cw: sexual themes mentioned, high effort, affection, Red Hood mentioned, men who yearn, not proofread.
ⓘ Featuring Jason Todd being such a loving boyfriend.
boyfriend!jason who took his time fully opening up to you, but once he did, it felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders & he started feeling more comfortable with intimacy & the quiet moments of life with you.
boyfriend!jason who visibly relaxes whenever you touch him—the brush of shoulders, your hand on his back, kissing him on the cheek, stroking his hair, or something as simple as holding hands.
It always brings him back to the moment, & the tension leaves his body in an instant at your comfort.
boyfriend!jason who doesn't mind PDA as much as he thought he would, though depending on who witnesses it, he may be a little flustered. But that's only whenever his brothers see him being showered with affection.
boyfriend!jason who accepts his fate whenever you lie on him during movie night, knowing he will not make it to his bed that night & just needs to fall asleep where he is, wrapping an arm around you and makes sure you're comfortable
boyfriend!jason who cooks you dinner all the time. He taught himself how to cook your favorite meals & makes them whenever he notices your mood's down or stressed, or he just wants to see you excited to see your favorite dish.
boyfriend!jason who momentarily freezes up in bed whenever you pull his hair, before fucking into you like a man possessed, trying his hardest to make you do it again.
boyfriend!jason who taught himself how to do your hair & makeup so he can help you get ready in the morning & make things easier for you.
Sometimes he'll do pre-shower makeup on you, & you'll look like a glitter bomb detonated on your face, but he manages to make it look good.
boyfriend!jason who begrudgingly lets you feel up his muscles whenever he comes home still in the red hood uniform, glares at you whenever you suggest leaving the mask on—declaring that sex in the suit is wayyyy too far. Maybe the jacket & nothing else.
boyfriend!jason who, during your period, buys every snack & hygiene product he knows you use, making sure you're stocked up & keeps your heating pad (+his hand) on standby to help with the cramps.
He's always extra careful with his wording & extra open to affection to make sure you don't get set off & pissed off.
boyfriend!jason who loses sleep whenever you keep him up, just yapping, but he'll never complain, instead sleepily listening to everything you ramble out, knowing he'll forget half by morning, but the look of joy you get from talking to him is too much to lose.
boyfriend!jason who watches you whenever you walk into a room & looks so starstruck; his brothers tease him, almost exclusively just Dick, & he doesn't even mind it. His focus is on you, not whatever his brothers are whispering.
boyfriend!jason who's always working on being a better boyfriend, working to make sure you know just how much he cherishes you & wants to spend the rest of his life spent with you.
I love you women in jrwi riptide. I love you jay ferin. I love you aurora primrose. I love you lizzie lafayette. I love you ava ferin. I love you strong, female characters who are capable and driven. I love you female characters who have flaws that are related to who they are as a person and dont revolve around men. I love you female characters who are leaders and have real stories and personalities and have faced loss and turmoil and still push through. I love you women who fight for themselves and for their friends and dont take people's shit and aren't forced to be damsels in distress. I love you women in jrwi riptide
"Stephanie wouldn't be friends with Jason" that's not fanon, you understand that right? They're literally friends in canon, and it's important to me that you know that.
The hc is stupid asf too cuz Steph is the one person in canon that doesn't see Jason as the bad stuff he did. And let's not act like the bats don't fw Harley Quinn and she did worse stuff.
And don't even get me started about the "Steph would HATE jason to the bones" HC like- what the FUCK do YOU know about Stephanie Brown! Acting like she is incapable of empathy??
a/n: thank you guys for all the love and support on the first one and the idea as a whole!! i've had soo much fun figuring out what to do next. let me know if we want more? should this be a mini series? idk?
fluffy! bickering, cursing, coffee, book snob jason, next is the gala? probably? felt too fast to somehow immediately get there soooo. implied female reader!
part one
college! reader x jason todd part ii
your professor finally stops talking and gives the go ahead to leave. the lecture felt eons longer than it actually was. stepping out of the lecture hall and into the bustling hallways full of worried freshman, shuffling sophomores and more. the smell of frat boys colognes, books, printing paper, ink, and wooden panelling of the school all kicks in at once like the classroom itself was holding back the smell. the moment feels full of energy as school is actually starting to kick in and kick everyone's ass. finally finishing your "exam week" about a week ago, the nervousness of the week not touching you..in an academic way.
the gala is coming up. a cocktail & dinner fundraising gala, one the wayne's are hosting at one of their exclusive venues in upper gotham. the charity working towards providing better funding for rail workers. something you would never dream about attending, but jason's quick and nervous invitation gives you hope. plus you can always bug steph, she always complains about having to go alone and can "never bring anyone fun," since the incident of bringing along kara. one that is always retold differently each time stephanie speaks on it.
flipping your keys in your hands as the school day winds down for you, and amps up for everyone else. morning classes have that advantage, even if the disadvantage is a lack of sleep. your empty can of redbull being tossed in the bin, walking out of the halls and back onto the outdoor campus. you know steph's classes have now ended too, as you hear a soft ping from your phone.
coffee @ ground up?
steph and you normally meet up and study, especially since you know she has an active lifestyle so she doesn't have much time to hang out or sit down and do anything. you give her message a little heart reaction, as you change your walk to go to the coffee shop near campus. you can always walk back to your car.
the sound of your own feet fall and the music coming from your headphones carry you swiftly to the smell of mediocre coffee. spotting your favorite head of blonde curls, with a group...one of them having a familiar streak of white. you curse silently to yourself, she could have at least warned you! put on some extra mascara or made sure your hair was fine or something, you tug on your shirt to make sure it fits the same it did as this morning (it does) and step up.
"steph, jason- tim," you say, giving tim a bit more of subtle grief (as is your right. fake beef is just to easy to have with him), greeting each of them as you set your backpack down with stephanie's and slide into your normal spot beside steph. giving steph a look, a mix of an eyebrow cocked up and a thin lipped smile that reads easily as 'no warning? really?' as she just gives you a shrug.
jason stutters out a, "uh, hey," seeing you again, face to face not shielded by the darkness of steph's apartment. in which tim gives him a not at all subtle pat full of teasing for the stutter.
"hey," you say, equally as awkward, giving steph another mock put out look and turning back to the guys, setting your keys and phone on the table.
"we were just talking about the late night job and stuff," steph explains, her eyes dragging over you and jason like almost an unimpressed teacher.
you two talked a lot that night- and into the morning about jason. stephanie doesn't not trust you, but she explained how their late night security jobs go and how he really really got the short end of the stick in a lot of aspects of his life. not that she went into detail, just gave warnings, some of which were more along the lines of
"and look– he never, ever cleans up on saturday's with everyone after the job. i think he may have invented the irish goodbye,"
in which you sorta just laughed about, but stephanie gave you all the golden highlights in the kintsugi too. how he loves reading, how he takes care of what he has, how he can figure out how to cook something out of nothing, how he's gruff with calm and angry with care.
"anybody get too hurt this time around?" you ask, coming back to the moment, settling in the seat as in the back of your mind clock the drinks at the table. tim and stephanie have already gotten a drink and a treat of sorts, you can't really tell what it was from the crumbs.
"thank goodness no," tim butts in, his eyes watch you and steph interact almost around jason like hyena's circling, trying to read and understand their prey. except well, not prey, you just want an actual invitation to that gala, maybe one with a date attached, or something.
your stuff on the table consists of keys, a book you've been reading, and the airpods wonder woman case steph got you a while back. "how's jane eyre?" the deeper voice cuts into the conversation, as you give a bit of a grin.
"good. super good. i can already tell that each segment of the book- or time period i guess, relates to a struggle women have to go through like starvation and hunger," you add on, lightly, but somehow his eager look, as if he wants to genuinely learn more has you leaning forward a bit.
your hands moving as you somehow get lead to order your drink as jason asks more and more questions about your favorite books with an inquisitive look. his hand shadowing your back as a new group of people enter, not to crowd you but rather corral into his own space.
it's subconscious, you can tell by the way his eyes are locked only onto you, nodding along with his white tuft moving. his scars looking less jagged when he smiles and more like sweet creases in his skin.
"you a coffee guy?" you ask, your mind wandering to the menu above you both. you know it inside and out, your favorite drink easily findable on the menu. you are rather lingering in the moment by asking, letting your eyes sink into his frame, taking him in like he's a photo of an exquisite view.
"sometimes. i prefer tea though," he responds thoughtfully, taking in the menu finally but his gaze is fully taken over by you. a soft little hum leaving his lips as you start to order, his card slipping over the reader before you can even manage to think about paying.
"jason, thank you, really," you smile with a gentleness for him that can only really be seen in crushes. soft color changing in your cheeks and hand coming up to scratch the back of your neck.
"sure thing, sunshine," it slips out really, he's been referring to you as that mentally- sure, but his lips move before he does. giving you a bit of a raised brow and trying to gauge if that was an okay thing to say or not. he would rather explode than make you feel uncomfortable with him. especially because he knows stephanie would beat his ass.
you grin though, as if the nickname lights up your solar power. the smell of coffee filling your senses as you look back to tim and stephanie...who are now gone. you can see your phone ping from the table and you give a soft mock groan.
"they left us," you chide softly, looking up at jason's frame.
"of course they did. steph probably thinks this is some way to set us up or whatever," he huffs, mild embarrassment covering the tips of his ears while his arms cross.
"well, what now?" you ask, as jason hands you the coffee. your head cocking to the side as you take a sip. he can see the way the drink satisfies your senses, your lips giving a little breath and shoulders dropping.
"take advantage of our time?" he mentions, watching your reaction as he suggests it, walking the two of you back to the booth and resuming the indepth book conversation. the thought of checking what steph texted you doesn't even cross your mind as your eyes catch jason's hands moving while he speaks, the way his eyes light up while he thinks and listens, the way he adds to the conversation- never subtracting from your opinions but rather challenging or wondering about them.
the lights of the dim cafe shine his green eyes more brightly too, as your hands accidentally brush and you give a soft laugh. as you finish your coffee, you just watch him more, wondering if this could turn into something more.
how do we feel? again i thought leading immediately into the gala wasn't a good idea so scheming tim and steph here we are!! they want both of you happy, even if they show it in the stupidest ways ever.
also please lmk if you want to be in the tag list for this little min fic series!
a/n: i tried to do a quick turnaround for those of you that wanted an actual writing! idk if this is good enough to be a full fic but...tada! lmk what you think. no editing! no proof reading! i sorta just wrote and wrote and wrote...
tw: crushes, all fluff, fem! reader, jason todd being grumpy and awkward, swearing, alcohol, gaming, overwatch...
college!reader x jason todd
sharing a class with you has been one of the few reprieves steph gets from college and vigilante work. sure, she can feel like a girl with cass and babs and even kara- but the normalcy of this, the lights dim and laugher flowing as easy of the wine isn't something stephanie will ever take for granted.
the laughter from your mouth is loud, maybe its the cider mixed with the sangria, or the fumes of the nail polish, but the night seems so much brighter in stephanie's apartment. the television on and controller in your hands as your best friend's character swiftly dies in the 1v1 match.
"come on!" stephanie exclaims as giggles leave your lips, the controller being set down. "this was originally a study session, and now what, you beat my ass on widowmaker every opportunity?" she jokes, giving you a soft flick on the shoulder.
"yes, exactly that. maybe you just should switch majors, since it's clear i have time to actually have fun unlike you," the joke leaves you mouth easily, it's comfortable here, the smell of pizza and wings still haven't quite been over powered by the candles yet.
both of your laptops left on, pages of obviously old ex's up from stalking earlier in the night turned into sleepover material. a few face masks left on the table, as foreshadowing to the future events of the early morning. stephanie's apartment is stable in the way a wooden frame is, always purple and eccentric, bright with care, home for the homebodies in a sense.
"whatever. i'm grabbing some more snacks, you want anything else?" the blonde calls, her curls bouncing as if her mood shifts with the strands. getting up and out of the cozy into the pantry, looking into the shelves as if it's a life or death situation.
"nah, well.. actually, hot chocolate or something maybe?" you respond back, standing up and stretching slightly, looking for your phone in between the mess of blankets and study sheets.
there's a soft knock at the door, your ears practically perking up at the noise, assuming it's another doordash order. the last one stephanie ordered tonight had double the food somehow, you wonder if she tried her luck again with someplace different. "knocking!" the words are instinct, a shout to the pantry as you hear a muffled "mhmn!" from steph, indicating her mouth is full.
seeing stephanie's athletic form carrying a mug for you, handing it over as your eyes work back over the video game playing on the tv screen, controller buzzing as steph opens the door.
a disheveled jason todd on the other side, not in red hood gear but looking frazzled all the same, entering steph's place like he's the owner of this house. "steph, i have some int-" the words 'intel' almost leave his mouth as he see's you, curled up in blankets, hot chocolate in hand.
he didn't realize YOU were here. YOU the girl stephanie talks about as 'off-limits' and 'angelically gorgeous' all the time, photos do you no justice. his mouth practically drops, it's clear he was here on red hood business, but is now pulled out of that headspace almost entirely.
stephanie gives him a sharp look, pulling him away as you look up at at jason. his white streak looking a bit blue due to the 'VICTORY' screen shining on the television in the dark apartment. jason's eye's meeting your own, as you hope the darkness covers your blush.
"i have some uh...intense! yes intense, things to talk about. can i have a second?" jason asks, eyes tearing away from you, just barely. but he can still feel your eyes on him, assessing his figure and frame. the small looks at his jacket and jeans, the concealed gun on his hip and the one in his jacket.
stephanie steps to the side with him as the door closes, giving you a look and mouthing 'sorry, he's so' and making a motion that can only be described as 'playing dead in a condescending way'. laughter bubbling up at her notion of the handsome man who just walked in, whom of which you only really know of by word of mouth and a picture or two.
you've met tim, of course, best friends unfortunately have to meet the ex's, especially one's that stephanie has to work with still for some reason.
jason's eye's dart to your laughter the way a flower reaches for the sun, "you have company, sorry to interrupt," he announces, more as an attempt at a peace offering- and a way to hopefully get to know more about you. his personal mission of telling stephanie about a new location discovered underneath a piece of Babylon Towers and how it ties into the new Poision Ivy case fizzles out swiftly in the turn to meet you.
you stand up, not an any attempt to square off, but more to establish yourself in the room before stephanine and jason start to bicker, "it's chill, just- uh, don't judge the way it looks right now." you state, more gently than anything.
jason didn't even notice till now, the instagram's pulled up on laptops- cyberstalking isn't new but definitely not what he thought you and steph did in your free time. plus the wine glasses, mirage of snacks, doordash that looks like it could feed a family of eight, mixed with cider cans and little Hello Kitty themed face masks.
"yeah. sure. i mean- it's not too, uh, abnormal", jason todd murmurs, almost nervous? stephanie picks up on it quickly, giving you both an estranged look of 'are you kidding me?'
you laugh, and jason looks like he's found his sunshine again, no reason for any of the attempted cocktails in stephanie's apartment because his pupils are already blown. he never thought he would experience this type of emotional response at a first meeting, and especially not these circumstances. a civilian, that stephanie would kill and maime for, of course that's his first crush since rena.
"steph talks a lot about you, in the best ways," he says diligently, as if trying to find his footing as you get closer. scratching the back of his neck, face now being illuminated by the bright blue light too. he's fought demons and magic but this, this makes him nervous. his heart racing, and hands a little sweaty.
"oh! i'm glad, i mean, she doesn't talk too much about 'tim's crew', but you know. i've seen photos. always thought your white streak and ear piercing were neat." you state, pupils blown a little from the alcohol and jason's presence. he smells like gunpowder and leather cleaner, and seems to make a face at the words 'tim's crew' that makes you have a bit of a laugh.
"not a fan of tim?" you ask, the words fly faster than you think, as he gives you a huff and gentle laugh of his own.
"absolutely not, most annoying brother i have," he states, giving a bit of a grin, eyes softening and very very aware that stephanie is going to have a long long conversation with the both of you if this keeps up.
"of course. i'm sure grayson can get annoying too. not that i've met them or anything." your eyes flutter slightly, words leaving your mouth as the conversation flows.
"you can! if you want. i mean- there's a gala soon. if you want to go, i have a free plus one," jason offers, his boldness suddenly leaving his mouth before he allowed it to do so.
stephanie interupts, "alright, get out. tell me about the whatever the fuck later loverboy. girls night remember? no boys. no anything. get your wayne affiliated ass out of here," she says giving him a soft shove and a groan, playfully so.
"yes! i'll be your plus one jason!" you shout as stephanie closes the door on him, a little 'uugghhh' can be heard from outside of her apartment as jason mocks in frustration at being pushed out even from behind the wooden door.
"we will SO have a bigger talk about that later. but first, let's finish up the rest of the sangria and stalk his instagram, yeah?" stephanie pipes up, sitting beside you swiftly and giving you a fake look of shame.
"hey, he's hot, that's not my fault," you say- loudly, just in case jason is still behind that door. maybe, just maybe, it could result in more than a gala invitation in the future.
all done! lmk if this is anything... i left it on a note so it could totally continue. but also, like if this is a nothing burger i'll move on asap. probably... i'll tag everyone who wanted to be in the comments!
(translation: body-to-body; a fencing term for when two fencers come into physical contact with another with any part of their bodies or even hilts!)
no thoughts just jason todd x fencer!reader who he met at one of damian's tournaments. reader is also studying at gotham state university!
au: this wasn't proof read or edited. i just typed and then posted. i LOVE this concept though i would love to revisit it if enough people care.
tw: fluff? crushes. damian wayne. maybe a bit ooc for everyone? you fence epee! french and italian words incoming! implied female reader!
fencing tournaments in gotham are one in a million, well- not that often, but often enough. one of the few sports damian could perform without feeling like robin. a solo sport, one with no batman, or even robin, just him, the strip, and his blades.
and....jason. unfortunately for damian. much different than the league, or how they ran 'tournaments'. concession's line the insides of the large gotham university gym. the smell of fresh popcorn mixing with the rust of blades, chatter of fencers and family's bounce off of the wood panelled walls.
"are you even listening to me?" damian asks, a soft huff leaving his form as his green eyes meet jason's own.
"yeah. no yeah," jason responds, looking back at damian, stopping his college daydreams in it's tracks. his eyes darting around the facility, he wouldn't ever admit it, but jason wants, scratch that, need's this to be a safe environment for damian to do his own thing. jason out of everyone knows how important it is for robin to have an outlet besides being robin.
his phone buzzes as damian walks off, muttering about his older brother's incompetence, finding his place to rest and searching for his brackets.
jason's phone lights up, some text from stephanie, as he pulls out his phone, he walks straight into you.
you. with hard armor, yet a light touch and little gasp. "so sorry! are you alright?", the words don't even register in his mind as the world tilts, your eyes and plated gear half on seem much more important than the actual dialogue.
"yes. sorry just-" he gestures to his phone, as if it's an excuse, "phone...?" jason ends, almost awkwardly. you give a bit of a laugh, slinging your bag to the side almost like a guitar and not one full of metal blades and wires. the grace of it almost makes him trip into you again, it seems so effortless.
"you fence?" you ask, gotham university logo displayed proudly on your gear, last name on the back of your jacket and helmet stamped to the brim with other tournament logo's.
"no- well...yes? i know how, but i never did tournament's or anything. my youngest brother fences. he's here for the tournament," his words regaining footing as his hand reaches to adjust the shoulder strap of the bag almost subconciously.
your eyes trail his actions, and then his face, giving a warm smile. a soft hum leaves your lips, "yeah? what's his ranking?" you ask, it should sound like a brag, but it's genuine curiosity, like knowing about damian would brighten your day.
"A4," jason responds, even as the pride seems to stop normally at his chest for damian, your smile seems to bring it out of his lungs and into the tone of his words.
"wow, A4. highest there is. i'm nervous for his opponents today then," she gives a bit of a laugh, and somehow- decides to follow jason's footsteps. her eyes scanning his frame, the way his hands talk for him, his green eyes and scared yet handsome face.
eventually, it's jason holding your gear, helmet in his hand and brother left to his own devices. "thank you for holding my gear, again, it's not that far of a walk. honestly."
"no problem, honestly. plus i know how heavy this stuff is normally. no reason for you to be doing all of that right after your own events." he comments, a small shrug as you observe his muscles move with ease while your own urge you to relax after the strenuous tournament.
damian see's the two of you sit, obviously near his strip. you, gotham university's best- sitting with jason. damian gives jason a look, as jason tries to configure why is brother is practically pouting as your gear gets stored away and stripped down. all that's left is the basics, jacket, breastplate, pants, and yet so professional looking.
"you," damian speaks, almost roughly, your eyes shoot up, "you did the parry 9 in Metropolis, show me how you did that neuvieme against Beamount," it sounds like a command to anyone else, jason almost apologises until he see's you clearly start putting on your gear eagerly. damain seem's not starstruck, but in his element, he wants to learn...from someone else. admitting he doesn't know how to do something perfectly is out of the normal, but you spring into action.
not before giving jason a bit of a wink and a pat on his shoulder, fingers brushing across his arm before you are wiring up. the tournament hall empty, as the day wraps up, awaiting the next fencers in the morning.
damian is easy to please, or here it seems to be, he knows your name, your moves, hell even talks to you about who you've gone against and why you do certain moves and when. jason has never seen him so elated about meeting someone. your smile bringing damian comfort, adjusting his little brothers stance in a gracious way rather than painful heals something in himself too.
the long day turns into night, putting away the boxes for tomorrow's tournament brackets. damian and jason jumping into action to help.
the youngest wayne's eyebrows shoot up as your hands brush against jason's and easy laughter leaves your lips at some book quote he says off-handedly.
"you did not just quote orgy-progy at me! brave new world in the big 2026!" leaves your lips, giggles and fencing isn't your style. yet you, making his older brother blush seems to not necessarily be a bad thing. not that damian would ever admit that with more than just eye language. your style is calm, educated, chess levels of elegance, as if cassandra's dancing and talia's skill combined into one D1 college fencer. yet here you are, flirting with his older brother, exchanging numbers and letting jason carry your meticioulsly crafted gear away.
"be careful, lizzie's precious," you caution as the bag makes a soft 'clink!' as the metal wire meets the pvc pipe covering your custom epee.
"lizzie?" jason's eyebrows shoot up, your exhausted state letting your resolve slip and shoulder bump into his own.
"mhm. pride and prejudice. gotta keep the wickham's away. sooo, lizzie." you grin, head on jason's bicep as he leads you out to your car, the college campus lights illuminating just the side of your face. wisps of hair flying gently within the wind. gotham doesn't feel so dark tonight, not with your smile somehow lighting up jason's night off in a way he never imagined.
the chatter between you two seems to stop, letting the older wayne put everything into your little ratty college car. "you know...there's tournament's for just college. i'd love to have you there, and i think damian would love to watch." you whisper, words illuminating the idea of seeing each other again.
"yeah?" jason asks, more as a confirmation, letting you have an out. in which you deny with just as much fervor.
"yeah. come with me. bring me roses, then ask me to dinner or something after. don't parry my advances," you say, boldness taking over your words as the idea of not seeing this tall rugged man again seems devastating in the moment. "please," you add, with a grin, as if offering the idea up, but also as if you remembered who you are talking to, second oldest wayne heir, whom of which you just made a fencing pun to while asking out.
jason is so going to have to thank steph for texting him when she did later.
hope this was okay!! again i'm so new at writing please cut me slack. this came to me before bed and i had to write it all out. i love awkward clumsy with romance jason so much.
thank you guys for all the support on my little drabbles and thoughts, it's been so much fun to shout to the void and receive light back.
you would hate this, simon thinks. if you were here, you would’ve long since slipped out the back, probably dragged him along too, would’ve been laughing at these false mourners with their crocodile tears while the two of you shared a fag. it’s a beautiful service, yes, he can hardly imagine the money your parents put into it—the coffin alone might’ve fed a family of four for months—but none of it means anything. these people didn’t care about you before, and they don’t care now. they’re here merely because it’s expected of them, maybe they knew you ten years ago, or are related to someone who did, or perhaps they prayed for you when you left for war. whatever it might be, you weren’t theirs and they aren’t yours.
you’re his. his, and johnny’s, and kyle’s, and price’s. you’re theirs, not these strangers’. his stomach aches, watching them snivel and flaunt their supposed grief. you once told him how much you hated the little town you grew up in, with its small-minded people and its contagious misery. you said that the only way you would ever return was if it were in a box.
well, the joke’s on you, because that box is empty. there is no body to bury. maybe the joke’s on them, actually. even now, they cannot have you. not like simon and the 141 do—all these people have is a watered down memory of you.
“you think they told ‘em?” johnny wonders aloud, blue eyes stormy as he watches your mother pet the flag folded atop your casket with frail and trembling hands. “that it’s empty, i mean.”
“i doubt it.” kyle answers before he can, bitter and unimpressed. “no one wants to talk about how their kid got blown to bits — i wouldn’t.”
not enough pieces left to bury, is how the reports tell it. you were lost in some foreign city whose name no one cares to remember. it’d take years to fish out all your bits and pieces, and, by then, the worms will have gotten the best parts of you. thus, they’ll bury this empty casket and you’ll be remembered as a hero. they’ll forget the way you laugh, and how you drool in your sleep, and that your fingers are always cold as ice, but they’ll remember that you died bloody, and they’ll call that good enough.
it’s not. you deserve more than this. simon wishes he could give it to you.
he listens to your father’s speech about the life you lived. you were an unruly child, according to him, constantly running him and your mum ragged, driving your teachers up the wall. you made an impression, is what he says. nobody was surprised when you decided to enlist. from the moment you were born, you knew exactly what you wanted to be.
simon hears john scoff, because the captain knows, like he does, that it’s all a load of rubbish. you didn’t do it in search of glory. you left out desperation. all you wanted was to be free of this place, these people. you took the only route that promised separation—you just happened to be very good at very nasty things. your success in the military was wholly coincidental.
but they don’t interject. this isn’t about them, or even about you. this is about loose ends that need tying up. they’re only here to make sure that it’s done right, that you are put to rest and left to do so in peace.
the four of them carry the casket to the cemetery when the service is through, saying nothing of how light it is. they watch them lower that empty box into the ground, they give their respect to your family, and then they leave. they’ve done their duty. they’ve seen it through. they don’t have time to linger.
the drive to nikolai’s bunker takes thirteen hours, but john makes it in ten. they’ve wasted enough time, they’ve waited long enough. there’s so much still left to be done.
the pilot’s waiting for them when they arrive, already geared up, eyes bright and eager. he doesn’t like to be grounded any longer than he’s got to be. “took your time, eh?”
“you know how funerals are,” john laments, “we made it as quickly as we could.”
simon doesn’t stick around to chat, too wound up, thinking too much about a marble slab with your name on it. he offers nikolai a brief nod before slipping past him and into the cavernous hangar, skirting past the well-loved helicopter, the bags waiting at its tail, and to the office, where he finally finds what he’s looking for.
“well? how’d it go?”
“it was lovely. you’ll be dearly missed.”
you laugh at his wry tone, unperturbed, and very much intact. all that tension bleeds out of him once your arms coil around his middle, that sweet grin soothing the beast within him. he kisses you hard, and you taste like cheap cigarettes and something sweet — not decomposing just yet, contrary to popular belief.
an unsavory trick, he’ll admit, but a necessary one. shepherd’s put an impossibly steep price on your head, and the only way to shake him is to make him believe you’re already dead. the explosion that allegedly killed you was convenient, though your extended family was anything but. however, it certainly did you a favor, getting rid of that baggage. killing two birds with one stone, so to speak.
he doesn’t tell you about their lackluster performance, or about what pitiful excuses they made in your stead. he knows you would not care to hear it. come sunrise, the six of you will be hundreds of miles from here, and none of it will matter anyways.
“you alright?” your eyes soften as you look at him, cold fingers biting at his cheeks.
he hums, his hand falling to your throat so he can feel the fluttering of your pulse beneath his fingertips. “i’m okay.” he reassures. “just don’t make me bury you again, yeah?”
you grin, standing on your toes to knock your head against his, and it brings a smile to his lips. “yeah, si. promise.”
“let’s go, lovebirds!” johnny shouts from somewhere in the distance. “we’ve got a plane to catch!”
⤿ BRUCE WAYNE didn't even notice you were a permanent fixture of his life until you started popping up all over the manor.
!! fluff. sweetheart!reader. fem!reader. established relationship. lowkey domestic. batfam cameos. bruce is whipped. taglist open. ENJOY.
Bruce noticed the change in the hallway, though “noticed” felt like too abrupt a word for something that had not arrived all at once. It had settled in quietly, like dust caught in sunbeams or the slow shifting of seasons that only revealed themselves when one morning felt inexplicably warmer than the last.
His coat hung exactly where it always had, dark and severe against the marble wall, the structure of it still holding the memory of rain and night air from patrol. Every detail of its placement had been deliberate, chosen long ago for efficiency and consistency, for the comfort of routine that Bruce trusted more than most living things.
Next to it hung yours.
Soft cream fabric draped in gentle folds, the sleeves puffing slightly at the wrists, the inside lining flashing pale pink silk whenever the front doors opened and sunlight spilled across the entryway. The color looked out of place against Gotham stone and shadow, yet it did not disrupt the space. Instead, it softened it in a way Bruce could not quite categorize.
He paused while removing his gloves, gaze lingering longer than necessary.
He did not remember inviting the coat to stay.
He also could not recall ever wanting it removed.
The shoes followed days later, though Bruce would not have been able to pinpoint when they first appeared. He returned from patrol just before sunrise, exhaustion pressing behind his ribs in that familiar, bone-deep way he carried without complaint. Alfred’s voice drifted calmly through the foyer, informing him that breakfast would be ready shortly, a routine announcement delivered with the same steady cadence it had carried for decades.
Bruce stepped toward the bench to remove his boots and stopped.
His combat boots, still dusted faintly with city grime, rested in their usual precise alignment against the wall. Beside them sat your shoes, positioned with equal neatness but entirely different energy. Cream flats with delicate gold buckles, the left toe marked with a faint scuff that drew Bruce’s attention immediately, as if his mind had instinctively cataloged it for reasons he could not explain.
He crouched slightly without fully realizing he had done so, studying the size difference between them. The boots looked heavy, armored, built for violence and long nights. Your shoes appeared light enough to carry laughter down hallways and warmth into rooms that had long forgotten how to hold it.
The memory surfaced uninvited — you slipping them off the night before while laughing at something Dick had mentioned over dinner, nudging them toward the wall with your socked foot as you curled closer into Bruce’s side. You had not noticed him watching. You rarely did when your comfort replaced your self-consciousness.
He straightened again.
The shoes remained untouched.
The medicine cabinet revealed the next shift, though this one struck Bruce with a sharper awareness of how thoroughly your presence had woven itself into his life.
He opened it late one evening while tending to a shallow cut along his shoulder, the familiar antiseptic scent rising to meet him. The cabinet had always been immaculate, arranged with military precision under Alfred’s supervision. Bandages were rotated by expiration date. Pain relievers sorted by type and dosage. Every inch of space designed to serve injury and recovery with ruthless practicality.
Except now there was a section that existed for neither.
Your shelf occupied the lower corner, distinguished not by labels but by color and texture. Small glass bottles with handwritten tags rested beside a lavender hand lotion. A strawberry lip balm sat near a travel-sized sunscreen tube decorated with tiny cartoon clouds, its cheerful absurdity clashing beautifully with the sterile steel interior.
Bruce found himself staring at the lip balm longer than he intended.
He remembered you standing in the kitchen weeks earlier, leaning against the counter while he outlined a shipping investigation, your attention unwavering as you listened, the quiet hum of interest vibrating through your chest while you dragged the balm slowly across your mouth. The faint scent of strawberries had drifted toward him then, lingering in the air long after the conversation had shifted elsewhere.
His gloved fingers hovered near it now before he closed the cabinet, leaving everything exactly as it had been.
The living room shelves changed the manor in ways that startled Bruce far more than he allowed himself to admit.
For most of his life, those shelves had remained deliberately empty, polished wood reflecting light with museum-like perfection. They had never been meant to hold personal objects, only silence and order, physical proof that nothing in Bruce Wayne’s home required sentiment to justify its existence.
Then Alfred informed him, with suspicious calm, that you were reorganizing.
By the time Bruce emerged from the Batcave hours later, the room had transformed with the kind of gentle rebellion that only you could manage.
A ceramic frog holding a tiny umbrella perched near the center of one shelf, its ridiculous charm impossible to ignore. A framed photograph rested beside it, capturing a moment from a charity gala Bruce barely remembered attending, though he immediately recognized the way your hand curled through his arm, your smile bright and unwavering as if the cameras and crowds had faded entirely from your focus.
Vanilla and cedar candles lined the opposite side, their unlit presence already warming the room. A snow globe containing Gotham’s skyline shimmered faintly beneath the chandelier light, while a small bowl overflowed with brightly wrapped candies Bruce had never purchased and likely never would have considered buying.
He remained in the doorway, absorbing the unfamiliar softness of it all.
“You can move them if you don’t like them,” you practically whispered, your voice carried a careful uncertainty that didn't properly mask your hope.
Bruce turned, taking in the hopeful way you clasped your hands together.
“They make the room feel less… museum-y, it never felt like a home in here and I wanted you to have somewhere relaxing.” you added quietly with a small smile.
Bruce studied the shelves for several long seconds before responding that they could stay.
“They can stay,” he nodded.
The way your entire face brightened made the decision feel far more important than decorative approval.
The kitchen marked the moment Bruce realized your presence had extended beyond objects and into the rhythm of his daily life.
His refrigerator had always functioned with strict practicality.. water, protein-packed meals prepared by Alfred, occasional sliced vegetables for a snack, nothing unnecessary and certainly nothing colorful.
One evening, he opened it and paused.
Pastel cans of sparkling water filled the top shelf. Small yogurt cups featuring smiling cartoon fruit characters lined the door. Containers of cut strawberries arranged into heart-shaped portions occupied the center, accompanied by a glass jar of pink whipped mousse Bruce could not immediately identify.
He closed the refrigerator, then opened it again as if expecting the display to vanish.
From the counter, you watched him with gentle amusement, legs swinging slightly as you perched on a stool.
“Those are strawberry mousse cups,” you explained with a smile. “You liked them last time, but you only ate two 'cause there weren't enough, so I bought more.”
Bruce furrowed his brows faintly. “I don't remember mentioning that."
“You didn’t,” you said cheerfully. “But, you ate them faster than everything else in the fridge.. sooo I figured you liked them.”
He paused again, his eyes blinking towards you with a different
You explained that the mousse cups were strawberry, reminding him that he had favored them previously, even though he had never verbally expressed preference. He had simply eaten them faster than the other options, which, according to you, constituted sufficient evidence.
Bruce acknowledged this logic with a quiet nod before retrieving one of the yogurt drinks, examining its label with the seriousness of a man reviewing classified intelligence.
"They have probiotics..." You drawled with a smile, as if presenting the information with the quiet pride of someone offering tactical justification for sweetness.
He accepted the explanation without further question.
The bedroom alterations arrived so gradually that Bruce struggled to remember when the room had stopped feeling like it was solely his.
An extra pillow appeared first, softer and slightly smaller than his own, permanently indented by sleep. The sheets carried the faint scent of your shampoo, warm and floral, lingering long after you left each morning. A romance novel settled onto the nightstand, its pages folded and marked with colorful tabs. Discarded clips and pieces of jewelry scattered on the nightstand besides it. It was all delicate and entirely foreign to Bruce's usual environment.
One evening, he discovered one of your hair ties looped carefully around the lamp switch.
He never removed it.
You had begun staying overnight more frequently, falling asleep against his shoulder while he reviewed reports, wandering into the bathroom wearing oversized sweaters that had once belonged exclusively to him. The sight of them draped across your frame had slowly altered Bruce’s understanding of ownership, though he never attempted to define it aloud.
The moment Bruce fully recognized the permanence of your presence arrived on a rain-heavy night that pressed Gotham into quiet submission.
He returned from patrol bruised and exhausted, the city’s weight clinging to him like soaked fabric. The manor rested in darkness, Alfred long since retired, the silence stretching through marble halls with familiar emptiness.
The only thing he could make out was the light that spilled from beneath his bedroom door.
He entered cautiously and found you asleep in his bed, curled into his side of the mattress with one of his pillows held loosely in your arms. The TV played quietly in the background, with some baking competition where contestants laughed brightly under studio lights, one of the ones he pretended he didn't enjoy watching with you.
On his bedside table sat a glass of water. A small plate of cut fruit and some of his favorite mousse. Fresh bandages and antiseptic arranged with quiet intention.
It was for him.
He stood there longer than he realized, studying the slow rise and fall of your breathing, the faint smear of powder across your sleeve from some earlier kitchen attempt, the way your socked feet peeked from beneath the blanket as if claiming space without asking permission.
When he lowered himself onto the mattress, you stirred instantly, blinking awake as though his presence alone had pulled you from sleep.
"You're home," Your greeting arrived soft and drowsy, eyes barely open as you shifted closer.
"You stayed up.." He muttered, though he hadn't entirely meant to make that observation out loud.
You let out an amused breath, your hand coming to his so you could smooth over the bruises you knew were likely on his knuckles. "I tried to stay up, I clearly dozed off just a bit. But you looked tired when you left, and so I wanted to be here when you came home." You dismissed it with a gentle shrug, as though that alone justified the quiet vigil.
His attention drifted toward the medical supplies arranged beside the bed, noting their preparation with quiet surprise.
"You always pretend that you're not injured and then I find blood stains in the sheets, so I figured I'd make sure you can't avoid it." You admitted, noticing his attention on the medical supplies.
Bruce studied you for a long moment before removing his gloves, the gesture carrying more surrender than exhaustion
Weeks later, Dick noticed it out loud.
“Her mug has a permanent spot now,” he said casually during breakfast, pointing at the cabinet where a pastel teacup sat between Bruce’s black coffee mug and Alfred’s porcelain set.
Jason smirked. “There’s actually a load of lights in the laundry room now too.”
Tim didn’t even look up from his tablet. “There are three different kinds of cookies in the pantry and none of them are labeled for operational purposes.”
Damian folded his arms. “She has placed decorative pillows in the sitting room that serve no tactical function whatsoever.”
Bruce sipped his coffee. “They make her happy,” he said simply.
The table went silent at that, everyone glanced up at each other then at Bruce, before pretending that he didn't just admit something groundbreaking.
The last confirmation came on a rainy evening.
Bruce returned home earlier than usual, the storm outside muting Gotham into something distant and soft. He stepped into the entryway, removing his coat automatically before pausing.
Your coat hung beside his, damp from rain. Your shoes sat neatly beside his boots. Your umbrella leaned against the wall, dripping onto the marble floor.
From the living room, Bruce could hear quiet music. The clink of glass. The faint scent of vanilla candles drifting through the manor.
He followed the sound, his fingers working diligently at the buttons on his cuffs.
You stood in the living room arranging flowers into a vase, humming softly under your breath while wearing one of his sweaters that slipped slightly off one shoulder.
You turned when you noticed him, smiling instantly.
“You’re home early!” you said cheerily.
Bruce looked around the room.. at the shelves filled with small pieces of you. At the blankets draped over furniture that had once been untouched. At the warm glow of candles replacing sterile overhead lighting.
At the life that had settled into his home so gently he had not noticed it arriving.
“Yeah, the meeting wrapped up early,” he said quietly in response to you. Though his distraction was seeping into his tone.
You tilted your head. “Is it okay? I was at the store earlier with Alfred because he seemed like he needed some company. And then I saw the flower stand which happened to be next to the T.J. Maxx, and you just know I had to go in...” You explained with a sheepish smile
Bruce stepped closer, resting his hand against the back of your neck, thumb brushing lightly along your hairline in a gesture that was as instinctive as breathing now.
“Yes,” he muttered, softer this time. "It's more than okay."
You leaned into his touch without hesitation, like you had always belonged there.
Bruce glanced once more around the room, taking note of every small, domestic detail that would have unsettled him once upon a time. Every object that suggested vulnerability. Permanence. Attachment.
Then he looked back at you.
And for the first time in years, Bruce Wayne felt something inside his carefully controlled life settle into place like it had finally found where it was meant to rest
Your boyfriend always come home late, almost every day of the week. But today something felt off, normally you receive a call at midnight of him trying to convince you to not wait for him awake. Today? Nothing at all. You texted him a few messages with no response. It's now 3 a.m and Jason is nowhere to be found.
It takes him another half an hour to appear in the fire escape. Still in full gear, smelling terrible and with his helmet off.
"What the fuck, Jason? I haven't heard of you all n—"
Your breath catches in your throat.
The anger that had been simmering for hours, ready to spill out the second he walked through the window, evaporates in less than half a second.
Because there, cradled against the dirty, blood-streaked jacket of his chest like it’s made of glass, is the smallest, most fragile-looking white kitten you have ever seen in your life. It’s barely bigger than one of Jason’s hands. Its fur is thin and wispy, ears huge in proportion to its head, eyes huge and glassy with terror. It’s trembling so hard the little pink nose quivers.
Jason looks down at it, then back up at you, and the expression on his face is so openly soft, completely unguarded, that it hits you like a punch to the sternum.
“I—” he starts, voice rougher than usual, “found her in a warehouse. They had her in a fucking cardboard box with no food, no water, just… left her there.” His throat works. “I couldn’t just leave her.”
And that’s it.
You’re done for.
All the sharp words you had lined up dissolve. Your eyes are already stinging. You step forward without even thinking, hands reaching.
“Can I…?”
Jason doesn’t hesitate. He very carefully, very slowly, transfers the tiny shivering thing into your palms.
God. She weighs almost nothing.
You can feel every frantic little heartbeat against your fingers. She’s so small her paws don’t even reach the edges of your hand. Her huge eyes dart between you and Jason, body rigid with fear, but she doesn’t try to bolt. She just… shakes.
“Shhh, baby,” you whisper, instinctively curling your body around her, bringing her close to your chest. “You’re safe now. You’re okay.”
Jason finally peels the rest of his gear off leaving everything in a filthy heap by the window. He smells like gunpowder, old blood, motor oil and wet concrete, but right now you couldn’t care less.
He steps closer, looming but careful, and reaches out with two fingers to very gently stroke the kitten’s head with the lightest touch you’ve ever seen him use.
“She’s freezing,” he mutters. “And she’s got fleas. Probably worms too. We need to—”
“Bathroom,” you finish for him, already moving. “Warm water. Towels. Food. I’ll get the kitten milk replacer we still have from the last stray.”
Jason nods once, sharp and focused, like this is a mission now.
You don’t miss the way his shoulders drop the second the two of you are in agreement. The way the hard line of his mouth softens when he sees how small she looks in your arms.
Ten minutes later the tiny white kitten is wrapped in one of Jason’s softest old T-shirts, tucked against your chest while you feed her with a syringe. She’s still shaking, but the terrified stiffness is starting to ease. Every few sucks she makes this pathetic little squeak.
Jason is crouched in front of you on the bathroom floor, sleeves rolled up, carefully wetting a warm washcloth and wiping the grime from her paws and face. He’s so focused, so gentle, that it makes your chest ache.
“She’s got a little pink spot on her nose,” he says quietly, almost like he’s afraid to scare her if he speaks too loud. “Like… a strawberry.”
You smile despite yourself, eyes burning again.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “She does.”
He glances up at you then and something raw flickers across his face.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” he says. “I didn’t want to wake you up just to tell you I was gonna be even later. Then I found her and… everything else stopped existing for a while.”
You lean forward just enough to press your lips against his forehead.
“I was scared,” you admit against his skin. “But… I get it.”
His hand comes up, big and warm, cradling the back of your neck.
The kitten lets out another tiny, milk-drunk squeak and tries to headbutt Jason’s thumb.
He huffs the softest laugh you’ve heard from him in weeks.
“Think she likes me,” he murmurs.
You kiss the corner of his mouth, right where the tension always lives.
“She’s not the only one.”
The three of you stay like that on the bathroom floor until the kitten finally falls asleep, tiny chest rising and falling, safe between your bodies, until the sky outside the window starts to turn the softest shade of early-morning gray.
Jason leans his head in your shoulder, one hand on your thigh as the other caresses the kitty's head. "Can... can we keep her?"
You don't even have to think about it.
"Yes," you say immediately, voice barely above a breath but certain. "Of course we can keep her. She's already ours."
Jason exhales like he's been holding it for hours. His shoulders slump further, the last of the night's tension bleeding out of him. He turns his face into the crook of your neck for a second, just breathing you in, before lifting his head to look at the sleeping bundle between you.
You shift carefully so you can see her better too. The little pink strawberry spot on her nose stands out even more now that she's clean, a perfect tiny heart-shaped mark against all that wispy white.
"We should take her to the vet first thing this morning," you continue, already planning. "As soon as they open. Get her checked for everything, whatever those warehouse assholes left her with. She's so young… we need to make sure she's strong enough."
Jason nods, eyes still fixed on her. "Yeah. I'll call ahead, see if they can squeeze us in early."
You smile at how quickly he's shifting into protector mode.
"And names," you add softly, brushing one fingertip along the edge of her enormous ear. "We need to think of names. Something gentle. She deserves gentle."
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling against your side. "Not gonna call her Stray or Warehouse, huh?"
"Absolutely not." You tilt your head, studying her peaceful little face. "Maybe something with strawberries? Since that's what her nose looks like. Berry? Strawberry? No, too on-the-nose."
"Too literal," he agrees, but there's a tiny smile tugging at his mouth.
"Or… Snow? But that's boring. She's more than just white fur."
Jason's quiet for a moment, watching her breathe. Then, almost shyly: "What about… Rosie? 'Cause of the nose. Like a little rose. Or… Strawberry Shortcake, but that's a mouthful."
You laugh under your breath, careful not to jostle her. "Rosie. I like Rosie. It's sweet."
He tests it out, murmuring low: "Hey, Rosie." The kitten doesn't stir, but her tiny paw flexes once in her sleep, like she's dreaming of kneading milk.
"Rosie it is, then," you decide.
Jason's hand finds yours, fingers lacing together over the warm bundle in your lap. He squeezes once—thank you, I love you, we're doing this—all without words.
The sky outside is turning proper dawn now, pale gold creeping in. You're both exhausted, grimy, running on fumes and kitten milk fumes, but neither of you moves.
"Shower first?" he suggests eventually, voice rough with tiredness. "Then bed. All three of us. Vet at eight."
You nod, leaning to kiss his temple. "Shower. Bed. Vet. And then we buy her the tiniest collar in existence."
He smirks, faint but real. "With a bell. So she can't sneak up on me."
"Like anything could sneak up on Red Hood."
"She's already got me wrapped around her paw," he admits, glancing down at Rosie with something so tender it makes your heart twist. "Didn't even take five minutes."
You rest your cheek against his hair.
"Welcome home, Rosie," you whisper to the sleeping kitten.
pairing: ex!dick grayson x afab!reader, endgame!wally west x afab!reader
summary: you knew that moving on from a breakup would hurt, you just didn't expect your ex, dick grayson, to move on so soon and publicly to boot. little did you know that someone was watching out for you and is willing to do anything to make you smile.
content: ex! dick grayson, asshole dick grayson, angst, hurt, wally comforts you, banter and flirtation with wally, pining wally, observant wally, self-deprecation talk, wally fully believes in the power of food being healing, love confession,
wc: 7.1k
heart to heart valentine collection | buy me a coffee | general masterlist
There was a time when Dick Grayson fit into your life as if it had always been waiting for him.
You remembered it in fragments, the way memories tended to surface when you didn’t invite them.
Moonlight through your bedroom window, pale and soft, painting his bare shoulders silver as he lay on his side facing you. The city hummed beneath the tower, distant and alive, while the two of you existed in your own quiet world. His hand rested at your waist, thumb tracing lazy circles as if he had nowhere else he needed to be. As if there wasn’t a city that demanded him, or a symbol stitched into his suit that he carried even when it wasn’t on his chest.
You remembered laughing until it hurt. The kind of laugh that pulled a sound from your chest before you could stop it. Dick always loved that laugh. He used to say it made everything feel lighter, like for a moment the weight of being Nightwing slipped off his shoulders.
You mornings together was your preferred way to start the day. Sharing burnt toast and strong coffee, others were spent with gentle hands and bandages after missions. Conversations whispered into skin, secrets exchanged in the dark that felt safe simply because they were yours.
You remembered thinking, This is it. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
The memory shattered the moment you opened your eyes.
The tower ceiling stared back at you, sterile and unfamiliar. Your room felt too quiet now, too empty. His jacket wasn’t draped over the chair anymore. There was no warmth lingering in the sheets, no sleepy voice teasing you for staying up too late.
That life belonged to another version of you.
And Dick Grayson belonged to someone else.
The last mission had been brutal — not the worst you’d ever faced, but draining in a way that left exhaustion sitting heavy in your bones. You worked well with the team, always had, but something felt… off.
It took you longer than you cared to admit to realize why.
Dick was there, and fought and covered civilians. He moved with the same precision he always did. He checked in over comms, just like he did with everyone else.
But he wasn’t fighting with you.
There was no familiar pressure at your back, no instinctive trust that someone was watching your blind spots because you watched theirs. No silent coordination born from knowing how the other person moved, thought, or reacted. You didn’t realize how much you’d relied on that unspoken connection until it was gone.
He hadn’t abandoned you. You knew that. He still cared — as a teammate. As a friend?
But the space between you felt cavernous. And fighting alone, even in a crowd, felt lonelier than you expected.
You stood under the spray of the shower longer than necessary, letting the water pound against your shoulders, hoping it would wash the memory of the mission, and the announcement that came after, from your mind.
Everyone had been so happy for them, Dick and Kori. Official. Public, almost aggressively so.
The way she glowed at his side, radiant and unapologetic in her affection. The way his smile came easy around her, unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen directed at you in a long time. They looked good together, like couple that belonged on the front page of a magazine or whispered about in awe.
It shouldn’t have hurt. You were broken up, and this was inevitable.
But your heart didn’t seem to care about logic.
You shut off the water, wrapped yourself in a towel, and stared at your reflection until the redness around your eyes faded enough to pass as exhaustion instead of heartbreak. You dressed quickly, deliberately. If you stayed in your room too long, you’d think too much.
You just needed food. Something solid, something normal.
The common room lights were dimmed when you stepped inside. Late evening, the tower winding down, and for one fleeting moment, you thought you might be safe.
Then you saw them. Kori sat curled against Dick on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, her laugh bright and unrestrained as he murmured something into her ear. His arm was slung easily around her shoulders, fingers resting at her waist like they’d memorized the shape of her already.
Arms that had once held you. Something in your chest twisted painfully.
Dick’s eyes lifted instinctively, catching yours across the room. For a split second, something flickered there — surprise, maybe guilt — but you didn’t give him the chance to figure it out.
You turned on your heel and headed back the way you came. You didn’t hear him call your name. You didn’t want to.
“Hey— wait up.”
Wally’s voice cut through your thoughts like a jolt of electricity, familiar and grounding. You slowed but didn’t stop, side-eying him as he fell into step beside you.
“You wanna hang out?” he asked lightly. “Maybe grab a snack? Get outta the tower for a bit?”
You huffed out a breath, arms crossing instinctively as you kept walking. “This isn’t because you feel bad, right?” you said. “I know this has got to be awkward for you.”
While Dick had insisted on keeping it quiet about any kind of relationship the two of you had, Wally was the exception to the rule. So while the rest of the team had no clue about any history between you and Dick, Wally has insider information. It wouldn’t be a far guess to say that he might just actually pity you, which is why you couldn’t help but ask. Not that you were really in a position to refuse a friend anyway.
Wally stopped short enough that you were forced to glance back at him.
“No,” he said immediately, cutting you off before the words could sink too deep. His tone was gentle, but firm. “It’s not about that.”
He jogged a step forward, falling back into stride beside you. “I can’t get a late-night treat with my friend and teammate now? And if it coincidentally means we leave the tower for a bit,” he added with a shrug, “well… who cares?”
He nudged your shoulder with his own, just enough that you stumbled slightly before catching yourself.
A small smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. You sighed, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Fine,” you said quietly. “But you’re buying.”
Wally grinned, flashing you a wink as he turned toward the exit. “Wouldn’t dream of letting you pay.”
And for the first time that night, as the tower doors slid open and the cool air brushed against your skin, it felt like you might be able to breathe again.
⚡︎𓅩
You noticed it without meaning to. You’ve been trying to give the happy couple their space, but it seems like the universe is determined to keep shoving them into your face. So, of course, you notice Kori’s new fashion accessory.
Dick’s jacket was draped over Kori’s shoulders. It sat heavily on Kori’s shoulders, the fabric too large for her frame, sleeves hanging past her wrists as she laughed at something Dick murmured under his breath. The emblem on the back curved with her movement, catching the light as she shifted closer to him. Dick didn’t even look down when she tugged it tighter around herself — his arm came up automatically, settling at her waist like the two gestures belonged together.
Like this was normal, like it had always been allowed. Your fingers tightened around your cup.
It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a jacket. A piece of fabric. Something practical, something replaceable.
But it wasn’t. Not to you.
The memory came without warning.
You were still flushed from the mission, sweat cooling too quickly against your skin as you stepped into the hallway outside the lockers. Your hands trembled faintly as adrenaline bled off, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Dick stood beside you, already half out of his suit, laughter soft as he recounted something stupid Roy had said over comms.
You’d been cold.
You remembered hesitating before reaching for his jacket, fingers brushing the sleeve tentatively. “Hey,” you’d said lightly, trying to keep it casual. “Can I—?”
He’d looked down, surprised. Not upset, not angry, just…caught off guard.
“Oh,” he’d said, gently pulling it back before you could fully shrug it on. “Careful.”
You’d laughed, embarrassed. “What?”
“I just—” he’d smiled apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want you to accidentally rip it or stain it or something. You know how that suit fabric is.”
You remembered nodding immediately. Too quickly.
“Oh. Yeah. Of course,” you’d said. “That makes sense.”
He’d kissed your temple instead, warm and familiar, arm sliding around your shoulders like that was supposed to make up for it.
At the time, you’d believed him.
You’d told yourself he was being practical. Protective or possessive even. That it didn’t mean anything deeper than caution and habit. You’d told yourself love didn’t need symbols, that the way he held you when no one was watching mattered more.
Now, watching Kori wear it openly and proudly, you understand. It had never been about stains, or rips, or carelessness.
It had been about visibility. He hadn’t wanted the team to know.
Not fully, not unmistakably. Not in a way that couldn’t be explained away as a coincidence or convenience. Loving you had lived in private spaces, in shadows, in rooms with doors closed and lights low.
Kori wore his jacket in the middle of the room. No hesitation or apology.
Dick didn’t flinch or glance around. He didn’t look uncomfortable. He just let it happen.
Something inside you sank quietly. It wasn’t jealousy — not really. None of this was Kori’s fault. It was clarity. The kind that arrived too late to change anything, but early enough to hurt.
You’d spent so long being careful with him. Making yourself smaller. Accepting less because you thought that was the price of loving someone who carried so much weight.
And now you saw it plainly.
He hadn’t been protecting the jacket.
He’d been protecting the story he told everyone else.
You took a slow sip of your drink, gaze drifting away before the ache could sharpen further. Across the room, Dick laughed at something Kori said, his hand resting on her back without thought.
You didn’t look again.
Because you didn’t need to.
You finally understood what you’d lost — and what you’d never really had.
But now there’s Kori tugging the jacket tighter around herself, smiling up at him. Dick’s hand rested at her waist without hesitation, easy and familiar.
You swallowed and turned away.
“Hey.”
Wally’s voice cut in gently, and you startled just enough to feel silly about it.
“Sorry,” you said automatically.
“For what?” he asked, already grabbing a drink from the fridge and sliding it toward you. “Existing in the same room as… people?”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that.”
He followed your gaze, took in the scene, and then looked back at you — really looked. The slight tension in your jaw. The way your shoulders had drawn in on themselves.
He didn’t comment. Instead, he leaned against the counter beside you. “You eat yet?”
“No.”
“Cool,” he said, nodding once. “Same. Tragic, honestly.”
You smirked. “You say that every time.”
“And every time it’s true.”
The banter was familiar and easy. It helped more than you wanted to admit.
⚡︎𓅩
It happened again a few nights later.
You were on patrol, moving across rooftops, when a familiar neon glow caught your eye. A café window, warm and inviting, steam fogging the glass.
Dick sat inside, with Kori across from him, chin propped in her hand as he spoke, eyes bright with attention. He smiled in that open, unguarded way — the one he used to reserve for late nights with you, when the world felt smaller.
Your feet slowed before you could stop them.
“Don’t,” you muttered to yourself.
Wally, your new patrol partner, ran back towards you when you saw you were stuck, having noticed immediately. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly, forcing your pace to pick up again.
He glanced through the window, understanding dawning. The rest of the patrol passed in near silence.
Not the uncomfortable kind. Just… quiet. The city stretched out beneath you in a scatter of lights and distant sirens, wind rushing past as you and Wally moved from rooftop to rooftop. Normally, he filled the air with commentary, bad jokes, half-finished thoughts that tumbled out of him faster than he could filter them.
Tonight, he didn’t. He stayed close, matching your pace, eyes scanning the streets while occasionally flicking sideways to check on you. You appreciated the lack of pressure more than you could say.
By the last stretch of your route, your feet were aching, and your shoulders felt heavier than they should have.
Wally let out an exaggerated groan.
You blinked, glancing over. “Are you dying?”
“Slowly,” he said, hand dramatically over his heart. “Tragically. From starvation.”
“You ate before patrol.”
“And, why are you keeping track of that? Who are you, my doctor?”
You snorted softly. “I feel like that’s more like a dietician.”
“Come on,” he said, nudging closer. “There’s this place I love. Best late-night snacks. Open all hours. We could swing by?”
Spend the night replaying the scene you saw, or hang out with Wally? An easy choice. You shrugged, the effort minimal. “Sure. Why not?”
His eyes brightened. “Really?”
“It’s food,” you said. “You don’t need to sell it.”
“Excellent.” He paused. “Can I carry you?”
You raised a brow. “Excuse me?”
“Just for speed,” he clarified quickly. “We’ll get there faster. Less walking. You look, don’t take this the wrong way, tired.”
You hesitated — then nodded. “Okay. Yeah. That’s… fine.”
He grinned. “Great.”
He barely gave you time to brace before he scooped you up, one arm under your knees, the other steady at your back. The city blurred into streaks of color and light, the wind cool against your face, his grip solid and careful.
When he slowed, you felt the shift immediately.
You glanced around — and frowned.
“This is the tower.”
“Mm-hmm.”
You looked up at him. “Wally.”
“Yes?”
“This is your room.”
“Correct again.”
You stared at him, unimpressed. “You said favorite snack spot.”
He opened the door and gestured grandly inside. “Yes. My favorite late-night snack spot. It has everything I love and is open at all hours.”
He stepped inside, smug as anything, heading straight for the kitchenette.
You stood in the doorway for a beat, then followed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Effective, I’d argue,” he countered, rummaging through a cabinet. “There’s a difference.”
He tossed you a packet of something chocolate-coated, a bag of chips, and a water bottle. “Here.”
You caught it. “What is this?”
“Protein bar, allegedly. I have to be a good influence and provide something nutritious.”
You squinted at the label. “This is barely food.”
“Manners, that is no way to treat a gracious host.”
You laughed despite yourself and wandered closer as he grabbed a couple more things.
“So,” you said, leaning against the counter. “Why do you get a whole suite with a kitchenette, anyway?”
He puffed up slightly, raising three fingers. “Seniority. Pension. Hero benefits.”
You give him a deadpan stare. “You’re in your twenties.”
“Mentally? I’m at least seventy.”
You laughed again, softer this time.
He shrugged, more genuine now. “Actually, it’s the speed thing. Easier to have my own stuff than accidentally blow up the communal kitchen at three in the morning. Trust me.”
“That makes sense,” you admitted.
He nodded. “See? Practical.”
He turned and promptly fumbled the protein bar, dropping it against his chest where it smeared something sticky and dark across the front of his suit.
“Oh— come on,” he groaned. “Rude.”
He peeled the top half of the suit down in one smooth motion.
Your brain…just kinda…stopped.
His skin was warm gold under the lights, muscles defined in a way that made no effort to be subtle about the work they did. Broad shoulders, strong arms, a chest that made your thoughts go pleasantly blank.
You were aware, distantly, that you were staring.
You were also aware, slightly less distantly, that you had stopped breathing.
“Uh.”
His eyes flicked up and caught yours.
Something shifted between you, like the air before a storm breaks. The room seemed to shrink, narrowing to just the space you both occupied. Your skin prickled with awareness, heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears.
His eyes darkened slightly, pupils expanding as they held yours, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed. His chest rose with a slow, deliberate breath, like he was trying to steady something inside himself. Neither of you moved, caught in that fragile moment where possibility hung suspended, electric and dangerous.
Then there was a knock, and the door slid open before either of you could react.
Roy leaned in, eyes immediately taking in the scene: you standing far too close, Wally shirtless, snacks scattered, the air very clearly Not Normal.
“Well,” Roy drawled, leaning against the doorframe, grin slow and wicked. “What’s happening here?”
You and Wally looked at each other.
Whatever had been building between you snapped — not gone, just… scattered.
You both started talking at once.
“It’s not—”
“He just—”
“We were just—”
“He spilled something—”
“She was tired—”
You stopped and blinked before closing your eyes and taking a step back.
“Goodnight,” you said flatly, and turned and walked out.
Behind you, you heard Roy’s laugh and Wally’s very distressed, “Roy—!”
You didn’t stop walking until you were back in your own room.
And only then did you sit on your bed, heart racing, face warm, and whisper quietly to yourself:
“Oh no.”
⚡︎𓅩
It wasn’t just that Dick was affectionate. It was that he was affectionate everywhere.
The tower’s common spaces had always been neutral ground — places where masks slipped just enough to breathe, but not enough to expose anything fragile. Or at least, they used to be. Now, it felt like every room carried the echo of something you no longer belonged to.
You saw it in passing moments first.
Dick’s hand was resting at the small of Kori’s back as they walked down the hall, guiding without thinking. Fingers brushing her wrist when he laughed, lingering just a second longer than necessary. The way he leaned into her space openly, shoulder pressed to hers, head tipped close as if the rest of the room didn’t exist.
You tried not to stare.
You tried not to remember how many times you’d reached for him like that and felt him subtly shift away. How often he’d murmured, “Later,” or “Not here,” as if affection were something private, something that needed to be rationed carefully.
You had told yourself it wasn’t rejection.
You had told yourself he was just cautious. Guarded. That loving him meant understanding the weight he carried.
Now he laughed freely, loud and unrestrained, pressing a kiss to Kori’s temple without hesitation as she teased him about something trivial. The room reacted; smiles and easy acceptance, and something inside your chest tightened painfully.
You looked away, but reflections betrayed you.
In the glass of a display case, you caught the way his arm curved around her waist, familiar and intimate. You saw the way she leaned into him, trusting and unafraid, his hand settling there as it had always belonged.
You felt… smaller.
Not jealous — not exactly. Just painfully aware of how much you’d minimized yourself to fit beside him. How gently you’d loved him, careful not to ask for too much, careful not to make him uncomfortable.
Careful not to be a burden.
It hurt in a way that was dull and sharp all at once, like pressing on a bruise you hadn’t realized was there.
You busied yourself with gear checks, adjusting straps that didn’t need adjusting, focusing on routine. Anything to avoid watching the way he touched her so easily.
When the mission call came through, you welcomed it with something like relief.
Action was easier than feeling.
—
The mission was chaotic from the start.
Smoke and shouting as more concrete collapses.
You moved without thinking, instincts honed from countless hours in the field. When the opening appeared, you took it — pivoting, feinting, striking with precise timing.
Dick, however, followed through perfectly.
Your move.
The mission ended successfully. The team gathered for a quick debrief, adrenaline still buzzing.
“Nice work, Nightwing,” Roy said. “That move saved our asses.”
Dick smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Figured I’d try something new.”
Your stomach dropped. You stared at the floor, jaw tight, pulse roaring in your ears.
Wally looked at you, really looked, and saw it. The stiffness in your posture. The way you folded inward.
He remembered Dick talking about that move months ago. How impressed he’d been, how proud.
“Hey,” Wally said softly, stepping closer. “You wanna grab food? Before Roy demolishes everything edible in a five-mile radius?”
You blinked, pulled from your thoughts. “What?”
He hooked an arm around your shoulders, not tight, not claiming — just there. “Come on. I’m starving, and you look like you could use a break.”
You hesitated, eyes flicking toward Dick without meaning to. He was already being pulled into conversation, attention elsewhere.
Wally noticed, he always did.
“Hey,” he murmured, nudging you gently. “I got you.”
You exhaled slowly, tension easing just enough to let you move.
“Fine,” you said. “But if you eat my fries—”
“Whoa, whoa,” he laughed. “I’m not a monster.”
As you walked away together, Dick glanced up, catching sight of you leaving — Wally’s arm around your shoulders, your head tilted toward him as he animatedly complained about Barry.
Something twisted in his chest that he steadfastly ignored. For the first time since he could remember, you didn’t look back.
⚡︎𓅩
The tower’s living room was loud in a comfortable way.
Soft music hummed from speakers tucked somewhere out of sight, low enough to blend into the background rather than demand attention. Someone had stretched out across the couch like they planned to stay there all night, boots kicked off without ceremony. Laughter drifted freely, unguarded, the kind that only existed on nights when no alarms screamed, and no one was counting down the minutes until the next emergency.
It should have felt safe.
You stood near the edge of the room, a warm mug cradled between your hands, letting the noise pass through you instead of into you. You nodded when someone glanced your way. Smiled when it was expected. You were present in the way one learned to be present when absence would be noticed.
Dick stood across the room, Kori sat beside him, close enough that her thigh pressed against his, his jacket draped over her shoulders like a promise.
“Dick,” Kori said brightly, nudging his arm. “Tell them the joke you said the other night.”
You couldn’t stop yourself from focusing on the conversation, despite knowing that it would most likely lead to your heartbreak again.
Dick blinked, looking slightly confused. “What—?”
“The one about the—” she laughed, waving her hand vaguely as she was unable to continue the background details. “The story. It was funny.”
The room leaned in, anticipation flickering easily from face to face.
Dick’s eyes flicked toward you.
Just for a second.
Your breath catches, afraid of what that look might mean. You didn’t move, you didn’t react. You simply lifted your mug and took a slow sip, gaze unfocused, fixed on nothing in particular.
“Oh,” Dick said, a chuckle slipping out as understanding clicked into place. “That one.”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Okay.”
And then he told it. Your story.
Your voice, stripped of its softness. Your timing sharpened for laughs instead of honesty. A moment that had once lived quietly between you and a close friend — something vulnerable, something shared late at night when trust sat heavy and real between you — reduced to a punchline.
You remembered that night with startling clarity.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, lights low, the two of you laughing so hard you’d cried, a mixture of grief and laughter. How you’d confessed something small but meaningful about a close friend long since gone.
A moment you shared because you had felt safe only because of who you were telling it to. How you’d smiled afterward, warmed by the certainty that it mattered, comforted by your companion, and wanting them to carry this treasured memory with them too.
Now it was just… content.
A story told without context. Without care. Dick told it well; he’s a great storyteller.
The room erupted in laughter.
Someone wiped tears from their eyes. Someone else shook their head, already repeating the best part under their breath.
You stood perfectly still.
You felt it happen inside you, the moment something disconnected.
It was subtle, like a wire loosening, like a door closing softly instead of slamming. The ache didn’t spike. It emptied. The warmth drained out, leaving behind a numb, hollow space where feeling had once lived.
You didn’t laugh or flinch. You didn’t even look at him. You simply… stopped being there.
And it was almost as if Dick felt it.
Not immediately, but as the laughter stretched on, something in his chest began to tighten, an unease threading through the easy moment. His eyes found you again, instinctively searching for the familiar reaction he’d always been able to count on.
A smile or an eye-roll.
That look you used to give him; fond, conspiratorial, like the two of you shared something just beneath the surface.
Instead, he found nothing. Your eyes were distant, polite. Empty in a way that felt wrong and hurt.
Gone.
The laughter faded unevenly, as if people sensed the shift without understanding it. Dick’s voice trailed off at the end of the story, landing awkwardly in the space that followed. He shifted, tugging at the hem of his sleeve, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands.
His gaze locked with yours.
For half a second, memory surged: moonlight through your bedroom window, your laughter muffled against his neck, the way you used to look at him like he was home.
Then he saw it. The absence.
Whatever fragile thread still connected you, whatever hope he’d held that you could exist in each other’s lives without pain, disintegrated in that instant. Like paper catching flame, burning faster than he could reach for it.
Your eyes slid away.
You turned your body slightly, a subtle motion that somehow landed heavier than any argument ever had.
Dick’s heart stuttered.
“Hey—” he said suddenly, pushing himself upright, already stepping toward you. “Wait—”
He didn’t get the chance, because Wally was already there.
Not rushing or dramatic, despite the way Dick was experiencing it. He didn’t insert himself into the moment or raise his voice. He simply appeared at your side, like he’d been standing just outside the edge of your world, waiting for the exact second you needed a way out more than you needed answers.
Dick saw him before he registered anything else.
Saw the way Wally angled his body slightly toward you, shielding you from the rest of the room without making a show of it. Saw the way his expression softened when he looked at you; not concern exactly, but familiarity. Understanding.
Wally didn’t touch you right away; instead, he held out his hand.
Open and patient, a clear invitation, not a demand.
“Come on,” Wally said quietly, leaning in just enough for you to hear him. His voice didn’t carry—it wasn’t meant to. “You promised me a rematch.”
You blinked, eyes unfocused at first, like you were surfacing from somewhere far away.
“I did?” you asked, voice faint but steady.
He smiled, small and easy, the kind of smile that came from shared moments instead of charm. “Mm-hmm. Loser buys snacks.”
Dick took a step forward, his mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Because you were looking at Wally now.
And then — without hesitation — you reached for him.
Your fingers slid into his hand naturally, like muscle memory. Like this was something you’d done before, something your body recognized even if your heart hadn’t fully caught up yet. Wally’s hand closed around yours with quiet certainty, thumb brushing your knuckles once in a way that was achingly gentle.
Dick’s breath caught hard in his chest.
That wasn’t a first touch. It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t careful. It was familiar. It was the kind of intimacy that came from repetition — from trust built slowly, from presence earned over time.
And suddenly, Dick understood.
This hadn’t started tonight. This hadn’t even started recently.
While he’d been absent in all the ways that mattered, someone else had been showing up. Someone else had been learning the shape of your silences, the weight of your tiredness, the moments when you needed to leave before something broke.
Wally turned slightly, guiding you with him. You followed without looking back. The room seemed to tilt.
Dick stood frozen, watching your joined hands swing gently between you as you walked away — not hurried, not dramatic — just decided.
You weren’t running from him. You were choosing something else.
The doors slid shut behind you with a soft hiss, sealing the sound of laughter and music inside.
Dick remained where he was.
For the first time, it wasn’t heartbreak that settled into his chest.
It was understanding.
He hadn’t just lost you romantically. He had lost access to you; to your touch, your reactions, your presence in his life. The loss wasn’t theoretical anymore.
It was real and it was final.
⚡︎𓅩
The hallway was quiet, the door sliding shut behind you with a soft hiss that felt louder than it should have.
You walked a few steps before realizing your hand was still in Wally’s.
The warmth of it grounded you. Steady and real, pulling you back from the numbness that had settled over you moments before. Your fingers tightened briefly before you let go, clearing your throat as you slowed to a stop.
“Sorry,” you murmured. “I think I spaced out back there.”
Wally stopped immediately. “No worries,” he said easily. “Happens.”
You leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly as the adrenaline — emotional, not physical — began to ebb. The quiet wrapped around you, gentle and forgiving.
“Hey,” you said after a moment, trying for lightness. “You know you don’t have to… rescue me every time, right?”
He tilted his head. “Rescue?”
You gestured vaguely behind you. “You know. The dramatic exits. The timely distractions. You going full hero mode around me all the time must be exhausting.”
You smiled, small and self-deprecating, like it was a joke you’d rehearsed enough times to make it sound casual.
Wally didn’t smile back.
Instead, his expression softened into something serious and intent in a way that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.
“Hey,” he said gently, stepping closer just enough to keep your attention, not that he didn’t have it already.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk about yourself like you’re a problem I have to manage.”
You blinked.
“I don’t mind,” he continued, voice quiet but steady. “Not for a second. I’m not tired, I’m not obligated. I’m here because I want to be.”
His gaze held yours, unflinching.
“I care about you,” he said simply.
The words landed softly, but they knocked the breath from your lungs all the same.
Something shifted in your chest. Warmth bloomed where there had only been emptiness before. Gratitude, yes — but something else too. Something that made your pulse stutter, that made you see him differently all at once.
You looked at him, really looked, and felt it. Wally, who was looking at you intensely, saw it the second it reached your eyes.
His breath hitched, just barely. A slow smile spread across his face; not triumphant or smug, simply tender. Like he’d been hoping for that look without expecting it.
For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. Then Wally straightened slightly, clearing his throat.
“So,” he said, voice deliberately lighter. “Snacks?”
You laughed, the sound real and surprised, and nodded. “Yeah, snacks.”
“Good,” he said, already turning. “Because I’m starving, and I refuse to have this moment derail my nutritional needs.”
You fell into step beside him, the silence between you no longer empty; just full of things neither of you were quite ready to name yet.
And for the first time in a long while, the ache in your chest didn’t feel like something you had to carry alone.
⚡︎𓅩
The debrief room was louder than usual.
People talked over one another, adrenaline still buzzing from a mission that had gone better than expected. Roy leaned back in their chair, boots propped on the table. Garth was already arguing over credit for a distraction that hadn’t actually been planned.
You sat near the end of the table, tablet balanced against your knee, half-listening while scrolling through post-mission data. This part always felt strange—being surrounded by people dissecting a fight that already felt distant, like it belonged to another version of you.
“…and honestly,” Wally said suddenly, voice cutting through the noise, “the whole thing only worked because she spotted the second location before anyone else did.”
The room quieted. You looked up, startled.
“Wait,” Donna said. “You found it?”
You opened your mouth to clarify, but Wally, already committed, kept going.
“Yeah,” he said, gesturing vaguely in your direction. “She basically mapped the entire pattern on the fly. I mean, she could probably predict weather systems if she wanted to.”
You stared at him.
“No, I can’t,” you said quickly, cutting in before the attention could crystallize into something heavier. “Obviously, the weather’s gotten to Wally.”
A few chuckles rang out through the room before the looks shifted back to Dick and Cyborg for finishing details. The room relaxed again, conversation sliding easily back into overlapping voices and half-formed jokes. Someone changed the subject. Someone else complained about paperwork.
Wally blinked, realization dawning, a sheepish expression on his face. “Okay, yeah, that was—”
“—dramatic,” you finished dryly, smiling as you shrugged. “I just noticed something off in the data. Anyone could’ve.”
Crisis averted. Or so you thought.
You leaned slightly toward Wally and mouthed, What the fuck?
He winced, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Yeah,” he murmured back, lowering his voice and leaning into your space. “Sorry, I got carried away.”
You raised a brow as if to say ‘oh really?’
“But,” he added quickly, earnest now, “you were great. If you hadn’t caught that second location, we would’ve screwed the whole mission.”
You laughed quietly, the sound warm and genuine, and reached out without thinking—your fingers brushing his knee in an easy, familiar gesture.
“Next time,” you said softly, “try not to make me sound like a wizard.”
“No promises, Dumbledore,” he replied, grinning.
The exchange was small, casual, and comfortable.
It didn’t slip past Dick.
He watched it from across the table—the way you leaned toward Wally without hesitation, the way you touched him like it was nothing, the way Wally’s attention never wavered from you. There was no tension or uncertainty in it.
Just ease.
The meeting wrapped up a few minutes later, chairs scraping as people stood and filtered out in loose groups. You gathered your things and fell into step beside Wally, already mid-conversation about something inconsequential.
“Hey.”
Dick’s voice made both of you stop. Wally turned, surprised but not uncomfortable. “What’s up?”
“I’ll catch up with you later,” you murmur to him, touching his arm to grab his attention. You could think of 50 other locations you’d rather be than in the same conversation with just Dick and Wally.
He nodded immediately. “Yeah. Definitely.”
You smiled at him, soft and unguarded, before heading off down the corridor.
Wally watched you the entire time, only turning away once you disappeared around the corner.
“Feels like it’s been a while since we’ve hung out,” Dick said, attempting casual. “Just us. You know?”
Wally considered that for a moment. “Yeah,” he said honestly. “It has, sorry about that.”
Dick’s shoulders loosened slightly. “It’s fine, I’ve been busy too. I was thinking maybe we could—”
Wally grinned, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “Yeah, with her. Don’t really wanna disappoint her, so I gotta head out now. But we’ll definitely hang out soon! Maybe we’ll do a boys’ night!?”
Before Dick could respond, Wally was gone—a red blur vanishing down the hall in the direction you’d gone.
The room didn’t stay quiet. Someone snorted. “Wow.”
Roy leaned back against the table. “You guys notice how often those two hang out now?”
“On missions, too,” Donna added thoughtfully. “They’re always paired.”
Cyborg chimed in, teasing. “Guess Dick and Kori really inspired love to bloom around here.”
Laughter followed, but Dick didn’t laugh.
Something twisted sharply in his stomach, nausea creeping in slowly and unwelcome. The room felt too warm, too loud. He stared at the doorway where you both had disappeared, chest tight with a realization he hadn’t wanted to make.
Whatever was happening between you and Wally had been growing quietly—right under his nose—while he’d been elsewhere, assuming you’d still be there when he looked back.
He swallowed hard. For the first time, the loss didn’t feel only like heartbreak.
It felt like a consequence.
⚡︎𓅩
Another month passed.
It wasn’t marked by anything dramatic; no declarations, no lines crossed, no moments that demanded names. Just time, shared and unspoken and steadily meaningful.
You and Wally fell into a rhythm without ever acknowledging it as one.
Late-night patrols that stretched longer than necessary. Coffee runs that turned into conversations about childhood, fears, and things neither of you talked about easily. Sitting side by side on rooftops, legs dangling over the edge, watching the city breathe while the world felt smaller and calmer than it had in a long time.
You learned how he liked his coffee — sweet enough to be suspicious. He learned the exact way you went quiet when you were thinking too hard. You learned that he always ran faster when you were tired, and that he always positioned himself just slightly closer when you looked overwhelmed.
He learned when to joke, and more importantly, when not to. Somewhere along the way, you realized you felt… safe again.
Not the fragile kind. The steady kind. The night it finally happened was unremarkable in the best way.
Patrol ended early. The city was quiet, streets slick from earlier rain, lights reflecting like constellations below. You sat on the edge of a rooftop, boots resting against concrete, the cool air settling comfortably against your skin.
Wally stood nearby, stretching, then dropped down beside you with an exaggerated sigh.
“Wow,” he said. “Peaceful. Suspiciously so.”
You smiled. “Don’t jinx it.”
“Right. Sorry.” He mimed zipping his lips.
Silence settled — not awkward, not empty, just unsure as to how to start.
You glanced at him without thinking and caught the way he was already
looking at you.
Wally gave no indication he was startled; he just kept looking, something you couldn’t believe was obvious in his eyes. Your breath hitched before you could stop it.
Wally noticed. Something in his expression shifted. It softened, deepened, like he’d been holding something back and finally decided to stop.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
You turned fully toward him, giving him a small smile. “Hey.”
He rubbed his palms together once, nervous energy bleeding through despite his usual ease. “Can I… say something?”
Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. “You just did.” You couldn’t help yourself from saying.
The look Wally gives you makes you laugh and helps break the uncomfortable tension that was in the air. “I think this is one of those moments you told me about that isn’t right to joke.” He teases you, throwing back your argument you told him.
“Yeah,” you said, giving him a sheepish smile and a shrug. “Sorry, I was nervous.”
“Yeah, I get that.” He murmurs back to you. The nervous energy is gone, and instead, a tension lingers in the air. He looks you in the eyes, then awa,y before looking back and slowly leaning in. His arm reaches out and grabs your hand, holding it gently in his grasp, his thumb rubbing against your knuckles.
He took a breath before letting it out slowly starting.
“I’ve been trying not to,” he admitted with a small, self-aware smile.
“Because I didn’t want to mess anything up. Or rush you, or make things weird.”
Your chest tightened.
“But,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours, “somewhere between the third late-night snack run and the fifth time you fell asleep during movie night… I realized I was already way past that point.”
You laughed softly, more breath than sound.
“Wally—”
“I care about you,” he said, gently cutting in. “Not in a teammate way. Not in a ‘I’ll always have your back’ way — although, yeah, that too.” He swallowed. “I mean… I like you. A lot. And it’s more than friendship, and I didn’t want to keep pretending it wasn’t.”
The words settled between you, warm and terrifying and real. You stared at him for a long moment.
Then you exhaled, shoulders relaxing as if something you’d been carrying finally found a place to rest.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” you admitted quietly.
His eyes widened. “You were?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Because I’ve been trying to tell myself it was just comfort. Or gratitude. Or… anything but this.” You smiled faintly. “But it’s not, and it hasn’t been for a while.”
You looked at him fully now, letting him see it.
“It’s more than friendship for me, too, Wally.”
The relief on his face was immediate — bright and unguarded, like sunlight breaking through cloud cover. He laughed, soft and incredulous.
“Wow,” he breathed. “Okay. Wow.”
You laughed too, the sound lighter than it had been in months.
He hesitated, just for a second, then asked quietly, “Can I…?”
You nodded before he finished.
He leaned closer, his gaze unwavering. As he hesitated, breath hitching in the space between you, the air thickened with unspoken words. Then, with a soft determination, he closed the distance, pressing his lips against yours.
The kiss was tentative at first, a sweet brush that ignited a spark, before deepening into something more, a shared promise that lingered in the cool night air.
Neither of you rushed it because neither of you needed to.
The city hummed below, indifferent and vast, while something small and meaningful settled into place between you.
And for the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel like something to brace for.
It felt like something you were allowed to want.
⚡︎𓅩
a/n: everyone say thank you to olivia rodrigo for inspiring this! this was originally 3k and was like a little drabble, but then? i just? couldn't stop? and now we have this pretty little baby.
this fic could also be named "wally showing he cares by making sure you eat",
as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. here’s a kiss from me to you 💋
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A jacket left over the back of your couch, his shirt showing up in your laundry, a book that isn’t yours on your shelf. And they start to add up. Over the course of a few months Jason’s presence in your apartment grows from just his visits to him being every where you look. You don’t acknowledge it but it’s nice to be reminded of him.
Then it escalates.
You notice Jason himself lingering. He spends the night often but now he stays for multiple days. You learn that he is an early riser despite his vigilante activities, what foods he likes or doesn’t like, even how he likes his coffee. This stage of your relationship feels different. It feels more domestic than the last ten months of your relationship which were a whirlwind of learning each other.
It is a Tuesday and you have the day off. You decided to get your cleaning, laundry and shopping done today so you don’t have to deal with it later in the week.
Because it is laundry day you are in a weird combination of a ratty old shinedown t-shirt and an old pair of leggings that have pockets. So when you get a knock at the door you sigh about having to answer it. And when Jason is on the other side of your door with a plastic bag filled with snacks and a smile you feel embarrassed at him seeing you like this.
“Hi?” You say, feeling your cheeks light on fire. Most days that Jason is there you try to make yourself presentable, relaxed but presentable. Now you are in the messiest part of your week and feel exposed.
“Hey,” Jason leans an arm on your door frame, holding up the plastic bag. “I got corner store snacks.”
“I can see that.” You note and watch him. “You also didn’t text me that you were coming over.”
Jason blinks in confusion, “Is this not okay? I can go-”
“No!” You exclaim and pull him inside, his eyes widening as you do.
“I just-” There is a pause as you try to think of a way to explain this. “Today is my cleaning day so I look not as good as usual. I feel unprepared to have you see me this way.”
Jason’s eyes soften.
“You look good everyday.” He shuts the door with his foot before setting down the bag on the counter.
“I am wearing my worst clothes right now.” You raise an eyebrow.
“I think you look amazing like this-” Jason gets close and rests his hands on your hips. “-you look good with clothes on and off.”
You lightly smack his chest and he laughs. “Don’t try to come onto me when I am expressing my feelings!”
“What can I say? I find emotional connection hot.” He presses a quick kiss to your lips. The two of you are grinning like idiots when he pulls back to look at you.
“I guess you can stay if you have snacks.” You concede before pulling away. “But you are helping me clean and grocery shop.”
“Challenge accepted.”
Jason apparently is really good at cleaning. He stays true to his word and helps you clean your entire apartment. Usually it takes a few hours to clean your whole apartment. With Jason’s help you are done and sitting on the couch in two and a half hours.
You have a small notepad and an almost dead pen in your hands as you write out your shopping list. Clicking the pen a few times you huff in annoyance because you can’t decide what you want to eat this week.
Jason finishes up wiping down the counter tops and sits down beside you. His shoulder brushes yours and you lean into his touch. He doesn’t stiff at your touch anymore like he used to before you got close with each other and you are happy that he feels this comfortable with you.
“What’s got you stuck?” He asks as you get comfortable leaning against him.
“I don’t know what I want to eat.” You click the pen again. “What do you want to eat?”
“I found a lemon chicken recipe I wanted to try.” Jason suggests and you hum in agreement.
The next few minutes are spent in quiet conversation about meals and food for the next week. He is really helpful when you get stuck on certain things and your indecisiveness kicks in.
Once the list is done you get ready to go.
The first thing you did was laundry so you are able to wear clothes that are better suited to going out while you head to the grocery store. You feel better when you walk out of your room, wallet tucked into your pocket.
Jason is waiting for you at the door, typing furiously on his phone with a furrow in his brows. You want to press your thumb to the crease and smooth it out. He looks up when you make your way over.
Jason’s face changes into something more relaxed and soft “Ready to go?”
“Mhm hm.” You hum out in response while you do a last minute check that you have your wallet, phone and keys then turn to him, “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah,” Jason holds open the door and you duck under his arm to walk out into the hall. “Dick is insisting that we come to family brunch this Saturday since he is driving over from Blüd’.”
“That would be fun. I haven’t seen everyone in a few weeks.” You tell him and reach out to intertwine your fingers. His response is immediate, squeezing your hand twice before pulling the door shut. “I am also winning Damian over- I can feel it.”
“You already have, he is just not that good at socialising since he was raised in an assassin cult.” Jason replies with a shake of his head. “He even stops here now like the others do.”
You press the down button on the elevator with a laugh, “Have a problem with sharing?”
“You are my partner, not my family’s.” He huffs, leaning back against the wall with a sour look on his face.
You lean your head on his shoulder.
“I am yours but I can’t exactly say no when they need help. They won’t take care of themselves otherwise.” You explain while the elevator comes to a stop. “That is the one thing you all have in common, you don’t respond well to medical advice.”
“I have gotten better.” Jason mumbles under his breath as you step into the gloomy Gotham air.
The small grocery store you frequent is only a few blocks away from your apartment so you usually just walk there. Since it is a weekday and the middle of the day there aren’t that many people crowding the sidewalk which is nice. It gives you more room to walk side by side with Jason.
You are pleased with how easy shopping with Jason is, you push the cart and mark things off when he puts them in it. The two of you work well together, clearing out most things on your list.
At one point Jason disappears for a few minutes and you continue on putting things in the cart. The grocery store’s radio is playing an upbeat pop song that has worked its way into your mind after hearing it so many times. You reach up for something on the top shelf but your fingers barely brush the edge of the shelf.
“Do they have to make these so tall?” You grumble and question why they make these over six feet tall when the average height for adults is somewhere around five feet seven inches.
“Need some help?” Jason asks from behind you and you can hear the smirk in his tone.
You step up onto the bottom shelf which gives you the extra height to reach the bottom of the cereal box and grab it. Hopping down you beam over at Jason’s sour expression at not being able to help you like he wanted.
“Nope!” You say cheerfully, letting the box fall into the cart. Jason huffs in response and you swear he might be pouting as you walk over to the self checkout.
Twenty minutes later you are carrying your bags into your apartment, keys in one hand and groceries in the other. Jason has the majority of the groceries in his hands because he insisted on carrying them knowing full well you could handle it. You set the bags on the counter, careful not to set them on the counter too hard.
A comfortable silence falls over the two of you as you put away the groceries. Jason knows where everything goes already so you don’t have to direct him.
You finish first and watch him work. His arms stretching up to put something in your cabinets, the confidence he has when he walks around your kitchen makes you feel warm. It’s a domestic side of him that is just between the two of you. The outside world knows the tougher side of him, it knows the Red Hood but in your apartment he is just a normal man.
Jason probably catches you staring but doesn’t say anything about it.
He transitions into cooking dinner seamlessly. The ingredients were left out when you both were putting stuff away so they are within reach when he needs them. Jason is cutting the chicken into little chunks when the words slip out of your mouth in a daze of the day and the domesticity that has filled you up.
“Do you want to move in with me?”
He comes to a stop, his knife just above the cutting board. His posture is tense in a way that makes you brace for rejection. You go to take it back but he beats you to speaking first.
“Are you sure? That’s a big step.” Jason turns around, his face is clouded with anxiety and not anger.
You can work with that.
“Well, you are already here almost everyday so it would make sense to have you here.” You explain your reasoning to him.
“But they could figure out I live here and target you.”
There it is, you think to yourself as you walk around the counter to wrap him in your arms. Jason is a man filled with fear despite how brave he is. He has never shaken his self image of himself hurting those around him. His body relaxes under your touch and he hugs you back.
“And you would be here with me to fight them if it happens.” You tell him gently, pulling back just enough to look at him. “Gotham is dangerous both with and without you so I choose to have you with me.”
There is a beat of silence that he doesn’t say anything.
“I just don’t want to lose you.” He whispers, airing out his fears to you.
“Then we do this together, scared, but together.” You match his pitch with a smile.
“Okay.” Jason agrees softly. “Let’s do this.”
And you do.
The two of you go through Jason’s apartment on your days off, filling up boxes with his things. His apartment is a little bare for your taste so it is good that he is moving in so there is more character tot he space. Most of his things are books which isn’t surprising at all.
When you mention that you are moving in together everyone offers to help Jason move. Tim, Dick and even Damian help move the boxes into your apartment while Cass and Steph sit on the bar stools at your island counter. They offer a running commentary on how the boys are handling the boxes while you supervise.
Bruce had wanted to help but he was called away on a Justice League meet so couldn’t be there. He also offered to buy you guys a better apartment in the Diamond district which you both fervently turned down. Jason didn’t want Bruce’s help and you really like your neighbourhood and your apartment. He looked sad that you turned down the offer but acquiesced in the end.
At the end of moving day you and Jason are eating take out surrounded by boxes that haven’t been opened yet.
└── •✧ DEAN WINCHESTER : Freezes. Not because he's scared or uncomfortable but because he's shocked that you trust him enough, maybe you fell asleep on his shoulder first earlier then adjusted lower in the impala. He watches with careful, confused eyes. His sparkling sage orbs studying your closed eyes, the darkness of your lashes, the way your hand sleepily claws at his clothed thigh as you twitch.
He subtly adjusts, refuses to make it a huge thing so you feel comfortable enough to do it again. Stops tapping the steering wheel, stops bouncing his leg, turns down the radio just a tick or two and turns up the heat. He worries that your neck might get sore from leaning over the center console onto his leg, so he tugs off his worn in jacket and drapes it over your shoulders -- tucking the excess fabric under the back of your neck. When you wake up, he acts as if It didn't happen -- won't make it a big deal but absolutely relished in the feeling of the warmth pooling down from you into him. Kept glancing down and tensed as you stirred, not ready to let you get up but unwillingly to ask you to do it again. If you wake up and tease him about caring enough to wrap you up in his fabric he shoots you a lighthearted glare and tells you to shut up, but later on your next hunt he's more careful -- attentive. He always is, but he pays more attention to what you've been drinking and eating -- how much you've been resting. He frames it as just trying to make sure you don't get yourself killed, unwilling to admit the whole scene made him care for you more. He would quietly adore it, in that stubborn, tough Dean way.
꩜
└── •✧ SAM WINCHESTER : Melts. Sam loves affection, especially from the people he's already deemed close to him. Unlike Dean, he isn't shy about trying to make sure you're cared for regularly and loves this sort of thing. The minute your sleepy head nuzzles into his large frame he watches closely, trying to make sense of it before a goofy smiley tugs at his lips. He'll keep reading through dads journal, going through lore and flipping through the novel he was working on but he'll make room for his large, veiny fingers to slide down and tangle themselves in your hair. He pays attention to the softness, the warmth, the closeness and intimacy. He would rather die before ever asking you to move -- doesn't matter if his legs are numb, you've been passed out for the last 4 hours on him, if he has to pee, he'll fight through it all stubbornly and patiently wait for you to wake up like a big puppy. When you stir, he's careful to stop whatever soothing affection he was giving and let you adjust. If that means you crawl over on him like a human weighted blanket, he's more than pleased and keeps at it.
He'd definitely grab a blanket from his duffel and wrap you up in it, warm and snug. If you mention it again or poke fun at him for caring so much, he does not give a shit -- he's saying "So what?" and cracking a joke about waiting for you to do it again. Doesn't matter if it happens in the back of the impala, a bench, a motel room -- hell even the floor. He's quieting himself, or whisper yelling at Dean to shut the hell up. I imagine he also studies you like one of his nerdy Greek textbooks, monitoring your breathing and the rise and fall of your clothed chest. He would absolutely love it.
summary: You and Kyle meet during one of the hardest times of your life, and despite it all — your rudeness, rage and violence — he still finds a way to fall in love with you.
pairing(s): kyle rayner x batsis!reader, platonic!batfamily x batsis!reader
word count: 13.1k (mama didn't raise no quitter)
warnings: swearing, gotham typical violence, troubles with drinking/alcoholism, broken bones, fear toxin and everything that comes with it, reader is LITERALLY haunted by the fact that she's batgirl, hurt/comfort, a lot of it, bruce is a bad dad but he learns from his mistakes, gordon guessed the batfam's identities and he's right about them, call me flash cuz i wrote the first 5k of this in like two months and the rest between yesterday and today, implied torture, mentioned puke, some comics canon (knightfall, pre-retcon parallax, barbara's still in a wheelchair) if there's anything else PLEASE let me know!!
author's note: GRANDPA BRUCE! GRANDPA BRUCE! GRANDPA BRUCE! also, merry crisis! merry crisler! merry crismus! this is my gift for you all and is both a sequel and a prequel to not a lot, just forever, even if i'm pretty sure that they can be read separately :) this is just... a lot. start your engines because it's going to be a long ride LMAO
dividers from @uzmacchiato and @cursed-carmine!
GOTHAM CITY — NOW.
“Have you ever thought about how your life has changed so much for the better ever since you quit Batgirl?”
The Manor’s kitchen is a mess, pea pureè splattered all over the table and walls, and you’re sure that once he comes back, Alfred will skin both you and Bruce alive — but he doesn’t seem to care; not when Tommy has been laughing for the last thirty minutes non-stop. He must think that making you and his grandpa look like you just killed a vegetable monster is hilarious, because most of his lunch ended up flying on your faces rather than going in his stomach. He’s amused now, but you know that in less than thirty minutes he’s going to be whining and grabbing at your collar for some well-deserved milk snacktime.
The question catches you off guard — it’s not because you never thought about it, but rather because you never expected Bruce to ask something like that right now. He’s been softer around the edges lately, and the detachment between Bruce Wayne and Batman has never been so evident in your eyes. Maybe that’s why you’re surprised; because he’s talking about your time as Batgirl — something that once took you months to open up about — on a normal Friday, while trying and failing to feed your kid pea mousse.
You shrug, trying to play cool like you don’t still have nightmares about Batgirl coming back and getting her revenge on you for abandoning the cowl. “I do. Still– without her, Tommy wouldn’t be here right now.” you wipe away a smudge of green mush on the corner of his mouth, and he instantly reaches out to you, babbling ‘mamamamamama’ in hopes to get you to lift him in your arms — and as much as you’d like to, he’s going nowhere but on the highchair until he finishes everything on his plate. “I mean– I met his dad while in the suit.”
The engagement ring on your left hand shimmers under the light coming from the window — Kyle had proposed on the first date the two of you had following the birth of Tommy, as despite the two of you having never cared for a shiny party and being comfortable in your relationship as it was, he still felt like showing you openly that he had no intentions in spending his life with anyone but you. The wedding’s all but near, as you both agreed to let your son grow up a bit more before organising anything, but it is nice to have a fiancèe, and the thought of Kyle being your husband in the future makes you giddy. “Why do you ask?”
He hums, raising the silicone spoon to feed his grandson, who in response sticks his tongue out at him in such an innocent manner that it’s difficult to get frustrated at him. “It’s just that I often wonder how things would be if I didn’t drag you or your brothers into the whole Batman madness — but, you were the first one. And you were also the one who took it harder upon you.”
You stay silent for a moment. “Nah,” you opt to reply, “it’s all good. I’ve left those years behind me.” Sure, you have a nightmare here and there, but it’s nothing in comparison to all the violent nights you spent out there beating up people just because.
You don’t miss the remorseful twitch of Bruce’s mouth. “You may have, but it sure wasn’t thanks to me — and it was my duty to understand that you weren’t okay.” you can see the strain it takes him to say the next phrase, “And as much as I act like I don’t like him, I’m aware that I have to thank Kyle for your sanity.”
GOTHAM CITY — THEN.
You’ve heard of him — the new Green Lantern — from Clark.
They fought Mongul together, apparently; he said he looked like a kid (which, by Clark’s standards, meant he could be either your age or a few years older) and still didn’t really know how to use the ring. Hal Jordan was still missing and probably in deep space, and until Superman or one of the others didn’t have a breather from all the people that have been plaguing the Earth recently to go and search for him, he is to remain missing.
A shame. He was kinda funny.
You guess it comes with the job. When the ring chose him, he didn’t really have a choice — there’s a reason why it went looking for him, and that was because of his morals, who wouldn’t have let him leave bad deeds unpunished. And talking about bad deeds…
“Are you sneaking up on me?”
The breeze behind you stops — whoever was flying, stopped. You have a hunch for who it could be: Conner, who in Tim’s absence always tried to pull a prank or two on you; Donna, for an impromptu girl’s night; Kory, for the same reason; Shazam, for the mere reason that he has taken a liking into you and loves to interrupt your patrols regularly. It surely isn’t a malevolent presence, because if they were, they would’ve already pushed you down the railing of the building you're perched on. But then you turn, and all the hope for a girl’s night vanishes as quickly as it had appeared.
“Ah. It’s you.”
The new Green Lantern — Kyle, if you remember correctly from Bruce’s research — doesn’t look too bummed about your clearly dismissive tone. “Hi,” he holds his hand out, and if he didn’t have a mask, you’re sure you’d see his eyes shine like children’s do on Christmas. “Green Lantern. Big fan of yours.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Piss off.”
He doesn’t let your comment ruin his happiness, and takes out a pen and a comic from whatever green pouch he’d made with that big head and ugly ring of his. “The biggest fan! Could you sign this, before we get to the chase of the bad guys? It’s the limited edition one shot about that run-in you had with Professor Pyg! They only made about a hundred copies but I was able to snatch one the day they were released. I also have, like, lots of posters back at home — but I guess that it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask you to sign those too, right?"
You take the comic from his hands as he goes on, looking briefly at the cover, “I also have one of your twenty platinum-plated cards in the Bat-cards game– hey!”
He stops his ramblings when you throw the comic off the building, and immediately goes after it to retrieve the thing. “This is collection material, you know! I had to fight people to get my hands on it, and believe me, sixteen year old me wasn’t that athletic!”
Your expression is one of pure disgust. “What kind of Green Lantern are you, creep?”
“I’m not a creep! I’m a dedicated fan!”
“That’s even creepier. I don't have fans.”
He gasps dramatically. “That's not true! Don't talk about yourself like that!”
Your expression seems to get more skeptical by the minute. “Please, dude, have you ever read a newspaper? They're begging me to hang the cowl up.”
GL seems flabbergasted, “Well, uh, actually, not– but you won't do it, right? Hang the cowl, I mean. Please, don't — there's people like me out there that like you!”
You don't look too relieved about it. “Yeah, because that's reassuring.” Of course the only times you have fans it's when they're weirdos or violence fanatics. Why can't you have normal fans, or just don’t have them at all? Can’t people leave you alone? “Just get away from here before things go downhill.”
You jump off the railing and land in the alley beside the building, but that doesn’t deter him from following you. In fact, he’s attached to your tail in a way that reminds you of baby ducks waddling behind their mother. “Didn’t you hear me? I want you to leave me alone. I’m not going to be your babysitter, and things are really about to get ugly.”
“Hey, if you’re trying to score a hit on the Joker or something I can help!”
Really, just who is this guy? “This isn’t the Joker. This is Falcone — worse, if you ask me. He has resources, and two dozens more henchmen than the clown does. His crimes are pretty standard in comparison to the Joker’s, but that doesn’t mean you can stay here.” the last thing you need is a rookie on the scene.
He pouts, “But I could never let a lady go through the trouble of fighting all the bad guys alone. I could take them down–”
“This lady,” you snarl, finger pointed at his chest aggressively, “is more than capable of handling herself, and you would not be of any use but alert Falcone of a presence he doesn’t want. So you go right back where you came from — Coast City, LA, I don’t care — before anyone sees you, because I. Work. Alone.”
He raises his hands in defeat. “Whoa, I didn’t mean to say you couldn’t handle it alone! I just offered some help. You know– just lending a hand to a fellow hero.”
“Then don’t. Go bug Batman, and if you see him, tell him that I ask him to fuck off.”
Ouch. That was harsh. “I thought that you and Batsy were, like, besties or something. Isn't he the whole reason you're Batgirl?”
You laugh bitterly. “Oh, no, not him.”
Whatever– he’s not going to leave you alone in a fight — you’ve been his favourite hero since he was twelve! This was his chance to fulfill his dream of fighting alongside– nevermind. You’ve already disappeared.
The mission is simple: gather up enough evidence of all the drugs that they’re smuggling, maybe get to beat up either Falcone or his bootlickers, and tie them up real nice for the police to find — hopefully that’ll make Gordon hate you a little less than he already does, because you know he’s been on Falcone’s tracks for weeks.
He settled in an abandoned building in the last few months, going under Jean-Paul’s radar — not that it took that much, anyways; the guy is, in fact, crazy, if not a complete schizo. He sees criminals that aren’t there, and while you may understand the whole beating goons to a pulp thing, that does not include jaywalkers. It’s a wonder that he has managed not to end up in Arkham, though; you have to give him credit for that.
The thugs outside of Falcone’s hideout are barely awake, and are playing tic-tac-toe with two sticks on the mud of the porch just to stay alert. They don’t expect you to jump over their heads and knock them out cold, face-down in the mud, nor do their peers inside the building: they start blindly shooting everywhere as soon as you turn off the lights — a real show of the IQ test that Falcone surely makes every aspiring hoodlum take before hiring them — but ultimately slump to the floor when you drop down a gas bomb full of sedatives.
And of course, things always go south when they start looking a little too easy.
You barely dodge a bullet on your way up to the stairs, and the same guy that shot it — who must’ve forgotten to load his gun earlier, because that was the last shot he had apparently — lunges at you, and while you manage to avoid the fall by shooting a grapple gun into the upper floor, the guy’s elbow on your nose is a completely other story, as you find yourself sneezing blood on the stairs beneath you while Falcone’s lapdog tumbles down the staircase.
Congratulations! You now have a probably broken nose and an aware-of-your-presence mafia boss who won’t be happy about you meddling into his affairs. Still better than how Jean-Paul handles things, anyway–
That is, until a crashing sound comes from the upper floor — where you were headed until the thug tried to topple you down the stairs — and a familiar scream echoes throughout the building– Falcone.
You run up the last steps left to his floor, where you find him hanging upside down, swaying like a wrecking ball in motion, his bodyguards not too distant from him — tied up like a salami. You blink, unamused, at the green light that surrounds the bindings, only to huff at the voice that comes out of Falcone’s office. “Awe, stop screaming like that, I didn’t even touch you!”
Green Lantern comes out of what you guess to be the boss’ office, some papers in hand, and lights up when he sees you. “Hey! Thought I could’ve handled the last bit for you, figured you’d want a break from all the fighting.”
You stomp up to him, snatching the papers from his hands, “Has anyone ever told you about Gotham’s no-metas rule?”
He frowns. “But I’m not a meta.”
“Aliens and humans powered by alien technology count as metas.”
He's pretty sure they don't, “I was just trying to help–”
“You did not want to help. You wanted to impress me.”
He pouts like a kid caught stealing candy. “I mean… also that, but not entirely.”
“Get out of my way.” You shove him away from the doorway and enter the office, not losing any time rummaging through drawers and shelves. He frowns, “Your nose is bleeding. I just wanted to–”
”Yeah, yeah, to help. Whatever. You’ve already said that, like, five times.” Your tongue peeks out from your lips, licking the blood that dripped onto your upper lip, and Kyle feels like his knees could collapse any moment now. “Just like I’ve already asked you to leave me alone at least six times.”
He snaps, “What is your problem? What happened to Batman and why are you mad at him? Why are you two not working together and why did I only see you and Robin out in the streets tonight?”
You come up close to him, so close he can smell the metallic scent of blood — and, if he dares to, kiss you by lowering his face the smallest bit. “None. Of. Your. Concern.” Your stare is one of pure disdain, so much so that he can feel it despite the domino mask.
Kyle falters the littlest bit. “…So, no autograph?”
“Oh, just get outta here.”
Falcone and his thugs are handed to the GCPD still in GL’s green handcuffs, even if he had fled the scene a while ago. Gordon frowns at them, questions swarming through his mind, before he sighs and chooses not to ask any. He looks at you, dark bags under his eyes, too tired to reprimand you about… well, about everything he usually complains to you about. “Just don’t let the other bat-maniac see him, or he’ll start going around lookin’ for green demons or somethin’.”
You get back home — a loft in Gotham Heights — at almost four in the morning, after patrolling around for the rest of the night, and after a shower you launch yourself on the bed and try your best not to think about the meeting with the executives of WE that you have in four hours. Of course, even in your own home you can’t have a moment of peace, because soon after — right when you’re about to fall asleep — a tap comes from your window.
You groan loudly, covering your ears with your pillow, “Whoever you are, go away.”
“Awww, c’mon,” from the voice, you guess it’s Tim, “won’t you open up? Not even for your little brother who just wants a break from whiny and boring Bruce?”
You freeze — argh, he knows your weak spots! Bitching about Bruce and running away from the Manor– a classic. You barely manage to drag yourself out of bed to open the window, and Robin laughs as he plops down on your carpet. “Careful with the rug, Boy Wonder– one mud stain and I’ll make you scrub it off with your toothbrush.”
“Grouchy today, eh?” You go back to bed, barely hearing him in your haze. “Huh-uh.”
“Have you seen Green Lantern? He passed by the Narrows during patrol and asked me about you.” Tim throws himself on your bed, smug, “Batgirl and Green Lantern, K-I-S-S–”
You slap a hand over his mouth, face still snuggled in your pillow, “Not another word.”
He grins underneath your palm, tearing it off gently, “I’m just saying, you could really use a superhero boyfriend — try to find out if he can get rid of Valley for us.”
You wave him off, voice muffled by the cushion, barely coherent. “Yeah, like a boyfriend is what I need right now.”
“You could try.”
“Or I could not. Besides, he’s creepy.”
Tim perks up, “You talking about that comic he had? I thought it was cool. I have the Batman version of that edition, second hand — you don’t want to know how much it cost me. He’s a dedicated fan, and I respect that. It’s cute — cute in a rom-com way.”
“More like a non-con way,” you grumble, managing to raise your head from the pillow, “so what, you came here just to complain about my non-existent love life and to try to set me up with a guy I just met and don't like?”
He thinks about it for a moment. “No, not only that. Do you know who the new Green Lantern is?”
“Uh…” your sleepy, fuzzy brain only manages to come up with his first name — it's not like you read the file Bruce had made about him with much interest, anyway. “Kyle? Cole?”
He nods, “Kyle Rayner. Sounds familiar to you?”
You think hard. “No, not really.”
“Tomorrow you have a few meetings. One of those is with the new graphic designer of the marketing department — and guess who that is!”
You groan loudly, “Please, don’t let it be Rayner,”
“Jackpot! It’s Rayner!” Tim smirks, “What would you do without me? You don’t even remember your own meetings.”
“I have a secretary for a reason, Timothy. Did you stalk my schedule for fun or were you looking for something?”
He shrugs. “Curiosity.” Yeah, he was definitely looking for something.
Irritated, you look over at the clock — five in the morning now. “I’ll deal with it in the morning — later on in the morning, anyways. Now, can I go to sleep or what?”
You wake up three hours later feeling like you slept two minutes, already late for work and with bags under your eyes so big that not even the concealer can really do anything about it — so you end up slapping a pair of sunglasses on in hopes that the executives just think that you’re hangover or something. You wake up Tim, who slept in the guest room, and tell him that the fridge’s stocked and you’re leaving $20 on the kitchen counter if he wants to buy anything for breakfast, and then you’re off to Wayne Enterprises.
With Bruce half-dead in the Manor — or, in a spiritual retreat somewhere in Tibet, as far as the tabloids knew — all the weight of WE fell upon your shoulders, considering that out of Bruce’s alive children the only ones able to do math are you and Tim — and with the latter being fourteen, it’s not like he can actually work as CEO. So you barely make it through finance, hiring and budget meetings, and when the time comes for the marketing one, you’re running on caffeine and smoke breaks, shoulders slouched and too close to sleep to direct another meeting with anyone but Mr Sandman.
Your secretary knocks on the door of your office just when you’re about to open the window and take the fourth smoke break in less than three hours, and you scramble to close it back up and hide the cigarette in your pocket — you feel like a high-schooler caught smoking in the bathroom, but alas… “Uh… come on in.”
“Miss,” she greets, then makes way for Rayner to come in,“your appointment of three o’clock,”
Considering the amount of papers and tubes he’s holding, you can’t even see his face — and you wonder if he can even see where he’s going. He’s got jeans on and, from what you can see, a rumpled white shirt. A green — laaame! — jumper’s tied to his waist, and since you’ve been in the game of let’s just pretend we’re all the best version of ourselves for a long time, you can tell he’s just started playing it.
“Um, evenin’?” he says, even if it sounds more like a question than anything, as he takes a peek out of what you guess to be all his drawings and projects.
You blink, unimpressed. “Please, feel free to sit down. And you can set your… bags down in the other chair, if you want.”
“Oh– yeah, yeah, thanks, um… boss?” you have to bite down your tongue to hold in an incredulous laugh — if it’s for actual amusement or simple exhaustion, you’re not sure. He unceremoniously lets the drawings down onto one of the two chairs, moving to sit on the free one. He then holds out his hand — calloused and with faint ink stains on the palm — for you to shake, “Pleasure to meet you, sorry about the mess.”
You take a look at his hand and then sigh, reluctantly taking it in yours and shaking it, “The pleasure is mine,” lie, “please, Miss Wayne will do.” presumptuous much? Maybe, but you’ve got no intention of being on a first name basis with Green Lantern.
He smiles awkwardly, “Um– sorry if I’m, I don’t know, a bit anxious. I’ve been a freelancer up until now, so all of this is kinda new to me.”
You blink — honestly, you couldn’t care less. You just want to get this over with and go to sleep. “Yeah, sure. I usually don’t do this kind of interview, but the girl that runs your department went on maternity leave last week, and while we look for a substitute I’m mostly handling her duties.”
You take a paper from one of your drawers, pushing it towards him on the table. “These are all the things you need to start out. Your floor is the 36th, and as soon as we find one I’ll let you know who your supervisor is. Lunch is on the 20th floor from 12 pm to 2 pm, either way you can get a lunch bonus from the reception on the ground floor and go eat outside. If you ever need to report anything, HR is on the 28th floor, and your working hours are from 9 to 5, but we’re pretty flexible on that if you’ll ever need to get in later or get out sooner.” you hide a yawn into a cough, “Any questions?”
Before he can say anything, your phone rings. “Sorry about that,” you hang up without even seeing who the caller is, because it’s still working hours and the last thing you want to do is the new Green Lantern thinking you’re anything but professional, but the phone rings again not even two seconds later. And when you look at the screen just to understand who’s the spammer whose name you’ll have to wipe all over the next unsolved case you come across, your eyes widen at the realization that it’s Tim. “Uh… yeah, forget it, I’ll have to take this one– give me a minute, please.”
You get out of the office, because whenever Tim calls, it’s either because one, he got in trouble at school and doesn’t want to call Bruce, or two, a catastrophic disaster has just happened. It’s definitely the latter, as his school day usually ends at two. “Tim, be quick because I’m in the middle of an appointment–”
“Maroni just blew up the old mill near the Narrows,” just like you feared, “Dick and Babs are already on their way. I’ll be waiting for you in the cave.”
The pounding in your head could just get better at this point. You try to keep your voice low, even if aside from your secretary and Kyle, there’s not many people who could hear you right now. “...Okay, okay. I’ll take the underground route and meet you there in fifteen. If Jean-Paul gets there before me…”
“I know, I know. The cave’s already sealed– we’re waiting for you. If he does enter, I’ve told Alfred to close the airways and go off with the sleeping gas.” He never disappoints, does he?
You hang up and get back to the office, where Rayner is sitting like a kid whose mother told him to sit up straight during Thanksgiving dinner. “I’m sorry, Mr Rayner, but I have a family emergency to take care of — the meeting ends here, but feel free to rely on my secretary for any question you might have.”
You wait until he scrambles back up on his feet with all his drawings in his arms and sigh, resigned, as he joins you in the elevator. You press your thumb on the button for the 36th floor, already accepting the fact that it’s going to be a long 24 floors. You were hoping you’d be able to get in alone and immediately put in your key for the unknown-to-staff option of the superspeed ride to the underground passage under Wayne Tower, but fate must not be on your side.
“Sooo…” he mumbles, side-eyeing you, “Hope the emergency isn’t anything too serious.”
“I wouldn’t have stopped the meeting if it wasn’t,” you grumble — professionalism isn’t his best asset, huh?
He freezes. “I meant… uh, yeah, sorry.”
You rub your eyes under the lenses of your sunglasses, groaning, still tired out of your mind, and lean onto the elevator’s wall, “Nah. ‘S okay.” 20 more floors to go and you already want to throw either him or yourself off of the building. To fill in the silence, he even starts whistling, and the glare you send him can be seen even through the sunglasses, “Stop that,” you hiss.
Kyle grimaces, “Sorry– I do that when I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be. I’m not the one in charge of firings.”
His surprise is obvious, “You’re not?”
A yawn escapes you before you can reply, “I’m not. Unless someone really pisses me off.”
In exchange for not whistling, he starts tapping his fingers against the plastic tube in his arms, “Hey, I know this is probably the least professional question I could ask you right now,” he says, and you prepare yourself to be asked out by an employee for the… what? Fifth time in a month? Only, that seems to be the last thing on his mind. “But do you know bars that make decent drinks and maybe put on nice music? I haven’t been able to find one ever since I got here.”
You’re surprised by the question — you’re always so engrossed in your life, both the normal and the vigilante one, that you often forget that your peers are actually able to enjoy their twenties. “Uh… I wouldn’t know. I don’t really get out there.”
He seems pretty bummed about it. “Oh. Okay. Well– I’ll try to let you know if I find one.”
Your face is blank. “I’ll pass.” When you drink, you usually do it at home and let yourself pass out from the alcohol, but you’re not going to tell him that. “Do avoid the Iceberg Lounge, though.”
He nods, and finally, the 24 floors are over. The elevator dings and Kyle exits it at the same time as you take out the key for the underground floor, “Well, have a good–” by the time he turns around to say goodbye, the door’s already closed, and you’re already thinking about why the hell Maroni would care about the old mill. “...day. Whew, these billionaire people are as weird as the tabloids say.”
GOTHAM CITY — NOW.
“Who’s the cutest boy in the world? Why, of course, you are!”
If anyone had told Bruce that one day he would be sitting on the edge of the bathtub, watching his first daughter give a bath to his grandson while using that voice that people use just for babies, he would’ve actually laughed, because there was no way that the little girl who had to be hauled into the bath by Alfred actually came to accept hygiene. Yet he’s watching that same girl gently scrub her baby’s head with shampoo as he coos and blows raspberries, all the while trying to sink a boat toy.
Tommy tries to gnaw at your arm — he started teething a few months back, and since then he's been nothing but a bite monster. His favourite victim is his father, but in his absence, he usually makes do with you. “Mama,” he says, looking at you like you hung the stars and the moon.
Bruce thinks that you might as well do, because the look you give back to him is just as full of love. “Yes, baby?”
“Mamaaaa,” he whines, holding his arms out for you to pick him up. “A minute, baby,” you hum, taking a towel to wrap him in as soon as you're done rinsing him off. He snuggles in your arms, wrapped like a burrito in the fluffy bath towel while you press kisses to his damp tufts of hair. He looks more and more like Kyle as the days pass — he has your eyes and his dark hair, and also that really dumb look his father sometimes makes.
Tommy holds his hand out for Bruce, opening and closing the palm while giving him the big eyes, “Babababababa–”
Bruce gives him his hand, and Tommy's fingers wrap around his index and medium, quietening down. “Hi, bud.”
As you dress him in the spare clothes you brought with you, Bruce is quiet. “Penny for your thoughts?” you say, offering him a small smile.
He shakes his head, “Nothing,” he murmurs, “I was thinking about what we talked about earlier and– I hate to say this, but I don’t think you actually ever told me how you and Kyle got together.”
You blink, surprised, “I didn’t?”
GOTHAM CITY — THEN.
You don’t know when you start being friendly with Green Lantern.
How you went from absolutely despising him to almost accepting him as one of Gotham protectors is a mystery, even to you. Your best guess is that it all started when he brought you a sandwich during patrol, or that time when he saved you from drowning in the Gotham River and it was really cold outside and he was… well, pretty much the only warmth source available. Anyways, it’s thanks to you if Kyle Rayner gets eventually admitted into the Justice League.
After Hal went rogue, the others have been nothing but doubtful of him — probably because one, they wondered how he was able to have a ring when technically Parallax had them all, and two, he is kind of a goof. He’s still new to the hero world compared to you and the others, despite being in it for almost two years now.
(Yes, it took over a year for you to even start being friendly with him. A girl has her boundaries to respect, and tall, tanned. pretty men who have no sense of danger are no exceptions to that.)
Still, it is your fault that he finds out your identity — you should’ve been more careful, really, but you were so tired that night that you didn’t even notice that half your mask kinda got fucking blown away in an explosion.
Despite his amusement at finding out his boss (now ex-boss, because he got back in the comics freelance business after barely five months into his office job) was Batgirl, his heart laid in the right place — it always did. After denying multiple times to having seen anything, he insisted to let you know about his secret identity, too, leading to the awkward conversation of ‘I knew who you were ever since you first landed in Gotham and I just pretended not to know’.
Anyways, it’s kinda nice to have a friend around that isn’t Dick or Tim (he’s been a real bore lately — all that teenage angst really got into his head). You still don’t understand why he would want to be around you, but you guess he’s still not quite found a crew to hang with yet ever since he moved. That means Friday nights — very early nights, before patrol — become pizza movie nights, and as much as you pretend you don’t like them, the fact that you let Kyle show up again and again at your apartment is a statement as big as they can get.
“You know, I really think you should take a break,” he mutters one evening, forty minutes deep into Mean Girls, mouth full of pizza and popcorn.
You look at him, suspicious, “Meaning?”
He looks off to the side, “Y’know… from Batgirl. Just one night. I’d…” he’s as red as a tomato, "I was thinking that I’d, well, it would be nice– you know, that I’d like to…”
“Just spit it out,” you urge him.
“Well, I’d like to take you out on a date,” he finally concedes, ears pink. “Only if you want to, obviously.”
You think about it — a date.
You haven’t had a date since… high school. Senior prom, maybe. Even if you don’t know if that counts, since the whole thing was stopped by Joker and you had to step in as Batgirl not even an hour after the music started. You’ve had people ask you out these past few years, but dating never looked that appealing to you — after all, it never ended well neither for your father nor brothers, so why would it be different for you? You still had a whole secret identity nobody could know about, and it was set to become a problem in any relationship with civilians.
But Kyle is different. He already knows about the whole Batgirl thing, he has a secret identity too, and while you ponder about his easy smiles and blushing cheeks, for a moment you think that for once in your life, it could actually work. So, before he can start doubting himself, you hear yourself uttering out a small, “Yes.”
When Saturday rolls around, you find yourself in front of your closet, wondering what exactly possessed you to say yes — you’ve been out of the dating game ever since you were a teenager, and you’re not sure your wardrobe was ready for you to be back in it. “He said to dress casual,” you tell Donna over the phone, “what does that mean? Do I wear the Louboutins or not?”
She deadpans, “Girl, I knew you were rusty, but I didn’t think the situation was that desperate. If I had known, I would’ve flown over there to help.” she stretches her arms, “Okay, turn the camera around– lemme see what you have in store.”
After countless tries — and making Kyle wait outside with flowers and a box of chocolates in hand for thirty minutes — Donna ends up choosing an off shoulder cream sweater paired with a pair of black low-rise jeans (no Louboutins, unfortunately) and as soon as you hang up on her and take your Birkin, you’re ready to go. You open the door of your apartment, almost startling him, “Okay, where are we going?”
He looks at you as you take the flowers, mouth hung open, ears red. “I… you look really pretty.”
You feel yourself trying to get smaller under his gaze. “Don’t say things like that so suddenly,” you manage to stutter out, heat creeping up your cheeks. God, how old are you, five? How many years has it been since you found yourself blushing?
He grins, “Ooh, I think I’ll keep saying those things,” he holds out his arm for you, ever the gentleman, “I was thinking about going to the fair– what do you think?”
You perk up, “Oh, that sounds fun! Last time I went there I was eight, it was the first time Bruce ever took me anywhere,” he doesn’t miss the way your smile turns into a grimace, “oh, yeah, Dick’s parents also died that night.” you shrug at his baffled expression, “What can I say? It happens.”
Throughout the various dates that follow, Kyle learns that this is a staple that comes with dating you — you seem to have at least one bad story about every single place he takes you to, and if he has to be honest, he has to admit that it’s quite disheartening. He likes going out with you, though; he doesn’t mind taking things slowly, and as of now, he’s just waiting until the time for the right move comes.
Which is why, when a new nightclub opens downtown, he’s ready to go all-out for your first disco night.
He’s already checked the background of the club — no criminal affiliations, no incidents involving the previous owners in the last fifteen years (a miracle in Gotham, really) and it’s near a place open 24/7 that makes cookies just the way you like (perfect for post-drinks munchies!). He’s got the whole night planned out and nothing is going to stop him.
… Except the fact that you’re simply terrible at chilling out.
He gets it, okay? You’ve spent years breaking into the Iceberg Lounge to find out about Penguin’s schemes, so your trust in clubs of any kind is completely demolished — but the funniest thing is that you aren’t reluctant to go with him for that; you’re reluctant because apparently, you don’t know how to dance.
Kyle blinks in shock when you first tell him. “What do you mean? I thought you rich people took classes in everything when you were young. Didn’t you have dance lessons or something? Did you never dance at those fancy galas your dad forces you to go to?”
You scowl, hiding deeper into your couch, “I did take dance lessons,” you grumble, “classic dance lessons. Ballet, if you will. I know how to waltz, but not to… y’know…”
He raises an eyebrow, “Know what?”
“…Do that thing Shakira does.”
He smirks, and you’re sure you’re giving him laugh material for the next ten years, “You mean, moving your hips?”
You hide your face into a pillow when he chuckles, “Stop making fun of me!”
“Awe, come on, I’m not making fun of you!” He still can’t hold back his laugh, but he rubs your arm comfortingly, “I just think it’s really sweet that you’ve never partied before– it’s easy, you just need to relax and follow the beat.”
And follow the beat you do — because later on that same week, as he watches you (just one drink in, by the way) go all out on the dancefloor, he’s sure that you thought you couldn’t dance just because you never even tried. “Having fun?” he asks you — basically yelling to be heard over the loud music — as he comes up from behind, his hands tentatively on your hips.
That was the right move, it seems, because while your left hand stays on top of his conjoined ones over your bellybutton, the right one moves to his nape, lowering his face down to yours so that you can press a kiss to his cheek. “Definitely more fun now that you’re here, pretty boy.”
As the night goes on, he assumes that it’s probably the alcohol that makes you more touchy — he is a bit concerned about how much you’ve drank so far, though, because you seem to have the ability to hold down drinks better than a sponge ever would.
By the time Kyle manages to drag you out of the club, it’s three am and you’re stumbling and barely able to stand up alone. He has to keep an arm around your back to prevent you from falling, and enters the diner near the nightclub with a reassuring pat on your shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get something in your system, huh?” It's a good thing he never drinks before finding out how much his date usually does, because either way, the both of you would probably have ended up falling on the sidewalk thanks to the smallest puddle.
Your eyes are barely open and you’re putting your whole weight on him by hugging him tight as you look at the menu. “Hmm… let’s– hic– see… I’ll take the salted caramel cookie and– uh– the white chocolate one.”
He pats the small of your back, looking at the unamused college student behind the counter, who has the face of someone who’s seen way too many drunk people enter in the last hour. He highly doubts two cookies will suffice to let your inebriation pass just what you need to be able to walk on your own, so he takes the matters into his own hands. “We’ll also take a strawberry smoothie, a jug of cold water and a plate of pancakes.” As for the strawberry smoothie, he just really wanted it.
As you wait for your order sitting on the booth by the corner of the shop, you rest your head on his shoulder, eyes barely open. “Hey, don’t fall asleep on me, okay?” he mumbles softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
You nod, purring like a cat, “I feel bad,” you murmur, making him tense.
Kyle Rayner, catastrophe-preventing mode: activated. “What? How do you feel? What do you feel? Do you need to puke? Do I have to carry you to the bathroo–”
“Shhh,” you hold a finger over his lips, bleary, “I feel bad ‘cuz I made you pay.”
He blinks — he can’t decide if he likes the drunk version of you or if she’s just a you who isn’t holding anything back. “Oh, don’t worry about that– whenever we don’t split the bill you always pay anyways. It’s nothing.”
“Ye– hic– ah. But you’re broke.”
He deadpans — okay, maybe his salary can be considered to be the one of a brokie by someone who’s got millions under their name, but his situation is not that bad. “You know, there’s people who would consider my salary comfortable. I happen to be one of those people.”
You hum again, taking his hand into yours and intertwining them, the conversation already on the back of your mind. “You know, I had lots of fun tonight.”
His smile could light up the whole block, and he swears he feels his arm tingling from where it’s connected to yours. “Really?”
You nod, blinking blearily at the plates the waiter places in front of you. “Yeah, I’m not used to– hic– drinking like this.”
He pouts. “You’re reducing this whole night to drinking?” he didn’t even drink– that was all you!
You give him a soft, questioning look, already sipping on his strawberry smoothie before he can get his hands on it. “Well, ‘course not. I’m just not used to– hic– drinking for fun.”
Kyle frowns, “Watcha mean?”
“Usually I drink until I physically can’t handle it anymore, duh.” he can almost hear his stomach drop, and he doesn't even find it in himself to stop you from finishing his smoothie. He fears this isn’t one of your unfunny jokes, and even if it was, he can’t bring himself to laugh at it like he usually does. “I don’t even know why I’m telling– hic– you this but– hic– every year, I take two weeks off from both my jobs before or after my– hic– birthday.”
He’s dead silent, waiting for you to continue as you put down the smoothie and pick up his fork to try the pancakes — really, what about the cookies? “And I tell my family that I’m gonna spend them at some– hic– bougie resort God knows where, but then I just lock myself into my apartment and drink myself to unconsciousness for fourteen days straight.” and as if Kyle doesn’t already feel sick enough, you add, snorting, “I didn’t know drinking less could actually be funnier with the right company.”
This night has taken a bad turn — and as if he didn’t already want to vomit here and there, the fact that you talk about it like it’s normal makes him feel even worse. Horrified, he asks, “Why would you do that?” in such a quiet voice that he actually wonders if he really said it out loud or if it was just a thought.
You shrug, holding out a piece of pancake for him to bite into. “I dunno, dude. I guess it’s just to forget life for a while.” your nose scrunches, and if Kyle wasn’t so dazed about the whole bomb you just dropped on him, he would think that you’re really cute when you do that. “Even if it is gross to, y’know, wake up covered in your own puke.”
He watches you snuggle back into his shoulder like you didn’t just admit to something definitely out of the ordinary, chewing the pancake you fed him and trying not to make you understand that he feels like it’s made out of brickwall. “And… does Bruce know about it?” he asks, dumbfounded.
“What? No!” you sputter, shaking your head, “You remember Roy, right?”
He’s not good with names, but he tries his best anyway, “Harper, you mean?”
“Hic– yeah, that guy. When we were teens, he started using drugs — heroin, I think. Fact is, when Oliver found out, he disowned him and kicked him out. Even worse, when B found out, he gave me and Dick this long ass talk, saying that if we ever got addicted to anything, he’d kick it out of us. Anyways, Roy got clean, like, six years ago and there’s people that treat him like he’s still actively using.”
Kyle blinks, confused, “And… selective alcoholism was included in that?” Does selective alcoholism actually exist or is he just inventing things? He wouldn’t know how to describe someone who’s an alcoholic for just two weeks a year.
“How would I know? I never asked. I assume so.”
He frowns, looking down at you, “How are you even still alive? How is it possible that every year you spend two weeks getting black-out drunk and you still haven’t gotten into an alcoholic coma or something?” He's definitely making some things up.
“Hic,” you let out quite helpfully, with an opposed expression, “are you complaining?”
“No, I’m just concerned about your well-being. Do you know how much it takes for me to get concerned? I once drove my car into a stop sign and didn’t think it was a big deal until the cops showed up.”
You squint at him, “I think you’re being a little overdramatic about this whole thing.” you pat his arm, yawning, “Just forget about it, ‘kay?”
“How can I forget that now?” he mumbles, looking like a soldier in the trenches, “I just found out you have an alcohol problem and I let you drink freely the whole night.”
“I don’t have an ‘alcohol problem’,”
“You call drinking yourself to a stupor for two weeks straight ‘not having an alcohol problem’?”
You squeeze your eyes like the lights over your head are effectively hurting them, “Well, now that you word it that way, it does sound bad.”
He pauses, taking the jug of water still on the table and downing some in a glass, offering it to you, “Why do you even do this to yourself?” he mutters, now sad more than anything — he’s known you for two years, and he didn’t know anything about this. Two years where you could’ve drowned in your own vomit, fallen from your window, got into a coma and– and he doesn’t even want to think about all the other options possible.
You shrug yet again, still cuddled up to him while sipping your water. “She gets easier to handle whenever I do that.”
By his face, it’s clear that Kyle now thinks that you have some serious case of weird hallucinations going on. “She who?”
“Batgirl,” you whisper, so that only he can hear, “whenever I’m in the suit, I feel like I’ve got this– this rock in my chest and I take it out by beating the bad guys an inch away from death. But those two weeks I spend alone every year — sure, the aftermath is agonizing and the need to continue drinking makes me want to rip my hair out, but it’s the only time in the year where I feel almost okay with myself and how I turned out.”
His eyes are so sad that if you were just a little more aware of your surroundings, you’d probably start crying. “That’s… something.”
Your lips form a pout, “Too much information?”
“I– you know what? No information is too much information when you’re drunk. It’s okay.” he groans, “No, actually, it’s not okay at all. I mean, it’s okay that you told me, but it’s not okay that you feel so bad about a stupid costume that you’d spend two whole weeks getting alcohol poisoning. I didn’t know you felt so bad about your alias.”
You let out a very, very bitter laugh. “And you wouldn’t, after spending every night in almost fifteen years punching people left and right and not stopping until there was more blood on them than clothes?”
He says your name, completely serious, “You’ve been beating them up for fifteen years. You can stop whenever you want.”
Your voice is firm– firmer than it has been since you started drinking earlier when you got into the club. “And I’m telling you, it’s like that fuckass suit possesses me. You got me? I. Can’t. Stop. Being. Violent. Trust me, I tried, and whenever that happened, something would drive me up my walls and I’d end up hurting people again.”
Kyle’s eyes are soft despite the steadiness of his voice. “Why do you keep getting back into the suit, then?”
It’s like that single sentence sobers you up completely. You stare at him like he just grew horns, mouth agape, stunned.
You never thought about that. You guess that with your whole family and friends being in the vigilante business, you didn’t have much choice — hell, Bruce broke his back and still got back to fighting crime. Dick changed towns just to start anew as Nightwing, and Tim… well, Tim quite literally chased the Robin job offer like it paid him in anything but nightmares and traumatic experiences. And if Jason died as Robin, then what right did you have but to continue living this life? He sure as hell never got the choice to live it all behind.
But you’re twenty-four now. If you ever survive Batgirl, you think you’d like to live your life a little — who knows, maybe even get married and have a family someday. But as long as she’s in your life, you’re not going to have peace.
You find yourself grabbing Kyle’s face in your hands as you give him the sloppiest smooch ever — so much so that it leaves him stunned. “Kyle Rayner, you’re the sanest person I’ve ever met in my entire life."
He blinks, the tips of his ears even redder than his face, “…That bad?”
GOTHAM CITY — NOW.
Of course, you give Bruce the very watered down version of the story — the same one you’ll give Tommy: that his father just asked you out and boom, love was there. No alcohol abuse and no partying until three am in the morning. B does look suspicious, but given his own past romances, maybe he just guesses that it’s better if some things remain untold.
“I don’t remember the two of you being together until after you stopped being Batgirl, though,” he says while holding Bitey — the plushie looking very battered after not even a year with your infant — over Tommy’s head.
You nod, “Yeah, that’s because we only got officially together after the Scarecrow incident.” you blow a raspberry onto Tommy’s cheek like you didn’t just mention your and Bruce’s worst trauma ever.
Your father pales. “Yeah,” he mutters, “the Scarecrow incident…”
GOTHAM CITY — THEN.
Leaving the superhero business is much harder than you thought it would be. You tried talking to Bruce about it countless of times and instead got brushed off like it was nothing — even if you doubt you can blame B for the position you’re finding yourself in right now.
“…Gordon? Is that you?”
Your voice is so weak you barely recognise it. It’s scratchy from days of endless screaming, lack of water and also fear, undiluted and in its purest form. You can’t see him — you haven’t been able to see anything but hallucinations ever since Crane put his hands on you, despite not feeling a blindfold over your eyes — but you can hear his steps. The guy hates your guts, and in the past few years, you’ve come to learn to listen out for his footing, so that you could make yourself scarce whenever he didn’t.
For once in your life, you hope that this isn’t a fluke — that this is actually Gordon. Anything would be better than staying here.
“Go– Gordon, I asked, is that you?” You pull onto the restraints over your wrists right before a big, calloused hand goes over your arm, caressing the exposed skin gently before the other goes up to your head. When he does speak, the Commissioner sounds tired as you’ve never heard him before, “It’s me,” he mumbles, as someone curses in the distance, “everything will be okay now, you hear me?”
He loosens one of the belts tied to your wrist while barking orders at the other policemen you can hear, “Montoya– rip that IV off– no, I don’t care if it’s unsanitary, I won’t wait for the paramedics to get her off the fear toxin–”
“God, Commissioner, her legs–”
“I know, Kasinski, we all have working eyes–”
“Stop fucking yelling, chief, it’s been four rough days for everyone–”
“The second Robin only needed three days to die, Bullock, you imbecile–”
Four days? Only four days? It feels like you've been trapped down here a lifetime. Did the hallucinations really start just four days ago? Did you get any sleep at all? Why can’t you see?
“–Atgirl? Batgirl, you still with us?” Gordon taps two fingers on your cheek, “Can you hear me? Blink once for yes, twice for no, if you can’t speak.”
Your eyes feel like they’ve been wide open for hours as, with much more effort than you’d like to admit, you close them once. “Good, good. Can you see me, or were you just disoriented earlier?” two blinks. You can’t, in fact, see anything. Poor girl, you hear Montoya whisper from your other side of the bed, her hands working on the straps keeping you tied to the oparating table relentlessly. You hope the fear toxin doesn’t start acting up now of all moments, because it would be really unfortunate.
“Okay, hun, now listen to me carefully,” in all these years that he’s been so against you, you’ve almost forgotten that the Commissioner is, after all, a girl dad. You wonder if he's seeing Barbara after she was shot instead of you on this table, and if he does that every time he saves a young girl his daughter’s age. “We’re going to get you out of here, I promise. You just need to stay awake and everything will be fine, you got me?”
“‘M not sure that’s the best idea,” you croak, your voice trembling in a way you haven’t heard since you were a kid. God, you feel like you’re eight again. You’re tired in a way that goes beyond the physical sense — your mind feels completely broken, scarred by thousands of sceneries happening all at once and by four days of fear toxin being pumped in your blood.
“It is when there’s no better option,” he replies, sliding one arm behind your shoulders. “Listen, the ambulance will be taking too long. I’m going to count to three, and then I’ll get you off this table, trying to be as careful as I can. Understood?”
You nod weakly, your head against his chest. His other arm slides behind your knees, and he starts, “One, two– three!”
You bite your tongue until it bleeds to avoid screaming out in pain — guess the comments about your legs weren’t just jokes, after all. You can’t see them, but by the feeling they give, you’d bet all your money on the fact that they’re both broken in various and different places. “It’s okay,” Gordon pats your hip where he’s holding you, and after four days of hell, a comforting pat feels so good you might just start crying. “We’ll ask the paramedics if they have some sedatives for you– would it be okay?”
You nod again, your form slumped over his chest as he moves– away from the warehouse, away from Scarecrow, away from everything you just went through. Your legs feel like a thousand splinters are going through them at once, and for all you know it might be so — but you also know that you’d rather spend the rest of your life feeling this pain than spending just another minute trapped there.
You don’t remember being loaded into the ambulance, but you do remember holding onto Gordon’s hand like a lifeline when he tried to leave you alone with the paramedics. “Please,” you whispered, eyes unfocused behind the white lenses of your mask.
And the Commissioner understood what it meant to be afraid — so he did the right thing and held your hand tighter, joining the paramedics in the ride to the hospital. And as the EMS quietly chatter in the background — probably trying to avoid thinking about the fact that they’ve just loaded a fucking vigilante in their ambulance — your lips tremble again. “I miss my dad.”
You’ve been plagued by visions of Batgirl — worse, you — killing him, or him slaughtering you, or him dying a terrible death– “Batman, you mean?” Gordon asks, quietly, a gentle hand coming up to brush your bangs away from a cut over your temple. You nod, a tear slipping out of your eye.
He hums, “Y’know, I’ve always wondered if all of you sidekicks were his actual kids or something. It would explain a lot.”
“Not all of us,” you croak. There’s still Steph and Barbara — and as much as Bruce would probably adopt them on the spot if needed, you doubt they’d be too happy about it.
He chuckles quietly — that same tired laugh B lets out when he’s had too much coffee and too little sleep. “What about Green Lantern? Is he one of his spawns too?”
And if you had let out a small tear earlier, you find yourself bringing out the whole waterworks now. “Kyle,” you murmur, so low that only Gordon hears you, “I miss my Kyle so much…”
You can’t know that — because the sedatives are working egregiously — but soon after you pass out, the ambulance comes to a stop. Gordon’s ready to yell at the driver to move his ass and get back going, because they have an emergency going on, for God’s sake, but it’s only when the doors open and Robin steps inside that he understands what’s happening. “She needs a hospital,” he says, putting himself between you and your brother, “a real one. Not whatever care you have to offer.”
Robin doesn’t even seem to hear him — his gaze is first on you, then to the Commissioner, then back to you. In the end, he looks behind him and goes, “Nightwing, can you move her to the Batwing?”
The first Robin emerges from the other side of the ambulance, his movements stoic and almost robotic as he takes a good look at you. “Yeah, I can. Commissioner…” he spares him a glance, “Believe me when I tell you that it’s best if she comes with us.”
When you wake up two days later, you still can’t see anything — but the good news is, you can feel the bandages around your eyes this time. A machine is beeping in the distance, your arm feels sore from the IV that’s definitely attached to it and you can’t feel either one of your legs. A breathing mask is placed over your mouth, and the only reassuring thing you can feel on you are the warm fingers wrapped around your good hand. For a moment you wonder if Gordon really stayed with you this whole time, but the hushed whispers around you and the softness of the hand holding yours tell a whole other story.
You’re in the Batcave. The hushed whispers are those of Tim and Dick — they’re talking about Bruce, and about how he’s just back from space and already back in the streets to look for Scarecrow, and Alfred butts in to shush them both, pleading them to keep quiet at least until you wake up. And, judging by the snoring you hear on your bedside, and the fact that Dick is at least a bit far away from you, you’d guess the hand holding yours is Kyle’s.
You stir. The whispers stop immediately, and as you try your best to at least get up on your elbows, firm hands keep you down. “It’s okay,” it’s Alfred, voice tender and… teary, maybe? “It’s okay. You’re out of there. I’ll get the bandages off now– try to stay still, yes?”
You do as he says as he removes the gauze around your eyes, and after a few, pretty hurtful blinks, you manage to pry your eyes open decently. There’s a few black spots in your line of vision, but most of all, you can’t miss Alfred’s relieved smile. “Welcome back, Miss. How’s your sight faring?”
You blink up at him, confused, as Tim and Dick crowd into your visual, too. “Alfred… how…?”
“Witnesses at last week’s hostage situation involving Dr Crane told the GCPD you gave yourself up to the captors in order to assure the victims’ safety,” he explains, as resolute as ever, “Commissioner Gordon started the search before we were even aware of your disappearance, and as Master Bruce was still off-Earth, they also got lucky before us.”
Right. The off-world JLA mission that basically everyone with the minimum experience needed for space combat took part in. Considering that Kyle’s sleeping it off in the chair beside your bed, you’d guess everyone’s back, and since the Earth still hasn’t blown up, it must’ve been successful. “In the end, you were missing for four days. Both of your legs were broken, and Crane kept you on stimulants and constantly pumped fear toxin in your veins– no wonder you needed some well-deserved sleep. I’m administering the antidote every four hours as of now, but it’s impossible to tell if the toxin is going to have long-term effects. As for your eyes, Crane probably used tropicamide– it’s mostly used in eye surgeries, and it can turn the patient blind for up to a few hours. You shouldn’t have any long-lasting effects.” Scarecrow probably just wanted you terrified at the prospect of losing your sight.
He sighs — a long, dragged out sound of someone who hasn’t slept in a long time, “Master Bruce and Mister Rayner got back yesterday. Mister Rayner refused to leave your side ever since he heard what happened, while Master Bruce… well, what can I say? He’s being Master Bruce.”
“He took a look at you and fled,” Tim says helpfully.
You sigh, your throat scratchy, “Figured,” you rasp, “Alfred, can you help me sit up? Also, a glass of water would be nice…”
As soon as you so much as twitch your fingers in his hand, Kyle flinches like he’s just been slapped, then jumps up from his seat, “I’m up! I’m up! I swear I wasn’t sleep–” he looks at you, completely awake, then at Alfred, positioning some cushions behind your back, “–ing. Well, hi.”
“Hi, Kyle,” you murmur, and even if you can’t find it in you to smile, you wish you could give him one just to repay him for staying here with you. He’s still in his GL suit, looking as rough as they make them — you suspect he didn’t even change ever since he got back from space.
Your brothers and the butler try to make themselves scarce, because they know from their own experiences that maybe it’s better to leave the two of you alone — hopefully just to talk.
Kyle brushes some hair away from your forehead and caresses the skin under your eye with his thumb, “I know it’s a stupid question,” he whispers, “but… are you okay?”
You’re definitely not. You feel tears rushing to your eyes, heat rising up your neck and your throat closing, but before you can even start crying, Kyle’s already engulfed you in a hug, careful of your injuries. “I was so scared, Ky,” you sob, your hand coming up to his forearm, “and– and you weren’t there, and whenever you were, it was horrible–”
“Shh, I know, sweetheart, I know, I’m sorry–”
“And I can’t handle her anymore, Kyle, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fit in the costume ever again–”
“It’s okay, I understand, it’s–”
“No, Ky, you don’t, I swear she’s the one that scared me the most– she tried to kill me and the others– and you– and– and I couldn’t see, and when I had these– these lucid moments everything was black and too quiet– I– I thought I was dying, Kyle, I’ve never been more scared of death in my entire life–”
“I know,” he pulls back the smallest bit, and it’s just then that you notice he’s crying, too. His hand comes up to your cheek, brushing away your tears. “You can let it out. You survived– that’s all that matters.”
You shake your head, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. “I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again,” you admit, trembling, “I don’t want to put the costume on ever again.”
He cards a gentle hand through your hair and presses a gentle kiss over the crown of your head, “That’s okay,” he murmurs gently, holding you impossibly close, “nobody’s ever going to blame you for that.”
The recovery is excruciating.
You have to deal with the remainders of the fear toxin still in your blood every day — every shadow makes you flinch, every fast movement causes a panic attack — while the tabloids are talking about a fucking skii accident. Poor Wayne heiress fell down a slope in the Alps and broke both her legs. Yeah, what about the absolute horror your mind just went through?
The nights are the worst. Nightmares become a staple — you see Batgirl trying to kill you or, worse, the others and Kyle — and your family has to organize shifts to your apartment so that you’re never alone and stay trapped in your sleep for too long.
Bruce stays away — at this point in time, it’s what he knows how to do best. He can’t bear to see you in the wheelchair with both legs wrapped in casts, and when Babs once jokes that now the Batgirl alias has a 50% cripple rate, he turns visibly green and excuses himself from the room.
Kyle brings you to the hospital for your appointments — and he doesn’t miss a single one. Whenever he can’t attend one, he makes sure to call Dick or Alfred so that at the very least one of them will be able to be there, and you won’t be alone during the visits.
During the second month check up, you end up in the same elevator as Commissioner Gordon. He’s at the hospital to question some victim about a burglary and didn’t think he would get to see you, as that’s clear by the way his eyes widen when he does.
“Morning, officer,” Kyle says casually, pushing the wheelchair into the lift. You give the man a nod, and he gives you a small, imperceptible grimace back, as the younger man starts humming to fill out the silence in the stall.
“So, how were the Alps?” Gordon asks sarcastically.
“Terrific,” you snort. Aside from being Batgirl, you know him because one, you’re technically his daughter’s friend, and two, he was the one who had to tell you that your parents were kaputt.
He hums, holding his hand out to Kyle. “And who’s this young man with you?”
“Oh– Kyle, Kyle Rayner, sir,” he shakes his hand enthusiastically, “thank you, um, for what you do for the city.”
You’ve always suspected that Gordon might know your secret identities, and the fact that he doesn’t react to Kyle’s name just makes your suspicions grow. If you recall correctly, you had said his name while in the post-saving haze. As you reach your floor, the Commissioner just pats your shoulder reassuringly, “Get back on your feet, okay?” he says, a crinkle in his eyes, “The casts don’t look too good on you.”
“Sure,” you find yourself muttering.
The worst part of it all, once the toxin completely wears off, is the physical therapy. Five months after the accident, you find yourself between two metal bars, struggling to even stand up by yourself while holding on to them, falling down to the cold pavement as Kyle reaches out for you.
“I can’t do this any longer,” you whisper, lips trembling. “I can’t even make my own body work properly anymore, Kyle.”
You know you’re selfish — because Bruce broke his spine and still recovered. Barbara won’t be able to walk ever again, but she’s still thriving. Jason is still fucking dead, and you’re whining because you can’t walk like you would want to.
And somehow, Kyle always ends up seeing the sunny side of it all. “It’s difficult now,” he murmurs, trying to smile, “but you just have to learn how to walk again. And it sounds complicated, but you already learnt to do it once, no? The sooner you’ll get back on your feet, the sooner we’ll go dancing together again. What do you think?”
You sniffle. “My treat this time.”
He laughs, giving your lips a soft kiss, “When isn’t it?”
You haven’t been down to the Batcave ever since the accident, and the crutches still feel new in your hands when you descend the stairs as carefully as you can. “Bruce, are you there?”
A grunt — his favorite answer — can be heard in the dark. You huff, reaching the floor and limping towards the Batcomputer — where, as always, he’s doing some research on his newest case. Looking around, you can see that the only costume not on display is yours, and that the glass case it was kept in is now left empty — courtesy of Alfred, no doubt.
B pushes his chair your way, “Sit,” he tells you, eyeing the crutches, “did you really take the stairs? There’s an elevator for these type of situations,”
You shrug, “Wanted to try using the stairs with the crutches,” you reply easily, “how’s the Riddler case going?”
“Slow.” A long pause follows, where neither of you speaks. Then, you start, “Bruce, I… I don’t think I’m ever going to wear the costume again.”
He freezes, and had you known your father less, you’d think he was disappointed. But the way his shoulders slump and his breath gets a little slowed tell you everything you need to know: he’s relieved. “…I figured.” he finally looks down to you, removing his cowl, “I’m… I’m sorry for not being there. I should’ve been more present for you. I think… I think we both needed to be there for each other at that moment.”
“It’s a thing we both do,” you tell him, “try to run away from our problems. I– I’m trying to be better, though. I, um… started therapy. I mean, I can’t tell the therapist about all the things that happened to me as Batgirl, but it might help with everything else, you know?”
The loss of your parents. The anger issues. Jason’s death. The whole alcohol problem Bruce is still completely unaware of. “That’s great,” you can tell he’s trying his best to be supportive, even if it might come out a bit rough, and one of his arms circles your shoulders, “I’m just grateful that you’re still with us. When I first got the call, I… God, I thought I was going to have to bury one of my kids again. When Jason died, I…” he shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I just couldn’t lose you, too.”
The hug he gives you is like nothing you’ve ever received from him, and silently, you wonder if he hugged Jason’s body the same way. After a few moments, he asks, “How’s Kyle, by the way? Thanks for not telling me the two of you were dating. When Dick told me, I nearly had a stroke.”
You chuckle tearily, “Oh, it’s going great,” you muse, “we’re going out for dinner tonight– and I think he’s going to ask me to be his girlfriend.”
GOTHAM CITY — NOW.
“Oh, how’s Batgirl, by the way?”
Batman frowns at Gordon’s question, the first morning lights just peeking out of Gotham’s skyline. “What do you mean?”
The commissioner raises an eyebrow, “You know… the first Batgirl. The one who got captured by Scarecrow… five years ago, was it?”
Batman hums, “She’s doing great.”
“I haven’t seen her in a long time,”
“She got engaged a few months ago,” B slips — he often lets things slip with Gordon, just because he knows that he’s not going to tell anyone about their conversations. “She’s got a kid now, and his birthday’s–”
“Move it, father!” Robin yells from behind him, “I still have to get more presents!”
His father sighs, “…Today. Robin, you already picked out enough presents for him–”
“No presents are enough for my nephew — he surely won’t choose his favourite uncle based on sympathy!”
Batman sighs, “Have a good day, Jim.”
The Commissioner blinks, surprised, “Well… wish happy birthday to the little chum from me.”
“Happy birthday, Bruce and Tommy, happy birthday to you!”
You’re pretty sure your son has got no idea what’s happening around him, but he wiggles happily in his grandfather’s arms as the cameras go off, and still tries to blow out his candles with the best raspberries he can muster up — he grins when they actually work, clueless to the fact that Bruce just blew them out for him.
“I still think it's so weird that your father and our son share a birthday, y’know?” Kyle whispers to you, still holding the camera to capture Tommy smashing his fist into his cake, “Like, are you sure that the guy who’s getting his face covered in cake by our infant is the same dude I had to convince I wasn’t using you for money by challenging him into a boxing match?”
You shrug, “What can I say? The universe has its ways,”
It’s been six years since you’ve spent a birthday alone, drinking yourself into oblivion. Six years since Kyle entered your life — since everything became a little easier, because you found out you didn’t need to necessarily do everything alone.
It’s been five years since the Scarecrow incident, and you’ve learned how to walk again in the year after it happened. Last week, you even managed to make a joke to Barbara about it, and told her that the Batgirl crippling rate is back at 25%. She laughed and told you that it’s better this way.
Jason — whose death had completely scarred your whole path of vigilantism — is now alive and, mostly, well. He's now choking on the cake with Damian, who you didn't even know existed until about three years ago.
You’ve been officially together with Kyle for four years, and he proposed a few months ago. Almost two years ago you found out you were pregnant, and a full year ago your boy — who is now using cake frosting as paint to draw on his grandfather’s Versace dress shirt — was born.
You were Batgirl for more than fifteen years, and to be honest, you didn’t completely hate it before Kyle came around. But as you hold Tommy in your lap and feed him little, much more dignified bites of his cake as he coos and laughs at the faces his dad makes at him, you think that you’d do everything again without changing a single thing if it only meant that you got to be here once again.
“Oh, by the way,” Babs comes up to you, another present in her lap, “my dad gave me this for Tommy — said it was ‘for old times’ sake’, whatever that means.”
Kyle makes a big show out of it, and when he sees what it’s inside, he’s even more excited than his own kid. “Finally, a Green Lantern plushie!” more specifically, a plushie modeled after him. All your kid got from close family were Batman-themed toys, and since the Lanterns have been banned from every Tommy related parties ever since they made the venue literally explode during his first six months celebration, their gifts are expected to arrive a little later this year.
Extatic, Kyle holds out GL Junior up to Tommy, who promptly takes it into his death grip. “What do we think, champ?”
Tommy looks at the plushie for a long time before biting into his arm — a sign of approval, no doubt. “Dada.”
congratulations! you've reached the end of this fic :) have some memes:
also!! as a christmas gift, i plan to publish another fanfic by the time the holidays end, but i have so many drafts that i'm inevitably going to have to choose. i'll leave the options here, and then try my best to complete the fic that wins!!
which fic would you like to read before the holidays end?
catgirl!reader/dick grayson
al ghul!batsis!reader/conner kent
al ghul!batsis!reader/ben tennyson
batsis!reader/jon kent (sequel to if you're done with your ex)
Pairing: Wally West x gn!reader
Summary: Wally's been acting off recently. Care to ask why? Well, you just might prompt a proposal!
CW: maybe a little OOC
A/N: had so much fun writing this, though the ending felt a bit wonky. I hope you all enjoy <3 Here's the event masterlist
You knew something was up with Wally. You always did. Apart from his usual jitteriness and fast-paced nature, tonight was different. He’d done multiple things that were out of the ordinary. One, he’d booked a fancy place in advance for no apparent reason. Two, he’d practically begged you to wear the outfit you’d worn on your first date with him, and three, he’d been avoiding you since telling you that.
You want to believe it’s because he’s proposing, though part of you doubts it. He’d always been the type to want to show you how much he loved you, how much he cherished you. So, to put it simply, you didn’t really know what was going on with him. But you wouldn’t question it. Why would you? It’d been a while since you’d met face-to-face, what with him having consistent missions that demanded his attention recently.
So you did what he’d asked. You wore that pretty, perfect outfit he’d sworn up and down to be downright insane for, and showed up to the restaurant, a few minutes early too. Anxious for his arrival, you check your phone, once, twice, and thrice, only to sigh when there’s no new messages save for what he’d sent a half-hour ago, telling you he’d be there and was excited to see you.
“Babe! Sorry—got held up at Dick’s!” Wally’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts, and you look up to see him screeching to a halt beside you, his suit perfect, and his tie a little too fancy. Guess he’d gotten Dick’s help, then. You smile faintly, and take his arm in your hand, feeling relieved that he’d shown up, even if a minute late. “How does the Flash himself manage to be late?” You tease, and he chuckles, leading you inside and squeezing your hand with his free one.
“Years and years of practice, obviously. One of my many strengths, if you couldn’t already tell.” He jokes, and then pulls your chair out for you, helping you sit down before he sits down across from you. Now you’re sure something has to be up. How could it not be? The atmosphere just feels…more serious than usual.
And after hours of conversation between your meal, you finally bite the bullet and decide to press him about what tonight really was for. You lean forwards onto your elbows, just as he gets a spoonful of tiramisu and also leans in to feed you. You open your mouth, letting him give you the first bite, and giggle, tilting your head to the side ever so slightly.
“So, what’s tonight really about, Wally? Are you just happy to see me, or is there a ring box in your pocket? ‘Cause this feels a bit much, even for you.” You drawl, giving him a brief once-over, before barely managing to not burst into a fit of laughter when he practically deflates, his shoulders hunching as he pouts at you sadly.
“Was it really that obvious? Dick said I was being cool and suave!” He whines, and covers his face in his hands, seeming childishly embarrassed, even as he’s pushing more tiramisu onto his spoon and feeding it to you.
You just giggle and swallow, cupping one of your cheeks and resting on your elbow, getting a little lost in thought just hearing him talk. His voice was always so soothing, like a balm over your worries. With a content sigh, you shake your head, reaching over to pat his hand lightly with a grin. “No, you were just fine. A little cheesy, but fine.” You tease, and snort when his pout only deepens as he groans.
“Well, this cheeseball has a little surprise for you. I’ve been wanting to ask for some time, but…well, it’s never been quite the right time. I thought a nice dinner might be the way to go.” He admits, sounding sheepish as he pulls out a ring box from his pocket, opening the velvet cover carefully before holding it up so you can see the diamond ring sparkling under the warm restaurant lighting. You gasp softly, breath hitching momentarily, and it briefly feels like the entire world has halted around you. He rambles a little, going on about how he’s loved you ever since you’d first met and how he’d continue to love you forever more. That it wouldn’t even dim for a moment.
But his words really don’t reach your ears, not when the only thing you can hear is the blood rushing in your head. Your heart flutters, and you find yourself nodding and tearing up, unwilling to let him finish his speech. “Yes—Wally, I want to marry you.” You warble, and he fumbles a little, slipping the ring on your finger.
The both of you share a shaky, tear-filled laugh, before he’s paying the bill and leading you out. As the night fades, a feeling of contentment settles over the both of you. This is exactly where you both needed to be, deserved to be, and it was felt deeply. At this rate, the wedding will definitely be a hit.
dividers by @pixopix
Please don't steal, copy or repost my works, or put it through AI.
just a quick idea i've been craving to see but no one has written about! so here i am! i'm a beginner writer (aka my second little drabble...) so all love is appreciated!! thank you so much for the 70 likes on my first one?? genuinely shocked it reached that many people.
tw: adoption? a little bit of angst, all fluff, female reader. roy harper! cursing. maybe a bit too niche and personal. but i just couldn't get the idea out of my head. UNEDITED!!
Between watching your beloved boyfriend grumble with Roy as they trade small insults back and forth after patrol, much akin to some weird old married couple. your apartment somehow becoming the safe space for both of them to at least put gear away, and for his brothers to drop by on occasion, Red Hood maybe 'work solo' but the apartment no longer does, expecting visitors almost nightly.
As you stand and watch your boyfriend and Roy bicker as gear gets cleaned, Roy shoots you a quick look, as if asking permission to drag you into the mess. A soft sigh and nod leave you, as sitting on your sofa with a warm tea to fight out the cold gotham night...or rather morning at this rate.
"OK well jason, i bet your girlfriend recognizes my humor. come on. knock knock,"
"who's there?" you ask back, eyebrow raised and giving a bit of a side-eye to jason, as if mentally asking what you are getting yourself into.
"joe," roy responds, quickly, almost eager, like a teenage boy who just discovered a new joke.
"joe...who?", the words leave your mouth as jason mutters something about this being a stupid joke, and giving roy a bit of a swat as he sits down next to you.
"joe mama!", leaves roys lips, making himself giggle much akin to that boyish look- even for a strong ginger man.
you grin, as if this setup is perfect for you, well because.. it is. "don't know her. do you? can you tell her i miss her? that she's oh so dear to me?" the words are practiced, quick, ruthless as mock puppy eyes and a soft delicate sigh leave you lips. roy, much to his own disappointment, had to clue you were also adopted, much to his own groan leaving his mouth.
"pause. what do you mean. how do you...." he asks, almost rapidly, tripping over his own words before jason's sharp yet warm laugh makes you grin. causing roy's own realization. you are both adopted. great. no 'your mama' jokes ever again. the embarrassment builds on his face, with a profound blush that matches his hair. "cool. no. that's cool. that's so cool. awesome. i'm so- sorry. just sorry. i'll leave now. that's, yeah, alright." he says, quickly, roy leaving out of shame but also out of just pure horror of possibly making you that reflective because of a stupid joke.
you giggle as he trips over himself, knowing most likely there will be a bottle of something nice at your fire escape in a few days as roy's attempt at a real apology.
"you always dodge those types of jokes and questions so well you know," jason compliments, it's a delicate sort of thing, even for the both of you as gotham stills. just the two of you between the soft couch and scent of imported tea- a gift from alfred.
"you learn to, it's better to make fun of it before someone makes it to the punchline before you. kids can be ruthless, i think both of us learned that pretty early on," you comment lightly, taking a sip of the tea as the steam fogs your vision just for a moment, but the feel of jason beside you is still clear.
"did they ever? i mean, make fun of you, for it," he asks, almost nervous, it's something you've both talked about before but more in passing, less in a real conversation. his hand finding your hair, brushing through it- never ruining it, just fixing it like the strands are made of silk and satin threads.
"no. not particularly, though i remember one girl in first or second grade asking me what the foster shelter was like. in which i just made something up, super dramatic too. she started giving me all her extra fruit snacks for free after that," you give a little grin, somehow, you made the situation fond, and not a bullying attempt, but even being that young a less in empathy to someone else. "she didn't know better. but i've also had people telling my mom- my real mom, that they remember her pregnant, which is something we giggle about," another soft sigh leaving you lips, as you give jason an inquisitive look.
"did they ever make fun of you? gotham academy and all, i can't even imagine," you ask, gentle with words and action as your hand bumps into his playfully, giving his knuckles a kiss and a squeeze. your hands overlapping and fingers sharing warmth as you lean into his warmth. feeling his hands on the roots of your hair, giving a light contemplative hum to your question while jason's hand settles on moving to hold your shoulder into his own frame.
"not enough to deter me from thinking that it was a gift," he says quietly, like admitting that is a crime, as if the gift (and curse) of bruce wayne still doesn't linger. "thought being robin game me magic or some shit, just gave me a bigger bedroom and a suit with no pants," jason huffs, still vulnerable, but wanting you to laugh with him, never at him.
you hum, gently, letting his words settle into your chest, "did you ever- you don't have to answer, but did you ever feel like you had to make every good choice, be the best kid you could, because you got 'chosen'? i did- and i mean, i wasn't robin, i just felt like other kids died to try to get into my position, so i somehow had to do right by them." the explanation leaves your lips almost shaky, like a pen still trying to find it's way across the notebook lines even if the sentiment has been written over and over again in your mind.
"yes, yeah, yes." he answers quickly, as if you just gave his own feelings words. a huff of air almost forming a bit of a laugh, but more of relief leaves his frame. feeling the warm breath on your shoulders, causing a shiver from the oxygen leaving jason's lungs. "always something to prove. someone to live up to. have to be better since you aren't theres biologically," he says more as an agreeance to the feeling than a confirmation that it's right.
"did you ever get over it? the whole needing to prove it thing?" he asks, as if you answer holds precious weight to him, like you are the feathers to his scale.
"yes, took a while. takes a lot of failures, and a lot of conversations with yourself. but i have nothing to prove, and so much more to gain, but in every step of the way i think i'll always contemplate who i would have been without my now parents. the most i can do is donate as much time as i can to those who didn't get that. i've found the more i've grown- the more i spend time with you, the less i have to prove to everyone else," the words leave you softly, as if it's a solution you are still figuring out as you go. his hands stilling as he thinks.
"i think your my forever girl, you know that right? you don't have those expectations to live up to with me, never. just be you. i don't care if you dropped out or shot someone, you deserve a lot more than you think," he says, gentle, words full of mirth and overflowing with his kind of gruff love for you.
his response leaving you a bit breathless, in that lovelorn way, his love warms your own heart, "i know, thank you," you respond with tenderness.
"and for what it's worth- i think your parents did a good job picking," he says gently, kiss landing on your forehead and one of his hands rubbing your cheek and temple.
"well duh, i would hope so. wouldn't be here with you and be so wise, and kind and funny and humble and-" you continue with renewed purpose, "damn right sunshine, damn right." he says, shutting you up with a quick peck to your cheek.
"i'm really proud of you," the words slip from your lips, before giving him a gentle kiss, not much vigor, just all the emotions of pure joy of being with someone who gets such a niche thing, who gets you.
"proud of you too, my adoptee," jason states, he means it, even if the end of his sentence is to inspire more light conversation as you laugh at the phrase. a soft "grosss, don't call me that," leaves you lips with giggles and a swat at his shoulder, settling in for the night at the couch.
"you could call this a picked family, and not the found family trope- or would it be..." you ramble on, a few adopted jokes leaving your lips as he groans. jason complains and makes fun of the so low brow jokes, while in reality he is taking delight in the fact that its the two of you. together. messed up family trees and experiences and all.
