¯\_(ツ)_/¯

"What'sup?" She hummed, revving the engine.

"Is that the batmobile?" His voice crackled back to life, she could hear the panick in his tone. "Where are you? You disappeared on patrol."

"East of Gotham." Y/N's tone dropped as the lamborgini inches forwards slightly, testing the waters mockingly. She could imagine the shit-esting grin that laced the clowns face and the maddening laugh that would have followed. "I'll be back before midnight. Hopefully."

Thats when she cut the comms and threw the ear piece aside, her fingers straightened the domino mask on her face, both hands now taking a hold of the wheel as she pressed her foot into the pedal and sped off. The vehicle opposite started reversing rapidly, drifting in a circle as it took at right turn.

In all honesty she knew that if Bruce had found out she took the batmobile to give the Joker a chase, she would be in so much trouble. But this wasnt just something that was occurring for fun, it was more than that. After everything he had done to her family- he had tormented her father for years, he tortured Jason at the ripe age of fifteen and left her without a brother, and now he was making it his mission to corrupt her. She wanted revenge, to get rid of him, to cause him ths pain he had caused her and everybody around her. But she knew Bruce would never agree with that, nor would any of her brothers for that matter, so she did the only thing she could think of and took it into her own hands.

She had him cornered less than five minutes ago, but she didnt act on it right away and she didnt understand why herself- maybe she wanted to the chase, a game of cat and mouse, something that could resemble his own sick way of a game but nothing could phase a man like the joker.

The batmobile skidded around a corner, and as quickly as it had, she had unbuckled her belt and hopped out of the vehicle. Her hands rested on the holster of her belt, shoes clicking agaisnt the gravel.

"Well well." The joker chimed, clapping his hands as he stepped towards her, uncautious. "If it aint the little baby birdy."

"Dont patronise me, clown." Her fingers flicked over the holster as she took the gun in her hands, pointing it directly at the joker.

"Can none of batsy's spawn take a joke?" His smile widened, hands folded behind his back as he rocked on his heels. "Why so serious Birdy? You dont appreciate the Makeover I gave Big Brother?"

Her teeth gritted at that, her hands clutched the pistol tightly, index finger slipping to the trigger as she shook slightly. Images of Jason flashed through her head; When she had gone and looked for him at twelve years old, when Bruce had come back with the news, when he came back from the dead after months of her finally convincing herself that he was gone and there's nothing she could do about it. It made her sick to the stomach. "You dont got a right to speak of him like that-"

"Oh but I do." That pulled at the strings of ger heart, the thumbs thrumming in her ears as she stepped closer, tilting her head. "I set him free."

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up." She yelled suddenly, shaking the gun in his direction.

"Whats stopping you from shooting, Birdy?" His tone dropped to something more dangerous. "A little code of honour? Why dont you shoot me? You know you want to, go on. Do it. Shoot me Birdy. Shoot me!"

A cry escaped her as she pressed down on the trigger, a loud bang ringing through the air. Everything happened so fast, her head spun as her eyes stayed five seconds behind her own movements, her vision blurred behind the domino mask as she looked up, watching as the Joker held onto his arm with a wide comical smile, he almost looked impressed. Blood seeped through the space of his fingers, a contrast on the pale skin of his hand.

"Shit." Y/n whispered to herself, her fingers loosening on the gun, flinching as it clattered to the floor.

"Wow. Didn't think ya had it in ya'." The clown hummed to himself in amusement, licking his lips at the sight of the distressed young woman. Her covered eyes trained on her hands before she looked up with a frown. "Since its our first rodeo. I'll let you off with a warning, yeah?"

He looked at one of his henchmen and motioned towards her with his head as he hushed something in one of their ears making them nod. The henchman reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black, oval object, pulling a piece of metal from the top before throwing it towards her.

Before she had time to react a mistake of smoke rose from her feet, as it made its way up her torso and bust, she gave one last glance to the joker who was waving slow and mockingly, cackling loudly when she started coughing. Her head clouded as the smoke encased her, she stumbled in an attempt to escape but it was futile, her knees buckled, body dropping to the floor and the world went blank.

“C’mon, girl. I ain’t got all day!” Daryl screams your name again. His call comes from your left, causing you to twist your body just in time to turn in a different direction. For a moment, you nearly trip, making you work hard not to lose balance. The second time Daryl yells, you pick up speed.

You’d been hoping and praying this would happen for the last three days and nights. You were finally getting rescued from this literal nightmare.

The forest surrounding the quarry is dense, dark, and full of dangers. What should have been a quick hunt for food ended with the entire group getting split from one another.

It is partially your fault though; you were confident you could out run the walkers on your tail. You probably could have gotten away with it had Merle not decided to intervene. He shot at them from what felt like a mile away. He wasn’t actually that far, but by the time you caught your breath and looked back up at the spot he had been standing in, he was gone, vanished from your line of sight. No matter how many times you called after him, desperate to see somebody else in these woods that wasn’t already a walker, he never returned. Not even Daryl seemed to hear you.

So, you like to blame Merle for your recent disappearance, too. It only seems fair.

A rather deep, intense twinge starts in your chest from how hard your lungs were working. Without breaking, you run and run and run. Past trees, past the stream, past a handful of walkers trying to get a taste of the fresh blood running down your wrist. The wound on your forearm has opened yet again. It was clearly infected at this point; the skin was hot to the touch and pus would ooze out on occasion. If only you hadn’t slipped and fell on that damn rock. That thing was as sharp as a knife, leaving an open gash at least two inches in length.

God, you needed help. You needed someone to save you.

It doesn’t take much longer for your silent plea to be answered.

Daryl belts your name once more, and you finally see him.

You barely process that it is actually Daryl standing in the distance before you’re jumping into his arms. The moment he saw you, he let go of his crossbow and pulled you in. His warm, broad chest collides with your face at the same time you wrap your arms around his body. The man’s faint stubble digs into your scalp as he holds you close.

Daryl tries to pretend this isn’t affecting him in any way, but you can hear the tremble in his voice. He’s worried. “Where the fuck did you go? Ya good?”

You hide deeper into him, if it’s even physically possible. Panic rises as you sniffle, apparently crying without even realizing it. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh- I thought I was dead. I was going to die, Daryl. How am I not- I’m not dead.”

“Stop sayin’ tha’. Ya safe now, safe with me.”

There’s the tiniest little skip in your heart at his confession. But the moment is short-lived. Everything comes crashing down in a matter of seconds.

Your breathing begins to develop into quick, shallow gasps. Every part of your body hurts, so badly that you begin sobbing into Daryl’s shirt. Like jelly, your limbs begin to sway and wobble. The man, already alarmed, starts to subtly freak out.

His rough, calloused hands grip you by the shoulders and pull you back. Despite having little strength to stand, you last just long enough for him to press the back of his hand to your forehead. He hisses at the contact, all while there’s still thick tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Fuck, ya burning up. Got a fever.” Daryl glances around, catching sight of two walkers. Knowing there were predators closing in, and likely even more on the way due to your frantic running from earlier, he doesn’t waste time. “Fuck this. Hold on, I gotcha.”

Before you can collapse, he hooks one arm behind your knees while the other wraps itself around you. The movement jostles you back to reality. With wide eyes, you watch the world around you go blurry for a few seconds. Daryl holds you bridal style and manages to squat low enough to grab his crossbow from the forest floor. He grunts during the process, cursing under his breath. Then, he’s gone.

Daryl tears through the woods like a man on a mission. And truly, he was. He needed to get you back to the camp immediately.

“Daryl, am I going to die?” you whisper. With each step, your head bumps against him repeatedly. Deep down, you wonder if you’re being a burden. As though this entire rescue trip was pissing him off. That type of overthinking came from a multitude of interactions with him in the past. Sometimes, you were convinced he didn’t like you. Then again, you can’t think of a time Daryl has ever done anything like this for any other member of the camp.

“Not on my watch,” he murmurs back.

Although your eyes were blurry from tears, you saw the way your arm was beginning to stain his clothes. Your stomach dropped at the sight. This entire operation would have never happened in the first place had you been smarter. Silently ridiculing yourself, you begin to apologize. “I-I’m sorry, Daryl. I’m so sorry-”

“Not ‘cha fault. It was Merle,” he cuts you off, eyes growing darker with each passing second he thinks of his idiot brother, “he left your ass. I shouldn’t ‘ave run the other way when we were out there.”

Maybe this is his attempt at trying to apologize, but you can’t tell for sure. Not like it was his wrongdoing in the first place though. Daryl said so himself; Merle was to blame, which briefly alleviates your worries, but not long enough to distract you from the deep shit you got yourself into. Your heart beats quicker than usual, working overtime to keep you alive. It was obvious your body was beginning to fall apart after being on your own for the last three days with little food, water, and an obvious infection running rampant in your system.

Daryl must notice the way you begin to drift off. He can’t tell if it’s exhaustion or something else. He begs out of desperation, “Stay awake. Don’ go fallin’ asleep on me.”

You cry more, overstimulated in more ways than you could ever imagine. Twigs and dead grass crunch under Daryl’s boots as he continues to move swiftly. Over five minutes later, you hear faint chatter in the distance. Voices mingled amongst one another, conversation that carries itself in the breeze. Then, a loud booming voice shakes you to your core.

“Hey! Help! I got ‘er!” Daryl screams towards what you can assume must be the camp.

There’s louder commotion now, people running towards him with obvious concern. Survivors you had grown to call friends and family gathered close to find that you were very much alive, but just barely. Under the canopy of tree leaves and branches, you squint harshly. Although you were able to escape the rays of sun hitting your sensitive eyes, it easily highlights your obvious bruises and blood splattered arm. Somebody tries to take you from Daryl’s arms, murmuring hushed worries of you being infected with a bite, but he insists on holding you close, saying something in reply about how he won’t let you go. His thick fingers dig deeper into your flesh, afraid he might lose you again. That small gesture leaves a message loud and clear; Daryl let you go once, he’d be damned if he did so again.

Your body finally caves into the exhaustion only seconds after registering Daryl’s words. The rest of the outside noise ceases to exist. Black spots of varying sizes creep into your vision, and suddenly you feel as though you’ve been hit over the head.

It’s hard to tell how many hours have passed since that moment. You were frequently in and out of consciousness. The first time you stirred, there was a prickle of pain against the laceration. You cried loudly from the sensation, sobbing out of fear. The immediate surroundings hit your line of sight momentarily before you passed out again; Carol standing over you with a bloodied needle, Dale holding gauze behind her while also frantically informing the woman what to do, and who you can only assume is Daryl at your rightside on the floor of the RV while you laid on a bed.

The next time you awoke, it only lasted a couple minutes at most. A heavy dampness alerted your senses, causing you to scan what was unfolding in front of you. Lori stood over you with a wet rag, wiping your forehead to soothe the apparent fever. She appeared stressed beyond belief. Avoiding her gaze, you glanced to your side to see Daryl still there. Something heavy in your palm caught your attention after staring at him. His hand squeezed your own, the movement gentle and slow. As you slowly faded away into unconsciousness once more, all you could zero in on was the realization he hadn’t left you.

The blinds are shut inside the RV. Candles are lit, causing long shadows to dance on the walls. You’re still laying down in the back of the RV with a soft blanket covering your lower half. There’s a bandage wrapped around your arm, which throbs with an intensity that implies someone had tended to your wound. Everything aches down to your bones. Despite all of this, a familiar silhouette on the floor next to you softens your heart.

Daryl is also on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His long lashes blink slowly. It appears he’s beginning to drift off towards a deep sleep. Watching him makes you wonder not only how late it must have been, but how long he’d been awake. You stir on the uncomfortable mattress, inhaling sharply and stretching your legs. The hunter catches on immediately. In the darkness, he snaps his head towards you and shoots up from his spot on the ground, kneeling next to you to check in.

“What’s wrong? Somethin’ hurt?” Daryl asks.

You huff out a little laugh, but then end up coughing a moment later. It was obvious you were dehydrated. Hearing that little strain in your voice, he reaches to his right and picks up a water bottle. Twisting off the cap, he gently brings it to your dry lips. A few small gulps later, he pulls the bottle away and sets it to the side.

“What happened?” you ask him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Ya passed out. We brought ya inside the RV,” he explains, releasing a sigh in the process, “Carol and Dale patched ya up. Lori has been coming by every now and then to check on things.”

“And…you’ve been here too, right?”

There’s a few seconds of silence that follow afterwards. Daryl shifts uncomfortably, trying to avoid eye contact. He actually sounded like he was holding his breath. He finally admits, “Yea’. How’d ya know?”

Your head tilts closer to the man, taking in his features like a work of art. Everything he did saved your life. For that, you are extremely grateful. Without missing a beat, you reply, “I kept waking up. You were here each time, and…Daryl, I don’t even know what to say. Thank you-”

“I don’ need your thanks. I wasn’t gon’ let you die on me,” he shrugs, scanning your sore, weak body once more.

Since joining this group of survivors, Daryl has intimidated you. It was difficult to understand his intentions and why he acted the way he did. But in this moment, he was taking things in a direction you had never anticipated seeing from him; he was so vulnerable in front of you.

And suddenly, you have so much more respect for him than you ever did before.

A content sigh sneaks past your lips. While the circumstances of the conversation are heavy and unfortunate, you still find yourself positively lifted by Daryl’s admission. Without a second thought, you go to reach towards his head to tuck loose strands of hair behind his ears, but then the sharp pain you’d been feeling over the last couple days struck instead. You whine loudly on accident, entirely disturbed at how strong the stinging in your arm was capable of kicking you when you were already down.

You begin to complain, small tears pooling at your waterline. “Fuck, it hurts, Daryl.”

The sensation in general is horrible. Beneath your wrapped injury, you can feel what might be stitches rubbing against the material of the gauze. Your bottom lip quivers as you lie there in torment.

Suddenly, Daryl’s scooting closer and pats the top of your head. He smooths the frizzy, knotted hair and shushes you quietly. He tells you, “I gotcha, I gotcha. Ya gonna be alright.”

Even though you likely look pathetic as hell, you look at Daryl with longing. His eyebrows furrow together while staring into the depths of your eyes. His body language is significantly different than before. Instead of trying to hide from your line of sight, he looks directly at you like nothing else mattered. You silently hope this moment never ends.

After a bit, your breathing begins to slow and you nod your head. You whisper, “Please don’t leave. I’m scared.”

“I’m not leaving you. Promise.”

There’s a faint curl in your lips. It’s a very little smile that tells the man just how thankful you are for his presence. He continues to slowly pat your head, never tearing his gaze away from you. The rest of the night, Daryl Dixon is glued to your side. Even when Lori and Carol offer to take over for an hour or two, he declines. Not that he thinks their aid is inefficient, but he simply doesn’t like the possibility of something going wrong when he’s not there to save the day again.

He's quiet. Chin tucked into his chest as he hangs there like the rest of them, bound and bolted to the wall by the metal around his wrists for 'maximum discomfort', as your master likes to put it.

Your lips curve up at the sight, eyes crinkling a little at the corners in anything but the 'kindness' he'd known you for.

"Aww," you coo, taking a step closer to him, "is little Dickie tired?"

There's a second of silence that passes where he doesn't so much as twitch a finger, and it only makes your lips curl more.

But then, like life just shot him straight through the chest with a bullet, he comes alive, lifting his head to reveal to you not burning rage, or seething hatred, or even sizzling disgust—no.

Utter longing.

You almost flinch back at the sight, steeling yourself a second before you can because your master taught you better.

No... you must be seeing things. There's no way he's looking at you with anything short of hate, not when you've betrayed him, risked both his life and his family's for someone he considers an enemy.

And yet, a few more blinks does nothing to clear your vision, his pupils just as dilated as they were two seconds ago as he looks at you like you've hung the moon and the stars up before his very eyes.

You take a step back, clearing your throat.

"I uh, bet you didn't even see me coming, huh?"

Fucking dammit, did you just stutter?

Your jaw ticks for but a second before you allow that sly grin to crawl back onto your face, gaining composure just as fast as you lost it.

"Bet you slept so soundly, believing with every bone in your body that you could trust me," you mock, leaning forward and tilting your head ever so slightly to the side. "Regret it?"

His answer comes plain and simple: "No."

You blink.

Then blink again.

"No?"

His lips curve up, but unlike the way yours did, his do so more kind, genuine.

"Yeah. No."

Your grin falls. "What do you mean 'no'?"

He answers you not with derision, but clarity, patience, "I mean—no, I don't regret trusting you with every bone in my body."

You blink a few more times, reeling back like he's just gone and taken a swing at you as you furrow your brows and frown deeper.

His tone is gentle, eyes still swirling in that longing as his whole body melts even while already hanging down. Honestly, he looks more like a lovesick schoolboy than the leader of a hero group who's just been betrayed by who he thought was an ally.

"Are you stupid?" you scoff out, because you don't know what else to say, "I'm mocking you for failing your job."

He doesn't respond, continuing to stare at you with those lidded eyes and that goofy fucking smile.

What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

"If you think acting in love with me is going to get me to set you free, you've got another thing coming, Nightwing," you snap.

"Has anyone ever told you you've got the most beautiful voice to ever leave a girl's lips?" he near coos in response, leaning forward a little with what are practically hearts in his eyes.

"Wha—?!" Your jaw drops. "Are you hearing yourself right now? You're tied up! I'm going to kill you!"

He melts. "I wouldn't wanna die any other way."

To everyone else in the room, you must look like a fish right now, occasionally opening and shutting your mouth as you find yourself truly at a loss for words, no insult or threat even registering in that pretty little head of yours.

Insane. Utterly crazy with more than a few screws loose. He must be. You can find no other explanation for why he's cooing at you as you mock and berate him for falling for your scheme.

To make matters worse, he's stolen your very tongue right out from your mouth, your usually witty self reduced to ashes from the heat his words send crawling up your neck.

Stupid, fucking handsome vigilante lea—

"[Name]."

Your ears perk up, and you pause in place, awkwardly leaned back and away from Nightwing's lovesick expression.

The sound of footsteps echoes closer to you.

"What are you doing?"

Your eyes flit to the side, a black and red mask gleaming through the dark like a flame in a tunnel.

"Master," you utter, spine snapping straight and hands immediately rushing to smooth down your shirt. "I've brought you the Titans, as you requested."

"I see that," he hums, voice low, a grumble tinged ever so slightly with scorn as he arrives to stand next to you, and you move to be a step behind him, as he's always taught you. "Well done."

Something lights up in your chest then; something nice and warm and pleasant all over.

But it doesn't last.

Your master's voice drops, tone accompanied by a frown. "Where is the beast?"

Your own lips twitch down, and slowly, ever so slowly, your limbs begin to freeze in place, body splashed with ice-cold water.

"The beast?"

"The green boy," he practically growls out, turning your way with a gaze boiling beneath his mask. "Everyone but him is here."

"He—he was away when I struck," you stutter out, quick enough for your words to slur together as your legs twitch with the urge to flee, "off-duty."

You can practically hear the grinding of his teeth in his voice, "You struck while one of them was away? You incompetent wretch!"

You flinch, his words striking you as hard as his fists do whenever you mess up; as hard as they're about to because you just messed up.

Your eyes screw shut, bracing for the strike that'll probably end in a bruise lasting about a week; one that'll throb with the pain and hurt and awful reminder of your own failure much like every other one loves to do.

Only, unlike all the others, this one doesn't come.

"Don't call her that."

All at once, the room is doused with fire so cold, it drops a couple degrees, and you feel a shiver run right down your spine.

"Excuse me?"

Your master is glaring, you know he is. He may wear a mask all the time but it does nothing to hide the way anger shrouds him like bloodlust; the way darkness crowds him with malice.

"Don't call her that," the voice repeats, and it's so low, in a tone so empty, that you almost don't even recognise it.

But one glance to the side is enough to tell you it belongs to Dick.

His eyes aren't lidded anymore. Instead, they're squinted, glaring like he's just been presented a deal by the devil; like his whole bloodline (or lack thereof) has been insulted right to his face.

It's enough to render you still.

Your master, however, only seethes further.

"You forget your place, boy," he growls. Then, without even uncrossing his arms behind his back, turns towards you, a grumble in his command, "[Name], remind him of who you are."

You part your lips, but before you can utter even a single word, he cuts you off with a tone nothing short of pure finality.

"Kill him."

It's funny—how you still at his words, when just moments ago, you had been preaching about doing the very thing he's commanding you to do.

But that's the funny thing about words and actions—most of the time, they never really correlate.

Your saliva is thick as it runs down your throat.

"But—but I thought—"

"Are you speaking back to me?"

There it is again: that heavily dark cloud.

"No, master."

He hums, not saying a word more. Not that he needs to. You know what's expected of you.

Another barrel of thick saliva runs down your throat like it's a tilted ship, sinking deep into the point of no return.

Your blade is loud as it's unsheathed from your sleeve, but the silence swimming in the room is louder.

Your master has always told you that wearing heels is impractical out on the field, but you've always argued the use in them should your weapon ever be stuck in its sheath or ripped away from you.

Now though? Now that its clicks echo off the walls of this dusty old prison while you slowly make your way over to the man you've been spending so much time with over the past couple of weeks with a blade in your hand?

You wish you'd have listened to him.

Your jump is high, precise, sharp heels digging into the walls on either side of him as you use them to steady yourself—one palm flat against brick, the other hidden beneath your fist as you aim sharp silver at the leader of the Titans' throat.

And even now, while you have a dagger quite literally aimed straight at him, he still doesn't look at you in hatred.

Only pure, swirling, unadulterated love.

And it's starting to make your heart skip a beat.

"What are you waiting for, woman?! Do it!"

But you can't. You won't.

Because something, somewhere deep inside of you that you failed to snuff out when you were first taken in by your master, has come back alive—

You should’ve turned back. But there was something in the way they moved, fluid and insistent, that made you follow. With every step, they guided you away from the familiar moonlit path and deeper into the forest, pulling you toward the river that ran through the heart of the woods.

A flicker of blue light was coming from just beyond the tree line, catching your eye. Curiosity tugged at you, drawing you closer. The shadows slithered toward the faint glow, vanishing into the darkness by the water’s edge.

When you finally reached the riverbank, your breath hitched at the sight before you.

A male lay sprawled on the shore, half-submerged in the water, his blood mingling with the river’s water. Blinking your eyes, you saw the shadows that led you to him, clinging to his battered form and limp wings. They pulsed in a protective manner. It’s then that you recognized the source of the blue light. It was coming from the gems attached to the leathers he wore. 

Siphons. He must be Illyrian…but what was an Illyrian from the Night Court doing in Spring? Alone?

It didn’t matter. You immediately rushed and knelt beside him, your healer’s instincts snapping into action. Your finger’s pressed against his neck, mind racing with worry and dread as his skin felt cold against yours. He must’ve been out for awhile now. The nerves eased slightly when you felt a pulse. 

Weak but present. 

You slipped your arms beneath him, the shadows aiding you as they wrapped around his arms, helping you turn him over to his side. His dark hair clung to his face, your hand reaching up to brush it back.

Your eyes finally met the face of the fallen warrior and something snapped. 

So piercing and electrifying, it had your heart fluttering from the intensity. All at once, the golden threads of the bond you’d only heard stories about unraveled in your chest. They weaved between your rib cage, pulling you tight toward him. A pull so strong it left you breathless and in shock.

Fate and shadows had brought him to you. Your mate.

But the exhilaration of it all was soon smothered by panic, the golden threads beginning to quiver. His blood, too much of it, stained the riverbank. His body was limp in your arms, his breathing shallow.

You had found your mate and already, you were on the verge of losing him before you could even learn his name.

**

Azriel wakes to the sound of singing, a nice and sweet sound, and he catches faintly to the words. He’s never felt so warm, so relaxed. His senses are dulled by grogginess, his body sluggish, but something feels… different. Lighter, somehow. 

Beside him, his shadows stir, the familiar weight of their presence grounding him. But there's also something else— different from the cool and light caresses of his shadows. Firmer. Warmer. The pressure is foreign but comforting.

As his senses slowly return, the scent of herbs and incense reach him before his eyes flutter open. Where am I? He thinks, finally blinking his eyes to clear his vision.

The first thing he sees is you, the source of the beautiful singing.

Light streams into the room, casting a golden halo around you. It strikes him hard, stealing his breath and sending a shock through his chest. He doesn’t know who you are, what you are. But you’re beautiful, so beautiful that his brows furrow in bewildered awe. There’s no way, he thinks. I don’t belong here…

He wills his dry lips to part, his voice is rough and barely audible. “Am I…dead?”

Your eyes widen and your singing comes to a sudden stop, startled by his sudden words. The warmth he felt vanishes as you pull your hand back, and only then does he realize it had been your touch on his face earlier. Your hand hovers between you, glowing faintly with a bronze light, like the first rays of dawn, before you settle it into your lap.

“No,” you finally answer. “You’re not dead.”

Azriel tears his gaze from your face, even though some part of him protests. His eyes wander around the small room, taking in the sparse furniture, the wooden desk cluttered with jars and vials. The sunlight continues to stream through the single window, the curtain hanging doing little to dull the brightness thanks to the Spring breeze. It blinds him when it catches his eyes and he winces, looking away. 

His attention is inevitably drawn back to you. You’re seated beside him, perched on a small stool that does not look comfortable by the bed. His shadows, the loyal dark tendrils that always remain by his side, are dancing around you. Their movement is playful, loving almost and you don’t seem bothered by it. As if they’ve done this before. 

The sight stirs an unfamiliar flutter in his chest.

The flutter is cut short when one of his wings, too big for the bed he’s in, twitches and knocks into the bedside table. A vial tumbles to the floor, the sound of shattering glass jerking his body forward, and in an instant, the memories come rushing back.

He remembers the mission. Rhysand had sent him to the wall separating the mortal lands from Prythian. He had met with Jurian, the encounter brief, and then he was on his way back—flying over the Spring Court when he was ambushed. His mind aches as he tries to remember more but all he remembers is being struck by poisoned arrows and falling through trees. Multiple trees.

Hot, searing pain stabs through him at the sudden movement and your hands fly to his bandaged chest, gently urging him to sit back. “You’re safe,” you reassure him. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Azriel shouldn’t feel comforted by your words, not when he barely knows you. However, he finds your voice soothing. He listens, allowing himself to slowly lean back against the pillows, despite his mind screaming at him that you’re a stranger. Your hands remain on his chest, glowing again with that soft bronze light, and the sharp pain in his body begins to ebb away, fading into a dull ache. Much more bearable.

His shadows return to him, sighing with relief as they nestle close. Azriel watches you, keen hazel eyes taking in more of your features. The curve of your lips, the softness of your eyes. They draw him in, and he finds himself unable to look away. Had it not been for the pain that shot through him moments ago, he would’ve thought you lied to him about not being dead. Because surely you weren’t from this world to have him in a daze like this…

“Who are you?”

“I’m…,” you hesitate, uncertainty crossing your features. He watches with bated breath, waiting but the words seem to catch in your throat. You swallow, clearing your throat before speaking again. “I’m just a healer.”

“And here I thought you were an angel from above.”

A quiet laugh escapes you, and the tension in your posture melts away. The corner of your lips tug up into a faint smile, one that Azriel surprisingly finds himself mirroring. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He doesn’t think. The words spill from him before he can stop them. “I didn’t say I was disappointed.”

The flush that dawns across your cheeks doesn’t go unnoticed. You turn your head, trying to hide the reaction. It’s too late. Azriel already saw it and even if he hadn’t, his shadows are happily gushing over it. Some, the ones not distracted by your beauty, curled around his ear and whispered about the emotion lingering on your face, in your eyes.

There was more you meant to say. Words left unsaid and he wants to know, the curiosity and yearning bordering on desperate. His gaze assesses you again, searching for an answer. For a hint. His shadows continue to whisper. Good, they say reassuringly, sensing no danger or malintent in you. We found her for you!

She saved master's life. Master was out for three days and she stayed by master’s side. She’s–

“What’s your name?” You ask, pulling him from the silent conversation with his shadows.

Azriel is not one to give his name so easily, often going by what he was–a Shadowsinger– rather than who he was. He’s also not one to dwell in places he’s unfamiliar with longer than necessary. But you saved his life and for some strange reason, his shadows had taken an immediate liking to you. They seem to trust you and therefore, so does he.

“Azriel.”

“Azriel,” you repeat and his shadows shudder in response, as though they, too, are captivated by the sound of it on your lips. His stomach flutters in time with their movement.

“What about yours?”

“Y/n.”

“Y/n,” he says, repeating your name the same way you had his. His shadows dance in the air around you both.

**

It’s late morning, as you pick up the empty plate from him, that he feels the familiar sensation of talons scraping against his mind. Azriel?? Rhysand’s voice is urgent, the frantic panic of it making him wince. Your head immediately turns in concern and Azriel brushes it off with a small shake of his head.

I’m alive. Azriel responds, his answer curt as he’s once again distracted by your presence.

Thank The Mother, Rhysand breathes a sigh of relief. Where are you? Are you somewhere safe? Do you need me to–

I’m fine. I was attacked while flying through Spring. 

Who? Rhysand demands.

Given the fact that whoever ambushed me has made no move to find me and finish the job, I’d say no one of importance. Azriel replies, lips curving into a small frown at the thought of being caught off guard and attacked. It rarely happened, his shadows always keeping him one step ahead of anyone and anything. Had they been distracted…?

He turns his head, searching for the shadows in question. Some remained with him, choosing to burrow under the blankets. The others, however, were hovering at your side and helping you clean up from breakfast. One even opens the door for you and he hears you murmur a small thanks as you leave the room.

Azriel had spent most of the afternoon sleeping. He didn’t want to, not liking the idea of being in such a vulnerable state with someone he barely knew. It’s not that he suspected you’d harm him or had bad intentions–you literally saved his life for Cauldron’s sake! It was just a feeling he was not used to. To be able to sleep safe and sound.

When he woke up again, it was a brand new day. He realized the bandages on his chest and arm had been changed. He was slowly gathering his strength back. One of his shadows must’ve given him away because shortly after he woke, you had walked in with a friend. 

“Wow,” the dark haired fae murmured, her steps faltering. Her eyes had widened in wonder, taking in the large expanse of his wings that made the bed look ridiculously small. “The Cauldron truly favors you.”

Azriel’s gaze couldn’t help but narrow. Those words had been directed at you, not him. 

You’d introduced her as Poppy, explaining she was your friend, another healer whose family had taken you in. Poppy had left shortly after setting a steaming bowl of stew on the table right next to the bed. She had been adamant on letting him know her mother had made it and not you, which he found odd.

Azriel was surprised to learn this was your room and you’d given it up for him. He tried to protest, offering to sleep on the couch or floor. Of course, you had refused and he was even more surprised to learn you were more stubborn than he was. 

Where are you in Spring? Rhysand’s presence in his mind pulls him back to the present. He hopes he hadn’t accidentally projected his memory to his friend, wanting to keep it to himself for now. I can send Cassian, if you’re unable to fly. 

No. Azriel responds immediately and he can feel Rhysand’s confusion. I’m alive and safe. I just need more time to recover. 

And without waiting for a response, Azriel brings up his mental shields again, shutting Rhysand out. He can only hope he doesn’t send Feyre knocking on his mind next. Or worse, actually send Cassian to Spring, despite him saying not to.

He should’ve said yes, and accepted the help. The Spring Court was among the least favorite of his courts, in tie with the Autumn Court. He had a strong distaste for the High Lord, who remained wandering through his forests like a beast. 

As you return to the room, Azriel catches sight of a faint glow wrapped around your wrist. He hadn’t seen it before, the glow of your magic outshining the gold ink etched there. A sun, cradled by a crescent moon, and below the moon, a fine lined star glimmers, connecting the two celestial bodies with its ray of starshine. 

“You’re far from home.” Azriel comments, nodding toward the tattoo.

“So are you,” you answer, lips turning up at the slight flush that takes over Azriel. You then glance down at the tattoo on your wrist. The insignia of your Court with the added touch of your healing gift. The tattoo was an honor, a testimony of the oath you had taken after mastering your magic. “I came to Spring to help after the war.”

“Will you go back home after?” He asks, a little too quickly, then clears his throat. His shadows snicker beside him in a knowing manner. “Or will you stay here?”

“I’ll stay here as long as I’m needed.”

He doesn’t understand why but a part of him feels relieved that you’re not attached to this court. 

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need,” you then add. 

He feels an odd sense of relief, and his shadows give a little wiggle in excitement. He sends them a glare, and they sheepishly return to hiding under the covers. Though one brave shadow lingers by his side long enough to whisper, you'll find out soon Master.

“They’re cute," your voice pulls him from questioning his teasing shadow.

Azriel lets out a snort, the effort making his chest and stomach ache. Cute. His shadows had been called many things—strange, unnerving, even unsettling—but never cute. They typically clung to him, weaving around his form quietly, careful not to disturb anyone. Unless he sent them on a mission of their own or they had a mission of their own.

Occasionally, they’d make an exception for Cassian, creeping up behind him just to tap his shoulder and bask in his exasperation when he turned to find nothing there. They’d even tried their luck with Rhysand once, though he was never fooled. Yet, for reasons Azriel couldn’t fathom, his shadows had taken an immediate liking to you, drifting toward you whenever they could.

The said shadows peek out from under the covers, almost shyly. If they could blush, he’s sure they would be at this moment. They're never going to forget this moment.

“I wouldn’t call them cute,” Azriel replies, ignoring their indignant hisses.

Conversation flows easily between you two from there, Azriel giving into his curiosity to know and learn more about you. Much to his surprise, Azriel indulged you in your questions, telling you about his shadows and things about himself he rarely told others. They were small, trivial things such as his exact favorite shade of blue and his biggest pet peeve. Yet you held onto every word, every detail and it felt strangely comforting.

Two more days passed, Azriel’s body still healing. Slowly but surely. You had been able to recover one of the arrows that had shot him. Not that it mattered. Azriel was now, unfortunately, familiar with the effects of faebane. It hindered his healing and though it was frustrating, there was one upside to it all–the friendship blossoming between you and Azriel.

There’s a knock on the door as you mix Azriel’s concoction for pain. “Yes?” You call out.

Poppy peeks her head in. “I was just checking to see if I had given you enough spearmint for the pain tonic and also to let you know that we’ll be out most of the day. If you wanted to take out your ma—male for a walk or something without being bothered by the little ones.”

You freeze and a sheepish look takes over your features, tainting your cheeks. “Poppy,” you say her name again in what sounds like a warning. “He has a name, you know. And he doesn’t need to be taken on a walk.”

“Oh, right, Azriel,” she says, giving him a cheery wave. “Hello again!”

“Hello,” Azriel replies, shifting in the bed, despite the protests of his muscles. He’s not at all offended by Poppy, her aura too bright and cheery to be bothered. He flashes you a grin that has your grasp on the mixer faltering. “I think a walk would be nice actually.”

“Told you!” Poppy replies. “Anyway, we’ll see you for dinner. Send a butterfly if you need me.”

When the door closes, you let out a small sigh, shaking your head with a small, sheepish smile. “I’m so sorry about her.”

Azriel brushes off your concern, his eyes shining bright when he looks back at you. “How about that walk?”

**

Azriel grunts as he pushes to stand, his wings trembling as he shifts his weight, unused to bearing himself after days of bedrest. He stumbles right into your arms, his usually steady form swaying. You quickly catch him, your arms coming around one of his sides. His shadows dart toward his other side, helping you hold him upright. 

“I’ve got you,” you say softly, your hold surprisingly firm. 

He can't help it. He lets out a low, amused breath. 

“What?” You ask.

“Usually, I’m the one saying that.”

Your lips quirk into a smile, a gleam in your eye, as you help him find his balance. “Well, even the best need someone to lean on sometimes, right?”

Azriel stares at you. Something in his chest tightens–a weird but comforting sensation. It’s similar, if not the same, to what he had felt when he first saw you. Warm and painfully sweet. The feeling reassures him that, though you were strangers mere days ago, you’re someone he can lean on.

“Come on,” you murmur, nodding toward the door. 

Azriel lets you guide him through the house and out onto the porch. You settle there together, cutting the walk very short. You're mindful not to push him too far when he's still recovering. Azriel doesn't mind, the fresh air enough for him. He knows he isn’t at full strength to protect you should anything arise. Even though you most likely know these forests better than himself.

His hands drift to the porch railing as he leans forward for support, fingers curling around the edge. The sunlight glances off his scarred hands, each ridge and mark stark against his skin. He’d kept them hidden beneath the covers and out of your view while bedridden, hiding them instinctively, unable to forget the pitying glances they’d drawn in the past. Though he’s sure you must've seen them when you rescued him.

Now, as he feels your gaze slide toward them, a familiar discomfort tugs at him. He starts to withdraw his hands, wanting to tuck them closer to himself.

But you reach out. Your hand hovers, brushing slightly over his. There’s a slight hesitation—an uncertainty in whether to bridge the space or leave it. In the end, you let your hand rest gently beside his.

Azriel hesitates, unused to this vulnerability, yet unable to move away. He glances up to meet your eyes and his guarded expression softens slightly. “They’re… not easy to look at,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know they’re not.”

“I’m familiar with scars, you know. They don’t make you less of who you are.”

Azriel’s jaw tightens, his gaze dropping where your hands are barely brushing against one another. His throat feels tight, an ache he’s kept buried resurfacing.

“Not to me,” you continue. “I don’t see you any differently because of them.” 

He searches your face and he sees something in your eyes that helps him slowly relax. His gaze returns to your hand, fingers hovering now over his. This time, there’s no hesitation as you gently lay your hand over his, holding it as if the scars didn’t exist at all.

It’s such a simple gesture, yet it speaks volumes. 

His shadows slither down his arm and toward where your hands connect. For the first time, Azriel feels no urge to hide, no shame from the past that has long haunted him.

A silence drifts down between the two of you, settling like a blanket over the conversation. There’s no need to fill it, no awkwardness there. Just a gentle, shared peace, stretching softly around you both. He turns his head, shifting his gaze forward and takes a deep breath. 

He closes his eyes and a breeze rolls in, brushing against his skin and stirring his hair. His shadows begin to whisper excitedly. He basks in the sun’s warmth, and lets the scent of spring fill his senses from the fresh earth to the blooming flowers and the faint sweetness of pollen. It brings forth a tickle in his nose, and before he can stop it, he sneezes. His body groans in response, wings shuddering.

“Bless you,” you say, but he notices the way your mouth quirks as if you’re holding back a laugh.

“What?” he asks, brows furrowing.

“I’m sorry,” you giggle, your free hand rising to stifle it. “It’s just… you have such a fatherly sneeze.”

Azriel raises an eyebrow, a rare, amused smile creeping onto his face. “Fatherly sneeze?” He echoes. He has never heard the expression before yet he somehow understands it. If you thought his sneeze was “fatherly,” he’s curious to see your reaction to one of Cassian’s sneezes. That thought is enough to make him laugh outright.

It's so silly but the sound is so contagious that you laugh too. His shadows began to flutter around you, as if joining in on the laughter. Azriel’s gaze then drifts down, watching the way your lips curve in laughter, how your eyes crinkle at the corners, how effortlessly you draw light into his heart.

And there it is again—that rush of warmth. It’s mixed in with joy, so pure and intense it has to be coming from you. His heart stirs, his pulse quickens, his mind clears, and in a single, life-altering instant, he knows.

“You’re my mate.”

Your smile falters, replaced by a moment of hesitation. Some shadows travel to you, brushing softly against your arms as if in a reassuring manner. He can't help but watch them, realization dawning on him.

“Yeah, I am,” you admit quietly.

“How—when…” His voice catches, unable to form the words.

“I was walking through the forest when your shadows came to me. They led me to you, by the river. You were unconscious and bleeding. And then… the bond snapped for me the moment I saw your face. You were so cold and--and…,” your face tightens, eyes glistening at the memory and Azriel can feel the panic you must’ve felt then. “I’d just found what so many only dream of and you were already slipping away...I thought I’d never get to know your name…”

Azriel feels a pang deep in his chest as he absorbs every word. His chest feels tight again and he swallows thickly. “And when I woke up, why didn’t you tell me?”

Your gaze falls, fingers twisting together. “I wanted you to heal, to feel better. That’s all that mattered.”

“I owe you my life.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I would’ve saved you, mate or not.”

Azriel searches your face, touched beyond words at the sincerity in your tone. It made sense why he felt so drawn to you since the moment he saw you, why his shadows took a sudden liking to you and kept whispering "we found her, we found her!" They had known all this time, been able to sense it before he even could.

Looking back, Poppy being the one to bring him food and water and not you was not as strange as he originally thought. You were being mindful, not wanting to accidentally accept the bond without his knowledge. He felt an overwhelming gratitude for how gentle and considerate you've been with him all along. He couldn’t help but wonder how he had gotten so lucky to be bound to someone like you.

“And would you have sung to me, mate or not?” Azriel asks, his mind drifting back to the exact moment he'd first woken up.

Your cheeks flush, and you glance away toward the gardens, suddenly refusing to meet his eyes. “What?” You let out a small huff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 “What did I hear?” Azriel’s tone borders on teasing, his expression shifting into one of exaggerated contemplation. “Something like… ‘Beautiful stranger, here you are…’”

“That’s enough!” You interrupt, your face turning into an even deeper shade of pink, caught somewhere between mortification and laughter. 

This time, it’s Azriel holding back a chuckle. His lips curl into a small smirk, seeing the blush that lights up your face. He quite likes that shade on you—likes being the one to bring it out even more. “So…”

You keep your gaze straight ahead. “So…?”

Azriel leans in, his voice low and warm, making your stomach flutter. “Do you sing that song for just anyone too?”

“No,” you let out a laugh, your hands cup your face but there’s no hiding the blush there.  “I’m afraid that song was just for you.”

“Good,” he murmurs.

You turn to look at him, realizing his gaze had never left you. Your hands drop back to the porch railing.  “Yeah?” you whisper, your own heart pounding, not sure what it was you were asking.

But Azriel seems to understand anyway. He can feel what you’re feeling, now fully aware and attentive to the bond humming between you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his smirk softening into a genuine smile, his heart finally at ease. 

A gentle warmth surges through the bond, reaching every shadowed corner of his heart and wrapping around his soul. It’s a feeling he could get used to, one he’s spent centuries longing and yearning for. It’s a feeling he’s searched for in all the wrong places, enduring the heavy weight of heartbreak after heartbreak.

But now, with you, he feels the weight begin to lift. After all the empty falls and broken promises, it’s finally, finally safe for him to fall.

a/n: you can't tell me Az & Cas don't have dad sneezes lol. Anyway, I really wanted to write a fic where Az finally feels safe with someone because he deserves to. I hope you enjoyed this <3

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

Mor tilted her head, letting out a noncommittal hum. “Oh, I know. She drags Az around on a leash.”

You were tempted to say something about the irony in her words—remind her, in a loving manner, that she might've been guilty of that once upon a time, too. But you decided against it. She wasn't wrong.

You swirled the wine in your glass, watching the dark liquid move in slow, mesmerizing circles. The feeling wasn’t new; it had been there since the first time you’d met her. Azriel’s new girlfriend Selene was perfectly fine—charming, even. But there was something else, something you couldn’t quite name. Like a faint hum in the background of a quiet room, just irritating enough to notice but not enough to prove anything was wrong.

“Why don’t you talk to him?”

You glanced up, finding Mor’s bright brown eyes sharp and focused on you, the lazy humor of a moment ago gone.

“I doubt he’ll listen,” you admitted, resting the bottom of your glass on your thigh. “He didn’t listen to you.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s really not.”

Mor raised a brow like she wanted to argue, but she only sighed in response. “He’s been so weird about his love life. Gwyn didn’t work out. Elain’s probably the happiest out of all of us. Maybe he’s treading lightly.”

“Maybe,” you murmured, though you weren’t convinced.

Azriel had changed in small, almost imperceptible ways since everything had settled—since everyone had paired off and fallen in love. Everyone except you. And him.

You were fine with your situation, content in the quiet steadiness of your life. Azriel wasn’t. You knew it. He knew it, though he’d never admit it. So much of his self-worth was tangled up in whether he believed himself worthy of love. And the absence of it—of a solid, undeniable love in his life, of a partner, of a potential bond—seemed to weigh on him. To him, it wasn’t just an empty space; it was a failure.

You’d almost go as far as to say he’d become desperate, living in the shadows and watching his brothers experience loves so profound they might as well have been plucked from stories meant to inspire poets and dreamers.

Mating bonds were rare. You reminded yourself of that often. Your family was just an anomaly, their luck skewed impossibly high. But logic wasn’t enough to soothe Azriel, and it certainly wouldn’t stop him from chasing it. He was obsessive. Stubborn.

Nothing you said or did could change his perspective.

Mor’s voice pulled you out of your head again. “Speak of the devil,” she sang out. “Hi, Elain.”

Your gaze snapped up to the doorway, finding Elain standing just beyond the archway. She looked like a spooked deer, frozen in place with that polite smile you’d come to recognize as her default around company she hadn’t fully warmed up to yet.

“We were just talking about Azriel’s unfortunate romantic history,” Mor said smoothly. You glanced at Elain for her reaction.

It had taken time for that particular history to fade. Maybe it was appropriate to joke about now, but you personally would’ve waited a few more years before bringing it up so flippantly. Mor, however, had little patience for such niceties.

Elain’s expression didn’t shift beyond a faint flicker in her eyes, and you realized how much her composure had improved over the years. Then again, it had been a while since she and Lucien had found each other for good—long enough for their bond to solidify and for them to leave for the Day Court after their mating ceremony.

A twinge of jealousy sparked in you before you brushed it aside.

“We’re just gossiping in general. Want to join us?” you asked, gesturing to the chair beside you. Plush and inviting, it mirrored the one you sat on. “Unless Lucien is waiting for you upstairs?”

Elain’s cheeks flushed crimson. 

“Lucien’s still with Feyre, catching up,” she said, stepping further into the room. “What are you drinking?”

Mor reached for the bottle on the table, plucking it up and turning it in her hand to read the label.

“Something good and expensive,” she replied, with a half-hearted air of indulgence, before tilting her head at Elain with a faint grin.

“It’s from Rhys’s rather gluttonous collection,” you said, sensing Elain’s hesitation. “It won’t be missed at all.”

She smiled at that. “I’d love some.”

“There are a lot of glasses in that cabinet,” you said, pointing to the wood door with ornate carvings. “Grab whichever one you’d like.”

Mor sat up straighter, scooting herself back into the pillows behind her. You hummed, impressed, at her ability to hold both her full wine glass and the bottle without so much as a wobble.

You hadn’t spent much time with Elain one-on-one. Emissary duties had kept you busy during the years the Archeron sisters had adjusted to their new lives. But you liked Elain, from what you’d seen. She had a kind heart. She also had a sharp humor that surfaced at the oddest moments, usually when she and Lucien were whispering in corners, conspiratorial before seamlessly rejoining whatever social event they were at like they’d never left.

Elain returned and sat down with her chosen glass—a delicate crystal piece that gleamed in the soft light. Mor went to fill it instantly. 

“Can I ask why you were discussing Azriel’s romantic life?” Elain asked. Her voice was smooth, certain. No hesitation.

It didn’t faze her anymore, you realized—being such a strange, pivotal turning point in Azriel’s past experiences. She’d made peace with it, the way immortality seemed to demand. Time softened the edges of even the messiest situations, turning them into stories you could recount with startling detachment. Almost humorous, really.

Because how else could you explain being casual about the fact that your best friend had almost allowed his pride—and arrogance—and, somehow simultaneously, his insecurity—to lead him into a blood duel over Elain’s affections? A blood duel.

But now, it was just… something to write off. A distant memory, softened by the years and Lucien’s easy confidence. Lucien was better than you. You would’ve held that grudge against Azriel for many more years—long enough to make it a point of pride. But then again, Lucien had won everything he wanted in the end. He had the girl, the bond, the certainty that whatever lingering rivalry Azriel might feel was entirely one-sided.

It wasn’t important enough for Lucien to waste any more energy on.

You exchanged a glance with Mor, who arched a brow, clearly just as amused by Elain’s openness.

“Y/n doesn’t like his new girlfriend,” Mor said.

Your mouth fell open. “You don’t either.”

“True,” Mor agreed easily. She looked to Elain. “We don’t like her.”

“For clarification,” you said firmly, “I never said I didn’t like her.”

Mor laughed, sipping her wine with an amused grin.

Your face fell flat. “What?”

“Nothing,” she replied breezily. “But if you get a bad feeling about someone, that’s usually dislike.”

You resisted the urge to scowl, already turning over the guilt in your mind. You didn’t want to be that person—the kind who dismissed another female off the bat. Maybe your gut was wrong this time. Maybe her smile had reached her eyes, and you’d been too preoccupied to notice. Maybe her tone hadn’t been as assessing as you remembered, and you were projecting. You wanted to like her. You wanted to be happy for Azriel.

But he didn’t seem happy. He seemed distracted. Busy. Not himself.

And not the kind of busy you’d seen before—the methodical, obsessive focus he funneled into work or training. This was different, scattered in a way you couldn’t quite pin down. It had made sense in the beginning, when things were new and exciting, but now it was starting to feel uncomfortable. He’d started missing things—small things at first, like sparring sessions or those late-night conversations you, Mor, and him would have when you couldn’t sleep. Then came the bigger things. He’d stopped being able to review external court updates with you, even when those meetings were critical for your diplomatic roles.

Azriel had always been the one you could count on. Out of everyone, you considered him your closest friend—even more than Mor, though you’d never admit it out loud. But now it seemed like every time you made plans, Selene needed him more.

And then there was how fast it was all moving. Too fast. At a recent family dinner, she’d casually mentioned that she and Azriel could move in together—offhand, like it was the most obvious next step. Something about leaving the townhouse behind, creating a space with décor that matched her aesthetic. Azriel had just stayed quiet, looked at her like she’d just proposed the most brilliant idea in existence.

You noticed he did that. The way he looked at her. The way he’d looked at Elain and Gwyn back when they were seeing each other. It weirded you out—that tendency to put the people he saw as romantic interests on a pedestal, as though they were flawless. As though they were something he didn’t deserve.

You knew where it came from. That deep-rooted insecurity that even centuries hadn’t managed to erase. He didn’t see it, the way he wore himself down trying to prove his worth to people who, for the most part, had already accepted him. But you saw it. You always had.

And it made it harder to like Selene. To trust her intentions. Maybe that was unfair, but you couldn’t help but feel like she was just taking—taking all the parts of Azriel that used to be all of yours to share, and twisting them into something else. Something that didn’t include his family.

Still, you wanted to try. To let go of the gnawing irritation in your chest and convince yourself it didn’t matter. If she made him happy—truly happy—then none of it should matter. You were adamant on ensuring that you didn’t turn into the stereotypical overbearing female best friend.

Elain tapped her glass lightly. “Lucien doesn’t like her.”

You blinked back into reality. “Really?”

She nodded, a beat passing before she added, “To be honest, I’m not sure I do either.”

Mor leaned forward, grinning like she’d been handed a stack of gold. You almost wished Amren was here to bask in the moment. Amren didn’t like Azriel’s girlfriend, either. Maybe your family really was as unwelcoming as people claimed. Or maybe Selene simply brought out another level of scrutiny. The thought of either option made you feel bad— gross. 

“Why?” Mor asked.

“She was dismissive toward Lucien. And,” Elain hesitated, her brow furrowing slightly, “She seemed… entitled, I suppose. Especially with Azriel. Like she expected him to accommodate her every whim.”

You frowned, turning over her words. “I’m sure she was just nervous. We can be an intimidating group. Maybe she just needs time to settle in. We just want Az to be happy, right? So, if she makes him happy, then I’m absolutely fine with her.”

The silence that followed was thick. For a moment, you wondered if you’d said something wrong. Something weird.

“Are you?” Elain asked, her tone sincere.

“Are you?” Mor echoed at the same time, voice dripping with sarcasm.

You shot Mor a glare, but she only raised her brows and sipped her wine again, infuriatingly unbothered. Exhaling, you willed yourself to meet Elain’s gaze.

“I am,” you said, trying for conviction. “Really.”

Elain pursed her lips. Her gaze shifted to Mor, lingering longer than you liked, and then back to you.

“Alright,” she hummed. “I guess I was wrong.”

You stilled. Elain reclined deeper into her seat, accepting a refill from Mor. Her wine glass remained only half-full compared to yours and Mor’s.

Curiosity burned. You leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

Elain furrowed her brows. “What do I mean about what?”

“You said you guess you were wrong. What does that mean?”

Mor’s gaze bored into the side of your face. Any second now, you were sure she’d make some quip about how bothered you were. But you weren’t bothered. Just curious.

Elain swirled her wine, watching the light catch the liquid. “I’m not sure. Things feel off. Like something’s coming. Az needs help with it, I think.”

You froze. “Off? Like—how?”

She hesitated, thoughtful. “It’s hard to explain,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. “But I feel it. In my chest. My visions sometimes do that. That’s why I asked.”

Well, that unsettled you. You glanced at Mor, whose amused grin had fallen into something more contemplative.

It seemed you might need to have a conversation with Azriel after all.

“I don’t like that,” you admitted, your nose crinkling. 

“I think I heard him get back earlier. Go talk to him,” Mor said, her tone gentler now, though a hint of mischief lingered in her eyes. You didn’t read too much into that. Mor’s eyes tended to be expressive. She also tended to be mischievous when her blood was primarily red wine. 

“Okay,” you said. “Maybe just to check in.”

Elain nodded. “Just to check in,” she echoed, almost reassuring.

“Have fun,” Mor added, her grin returning just enough to be annoying, but not enough to distract you from the unease curling in your chest.

You didn’t respond, instead taking another slow sip of your drink. The glass clinked softly as you set it down on the table before you made your way upstairs.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Mor turned to Elain. “Did you really feel something that unsettling?”

Elain let out a laugh. “No,” she said lightly. “I completely made that up. But she doesn’t need to know that.”

Mor’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. Seconds later, her head tilted back in a laugh just as vibrant as it was unapologetic.

“Genius,” she declared, raising her glass in mock salute.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The walk upstairs was quiet.

The townhome, in general, was quieter nowadays. Aside from the times others came to visit—like Lucien and Elain—only you and Azriel lived here full time.

When you reached Azriel’s bedroom door, your steps faltered for a moment. There was a hesitation in you that hadn't existed before. You raised your hand to knock, but the action felt more awkward than usual. It made you sad, momentarily, that you hesitated. You never second-guessed yourself with Azriel. You wanted to tread carefully in this new era of his life, though. You didn’t want to overstep, to become a nuisance. But whatever this was—whatever had unsettled Elain enough to mention it—you needed to know. Azriel had always been a constant for you, and if something felt “off,” you wanted to understand why.

Your knuckles rapped lightly on the door. “Az?” 

Inside, you heard the shuffle of movement, followed by his low, familiar voice. “Come in.”

You didn’t see Azriel immediately, but the smell of soap and the damp air told you that he recently showered. Shadows slithered across the floor, comfortable and excited, exploring the familiar confines of his room.

You greeted the tendrils as you usually did, letting them brush against your legs as you flopped onto his bed. The bed, like everything else in his room, was simple: plain black sheets, no extravagant pillows, just the bare necessities. It used to drive you mad, the emptiness of it all.  But what was in his room spoke volumes—— bare walls except for a dagger mount on one side, a small uncluttered desk with a well-worn sharpening stone. 

Azriel exiting the bathroom pulled your attention, your eyes settling on him as he rubbed his wet hair thoroughly with a towel. He shook his head slightly, wet curls bouncing onto his forehead, and met your gaze. His eyes flicked to where you lay, scanning your body. He nodded toward your feet.

“C’mon,” he almost whined. “No shoes on the bed.”

You looked down at yourself, grimacing as you realized that your shoes were, indeed, on his clean comforter. A simple set of house slippers, so nothing entirely too dirty, but it had completely slipped your mind. Very comfortable shoes, you noted, maybe you’d get Feyre a pair as a solstice gift.

“Oh whoops,” you said with an apologetic smile. “My bad, clean freak.”

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the quirk of his lips anyways.

For a moment, the old sense of comfort settled over you. But then, a thought crept in—the thought that maybe you shouldn’t lie on his bed like this anymore. It had been fine before, but now… now it felt different. He had someone else in his life. It wasn’t weird, exactly, but it was a little inappropriate.

You sat up straighter.

“Did you and Mor grow tired of rehashing the same centuries old gossip?” He teased.

You snorted, watching as his shadows flitted above his shoulders. They were amused, laughing in their own way. “Never,” you responded, pushing yourself off his bed. You were drawn to the otherside of his room, to the simple dresser against the wall. “Elain joined us this time.”

Your back was to him, but you had a feeling that the momentary silence, the stillness that you felt, was a knee-jerk reaction from Azriel—something reminiscent of embarrassment, shame, or guilt at her name. But all he responded was, “Oh?”

“I like her,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I kinda wish I spent more time with her…”

You paused, your words trailing off quietly as you took in the small details before you. 

Azriel’s dresser had always been the one surface he decorated, not because he cared for decoration, but because it was the only surface large enough to hold anything. Over the years, it had become a quiet testament to the things that mattered to him: a mix of Solstice and birthday gifts, trinkets you’d both collected on missions and trips. You liked seeing what had changed, what had been added. It gave you a glimpse into where Azriel had been, who had been with him. 

Lately, there had been more—more trinkets, more oddities that stood in stark contrast to the weapons displayed elsewhere, the ones mostly hidden away in his closet. A macaroni necklace from Nyx. A horribly made clay version of him you’d created during a drunken pottery night with Feyre, Mor, and Amren.

But now, the dresser was foreign. The once familiar surface had been wiped clean, replaced by delicate perfume bottles, jewelry that looked too fine to be his, and a candle that smelled—oddly—like the puke of a flower faerie. Some of it was new. Most of it was hers.

Azriel’s presence had vanished from his own furniture entirely.

“Huh.”

“What?” Azriel asked.

You glanced over your shoulder. “I see you’ve decorated more.”

Azriel tilted his head, and a few of his shadows slithered down his body, crossing the room to pool around your ankles. “I guess,” he said. “Selene said my room needed more life.”

You leaned forward, brushing your fingers along the ceramic jewelry dish, the cool surface sending a strange chill through your skin. The shadows flickered over your hand, almost as if they were inspecting it too. They moved with purpose, then slowly obscured it, hiding it from view.

You frowned, confused.

Azriel, still silent, was rifling through his closet. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you as he moved, but he said nothing. The shadows returned to his side as you turned to look at him.

"Are you going somewhere?" you asked, trying to break the silence.

Now, Azriel barely spared you a glance.

“Yeah. Meeting Selene,” he replied simply.

After a few seconds of silence, Azriel turned his head and properly held your gaze. “Why? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you responded with a casual wave of your hand, but Elain’s words echoed in your mind. You cleared your throat. “Well, actually, no. I was hoping I could talk to you.”

He frowned, standing up straighter, his wings flexing with the motion. “Is it something serious?”

You paused, carefully filtering through your words. “No, just something that’s been on my mind.”

Azriel studied you, doubt flickering in his hazel eyes. It was the kind of look that always made you feel like he was reading you too easily. He probably didn’t believe you, not entirely—but he nodded anyway. His lips curved into a small, apologetic smile. “Raincheck then?”

You mirrored his smile, though it felt thin. “Yeah, sure. We can talk tomorrow, once we’re back from the Hewn City.”

Azriel stilled. The way his gaze dropped to the floor and lingered felt like a guilty dog, an animal caught in an act forbidden. “Shit,” he said, his tone cautious. “I can’t go.”

You blinked, the words taking a moment to settle. “Seriously? Az, Rhys is expecting an update.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere enough. It didn’t matter. “But you can handle it on your own, you know this.” 

“Are you serious?” you said, the hurt slipping out before you could stop it. “I don’t want to deal with Keir alone.”

Azriel sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll talk to Rhys, but Selene’s been wanting to—”

“Never mind,” you cut him off, shaking your head. You forced a smile. “Have fun tonight. And tomorrow.”

Azriel scanned your face. After another moment of silence, he sighed.

“Okay, what is it?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “You clearly have something on your mind. Tell me.”

You hesitated, holding his gaze. “I actually wanted to talk to you about Selene.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened instantly. He looked away, his tongue running across his teeth as he shook his head. “Not you too. Don’t be like this.”

Your frown deepened, offended by the immediate shift in tone. “Be like what? I haven’t even said anything yet.”

He met your eyes again, his stare almost challenging. “We both know what you’re going to say.”

“Do we?”

“First Mor, then Nesta, and now you.” His voice was sharp, but not loud. “Should I be concerned that the females in my life are so quick to rally against my girlfriend?”

You scoffed, crossing your arms to mirror his pose. “Well, yeah, Az. Maybe you should be.”

He rolled his eyes, the shadows at his feet flickering with the motion. “Fine. What do you want to tell me, then?”

For a moment, you hesitated, the words lingering on the edge of your tongue. Azriel had always been good at looking through you, unraveling thoughts you hadn’t fully formed yet. And now, under the weight of his sharp gaze, you felt exposed.

“I just want to make sure you’re happy.”

Something flickered in his expression, quick and fleeting—too fast for you to decipher. For the first time in a long while, Azriel felt unreadable, like he’d drawn a curtain between himself and you. “Really?” he asked, his tone tight, almost incredulous.

You faltered, a small thread of doubt weaving its way through your resolve. Was he happy? Would he even tell you if he wasn’t?

“Yes, really,” you replied, a defensive edge creeping into your voice. “You’ve been distant lately. Running around at her beck and call. None of us know her. I want to understand what’s going on with you. I want to understand her.”

Azriel’s wings shifted again, his gaze hardening.

“I want to make sure this is the kind of relationship you want,” you finished, quieter now.

The room fell into silence, heavy and still. Azriel watched you as if he was turning your words over and over in his mind. You waited, unsure of what to expect—if anything at all.

“I wouldn’t be in a relationship I didn’t want. Can we drop it, please.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. What a strange, dismissive answer. It bothered you— bothered you more than anything he’d ever told you before. 

“Az, I just don’t want you to change who you are for someone. You don’t need to cater to her every whim.”

His expression darkened, shadows curling tighter around his boots. “I’m her boyfriend. I do what she asks.”

You raised an eyebrow, unable to stop the scoff that slipped out. Azriel had never been so clipped with you. “That’s not the definition of a boyfriend. That’s the definition of a bitch.”

Azriel’s jaw clenched, his wings flaring in irritation. “Excuse me?”  His voice cut through the room. “Do you really think I’m some incompetent love-sick loser?”

“I think you stop seeing flaws in the people you love.”

The words hung between you, heavier than you’d anticipated. A small part of you wondered if “love” was the word Azriel would use to describe his feelings for her. Another part worried that he didn’t correct you.

“That’s not true.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” he snapped. “I can clearly see that you’re being unfair. Quick to judge, much like Mor. That’s a flaw.”

“Oh, please,” you shot back, “You know what I meant. The people you’re infatuated with—”

“Where is this sudden concern coming from?” he interrupted, his shadows now beginning to curl between you like restless mediators, unsure where to settle. “Are you trying to cause issues?”

Something ran hot through your body.

“Seriously? I’m talking to you about this because I care. Because Elain had some cryptic feeling about you—”

“Elain is involved in this conversation, too?” His voice dripped with frustration now. “Gods, Y/n, should I send word for Gwyn while we’re at it? Get her opinion?”

“What the hell has gotten into you?” You took an authoritative step forward.  “I’ve never judged you. I’ve always tried to support you and your messy love life, no matter how complicated. Don’t you trust me, Azriel? As a friend?”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, his shadows flickering uncertainly, still deciding whether to retreat or rise.

You gestured around the room. “Look at this place. You’ve erased all traces of your family—of you, of us. Where did you even put—”

“Oh, gods.” Azriel’s voice broke through, and for a moment, you thought he might crumble. His wings folded, and his hand dragged across his face, the weight of his exhaustion sinking in. “She was right.”

You froze. “What?”

Azriel met your gaze, his eyes hesitant for a heartbeat before turning sharp. “About you. Selene said you were jealous. That you had feelings for me.”

The words hit like a slap, and your world tilted on its axis. “What?” you asked again, your voice breaking on the word. Maybe you had misheard him. Maybe he had misspoken.

“I told her she was wrong. But now…” He let the sentence hang in the air, searching your face for something that maybe wasn’t even there.

“Now, what?” Your voice rose, tinged with anger. “You think I’m here because I’m jealous? Because I have some… crush on you?”

His wings flared slightly at your tone, but he didn’t back down. “I don’t know. It’s just—why else would you care so much about this?”

Your stomach twisted, a deep, cold ache settling there. “Why else?” you repeated, the words bitter on your tongue. “Because I care about you, Azriel. Because you’ve been my friend for centuries. Are you seriously confused about this?” 

For a moment, Azriel’s expression faltered, but he didn’t apologize. Instead, he said, “I didn’t ask you to care about my love life.”

“You didn’t have to,” you snapped, stepping closer. “That’s what friends do. But you’re standing there, letting her perception of me—someone who doesn’t even know me—warp your judgment. You’ve known me longer than that. Or at least, I thought you did. And the fact that you’d entertain this—” You stopped, shaking your head. “It’s insulting.”

Azriel said nothing. He just stood there, shadows now curling tighter around him. 

You had no idea how this conversation had gotten away from you, no idea how it turned into this—where this defensiveness, this anger, had come from. This wasn’t Azriel. Loyal, overly so. Impulsive. Protective. 

Or maybe it was. Maybe that loyalty was directed at someone else now—someone who clearly saw you as something threatening. You’d never been on the other side of Azriel before. Never thought you’d see the day. The realization hit like a slap to the face, leaving you shocked, stunned, a pit opening in your stomach that felt too deep to climb out of.

“You know what? Forget it.” You stepped back, the fight draining out of you all at once.

Azriel’s brows furrowed. “Really? That’s it?”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, your lips curving into something that might have been a smile if it weren’t so bitter. “Yeah,” you said, your voice flat. “That’s it.”

You turned for the door, hand on the handle, but paused. The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and pointed, a petty jab that felt equal parts satisfying and hollow. “Make sure to lock this door when you leave—I’d hate to accidentally stumble back in and throw myself at you.”

Azriel stiffened, his wings snapping taut behind him. For a brief second, you thought he might say something, anything. But he didn’t.

You closed the door behind you with a heavy thud.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: no one tell them they probs have feelings for each other bc they’ll probably fight you (also elains moment is so self indulgent bc i would totally be making shit up based off my powers. like yeah actually you can’t be mean to be :/ powers are saying you’ll die if you are)

Part Two

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon 

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters 

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

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@melissat1254

@secretsicanthideanymore

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@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows

“Oh, this is priceless,” Jason wheezes. “Loverboy's got it bad.”

Dick exhales through his nose, shaking his head as he continues forward. “Can’t believe you guys planted a camera on me. Have you no trust?”

“It’s not about trust, Dick,” Bruce finally speaks, his voice cool and measured. “It’s about intelligence gathering.”

Of course. Ever the pragmatist.

Dick rolls his shoulders, trying to shake the unease creeping in. “Nah. My girl would never do anything to hurt me.” His voice dips. “Nothing I wouldn’t enjoy, anyway.”

Jason groans. “Barf.”

Oracle sighs. “Loverboy, focus.”

Dick lifts his hands in mock surrender, but his smirk lingers, betraying him. “Alright, alright.”

By the time Dick reaches the coordinates he was sent, the abandoned building seemed to be empty. Devoid of any criminal activity that was suspected.

Or at least, that’s how it looks.

Nightwing lands silently on the rooftop, scanning the darkened windows. No movement. No heat signatures. Just the city humming below, a steady pulse against the quiet.

Any amateur would enter the building to start his investigation, but Dick knew you better than that.

A slow smirk tugs at his lips.

You’re here. Somewhere. Watching.

His lips twitch. “Y’know, most people say hello first.”

Silence. 

A shift in the shadows, a whisper of movement, too fast for anyone else to catch.

He’s airborne for half a second before his back slams against the rooftop. His breath escapes in a sharp huff, and before he can fully register what was happening, a warmth presses close, your weight against him, a knee braced against his ribs, gloved fingers skimming the hollow of his throat. Light. Barely there. A tease, not a threat.

“Thought I’d mix it up,” you murmur.

The moonlight frames you in silver, your mask casting half your face in shadow. He watches the way your lips quirk, the way your breath fans against his jaw, closer than necessary. Closer than you should be.

He should move. Counter. Flip you.

Instead, his fingers curl around your wrist, his thumb ghosting over your pulse point.

Dick blinks up at you, the city lights outlining the curve of your smirk.

“Well,” he breathes, grin unfazed. “You sure know how to make a guy feel wanted.”

You hum, tilting your head. “I’d say sorry, but you walked right into it.”

Your knee eases up just enough for him to shift. It’s all he needs.

With a twist, he sweeps your leg from under you, flipping them. Now you’re the one pinned, but your expression doesn’t change—if anything, your smirk deepens.

“Better,” you muse. “Almost had me there.”

“Almost?” He tuts. “You wound me.”

Then, without hesitation, you hook your leg around his waist and throw your weight into a roll. The two of you tumble, shifting control back and forth, dodging and countering, neither ever fully committing to an actual strike.

It’s a dance. One you both know by heart.

You feint left and he dodges too slow. Your fist brushes his jaw, not a real hit, just enough to make him feel it.

“You’re distracted,” you observe, eyes glinting.

He exhales, grip tightening around your wrist just enough to keep you close. “Maybe I just like having you this close.”

“Always the flatterer.”

For a moment, neither moves. Your breaths mix, city lights reflecting in your masked gaze.

Then, you blow him a kiss, fingers ghost over his lips before twisting free.

A quick, effortless slip, like smoke through his fingers. By the time he blinks, you’re already a few feet away, perched on the edge of the rooftop, ready to make your exit. 

His comm buzzes. Jason’s voice, laced with amusement: “Tell me you’re at least trying to win.”

Dick ignores him.

Instead, his eyes flick toward the shadows. "C’mon, sweetheart, you really want it to end so soon?" He calls, the playful edge to his voice betraying the pulse of something more intense. “I’m starting to have fun.”

“Yeah?” You step into the moonlight, half a step in front of him. “You’re losing, horribly.”

You paused.

“But I’ve always liked how optimistic you were, Grayson. It’s cute.”

He can’t help but smile at the sound of his last name leaving your lips with a casualness that does something to him. He’s heard it from everyone, whether it be taunts or flirty whispers, but from you, it lands differently.

“I’m losing?” He raises an eyebrow, a challenge in his voice, but his heart pounds just a little faster. “I don’t think I feel like a loser.” In fact, he feels more alive than ever, adrenaline coursing through him, sparks erupting with every quip you exchanged. 

You let out a laugh, the sound light and effortless. “I’ve transported all of the artifacts from the Gotham Museum hours before you even got here.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he stays relaxed. He’ll deal with that later. “You know that’s not why I’m here.”

You tilt your head, smirking. “No?”

He steps closer. Slowly. “No,” he repeats, his voice dropping to a softer tone, low enough that it’s just for you.

You watch him, waiting.

He stops when you’re chest to chest, both of you breathing a little heavier now. The proximity is too close. Too much. And yet, neither of you move away.

“Then, what are you here for?”

For a heartbeat, the world slows, and he sees it, something soft in your eyes, hidden behind the mask. Something more than the game you’ve been playing.

“You know,” his voice softens.

But it’s fleeting. Gone before he can fully grasp it, and it hits him harder than he expects.

For a moment, he sees your own eyes underneath the black eye mask softening as they flicker between his own. But it’s gone as soon as it comes and Dick mourns it.

You break the moment first, pulling back just slightly, the warmth of your body still lingering as you glance away. “I’m not… involved with that and you know it,” you say, tone sharp but steady.

You’re not naive. He knows you’ve heard of the rumors circulating about Blackgate and Selina’s growing influence in the prison.

He catches your hand when you try to push him away, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. It’s the same dance they’ve done for years—one step forward, then the pull.

“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs.

“Obviously not.” Your eyes flash as you look away, trying to hide the strain in your voice. “You don’t trust me.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “You know I do, sweetheart.” His voice softens, and he steps even closer, bringing his other hand to your jaw, his fingers gently guiding your gaze back to his.

“I just needed to confirm.” His breath catches in his chest as he leans in, his lips almost brushing yours. “You know. B and his procedures.”

He doesn’t miss the way your breath hitches. You’re not backing away, but you’re holding yourself together with that quiet strength of yours.

“Dick,” Oracle warns him through the comm. He can feel Bruce’s silent warning echoing through his mind. He’s overstepped.

But Dick doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care about the mission anymore. Not when you’re standing there, eyes locked on his, body close enough that all he can think about is what it would be like to not fight this anymore.

With a quiet resolve, he reaches for his comm, deactivating it, then rips the camera from his suit, crushing it under his foot. The sound of the camera breaking echoes through the silent night, and he watches as surprise flickers in your eyes.

“You’re insane,” you murmur, the disbelief in your voice mixing with relief.

Dick steps even closer, no words now, just the steady thrum of his pulse and the way his body wants to close the distance. “Mission completed anyway,” he mutters, his lips curving into a grin, but it’s softer now.

“As always,” you whisper, your eyes flicking to the shattered camera. There’s a quiet moment where everything feels like it’s teetering on the edge.

Then, without another word, he pulls you in, his lips crashing into yours, soft but insistent. It’s everything he’s wanted, everything you’ve been dancing around for far too long.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into his suit as he deepens the kiss, his body pressing into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The kiss is slow, almost agonizing in its sweetness. No more games, no more hesitating. Just the two of you, finally letting go. His hand rests on the back of your neck, fingers tracing down every curve.

“That,” he says, voice husky, “was a mission well done.”

Your eyes twinkle, and you don’t pull away. “You know you’re never going to hear the end of this, right?”

“Worth it,” he grins. “Every second.”

Bruce lifted a brow at the sound of heavy footsteps and the sight of Jason sauntering into the manor kitchen, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder like he owned the place.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, pausing mid-bite, fork suspended halfway to his mouth.

Jason didn’t break stride. “Gee, thanks for the warm welcome,” he drawled, dropping the duffle beside a chair with a solid thud.

Bruce sighed, setting down his utensils. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just you have your own place.”

Jason shrugged, nonchalant. “Maybe I just felt like spending some quality time with dear old Dad.”

Bruce’s gaze narrowed, eyes flicking over him like a scanner calibrating for irregularities. Jason was calm. Casual. Civil. Voluntarily in the manor. Something was wrong.

Jason would rather set himself on fire than willingly spend an evening under Bruce’s roof. He was being too… not-Jason. Polite, even. Pleasant. 

Clone? Possibly. Cyborg? Wouldn’t be the first time. A mind-wiped doppelgänger sent to spy on the family?

Then it hit him.

He paused in growing horror…

Did he finally kill the Joker?

Was that why he was in a good mood?

Bruce stared at him. Jason just blinked back innocently, which only made it worse.

No, something was definitely wrong.

“He’s lying,” came a voice from the doorway, smooth and amused.

Dick entered, mug of tea in hand and an unbothered grin on his face. “It’s because everyone’s crashing at his place.”

Now that he mentioned it, the manor had been suspiciously quiet lately.

Bruce glanced between them. “Why?”

Jason froze, his posture stiffening like someone expecting a sniper shot. His eyes flicked to Dick, silently warning him to shut up.

Dick, of course, did not. If anything, his grin widened.

Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “Why?” he repeated.

Jason shot Dick a glare, the kind that promised swift and bloody vengeance, but the little shit was immune. He grinned wider, practically radiating delight.

“Oh, because of his girlfriend,” Dick said, drawing out the word with far too much delight.

It had been unspoken—agreed upon, even—that whatever chaos was unfolding at Jason’s apartment stayed there. The last thing he needed was his personal life dragged into the manor spotlight and have Bruce interrogating his girlfriend. He was already hanging on to his sanity by the thinnest of threads.

But Dick had two fatal weaknesses: an insatiable love for family bonding… and a disturbing amount of joy in watching Jason suffer.

“You should see him at home,” Dick went on, far too pleased with himself. “Total domestic bliss. Folding laundry. Cooking dinner. It’s like watching a lion try to do ballet.”

“Shut the fuck up, dickhead,” Jason snapped, his voice a low snarl.

Bruce paused, fork halfway to his mouth.

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a Batarang.

Very slowly—deliberately—Bruce looked up. His eyes locked on Jason.

Jason had a what?

Before anyone could speak, Alfred appeared beside Dick with the poise of a man who had seen war, death, and teenage Bruce Wayne at his most dramatic—and had emerged utterly unshaken.

“Master Jason is bringing her for dinner, of course,” Alfred said, smooth as ever, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Master Jason is not!” Jason barked, visibly horrified.

Alfred raised a brow. 

Finding out you’d been invited to dinner at Wayne Manor wasn’t exactly a shock. If anything, you’d been expecting it. Most of the family already knew you—had dropped by Jason’s place uninvited enough times that introductions were inevitable. It was only a matter of time before Bruce caught wind of your existence too.

What surprised you more was how not nervous you felt.

Jason, on the other hand, looked like he was mentally preparing for battle.

As the iron gates of Wayne Manor creaked open, you watched him through the passenger-side mirror. Your six-foot-two, weapons-grade boyfriend was pacing beside the car like a man about to face execution. His hair was a mess—freshly wrecked from his own anxious hands—and while the tousled look worked unfairly well for him, it didn’t do much to hide the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“Just… don’t let them suck you into anything,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the universe. “Don’t be too funny. Or too smart.”

You arched a brow. “So… you want me to be dislikable?”

“What? No! I mean—maybe? I don’t know!” he snapped, throwing his arms up. “If you are, maybe they’ll finally stop showing up at my place uninvited. But I don’t want them to hate you either.”

He paused, then groaned. “God. Don’t mention cinnamon rolls. Damian’s still holding a grudge because I ate the last batch.”

You laughed. “Of course he is.”

Jason stopped pacing only long enough to glare at the front door like it personally offended him. “Just… don’t be nervous. We’ll be in and out. Quick and painless.”

You blinked slowly. “Jason. I’m not nervous. You’re the one spiraling.”

By this point, you weren’t even sure he realized what he was saying anymore. He was just venting aloud—burning nervous energy like a fuse inching toward a powder keg.

With a soft breath of amusement, you stepped into his path, catching his hand in yours before he could wear a trench into the manor’s immaculate brickwork.

“Babe,” you said, gently squeezing his fingers. “I’m fine. I got this. You’re the only one falling apart here.”

So you reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw before leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. It was brief—grounding—but it worked. His shoulders dropped an inch, the rigid line of his jaw easing ever so slightly.

When you pulled back, you were already smiling. You laced your fingers through his and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Ready?” you asked.

Jason exhaled, long and slow, like he was about to walk into enemy territory. Which, for him, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

“Fuck no.”

Alfred greeted you at the door with the warmth of a man welcoming a long-lost friend.

“Miss Y/N,” he said, voice smooth with genuine affection. “We’re delighted to have you.”

You barely had time to smile before Damian appeared—materialized really—at your side.

“You’re sitting next to me.”

You blinked. “Hello to you too,” you said dryly.

He didn’t acknowledge it. His attention was already on the dining table as he pulled out a chair for you with the gravity of someone bestowing a great honour.

 “What? No! That’s my girlfriend, demon spawn.” Jason snapped. 

Damian didn’t even flinch. He turned to Jason with a droll look, sharp and effortless. “And I pity her for that fact every day.”

You muffled a snort behind your hand and slid gracefully into the offered seat.

“Thank you, Damian,” you said, smoothing your napkin onto your lap with a smirk. Then, with mock innocence, you patted the open chair on your other side. “There’s still one free spot left.”

Jason moved toward it—clearly ready to reclaim his territory—only for Dick to slide in smoothly at the last second.

“Y/N!” Dick beamed, overly bright, already leaning his elbow on the back of your chair like he belonged there.

Jason’s jaw ticked. “Oh no you don’t, Dickhead.”

With all the grace of a man well-versed in brotherly warfare, he hauled Dick up by the collar and dragged him out of the seat with zero ceremony.

“Hey!” Dick protested, arms flailing like a cat being relocated. But Jason was already dropping into the seat beside you, triumphant.

Dick slunk across the table with a wounded pout, muttering something about uncalled-for violence.

You raised a brow at your boyfriend. “You know we practically live together. You see me every day.”

Jason scowled. “So do these assholes. They break into my apartment every day.”

Damian arched a brow from your other side, utterly unbothered. “Careful, Todd. Green isn’t your color.”

Dinner was… everything Jason feared.

Tim asked how you two met—twice—just to watch Jason twitch with increasing irritation.

Stephanie demanded relationship details with the energy of a late-night talk show host, bouncing in her seat as she eagerly listened to answer her questions.

Cass watched you in silence, head tilted with a quiet, steady kind of approval. She didn’t need words. She’d already decided she liked you.

And Dick?

Dick was the worst.

He had a seemingly endless supply of Jason’s most humiliating childhood stories, and he recited them with theatrical flair, smirking each time your laughter made Jason’s eye twitch.

Meanwhile, Bruce sat at the head of the table like a statue carved from shadow and marble. He didn’t speak much—hardly at all, in fact—he mostly just watched. His gaze never drifted far from you, sharp and evaluating, like he was measuring you against an invisible checklist. Determining whether you were worthy of his son.

Eventually, between the second course and murmured side conversations, Bruce set down his glass with a soft clink against the china.

“Y/N.”

Jason stiffened like someone had pulled a gun on him. You felt it in the sharp shift of his knee against yours beneath the table. Without looking, you placed a calming hand there.

Jason’s fork paused mid-air. “Bruce…”

You didn’t flinch. You turned to meet his gaze, calmly. “Yes?”

Bruce didn’t blink. “You’ve been with Jason for how long?”

“Almost a year,” you answered easily. “Give or take a few near-death experiences.”

Dick leaned back in his chair with a grin. “That’s basically a vow renewal in this family.”

Bruce continued, tone even. “And you know.”

It wasn’t phrased like a question. You nodded anyway. “Didn’t take long.”

“You stayed.”

“I did.”

Jason muttered, “Why does this feel like a background check with extra judgment?”

Bruce studied you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. “You’re aware of the risks.”

“I’ve had them explained,” you said dryly. “Repeatedly. With charts.”

Tim snorted into his drink. “Please tell me one of them was color-coded.”

“That was mine,” Damian muttered, arms crossed.

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of Bruce’s mouth. It wasn’t often anyone got Damian’s seal of approval. 

Bruce went quiet for a moment, and the weight of his silence settled over the table. He studied you like a strategist surveying a battlefield.

Finally, he spoke. “You’re either incredibly brave… or incredibly foolish.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “Probably both. It’s part of the application process, right?”

Cass smiled behind her teacup. Steph stared at you with wide, glittering eyes and whispered to Jason, “Marry her.”

At that, something flickered in Bruce’s expression—approval, maybe. Something harder to name. Something deeper.

He nodded once, almost to himself. “You’ll be here for Sunday dinners moving forward.”

Jason nearly choked on his drink. “Are you serious?”

You ignored him, smiling sweetly. “Of course.”

“Babe!”

You patted his thigh. “Ignore him. We’ll be there.”

Dick leaned over, grinning at Jason’s dramatics. “Wow. He likes her more than he likes you.”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Which, of course, meant: yes.

After dinner, Alfred insisted on tea.

Damian insisted on sitting next to you again—claimed it was “for tactical proximity,” though he was clearly just making sure no one else got the seat first.

Stephanie suggested you move into the manor under the guise of “Jason’s health,” citing stress levels and his lack of basic nutrition, and how beneficial it would be for the two of you two live here. Cass offered you her bedroom if the “shoebox you’re living in” ever became unbearable. Tim asked if you could cook, already planning meal rotations. And Dick—of course—invited you to game night next week with a wink and a warning: “Lose to Damian at your own risk.”

Jason looked like he was developing a migraine.

He sat beside you on the long couch in the grand living room, shoulders hunched like a man awaiting trial. Laughter echoed around the walls—walls he used to call cold and empty. 

Now they rang with bickering, teasing, warmth.

You nudged him gently with your elbow, barely hiding your smile. “Still want to fake my death and move to the Alps?”

Jason glanced at you.

Then at Damian, practically glued to your side like an emotionally constipated barnacle.

Then at Tim, who was deep in concentration trying to download your favorite show onto the Batcomputer, muttering about file formats and codec errors.

Then at Bruce—stoic, silent Bruce—watching his family with a small, unmistakable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jason sighed. A long, suffering sound, that was too dramatic to be sincere.

“…Yes.”

← Previous Chapter

“Oh my God, how can something so adorable even exist?!” Dick bit his fist. “I wanna squish her until she explodes.”

“Dick…” Bruce looked at him, partially horrified by the choice of words. His arms subtly tightened around the sleeping baby in his hold—he was afraid of holding her too tight and hurting her, or too loosely and dropping her. But with a “threat” like that, his concern shifted entirely.

“She smells like milk,” Damian said, sitting next to his father on the couch, his fingers twitching in his lap. He wanted to hold his niece—he really did—but he knew Tim and Jason would tease him to death if he did.

“It’s literally her only source of food,” Tim said, that sarcastic tone of his making it clear he’d heard something obvious.

The baby opened her eyes, blinking, scanning the room until she locked eyes with the youngest uncle. “She’s staring at me—” His eyes widened when Bruce turned toward him and gently handed over the tiny human. “No, take her back—”

He inhaled deeply, trying not to scream when Dick tried to sneak a picture and forgot to turn off the flash. Jason snatched the phone out of Grayson’s hand and smacked his arm. “You want to blind her!?”

Despite the chaos, Damian’s attention returned to the niece in his arms, just as she sneezed against his hoodie. “She got my clothes dirty.”

“It was just a sneeze,” Stephanie said, poking the baby’s chubby cheek with her finger.

“I’m burning this hoodie,” Damian muttered.

“Oh my God—give her to me!” Tim jumped at the opportunity to finally get his turn, but Damian shoved him away with his foot.

“No. I got attached,” he said as the others stared, watching him try to rock her—awkwardly, but just enough that she didn’t cry.

“You’re seventeen and have never held a baby before?” Duke raised an eyebrow.

“What do you think?”

“Okay, Dami. You’ve held her long enough. As the oldest, it’s my right—”

Before Dick could finish, Cassandra took the baby right out of Damian’s arms. She smiled. “She really looks a lot like you, Jason.”

“There’s still time to get her exorcised.”

Cassandra adjusted the baby in her arms, settling her comfortably. Her tiny hand clutched the button on Cassandra’s blouse like she refused to let go—even with all her uncles fighting over her.

“She bit my finger once,” Tim said, pushing Damian aside to take his spot on the couch. “She wasn’t even hungry. It was just for entertainment.”

“She doesn’t even have teeth yet—”

“She should’ve gone for the throat!” Damian complained.

Dick Grayson:

Dick is a noticer. He recognizes patterns, behaviour. He knows what it means when you stop wanting to hang out as much, when the weather gets colder and you barricade yourself inside your apartment. 

He’s sneaky about how he helps you through it. He knows you can be stubborn about sharing your feelings, and he doesn’t want to make you think he sees you as helpless. So he keeps it lowkey.

It starts with him calling you a little more often than usual—always with a good reason, of course. He’s calling to see if he left his favorite sweatshirt there last weekend, if he can borrow that DVD boxset of that tv show he likes. He calls just enough to make you feel attended to without being a bother.

Then he asks for favors. Little, simple things that you can finish quickly and feel good about yourself for. He asks for ideas for a birthday gift for one of his brother’s, small things like that. 

Then one night, he calls to see if you can let Haley out when he’s held up at work. You’re hesitant—you haven’t had the energy lately, your life has entirely revolved around your obligations and your bed. Still, you reluctantly agree.

You’re just finishing up walking the pup when Dick gets home, a plastic bag of takeout in each hand. “It’s your favorite,” he prompts.

From there, Dick urges you to talk to him through bites of takeout. He’s sneaky about that, too. Just asking what you’ve been up to lately, if you want to get coffee later in the week. 

When you open up to him about your feelings—lack of motivation, exhaustion, the works—he’s much more attentive. He’ll text you every day, just little reminders to let you know he cares about you. 

He’ll treat you to little things, too. Your favorite chewing gum on the days you don’t feel like brushing your teeth, your favorite coffee on the days you have no energy, dry shampoo when you’re really dreading washing your hair.

Dick knows very well that he can’t magically make you feel better, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t let you know he supports you. Sometimes the world sucks but Dick is by your side every step of the way.

Jason Todd:

Jason knows better than anyone just how bad depressive episodes can be. He knows how it gnaws at your chest and twists your stomach, how the guilt shadows you like a storm cloud. And he knows how much it fucking sucks when people constantly ask what’s wrong with you.

So he doesn’t—but that doesn’t mean he’s not supportive.

He stops by at least weekly, usually in the ghost hours after making his rounds. He pretends he’s not surprised to see you awake at this ungodly time and you pretend like you don’t smell blood on his suit. 

He’s not good at talking about feelings, or being soft. He’s brash, abrasive, and he knows that’s not always what you need.

You’ll ask what he’s doing here and he’ll shrug his broad shoulders and make up some excuse like there was a crime in the neighborhood and he’s just checking in. And then he’ll raid your fridge. Or at least, that’s what it looks like.

He’ll come back the next day with groceries—instant oatmeal and ramen, canned soup, granola bars—all stuff that’s easy to make and eat. He insists it’s because he feels bad about eating all of your food, but you both know that’s not the truth.

When he notices you’ve been sleeping less and less, his stops at your place get longer and more frequent. He doesn’t need an excuse this time when you confront him this time.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” is all he says. 

You can’t exactly argue with that logic when your bedding sits untouched and your movements are so sluggish. 

Jason stays with you most nights until you fall asleep. He’ll talk to you about his favorite books, about current events—whatever he can think of to keep you listening. You don’t realize that he’s trying to lull you asleep at first, only noticing when you wake up at noon on a Saturday to him cooking pancakes in your kitchen.

“Good, you’re awake.” He says when you pad out to the kitchen with confusion written on your features.

When you question what in the world he’s still doing here, he opens up to you about his own mental health. How he struggles to sleep sometimes, how he goes through phases where he shuts everyone out and pours himself into being Red Hood.

He hates talking about himself but if it means you’ll open up, he’ll gladly do it a million times. And it works, because you find yourself bleary eyed and nodding along, telling him about your own sleep problems and current episode.

And Jason listens along, flipping the pancakes and fighting to hide his smile.

Tim Drake:

Tim watches everyone closely but you especially. He watches you become withdrawn and vacant. He knows the early signs—he’s seen them a dozen times in himself. When he catches you staring vacantly at your phone screen, scrolling a social media app absentmindedly with a frown, he knows he needs to do something.

Much like everyone who trained under the Bat, he understands stubbornness and being unwilling to talk about his feelings better than most. So, instead of confronting you directly and possibly having a very awkward conversation, he finds ways around it.

Tim makes a checklist of the things you need right now and sticks to it like a law: 

Fresh air—you can’t stay cooped up in your home all day

A schedule—regular meals and sleep will do you wonders

Support—you aren’t alone and as long as he lives, you never will be

He folds up the list and keeps it in his pocket, consulting it whenever he gets stuck on what to do. Every day, he unfolds it, takes a look, and builds his schedule around it. 

He starts by inviting you out for coffee (schedule, fresh air) and when you try to decline by saying you don’t have the energy, Tim just grins at you. “That’s what the caffeine is for.”

And though you try, he has an answer for everything. You haven’t showered? You can borrow a hat. You have work or class? He’ll coordinate the coffee run with whatever break you have. Tim is relentless and it’s as annoying as it is endearing.

On these coffee runs, Tim tries to show his support through the little things. He pays for your coffee, insists on buying you a snack too, and listens intently on what’s going on. He even bites his tongue and keeps himself from dishing out solutions, and just nods along with you.

Then, when you’re in a somewhat better mood from your favorite drink and a nice, short walk, Tim makes evening plans. He knows you’re more likely to agree while you’re riding your caffeine high, and kinda sorta takes advantage of that.

Of course, these plans are a facade to keep you on a schedule. His evening plans with you are always low energy and low commitment, like him cooking you dinner or watching a new episode of a show together. Something you can do even while exhausted.

Finally, he’ll always swing by your place while on patrol, not-so-creepily watching you through the window while you scroll on your phone. He waits until he sees your eyes glazing over with sleep, your limbs slumping further into the mattress, and then he strikes. 

He sends you a goodnight text, just something short and sweet like: Goodnight <3 thanks for hanging out today. Had fun.

And slowly, over the course of a couple weeks, Tim Drake pavlovs you into a normal daily routine. 

Months later, you find the crumpled up list, almost torn from how many times it’s been folded, laying on his desk. While Tim never outright said “I support you” or “You’ll get through this”, finding the list only confirms what you already knew: Tim Drake is the greatest man you’ve ever known.

Wally West:

Most people would never guess Wally pays that much attention to his surroundings, and most people would be wrong. When you move faster than the world, you start to see things no one else does.

And Wally doesn’t like what he sees lately when it comes to you.

You’ve always been slower than him—who isn’t—but lately there’s been something else to it, too. A sudden sluggishness, a newfound exhaustion in your eyes. You spend most of your time at home, napping or watching the same movie over and over.

Wally knows what that means and it leaves a lump in his throat. Times have been tough the past few years and he’s seen the signs in countless people—friends, family, strangers on the street. Still, while he felt for those people, his heart breaks for you.

His heart breaks even more when he realizes you’ve been avoiding him. He knows he can be a lot sometimes, that he has much more energy than the average person. Instead of getting upset, he resolves to tone it down, to take care of you until you can take care of yourself.

Wally’s not very lowkey about it.

He starts by checking in on you every day. Sometimes with a quick text or a phone call and sometimes he just comes right by your place unannounced. He’ll make sure you’ve eaten, examine you just a little too closely and then crack some corny jokes.

Most nights, you’ll eat a light dinner with him and then fall asleep on the couch, waking up in your bed to a goodnight text from Wally. Other nights, you’ll wake up on the couch to him snoring on the section next to you. It’s comforting to know he stays sometimes. 

On the days where you can’t bring yourself to get up, whether it’s for work or an appointment or something else entirely, Wally’s there. He keeps a calendar—very hard work for someone as unorganized as him—of all the important things you need to, and stops by your place every morning to make sure you’re up on time.

He’ll stand by your front door and listen for you, only leaving when he hears the telltale sounds that you’re awake—a shower running or a kettle boiling. 

On the days where he doesn’t hear that, he’s making a quick detour to Jitters and picking up a scone and your favorite drink. He’s gentle to coax you out of bed, sitting on the edge of your mattress and talking to you softly and poking your cheeks.

Even if you huff in annoyance, groaning and grumbling about how he’s relentless and such a keener and who even let him in, Wally doesn’t mind. He just wants to make life a little easier for you on the days where it feels like you can’t keep moving.

Little by little, with Wally’s unconditional, and maybe a little brash, support, your days get easier. The weather warms, the weight on your shoulders lifts and you find yourself enjoying your days more and more.

Wally watches the changes in you with a smile, offering to take you out to dinner. When you ask him what the special occasion is, he just shrugs his shoulders. “It just seems long overdue.”

masterlist | dc masterlist

Only it wasn’t Dick you were staying up for, he quickly realized. You were staying up… just to be on your tablet. You were absolutely enthralled with its contents, swiping and clicking aimlessly like you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. It was an addiction, really. Sometimes you’d be watching your second movie of the night, other times you’d be playing that wretched game, Block Blast. (Dick had found you playing it far too many times to not consider it wretched. It was deteriorating your brain health, he was sure of it!)

Tonight was no different. Slipping through the living room window of your shared apartment— quiet, as to not wake a dozing Haley— Dick slunk his way into your bedroom. And there you were, pretty face illuminated by the light of your tablet. If it wasn’t for that stupid tablet, Dick would consider this an angelic sight. Well, no, it was an angelic sight, obviously, you were an angelic sight. Just… Less so the tablet in your hands.

“Hi, Dickie,” you mumbled, light voice muffled by the blanket pulled up to your chin.

“Hey, baby,” Dick greeted with equal gentleness, stooping to peck your temple. “Just gonna wash up, then join you, m’kay?”

You hummed lazily, blanket hiding your smile. But Dick could see it in the rounding of your cheeks. God, he wanted to smother that grinning face and those rosy cheeks with kisses. And he would gladly do so when he didn’t smell of Gotham’s signature perfume: cigarette smoke and chemical waste.

Dick was quick to shower, not bothering to wash his hair. It was far too late to worry about such menial matters. You would have to live with the smell of rain-slicked hair for the night. Oh well, too bad for you.

While he brushed his teeth, Dick wondered— and hoped— if you had yet gone to bed. Peeking through the half-opened door, he found (much to his disappointment) that you were still awake and doing… whatever it was you were doing on your tablet. Whatever it was seemed to have you truly enraptured. So enraptured that you couldn’t even be bothered to wear your blue light glasses! Dick had bought those for you specifically for moments like these!

“Baby,” Dick called with a mouthful of toothpaste. He tapped the bridge of his nose and gave a garbled, “Glasses.”

You barely took your eyes off the screen as you reached for the bedside table, slipping your glasses on effortlessly. Though he rolled his eyes, Dick couldn’t fight the affectionate smile that raised the corners of his lips.

Pajamas on and cleanly as ever, Dick returned to bed and slipped under the sheets beside you. At least you weren’t so attached to your tablet that you couldn’t acknowledge his presence.

Turning off your tablet for a moment, you turned to face Dick and snuggle into his side. Even in the dark, Dick could see your bright, toothy grin. He had a keen eye for that pretty smile of yours.

“Long night?” you murmured.

“When is it not?”

Your laugh was quiet, warm breath fanning across his cheek. Dick’s smile could only grow at the sound.

“Well, I’d hope when you’re with me.”

“Nights with you are too short and too few,” Dick confessed, still wearing that stupidly giddy grin he always wore around you. “You don’t know what I’d give for a long night with you. So much time to do all kinds of things to—”

“Richard!” you chided, swatting at his chest.

Dick could do nothing but chuckle in response, pulling you closer.

“You’re right, you’re right. Too late for that. Time for us to go to sleep.”

Propping himself up on his elbow, Dick placed his other hand along your jaw, turning your face up towards his. He pressed a tender kiss to your lips, a relieved exhale escaping his lips as he did so. When he pulled away, Dick quickly pecked your nose, wanting to hear that sleepy giggle once more.

“But maybe if we have time in the morning—”

“Richard!”

“Right. Yeah. Sleeping.”

Obediently, Dick nestled into the sheets and pillows, closing his eyes for his long-awaited rest. Unfortunately, it seemed he would have to wait just a little bit longer.

Dick— even with his eyes closed— was blinded by the light of your tablet, engulfing the bedroom in its brilliance. Squinting his eyes open, Dick found that you hadn’t seemed to notice its effects. You— completely unaware of the flash bomb you dropped— continued to scroll on your tablet. Maybe if Dick could actually see he’d know that you were clicking through Pinterest, adding nonsense pictures to whatever boards. (You could get very intense about your Pinterest-ing, he thought it better not to ask.)

Dick tossed his arm over his eyes, scrunching his face with utter dismay. Dramatic as ever. But it was only fair for him to act so when you decided to play God and reenact Genesis. Let there be light and all that.

“Babe.”

Silence.

“Babe.”

Nothing.

“Baby.”

Crickets!

Dick groaned as his efforts proved futile, moving his hand to find its place on your shoulder. He shook you gently as he called your name, careful not to startle you. It was then— finally— that you gave Dick your attention, pulling your headphones out of your ears.

“Hmm?” you cooed.

God, how could Dick ever be mad at you? You were so sweet and gentle and warm. You did nothing wrong! Sure, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to see ever again, but that didn’t matter! Not when you hummed so lovingly, so naively.

Still… Dick did like being able to see. After all, it was only with his eyesight that he was able to admire your beautiful face. So for the good of this relationship— and not just himself— he had to say something!

“Sweetheart,” Dick whispered as he propped himself up on his elbow again. “I love you so, so much… But can we put the tablet down? It’s really bright, baby, and it’s not good for you to be up this late staring at screens anyway. Come on, baby, let’s go to sleep, hmm?”

You were silent as you considered Dick’s offer, pursing your lips in thought. Dick reached over your body to lightly push your tablet aside, encouraging you to put it down for the night. Blessedly, the room was consumed by darkness once more.

Dick mumbled your name in a soft plea, meeting your adorable pout with his own exhausted gaze.

“But I’m not tired yet,” you answered defensively, further pushing your lips into the cutest frown you could muster.

Dick was already weak for you, but it was only worse when you pouted like that. How dare you use it on him when he was already in such a weak, tired state! It really was becoming difficult to deny you.

“Screens aren’t gonna help with that, honey, you know that.”

Again, you frowned and flashed Dick a pleading look.

“Please, baby. Let’s get some sleep.”

You huffed irritably, turning your back to Dick as you grumbled, “You’re just jealous. Whatever.”

Dick paused, brows furrowed in confusion. Maybe his sleep-deprived mind was just struggling to follow, but he was pretty sure there was no sensible reason for him to be jealous. Was he supposed to be jealous about something?

“Jealous?” he questioned as he reached for your shoulder once more, turning you back to him.

Revealing the teasing smirk on your lips.

Okay, so… you weren’t mad at him. That was good, at least. But he was in equally dangerous territory when you were in such a playful mood.

“Yeah,” you said with a shrug. “‘cause I love my tablet more than you.”

“Love your tablet more than… what?!”

Suddenly, Dick was wide awake. He sat up quickly, looming over you to scrutinize you with his narrowed gaze. You were just joking, right? Of course, you were! How could you love an inanimate object more than him? Then again… he had to be sure.

“It’s okay to be jealous, Dick, it’s perfectly reasonable. I can’t fault you for it. It’s okay to admit to yourself that you’re jealous.”

“Of your tablet?”

“Yeah.”

“I am not jealous of your tablet.”

“Sure you’re not.”

Dick blinked at you, waiting for that shit-eating grin— the one he usually wore— to fall from your lips. It didn’t.

“I’m not—”

“Mhm. Sure. Not jealous at all.”

Still, Dick watched you with disbelief, waiting for your bright laughter and the sweet reassurance that you were only joking.

Why weren’t you laughing? You could love your tablet, sure, like a weirdo, but you still loved him more, right? Right?

“I’m not jealous. Why would I be jealous? You love me more, I know you do. Don’t lie to me, babe, I know you. You adore me.”

“Yeah. Okay. Whatever you say, pretty boy.”

Another moment of silence. You and Dick just watched each other, waiting for the other to break. It was moments like these that reminded Dick of the problems with dating an equally stubborn person.

“Okay,” Dick conceded with a sigh.

He reached across you, taking the tablet from your hands. You let him, though not without your usual scowl. He set your tablet on the nightstand beside you, his body enveloping yours as he struggled to reach. Your blue light glasses were next to come off. With a tender caress, Dick pulled the glasses from your face, planting a soft kiss on the bridge of your nose where they had sat.

“See how easy that was? My good girl.”

Defiantly, you crossed your arms over your chest, glaring at Dick with a vicious side-eye that always made him chuckle.

“Yeah, but I’m not happy about it…”

“Can I make it up to you with cuddles?”

Dick flashed you that handsome smile, the one he knew you couldn’t say no to. You met his smile with a skeptical look of your own, pretending to consider his words. As if you didn’t already know your answer…

“Fine,” you growled, like it inconvenienced you to accept the very thing he knew you loved most. After him. Obviously. Him and then cuddles.

Or maybe: him, your tablet, then cuddles. No. No. You were getting to his head. You definitely loved cuddles more than your tablet. Definitely. Maybe? Whatever.

“Come here, beautiful,” Dick mumbled, wrapping his arms around you tightly to tug you close to his side.

Immediately, you turned into him and nuzzled against his chest. Already, you were fighting sleep; Dick could see it in the way you stifled a yawn, adorably scrunching your face to ward it off.

With a warm smile, Dick buried his nose in your hair and pressed feather-light kisses to the top of your head. His hand rubbed slowly across your back, your own hands slipping beneath his shirt to scratch along his skin. He made a pleased hum, the long night’s stress quickly fading at your touch.

You both remained in silence as you reveled in each other’s warm embrace. From the slowing of your breath, Dick knew you were finally finding sleep, no longer fighting it off. His stubborn girl.

Snuggling into the crook of your neck, Dick brought his lips to your ear to whisper a soft, “I love you. Sleep well, pretty girl.”

More than half asleep, your words slurred as you replied, “I love you too, Dickie.”

Once again, that typical, charming smile found Dick’s lips. He couldn’t stop himself from teasing you, even in your poor, tired state.

“More than your tablet?”

There was a beat of silence when Dick worried he would have to fight for your love once more. A panicked look crossed his features before he heard the sweet sound of your quiet giggles.

“Yes, more than my tablet.”

Though he wasn’t entirely convinced, Dick had no doubts about his love for you. Nothing— and he really meant nothing— could come before you. You were the one thing he loved most in the world. You always would be.

"Sunshine how copy?" Ghost's gruff, static filled voice called through coms, scope checking the parameters of the building she found herself held up in. She didn't respond at first, busy fighting for her life in a basement underneath the building they weren't aware of.

The deeper she went the harder it was to understand what was being relayed to her, so she settled on doing it on her own. He listened to a man grunt, their body dropping to the floor under her boot as she took a deep breath.

"There's a basement underground, coms are cutting out. I'm taking charge on clearing the basement. I'll report when I get to the surface. Sunshine out." She loathed her callsign with a passion. To speak it caused a burning hatred to spark in the lowest depths of her heart and made her cringe horribly. However, she knew it was better than letting everyone know her real name, so she dealt with it.

Ghost sighed, knowing she couldn't be stopped once she started. She had been on a few missions together in the past few years, he knew she was uptight and lacked the emotional capacity to make friends with others. It made him wonder why, what could've been that bad to freeze her heart over and shrink it to the size of the pebble he was crushing under his foot as he shifted uncomfortably. People would try and try to thaw her out, yet always failed.

He waited, taking out strays that attempted to heed the possible rescue requests that came from that basement, and patiently waited.

"This is Sunshine, basement cleared. Might wanna come take a look at this." His eyebrows furrowed, affirming the request and making his way down quickly, not wanting to stay in the open for too long. He made his way to the basement, eyes widening at the various bodies that trailed to wherever she was down there.

Had she done this all by herself?

He followed the bodies all the way to her, lights flickering, casting a bland white light on the concrete walls. seeing her digging through an opened trunk in a room filled with them.

"Weapons. American." Sunshine reported, glancing at him as he took his place next to her, seeing the American flag painted onto the inside of the lid. She turned at the sound of a groan, a soldier she left alive rousing to consciousness.

"Fuckin' hell. This mission was to take out ultranationalists." Ghost sighed. She didn't respond, the task force member watching her turn on her heel and grab the soldier by vest, throwing him against the wall with impressive strength. Blood flowed out of the back of his head, smearing against the wall as he slowly slid to the floor. He had never seen her in interrogation, but he had heard from those who have.

Brutal, heartless, some had to exit the room.

He wouldn't. He's witnessed plenty of torture tactics, even had to rely on some himself to get information necessary for national security. But this is another reason why they called her 'Sunshine', because to others she didn't feel remorse for what she did, some said she enjoyed it even, that her eyes brightened like the sun peaking over the horizon. Whether that was true or not he'd figure out now, as eager as he was. He watched her take out her knife, flipping it in her hand as she crouched to the soldier's level.

"Where'd they come from." She asked simply, keeping an even tone that surprised Ghost. He expected something more fierce, intimidating, but it was as if she was starting a conversation with a normal person. The victim attempted to spit in her face, but with a quick turn on the head it landed on the floor behind her. Her knife dug itself into his foot, his cries of pain echoing in the basement as she twisted it. The sounds of his bones cracking made Ghost shiver.

"Where'd they come from. Who sold them to you." She persisted, her face void of all emotion as she ripped the blade out of his foot. She sighed, turning to ghost who stood in the back, surveying the action. His eyebrows furrowed as she pointed to the door with her knife.

"Wait outside. This might take awhile." At first he didn't move, but the hint of impatience in her eyes spooked him out, for reasons unknown to him, but instinct told him to listen. So he slowly retreated and stood watch outside for anyone either getting up or rushing down the stairs. Y/N turned back to her victim, seeing two loops with chains hanging off of them imbedded into the wall. She tied his arms up, leaving his body sagging down.

Ghost listened to her repeat her questions, and when she didn't get an answer, a shout would follow. But those shouts turned to ear-piercing screams very quickly. He listened to pleads and begs of mercy to understand him, that he couldn't say anything out fear to what they'd do to him.

"Imagine what I'll do next if I don't get the response I want." She'd respond.

The bones cracking, the retch of vomiting, blood splattering onto the cold concrete.

"If you think you can outlast me, that I'll get tired of this and stop for the night to let you regain some of your humanity, you're wrong. Because unfortunately for you sweetheart." The blade tore through his skin, another bellow of pain emerging from his throat as he squirmed in his place. They were both coated in blood, her eyes dull and her ears tuning out the noise. To her, it was as if he was silent, his screams didn't penetrate through to her, and talked and talked until it drove him mad.

"I don't have all night, and I'm getting impatient. You won't die, I wouldn't allow that. I went through med school, graduated top of my class with a doctorate in Neuroscience. I know how to break." Which was evident as his leg was broken and facing different directions from the knee down to his toes.

"And I know how to fix. I'll keep you alive a lot longer than the night, and I'll do a lot worse. So if you want this to end, start talking, or you're in for a long week." Simon wondered what she was doing. His mind went over the possibilities until her victim finally cracked after the final scream he unleashed into the empty basement. He detailed a secret arms trade between an ally of the United States' and another country, which would lead to the likeliness of intentions for them.

War.

Y/N huffed, ripping off a piece of the soldiers shirt that wasn't soaked in sweat, blood, or vomit, which was a very small one, and wiping her hands clean as best as she could.

"Could've said that 10 minutes ago. Now, you'll bleed out within the next 5. Shame." Ghost listened to his anguished sobs as footsteps approached him, turning around from the entrance to see her, covered in blood. His eyes widened slightly, noticing a piece of...

Her eyes followed his to her vest, noticing a very small piece of flesh sitting between her shirt and gear before flicking it off to the side.

"Hopefully he didn't have HIV." She joked, but there was no humor in her voice, no sign of her finding it funny at all, as if she said it to just say it. Ghost didn't respond, he wasn't sure how. He slowly moved to look inside the room, the curiosity of what she did to the soldier eating him alive, until she grabbed his roughly.

"Don't." The word sent shivers down his spine, and he knew better than the disobey as she had operational command authority, and would likely court martial him if he had. So he took a step back and maintained eye contact, radioing in to Price.

"Captain, this is Ghost. How copy." He called, his gruff voice bringing a smile to her lips that he couldn't see due to her mask which was just a boring black one, decorated with blotches of drying blood that lightened up enough to see. "This is Price."

"We found weapons and gear, they're American." He went onto explain the situation, being weary of his mission leader walking around him in circles, waiting impatiently as he reported their findings.

"Copy that. I'll transfer this to Lanswell. Good work, report back to base for debrief."

"Copy, Ghost out." He connected his radio back to his vest. She took out her pistol, leading him to pull out his own. The behavior she exhibited was one he hadn't seen often, and it led to a deep mistrust he couldn't shake. She smirked, turning around, walking back in the room, and confirming her kill with a bullet between the eyes before reappearing in front of him.

He looked at her suspiciously as she gestured to the stairs, wondering who trained her, who made her into what she is now. She wasn't normal, not like the rest of them, she had no signs of remorse, care, or empathy for the people she killed, and she killed them with ease. Over 30 soldiers in one cramped basement and she came out unscathed, in tip top shape. He followed her out and made it to the landing zone where a helicopter came to pick them up.

She was silent the whole way back, Price being there to greet the two before they sat through debrief.

"Sunshine, we have orders from headquarters to have you join Task Force 141. Ghost is to watch over you. An official introduction will be made tomorrow." Price announced, not missing the tightened grip of Ghost's fist on the table.

"Copy that captain." She responded in her usual tone, only fueling Ghost's anger as he turned to glare at her, though she only ignored him, keeping her gaze unwavering on Price.

"Hit the showers soldier." Price dismissed, Y/N being the first to leave. But before she did, she turned to look down at her new partner.

"Happy to be on the team, Mr. Riley." It took his everything to not jump to his feet and knock her out, holding his breath to calm himself down as she walked away, the door shutting behind her. He hated that she had power over him, and worse that she rubbed it in his face.

"There's no chance in hell I'll stand for her being on my team." He immediately threw at him, standing up in his seat with his finger pressing firmly on the table in front of him.

"First, it's my team. Second, It's not my choice, orders are orders." Ghost growled lowly, clearly upset over the lack of fighting to keep her off, to keep her away to those he held near and dear to his heart, even if that wasn't too close to begin with. He saw her as a danger, an immediate threat, someone who belonged in an institution before they saw the battlefield.

"Then send an appeal. She's a war criminal. Tell em that!" He snapped.

"Bloody hell we're all war criminals. Then we'll be stuck in prison with her and you'll complain some more." Price groaned, rubbing his forehead, clearly irritated by his soldier's insistence.

"Not like that. Not how she is. She'll kill one of us before we get the next mission, hell she parade around our bodies like a joker and hail-" Price's hand slammed on the table, cutting his lieutenant off.

"Quiet." Ghost went silent, sighing deeply as he waited for Price to gather the right words, to somehow ease his mistrust in her, though he doubted she could do that. He watched as he shut the door and locked it, keeping his voice hushed, standing closer to his comrade.

"This is classified information, what I say stays in this room and is to never be discussed with anyone else. Is that understood lieutenant." Ghost's eyes widened for a moment before nodding in affirmation, waiting for his captain to continue.

"She- she wasn't brought up normally. As a great many soldiers weren't, hence why many of them join the ranks in the first place. She was a prodigy, she became a seal at 17, and on her second mission she was set up, deserted, and kidnapped. Nobody knows what happened to her in there, a search team was sent out, but she wasn't found til a few months later, and when she came out after she was different."

She was a child.

That's all Ghost could thing about. God knows what happened to her in there, and he didn't want to think about it.

"She exhibited sociopathic tendencies, she was closed off, didn't speak for a very long time. She failed psychological evaluation requirements, depression, ptsd, ecetera. Even then they sent her back out on missions a couple months later." Simon's eyes blew open, Price nodding glumly.

"Missions? Fuckin' hell, she needs help not special ops." He sneered, not at Price, but his anger was seeping through at rates he couldn't control. He was angry, how could they do that to someone? Did they not care, not even a little bit for her life? Her wellbeing?

"I know. But they're not taking her out any time soon, and now that she's on our team the least we can do is try to help her. I knew her before she became this. She was a kind soul." His voice dropped to a whisper, as if reminiscing, and he was. Her bright eyes, so full of potential when they met for her first mission, how she wheezed when she laughed. She was a kid, and it hurt his heart thinking about what she turned into over the last 6 years. Ghost nodded, silently agreeing to his motives before Price simply waved him off.

Simon hit the showers, scrubbing off the dirt and gunpowder that clung to his skin, watching the water turn black as the face paint drizzled down into it. The captain's words ran through his head over and over, the words going in one ear, through his brain, and out the other in a constant circle. He knew firsthand how corrupt his line of work could be, but that didn't make him any less angry when it revealed itself to him in the ways it did.

When he exited, fully dried and clothed with his mask back on, he passed by Y/N's room, noticing the light peaking out from underneath the door. He sighed quietly, his hand coming up and knocking on the door.

"It's open." Her cold voice responded, though it sounded more distant than before. He twisted the knob and let the door open, seeing her laying on her cot in deep thought. He went to question her, until he realized that she probably listened in on their conversation.

"You were listening." She nodded once, curtly and formally before sitting up and turning to look at him. Her eyes narrowed for a moment, analyzing every aspect about him. He felt like he was being stripped naked just by her look, his soul bare for her to look into.

Her eyes drifted over his exposed arms, the sleeveless tank he wore leaving them on display. He was a big guy, his arms were veined and muscled, tattoos filling up a majority of the space, combined with scars that passed through some of them. The top he wore was a bit tight, outline his chest in an attractive way, but she forced her eyes away, knowing he already caught onto what she was staring at.

"Price is right. I wasn't always like this. And I think he was the only one to notice, or at least point it out." She began, drawing attention away from the fact she just checked him out shamelessly.

"Wasn't right, what happened to you." He replied stiffly. She snickered, standing up. He watched her pace the room, twisting a knife in her hands, causing him to tense. She noticed.

"I'm not going to stab you lieutenant." She reassured, though it didn't help at all as she went on. She wasn't sure what she felt, confused for sure, as to why she was unable to emotionally process her emotions or evaluate the information she heard, as if her mind was barring her from contextualizing her state of mind. She knew she wasn't normal, but she couldn't bring herself to accept it and label herself.

"I was 17 when I was taken, you know that. Had a rough upbringing, I won't explain that to you now." She wasn't sure where she was going with this, and neither was he, but he'd listen for a bit to try and understand her more, maybe to trust her more now that she was his teammate. "I can feel emotion you know. Only to a certain degree, I can empathize. Fleeting, but it's there sometimes. I do feel some remorse, but you know how we are in this field. Weakness will get you killed, so you internalize it, you keep it buried underneath everything else, and because my everything else was stripped away with me, it just sits in here." She tapped her temple and shrugged. He understood what she meant, he did that too. He withheld his shame, his guilt, and his remorse, remaining a stone cold figure in the field. He saved the emotional crap for his time alone where he could deal with it in the way he knew how.

"You just let it sit there then?" He pressed, crossing his arms over his chest. She nodded.

"Don't know what to do with it. Lost my sense of self and all I know is this job. I do try though, I try to force some tears like I've seen others do, but the only time these.. feelings present themselves is on my missions, which is why everyone thinks I enjoy it. But I don't, for the record, I just can't control it like you guys do. And I envy you for that." His eyes widened slightly.

"Envy, huh."

"Mhm. You can talk to each other, find common ground and relate, make friends and connections. I can't because I don't feel like you guys do. And then you demonize me and outcast me more than I already am, so. Oops." He thought she was getting upset, but she wasn't, there was not a hint of anger or sadness or negative emotion in her person whatsoever, none that he could see anyway. Her arms were loose and carefree as she swung them around every time she turned her heel to pace back in the direction she just walked in.

"We can help you." Her first sign of feeling was an eye roll with a steady irritated gaze. But she didn't say anything. The idea of needing help repulsed her beyond anything else, made her want to punch a wall and scream, her eyes widened. Anger. There it is, outside of a mission too. She hummed, looking back at him.

"Alright Casper." He grunted, displeased by the new nickname which made her smile widen cheekily. She searched his eyes for a moment, finding entertainment in the small flames in his amber eyes, how they flickered and danced when he found something humorous, how they died out when he found something unamusing or boring, how they raged when he grew angry or determined to finish something with a newfound passion.

She liked to think he had that burn in his eyes when Price spoke to him about the notion of helping her, hoping that he'd care that much even if she didn't want the help, or perhaps she did, that would explain the want would it not? That was a thought for later. For now she'd do her job the way she knew how, she wouldn't change, not yet, not that she knew how anyway.

"We're going out for a drink tomorrow night, care to tag along." He offered, jousting his chin up at her in a heads up manner.

"I don't drink." She replied, monotone as she laid down on her cot, shutting her eyes with a sigh. He watched her body sink into the bed, all stress and tension releasing, and he took that as his dismissal. He shut the door behind him, releasing a breath and walking back to his room, confused and tired where he slept on the day's events.

Though he was curious on how tomorrow would turn out.

And that's it! If you want a series out of this let me know!! It's my first fic and I'll probably binge a bunch because I feel like writing. I'm still trying to figure out the whole border thing I wanna make everything aesthetic or whatever but yeah.