The apartment you’re in is a little bit of a fixer-upper, but it’s nice. It’s really nice, actually. It’s got a running heater and central AC, and the rent isn’t crazy compared to the rest of Bludhaven. Besides, the things that need fixer-upper is really the decor, and you can do that. You've got a Pinterest board that can put any monotone Millennial-gray apartment to shame.
You had no idea how you had managed to snag this apartment when you moved in. The guy who owned it was really rich. You knew him by the name ‘Dick Grayson’ when you had seen the leasing, and you had searched him up one bored night. He was the first son of billionaire Bruce Wayne, who was pretty much a recluse in his manor back in Gotham.
Dick owned a good chunk of land across Bludhaven, but he was always a fair and good tenant. Much of his housing was homeless housing for people to get a job and find somewhere nice to stay after work, and he used his money to pay for the buildings and make sure they were functioning all proper and well. What's the point of being the son of a billionaire when you don't spend your money to help others?
It was a miracle that you had managed to get this small little apartment. It was damn near perfect.
The apartment wasn’t terribly big and it wasn’t small. There were no communal bathrooms so you had your own, and there was a quaint little patio at the end where you wanted to put some plants—purple coneflowers, Virginia sweetspire, bee balms—out.
You had your little LED lights and some fake vines to decorate your room with and there was already a desk that came with it. Mr. Grayson was kind enough to put a mirror out in the bedroom and the U-Haul people had been kind enough to lug your couches a week before you moved in.
Holding up a huge lamp, your feet struggle as you walk up the stairs. Most of your decor is coming in next week, but for now? Your house has been officially warmed.
You aren’t a neighborly sort of person, not really, but you’re a very kind person, and very sweet. Your mother and father had taught you well on what to do when you first moved in.
Make your neighbors happy.
After lugging up your solar lamp and placing it in your living room, you manage to fish out some cookies you had prepared last night. Though the noise is imminent, you play the card of the sheepish neighbor, apologizing for the disturbing noise that moving had made in, and can we please be friends?
You’ve made chocolate chip, oatmeal (with no raisin, yech), snickerdoodle, and double chocolate chip. If someone doesn’t find what they like …
The first person that opens up is a man in his thirties or forties, something like it. He’s got a big thick mustache and a five o clock shadow with a beer belly to match. He looks up at you, staring up and down, and then rubs his moustache. There’s a frown on his face.
“Hi,” you cheerfully say, eyes crinkling as you hold up your large box of cookies. “I’m your neighbor! I just moved into 39A, just down your room. Cookie?” You introduce yourself and he lets out a grunt of acknowledgement before gingerly taking an oatmeal cookie.
His face brightens up. Of course it does.
“This is good.” He starts chomping on that cookie so loudly you consider bashing your head up and down across the wall. That’s a pet peeve you can’t stand, the chomping. Dear God, you hate it. “Really good. You some chef or something?” He licks his fingers—no, lick is an understatement. He sucks on his fingers, vacuuming the crumbs off his meaty little fingers.
“No.” It's hard not to wince at the sight of this. You’re not exactly the cleanest person ever, but this man is a slob for sure. “Just a … passionate baker.”
“Okay.” He grunts. “Name’s Tom. S’ya.”
“Wait!” Your head raises up and you instantly groan as he closes the door. Dammit, this is not how it’s supposed to go. Nevertheless, you take your invitation out. You’re planning a little housewarming party for all your neighbors, and everyone, even the slobs, are allowed to come. “I’m…planning something.”
Slowly, the expensive parchment slides under the door.
An old woman opens it up again and you peek inside her door. It’s all bright pastel-pink floral print everywhere and there’s around four cats mewling with their heads tossed back. Cute.
Is this a crazy cat lady?
Maybe your future isn’t looking too bleak.
“Hello, dear,” she croons, and her hand cups your face. “Oh, you’re so skinny! You need to eat more! I can see your rib through your shirt!”
How? Your head glances down and stares at the black tanktop you’re wearing. It’s hardly ‘form-fitting’, but sure. Whatever you say, grandma.
“Hi,” you chirp, and give the same introduction and cheerful grin as you did again. “I’m your neighbor in 39A! I brought cookies, and I’m having a little housewarming party on Sunday. It would be amazing if you can come.” You shove the parchment in her hands before she can take the cookie.
(Tom had taught you well.)
“I see,” the grandma croaks again. “My name is Misty. It’s so nice that the younger ones come and introduce themselves to us. Back in my day, they used to come and sit inside our apartments and talk to us instead of work, work, work, work. You young people can be so lazy and impolite, you know. It’s very rude. My grandchildren don’t even talk to me. What excuse do they have to not talk to me? Just because they live in London doesn’t mean they can’t call me or take a flight over or—”
This is going to last forever.
“Please take a cookie,” you blurt out before she can continue. Her eyes glance down before she feebly takes a double chocolate chip and a chocolate chip. “Bless you,” she hums. “I’ll be there.”
The charade goes on like this for the next few people. So far there’s Misty and Tom, Clarisse and Andre, Janet and her girlfriend Michelle, Terry and Indira who are very happily married (because the screaming totally certified that part).
There’s a door that doesn’t open and so you leave the invite by their door. The last door is opened up by a girl who seems to be your age. She’s got big brown eyes and straight brown hair. Her head tilts against the door. Loud music is blasting from the corner of her room and if you glance around, you can see that she’s put LED lights everywhere.
“Hi!” She glances down and steals a snickerdoodle straight from your box. “Yum. Are you new here?”
“Um, yeah.” You blink in shock. “It was obvious?”
“Nobody just brings cookies here out of the kindness of their heart.” She rolls her eyes and smiles to herself. Outside, there’s a crackling noise. Thunder. How nice. “I’m Celia.” She brings her hand out for you to shake. “What’s your name?”
Well, at least she isn’t weird … yet.
You introduce yourself again and hand the invitation for a housewarming party. Her face immediately brightens up and she runs a thumb over the expensive cardstock you had to beg your parents to pay for. They weren’t exactly rich, but they were supportive of your dreams in academia, even if you were destined to make 30k per year with low health benefits.
All for the sake of the environment, right?
“That’s a pretty name,” she comments, her eyes crinkling. She opens the door and steps aside. “Here, I made some pasta. I don’t know if you’re hungry, but … I don’t think I’m going to finish it all up by myself.”
She introduces you to her apartment, which is nicely decorated. She’s painted it a nice shade of light blue and there’s a bookshelf to the side. The couch is big and comfortable and she’s got a huge TV out in the front of her living room.
It connects to the dining room where the smell of spaghetti wafts through the room. Instantly, you sit down, and when she serves you that hot plate of food?
“So,” Celia murmurs, adding some more cheese to your pasta, “what made you want to move to Bludhaven?” By the sound of her voice, she’s in disbelief. Why would anyone want to move here is past her train of knowledge, but she’s curious.
“I got a job.” You clear your throat and take a good swirl of spaghetti in your mouth. It’s good. The tastes of pecorino romano fill your tongue. “Well, not a job. I’m studying here—the ocean, specifically.”
“Oh, really?” Her eyes spark. “At Bludhaven U?”
“That’s sick! I study there too! But I study more humanities,” she laughs. “Specifically art and archaeology.” She looks down at her own pasta and then raises an eyebrow. “Who’s your prof?”
“Dr. Kessler? You know her? She’s my advisor.”
“Oh, I know her.” Celia nods and leans forward. “Some of my friends have her as their advisor too. Well, one friend. She’s a harsh critic, that’s for sure, but she’ll make sure you have your doctorate at the end of it.”
“Oh, thank God.” The pasta on your plate starts to grow cold as you stare at it. One of your bigger fears is being rejected by the board and being forced to review your work over a couple of weeks. You’ll stare at it and curse yourself for being inadequate, for being stupid, for not realizing what a mistake you’ve made. “I really want to get it the first try.”
“You seem smart. Don’t worry, you will.” Celia waves her hand.
You two end up talking for hours. You find out that Celia is originally from Vermont and chose to study the works of Artemisia Gentileschi. She has four siblings, three sisters and one brother, and they all live on some farm up north. The father and mother are both farmers and her siblings, besides one of her sisters, are all college educated and have moved elsewhere.
Your story is less fun than that. You’ve got an older sister and you moved from California—speciflcally, La Jolla. When you tell her you’ve moved from La Jolla, she looks at you like you’ve shot her in the gut. Why would anyone move from sunny, nice La Jolla to Bludhaven?
For a really good PhD spot, that’s why. It’s like why people move from New York to freaking Ann Arbor or Corvallis, Oregon.
“We should hang out soon,” Celia says, after a long night of talking and hanging out. You’re standing by the door, hand on the doorframe as she keeps talking. “Listen, I’ve got some friends that are going out to a new restaurant opening soon. I’ll invite you. I think you’ll like them. They’re all mostly students too except two. Text me?” She hands you her phone.
After putting in your number, you turn and walk down the hallway. Outside is raining hard. Lightning crashes upon the nearby trees and you can see people run around with newspapers over their heads, caught in the thunderstorm by mistake.
Slowly wandering your way back, you stop and glance at a huge package over by your door. Something came in early, huh?
It’s a drawer. You want to put it in your living room, next to the TV, but it looks awfully heavy and you are (unfortunately) not that muscular as a woman. Slowly, you crouch down, fingers grabbing the sides of the box, and start to drag it loudly against the ground.
Tom jerks open the door. “It’s quiet hours!”
“I have a fourteen hour shift tomorrow, and I need my sleep. Move it in tomorrow. Nobody wants to steal your Etsy dresser anyway!”
“Now, Tom,” a low voice comes in from the corner of the hallway, “be nice.”
It’s a new voice, and when you turn your head around, your heart gets caught in your throat.
It’s a tall man, maybe at around 5’10, with sparkling blue eyes like the Mediterranean. You’ve never seen the Mediterranean—maybe in dreams, maybe in pictures, but if you were there, it would look like how his eyes look. It’s that deep cerulean blue that makes you want to dive in and swim in your quote unquote ‘Euro summer.’
His demeanor is confident and not lazy. It’s not the type of man that is arrogant in himself, but confident and easygoing. He wears a casual wifebeater and flannel, and his black hair is wet with the rain from outside. He grins casually like the sun during a warm day and it settles down the mood in the hallway.
“Mr. Grayson,” Tom grumbles, “I’ve got a big shift tomorrow and I cannot sleep with this noise in the hallway!”
“Sorry,” you wince. That word has come out of your mouth more times today than in the last month and it’s embarrassing. Way to make a good impression on your neighbors. “I just wanted to move this in so I could get it all done before I go to sleep.” You glance back at Mr. Grayson.
Dick Grayson. Your landlord!
You used to think that all landlords were evil, capitalist scum that were fat and old and ugly and evil, but a man that handsome and that strong—yes, you are admiring those biceps, yes, you can see how broad his shoulders are and how his delts flex against that thin white shirt—cannot possibly be too evil.
“It’s alright,” Dick laughs, and he grins as he leans forward. His teeth are just a little crooked and it’s enough for him to be charming and real. “You’re the type of person that likes all their work done before the day, huh? Chronic overthinker?”
“Tell me about it,” you mumble back to him.
“Go back to sleep, Tom,” Dick waves his hand. “I’ll help her and I promise we’ll make no noise.” Tom grumbles a few words, pinches his mustache, says a few thoughts and closes his door.
He turns his attention on you; it’s like staring at a solar eclipse.
“Hey,” he says, waving his hand. He puts his hands in his jean pockets and looks down. His salt and pepper hair catches the light and it’s almost shiny. He’s very tan. Bludhaven summers have been treating him well. “I’m Dick. Dick Grayson. I’m your landlord. And I know you! We talked on the phone a few weeks ago, right? The new tenant.”
You nod, still a bit starstruck. Those are fantastic abs.
“Let me help you move in, sweetheart.”
Okay, that’s enough to get you to fall over. Your knees buckle against each other and your heart catches in your throat. “O…okay.” There’s a slow croak before Dick crouches down and picks up one end of the box. You fumble over your feet and then pick up the other end, and before the both of you know it, you’re moving the box inside your apartment.
“I hope you like the apartment so far,” Dick comments. He flips out a swiss knife and runs the blade over the tape of the box, slowly opening up the cardboard. You take a knife and do so on the other end, head spinning at the fact that your landlord is hot.
Is it a little objectifying? Sure. But at least you’re not hooting and hollering it out like the general male population.
“It’s—it’s good. I like it,” you croak back, and then clear your throat. You cannot seem like a dummy in front of this man. “I was thinking about putting some plants out on the patio. That’s okay, right?”
“Oh, yeah. More than okay.” He snorts and shakes his head. “I’m not a picky landlord. The only thing that’s a no-go is being loud during quiet hours.”
“No,” he rolls his eyes and grins back at you before opening up the box. How damning! There’s pieces of dresser all over the box, but that’s a start. “You did nothing wrong. Tom’s just a bit of a grouch, but that’s really it, and you weren’t being loud in the first place. Don’t worry.” Slowly, he opens up the manual and then takes a quick glance at it.
His face grows serious and he runs a thumb over the shiny plastic. You lean over his shoulder to stare at it too, and he smells like the sea and citrus. What a nice combination.
“Yeah. I’m the landlord.” He looks up at you and grins. “You did nothing wrong, don’t worry. Now stay here and let me help you assemble this dresser. Looks pretty nice on the manual. You have any tools to help me?”
“Er…” for a smart-as-a-whip scientist, it’s really hard to think straight around him. It’s embarrassing, but it’s true. You scratch the back of your head and laugh nervously before a lightbulb pops on the top of your head. “Yeah, I do. In the kitchen.” You pivot and walk over to the bare kitchen.
It’s just got one wooden table on the side and some glasses. There’s a flower vase with fake flowers (god knows you’re not rich enough to replace real flowers every week) and some tools that you were using to help assemble some decor.
Screwdriver, powerdrill, wood glue, and clamps.
He takes them from you and squats down, slowly starting to work on the drawer. He isn’t even looking at the manual and he’s doing it, and suddenly you feel wary. Just because he’s hot does not mean he knows what he’s doing.
“You’re not looking at the manual?”
“Oh, I’ve assembled quite a few drawers in my time, sweetheart,” he laughs to you, and it’s not unkind. You almost fall on your ass. “Don’t worry. If it turns out shitty in the end, I’ll pay for a new one and lower rent for the month.”
“Want me to help?” It feels awkward just standing there, watching as your landlord fixes up and assembles your drawer for you, but that is how it goes, you suppose. Besides, he’s just being neighborly. A guy that handsome should have a wife and kids.
You don’t remember reading anything about his wife or his kids when you had done your research on him.
“No, it’s alright.” He waves his hand and rolls up his sleeves, and holly Hallelujah, you can see rippling muscle against his skin. The contour of his muscle makes him easily ogle-able, and his veins pop out smoothly. His skin is a little rough but it is no less attractive as his tan makes his muscles pop out and contrast against his skin even more. He’s lean, but not thin.
It’s obvious he works out.
Still, you refuse to play the part of the damsel in distress and he the part of chauvinistic knight. “I can do it, you know,” you tell him, a small smile on your face. “I can do something.”
He looks up from the drawer and winks at you. “I know,” Dick responds. “Trust me, I see all of this—” he glances at the portraits on the wall, the couch that is somehow moved in and assembled, the TV that is properly placed against the wall on a large dresser, and the drapes that adorn the walls. “And I know you’re a capable woman. Plus, I saw your application. You’re a PhD student, right? In environmental science?”
“Um…yeah.” He already remembers so much about you. It’s shocking, and it immediately strikes you that Dick Grayson is an observant man.
“That’s a hard topic, especially with lack of funding or general disbelief from the public,” he comments. “My dad had a special interest in the environmental sector of his R&D subsidiary. I guess it rubbed off on me.” He runs a hand through his thick hair and then starts working on another board of your dresser. “I can see that you’re capable, but I’m also being a good landlord and helping. Plus, it saves you some stress. And it’s the neighborly thing to do.”
Well, at least you’re being acknowledged as capable.
“Let me get you some water,” you finally say, and stand up from the couch. “It’s the last I can do.”
He murmurs a quiet thank you and gets back to work. You walk over and fill up a glass with water and then look down at yourself. You’re red all over and it’s embarrassing. It’s been so long since you’ve been with somebody, and it’s been even longer since you’ve looked at someone and thought yeah, this person is really cute, like way out of my league.
It’s not that you call other people ugly, per se, it’s more ‘I’m not interested in dating anyone so I won’t look at anyone with rose-colored glasses’.
But Dick Grayson is too good looking to stay in that mold.
After handing the glass of water to Dick, he says his thanks again. You end up sitting by your couch and waiting if he needs anything while he fixes up your dresser, but he just works there in silence. It’s a bit loud, but Tom can’t complain about his own landlord, so nobody comes and bothers you. You also end up giving him an invitation to your housewarming party, and he looks at it and pinches the expensive cardstock before raising his head up and staring straight into your eyes, and saying that he wouldn't miss it for the world.
It's enough for a girl to start thinking she's in a cheesy Hallmark movie.
He ends up working so late you end up falling on your lumpy couch, curling up by the pillows. Even the noise can't fight off the tiredness that settles in. your bones. When you wake up the next morning, you find yourself waking up face-first against the pillows and some ocean-and-citrus smelling flannel over your body, keeping you all warm and happy and tucked in.
