Every so often, the Prince dreams of simpler times — the feel of the dust and dirt of roads less traveled beneath his bare feet and hands. The sound of the encouraging cheers of the crowds of people he used to perform for. The tingle of different spices on his tongue from the various street foods and cuisines from all over the empire. But the sweet nostalgia of his memories contrasted bitterly with the reality of his life now. His gaze is almost forlorn as it settles on who sits across him.

His Poison Taster.

With the recent attempt on the Emperor’s life, the palace was on high alert. And even though Dick went against his father’s wishes, he divided up Bruce’s work as best he could and split it among all of his siblings. Just so he could try and focus on recovering. It’s grueling, having to take care of the extra workload on top of their own pressing responsibilities. The Knight Order of the Titans certainly didn't run itself. But his old man wasn't one to idle and had security tightened down on all fronts possible in hypervigilance.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, trying and failing at concealing the anxiousness just brimming underneath the surface. His elbows propped against the table, head cradled within the palm of his hand, painting a near-perfect picture of a prince at large.

It’s irrational, to think that the worst could happen at any moment. He knows that his Poison Taster is as knowledgeable and trained within the realm of Toxicology as one can be. With enough self-convincing, Dick could force himself to believe that the burden of the crown was fair enough in exchange for the world to become his oyster. But that doesn't mean that the truth was easy to swallow — His life was valued over the ones of the very people he was sworn to protect and serve. And in return, they were willing to give up theirs in exchange for his.

And all for what? The hypocritical altruism that came with being nobility? The mere idea of leaving things up to Fate made him feel sick to his stomach. There had to be a solution to end an archaic practice such as this, he’s sure of it.

“Does it taste good at least? Should I send our compliments to the chef?” he adds, internally groaning at his attempt at lightening the atmosphere.

He hates it when his humor falls flat.