the way he looks at you
pairing: dick grayson x gender neutral reader
warnings: fluff, domestic comfort, a tiny bit of angst (he's tired, he's always tired)
word count: ~900
a/n: just a little thing that wouldn't leave my brain. he deserves so much rest and someone who notices. okay bye
it's past two in the morning when you hear the window slide open.
you don't startle anymore. you stopped doing that months ago, somewhere around the time you accepted that this was just him — the scrape of the frame, the soft thud of boots hitting the floor, the careful way he moves through the dark like he's afraid of taking up too much space.
you're still half-awake on the couch, a book open on your chest that you stopped reading an hour ago.
"hey," you say.
a pause. like he hadn't expected you.
"hey." his voice is rough around the edges, the way it always is after a long night. you hear him set something down — his gear, probably — and then the lamp clicks on, warm and low, and there he is.
he looks exhausted.
not just tired. exhausted. the kind that lives behind the eyes and doesn't go away after one good night's sleep.
"you waited up," he says. it's not quite a question.
"i fell asleep and then un-fell asleep." you close the book. "how bad was it?"
he rolls his shoulders in that practiced way that means i'm not going to tell you everything but i'm not going to lie to you either.
"manageable," he settles on.
you nod. you've learned not to push. you've also learned that manageable from dick grayson usually means he took three hits he didn't have to take because he was too busy making sure everyone else got out first.
"sit down," you say. "you're doing that thing where you stand in the middle of a room like you're not sure you're allowed to be in it."
something in his face shifts. it always does when you catch him doing that — when you name the thing he thought he was hiding. he moves toward you, and you swing your legs off the couch to make room, and he sits down heavy, like he's been holding himself up by sheer force of will all night and you've just given him permission to stop.
you don't say anything for a minute. neither does he.
then you reach over and push the hair back from his forehead, just gently, just once, and he closes his eyes.
"i keep thinking," he starts.
"you can tell me," you say, "or you don't have to. either one is okay."
he opens his eyes and looks at you. and god, the way dick grayson looks at people — it's a lot, it's always been a lot, like he's trying to memorize you in case you disappear. bruce wayne raised a kid who learned very early that the people he loved had a habit of going away.
you think about that sometimes. how much courage it takes for him to love anything at all.
"i just—" he stops. tries again. "i don't know if i'm doing it right. any of it."
"being nightwing?"
"being this." he gestures vaguely between the two of you, and your heart does something complicated.
"dick."
"i'm serious. i'm gone half the time. i come back and you're asleep on the couch because you stayed up worrying and i can't even—"
"hey." you put your hand over his. "look at me."
he does.
"i'm not staying up because i'm worried," you say. a small lie. a kind one. "i'm staying up because when you come home, i like to be here. that's a choice i make. nobody's making me make it."
he stares at you.
"you're not too much," you say, because you know that's the real question underneath all the other questions. "you're not hard to love. you're actually incredibly easy to love, and i think you've been told otherwise for so long that you don't know what to do with someone who means it."
the silence stretches out, soft and full.
then he leans forward and presses his forehead against yours, and you feel some of the tension go out of his shoulders, slow as a tide going out.
"i mean it," you say, quieter now.
"i know," he says. "i'm starting to."
you stay like that for a while. the lamp hums. somewhere outside a car passes. his breathing evens out.
"come to bed," you say eventually.
"yeah." he doesn't move for another moment, like he's storing this up. then: "yeah, okay."
you turn off the lamp.
in the dark he finds your hand, and he holds it, and you let him.
he's going to be fine, you think.
he already is, mostly.
he just needs someone to keep reminding him.
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