b-a-n-a-n-a-s

Last night. Nightwing – well, Dick – surprising you out of nowhere, his confession, his revealing, your clothes, his clothes – oh God, your clothes. 

You glance down. Your head is still swimming but at least you know whose clothes you’re wearing. At least you're wearing clothes. They’re not exactly yours, but - 

You need to sit down. 

“Good morning, Alfred,” you say, your voice faltering. The unfamiliar feeling of waking up in a place that’s not at home has begun to creep in. You’re suddenly aware of your hair, untamed and awry all over your head. God you’re glad Nightw-Dick, isn’t here to see you. 

You glance back uncertainly at the bed. So where is he? 

“Master Dick asked me to let you sleep in, so I took the liberty of gathering a few things you might need. Perhaps when you’re ready, you’ll join us in the kitchen? Everyone is at breakfast just now. Well,” he paused irritably, “brunch, now that they’ve finished their training for the day.” 

Alfred holds out a paper shopping bag, near bursting with toiletries, makeup, something that looks like a cloud (but you suspect is a bathrobe) a brush, curling iron and leave in conditioner. 

Your shoulders sag in relief. “Oh...Alfred, I-”  

“No worries, Miss. Master Dick recounted some of the things he’s seen while in the-” a quick, polite cough was interjected here, “restroom at your apartment. I merely picked up the things he could remember. You’ll join us in about a half hour?” 

The question mark is merely a formality, you realize. You will join them in half an hour. “Oh, yes! Yes, of course. I’ll be down as soon as I can.” 

Alfred smiles, a warm smile that makes his eyes glow. “Excellent, Miss. French toast or pancakes?” 

“Ummmm – fruit?” You’re sharply aware that every word out of your mouth has sounded like a question - but at this moment, you don't have much else besides questions.

He eyes you. “Waffles, I think. I’ll see you in half an hour.” 

___________ 

After a quick shower, you take a moment to just sit and breathe. More has happened to you in the last 8 hours than in the last eight weeks. You feel like your head is bursting trying to make sense of it all. 

Your heart races every time you remember the moment when Nightwing – Dick—goodness, when are you going to stop calling him that?—finally, finally, finally, removed his mask. It was something you daydreamed about, nightdreamed about, and now that it had finally happened, it didn’t quite seem real. 

His name was Richard. Well, Dick. 

“Dick,” you say aloud, trying it out. You instantly feel shy, even saying the name aloud in an empty room. It feels so strange. 

Not as strange as being at Wayne Manor. 

Crossing to the window, you squeeze your hair into the towel as you gaze out over the grounds. There’s only one word for the Wayne compound – massive. You remember the drop in your stomach as the BatPlane glided swiftly onto the grounds late last night. After spending the day at your place, Nightwing had awoken you at 4am to make the flight back “to my dad’s house” as he put it. 

My dad’s house, you think wryly, as you smooth your hair at the edges, trying to make it some semblance of presentable. This was one of the most famous mansions in the country. Somehow, "My dad's house" didn't quite cut it.

Visiting Wayne Manor and meeting your boyfriend’s family all in one day. How much could a person take? 

______________________ 

Winding your way through the hallways and passages of Wayne Manor's gothic layout, it takes you another 15 minutes and directions from two more staff members to find your way to the kitchen door. Standing just outside, your heart decides to start doing somersaults. You might be about to meet Batman, who you now know is Bruce Wayne. Who knew? Of course, it all made sense, now. How else would Nightwing — Dick — and his team have access to a seemingly unending stream of resources? 

Why Dick suddenly decided to entrust you with this information, you have no idea but you feel heavy under the weight of it all. Maybe this wasn’t the right time. Maybe you should —

“Hey there you are!” 

Completely oblivious to the deer in the headlights look on your face , Dick bounds towards you, flanked by two handsome young men – Tim and Jason, you now know after last night. 

Kissing you subtly on the cheek, Dick grabs your hand, pulling you into the kitchen, large and warmly lit by sunbeams streaming in through the bay windows and the skylight above. 

An impossibly large pine table and matching countertops, juxtaposed with gleaming stainless steel appliances make up a kitchen that feels warm, inviting and highly efficient. 

“Y/N, this is Tim, that’s Jason,” Dick says, pulling out your chair. “Say hi,” he hisses, punctuating it with a lethal stare.

“Sup,” Jason says, with a calculating eye. 

“M’lady,” Tim grabs your hand, winking as he lays a soft kiss on your wrist. 

You laugh, in spite of your shyness. “Night - Dick..you didn’t tell me your brothers were so charming.” 

Jason warms at that. “Are you kidding? We’re smoother than butter next to this loser.” 

“All right, introductions are over,” Dick says irritably. “Did you want anything? Juice? Eggs?”  

He looks earnestly into your face as he talks and you can’t help but melt a little. The dam you’ve wanted to break for so long is finally gone and it seems like you’re closer now. Intertwined. 

Against your will, you smile. “Well actually, Alfred asked if I wanted-” 

“Waffles, Miss, and I’ve delivered. Tuck in, then.” 

Alfred comes striding through a pair of swinging doors, balancing a tray laden with waffles, bacon, and scrambled eggs in one hand, and a pitcher full of orange juice in the other. 

“Squeezed fresh, from oranges picked only this morning, Miss,” he winks.  

“I’ll have some of that, Alfred, if you don’t mind.” The deepest voice you’ve heard this morning booms from another door – how many entrances did this kitchen have? – and your stomach does yet another flip-flop. You’ve heard that voice on CNN, TMZ, NBC – basically all of the three letters, and now he’s right here in front of you.  

Bruce Wayne. 

Now, if only you could string together words...words that go together. What is that called? A sentence? 

You’re not exactly starstruck, but for some reason your open mouth can’t speak. Us Weekly was so wrong. He is not 5’11”. This man is easily 6’2”. And the shoulders - 

“Y/N, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope you’ll understand this is -” Bruce crooks an eyebrow at Dick, “ - a bit unorthodox. I understand you’ve been entrusted with certain information. But I hope you’re enjoying your stay – please, sit down with us.” Flashing his Forbes 500 smile, he lays a hand on your chair. Is this a dream?

Head spinning, you sit down, grinning involuntarily up at Bruce. If he were 20 years younger – heck, maybe even ten - 

Dick seems to have had the same thought. “So, Bruce,” he says quickly, “I wanted to nail down our next steps, you know, after the debrief.” 

“Mmhm,” Bruce sips his coffee absentmindedly, now engrossed in a newspaper. Oswald Cobblepott Still Missing, the headline screams. “What did you come up with?” 

“Hey dude, quit hogging the raspberry jam!” 

“I’m not hogging, I had it before you even sat back down-” 

“Master Jason, Master Tim, may I remind you of the very large strawberry stain in the rug from just last week?” 

Wide-eyed, you sip your orange juice as Tim and Jason scuffle over what is apparently Alfred’s homemade jam. “Is um...is every breakfast this much of a rollercoaster?” You want to laugh but Bruce, tall and imposing, and impossibly handsome is still reading and you don't want to interrupt.

“Nah,” Dick says sheepishly. “It’s um...usually worse. We really — HEY!” He shouts. 

Jason lands one last punch but reluctantly scrambles back into his seat. “Loser,” he mumbles to Tim, now happily spreading jam onto a fluffy white piece of toast. 

“Okay let’s get down to business,” Dick says seriously. He shoots an eye at Bruce. “As far as we know, Terra is going to crash the Travanian Military Gala. She’s been stealing DNA-altering nano-tech and either plans to sell it or —” He pauses. “Or —” 

“Or, we don’t know what,” Tim finishes. “We have no idea what her plan is so the only way to stop her is to get into that ball.” 

Jason rolls his eyes. “Should be easy enough without an invitation,” 

You swallow a mouthful of waffle. “Sorry to interrupt but I think you guys are overlooking your most valuable resource.” You gesture towards Bruce. “Invite or no, you’ve got a way in. Irea doande desirra, non solan quas quino, yeah?” You try for a lighthearted laugh that dies away when you realize everyone is staring at you. 

Suddenly your throat feels dry. “I...it means go where you’re desired, not just where you want,” 

Silence. 

“It’s...it’s an old Travanian proverb. I only meant —” 

“You speak Travanian?” Jason blurts out. 

“We had an exchange student one year,” you mumble. 

More stares. 

“She didn’t speak a ton of English,” you finish weakly. 

Cutting into a waffle, Tim tilts his head, smiling your way. “Dick, I guess we know who you’re taking to the ball,” 

“What?? No I just meant —” 

But Dick is already nodding. “We’ll have a translator on the inside. In case comms go down, I’ll still know what’s going on.” 

“Excellent,” Tim says, pulling out his laptop. You cast a surreptitious glance under the table – where did he get -  

“No.” 

The kitchen, full of chatter up until this point, falls silent and all eyes land on Bruce. Storms brew quietly in his dark blue eyes. 

“Dick you should know...you do know much better than this,” he says, in a voice colder than steel. “Y/N is a civilian. You can’t possibly expect to bring them into a situation where —” 

“Bruce, think about it. Coming in with someone no one has ever seen before, no title, no designation, that’ll keep eyes off of us all night. Y/N sticks around for half an hour to gather intel, then waits in the limo with Alfred.” 

Silverware clatters behind you. “I’m sorry, Master Dick?” 

Bruce massages the bridge of his nose. “Well Alfred, if we’re taking this circus on the road, we’ve got to bring the ringmaster. You’re coming too. What do you say?” 

You think the last sentence is directed at Alfred but then you realize — everyone is looking at you. 

You want to say that you couldn’t possibly, that they should find someone else, that this is probably the most insane idea in the world.  

But then Dick squeezes your hand. 

Dick. Not Nightwing.  

Dick needs you. 

So, there’s only one answer. 

“When do we leave?”