im not sure if you’ll see this😭 but can i have reader being like maddy from euphoria, confident, bad bitch, short skirts and she’s dating peter and they have this secret relationship cuz shes popular and hes not so they both go to a party and makes out in the restroom and comes out together and then flash is making fun of them and then she just kisses peter right in front of everyone (im so srry this is long but i hope u see this
out of sight, on his mind ♡‧₊˚
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w/c: ?
warnings: making out, suggestiveness, drinking, like one swear
a/n: oh i looooved this idea thank you very much for your service babes :D also don't forget to join my new taglist y'all i only got a couple of you so far & happy reading!
you down a shooter, gagging at the bitter taste of the alcohol. you giggle and stick the tiny bottle in your bra. you're dancing with a group of your friends. one of them takes your hand, the two of you moving to the beat of the music. peter watches you from across the room with the hint of a smile.
he wouldn't typically spend his friday night in the corner of a packed houseparty nursing a cup of jungle juice, but ned insisted they go. his best friend is determined they both up their social statuses this year. they're not too popular at midtown, with the exception of the academic decathlon team.
if people only knew peter was dating one of the most popular girls in school; you.
it was peter's idea to keep your relationship secret. you'd wanted to show him off, but he's too shy. you're always the center of attention, and peter parker doesn't do well with attention. he'd much rather admire you with everyone else in public and be yours in private.
"come on, peter! it's a party! shouldn't we be, like, dancing or something?"
"i don't know, ned. just... drink your juice."
ned takes a generous swig of his drink and cringes. peter chuckles, sipping from his cup.
"what's in jungle juice anyway?"
"um, everything i think. you might blackout if you have too much."
"dude, that's the goal."
you catch peter's eye again. you're holding your friend's arm that's wrapped around your shoulders, hips swaying. you shout along to the music with the rest of the girls in your group. you look so carefree, and so damn good.
the pink, strapless dress you're wearing is hugging your body in all the right places. your hair is styled to perfection, tiny gems dotted along your eyelids. your look is complete with a pair of knee high boots. peter loves your style. there's no way to describe it other than that it's you, who peter adores an insane amount. he wishes he could be as bold as you are.
peter's phone vibrates in his pocket; it's a text from you.
are u watching me?
before he even answers, you send another.
come to the bathroom
peter briefly locks eyes with you. you give him a mischievous smile before slipping away, making some excuse to your friends. he bites his lip to suppress his own grin.
"hey, ned? how about i go get us some refills?"
"bet! i’m gonna dance."
ned hands peter his cup and claps him on the shoulder, disappearing into the crowd. instead of refilling their drinks, peter makes his way to the bathroom. there's a few people waiting in line. knowing you, you've already claimed it from them. he knocks at the door. a hand reaches out and grabs at peter's flannel, pulling him inside.
"hi, baby."
your glossy lips capture peter's in a kiss. he instantly leans into it, but you pull back much to his dismay. his big brown eyes go even bigger.
"woah... hi."
you laugh softly.
"miss me?"
"seems like you missed me too."
"maybe."
you run a hand through peter's hair. his hands settle on your hips.
"sorry for watching you, couldn't help it. you look so pretty tonight."
"i always look pretty."
your tone is playful, but peter knows you mean it, and he couldn't agree more.
"whatcha been up to? you having fun?"
your manicured nails scratch lightly at peter's scalp. he practically purrs at the feeling.
"mm, just been hanging with ned. i don't really know anybody else."
"you know me."
"but you're with your friends."
"so?"
"so... you know i’m shy, princess."
you giggle.
"it's just 'cause you're not drunk enough, baby."
"oh yeah?"
peter's thumbs run up and down your sides, face only inches from yours. you retrieve the shooter from your bra. there's still at least half a shot left.
"open."
peter does as you say and opens his mouth. you take his chin between your fingers and tilt his head back, pouring the rest of the strong, sweet liquid down his throat. he swallows. you toss the bottle aside. peter gives you a look, one that says kiss me. you shake your head, smirking.
you want him to kiss you.
peter's lips smash into yours. his eagerness makes you giggle into the kiss. you grip the collar of his shirt in both hands, lips moving slowly against each other's. peter backs you against the door.
"did i already tell you how pretty you look?"
"mhm, but not enough."
"you're right. you're so pretty."
peter kisses down your neck, breathing in the scent of your perfume. you guide his lips back up to yours.
"you are too, y'know."
you peck peter's lips softly, letting your lips linger over his after, eyes searching his. they twinkle. you mesmerize him, truly mesmerize him. you kiss an awe-struck peter properly this time. he holds your waist, head tilted to deepen the kiss.
your make out session is rudely interrupted by someone knocking on the door.
"yeah, one second!" you answer. "let's get out of here."
peter groans and buries his face in your neck.
"but i don't want to. wanna keep kissing you."
"not here, baby."
"why not?"
he leaves more kisses on your neck. you coax peter away, laughing, his arms still wrapped tight around you.
"the line. wanna find somewhere else?"
peter perks up at that.
"okay, let's go."
you lead peter out of the bathroom. he follows, hand in yours. even though no one seems to pay any mind to the fact that you were in the bathroom together, peter can't help but blush. he doesn't make it out unscathed, though; none other than flash thompson notices him.
"penis parker, is that you?"
you stop walking, eyeing flash over your shoulder. peter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"what's up, flash?"
"you are."
peter looks down to see an obvious bulge in his jeans. his cheeks burn hotter, hand leaving yours to readjust himself. a few people turn around to look.
"y/n's a big step up from your imaginary girlfriend. where'd you say she was from again, canada?"
you narrow your eyes at flash, a hand wrapping around peter's bicep.
"do you know him?"
"yeah, we're... friends. sort of. we do academic decathlon together."
your gaze shifts to peter.
"friends?"
"oh yeah, we go way back. any friend of parker's is a friend of mine."
flash smirks at you. you look him up and down, face scrunched in disgust.
"ew."
more people are starting to watch the exchange. you glare at flash, who holds your gaze knowingly. peter can tell you're about to go into protective girlfriend mode. he squeezes your hand that's on his arm.
"anyways, just wanted to congratulate you on your first baddie," flash tells him. "try not to fumble."
before peter can process what's happening, your lips are on his, hands cupping his cheeks to keep him in place. maybe it's just because he's tipsy, but peter actually finds himself having the courage to kiss you back in front of everyone. you smile at this. he holds you by your waist, letting himself enjoy the kiss for a while longer.
peter's lips are puffy and covered in your gloss when you two pull apart. he draws you in closer to himself, giving you one more short kiss, then another. the two of you earn whistles and chatter from everyone watching. you giggle, thumbs caressing peter's cheeks and gaze meeting his.
there's something in his eyes that you haven't seen before; confidence. he might be shy, but not when it comes to you. not anymore.
you look over at flash smugly, his mouth dropped open.
NOTHING will ever compare to the nostalgia I get of 13 yo me during lockdown summer nights reading a cheesy yn stark x peter parker fanfic until 6 am :(
The soft glow of your bedroom lights bathed the walls in a warm hue as you lay sprawled across your bed, a tablet propped up against your knees while lo-fi music hummed gently from the speakers. It was late afternoon at the Tower, and the kind of peaceful quiet that followed a day without villains or rogue.
You had your window cracked open, more out of habit than anything else. Somewhere far below, you could faintly hear the city’s buzz. But up here, it felt like your own little sanctuary—until you heard the distinct clink of the latch sliding open.
You didn’t flinch. Instead, a slow smile tugged at your lips as you glanced sideways toward the tall windows just as they cracked open fully, letting in a gust of wind and a very familiar, curly-haired boy who stumbled in with a bit more flair than necessary.
“Peter,” you drawled without looking up, “you know there’s a door, right?”
He straightened, brushing wind-tangled curls out of his face and grinning. “There's no fun in that."
You turned your attention to him, a smile pulling on your lips as you placed the tablet away. You stood up from your bed and walked over to him, placing a soft kiss on his lips that he flourished into. Peter's hands found your waist as he moved you both from left to right earning a giggle from you. Time felt like it slowed down every time you kissed Peter. He was always so soft, so loving- so unreal.
You pulled away first, wrapping stray pieces of hair around your finger and twirling it. His eyes were glued to you-full of admiration and love. He let out a sheepish laugh before he removed his hands from your waist to pull his backpack off.
"Almost forgot, I have a surprise." He mentions, crouching down so he could unzip his backpack before rummaging inside.
"A surprise?" You ask, eyebrows furrowed.
Peter looked up at you through his lashes, a small awkward smile tugging at his lips. "I, uh… brought something. It’s kinda nerdy. Okay, it’s really nerdy. But I was thinking—maybe you’d wanna do it with me?"
You let out a breathy laugh at your boyfriends remark. "Pete, I don't care how nerdy it is if it means I get to spend time with you."
He chuckled nervously before pulling out a LEGO set. It had a massive gray spaceship and a number that read '7,541 pieces', the unmistakable title in the corner: Millennium Falcon.
Your mouth fell agape. “Peter, that thing’s huge.”
He laughed, cheeks flushing. "Ned and I pooled together some money a while back to buy one, and we built it together over a couple weekends. But then this one went on sale, and I kinda… saved up again. I was gonna build it solo, but I thought it'd be more fun with you."
Your heart warmed at the thought.
He looked up at you then, eyes a little uncertain. "I know it’s dorky. I just thought—if you don’t want to, it’s totally fine—"
You leaned forward, reaching out to cradle his face with your hands. "Peter, that’s really sweet of you. I’d love to."
Relief washed over his face like a tide. He beamed, leaning forward to kiss your cheek before immediately beginning to unload bag after bag of LEGO pieces from his backpack. Within minutes, your floor was covered in numbered plastic packets, the massive instruction manual flopped open.
You settled onto the carpet, legs crossed beneath you. Peter sat opposite, already sorting out the first few bags.
"Okay, so bag one is all the base plates," he said, eyes skimming the instructions. "And fun fact—did you know the actual Millennium Falcon in the movies was twenty-five meters long? The UCS model is over thirty inches! They had to build a full-size cockpit for some of the original shots."
You let out a giggle at his comments, "Really?" you asked teasingly. You loved it when Peter would give you random fun facts and would become completely absorbed in his interests.
Peter’s eyes lit up. He nodded eagerly, clearly thrilled you showed even a dime interested. "Yeah! But I think this is the updated model,” Peter murmured, nose buried in the instruction book.
“It’s more accurate to the Force Awakens version—but it still has the classic round dish instead of the rectangular one, which is way better, honestly.”
You smiled as you sorted. “You sound like you’ve memorized the schematics.”
“I have. Pretty much.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Peter shot you a proud look. “Did you know the Falcon’s hyperdrive is a Class 0.5? That’s faster than an Imperial Star Destroyer. Han bragged about it all the time.”
“Oh really?”
"Also," he added, glancing up, "did you know that its hyperdrive was a class 0.5? That’s one of the fastest ratings in the galaxy."
You gasped dramatically. "Scandalous."
“And the reason it looks so weird is because George Lucas originally designed it as a flying saucer, but changed it at the last minute. The final design is based on a hamburger with an olive on the side.”
You paused, mid-sort. “Wait. What?”
Peter grinned. “Yeah. The olive is the cockpit.”
You reached across the instruction booklet to boop his nose. "You’re such a nerd."
"You love it," he teased.
"I do."
An hour in, your floor was buried in baggies, bricks, and half-assembled engine cores. You’d lost count of how many times Peter had given you little Star Wars facts. Every single time, you smiled and gave him soft, amused responses:
“That’s so cool.”
“Really?”
“You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”
He always flushed a little when you said that. It made you want to keep doing it just to watch him try not to squirm.
The Falcon began to take shape. Compartments, smugglers’ holds, the cockpit frame. Peter showed you how the dish connected, and you helped him attach the forward mandibles. Each piece that clicked into place made the whole thing feel like a game.
You were reaching for another gray tile when the door cracked open behind you.
“Hey, kiddo, I was gonna ask if—”
Tony Stark stopped cold in the doorway. His brows furrowed as he took in the scene: you and Peter Parker sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, surrounded by a colorful minefield of LEGO, instruction books, half-built Falcon parts, and a disturbing amount of laser blaster minifigures.
He tilted his head slowly, eyes narrowing.
“What’s Spider-Boy doing here?”
Peter stiffened like he’d been hit with a stun gun. “Uh… hi, Mr. Stark.”
You looked up with a calm, practiced smile. “He wanted to hang out. We’re building LEGO's.”
Tony squinted. "That’s aggressively nerdy."
"Dad!"
He held up his hands in mock defense. “Hey, hey. Not judging. Just… observing. Judging a little, but still.”
Peter smiled awkwardly. “It’s a really advanced set.”
“I can see that.” Tony squinted. “Wait—when did you get here?”
Peter blinked. “Uh… not long ago?”
Tony’s eyes narrowed. "Wait a sec. When did you come in? I didn’t see you at the door."
Before Peter could speak, Tony looked at the two of you- then the window.
Tony pointed at Peter and looked directly at you. "Did he come through your window?"
Peter and you tried to speak at the same time once again- but were cut off.
"How long has that been going on? Is this, like, a nightly thing? Is he Batman-ing his way in here every week?"
“Dad,” you sighed, “we’ve been over this—”
Tony held up a finger. “You know what? Nope. Gonna circle back to that later. But in the meantime—Peter, dinner’s at seven. You’re staying. No arguments.”
Peter nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”
“And next time,” Tony added, walking toward the door, “just use the damn door, kid.”
The hours passed in a whirl of bricks and giggles. Peter occasionally scooted closer so you could see the finer parts of the manual. Your arms would brush, and he’d blush, but neither of you mentioned it. At one point, he explained how the Falcon’s sensor dish was knocked off during the Battle of Endor, and that’s why it has a rectangular one in The Force Awakens.
Suddenly, Peter began looking around. He checked beside his legs and around the partially built spaceship. "Where’s the trans-clear radar tile? The one with the circular etching?"
You looked around, then frowned. "It was right here a second ago. Did it fall under the rug?"
The two of you searched every corner of the carpet. Peter was halfway under your bed, legs sticking out like some kind of reverse-spider-crab.
"Got it!" Peter popped back up, hair sticking out in every direction and holding the piece triumphantly. "I found it!"
You grinned. "Oh, my hero!"
He placed it delicately in your palm like he was bestowing a rare jewel.
By the time you reached the final few pieces, the sun had dipped beneath the skyline, casting golden light across the floor. Peter clicked the last turret into place and leaned back, breathless.
You both stared at the completed Falcon. It took up nearly half the floor space between you. In Peter's words, it was 'the second most beautiful thing ever made because you came first.'
Peter exhaled, satisfied. “I’m really glad I got to spend today with you.”
You turned to him and gently cupped his face in your hands. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”
He blinked, clearly trying not to melt.
“Even if it’s just building LEGOs and me nerding out about Star Wars?”
You smiled, thumb brushing his cheek. “Especially that.”
He gave you that crooked, sunshine smile you adored—one that lit up his whole face.
Right on cue, FRIDAY’s voice filled the room:
“Miss Stark, Mr. Parker: dinner is ready. Mr. Stark has requested your presence. His exact words were: ‘tell the lovebirds to wash their hands and drag themselves to the kitchen before I come up there and hose them down.’”
You and Peter both burst out laughing.
Peter ran a hand through his curls, grinning. “That’s definitely your dad.”
You groaned with a smile, pushing off the floor and stretching. “I should’ve known he’d call us out eventually.”
He gave you that boyish, shy smile that made your heart melt. “You sure he’s not gonna kill me?”
You looped your arms around his neck. “If he was going to, he would’ve the first time you came through my window.”
“…So just mild intimidation tonight?”
You grinned. “Very mild.”
Right then, the door swung open without warning. You were greeted with none other than your father, who looked mildly annoyed.
“You two elope and forget to RSVP to dinner?”
You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself up slightly. “We were on our way.”
Tony stepped further into the room, gaze narrowing just slightly at Peter, who immediately sat up straighter, like being caught slouching was somehow the real offense.
“You okay there, Underoos?” Tony asked, lips twitching. “You look like I walked in on something scandalous. Should I knock next time?”
Peter’s face turned an impressive shade of red. “N-no! I mean—no, sir. We were just building the—uh—Falcon. That’s all. Just the Falcon. LEGO Falcon. Nothing else.”
Tony gave you a knowing look. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
“Dad.”
He smirked. “Hey, I’m just saying—you tell your daughter and her spider-boyfriend dinner’s at 7:00, and 7:10 hits so I come looking and find his hands suspiciously close to your knee and you sitting there making oogly eyes at him."
Peter let out a noise that might’ve been a panicked laugh.
“We were literally talking about Star Wars,” you deadpanned.
“Uh-huh. Nerd foreplay,” Tony muttered. “The most dangerous kind.”
You gave him a look. “Can we not, please?”
Tony held his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. You’re right. I trust you. Mostly.” He gave Peter a long look. “Sixty percent.”
Peter squeaked out a “Thank you?”
Tony’s gaze dropped to the LEGO Millennium Falcon laid out in all its half-built glory. He tilted his head.
“Huh. Not bad.” He gave a small nod, then added, “I could probably build it faster.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Sure you could.”
He smirked. “Excuse me, I’m a mechanical genius. That thing’s like baby’s first blueprint.”
“You still couldn’t figure out how to open a cereal box this morning.”
“That was sabotage. Who triple seals Frosted Flakes?”
Peter tried and failed to stifle a laugh, to which Tony turned, mock-offended. “Oh, so now you’re on her side?”
Peter put his hands up, smiling nervously. “I’m neutral! Switzerland!”
Tony pointed at him. “Stay that way. Smart man.”
He took a final glance around the room, nodding once more before backing out. “Wrap it up, lovebirds. Dinner’s getting cold and I’m not reheating lasagna for two teenagers who chose LEGO bricks and whatever the hell you two were doing up here over my homemade masterpiece.”
You snorted. “You didn’t make that lasagna. FRIDAY ordered it.”
“Semantics,” Tony called over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hall.
fluff. heavy kissing. implied intimacy. teens being ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ teens. light suggestive vibes but nothing explicit. ♡
You're on your stomach on Peter's bed, your legs stretched out while wearing the hoodie you stole from his closet a week ago. The sleeves are too long, covering half your hands, but you like it that way. It smells like him, like detergent and that cologne he pretends he doesn't use. You've been living in it like a raccoon in a stolen nest. You're not doing anything right now, just waiting for your boyfriend to finish studying, with your mouth full of Pop Rocks that won't shut up.
Crack. Pop. Crack. It's funny, honestly. It sounds like a neck getting cracked in half—well, it can sound like fireworks too. It's annoyingly loud because your mouth looks like it's trying to pick a fight with physics.
Peter groans from his desk and doesn't even look at you. "You're so annoying." The words come out flat like he's already said them three times today. You know he doesn't mean it. Not really. He's just complaining. As always. It's his nature.
You chuckle, candy still fizzing. "You said I could have them." You roll onto your side just to get a better look at him, your lips pouting as if you're using them against him. His pen is tapping against his notebook while listening to the popping of the Pop Rocks.
"Didn't say I wanted to hear them every five seconds, baby." He pinches the bridge of his nose. Sometimes you wonder how he can even manage you. Maybe he's praying for patience and not getting any divine assistance.
You shift a little, cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his bed. "You can't even hear me over there," you say before scoffing and chewing deliberately, just to make a point.
"I can. It's like... background music. In my head." He spins slightly in his chair, just enough to throw a look at you over his shoulder.
You snort. "Dramatic." You drag the word out, milk it, trying to piss him off. Then you toss another handful of candy into your mouth like a kid.
He finally turns around the chair creaking. His hair's a mess, and there's a pencil tucked behind his ear like he forgot it was there. He crosses his arms and damn... those muscles are flexing. "I'm trying to study, and you're over here sounding like... I don't even know what to call it." His expression is all annoyed, but his eyes are warm. Tired, but warm. Not angry. Honestly? You love it when he gets like this, grumpy and soft around the edges.
You open your mouth real wide and go "Aaahhh," just to make the fizz louder. It's obnoxious. Truly. The kind of noise that would make people glare at you, and you're so proud of it.
Peter squints at you like he's in pain. "Why is my girlfriend like this?" He says it like a curse, like a prayer, like a man at the end of his rope who still wouldn't let go.
"Aw, come on, you love me." You say it too easily. It's not a question—something settled and obvious and unchangeable.
He exhales through his nose and walks over to you anyway, flops down next to you on the bed, elbow bumping yours. You hold out the package of candy. It rustles between you like a peace offering. Or a trap. He hasn't decided which yet.
He eyes it before looking back at you and your lips. "You're gonna shut up if I take some?" There's no heat in it, like the everyday tone he uses when you're being like this. Just a tired sort of fondness, like he's resigned himself to your antics and this weird little life you two have built. Annoyingly lovable, what he always says when you're asking for assurance if he still loves you even though you're playful.
You shrug. "Probably not." And you mean it. You're indecisive, and impulsive, with tendencies to be pushy. He knew that when he let you steal his hoodie the first time, and when you did things just to get his attention.
He sighs but takes a few and tilts his head back to chew. The sound bursts in the quiet like tiny firecrackers, and he physically winces, like he didn't think they'd be that loud. Hates the sounds. Obviously.
He looks at you like you just committed a crime. "Why does it... feel weird?" His face scrunches, and he's trying not to like it but also can't deny that it's kind of hilarious.
"It's fun-weird, not bad-weird." You roll onto your back beside him, shoulder brushing his, voice smug. "It tastes good though!"
Peter turns his head toward you and looks at your mouth. "You're ridiculous," he says softly, barely louder than the crackle. But he's still watching you, still close before he takes the Pop Rocks from your hand, gets enough from inside, and puts it in his mouth.
Then he kisses you.
Like... no warning. One second he's staring at your mouth like it's got all the answers to his questions, and the next, he's leaning in, slow but sure, like he already decided and you just didn't catch up yet. It's not aggressive, not rushed- it's soft, warm, and easy.
Your mouths meet soft at first. Just lips brushing lips, a little sticky from the candy's effect. But then the Pop Rocks crackle between you, loud and sudden, like someone just started a time bomb under your tongues, and everything jumps.
You giggle against him, nose bumping his, but he doesn't pull back. He just tilts his head and pushes in a little deeper. And, well, yeah, maybe that's when it changes.
Because now it's not soft. It's something else.
His mouth opens just enough for your tongue to catch him, and he tastes like cherry- you're sure it's from the candy. The candy's still popping, still snapping under your tongues, and it's a funny feeling. Literally. Your lips part wider, let it get messy, let it get loud. You lick into his mouth a little and feel him suck in a breath right through his nose.
And God, that's all it takes before he's kissing you back harder now, licking the taste of candy right out of your mouth like he's trying to shut it off. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, gently and soft the way he knows you like. It's steady; he's holding you in place. His teeth graze your bottom lip, yearningly, just barely, just enough to feel it, and you groan, soft and surprised and too into it.
It's clumsy, yeah. Of course, it is. You're both grinning too much, breathing too hard, lips swollen already, and the candy still going off like a fucking broken record. But you don't stop. Neither of you. Because it's fun and silly. Because it's stupid. Because it's so much better than it should be.
Peter pulls back eventually, breathing hard, his lips pink and wet, a little sugar stuck at the corner of his mouth again. He licks it away automatically, and your stomach flips.
"Okay," he says, voice low and just barely wrecked. "That was..."
He doesn't even finish the sentence.
You're already grabbing more Pop Rocks.
"Again," you say, out of breath but grinning. "C'monnn."
He laughs, but it's a little shaky now. "I'm gonna die."
"Mhm," you hum and press your mouth to his before he can say another word.
This time, it's not that gentle. It's full of tongues and teeth and stupid little moans pressed into each other's mouths, sugar and spit and heat all tangled up in a kiss that has no business feeling this good.
You taste like candy, and he kisses you like he’s starving for it.
series summary: doctor strange is fed up with peter's pestering, so he sends him off to new jersey. one small problem: he sends him to another universe.
wordcount: 1k
warnings: swearing, super oblivious reader. y/n is used, third-person pov, reader is a huge nerd (matches peter's freak basically)
pairings: peter parker x batsis! reader, batfamily x neglected reader
other: i mainly made this based off mcu peter, but also off of the comics just slightly, since i didn't want to do the whole "you're a doppelgänger for this actor aren't you" thing if that makes sense.. right?
series masterlist. (tbd) part one.
“What do you mean? There are other universes? Oh my god Bruce was right. That's how you knew my name." Peter paced back and forth, his hand running through his hair.
"What did you mean when you said comics, Peter? Are there comics from this universe? Why do they mention my last name?" She bombarded him with questions, slowly getting closer to his face. "Yeah.. there are comics about him... are you- are you related to him- Bruce Wayne, I mean."She nodded, not caring for the possibility that he was in fact a crazy stalker.
Peter tugged at the neckline of his spandex suit, sweating more if that was even possible. "Are you okay? This is a lot.." Peter nodded rapidly, not as bothered that he was stuck in another universe with no known way to get home- only that he was in a girl's room.
"Yeah.. I just- this suit is actually really itchy, now that I think about it." "Let me get you a change of clothes, I'll be right back." She walked out, leaving Peter to look at all of her trinkets.
Y/N stepped out of her room, closing the door as quietly as possible and walking down the hallway. He would be too small for Jason's clothes, way too big for Damian's, so she stopped in front of Tim's room. She opened the door softly, peeking in to look for Tim, who to nobody's suprise, wasn't in sight. He was probably in the batcave, obsessing over a case. She opened his closet, finding the clothes she's seen him wear least, praying he won't miss them. She closed the door behind her, sighing in relief. "What are you doing?"
Y/N practically jumped out of her skin, turning to face Damian Wayne, who had his arms folded across his torso. She hid the clothes behind her back, shaking her head. "Nothing! I was looking for Tim, couldn't find him.. so I'm going back to my room.. okay bye!" She hurried back down the hallway, Damian looking after her suspiciously.
She closed the door to her room and let out a huge sigh of relief. "Here.. my bathroom's right through there.."As Peter changed. Y/N looked around her room, hiding anything that she could feel embarrassed by, straightening her shelves and homework. "Oh my god. Spider-Man is in my room. No big deal!" She paced around her room until he returned, his suit folded in his arms. "Here, you can hide it in my closet."
She opened the door to her walk-in closet, as Peter gawked at all of the fabrics that lined the walls, the pairs of shoes laid neatly on shelves, various different types of clothing organized in a way he could tell she didn't have any part in sorting."This is.. as big as my apartment!" She nodded and itched the side of her face, awkwardly shuffing her feet. "Just.. put it in here, so my butler doesn't find it." She opens a shoebox that held a few photos scattered at the bottom. Peter picked one up, and his eyes widened.
"Holy shit.. your family is so intimidating." Y/N looked down at he was kneeling, taking the family photo from his hands. Bruce, stoic as ever, sitting in a tall chair while all of his children stand surrounding him. Damian and Dick to his left, Tim in the middle, Jason and Y/N to his right. The photo was taken without Duke, Cass and Steph, who were all on a mission- Bruce led her on to believe they all had buisness meetings, although she would soon learn that it was a lie. "Yeah.. what, is he a super famous ceo in your universe too? Never seen Enterprises in the comics." Her stand up special laugh track would have to be edited in, as he just stared at her. "No.. like Batman."
She knelt down to pick up the photo, shoving it back in the box before placing Peter's suit in the box, the lid placed back on and shoved under a bunch of gala dresses. She ushers Peter out of her closet, slamming the door a bit too loud. Turning to him, her face wore a shocked expression, more than if that was possible. "What do you mean, Batman?" Peter stared at her like she had another head, looking at her expression. "Wait- did you not know your own father was a crime-fighting vigilante? That your whole family was filled with them?"
Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, running her hands through her hair. It all makes sense. The late nights, the unexplainable bruises, the constant feeling of being left out when they told some ominous joke about countless villians she had seen arrested on tv. How could she have missed it?
"I feel like I said something wrong." Peter sat right next to her, scooting away few inches away after realizing their legs were touching. "I should've known.. how could I have missed it?" She stared holes into the floor, stunned into silence. A soft knock on the door disrupted her realization, as they both shot up and stared for a long moment at each other. "Miss Wayne?" Called Alfred from outside the door. "It's time for dinner." The two didn't even realize the time, and now both pairs of eyes flickered to the clock on her nightstand. 6:30pm.
"I'll be back." She whispered. "Stay here and lay low, don't make any loud noises or they'll all hear you." Peter nodded, and Y/N quickly went to change out of her school uniform. "Miss Wayne, are you in there?" Alfred started to turn the knob, but Peter quickly slid to the door and pushed against it, locking it smoothly. "Miss Wayne, is everything alright?"
"Everything's fine, Alfred! I'll be down in a moment!" Y/N walked back out of the bathroom, placing her clothes in her hamper and replacing her old headband with a new one. She ushered Peter away from the door and out of sight, taking a deep breath before unlocking and exiting into the hallway, shutting the door behind her and leaving Peter alone with his thoughts.
a/n. i did not expect anyone to want a part two but i'm so glad people did! this is fun to write&i live for drama. this might be slop but at least it's my own. i've had online school all week and i'm slowly losing my mind, so much infact that i forgot i wrote the first hald of this and practically rewrote it in the second half..
i miss you 2012 avengers. i miss you the avengers tower. i miss you irondad and spiderson. i miss you loki lingering in the tower for no other reason than that he's the main love interest. i miss you poptart-eating thor. i miss you grumpy bucky barnes. i miss you old man, chronically offline steve rogers. i miss you clint in the vents. i miss you girls night with wanda and natasha. i miss you the rare bruce banner feature. i miss you sassy sam wilson. i miss you cheeky reader who always called fury by his first name. i miss you christmas avengers blurbs in the middle of the fanfiction written by an autistic 14 year old. i miss you 😔😔😔
Summary: Red Hood kidnaps someone for intel, only for them to sass him so relentlessly that he starts to question his life choices mid-interrogation. Somehow, it turns into coffee at 3 a.m. and a reluctant partnership.
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
Jason Todd had kidnapped a lot of people in his career as Red Hood. Drug dealers, mobsters, corrupt cops, and the occasional arms dealer. He'd gotten pretty good at it, the intimidation, the interrogation, the careful balance of violence and restraint that got him the information he needed.
What he had not gotten good at was dealing with people who wouldn't shut the hell up.
"So, just to clarify," you said from where you were zip-tied to a chair in his safehouse, "your whole aesthetic is 'what if a motorcycle had a gun'? Because I have notes."
Jason stared at you through his helmet, genuinely at a loss for words.
"I mean, the red is bold, I'll give you that," you continued, apparently taking his silence as encouragement. "Very 'I'm angry and I want everyone to know it.' But the bat symbol? Feels a little derivative. Like you're in your Batman phase but trying to be edgy about it."
"Are you... " Jason started, then stopped. "Are you seriously critiquing my costume right now?"
"Someone has to." You shrugged as much as the zip ties allowed. "That helmet's doing you no favors. Very 'I raided a motorcycle shop and made poor choices.'"
Jason had grabbed you three hours ago from your apartment in Crime Alley. You were a low-level information broker, nothing major, but word on the street said you had connections to the new gang trying to move in on his territory. He'd expected fear, maybe some bravado, possibly some begging.
He had not expected this.
"Let me remind you," Jason said slowly, pulling out one of his guns and checking the magazine with deliberate menace, "that you're the one tied to a chair in an undisclosed location. Maybe show a little self-preservation?"
"Oh, I'm terrified," you deadpanned. "Really shaking in my boots. Can't you tell?"
"You're not wearing boots. You're wearing duck slippers."
You glanced down at your feet. He'd grabbed you right out of your apartment, hadn't given you time to change, and then looked back up at him. "I stand by my footwear choices. They're whimsical."
Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, which was a pointless gesture since he was wearing a helmet. "I'm going to ask you some questions... "
"Let me guess. 'Where's the shipment?' 'Who's your boss?' 'Why won't you take this seriously?'" You tilted your head. "How am I doing?"
"If you don't start cooperating... "
"You'll what? Shoot me? Please. You've been waving that gun around for twenty minutes and haven't fired once. You're all bark and no bite."
"I have literally killed people."
"Sure, Jan."
Jason stared at you. "Did you just… who's Jan? What does that even mean?"
"It's a meme. You know what, never mind. Not important." You shifted in the chair, trying to get comfortable. "These zip ties are really tight, by the way. I'm losing circulation."
"That's kind of the point of restraints."
"Is it though? Because I feel like the point is to keep me in one place, which... " You gestured vaguely with your tied hands. "Mission accomplished. The cutting-off-circulation thing just seems like overkill."
Against his better judgment, Jason found himself moving closer to check the zip ties. They were tight, but not dangerously so. "They're fine."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one losing feeling in your fingers." You paused. "Although, real talk? If you're going to kidnap people, you might want to invest in better restraints. Zip ties are so 2010."
"What would you suggest?" Jason asked before he could stop himself.
"Personally? Handcuffs. More secure, reusable, and less likely to cause nerve damage. Also, they make you look more professional. Less 'improvised kidnapping,' more 'I planned this.'"
Jason realized he was having a genuine conversation about optimal restraint methods with his hostage and decided he needed to regain control of this situation.
"Enough," he said firmly. "You're going to tell me about the Scorpions' shipment coming in next week. Location, time, what they're moving."
"No."
Just that. No begging, no negotiating, just a flat refusal.
"No?" Jason repeated.
"No. I don't know anything about a shipment."
"You're lying."
"I'm really not." You met his gaze, or where his gaze would be if he weren't wearing a helmet. "I'm an information broker, not a gang member. I hear things, sure, but I don't know anything about Scorpions' operations. That's not my area."
"Your 'area' is Crime Alley. The Scorpions are moving into Crime Alley. You expect me to believe you don't know anything?"
"I expect you to believe me because it's true." You sighed. "Look, Red Hood, can I call you Red? The whole name is a mouthful."
"No."
"Cool, I'm calling you Red. Here's the thing: I deal in gossip, rumors, and low-level intel. Who's cheating on whom, which cop is taking bribes, what buildings are fronts for what operations? I'm not exactly in the inner circle of major criminal enterprises."
Jason studied you, using every tell-reading skill Batman had drilled into him. You weren't sweating, your breathing was steady, and your body language was relaxed despite being tied to a chair. Either you were telling the truth, or you were the best liar he'd ever met.
"So you're useless to me," he said.
"Wouldn't say useless. Just not useful for this specific thing." You brightened. "But hey, since you went through all the trouble of kidnapping me, I could point you toward someone who would know about the shipment. Professional courtesy and all that."
Jason didn't move. "Why would you do that?"
"Because the Scorpions are bad for business. They're aggressive, violent, and they don't respect the existing power structures. If they take over Crime Alley, people like me are out of work." You shrugged. "Enemy of my enemy and all that."
"You expect me to trust you?"
"No more than I trust you, which is currently sitting at about negative fifteen." You smiled, and it was sharp. "But we both want the Scorpions gone, so maybe we can be temporarily useful to each other before going back to our respective corners."
Jason considered this. It was logical, which was somehow more unsettling than if you'd been hysterical or defiant. You were treating this like a business negotiation, not a kidnapping.
"Who's the contact?" he asked.
"Uh-uh. Not how this works." You nodded toward your restraints. "You let me go, we go get coffee like civilized people, and then I'll tell you what you want to know."
"You think I'm going to just let you walk out of here?"
"I think you're going to realize that I'm more useful as a cooperative source than a hostile hostage." You tilted your head. "Also, it's 3 AM and I'm betting neither of us has eaten dinner. There's a diner two blocks from here that makes excellent pancakes."
"How do you know where we are?"
"Please. I've lived in Crime Alley my whole life. I know every safehouse, every warehouse, every place someone might take a person they don't want found." You paused. "Including this one, which, no offense, is pretty obvious. You're in the old Thompkins building. Everyone knows about this place."
Jason's hand moved to his gun on instinct. If you knew where you were, if you could identify his safehouse,
"Relax, Red. I'm not going to tell anyone." You rolled your eyes. "Bad for business, remember? You're one of the few people keeping Crime Alley from becoming a complete war zone. Why would I want to compromise that?"
"You're very calm for someone who just admitted knowing a crime lord's identity."
"Crime lord? That's generous. You're more of a crime... entrepreneur." You grinned at his silence. "What, not a fan of the title? Fine. Crime middle-manager. Anti-hero with anger issues. Vigilante with questionable methods. Take your pick."
"I could still shoot you."
"But you won't." You said it with such certainty that Jason actually believed you believed it. "Because I'm right about us being useful to each other, and you're practical enough to recognize that."
Jason stood there for a long moment, gun in hand, trying to figure out when exactly he'd lost control of this interrogation. It had probably been around the time you'd critiqued his helmet.
"Pancakes," he said finally.
"I'm sorry?"
"You said something about pancakes."
Your face lit up in a way that was frankly unfair given the circumstances. "So we have a deal?"
"We have a temporary arrangement," Jason corrected. "You give me intel on the Scorpions, I don't throw you off a building. Very simple."
"You're really hung up on the threatening thing, huh?" You wiggled your fingers. "Zip ties? Any time now?"
Jason pulled out a knife and cut through the restraints, stepping back immediately in case you tried anything. But you just rubbed your wrists, stood up, and stretched like you'd just woken up from a nap rather than been held hostage for three hours.
"So," you said brightly. "Your place or mine?"
"What?"
"For the clothes. I'm not going to a diner in pajamas and duck slippers." You gestured at yourself. "I have standards."
"We're not going to your place. You could have a weapon stashed, backup, a silent alarm... "
"Or I could just really not want to wear pajamas in public." You headed for the door like you owned the place. "Come on, Red. If I wanted to betray you, I wouldn't do it before getting pancakes. I'd at least wait until after. I'm not a monster."
Jason found himself following you out of his own safehouse, which was definitely not how this was supposed to go.
Twenty minutes later, he was sitting in a booth at the Bluebird Diner, still in full Red Hood gear because he wasn't about to reveal his identity to a hostage-turned-informant, while you perused the menu like this was a normal 3 AM hangout and not the weirdest night of his vigilante career.
"I'm thinking waffles," you announced. "No, pancakes. Actually, maybe French toast. What are you getting?"
"Coffee," Jason said flatly.
"That's not food."
"It's all I need."
"Spoken like someone who's never had a food-based epiphany." You flagged down the waitress, Doris, who'd been working the night shift for fifteen years and had seen weirder things than a vigilante in her diner. "Hi! I'll have the chocolate chip pancakes with a side of bacon, and my friend here will have the breakfast special."
"I didn't agree to... "
"He's shy," you told Doris. "Bring him coffee, too. Black, I'm guessing? He seems like a black coffee person."
Doris looked at Jason, looked at you, shrugged, and walked away.
"I could have ordered for myself," Jason said.
"But did you?" You propped your chin on your hand. "So. The Scorpions."
"You're really going to give me intel? Just like that?"
"I'm really going to give you intel while eating pancakes at 3 AM in a diner with a crime lord. This is called multitasking." You pulled out your phone. "Okay, so the person you want is named Marcus Webb. Mid-level Scorpion guy, loves to brag when he drinks. He'll be at the Harbor Club tomorrow night."
Jason pulled out his own phone and started taking notes. "How do I find him?"
"Tall, white guy, bad tribal tattoo on his neck. Usually wears too much cologne." You made a face. "Fair warning: he's going to hit on you."
"I'll be in my helmet."
"Trust me, that won't stop him. He's very determined." You paused as Doris returned with coffee. "Thanks, Doris. You're a star."
Jason waited until the waitress left before continuing. "What's his weakness? What's going to make him talk?"
"Ego. Tell him you're impressed by the Scorpions' operation, ask him to explain how they're so successful. He'll tell you everything just to show off."
"That actually works?"
"You'd be surprised how many criminals just want someone to acknowledge how clever they think they are." You added cream to your coffee with the focus of a scientist. "It's like they're all desperate for validation but chose crime instead of therapy."
Jason snorted before he could stop himself.
You looked up, grinning. "Was that a laugh? Did the Red Hood just laugh at my joke?"
"No."
"That was definitely a laugh. I'm counting that as a laugh."
"It was not... " Jason stopped as Doris returned with your pancakes and his apparently ordered breakfast special. "I didn't ask for this."
"You need to eat," you said simply, already drowning your pancakes in syrup. "Can't fight crime on an empty stomach."
"I've been fighting crime on an empty stomach for years."
"And how's that working out for you?" You pointed your fork at him. "You're tense, aggressive, and you kidnapped an innocent information broker. Sounds like someone needs a Snickers."
"You're not innocent."
"Fair. But I'm also not wrong." You took a bite of the pancakes and made a sound that was frankly inappropriate for a public place. "Oh my god. These are amazing. You have to try them."
"I'm not taking off my helmet in front of you."
"Right, the whole secret identity thing." You considered this. "What if I close my eyes?"
"What if you don't, and I don't eat the pancakes?"
"Your loss." You stole a piece of bacon from his plate. "More for me."
Jason watched you eat his bacon, his bacon, that he hadn't even agreed to order, and realized he was having the most surreal conversation of his life. And he'd died and come back, so that was saying something.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked suddenly.
You paused mid-bite. "I told you. The Scorpions are bad for business."
"That's not the whole reason."
You were quiet for a moment, and for the first time that night, your expression turned serious. "You actually give a shit about Crime Alley. Most people, cops, heroes, whatever, they write this place off. Too dirty, too dangerous, too far gone. But you actually try to protect people here."
"So?"
"So some of us notice. Some of us appreciate it." You went back to your pancakes. "Also, you didn't shoot me, which I feel like deserves recognition. Really showed restraint there."
"The night's not over."
"Ever the optimist." You grinned. "I like you, Red. You're like a very angry, heavily armed golden retriever."
"I'm going to shoot you."
"No, you're not. You're going to eat your eggs and then we're going to plan how you're going to approach Marcus Webb tomorrow night." You pushed his plate toward him. "Come on. I ordered it specially for you."
Jason looked at the food, looked at you, and made a decision that was definitely going to come back to haunt him. He reached up and pressed something on his helmet that loosened the seal enough to eat while still keeping his face mostly covered.
"Oh, we're doing this? We're having a moment?" You tried to peek. "Do you have a jaw? I feel like you have a jaw."
"Stop trying to see my face."
"Can't blame a girl for trying." But you did look away, focusing on your own food. "For what it's worth, I'm sure you're very pretty under there."
"I'm not pretty."
"Handsome then. Ruggedly attractive. Whatever you want to call it."
Jason ate his eggs in silence, trying to figure out how this had become his life. An hour ago, you'd been his hostage. Now you were giving him intel, buying him breakfast, and complimenting his hypothetical jawline.
"This doesn't make us friends," he said finally.
"Obviously not. We're professional associates with a shared goal and a mutual appreciation for breakfast foods." You finished your pancakes and started eyeing his bacon again. "Are you going to eat that?"
Jason pushed the plate toward you without comment.
"See? We're bonding." You took the bacon triumphantly. "Next thing you know, we'll have inside jokes and matching friendship bracelets."
"That's not happening."
"You say that now, but I'm very persistent." You pulled out your phone. "Give me your number."
"Absolutely not."
"How else am I going to text you updates about the Scorpions?"
Jason considered this. "I'll find you when I need information."
"By kidnapping me again? That's so inefficient." You waved your phone. "Just give me your number. I promise I won't send you memes. Okay, I'll probably send you memes, but they'll be good ones."
Against every instinct, every lesson Batman had taught him about operational security and maintaining distance from assets, Jason pulled out his phone.
"This is a burner," he said, reading off the number. "I change them regularly."
"Cool, I'll just keep asking you for new numbers." You typed it in and immediately sent him a text. "There. Now you have mine too."
Jason's phone buzzed. He looked down at the message: This is your friendly neighborhood info broker. Reply 'RED' if you're actually Red Hood and not some other heavily armed vigilante.
Despite himself, Jason typed back: RED.
Your phone buzzed, and you grinned. "Excellent. Now we're in business." You stood up, throwing money on the table for both meals. "My treat, since you provided the entertainment tonight."
"I didn't... "
"The kidnapping. That was very entertaining." You headed for the door, then paused. "Same time next week?"
"Why would we do this again?"
"Because the Scorpions aren't going anywhere fast, and I have more intel you'll probably want." You shrugged. "Plus, the pancakes are really good, and eating alone is depressing."
Jason stood there, watching you walk out of the diner in your duck slippers like you owned the night, and realized he'd just made a deal with the most frustrating person he'd ever met.
His phone buzzed again. Another text from you: thanks for not shooting me. You're my second favorite vigilante now.
Jason typed back before he could stop himself: Who's your first?
Orphan. She has better taste in costumes.
Jason snorted, then caught himself and looked around to make sure no one had noticed.
This was a bad idea. You were unpredictable, irreverent, and far too comfortable around someone who'd literally kidnapped you. You were a security risk, a potential liability, and you'd somehow managed to steal his bacon.
His phone buzzed a third time: see you next week, red. Bring your appetite and your listening skills. I have thoughts about your motorcycle.
Jason stared at the message, then at the diner where you'd just been sitting, then back at his phone.
He was definitely going to regret this.
But as he grappled back to his safehouse, stomach full of breakfast food he hadn't planned on eating, with your number saved in his phone and the intel he needed, Jason realized that maybe, just maybe, regret wasn't always a bad thing.
His phone buzzed one more time: PS - you totally laughed at my joke. I'm counting that as a win.
Jason smiled under his helmet, then immediately stopped.
HELPPP I’m trying to find a Steve fic where Steve’s parents are in Florida while the government has Hawkins locked and yn moves in with him at his house and the page refreshed and I didn’t liked sooome1 help thanks
HELPPP I’m trying to find a Steve fic where Steve’s parents are in Florida while the government has Hawkins locked and yn moves in with him at his house and the page refreshed and I didn’t liked sooome1 help thanks
chandler bing x reader | suggestive content | slow burn
summary: It's halloween and you get a little (very) drunk. Chandler is very helpful.
a/n: chat is it obvious I've never been drunk before? this is a long one... about 9.2k words
masterlist
----
October 31st, 1993
The living room’s been half-transformed into a Halloween explosion--paper bats strung across the ceiling, a pumpkin-scented candle Monica keeps moving like it’ll fix the airflow, and a tray of "witches’ fingers" cookies no one’s dared to touch yet. Joey’s swishing his Dracula cape in front of the bathroom mirror, inspecting his fangs with the door open. Chandler, in a cheap police officer costume with crooked badge and dangling plastic cuffs, lounges on the arm of the couch, trying not to look impressed with himself. Phoebe, glitter-drenched and glowing in her fairy wings, twirls in front of Monica, who adjusts her witch hat and sips wine. Carol’s in tight black pants, red heels, and a leather jacket that squeaks when she crosses her arms--Sandy from Grease, post-makeover. And Ross--slicked-back hair, white tee, and leather jacket--keeps pulling at his jeans like they’ve betrayed him. “I think these shrank,” he mutters to no one.
Then your door creaks open. They all turn. Joey immediately chokes on his fangs. Chandler slides off the couch arm with a thud.
You’re standing there in full Elvira glory--plunging neckline, slit up to your thigh, smoky eye makeup and a teased mane of hair that looks ready to cast curses. You pause dramatically in the doorway, one heel set in front of the other, like the living room is your runway.
"Okay," you say flatly. "Why do you all look like I just murdered someone?"
"Jesus Christ," Chandler blurts.
Phoebe clasps her hands like she’s seen a vision. "Oh my God. This is the most powerful energy I’ve ever seen you have."
Joey just gapes. "Is this, like… a vampire thing? Or a sexy ghost?"
"Elvira, Joey," Monica says, brushing imaginary lint from your shoulder. "She’s a legend."
"She’s a problem," Chandler mutters from the floor, still looking like he forgot how to stand.
Carol whistles. "That’s what you’re wearing to the party?"
You glance down at yourself, cheeks heating. "Her real dress is way more revealing than this, you know," you say quickly, like you have to defend it. "I’m practically dressed for church compared to her."
Phoebe grins. "Sweetie, you could be wearing a potato sack right now and still melt drywall."
You roll your eyes and wave her off, but your fingers twitch at the edge of your sleeve. "You guys are so dramatic."
"Not dramatic enough." Chandler mutters, finally drags himself upright and brushing off his knees. "Okay, I think next time you do that, there needs to be some kind of warning. Maybe a town crier. Or a flare gun."
You grin despite yourself. "You’re just mad because my costume’s more convincing than yours."
"I am an officer of the law," Chandler deadpans, straightening his badge. "You’re dressed like a teenage boy’s sleep paralysis demon."
“You're still looking, though," you shoot back.
He opens his mouth to respond--then falters. Eyes flick down. Then back up. He swallows, hard. "Wait," he says, smirk threatening to appear. "did you--did you do this because of that conversation?"
You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "What conversation?"
"Dream celebrity threesomes?" Chandler reminds you. "You said Billy Idol and someone I don’t remember, and I said Elvira, and then Phoebe said you give off Elvira energy, and then--"
"Don’t flatter yourself," you say, brushing past him to grab a cookie from the tray, though the smirk you can’t hide says otherwise. He watches you go like he’s in some kind of trance. Thats when Ross speaks with his whole 'better than thou' attitude.
"Seriously?" He starts. "That’s what you’re wearing? You’re nineteen."
You freeze with the witch finger cookie halfway to your mouth. "Twenty," you correct him. "and you’re not my father, Ross. You’re Danny from Grease, which is a movie about a man trying to get laid by changing his entire personality.”
Carol’s already laughing. "She’s not wrong."
"Okay! Time to loosen up a little!" Monica announces, clapping her hands before ross can reply. "Shots. Pre-party shots, people."
Everyone cheers, except Ross, who groans. "Uh… I’ll pass. I’m not really a tequila guy."
"Too bad," Monica teases. "Everyone else is doing them." She says, pulling out a bottle of tequila and filling seven shot glasses.
Ross crosses his arms, frowning. "Y/N… you know you’re technically underage for this."
Chandler cuts in before you can stand up for yourself. “Oh yeah? Ross, you drank half a bottle of tequila your sophomore year when you were exactly her age. Trying to impress Carol, remember?"
"Oh, I remember that. He tried to serenade me to Don't Stop Believing and then he threw up in the guys fish bowl." Carol says with a smile on her face. Joey cackles as Phoebe frowns and asks if the fish was okay (it wasnt). Then Monica hands out the shots.
"To Halloween," says Monica, raising her glass. Everyone (except Ross) repeats her words, then her motion. Then theres some glasses clinking together before the shots are gone-- all but one. The one that was meant for Ross sits alone on the counter. You eye it for a second before making eye contact with him, grabbing it, and then downing it, just to spite him.
It works, Ross scoffs and finds Carols hand.
You hear Chandler snickering beside you and you turn to him with a grin.
"Okay, everyone. Time to go!" announces Monica. Everyone starts filtering out the door. You're at the back of the group, adjusting your heels before you leave. "Jeez, these things are going to kill me tonight."
"Then why dont you wear different ones?" Chandler asks.
"'cause these ones are the most Elvira-esk. Plus, they make me tall." You add that last part almost under your breath as you lock the door behind you.
You straighten up and turn around, Chandler is way closer than you expected. "Still shorter than me." He teases, leaning forward so he's eye level with you.
You laugh, a little surprised, and step a little closer, forcing him to straighten up, but now you're looking up at him again. "Mm. Doesn’t take much to bring a tall guy to his knees."
He tilts his head, pretending to consider it carefully, lips twitching into a wicked grin.
"Careful. That… that almost sounds like you’re threatening an officer."
His tone is deliberate, slow, and teasing, letting the weight of your words hang in the air. There’s no rush--he’s savouring the effect.
"Maybe I am." Your eyes flick to his, holding his gaze just long enough to make him swallow a little. You give a soft laugh and start stepping toward the stairs, letting the words linger between you.
The party is only a few blocks away, thrown by one of Phoebes eclectic friends. She said it's supposed to be big. The streets of Manhattan are a parade of cheap wigs, smeared eyeliner, and three separate drunk Batmans. Chandler ends up beside you, of course, the quiet between you buzzing.
"You did do it for me, didn’t you?" he murmurs, eyes flicking down to your cleavage.
You don’t look at him, but you smirk. "You’ll never know."
He groans under his breath. "You are so mean to me."
You grin. Truthfully, you didn't do it for him, but you were inspired by that conversation. That, plus Phoebes superfluous peer pressure. She even took you to pick out the dress.
You open your mouth to respond, but theres a shout from across the street that cuts you off. "Hey, Elvira! Where’s my trick or treat?" Laughter. A whistle.
Before you can react, or even really process, Chandler slides an arm over your shoulders--casual, but solid. "Careful," he mutters. "Wouldn’t want the big scary men thinking you’re unprotected."
You snort. "Please. If I needed protection, Joey would be beside me, not you." sure, it's a little mean, but it's better than admitting that you like that he's protective of you-- that his touch makes your whole body tingle.
He gasps. "Wow. Okay. First of all--rude. Second of all--I’ll have you know this uniform commands respect."
"Sure. That’s why a ten-year-old asked if you were a stripper."
"She was twelve," he mutters, affronted. "And her mom said I looked authentic."
"Uh-huh."
You don't pull away from his touch, or make (another) joke at his expense like you usually would. Instead, you hook your fingers in his where they hang over your shoulder--casual, like you’re just anchoring yourself. Like you don’t feel the way his breath stutters for half a second. He doesn’t say anything about it. But he also doesn’t let go.
Later, you’re at least five drinks in, swaying with Phoebe and Carol on the dance floor when someone touches your arm.
"Hey," says a voice over the music. "You’re in my Lit class, right?"
“Molly?” You grin.
She nods, curls bouncing beneath a sparkly witch hat. "You always look cool in class, but damn. Elvira?"
You laugh, stumbling as you adjust your cleavage-boosting neckline. "Yeah. I, uh--figured Halloween was a good night to emotionally scar my classmates."
"Trust me, nobody’s emotionally scarred. Physically distracted, maybe." She says, eyes not so subtly dragging down your body. "Wanna dance?"
You hesitate for half a second. You’re flushed, warm, a little buzzy from that last cup of punch Carol handed you. But then you nod. "Yeah. Okay."
Molly’s confident, cheeky; she pulls you into the beat. You dance together, shes bold with her actions; hands finding your hips to lead your movements. "Your makeup’s amazing," she says, leaning in so you can hear her over the music. "You’ve got that whole dark goddess thing down."
"Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself. The sparkles are… kind of hypnotic."
She laughs as her hands slide up, finding your waist instead. "Careful. You’re gonna make me think you’re flirting."
"I am. You're hot and I get very flirty when I'm drunk." You over-explain, giggling.
Across the room, Chandler stands half-frozen with a drink in his hand and a vaguely pleasant expression he’s using all his energy to maintain.
Joey, having noticed what Chandlers looking at, leans in and says, "You okay, man?"
"I’m great," Chandler replies flatly. "Really enjoying the view. Two girls dancing? This is my own personal Super Bowl."
Joey snorts. "You’re totally jealous."
"I am not," Chandler lies so hard it should be federally illegal. "Why would I be jealous? I’m just out here, dressed as a cop, watching a girl I barely know dance with someone I’ve literally never seen before. This is fine. This is great."
Joey tilts his head, voice suggestive. "So you don’t wanna cuff her or anything?"
Chandler glares at him. "I hope you choke on a fake blood capsule."
Joey ignores that, spotting a girl dressed as a nurse across the room. "Gonna go see if she’ll let me bite her. Y’know… for the authenticity."
Chandler rolls his eyes then turns his attention back to you and Molly.
You're enjoying yourself, he wants you to enjoy yourself; wants you to have a good time. He's just disappointed that you aren't enjoying yourself with him.
Three songs later, Molly drifts off after handing you a small piece of paper with her number. You take it with a smile then leave the dance floor, eyes searching for Monica or Phoebe. You pause in the kitchen to grab another cup of punch and then you see Chandler instead. He's sprawled on a couch, one arm along the back, legs spread like a sitcom heartthrob. When your eyes meet, he raises his eyebrows like he’s unimpressed, but the way his gaze drags down your body says otherwise.
You wander over and plop down beside him, grinning. "Didn’t know you were the broody type."
Chandler snorts. "Didn’t know you were the bisexual Elvira of my dreams, so I guess we’re both learning things tonight."
You place your cup on the coffee table in front of you. Then you kick off your heels and toss your legs across his lap, earning yourself a suspicious glance from Chandler, but he doesn't move to stop you, instead resting his hand over your leg like it's muscle memory. "You jealous, Officer Bing?"
"Of what?" He asks, lifting his plastic cup to take a sip.
You wave the scrap of paper between two fingers. "Got a girl’s number before you did."
His eyes widen just a little, then narrow in mock outrage. "Oh, well that’s great. My night’s ruined. Guess I’ll just… throw myself off the balcony."
You grin, tipsy and smug. "Not my fault you’re losing your touch."
He sighs like it’s the most tragic thing in the world. "If she calls you before anyone calls me, I’m moving to another city."
"I didn't give her my number, idiot." You point out, tucking the paper into your bra, and watch his expression flicker between relief and something more mischievous.
Your eyes narrow. "You are jealous, aren't you."
He freeze's, but only for half a second, before mirroring your teasing expression. "How drunk are you?"
You wave your hand dismissively. "I could walk a straight line right now, thank you very much. In heels. And then I could steal your badge and do your job better."
"So drunk and delusional. Impressive."
"You’re only saying that ‘cause you know I’d arrest you first." You smirk, then lean forward and cheekily pluck the plastic cup right out of his hand. He stares, stunned, as you tip it back and finish it off in one swallow.
"Um," He begins, surprised by your uncharacteristically bold actions. "That was mine. I was drinking that."
"'Was' being the operative word." You grin, setting the empty cup down beside your own (still full) cup.
"Touché, Elvira." Chandlers smiling now, watching you settle into the couch. Your legs are still in his lap, feet now tucked between his thighs like you're trying to warm up.
Your head tips back against the couch cushion, and a strand of teased hair slips loose, curling against your cheek. You mumble something about not using enough hairspray. He wants to reach out and brush it away, but his hand stays firmly on your shin, thumb idly tracing the seam of your stockings.
He likes seeing you like this; relaxed, happy.
Your laugh makes his chest tighten. It's sudden and you’re laughing at nothing in particular, maybe at the way the string of fake cobwebs above you is drooping onto his shoulder. He pretends to grumble, brushing it off, but he’s not really paying attention. Not to the decorations, not to the noise of the party, not even to the girl in fishnets who just walked by and winked at him. He only notices the way your eyeliner has smudged slightly under your eyes, the glitter Phoebe put on you still clinging to your collarbone, the way you smell faintly of vanilla and cheap tequila.
A new song starts up-- Scary Monsters (And Super Creeps). He only notices because you do, your eyes lighting up as you gasp. "God, I love this song."
"I know. You love every Bowie song."
You don’t even argue. You just keep talking, ranting; animated despite your lazy posture. "I don’t like his character for this album, though. The sad clown guy--" you make a vague mime with your hands, "--it freaks me out. Like, actually freaks me out. I mean, I get the appeal, I do, it’s artsy, whatever. And it’s right after his Berlin phase so it’s… transitional. But it’s also not Berlin at all, right? Some people call it, like, the secret fourth Berlin chapter? Which--no. No, it’s not. Because those didn’t have personas, it was just him getting back to himself after the Thin White Duke-- which you know I love. Seriously. Station to Station--orgasmic."
You pause only to take a sip of your drink, and he’s just staring at you like he’s hypnotized. The words barely matter. What matters is how animated you are, how your hands flutter as if they can’t keep up with your thoughts, how your blood red lipstick has worn off in the center of your mouth. But he's listening. Of course he's listening. And he's definitely going to repeat this all back to you when you're sober and pass it off as his own thoughts.
"But then Scary Monsters is back to… character stuff again. But the songs are still great. Fashion, Scream Like a Baby--Ashes to Ashes is definitely in my top thirty Bowie tracks. Maybe top twenty if I’m drunk enough to fight you about it." You grin lopsidedly at him, and he feels his pulse trip. But then your eyes flicker with what he's come to recognize as self-doubt, and you drop your gaze. "Wow, I'm a real party animal; I get drunk and ramble about Bowie... Sorry."
"It's fine." Chandler says with a small smile, ducking to meet your eyes. "You're surprisingly coherent for someone who drank approximately half a liquor store. Besides, you're doing better than Ross. Bowie ramblings are much more interesting than dinosaur ones."
You beam at that, as if he’s given you a gold star and finish your thought. "This one, though, this song--Scary Monsters--definitely the most perfect for Halloween, from his catalogue at least. Except maybe Future Legend, you know the one? With the howling? It's from Diamond Dogs. Ugh. See? This is why I can’t make a top ten. They all deserve to be there."
You look so serious about it, drunk and glittering and utterly sincere, and he can’t stop grinning. His chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol on your breath. He doesn’t know how you do it--how you can rant about sad clowns and Berlin phases and still make him feel like you’re the most magnetic person in the room.
"You're staring, Officer Bing." You point out, tilting your head.
"Not staring, admiring." He doesn't even flinch when he says it. Which is rare for Chandler when he's being that honest. But he knows you're drunk enough that you wont remember it in the morning.
Laughter bubbles out of you again and he finds himself grinning at the sound. You shift again, closer to him, and your hand comes to his chest to toy with the collar of his costume. "You admire me, huh?"
His throat goes dry when you touch him. You're warm and giggly and too close. Your hand is drifting; fingers lightly tracing his collarbone, then up to his adam's apple. Your eyes follow the movement, completely enthralled.
"You're very... touchy," He manages after a minute or so, voice low.
"I'm just admiring you. You're kinda gorgeous y'know." You almost whisper, thumb brushing against the stubble on his jaw.
He buffers. You can see the gears turning in his head. Then--He laughs. You can't tell if it's nervous laughter or if he's genuinely laughing at you, but you drop your hand back to your lap anyways.
"Sorry." You say, cheeks flushing. You move to get your legs off of him but his grip stays firm on your shin, tightening a little. Just enough to keep you anchored.
"Hey--hey, don’t--don’t move," he says quickly. "I wasn’t laughing at you. I mean--I wasn’t… laughing like that. Just… surprised, okay? You--uh, you’re really something right now."
You squint at him, skeptical. "Something?"
"Yeah." His thumb rubs unconsciously against your shin, grounding you both. "Like… drunk, glittery chaos. But the--uh--the very cute kind of chaos. The kind where I don’t really know what you’re gonna do next."
That makes your smile return, soft at first, then blooming mischievously. "Maybe you’ll find out."
Before he can ask what you mean, you lean forward and kiss him. It's a little uncoordinated, your teeth almost clacking against his because you’re too eager, too sure of yourself in this tipsy haze.
He freezes for half a second, brain stuttering, then melts. His hand slides instinctively from your shin to your knee, gripping, while the other fists in the couch cushion. You taste like tequila and lime and the faint sweetness of whatever was on your lips.
You don't break the kiss, and neither does he. It gets deeper--hotter. You lean forward, clumsy but determined, until you’re half climbing into his lap. He barely has a second to register the shift before you swing a leg over and settle against him, straddling him like you’ve been planning this all night. His hands instinctively move to your hips like its muscle memory.
A strangled noise escapes him, muffled into your mouth, and you answer with a soft little whimper of your own. The sound makes his grip on you tighten, pressing into the soft fabric of your dress.
It’s sloppy, greedy--your hands in his hair, your body pressing down against his, your mouth demanding more. He can barely keep up. For someone who’s never done this with him before, you’re kissing like you want to drown him in it.
After what feels like a breathless eternity, your lips leave his. He lets out an involuntary sound of protest, only to shudder when your mouth finds his jaw instead. Your kisses drag hot and lingering down the sharp line of it, your words slurred into his skin.
"Gonna mark you up," you mumble, like it’s a promise. "You're too pretty not to ruin a little."
His head tips back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. For the first time since you crashed into him, air finally drags into his lungs.
"Y/N…" He says your name in a way you've never heard it before, low and strained. You want to hear it again. You hum against him in response, biting lightly at the corner of his jaw. Then the words are out before your brain can stop them, but you're too drunk to care. "God, I just want to choke on you."
His whole body goes rigid beneath you. He groans (could even be classified as a whimper) as his fingers dig almost painfully into your hips. He can't believe this is happening right now; that you're on top of him, kissing him, and whispering dirty little things in his ear.
Your lips drag across his neck, words tumbling out between kisses and nips. "I’d let you use my mouth all night if you wanted--I’d let you come down my throat until I couldn't even talk."
"Jesus Christ--" His voice cracks, high and desperate, nothing like the smooth sarcasm he usually hides behind. He's getting lost in you; your mouth, your words, your body. His hands twitch on your hips, unsure whether to push you closer or pull you back.
He manages, barely, to find his voice again. "Y/N--Should we--God--should we be doing this? You’re… you’re really drunk."
You stop for a heartbeat, just long enough to look at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "You’re drunk too," you point out. "so that’s… that's fair game, right?"
Chandler groans softly, pressing his forehead to yours for a brief, frantic second. "Yeah, I’m buzzed. But you--" he swallows, voice tight with concern, "you’re like, blackout drunk. You’re not gonna remember half of this tomorrow. I will."
You blink at him, tilting your head. "Then let's make it… worth remembering for you," you resolve, murmuring between kisses when you lean back in.
Your hands are in his hair again, tugging lightly, fingers skimming over the back of his neck. You’re bold, hungry. Your mouth drags over his jaw, teeth grazing just enough to make him inhale sharply, and you groan against him, pulling him in for another hard, hungry kiss.
"God--" he manages, breaking the kiss just enough to gasp for air, "Y/N… we--"
"Don’t stop," you insist, pressing your forehead to his, voice thick and needy. "I want you."
Chandler closes his eyes, groaning quietly, because fuck, he wants you just as badly. Every nerve in his body is shouting yes--but he’s still a good person. He can’t. Not here, not like this, in the middle of a room full of people. And not with you so drunk you wouldn’t even remember consenting fully.
Slowly, deliberately, he moves his hands down your sides, coaxing you off him just enough that your straddling weight shifts. "Hey, hey, come on… baby, we can’t," he murmurs softly, voice low and tender. "I need you safe. I need you to actually remember this. Please."
You pout, heavy-lidded and still buzzing from the alcohol, but his hands are steady and warm, guiding you until your legs back on the couch, sitting beside him. He rests an arm around your shoulders, gently pulling you close without breaking contact, his forehead brushing yours.
"See?" he murmurs, voice a mixture of humor and something softer, almost reverent. "We can still be close, okay? We can touch, we can look, we can… wait for a better moment. Somewhere we’re alone. Somewhere you’ll remember all of it."
You lean into him, your body still humming with heat and want, but the panic of his concern--or maybe just the care in his voice--melts your frustration. You slump against him, your giggly behaviour from earlier swapped in favour of pouty. Your fingers find a loose thread at the hem of his sleeve. You play with it, eyes focused on it when you mutter, "You could’ve been fucking me in some stranger’s bed by now."
His head snaps down toward you, eyes wide. A startled laugh escapes before he can help himself, half-disbelieving, half-strangled. "Okay, wow. That’s… one way to phrase it."
You finally glance up at him, expression deadly serious in a way only drunkenness can make you. "I’m not kidding."
Something in his stomach tightens. "Oh, I gathered that," he says lightly, trying to deflect.
But you don’t stop. You shift closer, words spilling out like they’ve been waiting on your tongue all night. "I’m serious, Chandler. You’d have me on my back, and I’d be--"
Before you can finish, his hand shoots up and clamps gently but firmly over your mouth. His eyes squeeze shut, and his voice comes out strained, like he’s holding onto the last shred of his sanity. "Nope. Nope, not happening. You’re not about to give me the director’s cut of your fantasy, because that is exactly the kind of thing you’re gonna wake up regretting tomorrow."
Your eyes widen above his palm, and instead of conceding, you dart your tongue out against his skin. His expression twists in disgusted disbelief. "Ew--did you just lick me?!"
You make a muffled little laugh against his hand, and when he doesn’t budge, you just grab his wrist and tug it away. But instead of letting go, your fingers thread with his, holding him there. It feels clumsy but intimate, a kind of closeness you’ve never let yourself have with him before. And you like it. Too much.
For a second, he just stares at your joined hands, chest rising unevenly. You can almost see the conflict flashing across his face--he’s only letting you get away with this because you’re drunk, because he’s buzzed, because the lines are blurry right now. But you don’t care. You’re not used to touching him like this, and it makes your heart pound.
Your voice comes out smaller this time, tinged with a rawness that even the alcohol can’t disguise. "Why do you have to be such a good guy?"
He chuckles. He's never heard you say so many positive things to him in one night, it's throwing him off. But he answers, and it’s with that trademark sarcasm of his. "Yeah, that’s me. Real saint. They’re putting my face on a stained-glass window any day now."
Before you can come up with a response, Ross appears and sit on the arm of the couch beside Chandler, one foot on the coffee table to stabilize hisself. He’s holding two cups, one of which he offers to Chandler. “Here, man. Extra drink.”
Chandler takes it automatically and sips--only for you to perk up and ask, “Is that the punch?” Without waiting for an answer, you swipe it out of his hand and take a long sip.
"Unbelievable," Chandler mutters, staring at you with mock betrayal. "That's the second time tonight. First my drinks, next you’re gonna start wearing my clothes."
You lower the cup, licking a bit of punch from your lip, and shoot him a sly, wicked grin. "Only if you’re the one taking them off me."
His eyes widen, a laugh catching in his throat. He doesn’t even have time to fire back before Ross grimaces. "Jeez, how drunk is she?"
"On a scale of one to Vegas Elvis, we’re firmly in the ‘announcing our wedding at Graceland’ territory." Chandlers says dryly.
You frown, nudging his arm. "That’s an exaggeration."
"It’s not," he deadpans, taking the now-empty cup back from you.
Ross, ever the yapper, takes over the conversation. "So, Carol and I were talking to this super hot woman dressed as Wonder Woman--like, straight out of the comics, it was incredible. I think her name was Pamela-- no. Patricia..." He ponders for a moment, just long enough for Chandler to shoot you that look he usually does when ross is talking. The one that says I dont want to be here and I know you dont either.
Ross starts up again. "Nope. Definitely Pamela." He nods to himself. "I was telling her about my job at the Museum and how we just got this Dryptosaurus fossil in--she said she might come check it out one day. And you know what’s great? Carol is so cool about it. She doesn’t get jealous when I talk to other women-- She even encourages it. That’s trust, you know?”
Chandler nods agreeably. You giggle a little at the mention of Carol and wonder where she is right now. She's a great friend to you; definitely the most overtly supportive of your bisexuality. Last week, she even introduced you to one of her lesbian friends. Susan, maybe?
Ross barrels on, clearly proud of himself. "So, Joey left with that nurse, went to her place, can you believe it? He chats her up for ten minutes then he's out of here." He pauses to take a sip of his drink. "Phoebe ran off with some astronaut guy--Jeez, you should've seen that costume, not at all accurate." He scoffs. "Anyway, Carol and I are about to head out. Just came to say bye. Monica’s still around here somewhere."
You hum, swirling the last drops of punch in the bottom of the cup before setting it aside, leaning just a little too heavily against Chandler’s shoulder.
Chandler leans down toward you, his voice pitched low so Ross won’t notice how it softens just for you. "You ready to leave yet?"
Your face scrunches, reluctant. "I guess so."
Ross stands, clapping Chandler’s shoulder in that overeager way only Ross can pull off. "Cool. Well, goodnight, you guys. See you tomorrow." He waves vaguely at you before heading off to find Carol.
The moment he’s gone, it’s like the room exhales. You look up at Chandler with that same little twinkle in your eye, your gaze slipping to his mouth and lingering there. He sees it. Of course he sees it. God, every part of him wants you to do it--to lean forward, to give him the excuse. His pulse stutters at the thought, the memory of you trying to devour him crosses his mind again.
But no. Not like this.
So instead he clears his throat and changes course entirely. "Okay, uh… I’ll go find Monica." He pats his knees like he needs the momentum, then forces himself to stand.
The loss of his warmth is instant, a shiver rushing through you as the couch suddenly feels much too big and much too cold. You pout up at him, eyes narrowing. "You didn’t have to move."
He shoves his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for you again, his mouth tugging into a crooked almost-smile. "Yeah, but if I didn’t, we’d be starring in our own little after-school special. And I don’t think ABC’s ready for that one."
Chandler pauses before heading off, crouching so he’s eye-level with you. "Stay here, okay?"
You tip your head, squinting up at him like he’s grown a second one. "You’re not the boss of me."
"Noted," he says evenly, mouth twitching into that dry little almost-smile. You've said those exact words to him on more than one occasion, usually sober. "But, for the record, I am the guy who’s going to make sure you get home safe, so maybe--just this once--you listen to me."
You roll your eyes but don’t move, arms crossing. "Fine. But not because you told me to. Because I want to."
"Of course," he deadpans, standing and shooting you a mock salute. Then he slips off into the crowd, leaving you alone for the first time all night.
And God, it hits you--the empty space beside you, the absence of his warmth, his hands. You’re left on the couch, drunk and restless, a buzz of want still alive under your skin. Your eyes drift, unfocused, but your head keeps tipping back toward where he’d been sitting, like maybe he’ll reappear if you wish hard enough.
When he does finally come back, there’s no Monica in sight. Just Chandler, threading his way through the party, holding another plastic cup. He sets it down in front of you with a little flourish. "Ta-da. Water. Very exclusive, very limited supply."
You squint at it suspiciously. "That’s not the punch?"
"Nope. Not everything that comes in a red plastic cup has alcohol in it, believe it or not."
You take it, sip reluctantly. "Where’s Mon?"
He sits beside you again. "Heading out. With some guy."
Your eyes widen, a jolt of worry cutting through your haze. "How drunk was she?"
Chandler shakes his head quickly, leaning in so you don’t spiral. "Relax. She seemed fine. Sober enough to know what she’s doing. Which is more than I can say for you right now." He gives you a meaningful look, then nudges the cup back toward your lips. "She's heading back to your place anyways." He adds.
You groan, slumping back against the couch. "Great. Can’t wait to spend all night listening to Monica have sex."
You can see Chandler in your peripherals, he rubs the back of his neck, like he’s working out how to say something without sounding like the worst guy alive. "Well… you, uh… you could stay at my place. Just for tonight." His voice dips lower, almost careful. "Joey’s not around so it'll be quiet... and across the hall."
You tilt your head at him, processing slowly through the fog in your brain.
He lifts his hands, palms out, defensive. "I’m not--like--suggesting anything. Just saying. You’d get sleep. No Monica soundtrack."
That earns the tiniest laugh out of you, drunken, tired, but genuine. You drop your head back against the couch, sighing. "Fine. But only because I’d actually like to sleep."
"Good." He nods once, maybe a little too fast, then points at the cup still in your hand. "And you’re finishing that water first."
You stumble into his apartment first, heels clicking across the floor before you kick them off with a dramatic sigh. You stumble a little at the sudden change of altitude, but Chandler's quick to steady you before he makes his way to the fridge to grab you a bottle of water.
Without hesitation, you reach for the zipper at the back of your costume. "Ugh, finally. This thing is suffocating me--"
"Whoa--hey, no, nope, absolutely not." Chandler practically dives across the room, hands out like he’s stopping traffic. His voice jumps an octave, panicked.
You pause, one brow lifting as a slow, mischievous grin curls across your lips. "Relax, Officer Bing. Didn’t realize you were so shy." You giggle, the sound bubbling up high and light. "Is this the part where you handcuff me for indecent exposure?"
His ears burn. "God, no--Jesus." He scrubs a hand down his face, muttering under his breath as he turns on his heel and disappears into his room. A moment later, he reappears, holding a tee shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants like they’re holy relics.
"Here," he says, thrusting them at you. "Bathroom. Change."
You frown, swaying a little as you take the clothes. "Bossy. Must be the cop costume talking."
"It’s not the costume," he mutters, steering you gently toward the bathroom with a hand at the small of your back. "It’s the very drunk girl who thinks undressing in my living room is a fun party trick."
You just giggle again, vanishing into the bathroom with his clothes.
Meanwhile, Chandler stays frozen outside the door, jaw tight, brain at war with itself, every nerve screaming at him about how much he wants you. And every ounce of restraint anchoring him in place.
When you come out of the bathroom, Chandler’s system shorts out. His eyes widen, his mouth opens, shuts, opens again--like a computer buffering. He was placing a water bottle and some aspirin on his nightstand for you, but all productivity drained out of his body when he saw you in his clothes.
You stand in the doorway, giggling at the way he's watching you. He notices he's staring and clears his throat, straightening up. "You know, I'm surprised you're still upright."
You sway slightly in the doorway, hands tugging at the oversized tee and pants that hang off you, a lopsided grin on your face. "Oh, I’m perfectly fine," you slur, though the sparkle in your eyes says otherwise. "Just… very comfortable."
Chandler blinks at you, voice low but teasing. "Comfortable, huh? You’re… still standing. And you haven’t even puked yet."
You wave a dismissive hand. "Don’t worry, Chandler… I’ll take care of that when I wake up. It’s a gift."
He arches an eyebrow, caught between disbelief and amusement. "A gift, huh? You mean the kind that makes me regret letting stay the night?"
You giggle again, leaning on the doorframe just enough to sway like a tipsy queen surveying her kingdom. "Oh, baby… don’t be dramatic." Then you step into the room. "I am very in control of my post-drunk reflux, thank you very much."
He snorts, bit you don't miss the way his eyes track you around his room. "'post-drunk' is usually just called a hangover you goof."
You giggle again and pause in front of a stack of CD's to survey. "'m drunk, not my fault if my lingo is off kilter."
"It's completely your fault." He counters, just a step behind you. Close, but not crowding,
"This is the first time I’ve actually been in here."
Chandler raises a brow. "You’ve been in here plenty of times."
"Yeah, but not like this." You turn a little, taking it in with softened eyes before nodding. "I like it."
His laugh is quick, almost nervous. "You won’t even remember liking it."
You glance back at him, catching that he’s already watching you. "Maybe not." you admit.
The silence stretches for a beat too long, his gaze tugging on yours until he breaks it with a crooked smile. "You’re a lot nicer when you’re drunk, you know that?"
You giggle a little, stepping closer. "I dont think I'm nicer. You're just sweeter when I'm drunk so I have to respond accordingly."
He tilts his head, studying you like you’ve just given him an answer to a question he didn’t know he had. "I like that part." His mouth quirks, teasing. "But let’s be real, you’re also way weirder when you’re drunk." He adds, placing his hand on the small of your back to guide you to his bed.
You let him lead you, then you flop back dramatically, arms spread wide. "God, this is… comfy," you announce, stretching against the mattress. "I honestly thought your bed feel like... a futon made of rejection letters and old cereal boxes."
Chandler, now leaning in the doorway, crosses his arms. "Funny. I was gonna say you seemed like the type who’d pass out on a pile of textbooks and call it character building."
You grin. "Touché, Bing."
He lingers for a second longer than he should before shaking his head. "Alright, sleeping beauty, I’m gonna let you pass out in peace." He moves to turn away, but you reach out, fingers snagging his wrist. "Wait." And before he can register it, you’re pulling him down to you, kissing him. It’s soft, warm, lazy; nothing like the hungry kisses you gave him earlier that night.
He lets himself sink into it for a few dizzy seconds, but then he pulls back, forehead resting against yours as he exhales. "We can’t," he reminds you, the words quiet, pained.
"I know," you giggle, giving him one last peck before you drop your hands away. "I just wanted a kiss."
"Yeah, okay." he says with a soft smile, nudging you to lie down.
“Where are you gonna sleep?” you slur as you melt into the pillow.
"Joey’s room," Chandler says.
"You could just sleep with me." You offer with a yawn. "It is your bed. And it’s not weird--we’ve fallen asleep together before."
He lets out a low, incredulous laugh. "Yeah, on the couch during Back To The Future. Totally different scenario, baby--you’re drunk, you’ve been kissing me like crazy all night, and you’re literally stripping out of your clothes the second we walk in the door."
Your pulse stutters. You don’t think he even realizes what he just called you. "…Say that again."
He winces, caught. "Say what?"
"You know what," you murmur, smiling now, eyes searching his face.
Chandler shakes his head quickly, looking anywhere but at you. "Nope. Don’t think I do. You must be hearing things. Side effect of, uh--" He gestures vaguely at you. "Half a bowl of spiked punch and a couple questionable shots?"
You narrow your eyes at him, unconvinced, but your smile lingers. "Mhm. Sure. Must’ve imagined it."
He tugs the blanket up over you with exaggerated care, avoiding your gaze because if he looks too long, he’ll fold. “Exactly. Imaginary. Now go to sleep before you try to make me say other things I shouldn’t.”
Your lips curve drowsily. “Like what?”
“Like ‘yes, I’ll get into bed with you,’” he shoots back, light but a little strained, and then he steps away quickly, retreating toward the door before you can push again.
You wake up to a throbbing headache and unfamiliar walls. Strange sheets. Not your room.
Panic slams into you so hard your stomach flips. You sit up too fast, immediately regretting it when your skull throbs like it’s being split open with an axe.
You look down--T-shirt, Pyjama pants. Not yours. Definitely not yours, definitely not the dress you left the house in.
"Oh, God," you groan, clutching your head. The nausea spikes with the realization you’re not in your clothes, in a man’s bed. You're beginning to panic, unable to remember anything from the night before.
You blink around again, slowly taking in the furniture, the old It's A Wonderful Life poster, the very distinctive creepy doll in the corner of the room. Oh. Chandler’s room.
That helps a little. If you did have sex last night, at least it was with someone you know. Someone you like.
Theres a bottle of water and two aspirin tablets on the nightstand. Thats sweet of him. You take both and chug the water before flinging off the blankets and stumbling out of bed, moving way too fast for your hangover. The floor tilts, your body protests, but you push forward, following the faint smell of coffee.
Out in the living room, you find Chandler, sitting on the couch, mug in one hand, newspaper in the other, and looking irritatingly fresh for someone who was up just as late as you.
"Morning, sunshine," he says without looking up, his voice maddeningly chipper. "How’s the head? Loud? Regretting its life choices?"
You stop dead in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame for balance, staring at him like he’s the devil himself.
"What--" your voice comes out hoarse, so you drop it to a whisper. "What happened last night?"
Chandler looks up from the paper, smiling like he's reminiscing. "Ah, yes. The interpretive dance titled ‘Why Y/N Shouldn’t Drink Spiked Punch.’"
Your eyes widen in horror.
He immediately waves a hand. “Kidding. Totally kidding. Nothing happened. No sex, no public nudity, no need to move back to Canada out of shame."
You sag against the wall in relief, only for another question to eat at you. "Then why was I in your bed?"
"Ah," he sets the paper down, leaning back on the couch like this is going to be a long story. "Because Monica brought some guy home and, unless you wanted to listen to the soundtrack of their night together, my room was the safer option."
"Oh." You nod slowly. That makes sense.
"So…you really don’t remember anything?"
You shake your head. "Nothing."
"Figured you wouldn't." His smug little grin starts to form, and that’s when you notice them--the faint purple bruises blooming across his jaw and down his neck. Your eyes widen in surprise.
"Where'd you get those?" You blurt--too loudly. You wince when your head throbs harder.
He touches his neck like he’s just remembered that they are there. "Oh, these? From a very aggressive make-out session. Don’t worry, you know her."
Your mouth falls open. "No."
"Oh, yes," he says, grin widening, positively glowing now. "You were all over me. Calling me gorgeous, saying you were gonna mark me up because I'm--and I quote--'too pretty not to ruin a little'."
You slap both hands over your face. "No, no, no, no--"
"And my personal favorite," he goes on mercilessly, "you said I could’ve taken you in a stranger’s bed and you would’ve said--" he leans forward, lowering his voice into a mock imitation of you-- "'thank you.’"
You groan into your palms, wishing for death. "I did not say that."
"Pretty sure you did," he says cheerfully, sipping his coffee. "Well, maybe the 'thank you' part was implied. But you did say I could've fucked you in a strangers bed, I'm not a complete liar."
You slide down the wall until you’re half-sitting, half-slumped. "I’m never drinking around you again."
"Aw, don’t say that," Chandler pouts exaggeratedly. "You’re fun when you’re drunk. All touchy and giggly and ramble-y. It’s like watching your sarcasm go on vacation--and you're a very competent kisser, if i do say so myself."
You peek through your fingers to glare at him. "I hate you."
He grins into his mug. "That’s not what you said last night."
You’re still half-hidden behind your hands when Chandler clears his throat and speaks again, loud enough that it makes you wince. "So, I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a recap of your greatest hits from last night. Don’t worry, there’s only…twenty-seven of them."
You groan. "Do we have to?"
"Oh, absolutely," he says. "You were fine for the first hour or so, dancing with Carol and Phoebe--I think they are mostly to blame for how much you drank, by the way."
"Nobody to blame but myself." You mutter without opening your eyes.
He ignores you and continues his little recap. "So once you were properly drunk, you danced with some girl from your class. Curly, redhead, dressed as a witch... Ringing any bells?"
You peek out at him. "…No?"
"She gave you her number." He smirks. "You waved it in my face, bragging about how you got a girls number before I did and then tucked it in your bra like you were in a John Hughes movie."
Your cheeks warm. "Oh my god."
"Dont know where that ended up..." Chandler continues, "Anyways, Joey left with a girl dressed as a nurse--very original, very subtle. That's why he's not here--why you got to have a sleepover at my humble abode. Phoebe disappeared with an astronaut. I can only assume they’re exploring space together this morning."
You let out a tiny laugh despite yourself, then groan and cradle your forehead. "Please stop talking so loud."
"I’m whispering," he stage-whispers. "Now, back to you. At one point, you stole my drink, even though you had your own right there. Then you lectured me on Bowie--something about Berlin and a scary clown? It's kinda fuzzy now. But, for the record, you also do that sober, so I didn’t take it personally."
You mutter into your hands. "Sounds about right."
"And then," Chandler says, leaning forward with relish, "you made out with me. Straddled me right there in the middle of a stranger’s living room. Audience of at least four, maybe five people. Stuck your tongue down my throat. Gave me these--" he gestures at his jaw, grinning proudly--"souvenirs, which I will be wearing to work on Monday, thank you very much."
You groan so loudly it rattles in your head. "Kill me."
"No can do," he says. "You’re far too entertaining. You’re like my very own Americas Funniest Home Videos episode."
You peek at him again, squinting. "You’re enjoying this way too much."
"Correction: I’m enjoying it exactly the right amount."
Chandler sets down his coffee, his grin widening. "Oh, and let’s not forget your greatest hits. At one point, you grabbed my face--very dramatic--and said, ‘Don't stop, I want you.’"
Your head snaps up. "No. I did not."
He lifts his brows innocently. "Direct quote. I should’ve had a tape recorder."
You cover your face with both hands, shaking your head. "Stop it."
"Oh, I’m not done." His grin turns devilish. "You also slurred--and I quote--'God, I just want to choke on you.'"
"Chandler!" you groan, burying your head in a couch cushion.
"Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just reporting the news." He winks at you, all cocky and not hungover. "You said some other stuff too, but out of respect for your dignity, I will not be repeating them."
You groan again, but this time it’s different-your stomach lurches violently. You bolt upright and stagger toward the bathroom.
"Uh oh," Chandler mutters, standing up to follow you.
You barely make it before you’re on your knees, retching. Chandler crouches behind you, immediately pulling your hair into his hands and holding it back. "There we go, Niagara Falls but… less scenic."
"Don’t--" you choke out before another wave hits.
When it finally passes, you slump against the cool tile, dragging yourself back until your shoulders rest against the side of the tub. Your throat burns, your stomach aches, and you’d honestly prefer death. Chandler sits across from you, knees bent up, arms draped casually across them, like this is just another Sunday hangout rather than you collapsing in his bathroom.
Silence stretches. You’re busy trying not to cry from how awful you feel, and he--thankfully--doesn’t push.
"Thanks," you say eventually. "For… y’know. Holding my hair. Letting me crash here."
He shrugs, lips twitching. "What can I say? I’m a five-star establishment. Guests puke for free."
You huff a weak laugh, covering your face with your hands. Then you groan. "Fuck, Chandler. I’m so sorry about last night."
The words come out in a rush, faster than you mean them to, and once they start you can’t stop. "I know I was--God, I was so out of line. Throwing myself at you, saying--" You cut yourself off with a groan, palms dragging down your face. "Things. Jesus. What’s wrong with me?"
He must think you’re pathetic. Desperate. Some lightweight kid who can’t hold her liquor, who clings to him and says things she’d never have the courage to sober. He probably let you stay in his bed because he felt sorry for you. Maybe he regrets it. Maybe you ruined everything--
"Hey." His voice cuts through the noise in your head, gentle but firm. You glance up and find him leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, watching you carefully. "It’s fine. You were fine."
There’s no hesitation, no teasing. He means it. His mouth quirks, soft, like he can’t help it. "I promise, you don’t have anything to apologize for. You weren’t--like--swinging from the ceiling fan or trying to fight a stranger with a pool cue. You were just… drunk. It happens. You’re fine."
He shrugs, tilting his head at you like it’s the simplest thing in the world. "Besides, I’ve had worse houseguests. At least you didn’t cry-sing Phil Collins at me until three in the morning. That honor goes to Ross."
The little jab pulls a startled laugh out of you, even through the pounding in your skull. And you can tell he meant what he said--he’s not holding it against you, not secretly judging. Just… letting you off the hook.
A beat passes before you tilt your head, eyes flicking to his jaw. "I can’t believe you let me give you hickeys," you mutter, half teasing. Your fingers lift before you can stop yourself, brushing lightly against his jaw as you tilt his head toward the light. The purple marks stand out stark against his skin. Up close, they look even worse--dark and messy and unmistakable.
"God, Chandler…" The words come out half a whisper, dripping with disbelief.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to pull away. If anything, he leans into your touch, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Don’t sound so scandalized. I didn’t exactly fight you off."
You narrow your eyes, still studying the damage. "They’re huge. People are going to stare."
"Good," he says simply, the smirk curling into something cockier. "gives me an excuse to brag about the Mistress of the Dark trying to jump by bones."
You roll your eyes and drop your hand from his face. "What time is it?"
Chandler glances down at his bare wrist, squinting in exaggerated seriousness. "Hm. According to my Rolex… I’d say about 9:30."
You huff out something between a laugh and a groan, then brace your hands against the tub to push yourself up. Your legs wobble, but you manage it. Chandler rises too, steadying you with a light touch at your elbow that he pretends isn’t there.
"I should go home," you mutter, running a hand over your face. “Shower. Wash off… everything from last night.”
Great idea," Chandler nods sagely. Then, with a perfectly-timed pause: "Want some company?"
You swat his shoulder, weak but precise. "Don’t push your luck."
He grins, rubbing the spot like you’d actually hurt him. "Hey, drunk you would’ve accepted." he says, tilting his head a little "In fact--she probably would’ve extended the invite."
Despite the pounding in your skull, you find your sarcasm again. "Yeah, well, sober me would rather eat glass."
Chandler gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him. "Wow. Harsh. And here I thought we had something special. You, me, and the toilet bowl."
"Romantic," you deadpan, walking out of the bathroom then heading to the door.
He follows right on your heels. "Guess I’ll have to cancel my plans of shampooing your hair for you."
just a lil thang, makin’ out with harry by the pooool siiiideeeeeeee!! suggestive content ahead ;)
༺☆༻
the sun hung high and proud in the sky, casting a golden shimmer across the rooftop like it had nowhere else to be. the clouds were thin and barely there, like faint brushstrokes across an endless blue canvas, and the sky itself looked like it had been freshly washed—so bright, so impossibly clear it almost made your eyes water. the pool glistened like glass, the water a perfect jewel-toned blue, rippling softly in the breeze. even the city below seemed quieter today, distant and hazy, like the world had agreed to give you a moment of peace.
potted palms swayed gently at the corners of the rooftop, and the air smelled faintly of chlorine, sunscreen, and something sweet—probably that overpriced mango cocktail someone had left sweating on a lounge chair. it was the kind of day that felt like it belonged in a movie, like the universe had hand-wrapped it just for you.
and to top it all off—it was your day off on tour. a rare gem.
which meant exactly one thing: you and harry had every intention of spending the entire day in this rooftop pool, ordering takeout, avoiding everyone, and soaking in every second of calm before the chaos started again tomorrow.
you were stretched out on an inflatable lounger, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of your nose, fingers trailing in the water as harry swam up beside you, pushing his wet curls back from his face.
“how’s it feel being the most spoiled person in this entire city?” he asked, arms folded on the edge of your float, chin resting there like he had nowhere better to be.
you smirked, peeking at him over your shades. “you tell me. you’re the one doing all the work. i’m just floating and looking hot.”
he laughed, soft and raspy, water dripping down his cheek. “true. you’re definitely doin’ the heavier lifting here.”
you dipped a finger into the pool and flicked water at him. “so, what’s the plan for later? tacos? ramen? that super greasy pizza place you swore you’d never eat at again?”
“i’m a changed man,” he said seriously, but his eyes were dancing. “i think i could be convinced to suffer through it for you. but only if you promise to split the last garlic knot this time.”
“no promises,” you teased, letting your foot bump gently against his chest beneath the water.
he grabbed it without hesitation, pulling you off the float and into the water with a dramatic splash. you came up laughing, hair plastered to your face, only for harry to smooth it back with both hands, eyes soft and close and suddenly not so playful anymore.
“you look … really pretty right now,” he murmured, voice lower now, quieter, the kind of tone that always made your chest feel too small.
you opened your mouth to say something, anything, but he leaned in before you could. his lips met yours underwater-warm and slow, tongue brushing yours with the kind of practiced ease that only came from knowing each other too well. his hands stayed at your waist, thumbs pressing gentle circles into your skin, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, melting into him as the world blurred around you.
it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t hungry. it was just soft, unhurried, like the day itself—like he had all the time in the world to kiss you right.
his mouth moved with a slow, aching kind of intention—the kind that made your stomach flip and your knees go weak, even in the water. he kissed you like he had all the time in the world to figure you out, and he planned on savoring every second of it. his tongue brushed yours again, deeper this time, coaxing a quiet sound from the back of your throat that you didn’t even realize you’d made.
you could feel him smiling against your mouth, but it didn’t stop him. if anything, it pushed him closer, like he wanted more. his hands slid along your back, slick with water, pulling you flush against him until you could feel the firm line of his chest pressed right to yours. the cool of the pool was nothing compared to the warmth of him, the way he kissed you like he needed it—like it wasn’t enough to be close, he wanted to be all the way there.
your fingers tangled in his wet curls, tugging just a little, and he groaned—low, rough, and right into your mouth. the sound lit something deep in your stomach, a rush of heat that made you press harder into him, legs wrapping loosely around his waist in the water.
his lips never left yours for long—just enough to catch his breath, to look at you with those heavy, dark eyes, and whisper, “you do something to me, you know that?”
and then he was kissing you again, messier now, deeper, his tongue teasing against yours in slow, dizzying strokes, his grip tightening like he didn’t want the moment to end. and honestly, neither did you. not with the sun on your shoulders, his mouth on yours, and the city so far below you that it almost didn’t feel real.
he continued you like it was the only language he spoke, slow and warm, like the sun sinking into the horizon. every time his mouth left yours, it was only for a breath, a pause, like he couldn’t stay away for more than a second. and neither could you.
your arms stayed wrapped around his neck, bodies swaying gently with the water, one of his hands slowly slid down your back, all the way down to your ass, like he was learning the shape of you all over again. it wasn’t entirely urgent—it didn’t need to be. the whole world felt like it had slowed down just for this. the quiet splash of water, the hum of the city far below, and the gentle heat of the sun clinging to your skin even as it began to dip behind the buildings.
“don’t think i’ve ever seen you look this happy,” harry murmured, his forehead resting against yours now, noses brushing. “’s like you were made for days like this.”
you smiled, cheeks flushed, fingertips gliding along the base of his neck. “i could say the same about you,” you whispered. “you look… nice.”
he chuckled, eyes crinkling in that sleepy way that made your chest ache. “i am nice.”
your lips met again, slower this time, like a sigh. his tongue brushed yours in a lazy, tender glide, and your heart fluttered at the way he held you—like you were something delicate in a storm he didn’t want to break. every kiss was a promise, every touch a quiet kind of worship.
the float drifted a few feet away, forgotten. the pool was yours. the sky was painted in pastel orange and lavender, and time didn’t exist—not with harry kissing you like this, not with his hands tracing your waist like it was art, not with the sun melting into the water and your heart completely, irrevocably his.
༺☆༻
every time i ask nobody answers heh but lmk if you guys like this. or don’t. ok. yes. bye!!!!
Here we are, back again, fighting what’s in front of me.
summary: Despite being best friends for the past four years, you and Steve have never truly spent a Halloween together. Always at separate parties, separate dates. This year though, the two of you decide to keep it quiet both of you tired of the humiliation ritual that is dating.
The plans were simple: horror movies and pass out candy.
You’d be more excited if it wasn’t for the kiss the two of you shared drunk on a dare at Eddie Munson’s bonfire a week ago. A kiss the two of you have refused to talk about at all costs, A kiss you can’t seem to quit thinking about no matter how hard you try.
WC: 14k
warnings: 18+// Steve & reader are in their early to mid 20’s, stubborn idiots in love, classic we don’t want to ruin the friendship yearning, drinking, mentions of smoking, kissing, literally non stop tension, slight dry humping if you squint.
author’s note: This fic is inspired by Emily Henry’s People We Meet On Vacation, except for it’s in Hawkins with Steve, and revolves around their Halloweens over the years told between flash backs and current time. I had a lot of fun writing this, I hope you have just as much fun reading it.
Halloween - now.
“Sour candy or chocolate?” Steve asks deep in thought, he’s standing in the brightly lit Halloween aisle of the local Piggly Wiggly with two different ‘Family Size’ bags of each in his equally big hands.
His eyebrows are pinched in the center of his forehead, marrying just below the swoop of hair that always fails to stay tucked behind his ear as he scans the shelves for a third, possibly better option with his full bottom lip tugged between perfect teeth.
This was peak Steve Harrington concentration.
“Sour candy, obviously.” You scoff, grabbing the neon Warheads bag out of his grasp, dumping it into the small cart that’s already full enough to make you regret not getting the large one Steve had suggested at the door.
It’s fine, you were supposed to be practicing self control tonight anyway, plus you would never tell him that he was right about something. Not unless you wanted to hear about it for the next week.
Self control is a new concept when it comes to Steve, but you are good at trying to practice it, refusing to meet his eyes as you brush past him, and again when you ignore the glimmer of electricity that’s sparked between the two of you since your friendship’s conception. It’s a lot harder to pretend now though, because touching him feels like sticking a wet hand to a power grid these days, all because of a childish dare to prove Eddie Munson wrong. A plan that backfired in your face pretty quickly after drunkenly locking lips with your best friend at the metal head’s bonfire last week, because neither one of you can back down from a challenge.
Or admit the truth.
Your friendship with Steve has always been a series of ‘what if’s’. An unspoken tension that everyone in the room could feel when the two of you were in it, but honestly Steve had chemistry with everyone. He was just one of those guys, and your bond only intensified it, at least that’s what you’ve told yourself over the years. Kissing him though? That was always the kind of ‘what if’ you’d only ever dared to think about in the dead of night - alone, in your room, before shoving it back deep down into the dark crevices of your mind. It always happened after a movie night that got a little too cozy under a shared blanket, wandering hands a little too daring in the dark, cinnamon and clove clinging to all the fabrics of your clothes.
Only now, it was a reality. One that hasn’t stopped playing on a loop since.
“I think we should get both.” Steve finally decides like it’s been something that’s kept him up at night, coming up behind you so close that his chest brushes against your back as he reaches around to dump the chocolate in the cart. His cologne tempts your senses like the devil trying to make a deal for your soul, and you wonder if holding your breath would be too dramatic.
”We’re going to have so much left over if we get both.” You argue with a smile twisting up the corners of your lips, but you make no effort to correct the situation. The uneven wheels squeak as you keep pushing the cart down the linoleum floors.
”Or we can be the best stop on the block, let these kids clean house.” He suggests as if he were a coach coming up with a play, pounding his fist into his open palm for the words ‘clean house’ before pushing the dark green sleeves of his Hawkins Community College sweater up his arms. A galaxy of freckles reveal themselves to you, clustering and spreading along his permanently sunkissed skin. They stand out even more under the fluorescents.
“I know you like winning, but I feel like I have to remind you that this isn’t a competition Harrington.” Grinning, you finally meet his amused eyes.
”Just getting into the Halloween spirit, that’s all honey.” Steve winks, pushing the wild strand back, just for it to fall across his face not even a second later. He ignores your protest when he bumps you to the side with his hip to take over pushing the cart. “Now the real question is what are we watching tonight?”
“I was thinking something along the lines of Army of Darkness, or Nightmare on Elm Street. Neither are very scary, I know how you get.” You couldn’t help but throw the little dig in retaliation for taking the cart from you, a giggle slipping past your lips at the side eye you get in return.
”I just don’t like being scared? Is that such a crime? You can go watch whatever you want with Eddie like the little weirdos you are.” He does a good job at keeping a straight face as the two of you get in line behind a family of five, but you catch a peek of his smirk when he leans over to put the divider on the black belt.
“Do I need to remind you that you invited yourself tonight? I should make you watch The Exorcist.”
It’s the genuine disbelief that paints his features that gets a full bellied laugh out of you, a big smile pushing up your glossed lips, and you can’t help notice how his gaze falls to them for a split second.
Self control.
”Sorry I want to spend my best friend’s favorite holiday with her, sue me.” Steve scoffs dramatically, setting the bags of candy on the moving belt first, the family ahead of you wrapping up.
“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it.” You roll your eyes, crossing your arms stubbornly, cheeks burning hot at the smirk he gives you.
”Listen, I don’t actually care about what we watch, what I care about is that you’re going to let those pumpkins we carved finally see the light of day.” He pushes the now emptied cart ahead, leaning back against the wooden panel of the register, leaving just a few inches between you. An amused eyebrow arches at your annoyed groan in response.
”Steve, they are hideous.”
”Speak for yourself, I put my blood, sweat and tears into mine, he deserves his moment. He’s going outside.” He decides it with the kind of finality in his tone that you know means it’s going to be the first thing he does as soon as you get back.
”No one is going to come to the apartment, it will look like serial killers live there.”
“Or a couple of undiscovered artists. Who are also going to be the number one candy dealers on the block.” He argues, completely unphased by your protesting.
“Steve!” You whine, despite the smirk that creeps up your lips, and it makes Steve’s face split in two.
“Fine, but we’re watching whatever I want then.” You challenge, doing your best to ignore the flutter in your stomach when his foot brushes against yours and he keeps it there.
”Like within reason.” He succumbs with genuine concern, rubbing his palms nervously against his tight fitting light wash jeans at the thought of what you’re sure is the last movie Eddie made him sit through.
”I’m not a monster Harrington.” You wink, quietly thankful for the fact that the line starts to move, because like magnets you’d unconsciously migrated deeper between his spread legs.
Seizing the moment, you put some space between you just in time for Delores, or as her name tag reads to greet you both, popping the bubble you’d unknowingly trapped yourself in with him and bringing you back to reality.
Self Control.
Halloween - Three Years Ago.
“I really can’t believe you’re choosing to go to Eddie’s Halloween party over Tina’s.” Steve yells over Eddie Money’s ‘Take Me Home Tonight’ from his bathroom.
”And I can’t believe you’re going on a date with Brenda, again.” You retort, recalling the last time he tried to date her six months ago, and how he had to disconnect his landline after he ended things.
Granted he was breaking up with her because the new foreign exchange student at the time was showing interest, and he’d rather have a semester of fun with her than spend the winter playing boyfriend with Brenda. So you definitely understood where she was coming from, in fact you constantly reminded Steve you were on her side every time he’d try and complain about the mess he made. Messes he always seemed to make.
You ignored the unreasonable pit of jealousy that formed in your gut then, just like you are now, cause in no universe are you going to allow yourself to have a crush on your best friend. There was no way you were going to fall victim to the Harrington charm just like everyone else, you liked hanging out with him too much for that. It would be a cold day in hell if you ended up as one of Steve’s messes, because in an alternate reality where you gave in to the ‘what if’ and it didn’t work out, there’s no way you’d be able to go back to watching him do exactly what he’s doing right now.
You wouldn’t be able to have movie nights where maybe you both sit a little too close, laughing until your sides hurt and snacking on whatever is in front of you. No more late drives to lovers lake, just so you can get a better view of the moon when it's full, and staying out till sunrise, stopping at Denny’s to share a grand slam on your way home. No more talks about the future and how much the uncertainty of it all scares you both. No more having someone you can be completely yourself around. Someone who won’t judge you for your faults, someone who shows up when no one else will. Neither one of you could lose that.
”Look, it’s been a few months. She seems over it, besides it’s not like it’s anything serious.” He tries to reason, finally stepping out of his bathroom to give you the first look at his costume. ”What do you think?”
You never thought Indiana Jones was hot, even when he made you watch all three movies in preparation for this, but Steve as Indiana Jones was another story entirely.
His dark brown pants are tucked into black boots, fitting his waist perfectly with a chocolate colored belt wrapped around his hips only extenuating it more. The cream colored button up leaves little to the imagination since he only has the bottom two done, half hazardly tucked into the front of his pants. You notice the silver chain that you’d gotten him for Christmas last year hanging from his neck, the dog tag at the end of it getting lost in the thick thatch of hair on his chest and it leaves your body warm. He opts out of the fedora because according to him it would hide his “best asset” so that wild strand swoops across his forehead like it's on purpose.
Steve Harrington looked like a movie star.
Brenda didn’t know what was coming for her, and you have to swallow that sour taste in your mouth for the second time tonight.
“I’d say Stephen Spielberg needs to seriously consider recasting you as the lead instead of Harrison Ford.” You feed into his delusion, because that’s what best friends are for.
”Right? Right?” He spins around one more time, flashing that million dollar smile of his that devastates anyone he directs it at. You have to remind yourself of everything that you could lose again.
It’s Steve’s turn to take in your costume. Golden brown eyes sparkling with amusement and the kind of adoration that was hard to ignore. You’re a Venus fly trap from the Little Shop of Horrors, wrapped up in a dark green form fitting tube top dress that stops at the middle of your thighs with jagged cut ends you made yourself with a dull pair of kitchen scissors. The silk gloves that go up to your elbows are the same shade of emerald, along with the little paper mache fly trap heads that Robin helped you make sticking out of the top of your pinned up hair. Glitter covers every exposed inch of your chest, and shimmers in the corners of your eyes. You had felt confident enough to even reconsider going to Tina’s instead when you applied your red lipstick before leaving for Steve’s. His reaction only makes it soar.
”What do you think?” You smile, taking your turn to spin.
”Who are you trying to impress at this party again?” Steve quirks an eyebrow, a darkened gaze lingering over all the details of you, taking his time where a best friend shouldn’t and it makes you squirm.
”Jonathan’s friend that’s visiting from California. You know him, Argyle."
He scoffs, waving a dismissive hand before moving past you to grab his cologne from the top of his dresser.
”Him? Why? He’s only here for like two more days anyway.” He challenges with his back turned, and you know it’s on purpose.
”Okay? And?” You snap, his hypocrisy quickly snuffing out the jealousy that seemed to get comfortable in your gut and turning it into anger. You prefer it. So you lean into it. “You’re the only one who get’s to fuck around with no strings attached?”
”He’s a stoner pizza delivery man, I don’t really know what you’d see in that. Don’t lower your standards just to hook up with someone because you look cute tonight.”
Because you look cute tonight.
It’s your turn to scoff.
“You’re being a complete ass, Harrington. Like working at a video store is any better. He’s nice, and makes me laugh. We already hung out the other night. Then guess what? He walked me home and kissed me at my front door. I don’t think I need to impress anybody.” Your nails dig into the soft flesh of your palms, hands balling into fists at your side. How dare he.
What makes you even more mad is that it feels like it’s Steve who’s jealous. Steve who’s getting ready to go on a date with someone else. Steve who didn’t ask you when you were always right here.
”Oh, so that’s why we didn’t hang out the other night, got it.” He raises his eyebrows, lips turning into a frown before nodding his head.
“We hang out almost every other night Steve, I don’t say anything to you when you go out on dates, and you go out on a ton of them. I think you’ve dated almost every girl in my Liberal Arts Class. I’m not appreciating this double standard, or you questioning my judgment.” Your words carry the kind of venom that stings, and you can see it all over his face. The worst part was how you immediately feel bad, frustrated tears threatening to spill over the shimmer that covers your cheeks.
Steve’s quiet for a moment, looking down at his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. He meets your eyes after a few seconds, soft and apologetic, traces of unmistakable regret in the dark pools of his irises.
”You’re right, I’m sorry.” He sighs, straightening up, shifting his belt buckle around. “I don’t know why I’m being so-, I just think, I just -“
He takes a moment to gather his thoughts and decide if he really wants to say what’s trying to escape from the tip of his tongue.
”I just don’t think anyone’s good enough for you.”
You let his words sink it. They make the anger that fueled you cool down to a low simmer so that jealous pit can come back to reclaim its rightful throne.
”Well I could say the same thing for you too.” You mutter, refusing to meet his gaze, you weren’t ready to yet.
The silence that fills the space between you is full of those what if’s and half truths. It stays there just long enough for you to finally look at him with the mask you’re used to wearing.
”Apology accepted. The game plan then is for you to try and not to end up getting tied to Brenda’s bed, and I’ll try to make sure Eddie doesn’t burn his trailer to the ground.”
Steve stares at you for a while, like he knows the conversation needs to move on but he doesn’t want it too. Logic wins out no matter how forced it seems, because he follows your lead.
“He’ll need you, buddy needs to cool it with the lighter fluid. And for what it’s worth your costume looks amazing. You guys did great.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.
He spots the whip at the end of his bed, playfully flicking the head of one of the fly traps with his fingers as he walks past, and you have to stop yourself from inhaling the cedar and honey that invades your senses from his cologne. It’s not the one with cinnamon that you love, the one he only wears in the fall, the one that he wears for you.
“Come on, I’ll drop you off on my way.”
Halloween - Now.
“So what’s the game plan chief?” Steve grins, leaning over your kitchen island, long fingers digging through the freshly filled candy bowl for a pack of Swedish fish.
”There’s no game plan, we hang out, kids walk up, they ring the door bell, then we give them candy and they walk away.” You swat his hand from the treats, but let him keep the gummy candy he searched so hard for. “No good supplier eats his stash Harrington, and I can’t believe I just had to explain the concept of trick or treating to you.”
You don’t tell him about the pile you already set aside to share later.
“What? I’m rusty! And, you gotta test the quality of the product honey, I’m a professional, I know what I’m doing.” He argues with his mouth full.
”Eww keep your mouth closed please and you can’t be rusty and a professional at the same time.”
He sticks his tongue out in response with a whole mini bag of half devoured Swedish fish on it.
”I hate you.”
”No you don’t.” He smirks, chewing the rest before pushing himself up right with a big gulp, letting you admire the cozy attire he changed into after you got back from the store.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone make grey sweatpants and a black crew neck sweater look so good. A sweater he made sure to tell you he wore just for you today, the only black top he owns.
“I’m still mad you didn’t get me any Halloween socks.” Steve points to the fuzzy black ones with jack o lanterns on your feet.
You’d opted for a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater, Steve’s oversized sweater actually, he’d left at your place almost a year ago and never bothered to reclaim it. The dark burnt orange color of it reminded you of fall, and for a while it smelt like him too. You’d never admit that last part to anyone, or that you were excited at the prospect of getting that smell back after tonight.
”You could have easily grabbed a pair at the store earlier, it’s not my fault you don’t know how to be festive.”
The roll of your eyes is hard, but the smile that twists at the corner of your lips is soft for him as you grab the bowls of candy, silently indicating for him to follow you to the living room.
”I’d like to think I’m pretty festive.” He scoffs, tube sock covered feet padding loudly against the old wood floors of your apartment. “This is the first year I’m not dressing up, actually.”
”Because you don’t have a girl you can do a couples costume with this year.” You retort, setting the candy down on the coffee table before lazily flinging yourself onto the blanket and pillow covered couch.
“One, I could have very easily gotten a date for Tina’s party tonight, let's not pretend that you and I don’t both know that. And two, that’s not true either, the year before last I didn’t have a date, I went with Robin as Mario and Luigi. You were the one that had a date that year, it was that douche bag Ryan from your English Lit class.” He snorts at the memory and the boy you’d almost forgotten about, but clearly your best friend hadn’t.
Dropping into the spot he always takes next to you, Steve lets himself melt into the familiar cushions. His knee bumps yours when he spreads his legs wide with an appreciative groan before leaning his head back against the headrest closing his eyes.
“Ryan was not a douche bag.” He was.
Steve opens one eye, a lopsided grin pulling up on your favorite cheek dotted with two moles.
“Yes, he was and you know it. He wrote you one poem and you were smitten, one shitty poem. I could’ve written you a better one.”
”Then why didn’t you.”
Steve’s eyes shine, but he doesn’t answer you, instead the two of you just sit there in silence smiling at each other in a silent dare that's always there. His knee presses into yours harder, and the butterflies that’d you’d done a good job at keeping dormant flutter back to life. Then you see his gaze flick down to your lips again.
Self control.
”L-lets start the movie.” You stutter, unable to tell if you yelled the words or if it really was just that quiet.
Leaning over, you grab the remote off the coffee table with a kind of quickness that would make you think there was a gun pointed to your head. Steve’s continued silence doesn’t help anything either, he just drapes both arms across the back of the couch, wiggling himself deeper into his spot. The movement has your teeth digging into your bottom lip as you press play, starting the VHS. You had finally settled on Nightmare on Elm street on the car ride back.
It’s second nature to lean over Steve to turn off the lamp, although after last week it feels taboo but it’s too late to stop by the time the realization dawns on you. The light disappears with a loud click leaving just the small one over the stove in the kitchen as your only source besides the TV and the porch light that bleeds through your blinds from outside.
Electricity sparks and fizzes in the air around you the moment the room succumbs to darkness, and your chest accidentally brushes with his as you plop back into your seat. Steve sucks in a sharp intake of breath from the unexpected contact, but still he doesn’t hesitate to scoop you up like he always does, long fingers wrapping around your knees to drape your legs over the top of his thighs.
Tucked under his arm like this, it’s easy to inhale him, bask in him and the warm cinnamon that mixes into his usual amber in the fall. He’s wearing your favorite. You nuzzle your cheek into his chest becoming greedy, the cozy scent calming your nerves, you get lost in it, and if he notices he doesn’t show it. He squeezes you closer, the top of his chin finding a new home on the crown of your head, while the pad of his thumb rubs circles on the sore muscle of your calf with pointed pressure.
Secretly, you always knew this moment, the one right here, was the cheat code every time you had ‘movie nights’ just the two of you. The excuse to let yourselves have this one thing. A silent agreement to never ruin the friendship by giving in just enough to keep the temptation at bay. An equal craving for the kind of affection that only feels good with someone you love, but as the years go by, the bolder both your touches get under the cloak of a dark room and a blanket, you wonder if it’s more than that. If there’s a world where he thinks about risking it all too.
Halloween - Two Years Ago.
You weren’t supposed to end up at Tina’s Halloween Party, but Ryan wanted to make an appearance after the two of you left Reefer Rick’s. He’d offered to be the DD, but three group shots of pickle bombs into it, you and everyone could tell he wasn’t having a good time. So since your apartment was walking distance from Tina’s, it made sense to end the night there or at least that’s how he explained it when he told you he wanted to leave.
The usual anxiety that tightens in your chest returns at the thought of seeing your best friend, somersaults in your stomach you refuse to call butterflies. In fact, you’ve done a good job at convincing yourself this is totally normal, because you can’t remember a time where it didn’t feel like this to see him.
Robin would be there too thankfully, because the two of them had entered Tina’s annual costume contest as Mario and Luigi. Costumes you watched them both make all week, sprawled out across Robin’s bedroom floor, pricking fingers till they bled trying to sew. The worst part about it though, was how cute Steve made the oversized mustache look. Some people really do have it all.
Ryan keeps you close to his side when the two of you enter the packed house dressed as Frankenstein and his bride. Monster Mash blares from the speakers so loud you wonder how much time you have left before Hopper comes knocking on the door to shut it down. You scan the crowd for the familiar red and green in a sea of witches, mermaids, and Top Gun characters, finding the two of them in the corner closest to the kitchen. Closest to the booze.
You can’t fight the way your face lights up when Steve’s gaze meets yours through the crowd, his own smile growing so big that half his mustache falls off. Suddenly coming to Tina’s was the best idea Ryan’s ever had. You tug at his arm, leading him towards the two Mario brothers that wave eagerly at you.
”Oh, great. Steve’s here.” Ryan mutters, sounding less than thrilled but you choose to ignore it, and the very obvious tension between the two men that’s existed since they met.
”Finally you come to the superior party!” Robin exclaims hugging you tight, before giving Ryan an awkward side one.
”She’s aliiiiive!” Steve who is clearly feeling very good yells over the music, before scooping you up in his arms.
He gives you the kind of hug that’s usually reserved for the long goodbye after a self indulgent movie night. The kind that has his big palms splayed across your back, pulling you flush against him, the thin material of your ripped white dress and his ramshackled overalls leaves little to the imagination. His lips find their way to the shell of your ear, tequila and lime warm on his breath, pebbling goosebumps along the back of your neck. He’s wearing your favorite cologne.
”You look beautiful, honey.”
He lets you go with that, and you catch the smug way he looks at Ryan over the top of your head. The smile on Robin’s face is awkward as you meet her gaze with a silent plea for help, you don’t know what exactly you want her to do, but your body is on fire and someone needs to put it out. You stare a little longer as if to communicate this delima to her telepathically even though you would never admit it to her with your words, only giving up on your dead end mission when you feel Ryan tug you back to his side by your hip.
”She does, doesn’t she.” Ryan agrees, fingers threatening to dig bruises in your side unknowingly. Steve always did this to him, but tonight the alcohol intensified it.
“Seriously, literally always so stunning.” Robin agrees on your beauty nervously, giving you an apologetic look that she couldn’t think of anything better.
”Let’s get some shots!” You try with mock excitement in a desperate attempt to remind Ryan why you came here and that it’s not to punch Steve’s teeth in with a squeeze of his hand. It’s a fruitless effort to try and ignore the growing heat that warms under your cheeks and churns deep in your gut where your body always seems to betray you.
”Great idea!” Robin exclaims doing her best to copy your tone, it seems to be enough to shake the boys out of their silent dick swinging contest.
”Tequila or rum?” You ask your date, laying a hand on his chest doing your best to ignore the heat of Steve’s stare on the back of your head.
“Tequila.” He answers, placing his palm on the top of your hand, bending down, his eyes flick towards your best friend before kissing you. Marking his territory.
You’d think it was hot if your body had any kind of reaction to him, but it’s still practically humming for the one behind you and you hate yourself for it.
”I’ll be right back.” You wink, giving Ryan’s fingers a squeeze before slipping through the crowd towards the kitchen without looking back.
It’s quieter in the yellow light of Tina’s kitchen, the music a low thump instead of overpowering all your senses at once. A shaky breath slips past your black painted lips, while uneasy hands half hazardly read the labels on the cheap bottles of liquor. The bold letters that spell Tequila finally catch your eye on the most generic looking bottle. You grimace at the thought of the hang over that seals your fate tomorrow, but then you remember the way the lime smelt on Steve’s breath.
“You look beautiful honey.”
Fuck it. You take one straight from the bottle for good measure. No salt, no lime, just regret.
“Your boyfriend’s a little insecure isn’t he?”
As if thinking about him makes him appear, Steve walks through the kitchen pointing a thumb over his shoulder towards the direction Ryan’s in.
“He’s not my boyfriend yet, and he won’t be because you keep egging him on, Harrington.” You sigh exasperated, ignoring the way he chuckles not taking you seriously at all before turning around to face him, your palms finding purchase on the kitchen counter behind you.
“Maybe, just a little.” He pinches his thumb and index finger together with a devious smirk that looks even more absurd in his costume. At least his oversized mustache must’ve been left with Robin. “I just don’t like him is all.”
“You don’t like anyone I’m interested in, Steve.”
You want to ask him why. The alcohol almost starts to make you brave enough to do it too. Why does he do this every time it’s your turn to date around? Why does he always have a list of issues on how they simply aren’t good enough? Why is it always a competition? Sometimes you wonder if it’d just be easier to hear him say it out loud instead of doing whatever this is.
“Well, that may be true, but you also have terrible taste.” He closes the space between you, mimicking your stance on the kitchen island across from where you face him. The tips of your shoes are close enough to touch.
“Who would you like me to date then?” Your question is supposed to sound snarky and mean, not quiet with weight wrapped around it like it does
The look in his glossy eyes steals the air from your lungs, like he’s daring you to say it.
You both know you won’t and he changes the subject.
“I can’t believe I caught you doing a tequila shot without salt and lime. Especially that tequila.” He tsks, pushing himself off the counter and invades what little is left of the space between you. You can smell the cinnamon again.
“Well I needed a quick stress reliever, no thanks to you.” You should be embarrassed by how breathy it comes out, but when he holds your gaze like this, like he wants to eat you alive, it’s hard to care.
It's just the liquor you tell yourself, Steve’s been drinking all night.
He mutters a ‘hmm’ under his breath, long fingers wrapping just tight enough around your wrist that you could pull away if you wanted too. You don’t though, instead you bite your bottom lip, too selfishly invested in what he might do next.
Steve reaches behind you, grabbing the salt shaker that dwarfs in his grasp, lifting your hand up to your mouth.
“Lick.” He smirks devilishly, and you realize you’re getting the full force of his charm.
“Steve.” You whisper, just barely audible over your heart thrumming out of your chest. You can feel it in your ears.
Thump, thump, thump, thump
“We’re gonna do a shot together, the right way.” He reasons like this is a completely normal interaction between two friends while the gold shimmering in his eyes darkens.
You don’t say anything, searching his face for any sign of this being some kind of prank just to see how you’d react. But the way he licks his lips tells you pretty quickly that it’s not.
So you do it. Holding his eyes the whole time, and you swear they turn onyx.
It’s his turn to stay silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he taps the shaker over the corner of your hand before doing the same to his own, and now it’s your turn to stare as his pink tongue licks a perfect straight line. All the stories you’ve heard about him flood to the forefront of your mind, the endless pillow talk about Steve Harrington that fills the college halls.
You hate that the motion has your thighs pressing together, especially with Ryan just outside waiting for your return, but you can’t bring yourself to care enough to leave. Your eyes trace the veins in his neck, silently counting the freckles that explode across his skin as he pours up two shots.
“Here honey.” He whispers, like he’s scared for this bubble to pop too.
The two of you cheers, glass clinking loudly in the silence, eyes staying trained on each other like you need to memorize every detail of this moment. Like this was never going to happen again.
The tequila doesn’t taste as bad followed up with the salt and the lime. Steve does it like a pro, like a boy who’s been to every party this small town has to offer. He doesn’t even take that ‘this is disgusting’ suck of breath through his teeth, he just smiles at you setting the shot glass down.
“Hey, is everything okay? Do you need help? Oh.”
It’s only fitting that it’s Ryan who pops your carefully crafted bubble, and you know it will be another fight about Steve on the walk home. Another night to get buried with all the others just like this, and a night that has you and Steve avoid being alone together for a week.
Halloween - Now.
It’s hard to concentrate on Freddy terrorizing a young Johnny Depp when the tips of Steve’s fingers move from your calf to the top of your thigh, a motion he’s repeated for half the movie. A move that gets bolder, higher, pushing the boundaries with every swipe. He has to feel the way it makes you squirm, in fact, you think it’s spurring him on. Especially when he gets dangerously close to the soft outline of your underwear, a quiet gasp escaping past your lips.
Luckily, you're saved by the sound of your doorbell, the first trick or treaters of the night making you both jump.
“Finally!” Steve exclaims like he wasn’t just actively tempting you to cross the line for the second time this week, like he didn’t already know what your tongue tasted like.
The bonfire comes back in flashes, teeth scraping, nipping, the whistles that got drowned out when his hand came up to your cheek opening you up more when it was just supposed to be a peck.
”Hello? Are we just going to keep them waiting?” He snaps you back to reality, standing over you with his hands out for you to take. “I don’t really want to beat you at your own game.”
”Again Steve, this is not a sport, you can’t win at something when there’s no prize.” You groan, refusing to meet eyes but slide your hands into his.
“Sure you can.” He winks, letting you go the moment you get on your feet, extending his arm for you to lead the way.
His playful demeanor has you feeling like maybe you just imagined the last thirty minutes. Was he not affected the way you were? Has it always just been you? Did the kiss not make him question everything?
”Whatever you say Harrington.” Sighing, you try for the hundredth time this week to push the thoughts of your bottom lip between his teeth down where they can’t see the light of day.
So distracted by the man behind you, the lack of candy in your hands has you stopping dead in your tracks without thinking, the domino effect slams his hard chest right into your back.
”Foul ball.” Steve huffs, steadying you both with hands on your hips. The warmth of them bleeding through the thick fabric of your sweater. “I thought you said this wasn’t a game.”
What you hated most about Steve Harrington was that he always knew how to make you laugh even when you didn’t want to.
”Well if this were a game, we’d be losing.”
Genuine panic paints his features like a truly serious offense has occurred.
“We forgot the candy.”
He groans, running a hand through his hair that you wish was your own.
”Wow, total rookie mistake, we gotta get it together or we’re gonna get benched.” Clapping loudly he turns on his heel to grab both bowls, “I do not wanna get on the coach's bad side.”
”You don’t have to bring both.” You try your hardest to fight the smile that wants to twist up the corners of your lips. “And who’s the coach?”
”We’re not going to be under prepared this time sweetheart, and I need to see who picked the better candy, if they’re even still there!” Steve tutts with a shake of his head gliding past you. “And you’re the coach, duh.”
”Why do you always like to participate in competitions you know you’re going to lose?” Crossing your arms, you light up at his narrowed gaze, his long fingers wrapped around the door handle, “I mean, we might as well take a poll of the ugly pumpkins you made us put out too while we’re at it.
“Sounds like a great idea.” He grins smugly, “I love how much you lean into intimidation tactics when you know you won’t win by the way.” He doesn’t give you any time to respond, swinging the door open with the kind of excitement that would rival a kid on Christmas morning.
Then you watch it drain from his face almost instantly, quickly replaced by pure annoyance.
“What’s going on? What are you doing here?” Steve, stacks one of the candy bowls on top of the other, leaning on your door with a hand on his hip.
”What does it look like we’re doing?” You hear Mike Wheeler’s voice before you see him, but when you meet Steve at the door, you realize it’s all four of his ‘children’ and you can’t stop the laugh that bubbles past your lips because they’re all dressed as The Cone Heads.
“It looks like legal adults going to strangers' houses asking for candy, instead of being at a party, meeting girls. Will you’re excluded in that last part, obviously.” Your best friend runs another irritated hand through his hair.
“I’m not sure they’ll be able to chase tail dressed as Beldar Conehead, Steve.” You can’t stop giggling. “Just give them some candy.”
”Yeah, listen to your girlfriend, Harrington.” Dustin antagonizes, shaking his empty pillow case in front of him. “Give us the sour candies and we’ll get out of your hair.”
”One, she’s not my girlfriend, dip shit, and two, what's wrong with Snickers?”
“Sour candy’s just better.” Lucas shrugs, “Now hand over the Warheads.”
She’s not my girlfriend.
It feels like an expected punch in the gut. The final nail in the coffin your last shred of hope lays in. You should have known better, but the kiss made everything fuzzy, the self control you prided yourself on waning in a way that you weren’t sure you could ever get back.
“You guys can have as much as you want.” You say ignoring Steve, snatching the bowls from his hand.
“Seriously? They can buy their own!” He groans, leaning his back on the door crossing his arms over his chest.
“She’s not your girlfriend, huh? You seemed pretty whipped to me,” Mike laughs knowing just how much this is getting under Steve’s skin.
You know it’s supposed to be somewhat of a compliment but it just adds salt to a wound that won’t stay closed.
”Shut up, that’s enough,” Steve smacks the back of Mike’s head hard enough to get an ‘Ouch! Asshole!’, the cone on top wobbling. “Get out of here and go to a god damn party.”
The boys take half the bowl of Warheads, walking away arguing about who can put the most in their mouth without spitting them out. They only took a few pieces of Steve’s chocolate, leaving you the clear winner this round, something you’d be more excited about rubbing in his face if you weren’t trying to actively avoid it. The taste of disappointment is bitter on your tongue, but you do your best to swallow it down. A hard lesson learned, but one your heart can’t bear to repeat again. All you know is that you can’t go back to being best friends with wandering hands in the dark.
Self control.
The Bon Fire - Last Week
Eddie Munson’s filter always disappeared when he was drunk, it was part of the fun of drinking with him. Except for when his unfiltered thoughts were about you.
”Oh give me a fucking break!” Eddie yells at you from across the flames that lick the night sky violently. The excessive amount of lighter fluid he’s sprayed into them should be illegal. A half smoked cigarette dangles from the side of his mouth, dangerously close to falling out as he finishes.
“The only reason you and Steve are still single is because the two of you refuse to acknowledge the fact that you’re clearly in love with each other!”
”Fuck. Off. Munson.” Steve glowers from the lawn chair next to you, taking a swig from his 5th beer of the night.
”What? ‘Fuck off’ because I got your ass?” Eddie adjusts in his seat, saving his cigarette, fully prepared for this debate like he’s been waiting for it all his life.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You argue weakly, following Steve’s lead and taking another “sip” of your empty beer.
The metal head guffaws.
“Please, I’ve been watching the two of you for the past four years. Steve scares off any guy you try to date and you let him, which makes me believe you feel the same way, and Steve only dates girls he knows he’ll never have a connection with!” Eddie claps his hands every few words to really drive his point home, and it leaves your argument a jumbled mess on the tip of your tongue.
The vicious cycle of you and Steve Harrington.
”One, she dates horrible guys -“ Steve starts but immediately gets cut off by Eddie’s sarcastic “Sure!” And your “Hey!”
“Are you going to let me finish?” Your best friend narrows his eyes, polishing off his beer with an apologetic glance flashed briefly in your direction.
”You can if you want, but it’s not going to change my mind or anyone else’s at this party.” Eddie eggs him on more, taking a deep inhale of his cigarette and blowing the smoke out of his nose like a bull. Taunting you both.
You look around the fire for help foolishly thinking your friends were going to be on your side only to realize literally everyone is avoiding your gaze, even Robin.
”Robin!” The gasp that escapes you shouldn’t sound so surprised. She spends the most time with both of you.
“What?! I’m not Eddie! Yell at him!” She exclaims defensively, but her eyes are still everywhere but yours.
”Then look at me.” You cross your arms, arching a brow with a tilt of your chin.
She mumbles something about killing Eddie under her breath, messing with the empty beer bottles next to her like she’s looking for something. She was procrastinating.
”Oh my god! Seriously?”
Eddie chuckles victoriously and you swear you hear Nancy giggle from the spot next to Robin. Sinking into the hard plastic of your chair, you dare to sneak a glance at Steve who’s face is entirely unreadable. This was worse than your worst nightmare, this was reality.
”Look,” Eddie starts again, leaning forward in his chair like some sort of evil mastermind from a bad action movie, “If it’s all in our heads like you keep saying it is. That she really does have terrible taste in men and that you’ve really just exhausted all your options in Hawkins. Kiss then.”
Robin gasps dramatically.
”Are you really doing this right now, Munson?” Steve glowers through gritted teeth before shooting Robin a look so harsh she covers her face.
”Why not? What’s it going to hurt? I’m sure you’ve both thought about it before.” He shrugs, a cheshire smile poking dimples into both his cheeks. “Unless you’re too scared to do it, which would then make me continue to believe everything I just said was true.”
God, Eddie Munson knew exactly what he was doing. He knew how to press Steve’s buttons. He knew exactly how dug in both your heels were, holding up that invisible line that’s saved you for the past four years. And you couldn’t figure out if you wanted to kill him, and dump his body into the lake or be eternally grateful for someone finally ripping this old bandaid off. You just didn’t know if there was going to be a scar underneath.
”And why’s that?” You chime in finally finding your voice, snarky and rude. You’ve decided to lean into the anger, and ignore the heat of Steve’s stare warming the side of your face.
“Guys, this is getting a little weird.” Robin tries to intervene, the rasp in her voice uneasy, holding both her arms out like both boys might jump through the fire at each other soon.
”I dare you both to prove me wrong, and then I’ll let it go.” He sits back in his chair, a cigarette put out by his combat boots, and folds his hands in front of him. ”Just a peck.”
”Eddie, come on-“ Robin starts but Steve cuts her off.
”No, no, no it’s fine Rob.”
That’s when he does it, he turns to face you because Steve Harrington never backs down from a dare. Even if it means throwing a boulder at your glass house. Eddie was playing chess while Steve played checkers, and you start to believe all the drunken stories he told you about the campaigns he wrote for his DND club in high school. Your best friend will unfortunately always be an easy target.
“It’s fine, if this freak wants a little show to get off to later, we’re perfectly capable of a peck. My Mom gives out pecks like they’re candy! N-not like to me alone specifically,” He clears his throat awkwardly, “Like the rest of my family too.”
You grimace at the idea of Steve kissing you like his Mom and Eddie’s eyes sparkle.
”Okay,” Steve waves his hands, eyes closing tight in frustration, “This is coming out wrong! All I’m trying to say is, no big deal Munson, if it’ll get you to shut up, we’d love to prove you wrong, right?”
Wait, was Steve really agreeing to this? Were you really going to have your first kiss with him in front of all of your friends? A kiss you’ve shamefully thought about more than you should. Did he actually want to kiss you? Is he really doing this to shut Eddie up?
”Yeah, not a big deal. You’ll see, and then I’ll be expecting free weed for at least a month.” You try to over compensate with a brave face, but Eddie sees right through it.
”Sure.” He grins, utterly pleased with himself.
”Well what do I get?” Steve glares at his friend expectantly.
”You don’t get anything Harrington, shut up.”
“Wow, doesn’t seem fair, but whatever.” He mumbles, before finally focusing on you, and you aren’t sure you’re ready.
It feels kismet the moment your eyes meet, the sounds of the party fading around you, leaving only the crackling fire and your heart beating so loud it rings in your ears, and thumps through the tips of all ten of your fingers. The bubble you’ve carefully made together, the one that’s kept you safe for this long comes out like a shield. The last defense.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
Steve licks his lips, eyes silently communicating with you to make sure this is really okay, that you guys were actually going to do this and all you can muster is a nod. He scoots his chair close enough for the sides of your hands to touch, amber and cinnamon wrapping around you like a spell.
”Just me and you okay?” He whispers loud enough for your ears only.
”Yeah,” you agree, hooking your pinky with his, “me and you.”
Steve smiles that smile he doesn’t give anyone else, and suddenly you don’t care about the answer to any of those questions swirling around loud in your brain. You want this. You want him. Even if it’s just for right now.
His nose brushes against yours, miller lite and mint hot on his breath. It makes your lashes flutter against the tops of your cheeks, your skin warming as if you were standing in front of the sun. It’s so gentle when his bottom lip connects with the top of yours, it almost tickles. He exhales a deep breath through his nose, mouth hovering for what feels like an eternity.
Thump, thump, tump, thump.
When the soft silk of his lips finally meets yours, you swear the earth shakes, and after a few seconds when he pulls away with that dazed look on his face you wonder if he felt it too. He blinks a few times, slow and bewildered, something shifting behind his brown eyes that you can’t figure out. Steve doesn’t give you much time to try before his lips are on yours again, that big hand of his finding your cheek, tilting your willing chin up just enough to open you up. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip asking for more and you give it to him without question tasting him for the first time.
Steve Harrington was kissing you, really kissing you.
“I hope those aren’t the kinda pecks your Mom’s handing out like candy, Harrington!” Eddie gloats loud enough to break through the haze, causing both of you to remember where you are.
Steve’s in no rush to pull away though, in fact, he takes his time, perfect teeth nipping gently at your bottom lip for good measure. He lingers like stopping this is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. The tip of his nose runs along the length of yours, and for a second you think he might keep kissing you. His eyes are already fixated on yours when you meet his stare with fluttering lashes. He holds your gaze like he’s desperately trying to read your mind, the pad of his thumb swiping against your bottom lip not once but twice before finally letting you go.
”You happy now, Munson?” Steve huffs flopping back into his chair with rose colored cheeks. He leans down to grab his beer, running a hand through his untamable hair before taking a swig like that didn’t just change everything.
Oh no.
“Literally couldn’t be happier, Harrington. I think I’m going to start charging double for my eighths now, actually.” Eddie grins winking at you, only for his face to soften meeting your unreadable expression.
Frozen in your seat, your fingers press against your lips. You could still feel his teeth.
“What do you mean?” Steve interjects, refusing to look in your direction.
Oh no.
“What do you mean?” The metal head challenges, with a confused raise of his eyebrow. “There’s witnesses Harrington.”
He waves his ringed finger in a circular motion reminding you both of the still very much ongoing party around you. It’s hard to feel the familiar ache of disappointment when your bones won’t stop buzzing. They don’t get it, they don’t realize they bore witness to the kind of moment that moved tectonic plates for you. The kind of moment that you know is going to change everything no matter how hard you try.
”We did your dare, she gets free weed.” Steve continues like it’s obvious.
“Yeah, no. You two were practically eating each other alive. I actually think people started to feel awkward, that’s how insane it was.” Eddie’s disbelief furrows his brows together, head cocking to the side. “So, clearly, I was right.”
At least he’s got the balls to say it.
“When I win, I like to win big, okay?” Steve smirks with his kiss bitten lips, making the next thing he says sting even more. “You’d never let it go if it was just a peck.”
Oh no.
Your eyes meet Robin’s, and the expression on her face makes you wish you hadn’t.
”Right?” It takes you a minute to realize Steve is talking to you, in fact it’s not until you feel a gentle tap on your shoulder from the hand that was just cupping your cheek.
He’s asking you to agree that it meant nothing, that you both got Eddie, that you two are only everything you’ve ever said you were. Everyone stares at you, and for the second time tonight you wish this was a nightmare. You wonder if you should just pinch yourself to see.
”I’ll take my first free eighth tonight.” You finally manage, giving Eddie a weak smile.
Oh no.
Halloween - Now
Steve feels miles away on the other side of the couch, a conscious choice you made after his teenage children left, after he made it abundantly clear where he still stood with you. It’s a choice you’re going to dig your heels into no matter how much your body physically aches to be close to him, or how his knee hasn’t stopped bouncing almost three movies and a whole lot of trick or treaters later.
The clear pink digital clock on your mantle reads 12:18 AM in bright red numbers, A Nightmare on Elm Street: Dream Warriors lights up your TV and despite the distance, Steve still hasn’t left. You know he wants to ask why you’re so far away, why you’re not wrapped up in his arms like it doesn’t matter, like last week never happened but then he would have to talk about it. Acknowledge it.
You fucking hated, ‘It’, and maybe Eddie Munson too.
Shadows dance across Steve’s face, eyes intent on the TV with knitted brows that meet in the middle of his forehead. Those hands that had wandered your body under blankets woven with secrets and what if’s for the past four years sit propped behind his head as he leans back into the cushions. His legs are spread wide, in a position that looks uncomfortable, letting you know he’s lost in whatever argument he’s been having with himself since the second movie after you had grabbed your own blanket.
You were going to break the vicious cycle of you and Steve Harrington, right here, right now. While you still had a shred of willpower left.
“I-I think I saw a full moon out there earlier.” His voice breaks through everything like it always does, hoarse from its lack of use, he clears his throat turning his head to look at you biting his nail.
The warm red lighting from Freddy’s boiler room illuminates his features in a way that dares those butterflies to wake back up from the eternal rest you banished them to. His sharp jaw, those high cheek bones kissed with freckles and moles. The dark pools of his irises beg you for something, surrounded by sparkling brown and gold. You couldn’t look away even if you tried. Movie star.
”Yeah?” You manage, voice coming out quieter than intended, it softens his features almost instantly, like he missed the sound of it.
”Do you maybe wanna go for a drive?”
You make him wait for an answer to a question you could never say no to even if you tried, doing your best to hang onto your fleeting self control for just a little bit longer before giving in with a,
“Let's go.”
Steve was right, there was a full moon tonight. It sits half hidden in the clouds but it still manages to shine bright enough to coat the sleeping town of Hawkins in an incandescent opal. He cranks the heat all the way up so you can rest your head on propped up hands along the open passenger window. Strings of orange and violet bulbs wrap around trees, twinkling off fences and front doors, lighting the dark spots that the moon can’t kiss. Flames still flicker and dance inside jack o lantern mouths that sit on front doorsteps, and you can’t help but inhale the bitter crisp fall air that hits your face. It even smells like Halloween outside. You can faintly hear the sound of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ spill from his speakers, and it curves up the corners of your lips. Closing your eyes, you let yourself bask in this moment, including the unmistakable feeling of Steve’s gaze.
The thing about Steve’s car is that it feels like you’re completely surrounded by him when you’re in it, wrapped up in him, consumed by him. The warm leather underneath you always smells rich, especially in the summer after it bakes in the sun. It’s soft to the touch, freshly lotioned by him at least once a week to prevent cracks, while the amber of his cologne permanently clings to the threads in his carpets, and soft chenille lining of his doors. Some days, you’ll catch hints of that Farrah Faucet spray he used in high school, but that was usually after a date. Loose change jingles in his cup holder, along with the stick of gum you almost always inevitably steal from it, and despite the internal battle you’ve been having with yourself, tonight was still no exception. Steve’s car felt like home.
Neither one of you talk as he drives the familiar path towards your favorite spot by the lake. His headlights illuminate the fog that wraps up the base of the trees, crawling up slowly to the dying leaves in a way that makes everything look like magic as you pass town lines. Including the boy next to you. It takes you a few minutes to work up the courage to steal a glance in his direction, but when you do he’s already looking at you too. His soft laugh after you both get caught makes your cheeks ignite, the corners of your lips twitching.
”Eyes on the road, Harrington.” You manage, fighting the losing battle with your growing smile. You don’t look at him again, not until the BMW slowly rolls to a stop.
Still, you waste no time jumping out of the car parked on the secret cliff you’d both discovered lost on a drive a few summers ago. Wind hits you in a heavy gust, free from anything that can slow it down up here, pebbling goosebumps along your skin. The cold ground cracks underneath your slippers you didn’t bother to change out of, while cinnamon and crimson leaves flutter in the trees. Crickets chirp in the distance, creating a melody with the wind howling through the dense forest that feels fitting for the holiday. Your heart swells from the feeling of nostalgia, filling you with the kind of joy something that a party could never do.
“Spooky.” Steve whispers in your ear, coming up from behind you. The warmth of his spare jacket he keeps in the back seat drapes around your shoulders. It smells different than the one he wears regularly, but it's still him, so you selfishly pull it closer.
“Mmhmm.” You agree, eyelids growing heavy at the feeling of his breath against the soft skin at the back of your neck before his arms wrap around your waist like they belong there.
Steve pulls you close, mumbling something about being cold too and how you need to share. The tip of his nose traces the shell of your ear before burying his face into the crook of your neck. He inhales deeply, openly, like an addict that’s been denied his favorite drug and he’s finally got his hands on it. So just as quickly as they were banished, the butterflies come migrating back and you don’t have the energy to stop them, or to practice that new concept of self control because this feels too good right now. Maybe you’re an addict too.
Thin clouds spread out in wisps along the dark night sky, messily painted there by an invisible brush, the stars twinkle around them, shimmering bright even underneath it all. Your gaze traces the invisible lines of the Big Dipper, and it reminds you of the time you’d spent nearly twenty minutes trying to get Steve to see the formation sprawled out on a blanket at this very spot. You would’ve spent the whole evening if you had to.
“Are you having a good Halloween?” He whispers, voice vibrating deep inside your bones while his cold fingertips trace along the waist band of your leggings under your sweater. You don’t remember when they got there.
You roll the answer around in your head with a thoughtful hum, admiring the orange glow of the town below. An owl calls out into the darkness and Steve’s lips curl into a grin pressing into your neck at the noise.
”Yeah, this is pretty perfect.” You start, thankful he can’t see your own smile that pushes up your cold cheeks, “Especially after getting the confirmation that I do have better taste in candy than you. I love when I’m right.”
He snorts loudly, and it vibrates against your skin making you giggle, his grip on you tightening playfully before pulling you deeper into his chest.
”I threw the game, I felt bad, you know, I didn’t want to outshine you on your favorite holiday. I purposely picked the candy no one would like.” His voice comes out right next to your ear, the baritone of it going straight to your legs threatening to turn them into jell-o.
“Mmmhmm.” You manage, voice cracking with nerves as the palm of his hand finds the plushness of your stomach and keeps it there. You wonder if he can feel the butterflies too. “Whatever you have to say to yourself to sleep better at night, Harrington.”
Steve laughs into your shoulder, the blunt end of his nails scratching lightly over the soft skin of your navel. Neither one of you try to fill the quiet after that, letting the million things that need to be said hang over you in the eerily beautiful silence of the canyon. They cling onto every swipe of his fingers, and the sighs that come from the back of your throat. The two of you stay wrapped up in each other like this for what feels like an hour, swaying back and forth, too scared to pop your favorite bubble. It’s not until a shiver runs up your spine, the frost in the air numbing the tip of your nose.
”We don’t have to leave, but we should at least sit in the car with the heater on for a while.” Steve breaks the silence with a slight chatter in his teeth, the pad of his thumb swiping against the smooth skin of your hip before untangling himself from your clothes. This was starting to feel like a sunrise kind of night.
”Yeah, that’s probably smart.” You clear your throat with a small smile, already missing the feeling of being surrounded by him, for once you don’t push it down.
You follow him to the car, letting your gaze greedily trace the outline of his shoulders in his crew neck sweater. His hair whips around wildly in the wind, the little product that was left in his hair standing no chance. He walks past the passenger door to open the back one instead of your usual spot in the front. The change makes you pause, you’d never really hung out in the backseat together, always using the center console as a barrier to stop you from doing the unthinkable. Everything always seems more romantic in the dead of night.
“I had an idea earlier when I saw it was going to be a full moon tonight, I- uh, brought us a blanket.” He explains before the question even has a chance to leave your mouth, pink dusting his cheeks that you aren’t entirely sure is just from the cold.
It almost goes over your head, but the bashful way he won’t meet your gaze catches your attention. This wasn’t just some coincidence he saw the full moon from your front door, he had already known, probably with the help of the very kids that showed up dressed as Coneheads.
Steve Harrington planned something for you.
”I uh, stole this blank tape from Henderson too and recorded the re-run of Radio Mystery Theater, Eddie had told me about. Thought it might be something you’d like.”
Your heart swells, threatening to burst in your chest with the unmistakable feeling of wanting to kiss him again.
“I can’t believe you did this Steve, I’ve always wanted to listen to an episode.” You practically beam, taking a few steps closer, looking up at him from under your lashes. “You remembered.”
The crimson that deepens in the apple of his cheeks this time is definitely not from the cold.
”We’ve had a lot of shitty solo Halloweens, and since this was our first one together, I just wanted, I- I guess I just wanted to make this one special. Maybe we can start a new tradition or something?” he shrugs, muttering the last part with a scratch at the back of his neck pretending to be nonchalant but you can always see right through him.
”Yeah, I’d like that.” Your admission is quiet, but the smile he bites back threatens to be megawatt before reaching out his hand, ushering you into the car and out of the two am chill
”I’m gonna go grab the blanket.”
He closes the door gently after making sure you’re comfortable, and you watch him with hungry eyes from the back window pull out a down comforter from the trunk. It’s the one from his bed, the fabric a deep plush deep burgundy with a black trimming around the edges, it looks so warm in his grasp as another chill rattles through your bones. He comes around to his side, opening the door to hand it to you with a grin that only grows wider when you snatch it eagerly before popping to the driver's seat to turn his car on. The heat starts to blow through the vents instantly, sending another shiver up your spine and a chatter of your teeth. Your gaze falls on the sliver of skin that reveals itself to you where his sweater rides up his back as he leans over the center console to grab the cassette tape from his glove compartment. Of course there’s another cluster of moles and freckles there that make you want to explore where the rest hide.
He pops it in with ease, pressing play and waits until he hears the opening crackle through the speakers, a quiet ‘yes’ slipping past his lips. A gust of cold air follows him when he opens the passenger door again as he slides into the leather seats next to you, knees knocking into yours before shutting it. He wastes no time finding you under the covers, torturing you with his cold hands by slipping them back underneath your sweater.
”Steve!” You jump, scolding him with a giggle without pushing him away, and he takes this opportunity to pull you back into the position you were in on your couch at home before you tried to find some semblance of boundaries.
He keeps his hands under your sweater, even when they’re warmed back up, the pad of his thumb rubbing soft circles along your rib cage. His cheek rests on your forehead, full lips tickling your skin when he talks. You can feel his heart beat against your palm, and how it speeds up every time your fingers curl into the cotton of his sweater whenever you laugh, instinctively pulling him closer. He doesn’t fight it, instead his grip tightens on the soft dough of your thighs draped over his knees, making sure every inch of you stays pressed firmly against him.
This doesn’t feel like best friends. This feels like something more, but it’s always felt like something more.
In fact you think you’ve known you were in love with Steve Harrington long before you ever admitted it yourself. Burying it so far deep, the fleeting idea just didn’t exist to you anymore, but tonight in the soft glow of the moon sitting in the back seat of his car, you were sure of it and its existence.
It feels like he can read your mind when his fingers curl under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. The stars twinkle in the gold of his auburn eyes like he plucked them from the sky and hung them there. So close, you can see those freckles you’d discovered the last time he looked at you just like this. That one badly behaved swoop of hair tickles the top of your forehead, and your fingers twitch to push it back for him. Movie star.
The tape stops with a loud click, leaving nothing but the low whistle of wind outside, and it mixes with your heavy breaths, electric currents stinging at your fingertips. His heart thumps wildly against your hand, like he was working himself up for something big. The notion sets a fire ablaze on every inch of your skin in anticipation.
”I want, I want to talk about something.” He says just barely above a whisper with a gaze so intense, it makes you want to look away. You don’t.
“What about?” Your voice comes out somehow even quieter, eyes falling to his lips on their own accord. He catches it, kicking his heart rate up even more.
Was he going to do the unthinkable? You try to push the thought down, but it fights back this time. Refusing the denial exile you’ve shoved it in for the past four years.
“Last week, at um, at Munson’s.” His eyebrows pinch together, visibly swallowing his nerves, as the tip of his nose dares to brush against yours. “God, I-I can’t stop thinking about it.”
The last part comes out like he’s being tortured by it. At least it’s not just you.
“If we’re being honest though,” He continues, his palm running up your thigh to squeeze at your hip, keeping you close, “I don’t think I ever stop thinking about you.”
His words crack your chest open, shining light on all the dark places that you’ve kept him in, just like the sunshine Steve Harrington is made of.
”Really?” You manage to say, after fighting with the words that keep getting tangled up on the edge of your tongue, desperately trying to give him more than a one word answer but failing miserably. Years of daydreaming about this moment in silent shame freezing you up.
He nods, pressing his forehead against yours, yearning eyes searching inside the dark pools of your pupils down the slope of his nose.
“You just, you brushed it off so easily, I thought -“ You start, replaying the way he’d rolled back into his seat, sipping his beer so casually like nothing happened. The confidence in his voice bragging about how Eddie got it wrong, that he wasn’t in love with you.
”What’d you think?” He encourages gently, the hand on your hip coming up to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing along the bone.
”I just thought I was the only one.” You confess, that same defeated feeling from that night creeping back in despite the way his gaze softens all of your edges.
“That night at Eddie’s, I freaked out. Robin told me it was pretty obvious that I have feelings for you and it got me in my head that I was secretly making you uncomfortable because if she noticed it, surely you did too. So I completely overcompensated after I lost control at the bonfire, there was just no way I could stop kissing you, and then I panicked again earlier at your house-“
“Steve.” You say his name like it's something romantic, successfully ending his rambling with another brush of your nose against his. .
”Yeah?” He breathes, the tension leaving his shoulders like hearing your voice was enough.
You meet his heavy stare from underneath your lashes, the foggy glass of the windows creating a halo around his head from the soft glow of the moonlight.
“I dare you to kiss me again.” There’s confidence in your voice you don’t recognize, and the corner of his mouth quirks at it.
“What if I just wanted to kiss you because I wanted to?” Steve whispers, closing more of the little space that’s left between you.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
“Then, I’d say…” You brush your top lip against his bottom one, a low simmer starting to boil in the pit of your gut, spreading warmth between your thighs at his sharp intake of breath, “what are you waiting for, Harrington.”
His lips are curved into a smirk when he presses them to yours, his thumb finding the corner of your mouth to open you up just enough for him that your lips move like they were made for this, for him. He handles you differently in the back seat of his car than at the bonfire, he’s gentle, taking his time without prying eyes, savoring you. Your fingers curl into his sweater, pulling him closer because of it, like he can never be close enough, nose pressed into his cheek. He hums in response, and you can feel his smile return before his hand moves to the back of your neck, the pad of his thumb rubbing gentle circles on the soft skin behind your ear. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip begging you to finally let him in, and when you oblige, you both moan at the taste of each other.
It feels like Steve is everywhere, surrounding you with all of the little details of him embedded in every inch of his car. He’s in the leather underneath you that squeaks with your movements, in the amber and cinnamon that warm the air around you, comforting your nerves that threaten to fizz and burst like a live wire. His tongue explores every inch of your mouth like he’s hungry for it, like nothing else could satisfy him, massaging against your own in a way that earns a moan from the back of your throat. One you have no control over, but you’re starting to realize that maybe you never really had control when it came to Steve.
He breaks away just enough to whisper the word ‘perfect’ with a swipe of his nose against your own before pulling you onto his lap. You gasp at the feel of him as your knees press into the seat on either side of his hips. The effect you never really knew you had on him pressing into your heat with only the fabric of each other's pajama pants as a barrier, a feeling that only ever existed in your day dreams. But this was real, and he was closer to you than you’d ever allowed each other to be, dark wild eyes staring up at you like you were the one who painted the moon and the clouds in the sky. That swoop across his forehead has an extra curl to it from the sweat that beads at the top of his head, auburn hair turning into a wild untamable mess. His big hands grip the tops of your thighs, bringing you out of your thoughts and back to him.
”You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.” He confesses with an exhausted laugh, as if carrying the burden of ‘what if’ had been weighing him down. “I’m going to be insufferable now, I hope you know.”
His teeth shimmer in the white glow as his kiss bitten lips pull up into the kind of smile that’s contagious, even getting a giggle from you that cuts through the tension like a knife making Steve pull you closer. The tips of his fingers return to their favorite place under your sweater where they trace like a whisper against the warm skin of your lower back, and it makes your eyelids grow heavy. You slump more of your weight into him burying your head into his neck, your own hands traveling up his sweater, finger nails scratching against the rough trail of hair there before your palms rest on the thick thatch on his chest. Your lips press a kiss the two moles that had been begging you to do it for four years just below his ear, and he hums squeezing you closer despite running out of room to physically be able to.
”I want to do this with you all the time,” Steve whispers, lips brushing against your ear, “not just tonight, not just this.”
Hearing Steve say it out loud, confess the one thing you always had to pretend didn’t exist blooms something deep in your chest that you didn’t know could grow there. Shining light on all the darkness and doubts that had made themselves a far too comfortable home. Why keep denying something you both clearly want so bad?
”D-do you feel the same? Please tell me you feel the same.” You can hear the doubt creep into his voice from your misperceived silence when he whispers the plea hot against your lips, begging you to turn your head and meet them.
You almost want to laugh at the idea that Steve Harrington had reservations that you might not feel the same way about him. Wasn’t it obvious?
”Listen, Harrington.” You sigh, meeting his gaze from under your lashes, his heart kicking back up against your palm, his fingers going still. “If you think you’re going to be insufferable, you clearly have no idea who I really am.”
It takes Steve a minute to absorb your words, but when he does, the deep bellied laugh it earns you vibrates against the windows of the car and wraps around your heart. He pulls one hand from under your sweater, fingers curling under your chin again to get to what both of you want more of. A lopsided grin pushes up the vampire bites on his cheek, full lips hovering just over yours and it feels like the first time all over again. Part of you thinks it might always feel this way with him.
“Don’t underestimate my capacity to yearn, baby.” His lips brush against yours with every word, a shiver running up your spine.
Baby.
“What if I dare you to show me?” You whisper, teeth nipping at his bottom lip enjoying the feeling of the blunt end of his nails digging into your back.
“Careful, you know I can’t say no to that.” He huffs with a grin, warm breath against your skin, silently offering up his own dare for you to close the rest of the distance and give in.
”I’m counting on it.”
You take the bait without giving him any time to respond, accepting his challenge by pressing your lips to his that match your energy almost immediately, meeting you hungry and ready. It’s easy to get lost in him again, and you let it consume you even when the soft pink glow of the sunrise shines through the fog on the windows like a kaleidoscope. Because finally, here, in the back seat of his car, you are in love with Steve Harrington, and it doesn’t have to be a secret anymore.
The data indicating the average person experiences 3.4 attacks annually is misleading. You- who seem to find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time several times a month- represents a significant deviation from the norm and should not be counted in the dataset.
(Seriously, if there was a punch card for civilian endangerment, you'd have earned a free mug and a commemorative sticker by now)
Or; in which Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.
10.7k words
It’s a Tuesday and there’s a gun pressed against your spine.
Tuesday has always been the worst day of the week in your opinion- past the motivation of Monday, too far from the relief of Friday, just existing in this pathetic middle ground of mundane awfulness. And now, apparently, Tuesday has decided to really live up to its terrible reputation.
“Don’t move,” a voice hisses behind you, and you can smell stale cigarettes and alcohol. “Empty your account. All of it.”
You’re at the ATM on the corner of 23rd and Hayes, the one you’ve used a hundred times because it’s on your route home from your soul crushing data entry job. The street is unusually empty for 9 pm, but that’s Bludhaven for you; people have finally started learning not to be out after dark.
Everyone except you, apparently, because you’re an idiot who needed cash for the laundromat.
“I have forty three dollars in checking,” you say flatly, finger hovering over the keypad. “And maybe twelve in savings. You’re really not making out well on this transaction.”
“Just do it!” The gun digs harder into your back, right between your shoulder blades.
Of course this is how you die. Not in some heroic way, not peacefully in your sleep at ninety- no, you’re going to get shot at an ATM on a Tuesday because you needed quarters. The universe has always had a sick sense of humor when it comes to your life.
You press the button for withdrawal from checking. “You know, statistically, you’d make more money just getting a minimum wage job. Even after taxes- ”
“Shut up!”
“I’m just saying, this is really inefficient- ”
You don’t get to finish your observation about the economics of street crime because suddenly the weight of the gun disappears from your back and there’s a crash behind you. You spin around- stupid, you should run, but curiosity has always been your fatal flaw- and watch as a blur of black and blue slams your would be mugger into the brick wall of the bodega next to the ATM.
The man crumples. The gun skitters across the pavement. And standing there, illuminated by the flickering streetlight and the harsh glow of the ATM screen, is Nightwing.
You’ve seen him on the news, obviously. Everyone in Bludhaven has. The cops hate him, the people love him, and the criminals fear him. He’s all lean muscle and acrobatic grace, his suit highlighting a body that’s been honed into a weapon. The blue bird across his chest seems to shimmer as he moves, and his escrima sticks hang from his hands like they’re extensions of his arms.
He turns to you, and even though you can’t see his eyes behind the domino mask, you can feel the weight of his gaze.
“You okay?” His voice is different than you expected; younger, with an edge of genuine concern that seems almost out of place on someone who just took down an armed mugger in three seconds flat.
You blink at him. “That depends on your definition of okay. Physically unharmed? Yes. Emotionally scarred by yet another reminder that the universe is chaotic and uncaring? Also yes.”
There’s a pause. You think you see his lips twitch.
“That’s… pretty specific.”
“I’m a pessimist. We’re detailed oriented.” You glance at the mugger, who’s groaning on the ground. “Is he going to need an ambulance, or just a therapist after you’re done with him?”
Now he definitely smiles. “Little of both, probably. You should get out of here. I’ll wait with him until BCPD shows up.”
“Right. Because the Bludhaven PD is so reliable and not at all corrupt.” But you’re already grabbing your card from the ATM, which, miraculously, still dispensed your pathetic forty dollars. “Thanks for the rescue, I guess. Even though I probably would have just given him the money and filed a police report that would go nowhere.”
“You guess?” He sounds amused now.
You shrug, stuffing the cash in your pocket. “I mean, appreciate the help and all, but let’s be real, I’ll probably be mugged again within six months. This is Bludhaven. Lightning strikes twice here. It’s practically a meteorological certainty.”
“That’s not how lightning works.”
“And yet.” You gesture vaguely at the unconscious mugger, the sketchy street, the flickering streetlight that’s been broken for three weeks. “Here we are.”
You walk away before he can respond, but you can feel his eyes on your back until you turn the corner. You’re not sure if he thinks you’re funny or just deeply disturbed.
Probably both.
Of course, both is good.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You’re hanging from a fire escape.
It’s been two weeks since the ATM incident, and you’d actually started to think that maybe, just maybe, your luck was turning around. You got a fifty cent raise at work. Your landlord didn’t increase your rent. You found a dollar on the sidewalk.
But the universe doesn’t like it when you get comfortable.
You’re not even doing anything weird; you just came out here to water your singular, struggling tomato plant (which refuses to actually produce tomatoes) when the rusted bolts finally gave way. The fire escape tilted, you grabbed for the railing, and now you’re dangling four stories above an alley that definitely contains at least three used needles and a suspicious puddle.
“Help!” You scream, but it’s 11 pm and your neighbors include: one elderly man who’s definitely deaf, two college students who are always high, and a woman who once told you she “doesn’t believe in interference.”
This is exactly how you’d thought you’d die but you’d appreciate it if you weren’t right.
Your fingers are slipping. The metal is cutting into your palms. Below you, the suspicious puddle seems to shimmer with menace.
You’re wearing your nice jeans. The ones without holes. It seems important that someone know this.
“I’M WEARING MY NICE JEANS!” You yell into the void.
“Hold on!” A voice calls back, and you’re so startled you nearly let go.
Then he’s there, like some kind of acrobatic miracle, flipping up from the alley below and landing on the tilted fire escape with perfect balance. Nightwing grabs your wrists and hauls you up with absolutely no effort, pulling you against his chest as the fire escape groans ominously beneath you both.
“We need to move,” he says, and then he’s grappling to the roof, one arm wrapped firmly around your waist.
Your stomach does a complicated flip that has nothing to do with the sudden altitude change.
He sets you down on the roof, hands lingering on your arms to make sure you’re steady. “You okay?”
You’re breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through your system. “You know, you keep asking me that, and the answer keeps being ‘technically yes, but actually no.’”
He tilts his head, and there’s something about the gesture that’s almost bird-like. Fitting, given the whole theme. “Wait. ATM girl?”
“Oh, perfect. I have a nickname now.” You brush off your nice jeans, checking for damage. One knee is torn. Of course it is. “Yes. ATM girl. Also known as ‘that pessimist,’ ‘fire escape failure,’ and ‘person who can’t keep a tomato plant alive.’ Hi. Hello. Thank you for saving me again.”
“You remember me.” He sounds pleased.
“You’re dressed like an exotic bird and you saved me from a mugger. You’re pretty memorable.” You peer over the edge of the roof at your apartment window. The fire escape is completely detached now, hanging by a single bolt. “Great. There goes my security deposit.”
“You’re taking this pretty well.”
“What’s the alternative? Crying? I cried in 2019 and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.” You turn back to him, and in the moonlight, you can see more details; the curve of his jaw, the way his hair sticks up slightly, the almost absurd width of his shoulders. “So, do you just patrol this neighborhood specifically, or am I cosmically marked for disaster and you’re following the trail of chaos?”
He laughs, and it’s a good sound, warm and genuine. “Little of both, maybe. What were you doing on the fire escape?”
“Watering my tomato plant. Which has never produced a single tomato and probably never will, but I’m nothing if not committed to lost causes.” You sigh. “I should call my landlord. He’s going to love this.”
“It’s not your fault the fire escape collapsed.”
“And yet, I guarantee this somehow becomes my problem.” You pull out your phone, then pause. “Thanks. Again. For the rescue. You’re really good at those.”
“It’s kind of my thing.”
“Well, it’s a good thing.” You swallow, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing, how the moonlight catches on the blue of his suit, how he’s looking at you like you’re something interesting instead of just another disaster in motion. “You should probably go stop actual crime instead of babysitting the woman who clearly has a death wish via incompetence.”
“I don’t think you’re incompetent.”
“My fire escape would disagree. Also my tomato plant. Also my general life trajectory.”
He’s smiling again. You’re getting used to that smile, the way it makes something warm unfold in your chest despite your best efforts to remain emotionally neutral about everything.
“Get inside safely,” he says. “And maybe water your plant from the window from now on.”
“Bold of you to assume I’ll keep trying. That plant and I both know it’s a doomed enterprise.”
But you’re smiling too, just a little, as he grapples away into the night, all grace and controlled power.
Your landlord does, in fact, make the fire escape your problem.
Of course he does.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You’re stuck in an elevator.
“I should have taken the stairs,” you say to the ceiling, because talking to the ceiling feels more productive than screaming into the void. “I always take the stairs. But no, today I thought, ‘You know what? Live a little. Take the elevator. What’s the worst that could happen?’”
“To be fair,” Nightwing says from his corner of the surprisingly spacious elevator, “this is more of an inconvenience than a disaster.”
You turn to look at him. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking frustratingly calm for someone who’s been trapped in an elevator for twenty minutes. You, on the other hand, are definitely spiraling.
“We’re stuck in an elevator. In a building that’s scheduled for demolition next week. Because apparently, the city of Bludhaven doesn’t believe in proper notices or functional elevators in condemned buildings.”
“You didn’t see the notices?”
“I saw a flyer for a lost cat named Chairman Meow. I assumed that was more pressing than construction permits.” You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor. “What are you even doing here?”
“Got a tip about some guys using the building as a storage facility for stolen goods.” He nods toward a duffel bag in the corner that you hadn’t noticed. “Found them. They ran when the elevator got stuck.”
“Of course they did. They probably took the stairs like sensible criminals.”
He moves to sit across from you, and even in crisis, he moves like water, all fluid grace. It’s unfair, really, how coordinated some people are. You trip over flat surfaces.
“You know,” he says, and you can hear the amusement in his voice, “most people would be more worried about being stuck.”
“Oh, I’m worried. I’m just also unsurprised. This is exactly the kind of thing that happens to me.” You let your head fall back against the wall. “Last month, I got jury duty for a case that was immediately dismissed. I didn’t even get to feel civically important. The month before that, I found a twenty dollar bill on the street and immediately stepped in gum.”
“The universe has it out for you.”
“The universe has it out for everyone. I’m just aware of it.” You glance at him. “Aren’t you supposed to have some kind of gadget that can fix this? Bat-elevator-escape-tool?”
“I’m Nightwing, not Batman. My utility belt has like, six things.”
“Wow, budget constraints even in vigilantism. That’s so Bludhaven.”
He laughs, and you’re starting to really like that sound. It feels like finding something valuable in a thrift store, unexpected and somehow precious because of it.
“You’re funny,” he says.
“I’m fatalistic. People often confuse the two.”
“No, you’re definitely funny.” He leans forward slightly. “And you’re handling this really well for someone who was hanging from a fire escape two weeks ago.”
“Oh, you think this is me handling it well? This is me disassociating. There’s a difference.” But you’re smiling despite yourself. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck?”
“I already hit the emergency call button. Fire department should be here in ten, fifteen minutes.”
“So enough time for you to tell me why you do this.” You gesture vaguely at his suit, his mask, the duffel bag of stolen goods. “The whole vigilante thing. Is it a rich person hobby? A elaborate form of therapy? A very committed cosplay situation?”
“What makes you think I’m rich?”
“That suit looks expensive. Also, you have incredible teeth. Dental work like that doesn’t come cheap.”
He grins, and yeah, those are really good teeth. “I can’t tell you my origin story while we’re stuck in an elevator. That’s terrible narrative pacing.”
“Fine. Tell me something else then.” You’re not sure why you’re pushing, except that sitting in silence feels worse than potential rejection. “Tell me why you remember me. ATM girl. Fire escape failure. Elevator disaster.”
“Because you’re different.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “Most people I rescue are either terrified or grateful or both. You were critiquing the economics of street crime while there was a gun pointed at you.”
“That was just my anxiety talking. I babble when I’m nervous.”
“And when you’re not nervous?”
“I’m always nervous. We live in Bludhaven.”
“Fair point.” He’s quiet for a moment, and you can feel him looking at you, really looking. “You act like you expect the worst, but you still watered your tomato plant. You still took the elevator instead of the stairs. That’s not pessimism. That’s hope wearing a disguise.”
The words hit something soft inside you, something you thought you’d armored over years ago with sarcasm and emotional distance.
“That’s a very poetic assessment of my character flaws,” you manage.
“I don’t think they’re flaws.”
Before you can figure out how to respond to that, before you can unpack the warm, fluttery feeling in your chest that feels dangerously close to something you can’t take back, there’s a grinding sound and the elevator lurches.
“Fire department?” You ask hopefully.
“Fire department,” he confirms, standing and offering you his hand.
You take it, and his grip is strong and steady, and you let yourself hold on for maybe a second longer than necessary.
The doors pry open to reveal two firefighters who look unsurprised to see Nightwing and very surprised to see you.
“Ma’am,” one of them says, “what were you doing in a condemned building?”
“Looking for Chairman Meow,” you say without missing a beat. “He’s still missing, by the way, if anyone’s seen an orange tabby with delusions of political grandeur.”
Nightwing makes a sound that might be a laugh or a cough.
As the firefighters escort you out (with several safety lectures), you glance back once. Nightwing is watching you go, duffel bag in hand, and even though you can’t see his eyes, you feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
You wave.
He waves back.
You tell yourself the flip in your stomach is just residual adrenaline.
You’re definitely lying to yourself.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
The fourth time you meet Nightwing, you’re not actually in danger.
You’re on your building’s roof (the landlord finally fixed the fire escape, but you’ve developed trust issues), lying on a blanket and looking at the stars. Or trying to. Light pollution in Bludhaven means you can see maybe seven stars on a good night, and most of them are probably planes.
“You know,” a voice says from behind you, “most people would consider this suspicious behavior.”
You don’t even flinch. Of course he would show up. Of course.
“Most people don’t live in my apartment,” you say, not sitting up. “My upstairs neighbor is having extremely loud makeup sex, my downstairs neighbor is learning the drums, and the person across the hall is watching what I think is the entire Fast and Furious franchise at maximum volume. I’m seeking refuge.”
Nightwing moves into your peripheral vision, then sits down on your blanket without asking. The casual intimacy of it makes your breath catch.
“All at once?” He asks.
“The universe coordinated it specifically to drive me to the roof. Where I will probably be struck by lightning or hit by a meteor.”
“Still not how lightning works.”
“And yet, you keep showing up during my disasters. What’s your excuse this time?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and when you finally turn your head to look at him, he’s staring up at the sky with an expression you can’t quite read.
“No excuse,” he admits. “I was patrolling nearby and saw you up here. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Checking on ATM girl? I’m touched. Truly.” But your voice is softer than usual, missing its typical sardonic edge. “I’m fine. Well, as fine as I ever am. No muggers, no collapsing structures, no stuck elevators. Just me and the seven visible stars.”
“Eight,” he says, pointing. “That one’s really faint, but it’s there.”
You look where he’s indicating and squint. “If you say so. I’ll take your word for it, since you seem to have superhuman vision along with superhuman acrobatics.”
“Just good training.”
“Right. Training. That you definitely do as part of your regular person job that’s definitely not related to being a billionaire or anything.”
“I never said I was a billionaire.”
“You also never said you weren’t.”
He laughs, and shifts slightly closer. You can feel the warmth of him now, even through his suit. “You’re very suspicious.”
“I’m very realistic. People don’t become vigilantes because they had a super normal childhood and well adjusted emotional regulation.” You pause. “No offense.”
“None taken. You’re not wrong.” He’s quiet for a beat. “You want to know something?”
“Is it your secret identity? Because I should warn you, I’m terrible at keeping secrets. I once accidentally told my coworker that another coworker was pregnant before she announced it, and I didn’t talk for three months out of shame.”
“Not my secret identity.” He sounds amused. “I was going to say that I actually look forward to running into you.”
Your heart does a complicated somersault. “You look forward to me nearly dying? That’s kind of dark.”
“I look forward to talking to you.” He turns to face you properly, and even in the darkness, you can see the curve of his smile. “You’re real. No filter, no performance. Just genuinely, refreshingly honest about how absurd everything is.”
“That’s just depression with better marketing.”
“It’s not, though.” He’s closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of color in his mask, the slight stubble on his jaw. “You keep showing up. You keep trying. You’re watering that terrible tomato plant and taking elevators and lying on roofs looking for stars. That’s not giving up. That’s the opposite of giving up.”
You swallow hard. “You’re doing the poetic assessment thing again.”
“Is it working?”
“I’m not sure. My emotional processing system has been out of order since 2016.”
But you’re not pulling away. Neither is he.
“Can I tell you something?” You hear yourself say. “And you can’t make fun of me.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would, but I’m going to tell you anyway.” You take a breath. “I think I’m starting to actually look forward to the disasters. Because at least then I get to see you.”
The silence that follows feels enormous, stretching between you like something physical. You’re about to take it back, laugh it off, blame it on the drums and the makeup sex and the Fast and Furious franchise-
“Good,” he says quietly. “Because I’ve been taking extra patrols through this neighborhood for two weeks hoping to run into you.”
Oh.
Oh.
“That’s very inefficient crime fighting,” you whisper.
“I’m okay with that.”
He’s so close now. You can see the way his chest rises and falls, the slight curve of his lips, the angle of his jaw. Your hand moves without permission, reaching up to trace the edge of his mask.
“Can I-”
“Not yet,” he says, but he catches your hand and holds it against his cheek. “Soon. I promise. But not yet.”
“Okay.” And it is, somehow. Okay. “This is insane. You know that, right? I don’t even know your name.”
“You know me, though.” His thumb traces circles on your wrist. “You know the important parts.”
“I know you have good teeth and a concerning habit of showing up during my worst moments.”
“Your most interesting moments.”
“Same thing, in my life.”
He laughs, and then he’s leaning in, and you’re leaning in, and-
An alarm goes off somewhere in the distance. Police sirens. Something that sounds like gunshots.
He pulls back with a sigh that sounds genuinely regretful. “I have to go.”
“Of course you do. Crime never sleeps, and neither does my terrible luck with timing.”
But he’s standing, getting ready to grapple away, and you’re standing too, and before he goes he turns back and cups your face with one gloved hand.
“Same time next week?” He asks. “Same roof?”
“You’re scheduling our coincidental meetings now? That seems very organized for a spontaneous vigilante.”
“Call it hope wearing a disguise.”
He’s gone before you can respond, flipping off the roof with that impossible grace, and you’re left standing there with your hand pressed to your cheek where he touched you, smiling like an idiot at the seven- no, eight- stars.
This is dangerous, you think.
This is terrifying.
This is exactly the kind of thing that will definitely end in disaster.
You can’t wait.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You're getting mugged again.
"I told you," you say to Nightwing as he drops from the fire escape above, landing between you and the two men who'd cornered you outside the 24-hour bodega. "I told you lightning strikes twice in Bludhaven. It's been exactly three months."
One of the muggers makes a run for it immediately. The other one pulls out a knife, which seems optimistic given that Nightwing was in the news for taking down an entire robbery crew last week with what you're pretty sure was just a pair of escrima sticks and audacity.
"You were counting?" Nightwing asks, disarming the guy with a move so fast you barely see it. The knife clatters into a storm drain. The mugger wisely chooses to follow his friend's lead and runs.
"I have a very specific relationship with probability and disaster." You hold up the energy drink you'd been buying. "I was just getting caffeine for my night shift. Is that too much to ask? One energy drink without a felony?"
He turns to you, and even though it's been three months of scheduled roof meetings (and several unscheduled disaster interventions), your stomach still does that stupid flip when he looks at you.
"You okay?" He asks, like always.
"Physically fine. Emotionally processing the fact that you either have a tracker on me or the universe is actively coordinating our meet-cutes through crime." You pause. "Wait. You don't have a tracker on me, right?"
"No tracker. I was two blocks away when I heard yelling."
"My yelling specifically, or just general Bludhaven yelling? Because there's a lot of ambient yelling in this city."
He steps closer, does that thing where he checks you over for injuries even though you've told him you're fine. His hands hover near your shoulders, not quite touching. "Your yelling has a specific quality."
"Is it the desperation? The resignation? The underlying notes of 'I knew this would happen'?"
"It's distinctive." His lips twitch. "You want me to walk you home?"
"Nightwing, it's three blocks. Surely there's actual crime happening somewhere that needs your attention more than my tragic walk of shame back to my apartment."
"Humor me."
So you do, because you're weak and he's looking at you like that, and honestly, your Tuesday (of course it's a fucking Tuesday) is already so absurd that adding a vigilante escort service barely registers.
You walk in silence for half a block before he speaks. "How's the tomato plant?"
"Dying. Finally gave up last week. I'm weirdly proud of it for lasting eight months though. That's longer than most of my relationships."
"You're in a relationship with your tomato plant?"
"Was. It's complicated. We wanted different things. It wanted proper drainage and sunlight. I wanted it to not be a metaphor for my inability to nurture living things."
He's laughing now, that warm sound you've become maybe slightly addicted to over the past few months. Your roof meetings have become the highlight of your week, even though you're both pretending they're casual. Even though you're both pretending that the almost-kiss from that first night didn't fundamentally alter something in the space between you.
"I got a new plant," you admit. "A cactus. The guy at the store said it was indestructible."
"How long has it been?"
"Four days."
"And?"
"It's looking suspicious. I think it's plotting something."
You've reached your building. The one with the formerly broken fire escape, the drum learning neighbor, and the upstairs couple who have apparently decided that their relationship drama is a communal experience.
You should go inside. He should go stop crime. This is where the night should end.
"So," you say instead, because you're bad at good decisions. "Thursday. Roof. Same time?"
"Wouldn't miss it." But he's not leaving. He's standing there, closer than necessary, and the streetlight is flickering (because of course it is), and something in his posture has shifted.
"What?" You ask.
"Nothing. Just..." He reaches up, almost touches your face, then drops his hand. "Be careful. Please."
"Careful? You do remember who you're talking to, right? I'm the fire escape girl. The elevator disaster. The woman who gets mugged on a schedule."
"Exactly." And there's something in his voice now, something that makes your breath catch. "So be careful. Because I..." He stops, shakes his head. "Thursday. Don't be late."
He's gone before you can ask what he was going to say, grappling up into the darkness, and you're left standing there wondering if it's possible to have your heart broken by someone whose real name you don't even know.
(It is. You're pretty sure it is.)
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
Thursday arrives with all the enthusiasm of a dental appointment.
You're on the roof at 10 pm sharp, because apparently you're the kind of person who's punctual for secret meetings with a masked vigilante now. The blanket is spread out. You've brought snacks this time- chips, because you're not fancy, and two cans of the fancy lemonade from the bodega that doesn't get robbed as frequently.
He's late.
By 10:15, you're starting to worry, which is a new and uncomfortable feeling. Usually you're worried about yourself and your own impending disasters. Worrying about someone else requires emotional bandwidth you're not sure you have.
By 10:30, you're pacing.
By 10:45, you're googling "Bludhaven crime news" on your phone, which is probably exactly what you shouldn't be doing but your anxiety brain has never been good at following directions.
At 11:07, he lands on the roof, and you're on your feet immediately.
"You're late," you say, and it comes out more scared than annoyed. "You're never late."
"I know. I'm sorry. There was a thin- " He stops, and even in the darkness you can see something's wrong. He's favoring his left side. There's a tear in his suit near his ribs.
"You're hurt." It's not a question.
"It's nothing. Just- "
"Sit down." You're already moving toward him, hands hovering uselessly because you have no idea what to do with an injured vigilante but you need to do something. "Sit down right now or I swear I'll- I don't know what I'll do, but it'll be annoying."
He sits, probably more from surprise than actual obedience. You kneel beside him, trying to assess the damage through the suit.
"It's really not that bad," he says, but his voice is tight with pain. "I've had worse."
"That's not as comforting as you think it is." Your hands are shaking. When did your hands start shaking? "What do I do? Do you have a first aid kit? Do you need a hospital? Should I call Batman?"
"Please don't call Batman."
"I don't even know how to call Batman. That was an empty threat." You're rambling now, the words spilling out in a rush. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to help you. I barely know how to help myself. I once put a band-aid on upside down- "
"Hey." His hand catches yours, stops the flailing. "Breathe."
You breathe. It doesn't help.
"I have supplies in my belt," he says calmly. "Just need to... patch it up. It's honestly not serious."
"You have a hole in your suit. There's blood. That seems serious."
"I've had worse nights." But he's pulling out a first aid kit that's somehow compact enough to fit in his utility belt, wincing as he moves.
You take it from him before he can argue. "Let me. Please. I need- " Your voice cracks. "I need to help. I need to do something."
He looks at you for a long moment, and then nods.
His suit has some kind of panel near the injury that peels back, revealing a gash along his ribs that makes your stomach turn. It's not as deep as you feared, but it's definitely more than "nothing."
"Knife?" You ask, focusing on the injury instead of the implications, instead of the fact that this man you've been slowly falling for risks his life every single night.
"Broken glass, actually. Went through a window."
"Consensually or...?"
"The window was very against it."
You laugh, because the alternative is crying, and you carefully clean the wound with the supplies from his kit. He doesn't flinch, which is somehow more concerning than if he had.
"You do this a lot," you say quietly. It's not a question.
"More than I'd like."
"And you just... patch yourself up and go back out the next night."
"Usually."
You're applying butterfly bandages now, careful and methodical, trying not to think about how this could have been worse. How it could always be worse.
"Why?" The word comes out smaller than you intended. "Why do you do this?"
He's quiet while you finish bandaging, and you think maybe he won't answer. Then: "Someone has to."
"That's not an answer. That's a deflection."
"You're getting good at reading me."
"You're getting easier to read." You sit back, surveying your work. It's not pretty, but it'll hold. "Or maybe I'm just paying more attention than I should be."
"Is that what you think? That you're paying too much attention?"
You look up at him, and even with the mask, even in the darkness, you can feel the intensity of his gaze.
"I don't know what I think anymore," you admit. "Three months ago, I was just a person who got mugged sometimes and had a dying tomato plant. Now I'm the person who waits on roofs and worries when you're late and apparently knows how to do field dressing for vigilante injuries. I don't know how that happened."
"I do." His hand comes up, cups your face like he did that first night. "You kept showing up."
"You literally scheduled the meetings."
"You could have said no."
"Could I have?" Your voice is barely a whisper now. "Because I don't think I could have. I don't think I can. And that's terrifying."
"Why terrifying?"
"Because you're- " You gesture at him, at the suit, at the fresh bandage on his ribs. "This. All of this. You jump off buildings and fight criminals and apparently go through windows. You're not safe. This isn't safe. And I'm- I'm a person who expects the worst because the worst usually happens, but somehow you've become the exception and I don't know what to do with that."
His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "What if I told you I'm terrified too?"
"You? You're Nightwing. You're not afraid of anything."
"I'm afraid of you not being here next Thursday." The words are quiet, honest, devastating. "I'm afraid of you deciding this is too complicated. Too dangerous. Too- "
You kiss him.
It's not graceful. You basically just lean forward and press your mouth to his, cutting off his words, and for a second he's too surprised to respond. Then his hand slides into your hair and he's kissing you back, and oh, this is-
This is nice.
You break apart after a moment that feels both infinite and far too short. You're breathing hard, and he is too, and you're still close enough to count his heartbeats.
"That was..." he starts.
"Impulsive? Stupid? A terrible idea given the circumstances?"
"I was going to say worth waiting for."
You laugh, and it comes out shaky. "You're bleeding through your bandage and I just kissed you. This is the most Bludhaven romance ever."
"Is that what this is? A romance?"
"I don't know. Is it?"
He leans his forehead against yours, careful of the mask. "I want it to be."
"Even though I'm a disaster?"
"Because you're a disaster. My favorite disaster." He pulls back just enough to look at you. "I need to tell you something. Soon. About... everything. Who I am. But not tonight. Not when I'm- "
"Bleeding and probably concussed?"
"I'm not concussed."
"You went through a window. You're at least mildly concussed."
"Fair point." He's smiling though, even through the pain. " I'll tell you everything. Soon. I promise."
"Everything?"
"Everything you want to know."
You should be scared. This is the part where your pessimistic brain should kick in, should start listing all the ways this will inevitably end badly. But looking at him now, at the way he's looking at you like you're something precious instead of just another disaster in motion...
"Okay," you say. "Okay. I'll see you next Thursday. But if you're late again, I'm implementing a three strike policy."
"What happens after three strikes?"
"I'll have to actually learn your name through investigative journalism. It'll be very embarrassing for both of us."
He laughs, then winces. "You should go. Get some sleep. I'll watch you get inside safely."
"You'll watch me walk down one flight of stairs?"
"Humor me."
So you do, gathering your blanket and your unopened snacks, and when you reach the roof door you look back. He's still sitting there, hand pressed to his ribs, watching you with that impossible attention.
"Be careful," you call back. "Please."
"You first."
"That's statistically unlikely, but I'll try."
You're smiling as you head down the stairs, heart racing, lips still tingling, completely terrified and completely sure all at once.
This is definitely going to end in disaster.
But maybe- just maybe- it'll be the good kind.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
Nightwing hands you an envelope.
You're on your usual rooftop, and he drops down from seemingly nowhere, landing in that cat like crouch that should be illegal in terms of sheer attractiveness. You've been seeing each other- if you can call these rooftop rendezvous "seeing each other"- for almost four months now, and your heart still does that stupid flutter thing every time he appears.
"I have something for you," he says, and there's a nervous energy to him that's new.
"If it's another apology for having to leave mid-kiss last week because of a police scanner, I'm going to start charging you per interruption."
"It's not that." He sits next to you and pulls out a cream colored envelope, expensive looking, with your name written on it in actual calligraphy. "I want you to come to something."
You take the envelope like it might explode. "Is this a ransom note? A summons? A very formal breakup letter?"
"Just open it."
You do, and your brain immediately short-circuits.
You are cordially invited to the Wayne Foundation Annual Charity Gala...
"This is- " You look up at him, then back at the invitation. "This is a joke, right? This is fake. You printed this at like, a FedEx or something."
"It's real."
"Nightwing. This is a Wayne gala. As in Bruce Wayne. As in billionaire Bruce Wayne. As in- " You wave the invitation. "There's no way this is real. These things are invite only for like, celebrities and politicians and people who own multiple yachts."
"I know."
"So this is definitely fake."
He takes off one of his gloves and reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "It's real. I want you there. I want..." He pauses, and you can see him gathering courage. "I want you to meet me. The real me. Not just the mask."
Your heart is doing dangerous things. "You're going to be there? At a Wayne gala?"
"Yeah."
"As yourself. Your real self."
"Yeah."
"And you're either Bruce Wayne's secret son, or you're about to tell me you're Batman, or- " You stop. "Oh my god, are you Batman? Is that why you said you only have six things in your utility belt? Is it a budget thing or a 'I'm actually just a vigilante with a day job' thing?"
He's laughing now, soft and genuine. "I'm not Batman. But yes, I'll be there. And I want you there too. If you want to come."
"This is insane."
"Probably."
"This is going to be a disaster."
"Maybe."
"I don't have anything to wear to a Wayne gala. I can't exactly show up in my 'I Survived Bludhaven' tshirt and jeggings."
"You'll figure something out." He squeezes your hand. "Please? I know it's scary, and I know this is all backwards and weird, but- "
"Okay."
He stops. "Okay?"
"Okay. I'll come." You look at the invitation again, at the embossed Wayne logo, at the date that's only three days away. "I'm going to regret this. This is going to end terribly. But okay."
He kisses you then, deep and relieved and tasting like promises that you're terrified to believe in.
"Saturday night," he says against your lips. "Wayne Manor. Seven pm."
"I'll be the one having a panic attack in the corner."
"I'll find you."
After he leaves, you sit on the roof for another hour, holding the invitation and trying to convince yourself it's real.
It's probably fake, you think.
This is definitely a prank.
There's no way this ends well.
Saturday arrives with all the inevitability of a dental appointment.
You've spent the last three days having a sustained, low level panic attack. You went to every thrift store in Bludhaven and finally found a dress that doesn't look like it was donated after someone's divorce in 1987. It's black, because you're not ambitious enough for color, and it fits reasonably well if you don't breathe too deeply. It cost $27, which is $20 more than you've ever spent on a single item of clothing.
You've paired it with shoes you already owned (black flats with a scuff on the toe that you colored in with Sharpie) and a small purse you borrowed from your coworker who asked exactly zero questions, bless her.
You look in the mirror and see exactly what you are: a person in a discount dress pretending to be someone who belongs at a Wayne gala.
"This is fine," you tell your reflection. "This is totally fine. The invitation is probably fake anyway, and you'll get turned away at the door, and you can go home and eat ice cream and never think about this again."
The invitation sits on your counter, looking aggressively real.
You grab it, grab your purse, and head out before you can talk yourself out of it.
Wayne Manor is exactly as intimidating as you imagined, which is to say: very.
The uber driver drops you off at the end of a long driveway that probably costs more than your entire apartment building. There are actual literal limousines pulling up to the entrance. You can see people in gowns that cost more than your yearly salary stepping out with the kind of casual grace that comes from never having worried about rent.
"This is fine," you mutter, walking up the driveway because there's no way you're asking to be driven up like you belong here. "This is totally fine. The bouncer will definitely kick you out and then you can go home."
But when you reach the entrance, holding out your invitation like a shield, the man in the tuxedo just smiles and says, "Welcome, miss. Enjoy your evening."
And then you're inside.
Wayne Manor is obscene. There's no other word for it. The foyer alone is bigger than your apartment, with marble floors and a chandelier that probably costs more than a small country's GDP. Beautiful people in beautiful clothes are everywhere, holding champagne glasses and laughing with the kind of ease that comes from never having checked their bank account before buying groceries.
You are immediately, viscerally aware of every single flaw in your discount dress.
The woman next to you is wearing something that shimmers like starlight and probably has a designer name you can't pronounce. Her jewelry is real. Her hair is professionally styled. She smells like expensive perfume.
You smell like the lavender body spray you got on sale at Target.
"This was a mistake," you whisper to yourself. "This was absolutely a mistake."
You're about to turn around and leave, invitation be damned, Nightwing be damned, your own curiosity be damned, when a waiter appears with a tray of champagne.
"Would you care for a drink, miss?"
You take one because it's free and you're definitely going to need alcohol to get through whatever fresh humiliation this evening has planned.
The champagne is good. Annoyingly good. Even the alcohol here is fancier than you.
You drift through the crowd like a ghost, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, trying not to draw attention to your discount dress and your Sharpie-ed shoes. You find a corner near an elaborate flower arrangement (are those orchids? those are definitely orchids. you killed one once) and try to blend into the wallpaper.
This is fine. You'll stay for twenty minutes, drink your fancy champagne, and then leave. Nightwing was probably joking anyway. Or maybe he forgot. Or maybe-
"Excuse me," a voice says, and you turn to find a woman in a red dress that probably costs more than your car would if you had a car. "Are you here alone?"
"Um." You clutch your champagne. "Yes?"
"Oh, how lovely! I'm Caroline Whitmore. My husband is on the board of the Wayne Foundation." She gestures vaguely at a man across the room who's wearing a tux that fits him like a second skin. "Is this your first Wayne gala?"
"Is it that obvious?"
She laughs, but it's not unkind. "A little. You have that 'deer in headlights' look. Don't worry, everyone feels that way their first time. The Waynes can be a bit... overwhelming."
"That's one word for it," you mutter into your champagne.
"The trick is to just enjoy the free food and avoid Bruce Wayne's new girlfriend. She's dreadful." Caroline leans in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I think he just dates models because he doesn't know how to have a real conversation."
You're saved from having to respond by a commotion near the entrance. The crowd shifts, and you can feel the energy in the room change, the way everyone's attention suddenly focuses on one point.
"Oh, there they are," Caroline says. "The Wayne family. They always make an entrance."
You shouldn't look. You should stay in your corner with your champagne and your discount dress and your existential dread.
But of course you look.
Bruce Wayne enters first looking exactly like the billionaire playboy philanthropist he's famous for being. Tall, handsome in a way that's almost aggressive, wearing a tux that probably costs more than your entire life.
Behind him is a younger man who looks uncomfortable in his suit, dark haired and scowling. Then another man, broader, with a white streak in his hair and an expression that suggests he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Another younger man who’s looking down at his phone and looks like he hasn’t slept since the day he was born.
And then-
And then-
Your champagne glass slips from your hand.
It hits the marble floor with a crash that echoes through the sudden silence, and everyone- every single person in the room- turns to look at you.
But you're not looking at them.
You're looking at the man who just walked in behind Bruce Wayne. Dark hair that sticks up in a way that's immediately, devastatingly familiar. A smile that you've seen in moonlight and shadows, now displayed under the crystal chandelier. A suit that's perfectly tailored to a body you've traced with your hands on rooftop meetings.
He's looking right at you.
And you know.
You know.
"Oh my god," you whisper. "Dick Grayson."
Because of course Nightwing is Dick Grayson. Of course he's Bruce Wayne's ward, the former circus performer turned billionaire's son, the golden boy of Gotham society.
Of course you've been making out with someone who's probably worth more than the entire city of Bludhaven.
Caroline is saying something about the broken glass, and a waiter is rushing over, but you can't hear any of it because Dick Grayson-Nightwing- is walking toward you.
The crowd parts for him like he's Moses and they're the Red Sea.
He stops in front of you, and up close, without the mask, you can see his eyes. Blue. Bright blue. The same eyes that have looked at you with concern and humor and heat.
"Hi," he says, and his voice is the same, exactly the same. "You made it."
"I- " Your brain is offline. Completely offline. "You're Dick Grayson."
"Yeah."
"The Dick Grayson. The- the son of Bruce Wayne. The- "
"Technically adopted son, but yeah."
"I've been kissing Dick Grayson on my roof."
He grins. "You have been."
"I told you that you were probably rich and you lied."
"I said I never said I was a billionaire," he points out. "Technically true. Bruce is the billionaire. I just have access to his credit cards."
"That's-you-" You look around at the crowd that's definitely, absolutely watching this entire interaction. At the broken champagne glass at your feet. At your discount dress next to his designer tux. "I'm going to pass out."
"Please don't." He takes your hand, the same way he has on the roof, his thumb finding that spot on your wrist that always makes you shiver. "Come on. Let's get you some air."
"I broke a glass. There's-I should clean that up. I should- "
"The staff will handle it." He's already guiding you through the crowd, past the staring faces and the whispered comments. Past Bruce Wayne, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Past the scowling boy and the man with the white streak and the teen that’s no longer looking at his phone but looking at you in curiosity.
He leads you out to a balcony that overlooks the grounds, and the cool night air hits your face like a slap.
"Okay," he says, turning to face you. "You can yell now."
"I can't yell. I'm at a Wayne gala. There are probably rules about yelling."
"There are definitely rules about yelling, but I'm giving you permission to break them."
You stare at him. At Dick Grayson. At Nightwing. At the man you've been falling for without knowing he's literally famous, literally rich, literally everything you're not.
"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress," you say finally.
He blinks. "Okay?"
"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress from a thrift store, and my shoes have Sharpie on them, and I colored in the scuff mark this morning because I don't own fancy shoes. Everyone in there is wearing clothes that cost more than my rent, and I'm- I'm- "
"Beautiful," he says simply. "You're beautiful."
"I'm a disaster."
"You're my favorite disaster."
And despite everything- despite the humiliation and the broken glass and the fact that you're definitely the poorest person at this gala- you laugh.
"This is insane," you say. "This is actually insane. I've been dating- are we dating? I don't even know if we're dating- I've been something with Dick Grayson and I didn't even know it."
"We're dating," he confirms. "Definitely dating. I'm not in the habit of having regularly scheduled rooftop makeout sessions with people I'm not dating."
"Your life is so weird."
"Says the woman who critiques muggers while they're actively mugging her."
You're about to respond, about to say something about how at least your weird is normal weird, not billionaire vigilante weird, when there's a commotion from inside.
Not the normal gala commotion. Something else.
Something wrong.
Dick's entire posture changes, his body going taut in a way you recognize from when he's in the suit.
"Stay here," he says.
"Yeah, that's not ominous at all."
But he's already moving back toward the ballroom, and you follow because of course you do, because the universe has never let you make smart decisions.
The scene inside is chaos.
The lights are flickering. People are screaming. And standing in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by henchmen in matching green suits, is a man with a purple suit, a cane, and a smile that makes your skin crawl.
The Riddler.
Because of course. Of course this gala is being crashed by a Batman rogue. Of course this is happening.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The Riddler's voice carries across the ballroom with theatrical flair. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything important. Though I suppose that depends on your definition of 'important,' doesn't it? After all, what's more important: champagne and canapés, or the answer to a riddle that could save your lives?"
You're frozen in the doorway. Dick is next to you, and you can see him calculating, planning, probably figuring out how to get to wherever he keeps his Nightwing suit stashed.
"Here's the riddle," the Riddler continues, twirling his cane. "What has hands but cannot clap, a face but cannot smile, and tells you when it's time to die?"
The crowd is silent, terrified.
And you-
You can't help yourself.
"A clock," you say.
It's not loud. It's barely more than a mutter.
But in the terrified silence, it carries.
The Riddler's head snaps toward you. "What was that?"
"I said it's a clock." Your voice is stronger now, because apparently when faced with mortal peril, your anxiety manifests as mouthy confidence. "The answer is a clock. It has hands, it has a face, and depending on your philosophical relationship with mortality, it tells you when you're going to die. Although technically, that's more metaphorical than- "
The Riddler stops in front of you, studying you with unsettling intensity. "You're not afraid."
"Oh, I'm terrified. I'm just also really annoyed because I was about to have a whole crisis about dating someone out of my league, and now you're here with your- " You gesture vaguely at his outfit. "Your whole situation, and I have to deal with that instead."
There's a beat of absolute silence.
Then Dick makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob.
"You're dating someone?" The Riddler looks delighted. "How wonderful! And who might this lucky person be?"
"That's really none of your business, but thanks for the interest in my personal life. Very invested for a supervillain." You pause, and your brain- your traitorous, anxiety ridden brain- decides this is the perfect time to keep talking. "Actually, you know what? Can I ask you something?"
Dick's hand tightens on your arm. "Please don't- "
"Why are you even doing this?" You gesture at the terrified crowd, the henchmen, the whole hostage situation. "The crime thing. You're clearly intelligent. Like, really intelligent. Your riddles are actually good, which is more than I can say for most people's riddles. Why aren't you running an escape room empire or something?"
The Riddler stops. Blinks. "Excuse me?"
"Escape rooms!" You're on a roll now, your anxiety manifesting as what can only be described as aggressive career counseling. "Think about it! You could corner the entire market! You're already creating elaborate puzzles and death traps; just make them non lethal and charge people seventy five dollars a head to try to solve them. People LOVE that stuff. You'd be rich in like, six months. Plus, you'd get to feel superior to everyone who can't solve your puzzles, which seems like a big thing for you- no offense- and it would be completely legal!"
The entire ballroom is silent. Even the henchmen look confused.
The Riddler is staring at you like you've just spoken in an alien language.
"You- " He stops. Starts again. "You think I should open an escape room?"
"Not an escape room. Multiple escape rooms. A franchise. 'Nygma's Enigmas' or something. Trademark it. Get investors. Go on Shark Tank. You could be a millionaire legitimately, and you'd get to watch people fail at your puzzles all day, every day, and they'd literally be PAYING you for the privilege. It's the perfect business model for someone with your specific skillset and psychological needs!"
"I- " The Riddler looks genuinely taken aback. "I have never- "
"And think about the branding opportunities! Merchandise! Puzzle books! A YouTube channel where you explain how people failed! You could be internet famous! Do you know how much money internet famous people make? A LOT. More than you're probably getting from- " You gesture at the current hostage situation. "Whatever this is supposed to accomplish."
"She has a point," one of the henchmen mutters.
The Riddler spins to glare at him. "Whose side are you on?"
"I'm just saying, boss, the last three jobs haven't really paid that well- "
"SILENCE!"
"Plus, the Bat keeps catching us," another henchman adds. "An escape room business would have way better job security- "
"Are my henchmen seriously discussing CAREER CHANGES in the middle of a HEIST?"
"It's not a bad idea," a third henchman says thoughtfully. "My cousin runs an escape room in Metropolis. He cleared six figures last year."
"Yeah, and he doesn't get punched by Batman," the first henchman points out.
"EXACTLY," you say, pointing at them. "See? Your employees understand basic risk benefit analysis! You could offer them actual benefits! Health insurance! A 401k! Paid time off!"
Dick has given up trying to stop you. You can feel him shaking next to you, and you're pretty sure it's silent laughter.
Bruce Wayne is pinching the bridge of his nose in the background.
The Riddler looks like he's having an existential crisis. "But- but the CHALLENGE! The battle of wits with Batman! The thrill of outwitting the law!"
"You can still have that! Just make one of your escape rooms Batman themed! Make it really hard! Charge extra! He might even show up to try it, and then you get to watch him struggle with your puzzles in a legal, controlled environment! It's a win-win!"
"Batman themed," the Riddler repeats slowly.
"With like, gargoyles and batarangs and stuff. Make it super dramatic. People will eat that up. Gotham loves Batman. Merchandising nightmare, but that's what lawyers are for."
There's a long, long pause.
"That's..." The Riddler trails off. "That's actually not a terrible idea."
"RIGHT?!"
"I could create the most challenging escape rooms in the world. People would come from everywhere to test themselves against my intellect- "
"And PAY you for it!"
"And I could rate them. Publicly. On their failures- "
"Make a leaderboard! With shame tiers!"
"A SHAME LEADERBOARD." The Riddler looks genuinely excited now. "That's brilliant! That's- " He stops. Looks around at the terrified gala attendees. At his henchmen, who are all nodding enthusiastically. At you, in your twenty seven dollar dress, having just accidentally talked a supervillain into considering legitimate employment.
"This is..." He shakes his head. "This is the strangest hostage situation I've ever been in."
"Is it still a hostage situation if we're having a productive career counseling session?" You ask.
"I don't know! I've never had this happen before!"
"Well, there's a first time for everything. So, are you going to let everyone go, or..."
That's when the lights go out.
There's the familiar sounds of a Batfamily in action the thwip of grappling hooks, the thunk of escrima sticks, the crack of martial arts, and what sounds like a tiny angry Robin yelling something about "incompetent fools."
When the lights come back on, the Riddler and his henchmen are zip tied on the floor. Batman is glowering. Nightwing is clearly trying not to laugh behind his mask. Robin looks deeply offended by the entire situation.
"Did she just- " Robin starts.
"Give the Riddler career advice? Yes," Batman says flatly.
"Is that... allowed?"
"I don't think there's a protocol for this, Robin."
The Riddler, zip tied and defeated, looks up at you from the floor. "You know, in another life, I think we could have been friends."
"In another life, you could be a legitimate businessman," you counter. "It's not too late! Think about the escape rooms! Think about the shame leaderboard! If Martha Stewart can make bank after prison, so can you!”
"I AM thinking about it!" He actually sounds enthusiastic. "The possibilities are- "
"Okay, that's enough," Batman interrupts, gesturing for the GCPD. "Take him in."
As they're hauling the Riddler away, he calls back: "If I do this- if I actually do this- I'm naming you as a consultant!"
"I don't want credit for this!" You yell back.
"Too late! You're getting a percentage!"
"A percentage of WHAT?!"
"MY ESCAPE ROOM EMPIRE!"
And then he's gone, still yelling about business plans and shame leaderboards, and you're left standing in a ballroom full of Gotham's elite, having just accidentally become a business partner with a supervillain.
Dick appears at your elbow, back in his regular tux, no mask. He's grinning so wide it looks painful.
"Did you just- "
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You just convinced the Riddler to consider a legitimate career- "
"I was dissociating. My mouth just does things when I'm nervous!"
"That was the most amazing thing I've ever witnessed."
Bruce Wayne materializes on your other side. He looks at you for a long moment.
"If he actually does open an escape room franchise," Bruce says seriously, "and it keeps him out of crime, I'm writing you a recommendation letter for whatever you want."
"I don't- I can't- " You look between them. "This is insane. This whole night is insane. I came here in a thrift store dress and now I'm a business consultant for a supervillain?!"
"Twenty seven dollar dress," Dick corrects, still grinning.
"NOT THE POINT."
Caroline Whitmore appears with champagne. "Same time next year?" She asks cheerfully.
You take the champagne and down it in one go.
"Sure," you say faintly. "Why not. What else could possibly happen?"
The universe, as always, is listening.
⋆.˚.𓅪࿐
You wake up disoriented, head full of static, and for a moment you’re convinced the entire Wayne gala was a stress induced fever dream. The ceiling above you is definitely not the water stained plaster of your apartment: this one is smooth, painted a gentle gray, and if you squint you can see tiny glow in the dark stars scattered in one corner.
There’s a slow, delicious ache in your thighs that’s definitely not from stress.
You shift, and the sheet slithers over bare skin, warm and expensive, and the motion pulls your attention to the weight at your waist; an arm, long and golden and dusted with soft brown hair, wraps you close.
Oh.
You twist, carefully and there he is: Dick Grayson, hair rumpled, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, mouth parted with the kind of sleep heavy softness that makes you want to press your face to his shoulder and never move again.
Last night comes back in flashes: his mouth on yours as the adrenaline bled out in the back seat of the car, his hands clumsy and urgent as he unlocked the door to his apartment, laughter tangled with kisses, a trail of your thrifted dress and his designer tux winding through the hall.
You’d made love with the kind of desperate relief that comes from barely surviving- again- a night that should have been a disaster but somehow wasn’t.
Dick shifts, blinking blearily, and his gaze finds you, blue and bright and so gentle you could cry.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice gravel soft with sleep. “You’re still here.”
“Wasn’t sure I would be.” You mean to say it with a laugh, but it comes out quiet, almost vulnerable.
His thumb brushes over your bare hip, slow and affectionate. “You always have a choice. You know that, right?”
You nod, trying not to melt into him. “You snore, by the way.”
He grins, no shame at all. “And you talk in your sleep. You told me the exact tax rate on laundromat quarters.”
You flush, and Dick leans in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your throat, the corner of your jaw. “It’s adorable.”
You let yourself settle against him, the two of you tucked into the soft tangle of his sheets, sun leaking in around the blackout curtains.
Dick rolls you gently onto your back, hovering over you, hair falling into his eyes. “You know what I want?” he says, voice gone low and teasing, eyes warm as sunrise.
“What’s that?”
He ducks down, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s slow, sweet, the kind you never thought you’d get from someone like him. “I want to make you breakfast. And then I want to see if you’ll let me keep you here all weekend.”
Your heart does a ridiculous, traitorous thing in your chest. “You’d get sick of me by noon.”
He nips at your jaw, grinning. “Not possible. I’m insatiable.” He punctuates it with another kiss, this one lingering, his hand sliding over your waist, palm broad and steady.
You can feel him, hard and wanting against your thigh. The temptation to tease is irresistible. “Didn’t you say you needed to rest after last night, Mr. Grayson?”
He groans, but his mouth is already sliding down your neck, teeth scraping lightly. “I lied. Or maybe you just recharge me.”
Your hands slide into his hair as he kisses down your body, worshipful, reverent. His lips find your breast, tongue circling, and his hand drifts lower, cupping your thigh, thumb stroking lazily at your skin. The ache between your legs turns electric, all soft warmth and want.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin, breath hot.
“Don’t you dare.”
He laughs quiet, and so, so happy and then his mouth is on you, slow and patient, mapping every inch. When he finally presses inside, the stretch is familiar and perfect, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him close, moving together in the drowsy gold of morning.
He presses his forehead to yours, both of you grinning like idiots.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.
He kisses you, slow and sure, as if sealing a promise: “Good. Because you’re my favorite disaster.”
The sun climbs higher, and you think, for once, that maybe- just maybe- everything is exactly as it should be.
And maybe lightning didn’t strike to destroy you for once: maybe it struck to set you alight.
Summary:
There was a point where you liked Dick Grayson as a kid, but you knew he never reciprocated those feelings, so you forced yourself to move on. When Dick finds out years later, he can't help but feel conflicted. Struggling with his own feelings, he wonders if he is too late to figure out his own. Do you still love him, or does he need to win you back?
Word Count: 12.7k
Warnings/Tags: Friends to One-Sided Love (Reader) to One-Sided Love (Dick) to Lovers, Reader silently pines so hard, Dick just thinks that's her normal, it's a journey they will figure it out, most of this is actually just developing their initial relationship (Dick’s Robin era is a hefty chunk of this fic) but I plan on making this a two-shot, may not be entirely canon compliant so canon is what the plot desired
A/N: We're gonna pretend this isn't my first fic in months. Also side note first DC fic! Sorry if stuff isn't completely canon or perfect, I tried. Anywayy, let me know if you want to be added to the taglist for it. :)
-
Dick Grayson used to be somebody you loved. Somebody you fantasized about having a life together with.
It never happened, and you understood why. He only ever saw you as a friend, and you would never be seen as anything but. So over the years, you forced yourself to move on. Getting hung up over something that would never happen wouldn't be fair to you, so you forced yourself to get over whatever feelings you had for Dick.
Despite your endeavor to rid your feelings for him, every now and then, you'd reminisce about the past, about how much time you spent with him.
It was so long ago, but you remember it as clear as day. You remember the way you silently pined after him. The way you would overthink every glance, every brush of his fingers. The way you would look into his eyes, wishing that one day he'd wake up seeing you the way you see him.
Of course, it didn't exactly start like that.
-
You sighed as you opened the back storage room to the library. The school librarians wanted you to check for some textbook that a student requested, a biology course. You turned on the light in the large room, and were met by quite a surprise.
Dick Grayson stood in the aisle ahead of you. You recognized him from your classes. He was also relatively well-known for being the ward of Bruce Wayne. You watched as he frantically attempted to put on a bright green shoe. He immediately froze as you both made eye contact.
Both of you stared at each other for a long moment, his shoe long forgotten, it lay limp in his hand.
"So, you uh— come here often?" You asked awkwardly, trying to ease the tension.
Your words snap him out of his daze, "It's not what it looks like."
"Oh, so you're not changing into a Robin costume." You raised an eyebrow
"It's more of a uniform, but yeah, it's for… a costume… party." He attempted to shrug casually.
You blinked slowly, "You just said it was a uniform and not a costume."
"Okay, well," he exhaled, frustrated, "I mean, it's a uniform because that's what you wear to a costume party. Costumes are a uniform for costume parties." He finished putting on the shoe, reaching into his backpack to grab a cape.
"Right, of course, my fault." You raised your hands in mock surrender. You watch him put on the cape slowly in silence, "Who is hosting a costume party this time of the year anyway? During school, nonetheless. I didn't see any flyers about it."
Dick huffed, clearly frustrated that you aren't buying his obvious bullshit. "Life is too short not to enjoy spontaneous costume parties."
You nodded, smiling, "Valid," you watch as he secures the cape, "so can I join?"
It appeared as if your comment short-circuited him for a moment, "What?"
"The party." You clarified
"…No," he shook his head.
"But life is too short not to enj— wait, where are you going?" You frowned, watching him attempt to walk past you.
"Out? Don't want to be late." His eyes are covered by the domino, but you can read the confusion.
"Into the very public student library where people will see you?" You crossed your arms, moving aside. "I mean, be my guest. After all, it's just a costume party."
You smirked at him as he hesitated right at the door before slowly turning towards you. Blinking innocently at him, you watched his inner struggle.
"What would you suggest then?"
Grinning, you grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side. He raised an eyebrow at the action. "Okay, okay, so," you clap your hands together, "I will go out and make sure the coast is clear. There is an exit at the back of the library that you can sneak out of. I will guide you there."
Dick— Robin nodded slowly at your plan, "Alright."
You wiped imaginary dust off your hands, "Okay, wait here for a sec, I'm gonna check, and I'll tell you when to leave." You gestured your hands toward him in a "stay" motion, to which he furrowed his eyebrows.
Peeking out of the storage room, you saw the librarian still talking to the student from earlier who needed the textbook. She called your name, "You got the textbook? Do you need help finding it? We can send in another person to help you look."
Frantically, you shook your head, "No! It's just, uh, what was the course again? Bio?"
"AP Bio." The librarian clarified, and you nodded, heading back into the storage room.
"Clear?" Robin asked.
"Not clear, definitely not clear." You frantically looked for the AP Bio textbooks. Robin watched as you looked at each aisle, searching.
"What're you looking for?" He asked.
"AP Bio textbook," you didn't even spare him a glance.
"Aren't all of those classes filled already?" He leaned against the wall.
"Yep." Of course, for some reason, half the school decided to take AP Biology this year, and as a result, there aren't any AP Bio textbooks lying around in storage. Usually, this is not an issue; after all, you just ask somebody if there are any lying around, or see if any students dropped the class and have recently returned the book.
However, there was a bird following you. You turned to Robin, who was following you like a lost puppy. You'd laugh if you weren't terrified that somebody would walk in and see him.
Robin paused once you turned to face him, "Get behind those boxes." You point to a large pile of boxes covered by a (likely dusty) tarp.
"What, why?" He asked, skeptically approaching the tarp, putting a gloved finger on it. You both watched as a layer of dust covered his glove. He looks back at you, unimpressed.
Suddenly, the storage room door opened, and both you and Robin shared a look of unadulterated horror. You ushered him to the corner, throwing the tarp on top of him.
You turned towards the door, seeing another student assistant. "Hey!" You greeted.
They smile at you, "Hey, Ms. Sumner said to help you look for any AP Bio textbooks. She said it's unlikely we'll find any, but it'd be quicker to look if there were two of us."
"Ah," you nod, "makes sense. Well, guess we'd better start searching. I already looked at the biology section."
They nodded, "Yeah, it could never be that easy." They shake their head sadly, "Well, she said to take our time searching. Apparently, the student has a pass to be here all period."
"Got it, so take our time— ow." You looked down at the tarp, which just kicked your ankle.
They looked over to you, "You good? Also, what's with the dust?" They point to your clothes, all covered in a layer of dust from throwing Robin under the tarp.
"Yeah, just checking old boxes to see if any textbooks were stored in them. I tripped on a box I didn't push in fully." You kicked the "box" back, feeling slight satisfaction when you saw the tarp rustle at your action.
"Ah," they nodded, and you both got to work silently, resisting the urge to check on Robin. After ten minutes of searching, you snuck your way back over to the tarp.
"Psst, you good?" You whispered.
No response.
You coughed, but suddenly a large textbook slid underneath the tarp.
An AP Bio textbook.
You looked down at the dusty textbook, then back to the tarp covering Robin, "Hey, I found one! It was hidden beneath the tarp. Guess I missed it whilst I was getting assaulted by dust." You brushed off the majority of the dust from the cover.
You held the textbook up for the other assistant who came walking over, "Wait, actually? Hang on, maybe there's more underneath—"
Both you and Robin jolted at their words, "No!" You instantly placed yourself in front of the boxes, covering the suspiciously Robin-shaped lump underneath. "It's dusty under there. I personally wouldn't recommend it."
"Oh," they blinked, "okay? Anyway, do you want me to take the textbook out? So you can try and clean up." They gestured to the dust covering you.
You nodded immediately, "That'd be great." You handed over the book to them and watched in anticipation as she left. The moment the door closed, Robin lifted the tarp, causing another cloud of dust to puff up.
"Have fun in the trenches?" You asked, smirking at the frown that formed on Robin's face.
"Oh, you know it." He rolled his eyes— well, you couldn't actually see if he did (courtesy of the mask), but you imagined it.
"Now should be our opportunity to go. Everybody will be busy out there." You gestured for him to follow. He trailed you to the exit of the storage room. You peeked out, making sure the coast is clear before guiding him swiftly to the exit.
Upon exiting, you made sure he was far from any windows. You refused to sneak him out just to get spotted outside the window. "Well, I'd say that went well." You brushed your hands off, attempting to rid them of the dust that lingered on your fingertips.
"I was stuck underneath a tarp for ten minutes." Robin deadpanned.
"It was actually eleven, but who is counting?" You shrugged. He let out an exhale that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
"We'll talk later. Don't go telling anybody about…" He looked at you expectantly.
"Talk? About your costume party?" You smiled, "I won't, promise. Have a good day crime fighting." You waved at him, expecting him to leave.
He cracked a smile, "Wait," he held his hand out to you, "what's your name anyway?"
Your smile dropped, "We've… been in the same classes since 6th grade."
You saw his smile drop. "Oh," he said eloquently, shifting awkwardly.
You chuckled, "I'm joking, well not really, but we haven't really shared many classes. I wouldn't expect you to know me. We never talked."
In your defense, you didn't mean to make him feel bad for not noticing you. Dick Grayson was a pretty popular person, and you just weren't involved in his friend group. The only reason you know him is because everybody knows him. After all, how often does Bruce Wayne take in a kid?
Robin gave you a guilty look, "So," he shifted, "no name?"
You let out a genuine laugh, pitying him enough to offer your name, "You could've just waited until class tomorrow. I mean, unless you were planning on doing a background check on your little computer at your headquarters, or whatever Batman has."
Robin remained silent, staring at you.
"Wait, are you actually gonna do a background check on me?"
Robin didn't say anything.
"We go to school together."
"And you figured out my identity, we need to make sure you are trustworthy."
You frowned, "Well, I didn't figure out anything. You decided to change in the library storage room. Which, may I add, is a terrible idea."
Robin shrugged, "Nobody noticed anything in the past."
You paused, processing the information, "That's not the first time you've done that?"
Robin blinked innocently, grabbing his grappling hook.
"Robin."
He aimed the grappling hook up.
"Robin."
You watched in disbelief as he shot the grappling hook, letting it hook onto a nearby building.
"Dick!"
He turned toward you, glaring, "Code name." He used his free hand to point to you in a "I'm watching you" motion before allowing himself to get whisked away.
You watched as he flew away, "Your name happens to have an alternative meaning." You huffed, watching as he disappeared.
Taking one last glance at where he was, you slowly make your way back into the library. The other assistant raised an eyebrow at you. "You good?"
You paused, "Never better."
True to your word, you did not tell anybody about what happened that day. Who could you even tell? You were essentially burdened with this knowledge because you were now one of probably fewer than twenty people who knew the secret identity of Robin, and you couldn't say anything. You can't talk to anybody about it. The only person is the damn vigilante himself, but you can't imagine that would go well.
The following day proceeded as normal.
Well, normal until Dick decided to approach you in front of everybody.
You didn't even do anything to catch his attention to be pulled aside. No "Hey, let's meet somewhere to talk!" Nope. He approached you and your friends at lunch.
"Hey!" Dick grinned, leaning on your table, directly across from you.
You raised your eyebrows at him, a silent question. Did he really want to do this now?
His grin didn't falter. Blinking, he turned to your friends, "Could I borrow her for a moment?"
You felt your friends smirk mischievously, "Oh, for sure, just return her in one piece." One of them clasped a hand on your shoulder. You turned to glare at her.
"Of course, of course." Dick laughed before gesturing for you to follow.
Sighing, you glared at your friends as Dick walked away, obviously expecting you to follow. Part of you doesn't want to follow out of spite, just to make him look stupid, "You never told us you were close like that with Dick Grayson?" One of them whispered once he was out of earshot, smirking at you.
"We aren't." You responded dryly, "I'll be back."
You catch up with Dick, following closely behind him. It almost reminds you of how he followed you around the library helplessly yesterday; the memory brought a small smile to your face.
"Well, you haven't wasted any time." You commented, moving to stand next to him.
Dick raised an eyebrow, "I told you we'd talk today."
You nodded, "Yeah, but that didn't mean that I wanted you to approach me in front of everybody."
Dick tilted his head to the side, now facing you entirely, eyebrow still raised, "And… how is that an issue? People talk all the time?"
"People don't talk to you all the time. Especially people who had never interacted with you less than twenty hours ago."
Dick blinked slowly, unaffected. "And how exactly is that an issue?" He repeated.
"People are gonna think like something is going on…" You gesture between you two, "between us."
"Oh," Dick hummed, turning away from you and taking you… you weren't actually sure where. He pulled you aside to an unfamiliar, empty classroom. "Nobody will fault you for having a crush on me." He smirked, the words sardonic. "No need to be embarrassed." He waved it off, teasingly.
You laughed, betraying your rising embarrassment, "You think you're soooo funny."
He grinned, turning toward you, "Am I not?"
"I'm laughing," you deadpanned.
He laughed, "That's what I thought."
"Hm, so how did that background check go?"
Dick sighed, "Disappointed to report that you are not a recorded villain in Gotham."
You snapped your fingers, "Damn, and I was trying so hard."
Dick smiled at your comment, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Did you tell anybody?"
You raised an eyebrow, "You have that little faith in me?"
Dick raised an eyebrow, mirroring your expression, "Okay, fair enough. I didn't tell anybody." You sighed.
"Do you… plan on telling anybody?" You looked toward Dick, but he wasn't even making eye contact. It was at that moment that you realized how he felt. To you, this was just a fun tidbit of information nobody else would be privy to. To him, this is a part of his identity. You could reveal Robin to the public if you desired (which you do not).
"No," you tried to offer him a reassuring smile, but he didn't seem that pleased. "Have you told anybody that I know about it?"
Dick shook his head, "Trying to avoid that conversation with him. Batman would kill me."
You huffed, "What is he, your dad or something?"
Dick looked at you in barely concealed horror, "Oh." Well, that made sense considering who Robin was, but picturing Bruce Wayne as Batman was quite the image.
Okay, new plan!
"How about... You don't tell Batman that I know, and we can just keep this" you gestured between you two, "between us?"
Dick frowned, "You think that's the best course of action? Batman knows everything. He'll know!"
"You just said he didn't know."
"Well, he will know."
"Not if you don't tell him!"
"Why do you care so much about Batman knowing that you know?"
"'Cause I don't want to get jumped by Batman."
Dick paused before laughing loudly, "Batman isn't going to jump you..." He looked up to meet your eyes hesitantly, "Probably."
"Exactly, he won't if you don't tell him. Look, I don't care who Robin is—" Dick gave you an offended look, "I mean— I care, but it's really none of my business. We can just go on as if nothing happened. You don't want Batman finding out," you gestured to him, before pointing to yourself, "I don't want Batman finding out, it's a win-win."
Dick looked at you contemplatively, "Okay,"
"Great, so we're good?" You grinned, thumbs up in goodwill.
"So you won't tell anybody?" Dick reiterated.
"I won't." You reassured him.
"You won't message anybody?"
"Nope."
"Email anybody?"
"That's just fancy messaging, so… no."
"Take a photo?"
"It's hard enough to get photos of Robin or Batman as it is, so unfortunately, I will not be making bank off of Robin photos."
Dick patiently awaited a response.
"Geez, no." You felt your eye twitch in exasperation.
"Leave evidence of my identity in a convenient location for somebody to find it?"
You gave Dick the most blank face imaginable before raising your right hand, "I will not communicate or attempt to convey your identity to anything, anybody, or anyone in any shape or manner."
Dick remained silent for a moment before he spoke again, "It's more of a uniform."
"That's what you gathered from that?"
"Okay, fine, fine." Dick raised his hands in mock surrender, "We do have to do a blood pact, though, bind it with your soul. Batman protocol and all that." He brushed his hands casually.
You stared at him unblinking, "You're joking."
Dick pursed his lips, "'fraid not. Do you have a knife on hand?"
"We're on a school campus!"
"And they didn't catch me smuggling a whole grappling hook onto it, a knife should be a cakewalk." Dick shrugged casually.
"I can't tell if you're playing with me."
Dick laughed, his eyes crinkling in amusement. For a moment, you were struck by just who you were hanging out with. What were the chances you'd befriend Dick and Robin on a random Tuesday? His laughter was contagious, and you couldn't stop the chuckles that escaped your mouth. Dick was popular for multiple reasons, his charisma and general affability apparent to anybody with eyes.
He turned toward you, his mischievous, but genuine smile blinding you.
Though perhaps there were other reasons, you admitted to yourself.
-
While whatever relationship you had with Dick couldn't be considered friends, it definitely started to feel like that. Perhaps reluctant allies would be a better term? Though even that sounded too formal for what it was.
After he confronted you, you thought things would go back to normal, but then Dick would do something that reminded you that you gave up "normal" the moment you befriended him.
So now your new normal consisted of him coming to talk to you about his double life.
At first, you were a little shocked. After all, didn't he grab you from your friends to ensure you didn't talk about it? In front of most of the school, nonetheless?
Apparently, he meant you couldn't talk about it, but he could talk about it all he wanted.
"—and I was so frustrated! Like, after all this time, he still doesn't trust me!" Dick vented. The two of you were in that spot right outside the hidden library exit. It was relatively safe since it was only ever frequented by students or staff who spent a lot of time in the library, which was minimal.
"Did you tell him that?" You sat, back propped against the wall, tapping your foot.
"No, but he wouldn't understand it if I did." He sighed, "He always assumes that if he isn't there to hover over me, then I can't do it. Can't do anything on my own."
You nodded sympathetically. While you may have had zero background that relates to crime fighting and the trust between your partner on the field, you could imagine everything Dick was saying. He was a surprisingly good storyteller, describing his experiences on the field.
"And so he sees any act of you trying to prove yourself as another reason why he 'shouldn't trust you' alone?" You did air quotes as you spoke.
Dick huffed, "Yep." He moved, plopping himself down right next to you on the ground. You immediately stopped tapping your foot, as if afraid continuing the action would make him realize how close you two were.
"Hm, well yeah, that does sound like a problem." You nodded distractedly, telling yourself to focus on anything except Dick. He is venting to you right now.
Dick scoffed, "Understatement of the century."
"Well…" you hesitated before giving advice because who even are you to give advice on Robin's relationship with Batman? "Perhaps you need to communicate this to Batman? I doubt he'll understand completely, and hell, maybe he won't even change, but by not saying anything, you aren't giving him the opportunity to." You looked toward Dick, who was staring directly at your eyes, "It isn't fair for either of you." You held your hands up, "I mean, that's what I'd do. I am not responsible if that advice ruins your life."
Dick snorted before furrowing his eyebrows and sighing. "I hate it when you're right."
You smiled, "Am I not always right?" You joked.
Dick hummed, a small smile on his face, "Then I must always hate you."
Although the word was, frankly, the polar opposite of the word that you were thinking of, you couldn't help but think his declaration of "hatred" sounded a lot like something else. The smile on his face, the way he watched you as you spoke, the way he hummed to acknowledge he was listening.
At that moment, your brain wanted you to say something, anything.
Instead, you sat in comfortable silence with him.
That moment wasn't when you fell in love with him; that's just when you figured it out. There was no instance where you could say you "fell in love with him." It was not a switch, no, it was slower than that. You didn't wake up one day with the sudden realization you loved him. You woke up each day falling deeper and deeper. Eventually, you reached the deep end before ever realizing you left the shallow side.
At first, you thought maybe you had a chance. After all, once you found out his little secret, you two spent a lot of time together. You were his friend, his confidant.
However, you realized something. Despite all the trust he extended to you, he never treated you as anything more. You wouldn't figure it out until years later, but your first clue was Barbara Gordon.
She was the first person that you heard Dick confide in about Robin stuff that wasn't you. Eventually, it was revealed that she was Batgirl, which made you feel so much better. You weren't jealous, per se, but you knew that even if what they had was just a close friendship, it would be something that you would never be able to replicate with Dick. She could empathize in a way you weren't able to, no matter how much you tried. They were partners out there, even if it wasn't like that.
You tried not to talk about their… relationship? You weren't entirely sure what it was. Either way, it wasn't something you willingly brought up. Not like you could ask Dick, "Hey, are you and Barbara dating?" Somehow, you felt that no matter what answer you received, you would still feel heartbroken after.
For months, you witnessed the friendship between Barbara and Dick grow. You watched as she slowly became a bigger and bigger part of his life. As a result, she slowly became a bigger part of yours.
You liked her. She was a trustworthy person. You were glad that out on the field, they could rely on each other. You befriended her not out of sheer necessity through forced interaction, but because she was genuinely a great person to talk to.
Additionally, you truly enjoyed her company. She was another person to talk to who knew about Batman. You made her promise not to say anything about you knowing. She had found your worry amusing, but nonetheless promised to not say anything about you knowing, which you were grateful for.
A year went by, and Batman was none the wiser to what you knew (to your information). Truthfully, you had no reason to believe he'd ever find out.
Despite your wishes, deep down you knew it was always inevitable that he'd find out about you.
Classes had been dreadfully boring that day. Nothing interesting had happened, and all you wanted to do was go home. Your English teacher prattled on about 1984, telling the class that you had to do an assignment assessing Winston's relationship with Julia, due the next class.
You had been tuning the guy out for a bit, figuring you'd just read the instructions posted with it, when Dick aggressively tapped your shoulder from behind you. Startled, you turned around, "Yes..?" You whispered, attempting to not get the teacher's attention.
"I need to get out of here." He whispered back. You blinked, glancing at the teacher, then back to Dick.
"Now?"
"Yeah, like now."
"Just make some excuse or run out?" You shrugged, eyes flickering towards the teacher.
"Could you cover for me?" Dick asked, pleading.
You pretended to think, "Nah."
Dick deadpanned to you.
"Joking, just go! I'll tell them that you were about to throw up or something."
Dick rolled his eyes, but smiled at you, patting you on the shoulder in thanks before bolting from the room.
"Mr. Grayson!" Your English teacher bellowed from the front of the classroom. You put on your best "concerned friend" face.
"Sir, I think he was going to vomit. He was looking really feverish during lunch today." You fidgeted, attempting to make yourself look more convincing. The whole class was watching you. Dick owed you for this.
"Oh," the teacher frowned, "perhaps we should send someone after him?"
"Oh, oh. No– no, I think it's fine, I think Mr. Wayne is gonna pull him from class." You explained, slightly more frantic.
The teacher raised an eyebrow, "I didn't get a call or anything."
The whole class stared at you, expecting you to have all the answers. "It's Bruce Wayne." You shrugged. When in doubt, just pull the "They're rich and powerful" card.
The teacher frowned, contemplating the justification, before smiling faintly, "Hm, fair enough. So as I was saying…"
You exhaled in relief, thinking that the most stressful part of your day was over. After that class, you had begun to anxiously check your phone, hoping for some update from Robin.
Unsurprisingly, there was nothing. You knew he was probably busy, but you couldn't help but wonder what happened. It wasn't often that Dick had to actively leave school for "Robin Duties." In fact, it had only happened a couple of times (not including your first meeting), so it had to be pretty serious.
You didn't realize how serious it was until much later.
Apparently, the Joker had decided to plant explosives all around the city. The details of why exactly weren't released to the public, but it was the Joker. He didn't really need a reason.
You knew it was serious because the news was talking about how Batman was out during the day attempting to disarm the bombs. There were a few Robin sightings, but despite being out in broad daylight, they were still pretty elusive.
Even by the end of the school day, they were still out there working. Apparently, there was still one bomb that still hadn't been found. You had made your way to the subway before getting on. They were moderately filled despite the present danger. For the first couple minutes of the ride, nothing was out of the ordinary.
You had been standing, grabbing onto one of the poles to keep you in place. You had given up your seat to an older woman with a cane. While she had seemed a little suspicious initially, her skepticism turned to gratitude once she realized you had no ill intentions. A tall man was standing to your right, his olive green jacket had some grease stains, and he had corded earbuds in, his eyes anxiously flickering toward you, as if wary you'd steal his items. Across from you, there was a young mother, her hair up in a bun with prominent eye bags. She was attempting to shush her crying child. Across her, a bearded man periodically glanced at the child, annoyance evident by the huff he gave.
It was normal.
Until Robin burst in at the next stop.
"Everybody get out!" Robin called out, his voice carrying in the small space. His eyes scanned the subway car, cataloging how many people were in here.
Some people immediately got the message, getting off with no argument. Other people reluctantly got off, grumbling about their poor luck. You attempted to catch Dick's eye (not that you could see his eyes with the domino mask anyway), but he barely glanced at you.
You glanced at the older woman behind you, struggling to get up. Grabbing her purse, you offered her your arm for help. She offered you a quiet "Thank you" with a warm smile. You watched as most of the subway was evacuated, but now Robin was staring at you. He frowned. "You should get out of here." He walked over to you.
"I…" You glanced at the older woman, slowly standing up, then back to Robin.
He exhaled, clearly wanting to say something about that. Instead, his lips turned up slightly before becoming passive, "You out for my job?"
Your lips turned upward. "Sent my application to Batman a week ago. Heard it was pretty competitive though." Letting the old woman take your arm, Robin led as you escorted her out of the subway car.
Dick nodded, smirking, "Can confirm, also he doesn't pay well. It's practically charity work. If you're looking for a high-paying job, you might wanna look elsewhere." You laughed, helping the woman up the stairs to the exit. She even seemed to chuckle a bit at his comment.
You clicked your tongue, "What a shame. Benefits must be great though."
Dick shrugged, "They're alright." He smiled. Eventually, the three of you reached the top of the stairs.
You offered her purse back to her, "Thank you." She beamed at you before giving you both a knowing look, "It's quite sweet witnessing relationships form, it's cute." She pointed her fingers at both of you, her grin radiant.
You refused to glance at Dick for his reaction. Why would you even care? It's not like you care that an old woman thinks you two would be cute together. It's not like you'll be thinking about this comment forever. You refused to let yourself appear flustered, so you remained casual.
So, of course, you glanced at Dick– and damn it, when did you start calling "Robin" by his actual name in your head?
Dick laughed as if she had told a funny joke. "She wishes."
Yeah, you do.
"You're projecting, Robin." You retorted, making sure you did not reveal his identity.
The woman smirked at you before, slowly walking away.
"Not gonna escort her home? Thought you were out for my job? Not doing a very good job of it." Dick– Robin teased.
"Mmm, I don't think I want the Batman job anymore. Somebody told me that they don't pay very well." You shook your head disapprovingly.
Dick smirked, making his way back to the steps, about to enter the subway again. He stopped a couple of steps down to look up at you standing on the top step. "They sound wise." He nodded approvingly. "You probably wouldn't have gotten it anyway, y'know, only going after the salary and all that." He shrugged carelessly.
You smiled, falling into the familiar banter, "Guess we won't know until Batman reads my application."
He walked up the step, placing himself on the step just below you. He looked up at you, a smile on his face. His breath was visible in the air. You felt your heart rate pick up.
"I'll steal it off his desk before he gets the chance to read it. Don't worry." He spoke softly, teasingly. His words were low enough to be heard only by you. There wasn't anybody in the area, but you wouldn't have noticed if there were either way.
The cool fall breeze picked up his cape, billowing it in the wind. For a moment, all you could hear was the sound of the fabric flowing in the wind. You stared down at him, into the whites of his domino mask. You found yourself, once again, lamenting the fact that his eyes were covered. He was considerably more expressive without them.
You gasped exaggeratedly, "Rigging the competition like that?"
He chuckled, and you could feel the warmth of it. "Absolutely awful of me, I know."
You grinned at him before looking past him, down to where the abandoned subway car was. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but what about…" You trailed off, gesturing to the subway car behind him.
Immediately, he turned around, "Shit," he cursed, before whipping back to face you. Almost as if asking for permission to go. You gave him a tired smile, "Go, Boy Wonder." You gestured for him to go.
He opened his mouth, "Sorry!" he frowned, before running down the stairs, "Stay around the area! I'll find you when I'm done!" He didn't await your response before going down.
You watched as he ran before eventually vanishing from view underground. You slowly put some distance between you and the subway. After all, if the bomb was down there, you did not want to be close to it.
After strolling into a dirty alley, you decided that it's far enough to be safe from an explosion, but close enough for Robin to find you.
So you waited.
Now that you've thought about it, how long did it take to disarm a bomb? You couldn't imagine it was a long process. Movies always make people do it in a time crunch. Wait, did you distract him by talking to him? Hopefully not. If you had, Robin had been dealing with bombs all day. He could probably disarm them pretty fast, right?
Then a deafening boom startled you.
Before you even processed whether it was safe to look, you put yourself out in the open to see what caused the explosion. You could only watch in horror as smoke started to crawl up from the subway station.
Dick was still there.
Batman would probably get him. After all, where you see one, the other wasn't very far behind.
The smoke clouded the entire exit, obscuring your view of anything near it. Dick had been talking to you earlier, and he didn't seem concerned about Batman showing up and seeing you. You saw ashes slowly permeate the air. Optimistically, you looked up, waiting for Batman to swoop down and go in and save Dick.
You looked up at the now muddy gray sky.
Batman wasn't coming.
Nobody knew Dick was down there.
Call it bravery, stupidity, maybe both, but you covered your mouth hoping that it would help prevent you from inhaling too much smoke. Running down the steps, you immediately felt the heat brush your skin uncomfortably.
"ROBIN!" You called out. Scrambling down the steps, you called out his name, hoping to see a hint of green. The subway car was now covered in burn marks along the outside, and you felt your heart drop as you ran to it. Soft coughing could be heard from inside.
"Fuck, fuck–" You entered without hesitation upon seeing Dick on the ground. He was hunched over, back leaning up against one of the seats. Half of his mask was gone, leaving one of his eyes visible. His costume was burned, scorch marks marring its normally bright colors, the ends of his capes frayed. His arms appeared to have the beginnings of burns on them. "Hey, hey, we gotta get you out of here." You rushed over to him, immediately slinging his arm around your shoulder.
He rasped your name, "I thought I told you to go." He coughed as you dragged him up, putting all of his weight on you. With the added weight, it made it difficult to move with haste, but you persisted.
"Yeah, well, I told you not to die." You both flinched as a flaming wooden blank dropped from the ceiling onto the ground, mere feet away from you.
"I don't actually think you told me that." His voice was quiet, weak.
"Semantics," you yelled out. Did he seriously want to argue about that now?
He grunted as you pushed him faster, "We're almost there." You whispered encouragingly, looking to the stairs ahead of you. He attempted to suck in air, wincing at the pain, but instead he inhaled smoke, causing another coughing fit.
"Almost there." You muttered, more to yourself as you reached the base of the stairs.
Slowly, the two of you climbed the stairs, and eventually you reached the top. You ushered him to that empty alley you had found. Once you reached it, he immediately collapsed to the ground, breathing heavily.
You should call somebody. Who? Batman? That would probably be the smart thing to do. He probably knows somebody who could get Dick medical attention.
"Do you have your phone?" You kneeled down next to Dick, who opened his eyes wearily, glancing down at a pocket on his utility belt. You reached for it, grabbing the small device, typing in the passcode you've seen him use. He never explicitly told you, but he's opened his phone numerous times in front of you.
You opened the contacts before seeing a single emergency contact: B.
With no hesitation, you called it, and the phone rang for less than a couple seconds before it was answered.
There were no greetings, just one question. "Are you hurt?" Bruce's voice cut in, strong, befitting of Batman, but clearly filled with worry.
You stood up, "Robin's alive. I was able to pull him out of the fire," you glanced at Dick, who was still breathing heavily, "but he's injured." You got straight to the point.
Bruce remained silent for a moment. "The subway?" Gone was the concern, replaced by the impassive, suspicious tone.
You nodded before forgetting you were on a phone call. "Yes, we're hidden in a small alley not too far from it." You looked up to see if anybody was nearby. You heard sirens nearby, but didn't see anybody.
"Stay there, we will talk once I arrive. Is he awake?"
"Yes, but he's burned. I think he's struggling to stay awake." You frowned, coughing as you watched Dick blink wearily.
"Don't let him fall asleep. We're on our way, don't hang up until we get there." He instructed, his tone was calm, controlled.
"Okay, I'm going to put you on speaker." You didn't get a response, so you placed the phone on speaker as you gently shook Dick, who coughed in response.
"Hey, Batman's on his way. I know you're tired, but you have to stay awake until he can get a look at you." You spoke softly.
Dick groaned, "He's gonna kill me." He rasped.
You snorted, a small smile gracing your face. Even injured, he still had enough energy to make you laugh. "Prettyyyy sure, he's trying to prevent that, but if he does, then we aren't going down without a fight."
Dick chuckled, before launching himself into another coughing fit, "Woah, okay, my bad. Try not to laugh either." You patted his back softly. He winced at the touch, and you immediately stopped, wincing a small apology.
He gave you a half-hearted glare before closing his eyes and sighing. "Thanks." He said softly, the words barely audible. "What you did was still incredibly stupid, though."
"Yeah, but you're alive, so you should be thanking me really."
"I did, and then I acknowledged your poor choices."
"Oh," you held your hands up in surrender, "sorry, very different."
He smirked softly, "Very."
Suddenly, a tall, broad figure appeared behind you, causing you to jump. Dick didn't even flinch.
Batman looked down at Dick on the ground, Batgirl close behind him. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise before saying your name, shock evident in her tone.
It felt as if the already quiet atmosphere went dead the moment she uttered your name.
Batman turned towards Batgirl briefly, giving Dick time to sling his arm around him. "You know her?" He looked down at you, and you smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. This was not how you wanted to meet Batman, if you were ever going to meet Batman.
"She's–" Batgirl began, and you attempted to shake your head subtly to Batgirl. Of course, that didn't go unnoticed by Batman. Her eyes flickered between you and Batman before nodding slowly. "I trust her…" She smiled faintly at you, "He trusts her." Batman gave her a long glance before turning toward you once again.
"You know," Batman stated. He spoke with a certainty that told you he was not asking.
You glanced towards Batgirl, a silent plea for help, but all she did was wince, mouthing an apology. "I…" You started slowly, unable to find the words. You eventually nodded, a silent confirmation.
Batman looked at you, and if you thought Dick was a tad difficult to read with the mask, Batman was impossible. Abruptly, he stood up, turning to Batgirl, "He will be fine, we'll have him looked at in the cave." Batgirl nodded as he walked over to the Batmobile, allowing Dick to get into the passenger seat. You glanced anxiously between the three of them before he started the car. Batgirl went to the backseat, and you assumed that was the end of the conversation, so you took a few steps away from the vehicle.
"Get in."
The words would probably have been awesome in any other circumstance, but all it did was fill you with dread. Reluctantly, you moved closer to the back doors and awkwardly shuffled inside.
The drive was quiet. Like uncomfortably quiet, and also way too quick. You didn't picture the first time visiting Wayne Manor to be under Batman-related circumstances.
Before you knew it, the Batmobile pulled into the Batcave (Dick said that's what it's called, if you remembered right). Dick had mentioned it a few times, saying you'd think it was impressive, but you never thought you'd get to see it. Even though he talked to you about being Robin, he wasn't the biggest fan of actively involving you in anything related to his secret identity.
You watched as Alfred– you're assuming it's Alfred, Dick mentioned him often– immediately took Dick aside, removing him from Batman's care. Thus, leaving you with Batman and Batgirl. You left the car, not even having the energy to admire the Batcave, your stomach turned with unease.
"You know him well." Batman walked over to your side, the two of you watching as Alfred took Dick away for examination.
"Yeah." You spoke quietly, afraid that any louder would worsen the situation.
"Hm," Batman grunted, "how long?"
"A little over a year?" Sorry, Dick, there's no way you're good enough to lie to Batman.
He nodded slowly, "So he told you our identities?"
You smile at the memory, "Not exactly."
"But you know? You figured it out?" He tugged his gauntlets off.
Your smile grew slightly wider, "Not exactly." You repeated.
Batman hesitantly removed his cowl, revealing the face of Bruce Wayne. "How so?" He sounded deceptively calm. You were unsure if him willingly unmasking himself was a good sign or not.
Explaining the story of how you met was easy. It was something that you and Dick reminisced about in later years. You both found it pretty funny in hindsight. You thought you did a good job retelling it because even Bruce's lips twitched upwards at times at your recount.
"And how did you 'figure out' our identities?" Bruce asked, glancing between you and Batgirl, who took off her mask.
"Didn't really have to, it was heavily implied. He never explicitly said it, but he would always talk about you." You shrugged.
Bruce nodded, "I see…" He crossed his arms. "Thank you for saving him. We'll have Alfred look over you once he's attended to Dick."
You blinked, "Oh–" you waved him off, "I'll be fine! Really. I was down there for less than a couple minutes."
"You can never be too safe. I insist, it's the least I could do. You saved his life." Bruce nodded resolutely.
You both went back and forth before eventually you relented, and let Alfred check over you. It took a little while, since Dick's needed a lot more care than you did, but eventually he looked over you. He was efficient and overly polite. Thankfully, he gave you the all clear.
About half an hour later, he let you go see Dick, and you and Babs went rushing to find him. Bruce followed behind you two.
Babs immediately went to his side, and you hesitated to approach him. You glanced at Bruce, surprised to see him already staring at you. He slightly tilted his head towards Dick, silent permission.
Babs and Dick were whispering softly to one another, with Babs glaring at him. You slowly made your way over to the other side of Dick's bed.
Dick placed his hand on Babs', muttering something quietly before he turned his focus on you.
He smiled softly, "Sorry about our deal."
You couldn't help but mirror his action, "To be fair, you didn't tell him."
Dick snapped his fingers, pointing at you, "True, so I guess that means I'm off the hook." He placed his hands on his lap, a smirk present on his face. "Sorry that this was your introduction, though. I can imagine it wasn't… pleasant." Dick glanced between you and Bruce, a silent question.
You shrugged, "It was fine. He's not as scary as I thought." Dick snorted as you sat on the stool next to the bed. "Just glad you're okay."
Dick placed his hand onto yours, grabbing it. He looked from your hand up to you, "And I have you to thank for that." His eyes were shining with gratitude.
–
To both of your and Dick's shock, Bruce (he insisted you call him that, and not "Mr. Wayne") did not mind you knowing. You two theorized that perhaps he knew the whole time, and that's why he was so unbothered by the "secret." Even more surprisingly, Bruce actually offered for you to visit the Manor whenever suitable. Dick found this extremely suspicious, but you thanked Bruce for the offer nonetheless.
Later that year, you ended up hearing some news.
While you knew Dick was off with the Titans, what you didn't expect to hear was him dating Starfire. You thought Babs was the most likely candidate, but apparently, you were wrong. By the time you heard he was in the area again, you were off at college. It had started taking up most of your time, and while you occasionally went to hang out with Babs, the days of you and Robin had come to a close. Truthfully, it was probably best that you were gone for college. It gave you time to get over Dick. At first, it was a struggle, but over time, it hurt less and less. Now, you barely think about it.
By the time you had returned, years later, everything had changed.
Babs had immediately invited you to the Manor upon hearing your return, and you had accepted gladly. She did warn you that there would be a lot of new people there. You figured, seeing as you had heard mentions of new vigilantes popping up throughout the years.
The drive to the Manor was somewhat familiar, and upon entry. You had heard of her incident with the Joker, but from what you heard, she had undergone surgery that allowed her to walk again. When you arrived at the Manor, Babs was there to greet you. She said that she wanted to make sure you saw a familiar face upon entry, which you vastly appreciated.
Heading down to the Batcave, you were surprised by how many people were there. Most of them accepted you, especially after Babs explained her history with you. Their new, constant presence in your life led to you becoming a regular at the Manor. The first people you initially met were Steph and Damian. They were down in the Batcave when you met. Steph was incredibly welcoming, and she seemed excited at the prospect of a new face. Damian was a lot more skeptical, but eventually you earned his respect (at least you think). It took months, but he didn't glare in distrust when you entered a room anymore, as if assessing a threat, and you took that as a win.
Soon after you met Cass, Duke, and Tim. All of whom were kind to you. Cass wasn't very vocal, but she expressed interest in hanging out with you, Steph, and Babs. The four of you decided to plan something later that weekend. After that, it became tradition for the four of you to spend at least a couple of weekends of the month together. Duke was typically out during the mornings, so you didn't see him too often, but he was always nice to you.
Tim was… interesting.
When you first met, his eyes raised with what looked like recognition. You found that strange, considering you had never met him. A few months after meeting him, you decided to ask him how he recognized you.
Tim frowned, "I never said that I recognized you?"
You raised an eyebrow. Perhaps you overthought his initial reaction? "Oh," you spin around in your swivel chair, "I just thought that… I don't know." You slowed your spinning. "You looked as if you had recognized me when we first met."
Tim blinked, tapping his finger on the desk in front of him. "I mean, we hadn't met, but I saw pictures of you." He shrugged casually.
You stopped spinning, "What?"
Tim took his attention off the screen and onto you, "Yeah, Dick has some pictures in his old room."
You blinked, feeling fondness rise in your chest, "Dick had pictures of us in his room?"
"Mm... has." Tim crossed one leg over the other in his chair. "They're still there, I think."
"So you snooped." You scooted the swivel chair closer to him.
Tim frowned, tilting his head, "To be fair, he invited me in first. He had them on full display."
You chuckled, smiling at the thought of Dick keeping old photos of you both.
Tim eyed you oddly, opening his mouth as if to say something, but closing it and turning back to the screen.
"What was that?" You raised an eyebrow, leaning on the desk next to him.
"What was what?" Tim continued to type, not sparing a glance.
"What'd you want to say?" You pointed to him, a pen in your hand.
"Nothing important."
"Well, if it's nothing important…" You spun the pen casually in your finger, "Then you won't mind telling me." You leaned onto his desk, catching his attention. He blinked at you, mouth open for a moment.
"I'm…" He glanced around the Batcave, craning his neck around the monitors to see if anybody was here. "I'm not sure it's any of my business."
You tilted your head, "Well, now I'm curious."
He pursed his lips, glancing between you and the screen, finally turning to face you. "Did you and Dick ever date?"
A wave of… something came over you, your lips parting in surprise.
"What?" You smiled, still processing the question.
Tim's eyebrows furrowed, unimpressed, "See, this is why I didn't ask." He turned to face the screen again.
You closed your mouth, looking down at the ground. "No, no, I was just surprised. I'm just surprised he never cleared that up. We never dated."
Tim glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. "Never?"
You didn't meet his glance, "Never."
Tim typed in silence for a moment, "Did you ever…" He turned slightly to gauge your reaction.
"He never liked me." You gave Tim a non-answer, neither confirming nor denying you ever liked him.
Tim fully turned to you at your words, "Never?"
"Never." You repeated back.
Tim's mouth was now wide open, eyebrows downturned in disbelief. The expression eliciting a chuckle out of you. "It's not that surprising."
"It… It kinda is, though. I assumed you two broke up before he got with Kori."
"We were never together. Truthfully," you glanced around again, after all, you did not want this to be heard, "I was surprised he hadn't gotten with Babs."
"Oh…" Tim nodded slowly, frowning, "But he did?"
Sorry, what?
"What?" You stared at him, mouth agape.
"Oh my…" He ran a hand through his hair, "You didn't know…"
"I never even heard about it!" You whisper-yelled, leaning forward.
Tim held his hands up in surrender, moving slightly away from you. "I thought you knew."
"She neglected to mention that."
"Well, yeah, that's because they broke up not too long ago. I figured she told you." You opened your mouth to retort, but he spoke again, "I can see I was wrong."
You spaced out, staring at the screen that Tim had pulled up. He was looking up some missing person case. "You never really answered the question I asked." He continued to stare at you, ignoring the screen.
"Remind me what you asked again?" You didn't take your eyes off the screen, staring straight through it, still processing the revelation he dropped on you.
"Did you ever…" he tilted his head down slightly, his voice becoming quieter, "like him?"
"You technically didn't ask." You glanced at him out of the corner of your eyes.
"It was implied, and I know you understood what I was asking."
"Then you can probably infer the answer to that question based on how I responded." You stood up. Tim frowned, his eyes looking down at the ground. "I moved on anyway. It doesn't matter." You waved him off, patting him on the shoulder.
You were about to walk off when he said something, "For what it's worth, he missed you."
You turned to face him, his downcast eyes flickering up to meet your own. You offered him a smile. "I missed him, too."
-
Those past conversations and interactions are ingrained in your memory, even if at times you wished they weren't. You never regretted befriending Dick, and you still don't. It's just been so long. He claimed to have missed you? Even if you are just friends, why did he never reach out?
To be fair, you didn't reach out, but you figured he was always busy. You couldn't imagine that he has a lot of free time.
Even months after returning, you still haven't seen him. You knew that he operated in Blüdhaven as Nightwing, so you didn't expect to see him immediately once you returned. However, months passed, and you hadn't heard a word from him. Perhaps you should contact him? Perhaps he didn't know you were back? Would he have heard by now? Or maybe he just didn't care?
You may not like him like that anymore, but you reminisced on your friendship fondly. Hell, even Babs kept in close contact with you. He would contact you while you were gone, but it was always fleeting. Every time you tried, suddenly he'd have to go fight crime or whatever he was doing. You didn't blame him. You weren't that prideful as to assume that he prioritized you over the city.
Either way, it doesn't matter too much. It's unfortunate, but you've moved on in life. You're practically closer to his entire family than you are to him as of recent times. It's been years since you've really talked with him. What if he's different? Either way, call it pettiness, fear of change, or pride, but you hadn't made the choice to contact him either. Inevitably, you'd run into him eventually. It's probably good that you got at least a couple of months to understand what goes on at the Manor anyway.
During those first couple of months, you had met the majority of his family. The only one you hadn't really met was Jason. You knew that he had apparently died (because that's a thing now), and that he was Red Hood. That was about the extent of your knowledge.
You had met him by complete accident.
-
Spinning in the swivel chair, you checked your phone, waiting to see if Duke responded to your text. You knew he was out on patrol, but Babs had been trying to get in contact with him the night before, and he still hadn't responded to her. She asked if you could debrief him in the cave about what she found regarding a case about the Riddler. While you weren't really a part of their "team," Babs would often ask small favors of you, this being one of them. You didn't mind, because it showed that she trusted you. You felt proud that she entrusted you with such vital information.
When a motorcycle rolled in, you turned your chair to face it. "Oh, good, you did get my message. I honestly thought you were ignoring me–"
You watched as the Red Hood got off his bike before turning to you.
"You… are not Duke." You pursed your lips, clicking your tongue.
"Astute observation." Red Hood responded, voice modulator masking his real voice.
You stood up, heading over to introduce yourself. You had heard that Jason could be a little volatile, but you knew he wouldn't attack you unprovoked. "I'm–"
Red Hood cut you off, saying your full name. Did he really have to pull the first and last names out? Isn't that a bit much? "I know." He walked past you, ignoring your outreached hand.
You smiled at where he was, betraying your annoyance. "Alright then, Jason Todd." You spoke in his opposite direction before turning to face him. If he's gonna pull the full name, then you'll do the same.
He paused his stride, turning to meet your eyes. You smiled at him.
He took off his helmet; well, that was fast. He ran his fingers through some loose strands of hair, and you got your first look at him. His hair was disheveled from the helmet, with a white streak in the front. He looked at you, not mad, but clearly unimpressed by you mimicking his tactic.
"Do you always call people by their full name?" You asked, placing your hands behind you onto a desk, leaning back onto it.
"Since when were you here?" He ignored your question, kinda rude.
"Eh, a couple months, give or take. Why?" You shrugged.
He raised an eyebrow, "And Dick doesn't know?"
You shrugged, "I dunno. Probably not."
"Hm," he grunted before walking off.
You blinked, "Why? Is that surprising?" You followed him down some steps.
He turned to face you, appearing slightly annoyed that you seemed set on following him.
"A little. Thought you two were besties or somethin'." He continued to walk past you, heading over to an old storage room.
You frowned, "I don't think we ever referred to each other as 'besties.'" You did air quotes, despite the fact that Jason wasn't looking at you.
"Okay, I thought you two were 'not-besties' then." He mocked your air quotes, huh, maybe he was paying attention.
"What're you here for anyway?" You asked.
Jason opened the door, waving the dust away with his hand. "He never mentioned that you were this talkative." He muttered under his breath.
"Must've not mentioned me a lot then." You followed behind him, scrunching your nose as the musty scent pervaded your nose
Jason snorted as if you told a funny joke, "Mm, never." His tone was blatantly sarcastic.
You placed your hand on your chest in mock hurt, "You could at least soften the blow."
He gave you an odd look. "You two are so dramatic."
"We share a middle name."
He smirked, but it quickly vanished.
"You know I'm surprised you're here. You were the only one I hadn't been introduced to." You followed him into the room, looking into one of the old boxes, finding a collection of old medical textbooks.
"That's nice," Jason replied distractedly.
"You know, this conversation feels really one-sided." You gestured between you two.
Jason gave you an exaggeratedly dumbfounded expression, "What could've possibly given you that impression?"
You walked closer behind him, trying to see what he was looking for. He used his body to cover whatever was in front of him. "The lack of any thoughtful responses, probably, and the pointed glares."
He exhaled, the action almost making him seem amused. "You're funnier than I expected."
You raised an eyebrow, "Wow, okay… so you didn't expect me to be funny?"
"Not really," he reaches into one box, "hold this real quick." He placed a relatively large box in your hands. You instinctively held your hands out, not wanting the box to fall onto the ground.
"I'll try not to take offense to that." You shifted the box in your arms.
"Thought you'd be about as funny as he is." Jason didn't spare you a glance as he continued searching.
"He can be funny." You tried defending Dick. Jason fully stopped, turning toward you, his jacket covered in a light layer of dust, eyebrow raised.
"... On occasion." You relented, looking off to the side.
Jason snorted, going back to the box.
You sat there in silence for a moment longer, tapping your finger against the box as Jason searched the various boxes in the room.
"Y'know, something tells me whatever you're looking for isn't here." You looked over the large box, seeing Jason standing over six emptied boxes, various trinkets scattered around. Ranging from small knives to Batarangs. You hadn't been in this room before, and you aren't too surprised to see it's seemingly dedicated to weapons.
Jason gave a long exhale, "Wow, with those observational skills, you might be putting Batman out of business."
You smiled, "Hm, well, I was looking for a promotion. Think I'd be good?"
Jason turned towards you, the corners of his lips twitching, "Oh yeah, perfect."
"Is that sarcasm I sense, Jason Todd?" You opened your mouth in mock surprise, shaking your head in disapproval. You're never going to let go of the fact that he decided that the best way to address you was your full name.
Jason shook his head gravely, "From me? Never," he addressed you by your full name.
You exhaled in relief, "Good, I was worried that you weren't taking me seriously."
Jason walked over to you, holding his hands out for the box, and you transferred it to his hands. Both of your hands lingered on the dusted cardboard. "Of course, I am. I look forward to seeing you replace Batman."
You grinned, looking into his eyes. They look to be mostly blue, but they have a touch of green in them that seems almost unnatural. The colors blend together nicely, though, almost creating a teal. "Thanks for the support in my endeavor."
Jason rolled his eyes, but you could tell he found the situation amusing, "Yeah, don't mention it."
"Who left–"
Both you and Jason jolt, you more than Jason. You let go of the box in shock, leaving Jason to casually hold up the box as if it weighed nothing.
"You?" Duke raised an eyebrow at Jason.
"Me." Jason deadpanned, walking past Duke and heading back to his bike.
"Since when were you two pals?" Duke asked, gesturing between the two of you.
"We aren't," Jason said. At the same time, you said, "About five minutes ago."
"Huh," Duke blinked, before shrugging. "You planning on staying?" He asked Jason.
"Nope." Jason placed the box down on a desk near his bike, grabbed his helmet, and put it on.
"Oh." Duke looked between the two of you. Shrugging, you grabbed the box before walking over to Jason's bike.
"How do you plan on driving with an open box?" You flicked one of the flaps of the box.
Jason held his hands out expectantly, and you placed it into his hands (not dropping it this time). "Don't worry about it."
"That's reassuring." You nodded.
He didn't respond, but you liked to imagine he at least found some amusement in the comment. He revved his bike before driving off.
"Huh, haven't seen him in a while." Duke walked up next to you, placing his hands on his hips.
"Haven't seen him, period." You crossed your arms.
"Hm," he hummed, "anyway, what was it you needed? Babs sent me a very vague, kindly worded message earlier today." He nudged you with his elbow.
"Lovely," you smiled before noticing a glint of metal from the corner of your eyes. You walked over it, picking up a wrench and… you aren't sure what the second item is, some gadget, definitely the fancy Batman kind. You looked up to where Jason left. The items were left suspiciously close to where he took off. They probably fell out of the box the second he took off.
You huffed, heading back towards the screen. Duke was waiting, tapping his finger on the desk, raising an eyebrow.
You told Jason the box was open.
-
"Don't punch with your thumbs underneath your fingers." Steph corrects, grabbing your thumbs as she fixes them to the outside of your fist. "You'll break them like that, and trust me when I say that isn't fun."
You nod, "Noted." You get into position, waiting for her to put the punching mitts again before raising your hands again. Ever since Babs introduced you to the rest of the Waynes (and Wayne adjacents), you had become determined to learn at least basic self-defense. You may not be doing backflips off of buildings anytime soon, but you might as well learn from the best since you are best friends with superheroes.
"That was good! Make sure you keep your feet light, fights often aren't planted in one spot. You're going to be moving, you want to make sure you are ready to move if you need to." Steph nods encouragingly.
Cass, at her left, moves forward to your form, "Tense." She taps your shoulder lightly, making you instinctively relax. Once you relax, she nods, moving back out of the way.
Punching the mitts again, you huff out as Steph attempts to juke you out. You parry her jab, using your non-dominant arm to push it away from your body, and use your other arm to strike her. She jolts at the punch, but smiles soon after. "That was good!" She puts the mitts down, "Let's take a break." You exhale, breathing heavily, nodding.
Sitting on the ground, you catch the water bottle that Steph throws at you. "So, what made you decide to start training?" Steph asks, grabbing her own bottle and chugging the water.
"I figured that, living in Gotham, I should probably learn some self-defense. Who better than you two to teach me?" You smiled at them, wiping sweat off your forehead.
Steph smirks, "Well, it's an honor to teach you." She plops down next to you, Cass following suit. "You know," she tapped her knees, "I'm surprised Dick never taught you anything."
You smiled, "He never wanted me involved in any 'Batman stuff.'" You stuck your fingers up, mocking the Batman ears.
Cass chuckles softly as Steph opens her mouth incredulously. "Really?" She took another sip of water. "Imagine how he would react seeing us teach you then."
You snort, "I don't think he knows I'm even here."
Cass tilts her head, "You contact him?" She asks.
You shake your head, "He's always busy. Wouldn't wanna bother him."
Cass and Steph share a look, "Does he even know you're back?" Steph asks slowly, as if the question would be offensive.
You shrug, "I don't know, maybe?" You don't really want to know the answer. At this point, you know you're avoiding him. It'd be strange seeing your old crush after so many years.
Steph purses her lips, "Do you want to contact him?"
You turn to face her, looking between her and Cass. "I guess? I just… I don't know, he must be busy in Blüdhaven. I figured he'd visit when he has the time."
Steph looks at you, giving you the exact same look Tim gave you weeks ago.
"I know that look," you smile humorlessly.
Steph blinks, looking towards Cass, who smiles, "What look?"
"Tim gave me the same look a couple of weeks ago." You take a sip of water. "I'm not that pitiful."
Cass frowns, Steph puts her water bottle down, "It's more understanding than pity."
You hummed, glancing out of the corner of your eye to see them both looking expectantly. "You can ask, you don't have to walk on eggshells with me about him."
Steph laughs, but quickly stops, taking a nervous sip of water. "Did you ever date him?"
You exhale amused, turning to face her and Cass, "You know you're the second person to ask me that this month."
"To be fair, he's pretty vague on what exactly your 'relationship' was." Steph scratches her neck.
You chuckle, "No. We never dated." You tap your foot on the ground slowly.
"But you liked him?" Cass asked, tilting her head towards you.
You looked up at her and smiled sadly, "Once."
You hear clothing rustling distantly, "What happened?" Cass asks.
You shrug, "Different lives. I knew he never liked me back."
Steph scoots closer to you, her eyes flickering off somewhere for a brief moment. "Did you ever tell him?"
You shake your head, "Nope." You pop the 'p'.
"Do you want to tell him?" She persists.
You choke on your water, "Oh, hell no." You wipe your mouth. "It was a long time ago. I moved on years ago."
Steph smiled forlornly, "So you're never gonna tell him?" Cass looked off at something in the distance.
"Taking it to the grave." You exhale, amused, bringing the water bottle back to your lips.
–
Tim was in his room, laptop in bed, minding his own business. While a laptop may not be the most advanced piece of technology at his disposal, it did the job. He was scrolling through some recent news about the Riddler getting caught, again, when his door was thrown open.
"You." Dick points at Tim, accusingly.
Tim looks up from the screen on his lap, "Hello? When..." He looks down at Dick's outfit, still in outside clothes, "Did you just get here?"
"You knew." Dick walks over to the foot of his bed, glaring at him.
Tim pushes his laptop lid slightly down, leaving it ajar. "You're… going to have to be a lot more specific." He looks up at Dick.
Dick says your name.
"Oh," Tim blinks, "that."
"Yeah," Dick huffs, "that."
Tim fully closes his laptop, setting it aside. "Okay, in my defense, I thought you two had already dated in the past."
Dick sputters, sitting at the edge of Tim's bed, leaning down, eyes downcast at the polished wooden floor. "Well, we haven't."
Tim nods, "Yeah, kinda got that impression." He pushes the blankets off of him, moving to sit next to Dick. "If it makes you feel better, she moved on."
Dick snaps his gaze upward to Tim. "She did..?" He sits up straight, "When?"
Tim shrugs, "I don't know. She just told me that she moved on."
Dick deflates, "She never told me…"
"I can tell," Tim nods. Dick sends him a sharp glare, but then leans over, his elbows resting on his knees, to rub his temples. "It's not your fault. You couldn't have known." Tim attempts to smile at his older brother. "Look on the bright side, she doesn't like you like that anymore. Consider the friendship preserved."
Somehow, that makes Dick look even more distraught.
"How'd I miss it though? There must've been signs." Dick clasps his hands together on his lap.
Tim nods, "Probably," he puts a hand on Dick's shoulder, "but it's past now. She's cool with just being friends now." He attempts to comfort Dick.
Dick looks down at his hands, "Did she tell you that?"
"Well, no, but it's been– what– years since you two last talked in person? She's probably cool with just being friends, seeing as she said she moved on, kinda what 'moving on' is." Tim looks down at Dick, hunched over. "How'd you find out about it anyway?"
"Overheard her, Steph, and Cass talking," Dick answers, strangely apathetic.
"Eavesdropping?" Tim shakes his head disapprovingly, knowing he'd do the exact same thing if he was in Dick's place.
"I didn't even know she was back. She didn't tell me." Dick looks up at Tim. Seeing you down there had been a mixture of shock and excitement, quickly followed by a sharp sting of pain. When did you meet Steph and Cass? When did you meet everyone? Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you text him? Call him?
He didn't mean to eavesdrop, but you answered those questions for him.
Steph had asked if you wanted to contact him. Dick was going to reveal himself, but he waited, for he wanted to hear your response.
You said he was "busy," and that you "didn't want to bother him." Didn't you know that if you had just told him you were there, he would've come back to the Manor within the hour? He knew that contact had been seldom, but he still considered you one of his closest friends. You were there during some of his earlier days as Robin. The first person besides Bruce who knew, regardless of whether it was an accident or not.
After hearing that, he told himself that he would pretend that he hadn't heard the conversation when he revealed himself. However, he never got that far.
Cass asked one question, and somehow that entire question has him rethinking everything he thought he understood:
"But you liked him?"
At first, he found the question absurd; he would've known. You would've said something.
"Once."
Once. Possibly the most conflicting answer you could've given. Once, implies not anymore. Once implies something had changed. Once implies that you no longer liked him like that.
After all, didn't you move on?
How did you move on before he ever got to know?
What would he have done if you told him? He never liked you like that, but he would've still respected you as a friend. Nothing would've changed. He could've still talked to you about being Robin. He still could've had you make up silly excuses for him to skip school with. He still would've pulled you out to your guys' spot at the library to spend time together. Even if he never liked you like that, he wouldn't have treated you any differently.
He fidgets with his hands, looking up at the wall in front of him, almost staring through it.
