Summary: Dick Grayson, chivalrous and charming as always. But if that kindness leads to annoyance? Especially to a coffee-addict, workaholic that comes in the form of his genius brother. Being Dick’s girlfriend may have some downsides after all.
a/n: Inspired from the comic, Batman: Wayne Family Adventures. Specifically, Big Brother 1 & Big Brother 2. One of my favorite chapters (I just started). So, Enjoy!
Middle Art: Batman: Wayne Family Adventures.
Border: @kodaswrld
Timmy Drake.
Well, Tim Drake, but your boyfriend likes calling him “Timmy.”
He saw you in the park walking around. But you know better. You know the detective family doesn’t just “coincidentally” see people. They seek them out.
And who did it better than the coffee-addict, encyclopedia vigilante?
You walked towards him, put your finger on your chin, inspecting him, “I know that face.”
He scoffed lightly, “Oh, yeah? What does my face say?”
“It’s the ‘your-boyfriend-did-something-again-and-I’m-talking-to-you-to-get-revenge’ look.”
He scratched the back of his neck, “Unfortunately, the accuracy of your deduction is correct.”
You smiled at that, “Walk with me?”
You two started walking aimlessly around the park. He didn’t speak, and you didn’t initiate. It was pure silence—in a good way.
He sighed.
“Does he…leave you?”
You thought for a moment.
You closed your eyes,
“At night? He’s Nightwing, it’s probably a tradition to see him leave. As my boyfriend? He can’t. Or more like I can’t. He locks both of us in a closet, so I can fall in love with him all over again.”
Timmy gagged at this and you giggled.
His eyes look down at the ground, it’s as if it is the most interesting on the planet.
“How about as Dick Grayson?”
Your head snapped towards him.
Before you replied, you found a bench. He sat, but you still kept standing.
You sighed.
“Dick Grayson, huh?”
Timmy looks at you as you speak.
“Sometimes he’s…” you pout.
“A TOTAL ASSHOLE.”
You stomped your foot against the pavement. People were staring at you, and Timmy had to silently apologize to them.
You groaned, “He always leaves! Date night, canceled. Special event, cancelled. WHY? ‘I’m so sorry, dear, Bruce told me to go shopping.’ ‘I have to go, Jason needs me to sharpen his knives.’ ‘Damian is throwing a fit.’ And so on. It’s not even an emergency, it's just someone needs him and he’ll help.”
Timmy quickly nodded and muttered, “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
You groaned even harder. And raised both your arms,
“I DON’T EVEN THINK WE HAD A PROPER DATE NIGHT IN AGES.”
Universe, please hear your prayers.
Timmy blinked slowly, and you copied his reaction. You turned the shade of his Red Robin costume, if that was even possible.
You coughed and looked away.
You looked back at him now, “Enough about me, what did he do this time?”
His shoulders slumped, “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid if you sought out the girlfriend.”
He shook his head, “No, I mean it. Dick and I had plans to go to the arcade. And Damian had asked him if he could take him to the Museum for a school project. And well, I’m here.”
You nodded, inhaled, and finally sat down on the bench.
“I give it a day.”
“What?”
“I give it a day till he realizes his mistake. Probably realized it on his own. Probably with the help of Jason. But he will realize it.”
You opened your left eye to look at Timmy.
“Because you're his little brother.”
That knocked the wind out of Tim’s lungs.
He leaned back even deeper on the bench.
“Then by that logic, you’re his girlfriend.”
You giggled at that. Rational as always.
“Don’t get me wrong, I really do hate it when he does that,”
You looked at the sunset. The bright orange of the day turns into a serene shade of blue. Oh, how you love blue.
“And I know he would change for me if I told him. But that's one of the reasons I love him, you know? An impulsive idiot who will do anything for the people he loves.”
Tim looks up as well. Enjoying the view, even if it was for a short while.
“You're his genius little brother. And he needs to use his brain cells to get to you.”
He smiled at this. Of course his brother’s girlfriend knows the right things at the right time,
“Your boyfriend is such an asshole.”
“Unless there’s a mass breakout at Arkham or something. We’ll probably need to help with that. But otherwise, no interruptions.”
“Sounds perfect to me.”
Tim starts for a moment and started walking again, “Oh, that reminds me,”
Dick looks at Tim, “Hm?”
“Have you had a proper date with your girlfriend?”
“And where did you hear that from?”
“Based on statistics and how frequent you fought with Condiment King—”
“She told you, didn’t she?”
“A correct deduction.”
Dick pouted. Like a kicked chihuahua.
Timmy put both his hands behind his neck, “The only right solution: Go and have dinner with her. She got tired of you always leaving her.”
He added shortly, “After we go to the arcade, of course.”
Dick laughed, “I would do so much more than that, Timmy! I need to set-up a picnic, make sure the Moon shines so bright I see all the emotion in her eyes. Oh! And if someone gets in the way, I would—”
Yep, he would probably lock himself and his girlfriend in a closet for her to fall in love with him again.
You came back home to your and Dick’s shared apartment.
All you wanna do is sleep till you can no longer wake up.
Well, until your prince charming wakes you up with a true love’s kiss.
Yeah, right. There’s a higher possibility that Batman would fall in love with the Joker than your boyfriend coming home early.
Did you leave the kitchen lights on before you left?
Damnit, the electrical bill—
You stopped in your tracks, seeing a familiar silhouette in the kitchen,
“Dick?”
He stops his stirring and looks back at you, “Hello, sweetheart.”
You crossed the kitchen, inspecting what he had made.
“You know how to cook?”
“Is it that hard to believe?”
“Well, you suck at everything else.”
“But you know what you can suck—”
“Dick.”
“Read my mind, sweetheart.”
You pushed him by the shoulder and sat on the counter. You stared at him for a long moment. He continues to stir the food he was preparing.
“Timmy?”
“Yep.”
“And you believe him?”
“He goes to you when he has problems.”
“He goes to me when you become a problem.”
“Same thing.”
He stopped stirring and put his hand on your thigh. He leans in, your foreheads touching.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I should have known—”
“But I didn’t say anything.”
“Still doesn’t mean it’s okay.”
“I’m okay with it.”
Dick cradled your cheek with his unattended hand. You leaned into it. You always do.
Two people that are engrossed with one another don’t define the feelings they have through dates, proximity, gifts, or even, words. Sometimes, the person can leave for long periods of time. You don’t know whether they’re hurt, cheated, or become unrecognizable. But however long a person leaves or stays is not the worth of their love. It’s the depths that they are willing to make time for one another are what people in love really need.
a/n: Will definitely write more for this comic. Mark my words.
I was wondering if anyone knows this one fic series where reader gets isekaid into a body of Wayne's kinda daughter/step daughter/niece(i dont remember) and she is from the same world as them, but she just been living as a poor woman, but then died or something? And woke up in a different body. And everyone is surprised that their usually rich beach sister/cousin is suddenly very dufferent.
All i really remember is reader getting to eat a cake sadly and then there was even at the gala with Waynes and Joker attack..
content dick grayson x gn! reader, angst, hurt/comfort, slow-burn chronic loneliness and social isolation, memory loss/magically enforced forgetting, emotional distress/panic, mentions of childhood abandonment due to powers, family forgetting the reader’s existence, reader being treated like a stranger/threat by loved ones, themes of being unloved/unseen/forgotten, brief defensive weapon reaction from jason due to forgetting the reader, crying/breakdowns, iImplied long-term trauma
masterlist
word count 9.8k
cursed with forget-me-not powers, you vanish from memory the moment someone looks away—leaving you to live as a ghost in plain sight. dick grayson refuses to let the world erase you, even when loving you means meeting you for the first time again and again. but when zatanna and constantine uncover the curse’s roots, you and dick must learn that being remembered was never meant to be one person’s burden alone.
The first thing Dick Grayson learned about you was that you did not exist. Not in any way that mattered.
There were no police records under your name. No lease agreements. No social media accounts. No old yearbook photos, no hospital records, no credit history, no blurry security footage that stayed useful for longer than a second glance.
You were a smudge in the corner of the world’s eye. A rumour people forgot mid-sentence. A ghost with a pulse.
The first time Dick saw you, you were standing on the edge of a rooftop in Blüdhaven, coat snapping around your legs, face turned toward the city like you were trying to memorise it before it disappeared.
He landed three feet behind you with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent half his life making dramatic entrances and the other half pretending he didn’t enjoy them.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Long way down.”
You didn’t turn around immediately. For one strange second, he thought you hadn’t heard him. Then your shoulders shifted, not quite a flinch, not quite a sigh.
“I know.” Your voice was quiet. Worn thin at the edges.
Dick took a cautious step forward. “You okay?”
That made you laugh. It wasn’t a happy sound. It was small and brittle and gone almost before it reached him.
“People always ask that when they don’t know what else to say.”
“Yeah,” Dick admitted. “But sometimes it works.”
You finally looked at him.
And Dick forgot how to breathe. Not because you were beautiful—though you were, in the strange way lonely things often were, like abandoned churches and winter stars. It was your eyes that caught him. They looked too awake. Too aware. Like you had spent years watching life happen through glass and had long since stopped knocking.
“You’re Nightwing,” you said.
“Depends who’s asking.”
“No one.” Your mouth twitched. “No one ever is.”
Dick frowned. “What’s your name?”
Your expression changed. It wasn’t dramatic. There were no tears, no sudden collapse. But something in your face folded inward, like he had pressed on an old bruise.
“You won’t remember it.”
“I’m pretty good with names.”
“No,” you said. “You’re not.”
That should have been impossible. He should have remembered you saying that.
Later, he wouldn’t. Later, all he would remember was landing on a rooftop, finding nothing, and feeling—absurdly, irrationally—like he had lost someone.
But in that moment, with the wind tangling itself between you and the city glittering beneath, he only tilted his head.
“Try me.”
You watched him for a long moment. Then you told him your name.
It entered him like a secret. Soft. Human. Real.
He repeated it once, carefully, like a promise.
Your eyes flickered. “You shouldn’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make it sound like it matters.”
Dick stepped closer. You stepped back.
Not from fear. Not exactly.
From habit.
“It does matter,” he said.
“You’ll look away,” you whispered. “Everyone does.”
Dick had faced murderers, gods, aliens, assassins, monsters with too many teeth and men with too little mercy. He had been hurt in ways that left scars under the skin. He knew danger. He knew tragedy.
But he didn’t understand the grief in your voice. Not yet.
So he smiled, gentle and warm, the kind of smile that made people believe in sunrise. “Then I won’t.”
You looked at him like he had just offered to hold back the tide with his hands. “You will.”
“Nope.” He tapped two fingers against his domino mask. “Professional watcher. Comes with the job.”
Your mouth trembled. You looked away first.
Just for a second. Just enough.
Dick blinked.
The rooftop was empty.
He straightened, pulse jumping. Why was he on this roof?
He glanced around. No signs of disturbance. No armed suspects. No civilians. Just wind and moonlight and the city humming below.
His comm crackled.
“Nightwing?” Barbara’s voice came through. “You okay? Your vitals spiked.”
Dick put a hand to his chest.
Something hurt. Not physically. Not like a bruise or broken rib. More like grief had stepped behind his ribs and made itself at home.
“I’m fine,” he said, but his voice sounded wrong. “I think.”
“You think?”
Dick scanned the rooftop again.
Nothing. Nobody.
And still.
Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had just broken a promise.
The second time Dick met you, he was prepared. Sort of. Preparation was difficult when he didn’t know what he was preparing for.
He had started noticing gaps in his patrol logs. Not missing time exactly. Missing context.
Three nights in a row, he found himself standing in places he didn’t remember choosing to go. A rooftop near the old clock factory. An alley behind a closed laundromat. The fire escape outside a condemned apartment building where someone had left a blanket, three granola bars, and a cheap paperback tucked inside a milk crate.
The weirdest part was the notes. His notes. Written in his own hand.
DON’T LOOK AWAY. That one had been scrawled across the inside of his wrist in black marker. Another, written on the back of a takeout receipt: ASK THEIR NAME AGAIN. APOLOGISE. A third, typed into his phone and pinned to the top of his notes app: You met someone. You keep forgetting. This is real. Trust yourself.
Dick trusted himself. Mostly. He trusted his instincts. He trusted his body. He trusted the uneasy pull in his gut that led him back to the rooftop where he had first felt that strange ache.
This time, you were sitting on the ledge. You looked exhausted.
“You again,” you said.
Dick froze. Then he slowly held up both hands. “Okay. Great. We’ve met.”
Your eyes flicked to his wrist. DON’T LOOK AWAY had been rewritten there in thicker marker this time, underlined twice.
Your expression did something complicated. “You’re making notes now.”
“I’m a detective,” he said. “We love notes. Notes, trauma, and dramatic lighting.”
You didn’t laugh. Dick’s smile softened.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
That got your attention. “For what?”
“I don’t know yet.” He swallowed. “But I think I owe you one.”
The wind moved between you. You looked so tired that it made him want to sit beside you and stay there until the world stopped being cruel.
“That’s the worst part,” you said. “You always mean it.”
Dick’s chest tightened. “How many times have we had this conversation?”
You looked away over the city. Dick’s entire body went still.
“Hey,” he said quickly. “Look at me.”
You did.
Too late? No. He still remembered. Rooftop. You. Notes on wrist.
Your face had gone blank with resignation.
“You remembered,” you whispered.
“Yeah.” Relief hit him so hard he almost laughed. “Yeah, I remembered.”
Your eyes shone. It was the first time he saw hope on your face. It broke his heart worse than despair.
“My power doesn’t work like most people think,” you said, voice low. “It’s not invisibility. It’s not mind control. It’s… absence. The second someone stops perceiving me, their mind corrects the mistake. I don’t fit. So reality edits me out.”
Dick went very quiet.
“If I turn away,” he said, “I forget you.”
“Yes.”
“If I leave?”
“Yes.”
“If I sleep?”
Your silence answered.
Dick exhaled. A laugh tried to climb up his throat. It failed halfway and became something smaller. “That’s horrible.”
You smiled faintly. “Yeah. Not exactly party trick material.”
“How long?”
You looked down at your hands. “Since I was thirteen.”
The city seemed to dim. Dick thought of thirteen-year-olds. Of Robin. Of scraped knees and bright capes and wanting desperately to be brave. He thought of childhood as a thing already too sharp without adding loneliness so deep it swallowed your name.
“Your family?”
“They forgot first.”
His hands curled into fists. You said it gently, like you were telling him the weather.
“My mom went to answer the phone. When she came back, she screamed because there was a stranger in her kitchen.” You rubbed your thumb over your knuckles. “My dad called the police. My brother hid behind the couch.”
Dick couldn’t speak.
“I tried for a while,” you continued. “I stayed in the house. Left notes. Photos. Videos. They believed something was happening. They just couldn’t believe in me. Every time they looked away, I became a break-in. A haunting. A threat.” Your voice thinned. “So I left.”
Dick moved before he could think better of it. He sat beside you on the ledge, close enough that his shoulder nearly touched yours.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
You looked at him. “You’ll forget.”
“Maybe.”
“You will.”
“Then I’ll remember again.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No,” Dick said. “It isn’t.”
You seemed surprised by that. Good, he thought. You deserved honesty more than comfort wrapped in glitter.
“But it’s something,” he added.
You stared at him for a long time. Then, carefully, like you were reaching toward a flame, you rested your shoulder against his.
Dick did not move. He did not look away.
For twelve minutes, neither of you spoke.
For twelve minutes, you existed.
It became a ritual. A strange, fragile, aching thing.
Dick built systems. Because that was what Bats did when faced with the impossible. They made it into a case file, then a contingency plan, then a moral crisis in a cape. He wrote your name on his arm before patrol. He left notes in every safehouse. He set reminders on his phone that went off every hour.
There is someone you love remembering.
That one had been a mistake.
He didn’t remember writing it. He stared at it for a long time anyway.
Someone you love remembering.
Not someone you need to remember. Not someone you are trying to help.
Someone you love remembering.
The words felt like they had been written by a version of him who knew something he didn’t.
He hated that. He hated that there was a version of himself who knew your favourite tea, your favourite rooftop, the way you liked to sit with your knees pulled up when it rained, the fact that you always cried silently during old movies but pretended you didn’t. He hated that he kept becoming a stranger to you.
He hated, more than anything, the look on your face each time he came back.
The guarded hope. The careful smile. The grief already waiting.
“Hi,” he would say.
And sometimes you would say, “Hi, Dick.” Sometimes you would say, “You forgot again.” Sometimes, on the bad nights, you would say, “Please don’t make me do this.”
Those nights nearly killed him.
Because he did make you do it. Not on purpose. Never on purpose. But he always came back with his notes and his guilt and his stubborn, shining heart, asking you to explain the wound again so he could try to love around it.
One night, you snapped.
It happened in his apartment.
That itself had been a miracle. You had never been inside before. You didn’t like enclosed spaces with other people. Too much risk. Too many exits someone else could take. Too many ways to become a stranger in a room you had briefly been welcomed into.
Dick had covered every mirror with sticky notes. DON’T LOOK AWAY. THEY ARE REAL. THEIR NAME IS—
Your name covered his walls. On paper. On tape. On his skin.
It should have been sweet. It was, in a way.
It was also unbearable.
You stood in the centre of his living room, surrounded by proof that you were loved by someone who couldn’t keep you.
“This isn’t living,” you said.
Dick froze in the kitchen, where he was making tea and very deliberately not turning his back. “What?”
“This.” You gestured at the walls. “The notes. The alarms. The way you move around me like I’m a bomb.”
“You’re not a bomb.”
“No,” you said. “I’m a hole.”
Dick flinched.
You laughed, but it broke at the end. “I am. That’s what I am, Dick. I’m this empty space people fall into. They meet me, they care, they forget. And then I have to stand there holding all of it alone.”
He set the mugs down. “I’m trying.”
“I know!” Your voice cracked. “That’s what makes it worse!”
Dick looked stricken.
You pressed both hands to your face, then lowered them quickly, like you were afraid he would vanish if you blocked your own sight.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m sorry. I just—do you know what it’s like to be loved in pieces?”
Dick said nothing.
“You look at me like that,” you said, quieter now. “Like I matter. Like I’m someone you found in the wreckage and decided to carry home. And then your phone rings, or someone calls your name, or you turn your head for one second, and I watch it happen.”
Your lips trembled.
“I watch you lose me.”
Dick’s eyes were wet. You had never seen Nightwing cry before.
Not really. Not like this. Raw and silent and human.
“You get this blank look,” you whispered. “Polite. Confused. Kind, because you’re always kind, which is honestly so rude of you.”
A watery laugh escaped him.
You smiled despite yourself.
Then it faded.
“You ask if I need help. Sometimes you apologise. Sometimes you reach for your escrima sticks because there’s a stranger in your apartment. Once you called Barbara while I was standing right in front of you.”
Dick closed his eyes. Only for a second.
Your breath caught.
His eyes flew open.
Still there. Still remembered.
But the terror on your face gutted him.
“I can’t do this to you,” you said.
“You’re not doing anything to me.”
“I am.”
“No.” Dick crossed the room slowly. “No, you don’t get to decide that your existence is harm.”
You looked away. He reached for you, then stopped himself.
“Look at me,” he said softly.
You shook your head.
“Please.”
When you finally did, tears were running down your face.
Dick’s voice broke. “There you are.”
You crumpled. He caught you because of course he did. Because Dick Grayson had always been good at catching falling things, even when he couldn’t save them from the drop.
You gripped the front of his shirt like you were trying to leave fingerprints in the fabric.
“I’m so tired,” you sobbed.
“I know.”
“I want someone to remember me without bleeding for it.”
“I know.”
“I want to be normal.”
Dick held you tighter. “I know.”
You cried into his chest until your knees gave out. He sank with you to the floor, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressed between your shoulder blades.
He didn’t say it would be okay. You loved him a little more for that.
He only held you. He only stayed.
For a while, that was enough.
Then his phone rang.
Both of you froze.
The sound cut through the room like a blade.
Dick’s hand tightened against your back.
“Don’t,” you whispered.
He didn’t move.
The phone kept ringing. You could see the war in him. Duty, love, habit, fear. The city had trained him to answer every call like someone might die if he didn’t.
Maybe someone would. Maybe that was the cruellest part.
You pulled back first. “Dick.”
“No.”
“You have to.”
“No,” he said again, and this time there was anger in it. Not at you. Never at you. At the world. At the rules. At whatever cosmic glitch had decided you were optional.
“You have to,” you repeated.
His jaw clenched. “Then tell me your name again.”
You stared at him. His eyes burned.
“Tell me,” he said. “Before I lose it. Please.”
So you did.
You told him your name.
He repeated it. Once. Twice. Like prayer. Like defiance. Like if he said it enough times, reality might get embarrassed and stop being such a jerk about it.
Then he turned his head. “Oracle, talk to me.”
The second his eyes left yours, he forgot.
You watched it happen. The soft confusion. The slight shift in posture. The way his body moved between you and the door, protective but uncertain.
His gaze landed on you.
A stranger. In his apartment. On his floor. Crying.
Dick’s hand went instinctively toward the escrima stick on the coffee table.
Your heart made no sound when it broke.
It had learned to be quiet.
After that, you left Blüdhaven.
Not far. You weren’t dramatic enough to vanish across the world, and anyway, airports were complicated when the person checking your passport forgot you between looking at your face and looking down at your documents.
So you took buses. Walked. Hitchhiked with people who were kind for exactly as long as they could see you.
You slept in libraries until librarians forgot why they had let you stay. You ate in diners where waitresses refilled your coffee, turned away, and came back startled to find you sitting there.
You stopped using your name. Names were for people who could be called back.
Weeks passed. Maybe months. Time had always been slippery for you. When no one remembered your birthday, age became less of a number and more of a rumour your bones carried around.
You thought Dick would stop looking.
Not because he didn’t care.
Because he couldn’t. Because love needed memory the way fire needed air, and whatever existed between you kept suffocating before it could breathe.
Then, one rainy night in Gotham, you saw him again.
Not Nightwing.
Dick. No mask. No suit. Just a man standing under a broken awning outside a closed flower shop, soaked to the skin, holding a bouquet of forget-me-nots.
Your chest hurt so badly you almost turned around.
Almost.
But he saw you. And the world narrowed to his face.
He looked wrecked. There were dark circles under his eyes. Stubble along his jaw. His hair was plastered to his forehead by the rain. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
Knowing Dick, he probably hadn’t.
He didn’t smile when he saw you. He looked relieved in a way that was almost painful.
“Hi,” he said.
Your throat closed. “Hi.”
His grip tightened around the flowers. “I don’t know your name right now.”
You nodded once.
“But I know I’ve been looking for you.”
Rain slid down your cheeks. Or maybe it was tears. The weather gave you plausible deniability, which was honestly very polite of it.
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Yeah,” Dick said. “You keep telling me that.”
A laugh broke out of you.
It was small. Awful. Alive.
Dick looked at you like that laugh had just saved him.
“How?” you asked.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a stack of index cards, carefully laminated.
Of course he had laminated them. Because Dick Grayson loved like a circus kid and planned like a Bat, which meant all his grand romantic gestures came with office supplies.
“I made a system,” he said.
“You already had a system.”
“I made a better one.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“Probably.” He glanced down at the top card. “This says you find that annoying but secretly charming.”
You stared. Despite everything, your mouth twitched.
Dick’s face softened. “There it is.”
“Don’t.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No,” he admitted. “I’m really not.”
He held out the flowers. You didn’t take them.
His hand faltered.
“They’re for you,” he said.
“You’ll forget giving them to me.”
“I wrote it down.”
“That doesn’t make it hurt less.”
“I know.”
The rain kept falling. You looked at the flowers. Tiny blue petals, fragile as breath. A cruel joke from the universe or a tender one from him. Maybe both.
“I left because I couldn’t keep watching you lose me,” you said.
Dick nodded. “I figured.”
“And you came anyway.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
He looked at the card in his hand. Then he lowered it.
When he spoke, his voice was rough.
“I don’t remember most of it,” he said. “I’m sorry. I hate that. I hate saying it. But I don’t remember our first meeting. I don’t remember your favourite tea. I don’t remember the sound of your laugh unless I’m hearing it. I don’t remember what I promised you.” Your vision blurred. “But every time I forget you,” Dick continued, pressing one hand to his chest, “I miss you.”
You went still.
He looked helpless. “I don’t know how else to explain it. There’s this… space. Right here. Like my heart keeps setting a place at the table for someone my mind can’t name.”
You covered your mouth with your hand.
Dick took one step closer. Slow. Careful. “I find notes everywhere. My apartment. My suit. My phone. Once, apparently, I wrote your name on a cereal box at four in the morning.”
You choked on something between a sob and a laugh. “Very normal behaviour.”
“Extremely normal. Healthy, even.”
“The pinnacle of mental stability.”
“Honestly, Bruce has done weirder with less emotional justification.”
That made you laugh again.
Dick smiled, but his eyes stayed wet.
“I forget details,” he said. “But I remember the shape of loving you.”
The world stopped. Or maybe you did. For so long, you had thought being forgotten meant being unloved. How could it not? Love was supposed to be the thing that stayed. The thing that survived distance and time and bad days and worse decisions.
But Dick stood in front of you, soaked and shaking, holding flowers he might not remember buying, loving you with a heart that kept reaching for you even after his mind went dark.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t enough.
It was everything.
“You don’t know me,” you whispered.
“Then tell me again.”
“I can’t keep doing that.”
“I know.”
“I’m tired of introducing myself to the person I love.”
Dick’s face crumpled.
There it was. The truth. Ugly. Beautiful. Finally spoken.
You loved him. You had loved him across rooftops and forgotten mornings, across notes and alarms and the blank look in his eyes. You had loved him in fragments, in seconds, in stolen hours. You had loved him knowing love could not save you.
Dick stepped closer. “You love me?”
You laughed through tears. “Don’t make me regret saying it.”
“I’m not. I’m just—” He looked overwhelmed, almost dizzy with it. “I wish I remembered earning that.”
“You did earn it,” you said. “Over and over.”
He looked at you like that hurt worse than anything.
Then he held out the flowers again. This time, you took them. His fingers brushed yours.
For one breath, neither of you moved.
“I don’t have a cure,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“But I talked to Zatanna.” Your heart kicked. “And Constantine.”
Your expression must have shifted, because Dick quickly added, “I know. Terrible idea. I brought backup and did not sign anything. Growth.”
Despite yourself, you smiled.
“They think it’s not a power,” he said. “Not exactly. More like a curse that latched onto your metagene and rewrote the rules.”
Hope was dangerous. You had learned that young. Hope was a match in a room full of gas.
Still, you felt it spark.
“Can they fix it?”
Dick hesitated. And because he was Dick, because he knew you deserved truth more than pretty lies, he said, “Maybe.”
The spark flickered.
“They’re not sure,” he admitted. “But there’s a chance.”
“A chance.”
“Yeah.”
You looked down at the forget-me-nots. Tiny blue stars in your hands.
“What happens if it doesn’t work?”
Dick’s voice softened. “Then I keep making better systems.”
Your eyes closed. “Dick…”
“I know,” he said. “It’s not enough.”
“No.”
“But it’s what I have.”
You opened your eyes. He was still looking at you.
Still there. Still yours, for now.
“I’m scared,” you said.
“Me too.”
“I don’t want to hope.”
“I’ll hope first,” Dick said. “You can borrow some until yours comes back.”
It was such a Dick Grayson thing to say. So earnest. So stupidly poetic. So bright it made you want to scream.
Instead, you stepped forward and pressed your forehead against his chest.
He went very still. Then his arms came around you. Careful at first.
Then tighter.
The bouquet crushed slightly between you. Neither of you cared.
“I’m going to forget this if I close my eyes too long, aren’t I?” he whispered.
“Probably.”
His breath shook. “Then I won’t.”
“You have to blink eventually.”
“Rude.”
You huffed a laugh against his coat.
Dick rested his chin lightly on top of your head.
“Tell me your name,” he said.
So you did.
He repeated it. Then again. Then again.
The rain came down harder, turning Gotham soft around the edges. Cars hissed through puddles. Neon bled across the street. Somewhere, sirens wailed, because the city never learned how to be quiet at the right moments.
Dick held you like he could anchor you by touch alone.
Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe, in five minutes, he would glance away and lose you. Maybe tomorrow, you would have to start over. Maybe love was not a cure.
But for one impossible moment, you existed in someone’s arms.
Not as a ghost. Not as a gap. Not as a tragedy waiting to be forgotten.
As a person. As yourself.
Dick pressed a kiss to your temple.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered.
“You won’t remember.”
His arms tightened.
“No,” he said, voice breaking. “But I’ll come back.”
And the worst part was that you believed him.
The House of Mystery did not like you. That was your first thought.
Your second thought was that the House of Mystery was alive, and you were going to have to unpack that later, preferably with snacks and several hours of screaming into a decorative pillow.
It crouched at the end of a crooked lane beneath a sky the colour of old bruises, all black windows and impossible angles. The front door had a brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head. Its eyes followed you.
Dick noticed. Of course, he noticed.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured, keeping his hand around yours. “It does that to everyone.”
You looked up at him. “You’ve been here before?”
“Once.”
“And?”
“And I still have all my limbs.”
“That is a suspiciously low bar.”
His mouth twitched. “Welcome to magic.”
Rain slicked his hair dark against his forehead. He hadn’t let go of your hand once since you left Gotham, like contact alone could make you more real. Maybe it did. Maybe that was hope whispering sweet lies again.
In his other hand, he held a stack of laminated cards. He had added more since you agreed to come with him. Your name was written on the top card. Beneath it: They are real. You love them. Do not panic when you forget. Ask what they need.
You had cried when you saw that one. Then you had called him a menace with office supplies, because love was easier to survive when you insulted it a little.
Dick had smiled so softly you almost forgave the universe.
Almost.
Now he stood beside you outside a sentient magical house, shoulders squared like he could intimidate architecture. Very on-brand. Very stupid. Very him.
The door opened before he touched it.
A man leaned against the frame. Trench coat. Loose tie. A cigarette hanging from his mouth despite the rain. Hair like he’d lost a fight with a pillow and declared himself the winner.
John Constantine looked at you for half a second. Then his eyes slid away.
Your hand tightened around Dick’s.
Constantine blinked. His face went blank.
“Well?” he said to Dick. “You gonna stand there all night, bird boy, or come in before the house decides you’re garnish?”
Dick went still. You felt it happen. His hand was still holding yours, but something changed in the shape of his fingers. Not letting go, exactly. Just not knowing why he was holding on.
He looked down. At your joined hands. Then at you. Polite confusion softened his face.
“Hi,” he said carefully.
There it was. The knife. Familiar as breath.
You tried to pull your hand away.
Dick’s grip tightened reflexively—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to stop you. His brow furrowed.
Then he looked at the card in his other hand.
Read it. Read your name. Read: You love them.
The colour drained from his face.
“Oh,” he whispered.
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
His eyes found yours again, devastated and desperate. “I’m sorry.”
“You always are.”
Constantine, who had apparently been watching this with the expression of a man realising his bad day had grown legs and started singing, took the cigarette from his mouth. “Well,” he said quietly. “That’s properly awful.”
You laughed once. It came out sharp enough to cut. “Nice to meet you, too.”
Constantine looked at you. Really looked.
His gaze caught, snagged, fought to stay. The air around him sparked faintly, like invisible wires had been pulled taut.
“There you are,” he murmured.
Then he flinched. Not physically. Not enough for most people to notice.
Dick noticed. So did you.
Constantine’s eyes narrowed. “Bloody hell.”
“What?” Dick asked.
Constantine didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a black marker. He grabbed Dick’s wrist without asking, shoved up the sleeve of his jacket, and wrote your name beneath Dick’s existing notes in quick, ugly letters.
“Oi,” Dick said.
“Shut up, circus boy.”
“Wow. Rude and helpful. Multitasking.”
Constantine ignored him and wrote your name on his own palm next. Then he looked away deliberately. For one second. Two.
His face emptied. Then his gaze dropped to his palm.
He read your name. Looked back up.
“Right,” he said grimly. “I hate this.”
Your stomach turned. “Can you help?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Comforting.”
“I’m not paid to comfort.”
“You’re being paid?”
Dick coughed. “Zatanna said not to ask him that.”
“Zatanna says lots of things,” Constantine said, stepping aside. “Some of ’em backwards.”
The House opened wider. Warm yellow light spilled across the threshold.
Dick leaned closer to you. His voice lowered. “Still with me?”
You stared into the mouth of the impossible house. “No.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Same.”
And because fear was easier to carry when shared, you stepped inside together.
Zatanna Zatara was waiting in the parlour. You knew her from posters, news clips, blurry magical incidents that made conspiracy forums foam at the mouth. She was impossible to mistake even without the stage lights. Dark hair, bright eyes, presence like a velvet curtain lifting before thunder.
She stood beside a round table covered in candles, mirrors, bowls of salt, silver thread, old books, and a vase of forget-me-nots.
The flowers made your chest ache.
Dick saw them too. His fingers flexed around yours.
Zatanna turned when you entered. Her gaze landed on Dick. Then Constantine. Then you.
Unlike Constantine, she did not immediately forget.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh,” she said softly.
One syllable. So much grief inside it.
You hated that. Hated the pity. Hated the immediate understanding. Hated the way kindness could feel like being peeled open under clean light.
“Don’t,” you said before she could say anything else. Zatanna’s expression shifted. Not offended. Just listening. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Dick moved a little closer to you.
Zatanna nodded once. “Okay.”
That was all. No argument. No apology parade. No theatrical sadness.
Just okay.
You liked her immediately and resented that too.
Constantine shut the door behind you. “It’s worse than you said.”
Zatanna’s mouth tightened. “I can see that.”
“You can?” Dick asked.
“I can see the outline.” She walked toward you slowly, stopping several feet away. “It’s like looking at a person-shaped tear in a painting.”
You looked down at yourself.
Person-shaped tear.
Yeah. That tracked.
Dick’s jaw tensed. “Can you fix it?”
“Dick,” you whispered.
“No.” His voice was quiet but edged in steel. “No soft wording. No dancing around it. They’ve had enough of that.” He looked at Zatanna. “Can you fix it?”
For a moment, the room only breathed around you. The candles flickered without wind. Zatanna looked at Constantine. Constantine rubbed a hand over his face.
“Maybe,” Zatanna said.
The word landed like a coin dropped into a well.
Small. Far away.
Maybe.
You hated how badly you wanted to dive after it.
Dick’s grip went tight, then loosened as if he remembered not to hold too hard.
“What does maybe mean?” he asked.
“It means the curse isn’t simply making people forget,” Zatanna said. “It’s convincing reality you were never there.”
You laughed under your breath. “Love when reality has beef with me personally.”
Constantine snorted. “Kid, reality’s a bastard. Don’t take it special.”
Dick shot him a look.
“What?” Constantine said. “That was almost supportive.”
Zatanna ignored him with the grace of someone who had built an entire skillset around ignoring John Constantine.
“It edits perception first,” she continued, “then memory. If someone stops perceiving you, their mind closes the gap. It removes you to protect the shape of what it thinks is true.”
You stared at the candles. “And what’s true?”
Zatanna’s voice softened. “That you belong here.”
Your throat hurt.
Constantine looked uncomfortable, which seemed to be his default state whenever sincerity entered the room and failed to die immediately.
Dick stepped closer to the table. “What do you need?”
“Names,” Zatanna said. “Anchors. Memory has roots. We need to find yours.”
“My records are gone,” you said.
“Not paperwork.” She tapped her fingers lightly against the table. “Moments. Strong ones. The first time someone forgot you. The first person who remembered longer than they should have. The first time the curse changed.”
Your chest went cold.
Dick looked at you. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes,” you said.
His expression flickered.
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“I do.”
“You shouldn’t have to bleed on command just because magic wants trauma receipts.”
Constantine lifted a finger. “For the record, magic does love trauma receipts.”
Zatanna glared at him.
He lowered the finger. “Not helping. Got it.”
A laugh almost escaped you. It got stuck somewhere near your ribs.
You looked at Dick.
The awful part was that he still remembered you.
You could see it. The recognition. The fear. The love he had confessed in the rain and might lose again with one wrong blink.
You wanted to run. You wanted to stay. You wanted a life where those weren’t the only choices.
“I’ll do it,” you said.
Dick looked like he wanted to argue.
Instead, he nodded.
Because he knew. Because he loved you enough not to mistake protection for permission.
Zatanna gestured toward the chair at the centre of the room. “Sit.”
You did.
Dick started to follow.
Constantine moved, blocking him with one arm. “Not you.”
Dick’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“If you stand there staring at them like a kicked puppy with a vigilante complex, the spell’s gonna grab you too.”
“It already grabs me.”
“This is different.”
“I’m staying.”
“No,” Zatanna said.
Dick froze.
Her voice had changed. Not loud. Not harsh. But full of command.
“You can be in the room,” she said, gentler now. “But not beside them. Not touching. The spell needs to see where they end.”
You hated that sentence.
Dick did too. You could tell by the way his face closed around it.
Where they end.
As if that had ever been clear. As if loneliness had not spent years blurring you into doorways and blank spaces and forgotten corners.
He looked at you. Your hand felt cold without his.
“It’s okay,” you said.
“No, it isn’t.”
A small smile trembled across your mouth. “Yeah. But I’m trying to be brave, and you’re making it very difficult.”
His laugh broke a little. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No,” he admitted. “I’m really not.”
He stepped back anyway. Only a few feet.
It felt like miles.
Constantine took up a place near the fireplace, drawing symbols in the air with smoke. Zatanna lit the candles one by one. Each flame burned blue.
“Tell me your name,” she said.
You did. The candles flared.
Dick repeated it from across the room.
Your eyes snapped to him. He looked almost embarrassed, but stubborn.
“What?” he said. “Backup.”
Zatanna’s expression softened.
Constantine muttered, “Hopeless.”
But he wrote your name on the wall in smoke.
The House shuddered around you.
Not hostile now. Listening.
Zatanna took a silver thread and wrapped it once around your wrist.
“Memory is a door,” she said. “I’m going to open it carefully.”
“Carefully sounds fake.”
“Smart,” Constantine said. “Distrust adjectives.”
Zatanna gave him another look.
He mimed zipping his mouth shut. The zipper sound was somehow literal.
Magic. Exhausting. Camp. Terrifying. Pick a struggle.
Zatanna lifted both hands.
“Rebmemer,” she said.
The room vanished.
You were thirteen again.
You were standing in your kitchen. Morning light fell across the yellow tiles. Your cereal had gone soggy because you had been reading the back of the box instead of eating. Your mom was humming near the sink. Your dad was searching for his keys. Your sibling was talking too fast about school, words tumbling over each other like bright marbles.
You remembered the exact smell.
Toast. Coffee. Laundry detergent.
Home.
Then the phone rang.
Your mom turned away. Your sibling crawled under the table to grab a dropped spoon. Your dad walked into the hall.
For three seconds, no one looked at you.
Three seconds. That was all it took to end the world.
Your mom came back first. She saw you standing by the counter and screamed.
Not a startled scream.
A stranger-in-my-house scream.
Your bowl shattered when you dropped it.
Milk spread across the floor like a pale wound.
“Mom?” you said.
She grabbed a knife from the counter. “Who are you?”
Your dad ran in. Your sibling started crying.
You said your name.
Your mother sobbed harder. Your father called the police.
You kept saying your name.
Over and over.
Like a spell. Like a plea. Like the universe had simply misheard you and would fix itself if you spoke clearly enough.
Then hands grabbed your shoulders.
Not your father’s.
Dick’s.
The kitchen blurred.
You were back in the chair, gasping, doubled over against invisible pain.
Dick had crossed the room.
Zatanna was trying to hold him back with one arm and a half-formed spell, but Dick Grayson had been throwing himself at impossible things since childhood and had never once learned to respect cosmic traffic laws.
“I’m here,” he said, kneeling in front of you. “I’m here, I’m here.”
“Don’t touch,” Constantine barked.
Dick ignored him. His hands hovered near yours, shaking with the effort not to grab on.
You looked at him through tears.
“Do you remember me?”
“Yes,” he said immediately.
Then his eyes flickered.
Just for a second.
He looked confused.
Your heart stopped.
He glanced down at his wrist. Read your name.
The confusion shattered.
“Yes,” he said again, more fiercely. “Yes. I remember.”
“You looked away.”
“I came back.”
“That’s not the same.”
“I know.”
The silver thread around your wrist burned cold.
Zatanna’s voice cut through the room. “The curse is reacting to him.”
Constantine swore. “Course it is. Love always makes magic weird.”
Dick did not look away from you.
Zatanna knelt beside the circle. “Dick, listen to me. If you keep forcing your way into the spell, it may bind you to the curse.”
“Fine.”
“No,” you snapped.
His eyes locked onto yours.
“No,” you repeated, trembling. “You don’t get to martyr yourself into my tragedy and call it romance.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?”
The room went quiet. Even the House seemed to hold its breath.
Dick looked hurt.
Good. You were hurt too.
“You keep coming back,” you said, voice breaking. “You keep writing notes and building systems and bleeding yourself dry trying to remember me, and it’s beautiful, Dick, it is, but it’s also killing me.”
His face crumpled. “I don’t know how to stop.”
“I’m not asking you to stop loving me.”
His breath caught.
“I’m asking you to stop treating loving me like it means surviving damage quietly.”
For a second, no one spoke.
Then Constantine, very softly, said, “Well. That one landed.”
Zatanna stood. The candles flared higher.
“That’s it,” she said.
You looked at her. “What?”
“The curse feeds on isolation,” she said. “But not just yours. Anyone who tries to remember you alone gets pulled into its pattern. The harder one person holds on, the more the curse makes them pay for it.”
Dick went pale. “So I’m making it worse?”
“No,” Zatanna said. “You’re proving it can be resisted. But you can’t be the only anchor.”
A thin, terrible hope moved through you.
“What does that mean?” you asked.
Constantine pushed away from the fireplace. “Means we don’t make one poor sod your whole lifeboat.”
Dick glanced at him.
Constantine shrugged. “No offence.”
“Some taken.”
“Good. Keeps you humble.”
Zatanna placed both hands on the table.
“We build a circle,” she said. “Multiple witnesses. Multiple names. Multiple memories. The curse can erase you from one mind at a time. Maybe even many. But if enough people remember at once—if they keep passing your existence between them—it may not be able to close the gap.”
You stared at her.
A circle.
Not one person staring until his eyes bled. Not one love asked to carry the weight of an entire existence.
A circle.
Your voice came out thin. “Who would do that?”
Dick’s expression changed.
Softened.
Strengthened.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “I know some people.”
“No,” you said.
Dick looked at you from the driver’s seat.
You sat in the passenger seat of his car outside Wayne Manor, arms crossed so tightly over your chest that your ribs protested.
The manor rose beyond the windshield, enormous and golden-windowed, looking less like a home and more like old money learned how to brood.
“No,” you repeated.
Dick turned the engine off. “You haven’t heard the pitch.”
“Is the pitch ‘let’s ask Batman to perceive me as a team-building exercise’?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what is it?”
He hesitated.
You groaned. “Dick.”
“I may have already told them.”
You stared at him.
He winced. “In my defence, I wrote it down first.”
“You told Batman about me?”
“And Barbara.”
“Dick.”
“And Alfred.”
“Dick.”
“And maybe Tim, because if anyone can build anti-curse tech, it’s him.”
“Richard.”
He smiled weakly. “Full name. Yikes.”
You looked out at the manor. Your stomach churned.
Somewhere inside were people who loved Dick. People he trusted. People who would look at you, look away, and forget you like everyone else.
Except this time, you would have witnesses. This time, there would be a whole room full of faces going blank.
A symphony of loss.
“I can’t,” you whispered.
Dick’s smile disappeared. “I know.”
“No, you don’t.” Your voice cracked. “I know you think you do, but you don’t know what it feels like. Walking into a room and knowing every person there is going to abandon you by accident.”
He went still.
You looked down at your hands.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He sounded rough. “You’re right.”
Silence filled the car.
Then Dick opened his glove compartment and pulled out another laminated card.
You blinked. “Did you stash lore cards in your car?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
He handed it to you.
This one wasn’t for him.
It was for you.
You are allowed to leave. You are allowed to be angry. You are allowed to want help. You are not a burden because people choose to care.
Your vision blurred.
Dick looked straight ahead, giving you the fragile privacy of not being watched.
“I had Zatanna write the wording,” he said. “I wanted to put something like ‘you’re amazing, and everyone should get with the program,’ but she said subtlety exists for a reason.”
A laugh broke through your tears. “Terrible advice.”
“I know. I was shocked.”
You held the card against your chest.
The manor waited. So did the curse.
So did maybe.
Finally, you whispered, “Don’t let go of my hand.”
Dick reached for you immediately. “Never on purpose.”
And because that was the only kind of forever either of you could promise, you got out of the car.
The Batfamily did not handle magic well. This became clear within ninety seconds.
Bruce Wayne stood in the cave with his cowl down, looking at you with the intense focus of a man trying to out-glare a metaphysical condition. Tim had three tablets open and was muttering about cognitive imprinting. Barbara watched from a screen, expression sharp and sympathetic. Damian stood with his arms crossed, deeply offended by the concept of forgetting someone against his will.
Jason was there too, leaning near the med bay with his helmet tucked under one arm.
He looked at you once.
Looked away.
Forgot.
Looked back.
His hand went to his gun.
Dick stepped in front of you so fast the movement blurred. “Jason.”
Jason’s eyes narrowed. “Who the hell is that?”
You flinched.
Dick took out a card and held it up.
Jason read it.
His face changed. Not softened. Jason Todd did not soften easily in front of strangers.
But something dark moved behind his eyes.
He looked back at you.
“Ah,” he said. “That’s messed up.”
Your laugh came out strangled. “That seems to be the general review.”
Jason grabbed a marker off Tim’s workstation and wrote your name on his forearm.
Then, beneath it, Don’t be a dick.
Tim leaned over. “Statistically unlikely to help.”
“Statistically bite me.”
Damian clicked his tongue and took the marker from Jason. “Your handwriting is atrocious.”
“My trauma’s got flair, demon brat.”
Damian ignored him and wrote your name on his own wrist in neat, precise letters.
Then he looked at you.
“You will not be forgotten here,” he said, with the absolute certainty of someone who considered reality a personal rival.
You didn’t know what to say.
Alfred saved you.
Alfred Pennyworth approached with a tray of tea, because apparently even curses could be bullied into manners by a British man with perfect posture.
He looked directly at you.
Then he looked down to pour.
The teapot paused.
His expression went blank.
Your heart sank.
Then he glanced at the card pinned to his waistcoat.
His eyes returned to you.
“My apologies,” he said calmly. “Sugar?”
You stared. “What?”
“Sugar,” Alfred repeated. “In your tea.”
You made a sound that was almost a sob.
Dick squeezed your hand.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”
“Very good.”
Like this was normal. Like you were simply a guest. Like being remembered imperfectly was not still, somehow, being welcomed.
Bruce watched the exchange with a look on his face you couldn’t read.
Then he turned to Dick.
Wrong move.
The second Bruce looked away from you, his brow furrowed.
He forgot.
You saw it happen again.
And again. And again.
Every person in the cave became a door closing.
Tim turned toward a monitor and forgot mid-sentence. Barbara glanced down at incoming data and lost your name. Damian looked at Dick and his face went cold with confusion. Jason checked the chamber of his gun, looked up, and saw a stranger again.
It was too much.
Your hand slipped out of Dick’s.
You stepped back.
“No,” you whispered.
Dick turned instantly. “Hey—”
“No.”
Your breath came too fast.
The cave walls leaned in. Too many eyes. Too many blank faces.
Too much proof.
“I can’t do this.”
Dick reached for you.
You backed away.
His face cracked open.
But he stopped.
He let his hand fall.
Because you had asked him not to turn your pain into his hero moment.
“I can’t,” you said again, louder now, to everyone, to no one. “I can’t stand here and watch all of you erase me.”
Bruce looked at the note on his hand.
Then at you.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You barked a laugh. “Don’t.”
His mouth closed.
“Don’t be sorry like that fixes it. Don’t look at me like I’m a case.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” You pointed at the screens, the tablets, the notes. “All of this. The systems. The strategies. The little labels on your wrists. I know you’re trying to help. I know. But I am so tired of being a problem everyone has to solve before they can love me.”
The cave fell silent.
Dick looked wrecked.
Zatanna, standing near the edge of the circle she had drawn in chalk, said gently, “Then tell them what you need.”
You laughed weakly. “I don’t know what I need.”
“Yes, you do.”
You hated magic people. They were always saying true things at inconvenient times.
You looked at Dick first. Then at the others.
Your voice trembled. “I need you to stop acting like forgetting me hurts you more than being forgotten hurts me.”
Dick closed his eyes. Only for a second.
When he opened them, he still remembered.
Barely.
You could see him holding on.
You looked at Bruce. “I need you to ask before you test something.”
Bruce nodded once. “Done.”
At Tim. “I need you to explain what you’re doing like I’m a person in the room, not a glitch in your code.”
Tim looked stricken. “Yeah. Yes. Absolutely.”
At Damian. “I need you not to make promises reality can break.”
Damian’s jaw clenched. Then he dipped his chin. “I will try.”
At Jason.
You hesitated.
Jason raised both brows. “What? Need me to stop being charming?”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. “I need you to keep being angry about it.”
Jason’s expression flickered. Then he gave you a grim little smile. “Oh, that I can do.”
At Alfred, your voice softened. “Thank you for the tea.”
Alfred inclined his head. “It is a start.”
It was. A strange, fragile start.
Zatanna stepped into the circle.
“Now,” she said, “we try again. Not to solve you. To witness you.”
The words settled over the cave.
To witness you.
Not fix. Not save.
Witness.
Dick looked at you. This time, he did not reach.
He waited.
You crossed the distance yourself and took his hand.
He breathed out.
The circle began.
Magic, you discovered, hurt like remembering.
Not a clean pain. Not a cut. More like every forgotten version of yourself waking up in your bones at once.
Zatanna spoke backwards, voice ringing through the cave. Constantine answered from the shadows, lighting sigils with a snap of his fingers.
Bruce read your name aloud. Then Barbara. Then Tim. Then Damian. Then Jason. Then Alfred.
Then Dick.
Especially Dick.
Each time someone said your name, the curse screamed.
Not with sound.
With absence.
Lights flickered. Screens glitched. The cave shook. The giant penny tilted dangerously and made everyone briefly consider whether dying by novelty coin would be too embarrassing for the obituary.
Memories tore loose.
Your mother screaming. Your father forgetting your face. Teachers marking you absent while you sat at your desk. Friends laughing with you, turning away, returning with fear. Doctors diagnosing stress. Police calling you a runaway. Strangers offering kindness that evaporated between one blink and the next.
Years of being unseen crashed through the room.
And this time, you were not the only one holding them.
Dick gasped like he had been punched.
You turned toward him.
He was crying. Not silently anymore.
He saw it.
All of it.
Every introduction. Every loss. Every night you had smiled like your heart wasn’t breaking because you knew he would not remember the tears anyway.
“Dick,” you whispered.
“I remember,” he choked.
The spell buckled.
Zatanna shouted something backwards.
Constantine swore so loudly that Alfred said, “Language,” on pure reflex.
The curse lunged.
You felt it reach for Dick. For the shape of his love. For the single bright thread he had tied around you again and again and again.
No.
Not him.
Not anymore.
You let go of his hand.
Dick made a broken sound.
But you turned toward the circle. Toward everyone.
“If you’re going to remember me,” you said through gritted teeth, “then remember this.”
The cave lights exploded blue.
You spoke your name.
Not like a plea this time. Not like an apology.
Like a claim.
The curse recoiled.
For the first time since you were thirteen, the world hesitated before erasing you.
That was all Zatanna needed.
“Dloh,” she commanded.
Hold.
Every person in the cave repeated your name.
Again. Again. Again.
A circle. A chorus. A net.
The curse thrashed, dragging shadows across the walls. For one terrible second, every face went blank.
Dick. Bruce. Jason. Tim. Damian. Alfred. Barbara on the screen.
All of them stared at you like strangers.
You stood in the middle of the circle with your heart in pieces.
Then Jason looked at his arm.
“Don’t be a dick,” he read aloud.
His eyes snapped to you.
“Right,” he growled. “Screw that.”
Damian followed.
Then Tim.
Then Bruce.
Then Alfred.
Then Barbara.
Then Dick.
He looked at the card in his hand. Read it. Looked at you.
And this time, something changed.
The blankness did not vanish all at once.
It cracked.
Like ice under sunlight.
His face filled with pain. With recognition. With love.
Your breath caught.
Dick whispered your name.
The curse broke.
Not with a bang. Not with dramatic lightning, though honestly, with this crowd, it would’ve fit the brand.
It broke like a held breath finally released.
The room went quiet. The silver thread around your wrist dissolved into blue ash.
One candle remained lit.
Then another.
Then all of them.
You stood very still.
No one moved. No one looked away.
Finally, because the universe enjoyed comic timing, Constantine said, “Well. That was horrible.”
You laughed.
It was wet and shaky and half a sob, but it was yours.
Dick took one step toward you.
Then stopped.
Still asking. Still learning.
You closed the distance.
He caught you when your knees gave out, and this time when his eyes shut against your hair, just for one exhausted second, he did not forget.
He opened them again.
Looked down at you.
Still knew you.
His face crumpled.
“Oh,” he whispered.
You touched his cheek with shaking fingers. “Do you remember?”
Dick laughed through tears.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I remember.”
You started crying then.
Not the quiet kind. Not the practised kind.
The ugly, gasping, years-too-late kind of crying that tore through you like weather.
Dick held you on the cave floor while the candles burned blue around you.
No one turned away.
Or maybe they did. Maybe Tim looked down at his tablet. Maybe Jason wiped his face and pretended he hadn’t. Maybe Alfred stepped aside to make more tea. Maybe Bruce closed his eyes because grief had found another child-shaped wound to haunt him with.
But when they looked back—
They remembered.
They remembered.
They remembered.
The cure was not perfect.
Magic rarely was.
Constantine explained it three days later in Dick’s apartment, boots on the coffee table until Dick kicked them off.
“Your existence sticks now,” John said. “Mostly.”
You sat on the couch under a blanket, both hands wrapped around a mug of tea. “Mostly is a cursed word.”
“Appropriate, then.”
Zatanna elbowed him. He grunted.
“What John means,” she said, “is that people who have been anchored will remember you. People outside the circle may still forget if they look away too quickly, especially strangers. But the curse no longer rewrites your entire existence.”
“So I’m still forgettable,” you said.
Dick sat beside you, his knee pressed against yours. “No.”
You looked at him.
His voice was gentle, absolute.
“No,” he repeated. “You’re not.”
Something in your chest warmed.
Terrifying. Tender.
Zatanna smiled.
“New memories should hold,” she said. “With time, the effect may weaken further. But for now, the anchor circle matters.”
“Meaning the Bats remember me.”
“Unfortunately,” Constantine said.
Jason, from where he was raiding Dick’s fridge uninvited, called, “Heard that, trench coat.”
“You were meant to.”
Damian looked up from the armchair where he was pretending not to be emotionally invested. “If anyone forgets them again, I will take it as a personal insult.”
Tim, surrounded by three laptops on the floor, nodded. “I’m building a shared encrypted memory archive.”
You blinked. “A what?”
“A normal scrapbook,” Dick said quickly.
Barbara’s voice came from Dick’s phone. “It is absolutely not normal.”
Alfred, who had somehow made tea in Dick’s kitchen better than Dick had ever made tea in his own kitchen, set a fresh cup in front of you. “Normal is frequently overrated.”
Bruce stood near the window, quiet as a shadow trying to pass as furniture.
He looked at you.
Then away. Then back.
Still remembered.
His expression softened with something almost like relief.
You did not know what to do with that. So you looked at Dick instead.
He was already watching you.
“Hi,” he said.
You smiled. “Hi.”
His eyes went bright.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Dick.”
“I just like knowing I’ll remember this.”
Your smile trembled.
The room grew quieter around you—not silent, exactly. This family did not do silence. Jason was still arguing with Constantine. Damian was threatening Tim over keyboard sounds. Barbara was providing commentary like a sports announcer. Alfred was pretending not to enjoy any of it. Bruce was brooding.
But somehow, inside all that chaos, there was space for you.
A place at the table. A name that stayed.
Dick reached for your hand.
You let him take it.
For years, you had lived as a vanishing point. A person made of almost.
Almost seen. Almost known. Almost loved.
Now Dick Grayson held your hand in a room full of people who had witnessed your absence and decided, collectively, with alarming stubbornness, to become impossible to erase.
It was not a fairy tale.
It was messier than that.
More fragile. More real.
Maybe tomorrow, a barista would forget your order. Maybe a stranger on the street would bump your shoulder and blink in confusion. Maybe some mornings you would still wake up afraid that the world had changed its mind.
But Dick would remember.
Zatanna would remember. The circle would remember.
And for the first time in years, when someone looked away from you, the world did not end.
Dick squeezed your hand.
You leaned into his side.
Jason opened the fridge again and yelled, “Yo, Dickhead, why do you have six kinds of oat milk and no real food?”
“Because I’m an adult,” Dick said.
Tim looked up. “That sentence has never convinced anyone.”
Damian sniffed. “Grayson’s refrigerator is a cry for help.”
Constantine pointed at Damian. “That kid’s scary. I like him.”
“No,” Bruce and Dick said at the same time.
You laughed.
Everyone looked at you.
Not because they were afraid you would vanish. Not because they needed to check.
Because you were there. Because they heard you. Because joy, even fragile joy, deserved witnesses too.
Dick pressed a kiss to your temple.
This time, he would remember doing it.
This time, you would too.
And the forget-me-nots on the windowsill bloomed blue against the morning light, small and stubborn as hope.
You are currently at the Dick Grayson ending for this series. See the other parts here:
Part 1 , Alternative Jason Todd Ending
Summary:
There was a point where you liked Dick Grayson as a kid, but you knew he never reciprocated those feelings, so you forced yourself to move on. When Dick finds out years later, he can't help but feel conflicted. Struggling with his own feelings, he wonders if he is too late to figure out his own. Do you still love him, or does he need to win you back?
Word Count: 18.9k (sorry?)
Warnings/Tags: Some angst, happy ending though, Jason lowkey ragebaits Dick, Dick gets DESPERATE bro is YEARNING, Damian is so done this entire fic, obligatory gala scene, probably not reliable medical info guys idk how to do stitches lol, Reader wears a formal dress for it, way too much banter between everybody,
A/N: Sorry this took so long, I have a little proposal at the end for those who read to the end of this fic! For that reason, I will leave this note quick, enjoy :D!
Taglist Form , DC Masterlist
-
Sometimes life is full of coincidences. Sometimes those coincidences feel like they're spoken into reality. You suppose that's what "jinxing yourself" is.
You're starting to think you jinxed yourself.
While you had discussed your friendship with Dick briefly with Steph, Cass, and Tim, you did so with the idea that you wouldn't have to talk to him anytime soon.
Of course, he showed up at the Manor mere hours after your conversation with Steph and Cass.
You had gone another round with Steph, attempting to work on your footing when you heard the echo of footsteps across the cave. You turned to see who entered, only to see the face of—
"Dick?" Your eyes widen, turning to face him completely. He offers a small wave with an oddly strained smile. As a result, Steph takes the chance to knock you down, a firm punch sent straight toward your chest. You yelp out in surprise, stumbling backwards, sending her a sharp look.
She smirks, "Don't lose focus."
Dick walks over to you slowly, Tim following behind him. You try to catch Tim's eyes, but he obstinately avoids your questioning gaze. "I…" he looks you up and down, noting the workout clothes, "wasn't aware you were back."
You chuckle at his dispirited tone, "No need to sound too excited."
Dick's eyebrows raise exaggeratedly at your response, "No- What? Of course, I'm excited to see you—"
Your chuckles turn into laughter, "I was joking. It's not your fault you didn't know." You shrugged, tugging at a loose piece of gauze wrapped around your knuckles.
Dick eyes your hands before looking behind you to Steph and Cass, both blatantly listening to your conversation. "And you're training? Since when did you do that?" He smiles, eyebrows furrowing.
"Couple months ago." You raise your hand in a so-so motion.
Dick whips his head back to you, "Couple months—" He turns back to Tim, who has decidedly not made eye contact with a single person in this room upon entry. Dick slowly turns back to you, looking down at your lightly scuffed hand, "I would've taught you if you asked." He frowns.
You smile sheepishly, "I wanted to get to know Steph and Cass better." Dick looks back towards the girls, who smile smugly back at him.
"Oh," he nods slowly, "yeah, okay." He looks down at your hands. "Are they doing a good job? Because I can always—"
You roll your eyes, "Yeah, they're doing great." You smile at them.
He nods slowly, "Great."
You purse your lips, turning towards Steph and Cass. They smirk at you, and you pretend to ignore their expressions. "So… When'd you get back? I thought you were in Blüdhaven?"
Dick nods, "Yeah, I was, but there was some crossover on a case Tim was looking at in Gotham, so I figured it was easier if I just showed up." He points his thumb back to Tim.
You nod, "Ah, great." You attempt to grin at him. Why does this feel so awkward? "You couldn't say anything?" You lean around Dick, addressing Tim directly.
"Okay, I didn't know he'd be coming here. He kinda just burst into my room—"
"We should catch up!" Dick cut him off, moving in front of you to block your view of Tim.
You blink, "Oh," you smile, "yeah, we should. You free anytime soon?"
"Right now." He slings an arm around your shoulder casually, causing you to falter, letting out a surprised huff under the unexpected weight.
Meanwhile, Tim catches the eye of Steph and Cass. Cass shakes her head, while Steph smiles, walking over to him. "You know what I know, right?" She whispers.
"If you're referring to what I think you're referring to, then yes, yes I do." He whispers back, watching as Dick drags you away.
"Y'know it's funny, we were just talking about him." Steph raises an eyebrow dubiously. "So you knew and still brought him down here?"
"I was not about to say no. You're just lucky you weren't the one he confronted."
"Was he upset that he didn't know she was here?"
"He burst into my room. I think he was a little upset."
Steph crosses her arms as she looks at you. As if sensing their gaze, you turn around, narrowing your eyes at the three of them before refocusing your attention on Dick.
"How'd he figure out she was here?" Steph offers a small wave, with two thumbs up.
"He overheard you guys."
Steph slowly turns to Tim. Cass doesn't even flinch at the statement, still staring at your retreating figure as Dick guides you around the cave.
She throws her punching mitts on the ground, "Damn, I knew something was up."
Tim looked toward the now-grounded mitts, "And… you said nothing to her?"
"Lowkey thought I was losing it." She kicks the mitts lightly.
"Sure, you still aren't?" He retorts, causing her to look at him in offense.
"Why are you insulting me? You're the one who let him down here." She points an accusing finger at him.
"He let himself down here. I just followed to make sure he didn't do anything stupid." They frown at each other in a silent staring contest.
"You wanted to know what'd happen." Steph sighs.
"I wanted to know what'd happen." Tim admits, nodding.
The three look to where Dick has dragged you over to, talking animatedly as you nod along. "Well, it looks like he's having fun catching up."
"Let him have his moment." Tim shrugs.
"—and so I've been Nightwing for a while now." Dick walks by your side as the two of you walk through the cave.
You hum, "I remember you being attached to Robin. I'm surprised that you gave it up." You walk over to Jason's costume on display. Dick winces as you approach it.
"I wasn't happy at first, that's for sure." Dick looks towards the costume.
"You miss it at all?" You gesture to the costume.
"Eh," he shrugs, "There's a couple of things I miss, but I like being Nightwing."
"Like what?" You ask, turning towards him.
"Well, you for one." He meets your gaze.
You bark out a surprised laugh; it was so unapologetically him. "Aw, how sentimental."
Dick snorts, a grin on his face, "Oh come on, don't tell me you didn't enjoy working with me."
"It was probably one of the more interesting experiences in high school." You admit, nodding in agreement.
Dick blinks, taken aback, "I thought that was meeting me?"
"Nah, that was just funny." You chuckle, placing your hand on his arm, he looks down at your hand. "Most interesting was being kidnapped by Batman."
"Kidnapped? If I remember correctly, you willingly got in." He didn't move an inch.
"Yeah, but how exactly do you say no to," you take your hands off his arm, putting your fingers up like his ears, dropping your voice, "'Get in.'"
Dick laughs loudly, "Okay, yeah, that's fair." He rubs his thumb along the spot where your hand was.
Your eyes crinkle in fondness. You forgot how easy it was to be with him. "It's really good to see you."
He seemingly deflates at the comment, "Yeah." He looks down at the costume, then back to where Tim, Cass, and Steph were across the cave, before turning toward you, "Why didn't you try to contact me?"
You blink, okay, straight into it.
You scratch your neck, "I figured I would've seen you sooner or later. I didn't want to distract you."
He scoffs lightly, but there's something hidden underneath it, "I'm pretty sure a quick greeting wouldn't be that big of a distraction."
You frown, "I…" You really didn't have a good excuse, and you knew that. What could you tell him? Heyyy, so I actually had a really big crush on you back in high school, but I grew out of it… Wanna get Bat Burger? Yeah, that'd go great.
He furrows his eyebrows, his gaze deadset on you, "Is… Is there another reason?" He asks softly.
You blink up at him, looking into his expectant eyes. He was frowning, but it almost looked like a pout. His arms were still crossed, and his body language was still stiff. "I—"
"Richard, I wasn't aware of your return." Damian cut you off, causing you to jump in surprise, flinching into the glass. Dick grabs your shoulder to stabilize you.
"What— Damian? When did you get here?" Dick frowns, not taking his hand off your shoulder.
Damian narrows his eyes at the hand on your shoulder. You subtly shift to the side, causing Dick to let go. "Evidently, your observational skills have been compromised since the last time you were here."
"You could just say I was distracted." Dick sighs.
"'Distraction,'" Damian spits the word venomously, "would not aptly describe your current state." He looks between the two of you.
Dick frowns, glancing between you and Damian, "Do I want to know what would describe it?" Dick responds. You shake your head from his left, and Dick's lips twitch in amusement at your exasperation.
Damian glares at the two of you, "I wasn't aware of your prior affections with one another."
You both blink at the kid slowly, (noting that Steph laughs sharply in the background at the comment).
"I believe you've severely misunderstood the situation." You wave your hands casually.
Damian raises an eyebrow, looking at Dick's spaced-out expression. You nudge him, making him refocus. "Tt," Damian scoffs before crossing his arms.
You stand awkwardly behind Dick, watching as he attempts to explain himself to Damian. Turning to the side, you see Steph, Cass, and Tim all looking towards you with varying degrees of mischief on their face.
You aren't entirely sure what Dick and Damian are talking about, but the harsh whispers give you an idea. "I'm gonna go with Steph," you mutter, turning around, thinking that the two arguing wouldn't hear you.
Both of their attention snaps to you, "Go where?" Damian demands.
You blink, "Uhh... Bat Burger?" You hadn't planned on Bat Burger, but it was the first thing that came to mind.
Dick shoves Damian aside, covering him with his larger form, "I'll go with you!" Dick grins, rushing to your side. You furrow your eyebrows, mouth open as you watch Damian fume at the action. Is this their normal?
Damian squawks out something unintelligible, "I will join you as well!"
"Oh," you turn toward Steph, who is struggling to hold in laughter. "Great."
Tim raises his hand, "Can we join too?" He gestures between himself and Cass.
"Tim—" Dick looks towards him, eyes wide in disbelief.
"Of course! The more the merrier." The grin on Steph's face is positively devious.
"Didn't realize you were staging a reunion." Damian huffs, walking up to your unoccupied side.
"Me neither." You slowly walk over to Steph with Dick and Damian at your sides. "Alright, guess we'll head out." You sigh, looking towards Tim, who smiles innocently at you.
It's silent for a moment. "Can I drive?" Damian asks.
The five of you turn toward Damian, exasperated.
—
You sit squished in a booth between Steph and Cass. Across from you are Tim, Dick, and Damian, with Dick directly in front of you. You silently munch on your Jokerized Fries, the only sounds being Dick loudly sipping his straw and the soft chatter of the restaurant.
You look down at your meal before glancing up to Dick, who has not stopped eyeing you this whole time. "So… You guys come here often?"
Damian frowns, his eye twitching at the question, "Rarely, this cash-grab of a company's mediocre food isn't worth our time."
Tim slowly turns to him, looking past Dick squished in between them, "You know you could just tell them they forgot your toy instead of insulting their entire business." The whole table stares down at Damian's Bat-Mite meal, no toy present.
Damian glares at him, "I refuse to beg an underpaid employee for something so trivial as a figure meant to entertain toddlers."
Tim blinks at him, unimpressed, "A 'no' would've sufficed, but okay." You snort.
"Y'know, with how many of us there are here, we should've just invited everybody else." Steph takes a bite out of her burger. "Made it a whole thing."
"Yeah, cause it wouldn't be weird for like ten people to storm a Batburger. They would definitely not be overwhelmed." Tim took a fry from your plate.
"Seriously? You already finished your own." You place your arm in front of your french fry holder, blocking him from it, glaring.
Tim shrugs, "I know, right? Crazy. Anyway, as it is, they taste better from somebody else's plate."
Steph nods solemnly, "He's right…" She nudges your side. "Could Cass and I have one?"
You sigh, shoving the box in their direction.
"I sense bias." Tim shakes his head at you, narrowing his eyes.
You glance at him out of the corner of your eyes, "They didn't buy any."
"You're nicer to them than you were to me!"
"Yeah, 'cause they asked."
Dick chuckles, grabbing your attention. You turn to face him, "Oh, so you're laughing."
Dick, still laughing, waves his hand towards you, "No…" He clears his throat, "Nope." He gives you his best poker face.
You raise an eyebrow, "Got it…" You shake your head, disappointedly. "You're on his side." You put your hand on your chest as if wounded.
"Okay, wow, I never said that." Dick meets your stare, pointing a finger at you, his elbow resting on the table.
"You haven't disproved it." You look down at your fries, picking up a limp one before eating it.
Dick scoffs, an amused smile on his face, before shoving his own fries to you. You look down at his peace offering before looking up to him. Damian and Tim lean back in the booth seat, sharing a knowing glance with each other from behind Dick's head.
"What?" Dick frowns at your befuddled expression.
"Why're you giving me your fries?"
"I thought you liked them?"
"Clearly not as much as Tim."
Both of you turn toward Tim, "Do not involve me in this." He laughs, turning away from you both.
"Consider it a peace offering?"
"So you admit you were on his side." You sigh, trying to fight a smile on your face.
Dick looks so disheartened by your rejection that you almost give in.
"Just accept the fries, for our sake." Damian is covering his eyes with his hands, almost as if he doesn't want to be associated with you guys anymore.
Dick nudges his fries closer to you, a small smile on his face. You snort, "Alright, truce." You slide the fries over to you, and his eyes light up slightly at the action. Damian gives him a troubled glance before looking at you.
Even after spending a couple of months around him, you still struggle to read Damian. This is one of those moments. By the way he's looking between the two of you, you wonder if he knows something you don't.
You began eating your fries again once the conversation settled into normalcy (or whatever is closest to it). However, you quickly ran into an issue. You had finished your meal, but still had the fries that Dick had left you. The issue was that you were full. You look at the daunting fry container.
You look up slightly to see Dick watching you. You slowly pick up one fry and eat it. Dick smiles at you, kicking you slightly from under the table. Narrowing your eyes, you smirk as you kick him under the table. Peace offering your ass.
"Are you playing footsies under the table?" Damian asks, face scrunched scornfully, looking down at the table.
"I would like it on the record that he started it for no good reason." You take another fry, offering the container to Cass and Steph, who eagerly take some.
"Not even gonna take a little bit of the blame? You are just as guilty as I am!" Dick holds his hands up, outraged.
"It was self-defense!" You cross your arms, stepping on his foot for emphasis.
Steph coughs awkwardly, "Not to interrupt your quarrel, but we are being a tiny bit disruptive."
"It's Gotham, no one cares." Tim rolls his eyes.
"It's called being considerate."
"There's nobody here."
"Oh, so we're just ignoring all the workers now?"
Damian mutters something in Arabic, standing up and walking out of the restaurant, momentarily distracting you from your argument with Dick.
"Should we go with him?" You point your thumb at Damian's retreating form.
"He'll find a way home." Tim shrugs.
You frown, "That… sounds wildly irresponsible."
"I'll rephrase: he doesn't want us to follow him home." Dick takes a fry from your container.
"…Didn't you give that to me?"
"Yeah," he chews on the fry unapologetically.
You glance down at the container, then back up to him.
"Oh, don't give me that. I gave it to you. It's fair that I can take a few."
"Kinda defeats the purpose of 'giving.'"
"Think of it as a tax."
You scoff, looking at the nearly empty container of fries. Between the entire table, they had managed to demolish it. You slide the rest of the fries over to Cass.
Dick looks offended, "Why were you mad about me taking one fry when you give it to Cass five seconds later?"
"It's not about the fries, Dick."
On your side, you hear Steph gasps a quiet "Ooooh!"
Tim schools his expression to avoid laughing. You notice Cass smiles under the guise of eating fries. Steph is openly enjoying this display.
Why did you agree to do this? Maybe you should've left with Damian.
Thankfully, Cass proposed that the (now) five of you leave after that comment. Thank goodness for her timing, because Dick suddenly looked like he had a lot more to say after you're "Not about the fries!" comment.
You all return to the cave, and most of them immediately go to get ready for patrol. You frown, turning to your left, where Dick is. "You gonna go on patrol?"
"Yeah," he sounds hesitant, not making eye contact with you.
Sensing his hesitation, you raise an eyebrow, "I sense a 'but.'"
He looks toward you, "Well… Are you planning on staying?"
You blink, "Why… would I do that?" You frown, bemused.
"Well, if you've been here for months," okay, maybe he is still a little upset about you not telling him, "I figured you'd have room here. Bruce certainly has the room."
"Oh," you nod at his logical conclusion, "Well, I don't." You shrug, unbothered.
The tension leaves his shoulders, and he smiles, "Do you want to stay the night? It's pretty late out."
"I wouldn't want to intrude. Plus, it's late, I don't wanna make Alfred have to set up a guest room at the last minute." You politely decline.
"You can just stay in mine." Dick offers, gauging your reaction.
You raise an eyebrow, "Geez, at least take me to dinner first."
Now, Dick would make comments like this all the time when you were teenagers. Over time, you learned how to tune them out, knowing that it was just who Dick Grayson was. Sure, the first couple of times he caught you off guard, but you learned to roll your eyes and laugh it off.
Never in your life have you done the same to him.
It was a throwaway comment, something he'd say in jest. You had said it without much care. However, upon seeing his mouth part in surprise, even coughing to hide his reaction, you couldn't help but stare.
What the hell happened in the years you hadn't seen him? Last you checked, this was not a certified "Dick Grayson Reaction."
You are caught so off guard by his reaction that you momentarily forget he hasn't actually responded.
"I— Well, you don't have to take it. It was just a suggestion. I probably won't be staying here tonight anyway—"
You furrow your eyebrows, "Dick, I was kidding." You cut him off.
He smacks his lips, "Right." He rubs his hands together.
You chuckle, "Sorry, I can't stay, perhaps another time though? I don't wanna drive too late. Just let me know whenever you're around, we can plan something—"
"I'll be around." Dick cuts you off, nodding.
"Oh," you part your mouth in surprise, "Okay… Well, just text me whenever then. Have fun on patrol, punch a bad guy for me." You place your hand on his shoulder before moving to exit the cave.
Dick barely moves as he watches you walk out. Right as you're about to exit his view, you wave, causing him to wave back. He watches as you vanish.
"That was hard to watch." Tim appears.
Dick slowly turns to him, "Where did you come from?"
"Stop trying to change the subject." Tim glares at him, putting a hand on his hip. "What was that?"
Dick blinks innocently, "What was what?"
"Don't play dumb. What was the 'Oh, you can stay in my room!'" Tim mocks him, holding his hand up to his face bashfully.
"I did not sound like that." Dick furrows his eyebrows, shaking his head.
"Might as well have! I thought you were cool just being friends!" Tim crosses his arms.
"I am!" Dick walks over to the computer, taking off his jacket.
Tim raises his eyebrows, unconvinced. "Could've fooled me."
"It's none of your business anyway. Like— Why did you invite yourself to Bat Burger?" Dick crosses his arm over his body, stretching it.
"'Cause I wanted burgers?"
"That's not the reason, and you know it." Dick points an accusing finger at him mid-stretch.
"Am I not allowed to like burgers?"
Dick scoffs, grabbing his jacket before heading to change into his suit. "I know what you're thinking."
"Yeah, can you blame me?"
Dick didn't respond.
—
The drive back was relatively silent. You meant to put music on, but you completely forgot because all you could think of was the day that occurred. First, you stumble onto Dick after not seeing him for years. That is, of course, after you conveniently forget to mention that you've been regularly visiting Wayne Manor for months.
Then, you end up at a Bat Burger at 10pm with half of the eponymous vigilantes. After that, you come back to the Manor and Dick Grayson— the same Dick Grayson you had loved— offers for you to stay in his room. When you make a joke about the comment, he actually gets flustered. Flustered!
Upon arriving in Central Gotham near Coventry, you sigh, getting out of your car.
What a night.
You wonder how they do it sometimes, you feel exhausted, and all you did today was go to work and train. Not even patrol. Upon entering your apartment, you have to use all your willpower to stay standing. Rushing through your night routine, you eventually plop onto bed, letting sleep take you into its grasp.
The next day started out normally.
You had woken up at a reasonable time and gotten ready relatively fast. You had even decided to walk to that one bakery a couple of blocks down that you liked. You were early enough that all the pastries were fresh. You walked out with a chocolate croissant. It was going great.
Then you heard shouting and gunshots.
Of course, living in Gotham, you weren't surprised. However, that didn't mean you were stupid. Usually, when a person senses danger, it's common sense to walk away from it. However, it seemed that the crime started to follow you.
At this point, you were speedwalking— almost running away. The yelling had gotten much closer, and you were not about to get shot today. Just as you thought that maybe it's time to start running, you get tackled to the ground.
What has been going on recently?
You and the criminal, covered in a balaclava, both stared at each other in shock. You turned your gaze to whatever— whoever was chasing them.
"Oh," Red Hood jumps down next to you, addressing you by full name. Is this just going to be a thing between you both now? He stomps his boot onto the guy's throat, causing him to cough loudly, trapping the guy to the ground.
You click your tongue, "It's— uh," well, you can't exactly call him by his full name, "you."
Red Hood holds his hands out in a grand gesture, "Oh yes, me." You don't think you are imagining the smugness in his tone. You watch as he tilts his head down slightly.
You look down at the guy on the ground, who is quickly turning pale, "Hey, uh, I know this may be a big ask, but could you maybe not kill this guy right in front of me?" Your eyes flicker between Red Hood and the criminal.
The sound is distorted, but you think Jason snorts behind his mask. He kicks the man's head, and he stops moving.
You couldn't stop your look of horror if you tried.
"I was aware that it may have been a bit much to ask, but seriously?!" You cover your mouth.
Jason grabs the body, "Relax, he ain't dead. Just unconscious." He slings him over his shoulder.
"Oh, okay…" You nod, watching as he shifts the body on his shoulder. "I thought you're mainly in Crime Alley."
"I am," he answers. Well, somebody isn't very talkative.
"So, why're you here?"
"Because I have free will? What? Do you think I'm locked in Crime Alley?"
You nod, "Absolutely, still aren't sure if I'm imagining you or not."
Now he definitely laughs. You look down at your scattered items, picking up your now smushed croissant.
He's about to walk off when, "Hey, could you buy me a new one?"
Red Hood slowly turns toward you, "You serious?"
You nod, "I know you're rich. You probably got that crime lord money." You do the "money" gesture with your hand.
He remains silent.
"Is that a yes…?" You smile hopefully.
He sighs, walking back over to you, body slung over his shoulder. "Make it quick."
You grin.
-
If you thought yesterday was crazy, then somehow today is even crazier.
You are sitting in that bakery with Red Hood, who is leaning back lazily in a wooden chair that looks tiny in comparison to him. On his left is another chair with the criminal tied up. You take a bite of your croissant slowly, enjoying the scene.
Like you said, quite the morning.
"Y'know, I kinda feel bad that I'm the only one eating." You cross your legs.
Red Hood doesn't move. "You forced me here, and are using my money for this."
"I can't force you. I think you'd win that battle, but it'd be close." You take a bite of your croissant as Red Hood snorts.
"Yeah, real close."
"I'll have you know I've been training." You glare at him defensively.
"Oooh," he holds his hands up, "did your 'not-bestie' train you? You gonna beat me in a backflip competition?"
"Name the time and date." You smile.
Jason shakes his head, crossing his arms.
"No, seriously though, I wasn't joking. Please get something. I feel bad now."
Jason sighs, looking down at your croissant. "What would you recommend?"
You grin, "Any of their croissants are good. Oh, their danishes are pretty good if you like those too."
You two stare at each other for a moment before he gets up and goes to the counter. You have to hold back a snort at how people blatantly let him cut in line. Perhaps you should try dragging him around places, quick service. He eventually orders an almond danish before walking back over to you.
"What's so funny?" He asks, sitting down across from you.
"Nothing. This whole situation is just funny to me." You grin, covering your mouth.
Jason huffs, "You're telling me you don't often invite vigilantes to bakeries?"
"Not typically, no." You smirk, watching as he fidgets with the packaging of the danish. "You… Going to eat it?"
You have a feeling he's glaring at you from under the mask, "Yes, I'm going to unmask myself in front of this entire bakery. Great idea."
"Oh come on— I know you wear a mask under the mask!"
He sits up straighter in his seat. Ha, it seems that you stumped him with that comment.
"Which— I feel obligated to add— I think is silly." You wipe your hands on the napkin on the table.
"I didn't ask for your opinion."
"Consider it charity, I like giving it away."
Jason laughs, causing you to laugh as well. Fidgeting with the now-empty wrapper, you cautiously speak again, "Y'know you should come by the cave more often."
Jason remains silent for a moment, "I'll pass."
You sigh, "Well, I can't force you." You lean back lazily in your seat, "Consider it a mercy."
"I feel so honored." Jason deadpans.
"They wouldn't mind." You shrug, watching as Jason tilts his head slightly at your comment.
"Mhm, I'm sure." He mutters.
Tapping a finger on the desk, you sigh. "Alright, well, the offer is always there. Don't worry, I'll defend you from the big, scary bat."
Jason clasps his hands together, "Oh, my savior."
Laughing, you notice something shift on your right. "Hey, I think your guy is waking up." Both of you face the criminal.
Jason stands up, grabbing the guy by the scruff of the neck, the ropes around him falling off loosely. You wince at the action. It looks very uncomfortable. "What'd he do anyway?"
"He was trying to recruit kids for his drug trade. Thought he would get far," he punches the man, knocking him out cold again, "he didn't."
"Oh," you scrunch your nose up in disgust, "yikes. Give him a good punch for me." You take the trash from the table.
Jason looks over to you, huffing before walking out.
"Thanks for the food!" You call out to his retreating form, watching as he grapples away, not bothering to respond.
—
Dick paces in his room at the Manor. He had spent the past hour rearranging everything so that it looked perfect.
"This is highly unnecessary." Damian leans on his doorframe.
"…Cleaning rooms?" Dick tilts a photo frame on a dresser slightly.
Damian sighs, unimpressed. "Are you expecting a guest?" He walks over to the dresser, eyeing the photo suspiciously.
Dick hesitates before answering, "No…" He tilts the photo down so Damian can't see it. Damian turns toward him, glaring.
"You aren't even living here anymore."
"It's still my room, I can rearrange whenever I want." Dick crosses his arms, looking down at Damian.
Damian raises an eyebrow, looking back towards the downturned frame. "Right," He narrows his eyes towards Dick.
Dick sighs, "You look like you want to say something."
"Correct."
"Care to share?"
"Not particularly."
Dick rubs his temples, "I know what you're thinking—"
"Do you?" Damian crosses his arms.
Dick hesitates slightly, "Yes…"
Damian scoffs, "So then you know that I find this courting act pathetic."
Dick raises his hand slightly, "Hey now, I thought you said that you didn't want to share—"
"I assumed you were above this." Damian snatches the photo frame the moment Dick lets his guard down. "Pining after ex-lovers."
"We never dated." Dick huffs. Did his entire family think he dated you? He attempts to snatch the photo back from Damian.
Damian looks up from the photo to Dick, "Truly?" He looks down at the photo, "It's worse than I feared then."
"Could you get out?" Dick finally retrieves the frame from Damian, who let him take the item back.
"Is that why you're renovating your room?" Damian looks towards the neatly made bed, giving it a look of disgust. "Is this some seduction scheme?"
"What? No!" Dick frantically shakes his head. "How did you conclude that?"
Damian stares at Dick for a moment before turning away, "Well, it's for her, right?"
"Not like that."
"Answer the question."
Dick pauses before putting the photo frame back up, "She doesn't have a room here." He rubs his thumb against the frame. "I thought that maybe she could use mine to stay the night— you know, if she ever needs it." He looks down at Damian.
"And there's no ulterior motives?" Damian raises a dubious eyebrow.
"No! Why are you still on about that?"
"What else is there to think? You're offering her your bed."
"Damian." Dick sighs, covering his eyes, rubbing his temples.
"You know I'm right, even the others have noticed."
Dick instantly removes his hands from his face, "What'd they say?"
Damian gives him an unimpressed blink. "She liked you. Now she doesn't." At Dick's wounded look, he sighs, "I'll rephrase. She no longer harbors romantic affections for you."
Dick groans, "Did she tell everybody but me?"
"No, I just figured it out."
"You just met her."
"And yet, I was still able to conclude where her affections lie."
Dick clenches his fists, walking over to the bed, "Do you think I messed up?"
"By not knowing? She cannot blame you for your ignorance."
"That… doesn't really make me feel better."
"I wouldn't assume it does. It's too late anyway, she's moved on."
Dick frowns, "With somebody?"
Damian pauses, "Not to my knowledge."
"So there could be somebody?"
Damian sighs, "The possibility is there."
Dick leans back onto his bed, ruining the perfect sheets. "Would she even tell me?"
Damian is silent for a moment, "Unlikely."
Dick lets out a wounded chuckle, "Why didn't any of you guys tell me? At least with her, I can maybe understand, but not a single one of you thought to contact me?"
Damian slowly walks over to the edge of the bed, looking down at Dick, lazily sprawled on the sheets. "I was under the impression that you two had previously… dated. I believe everybody else believed that, too. It wasn't any of our business."
Dick scoffs, "Like that's ever stopped you guys." Damian remains silent at his comment, so Dick continues. "Has she really met everybody while I was gone?"
Damian frowns thoughtfully, "To my knowledge, she hasn't met everybody. From my understanding, she hasn't met Todd."
Dick hums, "Should I confront her?"
"If I knew you'd be languishing in your room, I would have refrained from confronting you about this." Damian takes a few steps back, ready to exit.
"I never... liked her like that." Even to him, the comment sounded weak, as if he was struggling to believe his own words.
Damian pauses, looking down at Dick's pathetic form, "I believe this has dragged on long enough."
"Damian," Dick calls out as he hears Damian's footsteps soften as he moves farther.
"Damian," Dick props his head up, looking at his door wide open.
Dick stares at his open door, frowning. He looks at that photo left on the dresser. Why does it matter so much anyway? It's not like you like him anymore. He walks over to that photo.
It's a photo of when you were first in the cave with him. He was sitting on the medical bed, bandages covering his body, as you grin at the camera. He had argued at the time that too much had happened for him to look happy in any photo. To be fair, he wasn't wrong. He looks exhausted, but there's a fondness in his eyes as he glances out of the corner of his eye. You had taken it on his phone at the time and told him he could delete it after. He could never bring himself to delete it. While he was not thrilled at the prospect of having a photo of him injured lying around, you had seemed so excited, and he couldn't bring himself to dampen that joy.
Did you like him then? He runs his finger over your face.
Who is he kidding? You ran into a fire to pull him out. You had risked your life for him.
He looks into your eyes in the photo, the light glinting off the glass, his hands clenching around the frame.
—
"No way. That's how you found out his identity?" Steph cackles as she spins in the chair, her Spoiler suit on. She isn't wearing the mask, so you observe your reaction with a grin on your face.
"Yep." You smirk, "'Costume party,' he told me." You do air quotes.
She snorted, "He couldn't come up with anything better?"
You shrug, laughing, "Apparently not."
"That was foolish of him." Damian crosses his arms next to Steph.
"It's funny. I mean, come on— Imagine getting caught in the library of your high school." She grabs Damian's arm to stabilize herself as she cracks up again.
Damian glares down at her arm, not nearly as amused by the story as she is, but he doesn't push her arm away.
"Did I miss something?" Duke walks over to you three, suited up, causing you to jump back in your chair. Still, after all these months, every single person here manages to sneak up on you. You'd think you'd have improved your situational awareness by now.
"We were just recounting the story of how I met Dick." You shrug, tapping your finger on the armrest of your chair casually.
"Oh?" Duke raises an eyebrow.
You gape at him, "Did he tell none of you?"
Duke shrugs while Steph grins. Damian, however, is the one who speaks up, "Considering the mortification he must've felt, I imagine he'd be hesitant to narrate said anecdote."
You snort, "Fair enough. So, basically, he was changing in the textbook storage room at the library." At Duke's widened eyes, you hold your hand up to stop him from speaking, "Wait, it gets better. So I had been going in there for some textbook, and I opened the door to see none other than Dick Grayson changing into Robin's costume. So now I'm standing there like 'Uh, you good?' As he tries to convince me that it was for a costume party. Keep in mind, it was around one in the afternoon in the middle of the week."
Duke crosses his arms, his eyes lighting up in amusement, a smirk crosses his face, "I can see why he didn't tell us."
You snicker, "Right?! I mean, it was already bad, but he kept digging himself deeper and deeper. So now I have to smuggle him out, right? And—"
A loud motorcycle roars, echoing throughout the cave. You and Steph share a frown. You turn towards Duke, who looks puzzled at the newcomer. Meanwhile, Damian is already reaching for his katana.
"Could be Dick? I know he was out earlier today. I don't know if he has returned yet." Duke shrugs.
"Doing what?" Steph stands up, grabbing her mask before covering her face. She attempts to subtly cover you, after all, you don't exactly have a secret identity. Still, you frown indignantly at the action.
"I dunno.'" Duke shrugs, narrowing his eyes as the biker parks off in the distance. Damian looks towards Duke at that comment, when suddenly the figure becomes so blaringly obvious. How could you forget?
"Jason Todd?" You frown, standing up.
Duke sighs in relief as Steph and Damian snap their attention to you.
Jason walks over to the four of you, taking off his helmet, addressing you by full name. Behind you, Steph is covering her mouth in surprise before slowly turning to Damian, nudging him. They both share a look.
"I didn't realize you'd take me up on the offer so soon." You raise an eyebrow, putting one hand on your hip.
"That's not why I'm here." He rolls his eyes.
"Well—"
"Wait," Steph cuts you off, causing both you and Jason to turn to her, "since when did you two meet?"
You raise an eyebrow, "Uhh, few weeks back? Actually, he bought me a croissant yesterday."
Damian turns towards Jason, "You what?"
"Y'know the French pastry?" Jason raises an eyebrow at Damian. "Typically flakey, probably has an unhealthy amount of butter in it—"
"I know what a croissant is, Todd."
Jason raises his hands in mock surrender, "Just making sure." He looks down at Damian, unimpressed.
"Let's go back a bit." Steph steps in between them, "Why did he buy you a croissant?"
"I was hungry, and he kinda destroyed the one I bought." You shrug, pointing your thumb at Jason.
"Technically, I didn't. It was that guy that you ran into."
"Well, you were the one chasing him."
"Perhaps you should watch where you're running next time."
"My bad, next time I'll check both ways before walking on the sidewalk. Never know when you're gonna get tackled by a drug dealer."
"Exactly."
Steph and Damian both watch in varying degrees of awe as you two go back and forth. Steph looks almost amused, yet wary of your back and forth. Damian, however, is quiet. Duke looks unsurprised, attempting to hide the growing amusement in his eyes.
"So… You've been hanging out for a while?" Steph asks hesitantly.
"She forced me to 'hang out' with her." Jason gestures his thumb to you. You glare at him indignantly.
"I wanted compensation for my croissant." You defend yourself, pushing his hand down. Jason moves away from you, glaring. "What're you even here for anyway?"
"You said I could come over? What happened to that whole 'I'm gonna defend you from the Bat.'" Jason crosses his arms.
You hold your hand up, "You had already said that's 'not why I'm here.' Oh, and who says I wouldn't defend you?!" You say, knowing full well that Bruce would wipe the floor with you.
"You're not doing a very good job of it."
"He isn't here? Are you fighting invisible bats?" You gesture wildly around the cave at nothing.
"There are actually bats in here." Jason points up at the ceiling, the five of you looking up to the bats resting on the ceiling, barely visible, but there.
"Are you fighting rabies?" You place your hands on your hips.
Jason scoffs, letting the argument die down. "I dropped something a couple weeks back. Figured I'd grab it."
"You know, not answering the rabies question doesn't make me feel better."
"Wasn't supposed to." Jason rolls his eyes.
You hum, "Anyway, you said you dropped something a couple weeks back?" Jason nods silently, and you smirk roguishly. "That's crazy, cause a few weeks ago somebody actually dropped something after I told them it was a risk."
"Crazy. Who would ever do such a thing?" Jason deadpans, avoiding your eyes.
You grin even wider, gesturing for Jason to follow. "You're lucky I was nice enough to keep it. Figured it looked important. You know—"
Damian, Steph, and Duke stare in varying degrees of alarm as you take Jason away to find whatever he was looking for.
"So… They've met." Steph eventually breaks the silence. Damian grunts quietly in response. She turns to Duke, "And you've been awfully quiet."
Duke, avoiding eye contact, stares unyieldingly at your retreating figure.
"You knew, didn't you?" She crosses her arms, nudging him with her elbow.
"I didn't think it was that big of a deal. I just stumbled on them in one of the old storage rooms together." He scratches his neck.
Steph stares blankly at him, mouth agape. Damian stares up at him, lips pursed. "And you told nobody?!" She whisper-yells, shaking Duke's shoulders.
"I'm sorry, my first thought wasn't 'Let me tell everybody in a 10-mile radius what I just stumbled onto!'"
"It should've been!" Steph frowns. "I am not gonna be the one to tell him."
"Nor will I," Damian speaks up.
They both turn towards Duke, "Woah, I sure as hell aren't saying anything."
Steph holds a finger up, "Nuh-uh! You kept this a secret! You gotta tell him."
"How is that fair?! I didn't even know I was supposed to tell anybody!" Duke grabs Steph's shoulders.
"'Tis the burden we have in situations like this." Steph sighs dramatically, patting his hand reassuringly.
"I am not gonna tell him. Since you were so upset at not knowing, you can go and spread the news." Duke shakes his head frantically.
"I already said I'm not gonna do it!" She furrows her eyebrows, turning to Damian for help, who shakes his head in response.
"Well then," Duke crosses his arms, "it appears we've reached a stalemate." Duke sighs, staring resolutely at her.
The three of them turn to you and Jason's distant figures.
It'll be fine
–
Jason didn't linger in the cave after you retrieved the item he was looking for. You didn't expect him to. Truthfully, you're surprised he even showed up, having nearly forgotten the incident a few weeks back. When he left, you tried to ignore the looks that Steph and Damian gave you.
It was strange, you hadn't talked with Damian much in the past, but suddenly the boy was very interested in your love life. You weren't naive enough to assume it was just genuine curiosity.
"And have you considered dating anybody as of late?" He sits on a chair in front of the Batcomputer, hands clasped on his lap.
"Uh…" You frown, "No..?"
Damian hums, tapping his fingers on his lap methodically. "Anybody?" He emphasizes.
You lean against the desk, "You sound like you want me to say a specific answer."
Damian's stare pierces your soul, almost as if he's trying to assess you. "So you do have an answer in mind."
"I don't actually." You shake your head, frowning.
Damian raises an eyebrow at you skeptically, "Think about it."
"I don't think I'm enjoying this conversation." You cross your arms, sighing.
"The quicker you disclose your true intentions, the quicker this will end."
You stare blankly at Damian, "Damian, I have no idea what answer you want."
"Playing yourself the fool is beneath you."
"Then I am a fool," you shrug carelessly, ready to walk away. "Just ask bluntly."
Damian remains silent for a moment, "Are you and Todd courting?"
You stare at Damian, who doesn't break his inscrutable expression. You can't stop the laughter that erupts at your next question, "Why– Why would you ask that?"
"You requested that I ask bluntly. I am merely following your instructions. I had presumed that the name-calling was a flirtatious advancement, not to mention the childish bickering."
"Okay, first off–" you hold your finger up, walking over to Damian, thank goodness everybody left already, "I call him by his name."
"You don't call anybody else by their full name." Damian frowns, eyebrows furrowed.
"He started it!"
Damian blinks at you, unimpressed. "You are not helping your case."
"Why are you acting like this is my fault? Why don't you confront him?"
Damian makes a point to look around the now-empty cave exaggeratedly, "He is not here." He deadpans.
"Oh, so I'm just the convenient option. I feel so loved." You place your hand on your chest mockingly.
"You have yet to answer the question."
"I am not dating Jason. I don't know how one interaction between us convinced you of that, but it's not true." You look away from Damian.
He narrows his eyes, "There was mention of your previous outings with him. He apparently 'bought you a croissant.' A euphemism for more unseemly activities, I imagine."
You attempt to mask your horror at his words, but fail miserably. "If I knew it'd cause me this much trouble, I would've just skipped the damn croissant." You mutter, rubbing your temples.
"So you admit he 'bought you a croissant.'" He sits up straighter in his chair.
"He bought me like an actual croissant, yes! He even clarified that we were talking about the pastry. I never denied that!" You gesture wildly.
"Tt," Damian glares at you, his gaze scrutinizing your entire being. "What was the context for that outing?"
"I…" You begin before pausing, "Wait, why would I tell that to you?"
Damian raises an eyebrow, "Got something to hide?"
You glare at him indignantly, "I know what you're doing." You shake your head at him disapprovingly.
"Really? You are dancing around the question." He taps his fingers slowly, shaking his head at you, disapprovingly.
You groan, "It was an accident, I had accidentally ran into the criminal he was after. Both of us went down, and my croissant was smushed. I, jokingly," you emphasized, making sure Damian understood, "I jokingly told him— Jason, not the criminal— that he should replace my croissant."
"So you asked him out." Damian holds his clasped hands up to his face, concentrated.
You whip around to face him, "I just said it was a joke. I didn't think he'd actually stop what he was doing to sit with me in a bakery!"
Damian looks slightly taken aback, "You sat in a bakery with him?"
You rub your eyes with your hands, "Wait, okay, yes, but it was perfectly fine. It wasn't like that. We just bought a couple of pastries before he had to go."
Damian looks repulsed by your words, standing up. "I have things to attend to."
"Damian, believe me. We aren't dating or courting or whatever you wanna call it!" You attempt to stop him.
Damian remains silent as you look down at him, pleading. He nods once before exiting, not a word extra.
Well, that is not very reassuring.
–
The night had been going smoothly– well, as smoothly as a night in Gotham could go.
Dick, true to his word, decided to stay in Gotham. The night was still young, so perhaps he was judging prematurely, but it was nothing too crazy. There was some drug deal on a roof earlier, and that was about the most intense thing that happened all night. It's been quiet.
Dick decided that he was going to try and stick around Central Gotham that night, for he knew you had gone home earlier. Dick was going to ask if you wanted to hang out alone, and not with half of his family tagging along. When he began searching for you, he eventually ran into Damian, who gave him a conflicted expression. Before Dick got a chance to ask what that meant, Damian shrugged, telling him he had no idea where you were.
Eventually, he found out that you had left the manor earlier that day. Which was fine. It's not like he could control where you went, but he'd been hoping to catch you alone.
So maybe he'd been patrolling around your apartment, and maybe he'd circled around the block a few times, hoping to catch you alone. He wasn't sure when you left, but he hadn't seen your car around, so he figured you were still out.
That night, Babs decided to help out on comms, "Nightwing, there's an armed robbery two blocks over from your current location."
Dick frowns, leaving for five minutes couldn't hurt.
–
You sigh as you exit your car, grabbing your personal items before getting ready for the quick walk to your apartment. There was no parking, so you had parked a couple of streets over. The walk wasn't anything you hadn't done before, so you weren't too worried.
Damian's unexpected interrogation had you stressing for the rest of the day. What if he went around telling people that something was going on between you and Jason? Not like there was, but you know Damian is stubborn. If he believes that you are dating Jason, then it'll take more than a quick conversation to convince him.
Just as you were about to turn onto your street, you hear the sound of a gun's safety being clicked off. Slowly, you turn around to face the criminal. It was a man with long, greasy hair. He had a worn leather jacket on, the gun held lazily in his hand. "Everything on you, now."
Your mouth parts in surprise, well, shit. While Cass and Steph were teaching you how to fight, that did not mean you were confident enough to take out somebody with a gun pointed at your head.
"Okay," you answer slowly, grabbing your phone out of your pocket. He watches as you move slowly to fish the device out of his pocket.
"Hurry up. I don't have all day." He glares at you.
"I'm sorry that robbing me is inconvenient for you." You mutter to yourself, thinking that he won't hear.
"What was that?" He points the gun under your chin, and you feel your heart race at the action.
"I'll hurry up! I'll hurry up!" You hold your hands up in surrender, offering your phone in one of them, watching as he moves closer to take your phone.
Just as he's about to grab your phone, a figure descends from the sky, kneeing the robber in the head, sending him sprawling to the ground. The sheer force of the action causes you to flinch back in surprise. Instinctively, you move away from the attacker before you see who it is.
"Oh," you exhale in relief, "you know we keep meeting." You adjust your clothes, brushing off imaginary dust as if you were unbothered by the attack.
"Were you about to give this asshole your phone?" Red Hood gives a "light" kick to the now unconscious criminal.
"Not all of us are trained as well as you are. He had me at gunpoint." You scoff.
Red Hood turns towards you, "Thought you said that you've 'been training.'" He does air quotes. "If I remember correctly, I remember you challenging me." He crosses his arms, tilting his head slightly.
You purse your lips, "I was bullshitting and you knew that."
He chuckles, moving over to you. "Are you hurt?" The amusement from his voice is gone, replaced by something that almost sounds like concern.
You smile at him, "Physically no, but my pride is a little wounded."
"Mm, next time I'll let you get a hit in." He responds dryly.
You grin even wider, "Aw, so thoughtful." You start to walk past him.
"Where're you heading anyway?" He asks, following behind you.
"Home."
"Alone? This late?" He walks up to your right.
"It's nearby, I'll be okay."
"You were almost robbed."
"Keyword: 'almost.'"
Red Hood attempts to rub his temples, but the helmet he has on prevents that. The action is a little funny. "I ain't letting you walk home alone this late."
You blink in surprise, watching as he matches your stride, "Do you not have any important stuff to do? Fight crime? Tackle drug dealers? Crush croissants?"
Red Hood shrugs, the action stiff, "Some of the others can handle it. I think they'll be alright." You smile at him, noting your apartment as it comes into view.
The rest of the walk is pretty short and quiet. You're about to head into your apartment when you notice the right shoulder of his jacket is stained red. "Are you injured?"
"Not from that guy." Red Hood scoffs, crossing his arms, attempting to cover the wound.
"That's not what I asked." You frowned, looking at the maroon stain on his jacket. "Nope, you're coming with me."
Jason says your name softly, the first time he's ever just said just your name. His voice is quiet, and it startles you for a moment, "I'll be fine."
You both stare at each other for a moment, "You know you don't look very tough when your shoulder is bleeding out in front of me, right? Kinda ruins your whole persona."
Jason's posture straightens, and you think he's going to insist, so you cut him off before he gets the chance. "Nope," you grab his (good) arm, pulling him to your apartment. "I may not be as good as Dr. Thompkins or Alfred, but I refuse to let you go out without some sort of first aid."
Jason doesn't say anything as you drag him into your apartment. Turning on the lights, you look towards him, standing at the entrance awkwardly. "I'll go grab the first aid kit. You can head to the couch."
You put all your stuff down, head to the bathroom, wash your hands, and grab the first aid kit and a clean cloth.
When you walk out of the bathroom, Jason is sitting in the living room, helmet off, blatantly staring at the picture frames you have up. "I'm no doctor, but have you at least tried to stop the bleeding?" You dampen the cloth at the sink before walking over to him.
"Bleeding should be stopped by now." Jason responds. He sounds exhausted, and his hand is pressed on his blood-stained jacket where the wound should be.
You nod, "Okay, I'll try and clean the wound, but you're gonna have to take off that jacket." You sit next to him as he slowly removes the jacket. The wound is open, but it's not actively dripping blood. "Sorry if this hurts," you slowly take the cloth and attempt to clean any dirt around it. Jason doesn't react, only wincing on occasion, to which you offer an apology. You work in silence.
Eventually, once it's clean, you look at the first aid kit, searching for the suture. Typically, it isn't something you'd find in a first aid kit, but Alfred and Bruce had insisted you take one of the ones they keep in the cave "just in case."
"Gonna be honest… I have no idea how to do stitches." You grab the thread, frowning.
Jason chuckles quietly, wincing slightly, "I can do it. You've already helped out enough." You frown, but move the first aid kit next to him. "Do you want pain meds or something? I should have some Tylenol lying around."
Jason nods, "That'd be nice."
You stand up, walking over to your medicine cabinet, grabbing a bottle of Tylenol, some water, and bringing it to him. Jason nods in thanks, and you wait anxiously next to him. It doesn't exactly feel great just sitting around while he's stitching his own wound.
"So you've talked with him?" Jason starts the conversation.
You blink, "Sorry?"
"Your 'not-bestie.'" Jason carefully cuts part of the thread.
"Oh," you blink, "a little? He came back yesterday."
Jason snorts, "I'm aware, he's out on patrol tonight around the area."
"Huh," you nod, "he did say he'd be in the area for a bit."
Jason hums, "How'd he react to you being here? You didn't tell him, right?"
You smack your lips, "Yeah,"
He chuckles, looking up from his wound to you, "That bad?"
"Maybe a bit passive-aggressive." You shrug, thinking back to Dick's unreadable expression when he saw you training with Steph and Cass.
Jason nods, "I can imagine." He grabs the pill from the table, using the water to down it. "You know he's been circling around your block for most of the night."
Your mouth parts in surprise, "Really? He knows if he wants to talk to me, he can just call or show up… right?"
Jason shrugs, wincing slightly as the action agitates the wound, "Who knows what he's thinking, I–"
You both turn to the glass door for the balcony, three loud knocks echoing across the room. You couldn't hide your startled expression if you wanted to. Jason snorts, "Speak of the Devil,"
You turn towards Jason, who is focused on his wound. Thinking he's got it handled, you turn your focus back to Dick, and he offers a small wave. Walking over, you unlock the door. "Uh… Hello?"
"Hi! I happened to be in the area–" you hear Jason snort in the background, "–and I thought I could drop by." He smiles at you before looking towards Jason behind you on your couch. His smile strains a bit, "I didn't realize you'd have company over."
"I didn't realize I'd be having company. " You chuckle, walking over to the couch next to Jason. Dick follows next to you.
Dick raises an eyebrow at Jason stitching his wound, "What happened?"
"I got injured." Jason deadpans, pointing a finger to the wound.
"I can see that." Dick frowns, watching as Jason finishes up the last stitch. You grab some Vaseline before placing it next to Jason.
You and Dick watch for a moment as Jason dresses the wound before he turns to you. "Did you two just meet?" Dick asks, turning to you.
You shake your head, feeling your stomach oddly turn in familiarity. For some reason, the conversation feels oddly reminiscent of your conversation with Damian earlier. "Few weeks ago."
"Oh." Dick nods slowly, looking at you. You raise an eyebrow at him, and he turns away. "I… wasn't aware."
You snort, "I didn't know I needed to tell you everybody I met."
Dick opens his mouth, "I– You know I didn't mean it like that. I was just surprised." He fidgets behind you, making himself look smaller.
You frown, "I've been around for months? It'd be surprising if I hadn't met everybody yet."
Dick nods, agreeing, "Right, I just thought I heard that… you two hadn't met…. " he pauses, "yet." His last word was almost silent.
You snort, "Who said that?" You turn to Dick, before snapping your fingers, "Wait, let me guess, Damian?"
Dick looks over to you, eyebrows furrowed, "...Yeah, actually."
You sigh, "Of course he would."
Your words seem to catch Dick's attention, "Did… something happen?" He asks hesitantly, occasionally throwing Jason odd glances. Jason seems wholly unbothered by the whole situation, a bit too unbothered.
"With Damian?" You clarify. At Dick's nod, you turn away, "Ask him. He's the one who decided to interview me about my life." You take the scissors and bandage scraps scattered around the first aid kit and put them away before throwing the scraps in the trash.
Dick is silent for a moment, "What?" You can't decipher what his tone was. Horrified? Outraged? His tone shocks you for a moment, "When was that?" He furrows his eyebrows, crossing his arms as he follows you around your apartment as you put the first aid kit away.
"Today." You shrug, closing the cabinet before walking past Dick back out to the living room.
Dick scoffs, "No wonder." He mutters to himself before turning to follow you.
He follows you over to Jason, watching as you offer to refill his water. Jason thanks you with a smirk once you return. Dick's breath hitches, his fists clenching as he watches you sit next to Jason.
"So, how was that danish you got the other day?"
What.
The question was innocent, but it caused a million different questions to run through his mind. You're asking him about a danish? You two have hung out previously. Do you both hang out frequently? Clearly, you trust him enough to be in your apartment, and you aren't afraid to joke with him. Your question is casual enough to suggest you don't think it's a big deal.
Jason pretends to think, "It was alright."
You hunch over in dejection, "Oh, come on, seriously?"
Jason shrugged, a smirk growing on his face as he sat up straighter, "You overhyped it a bit."
You furrow your eyebrows, "Okay, fine," you huffed, "but it was still good enough, right?" You lean closer to him expectantly. At your action, Dick distantly notes that his jaw hurts from clenching his teeth.
Jason snorts, and he doesn't move away. "It was 'good enough.'" His tone is teasing, and your frown immediately turns into a triumphant smile.
Dick clenches his fist, walking over to you both, "Hey, Little Wing, I think Oracle needs our help."
Frowning, you stand up, "Oh, you two should get going then. I wouldn't wanna keep you from going out."
Jason raises an eyebrow at Dick, who grins at him. His expression is uneasy, stiff as Dick walks over to your side.
"It's a shame you can't stay any longer, but you two are always welcome." You smile, grabbing Jason's bloodied jacket. "I can wash this and return it–"
"Thanks," Dick offers you a soft smile, "but we wouldn't wanna keep the crime waiting." He winks at you, and you snort. His eyes drift down to Jason's jacket, clasped between your hands. Jason walks over to your other side, taking the offered jacket.
"Thanks," he nods at you, as he walks over to the balcony Dick entered from. He puts the helmet on before turning to Dick, "Well?"
Dick turns to you once again, "See you around." He walks away from you and over to the balcony. He doesn't break eye contact as he walks over to the ledge. You follow behind them, keeping a bit of distance, watching as Dick hops gracefully onto the ledge of the balcony. The action is so extra, so him, that you can't help the laughter that emerges from your chest. At your laughter, he brightens up.
"You're so extra." You roll your eyes.
"It's part of the charm." He smirks, almost bowing slightly, before flipping off the balcony and onto the building next to your apartment.
You lean against the ledge, watching as Jason and Dick grow smaller the farther they get. Just as you think they'll vanish, Dick turns around and waves. You snort, mirroring the action before he vanishes into the night.
–
Dick rolls onto a roof to cushion his jump, and he props his foot up on a ledge of it, getting a wide view of the street below. Jason follows closely behind him. "What was that?" Jason asks, walking up to Dick's side, looking down at the street.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." Dick smiles, still keeping his eyes on the street below, his leg bouncing up and down.
"Nightwing." Jason attempts to catch Dick's attention, moving slightly to try to cover his view of the street.
"We couldn't stay there all night." Dick turns to the opposite direction of Jason, balancing on the ledge casually.
Jason rolls his eyes, knowing that Dick can't see the action, "Obviously, but–"
"Great, glad we agree." Dick smiles before hopping down the building's exterior stairs, maneuvering through them with ease.
"Dick." Jason chases him, with far less grace, but just as efficiently. Below them, there are two groups pitted against each other. Dick doesn't hesitate before diving in. Rushing in, he grabs the shoulders of one of the members, using them to propel himself upward, before dragging him up with him and slamming him onto his buddy.
Jason quickly joins in, shooting the gun out of one of the men's hands before punching him to the ground. The two guys next to him attempt to make a run for it, but Jason trips one of them. Kicking him in the jaw, Jason knocks him out before turning to the last guy.
Just as he's about to attack, Dick jumps down from above, immobilizing the man.
"So we're just gonna pretend that nothing happened." Jason twirls his gun before holstering them.
"Nothing did happen." Dick flourishes his escrima sticks before placing them behind his back.
"Convincing." Jason snorts. Dick climbs back up the roof they were on earlier, expertly scaling the fire escape stairs. "So you have nothing to say?"
"What is there to say? You were injured, she patched you up." Dick sits down on the ledge, propping a knee up, letting one leg hang over the ledge.
Jason props his knee up next to Dick, looking down at him. "And you're cool with that?" He rolls his shoulder.
Dick doesn't look up at him, "Yes."
Jason places his hands on his hips, "Sure doesn't feel like it."
Dick scoffs, "What do you want me to say?" He faces Jason, tense. "That I'm upset that you two were hanging out?" He places an arm lazily on top of his propped-up leg.
Jason tilts his head slightly, crossing his arms.
"Well, I'm not."
Jason grunts, turning away from Dick. Dick elbows Jason's leg, causing him to tilt his head at the action. "What was that for?"
"You don't believe me."
Jason snorts, "Okay, you are not upset." He states, holding his hands up in surrender.
Dick groans, "Now you're mocking me."
"It's too easy not to." Jason smirks, sitting down next to Dick. The two of them look down at the city in silence. "Y'know she told me you two aren't besties."
Dick looks over at Jason, affronted. "She did not."
Jason nods solemnly, "Yep. Think her words were: 'We've never referred to each other as besties.'"
Dick purses his lips, his nails digging into his palms. "No, I guess we didn't."
Jason takes off his helmet, relying on the domino underneath, resting the equipment next to him. "Do you love her?" He asks, the two of them watching the blinding lights of the city below.
Dick opens his mouth, but then closes it. He absentmindedly taps his finger on his knee, not taking his eyes off the city below. "I… think so."
Jason snorts, "You don't know?"
Dick scoffs, "I…" he lets his propped-up leg hang over the edge, placing his hands flat on the ledge, "It's complicated."
Jason hums, "Well, you'd better figure it out fast."
Dick slowly turns to Jason, "What does that mean?" He asks calmly.
"She's not just going to wait for you to come to a decision. If you don't take the opportunity…" Jason trails off, ignoring Dick's pointed stare.
"Are you saying you will?" Dick stiffens as he watches Jason absentmindedly tap his helmet with his index finger.
"I'm saying somebody might if you don't do anything."
Dick stands up, looking down at Jason, who languidly turns to face him, a smirk on his face. "Are you saying that somebody is you?"
Jason shrugs, wincing slightly at the sting of pain in his shoulder, "Not necessarily. Just in general."
"She wouldn't." Dick jumps away from the ledge, back onto the rooftop, facing away from Jason.
Jason turns around to face him, "How could you even know? She didn't even tell you she was back."
Dick turns around, his chest feels like it was pierced by a blade at Jason's words, "Oh, did she tell you that too?"
Jason shrugs, "She told me a lot of things."
"I'm sure she did." Dick glares down at Jason, his disinterest only fueling his frustration.
"Why are you upset? You aren't even sure if you like her." Jason leans over, his elbows resting on his knees, looking up at Dick.
Dick clenches his teeth, trying to find the words to say, but Jason cuts him off before he gets to say anything.
"She's moved on, Dick. You lost your opportunity."
Dick huffs, pointing a finger at Jason's chest, "You do not get to comment about us. You don't know what our relationship was like. If she 'moved on' I want to hear it from her, not from a telephoned message from you."
Jason tilts his head, "But I'm not the first one to say it, am I?" Dick narrows his eyes at Jason, his breath hitching as his words. "Fine, prove me wrong then." Jason stands up, and Dick matches his stare, looking up at his brother.
"I will." Dick resolves.
–
"Come on, it's like a rite of passage, you gotta do it." Tim shakes his head at you, seated in front of the Batcomputer.
"It's a charity gala. Why on Earth do I need to go? It's not like Bruce has adopted me or something. I'm just a random person in the eyes of the public." You wave your hand dismissively.
"Okay, but like you're involved with us often enough, so you gotta do it. Bat rules." Tim shrugs, as if saying "What can you do about it?"
"That's not a thing." You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes suspiciously at Tim.
"It is." Tim nods, reassuringly.
"No, it's not. You aren't gonna convince me." You spin around in your chair, away from him. To your surprise, you see two people walk over.
"It…" you checked the time on your phone, "hasn't even been 24 hours. You two coming in pairs now? No longer sold separately?" You laugh at your own joke, sitting up straighter in the seat as you watch Dick and Jason approach.
"Didn't realize there was a cooldown for when we could approach you." Dick grins at you, walking over to rest his arm on the headrest, looking down at you.
You roll your eyes, but a smile grows on your face, "Well, now you know."
Dick chuckles, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before turning to Tim, "What were you two talking about anyway?"
"Oh my–" You look at Dick, ready to justify yourself, but somebody cuts you off.
"–It's her turn to go to a gala." Tim gestures to you. "She's been here too long without going to one." Tim cuts in helpfully. You, Dick, and Jason turn towards him.
"...He's kind of right," Jason adds.
You turn to him, betrayed, "After everything last night? You will betray me like this?" Tim's eyes widen at your comment towards Jason.
Jason rolls his eyes, "All I did was agree." Tim stares blatantly at Dick, who obstinately refuses to look at him.
"Betrayal." You hiss at Jason. "Come on, Dick, you're on my side, right?" You look at Dick hopefully.
He blinks down at you, still leaning on the headrest of your chair. "Uh…" He looks up to meet Tim and Jason's expectant stare before returning his gaze to you.
Wait…
"How about you go with me? That way you aren't alone the whole time." Dick proposes, offering a small smile to you.
Your eyes widen at Dick, and you open your mouth, sputtering. He was supposed to be on your side, not encouraging you to go. Jason crosses his arms in the back, and Tim purses his lips thoughtfully.
"But I'm not equipped for that kind of scene. I don't even know how to handle myself at such an event." You look up at Dick.
"Then I'll teach you." Dick shrugs, "Just come with me, it'll be like old times."
"What kind of old times are you talking about? I don't remember you ever making me attend one of the Wayne events." You furrow your eyebrows, covering your mouth with your hand in concentration, trying to remember an occurrence.
Dick snorts, "I don't think I ever did. I meant that it'd be us. Just us." He grins, resting his arms over the chair's headrest, before propping his head on top of it.
Tim and Jason share a quick glance, "Are you sure?" You ask cautiously. "I think I remember you complaining about them as a kid."
Dick tilts his head, still resting it on the headrest, "Well, now we'll be able to bond over mutual hatred. It'll be great!"
You sigh, turning your attention to Tim, "See what you've done?"
Tim smiles, "No regrets."
Rolling your eyes, you turn to Dick, "Alright, I guess I'll meet you at the Manor tomorrow."
Dick shakes his head, "I can pick you up. Think you can be ready by 6:30?"
"In the morning?!" You hold a hand against your chest before raising it to your lips in a thoughtful manner. "I dunno, that's a bit early."
Dick exhales, amused, before flicking your head lightly. "Mm, yeah sure, better make sure your alarm is set."
Rolling your eyes, you rub the spot he flicked, "Of course, of course."
—
The next day comes quicker than you thought it would, so now you're staring at your closet. While you've never been to a charity event, you know that they're definitely formal.
After eliminating all the dresses deemed "too casual" or "not good enough for a Wayne event," you are left with one option.
You are left with a dark blue dress that fits your figure nicely. You'd used this dress in the past for some previous work events, but you figured it'd work well for a charity event. You select a pair of heels that suits the dress nicely before doing your makeup for the night. You didn't want to do too much, so you settled for something cute, yet classy.
Once you finish up, you anxiously await Dick's message. The longer he takes, the more anxious you feel. Will they be able to tell that you don't fit in? What if you fuck up and do something stupid?
Thankfully, Dick doesn't take long, knocking on your door on time. "Coming!" You head over to the door and open it.
"Hey," you shuffle the clutch in your hand to your non-dominant one.
Dick blinks, his eyes darting down your figure, "Hey,"
You smile at him, walking out of your apartment, before closing the door. All of this happens while Dick just stares at you.
"Is… something wrong..?" You shift uncomfortably, smoothing the dress down your body.
"You're beautiful," Dick responds softly. You wonder if you even heard the words correctly.
You raise an eyebrow, "Was I not supposed to be?"
Frantically, Dick shakes his head, "No! I just meant that you look gorgeous. You didn't have to do all of this for one of Bruce's charity events."
You frown, "Well, what if I wanted an excuse to dress up?"
Dick straightens up, mouth pursing, "Then I'd ask Bruce to host as many events as he wanted just so you could." He gives you a small smile.
You both stare at each other before you burst out laughing. "Oh my God, Jason was wrong."
Dick tenses up, "What was he wrong about?"
"You are funny." You pat his chest reassuringly. The action causes Dick to look down at your hand.
"Did he tell you I wasn't?" Dick frowns, grabbing your hand and slowly removing it from his chest.
"Hey, I'll have you know I tried defending you." You smirk at him, your hand still in his grasp.
"Oh," he smirks, "what an honor."
You chuckle, "Quite the honor indeed." You look up from your clasped hand to his face.
To your surprise, Dick is already looking down at your eyes, "I… got something for you." He reveals his other hand, presenting you with a dark blue cornflower corsage.
You slowly blink at the bundle of flowers as he smiles gently. He looks down at your hand, silently asking permission. "I… I didn't get you anything." You feel a pit form in your stomach. He offers to help you around the gala, and you didn't even think to get anything? Great, now you feel horrible.
His smile grows, "Hey— No, it's alright. I got something for myself so we could match. The container is in the car. I wanted to do it."
Oh geez, he knew you wouldn't even think to get him something, so he bought himself a boutonnière.
"Hey, none of that." He slides the corsage onto your wrist with care. His hands are soft as they brush against your arm, his touch is light. "Lighten up, I thought it'd make you happy. I can see the guilt on your face."
Scoffing, you look down at your wrist. The flowers are a lighter shade of blue than your dress. "How did you know I'd be wearing blue?"
He grins, "I didn't."
The two of you walk to the car, and you take note of the boutonnière in the passenger seat. You grab it, and just as he is about to start the car, you open it. "You're gonna have to face me for this." You open the container, carefully handling the flower.
"Oh," he inhales, holding his breath unknowingly, "you don't have to…"
You look up to him, "You didn't have to buy us matching flowers, but you did anyway. At least let me pin it onto you."
He looks like he's about to argue, but he sighs, "Alright," he sighs.
Grinning, you carefully grab the flower before gesturing for him to move closer. Stiffly, Dick leans over the center console of the car. You gently grab the lapel of his suit jacket, pinning the flower to him. He remains still the entire time. When you finish, you smooth out any wrinkles, patting the fabric to signal you're done.
Dick lets out a deep breath when you're done, adjusting his collar. "Thanks," he speaks softly before turning towards you, smiling, "you ready?" His voice is a lot brighter.
"As I'll ever be." You grin, prepared for the night.
—
"Thank you for coming!" Bruce puts his arm around you, squeezing you tightly as you exhale what little air is left in your lungs.
"I think you're constricting her…" Dick frowns, crossing his arms as Bruce pats your shoulder.
"Ah, my bad!" Bruce makes a show of acting surprised before using his hand to guide you back to Dick. "She's all yours." Bruce winks before taking a glass of champagne and downing it.
The two of you watch as he walks away, loudly laughing at a joke some guest says.
"That is so weird…" You watch as Bruce walks away. Dick snorts at your side.
"You'll get used to it. Come on, let me show you around."
"Dick, I've been here before."
"But it's been so long since it's been just us. Humor me." He grabs your hand, walking backwards as he pulls you slowly to try and get you to follow him.
You sigh, "You act like you've been deprived or something." You chuckle at the thought.
Dick clutched his hand to his chest, "Have I not? I haven't seen you in ages, let me have this."
You laugh, and his eyes light up at the action, a grin breaking out onto his face. "Alright, I suppose."
Dick grins, grabbing your arm before dragging you away. You can't help the laughter that escapes you. He grins as the two of you run up a set of stairs, passing by a few guests. You had to admit, catching up with Dick was really fun. Being with him made you forget the worries you had before the event.
"You didn't actually swing on the chandeliers, right?" You lean against the railing of the balcony.
Dick smiles in response.
"Of course you did," you sigh. "I don't even know why I asked."
"You make it sound like a bad thing." Dick grins, moving to your left, leaning on the railing next to you.
Smirking, you tilt your head toward him, "It's certainly a you thing."
"The best kind of things." Dick adjusts his suit, brushing off imaginary dust, matching your smirk.
You snort, "Definitely unique. I wouldn't expect it from anybody else."
Dick holds his hands out grandly, "You could say I'm one of a kind."
Rolling your eyes, you're about to make a retort, but you hear the string quartet in the background swell. You turn your attention to the music, watching as the musicians cue each other in for the next piece.
Dick looks at you, then toward the quartet, then back to you. "Come on," he pushes himself off the railing. You raise an eyebrow at him. He grins, "Let's dance,"
You look over to the couples slow dancing on the tiled marble before turning to face Dick, disbelieving. "Seriously?" You cross your arms, suspiciously, "You want to dance?"
Dick smirks, "Well," he looks back towards the crowd of people slowly moving to the piece the quartet plays. "It's your choice, sweetheart. However, I'd appreciate it if you'd do me the honor?" He holds his hand out for you to grab.
You can't help the laugh that escapes your mouth at his words. "Well, I suppose, sweetheart." You smirk, emphasizing the pet name.
Dick somehow brightens even more at your words before pulling you to the dance floor. The music crescendos as the two of you step in coordination along the dance floor. Dick expertly maneuvers you around the crowded dance floor, his eyes on you the entire time. You can't help but smile at him. He mirrors your action softly as the two of you move in sync.
Eventually, the music quiets down to a soft piano, "I wasn't aware you'd be this good. You're making me feel like an amateur."
You smile at him, your hand brushing his chest, "I didn't spend the last couple of months sitting around waiting for you to come back. Steph and Cass have been very thorough in teaching me."
Dick lets out a chuckle, his smile falling slightly, "No… I suppose you didn't." His words were quieter than the soft chords of the strings, but you heard him clearer than ever. They carried a certain weight.
Your mouth parts, feeling compelled to speak, but you aren't sure what to say. Dick smiles at you, reassuringly. "I… I didn't mean not to tell you. It's just…" you look toward his hopeful eyes, "complicated."
He seems to deflate at your words. Perhaps he expected something else. "I know." He responds, matching your whisper. "I know what you meant by it…"
You shake your head, "No… I don't think you do."
Dick purses his lips, as if holding back something. "Right… I don't,"
The two of you move, unspeaking, the music's slower tempo leading your steps. It slowly starts to fade out, and Dick's eyes flicker down to your lips. You stare at his eyes, almost glassy in their state, as the music dissipates, the sound of whispered chattering growing. You inhale, momentarily forgetting to breathe, his hand resting on your chest. Your throat feels dry, your heart unwillingly picks up in pace, your breath shudders as you exhale, and your eyes helplessly flicker over Dick.
Dick leans closer as if sensing your growing apprehension, his hands rub your back gently. His touch is a feather upon your skin, only causing you to hold back a shiver. Frozen in your spot, you barely even notice if you're moving at this point. He leans closer, and now you can see the rise and fall of his chest, the soft sound of his exhale. Meeting your eyes, he blinks at you, swallowing as he gazes at your features.
The music stops, and so do you.
"Thanks, Dick." You pull away from him. His hold takes a bit of effort to squirm out of. By the time you're out of his grasp, all that's left is your hand resting on his.
He stares at you, unblinking, eyes heavy with something. "Of course," he whispers. He slowly retracts his hand, and you lower your own.
You take a deep breath, the tension is thick, it hangs in the air, clinging onto every spoken word. The two of you stare at each other for a brief moment. You barely even notice the bodies meandering around the two of you. All you can focus on is his weighted, almost pleading gaze. What does he need to plead for?
Exhaling, you grab his forearm, "Come on, let's go back out to the balcony. I'm suffocating here. It's so crowded. How does Bruce even know this many people?" You ramble as you drag Dick along. He doesn't give input, he doesn't say anything, but gives you that same thoughtful expression.
You aren't even sure who you're trying to distract. Smiling, you glance at Dick, attempting to shove down the memory of his touch, his gaze, everything about him. You couldn't be angry about it. You know Dick. Even after years apart, you know him. You can't get mad that things have fallen back into the way they used to be. After all, that's why you never said anything, right? To keep things as they were.
You sure as hell aren't letting all that restraint go to waste now. Not when you finally moved on.
"I gotta respect the fact that you attended these 'cause I probably would've started swinging on chandeliers too if I had to deal with that many people with no one to depend upon. Well, I guess there's Bruce, but I don't feel like that's much better." You drag him out to the balcony, leaning against it, the frigid night breeze cooling you.
Dick snorts, but he smiles, "Don't let him hear you say that." You withhold a grin as you watch the tension leave his shoulders.
You smirk, "Yeah, just like you didn't tell him I knew you were Robin."
Dick furrows his eyebrows, standing up straighter, "Hey— I thought you said I was off the hook for that. I never even told him!" He throws his hands up.
You trace your fingers against the smooth metal of the railing, "Mhm,"
Dick frowns, taken aback, "Did you just 'Mhm' me?" He narrows his eyes at you, leaning next to you.
You turn toward him, smirking.
"Don't—"
"Mhm,"
Dick sighs, exasperated. "You are impossible."
"I know, truly nobody could compare." You joke, smirking at Dick. You toss him a smug glance from the corner of your eye.
"Of course, of course. How could I presume such a thing?" Dick smirks back at you.
You click your tongue, "Common mistake. Don't worry, one day you might be able to reach my level."
Dick barks out a surprised laugh, "Wow, okay. I see how it is."
You are about to make a retort, but a middle-aged lady comes over to you two. Her hair is up in an elegant updo, and her dress appears to fit her perfectly, likely tailored. The emerald green fabric catches the warm lights of the Manor radiantly. You don't recognize her, but judging by the way Dick moves slightly closer to you, he does.
"Richard! I haven't seen you at one of these in a minute." She greets him, she's holding a glass of champagne in her hand.
Dick offers her a small, polite smile. "Mrs. Carrington," he nods, "I hope you're doing well."
She waves her free hand at him casually, "Oh, please, call me Meredith. I've known you since you were little." She laughs, and Dick awkwardly joins in. She looks you up and down, and you feel proud that you don't shrink under her judgment. "Who's this? New girl?"
Both you and Dick stiffen, "Oh… Uh—" He starts, but is quickly cut off.
"The other one you introduced me to… Barbara was it? She was quite nice. You two made a good pair." She sips on her champagne. "Didn't hear that you two broke up."
Dick shifts, trying to assess your reaction, but you don't offer it to him. "Yeah," he smacks his lips, "earlier this year."
She hums, "Hmm, shame." You fight the sting of pain threatening to pierce your chest at that moment. You will not fall into that rabbit hole. You told yourself. "Who's the new girl, though?"
"Just a fri—" You fight the rising heat. Embarrassment? Anger? You start talking, but you are never able to finish your statement.
Dick slings his arms around your shoulder, pulling you closer. You stumble on your feet, surprised by the unexpected pull. You look at him, startled, but he doesn't look at you. Instead, he offers your name to Meredith.
"Aw, she's gorgeous!" Meredith fawns over you, and despite your bewilderment at the situation, you instinctively shift closer to Dick. He rubs a hand on your shoulder,
"Isn't she?" You subtly elbow him at his words. What is he doing? Just tell the woman that you aren't dating. It is not this difficult.
"How long have you two been going out for?" She asks, clearly not wanting to leave.
"A couple months. She actually just recently graduated from university." He grins proudly.
"Ah!" Meredith turns to actually face you for the first time. "Smart girl, huh?"
Dick grins, "The smartest." He looks towards you, a soft smile on his face. You mirror the action to him passive-aggressively. You'd actually argue maybe Babs or something, but clearly Dick has decided he's going to do all the talking for this conversation.
"Aw, how'd you two meet?" She asks, her cheeks are flushed, but more importantly, her words are loud. You can see a few people turn their attention to the three of you.
"Haaaa… Funny story," Dick looks down for you, as if prompting you to speak it. You meet his gaze. He made his grave; he will lie in it. You smile at him innocently, and after a long moment of you two staring at each other, he realizes that you aren't going to be helpful.
"She stumbled into me by chance. Complete chance accident." He turns toward you, and you smirk at him, "She had— uh— been having a bad day." Real descriptive. "I caught her alone in one of the storage rooms of a library, and I couldn't let a beautiful lady like herself mope alone. I offered to take her out." Dick rubs your shoulder again, and you raise an eyebrow at him. Why did you have to sound so miserable? Why couldn't it have been him?
"Actually, honey, I'm pretty sure it was you who was moping. You gave me such convincing puppy dog eyes that I just couldn't say no." You interrupt, causing Dick and Meredith to turn to you. "Isn't that right?" You turn towards Dick, smiling.
Dick laughs loudly, but doesn't hesitate, "Oh, you got me. She knows me too well." He rubs the back of his neck, grabbing your hand and clasping it into his own.
Meredith looks amused at the two of you, laughing. "Aw, true love." She gushes.
"The truest." You nod, smiling. Dick glances at you from the corner of his eye, and you make a point not to meet his glance.
"Well," she nods at the two of you, "I best be on my way. It was a pleasure as always, Richard," she smiles at Dick before turning to you and addressing you. You nod back at her with a polite smile as she walks away.
The moment she is gone, you slowly turn towards Dick. You make sure nobody is looking before glaring at him, "What the hell do you think you're—"
"Richard." Damian appears out of thin air.
Dick immediately turns to his younger brother. Meanwhile, you're still staring at him. "Dick." You spit his name out.
"Damian!" Dick grins, ignoring your piercing glare. "I didn't think any of you guys were gonna show up at the gala?"
"I came to address the allegations that have been circling." Damian adjusts his tie.
"Did you?" Dick's grin looks a lot more strained now.
Damian raises an eyebrow at him before turning to him. You cross your arms, "Don't look at me. He's the one who lied to that poor woman."
Dick chuckles softly, his eyes shifting between you and Damian nervously "I wouldn't describe her as 'poor.'"
You and Damian both glare at him, "How'd you even hear about it this fast?" You turn to Damian.
"He danced with you and publicly revealed your 'relationship' to the public." Damian eyes you, unimpressed.
"Okay, to be fair, there were dozens of people dancing, and we only talked to one person." Dick holds his hands up thoughtfully.
Damian scoffs, "One person might as well be the entire planet. Do you know what kind of people are here?" He crosses his arms.
You stare at the ground for a moment as Damian and Dick go back and forth. At a certain point, you aren't even sure what they're arguing about. They are both so distracted by themselves that they don't even notice you walk out of the balcony.
It's easy to slip away from the party, for nobody seems to take note of you as you make your way through the Manor. Eventually, you find your way to the grandfather clock, making your way down to the cave.
Upon entering, you notice that the cave is surprisingly empty, a rare occurrence on nights like these. You find a chair to sit down on, throwing the heels off your aching feet, sighing.
The soft hum of the computer isn't enough to distract you from your thoughts, nor are the quiet squeaks of the bats. Dick had been acting odd recently, but you assumed that was just a result of not seeing each other for years.
Perhaps he figured it out.
Did he figure out you liked him back then? Is this his way of humiliating you? It didn't seem like something he'd do, but perhaps he has changed. What else could've been the purpose of that stunt he pulled?
You sigh again as you lean back in the chair. God, he couldn't leave you be, could he? You were so convinced you were over him after spending years apart. All it took was one grin thrown at you and a spin on the dance floor, and suddenly, you're back in high school, attempting to hide your feelings for Robin, your Robin. He must know. Why else would he be trying so hard to spend every moment with you? Hell, he even offered to be your "date" to this event, bought matching flowers.
Damian was right, you were— are an absolute fool.
Your name echoes across the cave, and you instantly recognize his voice. Dick comes running over, concern evident in his tone, "You had me worried. One second I'm there with Damian, and the next you've vanished." He approaches you with his jacket draped over his arm.
You look up from the ground, up to his troubled eyes. He says your name softly before approaching you, "Was it too much? That's fine. I'll tell Damian off later for that. He shouldn't have confronted us then, especially after the stunt he pulled against you earlier. He and I will talk about privacy." He chuckles, attempting to fill the silence. "We don't have to go back if you don't want to, we can just stay here," he says as he sits in the chair next to you, raising his hand to place it on your lap, "together—"
"Am I a joke to you?" Your voice is quieter than you expected. Nonetheless, the words echo around the cave.
Dick pauses, taking his hand back, "What..?" He hesitates, unsure whether or not to place his hand on you. "What… A joke?" He repeats the words, as if not understanding the concept.
You look up to him, "Yes, Dick, do you think this is funny?"
His lips part, his eyes clouded with that concern, and it makes you feel sick to your stomach. Do you hate it? Love it? "I… don't—" He sputters.
"Don't play dumb with me. I know you know what I'm talking about." You sit up straighter, and he leans back away from you. He slowly stands up.
"I…" He says your name, "I really don't know."
"Oh, so you don't know that I used to like you? I find that hard to believe." Your chest shudders, and you look down, unwilling to meet his gaze.
Dick inhales sharply, and that's all the answer you needed. "You did know." You state. It's not a question, and he knows that.
His voice is pleading once again. He whispers your name, "I didn't know until recently."
"'Cause that makes it so much better. You find out that I liked you and decide that you can't live with me not being head over heels for you—"
Dick's head snaps up, "—Don't put words in my mouth." He cuts you off. "I have never once thought that or said anything like that."
"Really? So you didn't have an ulterior motive for taking me out for this tonight?" You glare at him, struggling to meet his eyes.
Dick inhales deeply, and you scoff, turning away. "God, this is why I didn't contact you."
Dick furrows his eyebrows, "What's that supposed to mean?"
You stand up, "Dick, I didn't just like you. I loved you. I cherished any moment we had together. I longed for you to say something, anything."
Dick looked at you as if you slapped him, "I didn't know."
You nod slowly, smiling humorlessly, "I know, and I don't fault you for that, but years after pining uselessly made me realize I have to move on." You stare at him, absently noting that his clothes are disheveled. The once perfectly ironed suit looks like it went through a tornado. "I spent years away, and I used that time to move on, or at least…" You trail off, shaking your head, looking at Dick.
Clearing your throat, you sit back down, "I couldn't contact you when I got back. I couldn't contact you because I'd be proving that I had made no progress. I didn't 'get over you.'" You do air quotes. "All I'd be proving was that getting over you was impossible. If years apart couldn't do it, what could?"
Dick's lip trembled, but his eyes were unreadable. "You avoided me for years to try and get over some— some crush?"
You huff, "I didn't 'avoid you for years—'"
"No," Dick cuts you off, "Don't sugarcoat it. You were avoiding me."
"I was trying to get over you."
"So you decided to— what— ditch me?"
You shake your head, "You weren't short of company." You almost regret your words at the shaky inhale from Dick. You open your mouth, then close it. "I… didn't mean it like that." You mutter softly.
Dick scoffs, running a hand through his hair, loosening the gelled strands. "How did you mean it then?"
You look to Dick, "I— Look, does it matter? We can just move on. Pretend this didn't happen."
Dick stills, "Pretend?" The word drops in his stomach.
"Dick, I knew you'd never like me." You smile painfully, your lips trembling, you look up at him from your chair, "I'm okay with it. I learned to make peace with it."
Dick looks down at you, fist clenched, his eyes darting over you in disbelief. "You're serious?" You nod. "You want to pretend that this conversation never happened? You want to pretend that I didn't wait by your apartment just to catch a glimpse of you? You want to pretend that I didn't make up some excuse to take you out here tonight? You want to pretend that the dance we shared meant nothing?"
You hold back any tearful emotions that threaten to arise. "Dick, it doesn't mean nothing." You take a deep breath, calming your breathing. "It's just… It's not like that. It's never been like that. Believe me, I wanted it to be."
"'Not like that?'" His eyes are wide, as if he can't believe your words. "I almost kissed you, and it's 'not like that'?" He doesn't bother to mask the hurt.
You shake your head, "I thought the same thing, the same thing, Dick. I thought that having a moment like that would be the start of something new, but it wasn't. I thought that maybe after the day I finally got introduced to your life, your real life, that things would change."
Dick remains silent for a moment, you think that maybe he'll let this conversation go, but he decides to ask one question: "What if they can change now?"
His words make you freeze, but your hands tremble. "Are you serious?" Your voice audibly wavers.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
You can't help the appalled scoff that escapes you, "You can't just decide to love me back, Dick. That isn't how it works. You can't just decide to love me after not loving me for years. Genuinely, did you hear the idea of me loving you and idealize what we could've been? Do you actually 'love me back' or are you only saying this because you're confused?
"No! It's not like that." Dick's voice is smaller.
You laugh, your eyes beginning to water against your will, but you refuse to let the tears fall. "Forgive me, but I don't believe you."
Dick stares down at you, seated in the chair next to the computer. He places the jacket onto the desk before turning back to you, "How can I prove it?"
You blink, looking up to face him, "What?"
"That I've loved you."
"Dick," you sigh, you're so tired, "don't—"
"Do you need me to tell you?" He walks closer to you. "Show you?" He persists.
"Dick…" You whisper shakily, turning away from Dick in your swivel chair. Dick grabs the armrest, preventing you from turning away. Your breath hitches, looking him up and down as he looms over you, his eyes desperate. At your assessment, he kneels at your feet, grabbing your hand and gently caressing it.
Horrified, you look down at him from your seated position, "What are you doing?" You ask, anger momentarily forgotten.
"Telling you." He nods resolutely, the words quiet, but strong. "Back then," he starts breathlessly, "Back then, I couldn't figure you out. You matched me in a way that no one had before, I remember—" he chuckles, the action rushed, "I remember thinking that something was different about our friendship. I wasn't sure what it was…" He relaxes once he realizes he has your attention. "I just remember attempting to find a way to get you to react. I wanted something from you, I just wasn't sure what."
You blink down at him, and he looks up at you. "It was stupid. I remember saying such stupid shit to get you to react. I didn't know what type of reaction I wanted. I just kept trying for something." He pauses. "I didn't realize it immediately at the time, but I remember now, the first time it had happened." He looks down at the ground, thoughtfully. "That day you met Bruce, before I went down the subway." Your breath hitched. "I remember you were right there in front of me. I could see how you tensed expectantly, your breath shuddering. I remember looking into your eyes, and for a moment, I couldn't think. I didn't even remember that there was a bomb down in that subway. All I could focus on was you."
Dick looks up from the ground, meeting your eyes. "I didn't know it at the time, but that was what I was looking for. The way you looked at me that day before I went down there."
You frown, closing your eyes and shaking your head. "Dick, you don't—"
"I didn't know at the time, I hadn't figured out what it was that I wanted. However, after that day, something had changed. I couldn't help but look at you differently. I noticed things I previously threw aside. I would catch myself observing you, and I didn't stop. I don't think I could've. It had just become something that I did, a habit."
He exhales deeply. "When you were gone for college, I felt like something was different."
You scoff, the action coming out softer than you intended, "You can just say you missed me."
Dick swallows, blinking up at you, "I missed you." He whispers without hesitation. You have to look away from his eyes to escape the honesty of his words.
"I missed you so much. I thought about you every day. It wasn't like how it was when we were in school together. No." He laughs quietly, "I couldn't stop thinking about you. I thought that I had just wanted you to return, but then it started to hurt. Absence makes the heart grow fonder or something…" He runs his free hand through his hair, his shoulders tense, "When I heard you had returned…" He trails off.
Sighing, you slowly grab his hand, prompting him to continue. "I… I almost wondered if I had hallucinated your voice. I couldn't— wouldn't believe you'd have returned and not tell me."
You wince at the jab, intentional or not. "I'm sorry…"
He offers you a small, melancholic smile, "I realized something when you returned. You had fallen out of love. You'd fallen out of love before I ever got the chance to tell you I had fallen in love." He huffs, shaking his head.
You mirror his action, "Dick…"
"Please," he slowly stands up, pulling you up from the chair. "I will prove it. Show you I'm not confused." You stare at him, looking at his eyes. You let him pull you closer as he brings his hand up to gently hold your chin. Your lips part in surprise. Holding your breath, you meet his eyes. "Please. Let me show you I mean this."
You are unsure how long the two of you stand there in each other's hold. Slowly, you place your hands over his shoulders, causing his tense shoulders to relax under your touch. Your eyes flicker down to his lips, but he doesn't ever divert his attention from your eyes.
"I waited for a long time." You whisper, the words barely audible.
"I know." His voice breaks slightly.
"I didn't think you'd ever reciprocate." You break eye contact with him, looking down at his chest.
He holds you tighter, "I know." He mutters softly. "I'm sorry."
You shift your downcast gaze to him, meeting his eyes. Slowly leaning forward, you close your eyes as you softly kiss his lips. You didn't draw it out, and Dick remained frozen even after you pulled back. You can't help the small smile on your face when you pull back, his pupils dilated. "I'm tired of waiting." You whisper to him.
Dick continues to stare into your eyes, dazed. You reach your hand up, hesitant to touch his face. At your hesitation, Dick grabs your hand, guiding it to his face. "I'm sorry you had to." He whispers back to you, leaning into your hand.
You hum, amused. The two of you stand there in silence for a moment, "Don't—"
"Oh my— in the cave, really?" Tim interrupts you both, causing you to flinch. Dick immediately turns to him, noting that Damian is standing next to him. "You could go literally anywhere in the manor, and you decide to do this here?"
"How long have you both been standing there?" You ask, subtly shifting away from Dick.
Tim raises an eyebrow, looking between you two. "Not too long."
Damian stares at the two of you, frowning, "I was under the impression that you and Todd had been in cohorts."
You raise your hands in surrender. Well, that moment was ruined. At Damian's words, Dick immediately whips around to you. "Don't listen to him, he misunderstood what I told him." You shake your head at Dick.
Damian narrows his eyes, "He 'bought her a croissant.'" He points at you as if it's your fault.
"Why did you say it like that?" Tim blinks wearily at Damian's odd inflection.
Damian scoffs, turning to Tim on his left, "Don't you understand the implications of such an act?"
Tim blinks down at him, "She was… hungry?"
Damian gives Tim an exasperated look before walking over to you and Dick. "Just because you're dating Richard does not mean I will forget the past." He narrows his eyes at you before turning around and walking off. Tim watches him storm off before sighing and following behind him.
You slowly turn to Dick, "He's exaggerating. Wild imagination."
Dick snorts, "I'm sure."
You grimace at the memory, "He thinks that something was going on between Jason and me."
Dick's smile falls slightly. "Was there?" He almost looks afraid of the answer.
You roll your eyes, "No. After everything we talked about, you still doubt me?" You grab his hand, pulling him towards the exit. You hear him exhale in relief, and you tilt your head. "Wait, that was an actual worry?"
Dick smiles awkwardly, avoiding eye contact with you.
"Oh my goodness, that's why you were being so weird at my apartment. You were jealous."
Dick rolls his eyes as you slowly pull him. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
You toss him a smug, knowing glance. "Mhm," You hum, walking on his side. "Wait— where are my heels?" You turn around, momentarily forgetting you took them off in anger earlier.
Dick holds them up casually, you raise an eyebrow, "When'd you grab them?" You thank him before offering him your clutch to hold as you put the heels on.
"You were distracted." He shrugs, watching as you put them on.
You roll your eyes affectionately, "Distracted." You huff, "I'm never distracted." You take your clutch back before looking into Dick's eyes, watching you with just pure adoration. Wait a minute… You recognize that look.
"Dick,"
He tilts his head, "Yeah?"
"Were you distracted that night at the subway?" You slowly turn to him.
He huffs, amused, "I did say all I could focus on was you. Why?"
You feel your smile fall as you part your mouth in horror. "Are you saying I distracted you from the bomb, thus causing you to get caught in the explosion?"
Dick purses his lips before clicking his tongue, his eyes darting around the cave, guiltily. "…It's been a long day."
"Are you saying that I caused you to almost die?!" You furrow your eyebrows in horror.
"Let's go back out there, we've been down here long enough—"
"Dick—"
"Sweetheart?"
"No— No, you can't do that."
"Actually, I think I can, boyfriend rules." He shrugs, smirking unapologetically, planting a quick kiss on your cheek. He grabs your hand before you even get a chance to retort, guiding you up the staircase back to the Manor. You don't bother to fight the small smile growing on your face, Dick's blinding grin mirroring your own.
Perhaps you can get used to this.
> Jason’s ending
A/N: Heyyy, it's me. For those who stuck around to support the first part I love you so much. Every single comment fueled me to get this MONSTER of a fic done. I did NOT think I'd be posting an, essentially, 30k word fic on TUMBLR but here we are I guess.
Okay, now to business. I was ASTOUNDED by the amount of people who loved Jason's scene in the previous chapter. I hope that I did him justice in this one. While this is the end of the story for the Reader and Dick, I will throw the idea of writing an alternate ending out there.
Basically the entire first chapter would be the same, EXCEPT, the reader would get with Jason instead and everything in this chapter would be different cause it'd be reader and Jason's story, not reader and Dick's. The reader would ACTUALLY move on, rather than lie to herself for 18k words. So yeah, I'm gonna want some feedback for that because I do want to try and make it at least somewhat standalone (as in you don't need the context of chapter 1 but it still applies to the story). I know it will be LONG, so it will take me weeks to write. So let me know if you wanna see that!
Thanks for all the support on the last chapter though! I love each like, comment, and reblog I receive. I will update this post/my blog if I decide to write that, but y'all would have to be patient with me. Thanks for all the support :D
Quick update: Yeah okay you all can get the Jason ending oh my 😭😭 Thanks for the support. I know some of you were wanting her to get with him DON’T WORRY I THOUGHT THE SAMEEE THING THATS WHY I PROPOSED THE IDEA. If you want to be on the taglist let me know. I will be taking this taglist and using it for that fic (when it comes out) so if you don’t wanna be tagged for that anymore just lmk I won’t be upset!
The data indicating the average person experiences 3.4 attacks annually is misleading. You- who seem to find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time several times a month- represents a significant deviation from the norm and should not be counted in the dataset.
(Seriously, if there was a punch card for civilian endangerment, you'd have earned a free mug and a commemorative sticker by now)
Or; in which Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.
10.7k words
It’s a Tuesday and there’s a gun pressed against your spine.
Tuesday has always been the worst day of the week in your opinion- past the motivation of Monday, too far from the relief of Friday, just existing in this pathetic middle ground of mundane awfulness. And now, apparently, Tuesday has decided to really live up to its terrible reputation.
“Don’t move,” a voice hisses behind you, and you can smell stale cigarettes and alcohol. “Empty your account. All of it.”
You’re at the ATM on the corner of 23rd and Hayes, the one you’ve used a hundred times because it’s on your route home from your soul crushing data entry job. The street is unusually empty for 9 pm, but that’s Bludhaven for you; people have finally started learning not to be out after dark.
Everyone except you, apparently, because you’re an idiot who needed cash for the laundromat.
“I have forty three dollars in checking,” you say flatly, finger hovering over the keypad. “And maybe twelve in savings. You’re really not making out well on this transaction.”
“Just do it!” The gun digs harder into your back, right between your shoulder blades.
Of course this is how you die. Not in some heroic way, not peacefully in your sleep at ninety- no, you’re going to get shot at an ATM on a Tuesday because you needed quarters. The universe has always had a sick sense of humor when it comes to your life.
You press the button for withdrawal from checking. “You know, statistically, you’d make more money just getting a minimum wage job. Even after taxes- ”
“Shut up!”
“I’m just saying, this is really inefficient- ”
You don’t get to finish your observation about the economics of street crime because suddenly the weight of the gun disappears from your back and there’s a crash behind you. You spin around- stupid, you should run, but curiosity has always been your fatal flaw- and watch as a blur of black and blue slams your would be mugger into the brick wall of the bodega next to the ATM.
The man crumples. The gun skitters across the pavement. And standing there, illuminated by the flickering streetlight and the harsh glow of the ATM screen, is Nightwing.
You’ve seen him on the news, obviously. Everyone in Bludhaven has. The cops hate him, the people love him, and the criminals fear him. He’s all lean muscle and acrobatic grace, his suit highlighting a body that’s been honed into a weapon. The blue bird across his chest seems to shimmer as he moves, and his escrima sticks hang from his hands like they’re extensions of his arms.
He turns to you, and even though you can’t see his eyes behind the domino mask, you can feel the weight of his gaze.
“You okay?” His voice is different than you expected; younger, with an edge of genuine concern that seems almost out of place on someone who just took down an armed mugger in three seconds flat.
You blink at him. “That depends on your definition of okay. Physically unharmed? Yes. Emotionally scarred by yet another reminder that the universe is chaotic and uncaring? Also yes.”
There’s a pause. You think you see his lips twitch.
“That’s… pretty specific.”
“I’m a pessimist. We’re detailed oriented.” You glance at the mugger, who’s groaning on the ground. “Is he going to need an ambulance, or just a therapist after you’re done with him?”
Now he definitely smiles. “Little of both, probably. You should get out of here. I’ll wait with him until BCPD shows up.”
“Right. Because the Bludhaven PD is so reliable and not at all corrupt.” But you’re already grabbing your card from the ATM, which, miraculously, still dispensed your pathetic forty dollars. “Thanks for the rescue, I guess. Even though I probably would have just given him the money and filed a police report that would go nowhere.”
“You guess?” He sounds amused now.
You shrug, stuffing the cash in your pocket. “I mean, appreciate the help and all, but let’s be real, I’ll probably be mugged again within six months. This is Bludhaven. Lightning strikes twice here. It’s practically a meteorological certainty.”
“That’s not how lightning works.”
“And yet.” You gesture vaguely at the unconscious mugger, the sketchy street, the flickering streetlight that’s been broken for three weeks. “Here we are.”
You walk away before he can respond, but you can feel his eyes on your back until you turn the corner. You’re not sure if he thinks you’re funny or just deeply disturbed.
Probably both.
Of course, both is good.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You’re hanging from a fire escape.
It’s been two weeks since the ATM incident, and you’d actually started to think that maybe, just maybe, your luck was turning around. You got a fifty cent raise at work. Your landlord didn’t increase your rent. You found a dollar on the sidewalk.
But the universe doesn’t like it when you get comfortable.
You’re not even doing anything weird; you just came out here to water your singular, struggling tomato plant (which refuses to actually produce tomatoes) when the rusted bolts finally gave way. The fire escape tilted, you grabbed for the railing, and now you’re dangling four stories above an alley that definitely contains at least three used needles and a suspicious puddle.
“Help!” You scream, but it’s 11 pm and your neighbors include: one elderly man who’s definitely deaf, two college students who are always high, and a woman who once told you she “doesn’t believe in interference.”
This is exactly how you’d thought you’d die but you’d appreciate it if you weren’t right.
Your fingers are slipping. The metal is cutting into your palms. Below you, the suspicious puddle seems to shimmer with menace.
You’re wearing your nice jeans. The ones without holes. It seems important that someone know this.
“I’M WEARING MY NICE JEANS!” You yell into the void.
“Hold on!” A voice calls back, and you’re so startled you nearly let go.
Then he’s there, like some kind of acrobatic miracle, flipping up from the alley below and landing on the tilted fire escape with perfect balance. Nightwing grabs your wrists and hauls you up with absolutely no effort, pulling you against his chest as the fire escape groans ominously beneath you both.
“We need to move,” he says, and then he’s grappling to the roof, one arm wrapped firmly around your waist.
Your stomach does a complicated flip that has nothing to do with the sudden altitude change.
He sets you down on the roof, hands lingering on your arms to make sure you’re steady. “You okay?”
You’re breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through your system. “You know, you keep asking me that, and the answer keeps being ‘technically yes, but actually no.’”
He tilts his head, and there’s something about the gesture that’s almost bird-like. Fitting, given the whole theme. “Wait. ATM girl?”
“Oh, perfect. I have a nickname now.” You brush off your nice jeans, checking for damage. One knee is torn. Of course it is. “Yes. ATM girl. Also known as ‘that pessimist,’ ‘fire escape failure,’ and ‘person who can’t keep a tomato plant alive.’ Hi. Hello. Thank you for saving me again.”
“You remember me.” He sounds pleased.
“You’re dressed like an exotic bird and you saved me from a mugger. You’re pretty memorable.” You peer over the edge of the roof at your apartment window. The fire escape is completely detached now, hanging by a single bolt. “Great. There goes my security deposit.”
“You’re taking this pretty well.”
“What’s the alternative? Crying? I cried in 2019 and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.” You turn back to him, and in the moonlight, you can see more details; the curve of his jaw, the way his hair sticks up slightly, the almost absurd width of his shoulders. “So, do you just patrol this neighborhood specifically, or am I cosmically marked for disaster and you’re following the trail of chaos?”
He laughs, and it’s a good sound, warm and genuine. “Little of both, maybe. What were you doing on the fire escape?”
“Watering my tomato plant. Which has never produced a single tomato and probably never will, but I’m nothing if not committed to lost causes.” You sigh. “I should call my landlord. He’s going to love this.”
“It’s not your fault the fire escape collapsed.”
“And yet, I guarantee this somehow becomes my problem.” You pull out your phone, then pause. “Thanks. Again. For the rescue. You’re really good at those.”
“It’s kind of my thing.”
“Well, it’s a good thing.” You swallow, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing, how the moonlight catches on the blue of his suit, how he’s looking at you like you’re something interesting instead of just another disaster in motion. “You should probably go stop actual crime instead of babysitting the woman who clearly has a death wish via incompetence.”
“I don’t think you’re incompetent.”
“My fire escape would disagree. Also my tomato plant. Also my general life trajectory.”
He’s smiling again. You’re getting used to that smile, the way it makes something warm unfold in your chest despite your best efforts to remain emotionally neutral about everything.
“Get inside safely,” he says. “And maybe water your plant from the window from now on.”
“Bold of you to assume I’ll keep trying. That plant and I both know it’s a doomed enterprise.”
But you’re smiling too, just a little, as he grapples away into the night, all grace and controlled power.
Your landlord does, in fact, make the fire escape your problem.
Of course he does.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You’re stuck in an elevator.
“I should have taken the stairs,” you say to the ceiling, because talking to the ceiling feels more productive than screaming into the void. “I always take the stairs. But no, today I thought, ‘You know what? Live a little. Take the elevator. What’s the worst that could happen?’”
“To be fair,” Nightwing says from his corner of the surprisingly spacious elevator, “this is more of an inconvenience than a disaster.”
You turn to look at him. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking frustratingly calm for someone who’s been trapped in an elevator for twenty minutes. You, on the other hand, are definitely spiraling.
“We’re stuck in an elevator. In a building that’s scheduled for demolition next week. Because apparently, the city of Bludhaven doesn’t believe in proper notices or functional elevators in condemned buildings.”
“You didn’t see the notices?”
“I saw a flyer for a lost cat named Chairman Meow. I assumed that was more pressing than construction permits.” You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor. “What are you even doing here?”
“Got a tip about some guys using the building as a storage facility for stolen goods.” He nods toward a duffel bag in the corner that you hadn’t noticed. “Found them. They ran when the elevator got stuck.”
“Of course they did. They probably took the stairs like sensible criminals.”
He moves to sit across from you, and even in crisis, he moves like water, all fluid grace. It’s unfair, really, how coordinated some people are. You trip over flat surfaces.
“You know,” he says, and you can hear the amusement in his voice, “most people would be more worried about being stuck.”
“Oh, I’m worried. I’m just also unsurprised. This is exactly the kind of thing that happens to me.” You let your head fall back against the wall. “Last month, I got jury duty for a case that was immediately dismissed. I didn’t even get to feel civically important. The month before that, I found a twenty dollar bill on the street and immediately stepped in gum.”
“The universe has it out for you.”
“The universe has it out for everyone. I’m just aware of it.” You glance at him. “Aren’t you supposed to have some kind of gadget that can fix this? Bat-elevator-escape-tool?”
“I’m Nightwing, not Batman. My utility belt has like, six things.”
“Wow, budget constraints even in vigilantism. That’s so Bludhaven.”
He laughs, and you’re starting to really like that sound. It feels like finding something valuable in a thrift store, unexpected and somehow precious because of it.
“You’re funny,” he says.
“I’m fatalistic. People often confuse the two.”
“No, you’re definitely funny.” He leans forward slightly. “And you’re handling this really well for someone who was hanging from a fire escape two weeks ago.”
“Oh, you think this is me handling it well? This is me disassociating. There’s a difference.” But you’re smiling despite yourself. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck?”
“I already hit the emergency call button. Fire department should be here in ten, fifteen minutes.”
“So enough time for you to tell me why you do this.” You gesture vaguely at his suit, his mask, the duffel bag of stolen goods. “The whole vigilante thing. Is it a rich person hobby? A elaborate form of therapy? A very committed cosplay situation?”
“What makes you think I’m rich?”
“That suit looks expensive. Also, you have incredible teeth. Dental work like that doesn’t come cheap.”
He grins, and yeah, those are really good teeth. “I can’t tell you my origin story while we’re stuck in an elevator. That’s terrible narrative pacing.”
“Fine. Tell me something else then.” You’re not sure why you’re pushing, except that sitting in silence feels worse than potential rejection. “Tell me why you remember me. ATM girl. Fire escape failure. Elevator disaster.”
“Because you’re different.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “Most people I rescue are either terrified or grateful or both. You were critiquing the economics of street crime while there was a gun pointed at you.”
“That was just my anxiety talking. I babble when I’m nervous.”
“And when you’re not nervous?”
“I’m always nervous. We live in Bludhaven.”
“Fair point.” He’s quiet for a moment, and you can feel him looking at you, really looking. “You act like you expect the worst, but you still watered your tomato plant. You still took the elevator instead of the stairs. That’s not pessimism. That’s hope wearing a disguise.”
The words hit something soft inside you, something you thought you’d armored over years ago with sarcasm and emotional distance.
“That’s a very poetic assessment of my character flaws,” you manage.
“I don’t think they’re flaws.”
Before you can figure out how to respond to that, before you can unpack the warm, fluttery feeling in your chest that feels dangerously close to something you can’t take back, there’s a grinding sound and the elevator lurches.
“Fire department?” You ask hopefully.
“Fire department,” he confirms, standing and offering you his hand.
You take it, and his grip is strong and steady, and you let yourself hold on for maybe a second longer than necessary.
The doors pry open to reveal two firefighters who look unsurprised to see Nightwing and very surprised to see you.
“Ma’am,” one of them says, “what were you doing in a condemned building?”
“Looking for Chairman Meow,” you say without missing a beat. “He’s still missing, by the way, if anyone’s seen an orange tabby with delusions of political grandeur.”
Nightwing makes a sound that might be a laugh or a cough.
As the firefighters escort you out (with several safety lectures), you glance back once. Nightwing is watching you go, duffel bag in hand, and even though you can’t see his eyes, you feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
You wave.
He waves back.
You tell yourself the flip in your stomach is just residual adrenaline.
You’re definitely lying to yourself.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
The fourth time you meet Nightwing, you’re not actually in danger.
You’re on your building’s roof (the landlord finally fixed the fire escape, but you’ve developed trust issues), lying on a blanket and looking at the stars. Or trying to. Light pollution in Bludhaven means you can see maybe seven stars on a good night, and most of them are probably planes.
“You know,” a voice says from behind you, “most people would consider this suspicious behavior.”
You don’t even flinch. Of course he would show up. Of course.
“Most people don’t live in my apartment,” you say, not sitting up. “My upstairs neighbor is having extremely loud makeup sex, my downstairs neighbor is learning the drums, and the person across the hall is watching what I think is the entire Fast and Furious franchise at maximum volume. I’m seeking refuge.”
Nightwing moves into your peripheral vision, then sits down on your blanket without asking. The casual intimacy of it makes your breath catch.
“All at once?” He asks.
“The universe coordinated it specifically to drive me to the roof. Where I will probably be struck by lightning or hit by a meteor.”
“Still not how lightning works.”
“And yet, you keep showing up during my disasters. What’s your excuse this time?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and when you finally turn your head to look at him, he’s staring up at the sky with an expression you can’t quite read.
“No excuse,” he admits. “I was patrolling nearby and saw you up here. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Checking on ATM girl? I’m touched. Truly.” But your voice is softer than usual, missing its typical sardonic edge. “I’m fine. Well, as fine as I ever am. No muggers, no collapsing structures, no stuck elevators. Just me and the seven visible stars.”
“Eight,” he says, pointing. “That one’s really faint, but it’s there.”
You look where he’s indicating and squint. “If you say so. I’ll take your word for it, since you seem to have superhuman vision along with superhuman acrobatics.”
“Just good training.”
“Right. Training. That you definitely do as part of your regular person job that’s definitely not related to being a billionaire or anything.”
“I never said I was a billionaire.”
“You also never said you weren’t.”
He laughs, and shifts slightly closer. You can feel the warmth of him now, even through his suit. “You’re very suspicious.”
“I’m very realistic. People don’t become vigilantes because they had a super normal childhood and well adjusted emotional regulation.” You pause. “No offense.”
“None taken. You’re not wrong.” He’s quiet for a beat. “You want to know something?”
“Is it your secret identity? Because I should warn you, I’m terrible at keeping secrets. I once accidentally told my coworker that another coworker was pregnant before she announced it, and I didn’t talk for three months out of shame.”
“Not my secret identity.” He sounds amused. “I was going to say that I actually look forward to running into you.”
Your heart does a complicated somersault. “You look forward to me nearly dying? That’s kind of dark.”
“I look forward to talking to you.” He turns to face you properly, and even in the darkness, you can see the curve of his smile. “You’re real. No filter, no performance. Just genuinely, refreshingly honest about how absurd everything is.”
“That’s just depression with better marketing.”
“It’s not, though.” He’s closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of color in his mask, the slight stubble on his jaw. “You keep showing up. You keep trying. You’re watering that terrible tomato plant and taking elevators and lying on roofs looking for stars. That’s not giving up. That’s the opposite of giving up.”
You swallow hard. “You’re doing the poetic assessment thing again.”
“Is it working?”
“I’m not sure. My emotional processing system has been out of order since 2016.”
But you’re not pulling away. Neither is he.
“Can I tell you something?” You hear yourself say. “And you can’t make fun of me.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would, but I’m going to tell you anyway.” You take a breath. “I think I’m starting to actually look forward to the disasters. Because at least then I get to see you.”
The silence that follows feels enormous, stretching between you like something physical. You’re about to take it back, laugh it off, blame it on the drums and the makeup sex and the Fast and Furious franchise-
“Good,” he says quietly. “Because I’ve been taking extra patrols through this neighborhood for two weeks hoping to run into you.”
Oh.
Oh.
“That’s very inefficient crime fighting,” you whisper.
“I’m okay with that.”
He’s so close now. You can see the way his chest rises and falls, the slight curve of his lips, the angle of his jaw. Your hand moves without permission, reaching up to trace the edge of his mask.
“Can I-”
“Not yet,” he says, but he catches your hand and holds it against his cheek. “Soon. I promise. But not yet.”
“Okay.” And it is, somehow. Okay. “This is insane. You know that, right? I don’t even know your name.”
“You know me, though.” His thumb traces circles on your wrist. “You know the important parts.”
“I know you have good teeth and a concerning habit of showing up during my worst moments.”
“Your most interesting moments.”
“Same thing, in my life.”
He laughs, and then he’s leaning in, and you’re leaning in, and-
An alarm goes off somewhere in the distance. Police sirens. Something that sounds like gunshots.
He pulls back with a sigh that sounds genuinely regretful. “I have to go.”
“Of course you do. Crime never sleeps, and neither does my terrible luck with timing.”
But he’s standing, getting ready to grapple away, and you’re standing too, and before he goes he turns back and cups your face with one gloved hand.
“Same time next week?” He asks. “Same roof?”
“You’re scheduling our coincidental meetings now? That seems very organized for a spontaneous vigilante.”
“Call it hope wearing a disguise.”
He’s gone before you can respond, flipping off the roof with that impossible grace, and you’re left standing there with your hand pressed to your cheek where he touched you, smiling like an idiot at the seven- no, eight- stars.
This is dangerous, you think.
This is terrifying.
This is exactly the kind of thing that will definitely end in disaster.
You can’t wait.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You're getting mugged again.
"I told you," you say to Nightwing as he drops from the fire escape above, landing between you and the two men who'd cornered you outside the 24-hour bodega. "I told you lightning strikes twice in Bludhaven. It's been exactly three months."
One of the muggers makes a run for it immediately. The other one pulls out a knife, which seems optimistic given that Nightwing was in the news for taking down an entire robbery crew last week with what you're pretty sure was just a pair of escrima sticks and audacity.
"You were counting?" Nightwing asks, disarming the guy with a move so fast you barely see it. The knife clatters into a storm drain. The mugger wisely chooses to follow his friend's lead and runs.
"I have a very specific relationship with probability and disaster." You hold up the energy drink you'd been buying. "I was just getting caffeine for my night shift. Is that too much to ask? One energy drink without a felony?"
He turns to you, and even though it's been three months of scheduled roof meetings (and several unscheduled disaster interventions), your stomach still does that stupid flip when he looks at you.
"You okay?" He asks, like always.
"Physically fine. Emotionally processing the fact that you either have a tracker on me or the universe is actively coordinating our meet-cutes through crime." You pause. "Wait. You don't have a tracker on me, right?"
"No tracker. I was two blocks away when I heard yelling."
"My yelling specifically, or just general Bludhaven yelling? Because there's a lot of ambient yelling in this city."
He steps closer, does that thing where he checks you over for injuries even though you've told him you're fine. His hands hover near your shoulders, not quite touching. "Your yelling has a specific quality."
"Is it the desperation? The resignation? The underlying notes of 'I knew this would happen'?"
"It's distinctive." His lips twitch. "You want me to walk you home?"
"Nightwing, it's three blocks. Surely there's actual crime happening somewhere that needs your attention more than my tragic walk of shame back to my apartment."
"Humor me."
So you do, because you're weak and he's looking at you like that, and honestly, your Tuesday (of course it's a fucking Tuesday) is already so absurd that adding a vigilante escort service barely registers.
You walk in silence for half a block before he speaks. "How's the tomato plant?"
"Dying. Finally gave up last week. I'm weirdly proud of it for lasting eight months though. That's longer than most of my relationships."
"You're in a relationship with your tomato plant?"
"Was. It's complicated. We wanted different things. It wanted proper drainage and sunlight. I wanted it to not be a metaphor for my inability to nurture living things."
He's laughing now, that warm sound you've become maybe slightly addicted to over the past few months. Your roof meetings have become the highlight of your week, even though you're both pretending they're casual. Even though you're both pretending that the almost-kiss from that first night didn't fundamentally alter something in the space between you.
"I got a new plant," you admit. "A cactus. The guy at the store said it was indestructible."
"How long has it been?"
"Four days."
"And?"
"It's looking suspicious. I think it's plotting something."
You've reached your building. The one with the formerly broken fire escape, the drum learning neighbor, and the upstairs couple who have apparently decided that their relationship drama is a communal experience.
You should go inside. He should go stop crime. This is where the night should end.
"So," you say instead, because you're bad at good decisions. "Thursday. Roof. Same time?"
"Wouldn't miss it." But he's not leaving. He's standing there, closer than necessary, and the streetlight is flickering (because of course it is), and something in his posture has shifted.
"What?" You ask.
"Nothing. Just..." He reaches up, almost touches your face, then drops his hand. "Be careful. Please."
"Careful? You do remember who you're talking to, right? I'm the fire escape girl. The elevator disaster. The woman who gets mugged on a schedule."
"Exactly." And there's something in his voice now, something that makes your breath catch. "So be careful. Because I..." He stops, shakes his head. "Thursday. Don't be late."
He's gone before you can ask what he was going to say, grappling up into the darkness, and you're left standing there wondering if it's possible to have your heart broken by someone whose real name you don't even know.
(It is. You're pretty sure it is.)
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
Thursday arrives with all the enthusiasm of a dental appointment.
You're on the roof at 10 pm sharp, because apparently you're the kind of person who's punctual for secret meetings with a masked vigilante now. The blanket is spread out. You've brought snacks this time- chips, because you're not fancy, and two cans of the fancy lemonade from the bodega that doesn't get robbed as frequently.
He's late.
By 10:15, you're starting to worry, which is a new and uncomfortable feeling. Usually you're worried about yourself and your own impending disasters. Worrying about someone else requires emotional bandwidth you're not sure you have.
By 10:30, you're pacing.
By 10:45, you're googling "Bludhaven crime news" on your phone, which is probably exactly what you shouldn't be doing but your anxiety brain has never been good at following directions.
At 11:07, he lands on the roof, and you're on your feet immediately.
"You're late," you say, and it comes out more scared than annoyed. "You're never late."
"I know. I'm sorry. There was a thin- " He stops, and even in the darkness you can see something's wrong. He's favoring his left side. There's a tear in his suit near his ribs.
"You're hurt." It's not a question.
"It's nothing. Just- "
"Sit down." You're already moving toward him, hands hovering uselessly because you have no idea what to do with an injured vigilante but you need to do something. "Sit down right now or I swear I'll- I don't know what I'll do, but it'll be annoying."
He sits, probably more from surprise than actual obedience. You kneel beside him, trying to assess the damage through the suit.
"It's really not that bad," he says, but his voice is tight with pain. "I've had worse."
"That's not as comforting as you think it is." Your hands are shaking. When did your hands start shaking? "What do I do? Do you have a first aid kit? Do you need a hospital? Should I call Batman?"
"Please don't call Batman."
"I don't even know how to call Batman. That was an empty threat." You're rambling now, the words spilling out in a rush. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to help you. I barely know how to help myself. I once put a band-aid on upside down- "
"Hey." His hand catches yours, stops the flailing. "Breathe."
You breathe. It doesn't help.
"I have supplies in my belt," he says calmly. "Just need to... patch it up. It's honestly not serious."
"You have a hole in your suit. There's blood. That seems serious."
"I've had worse nights." But he's pulling out a first aid kit that's somehow compact enough to fit in his utility belt, wincing as he moves.
You take it from him before he can argue. "Let me. Please. I need- " Your voice cracks. "I need to help. I need to do something."
He looks at you for a long moment, and then nods.
His suit has some kind of panel near the injury that peels back, revealing a gash along his ribs that makes your stomach turn. It's not as deep as you feared, but it's definitely more than "nothing."
"Knife?" You ask, focusing on the injury instead of the implications, instead of the fact that this man you've been slowly falling for risks his life every single night.
"Broken glass, actually. Went through a window."
"Consensually or...?"
"The window was very against it."
You laugh, because the alternative is crying, and you carefully clean the wound with the supplies from his kit. He doesn't flinch, which is somehow more concerning than if he had.
"You do this a lot," you say quietly. It's not a question.
"More than I'd like."
"And you just... patch yourself up and go back out the next night."
"Usually."
You're applying butterfly bandages now, careful and methodical, trying not to think about how this could have been worse. How it could always be worse.
"Why?" The word comes out smaller than you intended. "Why do you do this?"
He's quiet while you finish bandaging, and you think maybe he won't answer. Then: "Someone has to."
"That's not an answer. That's a deflection."
"You're getting good at reading me."
"You're getting easier to read." You sit back, surveying your work. It's not pretty, but it'll hold. "Or maybe I'm just paying more attention than I should be."
"Is that what you think? That you're paying too much attention?"
You look up at him, and even with the mask, even in the darkness, you can feel the intensity of his gaze.
"I don't know what I think anymore," you admit. "Three months ago, I was just a person who got mugged sometimes and had a dying tomato plant. Now I'm the person who waits on roofs and worries when you're late and apparently knows how to do field dressing for vigilante injuries. I don't know how that happened."
"I do." His hand comes up, cups your face like he did that first night. "You kept showing up."
"You literally scheduled the meetings."
"You could have said no."
"Could I have?" Your voice is barely a whisper now. "Because I don't think I could have. I don't think I can. And that's terrifying."
"Why terrifying?"
"Because you're- " You gesture at him, at the suit, at the fresh bandage on his ribs. "This. All of this. You jump off buildings and fight criminals and apparently go through windows. You're not safe. This isn't safe. And I'm- I'm a person who expects the worst because the worst usually happens, but somehow you've become the exception and I don't know what to do with that."
His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "What if I told you I'm terrified too?"
"You? You're Nightwing. You're not afraid of anything."
"I'm afraid of you not being here next Thursday." The words are quiet, honest, devastating. "I'm afraid of you deciding this is too complicated. Too dangerous. Too- "
You kiss him.
It's not graceful. You basically just lean forward and press your mouth to his, cutting off his words, and for a second he's too surprised to respond. Then his hand slides into your hair and he's kissing you back, and oh, this is-
This is nice.
You break apart after a moment that feels both infinite and far too short. You're breathing hard, and he is too, and you're still close enough to count his heartbeats.
"That was..." he starts.
"Impulsive? Stupid? A terrible idea given the circumstances?"
"I was going to say worth waiting for."
You laugh, and it comes out shaky. "You're bleeding through your bandage and I just kissed you. This is the most Bludhaven romance ever."
"Is that what this is? A romance?"
"I don't know. Is it?"
He leans his forehead against yours, careful of the mask. "I want it to be."
"Even though I'm a disaster?"
"Because you're a disaster. My favorite disaster." He pulls back just enough to look at you. "I need to tell you something. Soon. About... everything. Who I am. But not tonight. Not when I'm- "
"Bleeding and probably concussed?"
"I'm not concussed."
"You went through a window. You're at least mildly concussed."
"Fair point." He's smiling though, even through the pain. " I'll tell you everything. Soon. I promise."
"Everything?"
"Everything you want to know."
You should be scared. This is the part where your pessimistic brain should kick in, should start listing all the ways this will inevitably end badly. But looking at him now, at the way he's looking at you like you're something precious instead of just another disaster in motion...
"Okay," you say. "Okay. I'll see you next Thursday. But if you're late again, I'm implementing a three strike policy."
"What happens after three strikes?"
"I'll have to actually learn your name through investigative journalism. It'll be very embarrassing for both of us."
He laughs, then winces. "You should go. Get some sleep. I'll watch you get inside safely."
"You'll watch me walk down one flight of stairs?"
"Humor me."
So you do, gathering your blanket and your unopened snacks, and when you reach the roof door you look back. He's still sitting there, hand pressed to his ribs, watching you with that impossible attention.
"Be careful," you call back. "Please."
"You first."
"That's statistically unlikely, but I'll try."
You're smiling as you head down the stairs, heart racing, lips still tingling, completely terrified and completely sure all at once.
This is definitely going to end in disaster.
But maybe- just maybe- it'll be the good kind.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
Nightwing hands you an envelope.
You're on your usual rooftop, and he drops down from seemingly nowhere, landing in that cat like crouch that should be illegal in terms of sheer attractiveness. You've been seeing each other- if you can call these rooftop rendezvous "seeing each other"- for almost four months now, and your heart still does that stupid flutter thing every time he appears.
"I have something for you," he says, and there's a nervous energy to him that's new.
"If it's another apology for having to leave mid-kiss last week because of a police scanner, I'm going to start charging you per interruption."
"It's not that." He sits next to you and pulls out a cream colored envelope, expensive looking, with your name written on it in actual calligraphy. "I want you to come to something."
You take the envelope like it might explode. "Is this a ransom note? A summons? A very formal breakup letter?"
"Just open it."
You do, and your brain immediately short-circuits.
You are cordially invited to the Wayne Foundation Annual Charity Gala...
"This is- " You look up at him, then back at the invitation. "This is a joke, right? This is fake. You printed this at like, a FedEx or something."
"It's real."
"Nightwing. This is a Wayne gala. As in Bruce Wayne. As in billionaire Bruce Wayne. As in- " You wave the invitation. "There's no way this is real. These things are invite only for like, celebrities and politicians and people who own multiple yachts."
"I know."
"So this is definitely fake."
He takes off one of his gloves and reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "It's real. I want you there. I want..." He pauses, and you can see him gathering courage. "I want you to meet me. The real me. Not just the mask."
Your heart is doing dangerous things. "You're going to be there? At a Wayne gala?"
"Yeah."
"As yourself. Your real self."
"Yeah."
"And you're either Bruce Wayne's secret son, or you're about to tell me you're Batman, or- " You stop. "Oh my god, are you Batman? Is that why you said you only have six things in your utility belt? Is it a budget thing or a 'I'm actually just a vigilante with a day job' thing?"
He's laughing now, soft and genuine. "I'm not Batman. But yes, I'll be there. And I want you there too. If you want to come."
"This is insane."
"Probably."
"This is going to be a disaster."
"Maybe."
"I don't have anything to wear to a Wayne gala. I can't exactly show up in my 'I Survived Bludhaven' tshirt and jeggings."
"You'll figure something out." He squeezes your hand. "Please? I know it's scary, and I know this is all backwards and weird, but- "
"Okay."
He stops. "Okay?"
"Okay. I'll come." You look at the invitation again, at the embossed Wayne logo, at the date that's only three days away. "I'm going to regret this. This is going to end terribly. But okay."
He kisses you then, deep and relieved and tasting like promises that you're terrified to believe in.
"Saturday night," he says against your lips. "Wayne Manor. Seven pm."
"I'll be the one having a panic attack in the corner."
"I'll find you."
After he leaves, you sit on the roof for another hour, holding the invitation and trying to convince yourself it's real.
It's probably fake, you think.
This is definitely a prank.
There's no way this ends well.
Saturday arrives with all the inevitability of a dental appointment.
You've spent the last three days having a sustained, low level panic attack. You went to every thrift store in Bludhaven and finally found a dress that doesn't look like it was donated after someone's divorce in 1987. It's black, because you're not ambitious enough for color, and it fits reasonably well if you don't breathe too deeply. It cost $27, which is $20 more than you've ever spent on a single item of clothing.
You've paired it with shoes you already owned (black flats with a scuff on the toe that you colored in with Sharpie) and a small purse you borrowed from your coworker who asked exactly zero questions, bless her.
You look in the mirror and see exactly what you are: a person in a discount dress pretending to be someone who belongs at a Wayne gala.
"This is fine," you tell your reflection. "This is totally fine. The invitation is probably fake anyway, and you'll get turned away at the door, and you can go home and eat ice cream and never think about this again."
The invitation sits on your counter, looking aggressively real.
You grab it, grab your purse, and head out before you can talk yourself out of it.
Wayne Manor is exactly as intimidating as you imagined, which is to say: very.
The uber driver drops you off at the end of a long driveway that probably costs more than your entire apartment building. There are actual literal limousines pulling up to the entrance. You can see people in gowns that cost more than your yearly salary stepping out with the kind of casual grace that comes from never having worried about rent.
"This is fine," you mutter, walking up the driveway because there's no way you're asking to be driven up like you belong here. "This is totally fine. The bouncer will definitely kick you out and then you can go home."
But when you reach the entrance, holding out your invitation like a shield, the man in the tuxedo just smiles and says, "Welcome, miss. Enjoy your evening."
And then you're inside.
Wayne Manor is obscene. There's no other word for it. The foyer alone is bigger than your apartment, with marble floors and a chandelier that probably costs more than a small country's GDP. Beautiful people in beautiful clothes are everywhere, holding champagne glasses and laughing with the kind of ease that comes from never having checked their bank account before buying groceries.
You are immediately, viscerally aware of every single flaw in your discount dress.
The woman next to you is wearing something that shimmers like starlight and probably has a designer name you can't pronounce. Her jewelry is real. Her hair is professionally styled. She smells like expensive perfume.
You smell like the lavender body spray you got on sale at Target.
"This was a mistake," you whisper to yourself. "This was absolutely a mistake."
You're about to turn around and leave, invitation be damned, Nightwing be damned, your own curiosity be damned, when a waiter appears with a tray of champagne.
"Would you care for a drink, miss?"
You take one because it's free and you're definitely going to need alcohol to get through whatever fresh humiliation this evening has planned.
The champagne is good. Annoyingly good. Even the alcohol here is fancier than you.
You drift through the crowd like a ghost, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, trying not to draw attention to your discount dress and your Sharpie-ed shoes. You find a corner near an elaborate flower arrangement (are those orchids? those are definitely orchids. you killed one once) and try to blend into the wallpaper.
This is fine. You'll stay for twenty minutes, drink your fancy champagne, and then leave. Nightwing was probably joking anyway. Or maybe he forgot. Or maybe-
"Excuse me," a voice says, and you turn to find a woman in a red dress that probably costs more than your car would if you had a car. "Are you here alone?"
"Um." You clutch your champagne. "Yes?"
"Oh, how lovely! I'm Caroline Whitmore. My husband is on the board of the Wayne Foundation." She gestures vaguely at a man across the room who's wearing a tux that fits him like a second skin. "Is this your first Wayne gala?"
"Is it that obvious?"
She laughs, but it's not unkind. "A little. You have that 'deer in headlights' look. Don't worry, everyone feels that way their first time. The Waynes can be a bit... overwhelming."
"That's one word for it," you mutter into your champagne.
"The trick is to just enjoy the free food and avoid Bruce Wayne's new girlfriend. She's dreadful." Caroline leans in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I think he just dates models because he doesn't know how to have a real conversation."
You're saved from having to respond by a commotion near the entrance. The crowd shifts, and you can feel the energy in the room change, the way everyone's attention suddenly focuses on one point.
"Oh, there they are," Caroline says. "The Wayne family. They always make an entrance."
You shouldn't look. You should stay in your corner with your champagne and your discount dress and your existential dread.
But of course you look.
Bruce Wayne enters first looking exactly like the billionaire playboy philanthropist he's famous for being. Tall, handsome in a way that's almost aggressive, wearing a tux that probably costs more than your entire life.
Behind him is a younger man who looks uncomfortable in his suit, dark haired and scowling. Then another man, broader, with a white streak in his hair and an expression that suggests he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Another younger man who’s looking down at his phone and looks like he hasn’t slept since the day he was born.
And then-
And then-
Your champagne glass slips from your hand.
It hits the marble floor with a crash that echoes through the sudden silence, and everyone- every single person in the room- turns to look at you.
But you're not looking at them.
You're looking at the man who just walked in behind Bruce Wayne. Dark hair that sticks up in a way that's immediately, devastatingly familiar. A smile that you've seen in moonlight and shadows, now displayed under the crystal chandelier. A suit that's perfectly tailored to a body you've traced with your hands on rooftop meetings.
He's looking right at you.
And you know.
You know.
"Oh my god," you whisper. "Dick Grayson."
Because of course Nightwing is Dick Grayson. Of course he's Bruce Wayne's ward, the former circus performer turned billionaire's son, the golden boy of Gotham society.
Of course you've been making out with someone who's probably worth more than the entire city of Bludhaven.
Caroline is saying something about the broken glass, and a waiter is rushing over, but you can't hear any of it because Dick Grayson-Nightwing- is walking toward you.
The crowd parts for him like he's Moses and they're the Red Sea.
He stops in front of you, and up close, without the mask, you can see his eyes. Blue. Bright blue. The same eyes that have looked at you with concern and humor and heat.
"Hi," he says, and his voice is the same, exactly the same. "You made it."
"I- " Your brain is offline. Completely offline. "You're Dick Grayson."
"Yeah."
"The Dick Grayson. The- the son of Bruce Wayne. The- "
"Technically adopted son, but yeah."
"I've been kissing Dick Grayson on my roof."
He grins. "You have been."
"I told you that you were probably rich and you lied."
"I said I never said I was a billionaire," he points out. "Technically true. Bruce is the billionaire. I just have access to his credit cards."
"That's-you-" You look around at the crowd that's definitely, absolutely watching this entire interaction. At the broken champagne glass at your feet. At your discount dress next to his designer tux. "I'm going to pass out."
"Please don't." He takes your hand, the same way he has on the roof, his thumb finding that spot on your wrist that always makes you shiver. "Come on. Let's get you some air."
"I broke a glass. There's-I should clean that up. I should- "
"The staff will handle it." He's already guiding you through the crowd, past the staring faces and the whispered comments. Past Bruce Wayne, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Past the scowling boy and the man with the white streak and the teen that’s no longer looking at his phone but looking at you in curiosity.
He leads you out to a balcony that overlooks the grounds, and the cool night air hits your face like a slap.
"Okay," he says, turning to face you. "You can yell now."
"I can't yell. I'm at a Wayne gala. There are probably rules about yelling."
"There are definitely rules about yelling, but I'm giving you permission to break them."
You stare at him. At Dick Grayson. At Nightwing. At the man you've been falling for without knowing he's literally famous, literally rich, literally everything you're not.
"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress," you say finally.
He blinks. "Okay?"
"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress from a thrift store, and my shoes have Sharpie on them, and I colored in the scuff mark this morning because I don't own fancy shoes. Everyone in there is wearing clothes that cost more than my rent, and I'm- I'm- "
"Beautiful," he says simply. "You're beautiful."
"I'm a disaster."
"You're my favorite disaster."
And despite everything- despite the humiliation and the broken glass and the fact that you're definitely the poorest person at this gala- you laugh.
"This is insane," you say. "This is actually insane. I've been dating- are we dating? I don't even know if we're dating- I've been something with Dick Grayson and I didn't even know it."
"We're dating," he confirms. "Definitely dating. I'm not in the habit of having regularly scheduled rooftop makeout sessions with people I'm not dating."
"Your life is so weird."
"Says the woman who critiques muggers while they're actively mugging her."
You're about to respond, about to say something about how at least your weird is normal weird, not billionaire vigilante weird, when there's a commotion from inside.
Not the normal gala commotion. Something else.
Something wrong.
Dick's entire posture changes, his body going taut in a way you recognize from when he's in the suit.
"Stay here," he says.
"Yeah, that's not ominous at all."
But he's already moving back toward the ballroom, and you follow because of course you do, because the universe has never let you make smart decisions.
The scene inside is chaos.
The lights are flickering. People are screaming. And standing in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by henchmen in matching green suits, is a man with a purple suit, a cane, and a smile that makes your skin crawl.
The Riddler.
Because of course. Of course this gala is being crashed by a Batman rogue. Of course this is happening.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The Riddler's voice carries across the ballroom with theatrical flair. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything important. Though I suppose that depends on your definition of 'important,' doesn't it? After all, what's more important: champagne and canapés, or the answer to a riddle that could save your lives?"
You're frozen in the doorway. Dick is next to you, and you can see him calculating, planning, probably figuring out how to get to wherever he keeps his Nightwing suit stashed.
"Here's the riddle," the Riddler continues, twirling his cane. "What has hands but cannot clap, a face but cannot smile, and tells you when it's time to die?"
The crowd is silent, terrified.
And you-
You can't help yourself.
"A clock," you say.
It's not loud. It's barely more than a mutter.
But in the terrified silence, it carries.
The Riddler's head snaps toward you. "What was that?"
"I said it's a clock." Your voice is stronger now, because apparently when faced with mortal peril, your anxiety manifests as mouthy confidence. "The answer is a clock. It has hands, it has a face, and depending on your philosophical relationship with mortality, it tells you when you're going to die. Although technically, that's more metaphorical than- "
The Riddler stops in front of you, studying you with unsettling intensity. "You're not afraid."
"Oh, I'm terrified. I'm just also really annoyed because I was about to have a whole crisis about dating someone out of my league, and now you're here with your- " You gesture vaguely at his outfit. "Your whole situation, and I have to deal with that instead."
There's a beat of absolute silence.
Then Dick makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob.
"You're dating someone?" The Riddler looks delighted. "How wonderful! And who might this lucky person be?"
"That's really none of your business, but thanks for the interest in my personal life. Very invested for a supervillain." You pause, and your brain- your traitorous, anxiety ridden brain- decides this is the perfect time to keep talking. "Actually, you know what? Can I ask you something?"
Dick's hand tightens on your arm. "Please don't- "
"Why are you even doing this?" You gesture at the terrified crowd, the henchmen, the whole hostage situation. "The crime thing. You're clearly intelligent. Like, really intelligent. Your riddles are actually good, which is more than I can say for most people's riddles. Why aren't you running an escape room empire or something?"
The Riddler stops. Blinks. "Excuse me?"
"Escape rooms!" You're on a roll now, your anxiety manifesting as what can only be described as aggressive career counseling. "Think about it! You could corner the entire market! You're already creating elaborate puzzles and death traps; just make them non lethal and charge people seventy five dollars a head to try to solve them. People LOVE that stuff. You'd be rich in like, six months. Plus, you'd get to feel superior to everyone who can't solve your puzzles, which seems like a big thing for you- no offense- and it would be completely legal!"
The entire ballroom is silent. Even the henchmen look confused.
The Riddler is staring at you like you've just spoken in an alien language.
"You- " He stops. Starts again. "You think I should open an escape room?"
"Not an escape room. Multiple escape rooms. A franchise. 'Nygma's Enigmas' or something. Trademark it. Get investors. Go on Shark Tank. You could be a millionaire legitimately, and you'd get to watch people fail at your puzzles all day, every day, and they'd literally be PAYING you for the privilege. It's the perfect business model for someone with your specific skillset and psychological needs!"
"I- " The Riddler looks genuinely taken aback. "I have never- "
"And think about the branding opportunities! Merchandise! Puzzle books! A YouTube channel where you explain how people failed! You could be internet famous! Do you know how much money internet famous people make? A LOT. More than you're probably getting from- " You gesture at the current hostage situation. "Whatever this is supposed to accomplish."
"She has a point," one of the henchmen mutters.
The Riddler spins to glare at him. "Whose side are you on?"
"I'm just saying, boss, the last three jobs haven't really paid that well- "
"SILENCE!"
"Plus, the Bat keeps catching us," another henchman adds. "An escape room business would have way better job security- "
"Are my henchmen seriously discussing CAREER CHANGES in the middle of a HEIST?"
"It's not a bad idea," a third henchman says thoughtfully. "My cousin runs an escape room in Metropolis. He cleared six figures last year."
"Yeah, and he doesn't get punched by Batman," the first henchman points out.
"EXACTLY," you say, pointing at them. "See? Your employees understand basic risk benefit analysis! You could offer them actual benefits! Health insurance! A 401k! Paid time off!"
Dick has given up trying to stop you. You can feel him shaking next to you, and you're pretty sure it's silent laughter.
Bruce Wayne is pinching the bridge of his nose in the background.
The Riddler looks like he's having an existential crisis. "But- but the CHALLENGE! The battle of wits with Batman! The thrill of outwitting the law!"
"You can still have that! Just make one of your escape rooms Batman themed! Make it really hard! Charge extra! He might even show up to try it, and then you get to watch him struggle with your puzzles in a legal, controlled environment! It's a win-win!"
"Batman themed," the Riddler repeats slowly.
"With like, gargoyles and batarangs and stuff. Make it super dramatic. People will eat that up. Gotham loves Batman. Merchandising nightmare, but that's what lawyers are for."
There's a long, long pause.
"That's..." The Riddler trails off. "That's actually not a terrible idea."
"RIGHT?!"
"I could create the most challenging escape rooms in the world. People would come from everywhere to test themselves against my intellect- "
"And PAY you for it!"
"And I could rate them. Publicly. On their failures- "
"Make a leaderboard! With shame tiers!"
"A SHAME LEADERBOARD." The Riddler looks genuinely excited now. "That's brilliant! That's- " He stops. Looks around at the terrified gala attendees. At his henchmen, who are all nodding enthusiastically. At you, in your twenty seven dollar dress, having just accidentally talked a supervillain into considering legitimate employment.
"This is..." He shakes his head. "This is the strangest hostage situation I've ever been in."
"Is it still a hostage situation if we're having a productive career counseling session?" You ask.
"I don't know! I've never had this happen before!"
"Well, there's a first time for everything. So, are you going to let everyone go, or..."
That's when the lights go out.
There's the familiar sounds of a Batfamily in action the thwip of grappling hooks, the thunk of escrima sticks, the crack of martial arts, and what sounds like a tiny angry Robin yelling something about "incompetent fools."
When the lights come back on, the Riddler and his henchmen are zip tied on the floor. Batman is glowering. Nightwing is clearly trying not to laugh behind his mask. Robin looks deeply offended by the entire situation.
"Did she just- " Robin starts.
"Give the Riddler career advice? Yes," Batman says flatly.
"Is that... allowed?"
"I don't think there's a protocol for this, Robin."
The Riddler, zip tied and defeated, looks up at you from the floor. "You know, in another life, I think we could have been friends."
"In another life, you could be a legitimate businessman," you counter. "It's not too late! Think about the escape rooms! Think about the shame leaderboard! If Martha Stewart can make bank after prison, so can you!”
"I AM thinking about it!" He actually sounds enthusiastic. "The possibilities are- "
"Okay, that's enough," Batman interrupts, gesturing for the GCPD. "Take him in."
As they're hauling the Riddler away, he calls back: "If I do this- if I actually do this- I'm naming you as a consultant!"
"I don't want credit for this!" You yell back.
"Too late! You're getting a percentage!"
"A percentage of WHAT?!"
"MY ESCAPE ROOM EMPIRE!"
And then he's gone, still yelling about business plans and shame leaderboards, and you're left standing in a ballroom full of Gotham's elite, having just accidentally become a business partner with a supervillain.
Dick appears at your elbow, back in his regular tux, no mask. He's grinning so wide it looks painful.
"Did you just- "
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You just convinced the Riddler to consider a legitimate career- "
"I was dissociating. My mouth just does things when I'm nervous!"
"That was the most amazing thing I've ever witnessed."
Bruce Wayne materializes on your other side. He looks at you for a long moment.
"If he actually does open an escape room franchise," Bruce says seriously, "and it keeps him out of crime, I'm writing you a recommendation letter for whatever you want."
"I don't- I can't- " You look between them. "This is insane. This whole night is insane. I came here in a thrift store dress and now I'm a business consultant for a supervillain?!"
"Twenty seven dollar dress," Dick corrects, still grinning.
"NOT THE POINT."
Caroline Whitmore appears with champagne. "Same time next year?" She asks cheerfully.
You take the champagne and down it in one go.
"Sure," you say faintly. "Why not. What else could possibly happen?"
The universe, as always, is listening.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You wake up disoriented, head full of static, and for a moment you’re convinced the entire Wayne gala was a stress induced fever dream. The ceiling above you is definitely not the water stained plaster of your apartment: this one is smooth, painted a gentle gray, and if you squint you can see tiny glow in the dark stars scattered in one corner.
There’s a slow, delicious ache in your thighs that’s definitely not from stress.
You shift, and the sheet slithers over bare skin, warm and expensive, and the motion pulls your attention to the weight at your waist; an arm, long and golden and dusted with soft brown hair, wraps you close.
Oh.
You twist, carefully and there he is: Dick Grayson, hair rumpled, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, mouth parted with the kind of sleep heavy softness that makes you want to press your face to his shoulder and never move again.
Last night comes back in flashes: his mouth on yours as the adrenaline bled out in the back seat of the car, his hands clumsy and urgent as he unlocked the door to his apartment, laughter tangled with kisses, a trail of your thrifted dress and his designer tux winding through the hall.
You’d made love with the kind of desperate relief that comes from barely surviving- again- a night that should have been a disaster but somehow wasn’t.
Dick shifts, blinking blearily, and his gaze finds you, blue and bright and so gentle you could cry.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice gravel soft with sleep. “You’re still here.”
“Wasn’t sure I would be.” You mean to say it with a laugh, but it comes out quiet, almost vulnerable.
His thumb brushes over your bare hip, slow and affectionate. “You always have a choice. You know that, right?”
You nod, trying not to melt into him. “You snore, by the way.”
He grins, no shame at all. “And you talk in your sleep. You told me the exact tax rate on laundromat quarters.”
You flush, and Dick leans in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your throat, the corner of your jaw. “It’s adorable.”
You let yourself settle against him, the two of you tucked into the soft tangle of his sheets, sun leaking in around the blackout curtains.
Dick rolls you gently onto your back, hovering over you, hair falling into his eyes. “You know what I want?” he says, voice gone low and teasing, eyes warm as sunrise.
“What’s that?”
He ducks down, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s slow, sweet, the kind you never thought you’d get from someone like him. “I want to make you breakfast. And then I want to see if you’ll let me keep you here all weekend.”
Your heart does a ridiculous, traitorous thing in your chest. “You’d get sick of me by noon.”
He nips at your jaw, grinning. “Not possible. I’m insatiable.” He punctuates it with another kiss, this one lingering, his hand sliding over your waist, palm broad and steady.
You can feel him, hard and wanting against your thigh. The temptation to tease is irresistible. “Didn’t you say you needed to rest after last night, Mr. Grayson?”
He groans, but his mouth is already sliding down your neck, teeth scraping lightly. “I lied. Or maybe you just recharge me.”
Your hands slide into his hair as he kisses down your body, worshipful, reverent. His lips find your breast, tongue circling, and his hand drifts lower, cupping your thigh, thumb stroking lazily at your skin. The ache between your legs turns electric, all soft warmth and want.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin, breath hot.
“Don’t you dare.”
He laughs quiet, and so, so happy and then his mouth is on you, slow and patient, mapping every inch. When he finally presses inside, the stretch is familiar and perfect, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him close, moving together in the drowsy gold of morning.
He presses his forehead to yours, both of you grinning like idiots.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.
He kisses you, slow and sure, as if sealing a promise: “Good. Because you’re my favorite disaster.”
The sun climbs higher, and you think, for once, that maybe- just maybe- everything is exactly as it should be.
And maybe lightning didn’t strike to destroy you for once: maybe it struck to set you alight.
Can you do Grayson Hawthorne x reader where reader is his childhood best friend but they’ve just recently started dating (no pressure ofc)
a/n: omg yes! This is so cute. Sorry if it isn’t the best, i tried 😭
Grayson Hawthorne x Reader
“Come on!”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
Grayson Hawthorne was a stubborn man. An infuriatingly good-looking, stubborn man. A man who absolutely hates his girlfriend, apparently. I mean, seriously, you weren’t asking for much! All you wanted was to make him look all pretty with your makeup.
“Real men wear makeup, Gray.”
Unfortunately your argument fell on deaf ears, as he continued to flip through the same document for the twentieth time. You’re starting to think he may not actually be busy.
“Real men also have work to do. I have work to do, sweetheart.” His eyes finally met your frustrated gaze. A defeated sigh escaped his lips at your lack of response. You’ve known Grayson Hawthorne since before he was Grayson Hawthorne. You knew that sigh. It was the sigh that meant you had won, and winning was not something Hawthorne men took lightly. It took everything in you to mask the victorious smile that tugged at your lips as you approached his desk.
“Come onnn,” you drawled, inching closer “it’ll be fun. Remember when we did the face masks? Personally, I had a great time, but if you don’t want the head massage after I guess…”
10 minutes later
“Hold still!”
“I am still.”
“No, you keep blinking.”
“You’re getting powder in them, sweetheart.”
“So stop moving!”
Grayson had changed out of his suit, now in one of his scarce in quantity t-shirts and sweatpants, being restrained held against his bed frame as you beat his face with whatever makeup you had that somewhat matched his shade.
“Ugh, you look so pretty!”
You’d made him close his eyes to show off the sparkly eye makeup that you put blood, sweat, and tears into perfecting. The flash of your phone camera illuminates his glamorous face as you work his angles.
“Don’t post that.”
“I won’t. Only to my close friends story.”
“You mean the one with all of my brothers? Who will never let me live this down, ever?”
“I have worse photos i could post Grayson, trust me, this isn’t so bad. Unless, you want me to send the photo of you after your graduation party. Y’know, the one where your drunk and pouting-“
I fear I need Johnny storm meeting awkward and inexperienced reader and him trying to convince her he really does like her. And wants to take out for real. Not as a joke. Not as a paparazzi opportunity of Johnny storm and down to earth regular girl. Just because he likes her.
You’re you!
Johnny Storm x fem!reader
Word count: 3.1k Masterlist
You weren’t sure what twist of fate brought you here. You were awkward, nerdy, and had a tendency to talk too much.
So what made Johnny Storm claim you as his best friend? You’ll never know.
One thing you quickly learned about him is that Johnny flirted like it was the air he needed to breathe.
You had met around one year ago, you were at a conference for work and ended up at the same bar as him after a long day of panels and handshakes and fake smiles. You hit it off right away, and ever since then, you have been inseperable.
The conference was… overwhelming.
Not in a bad way. Just in that too many brilliant people in one place talking too fast about things you half understand kind of way. Panels stacked back-to-back, people arguing over quantum modeling in the hallway, someone casually referencing a book you cried over in undergrad.
You spend most of the day nodding, taking notes, and pretending your brain isn’t melting.
By the time evening rolls around, you escape. The hotel bar is dim, quieter, a soft hum of conversation instead of intellectual combat. You slide onto a stool, order something simple, and finally exhale.
“Rough day?”
You glance over, slightly startled. Of course he looks like that. After spending the entire day schmoozing and sitting under fluorescent lights you can only imagine what state your clothes and hair are in, nonetheless your makeup from twelve hours ago.
Johnny Storm doesn’t blend into rooms. He burns through them. He always sports a bright smile and relaxed posture, like he belongs everywhere all at once. There’s an easy confidence to him, the kind that borders on cocky but somehow doesn’t feel unbearable.
You’ve seen him earlier, hovering near Reed Richards during a panel, looking bored out of his mind.
“That obvious?” you ask.
“Little bit.” He grins. “You had the ‘I have been pretending I am going to remember all the names of people I met today’ thing going.”
You laugh despite yourself.
“Wow. Rude.” You said, looking back at the glass of wine in your hand.
“Accurate,” he corrects, extending a hand. “Johnny.”
You hesitate for half a second before taking it. “—Hi.”
You give him your name. His grip is warm. (Of course it is. Human Torch. You’re trying not to think about that too hard.)
“So, you didn’t want to go to the group happy hour and networking event for the bottom shelf liquor and finger foods?” He asks you, as the bartender hands him a glass of whiskey.
You laugh breathily, "I think I've had enough networking for a lifetime.”
Johnny Storm is known for being impulsive, charming, and just a little reckless, the kind of person who flirts like breathing and thrives on attention, and yet you can’t help but feel nothing but authenticity from him at the shitty bar.
“Well,” he says finally, “you look like you need another drink and better company.”
“Wow. Still rude.”
He smiles wider. “But charming.”
“…debatable.”
He laughs, and just like that, you met your best friend.
You don’t expect to become such fast friends.
But you do, once you realized you were both living in New York, conversation flowed seamlessly. It was the type of feeling you get when you see an old friend and it’s like no time has passed.
It starts with that night stretching longer than planned. Then coffee the next morning. Then sitting together during panels (him whispering commentary that absolutely should not be funny but is). He sought you out at every meeting that day, even introducing you to his sister. Then, the texting started.
You had just crawled through the front door of your apartment, plopping down onto the couch, allowing yourself to sit before you took a shower.
PING
Unknown Number: guess who?
You smiled at it.
Unknown Number: alright, alright. I give in. it’s me.
Then… more texting. Johnny is easy, easier than you ever thought possible. Talking to him doesn’t take the same effort as it does with other people for you. That’s what surprises you the most.
You expected ego, flirting, maybe some superficial charm. And yeah—he flirts. Constantly. With you, with the barista, with a random dog once. But he also listens, remembers things, and constantly checks in.
You, on the other hand, are… not easy.
You overthink everything. You second-guess texts. You rehearse responses in your head and still feel awkward saying them out loud. Dating has never really been your thing, at least not seriously and definitely not successfully.
So when the flirting starts to feel… real— you absolutely panic. Not in the crying, screaming kind of way. But in the, break out in a sweat and avoid the conversation sort of way.
Johnny: You looked really good today, by the way.
You: The speaker literally said entropy wrong.
Johnny: …that’s what you took from that?
Weeks turn into months.
Months turn into a year.
And somewhere in that time, your friendship with Johnny Storm becomes the most important relationship you have.
On a random Friday night, you meet at the Irish pub around the corner from the lab you’re doing research at, a routine you had built together.
You reach for your drink at the same time the bartender sets it down and immediately knock the napkin off the counter.
“Oh—sorry—” you mumble, even though it’s not remotely anyone’s fault. You scramble to grab it, nearly missing it the first time, fingers fumbling like they’ve forgotten how to function.
Smooth. Really smooth. You straighten, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, already talking too fast to recover. “I swear I’m not usually this—well, I am, but like, not—this visibly—”
You stop and wince at yourself. Then, you see Johnny smiling at you from his spot next to you.
“What?” you ask, immediately defensive, heat creeping up your neck.
“Nothing,” he says, but his grin widens, eyes softer than they were a second ago. “You’re just… really bad at playing it cool.”
You groan, dropping your gaze to your glass. “I wasn’t trying to play it cool.”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “I know.”
Most people look away when you ramble. Or try to jump in. Or politely wait for you to stop talking so they can steer the conversation somewhere normal again.
Johnny leans in like you’re not making him cringe and like he isn’t horribly embarrassed.
“You always do that?” he asks.
“Do what?”
“Say three versions of the same sentence and still not finish it?”
You stare at him. “I hate you.”
He laughs, like he’s a little too delighted for someone who’s being insulting. “No you don’t hate me. And it was rhetorical, I know you always do that.”
You hit his bicep with the back of your hand, hurting yourself more than him. He laughs and you join him, taking your seat next to him again, feeling seen for the first time in your life, as you tend to feel when you’re with him.
It turns into late night calls and inside jokes. Him showing up unannounced just to drag you out for food. You helped him with something Reed said that he definitely pretended to understand. Ranting to one another about everything. You pick out his outfits for interviews. He encourages you to do things out of your comfort zone. You tell him things you’ve never admitted out loud. He tells you he’s scared no one will ever see him for anything but the Human Torch.
You fall for him slowly, behind closed doors where no one can see.
You also become an expert at dodging every single romantic advance he makes.
Because you know this is just how Johnny is. Johnny Storm flirts with everyone. It’s practically part of his personality.
So you bury it.
It’s almost exactly a year later. The annual conference that you met Johnny at rolls around, and this time you go together. Reed isn’t even there this year, but he said “if you’re out of town, who else am I going to hang out with?”
So, you’re back at the dim bar in the same hotel. Sharing a bowl of mixed nuts and getting ready to order your third drink of the night.
You were ranting about the panel today, how insufferable the moderator was being. Asking all the wrong questions and completely dismissing the women on the panel. But through your rambling, you notice Johnny hasn’t said a word.
“Okay, what is your deal?” You asked, basically mid sentence.
He turns toward you fully, brows drawn together, not in anger, but in frustration . “Do you not like me or something?”
Your brain short-circuits and you nearly choke on the wine you’re drinking. “…what?”
He gestures vaguely. “This—us—you. I don’t—” He exhales sharply. “I’ve been flirting with you for a year.”
You stare at him. “I—what are you talking about?”
Johnny just stares back.
Then laughs once in disbelief. “What do you mean, what am I talking about?” he says. “I’ve been very obvious.”
“No, you haven’t—”
“Yes, I have.” He cuts you off.
“You flirt with everyone!” You exclaim, trying to remain neutral so as to not draw attention to yourselves.
“Yeah,” he snaps, “but not like this.”
Your heart is suddenly beating way too fast. “I—” You swallow. “I thought… I thought you were just being you.”
“I am being me,” he says, softer now. “That’s the point.” He says it vulnerably, like he’s disappointed in you for not realizing, and himself for not being more clearer.
“I don’t do this,” he continues. “Not for a year. Not like this. I—” He runs a hand through his hair. “I thought you just weren’t interested.”
Your chest tightens.“I am,” you blurt.
He freezes, “what?”
“I am interested,” you say, quieter now. “I just—didn’t think you were. Not really.”
Johnny stares at you like you’ve just told him the sky is green. “I have been flirting with you. For a year.”
“I didn’t know that meant anything!” You shrug your shoulders and hide your smile by bringing your wine glass to your lips.
“How does that not mean anything?!” He practically shouts, but the grin he wears doesn’t match his tone.
“I don’t know! I’ve never—” You cut yourself off, flustered. “I’m bad at this, okay?”
“Bad at what?” he asks gently.
“…all of it,” you admit. “Dating. Reading people. Knowing when something is real. You know my track record, Johnny. It’s basically nonexistent. And you’re.. Well you’re you!”
Johnny leans in slightly, eyes locked on yours. “This is real. And you’re you. That’s why I like you so much.”
He’s leaning in so close you’re sure he can hear your heart banging against your ribs, and the way you’re focusing way too hard on steadying your breathing. You can smell him, the leathery musk of his cologne, the hair gel he always wears, you try not to melt at the proximity he is forcing.
“I like you,” he says, simpler now. No jokes. No charm. Just me and you. “I’ve liked you for a while.”
You hesitate and it’s small, but Johnny notices. Of course he does. He knows your better than anyone.
“What?” he asks, quieter now.
You shake your head quickly. “Nothing.”
But he doesn’t buy it. “No—what is it?”
You stare down at your glass, watching the way your fingers tighten around the stem. “This is going to sound stupid,” you warn.
“Try me,” his body is facing you completely, his one hand on the bar holding his glass, the other one resting casually. God his hands, you could not be staring at his hands right now.
You exhale, shoulders tensing. “You’re… you’re Johnny Storm.”
He blinks. “Yeah, last I checked.”
“No, I mean—” You huff a breath, already frustrated with yourself. “You’re Johnny Storm. People know you. They watch you. Everything you do ends up… being a thing.”
His expression shifts slightly, he can tell the conversation is more serious now, but he’s still not understanding. “And?”
“And,” you continue, words starting to rush out before you can stop them, “it wouldn’t be crazy if you just—wanted a girlfriend for optics. Or PR or whatever. Someone normal. Someone safe. Someone who can tie the human torch down!” You gesture vaguely at yourself, already cringing. “Someone who doesn’t make headlines.”
Johnny actually scoffs, like he’s completely disbelieving. “Are you serious right now?”
Your stomach drops. “I told you it sounded stupid—”
“No, no,” he cuts in, shaking his head, a hand dragging through his hair. “I just—wow. That’s what you think this is?”
“I don’t know what this is,” you admit, voice smaller now. “That’s kind of the problem.”
He takes your hand in his. “PR?” he repeats, like the word tastes wrong. “You think I’ve been sticking around for a year—calling you every night, showing up at your apartment, listening to you rant about panels I barely understand—”
“I want you,” he says. “Not because it’s easy. Not because it looks good. Not because of anything like that.” He’s close enough that your thoughts start slipping again. “I want you because I’ve been—” He pauses, like the words matter. Like he’s choosing them carefully. “…I’ve been falling in love with you since the night I met you.”
Everything in you goes still. The murmuring of the bar goes quiet and dark, like someone turned the background noise all the way down and out a spotlight on whatever is happening between you two.
“I just didn’t say it,” he continues, quieter now, “because I thought you knew.”
You blink at him, heart pounding so hard it almost hurts. “I didn’t,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says gently. “I know that now.” There’s a small, almost helpless smile tugging at his mouth.
“But don’t—” he adds, softer, thumb brushing lightly against your wrist, grounding you, “don’t turn this into something it’s not. This isn’t PR,” he says. “It’s you. It’s always been you.”
You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until you let it out. “…okay.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Okay?”
“I like you too,” you say.
And suddenly you’re both smiling, maybe this should’ve happened months ago.
“Can I ask you something?” he says after a beat.
“Yeah,” you say like it’s obvious, like you’re not even sure why he asked.
“…how did you not know I was flirting with you?” He raises a brow at you, taking a sip of his drink.
You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “Oh my god.”
“No, seriously—this is fascinating.” He gestures dramatically, still sporting his signature smirk.
“I hate you,” you mumble.
“No you don’t.” He quips.
“…unfortunately, no,” you admit.
He grins. “Guess we’ll have to start over.”
You glance at him. “Start over?”
“Yeah.” He nudges your shoulder. “Properly this time. No mixed signals.”
You smile, heat rising to your cheeks.
Johnny leans back, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Good,” he says. “Because I’ve got a year of flirting to make up for.”
You roll your eyes and your brain, incredibly helpfully, starts spiraling.
Do I stand still? Do I move? Oh my god, what do I do with my hands? Why are hands suddenly so complicated?
Johnny’s expression softens, like he can see every single thought happening in real time.
“Hey,” he murmurs, quieter now. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?” you ask, even though your voice comes out a little too high.
“Overthinking.” He says simply, like he didn’t just read your minds.
“I am not—”
“You are,” he says, smiling. Not teasing. Gentle. He taps the space in between your eyebrows, and you immediately relax them, you didn’t even realize they were tense. “It’s okay.”
“Can you read minds too? I don’t remember that being a part of the flame thing.”
He lets out a chuckle, the easy relaxed kind that makes his chest vibrate. Now he’s close. Really close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the steady heat that always seems to radiate just under his skin.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks.
“…yes,” you say immediately. Then, because you are who you are—“I mean—yeah. That’s—yes is good.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, like he finds that endearing instead of horrifying.
Johnny reaches up, brushing his fingers lightly along your jaw, tilting your face toward his.
You swear you forget how to breathe.
He leans in… and you panic at the last second, turning your head just slightly the wrong way.
Your noses bump.
Johnny lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, his forehead dropping forward until it rests against yours. “Wow.”
“I’m so sorry,” you mumble, already mortified. “I don’t know what I’m doing—”
“Hey.” His hand shifts, thumb brushing your cheek. “You’re fine.”
“I literally headbutted you.” You said, trying to remain serious and not laugh at this situation.
“You barely even got me,” he corrects.
You let out a small, nervous laugh despite yourself.
“Try again?” he asks.
You nod.
This time, you very deliberately tilt your head the other way.
“Atta girl,” he murmurs against your lips, barely audible, but enough to make you bite back the moan at his praise..
And then he closes the distance and his hand settles at your waist. Your fingers finally, finally find somewhere to go, gripping lightly at the front of his shirt.
The kiss deepens just a fraction and you’re surprised by how easy and natural it feels. Like slipping into something that was always meant to fit.
You exhale against him without meaning to, and he smiles into the kiss and it makes your stomach flip. He pulls back, still gently caressing your face, both of you smiling.
“…okay,” you say softly, a little breathless.
Johnny’s staring at you like you’ve just done something incredible.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
You hesitate, then add, “I think… I think that got better?”
He grins. “Second try was strong. Real comeback.”
You groan, dropping your forehead against his shoulder. “Oh my god.”
He laughs, wrapping an arm around you without hesitation now, pulling you in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Relax,” he murmurs into your hair. “We’ve got time. We can practice.”
You huff a quiet laugh against him.
“…practice,” you repeat.
“Yeah,” he says, already leaning in again, voice warm and teasing. “I’m very committed to the bit.”
baratheonpilled
theartofmadeline
ellievsbear
turnnoffyourmind
kaledo-art
janainaart
snowghoul
