Head Over Heels ! (literally)
A/N: English isn't my first lenguage,enjoy! ! ! A/N 2: This is my frist time writing for Dick. . . or for DC in general!! Hope y'all like it (don't crucify me pls) A/N 3: This is so ironic because I used to do gymnastics LOL ✶—Masterlist
You were good at a lot of things.
You could disarm a bomb with a bent bobby pin, hack a GCPD comms tower in under five minutes, and hit a moving target blindfolded on a windy rooftop. But gymnastics?
Yeah, that wasn’t happening.
And no one reminded you of that more frequently than Dick freaking Grayson — former circus prodigy, literal acrobat, and smug showoff who could land a triple flip in his sleep.
You should’ve known it was a trap when he’d smiled like that.
“Come on,” he said, tossing a mat onto the ground with theatrical flair. “It’s not that hard. One cartwheel. That’s all I ask.”
You scowled. “If it was easy, I’d already be doing it.”
“I’m just saying—” he smirked, arms crossed over his chest, shirt sticking to his collarbone after patrol— “if you ever want to land on your feet instead of your face, a little flexibility wouldn’t hurt.”
You flipped him off.
He grinned wider.
“Okay,” he said, standing behind you like some overenthusiastic cheer coach. “Hands up. Big stretch. Engage your core.”
“I am engaging my core.”
“You’re engaging your anxiety.”
“Same thing.”
He laughed. “Alright. Hands down, then kick over your—”
You dropped your hands.
Then your knee.
Then your pride.
“—legs,” he finished with a wince. “Oof. Okay, that was... a choice.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. You hate physics.”
Dick tried everything.
He adjusted your stances. Demonstrated in slow motion. Held your legs up while you attempted a sad, crooked handstand. There was a moment where you ended up on the mat with your face in his chest and a knee in his ribs and still—he was laughing.
“You are trying, right?”
“Physically, yes. Emotionally? I checked out ten minutes ago.”
“Alright,” he grinned, voice laced with challenge, “then I dare you to get better. Prove me wrong.”
You hated that your competitive streak flared.
You hated it more when he winked and said, “I’ll even give you a prize if you can do it.”
“What kind of prize?”
He leaned in, whispering low:
“You’ll see.”
Somehow, your pride couldn’t let it go.
Between missions, stakeouts, and comms checks, you kept trying. In secret at first—late night handstand attempts against the wall, muffled curses after every failed flip. Your wrists ached. Your shins had permanent bruises.
But the first time you managed to hold a lopsided handstand for more than three seconds?
You nearly cried.
Then you heard clapping from behind you.
“Holy crap,” Dick said from the doorway, looking unreasonably proud. “Was that—was that a handstand?”
“Don’t make it a thing.”
“It’s already a thing. That was amazing.”
You tried to hide your smile. “It was three seconds.”
“Three beautiful, gravity-defying seconds.”
He walked over and bumped his shoulder into yours.
“I knew you had it in you.”
Cartwheels came next.
Sort of.
They came in... interpretive forms.
“You spun,” Dick said diplomatically. “That was almost it.”
“I tripped.”
“And then you spun.”
“I hate your optimism.”
He grinned. “You love it.”
Sometimes he’d sneak up behind you at HQ.
“Cartwheel check!” he’d announce like a total menace.
“No.”
“Please.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I brought snacks.”
“…Fine.”
(You could never resist the combo of smug and snacks.)
Somewhere between cartwheels and bruises, something shifted.
He started showing up more. Offering water bottles and resting his chin on your shoulder while reviewing footage. He started lingering after patrol.
You caught him watching you stretch one day and turned to raise a brow.
“Appreciating the effort,” he said, smug.
“You mean my dedication?”
“I meant your form—but sure, let’s go with that.”
You threw a resistance band at him. He ducked, laughing.
You didn’t expect it.
You were just practicing one afternoon on a rooftop — cool breeze, training gear on, hair tied back. Dick had been running drills on the far end of the roof, half-distracted by your grumbling and flailing.
Then—somehow—you landed it.
A real, honest-to-god cartwheel. A little wonky, slightly wide, but landed.
You froze, stunned. Then heard a gasp from behind.
Dick dropped his escrima sticks like they were nothing.
“Do it again,” he said, wide-eyed.
You did.
And again.
And again, until you were laughing, breathless.
He ran toward you, arms out like a cartoon character.
“YESSS. YOU DID IT. I’M SO PROUD OF YOU—WAIT, NO, COME HERE—”
He scooped you into a spin like you weighed nothing. You shrieked.
“Put me down!!”
“Never!” He was beaming, absolutely glowing. “You did a flip! You did a flip!”
You were flushed, heart pounding, grinning so wide it hurt. His hands were still around your waist when you locked eyes, breath mingling.
Neither of you spoke.
Not until he said, quieter, “Told you you’d get it.”
And you, blinking slowly, whispered:
“Where’s my prize?”
He didn’t answer.
He just leaned in and kissed you, soft and sure, hands framing your face like he couldn’t believe he finally got to do this. Like your lips were the reward he'd been waiting for, too.
And honestly?
Worth it.
Even if your cartwheels still sucked.
Small headcannon:
Dick becomes insufferable. Tells everyone. Posts it on the Batfam group chat. Bruce is unimpressed. Steph sends sparkles. Jason just says “LMAO ABOUT TIME.”
He insists on “spotting” you during stretches. This is just an excuse to touch you.
He won’t stop making gymnastics metaphors during missions: “Look at that landing—ten out of ten.”
You threaten to break up with him. He knows you're bluffing.
