I write . . . only a couple things on this account đ
Dick x Reader
Occasionally Kori x Reader
Kori x Dick x Reader
Dick x OC
I recycle the OC I use to write (Alexandra Dearden) so if you see Alexandra pop up, feel free to pretend youâre that sassy lass. Her backstory remains pretty consistent and can be filler.
0% Smut.
âđśď¸ - â𤏠- âđ˝
â đ â 𼰠â đ§ â đş
I love angst, fluff, introspection, and yes - I do Omegaverse (âđ˝âđśď¸)
I have a funky take on Omegaverse - so if anyone is interested in me rambling about fictional designations and how they might actually impact a culture or society then feel free to ask
Questions about the Zeta designation I use? Itâs an additional designation for the Omegaverse that is pack oriented
Pairing: human sacrifice!Dick Grayson x vampire princess!Reader (x teen human servant! Jason)
Content: vampires, humans being a lower class of being, Jason shows up as well, 7.8k words
Warnings: power dynamics, mentions of addiction, threat of being drained
Authorâs Note: Playing with some fictional vampire politics with a contrast of cruel vampires versus benevolent vampires (kind of)
The hall is quieter than Dick expects.
No drums.
No chanting.
Just the soft breath of a vaulted room holding itself still.
Candles burn along the walls in disciplined rows, their light caught in metal and glass, never quite touching the ceiling. He can feel the weight of eyes anyway.
Nobles.
Courtiers.
Hunger dressed in silk.
He kneels where he is told.
Stone chills through the thin fabric at his knees. His hands are placed carefully on his thighs, palms up, a posture that feels less like submission and more like offering. He has been briefed. He knows what this is supposed to be.
The first human.
The proof.
Control without mercy is still control.
Footsteps approach.
They are unhurried.
Measured.
The kind that belong to someone who has never needed to rush.
She stops in front of him.
Dick keeps his gaze lowered until he feels, unmistakably, that she has knelt too. The shift in the air is subtle but undeniable.
He looks up before he can stop himself.
She is close enough that he can see the fine detailing on her gloves, the way her sleeves fall back just enough to bare her wrists. Jewelry glints at her throat. Her eyes, when they meet his, are sharp with intelligence and softened by something like concern.
âYou may look at me,â she says.
Her voice does not echo.
It settles.
He nods. Swallows. âYes, Your Highness.â
A faint smile touches her mouth, quick as a secret. âYou are not required to call me that here.â
She studies him as if he is a puzzle she intends to solve gently.
Her gaze traces the line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he holds himself still.
âThey told you this would hurt,â she says.
âYes.â
âThey told you I would not stop.â
âYes.â
Her gloved hand lifts, pauses.
She waits.
When he doesnât flinch, she touches his wrist.
Her touch is warm
Not human-warm.
Something steadier.
Controlled.
Her thumb presses lightly where his pulse jumps, betraying him instantly.
She seems pleased, not predatory.
âYou are very brave,â she murmurs. âAnd very alive.â
The praise lands harder than any threat.
She guides him closer, not pulling, just inviting. When she leans in, he smells something clean and faintly sweet, like night air after rain. Her other hand settles at the back of his neck, fingers spread, anchoring him.
âBreathe,â she tells him. âI have you.â
He does.
The moment her fangs touch him, his body locks, every nerve screaming anticipation of pain.
It never arrives.
Instead there is pressure, brief and precise, followed by a sensation that pulls rather than cuts. Warmth spreads outward, softening his panic into something slow and hazy.
Her hold never tightens.
Her breath brushes his skin, careful, reverent.
She feeds like she is listening.
When she draws back, it is immediately.
Her tongue traces the wound with delicate intent, sealing it closed.
The ache vanishes, leaving behind a strange, floating calm.
âThere,â she whispers. âYou did wonderfully.â
Her hand does not leave his neck.
Her thumb strokes once, soothing, before she seems to remember where they are.
Who is watching.
She looks at him again, eyes bright with satisfaction and something quieter, more dangerous.
âMy treasure,â she says, softly enough that it feels meant only for him.
The court exhales as one.
Dick does not.
Because somewhere between her hands and her voice, something in him has already begun to ache for the next time she kneels too.
Silence stretches.
Not the ceremonial kind.
Not the kind that belongs to ritual or fear.
This is a silence caught off guard.
The princess rises smoothly to her feet, her composure untouched. She does not wipe her mouth. There is no blood staining her lips, no tremor in her hands. She steps back one pace, granting space as if she has not just fed, as if she has merely finished a conversation.
Dick remains kneeling.
Unshaken.
Unmarked.
Breathing evenly.
A murmur ripples through the hall, quickly strangled by discipline, but it is too late.
The damage is done.
Heads tilt.
Eyes sharpen.
Whispers die on tongues as understanding spreads.
No scream.
No struggle.
No corpse cooling on the stone.
The elders exchange glances, their expressions carved from decades of expectation and disappointment. One of them had bet openly that she would falter.
Another had predicted restraint, but not this.
Never this.
A human who submits without command is rarer than a human who breaks.
The court understands what they have witnessed.
Control is not merely the absence of excess.
Control is hunger answered with precision.
Control is a predator who can choose tenderness and not be undone by it.
And she has done it before witnesses.
The princess turns, her posture unhurried, her chin lifted.
She does not look back at Dick again.
She does not need to.
He is already hers in the way that matters, and the court knows it.
At the far end of the hall, a presence sharpens.
The crown prince has not moved since the ceremony began.
His stillness now draws attention like a blade catching light.
His gaze is fixed on the human, then flicks to his sister, something dark and calculating passing through his expression.
He has fed before the court.
There had been screams then.
Applause afterward.
Proof of dominance, applauded for its spectacle.
This is worse.
This is quieter.
This is a human who does not look broken.
This is a princess whose hunger has not mastered her, whose indulgence has not dulled her edge.
This is a challenge wrapped in silk and restraint.
The tension rises, thick enough to taste.
The princess meets her brotherâs eyes at last.
Just once.
Her expression does not change.
No triumph.
No apology.
Only certainty.
The message is unmistakable.
She did not need force.
She did not need fear
And she did not lose herself.
When the court finally bows, it is deeper than protocol requires.
Dick feels it like a shift in gravity, even without looking. He understands, dimly, that something irrevocable has taken place, something larger than his own survival.
He was meant to be proof.
He has become evidence.
And somewhere above him, the princess stands crowned not by blood, but by restraint.
The crown prince moves.
Not loudly.
Not with ceremony.
He does not need either.
The court parts for him instinctively, the way prey parts for something it has learned not to surprise.
His presence sharpens the air, a pressure behind the eyes, behind the teeth.
His gaze slides past his sister and settles on the human.
Dick feels it like a hook in his spine.
âInteresting,â the prince says, voice smooth and edged thin. âThat he still kneels.â
A step forward.
Casual.
Testing.
The princess reacts immediately.
She does not raise her voice. S
he does not bare her fangs.
She simply steps between them.
One movement.
Precise.
Final.
The court inhales.
She is close enough to her brother now that their shadows overlap, her back straight, her shoulders relaxed.
One hand lifts, not to strike, not to threaten, but to rest lightly against his chest.
A boundary drawn in silk instead of steel.
âNo,â she says.
The word is quiet.
It lands anyway.
The princeâs smile sharpens. âYou mistake curiosity for intent.â
âI do not,â she replies. âAnd you mistake my restraint for absence of hunger.â
Her eyes never leave his.
Behind her, Dick is very still. He understands, distantly, that this is not about him anymore. He is the line being drawn, not the reason for it.
The prince leans closer, just enough that only she can hear him. âYou shield him like a possession.â
âI shield him like a choice,â she says.
That earns her his full attention.
A flicker of something dangerous passes over his expression. Amusement, perhaps. Or calculation. âCareful, sister. Choices can be taken.â
Her hand presses more firmly against his chest. Not enough to push. Enough to promise that she could.
âOnly if I allow it.â
The tension coils tight, the room balanced on the edge of a single breath. The elders watch without blinking. This is not a sibling quarrel. This is a measurement.
At last, the prince steps back.
A single pace.
Barely a concession.
âHow disciplined,â he says lightly. âTo deny yourself even now.â
She does not look away as she answers. âEspecially now.â
The meaning rings clear.
Her hunger is not gone.
Her restraint is not weakness.
It is hers to wield or to release.
The princeâs gaze flicks once more to the human behind her. To the unbroken line of his posture. To the absence of fear-sweat. To the devotion blooming quietly in his stillness.
Then he laughs, soft and cold. âVery well. Keep your treasure.â
He turns away, and the court exhales again, shakier this time.
The doors close with a sound too soft to be comforting. C
Candlelight stirs as if disturbed by their passage, flames bowing briefly before settling again.
The room is elegant in a way meant to soothe, all curves and drapery and quiet strength. It does not soften the crown prince.
He turns on her the moment they are alone.
âWhat were you thinking?â His voice snaps, the silk stripped away. âYou turned a proving into a spectacle.â
She removes her gloves with deliberate care, laying them across the back of a chair. Only then does she meet his gaze.
âI proved what they asked.â
âYou embarrassed me.â His fangs flash, brief and involuntary. âYou stood in my way. For a human.â
âFor myself,â she corrects.
He laughs, sharp and humorless. âDonât pretend this was not indulgence. You invited the court to watch you play at mercy.â
She steps closer, unafraid of the space between them. âMercy would have been weakness. Control is not.â
âYou fed,â he hisses. âAnd you let him walk away intact.â
âI fed,â she agrees, calm as still water. âAnd I stopped.â
That lands.
His eyes narrow. âCareful.â
âWhy?â she asks. âBecause they saw I could?â
He circles her now, a predator assessing a rival. âYou think this changes anything? Father still favors experience over restraint.â
âAnd yet,â she says, turning to keep him in sight, âit is my restraint they bowed to.â
He stops behind her. Too close. âYou are growing careless.â
She pivots smoothly. âYou are growing afraid.â
The accusation hangs, perfectly placed.
His smile is slow and dangerous. âAfraid of you?â
âOf what I represent,â she says. âHunger mastered. Power without excess. A crown that does not drip.â
His expression hardens. âYou cannot rule without fear.â
She tilts her head. âI ruled that room without raising my voice.â
Silence presses in.
âYou protect that human,â he says at last. âThat makes you predictable.â
âI protect my choice,â she replies. âYou exploit your impulses. That makes you loud.â
His hand tightens at his side. For a moment, she thinks he might strike. He does not.
Instead, he steps back, studying her as though seeing her clearly for the first time. âBe careful, sister. They will not forgive you if you begin to be loved.â
A faint smile touches her mouth. âThen it is fortunate they fear me more.â
He turns for the door, anger banked but not extinguished. Before he leaves, he looks over his shoulder.
âThe human will be used against you.â
âI know,â she says softly. âThat is why he is mine.â
The door closes.
The candles steady.
Alone at last, the princess exhales. Just once. Her composure fractures only in that breath, then reforms, flawless.
Somewhere else in the palace, a human waits, unaware that he has become the axis on which a crown may yet turn.
The guards who flank him keep a respectful distance, their steps matched to his, their eyes forward. When they reach an intersection of corridors, one of them gestures rather than pushes, palm open in quiet instruction.
This is not custody.
This is escort.
The palace beyond the hall unfolds in hushed grandeur. Stone softened by centuries of polish. Windows that look out onto nothing but night. Servants pause, bow, then retreat as he passes, their gazes lingering with a curiosity that makes his skin prickle.
Word travels fast.
He straightens without meaning to.
The corridor narrows.
The guards slow, then stop before a door inlaid with sigils he does not recognize.
One produces a key.
Another opens the door and steps aside.
âYou will remain here,â the first says. His tone is not unkind. âYou are under protection.â
Protection
The word lands heavier than threat.
Inside, the room is warm. Firelight glows low in the hearth. The furnishings are rich but not ostentatious, chosen for comfort rather than display. There is water set out. Clean cloth. A change of clothes folded neatly at the foot of the bed.
Dick stands very still in the doorway.
This is not where sacrifices are kept.
The guards do not enter.
One inclines his head, just slightly. âYou are not to be harmed.â
The door closes softly behind him.
Only then does Dick exhale.
He moves through the room slowly, cataloging details the way he always does when danger feels too close to name.
No visible restraints.
No bars on the windows.
The fire crackles gently, as if it has been waiting for him.
There is no wound.
Just the memory of warmth. Of praise spoken like truth. Of her standing between him and a predator who wore a crown.
My treasure
His chest tightens.
He sinks onto the edge of the bed, hands braced against his knees. He understands, suddenly and completely, what that moment in the hall meant.
She did not simply feed.
She claimed.
Publicly.
Deliberately.
In front of those who would notice and those who would remember.
In a court built on appetite, being marked as valuable is more dangerous than being marked as disposable.
He is not hidden away.
He is placed.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
Dickâs breath catches. The handle does not turn. Whoever stands on the other side waits.
âYou may rest,â a voice calls through the wood. A servantâs. Careful. Respectful. âHer Highness will come when she is able.â
When.
Not if.
Dick lies back on the bed and stares at the ceiling, pulse finally slowing. Somewhere between fear and something warmer, something he does not have a name for yet, he realizes the truth settling into him like a second heartbeat.
The simple gratitude of having survived something meant to end him.
He sleeps more deeply than he has in months.
He eats what is brought to him.
He follows instructions.
He waits.
Then she comes again.
Always announced.
Always expected.
She never arrives like a summons. The guards step aside when she approaches his door, not because she commands it, but because they already know. When she enters, the room seems to reorient itself around her, like it has learned her shape.
âYou may rise,â she tells him the first time she finds him kneeling.
He flushes, embarrassed. Stands too quickly.
She smiles, small and fond. âYou do not have to offer yourself so formally. Not with me.â
Not with me.
That becomes the shape of the days.
The feedings are spaced carefully, deliberately. She never lets herself take too much. She watches his breathing. His color. She praises him not for obedience, but for honesty.
âYou tell me when you are afraid,â she says once, fingers light at his wrist. âThat is a gift.â
Each time, she seals the wound and smooths her thumb over his skin, grounding him back into himself. Each time, she lingers a second longer than necessary, as if reluctant to let the moment end.
Dick begins to count the hours.
He notices the way his body responds before his mind does, a quiet warmth blooming at the thought of her presence. He finds himself listening for her steps, for the shift in the air that means she is near. The hunger he feels is not for the feeding itself.
It is for her voice saying his name.
My treasure.
The word follows him.
Wraps around his ribs.
Makes the palace feel less like a maze and more like a held breath.
And she is changing too.
She brings him small things. A book left on the table without comment. A shawl draped over the back of his chair when the nights grow colder. She sits with him after feeding now, sometimes saying nothing at all, just sharing the quiet as if it is something sacred.
Once, he asks, âIs this dangerous for you?â
She considers him for a long moment. Then, honestly, âYes.â
She does not stop.
That is when he understands the depth of it.
This is not indulgence. It is choice, repeated daily. Hunger held back not by law or fear, but by affection sharpened into discipline.
Dick wakes one morning with a hollow ache in his chest and realizes, with a calm that frightens him, that he would let her drink deeper if she asked. Not because he wants the sensation.
Because he wants to be what she reaches for.
And somewhere in the palace, the court watches the princess grow more controlled, more distant, more formidable.
They do not see the human at the center of it.
They do not see the way her restraint has found a focus.
Addiction is not always about excess.
Sometimes it is about being chosen, again and again, until the thought of losing it feels worse than death.
And Dick, precious and perilously adored, is already in too deep.
Music threads through the chamber in slow, elegant loops. Nobles recline and converse, goblets lifted, laughter polished smooth. Humans move among them like shadows, trained to be invisible, trained to never falter.
That is why the sound is so loud when the tray hits the floor.
Metal rings against stone. Glass shatters. A gasp tears loose from the silence.
The boy freezes where heâs fallen, hands splayed, eyes wide with terror. He canât be more than fourteen. Too thin. Too careful. He stares at the mess heâs made like itâs already written his death
The room stills.
The crown prince rises.
It happens with terrible inevitability, like gravity reasserting itself. His chair scrapes back. His gaze locks onto the boy with naked interest, the kind that makes the air feel sharp.
âA waste,â he says mildly. âAnd an interruption.â
The boy scrambles, trying to gather the broken pieces with shaking hands. âIâm sorry, my lord, Iâm sorry, I didnât meanââ
The prince is already descending the steps.
This is how lessons are taught.
No guards move to intervene.
No elder speaks.
A human servant is replaceable.
A spectacle, on the other hand, has value.
The boy looks up and sees his end approaching.
Then a second chair moves.
The sound is softer
Everyone hears it anyway.
The princess stands.
She does not rush.
She does not raise her voice.
She simply steps forward, skirts whispering, and places herself between her brother and the boy before the prince can reach him.
The court jolts.
Her hand reaches down.
Not to restrain her brother.
To the boy.
He flinches when her fingers close around his, expecting pain, expecting punishment. Her grip is steady. Warm. Anchoring.
She looks at him, expression unreadable, and murmurs, âUp.â
He obeys without thinking, pulled gently to his feet.
The crown prince stops short, eyes flashing. âSister.â
She does not turn to face him yet.
âMy treasure needs company,â she says calmly.
The words ripple through the chamber like a thrown stone.
At last, she looks at her brother. Her gaze is level. Unyielding.
âHe has been alone long enough,â she continues. âI will borrow this one.â
The princeâs smile is slow and dangerous. âYou coddle the weak,â he says. âThis was an opportunity.â
âAnd this,â she replies, tightening her hold on the boyâs hand just slightly, âis my choice.â
For a moment, it seems he might push the issue. The tension coils, visible, the entire court holding its breath.
Then his eyes flick past her.
To the far side of the room.
To where Dick stands.
Unharmed. Unhidden. Watching.
Understanding dawns.
The princess has not acted on impulse.
She has acted on precedent.
The prince laughs softly. âVery well,â he says. âIf your treasure is lonely, who am I to deny him⌠a companion?â
He steps back.
The danger does not vanish, but it recedes.
The princess does not wait for permission. She guides the boy away at once, her hand never leaving his. The servants part instinctively, stunned. Whispers spark and die as she passes.
As they reach Dick, she stops.
âThis one will stay,â she says, not looking at the guards, not asking. âSee that he is fed. Cleaned. Untouched.â
The boyâs fingers tighten convulsively in hers.
Dick looks down at him, then up at her, something fierce and shaken and grateful all at once.
She meets his eyes for half a second.
Just enough.
The message is clear.
What she chooses, she protects.
And the court understands, finally, that this is not indulgence.
This is favoritism.
Public. Deliberate.
Dangerous.
And somewhere behind them, the crown prince watches his sister reshape the rules of hunger with nothing but a quiet voice and an open hand.
Jason trails a step behind the princess, eyes darting everywhereâat the glittering court, at the sharp, silent nobles, at the crown prince lingering nearby. Every movement feels like a threat. Every glance, a judgment.
Dick stands a little apart, hands folded in front of him, observing quietly. When his eyes meet Jasonâs, something shifts. Calm, careful. Assessing without threat.
Jason stiffens. His voice is barely a whisper. âHe⌠he could haveââ
âConsumed you,â Dick finishes, voice low, steady. âYes.â
The boy flinches at the word, eyes wide. âIâI wouldâve⌠I didnât mean toââ
âYou didnât fail,â Dick interrupts gently, though his tone carries the weight of what could have happened. âThe princess saved you. That choice was hers, not his.â
Jason swallows, uncertain. His hands fidget with the tray he had dropped, already cleaned up. âBut⌠what if sheâwhat if sheââ
âShe wonât,â Dick says, softer now. âYouâre hers now. That matters more than anything else here.â
Jason looks up, hesitant, almost searching for reassurance. âBut⌠Iâm just a servant.â
Dick shakes his head slightly. âYouâre more than that. Right now, that matters more than any title.â
Jason hesitates, then edges closer, instinctively wanting to be near someone steady. Dick notices, allows it without saying anything. The boyâs gaze lingers on him, curious, tentative, measuring.
âYou⌠youâre not afraid,â Jason whispers, voice small.
Dick studies him carefully. âAfraid?â He tilts his head. âIâm aware.â He lets the word hang. âThis palace has teeth. But you⌠you survived. And youâre not alone anymore.â
Jason swallows again, breathing faster than necessary. âI still⌠I still donât want to be⌠drained,â he admits, almost trembling.
Dickâs hand moves subtly, brushing near Jasonâs shoulderâno touch yet, just presence. âYou wonât be. She claimed me. Thatâs how she works. She doesnât take without choosing. And if she chose you, itâs because she wants you alive. Do you understand?â
Jason nods slowly, eyes wide. Relief and fear intertwining. âI⌠I think so.â
Dick smiles faintly, a corner of warmth cutting through the tension. âGood. Then stay close. Watch. Learn. And remember⌠her choice is what keeps you safe. Thatâs power, too.â
Jasonâs gaze flicks to Dick again, a flicker of trust beginning to form. Heâs still trembling, still unsure, but thereâs a spark thereâthe first hint that survival isnât just about obedience. Itâs about being seen, being chosen, and understanding where the line is drawn.
Dick leans back slightly, letting the boy process, letting the tension ease just enough. He doesnât need to speak again. Sometimes quiet observation, a steady presence, is more protective than any words in a palace built on hunger and control
Jason takes a small step closer, a tentative choice.
Dick notices. He nods slightly, approving silently.
In that moment, fear and trust balance precariouslyâbut for the first time, Jason feels the possibility that the world might bend to someone elseâs restraint, not just his own.
The hall fades behind them as they move down the quieter corridors. Jason clutches the edge of his sleeve like itâs a lifeline, eyes flicking nervously to every shadow, every glint of candlelight.
Dick notices itâthe boyâs flinches, the way his steps falter whenever a guard passes too close, the subtle tilt of his head away from the crown princeâs lingering gaze.
And something settles in Dickâs chest, slow, solid, immovable.
He isnât just observing.
Heâs responsible.
Not because the princess commanded it. Not because anyone else asked. But because he can. Because he knows the palace better than Jason does. Because he knows who is dangerous, who is cruel, and who only pretends to be harmless.
Every step they take, Dick calculates the threats the boy doesnât even see yet: a noble with a predatory smile, a servant who lingers too long with a forked glance, a guard whose duty might override discretion.
Heâs always been careful. Observant. Protective in the small ways a human can survive a world built on teeth. But now the weight is sharper. Immediate. Heavy. Real.
Jason stumbles over a polished stone step.
âCareful,â Dick murmurs, catching him by the elbow, steadying him with a firm but gentle hand.
Jason glances up, eyes wide and searching. âIâI didnât mean toâŚâ
âItâs fine,â Dick says, but the thought runs deeper than reassurance. Heâs thinking: If he fell, even a little, someone would see it. Someone could mistake it. Someone could strike. I wonât let that happen.
The thought tightens around him like armor.
He is not just a companion. He is a buffer. A shield. Every cautious step, every glance, every placement of his body between Jason and the unknown is deliberate.
The realization hits fully: the boyâs safety is now a constant equation in his mind. Every decision, every movement, every flicker of courtly attention must be measured against the possibility of harm.
He exhales, silently, and lets a faint smile curve his lipsânot for Jason, not yet, but to steady himself.
Jason glances up again, hesitating. âYou⌠youâre not afraid of them?â
Dick considers, then shakes his head. âNo. Not them.â His gaze shifts, almost instinctively, to where the princess had claimed him, to where the crown prince had lingered and observed. âIâm only afraid for you. Thatâs enough for me to be careful.â
The boy hesitates, then nods slowly, seeming to sense the weight behind Dickâs composure. The tension eases, just a little, in that fragile acknowledgment.
And in that quiet moment, Dick realizes that being a shield is more than standing between harm and him. It is about absorbing the courtâs hunger, the palaceâs eyes, the dangers he canât name, so Jason can take one small breath without fear.
The thought surprises him: it feels heavy, yesâbut also⌠necessary. Right.
Jasonâs fingers brush briefly against his sleeve, almost accidental. Dick doesnât flinch. He lets the warmth anchor him in a way that he hasnât allowed himself before.
He is the line drawn. The one who absorbs risk so someone else doesnât have to.
And the boy, small and trembling, begins to trustânot just the princess, not just chance, but him.
For the first time, Dick realizes this is power too.
The princess enters the room with quiet authority. The soft click of her heels against the polished stone draws Dickâs attention first, but not in the way it used to. His gaze is already half on Jason, who flinches and straightens under Dickâs watchful presence.
Her eyes sweep over the two of them. Not with curiosity, but with calculation.
Jason freezes, instinctively curling in on himself.
âStand straight,â she murmurs, almost a whisper, and the words carry enough weight that the boy obeys without thinking.
She glances at Dick. Just once. A slight tilt of her head. Approval. The faintest acknowledgment that he is doing precisely what she expectsâguarding, guiding, shaping the boyâs perception of safety.
Then she kneels slightly to Jasonâs level, her hand brushing his shoulder, light but deliberate.
âMy treasure needs company,â she says, her voice carrying a soft authority.
Jasonâs eyes widen. The words seem almost impossibly kind, impossible in a court where humans are marks, not children.
Dick recognizes the significance immediately. This is her way of making it clear: she has chosen. She has claimed. And she is protecting, publicly, without argument.
The crown prince had been a threat before, lurking like a shadow just beyond reach. But now, any move he makes toward Jason would be met with her presenceâher control. A line has been drawn, and Dick stands behind it, shielding Jason as she has ordered, and as the court now understands.
The boyâs fingers clutch her hand, hesitant but trusting, and Dick feels something stir in himâa quiet pride, tempered with wariness. He has become the buffer, the shield, the first line of safety in a palace designed to tear humans apart.
The princess rises, and for a heartbeat, the room seems to hold its breath. Every noble and servant present understands something without a word: she has made her preference clear. She chooses who is valuable, who is protected, and she wields that choice like a weapon.
Jason glances up at Dick, a flicker of awe and relief in his eyes. He whispers, almost too soft to be heard: âHe wonâtâhe wonât hurt me, right?â
Dickâs hand brushes over the back of the boyâs, steadying without breaking contact. âNot if Iâm here,â he says. âThatâs a promise.â
The princess watches them for a moment longer, her expression neutral, unreadable, and then she steps back, letting the quiet assertion of her power linger in the space.
Dick realizes fully, in that instant
This is more than survival.
This is a declaration.
And he has been entrusted with enforcing it.
Jasonâs shoulders relax slightly, a tentative breath escaping. He still fears the court, the crown prince, the palace itselfâbut not Dick. Not when he stands there. Not when the princess has drawn the line so clearly.
The princess turns, walking away with her usual grace, leaving Dick and Jason together, a small island of calm amid the courtâs swirling tension.
And as he watches her go, Dick knows something undeniable: he is the shield, and Jason is under it.
And that makes both of them dangerously⌠precious.
The crown prince strides into the princessâs chambers, every movement a blade sliding across stone. The door closes behind him with a decisive click. His gaze is sharp, smoldering, and full of accusation before he even speaks.
âYou humiliate me,â he says immediately. âIn front of the court. You deliberately undermined me.â
The princess is seated at her desk, hands folded, expression neutral. She does not flinch. She does not rise. The room seems to bend to her calm.
âDid I?â she asks softly.
He steps closer, voice rising. âDid you not? You stood in my way. In front of nobles, in front of servants, in front of everyone. You claimed a human boyâone boyâand the court saw. They saw you command restraint, wield favor, andââ
ââthey also saw control,â she interrupts, calm as glass. âIs that what troubles you? That someone, anyone, could show self-restraint that you cannot?â
He bristles. His teeth flash briefly. âYou twist words. That boyââ
âDo you consider him so powerful that he could undermine you?â she asks, her voice even, almost teasing, almost dangerous. She leans back, fingertips pressed together. âA human boy?â
The words hang in the air like a challenge.
He gapes, then recovers, jaw tightening. âHe is inconsequential.â
âYet you bristle,â she observes, tilting her head slightly. âYou feel threatened. By me, by the court, by the idea that a humanâthis one, small as he isâcan exist under my protection and not yours.â
He takes a step forward, but her eyes lock onto his, unyielding. He stops. The air between them sharpens.
âYou treat him like a treasure,â he snaps, voice tight. âAnd thatââ
âThat,â she says softly, âis my choice.â
His fists clench. His teeth flash again. âThis is recklessâchildishâ!â
âI am not reckless,â she interrupts again, calm and firm. âI am deliberate.â
The words strike harder than any scream could. He exhales, visibly shaking with frustration, eyes dark with anger, but unable to argue further.
Without another word, he storms toward the door. His steps echo down the chamber, each one heavy with fury, leaving silence in his wake.
The crown prince retreats to his chambers, slamming the door behind him with a force that rattles the heavy wood. Silence settles, but it does not calm him. It only gives space for thought, sharpened and dangerous.
He paces. Each step measured. Each gesture precise. His lips press into a thin line as he thinks back to the event, to the human boy, to the way his sister had moved.
She humiliated me.
No, not humiliated. Outmaneuvered. Controlled. Dominated without teeth or threat, commanding the eyes and obedience of everyone in the hall.
And the boyâŚ
His jaw tightens. That boyâsmall, trembling, humanâheld his sisterâs favor like a banner. The crown prince clenches his fists. A human boy is now her tool. Her shield. Her proof.
He knows better than to strike openly. The court saw her control. Any attempt to act would brand him reckless. He would lose face. He would become the cautionary tale whispered in the halls of power.
But he will not forget.
He sits at his desk, pulling a leather-bound ledger toward him, but his hands do not write. Instead, he plans. Every word, every action, every servantâs loyalty he can twist. Every moment of distraction he can manufacture.
If he cannot undermine her publicly⌠he will do it quietly.
The humans. The way she shields them. These are pieces. Pieces to manipulate. Tools to test. Leverage to seize.
A faint smirk tugs at his lips, sharp as a blade. Let her think she is untouchable. Let her think her choice is safe.
Because she will not see it coming. Not until the pieces move against her.
The crown prince rises from his desk, pacing again, voice low and dangerous. âEvery favor, every choice she makes⌠I will turn it. Every boy she claims, every treasure she chooses⌠they will be proof of her weakness, not her strength.â
He pauses at the window, looking out over the courtyard. Guards march in ceremonial perfection, servants scurry underfoot, the palace alive with the hum of control and order.
And somewhere in that maze of polished stone and whispers, his sister walks freely.
The coffee shop was warm, crowded, and loud enough that you almost didnât notice the stranger until he leaned against your table.
âHey. You here often?â His smile was friendly, practiced.
You opened your mouth to respond â but before a word left, a hand settled on your shoulder. Firm, grounding.
âActually, they donât,â Dickâs voice came smooth as velvet, but with an edge like glass. He leaned down, close enough his breath stirred your hair. âTheyâre usually with me.â
The stranger blinked, thrown. âOh, sorry â I didnât realize you wereââ
Dickâs smile didnât waver, but the hand on your shoulder tightened. âYeah. You didnât.â His tone was playful on the surface, but his eyes⌠his eyes didnât leave the strangerâs face. Unblinking. Calculating.
The man excused himself quickly, muttering something about not meaning to intrude. Dick watched him go, the line of his jaw sharp, until the door swung shut behind him.
Only then did he ease down into the chair across from you, his smile softening instantly, as if nothing had happened. âYou okay? He didnât make you uncomfortable, did he?â
You frowned. âDick, that was a littleââ
âProtective?â He tilted his head, grin widening. âGuilty as charged. I canât help it, you know. You mean too much to me.â
The words should have been sweet, but they landed heavy, binding. He reached across the table, brushing his thumb over your knuckles in a gesture so tender it almost erased the tension from before. Almost.
âBesides,â his voice dropped, intimate, âyou donât need anyone else looking at you like that. Not when youâve already got me.â
The lock clicked open and Dick gave you that easy grin, the one that always felt like sunlight. But tonight there was a flicker of nervousness behind it. He guided you into the quiet room, his hand warm and steady at your back.
âI donât usually let anyone in here,â he admitted, voice soft, almost conspiratorial. âBut youâre not just anyone.â
The room itself looked ordinary at first â bookshelves, neat piles of papers, a desk lamp burning low. Then your eyes adjusted, and you saw the walls. Photographs, lined edge to edge. Dozens, hundreds. All of you.
Before you could say anything, he moved quickly, pulling a thick scrapbook from the shelf. He carried it like something fragile and precious, not meeting your eyes as he flipped it open.
âLook,â he murmured, smiling as his thumb skimmed a page. âThis was the first time I saw you laugh so hard you had tears in your eyes. I didnât want to forget it.â He turned another page â a candid shot of you asleep at the Towerâs couch, his jacket bundled under your cheek. He chuckled, fond. âYou looked so peaceful. I thought⌠I should keep that.â
Each page was the same â scraps of your life, tiny things youâd never even noticed were missing. A doodle you left on a napkin. A coffee cup sleeve. Ticket stubs from a movie youâd long forgotten.
âI know itâs kind of silly,â Dick admitted, sheepish, his cheeks pink. âBut youâre⌠youâre important. I just donât want to lose pieces of you. This way, I can always keep you close.â
He finally looked up, blue eyes wide and earnest, searching yours for approval like a kid showing off a school project.
âItâs not weird, right?â he asked softly. âItâs just⌠love. I want to remember everything about you.â
And in his expression there was no malice, no awareness of the weight of it. Only devotion. Only instinct.
Your chest felt heavy, your instincts prickling, but you swallowed them down. You smiled â small, strained, but it was enough.
âItâs⌠sweet, Dick. Really.â
The relief that washed over him was immediate and blinding. His grin broke open, bright and boyish, as if youâd handed him the world. âI knew youâd understand.â
He turned another page, excitement bubbling in his voice now. âThis one â you probably donât remember, but you dropped this ticket stub. I kept it, because it was the first movie we saw together.â His finger brushed the paper reverently, then slid up to caress the edge of your hand. âI want us to keep filling these books. A whole shelf of our life.â
He looked at you like it was the most natural thing, like the future he was painting already belonged to you both.
âYouâll let me, wonât you?â His tone was soft, pleading, but threaded with the kind of certainty that didnât leave room for âno.â
You smiled â a small, careful thing â and it was all he needed. Relief washed over Dickâs face like sunrise, chasing away every shadow of doubt. He practically glowed as he leaned closer, his arm draped protectively along the back of your chair.
âI knew youâd get it,â he said, voice soft, awed, like your approval was the most precious gift heâd ever received.
He flipped another page in the scrapbook with reverence. A pressed flower, petals faded but intact. âYou dropped this outside the Tower months ago. Everyone else stepped over it, but I couldnât let it be ruined. Itâs part of you, so itâs part of me.â
The words should have been strange, but he spoke them so sincerely that they landed like a vow. He wasnât trying to manipulate. He truly believed it.
He turned another page â a candid shot of you bent over a book, oblivious to the camera. A napkin with your doodles taped carefully beside it. âEvery little piece matters. Even the ones youâd throw away. Iâll keep them safe for you.â
His hand slid over yours, thumb brushing slow circles against your skin. His smile was soft, tender. âYou donât have to carry everything alone. Iâll remember for both of us.â
You swallowed, throat dry, but his eyes were so open, so unguarded, you couldnât pull away. He pressed your joined hands to his chest, just over his heart. You could feel it hammering, quick and fervent.
âSomeday,â he whispered, like a prayer, âweâll look back through all these books together. Weâll sit on the floor, maybe kids running around the apartment, and laugh at how young we looked. Weâll have our whole life written down. Proof that itâs always been us.â
The vision spilled out of him effortlessly, painted in such vivid, domestic colors that for a moment you almost saw it too. A future heâd already written, already decided.
Dick leaned forward, forehead pressing against yours. His voice dropped to a murmur, a secret meant only for you.
âYouâll let me, wonât you? Youâll let me keep you close. Always.â
It wasnât really a question. It was instinct. A certainty.
And with the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, the room thick with his presence, it was terrifying how easy it was to nod.
The sound shouldnât have been there. A soft clink of ceramic, the faint hiss of the kettle. You froze halfway down the hall, pulse skipping. You lived alone.
When you stepped into the kitchen, he was there. Dick â casual as anything, leaning against the counter in his t-shirt and jeans, steam curling from the mug in his hands.
âHey,â he said brightly, like youâd just walked in from work and not your own bedroom. âI hope you donât mind, I let myself in. You werenât answering your phone and I worried.â
Your mouth went dry. âYou⌠have a key?â
He grinned, sheepish. âYouâd be surprised how easy these locks are. You really should upgrade â I could help you install something better.â
You should have told him to leave. You should have demanded answers. Instead, you heard yourself stammer: âUh⌠do you want⌠a snack? Iâve got chips, orââ
âThatâd be great.â His smile softened as though youâd just confirmed something important, like youâd welcomed him. He moved easily around your kitchen, already comfortable, already at home.
You fetched a bowl, hands shaking just slightly. He noticed â of course he noticed â and stepped in close, brushing his fingers against yours as he took the chips. âThanks. Youâre always so thoughtful.â
It felt surreal. Like he belonged here more than you did. He set the bowl on the coffee table, gesturing for you to sit, his every movement seamless, natural, like this was his place as much as yours.
And when he finally sank down beside you on the couch, stretching one arm across the back cushions, he glanced at you with that warm, guileless smile.
âSee? Feels nice, doesnât it?â His voice was soft, coaxing, as though this was the most ordinary evening in the world. âYou and me. Just⌠home.â
You told yourself youâd let him stay for one drink. Maybe a few chips. A polite buffer before gently steering him toward the door. But somehow the minutes kept slipping.
The kettle was washed and drying on the rack. The bowl of chips was half gone. Dick sat sprawled on your couch like it had been built for him, his long frame relaxed, one socked foot tucked beneath him. He flipped lazily through channels on your TV as though heâd done it a hundred times.
Every so often, heâd glance at you, smile, ask a small question â âRough day?â or âWant me to fix that loose cabinet hinge later?â â until your nerves began to blur with an almost dangerous comfort.
When the clock hit midnight, you finally cleared your throat. âItâs⌠getting late.â
âMm.â He didnât look away from the screen, just stretched an arm behind you along the back of the couch. âYouâre tired.â
The way he said it, simple and certain, made your stomach twist.
You tried again, softer. âMaybe you shouldââ
But he was already standing, already moving toward the kitchen. âIâll clean up for you first.â He stacked dishes neatly, wiped down the counter. By the time you caught up to protest, he was wandering down the hallway.
âDickâ!â
Too late. He was at your bedroom door, pushing it open like it was his right. He smiled faintly at the sight of your unmade bed. âYou should sleep. Youâll feel better.â
You hovered at the threshold, nerves prickling sharp, but the words that tumbled out werenât the ones you wanted. âDo you⌠want a blanket? For the couch?â
He turned, eyes softening in that way that always made your chest tight. âThatâs sweet of you. But I donât mind.â He brushed past you, close enough his arm brushed yours, the warmth of him sinking into your skin.
Back in the living room, he curled onto the couch, tugging your throw blanket around his shoulders like it was already his. He looked up at you with that easy, boyish smile.
âSee? No big deal. Iâll be right here. You can sleep easy knowing Iâm watching out for you.â
And you nodded â because what else could you do?
When you finally closed your bedroom door, you could still hear him shifting on the couch. The faint rustle of fabric, the creak of cushions. The sound of someone settling in for the night.
Like heâd always been here. Like he always would be.
The first thing you noticed when you woke was the smell. Coffee. Warm, rich, drifting down the hall. Then came the sound â the low clatter of dishes, a pan sizzling.
For a moment, your half-asleep brain supplied the image of a partner, a shared home, an ordinary domestic morning. Then the realization jolted you upright. You lived alone.
Padding down the hall, you found him in your kitchen. Dick, hair mussed from sleep, wearing one of your aprons like it was the most natural thing in the world. He glanced up, grin bright and easy.
âMorning. Hope you donât mind â I didnât want you to start the day on an empty stomach.â He gestured to the counter: toast, eggs, fresh fruit arranged like it belonged in a magazine spread.
Your mouth opened, then closed. The protest tangled in your throat, collapsing into something safer. ââŚYou didnât have to do that.â
âI wanted to.â He said it simply, like it explained everything. He slid a plate toward you, pulling out a chair with a gentle nudge. âSit. Eat.â
The sunlight caught in his eyes as he watched you, blue and burning, his smile soft and fond. âThis feels nice, doesnât it? Like it should always be this way.â
You managed a small, polite laugh, sitting stiffly. He didnât notice. Or maybe he did and chose not to.
As you picked at the food, he leaned against the counter, arms folded, studying you with quiet intensity. âIâll get used to your kitchen soon enough,â he said casually, almost like an afterthought. âThat way, you donât have to worry about cooking. Iâll take care of it.â
The words sank into the air between you, heavy and inevitable. He said them with such natural certainty, like a promise already written into your future.
And when he leaned down to kiss the top of your head â gentle, affectionate, utterly instinctive â you found yourself frozen.
You had rehearsed what you were going to say a dozen times in your head. Carefully. Calmly. If anyone could give perspective â a clear-eyed assessment â it would be Bruce. Surely heâd see what was happening.
You found him in the study, papers spread across the desk, his mask of concentration in place. âBruce,â you began, voice steady, âI⌠I need to talk about Dick.â
He didnât look up. âAbout Dick?â His tone was neutral, curious. âWhat about him?â
You swallowed. ââŚHeâs⌠I think heâs⌠invading my space. Staying in my apartment, watching me sleep, beingââ
ââprotective?â Bruce interjected, finally glancing up, brow furrowed. âI assume thatâs what you mean. Youâve been close lately. Thatâs⌠normal.â
You froze. Your heart thudded. âNo! I meanâyes, heâs⌠affectionate, but itâsâheâs⌠heâs everywhere. I canâtâheâs in my apartment whenever he wants, heâheâs⌠I donât know how to explain itââ
Bruce leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly, but the expression wasnât concern. It was calculation. âHeâs taking care of you. Making sure youâre safe. You two are growing closer. Thatâs a good thing. Thatâs what partners do. Youâve never seemed upset about him before.â
You felt your chest tighten. âI⌠I donât know how to feel. I⌠I just⌠I think heâs crossing boundaries.â
Bruceâs tone was firm, final. âYouâre overthinking it. Heâs⌠attentive. Heâs responsible. If anything, you should appreciate it. Not everyone has someone looking out for them like he does.â
You blinked, swallowed again. The knot in your stomach grew tighter. Appreciation? He called being watched and invaded care? You wanted to scream, to pull Bruce aside, to make him understand â but the words caught in your throat.
And as Bruce returned to his papers, calm, certain, you felt the walls of your own life shrink. Not just because of Dick, but because no one else seemed to see it. You were trapped in your own apartment, in your own head, with your concern dismissed.
You sank into a chair, silent. The world felt smaller. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized: no one might ever see it the way I do.
The knock on your door was soft. Tentative. But you already knew who it would be.
âHey!â Dickâs voice called cheerfully as the door swung open before you could answer. He stepped in, carrying a small paper bag. âBruce said you two talked?â
Your stomach dropped. âUh⌠yes. But Iââ
âOh, good!â He interrupted, eyes bright, grinning as if heâd just won a prize. âSo youâre okay with me staying over? Or helping out more? He said you two are⌠close. Thatâs great, right?â
Your mouth went dry. âDick, I⌠I donât think thatâs whatââ
But he didnât hear. Or maybe he did and dismissed it, because he was already setting the bag on your counter, unpacking snacks, pulling out drinks, humming under his breath like nothing was amiss.
âYou donât have to say anything,â he said softly, crouching to grab a mug from the cupboard. âBruce says itâs fine. He says weâre⌠partners, in our own way. You and me. Isnât that nice?â
You felt your pulse spike. Partners? In your apartment? With him moving as if he already belonged? You opened your mouth, tried again. âI⌠I justââ
âDonât worry,â he said, turning toward you with a soft, careless smile. âYou just sit. Relax. Iâll take care of everything.â
And there it was. The ease, the warmth, the quiet certainty of his presence â a presence that was supposed to feel comforting, but now pressed against you like invisible walls. Every polite smile, every casual movement, made it harder to push him away.
You offered him a strained smile back. âThanks,â you whispered. âI⌠appreciate it.â
Dick beamed. âGood. Thatâs settled, then.â
And as he moved around your kitchen, unpacking the bag and humming to himself, you realized with a sinking feeling: you were trapped in your own space, not by locks or doors, but by his instinctive, unwavering devotion â and the world around you insisting that it was⌠normal.
You thought maybe the coffee shop across the street would help. Somewhere public. Somewhere you could breathe, think. Somewhere Dick wouldnât just⌠slide into your space.
But when you stepped inside, there he was.
Leaning casually against the counter, sipping an espresso he hadnât ordered, his blue eyes lighting up the moment they landed on you.
âHey! Didnât expect to see you here so early. Thought maybe youâd like company?â His grin was warm, unassuming, effortless â and it made your stomach twist.
You froze, heart hammering. âI⌠I just came toââ
âRelax?â he supplied with a chuckle, already walking toward you, hands tucked into his pockets. âSure. You deserve that.â
You tried another angle. Find a quiet corner, maybe sit with your laptop and work, lose yourself in something. But every seat you chose, he slid into view. Always close enough to brush against you, always calm and natural.
You muttered under your breath, âThis isnât⌠normal.â
And yet, when you later thought about calling Bruce, he would just say: Youâre growing closer. Thatâs fine. Heâs looking out for you.
You looked around again. Everywhere you went, every escape route you imagined â the park, the bookstore, the cafĂŠ â it was the same. There was no hiding from him. Not really. Not when he already knew you so well, so instinctively.
Your chest tightened. Panic fluttered like birds in your ribcage. You werenât just uncomfortable anymore. You felt trapped.
Dickâs voice cut through your thoughts, soft and unbothered. âI didnât want to follow you here, but⌠I thought you might need me. Itâs okay. You donât have to deal with anything alone.â
And just like that, the walls of the city felt like a cage, the streets too small, the air too heavy. No matter where you went, Dick was there â and even if he werenât, the certainty in his devotion, in the way the world treated it as normal, made it impossible to escape.
You sank into a chair, hands gripping the edge of the table. He slid into the seat across from you, casually, effortlessly, his smile soft and steady.
You realized, in that quiet, crowded space, that there was nowhere left to run.
You started small. A subtle shift of your body language. A pause before answering his texts. Choosing a seat at the farthest corner of the coffee shop, tucked between a pillar and the window, where there was only one chair.
You told yourself, If I make it inconvenient, heâll back off. Heâll get the hint.
But he didnât.
He walked in twenty minutes later, as if the universe had summoned him, his jacket slung over one shoulder. He glanced around once, found you instantly, and smiled like sunlight breaking through clouds.
âHey,â he said softly, sliding into the empty space next to you even though there wasnât really room. He leaned a little so you could feel the warmth of him through your sleeve. âYouâre quiet today.â
âI⌠just wanted to think,â you murmured, eyes on your laptop. âAlone.â
âMhm,â he hummed, reaching over to set down a drink you hadnât ordered but he somehow knew you liked. âThinkingâs easier with someone whoâs got your back. You donât have to talk. Just⌠let me be here.â
You clenched your hands beneath the table. The words I donât want you here sat on the back of your tongue, bitter. But you swallowed them.
Another test: you excused yourself to the restroom, stayed longer than necessary, heart hammering. When you returned, your bag was gone. Panic spiked â until you saw him at another table, bag in his lap, waving cheerfully.
âThought you might want to sit somewhere less crowded,â he said, as though he were doing you a favor.
Every gesture was gentle, polite, attentive. Every line blurred just enough that it was easy for someone else â Bruce, the barista, your friends â to call it sweet. Caring.
You sank into the chair opposite him. âYouâre⌠always here,â you said quietly.
Dick tilted his head, blue eyes soft, genuinely puzzled. âOf course I am. Where else would I be?â
And there it was â that instinctive certainty. Like gravity. He didnât even see what he was doing as invasive. He just knew he belonged in your orbit.
You looked down at your drink, fingers trembling slightly. You tried to imagine where you could go next â another cafĂŠ, another part of town, a motel, a friendâs apartment â but in every scenario you pictured him finding you, smiling, sitting down like it was the most natural thing in the world.
For a flicker of a moment, you wondered if maybe Bruce was right, maybe you were overreacting. Maybe this was just closeness.
And that thought scared you even more than Dickâs presence.
You thought a day away might help. No texts, no calls, no hints of where you were going. Just a quiet trip across town, somewhere you could breathe, somewhere Dick couldnât anticipate.
For a few hours, it worked. The streets felt lighter. The coffee shop you chose was small, tucked down a side street. You sank into a corner seat, fingers wrapped around a mug like it could anchor you.
You let yourself imagine â maybe you could figure out what to do. How to set boundaries. How to reclaim your space.
Then you felt it before you saw it. The warmth. The quiet presence beside you.
âHey,â Dick said, voice soft, casual, like heâd been there all along. âI thought you might need some company.â
Your throat went dry. âI⌠howâ?â
He smiled, leaning back in the chair, his elbow brushing yours. âI figured youâd want someone watching out for you. You always do.â
You could barely form words. âI didnâtââ
âI know,â he said gently. âYou just wanted to think. Thatâs why Iâm here. I wonât talk. Iâll just⌠keep you safe.â
Safe. The word made your chest tighten. The thought that he could track you, find you, invade your carefully carved-out space, all without malice, all because he loved you â it was suffocating.
You glanced around the cafĂŠ. Empty streets, locked doors, public space â none of it mattered. He knew, instinctively. He found you. And Bruceâs voice echoed faintly in your memory: You two are growing closer. Thatâs fine.
Your mind raced. No matter what you did, no matter how far you ran, no matter how politely or subtly you tried to assert your boundaries, he would be there â calm, attentive, smiling, convinced that this was the most natural thing in the world.
You sank into the chair, gripping the edge like it might hold you upright. And Dick, oblivious to your rising panic, leaned closer, sliding a hand over yours.
âDonât worry,â he said softly. âIâll stay right here. You donât have to do anything alone.â
And in that moment, you realized: there was nowhere left to go.
You tried small things at first. A pause before answering his texts. Keeping doors closed. Moving your chair just a little farther away on the couch. You imagined that would signal, politely, that you needed space.
But Dick noticed. Always.
âYou seem tense,â he said softly one evening, sliding onto the couch beside you before you could move. His arm brushed yours, casual, unassuming. âYou donât have to carry everything alone. Iâm here.â
You tried to shift to the far side of the couch, subtly asserting distance. He mirrored you, sliding along like a shadow, maintaining the same proximity without ever seeming to force it.
âI⌠I just need a minute,â you whispered.
He nodded, as though reading your discomfort, and smiled gently. âOf course. Take your time.â His hand rested lightly near yours on the cushion. Not pressing. Not demanding. But impossibly close.
Later, you tried leaving a note: I need space tonight. You placed it on the kitchen counter before leaving for the bathroom, thinking it might convey your boundaries.
When you returned, the note was folded neatly in his hand, his eyes on you with soft concern. âI saw this,â he said quietly. âI just wanted to check on you. Youâre okay, right?â
You felt a flutter of panic â this was supposed to be your space, your signal â and yet, he interpreted it as a caring gesture, a devotion.
Even when you tried to be direct â âDick, please, I need some time aloneââ his response was gentle, tender, unyielding:
âI know. Iâll give you time. But Iâll still be here when youâre ready. Always.â
And the weight of that âalwaysâ pressed in on you like gravity. You werenât being ignored. You werenât being cruelly dominated. You were just⌠overwhelmed by the unshakable certainty of someone who loved you beyond reason, who didnât even recognize the lines he was blurring.
Every subtle act of resistance felt like stepping into quicksand. The more you struggled, the more apparent it became: no matter what you did, no matter how politely or clearly you tried to assert your boundaries, he would always be there, patiently, lovingly, instinctively.
You closed your eyes, wishing you could disappear. But he leaned closer, smiling softly, murmuring:
âYou donât have to do anything alone.â
And you realized the frightening truth: your attempts to resist only made him more devoted, more present, more impossible to escape.
You packed a small bag in silence, careful not to make a sound. Just a few hours â maybe even overnight â to clear your head, to think. Anywhere but here.
The city was quiet as you slipped out, streets dim, the hum of distant traffic a soft blanket. You felt a fleeting flicker of relief. Maybe this time, he wouldnât find you. Maybe you could think.
But by the time you reached the small motel on the outskirts, your chest tightened. The lobby was empty. The clerk polite. Solitude, at last.
Until the knock came.
Soft. Deliberate.
âHey,â Dickâs voice floated through the door. Calm, familiar, perfectly normal. âI thought you might want some company.â
You froze, heart hammering. âHowâ?â
âFound you,â he said with a grin that was all warmth and certainty, stepping into the hallway as if heâd always belonged there. âYou didnât think Iâd let you be alone, did you?â
Your mind raced. âI⌠I just neededââ
âYou needed to think,â he finished for you, moving closer. His hand brushed yours lightly as he carried your bag in with a casual, effortless motion. âI get it. Itâs okay. Iâll be quiet. I promise.â
He set the bag down, looking at you with that soft, unwavering smile. âBut Iâm here now. And thatâs all that matters.â
Every escape route you had imagined â the streets, the anonymity of the motel, the distance â dissolved in the warmth of his presence. He wasnât menacing. He wasnât yelling, threatening, or even pressuring. He was just⌠there. Always. Gentle. Loving. Persistent.
You backed toward the bed, unsure whether to sit, stay, or run again, but your limbs felt leaden. The certainty in his gaze, the calm devotion in his voice, the way he occupied space without asking â it pinned you in place more securely than any lock could.
âIâll stay over if you want,â he said softly, as if offering comfort. âOr Iâll just⌠sit here. Keep you company while you think. Thatâs all.â
And in that moment, the horrifying truth settled over you: no matter where you went, no matter what you did, he would always find you, always care for you, always be there â and the world would tell you that it was normal, that it was fine.
You sat down slowly, hands gripping the sheets, heart hammering. He lowered himself beside you, casually, comfortably, as if he belonged there, as if this was how things had always been meant to be.
And in the quiet, soft, almost tender embrace of his presence, you realized: there was nowhere left to run.
Content: captive!Dick and captive!reader, reader goes by a fake name (Lena), 9.7k words
Warnings: implied/referenced suicidal ideation/attempt, the equivalent to being in a psych ward or suicide watch
Authorâs Note: October is spooky season right? Well, whatâs spookier than mental health crises? đĽ˛
Heads up that this does handle a reader that is in an environment to prevent any suicide attempts
The world came back in pieces.
Sound first â the scrape of boots on concrete, the jingle of keys, the iron rattle of a lock disengaging. Then light, harsh and white, spilling through the black bag theyâd thrown over his head.
Hands dragged him upright. His knees gave out halfway, earning him a sharp tug on the chain around his neck. The collar bit against bruised skin. Someone laughed.
âA gift,â a manâs voice said. Smooth, self-satisfied. âFor my daughter. Youâll behave, wonât you, Nightwing?â
He didnât answer. Couldnât, maybe. His throat was raw, every breath sandpapered down to a rasp.
The bag came off. The light stabbed his eyes. The shape in front of him blurred, then settled â a young woman, standing stiffly beside a narrow bed. She didnât move when he was shoved forward. Didnât flinch when the man behind him tightened his grip one last time before releasing him.
âTake care of him,â the voice ordered. âYou know the rules.â
The door slammed shut. The lock turned.
For a long moment, neither of them breathed.
Dick stayed where heâd fallen, one knee on the floor, one hand braced against the edge of the bedframe. He couldnât see much â just the dim outline of her bare feet on the cold tile, the hem of a pale dress brushing her ankles. No shoes. No jewelry. No sound.
She knelt after a beat, slow enough that the camera in the corner could catch every movement. Her hands hovered before touching him, gentle but mechanical, like sheâd done this before.
âYou should sit,â she whispered. Her voice was soft, careful â as if any louder might invite punishment.
He didnât move.
She tried again, reaching for his arm. The cuff of her sleeve fell back just enough to show bruises â faint, yellowed at the edges. He saw the tremor in her fingers and wondered if it was fear of him, or of whoever was watching.
The room smelled sterile. Too clean. There were no books, no metal, no glass. Even the furniture corners were rounded, padded in a way that struck him as wrong.
He caught himself staring at a plastic spoon on the nightstand, the only utensil in sight.
âWhereâŚ?â His voice broke. He swallowed hard, forced the words out. âWhere am I?â
Her eyes flicked toward the camera, then back to him. âYou shouldnât ask questions. They donât like that.â
He tried to laugh, but it came out cracked and ugly. âYou one of them?â
Her expression didnât change. âNo,â she said, too quickly. Then, quieter: âI just do what Iâm told.â
She moved again, coaxing him toward the bed. He let her, not because he trusted her, but because his body had stopped listening to anything but gravity.
When she finally spoke again, her voice was barely audible.
âIf you stay quiet, they might leave you alone.â
He wanted to tell her they never did. That quiet didnât save anyone here. But the words stuck somewhere between his chest and his mouth, swallowed by the sterile air.
The light above them flickered once, buzzing like a fly caught in a web.
She didnât look up. Neither did he.
The doorâs lock clicked once more. Then silence.
He waited for footsteps â the usual sound of guards pacing outside, the low murmur of radio static â but there was nothing. Just the hum of the ceiling light and the faint, rhythmic tick of a vent somewhere behind him.
The girl hadnât moved. She was still kneeling beside him, hands folded neatly in her lap. Like she was waiting for permission that would never come.
He shifted, the chain at his throat scraping against its ring. Pain flared across his ribs, bright and fast. He swallowed it back, forced himself to sit on the edge of the bed.
She rose, small and deliberate, and crossed the room. He watched her pass the camera, her head tilted slightly away from it, as though instinct told her how far she could move before the red light blinked.
There was a basin on a metal tray â no metal bowl, just dull plastic. She poured water from a sealed jug, soaked a cloth, and came back to him. Her hands were steady now, the kind of steady that came from repetition, not calm.
âYouâre bleeding,â she said.
He wasnât sure if it was an observation or an apology.
The cloth was cool against his face. He tried not to flinch, but her touch made his body tense, reflexive. The guards had been âgentleâ too, sometimes â right before they werenât.
âIâm fine,â he rasped.
She didnât answer. Just pressed the cloth to a cut above his eyebrow, dabbing until the water turned pink. Her movements were efficient, almost clinical. No wasted motion.
When she wrung the cloth out, he saw again â no metal bucket, no glass mirror, nothing that could break or cut. Even the trayâs edges were dull. The kind of place where the smallest mistake was punished by design.
âYouâre⌠what, his nurse?â he asked.
Her breath hitched, just once. âHis daughter.â
He blinked, looked up. She said it without conviction â like a line sheâd been forced to memorize. He didnât push. Not yet.
She finished cleaning his face, folded the cloth, and went to wash her hands in a basin near the wall. There was no sink, no faucet. The water disappeared down a drain in the floor.
When she turned back, she kept her eyes low. âYou should sleep.â
He almost laughed again â sleep, in this place â but his body was already giving up the argument. His limbs were too heavy. His head ached from too many nights of not enough air.
He lay down without thinking. The mattress was thin, but softer than the floor of his cell.
The girl sat in a chair by the wall, hands clasped tightly in her lap, eyes fixed on the corner where the camera blinked. She didnât speak again. Didnât move.
He watched her until his vision blurred â the outline of her face, pale and still, fading into the white hum of the room.
For a moment, Dick thought he was back in the cell â the same cold air, the same hum of recycled ventilation, the same ache in his joints that came from sleeping on steel. Then he blinked, and the ceiling above him came into focus: off-white, cracked in one corner.
He was on the bed. Someone had covered him with a thin blanket.
His body remembered before his mind did â the weight of the collar, the raw pull at his wrists. He pushed himself upright, slow, one breath at a time. Everything hurt.
The girl sat where heâd last seen her, by the wall. Her posture hadnât changed. Eyes on the floor, hands folded. Like sheâd been carved there overnight.
âYou⌠didnât move?â His voice came out rough, half air.
She startled a little, looking up. âIâm not allowed to sleep when thereâs someone else here.â
He frowned. âWhat, they watching you?â
Her gaze flicked toward the ceiling corner. The small red light above the camera blinked steadily â a heartbeat that wasnât hers.
âThey always are,â she said quietly.
He followed her eyes. The cameraâs lens was angled just enough to take in the entire room â the bed, the chair, the door. No shadows left unchecked.
He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the rough scrape of stubble and the still-tacky edge of the cut sheâd cleaned. âYou got a name?â
She hesitated, and for a moment he saw panic flicker across her expression. Then she said, âLena.â
He knew a lie when he heard one. But he didnât push. Not yet.
âYou can call me Dick,â he muttered, before he could stop himself. Nightwing didnât fit here anymore.
She nodded like she was agreeing to something dangerous. âYou should eat, Dick.â
She crossed the room to a tray that had been slid under the door at some point â oatmeal, pale and overcooked, with a plastic spoon. No knife. No fork. Even the tray was rubber.
She crouched beside him again, offering the spoon. Her movements were careful, choreographed. Always the same distance from the camera, never blocking its view.
He took the spoon from her. His fingers brushed hers â cold skin, pulse jumping fast. She recoiled like sheâd been shocked.
âSorry,â he murmured.
âDonât be.â She drew her hands back into her lap, voice even smaller. âIâm not supposed to touch you unless they tell me to.â
He looked around the room again, really seeing it this time. The furniture bolted to the floor. The rounded edges. The lack of anything sharper than a plastic spoon. The walls painted in the same color as hospital corridors.
It didnât feel like a home. It didnât even feel like a prison cell.
It felt like a ward.
âThey treat you like youâre dangerous,â he said, half to himself.
Her mouth twitched â not a smile, exactly. More like sheâd heard something funny that she wasnât allowed to laugh at.
âNot dangerous,â she said. âJust not to be trusted.â
The air between them felt heavy again â not quite silence, but the weight of something that could shatter if touched.
He ate mechanically, forcing down spoonfuls that tasted like nothing. She watched every movement, as if memorizing how to pretend to be normal.
And when he handed the empty tray back, she whispered,
âTheyâll come soon to check the cameras. Donât talk when they do. Donât look at me. Please.â
Her hands trembled just enough that the spoon rattled.
Dick nodded, still watching her. The bruises on her wrist were older now that he could see them in full light. Faded, patterned like fingerprints.
He wondered, not for the last time, what kind of monster kept a daughter in a room built to keep her from herself.
And what kind of man heâd have to become to get them both out.
The girlâLena, as she called herselfâstraightened instantly. Hands in her lap, shoulders square, eyes down. Dick barely had time to register the change before the door opened.
Two guards entered, both armed, their movements crisp and practiced. They werenât the same ones who had dragged him in last night. These men looked cleanerâuniforms pressed, holsters polished, faces neutral. Not cruel. Not kind.
âMorning check,â one said, voice flat.
Lena rose without being told. She stepped back toward the wall, folding her arms behind her like she was used to being searched.
The taller guard gestured for Dick to stay seated. âDonât move,â he said, not unkindly but with the weight of someone who didnât expect disobedience.
Dick didnât.
He watched insteadâthe way the shorter guard moved methodically through the room, gloved hands opening drawers, checking under the bed, patting the mattress seams. He lifted the tray, ran his fingers along the underside, then tossed the plastic spoon into a bag marked inspection waste.
âYouâll get another one later,â the taller one told her, and for a second, Dick almost thought it sounded polite.
Then the guard turned to her, scanning her wrists. He didnât grab her, didnât shoveâjust held out his hand.
âShow me.â
She hesitated. Just a blink, a heartbeat. Then she raised her arms.
He rolled her sleeves up past her elbows, checking the skin, the faint bruises, the scabbed-over lines. Dick didnât need to see her face to know what it cost her to stand still through it.
The guard nodded once and stepped back. âClean,â he said to his partner.
The other man finished his sweep, closing the last drawer with a dull click. âNo sharp edges. No metal. Same as before.â
The taller one glanced toward the camera, then at Lena again. âYouâve been quiet?â
âYes,â she whispered.
âGood.â His tone didnât soften. âKeep it that way.â
They turned to Dick then. The taller one looked him over like an inventory itemâbandaged, restrained, still collared. Satisfied, he nodded. âYouâll get your next dose in an hour.â
âWhat dose?â Dick asked, voice rasping.
The man didnât answer. They didnât even acknowledge the question.
The inspection ended as efficiently as it began. They left the room exactly as theyâd found itâsterile, silent, suffocating. The door shut. The lock slid home.
Lena didnât move until the echo of their boots faded down the corridor. When she finally exhaled, it was quiet and shuddering.
Dick sat there, staring at the door, at the camera, at her.
At first, heâd thought the manâher âfatherââwas paranoid. Obsessed with control. The kind of tyrant who wanted eyes everywhere.
But now, looking at the way she trembled even after the guards were gone, the way she rubbed her wrists where their gloved hands had touchedâhe understood.
They werenât protecting her from anyone.
They were making sure she didnât hurt herself.
The door clicked shut, leaving only the faint hum of the camera and the smell of disinfectant.
Dick leaned back against the thin mattress, chains rattling softly with the movement. He stared at the room, really looked this time.
No furniture except the bed and the chair. Rounded edges everywhere, corners softened, surfaces bland and uniform. The walls were off-white, sterile, humming faintly with the life of hidden ventilation and the persistent red light of the camera.
The blanket covering him was paper-thin. Not warm. Not comforting. Just enough to claim he had something over his body.
The tray. The spoon. Even the basin for washingâplastic. Safe. Harmless. Every detail had been thought out. Every risk removed.
His head throbbed, and yet his mind ticked through it like clockwork. The room wasnât just a cage for him. It was a cage for her.
Not her fatherâs daughterâthe girl in front of him. The trembling figure who flinched at his touch, who obeyed before being told, who had endured the guardsâ methodical inspections without protest.
The pieces clicked.
He had been presented as a gift, yes. But not as punishment. Not exactly. Not only.
He was a tool. A distraction. A focus. A tether to the world outside her own fear.
For her sanity. For her survival.
That realization settled over him like a weight heavier than any chain. He had assumed the manâs cruelty revolved around him, that every decision was about breaking Nightwing.
But this⌠this was about keeping someone else alive. Keeping someone else from shattering completely.
The thought made his chest tighten. He could feel the anger simmering beneath the haze of pain, but it wasnât aimed at her father this time. It was at the circumstances, at the way sheâd been forced into survival by the removal of every sharp edge, every opportunity to hurt herself, every moment of agency stolen until she existed only as a ghost of obedience.
And there she sat, pale and small, hands folded, eyes fixed on the corner where the camera blinked, waiting for permission to breathe.
Dick had been given to herânot to punish himâbut to keep her tethered.
To keep her sane.
And for the first time since the collar had been locked around his neck, he felt something stir. Something raw and fragile.
He needed to protect her.
Not just to escape. Not just to fight back. But because she was alive. Because she mattered.
The room hummed with its usual sterile rhythm â camera blinking, vent ticking, faint echoes of the hallway beyond the door. Lena sat in the chair, eyes lowered, hands folded neatly in her lap. She hadnât moved since heâd finished eating.
Dick shifted on the thin mattress, chains clinking softly. He flexed his fingers, wincing at the rawness along his knuckles, and studied her.
Not the girl the man said she was. Not a daughter. Something smaller. Something afraid. Something⌠careful.
âDo you always⌠sit like that?â he asked quietly, testing the sound of his own voice.
Her hands twitched, almost imperceptibly. âLike what?â
He leaned back, head against the wall, watching. âLike⌠waiting for someone to tell you what to do.â
A pause. She didnât answer. Her eyes flicked to the ceiling corner, then back down. He noticed the tension in her shoulders, the way she barely breathed.
âDo they check often?â he asked, his voice rough.
She flinched, but didnât look up. âSometimes. Always.â
He frowned. âWhy⌠why are you here?â
She hesitated. Carefully, softly, almost whispering: âBecause they said I have to be.â
Her answer wasnât a confession. Not exactly. But it told him enough. Enough to make his chest tighten, enough to understand that the rules werenât for him. Not entirely. They were for her.
He shifted again, moving slightly toward the edge of the bed. A careful motion, deliberate but slow â testing.
Her hands twitched again, and he caught the flash of fear in her eyes. Not fear of him â not really â but the room, the rules, the consequences sheâd learned to obey before thinking.
He leaned forward just a little more, letting his fingers brush against the edge of the blanket. Her eyes widened, then darted toward the camera, then back. He smiled faintly. A gesture, not meant to mock. A tiny acknowledgment.
âYou donât have to sit like that,â he murmured.
She shook her head, small, almost imperceptible. âI⌠I have to.â
He studied her. The chair, bolted to the floor. Her hands, folded as if they could hold her in place. The bland walls. Rounded edges. The thin blanket that couldnât possibly keep anyone warm.
He understood it now. Every precaution was hers. Every restriction, her life tethered to the room. Every rule, a lifeline.
âOkay,â he said finally, and leaned back. âThen Iâll sit. Quiet. Iâll stay here.â
She blinked, a flicker of relief crossing her features. Not a smile â she didnât allow herself that â but something like it. A soft exhale, almost invisible.
And for the first time since waking, Dick felt something in the room shift. Not trust yet. Not safety. But a quiet connection.
The room carried the same hum it had all morning. The red camera light blinked steadily above them. Lena sat in the chair, hands folded, shoulders stiff. Dick lay on the bed, chains at his wrists and collar, watching.
He noticed the small things: the way she adjusted the blanket over him just slightly, tilting it so it wouldnât touch the chains; the way she kept her movements measured, every inch calculated.
He cleared his throat softly. âDo you⌠want me to move the tray closer?â
She froze, a microsecond too long. Then her hands twitched, almost imperceptibly, and she gave a small nod. Not a word, not a sound.
He shifted, careful, sliding it closer along the bed. The plastic scraped faintly against the thin sheet. Her eyes flicked to the camera, then to his face, and she exhaled softly. A flicker of relief.
He ate slowly, deliberately, making sure not to jostle anything. When he finished, he left the tray in the middle of the bed instead of pushing it back toward her. He wanted her to notice the choice â that he wasnât going to break her routine, but he could move.
She stiffened slightly, then carefully reached for it, taking it back to the side table without a word. Her movements were careful, precise, but not automatic this time. He noticed the slight shift â like a small piece of decision returned to her hands.
âThanks,â he whispered, almost under his breath. Not for the tray. For letting her be human.
Her head tilted very slightly, a tiny acknowledgment. That was all. That was enough.
Later, when the guards passed the corridor outside, he watched her react. She flinched, yes, but she didnât break. She held herself in place, waited. And he held himself still too, careful not to draw attention.
After the sound of boots faded, she lowered her hands slowly, eyes lingering on him a moment longer than necessary. Not because she trusted him yet, but because she realized he could observe without punishing. That small awareness was the first crack in her armor.
Dick realized that was all trust needed at first â a space to exist, even in a cage.
He moved again, this time letting his fingers brush the edge of her chair when he leaned to rest. She flinched, but didnât pull away. Her breath came a fraction slower than before.
He didnât know if sheâd done that before. If anyone had touched her without instruction. He didnât know if sheâd ever felt safe enough to do it without fear.
But he did know one thing: she was alive. And she had reacted, not frozen.
It was small. It was fragile. But it was a start.
For the first time since being brought to this room, Dick allowed himself a thought: maybe they didnât just have to survive separately. Maybe they could survive together.
The hum of the room had settled into a pattern, predictable now. Even the camera blinked like a metronome, a constant pulse.
Dick noticed it allâthe way Lena moved when the door rattled outside, how her hands hovered over the tray before she slid it toward him, how she never let her sleeves brush her wrists too tightly.
He started following the rhythm, moving only when she did, waiting, letting her dictate the space between them.
During meals, he ate slowly, not because he was hungry, but to let her set the pace. If she stirred the tray closer, he let it happen without comment. If she hesitated, he didnât rush. Sometimes, he would passively shift the spoon toward her hand, a small acknowledgment, and she would glance at him just long enough to register that he hadnât broken any rule.
At night, when the lights dimmed and the camerasâ red glow softened, he tried small experiments. A toe nudged the edge of her chair. A hand brushed lightly against the edge of the blanket near her. She flinched at firstâjust the tiniest jumpâbut didnât recoil completely. Her breath lengthened slightly. That small exhale, almost imperceptible, was a surrender of trust.
He noticed patterns in her movement. How she always adjusted the blanket first before touching anything else. How she never turned her back completely. How every glance at him was quick, calculating, but never accusatory. He understood whyâher world had been built to make mistakes lethal. To be too bold or careless meant punishment. Or worse.
He didnât push. Not yet.
Instead, he mirrored her. Not in obedience, but in presence. In stillness. In quiet acknowledgment. And gradually, the room began to feel less like a cage and more like a shared rhythmâtwo people learning the tempo of survival together.
By the end of the day, it wasnât spoken, but it was understood:
He wouldnât hurt her.
She wouldnât break him.
It was a fragile accord. A truce of presence.
And for Dick, it was the first step toward understanding that the giftâhim being thereâwasnât about punishment at all. It was about tethering her to life, giving her a reason to move, to breathe, to exist beyond fear.
Small acts. Tiny gestures. No words. No confessions.
The hum of the camera was louder today, or maybe his senses were sharper. Either way, he noticed everything.
The door clicked open before he could look up. He barely moved, chains rattling softly, as the man entered. Lena stiffened immediately, spine straight, hands folded perfectly in her lap.
âGood morning, daughter,â the man said smoothly, voice warm but precise. âHave you been taking care of him?â
Lena nodded, tiny, careful, the corners of her mouth tight. Her eyes flicked toward him for half a second, a brief acknowledgment. Then back to the man, posture perfect, voice clipped: âYes, father. Iâve been making sure he eats.â
Dick watched her hands. The slightest tremor ran through her fingers when she passed him the tray. The effort to maintain that performance was written across her every movementâan invisible tension that made her shoulders rigid, her breathing shallow.
He noticed the way she dipped her head just slightly when the manâs gaze passed over her, like she was trying to make herself smaller, invisible. And yet, the moment she looked at him again, there was something faintâa flicker, almost imperceptibleâthat spoke of resistance. Not defiance. Not rebellion. Just⌠strain.
The man circled the room like a predator inspecting prey, eyes glancing over Dick but never lingering. Most of his words were directed at her, father to daughter, training her in the dance she had performed countless times before. Dick said nothing. He didnât move. Didnât speak.
She smiled once, quick and mechanical, and nodded. âIâll keep him comfortable. I promise.â
Her lips twitched slightly as if the words themselves were hard to form. And then the man laughed softly, approvingly, and the tension in the room snapped taut again.
Dick noticed the small, almost imperceptible inconsistenciesâher blink pattern, the fraction of a second she hesitated before speaking, the tight grip on her own wrists to keep from fidgeting. She was performing, and it wasnât easy.
Finally, the man turned toward him, long enough for Dick to catch the cold edge beneath the warmth of his tone.
âRemember, he is a gift,â the man said, voice low, deliberate. âNot a hero. Not a savior. Just a gift.â
The words hung in the room. Harsh, absolute, meant to remind him of his place. Dickâs jaw tightened. He nodded slightly, swallowing the anger rising in his throat.
Lena exhaled softlyâbarely audibleâbut it was there. Relief, perhaps, that the performance was over, or just that she had survived the inspection.
Dickâs eyes flicked back to her. She was still smiling, head tilted just so, but he caught it: a shadow behind the mask, a subtle pull at the edges of her carefully crafted composure.
All he knew was that she was strained. And that she had been holding herself together in the way he hadnât expected anyone could.
And for a moment, the room felt even colder.
The man left without another word.
The door clicked shut.
Dick exhaled, letting his gaze linger on her.
She wasnât who she seemed.
But the thought was fleeting, a whisper in the fog of his pain. For now, he could only watch, and wait, and try to understand the rules of this strange, fragile partnership.
Lena slumped slightly in her chair, just a fraction, as if the weight of the performance had been holding her upright for hours. Her hands rested loosely in her lap. The faintest tremor ran through her fingers.
Dick stayed on the bed, watching. He didnât speak at first. He wanted to see if she would break the act at all once the man was gone.
âAre you okay?â he asked finally, voice low.
Her eyes snapped to his. Just a flicker. A microsecond. Then she looked away, chin dipping, hands folding tighter. âYes,â she whispered.
He noticed the hesitation. The way her shoulders tightened again. She wanted to be truthful, wanted to release the tension, but something in her told her not to.
He leaned slightly toward her, careful, letting his movement be slow and deliberate. âYou donât have to be perfect,â he said softly.
She blinked, almost imperceptibly startled, like he had said something forbidden. Her lips parted slightly as if she wanted to respond, then she swallowed. She didnât answer.
Dick nodded, letting the silence stretch. He wasnât pushing, just testing. Seeing how much room she allowed herself in this small, sterile space.
Finally, she shifted. A tiny, cautious exhale. Her hands unclasped, then clasped again. She didnât speak, but her posture softened just a fraction. It was a small victory â almost invisible, but it mattered.
He picked up the thin blanket and adjusted it over the bed, brushing the edge just near her chair. Her eyes flicked toward him, wary, then returned to the floor.
âYou donât have to hide from me,â he said quietly.
Her lips twitched, the faintest twitch, like a whisper of acknowledgment. She didnât say anything, didnât move closer, didnât let go of the edge of her own control. But the tension in her frame eased slightly.
Dick lay back, letting his chains clink softly. He watched her. And for the first time, he realized that even here, in this carefully controlled room, in this fragile, fearful body, she was alive.
Not fully free. Not yet. But alive.
And that was enough to begin.
The knock came as predictably as the hum of the camera. Three short raps. Not polite. Not tentative. Just a command.
Lena straightened immediately, spine rigid, hands folding in her lap. She didnât even glance at him â all attention went to the door.
Dick stayed seated on the bed, chains rattling softly as he watched. He no longer wondered why these inspections happened. He understood now.
Not for him. Not for Nightwing.
The guardsâ footsteps filled the room. Two men, precise, methodical. Their eyes barely glanced at him. One ran a gloved hand along the seams of the mattress. Another opened a drawer, checking its contents. Then, the subtle movements heâd come to notice â her sleeves adjusted, hands hovering over her lap, shoulders stiffening, a tiny tremor in her fingers.
They were checking her.
Dick felt the twist in his chest. Not because he was being ignored â because it made perfect sense. She was fragile. She had to survive. Every rule, every inspection, every careful movement: all about her. Not him.
The taller guard crouched slightly, voice calm but firm:
âArms.â
Lena raised them slowly, sleeves rolling up past her elbows. She didnât flinch, didnât complain. Every muscle was taut, every motion deliberate.
Dick noted the subtle cues: the faint exhale when the inspection was over, the tiny shift in her stance when the guard moved to the next part of the room. Relief mixed with exhaustion.
He, on the other hand, remained still. He could move. Could resist. Could fight if necessary. But no one cared. He was not the priority. He never had been.
And for the first time, he truly saw the scale of the manâs obsession. The drills, the rules, the sterile room, the no-sharp-edges, the careful placement of every itemâall of it existed to keep her alive. To tether her to the moment. To keep her from breaking completely.
The inspection ended. The guards left as efficiently as they had come, closing the door behind them. Lena exhaled, her hands unclasping briefly before folding again. She let herself slump just a fraction in the chair.
Dick watched her, quiet, observing the relief in her posture. He understood now: everything in this room, every measure of control, every rule, was about her survival. Not his.
And in that quiet, he made a choice. He wouldnât be a threat. Not to her. Not while she existed in this cage built to keep her sane.
Because she mattered more than anything else in this room.
The room hummed its usual rhythm â until it didnât.
One moment, the red camera light blinked steadily; the next, it went out. The ventâs faint tick vanished with the hum of the overhead lights. The room was swallowed in darkness.
Dick froze first. Chains rattled softly as he shifted, eyes straining in the black. Then Lenaâs quiet gasp cut through the silence. Not fear of him â fear of the unknown.
For a heartbeat, the world was theirs alone.
The darkness stretched, deep and complete. The emergency generators kicked in after only a few seconds, but it wasnât enough to fully illuminate the room. The dim, flickering light gave them both a margin of privacy, shadows masking the corners and the camera lens.
Dick leaned forward slightly. âYou okay?â His voice was low, careful, not commanding.
She swallowed audibly, hands twisting together in her lap. âI⌠I think so,â she whispered. âItâs justââ She paused, exhaling slowly. ââŚdifferent.â
He understood. He had spent months operating in shadows, but even he had never felt the sheer weight of a room designed to watch every movement, to control every breath.
âIâm⌠glad it happened,â he said slowly, testing the words. âEven for a little while. Gives us a chance to talk.â
Her head tilted slightly, eyes reflecting the faint light. Not toward him, not fully â just enough to acknowledge him. âWe⌠we shouldnât. Not really,â she murmured, voice trembling, careful. âIf they noticeââ
Dick shook his head softly. âThey wonât. Not while this lasts.â
There was silence. Then she exhaled, smaller this time, the ghost of a sigh.
He watched her hands, the way her fingers interlaced and unclasped. Every movement was cautious, but the tension had eased slightly. He realized she had been holding herself in place all day, even in tiny moments, for the surveillance, the inspections, the rules.
âDo you⌠want to know something about me?â he asked.
Her eyes flicked up just a fraction. âMaybe,â she whispered.
He smiled faintly in the shadows. âI donât know what your lifeâs like in here. But youâre stronger than you think. And youâve been handling this⌠all of this⌠better than anyone should have to.â
Her breath caught. She lowered her gaze quickly, pretending to adjust the blanket over the bed. But the quick rise and fall of her chest betrayed her. Relief. Maybe gratitude. Maybe both.
âThe generators will kick in fully soon,â he added softly. âWhen they do⌠we go back to acting like nothing happened. But for nowâŚâ
For now, they existed outside the rules. Outside the watchful eyes. Outside the suffocating control.
For the first time, the room felt like it could belong to both of them.
And for the first time, he realized that talking, really talking â even in whispers â might be the first step to survival together.
The door opened before dawn, the muted click cutting through the usual hum of the room.
Lena stiffened instantly, hands folded, eyes lowering. The man entered, calm and precise.
âTime for your appointment,â he said, voice smooth, practiced. âLetâs move.â
She rose, posture perfect, eyes cast down. Dick stayed seated on the bed, watching.
She followed him to the door, steps measured, fingers brushing the edge of the chair only once, carefully, as if testing for movement.
Then, just as her hand rested on the doorknob, she paused. A brief glance at him. Her voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the space:
âCan he⌠come with me?â
Dick froze. Her words were barely more than a whisper, but they carried weight.
Her fatherâs hand stilled on the doorknob. He blinked, just once, a flicker of surprise crossing his carefully composed face.
âWhat did you say?â he asked, tone cautious.
âCan⌠he come?â she repeated, voice firmer, just enough. âWith me. To⌠the appointment.â
The manâs eyes flicked to Dick, then back to her. Hesitation. Not anger. Not immediately. Just pause. A calculation.
Dick felt the chains at his wrists dig slightly into his skin as he shifted. He didnât speak. He didnât move. He didnât need to.
Finally, the man inclined his head once. âVery well,â he said. âIt is⌠acceptable. But remember your place.â
She exhaled softly, almost imperceptibly. Relief, mingled with tension, passed over her features. Her lips twitched briefly in a near-smile before she masked it again.
Dickâs eyes met hers. No words were exchanged, but the meaning was clear: this was rare. Requests were scarce. And this one, fleeting as it might be, was hers.
As the three of them prepared to leave, Dick noted the subtle changes:
Her steps were slightly more deliberate, less mechanical.
Her shoulders relaxed just a fraction.
Her gaze flicked toward him one more time, not hidden, not fleeting.
Even in the presence of the man, even under the suffocating structure of her life, she had exercised choice.
And for Dick, that small choice â bringing him along â was the first real sign that she trusted him enough to share the world outside her cage.
He shifted his weight, ready to follow, chains clinking softly. And for the first time since arriving in this room, he felt that their fragile partnership might have a purpose beyond survival.
The clinic smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm paper. The lights were brighter than the dull glow of the cell, and the faint hum of machinery replaced the constant red blink of the camera.
Lena sat in the chair, posture carefully controlled, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her father stood close, eyes scanning the room, while Dick remained just behind her, restrained but alert.
The doctor entered, a clipboard in hand, and gave a small nod. âHello, Lena. How have you been since your last visit?â
She blinked, voice quiet but steady. âIâve been⌠well.â
The doctor smiled, gentle. âI can see that. Your vitals are good. Heart rate steady, weight improved slightly, skin looks healthier. Youâre stronger than last time.â
Lena shifted slightly, the faintest relaxation in her shoulders. Not much â enough to notice if one was watching carefully.
Her fatherâs eyes narrowed slightly, studying her, then flicked toward Dick. âIs that⌠because of him?â
Dickâs jaw tightened imperceptibly, but he said nothing. The implication was clear.
âPerhaps,â the doctor said carefully. âThereâs evidence that social support, even minimal, can improve both physical and psychological health. Regular interaction, someone to monitor routines⌠someone they trust.â
Her fatherâs gaze lingered on Dick. The way he had moved quietly beside her, the gentle attention, the restraint â it hadnât gone unnoticed.
âI see,â he said slowly. âPerhaps⌠more freedoms could be allowed. If heâs beneficial⌠then he may stay close. Not for indulgence, but for her health.â
Lenaâs eyes flicked to Dick. Just for a moment. A subtle acknowledgment. No words. No overt expression. But it was there.
The doctor continued with the checkup: listening to her lungs, taking her pulse, asking routine questions. Lena answered efficiently, carefully, maintaining the same rigid control she always did. But Dick noticed the small details â the slight lift of her chin, the subtle relaxation of her fingers when the doctor wasnât looking, the faint exhale at the end of each measurement.
The visit ended quickly. The fatherâs hands rested lightly on her shoulders as they prepared to leave. He didnât speak, but his glance toward Dick was measured â calculating. Approval and caution, both present.
As they walked back down the sterile hallway, Dick noticed Lenaâs steps were a little lighter, her movements slightly less constrained. Not much, but enough.
And for the first time, he felt that his presence wasnât just a tether for her survival. Perhaps, in some small, fragile way, he was helping her breathe.
The door clicked shut behind them, leaving only the faint hum of the ventilation. The room looked the same at first glance, but Dick noticed the subtle differences immediately.
Two extra blankets lay folded neatly at the foot of the bed. The overhead light was no longer the harsh glare he had grown used to. Instead, it dimmed automatically as night approached, bathing the room in soft shadows rather than sterile white.
Lenaâs hands hovered over the blankets for a moment before she carefully unfolded one and draped it over her lap. She glanced toward him, just briefly, almost shyly, as if seeking permission in the smallest way.
Dick shifted on the bed, chains clinking softly, and gave her the faintest nod. She exhaled, a sound almost lost in the soft buzz of the room.
The dimmed lights revealed more than shadows â they revealed space. Space to move, to breathe, to exist beyond the strict routine. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, the room felt less like a cage and more like a small refuge.
Lena tucked one blanket around herself, then glanced at him again. She didnât speak. She didnât have to. He understood: these small freedoms mattered. The ability to feel the night settle around her, to adjust her own blanket, to see shapes instead of sterile surfaces â it was rare. It was dangerous, in its own way, but it was hers to hold.
Dick shifted slightly, careful not to startle her. âYou look⌠comfortable,â he said quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Her eyes flicked up at him, then quickly down again. A tiny nod. That was all she offered, but it was enough.
He draped the extra blanket over his own shoulders, careful with his chains, and let himself relax slightly into the dimmed light. For the first time, the quiet didnât feel oppressive. It felt⌠shared.
And for the first time, he realized that small changes â extra blankets, softer light, a rare unsupervised moment â could mean as much as anything he had ever fought for.
Lena exhaled again, softer this time, and shifted slightly in her chair. Not much, but enough for him to notice. Enough to know that she was still holding herself together, but perhaps, just for a moment, allowing herself to be human.
The room went completely dark. The dim glow of the lights had faded, and the familiar red blink of the cameras had vanished. For the first time in weeks, the oppressive hum of constant surveillance was gone.
Dickâs eyes adjusted slowly, catching shapes and shadows. He could just make out Lenaâs silhouette in the chair, small and tense.
The quiet stretched between them, filled only by the soft buzz of the emergency lights and the distant sound of the facility settling for the night.
She shifted slightly, the faintest sound. A hesitation, then a whisper, careful, almost swallowed by the darkness:
âIâm not⌠Lena,â she murmured.
Dick froze, heart thudding softly. He remained still, listening, not wanting to startle her.
âIâm⌠not his daughter,â she continued, voice trembling slightly, but only just enough to be heard. She then whispered her name, like a painful confession.
The words hovered in the dark between them. He couldnât see her face clearly, but he felt the weight behind them â relief, fear, and the careful trust it took for her to speak at all.
He shifted slightly closer, keeping his voice soft. âThank you⌠for telling me,â he said.
She exhaled, a long, quiet sound, and leaned just slightly back, as if letting go of some invisible burden. The chains on his wrists clinked faintly as he moved, careful not to make sudden motions.
For the first time, he realized that all the careful routines, the inspections, the rules â none of it had been about him. It had been about her survival, her control, her ability to exist in a world that wanted to erase her.
And now, in the darkness, she had given him a piece of herself.
A name. A life. Something beyond the cage.
Dick swallowed, voice barely audible. âI wonât forget it,â he whispered.
Her reply was a faint nod, almost imperceptible.
Dick shifted slightly on the bed, careful of his chains, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. âItâs⌠good to finally know your name,â he said quietly, voice low, not wanting to startle her.
There was a pause. A small exhale. He could almost feel her turning to him in the shadows, though she remained seated, still, controlled.
âI⌠I wasnât always like this,â he began, words chosen carefully. âBeing⌠this⌠chained, watched, powerlessâitâs not something I expected. Not in my life.â
She didnât respond, but her slight tilt toward him told him she was listening.
âIâve done things before⌠things I thought were right, things I thought I could fix,â he continued. âAnd sometimes⌠they fail. Sometimes you lose people you care about, and you canât make it right. Not ever.â
Her hands twitched faintly in her lap, a barely perceptible shift. He paused. âIâm not telling you this for sympathy. Not for pity. I⌠just want you to know I understand what itâs like to feel trapped. And scared. And⌠like youâre on your own, even when someone else is near.â
He heard her exhale softly, the tiniest sound, and in the faint darkness, he imagined her shoulders relaxing just slightly.
âYouâre⌠doing more than surviving,â he said quietly, voice soft but certain. âYouâre⌠keeping yourself together. And thatâs harder than anything Iâve faced. Harder than me, in a lot of ways.â
Another pause. Then, a whisper, almost lost to the darkness:
âI⌠I didnât think anyone⌠would notice.â
Dickâs chest tightened. âI notice,â he said simply. âI see it. I see you. Not just the part they want you to be. Not just the performance. I see⌠you.â
There was silence after that, but it was different now. Shared. Not heavy. Not oppressive.
Finally, he shifted just slightly closer, careful not to touch her, letting his presence speak for him. âYou donât have to talk if you donât want. Just⌠know that Iâm here. And Iâll listen. When youâre ready.â
A soft, almost imperceptible nod. That was all. But it was enough.
For the first time, Dick felt that this quiet, fragile space â dark, unmonitored, away from rules and cameras â could be theirs. A place where connection, trust, and maybe even hope could exist.
And for the first time since arriving in this room, he believed they could survive together.
Night after night, the darkness became their quiet sanctuary. The cameras were off. The harsh hum of the lights dimmed. And slowly, Lena began to breathe differently, as if the shadows themselves offered her permission to exist beyond the performance.
Dick would talk. Stories from his life before the cage, fragments of a world she had never known, tales of mistakes and victories, small jokes and observations that made him smile even in the dimmest light.
At first, she listened. Silent. Careful. Eyes wide in the darkness, taking in each word, her hands folded, every movement measured.
Then, one night, a soft sound broke the silence â almost a whisper, almost unintentional. A laugh.
Dick froze, then smiled gently. âThat came from you,â he said softly.
Her cheeks warmed, even though he couldnât see it in the dark. âI⌠I didnât mean to,â she murmured, voice trembling with uncertainty.
âGood,â he said quietly. âI like it.â
She hesitated, then allowed herself to laugh again, just a little louder this time. Softer than anything he had ever heard â not forced, not a performance â but natural, warm, fragile.
They fell into a rhythm. Nightly conversations, stories exchanged in whispers, jokes told softly, bits of truth and fiction woven together. And with each shared story, each soft laugh, the tension around her eased.
Dick noticed the small changes
The way her hands relaxed in her lap
The slight tilt of her head when she listened intently
The way her laughter sometimes escaped, tiny and shy, before she caught herself
He learned things about her â the small quirks, the preferences, the things that made her smile despite the fear. And she learned things about him â that even someone trained to survive, to fight, to endure could be gentle, could laugh, could see her beyond the room.
One night, a joke about a clumsy mission caused her to chuckle openly. Soft, airy, like the sound of wind through chimes. Dickâs chest tightened at the sound.
âYou sound⌠happy,â he said softly.
âI⌠am,â she whispered, almost shyly. âJust⌠quiet.â
He nodded. âI like that you can be.â
And in that darkness, filled with whispers and soft laughter, the cage around her â the one built by fear, rules, and endless observation â began to feel just a little smaller.
For the first time, she felt that the girl behind the performance, the one with a real name, could exist â even if only in the shadows, even if only for a little while.
And Dick knew he would guard that fragile warmth with everything he had.
The room during the day was always brighter, harsher. Even with the emergency lights dimmed at night, the sun streaming faintly through the blinds made the space feel smaller, sharper, more confined.
Dick noticed her immediately. The subtle differences.
The way she moved when the guards had left her alone for a moment â less stiff, less like a marionette forced into perfect posture. Her shoulders had lost some of the tension that had clung there like armor.
Her hands, usually tightly clasped or folded, rested loosely in her lap when she thought no one was looking. Not completely free, not yet, but enough for him to notice.
When he shifted to the edge of the bed, she didnât flinch as sharply. Her eyes flicked toward him and lingered, just for a heartbeat, before she focused on her own hands.
He caught her glancing at him again while adjusting the blanket over her lap, softer this time. Not the mechanical precision of the first days, but careful, intentional. As if she was allowing him to exist alongside her, not simply in the room.
Her laughter from last night had faded into the daylight, replaced by a quiet serenity, a calm that hadnât been there before. The rigid, performative movements were still present in moments of observation, but the lines around her eyes and mouth softened when she thought no one was monitoring her.
Dick reflected on the changes. It wasnât dramatic â it never would be. But trust, like light through a crack, worked in subtle ways. And he could see it taking hold.
When he spoke softly from the bed, offering a suggestion or small guidance, she responded without hesitation. Not the clipped, fearful compliance of the first inspections, but a measured, considered answer â her choice, not a forced reaction.
He realized, with a quiet ache in his chest, that this softening, this ease, was the truest sign of her trust. She was letting herself exist around him, letting herself breathe in the presence of someone who hadnât harmed her, who hadnât tried to control her.
The clinic smelled faintly of antiseptic, a smell that had once seemed sharp and intimidating but now felt almost familiar.
She sat in the chair, posture straight but calm, hands resting lightly in her lap. Her father stood close, attentive, while Dick stayed quietly behind her, observing.
The doctorâs eyes widened slightly as he checked the charts and then examined her. âLena, your vitals are excellent. Heart rate stable, blood pressure strong. Youâve gained weight appropriately, skin tone is healthy, and your reflexes are much sharper than last time. Youâre improving faster than expected.â
Her âfatherâs brow lifted, approval clear in his expression. âExcellent,â he said, voice smooth but pleased. âAt this rate⌠perhaps you might even begin joining me for dinners again. Your health will allow it soon.â
Her lips twitched into the faintest smile, almost hidden, a subtle acknowledgment. She didnât speak, but Dick noticed the small ways she shifted: her hands rested less tensely in her lap, her shoulders relaxed, the tiny tremor in her fingers absent for the first time in weeks.
The doctor continued with the routine checks, asking small questions about her sleep, diet, and general wellbeing. She responded efficiently, but there was a softness in her voice now â careful, controlled, but noticeably warmer than before.
Dick watched her. He noticed the subtle traces of ease, the quiet confidence in how she moved and spoke. She wasnât just surviving anymore â she was thriving.
Her father glanced toward him, gaze sharp but measured. âIt seems your presence⌠has had a positive effect,â he said quietly. âPerhaps it is beneficial to allow more freedoms. Carefully, of course, but⌠it seems the girl has responded well.â
Her eyes flicked toward Dick briefly, just a hint of recognition passing between them. No words. No gesture larger than a shadow of a nod, but it was enough.
Dick shifted slightly, careful of his chains, allowing himself a small, private sense of satisfaction. For the first time since arriving in this place, it felt like progress wasnât just about survival.
It was about her.
And she was proving that she could survive â and maybe even live â beyond the cage.
The courtyard was small but open, sunlight spilling over stone benches and a patch of carefully tended grass. It smelled faintly of herbs and dust, a world away from the sterile hum of the facility indoors.
She sat at one of the benches, the sun warming her shoulders, blanket folded neatly beside her. Dick remained close, chains clinking softly, but free enough to move comfortably.
For the first time in weeks, she didnât sit rigidly. Her posture was relaxed, shoulders down, hands resting loosely in her lap. She lifted her face to the sun, eyes closing for a moment as if savoring its warmth.
âI didnât realize sunlight could feel⌠like this,â she murmured, voice soft, almost reverent.
Dick smiled, careful not to draw attention from passing staff. âItâs easy to forget what it feels like when youâve been in a room too long,â he said. âMakes a difference, doesnât it?â
She nodded, glancing at him, the tiniest flicker of amusement in her eyes. âYes. Itâs⌠nice. I like it.â
They ate quietly, sharing simple food from trays â sandwiches, fruit, water. There was no need for performance here, not fully. No inspections looming overhead. Just the subtle awareness of the guards stationed at a distance, leaving them mostly alone.
Dick tried to speak lightly, telling a story about a clumsy escape from one of his missions, making her laugh softly. It was the same soft laughter he had heard at night, but now, in the sun, it felt freer, easier.
She smiled at him then, a real smile, not the measured twitch of a performance. âYou make it sound⌠like adventure,â she whispered. âLike it could be⌠fun.â
âIt can be,â he said quietly. âBut only if youâre careful. And only if you trust yourself â and the people around you.â
Her gaze met his for a brief moment. No words, but meaning clear: she trusted him, enough to share the light, the warmth, and this small freedom.
They finished lunch slowly, talking softly in whispers, sharing stories, small jokes, thoughts about nothing and everything. The courtyard became their world for that moment: a place without chains, without rules, without constant monitoring â a place where two people, one broken, one cautious, could exist almost normally.
And for Dick, it was a revelation. She was no longer just surviving. She was beginning to live.
The door opened, and the familiar sterile air of the usual room was gone.
Instead, they stepped into a space that was quieter, warmer, almost lived-in. Sunlight spilled across soft rugs on the floor, and the furniture had edges that were rounded but inviting, not cold and precise. A low bookshelf lined one wall, filled with well-worn books and small personal items â objects meant to be touched, interacted with.
Two chairs sat across from a small table near the window. Extra blankets lay folded on a couch against the far wall, and the overhead light could now be dimmed fully, casting the room in a golden glow or near-darkness, depending on preference.
Lena paused, just inside the doorway, and glanced around. Her eyes lingered on the sunlight across the rugs, then on the books, then on Dick. There was a quiet awe there, and a hesitation â the careful calculation of someone unused to a space that could belong to them.
Dick stepped inside, chains clinking softly, and took in the room. He noticed immediately that this was not a punishment room. Not a sterile cell. The space was designed for them.
For the first time, he felt a sense of relief, almost disbelief. A room they could exist in together, with choices, with comfort, with control.
Lena finally moved, crossing slowly to the couch and touching one of the blankets with care. She flinched slightly at her own boldness, but not from fear of him â from years of habit, from the instinct of survival.
Dick remained quiet, letting her explore first, observing the way her shoulders relaxed as she traced the edges of the furniture, let her fingers brush over the books.
âLooks⌠different,â she murmured softly, almost to herself.
âIt is,â he said, voice low, careful. âItâs⌠for us now. For both of us.â
She nodded, finally settling onto the couch with the blanket draped around her. Her hands rested loosely in her lap. For the first time, Dick noticed she didnât instinctively fold them, didnât tense against the space. She belonged here â or at least, she was allowed to try.
He sat across from her, chains clinking softly but largely forgotten in the quiet comfort of the room. âItâs nice,â he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. âA place we can⌠exist. Without the rules pressing down all the time.â
Her eyes met his briefly, then turned to the sunlight streaming in. She didnât speak immediately, but the faintest exhale of relief escaped her lips. That one sound told him everything he needed to know: she was beginning to trust that the world could feel safe.
And in that moment, surrounded by sunlight, soft blankets, and books they could touch, Dick realized the path ahead might finally have room for more than survival.
Nightwingâs voice cut through the haze. âSo, youâre Phoenix?â
You didnât answer immediately, still staring past him at the ruin in the distance. The name sounded too clean, too heroic, for something that had left so much blackened and broken.
His masked eyes narrowed just slightly in curiosity, but it was Starfire who leaned forward, her hair a slow-moving flare in the night. âDo you not speak?â
That startled a snort out of you.Â
âI speak,â you rasped, smoke still rasping the edges of your voice. âJust wondering what I did to catch your attention.â
Starfire beamed, apparently unbothered by the barbed undertone. âYou are like the Earth fighter-fire, but with powers.â
âFirefighter,â Nightwing corrected with a faint smile, as though this was a conversation theyâd had more than once.
Starfireâs eyes softened, the glow in them catching the faint shimmer of heat still radiating off you. âYou saved many lives tonight.â
You shrugged, the motion tight and dismissive. âThatâs the job.â
Even if you didnât officially have one.
Nightwingâs gaze flicked over youâscorched jacket, soot-streaked skin, the faint flicker of residual flame in your palms that hadnât fully cooled yet. His body language was relaxed, but youâd seen that kind of stance beforeâit was the kind you used when you wanted someone to think you werenât watching them.
âYouâve been busy,â he said. âCouple of fires in BlĂźdhaven last week. One in Central City before that.â
You met his gaze evenly. âI go where Iâm needed.â
âOr where youâre running from something?â
The words hit sharper than you expected, and for a second, the fire in you tightened, a reflexive flare that shimmered against your skin before you forced it down. Starfireâs eyes widened slightly but she didnât move, just tilted her head like she was trying to see through you.
âIâm not your problem,â you said quietly.
âThatâs the thing,â Nightwing replied, stepping closer. âPeople who can do what you doâthey tend to become everyoneâs problem. Or everyoneâs solution.â
The tension mightâve lasted longer if Starfire hadnât suddenly smiled again, warm enough to almost take the edge off. âPerhaps, Nightwing, they are both. That makes them very interesting.â
Her gaze locked with yours for a beat too longâcuriosity, not judgmentâand you realized they werenât going to leave this alone.
You glanced past them at the street below. Emergency crews were flooding the scene nowâparamedics, firefighters, policeâall moving in with the grim efficiency that only came after a disaster. The civilians youâd dragged out of the fire were being herded toward ambulances, wrapped in blankets, oxygen masks pressed to soot-smudged faces.
Your work here was done.
You turned to go.
âWait,â Nightwing called after you.
You stopped but didnât turn, feeling the pull of his attention like a hook between your shoulder blades.
âYouâre good,â he said. âFast. Efficient. You didnât even look winded when you carried that last guy out.â
âI heal fast,â you said flatly.
âThatâs not what I mean.â His boots clicked against the rooftop as he came closer. âYouâve got control. For someone who burns that hot, thatâs⌠rare.â
Starfire landed beside you in a ripple of heat and wind. âWe are patrolling this sector tonight. If you wish to continue helping people, you may join us.â
You raised a brow. âYouâre inviting me to tag along?â
Nightwingâs smirk was quick and sly. âIâm inviting you to prove I donât have to worry about you burning down my city.â
That stung a little, but the competitive spark in you answered before your pride could talk you out of it. âFine. But if you slow me down, Iâm leaving.â
Starfireâs smile brightened, like youâd just passed some unspoken test. âThen it is decided.â She lifted off the rooftop in a swirl of her hairâs fiery light. âCome. There are more to save.â
Nightwing followed with an easy leap, glancing back over his shoulder. âLetâs see if Phoenix can keep up.â
You gritted your teethâand jumped.
The three of you moved like heat lightning over the rooftopsâKori in bright, arcing bursts of fire, Nightwing in swift, precise leaps, and you in a flicker-and-flare rhythm that came from years of moving through burning buildings.
The call came over their commsâarmed robbery in progress, two blocks east.Â
No fire this time.
âLetâs see what you can do when the building isnât falling down,â Nightwing said as you closed the distance.
âLetâs see if you can keep up when it is,â you shot back.
Koriâs low laugh rolled through the air as she banked downward, leading the way.
The storefrontâs glass was already shattered, alarms wailing. You spotted three masked men inside, shoving jewelry into bags, one keeping a shotgun leveled at the broken doorway.
âIâll take the big one,â you said.
Nightwing gave you a quick side glance. âDonât kill him.â
âNot my style.â
You surged forward in a wave of heat, the air shimmering as you drew the gunmanâs attention. He swung the barrel toward youâbad mistake. The temperature spiked, the metal glowing cherry-red before he could pull the trigger. He yelped and dropped it, just in time for your shoulder to slam into him and send him crashing to the ground.
Behind you, the other two robbers went down almost too quicklyâKori with her starbolts, Nightwing with his escrima sticks in a blur of movement. It was clean, efficient⌠and you got the feeling theyâd held back to watch you work.
âNot bad,â Nightwing said, stepping over a groaning thief to pick up his dropped loot bag. âYou didnât even set anything on fire.â
âDidnât need to,â you replied, heat already bleeding off your skin as your adrenaline cooled.
Kori landed beside you, her gaze lingering for just a second too long. âYou move like one who has done this many times. Without the uniform.â
Your lips twitched. âYou could say that.â
Before either of them could press further, police sirens swelled nearby. Nightwing tossed you a look over his shoulder. âCome on, Phoenix. Letâs see how long you last before you burn out.â
Content: traitor!reader, dangerous!reader, 6k words
Warnings: angst, betrayal
Authorâs Note: You know that moment when heartbreak leads to you deciding to burn the world down? Thatâs this fic :>
The warehouse was a smoking ruin, fire crews still battling the embers. The op shouldâve been surgicalâquiet takedown, clean arrests.Â
Instead, it had been an ambush.
Dick pulled off his mask, jaw tight, hair damp with sweat and soot.Â
He paced in the shadows, trying to breathe past the storm in his chest.Â
The whole time, he knew.Â
Heâd known something was wrong for weeks, but he hadnât wanted to believe it.
And then he saw you.
âFunny,â he said, voice hoarse but steady. âEvery time we get close, theyâre waiting for us. Like clockwork.â He took a slow step toward you, his eyes narrowing. âYou want to tell me why your clearance code shows up in their system logs?â
Your breath caught. âDickââ
âDonât.â His voice lashed out, sharper than a blade. âDonât lie. Not again.â
You lifted your hands, a half-plea. âI never lied about us.â
âThatâs supposed to make this better?â He barked a bitter laugh, running a hand down his face before looking at you again. His eyesâthose bright, impossible eyesâwere shattered. âTell me how Iâm supposed to separate the person IâŚâ His throat closed around the word. ââŚthe person I trusted from the mole whoâs been bleeding me dry.â
You flinched. âI thought I was doing the right thing. At the start, I believed in it. The people I worked forâthey said you couldnât be trusted, that you were hiding things. That you were dangerous.â
âAnd you believed them.â The words were flat, but the pain in them was unmistakable.
âI believed them until you,â you said, desperate now, stepping closer. âUntil I knew you. Every second I spent with you, every time you let me inâit tore me apart. Because I couldnât stop falling for you. And I thoughtâI thought maybe I could have both. Do my job. Keep you safe.â
âSafe?â His laugh was sharp, humorless. âDo you have any idea what youâve done? How many people couldâve died tonight because they knew we were coming?â
âI didnât know theyâdââ
âYou didnât care.â His voice broke on the word, and the silence after it cut deeper than any shout.
Your eyes burned. âI cared about you. That was never a lie. Everything I feltâevery word, every touchâit was real. I never meant to hurt you.â
âIntentions donât change the fact that you did.â His expression hardened, a mask slipping into place, but you could see the rawness underneath. âYou didnât just betray me. You betrayed us. You betrayed what we had before it even had a chance to be real.â
Your chest ached, a sob caught behind your ribs. âI didnât know how to stop. I wanted to tell you, butââ
âBut you didnât.â He cut you off, voice low, final. âYou chose them. You chose a mission over me. Over this.â
The silence was unbearable, broken only by the crackle of the dying fire.Â
You wanted to close the distance, to grab his hand, to prove somehow that what you had wasnât just ashes.Â
But his eyes told you the truth: if you touched him now, heâd break.
So you stood there, trembling, while he turned away.
âWhatever this wasâitâs done.â His words were quiet, heavy as stone.
And when he walked into the smoke, leaving you behind, you finally understood: the fastest fall always comes with the hardest landing.
You stood in the smoke long after he was gone.Â
The world seemed muffledâsirens, shouting, the hiss of the firehose all dulled, like you were hearing them from underwater.
You pressed a shaking hand to your mouth, but it did nothing to stop the sob clawing up your throat.
It wasnât supposed to be like this.
At the beginning, it had felt simple.Â
Clear lines, clear orders.Â
The mission mattered, justice mattered, and you told yourself Dick GraysonâNightwingâwas too dangerous to be left unchecked.Â
That was what theyâd told you, and youâd believed it.Â
You wanted to believe it.
Until you met him.
Until the smile that reached his eyes undid you, until the warmth in his laugh made you ache, until the nights tangled in his sheets made you feel likeâfor the first timeâyou were more than a weapon in someone elseâs war.
Youâd fallen so fast, too fast, like diving headlong into fire.
And now you were burning.
Your stomach turned as you replayed his words.Â
You didnât just betray me. You betrayed us.Â
He was right.Â
Youâd told yourself you could balance both sides, serve your mission and still keep him untouched.Â
Youâd lied to yourself long before youâd lied to him.
And now all you had left was the wreckage.
You slid down the cold brick of the alley wall, burying your face in your hands.Â
For the first time, you questioned everythingâyour orders, your cause, yourself.Â
Were you ever on the right side?Â
Or had you been blinded by loyalty to the wrong people, the wrong ideals?
Or worseâhad you been blinded by him?
Because even now, your chest still ached for him.Â
Even now, your body still longed for his touch, your soul still leaned toward his like a flower bending toward the sun.Â
Love hadnât disappeared with his anger.Â
It lingered, heavy and desperate, and that made it so much worse.
You had never lied about that.
But maybe love wasnât enough.
Love had never made you gentle.Â
It had made you reckless.Â
Now it made you dangerous.
You waited until the safehouse was empty â until the early-morning quiet when the handlers thought you were asleep, when the city softened and every footfall felt distant.Â
You moved like a shadow through the low light, boots silent on cracked linoleum, heart hammered loud enough to be a metronome for the rage inside you.Â
You had not come to beg.Â
Begging had been exhausted the moment Dick turned away.Â
Begging didnât fix a thousand small betrayals stacked into one catastrophic night.
Theyâd used you.Â
That fact had a weight and a shape.Â
It could be folded into a plan.
The kitchen smelled like burnt coffee and bleach. On the counter, a tablet glowed with the morning reports â innocuous lines of text that looked sterile until you remembered the bodies, the ambush, the faces Dick had made when he said, You chose them.Â
You pulled up the contact list and scrolled until you found the name you wanted: Marlowe.
Marloweâs voice on the line was calm, practiced. âReport,â he said.
You let the calm hang between you, keeping it clinical. âThe op tonight was compromised. Why was my clearance flagged in the logs?â
A pause.Â
Then, smooth: âLog entries can be forged. There are explanations.â
âExplanations donât come with sirens and hollow eyes, Marlowe.â Your voice was steady. You were searching for a breach in his composure and finding none. Heâd trained them well.
âYouâre emotional,â he said. âStep back. Weâll debrief when itâs safe.â
You closed your eyes.Â
You could have gone soft â pleaded for leniency, for context.Â
Instead, you reminded yourself of the way Dick had looked at you: the grief, the finality.Â
That expression was a map to everything you wanted to undo.
You leaned closer to the phone, letting the words youâd swallowed for months pour out like a blade. âYou told me Nightwing was a threat,â you said. âYou told me he was compromised. You told me to get close, report patterns, make him⌠manageable.â
There was a flicker in his voice now, a crack you hadnât expected to find. âWe told you he was a threat because he was getting ideas. Because he wasnât playing by the rules.â
âHe was doing the right thing.â The words came out rough. âHe was trying to protect people. You fed me lies and called them justice. You fed me lines about âgreater goodâ until I repeated them like prayer. And while I believed you, I loved him.â
Silence, and then, dangerously soft: âSentiment complicates things. You know the protocols.â
âI know enough.â You let the admission sit like a promise. âI know how your money moves. I know who signs off on what. I know how you scrub operatives when they get messy.â Your thumb skated over the tablet, bringing up a list of transfers, shell accounts, a chain of innocuous names that made your stomach turn. You hadnât just been a mole; youâd been watching and learning in plain sight.
Marloweâs reply was clipped. âYou cross that line and you know what happens.â
âYou taught me the line,â you said. âAnd you taught me where you hide the bodies if someone steps out of line.â You didnât intend to say the last part until it left your mouth, but it landed like an icicle. You heard the intake of breath on the other end. Youâd hit him where you knew it would hurt.
âYouâll regret this,â he warned.
You smiled, not unkindly. âRegret is a poor currency. Iâm trading in currency you understand.â Youâd memorized their threats, their safe words, the locations in the city mapped to their dead drops. Youâd been cataloguing dirt for months, convincing yourself it was a professional necessity. Now it was leverage.
âDo you want them exposed?â you asked. âBecause I can show people what you call collateral. I can show financial records, safehouses, call logs. I can show them the men in suits you wash clean in the daylight and the mouths you shut at night.â Your pulse thudded in your throat. Saying the things made them real; making them real made you less helpless.
âListen to me,â Marlowe snapped. âYou make a move and things escalate. People could die. Including him.â
Including him.Â
The phrase landed like a fist. It was a threat wrapped in a warning.Â
You imagined Dick â his jaw, the way his hands curled when he was trying to stay calm.Â
If they wanted to hurt him, they would.Â
That was the calculation youâd accepted when you first took the assignment.Â
But acceptance and submission were different animals.
âYouâve already done that,â you said quietly. âYou used him.â Then louder: âYou used me.â The last syllables were accusation and release.
There was a rustle on the other end, a breathing that had lost its polish.Â
You felt a feral, thin satisfaction; you had punctured the armor.Â
Maybe you had only scared him.Â
Maybe you had made an enemy of everyone whoâd once been your lifeline.Â
That was acceptable collateral.
âStop,â Marlowe said at last. âBring yourself in. Weâll debrief. Weâllââ
âNo.â You stood, moving to the sink and splashing cold water on your face until the dizziness passed. You let the drop of water linger at your mouth like a vow. âI donât think you deserve the courtesy of a debrief.â
A long silence.Â
Then, slowly, the line went dead.Â
The click echoed through the tiny kitchen like a verdict.
You hung up and opened the tablet to a new note.Â
No contact list.Â
No polite inventory.Â
You typed names â small, bite-sized accusations â and attached the files youâd been saving: an offshore transaction, a surveillance log that contradicted a public statement, a recording of a phone call youâd made months ago when theyâd given you the order to get close.Â
Each file was a grain of sand in a machine that had run too long without friction.
You hit send.
The emails pinged out to journalists youâd cultivated under the pretense of feeding them small crumbs: a disgruntled informant, a leaker with inside access.Â
You had been careful not to burn your sources; youâd kept them loyal with just enough truth to taste.Â
Now those crumbs would become a trail.
A chair scraped.Â
You spun, instinct popping your shoulders into defensive stance.Â
Marlowe stood in the doorway, flanked by two others, faces hard as granite.Â
You had thought you were quiet enough to move unseen.Â
You had miscalculated.Â
Or â and here was a new, colder possibility â you had let them find you so theyâd underestimate what youâd do next.
âYou call that a move?â Marloweâs mouth tilted. âSending files to reporters is theater. It will make noise. Noise is manageable. We deal in permanence.â
âYou always think you control the narrative,â you said. âYou always think you can bury what doesnât suit you.â
He stepped closer, and your body remembered every lesson theyâd taught you about handling a threat: eye contact, breathing, how to make a threat seem less like whining and more like inevitability.Â
You were not the same person who had taken orders with a nod.Â
You had been remade by love and by loss.
âYouâll come with us,â Marlowe said.
You laughed, the sound raw. âOr what? Youâll detain me? Kill me?â
âBoth,â he said, unflinching.
âThen do it,â you said. âBut if you so much as touch him, I will make sure the first headline his name ever gets isnât about masks and heroics. Iâll make it about you. About every scrap youâve hidden.â You could feel your pulse in your throat, but your voice didnât waver. âAnd Iâll make sure the people I trusted in the press â the ones who owe me favors â will not stop until every piece of your empire is exposed.â
Marloweâs jaw worked.Â
For a wild second you thought he might come forward and take you up on the threat.Â
Instead, he turned his head and barked an order.Â
The two men whoâd been with him moved in.
You moved first.
Youâd been taught nonlethal takedowns that were efficient and quick; you used them with a surgeonâs precision, sliding behind one, catching his wrist, twisting until he was on the floor with a breath knocked out of him. The other lunged; you sidestepped, your palm finding the place behind his ear youâd been shown in training. He crumpled.
Marloweâs hand came for a sidearm. You didnât wait for the muzzle flash. You grabbed the table, launched it between you, sending pens and a coffee mug skittering across the floor. The noise bought you a sliver of chaos; you used it to slip past him, out the back door, into the alley where the city watched with indifferent light.
You ran with the taste of metal and ash in your mouth.Â
You didnât run to hide.Â
You ran to someone who would make your next move easier to keep: a contact in the docks with a boat, a man who had a blind spot for people with too much smoke in their eyes.Â
You had money stashed in shell accounts you no longer honored.Â
You had friends youâd called favors from when you needed something ugly done.Â
Now those favors were IOUs you were cashing in on the only currency that mattered: leverage.
By dawn the files were live on at least three reputable news sites.Â
Journalists called.Â
Marlowe called.Â
Your phone buzzed with threats and pleas and the names of men who suddenly realized their comfortable world had termites gnawing at the beams.Â
You answered none of them.Â
You sat in a cramped room above a harbor with the city tilting slowly awake and thought of Dick.
You didnât know if heâd ever look at you the way he had before.Â
You didnât know if heâd come after you to kill or to beg.Â
You only knew you couldnât go back to the person who had taken orders and swallowed the consequence.Â
Youâd traded one kind of duty for another: protect the man who had unintentionally made you more human, even if it meant burning the rest of the world to ash.
Outside, a headline blinked on a laptop screen: Shadow Network Exposed â High-Ranking Operatives Named. The photograph that accompanied it was a grainy still of a suited man stepping into a car; you recognized his bracelet. You recognized the pattern because you had seen it on the wrist of the man whoâd given you orders.
You sat very still.Â
Dangerous was not a costume you put on for effect.Â
It was an attitude now, a line drawn in the night.Â
And for the first time since Dick had turned away, you felt something like clarity.
If you had to choose between letting them bury the truth and standing in the open with your hands scorched, youâd choose the burn.Â
You would make them pay for the way they had used you.Â
You would make them see what it meant to ruin the person you loved.
Whether that would be enough to earn his forgiveness â or condemn you further â was a moral question you did not want to answer tonight.Â
Tonight there were threats to transcribe, leads to leak, and a city to shift underfoot.
You picked up your phone and typed one last message, fingers shaking only slightly.
To: Unknown number.
Message: I didnât mean to hurt him. But I will not let you touch him. Not anymore.
You hit send, and watched the tiny bubble with the three dots.Â
Then you turned off the light and began to plan the next move.
Night became a currency you spent without counting.Â
You learned to live in the hours other people called âlate,â to measure days by the way streetlights bruised the pavement, by the cadence of voicemail threats and the hush of newsrooms when egos were fed a fresh scandal.Â
Sleep came in steals: two hours on a borrowed couch, a nap in the back of a van with your jacket wrapped over your face.Â
Time condensed until there was only purpose and the long, echoing absence that purpose was supposed to fill.
You stopped asking how you felt and started asking what would make them tremble.Â
It was the only accurate metric left.Â
A transfer route pinched? Expose it.Â
A front company laundering money for a senator? Publish the ledgers.Â
A safehouse behind a floristâs shop? Burn it and leave the flowers.Â
Each strike left a clean, almost surgical satisfaction â brief, sharp â and the ache that followed was always shoved somewhere else, like a loose tooth you simply stop thinking about.
You had scavenged names and receipts like someone collecting tinder.Â
Operatives, lawyers, accountants â you turned each one into a thread and tugged.Â
You didnât just leak files; you engineered patterns that forced enemies into moves you could predict.Â
A raid would follow a published list; an arrest would trigger a cascade of testimony; a frightened man would try to sell what he knew, and in that desperation, you found leverage.Â
The more you burned, the more fuel you found.
At first, it was efficient and elegant.Â
You wore the plan like armor: a network of contacts across three cities, shell companies youâd seeded with micro-transactions to hide your tracks, a journalist who took your tips and asked no uncomfortable questions.Â
You had become a mapmaker of ruin, and the map spread across your screens in cold, logical colors.
But maps are made of choices.Â
So were you.
You began to feel changes at the edges.Â
There were small things â you paused too long on photographs of him in your phone, thumb rubbing the corner of an image until the pixels blurred; you found yourself rehearsing excuses if someone asked you where youâd been the night of the docks.Â
You flinched at sirens in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with memory. Â
Nightmares slid between your consciousness like hungry animals: Dickâs face, not angry now but hollow, the blue of his eyes dimmer, grief rewriting his jaw.
You never let those dreams last.Â
You learned a different discipline: anesthetize, then act.Â
Regret was a luxury.Â
Youâd promised yourself one thing â not to let them touch him â and you kept that promise by turning your life into a blade aimed at their throats.Â
If that meant you tasted ash every morning, so be it.Â
If that meant you traded conversations with people for silence and plans, you did it without flinching.
People died anyway.Â
That was the cruel reality you tried to outrun.Â
A courier linked to a fundraising gala vanished after one of your leaks.Â
You didnât order it, you hadnât meant for that to happen, but his sisterâs number burned into your memory like an accusation.Â
You tried to rationalize it: collateral, an unfortunate consequence of a necessary war.Â
The rationalization frayed quickly in private.Â
Youâd sit in the dark and let the guilt roar through your chest until it slowed to a rhythm you could bear.
Your language hardened.Â
Where you used to think in nuance, you started thinking in verbs: dismantle, expose, bankrupt, scapegoat.Â
Where you had once weighed conscience, you weighed effectiveness.Â
The starker the choice, the more your body found a perverse pleasure in choosing it.Â
It was clearer, at least: every exposed ledger reduced the enemyâs ability to retaliate.Â
Every public naming forced men who hid under power into daylight.Â
You thought in headlines and outcomes, a surgeon determined to excise a tumor even if the blood didnât stop.
You also grew more careful.Â
Paranoia sharpened into craft.Â
Your drop points moved nightly.Â
Your burner phones were always one step behind your pursuers.Â
You learned to make patterns that looked like mistakes and mistakes that looked like strategy.Â
The city itself began to feel like a chessboard and you, more terrifyingly, the only player who remembered all the moves in advance.
And yetâbetween operationsâyou found yourself making small, impossible compromises.Â
You composed messages you would never send.Â
Iâm sorry. I didnât mean to. If I could undo it I would.Â
These drafts lived in your outbox like ghosts: unsent apologies that you read until your eyes ached and then deleted.Â
Loving him had once been the soft thing you kept for yourself; it had become the raw metric by which you punished yourself.
One night, after a successful leak had toppled a mid-level fixer and triggered another layer of investigation, you sat on a rooftop and watched the city lights like dying stars.Â
Your hands trembled, not from the cold, but from adrenaline and hunger and an exhaustion that felt spiritual.Â
You let your forehead rest against the rough concrete and felt, for the first time in weeks, something like the shape of the person you had been.
Dickâs voice came to you uninvited â not in memory but in rumor: he was asking questions about the leaks, too. Names he said would be safe if the truth came out; nights heâd gone walking to think; a detectiveâs stubbornness that didnât give itself the luxury of letting a wound fester.Â
The idea that he might be closing the circle sent a thrill through you that was almost masochistic.Â
You wanted him close so you could protect him.Â
You wanted him far because you couldnât bear his pity.Â
You wanted both and punished yourself for wanting either.
You had to make a choice: slow the burns and try to piece a life back together, confess and hope for mercy, or keep fueling the inferno until the organization was ash and no one could claim they hadnât been burned by their own fire.Â
The answer echoed through you with the same steady, terrible confidence that had driven you from the start.Â
Burn it down.Â
All of it.
You rose, because the night had no patience for indecision, and went back to work.Â
There was a server farm two boroughs over with weak physical security and a vault of safe deposit boxes youâd marked for exposure. Â
You smiled then â a small, sharp thing â and thought of the headlines that would come when the papers printed ledger after ledger, name after name.Â
You thought of the look on Marloweâs face when he realized the scaffolding of his life was termites; thought of the tremor that would run through the men who thought themselves untouchable.
If you were blind to your own ache, it was because you had trained your eyes to find the flint.Â
If you were dangerous, it was because danger had become home.Â
And if destroying them didnât fix the sound of his boots walking away, you would at least make sure no one else could walk away unscathed.
He finds you in a room that smells like burned coffee and iron â a gutted campaign office lit by a dozen monitors, your face a ghostly constellation.Â
Papers are stacked in neat, cruel piles: ledgers, lists, receipts, printed emails with names circled in red.Â
Somewhere outside, a news van blares the same headline on loop.Â
Inside, the light is wrong and everything looks like a crime scene.
You are at the center of it, small and terrible in the chaos.Â
Youâre a silhouette hunched over a laptop, fingers moving too fast, eyes rimmed with a raw, animal glare.Â
Your hair is loose, sticking to your temple with sweat; your knuckles are grey with ash.Â
Thereâs a cut across one eyebrow you donât remember getting.Â
You look like someone whoâs been up for days and decided sleep was a weakness.
He should have felt rage first.Â
He should have come in shouting, cuffing you, reading you your rights like an affidavit.Â
He should haveâsomething legal, something simple.Â
Instead the first thing he feels is a physical, dumb ache, like the sudden awareness of how much trouble youâve put yourself in.Â
Then the rest slides in: the betrayal, the lies, the nights you spent together that now read like evidence.
âHey.â His voice is softer than he planned. It doesnât carry the authority heâs worn for years; it carries worry.Â
You donât look up.Â
Your shoulders move in a small, exhausted laugh.
âYou should leave.â The words are flat, an order dressed as a warning.Â
Your fingers donât stop.Â
You pull another file, cross-reference something, tap a sequence into the laptop.Â
The glow reflects in your pupils and for a second he sees how hollow you are â the way your face eats light now, the way youâre all edges.
âWhat youâre doingââ He moves closer, the boards of the floor creaking under him. âYouâre making this worse.â
You snort. âWorse for whom?â you say, without looking at him. âFor them? Or for you?â
âStop playing games.â Heâs trying for anger now and snatches at it, but it comes out thin.Â
He remembers the moment in the warehouse, the way youâd said youâd thought you were doing the right thing, remembers being gutted and walking away.Â
He should be colder.Â
He isnât.
You finally look at him.Â
Itâs like being struck by a wind that smells faintly of smoke and something rotten â guilt, perhaps, or the sharp tang of someone who refuses to let themselves feel.Â
Your eyes find his and thereâs a flash of something like recognition, then something worse: calculation.Â
You are a soldier in a crusade you never step back from.
âDid you think I wouldnât find you?â he asks. Heâs not sure if heâs accusing you or himself. âYou left a trail.â
âYou expected anything else from me?â You laugh, and the laugh is ragged, too loud in the small room. âYou expected me to be neat about this? To poison it with apologies and neat endings?â You slide a thumb over a name, the movement intimate and methodical. âIâm doing what needs to be done.â
âWhat needs to be done isnât destroying every person who ever helped them.â His hand lifts, hesitates. âYouâre burning whole people down. Youâre watching them fall like blocks and you donât care what hits the floor.â
For a moment â a sliver of a ridiculous, honest moment â you smile. âThey deserved to fall,â you say simply. âThey made the rules in a room that looked like a church, Dick. Someone had to knock it down.â
He recognizes the rhetoric.Â
He also recognizes the way you say it â not like a person who is efficient, but like someone whoâs addicted to the collapse.Â
Youâre exhilarated by the damage.Â
Thereâs a childlike satisfaction in the way your fingers rub ash from a page, in the quickness of your movements, the near-smile when a name is crossed out.Â
You are playing Jenga with lives and pretending gravity is justice.
He takes another step. âThis was never justice. This is punishment. Youâre punishing everyone because you canât live with what you did.â
His words are a blade; you flinch but you donât stop.Â
For the first time since the warehouse, something cracks in you: a hitch in your breath, a stray complaint at the back of your throat.Â
The movements slow; the fingers that have been dancing across the laptop fall still for a beat too long.
âYou donât get to play martyr,â he says, softer now. âYou donât get to dress this up as righteousness and expect it not to hurt people you wouldnât even name.â
You stare at him like heâs a stranger. âI donât want to hurt him,â you whisper. The admission is so small he almost misses it. âI donât want to hurt anyone that I can help not be hurt.â
Dickâs chest tightens.Â
He hears the quiet admission like a thing dropped down the stairs â the sound ricocheting, impossible to ignore.Â
He should press the advantage, should demand confessions, explanations, handcuffs.Â
He should do his job.Â
He starts to reach for his phone, for a recorder, for the protocols he knows like the lines on his palm.
Instead his hands drop to his sides.Â
He crosses the room with long, silent steps until heâs close enough to see the scabbed cut at your eyebrow, the way your lower lip trembles.Â
Up close, you smell of smoke and something else â coffee long gone cold, the faint metallic tang of adrenaline.Â
There is exhaustion in you that feels like a ragged wound.
âLook at me,â he says.Â
Not an order.Â
A plea.
You comply slowly.Â
Maybe you want the witness.
Maybe you want someone to see the person you are now, the person youâre terrified youâve become.Â
Your eyes flick over his face, tracking, judging, then find the softness at the edges, the fatigue behind his teeth.Â
Thereâs a look there he recognizes as pity and he hates himself for it.
âDo you remember the first time you told me you loved me?â he asks, voice a hairline.Â
The question is ridiculous, and tender.Â
It is a thing you both know and the room holds it like a secret.
Thereâs a beat where your expression folds, like a map creasing.Â
Something gullible and fragile emerges; your fingers uncurl as if you might reach for him, but instead you close your hand into a fist and bury it in your hair.
âI remember,â you breathe. âI mean, stars, I remember. I remember thinking I could do both. I remember thinking I could be the thing that made the scales balance.â
âAnd now?â he asks.Â
Heâs close enough to see the way you flinch at the memory of his voice, like an old tremor.Â
He has to force past the fury that has lived in him since the reveal, force it into a narrow channel so something else can through: concern, grief, a ridiculous stubborn love that never went away.
âNow I donât know who I am if I canât hurt them,â you say.Â
Itâs not a boast.Â
Itâs not pride.Â
Itâs confession.Â
âThey taught me to hold my hands steady while I hurt people for the greater good. Then they gave me someone to love, and I split myself into both and expected it to hold.â
The edges of his vision go soft.Â
He thinks of all the small mercies heâd hoped would anchor youâlaughing at something stupid in the middle of a raid, the soft invitation of a midnight hand.Â
He thinks of how easily those mercies were used as camouflage.Â
He thinks of the way you used love like a weapon and then let it become your weakness.
âYouâre not this,â he says. The statement is almost a prayer. âYou are not just wreckage.â
You laugh, and itâs a breaking sound. âSays the man who feels wrecked,â you snap, but thereâs no heat behind it. âYou left me.â
âI left because I could not stomach the lie in front of me,â he says. âI left because I couldnât breathe with it. I left because I thought walking away would be cleaner than letting you keep walking the line.â
âAnd now you want to patch me up,â you say, bitter amusement curling your lips. âNow you want to be the hero who rescues me from the monster I made.â
He doesnât move to object.Â
Instead he does something small and dangerous: he reaches out and touches your cheek.Â
The skin is hot, gritty with ash.Â
You donât pull away at once.Â
You let your face lean into his hand for the space of a breath, then harden.
âYou donât get to be the only one who gets to walk away,â he says quietly. âThisâthis crusadeâdoes not have to be the only thing you are.â
You gape at him like the word âcrusadeâ doesnât belong in your mouth, like heâs speaking a foreign language.Â
Then, suddenly, you deflate, as if someone has burst a bubble thatâs been keeping you aloft.Â
Your shoulders slump and the air leaves you with a noise like a used match being struck.
âI donât know how to stop,â you confess, raw. âI canât. I donât have the mechanics anymore. Iâm so deep I canât see the surface.â
Dick studies you: the frayed patience, the reckless focus, the hollow where remorse should be.Â
He knows you are dangerousâhe always knew thatâbut in this moment, seeing you unmade, he recognizes something else: how tired you are of the violence you were trained for, and how much of you has been erased by it.
He could call reinforcements.Â
He could put cuffs on your wrists and drag you into the light and into prosecution.Â
He could recite every reason why that would be right.Â
His training lines up like dominoes and waits for him to push.
Instead he folds, carefully, like heâs trying not to break glass.Â
He steps closer and wraps his arms around you, tentative at first, then with the quiet force of someone who has been left too many times and refuses to leave this one.Â
You go rigid at the contact, a wild animal surprised by a hand, but then something fractures in you â not the hardened, ambitious part that wants them to burn, but the small private self who still remembers midnight laughter and easy kisses.Â
Tears come then, hot and awful and useless, and you let them fall.
âYou donât get to fix me with pity,â you say into his shoulder, voice muffled.
âIâm not trying to fix you,â he says. âIâm trying to be here. Thatâs all I can do right now.â
You cling to him like wrongness feels like a last lifeline.Â
The monitors continue their pale watch, the papers still smear like fresh evidence.Â
Outside, the city simmers with reaction and consequence.Â
In this tiny, ruined room, you are both very close and farther than you have ever been.
He holds you without making promises he canât keep.Â
You press your hands flat against his chest and feel his heartbeat â steady, stubborn, human.Â
For the first time in a long time, the frenzy inside you slows, if only by degrees.
You are still dangerous.Â
You will be for a long time.Â
You are still capable of burning everything down.Â
But in the press of his hands, you taste something else: the possibility of different work, of different sins to atone for, or at least a new kind of reckoning.Â
Whether youâll take it is another thing entirely.
For now, the small truce is enough.Â
He does not forgive you; he doesnât have to.Â
He only holds you while you break, and that, you think with a panicked, grateful flutter, might be the scariest, most necessary thing youâve done in months.
Content: NO SMUT, Alpha!Dick, Zeta!OC (what the heck is a Zeta?), 2.8k words
Warnings: Omegaverse, Feelings of Worth Tied to Usefulness
Author's Note: Alexandra (our OC) isn't intentionally autism or adhd coded; I'm just like that, lol. So a lot of her traits with not fitting in and feeling like an outsider are drawn from a neurodivergent perspective
The GCPD dossier called her a Zeta.
Not an Alpha. Not a Beta. Not an Omega.
Zeta.
Something built to complement what already existed â to patch holes, fill cracks, make other peopleâs roles easier to play. She wasnât a leader. She wasnât a follower. She was a solution.
And that was the problem. Everyone needed a Zeta until they didnât.
Alexandra Dearden stepped out of the unmarked van and into the damp Gotham air, the scent hitting her like a freight train â scorched metal, oil-slicked water, rust, blood, pheromones layered like fog.
Her nose wrinkled. She blinked through it.
Zetas could smell emotional decay. It lived in chemical trails, in heat shifts, in the unsaid. Here in Gotham, the air buzzed like a broken instrument. Cracked harmonies. Fractured pack dynamics. There was grief baked into the foundation of this city.
And she was supposed to fix that?
She clicked softly â barely audible. A sound her body made on instinct. Zetas chirped when they sensed tension, when they needed to soothe, when silence was too sharp. No one ever taught her how to stop it. Just how to muffle it.
âThis way,â someone barked â a Beta in tactical gear, brisk and indifferent. No name given. Of course not. You didnât name a tool.
They led her up the rusting stairwell of a gutted warehouse, each step creaking like it had complaints. And then they left her.
She emerged onto the roof alone.
Almost.
He was already there â leaning on the ledge, silhouette etched in citylight. Blue stripes caught the moon and glinted like quiet rebellion.
Nightwing.
Alex stopped, the air tightening around her. Alphas had presence. Nightwing had gravity.
She expected arrogance. Expected posturing. Expected the stiff-backed command of a Gotham protector who hadnât requested her help and probably didnât want it.
Instead, he looked at her like she was a question he wanted to understand.
âYouâre the Zeta?â he asked, voice smooth as wind through leaves. Curious, not dismissive.
Her instincts kicked in. She mirrored his stance without thinking â shoulders relaxed, hands loose. Filling the space in a way that wouldnât challenge or retreat. Zeta posture. Adaptive. Appeasing.
âI guess so,â she said.
He raised an eyebrow. âYou guess?â
âI didnât choose it,â she said, more clipped than she meant to be. âItâs a designation. Not a personality trait.â
That earned her the faintest smile. âFair enough.â
The quiet stretched, but it wasnât heavy. Not yet. She could feel the emotional tones buzzing off him â low-level vigilance, a flash of interest, no contempt.
That last part startled her.
Sheâd been assigned to packs before. Small task forces. Crisis response teams. Alphas who wanted her pliant. Betas who acted like she didnât exist. Omegas who flinched at her noncompliance.
But Nightwing?
He didnât flinch. Didnât posture. Didnât reach for her designation like it was a tool or a threat.
He just looked at her like she was a person.
And it made her chirp. Soft, startled, automatic.
Her face went hot.
âIâsorry. That happens whenââ
âI know,â he said gently. âYouâre not the first Zeta Iâve worked with.â
Her eyes narrowed. âNo? Most people donât even believe we exist.â
âI donât believe in ghosts either,â he said with a grin. âDoesnât mean Gotham isnât full of them.â
She stared at him, unsure if he was mocking her or trying to connect.
âI donât know why Iâm here,â she admitted. âYour file didnât request a Zeta.â
âNo,â he said. âI requested help that wouldnât blow up the team dynamic. They gave me you.â
âSo Iâm a peace offering.â
âMaybe,â he said. âOr maybe youâre just the only one who hasnât tried to impress anyone yet.â
That caught her off guard. The chirps stopped entirely.
She looked at him again â properly, this time. And something inside her shifted.
He wasnât trying to provoke her. Or ignore her. Or define her by her usefulness.
The warehouse fire had long been extinguished, but the smoke still clung to the air. Sirens had dulled into background static. Emergency crews flooded the scene. Civilians milled in shock, their words clipped, scattered, or silent.
Alex stood at the edge of the emergency cordon, jacket still zipped up to her throat, clicking softly as her nose twitched.
She could smell it â grief and adrenaline, trauma and unspoken fear â all of it radiating off the crowd like heat. It curled under her skin. Not just scents, but tones. Resonance. Emotional chords humming through the air.
She adjusted her posture. Softer now. Shoulders lower. Palms visible.
Zetas werenât meant to lead crowds. They were meant to steady them.
A little girl sat on the ground nearby, clutching a frayed jacket and trembling with sobs she couldnât get out. Her parents were still inside, pinned behind a support beam.
Alex crouched beside her, not touching, not speaking. Just⌠existing.
Then she clicked. A gentle sound. Reassuring, patterned. Not mimicry â invitation.
The girlâs head lifted slightly.
Alex chirped again, this time layered with a faint hum in her throat â like a lullaby she wasnât allowed to sing out loud.
The sobs slowed.
Alex offered her a thermos of water from her bag, unscrewed and already warm.
âI know it hurts,â she said softly. âYouâre not alone in it.â
She said nothing more. Sometimes words made it worse.
The girl reached for the thermos with both hands.
From the rooftop, Nightwing watched the entire thing.
He hadnât given her instructions. He hadnât needed to. The second theyâd arrived and he saw the crowd â scared, grieving, spiraling â heâd known his teamâs energy wasnât what they needed.
But Alexandra?
She moved like water around broken stone.
Her presence dulled the edges of panic. Her subtle clicks became anchors in the noise. People began gravitating toward her without even knowing why.
One man with a bloodied shoulder stopped shouting. Another civilian stopped pacing and sat down beside her, just close enough to share air.
He couldnât hear what she was saying. Most of the time, she wasnât saying anything at all.
She was resonating.
Nightwing dropped down beside her a few minutes later, keeping his voice low.
âWeâve got three survivors being pulled now. Theyâre alive.â
Alex didnât smile. She nodded, slow and even â just enough to pass on that calm to the people near her.
But he could see the tension in her neck, the faint tremor in her fingers. She was absorbing everything. Grounding them.
And overwhelming herself.
He crouched beside her, facing the same direction. Letting his body mirror hers â offering emotional cover the same way she offered it to others.
âHey,â he said quietly. âTake five.â
âIâm fine.â
âYouâre drained. Thatâs not the same thing.â
She clicked again, unintentionally.
This one sounded like disbelief.
He tilted his head. âLet me guess. The last team you were on â they ran you into the ground?â
She didnât answer.
He didnât need her to.
Instead, he said, âYou shouldnât have to burn yourself up to keep everyone else warm.â
And just for a moment â just one â the chirping stopped.
The meeting room in the satellite safehouse wasnât big. Concrete walls. Fluorescent lights that hummed too loud. A table covered in field reports, schematics, empty coffee cups.
Alex sat in the corner, uninvited, unnoticed.
That was fine. Zetas werenât supposed to take up space. She could already feel the emotional charge in the room â the low thrum of impatience, skepticism, and something heavier. Something aimed at her.
She kept her eyes on her hands, listening.
âShe didnât engage in combat. She wasnât part of the perimeter lock. She didnât even monitor comms,â one of the operatives finally said, crossing his arms. A Beta, squared shoulders and a bite in his tone. âIâm not saying she wasnât present. Iâm just saying we donât need dead weight on rescue missions.â
Alex flinched, almost imperceptibly. Her chirping stopped.
Dick didnât.
He was still flipping through reports, calmly, like the man hadnât just insulted someone within earshot.
Then he looked up â all the warmth gone from his expression.
âDo you know how many civilians were headed toward the danger zone before she redirected them?â
The Beta blinked. âShe didnât speak. She didnât order anyoneââ
âNo,â Dick interrupted. âShe soothed them. She made them feel safe. When people feel safe, they listen. They slow down. They survive.â
Silence fell.
Dick stood, sliding the file shut.
âShe didnât just lower the casualty count. She prevented panic-induced injuries. One woman was going into cardiac arrest from a trauma trigger, and Alex got her breathing again before the medics arrived. She made eye contact with three responders who were about to snap under pressure and calmed them without a single word.â
âShe didnât fight,â the Beta said again, weaker now.
Dickâs voice was sharp. âShe didnât need to.â
âSheâs not even fully presented.â
âShe shouldnât have to present to be respected.â
That landed like a slap. Even Alex went still.
Dick turned toward her â not for validation. For clarity.
âShe did what no one else in the field could do. She made other people better. If you canât see the value in that, maybe youâre the dead weight.â
The safehouse bunkroom was dim, just the soft yellow glow of the nightlight strip running along the baseboards. Alex sat on the lower cot, legs folded under her, back to the wall.
Her jacket lay in a crumpled heap by the door. She hadnât moved to hang it up.
Her scent was still too loud in the room â overstimulated, tired, brittle. She was working to mask it, but she didnât have much left in the tank.
The door creaked open. She didnât look up.
She didnât need to. She recognized the scent profile: Beta. Clean, sharp. Regret riding heavy in the air.
âHey,â came the voice. Quieter now. Less certain.
It was the same operative who had questioned her earlier in the briefing.
Alex didnât respond. She stayed still, chirping once â low and toneless â like a signal ping with no return.
âI, uhâŚâ He rubbed the back of his neck. âI didnât mean to come off like a jerk.â
She gave a faint, humorless click. âYou didnât come off like one. You just were.â
He blinked â then gave a soft, awkward laugh. âFair.â
Silence stretched again. Then:
âI saw what you did,â he said.
Alexâs gaze flicked toward him.
âAt the scene,â he clarified. âI didnât get it at first, I just thought you were⌠I donât know. Sitting around. Then one of the medics said a little girl calmed down the second you sat next to her.â
Alexâs throat tightened. âShe needed her mom. Her mom was stuck in the rubble.â
âI know,â he said. âI was the one pulling her out.â
More silence.
âI didnât realize,â he said finally, âhow much easier everything felt, once you were there. We were flailing before. I thought it was just me being off my game. But it wasnât. You shifted the atmosphere.â
Alex clicked, startled â a soft, high-pitched sound she couldnât stop fast enough.
âI still donât understand how it works,â he added. âBut⌠I felt it.â
He hesitated, then stepped just close enough to place something folded on the end of her cot. A protein bar. No label. The good kind.
âIâm sorry,â he said. âFor earlier.â
He didnât wait for her to respond. Just nodded once, turned, and left.
Alex stared at the door for a long time after it closed.
Then down at the bar.
Then, finally, leaned back and let her head hit the wall â a single chirp leaving her chest like an exhale.
¡đĽ¸Âˇ
Two months ago.Â
Northern sector.Â
Cold base.Â
Cold people.
¡đĽ¸Âˇ
The barracks were always freezing.
Alex had learned not to ask for heat anymore.Â
Or blankets.Â
Or conversation.
Zetas were âmaintenance roles.â Emotional filtration systems. You didnât apologize to the air vents for working too hard.
âDonât take it personally,â one of the command Alphas had told her during her third week. âYouâre just here to keep the team from breaking down. That doesnât mean they have to like you.â
Sheâd smiled when they said it. Polite. Palatable. Zeta-default.
Sheâd chirped once out of habit â and was told to shut it off.
So she did.
By week five, they werenât even using her name. âThe Zetaâ was easier. Cleaner. Disposable.
¡đĽ¸Âˇ
The mission that broke her was supposed to be a low-threat extraction. Civilian hostages. Omega family. Sheâd asked to go in first â said she could stabilize them, ease their panic before the retrieval team arrived.
They told her to stay back. Not worth the resources.
By the time the team went in, the Omega mother had already gone non-verbal and collapsed from adrenal shock. The toddler had nearly run straight into crossfire.
When the med team asked why no one had pre-cleared the hostagesâ stress levels, the Alphas deflected.
One of them â a tall, broad type whoâd never looked her in the eye â said, âWe donât rely on training wheels.â
That night, no one spoke to her. Again.
She curled up on her cot, stomach empty, head full of phantom noise.
Her body was still chirping softly. Like it didnât know how to stop reaching for connection that wasnât coming.
¡đĽ¸Âˇ
Back in the Gotham safehouse, Alex blinked out of the memory.
She was still curled on the cot.
But it wasnât cold here.
And the protein bar still sat at the edge of the bed.
The lights were dim. A kettle hissed softly on the stove. Someone had left a note taped to the fridge about not eating anything in the green container unless you had a death wish.
Alex stood by the far wall, hands curled around a cup of water that had long gone room temperature. Her hair was still damp from a shower. She hadnât slept much.
She hadnât planned to come out at all. But something about the silence here was different than she was used to.
Not cold. Just⌠unfinished.
Then she heard footsteps. Light ones. Familiar.
Dick Grayson appeared in the doorway, hoodie slouched, socked feet silent on the tile.
He looked so normal. So unguarded.
âHey,â he said, blinking sleep from his eyes. âYou beat me to the kettle.â
Alex offered him the cup. âWasnât using it.â
He shook his head with a half-smile. âKeep it. Iâll make another.â
A pause.
Then â gently, casually, like it wasnât the most important invitation sheâd ever been offered:
âYou eat yet?â
She hesitated.
âI can,â she said.
âThatâs not what I asked.â
She blinked. âNo.â
âGood,â he said. âSit. Youâre stuck with me now.â
He moved through the kitchen like he belonged to it â opening cabinets, rummaging through supplies, humming something tuneless under his breath. Not performative. Not forced.
Just⌠real.
Alex hovered at the edge of the table.
âYou donât have to feed me,â she said. âI donât need to be⌠included.â
Dick shot her a look over his shoulder â soft, serious, like heâd heard those words before and never liked them.
âNot everything is about what people need from you,â he said. âSometimes itâs just about being welcome.â
Alex didnât answer.
But she sat.
He set down a plate in front of her â eggs, toast, something warm with cinnamon â and she stared at it like it might disappear if she moved too quickly.
Dick slid into the seat across from her, coffee mug between his hands, elbows on the table.
âLast night went well,â he said casually. âThanks to you.â
Her throat tightened. âYou already said that.â
âYeah,â he said. âBut I want to say it again.â
He met her eyes. Didnât look away.
âPeople notice you, Alex. Even when they donât know how to say it. Even when they pretend they donât. You changed the room yesterday.â
Alex looked down at her plate.
âI didnât do anything special.â
âYou made strangers feel safe in the middle of a disaster. You stayed calm. You stayed kind.â He paused. âDonât belittle the things that hurt when no one notices them.â
She didnât know what to say to that.
So she took a bite of toast.
And for the first time in a long time⌠she tasted something.
Authorâs Note: While not explicitly torture, itâs implied that the reader is going to be killed for snitching (and for snark, but sometimes you just gotta)
It was a bad idea.Â
You knew it was a bad idea.Â
And yet you did it anyways.Â
One anonymous tip.
The first domino that would eventually topple an empire.Â
Eventually.
Not soon enough to save you.Â
You spit out blood, a hacking cough trying to force blood out of your airways. You look up, chest heaving with every breath as your head lulls to the side.Â
The goon beating you grabs your face, grip on your jaw bruising. âYou sorry yet?â
Itâd be safest to keep your mouth shut, hold onto the chance you might survive this.
You grin. âSorry? Sorry for what?â
That earns a slap, the sting making your ears ring.
You hiss in pain.
Blood trickles down your ear.
They burst your eardrum with that slap.
You force your head up, gaze narrowed. âWeak.â
The goon snarls, lifting their hand again.
The unmistakable sound of the metal door slamming open vibrates in the room so loudly that you can hear it still through the ringing.Â
A blur of black and blue floods the room, hard for your reeling mind to keep track of.Â
Then the walking bruise stops and you realize it isnât a bruise or a blur or the reaper.
Nightwing.
You grin.Â
Looks like youâre going to make it out alive after all.
His escrima baton is still in his hand, the other tucked on his hip. He glances at you, jaw tightening. His eyesâwhat you can see of them through the maskâflash with something sharp.
âCan you walk?â
You grin again, teeth red. âDepends. You carrying?â
He huffs, like heâs annoyed, but itâs thinly veiled relief. Heâs already kneeling in front of you, gloved hands quick but gentle as they check your restraints.
Your grin falters when the adrenaline slips, pain crashing back in like a wave.
He notices. His touch slows. âHey. Stay with me.â
You want to laugh at how careful he sounds. Like youâre fragile. Like you havenât been broken open already.
Instead, your head tips against his shoulder as the cuffs finally click free.
For the first time tonight, you let your eyes close.
The kind of place meant to make you feel small, like the walls are leaning in just a little too close.
You shift, hissing as the bandages around your ribs pull tight. The bruises are already turning that sickly yellow, but the ache is a constant reminder.Â
Days later, you still hear the ringing in your ear.
Theyâve sent in two detectives already.Â
Both with tired eyes and fake sympathy in their voices.Â
Both pressing for details, names, anything.Â
Both ignored.
Because you know how it works.
Cops get bought.Â
Cops get scared.Â
Cops look the other way.
Trust the wrong one, and your body washes up in a river before the weekâs over.
So you sit in silence.
Until the door opens again.
Boots on tile. A figure in black and blue steps inside, and suddenly you can breathe.
Nightwing.
He doesnât sit right away. Just leans against the table, arms crossed, studying you like heâs making sure youâre really here, really alive.
âYou gave them nothing,â he says finally. Not a question.
You smirk faintly, though it hurts. âDidnât feel like dying so soon.â
He shakes his head, exhaling slow. âYouâre lucky youâre still in one piece.â
You glance at the mirror on the wall, knowing there are eyes behind it.Â
Then back to him. âIâll talk. But only to you.â
His brow furrows, cautious. âYou sure about that?â
âI know the score. Cops take bribes. Judges turn blind. Everybodyâs on somebodyâs payroll.â Your voice is rough, but steady. âBut you? You donât bend. You donât sell out.â
For the first time since you got dragged into this mess, you see his expression soften.Â
Just a little.
âAlright,â he says. âThen itâs just us.â
You lean forward, elbows on the table, ignoring the way your ribs protest.
âYou want the truth?â you rasp.
Nightwing doesnât move, but you can tell heâs listening. The way his jaw sets, the faint tilt of his headâevery muscle tuned to your next word.
âIâm the tip,â you say. âThe one who started this. Breadcrumbs. Paper trails. Anonymous reports.â You let out a bitter laugh. âGuess I wasnât anonymous enough.â
His eyes narrow. Not suspicionâcalculation. âThatâs why they had you. They knew.â
You nod once. âKnew and made sure I wouldnât try again.â Your fingers toy with the edge of the bandage at your wrist, restless. âBut thatâs over now. Catâs out of the bag, and I donât have anywhere left to hide. SoâŚâ You force yourself to meet his gaze. âIâm all in. Whatever I know, whatever Iâve got, itâs yours.â
He studies you for a long moment, like heâs measuring the weight of your words against the bruises still fading on your skin. Then he finally sits, leaning across the table just enough that his voice is low, meant only for you.
âThen start from the top. Names. Routes. Anything they wonât want me hearing.â
You swallow.Â
Your mouth is dry, but the words come anyway. âItâs not just a gang. Itâs bigger. Distribution fronts, shell companies, politicians with greasy hands. Iâve got files hidden, coded. Bank transfers, contacts, shipments.â
His eyes sharpen. âWhere?â
âLocker, bus depot, under the name C. Kline. Keyâs stashed in a hollow vent back at my place.â You hesitate, then add, âUnless they found it first.â
He shakes his head. âIf they had, youâd already be dead.â
The bluntness makes you huff out something between a laugh and a cough. âComforting.â
But you see itâthe flicker of something like respect in his eyes. Youâve proven youâre not just another terrified informant trying to cut a deal. Youâve chosen a side.Â
His side.
âYou understand what you just did,â he says quietly.Â
Not accusing.Â
Not angry.Â
Just steady.Â
âOnce you talk, thereâs no going back. Theyâll come harder. Smarter. You wonât just be a loose endâyouâll be the example they make.â
You meet his gaze, even though every instinct screams to look away. âI know.â
His jaw flexes, gloved hands curling against the edge of the table. âThen why?â
You let out a shaky laugh. âBecause running didnât work. Hiding didnât work. All I got for it was broken ribs and a ruptured eardrum. They already think Iâm a traitor.â You lean back, wincing as the chair creaks. âMight as well actually be one.â
Something flickers across his face. Not pityâsomething sharper, harder to name.Â
Respect, maybe.Â
Or understanding.
âYouâre putting a target on your back,â he says.
âAlready there.â You tap the side of your bandaged head with two fingers. âMight as well make it worth something.â
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. âYouâre reckless.â
You grin, bloody and tired but unshaken. âTakes one to know one.â
That earns you a real reactionâhis shoulders loosen, just slightly, like the weight of the room shifts.
Then he leans forward, elbows on the table, voice low and certain. âAlright. If youâre all in, youâre not doing this alone. Not anymore.â
Content: Relationship Drama, Breaking Up, Getting Together, 1.2k words
Warnings: Kori and Dick break up :{
Authorâs Note: you know that one couple that breaks up and gets back together over and over again? Itâs dickkori only Kori ends up with you to break the cycleÂ
The constant back and forth, on and off thing that Nightwing and Starfire had going on was as well worn as the burn marks in the kitchen.Â
It wasnât a surprise that they were fighting again.
It wasnât a surprise when they broke up again.Â
Someone murmured something about things being back to normal tomorrow.Â
But you couldnât agree.Â
You could see the hurt, hear the quiver in their voices, the tightness, the numbness that comes from repeating the same thing over and over again.Â
To the others it seemed meaningless.Â
To you?
You could taste the pain in the air like a rotting corpse.
Something was different.
-
The knock came at your door, soft and tentative.Â
You open the door and are only half surprised to see Kori standing there.
Her eyes are red and puffy. âHello, friend.â
You open the door wider without hesitation, letting her in. She moves slowly, like sheâs trying to be small, sitting on the edge of your bed.
She looks tired.Â
âDo you think things will be alright tomorrow?â Kori asks, voice soft.Â
âYeah,â you say, hesitant. Then you bite your lip. âBut that doesnât change whatâs happened. It doesnât mean you have to keep doing this.â
Maybe itâs awful to tell your friend to breakup, but you can see the way it hurts her, this cycle.
âYouâre going to be okay even if you stay broken up forever,â you say softly.
Koriâs lip trembles.Â
You haltingly sit beside her before wrapping an arm around her shoulder.Â
Her shoulders shake once beneath your arm before she leans in, just enough that you feel the weight of her. Â
For a long time neither of you speak, only the hum of the towerâs walls filling the silence.
When she does finally speak again, itâs barely more than a whisper. âI am tired of pretending this does not hurt.â
You donât tell her itâs going to be fine. Â
You donât feed her the same empty line the others will tomorrow. Â
You just squeeze her shoulder a little tighter.
And in the quiet, something shifts.
-
The days that followed werenât like the others.
Usually, after one of their fights, there was the unspoken rhythm: a day of silence, another of awkward distance, then by the third or fourth theyâd be orbiting each other again, drawn back like magnets no matter how much damage was left in their wake.
But this time, Kori didnât drift toward him.
She drifted toward you.
At first it was small.Â
She lingered in the kitchen when you made tea, quietly accepting a mug even when she didnât really want it.Â
She sat next to you in the common room, close enough that your shoulders brushed when the couch was otherwise empty.Â
She asked about your day, your thoughts, your quiet opinions that no one usually bothered to seek.
And you let her.
Not because you thought it meant anythingânot yetâbut because you could see how raw she still was, like she was holding herself together with thread.
One night, after another too-long mission, she found you on the roof.Â
The stars spread above in a dizzying pattern, too many to take in. You didnât hear her approach, not until her voice carried softly over the hum of the city.
âDo you ever feel small beneath them?â she asked, tilting her head back to look at the endless sky.
You glanced at her, caught off guard by the vulnerability in her tone. âAll the time.â
She smiled faintly, eyes still on the stars. âOn Tamaran, I was taught that every light above is a story. To look up is to be reminded we are never alone.â
Your throat went dry. âThatâs⌠beautiful.â
She finally looked at you then, really looked, and the quiet stretch between you felt different.Â
Warmer.
Her hand brushed yours on the ledgeâaccidental, maybe.Â
But neither of you moved away.
-
It happened on a mission.
A standard bust, nothing that shouldâve rattled anyone.Â
But the fight stretched on too long, the criminals too stubborn, the team too frayed at the edges.Â
By the end, everyone was bruised and frustrated.
Dick barked orders the whole time, sharp and clipped, his voice straining over comms.Â
He wasnât wrong, not exactly, but every word carried an edge like broken glass.Â
And when Kori didnât fall exactly in lineâwhen she chose to shield you instead of pushing the offense like heâd wantedâhis voice turned to steel.
âKori! Youâre not listeningââ
But she didnât snap back like she once would have.Â
She didnât argue, didnât throw her anger into his face to burn itself out.
She just glanced at you, her hand steady on your arm where sheâd helped you up from a hit. âAre you hurt?â she asked, her voice soft, not sharp.
You shook your head quickly. âJust winded.â
And she smiled at youâgentle, relieved.Â
A smile that had nothing to do with orders or tactics or winning the fight.
Dick saw it.
Later, back at the tower, his frustration still hung in the air like smoke.Â
He paced the living room, hands slicing through the air as he muttered about strategies, about how the team needed precision. âYou canât just do whatever you feel like, Kori. Thatâs not how we work.â
Kori listened, but her expression was unreadable.Â
When he was done, she only said, âI will not apologize for caring.â
Then, without fanfare, she turned and walked toward you.Â
Sat down beside you.Â
Asked again, quieter this time, if you were alright.
The silence that followed was deafening.
-
Dick didnât move. He stood by the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight, and watched as Kori settled beside you, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face with the gentlest touch.
He wanted to scold, to step in, to remind her that sheâd always come back to him, that their history mattered. But the words wouldnât come.
Because the truth was sharper than any frustration: she wasnât looking for him right now. She was looking for you.
And more than thatâhe couldnât find a single flaw in you that would make him hate you. You hadnât manipulated her, hadnât challenged her, hadnât tried to prove yourself or win her over like he might have in the past. Â
You had simply been there.Â
Steady.Â
Quiet.Â
Present.
It was maddening.
The cycleâthe familiar rhythm of fight, make up, repeatâhad always existed because it was predictable. He knew how to navigate it, how to pull her back into his orbit. Â
But you?Â
You werenât predictable.Â
You werenât part of the game.Â
You didnât compete or test her or pull her attention like he did.Â
You were there.
And she liked it.
Dickâs hands clenched at his sides. His chest achedânot with anger, not with loss, exactly, but with something rawer, something more complicated. He wanted to step forward, to reclaim what he thought was his, but even as the impulse rose, another truth stabbed him: he didnât want to stop watching.
Because she looked happy.Â
And safe.Â
And seen.
By the time he realized it, the shift was complete. The cycle wasnât restarting. The pull heâd relied on for years had loosened. Â
Kori had a choice she hadnât felt free to make before, and she was making it.
With you.
And he⌠couldnât stop himself from feeling the sting, mixed with a reluctant admiration that left him breathless and uncertain all at once.
The cycle had ended.Â
And for the first time, he wasnât the center of it.
Patrol nights with Dick always started the same way: a plan, a route, and him promisingâpromisingâthat things would stay âquiet.â You had learned by now that quiet was Dick Graysonâs code for donât get your hopes up.
And tonight had been no exception.
By the time you landed on the rooftop, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins, the two of you had taken down a crew of would-be jewel thieves who hadnât counted on Nightwing and his very persistent partner showing up. You were still catching your breath, brushing dust off your jacket, when you noticed him.
Dick was tugging at his suit near his ribs, his jaw tight.
âLet me see,â you said, stepping closer.
âItâs nothing.â He waved you off with that trademark grin, but the wince that followed ruined his attempt at casual.
You raised an unimpressed brow. âYou always say that right before doing something stupid, like passing out dramatically on me.â
âDramatic?â His grin widened, though his hand still pressed to his side. âI donât do dramatic.â
You couldnât help itâyou laughed. âYou literally flipped over a guy twice your size, landed in a split, and then threw your escrima sticks like they were playing cards.â
âThatâs called style,â he corrected, smirk firmly in place.
âStyle doesnât bleed through the suit.â You folded your arms and gave him your best no-nonsense stare. âDo you want your wounds dressed or a kiss? Because youâre only going to get one.â
That stopped him.Â
His brows shot up, surprise flickering in those bright blue eyes.Â
For a second, you thought maybe youâd gone too far with the teasingâuntil his expression shifted into something far more dangerous.Â
Mischief.
âYou say that like itâs a hard choice.â
Your lips twitched, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a smile. âSo? Which one is it?â
Dick leaned in, closing the space between you by a fraction. Just enough that you could see the tiny cut at his temple, the glint of humor in his eyes. âI think a kiss might heal faster.â
You shook your head, biting back a laugh, but your resolve softened. Carefully, you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheekâright next to the mask line.
âThere. All better.â
He touched the spot theatrically, as if testing it. âHuh. Youâre right. Painâs already fading.â
âGood,â you said, crouching to rummage through the small med kit you always carried. âBecause now Iâm still going to patch you up, whether you like it or not.â
âBossy,â he teased, though he obeyed when you gestured for him to sit.
âAlive,â you countered, gently peeling back the edge of his suit to reveal the forming bruise. He hissed at the cool antiseptic wipe, and you couldnât resist a little grin. âWhat was that about not being dramatic?â
He tilted his head back, closing his eyes, smirk tugging at his mouth. âFine. Maybe a little dramatic.â
You worked quietly for a minute, fingers careful and practiced. And yet, you couldnât ignore the way he was watching you when you glanced upâthe way the humor softened into something warmer.
When you finally taped the bandage into place, you leaned back with a satisfied nod. âThere. All fixed.â
Dick smiled at you, softer now, genuine. âGuess I got both after all.â
You rolled your eyes, but your chest warmed anyway. âDonât push your luck, Birdie.â
He chuckled, standing with only a slight wince this time. âWhat, me? Never.â
And as the two of you set off across the rooftops again, you knew patrol would never be quiet. But with him, you didnât really mind.
Content: Space AU, Tamaranean!Kori, Alien!Dick, Human!Reader, Humans are Space Orcs, 3.4k words
Warnings: Serious Injuries, Aliens :3
Authorâs Note: Humans are Space Orcs but in a dickori context :D
The stars were rotting again.
Or perhaps that was just because his vision was stinging with blood and tears.
Richard D1(k) Gray-Sun would never see his adoptive father ever again.
The mission was supposed to be in and out. Simple and quick.
So why was D1(k) bleeding out white ichor?
He could feel the prickling of blood loss in the very tips of his limbs, all four slender arms barely able to drag him across the cold, groaning floor toward the escape hatch. His breath rasped in his throat, too thick with fluid, too shallow to keep him conscious much longer.
The thundering of armored steps barely reached him through the ringing in his earsâbut D1(k) knew: if he didnât move, he would die.
A shadow moved just ahead. Fast. Too fast. His first instinct was to bare his teeth.
Human.
They moved like lightning. Clothes torn, blood not theirs, a dented shock-collar sparking faintly around their neck. Their expression was unreadable, even as they paused mid-sprint and turned toward him.
Their gaze locked.
D1(k)âs upper hands clenched, even as the lower pair curled uselessly near his ribs.
Humans werenât supposed to be this close to civilized space, much less alive. But he remembered the whispers from Bruceâs deep files. About what humanity could do when cornered. About how fast they adapted. About how dangerous they were.
So when the human walked toward him, expression unreadable, D1(k) flinched.
âI donât have anything,â he rasped in his native tongue, then switched to the stuttering Common Trade Speech. âLet me die.â
The human didnât answer. Not with words.
They grabbed two of his armsârough, imprecise, but not cruelâand hauled him upright with strength no baseline creature their size should have had. He hissed, more from shock than pain.
âLetâgoââ His limbs flailed. âYou donât understandâIâmââ
âShut up.â The humanâs voice was hoarse but grounded. âYouâre bleeding out. So either I drag you into that pod and you owe me, or I leave you here and you die. Pick fast.â
He froze.
The human glared.
Something cold clattered down the hall behind them. They both looked.
Without another word, the human slung one of his arms over their shoulders, half-dragged, half-carried him toward the nearest escape pod. The door slammed shut behind them a moment before the hallway lit up with gunfire.
The pod sealed with a hiss and a lock. For a moment, there was only silence.
Then the klaxons started.
Red lights pulsed overhead. Systems flared to life in a language the human didnât recognize. D1(k) slumped in the corner, barely conscious, ichor dripping in pale rivulets down his abdomen and arms, staining the steel floor like oil on water.
The human stared at the console.
Alien.
Unintelligible.
Figures.
âI donât suppose you know how to fly this thing?â they muttered to the bleeding creature in the corner. Their tone was dry, sharp-edged from exertion and the sting of smoke still clinging to their throat.
D1(k)âs eyelids fluttered. His voice came thin but urgent: âTop-left. Panel. Green rune. Press.â
They hesitated only a second before obeying. The display shimmered, shifting through layers of script until an interface appeared. A crude one, maybe for emergencies or training.
âInput coordinates,â a synthetic voice barked in monotone Common.
âI donâtââ
D1(k)âs eyes flared faintly. He dragged himself forward with one trembling upper hand, fingers slick with blood.
âMove.â His voice broke, but there was a command in itâferal and urgent.
The human shifted aside, letting him tap in something incomprehensible. Their eyes caught the second panel he accessedâfaint green pulsing beneath his hand, flickering between symbols. One command was longer. His palm lingered there.
âWhat was that?â
âSignal,â he said hoarsely. âEmergency beacon. To my father.â
âYou just led someone straight to us.â
He didnât argue.
He slumped back, exhaling a sharp hiss through clenched teeth. âBetter him than who was coming down that corridor.â
Fair.
The ship lurched as autopilot engaged. A low hum filled the space as they were pulled into a jump vector.
D1(k) coughed, then slumped entirely.
âHey.â They moved fast, catching his head before it hit the floor. His blood was still flowingâno sign of clotting, no slowing either. Their hands shook, just slightly, but not from fear.
Training. Instinct. Whatever they'd been before the prison, it hadnât made them soft.
They tore the sleeve from their uniform and pressed it hard against the worst woundâover his side, where something had burned through both armor and muscle.
He jerked.
âDonât move. Youâll bleed faster.â
âNo clotting,â he whispered, eyes fluttering. âWrong biology.â
âThen bleed slower,â they snapped. âLet me try.â
They wrapped the cloth tighter, then looped it beneath his arm for compression, keeping him half upright. Their hands were stained pale with his blood nowâmilky, luminous, too strange to be comforting.
D1(k) blinked up at them. âWhy?â
They didnât answer at first.
Then, in a voice low and furious: âYou were going to die. Right in front of me. And Iâdonât know whyâbut I didnât want to watch that happen.â
His breathing hitched. The lights above flickered blue, signaling the jump sequence had stabilized.
They sat in silence after that. Just the hum of engines and the quiet drip of starborn blood.
He shouldâve passed out by now.
The logical centers of his mindâtrained by T1-M, sharpened by warâwere telling him the math didnât add up. Too much fluid lost. Heart rate shallow. Muscles locking.
And yet.
He was awake.
Half-slumped in the corner of the escape pod, too weak to lift his head, but lucid enough to watch.
The human was pacing now. Or maybe that was the ship spinning. Hard to tell.
Their face was drawn, streaked with soot and dried blood. Not theirs. Probably. Their hands, however, were busyâripping apart storage crates, pulling emergency medpacks apart like theyâd done it before. Familiar. Fluid.
Not trained, but experienced.
They paused now and then to glance at himâtight, sharp glances like they were expecting him to die mid-sentence. Or explode. He wasnât sure which.
When they knelt beside him again, cloth in hand, D1(k) flinched.
The human froze. âIâm not going to hurt you.â
He blinked. âYou... already did.â
They grimaced. âFair.â
The cloth was cool when it pressed to his brow. Not for healingâjust to clean away the streaks of ichor from his vision. They worked methodically. Gently. Like they'd done it before, for someone who mattered.
D1(k) watched them through heavy lashes. His heartbeat was off rhythm now. Too fast. Or too slow.
âYou treat me,â he murmured, âlike Iâm one of you.â
They snorted. âYou donât bite, I donât stab. Thatâs the deal.â
âThat is... not a common deal.â
The human shrugged. âYou werenât trying to kill me. Thatâs rare. Maybe Iâm sentimental.â
He stared at them. âYouâre... human.â
âYeah. Got that part covered.â
âYour species is classified as highly dangerous. Violent. Unstable. Too unpredictable for diplomacy.â
âSounds about right.â
He blinked slowly. âWhy save me?â
The human didnât answer right away.
Instead, they leaned back on their haunches, wiping their hands on what remained of their tattered sleeve. âI was dying in that place long before you ever got there. Doesnât matter what I am. Doesnât matter what you are. You were hurt. So I helped.â
He felt something unfamiliar twist in his gut. It wasnât pain. It wasnât instinct. It was... something else.
Hope, maybe.
Or delusion from blood loss.
âYou could be lying,â he said softly, one corner of his mouth twitching. âMaybe youâre keeping me alive to eat me later.â
That actually made the human laugh. It startled him, how normal it soundedâshort, tired, human.
âTrust me,â they said. âYou look like youâd taste like motor oil and condescension.â
That startled a huff from his chest. Something almost like a laugh.
They smiled, then pulled a thermal blanket from a storage bin and tucked it around his lower arms without a word.
For now, D1(k) let them.
If he died, heâd die with the strangest creature in the galaxy at his side.
And somehow... that felt better than dying alone.
The silence of space didnât last.
An alarm blaredâsharp and sudden, ripping through the pod like a scream. The human jolted to their feet, eyes scanning wildly.
D1(k) tried to lift his head but failed.
âWhat⌠now?â he rasped.
The human grabbed the console. âI thinkâweâre hitting something. Debris field maybeâ?â
âImpossible,â he slurred. âAutopilot would have reroutedâŚâ
A lurch threw them both to the floor.
Another alarm. Red lights this time.
Outside the podâs window, light flaredâchunks of twisted metal and asteroid fragments streaking past them like burning confetti.
The human staggered to the console again. âIt's pulling us downâgravitational tetherâsome moon's got us!â
âNo⌠noâcancel vectorââ D1(k) tried to reach for the secondary override, but he couldnât lift even one arm now.
The human caught him just before his head smacked the floor again. âDonât move. Iâve got it.â
They turned back to the console, hands flying. Not elegant. Not precise. But determined. They mashed controls, switched dials, cursed under their breathâ
And then the pod screamed.
Metal shrieked. Something exploded overhead. The stars outside spun once, twiceâ
And then they were falling.
The crash was less like impact and more like being ripped in half by gravity itself. The pod slammed into the surface with a bone-jarring crunch, bounced once, twice, then skidded violently across the landscape before finally stopping, half-embedded in what looked like violet sand.
Silence returned.
A long, ringing, painful silence.
The human coughed from somewhere above him, then let out a breath that was half a laugh.
âWell,â they wheezed. âWe made it.â
D1(k) cracked one eye open. âDefine âmade.ââ
They looked down at him. Their face was bruised, blood on their temple, but their eyes were clear. Alert.
âShipâs totaled. Comms are dead. No nav. No idea where we are.â
âSo⌠stranded.â
âYeah.â
They looked around the small, crooked cabinâwalls groaning with pressure shifts, sparks spitting from the console, the air already tasting stale.
Then, a soft: âYou still bleeding?â
âYes.â
âYou still breathing?â
âBarely.â
They nodded. âThen youâre stuck with me.â
D1(k) closed his eyes. âI was afraid youâd say that.â
They grinned down at him, exasperated and unrepentant.
âYou're lucky,â they said. âI donât make a habit of rescuing aliens. But you? Youâre growing on me.â
The podâs hull still groaned beneath them, settling unevenly into the violet sands of the moonâs surface.
D1(k) lay against the cold wall, fingers twitching as the white ichor seeped slowly from a ragged wound. Every breath was a shallow battle. His four arms twitched with weakness, and the sting of loss lingered like a ghost.
The human, on the other hand, was already uprightâsteady as stone, eyes sharp and alert.
They shrugged, eyes scanning the horizon, their voice steady but tinged with something wild. âAdrenaline. Fight or flight. Been running since before I could walk, remember? Ship crash is nothing compared to what Iâve been through.â
He tried to lift an arm, the effort making his vision swim. âThis terrain⌠unfamiliar.â
âYeah, itâs weird. But manageable.â
The human stepped outside. The door hissed open slowly, revealing a landscape that shimmered under twin sunsâa harsh, alien desert of violet sand dunes and jagged obsidian rock formations, framed by a sky streaked with swirling auroras.
âYour species doesnât make this kind of place, huh?â
D1(k) managed a weak nod.
âFigures.â
They paused, eyes narrowing. âWe need shelter. Or we die out here.â
D1(k) struggled to sit up, propping himself against the podâs threshold. âI canât go far.â
They glanced back, a flicker of concern softening their fierce expression. âIâll go. Keep the pod stable. Try not to bleed out.â
He grimaced. âHelpful.â
They gave a curt smile, then strode out into the alien wilderness, boots sinking into the violet sand with practiced ease. Their silhouette cut sharp against the swirling skyâhuman, ragged, alive.
As they disappeared over the nearest dune, D1(k) called softly, âT1-M Drayâkh⌠BRU-S Ynâe⌠If you receive this signal⌠find me.â
The words slipped from his lips as much a prayer as a command.
The humanâs footsteps faded into the distance.
And the strange, fragile bond between them held, suspended in the thin alien air.
The human reappeared over the crest of the violet dune, slow nowâno longer fueled by adrenaline, every step heavy and deliberate.
Their clothes were torn and stained, streaked with dried blood and sand that caught in their tangled hair. The ferocity was still there, but the fire had dimmed, replaced by exhaustion that weighed their limbs like lead.
But they werenât alone.
Behind them, framed against the swirling auroras, came a figure graceful and radiantâa tall, lithe woman with striking golden eyes and hair the color of sunlit amber. She moved with effortless ease despite the harsh terrain, carrying a compact pack that clinked softly with every step.
D1(k) blinked, struggling to lift his head. His breath rasped; his body screamed with the effort.
âWhoâŚâ he croaked, voice cracking. âWho is that?â
The human glanced back, wiping sweat and grit from their brow. âFound her in the debris field.â
D1(k) frowned. âDebris field was a battlefield. Two ships, locked in combat. Thisââ he gestured weakly around them ââis a deserted moon.â
The human nodded. âThatâs what I thought too. But she crashed here too. Another escape pod. Lucky, maybe. Or cursed.â
Kori smiled warmly, kneeling beside him and reaching into her pack with deft fingers. âHello, Richard D1(k) Gray-Sun,â she said cheerfully, brushing the dried blood from his arm with surprising gentleness.
He blinked. âYou know me?â
She chuckled. âIâve heard of you. News travels fast across the Tameranian sectors.â
D1(k) tried to speak again, but a wave of dizziness washed over him. He clutched at the ground, breathing shallow.
The human crouched nearby, watching, silent.
Kori pulled a sleek med-kit from her pack, quickly applying pressure bandages and administering an alien coagulant that shimmered faintly as it worked.
âBetter?â Kori asked, eyes bright.
D1(k) gave a faint nod. âYes⌠no longer slippingâŚâ
The human wiped their face with the back of a hand, breathing heavy. âIâm no medic. I justâdid what I could.â
Kori looked at them with something like gratitude.
D1(k) glanced between the twoâone fierce, raw and bloodied; the other serene, assured, and clearly experienced.
Neither had spoken the humanâs name.
And for once, Dick wasnât sure if that was a good thing.
The alien moonâs twin suns had long dipped beneath the jagged horizon, leaving the landscape bathed in eerie violet twilight. The three of them huddled inside a makeshift shelter â a crude tent woven from the remnants of the escape podsâ hulls and salvaged fabric.
D1(k) lay wrapped in Koriâs careful bandages, his breathing steadier but shallow. Kori sat nearby, humming a quiet Tameranian lullaby, her golden eyes scanning the shadows beyond their fragile refuge.
The human lay apart, curled on a thin blanket, the sharp lines of their jaw tense even in sleep.
Thenâ
A sudden snap.
A low growl from outside.
The humanâs eyes snapped open, dark and alert.
Silent as a shadow, they rose, eyes flicking toward the darkness beyond the tent flap.
Before D1(k) or Kori could move, the human had slipped outside.
A flash of movement, low to the ground.
A snarling beast, its coat shimmering with a spectral blue sheen, fur bristling with energy that seemed to ripple like heat on a desert.
The creatureâa Moonsheilkâlunged.
The humanâs hand flashed, a blade appearing as if conjured from shadow and starlight. A clean strike, swift and brutal.
The beast collapsed, a spray of iridescent red blood staining the violet sand.
The human wiped their blade, then raised a hand in a careless wave as D1(k) and Kori emerged from the tent, faces pale with concern.
âItâs fine,â the human said, voice low and steady, though blood dripped from their fingers. âThey come for you if you look weak.â
Koriâs eyes widened, clearly unsettled, but she nodded slowly.
D1(k) said nothing, still trying to catch his breath.
The human returned to their blanket, curling up as if nothing had happened.
Within moments, they were asleep againâleaving the two aliens staring after them, dumbfounded and wary.
The violet sands outside the tent shimmered faintly beneath the alien stars, casting long shadows that flickered and danced with the whispering night winds.
Inside, the makeshift shelter was silent except for the steady, shallow breaths of two restless souls.
D1(k) shifted carefully, testing the strength in his limbs. The bandages were tight but holding.
Kori sat cross-legged beside him, her golden eyes reflecting the soft glow of the small emergency light.
âIs that⌠common?â he asked quietly, voice hoarse. âThe creature. The Moonsheilk?â
Kori sighed, a soft smile playing at her lips. âNot common. Dangerous, though. Territorial. They hunt in packs, but one alone can take down a traveler unprepared.â
He studied her face, faint admiration in his tired eyes. âAnd the humanââ
She nodded thoughtfully. âThey fight like a cornered beast. Fierce. Relentless. Iâve seen warriors like that in battle, but never one so small, so⌠alone.â
D1(k) exhaled slowly, the weight of his own vulnerability settling over him. âThey saved me.â
Koriâs gaze softened. âThey did. And yet, they carry their own secrets. I wonder what ghosts chase them here.â
He looked away toward the flickering shadows beyond the tent flap. âI do not even know their name.â
Kori reached out, her hand brushing his arm gentlyâa quiet reassurance in the vast alien silence.
âMaybe,â she said softly, ânames are not always the first thing people share when survival is at stake.â
D1(k) met her eyes, a small, weary smile forming. âPerhaps you are right.â
They sat like that for a long momentâtwo strangers bound by circumstance, sharing the unspoken hope that the dawn might bring answers⌠or at least, safety.
The first pale light of the twin suns crept over the jagged horizon, painting the violet sands in soft hues of lavender and gold.
Inside the battered shelter, D1(k) stirred, the ache in his limbs a dull throb rather than sharp pain.
Kori was already awake, her golden eyes watching the horizon, alert and serene.
But the human?
They were nowhere to be found.
Curious and cautious, D1(k) and Kori slipped out into the chill morning air.
A thin wisp of smoke curled upward near a cluster of sharp rocks.
There, crouched low with practiced ease, was the humanâbarefoot, their clothes still streaked with dried blood and sandâmethodically roasting strips of moonsheilk meat over a small, carefully contained fire.
They moved with a quiet efficiency, turning the meat slowly, their eyes focused but calm.
D1(k) glanced at Kori, who gave a barely perceptible nod.
Without a word, the human pulled a handful of the roasted meat asideâenough for threeâand laid it carefully on a flat stone.
Still silent, they gestured toward the makeshift meal.
Kori approached, accepting a piece with a grateful smile.
D1(k) hesitated, then took one as well, the warmth of the cooked meat a stark contrast to the alien chill in his veins.
The human didnât meet their eyes, didnât ask if they wanted help or company.
Yet, somehow, this quiet act of shared survival spoke louder than words.
The last remnants of the moonsheilk meat smoldered softly on the flat stone, filling the crisp morning air with a smoky warmth.
The three sat in a loose triangle, the silence between them heavy but no longer oppressive.
Kori broke it first, her golden eyes meeting the humanâs sharp gaze.
âIâm Kori,â she said gently, voice smooth and steady. âFrom the Tameranian sector.â
The human shifted but didnât respond immediately.
D1(k) glanced at Kori, then cleared his throat, voice still hoarse. âI am Richard D1(k) Gray-Sun. Adopted son of BRU-S Ynâe.â
The humanâs eyes flicked between themâunreadable, wary.
After a long pause, their voice came low and rough. âCall me whatever you want.â
Kori smiled softly, understanding that some names are armor as much as identity.
D1(k) offered a faint smile in return. âThen perhaps a name is the next thing to find.â
The humanâs lips twitchedâalmost a smirkâbut they looked away, eyes fixed on the distant horizon where twin suns climbed higher.
For now, names were fragile things. But in this strange, alien world, they were a beginning.
Content: No Smut, Zeta!Reader (what the heck is a Zeta?), 3.9k words
Warnings: Omegaverse
Authorâs Note: Batfamilyâs Reaction to Dickâs attachment to this other pack
Consequences
Part 1 â Part 2 â Part 3
It wasnât supposed to be an intervention.
But this was the Batcave, and nothing happened by accident.
Dick had barely made it three steps past the Zeta-jetâs landing pad when he was met by a wall of quiet, watchful silence.
Jason leaned against the railing, arms crossed.
Tim sat on the lower console steps, typingâbut his eyes were locked on Dick, not the screen.
Damian was perched above, like a hawk waiting to pounce.
And Bruce⌠Bruce stood at the center of them all, unreadable, jaw tight.
âLong patrol?â Bruce asked, voice even.
Dick exhaled through his nose and dropped his gloves on the nearest workstation. âSomething like that.â
âFunny,â Jason said. âBecause weâve been covering your sectors for four nights straight.â
Tim added, âYou missed three intel briefings, skipped the GCPD meeting, and havenât checked in with Babs once.â
Damian didnât say a word, but his nostrils flared slightlyâand he gave the faintest growl under his breath.
Dick didnât need a mirror to know what they smelled.
He still carried her scent.
Warmth. Hearth. Forest wind and something not Alpha, not Beta, not Omegaâbut something other, something soft and ancient and wrapped around him like a claim.
The scent of her hands against his skin. Her wrist brushing behind his ear. Children tugging at his jacket. Nesting wool clinging to his neck.
Jasonâs voice broke the tension. âYou smell like youâve got a pack of your own.â
Tim looked up. âLike youâve bonded.â
Dickâs jaw flexed. âI havenât.â
âNo?â Bruceâs voice was calm, but sharp. âThen explain the shift in your scent. The way your cycles are syncing. The absence. The need.â
Dick tensed. He knew what they were smelling. What they were feeling, even if they didnât have the words for it. Scent was truth. There was no hiding what the body already knew.
Damianâs voice was low and scathing. âYou are the firstborn. The eldest. Your loyalty should be here.â
âI am loyal,â Dick snapped, sharper than intended.
âTo what?â Jason shot back. âBecause itâs starting to feel like itâs not us.â
The words hit harder than expected.
And for a moment, he didnât answer.
He just⌠stood there. Breathing in his own scentâthe scent that wasnât just his anymore.
He could feel the ghost of her chirp in his ear. The soft press of her hand as she tucked a blanket around a child. The way the children clung to him like he belonged.
And he realized, quietly, painfully:
They were right.
He didnât belong here anymore. Not fully.
But neither did he belong there. Not yet.
ââŚIâm figuring it out,â he finally said.
Bruce took a step forward, expression unreadable. âThen figure it out soon. Before you lose your place in both.â
The sanctuary was quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of night-lights strung along the halls. Most of the children had already curled into their nests, lulled to sleep by the gentle cadence of chirps and clicks. But she waited for him, as she always didâon the worn bench just inside the infirmary doors, a blanket folded in her lap.
He stepped in, slower than usual. Shoulders tight. Jaw set.
Her head tilted the moment she caught his scent.
Not the familiar warmth he usually carried from the city, nor the sharper undertone of rain and rooftops. This scent was conflicted. Coated in anxiety. Regret. Guilt.
She didnât askânot with words.
Instead, she opened the blanket in silent invitation.
Dick sank down beside her, his eyes tired. âThey knew.â
A soft click from her throat.
âMy scent,â he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. âThey noticed. Asked questions. Said I wasâdifferent. Like Iâd bonded.â He let out a humorless breath. âJason said I smelled like I had my own pack.â
She watched him, still and quiet, the way only a Zeta could beâreading his breath, the shift of his muscles, the invisible weight he carried.
âI told them I hadnât,â he said. âBut⌠it didnât feel true. Not really.â
A long pause.
Then, gently, she reached up and brushed her fingertips behind his earâpressing lightly over his scent gland.
Not marking. Not claiming.
Just⌠acknowledging.
His throat bobbed, and he leaned into the touch without thinking.
She chirped once, soft and low. A sound meant for reassurance, the same one she used with frightened pups.
I see you. I know. Youâre not alone.
Dick closed his eyes.
ââŚI didnât mean for this to happen,â he said, voice barely above a whisper. âBut being hereâit feels like breathing. Like Iâm me again.â
Another pause.
She chirped again, a little firmer this time, and touched her own wrist to his.
Two little ones crept into the shared common room while he was sitting on the edge of the low couch, elbows on his knees, still dressed in last nightâs armor. He hadnât gone back to the city. Hadnât wanted to.
The smallest pupâNiaâclimbed onto the couch beside him without a word and pressed her cheek to his side.
He blinked. âHey, kiddoââ
She clicked softly, a tiny broken rhythm that didnât need translation. Her nose wrinkled.
âYou smell sad,â she said, and nestled closer.
Before he could respond, another child crawled up behind him and gently touched the scent gland at his wrist.
Then another reached for his shoulder.
Little hands. Little chirps.
He hadnât said a word. Hadnât told them anything.
But they knew. Pack knew.
Instinctively, they surrounded himânot to demand answers, but to offer comfort in the way only pups could: warmth, closeness, scent.
He found himself laughing, just a little, as they climbed over him like determined barnacles.
âAlright,â he whispered, pulling them close. âOkay. I get it. Iâm yours too.â
From across the room, she stood quietly in the doorway, arms folded. Watching. Her scent pulsed in soft waves of approval.
Not one of the infirmaryâs standard-issue emergency throws, but a thick, navy blue one from his apartment. Heâd brought it back after a patrol, tucked it under his arm like it was nothing. No one commentedânot even her.
He folded it at the edge of one of the storage rooms they werenât using yet. Cleared out the crates. Dragged in a small mattress. Then he added a pillow. Another blanket. A hoodie he didnât wear anymore.
It was instinctualâquiet, unspoken. The way he rearranged the space to feel safe. To feel like home.
By the end of the week, heâd surrounded the mattress with soft, scent-heavy itemsâsome his, some hers. One of the children had even slipped their own stuffed animal into the nest: a battered, one-eyed bear with matted fur and a flower-patterned bowtie.
He didnât question it.
He just left it there.
It was Nia who found him fluffing the edges.
She watched him in silence from the doorway, her little hands curled around the frame. Her nose twitched.
ââŚAre you making a nest?â she asked, curious, not accusatory.
Dick paused. Caught.
ââŚYeah,â he admitted softly. âI guess I am.â
Her eyes lit up.
âCan we make one too?â
By afternoon, heâd been conscripted by five of the younger kids to help them build nests of their own. The playroom was a mess of blankets, pillows, old clothing, and the occasional stuffed toy. He didnât mind. He showed them how to layer warmth first, then softness. How to surround it with things that smelled like comfort. Like home.
âYour nest is your safe place,â he told them, gently nudging a pillow into a tighter curl. âItâs not just where you sleep. Itâs where your pack can find you when things are too loud. Too big.â
The children chirped to each other in soft echoes, weaving their own little sounds into the nest as they worked. She watched from the hallway again, heart swelling with something tender and raw. Watching him teach them the language of belonging.
It was late. The halls were quiet, the children long since tucked into their nests, soft clicks and breathing the only sounds in the stillness.
Dick moved through the infirmary with practiced ease, barefoot, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows. Patrol had ended hours ago, but he hadnât gone home.
He hadnât wanted to.
He never did anymore.
He paused by the laundry line, where freshly washed clothes were still pinned to dry. His hand hovered over a few pieces absently before his fingers brushed cottonâsoft, familiar. One of her cardigans. The pale green one she always wore when tending to the smaller children, frayed at the cuffs, still faintly smelling like her and chamomile.
He didnât think.
He just took it.
Back in the small room heâd claimed for himself, the nest was still warm from the last time the children had piled into it that afternoon. A half-colored page was tucked between pillows. One of the kidsâ toy dinosaurs had lost its tail and now lived as a nest guardian, toothy and vigilant.
Dick held the cardigan for a long moment. Ran his thumb along the sleeve.
He could still hear her voice in his mindâsoft clicks, low hums, the way she calmed even the most restless pup. How she made even him feel steady, even when nothing else did.
He pulled the cardigan close. Tucked it carefully into the edge of his nest, just near the place where he always rested his head.
Her scent settled into the fabric like a balm. Chamomile and warmth and something hers.
He curled beside it without realizing he was seeking comfort.
And for the first time in a long while, sleep came easily.
The argument had started like all of them did: someone accusing, someone deflecting, someone walking away.
This time, Dick didnât walk.
âYou havenât been on patrol in weeks,â Jason snapped, arms crossed over his chest. âYou disappear for days and come back smelling like someone elseâs territory, someone elseâs packââ
âI have a pack,â Dick said.
The words stopped the room cold.
Tim blinked. Damian froze mid-step. Barbara went still behind the computer, lips parting slightly. Even Bruce looked shaken, as if those words meant more than anyone wanted to admit.
âYou what?â Damian finally bit out, his voice a mixture of betrayal and disbelief.
âI said, I have a pack,â Dick repeated, quieter now. Not a defense. Not an excuse. Just the truth.
âI didnât mean to keep it from you,â he continued, âbut I didnât know how to explain it. It wasnât a decision. It just⌠happened. I didnât go looking for it.â
âWho are they?â Barbara asked carefully. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were sharp. Searching.
âTheyâre civilians. Mostly. The kidsââ Dick hesitated, breath catching. âThere are children. Pups. Hurt ones. Scared ones. She takes care of them. And Iââ
He looked down at his hands, as though trying to reconcile the blood on them with the softness heâd found elsewhere.
âI help. I bring them things. I teach them. I protect them.â
âYou love them,â Tim said quietly.
Dick met his eyes.
âYes.â
There it was.
Raw. Honest. Unapologetic.
âI love them,â he said again. âI love her.â
Silence.
It was Damian who broke it this time, his jaw tight, throat working as if the words scraped his pride just to say them.
ââŚAnd they love you back?â
Dickâs smile was soft and sure. âThey chose me. Every day.â
Jason cursed under his breath and turned away, but didnât leave. Barbara leaned back slowly, her expression unreadable. Tim sat heavily on the arm of the couch, like he was letting it sink in.
Bruce⌠didnât speak. But his shoulders sagged just slightly. Not in disappointment.
In relief.
Because maybeâfor the first time in a long whileâhis son wasnât just surviving.
Boots crunching gravel, helmet tucked under one arm, tension radiating off him like heat. The building was tucked behind a crumbling fence, half-hidden in a forgotten part of the city. He mightâve missed it entirely if he didnât have Dickâs scent memorized.
The moment he stepped inside, everything hit him at once.
Warmth. Scent. Sound.
Pup-laughter. Someone humming. The faint scent of chamomile, citrus, andâ
Pack.
A bond not his.
A sharp click echoed from the hallwayâlow, cautious. Protective.
Jason turned, hand twitching toward the gun he wasnât going to draw.
She stood there.
Barefoot. Calm. Head tilted just slightly, studying him not like a threat⌠but like a puzzle. Her scent was steady, grounding, but there was an edge to itâa warning, more instinct than posture.
âJason Todd,â she said, voice low but sure. âI was wondering when one of you would come sniffing around.â
Jason blinked.
ââŚYouâre the Zeta.â
âAnd youâre the one who carries ghosts behind your eyes,â she said simply, tone not cruel, but not soft either. She didnât flinch under his stare. âDo you always glare at the people your brother loves?â
Jason frowned. âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
âMm,â she hummed. âYou came looking for something. Dick? Or proof?â
Jason didnât answer.
A small body barreled into her leg thenâone of the pups, maybe five or six, wild curls and grubby fingers. He clung to her skirt and peeked up at Jason with big eyes.
âHeâs mad,â the child whispered.
She knelt and brushed his cheek gently. âNo, sweetling. Heâs just loud inside his head.â
Jason stared. Then, softer: âYou always talk like that?â
She glanced back, the barest ghost of a smile on her lips. âOnly when it matters.â
Another child scampered in and darted up to Jason before he could step back. âAre you Nightwingâs brother?â
Jason looked down. The kidâs nose scrunched up. âYou smell weird.â
He huffed. âYouâre not wrong.â
âCome on,â she said, standing again. âYou came all this way. You may as well see the nest.â
Jason followed, silent, as she led him deeper into the homeâthrough warm halls, soft blankets, scattered toys. He saw Dickâs touch everywhere: hand-drawn star charts, patched-up furniture, a hoodie slung over a chair, clearly loved by more than one small body.
She opened the door to a side room, where a nest had been constructedâhuge, layered, clearly meant for more than one person. Jasonâs eyes caught on a soft green cardigan near the center.
Something hers.
The scent made sense now.
âYou should stay for dinner,â she said, not looking at him. âThe pups keep asking if Nightwingâs brothers are real.â
ââŚThey think Iâm a story?â
She finally turned back to him, eyes steady.
âNo. They think youâre important to him.â
Jason swallowed.
âYeah. Alright,â he muttered. âIâll stay. But Iâm not washing dishes.â
She laughedâgenuine and brightâand for a moment, the heavy thing in Jasonâs chest shifted. Not gone. But lighter.
Maybe this place wasnât what he expected.
Maybe⌠it was better.
Jason lingered near the archway, pretending to admire a faded painting tacked to the wall. The Zeta had disappeared into the kitchen, her voice drifting back in soft pulses, like the tideâcalling names, gently redirecting the chaos of dinner prep. Pups skittered by with toy blasters and mismatched socks. One of them stopped to offer Jason a sticky crayon. He took it with a gruff nod.
And thenâ
The front door creaked open.
No announcement. No dramatic entrance.
Just the whisper of boots on worn floorboards.
Jason turned his head.
Dick stepped inside, brushing off the light mist clinging to his jacket. His hair was damp, eyes tired, shoulders loose in that way they only ever were when he wasnât pretending to be fine. A paper bag was tucked under one arm. Something homemade peeked outâa bright blue scarf with shaky embroidery.
He didnât see Jason yet.
But someone else did.
The smallest pup squealed. âNightwing!!â
The moment shattered into joy.
Suddenly, Dick had arms full of childrenâtiny bodies flung at him from every direction, laughter erupting as he staggered back, barely catching them all.
âI brought marshmallows this time,â he said, grinning like an idiot as he held up the bag. âNo tiny riot over hot cocoa tonight, alright?â
âYou forgot last time!â a curly-haired girl accused, jabbing a finger at him.
âDid not,â Dick said, mock wounded. âYou just beat me home.â
Jason watched, frozen, as more pups crowded around. Not because they were told to. Not because he brought gifts.
Because they missed him.
And then she entered.
The Zeta.
She didnât run to him like the pups did. She didnât need to.
Dick turned the second she stepped into the roomâdrawn to her like gravity. The way his smile softened, the way she tilted her head, already reading him. Her eyes swept over him, cataloging the tension in his shoulders, the faint circles beneath his eyes.
âYou didnât sleep again,â she said quietly.
âI did,â he lied.
âMm,â she hummed, stepping closer. âLiar.â
He ducked his head. She reached up and, without hesitation, rubbed her wrist gently along the curve of his neckâjust where shoulder met collarbone.
A slow, soft scenting.
Intimate. Instinctive.
Dick breathed in like he needed it more than air.
He returned the gesture a second laterâbehind her ear, slow and reverent. One of the older pups casually turned away, already used to the quiet rituals that bound their makeshift family together.
Jason couldnât move.
Heâd seen Dick broken, angry, laughing, grieving, barely alive.
Heâd never seen him belonging like this.
The pups were climbing him again, dragging him toward the main room where pillows had been flung into a sloppy nest. Dick laughed, letting them cling, ruffling hair and whispering things Jason couldnât hearâbut the Zeta did. She was still watching him, gaze half-lidded, protective and affectionate all at once.
She didnât look surprised to see Dick like this.
She looked home.
And it hit Jason like a gut punch:
They didnât just love Dick.
They trusted him.
Not the mask. Not the title.
Him.
Amid the laughter and the scramble of little feet and warm voices, Dickâs eyes suddenly flicked to the shadow near the doorway.
Jason.
He was still thereâleaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching everything with that unreadable expression.
Dickâs smile faltered.
His body stiffened in a way that wasnât just surprise. It was guardedâa flicker of old instincts rising to the surface.
For a heartbeat, the roomâs warmth seemed to cool around him.
She noticed immediately.
Without breaking her calm rhythm, she stepped closer, sliding her hand lightly along his forearmâthe soft, familiar press of her wrist where her scent glands lay.
Her voice was quiet but sure, a steady pulse beneath the noise.
âHeâs family,â she said softly, eyes locking with his.
Dick exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing.
She tilted her head, smiling a littleâsomething small and private, meant only for him.
âLet him watch,â she said. âLet him see.â
Her presence was like a balm, grounding him. The scent she left behindâearthy and warmâwrapped around his senses and quieted the old fears.
Dickâs gaze flickered back to Jason, softer this time.
He stepped forward, a little less tense.
Jason gave the slightest nod, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
The room filled again with the easy noise of childrenâs laughter and murmured greetings.
The heavy door creaked open, and the unmistakable silhouette stepped inside.
Bruce Wayne.
The room seemed to hush instantly, the usual warmth dimming just a fraction beneath his towering presence.
Jason had warned her about himâthe stern gaze, the silent judgmentâbut she didnât flinch.
She was calm, steady, like the eye of a storm.
She was folding laundry when Bruce entered.
Without looking up, she tucked a stray curl behind her ear and continued her task with quiet efficiency.
Bruceâs eyes scanned the roomâthe scattered toys, the nest piled with blankets, the children who froze mid-chirp and peered cautiously from behind her.
He cleared his throat.
âDickâs been gone from patrols,â he said, voice low but firm. âHeâs been unreachable at times.â
She nodded slowly, folding another shirt.
âWeâre aware,â she replied softly.
Bruceâs gaze sharpened. âI wanted to see for myself what kind of⌠pack has taken him.â
She finally met his eyes.
âPack isnât always what you think, Mr. Wayne,â she said, voice steady as stone.
Bruce frowned slightly but said nothing.
She stood and walked toward him, unhurried, the subtle scent of chamomile and earth rising with her.
âThis place isnât just a shelter,â she continued. âItâs a home. For the children. For him.â
One of the pups stepped forward, holding a handmade drawing out shyly.
She smiled and gestured for Bruce to look.
He glanced down, expression softening despite himself.
Dick appeared thenâquiet, barefoot, carrying a small bundle of firewood.
He froze when he saw Bruce.
The room tensed.
But she stepped between them without hesitation.
âWelcome,â she said simply.
Bruceâs lips twitched, almost a smile.
He nodded once.
Then, he looked to Dick.
âThank you for showing me,â he said quietly.
Dick relaxed, and the children resumed their gentle play.
Bruce stayed longer than expected, observing not as a judge, but as a guardian seeing a new kind of family emerge.
