Yandere Dick Grayson x Servant Reader
More Gilded Age au! I swear I am working on my WIP's. This just possessed me and I needed to hash it out.
Dick strikes me as the type to fall for one of the house servants. He can woo society folk with his hands tied, (and if we're being honest, that'd only make him more enticing) but he struggles to really connect with his upper-crust peers. While he's not contending with the boundaries of blood that rule the European nobility, there's the inescapable fact that all these people come from some money. Don't get him wrong; he's proud of where he came from. To him, there's no house nobler than Haly's Circus. There's no parentage more deserving of pride than his. It just gets lonely, at those fancy dinners, those galas, those gentleman's clubs. He's surrounded by people who couldn't launder their own shirts if they had to.
You feel so much more grounded, more familiar, in that way. It's funny, seeing as you're quite new in the household. After the havoc last winter wrought on his joints, Alfred finally conceded to getting some extra help. You came at the high recommendation from the housekeeper at the Elliot estate. You lived up to it. You kept the house in good order, and with a refreshingly light spirit. Your transition from new hire to beloved fixture in the home was quick and seamless. Even Bruce took a shine to you, given the weight you took off dear Alfred's shoulders.
It's only natural you wormed your way into Dick's heart as well. While you were familiar with rich patrons and their idiosyncrasies, mister Grayson shocked you with his habits. On your first day, Alfred had been giving you a tour when the young man came downstairs to greet you. He made a point to shake your hand as he welcomed you. The meeting was blessedly short, as the butler quickly shooed him away.
His fondness was quite apparent. You found yourself frequently called upon by him to bring coffee, or revive a dying fire, or organize papers, or remedy some other small issue he'd normally pride himself on taking care of. He liked to make conversation with you while you worked, even following you from room to room when he was able. He spoke more plainly than your previous employers. You had first assumed he was talking down to you, but not so. A couple weeks into your new posting, you'd been called from your bed to fetch some ice. Dick had returned home, sporting some vibrant bruises along the side of his face. Alfred didn't bat an eye at it, simply instructing you to hold a compress while he prepared some medicine. Once properly dosed, the man began to sink into the couch, exhausted. You made to leave, but he caught your hand.
It was a childish request, but you weren't going to say that to your employer's ward. You sat on the stool beside him. He tried to strike up conversation, as if it was normal. He asked for a story from your home. You told a short one. You never asked about where he was from, but that night, he regaled you anyway. He told you about the circus, growing up on the road, and the tragedy that brought him to the manor.
"I guess I missed getting my hands dirty," he chuckled, and your eyes instinctively fell to his bloodied knuckles. There was a rather broad line between campfire cooking and brawling, you thought. You held your tongue, though.
You had had expected, well, hoped, that he would wake up the next morning, mortified, and never mention your conversation. As if you would be so lucky.
He'd gotten much worse. Mistaking your polite deference for interest, Dick threw all remaining propriety to the wind. He regularly interrupted your work now, pulling you away from your tasks to drag you into a conversation or gathering you had no business being in. The family more-or-less encouraged it, happily bringing you into the fold, as if you were a beloved guest rather than staff. He'd gotten more physical, too. Small elements on your person now fascinated him: a stray lock of hair, the shiny buttons on your uniform. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out to touch them. He guided you around the house — a house you knew quite well by now — with an arm slung around your person. And there was the most egregious incident.
Master Wayne was hosting a rather large dinner. It was a hot summer night, and you were made hotter with exertion. You had been ferrying chilled bottles of Muscadet to the dining room when he caught you. He pulled you into a broom closet. It was stuffy and dark, and you could feel the heat seeping through his suit. He pulled you flush with him, speaking into your face rather than at it.
"Don't go. Don't leave me all alone in there."
"I'm needed in the kitchen," was all you could manage, before tearing out of the hellish embracee.
You knew your days on the Wayne estate were numbered. Dick's clear affection could only amount in a scandal. You'd never find work again, if you let it go that far. You had a good friend who knew the Stagg's cook quite well. She put in a good word for you, and assured you that they were most understanding of your situation. Young masters were hardly a new issue for house staff and their reputations.
You gave proper notice to Alfred. It felt terrible, letting him down. His hoarse gentlemanly question, "And you're certain there's nothing I can do to change your mind?" made it all the worse. You tried to assure him that it wasn't anything he'd done. But the unspoken question of why was left hanging in the air. You couldn't explain; not without badmouthing a member of the family that, for the next two weeks, you were still serving.
"I hope you understand, I'll have to inform master Bruce." The childish moniker gave you no amusement in that moment. You simply nodded, and got back to work, trying not to dread the inevitable spread of the news.
