from his phone.

Damian growled. "Tell me I'm wrong, Drake. This isn't even our city, we shouldn't care about their police department."

Dick was about to lecture Damian on the benefits of the Waynes being seen supporting the CCPD, but was interrupted by Bruce appearing from the crowd. He had on a fake smile, but Dick could tell that, like his youngest son, he wasn't a fan of being there either.

Bruce sat down and plucked his glass of what looked like champagne from the table, but they all knew it wasn't. It was always ginger ale— Bruce didn't drink. Something about "ruining his body" or whatever. But no one ever dared to question what was in playboy Bruce Wayne's cup, everyone just assumed the man loved to be drunk. "Damian's still pouting?"

"I am not pouting!"

"He's your son," Dick smirked. "What do you think?"

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

"What are odds are that Jason'll actually show this time?" Tim glanced up from his phone, interrupting Damian's probable temper tantrum. "For once, I need him to look at a case for me."

Dick shrugged. "Fifty-fifty."

"Doubtful," Damian scoffed. "Todd is scum. I don't want to be seen with him, anyway."

"Damian, don't say that," Bruce sounded like he was trying to be stern, but his attention was focused on the crowd of mingling people.

"Father, he's tried to kill you before."

"So have you."

Dick snickered as the small child huffed, crossing his arms and sitting back in his seat once again. Movement suddenly pulled Dick's eyes, and he noticed a man approaching Bruce. He looked oddly familiar, but Dick couldn't place his name. Bruce caught Dick's gaze, sitting up a little straighter as he prepared his playboy facade yet again.