Time in a Bottle
Dick Grayson x Reader
The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows, casting soft amber streaks across the room and catching the dust that danced lazily in the air. You were curled up on the couch, a book in your lap, but your attention was nowhere near the pages. You hadn’t been reading for weeks—not since you found yourself endlessly rereading the same paragraph, only to realize you couldn’t remember what it said.
Six months.
Six long months since you last saw him. Since Dick pulled you close on the fire escape, kissed you like he was carving the shape of your mouth into his memory, and whispered, “This mission’s different. I won’t be able to contact you. Not even a burner. Please trust me.”
And you did. Because that’s what you did. You trusted him. You just never imagined that trust would stretch this far, this long. The ache of missing him had settled into your bones—quiet, constant, a constant companion. You tried to fill the void with his hoodie, his old sweats, his shampoo. You wrapped yourself in his scent like armor, slept on his side of the bed, clinging to the warmth like it might never leave.
But when the door jiggled, your first reaction wasn’t joy. It was fear. You weren’t expecting anyone.
You froze. Heart in your throat.
The lock clicked.
You grabbed the nearest thing—a mug he’d left on the counter a week before he left—and stood, ready to defend yourself, the world feeling suddenly too big, too empty.
The door creaked open.
And there he was.
Dick.
His hair longer, face sharper, shoulders drawn tight. A duffle bag hung loosely from one hand, and his eyes locked with yours, wide and unsure, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
The mug hit the floor with a hollow clink.
The duffle bag hit the floor with a dull thud.
But neither of you cared. All that mattered was the way he pulled you into him, arms locking around you as if you were the only solid thing in his world. The collision was silent, a chaotic mix of breathless noise and desperate hands. You clung to him like you could never let go, arms wrapping around his neck with an intensity you hadn’t known you were capable of. And he held you just as fiercely, the heat of his body pressing into yours, grounding you both.
His face buried into your neck. You felt the shudder run through him, the weight of months spent without this. Without you.
It wasn’t clear who was holding who together. Maybe both.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to look you in the eye, his thumbs brushed your cheeks, like he was trying to make sure you weren’t some fevered dream.
“You’re home,” you whispered, fingers tracing his jaw, afraid to break the spell.
“I am,” he replied, voice thick with something you couldn’t name. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “God, I missed you.”
You didn’t answer. You kissed him instead—slow, deep, full of everything you’d held back for months. He leaned into it like he was starved for this, like it might just be the air he needed to breathe again.
Neither of you spoke for a long while.
You didn’t let go. Neither did he.
Eventually, when the trembling between you both started to subside, he whispered, “You still smell like me.”
You laughed quietly, the sound almost lost in the moment. “I was trying not to forget.”
“I thought about you—every damn day. I was starving without you.”
“I know,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to his. “Me too.”
You leaned back, just enough to see his face—drawn, tired, but his eyes were still full of you. You were still catching your breath when he pulled back just slightly, his hands never leaving their place around your waist, his thumbs rubbing slow, grounding circles into your skin. His voice was quiet now, hoarse. “I should shower… feel like I’ve got six months of soot and Gotham grime on me.”
You nodded, already moving to give him space, but he tightened his hold, just enough to keep you close.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice almost shy. “Would you… Would you join me?”
His words were soft, raw in a way that made your chest tighten. There was no urgency in it. No demand. Just a quiet, aching plea to stay close.
Without a second thought, you nodded.
He took your hand as if he needed to—like your touch was the only thing anchoring him to something real—and led you into the bathroom. The air was thick with steam, fogging up the mirror as the world shrank down to the heat, the water, and him.
Under the stream, his arms found you again. But this time, it was slower. Reverent. You slid your hands up his chest, your fingers tracing the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His hands roamed your back, slow and thoughtful, like he was relearning every inch of you, every curve, every line.
He kissed you like he was afraid he’d forgotten how.
You kissed back like you were afraid he hadn’t.
There were no words. Just soft gasps, wet skin, and the occasional quiet laugh when your noses bumped or a fingertip tickled unexpectedly. You let your hands roam, memorizing the new lines of him, the rough edges he’d come home with.
And then you noticed.
You pulled back, fingers brushing through his damp hair. “Your hair’s longer.”
He blinked, surprised. “What?”
You tilted his head, gently running your fingers through the length of it, which curled slightly with the water. “It’s grown past your ears.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish despite being pressed against you, the tension easing just slightly. “Yeah… no time for a haircut. I forgot how fast it grows when I’m in the field.”
You smiled, pulling his hair back to get a better look at him. “I kinda love it. Makes you look even more unfairly gorgeous. As if that were even possible.”
He huffed, resting his forehead against yours. “Is that a compliment?”
“Absolutely,” you replied, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “It’s unfair how good you look.” You trailed your hands down to his chest, pressing your palm against his steady heartbeat. “But I’m glad you’re still you.”
The water slowed to a steady drizzle as you both reluctantly stepped out of the shower. The familiar rush of water was replaced by the more intimate sounds of clothes being shuffled, of warmth pressed between you both in the steam-filled bathroom.
Dick reached for the towels, his broad shoulders glistening in the dim light, his movements instinctive, almost absentminded. But you, without thinking, moved toward his clothes. You’d been doing it for months now. His hoodies. His old shirts. His familiar scent.
You felt the tug at your chest, that quiet yearning. You couldn’t help it.
When you looked up, you saw Dick watching you with a soft, amused smile, his towel hanging low around his waist. He stepped closer, his eyes full of something between affection and surprise. “You’ve been wearing my clothes for months, haven’t you?”
You bit your lip, slightly embarrassed. “I—I guess I have. It helped, you know? Felt like a part of you was still here.”
His smile softened, his hand gently cupping your face. “I don’t mind. It’s actually kind of sweet… though I might need to get my shirts back.”
You laughed quietly, the sound warm and familiar in the space between you.
Dick moved to dry his hair, but you stopped him, gently taking the towel from his hand. “Let me,” you murmured, your voice soft as you reached for the damp strands.
You worked your hands through his hair, drying it carefully, feeling the weight of him relax under your touch. “You’re good at this,” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion. “Takes me a good hour to dry this mess myself.”
You smiled, a little more settled now. “I don’t mind. I like taking care of you.”
The two of you drifted toward the bed, where he pulled you close again, your head resting in his lap. He looked up at you with those same eyes—tired, but full of that warmth you’d missed so much. You ran your fingers through his hair again, feeling the length of it, the way it framed his face now.
He closed his eyes with a soft smile, his hand finding yours. “I’ve missed this.”
“I think I’ve missed you more,” you whispered, tracing circles on his skin.
You both lay there in silence, just breathing, savoring the way it felt to finally have him home. The hum of the city outside the window barely registered; it didn’t matter. He was here. And everything felt right again.
After a while, Dick’s voice broke the silence. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been so glad to be home. Here with you.”
You brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, smiling softly. “You’re not going anywhere now, right?”
He turned his head to look up at you, playful but sincere. “Not if I can help it.”