i know this a complete 180 from my last post talking about how i'd love more saiki k-like readers (just unbothered and lowk THERE not mean but chill asf (tho saiki's kinda... unchill... chalant..)) BUT also, shout out to my silly readers 🫡
NOT NAIVE, NOT TEASING (well in some sort of way hell yeah!!), SMUG OR STUPID, JUST SILLY LIKE GENUINE SUNSHINES AND GIGGLES 🤗 need some of dat in my life
can i get more insecure reader fics? im loving the bad bitch energy reader has but like nine times outta ten that is NOT me😂😂😂😂 i do not attend parties without hesitation and heavy anxiety
Warnings: childhood friends to lovers, references to the death of Dick’s parents, grief, abandonment issues, secret identity reveal, kissing
Summary:
You knew Dick Grayson for one month when you were nine years old. Nearly twelve years after you lost touch, you still don’t know whether he remembers you at all.
When you move to Gotham and unexpectedly run into him again, you learn that forgetting was never the problem.
Author’s Note:
written for my 🎬 anon's request for my 1k celebration!
You met Dick Grayson because you were trying to see the circus without paying for it.
In your defense, you already had a ticket. It sat safely inside the top drawer of your dresser at home, purchased weeks earlier for the Saturday night performance your parents had promised to take you to. Unfortunately, Saturday was still four days away, and Haly’s Circus had rolled into town that morning in a convoy of brightly painted trucks that made waiting feel increasingly unreasonable.
The circus had booked the fairgrounds for about a month, which was apparently longer than most of its stops. By noon, tents had begun climbing into the sky beyond the fence, music drifted from somewhere inside, and every kid within biking distance had found an excuse to pass the grounds at least twice. You lasted until after lunch before abandoning your bicycle in the grass and pressing close enough to the chain-link fence to peer through a narrow gap in the canvas.
“You know you can buy a ticket.”
You jerked backward and nearly lost your balance.
A boy sat several feet above you on one of the horizontal supports, balanced there with the casual ease of someone sitting on a park bench. Dark hair fell across his forehead, and his expression made it obvious he had been watching you long enough to find the whole thing entertaining.
“I have a ticket,” you told him.
He glanced toward the gap you had been looking through. “Then why are you spying?”
“I’m not spying. I’m looking.”
“Through a fence.”
“That doesn’t make it spying.”
His grin widened. “What day?”
“Saturday.”
“That’s forever.”
“Exactly.”
He considered that as though you had made an excellent argument, then dropped from the fence before you could ask how he planned to get down. You barely had time to gasp before he landed lightly on both feet.
“You’re going to break your neck doing that.”
“I know how to land.”
“That doesn’t make jumping off fences normal.”
“It does around here.”
It took you another moment to notice the chalk near his shoulder and the close-fitting clothes that looked more like practice gear than anything another kid would wear on an ordinary afternoon. Recognition followed a second later.
“You’re in the circus.”
“Dick Grayson.” He offered you his hand with exaggerated formality. “Flying Graysons.”
You knew the name. The posters had been appearing around town for weeks, and the Flying Graysons were printed across the center of nearly every one. You looked at his hand, then his face, trying to reconcile the boy standing in front of you with the small figure suspended over the ring in the advertisements.
“You look taller on the poster.”
Dick withdrew his hand and put it dramatically over his heart.
That was how you became friends.
He couldn’t actually take you anywhere restricted, although that didn’t stop him from trying to stretch the meaning of permitted areas until an adult loading equipment caught sight of him escorting a strange child through the gate. Dick insisted you were a guest. The man pointed out that guests usually arrived with permission. You made the mistake of adding that you had a ticket for Saturday, which didn’t improve Dick’s case nearly as much as either of you hoped.
You were eventually allowed to remain near the front lot while everyone worked, provided you stayed out of the way. Dick treated that restriction creatively. By the time your parents realized where you had gone and came looking for you, you knew which horses disliked strangers, which vendors let Dick take food, and exactly how many warnings it took before Mr. Haly stopped sounding amused.
His parents appeared midway through his explanation of the trapeze rigging. John and Mary Grayson were still recognizable without their costumes, although less dazzling than the versions printed across every circus poster in town. Mary took one look at you, then at her son, and somehow understood immediately that Dick had brought you inside without asking first.
You liked her before she finished scolding him.
John was no better at pretending to be stern. He listened to the story, looked toward your abandoned bicycle, and asked the one question neither of you had considered particularly important.
“Do her parents know she’s here?”
That ended your first afternoon at Haly’s.
Dick walked you to the gate with his hands shoved into his pockets. For the first time since startling you at the fence, he seemed uncertain.
“You’re still coming Saturday?”
You reminded him that you had already bought the ticket.
“I know. I just meant…” He shifted his weight before looking back at you. “You can come tomorrow too, if you want. Rehearsal’s done around three.”
You came back the next day.
Then the day after that.
By Saturday, attending the actual circus felt almost strange. You had spent days watching pieces of it being assembled, but beneath the lights those ropes and platforms became something impossible. The Flying Graysons appeared high above the ring, glittering beneath the spotlights, and Dick became someone different the moment his feet left solid ground.
On the ground, he was restless energy and scraped knees, constantly moving and talking until someone told him to slow down. In the air, every bit of that energy narrowed into control. He flew between his parents without hesitation, catching hands and releasing them again with a trust so absolute you forgot to breathe.
You waited afterward where he had told you to.
Dick came running out several minutes later, hair still damp from changing out of his costume, and demanded to know what you thought.
“You’re insane.”
His face fell so quickly that you grabbed his arm.
“I mean it was amazing. You were amazing.” You hesitated. “But you’re still insane.”
That satisfied him.
For the rest of Haly’s stay, Dick showed you the circus, and you showed him your town.
Your side of the exchange seemed painfully unimpressive. Haly’s had aerialists, knife throwers, bright costumes, animals, and stories from cities you had never seen. You had a public library, a convenience store where candy was sold from enormous plastic bins, a playground with one broken swing, and a creek behind your school that was only deep enough to reach your knees during most of the summer.
Dick treated all of it like you were giving him access to something rare.
He had visited bigger libraries and better parks. He had seen rivers wide enough to swallow your little creek. None of that mattered because the places you showed him belonged to you in a way the cities he passed through never belonged to him. You knew which librarian would ignore the two of you whispering in the back corner and which cashier slipped extra candy into your bag. You knew where the creek bank dropped suddenly and which tree behind the playground was easiest to climb.
For once, Dick got to experience a place as something closer to a home instead of somewhere Haly’s happened to stop.
Your parents spoke to John and Mary, and eventually, Dick was allowed to spend the night at your house. He arrived with a backpack and enough excitement to make you wonder whether you had accidentally promised him an amusement park instead of frozen pizza and movies.
He had stayed in houses before, obviously. What was new was being invited into a friend’s home with absolutely nothing expected of him except wasting an evening there. He left his shoes beside yours, ate too much junk food, and sprawled across your bedroom floor while the two of you argued over a board game neither of you understood as well as you pretended.
At ten thirty, your parents told you to sleep.
At midnight, Dick was still awake and trying to prove that a somersault could be done safely without leaving the mattress.
At twelve fifteen, both of you fell off the bed.
Your father appeared in the doorway to find Dick upside down beside you on the carpet. Dick whispered that perhaps if neither of you moved, you would become invisible.
You laughed hard enough to ruin the strategy.
Mary came to collect him the next morning and listened to the story with one hand pressed over her mouth. Dick tried to blame his acrobatics education. Mary blamed you for encouraging him. John, when he heard about it later, apparently wanted to know whether Dick had at least landed properly.
You knew his parents for less than a month.
Years later, you would remember them anyway.
You remembered Mary brushing chalk from Dick’s hair while he complained that he was old enough to do it himself. You remembered John watching Dick steal candy from a vendor who clearly expected it, his mouth twitching like he was trying not to laugh when you caught him looking. You remembered the way they watched Dick when he wasn’t looking, affection so ordinary neither of them seemed aware of it.
At nine, you never thought to memorize any of those things.
You simply did.
By the last few days of Haly’s thirty-one-day stop, the circus had begun disappearing around you.
The banners came down first. Equipment cases replaced the pieces of temporary life you had grown accustomed to seeing around the fairgrounds, and every afternoon you arrived to find another section packed away. Dick had never hidden the fact that the circus would leave. Traveling was how his life worked. He spoke about other cities with the same familiarity you used for different classrooms at school.
Knowing that didn’t make the final day easier.
You sat beside him beneath the lowest row of empty bleachers while workers crossed the grounds around you. Dick suggested that you come with the circus. You reminded him that you had parents, school, and a home here. He argued that Haly’s had room, but both of you knew Mary would never actually let him take you with them.
Eventually the excuses ran out.
Dick scuffed his shoe through the dirt before pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. The writing on it was neater than anything you had ever seen him produce.
“We get mail,” he said. “If you send it here, they’ll get it to me.”
You folded the address carefully and put it in your pocket.
“And I’ll write back,” he continued.
“You better.”
“I will.”
Someone called his name across the grounds.
Dick stood, then reached down and pulled you up with him. The hug came without warning, his arms locking around you hard enough that you stumbled into him. Dick had hugged you before. He had always been affectionate, throwing an arm over your shoulders or leaning against you whenever he sat close enough.
This one felt different.
“You’re crying,” he muttered against your hair.
You accused him of doing the same.
He didn’t deny it.
Haly’s Circus left the next morning.
Dick’s first postcard arrived eleven days later.
You wrote back before dinner.
For several months, postcards and letters followed the circus around the country. Dick complained about lessons, described new cities, and filled entire pages with stories that began halfway through because he assumed you remembered whatever he had written previously. Sometimes the letters were several pages long. Sometimes a postcard arrived with nothing but a complaint about the weather and a note that his mother said hello.
You kept all of them.
Then the Flying Graysons performed in Gotham.
You learned what happened from the news.
Your parents tried to keep most of the coverage away from you, but there was no hiding the names. John Grayson. Mary Grayson. Their nine-year-old son had watched them fall.
Richard Grayson had been taken in by Bruce Wayne.
You wrote Dick that night.
The first version sounded too cheerful. The second sounded like something an adult had written for you. The third tried so hard to say something comforting that you tore it in half before reaching the bottom.
The fourth was simple.
You told him you were sorry.
You told him he didn’t have to answer until he wanted to.
You told him that your parents were sorry too, and that you still remembered his mother laughing when the two of you fell off your bed.
At the end, you wrote that if Haly’s ever came through town again, you would still be waiting at the gate.
You mailed it to the same circus address you had always used.
Then you waited.
Weeks became months.
No letter came.
You understood, as much as a nine-year-old could. Dick’s parents were dead. His home was gone. Bruce Wayne had taken him into a life so different from the one you had known that photographs of him occasionally appeared in newspapers beside words you barely understood.
At nine, you never blamed him for the silence. You told yourself the letter probably hadn’t reached him. Haly’s was traveling, Dick wasn’t with them anymore, and everything after Gotham must have been chaos.
Still, you checked the mail for longer than you ever admitted to anyone, some part of you expecting to find his handwriting waiting there.
Eventually, even that hope faded.
The postcards were packed into a box while life continued around the empty space Dick had once occupied.
Twelve years later, you moved to Gotham for work.
You knew Dick lived somewhere nearby.
That knowledge sat quietly in the back of your mind while you signed the lease, unpacked dishes, and learned which train line would betray you first. Bruce Wayne’s eldest ward had never exactly vanished from public view. You had seen photographs over the years, usually without looking for them. Charity events. Galas. Articles about the Wayne family. Occasionally Dick smiling at a camera with the polished ease of someone who had learned very young how to survive being watched.
You could have tried reaching out. You could have sent a message through one of his public accounts, written to Wayne Manor, or contacted Wayne Enterprises and hoped someone passed it along. There were a dozen ways to make the attempt now that would have felt impossible when you were nine.
You didn’t.
You had already been the one to reach out once, although you knew using that as a reason not to try again wasn’t entirely fair. Nine-year-old Dick hadn’t owed you an answer while grieving his parents. You had never resented the child he had been.
But Dick hadn’t stayed nine forever.
Neither had you.
So you moved to Gotham and told no one from your childhood that one of the reasons the city felt strange was because somewhere inside it lived a person you had spent twelve years trying not to miss.
Six days after moving to Gotham, you happened to run into him in a grocery store.
You were standing in front of the produce display, trying to decide whether your grocery budget could justify the ridiculous price of imported Japanese strawberries, when someone behind you said your name.
You froze.
Time had done strange things to most childhood voices. Teachers and neighbors blurred together until memory reduced them to impressions. Dick Grayson’s voice had changed entirely since he was nine.
You knew it anyway.
When you turned, he was standing several feet away with a shopping basket hanging forgotten from one hand.
He was taller than the poster now.
The thought was so absurd that a laugh almost caught in your throat.
You had seen photographs of adult Dick. None of them prepared you for the reality of him. His shoulders were broader, his face sharper, his hair still falling across his forehead with the same refusal to behave.
His expression was the part that hurt.
For one startled second, he looked nine again.
“It’s you.”
The happiness in his voice made something inside you pull painfully tight.
“Hi, Dick.”
He started toward you.
Then stopped.
It took you a moment to understand why.
You hadn’t moved.
Twelve years earlier, Dick would already have had his arms around you. Now he stood one careful step away, his smile fading into uncertainty as he looked at your face.
“I didn’t know you were in Gotham.”
“I moved last week.”
“For how long?”
“For good, assuming my job doesn’t fire me.”
A flicker of the old smile appeared, but it didn’t quite settle. “You moved here and didn’t tell me.”
The words weren’t accusatory. That somehow made them worse.
You looked down at the strawberries before putting them back.
“I didn’t think you’d want me to.”
Dick went still.
The silence between you suddenly felt too large for a grocery aisle.
“What?”
You regretted the sentence almost immediately. This wasn’t where you wanted to have a conversation about something that had happened when you were both children.
“I just mean we haven’t talked in twelve years.”
“I know how long it’s been.”
There was something about his tone that made you look at him again.
Dick shifted the basket into his other hand. “Thirty-one days.”
You frowned. “What?”
“That’s how long Haly’s was in your town.”
Your chest tightened.
“You remember that?”
“Of course I remember.”
You had imagined meeting Dick again more times than you wanted to admit. None of those imagined versions had included him looking faintly offended that you could think otherwise.
Over dinner, it became clear just how much Dick remembered. Somehow the grocery aisle had turned into finishing your shopping together, then Dick carrying two of your bags, then him asking if you had eaten yet. He remembered the candy you mailed that melted before reaching Haly’s, the creek, your father catching you both awake after midnight, and exactly which board game the two of you had argued over.
Every memory was comforting for approximately half a second before another question settled underneath it: If he remembered all of that, what had happened to the last letter you sent?
You didn’t ask.
Not that night.
Seeing him again was already too much.
Dick seemed to understand that without being told. He didn’t try to reclaim twelve years in a few hours. He walked you home, stopped outside your building, and asked whether he could see you again.
You said yes before fear could make the decision for you.
Relearning Dick happened slowly.
He showed you Gotham in pieces over the next several weeks, although he never called himself your guide. He simply sent you addresses to restaurants you would never have noticed and appeared on evenings when you admitted you were tired of unpacking. You learned which train routes he distrusted, which bakeries he crossed neighborhoods for, and how completely incapable he was of walking past someone who needed help carrying something heavy.
Adult Dick was familiar in ways that unsettled you.
The old affection remained. He hugged easily, leaned against you when there was room, and rested his hand briefly at your back when guiding you through crowded streets. Yet now every point of contact came with an awareness that hadn’t existed when you were nine.
Other things were new, especially the bruises Dick seemed to collect with alarming regularity. Dick always had an explanation, and none of them were particularly convincing. Gymnastics. A fall. Helping a friend move. Once, when you pointed to a fading mark along his jaw, he claimed a cabinet door had attacked him.
You stared at him until he admitted it sounded unlikely.
His work was equally vague.
As far as you could tell, he divided his time between Gotham and Blüdhaven, did several things that apparently didn’t translate neatly into a job title, and changed the subject whenever you pushed too hard. You told yourself it wasn’t your business.
You had only just gotten him back in your life, and that thought followed you more often than you wanted to admit.
Dick had never been temporary to you; your time with him had always been, first measured by a thirty-one-day circus stop and then by a stack of letters that ended without warning.
You hated how quickly you began arranging your weeks around him anyway.
Three weeks after the grocery store, Dick came to your apartment with takeout and found you surrounded by boxes you still hadn’t unpacked. He rolled up his sleeves and started helping before you could protest.
Most of what he found meant nothing to him.
Then he opened a shallow box from the bottom of a stack near the couch.
Dick stopped moving.
You knew what he had found before you crossed the room.
The photograph was old enough that the edges had started to soften.
Your mother had taken it outside the circus tent after the Saturday performance. None of the Graysons had known she was holding a camera. Mary stood behind Dick with one hand buried in his hair, trying to smooth it down while he twisted away from her in obvious protest. John was laughing beside them.
It wasn’t a performance photograph.
There were no costumes beyond the remnants of makeup around Dick’s eyes, no trapeze, no carefully arranged smiles.
Just a family standing together after work.
Dick stared at it. “I’ve never seen this.”
“My mom found it when we moved.”
His fingers hovered near the edge. “Can I?”
You nodded, and he lifted the photograph carefully from the box.
You sat beside him on the couch.
For several seconds, Dick said nothing.
Then, quietly, “She was telling me to stop moving.”
You looked at Mary’s hand in the photograph. “You told her your hair looked fine.”
“It did.”
“It didn’t.”
His laugh came out uneven.
You remembered John teasing him about something afterward. You remembered Mary telling you she had spent years trying to convince Dick that hairbrushes existed for a reason. Small, useless memories you had carried without realizing they might someday matter to anyone else.
Dick swallowed. “What else do you remember?”
The question broke something open.
So you told him.
You told him that his father always looked like he was trying not to laugh when Dick stole candy from the vendor who clearly let him get away with it. You told him Mary always checked whether you had eaten before letting the two of you disappear around the grounds. You told him John cheated at cards once just to see whether Dick would notice and that Mary had rolled her eyes so hard you thought she might hurt herself.
Dick laughed, then pressed his lips together.
You kept talking.
Eventually the stories slowed.
Dick was still holding the photograph.
“I always thought if I saw you again, I’d give you that.”
His gaze lifted to yours.
“All this time?”
You nodded.
Something painful passed over his face.
“I got your letter.”
For a second, the words didn’t register.
“What?”
“The one you sent after Gotham.”
The room seemed to contract around you.
“You got it.”
Dick closed his eyes briefly. “Yeah.”
You stared at him.
All those years, you had built the silence around uncertainty. The letter had probably been lost. Haly’s had probably never known where to forward it. Maybe Bruce Wayne’s staff had never seen it.
“You got it,” you repeated.
“Haly’s forwarded a bunch of mail after I went to Bruce’s. Yours was in it.”
Your hands had gone cold.
“I thought you didn’t.”
Dick’s gaze dropped. “I figured you might.”
“That it got lost?”
“Yeah.” His thumb tightened slightly against the edge of the photograph. “For a long time, it was easier to hope you thought that than admit I got it and never answered.”
He looked back down at the photograph.
“I read it until the paper started tearing at the folds.”
Anger would have been easier to deal with, but when you searched for it, what you found was mostly hurt. “I’m not angry at the nine-year-old who couldn’t answer me.”
Dick’s jaw tightened.
“But you weren’t nine forever.”
He flinched. The reaction was so small you might have missed it if you hadn’t known him once well enough to recognize every expression.
“I know.”
“You knew where I lived.”
“For a while.”
“And after that?”
Dick set the photograph carefully on the table.
“I tried when I was sixteen.”
The answer surprised you enough that some of the pressure in your chest shifted.
“I sent something to the old address. It came back. I found out your family had moved, and after that…” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I kept putting it off. I told myself you’d moved on. That showing up after years would just drag everything back up.”
“You’re a Grayson raised by Bruce Wayne. You’re really going to tell me you couldn’t find me?”
Dick looked at you.
There was no joke waiting in his face.
“No.”
The simple answer hurt more than an excuse would have, especially when Dick looked at you and admitted quietly, “I should’ve looked harder.”
Silence settled between you.
You stared at the floor for a while before speaking.
“I used to check the mail every day.”
Dick closed his eyes.
“I know that isn’t your fault,” you continued. “I know you were a kid. I know what happened was…” You stopped, because there still wasn’t a word large enough for it. “But eventually I stopped waiting, and then every year that passed made it feel stupid that I ever had.”
“It wasn’t stupid.”
“It felt like it.”
Dick’s voice dropped. “I’m sorry.”
You believed him, which somehow made everything hurt worse. It would have been easier if he had forgotten you. Easier if that month had mattered only to the child who had been left behind. Instead, Dick had carried the same memories through twelve years and still let the distance remain.
Understanding why didn’t erase it.
“I think I need you to go.”
Pain flashed openly across his face before he managed to hide it.
He nodded.
Dick stood, but before he reached the door, you looked at the photograph on the table.
“Take it.”
He stopped.
“It’s yours.”
Dick picked it up with both hands.
“Thank you.”
You nodded without looking at him.
The door closed quietly behind him.
You didn’t speak for four days.
Dick didn’t crowd you, and the fact that he gave you the space you’d asked for mattered more than you wanted to admit. He sent one message the following morning saying he was sorry again and that he would be there whenever you wanted to talk. Then he left you alone.
You read it several times without answering.
By the fourth day, the silence had started to feel uncomfortably familiar, and you hated the prospect of repeating the past more than you hated how much the conversation had hurt. So you finally texted him.
Dinner?
His response arrived less than ten seconds later.
Anytime.
The relationship that followed was different from the easy reunion you had almost allowed yourself to believe in.
You still saw him. You still laughed. Dick still showed up with food and somehow discovered every place in Gotham that sold anything resembling the candy you had mailed him as a child.
But the old wound had been exposed now.
Neither of you could pretend the missing years were simply an intermission.
There were moments when Dick reached for you, and you caught yourself wondering how long it would last. Every time he returned to Blüdhaven, some irrational part of you measured the distance between his back and your doorway.
You knew it wasn’t fair.
Dick noticed anyway.
The breaking point came almost two months after your reunion.
He was supposed to meet you at seven.
At seven thirty, you checked your phone.
At eight, you sent a message.
By nine, irritation had turned into something heavier.
Dick finally appeared outside your apartment a little after ten.
Fear hit first when you saw the split in his lip and the bruising beneath his cheekbone, followed quickly by anger when you remembered the three hours you’d spent waiting without an explanation.
“What happened?”
“I’m okay.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I know.”
“You disappeared for three hours.”
The word hung between you. You hadn’t chosen disappeared deliberately, but hearing it aloud made you realize how accurately it described what you had been afraid of all along.
He stepped inside when you moved away from the door, but he didn’t try to touch you.
“I should’ve called.”
“Yes.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You always can’t.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No, it isn’t.” Your voice shook despite your effort to keep it steady. “None of this is fair.”
Dick went quiet.
You hated that you were crying now.
“I know missing dinner isn’t the same thing. I know you’re allowed to have a life I’m not part of every second. But you keep getting hurt, you keep disappearing, and every time I ask where you’ve been, you give me some answer that doesn’t mean anything.”
His face had gone pale beneath the bruising.
“You don’t get to disappear on me again.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“But you are.”
Dick looked away.
That was when you understood. There was something behind all of it, something larger than an unusual job or a private part of his life he found difficult to explain. Something large enough that Dick Grayson, who had spent the past two months trying to repair twelve years of silence, still couldn’t make himself tell you.
Your stomach dropped. “What aren’t you telling me?”
His gaze returned to yours.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Then Dick exhaled.
“A lot.”
The answer made your stomach sink further.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he continued.
“Keeping things from me hasn’t worked out very well for us.”
“I know.”
The answer was immediate.
Dick stepped closer, then stopped before entering your space. “I can’t promise I’ll always be where you can see me.”
Your throat tightened.
He continued before you could respond.
“I can’t promise plans won’t get interrupted or that I’ll never get hurt. I wish I could.” His voice roughened. “But I’m not nine anymore. If I have to leave, I will come back.”
The certainty in the last three words hurt.
You wanted to believe him, but after everything that had happened, you couldn’t make yourself accept the promise that easily.
The uncertainty must have shown on your face, because Dick hesitated. “There’s something else you need to know.”
You stared at him.
His mouth twisted faintly. “This is going to sound insane.”
“Considering your track record tonight, that’s reassuring.”
The humor disappeared almost immediately.
“Bruce didn’t just take me in after my parents died.”
You waited.
“He gave me somewhere to live. A family. Eventually…” Dick glanced toward the window, Gotham’s lights scattered beyond the glass. “He gave me something else too.”
The explanation came slowly. Bruce had trusted him with the secret hidden beneath Bruce Wayne’s public life: Batman. There had been training, patrols, and nights spent moving across Gotham rooftops at his side.
Dick had been Robin.
The name rearranged years of memories you hadn’t known belonged together. You remembered the bright colors you had seen on television, the impossible acrobatics, and the boy who had once flown between his parents’ hands beneath the circus lights.
Eventually, Dick had left Robin behind and taken another name.
Nightwing.
Years later, that identity had taken him to Blüdhaven.
For a moment, you could only stare at him. Dick reached inside his jacket and placed a black domino mask on the kitchen counter, and the last several weeks began rearranging themselves too. The bruises and vague explanations suddenly had somewhere to belong, along with the strange hours he kept, his evasiveness about work, and the way he moved through Gotham as though he knew every rooftop as intimately as its streets.
It still took you a moment to force the words out. “You’re Nightwing.”
“Yes.”
Your gaze dropped to the mask again, but another image had already surfaced: Dick at nine years old, flying between two trapezes with nothing beneath him except open air and the certainty that his parents would be there when he reached for them. Your eyes burned before you could stop them, and something in Dick’s expression tightened when he saw you struggling to hold yourself together.
“How long were you going to wait to tell me?”
His gaze dropped. “I kept waiting for the right time.”
“There wasn’t going to be one.”
“I know.” His eyes returned to yours after a moment. “That’s part of why I’m telling you now.”
The mask looked impossibly small on the counter between you, far too insignificant for something that had concealed such an enormous part of his life.
“Why now?”
“Because I can’t ask you to believe I’ll come back while lying about where I’m going.” His voice softened. “I don’t want there to be another part of my life you have to guess about.”
You looked at the bruise beneath his cheekbone. Now that you knew where it had come from, the sight of it felt different.
“You could die.”
Dick went quiet for a moment. “Every time I go out, there’s a chance I won’t come home.”
Your throat tightened. “But you still go.”
“Yeah.”
There was no reassurance attached to the answer, nothing dishonest offered to make the truth easier to bear. Somehow that made it both better and worse.
Dick looked away for a moment. “I was on my way here when something came through. I thought it would be quick.”
“It wasn’t.”
“No.” His mouth tightened. “By the time it was over, my phone was dead, and I was already hours late. I came straight here.”
The explanation made tonight make sense, but it also made the larger problem impossible to ignore.
You folded your arms tightly across yourself. “I spent nearly twelve years thinking you were gone, and now you’re back in my life only for me to learn you spend your nights throwing yourself off rooftops and getting into fights.”
Dick didn’t try to soften it with another excuse. There was nothing he could say that would make Nightwing safe, and you were beginning to understand that choosing to let him matter to you again would mean living with that uncertainty. It didn’t have to mean living with silence, though. He could tell you when he had to leave, stop hiding where he went, and when he promised to come back, you could know he meant it.
Dick glanced toward the door. “I can give you some time if you need it.”
The sight of him beginning to turn made something tighten sharply in your chest. “Don’t.”
He stopped immediately.
You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to sort through everything that had changed in the last few minutes. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all of this yet. I might wake up tomorrow and realize I’m even angrier than I am now.”
“That’s okay.”
“But don’t leave because you’ve decided space is what I need.” You opened your eyes again. “If I want you to go, I’ll tell you.”
Dick’s expression softened. “Okay.”
You crossed the distance between you and lifted one hand to his face, careful to avoid the bruised side. He leaned into your palm almost instinctively, the movement so familiar and trusting that your chest ached.
“You should’ve looked harder for me.”
“I know.”
“You should’ve told me this sooner too.”
“I know that too.”
You studied him for another moment. There were still years of silence between you, and the weeks you’d spent talking about them hadn’t erased what they had done to either of you. His apologies hadn’t fixed it either. But he was here now, bruised and exhausted and finally letting you see the part of his life he had kept hidden while the two of you tried to find your way back to each other.
You kissed him.
Dick went completely still beneath your hand, caught so thoroughly off guard that for a heartbeat you wondered if you had misread everything between you. Then his hand settled carefully at your waist, and he kissed you back, gentle enough that the contact felt like another question rather than an assumption.
You answered by moving closer.
There was no urgency to it. After twelve years apart and nearly two months spent cautiously finding your way toward each other again, rushing now would have felt wrong. Dick’s thumb moved slowly against your side while your fingers slipped into his hair, and when the kiss finally broke, he kept his forehead resting against yours.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he admitted.
“Then why didn’t you?”
His thumb moved once against your waist. “Because I didn’t want to start this while I was still hiding half my life from you.”
You looked at him for a moment. “I don’t want us keeping things from each other anymore.”
“Neither do I.”
Later, after you cleaned the cut on his lip and listened while Dick filled in pieces of a life you had never known existed, he glanced at the time. You recognized the change in his expression before he said anything.
“You have to go.”
“Yeah.” He reached for the mask still resting on the counter. “I’ve been staying in Gotham more since you got here, and I’ll be here for the next few weeks.”
That explained why you had seen so much of him since moving here, although there was still something strange about realizing how much of his life he had been rearranging to make room for you.
“Tonight?”
“Patrol. I’m meeting Bruce and the others.”
Fear still stirred beneath your ribs, but this time Dick wasn’t leaving you to guess where he was going.
“I’ll text you when I’m done,” he added.
You nodded. “And tomorrow?”
“Breakfast.”
“At a reasonable hour.”
His smile was small. “I’ll be here.”
The certainty of the promise eased some of the tension that had followed you through the conversation. He wasn’t promising that nothing would happen, or that Nightwing would suddenly become safe because you knew the truth.
For the first time, he was simply leaving without leaving you in the dark.
At the door, Dick kissed you once more before leaving.
The first time Dick left, you were nine years old, and both of you had believed an address written on a folded piece of paper would always be enough to find your way back.
Twelve years later, he still had somewhere else to be before morning.
The difference was that this time, when he walked away, you knew he’d come back.
contains: angst, hurt/no comfort, this might be a series if i get good engagement, sensitive topics, body image, insecure reader, fem reader
summary: you’re scared of what dick thinks of you or you’re scared that dick thinks of you the same way that you do.
Dick isn’t the type to judge.
You know he isn’t.
But what if he did?
You were scrolling through pinterest, thumb mindlessly gliding across the screen, putting together another moodboard of beautiful women. You try to believe that it’s their aesthetic you’re going for, but deep down, you know that’s not true.
You prayed on every shooting star that you could look even a tiny bit like them.
“Baby?”
You heard the main door screech, it’s joints holding on for dear life.
You should fix it one day.
“Hey—where are you?”
His voice breaks your trance, your thumb quickly switching to another app. You try to sit up on the bed, forcing a stretch out of your clearly underutilized tendons.
“There you are.”
Dick says, that stupid grin adorning his face. He leans against the doorway, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“What has my favorite girl been up to?”
He walks closer to you, closing the minimal distance between the bed and door before lunging towards you with a hop of his feet. Your back really doesn’t appreciate the sudden tackling.
“I think you have to remember that i’m not an acrobat babe. This is not really—“
A groan left your lips at the aching pain on your lower back.
“—ideal.”
Dick chuckles, nuzzling his face endlessly deeper to the crook of your neck.
“We can always try training together, y’know?”
There he goes.
It’s Dick, you remind yourself. He doesn’t mean any malice, you know it. Your mind however, thinks otherwise.
“No thanks babe, i’m good as is.”
No you’re not. You want to look different. Less…tired. Less…this. You just don’t want to look like this. Like you.
“Besides, I don’t have infinite stamina like you.”
Im so far behind you. So different from you. Such a bad fit for you.
“Oh yeah?”
You can practically hear him smirking, that little lilt of his voice.
“You wanna prove that theory?
His hands circle your waist, ultimately switching your position with him. You straddled his lap, hands resting on his broad chest.
You loved moments like this. Moments where Dick looks at you like you’re his world. When he makes you feel like you’re enough. Moments where the sun shined so bright, it illuminated his face like he was an angel. It felt unreal.
This doesn’t feel real.
You and Dick immediately snapped your heads at the sound of a phone call, definitely not your ringtone. Dick pats his side pockets, trying to feel for his phone. He fumbles with how tight the pocket is, screw his skinny jeans, before successfully pulling out his phone. He accepts the call and brings it up to his ear.
“Babs? Yeah, what’s up?”
You’re mind stops registering any other words after, eyes immediately darting down to your hands, picking at the dead skin on each finger.
You can feel your ears ringing, that awful feeling down your throat.
You were jealous.
No.
This is more than just jealousy.
This was about you.
You really hope that Dick doesn’t silently judge you.
Summary: You were always excluded, something was always missing from your life; belonging, family, a sense of purpose. Until they found you.
Warning: cursing, sex, depression, self harm, violence and bad writing
Derek slid a baggie to you. This is your eighth time meeting with him. The tall lanky man outside of the bodega had a name. He was a small-time dealer, you didn't know much about him- but he didn't know much about you either. You felt close with Derek, maybe because he was your supplier but he was the only friend you had outside of the bat family. You’ve been in Gotham for three months now. The riddler and scarecrow's attacks keep increasing causing the wayne family to constantly be distracted. Bruce hasn't visited you in weeks, Alfred checks in but doesn't call, dick is still in bludhav-
“Hey are you listening to me?” Derek said, clapping his hands with a cigarette still in between his fingers. You regained focus.
“Sorry- yes, you said you have something new?”
“Yeah I do, they're called drops. You put a small amount in your eyes and the euphoria hits instantly.” Derek pulled small red capsules out from his left pocket. They were all in a row , in the shape of tear drops. You grabbed the purple baggie, you finally learned that the weed he was selling was cut with bliss. No wonder you got higher smoking that shit.
“How much for the drops?” You asked , pocketing the purple baggie. Derek slid the drops to you and tilted his head with a sly smile.
“How have you been, young miss?” Alfred questioned you. His back was turned away from you while he did the dishes. Bruce called a family meeting. You're not sure why you were needed. I’m not family. Dick visited you last week to make sure you were still alive. They have all the information needed.
“I’ve been good, I got a job at Bat-Burger.” It was a lie but you didn't want to actually tell Alfred you're working at the iceberg longue. Although you had good transcripts and a perfect resume, you didn’t want to start a life here when you have one back at home-with chelley… Bruce and Dick keep giving you the runaround every time you ask them for updates on how they are going to get you back home, you never get a clear answer.
“Splendid, Damien sometimes will indulge in a cherry shake here and there but don't tell him I said that. He hates when people think he is not disciplined.” Alfred said wiping a plate ensuring there would be no water marks left.
“Got it” You chuckled. Being here wasn't so bad, you felt a little irritated but smoking on the way here helped calm you down. You heard the front door open and close hearing boots clank towards the kitchen. In came Jason. He smelled like oil and sweat causing you to crinkle your nose.
“What are you doing here?” He questioned. Ouch.
“I’m here for the family meeting.” You replied, taking a sip of water hoping it will help calm down your dry mouth. You were rubbing your eyes harshly , you and Derek tried a very minimal dose of drops early in the day, your eyes were still adjusting to the drug but you saw colors way more vividly.
“What meeting?” Jason replied, his back was turned while he rummaged through the fridge.
“You would know if you look at your messages.” You turned around to see Dick standing behind you in full gear. The blue stripes washed down his forearms bulging around his muscles. Dick lowered his gaze and winked at you and slid into the chair across from you. Alfed began to leave the room causing you to be alone with the two oldest.
“I came here because Alfred cooked chicken thighs yesterday.” Jason called from behind him, still speaking to dick.
“Bottom shelf young master.” Alfred called out from the other room. You began to drink even more, finishing a full blunt was a bad idea. The blunt and drops caused you to be dehydrated even more.
“Bruce wanted me to come up here and bring you guys down to the batcave.” You and Jason got up trailing behind dick. You didn't all fit in the elevator so you went down first. You swear the temperature in the batcave at least drops 30 degrees. You shivered pulling your jacket around you tighter.
You went up to Tim and gave him a small hug, you feel as if he is the only one still trying to look into the case on how you got here and you guys love comparing vape flavors when you stop by. Bruce was typing on the batcomputer but gave you a small nod of acknowledgement. You sat on a small stool and spun around until the boys got off the lift.
Bruce stood up and walked towards the center table. Pulling up articles of scarecrow and riddlers attacks. Dick and Jason were walking up staring at the blue floating charts. Bruce’s tech was so advanced you don't even know how to describe how the bat table works. He moves his hands around and woosh, a floating article, a floating image, the whole city of gotham in 3d. You didn’t understand. Bruce kept moving his hands to pull up more information, he looked like a rave glover. You didn’t realize you were giggling until your tummy started to shake. Bruce- a rave glover you dont even think this man has rhythm. Your laughter grew louder causing Tim to shove your left shoulder breaking you from your thoughts. They were all staring at you, some in amusement but mainly in confusion.
“Is everything alright…?” Jason trailed off awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. You wiped your eyes just now noticing you laughed so hard it caused you to tear up.
“Yup-Yeah” you straightened your shirt and sat more up. Bruce was talking about safety plans for Gotham's citizens. Scarecrow released a fear toxin in a small neighborhood testing out a small batch of his new dose. The new dosage made people see everyone as a threat; causing them to claw at people, shoot, torture, kill and worst of all mothers were killing their babies. It did something weird to mothers that were already going through post-partum and caused them to develop a heightened psychosis which was so abnormal- It made new mothers snap instantly, causing them to act without a second thought.
Bruce was displaying horrific images of the consequences of the fear toxin.
“Y/N do you know of any methods I used from your universe that helped stop the scarecrow releasing the toxin?” Bruce looked at you , peering down at you from his cowl.
“No- I- You always defeated him but he always got away with it. It’s a vicious cycle of cat and mouse you play with all of them. You get them but they always get out anyway and do it all over again” .You believe in Batman , you don’t believe he has the right to kill but this isn't a comic book anymore, you see the real life effects everyday. Gotham has a sickness.
“Well would you look at that Bruce, your methods fail here and fail there” Jason chuckled, his fists curled up resting on his sides. You can feel the tension between the two but it seemed to always be like this. Tim and Dick appeared unfazed. You on the other hand were scared. You knew the capabilities the bat family possessed, you don't even consider them human. Jason started to walk away when Bruce called out for him to stop. Bruce then handed everyone, even you, manilla folders.
“Here are some of scarecrows distributors & customers. Somehow they are connected to the riddler as well. Study, find and dismantle.-You " Bruce said, turning towards you.
“I am giving you this so you know whom to avoid- you have no vigilante training don't start trouble.” Bruce stated, feet firmly planted as he asserted his dominance. You nodded and started flipping through the manilla folder. Unfortunately for you almost every face was recognizable causing you to laugh. Of course you know these men , you’ve only worked two weeks at the lounge and every single one comes every week.
You laughed, Do you tell the Wayne family you work for penguins men? Or not start trouble. You laughed more and looked up at Bruce giving a very delayed response.
Tim entered Bruce’s study. The meeting ended hours ago and so did patrol. Bruce was writing wayne enterprises reports even though tim completes the majority of them each week.
“You know she was off, something is wrong with Y/N” Tim said, stepping closer with each word.
“I know” Bruce replied, still writing away and not sparing Tim a glance.
“Then why aren’t you doing anything about it? She is here because of US. Our universe somehow brought her here. You aren’t even looking into Lex Luthor's labs anymore- You act as if you don't want her to go home but you don't want to take responsibility for her either. It was too early for her to leave the manor. We lost her before we could even solidify her place here. “ Tim stated, eyes never leaving Bruce's face.
Bruce sighed and placed his pen down. Wiping his hands from his forehead down to his mouth.
“What do you think I’m doing? Scarecrow just had 15 postpartum mothers kill their newborns. I don't have time for anoth-”
“ANOTHER WHAT?! PROJECT? ORPHAN?” Tim yelled spit flying across the mahogany desk. “You ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS. You are responsible for all of our suffering, you pushed dick away to another state. Jason to killing. Damien all he wants is for you to acknowledge his growth and effort but instead you sent him away to the titans! You sent Y/N to a shiny penthouse and a credit card that never maxes out! Who are you going to send away next?” Tim turned around , he was done with this. Done with Bruce’s bullshit, always ready to jump to the next mess without even cleaning up his own. Tim is not going to watch bruce fail Y/N.
You jumped up, Dean slightly repositioned as he rested next to your head. You lifted your phone to see the time was 4:52am. You groaned, stretching your limps.
You sluggishly walked to the door. You peered up to the peephole but saw no one there. You turned around in a state of confusion when a red helmet began to appear in your right corner of your eye.
“Jason?” you said rubbing your eyes. You didn't have your glasses and your head is banging from all the drinking you did last night with Derek's friends. Jason handed you a pair of your glasses , you thanked him.
“Long night?” Jason questioned gesturing towards the bottles that lay awry on the kitchen table. Casamigos, don julio, hennessy…. It did look bad- but you didn’t care. It was the only thing that reminded you of home.
“Maybe.” You said grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. You didn’t like lying to Jason, so you chose not to give up too much information.
“I saw you- a couple of hours ago. What were you doing at the iceburg longue” FUCK well I guess now you have to lie to Jason, you don’t want him saying anything to Bruce.
“I was partying” Which was not a complete lie even though you did work a 4hr shift before your drinking at work began.
“Hmm- You know exactly what the iceberg longue is- you know our stories so you definitely know the penguins. “ Jason said, arms crossed. His helmet made his voice sound deeper and scarier. You looked down to the ground. Uncertain what to say. They don’t need another charity case to deal with. You didn’t want them to know about your past history. Your past life.
“I-um” Your breath hitched as Jason kept stepping closer to you. You backed into the counter while Jason had his arms caged around you.
“Stay away from the lounge. I’m not going to tell you again Y/N.”Jason stated looking down at you. This position made you feel weak. Small. Powerless. You had no choice but to nod and agree. Jason's gloved hand came up and lifted your chin. You peered into the whites of his helmet.
“I need an answer.” Jason demanded.
“Yes sir.”
// I don't own of the photos used, I used google and Pinterest to locate them please let me know so I can credit//
So obviously going the route of neglected batfam reader not sure who the love interest may be. I love all the characters lol.
The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the AC and the upbeat track playing from your phone. You were in the middle of your core routine—holding a high plank on the mat when the front door unlocked and clicked shut.
Dick walked in holding the leash, Haley trotting happily in front of him after their morning walk. He was wearing a simple fitted grey t-shirt and sweatpants, looking soft, messy, and thoroughly domestic.
He leaned down to unclip Haley’s leash, but the moment he unbent and looked up, his eyes locked onto you.
He froze dead in his tracks. Haley trotted right past him toward her water bowl, but Dick didn't move an inch. His blue eyes dragged slowly over your new, skin-tight pilates set—a deep slate-blue top with cross-back straps and matching shorts that showed off every inch of your legs.
A slow, wicked smirk crept onto his face. The lazy morning mood vanished in an instant.
"Well," Dick purred, tossing his keys into the entry bowl with a loud clink. "That is a very dangerous sight to come home to."
You didn't break your plank, though a knowing smile tugged at your lips. "I’m on a timer, Grayson. Go wash your hands."
Instead of heading to the sink, he sauntered across the living room with that slow, effortless grace. "Hands are fine. What is this outfit?"
"Just a new set," you panted, switching your weight to one hand to start a series of side-plank dips. "Now move, you're blocking my light."
Dick chuckled, dropping straight to his knees on the edge of the mat. He didn't interrupt your form—not yet. He just sat back on his heels, resting his forearms on his knees, his eyes darkening as he watched your core and back muscles flex with every move.
"It's distracting," he murmured, his voice dropping into a thick, low register.
"It's activewear."
"It's a hazard," he corrected smoothly. He reached out, resting one large, warm palm flat on your calf. His calloused fingers trailed agonizingly slowly up the back of your leg, sweeping over the exposed skin of your thigh until his thumb hooked into the hem of your shorts. "I was going to make coffee, but you’re making it very hard to focus on breakfast."
You finally dropped out of the plank onto your hip, catching your breath as you looked up at him. "It’s just clothes, Dick."
"It fits like a second skin," he whispered, leaning in until his chest was inches from yours. He smelled like crisp morning air and his signature fresh cologne. "And it’s making me want to do things that have absolutely nothing to do with pilates."
His other hand came up, two fingers hooking into the front strap of your top, tugging just enough to feel the tension while his thumb stroked the bare skin of your collarbone.
"I still have ten minutes left on my video," you warned softly, though your pulse was already racing.
Dick smirked, his hands sliding down to your waist to pull you effortlessly off the mat and right into his lap. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath hot and heavy against your neck.
"Give me five," he murmured, trailing a row of slow, open-mouthed kisses down your throat while his hands mapped the curves of your hips. "If you still want to finish your workout after that... I'll even hold your ankles for your sit-ups."
