Friendly Neighborhood Chemist
Pairing: Batfam/chemist!reader (platonic), Unknown/chemist!reader (romantic) (I will choose the love interest soon)
Wordcount: 2,1k (I wrote this during breaks between measuring my bachelor's thesis)
Summary: An impromptu run for fast food gets you blessed by the cat distribution system
Masterlist / Prequel / Part I / Part VI / Part VIII
It is 3am and you are in the middle of centrifuging a biochemical sample.
You know the chromatography is gonna take at least 2 more hours after that, meaning you can probably take a look at other samples you have during the wait.
Two-Face, in all his Jekyll and Hyde glory, has switched suppliers for cocaine (after Jason did good on his promise and tracked down the last one). Meaning you now have 4 samples for 3 different batches to test.
At least it is Nightwing's week in town. Which means he will inevitably drop in with takeout in the middle of the night.
You like to joke Bludhaven and Gotham are the divorced parents and Dick is the kid stuck in split custody. One week (sometimes two) in Bludhaven, then a couple days in Gotham to help out the family.
On such days, he visits you. Forces you into semi-healthy habits (such as ventilating the lab more) and feeds you quality food (and not cereal/protein bars).
The centrifuge beeps after finishing the program. After gloving up, you take a syringe and suck in precisely enough material from the top of the little glass. The bottom you discard into the biohazard bin.
It's only through self-discipline and numerous months of getting used to this that you don't jump out of your own skin at Richard Grayson sneaking up on you like that.
“You really should not announce yourself like that while I am holding,” you gesture with the filled syringe, “whatever this is.”
Dick waves it off with a grin. “At worst, it shatters.” The nonchalant reply has you shooting him an unimpressed look.
“Cass found this shit in the sewers. God knows what this is.”
The man, still in his suit, cringes.
“Croc?” “If I find out this came from Croc I am asking Bruce to pay me extra.”
You check the machine for air pockets in the column, and after finding none, you inject the dissolved sample in.
One addition to the lab apartment that you got since being the “official” analyst for the Bats is a cupboard with miscellaneous clothes the vigilantes called “civvies”, to change quickly into (mostly for Tim when he stays to keep you company).
Dick, without shame, takes off his suit, leaving him in compression pants and without a shirt. You are only half-turned away, focusing on something else (and now trying furiously not to blush).
You think he doesn't even do it on purpose. This is just how he is.
He puts on a random shirt and sweatpants, giving you pause.
“Isn’t it the middle of your patrol? Are you staying here?”
Dick turns around to you. “Tim told me that you have not had food since eight in the evening, so to force you to eat, we are going to Batburger.”
“Grayson, I just put this to analyze, it will take at least two more hours. And I wanted to get a headstart on the new samples Two-Face flooded the streets with, and there are the- Richard you better stop.” You know he is ragebaiting you when he starts flapping his hand in the shape of a mouth to mock you for speaking so fast.
“Excuses excuses, you workaholic. You are like Tim, except Tim sleeps after the caffeine-filled work,” he waves you off. “You are getting food. Babs can monitor the equipment from the lab, there are cameras in here.”
“I fucking knew you put cameras in here.”
The Batburger is so empty that nobody even notices the prodigal son of Bruce Wayne ordering an unholy amount of fries with a random person. The person at the cash register looks mildly dead inside and takes your order without question.
You end up eating in the crisp air of the parking lot outside, sitting on the curb. Walking through Gotham during the night seems suicidal, but you have to remind yourself you are walking next to a vigilante (who is in sweatpants and a hoodie he stole from you at the lab).
“Just so you know I am judging you for taking mayonnaise out of all of the sauces they had,” you said while pointing at Dick with a fry.
“Hey! I am in the mood for some mayonnaise!” he says, offended.
“Bro who has the mood for mayonnaise? MAYONNAISE?” you say, eating the last fry. The Robin cheeseburger is calling your name from the bag.
“I am not taking shit from someone whose sense of smell is fucked from formaldehyde,” Dick claps back.
“Is formaldehyde the only smelly chemical you could think of? I rarely work with it,” you counter after you finish chewing. Dick throws his hands up in surrender.
Before you two can begin jokingly roast each other again, you hear a distressed yowl from across the parking lot.
Your heads snap to look towards where the noise is coming from, but you see nothing.
When the next noise of similar nature sounds out, you both immediately stand up, Bat burger wrappers forgotten. It takes Dick no time to locate where it came from (you blame his inner vigilante senses), with you following right behind him.
In the back of the lot, an expensive looking car seems to be the source of the mewls.
Or rather, what’s under it.
You shine your phone flashlight to reveal a tiny, damp kitten, with a tail and fur so puffed up it looks almost comical. The poor thing looks underfed and scared out of its mind.
One look shared between you and Dick confirms it. You aren’t leaving it there.
“You hold the light and I am getting it out,” Dick commands. Somehow, you don’t question it.
He drops to the ground, completely uncaring about staining his hoodie, and slowly crawls under the car, until he is under the chassis up to his waist. Your phone light shows him where the ball of fur is.
The little kitten sits mostly unmoving, the only signs of existence being the pitiful meows it lets out. When Dick gets to within arms reach of the little guy, you hear a yell from the direction of the fast food building.
“What are you dickheads doing with my car?!”
You turn your neck, making sure to still shine your phone so that your "partner in crime” can see. You know if you yell, the kitten might flee, so you wait for the man to get closer to where you are awkwardly squatting.
You try to speak as calmly as possible. “There is a kitten under your car, Richard’s trying to get it.”
When the owner of the car gets close enough, you can smell his rancid breath, mixing with his strong deodorant (it’s nearly four in the morning, you try not to judge). He looks between you, your phone, Dick slowly moving under his car, and back to you.
He sucks in a sharp breath and clenches a hand.
“He better not damage the beauty, it was expensive,” he hisses out between his teeth.
“The beauty?” you ask, confused.
The man rolls his eyes. “The fuckin’ car, bitch.”
You are shooting daggers with your mind into the man’s face with all the energy you can muster, so you don’t notice the meows of distress stopping and Dick slowly sliding out from the car. But you do notice the hand he puts on your shoulder.
Dick, completely ignoring the annoyed man, shows you a little, orange kitten he is holding with a single hand.
“Oh my god! Hi little guy, hi baby, oh you are so little and so cute. Just a baby boy- wait is he a boy?” your eyes flick over to Dick.
Dick turns the little kitten towards him and looks him over. “I think so?”
Both of you gush over the little guy, completely forgetting the third person in the parking lot, who has walked around the two of you, squatted down and started suspiciously eyeing the underside of the car.
And so he shatters your bliss.
“If I find out you fucked up my car, I will call the police,” he spits out as he runs a hand over a random part of the vehicle. You aren’t an expert in cars, but you are pretty sure he has no idea what he is doing, but just wants to seem important.
Dick ruins that image by not even bothering to look the man in the eyes as he verbally snubs him. “My dad can pay for it, just call this number,” and he hands you the kitten, takes out his wallet from his pockets, flips it open and takes out a business card that he holds out to the stranger between two of his fingers.
You see in that singular moment, that the owner of the car realizes he is talking to the adoptive son of Bruce Wayne, THE Dick Grayson.
But Dick doesn’t pay attention to him and motions for you both to leave the second the business card is out of his hand.
You fold after one sentence from Dick to not go back to your lab, but to instead go back to your regular apartment.
“Little guy needs a bath.”
There aren’t even questions to see if you are keeping him. Of course you were.
And so, on the way back, you both animatedly discuss the little guy, who now purrs in your arms, drowning in the soft arms of your hoodie.
“So we need to get him to a vet. The little guy looks so young, probably not even chipped. He need milk, a chip under your name, a check for illnesses and worms,” Dick lists out while reading from his phone.
“Pause. A chip under my name? Your manor is more equipped to take in animals, I spend all of my free time in the lab,” you argue.
Dick is sheepish and apologetic. “Well, I live in two cities, it wouldn’t be fair to the guy.”
“And I spend my time in the lab, which is twenty minutes of walking from my apartment.”
“Not if you live at the manor,” Dick says, with a sudden stroke of genius.
You both fall into a tense silence as you think it over. Tim has been hinting for you to live with them for months. You know they have the space for it, and the safety in the lab would be better. The results would get to the Bats faster, and you would be safer with two vigilantes (and an Alfred) in the manor at all times.
In the end, you see only one downside.
“Won’t Bruce see me as mooching off him?” you say quietly while scratching the kitten’s head between his little ears.
Dick snorts. “Please, he will just see it as repayment for taking a load of work off of Tim, Babs and himself. He would be happy to let you live there.”
“Then I guess I will take that deal,” you reply, and smile down at the little kitten.
You don’t notice Dick furiously texting the entire family groupchat (sans you) with celebratory emojis. You will find that out later, after you get a very excited Tim on your doorstep with packing boxes at 8am.
But now, you are content, walking with the little guy.
You keep calling him “kitten” and “little guy” internally, but you know he needs a name.
“Dick, what should we call him?”
Dick thinks for a moment, closing the groupchat. He looks at the kitten intensely and gets a hilarious idea.
“We have so many ginger friends, we should steal their names. Like Alfred the Cat.”
You burst out laughing, startling the little guy in your arms. The kitten lets out a high-pitched “eep” and goes back to purring.
“Well, I don’t know most of them. The only one I have actually met is Babs, but I have seen pictures of Roy and Kori from Jason,” you suggest.
Dick shakes his head. “This one is too small to be Kori and too thin to be Roy. Both of them have biceps bigger than his entire body.”
“Then I don’t know anyone else.”
Dick starts swiping on his phone and shows you a picture. “The name’s Wally.”
You take one look at the lithe runner’s physique, the wild head of ginger, the freckles, and you know.
Dick shoots a text to his speedster friend, knowing damn well what kind of chaos he will be bringing to your doorstep eventually.
“Alright. Welcome to the family, Wally the Cat.”
You both giggle like pre-teens at recess in a mud pit when you reach your apartment. Dick’s eyes twinkle, and he realizes this one night might have changed your life forever.
But now, he focuses on more pressing issues.
“Okay, after we bathe him, we are going to the vet. We have to get him checked for fleas before he is allowed to sleep with you in your bed.”
“How did you know I would allow him to sleep in my bed.”
“Because of course you would.”
Just chemist!reader works:
@k-tsuyuri @aperolspritzzz @vampire-oc-lover @sheep-from-rad @starmaniii @ifera-ilsa
@katzline @pixiedustaddictsblog @kiicchii @himelita @yumnumz @yuurisfavblog
An: You might be clocking who is my favourite part of the batfam with the lenght of this mfing fic :DD
