Charon i

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Tim's screen is black—not a hint of colour, or even a speck of your pretty smile, displayed upon its surface. Just the reflection of all the boys staring back at themselves.

The sight makes Tim's jaw tick.

"Why the fuck are you all crowding me?"

Dick shrugs. "You're the first one to click on the stream."

The detective narrows his gaze, lips parting to retort, when he's interrupted by the phone in his hands.

"Is this thing working?" your voice breaks through the screen, and in an instant, all the boys' chests flutter. "Sorry guys, still not used to the whole IRL streaming thing. Can y'all see me?"

Tim's hands move before he can even think.

@/greatestdetective donated $1,000! nope, just a black screen

"Shit. Okay, hang on a second."

A shuffling sound then follows your voice, moments passing by before the screen alights like a flame, and the warmth of your face travels through Tim's phone to bless everyone's eyes.

"How about now?"

@/therealdamianwayne donated $10,000! Perfect, Habibti.

"Huh?" Duke mutters in confusion, turning to the left along with all his brothers.

Damian stands there, phone shamelessly situated in his hands as he stares back at them all with a quirked brow.

"What?" he scoffs. "Did you just expect me to watch my beloved's stream without donating to her? What type of future husband do you take me for?"

"The non-existent type." Tim deadpans, turning back to his phone screen and ignoring the demon head's electric glare.

"—and I'm rambling again, aren't I?" You nervously laugh on the other side of the screen. "Anyway, sorry about the sudden stream, guys. I know I'm not much of an IRL streamer, even less one that doesn't stick to a schedule, but I think today is a special exception."

You grin wide after your words, eyes sparkling with an excitement that has the bats' breaths hitching in their throats, hearts swelling with such love and adoration that it seeps into their eyes and blinds them all for just a split second.

Then you turn the camera, and their vision clears up again.

"Look who I ran into!"

On the other side of the screen, holding a red-gloved-hand up in a peace sign, stands a man.

Red hair exposed at the top of his head, lightning bolts strapped to the sides of his mask, freckles peeking out from just underneath his cowl—to anyone else, the civilian identity of the hero would be unknown. But to the bats, it can't be more obvious.

Dick snatches the phone out of Tim's hands.

"Hey—!"

"Is that Wally?!" shrieks the eldest like a teen girl who just found out her best friend attended a party without her through someone else's Snap story.

Duke squints, lips pulling into a frown. "Seems like it."

Dick lets out another shriek.

"I was in Keystone," your voice sounds from the phone, "and just so happened to come across my favourite Flash!"

Dick stops breathing, despair choking him as his siblings peer over his shoulders just in time to see the way Wally's lips quirk up into a smirk.

"Your favourite Flash, huh?" He winks. Dick chokes. "I'm honoured, doll."

"Doll?" Jason's hair casts a shadow over his eyes. "I'm gonna kill him."

"Thank you for agreeing to be on my stream, Flash," you say, and your voice carries warmth, gratitude, that big smile they can't see because of the camera angle but know is still there anyway. "It really means a lot."

Wally's smirk softens a bit at the edges, and he regards you with the same warmth. "Anything for a beautiful lady such as yourself."

"Grayson," Damian growls through gritted teeth, "Tell West to use that super speed of his and run a hundred thousand miles away from my beloved before I slit his throat."

But he didn't even have to say anything, really, because as soon as Wally started talking to you in that tone, Dick handed the phone back to Tim and pulled his own out, furiously typing on it before hitting that big send button.

On the stream, a phone buzzes in Wally's pocket.

The camera lowers, and your form peeks from the corner of it, a step closer to Wally as you ask in a quiet voice, "Do you need to get that?"

Wally pulls his phone out, glances at it for a brief moment, then stuffs it back in his pocket. "Nah, it's nothin'."

Dick's veins bulge, his own phone starting to shake in his grip. "Did that little shit just leave me on read in front of eighty thousand people?"

As if to further Dick's swelling rage, Wally's smirk broadens.

Boiling beneath his skin, the oldest of all the siblings starts typing again, and Wally's phone buzzes once more.

"Are you sure?" you ask, tone a little wobbly with uncertainty.

Then, Wally West, the little shit, fucking turns his phone off, right then and there. "Yup."

"I'm gonna kill him," Dick mutters.

"Oh okay." You adjust the camera back to its previous position.

"Now, where were we?" Wally grins, and all the boys see the way he looks at the camera, that knowing glance—the piece of crap knows exactly what he's doing. "Something about me being your favourite Flash?"

"How fucking dare he?" Tim mutters, already planning on burying his oldest brother's best friend's reputation in the dirt. Maybe he'll conjure up a scandal, or start a rumor—people usually mindlessly believe those, right?

"Oh yeah!" You perk up, beaming. "Y'know, super speed is actually my favourite super power."

"Favourite super power..." It's Duke's turn to mutter in despair, heart shattering in his eardrums as he all but hugs his sides. "Super speed..."

He's broken out of his little trance, however, at the sound of a new voice coming from the hallway. A new voice that catches everyone's attention.

"Master Damian, where are you heading off to?"

Alfred. And he seems to be looking straight towards the door of the manor.

Everyone's heads whip in the same direction.

There, somehow fully suited up in his Robin armour—hood pulled over his head and all—strides the demon head, one hand curled firmly around the handle of his katana, the other already on the knob of the door.

"To take out the trash."

No one stops him.

Later that day, Dick's phone lights up with a message notification.

'GET YOUR LITTLE DEMON BROTHER AWAY FROM ME'.

Dick leaves it on read.

and he was so obvious about it, that some platoon leaders caught on to what he was doing. nakanoshima genuinely enjoyed it, as seeing the vice-captain with wide eyes trying to conceal any emotion when you're mentioned was a one-of-a-kind experience.

"oh, by the way! officer l/n got hit on by one of my men yesterday."

nakanoshima tried her best to hold in her laughter while hoshina choked on his food in the middle of the cafeteria. she could see how his face contorted with disgust, as he anxiously began to play with his food.

"and what does that have to do with the reports?" he sneered. she gave him a knowing look, to which he sighed. he was utterly hopeless, wasn't he? a complete idiot in love. so much of an idiot, that even his subordinates caught wind of what was happening.

"…so, what'd they do about it?"

"they turned him down" she shrugged, "well, at least that's what i saw. if you want the whole thing, you'd probably have to ask okonogi. she was there way longer than me."

hoshina's next stop was the operations room.

"okonogi, dear, do you happen to have any camera footage of the hallway leading to the cafeteria from yesterday at about 5pm—"

the salute that followed sent a shiver down his spine, as he turned to his side to see you, comfortably sitting in okonogi's seat.

"vice-captain hoshina? sir, miss okonogi is currently on break, and she left me here to help her run through some reports" you smiled sheepishly, "if this is about yesterday, sir, just know that nothing happened with the officer that approached me. i completely apologize."

when you bowed in apology, hoshina simply grinned as he raised his hand to pat your head. "ya know i care about my officers, sweetheart, so i jus' wanted to make sure ya weren't being harassed."

"did—did you just call me sweetheart, sir?"

"that's 30 pushups for ya, l/n."

GEN NARUMI

being in the first division was already hard enough with all of the highly skilled officers around you, but having captain gen narumi follow you around like a lost puppy? yeah, you unlocked a new level of hell.

the fact that you had a higher-up on your trail didn't bother you, it was the fact that narumi himself was insufferable, and if the rumors that other officers came to spill to you were true…

gen narumi was head over heels for you, and he took every opportunity he had to show off in front of you.

as much as you hated to admit it, narumi truly was something else. his ability to slay kaiju was unlike any you had ever seen before, and it was nothing short of admirable. off the field, though, narumi was like some annoying influencer trying to sell you their latest product from some pyramid scheme.

his product? himself.

whenever he wasn't boasting about himself or trying to show you his social media fame, he was constantly in your messages trying to strike up a conversation. today was no different, as he slid into your messages asking if you knew about his latest video game records.

NARUMI 17:04 and that's how i ended up winning you should've been there, i was incredible

YOU 17:10 wow yeah that's a shame

NARUMI 17:10 something wrong? you're cold today

YOU 17:20 sorry it's been a hard day today, i'm feeling pretty down

NARUMI 17:21 i know what could cheer you up [1 Attachment]

you could not believe your eyes.

in your phone was a picture of gen narumi, holding his phone like a facebook parent, duck lips and all, winking.

you didn't hold it in, laughing hysterically at your screen. tears were forming from how hard you were laughing, and the messages you received made you drop to your knees.

NARUMI 17:25 i'm outside your office btw WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING???

YOICHI ISAGI

when isagi accidentally revealed to kurona and hiori about his growing crush on you, he settled on keeping your name hidden in public conversations. a part of him thought that, yes, it might be childish, but code names could save his ass from the prying eyes of blue lock tv and the press.

he knew you were watching at home, as he constantly texted you about what you saw on your television throughout the week. he’s grateful that there are no cameras in the stratum’s bedrooms, as he mostly spends his time kicking his feet like a schoolgirl whenever he’s chatting with you.

while having lunch with his teammates, the topic of relationships had surged, as there were some which wondered if their teammates had someone waiting for them back home.

“so, isagi, did you confess to y/n already?”

“confess! confess!”

“huh.”

isagi’s eye twitched as his teammates slowly stood up from their seats. they looked at each other nervously, and in response, isagi sighed.

"the code name was apple" he sneered, "if this ends up on blue lock tv, you're fucking dead."

hiori and kurona were grateful that social media did not rave about isagi's love life, thus thinking they were safe from any tormenting. isagi was relieved that his teammates' slip up was kept under wraps, as he wasn't ready to express his feelings just yet.

luckily for him, blue lock TV released a special episode filled with drama and gossip from all teams, and much to his dismay, "APPLE" started trending on twitter, along with his name, and the phrase "WHO IS Y/N".

REO MIKAGE

reo mikage knew that your job as bastard munchen's social media manager meant that he wouldn't see you as much, with him seeing you on award shows, events, or football matches that you both attended as guests.

every day, he would text you a new reason for you to switch teams and join manshine city instead. he offered to fly you out, help you with paperworks and your cv—mikage had everything covered.

except for your approval.

it was hard to leave a team you grew to be fond of, after almost two years of working there, you learned to love everyone as you would with your own family. after hearing mikage's pleas day after day, you finally gave him the go ahead to submit your job application.

which just so happened to fall on the day in which manshine played against bastard.

it was a complex match, with your team winning 3-2 against mikage's. after celebrating with some nice dinner on a rooftop, isagi had invited you to go around manchester for some shopping, as he wanted to buy a present for his mother.

reo mikage's phone had blown up in a way he had never witnessed before. from his friends, social media, hell—even nagi was spamming him with messages, sending him a link to an article.

"yoichi isagi spotted with mystery person in cartier for a shopping day! what we know about them so far…"

reo mikage had to be forcibly removed from his phone and social media, with his teammates having to hold him back from causing a scene.

because why on god's beautiful earth were you shopping with isagi instead of him?

when he received his phone back, he saw a text from you, explaining how isagi asked for your help to buy jewelry for his mother's upcoming birthday. he felt himself melt at the thought of your kindness, as according to him, you were doing charity work. nothing against isagi's mother, though.

he smiled as he exited your chat and typed out a name, starting a new conversation.

REO 23:11 Listen here you Mr. "I take Yn shopping in Manchester" I swear if I ever see you near them in public again you better pray that you stay in Bastard because do you know who I am I am the heir of Mikage Corp and the amount of power I have would put you to shame because WHO do you think you are first stealing Nagi from me and now Y/n you seriously have to have a death wish for that you stupid good for nothing Be grateful that they're leaving your poor little team and joining Manshine soon, so they'll never see you again you punk

YAMATO ENDO

"—and then he told me that if i went to the beach with the girls and that one guy, he'd break up with me on the spot. can you believe him? we had to pick up trash at the beach for a school project and he said that"

"i can't believe it!" endo gasped, his hand on your shoulder, "if that were me, i would've never said that. that's a shitty move on his part."

"annnnd then he had my socials on his phone, and he read the notifications that i received. he got mad because a friend told me they loved me."

okay, that one he could agree with.

the joy of having yamato endo listening to your horrible experiences with your ex was that, at face value, endo was agreeing with everything you said. internally, though, he thought different.

the more he heard, the more intrigued he was about your ex. because endo yamato found himself relating to him, and was on the verge of asking you for his number.

"damn, he was oversteppin' boundaries" he sighed. snooping every once in a while ain't bad, though, is what he thought. 'cause what if they're cheating or something, or covering for someone?

he shook his head as he discarded the thought, as neither of those situations could ever apply to you. you went on and on, describing the various ways in which your ex had either pissed you off or straight up did you dirty.

at the end of your rant, endo slyly pulled out his phone and opened the search tab of his social media.

"damn y/n that's crazy! anyway, what was his name again?"

HAJIME UMEMIYA

you knew hajime umemiya was too trusting and naive, but you let it slide. when you and him were cuddling on your couch, mindlessly scrolling through his social media, something was off.

his page was filled with instagram models.

and sure, you wouldn't have any trouble with it, but the fact that there were half naked people clogging your boyfriend's feed, you felt a bit iffy. when asking him about it, he simply laughed.

"oh, the kids at the orphanage took my phone a while back! didn't know they followed all these people, though" he smiled.

well the kids at the orphanage have very good taste, you thought.

when the next week rolled by and umemiya found himself in a brawl outside of pothos, you stood in the sidelines next to kotoha. "did he do anything about the models?" she asked. when you shook your head in response, she smirked.

"give me your phone, y/n."

she opened the camera app and pointed it towards the brawl, motioning for you to slide a bit to your left so that you would be in the frame.

"now say cheese!"

"hey—what's going on?" umemiya questioned, before having a punch thrown at his face. kotoha chuckled in return, her fingers intertwining with yours.

"don't you see? y/n's modeling. if you need anyone to save you, ask sommer ray! we're out of here."

“sit still,” you hum, applying the blush on mark’s face as you readjust his face to sit in the position you want. he huffs but doesn’t do anything, trying his best to stay in one spot.

this is the closest you’ve ever been near him. sure, he invades your personal space and gets close and personal all of the time, but this is the first time you’ve come so close on your own.

slow, sweet progress. over a year of waiting and the results are worth it. not best friends, but close! and mark likes that. it’s simple. it’s something he enjoys—as much as he does want more, he refuses to rush you. the fact that the two of you have come this far shows that you don’t completely hate him; that’s more than good enough.

“i would put lashes on you. except yours are longer than mine, and i don’t wanna waste anything on your ass.”

“i’m. . . sorry?” mark says hesitantly, confused, about to tilt his head before you correct his position. again.

“stay. still.” you glare at him before finally putting the makeup you’d bought on a whim away.

for a moment, you just stare at him, before shaking your head. “you look like shit even with makeup. there’s no saving you, markus.”

“mark.”

“markus. that’s your name.”

“you know what? fine, whatever.”

“Where do you live?”

The question was genuine and curious, as Mark sat there and let you use him as a lab rat. He was more emotional support than anything, actually, seeing as you didn’t really need to do anything too hard unless it was being the resident doctor. And, to be fair, he hasn’t seen you outside of the GDA unless you were placed out on the field for emergencies. That alone was a rarity.

You don’t even look up at him, sighing, “That sounds creepy. Like, scammer or stalker kind of creepy.”

He ignores the fact he technically is somewhat a stalker, instead focusing on the topic on hand.

“I’m serious. I’ve never even heard you mention anything outside of work unless it’s about Oliver or Eve.”

“Good,” leaning back in your new swivel chair—because Mark had broken the last one by pure accident—you look at him with a bored look in your eyes. “I like it like that. You already know too much.”

Mark shifts on the medical bed, not injured this time, which had become a more frequent thing. He’d drop by more often. Less bloody each time, but with heavier weights on his shoulders. It wasn’t something he bothered you with. Your presence alone seemed to remedy whatever ringing lingered in his ears.

“I don’t know what that means.” Mark shrugs, holding your stare. “The most I know is that you’re here, 24/7, using me as an emotional support pet.”

You snort. “You’re hardly emotional support, Markus. You’re an accessory at best. Every time I turn around, you’re there, and I don’t know why.”

“Do you have to?”

“Yes. I do, actually, because whenever Stedman catches you in here, we both get put on probation. Which is stupid considering I never tell you to come here. You’re like a dog,” You hum and set down your paperwork, done for the day. “And not in a cute way. I’d pet a dog, I’d castrate you.”

He winces at that, unable to help picturing the uncomfortable feeling of that. “That’s rude.”

You nod languidly, spinning around idly in your chair. The one he insisted on paying for because he wanted to know a little more about your preferences. If anything changed at all, if there was something new about you that he hadn’t noticed before and hadn’t made both mental and physical notes of.

“It’s supposed to be, Invinci-Boy,” You smile, but only faintly. It’s a sight that makes Mark pause every time he sees it, even if it’s barely noticeable by the untrained eye. He’s learned to watch close enough that even the smallest uptick of your lips has him stopping, just for a moment.

Over the last few months, he’s made slow progress. Slow, most definitely, but still more progress. You’re not as guarded. Mark himself isn’t sure if you’ve noticed it or not, but he’d prefer the latter. If you ever did notice how you ever so slowly relaxed around him, how you’d smile—despite it always being barely there—the longer he’d stick around. He doesn’t have the heart to tell you you’re wrong about him being like a dog.

Because you’re not wrong.

You’ve got him on a leash, and if you were to tug on it, he would follow.

“Please stop reminding me.”

“So this is your place? It’s. . .”

“If the right words don’t leave your mouth, I will gut you.”

The house itself on the outside was simple. A two story house, a light but faded blue color with a dark roof, actually quite the distance from the larger cities and areas that’d usually have crowds and countless buildings. It looked old. Something that had been passed down, for sure.

The interior, in Mark’s defense, was cute. Floral print walls that were slowly yet surely yellowing, dark wooden floors, and a plain white ceiling. It was cozy. Lived in; which was a surprise, considering how often you’d get to work early and stay late into the night. Years on years of memories scattered on the walls. People you don’t mention. Pictures you don’t talk about. Thoughts you don’t think about anymore.

“You live on your own?” He looks around, and there isn’t really any other indicator of anyone besides you living here besides those photos and decorations. Except for what looked like a cat’s food and water bowl, and a bag of what seemed to be really, really expensive cat food. But he’s not sure if a cat counts as a someone.

You’ve never mentioned a cat before. Mark supposes he should’ve known—you seem like a cat person. You have cat themed pens, and occasionally doodle weird looking animals on your reports to annoy Cecil. Maybe those were cats; even if they looked oddly misshapen. He can’t help but zone out as he thinks about it. Cats suit you, he figures. He buries the little fact deep inside his brain for later.

“I have a cat,” The words are nothing but a murmur as you crouch down, looking at the bottom of your couch with a slight furrow in your brow. With a huff, you reach under and pull out a small cat, which blinked as it woke up. “Her name is Apricot.”

“Apricot,” He repeats, testing the name on his tongue as he watches the cat in question purr and practically fall back asleep as you hold her. You don’t seem as jaded as you do when you are working. Fatigued, for sure, but you seem gentler. Softer around the edges. Something he wants to see every day. He’s surprised you’ve come around to the thought of him, enough to let him in.

It was strange. If it had been a month before this, or hell, a week before, you wouldn’t have trusted him enough. Not even enough to tell him your cat’s name.

As he said before. Slow progress, but progress nonetheless.

“Were you hungry when you named her, or?”

“I will let her claw your face off, Markus.”

Your home constantly smells of vanilla and something purely you, Mark comes to realize. There is always an extra carton of strawberries in your fridge thanks to him, and every time he drops by, you let him stay a little later. You let him stay until sunset. Then until the moon is hanging high in the sky, and then until the sun comes back up. It’s like you don’t notice, and if you do, you don’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything, either. Doesn’t want to. This is something that is meant to go unsaid, Mark decided. It wasn’t every night, but it was definitely frequent enough to notice, even if no one said anything. He’s memorized the main floor of your house—knows the feel of the couch cushions, the smell of your air fresheners, the sound of rain against the windows. It’s something he’d subconsciously etched into his memory. Into the hollow of his bones, really. All the things he doesn’t want to forget.

The sound of both Apricot’s and your heartbeat is cemented into his mind. Mark’s never been much of an animal person, but your cat seemed to be an exception as she purred quietly against his leg.

“Why do you have a whole process for strawberries?”

“Because just rinsing them doesn’t do anything,” You tell him as though he should know, drying off your hands as you leave the strawberries he’d gotten you to soak. It’s become a new piece of your routine. Whether or not you asked, or said no, there’d be a new container of strawberries left on your desk or in your bag.

You couldn’t be annoyed. Not at the fruit, anyway. You usually ended up baking them into something and feeding it to his little brother or Eve, or gave it right back to him just to hear him insist that he share his piece with you.

“I didn’t realize you were a germaphobe.” Mark comments, leaning down to pick Apricot up after she basically tried to crawl up his leg. The joke itself was a lie. You’re a healer, and he’s seen firsthand how particular you are about the cleanliness of your workstation and of the people you interact with. He knows about the little pet peeves that you don’t even know about, the small habits that are second nature to you.

It’s just gotten worse since you’ve let him a little closer. To Mark, it doesn’t matter if you realize how much you’ve come to trust him or not. As long as he can stay in a close proximity, it won’t ever matter. As far as he knows? He’s the only one you’re willing to let invade your space. The one he gets to rant to, even if all he gets in response are mumbles and scoffs—even the taunts and sly remarks you make. He enjoys it. Revels in it, really, and he refuses to have it any other way unless it means getting even closer.

“You’re stressful. Like a toddler.” The words that leave your mouth come out as more of a yawn, and the quiet of your home accompanied by your heartbeat is what peace sounds like to him. “I wish nothing but nightmares and despair on you, Markus.”

“You know you are literally the only person who calls me that. It’s disturbing,” He hums, wandering over into the living room and is secretly delighted by the way you follow behind.

All day, you were working your ass off. Paperwork, Cecil, patients, and a last minute emergency where you had to be out on the field. Healing people with your own two hands seems to drain you, something Mark wishes he’d noted sooner. The solutions you’d made to avoid healing with your hands were depleted, unsurprisingly, with the sudden spike in injuries amongst the heroes.

The amount of times you’d berated people in the last month were too many to count. Still, the insults you would hurl towards his way still amounted to more, and he wouldn’t change that for anything—as dumb as that sounded.

It’s a comfortable silence between you two when you both settle on the couch. Opposite sides, of course, a quiet boundary that Mark couldn’t be bothered to break. Just being this close to you was enough.

At least, that was what he would keep telling himself until it wasn’t enough, and he’d crave more again.

He’d always crave more when it came to you. 

“I’m staying the night,” He rests his head against the back of the couch as he stares at the tv, which wasn’t even on. It wasn’t a question. It didn’t feel like he had to ask anymore, and you never protested. He’d leave if you told him to, but you don’t. Instead, it’s quiet for a few moments, before he can hear you sigh.

“I know.”

Mark can’t help but smile at that, noticing the way you curl up ever so slightly, shifting to get comfortable on the couch as Apricot crawled off of him and onto you. He can’t help but stare for a few moments, even if those moments are something he wants to last forever, and he blinks when you tilt your head to look at him. As usual, it’s blank. Tired, physically and emotionally. You don’t look like this whenever you’re on duty, but it is a look that he’s seen more as he spends more time with you outside of work.

Your heartbeat sounds like peace.

“Go grab the blankets from upstairs, you freak,” You lean your head on your hand as you reach for the tv remote and ignore the way he is seemingly snapped out of a trance. Slowly, he nods and stands up, wordless as he goes upstairs.

There are framed pictures hung on the walls of people. Not people you’ve mentioned before, and probably not anyone you could even remember yourself. They looked old. Aged, despite the moment being timeless and put behind glass and a wood frame to be hung up and looked at by those who could remember them. The wallpaper was somewhat chipped, little pink and blue flowers slowly fading and peeling. Every step he takes makes the stairs creak under his weight, and oddly enough, it feels comfortable.

You keep your blankets folded neatly in your room, on rare occasions. This is, what, the third time Mark’s stayed over? The second time he’d stayed, the blankets were sprawled on your bed, set up in a way you’d probably found comfortable enough to sleep on. He would figure it out at some point. Surely.

You’re still scrolling through movies and shows by the time he comes back down with all the blankets, setting them down beside you on the couch before sitting down next to you. Indecisive on what to put on, or if you even wanted to watch anything as you would doze off.

“What do you wanna watch?”

“Are we friends?”

Both questions come out at the same time, Mark’s voice being quieter than he had originally intended. He can hear the hitch in your breath, sees the way you stop scrolling through mindless television at his question. It’s been a nagging thought for some time, one that’d taken root barely even a month after he had met you a year ago. He wants to pretend that if anytime were a good time to ask, it’d be now.

When your heartbeat is slow and steady, calm and beating. When the creaks in the house have settled, when the sound of Apricot purring soothes the both of you, when he can’t help but feel his fingers twitch with want and feel his chest ache with so many thoughts swarming his head, he just can’t seem to focus on one.

You’d tilted your head slowly, a slight scowl on your face, and Mark can feel a lump in his throat.

He hadn’t felt this type of nervousness since high school—which, admittedly, felt like a lifetime ago after getting his powers, since moving on with his life. It was strange. A creeping feeling up his throat, his spine, his very soul. Down to the root.

“Friends.”

“Friends,” He repeats, nodding slowly. At best, you’d probably call Eve another coworker, Oliver an occasional nuisance, and Mark a constant pain in your ass that refused to leave no matter how much you turned him away.

The quiet that follows makes him want to claw at his throat, and he can feel his cheeks heating up. Whether or not it’s from embarrassment isn’t something he wants to think about right now, because he was certain he’d stopped being embarrassed around you quite some time ago, but it seemed that that wasn’t quite true.

And, again, you sighed.

“You know what? Sure. We’re friends,” You shrug, going back to focusing on the tv after making such a simple statement. As though Mark hadn’t felt like he was going to throw up just a few seconds ago. “Now, what do you wanna watch? Or else I’m putting on those obnoxious sleep noises and wait for a hell playlist to pop up and give you nightmares at like, three in the morning.”

He blinks, mouth opening for a moment before closing, and then opening again.

“Hell. . . Playlist?”

“I can show you. If I have to go through it, you do. I’d have to be smitten by the gods themselves if I didn’t torture you psychologically.”

As if you hadn’t done that enough just by existing, but Mark says nothing. He just laughs—relieved. You were willing to let him just a little bit closer, and that was enough. It had to be enough. Just for now, it was enough.

Until he’d start to crave more, just as he always did.

He wasn’t exactly popular, but Mark had that quiet, harmless kind of presence that didn’t invite trouble. He wasn’t the smartest, a little awkward, one of those nerds no one hated but no one really hung out with either—excluding you and Will.

But you were his person. The first one he texted when something stupid happened in math class. The one who knew what his hoodie smelled like and the kind of cereal he ate when he was stressed. You made space for him in your life without even thinking. And for a while, it felt like he made space for you too.

But then things changed.

Slowly at first. One missed hangout. Then another. Then a week where he barely answered your texts. He started looking tired all the time — eyes rimmed red, shoulders tense like he was bracing for something invisible. You asked if he was okay. He’d smile, say “just tired,” and change the subject to the newest Seance Dog comic.

You started doing more things without him. William did too. The table at lunch got quieter. Your weekends got longer.

And then you met Daniel.

It was dumb — your pen ran out of ink in chem lab, and he offered you his like it was a grand gesture. He had an easy confidence to him, the kind that wasn’t trying too hard. Funny, in a smug but charming way. You told him a joke Mark once made and Daniel actually laughed. And for a second, it felt nice. Like being seen again.

You never meant to start spending so much time with him.

But Daniel texted back. He showed up when he said he would, at that cafe you and Mark used to go to religiously. He didn’t vanish without explanation. And when you smiled at him, he looked at you like he knew exactly what it meant.

The hardest part? Mark didn’t fight it. He didn’t ask where you were going. He didn’t stop you. He just watched— from across the hallway, across the lunchroom—with that Mark Grayson-specific look on his face.

You’d convinced yourself he didn’t care. But that wasn’t Mark, not at all.

It still hurt, walking past his locker and seeing him laugh at something William said, only to fall quiet the second he noticed you looking.

It all started small.

Daniel offers to walk you to class one day when Mark doesn’t show up in the morning. You’re used to that by now — used to watching your phone screen go dim, unread texts hanging in your chest like anchors on sewing thread. Daniel doesn’t make excuses. He’s just there. Warm smile. Easy laughter. He knows your coffee order, knows you hate the sound of metal chairs scraping on tile. He starts waiting for you outside of lecture halls. Offers you half his lunch.

And you let him.

Because he makes you feel noticed. Present. Not like someone left on the back burner while other things pop up.

It’s not like you mean to pull away from him. Or William, for that matter. It’s just… easier, sometimes. Being around Daniel means no tight smiles, no dodging questions, no waiting for at least a ‘still alive’ text.

Still, every now and then — when Daniel says something funny and you laugh without thinking — you catch Mark watching.

He doesn’t say anything. He never does. But his eyes follow you like he’s trying to decode a language he forgot how to read.

It happens during second period.

You’re in the back row of your history class, seated beside Daniel like you have been for the past few weeks. Mark’s two rows ahead, and slightly to the left — close enough that you can see the curve of his jaw, the way he keeps tapping his pencil against his notebook, like he’s itching to be anywhere else. He always did hate Mr. Jace.

You try not to look. Or at least, not to be caught looking. But it’s hard. Not when a muscle flutters in his jaw like he’s thinking about anything but the Industrial Revolution.

Daniel leans closer, nudging your elbow with his. It snaps you away from Mark, away from the thought of Mark’s hair being longer than it was last time you hung out. Your heart stutters, is he gonna call you out?

“Tell me again why this guy thinks he can teach history through interpretive dance?” Oh.

You snort. It slips out before you can stop it—and for a second, you forget.

“That’s what I used to say to Mark all the time,” you say, grinning. “W–we had this running joke that Mr. Jace choreographed the French Revolution.”

You glance back towards your best friend—your old one—before you can help yourself.

He’s frozen. Completely still.

His pencil is hovering mid-air over the page, like he’s paused in the middle of writing. You see his shoulders stiffen — just barely — and then he presses the pencil tip to the paper hard enough that it snaps. The sound is small, but you feel it in the way Mark’s fingers tremble. In the way those brown hues are cast down straight at the shards of graphite scattered on his book.

He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t even flinch at the fact he just crushed a pencil in his fingers. Just calmly gets up, gathers his things, and walks out of the classroom without a word.

You blink. Flinching at the way he slams the door shut behind him. Little wooden bits scatter onto the floor, and a girl at the back of the class shrieks.

The teacher didn’t even notice he left, but he damn well does now.

Your heart starts pounding.

Daniel nudges you again, quieter this time. “Hey… what was that about? Is he okay?”

You shake your head slowly, the joke dying in your throat. “I don’t— I don’t know.”

But you do. You just don’t want to say it.

Because you remember that joke. The dumb one about Mr. Jace tap-dancing through history. Mark used to do it with a fake accent, arms waving dramatically in your living room until you were wheezing with laughter in the throw blanket Mark brought over. It was your little thing, one of many.

And now you’d handed it off — just like that.

You glance back at the door again, chipped at the edges and swinging on its hinges, as Mr Jace huffs and puffs in all his red-faced glory.

The hallway is empty.

You don’t see Mark after that class.

You check the hallway. The stairwell. Even the front entrance of the school where he sometimes stands, where he used to wait for you.

Nothing.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That maybe he just needed air. That he wasn’t angry, just overwhelmed. But the lie tastes bitter, and your phone feels impossibly heavy in your fingers. You glance up at your chem teacher—an older lady with large lensed glasses, she’s too nice for this school—then back at the screen. It’s a selfie of Will and you at Burger Mart, Mark standing behind the counter with your order held out like the world sent him a punishment in the form of his friends. You miss them, both of them. You breathe out a half-sigh half-laugh.

Swallowing your stupid sorrow, you unlock it.

You open your messages and stare at your last conversation with him—from nearly two weeks ago.

You: did you wanna go for lunch at that new cafe today?

You: markkkkk?

You: we can go somewhere else if you want

All left on read. You didn’t say anything after that, didn’t wanna bother him. Maybe he was finally moving on. Better friends or something.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You type something. Delete it. Type again. Biting at your nail as you resist the urge to rip it off entirely.

Finally, you send:

you okay? i saw you leave class

Three dots appear. You sit up straighter, heart kicking like it’s on a timer. You spare a glance at Miss Lily to make sure she hasn’t caught you.

They vanished.

No reply. No message. No explanation.

Just that haunting “Read 2:33 pm” stamp glowing beneath your text like a ghost.

You shove your phone back into your pocket, frustration and something deeper rising in your throat. You sit back into your chair too hard, making the metal legs scrape across the scratchy linoleum, staring at the ceiling like the answer might be written in the cracks.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m all good Danny.”

It doesn’t stop you from thinking about him.

It’s worse at night. When the house is still and your phone’s gone quiet. You replay old voice messages—ones you never deleted, where he’s laughing too hard at his own joke or asking you where you are that time you got lost in the shopping mall.

You see him everywhere, too. In the hoodie at the back of your closet that still smells like popcorn and the cologne he used to borrow from his dad. In the half-empty slushie cup in your freezer from the last time he showed up unannounced and dragged you to 7-Eleven “just because.”

You sit at your lunch table now with Daniel sometimes. William stopped sitting with you last week. You don’t blame him. It’s not the same. Maybe Mark said something.

And the worst part is that you still look for him—in the hallways, at his locker, in the corners of your classrooms where he always slouched like the chairs offended him personally. Horrible posture even for a teenage boy. You tell yourself you don’t care. That if he wants to ghost you, fine.

But you do care.

You care so much it feels like grief.

And every time you check your phone, you still hope the read receipt disappears—replaced by something that feels like him again.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pavement as you and Daniel make your way down the neighborhood sidewalk, your steps syncing in that easy, casual rhythm that comes from walking the same way more than a few times.

Your backpack digs into your shoulder, but you walk slower than usual. You’ve been doing that a lot lately. Drawing out the silence between things. Trying to outrun your own thoughts.

He’s talking about something—a goofy movie, maybe, or how the vending machine still owes him two dollars and a grudge match. You nod along, offering the right laughs at the right places, but your heart’s not really in it. Hasn’t been, not lately.

Because your mind keeps flickering back to Mark.

To that pencil snap in class. To the unread messages. To the way he looked at you like you were a stranger.

Daniel notices your quiet. He always does. For a guy he’s a bit too in tune with your inner workings.

He nudges your arm gently. “You’ve been kinda spacey today.”

You force a smile. “Yeah, just tired. Long week.”

He buys it. Or at least pretends to. “Well, you sure you don’t want me to walk you all the way home?”

“I’ll be fine,” you say, slowing as you reach the corner where his street splits off. “Thanks, though.”

He hesitates, like he wants to say more, then just nods. “Alright. Text me, okay?”

You nod and wave as he heads off, then slide your headphones on, turning up the volume just enough to fill the empty space.

The music cushions your walk—from the odd 80’s song to something stupidly sad that you skip because you can’t handle that right now, to ‘Get down on it’ by Kool and the Gang of all things.

You laugh at that switch up, you remember that one time Will, and Mark, were playing blind karaoke and Will somehow, out of all the songs in the world, began singing Pitbull. You were dying on the couch, quite literally. You choked on one of the sour strips you were eating. Mark fell over himself trying to save the day. He did end up saving the day and ending your near-death experience, your ribs were so sore that night.

Your shoes crunch along the sidewalk. Your fingers trail over the stray flower bushes as you pass. You miss those dumb little sleepovers you used to all have. It makes you miss the group.

What you don’t notice, is the footsteps behind you.

Not until you reach your gate—the familiar squeaky latch already at the tips of your fingers—when a haggard voice cuts through the one quiet song in your playlist.

“Please wait!”

You freeze, nearly like a deer in headlight.

Your heart does a strange, sharp flip. He’s a little breathless, like he jogged to catch up, hands tapping at the sides of his sweater you know better than your own. He looks bigger, or maybe the sweater’s gotten smaller. You can’t tell. You slip your headphones off, scratching at the stupid little sticker he put onto it.

His brows are furrowed like he’s barely holding it together. His lip is split—not badly, but enough that you notice.

He’s standing at the edge of your driveway, chest rising and falling like he ran the last block to catch you. His hair’s a little messy, wind-tousled. There’s a quiet desperation in his eyes—the kind that makes your own throat tighten.

“I need to talk to you,” Those bay brown eyes you missed so much flickering all over your face. “Please.”

You stare at him for a second.

Then push open the gate, you take two steps in and when you don’t hear him behind you, you simply turn. Tugging at the loose threads of your cardigan as you watch him. Finally, finally he’s here and you don’t know what to say, or how to feel. So you spit out the first thing you can think of, the way you used to talk to him. Like slipping back into normalcy.

“You coming, or what?”

He blinks like you’ve just broken whatever trance had him frozen in place, then finally moves—quick strides crunching over the cement path behind you. The two of you slip through the side gate like you used to—like nothing’s changed, like the silence between you hasn’t cracked the foundation. The gate creaks shut with that familiar metallic whine, and the two of you are alone in the backyard.

The sky has moved slowly into dusk. The sky’s already dipped into shades of gold and lavender, the edges of the day softening like bruises fading. The backyard is lit by the warm glow of the string lights above flickering to life as they sense the dark. You’d put them up with Mark last spring, threading them between the beams with both your hands dirty from potting soil and pruning the gardens. Your hanging plants sway gently in the breeze—ivy and succulents and little flowering herbs you’ve been nursing for months. Longer than all this stuff, has been happening. Ferns and ivy hang from every corner.

Little ceramic pots painted by hand line the railing, overflowing with green and bursts of colour that slowly blur with the darkening of the sky.

It smells like rosemary and fresh dirt.

Mark lingers by the patio entrance as you step up onto the wood, slipping off your shoes before curling up into one of the cushioned chairs closest to the back door. You don’t invite him to sit. You don’t have to. You know he loves these chairs, not as much as you, but still.

He doesn’t, at first. Just stands there, watching you like you’re the only thing right this moment.

You break the silence. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

For a moment, a singular breath between you both, the only sound is the hum of the lights and the soft creak of the wind swaying hanging pots.

He exhales through his nose.

“I’m sorry.”

You cross your arms, eyes fixed on a chipped piece of the wooden patio floor. “For what?”

“For avoiding you, for not answering, for all this stuff that I’ve done.” He pauses, toeing at a stray leaf. He can’t even look at you as he says it. “I just want us to go back to normal.”

You laugh.

Not because it’s funny, but because it’s the only thing stopping your throat from closing. A dry, bitter thing that makes Mark’s shoulders tense.

“Normal?” you echo, your voice sharp. “Mark, you haven’t even spoken to me in weeks.”

“I know,” he says quickly, eyes snapping up. “I know, okay? But it wasn’t because I didn’t care—”

“Then what was it?” you cut in. “Because from where I was sitting, it sure as hell felt like you just didn’t want me around anymore.”

“I was trying to protect you!” he fires back, louder than you expected. He catches himself, fingers curling so hard his knuckles turn white. “God, I didn’t want to drag you into—into the danger, the pressure. I thought if I just… let you go a little, you’d be safer.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” Your voice starts to shake now. “You say you’ll meet me and you don’t show up. You never explain anything, you just disappear. You don’t get to disappear, an—and then act like we can just snap back to what we were.”

“I was doing my best!” He starts pacing toward the edge of the patio. “You don’t know what it’s like, okay? Balancing everything. Trying to be there for everyone and still not being enough.”

“And you think I don’t know what that feels like?” You’re on your feet now too, arms at your sides, fingers curled into fists. “I’ve been showing up for you, Mark. Even when you wouldn’t answer me. Even when it felt like I was screaming into a void just hoping for one text back.”

His jaw flexes. He turns, hands gripping the railing, back to you.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

You stare at him, your voice dropping, cracking.

“You could’ve said anything.”

The string lights buzz quietly above, casting halos around the plants you’ve poured your heart into, into him. The air feels heavier now, thicker, like it’s trying to hold the weight of everything that’s never been said between you.

“I felt like you hated me,” you say. “Like I did something wrong.”

He turns then, his eyes wide, like the idea guts him. “No. God—no. I never hated you.”

“Well, you sure made it feel that way.”

He’s breathing harder now, chest rising and falling like he’s been running, but this time, it’s not from chasing you down the block. It’s from running in circles inside his own head. And you’re just… tired.

“You don’t get to play the victim in this,” you say, quieter now, but firmer. “You ghosted me. You left. And you only came back when you saw someone else being there for me.”

That hits. You see it land.

His lips part like he wants to argue, but no words come out.

So you just stare at him. And wait.

Because if this is going to mean anything at all—he needs to mean it.

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Bullshit,” you snap.

The word hangs in the air between you, sharp and ugly. You don’t regret saying it.

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t glance out at the garden. “You don’t get it. I couldn’t tell you. Not then.”

“Why not? What could possibly be so bad that you’d rather have me thinking you hated me?”

He chews on his words, opening his mouth more than once, it makes you angry. He can’t even find a good reason. Right as you’re about to start up again, he blurts it out. “Because I’m Invincible.”

Silence.

The word falls like a nuclear bomb in a suburb.

You stare at him.

“What?”

Mark steps closer, eyes flicking over your face like he’s watching you come apart. “I’m Invincible. The superhero. That’s where I’ve been. That’s why I leave. That’s why I’ve been gone.”

You’re frozen. Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I didn’t want to drag you into it,” He’s jumping all over his words, speaking so fast it hurts your brain as you try and figure out, how? “I thought if I distanced myself, if I cut it off before it got serious, I’d be keeping you safe. But I was wrong. I just hurt you.”

You don’t say anything at first. You can’t.

Your chest feels like it’s caving in—everything you’ve been holding back for weeks, maybe months, starts clawing its way out of you in shallow breaths and a pressure behind your eyes that refuses to stop building.

“I thought you hated me,” you whisper.

Mark’s face crumples. “What? No. No, I—”

But it’s too late. Your throat tightens and the tears start falling, hot and fast. Not the kind you can wipe away and pretend never happened—these are ugly sobs. The kind that rip out of your chest in pieces, leaving your voice shaking and your hands trembling. You try to cover your face, embarrassed, but your body won’t stop heaving.

“All this time,” you gasp, “I thought I did something wrong. I thought I pushed you away or—God, something. You stopped texting back, you’d look right through me, and I kept trying to pretend it didn’t hurt but it did, Mark. It did, and you didn’t even say anything.”

Mark’s already moving before you finish—stepping forward, arms wrapping around you with a desperation that almost knocks the wind out of you. You don’t fight it. You collapse into him, fists gripping the front of his hoodie, sobbing into his shoulder like you’ve been carrying this pain in silence for way too long.

“I didn’t hate you,” he whispers, over and over again, holding you like the world is ending. “I never hated you. I thought you’d be safer if I stayed away. But it just made everything worse. I’m so sorry.”

His voice breaks at the end.

You cling to him like you’re scared he’ll vanish again, shaking with all the weight of what’s gone unsaid. He just holds you tighter, like he needs you just as badly.

“I missed you,” you manage through the tears, voice muffled by his shoulder. “I kept waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m here,” Mark whispers, forehead pressing to yours as he holds you so lovingly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You sniffle, the sound ugly and wet and real, like everything else. “I thought you didn’t feel the same,” you whisper, eyes squeezed shut, the warmth of his breath brushing against your face. “I thought maybe you never did.”

His thumb catches a tear slipping down your cheek. You open your eyes, and his are right there—wet and glistening, holding yours like they never stopped trying.

“I’ve been in love with you since the day you made me sit through that terrible romcom and you cried harder than the main character,” he says softly, lips curved with the smallest, saddest smile you’ve ever seen on him. “And I didn’t even care that it sucked because you were leaning on me the whole time.”

You let out a watery laugh, tears still spilling, and he cups your face gently, reverently, like you’re made of glass and starlight and a thousand things he almost lost.

“I didn’t know how to be both,” he murmurs. “A hero and myself. But every time I was out there—saving people, fighting monsters, almost dying—I just wanted to come back.”

You reach up and hold his wrists, holding him now. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know,” he breathes. “I was scared.”

“So was I.”

He leans in, foreheads still touching, your breath shared under the fairy lights of your backyard. The rosemary sways in the breeze, brushing against your leg like a memory.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You let out a broken sound—half sob, half laugh. “Say it again.”

He smiles through his tears, nose brushing yours. “I love you.”

And this time, when he kisses you, it’s like the sadness finally gives. It’s messy and tear-soaked and trembling, and everything you both have been holding back for too long. His hands are in your hair, yours around his neck, and the kiss is so, so soft but aching—like the words he couldn’t say finally found a way out. It’s messy, so messy but you need this. Need him.

When you break apart, foreheads still pressed together, you whisper, “I love you too.”

You don’t need to ask if he’s staying. You already know the answer.

.

Sick of waiting, he grabs the strap of your backpack and tugs you into the room, snickering when you stumble forward.

You roll your eyes at his manhandling and the way he drops your bag haphazardly on the floor next to his bedside table. Happy he’s gotten his way, he shuts the door behind you with his heel.

“I even left my phone downstairs!” He makes a show of turning the pockets of his sweatpants inside out. “There will be zero distractions tonight, I mean it. No calls, no nothing. I’m all yours for the next… five hours. Or so. Give or take.”

“It’s six PM. Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight, or something? Is that why I haven’t slept over in so long?”

He shrugs, his head tilting sweetly. “Something like that.”

You tilt your head at him, unamused, and he just smiles.

It seems like second nature to him when he pulls you forward and shrugs your jacket off for you. He ditches it on the ground the same way he left your backpack and corrals you in the direction of his bed, further away from the door.

“We’re going to watch this movie from start to end,” he promises, “and I swear the only thing that will take me away from you is if a bomb goes off and blows the both of us up.”

For the past few months, Mark Grayson has done nothing but prove to you that he’s decided to become a terrible liar, completely unreliable, and a bad friend. He’s started cancelling plans last minute, prattling off lame excuses about something he forgot he had to do. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you’ll get to listen to a rushed apology in a voicemail he leaves you.

Other times, you don’t even get a heads up that he’s ditching, and find out he’s ‘not gonna make it’ while you’re waiting for him to show up.

You haven’t spent more than a few hours a day with him since probably the start of the school year, and it sucks.

Mark Grayson sucks.

…And unfortunately, he’s your best friend. Which means you know just how sincere he is when he apologizes (no matter how shitty it is), and know just how badly he wants to make it up to you. He just has no idea how to follow through with it.

You sigh, flopping backwards onto his pillows. You focus on the sight of his ceiling fan instead of his presence at your right side.

The bed dips under his weight, and his frustratingly sweet smile comes into view. He plants one hand next to your head as he slips the remote into your hands, his touch lingering on the skin of your palms. “I swear on my life that I’m not going anywhere. Now, can you pick the movie, already?”

With the way he’s leaning over you, your mind can’t help but drift to the thought of how solid his arms are, all muscle and smooth skin right next to your face. He still hasn’t moved away, and your fingers twitch where they brush against his.

You want to shove him away from you. You also kinda want to kiss him.

Fumbling for the last scraps of your sanity, you reach up with your free hand and tug hard on his ear.

“Fine. Can you shut the window, though?” you ask, tilting your chin to where the pane is slid open.

He pokes you goodnaturedly, happy with your compliance. “Of course, Your Highness. Want me to feed you grapes, too? I can totally fan you with a giant leaf if you’re into that.”

Ignoring his quip, you watch him as he goes, your thoughts lingering on the way his shoulders roll as he stretches.

You get the urge to strangle him.

Not one, but two unwelcome thoughts about Mark in the span of a minute has to be a new record. His absence has made your mind go weird.

“Are you cold?” he asks, as the curtains settle against the wall again. It’s a serious offer when he says, “I could get you a hoodie, if you want.”

“No, thanks. But since your phone shut off, I’m half convinced a carrier pigeon’s going to fly in here to tell me you have to go.”

A look comes across his face while he squints out the glass, his eyes darting both ways down the street. “Uh—we’ll shut the curtains for good measure then, yeah?”

“Hm. Thanks.”

You choose a random romcom from one of Mark’s fifteen streaming services, and it’s forgotten about immediately after you put it on.

You lay propped against his headboard, and Mark sits with his back to the TV at the foot of the bed. The floor behind him is littered with popcorn he didn’t manage catching in his mouth.

“Walsh and Cassie?” Mark repeats, his mouth full. “You’re kidding.”

“Gross, Mark, chew first. You’re gonna choke,” you complain, poking your heel into his stomach.

He rolls his eyes while he swallows. “My bad. But can you blame me? Who caught them?”

You lean forward, grinning. “The soccer coach.”

“No way. You’re lying.”

“I swear! They were just going at it in the parking lot after his game, apparently. Poor Coach M.”

Mark squeezes your calf where it rests over his lap, and you toss him another piece of popcorn that he’s lucky enough to catch.

A few seconds of exaggerated chewing later, he says, “I’ve really missed a lot at school, huh?”

“No shit,” you say, your eyes moving to the TV for the first time in a while. It’s a flashback to what’s probably the 80’s. “That’s what happens when you miss class half the time.”

He drags his knuckles against the skin at your ankle, smiling when you jerk, ticklish.

“I don’t skip school that much,” he defends, one hundred percent serious.

You can’t help it—you laugh.

“Dude, you haven’t shown up in so long that someone’s started sitting in your seat in Spanish.” You brush crumbs off the blanket while Mark turns back to look at you, his brows furrowed. “He thought it was empty.”

He inches closer to you, confused. “What? Who?”

“Uh, Brian. You know him, he—”

He blinks. “That—the asshole with the mullet? He’s sitting in my seat?”

You make a face. “Are you being serious?”

All he does is move even closer to you, resting his hands on your bent knees, waiting for your explanation.

“He’s not an asshole, Mark,” you defend, picking a piece of fuzz off his sleeve. “And what was I supposed to tell him, no?”

His eyes morph into appalled pools of brown. “Yeah, kinda. Did you forget about that time he almost concussed me?”

You groan. There’s absolutely no way he’s bringing this up again. “We were eight and he accidentally hit you with a pitch in Little League.”

“Believe it or not, I was there. He was a little child asshole back then, too.” Mark squints at you. “And I still haven’t forgotten the way he was with you. Pushing you down slides and pulling your hair. What a dick.”

He says it so seriously, you’re kind of endeared. Mark’s really been holding a grudge against some kid for being mean to you ten years ago.

“Okay, fine,” you huff, trying to watch the movie around Mark’s massive head. He’s purposefully sitting in front of you like this to annoy you, and—is being this close to you really necessary? You tug at your sweater, feeling hot. “He might’ve sucked when we were kids, but he’s really nice now, okay? Even William agrees.”

“He’s got William on his side, too?” he cries, sounding downright horrified.

“Come on, Mark—”

“I can’t believe this. You’re letting this guy replace me.” He gives you a very pointed look when he adds on, “The next thing I know, we won’t be allowed to hang out because he doesn’t want us to.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” You place a soothing hand on his shoulder, though it’s not very effective. He’s still frowning, the thought of Brian weaseling his way into your lives irking him. “He’s fine. And he’s not stealing me away, he’s just—”

Mark stares at you, waiting for you to continue. The movie drones on in the background, playing a pop song from the early 2000s.

You blink at him, retracting your hand. You’ve said too much.

“He’s just… what?” Mark repeats, pushing you to continue.

“Nothing,” you insist, wanting to slap your hands over your face. “It’s nothing.”

You really hoped you wouldn’t have to have this conversation with him, but you’re just as shit at lying as Mark is.

You press two fingers to his jaw, trying to direct his gaze back to the TV, and find that you’re met with a surprising amount of resistance.

You poke at his neck. What the hell is this guy made out of?

“Whatever,” you continue, switching topics, “did your mom ever find that shirt I left here? The one with the stripes?”

“You can ask her when she gets home,” Mark says slowly, so close to you now his chest is pressed against your shins. “But c’mon. What were you gonna say?”

You feel pinned by his eyes. He looks half ready to physically drag the words from your larynx himself.

You slide up his headboard, practically sitting on top of the pillows. “It’s not a big deal. He’s just… we’re going out this weekend.”

You thought you had shocked Mark earlier with the news of your classmates’ parking lot hookup. Turns out, the expression on his face then would be nothing compared to the look he’s giving you now.

“You’re what?”

The sentence comes out so quickly, you wince. “He asked me out last week. We’re going to the movies.”

“And he asked you out… during Spanish class?”

“Yeah.”

Mark drags a hand down his face. Overdramatic and clearly distraught, he gets up from the bed to pace the length of his room. “I can actually never miss class ever again. Is this dick blackmailing you, or something?”

You roll your eyes, watching as he nearly wears a hole into his carpet.

“I just don’t get why you’re going out with him. Like, out of all the people that go to our school.” Mark sits back down on your left side and sighs like he’s just come back from a long day of work. “He sucks. And you’re just… the opposite of him.”

Ugh. He’s kind of cute, stressed out about this, his elbows resting heavy on his knees. The pads of his fingers massage circles into his forehead, like the thought actually pains him.

“Don’t worry, Romeo, I’m only doing it to get back at my ex.”

Mark turns slightly, an eyebrow raised. “What? What does he have to do with this?”

“He and Brian are best friends. I’m just being petty,” you admit. “He came into Giordano’s with his new girlfriend. Passed on a free table just so he could sit in my section.”

Even though he’s still clearly upset at the thought of your date, he still reaches over to rub your arm in sympathy. “You should’ve said yes when William offered to hit him with his car.”

You smile at him, sitting forward to squeeze his wrist. “It’s whatever. But I’m only going out with his friend to piss him off. We aren’t getting married anytime soon, so don’t worry.”

“I don’t care what the reasoning is. You deserve better than going out with a loser.”

Seated close enough now, you move a loose strand of hair out of his face. “I’m glad you think so. But I’m still seeing it through, so.”

Mark very clearly wants to say more, but you climb over him to grab the remote and crank the volume of the TV up, effectively ending the conversation.

You toss it back over to his bedside table and stare at him until he has no choice but to lay down too, your sides pressed together just enough that you can tip your head onto his shoulder.

Mark makes it all of fifteen minutes before he brings it up again. You feel his lips ghost by a few inches from your ear while the characters argue in a bar.

“Hey,” he whispers, before pulling back.

You hum.

“What if you got back at him in another way?”

“Mark, I already told you I’m not breaking any laws.”

“What? No. I meant… I think instead of going on a fake date with Brian, uh—”

You look over at him. His eyes are dead set on the screen again, though you can tell he isn’t actually watching.

“You could… Jesus,” he cuts himself off, frustrated. “Just don’t go out with him.”

The tail end of that sentence is lost somewhere in his head. You nod at him. “Because?”

“I could fake date you, instead.”

The two of you go silent.

Your eyes trace over every square inch of his face, looking for the slightest upturn of his lips, or the faintest twitch of his jaw — any sign that he’s messing with you.

All he does is look back at you, the beginnings of… embarrassment creeping into his features.

“I mean, he totally hated my guts, didn’t he?” Mark continues. “If we dated — uh, fake dated — it’d probably have the same effect.”

Your time with your ex had been… interesting. He’d only been your first boyfriend, but even you know it shouldn’t have been that much of a disaster.

The guy already had a mile long list of red flags, but what had truly ended the relationship was the way he had treated Mark.

From day one, your ex made it clear he had it out for him. The weird comments had started as just about him, like how he was shit at driving or had said something irritating. But it wasn’t long until the digs started including you and your friendship with him.

He was convinced you were acting like way more than friends, and out of fear of losing your first ever relationship, you ghosted Mark.

It ended up making you feel like actual shit, though, and only lasted a week. Even though you’d basically stopped seeing Mark altogether, your ex-boyfriend couldn’t go a day without bringing him up — there was always a comment about the way he was always asking about you, or ‘staring at you for way too fucking long that it was starting to get creepy.’

You came to your senses sooner or later, and in the end, Mark was kind of the reason you broke up with your boyfriend.

Now, the thought of pissing him off by doing something as simple as pretending to date your best friend…

It was all too perfect.

Your face splits into a grin. “You would… you’d actually be my fake boyfriend just to help me be petty?”

Mark nods, relief replacing the short-lived tension in his shoulders. “Yeah, I mean… I’d love to.”

You hit him lightly on the shoulder. “Okay, weird.”

“I mean, it can’t be that hard, right?” His brows furrow, deep in thought. “What’ll I have to do, like hold your hand?”

“I mean, I guess. We’ll probably have to kiss a few times in front of him.”

This manages to catch him off guard. “Kiss?”

“If you’re cool with that. What kind of fake relationship would it be if we never kissed?”

There’s a few seconds of silence while Mark turns the thought over in his head. “Yeah. I guess you're right.”

His jaw clicks, like something’s still nagging at him.

“Is that okay with you?” you ask, and he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling lightly.

“‘Course it is. You’re you. It’s just kind of weird, knowing that I’m going to kiss you in front of your ex. The same one who threatened to show up to my house after I walked you to class once.”

You fake two punches to his chest just to see the upwards twitch of his lips. “Aw, don’t worry. You can handle him.”

“Pfft. I know that. But, what if he doesn’t buy it?”

Definitely a possibility you hadn’t considered. After all, you’d only seen your ex and his girlfriend last week. If this was going to work, you and Mark would have to convince him.

“We could always practice kissing, then,” you offer. “It could make it look more natural when we have to do the real thing. If you’re good with that.”

Mark shrugs. “Not a bad idea. We might as well go all out, right?”

“Right.”

The two of you nod in sync, mostly to yourselves, though you’re not sure why.

You think you’re trying to psych yourself up for what’s probably going to be the most nerve-wracking moment of your entire life. You have no idea what Mark’s trying to convince himself of.

You’re still sitting side by side, and your right arm feels like it burns where it brushes against his.

Demonic possession is the only way you can explain why you ask, “Could I sit in your lap?”

His lips part slightly, surprise coloring his eyes.

“I just—I think it’d be easier that way,” you rush to explain, your heart racing.

Mark nods again, shifting on his sheets so he’s upright against the headrest. “No, yeah. That’s cool. Great. Come here.”

He taps his knee and gestures for you to move closer, and you have to swallow to clear your throat.

You move on unsteady limbs as you shift to straddle him, sitting back against his thighs. You’re almost startled at how tense he is, the nerves radiating from his skin as you smooth your hands down his arms. His muscles are stretched taut—with stress or anticipation, you’re not sure—so you cup his jaw in the palm of your hand.

There’s the smallest patch of discolored skin on his right cheekbone, the remnants of a bruise he said he had ‘no idea how it got there.’ Mark shivers when you swipe your thumb over it, deep in thought.

“You don’t have to be so worried, you know,” you tease, guiding his hand around your waist. “It’s just us, right?”

When it doesn’t seem like a strong gust of wind is going to snap him in half, you return your hand to the smooth skin of his face.

Seated this close together, you get to watch as his eyes dart over your face, never settling. He inhales and seems to relax a little, tightening the hold he has on your hip.

“Yeah. I just don’t want to do anything you don’t like.”

A sudden wave of sadness washes over you. You’ve never felt so cared for like this, sitting with a boy who is sweet and wants to be good to you.

This is fake, you remind yourself. Mark’s just offering to help you out, as a friend.

“That’s why we’re practicing.” You lean close enough to kiss the apple of his cheek, and his eyes slide shut. “We’ll be pros soon.”

Mark’s hand makes its way to the nape of your neck, urging you even closer. He tips his head up, so close you can feel him exhale, his lips parted ever so slightly.

“We really don’t have to kiss if you don’t want to,” you remind him gently. Your faces are so close together you’d be kissing if you moved an inch. “I didn’t mean to throw this on you like this.”

You think back to ten minutes ago, when he’d been seated so far away an entire bed separated the both of you. You wonder how you ever had been happy without him so close.

“I want to,” he promises, one hand warm against your back. “I really want to. So don’t worry.”

“‘Kay,” you hum.

You’ve both been patient enough.

There isn’t any fanfare. Your head pitches down the slightest bit, and the two of you are kissing.

This one is quick. There’s no way it lasts longer than a few seconds — just a short press of lips while he cradles the back of your head in his palm.

His lips are soft, and it means you’re forced to exercise the utmost restraint to pull away.

You’re quiet at first, frozen at the reminder that you’ve just kissed Mark. For practice.

The tips of your fingers tingle like you’re having trouble breathing.

It takes a second for his eyes to open, but when they do, his gaze darts right down to your lips again.

You let out a sigh, your hand fisting around a tuft of his hair, and it’s like you watch his head clear in real time. Mark leans forward to pull you in, both of his hands reaching to hold your face.

The stream of consciousness going in circles around your brain shifts from normal, coherent thoughts to flashes of your best friend — his eyes, his skin, his voice, his… so on and so forth.

Mark kisses like he’s been deprived of something vital. He sucks lightly on your upper lip and you go limp, leaning heavy against his chest.

He doesn’t settle for a second. His hands roam your sides before going up to your shoulder blades or down to your thighs, and the cycle repeats, like he can’t sit still.

You feel warmth spread throughout your entire body, like molten rock was just poured into your bloodstream. You wish desperately that Mark had left the window open — you’re burning where you’re pressed against him.

Your hand not woven into the hair at the nape of his neck slides down his chest, and Mark groans against your mouth when the pads of your fingers graze over his sternum.

You wonder if Mark would consider a fake marriage, too.

It’s only when he moves to kiss along your jaw that you manage to catch your breath.

“You’re crazy,” you say, though it comes out as more of a sigh.

He slows but doesn’t stop, speaking into your skin. “Is this okay?”

You feel the vibration of his voice in your throat, and a shiver wracks your entire body. Reaching blindly behind you, you find one of his hands up the back of your shirt and place it over the left side of your chest. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

Funnily enough, Mark looks… a little tipsy. His face is flushed red, and his gaze is a little unfocused when he looks up at you.

He smiles at you, somehow having the capacity to look shy after letting you pull at his hair and slipping his tongue into your mouth.

“We can’t have that,” he says coyly.

Your ears start ringing when he lowers you down against his bed sheets.

You only regain sentience some time later, when you get too tired to kiss and Mark moves onto laying a line of them down your sternum.

Someone’s lawn mower starts up outside, a low growling sound that cuts through the quietness of the room. There’s the screeching of tires and then the screeching of some sort of animal, and you find yourself tilting your head in the direction of the window.

“What was that?” you say, your head cloudy.

“Don’t know and don’t care,” Mark answers, his mouth at the dip of your neckline. “This house isn’t burning down, and the movie’s still on, which means I’m not leaving this room.”

He’s so determined, you say nothing about how the TV is silent and let your hands smooth over his shoulders as your eyes slide shut again.

“Are you gonna kiss me like this in front of him, too?”

The mention of your ex doesn’t even sour the moment. You feel dizzy.

He shifts back over you to hum against your lips, his lungs made of fucking steel, apparently. “Sure. Against his car in the parking lot?”

He says it so casually, like he’s offering you the last of his fries, or offering to walk you home from his house.

“Funny.”

He laughs. “Can you blame me? I mean…”

Mark freezes, his hands unmoving where they rest on your side and on your thigh. His head pivots, and—

Down the hall, a voice says, “Mark?”

Your head is spinning. You blink, and you’re on the floor next to his bed, the side by his window and furthest from the door. The carpet tickles your shoulder blades as you try to reorient yourself.

What the—

Mark gets up on shaky legs, his eyes wide.

You can’t see her from the floor, but it is unmistakably Debbie standing in the doorway.

You think you stop breathing.

From where she’s standing, there’s no way she can see you where you lay frozen on the ground, but your heart drops anyway.

You can only imagine what the two of you look like, your shirt askew and Mark unable to focus with his eyes. The hair on the back of his head sticks out at an odd angle from how you’d been tugging on it earlier.

He gives his mom a tight-lipped smile, looking like he’s just fallen down a flight of steps.

“You’re, uh—you’re back early,” he says, kicking the sweatshirt he discarded earlier out of view.

There’s a heavy pause, and you thank your lucky stars that the heat of her scrutinizing stare is on her son and not you.

“I called you eight times, but you weren’t picking up. All the roads to the store are closed, so I took it as a sign to order in.”

“Sorry,” he rushes out, his face scrunching in a wince. “I left my phone downstairs on the counter. But, uh, that’s good with me.” He drums his fingers against his sides, a nervous tic. “I can call the pizza place.”

“What’ve you been doing?” she asks, so obviously skeptic it makes your head hurt.

“Nothing much,” Mark lies, as terribly as always. “Just watched a movie.”

“By yourself?”

“Mhm, yeah. Why?”

You glance up at the TV. It’s dark, but a few white words glow back at you.

Are you still watching?

There’s another few seconds of quiet while Debbie considers his words. “No reason. Could you also order some wings with the pizza?”

“Yep. Garlic parm?”

Debbie must nod, because the door creaks as she turns to leave. Mark turns around, running a stressed hand through his already mussed hair.

Before the door shuts, she pauses in the doorway.

As casually as ever, Debbie says your name.

Mark pales. You feel your soul leave your body.

“Uh, what about her?”

“Get her off the floor, honey. And ask her if she wants to stay for dinner.”

The door clicks shut behind her, sending the room into a stifling silence.

It’s only a few hours later, after you sit across from Debbie at dinner and pretend like nothing happened, that you finally ask, “Mark, how did we end up on the floor earlier?”

You’re on your new fake-boyfriend’s bed, watching him vacuum up old pieces of popcorn. Unlike before, his bedroom door is now cracked open a few inches.

He gives you a weird look before laughing, scratching at the nape of his neck. “Uh, I pulled you down, remember? I heard my mom coming up the steps.”

You think back, wracking your brain to the seconds before Mark’s mom walked through the door.

Weirdly, it’s all a blur. All you can remember is him kissing you before you registered the sound of the door opening, and then… you were laying on the carpet.

“It felt like we teleported,” you say, for lack of a better description. You’d been on his bed one second, and somewhere else the next.

He laughs hard, even though you weren’t trying to be funny. “I’m such a great kisser you lost your memory, I guess.”

“Ew, whatever.”

—

It's you who slides into his DM's after the show, one of your bandmates having recognised him. He asks you out almost immediately, who cares if it's a little desperate? This man is determined to have you hanging off his arm by the next Wayne gala.

Being in a band lends you at least some anonymity outside of your fanbase, all of which is completely shattered once you go public with Dick. Not just because he's a Wayne and therefore pretty famous himself, but because he's so obsessed with showing you off, playing your music for anyone that will listen (and the people that don't want to).

JASON TODD: Pop

You're passing through Gotham whilst on tour when the inevitable happens, someone takes the opportunity to kidnap you. Enter the Red Hood, who just happened to be in the area.

Despite the hyperfeminine persona you display for your audiences, you know how to throw a punch. Which is the sight that greets Jason as he bursts through the window of one of the hundreds of warehouses in Gotham picked out by the amateur kidnappers, you, kicking the shit out of a thug whilst still in high heels.

For a few seconds, he forgets he's supposed to be saving you, too busy watching the woman decked out in pink sequins and glittery makeup kick ass. He gets his head in the game when a gun gets pulled and he's pulling you into his arms (totally unnecessary but he's not gonna pass up the opportunity. Hopes you don't notice how bricked up he is.)

You give his helmet a kiss of thanks afterwards, leaving a glossy mark whilst slipping him your number, neither of which he notices until hours later after a full day of patrol. He's never regretted the helmet over the domino mask more.

He can't exactly show his face in your music videos, but you can bet your ass he's not gonna let anybody but himself play the sexy muscular dude touching you up in them.

TIM DRAKE: Indie/alternative

He is the type of guy who sits with his iPad, phone, personal laptop, and even the bat computer open as he waits to snag tickets to your concert. He's getting those motherfucking backstage VIP passes if it kills him (or he has to kill someone else to get them).

Actually cries when he somehow still fails to secure one. Damian takes a photo and posts it on Twitter. Tim's too distraught to even care, that is until you message him. One of your friends showed you the post, and you thought he was cute. Bruce bursts into his room when he suddenly hears hysterical screaming, convinced his son is being murdered, only to back away slowly when Tim yells something about VIP tickets and some singer.

Nearly faints when you ask him out on a date after the show. He's sweaty, dishevelled and a massive mess after having a near-religious experience from hearing you live. He's honestly not convinced he's still alive, blacks out for a few seconds before all but screaming yes! in your face.

"I just thought you’d be different. You hadn’t lost anything. You have what may be the definition of a perfect life. I…"

I thought I saved you.

The words stayed unsaid.

You stared blankly as Mark laughed at your little statement. You used to adore his laughter—back when you were kids, cheeks flushing at the way you could bring a smile to his face. Now, you knelt before him, horrified by the same laughter that sounded the same, yet felt so different.

87 variations of Mark Grayson. 87 failures.

"Funny, sweetheart," he mocked, calming down from his fit. "You always know how to make me laugh, don’t you?" He floated closer, stopping right in front of you. "Maybe I’ll keep you."

"No thanks."

In another variation, you let him. You let him treat you like a pet. Let him ruin you. Then, like a bored child, he abandoned you. You were surprised how long you lasted without food or water. A year.

The only thing keeping you alive was the abnormal energy—the one that let you jump dimensions upon death. But even that had limits. Eventually, you succumbed to starvation and dehydration.

So this time, without waiting for another word from Invincible, you wrapped your hands around your neck and pulled—

SNAP.

Invincible’s feet dropped to the ground, your body falling into his arms, neck twisted unnaturally.

"Sweetheart?"

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

"Hey, genius. Mind if you let me borrow your notes?"

You were done with Mark Grayson. You wanted nothing to do with Invincible. That’s what you told yourself when you landed in the 88th dimension. Growing up, you kept your distance from the raven-haired boy—ignoring the clumsy kid that clung to your side.

You held no expectations. You didn’t want to be disappointed again. Betrayed again.

But as the years passed, as that same idiot never left your side, your walls began to crumble—slowly but surely.

Because that’s always the case with him, isn’t it? You can never hate him. You can never abandon him. You never had, and you never will.

So here you were, in class, while he bugged you for calculus notes.

"It’s not my fault you weren’t paying attention, Grayson." You huffed, but handed over your notes anyway.

He smiled brightly and leaned over, pressing a swift kiss to your cheek.

"Gross." You swatted at him. He ran off, waving the notes and yelling his thanks.

You told yourself not to hope this time—but you couldn’t help it.

This Mark Grayson felt different.

He got his powers much later than the others. Debbie’s influence was stronger than Nolan’s.

"You cave in so easily. It’s sad," Amber commented from behind, unamused by the whole interaction.

"Shut up. Don’t act like you weren’t the same when you two were dating," you shot back.

"I only said yes to a couple of things. You say yes to everything he asks."

"I don’t."

"You totally do."

"Hey babe! You left your hoodie at - "

"YOU!" Wally screams, blubbering incoherently, pointing an accusing finger at the phone like you can see him.

"Jesus Christ," he can practically see you recoiling away from your phone, "Wally?" You've heard enough of your brother's meltdowns over the years that you can recognise him from just a single word.

"YOU, YOU - YOU HARLOT!" You snort at his words, staying silent until his stream of consciousness is finished.

"You done?" You hum, completely unphased at the tantrum Wally's just thrown for the past seven minutes.

"Am I, am I done? No, I'm not done." He squawks, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!" There's a beat of incredulous silence on your end.

"Excuse me? What have I done to you?"

"DEFILED THE SACRED BOND OF BROTHERHOOD IS WHAT YOU'VE DONE, HE'S MY BEST FRIEND"

"The sacred bond of brotherhood? I'm your fucking sibling, you're supposed to attack him, not me!" Wally can't help but notice how you don't deny his words.

"Oh, believe me, Dickhead is gonna get what's coming to him."

"Yeah, whatever, I'm hanging up now, tell Dick I'm getting pizza for dinner."

"Don't you dare - " He doesn't even get to finish his sentence before you've followed through.

"Hey Wally, have you seen my ... phone?" Dick trails off as he spots the item he's looking for in his agitated friend's hand.

"You don’t fuck your best friends younger sibling. That’s like the number one rule of bro code!” Wally shrieked, not greeting him like a normal person, and not giving Dick even a second to realise what was happening before he was being grabbed and shaken by his shoulders.

"I love her." No explanation, no apologies, just pure earnestness and the softest look Wally had ever seen on his friend's face.

The declaration takes all the wind out of his sails, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He drags a hand down his face slowly,

Finally, he groaned and dragged both hands down his face. "Ugh. I hate that you’re so genuine. It ruins my ability to stay mad. Barry's not going to be happy you kept this from him though."

The mental image of the Flash going protective uncle giving him the slightest bit of sick satisfaction, until Dick shatters his dreams by casually saying, "he already knows."

"He what?! Am I the last to know?" Dick makes a show of thinking about it before shrugging with an unapologetic grin.

"Kinda, yeah."

"I'M SURROUNDED BY TRAITORS!" Wally yells, sinking to his knees in defeat.

JASON TODD & ROY HARPER

Nobody had ever accused Roy of being a detective. He might not be as smart as the bats (an impossible hurdle in Roy's opinion), but he wasn't completely fucking stupid.

An unfortunate reality for his sister, who he'd caught sneaking into the Titans Tower at the ripe time of 4:47 am, wearing a familiar leather jacket with a bullet hole in the sleeve. A jacket that could only mean one of two things.

You had joined a biker gang.

You were dating Jason Todd, AKA, his best friend, AKA dead fucking meat.

Because while option one terrified him, he'd still prefer it to the option he had a sinking suspicion about was actually correct.

The next afternoon, he finds Jason working out in the Tower's gym, and he grins wickedly. Bastard didn't even have to make Roy track him down.

"Hey, Roy." Jason greets, never once faltering in his reps, entirely unbothered, like he hadn’t committed emotional treason.

Roy thinks he could be forgiven for his following action, he could have done a lot worse than picking up the nearest kettlebell and throwing it at his unsuspecting friend.

"WHAT THE FUCK ROY?" Jason screeched as he dove for cover.

"YOU’RE DATING MY SISTER?!"

"Um, what?" He squeaks, before clearing his throat, "I mean... I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't try to gaslight me!" Roy jabbed a finger at him, seething. "You're supposed to be my best friend, and you went and... and started... canoodling my sister."

Jason’s brows shot up in amusement despite himself. "Canoodling?"

"Don't try and deflect either." Roy flushed as red as his hair.

"I’m not—well. Okay. I am. But in my defense, it wasn’t like I planned to fall for your sister."

"Have you kissed?"

Jason contemplates lying but bites the bullet and nods.

Roy gasped like an old lady hearing someone say cunt. "ON PURPOSE?!"

Jason gave him a flat look. "No, Roy, I tripped and fell. Of course, it was on purpose. More than once, too." He smirks, unable to stop himself from prodding the bear.

Roy spasms.

"Ok, let's not make this weird." Jason huffs.

"Make this weird? It's already weird, we're neck deep in it, NAY!, We're drowning in it!"

"Oh dear god," Jason sighs, squeezing his eyes shut and speaking before he can think better of it, "I love her."

Roy chokes, Jason startles, clearly surprising, even himself, "Oh my god, I love her."

There's a heavy, pained silence before Roy croaks "... Bro"

"I know." Jason tugged at the roots of his hair.

"…BRO." Roy was trying to prevent a panic attack, his panic fuelling Jason's.

"I know."

"You love me?" A slightly giddy voice breathes from the doorway.

Both men groan for different reasons as they spot you bouncing toward them.

"Babe, I -"

"I love you too," you beam, throwing your arms around Jason's neck and kissing him like your life depends on it.

Roy gags, forcing you to pull away. "God, this is gonna ruin every group hang for the rest of my life." He whined.

"Nah. You’ll get used to me kissing your sister in front of you."

"I SWEAR TO GOD —"

TIM DRAKE & CONNER KENT

Conner's knee is jiggling furiously. From across the room, Cassie raises a questioning brow, but Conner makes no effort to stop as he checks the time for the fourth time in less than three minutes.

You're late. So is Tim, but it's not him Conner's worried about. You're never late; you've always been a perpetually early person, and you always get so anxious if you aren't. Conner knows, having been on the receiving end of your time-anxious meltdowns more than once.

"Dude, calm down, they're not even five minutes late yet," Bart says, looking at him as if he's the weird one here, when clearly, something terrible has happened to you.

You've been in a car accident (you don't drive), you've been shot, (you're bulletproof), you've been taken hostage by Lex Luthor (plausible), you've -

"Hi guys, sorry I’m late, I slept through my alarm." You laugh bashfully, avoiding Conner's gaze, which narrows in suspicion.

"That never happens." He scowls, his enhanced hearing picking up the slight stutter in your heartbeat.

"Well, it did today." You rolled your eyes, crossing the room to sit next to Cassie.

Barely two minutes later, a harried-looking Tim scurries through the door, brushing his sweaty hair from his face, and in doing so, accidentally reveals a hickey just beneath the neckline of his shirt.

It's only for a second, but that one second is all he needs to connect the dots.

"No." He says, glaring at Tim as everyone else, including you, watches in confusion.

"No?" Tim repeats.

"NO!" Conner snarls, jumping up from his seat and pulling down the neckline of Tim's shirt to display not one, but three love bites.

"YOU’RE SLEEPING WITH MY SISTER?!"

"Technically, there wasn't much sleeping involved - " Tim mutters, with absolutely zero regard for his well-being.

"I trusted you with my life, and you go behind my back to DEFLOWER MY INNOCENT BABY SISTER?!"

"You're the same age?" Tim mumbles at the same time you scoff.

"Deflower? Innocent? Are we living in the Middle Ages? Are you my owner?"

"Stay out of this!" Conner whirls on you, his gaze dangerously red.

"Stay out of my own sex life?" You guffaw, ignoring the way Conner puffs up like an angry cat. "Besides, Tim's hardly my first."

Your words are enough to shock your brother enough that he drops Tim, reeling back with a hand on his chest like he's suffering a heart attack.

You take the opportunity to scoop your partner into your arms, flying away before Kon can recover, until you reach the safety of the bed you've both only just left.

"I think he's actually going to kill me." Tim mumbles, burying his face in your chest.

"Hmm, guess you''ll just have to keep me around forever, for protection."

"Sounds perfect." Tim dreamily says, clutching you even tighter in contentment.

BRUCE WAYNE & CLARK KENT

Once, there would have been a time when interviewing Gotham’s Bruce Wayne would have left him an anxious wreck, but now, Clark relished in the opportunity. Giddy that his best friend, no matter how much the man denied it, would turn to him (him! A Metropolis interloper), instead of someone like that tart Vicki Vale.

(That thought has him mentally apologising to his ma for his crudeness, but what she wouldn't know, couldn't hurt her.)

Needless to say, Clark was excited to have been given the chance, and he refused to squander it.

They were in Bruce's "office," a room they both knew he hardly ever even stepped foot inside, but had occupied to keep up the facade.

A brilliant facade it was, Clark thought in amusement, as he watched Brucie Wayne ramble on earnestly. Nobody would ever suspect the man, reaching for his wallet to pull out a picture of his kids in an interview on Wayne Enterprises' newest ventures, to be the fearsome Batman.

Clark, ever affable, just smiles, nodding along until a second picture flutters onto the desk. Bruce freezes, his perfected mask slipping just a fraction, but enough for Clark to notice as the unshakeable man's eyes widen in sheer panic.

Bruce was composed. He was always in control, a master of self-control. Bruce was unflappable, he had a plan for everything.

Bruce, evidently, did not have a plan, beyond freezing in horror, for when an intimate Polaroid of his girlfriend, Clark's sister, landed face up on the table between them.

You're wearing one of his button-up shirts, seated sideways across Bruce's lap, the man's large hand clasped over your thigh, as you stare up at him like he's your whole world.

Clark paused, staring at the photo on the desk like it was a live grenade.

Bruce, very carefully, snuck a hand out to retrieve it. Only to be thwarted by Clark's superspeed. He holds it between his thumb and his index finger like it might bite him, the blinding grin never once fading from his face.

Bruce thinks it's the most terrifying Clark has ever looked.

There's a long pause, with Bruce mentally calculating how long it will take before he has some Kryptonite on his hands and whetehr or not Clark will flatten him before then.

"Oh my god," Clark said.

Bruce grimaced. "It's not what it looks like."

"It looks like you're dating my sister."

"Ok, it's exactly what it looks like, but—" He cuts off once more as Clark speaks with surprising giddiness.

"You carry her around in your wallet. Like a real boyfriend, it's sickeningly sweet."

Bruce opened his mouth, closing it and opening it again repeatedly like a stunned fish as he blushed a brilliant red.

Clark wasn’t finished; if anything, he looked like Christmas had come early.

"Is there more?" Bruce stiffens, "There is! Do you have a shrine? I bet you have a shrine!"

"Clark."

"Is it in the batcave?"

"Clark."

"What about a scrapbook? Is she on the manor walls yet?"

"Clark."

"Do your kids know? Wait, am I the last to know?!" He seemed genuinely hurt by that thought.