Damian steps into Grayson’s kitchen, Labrador Retriever at his heel. Starfire is watering a potted bee balm flower by the window and Grayson is facing away, cutting vegetables.
Starfire smiles at him, “Hello, Damian.” Blinking, she seems to catch sight of Damian’s companion. She sets down her copper watering can. “Is that a new dog?”
Pausing in his work, Grayson turns his head.
Damian nods. “His name is Sherwood.”
Grayson is frowning. “I thought Bruce wasn’t letting you keep anymore pets.”
“Not at the manor.”
“Right.” Grayson sets his knife down and faces Damian fully. "I’m happy that you’re forming bonds. It’s great that you love animals, Damian. The dog isn’t staying here, though.”
“I suppose I could I could bring him to the Gotham City pound to be put down.”
Grayson runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sure you could find somewhere else for him.”
Damian gives Grayson an unimpressed look. “I did.”
“You know what I mean,” Grayson says, just as Sherwood takes an interest in sniffing his fingers. “Kori, help me out he-” Grayson is interrupted by Sherwood bumping his head against his hand and making a little whining noise. Smart boy. Grayson huffs a sigh and pats Sherwood’s head.
Starfire is smiling, chin propped in her hand. “He seems to like you, Dick.”
request for Christmas theme, snowy London, putting up a tree, drinking hot cocoa, family reunions, and pregnancy!
note V FLUFFY! V CUTE! enjoy!
_____________
The windows were frosted over on the outside, and snow beat against your roof. The darkness outside had descended so early tonight, and it made you sleepy.
The fire crackled in the brick hearth a few feet away from where you lay, snuggled into your blue velvet couch in your favorite pajamas. The soft texture of the fabric on your skin and the warmth of the fire radiating toward you were lulling you in and out of light sleep. Your tired eyes were fluttering; you were enjoying the bit of rest you had to yourself. Your back and feet hadn’t hurt in a while, and your warm dinner had filled you happily.
“Love?” Van asked, slithering his body behind yours on the couch and resting his hand over your stomach. The other hand ran softly through the strands of your hair.
“Mmm,” you hummed in response, snuggling up closer to him and enjoying the safe feeling of him pressed up against you.
“You sleepy already? It’s just now five o’clock.”
You burrowed your head against the couch cushion and mumbled a soft response. “When you’re pregnant, you can do anything you want.”
“I can’t argue with that,” he softly laughed, and pressed a kiss right behind your ear. It sent a tingle down your spine. “I thought you might like to know I’ve thrown some cookie dough in the oven. They’ll be ready in ---” he checked his watch behind your head, “--- exactly two minutes.”
“Dear god, how did I get so lucky,” you said as you turned around on the couch to face him, and kissed his cheek. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, and he helped you sit up, despite you only being three months pregnant. Van walked into the kitchen backwards, pulling you by your hand, orange glow from the fire cast on his face.
Sitting there at the kitchen table eating warm, gooey cookies with Van struck a warm chord in you; it reminded you of your first date with him. He had stood there at your doorstep, snow in his hair, rubbing his ice cold hands together so they wouldn’t shake when he looked you in the eye. He’d taken you to a nice dinner at an upscale restaurant in London, made you laugh so hard you teared up, and afterward, he’d held your hand and walked you down the watery streets lined in Christmas lights. Car lights and shop windows reflected neon at your feet, and the lights around you shined brightly in his eyes as he leaned down to peck your cold lips with his for the first time. When the snowy streets’ concrete coldness had crept into your bones, Van had whirled you both into a small corner shop, and bought you as many warm cookies as he could carry in his hands. He’d thrown them down onto a set of napkins he’d strewn across the diner-style table, and slid across from you in the booth, and helped you devour the delicious sugary pile with the widest, most playful grin.
He had that same playful grin on his face now as he watched you silently recount the memory.
“What?” he asked around a mouthful of cookie in that happy, flirtatious voice of his.
“Just… I love you,” you said, stepping off your chair to come wrap your arms around his waist, your rings almost getting snagged in his black sweater.
“I love you too,” he whispered into your hair.
****
“Can ya bring me a ladder, Van?”
“Fuck no, there’s no fucking way you’re getting on a ladder,” he said, lowly, as he attached a few sparkly red ornaments higher than you could reach on the silver tinsel tree.
“But I want to put the star on!” you whined, plopping down on the sofa, absentmindedly staring at the fire twirl and twist in the hearth. After a few moments between that and watching Van silently load red, blue, silver ornaments onto the tree, you sighed. He turned his head and looked at you pointedly, urging you to speak.
“It’s my tradition,” you said softly, sadly. You got off the sofa, and went to the kitchen. You ate a cookie left over from a few days ago while you dejectedly prepared some hot chocolate with salted caramel, yours and Van’s favorite. You knew it was just pregnant hormones making you upset; but then again, what you feel in a moment is what you feel. So in that moment, you felt sad.
While you were waiting for the almond milk to heat on the stove, Christmas music started playing through the speakers in the other room; Van’s doing. Hearing the little bells jingling and the upbeat music turned your mood to a lighter, happier one. You definitely married the right man.
Two mugs of piping hot chocolate in hand, you carefully walked back into the living room to deliver to Van. He had covered most of the tree in ornaments now, and was doing an adorable little wiggle to the music as he darted around the tree to hang them.
Van took the hot mugs from you and set them on the end table to cool, and then held your hands, warmed by the mugs, in his.
“Ms. McCann, oh, and little McCann -- care to dance?” he asked (the both of you apparently), and you nodded, smiling coyly at his unnecessary chivalry.
You couldn’t help but snicker as he began to lightheartedly dance with you. He swayed his hips as he moved closer to you, and twirled you around. Those were his two dance moves. Hip sway to the left, hip sway to the right, a little wiggle, and a twirl. A coquettish grin plastered to his face, always.
The song changed to a slower one, and he broke away from holding your hands to wrap you to his chest. Your belly poked his, and he had to lean forward a little farther to hug you fully. You both swayed against each other, just enjoying the company, while Van rubbed circles into your back. Suddenly, he spoke up.
“How ‘bout I go get the ladder, but ya have to promise me that you’ll let me spot you and that ya won’t reach out too far and fall on the tree and die? Or fall backward into the fireplace and die? Or --”
Your eyes rose to meet his, and you cut him off. “Deal.”
***
“I was gonna wait til Christmas to give ya these, but I figured if I did, we wouldn’t get to enjoy ‘em,” Van said when he entered your bedroom a couple of weeks after that, just days before Christmas.
Your eyes brightened at the mention of a gift.
“Yeah, yeah, I know I said I wouldn’t let ya open anything, but this is a different kind of gift.”
He held a box out to you, wrapped pristinely in newspaper with a big red bow. You couldn’t wait to tear it open.
You put it on your lap, and reached around your small baby bump to unravel the ribbon. The paper crinkled and fell to the floor, and you reached inside the box.
One little concert ticket framed, and on the back, Van’s handwriting: “Your first Catfish concert. 20XX.”
One small disc of baked white clay, with the imprint of a key, and Van’s handwriting: “Our first house. 20XX.”
And one small frame with a tiny print of the ultrasound photo you’d received last week, and on the back, Van’s handwriting: “Our first baby. 20XX.”
Your mouth had fallen open by the time you got through each item in the box. Van, who had sat next to you, held you in a one-arm hug.
“Ornaments, for the tree, see,” he said, pointing to the holes he’d made in the tops of each.
“This is….”
“I know, I did amazin’,” and with his flirty comment, you rolled your eyes and half-scoffed, half-laughed, and led him out of the room to put the ornaments on your tree.
***
“My bump is really showing now,” you whispered, a little unsatisfied with your appearance as you stared at your stomach in the mirror. Even under a flowing black dress, you could tell. You ran your hands along its contours, feeling the hard skin beneath, wishing it could go away just for the holiday party.
“You okay in here?” Van questioned as he entered the closet, tucking his shirt into his pants with his belt half-on. He stopped mid-tuck and stood straight. “Y/N?”
“I feel so… gross. Disfigured.”
“W-- No, Y/N, you’re beautiful. Incredibly beautiful. Look at you!” He turned you around to face the mirror from the front, and he stood behind you. He pointed to your bump. “That’s our baby in there! We did that!”
“Yeah.”
He put both his hands around you and rested them on the bump. The warmth radiated from his hands, and you sighed. And then, a thump. Just under his right hand.
“Y/N? Was that --?” His eyes bulged, and he looked over your shoulder at his hands and your belly.
“Oh my god. A kick?” Your eyes started watering. Another thump, in a similar spot. You both gasped.
“Gonna be a good footy player, yeah?” he sniffed, and settled his chin into the crook between your neck and shoulder. You felt one of Van’s tears roll down your exposed shoulder, and let him hold you. You both waited for another kick, but it didn’t come.
“We’re probably going to be late to the Christmas party,” you whispered, breaking the anticipatory silence.
“We have the best excuse,” Van said reverently, wiping his eyes and standing straight again to finish up his outfit. “You let me know if he does it again,” he called.
“We don’t know if it’s a boy or girl yet!” you yelled back to him, now somewhere far in the house.
“Whoever they are, they’re gonna play football!”
When you settled into the car next to Van, the warm fuzzy feeling was still very much there.
***
As soon as you’d stepped through the door, oohs and aahs at how much your belly had grown since your friends and family had last seen you made you feel a little uncomfortable, but Van had gone on to say something like “ain’t she the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen?” or “she’s got the mother glow!” after each and every comment. You couldn’t appreciate his support more.
“D’you know if it’s a boy or girl yet?” Larry asked the two of you after he handed Van’s parents drinks on the way to the table you were sitting at.
“Nope, but Van thinks it’s going to be a football player regardless,” you said back, and Van smiled.
“We felt the little thing kick today. Just before we left,” he recounted to Larry, and kissed your temple. He was so proud.
“That’s amazing! I’m happy for you,” Larry said with a genuine smile. “And Y/N, you look great.” You couldn’t believe you were afraid to leave the house earlier. At the party, you were fawned over by both of your parents, all of your friends, and the rest of your families. The joint celebration you’d decided to have was “the best idea in the entire universe,” according to Van’s cousin.
The party was a hoot, full of the people you loved being as merry as could be. You all told stories about each other in conversation, and eventually, you piped up when Bernie reminded the group of Van’s penchant for good music since he was a kid.
“You know, ever since we’ve been married, Van’s always sung everywhere we’ve gone. And at sometimes it has been completely annoying… Sorry love… but it’s a true joy. I didn’t know how much I could love music until I met Van. And I didn’t know how much I could love Van until he used that music to sing to the baby.”
Everyone “aww”-ed at that line. Van smirked.
“Recently, at night if Van’s bored, he sits at his desk and writes lullabies for the baby. And then he’ll come to me wherever I am -- probably the couch reading a book, or in the bath, also reading a book -- and he’ll set up camp next to me. He’ll play his guitar and sing ‘loud enough for the baby to hear,’ as he says, but as soon as I swat at him and tell him he’s bothering me, he’ll come up close and whisper to my stomach. Something like ‘mum’s a little irritated with us right now, so let’s be a tad quieter, shall we?’ and I chuckle and pretend to be upset still, but there’s nothing more special than watching him sing softly to my belly. And when he’s done he’ll just tell it about his day, or how much he loves me, and honestly, it melts my heart.”
“Bernie did the same to Van! He’d have music on constantly for him. But let me tell you, as soon as Van popped out, that music ability was transferred immediately. Talk about banging on pots and pans, chasing the boy around to keep him out of the cabinets, having to fight him for volume control on every sound device, and listening to him scream-sing at the top of his lungs constantly. Phew! What a handful for just two people,” Mary laughed, and rubbed her son’s shoulder. Everyone chuckled, and more stories were passed.
But you stayed uncharacteristically silent for the rest of the party until it was time to say goodbye.
***
“I don’t know if I can do it,” you whisper to break the silence on the car ride back home.
“Do what?” Van asked, though he’d already sensed what you were on about. You’d been quiet since Mary had spoken to you about baby Van.
“The parenting thing,” you said, rocking a little in your seat as Van pulled the car into the drive. You gathered your gloves and forewent the jacket considering you’d be in the house in a bit. “You had a reputation of being crazy as hell as a child, Van. And I have no doubt that this kid’s going to have at least part of that crazy. I don’t know if I can do all this by myself when you’re on tour.”
You knew you’d hit a tiny nerve in Van when you said that, but it was a valid fear. He took a deep breath and parked the car.
“We’re gonna be great, love,” he said, pulling the key from the ignition and running around the car to retrieve you from the passenger side. He helped you out of the car, and you sighed at how heavy your belly was starting to feel. You staggered into the house, careful of the ice on the sidewalk, under his wing.
You both took off your boots and left them at the front door; he closed it hurriedly behind you, trying not to let the cold air in. You stopped, looked up at him, and spoke again.
“Despite the holiday cheer and all that, which is a great distraction by the way… I’m scared.”
He gestured around to the fireplace, warm and bright; the Christmas tree, lights twinkling, and filled with ornaments of love; all the unwashed cookie sheets and chocolate mugs and plates in the sink; heavy blankets thrown over the couch in a nest; holiday cards sent by tons of friends and family; wet snowy shoes piled right at the door. And two people who were very, very concerned for their first child.
“I know you are, Y/N, but, honestly….look how much love is in this house.”
Miller is leaning back in his seat, trying not to smirk as a more-than-tipsy Jasper and Raven belt out the lyrics to “Like a Prayer,” when he feels something thump against his shoulder. He twists his neck to see tufts of silken black hair.
“Monty.” Miller’s voice comes out staticky. Hopefully thanks to the outrageous decibel at which Jasper performs karaoke, no one will notice. “You alright?”
He’s expecting Monty to lift his head, to scooch back, say it was an accident. He’s definitely not expecting him to nuzzle his nose into the bare skin at the base of Miller’s neck.
“Uh—” Miller stutters.
“What time is it?” Monty mumbles. Miller glances at the clock on the wall under which Clarke is sitting with her legs thrown across Bellamy’s lap. Clarke’s about three beers in, which means she’s giggling with abandon, and Bellamy is drumming his hands along her shins, shaking his head in that way he does like he thinks he’s too old to be having as much fun as he’s having.
“Eleven,” says Miller, silently congratulating himself on how even his voice sounds. “Still early.”
“Yikes,” says Monty. “I’m pathetic. I’m so sleepy.”
“Well you worked a ten-hour day,” says Miller, trying to hold back his smile. “None of the rest of us did that.”
“Why karaoke?” Monty mutters, his thigh pressed flush against Miller’s. “Like, it’s an acceptable Saturday activity, but on Friday? It’s so loud. People need sleep.”
“You didn’t have to come,” says Miller. And then, fast, he amends with: “But I’m glad you did.”
Monty’s voice is barely audible. “Yeah?”
Miller swallows. Then he shifts his hand a few inches to the right, letting it rest gently, tentatively against Monty’s knee.
“Yeah.”
He counts the seconds in his mind, waiting for Monty to shift away. But Monty just wriggles closer, and all of a sudden the room’s so hot, it’s difficult to breathe. He shifts down a little, giving Monty easier access to his shoulder, which Monty eagerly takes advantage of, laying his hand across Miller’s forearm in the process.
“Mind if I close my eyes here for a bit?” Monty asks.
Miller bites his lip, squeezing Monty’s knee. “Not at all.”
Nathan Miller and Monty Green fall for the one person they can never be with. Romeo & Juliet, Modern AU.
“There you are,” Hannah Green said, relief visible on her face when she saw Jasper and Monty. To Monty’s confusion, his mother wasn’t in the thick of the party but rather in her study, an ornate, intimidating room that she had once shared with his father. In Monty’s memories the room was warmer, cozier than how it was now.
Monty frowned. He expected to face his mother’s wrath for disappearing, not this . “Hey,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“There was a breach in security,” Hannah said tersely. “Some unwanted people were here.”
Monty swallowed. “Unwanted?”
“Apparently Nathan Miller and some of his friends were here,” said Charles Pike, his mother’s head of security and right-hand man, said grimly, looking at him intently. “They didn’t cause any trouble, and have already left, but we wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“You could’ve texted,” Monty said, thinking of the text he just shot off to Julian, willing his cheeks not to flush.
Hannah’s lips quirked. “I wouldn’t say that I was thinking rationally at the time,” she said, and Monty’s heart went out to her. “But I’m glad you’re okay.”
“How did we know it was them, anyway?” Monty asked curiously. He had grown up hearing about how evil the Miller’s were, and how they were responsible for his father’s death. As a child he had believed in the way that all children believed their mothers-- wholeheartedly, yet with distance and a true lack of understanding; as an adult, while he was in college, he remembered on the anniversary of his father’s death, going online on a whim and looking up all of the newspaper articles and reports that came out when his father, and then Julia Miller, died. He remembered everything his mother told him, as well, and after hours and hours of research, had concluded that he no longer shared Hannah’s unwavering faith in the crimes of the Miller family. Ever since then, he wasn’t even convinced that the Miller’s were directly responsible for the death of Christopher Green, especially since, according to his mother, the Green’s hand nothing to do with Julia Miller’s death. (That Monty still believed to be true. There were just some things he believed about his mother and she had known Julia Miller, had liked her, was friends with her. No matter what she felt toward David Miller he couldn’t believe that she would’ve harmed Julia.)
Going to college away from Arcadia had helped distance himself from the feud, from his rigid identity as the Green heir. It helped that his counterpart, Nathan Miller, heir to the Miller business, did the same, and had kept out of the fray and fighting. Their parents and associates weren’t innocents, but Nathan and Monty, currently, chose to be.
“Harper told me,” Hannah said. “She also said,” she paused and Monty felt something in his stomach drop at her tone. “She told me that she saw you talking-- and dancing-- with Nathan Miller himself. He was in a Robin Hood costume, apparently.” She peered at him. “Is this true? What did he say to you?”
Monty froze. “What?”
“You didn’t know,” Hannah said, looking relieved. “I thought not.” She turned to Pike. “Monty’s a good boy. He would never knowingly speak to a Miller.”
“He-- we didn’t,” Monty couldn’t form proper sentences. Julian was Nathan Miller . Julian… Julia. Julia Miller. Monty felt sick. Was he just playing a game with him? “Of course I didn’t know.”
For the lovely @roanofazgeda for her current Minty kick <3 I hope you enjoy!
Legit I finished writing this and posted it, so apologies for any inaccuracies.
Monty sits in the corner of the café, drinking a cup of tea as he pours over his textbook. It’s still a month from finals, but he knows that he should start on his papers and review his materials. He loves this café, the peaceful atmosphere. It also helps that his friends work as baristas so he occasionally gets free drinks when he’s on a study binge. Dropship is a techy café with free wi-fi and an excellent view of the city’s main street, far away from campus that he doesn’t have to worry about being overwhelmed by other students.
What he doesn’t expect is when there’s a mob of people running down the road in fear. Monty knows that there’s been an increase in supervillain activity these past few months, but that doesn’t change the fact that the world keeps moving.
Ducking his head out of the door, he tries to usher as many people out of the street as possible. There are two strong supers going at it nearly a block away, and the collateral damage creates billowing clouds of ash and steam as their conflicting fire and water abilities clash. The influx of people pushes Monty out into the street, eyes wide as the supposed villain’s water attack inundates the road, knocking the student to the ground.
He picks himself up, clothes drenched, just in time to see a tidal wave pushing one of the parked cars directly at him. Monty starts moving, but he knows he’s not going to make it out of the way in time.
Closing his eyes, he braces for impact—
…only to feel a hand on his shoulder and everything to go silent and dark.
“You okay?” a guy asks, squeezing Monty’s shoulder. His voice is gruff but caring.
“I’m not dead?”
“No… but you’re stuck in the janitor’s closet of Ark University’s library.”
“How did I get here?” It takes a second before realization dawns. “You’re a super?”
“Guilty.”
“Haven’t heard of a teleporter at all.”
“I don’t like the spotlight.” The guy laughs bitterly. “More of a thief than a hero.”
“Pretty heroic for a thief, then.”
“Wait a few minutes before leaving. I don’t exactly have a super suit.”
Monty can now feel the chill of the water beginning to soak through his clothes. “You saved my life. That’s easy enough to do.”
There’s faint light as the guy exits the closet. Monty tells himself that he’s not going to tell Jasper about this guy. Definitely not. He can already feel his cheeks burning.
*
It’s the week before finals when Monty finds himself in another daunting situation. He was just minding his own business, typing away on his laptop in the school’s garden, enjoying the nice weather, when there’s the sound of explosions from nearby. There’s the sound of screams, so he closes his laptop and starts off running for his apartment. It’s not that far away, just a few city blocks. He puts the laptop away in his bag as he moves.
Seriously, he’s getting sick of all of these supervillains making their home in the city. Is it so much to ask for a single week without some nefarious plot to take over the world or massive destruction of the city’s buildings?
Turning the corner to the apartment he shares with a few friends, he’s caught off-guard by an explosion that creates a blast wave. He’s knocked off of his feet again, this time back up to standing in a matter of minutes. He feels someone grab his arm and tug him out of the way just as another explosion rocks the foundations of the nearby buildings.
“You really don’t know how to stay out of the line of fire, do you?” It’s a guy he’s seen a few times at school, one of the guys who normally sits at the check-out.
Monty frowns, recognizing the voice. “What, no janitor’s closet?”
The guy seems to be taken aback by that statement before grinning. “Not today.”
“I just wanted to get home. Can’t they stop for five minutes?”
“What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?” Monty retorts.
“Swear not to tell anyone I’ve got powers.”
“I swear.”
“Nathan Miller. I was in your bio class freshman year.”
“Monty Green.”
“At least I’ve got a name for the powerless guy who keeps going into the line of fire.”
I don’t mind so long as you’re the one saving me, Monty wants to retort, but he holds his tongue. After all, that’s blatantly flirtatious. Thankfully, there’s another blast that draws Nathan’s attention so that he doesn’t notice the pink staining Monty’s cheeks.
*
They end up meeting again the following semester when there’s a young powered girl with no handle on her recently-discovered powers. She’s got telepathy and telekinesis, and it’s strong to the point of giving people migraines whenever she loses control of her emotions. This time, she’s in the school’s cafeteria, and utensils fly around like a rotating defensive sphere of weapons.
Monty’s the only one brave enough to go up to her, trying to calm her down. The metal forks jab outwards, and he dodges them—just barely—as he walks forwards, palms open. He’s not even sure what he’s saying, not really. But it’s stories of how there are so many things that powers can be used for and how, like any ability, it’s going to take time.
The girl’s powers waver and halt, and the tinkling sound of falling utensils echoes in the mostly-empty room. Monty gives the girl a hug before feeling a hand clap against his shoulder.
“Let’s get her out of here,” the teleporter says, and in a split-second they’re out in a large, empty section of the quad.
The girl wipes her tears as Nathan gives her information for a group that can help her learn how to better use her powers. Monty watches with a small smile, realizing that this crush has developed into solidly liking Nathan Miller. He’s watching with so much adoration that he doesn’t even realize that the girl’s already left.
“Monty, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, Nate.”
“Nate?” He seems taken aback by the nickname.
“Sorry, you don’t like it?”
He smiles. “I could get used to it.”
Monty breathes a sigh of relief, trying to wipe the sweat from his palms against his jeans. “That’s good.”
“You know,” Nate begins slowly, as though he’s trying to formulate the words properly, “I don’t know you at all outside of you running headfirst into danger.”
“I do not run headfirst into danger!” Monty exclaims defensively, “But it’s nice that you’re there to save me.”
Did he actually say that aloud?
Nate laughs. “I try.” He swallows. “Did you want to grab coffee or something at some point?”
Monty can’t help the wide grin that spreads across his face. It feels like there’s butterflies in his stomach, but not like the kind that accompanies exams or when he sees a huge battle in progress. It’s a good feeling.
Excerpt:
A mid-week rainstorm has flooded out the trail they’d wanted to take, so Nate suggests a different, more advanced one. Monty, Clarke, and Bellamy all wince, but no one’s willing to admit out loud that this group has no business doing anything but walking in a circle, so the more advanced trail it is.
Nate assures them this trail is shorter, but it turns out shorter comes hand in hand with steeper, which is really the bigger issue. Within ten minutes, Monty’s lungs are on fire and Clarke’s positively scowling, only barely covering it up each time Bellamy twists back to check that they’re okay.
Bellamy and Nate pull ahead, seeming to have no trouble with this hike whatsoever. In fact, they seem to be having a grand old time. Bellamy pretends to push Nate over the edge of the cliff, and Nate steals Bellamy’s baseball cap and wears it on top of his own, and Monty watches the whole thing like a grumpy, wheezing corpse trudging uphill towards the gates of hell.
Read the rest on AO3
Jason and Kyle’s romantic relationship is strange to Bruce. It makes them act immature. Jason once carried an uninjured Kyle around the Watch Tower, with the only explanation ever offered being that “Green Lantern is a lazy shit.” Most of the Justice League assumes he disapproves of his former sidekick dating a Green Lantern, but Bruce has more problems with the Guardians of the Universe than he has with any of their Green Lanterns. Especially now.
One of the Oan’s purses his lips. “You have been antagonizing our Lantern since the reassignment.”
“Tell him to stay out of Gotham,” Bruce says, eyes narrowed through his cowl.
Hal Jordan groans loudly from a seat across from the Guardian’s desks, a good ten feet from Bruce. “It’s my sector. Again. Do we have to do this every time?”
Bruce doesn’t respond and Hal, making another noise of frustration, sinks down so his head hits the back of his chair. A few of the Guardians give him a disdainful expression, but Hal acts like he doesn’t notice.
“We understand that you have a certain influence within sector 2814,” The Oan that had spoken before says, managing to make the same expression Tim does when he sees comic sans. “Understand the importance of our mission. We ask your cooperation.”
Cooperation. They cared far more about control and procedure than the people that they were meant to protect.
“Your protections are not needed,” Bruce says, “Consider Earth my sector.”
It isn’t new. He looks for a way to catch himself on the way down. His teammates catching him; that’s new.
He, Vic, and Kori had fought their way into the alien invaders’ command ship. While his friends were blasting enemies, Dick saw a clear path to the crystal they used to power their weapons. He could take the pressure off Raven and Changling outside. He pounced, snatching the crystal and dashing towards the shattered windows with enemies on his heels.
There’s a power in feeling your feel leave the ground; propelling yourself into the air. Someone had shouted at him – it must have Vic.
He had ran past Kori. She hadn’t tried to stop him.
He’s fallen in love before. He hadn’t fallen out of love, but that love had changed.
“You can’t keep doing this,” Barbara had said, a fearful edge slipping into her voice – and he understood the terror of watching someone fall and the horror of not being able to reach them in time. Physically watching your loved one slip away.
He kept jumping.
Part of him wanted to stop for Barbara. For everyone who loved him.
There’s a thrill surging in his chest and fingers and toes. He’s aware of every movement, every second passing.
It courses in his blood. His parents would never allow fear to weigh them down. They found freedom in the air. It’s home.
He shoots his grappling hook at the second aircraft and lets the momentum send him sailing. He angles himself just so and twists just enough to curve around and land on the side of the air craft.
Dick can admit to himself that he’s having fun. The wind is whipping his hair and his blood is pumping.
