Characters: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne.
Synopsis: You don't like “ his other self”
The protagonist obviously speaks from ignorance and hatred; she is a bad person.
"Dick, Nightwing is the most conceited one out of all of them."
Not a dramatic fake gasp. A real one.
The kind of gasp someone lets out after witnessing a crime.
You looked at him innocently from where you stood in the kitchen.
Earlier that day, you'd gone grocery shopping after another exhausting week of getting home late. Unfortunately, Gotham seemed to have collectively decided to buy out the entire store because most of the shelves were empty. To make matters worse, your boyfriend was currently attending an "important meeting."
Or at least that was the excuse he'd given you before running off to patrol with Bruce.
Honestly, you hadn't been thinking much at all. You were tired, hungry, and desperate to get home.
Which was exactly how you'd ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"I already told you," you said nervously, holding your hands up. "I don't have any money. What you took is literally everything I had."
"Shut up!" the man shouted.
For some reason, he seemed nervous.
Then Nightwing dropped out of the sky.
One second you were being threatened.
The next, your attacker was face-first against the pavement.
Nightwing stood over him with one boot planted firmly on his back, muscles flexing beneath the moonlight like he was filming a fitness commercial instead of stopping a robbery.
Then immediately did the most reasonable thing possible.
Like a terrified little sewer rat.
Leaving poor Dick Grayson standing there wondering why the civilian he'd just saved had fled the scene before he could even look cool.
Back in the present, you grabbed two mugs from the cabinet.
"He's such a shameless flirt."
"Coffee, babe?" you asked.
Dick nodded distractedly.
"I'm pretty sure he's slept with more women than he's actually saved."
"I genuinely feel bad for whoever ends up marrying him. Guys like that always cheat. They're never worth it."
Dick felt his soul leave his body.
For a solid three seconds.
"I don't think he's that bad," he mumbled weakly.
The look on his face immediately made you pause.
Like a puppy that had trusted someone with its favorite toy only to watch them throw it into traffic.
Normally, the comparison would've made you laugh.
Instead, concern settled in your chest.
You set the coffee down and walked over to him, gently running your fingers through his messy black hair.
"Did I say something wrong?"
You immediately became concerned.
His eyes remained fixed on the floor.
The question came out small.
Your expression softened instantly.
"Of course I'm going to marry you. Why are you suddenly asking—"
Dick cut you off immediately.
"Because you don't get to change your mind anymore."
He crossed his arms stubbornly.
"We're gonna be two wrinkly old people together whether you like it or not."
Before you could respond, he dramatically collapsed against you, practically demanding affection.
What was wrong with this man?
You spoiled him way too much.
Not that it stopped you from carding your fingers through his hair anyway.
And completely convinced that he had successfully secured his future as your husband.
"I'm just saying," you said, pointing at Jason from across the couch. "A ridiculously buff guy who thinks he's cool just because he's hot is honestly one of the most pathetic people imaginable."
Jason stared at you for a moment. Unfortunately for him, the ridiculously buff guy in question was sitting right there.
"Red Hood is an idiot," you continued. "If you're going to run around playing superhero, at least try being nice."
"Red Hood isn't really a hero," Jason muttered.
You immediately looked up.
Jason never defended vigilantes. If anything, he usually spent his free time criticizing them. Batman was emotionally unavailable, Nightwing was a show-off, Robin was annoying, and Red Robin desperately needed to sleep. Listening to him complain about Gotham's heroes had become one of your favorite forms of entertainment.
Which was exactly why his sudden interest in defending Red Hood felt strange.
The conversation dragged on for another hour. You dissected every vigilante in Gotham, pointing out flaws, bad decisions, and questionable fashion choices. Jason was doing fine until the topic finally landed on Red Hood.
"So?" you asked. "What's your opinion on him?"
"I think he's a cool guy." You narrowed your eyes.
You immediately burst out laughing. Jason regretted opening his mouth.
"Passionate?" you repeated. "Are we talking about the same Red Hood?"
What was he supposed to do?
With a scowl, he reached over and poked your cheek.
"What are you laughing at?"
"Oh, come on, Jay." You rolled your eyes. "What's cool about him? He's basically a mercenary."
Closed it. Opened it again.
"He helps people. You stared.
"That wasn't a denial." You continued staring at him suspiciously.
"He looks like he'd threaten a cashier."
"He wouldn't threaten a cashier." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Slowly, you leaned forward.
There was no way you'd figured it out.
You couldn't have possibly connected all the—
Jason's soul immediately left his body.
You slapped a hand over your mouth dramatically. "Oh my God."
Gone. His soul was gone. Again.
"You're a Red Hood fan!" Jason blinked.
"That's why you're defending him!" You pointed at him like you'd just solved Gotham's greatest mystery.
"You have a crush on Red Hood." Jason nearly choked.
"I WHAT?" You were already laughing too hard to care.
"Oh my God, that's adorable."
"It makes so much sense now."
"It really doesn't." You scooted closer and nudged his shoulder.
"Don't be embarrassed, Jay."
"There's nothing to tell."
"I honestly thought you were secretly having an affair with him." Jason stared at you.
Then stared harder.”With who?"
"Red Hood." For a solid five seconds, he couldn't even process the sentence.
Then he buried his face in his hands.
Somewhere in Gotham, Bruce probably felt a disturbance in the universe.
Jason was seriously reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment.
Because somehow, somehow, being accused of secretly dating himself was still preferable to telling you the truth.
One day he'd have to tell you.
One day you'd find out that your boyfriend and Red Hood were the same person.
And judging by this conversation, there was at least a fifty percent chance your first reaction would be asking if he took himself out on dates.
Jason groaned into his hands.
Yeah. Maybe he'd wait a little longer before revealing that secret.
"Thank you so much, I really appreciate it."
You smiled politely at yet another guest who stopped to greet you. Everyone in the room looked expensive. Expensive dresses, expensive jewelry, expensive perfume. You were fairly certain even breathing the air in this ballroom cost more money than you had in your bank account.
Tim's voice pulled your attention away from your growing crisis. Before you could answer, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek.
"There are too many people," you muttered.
Tim smiled immediately. "Of course there are. Everyone wants to see the star of the evening."
You rolled your eyes, but the smile that followed came naturally. Leaning up, you kissed his cheek.
"You're going to get lipstick all over your face."
"Bruce is going to kill me—"
You kissed the corner of his mouth.
"Are you trying to get me into trouble?" he asked, resting his hands against your cheeks.
You ignored him completely.
Instead, you loosened his tie and pressed a quick kiss against his neck.
"I can already see the headlines tomorrow. Timothy Drake distracted at a charity gala by his unbelievably beautiful girlfriend."
A laugh escaped you as you noticed several guests already whispering while looking your way.
Tim wrapped an arm around your waist and guided you through the crowd. People immediately stepped aside.
"Relax," Tim whispered, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. "Bruce is going to notice you're nervous."
That was exactly the problem.
Because every thought in your head sounded worse than the last.
Hello, Mr. Wayne. Yes, I'm the person sleeping with your son.
Or maybe: Sorry about that time I climbed out Tim's bedroom window half-dressed.
Twenty minutes later, you were sitting with your forehead pressed dramatically against the table.
Everything had been awkward.
Not because Bruce was intimidating—he'd actually been incredibly nice.
The problem was that every time he spoke to you, your brain stopped functioning.
You sounded like a soldier reporting for duty.
Tim, meanwhile, was trying and failing not to laugh.
Then Bruce looked at you and smiled.
"Thank you for making Tim happy."
Your heart nearly stopped.
And just like that, every coherent thought vanished.
A second later, Tim burst out laughing.
"It's okay, sweetheart," Tim said, gently squishing your cheeks. "I'm sure Bruce understood what you meant."
"I should've said something romantic."
That caught his attention immediately.
"I don't know. Something normal. Like saying I love Timothy Jackson Drake with my entire life. That he's my favorite person in the world. That we're basically Romeo and Juliet except I'm Romeo."
"And if he ever fakes his death, I'm not dying dramatically beside him because that sounds exactly like something he would do."
Tim opened his mouth to argue before giving up entirely.
Instead, he just watched you.
His elbow rested against the table, his chin balanced in his hand as he listened to your rambling with complete attention. His perfectly styled hair had started falling into his eyes sometime during the evening, and for a moment, you forgot what you were even talking about.
Because he was looking at you.
The kind of look that made your stomach flip.
The kind that stole every coherent thought from your head.
"...and he has the prettiest eyes I've ever seen."
His expression changed immediately.
"I need to use the restroom."
You watched him disappear into the crowd before returning your attention to the tiny appetizers on the table. Seriously, who looked at a cracker the size of a coin and decided that counted as food?
You were still poking one with a toothpick when a gunshot echoed through the ballroom.
The room erupted into chaos.
People shoved past each other, running for exits. Another gunshot rang out and your chair nearly toppled as you stood.
"Tim?!" The crowd swallowed your voice.
Before you could run back toward the ballroom, someone grabbed your arm.
You turned and found yourself face-to-face with Red Robin.
"You need to get somewhere safe."
Another gunshot echoed through the building.
You immediately tried to pull away.
"What do you think you're doing?" Red Robin demanded.
"My boyfriend is in there!"
The words came out panicked.
For a moment, Red Robin simply stared at you.
Before you could react, he lifted you off the ground.
You immediately started hitting his chest.
The words escaped before you could stop them.
"My boyfriend is in there!"
The moment your feet touched the floor again, you broke free and ran.
Straight toward the crowd.
Straight toward the danger.
The words made you nauseous.
Suddenly, hands cupped your face.
Tears blurred your vision.
His thumbs brushed them away.
Your voice cracked. "What am I supposed to do if something happens to him?"
For the first time that night, Red Robin went completely silent.
Because all he wanted was to tell you the truth.
Instead, he just pulled you into his arms.
You buried your face against his neck and clung to him desperately.
The words came out muffled.
And held you a little tighter.
DAMIAN WAYNE
You and Damian were having breakfast when some celebrity gossip show started talking about Robin.
You weren't really paying attention.
You were focused on spreading jam evenly across a piece of toast while Damian sat across from you, typing away on his laptop.
Probably dealing with company investments.
Or uncovering corruption.plotting world domination. Honestly, with Damian, it could've been any of those.
"And today we'll be talking about everyone's favorite young vigilante—"
"What an idiot." The clicking of keys immediately stopped.
Slowly, he looked up from his laptop.
"...Oh?" You glanced up with your mouth full.
"You think so?" You gestured vaguely toward the television.
"Him. Robin." For a moment, you wondered if Damian thought you were insulting him.
Then he closed his laptop.
Which should've been your first warning sign.
"Why do you think that?" You blinked.
"Because he's a superhero?"
"Okay, first of all, does he not realize he's constantly under public scrutiny? Every move he makes gets criticized."
Damian hummed thoughtfully.
"What do you think of Robin?"
You frowned. "Why are you so interested?"
"Answer the question." Well.
Apparently this was happening.
One random comment later, and now you were being forced to write an eighty-page essay on your opinions regarding Gotham's youngest vigilante.
You sighed dramatically. "I think he's kind of annoying."
"He always looks angry." Another twitch.
"And honestly? He's a little scary."
Damian folded his hands together.
"He looks like he'd threaten someone for breathing too loudly." The silence that followed felt strangely personal.
"I mean, he's probably one of those people who reminds teachers they forgot to collect homework."
You stared at him. "Why are you defending him?"
"You literally are." Damian looked away.
Which, in your opinion, was basically an admission of guilt.
You gasped dramatically. "No way."
Damian immediately regretted whatever was about to come out of your mouth. "No way."
You pointed at him. "You're a Robin fan."
The look Damian gave you could've killed a lesser person. Unfortunately, you were immune. "Oh my God."
"You totally do." Damian pinched the bridge of his nose."I simply think your criticisms lack substance."
You immediately started laughing. "You're defending him!"
"You sound like one of those people who leave angry comments online whenever someone insults their favorite celebrity."
Damian looked genuinely horrified. "I am nothing like those people."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night." The conversation should've ended there.
Because Damian, against his better judgment, asked the worst possible question.
"What exactly do you dislike about him?"You smiled.
The kind of smile that should've terrified him.
Damian instantly knew he'd made a mistake.
Twenty minutes later, you were still talking.
Robin was too aggressive.
Too dramatic. intense. emotionally constipated. judgmental.
Too likely to glare at someone for existing.
With every complaint, Damian sank deeper into his chair. Because somehow, every criticism felt painfully specific.
"You know," you concluded thoughtfully, "he honestly seems like he'd be a nightmare to date."
"Imagine trying to argue with him."
"Actually, don't. He'd probably pull out a PowerPoint presentation explaining why he's right."
"He definitely rehearses arguments in the shower."
"And I bet he remembers things from five years ago just to bring them up during a fight."
"Why are you looking at me like that?" For a long moment, Damian considered revealing everything.
Telling you he was Robin. Telling you that every insult you'd thrown for the last half hour had technically been directed at him.
Then he imagined your reaction.
Specifically the part where you'd never let him live it down.
So instead, he took a slow sip of his coffee.
"Nothing." You narrowed your eyes.
"You're definitely a Robin fan."
Somewhere deep inside, his pride suffered irreversible damage.
You'd spent the entire conversation calling Robin annoying.
Yet somehow, every time you smiled at him, Damian still found himself thinking about marriage.
Outside Wayne Enterprises, a protest was going on. Again.
Bruce Wayne stood at his office window, looking down at the crowd of people holding signs that read things like “NO MORE VIGILANTES” and “JUSTICE WITHOUT MASKS” and, somewhat aggressively, “WE DON’T WANT FURRY HOODED MEN IN OUR CITY.”
“Superman is literally an alien,” he muttered under his breath, glancing at a piece of Batman merchandise on his desk like it had personally offended him. Somehow that felt less ridiculous than being a man who dressed like a bat and fought crime at night.
He rubbed a hand over his face.
Down below, the chanting got louder.
“No more vigilantes!” “No more breaking the law!” “We want real justice!”
Bruce turned back toward the window just in time to see a familiar figure pushing through the crowd with a sign held way too confidently for someone who had no idea what they were doing in public demonstrations.
You looked up, spotted him, and immediately waved with a bright smile like you weren’t currently participating in a protest against his entire nocturnal identity.
Bruce felt something in his chest tighten.
“Sorry,” you called out, loud enough that a few people turned to stare. “I mean, you know how it is. If we don’t protest in important places, nobody listens. Monday was the mayor’s office, today is Wayne Enterprises.”
You adjusted your sign proudly.
Then, after a beat, you added even louder, “Equality for everyone!”
A couple of people cheered.
Bruce slowly exhaled through his nose.
Because of course his partner would show up outside his own company holding a sign that was, technically, aimed at him.
You waved again, completely unaware of the existential crisis you were casually causing him.
Bruce watched you for a long moment, the chaos outside continuing, the city demanding answers, the world arguing with the thing he became at night.
And then, very calmly, he thought:
Maybe it was time you found out.
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