- bleue ྀ࿓

ྀ࿓ local ocean enthusiast ྀ࿓ my writing practice 🦪

[bleuesupes]

“As water shapes itself to the vessel that contains it, so shall we to every circumstance.”

˚꩜｡ 17+ blog. any pronouns

I write what I feel like

(lowkey just a dick grayson blog…)

requests open! ྀ࿓

masterlist ྀ࿓

dividers on this blog are by @cursed-carmine

[nyukaart]

I missed my dynamic duo

[bleuesupes]

I’m crying

[bleuesupes]

sorry for being so inactive guys I promise I’ll be back up soon 😢💔

[silverlullabies]

Lightning Strikes Twice

The data indicating the average person experiences 3.4 attacks annually is misleading. You- who seem to find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time several times a month- represents a significant deviation from the norm and should not be counted in the dataset.

(Seriously, if there was a punch card for civilian endangerment, you'd have earned a free mug and a commemorative sticker by now)

Or; in which Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.

10.7k words

It’s a Tuesday and there’s a gun pressed against your spine.

Tuesday has always been the worst day of the week in your opinion- past the motivation of Monday, too far from the relief of Friday, just existing in this pathetic middle ground of mundane awfulness. And now, apparently, Tuesday has decided to really live up to its terrible reputation.

“Don’t move,” a voice hisses behind you, and you can smell stale cigarettes and alcohol. “Empty your account. All of it.”

You’re at the ATM on the corner of 23rd and Hayes, the one you’ve used a hundred times because it’s on your route home from your soul crushing data entry job. The street is unusually empty for 9 pm, but that’s Bludhaven for you; people have finally started learning not to be out after dark.

Everyone except you, apparently, because you’re an idiot who needed cash for the laundromat.

“I have forty three dollars in checking,” you say flatly, finger hovering over the keypad. “And maybe twelve in savings. You’re really not making out well on this transaction.”

“Just do it!” The gun digs harder into your back, right between your shoulder blades.

Of course this is how you die. Not in some heroic way, not peacefully in your sleep at ninety- no, you’re going to get shot at an ATM on a Tuesday because you needed quarters. The universe has always had a sick sense of humor when it comes to your life.

You press the button for withdrawal from checking. “You know, statistically, you’d make more money just getting a minimum wage job. Even after taxes- ”

“Shut up!”

“I’m just saying, this is really inefficient- ”

You don’t get to finish your observation about the economics of street crime because suddenly the weight of the gun disappears from your back and there’s a crash behind you. You spin around- stupid, you should run, but curiosity has always been your fatal flaw- and watch as a blur of black and blue slams your would be mugger into the brick wall of the bodega next to the ATM.

The man crumples. The gun skitters across the pavement. And standing there, illuminated by the flickering streetlight and the harsh glow of the ATM screen, is Nightwing.

You’ve seen him on the news, obviously. Everyone in Bludhaven has. The cops hate him, the people love him, and the criminals fear him. He’s all lean muscle and acrobatic grace, his suit highlighting a body that’s been honed into a weapon. The blue bird across his chest seems to shimmer as he moves, and his escrima sticks hang from his hands like they’re extensions of his arms.

He turns to you, and even though you can’t see his eyes behind the domino mask, you can feel the weight of his gaze.

“You okay?” His voice is different than you expected; younger, with an edge of genuine concern that seems almost out of place on someone who just took down an armed mugger in three seconds flat.

You blink at him. “That depends on your definition of okay. Physically unharmed? Yes. Emotionally scarred by yet another reminder that the universe is chaotic and uncaring? Also yes.”

There’s a pause. You think you see his lips twitch.

“That’s… pretty specific.”

“I’m a pessimist. We’re detailed oriented.” You glance at the mugger, who’s groaning on the ground. “Is he going to need an ambulance, or just a therapist after you’re done with him?”

Now he definitely smiles. “Little of both, probably. You should get out of here. I’ll wait with him until BCPD shows up.”

“Right. Because the Bludhaven PD is so reliable and not at all corrupt.” But you’re already grabbing your card from the ATM, which, miraculously, still dispensed your pathetic forty dollars. “Thanks for the rescue, I guess. Even though I probably would have just given him the money and filed a police report that would go nowhere.”

“You guess?” He sounds amused now.

You shrug, stuffing the cash in your pocket. “I mean, appreciate the help and all, but let’s be real, I’ll probably be mugged again within six months. This is Bludhaven. Lightning strikes twice here. It’s practically a meteorological certainty.”

“That’s not how lightning works.”

“And yet.” You gesture vaguely at the unconscious mugger, the sketchy street, the flickering streetlight that’s been broken for three weeks. “Here we are.”

You walk away before he can respond, but you can feel his eyes on your back until you turn the corner. You’re not sure if he thinks you’re funny or just deeply disturbed.

Probably both.

Of course, both is good.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You’re hanging from a fire escape.

It’s been two weeks since the ATM incident, and you’d actually started to think that maybe, just maybe, your luck was turning around. You got a fifty cent raise at work. Your landlord didn’t increase your rent. You found a dollar on the sidewalk.

But the universe doesn’t like it when you get comfortable.

You’re not even doing anything weird; you just came out here to water your singular, struggling tomato plant (which refuses to actually produce tomatoes) when the rusted bolts finally gave way. The fire escape tilted, you grabbed for the railing, and now you’re dangling four stories above an alley that definitely contains at least three used needles and a suspicious puddle.

“Help!” You scream, but it’s 11 pm and your neighbors include: one elderly man who’s definitely deaf, two college students who are always high, and a woman who once told you she “doesn’t believe in interference.”

This is exactly how you’d thought you’d die but you’d appreciate it if you weren’t right.

Your fingers are slipping. The metal is cutting into your palms. Below you, the suspicious puddle seems to shimmer with menace.

You’re wearing your nice jeans. The ones without holes. It seems important that someone know this.

“I’M WEARING MY NICE JEANS!” You yell into the void.

“Hold on!” A voice calls back, and you’re so startled you nearly let go.

Then he’s there, like some kind of acrobatic miracle, flipping up from the alley below and landing on the tilted fire escape with perfect balance. Nightwing grabs your wrists and hauls you up with absolutely no effort, pulling you against his chest as the fire escape groans ominously beneath you both.

“We need to move,” he says, and then he’s grappling to the roof, one arm wrapped firmly around your waist.

Your stomach does a complicated flip that has nothing to do with the sudden altitude change.

He sets you down on the roof, hands lingering on your arms to make sure you’re steady. “You okay?”

You’re breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through your system. “You know, you keep asking me that, and the answer keeps being ‘technically yes, but actually no.’”

He tilts his head, and there’s something about the gesture that’s almost bird-like. Fitting, given the whole theme. “Wait. ATM girl?”

“Oh, perfect. I have a nickname now.” You brush off your nice jeans, checking for damage. One knee is torn. Of course it is. “Yes. ATM girl. Also known as ‘that pessimist,’ ‘fire escape failure,’ and ‘person who can’t keep a tomato plant alive.’ Hi. Hello. Thank you for saving me again.”

“You remember me.” He sounds pleased.

“You’re dressed like an exotic bird and you saved me from a mugger. You’re pretty memorable.” You peer over the edge of the roof at your apartment window. The fire escape is completely detached now, hanging by a single bolt. “Great. There goes my security deposit.”

“You’re taking this pretty well.”

“What’s the alternative? Crying? I cried in 2019 and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.” You turn back to him, and in the moonlight, you can see more details; the curve of his jaw, the way his hair sticks up slightly, the almost absurd width of his shoulders. “So, do you just patrol this neighborhood specifically, or am I cosmically marked for disaster and you’re following the trail of chaos?”

He laughs, and it’s a good sound, warm and genuine. “Little of both, maybe. What were you doing on the fire escape?”

“Watering my tomato plant. Which has never produced a single tomato and probably never will, but I’m nothing if not committed to lost causes.” You sigh. “I should call my landlord. He’s going to love this.”

“It’s not your fault the fire escape collapsed.”

“And yet, I guarantee this somehow becomes my problem.” You pull out your phone, then pause. “Thanks. Again. For the rescue. You’re really good at those.”

“It’s kind of my thing.”

“Well, it’s a good thing.” You swallow, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing, how the moonlight catches on the blue of his suit, how he’s looking at you like you’re something interesting instead of just another disaster in motion. “You should probably go stop actual crime instead of babysitting the woman who clearly has a death wish via incompetence.”

“I don’t think you’re incompetent.”

“My fire escape would disagree. Also my tomato plant. Also my general life trajectory.”

He’s smiling again. You’re getting used to that smile, the way it makes something warm unfold in your chest despite your best efforts to remain emotionally neutral about everything.

“Get inside safely,” he says. “And maybe water your plant from the window from now on.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll keep trying. That plant and I both know it’s a doomed enterprise.”

But you’re smiling too, just a little, as he grapples away into the night, all grace and controlled power.

Your landlord does, in fact, make the fire escape your problem.

Of course he does.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You’re stuck in an elevator.

“I should have taken the stairs,” you say to the ceiling, because talking to the ceiling feels more productive than screaming into the void. “I always take the stairs. But no, today I thought, ‘You know what? Live a little. Take the elevator. What’s the worst that could happen?’”

“To be fair,” Nightwing says from his corner of the surprisingly spacious elevator, “this is more of an inconvenience than a disaster.”

You turn to look at him. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking frustratingly calm for someone who’s been trapped in an elevator for twenty minutes. You, on the other hand, are definitely spiraling.

“We’re stuck in an elevator. In a building that’s scheduled for demolition next week. Because apparently, the city of Bludhaven doesn’t believe in proper notices or functional elevators in condemned buildings.”

“You didn’t see the notices?”

“I saw a flyer for a lost cat named Chairman Meow. I assumed that was more pressing than construction permits.” You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor. “What are you even doing here?”

“Got a tip about some guys using the building as a storage facility for stolen goods.” He nods toward a duffel bag in the corner that you hadn’t noticed. “Found them. They ran when the elevator got stuck.”

“Of course they did. They probably took the stairs like sensible criminals.”

He moves to sit across from you, and even in crisis, he moves like water, all fluid grace. It’s unfair, really, how coordinated some people are. You trip over flat surfaces.

“You know,” he says, and you can hear the amusement in his voice, “most people would be more worried about being stuck.”

“Oh, I’m worried. I’m just also unsurprised. This is exactly the kind of thing that happens to me.” You let your head fall back against the wall. “Last month, I got jury duty for a case that was immediately dismissed. I didn’t even get to feel civically important. The month before that, I found a twenty dollar bill on the street and immediately stepped in gum.”

“The universe has it out for you.”

“The universe has it out for everyone. I’m just aware of it.” You glance at him. “Aren’t you supposed to have some kind of gadget that can fix this? Bat-elevator-escape-tool?”

“I’m Nightwing, not Batman. My utility belt has like, six things.”

“Wow, budget constraints even in vigilantism. That’s so Bludhaven.”

He laughs, and you’re starting to really like that sound. It feels like finding something valuable in a thrift store, unexpected and somehow precious because of it.

“You’re funny,” he says.

“I’m fatalistic. People often confuse the two.”

“No, you’re definitely funny.” He leans forward slightly. “And you’re handling this really well for someone who was hanging from a fire escape two weeks ago.”

“Oh, you think this is me handling it well? This is me disassociating. There’s a difference.” But you’re smiling despite yourself. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck?”

“I already hit the emergency call button. Fire department should be here in ten, fifteen minutes.”

“So enough time for you to tell me why you do this.” You gesture vaguely at his suit, his mask, the duffel bag of stolen goods. “The whole vigilante thing. Is it a rich person hobby? A elaborate form of therapy? A very committed cosplay situation?”

“What makes you think I’m rich?”

“That suit looks expensive. Also, you have incredible teeth. Dental work like that doesn’t come cheap.”

He grins, and yeah, those are really good teeth. “I can’t tell you my origin story while we’re stuck in an elevator. That’s terrible narrative pacing.”

“Fine. Tell me something else then.” You’re not sure why you’re pushing, except that sitting in silence feels worse than potential rejection. “Tell me why you remember me. ATM girl. Fire escape failure. Elevator disaster.”

“Because you’re different.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “Most people I rescue are either terrified or grateful or both. You were critiquing the economics of street crime while there was a gun pointed at you.”

“That was just my anxiety talking. I babble when I’m nervous.”

“And when you’re not nervous?”

“I’m always nervous. We live in Bludhaven.”

“Fair point.” He’s quiet for a moment, and you can feel him looking at you, really looking. “You act like you expect the worst, but you still watered your tomato plant. You still took the elevator instead of the stairs. That’s not pessimism. That’s hope wearing a disguise.”

The words hit something soft inside you, something you thought you’d armored over years ago with sarcasm and emotional distance.

“That’s a very poetic assessment of my character flaws,” you manage.

“I don’t think they’re flaws.”

Before you can figure out how to respond to that, before you can unpack the warm, fluttery feeling in your chest that feels dangerously close to something you can’t take back, there’s a grinding sound and the elevator lurches.

“Fire department?” You ask hopefully.

“Fire department,” he confirms, standing and offering you his hand.

You take it, and his grip is strong and steady, and you let yourself hold on for maybe a second longer than necessary.

The doors pry open to reveal two firefighters who look unsurprised to see Nightwing and very surprised to see you.

“Ma’am,” one of them says, “what were you doing in a condemned building?”

“Looking for Chairman Meow,” you say without missing a beat. “He’s still missing, by the way, if anyone’s seen an orange tabby with delusions of political grandeur.”

Nightwing makes a sound that might be a laugh or a cough.

As the firefighters escort you out (with several safety lectures), you glance back once. Nightwing is watching you go, duffel bag in hand, and even though you can’t see his eyes, you feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.

You wave.

He waves back.

You tell yourself the flip in your stomach is just residual adrenaline.

You’re definitely lying to yourself.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

The fourth time you meet Nightwing, you’re not actually in danger.

You’re on your building’s roof (the landlord finally fixed the fire escape, but you’ve developed trust issues), lying on a blanket and looking at the stars. Or trying to. Light pollution in Bludhaven means you can see maybe seven stars on a good night, and most of them are probably planes.

“You know,” a voice says from behind you, “most people would consider this suspicious behavior.”

You don’t even flinch. Of course he would show up. Of course.

“Most people don’t live in my apartment,” you say, not sitting up. “My upstairs neighbor is having extremely loud makeup sex, my downstairs neighbor is learning the drums, and the person across the hall is watching what I think is the entire Fast and Furious franchise at maximum volume. I’m seeking refuge.”

Nightwing moves into your peripheral vision, then sits down on your blanket without asking. The casual intimacy of it makes your breath catch.

“All at once?” He asks.

“The universe coordinated it specifically to drive me to the roof. Where I will probably be struck by lightning or hit by a meteor.”

“Still not how lightning works.”

“And yet, you keep showing up during my disasters. What’s your excuse this time?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and when you finally turn your head to look at him, he’s staring up at the sky with an expression you can’t quite read.

“No excuse,” he admits. “I was patrolling nearby and saw you up here. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Checking on ATM girl? I’m touched. Truly.” But your voice is softer than usual, missing its typical sardonic edge. “I’m fine. Well, as fine as I ever am. No muggers, no collapsing structures, no stuck elevators. Just me and the seven visible stars.”

“Eight,” he says, pointing. “That one’s really faint, but it’s there.”

You look where he’s indicating and squint. “If you say so. I’ll take your word for it, since you seem to have superhuman vision along with superhuman acrobatics.”

“Just good training.”

“Right. Training. That you definitely do as part of your regular person job that’s definitely not related to being a billionaire or anything.”

“I never said I was a billionaire.”

“You also never said you weren’t.”

He laughs, and shifts slightly closer. You can feel the warmth of him now, even through his suit. “You’re very suspicious.”

“I’m very realistic. People don’t become vigilantes because they had a super normal childhood and well adjusted emotional regulation.” You pause. “No offense.”

“None taken. You’re not wrong.” He’s quiet for a beat. “You want to know something?”

“Is it your secret identity? Because I should warn you, I’m terrible at keeping secrets. I once accidentally told my coworker that another coworker was pregnant before she announced it, and I didn’t talk for three months out of shame.”

“Not my secret identity.” He sounds amused. “I was going to say that I actually look forward to running into you.”

Your heart does a complicated somersault. “You look forward to me nearly dying? That’s kind of dark.”

“I look forward to talking to you.” He turns to face you properly, and even in the darkness, you can see the curve of his smile. “You’re real. No filter, no performance. Just genuinely, refreshingly honest about how absurd everything is.”

“That’s just depression with better marketing.”

“It’s not, though.” He’s closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of color in his mask, the slight stubble on his jaw. “You keep showing up. You keep trying. You’re watering that terrible tomato plant and taking elevators and lying on roofs looking for stars. That’s not giving up. That’s the opposite of giving up.”

You swallow hard. “You’re doing the poetic assessment thing again.”

“Is it working?”

“I’m not sure. My emotional processing system has been out of order since 2016.”

But you’re not pulling away. Neither is he.

“Can I tell you something?” You hear yourself say. “And you can’t make fun of me.”

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would, but I’m going to tell you anyway.” You take a breath. “I think I’m starting to actually look forward to the disasters. Because at least then I get to see you.”

The silence that follows feels enormous, stretching between you like something physical. You’re about to take it back, laugh it off, blame it on the drums and the makeup sex and the Fast and Furious franchise-

“Good,” he says quietly. “Because I’ve been taking extra patrols through this neighborhood for two weeks hoping to run into you.”

Oh.

Oh.

“That’s very inefficient crime fighting,” you whisper.

“I’m okay with that.”

He’s so close now. You can see the way his chest rises and falls, the slight curve of his lips, the angle of his jaw. Your hand moves without permission, reaching up to trace the edge of his mask.

“Can I-”

“Not yet,” he says, but he catches your hand and holds it against his cheek. “Soon. I promise. But not yet.”

“Okay.” And it is, somehow. Okay. “This is insane. You know that, right? I don’t even know your name.”

“You know me, though.” His thumb traces circles on your wrist. “You know the important parts.”

“I know you have good teeth and a concerning habit of showing up during my worst moments.”

“Your most interesting moments.”

“Same thing, in my life.”

He laughs, and then he’s leaning in, and you’re leaning in, and-

An alarm goes off somewhere in the distance. Police sirens. Something that sounds like gunshots.

He pulls back with a sigh that sounds genuinely regretful. “I have to go.”

“Of course you do. Crime never sleeps, and neither does my terrible luck with timing.”

But he’s standing, getting ready to grapple away, and you’re standing too, and before he goes he turns back and cups your face with one gloved hand.

“Same time next week?” He asks. “Same roof?”

“You’re scheduling our coincidental meetings now? That seems very organized for a spontaneous vigilante.”

“Call it hope wearing a disguise.”

He’s gone before you can respond, flipping off the roof with that impossible grace, and you’re left standing there with your hand pressed to your cheek where he touched you, smiling like an idiot at the seven- no, eight- stars.

This is dangerous, you think.

This is terrifying.

This is exactly the kind of thing that will definitely end in disaster.

You can’t wait.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You're getting mugged again.

"I told you," you say to Nightwing as he drops from the fire escape above, landing between you and the two men who'd cornered you outside the 24-hour bodega. "I told you lightning strikes twice in Bludhaven. It's been exactly three months."

One of the muggers makes a run for it immediately. The other one pulls out a knife, which seems optimistic given that Nightwing was in the news for taking down an entire robbery crew last week with what you're pretty sure was just a pair of escrima sticks and audacity.

"You were counting?" Nightwing asks, disarming the guy with a move so fast you barely see it. The knife clatters into a storm drain. The mugger wisely chooses to follow his friend's lead and runs.

"I have a very specific relationship with probability and disaster." You hold up the energy drink you'd been buying. "I was just getting caffeine for my night shift. Is that too much to ask? One energy drink without a felony?"

He turns to you, and even though it's been three months of scheduled roof meetings (and several unscheduled disaster interventions), your stomach still does that stupid flip when he looks at you.

"You okay?" He asks, like always.

"Physically fine. Emotionally processing the fact that you either have a tracker on me or the universe is actively coordinating our meet-cutes through crime." You pause. "Wait. You don't have a tracker on me, right?"

"No tracker. I was two blocks away when I heard yelling."

"My yelling specifically, or just general Bludhaven yelling? Because there's a lot of ambient yelling in this city."

He steps closer, does that thing where he checks you over for injuries even though you've told him you're fine. His hands hover near your shoulders, not quite touching. "Your yelling has a specific quality."

"Is it the desperation? The resignation? The underlying notes of 'I knew this would happen'?"

"It's distinctive." His lips twitch. "You want me to walk you home?"

"Nightwing, it's three blocks. Surely there's actual crime happening somewhere that needs your attention more than my tragic walk of shame back to my apartment."

"Humor me."

So you do, because you're weak and he's looking at you like that, and honestly, your Tuesday (of course it's a fucking Tuesday) is already so absurd that adding a vigilante escort service barely registers.

You walk in silence for half a block before he speaks. "How's the tomato plant?"

"Dying. Finally gave up last week. I'm weirdly proud of it for lasting eight months though. That's longer than most of my relationships."

"You're in a relationship with your tomato plant?"

"Was. It's complicated. We wanted different things. It wanted proper drainage and sunlight. I wanted it to not be a metaphor for my inability to nurture living things."

He's laughing now, that warm sound you've become maybe slightly addicted to over the past few months. Your roof meetings have become the highlight of your week, even though you're both pretending they're casual. Even though you're both pretending that the almost-kiss from that first night didn't fundamentally alter something in the space between you.

"I got a new plant," you admit. "A cactus. The guy at the store said it was indestructible."

"How long has it been?"

"Four days."

"And?"

"It's looking suspicious. I think it's plotting something."

You've reached your building. The one with the formerly broken fire escape, the drum learning neighbor, and the upstairs couple who have apparently decided that their relationship drama is a communal experience.

You should go inside. He should go stop crime. This is where the night should end.

"So," you say instead, because you're bad at good decisions. "Thursday. Roof. Same time?"

"Wouldn't miss it." But he's not leaving. He's standing there, closer than necessary, and the streetlight is flickering (because of course it is), and something in his posture has shifted.

"What?" You ask.

"Nothing. Just..." He reaches up, almost touches your face, then drops his hand. "Be careful. Please."

"Careful? You do remember who you're talking to, right? I'm the fire escape girl. The elevator disaster. The woman who gets mugged on a schedule."

"Exactly." And there's something in his voice now, something that makes your breath catch. "So be careful. Because I..." He stops, shakes his head. "Thursday. Don't be late."

He's gone before you can ask what he was going to say, grappling up into the darkness, and you're left standing there wondering if it's possible to have your heart broken by someone whose real name you don't even know.

(It is. You're pretty sure it is.)

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

Thursday arrives with all the enthusiasm of a dental appointment.

You're on the roof at 10 pm sharp, because apparently you're the kind of person who's punctual for secret meetings with a masked vigilante now. The blanket is spread out. You've brought snacks this time- chips, because you're not fancy, and two cans of the fancy lemonade from the bodega that doesn't get robbed as frequently.

He's late.

By 10:15, you're starting to worry, which is a new and uncomfortable feeling. Usually you're worried about yourself and your own impending disasters. Worrying about someone else requires emotional bandwidth you're not sure you have.

By 10:30, you're pacing.

By 10:45, you're googling "Bludhaven crime news" on your phone, which is probably exactly what you shouldn't be doing but your anxiety brain has never been good at following directions.

At 11:07, he lands on the roof, and you're on your feet immediately.

"You're late," you say, and it comes out more scared than annoyed. "You're never late."

"I know. I'm sorry. There was a thin- " He stops, and even in the darkness you can see something's wrong. He's favoring his left side. There's a tear in his suit near his ribs.

"You're hurt." It's not a question.

"It's nothing. Just- "

"Sit down." You're already moving toward him, hands hovering uselessly because you have no idea what to do with an injured vigilante but you need to do something. "Sit down right now or I swear I'll- I don't know what I'll do, but it'll be annoying."

He sits, probably more from surprise than actual obedience. You kneel beside him, trying to assess the damage through the suit.

"It's really not that bad," he says, but his voice is tight with pain. "I've had worse."

"That's not as comforting as you think it is." Your hands are shaking. When did your hands start shaking? "What do I do? Do you have a first aid kit? Do you need a hospital? Should I call Batman?"

"Please don't call Batman."

"I don't even know how to call Batman. That was an empty threat." You're rambling now, the words spilling out in a rush. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to help you. I barely know how to help myself. I once put a band-aid on upside down- "

"Hey." His hand catches yours, stops the flailing. "Breathe."

You breathe. It doesn't help.

"I have supplies in my belt," he says calmly. "Just need to... patch it up. It's honestly not serious."

"You have a hole in your suit. There's blood. That seems serious."

"I've had worse nights." But he's pulling out a first aid kit that's somehow compact enough to fit in his utility belt, wincing as he moves.

You take it from him before he can argue. "Let me. Please. I need- " Your voice cracks. "I need to help. I need to do something."

He looks at you for a long moment, and then nods.

His suit has some kind of panel near the injury that peels back, revealing a gash along his ribs that makes your stomach turn. It's not as deep as you feared, but it's definitely more than "nothing."

"Knife?" You ask, focusing on the injury instead of the implications, instead of the fact that this man you've been slowly falling for risks his life every single night.

"Broken glass, actually. Went through a window."

"Consensually or...?"

"The window was very against it."

You laugh, because the alternative is crying, and you carefully clean the wound with the supplies from his kit. He doesn't flinch, which is somehow more concerning than if he had.

"You do this a lot," you say quietly. It's not a question.

"More than I'd like."

"And you just... patch yourself up and go back out the next night."

"Usually."

You're applying butterfly bandages now, careful and methodical, trying not to think about how this could have been worse. How it could always be worse.

"Why?" The word comes out smaller than you intended. "Why do you do this?"

He's quiet while you finish bandaging, and you think maybe he won't answer. Then: "Someone has to."

"That's not an answer. That's a deflection."

"You're getting good at reading me."

"You're getting easier to read." You sit back, surveying your work. It's not pretty, but it'll hold. "Or maybe I'm just paying more attention than I should be."

"Is that what you think? That you're paying too much attention?"

You look up at him, and even with the mask, even in the darkness, you can feel the intensity of his gaze.

"I don't know what I think anymore," you admit. "Three months ago, I was just a person who got mugged sometimes and had a dying tomato plant. Now I'm the person who waits on roofs and worries when you're late and apparently knows how to do field dressing for vigilante injuries. I don't know how that happened."

"I do." His hand comes up, cups your face like he did that first night. "You kept showing up."

"You literally scheduled the meetings."

"You could have said no."

"Could I have?" Your voice is barely a whisper now. "Because I don't think I could have. I don't think I can. And that's terrifying."

"Why terrifying?"

"Because you're- " You gesture at him, at the suit, at the fresh bandage on his ribs. "This. All of this. You jump off buildings and fight criminals and apparently go through windows. You're not safe. This isn't safe. And I'm- I'm a person who expects the worst because the worst usually happens, but somehow you've become the exception and I don't know what to do with that."

His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "What if I told you I'm terrified too?"

"You? You're Nightwing. You're not afraid of anything."

"I'm afraid of you not being here next Thursday." The words are quiet, honest, devastating. "I'm afraid of you deciding this is too complicated. Too dangerous. Too- "

You kiss him.

It's not graceful. You basically just lean forward and press your mouth to his, cutting off his words, and for a second he's too surprised to respond. Then his hand slides into your hair and he's kissing you back, and oh, this is-

This is nice.

You break apart after a moment that feels both infinite and far too short. You're breathing hard, and he is too, and you're still close enough to count his heartbeats.

"That was..." he starts.

"Impulsive? Stupid? A terrible idea given the circumstances?"

"I was going to say worth waiting for."

You laugh, and it comes out shaky. "You're bleeding through your bandage and I just kissed you. This is the most Bludhaven romance ever."

"Is that what this is? A romance?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

He leans his forehead against yours, careful of the mask. "I want it to be."

"Even though I'm a disaster?"

"Because you're a disaster. My favorite disaster." He pulls back just enough to look at you. "I need to tell you something. Soon. About... everything. Who I am. But not tonight. Not when I'm- "

"Bleeding and probably concussed?"

"I'm not concussed."

"You went through a window. You're at least mildly concussed."

"Fair point." He's smiling though, even through the pain. " I'll tell you everything. Soon. I promise."

"Everything?"

"Everything you want to know."

You should be scared. This is the part where your pessimistic brain should kick in, should start listing all the ways this will inevitably end badly. But looking at him now, at the way he's looking at you like you're something precious instead of just another disaster in motion...

"Okay," you say. "Okay. I'll see you next Thursday. But if you're late again, I'm implementing a three strike policy."

"What happens after three strikes?"

"I'll have to actually learn your name through investigative journalism. It'll be very embarrassing for both of us."

He laughs, then winces. "You should go. Get some sleep. I'll watch you get inside safely."

"You'll watch me walk down one flight of stairs?"

"Humor me."

So you do, gathering your blanket and your unopened snacks, and when you reach the roof door you look back. He's still sitting there, hand pressed to his ribs, watching you with that impossible attention.

"Be careful," you call back. "Please."

"You first."

"That's statistically unlikely, but I'll try."

You're smiling as you head down the stairs, heart racing, lips still tingling, completely terrified and completely sure all at once.

This is definitely going to end in disaster.

But maybe- just maybe- it'll be the good kind.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

Nightwing hands you an envelope.

You're on your usual rooftop, and he drops down from seemingly nowhere, landing in that cat like crouch that should be illegal in terms of sheer attractiveness. You've been seeing each other- if you can call these rooftop rendezvous "seeing each other"- for almost four months now, and your heart still does that stupid flutter thing every time he appears.

"I have something for you," he says, and there's a nervous energy to him that's new.

"If it's another apology for having to leave mid-kiss last week because of a police scanner, I'm going to start charging you per interruption."

"It's not that." He sits next to you and pulls out a cream colored envelope, expensive looking, with your name written on it in actual calligraphy. "I want you to come to something."

You take the envelope like it might explode. "Is this a ransom note? A summons? A very formal breakup letter?"

"Just open it."

You do, and your brain immediately short-circuits.

You are cordially invited to the Wayne Foundation Annual Charity Gala...

"This is- " You look up at him, then back at the invitation. "This is a joke, right? This is fake. You printed this at like, a FedEx or something."

"It's real."

"Nightwing. This is a Wayne gala. As in Bruce Wayne. As in billionaire Bruce Wayne. As in- " You wave the invitation. "There's no way this is real. These things are invite only for like, celebrities and politicians and people who own multiple yachts."

"I know."

"So this is definitely fake."

He takes off one of his gloves and reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "It's real. I want you there. I want..." He pauses, and you can see him gathering courage. "I want you to meet me. The real me. Not just the mask."

Your heart is doing dangerous things. "You're going to be there? At a Wayne gala?"

"Yeah."

"As yourself. Your real self."

"Yeah."

"And you're either Bruce Wayne's secret son, or you're about to tell me you're Batman, or- " You stop. "Oh my god, are you Batman? Is that why you said you only have six things in your utility belt? Is it a budget thing or a 'I'm actually just a vigilante with a day job' thing?"

He's laughing now, soft and genuine. "I'm not Batman. But yes, I'll be there. And I want you there too. If you want to come."

"This is insane."

"Probably."

"This is going to be a disaster."

"Maybe."

"I don't have anything to wear to a Wayne gala. I can't exactly show up in my 'I Survived Bludhaven' tshirt and jeggings."

"You'll figure something out." He squeezes your hand. "Please? I know it's scary, and I know this is all backwards and weird, but- "

"Okay."

He stops. "Okay?"

"Okay. I'll come." You look at the invitation again, at the embossed Wayne logo, at the date that's only three days away. "I'm going to regret this. This is going to end terribly. But okay."

He kisses you then, deep and relieved and tasting like promises that you're terrified to believe in.

"Saturday night," he says against your lips. "Wayne Manor. Seven pm."

"I'll be the one having a panic attack in the corner."

"I'll find you."

After he leaves, you sit on the roof for another hour, holding the invitation and trying to convince yourself it's real.

It's probably fake, you think.

This is definitely a prank.

There's no way this ends well.

Saturday arrives with all the inevitability of a dental appointment.

You've spent the last three days having a sustained, low level panic attack. You went to every thrift store in Bludhaven and finally found a dress that doesn't look like it was donated after someone's divorce in 1987. It's black, because you're not ambitious enough for color, and it fits reasonably well if you don't breathe too deeply. It cost $27, which is $20 more than you've ever spent on a single item of clothing.

You've paired it with shoes you already owned (black flats with a scuff on the toe that you colored in with Sharpie) and a small purse you borrowed from your coworker who asked exactly zero questions, bless her.

You look in the mirror and see exactly what you are: a person in a discount dress pretending to be someone who belongs at a Wayne gala.

"This is fine," you tell your reflection. "This is totally fine. The invitation is probably fake anyway, and you'll get turned away at the door, and you can go home and eat ice cream and never think about this again."

The invitation sits on your counter, looking aggressively real.

You grab it, grab your purse, and head out before you can talk yourself out of it.

Wayne Manor is exactly as intimidating as you imagined, which is to say: very.

The uber driver drops you off at the end of a long driveway that probably costs more than your entire apartment building. There are actual literal limousines pulling up to the entrance. You can see people in gowns that cost more than your yearly salary stepping out with the kind of casual grace that comes from never having worried about rent.

"This is fine," you mutter, walking up the driveway because there's no way you're asking to be driven up like you belong here. "This is totally fine. The bouncer will definitely kick you out and then you can go home."

But when you reach the entrance, holding out your invitation like a shield, the man in the tuxedo just smiles and says, "Welcome, miss. Enjoy your evening."

And then you're inside.

Wayne Manor is obscene. There's no other word for it. The foyer alone is bigger than your apartment, with marble floors and a chandelier that probably costs more than a small country's GDP. Beautiful people in beautiful clothes are everywhere, holding champagne glasses and laughing with the kind of ease that comes from never having checked their bank account before buying groceries.

You are immediately, viscerally aware of every single flaw in your discount dress.

The woman next to you is wearing something that shimmers like starlight and probably has a designer name you can't pronounce. Her jewelry is real. Her hair is professionally styled. She smells like expensive perfume.

You smell like the lavender body spray you got on sale at Target.

"This was a mistake," you whisper to yourself. "This was absolutely a mistake."

You're about to turn around and leave, invitation be damned, Nightwing be damned, your own curiosity be damned, when a waiter appears with a tray of champagne.

"Would you care for a drink, miss?"

You take one because it's free and you're definitely going to need alcohol to get through whatever fresh humiliation this evening has planned.

The champagne is good. Annoyingly good. Even the alcohol here is fancier than you.

You drift through the crowd like a ghost, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, trying not to draw attention to your discount dress and your Sharpie-ed shoes. You find a corner near an elaborate flower arrangement (are those orchids? those are definitely orchids. you killed one once) and try to blend into the wallpaper.

This is fine. You'll stay for twenty minutes, drink your fancy champagne, and then leave. Nightwing was probably joking anyway. Or maybe he forgot. Or maybe-

"Excuse me," a voice says, and you turn to find a woman in a red dress that probably costs more than your car would if you had a car. "Are you here alone?"

"Um." You clutch your champagne. "Yes?"

"Oh, how lovely! I'm Caroline Whitmore. My husband is on the board of the Wayne Foundation." She gestures vaguely at a man across the room who's wearing a tux that fits him like a second skin. "Is this your first Wayne gala?"

"Is it that obvious?"

She laughs, but it's not unkind. "A little. You have that 'deer in headlights' look. Don't worry, everyone feels that way their first time. The Waynes can be a bit... overwhelming."

"That's one word for it," you mutter into your champagne.

"The trick is to just enjoy the free food and avoid Bruce Wayne's new girlfriend. She's dreadful." Caroline leans in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I think he just dates models because he doesn't know how to have a real conversation."

You're saved from having to respond by a commotion near the entrance. The crowd shifts, and you can feel the energy in the room change, the way everyone's attention suddenly focuses on one point.

"Oh, there they are," Caroline says. "The Wayne family. They always make an entrance."

You shouldn't look. You should stay in your corner with your champagne and your discount dress and your existential dread.

But of course you look.

Bruce Wayne enters first looking exactly like the billionaire playboy philanthropist he's famous for being. Tall, handsome in a way that's almost aggressive, wearing a tux that probably costs more than your entire life.

Behind him is a younger man who looks uncomfortable in his suit, dark haired and scowling. Then another man, broader, with a white streak in his hair and an expression that suggests he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Another younger man who’s looking down at his phone and looks like he hasn’t slept since the day he was born.

And then-

And then-

Your champagne glass slips from your hand.

It hits the marble floor with a crash that echoes through the sudden silence, and everyone- every single person in the room- turns to look at you.

But you're not looking at them.

You're looking at the man who just walked in behind Bruce Wayne. Dark hair that sticks up in a way that's immediately, devastatingly familiar. A smile that you've seen in moonlight and shadows, now displayed under the crystal chandelier. A suit that's perfectly tailored to a body you've traced with your hands on rooftop meetings.

He's looking right at you.

And you know.

You know.

"Oh my god," you whisper. "Dick Grayson."

Because of course Nightwing is Dick Grayson. Of course he's Bruce Wayne's ward, the former circus performer turned billionaire's son, the golden boy of Gotham society.

Of course you've been making out with someone who's probably worth more than the entire city of Bludhaven.

Caroline is saying something about the broken glass, and a waiter is rushing over, but you can't hear any of it because Dick Grayson-Nightwing- is walking toward you.

The crowd parts for him like he's Moses and they're the Red Sea.

He stops in front of you, and up close, without the mask, you can see his eyes. Blue. Bright blue. The same eyes that have looked at you with concern and humor and heat.

"Hi," he says, and his voice is the same, exactly the same. "You made it."

"I- " Your brain is offline. Completely offline. "You're Dick Grayson."

"Yeah."

"The Dick Grayson. The- the son of Bruce Wayne. The- "

"Technically adopted son, but yeah."

"I've been kissing Dick Grayson on my roof."

He grins. "You have been."

"I told you that you were probably rich and you lied."

"I said I never said I was a billionaire," he points out. "Technically true. Bruce is the billionaire. I just have access to his credit cards."

"That's-you-" You look around at the crowd that's definitely, absolutely watching this entire interaction. At the broken champagne glass at your feet. At your discount dress next to his designer tux. "I'm going to pass out."

"Please don't." He takes your hand, the same way he has on the roof, his thumb finding that spot on your wrist that always makes you shiver. "Come on. Let's get you some air."

"I broke a glass. There's-I should clean that up. I should- "

"The staff will handle it." He's already guiding you through the crowd, past the staring faces and the whispered comments. Past Bruce Wayne, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Past the scowling boy and the man with the white streak and the teen that’s no longer looking at his phone but looking at you in curiosity.

He leads you out to a balcony that overlooks the grounds, and the cool night air hits your face like a slap.

"Okay," he says, turning to face you. "You can yell now."

"I can't yell. I'm at a Wayne gala. There are probably rules about yelling."

"There are definitely rules about yelling, but I'm giving you permission to break them."

You stare at him. At Dick Grayson. At Nightwing. At the man you've been falling for without knowing he's literally famous, literally rich, literally everything you're not.

"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress," you say finally.

He blinks. "Okay?"

"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress from a thrift store, and my shoes have Sharpie on them, and I colored in the scuff mark this morning because I don't own fancy shoes. Everyone in there is wearing clothes that cost more than my rent, and I'm- I'm- "

"Beautiful," he says simply. "You're beautiful."

"I'm a disaster."

"You're my favorite disaster."

And despite everything- despite the humiliation and the broken glass and the fact that you're definitely the poorest person at this gala- you laugh.

"This is insane," you say. "This is actually insane. I've been dating- are we dating? I don't even know if we're dating- I've been something with Dick Grayson and I didn't even know it."

"We're dating," he confirms. "Definitely dating. I'm not in the habit of having regularly scheduled rooftop makeout sessions with people I'm not dating."

"Your life is so weird."

"Says the woman who critiques muggers while they're actively mugging her."

You're about to respond, about to say something about how at least your weird is normal weird, not billionaire vigilante weird, when there's a commotion from inside.

Not the normal gala commotion. Something else.

Something wrong.

Dick's entire posture changes, his body going taut in a way you recognize from when he's in the suit.

"Stay here," he says.

"Yeah, that's not ominous at all."

But he's already moving back toward the ballroom, and you follow because of course you do, because the universe has never let you make smart decisions.

The scene inside is chaos.

The lights are flickering. People are screaming. And standing in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by henchmen in matching green suits, is a man with a purple suit, a cane, and a smile that makes your skin crawl.

The Riddler.

Because of course. Of course this gala is being crashed by a Batman rogue. Of course this is happening.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The Riddler's voice carries across the ballroom with theatrical flair. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything important. Though I suppose that depends on your definition of 'important,' doesn't it? After all, what's more important: champagne and canapés, or the answer to a riddle that could save your lives?"

You're frozen in the doorway. Dick is next to you, and you can see him calculating, planning, probably figuring out how to get to wherever he keeps his Nightwing suit stashed.

"Here's the riddle," the Riddler continues, twirling his cane. "What has hands but cannot clap, a face but cannot smile, and tells you when it's time to die?"

The crowd is silent, terrified.

And you-

You can't help yourself.

"A clock," you say.

It's not loud. It's barely more than a mutter.

But in the terrified silence, it carries.

The Riddler's head snaps toward you. "What was that?"

"I said it's a clock." Your voice is stronger now, because apparently when faced with mortal peril, your anxiety manifests as mouthy confidence. "The answer is a clock. It has hands, it has a face, and depending on your philosophical relationship with mortality, it tells you when you're going to die. Although technically, that's more metaphorical than- "

The Riddler stops in front of you, studying you with unsettling intensity. "You're not afraid."

"Oh, I'm terrified. I'm just also really annoyed because I was about to have a whole crisis about dating someone out of my league, and now you're here with your- " You gesture vaguely at his outfit. "Your whole situation, and I have to deal with that instead."

There's a beat of absolute silence.

Then Dick makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob.

"You're dating someone?" The Riddler looks delighted. "How wonderful! And who might this lucky person be?"

"That's really none of your business, but thanks for the interest in my personal life. Very invested for a supervillain." You pause, and your brain- your traitorous, anxiety ridden brain- decides this is the perfect time to keep talking. "Actually, you know what? Can I ask you something?"

Dick's hand tightens on your arm. "Please don't- "

"Why are you even doing this?" You gesture at the terrified crowd, the henchmen, the whole hostage situation. "The crime thing. You're clearly intelligent. Like, really intelligent. Your riddles are actually good, which is more than I can say for most people's riddles. Why aren't you running an escape room empire or something?"

The Riddler stops. Blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Escape rooms!" You're on a roll now, your anxiety manifesting as what can only be described as aggressive career counseling. "Think about it! You could corner the entire market! You're already creating elaborate puzzles and death traps; just make them non lethal and charge people seventy five dollars a head to try to solve them. People LOVE that stuff. You'd be rich in like, six months. Plus, you'd get to feel superior to everyone who can't solve your puzzles, which seems like a big thing for you- no offense- and it would be completely legal!"

The entire ballroom is silent. Even the henchmen look confused.

The Riddler is staring at you like you've just spoken in an alien language.

"You- " He stops. Starts again. "You think I should open an escape room?"

"Not an escape room. Multiple escape rooms. A franchise. 'Nygma's Enigmas' or something. Trademark it. Get investors. Go on Shark Tank. You could be a millionaire legitimately, and you'd get to watch people fail at your puzzles all day, every day, and they'd literally be PAYING you for the privilege. It's the perfect business model for someone with your specific skillset and psychological needs!"

"I- " The Riddler looks genuinely taken aback. "I have never- "

"And think about the branding opportunities! Merchandise! Puzzle books! A YouTube channel where you explain how people failed! You could be internet famous! Do you know how much money internet famous people make? A LOT. More than you're probably getting from- " You gesture at the current hostage situation. "Whatever this is supposed to accomplish."

"She has a point," one of the henchmen mutters.

The Riddler spins to glare at him. "Whose side are you on?"

"I'm just saying, boss, the last three jobs haven't really paid that well- "

"SILENCE!"

"Plus, the Bat keeps catching us," another henchman adds. "An escape room business would have way better job security- "

"Are my henchmen seriously discussing CAREER CHANGES in the middle of a HEIST?"

"It's not a bad idea," a third henchman says thoughtfully. "My cousin runs an escape room in Metropolis. He cleared six figures last year."

"Yeah, and he doesn't get punched by Batman," the first henchman points out.

"EXACTLY," you say, pointing at them. "See? Your employees understand basic risk benefit analysis! You could offer them actual benefits! Health insurance! A 401k! Paid time off!"

Dick has given up trying to stop you. You can feel him shaking next to you, and you're pretty sure it's silent laughter.

Bruce Wayne is pinching the bridge of his nose in the background.

The Riddler looks like he's having an existential crisis. "But- but the CHALLENGE! The battle of wits with Batman! The thrill of outwitting the law!"

"You can still have that! Just make one of your escape rooms Batman themed! Make it really hard! Charge extra! He might even show up to try it, and then you get to watch him struggle with your puzzles in a legal, controlled environment! It's a win-win!"

"Batman themed," the Riddler repeats slowly.

"With like, gargoyles and batarangs and stuff. Make it super dramatic. People will eat that up. Gotham loves Batman. Merchandising nightmare, but that's what lawyers are for."

There's a long, long pause.

"That's..." The Riddler trails off. "That's actually not a terrible idea."

"RIGHT?!"

"I could create the most challenging escape rooms in the world. People would come from everywhere to test themselves against my intellect- "

"And PAY you for it!"

"And I could rate them. Publicly. On their failures- "

"Make a leaderboard! With shame tiers!"

"A SHAME LEADERBOARD." The Riddler looks genuinely excited now. "That's brilliant! That's- " He stops. Looks around at the terrified gala attendees. At his henchmen, who are all nodding enthusiastically. At you, in your twenty seven dollar dress, having just accidentally talked a supervillain into considering legitimate employment.

"This is..." He shakes his head. "This is the strangest hostage situation I've ever been in."

"Is it still a hostage situation if we're having a productive career counseling session?" You ask.

"I don't know! I've never had this happen before!"

"Well, there's a first time for everything. So, are you going to let everyone go, or..."

That's when the lights go out.

There's the familiar sounds of a Batfamily in action the thwip of grappling hooks, the thunk of escrima sticks, the crack of martial arts, and what sounds like a tiny angry Robin yelling something about "incompetent fools."

When the lights come back on, the Riddler and his henchmen are zip tied on the floor. Batman is glowering. Nightwing is clearly trying not to laugh behind his mask. Robin looks deeply offended by the entire situation.

"Did she just- " Robin starts.

"Give the Riddler career advice? Yes," Batman says flatly.

"Is that... allowed?"

"I don't think there's a protocol for this, Robin."

The Riddler, zip tied and defeated, looks up at you from the floor. "You know, in another life, I think we could have been friends."

"In another life, you could be a legitimate businessman," you counter. "It's not too late! Think about the escape rooms! Think about the shame leaderboard! If Martha Stewart can make bank after prison, so can you!”

"I AM thinking about it!" He actually sounds enthusiastic. "The possibilities are- "

"Okay, that's enough," Batman interrupts, gesturing for the GCPD. "Take him in."

As they're hauling the Riddler away, he calls back: "If I do this- if I actually do this- I'm naming you as a consultant!"

"I don't want credit for this!" You yell back.

"Too late! You're getting a percentage!"

"A percentage of WHAT?!"

"MY ESCAPE ROOM EMPIRE!"

And then he's gone, still yelling about business plans and shame leaderboards, and you're left standing in a ballroom full of Gotham's elite, having just accidentally become a business partner with a supervillain.

Dick appears at your elbow, back in his regular tux, no mask. He's grinning so wide it looks painful.

"Did you just- "

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You just convinced the Riddler to consider a legitimate career- "

"I was dissociating. My mouth just does things when I'm nervous!"

"That was the most amazing thing I've ever witnessed."

Bruce Wayne materializes on your other side. He looks at you for a long moment.

"If he actually does open an escape room franchise," Bruce says seriously, "and it keeps him out of crime, I'm writing you a recommendation letter for whatever you want."

"I don't- I can't- " You look between them. "This is insane. This whole night is insane. I came here in a thrift store dress and now I'm a business consultant for a supervillain?!"

"Twenty seven dollar dress," Dick corrects, still grinning.

"NOT THE POINT."

Caroline Whitmore appears with champagne. "Same time next year?" She asks cheerfully.

You take the champagne and down it in one go.

"Sure," you say faintly. "Why not. What else could possibly happen?"

The universe, as always, is listening.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You wake up disoriented, head full of static, and for a moment you’re convinced the entire Wayne gala was a stress induced fever dream. The ceiling above you is definitely not the water stained plaster of your apartment: this one is smooth, painted a gentle gray, and if you squint you can see tiny glow in the dark stars scattered in one corner.

There’s a slow, delicious ache in your thighs that’s definitely not from stress.

You shift, and the sheet slithers over bare skin, warm and expensive, and the motion pulls your attention to the weight at your waist; an arm, long and golden and dusted with soft brown hair, wraps you close.

Oh.

You twist, carefully and there he is: Dick Grayson, hair rumpled, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, mouth parted with the kind of sleep heavy softness that makes you want to press your face to his shoulder and never move again.

Last night comes back in flashes: his mouth on yours as the adrenaline bled out in the back seat of the car, his hands clumsy and urgent as he unlocked the door to his apartment, laughter tangled with kisses, a trail of your thrifted dress and his designer tux winding through the hall.

You’d made love with the kind of desperate relief that comes from barely surviving- again- a night that should have been a disaster but somehow wasn’t.

Dick shifts, blinking blearily, and his gaze finds you, blue and bright and so gentle you could cry.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice gravel soft with sleep. “You’re still here.”

“Wasn’t sure I would be.” You mean to say it with a laugh, but it comes out quiet, almost vulnerable.

His thumb brushes over your bare hip, slow and affectionate. “You always have a choice. You know that, right?”

You nod, trying not to melt into him. “You snore, by the way.”

He grins, no shame at all. “And you talk in your sleep. You told me the exact tax rate on laundromat quarters.”

You flush, and Dick leans in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your throat, the corner of your jaw. “It’s adorable.”

You let yourself settle against him, the two of you tucked into the soft tangle of his sheets, sun leaking in around the blackout curtains.

Dick rolls you gently onto your back, hovering over you, hair falling into his eyes. “You know what I want?” he says, voice gone low and teasing, eyes warm as sunrise.

“What’s that?”

He ducks down, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s slow, sweet, the kind you never thought you’d get from someone like him. “I want to make you breakfast. And then I want to see if you’ll let me keep you here all weekend.”

Your heart does a ridiculous, traitorous thing in your chest. “You’d get sick of me by noon.”

He nips at your jaw, grinning. “Not possible. I’m insatiable.” He punctuates it with another kiss, this one lingering, his hand sliding over your waist, palm broad and steady.

You can feel him, hard and wanting against your thigh. The temptation to tease is irresistible. “Didn’t you say you needed to rest after last night, Mr. Grayson?”

He groans, but his mouth is already sliding down your neck, teeth scraping lightly. “I lied. Or maybe you just recharge me.”

Your hands slide into his hair as he kisses down your body, worshipful, reverent. His lips find your breast, tongue circling, and his hand drifts lower, cupping your thigh, thumb stroking lazily at your skin. The ache between your legs turns electric, all soft warmth and want.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin, breath hot.

“Don’t you dare.”

He laughs quiet, and so, so happy and then his mouth is on you, slow and patient, mapping every inch. When he finally presses inside, the stretch is familiar and perfect, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him close, moving together in the drowsy gold of morning.

He presses his forehead to yours, both of you grinning like idiots.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

He kisses you, slow and sure, as if sealing a promise: “Good. Because you’re my favorite disaster.”

The sun climbs higher, and you think, for once, that maybe- just maybe- everything is exactly as it should be.

And maybe lightning didn’t strike to destroy you for once: maybe it struck to set you alight.

[cowsnotcrows]

inspired by Dick mentioning how he still does performances at a circus over the summer in the New Teen Titans :,)

[bleuesupes]

My bby ☹️☹️☹️☹️

[bleuesupes]

Wow 200+ of you little guys. Love you all 😢

[bleuesupes]

cw: nsfw, cunnilingus, munch dick grayson, yeah…

ᯓᰔ thinking about…!

munch!dick grayson who always starts in the bedroom by eating you out. No matter the situation, he’ll never—ever let you go down on him first. It’s just not right. After all, Dick’s more of a giver than a receiver and would choose your pleasure over his any day of the week.

munch!dick grayson who lovessss to bury his face between your legs every chance he gets. He doesn’t care about what he gets in return— eating you out and feeling you squirm against his face is more than enough for him.

munch!dick grayson who knows he can make you come undone in no time at all but loves to play with you and drag it out until your hands are at the back of his head, harshly pulling his mouth onto your core, whining at him to stop teasing. But, oh cut him some slack. He just can’t help himself! He absolutely adores the sounds you make and the way your thighs shake around his head. He loves the feeling of your slick against his tongue and the warmth inside. He loves to use his fingers too— stretching you out with two— sometimes three digits as his mouth busies itself with your clit.

munch!dick grayson who can get off on giving you pleasure alone. Most times he’ll have you flat on your back, himself positioned on his tummy between your legs, hips rutting gingerly into the plush of the mattress. But, don’t be fooled—Dick gets off on your sounds more than he does from the friction between him and the sheets. There’s just something about being able to make you feel good that makes him feel good.

munch!dick grayson who doesn’t care about what pathetic sounds might be coming out of him when his lips close around your clit, sucking and lapping at it with the fervour of a man starved. The filthy “mmmghh— yeah baby, y’like that?” reverberating against your clit, the sound travelling straight to your core.

munch!dick grayson who has a thing for holding you down by threading his hands under your thighs and locking them over your tummy. He just loves feeling your core muscles spasm under his touch.

munch!dick grayson who doesn’t care about the position. sit on his face, let him eat you from behind, let him flip your skirt up and do it standing in the doorway —he doesn’t care. As long as he gets to taste you, he can die a happy man.

[bleuesupes]

cw: size kink! with a certain blue and black vigilante, muscle worship, nsfw, yum

ᯓᰔ thinking about…!

Dick Grayson, who’s so big that his frame towers over yours and covers you entirely no matter the circumstance or location. Hugs from behind go crazy with this guy, with the way he practically engulfs you in his warm, beefy arms, tugging you flush to his chest and leaving a flurry of kisses across your scalp. Sometimes he’ll hold you so tight you can feel his heartbeat against your skin. The rhythmic hum—music to your ears; a warm reminder that your lover’s real.

When he drapes your legs over his shoulders, you’re harshly reminded of just how big he is…in more ways than one. Your calves take up an embarrassingly small amount of space upon his traps as he folds you in half, his cock pulsing deep inside your heat. You get lost in the blissful feeling that the drag of his length along your gummy walls brings— it’s shape bulging in your lower tummy as he pathetically whimpers something along the lines of ‘feels so good—!’ mixed in with sickeningly sweet I love you’s.

Dick Grayson, who has the thickest thighs known to man. It’s no surprise that he’s built. Everyone knows that. But it’s almost as if he’s built exactly for the purpose of making you go feral. When you sit on his lap and squish his legs under yours, a kink you didn’t realise you have begins to flourish. The sheer size difference of your legs against his rewires something in your brain. In fact, you think you short circuit. Ughhh, wouldn’t you love to take a bite of that… and you do.

Every time you get the chance. Whether it be on a lazy day where you both get to rest on the couch, or during your private moments— you always manage to find a way to worship his hard earned muscles. From reaching around to grab his thighs that slap relentlessly against yours when he takes you from behind, to soothingly rubbing the tension out of his body after his lengthier patrols. Sexual or not, Dick enjoys your antics all the same— most days, he even encourages it. He doesn’t so much as try to be subtle when he stays far too long naked after a shower or sex, or when he walks around shirtless, under the guise of the apartment being ‘too warm,’ or when he sprawls out too perfectly across your bed. The position he’d take making his adonis belt pop just right, his strong chest and shoulders glimmering from the light slipping through your curtains—like a nude model patiently awaiting your presence. If anything, Dick makes sure you get to admire all that he’s packing under the suit. After all, if you’re not getting to see him in all his glory, then who is?

[shinimontazhka]

Happy birthday to me gang 💪💪

I haven't forgotten about Invincible

[daysiesz]

pairing : dick grayson x reader

a/n : headcanons yay!!! thinking of doing a dick grayson x popstar!reader so lemme know if yall want that and have this until then <3

dick grayson!who slips into your bed at night after patrol, and gives your shoulder a good night kiss, fitting you against him like he was a puzzle piece made just for you.

dick grayson!who will be a little spoon, if it means he gets to then turn around and bury his face in your chest while you brush his hair. please let him. even though you won't be able to get up for the next two hours at least.

dick grayson!who will make dinner for you every thursday night and breakfast every sunday morning, as an apology for his odd patrol timings (and because he likes seeing your face light up at the first bite and lives to hear your pleased hum while eating it).

dick grayson!who would introduce you to his family and then climb in after patrol only to see jason got there first all the way from gotham and was sitting with you on the couch, helmet off, suit still on, talking about the book you recommended him.

dick grayson!who puts up with your relentless teasing and harmless sarcasm, just to see the childlike joy on your face when he reacts dramatically. just to hear your unfiltered laugh slip out and sustain him for another second.

dick grayson!who was thinking of buying a ring two months into your relationship, because he knew he would never even look at anyone else. jason got him to think for just two seconds, but another three months went by and he knew it was pointless. hell, he helped pick out the ring himself.

[saltyjoy]

Too Little, Too Late

Jason Todd x Female Reader, Dick Grayson x Female Reader (Unrequited)

This can be read as a standalone! However, if you want to check out the other parts click here (personally I’d recommend at least part 1): Part 1 Alternate Ending (Dick Grayson)

Summary: There was a point where you liked Dick Grayson as a kid, but you knew he never reciprocated those feelings, so you forced yourself to move on. When Dick finds out years later, he can't help but feel conflicted. Struggling with his own feelings, he wonders if he is too late to figure out his own. Do you still love him, or does he need to win your heart back? In theory, this shouldn't be too difficult. However, he doesn't realize that there may be competition for your affection.

Word Count: 26.6k

Warnings/Tags: Lots and lots of banter and dialogue, kinda slow, happy ending for Reader and Jason, not for Dick lol, premise sounds kinda angsty but there’s lots of silly stuff in it, breaking and entering, inaccurate lock picking, just generally expect grammar errors it’s too long to be perfect lol

A/N: I'll make a separate post. This fic reached Tumblr's post length limit lmao. All I will say is that my requests are now open! Check out the rules and send a few :D! Okay enjoy :)))

DC Masterlist

-

Tonight wasn't going as planned, but to be fair, it rarely did.

Jason had noticed that recently, the drug trade throughout the city had spiked. While it had initially appeared in Crime Alley, it didn't take long for it to spread throughout Gotham entirely. He wasn't sure who exactly was responsible for it. After all, the list of potential suspects was a mile long.

He'd been stationed in Coventry, attempting to get scraps of information. After days of dead ends, the city took pity on him and threw him a bone. Apparently, a truck shipment was supposed to be heading through the Upper East Side around midnight. The dealer he questioned told him that it'd be leaving from a warehouse a couple blocks down. He set off without hesitation. They didn't expect him. This could be the best shot for him to catch them off guard.

It wasn't long before he found it. He slipped in unnoticed (nobody ever thinks to look up), kneeling on top of the truck with no issues.

"Don't stop for nothin'." Goon One gestured towards his buddy in a "I'm watching you" motion.

"Hm, what about the Bats?" The other guy, Goon Two, crossed his arms, nose scrunching at the first guy's words. He lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out onto his face.

Goon One swat the smoke away, "We should have somebody distracting them up by Newtown or Crime Alley, somewhere in that area. I can't remember. Truthfully, we're just trying to get Red Hood off our ass for a night." Goon One climbed into the truck's driver's seat.

"I'm telling you! It wasn't worth dealing to them kids to get his attention on us." Goon Two threw his hands up, tossing the cigarette onto the ground and stomping out the ashes. He ran his fingers through his hair, visibly distressed. Jason absently noted that both of them were easily identifiable. They had no masks, and one of them had visible tattoos of a dragon curled on the side of his neck. Amateur mistake, but Jason wasn't complaining. It made his job a whole lot easier.

He felt the truck shake as it started up. He carefully crouched towards the front of it, looking down the windshield to see the goons still in there. Their voices are muffled, but they are so loud that Jason can still hear them. Somebody doesn't know how to use their inside voice.

"Relax, man." They started to pull out of the warehouse, and Jason made sure to keep his balance on the truck. "It'll be a clean job tonight."

Goon Two scoffed, "Yeah! I'm sure you'll be saying that when Hood comes crashing down onto our windshield." Jason smirks under his helmet, these guys have no fucking idea.

"Christ, dude, you act like he's out for your hide specifically!" They started pulling onto the main road. Jason latched his hands onto the corners of the vehicle, securing himself to it.

"I'm telling you! He's gonna know it was me who was dealing to those kids by Brentwood!"

"Can he blame us though? Those kids pay up." They turn onto a different street. Jason scanned the area, not as much traffic as the main road. If he's gonna bust them, now is the golden opportunity. He adjusts his jacket, preparing for impact.

Inevitably, they slow down. Just before they come to a stop he decides to act. He uses the boost of momentum to propel himself onto the windshield, shattering it.

"HOLY SHIT!" Goon One presses on the gas, swerving to the side, nearly slamming Jason into a nearby store. Luckily, he moves off the vehicle before they get that chance.

"How'd you know I was gonna go for the windshield?" Jason called out, smirking as he loaded his Glock with rubber bullets.

"Dude, DRIVE—"

"YOU DON'T THINK I'M TRYING?!" Goon One snapped back, attempting to reverse the truck away from the massive dent in the (now-decimated) store.

Jason strolls casually over to the truck, knowing it won't get very far. The shattered glass beneath his feet clinks under his boots as he slowly approaches the vehicle. He doesn't get too close though because—

"OH FUCK!" Goon Two cried out as the vehicle was propelled upward by an explosion, causing it to land on its side. The entire back half of the truck was bathed in bright incandescent flames, but— Jason noted— it hadn't spread to the front yet.

Jason saunters over to the front, noting the lack of a windshield. He tilted his head down the side of the tilted vehicle to see the two goons still inside, coughing. Hastily, they unbuckled themselves and crawled through the shattered glass, garnering sharp cuts with each movement. Eventually, they distanced themselves from the burning vehicle, laying sprawled, face up, and eyes closed on the pavement. Then they open them, only to be greeted with his body towering over their own.

Jason gives them a malicious smirk behind his helmet. "Hey, I don't think you can park here." He gestures his thumb towards the flaming truck.

Goon One's brow turned down, his lips scrunched up in such a disdainful glower that Jason was almost impressed. He spat towards Jason's boot, missing it. "Fuckin' bastard. Thought you was busy in Crime Alley."

"Well, now I'm busy here." Jason took his boot, placing it over the guys ear. "Now, how about we talk? I gotta few questions for you two."

"Hold it right there, Hood." Jason turned, unsurprised by the new voice, towards the dozen of armed men surrounding him.

"I'll take that as a no." Jason pressed down harder onto the guy's head, the goon let out a small whimper at the pressure.

"How about you leave my buddy alone, and we'll make this quick." One of the new guys said, turning his pistol's safety lock off.

Now, Jason isn't stupid. While he knows he could take these guys down, he also knows he's extremely outnumbered. Typically, anybody would say that in this case, the odds are against him.

He knew something like this would likely happen. He can't imagine that transporting such precious cargo would go without safety precautions. He realized early on that whatever caused this spike in the drug trade wouldn't vanish over night; he had to play the long game.

While intercepting the truck was a bonus, the real point of this was to find the base of operations. It was to find where this started and who they reported to. It's why he went out of his way to go get a special smoke bomb from Bruce.

Okay, he didn't actually ask Bruce, but that's besides the point. He had gone into the cave a couple weeks ago, not knowing anybody would be there, let alone you. Jason immediately recognized you, though. There was a point in time where all Dick would do was rave about you. It was honestly a little annoying, but it was all worth it the moment he cut you off in the middle of your introduction. The way your mouth parted in surprise, like a fish out of water. He chuckled at the thought.

Anyway, you being there didn't stop him from completing his objective. He was already there, so he wasn't going to turn around because you were hanging around. If anything, he was glad he ran into you as opposed to literally anybody else. At least your questions he could handle (as nosy as they were).

The smoke bombs he wanted to take were special because they expelled nanoparticles into the air. Anybody exposed would be coated in them, and could thus be tracked when isolated on one of Bruce's satellites. They wore off after a week or two, but they'd get the job done. Jason knew that Bruce had them, and he grabbed it specifically for this mission. With so many people surrounding him, one of them was bound to end up in an important location, one that he could track.

He had taken them back to one of his warehouses weeks ago in the box you provided. While he was there he had also restocked on some of the gadgets he was low on. He already made an effort to show up at the cave, might as well make the most of it.

Jason grabbed the smoke bomb, hidden in one of his pockets. He kept it out of view before he reached to pull the pin—

Wait, this was one of the normal ones.

Trying not to show his alarm, he subtly pats himself down as the other guy continues to blab about who knows what. He doesn't feel it anywhere on him. Fuck, he could've sworn he grabbed it. He tries to think back to where he left it… The box… Then he realized.

Shit… you were right.

—

"Go left," you tap your finger on the desk of the Batcomputer as you watch the purple and red dot— Spoiler and Red Robin— move across Gotham. "Your other left." You correct them as you watch the dots move away from the crime.

For the past couple weeks, you had been practically begging Bruce to let you be useful in some manner. After all, you already spend so much time with them, why not just add you to the team?

Okay, that was a bit of a reach, but you argued that even if you aren't a skilled fighter or trained assassin, you can always help on comms. You had gotten Babs to vouch for you, and finally Bruce relented, saying that you could help only when Babs is on comms with you to help. You thought it was a little counterproductive considering Babs could be out there as Batgirl instead of being forced to babysit you as Oracle, but you knew you needed the training. Perhaps one day you'd get good enough for Bruce to let you work on your own with comms.

"What do you see? There's no cameras I can access nearby." You ask, cycling through all nearby cameras at the crime scene. All of the available ones are out of range. You'd have used the cameras on Steph or Tim, but that's not something Babs has taught you to use yet.

"Looks like a group of four thugs, all around the same height, like 5'11? They are covered head to toe in all black. Each of them has a balaclava on. It looks like they're robbing a…" Tim hesitates, "sandwich… store? One of the guys is attempting to break into a car parked on the curb."

"Are they hungry or something?" Steph whispers.

You frown as you look at cameras in the area, noting that a nearby building is burning down. You look back at their colored dots on the map of Gotham. "Not hungry, just panicked. There's a building burning on the seventeenth floor two blocks down from you. Looks like an explosion went off. You guys think you can handle that?"

"We'll be fine, one of us will deal with the building while the other goes after the sandwich guys." Steph proposes. "I'll go after the sandwich guys."

"That's objectively easier— whatever, guess I'll see you then." Tim hums frustrated, you watch as their dots separate on the screen.

"You're doing pretty good." Babs suddenly speaks, causing you to jolt. You had decided to make a specific channel for your work to be on. It wasn't very practical, but it meant that there was a backup in case the main one ever got leaked.

"Thanks." You huff, this was stressful.

"Might wanna send some backup to Red Robin though, it looks like that fire spread." She notes. You look at one of the cameras near it, and— yep, wow that spread really fast.

You make sure that Tim can hear you before you speak, you tend to make sure you're muted unless they actively need you. After all, it'd probably be distracting to hear casual conversation in the background while you're fighting.

"Red Robin, do you need backup?"

Tim breathes heavily, "That'd be nice!" You hear the building start to collapse in the back of his audio. "If I can get to the heart of the fire I should be able to extinguish it, but I'll need help getting these kids out. I'm almost there." You nod before searching for the other dots that are nearby him that are tuned into your frequency. You notice that one of them is oddly close to you, that's weird, basically everybody is out tonight.

"I think Black Bat is near you, I'll send her over in a sec—"

"What the— Oh shit— What are you doing here?" You hear Tim curse before asking… somebody. It's kind of difficult to tell what the other voice says. It seems that Tim stopped the fire, but the background of his audio wasn't any calmer.

Sitting up straighter, you scoot closer to the desk, "Red Robin, do you copy?"

After a long pause, Tim responds, "Backup is here… I'll be fine, tell Black Bat it's all good."

Raising an eyebrow, you try to see who it is, "You… sure?"

"Yep!" Tim immediately responds, "Yep… I gotta mute though—"

You furrow your eyebrows, "What? Who is it?"

"I'll tell you later— Yeah, give me a second— Actually, you'll probably see him later. Gotta go— Yes, we're on a different comm frequency give me a moment!" You presume that the random switches in topic are him talking to the "backup."

"Red Robin, wait—"

"I'll be all fine, bye!" You can't conceal your jaw dropping as Robin mutes himself from the comms. You clench your hands as you attempt to pull footage of Tim's location. With how deep he is in the building, there is nothing that provides a clear view of him or the mysterious assistance. You huff, leaning back in your chair. "I can't believe him."

"I can."

You whip around so fast that you feel your vision blur momentarily before settling on none other than—

"Jason Todd?" You furrow your eyebrows and immediately compose yourself, trying to appear unbothered.

Jason raises an unimpressed eyebrow, "We still doing the full name thing?" He sets his helmet next to your keyboard.

"Don't act like you aren't the one who started it." You point an accusing finger to him.

"Hm," Jason grunts, turning his gaze from you to your workspace.

"Don't 'hm' me!" You furrow your eyebrows, following his gaze to your desk. It's less than ideal. The entire space is crawling with scrap notebook paper, filled with little notes you left for yourself. The Batcomputer is even worse. Despite the numerous monitors that make up the device each one has its screen split into at least two other tabs. "Oh, so we're judging now?"

Jason blinks slowly at you, moving to lean against your desk. "I'm not judging."

"Ohhhh my bad, are you 'merely observing?'" You do air quotes. Tim would say that to you all the damn time. Even repeating the wretched phrase makes the heat in your chest rise.

Jason raises a hand, snapping the fingers before pointing at you. "Yes."

You nod, "Great, great. Just so you know, for the record…" You slowly close out of some tabs on the various side monitors, "I'm usually more organized." You close a few more.

Jason nods slowly at you, "Alright." He sounds vaguely amused.

"Like a lot more." You close a few more tabs.

Jason nods slightly faster, his eyes closing as if he resonates with your statement. "Of course."

"You caught me at a bad time." You close even more tabs.

Jason sucks in air through his teeth sympathetically, wincing. The amusement on his face is now evident. His lips are turned slightly upward the longer you keep talking. "Been there."

"It's organized chaos… It looked bad, I know, but I knew where everything was." You close the final tab, silencing your comms, before turning to face him entirely.

Jason crosses his arms, still leaned against your desk, "Yeah," He is openly smirking at you.

"You know your sarcasm isn't really appreciated." You feel your eye twitch as you mirror his pose, crossing your own arms and kicking up one leg to rest on the other in your seat.

"Hm, unfortunate." He deadpans, "Is there a more convenient time to deliver it when you will appreciate it?"

"Actually yes," you roll your eyes, but can't help the smirk on your face. You back straightens as you clear your throat, "Saturdays, 2:34 AM." You randomly pick the first time and date that comes to your mind, something inconvenient.

Jason's eyebrows shift up slightly before settling, "Really? That's the only window?"

You nod contritely, "No later, no earlier."

"Does the second matter?"

You're taken aback for a moment, but don't let that show. You are committed, you can not let this guy win. "As long as it's within the minute."

"Generous." Jason snorts.

"As I'm told." You bow your head in acknowledgment, no bothering to hide your amusement. "Now, care to tell me why you decided to try and give me a heart attack when I'm trying to help your teammates not die?"

"I didn't try to." Jason tilts his head slightly.

"Yet you did anyway." You stand up, pushing your chair back. You got the feeling he got a sort of satisfaction of looking down and teasing you in the chair.

"Unfortunate side effect." Jason shrugs.

"You don't seem that upset." You raise an eyebrow.

"Unfortunate for you." He emphasizes, he is openly smirking now.

"Oh, so you're saying you don't want my help with whatever you need." You pretend to think, watching as his mouth parts in surprise. Feigning innocence, you prepare to sit back down in the chair—

"Now I didn't say that." Jason holds his hands up in mock surrender, chuckling.

"You implied it." You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, shrugging.

Jason doesn't dignify that with a response, giving you an unamused stare. (Okay but he's got to be amused, he was smirking less than a minute ago!)

You sigh, eventually conceding, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I need something."

"I… figured. I can't imagine we'd be having this conversation if you didn't." You respond dryly, leaning against the desk.

Jason's eyes narrow, but you don't fold, merely raising an eyebrow. He sighs, "Remember what happened a couple weeks ago?"

"A couple weeks ago…" You nod, "When we met?" Jason nods, silently.

"Oh," you blink, "Oh." You smirk. He came back for what he dropped in the cave a few weeks ago. Something he wouldn't have dropped if he had just listened to you when you told him to not drive his bike with an open box.

Jason doesn't meet your eyes, "Do you have it?"

"Have what?" You smile innocently, batting your eyelashes.

Jason's eye twitches slightly, his smirk widening in irritation, "You know."

"Mm, I don't? There are lots of things that I have and don't have." You casually trace your fingers on the ridges of his helmet on the desk. Jason glares at your hand, but doesn't move to take his helmet back. The helmet is rougher to the touch than you expect, you can feel every imperfections on it. "Gonna have to specify what you want."

Jason narrows his eyes at you, and you smile at him. "The thing."

You nod, "Oh, the thing." You reply gravely, pointing to him as if you just figured out what he's talking about. "Yes, I know where the thing is."

Jason takes a deep breath, before sighing. "I thought you said you don't accept sarcasm unless it's during your unnecessarily specific time?" He raises an eyebrow, frowning slightly, it almost looks like a pout.

Closing your eyes, you nod, "That I did." You look from his helmet to his eyes, "But I said I don't accept it until that time.

"So you can just dish it whenever?" Jason responds impassively. "That doesn't seem fair."

"What can I say? I receive a lot of it." You shrug, sitting down in the chair, the added weight to the chair causing it to roll away from Jason.

Jason watches as you roll back to the keyboard of the desk, letting out an amused exhale, "I can imagine, working with them?"

"I can't imagine you're innocent." You raise an eyebrow.

Jason smirks, but doesn't respond to that. "I do need the thing though."

You slowly turn the chair to face him, "That is no more specific than the last time you said 'the thing.'" You tap the armrest of your chair.

Jason inhales, and this time you can hear it. "The gadget."

"Which gadget?"

"You know which one."

"The one you dropped when leaving after I told you to close the box?"

Jason is silent for a moment, staring at you as if your expression will tell him its whereabouts. You raise an eyebrow, an easy-going smile painted on your face. "Yes." He grits the words out.

The smile on your face grows, you perk up in your seat. "Ohhh, why didn't you just say that?"

Jason tries to mirror the smile on your face, but it looks stiff. "I did."

You raise a finger up, shaking it. "Nuh-uh, you said 'the thing' and 'the gadget.'"

"You knew what I meant." Jason huffs, looking away from you.

You smirk, "Well, now I do."

Jason sighs, suddenly looking exhausted. You almost feel bad."You have it right?"

"Hm?" You blink, holding back a smile, "Oh, no. I threw it away like a week ago." You wave your hand casually, biting the inside of your lip to keep yourself from smiling.

Jason stares at you, unblinking. "What?"

"Nah, I'm playing." You grin. "Be lucky I didn't though." You stand up, gesturing for him to follow.

"Yeah," he huffs, slowly following behind you, "so lucky."

Grabbing a small box, you hand it over to him. "It's actually sealed." You drop the box abruptly into his arms. It's small, but light. You can feel the gadget roll around the box as you drop it. He catches it with ease.

"Taking a gamble just dropping it like that." Jason examines the tape covering the box. "What if there's a bomb in here?" He shakes it gently, as if trying to hear what is inside.

You huff, "There's not a bomb in there. Didn't look like any bomb I've seen." You shake your head at him. No need to tell him you've never really seen a bomb in person. He eyes you, looking from the box, up to you, and back down to the box.

You stand up straighter, furrowing your eyebrows in contemplation. Jason smirks at your uncertainty, shaking it harder. "Wait!" You frantically shake your head, reaching your hands out to him. Snatching the box back, you hold it out of his reach, "Are you crazy?"

"You just said there's 'not a bomb in there.'" He tilts his head innocently, something that should not be possible for him.

You open your mouth to respond, before closing it. "I'll give it back before you leave."

Jason shrugs, he chuckles silently, "If that makes you feel better."

"It does." You nod, narrowing your eyes at him. He smirks at your stare. You look down at the box, "Did you seriously just come back for this?"

"It was very important." He nods at the box.

"So important that you left it behind before you even left the cave and didn't come back for it for—" you pretend to check a watch on your wrist, "—two weeks?"

Jason doesn't respond, instead he walks by you, pushing past your shoulder, back to the computer. "Weren't you busy making sure they didn't die or something?"

You huff at his avoidance. "I left my comm open, it's fine. They can yell if they need my help." You follow him back to the computer.

"Right," He looks at the home screen of the computer, with no tabs open. You walk up from behind him, confused why he is just staring at the screen. It's not that interesting. Last you checked, it was just a couple of red dots flashing on a screen. Tim had back-up anyway (whoever that may be). It can't be that riveting—

Oh… right. You closed off all the tabs, essentially going radio silent. Frantically, you push yourself past him, sitting in the chair and opening the comms again. "There you are." Oracle immediately cuts in the second you activate your comm again.

"Heyyy…" You grimace, feeling Jason rest on the back of your chair. You look up at him, and recline your chair back in an attempt to shove him off. He offers you an innocent wide-eyed look before moving to lean against the desk again. "Sorry, something needed my attention."

"More important than Spoiler, Red Robin, and Nightwing?"

Both you and Jason freeze, sharing a look of pure unadulterated horror. Well, Jason looks more amused than alarmed at the prospect, but you are definitely horrified. "Nightwing?" You attempt to sound unaffected.

"Yep. Apparently that's the 'backup.'" Babs responds.

Jason mouths "Oh shit" to himself before leaning closer to you, eying your screen. The grin on his face is positively roguish. You glare at him. "That's… uh… great! Didn't realize he left Blüdhaven." You attempt to smile, but your strained frown and twitching nose at the idea says otherwise. Jason openly chuckles at your face.

"Yep, he's been around since yesterday…" She pauses, "Is somebody there with you?" Barbara asks tentatively.

You whip your head around to Jason— who is still smirking— already opening his mouth. You frantically cover his mouth with your hand, cutting off any words he was going to say. He attempts to lean out of your hold, glaring at you. You mirror his glare, using your free hand to do the "Shush!" motion at him. Slowly you remove your hand from his mouth, using your middle and index finger to point at him in an "I'm watching you" motion. He huffs, looking away, but not attempting to speak again.

"Nobody is here." You speak into the mic, eying "Nobody." Jason nods his head in acknowledgment at your words, eyes dancing with amusement. "Just me." He huffs, shaking his head disapprovingly.

You don't think before locating your favorite pen, throwing it directly at his forehead. To your surprise, it actually hits the target. You have to withhold your bark of laughter seeing his unimpressed face, the ink left a light streak of black ink across his forehead. Smirking, you turn your gaze back to the screen.

"...Okay?" Babs doesn't sound convinced, but doesn't ask anymore questions. "Well, think you can refocus?"

You break your attention from the screen to look at Jason… Who is not currently where you last saw him.

Alarmed, your eyes scan the cave, trying to find where Jason could've gone. He was just beside you less than five seconds ago! He couldn't have gone that far. Apparently, he's a lot more stealthy than he looks. You can barely hear Babs' voice as you stand up to look around the cave. Finally, you spot him.

The white streak on his forehead starkly contrasts his otherwise dark hair. It makes him easily identifiable even from a distance. Once he notices he's been spotted, he straightens up against his bike— box in hand, when did he even grab it— before getting onto it. He doesn't break eye contact, smirking the entire time. He gives you a wave, and you can observe something in his hand. You can't tell what it is due to the distance though. Nevertheless, your blood pressure rises as he lightly shakes the box.

Barbara says your name, but you don't pay it any mind. Instead you shake your head at Jason, who chuckles under his breath. Neither of you break eye contact as he puts his helmet on. He starts his bike, tapping the box— as if taunting you before revving the bike and zooming off, as if he was never here at all.

Babs says your name again, and you snap your attention back to the screen. "Yeah, sorry. I was distracted, it won't happen again." You inhale as the bike's engine echos grow quieter throughout the cavern.

Babs sighs, "Alright," she sounds less stern, more worried. "Was just trying to say that they put out the fire, all the civilians are safe. Nightwing will likely be returning to the cave with Red Robin and Spoiler." Her words are merely facts, but you can't help but take them as a warning, whether that was her intention or not.

You take a deep breath at her words, your chest nearly shuddering in apprehension. It's been about two months since you've returned to Gotham after leaving for college. Years used to get over your feelings for the first Robin. Two months of not contacting Dick about being back in Gotham. All culminating to the present, your inevitable reunion. You inhale through your teeth, the sound almost like a hiss. You force a smile, despite knowing Babs can't see it.

"Great."

–

Tim glances as Dick as they enter the cave. Dick doesn't look at him, instead narrowing his eyes at the ground. He glances at Steph who seems to sense the tension, but doesn't say anything. She meets his gaze before looking past him towards Dick. Tim follows her gaze, only to already see Dick eying him out of the corner of his eye. Everybody's eyes are awkwardly shifting over one another, the silence only exacerbating the tense atmosphere.

So it's going great.

Dick had quickly realized that Oracle was not who they were talking to, figuring out it was you. He had all but demanded the frequency their comms were on. Tim had reluctantly told him, but (thankfully) you suddenly vanished from the comms. Tim isn't sure what caused the big gap, but when you returned you had just told everyone to "Head back to the cave," not leaving any room for comments.

Anxiously, the three of them enter the cave. Dick looks up to see you in front of the Batcomputer. He draws in a sharp breath at the sight of you. He hasn't seen you for years, and you've been here sitting in the cave. You slowly sip the mug sitting at your desk, gently placing it on the Batman coaster next to your keyboard. Your foot bounces uneasily as you pretend you don't see them in your peripherals.

Dick takes the mask off his face, his eyes trained on you as he approaches. Tim and Steph follow closely behind him. She peeks around Dick's shoulder to see you inconspicuously turning your head to a different monitor. Dick's exhales steadily before he speaks. He says your name.

You pause, your hands frozen on the keys before turning to face him. You note Tim and Steph in the back. Tim looks unsure how to proceed, but Steph doesn't give away her thoughts.

You sigh, you expected this. "Dick." You hesitantly stand, meeting Dick's eyes. The two of you stare at each other for a moment as he hesitantly draws near you. You resist the urge to look away, feeling the shame bubble up. After all, now he knows you're here and that you've been here for at least some time, all without mentioning it to him.

"I–" He tackles you with a hug, cutting you off. The force of his action surprises you, almost knocking you off balance and into the desk. You slowly hug him back, "Sorry, I didn't– uh– say anything." You swallow down your nervousness, looking back at Tim and Steph. Both of them are blatantly watching you. You glare at them as Dick constricts you in his embrace.

"It's okay," he pulls back slightly, but doesn't let go of you. His hands rest on your arm, a soft smile on his face. "I get it."

You chuckle awkwardly, "You… do?" Your eyes flicker between him and Tim. You have a feeling he's got something to do with this.

Dick sneaks a glance back to Tim, who does not meet his gaze. "Uh– Well, I mean– I get that you probably needed time to settle back into Gotham! Stuff must be different now. All that time gone, you know?" Dick frantically explains.

You narrow your eyes to Tim, who avoids your eyes. "Right,"

"Well, we should hang out sometime! Catch up, you know! I mean if you're going to be helping us out we gotta do– like– team bonding activities!"

You blink, "Is that a thing?" You ask Tim and Steph. Steph opens her mouth, but Dick covers her from your view.

"It is now! Come on, it'll be fun!" Dick grins. The rest of you look at each other dubiously. You let Dick pull you along, watching as Tim and Steph attempt to follow you two.

"Shouldn't you guys change first..? Are we uh– doing this now?" You ask, slowly taking your hand back from Dick. He looks down at your hand before letting it leave his grasp.

"Oh," he pauses, suddenly hesitant, "I just figured we could catch up. With you being back and all." He gestures you up and down, as if still stunned that you are actually here.

You nod, glancing at the time which reads 2:02 AM. "It's–" You pause at Dick's hopeful face, "Yeah, sure?" You attempt to smile at him, looking to Tim and Steph for help. "I can't imagine you guys would want to be walking around in full vigilante attire though."

Dick sighs, as if this is a deal-breaker, "Fine…" He looks at you hesitantly. "We'll be back before you know it." You watch as Dick slowly moves away from you, grabbing Tim and Steph as he walks away.

Weird. Maybe he is not that mad that you didn't tell him you were back? The conversation didn't really flow like it used to, but you'd chalk that up to having spent years apart. Perhaps he's right, after a couple conversations everything will go back to normal. Watching his retreating figure, you can't help but smile. He mutters something to them both, leaning down to talk to them. They both point at him, responding in turn.

Getting over him wasn't an easy process. Part of the reason you chose to move so far away was to get over him. Sure it wasn't the only reason, but it was one of many. Time apart would give you time to separate yourself from him. You knew he never liked you back even back then, him dating Kori soon after your departure sure communicated that loud and clear.

If anything, it gave you a sense of peace. It almost felt like you two were stuck in an endless dance around each other for years with no resolution. When he started dating Kori, it ended your torment, proving that you were never an option. You could finally move on. Of course, you still thought about him. You still wondered how he was doing. You had heard that there was a new Robin and that the vigilante "Nightwing" had appeared in Blüdhaven.

When you came back, you figured that things would finally be okay. You wouldn't have to worry about messing up your friendship because of liking him. Your worries were gone. That doesn't mean you weren't surprised about some things, though.

Ever since learning about Dick having dated Barbara previously, you've been waiting for one of the two to mention it to you. You aren't surprised that Dick didn't say anything, seeing as he didn't decide to tell you about Kori. You never met Kori, so you weren't shocked that he never spoke to you about her.

But Babs? You were there when they started getting close, and you had befriended her quickly. Hearing that none of them decided to say anything? That hurt. Not in the heartbreaking lovesick way, but as a friend. Not one person told you, and you had to find out from Tim. Someone you hadn't even met until a couple months ago! Sure, you questioned if they were dating when you were kids, but that's much different than actually hearing that they've not only dated but have broken up. It's not like it's any of your business anyway.

"We have returned!" Dick grins, arms spread grandly as he walks back to you.

A small smile appears on your face, "Joy." You deadpan.

"Don't be like that," he chuckles, rubbing your shoulders casually, "Anyway," he slings that arm around your shoulder, "I asked Alfred if he could make some of his cookies for us." He whispers it to you like it's a secret. "It would've just been just for us, but somebody blackmailed me into sharing." Dick throws a half-hearted glare to Tim, who shrugs.

"Shouldn't have barged into my room." Tim gives a small, knowing smile.

You raise an eyebrow, "Why would you do that?"

Dick eyes look through you as if realizing he messed up, "Yeah, why would you do that?" Tim asks smugly, walking over to you. Steph appears to be messaging somebody on her phone, typing at light speed.

"Cause I found out some very important info about a case." Dick offers a strained smile to Tim.

Tim smiles, "Mhm, a 'case.'"

You blink at the two of them, maneuvering yourself out of Dick's hold. The tension is palpable. There's clearly something there, and if there's something you've learned during your time here, it's that you don't push it. No matter how curious you are.

You move in between them, clasping your hands together, smiling, "So… Cookies?"

—

"You were not invited." Tim's eye twitches as he watches Damian grab a cookie from the platter laid before the four five of you.

"I do not require an invitation to dine at my own residence, Drake." Damian scoffs, taking a bite into the cookie.

"The cookies weren't for you." Tim narrows his eyes at Damian.

Damian raises a dubious eyebrow, "And they were meant for you?"

Tim exhales, affronted, his eyes flicking to you and Dick. Damian smirks, tilting his head up before looking down haughtily at Tim, "That's what I thought." He takes a bite of his cookie, waving it tauntingly back at Tim.

Dick sighs, but the action is more out of fondness than exasperation. "You know, you could've called me if they ever got out of hand. I know they can be a lot to deal with."

You shrug, grabbing a cookie, Alfred's cookies really are the best. "They eventually sort it out on their own…" you take a bite. You smile, turning to watch Damian and Tim bicker. Steph seems to be using it as a distraction to sneak more cookies into a separate container to stow away. "It's actually kinda funny."

Dick snorts, "You say that now." He takes a cookie from the tray. "Babs was telling me that you've been helping out on comms too?"

You nod, a proud smile forming on your face, "Yep, took some convincing, but eventually Bruce said I could help as long as she's there to guide me."

He nods, slowly, "Nice…" He stares down at the cookie, "That's… uh— nice." The wavering in his voice doesn't go unnoticed. You aren't sure if you should ask about it, but you don't have to. "No— I mean, I'm really happy for you…" He attempts to correct himself.

You inhale through your nose, bracing yourself. "But..?"

He swallows, glancing between Tim, Steph, and Damian, who are engrossed in their own conversation, "But… I…" He exhales discreetly, "Why didn't you tell me?"

You blink, "Well, it's a pretty recent development. I would've told you eventually—"

"Would you?" Dick cuts you off, his words are soft, lighter than a whisper despite the heaviness they carry. They're soft in the way his expression conveys his pain: nearly silent, but present.

Cookie forgotten in hand, you place it down onto your plate, turning to Dick. Perhaps he was downplaying how upset he was earlier. "I would have eventually. I just needed…" You inhale, frustrated, and are faced with a new dilemma. Uncertainty churns in your gut, should you tell him you liked him back then?

On one hand, it shouldn't matter anymore. You don't like him like that now. The biggest reason you never told him was to preserve your friendship. There is no risk of losing that now that you no longer hold feelings for him. On the other hand, it's been so long. Like it or not, there's a distance between you two that wasn't previously there. Years apart have widened the gap between you both, something that was once so closely knit. If you tell him now, will that widen it further? Despite the fact that you avoided him, you don't want to lose him as a friend. Will telling him now ruin everything you held so closely to your chest for years?

"It's complicated," you turn your head away, unable to look him in the eyes.

Dick's pained expression steels itself at your words, "I…" he looks down at the plate in front of him, "I understand."

You sneak a small glance at him, "It wasn't personal…" You blatantly lie.

He smiles, the action strained, but still a smile nonetheless. "I know." His words hold something knowing to them. "I can't imagine how different everything must've been after being gone for so long." His smile turns more genuine, but his eyes are gazing far off.

You reluctantly smile at him, "It was definitely something. There's so many of you now." You pick the cookie back up, taking a bite.

Dick snorts softly, "Sometimes I miss when it was just us." His eyes rest upon Tim, holding a cookie out reach from Damian.

You smirk at him, "'Sometimes?' Not all times?" You lean into the back of your chair, this is more familiar. The banter, the teasing quips shared with one another.

Dick mirrors your smirk, it feels more drained than usual, "All times." He jokes.

You nod approvingly, "That's what I thought."

He looks down at your hands, absentmindedly holding the cookie. "You are going to finish that, right?"

You glare playfully at him, holding the cookie out of his view. "Why? You want it or something?"

"No." Dick lies, grinning as he conspicuously eyes it in your hand.

You take a bite of it, not breaking eye contact. "I've already eaten half of it."

Dick shrugs, huffing, "Like that will stop me."

"It's got cooties." You tut, waving the half-eaten cookie up at his face tauntingly.

He glares at you, "It was one time."

"Cooties last forever—" you take another bite of the cookie, "It's mine." You grin at him. He narrows his eyes, his gaze flitting to the cookie, then back to you. With no warning, he hand snatches the remaining chunk of your cookie. You can't move fast enough to reclaim it before he devours it.

Your mouth parts slightly in surprise. For a second you're struck wondering if you've ever shared food with him like that. All you can do is blink as he smugly takes a few stray crumbs from your plate. In the past you might've shared snacks, but nothing that the other had already eaten. You were close, but Dick had one time (jokingly, he insisted) told you that you had "cooties." Cooties! Like you were in preschool. For about a month afterwards, you avoided sharing snacks with him under the pretense that they had "cooties." He was amused at first, but your stubbornness eventually got to him.

"I can't believe you." You scoff. Even if you wanted another cookie, you couldn't get one. During your conversation, somehow the table had cleared the entire platter.

"Believe me." His eyes crinkle in amusement, the grin on his face growing even wider.

"I'm starting to remember why I left." You meet his gaze with an unimpressed stare. He gasps so loudly that he catches Tim's attention, who looks curious, yet unsurprised by Dick's antics. Dick doesn't pay him any mind though, merely continuing to give you an exaggeratedly anguished expression.

"After all we've been through? You wound me." He gestures dramatically, and you roll your eyes at him unsympathetically.

"Shouldn't have taken my cookie." You sigh, matching his tone. "It pains me just as much— actually… more to do this."

"Are you cutting me off over a cookie?" Dick narrows his eyes, playful irritation in his eyes.

You wipe an imaginary tear from your eyes, "I'm sure you understand… It must be done." You respond gravely.

"Must you continue with these dramatics?" Damian cuts in, the two of you turning to face him. You offhandedly notice Tim smiling in faint amusement, and Steph seems to be engrossed in your antics as if watching a telenovela play out in front of her.

"We must." Dick nods solemnly. You snicker from beside him.

"Hey, don't judge us. I've seen the way you guys fight over these cookies." You point to your empty plate, leaning against the table.

Steph whistles lowly, "She's got a point." Damian eyes her judgmentally. You gesture your hands grandly around the table, nodding in a silent "I told you so." 

"Besides, you two were fighting like ten seconds ago." You turn, pointing between Damian and Tim.

Damian's eye twitches, "That's because Drake believes that he has jurisdiction in my residence."

Tim looks away as if avoiding eye contact with Damian will make this better, his eyebrow betrays his irritation. "This isn't about—"

Seeing that this isn't going to lead anywhere good (and that you were proven right). You make a point to loudly interrupt. "I'm going to head home for the night. It's already late as it is." You resist the urge to rub your eyes. The argument pauses as the attention is brought to you once more.

Damian frowns, and Dick looks contemplative, pursing his lips. "You sure?" Tim breaks the momentary silence.

"Positive. I want to sleep on my own bed." You nod, smiling. Now that you've mentioned it, you can feel the exhaustion seep into every cell of your body.

Dick frowns, standing up from beside you. "I can drive you back."

You turn toward him, "It's alright. You guys were out all night. I wouldn't want to force you to go out again. Plus, worse case scenario, I call Cass or Bruce or… something." Last you checked, they're still out for the night, and you feel pretty safe knowing that either one would come to your aid if needed.Dick clearly disapproves of the idea, his mouth turned down in a stilted frown, eyebrows furrowed. You heart stings a little by his lack of faith, even if you know it comes from a good place. "I'll be fine."

You and Dick stare at each other for a long moment. For months you've managed to ease your way back into Gotham's atmosphere. You know this city, even if you were absent for a few years. Dick challenging you won't change anything. You may not be Nightwing, but you've lived in this city. You know how to handle yourself relatively well.

Dick sighs, the tension dropping from his shoulders, "Okay, just… be safe."

Your pointed stare breaks into something softer, "Always."

—

When you left, you almost worried you jinxed yourself, that by saying you're "always safe," you'd somehow get kidnapped by Bane or something.

Luckily, you were true to your word (not that you ever doubted it). You even texted Dick a quick notice that you'd arrived home, something he appreciated. You didn't give too much thought before liking his message. Soon after, he sent a quick text asking if you wanted to catch up soon without any intrusions.

You snort at the text. The two of you never really cared back then if Babs tagged along when you hung out or something. You can't imagine that'd be something he cares about now, especially since you've heard how close he is with his family. Perhaps it's because it's been so long? It has been a while since you've gotten to catch up with him. You can see why he wouldn't want his entire family witnessing every moment between you two. Tapping the sides of your phone absentmindedly, you type out a response, confirming that you'd like that.

Dick likes the message, and then proceeds to wish you good night. You smile at the text, before sending the same and finally turning away from the screen. Working on comms is fun until it's one in the morning and all you feel is the sensation of your eyes burning due to the strain of blue light.

Getting into bed, you throw the covers over your body. After a long day, you can finally rest. Of course, you sure didn't feel rested when you woke up the next day. It's a wonder how anybody you know functions like a normal being when they're essentially up from sunrise to sunrise.

Slowly, you get ready for the day, and just as you're about to leave, you pause. You're missing something. Sluggish from the early morning, you carefully pat yourself down as you search every pocket of your clothes. Once you realize what's missing, you groan, heading back inside your room. You rifle through your jacket from last night, finding nothing. Standing up from your now messy floor, you narrow your eyes at the scattered articles of clothing as if it'll provide the answer.

Okay, where did you last see it? You were working at the Batcomputer last night… You had been taking notes.. Then Jason had come, and you threw—

You take a deep breath. That asshole took your favorite pen.

—

Cass analyzes your form as you get into position, her arms crossed and stance lax. She's been the one helping you the most with learning self defense. "You're sulking, makes you tense. It's bleeding into your posture." She maneuvers her way behind you, her touch lightly grazing your shoulders, forcing you to relax them.

You raise yourself out of position. "I'm not 'sulking.' That's a bit extreme. I'm just off my game."

Cass raises a dubious eyebrow, looking you up and down.

"Okay, I'm a little upset." You relent.

She blinks at you, unconvinced.

"It's not that bad." You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

"Was it Dick?" She tilts her head at you.

A chuckle escapes past your lips, you smile at her assumption. "Actually, no."

She walks over next to you, expectantly, and your arms lower from their position. You exhale letting your arms relax, "Doesn't change the fact that you're upset." She frowns at you.

You look down to the floor, avoiding eye contact, "It's stupid."

She shakes her head, "If it makes you upset, then it can't be."

A smile grows on your face, "No… No, this one is prettyyy stupid."

She mirrors your smile, "Try me."

You look up at her, opening your mouth, but then closing it. "You know… How about we get back to training?" You're not going to complain about a stupid pen to any member of the Wayne family. Even if that pen had the smoothest ink you've ever seen, and had the perfect shade, and had the perfect angle, and you carried it with you everywhere you went, and had been given to you by Dick when you had just started being friends, and—

"You lost something." Cass determines.

You sigh, "I'm really not joking when I say it's stupid."

"Something that had sentimental value." She frowns. "That's not stupid."

"I…" You couldn't really argue with that one, even if the object was a damn ballpoint pen. It's not like you could ever get a replacement! A couple years after you had met Dick, you had attempted to find that pen again, but it was quite literally nowhere to be found. You had even gone so far as to ask him where he got it, and when you searched it up on their website, it didn't exist. Dick had found it amusing, but suddenly that pen became a lot more valuable to you. Not just for sentimentality, but because it was a really good pen, and you'd never be able to buy another.

Cass waits patiently for an answer, and you know she won't judge you. However, currently, you are judging yourself. Imagine being out on the field and the reason you aren't performing to standards is "I lost my favorite pen." Might as well say bye-bye to that comm position you just got cause Bruce will be testing you for brain damage. You inhale, "I lost my favorite pen."

Cass doesn't react, as if that is a perfectly normal response. "Lost?"

You purse your lips before smacking them, "Lost." She stares at you for a long moment, and— of course— you crack under no pressure, "Okay, maybe it was taken."

Cass' lips twitch in amusement, "You know who?"

You think back to Jason, waving what was once an indistinct object, an object which you now know was your pen. "Regrettably." You deadpan.

She smiles, "Then what's stopping you?"

"Can't exactly contact the guy, not like he offered his business number before taking it." You crack your knuckles, sighing as you fiddle with the gauze around the joints.

She looks at the Batcomputer, your gaze tracking her movement and following it. She eyes you from the corner of her eye as if saying "You sure?"

Snapping your fingers, "You… make an excellent point." You tap your temple, smirking as the two of you make your way to the Batcomputer. Powering it on, you navigate it until you find Red Hood's tracker.

"You think he would be able to receive a message from me? Wouldn't he need his comm or something?" You frown, crossing a leg over the other as you ponder your next move.

"Most likely. Try sending a message to his phone instead." Cass suggests, and you nod, a smirk growing on your face.

You pull up an emulator embedded with the computer. It already has everybody's numbers saved, so you click his contact and start typing. Simple. Straight to the point. No possibility for your message to be misinterpreted. Professional in every sense of the word. Concise, yet thought provoking. An argument so convincing that Batman himself would have to cede victory to you. A message so moving that he would be riddled with guilt for even thinking to steal your prized possession—

Pls give it back :(

Cass' eyes shine with mirth, her lips twitching. The two of you stare at the screen, as if your combined concentration will invoke his response. You tap your finger apprehensively against the cold metal of the desk.

Red Hood: ???

Red Hood: What?

You know what you did.

Red Hood: So accusing

You can almost see him mockingly shake his head. He probably has the damn smirk on his face too.

Red Hood: Do you even know what I did, or are you just trying to get me to confess to a crime I didn't commit?

Come on, I literally gave you your not-bomb bomb back

Red Hood: yeah after pretending not to know what I was talking about for 15 minutes, great service, truly

exactly, so return what you took from me

Red Hood: get it yourself

I don't even know where you live

Red Hood: you're literally tracking my stuff

I'm literally not??

yeah that's why I can hear you muttering to yourself from my comm that you definitely aren't tracking

You gasp, turning to Cass whose face betrays nothing. You scramble to turn off your mic, horror-struck. After fiddling with the input devices connected to the computer, you eventually find— to your embarrassment— that your mic isn't even connected.

Red Hood: bet you just checked didn't you

no

Red Hood: admit you did it and I will consider returning your pen to you

Your heart pounds as you hastily type your confession.

ok ok I did

You pause for a moment, waiting for a response. When nothing appears you send another message

can I have it back now

Red Hood: I said I'd consider

Next time you leave something behind I'm gonna send you a video of me destroying it

Red Hood: wow okay, you aren't getting this pen back

wait I'm sorry please don't go

Hooooood

I'm sorry I would never destroy your stuff, it's very precious to me

pls respond

Jason Todd you asshole I will never forget this

Read 3:54 P.M.

Your eyes narrow at the screen, the status taunting you. Why can't he just cooperate? Your hands hover over the keyboard, debating whether or not to send him a message. You look to Cass in exasperation. "That went as well as I was expecting." You mumble. Groaning, you shut off the computer, not even wanting to see the screen.

She gives a reassuring smile, "At least you know where it is."

"I figured he had it, the worry was that he'd just taunt me with it." Crossing your arms, you stare into your reflection in the now black screen. "Seems I was right."

She pats your back sympathetically, "You'll get it back eventually."

Your hum in acknowledgement, still staring at the darkened screen. "You're right." You narrow your eyes at your reflection, a plan starting to form.

—

The night wasn't quiet, it rarely was. In fact, Jason has learned that Gotham being quiet never bodes well. Silence invites catastrophe. Sure, a lack of silence meant there was work to be done, but it was familiar. He didn't have to wonder if there was some plot affront (there often was, but at least it's more predictable). What wasn't predictable, however, was Nightwing joining him for the night.

"Remind me why you're here again?" Jason doesn't bother turning to face his brother, brushing his hands against his jacket as he holsters his pistols. He kicks the head of a thug attempting to crawl towards the gun at Jason's feet. Don't bring a gun to a fight if the first thing you're going to do is lose it. Fucking moron.

Dick grins, flourishing his escrima sticks, "'Cause drugs are bad?"

Despite himself, Jason's lips twitch under the helmet, not like he'd let Dick know that. "Aside from that."

Dick secures his escrima sticks to his back, "It's been a while since it's been just us."

Jason grunts, checking the time before walking out of the busted warehouse. "So… you decided that teaming up with me to take down a drug spot was what? Bonding?"

Dick chuckles, holding his hands up in mock surrender, "Your words, not mine."

Jason sighs, heading towards his bike.

"Any other warehouses to bust? Drug dealers to…" Dick trails off as mimics a lazy punch doing a silent "Pow!" sound effect.

Jason slowly turns to Dick, who is still following him. "It's nearly six in the morning."

Dick shrugs, "Okay…?" He crosses his arms, "That doesn't really change my question."

"I'm heading home." Jason rolls his eyes in exasperation.

"Got it…" Dick doesn't move from his spot.

Jason looks at his brother, revving his bike, "Do you… need something?"

Dick shakes his head, slowly heading to his own bike. "No…"

Jason groans, he's not going to fall for it. This is manipulation. This is a way for Dick way to monopolize his morning. He will not—

"Breakfast at mine, be there in half an hour or else I'm eating your portion." Jason speeds off, not even bothering to check Dick's reaction. If luck is on his side, he will not be seeing Dick at his apartment in half an hour (he knows luck isn't on his side).

He opens the door, already anticipating his older brother to be in there. Shockingly, he isn't, and Jason slides his leather jacket off, throwing it onto the couch carelessly. His apartment was, thankfully, clean. The only thing out of place was a single ballpoint pen on his living room table. Unwittingly, he smiles at the object, thinking back to your messages over it.

He had taken the pen thoughtlessly. You had thrown it at him, so he thought it fair to take it as punishment. After all, it's a pen. Nothing out of the ordinary. However, nothing could've prepared him for what spiraled.

The text he received from you— hell, he thought he was being pranked by some idiot who thinks that messing with him is a good idea. However after staring at the message for a minute he realizes. He hadn't stolen anything recently, certainly nothing from anybody who would send a text message with a sad face.

Upon realizing it was you, he had felt something akin to amusement rise in his chest. He texted back, staring down at his phone, finding himself awaiting your response. The amusement in his chest eventually rose to his face, a small smile at your outrage. He found himself even seeking the object upon your request that you return it. Of course, out of principle, now he had to keep the pen. He found himself chuckling as he pocketed his phone, leaving you to spam notifications to get his attention.

Jason stares at the pen for a long moment, before heading over to the kitchen and grabbing a pan. He greases it with butter before grabbing some eggs from the fridge. He looks at the window, shedding the morning light upon his sink. The sight of it almost makes him feel sleepy, the lack of sleep catching up to him after being out all night. The soft sizzling from the eggs frying the sole sound in his apartment. It's almost peaceful, contrary to the eventful night he had.

Then Dick throws his door open. Jason doesn't even bother turning around, knowing it's Dick just by the way he opened the door.

"Didn't come to greet your guest?" Dick takes off his shoes, tossing his own jacket on top of Jason's on the couch.

Jason breaks his focus from the eggs briefly to look at Dick. "Could you at least hang your jacket or somethin'?" He asks, the tiredness present in each word he speaks. Dick glances at his jacket before turning back to Jason, an amused eyebrow raised. He gestures his thumb to Jason's jacket, a silent question. Jason finally turns to face him, "My mess is fine in my apartment. You could at least be a good guest and be considerate." Jason takes the eggs off the pan, moving them to a plate.

Dick makes a point to deliberately stare at Jason— who is not even looking at him— as he hangs his jacket up, "Satisfied?" A mocking smile on his face.

"Thrilled." Jason deadpans, putting bacon on the pan.

Dick chuckles behind him, walking around the apartment, taking note of some swords and knives on display. He walks over to investigate Jason's bookshelves, filled with classics, he smiles at them. It's not often that Jason actually invites anybody to his apartment. Most of the time, they have to break in if they need something from him. His smile widens slightly as he turns to Jason, whose back is turned toward him, cooking silently. Then he turns his attention to the couch and table in front of the TV. He tilts his head as he approaches it, noticing a random pen laying on the otherwise clean apartment.

He freezes, an audible inhale as he stares disbelievingly at the table. "What's this?" The words are deceptively light, Dick grabs the pen, examining every ridge of the object.

Jason pauses for a moment, turning to face Dick. He narrows his eyes slightly at the way Dick holds the object. "What?" Jason chuckles humorlessly, noticing the way Dick's hand clenches around the pen. "The pen?"

Dick swallows, not even looking at him. Jason straightens up, realizing that something is wrong. "Where did you get it?" Dick asks, the question is quiet, yet its gravity is all-present. The words grind out roughly as they are spoken. His hands tremble underneath the small object, as if it's too much to bear upon his fingertips. Jason's mouth parts in surprise, the words not forming as he watches Dick bite his lip.

"Where?" The words scrape his throat as he snaps his head to Jason. However, his eyes are still trained on the ballpoint pen, as if asking the pen itself.

"I…" Jason hesitantly walks to Dick, the pan forgotten. He isn't sure whether to approach Dick. "The cave."

Dick narrows his eyes, scoffing "So you took it." He whispers.

Jason immediately opens his mouth to correct the misunderstanding, eyes narrowing in indignation. "No…" He scoffs, unable to meet Dick's gaze. "I mean—" he huffs, frustrated the words aren't coming out the way he wants to. He says your name, and Dick freezes at it. "She—"

"She gave it to you." Dick interrupts him.

Jason, frowning, tilts his head, not making eye contact. "I guess you could say that."

Dick stares at Jason for a moment before walking back to the front door. He snatches his jacket off the hanger, roughly putting it on. He forces his shoes onto his feet, not even bothering to unlace and tie them. Grabbing the doorknob, he twists it, causing it to squeak.

Jason furrows his eyebrows, "You're not… staying?" It was unlike Dick to actually ditch any of his siblings.

Dick pauses his body already half past the doorframe. He turns his head to the side, allowing Jason to see his profile. Dick slowly steps back inside, placing the pen on the table near the entrance. "I… I don't feel hungry anymore." He doesn't even give Jason the chance to respond, not bothering to even look at him before slamming the door.

Jason blinks slowly at his closed door before turning his attention to the pen that Dick almost lost his shit over. He thinks back to your text. You didn't seem that upset over losing the pen. Sure, you had asked for it back, and had expressed immense interest at its return.

But not a single one of your messages implied you were that distraught. If anything, they seemed almost playful, with a small twinge of genuine desire to have the pen returned. Jason slowly walks over to grab it, attempting to find anything special with it. If he knew it'd cause this many issues, he would've left the damn thing. Sighing, he walks back over to the table it was originally on. Perhaps he should return it. He didn't mean to take a sentimental object from you. He runs his fingers across the pen, before scrunching his nose in disgust. It smells like something is burning—

His eyes widen. Shit, he forgot about the bacon.

–

"Honestly, just break into his apartment. You said you already know where he keeps whatever you're looking for." Tim shrugs, attempting to keep a straight face. "Just do a little research on the computer before you break in." He waves a hand nonchalantly.

You nod, typing furiously on your phone as if taking notes. "Got it… Would you recommend door or window?"

Tim's eyebrows raise, wow, you are taking him seriously? "Window, most people don't lock them."

You frown, eyebrows furrowing, "I don't think this guy is constituted as 'most people.'"

Tim mirrors your frown, sitting up straighter. Who exactly are you going after? "Okay… Do you mind if I ask who 'this guy' is?"

You fidget in your chair slightly, kicking one leg up over your other, "Uh…" You look around to make sure nobody is listening, "You won't judge?"

Tim snorts, "No, I won't." Actually, before he was just mildly interested. It'd be your first B&E (closer to burglary, but really, same difference, you seemed pretty justified based on what Tim heard). However, it seems that you don't aim low because if you are this nervous about it, it must be serious.

You smack your lips, "It's Jason." Your words are quiet, but they echo throughout the cave. Tim can't hold back the stunned expression he makes, eyes wide and eyebrows so far up they almost disappear behind his hair.

"I know, I know. Trust me, I know it's bad, but–"

"Wait, wait, wait, since when did you meet him?" Tim suddenly cuts you off, his palms pressed against one another, hands covering his mouth. His eyes are focused on you.

"I–" You pause, momentarily thrown off track. "What?"

"You met Jason." Tim states, and you nod slowly. This is not what you pictured from this conversation. You imagined something more along the lines of: "Why would you steal from my brother?"

"Yeah?" You blink, "Was I not supposed to…?" You ask hesitantly. You didn't think meeting him was that big of a deal.

Tim shakes his head, looking down. "I was just surprised." He snaps his head up to you, startling you slightly, "Does Dick know?"

You stare blankly at Tim, "Why… would he?"

Tim nods slowly, pursing his lips. "Taking that as a no." 

You nod, amused, "Yeah, no."

He hums in acknowledgement, shaking his head subtly, "Anyway, you said that you wanted to break into Jason's?"

"Yeah, I know he's kinda your brother and all," you hold your hands up in a placating gesture, "but he took something that was mine."

Tim snorts, laughing at your cautious approach, "I'd help you even if he didn't have something of yours. What'd he take anyway?"

You open your mouth, then close it. "The details aren't important, what matters is that he betrayed my trust."

Tim smirks at you, "Alright then, keep your secrets." He pauses slightly before speaking, "How'd he betray your trust?"

Rolling your eyes, you groan, "Don't get me started."

Tim blinks, "That bad?"

"It's just that I was nice to him, then did multiple favors for him– all without being asked!" You emphasize, your eyes crinkled in barely masked indignation. "I did all of that, and when I ask him to return the one thing he stole, he leaves me on read!"

Tim snorts, "Oh, yeah that's pretty common."

"Yeah, I was messaging on the computer, and like I asked for him to return it, and– Tim, I swear– he was taunting me. Oh, and he got satisfaction out of it." You aren't even looking at Tim anymore. Your chair moves slightly under your flailing gestures.

Tim nods seriously, "Sounds about right." He isn't even looking at you, his eyes frozen on the floor in contemplation. "Tonight, he should be out on patrol. I can try and guide you."

You whip your head back towards him, "Really?" You grin.

He nods, amused, his eyes telling you that he's plotting something. "Of course, all you needed to say was 'break into Jason's,'" and I was sold."

You grin, "Great!" You check the time, "Oh– I have to go, but if you get any info could you send it over?"

He offers you a casual thumbs up, "Yeah, of course. I'll hear from you tonight?"

You nod enthusiastically, "Yep! Thanks, Tim!" You head out of Tim's room, closing the door behind you. Tim waits for a moment, listening for the manor's entrance doors to close before he gets up and makes his way down to the cave. Now, this may be considered an invasion of privacy, but you gave him permission to guide you through this operation.

So naturally, like a true detective, he has to learn all the facts.

Tim scans around the Batcave. Nobody is around right now. The perfect opportunity to learn more. It's convenient that evidence is located on the computer. Tim easily navigates the familiar system, pulling up the emulator. For the future, he would tell you that it's important to delete the trail of messages left behind unless absolutely necessary, but for now…

Tim scrolls to the top of the chat, it wasn't very long, but it was long enough. You said that Jason had taken something from you, but you hadn't elaborated on what. Tim wasn't that nosy, but he probably should know considering he's dedicating his night to helping you retrieve said item.

"Why are you texting Todd like that?"

Tim heaves a sigh, turning around in the swivel chair to see Damian looking at the monitor. "Hello to you too."

"It doesn't match your style."

"Astute observation. 'Cause it isn't." Tim tries to ignore Damian as he turns back towards the screen, hoping that if he makes it sound boring then he'll be left alone.

Damian's lips twitch slightly in a frown, "Then whose?"

"Apparently the last person who texted Jason." Tim attempts to focus on the texts, but he can see Damian also reading them next to him. "Hey, can you not?"

Damian narrows his eyes at Tim, "They aren't even your messages."

"Exactly, give them some privacy." Tim attempts to shove Damian out of the way, but he merely positions himself on the other side of Tim's chair, undeterred.

"As if you reading their messages is 'privacy.'" Damian raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Tim.

Tim attempts to swat him, but it's less forceful than the (attempted) shove. The action is more of an afterthought; his eyes are still trained on the messages. However, it's becoming increasingly difficult to read them with somebody pestering him. "I'll have you know I got permission."

"So you do know who sent it." Damian states. He reads a couple of the messages before saying your name, Tim glances at him for a moment, but doesn't confirm or deny his guess. "It is her. My second guess was Steph, but she uses more emojis."

Tim sighs, "Sure,"

Damian glares at him, but quiets down as he reads the messages next to Tim silently, the two of them attempting to decipher their meaning. It's not long before they reach the end, after all, there weren't that many. "She gave him a bomb?" Damian asks, incredulously.

Tim rolls his eyes, wiggling his finger, "Nuh-uh, it says 'not-bomb,' see?" He points his finger to the screen.

Damian scoffs, "I can see that." He leans in to reread some of the messages, "Did she only message him for a pen?"

Tim shrugs, "Must be a nice pen."

Damian points at the last line, "She calls him by his full name too." He notices.

Tim nods, "I mean she's mad at him, I can see it. Plus, you still call me by my last name, you don't get to comment on that."

Damian shakes his head, but Tim swears he rolls his eyes. "She doesn't do that with us though."

Tim thinks back to it, you haven't really gotten mad at anybody in his family (from what he knows). If you have though, he has no recollection of you ever dropping full names onto one of his siblings. Honestly, this would have to be something he'd need to ask Dick about. He has known you much longer. "Hm," Tim frowns, scrolling back to the top of the messages.

Damian smirks, "I'm right, aren't I?"

"I wouldn't go that far, but–" he turns to Damian, "I suppose it's worth keeping note of."

Damian scoffs, "You just don't want to admit I'm right." He walks away from the computer, leaving Tim alone in the cave.

Tim narrows his eyes at the messages. The tone, the style of messaging, Jason even replied quickly.

There is something else there.

–

Tossing on a dark hoodie, you exhale nervously. "Okay, how about a hoodie?" You ask Tim, throwing the hood over your face. You look over to your phone, still on a call with him.

"Well… Definitely matches the breaking and entering aesthetic."

You snort, "So is that a no on the hoodie?"

Tim exhales, "You'll probably be fine." He says dismissively.

You raise an eyebrow, "Probably?"

Tim clicks his tongue, "You're the one who thinks breaking into his apartment is a good idea."

"Yeah, and you're helping me. Don't act like you aren't involved." You point your finger at the phone, despite the fact that you aren't on a video call.

"It's more of a passive involvement." You can hear him roll his eyes.

"Involvement nonetheless." You smile.

"All I'm saying is that if you get murked by Jason 'cause he mistakes you for being some random intruder, it is not on me." Tim says helpfully.

"Thanks for the optimism—" You're cut off by a loud honk outside your apartment.

"I'm assuming that's you." You grab your phone and hurriedly put your shoes on before running down the stairs of your apartment building.

"Let's hope your assumption is correct." Tim responds ominously.

"You really aren't making me feel better about this." You exhale warm air into your hands— it's freezing.

Tim laughs as you knock on his window. He slowly rolls it down, "Uber for one B&E?"

You groan, "If I knew you'd make a big deal about this I would've just done it on my own."

Tim unlocks the door as you shove yourself into the passenger seat, teeth chattering. "Sure you could've, but your chances of success exponentially increase when you get help." He looks you up and down, "Do you… want the AC?"

You toss him a half-hearted glare, "Obviously. I'm sweating in here." You hold your hands together to conserve warmth. Tim doesn't break eye contact as he turns the AC on. You stare at him in disbelief at his sheer audacity. He smiles back innocently.

"Alright, yeah, sure, whatever, can we just go please?" You groan.

Tim chuckles, "Of course, of course." He starts the car and pulls out of the parking spot.

"So, what's the run down?" You bounce your leg as you debate burrowing yourself into your hoodie. You find yourself respecting the Bats a lot more. You could not imagine fighting crime in weather like this.

"What?" Tim stays focused on the road.

You turn toward Tim unimpressed, "Like, what should I keep on the look out for?"

"Oh," he pauses, a smirk growing on his face, "yeah don't worry about that."

You frown, eyebrows furrowing in concern, "I feel like that response in itself is something to be worried about."

Tim spares you a quick glance, eyes alight with mischief, "Let's just say, I came prepared."

You sink into your seat, "Great, so you're just gonna send me in blind."

Tim shakes his head, "No, I'll be there with you— well, in the car. You'll be fine. You're stressing a bit too much."

You narrow your eyes towards him, offended, "Oh, I'm sorry that I'm stressed about breaking into your vigilante brother's apartment despite having no prior experience in any crime whatsoever."

Tim purses his lips, "…You'll be fine." He repeats.

"You know that is no more reassuring than the last fifty times you've said it." You cross your arms, staring out the window.

Tim exhales, amused. "Fine, if it makes you feel better, I should have earbuds in the glove compartment we could use for comms."

You open the glove compartment to find a couple old earbud pieces with the Wayne Enterprises logo plastered on the case. "They still work?"

Tim shrugs, "Should."

You sigh, "Alright, then we'll be on comms. You better not ditch me."

Tim rolls his eyes, a smile on his face, "I'm not that mean."

The rest of the ride is silent. Despite Tim's multitude of reassurances, you did not— in fact— feel better doing this than you did earlier that day. Part of you thought it was just something you'd talk about doing, but would never actually do in practice.

However, Tim seemed very eager to get in on this… heist? Whatever it was. You honestly didn't think he'd care, but apparently you and Jason knowing each other was news.

Thinking back to the conversation, you wonder why Tim cared if Dick knew. It's not like Dick has to know everything going on in your life. So what? You met his family, big whoop. That doesn't explain why would Tim care that you had met Jason.

You tap your finger on the window sill of the car.

Unless…

You think back to Jason's messages. The way that Duke looked at the two of you during your initial meeting. The shock on Tim's face. Suddenly, you sit up, catching Tim's attention, does he think that—

"Okay, we're here." Tim parks the car at the curb across the street from Jason's apartment, (you scouted it out with Google Earth earlier this morning). You open your mouth to ask Tim what he really thinks about this whole scenario, but the question dies in your throat. Instead, you nod resolutely, and pop an earbud into your ear, using the hood to cover it.

"You look sketchy as hell." Tim eyes you dubiously, an amused— almost concerned smile on his face.

You glare at him, elbowing him, "You approved it. Said it was— what was it? 'B&E aesthetic?'" You gesture to your lackluster appearance.

Tim scoffs, "I'm just saying. You just look like somebody who I'd avoid on the street."

Your eye twitches, "Thank you, Tim."

He waves a hand at you, "Yeah, yeah, go head inside." You exit the car, fiddling with the earbud to make sure it stays in your ear. "Oh— take this too." Tim throws a small kit to you.

Not wanting to drop the item, you fumble with it in the air for a brief second before reading the packaging. A lock picking kit.

Your eyes widen as you read it. You rest your arm on the open car door as you turn the kit around for him to read. "You serious?"

He shrugs, "Steph said you had gotten some experience in."

"She taught me once on a random afternoon."

Tim snaps, "Perfect time to make sure your skills are up to date."

You groan, pocketing it into your hoodie, creating an odd rectangular shape against your stomach. Flattering— no, but at least you aren't walking into the apartment practically screaming "Don't mind me, just gonna break into this apartment right here!"

"I'll have your back, don't worry. All you need to worry about is opening that door."

"Thought you said the window was a better option?'

Tim winces, sucking in air, "Ohh, yeah… Don't do that." He shakes his head.

You sigh, shutting the car door. Hearing Tim's muffled "Good luck!" You take a deep breath before making your way into the building and up to his apartment. The trek isn't very long, but you are positively sweating by the time you reach his door. Even if you know Jason won't actually do anything to you if he does stumble onto you lock picking his apartment, it's not exactly something you want to happen. You check the hallway, making sure nobody is around, before opening the kit. Sighing, you get to work.

Tim wasn't lying when he said that you got some experience in lock picking. However you also weren't lying when you said it was a single afternoon. You wouldn't even trust yourself to break into your own apartment if needed, let alone Jason's.

"You almost done there?" Tim's voice causes you to jolt, cursing under your breath.

Clenching your teeth, you attempt to pull on the doorknob, another failure. "Nope."

Tim hums, "Well, he should be out on patrol for at least the next few hours. No rush."

You huff, not saying anything. Instead you focus back to the lock. Inserting the pin, you attempt to listen for the soft clicks of the mechanisms.

Click.

You smile, thank goodness you still remember. Now you just need to do that a few more times. Gently, you maneuver the pick until you can feel the pins. You move the pin until you hear the sound again. You exhale shakily, a smile plastered on your face. While you may not live this kind of life, you are certainly feeling the adrenaline of it.

"One more." You whisper to Tim. He doesn't respond, but you don't expect him to.

Your hands are clammy at this point, sliding against the rusted metal of the doorknob. While it does make your life a bit more difficult, it definitely doesn't stop you. The pick attempts to slide out of your grasp, but you hold onto it so tightly that your hands start to shake.

You press your ear close to the doorknob, pushing the pick further in. You can hear the last pin shift with your movements, it's just a matter of getting the right angle. Eventually, you feel your pick latch onto it.

Click.

You don't celebrate too soon, slowly moving your hand up to the doorknob (somewhere along the way you had sat on the floor to focus better). The door creaks open. "Tim— Oh my— I did it." You stand up in celebration, pick forgotten on the floor.

"Congrats," he slowly claps in the background, and despite the mocking nature of it, you can't help but feel accomplished (even if that accomplishment is successfully breaking into a Jason's apartment). "Don't forget why you're actually there, though."

Snapping out of it, you grin, "Right… Right." Hesitantly, you entire his apartment. The first thing you note is that it is not any warmer than the outside world.

The second thing you notice is that it is impeccably clean. You're not saying you thought Jason would have a messy apartment… but it's clean. Almost unlived in. Perhaps he was expecting a guest?

Your shoes softly patter as you enter the apartment. It's so clean you almost feel bad for leaving your shoes on. You withhold a snort at the thought, expert robber here, need me to take off my shoes before entering?

It's dark inside, the lights of the city funnel through the window just above the sink. You attempt to look for a light switch, eventually turning on the lamp near the entrance.

Now, if you were Red Hood, where would you hide a pen?

"Have you found it yet?" Tim asks.

"I just got inside." You make your way over to the kitchen. Looking to the counter, it's not as clean as the rest of the apartment. You run your finger over it, looking down at the crumbs at your fingertips. It's brittle, blackened, almost burnt. Hesitantly you raise your finger up to your nose to smell it. Bacon? You slowly walk to the sink, flicking the remaining crumbs off your hand.

Making sure your hands are clean, you walk out of the kitchen into the living room. What immediately catches your attention is a bookshelf filled with classics. You walk over to it, curiously running your finger over the spines of the books. Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, the list goes on.

You continue to admire the collection before pausing, finger rested on the spine of The Great Gatsby, your eyebrows furrow in disbelief. Did he seriously..?

Gently, you remove his copy of it off the shelf, opening the book to look at the bookmark used.

Smiling, you chuckle as you remove the small index card.

Red Hood Jason Todd, If you're reading this then I was right in assuming that you'd return for your bat-gadget thing. I'm not gonna say I told you so, but… :). Anyway, I hope you enjoy your sealed package. (Notice how I highlighted "sealed"). Thank me later.

Your chest jumps slightly as you reread the message, signed off with your full name. You had written it just for funny 'Gotcha!' moment, not expecting him to keep it. You flip the paper around, it's a standard index card, nothing special besides a few stupid doodles you did to make it stand out.

It's not creased... Not folded, smudged, or damaged. It's in perfect condition.

A fond smile finds its way onto your face. Silently, with all too much care, you place the index card back to the page, closing the book. You slide it carefully back into place, leaving no trace of your interference.

Your eyes fall to the table in front of the couch, and your smile widens. You lean down to grab the pen, giving it a look once over. Yep, it's definitely the pen Dick gave you. Your grip around it tightens, and you look to the front door.

"Okay, object secured." You whisper.

"Great— Oh, shit, get out now." You hear Tim shift in his car seat.

"Tim?" You frown, immediately on alert.

"He is not supposed to be back at his apartment." Tim mutters, and you swiftly make your way to the front door. You open it, and immediately walk into something… someone.

You move your gaze from the floor up to the helmet of Red Hood. Damn it, Tim.

"Hey, you outta there yet? I don't have eyes on him anymore—" You tap the earbud once, muting Tim, not breaking eye contact with Red Hood.

"Heyyy," You smile casually, leaning against the doorframe, acting like it's your apartment.

Red Hood looks you up and down, sketchy outfit and all. "Hey,"

"I didn't expect to see you here." You attempt to inconspicuously slip the pen into the pocket of your hoodie.

"Could say the same about you." He responds, tilting his head. "Could you… move out of the way?"

You blink, looking at his empty apartment, then back to him. "Go ahead… It's your apartment." You slowly move out of the way, opening the door for him.

Red Hood steps into his apartment, "Really?" he mutters, his shoulder bumping into you as he walks in. You roll your shoulder, glaring slightly at him. "Didn't know that."

"Your sarcasm is noted." Rolling your eyes, you watch him head into a hallway, presumably to his room. He doesn't say anything else. You can feel your phone vibrating with notifications (probably Tim), and realize that if you're planning to leave, now is the perfect chance.

You're about to walk out when you pause, "You… You aren't upset?"

Red Hood— Jason walks back out, helmet off, but domino still on. "I'm not surprised."

You frown, "That's… not what I asked."

His eyes narrow, "I'm not surprised." He repeats.

You smack your lips, turning to face him, the door still open. "For the record, you stole my pen. "

Jason snorts, "Yeah, and you can have it back. I ain't gonna deal with whatever emotional attachments you and Dick have to it."

You straighten up, moving away from the door to move back into the apartment, "He saw it?"

"If you're planning on staying, at least close the door, please." Jason moves over to the fridge. His calm detachment of the situation leaves you taken aback.

"I'm not planning on staying." You scoff, moving further away from the door, back into his apartment.

Jason turns to face you, and you raise an eyebrow at him. He sighs, walking over to you. You inhale in preparation for…

He shuts the door behind you. You blink at the action. "I was gonna leave, you know."

"Mhm, yeah, I'll believe it when you actually step through the doorframe." Jason moves over to the couch, practically throwing all his weight onto it. You hesitate, unsure how to proceed. It'd just be plain awkward to leave now.

Shifting on your feet, you open your mouth to speak when he cuts you off. "Dick came earlier today." Jason doesn't turn to face.

You slowly move over to lean your arms onto the back of the couch, next to where his head rests. "Sounds exciting."

He exhales, a small smile at his face, then it vanishes as quickly as it came. "Y'know in the past I've always tried to encourage him to leave whenever he decides visiting is appropriate."

You hum in acknowledgement, but don't say anything.

"Then he saw the—" he gestures lazily at you, "—the damn pen." He slowly removes the domino from his face.

You watch as he slowly removes the mask, his eyes wincing as he forcefully pulls it off his face. "I could've told you it was a bad idea to take it." You smile.

He huffs, "I wish you did." He tosses the domino onto the table.

You nudge his shoulder softly, "I practically did."

He turns to face you, no mask obscuring your view of his features, "No, you just called me an asshole."

You lean your body onto the back of the couch, glaring at him, "'Cause you were being one. You left me on read, after I kindly returned your stuff."

He groans, "Can we just let it go? I fucked up."

"I dunno, I'm currently in your apartment. Will you let me go?" You tap your finger on the back cushions. "You shut the door on me when I was about to leave."

Jason's posture straightens up meeting you at eye level. "Maybe." He whispers, his voice gruff, but a softness is present within it. "As long as you tell Tim to fuck off." He smirks at you.

You swallow, matching his smirk, attempting to appear unfazed. "How'd you know he was involved?"

Jason leans away from you, and you straighten up. He isn't facing you anymore. "I didn't."

Shit, sorry Tim.

You purse your lips, slowly nodding. "Oh," you whisper dumbly.

Jason chuckles, turning back to you, his eyes almost smiling with amusement despite his otherwise neutral expression. "He was the one who disabled all the security measures I had in place. I figured he was with you."

You exhale slowly, "Right…" You meet his gaze, "Sorry… About the whole breaking in thing." You smile sheepishly.

He shrugs dismissively, "Figured it was you anyway."

You raise an eyebrow, "You figured I'd spend my night trying to steal back a pen?"

His lips turn upward, "Well, you're here, aren't ya?"

You offer a small smile, "Hm, guess you're right about that."

You stare off at the table in silence, neither of you speaking for a long minute. "You know, I wasn't joking about telling Tim to fuck off." He tilts his head to look at you, and instinctively you lean closer.

You snort, "You're funny."

"Funnier than Dick?"

You smile, not giving him an answer, "You'll let me go if I text him?"

He nods, not taking his eyes off of you. "If you want."

You raise an eyebrow, "'If I want?'" You repeat unbelievingly. "What's the alternative?" You chuckle, "Like— I could stay 'if I want?'" You ask.

Jason tosses you a disinterested look, "Just tell him to leave my shit alone." He replies, not answering the question.

You smile, "Want me to word it like that?"

"Word it however you want. Just get the point across." He shrugs.

You pull out your phone— which is still vibrating with texts he's been sending. "You know it isn't his fault." You frown, feeling defensive of Tim. Sure he intentions may have been made out of nosiness rather than genuine goodwill, but he still helped you nonetheless.

"He knew what he was doing, tell him to fuck off." Jason shrugs his leather jacket off, you watch him before turning away.

Leaning on the couch, back facing Jason, you type out a response. "How does: 'Hood says to fuck off' sound?"

"Perfect. Send it." Jason takes his boots off. You are momentarily struck by how… relaxed he is. You send the message.

"Alright, message delivered." You smile at Jason, looking at your phone as the read receipt pops up milliseconds after you sent the text. "…And read."

Jason nods, not bothering to actually look at you as he takes off his gear. "Wonderful."

Your phone vibrates, you frown, raising it up for Jason to see, "Now he's calling me." Jason holds his hand out expectantly, his other hand still working with a strap on his boot. Hesitantly you place your phone in his hand, "You aren't gonna steal this too, right?" You smirk, his hand brushing your own as you place it into his palm.

He raises an eyebrow, not breaking eye contact as he answers the phone, putting it on speaker.

"—you can't leave me with that. Is he letting you leave?"

Jason huffs, "Christ, I ain't holding her hostage."

"Funny, I don't exactly see her though." Tim responds.

"I'm alright, Tim. You can head home for the night," you look at Jason for a moment, and he raises an eyebrow, "thanks though."

Tim pauses, incredulously. "The hell did you tell her?" The question isn't directed at you.

"Just had a quick chat. I said she can sta—" You cover Jason's mouth (oddly reminiscent of a prior instance). You don't want to fan the flames of Tim's curiosity.

"He's giving me the pen back. I'll fill you in tomorrow."

"Wait, 'chat?' What about?" Tim suddenly switches topics.

"Goodnight, Tim." You smile wryly. Tim says your name, as Jason hangs up the phone, you frown. "You didn't have to hang up on him."

"He wouldn't've shut up if I didn't." Jason offers the phone back to you. You grab it, pocketing it into the pouch of your hoodie. You tilt your head, a silent nod. He isn't exactly wrong, but Tim has been helpful.

"So…" You attempt to shift topic, moving over towards the bookshelf from earlier. "You like to read?"

Jason leans back casually, "No, I just put them on display."

You frown, the bookmarked book said otherwise. "Rightttt," You drawl out. You pick up the copy of The Great Gatsby, thumbing the pages until you reach the index card. Jason watches you, not saying anything, eying the way you pick up the index card.

"Really?" You wiggle the paper towards him, but even you are a bit careful. After all, if it's in this good condition, you'd like to preserve it.

Jason gives you a small smile, "I needed a bookmark."

"So you used my message?" You raise an eyebrow at the index card.

He shrugs, "It was conveniently located. It's worked pretty well so far. Thanks for that."

You place it back, shelving the book. "Yeah. Let me know if you need another."

Jason nods sagely, "Back-ups would be nice."

You chuckle, "You wish." You slowly move your way around his apartment. You feel his eyes follow you as you move around. "Is it just you here?"

Jason nods, "Yeah," his words quiet, but you hear them clearly.

You walk around the kitchen island, "You like it like that?" You circle around it, heading back over to him. "Just you?"

His eyes flicker up to you, his gaze unreadable. "I manage." He looks down, rubbing his knee.

You look down at him before hesitantly settling down on the opposite side of the couch from him. Well, "opposite" is generous. You refrain from getting close enough to touch him, but he is sprawled out so vastly that you're forced into an awkward position.

You look over to him, "You gonna let me on the couch or what?"

His lips twitch, eyes alight in amusement as he turns to face you. In an attempt to give him some semblance of personal space, you press yourself against the back of the couch, clearing up what little space you had. He kicks his legs up, laying his feet upon your lap, and all you can do is stare at him, aghast.

You scrunch your nose up, glaring at him. "Dude, you stink." You attempt to shove his legs off of you, unsure how to proceed.

He doesn't make it very easy, forcing you to exert some effort in tossing his legs off you. "You're the one who sat down."

"You treat all guests like this?" You glare at him, attempting to distance yourself from him, disgusted.

He holds his hands up in surrender, now fully laying down on the couch. His neck is propped up on the armrest, arms crossed, and legs glued to your lap. "You aren't a guest. You broke into my apartment." He stares at the ceiling, a smile on his face.

You finally shove his feet off of you, "Okay, but you said I could stay. That sounds like a promotion from 'trespasser' to 'guest.'" You sit up on the edge of the cushion, ready to stand at any further attempts of trapping you he has in mind.

"Ah," he raises a single finger up, waving it at you condescendingly, "you said that you could stay, not me."

You meet his smug expression with an unimpressed one. "Alright," you sigh, standing up. He startles slightly, sitting up to watch you head to the door.

"Where're you going?" He asks, and you find yourself almost charmed by his stupefaction.

"Home?" You toss on your hood off your back, ready to brave the freezing weather.

Jason places his elbow onto the back of the couch, eyebrow raised, "It's one in the morning."

You open the door, a blast of cold wind whipping past you. "Glad you know how to read a clock."

"You even have a ride?" Jason asks, looking you up and down.

You chuckle, shutting the door slightly, but not closing it. "You won't believe this, but Red Hood actually told my ride to 'fuck off.'" You do air quotes.

Jason relaxes his head against his propped up hand, "Crazy," he deadpans. "So what, you just gonna walk home?"

You pause, thinking about it. Technically you could. You've walked further in the past. Sure it's Gotham, but perhaps you can convince Jason to lend you a bat or something (ha, get it?). Honestly, thinking back to the drive, it'd probably be like a thirty minute walk you could—

"Tell me you aren't actually considering it." Jason sits up straighter, now ready to stand up.

You stand there, frowning, "I mean you proposed it."

"I was joking," he rubs his temples before standing up. "I'll take you home."

"You don't have to do that…" You open the door wider, ready to leave. Jason, as if sensing your idea, moves past you to shut the door, locking it.

"I know." He looks at you before heading back to the couch. You shift on your feet as he puts his boots back on, when he finishes he grabs his leather jacket. He's about to put it on when he stops, he looks you up and down (again).

"What— Oh my—" You're cut off by his leather jacket smacking you in the face.

"How can you and Tim plan to break into my apartment and forget to wear proper clothing for the weather?" Jason doesn't even spare you a glance, heading to his room down the hall. He returns seconds later with another leather jacket and two motorcycle helmets, giving you an odd look. "You gonna put it on or freeze?"

Slowly, you place the leather jacket down onto the couch "You don't need to give me your jacket. It's a quick drive anyway."

Jason grabs the jacket and attempts to give it to you again, "It doesn't matter if it's a quick drive, it's cold and we're taking my bike."

You open your mouth, but he raises his eyebrows as if challenging your next words. You don't break eye contact as he slowly puts the leather jacket back into your arms. "Guess you make a good point." You mutter softly. Jason huffs, muttering something under his breath. You aren't sure what he says, but you feel bad for taking so long since Jason patiently waits for you to finish putting the jacket on before opening the door once again. "Thanks, Jason." You look at the ground as you speak, before turning your gaze up to his. His mouth is parted slightly in surprise before settling into something more quiet. His eyes squint slightly, and you furrow your eyebrows at his expression. He's openly smiling now. "What's so funny?"

He blinks, and the moment that felt almost too personal vanished. His countenance settles into something more familiar. He lightly taps your shoulder, "Jacket on hoodie combo. Quite the fashion statement you got there." He uses his arm to push you out of the apartment. Not forceful, but enough to get you moving. "Watch your step."

You stumble out of his apartment, "I'll have you know this outfit had Tim's approval."

Jason barks out a sharp laugh, "That was your first mistake."

You chuckle softly, your warm breath visible in the air. Jason walks past you, heading down to the parking lot as you follow behind him. "Where do you live anyway?" He hops onto his bike. You tell him your address as he checks his phone, plugging in the location. He looks from his phone up to you, "Well?"

You raise an eyebrow, "Well, what?"

"You gonna get on?" He asks, head tilted slightly. He runs a hand through his hair, and your eyes follow the action. He smirks softly as you clear your throat.

"Right, I was just…" You had never been on a motorcycle before. Jason watches as you slowly make your way onto the seat, your arms settled onto your legs. He eyes you out of the corner of his eye. Just as you finally get accustomed to it, he shoves a helmet into your lap. You smile, giving him a quiet "Thanks."

"Dick never give you a ride on his bike?" He shifts his body around slightly, looking down at your hands stiffly placed on your thighs. His arm adjusts slightly, raising to almost grab your own, but he stops. "Quick warning," he eyes your hand before looking up to you, "you're gonna wanna hold on."

You nod, not trusting yourself to respond as he revs the bike. Wincing at the sound, you slowly wrap your arms around his torso, causing him to stiffen up. "Sorry!" You wince, voice competing with the bike. The last thing you want to do is make him uncomfortable. Despite stealing your pen, you don't think he is a bad person. You already feel awful making the guy drive you home after you broke into his apartment.

He clears his throat, the sound is low, you barely catch it, "'s fine," he mutters softly, "ready? Just follow my lead." You nod against his back, finding yourself thankful he insisted you wear the jacket. He starts up his bike, and you give his torso a tight squeeze in anticipation as he moves out.

The ride is quiet, but quiet isn't necessarily bad. As the minutes pass, you begin to feel yourself relax. It also helps that as it progresses, so does Jason. You can't see his expression, covered by the helmet, but for some reason you can't help but find yourself wondering. You look down at your hands wrapped around him, then back at him, concentrated on the road ahead. You'd never met Jason before before his time as Red Hood. Unlike Dick, you never witnessed his time as Robin. Would things be different if you did?

You lean slightly into him unthinkingly. If he notices it, he doesn't say anything. You attempt to catch his eye, but he doesn't spare you a glance. You look at his hands, clenched around the handlebars, turning your focus to his mirrors. Coincidentally, he also looks in his mirrors, catching you observing him. You look away. He pulls up to a stop light, "You alright?" He asks, turning his head to face you slightly.

You swallow, nodding. "Yeah, I'm good." He nods in acknowledgment , the light turning green.

It's not long before he pulls up to your apartment. "This it?" He asks, turning towards you.

"Mhm," you hum, turning towards your apartment. "Thanks, Jason Todd." You remove the helmet, the cold air attacking you once more.

He removes his helmet too, revealing the tired, yet mirthful glint in his eyes. "Of course," he says your full name. You can't hold back the smile at it. The first time he said it in the cave it sounded like he was stating facts. Like you were something to be cataloged.

Now? The way he says it… It's quiet, personal. It was a small joke that spiraled out of proportion. You can imagine somebody might be offended by such an impersonal gesture. However, neither of you appear upset at how you address one another. In the past the tone was teasing, but it doesn't feel that way anymore.

It's between you two, and only you two. Natural in a way that can't be replicated with anybody else. Even with Dick, somebody you kind of grew up with, saying his name never felt so… personal. Sure he'd call you pet names, but you had learned long ago that's just how Dick rolled. Maybe that's why you feel your heart stutter as Jason says just your name, no last name attached. Your eyes snapped to him. It's a step past teasing… almost intimate. It's not the "sweethearts" Dick would throw at you relentlessly. It's simply… you.

"What?" You snap out of your head, still caught by the whole name thing. Frowning, Jason looks at you expectantly.

"Geez, did you get any sleep before coming to my place? Don't fall asleep here, you're almost home." He rests his helmet onto his lap, still looking at you.

Chuckling, you shake your head, "No, sorry, I'm just…" You pause, "Thanks for the ride." You give the helmet back to him.

"No need to make a big deal out of it." His diverts his gaze from you to the helmet, brushing off imaginary dust.

You smile, "Still, thanks." You aren't sure when to look away from him. Is this goodbye? Should you say bye? No… it feels too formal. Goodnight? Is that too casual? Maybe you should just—

"Need me to walk you up?" He asks, his gaze unreadable.

Your eyes widen dramatically, "No! Uh— Not that I don't want you too. I mean, it's just right there. I'll be fine. Thank you," you swallow, "thanks… though."

Jason's unreadable gaze turns into something almost fond. "Of course," he turns away, as if aware you're over-analyzing his face, shielding himself from any further examination. "Text me when you get home, 'kay?" The eye facing you flickers to your body, but he doesn't turn to face you. His attempt at casual indifference makes you smile internally.

"Mm, two things, one: I am already home," you gesture to the building. "Two: I don't have your number." He blinks at you, eyebrows furrowing as if trying to reason through something. It's kind of funny, you can actually see him think on his face, wondering how you texted him to begin with, before realizing it was on the Batcomputer.

"Well," he holds his hand out, "perhaps we should change that." You feel your heart begin to race, placing your phone onto his hands. He immediately types in his contact info before holding it back towards you. You take it back, looking at the screen.

Jason Todd

You raise an eyebrow at him, "Insistent, huh? Wanna add your middle name too?" You tease. Jason huffs, a small puff of air visible in the cold Gotham atmosphere. He snatches your phone back, typing something on it, and handing it back.

Jason

Face heating up in spite of the cold weather, you chuckle softly. You can't help your heart's increase in tempo. It's so stupid, it's literally just his damn name. Removing his last name doesn't mean anything, but your heart sings at the gesture. "Prettyy sure removing your last name is kinda the opposite of what I asked." You wave your phone at him.

He scoffs, but you can see the smile on his face. "Goodnight," he says your name, and only your name. "Text me once you make it inside your apartment."

You nod, your smile widening at his concern, "Goodnight, Jason."

Slowly, you walk away from him, expecting him to leave as soon as you turn your back. He doesn't. He watches as you make your way inside the building. You offer him a small wave before entering. He nods, putting his helmet back on, and driving off. With a grin on your face that should not be there at 2:14 AM, you make your way to your apartment.

Now, of course, after all of that, you couldn't sleep. You hadn't even taken a shower yet. Instead, you laid on the floor, on your phone. You had texted Jason once you made it inside, a quick message. He had liked it a couple minutes after you sent it, making you wonder if he liked it while driving.

As you sat on the floor, doomscrolling, you couldn't help but feel… kinda pathetic. I mean this is basically how you acted with Dick back when you were kids. You refuse to regress to the "idiot in love with (former) Robin" phase. It's not like you even love him. You scoff. Not doing that again. With that thought fueling you, you take your time doing your night routine. You remove your jacket— wait.

You look down at the leather jacket laid comfortably over your torso being used as a makeshift blanket.

God, he's going to think you did it on purpose after stealing your pen. You groan, carefully taking the jacket and hanging it up at the front of your closet. Guess you'll need to return that. 

Ignoring your (accidental) theft, by the time you've finished your routine it's just past 2:30, and you nestle yourself into your warm bed, ready to let sleep capture you. Then, just as you make sure your phone is charging, you get a notification. Usually you wouldn't care, but its sharp ring signaled it to be text. Curious, you check your phone to see who is messaging you at this time.

Jason

You want to know something crazy? I think somebody just stole my jacket.

Delivered 2:34 AM

Immediately, you sit up as if your phone shocked you. You rub your eyes as you check the day. Saturday.

You feel your stomach do so many somersaults that it'd make Dick proud.

You had honestly forgotten the throwaway comment you had made all those days ago. 2:34 AM on a Saturday. You had picked such an inconvenient time on purpose. It was meant to discourage him, not enable him.

Apparently, Jason never forgot it.

Unplugging your phone, you pull it close to you, the light illuminating your face as you reach to answer it. Laughing quietly to yourself, your legs kick underneath the sheets as you open the message. Perhaps you are relapsing to your "in love with a (former) Robin" phase. You roll onto your back, phone casting light down your face.

However, the thought isn't as filled with dread as it once was.

—

Dick flips onto a rooftop, allowing his body to crouch as he absorbs the impact of the fall. Robin is sitting on the ledge of the building, and Dick slowly approaches him. "You know, you aren't supposed to be patrolling alone." He looks down at Robin, sitting himself next to him.

"I am not alone. You are present." Damian narrows his eyes up at Dick.

Dick sighs, "That's not—" he shakes his head, "Just head back for the night. You have school tomorrow. It's late." He places a casual hand on Damian's shoulder. Damian doesn't react to the touch, merely rolling his eyes at his brother's words.

"Did you come here solely to remind me of my curfew?" Damian stands up, crossing his arms indignantly.

"Well, you were just staring at a bank. I'd say sleeping seems more productive." Dick shrugs, smiling up at Damian from his spot on the roof.

"Not if the tip Red Robin provided holds any truth." Damian turns his focus from Dick back to the bank.

"What did I provide?" Red Robin looks down at them from the building on their left. Dick and Damian turn to look up at him as he makes his way down.

"Apparently nothing of use." Damian steps down from the ledge, walking away from Dick and Tim.

Tim opens his mouth before turning to Dick, "I… I wasn't joking. I don't remember what I provided."

Dick shrugs, "Kid insisted you had given him a tip that something would happen at the bank."

Tim blinks, "That's not very specific… There's a whole lot of banks that get robbed…" He trails off as Damian glares at him. "It doesn't matter." He waves a hand dismissively at him. "Why're you still here anyway?" He turns to Dick.

Dick frowns, "You telling me to leave?"

Tim frantically shakes his head, "No! Just curious, we figured that just… After the case, you'd go back to Blüdhaven."

Dick smirks at Tim, "Yuh-huh." He places a hand on his chest gravely. "Don't worry Red," he places his free hand onto Tim's shoulder, "message received." Tim lightly swats his hand off his shoulder, making a small huff in amusement. "Can't I just spend time with my you guys?"

"You know nobody actually believes that's why you're still here, right?" Tim crosses his arms, unimpressed.

Dick raises his eyebrow, "And… Why is that?" He looks between Damian and Tim who appear to have cornered him. This is starting to feel like a trap.

Damian says your name, "I have been informed of your past companionship with her."

Dick inhales, slowly turning to Tim. "What'd you tell him?" His tone is exhausted.

Tim flinches, taken aback, "Why do you assume I told him?"

"'Cause I told you everything about it!" Dick narrows his eyes at him.

"Okay," Tim holds his hands up in mock surrender, "doesn't mean I told him though." He mutters.

"Tim." Dick attempts to catch his eye. Damian frowns, a quiet "Codenames" under his breath going unheard.

"I only told him cause he saw the…" he looks at Damian, who returns his look with a stoic stare, "uh… Well, it doesn't really matter anyway."

Dick looks between the two of them in disbelief, "Saw the what? And what do you mean it doesn't matter. I don't want her finding out that I know she liked me."

"And she won't!" Tim reassures him, scratching his neck.

"What'd you see though? Don't avoid the question." He looks between the two. Tim obstinately refuses to make eye contact, making him look towards Damian. "Well?"

"Messages." Damian relents after a short staring contest. Dick's blood runs cold.

"Robin—"

"He was going to find out eventually!" Damian hisses quietly to Tim.

Dick looks at Tim, eyes sharp. "What messages?"

Tim purses his lips, waving a hand at Dick, "Basically nothing. Don't worry about it really—"

"If it isn't something to worry about, then you won't mind telling me." Dick moves over to Tim, desperate for answers.

Tim frowns, narrowing his eyes. He looks at Dick, then to Damian just behind him. Sighing, he swallows. "She was just talking to Jason on the Batcomputer."

Dick's eyebrows shoot up, exhaling with a disbelieving smile on his face. "Oh.. Okay? Why," he exhales unevenly, shaking his head, "why would that be something to hide from me? I mean— it's not like it's a big deal or anything." He moves away from Tim, heading back to the ledge. "She talks to you guys all the time. Why would Jason be any different?" His hand clenches at his side, willing away the memory of the pen— the pen he had given you— casually laid out for everyone to see in Jason's apartment. "I'd assume it's normal, like— she texts you two all the time, right?" He looks towards Damian and Tim.

Tim pauses for answering, "Uh… Yeah." He looks to Damian who slowly nods. "Yeah, all the time."

Dick nods, the smile on his face turning more genuine rather than the panicked distress he was displaying. "Right, of course," he runs a hand through his hair, "nothing to worry about! Maybe she's just interested in getting to know everyone." He snaps his fingers, pointing to Tim and Damian.

Neither of them say anything.

Damian scoffs, "'Interested.'" He scoffs under his breath, only stopping at Tim's elbow jamming into his side.

Dick picks up on it immediately, "What?" The smile disappears, dread flooding back into his chest, "Did…" He looks between them, eyes focused, "Did she say something?"

Tim shakes his head, mouthing a few silent words, "I… Look, you just said that it was nothing to worry about."

Dick narrows his eyes, "Is this your way of saying I'll have to figure it out myself?"

Tim winces, "That's not what I meant. I'm just saying that…" he rubs his temple, "God, what am I saying?" He whispers to himself.

"What he intends to say is that she's been spending a considerable amount of time with Todd recently." Damian steps forward, narrowing his eyes at Tim.

Dick tilts his head slightly, eyes set on Tim, "Care to elaborate?"

"Look, it's probably nothing." Tim holds his hands up as if placating a wild animal.

Damian huffs, "We both know that isn't true." He mumbles under his breath.

"Yeah, well I don't wanna be that blunt." Tim glares down at Damian.

"No, no," Dick crosses his arms, "be blunt. I want to know what you know."

Damian tosses Tim a smug glance before looking up at Dick with the somber expression possible. "He slept with her."

Tim makes a noise of horror, and Dick stares blankly at his younger brother. "That is poor phrasing!" Tim turns towards Dick, their expressions almost exact opposites. Dick doesn't react to his words. "That's not what happened. She just stayed at his place for a little bit. Nothing like that." Tim whips around to glare at Damian, gesturing for him to stop talking.

Dick feels his heart slow down slightly at Tim's reassurance, but his mind still races. "How do you know?" His words are even, betraying nothing.

"What?" Tim frowns, "Well, Jason kinda just told me to 'fuck off' while she was still there."

Dick looks down to the ground, exhaling slowly. "How does that prove that nothing happened?"

Tim opens his mouth and closes it, "I… Well, it doesn't," at Dick's distraught face he adds "but they didn't." He nods with a certainty that both appeases and concerns Dick. Scoffing, Dick walks away from the ledge and to the back of the rooftop. His hands tighten around the grappling hook in his hand, shooting it to a nearby building. "Nightwing?" Tim asks hesitantly.

"Go home for the night." Dick responds, shooting the grappling hook and letting it carry him to the rooftops of buildings below. He doesn't bother to hear their response.

—

He didn't think about it…

Okay, correction: He tried not to think about it.

He had only just stopped thinking about the pen, when of course the situation got so much worse. He had naively optimistically hoped that perhaps you just left it somewhere, and Jason just happened to need a pen at the cave.

Apparently Tim and Damian decided to crush that illusion he'd built up. It's fine. He didn't spend days thinking about the implications. He did not spend nights staring at the walls wondering if maybe Damian's words had a hint of truth to them. They didn't! There's no way you've known Jason long enough to even consider going that far.

The following days lagged into weeks of concerned curiosity. You betrayed nothing. Jason betrayed even less. If you two were dating, then both of you did an exceptional job of hiding it, considering who your company is.

Then he saw it. A smile on your face, your hand raised to cover it as you laughed at your phone.

"What's so funny?" Dick continues to stretch as if nothing is out of order.

Your eyes linger on the device for a second longer before looking up to him, "Huh? Oh," you pocket the phone as if caught doing something illegal, "don't worry about it. Just a funny video online."

Dick narrows his eyes, looking down at the phone in your pocket as if it would tell him the secrets of the universe. "Right."

"It's uh…" you clear your throat, "cat video." You shrug, turning back towards the Batcomputer.

Dick pauses, "A… cat video."

You nod, "Yeah, mhm. It was really funny." You elaborate.

Dick nods slowly, "Great… Can I see it?"

You freeze, and Dick withholds a smirk. He got you. Shaking your head, you frown. "Sorry… I closed the app. Forgot to like the video." You smile sheepishly. "If I wanted to find it again I'd have to just hope and scroll."

Dick hums, convenient. "I see, that's a shame."

Nodding mournfully, you locate Cass on the computer, "Truly…" You sigh.

He narrows his eyes at you as if compelling you to reveal something, but you merely gave him a thumbs-up before getting on comms with Cass. Maybe there wasn't anything to worry about. Cat videos are funny, so maybe he's just overthinking it—

Then he finally caught you.

It had been after patrol, everybody was exhausted. It was a long night after Crane broke out of Arkham. Most of them went back to the cave. Upon entering, he saw that you were still on the computer checking cameras.

Then Dick saw it. Your phone, left absentmindedly on the far side of the desk, flashing.

On for one second. Dark for a few. Then on again.

The cycle would repeat, and eventually he got curious. You barely seemed to notice that they had all returned, and so he approached the desk. The actual messages weren't able to be read without unlocking the phone, but he didn't need to. His breathing sharpened at what he could read.

Jason

New message

Sent now

Jason

New message

Sent 1m ago

Jason

New message

Sent 2m ago

Dick hesitated to touch the phone, as if touching it would cause the evidence to evaporate into thin air. Slowly he grabbed it, clearing his throat. "Hey, I think somebody is trying to text you."

Your eyes slowly move to him, barely giving him attention. "Huh?" You reply distractedly as you offer most of your attention to the Batcomputer.

Dick waves the phone in his hand, "Jason is trying to contact you…" He looks down at the messages, "Well, he's been trying to contact you. Have you picked up your phone in the last seven hours?" Jason had called you about every couple of hours, each wave increasing the frequency of messages more than the last.

"What?" You frantically snatch your phone from Dick's hold, surprising him as you scroll through the dozens of messages you missed.

After a few seconds, Dick speaks up, "Everything good?"

Your eyes brush over him, "Great! Nothing to worry about."

Dick leans against the desk, "What was he texting you about anyway?" He tries to sound less nosy than he actually is, "Seemed important."

You shake your head, "Nah… No, just case stuff."

"Case stuff." Dick repeats slowly.

You nod, "Case… Yeah, case stuff." You rub your eyes.

"Must be important. Need help with it?" Dick pushes.

You shake your head, getting distracted as your phone vibrates again, "We solved it already." You type out a response, "Thanks, though." You smile disarmingly at Dick.

"Alright," he rubs your shoulder, causing you to wince as he hits a knot. "Just don't overwork yourself, 'kay? Let me know if it becomes too much." He pats it gently before moving away.

Your smile turns more genuine, "Thanks, Dick."

He stays for a moment, taking a deep breath and pursing his lips before walking off. After that day he had confirmed that something was going on between you and Jason.

Then he had reached a month-long stalemate.

He knew that you and Jason were talking, but both of you were surprisingly good at hiding it. The most Dick got was a couple of comments admitting you two had "talked recently." It led him to the conclusion that you must talk everyday because no matter when somebody asked, both of you had always "talked recently."

A small voice in his head told him it wasn't any of his business what you two were talking about. If you both wanted his help with something, you'd have asked. That didn't stop him from investigating though. For weeks upon weeks, he would overanalyze every comment either of you made. He looked for something that implied that there was something bigger going on.

"Yeah, I was talking with somebody, and…"

While you continued to speak, Dick didn't hear the rest. Talking with somebody. Who? Why not just say their name? From what Dick knows, the two of you essentially share the same friend group. Why would you feel the need to deliberately make it vague when you were talking to…

Unless you were talking to Jason.

"—and I told her that I believed that it was impossible. It was…"

Dick narrows his eyes at Jason as he talks on about… Well, he wasn't listening. He said "her." How many "her's" make a prominent appearance in his life? He said it casually enough for Dick to surmise that maybe he didn't make a deal out of it because…

You both were dating.

The realization caused him to tune out the rest of the conversation, responding in half-baked monosyllabic replies. The more he thought about it, the more his head hurt. Why… Why would you not tell him? Did you tell anybody? Is this just how things were between you both now? An ever growing distance that could never be bridged?

Dick's teeth clench as he considered the possibility. Even if that distance persists, did you still think that Dick wouldn't want to know you're dating his brother?

He can't control who you date. He can't do anything about that…

But you could've told him.

Maybe… Maybe he was exaggerating, after all, it is a large jump for Dick to make. Did he have a lot of evidence to back it up? Not really.

Did he believe it anyway? Absolutely.

For weeks, it was just conjecture. Dick already concluded that something was between you both, but he needed something substantial to have it set in stone, before he could truly panic.

Eventually, his patience paid off.

Dinner. Family dinner. Alfred had requested that everybody must show up, and that meant that, despite efforts to not make an appearance, Jason was there.

Oh, and who else was also there? You.

It started off like usual, chaotic, but familiar. Tim had attempted to bring his laptop and hide it in his lap as he ate, but Alfred shut that down quickly. Bruce had asked Duke how school was going, and of course Damian felt it vital for everyone to know that he was excelling in every single one of his classes.

Then Jason appeared. While not common, it wasn't exactly rare. What immediately caught everyone's attention was his seating choice.

Right next to you.

He had pulled the chair out as if nothing was amiss, but Dick had immediately noticed the action. It was not Jason's usual spot. Dick looked over to the spot reserved for Jason, then back to his brother. Jason didn't even notice the glances at the table, instead deciding that you had his full attention.

Dick's fork scratches against the plate as he bites his tongue. Perhaps… Perhaps you had something important to discuss. The rest of his family decides to ignore what is occurring before their very eyes.

You giggled— giggled at something Jason whispers to you. Dick attempts to subtly watch you both, not realizing his mouth is still running through the chewing motion, despite not having any food in it. Jason's arm adjusts slightly. Your body shifts at his movement.

Dick stiffens, freezing in his seat.

Dick can barely see, after all, he is seated across from you both. However, he knows that Jason's hand is resting on your leg. Dick's heart races, he feels his vision swim slightly. He shudders as he takes a deep breath. "When did that become a thing?" He asks, attempting to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Everybody at the table turns to him, quieting down at his question. After a moment, Duke breaks the silence, "What?"

Dick doesn't even look at him, not taking his eyes off of you. Jason shifts, taking his hand off of you as if nothing happened. "What're you talking about?"

"You two." Dick sneers, pointing his fork between you and Jason.

The rest of the table is now openly staring at you and Jason. Dick has to give you both credit, neither of you shrink under the scrutiny of nearly every vigilante in Gotham. "When were you planning on telling everybody?" Dick asks, setting his cutlery down with an echoing "Clang!".

You break first, shifting uncomfortably before Jason steps in, "We were going to say something at the end."

Dick raises an eyebrow, "Were you?" He looks between you both. "Hm, awfully convenient."

"What's that supposed to mean?" You narrow your eyes, frowning.

"Nothing." He almost can't bring himself to look at you. Every time he does, a wave of fury and hurt runs over his body. He forces his gaze from his plate to you. "Congratulations."

Jason narrows his eyes, but you give him a look. The two of you share something. God, you two can read each other by a single look now?

"Thanks, Dick." You offer him a small smile, hesitating as you speak the words, but still with genuine gratitude. Somehow, even when being an asshole, you're still treating him like a good person.

Jason, apparently, doesn't agree to the same restraint you were restricting yourself with. He glares at Dick, not saying a word. Neither of them move, locked into a silent staring contest.

"I called it!" Steph cries out in victory.

"I had already told you." Tim rolls his eyes, offering his brothers an unimpressed look.

The conversation sparked around the table as Dick and Jason continued their staring contest. Neither one of them broke the joyful atmosphere that had emerged.

Then Bruce spoke up.

As if sensing that he was about to speak, Jason shifted his glare from Dick to Bruce. Bruce looked at you and Jason, contemplative. Jason glares harder at Bruce as if daring him to say anything.

Neither of them blink. The table watches in anticipation. Then, Bruce offers a small, tired smile. "You look happier." He nods at Jason's glare.

Jason doesn't relent, "I am."

Bruce slices the steak in front of him, continuing to nod. "Then I can't ask for anything more."

With that, the tension at the table dissipates. You reach for Jason's hand, causing him to turn away from Bruce and look down at your hand clasped in his own. His shoulders fall at your touch. Everybody takes this as the green light to start bombarding you both with questions. You are mainly the one to answer them, but every now and then Jason adds a comment or two. You grin as you recount each story, each meeting. Messages you'd leave for him.

Dick can't bring himself to address this in front of everybody and break your smile. He can't bring himself to listen to the stories. He can't even bring himself to be happy for you. All he can think of is a single question, looping in his head. He distantly notes the migraine he feels as he continues to clench his teeth. His fists shake in his lap at your ringing laughter.

Why is it him?

—

"My brother? Are… Is this some way to get back at me?" Dick attempts to stomp the hurt that threatens to crawl its way out of his chest.

You turn around from your seat at the Batcomputer, "…What?" You blink, looking behind you for other people in the room. You furrow your eyebrows, a bit surprised by his furious onslaught.

You think that dinner, despite the shaky start, was a success. Everybody seemed to accept your new relationship with Jason. Well… almost everybody.

You could tell that Dick had something to say about it at dinner, how could you not? You were worried about his reaction considering you'd known him the longest out of anybody involved in the Wayne family. You had kept your relationship with Jason on the down low until you had both decided you were ready to say something.

Meaning, you couldn't tell Dick, even if you wanted to (and you wanted to). Your biggest fear was that Dick would take offense to the fact that you were dating his own family. However, that fear didn't stop you from getting into a relationship with Jason, so you knew that confrontation was inevitable.

You expected anger. You could even understand if he felt a little betrayed.

However, nothing prepared you for him to confront you when you least expected it. This was planned. He waited for you to be alone in the cave to confront you, part of you is both grateful and hurt at the action. All of this, the confrontation at dinner… It was all planned.

Dick reaches your desk, livid. He doesn't even look at you. "I mean… The audacity—" he sharply barks out a broken laugh.

"—Dick, please—" You stand up, and he glares at you as if the action was a personal offense.

"—to, essentially, break contact with me and then go and date my brother behind my back?!" He snidely laughs, eyes narrowed with sardonic bewilderment. His hands gesture wildly, being thrown all around his head in anger.

Your eyes instantly narrow, "What are you talking about? I didn't break contact with you!" You ignore the unease in your gut at your lie.

His eyes snap to you, pointing a finger to your chest, "Don't lie to me." He grounds out, eyes flashing with betrayal. "You've barely contacted me since you've returned. You didn't want me to know about you and him, yet you two were practically flaunting your relationship. Is this your idea of petty revenge?" You grab his pointed hand, shoving it away from you with a hard glare, but he continues. "I mean, what else could it have been? Did you seriously believe nobody would figure it out? Did you just believe that nobody is in the room with you?" You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off, "Oh, right, I guess you just didn't care who sees. Just as long as I couldn't see. Seems you failed that."

You inhale, feeling the flames of indignation rise in your chest, "And you're offended why?" Your voice shakes with false neutrality, betraying your anger at his accusation.

"God, you two might as well have started making out on the dinner table. I imagine it would've had the same effect." Dick continues, scoffing.

You hold your breath, taken aback by his words. "Oh, I'm sorry." You raise your hands up in mock surrender, "All we did was sit next to each other, hold hands, and talk a little. We weren't even talking loudly, Dick." You stand your ground, narrowing your eyes at Dick as he glares at you. "And I can assure you, we weren't 'flaunting our relationship' to get 'revenge' on you." You scrunch your nose up, wondering where he possibly got the notion of "revenge" from.

Dick scoff, looking away before looking back to you. "Yeah, okay." He sneers.

You raise your eyebrows at him, nose twitching, "That's why you're yelling at me right now?" You rub your temples, sneering back at him. "I mean… Why— Why should us dating— which was not born out of pettiness— be reason for you to come down here and yell at me about— what— family dinner? Get over yourself."

Dick scoffs, "You're dating my brother." He spits as if you insulted his entire bloodline.

You snap your eyes up to him, "Did I need your permission?" Dick opens his mouth to respond, narrowing his eyes at you, but no words come out. Instead, his hands clench around air before he turns around, running a hand through his hair. You scoff, "You seriously came down here to accuse me of petty revenge because I'm dating your brother?"

Dick whips around, "Yes! Can you blame me? I'm your best friend. I figured you would've told me you're dating somebody in my family!"

You raise your eyebrows, "Oh, really?" He doesn't react to your words, "Then how about how you dated Babs? Back then, she was my best friend right next to you, and you dated her." Dick inhales, suddenly looking like the wind was knocked out of him, his eyes unable to meet your own. "Had to find that one out from Tim."

"It's not the same." His voice is a low rasp.

"It is. You just can't stand the situation being reversed." You scoff, settling back into the chair. Dick looks down at the ground beneath your feet. You look up at him through your eyelashes, elbow rested on the armrest for support. Neither of you make eye contact.

He sighs, leaning against the desk, covering his face with hands. "I'm sorry," he groans, words muffled through his fingers. You stare at him for a long moment before standing up again. Grabbing your jacket hanging off the back of the chair, you don't respond to him. Closing your eyes, you exhale. When you open them, you don't make eye contact, instead attempting to storm past him.

He grabs your forearm, causing you to spin around. Your breath hitches in surprise, and he pulls you closer. You flinch at the unexpected contact. "I… Really, I am sorry." He moves closer to you, his gaze flitting across every detail of your face. Freezing, you look him up and down, eyes narrowed.

His eyes land on your lips, and you inhale long and slow. "Dick." You utter his name quietly, but not softly. It's more like a warning. His eyes are locked onto your face, not looking away. Slowly he reaches his hand up, it's cupped, reaching for your face. Shoving him, you refuse to let your breath come out shaky. "What are you doing?"

Dick pauses, his hand still raised halfheartedly. He is looking down at the ground, but slowly his eyes meet yours. His gaze is unreadable, the normal light you've come to associate with him appears snuffed out. His hand moves down robotically, as if he's barely aware of what he's even doing. Hesitant to leave him alone, despite your anger, you slowly lean towards him, "Dick?"

His stare meet yours once more. "I…" You look at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. Your eyes, though conflicted and piercing, holds a softness to them, paradoxical. A softness he'd grown used to over the years. A softness he craved when you had left all those years ago. An understanding despite it all. The words were in his throat ready to bubble up to the surface, but your single look silenced that. Your eyes are cautious, looking him up and down in concern, but you don't move to get any closer to him.

For a moment, Dick wonders what compelled him to come down to the cave and confront you. Fleeting anger? Jealousy? What right does he have to be jealous? He looks at the taupe leather jacket clutched in your hand, the phone in your other— no doubt filled with messages from Jason, the light in your eyes. The light that he is killing with every second this confrontation drags on for.

He lowers his hand, "I…" love you.

Your eyes narrow at him, ready to bolt at the first sign of escalation.

"I'm sorry." He swallows down any other words he could've said. "For… everything."

Your mouth parts in confusion, pensively looking him up and down. The silence stretches between you both, constricting the atmosphere. Dick's heart speeds up, the beat rushing into his ears creating an internal tempo to his stress. After a long moment, you slowly make your way back to him. You approach him steadily, as if sudden movements will spook him.

At your approach his airways seize, your presence suffocating him. Everything. He wonders if you understand what he meant by that. He's sorry for not saying anything back then. An apology for what could've been, but never was. This argument is one of the many symptoms of his long lack of acknowledgement.

You take a deep breath, slowly raising your hand— an imitation of the action he took earlier. It reaches his face, and the warmth of your hand makes Dick melt into your touch. You brush loose strands of his hair out of his face, but you don't say anything. Dick closes his eyes to savor the moment, his body intuitively leaning closer to yours.

He can feel the slow air of your breath brush past his face, you're so close to him. The slow rise and fall of your chest, the way your hand cups his face into your palms. He can feel the way your thumb slowly caresses his cheek— a slow back and forth motion. He doesn't dare open his eyes, instead, basking in the warmth of your affection. He doesn't see you, but he doesn't need to. He hears your breathing, slow, calm. He smells the perfume you put on earlier that day lingering onto your skin. He feels your skin brush his own with a gentleness that leaves him compromised all for you.

Then it vanishes. A light stroke against the skin beneath his eyes.

His eyes snap open, searching for the sensation of warmth that you left him wanting more of. Your hand has lowered, eyes not meeting his own— steeled down at his chest. When they do meet him, your eyes don't soften like they used to. Your pulse doesn't race at the sight of him anymore. You aren't affected.

"I know," your words are quiet, but there's a finality to them. An understanding. "Your eyes look tired, Dick." You shift, hugging Jason's jacket closer to you. "Get some rest." You whisper, walking past him solemnly.

He turns around to try and catch your eye once more, but you don't. Instead, you resolutely continue to ascend the stairs of the cave before inevitably leaving his view. Dick's eyes remain trained on the place you were last visible, as if his stare will manifest you to come back down. To tell him that it would all be okay. To embrace him with the enthusiasm you once held for him.

You don't.

—

That day, you and Dick reached an understanding. Neither of you explicitly acknowledged what had transpired, but you didn't need to.

You understood that Dick knew about your previous love for him. Dick, despite feeling as you took his heart and dragged it through the mud, understood that your love, that warmth, that adoration now belonged to Jason.

He could never bring himself to tell you that it ran deeper than that. You had assumed that he had been upset because of your distance, about dating his brother without telling him— which he was, but that wasn't the main reason.

He made a decision. Even if it went against what his body was screaming at him to do, what it was desperately pleading with him to reconsider. He made a decision to not tell how you had unknowingly turned the tables. The part of him so desperate for your attention almost admitted it that very night. For weeks after that day— months, he considered just pulling you aside and telling you before his heart burst at the seams.

He didn't. Moreover, he couldn't. After all, while you may not have noticed his longing, somebody else did.

"Jason—"

"I don't care what you were. If you dated, if you were just friends, it doesn't matter." Jason glares down at Dick, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. "You can be her friend. I can't stop that, but you will never be more than that to her." He whispers venomously. His words were hushed, but somehow they rang louder in Dick's ears than any time Jason has yelled in the past.

"Jason." Dick repeats his words matching the volume of their discussion, "I wasn't planning on anything."

Jason scoffs, but doesn't look away from him, "Bullshit." He pushes past Dick, walking to grab his knife, sheathing it. "She doesn't realize what's going on in your head when you look at her." He turns to face Dick, "I do."

Dick doesn't meet his eyes, "And what's that?"

Jason crosses his arms, deceptively relaxed, "You pause when her hand touches you, your breathing halts. When her eyes land on you, your posture straightens."

Dick looks up, "That's not looking—"

"—The way your pupils dilate when your eyes look at her." Jason continues slowly, as if uninterrupted. "You look at her like you love her."

Dick narrows his eyes, continuing to look at Jason, but not saying anything.

"I understand that you two were friends long before we knew each other." Jason begins to walk to Dick. "I can't change that. She values your friendship." He pauses right in front of him. "Do not mistake that for anything else. She's made her choice clear."

Dick's fists clench at his sides, a jealous fury rising in his chest, something Jason immediately takes note of. His eyes narrow at Jason's despite knowing that on some level he is right. However, all rationality is thrown out the window at Jason's taunt. He already won, and is still goading him.

"Choice?" He sneers. "She loved me first." His mind wars with his heart at the admission. Whether he should've said it or not, the words were out. Any sensible idea for him to concede to Jason, to admit that he had lost what he now desires is cast aside.

Jason's eyes don't flicker with the anger Dick expects. There's no rage swimming in his eyes or painted onto his face. No narrowed eyes glaring at the slight.

It's indifference.

His callousness spurs Dick fury more than any wrathful response could. Jason's indifference isn't born out of lack of care, but out of awareness. He knows that he doesn't have to be enraged by Dick's jeer. He knows that when the dust settles— if it has to settle, you will still come back to him, not Dick.

"Perhaps," Jason begins slowly, "perhaps she loved you first." He walks past Dick, opening the door. "But she loves me now." He opens the door, turning to face Dick one more time. "I'm telling you this now as a courtesy. Stop trying to chase after that past. It's over." Jason waits for a response, but after a moment of silence, he slams the door behind him.

Dick doesn't face the door, staring blankly at the living room of his apartment. He attempts to fight the way his eyes burn. He controls the tremble in his arms, forcing his breathing to remain slow— controlled. Gnawing at his lip, he barely notices the skin nearly bleeding under the stress he's putting it under. Heart beginning to race, he stiffens, as if anticipating an attack. His eyes burn, and now he feels furious at the unbidden tears that appear in his eyes, obscuring his vision. He doesn't sob, he doesn't let them fall, he won't let them fall.

She loves me now.

The tears don't fall, Jason is right. You don't love him anymore.

—

He thinks he gets over it.

The process is slow. Slower than it could've possibly have been for you. Seeing you with Jason somehow makes it both easier and harder. On one hand, it's a constant reminder. However, the forced reminder almost becomes… normal at a certain point. The first few months after are rough. He struggled to even make eye contact with Jason, let alone you. He'd make excuses, excuses you knew were bull, but thankfully never called him out on.

The following months pass by slowly, an agonizing passing of time that he can nearly feel each second of. However, it eventually passes and reaches a year. He thinks of that like it's an achievement, but it feels like anything but. A year of lying to yourself? A year of attempting to move on from a mistake he will never take back and will haunt him for the rest of his life? It's nothing to celebrate.

It becomes easier to think about. He and Jason had reached a stilted truce, but fundamentally something had changed about the way they interacted with each other. Everybody noticed, but nobody was brave enough to ask. He wonders if you asked.

He figures you probably would've, and he imagines that Jason wouldn't tell you the full story. Why would he? After their confrontation all that time ago, Jason had ensured that Dick would never confess to you. He doubts Jason would toss that effort aside. Still, he can't help but wonder if you think about what had happened between them.

Whenever you want to spend time with Jason, Dick abstains from any involvement. Whenever you're spending time with Dick, Jason declines. You're not stupid, you probably question it. Hell, you might've already figured it out, and kindly decided to not comment on it.

Another year passes, better than the first, but still slow. Dick wonders if this will be the rest of his life.

Then he hears soft chatter in the cave, stiffening at the meaning of their words. It all comes back to him. For years, the tide had receded, and now it's coming back, crashing down like a tsunami of devastation. However, none of what he feels matters, because it's not about him. It's not about the issues that should've been solved years ago.

When the day comes, he almost wants to go back to sleep and come up with some excuse for not showing up. There are at least a dozen different ways he could miss this: being injured on patrol, waking up late, being indisposed due to a sickness. Yet, he knows he can't.

He gets through the day with an almost cool detachment. Each action he takes to help enact the plan doesn't feel real. The bustling excitement between each member of the family doesn't reach him. He tries to replicate it, not for them, but for you.

The hours pass until it is time, and all he can do is watch. The first thing he notices is that your eyes light up at Jason.

Your eyes shine, a supernova, with all the brilliance of a dying star. Only you weren't dying. You were anything but. Dick realized the aching truth in his heart, something that settled over his entire body and loomed over him— as if it would remain for eternity.

The light in your eyes, it's not just from joy. It's from acknowledgement. Knowing that even after all this time, your affections have been returned. This moment is proof of what you've always wanted. Your light is different from the light you had once shown him. It's something he has never seen, after all he never returned anything back then, did he? Not like Jason.

He wonders how foolish he was to ignore it when he was younger. If he could go back in time, he would rewrite his mistake. He can't even bring himself to think of the consequences. An unstable timeline? A different life? Taking you from his brother?

He would be selfish, oh, so very selfish. He would've kissed you while standing on those steps that led down to the subway where he nearly met his demise. He would've held you so, so, so tight that for a moment he could forget this reality existed. Every time you leaned in, every halted breath, he would rewrite it so that he made the right decision.

He would be so selfish to insist that you needn't meet Jason when you would've returned from college. You would never be introduced to him. The two of you lived separate lives for nearly his entire life. You would never know what you could've been.

You smile at Jason, throwing your arms around him.

He can't though. Even if he wants to rewrite his mistakes— which he so desperately desires— he can't. This is his reality. The reality he helped make, whether he loves it or loathes with every cell in his body. The way your eyes smile with Jason. The way your entire body relaxes with Jason. The way your entire body craves Jason's presence.

Dick's nails dig into his palms, refusing to look up at you both.

The same way your eyes used to smile at him. The same way your body used to relax with him. The same way you used to crave his presence.

You don't spare him a glance. Not even bothering to offer what you had once given freely, readily. Something he had taken for granted.

Perhaps you have cursed him. Doomed him to live with the pain you carried for so long. The anguish he feels— is it comparable to what you felt? Is this how you felt hearing that he had dated Kori and Barbara?

He doesn't know how you did it for so long. How you endured, giving him the pretense of being a supportive friend. He wants to be that. He wants to support you, support Jason. 

God, Jason.

Nothing describes his feelings other than conflicting. He wants to be able to take you into his arms like he once did as Robin, like he once did as your closest friend.

But he can't.

He'd be taking away the best person to happen in Jason's life. Despite what his every fiber of his being urges him to do…

Jason deserves somebody like you.

Jason deserves to have somebody who will unconditionally love him. He deserves to have somebody who will tend to his wounds, somebody to talk to, somebody who will look at him and accept him as the person he is today.

A companion, a friend, but also everything but.

Friendship isn't a word that describes the soft whispers you and Jason share when you think nobody is watching.

Friendship doesn't describe how you tightly hold his hand in your own, nor does it describe the way he squeezes your hand in gratitude.

Friendship doesn't describe the soft touches you've shared, or the way Dick has seen his hands roam over your figure. Not scandalous, but grounding. A way to say "I will always be here. I won't leave you." It wouldn't describe the pure adoration in your eyes, something that Jason's reflects. It would simply never describe the way that Jason looks at you.

The answer digs Dick's heart up out of the grave he thought he buried it into, as if to remind him what he already knew. What he has known for years.

Love.

You love Jason.

Jason loves you.

No matter how much Dick regrets not loving you back, or how much he wishes he could go back to fix his mistakes. He can't. Perhaps there are millions, billions, of universes where you fall in love. Perhaps in some of them, it works out.

He has to wonder.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤTears stream down your face.

Why wasn't this one of them?

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤA soft gasp escapes your mouth.

Is this really it?

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤYou cover your mouth in disbelief.

Is this his punishment?

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤYou nod, your voice a soft but irrefutable "Yes."

His lip trembles, attempting to hide his tears.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤFinally, you face him, your own face tear-stricken.

He meets your gaze, his vision blurry, shaky.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤYour smile nearly blinds him as you raise your hand.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤHe looks to see the jewel resting upon your finger.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤDick mirrors your smile, tears cascading down his face.

Taglist: @a-taken-url @mrs-cactus69 @destinyleka @raitsukii @letssee2468 @mrrayjay @k1w1th3s1r3n @annonymatic @moonologyy @freewastelandstrawberry @erinschantaine @shereadsandcries @starsinthepavement @adhxmoony @pixieeee101 @d1lf-loverrr @spectae @wallyluvrxo @intergalactic-padawan @givemefinganame @doveotion @lagoonia @missusmoony @fangirlingnerdork @manhwabtch @lust4daya @thedeathmoth07 @winx333-blog @peachmartini @rinsluhvr @stargirl9911 @yura-4life @alittlelostalittlefound @spencerreidswifexd @yn-wayne @justanotherweeb666 @mochiclouds @backtonormalthings @noodleswastaken @rochy2175 @erinchantaine @just-kaliyas @rein4star @myselfsabotage @leonesimp @milkierei @crimsonmarabou @s0ulzzsss @jsprien213 @losraire @soflegacy @the-witch-hazel-demon (Max number of people tagged lol, if you weren't tagged and don't see yourself check the reblog tag post I did) : ̗̀➛ Want to be added to a taglist for a character? Fill out the taglist form :).

[bleuesupes]

First ever long Jason fic I’ve read. Wow wow wow I cried a bit. This was so well written it pulled at my heartstrings ughhh. Good job salty!🥹🥹🥹🤍🤍🤍

[ciricearts]

last drawing of the year!!<3

[bleuesupes]

I was having an issue with how to make sense of the timeline for my hero reader fic considering dick has always had a love interest in almost every piece of media pretty consistently. Then I remembered I don’t have to! It’s fanfic hello Megan. I can do whatever I want

Actually how that revelation had me feeling:

[bleuesupes]

Bro Haley’s a tiny little thing, and readers dog is massive!! That’s insane. Size difference is criminal. Dick would throw up.

Yes haley’s a baby and reader’s dog is an old gramps! 👴 literally😭

Realistically speaking, reader’s dog would probably be neutered too as he’s said to be pretty old + it tends to make dogs less aggressive (?) not sure how to word that but you get the idea.

[bleuesupes]

dad dog!dick when haley and readers dog have puppies 🥹

“You can’t do that lil ahh dog” 😭😭😭😭😭😭

I considered doing a time skip for Haley actually but gosh I want her to remain a baby foreverrr ☹️

[bleuesupes]

Literally no need for allat back there

[antistellars]

a confessional in blue

PAIRING: Dick Grayson x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: During a late-night swim with Dick, you find yourself wondering if one day, he'll grow bored of you.

WARNINGS: established relationship, hurt/comfort, mainly fluff and reassurance, kissing, slight sexual suggestions and dick being cheeky about a bikini that reader is wearing

WORD COUNT: 2.4k

READ ON AO3

Blue refracts into sapphire, cobalt, and cyan. A kaleidoscope of color beneath you.

You've always liked the pool at night. The way it swallows sound, isolating itself from the distant hum of life, the anxious rhythm of your pulse. What's left now is the gentle lap of water against tile, the occasional splash when Dick dives under and resurfaces, hair plastered to his forehead, the stresses of his day being washed away with every stroke.

You sit at the it's edge, Dick's t-shirt hanging off your frame, one of many you've claimed through the particular thievery of love. Beneath it, your legs are submerged to mid-calf. Half-in, half-out of the water's hold. Liminal. Much like your mind tonight. Your legs sweep through the water, sending ripples outward in lazy, hypnotic swells. Small universes of light breaking and reforming with each shift of your ankles.

Water holds memory differently than other things. You can see exactly where Dick was three seconds ago—the ripples still spreading, the light still fractured. You kick your leg a bit harder, adding your own disturbance to the pool's surface.

An echo of your presence finding its way to him.

Tonight, this pool exists in its own ecosystem. Separate from Blüdhaven, from time, from anything that isn't the boy cutting through the water and the girl memorizing the way he does it.

Dick always moves so gracefully. Expected, really, given his life.

The pool lights catch on his shoulders each time he surfaces, and watching him swim does something feral to your nervous system—something girlish and greedy and entirely uncontrollable. It's the same dizzy vertigo you'd imagine a teenager might feel, crushing on the impossibly attractive lifeguard.

On nights like these, when Dick insists on finding your way up to the rooftop pool, you feel that childlike wonder return: the giddy, breathless sensation of longing made heavy. Of wanting and being wanted in return.

Dick surfaces once more. One smooth, fluid motion, water sluicing off his shoulders.

"I think you might love this pool more than you love me," you say, tracking his movements.

Even from across the water, you can see the grin spreading across his face—cheeky, boyish, tugging his cheeks upward.

"I mean, look at her." He gestures broadly, theatrically. "Welcoming me with my own color."

Your apartment building isn't impressive. A questionable property manager, one elevator that's been "under maintenance" for three months. But somehow—somehow—it has this. A rooftop pool with a view of the city, heated year-round, almost always empty. How it's managed to afford such a luxury is beyond you. You're grateful, though, for this hidden treasure. You've learned to stop questioning miracles.

"Her?" You raise a brow, fighting a smile. "Must we gender the pool? Also, this pool is always lit blue. You're not that special."

"Oof."

He laughs and you catch the shadow of his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. A beat passes as he observes you, as he so often does, gaze tracing the features of your face.

Then he's moving toward you.

You follow his path. Swimming is strangely intimate, you've decided. The way bodies move through water, the push and pull of limbs, the surrender to something larger than yourself.

Dick settles before you, close enough that you can see the individual droplets clinging to his collarbone. A gentle hand reaches out, fingers curling around the back of your calf. The touch travels up your leg like a current.

You take a deep breath and your chest rattles with the force of it.

The gleam in his blue eyes—made impossibly ethereal in the pool's glow—tells you he's acutely aware of his effect.

"I was going to complain about you not joining me," he murmurs, voice dipping into something lower, rougher. "But this view more than makes up for my solitude."

His fingers trail higher, over your knee, your thigh. Water drips down your skin in his wake. He nudges your legs apart gently, fitting himself between the warmth of them, arms circling your waist.

"I do love this bikini." His fingers toy with the string at your hip before pushing beneath the hem of his own shirt, palm finding bare skin of your stomach. You shiver under his touch and the corners of his lips twitch in response. He glances up at you through dark lashes. "And I really love what's under it."

Heat floods your face, your chest, lower.

You reach out, tracing the curve of his shoulder, his bicep, the line of his jaw. Mapping the terrain of him—the dips and valleys of muscle, the faint scars you've memorized. He leans into your touch, eyes half-lidded, and you think—not for the first time—that this is too much. That no one should be allowed to look like this, to make you feel so undone.

"You're staring," he says. "Creep."

"Shut it."

He grins at that, unrepentant, and then shakes his head like a dog, water spraying everywhere—your face, your chest, the t-shirt.

"What the hell, man." You groan, swatting at him. "Now I'm all wet."

The second the words leave your mouth, you know you've miscalculated. His eyes go dark, pupils swallowing blue.

"Yeah?" His hands slide up your sides, torturously slow. "Sounds tempting."

His hands begin their descent, fingers skating lower, toward the apex of your thighs. The intent clear. The destination, as well. But, despite the heat blooming in your gut, you refuse to give in so easily. It's half of the fun, after all.

You shove his shoulder, laughing. "You're a dog, you know that?"

"Woof," he says flatly, but then he's grinning.

He places a quick, burning kiss to the inside of your thigh before swimming backwards into the pool's embrace.

Come get me, his eyes say. Follow me, the upturn of his lips taunt.

I will, your mind sings softly. Wherever you go, Dick Grayson, I will follow. A devoted worshiper at the altar of you.

And you're already moving, peeling off his t-shirt and tossing it aside, sliding into the water. The warmth swallows you whole. Dick has stopped swimming now, hovering halfway across the pool, treading water lazily.

The muscles in your cheeks already ache from the smile forming on your lips. Instinct, really, when you find yourself approaching him. Pavlovian, even.

You swim toward him slowly, savoring the way he watches you—letting him wait. Letting him want.

He meets you halfway, standing as you reach him, and your gaze hooks on his smile. Warm and so utterly content, he draws you in with an arm around your torso. Your arms loop around his neck, and then you're chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip, the water moving lazily around you both.

The pool lights turn his face into something angelic, turning shadows into topography—the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow beneath his cheekbone, the curve of his mouth. Chiseled and perfect and entirely unfair. You drink him in like you're dying of thirst.

Sometimes it hurts to look at him—to realize, with a fondness that borders on religious, that this person has chosen you as their companion. The arms wrapped around you now, tightening as the water turns you both in a slow circle, have reached for you of their own free will.

Muscled. Capable. Entirely his to give.

Your chest tightens as you run your hand through his wet hair, taking him in, admiring him like a visitor at an exhibit. If only it was possible for him to become something permanent in the landscape of your mind, a tattoo inked into gray matter. The exact shade of blue in his eyes, the small scars across his skin, the way his lashes clump together when they're wet.

You've been doing this more often since he told you about being Nightwing.

It's a selfish habit, a cataloguing of sorts. Memorizing him. Just in case.

Just in case this changes. Just in case one night he doesn't come back.

Just in case one day he realizes you're not enough.

Because recently, you've caught yourself wondering if he'll grow bored of you. Of the domesticity. If Nightwing will tire of his normal girlfriend, find someone who lives doubled, just as he does. Someone accustomed to the constant companion of threat, of injury. Someone who knows the proper way to take a hit, to give a finishing one. Someone selfless, brave, bold in the face of danger.

All the things you are not.

He brushes his nose against yours, and your thoughts scatter. His arms tighten around you, lifting you slightly so your legs wrap around his waist. You cling to him, one hand tangled in his hair, and he hums, low and content, eyes fluttering closed. You could stay here forever, you think. In this moment. In his arms.

But your chest feels heavy tonight— your heart a hummingbird, fluttering too fast, too wild. You're half-in, half-out. Liminal and afraid.

"Can I ask you something?"

His eyes open. "Always."

"Do you think—" You pause, wrapping your arms around him a bit tighter, thumb drawing back and forth against the nape of his neck. You tilt your head, gaze flickering between his eyes. "Do you think you'll ever grow bored of me?"

His expression shifts immediately—brows furrowing, jaw tightening.

"What? Why would you ask that?"

You look down at where you're entwined, at the water lapping gently between your bodies. "I don't know. I guess I've been thinking about it." His arms tighten around you. "You're Nightwing, and I'm just… me. What if one day you wake up and realize I'm nothing compared to everything else? That you're over having a break from your life?"

The thought alone makes your throat tight.

You feel yourself being drawn into that corner of your mind—the loud one, the mean one—imagining what that future would look like if—or when—it came. You're not sure you'd be able to be whole after that, because this love has flayed you open, broken you in some divine way and remade you as something better, more alive.

He stares at you for a long moment, confusion flickering across his face.

"What—and give up this pool?"

You huff out a laugh despite yourself, shoving his shoulder and pulling away from his embrace. "Dick."

But the knot in your chest loosens. His answer has shut the door to that dark part of you, shooing away the grief you've borrowed from a future not promised.

He smiles softly, pulling you back. "That is my name."

You roll your eyes affectionately, but melt into his hold once again, watching as his expression grows serious.

"Do you really think about that?" he asks.

You nod, a bit meekly.

"I will never grow bored of you." His voice is sincere. "Ever."

"You don't know—"

"Hey." He squeezes you gently, forcing you to look at him. "Stop that. I do know." He pauses, searching your face. "You're not a break from my life. You are my life."

"Really?"

"Absolutely." His voice is so sincere it cracks something open inside you. "You're the best part of my day. Every single day. How could I ever grow bored of that?"

Emotion builds in your throat, pooling at your waterline.

You kiss him. Slow at first, tentative, your lips barely brushing his. Then deeper, harder, his tongue sliding against yours, his hands tightening on your waist. You press closer, closer, like you could crawl inside his skin and live there.

When you pull back, breathless, he asks softly, "Will you ever grow bored of me?"

You pretend to think about it. He scoffs, fingers digging playfully into your sides, and you yelp, grinning. "Never."

He kisses you again, and you melt into it, every nerve ending singing. The pool's light paints patterns across your intertwined bodies as you float together, limbs tangled.

"You were wrong earlier, by the way."

You frown, brain scrambling to recollect the night's conversations. It reaches static—all facts now fuzzled with the sensory experience of being in his hold, the electricity it produces through your veins.

"About what?" you ask.

"I don't love this pool more than you." He kisses your shoulder, your neck, the spot just below your ear that makes you shiver. "I don't love anything more than you. You're in my bones. It's honestly kind of alarming."

You're breathless, head tilted back, heart racing. "Yeah?"

"Mhm." He nips at your earlobe, voice falling to a husky whisper. "It's pretty damn close, though."

"Andddd there it is." You push him away, laughing as you splash water at him.

Dick grins, catching your wrist. "You love me."

You feel the words everywhere—in your chest, your fingertips, the base of your spine. They're tangible, somehow. Sweet and devastating and entirely inescapable. The love-drunk creature in your stomach flutters and preens. You smile, helpless against it.

"I do," you whisper, kissing him softly. "So very much."

He rests his forehead against yours, and you close your eyes, listening to his breathing, feeling his heartbeat against your chest.

When you open your eyes, you find him staring at you, soft and open and entirely yours. You stifle a laugh as he holds your gaze.

"What?" Dick asks.

Biting your lip, you try to contain your amusement. "From this angle, you look like a cyclops."

"A cute one, though?"

His words are so earnest, they make you grin harder. You shake your head. "The ugliest one I've ever seen."

You're already swimming backward as he lunges after you, laughing.

"Right, because you know so many cyclopes."

"Yeah, I do actually." You're giggling, dodging his grasp. "They live in Ugly Town, and they're missing their mayor."

Dick rolls his eyes but he's fully invested in the bit now, and that childlike glee in you is singing. "Let me guess—" He jumps at you, water splashing everywhere as you shriek with laughter. "I'm the mayor? Ha ha, sooo funny."

You're both laughing now, wrestling in the water, stealing kisses when you're close enough. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think: Water and love are the same. Both can reshape you. Change you. Make you something else entirely.

He reaches for you, and you trace the ripples he leaves behind.

You have changed me, Dick Grayson. And I am completely, irrevocably, yours.

authors note: oh late night swims...how i adore ur intimacy... like cmon...

anyways, this was for my pookie forever & always @cassiananon! u know my love runs deep when i drop a dick fic before jay

[bleuesupes]

wow. love.