Bruce Wayne is a lot of things. A billionaire, a philanthropist, one of the world’s smartest men, and a notorious playboy.
But he is also your boss… who you happen to sleep with from time to time.
You started working for Wayne Enterprises a few years ago, and took the position to be his executive assistant. As his assistant, you were there to schedule meetings, correspondence, and perform other administrative tasks. Bruce could count himself lucky to have you as his assistant because not only are you very professional and smart, but your main focus is also to help the company grow. But he could also count himself lucky because a beautiful, and smart woman like you was also sleeping with him behind closed doors.
And nobody fucks better than Bruce Wayne. He sure knows how to please a woman.
It was late at night, and everyone already went home after a long day at work.
Well, everyone except Bruce and you.
You were in his office, body half laying on his desk, your iPad still in your hands, and your skirt laying somewhere in this room.
“Go on sweetheart. Don’t let me stop you from doing your job.” Bruce said teasingly as his fingers slid beneath the damp fabric of your panties, and traced circles against your pulsing clit.
You held your head up and take a sharp breath before you start telling him about the meetings he has for next week.
“You have a meeting with Kord Industries on Tuesday-” you let out a sharp breath as you felt one finger slide inside your pussy. “Mhhhm, at two pm.”
The feeling of his fingers curling inward made you clench your thighs together slightly.
“Good. And why are they coming?” Bruce asked you mockingly.
“Just to get an update- fuck- on how the advanced research is going.”
You were trying your absolute best at staying concentrated but it was so hard. All you can think about is how good his fingers moved in a steady rhythm inside you. You shuddered under the touch as he swiped back and forth inside your pussy.
“Any other meetings I should know about?”
“Yes. A meeting with Ferris Aircraft is scheduled on-” you stopped talking as you felt Bruce slide in another finger, increasing the pressure as he flicked against the center of your pussy. “Fuck! Mr.Wayne."
Bruce lets out a small laugh, deeply amused with how you’re on the verge of falling apart with just his fingers. He’s not even fucking you properly, and you already feel overstimulated.
“Don’t stop talking sweetheart, tell me when the meeting is.” oh this cocky bastard…
“Mhmmm- it’s on friday. Five pm.”
“Yeah? Isn’t the gala on Friday at six?”
“No, it’s on saturday.”
“Perfect.”
Your walls were sucking in his thick fingers completely, and you felt how your legs were about to give up on you. You were helpless to the avalanche of your own needs, and you felt a coil of heat tightening deep in your belly.
“Bru- Mr.Wayne, fuck, I’m about to cum.” you cry out as the need to cum grows stronger with each time his fingers curl inside you.
“Stop calling me Mr.Wayne, and I’ll let you cum.” he replies calmly.
“Bruce, please.” you start begging at this point.
“Good girl, now make a mess all over my fingers, yeah?”
You let go completely, tumbling over the edge as you create a mess all over his fingers. A breathless gasp tore from your lips as your hips bucked into his fingers.
“You’re so beautiful like this.” you hear him whisper, and felt his lips leave a small kiss against your shoulder. The next thing you hear is the sound of his belt unbuckling. His pants fell down to the floor, quickly followed by his boxers.
His bricked cock that was shifting uncomfortably in his pants was now free. A gasp leaves your mouth as you felt his cock rubbing against your clit. His free hand braced against your hip, ready to push himself inside your wet pussy.
“Hold still princess.” he uttered before pushed his veiny cock inside your wet pussy.
You closed your eyes at the feeling of your walls trying to adjust to his size. Once he pushed his whole length inside your tight cunt, he started to move. The pace was careful, slow enough to draw out the tension before picking up the speed.
“You wanna hold the presentation for the–hmph- the Ferris Aircraft meeting?”
“Yes! Fuck yes, Mr.Wayne!” a low sound rumbled as he fucked you more urgent and desperately.
A moan left your lips as you felt a slap against your ass, the stinging pain immediately turning into pleasure. “What’s my name, mh?”
“Bruce, your name is Bruce Wayne.” you cried out.
A ragged breathing escaped Bruce’s mouth and the overwhelming physical heat consumed the both of you. Your back arched inward, and sharp gasps were punctuated the intensity of how his cock felt thursting deep inside you.
The iPad fell from your hands, and laid abandoned on his desk as you held onto the edge of his massive desk. His fingers trailed down your spine, raising a sudden rush of goosebumps.
Your overheated body shaked as Bruce kept thrusting deep and rough inside you. The feeling was so intoxicating, and so hazy… you’re sure that nobody could fuck you better than your boss.
“You’re doing such a good job, sweetheart.” you heard him say behind you, followed by a quiet moan. “Let me hear you, yeah? Struggle for me.”
“Bruceeee.” you whine out.
A loud groan escaped from Bruce as he felt you clenching around him, making it a little harder to push inside you.
“Such a mess for me.”
His pace quickened, each thrust driving you closer to your second orgasm. “Please, I need to cum.”
“Already?” Bruce shook his head. “I’ll let you cum -hmph- if you put another meeting for Thursday.”
“I will!”
“That’s my good girl. Now cum all over me.”
The pressure peaked, snapping the last thread of your restraint. Your body convulsed around him, earning a ragged groan from his throat. Bruce drove into you with a final thrust, and spilled his release into your pussy.
“Who do you have a meeting with on Thursday?” you ask him with curiosity in your voice. You can’t think of someone who is supposed to have a meeting with him.
Bruce sits down on his chair, pulling you by your waist, making you sit on his lap. The mixed fluid was leaking out of your pussy, and pooling on his thigh.
You immediately let your head rest against his chest, and you could hear how his heat was racing.
BatBurger isn’t the fanciest place, but it’s definitely the dirtiest. At least, since the previous owner was shot and it was taken over by new management.
“Ew, Roy. There’s literally a dead rat behind the counter. It’s staring at me.”
“You’re fine, sweetheart. A little rat poison won’t kill ya.” Roy mumbles between bites of his fries.
Unfortunately, being raised by Bruce Wayne means your standards for health and safety concerns are much higher than the average person. Fortunately, that’s kept you from catching any food borne illness from, hmm, say, a dead rat being in your food.
“Yuck.” You poke at the burger on your plate.
“If you’re not going to eat it, I will.”
Sighing dramatically, you grip his hand tightly in your own. “And here I thought I’d lose you to vigilantism, but it’ll actually be rat droppings. Or dysentery. Or the plague.”
“Do you want to get out of here?”
“Yes, please, please, please, please, please. Baby, I will make it worth your while, just get me out of here.” You plead, glancing back at the rat. “Immediately.”
“Come on.” He pretends to look put out as he wraps an arm around you, ditching your food at the table. “Pizza?”
“Sure.” You grin, leaning into his side.
He leans down to press a kiss against your lips but you dodge. “Hey!” He mumbles, looking downright outraged.
“I am not kissing you until you wash your mouth out.” He pouts. “I’m not joking, Roy Harper.”
He grimaces but nods anyways, at least he can still hold your hand.
The pizza is ordered and on its way by the time you and Roy get back to your shared apartment, settling down onto the couch while you wait.
“So…can I please kiss you now, your royal highness?”
“Not with that attitude.” You snip, looking away.
He flops down, laying all his weight on top of you. “I’m so sorry, please let me kiss you, love of my life, pumpkin pie, cherry pie, sweetie pie, pi formula—”
You kiss him quickly and he grins against your lips.
You pull away much too soon for his liking, but at least his plan worked.
“Really? Annoy me into kissing you?”
“Don’t hate the player.”
“Ugh, gross.”
“You love me.” He mumbles, kissing you again.
“I do.”
The doorbell rings before he can insist you actually say the words, making him stand with a sigh.
“I will miss you greatly.”
“The door is literally five feet away.”
“Too far.”
“If you don’t hurry, I’m going to answer it.”
“And risk the pizza delivery guy falling in love with you? Absolutely not.” He shakes his head dramatically, pulling open the door. “Ew, actually, that’s not a problem.”
You peek your head up over the couch, only to come face to face with your oldest brother. There’s three boxes of pizza perched in his left hand as he grins. He’s even wearing the uniform. How he got it? You have no clue.
He pushes past your boyfriend, ignoring his indignant shouts as he hops over the back of the couch. “I figured I’d bring you guys pizza, see what you’re up to.”
He looks around the room, settling into the middle cushion before grabbing the remote. “Movie?”
“We’re actually in the middle of a date.” You say slowly, eyes narrowing at Dick.
“Oh, I don’t mind.” He shakes his head with an easy grin as he props his feet up on the coffee table, really making himself at home.
You share a glance with Roy.
It’s gonna be a long night.
—
“Do you have a reservation?” The man behind the desk sends a disgruntled look at Roy, or at least at his attire.
You nod slowly, “Yes. It should be under Wayne.” Your nose crinkles as you frown at the immediate change in the man’s posture.
Of course.
Roy was wearing a suit too! Just because it’s not Tom Ford or Couture, doesn’t mean he should be looked at like that.
The host immediately straightens, eyes widening as he gestures towards the back. “Right this way, Miss.”
Wrapping your arm around Roy’s, you lead him down the aisle. He unravels himself from you at the table so he can pull out your chair, pressing a quick kiss against your neck as he pushes your chair in.
A flush of heat runs through you at the action but he just winks as he settles into the seat across from you.
Glancing across the table, he must decide you’re too far as he scoots his chair closer to you.
Biting back a laugh at the waiters shocked expression, you order a soda for the two of you and dismiss the man.
Roy shoots you a grateful look after you insist that you do not want any champagne or wine or anything of the sort, despite the waiters insistences.
“Thanks.” He mumbles, flipping through the menu. His eyebrows pinch together, “There’s not even any prices on here.”
“They’re secret prices.”
“What?”
“It’s a secret.” You shrug, reaching over to pat his hand. “And you don’t have to worry about the prices.”
His grimace makes you snicker, pulling your hand away before he catches it, interlocking your fingers with his.
In an attempt to rid your mind of the dead rat from the previous date night, Roy suggested a new Italian place downtown.
He’d intended to pay, but there’s no way you’d let him. Not when you have access to Bruce Wayne’s bank account.
Or your trust fund.
But that didn’t mean Roy was any happier about you paying for a date he asked you to go on.
“I just think—” His words are cut off as a new chair is dragged to your table.
You glance up at the noise, an annoyed pinch in your brow before you see who it is.
“What are you doing here, Tim?” Your brother grins widely as he sits, immediately slumping into his seat at your table.
“Same as you. I’m having dinner with Roy.”
“No, you’re not.” You grimace, sipping from your water.
“Hey, man.” Your brother ignores you in favor of smacking Roy’s shoulder. “How’s it going?”
“It was going fine.” He mutters, sharing a glance with you. “We’re kind of having dinner here.”
“Me too!” Tim grins, snatching your menu from the table. His eyes scan the pages as he continues, “What are you guys getting? I’ll get the same. Should we order an appetizer for the table?” He glances at you, “You are paying, right?”
—
You hear the window slide open as you’re finishing the final touches of your makeup.
“Roy, is that you?”
“No,” a familiar voice scoffs, “and what’s Roy doing at your apartment?”
You meet Jason’s gaze in the bathroom mirror before rolling your eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes.”
“Don’t lecture me about my boyfriend.”
“He was my friend first.”
“He literally wasn’t.” You argue before turning back towards the mirror to check your lipgloss.
“Whatever. Just don’t—”
A sneeze from behind him cuts him off, and your attention is suddenly drawn to the much shorter boy in the apartment.
“Damian?”
He scowls, arms crossed and nose red as he huffs. “I don’t need to be here. I’m just fine to patrol.”
His voice comes out nasally and you have to stop yourself from cooing at the sound.
“Yes, you do have to stay.” Jason huffs. “He’s sick. And I need you to watch him.”
Your face darkens as you turn back towards the older man. “It’s your turn to babysit.”
“I don’t need a babysitter!” Damian scowls but you both ignore him.
“I have to cover his patrol, which takes precedence over your little date.” Jason taunts, already backing his way out of the doorway.
You stomp after him, arguing profusely but he’s already out the window before you make it into the hallway.
Figures.
You turn to Damian with a soft smile, breathing returning to normal now that Jason has left.
“I’m going to change, if we’ll be here all night. Why don’t you find Roy and pick a movie?”
—
Halfway through the movie, Damian passed out on the couch.
“He must be really sick.” You murmur, worry filling your voice as you press a hand against his forehead.
He definitely has a fever.
“Can you carry him to the bed? I’ll get a washcloth.”
“Carry him?” Roy hisses, jumping away from you at the idea.
You roll your eyes, already standing. “Don’t be such a baby.”
“He’ll kill me if he wakes up!”
“Then you should be quiet.” You whisper back, sneaking off to the bathroom as Roy does what you said.
Once Damian is all settled in bed, the fan blowing just the way he likes, damp washcloth resting on his forehead, and a glass of water on the nightstand, you sneak back towards the living room with a sigh.
“I can’t believe you made me do that.” Roy groans, arm thrown dramatically across his face as he lays on the couch.
You laugh softly, settling onto his waist. “Oh, honey.” You coo, running a finger along his jaw. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
He sits up immediately, arms slinging around your waist as he pulls you closer. “Oh, yeah?” His voice drops.
You grin, pressing your lips against his.
The window opens again, but neither of you hear it, too preoccupied with eachother.
“Ew, gross!”
You jump off Roy’s lap, almost falling to the floor, but he throws an arm out to catch you.
“Do you have any bleach? I need to clean my eyes.” He continues, clutching his face like he can push the vision from his mind.
You groan, dropping back beside your boyfriend as Jason stomps towards you both.
“Move over.” He glower.
Roy raises an eyebrow but does as he says.
Your brother settles between the two of you on the couch, spreading his legs as much as possible to widen the distance between the two of you.
You blink at him, “What are you doing here?”
“Finished patrol.” A pause. “I don’t want to watch this.” He snatches the remote.
“Okay, but why don’t you just go back to your place?”
“Yeah, right!” He scoffs, “I had to travel all the way over here, without dinner, no less, just to see you two making out.” He gags as he says it, disgust filling his face as he points at your boyfriend. “And now, it’s my brotherly duty to make sure this guy keeps his hands to himself.”
—
“Are you sure nobody will catch us?” Roy whispers, lips pressing kisses along your jaw as you giggle into his neck.
“I’m sure.” You breathe out, pulling him closer with a teasing grin. “Why? You’re not scared, are you?”
“Of Batman?” He shudders, “Yes, I am scared of Batman.”
He ignores your laughter to pull away, shooting a nervous glance down the hallway.
“I’m sure. They’re all out patrollling, it’s just us here.”
“Not just you, miss.” A familiar British voice rings out from the door beside you, making you yelp as the two of you jump apart.
Now at a respectable distance from each other, Alfred nods. “Carry on then, I’ll just be in the kitchen.”
You breathe heavily, clutching your chest as he wanders down the hallway before disappearing into another room.
Roy looks at you before hissing, “You said nobody was home!”
“I forgot! And you cannot be freaking out about Alfred catching us.” You cross your arms, eyebrows pinching as he gestures wildly.
“That’s worse than Batman! He actually kills people!”
“Don’t talk about sweet Alfred like that!” You tsk, “He made you cookies earlier.”
“You said you made those!”
“I lied!”
—
Advertisements were still playing on the screen when you and Roy found your seats.
The lights were dimmed and the air smelled like artificial butter from the popcorn.
Perfect.
He clutches your hand, keeping your arms together on the armrest.
You turn to look at him as he snatches a handful of popcorn. The lights from the screen flash across his face, momentarily gifting you glimpses of the man you love.
He turns to meet your gaze, smiling softly. It’s been ages since you’ve gotten to be together, just the two of you. It seems like every time you’re alone now, one of your siblings finds a way to interrupt.
The door to the theater opens again, and a crowd of three hustles in. You ignore them, instead pressing a quick kiss to Roy’s lips as he smiles at you.
He follows your lips after deciding you’d pulled away too soon, grabbing your neck to kiss you properly.
“Aww, you guys are so cute.” A sickeningly sweet, yet familiar, voice coos.
“Ugh.”
The two voices overlap with a snicker from their third counterpart.
You pull away with a groan, already recognizing them. Steph, Cass, and Duke all stand in front of you, each with varying degrees of excitement written on their faces.
“Hey, guys.” You don’t look away from Roy, even as you speak. He grimaces.
“Hi.” Cass grins, “You don’t mind if we sit here, do you?”
You stare blankly at your sister. She stares back.
“Fine.”
Out of all your siblings, she’s definitely the least intrusive. Nothing to—
“Move.” She turns her stare to your boyfriend.
Your jaw goes slack as you grip his hand tighter. “You can’t tell him what to do!”
She shrugs but Steph cuts in before she can say anything else. “Come on, the movies about to start. Plus, she’s right. Move it, Harper.”
“He’s fine where he is.” You glare, swatting her hand away as she attempts to push him.
“Really, I want to sit here.” Roy insists, biting back a groan as someone behind you yells about being quiet in the theater. Ironic.
“That’s the problem!” Steph hisses. Duke nods in agreement.
“Yeah, but with your track record, man, you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”
“Yes, I can!”
“Can’t.”
“Can.”
“Can’t.”
Cass takes his momentary distraction to pull him from his seat before settling down next to you. She offers her box of candy towards you without a word.
You send an apologetic glance towards your boyfriend, who is now stuck sitting beside Stephanie, as you accept the candy.
Throughout the movie, Roy tries to catch your eyes, pouting every time he manages to. You just shake your head at him with a smile.
That makes him soften slightly. Just a bit.
Every time there’s a jumpscare, Duke begins to glow faintly on your other side, resulting in multiple containers of popcorn being thrown at you alongside shouts of not being on your phone during a movie!
So overall, it was a pretty typical date for the two of you.
Roy catches your hand as soon at the movie is over, nearly lunging at you from his seat as he pulls you outside. “I’m so sorry to say this, babe, but this was not worth convincing Ollie to babysit for.”
“No, no, I completely agree.”
—
“It’s just milkshakes, babe. We’ll be here for like five minutes.” Sighing, you slip the bag from your shoulder, hanging it on your chair.
When you suggested milkshakes after leaving the movie theater, you figured you were in the clear. The date has already been interrupted once, there’s no way it’ll be interrupted again.
“That’s what they want you to think.” He mumbles, ignoring your words in favor of continuing to scan his periphery. “But they’re everywhere.”
After several interrupted dates in a row, Roy has developed a complex of some sorts, constantly on the lookout for your siblings.
Unfortunately, you hadn’t accounted for your father.
“Harper.” He gravels, a pointed look sent in your boyfriend’s direction before his gaze softens on you. “Sweetheart. I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
He slides into the booth across from you, since Roy is sitting beside you.
You sigh loudly, “That’s hard to believe.”
He feigns offense, “You mean, you think I came here just to crash your hangout?”
“Date, dad. It’s a date.”
“Sorry. You think I came here just to crash your play date?”
You stare at him. He blinks.
“Okay, that’s it. Dad, I need you to listen very closely so you can tell the others.” You breathe sharply, “If any of you interrupt one of our dates again, we’re eloping.”
“Babe—” Roy starts at the same time your father speaks.
“Honey—”
“No!” You wave your hands frantically, ignoring the loos from the other patrons in the diner. “We will be gone and you won’t find us. Do you understand?”
Bruce swallows thickly before nodding. “Is that all?”
You sit back down with a huff, accepting Roy’s arm around your shoulder. He rubs your arm soothingly as you grumble. “Yes.”
“Okay.” He considers his words, glancing between you and Roy and then back to you again before frowning. “But you wouldn’t actually elope, right?”
it's perfectly fine to blow some steam with the so-called 'detective' you hate. it's also perfectly fine to turn around and talk shit about him to your best friend.
— wc 4.3k, suggestive content, menaces/bffs to luvs, making out, identity silliness, 2-timing but also not really, banter, fluff and cuteness
— title from bad habit by steve lacy, im crazy for the jimenez/rpat bat but u can imagine him as any version tbh!!
BATMAN WOULD BE YOUR FAVORITE CRIME, apart from the fact that you, in no way, are a criminal.
Every day before you slip that Gazette badge into your pocket, you tell yourself that he's just a guy in a suit. A six-two, totally ripped, and infuriatingly genius guy who has a penchant for out-scooping you.
Mysterious sounds in the sewers? The Bat's already got that solved, and spoiler alert—it's Killer Croc, again.
Local gang war? Oh, don't worry about it. There won't be much reporting needed, because the leaders have been strung up above Main Street with Bat-rope.
Journalists always have some paranoid, skeptical chip in their shoulders. You're worried that this could be some sort of telepathic link or something. Why else would Batman be haunting your headlines like he does every pitch-black alleyway in this damned city?
So, naturally, you find ways to take out your frustration.
"God, how many compartments do you need?" you grit, fingers scrabbling for the right seam in his suit. You aren't a stranger to wrestling his cowl off, but it's hard in complete darkness, and you've almost cut yourself on a hidden blade more than once.
But that's how it always is with Batman. Darkness, danger, a knife's edge between will he, won't he. Schrodinger's Bat, if you will.
The alley you're crammed in isn't really one. It's a side-street, tucked between a condo and a rowhouse. Clean and quiet, in a way that would be surprising if you weren't in the nicer part of the city that lines the financial district.
You suppose the night is why he even lets you touch him at all. The myth turned man, right at your fingertips. He sows a line of kisses from the right corner of your mouth to your ear, squirming out of your grip on purpose because last time, he admitted to finding you cute when you were frustrated.
You had half the mind to gag, and the other half you buried deep into the meat of your brain, where it will rot and follow you forever. The thought comes back now, that maybe he's not that bad of a bad guy.
(It’s not like you hate him. It’s just…you wish he’d leave some of the fun for you—after all, there’s nothing exhilarating in simple reporting. You want excitement, the thrill of the chase.)
At least he knows how to push your buttons.
"Not that hard," he mumbles, lips mouthing at the space behind your earlobe. He's somewhere between chapped and baby-soft, like he sometimes peels the skin off his mouth with his teeth as a nervous habit.
"It is," you respond, swallowing a sound when he bites. Just lightly, not hard enough to bloom, but enough to remind you.
It's this cat-and-mouse game you play. The PD gets the whole story before the press can jump because of Batman. Therefore, you're justified in your duty as a journalist—a pillar of democracy—to try unmasking him, no?
The mission may have run awry, but you're here, and you're close.
Finally, you find the small flap where his mask detaches from his cape. He helps you with it, considerate for once, fingers joining yours in sliding under the cowl and wrestling it off.
You still can't see him, but you can feel him. The day-old stubble clinging to his jaw. How his nose has that slightly crooked angle, one you couldn't feel if he had his mask on. The way his jaw works, the way his hair is shorter at the nape and soft at the crown.
You wonder what color his eyes are, if they sparkle in the light.
He's never taken his suit all the way off with you. How many scars does he have? Does the suit bulk him up? Is he really that tall without boots?
And then, quieter in your head...does he have cold feet? You know someone who does, and he always presses them to your warmer thighs.
You grimace. It's one thing to have a covert, inappropriate relationship with the most wanted man in Gotham, but it's another thing entirely to think about your best friend while participating in said relationship.
"What are you doing." Not a question, but not a demand either. His voice echoes in the narrow side-street.
"Feeling your face?"
"That defeats the purpose of being a mystery," he says, low. Then you hear the rasp of his glove sliding off, and the palm of his hand meets your hip, burning as he nudges the hem of your cardigan.
(You're again reminded of him. Probably dead in that stupidly large bed in his mansion, snuggling silk sheets and the whole works, completely unaware of what you're doing. He'd chastise you if he found out.)
Humming, your fingers tangle in his hair. "I have a mystery for you: where's Karate Kid?"
"Taking a break."
"Can you respond in more than ten words?"
"Depends on if we're off the record."
You hate him. Still, you don't stop him from kissing you again, eyelashes fluttering on the apple of your cheek as he moves back down to your jaw.
A soft sigh burns through you when Batman's bare fingers find the sliver of skin beneath the hem of your rucked-up shirt, then dip into your waistband—myth and man, all at once.
Face numb with heat, you just hope no one can hear the night’s silence shattering with your quiet whine of want.
—
"Thanks, Alfred."
You know the tight grin you flash looks more like a grimace, but you have to make do with your thighs that scream with every sore step.
“He’ll be in his room,” Alfred says, and every muscle in his face stays perfectly still as he folds your jacket over his forearm, giving no indication that he’s picked up on your stiffness.
But knowing the butler, he probably has—he just doesn’t feel the need to comment.
The halls, however grand and spacious as they are, have never made you feel small. Though your steps echo as you drag yourself up the darkly lacquered stairs, and the grim paintings on the walls regard you with intimidating glares, the Wayne residence has always felt like a second home.
It’s awfully drafty, though. You know Bruce runs hot (save for his freakishly frigid feet), but the breeze drifting along the ornate walls is making concern for that poor kid itch at your nape.
You turn right, go straight until the floorboards make a particularly loud creak, then take a left. It’s a path you could follow by feeling alone, by counting the precise seconds until you can see your best friend again.
You knock on the bedroom door with firm knuckles and resolve.
“What.” The word comes out as a low, gravelly rasp, devoid of inflection.
You scoff, wry. “Did Alfred not bring you coffee?”
The latch twists with a snick, and the heavy, darkly lacquered door parts from the frame to reveal a scruffy jaw and broad ink-strokes of messy hair falling over an angled brow.
Bruce glares at you, but there’s no trace of annoyance in those clear blue eyes. Only tiredness; slight relief softens the heavy bags beneath his enviously thick bottom lashes.
“Woah,” you blurt, instinctively taking a step toward him. “Sheepless night?”
He just makes this…little rough, careless sound in the back of his throat, letting you in as he sneaks one hand beneath his black silk shirt to scratch his stomach. “Not punny.”
Ignoring the insult, you pad into his room. It hasn’t changed since the last time you’ve been here—which was last week, as always.
His absurdly massive bed sits in the middle, more rumpled than usual. It’s a shame that he rarely sleeps here anymore, and you almost feel bad that he prefers to spend his nights in his office (or wherever he wants you to believe).
Like second nature, you choose the silky cushions of the chaise lounge beside the bed to unceremoniously stretch out across. You won’t disturb that sacred mattress with your outside clothes.
The curtains are drawn tight, forming a thick armor of velvet over the windows, but Gotham’s pale sunlight still wriggles into the room from above the curtain bar.
The thousand-threaded sheets seem to shimmer in the dim light, rippling as Bruce collapses onto the bed with a sleepy groan.
“I take it we’re having brunch at home then,” you say, arranging your limbs so that you’re starfished on the lounge. “Shame…Dick seemed like he was looking forward to soufflé pancakes.”
“Mhm,” he rumbles, dragging a pillow into his chest. Nuzzles into it, and something in your chest loosens like the first bloom of spring.
Lately, you've noticed that his typically rigid composure has been loosening. Though the ghosts of his parents' deaths still hang over his exhausted head, he's warmed up in small increments—like now, choosing to lean into his sleepiness rather than pushing past the need to maintain his image.
But perhaps that's because you've known him for too long. You can see through most of his farces, especially the one he insists on displaying to the wider public.
You almost scoff to yourself. Playboy billionaire. Who's going to tell the paparazzi that he broke into a cold sweat when you joked about setting him up on a blind date?
He sighs, all rough edges, tinged with the sweet relief of abandoning pretense. “You can blame Dick for keeping me up last night.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that to him.”
Gazing at you with sleep-softened eyes, Bruce says with a tinge of earnest affection, "I was helping Alfred tend to him. Wouldn't have happened if he dressed warmer like I told him to.”
“What should we do instead?” you muse, absently running your fingers over the smooth, nearly invisible stitches in the chaise’s upholstery. You’ve probably worn a path along the seam with that habit.
“Tell me about your week,” Bruce murmurs, voice dipping into gravel. His languid words pour over you, soothing. “Any scoops? See the Batman again?”
At the reminder, irritation and something akin to embarrassment (though you won’t assign an official name to it) flares in your stomach. The ache in your thighs and a few tender points along your collarbone decide to flare up, which only serves to fuel your annoyance.
You exhale hard—not so much a scoff than a careless grunt—and choke back the burning urge to roll your eyes. “Alright, that's just provoking, Bruce.”
A lazy, almost blasé, hum is your answer. “I thought you liked complaining about him. Beating the dead horse much?”
"Oh, that horse is rotting," you grit, sitting up so quickly that your vision spins with the elaborate detailing on his dark ceiling. Now that it's come to your attention, you're slowly noticing how the Gothic-reminiscent ornamentation resembles the skeletal wings of a bat, stretching above you in desperate flight. Huh.
"Do tell."
You cross your arms and glare at him, but he just lets an amused smirk play at the corner of his chapped lips (though still partially concealed by his stupidly fluffy pillow, which you are suddenly thankful for, as you'd probably just suffocate him remorselessly if you'd been exposed to the full power of his smugness).
"Remember the gang war lead?"
"Tied above Main Street with Bat-rope," is the confirmation, followed by a couple of nods that are too solemn to not be teasing.
"And the whole Joker thing—which, by the way, I think he should investigate why the clown keeps escaping—"
"—it's ninety percent Arkham Asylum's fault—"
"—plus when I was actively investigating the Riddler's latest puzzle, but he must've stolen my notes because I swear I was this," you pinch your index and thumb together, muscles tensed for emphasis, "this close to solving it."
To your ire, Bruce chuckles wryly, and if you didn't know better, you'd say he's dangerously toeing the line of self-satisfied. But that would be crazy...unless...
No, that's just crazy.
Right?
"Well, Batman is the world's greatest detective," he says, following the statement with a smooth card of fingers through his inky mess of hair.
The motion shifts the collar of his expensive pajamas, making the silk dip to reveal a small circular bruise on his collarbone. It's still reddish and stark against his pale skin, so it must be fresh. Weirdly, you distinctly remember the hard press of the Batman's clavicle against your teeth last night.
Your own bites pulse faintly again beneath your clothing.
"There's a reason why Commissioner Gordon—"
"Is that a hickey?" you interject, your pointer finger flicking out to zero onto it. You scoot to the edge of the chaise, frowning; secretly, you're elated at the chance to pivot away from the subject of Batman.
Your voice takes a teasing tone as you chuckle. "C'mon, you didn't have to lie about Dick's antics keeping you up. Bruce Thomas Wayne, are you finally becoming the playboy they say you are?"
You bite back the bitter tang of regret the moment those words escape your mouth. Your best friend can have anyone he wants—he's rich, handsome, generous, caring, and despite what the tabloids spew about him, all of Gotham knows that his intellect is damn near genius.
And yet the discovery stings. Deep down, you chide yourself for being a hypocrite, for feeling the slight betrayal that Bruce had someone in his bed while you were fucking Gotham's protector (you'll use the word loosely) practically every week.
But still. Maybe he isn't loosening up. Maybe he's still the same guarded boy he's been for over two decades.
He huffs softly, the white of his canines flashing at you for a moment. "It's nothing."
"Nothing," you repeat, incredulous. "You don't think—maybe—that this is a significant milestone?"
"Pssh, you're acting like I'm some fair maiden."
Doubling down, you slide off the chaise and kneel by his bedside, folding your arms along the edge of the mattress with a pleading look in your eyes and a sharp grin on your face. "Come on, I'm just curious. I tell you everything, down to my leads and sources."
Eyeing you from behind the soft armor of his pillow, he responds, "Alright. Why were you limping?"
Shit. The gleeful journalist in you drops dead on the floor, replaced by the anxious secret-bearer, whose knees are knocking together like the erratic tick of your heart.
"Almost everything," you correct, grin beginning to wilt into a grimace.
Bruce just regards you with a stare that is almost cold while exasperation weighs heavily on the thick lines of his angular eyebrows. That damn disapproval lances straight through your heart. Jaw tight, you concede and rest your cheek against your arm, frowning slightly.
"Fine. Sorry. I shouldn't push," you say with a softer voice. "I'm limping because I hooked up with a guy."
He...doesn't seem fazed, which throws you off. You've always known him to be protective, even possessive at times; even before his parents were murdered, he kept watchful tabs on his belongings, and he'd know if you shifted one of his toys by an inch.
Naturally, you'd expect him to show some sliver of alarm between his brows—because if you were limping after sex, that would imply that your partner may have been rough enough to affect your gait—but those faint 11 lines haven't budged.
In fact, he almost looks smug. Or maybe he’s just gotten better at caring more than he lets on.
"Your turn," you mumble as an afterthought, cheeks burning hot. If this room were colder, you'd be radiating white coils of steam.
"I also…was intimate. With a girl," he admits, though he works through his choice of words with a faint wrinkle by the corner of his mouth, like they taste bitter. "She’s nosy for a living."
Sounds like someone you know very well.
“You could’ve just told the truth,” you mumble, feeling redundant in your disappointment.
Flashes of your clandestine meetups with Gotham’s favorite vigilante unwittingly resurface, from the softness of his maybe-black hair to the way you’d know the elegant structure of his cheekbones by touch alone.
You’ve always wondered what he looked like, yes, but you suppose that imagining it with all the parts you have already memorized is different. But if you could hold up a man to the myth…
…you might raise Bruce.
Which is—fucking insane! It’s crazy, and stupid, and a terrible thing for him to do.
Yet.
Yet the small, needling voice of journalism rises from the dead. Whispers echo in the caverns of your chest: just follow the hunch, wouldn’t it explain a lot?
A beat of silence follows as Bruce determines his next words.
“I didn’t want you to see me differently,” he says, low and earnest. “I thought I had a good thing going. For the first time, I don’t want things to change.”
Somehow, you get the feeling that he isn’t just talking about his hookup.
“Plus,” he tacks on, like some afterthought he finds vaguely humorous, “you get all flustered when you need the truth. It’s cute.”
He admits that in the same tone the Bat admitted it, kissing the side of your neck.
The world shifts just a few degrees. Like the Earth has been spinning on its axis a little wrong, and you sitting up has made the planet right again.
It fits so fucking neatly that it’s infuriating. The intricate gadgets. The sleek car, with all its sharp edges and plush Italian leather cushions. The way he always seems to be two steps ahead of you.
They’re both six-two, ridiculously smart, and muscular. You know Bruce had trained in martial arts overseas; you’re realizing with horror that Dick is about the same age as Robin, and the cold would explain the sidekick's absence last night.
You deal in facts. In hard, concrete truths and testimonies sworn against perjury. Yet, if you wanted to stick with only the cold facts, you would’ve become a lawyer.
And there’s the subject of his hickey. The thought of it being you twists something around your ribs, ugly and vindictive and satisfied all at once.
You should be pissed—no, you should be furious.
Bruce lied, hid, copied off half of your investigations like a bad high school cheater, and fucked you so good that you’d forget about it.
Yet the truth just settles deep inside the pit of your stomach, like you’ve known all along but never wanted to believe it.
Because maybe you’re just as possessive. Maybe you do feel ugly and messy and proud that you’re the one that keeps him coming back.
“Yeah,” you say after a swallow, gluing your gaze onto him to gauge any reaction. “My guy’s pretty nosy too. A lot more annoying than your girl, probably. Tends to hide important information.”
“It seems like they’ve got their bad habits in common,” Bruce responds. To any other person, he’d seem unfazed, but you know.
You know that slight downward twitch of his sharp eyebrows. You know the understated purse of his lips by touch in the dark and visual study in the light. He doesn't quite blink, but his long, dark eyelashes flutter like he's making a conscious effort to keep his mask up.
“That changes a lot, doesn’t it?” It leaves your mouth less like a question and more like a statement. “Does she mean anything?”
You lean closer to him, eyes flicking all over the planes of his face until he twitches, one hand curling gingerly around your nape, as if deciding between holding fast or not at all.
“Everything.” He lets it tumble out, just like that, lets the weighty admission bounce off the mattress like a hand grenade. Too easy, too loaded. “She means everything. I think you know that too.”
The last syllables are breathed softly against your lips, and his lashes tremble as he searches your gaze with a deceptive calm brewing in his glassy eyes. Like the stillness before a storm, except there's a sort of acceptance thrown haphazardly into the blue swirling around his pupils.
Understanding.
“I can forgive the lying,” you murmur, tilting your head just so, nose brushing against his. “And the hiding. But out-scooping me? That’s fucked up.”
“You’re not even mentioning last night, and all the other ones?” A faint laugh colors the question, blooming in the infinitesimal space between your lips.
It’s then that you realize you can never be mad at him for too long. He’ll just pull some puppy-eyed shit like this, irresistible charm woven into his forever lingering smirk, and you’ll turn the world just because he’d do the same.
“Those have been forgiven for a long time.”
Bantering like this, impossibly close yet too far, comes as second nature. You fall into place like the pieces of his two identities, all neat and simple.
“Can I make it up to you?”
You flick your eyes to his Gothic ceiling, where the spiny wings of the bats seem to flutter in excitement. “Since you asked so nicely…”
Bruce presses his gentle, apologetic lips to the corner of your mouth, then traces your bottom lip with a callused thumb. “Can I kiss you here?”
“Will that stop making you ask questions like a journalist?”
A soft puff of air leaves him, half incredulous and all endeared. The thought of that being so enamoring, so magnetic flashes through your mind before he softly places his lips over yours—slightly chapped, warm, and completely familiar.
You've figured the Batman out and solved the mystery of the century. The victory doesn't taste as sweet as Bruce Wayne.
Without breaking, he draws you up to him as he shifts onto his back, a rough yet cautious hand on your waist guiding you to shuffle across the mattress on your knees and sit over his hips.
Your head spins, eyes refusing to open out of fear that this is a dream. You feel the gradual slide of his tongue in your mouth, so unlike the feverish way he kisses you in alleyways.
A quiet moan of satisfaction rumbles in his throat, and it strikes you in the chest, how he seems to be just the same, yet so different. Or maybe it's because he knows this is tentative, precarious, that it's not as certain as you and his alter-ego.
You shiver—pliant and wanting in a way you didn't expect from yourself—when he diverts his attention, kissing reverently across your cheek, then expertly down your neck.
Palms and fingers on your waist, surer this time and dragging your weight against...is he serious?
You sigh against his hair, putting a little firmness behind the occasional rock of your hips against the growing heat tenting his pajama pants. "Really?"
He groans at the stimulation, cheeks flushing as he ducks his head down.
"Ignore it. Just want to stay like this," he mumbles, voice rough.
You slide a hand into his hair, which is prickly at the nape and soft at the crown (yes, yes, yes), and run the other down from the scruff still clinging on his jaw, to his softly heaving chest, to the hem of his shirt.
You sneak your touch beneath the warm silk, splaying your hand over the burning skin above his hip. This feels like a blessing, to feel the subtle ripple of muscle instead of a toolbelt and a suit.
Bruce’s sharp canines nip at your fresh hickeys from last night, to which you wince at the twinge of tenderness and slip your fingers higher to fit into the dips between his ribs—he's a little ticklish there, though you know he lies badly about it.
Paying you back in double, his hands travel beneath the hem of your own shirt, rucking the fabric up to expose your spine to his exploring touch. Another soft sigh burns through you, though the latter half is swallowed by his lips, all lazy and savoring.
And this might be better than what you've been doing. There's no more dancing, no more cat-and-mouse.
There's just you and him, sharing breaths in a sliver of air you're hesitant to widen, learning to orbit each other again with the weight of Batman altering your gravities.
He rolls both of you onto your sides, wasting little time tangling your legs. He traces shapes into your back, weaving around your spine.
The world smudges around you. Time swims by languidly as he just…caresses your skin, humming against your lips, bent on appreciation rather than stress relief.
You’ve never wanted something to stretch on forever so badly.
Unfortunately, impermanence calls when Alfred—and you know it’s him before he speaks—primly raps his knuckles three times against the door. “Master Dick is stirring. His temperature has dropped.”
“Finally,” Bruce grumbles. He attempts to pull away but can’t resist another two (or five) quick pecks. “Breakfast for lunch?”
You smooth your fingers over his head, pressing down the strands that stick out at odd angles from your grip. “Weird, but okay.”
He calls out, “Alfred, order from that French toast place Dick likes.”
“Will do, sir.”
You can practically see the way the butler bows slightly and marches down the hall. Never change, Alfred.
Bruce glances back at you with glimmering eyes, and his faint smile is too tender to be anything but hopeful, "Stay for dinner, too?"
You twist your lips, faking pensiveness. “Only if you promise to leave something for me to write about.”
Wrinkling his nose, he scoffs but makes a point of avoiding your gaze. “When have I ever done that…”
“Don’t even start.”
“I'm not,” he chuckles against your lips. It’s signed and sealed with a sweet, chaste kiss.
Oh, your heart sighs in wistful recognition. It’s always been him.
— soft tease bruce my shayla.... part of the much ado about luv event <33
this is probably my favorite tiktok of all time and I finally got around to showing it to my dad the other day and now he comes home every day and tells me about all the places he saw crumbling concrete and says "guess they didn't add enough chinchilla flakes"
My dad has worked in construction is whole life, primarily with a company that does concrete foundations, and I immediately sent him this back when I first found it on TikTok, and he IMMEDIATELY shared it with everyone he worked with. They apparently still quote it on his job sites to this day.
Warnings: suggestive sexual content, friends to lovers, childhood friends, jealousy, jealous!Roy Harper, Green Lantern!Reader, Hal Jordan being an embarrassing father, Oliver Queen being equally embarrassing
Summary:
After months away in deep space, you return home with Kyle Rayner beside you.
Roy Harper is happy to see you.
He is considerably less happy to discover how comfortable the two of you have become.
Author’s Note:
written for this request
The first message reached you shortly after Earth appeared beneath the clouds.
DINNER AT SIX.
Green letters hovered across the inside of the construct surrounding you, accompanied by the neutral chime of your ring. The message had come from Roy, although the capitalization suggested Oliver had been leaning over his shoulder while he typed it.
A second one appeared before you could respond.
HAL SAID SIX. OLLIE SAYS SEVEN. DINAH SAYS THAT MEANS WE’RE EATING AT EIGHT.
You smiled.
Four months away should not have made the sight of Earth feel unfamiliar, but deep-space assignments had a way of distorting time. You had slept beneath violet suns, negotiated with governments that measured age in migrations rather than years, and spent the last three weeks aboard a vessel where every corridor smelled faintly of copper.
Earth was blue, loud, and comfortably predictable by comparison.
Another message appeared.
I SAY YOU OWE ME FOUR MONTHS OF MOVIE NIGHTS.
You opened a response channel.
I WAS PREVENTING AN INTERPLANETARY WAR.
Roy answered almost immediately.
SO YOU ADMIT YOU MISSED THEM.
You were still smiling when Kyle drifted closer. His green aura brushed the edge of yours without resistance. The rings adjusted automatically, preventing the fields from disrupting each other as the two of you descended through the atmosphere.
“Is that Harper?” he asked.
“No.”
“Your ring displayed his contact identification.”
“My ring has become disrespectful.”
“It also increased the oxygen flow when you started smiling.”
“That sounds medically unnecessary.”
“I think it was worried.”
You dismissed the messages. “I can leave you in Nevada.”
Kyle glanced toward the expanse of desert beneath you. “Hal invited me to dinner.”
“Hal once invited a man home because they were both angry at the same vending machine.”
“Did the man come?”
“He stayed for three days.”
“Then Hal has excellent instincts.”
“You’ve met him before?”
“Briefly. He spent most of the conversation arguing with Guy.”
“That was meeting him.”
The two of you broke through the last layer of cloud together. Coast City stretched beneath the late afternoon sun, its streets and beaches rendered in familiar lines that your ring identified before you consciously recognized them.
Hal’s house appeared near the edge of the city. The place had always looked too ordinary for a man who spent half his life carrying the weight of entire worlds. The siding needed repainting. The backyard fence leaned slightly toward the neighboring property, despite Hal insisting every spring that he had fixed it. The roof above the garage had been replaced during your last visit, although the new shingles failed to disguise the dent where Kilowog had once landed without warning.
Three vehicles crowded the driveway. One belonged to Oliver. One was Dinah’s. The third was Roy’s truck.
Your ring increased the oxygen flow again.
Kyle heard the chime. “Concerned.”
“Quiet.”
You descended into the backyard before he could say anything else.
Hal stood behind the grill in a faded apron, arguing with Oliver over whether a burger could be considered cooked when the center remained visibly pink. Dinah sat at the picnic table with a glass of lemonade, watching the disagreement with the resigned expression of someone who had already accepted that neither man would listen to her.
Roy was leaning against the porch railing.
You noticed him before anyone else. His red hair had grown slightly longer while you were gone, curling around his ears and at the nape of his neck. He wore a dark shirt with the sleeves pushed over his forearms, exposing the scars and freckles scattered across his skin. One ankle was crossed over the other, and his posture suggested he had been standing there casually rather than waiting for the first glimpse of green light in the sky.
Then Hal looked up. The spatula fell from his hand.
“There she is.”
You barely had time to dismiss your uniform before he reached you. Hal wrapped both arms around you, lifted you from the ground, and squeezed hard enough that your ribs protested despite the protective layer of energy your ring maintained around you.
“You’re late,” he said into your hair.
“By eleven minutes.”
“You came from space. You should have left earlier.”
“I came from another galaxy.”
“Traffic?”
“Terrible.”
His arms tightened again.
The teasing slipped from his voice when he said, “Welcome home, kid.”
Your throat tightened. Hal had called you that from the beginning, when you were fourteen and newly chosen by a ring neither of you understood. He had been your instructor first, then your guardian, and eventually your father in every way that mattered. The legal paperwork had come later, after years of family dinners and emergency contact forms on which neither of you knew what category to select.
You pressed your face briefly against his shoulder. “I missed you too.”
He set you down and immediately began examining you.
“You’re thinner.”
“I’m wearing fitted clothing.”
“When did you last eat?”
“On the ship.”
“That isn’t a time.”
“Three hours ago.”
“What did you eat?”
“Kyle made something.”
Hal looked over your shoulder.
Kyle had landed several feet behind you and dismissed his uniform. “Pasta.”
“From a packet,” you added.
“It contained all the necessary nutrients.”
“It contained powder.”
“Powder can be nutritious.”
Hal turned toward the grill. “I’m making her two burgers.”
“Make her three,” Oliver called.
“I can feed myself.”
“You clearly can’t,” Hal said.
Dinah rose to greet you, wrapping you in an embrace that was gentler than Hal’s and somehow warmer. Oliver followed, kissing your temple and informing you that he had personally prevented Hal from serving dinner two hours early.
“You arrived at three,” Hal said.
“I was helping.”
“You brought one bag of chips.”
“They were good chips.”
You laughed against Oliver’s shoulder before pulling away.
Roy had not moved from the porch. His gaze rested on you with a steadiness that made the backyard seem quieter than it was. The messages had been light, but his expression held something more complicated now that you were standing in front of him.
Relief, perhaps.
You crossed the grass.
“Harper.”
“Lantern.”
He waited until you reached him before unfolding his arms.
“You planning on greeting me properly?” you asked.
“I sent four messages.”
“One of them said you were charging interest on missed movie nights.”
“Emotional interest.”
“That isn’t a thing.”
“It is now.”
You opened your arms. Roy regarded you for another second, making a show of reluctance that neither of you believed. Then his hands settled around your waist, and he pulled you against him.
Your arms went around his neck. Roy hugged differently from Hal. He did not crush you or lift your feet from the ground. He held you carefully, one hand spread between your shoulder blades while the other rested at the curve of your waist, his forearm firm against your back.
The position brought your face close to his neck. He smelled like soap, machine oil, and the faint leather scent that clung to his equipment. Four months of alien air disappeared beneath one familiar breath.
“You took your time,” he murmured.
“I came home as soon as the assignment ended.”
“Could’ve staged a coup.”
“I was trying to prevent one.”
“See? Lack of initiative.”
His voice remained easy, but his hand tightened against your back.
You closed your eyes. “You missed me.”
“The crime rate increased while you were gone.”
“That sounds like a yes.”
“Property damage also increased.”
“You tracked property damage?”
“I was bored.”
“Because you missed me.”
“Because there was nothing good on television.”
You leaned back enough to see him. “You could have watched our list.”
“You said I wasn’t allowed to continue without you.”
“And you listened?”
“I have principles.”
“You broke into my bedroom when we were sixteen because you thought Hal had confiscated your arrows.”
“He had confiscated my arrows.”
“They were in Oliver’s car.”
“Where Hal put them.”
“Hal moved the car because you kept looking through the windows.”
“He was concealing evidence.”
You laughed.
Roy’s gaze dropped to your mouth.
His thumb moved once against your side before becoming still.
The contact made you abruptly aware of how little space there was between you. Roy’s chest rested against yours. Your arms remained looped around his neck, and his hand sat low enough on your waist that the warmth of it reached through your shirt.
Before either of you could decide what that meant, Kyle spoke behind you.
“Am I interrupting?”
Roy released you. You stepped back, trying not to react to the sudden absence of his hands.
Kyle approached with the duffel he had brought back from the assignment hanging from one shoulder. He looked from you to Roy, apparently registering nothing unusual about the way Roy’s jaw had tightened.
“Kyle, this is Roy Harper,” you said. “Roy, Kyle Rayner.”
“We’ve met,” Kyle said, extending his hand. “Briefly.”
“League meeting,” Roy replied.
“That was it. You had the exploding arrows.”
“I have several exploding arrows.”
“The ones shaped like boxing gloves.”
Roy stared at him.
Kyle frowned as he reconsidered. “Those might have been separate arrows.”
“They were.”
“Right.” Kyle smiled and shook his hand. “She talks about you.”
Roy glanced toward you. “Does she?”
“Mostly when something breaks.”
“I talk about him when other things happen.”
“Sometimes when something catches fire,” Kyle continued.
“That was one story.”
“You mentioned the chili incident twice.”
“Because it was funny.”
Roy released Kyle’s hand. “The chili was sabotaged.”
“You forgot it was on the stove,” you said.
“The stove ran hot.”
“You went to the store.”
“We needed sour cream.”
“You were gone for forty minutes.”
“The first store had the wrong brand.”
Kyle nodded with genuine interest. “This explains a lot.”
Roy’s attention sharpened. “About what?”
“Her standards for cooking.”
You covered a smile with your hand.
Kyle had not noticed anything. That was the worst part. His friendliness contained none of the deliberate edge Roy seemed to hear in it. Kyle was simply tired, pleased to be back on Earth, and apparently eager to meet the person who appeared in half the stories you told during long patrols.
Roy looked less pleased with every passing second.
Hal shouted from the grill. “Kyle, you want cheese?”
“Sure.”
“American, cheddar, or the one Dinah bought because she thinks we need to expand our horizons?”
“Cheddar.”
“Coward,” Dinah said.
Kyle set his bag near the porch. “Do I need to do anything?”
“Keep Hal away from the propane,” you said.
“The propane is fine,” Hal called.
Oliver pointed toward the grill. “He already singed his sleeve.”
“It was deliberate.”
“It was your favorite jacket.”
“Exactly. Tactical sacrifice.”
Kyle went to help, leaving you beside Roy.
Roy watched him cross the yard.
“He’s staying?”
“He has his own apartment.”
“I meant for dinner.”
“Hal invited him.”
“Hal invites strangers into his house.”
“Kyle isn’t a stranger.”
“Apparently.”
You studied Roy’s profile. “Are you being weird?”
“No.”
“That sounded weird.”
“Maybe four months in space affected your hearing.”
“My ring monitors my hearing.”
“Your ring is an enabler.”
Before you could press him, Hal called your name and demanded that you explain why the grill had begun making a clicking sound.
By the time you turned back, Roy had moved toward the table.
Dinner began at seven forty-three, which Dinah declared a personal victory.
You sat on one side of the picnic table with Kyle beside you. Roy sat directly across from you, one arm resting along the back of the bench while Oliver and Hal continued arguing over the proper way to season grilled corn.
For the first twenty minutes, everything felt almost exactly as it had before you left.
Hal asked too many questions about your health while pretending they were questions about the mission. Dinah wanted to know whether the diplomatic settlement would hold. Oliver listened to your explanation of the border dispute with surprising attentiveness until Hal revealed that he was actually waiting for an opportunity to compare the hostile planetary government to a city councilman he disliked.
Roy said little. He watched you.
You noticed every time his attention moved toward your face, your ring, or the small bruise along your wrist that had not quite faded. He noticed when you pushed aside the tomato from your burger and silently reached across the table to take it. You stole several fries from his plate in exchange.
The familiar rhythm should have relaxed him.
Then Kyle took one of your fries too.
Roy looked at his hand.
Kyle ate the fry without noticing. “Did you tell them about the negotiations on Vespasi?”
“I was getting there.”
“You have to tell them about the ceremonial robes.”
You groaned. “I absolutely do not.”
Hal leaned forward. “What robes?”
“The local council required diplomatic delegates to wear traditional clothing,” Kyle explained.
“What kind of clothing?” Dinah asked.
Kyle reached for another fry.
Roy moved his plate slightly out of reach.
Kyle switched to yours instead. “They were elaborate.”
“You said I looked nice.”
“You did look nice.”
“Then why did you laugh?”
“Because the sleeves were wider than you were.”
“You walked into a door.”
“The hood obstructed my vision.”
Oliver looked delighted. “Do you have pictures?”
“Of him walking into the door?”
“Of both.”
“My ring recorded the entire ceremony,” you said.
Kyle pulled his phone from his pocket. “I transferred a few.”
“You what?”
“For the mission archive.”
“You sent one to Guy.”
“He asked how negotiations were going.”
“You sent him the one with the crown.”
“You were wearing it.”
“It was six feet tall.”
“It was culturally significant.”
“You added sparkles.”
“The original image lacked drama.”
Roy looked between the two of you. “You have matching costumes?”
“Diplomatic robes,” you corrected.
“Matching diplomatic robes.”
“They weren’t matching,” Kyle said. “Hers were green.”
“Of course they were.”
“Mine were blue.”
Roy’s brows drew together. “Why blue?”
Kyle shrugged. “They thought it complemented her outfit.”
You felt Roy’s gaze settle on you.
“It was an arranged color scheme,” you explained.
“They also thought we were married,” Kyle added.
The table went quiet.
You closed your eyes. The misunderstanding had lasted less than an hour and had been corrected before negotiations formally began. It had not mattered enough to mention in the mission report, but Kyle delivered the information as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.
Roy’s hand became still around his glass.
Hal looked sharply at you. “They thought what?”
“The council assumed Lantern partners meant married partners,” you said. “We corrected them.”
“Eventually,” Kyle said.
Your knee struck his beneath the table.
He winced. “Immediately. We corrected them immediately.”
Roy leaned back. “Lantern partners.”
“It’s the standard term for two Lanterns assigned to the same mission,” Kyle explained.
“I know what it means.”
Kyle smiled. “Right. Sorry.”
Roy’s expression did not change.
You reached for one of his fries. He moved the plate back within your reach before you could ask.
Oliver took a slow drink, watching Roy over the rim of his glass with obvious amusement. Dinah noticed too. Her mouth curved, although she was kind enough not to say anything.
Hal was less restrained. “Why didn’t you tell me an alien government tried to marry you?”
“They didn’t try to marry us.”
“They prepared one room,” Kyle said.
You turned toward him. “Kyle.”
“What? They did.”
Roy’s glass touched the table with a quiet click.
“One room?” he asked.
“The lodging coordinator thought we were married,” you said.
“And there was a cultural prohibition against changing assigned accommodations after sunset,” Kyle added. “It was complicated.”
“So you shared a room.”
“We shared a suite.”
“It had one bed,” Kyle said.
Your ring could not protect him from you on Earth without a valid threat assessment.
You considered providing one.
Roy’s gaze moved from Kyle to you. “One bed.”
“I made another one with my ring.”
“It disappeared when you fell asleep,” Kyle reminded you.
“I slept on the sofa.”
“For an hour.”
“Then the sofa disappeared.”
Roy folded his arms. “Because you fell asleep.”
“Yes.”
“In the bed.”
“At the edge.”
Kyle nodded. “She kicks.”
“I kicked you once.”
“Three times.”
“You were stealing the blankets.”
“They were communal blankets.”
“There is no such thing.”
Kyle glanced toward the others. “She also talks in her sleep.”
Roy’s expression shifted.
You felt heat rise into your face. “I do not.”
“You do.”
“What did I say?”
“I couldn’t understand most of it.”
“Most?”
“You said Roy’s name once.”
Every head at the table turned toward you.
Kyle continued eating his burger.
The silence apparently failed to register.
Roy’s voice was quieter when he asked, “She did?”
“Probably because she was trying to remember the chili story.” Kyle looked at you. “That was the night you told me about it, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You also stole my pillow.”
“I was asleep.”
“You tucked it under your arm and told me to get my own.”
Roy’s jaw tightened.
Kyle finally seemed to notice that the conversation had changed.
He looked around the table. “Did I say something?”
“No,” Roy replied. “You’ve said plenty.”
“Roy,” you warned.
“What?”
Kyle glanced between you. “Should I—”
“Tell us about the weapons shipment,” Dinah said smoothly.
Grateful for the change of subject, Kyle began explaining the criminal operation that had complicated the final week of your assignment.
Roy remained quiet.
You watched him instead of listening. His irritation was obvious now, although he kept it contained beneath the rigid set of his shoulders and the small crease between his brows. He was not angry at you. You knew Roy well enough to recognize the difference.
He was uncomfortable. Worse, he was trying to hide it.
When Kyle reached across you for the mustard, his shoulder brushed yours. Roy’s gaze followed the movement.
You leaned back slightly.
Kyle thanked you and continued speaking, unaware that he had just made Roy’s grip tighten around his fork.
A few minutes later, he casually rested his arm behind you along the top of the bench to make room for Hal when he squeezed past. His hand remained several inches from your shoulder.
Roy stared at it as though Kyle had produced a weapon.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
There was something almost endearing about his complete inability to disguise jealousy once you knew what you were looking for. Roy had always been quick to needle anyone who paid you too much attention, but you had assumed it was the same overprotective instinct he applied to most of the people he loved.
This felt different.
It felt promising.
Then Kyle leaned toward you and quietly asked whether you had remembered to deactivate the translator implant before it reset overnight.
You turned your head to answer him.
From Roy’s angle, the movement must have looked intimate. Kyle’s face was close to yours, his voice too low for anyone else to hear, and one of his hands rested on the bench behind your back.
Roy stood.
The bench scraped against the patio stones.
Everyone stopped speaking.
“I need another drink,” he said.
His glass was still half full.
Oliver looked at it. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
Roy took the glass with him and crossed the yard toward the house. The screen door snapped shut behind him.
Hal watched him go. “What’s wrong with Roy?”
Oliver stared at his best friend. “You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Dinah sighed. “Fourteen years.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you owe me fifty dollars,” Oliver said.
“For what?”
“The bet.”
Hal frowned. “That bet expired when they turned twenty-one.”
“You don’t get to invent expiration dates because you’re losing.”
You pushed away from the table.
Kyle looked concerned. “Did I offend him?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? He seemed fine when we arrived.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“I kept taking his fries.”
“You took everyone’s fries.”
“That might be the problem.”
“It isn’t.”
Kyle lowered his voice. “Do you want me to apologize?”
The sincerity in his face removed any remaining suspicion that he had been trying to provoke Roy. Kyle genuinely had no idea what he had done, because he had done nothing except behave with the ease of someone who had spent months beside you.
That ease was the problem.
“It’s okay,” you said. “I’ll talk to him.”
You left the table before Hal could ask another question.
Behind you, Oliver said, “Pay up.”
“I still don’t understand what we bet on.”
“That’s why the odds were so good.”
The kitchen smelled faintly of charcoal smoke and whatever seasoning Hal had spilled across the counter earlier.
Roy stood at the sink with his back to the doorway. His half-full glass sat beside him while he ran water over his hands, even though there was nothing on them that needed washing.
“You left my welcome-home dinner,” you said.
“It’s Hal’s house.”
“He cooked for me.”
“He burned food in your honor.”
“It was touching.”
Roy shut off the faucet and reached for a dish towel. “Kyle wondering where you are?”
“He thinks you’re upset about the fries.”
“He should stop stealing people’s food.”
“You drank from my milkshake the first time we met.”
“I was fourteen.”
“You finished it.”
“You said you didn’t want the rest.”
“I said I wanted a napkin.”
“You were unclear.”
You stepped farther into the kitchen and pulled the back door closed behind you. The sounds from the yard softened to a blur beneath the hum of the refrigerator and the quiet rush of water still draining from the sink.
Roy dried his hands longer than necessary.
“Talk to me,” you said.
“I am talking.”
“You’re pretending to wash clean hands in Hal’s kitchen while sulking.”
“I don’t sulk.”
“You left because Kyle leaned near me.”
“He was practically sitting on you.”
“He was asking about my translator.”
“That isn’t better.”
You blinked. “How?”
“I don’t know. It sounded intimate.”
“A translator implant sounds intimate?”
“He whispered.”
“Because Hal was talking.”
“Hal’s always talking.”
“So everyone who wants to speak to me should leave the yard?”
Roy tossed the dish towel onto the counter and braced both hands against its edge. “I know I’m being an asshole.”
The admission surprised you into silence.
He looked down between his hands.
“I know Kyle didn’t do anything,” he continued. “He seems nice. He’s probably great. Everyone likes him.”
“You like him.”
“I liked him before tonight.”
“You dislike him because we shared a bed?”
“You didn’t share a bed.”
“We technically did.”
His head lifted.
You tried not to smile. “For part of one night.”
“That isn’t helping.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
“You understand.”
“I think I do, but I want to hear you say it.”
Roy laughed once without humor. “Of course you do.”
He pushed away from the counter and turned to face you fully. The kitchen was not small, but his movement changed the room, making the space between you feel more deliberate.
“You disappear for four months,” he said. “Then you come home with a guy who knows what you look like in ceremonial robes, knows how you sleep, knows the things you say when you’re dreaming, and apparently spent half the assignment sharing rooms with you.”
“One room.”
“That distinction isn’t making me feel better.”
“He knows those things because we were working together.”
“I know.”
“Kyle isn’t interested in me.”
Roy’s mouth tightened. “He called you his partner.”
“He is my partner.”
“I know what it means.”
“Then why are you acting like he announced an engagement?”
“Because he can go with you.”
The irritation left his voice as quickly as it had come.
You stared at him.
Roy looked toward the window rather than your face. “He can fly out of the atmosphere beside you. He understands Corps assignments, alien customs, whatever the hell a translator implant does. When you tell him something happened three sectors away, he knows where that is without pretending he’ll look it up later.”
“You look things up?”
“Sometimes.”
“Roy.”
“He fits into that part of your life.”
The words emerged reluctantly, stripped of the humor he usually used to conceal anything that might hurt.
“And I don’t,” he finished.
Your chest tightened.
Roy had never asked you to give up the ring. Even when you were younger and assignments frightened both of you, he understood that being a Lantern was not something you could separate from yourself. The ring had chosen you, but Hal had taught you that the choice to answer belonged to you each time.
Roy had always respected that choice.
You had not realized he believed it was taking you somewhere he could not follow.
“You fit into every part of my life,” you said.
“That isn’t true.”
“It is.”
“Do you talk about me on Oa?”
“All the time.”
“Kyle knows the chili story.”
“Everyone knows the chili story.”
“Great.”
“He knew your name before you met.”
Roy’s gaze returned to yours.
“You were the first person I called after my promotion,” you reminded him. “You helped me choose the apartment I barely use. You have access codes to my ship.”
“The ship tried to eject me.”
“You insulted its navigation system.”
“It took us through an asteroid field.”
“It was avoiding a solar flare.”
“It could have mentioned that.”
“You argued with an artificial intelligence for twenty minutes.”
“It started it.”
You stepped closer.
Roy watched you cross the remaining space between you, but he did not move away.
“When the assignment became difficult, I wanted to talk to you,” you said. “When Kyle made me laugh, I thought about whether you would have laughed too. When I couldn’t sleep, I listened to the messages you sent, even the one where you complained about a delivery driver parking in front of the building.”
“He blocked the entrance.”
“For thirty seconds.”
“It was inconsiderate.”
“I know.”
You stopped in front of him.
Roy’s hands hung at his sides, close enough to touch you but held carefully still.
“Kyle can go into space with me,” you said. “That doesn’t make him home.”
Something shifted in Roy’s expression.
You continued before courage failed you. “You are.”
He stared at you.
The refrigerator hummed behind him. Somewhere outside, Hal laughed loudly enough that the sound carried through the closed door, followed by Dinah telling him to lower his voice.
Roy did not seem to hear any of it.
“You should be careful,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m already jealous enough to hate a perfectly decent guy over some fries.”
“I noticed.”
“You telling me things like that isn’t going to help.”
“I’m not trying to help.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
The warmth beneath your skin spread lower.
“What are you trying to do?” he asked.
“Get you to admit why you’re jealous.”
“I thought I just did.”
“You admitted Kyle fits into my Lantern life.”
“He does.”
“You haven’t admitted why that matters.”
Roy looked at you for a long moment.
His voice was quieter when he said, “Because I’m in love with you.”
The words settled between you with startling simplicity.
You had imagined hearing them before. Sometimes after long missions, when exhaustion stripped away your better judgment. Sometimes during nights spent on Roy’s couch, your feet tangled beneath a blanket while he pretended not to notice when you leaned against him.
In your imagination, he always delivered the confession smoothly.
The reality was better.
Roy looked irritated by his own vulnerability, his shoulders tense and his hands curled as though he needed something to hold. There was no performance in it. He was not trying to charm you or make the words less frightening with a joke.
He was only telling the truth.
“How long?” you asked.
His expression became wary. “Does it matter?”
“I want to know.”
“Seventeen.”
Your lips parted.
Roy gave a small, embarrassed shrug. “Maybe sixteen. You wore that green dress to Dinah’s birthday and threatened to throw me off the roof because I said it made you look like a traffic light.”
“You said a sexy traffic light.”
“You remember.”
“I remember throwing you into the pool.”
“You ruined my jacket.”
“You deserved it.”
“I still thought you looked good.”
You smiled despite the ache in your chest. “You’ve been in love with me since we were teenagers?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were seventeen.”
“So were you.”
“You had just started training off-world. Every time I saw you, you had another story about some planet I couldn’t pronounce. You looked happy.”
“I was happy.”
“Exactly.”
“That doesn’t explain anything.”
Roy sighed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “You had a whole universe opening up in front of you. I wasn’t going to be the guy who asked you to stay because he finally figured out what everyone else already knew.”
“You think loving you would have made me stay?”
“I thought it might make leaving harder.”
“It was already hard.”
His hand lowered.
You closed the last inch between you and placed your palm against his chest.
Roy inhaled.
His heartbeat moved quickly beneath your hand.
“You were always the hardest part,” you said.
His fingers settled around your wrist, holding you there. “You don’t get to say things like that after letting me think you and Rayner were sharing a honeymoon suite.”
“It was a diplomatic residence.”
“One bed.”
“I built another bed.”
“It disappeared.”
“You were listening closely.”
“I was suffering.”
You laughed.
Roy’s eyes narrowed, but his thumb moved over the inside of your wrist.
“You’re enjoying this,” he accused.
“A little.”
“I walked away from dinner because Kyle leaned close to you.”
“I saw.”
“Oliver’s never going to let me forget that.”
“He’ll be too busy collecting his bet.”
“What bet?”
“I’m not sure, but Hal owes him fifty dollars.”
Roy closed his eyes. “They bet on us?”
“Apparently.”
“I hate our family.”
“Our family?”
His eyes opened again.
You smiled.
Roy’s hand tightened around your wrist.
“That was deliberate,” he said.
“Maybe.”
“You’re a menace.”
“You missed me.”
“I did.”
The honesty in the answer erased your teasing.
You raised your other hand to his face, letting your fingers follow the edge of his jaw. The faint roughness there caught against your skin.
Roy became very still.
“I missed you too,” you said.
“How much?”
The question was soft, but his gaze had darkened.
You moved closer until your body brushed his. “Enough to think about you while I was sharing that bed with Kyle.”
Roy’s hand left your wrist and settled at your waist.
“That’s cruel.”
“Nothing happened.”
“I know.”
“I slept for four hours. Kyle complained that I stole the blanket. We spent the next morning arguing with a council about mining rights.”
“I know.”
“You’re still thinking about the bed.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Do you want help?”
His fingers flexed against your side.
“You should probably explain what kind of help you’re offering.”
You rose onto your toes and kissed him.
Roy froze.
For one terrible second, you wondered whether you had misunderstood everything. Then his hand slid around your back and pulled you firmly against him.
He kissed you like he had been waiting years and resented every second of it.
The first press of his mouth was almost careful, but it lasted only until your fingers slid into his hair. Roy made a quiet sound against your lips, turned you with him, and walked you backward until your shoulders met the closed back door.
One hand braced beside your head. The other remained at your waist, his thumb pressing into the narrow strip of skin exposed where your shirt had shifted.
You kissed him again before he could speak.
His mouth opened beneath yours.
Roy had always been tactile. He threw an arm around your shoulders, leaned against you on the couch, and touched your back when guiding you through crowds. You had spent years pretending those casual points of contact did not leave warmth behind.
There was nothing casual about him now.
His body settled against yours, solid and hot, one thigh easing between your legs as he deepened the kiss. Your ring registered the increase in your pulse and offered to perform a medical scan.
You silenced it with a thought.
Roy pulled back just far enough to breathe. “Did your ring just say something?”
“No.”
“It chimed.”
“It’s nosy.”
“Can it see us?”
“It doesn’t have eyes.”
“Can it record us?”
“Not without authorization.”
“Good.”
His mouth returned to yours.
You laughed into the kiss, and Roy’s hand slid from your waist to your hip. He pressed you more firmly against the door, his thigh shifting until the pressure made your breath catch.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Roy drew back, his lips brushing yours when he spoke. “That okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
You used the grip you had on his hair to pull him closer. “Harper.”
His mouth curved against yours. “That sounds like a yes.”
He kissed the corner of your lips and moved lower, his mouth tracing your jaw before settling against the side of your neck. Your head tipped back against the door.
Roy’s hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt.
His palm spread over your bare side, warm and roughened by years of archery. His thumb moved beneath your ribs while his lips found the place below your ear that had always made you shiver when he touched it accidentally.
There was nothing accidental now.
“Roy.”
He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your pulse. “I’ve wanted to hear you say my name like that for a long time.”
“How long?”
“Don’t make me answer questions while I’m trying to kiss you.”
“You were the one who wanted honesty.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
His teeth grazed your skin.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, and Roy exhaled against your neck. The sound sent a sharper rush of warmth through you.
“You keep doing that,” he murmured, “and your dad’s going to find us in a situation nobody wants to explain.”
“My dad has been waiting for this since we were teenagers.”
“Hal threatened me when I asked if you had a date to prom.”
“He threatened everyone.”
“He showed me the ring and said space was very large.”
“That was subtle for him.”
Roy lifted his head. His lips were flushed, and his hair stood unevenly beneath your fingers.
You had known him almost half your life.
You had never seen him look at you quite like this.
His gaze traveled over your face before dropping down the length of your body. The movement was unhurried, open enough to make heat gather beneath your skin.
“You’re staring,” you said.
“I’m making up for lost time.”
“You had fourteen years.”
“I was trying to behave.”
“You were terrible at it.”
“That’s probably why Hal threatened to leave me in space.”
You hooked one finger into the collar of his shirt and drew him back. “I could protect you.”
“From a Green Lantern?”
“I’m a Green Lantern.”
“You’re biased.”
“I’m very biased.”
Roy kissed you again, slower this time. The edge of desperation softened into something deeper, although his hand continued moving beneath your shirt, following the curve of your waist before stopping just below the band of your bra.
He gave you time to object.
You didn’t.
His fingertips traced the edge of the fabric.
Your hips shifted against his thigh.
Roy broke the kiss with a rough breath. His forehead dropped against yours.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
You looked down between your bodies.
“I have some idea.”
“Don’t.”
You smiled. “You’re the one pressing me against a door.”
“You kissed me.”
“You confessed your love.”
“You accused me of being jealous.”
“You were jealous.”
“I’m still jealous.”
“Kyle has probably eaten all your fries by now.”
Roy groaned and buried his face against your neck. “I was starting to forget he existed.”
“You brought him up.”
“Because you’re evil.”
“You love me.”
“Deeply unfortunate.”
His mouth returned to the mark he had left on your neck.
You turned your face into his hair, breathing him in. “Kyle really isn’t interested in me.”
“I believe you.”
“He’s going to be horrified when he realizes why you left.”
“I’ll apologize.”
“You’ll apologize?”
“Eventually.”
“You were rude to him.”
“I shook his hand.”
“You interrogated him about cheese.”
“He seemed suspicious.”
“He asked for cheddar.”
“Exactly.”
You laughed, and Roy lifted his head.
For a moment, the jealousy and humor faded. He touched your cheek, his thumb moving slowly beneath your eye.
“You’re really home?” he asked.
The question carried more weight than the words should have held.
You understood anyway.
“For a while,” you said. “The Corps approved two months of Earth rotation. After that, I’ll probably take shorter assignments.”
“Probably?”
“I can request them.”
“For me?”
“For myself.” You leaned into his hand. “Because I’m tired of pretending Earth is only somewhere I visit between missions.”
Roy studied your face. “I don’t want you changing your life because I was an asshole over Kyle.”
“I’m not changing it for you.”
“Good.”
“I’m making room for you.”
His expression softened.
“That’s worse,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because now I want to kiss you again.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It’s a burden.”
You tugged him closer by his shirt. “Be brave.”
Roy’s mouth had barely touched yours when someone knocked hard against the other side of the back door.
Both of you went still.
“Dinner’s getting cold,” Hal called.
Roy closed his eyes.
You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.
A second voice came through the door. “You’ve been gone long enough for the burgers to qualify as leftovers,” Oliver added.
“We were talking,” Roy said.
“Sure you were.”
Hal knocked again. “Also, keep the door unlocked.”
“It is unlocked,” you called.
There was a pause.
“That isn’t better,” Hal replied.
Roy lowered his forehead to your shoulder. “I’m never coming back here again.”
“You say that every time.”
“This time I mean it.”
“You promised Hal you’d help him fix the fence next Saturday.”
“I’ll fake my death.”
Oliver’s voice came next. “We can hear you.”
“Go away,” Roy said.
“We’re trying to eat dessert.”
“Then eat it.”
“Kyle asked if he should save you pie,” Hal added.
Roy lifted his head. “Tell him to stop being so nice.”
You laughed hard enough that your shoulders shook beneath his hands.
Roy stared at you for a moment, then began smiling despite himself.
“This is your fault,” he said.
“You were the one acting jealous.”
“You slept in another man’s bed.”
“You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Maybe in ten years.”
“You were in love with me for almost that long without saying anything.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I suffered quietly.”
“You walked away from dinner in front of everyone.”
“I said quietly, not subtly.”
Hal knocked again. “Are you dressed?”
Roy looked toward the door with something close to despair.
You caught his face between your hands and kissed him before he could answer. The sound outside disappeared for several seconds beneath the warmth of his mouth and the immediate tightening of his hands around your waist.
When you pulled back, Roy followed, trying to continue the kiss.
“We should go outside,” you murmured.
“We really shouldn’t.”
“They’re waiting.”
“They can keep waiting.”
“Kyle might eat your pie.”
Roy’s eyes opened.
“You fight dirty.”
“I learned from you.”
He looked at your mouth, then at the door, visibly weighing his options. “We’re continuing this later.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“It is.”
“How much later?”
Roy’s hand slid down to your hip. “As soon as I figure out how to get you out of your father’s house without being shot into orbit.”
“My room has a lock.”
He stared at you.
You smiled.
Roy’s gaze darkened all over again. “You can’t say that while I’m trying to behave.”
“I thought you gave up on behaving.”
“I’m trying to preserve what remains of my relationship with Hal.”
“He’ll survive.”
“I might not.”
You opened the back door. Hal and Oliver stood on the other side. Dinah remained at the table, watching with her chin resting on one hand. Kyle sat beside her with a plate of pie, his expression concerned.
Roy immediately removed his hand from beneath your shirt.
Hal’s eyes moved from your swollen lips to the mark on your neck and then to Roy’s rumpled hair.
His face went completely blank.
Oliver held out his hand. Without looking away from Roy, Hal reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and placed several bills in Oliver’s palm.
“You bet against us?” you asked.
“I didn’t bet against you,” Hal said.
“You said they’d take another five years,” Oliver replied.
“I was being realistic.”
“You thought I was going to wait five more years?” Roy asked.
Hal looked at him. “You waited this long.”
“That was different.”
“You were scared.”
“I was respecting her career.”
“You were scared,” Oliver repeated.
Roy pointed toward the driveway. “I can leave.”
“You just said you were never coming back,” you reminded him.
Kyle looked between the two of you.
His gaze paused on Roy’s hair, then your neck.
Understanding slowly crossed his face.
“Ooooh,” he said.
Roy folded his arms.
Kyle placed his fork down. “Were you jealous of me?”
“No.”
“Yes,” everyone else said.
Kyle looked horrified. “I didn’t know.”
“I know,” you assured him.
“I kept talking about the bed.”
“You did.”
“And the robes.”
“Yes.”
“And I put my arm behind you.”
Roy’s expression tightened. “You can stop listing things.”
“I’m sorry.”
Roy sighed. “You didn’t do anything.”
“I ate your fries.”
“That was personal.”
“I’ll get you more.”
“See?” Roy looked at you. “He’s impossible to hate.”
“You tried.”
“I committed.”
Kyle pushed the plate of pie toward him. “Peace offering?”
Roy considered it.
“What kind?”
“Apple.”
“With cheddar?”
Kyle frowned. “Why would it have cheddar?”
Roy accepted the plate. “All right. We’re good.”
Hal pointed the spatula at him. “You and I are talking later.”
Roy took a bite of pie. “About what?”
“Boundaries.”
“You invited me.”
“To dinner. Not to make out with my daughter in my kitchen.”
Roy glanced behind him. “It’s technically her kitchen too.”
“That is not helping you,” Hal informed him sternly.
Oliver shook his head. “Nothing you say is going to help you.”
“The chili was not my fault,” Roy said.
“It burned through a pot,” you reminded him.
Roy glanced toward you. “Are you on my side at all?”
You stepped closer and slipped your hand into his.
His fingers closed around yours immediately.
“I’m standing beside you.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“It’s what you’re getting.”
Roy looked down at your joined hands.
His expression softened despite the audience.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
Roy stayed until the others began leaving.
Kyle departed first, collecting his duffel from beside the porch after apologizing twice more for accidentally making Roy jealous. Roy claimed he had not been jealous at all, which might have been more convincing if he had not kept one hand on your waist throughout the conversation.
Dinah hugged you goodnight and whispered that she expected details later. Oliver kissed the top of your head, gave Roy a look that promised he would be hearing about tonight for years, and followed her toward the driveway.
Eventually, the last of the guests had gone, leaving you, Roy, and Hal behind. Hal washed dishes with unnecessary force while Roy carried the remaining plates in from the backyard. The silence between them grew heavier with every trip.
You leaned against the counter and watched them avoid eye contact.
Finally, Hal shut off the faucet.
“You hurt her,” he said, “and I’m sending you to the edge of known space.”
Roy dried his hands. “Fair.”
“I’ll revoke your house privileges.”
“That seems worse.”
“It is.”
“Dad.”
Hal looked at you. “I’m being supportive.”
“You’re threatening him.”
“I threatened him years ago. This is a reminder.”
Roy set down the towel. “I love her.”
Hal’s expression changed.
The words sounded different here than they had when the two of you were alone earlier. Less desperate, perhaps, but no less certain.
“I know,” Hal said.
Roy blinked.
“You know?”
“I’ve known since you were seventeen.”
“Then why did you threaten me?”
“You were seventeen.”
“That seems unfair.”
“It was extremely fair.”
Hal looked toward you. “You love him?”
You met Roy’s gaze.
His hand found yours beside the counter.
“Yes.”
Hal exhaled and rubbed both hands over his face. “Great.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“I am happy.” He lowered his hands. “I’m thrilled. My daughter is dating Oliver Queen’s son. This is a wonderful development that cannot possibly make family dinners more complicated.”
“Roy isn’t his son,” you said.
“Tell Oliver that.”
Roy’s thumb moved across your knuckles. He looked at Hal before saying, “I was planning to take her back to my place tonight. Are you okay with that?”
You glanced at him. “You know we don’t need permission.”
“I know.” Roy’s fingers tightened gently around yours. “I’m asking because you’ve been home for six hours, he’s your dad, and I’d rather not start this by being more of an asshole than necessary.”
Hal stared at him for a moment.
Roy held his gaze without backing down, although there was nothing challenging in his expression. He was not asking Hal to decide for you. He was acknowledging that taking you away on your first night home mattered to the man who had spent four months waiting for you to return.
“I know you are.” Hal looked toward you. “You’re an adult. I don’t get a vote.”
“You get an opinion.”
“Oh, I have several.”
Roy’s mouth twitched. “I assumed.”
Hal pointed at him. “Breakfast is at nine. Both of you.”
“We’ll be here,” Roy promised.
You leaned against Roy’s shoulder as his arm settled around your waist. He turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, the gesture so easy and affectionate that your chest tightened.
Hal watched the movement. Something fond reluctantly softened the concern on his face before he turned back toward the sink.
You waited until his back was to you before murmuring, “Nine is optimistic.”
Roy’s arm tightened around you.
“You’re going to kill me,” he whispered.
You looked up at him. “Be brave.”
His smile was slow, warm, and just dangerous enough to make your stomach tighten.
Behind you, Hal dropped a plate into the sink.
“I heard that.”
You pressed your lips together, but Roy made no effort to hide his smile.
Hal set the plate down with exaggerated care. “I’m choosing to believe the two of you are capable of exercising judgment.”
“That seems optimistic,” Roy said.
“Roy.”
“I’m done.”
“You said that like you expect me to congratulate you.”
Roy glanced toward you. “Do you think he wants me to apologize?”
“I think he wants you to stop talking.”
“That feels unreasonable.”
Hal pointed toward the front of the house. “Go before I reconsider how maturely I’m handling this.”
You pushed away from Roy long enough to cross the kitchen. Hal’s irritation softened before you reached him, and when you wrapped your arms around him, he held you tightly enough to remind you of the moment you had landed in the backyard hours earlier.
“I’ll be back for breakfast,” you promised.
“I know.”
“And I’ll message you when we get there.”
“I was going to ask.”
“You always do.”
“You spend months crossing galaxies without telling me when you’ve slept, eaten, or entered an active war zone. I’m allowed to ask for one message when you travel fifteen minutes across Coast City.”
“You’ll get your message.”
Hal kissed your temple before releasing you. “I’m glad you’re home.”
The words caught somewhere beneath your ribs.
“Me too.”
Roy waited beside the counter, giving the two of you the moment without trying to interrupt it. When Hal finally looked toward him, Roy straightened slightly.
“Nine,” Hal said.
“We’ll be here.”
“Not nine thirty.”
“Nine.”
“And don’t let her claim she isn’t hungry.”
“I know what she’ll eat.”
Hal studied him for a moment, apparently reassured that Roy knew the answer without needing to think about it.
“Fine,” he said. “You can keep her.”
“That wasn’t really in question,” you reminded him.
“I was talking to myself.”
Roy took your hand as you passed him. Hal followed the two of you to the front door, where he repeated the breakfast instructions and watched from the porch while you crossed the driveway. His truck sat beneath the yellow wash of the streetlight. He opened the passenger door for you, one hand resting against its frame.
You looked from him to the open seat. “I can fly.”
“I know.”
“My ring could have me at your apartment before you finish walking around the truck.”
“I know that too.”
“But you still want to drive.”
Roy’s mouth curved. “I’ve spent four months waiting for you to come home. Let me have fifteen more minutes.”
The answer softened something inside you. You climbed into the truck.
Roy shut the door and circled the front, sliding behind the wheel a moment later. He started the engine but did not immediately pull away. Instead, he rested one hand against the steering wheel and looked toward you in the dim light from the dashboard.
“What?” you asked.
“I’m checking.”
“Checking what?”
“That this actually happened.”
“You accused Kyle of seducing me with cheddar cheese, confessed that you’ve been in love with me since we were teenagers, and made out with me in my father’s kitchen.”
“I didn’t accuse him of seducing you with cheese.”
“You found his choice suspicious.”
“It lacked imagination.”
“You asked for cheddar on the pie.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I was establishing dominance.”
You laughed, and Roy’s expression softened as he watched you.
He reached across the center console and touched your face, his thumb moving over your cheek with none of the urgency that had shaped his hands in the kitchen. This kiss was gentler too, lingering without deepening into something that would keep you parked outside Hal’s house until he came to investigate.
When Roy pulled back, he did not move far.
“You can still change your mind,” he said.
“About going home with you?”
“About any of it.” His fingers slipped into your hair. “You got back today. The dinner turned into an interrogation, I behaved like an asshole, and now everyone we know thinks we’re dating.”
“Are we not?”
Roy paused. “I was trying to be responsible.”
“You’re doing a terrible job.”
“I’m out of practice.”
You leaned closer. “I had four months to miss you and almost fourteen years to fall in love with you. I’m not changing my mind.”
The last of the uncertainty left his face.
“Almost fourteen?”
“You were annoying when we met.”
“I was charming.”
“You drank my milkshake.”
“You weren’t drinking it.”
“I was looking for a napkin.”
“We remember that evening very differently.”
Roy kissed you once more before finally putting the truck into reverse.
The drive to his apartment was familiar enough that you could have followed the route with your eyes closed. Coast City passed outside the window in quiet streets and warm storefronts, smaller than the worlds you had crossed but more precious for the lives contained within it. Roy kept one hand on the wheel and the other linked with yours across the center console, his thumb moving absently over your knuckles whenever the truck stopped at a light.
His apartment looked almost exactly as it had when you left.
Your green mug remained beside his in the cabinet. The blanket you always stole was folded across the back of the couch, and a stack of takeout menus occupied the corner of the coffee table. Beneath the television remote sat the movie list that the two of you had been working through before your assignment.
You picked it up.
The last completed title had been crossed out in your handwriting. Everything beneath it remained untouched.
“You really waited.”
Roy locked the door behind him. “I told you I have principles.”
“You watched three seasons of that detective show without me.”
“That wasn’t on the list.”
“That was a technicality.”
“It was a legally sound distinction.”
You lowered the paper. “Four months is a lot of movie nights.”
“You owe interest.”
“Emotional interest?”
“I established the terms before you entered Earth’s atmosphere.”
Roy approached until the coffee table pressed lightly against the backs of your legs. His hands settled at your waist, and the look in his eyes made it clear that the television would not be in use immediately.
You rested your arms around his neck. “How were you planning to collect?”
“I had several ideas.”
“Any of them involve an actual movie?”
“Eventually.”
Your ring chimed.
A message from Hal appeared between you in glowing green letters.
NINE MEANS NINE.
Roy looked at it. You looked at him.
A second message appeared.
AND EAT SOMETHING BEFORE BED.
Roy closed his eyes. “He’s going to do this all night, isn’t he?”
“Probably.”
“Can you block him?”
“He raised me.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
You dismissed the message and curled your fingers into the back of Roy’s shirt. “The ring has a silent mode.”
His eyes opened. “That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“You’re easily impressed.”
“I’ve been waiting fourteen years. Let me be impressed.”
Roy drew you against him, his mouth finding yours as the movie list slipped from your fingers onto the couch. Beyond the apartment walls, Earth continued turning beneath the same stars that had followed you across three sectors and four long months away.
The universe would still be there tomorrow.
Tonight, you let Roy pull you closer, and you stayed exactly where you wanted to be.
credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @toxisyddy for the Arsenal divider ❤️💛
summary: when you struck the arrangement with damian wayne to act as your fake boyfriend for a party hosted by your ex and ex-best friend—you thought your choice made perfect sense. choosing damian wayne, the most logical, unattainable person you knew, removes the complication of feelings being involved. till of course, damian stops pretending.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: flufff, damian wayne is a yearner and takes his role of being your pretend boyfriend very seriously.
"You are suggesting I partake in a fake relationship—" Damian Wayne stares down at you, still dressed in his lab coat, with what may be the closest to genuine concern you've ever seen on him, all cramped into the crease of his brows. "To help with your dilemma?"
"Exactly." Your grin is the only positive staple throughout this entire exchange, after your successful cornering of only the most unattainable medical student of Gotham University. "It's like a fancy title for an assignment partner but removing the word 'assignment', right?"
"Assuming that your ambitious plan would even work." Crossing his arms, Damian looks more unimpressed over your carefully planned spreadsheet titled 'Fake-Dating Operation' than the earlier assigned pairings by Dr. Lake. "Do humour me on your astounding confidence that I would even offer my assistance."
"We're already assigned together for the semester." You shrug. "What's one reunion party, and an hour spent pretending you don't hate my guts like you do with everyone else?"
He stares at you for a long beat, before his lips twitch into the smallest smirk. "I appreciate your attempts at lowering my expectations further on how idlers are able to accomplish wasting hours in a day. I expect your section of the report to be done by Sunday."
"Wait!" Your hand reaches out to grab at the ends of his sleeve as he moves past you. "I am an amazing fake partner. I provide free dog walks, cookies, amazing work ethic—it's practically a free service just for a little acting on your part!"
"I appreciate the desperation, and the answer is still a no."
"Wayne!" You call out as his sleeve slips out of your fingers, stopping in your tracks right in front of him—blocking the exit. "Damian, please."
His head tilts to cast you a disapproving expression. "My word of advice, is to gain enough respect for yourself to not be bothered by what others think."
Your lips pull together into a frown, but you refuse to be dissuaded, not when you've already laid all your cards on the table. You didn't expect it to be easy, and you had already prepared yourself for his vicious tongue.
"My self-respect has already been trampled on when they decided to send me the invitation." You state honestly. "It's scheduled for its revival in five weeks, after the party. I'll be a changed person by then, scout's honour."
His brow pulls higher, as if silently questioning if you had even part of the Gotham Scouts, but you're not done.
"But before then, I plan on being the pettiest, deranged person in all of Gotham University." You declare. "And that includes you in my plans, because you, Damian Wayne, are the only person who checks all my requirements of a fake boyfriend."
"I'm honoured." He mocks, gaze flickering past towards the hallway.
"You are Walter's role-model, he would kiss the test tubes you lay your fingers on. Paige has a Pinterest folder labelled with your name, and it has all your news sightings saved by colour coordination."
"Sounds like your issues derive more from the company you keep." He mutters, expression pulled together in disgust.
"Point besides, I want it to be you, Damian Wayne." You confess.
It sounds ridiculous, but this was fully concerning your pride and something you've forgotten in your years of working yourself away for your dreams, which was the taste for controlled chaos. He blinks once, staring at you incredulously as if deciding where to place you in his ranking of newly discovered lunatics.
"You're the only person who will drive them as insane as they've made me." Your voice chokes, filled with determination or buried rage, the difference didn’t seem to matter. "You could walk in there for just an hour to save my life, and I know that you won't have the slightest chance of complicating things, or falling in love with me—and that's what makes this perfect. This may sound crazy to you, but you're the only person that's made sense to me ever since my life was turned upside-down."
Your chest heaves, and your arms are still outstretched to stop him from leaving the lab. You're nothing like this—impulsive, frantic, verging on insanity—but you're also done being complacent. Of letting things go just because it's the right thing to do.
After what feels like eternity, Damian's expression flickers. Implicit and almost undetectable, but his gaze is on you as if he's finally registering your existence and trying to catalogue you into a different box than the one he's placed you in.
"Send the spreadsheet to my email." He answers apprehensively, as if he can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "I will review through the calendar on its... feasibility. Expect a response by eight p.m.."
You let out a held breath, a smile finally breaking through. "Thank you, really—"
"On the condition that I expect you to finish your section by tonight."
Your expression freezes. "Tonight?"
"To prove your desperation's worth considering." He tosses you a mocking smile, all sharp edge and nothing considerable of warmth. "You have ten more hours before my interest wanes."
Your smile weakens, blinking rapidly as you calculate your remaining time to draft something of substance. "Okay, sure— that's not going to be a problem."
It's worth it. Dealing with Damian Wayne is going to be worth it.
I have reviewed through your spreadsheet in detail. Do answer my enquiries on my comments below.
- I believe watching romance comedy as 'theory practice' is highly inefficient and prone to fantastical expectations. Do amend this.
- As for my 'meeting' availabilities, I am free on Thursdays and Fridays at noon to two, on the condition that at least an hour be reserved for actual assignment discussions. You are required to provide evidence of actual progress for the assignment, or this arrangement will be considered void.
- Provide me a list summary on details for answers regarding possible interrogation questions during the party. It will be more efficient as compared to you providing me the details in person.
As for the assignment, your section draft is acceptable, and I expect our lab findings to be updated into your table by the following lab session next week.
Regards,
Damian.
You can barely contain your grin, kicking into the sheets despite the exhaustion that plagues your bones from grueling non-stop over the section and multiple tabs later. He had looked through your multi-coloured spreadsheet calendar, and actually considered it with his own enquiries. Typing out your own response, you give serious thought into his enquiries.
To: [email protected]
Subject: Reply: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review
Thank you for your detailed consideration of my spreadsheet. Your efforts are acknowledged and appreciated.
- I believe we are required to watch at least one rom-com that involves fake-dating. Neither of us have had previous experience in this department (unless you'd like to share valuable information), and it will boost our success rate.
- Perfect! I'm available on Fridays, and scout's honour, I promise to have my progress brought for each meeting session.
- As for the list, I will provide you possible answers, but some may require in-person explanations. I'll explain more this Friday!
Can't even express my thanks on how grateful I am, you're the best Wayne in history!
Signing off your name, you close your laptop with the giddiest smile you've had since—at the reminder, your grin falters. Your chest thuds faintly, as if reminding you that the fun you've just experienced can still be dampened by reality. No, you refuse to let it ruin your enjoyment.
This is the most alive you've felt in weeks, and you're going to make the most of it. If your life feels like it's finally picking up through colourful spreadsheet rows and columns, and waiting on an email reply from the most terrifying student in Gotham University—so be it.
Damian slides your extremely lengthy list across the lunch table, and you can barely hide your shock that he actually printed it out—before you catch sight of many red circles marked neatly around your points.
"Your least favourite vigilante is Robin?" He interrogates.
You blink in surprise, not expecting him to start there. "Well, he's not exactly original—I mean, c’mon, they’re multiple versions of him."
His lips part, aghast in a half-caught scoff. "He's one of the most prominent vigilante figures in Gotham."
You shrug. "Spoiler's cooler."
He clicks at his tongue. "You have horrible taste."
"You are not telling me that you, Damian Wayne, have a favourite and that is Robin?"
He doesn't blink. "There are several other questionable details in your list."
"Yes, I can see that." Peering back at your list, your brows furrow. "What's wrong with liking Gotham's Pizza?"
"Only that you're clearly fond of days-old grease and artificial cheese."
"Hey, that's where it gets its flavour."
He shakes his head, disgusted. "I refuse to be associated with someone who has non-functioning taste buds."
"Fine—we'll say we often have dates at Romeo's instead." You shrug. "Not like I'll be caught there after our agreement's expired."
He raises a brow. "Expired?"
Pointing at your open tab, you reference a newly added row. "Our break-up, scheduled for Monday after the party."
He stares at the date, before his gaze roams over you with a questioning look. "Despite my lack of experience, should you not consider the likely suspicions if you were to end a relationship three days after the party?"
Your lips part into an 'oh'. "I thought you would want to get it over and done with as quickly as possible."
His expression closes in, gaze narrowing. "I will not put my reputation at stake by agreeing to this facade, if it means having our efforts go down the drain because of an obvious flaw.”
Your grin slips out uncontrollably. “You just said ‘our’ efforts. Look at us, the perfect team.”
His expression remains impassive, before he raises a slow brow. “Switch to the assignment tab.”
“Yes, sir.”
Resting below a willow tree, your third Friday with Damian is spent resting below the shade on your picnic cloth—one you used to share with Paige. The sight of its red plaid, stuffed behind your piles of clothes in your wardrobe, was getting sad—even for you.
Damian’s back is resting against the tree bark, shoulders nearly taking up the width—brows impossibly furrowed as his gaze narrows on your laptop displaying ‘To All The Boys I Loved Before’.”
“This movie is non-sensical.”
“I think it’s romantic.” You shrug.
He tosses you a judgmental glance. “Having your own blood betray you by revealing your own personal letters, is your idea of romance?”
“I mean Lara Jean and Peter, Damian.” You snort. “That’s our main source of inspiration.”
“He’s hardly appealing.” He scoffs, arms crossing over the other. “Is this the standards you expect from our arrangement?”
“If this is mediocre—” You respond, aghast. “You have no idea how dire love can be nowadays.”
His frown deepens. “You are not expecting me to perform in this manner?”
“What—falling in love with me?” You grin. “No, I do not expect you to be Peter Lavinsky.”
He stares at you with barely concealed frustration. Before you can tease him further, something purple is tossed into your face.
A yelp escapes your mouth, the light weight of an object falling into your lap.
“That’s—the discontinued, limited edition Spoiler cap!” You gasp, eyes widening in realisation. “How did you get this?”
He shrugs begrudgingly. “My sister used to be a collector. She doesn’t mind giving it away.”
“Giving it away?” You mutter incredulously. “This is actual gold. Your sister is my favourite person on Earth.”
His brow twitches. “I bargained for that cap.”
You snort. “What did you exchange it for, your dignity?”
“You have no clue on my sacrifice." He grimaces.
“Your sacrifice is acknowledged." You tease, before letting out another huff of amazement. “This is the best day of my life.”
When your gaze falls back to the cap, tracing your fingers over the logo—you miss the twitch of his lips into a semblance of a smile.
You missed today’s meeting without prior notice. Not that your absence has affected my ability to resume our assignment, but after your frequent reminders to not miss on our mandatory meetings—it leaves me with doubt that you intentionally missed our sessions on your end. Do update me as soon as possible on your status.
Regards,
Damian. (Sent yesterday, 1.20 p.m.)
Subject: Reply: Reminder on Friday Meetings
I feel I must reinstate that my previous email regarding your absence, as well as this reply, should not be twisted in its meaning as more than a mere enquiry. Given previous evidence of the average speed of your responses, a full 24 hours with a lack of response prompts me to send another email. Do respond when you are able.
Regards,
Damian. (Sent today, 1.32 p.m.)
Three respectable knocks resound against your dormitory’s door. A groan escapes your lips, your head pounding from the cold you’ve caught from a late night running through pouring rain. You had missed the bus and had to make it back before curfew, and now your body is reminding you of its frail mortality, chills shaking throughout your limbs and rendering you heavily immobile.
The knocks echo again when you shift your head deeper into the pillows. You muffle curses into the cotton, gripping at your sheets to steady yourself as you force your body upright. The world sways on its axis as you make your way—shifting pathetically with every step, towards the door.
Missing your lock a few times, you finally grab a hold of the chain and slide it off, clicking the door open. You’re immediately faced with a broad chest, donning a familiar black sweater. Shifting your gaze up, you’re met with Damian Wayne’s narrowed gaze, sweat trailing down his temple.
“Damian?” Your voice croaks, and even the attempt of speaking hurts. “What are you doing here?”
He takes one glance, and immediately, his expression contorts in… concern? You barely have time to explain about the cold, or an apology for missing the meeting, when you feel the warmth of his palm press against your forehead.
You blink, stunned as he measures your temperature. He shakes his head slightly in a disapproving manner. “Your temperature is too high.” His tongue clicks with his observation.
You suppose he was right. You did feel one wrong step from keening over and lying on your welcome mat.
“I got caught in the rain.” You explain, trying your best to pull together a more reassuring expression, one less filled with nausea-induced tension. “I’ll be fine—just need rest.”
His frown creases deeper. “Have you taken medicine?”
You try shaking your head, but that loses whatever balance you had left. The world actually tilts, or maybe you are the one who's obeying gravity—but strong arms catch you before you collapse.
“Look at your state.” Damian grits, pulling you back upright but closer. There's barely any space left between the two of you. “This fever, has it worsened considerably?”
“Yeah—but I didn’t have anyone to call.” You mutter in truth, cheek still smushed against his chest as support. “I ran out of medicine a while ago, and by the time I woke up—I couldn’t get out of bed.”
You feel his arms tense around you. Above the crown of your head, you feel a soft sigh. “You have me.” He mutters, almost reprimanding.
Your brows furrow in confusion. “You would get me medicine?”
“That would be a start.” He states, his grip shifting with his words.
The world shifts again when his hands wrap around the under of your thighs, lifting you into his arms gently to not worsen your state. If your mind wasn’t completely swarmed by the symptoms of your cold, you’d stop to think of how strangely sweet it was that Damian had come all the way to your dormitory, and that he was carrying you bridal-style towards your bed.
”It’s not usually this messy.” You feel the need to point out, words muffled against his sweater. “You just have impeccable timing.”
His lip twitches involuntarily as he sets you down against the thrashed sheets. “Organised according to your system?”
You smile weakly at the thought of your colour-coded spreadsheet. “Exactly.”
He places his palm against your forehead again, and you subconsciously find yourself leaning into his touch. “You’re like—really warm.” You murmur. “Do you always run hot?”
He swallows, touch lingering on your skin. “Your temperature is dysregulated. I’ll return soon with medicine. Rest. I won’t be gone long.”
“Okay.” Your lids fall shut, the pounding lessening with your head burrowed into the pillows, and his touch a gentle anchor. “You know—you’d be a great boyfriend for someone one day.”
You don’t hear a response, and your honest thoughts continue to tumble out from your skull like a cracked jar. “You’re really nice, Dami.” The shortening of his name feels like cotton candy stuffed in your mouth, and you barely register the stiffening of his fingers. “Fierce, but I like that about you. I like you a lot, actually. Not in a swooning way, but in a—I’m really glad I met you kind of way.”
He doesn’t pull away when your lips finally clamp shut, but the silence is almost deafening. You peek open with one eye, catching his expression. He’s staring at you… as if no one’s ever said that to his face—ever.
“Don’t make it weird.” You tease softly, voice tethered with exhaustion. “I’m just giving you your deserved five stars.”
You hear the soft echo of his scoff, withheld from its usual bite, but you don’t hear much else after. Only that the lingering touch of his fingers over your skin stays put till sleep catches up on you, and the world falls silent under the weight of Damian’s gaze. Okay, maybe you were lying a little about the swooning.
Fevers fade, but the warmth that lingers seems to seep past the well-defined borders of a spreadsheet, or the predictable order of a list—like the one currently in your hand.
"Favourite vigilante?" You quiz, red pen bitten between your lips as you laid stretched on the wooden bench.
"Spoiler." He answers, tossing you an expression as if to convey that he couldn't believe you even bothered with such a question.
"Good job." You tease, fiddling with the cap of your pen, attached at the end. "Favourite date spot?"
"Gotham's Pizza." He huffs.
You blink. "Hey, it's supposed to be Romeo's."
"You prefer Gotham's." He mutters.
"But you don't." You remind him.
Averting his gaze to your lips, his fingers loop around the red pen, dragging it gently out from your teeth's grip, and adjusting the answer with a cross. "That's irrelevant. I'm merely pointing out an inconsistency."
Your lips quirk up into a smile. "You don't even need this list anymore. Why bother keeping it?"
Tension pulls briefly at his jaw, but it relaxes before you can trace it to an emotion. "You haven't tested me on all the questions."
You lean in, the crinkled paper resting below your fingers as you gaze into his eyes. "Alright? Something off the books." You hum. "What do I think of Damian Wayne?"
He blinks, surprised. You wait patiently, the warmth of summer carrying the scent of grass blades past the picnic table, the world narrowing into the space between the two of you.
His lips part after a moment. "Fierce." He answers. "Though you're one of the few who doesn't run from it."
"What's there to run from?" You hum. "I think he's nice, you should give him some credit for that."
His brow raises, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That's not a common perception."
"Yeah, but no one else gets to experience him being their partner." You tease. "He even offers to rearrange your dormitory to a better system if you're lucky."
He scoffs lightly. "That's only considering if the existing system barely works."
"Just say you hate colour-coding, Dami." You snort. "I know you're itching to fix our spreadsheet."
His expression flickers for a moment. "Not exactly."
You tilt your head, questioning. His gaze averts to the open spreadsheet, something familiar after the weeks spent together. "It's grown on me."
Grown on him—despite it being everything he initially found horrendous, from the many details pasted in long paragraphs into the comments, and the bright colours for the special shared Fridays between you two. Something warm pools in your chest, and you find your gaze trailing to the red pen held between his fingers instead.
"You're more prepared for this party than I am." You admit softly.
You feel his attention switch onto you, trained on the nervous tick you have where you hyper-focus on something brightly coloured. He twirls the pen once, considering.
"You don't have to go through with this." He says. "Just say the word. I'll honour whatever decision you make."
His reassurance makes you consider it, you really do. With the dreaded anticipation finally reaching its peak, with the party being tonight—you have stopped to think if it was worth it. To show up in a room where the story's long gone sour, and your presence is more likely to be a blight than a welcomed gift.
Then again, you hadn't prepared this all for nothing. You hadn't gotten to know Damian—for nothing.
"No, it'll be fun." You smile, meeting his gaze. "We'll be just like Lara Jean and Peter, but with better standards."
Damian's mouth twitches, almost imperceptible. "Agreed."
Your fingers catch onto the silk-like fabric of your dress. Once bought as a birthday present, you never had the chance to wear something like this. Walter had called it overkill, and you convinced yourself that you’d eventually find a day to wear the gorgeous shade without feeling inadequate for it. Nothing required overkill more than tonight.
Damian's promised to pick you up, even when you had reassured him that meeting at the venue was fine. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and something quivers in your gut.
You don't feel as brave as you'd like, not even in your favourite dress. The thought of the two people you once trusted most being together, exchanging normal niceties with you as if nothing had ever happened—you're seriously beginning to overthink just how horribly awkward this situation was going to be.
What if it wasn't like the movies? What if Damian saw too—just how horribly small you felt—and decided you weren't worth the spreadsheets and lists and medicine kit he over-splurged on when you caught that cold?
The party was going to be over in an hour, you had promised Damian the both of you would be present for no more than that duration—and now, you feel ridiculous in your own skin. You're tempted to text him if he wanted to ditch and just head to Romeo's instead—when you hear the signature three knocks of his against your door.
You swallow your fear-induced nausea back into your gut, and force yourself to open the door with something akin to a smile. Your expression freezes in place at the sight... of Damian tidied up.
You knew he was handsome, you obviously had eyes, but to see him in that white collared shirt that made his green eyes pop, loosened at the buttons, with his hair pulled back and just—wow. Damian Wayne, you were seriously going to the party with this guy? As your fake boyfriend?
You don't notice the way his own expression completely falters at the sight of you. Nor the way his fingers tightened into a fist, digging into his palms.
You only notice how the silence stretched out between the two of you lingers long enough to matter.
"Hey, handsome." You start, trying to regain your composure. "You cleaned up nice."
He blinks, as if stunned. His response comes out delayed, brows pinching together into something honest. "You are beautiful."
Not you look—as if he's only noticed. No, he emphasised the 'are', as if he's always seen it. Your heart doesn't quite know what to do with that information, or how to catalogue the way he's looking at you as if he's—not pretending.
"Thank you." Your voice comes out weaker than you intended, because for all his intensity, Damian being soft is what renders you stunned. "I still don't know if I should do this."
His gaze clears, something steady offered to you when you return it. "You don't need to be sure." He answers, offering his hand. "That's what I'm here for—so you will not be alone."
He's right. Despite your doubts, seeing him in front of you reminds you of the steady presence he's offered from the very beginning. Through your nonsensical email threads, the Friday lunches, the rom-com binging, rushing to the store to buy you cold medicine—your fears always quieted when Damian was near. Your smile brightens, taking his hand in yours. "Let's get this operation over with."
Walter catches sight of you first. His vision is perfectly facing the entrance, your ex's gaze meeting yours as soon as you step through the doorway—and he immediately taps on Paige’s shoulder. An insincere smile arrives on his expression, but it freezes in place the moment Damian enters with you.
He isn't the only one to notice. You knew the effect Damian had on others, standing out without even meaning to, much less in an environment like this. Damian doesn't seem bothered at all, because you feel his attention acutely trained on you instead. His hand rubs a soothing notion over your lower back, as if you're the only person he's aware that exists in the room.
Walter's gaze drifts, from the dress he hated to Damian’s hand wrapping around your waist. He puts the facts together, faster than you had when he and Paige had approached you with the news. The warmth leaves his welcoming expression, and he whispers something into Paige's ear.
Damian registers this entire exchange in under a second, and his hand tightens briefly on your waist, as if reassuring you that he was right beside you.
The distance closes in between you and the two people your life once revolved around, and you train your gaze on Walter, because you can tell immediately that Paige is struck by Damian's appearance, more so by his hand on your waist.
"It's been a while." Walter starts off, though his gaze barely lingers on you before switching to Damian. "Wayne, I don't believe we've been properly introduced."
"There hasn't been a need." Damian shuts him down.
The atmosphere turns icy the moment Walter registers the tone of Damian's voice. He laughs, astonished—and embarrassed. Paige finally recovers in an attempt to salvage the situation, pulling together her best smile.
"Well, it's lovely to have you both here." Paige starts, and her voice is distant—nothing like the girl you used to know, hidden under the blankets of your beaten IKEA sofa when watching Scream for the tenth time. "You look amazing, and—sorry, I'm just curious on how the two of you know each other?"
Her question is directed towards you, but Damian takes the lead. "She's my partner."
"Partner?" Walter chokes on his breath. "As in—"
You finally find your voice to speak. "We are seeing each other." It comes out levelled, matching Damian's.
Their shock registers in different levels. Walter's nears disbelief, while Paige—looks at you, betrayed.
"I didn't know about this." Paige stammers.
"Yes, you didn't." You answer shortly.
She stares at you as if she's seeing a stranger. "Right. I guess it's been a long time since we've caught up."
You're tempted to laugh. A long time is an understatement. You can feel Damian's low scoff against your shoulder, and the absurdity of the situation feels less gut-wrenching with him by your side.
"You know she's a real mess." Walter speaks involuntarily. "Like her apartment's an actual hazard. Isn't that right, Paige?"
Paige freezes, lips parting into a gap, but Damian's faster.
"I am aware—that she has her own unique system." Damian states, gaze narrowing in discontent. "It didn't take long for me to understand it, or to appreciate it."
"Appreciate it?" Walter sneers. "Are you sure you're talking about the right person?"
"Yes." Damian doesn't hesitate, eyes steady, fixing yours. As if he was conveying it to you instead of the audience, he answers. "I'm sure."
You swallow dryly, unable to hide the softened smile you usually reserved for him only when it was the two of you. Both of them catch sight of it, and you can sense the question becoming less of whether it was real, and more of the how.
It's easy to act in love when Damian's this close, muttering words like that, with his familiar warmth grounding you through the stagnant conversation. So instinctive, that you think it's easier than breathing.
You sense Paige shifting closer and you force yourself to focus, and casting her another glance, only to finally catch a glimpse of the girl who used to be your closest person.
“Hey, can we talk?” Her expression is vulnerable, tentative in her offer. "Y'know, catch up in private."
Damian immediately shifts you back slightly with his weight, but you place a hand tentatively on his arm. His gaze locks onto you, reading into your expression. His brow raises as if to ask, 'You're sure?'. You give him a nod.
"Fine by me." You murmur, because despite everything—maybe a part of you still wanted to hear the honest truth. For her decision, on when she decided you should’ve been cut out of the picture then forcefully glued back into what they envisioned to be the perfect way to continue their lives. Maybe you just wanted to see if the Paige you knew still existed.
The moment you enter an unoccupied bathroom, Paige presses the door shut and immediately turns to you. "You have to spill."
Your brows furrow. "On?"
"Damian Wayne." She points out as if it's obvious. "You don't even know him."
You blink once then twice, and something colder settles in the cavity of your chest. "Things change, Paige."
“I’m just worried. It's all just so sudden.” Her hand reaches out to grasp yours, and you resist the instinctive flinch. “You’ve always been sensitive, and a guy like him is just bad news. I mean—Damian Wayne? I get that it feels exciting, but he barely knew of your existence before and now, he's suddenly dating you? I just want us to be on the same page here, that it doesn't really make sense."
A scoff rises up your throat, barely constrained as she continues on, her softened voice a perfect replica of how she had been when you first made your decision to break up with Walter.
“You know I’ll always support you if you need me.” She reassures. “You can tell me anything.”
The anger bubbles so violently, and it hits you. That despite everything, you had came into this party hoping that maybe a fraction of the girl you knew—who cried with you on bathroom floors when you experienced homesickness, who celebrated when you managed to pass your first year of medical school, who was there for your entire life in Gotham—would still exist. That something would give way, and her leaving would make sense, to have a reason. You realise now, that you've only been giving her excuses on the basis of what she used to mean to you.
Your wrath gives way to something cold, absent of grief—only the need to rip your hand out of hers. You do just that, and her shock barely registers before you open your mouth. “No.” Your voice carries a finality, strength you’ve been trying to garner since the day you lost her. “You don’t get to define my relationship with Damian, when you never addressed ours.”
She blinks, affronted. “Is this about Walter? We've already explained—we only felt what we did after the two of you broke up—”
“No, this isn’t about Walter. This is about us.” The coldness in your tone finally strikes something honest in her expression. “You broke my trust, Paige, and then you invite me to this party cause you thought it would help make amends? I thought you brought me in here, to at least explain to me on what happened to us."
"You should've told me." She says, a frown stretched at her lips. "If you weren't comfortable being around me and Walter, we wouldn't have forced you to come."
We—the word runs through your mind like a tire screech.
“Yes, I wasn't comfortable—I nearly died inside when it happened." You raise your head. "I lost my best friend, who drove me to karaoke night whenever I needed to forget about home. I lost the girl who swore to re-watch all rom-coms that ever existed in the 90s before we both turned fifty. I lost the only person I trusted since I moved into this city, over what—a man? Was it worth it, was our friendship worth it?”
She swallows thickly, and you see a fracture of the girl you recognise under the glitter, and the tears collecting at her lower lashes. “I thought you understood—that I love him differently than you did.”
Your gaze doesn’t flinch at the admission. “You were by my side when he broke up with me, when I told you that he called my dresses ugly, when he said my attitude was too much, when he made me smaller because it was more convenient for him when I was quieter, and you still got together with him. Maybe I thought you loved me enough too, to understand why I wasn't comfortable with it.”
Her expression shatters, and tears drip down her cheeks before she harshly wipes at them, smearing her eyeshadow. “You don’t get to say that.” She spits out. “Making it seem like I chose Walter over you, when you brought in Damian Wayne.”
Your brows contort. “What are you talking about?”
“You decided to come to the party to—prove you suddenly became better than us just by being with a Wayne?” She snaps. “You're acting like this because you think he's going to stay—but you don’t seriously believe it’ll actually last when Walter could barely stand you?”
That anger, buried deep, comes alive with a roar. You take a step forward, causing her to inch backward as you close in. “That's all you’re taking from this?" Your scoff resounds coldly. "Damian was the one who was there for me when you left—so yeah, I have more trust in him to treat me like an actual person."
She flinches, her lips parting in the same way she had done earlier when Walter tried to make you small. Silent, and unable to do anything but lay there in her guilt of absorbing an idea of who you are in Walter's head, and erasing what made you human in her eyes.
"Rest assured. You will never gain my trust again to even know what’s going on in my life and the people in it, and you never will.”
Taking a step back, you look at her one last time. Of the mess of her makeup, the same puffy eyes whenever she cries that you used to immediately follow up with the instinct to comfort her. You feel none of that now. “Goodbye, Paige.”
She doesn’t call out your name when you turn your back on her, and she doesn’t come after you. You needed that, more than you needed her to be the person you thought she was. To be blunt, and truthful to yourself—even if no one but you believed in it.
The euphoric lightness of your body from finally severing the bond doesn’t last long, when a rough hand grabs at your wrist. Being twisted around, you’re faced with Walter’s accusing expression.
“What did you say to her?”
“What I discussed with Paige stays between us.” You answer coldly, tugging at your wrist.
His hand tightens more, almost bruising. “You’re bringing in that attitude of yours, when we were kind enough to think of you? To let you stick around our lives?"
You’re sick of this narrative, of acting like you should’ve been grateful they thought to include you into this sick little group from your past life as if they hadn’t completely burnt it into flames.
“Walter, get your hands off before I shove—“
A fist slams into the side of Walter’s face before you even have a chance to finish your sentence. Screams erupt from the crowd, or cheers—you can barely tell because your eyes are locked onto Damian, who’s grabbing Walter by the collar with chafed knuckles.
Multiple eyes are on them, but your own gaze is fixed on Damian’s expression, who has gone completely cold. Nearly murderous, and filled with uncontained wrath. His glare, almost deadly, is trained on his target in a way you’ve never seen him before. The composed, distant Damian—is nowhere to be found.
"You stay away from her." Damian growls.
"What the hell, man!" Walter spits, blood sprayed over his nose. "Do you seriously think she's worth—"
Damian drags him closer by the collar, and something inhuman flashes past his concentrated gaze. "She's worth more than you ever will dream of trying to be. You are nothing, and even daring to lay a hand on her is something you will pay for."
“Damian!” You shout.
That finally reaches him, past the simultaneous gawking and murmurs. It’s as if he’s reentered his own body, and Damian immediately drops Walter to the ground with a loud thud. Walter lands embarrassingly on his bottom, and his entire face has gone red with shame.
His gaze switches to you, and his wrath fades immediately into concern. His eyes fall onto your bruising skin, and his emotions fall apart into something colder. You have a feeling if you don’t get him out of this room, this fight may escalate into something much worse.
Pushing through the forming crowd, you reach out. “Let’s get out of here.” You plead, holding out your hand.
His gaze drops to your fingers, then back to the forming outline of a hand gripped around your wrist, and you see his calculating assessment. Damian leans lower, muttering something low into Walter’s ear. It is quick, but you see the way Walter completely freezes in place—his struggle evading from his body like a statue. When Damian’s eyes meet your frightened ones once more, he doesn’t hesitate a second longer before grabbing your hand.
Damian doesn't waste time in leading you through the crowd, towards the exit and away from the escalating noise—and into the night breeze. When the cold wind finally hits your skin, his hand remains firmly intertwined with yours as he guides you somewhere far away—the fact still lingers that Damian, perfect track record and Wayne prodigy, just punched someone for you.
“You punched him.” You mutter faintly, seated at a bench you’ve both found, crisp leaves surrounding you with the faint singing of crickets.
“He was hurting you.”
“Damian, the whole school’s going to talk about this.” You stress. “You’re going to get in trouble, possibly a suspension.”
His jaw clenches. “I am your partner.”
Damian’s agitated. Over the situation, despite there no longer being any witnesses to his supposed protection. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched and his gaze—you recall how he had looked at Walter when he landed that first hit, the pure anger that seized him.
“Not a real one.”
He flinches, as if struck, and you knew immediately that your words landed wrongly. His emotions topple over the other, and you’re unable to name any that arises before it all falls apart like his body’s regained consciousness. Concealed, and distant.
“My mistake.” He mutters. “I’ve forgotten my standing.”
“Damian—”
“I do not wish to inconvenience you.” He states, words leaving in a bitter rush. “I have overstepped, I realise that.”
“Damian.” You call out for the second time, fingers reaching for his—and he finally breathes when your warmth seeps through his skin. You’re relieved he doesn’t pull away. “That came out wrong. I’m not mad you punched the jerk, I would’ve done it myself. I am glad you stood up for me, but I’m just confused on why you did it, because there's nothing at stake for you, only something to lose.”
His expression stiffens at the verbal admission of his visible frustration. This conversation sounds much too real, and the lines that have been carefully drawn are erasing themselves, leaving behind uncharted territory. One you weren’t sure how to navigate.
“You do matter to me, as more than a role.” You plead. “I don’t want you to think you’re someone I chose out of convenience. Please don’t believe that.”
His breath exhales low, controlled. His gaze flickers with the briefest uncertainty, and you realise how selfish you’ve been. This arrangement had been perfect for you, that you simply assumed it was the same for him.
“No, you are not at fault.” He mutters after a moment. “It is not your responsibility to handle the consequence of my actions. We had agreed on no complications, and I have done exactly that.”
His jaw tightens, before he finally spits it out. “I punched him because the boundaries of what was was real or imagined between us has never made a difference to me. He had hurt you, not only physically—“ His gaze shifts to your reddened wrist, and it darkens completely. “—but he is a culprit to your existing pain. I was angry, because I couldn’t comprehend that I was finally faced with the two morons who thought losing you was even a consideration, and to see them hold no remorse for it made me forget my place.”
“I’ve always excelled in being what others expected of me.” He mutters. “When you approached me, it was the first time I had not wanted to be confined to a role. I did not want to partake in a façade, because—I had wanted your request to be for something real. Then, you mentioned that you picked me because I had not the slightest chance of falling for you. It was ironic, and I knew then that I should've rejected your request."
"But I started to earnestly believe—that I could separate emotion and duty. I could be in your presence, and not feel the consequences if the arrangement ended—because nothing would be real.”
“Till I realised—how much it affected me to not have you truly at all.” He confesses. “I should’ve been honest, that this arrangement had become the opposite of what we’ve agreed upon. But I was afraid, of admitting that I wasn’t capable of control, of driving you away."
“Damian." Your frown deepens. "You’re not going to lose me.”
“I don’t know.” He blurts honestly. “I do not know how to handle want. I am built of structure, of worth to prove why I deserve to keep my position, that has always been what I’ve provided. I do not know how to want without providing substance to covet a person.”
“But I want you.” He exhales. “Not once has it been pretend for me, not when it had already existed before our arrangement. Every moment I reached for your hand, every time I checked that horrendous shaded calendar of yours. I rushed over the moment you went missing when you were sick, because I had wanted to look for you. I have never once hesitated in calling myself your partner, even knowing the role was temporary. I want you, in the real, complicated way—that I've failed in being what you needed me to be."
"That's not true." You break. "That's not what I need you to be at all, Damian."
He finally looks at you, a little less restrained—and almost startled at your words.
"If you had been real about this the entire time, Damian, then so have I." You admit. "I chose you because I thought you wouldn't have fallen for me, that is true—but that is because I also thought it was safe because I knew I was going to fall for you."
"I wasn't kidding when I said I like you." You confess. "In all of the complicated, real sense of the word, and you were always going be the one I was going to choose. Even if you had said no, I wouldn't have asked anyone else. I wanted you from the start, Damian, and that hasn't changed. I was going to ask you at freaking Romeo's after this, if you wanted this to be real too."
The moment those words leave your lips, Damian closes in. His fingers tug you by your waist, his hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, and his lips are on yours. Damian Wayne, who still has forming bruises at his knuckles from a fight he landed in to defend you, is kissing you on a park bench in the middle of the night—and you're not dreaming.
It's clearly his first, but there's something so tenderly sweet about it that your heart trembles uncontrollably—enough to render something wet at your lashes by the time he's pulled back.
He pulls apart just to meet your gaze, and you've never seen him this relieved. "This is real." He restates, as if he can't quite truly believe it.
“We did just have our first official fight.” You murmur, cheek pressed to his chest.
"Official." He hums in acknowledgement. "I like that."
Your smile teethers into something soft when you feel the soft press of his mouth against the shell of your ear. "Yeah, guess our operation tonight ended in a success."
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
2.8k words, Artist! Reader, Digital and Traditional Art, Damian likes hanging out with the reader, Dick Grayson being Dick Grayson, Chaos in the Batfamily GC
Different artists. Different mediums.
A collection of fluffy, slice-of-life moments about two artists learning to understand each other—one medium at a time.
Author's notes:
I swear I get inspired at the worst time possible.
I am digging myself a grave since this is one of the two mini-series I plan to start while my acads are piling up ദ്ദി( T ᗜ T ) Anyways, enjoy the part 1 of this series ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
.•───────•°. ݁˖.᯽. ݁˖.°•───────•.
Sunlight poured in through the wide glass windows of the Wayne manor, casting the tea room in a soft glow. F/n and Damian sat beside each other, working in comfortable silence.
The faint scratching of graphite against paper mixed with the occasional tap of a stylus against a screen. Damian's sketchbook rested on his lap, one gloved hand smudged faintly with charcoal as he carefully shaded the portrait taking shape on the page.
Beside him, F/n sat curled up in her chair, tablet balanced on her knees. Her brows furrowed in concentration as she adjusted colors and layers with practiced ease.
They rarely spoke during moments like these.
There was no need to.
Sometimes Damian would glance at her screen, offering the occasional critique. Other times, F/n would lean over to admire the intricate details of his traditional work.
It was... nice.
Peaceful.
Naturally, it couldn't last.
The tea room doors swung open with enough force to rattle the hinges.
"Artists!"
F/n jumped.
Damian didn't even look up.
"No."
"You don't even know what I'm going to ask."
"It involves you being insufferable."
"Close."
Dick Grayson strode into the room with all the confidence of a man who had never once been told no in his life.
He stopped in front of them, placed a hand over his chest, and struck what he probably thought was a charming pose.
"Draw me like one of your French girls."
F/n held back her laugh as Damian shot a disgusted look towards his oldest brother.
“ You do not fit into the category, Grayson.”
“ You can use your imagination, dearest brother.”
“I have,” Damian replied flatly, eyes narrowing as Dick adjusted his pose for the third time. “It is actively suffering.”
Dick placed a hand over his heart again, as if physically struck.
“Suffering? F/n, did you hear that? He called my artistry suffering.”
F/n finally lost the battle and let out a quiet laugh, quickly covering her mouth with the back of her hand as Damian’s glare flicked toward her.
“Do not encourage him.”
“I’m not encouraging him,” she said, still smiling. “I’m just… observing the disaster.”
“Rude,” Dick declared, shifting onto the chaise lounge with exaggerated elegance. One arm draped over the back, the other resting across his forehead. “This is a high-concept artistic moment.”
“It is a man lying down,” Damian corrected.
“A vision,” Dick insisted.
Damian exhaled through his nose and returned to his sketchbook, charcoal moving with sharp, controlled strokes. “If I must suffer through this, I will at least document it accurately.”
F/n tilted her head slightly, stylus hovering over her tablet. “You’re actually drawing him?”
“I am documenting evidence,” Damian said without looking up.
“That sounds very official,” she murmured, amused.
Dick immediately perked up. “Yes! Make me look heroic. Mysterious. Tragic. Like I’ve seen things.”
“You have seen me working,” Damian muttered. “That is already tragic.”
F/n snorted, quickly turning her attention to her screen before Damian could fully turn his glare on her again.
“Try not to make him too ugly,” Dick added brightly.
Damian paused mid-stroke.
“Grayson.”
“What? I’m just saying—”
“If you speak again, I will draw you as a corpse.”
A beat of silence.
“...Dark. I like it,” Dick said, resettling dramatically. “Continue.”
From beside Damian, F/n quietly adjusted her layers, already planning exactly how ridiculous her version of this was going to be.
~~~
After an hour or two, Damian finally finished sketching, which made Dick grin like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Wow, you got my chiseled jaw right," Dick hummed, holding up the sketchpad for everyone to admire.
F/n leaned over to get a better look.
She nearly choked.
Technically speaking, it was incredible.
The anatomy was flawless.
The shading was immaculate.
Every detail of Dick's face had been captured with impressive precision.
Unfortunately, Damian had also perfectly captured every ounce of his brother's insufferable smugness.
Dick looked like the physical embodiment of a self-congratulatory speech.
"You made me look arrogant."
Damian deadpanned.
"I drew what I saw."
F/n snorted.
Dick looked offended for all of three seconds before his grin returned.
"Fair enough."
He proudly tucked the sketch under his arm before turning toward F/n.
"Now let me see yours."
Suddenly, F/n became very interested in her tablet.
"No."
Dick gasped.
"You drew me too?"
"Maybe."
"F/n."
"Maybe."
"F/n."
Damian glanced up from cleaning his charcoal pencils.
The mischievous smile slowly spreading across F/n's face immediately made him suspicious.
Dick, unfortunately, noticed it too.
"You absolutely drew me."
"Possibly."
"Show me."
"No."
Dick lunged.
F/n yelped and twisted away, clutching her tablet to her chest as Dick attempted to peek over her shoulder.
"Show me!"
"Get away from me!"
"I deserve to see my portrait!"
"You deserve nothing!"
Damian watched the two wrestle over a digital drawing with complete disappointment.
"You are both children."
"She drew me with something embarrassing!"
"Because you're embarrassing!"
"THAT'S NOT THE POINT!"
Eventually Dick succeeded in catching a glimpse.
Silence.
F/n froze.
Damian frowned.
Dick stared.
Then—
"...Are those sparkles?"
F/n covered her face.
"Maybe."
"Why am I surrounded by roses?"
"Artistic interpretation."
"IS THAT A CROWN?"
"You said to capture your essence."
Damian immediately stood and walked over.
Against his better judgment.
Against years of training.
Against basic survival instincts.
He looked.
Dick had indeed been transformed into some sort of Renaissance prince.
Golden sparkles.
Decorative flourishes.
An absurdly majestic cape.
And at the bottom:
Richard Grayson
Professional Nuisance
For a brief moment, Damian was silent.
Then his shoulders shook.
Once.
Twice.
F/n's eyes widened.
Dick pointed accusingly.
"Did he just laugh?"
Damian immediately schooled his expression.
"No."
"You laughed."
"I did not."
"F/n, he laughed."
F/n was already wheezing into her hands.
"Oh my gosh, I'm turning this into a sticker."
Damian's eyes widened.
Dick's widened too.
Then Dick grinned.
"I am getting free merch.”
F/n quickly saved her work, giggling as she sent the soft copy to the Batfamily group chat.
Free sticker, you may use it.
She hit send before either brother could stop her.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Then:
Jason: Oh, this is priceless.
Steph: I'M CRYING.
Tim: Downloaded.
Cass: 😊💕
Duke: Why does he look majestic and embarrassing at the same time?
Jason: That's just Dick.
Dick looked smug.
"See? The people love me."
His confidence lasted exactly seven seconds.
Tim changed the group icon.
The chat photo immediately became French Girl Dick.
Silence filled the tea room.
F/n stared at her screen.
Dick stared at her screen.
Damian stared at her screen.
Then:
Jason: Beautiful.
Steph: Finally, a profile picture that represents this family.
Bruce: Change it back.
Jason: No.
Tim: No.
Steph: No.
Cass: No.
Duke: No.
Dick: No.
F/n nearly fell out of her chair laughing.
Across from her, Damian pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You have unleashed something terrible."
"I know," she wheezed.
A new message popped up.
Bruce: This is not professional.
Less than a second later:
French Girl Dick Sticker
Jason
F/n buried her face in her hands.
Dick was laughing so hard he nearly dropped Damian's sketchbook.
More notifications poured in.
French Girl Dick Sticker
Steph
French Girl Dick Sticker
Duke
French Girl Dick Sticker
Tim
One after another.
The chat devolved into complete chaos.
Even Alfred eventually joined.
Alfred: Quite the resemblance, Master Richard.
Attached beneath it?
The sticker.
Dick gasped.
"Alfred used my sticker!"
"Our sticker," F/n corrected.
"No, no. This is my legacy."
Damian looked ready to throw himself out the nearest window.
His phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
He reluctantly pulled it out.
Twenty-seven unread messages.
Twenty-six of them were French Girl Dick.
The last one was from Bruce.
Bruce: Change the group picture back.
Attached beneath the message?
A sticker.
French Girl Dick.
The room fell silent.
Damian slowly looked down at his phone.
Then at F/n.
Then at Dick.
Dick looked moments away from tears.
"He used the sticker."
"Father used the sticker."
F/n laughed so hard she had to set her tablet down.
“ I love my life,” She whispered, breathless as the tears formed at the corner of her eyes.
Across the room, Dick pointed at her dramatically.
"You hear that? My art has brought joy to the people."
"Your art?" Damian repeated.
"Our art."
"It is not our art."
"Communal art, then."
"That is not how ownership works."
F/n dissolved into another fit of giggles.
Her stomach hurt.
Her cheeks hurt.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed this much.
The group chat continued to explode with notifications.
Every few seconds another sticker appeared.
Jason had apparently discovered how to enlarge it.
Steph was using it as punctuation.
Tim had already created three variants.
Somehow.
Nobody knew how.
Dick looked unbearably proud.
"This is what being an icon feels like."
"This is what being a nuisance feels like," Damian corrected.
"Potato, potahto."
"Those are pronounced the same."
"Exactly."
Damian looked genuinely offended.
Which only made F/n laugh harder.
The sound filled the tea room, bright and unrestrained.
For a moment, Dick stopped talking.
Damian stopped glaring.
Even the constant buzzing of phones faded into the background.
Because F/n looked happy.
Completely, genuinely happy.
Head tipped back.
Eyes shining.
Smile so wide it made her cheeks ache.
Damian found himself staring.
The sight settled somewhere warm in his chest.
A feeling he refused to examine too closely.
Then F/n wiped at her eyes and finally caught her breath.
"Okay," she managed. "Okay, I think I'm done laughing."
Her phone immediately buzzed.
She glanced down.
Tim: Made another sticker.
Attached below was French Girl Dick wearing Robin's domino mask.
F/n made a strangled noise.
Dick screamed.
Damian closed his eyes.
~~~
F/n packed up her belongings, humming softly to herself as Damian quietly waited for her to finish.
"Oh."
She let out a small laugh, reaching into the side pocket of her backpack.
"So this is where one of my paintbrushes was hiding."
Damian glanced over, a flicker of curiosity crossing his features.
"You paint?"
She nodded, twirling the worn paintbrush between her fingers.
"Well..."
A sheepish smile tugged at her lips.
"I used to."
Damian's gaze lingered on the brush.
"Used to?"
F/n tucked it back into her bag.
"Traditional art gets pretty expensive after a while."
She shrugged as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
"Canvas, paper, paints, replacement brushes... they all add up."
"Digital art is just more practical for me. I only really need my tablet now."
She smiled again, though this one was smaller.
"I still miss it sometimes, though."
As F/n tucked the paintbrush back into her backpack, Damian's gaze lingered on the worn wooden handle.
He said nothing.
Yet her words remained lodged stubbornly in his mind.
Traditional art gets pretty expensive after a while.
"I'm done," F/n announced cheerfully, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. "My parents should be here soon."
Together, they made their way downstairs.
Usually around this time, Damian's siblings would attempt to convince F/n to stay for dinner—or, as Damian preferred to think of it, prolong their daily disturbance.
"Don't listen to them, F/n," Damian huffed as they descended the staircase. "They do not have any friends to occupy their time."
"Hey!" Dick protested from the living room.
Jason scoffed. "Says the guy who's following her to the front door."
Damian didn't even spare him a glance.
"I am merely ensuring she reaches the foyer safely."
"It's thirty feet," Tim deadpanned.
"A perilous thirty feet."
F/n hid a smile behind her sleeve.
"You know," Dick mused, "for someone who keeps telling her not to stay, you sure escort her out every single time."
Damian finally stopped walking.
"...That is called having manners."
"Uh-huh."
"Father taught us to see guests off."
Jason crossed his arms.
"Funny how you only volunteer when it's F/n."
"...Coincidence."
"Every. Single. Visit."
Damian's eye twitched.
"You are all remarkably observant regarding matters that do not concern you."
Before anyone could tease him further, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway drifted through the entrance hall.
F/n peeked through the sidelights.
"Oh, that's my parents."
Dick immediately brightened.
"Tell them we said hi!"
"And tell them to let you stay longer next time," Steph added with a grin.
F/n laughed, slipping on her shoes.
"I'll try."
She turned toward the family, smiling warmly.
"Thanks for having me over."
"Anytime," Dick said.
"Bring the French Girl sticker updates next visit," Jason added.
"I'm making no promises."
Damian silently reached for the front door before anyone else could.
He opened it for her without a word.
F/n smiled.
"Thanks, Damian."
"...Drive safely."
"I will."
She stepped outside, waving once more before making her way to the waiting car.
Damian lingered in the doorway until the vehicle disappeared down the long Wayne Manor driveway.
Only then did he turn back inside.
Dick's grin was immediate.
"You watched until she left."
Damian shut the door with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.
"...I was confirming her transportation departed safely."
Jason snorted.
"Sure you were."
For once, Damian didn't offer a sharp retort.
He simply turned and climbed the stairs, leaving the amused laughter of his siblings behind.
The moment he stepped into his room, his gaze drifted almost instinctively toward the neatly arranged art supplies resting on his desk.
Sketchbooks.
Charcoal pencils.
Watercolors.
Brushes of varying sizes.
A fresh canvas still wrapped in its protective sleeve.
His eyes lingered there for a long moment.
"...That was a watercolor brush," he mused quietly, his foot tapping an absent rhythm against the wooden floor.
Traditional art gets pretty expensive after a while.
F/n hadn't sounded upset.
Nor had she complained.
If anything, she'd spoken with quiet acceptance.
As though she'd long since made peace with setting aside one passion in favor of another.
His gaze swept over the assortment of supplies neatly arranged on his desk.
Paints.
Brushes.
Sketchbooks.
Paper.
Things he had never once considered before purchasing.
Damian frowned.
"...Tt."
~~~~~
"Sweetie!" F/n's mother called from the front entrance. "There's a package for you!"
F/n looked up from her tablet, blinking in confusion.
A package?
She frowned.
I didn't order anything...
Setting her stylus aside, she slipped off her bed.
"Um... coming!"
She hurried downstairs, curiosity growing with each step.
A medium-sized cardboard box sat neatly by the doorway.
No company logo.
No gift wrapping.
Just her name, written neatly across the shipping label.
She crouched beside it.
"...That's odd."
"Did one of your friends send it?" her mother asked.
F/n shook her head.
"Not that I know of."
F/n carefully opened the box.
She froze.
Inside are neatly arranged supplies
A professional watercolor palette.
Cold-pressed watercolor paper.
Round brushes in several sizes.
Masking tape.
A ceramic mixing palette.
Maybe even a small handwritten guide to brush care that came from the art store.
No note.
No sender.
Just carefully chosen supplies.
F/n blinked once.
Twice.
"...Did I manifest these?"
Another pause.
"...No, that's ridiculous."
She frowned.
"...Unless..."
Her fingers brushed against the cold-pressed watercolor paper.
"...Wait."
She carefully lifted the pad, her eyes immediately landing on the familiar brand printed across the cover.
"...No way."
It was the exact brand she'd paused to admire during a visit to the local art supply store.
Slowly, she reached for the bundle of brushes.
Round.
Flat.
Detail.
The same series she'd once absentmindedly mentioned wanting to try.
Her heartbeat quickened.
"...These..."
She picked up the watercolor palette next.
Professional grade.
The colors she'd always gravitated toward.
Even the paper was cold-pressed—her favorite for layering washes.
F/n looked back into the box.
Nothing had been chosen at random.
Every single item...
"...These are all things I like."
She fell silent.
Whoever had sent the package hadn't simply bought art supplies.
They had listened.
A quiet exhale of disbelief escaped F/n's lips.
She already had a suspicion as to who was behind the mysterious package.
Of course...
He'd send it anonymously.
It was exactly something Damian would do.
She couldn't help but smile.
Beside her, her mother watched the expression bloom across her daughter's face with growing amusement.
"...Hmm."
The older woman folded her arms.
"I think my daughter has a rich secret admirer."
F/n nearly dropped the watercolor palette.
"Mom!"
Her mother laughed.
"What? I'm just making an observation."
"It's not—"
"A mysterious package."
"..."
"Filled with expensive gifts."
"..."
"That just so happen to be all your favorite art supplies."
F/n buried her burning face behind the watercolor pad.
"...It's probably just a friend."
Her mother raised an eyebrow.
"A very attentive friend."
"...Mom."
"A friend with excellent taste."
"Mom!"
Laughing, her mother gently patted her shoulder.
"Whoever sent them," she said more softly, "they must have been paying close attention."
F/n's gaze drifted back to the neatly arranged supplies.
She lightly traced a finger over the handle of one of the brushes.
dick grayson x gn reader
(ft. bruce wayne)
fluff
contains: mentions of reader's parents having marital problems
wc: ~2k
⟣ desc: a friendship formed between you and robin thanks to batman's candy pouch. ⟢
"uh...batman?"
"what, robin?"
dick grayson points to a few buildings over.
"why is there a kid on that roof?"
indeed, you're sitting on the edge of the apartment rooftop, legs stuck out between the railing and dangling over the side. your sweater doesn't do much against the cold, the night air nips at your cheeks until they sting.
as much as you'd rather be curled up in bed beneath your blankets, drifting off to sleep, the rooftop is quieter. gotham looks different from up here. the people on the sidewalks look like tiny ants and the bright yellow taxis resemble the ones lined on the toy stores shelves. in the distance, the neon glow of the wayne enterprises sign cuts through the darkness like a beacon.
"what are you doing here?"
the deep voice nearly makes you jump out of your skin. you spin around to heavy boots, a black cape, and a flash of green, red, and yellow.
"batman...!" you gasp.
"and robin," dick murmurs, though his voice is swept up by the wind.
batman folds his arms across his chest.
"it's late."
"i know..."
"you should be in bed."
"i know..."
"where it's safe."
behind him, robin rolls his eyes under his domino mask. he's had this exact conversation with bruce more times than he can count. admittedly, it's nice not being lectured for once.
"but..." you pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. "my parents are still fighting."
batman freezes and robin nervously glances at him. beneath the cowl, he can almost hear bruce thinking. dick looks back at you, your eyes have already drifted toward gotham's skyline again, another gust of wind prickles at your skin and flutters his cape. bruce paused patrol expecting to spend no more than a minute convincing this stubborn kid to head back inside. instead, he found a child in search of peace and quiet on the rooftop. his gaze flickers to your legs dangling precariously over the edge. that, however, is still a problem. wordlessly, batman reaches for one of the pouches on his utility belt. dick's eyes light up—that's the candy pouch.
"can i sit here?"
before you can answer, robin plops down beside you with the confidence of someone who clearly wasn't waiting for permission.
"you're already sitting," you deadpan.
"and you're too close to the edge," robin replies matter-of-factly. "dangerous."
"you backflip off buildings every night!"
"that's different!"
"you're, like, the same age as me!"
"do you want candy or not?"
two orange candies swirled with white rest in the palm of his hand. you stare at the candy, then back at him, then at the candy again. robin does little to fight the coy smile on his face. he knows the offer is tempting—bribing with candy almost always works, but some light pressure pushes it to foolproof.
"going once...!"
his smile grows wider. he can practically feel your resolve crumbling.
"going twice...!"
with a tiny huff, you scoot closer to him. robin beams like he's just closed the biggest sale of his life. out of the corner of his eye, he catches batman's almost imperceptible nod.
"i'm robin."
you carefully take the candy from his hand, fingers brushing against the fabric of his gloves.
"...i know."
~
soon, candy breaks on the rooftop become routine. when the arguments and accusations seep through the thin walls, you quietly slip out the door and take the stairs to the rooftop. not long after, robin appears with a grin and two pieces of candy, batman standing stoically in the shadows a few feet away. you're not sure if friend is the right word, but regardless, you've formed some sort of bond with robin. although you wonder who he is under the domino mask—and why he feels the need to dive off buildings—on the rooftop, he's not robin. he's just another kid who shares his candy with you.
~
"why is it always orange creamsicle?" you groan.
robin shrugs, already unwrapping his piece.
"dunno, it's what batman carries."
"why not strawberry or something?"
"oh, so you don't want candy anymore?"
"i never said that!"
~
"guess who i met yesterday!"
"wh—"
"superman!"
"you didn't even let me guess!"
~
"doesn't it look pretty from up here?"
you tilt your head.
"what does?"
robin gestures toward the skyline.
"gotham."
a small smile tugs at your lips.
"yeah, it kinda does."
~
one particular night, however, robin senses something is off. the moment he lands on the rooftop and bounds up to you with his usual offering, he knows. you take a second too long to accept the candy, you refuse to meet his eyes, and you're not smiling. by the time he settles beside you, his heart is thrumming in his chest.
"i have to tell you something."
he turns toward you.
"my parents are getting divorced," you confess. "my mom and i are moving next week."
"that's okay!" robin blurts. "we can always meet on a different rooftop."
"no, i mean...we're moving far away from gotham."
"oh."
suddenly, the taste of orange creamsicle on his tongue changes—it's different tonight, it's too sweet.
~
you pry your eyes away from the gotham skyline at the sound of grappling hooks and fluttering capes. robin bounds up to you, flashing a toothy grin. he's extra chatty today, long rambles filling the silence for both of you as you pop the candy into your mouth.
"are you all packed?"
"almost."
"do they have rooftops there?"
"probably."
"cool! that means you can still have candy up there!"
you don't answer right away. robin scratches the back of his neck.
"actually," he winces, "nevermind, that's kinda dangerous."
the conversation fizzles out, leaving only the distant hum of traffic below. gotham stretches endlessly before you, just as it always has. somehow, it already feels farther away.
"robin."
on the edge of the building, batman shifts his weight from one foot to the other, waiting for him to follow. time's up. your throat suddenly feels too tight. you blink a little harder than usual, the city lights blurring. robin stands, takes a few steps backwards, but he stops.
"...wait."
you watch him curiously while he awkwardly fishes around under his cape. he procures a small plastic bag filled to the brim with the familiar orange creamsicle candies tied neatly with a red bow.
"that's a lot of candy," you note.
but you're not looking at the bag. you're looking at robin.
"yeah, well...batman bought too much."
"thanks, batman!" you call to the shadows, gently taking the bag and clutching it close to your chest.
bruce furrows his brows. that's a lie—dick dragged him to the candy store to buy it with his own allowance.
"...what about you?" you ask.
"what do you mean?"
"who's going to eat candy with you on the rooftop now?"
dick opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. he didn’t consider that part, never let himself think that far. his face falters for a second.
"i'll figure something out."
he’s smiling, again, and you can do nothing except offer a weak one back.
~
aimlessly wandering the gotham streets under grey skies, a colorful storefront catches dick grayson's eye. without much thought, he ducks inside the candy shop. his eyes skim the fudge in the display case, the workers in striped aprons making new batches, and the small children tugging on their parents' sleeves. he walks past all of them, softly whistling to himself as he searches for the familiar orange candies. he circles the shop a few times before finding them tucked away in the corner.
"an old gotham classic," the man at the register declares when dick places two bags of it on the counter.
"yeah, loved these as a kid."
"they've been around for a while," the man continues, manually typing the price into the old machine. "we're switchin' em out for a different orange-flavored hard candy."
dick pauses. he hesitates to hand his card.
"like, discontinuing them?"
"yeah, this is our last batch. good thing you got some 'fore they're gone."
the plastic bag swings gently at his side as he waits for the crosswalk. a lot of things have changed—a cape no longer brushes at the back of his legs, alfred doesn't wait with cocoa after patrol anymore, and bruce... dick shoves the thought aside before the light changes. a few drops of rain land on his forehead. he pulls his hood up. he didn't account for the weather today.
hours later, nightwing makes his usual rounds. it's still drizzling and the autumn air seeps through the elastic of his suit, biting at his skin. he peers down into the dark alleys, inside dilapidated warehouses, the usual places he'd expect to find trouble. tonight, there's nothing. gotham seems quiet.
like clockwork, he finds himself perched on a rooftop three buildings over from a certain apartment building. he knows that little kid he used to share his candy with is grown up, probably halfway across the country, maybe farther. still, he finds himself here every night. he lands on the concrete and sits down by the railing, the same place he'd sit all those years ago. for a few minutes, dick takes in the tall buildings, the empty sidewalks below, the trees swaying in the wind. he glances at the singular piece of candy in his hand. it's strange...it feels too light. he lets it melt on his tongue, face scrunching at the taste. was it always this sweet? he wonders if strawberry would be any better. he stands, the taste of citrus and cream lingering as he swings to the next building.
~
the rooftop looks the same, but it feels different as you cross to the ledge. you're not small enough to stick your legs through the railing and dangle them over the edge. so instead, you stay standing, gripping the metal bars as you look out at the city you once called home. the few pedestrians on the street don't look like ants anymore, and the yellow taxis driving by are just cars to you. you remember the world seemed so much bigger up here, but presently, it's all still gotham.
"mind if i join you?"
you nearly give yourself whiplash from how fast you turn around. before you can reply, nightwing steps up beside you anyway, resting his forearms against the railing.
"you know," you comment, "most people wait for an answer."
"i've been told," he grins.
in the light, you can make out the electric blue symbol emblazoned on his chest that travels across his shoulders, down his arms and to his hands. a domino mask conceals the upper half of his face.
"first time back?"
"is it that obvious?"
"you keep lookin' around like you forgot where everything went," he chuckles.
"well," you point to a building off in the distance, "that wasn't there before." you point to the one next to it. "and that used to be an office building, not an apartment complex."
nightwing shrugs.
"gotham's been through a lot."
the conversation feels surprisingly natural even though you just met.
"college, huh? what're you studying?"
you tell him.
"sounds hard."
"it is," you sigh.
"you'll figure it out."
eventually, a comfortable silence settles between you. nightwing absentmindedly reaches for something—two orange candies swirled with white. he unwraps one. then, almost without thinking, he holds the other one out to you.
"i haven't had these in years!" you exclaim.
nightwing hums as you accept it, fingers brushing against the fabric of his suit.
"hope you don't mind it's not strawberry."
"orange creamsicle is fine, i used to have these all the time with..."
the words die on your tongue. it's all too familiar—orange creamsicle, rooftops, a boy in green, red, and yellow who always shared his candy with you.
you stare at the candy, then back at him, then at the candy again. he's already smiling.
"outgrew the cape?" you tease.
"it was getting in the way."
a/n: hope you enjoyed :) will be continuing the diner series soon, i was just sitting on this idea way longer lol
🎧: You're so vain by Carly Simon link to part 2!!
general masterlist
gothamnews
gothamnews Sources confirm that Gotham’s most elusive bachelor has split from his mystery girlfriend of nearly 3 years, marking his longest public relationship since... well, ever. The breakup is said to be “mutual,” but sources also hinted that the real reason is far darker.
liked by selinakyle, oraclewatch and 2,09,300 others.
brittany_lo i served them once at the 44 below. he took her coat, pulled the seat and SANG. KARAOKE. i refuse to believe this.
gotham_is_hell They called him a playboy for a reason!!
bruce_who_wayne HAVE YOU EVER SEEN THEM TOGETHER? THEY WERE PERFECT.
y/nxwayne no one talk to me. i dont believe in love.
gothamite
gothamite I REFUSE TO BELIEVE IT. I REFUSE TO BELIEVE IT.
liked by stephaniebrown, oraclewatch and 2,09,300 others.
y/nxwayne STEPHANIE LIKED IT, IT'S REAL IM GONNA THROW UP
gothamite OH GOD NO💔
gothamite SOMEONE TELL ME ITS NOT REAL 💔💔
penguins_umbrella Even the daily planet liked which is reliable + It was bound to happen some time.
gothamnews
gothamnews Bruce Wayne out at the Gotham Arts Gala with Victoria's Secret model Maya Torres. Looking cozy. Looking VERY cozy. Is this a rebound or has the most eligible bachelor moved on?
liked by mayatorres, selinakyle and 1,00,020 others.
girlinred that was FAST.
emreadstoomuch she looks exactly like the ex but blonder. IM SICK.
taylikesit bruce please go to therapy.
ashley_t_ three years. THREE. and she doesn't even get a grieving period before he's parading someone new around? disgusting
gothamite the way he looks miserable in every photo too. like bro if ur gonna be trash at least look like you're enjoying it.
yourusername
yourusername sighing in relief whilst clearing my calendar of any galas
liked by stephaniebrown, richardgrayson and 5,13,020 others.
stephaniebrown i love you and imy so much
liked by yourusername
jessicaxo the way she's thriving already
gothamite better than any PR statement honestly
taylikesit stealth liked this so fast. also you forgot to mention you're hotter than his new girl.
gothamgossip THE CAPTION LMAOAOOO
gothamnews
gothamnews Archived photos of the couple the entire world is missing
liked by brucewayne, stephaniebrown, and 9,02,400 others.
gothamite BRUCE WAYNE LIKED HIS OWN EX RELATIONSHIP POST????? SIR?????
taytortot unliking it makes it worse actually
ashley_t_ LMAOOO HE DID NOT
jessicaxo he's DOWN. DOWN BAD.
yourusername interesting.
gothamite SHFAFDSHGDFS HELLO?? WHAT IS GOING ON
A/N: GUESS WHO'S BAACKKKK (it's been years, this is literally insane)
tell me if you want a part 2 and plsplspls give requests i'm out of ideas. I LOVE YOU ALL AND MISSED YALL SO MUCH OMG. SO MUCH TO CATCH UP ON.
Synopsis: You've got a lot of problems. Firstly, you're Hal Jordan's accident daughter, you're a Green Lantern, you are incapable of understanding that people can care about you, and you have a fear of unknown feelings. Most notably though, Wally West makes you feel strange. And you hate it.
W.C: 7.2k
Tags: Angst ✮, daddy issues, kinda bad dad Hal, arguing, emotionally mature Wally, emotionally immature Reader, planning/threatening to run away, reader is referred to as 'stargirl'
To say you hate it here would be an understatement. You really fucking hate it here. As a matter of fact, you actually can't stand being in Mount Justice surrounded by all these optimistic flesh bags of hope—especially not when your "dad" (if you dare call him that) was here.
Having to be in the presence of this man was somehow more infuriating than listening to your teammates talk about him and how cool and chill he was. He'd never been cool or chill with you! Not in the nine years you'd know him.
Your mother had simply left you there. With a bag and a letter pinned on your top. Hal was running late for work. He hobbled out trying to put his left shoe on. Only to freeze at the sight of a little girl, alone on his doorstep, in the rain.
Looking into your eyes—although red and puffy he'd recognise them from anywhere. How could he forget the shameful mistake he'd made several years ago...
Ever since that unfortunate day, you've been Hal Jordan —the Young Justice team's favourite Green Lantern's problem. For the first few years of your life, you'd been your mother's problem. Most nights you lie awake wishing you'd stayed being her problem. She wasn't perfect, she did abandon you in the rain on the doorstep of a man she hadn't seen in over years, but at least she seemed to have a slight care for you.
Your childhood should've been magical. And sometimes you trick yourself into thinking it was. All those hours you'd spent staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling, you'd pretend you were outside—in your garden or on some other planet—star gazing with your dad. The galaxy and sci-fi themed decor of your room confused your child mind into believing all those hours spent jumping around your room—alone—with a plastic spaceship in hand, were real galactic adventures with him.
You wish you could say that those days of hopeless wishing were gone, but even now—at your grown age you find yourself staring at the glow-in-the-dark stickers Wally had insisted you needed, wishing that one day maybe those dreams of stargazing could happen. The crinkled posters sitting on your desk waiting to be put up taunt you. Wally found them shoved into a box and told you they were cool. After he'd made fun of you for being such a space nerd. He said they add something to your room. Your room at Mount Justice held a closer resemblance to a safe house rather than a teen girl's bedroom. Maybe it was the underlying desire to leave and never look back. The fear that if you tried to settle, fit in and find your place in this world you would suddenly realise not a single person actually cared for you.
The Young Justice team had already been formed. The JL had decided that you would join the team once you returned from your space oddity. You weren't thrilled to hear the news. You returned from your trip only to be met by your dad—waiting to drop some news on you.
"What?" You asked. Your shoulders were tensed. You were sore and tired and he was the last person you wanted to see right now.
"I've got something to tell you." He frowned a little at your lack of enthusiasm.
"I can tell." You deadpanned.
He sighed. "The Justice League has formed a new team. It consists of their students."
"No."
"What do you mean no?" He squinted.
"I'm not joining your team." He called out your name.
"Your already set to join the team. It'll be good for you."
"Good for me to miss more school than I already am?" Your voice raised.
"You're joining the team! They're expecting us right now." He raised his voice right back.
You scowled, but piped down. Your arms were crossed as you trailed behind him. You glared at him the whole time.
"Behave," Hal gave you a pointed look through the mask.
Your rolled your eyes and continued walking towards the closed doors. There was muffled voices behind the door.
"Please?" Hal pleaded. He opened the doors. Your vision was filled with colourful costumes and stupid smiles.
"Green Lantern, how nice of you to join us." Batman commented sarcastically. He looked to the clock wall. Ten minutes late—they better get used to it with you.
"Sorry, got held up with her mission." Hal laughed.
"These are the members of the League," He gestured to the adults in the room. "And these are your teammates." He gestured to the teens. Most of them sat down.
One of them got up and walked towards you.
"I'm Robin, team leader." He reached his hand out to shake.
You stared at his hand for a moment before feeling a nudge beside you. You uncrossed your arms and shook his hand.
"Green Lantern." You said bluntly.
Robin introduced you to the rest of the team. You looked at each of them boredly. You could hear Hal sighing behind you. You might not have been looking at him but you could see him pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Are we done?" You asked.
Hal called out your name tiredly.
"You know how I am. Should've given your team a heads up." You left the room abruptly.
"I'm sorry, she's just cranky from her mission." Hal apologised to the League.
"She's not what I expected..." Dick muttered.
"Let's hope when she settles in she'll be more willing to work with us and her team." Diana sighed.
"Can someone please make sure she finds her room?" Dinah asked the Young Justice team.
"Go help her out." Barry gave Wally a gentle shove.
You eventually found the empty bedroom. You dropped onto the bed assuming the empty room was yours. Your bags were thrown into a corner beside some boxes. There was a welcome card on your nightstand—probably from one of the girls. You didn't care to read it though. Rapid knocks on your door had you groaning and slipping off the bed. You swung the door open expecting Hal but were met with a smiling ginger boy.
"Hey!" He greeted with a toothy grin.
"Hi."
"Black Carnay asked me to make sure you found your room and got settled in—"
"I'm settled just fine."
"Okay! Can I see your room? You can come see my room if you want!" He beamed. You squinted your eyes as if you were being blinded by his energy.
"I'm Kid Flash—you can call me Wally." He pointed a thumb at himself.
"You should see Zatanna's room, she does magic! Don't go into Roy's room—it's always messy."
You don't know how but at some point he ended up in your room. Sat on the edge of your bed, talking your ear off. You stood with your arms crossed staring at the boy.
"I know you said you were settled in just fine, but you haven't even opened your bags?" He pointed at the corner of bags and boxes.
"I'll do it eventually." You sighed.
"Here let me help you!" Before you could blink he was already on the floor opening your boxes.
He started to unpack the boxes, commenting on ever single thing he pulled out. You hadn't packed the boxes—Hal did. The boxes were filled with stuff from your bedroom at Hal's house. Space posters, a telescope, a man on the moon lamp you'd begged him for, and more.
"So have you always been a space nerd? Or was it just when you became a Green Lantern?" Wally asked.
"I've always liked space. Growing up with a Lantern kinda made it that way." Wally lit up at your addition to the conversation. It was the most he'd heard you talk.
"You know, my uncle and your dad are like best friends! Which means we're going to be good friends!" You laughed at his juvenile thought process.
You didn't notice the dreamy look on his face as you laughed at him.
"Hey, you should put these up over your bed!" He pulled out a pack of glow-in-the-dark stars. You remember Hal buying you some. You'd stacked books and whatnot onto your bed because you couldn't reach the ceiling.
"I'll put them up later."
"I'll put them up for you." He was already stood on your bed sticking the stars to the ceiling before you could protest.
"Thanks."
"No problem, stargirl. It's what friends are for!" You nearly gagged at the response.
Some time had passed. The team had gone on several missions and spent days training together. But after all of this their toughest challenge yet was trying to get you to spend time with them. You were cooperative on missions but you would train on your own (unless Diana forced you to train with everyone else). The one thing they couldn't overcome; you wouldn't hangout with them. Just as yourself. You were simply Green Lantern to them. They'd tried to get you to go to the arcade with them. As usual, you said no and retreated to your room.
"She smiled during training, I thought for sure she'd agree to go out today." M'gann frowned while putting her shoes on.
"Think you all just need to accept that she doesn't like us." Roy piped up.
"Don't say that, we're a team. She works just fine with us on missions." Dick responded. "I just don't get how she'll work fine with us out on the field but refused any other interaction with us."
"Hey, Wally! You coming with us to the arcade?" Artemis called out.
"Nah, I'm beat after that training." He grabbed some snacks from the kitchen and headed off.
"Did he hit his head on training?" Artemis asked.
"I think she possed him." Roy whispered.
You were sat at your desk reading a book. Boxes still sit in the corner of your room, but some posters had been put up, your man on the moon lamp was on your nightstand, there was stationery on your desk and some clothes in the closet. You still hadn't fully settled in though.
"Hey stargirl!" Wally kicked your door open and flopped onto your bed.
You took the headphones off one ear and spun your chair around to see him sprawled out comfortably with a pile of snacks. Some of your favourites in the mix. You still didn't know how he kept finding out things about you. Sometimes you did let your guard down around him, letting bits of info about your personal life slip out.
"Do you wanna play something?" He asked.
You marked your page with a bookmark before pausing your music and pulling your headphones around your neck.
"What do you wanna play?"
"Hmm," He contemplated. "Oh! Have you ever played heads up?"
"No."
"Hold on, let me download it."
A couple hours flew by. You played several different games and ran through the snacks. At some point you shifted from the desk to the opposite end of the bed.
"We should play 20 questions." He suggested.
"Sure." Your answer was hesitant, but you didn't realise. You fidgeted with your sleeves as he stared at you, thinking of his questions.
"Alright, what's your favourite subject?"
"Physics."
"Really?" His voice pitched higher. "Suppose that makes sense, space and stuff." He laughed.
"Uhm, what's your favourite planet?"
"Venus."
The questions went on. Wally asked all sorts; stuff about school, space, your personal preferences on random things. You then made it to the last 5 questions.
"Have you had your first kiss yet?"
"No." Your cheeks felt warm at the question. You cleared your throat to signal to Wally to move on.
"Wait, so you've never had a boyfriend or anything?" He was so surprised by your answer.
"No. You've got three questions left." You replied quickly. Your cheeks kept heating up and you hated it.
"What? That's not fair!" He protested. "I was just—suprised that you've never dated! I mean you're—beautiful." He choked a little before the compliment.
You stared at eachother for a moment. His face went a little red and your face wouldn't stop getting hot. Your heart was beating faster than usual. You swallowed the urges creeping up your throat and took a deep breath.
"You've got three questions left." You said softly.
"Uhm—uh have you ever had a crush on someone?"
"—I-I don't think so?"
He laughed. "What do you mean? And that's doesn't count as a question!"
"I don't know. I just—how am I supposed to be sure?"
"I think you just know." He said with a smile.
The staring and hot feeling came back for another moment. You couldn't help staring into his eyes, but at the same time you felt uncomfortable.
"One question."
"I have two questions left! That didn't count."
"Yes it did, ask me the last question."
"Fine," He looked around your room to try get inspiration. "What would you do if you weren't a Green Lantern?"
"Leave."
"Huh?"
"I'd leave. I'd move somewhere for college, leave all this behind." You gestured to your ring and out the window to the surroundings of headquarters.
"What would you study?" You'd never had someone ask you about yourself—only about your ring or your dad—with genuine interest. You and your interests weren't what people wanted to know about.
"I want to be a scientist. I really wanted to be an astronaut when I was younger." You laughed at yourself. "I'd like to study the universe in more depth. I don't really get the time to do that when on missions."
"Of course you do, stargirl." Unlike the first time he was he in room, you caught the dreamy look I'm his eyes.
The sound of chatter brought you back to reality. The rest of the team had returned. The realisation that you've done it again washed over you. You'd spilt out more information about yourself again. You've been so good at keeping to yourself when it came to the League and the other Lanterns. Something about Wally made it so easy to just talk.
"I think I'm going to get ready for bed." You began looking for your pyjamas, silently signalling for him to leave.
"Oh, goodnight then."
Fury boiled in your veins. Hal was getting on your nerves again. It's not rare for him to get on you about your mistakes and bad behaviour. But that's all he does. He points it out and you argue. Suggestions are never made on how to change for the better, and reasonable conversations are never had. Just screaming. And crying behind closed doors.
That's what was happening. You were sitting on the floor of your bedroom, sobbing. Post-mission exhaustion and the guilt of messing up didn't pair well with speaking to your dad. He did try to have a level headed conversation with you—but you didn't feel like having one. You tried to walk away and just resulted in voices being raised.
Your throat hurt and your head ached. Instead of training or studying or doing anything useful—here you are—sat on your floor crying like a kid.
"Stargirl?" A quiet voice asked on the other side of the wall.
"What?" Your voice cracked.
"Can I come in?" Wally's words came out slowly. He was carefully deciding what to say, not word vomiting like usual.
You sat rigid for a minute. Your tear-soaked hands paused where they were wiping your cheeks. Heat filled your bones but you couldn't tell the difference between the anger your dad made you feel and whatever showed up when Wally was around.
"N–no! Go away." You choked on a sob.
You didn't want to be seen like this. Not by anyone. Especially Wally. You don't want to be weak in front of others. You can barely stand being weak in front of yourself. The glow of the stupid stars he had stuck up highlighted the tears on your hands. Your face too, but your mirror was flipped around so you couldn't see.
"Then," He sat down with his back against the door. "Can I stay?"
The sight of him leaned against the door. A sad frown on his face. Paired with brows furrowed from concern. The image filled your mind and it stabbed your heart. No matter how much time passes, and all the things you go through with him and the team—you can't bring yourself to understand why he wastes his time on you. Part of you knew why—but you didn't understand—or believe it to be true. You inhaled a shaky breath and stood up. You quickly wipe your face before opening the door. Wally grabbed onto the door frame to hold himself up. He tilted his head up to stare at you from the floor.
"Get up." You nodded your head. "You look stupid."
He stood instantly—about to ask if you were okay, but you just turned and sat on your bed. Door left open. An invitation no one but him had ever received. And he didn't let the invite float alone. He took it immediately. Stepping inside your space and closing the door behind him. Wally cautiously moved closer and took a seat on the edge of your bed. Your room was dark. Beside the stars on your ceiling. Curtains drawn and lights off. As he debated what to say or if to say anything at all, he studied your room. Like he did every time he invaded your space. More posters had been put up. Your desk was cluttered with books and stationery. A few trinkets are scattered across the surfaces in your room. A CD player was plugged in under your desk, and it's worn stickers are peeling off. Three CD cases were piled beside it.
Wally smiled softly. You were actually settling in. Slowly—but it was happening.
"Wanna talk about it?" His voice was gentle. Not in a baby way but a sweet way.
You tugged on your sleeves. You were curled into yourself. You sniffled and looked anywhere but at him. Well, you tried to look anywhere but him, yet your eyes kept flickering back to his green eyes. It was self-torture. Looking away and looking back just to get scared by the sincerity in his eyes.
"...Got into a fight with Hal..." Wally barely picked up what you said.
He stayed silent. You took a deep breath and gave him a quick look.
"I—" You bit your lip as you searched for your words. "I messed up."
It physically pained you to say it. To be so vulnerable and Wally knew that. He also knows this conversation could've never happened months ago.
"I got—I uhm—" You hiccuped.
Wally's hand grazed your hand. It flinched at the feeling of his skin but you didn't retract from him. You went quiet and still. His hand slowly intertwined with yours. His grip was loose but grounding. You were free to let go. But he was there and letting you know he would always be there.
"I don't know." Those were the words you settled on.
The same as always. Anytime your conversations got uncomfortable (vulnerable) you chose those words. They were a reflex at this point. When your teachers would ask why you were falling asleep in class—"I don't know". When your friends worried over your bruised and bandaged body—"I don't know". When Hal would beg you to tell him why you weren't focused on the mission—"I don't know". And whenever Wally would question your emotions. When he would find his way beyond the walls you had built and convince you to let the ice around your heart melt.
"Are you sure?" You stared at him in disbelief.
"I think you do know." His thumb brushed across your knuckles. "Your smart, stargirl."
If the conversation weren't so serious and there weren't tears in your eyes, he would've laughed at your dropped jaw.
"—I-I don't know how to explain it."
"Try, please?"
If Hal had spoken to you like this you would've taken it the wrong way. You would've stated another screaming match. Something about Wally made it different. And that you honestly didn't know. You didn't know what this was. And you hated it. You hated the unknown. It was scary.
"I want a normal life."
That was the most honest thing Wally's ever heard from you. It's the most honest thing you've ever heard from yourself.
"I don't want this responsibility." Your ring glowed dimly in the dark.
"I don't want to miss school. I don't want to miss hangouts with my friends. I don't want to upset people," You bottom lip wobbled. "But that's all I seem to do."
Wally's eyes stung at the sound of your voice wavering.
"I don't know why he doesn't like me. I don't understand why he kept me."
At this point you'd broken into sobs again. You did everything you could hold the sobs back but they and the tears escaped you. Wally held onto your hand. His grip got tighter. He tried to ground you without overstepping.
You continued to cry. To pour your heart out to Wally. Vulnerability coursed through your body but it felt like bacteria. Unfamiliar—dangerous even. Something that shouldn't be there. Something that needs to be removed—and that's when you shot up from leaning on his shoulder. A wet patch stained his top. The conversation had brought you two closer. Mentally and physically. But your fear was about to unravel to strings of faith Wally had worked so hard to tie together.
"What? You okay?" Wally's voice was groggy.
Your eyes were bleary. Your body was warm and your lips were chapped. Your room was brighter. A small amount of sunlight beamed through your closed curtains. You had fallen asleep. From your position beside him and the indentation on his clothes, you could tell you fell asleep curled into him.
You cleared your throat. "Sorry." Your voice was raw and it hurt to say that one word.
"For what? What time is it?"
"You should go." You shuffled away from him.
"Star—"
"Please go." Your voice was broken but demanding.
With a sad look, he stood up from your bed. His fingers slipped from the spaces between yours. He exited the room but not before saying,
"Thanks for talking."
His tone was sincere, gentle, and kind. It was everything beautiful. It was light.
Wally West, is your teammate. The closest thing to being your friend and yet so far from it. Ever since the day you arrived—all moody about it—he's been persistent in getting to know you, in becoming someone to you. It was scary. It sounds silly to say. He'd never done anything that would typically make people scared. But he was just so nice, and his presence was warm. You found yourself relaxing, settling. Your piece was finding its way in the puzzle we call life. You thought that would've made you happy. It just scared you though. You thought when you found your place and your people you wouldn't have this ache in your body. Every time he'd get too close—nearly persuade you to join the team hangouts, have you accidentally pour your heart to him—you'd get a new kind of ache. An unfamiliar aching in your heart. And it scared you because you didn't understand it.
This fear is what led to today's events. It's what wound Wally unconscious in the Med Bay, your dad yelling at you for compromising the mission, and an ache you hadn't felt in a long time resurfacing.
You hadn't spoken since that night. Well, you hadn't spoken since that night. It was like you had just joined the team. Your relationship had gone back to square one. Wally would greet you with a small smile and you would respond with a nod. Only now there was an underlying guilt and fear. You would nod with hesitancy. He realised he wasn't welcome to barge into your room anymore. The invitation had been revoked.
"What happened?" Dick enquired.
They were waiting for a video game to load. Almost the entire team was in the room. All doing their individual things, but pausing the hear what Wally would say.
"What do you mean?" Wally let out a nervous and dead-sounding laugh.
"You and her. Something changed—we can all tell." Artemis piped up, she was sitting on the floor fixing her bow.
"Yeah, she's gone all cold again. Even to you." Dick added.
Wally's heart stopped for a split second. He didn't want to air out your private conversations. He couldn't. He wouldn't.
"Nothing." He scratched the back of his neck and avoided his friends' gazes. "She's probably just tired. The Lanterns have had her busy lately!"
"You go out with us now." Conner implored from across the room. "You stopped going out so you could spend more time with her."
"Alright Conner, no need to announce my life to everyone here!" Wally snapped.
"Did you guys fight?" M'gann wondered.
The room went still and turned to Wally.
"No?" His voice was weak.
You hadn't fought. But you didn't seem happy with him.
"No?" Dick repeated.
"Uh—we didn't argue—we just—" Had a very serious conversation where she opened up more than she's ever before and I'm so proud of her for that but then she shut me out and I don't understand why. "She's tired that's all." He concluded in a faltering tone.
Dick stared at him. He was breaking him down and reading him like a book with a stare. And Wally now started to feel guilty. Your flickering glances appeared in the forefront of his mind. Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he overstep? Waves of guilt crashed over him and he suddenly had no interest in his new video game.
"I'm actually not feeling great," He set his controller aside and stood up from the couch. "You can play if you want Conner."
He left the room in a brooding state. And Dick could tell. He was very familiar with brooding people after all. He wanted to go after him—he's his best friend. But what would he say? How does he comfort Wally if he doesn't understand you? He can't assure him that everything will be alright. He didn't know what had happened and it didn't seem like Wally knew either. How can he help if he has no evidence to study? All Dick did was shut down the console and retreat to his room.
Training had been going horribly. You couldn't keep it together. You were impossible to work with. Everyone tried and no one succeeded. Wally was their only hope to get you back to being cooperative before the big mission—but you wouldn't even look at him.
"We need to talk." Hal said from the door of the training room.
It was just you in there. Letting out your frustrations on the poor punching bag.
"About what?" You droned.
Hal sighed hearing your voice. You sounded exhausted. You looked exhausted. There were dark circles under your eyes.
"You aren't cooperating with the team anymore." You threw a punch and struck the bag. "Why's that?"
The echo of the punch lingered as you looked up at him.
"Why do you care?" Your voice was barley above a whisper but you were clearly snarling.
"I'm your mentor and your—" You threw another hard punch. Harder than the last.
"Oh shut up Hal!" You threw your gloves off and marched up to the door.
"Don't!" He blocked the door. "We need to talk. The upcoming mission is important. You can't be this off key with your team."
Your face was drooping. A solemn expression dressed it.
"I've managed so long on my own. And they've managed so long without my cooperation." You shoved through his arm blocking your path.
"They'll be fine." You stormed down the hallway.
Hal watched you disappear. He ran a hand down his face and braced himself against the doorframe.
"Please stay safe."
The mission was going great. That's what you would say if you were a pathological liar. It was going horribly. You'd all gotten separated. Yet somehow you and Wally found your way to eachother. The monster of a villain you were trying to stop was currently rampaging through his lair. You and Wally were hidden behind a large beam trying to come up with a plan or something.
"I can build a construct—"
"Are you mad at me?" Wally blurted out.
"What?" Your eyes were wide.
"I know this isn't the most conventional time to talk but you've been avoiding me and I think you're scared—"
"W–what? No I'm not!" You started to raise your voice but remembered you were hiding.
"You keep avoiding things, stargirl. You avoid me, the team, your dad—"
"Don't you dare go there!" You grabbed the collar of his suit. Your voice raised too loud before you could stop it.
"You don't get to go there! You don't know what you're talking about!" Your eyes were stinging and your face was hot.
"It's the only reason I can think of! Why would you avoid unless you were scared?" Wally was pleading with you to reason with him.
"Just because I said a few things to you doesn't mean you know me. You don't! You don't understand me—so don't act like it!" You fists were shaking.
Your yells covered up the sound of the creature you were hiding from approaching. Its large fist crashed into the pillar. Debris went flying. Crashing against the walls of the fortress. Particles dirtied your costume. Blood dripped past your eyes. It wasn't yours. Wally reacted within seconds. He had pulled you closer to him and shielded you from the debris. While you were both stunned the monster grabbed Wally. He was trapped in the thing's fist. He squirmed and wheezed. His body felt crushed by the monster's grip.
"Put him down!" You shot a beam of green at the monster's eye.
The creature groaned and threw Wally out of his grip. He was sent flying into the wall across from you. The impact caused cracks to form. You watched in horror as the cracks spread. The monster cried in pain in the background, Wally lay unconscious on the ground with blood dripping from his head. You stood frozen watching the cracks crawl up the ceiling. More debris was flying. Not from a pillar. The ceiling was coming down on top of you both. You ran to Wally, skidding onto your knees and forming a construct around the two of you. You shielded him with the construct and your body.
"Oh shit..." You muttered as the debris weighed down on your construct.
You would only be able to hold it up for so long. You could only hope the rest of the team was okay and that someone would show up and get you both out of the mess you made. As you helplessly watched the blood seep from Wally's body guilt began to drown you. Why do you do this?
"...I don't want to upset people,' Your bottom lip wobbled. 'But that's all I seem to do.'."
A strangled cry escaped your lungs. Dust replaced it. The diet and dust from debris escaped into your construct. You fell into a coughing fit. Your vision started to blur. You couldn't tell if it was dust in your eyes or if you were about to pass out.
"Kid Flash!" You think that was Robin's voice.
The weight was getting lighter, probably Conner. But you couldn't bare it and the dust in your lungs any longer. Everything went dark.
The Med Bay smelled of chemicals and quiet beeps of monitors filled the air. Your body felt stale. Your lungs felt dusty and old, like they belonged to a smoker not you. With a groan, you sat up in the cot. Your ring was glowing dimly in the dark room, the only source of light aside from the lowering moon. The oxygen mask on your face felt suffocating. You pulled it off and stood up, ripping the curtains to the side. The metal screeched. The Med Bay appeared empty—until you spotted drawn curtains with faint voices behind them.
"He's going to be okay Iris."
You recognised that voice as the Flash; Barry Allen. You had never met Iris but you'd heard of her through Wally. And you know how much she meant to him, and he to her. You felt responsible for this. Wally's injuries, Iris' worry, and Barry's stress. You felt responsible for it all. The weight felt heavier than the rubble you were previously trapped under. Part of you desperately wanted to see him. Maybe hold him and repeat the sweet nothings he would whisper to you. But you didn't, instead, you silently left the Med Bay.
You stood in the kitchen, a glass in hand as you filled it from the tap. You only got one gulp before you heard him.
"What the hell was that?" His voice wasn't raised but you knew this conversation would end up loud.
You set the glass down with an aggressive thud. Barry must've told him you were awake. Your mind thought of the conversations and arguments you've had with Hal and Wally. Thinking about Wally made you think about his accusation; that you were avoiding. Not just him, but your dad and the team too. Hal was going on about the mission, your mistakes, and begging you to turn around—to say something.
"Why did you keep me?"
"Sorry?" Hal was truly bewildered by your question.
You turned to face him. "Why did you bother keeping me?"
"Your my daughter—"
"Well, you don't act like it!" Your fists clenched at your sides.
"This isn't about me and us, it's about—" Hal backtracked.
"It is about you and us though! Everything is!" Tears began to pool the corners of your eyes.
"Dad, I'm tired. I'm so tired of this." You gestured to the building and yourselves with your ring hand. "I just want a normal life,"
Hal took a cautious step foward. His mouth opened to speak but your words tumbled out first.
"With a proper family."
"I don't remember what she looks like. I barley see you—and when I do, we yell and I run and I cry. Alone. My friends hate me because I can't respond to messages—I miss hangouts and give terrible excuses. My teachers look at me the same way they look a kids with deadbeat parents. Cause you're never there! You miss meetings—you—you forget to pick me up..."
You choked on a sob in the middle of your tangent. Everything was coming out all at once. Just like it did with Wally.
"I don't know when the last time I made you proud was. I don't know if I ever have." You sniffled as your bottom lip quivered.
"I know I'm a problem—"
"You're not a problem." Hal interjected.
"—but I am! And everyone knows it, everyone acts like it. I can't understand myself! I don't know how to be the way people want me to be!" You took a shaky breath as hot tears fell from your eyes.
"I shouldn't have joined this team—I should never have sworn that oath! You shouldn't have kept me!" You angrily wipe your teary face.
Hal was broken at the sight of you. He knew he wasn't the best dad, but he thought he was better than this. He never thought he would be the father to upset his kid the way he has you. He never for a moment thought he would be the root of his kid's problems. Every issue you had, or caused, all seemed to stem from your childhood. The improper childhood he gave you. Due to his lack of presence up until you became a Green Lantern. As you ran out of the kitchen all your moments together flashed before him. He couldn't think of a time before you were a Lantern—minus the day you showed up on his doorstep. He ran a hand down his tired face and sighed. He fucked up bad.
You knew you shouldn't have. You knew from the start this wouldnt work—wouldn't last. It's why you constantly put off unpacking. Your boxes and bags were still half packed. You shoved your essentials into the bags. Clothes, hygiene products, bandages...as you sorted through your nightstand drawer you found a polaroid. It was you and Wally. The picture was taken one of those nights he ditched team hangouts to sit around your room. He didn't know who the camera belonged to but he found it and wanted to take a picture. He took two, kept one for himself and left the other behind for you. You sniffled as you stared at the picture. You were smiling. It was smaller than his, but bigger than the usual practiced one you used. It was genuine.
"Stargirl!" Your bedroom door banged open.
You snapped your head up. Wally was dressed in comfy clothes provided by his auntie. Bandages were wrapped around his head. There was some red blotches on the white material. A bruise peeked out from underneath. You winced at the sight.
"What are you doing?"
You stood up, shoving the polaroid into your pocket and walked over to your bag. You knelt down and threw your CDs into the bag before zipping it up.
"What I should've done from the start."
"You're not leaving, are you?" You felt immense guilt from his cracking voice. "You can't!"
"What's the point of staying? No one wants me here—look what I've done!" You screamed.
Your lips began to quiver again. Your face felt hot and you know the moonlight was highlighting the tears on your cheeks.
"I want you here, stargirl!"
"You want to have a Green Lantern! Trust me, there's better ones out there!" You swung your bag over your shoulder and began to walk out the door, but he stopped you.
"But they're not you! I don't want a Green Lantern if they're not you!" He gripped your shoulders.
"Why would you want me here if my own family doesn't even want me? He doesn't care about me—"
"I do!" Wally cried. "I care about you—you're so important to me." Tears began to run down his face.
"I know your life is complicated and you see yourself as complicated—"
"I am." You turned your head away from him.
"—and that's fine!" A hand slid up your neck, resting on your jaw and guiding you to look at him.
"But just stay, and be complicated with me." He pleaded through sobs.
Wally cared about you more than anyone. He loved you and all your flaws—even if they hurt him. He loved it when you let him in even if that meant you would push him away later. He wants to be there for you. He wants to help you overcome your problems and figure yourself out. He wants to be there when you are scared and when you aren't.
"Let me figure you out, please?"
You broke down into a sobbing mess. You hiccuped and sniffled. Wally felt your body shake beneath his hands. He took a slow step foward and pulled you in. You cried into his shoulder as his hands rested on your back and neck.
"I'm sorry! I—I know I'm difficult, and I pushed you away. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to I just—I don't know what to do..." Your hands clawed at his shirt, trying to ground yourself.
"I'm sorry for yelling—and getting you hurt."
"That wasn't your fault. You saved me, stargirl." Wally whispered.
"I'm sorry for pushing. I shouldn't have brought it up on the mission, and I shouldn't have called you out like that."
"No," You pulled away from his embrace to look at him. "I needed to hear it."
Wally slid the bag off your shoulder, letting it drop to the floor. You used the sleeve of your jumper to wipe the tears off his face. Careful to not irritate any injuries.
"Wanna go star gazing?"
"Wally, the sun's starting to rise." You pointed at your window.
"You can still see a couple," He took your hand in his. "You can tell me about the constellations and I'll try find them."
He gently pulled you out your bedroom doorway and headed for an exit.
The early morning breeze felt nice against your warm cheeks. You took a deep inhale when you stepped outside. The two of you lay down and stared up at the sky. The deep midnight colours were fading away as the orange and pink hues took over. A sliver of the perfect sky blue peeked over the horizon, following the rising sun. Wally was right, you could still see a few stars in the darker parts of the sky.
"So, Venus is your favourite planet, what's your favourite constellation?" You turned your head over to find him already looking at you.
"Perseus and Andromeda," You answered and turned back to gaze at the stars.
"You can see them in the northern hemisphere most of the year. Perseus and Andromeda are both Greek Mythology figures. Perseus was returning from killing Medusa when he saw Andromeda chained to a seaside rock. She had been chained up by her parents King Cephus and Queen Cassiopeia, as Poseidon had sent the seat monster Cetus to destroy their kingdom as punishment for boasting about how beautiful Andromeda was. An oracle told them to sacrifice their daughter."
You turned back to find Wally still staring and listening internally.
"Perseus saved Andromeda and killed Cetus. Then he asked to marry her, but she's was already promised to her uncle Phineus. So Perseus killed him too, and they got married."
Wally had that lovesick look on his face again. If Dick or Roy ever saw that look on his face they would be howling laughing. He looked helplessly in love, a little pathetic. And he wouldn't have it any other way.
"You're such a nerd, stargirl."
"You're the one who asks." You scoffed.
"I like listening to your voice." He admitted.
You sighed. The morning breeze, the pastel colours that bled through the sky, his hand in yours—it was perfect. You didn't fully understand it all. And that was okay. You were okay.
It was common knowledge that the ring chose it's user. You never understood why the ring chose you though.
"Perhaps the ring knew you needed it. That you needed to feel purpose—guidance."
That's what the other Lanterns would say.
Whatever the case may be, you find yourself feeling glad for the ring. It's strange, something you once hated, made many futile attempts to rid of it, now feels precious. It felt right on your finger. Not like an abandoned ring—fitted for someone else and forced onto your hand—it felt like it was yours. And you're happy that it's yours. Without the ring you would've never ended up here; gazing at the stars with someone so special.
A/N: I think I'm getting better at angst. Don't know how to write fight scenes though... THIS BETTER NOT FLOP I WANNA MAKE IT A SERIES!
Summary: You and Wally West have spent six months loving each other in secret, built on years of quiet pining, stolen glances, and almosts. But as the world keeps pulling you apart in public, the strain of hiding something so real begins to crack… until one late-night confession changes everything.
CW: Making out, use of y/n, swearing, hidden relationships, I'm sourcing like a million different timelines so it may be confusing but it's just to show the progression of hero life (young justice, as well as Titans okay), Bruce being a good dad and tryna set his daughter up
WC: 2.6k
⤷ Part of my 4K event <3
"Baby, can you call me
back? I miss you,
It's so lonely in my mansion"
🎧 -> Agora Hills by Doja Cat
Wally West doesn’t fall in love all at once.
He slips into it slowly, like something he doesn’t realise he’s already drowning in.
It starts when you’re younger, two kids orbiting the same world, always in the same rooms, always laughing a little too easily around each other. You were never hard to be around.
That was the problem. You made everything feel lighter, easier, like the weight of being who you were didn’t matter as much when he was standing next to you.
At first, you’re just his friend.
His favourite person to spar with, to joke with, to sit beside at Mount Justice at ridiculous hours of the night when neither of you can sleep. He memorises your habits without meaning to—the way you tilt your head when you’re listening, the way you smile when you’re trying not to laugh.
Then one day, after several years, something shifts.
At the Titans Tower, over pizza and crappy movies, you laugh at something he says, and it lingers a second too long. Your hand brushes his, and instead of pulling away, you stay. He notices everything all at once—the way you look in your suit, the talent and skill you possess, your virtues, the way people gravitate toward you, the way he himself does. (ik it's mad cringe but stay w me now)
And suddenly, being around you isn’t just easy. He never really clocked that you both had gotten older. He never internalised the feelings he had for you, and how they matured into something greater now that you've both aged.
It’s dangerous.
Because now he wants more.
He doesn’t say anything. He can’t.
You’re you—Bruce Wayne’s daughter, little sister of his closest friends, and said friends who would literally smite him if they knew of his crush on you, you're the girl everyone watches, the girl who belongs to a world far more complicated than his.
So he does what he’s always done best (not really, but alas).
He waits, and he watches, and he flops.
Hard.
Dick notices first. Of course he does. One look at Wally across the room, staring at you like you’ve hung the stars yourself, and he’s already smirking. Jason catches on next, less amused, more suspicious. Roy takes one look and immediately decides it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.
None of them say anything to you. But Wally knows they know.
It doesn’t matter.
Because you don’t.
Until you do.
It happens late one night at the Watchtower, when everything is quiet and the world feels far away. You’re sitting close, closer than usual, talking about nothing, about everything. He doesn’t plan it. He doesn’t think. His hand brushes yours, and this time, he doesn’t pull away. You don’t either.
Your fingers curl into his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He looks at you, breath caught somewhere in his chest, and for a second, he thinks he imagined it.
But then you smile, soft and certain, and just like that—
Everything changes.
After a good conversation about what you two are now, and six months later, Wally is absolutely gone for you.
And it’s becoming a problem. Not because you don’t feel the same. Oh no, you reciprocate just as much
But because no one else knows.
The training facility at the WatchTower is loud with energy, filled with younger heroes running drills, sparring, testing limits. It’s the kind of session where everyone’s watching everyone else, measuring, learning, competing.
You’re in the centre of it.
And you’re destroying everyone.
Not in a showy way—nothing flashy or over-the-top—but precise, controlled, efficient. Every movement is deliberate. Every strike lands exactly where it should. You move like you’ve done this your entire life, like it’s second nature.
Because it is.
Wally isn’t supposed to be staring. He’s supposed to be focusing on his own training, running laps, helping where needed. Instead, he’s leaning against the wall, completely locked in on you.
Kon notices first, following Wally’s line of sight. Then Cassie. Then Bart, who grins immediately, elbowing Kon like he’s just discovered something hilarious.
“Dude,” Bart mutters, not even trying to be subtle. “He’s gone.”
Kon smirks. “That’s not a crush, that’s a full-blown situation.”
Cassie folds her arms, watching the way Wally doesn’t even blink as you take someone down and offer them a hand up right after. “Does she know?”
“Probably not,” Bart says. “But she probably will.”
Wally doesn’t hear them. He just sees you.
The way you push your hair back, the way you laugh with someone after a match, the way you carry yourself like you don’t even realise how incredible you are.
And Goodness—
He wants to tell everyone.
Later, at the Watchtower, the feeling only gets worse.
You’re leaning against the console, talking, relaxed, comfortable. Roy’s standing too close, smirking in that way he always does when he’s messing around.
“C’mon,” Roy says, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You’re telling me no one’s locked that down yet? That’s crazy.”
You roll your eyes, amused. “Maybe I’m just selective.”
“Ouch,” he grins. “Guess I didn’t make the cut.”
“You never had a chance.” (reference to my future 4k fic heheheheh)
Wally watches the whole thing from across the room, jaw tightening.
He knows Roy isn’t serious. He knows it’s just how he is—flirting for the sake of it, pushing buttons, having fun. It still bothers him more than it should.
Because Roy gets to do this. Stand close to you. Joke with you. Exist next to you without it being a secret.
Wally looks away, running a hand through his hair, frustrated in a way he can’t quite shake.
He wants that, he wants you.
It doesn’t help when he sees you on TV.
You’re sitting beside Vicki Vale, composed, elegant, every bit the Wayne the world expects you to be. The interview is light at first—charity work, appearances, your role in the public eye.
Then it shifts.
Vicki smiles, tilting her head slightly. “So, Miss Wayne, anyone special with you tonight?”
Wally’s heart stops, just for a second. You don’t hesitate, instead you smile, effortless.
“It’s just me,” you say. “That’s special enough.”
The moment passes.
But Wally doesn’t move, because he knows why you said it, doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt. But it's not like you don't feel it too, you feel it more than you let on.
At dinner that night, the manor is full, everyone scattered around the table, conversation flowing easily.
Bruce brings it up casually, like it’s just another topic.
“So, sweetheart,” he says, setting his glass down, “the boy you met last week at the gala in Municiberg—Tony. What did you think of him?”
You pause, already knowing where this conversation was heading.
“…he seems nice, Daddy. Why?”
Tim doesn’t even look up. “He’s asking because you’re a Wayne and still a single bitch.”
You kick him under the table.
“Language,” Bruce says mildly, though there’s no real bite to it. Then he looks back at you, softer. “You know I just want the best for you darling. I’d hate for you to be lonely. The rest of your siblings all have someone.”
Jason adds in "Ugh even Damian, how'd he find a girlfriend before you?"
"Nika is not my girlfriend"
"Sure buddy"
You force a small smile.
“Yeah. I know, Dad.”
But your chest feels tight, because you’re not lonely.
Not really. You just can’t say why.
You find Dinah later. Ironically, you told her before your own father.
She’s leaning against the counter in the Queen Penthouse kitchen, arms crossed, watching you with that knowing look she always has.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she says.
You huff a quiet laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only if you know what to look for.”
You lean beside her, staring at nothing in particular.
“…I love him.” It slips out before you can stop it.
Dinah doesn’t react, doesn’t make a big deal out of it. Just nods.
“I figured.”
“I just—” you exhale, frustrated. “I don’t want to hide him. I hate it. But I also don’t want everything to blow up the second we go public.”
“You’re waiting for perfect timing,” she says.
“…yeah.”
Dinah smiles slightly. “That doesn’t exist baby.”
"I don't want to hurt Dick, and I hate lying to my dad and my family about him. But people talk Dinah."
"They always have, you can't stop it." She reminds you
"S'not fair" You mumble.
Wally finds Barry. Of course he does.
Barry’s halfway through something when Wally shows up, pacing slightly, energy restless.
“Okay,” Barry says, already clocking it. “What’s wrong.”
Wally runs a hand through his hair. “I’m tired.”
“Of?”
“Not being able to say she’s mine.”
Barry softens immediately.
“…that bad, huh?”
Wally laughs quietly. “Yeah. That bad.”
He looks down, shaking his head.
“I’ve wanted her for so long, Barry. And now I have her—and I still can’t… have her.”
Barry nods slowly.
“Sounds like you already know what you want to do.”
“…yeah.”
Wally exhales.
“I just don’t know if she’s ready.”
That night—
You call him.
Or try to.
He doesn’t pick up the first time.
So you leave a message, voice soft, tired, honest in a way you only are with him.
“Baby, can you call me back? I miss you… I'm lonely.”
It’s quiet after that.
Too quiet.
And somewhere down the hall—
Alfred hears everything.
-
It starts before you even walk into the room.
Which, in hindsight, is already a bad sign.
The Batcave is quieter than usual, but not empty, Dick’s leaning against one of the consoles, Jason’s sprawled in a chair like he owns the place, Tim’s typing away with that focused intensity that means he’s absolutely listening to everything, and Steph is perched nearby, scrolling through something on her phone.
Duke’s there too, arms folded, watching the others like he’s waiting for something to happen.
“…I’m telling you,” Steph says, lowering her phone slightly. “She’s been weird lately.”
Jason huffs. “She’s always weird.”
“Not like this,” Steph insists. “Like—smiling at her phone weird.”
Tim doesn’t look up. “Technically, that indicates external stimulation.”
“…she has a life, Tim,” Dick says.
“Not one we know about,” Tim replies.
That gets a pause.
Jason leans forward slightly. “…you think she’s got a guy?”
Steph gasps like this is the most exciting thing she’s heard all week. “Oh my god, she does.”
Duke raises a brow. “You’re jumping.”
“I’m not jumping, I’m connecting dots,” Steph says. “She’s been leaving the room to take calls, she’s been dodging questions, and she literally ignored Roy flirting with her last week.”
Jason narrows his eyes. “She ignored Roy?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s suspicious.”
Dick exhales, rubbing his face. “…or she just didn’t feel like entertaining him.”
“No,” Steph says firmly. “No, something’s up.”
Tim finally pauses his typing, looking up slowly.
“…if she is hiding something,” he says, “it would have to be significant enough to warrant concealment from all of us.”
Jason leans back. “So… a relationship.”
Silence.
They all think about it.
Then—
“…no way,” Dick mutters.
Steph grins. “Oh, there is absolutely a way.”
By the time you walk into the manor dining room the next morning, the energy is already off.
You feel it immediately.
The way conversations pause for just a second too long. The way Steph is smiling like she knows something. The way Jason is watching you like you’re about to confess to a crime. You narrow your eyes as you take your seat.
“…why are you all looking at me like that.”
“No reason,” Dick says too quickly.
“Just observing,” Tim adds.
“Admiring,” Steph corrects.
Jason smirks. “Waiting.”
You blink.
“…for what.”
“No idea,” Duke says, though he doesn’t look convinced.
You reach for your coffee slowly. “You’re all being weird.”
“Are we?” Steph hums.
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
You stare at her. “I hate you.”
“Love you too.”
Your father hasn’t said anything yet. That’s what really sets you on edge.
He’s at the head of the table, composed as ever, reading something on his tablet like none of this concerns him—but you know better.
He’s listening.
And then—
Alfred clears his throat.
It’s soft and polite, but it cuts through the room like a blade.
“I do hope,” he begins, setting down a plate in front of you, “that your late-night phone conversations are not interfering with your rest, Miss.”
Everything stops.
Your hand freezes halfway to your cup.
“…I’m sorry?”
Steph’s eyes go wide.
Tim’s head snaps up.
Dick goes completely still.
Alfred smiles pleasantly, like he hasn’t just detonated a bomb in the middle of breakfast.
“I happened to overhear a rather… affectionate exchange last evening.” (alfred in his snitching era)
Your heart drops.
Straight to the floor.
“No,” you say immediately. “No, you didn’t—”
“‘Baby, can you call me back? I'm so loneyl’” Jason recites, grinning like he’s just been handed the best material of his life.
You whip your head toward him. “YOU WERE LISTENING?”
hii, i read your headcanons and just wanted to say that i think of dick so similarly lmao (feel free to ignore this ofc)
like regarding the one night stand thing, i feel like if he were ever to give into it he’d be horrible at the whole “get dressed and exit as soon as possible” thing.
he is in fact staying the night, making you breakfast and giving you his number / asking for yours. he takes you in a proper date - if it doesn’t work after that then sure, he can move on. but if he was interested enough for the one night stand he’s interested enough to give it a proper chance and you can take his hopeless little romantic ideas out of his cold dead hands!
- @gothamorphosis
yes!! i dont really think he would go to bed with someone he is not interested in. i think he sees sex as something intimate that only happens between him someone he actually loves or he is interested in. i think he finds the thrill at knowing someone first, and then having intimate moments. that may be coming from his attachment issues or his paranoid tendencies, whatever the source is i just know it’s there!!
and yeah,, he is a hopeless romantic (loser) so he will dream the right person all the time 🙂↕️
yes to everything!! also counter-argument to the people who think he is a manwhore (beside defending it as shitty writers ruining my baby boy lmao) i think he would have silly crushes on a lot of people but once he has real feelings he falls HARD
sure he might get a little flirty with people because that’s how he shows his friendship / trust and stuff BUT he only goes full pinning and being gooey for one person at a time!
sure, he’ll hype you up while being friends but once you’re dating? you’re going to be hearing about how cute he thinks everything you do is like 24/7
i imagine him asking if you’re awake at like 3am after patrol, and you just grunt cause sure you hear him but you also won’t remember this conversation when the sun is up and you’re fully awake. and he just goes on a rant about how soothing it feels to hear your heartbeat when he rests his head on your chest and how he can tell how deep in sleep you are because your breathing changes and picks up a new cadence and OH LOOK AT THAT one of your eyelashes fell onto the pillow which gives him the perfect chance to yap about your eyes for another half hour. he’ll find another thing to talk about while he’s done with that too.
#not to debbie downer derail this but haha do u think he has this value and understanding around love bc he grew up#watching mary and john love each other so beautifully? that watching them risk falling each and every night#only to be caught by the other and travel through the air in each others arms#was like his definition and pinnacle of love? he witnessed love each night as this intricate dance#and I don’t want to say performance bc he knew it wasn’t; that was the one thing about their act that never was for show#just him watching john dot over mary in the dressing rooms and the series of gentleness that surrounded them both as they smiled#and giggled to one another—and how he knew he was loved just bc his parents loved each other so boldly#so yea him being a full on romantic and commitmentphile is just another version of him honoring his parents if u think about it#even with how he expresses love in his friendships like with donna?? back massages and hugs and CLASSIC NIGHTWING SHOULDER TOUCHES!!!!!#this man was destined for love#and devotion and care and kindness#how can someone who was loved so beautifully love any other way?#dick grayson
Really sorry Z, but i couldn't leave these hidding in the tags because you're ABSOLUTELY RIGHT AND YOU SHOULD BE SCREAMING THIS FROM THE ROOFTOPS
not only do i agree with every single thing you said, i’d like to bring forward to the jury:
in addition to seeing how loving his parents relationship was and growing in an environment that gave him no doubts what a loving and healthy relationship is like (dick is 100% de kind of toddler that called his mom something like baby and his dad something like honey instead of mommy and daddy because it’s what his parents used to call each other all the time) — i propose taking into account how much it contrasts to how his life is once he’s with Bruce.
because being Bruce Wayne’s first kid means getting the less refined Bruce, the one that most days is more bat than he is man, the one that is still so afraid of loss that he decides to not have at all. he goes from being in a context where you can breathe the love, to a place where all the notes carry fear and lack of trust.
of course we all know bruce’s ark, that he learns to trust and let people back in, that letting yourself feel good things —even when they might not last long— is better than not feeling at all. but the time he takes to get there is the same time Dick has to actually assimilate the fact that not all relationships like his parents, that sometimes love is quiet and distant, and that it doesn’t make it less worthy.
but he knows the kind of love he wants in his life, and the one he wants to give to the person he’ll share the rest of his life with.
Warnings: explicit sexual content, empathic bond, forced proximity, shared bed, violence, guns, blood/injury, sensory overload, alien tech, mutual pining, emotional vulnerability, references to Roy’s past and recovery, oral sex, vaginal sex
Summary:
The Outlaws are easy enough to handle from behind a screen.
Roy Harper is a different kind of problem: reckless, brilliant, charming, and far too good at finding excuses to text you after midnight.
When a mission drags you out from behind the keyboard and into the field, the line between banter and wanting becomes a lot harder to pretend you cannot see.
Author’s Note:
set loosely during the New-52 Outlaws era. reader is the team’s smart-mouthed tech handler, not a vigilante.
Roy Harper sent you a picture of a smoking circuit board at 2:43 in the morning with the caption, be honest with me, doc. is she gonna make it?
You stared at the message from the dark hollow of your bedroom, phone held inches above your face, one eye open and the other still committed to sleep. The image was grainy, badly lit, and deeply offensive to anyone with even a passing respect for wiring. A ribbon cable had been severed, two contact points were scorched, and the outer casing of what looked like a modified arrowhead had partially melted into a shape that suggested Roy had either dropped it into a furnace or tried to flirt with it.
A second message arrived before you could decide whether to answer.
also before u get mad this was already broken when i touched it
Then a third.
mostly
You typed with your thumb.
you are a public safety hazard
Roy’s reply came almost instantly.
ur awake :)
You closed your eyes and inhaled through your nose.
i am awake because you keep committing crimes against engineering
i thought u liked engineering
i like engineering when it isn’t screaming for help
sweetheart that feels like a limited worldview
You rolled onto your back and dragged the edge of your blanket up to your chin, as if warmth could protect you from Roy Harper and his apparently endless ability to find you through encrypted channels, bad hours, and your own poor decisions. You had been working with the Outlaws for eight months, which was long enough to know better and apparently not long enough to stop answering.
The arrangement had started with Red Hood breaking into your apartment at midnight, helmet tucked beneath one arm, a hard drive in his gloved hand, and a red domino still fixed over his eyes. Oracle’s word had apparently earned you a glimpse of the man beneath the mask, though not his carelessness. Your motion sensors had warned you three minutes earlier, so you did not scream; screaming at strange men with guns gave them too much satisfaction.
He had said, “Oracle said you’re good.”
You had said, “Oracle needs to stop giving my name to strange men with guns.”
“She didn’t. She said you answer to Relay.”
You looked at the hard drive in his hand. Then at him. Then at the open window behind him.
“Is breaking and entering a Red Hood thing, or a you thing?”
His mouth twitched like he had decided not to reward that. “You want a job?”
You had nearly told him to climb back out the window. Then you had taken the drive, decrypted the first layer out of spite, and found three trafficking routes, a shell company tied to a private militia, and enough offshore transactions to make your professional curiosity stronger than your survival instincts.
After that, you became what Jason called support and what Roy called mission control. You ran comms, built surveillance patches, forged clean travel documents, tracked dirty money, scrubbed safehouse feeds, and kept their gear from betraying them at inconvenient moments. You did not go into the field. You did not wear armor. You did not jump off rooftops, exchange fire with mercenaries, or stand close enough to explosions to develop opinions about them.
You were not an Outlaw. You reminded them of this frequently.
Jason respected it because he understood boundaries when they were backed by blackmail-level system access. Koriand’r found it charming because she found many human distinctions charming, especially the ones people pretended were not emotional. Roy ignored it whenever possible.
Roy called when he had a pertinent technical question. Roy called when he had a stupid technical question. Roy called when something was sparking, smoking, blinking, ticking, leaking, or behaving in a manner he described as “ominous but kind of sexy.” Roy also called when missions went too quiet and his voice took on that careful, bright edge that told you he needed noise in his ear until his hands stopped shaking.
You knew the difference. You never said you knew.
Your phone buzzed again.
for legal reasons jay says i need to ask if this could explode
You opened the message, stared at it, and then sat up with a sigh that carried all the ruin of your sleep schedule with it. Your laptop sat on the nightstand because you had learned months ago that Roy’s emergencies were usually easier to solve from a full interface.
You accepted the secure call.
Roy had a way of saying Relay as if he had personally discovered the word and intended to make it everyone else’s problem.
“Relay,” he said into the comm, bright and shameless.
You closed your eyes. “Do not make it sound like a pet name.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“You absolutely were.”
“Little bit,” he admitted. Then, before you could hang up on principle, he added, “Before you say anything, I want you to know I value your expertise.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“See, that is the kind of decisive leadership I respect.”
“Show me the circuit board.”
His video feed came in at a terrible angle. For three seconds, you got an intimate view of his collarbone, the strap of his harness, and a smear of soot on the underside of his jaw. City lights glittered behind him, too high and too distant, which meant rooftop. Gotham, judging by the industrial gloom and the fact that Jason was audibly swearing somewhere off-screen.
“Camera,” you said.
Roy adjusted it. “Better?”
“Marginally. Why is it smoking?”
“In my defense—”
“No.”
“You didn’t hear the defense.”
“I have heard enough of your defenses to know they are usually confessions with better lighting.”
Jason’s voice cut in. “Ask her whether the thing is going to detonate.”
“I did ask,” Roy said.
“You flirted with her and then talked about legal liability.”
“That is asking.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Point the camera at the board.”
Roy obeyed. Mostly. The feed lurched as he moved closer, catching a blur of rooftop gravel, Jason’s boot, and the smoking circuit board balanced on the ledge before settling crookedly over the component. Then Roy leaned in from the side, too close, and the camera caught the line of his cheek, the corner of his mouth, the smile he was failing to suppress because he knew he had woken you and had the nerve to enjoy being scolded for it.
“Roy.”
“Right. Board.”
The feed shifted. You studied the damage, your irritation fading as your brain caught on to the problem. The arrowhead was not one of Roy’s usual designs. The housing had been modified to carry a small but highly unstable cell, likely scavenged from alien tech and forced into a human-made casing by someone either ambitious or stupid. Given the Outlaws’ usual social circle, probably both.
“Do not cut the braided line,” you said.
Roy’s hand froze in frame, wire cutters visible between two fingers.
You stared.
He slowly moved the cutters away. “Wasn’t gonna.”
“You absolutely were.”
“Maybe as a thought experiment.”
Jason made a sound of disgust. “Give it to me.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Your entire life is evidence to the contrary.”
Kori’s voice floated through the line from farther away, calm and warm. “Is our friend awake?”
“She is,” Roy said.
“I am involuntarily conscious,” you corrected.
Kori sounded pleased. “Hello. I am sorry Roy has interrupted your sleeping.”
“Thank you, Kori.”
“He has been watching his phone for twenty minutes, so I believe he was hoping for an excuse.”
The rooftop went silent.
You blinked at the screen.
Jason barked a laugh.
Roy’s face came back into frame too fast. “Okay, that is wildly out of context.”
“Is it?” you asked.
“Yes.”
Kori hummed.
Jason said, “No.”
Roy pointed somewhere off-camera. “Nobody asked either of you.”
You leaned back against your pillows, suddenly much more awake than you wanted to be. “Twenty minutes?”
“I was waiting until it was necessary.”
“You were waiting for a component to smoke so you could text me?”
“Technically, the component made that decision.”
“Fascinating. I hope the two of you are happy together.”
Roy’s grin softened around the edges, just enough to make the room a little warmer than before. “Jealous?”
“You are one bad solder joint away from a memorial service.”
“You’d come?”
“I would make sure Jason disposed of your browser history.”
“That’s love.”
“That’s hazard pay.”
Jason leaned into frame, expression flat. “Are we done?”
“For now,” you said. “Disconnect the cell from the regulator, wrap it in the thermal sleeve, and stop letting Roy hold things that can alter the skyline.”
Roy placed a hand against his chest. “You wound me.”
“Clean the cut on your forehead while you’re being wounded.”
His smile froze for a second.
It was small. Barely anything. But you saw it because you had gotten too good at watching him through screens. The cut was half-hidden near his hairline, a little dark with dried blood. He had not mentioned it. He would not have mentioned it until the mission was done, and then only if it made a good joke.
“Bossy,” he said softly.
“Alive,” you replied.
For a moment, the rooftop noise faded.
Roy looked into the camera, and the usual distance of comms felt thinner than it should. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll clean it.”
“Good.”
His mouth lifted. “You worried about me, Relay?”
You should have said no. You always said no. It was part of the rhythm. Roy leaned too close; you pushed him back with sarcasm. He tossed charm into every open channel; you swatted it away before it could land anywhere vulnerable. The system worked because both of you understood it was a game, and because neither of you had ever been stupid enough to ask what would happen if one of you stopped playing.
So you said, “I am worried about your unpaid invoices.”
“There she is,” Roy murmured.
Your stomach did something foolish.
Jason took the damaged arrow out of Roy’s hand and moved out of frame. “I liked her better before you started flirting.”
“You hired me,” you said.
“One of my few regrets.”
Kori said, “I enjoy this. It is like watching a small battle, but affectionate.”
“It is not affectionate,” you and Jason said at the same time.
Roy, traitor that he was, only smiled.
You ended the call before he could see you smiling back.
By noon the next day, Jason had ruined your week.
He arrived through the door this time, which meant either he wanted something difficult or he had finally learned from the countermeasures you had installed on your windows after his first visit. Roy came in behind him, carrying a cardboard tray with four coffees and the expression of a man who knew he was about to enjoy himself. Kori entered last, ducking slightly under the doorframe of your apartment with easy grace, a bright smile, and a paper bag.
“I bought pastries,” she announced.
You pointed at her. “You may stay.”
Roy held up the coffee. “I brought caffeine.”
“You may plead your case.”
Jason set a matte-black case on your worktable. “We have a job.”
“You always have a job.”
“You’re going on this one.”
You looked at him.
Jason looked back.
Roy took one careful step away from your desk, proving he had some survival instincts after all.
“No,” you said.
“You haven’t heard the job.”
“I heard enough. You used the phrase going on this one, which is the wrong phrase to use with someone who works from a chair for several excellent reasons.”
“You’re the only one who can do it.”
“That is often true and rarely requires me to leave my apartment.”
Jason opened the case.
Inside, secured beneath layers of anti-static film and dampening mesh, was a shard of metal about the length of your thumb. Metal was the simplest word for it, though you knew as soon as you looked at it that it was not quite right. The surface shifted from silver to green to a color that slipped away when you tried to focus on it. Fine lines ran through it in repeating geometric curves, too deliberate to be damage and too organic to be standard circuitry.
Your irritation thinned despite yourself.
“What is that?”
“A piece of the problem,” Jason said.
Roy leaned his hip against the edge of your table. “A sexy piece of the problem.”
“Do not flirt with the alien shrapnel.”
“I was flirting with the expert.”
“Also ill-advised.”
Kori’s expression had gone serious. “It is old.”
You glanced at her. “You recognize it?”
“Not fully. I recognize the shape of its energy, but it has been changed. Perhaps Tamaranean. Perhaps Psion. Perhaps both.”
That got your attention. “Both sounds bad.”
“It often is,” Kori said.
Jason tapped the lid of the case. “This shard broke off the main artifact during transport. A private collector named Lucian Crowe bought the larger piece and locked it under his estate near Marseille. The vault is air-gapped, shielded, and running a hybrid system none of our gear can read from the outside.”
You looked at the shard again. The lines along its surface seemed to pulse.
“Crowe has alien tech in a private vault,” you said slowly, “and you want to steal it.”
“Recover it.”
“Steal it before the man who stole it can keep it. I understand branding, Jason.”
Roy grinned. “Crime with ethics.”
“Do not help.”
“I think I helped a little.”
“You did not.”
Jason crossed his arms. “The vault has no wireless access. Drones die within thirty feet of the lower level. The main artifact is tied into the internal security system, and if we pull it wrong, we don’t know what it triggers.”
You closed your eyes.
Roy said, “She’s doing the thing.”
“What thing?” Jason asked.
“The thing where she’s already solving it and hating us for being right.”
“I am hating you for several reasons,” you said.
“But one of them is because I’m right.”
“Do not make me regret saving your face from microfusion shrapnel.”
Kori stepped closer, her voice gentler than the others’. “We would not ask if there were another way. You will not be there to fight. You will be there to understand the machine.”
“I understand machines from behind walls and heavily encrypted distance.”
“The distance is the problem,” Jason said. “We need hands on the system.”
You looked at Roy before you meant to. He had gone quieter. The humor was still there because Roy rarely abandoned a shield while conscious, but it had settled into something less bright. He was watching you with open concern, and that was worse than if he had made another joke. Roy could tease you into doing almost anything because you could tease back. This felt like care, and care made you stupid.
“I’m not a vigilante,” you said.
“We know,” Jason replied.
“I don’t do fieldwork.”
“We know.”
“I am extremely attached to being unshot.”
Roy lifted a hand. “For what it’s worth, I am also attached to you being unshot.”
You stared at him.
His mouth twitched. “That sounded smoother in my head.”
“Did it?”
“No, actually. I panicked halfway through.”
You should not have laughed. Unfortunately, you did.
Jason looked between you with the exhausted resignation of a man who had been trapped in an elevator with jazz. “Roy stays with you the whole time. Kori and I handle security. You get in, interface with the vault, disconnect the artifact, and get out.”
You studied the shard. The sensible answer remained no. It sat in your mouth, clean and ready. Then the lines along the metal flared in response to some unknown input, and your nearest monitor flickered.
Your curiosity stirred.
Roy saw it happen. You knew because his face changed.
“Don’t,” you warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked smug.”
“I have a naturally smug resting face.”
“You have a naturally punchable resting face.”
“See?” Kori said warmly. “Affectionate battle.”
Jason groaned.
You rubbed a hand over your face. “I want hazard pay.”
Jason nodded. “Done.”
“And I call retreat if I think the system is unstable.”
“Done.”
“And Roy does not touch anything unless I specifically tell him to touch it.”
Roy put the coffee down and raised both hands. “I will be your humble assistant.”
“That sentence has never once described you.”
“I said will be. Personal growth.”
You held his gaze longer than you should have. “I mean it. If I’m on the ground, you listen.”
Roy’s smile softened again, the joking surface giving way to something steadier beneath. “I’ll listen.”
You hated that you believed him.
The estate outside Marseille looked like every criminal billionaire’s idea of subtlety: pale stone walls, manicured cypress, glass balconies, an infinity pool overlooking the sea, and enough concealed security to make the entire cliffside hum with money and paranoia. From the outside, it could have been a vacation home. Through your tablet, it looked like a migraine.
You crouched behind a maintenance structure near the eastern edge of the property, wearing body armor Jason had produced far too quickly and an earpiece you had modified yourself because you trusted your own encryption more than his. The Mediterranean stretched dark and quiet beyond the cliffs. The night smelled like salt, stone, and expensive flowers.
You missed your chair. You missed your monitors. You missed the ability to glare at danger through a screen while wearing pajama pants.
Roy crouched beside you, bow in hand, wearing the serene expression of a man who thought breaking into fortified estates was a reasonable way to spend an evening. He glanced over when you shifted the tablet against your knee.
“You okay?”
“I am reconsidering several life choices.”
“That’s normal.”
“For you.”
“Usually I wait until after the explosion.”
“You are bad at comfort.”
“I can try flirting.”
“I will push you into the ocean.”
He smiled, but his eyes stayed on the perimeter lights. “You’d have to get through my reflexes.”
“I have disabled three of your comm units remotely.”
“Those were innocent.”
“Those were playing music during a stealth op.”
“They were boosting morale.”
“They were playing ABBA.”
“Exactly.”
Jason’s voice cut in through comms. “If you two are done.”
“You are no fun on heists,” Roy said.
“It’s not a heist.”
“It is absolutely a heist,” you said.
Jason ignored you both. “Patrol’s coming around west. Kori, you’re up.”
Above you, Kori crossed the sky like a silent flare, too fast and high for the guards to register before their feed died. Your tablet showed two camera grids that froze, looped, and resumed with edited footage. You tapped three commands into the overlay and opened a six-minute window through the outer perimeter.
“East path is blind,” you said. “Thermal sweep is on a delay. Two guards by the service entrance, one drone on the south balcony. Kori has twelve seconds to make that drone regret existing.”
“I will be swift,” Kori said.
The drone vanished from your feed.
Roy whispered, “I love watching her work.”
“I love when people complete tasks without arguing.”
“That feels pointed.”
“It is.”
He touched your elbow lightly. You looked at his hand before you looked at him. The contact was brief, barely more than a check-in. It should not have steadied you as much as it did.
“Stay behind me once we’re inside,” he said.
“I thought you were my humble assistant.”
“I can be humble in front.”
“That is not how hierarchy works.”
“I’m reinventing it.”
You rolled your eyes, but your pulse had slowed. Roy noticed. His hand fell away before it could become something either of you had to address.
Jason dropped the two guards by the service entrance with the efficiency of a man who had decided the night would go better if no one got to finish a sentence. The door opened on your command, and the four of you slipped inside.
The first floor smelled like polished wood and cold air. Crowe had filled the place with art, or what people with more money than taste considered art: stolen statues, framed weapons, antique maps, fragments of things that belonged in museums and were instead arranged under perfect lighting for one man’s private enjoyment. You kept your attention on your tablet. Objects were easier to pity when you were not trying to stay alive.
The house systems were easy compared to the vault. Too easy, which annoyed you. Crowe had spent millions on hardware and then let human arrogance make the architecture predictable. You looped feeds, delayed door alarms, and walked Jason through a rotating pressure sensor in the hall outside the private elevator.
Roy stayed close. Too close, sometimes. His shoulder nearly brushed yours when you stopped beside a panel. His breath warmed the side of your neck when he leaned in to look at your screen. Once, while you were bypassing a biometric lock, his hand came to rest on the wall beside your head as he watched the corridor behind you. It put him around you without touching. Protective, but not crowding.
You hated how aware you were of him.
“You’re staring at the wrong thing,” you murmured.
Roy’s eyes flicked down. “I’m watching the hall.”
“You were watching my hands.”
“Your hands are doing cool things.”
“My hands are working.”
“That is one of the cool things.”
The lock clicked open.
You refused to look at him as you stepped through. “Your field professionalism is overwhelming.”
“Thank you. I’ve been practicing.”
Jason, several yards ahead, said, “You haven’t.”
“I’ve been thinking about practicing.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s adjacent.”
The private elevator took you below the estate, deep enough that your tablet lost the house network and switched to local mapping. The lower level had been carved into the cliff and reinforced with composite paneling. The air turned colder. The lighting became harsh and clean. Wealth disappeared, replaced by sterile function. You saw lab rooms through narrow windows as you passed. Containment chambers. Scanning equipment. Storage cases. A surgical table with restraints attached.
Your stomach tightened.
Roy noticed immediately. “Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
His voice lowered. “I know you are. Still.”
You glanced at him and found no joke waiting. He had seen the table too. He knew what kind of people used restraints in private labs beneath their homes. The anger in his expression was quiet and sharp.
Jason stopped at the end of the hall. “Vault.”
The door was circular, seamless, and embedded in the wall with no visible handle. A single access port sat beneath a shielded cover at waist height. The readings on your scanner went strange as soon as you lifted it, numbers bending into nonsense before snapping back.
Kori stood very still.
You looked at her. “Bad?”
“Old,” she said again. “And hurt.”
It was not the kind of thing you wanted to hear about alien technology.
Jason glanced at you. “Can you open it?”
“Probably.”
“Comforting.”
“You want honest or comforting?”
He said nothing.
“That’s what I thought.”
You settled in front of the access port and pulled your kit from your bag. Roy crouched beside you, bow resting across his knees, his body angled toward the corridor while his attention kept flicking back to you.
“Don’t hover,” you said.
“I’m guarding.”
“You are hovering with weapons.”
“Very different.”
You plugged into the port. Your tablet flashed white, then black, then filled with symbols that were not part of any language pack you had installed. The translation patch you had built from the shard’s resonance data stuttered, corrected itself, and began offering rough approximations.
Roy heard it in your silence. “What kind of frown is that?”
“The bad kind.”
“I know several bad kinds.”
“The system isn’t just locked by code. It’s reading the room.”
Jason’s hand tightened around his gun. “Reading how?”
“Heat. Electrical output. Brain activity, maybe.” You tapped deeper into the system, watching the symbols reorder themselves. “It’s tied into the artifact. Crowe didn’t build a vault around it. He built the vault through it.”
“That sounds unstable,” Roy said.
“That is because you have pattern recognition.”
“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”
“It almost was.”
Kori moved closer to the vault door. “Can it be opened without harm?”
“I think so,” you said, which was the most dangerous kind of answer. “I need quiet.”
For once, you got it.
Your world narrowed to the interface. The system resisted blunt commands, so you stopped giving them. You followed its rhythm instead, tracing the places where Crowe’s human security had been forced around something older and stranger. The vault was listening. You disliked the word, but it was the right one. It listened for patterns, for intent, for emotional pressure. It had been designed for something delicate before Crowe turned it into a lock.
You found the seam.
The door opened with a low mechanical groan. Cold air spilled over the threshold. The chamber beyond was round and dark, lit from below by thin white lines in the floor. At the center stood a pedestal. Suspended above it, inside a transparent containment field, was the artifact.
It looked like two interlocked rings around a shard of living light. Metal, crystal, and energy moved together in a slow rotation, too elegant to be weaponry and too precise to be decoration. It gave off no heat on your scanner, but your skin prickled as if you had stepped too close to lightning.
Roy let out a low whistle. “Okay. That is sexy alien tech.”
“Do not flirt with the artifact either.”
“I’m appreciating craftsmanship.”
“It can probably hear you.”
He leaned away slightly. “Then I respect its boundaries.”
Jason entered first, gun raised. Kori followed, eyes fixed on the spinning rings. You stayed near the access port, still connected to the vault system, and began mapping the containment field.
The deeper you went, the less you liked it.
“This was altered,” you said. “Badly.”
Kori nodded. “The Psions did this.”
You glanced up. “You’re sure?”
“I know the cruelty of their work.”
There was a weight in her voice that made Roy’s expression darken and Jason’s mouth flatten. You looked back down, suddenly aware that this was not merely a dangerous machine. It was history in pieces, stolen, modified, sold, locked away under a rich man’s house.
You hated Crowe with surprising clarity.
“What was it originally?” you asked.
“I do not know,” Kori said. “Perhaps a healing instrument. Perhaps a ceremonial bond. Something meant for trust.”
Roy shifted. “And Crowe wired it to his alarm system.”
“Men like Crowe think trust is something they can buy a cage for,” Jason said.
The vault hummed.
Your tablet vibrated against your palm.
You looked down. “That wasn’t me.”
The floor lights shifted from white to amber. The artifact’s rings turned faster, drawing light inward until the center went dark. New symbols spilled across your screen faster than your patch could translate.
Roy stood. “Talk to us, Relay.”
“Secondary command just woke up.”
“Can you stop it?”
“I can if everyone stops asking me questions.”
Jason moved to the vault door. “We have guards coming.”
“Of course we have guards coming.”
Kori lifted off the ground, energy gathering around her hands. “Can I destroy the pedestal?”
“No,” you snapped. “If you hit it while the containment field is inverting, the feedback could—”
The vault door slammed shut. The sound punched through the chamber like a verdict.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Jason was at the door, knife in hand, tearing into the manual panel. “Open it.”
“I’m trying.”
Roy came to your side. “What do you need?”
You shoved the scanner at him. “Aim this at the artifact and keep it steady. Do not touch anything else.”
His face changed at your tone. All humor gone. “Got it.”
He moved into position.
You cut into the secondary command. The system fought back like a living thing. Crowe had built a trap beneath the trap: if anyone tried to deactivate the field, the artifact would activate instead, using the neurological signatures in the room as a trigger. You saw it one second before the system committed.
“Oh,” you said.
Roy looked over. “Oh good or oh bad?”
“Everyone down.”
The artifact opened. Light tore through the vault.
Roy moved first. He dropped the scanner and lunged for you, one arm catching around your waist as he hauled you backward from the interface. Your tablet hit the floor. His body turned around yours, bracketing you against the nearest console, one hand cradling the back of your head as the room went white.
For one impossible moment, you felt everything. Kori was a star in human shape, fear and anger blazing together with a grief so old it felt like deep space. Jason was a locked door with a burning room behind it, every instinct sharpened toward getting all of you out alive. Beneath them both, the artifact reached through the chamber with desperate, broken purpose, searching for a pattern it recognized.
Then Roy eclipsed all of it. His fear hit you like impact. Your name. Your body under his. His arms locked around you. The violent certainty that the blast would hit him first because he had chosen to be there. Beneath that, a rush of things you were never supposed to feel: affection buried under jokes, wanting buried under habit, the old ache of being too much and never enough, the terror of losing something before he had ever admitted he wanted to keep it.
The light went through him. Then through you.
The world snapped apart.
You came back to the sound of Roy saying your name. At least, you thought he was saying it. The comms were static. Your ears rang. Your cheek was pressed against his chest, and his hand was still cupped around your head. The vault strobed red around you. Somewhere nearby, Jason was cursing at the door.
“Hey,” Roy said. “Come on. Look at me.”
You opened your eyes. His face hovered above yours, too close and too frightened. Blood tracked from a shallow cut near his temple. His hair was mussed, his shoulder smoking where the blast had burned through the outer layer of his jacket.
“You’re very dramatic,” you managed.
Relief flooded you so hard you gasped.
It was not yours.
Roy laughed once, shaky and breathless, and then went still because he felt you feel it.
Your eyes met.
“Oh,” you whispered.
The vault door shrieked open behind you.
Jason stepped through the gap with his helmet on, guns drawn. “Move.”
Guards shouted from the corridor. Kori flew past him in a streak of light, and the next several seconds became chaos.
Roy got you upright. The moment his hand left your waist, pain stabbed behind your eyes so sharply your knees buckled. He caught you again, and the pain eased.
Both of you froze.
Jason fired into the corridor. “This is a bad time for whatever that is.”
“Agreed,” you said, grabbing Roy’s hand.
His fingers closed around yours. Relief moved through the contact, warm and immediate, and you hated that you could not tell which one of you felt it first.
The escape came in pieces.
You remembered Roy keeping one hand on you as the four of you fought your way out of the lower level. You remembered Jason taking point with ruthless efficiency. You remembered Kori’s light burning through smoke. You remembered trying to pull up the estate schematic and seeing the lines swim on your screen whenever Roy moved more than a few feet away.
Worse than the pain was the noise.
Roy was in your head, though not exactly in words. He came through as pressure, heat, flashes of thought sharpened by emotion. His shoulder hurt. His ribs ached. He was angry at himself in a way that made your throat tighten. Should’ve pulled her sooner. Should’ve said no. Should’ve kept her out of this. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
“Stop,” you snapped as the group reached the service corridor.
Roy looked at you. “What?”
“Thinking so loudly.”
His eyes widened.
Jason did not turn around. “Do I want to know?”
“No,” you and Roy said together.
That would have been funny if the west stairwell had not exploded.
By the time you reached the van, your hands were shaking badly enough that Roy had to help you inside. He climbed in after you, and you hated the way your body leaned toward him as soon as he sat. Kori got behind the wheel. Jason slammed the back doors shut and pounded the side panel twice. The van tore away from the estate with the kind of speed that suggested Kori had learned to drive from someone who believed roads were merely polite suggestions.
Roy sat beside you, close but not touching. The space between you throbbed.
You clenched your teeth.
He noticed instantly. “Can I?”
He held out his hand.
That was the thing that almost broke you. He was in pain too. You could feel the echo of it. He was worried, confused, and strung tight with adrenaline, but he still asked before touching you.
You nodded.
His hand closed around yours.
The relief was so intense you had to shut your eyes.
Jason turned in the passenger seat. “Explain.”
“The artifact was tied into neurological response,” you said, forcing the words through the haze. “The blast created some kind of feedback loop.”
“That is not an explanation.”
“It’s the only one I have while trying not to vomit.”
Kori glanced at you through the rearview mirror. Her expression softened. “You are bonded.”
Jason’s helmet turned toward her. “Bonded.”
“In feeling. Perhaps in sensation. It may be temporary.”
“May be?”
“The technology was damaged,” Kori said. “And altered. I will need to examine the shard.”
You opened your eyes. “What shard?”
Jason was quiet for half a second too long.
You stared. “Jason.”
He reached into his jacket and withdrew the black case.
“You brought unstable alien tech into the van with the people it just scrambled?”
“I wasn’t leaving it for Crowe.”
“You could have mentioned it.”
“We were being shot at.”
Roy’s thumb moved across the back of your hand, small and unconscious. It steadied you before you could resent it. Then his worry spiked when he realized he had done it.
You turned to him. “Do not apologize.”
“I didn’t.”
“You were about to.”
He looked uncomfortable. “This is going to get weird fast.”
“It already got weird. You’re late.”
Kori pulled onto a dark service road, leaving the estate lights far behind. “Touch will help. Distance may worsen the symptoms until the bond settles.”
Jason leaned back in his seat and said nothing for a long moment.
Then he said, “Of course touch helps.”
The safehouse was ugly, practical, and aggressively Jason.
It sat on the edge of an industrial stretch outside the city, surrounded by shuttered garages and storage units. Inside, it had two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen stocked with protein bars and instant coffee, a weapons table, a medical cabinet, and furniture that looked as though Jason had collected it from various places where people had died. It was clean, secure, and devoid of any object chosen for joy.
“You live like a haunted landlord,” you said as Roy helped you through the door.
Jason removed his helmet. “You’re welcome.”
“I did not say thank you.”
“You were about to.”
“I was not.”
Roy’s hand was warm around yours. “She wasn’t.”
Jason looked at him. “You stay out of this.”
“I’m literally attached to this.”
“Temporarily,” you said.
Roy glanced at you, and the flicker of hurt crossed the bond before he could bury it.
Your chest tightened.
You had not meant it like that. Or maybe you had, because the alternative was admitting that something in you had already started to worry about what would happen when it was over.
Jason did triage in the living room. He checked your pupils, cleaned the cut at your temple, asked questions about dizziness and memory, and kept his expression carefully neutral as you and Roy sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch because anything more than a foot of distance made both of you nauseous. When Jason cleaned the burn across Roy’s shoulder, the sting echoed across your own skin.
You flinched.
Roy turned immediately. “You felt that?”
“Yes.”
His guilt rolled through you, hot and awful.
“Stop,” you said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You felt guilty.”
Jason paused with the gauze in hand. “You can feel that?”
“Apparently.”
Roy looked down. “Great.”
You touched his knee before thinking. “I’m fine.”
He went still.
The contact was nothing. Barely anything compared to holding hands, compared to his body over yours in the vault. But the emotion that moved through him in response was enormous. Relief. Desire. Care. All of it slamming into restraint so quickly it almost hurt.
You pulled your hand back.
The headache returned at once.
Roy caught your wrist, not hard, just enough to maintain contact. “Sorry.”
You glared at him. “What did I say?”
“Right. No apologizing for involuntary alien-bond nonsense.”
“Or for wanting things.”
His eyes snapped to yours.
The silence that followed was a problem.
Jason stood. “I’m getting Kori.”
“Coward,” you said.
“Yes,” he replied, and left.
Roy stared at the coffee table like it might offer legal counsel. “For the record, I am trying very hard not to make this your problem.”
“You are doing a terrible job.”
His mouth twitched. “Yeah?”
“You are anxious directly into my brain.”
“That sounds unhealthy.”
“It is.”
He leaned back against the couch, wincing when his shoulder touched the cushion. You felt the pain and turned without thinking.
“Shoulder.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are a liar.”
“You knew that before the bond.”
“Yes, but now I have receipts.”
That startled a laugh out of him. You felt the way it loosened something in his chest, and that was worse than the desire. Desire was easy to categorize, even when inconvenient. Roy’s happiness at making you laugh was soft. Too soft. It slipped under your defenses before you could lock them.
Kori returned with Jason and the shard. She had wrapped it in a square of gold fabric that shimmered strangely under the safehouse lights.
“I spoke briefly with someone who may know more,” she said. “The full answer will take time, but I believe the device was not made to harm. It was a bonding instrument once, perhaps used for healing or shared pain. The Psions damaged it. Crowe made the damage worse.”
You looked at the covered shard on the table. “Of course he did.”
“Can you reverse it?” Jason asked.
“Not safely yet. The bond was formed under distress. It must settle before I can separate them without causing more harm.”
“How long?” Roy asked.
“Hours. Perhaps days.”
Jason’s jaw tightened. “And until then?”
“Proximity,” Kori said. “Touch, when needed. Calm will help.”
Jason looked at your joined hands.
Roy looked at the ceiling.
You said, “Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Jason replied.
“You thought something judgmental.”
“I always think something judgmental.”
Kori sat across from you, expression kind. “The bond does not create what is absent. It reveals and amplifies what is already present.”
The room went still.
Roy’s hand tightened around yours for half a second before he forced it to relax.
Jason closed his eyes.
You looked at Kori. “Is that medically relevant?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a less devastating way to say it?”
She considered. “The machine cannot invent desire, only conduct it.”
“That was worse.”
Roy made a choking sound.
Jason turned toward the kitchen. “I’m leaving before this becomes my problem.”
“It is your safehouse,” you said.
“Then I’m leaving the problem in a room I’m not in.”
Kori watched him go with fond patience. “He is uncomfortable with tender complications.”
Roy’s voice was dry. “Jason? No.”
You tried to laugh, but the movement made your headache worse. Roy noticed, because of course he did.
“Rest,” he said.
You looked at him. “Do not start giving me orders.”
“That was a suggestion.”
“It had tone.”
“My tone is concerned.”
“Your concern is bossy.”
“I’m learning so much about myself tonight.”
Kori smiled. “Rest would help. The bond will be easier to understand if your bodies are not fighting injury and fear.”
You wanted to argue. You also wanted to lie down before your skull split open. Unfortunately, standing without Roy touching you remained a bad idea. The second your hands separated, pain flashed through both of you. He caught your hand again, breathing through his teeth.
“Okay,” he said. “Hands remain.”
Jason’s voice came from the kitchen. “One bedroom has a queen bed. The other has two twins. Kori and I are taking the twins.”
Your entire body went hot. “Excuse me?”
He reappeared with a glass of water and an expression that dared anyone to make him explain further. “You two need touch, or you get migraines. I need at least three hours of sleep before Crowe sends people after us. Kori needs space to figure out the alien soul Velcro. Adults can share a bed without making it weird.”
Roy’s emotions jumped so violently that you almost winced.
Jason pointed at him. “Especially you.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You breathed like an idiot.”
“You heard him breathe?” you asked.
“I heard the intent.”
Kori nodded. “The intent was loud.”
Roy looked betrayed. “I am being persecuted.”
“You are being accommodated,” Jason said. “Try gratitude.”
“I can take the floor,” Roy said quickly.
You turned toward him.
His face was open enough that you forgot your retort. Beneath the humor was the same fear as before: that you would think he wanted the situation, that his wanting made him unsafe, that needing touch because of the bond would make you feel trapped with him.
It was exhausting, realizing how careful Roy was underneath all that recklessness.
It was also inconveniently attractive.
“The floor makes no sense,” you said.
He blinked. “What?”
“The chair makes no sense either. The couch barely fits Jason’s emotional repression, let alone a human body. We can share the bed.”
Roy stared.
“You are going to be normal about it,” you added.
“Absolutely.”
“You are already being weird.”
“I’m being extremely normal in my head.”
“You are not.”
His mouth opened, then closed. “That is unfair.”
“Yes.”
Jason set the water on the table. “Great. Settled.”
“I hate this family meeting,” you said.
“We’re not a family,” Jason said.
Kori smiled. “We are an unconventional support structure.”
“That is worse,” Jason said.
The bedroom was small, plain, and lit by a single lamp with a crooked shade. The bed took up most of the floor space. There was a dresser, a chair, blackout curtains, and no evidence of anyone having ever enjoyed being alive in that room. Jason’s safehouse aesthetic seemed to have been developed by asking a bunker what it feared most.
Changing became a negotiation conducted with military seriousness and no eye contact. Jason had grabbed your emergency bag from the van, which meant you had backup hardware, chargers, field tools, and three different ways to bypass a locked server. What you did not have was clothes, because you had not packed for whatever fresh hell this was. Roy had a spare shirt in his bag, soft from use and big enough that you could pretend it solved more problems than it did.
You changed first, with Roy standing with his back to you and one hand held awkwardly behind him so you could keep two fingers hooked through his. Each brief loss of contact sent pressure blooming behind your eyes before you found his hand again. Fabric dragged. Armor came off in stages. Your dignity followed shortly after. There was no underwear in your bag, and the thought of putting borrowed sweatpants over nothing felt somehow worse than wearing only Roy’s shirt, which at least fell low enough to cover what it needed to cover if you did not move too carelessly.
By the time you looked down at yourself, drowned in Roy Harper’s shirt and partially empathically bonded to him, you had given up on preparing for sharing a bed.
There was no preparation for that.
Then it was his turn, which was somehow worse. You faced the blackout curtains with the focus of someone defusing a bomb while Roy changed behind you, his fingers still loosely linked with yours. A buckle hit the floor. Fabric shifted. Roy swore under his breath when his injured shoulder pulled, and you felt the brief flash of pain through the bond before he could hide it.
“Shoulder,” you said.
“I’m fine.”
“You are very bad at lying for someone who does it professionally.”
“I’m wounded.”
“Yes, that is my point.”
A soft laugh left him, followed by another rustle of fabric. “You know, if you’re going to feel every time you want to look, turning around might be the more honest option.”
You stared harder at the curtains. “I am practicing restraint.”
“Hot.”
“Roy.”
“What? It is.”
“You are making this worse.”
“I am standing half-dressed in a safehouse bedroom while psychically handcuffed. Worse was already here.”
By the time he sat beside you again, Roy was in sweatpants and a clean shirt, his damaged shoulder bandaged beneath the fabric. He had not showered. Neither of you had. There was still a faint smear of soot near his jaw and dried blood near his hairline, but the clean clothes made him look softer in a way you had not prepared for.
He looked at you.
Then he looked at the hem of his shirt, which had fallen low enough to cover you when you were standing still, but now that you were sitting, rode just high enough to make it impossible for either of you to forget what you were not wearing beneath it.
Heat pulsed through the bond.
“Subtle.”
He closed his eyes. “I am trying so hard.”
“I can tell. That makes it funnier.”
“It makes it worse from where I’m sitting.”
“You could stop staring.”
“I did stop staring.”
“After getting caught.”
“I am only human.”
“You are mostly nuisance.”
“Mostly,” he agreed, and his smile was tired but real. Then, after a beat, “For the record, I am aware this is a practical clothing issue.”
“That sounds almost mature.”
“I said almost.”
“You were doing so well.”
“I’m doing heroic work internally,” he said. “You have no idea.”
“Unfortunately, I have some idea.”
The old rhythm helped. You got into bed before you could overthink it, choosing the side closest to the wall because you had tactical instincts and also because it gave you something to do. Roy waited until you settled, then lay down beside you with stiff care, leaving an absurd gap between your bodies.
The gap lasted less than five seconds.
Pain bloomed behind your eyes, slow and sharp. Roy hissed softly beside you.
“This is stupid,” you said.
“I support that assessment.”
“Hand.”
He reached for you under the blanket. Your fingers slid together. The pain eased, though not fully.
Roy looked at the ceiling. “Better?”
“Somewhat.”
“That sounds like a no.”
“It is a partial no.”
“Can I move closer?”
The question was so careful that something in your chest ached.
“Yes.”
He shifted toward you. His shoulder brushed yours. Relief moved through the bond, warm and immediate, followed by awareness. His body close to yours. The hem of his shirt riding high against your thigh. The sound of your breathing in the quiet room. The fact that the two of you were alone now, with Jason and Kori beyond the wall and a bond humming between you like a live wire.
Roy went rigid.
“Breathe,” you said.
He let out a laugh that barely qualified as one. “Working on it.”
“You are panicking.”
“I am in a bed with the woman I’ve been flirting with for eight months while alien tech broadcasts my inside thoughts. I feel like a little panic is fair.”
Your heart gave a stupid little turn.
“The woman you’ve been flirting with?” you asked.
He froze.
You turned your head on the pillow. He was close enough that you could see the uncertainty cross his face, the way he wanted to make a joke and could not quite reach for one fast enough.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “That woman.”
You should have deflected. You were good at deflecting. You had built entire relationships out of deflection, made yourself useful enough to be kept around and sharp enough not to be handled carelessly. With Roy, deflection had always been easy because he was doing it too. Both of you tossed sparks across distance, trusting neither would let the fire catch.
The bond made silence honest.
“I flirted back,” you said.
His breath caught.
You felt that too.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“You cannot possibly be surprised.”
“I’m trying to decide how much of that was real and how much was you keeping me from electrocuting myself.”
“Those can overlap.”
His smile flickered. “Kori would be thrilled to hear you say that.”
“Do not tell Kori anything.”
“She already knows everything.”
“She suspects everything. That is different.”
Roy rolled slightly onto his side, careful with his shoulder, facing you fully now. His hand remained in yours beneath the blanket. “What do you suspect?”
It was the wrong question to ask softly.
You looked at him, at the face you had watched through glitching cameras and rooftop feeds, at the mouth that could make anything sound like a joke until the joke broke and something sincere slipped out. Roy was reckless, yes. Brilliant. Charming. A walking hazard label with a bow and unresolved emotional baggage. He was also kinder than he pretended, more careful than he wanted credit for, and lonelier than most people noticed.
You suspected you were already in trouble.
“I suspect,” you said, “that you call me when things are broken because it gives you an excuse.”
Roy’s expression changed. “Sometimes.”
“I suspect sometimes the broken thing is you.”
His jaw tightened.
You almost regretted saying it, except the bond carried his answer before pride could: yes.
You squeezed his hand. “I don’t mind.”
He looked away. “You should.”
“That is not your decision.”
“Maybe not. But I know what it’s like to be somebody’s bad habit.”
The words landed gently, which made them hurt more.
You knew pieces of Roy’s past because files existed, because Jason had warned you without giving details, and because Roy had mentioned recovery once in a voice that dared you to make it a subject. You knew enough to understand that wanting had not always been safe for him. Need had been complicated. Comfort had been complicated. Shame had teeth, and sometimes Roy smiled like a man keeping them from closing.
You turned onto your side, keeping hold of his hand. “You are not my bad habit.”
His mouth moved like he wanted to argue.
You lifted your eyebrows. “Do you want to fight with the woman currently inside your emotional blast radius?”
That startled a laugh out of him. The bond warmed.
“You’re terrifying,” he said.
“You like that.”
“I really do.”
The words were immediate. Too immediate to hide behind.
You both went quiet.
Desire moved then, slower than before. It did not crash through the bond the way panic had. It spread, intimate and heavy. Roy’s gaze flicked to your mouth, then back up. Your own body responded before you could pretend otherwise. The bond caught that too.
Roy inhaled carefully. “We should sleep.”
“You don’t want to sleep.”
“I am making a noble suggestion.”
“It is a bad suggestion.”
“It is probably the only smart one I’ve had all night.”
“Do you want to stop?” you asked.
His eyes closed briefly. “No.”
“Then stop trying to decide for both of us.”
He opened his eyes. “I am trying to be decent.”
“You are being decent. You asked. I answered.”
“That easy?”
“No. But it can be that clear.”
Roy stared at you for a long moment, and whatever he saw in your face must have reached something the bond could not, because his restraint shifted. It did not vanish. It changed shape, making room for want instead of trying to bury it.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The first kiss was careful.
That surprised you, though perhaps it should not have. Roy did many things quickly, but he kissed you as if he had spent months imagining it and still did not trust the moment not to break under his hands. His mouth touched yours softly, once, then again, and his fingers tightened around yours beneath the blanket.
The bond lit.
It was overwhelming, but not unpleasant. His nerves and yours braided at the edges, doubling sensation until the slide of his lips over yours felt like both giving and receiving. You felt his pulse jump when your free hand touched his jaw. You felt your own pleasure echoed back by the low sound he made when you kissed him harder.
Roy pulled back first, breath uneven. “Okay?”
You blinked at him. “That is an absurd question.”
“I’m going to need more than that.”
You kissed him again.
He accepted that answer with enthusiasm.
The second kiss was less careful. Roy’s hand slid to your waist, warm through your shirt, then stopped there until you shifted closer. The permission broke something loose in him. He drew you in, still mindful of his shoulder, mouth opening under yours with a hunger that made the bond flare hot.
You had expected him to be good with his mouth because Roy was good with it in every way that had annoyed you for months: talking his way past locked doors, flirting over comms while bullets flew, distracting armed men with sheer offensive charm, and making you laugh when you were trying very hard to stay mad at him. Expectation did not help. He kissed like he listened, and that was devastating. Every small sound you made changed him. Every reaction taught him something. His hand moved at your waist, thumb stroking once beneath the hem of your shirt when it rode up.
Skin touched skin.
Both of you gasped.
Roy went still. “Too much?”
“No.” You heard your own voice and barely recognized it. “Again.”
His eyes darkened.
He touched you again, this time deliberately, palm sliding beneath your shirt to settle against your side. The bond carried his reaction with humiliating clarity. Heat. Desire. Awe so intense it nearly embarrassed you. He was not only touching you. He was stunned that he was allowed.
You caught his wrist and guided his hand higher.
Roy exhaled shakily. “Sweetheart.”
The word had always been a weapon in his mouth. Playful. Teasing. Designed to make you threaten him. This time, it sounded wrecked.
You kissed him before he could see what that did to you.
Things moved slowly after that, though not because either of you lacked interest. The bond made rushing impossible. Every sensation needed room. Roy’s hand on your skin, your fingers in his hair, his mouth at your throat, the flex of his stomach beneath your palm when your hand slipped under his shirt. Everything reflected. Everything deepened. If either of you moved too quickly, pleasure sharpened toward something almost painful.
Roy learned the rhythm faster than you expected, and then you remembered that he was always learning. That was part of the problem with him. People saw the jokes first. They saw the reckless grin, the bad impulse control, the quiver full of impossible arrows, and they missed the mind underneath. Roy paid attention. He adapted. He learned where pressure became too much and where you wanted more.
You pushed his shirt up, and he sat back enough to pull it over his head with a wince.
Your hands caught his before he could hide it. “Shoulder.”
“It’s fine.”
“You are incapable of telling the truth about injuries.”
“I tell the truth about injuries all the time. Usually through humor.”
“That does not count.”
“It counts a little.”
You touched the edge of the bandage. The burn was ugly but clean, crossing the upper slope of his shoulder where the blast had hit him first. Your throat tightened.
Roy felt it.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t.”
“You got hurt because of me.”
“I got hurt because Crowe is an asshole with a haunted space artifact.”
“Roy.”
“I pulled you back because I wanted to. I’d do it again.”
The truth of that moved through the bond, steady and immovable.
You hated it. You needed it. You could not decide which feeling scared you more.
“That is exactly the problem,” you said.
His smile was small. “Yeah. I know.”
You touched his chest, just over his heart. “Do you?”
His hand covered yours. For once, the answer took time.
“I know I’m not great at limits when somebody I care about is in trouble,” he said. “I know that’s not fair to the people who have to watch it. I’m working on it.”
The last sentence landed with the weight of something practiced, not because it was false, but because he had said it in other contexts. Recovery was not always about one thing. Sometimes it was about learning how to survive your own instincts in every direction.
You leaned in and kissed him gently.
He accepted it like forgiveness, which made your chest ache.
“This does not get you out of being yelled at later,” you murmured.
His smile touched your mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You pushed him back against the pillows, careful of his shoulder. He went willingly, watching you climb over him with a look that made the bond go bright and hot again. You settled over his thighs, the hem of his shirt riding higher than either of you could pretend not to notice, and his hands came to your hips before they froze.
You felt the restraint lock down.
“Roy.”
“I’m being respectful.”
“You are being tense.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You can touch me.”
His fingers flexed. “Where?”
The question went straight through you.
“Anywhere.”
His mouth parted like he had several answers and trusted none of them. Then his hands slid up your sides beneath his shirt, slowly enough to change your breathing. He followed the reaction, eyes fixed on your face, palms warm against your ribs. When his thumbs brushed the underside of your breasts, pleasure curled low in your stomach and moved through the bond before you could hide it.
Roy swallowed. “Can I?”
You knew what he meant. The shirt was the only thing you had on, and both of you knew it.
“Yes.”
He lifted it carefully anyway, giving you time to stop him, giving you time to help him. The fabric dragged over your skin and disappeared somewhere beside the bed, leaving you bare above him in the crooked lamplight. Roy looked at you with an expression that made you feel too seen, not because of the bond this time, but because of him.
“You’re doing the thing,” you said, self-consciousness flickering despite the heat between you.
“What thing?”
“Looking at me like that.”
His mouth curved, but his voice came out softer than his expression. “I like looking at you.”
“You are very sincere while concussed.”
“I’m not concussed. Jason checked.”
“Jason’s medical standards include ‘still breathing’ and ‘no visible organ loss.’”
Roy laughed, and the sound eased the tightness in your chest. Then his mouth found your collarbone, and the laughter left both of you.
His kisses moved lower, careful and hungry at once. When his lips closed over your nipple, your hips rocked down against him before you could think. Pleasure flashed through the bond. Roy groaned against your skin, his hands tightening on your waist.
“Do that again,” he said.
You did.
The friction pulled a sound from both of you. He was hard beneath you, and the realization would have been obvious without the bond, but feeling his desire from the inside was something else entirely. It was not simple lust. It was layered with months of almosts. Your voice in his ear. Your name in his phone. Your hand reaching for him in the van. Your face above him now, wanting him back.
You bent and kissed him.
Roy met you with enough heat to make the room tilt. His hands roamed carefully, learning you through skin and sensation, until one slid down over your hip and stopped at the outside of your thigh.
There was nothing beneath his hand except bare skin, and the knowledge moved through the bond like a spark catching dry tinder.
Roy went very still.
You felt him pull himself back from the edge, not away from you, but away from rushing. It was almost unfair how much that restraint affected you.
“Tell me where this stops,” he said.
Your breath caught.
Then you held his gaze and answered clearly, because the bond had already stolen subtlety from both of you. “It doesn’t.”
His fingers flexed once against your thigh.
“Sweetheart.”
“I want this,” you said. “I want you. Keep going.”
The restraint in him shifted. It did not disappear, but it changed shape, becoming focus instead of distance. The smile that crossed his face was small, bright, and gone almost immediately beneath concentration.
He shifted you gently onto your back, moving slowly when the bond tugged at the change in position. For a moment, he hovered above you, braced on one arm, hair falling forward, bandaged shoulder held carefully away. His eyes searched your face once more, and whatever he found there softened something in him.
Then he kissed his way down your body, and coherent conversation became less available.
Roy touched you like he had something to prove and all the time in the world to prove it. He drew your shorts down your legs, pausing when the movement pulled you too far apart and the bond complained in a sharp pulse. He solved the problem by keeping one hand on your thigh, grounding both of you. Then his mouth returned to your skin, kissing your hip, your stomach, the inside of your thigh.
You reached down and caught his hair. “Roy.”
He looked up. “Tell me no, and I stop.”
The clarity of it nearly undid you.
You tightened your fingers gently. “I was going to tell you to keep going.”
His eyes darkened.
The first touch of his mouth made your back arch.
Roy groaned like he felt it almost as strongly as you did, which, given the bond, perhaps he did. His hands held your thighs open with careful pressure, not pinning, only steadying. He learned quickly there, too, which should have been unfair and absolutely was. His tongue moved slowly at first, testing, listening to every breath and every tug of your fingers in his hair. When he found a rhythm that made your hips lift, he stayed there.
The bond turned pleasure into a loop.
Your body reacted; Roy felt it; his hunger spiked; you felt that too. It built on itself until the room seemed to narrow around his mouth and your hands and the low sounds he made against you. The headache, the fear, the vault, the shame of wanting too much—all of it receded beneath the weight of being touched by someone who was paying attention.
“Roy,” you gasped.
He slid one hand up your body and found yours, lacing your fingers together beside your hip. The contact steadied the bond and ruined you at the same time.
You came with his name on your mouth.
Roy did not stop until you tugged at his hair and murmured, “Too much.”
He pulled back immediately, pressing one last soft kiss to your thigh before he climbed up your body. His mouth was warm and wet when he kissed you, and the taste of yourself on him sent a fresh wave of heat through you. He smiled against your lips as he felt it.
“Smug,” you whispered.
“Deeply.”
“You were told to be normal.”
“I have never promised that successfully.”
You laughed, breathless, and his expression changed again, going soft in the dim room.
“I like that,” he said.
“What?”
“You laughing.”
The words sat between you, tender and unexpected.
You touched his face. “You are dangerous when you stop joking.”
His smile wavered. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Good dangerous or bad dangerous?”
You kissed him instead of answering. He seemed to understand.
After that, the rest of his clothes came off with less grace than either of you had hoped for. Roy nearly tangled himself in the blanket trying to remove his sweatpants without moving too far away from you, and you laughed so hard the bond lit with his satisfaction before he even freed one ankle. He accused you of enjoying his suffering. You told him his suffering had excellent comedic timing.
The laughter helped.
It made the room less fragile. It reminded you that this was Roy, not only the bond, not only the desperate press of feelings neither of you had invited. Roy, who made terrible jokes when injured. Roy, who sent you pictures of broken arrowheads after midnight. Roy, who looked at you like you were the most impossible machine he had ever been lucky enough to understand.
He reached for the pocket of his discarded pants and produced a condom with triumphant relief.
You raised an eyebrow. “Prepared?”
“I am an optimist.”
“You brought that on a mission?”
“I brought several things on a mission.”
“Do not make me ask follow-up questions.”
He tore the packet open, then paused. His humor faded, replaced by that careful seriousness again.
“Last check,” he said. “Is this what you want?”
The question settled over you, warm and steady.
You were tired, sore, overwhelmed, and still connected to him in ways you did not fully understand. But the answer was clear. It had been clear before the artifact, before the vault, before Roy shielded you from light meant to tear through anything in its path. It had been there in every late call you answered and every joke you pretended not to enjoy.
“Yes,” you said. “You. This. I want it.”
Roy’s breath left him.
He kissed you slowly, and then he rolled the condom on with hands that were not quite steady.
When he settled between your thighs, the bond went quiet for one suspended moment, like even the alien technology understood that this needed its own space. Roy braced himself above you, careful of his shoulder, his body warm and solid against yours. You wrapped your legs around his hips and drew him closer.
He entered you slowly.
Both of you stopped breathing.
The sensation was intense enough on its own, the stretch of him filling you inch by inch, the heat of his body, the tremble in his arms as he held himself back. The bond made it sharper but not less yours. You felt his restraint, his pleasure, the stunned gratitude moving through him as if being wanted by you was something he had not known how badly he needed until it happened.
When he was fully inside, his forehead dropped to yours.
“Okay?” he asked, voice rough.
You nodded, then realized he needed to hear it. “Yes.”
He kissed you, and then he moved.
Slow at first. Careful. Almost too careful, until you tightened your legs around him and drew him deeper. Roy groaned into your mouth, and the sound snapped the last thread of careful restraint between you. His rhythm shifted, still controlled, but fuller now, each thrust dragging pleasure through both of you.
You held onto him carefully, avoiding his injured shoulder, fingers pressing into the muscles of his back. He kissed your jaw, your throat, your mouth whenever he needed to swallow a sound. The bond carried flashes of him: the way you felt around him, the way your voice saying his name nearly unraveled him, the way he kept thinking that this was real and then fearing it might not be.
You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. “Real.”
His hips stuttered.
“What?”
“This is real,” you said.
Roy’s expression cracked.
He kissed you hard, and the next thrust punched a sound out of you. He followed it, angling his hips until pleasure sparked bright and deep. Your nails dug into his back. He found that rhythm and stayed there, breath coming rough, eyes fixed on you like he needed to watch you feel it.
“There,” you said.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Roy, please.”
The word “please” did something to him. You felt it ripple through the bond, desire and want and tenderness and a nearly painful need to give you whatever you were asking for. His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with the same attention as before.
The pleasure climbed fast.
You clung to him, overwhelmed by the press of his body, the rhythm of him inside you, the touch of his fingers, the bond folding his desire around yours until the room seemed to pulse with it. Roy murmured your name against your mouth, low and unsteady, and that was what pushed you over.
Your orgasm hit in a wave that made you shake beneath him.
Roy followed seconds later, his control finally breaking as he buried his face against your neck and came with a groan that seemed to move through both your bodies at once. The bond flared warm and bright, then softened, carrying the echo of pleasure into something quieter.
For a while, there was only breathing.
Roy shifted carefully, wincing as he moved off his shoulder and onto his side. He dealt with the condom, then came back to you under the blanket with that same hesitation as before, as if he still expected permission to expire without warning.
You moved into his arms before he could ask. His body relaxed around yours.
The bond had settled to a hum. It no longer hurt. It no longer crowded every thought. It was simply there, a thread between you, warm and strange and temporary.
Roy’s hand moved slowly up and down your back. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Pain?”
“Just sore.”
“Regrets?”
You lifted your head.
He was staring past you, trying to make the question sound casual. It did not work. Even without the bond, you thought you would have known.
“No.”
His throat moved. “If tomorrow you decide this was just the artifact—”
“It wasn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“Sweetheart.”
You pushed yourself up enough to look at him properly. “Roy.”
He shut up.
“I wanted you before the artifact. I wanted you before the vault. I wanted you when you sent me pictures of broken equipment at two in the morning and pretended you needed technical support when what you needed was someone to stay on the line.”
His face went still.
You softened. “I stayed on the line because I wanted to.”
His arm tightened around you.
For once, he had nothing quick to say.
Then, very quietly, he said, “I didn’t want to be another thing you had to fix.”
Your chest ached.
“You are not a project,” you said.
“I’m a little bit of a project.”
“You are a person who sometimes needs help.”
“People get tired of that.”
“Some do,” you said. “Some answer the phone.”
He closed his eyes.
You kissed him gently, and when he kissed you back, the bond carried gratitude so raw that you nearly cried. You did not. You let him hold you instead.
Jason knocked on the door six hours later with the emotional delicacy of a police raid.
Roy jerked awake beside you. “Occupied.”
“I hate that I know that,” Jason said through the door. “Kori has a reversal plan. Put clothes on.”
Roy’s face went through several stages of horror and resignation.
You buried your face in his chest and laughed.
Jason added, “I’m going to the kitchen. If I see anything I can’t unsee, I’m shooting both of you.”
“You would miss me,” Roy called.
“I would grieve efficiently.”
Kori’s voice floated from farther down the hall. “I am pleased the night went well.”
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
Roy closed his eyes. “The sea is still an option.”
“You are not leaving me alone with them.”
“Right. Teamwork.”
Getting out of bed was less painful than expected. The bond still tugged when you moved too far away, but it no longer punished you for every inch you moved. You borrowed one of Roy’s hoodies because your shirt had somehow ended up under the bed, and because the second he saw you in it, his entire face did something worth preserving for later mockery. This time, you put on the sweatpants, even if you still had no underwear.
“Do not look so smug,” you said.
“I’m looking respectfully.”
“You are not.”
“I’m looking respectfully smug.”
“That is worse.”
When you entered the kitchen, Jason was making coffee with the grim focus of a man trying to survive exposure to other people’s feelings. Kori sat at the table with the shard wrapped in gold fabric before her. She took in Roy’s hoodie and sweats on you, Roy’s hand at the small of your back, and the carefully neutral expression both of you were failing to maintain.
Her smile bloomed.
Jason pointed a spoon at her without turning around. “Don’t.”
“I said nothing.”
“You inhaled.”
“It was a happy inhalation.”
“Don’t do that either.”
You sat at the table, Roy close beside you. “Can we end the bond?”
Kori’s expression sobered. “Yes. It has settled enough. The separation may be uncomfortable, but it should not harm you.”
“And afterward?” Roy asked.
“The forced connection will end. There may be residual sensitivity for a few hours.” She looked between you, not unkindly. “Anything that remains after that is yours.”
Jason muttered, “Great. Science and feelings.”
You looked at Roy. His face was relaxed, but you knew him better now. Even without the bond screaming every emotion across your nerves, you could read the worry in the set of his mouth.
“What?” you asked softly.
He leaned closer, his voice low enough that Jason could pretend not to hear if he wanted to. “What if it feels different when it’s gone?”
“It will.”
His gaze flicked to yours.
“Different does not mean gone,” you said.
He absorbed that. Slowly. Like he wanted to believe you, but did not want to grab too hard in case the belief cracked.
You slid your hand into his under the table. He held on.
The reversal felt like stepping out of a crowded room into silence.
Kori guided your hands and Roy’s around the covered shard. She spoke in a language you did not recognize, soft and rhythmic. The shard warmed beneath your palms. For one last moment, the bond surged open. Roy flooded through you: fear, hope, want, affection, the terrible vulnerability of needing something and choosing to reach for it anyway.
Then the thread snapped.
You gasped.
Roy did too.
The silence inside your own head was immediate and enormous.
You were alone in your body again. No echo of Roy’s pain. No flicker of his desire under your skin. No second heartbeat of concern and care and restless energy. Just you, your breath, your pulse, your hand still touching his over the shard.
You should have felt only relief.
Relief came, yes. But grief came with it.
Roy stared at you across the table. For the first time since the vault, you could not feel him at all.
Then he pushed back his chair just enough to face you properly, cupped your jaw, and kissed you like he meant to make himself understood without supernatural help.
You leaned into him. His hands framed your face, warm and real and chosen. There was no bond to amplify it, no alien resonance making emotion impossible to hide. There was only Roy, kissing you in Jason’s ugly kitchen while Kori made a delighted sound and Jason said something under his breath that would probably ruin the moment if you cared.
You did not care.
Roy broke the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours. “Still real?”
You touched his face. “Still real.”
His smile came slowly, bright and relieved enough to make your chest hurt. “Good.”
Jason cleared his throat. “Kitchen.”
Roy did not look away from you. “You have one fork.”
“I eat here emotionally.”
“You do not do anything emotionally.”
“I am about to throw you outside emotionally.”
Kori folded the gold fabric over the shard. “I think this is a successful courtship.”
“It was not courtship,” Jason said automatically.
You glanced at Roy.
His hand found yours.
You smiled despite yourself. “It might be courtship now.”
Roy’s face lit up.
Jason stared at you. “You too?”
“I contain multitudes,” you said.
Roy looked delighted. “That was my line.”
“I improved it.”
“You improve a lot of things.”
The sincerity landed without warning.
You looked at him, and for once, there was no bond to reveal the emotion underneath. You did not need it. Roy was standing in front of you with his hand in yours, bruised, exhausted, warm, and entirely too pleased with himself for someone who had nearly gotten you killed by association.
You squeezed his hand.
Two nights later, Roy sent you a picture of another smoking circuit board.
You were back in your apartment, behind your screens, wearing a shirt you stole from Roy and trying to restore the last pieces of your sleep schedule. The Outlaws were in Prague this time, which you knew because you had routed their travel documents yourself and because Roy had sent you six pictures of street food before Jason confiscated his phone for operational security.
The picture arrived at 12:19 a.m.
terrible news. she’s dead
You zoomed in on the circuit board, then sat back.
that is a capacitor
yeah but she had dreams
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
why are you texting me about a capacitor during a surveillance op?
Roy took fifteen seconds to answer.
because jay said if i asked u out over comms he’d shoot me
Your heart turned over.
Then another message arrived.
dinner when i’m back? not because of alien tech. because i want to see you and ideally not almost die first
You let him wait. Just long enough to preserve your pride.
Then you typed back.
dinner. eight. bring intact technology or don’t come at all.
His reply came almost instantly.
yes ma’am
A second later:
for the record i wanted to ask before the alien overshare
You looked at the message for a long moment, the monitors humming softly around you, the room quiet except for the faint pulse of encrypted channels and the distant city beyond your window.
You answered honestly.
i know
The typing bubble appeared. Vanished. Appeared again.
yeah?
You thought of the first call, the smoking circuit board, the jokes that were not only jokes. You thought of Roy in the vault, pulling you back before the blast hit. Roy in the dark bedroom, asking when he could have taken. Roy in the kitchen after the bond broke, crossing the room because he wanted you without anything alien making the wanting easier to admit.
You typed:
i wanted you to
This time, his answer took longer.
When it came, it was simple.
good. eight.
Your secure comm pinged before you could answer.
Jason’s voice came through a moment later. “Relay.”
“Yes?”
“Tell your boyfriend to stop smiling at his phone during surveillance.”
Roy’s voice protested in the background. “He called me your boyfriend!”
“I heard.”
“You didn’t correct him.”
“I was processing the presumption.”
“You paused.”
“The bond is gone, Harper.”
“I have instincts.”
“You have head trauma.”
“Also instincts.”
Jason made a sound of profound suffering. “I’m muting him.”
Kori’s voice entered the channel, warm and pleased. “I believe this is still courtship.”
“Still not courtship,” Jason said.
Roy laughed, bright and familiar through the line. “Pretty sure it is now.”
You leaned back in your chair, listening to them bicker through the clean channel you had built, the signal steady in your ear. The Outlaws were easy enough when friendship came with protocols. Jason needed routes, Kori needed context, and Roy needed reminders not to touch volatile equipment without supervision.
Roy had become the kind of problem your phone recognized before you did. It buzzed after midnight, and some tired, traitorous part of you already knew it would be him before the screen lit up. Not because he was careless, exactly. Careless people did not send encrypted attachments, blurred circuit diagrams, and three separate angles of a device before asking whether the blinking red light was “a personality thing.” Roy prepared for disaster beautifully. He simply preferred to flirt with it first.
But your phone was in your hand, your smile was already there, and when his voice came through the comm again, softer this time, you did not pretend you had not been waiting for it.
“See you at eight, sweetheart.”
You looked at the monitors, at the open line, at the ridiculous shape your life had taken because Jason Todd had once climbed through the window with a hard drive and Roy Harper had never learned when to leave well enough alone.
“Try not to die before our date, Arsenal.”
His laugh warmed the channel.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @toxisyddy for the Arsenal divider ❤️💛
summary 𓂃 jason shows up at your apartment while you’re at work, climbs in through your window, and even bleeds on your floors. despite everything, you still patch him up because watching him bleed out makes you feel guilty. he’s become used to this nameless routine of him showing up at your place with injuries that you’re nowhere near qualified to treat and arguing with you about classic literature.
tags 𓂃 smitten!jason todd x english teacher fem!reader , redhood!jason , injured!jason , hurt/comfort , unspoken relationship , exclusive without saying it , pining , touch starved!jason , sarcasm & banter , soft jason , criminal x civilian , secret identity , soft angst , fluff , literary references , book nerd jason , dorian gray mentioned , the count of monte cristo mentioned , domesticity , jason’s pov , blood & injury , loverboy!jason .
wc 𓂃 around 2k.
requested 𓂃 by anon
✦ masterlist ╱ dc masterlist 𓏼 ͜͜
THE DAMN WINDOW STUCK.
That stupid rusted latch had been fighting him for years now, and Jason was pretty sure it did it out of spite. Every time he showed up, it demanded some ridiculous combination of lifting, twisting, and threatening bodily harm before it would finally cooperate.
Tonight, it let him in without a fuss.
Jason stared at it.
“…Well that’s ominous.”
The fire escape groaned beneath him as he hauled himself through the opening. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, hauling one leg. Then the other. “Join the club.”
The movement immediately reminded him that getting stabbed hurt.
A lot.
“Fuck.”
His left side throbbed with every breath. The knife had slipped between his ribs during what had originally been a straightforward job and had quickly evolved into an excellent example of why Jason hated working with amateurs. The wound wasn’t fatal. Probably.
The fact that he was adding probably wasn’t reassuring. The bleeding had slowed—thank you, aggressive field dressing applied in a warehouse bathroom—but every breath sent a fresh spike of pain through his chest, and his jacket was ruined. Again.
Third one this year, he thought vaguely. Alfred’s going to kill me.
Generously assuming he didn't bleed out first.
He should call someone. Jason had contacts—a surgeon in the Bowery, a safehouse two blocks away with a fully stocked medical kit, a dozen people who owed him favors. He should consider any of these options.
Instead, he sat on your windowsill and waited. Was it his best option? No. Was it his favorite? Yeah.
The apartment looked just as you left it this morning. He could tell because the mug on the coffee table still had tea residue (Earl Grey, since you liked to be fancy), the pile of essays on the desk waiting to be graded were ready to topple over, and your grandma's quilt was still draped over the armchair like a comforting hug you could sit on.
He never met your grandma. He knew she passed away three years ago, and he knew you kept the knitted quilt despite its clash with the rest of the room. He also knew you sometimes cried about her when you thought he was asleep.
That was the thing about you. It was adorable. You thought you were private. You thought you kept your walls up. You thought he knew only what you wanted him to.
But come on, it’s Jason. The same Jason that was been raised by Batman. He knew how to read people. And you—you were an open book, and he'd been reading you for four years now.
He checked his phone. 5:47 PM. You usually got home around 6:15, later if there was grading. He had time. Nothing to do besides bleed out, anyway.
He grabbed the beaten-up copy of The Count of Monte Cristo—the one you were reading and had left on the windowsill—and read by the fading sunlight until the words started to blur. Or maybe he was just losing too much blood. Eh… he wouldn't know.
The key turned in the lock at 6:22.
Jason didn't move. He heard you drop your bag—that little thump of canvas hitting hardwood—heard your footsteps pause, heard the soft intake of breath when you noticed the window was open.
"You've got to be kidding me," he heard you mutter.
He bit back a smile. You’ve gotta’ get used to him sneaking in.
The footsteps came closer, slower now, and he watched you round the corner with a baseball bat held like you actually knew how to use it. You didn't. He knows this because he’d tried to teach you once, and then never again. He is partial to having his knees intact, thank you very much.
You stopped dead when you saw him.
He raised one hand in a lazy wave. "Hey, teach. Nice weather for a break-in, right?"
The bat didn't lower. Your eyes swept over him—probably taking in the blood, the jacket, the way he was holding his side—he knew he had it coming when your expression changed. That flash of fear you always tried to hide, the one that made him feel guilty and wanted in equal measure.
"Jason," you said slowly, "are you bleeding on my grandmother's quilt?"
He glanced down. Yeah, there was a spot. Maybe two…
"Uh… it adds character?" he said, flashing a grin that felt more like a wince. "Makes it… authentic. You're welcome."
You dropped the bat.
It clattered against the floorboards, and before he could blink you were there, right in front of him, close enough that he could smell your shampoo and then your hands were hovering over his chest like you weren't sure where to touch.
"How long have you been sitting there?" you demanded, with that look on your face that gave him guilty butterflies. You looked worried, but a selfish part of him liked that.
He checked his phone again, mostly to avoid your eyes. "Three hours. Give or take. Watched your neighbor walk his ugly pug three times Once each hour." A pause. "That dog has a better life than me."
"Jason."
"Present."
"How long have you been bleeding?"
He shrugged with his good shoulder. "Dunno. Lost track."
You made a sound—mix of frustration and something softer—and reached for his hand, gently pulling his fingers away from his side. He let you, as he naturally always did, even when his instincts told him to pull back, to hide the pain, or just deal with it himself.
The wound was uglier than he remembered.
The knife had pierced just below his collarbone and sliced down toward his pec, a clean line that had missed anything vital by millimeters. The field dressing was soaked through, and fresh blood welled up as the air hit it.
You stared at it for a long moment.
"You're an idiot," you said.
"There it is." He let his head fall back against the window frame. "Was wondering when the insults would start. Really completes the experience."
"An absolute, grade-A, certified idiot."
"Keep going. I'm almost there."
You shoved his good shoulder—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make a point—and he laughed, which turned into a hiss, which turned into a groan. The pain lanced through him like a live wire, and he must have made some kind of face because your expression softened immediately.
"Okay," you said, all business now. "Okay. Get inside. Properly inside, not half-inside like some kind of vampire waiting for an invitation."
"I was going for mysterious."
"You're going for blood on my floor. Move."
Getting through the window properly was a challenge.
He swung his other leg over the sill, gripping the frame with white-knuckled fingers, and you grabbed his belt loop—his belt loop, like he was some misbehaving toddler—and hauled him into the room. He stumbled, caught himself on the armchair, and left a bloody handprint on the upholstery.
"Sorry," he said.
"It’s fine. Just sit."
He sat down. The couch cushions sank beneath him, old, worn, and so familiar. This couch had seen four years of arguments, four years of silences, four years of falling asleep to old movies, four years of… stuff he shouldn’t be thinking about, or else he’ll have a more prominent crisis than the knife wound.
You were already moving, vanishing into the bathroom, and he heard cabinets opening and closing, the rattle of medical supplies. When you came back, you were carrying the first aid kit he'd bought you last year—military-grade, because the one from Target didn’t exactly cut it—and a towel that used to be white but was now a faded pink thanks to the many times he showed up like this.
"Shirt off," you said, dropping to your knees in front of him.
"Wow." He raised an eyebrow. "Buy a guy dinner first."
"I'm serious, Jason."
"So am I. You've got me in a vulnerable position. The least you could do is wine and dine me."
You didn't laugh. You just looked at him with those eyes—god—those really pretty eyes, and reached for the hem of his shirt.
He let you pull it over his head without argument. He knew better than to argue with an English teacher.
The air was cold on his skin, and he watched your face as you took him in. Nothing you hadn’t seen before. The scars. The bruises. The new wound, raw and red and still stubbornly seeping. Your expression didn't change—not quite—but something in your eyes went sharp and hard, the way it did when a student gave you a truly terrible essay.
"And who was it this time?" you asked, unfolding a gauze pad.
"Doesn't matter."
"Jason."
"Doesn't matter." He gently caught your wrist before you could touch the wound, holding you there for a moment. His thumb brushed over your pulse point. "They're not a problem anymore."
You stared at him. He stared back.
There was so much you didn't ask. Four years, and you'd never asked about the scars, never asked about when he disappeared for weeks at a time, never asked why he he knew how to pick a lock or why he carried a gun in his waistband even when he was just coming over to watch TV.
You didn't ask. And he'd never offered.
It was the unspoken thing between you. The understanding that some doors stayed closed, and that was okay, because what was on the other side would probably just ruin everything.
You let out a breath. Then you reached for the whiskey bottle on the coffee table—the good stuff, the one you saved for bad days—and unscrewed the cap, sitting down next to him on the couch.
"This is going to hurt," you said.
"Promise?" He smirked, but it was gone almost immediately at the sting.
You poured. “Can’t believe I’m wasting my finest bottle on this,” you grumbled.
The antiseptic hit the wound like a brand, and Jason's vision went white for a split second. He didn't scream but his hand shot out and grabbed your thigh, fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans, holding on like you were the only solid thing in the room.
"Son of a bitch," he gritted out.
"You're welcome," you said mildly, and he almost laughed despite the pain.
After that it was easier. While you worked, he talked.
He didn't realize he was doing it at first—just rambling, filling the silence so he didn't have to think about the needle going through his skin—but somewhere around the third stitch, he heard himself say, "I finished Monte Cristo."
You paused, needle halfway through his skin. "You did?"
"Last week. While I was... away."
You didn't bother asking where.
"The ending," you said, resuming your work. "What did you think?"
He considered the question. The ceiling fan spun lazily above you, casting shadows across your face, and he watched the way your brow furrowed in concentration and your tongue pressed against your cheek as you tied off a stitch.
"I think Dantès was an idiot," he said finally.
You snorted. "Oh, here we go."
"Not about the revenge part. The revenge part was solid. But the whole 'walking away into the sunset with Haydée' thing?" He shook his head. "Lame. He should've—"
"Should've what? Stayed in Paris? Continued being the Count forever?"
"He should've gone back to Mercédès."
You stopped. Looked up at him. "Mercédès married someone else. She had a son. She—"
"She waited for him." Jason's voice came out rougher than he intended. "For twenty years, she waited. And he just... left her. Because she'd moved on? Because she'd tried to survive without him?" He shook his head again. "That's not love. That's ego."
Something flickered across your face—surprise, maybe, or recognition—and you looked back down at his stitches.
"You think about this a lot," you said quietly.
"I think about you a lot."
The words hung in the air between you, heavier than they should’ve been. He hadn't exactly meant to say that. He hadn't meant to say any of this. But you were close, and you smelled so familiar and so comforting, and your hands were gentle even when they were stabbing him with a needle, and he was so tired of pretending he didn't feel things.
"You're deflecting," you said after a moment.
"Am not."
"Are too. You talk about books when you're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"Jason." You tied off the last stitch and set the needle aside, wiping your hands on the bloody towel. "You climbed through my window. You sat there for three hours. You let me stitch you up without a single complaint." You met his eyes. "You're terrified."
He opened his mouth like he was about to spew some bullshit and then closed it when he realized it’s pointless.
Because you were right. You were always right, and it was infuriating, and it was also the reason he kept coming back. You saw through all of him—through the jokes, through the bravado, through the Red Hood persona that made grown men flinch—and you didn't go anywhere.
"You could have gone anywhere," you continued, softer now. "A hospital. A clinic. One of your... friends." You both knew you didn't mean friends. "But you came here."
"The hospitals in this city are terrible."
"Jason."
"I didn't know where else to go."
Four years. He'd never said that before.
You looked at him for a long moment—like you were reading him the way you read your books, line by line, searching for meaning between the words. Then you sighed and sat back on your heels, fingers reaching out to brush his hair off his sweaty forehead.
"You're staying here tonight," you said. It wasn't a question.
"I should probably—"
"You should probably shut up and let me take care of you."
He wanted to argue. That was his default—argue, deflect, retreat. But he was tired, and he was bleeding, and your couch smelled like you, and the thought of leaving made something in his chest ache just a tiny bit.
"Fine," he said. "But I'm not sleeping on the couch."
"You're not sleeping in my bed either."
"I didn't say your bed. I said not the couch. The armchair looks comfortable."
"The armchair is from IKEA."
"Perfect. IKEA is known for its durability."
You laughed the kind of laugh that crinkled your eyes and made his stomach flip—and he thought, Yeah. This is why I came here. No hospital, clinic, Roy, Kori, Bruce, or anyone else in this world could have made a knife wound feel like a scratch.
Later, when the bandages were changed and the ibuprofen had kicked in and the two of you were sprawled across your bed because the armchair was, in fact, not comfortable, he found himself staring at the ceiling.
You were curled against his right side—his good side, the one without the stitches—with your head on his shoulder and your hand resting over his chest. Your breathing was slow and even, but he knew you weren't asleep.
"Hey," he said quietly.
"Mm?"
"Remember the library?"
You shifted, tilting your head to look at him. The moonlight coming through the window caught your face, turned your eyes silver.
"The library," you repeated. "You mean when you insulted my taste in literature?"
"I didn't insult it. I said The Picture of Dorian Gray was overrated."
"Which is an insult."
"It's an observation."
You poked his chest and he caught your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. Your palm was warm against his, and he thought about how your hand looked in his, how delicate and soft compared to his roughed up hands—how easy it would be to break.
He'd die before he let anyone break you.
"Why are you thinking about the library?" you asked.
He was quiet for a moment. "Because you were the first person in a long time who didn't look at me like I was something to be scared of."
Your breath caught. He felt it more than heard it.
"Jason..."
"You argued with me." He squeezed your hand. "You told me I was wrong, and you had evidence, and you wouldn't let it go. I'd just gotten back from..." He trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence. I'd just come back from the dead seemed like a lot for a Tuesday night.
"From wherever you go," you finished for him.
"Yeah." He swallowed. "From wherever I go."
You were quiet for a long time. The ceiling fan spun. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed but tonight it had nothing to do with him.
"When you're not here," you said finally, "I read."
"What do you read?"
"Everything. Anything. But mostly the books we've argued about." You turned your head, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. "It's like... having you there. Even when you're not."
He closed his eyes.
The best before the last, he'd written on your chalkboard once, weeks ago, after a night like this one. He'd meant it as a joke—a vocabulary lesson, something to make you smile. But standing here now, with your weight against his side and your heartbeat under his palm, he realized it wasn't a joke at all.
You were the best thing in his life.
And he had no idea how to tell you that.
He woke up at 4:17 AM.
Old habit. The sun wasn't up yet, and the apartment was dark, and you were still asleep—curled on your side, mouth slightly open, one hand fisted in the blanket. You looked younger like this. Softer. Like the girl in the library who'd argued with him four years ago about Oscar Wilde for like forty minutes.
He should leave. He always left. That was the agreement—the unspoken agreement that kept things simple, that kept you safe, that kept him from wanting things he knew damn well he couldn't have. Not until he got his shit together.
But your hand was on his chest, and your knee was hooked over his thigh, and your breath was warm against his neck.
So he stayed. Because he couldn’t bring himself to move when you looked so peaceful.
He stayed until it was 6:00 AM, when the first light of dawn crept through the blinds. He stayed until you stirred, mumbled something about coffee, and fell back asleep. And then, when he couldn't stay any longer without feeling guilty, he slipped out of bed.
The wound pulled when he stood, dragging a soft wince from him.
He put a glass of water on the nightstand, and two ibuprofen next to it in case you woke up with a headache (no thanks to him), and then he stood in the middle of your room and tried to figure out how to say goodbye.
He couldn't.
So he went to your dresser instead, the one with the small chalkboard where you wrote vocabulary words for your students, and picked up the chalk.
Penultimate, he wrote. (adj.) the best before the last. That's you.
He hesitated. Then he drew a small symbol below it—a bat, stylized, almost playful.
He climbed out the window.
The latch stuck, just for a second. He lifted it just so, and it opened.
The fire escape groaned. The alley below was quiet. And Jason dropped to the ground and disappeared into the Gotham morning, carrying the smell of your shampoo on his jacket.
His phone buzzed three hours later.
He was in a safehouse across town, re-stitching the wound because he'd pulled half the stitches climbing out your window, and the sound made him jump.
You: You're not allowed to die before I see you again.
He stared at the screen.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. He could picture you—sitting at your kitchen table, coffee in hand, grading essays while you waited for a response. You were probably wearing that cardigan with the elbow patches. You were probably smiling—maybe.
He typed back.
Jason: Wouldn't dream of it, teach. ;)
He put the phone down. Picked it up again.
Jason: Dantès was still an idiot though.
Three dots.
You: Read the book again, Jason.
You: And come home when you're done. We can argue then.
He looked at the word—home—for a long time.
Then he put the phone in his pocket, picked up his battered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo he borrowed from the library and never returned, and started reading again from the beginning.
he isn't in love, so don't get mixed up in the rumors. unless you're roy harper, in which you may observe the red hood get a little dazed by the sight of his not-girlfriend. you are beauty, you are grace, and jason todd is pink in the face.
⟢ jason todd x fem nurse reader, roy being nosy, clubbing at the iceberg lounge, hopeless silly crushing from jay, 3k wc
IT STARTS WITH A FULL CABINET. And not just any cabinet—a medicine cabinet, stocked to the brim with unused gauze, rolls of loose weave neatly packed into a shelf. The chipped interior provides a stark background for a number of other suspicious things, too.
Still-sealed suture packets. Two bottles of ibuprofen, both full. And get this: a long accordion-string of antibiotic ointment that hits the floor when Roy unfurls it. None of the serrated edges are ripped.
Hell, it looks brand new.
Call him paranoid for assuming, but a full medicine cabinet in Jason Todd's apartment is infinitely suspicious. It might be arguable that he's just recently stocked up...if it weren't for the thin layer of dust that's settled over everything.
It also could mean that the rumors are true.
Of course, when Roy brings it up, rolls of gauze clutched into the crook of his elbow, Jason just works his jaw with one hand in his hair, the other scribbling in red Sharpie.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jason drawls, face steeled to perfection. He doesn't even look up, too busy brooding down at the spread of documents and maps pinned down by several empty cans of Coke; a few drops of sweet, dark soda stain the papers.
“You know, I heard from a little Robin,” Roy sings, sauntering over and dumping the gauze onto the small table—one roll bounces onto the floor and off Jason’s slippers, “that you have a girl.”
Gotcha. Wind had reached Roy from Donna, who had heard from Wally, who had heard from Dick, who had so on and so forthed until the rumor could be traced back to a certain grumpy, spiky-haired sidekick who claims to have seen the second Robin dreamily admiring a nurse as she patched him up on the floor of her apartment.
That makes Jason look up. A shadow crosses his face, one that makes an odd kind of shiver tickle at Roy’s nape. It’s the same kind of look that comes when things go sideways or shit blows up when it isn’t supposed or when Batman does something that really sets him off.
(But like father, like son. The way Jason is practically glaring at that loose-leaf pile of shit looks just like those old photos of B sent to a long-destroyed phone. Courtesy of Dick, who always has a field day spamming the Titans’ defunct, triple-encrypted groupchat when he happens to be back in Gotham.)
And then Jason looks to the pile of little, unused rolls spilled across the table. Like—really looks at them, as if it’s the first he’s ever heard of gauze. Then he tilts his head and stares at Roy, mouth pressed into a razor-thin line.
“Really?” Jason says, brows lifting like he’s totally disinterested. Then he points a finger at himself, really humored. “You think I have a girlfriend? ‘Cause what, I'm well stocked, or Damian said so?”
Roy narrows his eyes, hands immediately coming up in defense. “I never said it was Damian.”
“Just giving an example.”
Jason shrugs—too casual to be innocent—but Roy’s already caught on long before that. The little flicker of ‘oh, shit’ across his face, the slightest thread of apprehension shooting through his deeply furrowed brow.
Perks of being a deadeye: you catch all the shit everyone else misses.
So. That little gremlin was telling the truth about seeing his adopted brother—or however the hell their relationship works—sneaking into a girl’s apartment and being all lovey-dovey with her even though he’s literally a menace to the city.
And a menace to Roy, because Jason’s ticking jaw is starting to look like he’s on the edge of flipping the damn table.
"Alright." Roy concedes despite the nagging itch in his head. Jason Todd is lying. "If you say so."
"That's what I thought."
—
Contrary to Jason's (likely) belief, things don't end at the medicine cabinet. In fact, that had just been the start.
The next revelation comes when they’re supposed to be infiltrating the Iceberg Lounge for a business exchange between a mysterious broker and the Penguin—back from a brief stint in jail, again, much to Jason and everyone else’s chagrin.
This is a no-mask occasion, just to play the harmless civilian and not get a beatdown from the bouncers.
It’s loud inside the lounge, a heavy bass beat thrumming at such a strength that Roy is wary to even brush up against the walls. The soles of his boots stick to the floor, gummy in the way only nightclubs can be; the air is soaked with the scent of sweat and booze. He’s already flicked his shades on and pushed them all the way up to his eyelashes, but the strobe lights flashing through the nightclub still need squinting to get through.
Thus, he almost misses Jason’s hand tapping on his shoulder, too busy shrugging off the hot press of clubbers swarming the floor.
Roy turns, raising his eyebrows at his partner. He gets the feeling that this is a little strange, being on a mission bare faced with a stupid Gotham U shirt and a half-broken comm chip in the ear. Jesus, he looks and feels like a frat guy despite being a decade too old.
Jason doesn’t seem to mind though, dressed in a thin, maroon hoodie that does nothing to hide his shoulders, and grey jeans. Casual, in a nonchalant way. The I’m a frat who just threw on whatever and I’m ready to get sloshed way.
His hand is still incessantly tapping on Roy’s shoulder, not really aware that they’re already facing each other, Roy expectant and ready to listen.
“Hell-o?”
“Oh.” Jason blinks, seemingly snapped out of it. There’s a sort of far-off look in his eyes, mouth barely parted, like he’s just seen a ghost and he’s trying to hide it. His gaze darts around, but it’s inevitably drawn to the blue-neon shelves on a back wall.
Slow to say, tongue wetting his bottom lip, “I’ll take the bar.”
Roy huffs, crossing his arms. “Alright. I’ll take the floor.”
They both nod to themselves, though Jason looks very satisfied that he’s gotten what he wanted. Usually, they flip a coin or play rock-paper-scissors or use whatever is on hand at the time to decide scouting positions.
Like that one time, with the water bottle. They had spent so long trying to get it to land upright that they almost missed their cue.
But that’s a story for another night, because Jason is peeling away and making quick strides to the bar. He slides into an empty stool to the left of a woman, leaning his elbow on the counter with a small smile.
Roy posts up against a wall on the opposite side of the bar, eyes roving. There’s a suspicious-looking guy in the far corner—a black suit type, slicked back hair and shiny laced loafers swimming with a leather-warped reflection of the strobe lights. The man is nursing a glass of whiskey, dark amber liquid turned to pitch when the music switches up.
He scoots closer for a better look at their potential broker, and then he catches a glance of Jason at the bar, still talking to...
Oh, shit.
The screenshot passed around hero communications like a virus resurfaces in Roy’s mind. Sure, she’s wearing a cute outfit and some makeup instead of soft sleep clothes, but it’s unmistakable.
Jason Todd is talking up his not-girlfriend in the Iceberg Lounge during a mission.
People’s eyes bugging out of their sockets used to be an impossible concept, and yet. Here he is, helpless on the other side of the club as all the little pieces click together and catch up to him.
The hardly used medical supplies. The ‘oh, shit’ look. The fact that Jason lied to Roy’s face.
You smile in that teasing, kind of girly way you did in Damian’s leaked screenshot, much to Jason’s apparent enjoyment. He leans the side of his head on his left fist, that elbow in turn balanced on the bar top.
Transfixed, Jason watches your hands move as you explain the mentality behind the designated driver role, how your day went, and say something that sounds like: it was super chaotic, but I can’t really say more ‘cause of HIPPA, so…
Wait.
Roy can hear you.
He has to laugh softly to himself when he realizes. Fuck, Jason is so whipped that he isn’t aware of the fact that propping his head up has activated their comm chip.
Not so much of a tough guy now, it seems.
Keeping an eye on the could-be broker, Roy presses his earpiece in a little deeper and plugs his other ear to block out most of the club’s thrumming noise.
“Anyway,” you say, and even though Roy can’t see it, he knows you’re grinning wide. “What do you do, stranger?”
Roy’s eyes flick to the ceiling, but only for a fractured second ‘cause the lights are starting to give him a headache. Of course you don’t know his civilian identity.
“Uh—” and there’s that telltale sound of Jason wetting his lips “—you could call me Jay. I’m…a fixer.”
Funny. Fixer is quite a versatile word, it seems.
You laugh in a tone Roy has only heard when a girl looks down and brushes her hair away. “Is it weird that I kind of guessed? I dunno, you just look like a guy who’s good with his hands.” And then a little faster, earnest, “I’m so sorry, Jay, that came out—”
“No, no,” Jason is quick to interject, “I appreciate it.”
“Is it weird that I think you’re a great guy after talking for five minutes?” you ask after a moment. For the briefest second, Roy manages a peek over to the bar—you’re mirroring Jason’s pose, except the hand you aren’t resting your chin on is tracing the rim of a crystal water glass. You smile, close-mouthed, and he gets it. Gets why Jason is so drawn to you (even if Roy doesn’t feel the beckon himself).
It’s a kind look about you. An open flame, ready to warm. You look at people without expectation, and knowing Jason, that’s big. He doesn’t have to be the Big Bad or the sweet, martyred Robin for you.
You know the cabinetry of Jason’s body so well already, and most of all, you know him at his most vulnerable. Blue-green doe eyes, sweat-matted hair, hydrangea-bloom bruises—the whole works.
You stand for everything Jason protects in the world: the raw, unfiltered good.
Roy snaps back to what he’s supposed to be watching right as Jason ekes out a rough chuckle.
“Sounds like you have some assholes in your life. Need a hand?” Jason says it in the stilted, fish-out-of-water way he always does when he’s trying to flirt without fulfilling the half-dead requirement first.
At arm’s length, quivering for the chance to come closer. Like two poles on a magnet, rejection and attraction.
(Mhmm, an asshole, Roy thinks, I wonder who. He feels like putting his head in his hands and screaming.)
Giggling like you’re kind of drunk and aren’t the designated driver, “It’s just one. Well, kind of—he’s…a guy who shows up sometimes.” A pause, as if you’re thoughtfully tonguing the next words into your cheek. “He’s a fixer too, in a different way, but I think he’s really sweet under all that meanness.”
Jason hums, considerate and falsely sympathetic. “I’m sure he’ll come around someday.”
(This fucking dickwad just loves to play in everyone’s faces.)
“Sorry,” you breathe for the second time tonight, “you just have this really reassuring feeling, but I don’t wanna put my troubles on you.”
“Well, I did technically start this,” Jason says, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he has the gall to sound sheepish. Roy almost can’t believe his ears.
“Right, right,” you agree, that smiley sound in your voice again. Then you pitch it down, mimicking, “Rough day? Looks like you’ve seen some shit.”
“That’s—I don’t sound like that.”
(Agree to disagree. You’re pretty good with Jason’s tone.)
Scoffing in amusement, you tease, “You do.”
“Even if I did, you definitely practiced that,” he says. It’s in a fake-nonchalant voice that Roy can instantly pinpoint even through the shitty Bluetooth connection and the club’s deafening EDM slop. Jason really is defying all expectations tonight.
You hum, “I might’ve picked it up from a certain guy. Can’t help it—you have the same accent.”
That gives Jason pause, if only for a moment. The cylinders in his brain are probably firing at maximum power. “That’s...impressive.”
Roy wipes a rough hand over his eyes. God, can this guy’s game get any worse?
Chewing the inside of his cheek, Roy considers picking up a better job than people-watching. For example: right now, he could be building a crazy spaceship to take him to a planet far, far from Earth and Jason’s hopeless situation.
A flicker of movement catches his eye. Approaching the broker is one of the Penguin’s bodyguards—Roy remembers him from the last encounter they had with the crime lord. He’d whipped his bow into the guard’s nose.
Still looks like that nasty break hasn't healed well.
Slipping a deft hand into the back pocket of his jeans, he pulls out a vape. At least, that’s what the bouncers thought it was when they patted him down.
Roy disassembles it, and a little silver pipe slides into his palm. It’s warm against his skin. A mini blowgun is definitely not his ideal weapon, but a guy’s gotta do what he’s gotta do.
And now, that’s to shoot a tiny bug onto the broker’s jacket.
The man is already mid-escort to the stairwell that leads to the more private lounge, flanked on the right by the bodyguard. It's a tough shot, and it’s dark and noisy and stuffy as hell in the club, but it’s also Roy Harper who’s doing this.
(Duh, it’s in the name. Arsenal, former protégé of Green Arrow, anyone?)
Slotting the pipe between his lips, he waits for the perfect moment. In a dense, obstructed club like this one, the stars would have to align for him to make the shot.
He does anyway, the tiny listening dart flying across the room and latching onto the broker’s shoulder.
Pat on the back, Roy Harper, he thinks, mission well done.
—
“She looked kind of familiar,” Roy teases as they stroll out of the club, almost singing.
The thudding bass is still audible, even from the other side of the doors, and his ears will probably be ringing for another week. Not that he needs them to maintain his stellar aim, but how will he listen to Dick’s incessant voice messages about his recent round of stalking Jason’s not-girlfriend's LinkedIn?
Their feet are light on the concrete, only making a greater degree of sound when they briskly traverse the many puddles plaguing Gotham.
Case in point: Lake Glenn, named after Glenn Avenue, where a twelve-foot-long, shallow concrete basin of stale rainwater is slowly colonizing the remaining sidewalk. It reeks of piss and sour dick, too.
Meanwhile, Jason seems eerily at peace. They cross the street to avoid the pond of pee, and he’s got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his faded jeans.
He dodges a whirlwind of litter—it curls into a ball and bounces down the sidewalk like fucking tumbleweed—with a pep in his step. One block over, a patrol car wails out a single chirp, and Jason doesn’t pay any mind.
Roy has never seen a smile linger this long on his partner’s lips, and it almost looks uncanny.
He seriously considers grabbing the other man and howling: who are you and what have you done to my best friend’s little brother?
Jason Todd does not walk with a bouncy gait. He doesn’t stick his hands in his pockets, where the confinement can double the time needed to grab the nearest weapon. And it’s certainly more-than-irregular to ignore a police siren and keep a faint smirk of anything but smugness on his face for more than five minutes.
Diana H. Themyscira, he’s in love and he’s stupid with it.
Instead, Roy just slips back into his practiced nonchalance and truthfully remarks, “Seems like a good person.”
“She is.”
The answer is curt. Stony. No room for questions, but boy, does Roy have questions.
And since when has he paid any mind to social conventions?
Naturally, he must keep pushing. “Alright, I can excuse blatant flirting on the job, but dancing?”
Jason grimaces, finally wiping off that disgustingly fond expression on his face. “We didn’t—”
“Dude, you don’t even try to defend yourself—I saw you grinding on her like a lovey-dovey teenage boy with both of my deadeyes.”
The chilly, damp air of the city does nothing to disguise the way his ears bloom with a dusty pink. The Red Hood may be able to school his face, but he still can’t control the involuntary rush of blood to his ears.
Roy almost coos at the adorable observation, but he rather likes the shape of his nose right now.
Anyways, the thought is quickly overwritten by the sheer regret of witnessing how Jason’s fingers twitched when you guided them to grasp your waist on the dance floor. How his blue-green eyes sat at half-mast and dinner-plate dilated when he pulled your hips to his. How his lips had grazed the shell of your ear, whispering things that made your movements more desperate as you strayed from the pounding beat.
Or how Jason, with a furrow of utter shame between his brows, definitely adjusted the fit of his clothing—specifically his jeans—after you kissed his cheek and bid a wistful, starry-eyed farewell because your friends needed you to step up as the designated driver.
Said horny fool only scoffs, but a quiet smirk of amusement (holy shit, Roy just unlocked a new emotion) dawns on his face, and the sweet rays gradually brighten his gloomy countenance until the soft pink blush in his ears begins to warm his cheeks, too.
And with it comes the slow, sweet creep of realization over Jason’s soldier-like posture.
There’s that lovey-dovey look.
“Yeah,” Jason admits after that moment of reluctance, flicking his still-dilated gaze to a rare patch of starlight glimmering in Gotham’s cloudy sky. He lingers on the pretty sight, the rigidity in his shoulders melting slightly as newfound fondness swims in his eyes. “Maybe we did that.”
notes: this is a continuation of part 1 where damian spies on jason & reader (and is sickened by the yearning) !! also rec checking out my much ado about luv event for some upcoming dc fics <3
or, it's not like damian cares about what jason todd does, but who could say no to blackmail material?
⟢ fem nurse reader, patching injuries, damian lowk shipping but in a hater way yk
SLOW NIGHTS ARE THE BANE of Damian's existence, but don't let Pennyworth hear that. The old butler would just sigh and make some quiet comment to Father about how 'the young master should learn patience.'
Damian is...patient. He puts up with the low-level math sheets at school, and spends hours trying to teach Titus to do a flip. Hell, he even lets Jon take his time with his uniform buttons so Mrs. Lane doesn't get mad again.
And so what if that little thrill of excitement runs up his spine when he sees a flash of crimson darting suspiciously through the shadows? That just means he can finally put his skills to good use instead of brooding down at the city from a rooftop like Father does.
The warning comes right as he starts inching away from the roof's edge.
"Robin."
Damian drops his shoulders, eyes flicking upward in exasperation.
"Just looking around," he huffs, nose wrinkled. Grayson calls it the hoity-toity voice, much to Damian's annoyance and Drake's amusement. "Thought I saw something."
Batman frowns, clearly skeptical, but doesn't say anything else. Just turns back to the winking lights of Gotham, dark cape billowing behind him in a snapping cloud of shadows.
Finally, he has something to do.
Leaping from one building to the next, Damian dogs behind the scrap of red as it veers around corners and slips into grimy alleyways like the silverfish in the darkest nooks of the Bat Cave. Is that...?
He chases beyond the territory of their current patrol, down from Coventry to the Upper East Side, a clusterfuck of old rowhouses, shiny condominiums, and everything in between.
Father won't be very happy about Damian running far, but they have earpieces and the Batmobile for reason, so.
"Got you," he whispers to himself, grinning as the Red Hood steps into the soft, diffused circle of a suburban streetlight. Todd is favoring a side, right hand pressed to his left oblique as he darts down the alleyway.
This is interesting. No guns, no bike. Just the man who's name is whispered like a mournful prayer in the Manor, limping through the backstreets like a lost puppy.
Damian scoffs, finding another reason why he's the better Robin.
Silently, like he's been trained to since birth, Damian creeps down to the next rooftop, landing with little more than a crunch of grit-gravel. Anyone listening would mistake it for a stray cat.
He watches as Todd yanks down the fire escape ladder to a stout, refurbished tenement, a heavy, rusted groan ripping into the night air. That should be considered a safety hazard in itself.
Todd scales the escape, quieter than Damian expected him to be. He can't be blamed, having spent years hearing the same old stories about the crazy guy who shot up half of Gotham.
It's like the entire block holds its breath as Todd works the latch to a dark window on the third floor. Across the back-alley, Damian shifts to lay flat on the roof, disregarding the dirt and pigeon-crap under him.
He has like, twenty of the same costume already, so Pennyworth not being able to dry-clean a stain out shouldn't be a problem.
The latch pops, a pin-drop click that's barely discernable from a rustle in a trash can or a pebble skittering in dense foliage.
Then the lights in the apartment flick on, and the red-helmed burglar flinches like he's just been flash-bombed.
Damian almost laughs with entertained glee. Take that, Todd.
But he doesn't run away, and the sharp grin on Damian's face is wiped clean off. A pair of bare legs and bunny slippers shuffles into view, then loose, cotton shorts and a soft camisole.
Oh.
That's you.
Damian remembers you, even though you're soft with sleep and aren't wearing the dull scrubs from Mercy Hospital. It was a couple weeks ago, when he and Father rushed a bleeding-out informant to the ER.
He didn't really know why Father cared so much, but he supposed the information was good, and it'd be a bad thing if the hero of Gotham let someone—scum or not—die on the street.
You were the nurse who told them that everything would be okay, all with a smile on your face. It matched the ID card hanging from your hip, plastic picture inserted into a Superman case.
You removed your gloves with a snap to offer a lollipop from the nurse's counter to Damian. He turned his nose up and stomped back to the Batmobile.
Father had only offered a sympathetic tilt to his mouth when Damian discovered the same lollipop in his toolbelt ten minutes later, to much of his horror.
Damian grits his teeth when you slide your window open for Todd instead of turning him away. Or the smarter choice, calling the cops.
He digs around his toolbelt once Todd scrapes the shit off his boots on the grate of your fire escape. Somehow, he manages to squeeze his huge body through your window frame.
Wingdings? No. Weeks old lollipop that looks suspiciously like the ones from Mercy Hospital? Damian hurls it toward the nearest open dumpster and makes the twenty-foot shot, as expected.
Ah, here it is. Brand new Wayne tech from the R&D department—he's been waiting to try this one out.
The gadget is a capsule meant to be loaded into an air-pumped launcher. Well, launcher implies too much. It's no more than an air gun, really.
The really special thing about this is what's inside the capsule. Drake had dubbed it the spyder-bot, a six-legged thing barely the width of Damian's thumb, outfitted with a cutting edge microphone and camera.
It connects by Bluetooth to a holographic screen, which he props in front of him. The capsule is shot at your escape landing with a quiet puff, and three spyders pop out of the little ball and crawl into the crack you left in the window.
Triangulation. R&D has really one-upped themselves this time.
Damian tunes into your conversation, watching the feed on his holo.
"You've really outdone yourself, Red," you're saying. Todd has shed his jacket and shirt, leaving the battered expanse of his upper body exposed.
He's bruised all over, hydrangeas of purple and black blooming on his chest. Damian clicks his tongue—not even he looks that bad after a week of patrolling.
You start peeling back a thick patch of dressing on Todd's side, the one Damian spotted him clutching on the way to your apartment. The gauze comes away with a sick sound, revealing an oozing wound underneath.
"Ripped your stitches again," you mutter, shaking your head. Todd groans, and one of the spyders zooms in.
Damian has to screw his mouth shut before he starts laughing. That damn idiot took off his domino but left the modulator mask on. He looks so fucking dumb, laying on your carpet in a stupor like a concussed Magic Mike dancer who only got the job done halfway.
"Yeah, well," Todd starts, head tilting up to look at the damage. His head thuds back to the floor, apparently seeing enough. "Ditched the bike in Coventry and ran the rest of the way."
You frown, gloved hands gently swiping a damp towel over the wound. "You didn't have to do that."
"The bike's loud, Doc. What, you want to attract attention here?"
Aw, coos a voice in Damian's head. He wrinkles his nose; it sounds suspiciously like Grayson. He wants to protect her.
"No," you say, quieter. You twist the towel over a bowl, watery red droplets wringing out of it. "But I also don't want you hurting more."
Todd laughs, breathy and rough under his modulator. "'S fine. I get hurt all the time, and you always patch me up good."
"I thought you don't do trust." You rip open a surgical kit and fiddle around with the curved needle and a pair of forceps.
He shakes his head like it's something funny, eyes flicking upward. His fingers twitch when you sink the needle into his skin and drag the thread through.
Todd grits out his words like they're hard to say, "Never said I did, 'cause you already know I can kill you if you say anything."
All bark and no bite. For the guy who dicked around while taking down half of Gotham's criminal empire, Todd's not really all that threatening when he's around you.
You probably know it too, with the way you raise a brow at him. "Alright, Mr. Big, Bad Red Hood. I can turn you over to the cops at any time, too, and someone in prison'll do the job for me."
You don't mean it either.
Still, Todd lets his head roll to the side you're on, gazing up at you with something wounded and soft and animal-in-the-bushes in his eyes. You don't notice, too tangled up in stitching the oozing gash in his left oblique.
Damian catches his own reflection in the holo, halfway through a disgusted gag.
And just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, Todd turns away and you start studying him like he's some sort of wondrous miracle. All these missed chances, playing right in front of his eyes.
Damian might just start ripping out his hair strand by strand.
"Hey," you murmur, soft, blinking slowly like you're trying to fight off sleep. You finish off the last stitch, a row of neat thread holding Todd's oblique together, and take off your gloves with a snap.
Putting your hand on Todd's bare shoulder, your thumb runs back and forth along the transition between clavicle and trapezius.
You lean a little closer, the corners of your mouth quirking. "You sleeping?"
"No," Todd grunts, rolling his head back to face you. He looks up at you through his eyelashes with some sick kind of emotion that Damian has seen when Father looks at Mother.
"Well, I'm going to sleep," you say. "I've got a twelve hour shift tomorrow, so don't do anything stupid."
"I'd never," Todd says, tone completely straight. Earnest, in a way that makes Damian's lip curl into a grimace.
You make a sound that's half laugh and half scoff, standing. Todd lifts himself up with a soft groan, one that leaves your eyes lingering on him.
He just sits there for a second, hand curled in the fibers of your carpet like he's trying to memorize the feel of it.
"See yourself out, hero," you breathe, resigned, padding over to the light switch. Todd's eyes chase you, stare miles-long and intense.
What is it that Arsenal guy used to say? Right—bunch'a pussies.
Father patches into the comms right as the spyders start skittering back to him.
"Damian." Uh oh. Legal name isn't a good omen. "Robbery in Old Gotham. En route to RV at Mercy Hospital."
"Fine," he grumbles, dusting himself off. Todd is standing like a damn statue on the landing of your fire escape, looking miserably at your dark, locked window.
"Why are you in the Upper East Side, anyway?"
Damian fishes his grapnel out, shooting it at the top of your apartment building. Todd's head snaps up, and he grumbles to himself as Damian swings past; the wind howls in his ears, so he can't hear what the former Robin is saying.
"Funny story, Father..."
(He is so leaking this at the next family meeting.)
— dami is actually so me like yes shipping out of spite is a way of life.. ++ daily reminder that if u enjoyed and have time, pls leave a comment/reblog/ any feedback to support fic writers 💗
— Gotham's newest it girl makes the mistake of going after something that's yours: Jason Todd. It takes two failed plans to learn what it takes to deal with her and your jealousy.
— brief angst, jealousy, pda, batboy shenanigans, fluff, r can wear Jason's clothes; 3.0k+ words
— Masterlist | DC Masterlist | Request Info
There are a few rules to make it as a model in Gotham. The top three are:
3 – Don’t accept any bookings from Oswald Cobblepot (no matter how good the pay).
2 – Use peppermint oil under your nose during outdoor shoots to eliminate unsightly scrunching or grimacing at the smell of Gotham.
1, the most important rule of all – Bruce Wayne and his children are off limits.
Though rule number one has many subsets – don’t flirt with Dick Grayson even if he starts it; Tim Drake already has your headshots and don’t ask how; the little one bites; etc. – it comes down to a simple sentence: The Wayne boys may be eligible, but they aren’t available, so look, don’t touch.
Every year or so, a new group of models come into town. They’re either devastated that they didn’t make it to New York or even Metropolis, or overeager to take the chance and make a name for themselves. This year’s center of attention, the model everyone wants to see, is Arabella Carnegie. She’s pretty, always smiling, and is apparently easy to work with.
Even from across the ballroom, you can tell that you don’t like her. She exudes an air of insufferable nepotism and a superiority complex that makes you wonder how she got into a career that requires her to take instruction from people ‘below her.’
“Thelma Baumgardner.”
Your brows lift, though you’re unsurprised by Tim’s sudden appearance at your side. “Is that someone you’re looking for or just a name you’re trying out?” you inquire.
Tim shakes his head, jutting his chin toward the crowd on the other side of the gala. “Arabella Carnegie, born Thelma Baumgardner. Daddy is old money rich and paid to legally change her name when she turned nine and decided she wanted to be a model.”
“Nine?” you repeat, twisting a champagne flute on the table. “When I was nine I think I still wanted to be an astronaut… Or a vet, or a vet in space for astronaut dogs.”
Tim snorts a laugh at your response, then moves closer to the table. “She’s already broken two of the model rules.”
“Model rules?” you repeat.
“You’ve heard the rumors, don’t play dumb with me.”
You tip your head, conceding the point. “I get summoned to the manor a few times of year,” you grumble, “of course I’ve heard whispers about the rules.”
“Well, Arabella is the new face of the Iceberg Lounge and she’s currently attempting to drape herself on the arm of an heir to the Wayne fortune.”
You freeze, the ballroom seeming too quiet as you ask, “Who?”
“When I was over there, Dick was the target. I think she’s moved on.”
“Tim,” you warn carefully.
“Not yours,” he assures you.
“Not your what?” another person asks before two strong arms snake around your waist, tugging you against a strong chest.
“That’s my cue,” Tim mumbles before he slinks into the corner.
“Hi,” you greet when Jason drops his chin to your shoulder.
“Hi,” he repeats, kissing your neck when your fingers find his forearms. “Ready to get out of here?”
“You promised Bruce an hour.” You hold Jason’s left hand to look at his watch, pointing out, “It hasn’t been an hour.”
Something shatters across the room, and Jason promises, “He won’t even notice.”
You hear an obnoxious giggle, following the sound to the one and only Arabella. You’re not one to get jealous easily, well aware of how committed Jason is. But this girl feels like a threat. So, you nod against Jason and let him whisk you out through the kitchen.
The Iceberg Lounge billboard down the street from Jason’s apartment is new, and you feel a bit nauseous as he drives by it. Until he reaches across the center console and takes your hand, at least.
“Oh,” Alfred exclaims as he steps onto the balcony. “Did Master Damian find you?”
“He did,” you assure him. “Sorry, I just… just wanted to watch the rain.”
“I see. Do be sure to come in before you get too cold, dear.”
You nod, thanking Alfred for the offer to make you tea. Wrapping your arms around your waist, you stare out into the misty field behind Wayne Manor. Bruce had insisted everyone stay for dinner after a meeting about the next fundraiser. What was supposed to be an outdoor dinner was moved inside by the rain, but you needed the break before facing your boyfriend’s family.
“Alfred said you were out here moping,” Jason muses, softly closing the door behind him. “I told him there was no way, but now that I’m looking at you…”
Jason trails off, dragging his thumb beneath your bottom lip. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay, doesn’t invite you to talk, just drapes his big, warm jacket over your shoulders and stands beside you.
“Do you want to go home?” Jason asks after a few minutes.
You shake your head and turn toward him. He immediately knows what you want and pulls you into his arms.
“The last gala was stressful,” you say against his arm. “Sorry.”
“I get it,” Jason promises, rubbing your back. “We can skip.”
“And leave Damian to fend for himself?”
“Who?” Jason jokes. “Definitely moping,” he confirms, “but still pretty.”
You laugh, then take his hand and walk inside, sitting beside your boyfriend and laughing with his family. It isn’t always like this, so you have to savor it while it’s happening.
“I’m gonna kill him,” Jason seethes, staring at his phone. “Who does Bruce think he is?”
“Billionaire and father,” you answer, leaning toward the mirror to fix your lip gloss.
“If I want to leave early, I’m going to leave,” Jason says. “What’s the point of threatening us?”
“Keeping up appearances, probably.”
Jason sighs, wandering into the bathroom and watching you in the mirror. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
You nod, smiling when Jason tips his head to look at your outfit. The stress of the last gala is forgotten when Jason offers his arm.
“Good evening. My name is Arabella.”
“Yeah, we’ve met,” Dick replies, shaking her hand quickly.
“Right, right,” she giggles, smiling too perfectly. “I didn’t think you’d remember. You meet so many amazing people.”
Dick nods, glancing across the table to shoot Tim a tired look. You shift beside Jason, trying not to focus on Arabella but unable to ignore how perfect she looks, like she climbed out of a magazine, still glossy from the page. Your boyfriend watched you get ready, claiming he was mesmerized by you, but there’s still an underlying sense of insecurity in the jealousy tightening your chest.
“Yes, I met several of you at the last gala,” Arabella remembers. “It’s nice to see you all again. I wasn’t expecting Gotham to have such exciting events so often.”
“Oh, well if Bruce can find an excuse to spend money,” Duke jokes.
You reach toward your hair, fidgeting in your discomfort. Jason notices your movement and takes your other hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he watches your profile.
“I don’t think we met,” Arabella continues. “You’re Tim and Jason, right?”
Mr. Drake to you, you think. And they’re all off-limits.
“Yeah,” Tim answers flatly.
“I heard you got Lilly Waterson a job in a tv commercial,” she gushes. “That’s so impressive, Tim.”
He shrugs, mumbling, “I just made a few calls.”
“Well, she was very lucky to have someone like you in her corner. I’m hoping to build a support system like that here in Gotham.”
Jason tugs your fingers, so you turn and look at him. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak, but everything he wants to say is perfectly clear in his eyes, already locked on you. You nod to tell him you’re okay, squeezing his hand as you smile. You look at Dick, who is squinting like he’s fighting off a headache as Arabella continues talking.
Jason shifts, turning his body toward you as he reluctantly looks away from you. He shares a look with Tim, and then someone walks onto the stage and the room silences.
Except for Arabella, who keeps talking. “What about you, Jason?” she asks. “What do you do?”
Whatever I want, you think but don’t say. It’s your first experience with jealousy like this, and you hate it. Telling Jason would be the smart thing to do, but admitting that you feel like this is terrifying, too.
Arabella is invited to the stage, and Dick is the first to leave the table. The rest of his brothers follow close behind. Jason pulls you with them, none of them caring about Bruce's wrath as they sneak out, moving tiredly after less than ten minutes with Arabella Carnegie.
It isn’t a conscious decision to cling to Jason when you return home after the gala, but he’s warm and loving and all yours. Wearing one of his shirts over your favorite pajama bottoms, you tuck yourself under his arm and press your ear over his heart.
“Bruce called Dick and asked where we all went. Apparently the first thing that popped into birdbrain’s head was that Damian threw up on all of us,” Jason tells you, twisting the collar of your shirt around his fingers. “So, if you could back us up, that would be great.”
“Of course,” you answer, smiling. “Where is Damian? I didn’t even see him.”
“He was beside Dick the whole time, went home with him.”
You nod, shifting closer to Jason. He relaxes beneath you, and the movie on the television is quickly forgotten. Jason wants to ask why you’ve been so much more affectionate recently, but then he risks losing it. Whatever changed, he doesn’t mind the outcome, he thinks. After years of being scared of touch, and people being scared to touch him, Jason elects to relish in it rather than question it, wrapping his arms around you and kissing you softly.
“You look like Gar,” Dick muses, tapping his elbow against your back.
“Excuse me?” you question, snapping out of your reverie to turn toward him.
“You’re practically green.”
Your jaw tightens as you shake your head and look away again. Arabella has found a new ‘target’ – Tim’s words, not yours. She is currently standing between Jason and Bruce, leaning a little too far toward your boyfriend.
“Tim,” you say carefully.
“Wrong brother,” Dick jokes.
“No.” Turning toward Dick, you curl your hands into fists and say, “I need you to find me Tim.”
Dick steps back as his eyes widen comically. He nods, then disappears. Less than a minute later, he returns, pulling Tim behind him.
“You said Carnegie’s dad was old money rich,” you remember.
“He is,” Tim agrees.
“Has the family made any donations to the charities she claims to support?”
“No.”
“So – hypothetically – if something were to scare her out of Gotham, we wouldn’t know the difference?”
“I for one,” Dick interrupts, “support your decision.”
Tim smiles, pulling a flask of coffee from his pocket. “How can we help?”
Duke lures Bruce away from the table – He’s the least suspicious; Bruce won’t question it, Tim had explained while you created the plan – and then you allow Dick to escort you to Jason’s side.
“Good evening,” Dick greets.
“Hi!” Arabella greets, her arm inches from Jason’s side.
Yet, he only sees you. He looks at your hand on Dick’s arm, then your face, torn between confusion and amusement.
“Have you ladies met?” Dick asks, gesturing between you and Arabella.
“I don’t think so,” she sighs. She reaches past Jason’s chest, invading his space easily as she says, “I’m Arabella.”
You introduce yourself and shake her hand, then wipe your palm on your dress. Jason’s jaw twitches as he observes your movements.
“You’re not a model,” she muses. “I haven’t seen you at any shoots.”
“No, I’m not a model,” you agree.
“How do you get invited to these events then?”
You glance at Dick, undecided whether she’s asking innocently or making a dig at you.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “Is your boyfriend someone really important?”
“You could say that,” you answer.
Jason shakes his head, and then Dick releases your arm and pulls Jason away. Arabella watches them go, longing in her eyes.
“Arabella,” you begin, “can I ask a weird question?”
“Sure,” she answers, still watching Jason’s back.
“Is there really a list of rules for Gotham models?”
She laughs, tipping her head and sending her sleek, shiny hair cascading down her back. “Yes, but it’s all just a silly joke.”
“Except for the Waynes, right?”
Arabella sobers, but is still smiling when she leans forward and says, “A secret? I’m going to get myself a Wayne boy.”
“Oh?”
Your fists clench beneath the table, and you have to walk away when she adds, “I’m thinking the strong, protective one: Jason.”
Tim follows you up the stairs to ask, “How’d it go?”
“Does Bruce’s no killing rule apply to future in-laws?” you question.
Tim hesitates, then yells, “Dick!”
Jason is perfectly oblivious; you realize after he finds you hiding in his childhood room. He pulls you into his arms, kisses you easily, and cracks a joke about the bookshelf behind you. Despite how obvious you thought your feelings were, Jason hasn’t realized that you’re jealous. Worse, you’re jealous of a model who has no chance with Jason because he’s wholly committed to you.
“Gala season is almost over,” he says against your temple, his arms wrapped around you.
“Don’t sound so excited,” you tease.
“Right, because having our nights back to ourselves is awful.”
“Back to ourselves is generous. You’ll still go on patrol.”
“Of my own volition,” Jason corrects.
“No more overpriced outfits,” you add.
He hums, then admits, “Some things will be missed.”
You roll your eyes and turn in Jason’s hold, pressing a kiss to his forehead before he tugs you down in his lap, kissing you the way you deserve to be kissed.
“Jason,” Arabella purrs, laying her hand on his forearm, where his arms are crossed over his chest.
His eyes drop quickly, her unwelcome touch the only thing drawing his attention from you. You’re dancing with Damian, laughing, beautiful, and happy.
“We should go on a date,” she adds.
Jason steps back, his brows lifting when her hand slips from his arm. “No,” he replies.
“What?” she whispers, stepping toward him. “Why?”
“Why?” Jason repeats incredulously. “I’ve said fifteen words to you since we met. Wickham said more to Lydia before she decided she loved him!”
“I- I don’t know what that means,” Arabella admits. “Why won’t you go out with me?”
“You don’t get an explanation,” Jason answers, “no should be sufficient.”
Arabella steps forward again, reaching for Jason as she pouts. “But we’d be so good together, everyone can see it.”
“Thelma,” Jason snaps, “I said no.”
Arabella’s eyes drop at his use of her real name, but then she straightens her shoulders and smiles. Your dance with Damian has ended, Jason notices, and you’re bringing him back to the table. Damian’s hand clutches yours tightly, his eyes on the floor as you answer for him, turning down dances with Bruce’s biggest donors. When you exit the crowd, you look up with a relieved smile. When you see Jason and Arabella, your smile falls, your lips in a flat, grim line.
“You want a reason?” Jason asks as you approach. “Here’s your reason.”
He grabs your waist and pulls you against his chest, kissing you without a care that an entire ballroom of people is watching. His arm circles your waist as Arabella rushes away, and you hum against him before he pulls back.
“That’s all it took?” Tim whispers to Dick on the other side of the room.
“Took him long enough,” Dick grumbles.
“I’m sorry,” Jason says on the balcony. His hands are warm as they wander your waist and hips, his forehead dropped against yours.
“For what?” you question softly.
“I shouldn’t have just kissed you like that, not in front of everybody. I… I guess I got jealous? I don’t know came over me.”
At the word jealous, you laugh, then press your lips together.
“What?” Jason asks, straightening to see you better.
You shake your head and reach up to brush his hair off his forehead.
“What?” he repeats, squeezing your waist.
“I’ve been jealous since the first time Arabella walked up to you,” you confess. “It’s why I wanted to leave early or stayed right beside you all night. I know you’d never do anything, but the way she looked at you, her obsession with getting with you, it bothered me.”
“Obsession?”
You sigh, then tell him about your plan at the last gala. What you, Tim, and Dick thought would scare her away from Jason actually made you uncomfortable, because she attempted to stake a claim in something that was already yours.
“You do know, right?” Jason checks. “That I’d never-“
“I know,” you promise.
“You get cuddly when you’re jealous,” Jason muses. “Maybe galas aren’t all bad.”
You groan as he laughs, slumping against his chest. “Just ask for cuddles, Mr. big bad Red Hood.”
“Just tell me when you want to makeout in front of a crowd.”
The second groan trails off into a laugh when Jason lifts you off the ground, smiling against your cheek before he kisses you again.
“Thank you for understanding me,” Jason murmurs.
“You’re welcome,” you reply. “You’re as close to Mr. Darcy as I could get, so…”
Jason laughs, tightening his arm around your shoulders. “Oh, I love you.”
Bonus:
“My sincerest apologies, Mr. Luthor,” Tim says over the phone, tapping on his Wayne Enterprises desk. “I didn’t mean to poach your new assistant. I do hope Thelma will suit your needs – she was our top pick prior to hiring your former employee.”
“She’s gone?” Jason asks when the call ends.
“You thoroughly disillusioned her with Gotham,” Tim affirms.
“How’s our future sister-in-law?” Dick asks.
Bruce barges into the office and drops a newspaper on the desk. He points to the picture of you and Jason at the gala. “I hope it was worth it, boys. You’re officially off the guest list for the rest of this year’s galas.”
“That’s all it took?” Dick, Tim, and Jason exclaim.
