Professinal Procrastinator

"Harry are you sure?"

"I'm sure mom, after all, what could happen?"

You shrugged, looking at your son with a look of uncertainty.

"I don't know, darling... You're not the kind of person who would do that and i wouldn't want James to take it badly..."

"Mom" Harry said. "Knowing dad i honestly think he'll probably be too busy snogging you to care how i talk to you so i don't think our little prank will be successful"

You felt your cheeks heat up slightly at his words and smiled sheepishly.

"Harry James Potter!"

Harry chuckled and before you could give him a little swat on the shoulder, he deftly dodged you and ran into the living room.

-

The little prank in question was born from Harry's simple curiosity, who one day was thinking about the love life of his beloved parents and wondered how his father would've reacted if he responded badly to his mother.

Harry's idea didn't seem particularly intelligent to you, but you still decided to play along since by now your curiosity about James' reaction had also been stimulated. So as you and your son agreed, on that same evening everything was ready.

The only thing you hadn't taken into account was the presence of Sirius and Remus, who had been invited to dinner by James at the last moment, but Harry wasn't discouraged.

At that moment, all of you were in the living room: you and James were sitting on the sofa next to each other, with his arm around your shoulders holding you close to him; Remus occupied the seat in the armchair and while he read the Daily Prophet, he also managed to listen to the conversation, occasionally interjecting and giving his opinion; Sirius, on the other hand, was smoking a cigarette standing at the window, since he preferred not to fill the room with the smell of smoke (you always told him that it wasn't a problem if he smoked in the house, but everyone knew arguing with Sirius was useless and so you let him do it).

While James and Sirius chatted animatedly, you noticed Harry coming down the stairs and that was your cue to start the prank.

"Harry, darling" you called, poking your head out of the couch cushion. "Could you set the table, please?"

"I can't, i have to write Ron and Hermione's letters" he said hastily, while pretending to look for what he needed to write letters to his friends.

"You can do it later" you replied calmly. "You could set the table first and then-"

"Mom shut up"

Harry interrupted you abruptly and so the bomb was dropped. Three voices rose immediately after his comment.

"I beg your pardon!?" James'.

"Whoa whoa whoa!" Remus'.

"Oi!" Sirius'.

Harry thought it would've been fun to see James' reaction, but when he found the wide eyes of all three of the Marauders, plus yours, trained on him, he realized that maybe you were right and that this hadn't been a good idea.

In a split second, before you could even stop him, James jumped up and marched towards him. But what shocked you and Harry more was the fact that even Sirius himself had moved away from the window, after having put out the cigarette he hadn't even finished, to join James. Remus simply closed the newspaper and gave you a worried look, remaining silently seated in the armchair.

"Excuse me? Could you repeat that please?" James asked menacingly. "And could you also tell me where you learned that tone, because i know for a fact that none of the people in this room taught it to you, young man"

"Harry James Potter!" Sirius' voice boomed, coming to stand beside your husband. "If you think that just because i'm your godfather i'll let it slide after you talked to your mother like that, you're sorely mistaken"

Harry backed away hastily, intimidated by the two men who at that moment seemed not angry, but downright furious.

"Dad, Sirius-" he tried to say, but the latter interrupted him.

"Apologize to her" Sirius ordered, pointing a ringed finger at him and then pointing at your figure who was watching them from the sofa. "Now"

It was in that moment that you and Harry realized that the one in front of him was no longer his godfather, the chill and fun step-uncle who allowed him to do anything behind your and James' backs. In that instant, Sirius was your brother-in-law, the one who could be considered like James's blood brother and who had taken you under his wing since you had come into contact with the Marauders, loving and protecting you as if you were the sister he never had. And even though Sirius loved Harry as if he were his own son, there was no way he could let him act that way towards you. And James absolutely had no problems about it.

Harry swallowed nervously and James crossed his mighty arms, looking at him almost defiantly, as if he was waiting for Harry to have the courage to snap at you again.

But luckily for him, Harry heard your sweet voice echoing shyly in the living room.

"James, Sirius" you called, standing up. "It was a joke"

James and Sirius turned to look at you.

"What?" your husband asked, still not convinced.

You clasped your hands in front of you.

"It was a joke, honey. Harry and i planned it this afternoon. Don't get angry with him"

The two turned back to Harry.

"Is it true?" James asked again and you felt his tone of voice slightly relax.

Harry nodded frantically.

"I swear, dad. You know i'd never treat mom like that"

James and Sirius were silent for a few seconds until they let out breaths of relief.

"You're lucky, kid. Merlin's beard..." Sirius said, shaking his head with a small smile. "You almost gave me a heart attack, you know?"

"Harry" James called him back. "Why did you do that?"

While Sirius walked away taking another cigarette from his pack, deciding that it was ideal to release the tension that that prank had caused him, Harry lowered his gaze to the floor, embarrassed.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to make you angry. I just wondered how you would've reacted if i talked back to Mom. It was an innocent joke"

James let out a chuckle and ruffled his hair with one hand.

"An innocent joke, but a bit of a stupid one. And now you know that if you do it again, which i doubt because it's not like you, it will be Sirius you'll have to worry about, hm? But i won't be any less either"

All of you except Harry let out a small giggle and Sirius walked past you, leaving a quick kiss on your forehead, before lighting his new cigarette.

"If i ever hear you use that tone again, know that i will take away your title of my favorite nephew, my dear Harry" Sirius murmured, his lips tightened around his cigarette.

"But i'm your only nephew, Sirius" your son retorted, finally with a smile on his face too.

"And i'm proud of it" continued the other. "So don't make me change my mind, understood?"

You approached James and Harry and the latter gave you a hug, which you immediately returned, stroking his hair.

"For a moment i was afraid i was going to die" Harry whispered close to your ear and you giggled, pressing a kiss into his hair.

"Well!" James clapped his hands for attention. "Now as punishment, my dear son, you will set the table"

Harry nodded.

"Without using magic"

Harry groaned and it was at that moment that Remus stood up too.

"Come on Harry, i'll help you"

Harry gave him a grateful smile and after the two had moved towards the kitchen, James wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you with your back against his chest.

"My love, why do you always encourage him when he proposes those stupid things?" he murmured, turning his face to leave a few kisses on your cheek.

You smiled, clasping your hands over his.

"It's not my fault" you replied innocently. "You guys were like that too at his age, if not worse. He got everything from you"

"Mhh"

James mumbled something against your skin, probably to say it wasn't true, but you ignored him and exchanged a look with Sirius, who blew smoke out the window with an amused smile.

The great hall.

The smell of toast and tea lingers in the air as you trudge through the double doors of the Great Hall, hair still mussed from sleep and jumper slightly askew. It’s far too early for the kind of noise James Potter is making, voice echoing off the high stone walls as he waves his hands dramatically about something you don’t have the energy to decipher.

“…and I told her, I don’t care if you hexed my quill, I’m still not going to that—”

He cuts off mid-sentence, eyes flicking past Sirius to you. His mouth snaps shut like a trap. Sirius glances behind him, curious about what could possibly silence James of all people.

You offer a sleepy wave as you shuffle closer, barely catching the way Remus’ head lifts from his folded copy of the daily prophet. His gaze finds you instantly. A slow smile tugs at his mouth, and his shoulders visibly relax, as if just seeing you settled something in him.

“Morning,” you murmur, sliding onto the bench beside him, bumping your knee lightly into his under the table. He shifts just slightly, his hand coming to rest on your thigh in a gentle squeeze, grounding and familiar. You hide a small, content smile behind your cup of tea.

Across the table, Sirius raises an eyebrow over his plate of eggs. “You look like you got hit by a bus.”

You open your mouth to retort, but Remus beats you to it, not even looking up from his paper. “Leave her alone, Pads. Some of us don’t spend an hour in front of the mirror every morning.”

Sirius scoffs, flicking a crumb at him. “Jealousy is a disease, Lupin.”

James is still watching you—narrowed eyes, brow slightly furrowed, as if he’s trying to do complex equations in his head. You glance his way, and he startles like he’s been caught.

“You alright?” he asks, eyes flicking briefly to Remus, then back to you. “You look—well, not great.”

You blink at him over your tea. “Cheers, James.” you deadpan, “I’m just tired.”

He opens his mouth to say more, maybe apologize, but Lily slides onto the bench beside you with a rustle of parchment and the kind of purpose only she can manage this early in the morning.

“Did you start the Transfiguration essay yet?” she asks, nudging your elbow meaningfully. “Because McGonagall will have your head if it’s late again.”

You groan, resting your temple against your palm. “Started it, yeah. Finished it? Not even close.”

Lily sighs, long-suffering but fond. “Library after lunch.”

You nod, and the two of you slip into an easy rhythm—first the essay, then weekend plans for Hogsmeade. Remus stays quiet beside you, content to listen, a soft, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

At some point, without saying anything, he sets his paper aside and starts assembling a plate. Two slices of toast, a spoonful of marmalade, a soft-boiled egg, a handful of your favourite fruit. He doesn’t announce it or fuss, just places it gently in front of you, brushing a few stray crumbs off your sleeve with ease.

By then, James and Sirius have resumed their conversation, judging by the rising volume. Lily spots Slughorn across the way and excuses herself with a quick goodbye, already halfway across the room before you can respond.

You turn back to your tea, only to pause. The plate of food wasn’t there before but it’s exactly what you would’ve gotten for yourself. Toast arranged neatly, marmalade on the side. You glance sideways. Remus is already reading again, pretending not to notice your looking.

Under the table, your hand finds his. You link your fingers, gentle and grateful, and when you squeeze, he squeezes back. It’s warm, steady. 

You lean in slightly, just enough so he can hear you over the breakfast chatter.

“Thank you,” you murmur, thumb brushing along the back of his hand.

Remus doesn’t answer right away, eyes still on the paper; but the smile tugging at his lips is unmistakable. Quiet. Fond. Yours.

“It’s nothing,” he says softly, in a way that means everything.

You open your mouth to say something more, because it's not nothing and Remus is the sweetest boy you know, but Sirius cuts in from across the table, dramatically dropping his fork and fixing Remus with a mock-offended glare.

“Why don’t I ever get breakfast made for me, Moony?” he demands, gesturing wildly at your plate. “You’ve known me longer. I’m charming. Handsome. A delight, really.”

Remus doesn’t even look up. He just turns a page.

“Because you’re a right wanker,” he replies, so evenly it takes a beat to register.

Sirius gasps, clutching his chest like he’s been wounded. “The audacity! James, did you hear that?”

James snorts into his tea. “Hard to miss. He’s not wrong, though.”

“I’m hurt,” Sirius insists, turning to you with wide, dramatic eyes. “He used to be so sweet. So gentle.”

You glance at Remus, one brow raised. “Did he?”

The infirmary.

If Remus had to pinpoint the worst part of the full moon, he doesn't think he could. The way his body is violated and his mind succumbs to bestial madness is high up there. Or maybe it's the way his mind is tormented month-round, collapsing from exhaustion afterwards and being plagued with worry for the next. A vicious, never-ending cycle. This time, he thinks, it's waking up the morning after the full moon.

Though he can tell it was a particularly bad one, it’s not the aches and pains. It’s waking to you, curled in an armchair at his bedside, asleep. Remus hates that you worry so much, that it affects you. Your neck is at an awful angle, and there's a faint crease between your brows, even in sleep.

He exhales, the breath barely more than a rasp, and your lashes flutter in response. You shift, not fully awake at first, and then, like something clicking into place, you sit up straighter, eyes flying open.

"Remus," you say softly, already pushing yourself to your feet and crossing the space between the chair and the bed. Your hands find his arm gently, carefully, as though you're afraid even your touch might hurt. "You're awake."

He tries to offer a weak smile, but it falters before it can fully form. "Unfortunately."

"Don't say that," you murmur, frowning as your hands glide down to check for injuries, the kind that bandages don't always catch.

“I’m fine, dove,” he lies, out of habit more than belief.

You ignore him. “Let me get you some water,” you say, already moving toward the small table where a pitcher and glass had been left. You pour it, return, and sit beside him on the edge of the bed, holding it to him with steady hands.

He accepts it, grateful but quiet, sipping slowly. When he’s finished, you set the glass back on the nightstand with a soft clink.

His brow furrows. “Why are you here?” he asks, voice hoarse but laced with genuine confusion. “You usually come after I’ve woken up.”

You hesitate, brushing a bit of hair away from his damp forehead. “You… woke up early. Just for a little while.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I know.” Your hand stills against his temple. “It wasn’t for long. James came to get me. Said you were–” You glance away for a moment, mouth tightening. “You were in pain. And saying my name. Over and over. Apparently Sirius and Madam Pomfrey had to hold you down to get a calming draught in you.”

Remus goes still. Shame rolls through him like a fresh wave of fever. He looks away, down at the rough wool blanket, his hands balled in the fabric.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, the words bitter on his tongue. “I shouldn’t have– I didn’t mean to wake you. You didn’t have to come.”

“Stop being silly,” you say, almost fondly, but there’s a steel thread beneath it. You reach for his face again, gentle but firm, guiding his gaze back to yours. “Of course I came. You think I’m going to stay in bed while you’re in pain, calling for me?”

He starts to respond, some garbled protest forming in his throat, but you cut it off by leaning forward and pressing a quick, sure kiss to his lips.

It’s warm. Soft. Gone before he can even react.

He blinks at you, stunned.

“I’ll always come,” you say simply, your fingers still resting at the edge of his jaw. “You don’t have to be sorry for needing someone, Remus.”

Silence settles between the two of you.

You don’t say anything, and neither does he. It’s not awkward. shifting just slightly on the mattress, curling one leg up under you, you begin brushing the hair from Remus’ forehead again—gentle, patient sweeps of your fingers, like you have all the time in the world. His hair is still damp with sweat, a little tangled, but you don’t seem to mind. You just keep smoothing it back, over and over, letting him rest in the rhythm of it.

Remus closes his eyes. Not to sleep but just to relax. The silence swells around you, filled only by the quiet sounds of the castle waking up; distant footsteps, the occasional creak of old wood, and your even, steady breaths.

Eventually, his voice slips through the hush, barely more than a whisper. “Where are the others?”

You smile faintly. “James is with Regulus. Doing God knows what. Hopefully sleeping.” You roll your eyes, affection bleeding through the exasperation.

That gets a faint huff of a laugh from Remus, which quickly dissolves into a wince. He presses a hand to his ribs.

“And Sirius?” he asks.

You glance toward the door. “Went to get breakfast. Said you’d need something solid, not just Pomfrey’s apparently sad excuse for toast.”

Just as you say it, the door creaks open and Sirius steps inside, a paper bag tucked under one arm and two cups in his hands. The scent of butter and cinnamon trails in with him.

“Speak of the devil,” you murmur.

Sirius pauses when he sees the two of you. You're still perched on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly against Remus’ temple, the other curled in your lap. Remus’ eyes are open now, glassy with exhaustion but softer than they’ve been in days. The two of you are close and something about the look on your faces makes Sirius stop mid-step.

Then he just clears his throat and steps forward, saying nothing about it. “Brought food.”

He places the bag and drinks on the nightstand with uncharacteristic care, glancing once more between the two of you. His gaze lingers on Remus, searching for signs of deeper pain or unease, but seems satisfied by what he finds.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says softly, stepping back. “See you later, Moons.”

There’s a quiet fondness to it.

“Thanks, Pads,” Remus says, voice rough but genuine.

Sirius nods and slips out the door with barely a sound.

-

Sirius finds James exactly where he expects: sprawled on one of the beaten-up sofas in the Gryffindor common room. Less expected is Regulus, curled under James’s arm, head tucked into his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. James looks half-asleep, fingers lazily combing through Regulus’s hair, while Regulus is clearly pretending he hadn’t just dozed off.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “For Merlin’s sake,” he mutters, stepping over the hearthrug. “Is there something in the Gryffindor water this year? Everyone’s getting domestic.”

Regulus lifts his head just enough to shoot him a glare. “You sound like you’re sixty.”

“And you look like you’re two seconds from sucking your thumb,” Sirius shoots back, dropping down onto the coffee table with a dramatic sigh. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, then looks squarely at James.

“You’ll never guess what I just walked in on.”

James, ever patient when Sirius is in a mood, lifts a brow. “Tell me.”

Sirius jerks his chin toward the entrance of the common room. “Remus is awake. Looks like hell, obviously, but that’s not the point. The point is…” He pauses for dramatic effect, glancing meaningfully between the two of them. “Y/N was there. Sitting right beside him. Touching his face. Whispering. Very softly, I might add.”

James frowns. “So?”

“I’m just saying,” Sirius drawls, “it was very couple-y.”

James lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head. “No way. They’ve been like that for ages, they’re just friends, mate. Remus would’ve told us if they were dating.”

Sirius nods, like that settles it.

Regulus snorts into James’s shoulder.

“What?” Sirius narrows his eyes.

“You two are incredibly dense,” Regulus says without looking up. “They are dating. It’s obvious.”

James and Sirius look at each other, then back at Regulus in perfect unison.

“No offence, Reggie,” Sirius says, raising a brow, “but they’re our friends. I think we’d know.”

“You think you’d know,” Regulus says flatly. “But you don’t. Because Remus is private and stupidly noble, and your friend is just as bad. Do you really think he’s going to announce it over breakfast? What would he even say—‘pass the marmalade, I’m in love’?”

James blinks.

Sirius blinks.

Then they both burst out laughing, as if Regulus is mental.

The black lake.

With the summer months fast approaching, and a week passing since the full moon, the warm weather has called for a relaxing day on the shore of the black lake. You're laid out on a blanket with Remus sat beside you, your head resting on his thigh.

With closed eyes, you can picture the peaceful look on Remus’ face as he reads with his fingers twirling in the ends of your hair.

The sun is warm where it filters through the branches above, casting soft, dappled patterns across your skin. Somewhere behind you, someone splashes into the lake with a shout, followed by a chorus of laughter. But it all feels far away.

You sigh, content, eyes still closed. “If I die right now,” you murmur, “tell Madam Pomfrey I went happy.”

Remus huffs a soft laugh, the vibration of it echoing down through his thigh. “Bit dramatic,” he says, though there’s affection in it.

“Mmm,” you hum, noncommittal. “We’ll see what you say when it happens.”

Another beat of silence. You think he’s gone back to reading–until his fingers pause, then still.

“Everyone’s out of the dorms tonight,” he says casually, “some ravenclaw party, or something.”

You open one eye, peering up at him. “You planning to go?”

Remus shakes his head. “No. I thought maybe… you’d want to come up for a bit. To mine.” His voice dips a little lower. “Just us.”

“I’d love to,” you say simply. “You and me. No interruptions. I’ll finally have you all to myself.”

Remus’s eyes soften. He sets the book aside, turning his full attention to you. “You already have me,” he murmurs.

Your only response is to wiggle your eyebrows suggestively, the grin on your face unmistakably wicked. Remus gives a soft, breathy laugh and shakes his head. “Minx,” he says, voice full of fondness.

You're just about to respond–something equally teasing on the tip of your tongue–when there’s the familiar thunder of approaching footsteps.

Before either of you can move, Sirius throws himself down onto the blanket with a loud oof, landing half across your legs and knocking Remus slightly off balance.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter, even as you’re giggling.

Sirius groans dramatically as you swat at him, your hand smacking against his shoulder with no real force.

“You love it,” Sirius replies, grinning like the absolute menace he is.

Before you can retaliate with some biting remark, a familiar voice calls out from behind.

“Y/N!” Lily’s voice rings clearly through the warm air, her red hair catching the sunlight as she approaches. “You coming to the greenhouses? Marlene’s already started without us and Dorcas is claiming all the best pots.”

You sit up with a groan, shoving Sirius more forcefully this time. He rolls onto the grass with a theatrical oomph that earns an eye-roll from Remus.

“On my way!” you call back to Lily, brushing grass off your legs. You turn to Remus, eyes softening, your hand brushing his wrist. “Later?”

He nods, that quiet little smile playing on his lips. “Later.”

Sirius waves lazily from the blanket, still lounging, and you hear him shout a cheerful “See you later, Y/N!”

The two of you start walking toward the greenhouses, and once you’re out of sight, Sirius suddenly sits up. Remus catches the shift in his mood, the way he straightens, a more serious look crossing his features. 

Then, as if deciding to finally ask whatever's been on his mind, he looks at Remus, his voice quieter than usual. "You two are friends, right?" he asks, a slight edge of curiosity in his tone.

Remus, who’s watching you walk away, doesn’t hesitate. "Yeah. Of course." He’s telling the truth, you might be his girlfriend but you were his friend first and you're his best friend now.

There’s a brief pause, and Sirius nods slowly. He makes a soft sound, tapping his fingers absently on the grass, clearly stewing in his thoughts. Remus knows he’s trying to find the right words, the ones that aren’t too blunt but also get at whatever Sirius is really thinking. After another long stretch of silence, Remus sighs, deciding to make it easier.

“Spit it out, Pads. You're not very tactful.”

Sirius huffs a small laugh, a little awkwardly, before shifting on the blanket. He rubs the back of his neck, clearly conflicted. “I was just thinking,” he starts, “You… fancy her, don’t you?”

The question hits Remus like a sharp poke to the ribs. He looks over at Sirius, surprised at the bluntness, then immediately thinks Oh. He can’t help but chuckle lightly, thinking Sirius has finally put it all together–that he and you are already together.

“Well, yeah,” he says nonchalantly, his gaze drifting back to you. “I do.”

Sirius, however, just stares at him for a moment, blinking in confusion. “You… do?” He asks slowly, his brows furrowing in disbelief. “So, why are you not doing anything about it? Do you need help telling her?”

Remus freezes for a second, eyes narrowing. The warmth in his chest from the thought of you is still there, but now it comes with a pinch of amusement. He opens his mouth to respond, but then quickly closes it. Sirius really has no clue, does he? Remus can’t help but laugh softly, shaking his head.

“I don’t need help, Pads,” Remus says, his voice an easy mix of affection and slight exasperation.

Sirius scoffs, “If this is some mopey werewolf bullshit, I don't want to hear it. You deserve to be happy, Moony.” 

“I am happy,” Remus stresses, “I’ve done all I need to.” he nods at Sirius, hoping that the boy can read between the lines.

“Okay.” Sirius sighs.

The dormitory.

The evening sun casts its last golden rays over the horizon as the two of you find yourselves alone in the quiet of Remus's dorm room. The noises of the day have faded to a dull hum, and it’s just the two of you now–no distractions, no interruptions.

Remus’ heated touch is wandering, hands gripping whatever part of you he can get to. His mouth is warm on your neck, doting but rough, anything else you were thinking of doing tonight quickly erased from your mind. One of your hands is buried in his hair while the other drifts upwards to his neck and jaw. 

“Rem,” you sigh, breathless and lightly pulling his hair to move his mouth upwards. 

A breathy laugh comes out of him, before he captures your mouth with his own. You sigh into his mouth, and he takes it gladly, his hands moving down to your hips shifting you closer in his lap. His eager kissing is warm, acting like a man starved.

You shift your hips, wanting to be closer, feeling him against you. It elicits a groan from one of you, that gets swallowed between you. Remus’ grip on your hips becomes firmer, working to guide you in your efforts grinding against him, and your moans become more frequent for it.

“Fuck,” he pants, pulling back to look up at you, his grip on you not faltering. He shifts a hand to toy with the hem of your top. “Can I take this off?”

“Please.” you reply breathless and he smiles at you planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth before moving your shirt up and over your head. 

Remus moves in again, his mouth mean as it skims across the top of your breasts. It's bliss.

Neither of you notice the door opening until a scandalised gasp echoes through the room. “Bloody hell!” James squeals, immediately throwing a hand over his eyes and turning around so fast he nearly maims himself on the doorframe. “I’m blind! I didn’t need to see that!”

Remus scrambles to wrap a blanket around your shoulder as you shift to move off his lap. Once the blanket is secured, Remus’ hands grip your waist tightly and he looks at you, eyes pleading, begging you not to move. 

Sirius lingers in the doorway, eyebrows shooting straight into his hairline as a wicked grin stretches across his face. “Well, well, well,” he whistles, arms crossing as he leans casually against the frame. “When you said you’d done all you need to, I didn’t think you meant you were shagging her. I thought you were a gentleman, Moony.”

Remus, who’s gone a shade redder than any of the Gryffindor banners, pulls the blanket tighter around your shoulders and groans. “Can you both just– piss off?!” His voice cracks halfway through the sentence, and he sounds more desperate than angry.

You stifle a laugh against his shoulder, only mildly mortified but mostly amused.

Remus shoots Sirius a glare, ears flushed pink. “That–that was me telling you she’s my girlfriend, you sod.”

There’s a long pause.

Then, in perfect unison, James–still hiding behind his hand–and Sirius both shout;

“What?!” 

“Alright, alright,” you interrupt, amusement clear in your voice despite the heat in your cheeks. You’re still tucked against Remus, the blanket barely doing its job, and your shirt’s rumpled on the bed behind you. “This is really fun, guys, but could you maybe turn around so I can put my shirt back on?”

James lets out a garbled sound still shielding his eyes. Sirius sighs but obliges. 

“What the fuck,” Sirius mutters, and James echoes it softly, bewildered and still shell-shocked.

You grin as you press a quick kiss to Remus’ lips, gentle, grateful, and a little teasing. He’s still beet red, poor thing, but the moment your lips touch his, some of that panic in his eyes melts into warmth.

Then, with a deep breath and no small amount of dignity, you swing your legs off his lap and slip your shirt back on. Remus helps you straighten it without thinking, hands ghosting over your sides like he can’t not touch you, even in the middle of the world’s most embarrassing interruption.

Once decent, you move to sit beside him rather than on top of him, though you don’t go far. Your knees still touch. Always.

“Alright, you can turn around now,” you call lightly, brushing your fingers through your hair.

James turns slowly, eyes still suspiciously squinted like he’s worried he’ll see something scarring again. He takes in the scene, both of you sitting side by side on the bed, fully clothed now but clearly together, Remus still flushed and you not bothering to hide your smug little smile.

“So…” James begins, narrowing his eyes, “when did this start?”

You glance at Remus, who looks as though he’d prefer the full moon over this interrogation.

“Be honest,” Sirius adds, crossing the room to drop dramatically into the armchair by the window. “If you say, like, last week, I will riot.”

Remus sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “October.”

James blinks. “October last year?”

You nod innocently. “Started with studying. Got a bit… distracting.”

Sirius makes a sound like he’s just been betrayed. “You mean to tell me you two have been together for months and didn’t say anything?”

“It’s not like we were hiding it,” Remus mutters.

James gestures wildly. “You were definitely hiding it!”

You exchange a look with Remus, who just shrugs helplessly.

Sirius groans, dragging a hand down his face as if it's all too much to bear. And then, with the weariness of a man forced to admit defeat, he mutters:

“For fuck’s sake… Reg was right.”

Remus smirks, finally relaxed again. “You gonna be okay, Pads?”

“Absolutely not,” Sirius says, already slumping further into the chair. “You’re disgusting.”

But he’s grinning.

James just shakes his head, still in awe. “Next time, just tell us.”

You reach for Remus’s hand, lacing your fingers together, and smile.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

There was something specific about mornings and you—a quiet kind of softness. Your hair was still slightly tousled from sleep, your oversized jumper hung loosely on your frame, and your hands gripped the mug as if it anchored you to the table. You leaned in, laughing again, and the sound caught in James's chest like a hook.

You weren’t trying to be radiant. That was the worst part. You didn’t angle for attention—you just had that gravitational pull, the kind of beauty that rearranged a room without asking permission. And James was, academically speaking, utterly and irreversibly besotted.

This wasn’t new. It had been happening slowly, over months—maybe even years. A quiet, resigned sort of yearning that made itself at home beneath his ribcage; a second heartbeat. He realized he was in too deep when he stopped fantasizing about declarations and started yearning for the ordinary. Sharing a table in the library. Catching your eye across a hallway. The occasional accidental touch that felt far too meaningful.

He’d made peace with the ache. As long as he got to see you every day, he could live with it.

Peter nudged him with a mouthful of toast. "Did you finish the Transfiguration essay?"

James’s jaw tightened. He was about to deliver a casual, harmless answer. Something that passed as effort.

Instead, what he said was, "Didn't even open the book."

Silence.

James blinked.

What the hell?

He hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t even consciously thought it.

Remus slowly lowered his newspaper. "Come again?"

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "That’s not the James Potter we know and grudgingly tolerate."

James felt a prickling heat crawl up his neck. He tried again.

"I meant to, but I got distracted. By a leaf. Or a bird. Something shiny. I don’t know."

The words tumbled out uncontrollably. He slapped both hands over his mouth, a feeble attempt at containing the damage. His cheeks were already burning, and his eyes darted around as if he could chase the words down and pull them back.

Don’t speak. Don’t even breathe, he warned himself.

Sirius grinned, delighted. "Did you just involuntarily confess to procrastinating?"

James whispered, horrified, "I didn’t mean to. It just—happened. Like my mouth’s operating on its own."

Remus's smile faltered. He looked mildly concerned now.

Before anyone could respond, your voice cut through the moment.

"Did you hit your head this morning, Potter?"

You were looking at him, bemused, your head tilted slightly. You were clearly unaware that James was in the middle of a full-blown crisis.

He turned toward you with the intention of brushing it off—something witty, something safe.

His brain screamed: Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it—

"You're the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen and I think about your smile at least three times an hour."

Dead silence.

Your eyes widened.

James felt as if someone had suddenly electrocuted his nervous system. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

You blinked, once, then twice, and let out a breathy, incredulous laugh. "Right. You definitely hit your head."

You stood, tucked your book under your arm, and offered him one last look—a half-smile, curious and a little amused. An unknown emotion flickered in your expression before you turned away.

Gone.

James’s hand froze mid-air, toast still suspended as if caught in a still photograph.

His stomach plummeted.

Across the table, Sirius collapsed forward, laughter shaking his shoulders.

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly regretting every decision that had brought him to this moment.

Peter leaned in cautiously. "Mate, what the hell was that?"

James turned to them slowly, wide-eyed and pale. "What did you do?"

Sirius beamed and gestured vaguely to the cluster of goblets in the center of the table. One still held a faint swirl of orange juice.

"This," he said reverently, "is the single best moment of my life."

James’s voice came out sharp and panicked. "Tell me. Now."

Remus hesitated, fidgeting with the edge of his paper. "We might have… accidentally tested something. On you."

James stiffened. "Tested what?"

Sirius leaned back smugly. "The pumpkin juice. We brewed a variant of Veritaserum last night. Just for fun. You drank the one we spiked. Or maybe it was the goblet next to it. Jury’s still out."

"Lucky you," Remus added, not meeting James’s eyes.

James dropped his toast. It landed butter-side down with a soft, tragic thud.

He didn’t blink.

"Oh," he said flatly. "Fuck."

James spent the subsequent hours engaging in a masterclass of avoidance tactics. He deliberately skipped lunch, took unnecessarily long routes between classes, and at one point, concealed himself behind a seventh-floor tapestry for seventeen excruciating minutes while you stood just a few feet away, engrossed in conversation with Dorcas Meadowes.

It was not dignified. But then again, dignity had abandoned him somewhere between blurting out "you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen" and letting his toast fall like a tragic Victorian heroine succumbing to fate.

Remus assured him that the potion’s effects would wear off by mid-afternoon. James clung to that prediction like a drowning man to driftwood, crafting mental versions of the day in which he might make it through without hemorrhaging any further fragments of pride. Yet with each step he took toward the next class, doubt clawed at him—what if the potion lingered just long enough to obliterate his remaining social capital? The uncertainty scratched under his skin, carrying a similar feeling to an irreversible hex.

Sirius, on the other hand, made it his personal mission to test the serum’s potency every fifteen minutes.

"Prongs, mate, how do you really feel about Filch?"

"He smells like cabbage and despair, and I once dreamt he chased me with a ladle."

Sirius erupted into delighted laughter.

James groaned into his hands. "This is it. I’m going to die of Veritaserum-induced emotional exposure."

"You’ll survive," Remus said, although his tone suggested he was still conducting the risk assessment in real time.

They scraped through Herbology with minimal disaster. James uttered only one vaguely mortifying remark—"She hugged me once and I still think about how she smelled"—which he managed to reframe as a Weird Sisters lyric. Barely.

But Transfiguration? That was a catastrophe waiting in slow motion.

With exams approaching, McGonagall had declared the day a review session, which in practice meant organized chaos. Students clustered at scattered tables, muttering incantations under their breath, cross-referencing spellwork, and trying not to Vanish their self-respect alongside practice objects. James sat toward the back. You were near the front, half-turned toward your group so that he could see the slope of your shoulder and the line of your smile when you laughed.

You were surrounded by Lily, Dorcas, and Marlene—quills scratching, parchment rustling, the occasional gasp of horror as someone’s Vanishing Spell rendered an entire desk legless. James was meant to be revising. Instead, his hand trembled and his heart pounded like it had something to prove.

His notes were illegible. The phrase "turn to smoke???" appeared multiple times, alongside a sketch of a teacup that looked suspiciously like it was weeping. His quill tapped an erratic beat against the parchment.

Across from him, Sirius arched an eyebrow, already grinning.

"So," he said, low and gleeful, just loud enough, "how exactly do you feel about her again?"

James didn’t even look up. The words left him instinctively.

"She’s a walking daydream, and I’ve got about four essays overdue because of her face."

It echoed.

Not quietly. Not subtly. It was loud enough to carry over to three tables in the vicinity

Heads turned. Someone choked on a cough. Sirius bit his fist, shaking with the effort not to fall off his chair.

James froze.

His entire body went rigid—quill suspended mid-air, lungs locked in his chest. It was as if the very fabric of time had paused to acknowledge his downfall.

Then—movement.

You paused mid-sentence. Lily tapped your shoulder with subtle urgency. Dorcas leaned in, her expression intrigued. Marlene glanced over her shoulder with the kind of grin reserved for front-row seats to emotional train wrecks.

You listened. Blinked slowly.

Then—deliberately—you turned.

The entire table held its collective breath.

Your gaze found James’s like a targeting spell—brows raised, eyes wide. Not offended. Not amused. Just... intrigued. Like you'd heard something strange and didn’t know what to do with it yet—but wanted to.

James wanted the floor to open beneath him and deliver him mercifully into the void. He briefly entertained the idea of self-immolation.

But then—you smiled.

A small one. Tentative. Surprised, maybe. But not dismissive. Not cruel.

You turned back around, and chaos resumed. Lily covered her mouth. Dorcas said something that made Marlene snort into her sleeve. Whatever it was, it was very clearly about James.

James stared at the back of your head, wondering if it might offer a second chance if he looked hard enough.

Sirius was wheezing. Remus had buried his face in his hands. Peter knocked over his inkpot in the ensuing shockwave.

James slumped forward with a groan that seemed to exit his soul before his body.

He was, by every available metric, completely and irrevocably screwed.

He had barely taken ten steps from the classroom when a voice behind him called out.

"Potter."

He turned too quickly—jerky and obvious—and almost collided with you as you stepped directly into his path.

You didn’t flinch. You simply stood there, arms folded loosely, head tilted, gaze calm and inquisitive. The corridor had mostly emptied by now, the background noise reduced to the distant echo of footsteps and muffled voices behind heavy wooden doors.

James’s heart performed a complicated sequence of flips before lodging itself somewhere uncomfortably near his throat.

You met his eyes with an unreadable expression—curious, composed, lightly amused. Like you’d opened a door and were standing on the threshold, waiting to see if he’d walk through it.

"Quick question," you said, tone airy but precise. "Was that... about me?"

His mouth opened. Instinct surged to the front of his mind—sarcasm, a joke, maybe even a clumsy attempt at denial. But his thoughts lagged just behind his reflexes, and before he could intercept them, the words had already spilled out.

"Yeah," he said plainly. "And by the way, you’re absurdly pretty. Like—genuinely hard to function around. Painfully so."

Silence fell with the weight of a dropped textbook.

You blinked. Once. Then again.

James stood frozen, every synapse in his body firing off simultaneously, as though his nervous system couldn’t decide between fight, flight, or faint. His ears were burning. His hands twitched at his sides, completely useless.

Finally, you let out a soft laugh. It wasn’t cruel, or mocking. Just surprised. Genuine.

"You’re strange, Potter."

James flailed—just barely—before shoving his hands into his pockets like it might prevent further disaster.

"No—I mean, not in a creepy way. Or, alright, maybe slightly weird, but not bad-weird. I just think you’re... brilliant. And kind. And I notice when you wear that jumper with the rip in the sleeve because it makes you look comfortable. And I should probably stop talking now."

You looked at him for a moment that stretched longer than it should have. Not unkind. Not amused. Something else—curious, thoughtful. As if you were seeing him clearly for the first time and hadn't yet decided what to make of it.

Your lips curled slightly.

You tilted your head. Evaluating. Deciding.

Then, finally, you smiled.

It was mischievous and warm, soft-edged and self-assured—the kind of smile that could level a person without trying.

"See you in Charms, heartthrob."

You turned and walked away with unhurried confidence, like you knew exactly the mess you were leaving in your wake.

James remained rooted in place, too stunned to move, like the rest of his body hadn’t caught up with what had just happened.

Crunch.

Sirius appeared beside him, seemingly conjured out of thin air, munching loudly on an apple with the casual demeanor of someone watching a soap opera.

"You’re done for, mate," he said cheerfully. "She’s gonna marry you."

James emitted a sound that hovered somewhere between a gasp and a wheeze.

Sirius thumped him on the back with unearned confidence. "Better start writing your vows."

Charms was an unmitigated disaster.

James had spent the walk to class muttering desperate prayers to any higher power that might take pity on him. Maybe Flitwick would assign partners alphabetically. Or by wand length. Or perhaps he’d adopt some arbitrary sorting system blessed by divine chance—anything to keep James from sitting next to you.

No such luck.

The universe, as it turned out, had a cruel sense of humor.

You slid into the seat beside him, entirely casual, like his whole nervous system hadn’t just tried to exit his body at the sight of you.

“Hi,” you said simply.

“Hi,” he replied, voice cracking like a prepubescent banshee. He cleared his throat. “Hi.”

You tilted your head slightly. “You doing alright?”

He gave a thumbs-up. Then immediately regretted it. Who does that?

Sirius, two rows back, made eye contact and mimed a halo over his head.

Flitwick launched into a lecture on the Cheering Charm, but James only caught every fifth word. Something about “light-hearted energy” and “proper wand movement,” none of which applied to the doom currently devouring his insides. His palms were damp. His quill was trembling slightly. His knee wouldn’t stop bouncing under the desk.

You leaned closer, one elbow resting casually on the table as you peered at his parchment.

“Is that supposed to be a diagram of a wand or a tree?”

James blinked at the mess of lines he’d drawn. “It’s—neither. Abstract art.”

You grinned, wide and easy, and he felt it as a punch to the sternum. His heart lurched so hard it practically knocked the air out of him. You had no idea what that smile did to him—how it short-circuited whatever logic he had left.

You turned your attention back to your notes, but your voice was light. Curious. Teasing.

“Do you always talk like this to girls, or just me?”

James didn’t even have time to panic.

“It’s just you. Always been you.”

The words hit the air like a dropped pin in an empty room.

You blinked.

He stared at the table, mortified. His ears burned. He could feel Sirius’s psychic scream of glee from two rows away. He’d said it. Out loud. He’d said it out loud.

But you didn’t laugh, tease, or mock, as he had feared.

You only looked at him. Really looked at him.

Your expression held something quiet. Not surprise. Not pity. Something gentler—measured and soft. A flicker of understanding that warmed rather than burned.

James’s breath snagged in his throat. His fingers curled slightly around the base of his quill as he struggled to keep himself grounded. For one agonizing, wonderful moment, he thought he might cry—out of embarrassment, yes, but also because the moment was real.

And then—

You turned back to your wand.

Said nothing.

Your cheeks were slightly pink, your smile just barely visible as you bent over your parchment again. But you didn’t move away. You didn’t laugh it off. You stayed close, like the moment didn’t scare you the way it terrified him.

James blinked in the echo of it—your kindness, your quiet acceptance—completely undone.

He didn’t hear a word Flitwick said for the rest of class.

After class, James moved quickly—too quickly—trying to pack his things before reality caught up with him. If he kept his head down, avoided eye contact, and exited fast enough, maybe he could outrun the emotional catastrophe he’d spent all day teetering on.

But you didn’t leave.

“James.”

His name stopped him cold. Charms book half-shoved into his bag, his spine went rigid.

Your voice was quiet—not sarcastic, not amused. Measured. Sincere.

He turned slowly, bracing for the worst. You were standing a few feet away, arms loosely crossed, your bag hanging off one shoulder. There was nothing smug about your posture. If anything, your presence felt... gentle. And somehow, that made it harder to bear.

Your expression was hard to read, but it held no sharp edges. There was a softness in your eyes, something patient and open, like you were holding back the question that had been building all class.

“Are you okay?”

The simplicity of it landed with an almost disproportionate weight.

Because you meant it.

James blinked, unprepared. His brain scrambled to summon a joke, a quip—something light enough to float him out of this moment.

But the truth arrived first.

"No," he said. "Not even remotely."

The honesty stunned him. It left his mouth before he could restrain it, like the words had slipped from a part of him he couldn't control. He winced as soon as it was out.

Desperate to recover, he backpedaled.

“I mean—I’m not sick or dying or anything. Just…” He gestured vaguely at himself. “Emotionally compromised. Mildly feral. Truthfully unwell."

He offered a crooked smile. It held, barely.

Your brows lifted. Not out of judgment, but consideration. You looked at him like his words were puzzle pieces you were quietly fitting together.

“Truthfully, hm?”

James looked away. Embarrassment bloomed hot across his face.

It was absurd how much weight that single word carried. He fiddled with the zipper of his bag as if the act could insulate him from further exposure.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me today,” he muttered. “My filter’s gone. I think something and then—I say it. And somehow, it’s always when you’re standing nearby.”

Still, you didn’t laugh. You didn’t mock. You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you took one small step closer.

And then, without saying anything else, you reached forward and gave the sleeve of his robes the gentlest tug. Just once. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t performative. But it said everything: I see you. I’m still here.

James swallowed hard. His throat tightened, but this time not with panic. Something else. Something quiet. Something close to relief.

You turned and walked away, unhurried, the last rays of afternoon light catching in your hair as you rounded the corner.

The classroom was silent now.

James stood motionless for several seconds before lowering himself into the nearest chair like someone had been holding him upright all day and finally let go. His bag hung off one shoulder, forgotten. His hair fell into his eyes.

He tipped his head back and groaned—long, dramatic, utterly defeated: “I am so fucking doomed.”

The Gryffindor common room was silent—eerily so.

James had barely stepped through the portrait hole when he sensed it. The stillness felt curated, like a scene hastily arranged moments before he entered.

He pivoted to leave, but Sirius materialized in his path, smiling with far too much innocence to be trusted.

“Where are you off to, Prongs?”

James squinted. “Nowhere. Anywhere. Just—not here.”

“Perfect,” Sirius chirped. “Come sit.”

Before James could object, Sirius ushered him toward the fireplace with the gentle coercion of someone leading a lamb to slaughter.

That’s when James saw you.

You were already seated on the sofa, legs folded beneath you, a forgotten book resting in your lap. The firelight danced across your features, softening the angles of your face in a golden glow.

James froze. "You planned this."

Sirius thumped him on the back. "Me? Never. Just a wildly convenient coincidence, right?"

You raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Well, would you look at that,” Sirius said, clutching his chest like he was moved to tears. “Two of my dearest friends. Alone. In the same room. Under the same roof. By sheer happenstance.” He turned to you. “Don’t mind me—I’ll just be over here, not spying and definitely not listening in.”

He took a single, dramatic step back.

“Actually, no. I should go. Destiny awaits.”

James whipped around. “Sirius—”

“Good luck!” Sirius called over his shoulder, already ascending the stairs. “Also, feel free to profess undying love! Or don’t. But you probably should.”

The portrait hole sealed behind him.

James turned to face you. You had closed your book.

“That wasn’t subtle,” you said.

James exhaled and dragged a hand through his hair. “Not even a little.”

You rose, slow and deliberate. Arms folded—not defensive, but inquisitive.

“One question,” you said. “Why?”

James blinked. “Why...?”

You softened your tone. “Why have you been acting so strange today?”

That was all it took.

“I was dosed with a homemade version of Veritaserum,” James admitted, words tumbling out. “Sirius and Remus spiked my pumpkin juice this morning. For fun. That’s why I’ve been blurting things I’d normally take to the grave. Especially around you.”

He hesitated. Took a breath.

“Even so—I meant every word.”

You didn’t interrupt.

James’s voice quieted, like he was running out of room in his own chest.

“I don’t think I’ve ever outright lied to you, not really. It’s more that I’ve been pretending. Like saying 'morning' without letting it mean anything. Sitting near you and pretending I wasn’t waiting for you to notice.”

He let that hang between you.

“I can’t believe it took a bloody potion for me to admit I’m in love with you. I think I’ve known for ages. Maybe since third year, when you lent me your notes and smiled like I hadn’t just failed spectacularly. Or maybe fifth year, when you hexed Mulciber for picking on that first-year and shrugged it off like it was nothing. I’ve carried it for so long it stopped feeling urgent. It just became part of me.”

The fire crackled. James stared into it, hoping he would vanish.

“I didn’t plan to say that either,” he murmured under his breath.

You studied him.

Then, voice barely above a whisper: “You’re in love with me?”

He nodded, completely genuine. “Madly.”

And when you kissed him—softly, surely, like you’d already decided—James forgot how to stand still. One hand found your waist like it had always known where to go; the other hovered, then gently cupped your cheek, as though the moment might dissolve if he wasn’t careful.

Your lips were warm and real, and James felt his entire body lit with quiet flame.

You kissed him like it hadn’t scared you off. Like maybe it had pulled you closer.

When you broke apart—just enough to breathe—your forehead pressed against his.

“You really are strange, Potter,” you said.

James let out a shaky laugh. “You kissed me anyway.”

You smiled. “I suppose I like strange.”

And for once, James Potter didn’t need to speak. But if he had to, he’d spend the rest of his life figuring out the right words for you.

By morning, Remus and Sirius had double-checked the potion’s timeline. It had likely worn off sometime around Charms.

Everything after that? All James.

***

Normal Sundays for the Wayne household usually meant Ultimate Waffle Breakfast and sitting on your ass all day until patrol—it was the one day of the week where they could do anything and nothing and didn’t have to stick to schedules. Everyone loved Sundays, especially (Y/N), because it meant that all of her family was home, even Jason (who tried to deny that he enjoyed coming home to hang out, but if that mile long grin was any help, he was lying). And while everyone was home, that usually meant that everybody’s friends were coming over too.

***

She swiped the syrup out of Jason’s hand when he swung it back around, grinning at him when he glared at her.

“I was gonna use that, (Y/N),” he griped, and she shrugged, uncapping the bottle.

She tipped it over and watched the syrup lazily pour out of the container onto her waffles.

“You were taking too long.” Her eyes twinkled with humor. “I guess you were as…slow as molasses.”

While most of the table groaned at her terrible joke, Dick snorted into his milk, causing it to splatter on his plate and across the table.

“Nice one,” he coughed, wiping his face and the dark oak surface.

(Y/N) bowed dramatically. “Well, I did learn from the best.” When Dick’s face lit up, she turned to Alfred and smiled. “Alfie, thank you for teaching me your ways.”

The old butler merely tipped his head, a hidden smile crossing his lips at the way the eldest son’s jaw went slack. She turned her attention to Bruce who was quietly chewing, eyes following along the research paper she’d asked him to check out.

“Dad, what’s on your agenda for today?”

He swallowed and flicked a line out with a red pen, etching his own comment in the margin. “Lucius has a few ideas about some new gadgets he wanted to run by me.” Another line went out. “I’ll call him after breakfast.” Bruce looked at her. “You?”

(Y/N) nodded at the paper in his hands, then slapped Jason’s who was reaching over to take a piece of bacon from her plate. “Waiting for you to finish tearing me a new one so I can redo the paper.” She cut into the waffle with the side of her fork. “Once I salvage what little scientific dignity you’ve left me with, I’ll probably laze around.”

“You mean what you do normally?” Bruce quipped, grinning when she glowered at him; his eyes went back to her paper. “You’re doing well so far.”

She huffed. “Tell that to every red line you’ve marked out in that paragraph.”

He flashed the paper. “I’m writing in the margins how to change it. This isn’t a dissertation, sweetheart. You’re allowed to make mistakes. We all do.”

(Y/N) grumbled as her cheeks warmed and she went back to her plate as the conversation flowed around her.

Most of it was the discussion of what everyone was planning on doing, Damian was going to play video games, Tim was going to join him (which she knew was going to be fun while the moment lasted until the petty sibling rivalry got in the way and their gaming dwindled into a physical fight that she and probably Dick were going to have to break up), Jason was going to use the workbench in the cave to upgrade some gear, and Dick apparently,

“Wally and Garth are gonna come over later and hang out.”

She paused, mid-stab of her fork and looked at up. “Wally’s coming over?”

He nodded. “And Garth. We were gonna go to the mall and get some new clothes.”

Jason snorted, laying an arm over the backs of Tim and (Y/N)’s chairs. “Spending money with daddy’s credit card, Dickie?”

Dick smirked. “Just like you.” Jason merely matched his grin, and while the entire table was cracking up at Bruce’s frown, (Y/N) was silent, heart beating faster at the thought of seeing Wally.

“(Y/N)?” She startled and looked up at Dick.

“Huh?”

“I asked if you were okay. You got quiet all of the sudden.”

She smiled and shook her head. “Yeah, just thought about all of the corrections I’m gonna have to do because somebody CAN’T STOP MARKING OUT MY PARAGRAPHS.” Bruce merely smiled and knocked out another line.

It was a lie. It was the biggest lie she’d told right next to the one she told when Bruce had asked her where she was on prom night her senior year a few years ago—she was totally not saving a different sector of the universe with Kyle Rayner, she was dancing with Sam Reilly all night—she strongly believed her dad knew the truth—Batman knew everything.

Bruce handed the paper back to her and she groaned as she scanned the red lines on every page. It was going to take her hours to go over this.

Jason leaned over and read the title, “Cellular Division and Mutation Under Extreme Elemental Circumstances…a composition by (Y/N) Wayne.” He cocked a dark brow. “Go big or go home, huh, baby girl?”

(Y/N) hummed. “Doctor Halberd wanted us to pick challenging topics for the research paper this term.” A crooked smile crossed her lips. “I’m nothing if not ambitious about proving I’m smarter than everyone else.”

“You need another source,” Bruce murmured, sipping the steaming black coffee. “One-fourteen is good, but I’d go for one-fifteen.”

She groaned and dropped her head. “Are you kidding me? I had enough trouble gathering that many.”

“Why don’t you use Barry?” Tim piped up, mouth full of whip cream and strawberries.

“Master Timothy, we do not talk with our mouth full,” Alfred admonished, and Tim blushed.

(Y/N)’s head shot up and she stared at her brother. “That’s actually a good idea. Speedsters would make for perfect references about cellular division.” An idea popped into her head and she glanced at Dick. “And since Wally is com—”

“Nope,” Dick interrupted, pointing at her. “Wally is coming over to hang out, not to be poked and prodded to finish a paper.”

She let out a whine and turned to Bruce. “Dad, tell Dick to let me at least talk to Wally about it.”

Bruce turned his attention onto Dick. “Let your sister talk to Wally about her paper.”

“Oh, come on,” he complained and (Y/N) stood from her seat, hurrying around the table to stand behind Dick’s seat.

She draped herself over his shoulders, tucking her chin in the crook of his neck. “I promise I won’t be annoying if you let me come with you. I’ll ask two questions every thirty minutes and I’ll go do shopping on my own, so I won’t be in the way.” (Y/N) craned her neck and pulled the most pitiful puppy eyes she could. “Please?”

Dick’s eyes darted to her face and then he looked away. Just one more push.

“Please frate?” she begged and when his eyes went wide from the usage of his native tongue, she knew she’d won him over.

He deflated and let out a sigh. “Fine,” he grumbled. “You can come with us.”

(Y/N) squealed and pressed a kiss to his cheekbone, as she grabbed the paper and hurried towards the door. She halted and spun around, looking at her father.

“What do I need to be most specific about?”

“Division under elemental circumstances.”

She glowered at him. “No shit Sherlock. Specifics.”

“Molecular division under terrestrial gamma-ray flashes.”

“That’ll work,” (Y/N) nodded and exited to room.

Jason looked out the door then back to his brothers. “She’s way to excited about science sometimes.” They merely laughed.

***

She raised the red lace, cold shoulder V-neck shirt to her chest before frowning, and switching it with the full lace blue shirt with mini golden lightning bolt charms hanging off the trim. After a moment, she pulled the blue one down and sighed.

“You know, if you want to impress him, I’d wear the red shirt.”

She jumped and barely managed to suppress the scream that was coming up in her throat as she swiveled around to face her door. Jason stood in the doorway, a knowing look on his face. She could play this one of two ways: she could be truthful, or she could lie—she chose the latter.

“What do you mean?” He snorted and walked into her room, taking a seat at her desk.

“I mean if you’re trying to impress Wally, wear the shirt that’s the color of his suit, (Y/N).” She looked away and into the mirror, but she couldn’t escape the eyes boring into her back.

“Is it that obvious?” she asked quietly, and he laughed.

“That you’re head over heels for Dick’s best friend? Oh yeah. Totally.”

She sighed and sat on her bed, pulling the red top over her torso. “It’s just a crush.”

“Seems like more than a crush to me, baby girl.”

(Y/N) pulled the fabric down and looked at him. “Are you gonna tell Dick?”

Jason scoffed. “Do I look like a narc to you?”

She cocked a brow and deadpanned, “Just the other night you told dad that Damian lifted Two-Face’s wallet when he was being put in a cruiser.”

“Well, that wasn’t something important,” he countered and nodded at her. “This is.” He paused and shrugged. “Nah, I’m not gonna tell Dickhead. Play this out however you see fit, baby girl.”

(Y/N) stared at him for a moment then averted her gaze and let out a sigh; Jason huffed.

“That sounds like a heavy sigh, (Y/N). What’s wrong?”

She shrugged. “I don’t even know if Wally would be interested in me. He’s him and I’m me.”

Jason stood and walked over, kneeling in front of her. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

(Y/N) met his eyes. “Anytime he’s had a girlfriend she’s always been super strong or really outspoken.”

“And you’re not?” he quipped, causing her to huff.

“You know what I mean, Jay.”

He nodded. “Okay, so you’re not an Amazon or shoving your head up someone’s ass for a story. But you’re you.”

“And that means?”

“You’re the only daughter of the World’s Greatest Detective who’s a wicked smart science major by day and a badass vigilante by night.” He cupped her cheeks. “You are intelligent, warmhearted, talented, and absolutely beautiful.” Jason smushed her cheeks together and grinned as she giggled. “And if Wally doesn’t see any of what I just said, then he’s a damn fool and not worth your time. You hear me, baby girl?”

She nodded. “I hear you.”

Jason gave her a firm nod and let go, standing to his feet. “Now come on let’s go do your makeup.”

(Y/N) blinked. “You can do makeup?”

“Baby girl, I can do a lot of things. Now hurry up. That razor sharp eye liner and golden eyeshadow isn’t going to do itself.”

***

She waited beside Dick with a pleasant smile on her face, and despite the fluttering heartbeat in her chest, Jason’s pep talk kept running through her head and with every passing moment, she felt her confidence rising. He was right, if she told Wally and he didn’t feel the same, then it was his loss and her gain to move on and find someone else.

A black sedan pulled up at the manor and the passenger window rolled down, revealing Wally at the wheel and Garth in the passenger’s seat. Dick waved at them.

“Hey guys,” he greeted. “How was the drive over?”

“Oh, you know, we saw three carjacking’s and one armed robbery,” Garth quipped. “I assume that’s normal for Gotham though.”

“It’s a bit below average actually,” (Y/N) piped up. “Hi Garth. Hi Wally.”

Wally smiled and Garth waved in return as the two siblings started getting in the car.

“You’re coming with us, (Y/N)?” Wally questioned and she nodded.

“Do you want me to lie to you or give you the truth?”

He chuckled. “I’m always open for a good story.”

“I wanted to buy out Victoria’s Secret and piss off any boyfriends who are in hot water with their girlfriends.” The guys laughed and she admitted, “Truth though, I need one last source for a research paper.”

“Gonna find that source shopping?” Garth asked and (Y/N) caught Wally’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

“Actually, my last source is Wally.”

They fell silent and looked at her, though the speedster’s focus was on the road.

“What are you gonna source Wally on?” The Atlantean inquired.

“My paper is over cellular mutation under distress from elemental conditions.” She smiled at Wally. “Our speedster here, is a walking subject perfect for the paper. I can only hope that he agrees to be a willing participant.”

Wally chuckled. “I’d be willing to part with a few secrets for you. Of course, I’d have to—”

“Remain anonymous.” (Y/N) winked. “I’m sure my professor would be okay with me citing ‘The Flash’ so long as I had a picture with him to back it up.”

“I like pictures,” he murmured, pulling into the parking lot.

“That’s good to know,” she replied and when he put the car in park, she took her purse and added, “So I’ll leave you boys to do your shopping and Wally, I’ll text you any questions I have.”

“You’re not gonna hang around?” Garth asked and she shook her head.

“Nah, I don’t wanna be the annoying little sister who follows her older brother and his friends around.” She smiled at them. “Besides, Dick was kind enough to let me come along. Least I can do is stay out of your way.”

(Y/N) opened the door and waved at them. “Text me when you’re ready to leave and I’ll meet you back here.”

***

Despite the initial joke that she was going to buy out the lingerie store, there was actually some truth in the statement, and she drew her fingers over one of the lace baby dolls as she looked at her phone, grinning like a dope at Wally’s response.

Well, I wouldn’t say I’d grow a second skin from how fast my cells regenerate, but I can make my body heal instantaneously. -W

Can you regenerate limbs or major organs? –(Y/I)

Major organs or useful ones? -W

(Y/N) paused at his response and thought for a moment. It was risky. Sending the text, she was thinking about was risky, but it’d sure get her point across that she was into him. With her heart hammering in her chest, she pushed send and stuck her phone in her pocket.

Whichever ones are useful to you, Wally? ;) –(Y/N)

Her phone didn’t buzz for a good minute, and Wally took less than a second to reply, so he was doing one of two things: A.) Telling Dick that his younger sister sent a flirty text, or B.) Trying to figure out how to let her down easy. (Y/N) didn’t know which one was worse. Her hip buzzed and she inhaled shakily, pulling her phone out of her pocket with one eye cracked open to see how screwed she was.

Do you have a useful one in mind, beautiful? -W

She had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep from letting out the biggest gasp any human had ever made, and she nervously looked around her to make sure no one else was staring at her. She grinned as she replied to him.

Oh, I could think of one…or two or three…Why? Is there gonna be a pop quiz over this later? I’ll have you know I’m an excellent test taker. –(Y/N)

Is that so? Well, what happens if you were to fail this particular pop quiz, (Y/N)? -W

I guess you’d have to stay the night for a study session and help me make a better grade ;) –(Y/I)

As she waited for another response, someone’s hand touched the small of her back and she reacted, immediately stepping away from the offending touch to spin on them. Her eyes went wide when she saw Wally standing before her, a grin on his face, phone in his hand.

“I think an overnight study session is possible, (Y/N).”

Her mouth opened and closed repeatedly, like a fish until she finally got her brain to work and asked, “I thought you were shopping with Dick and Garth?”

He shrugged. “Told Dick you asked me an advanced question that’d be easier to answer in person than over text.” He wiggled his brows. “You know, advanced equations and scientific gibberish.”

(Y/N) huffed a laugh and turned back around, trying to ignore the heat in her cheeks as she picked up one of the teddies. And when she realized what it looked like, she only felt more flustered. Crimson with baby blue trimming and was practically a shoelace.

“Well, that’sa hint if there ever was one,” Wally quipped, and she pulled the lingerie out of his line of sight.

“It was just the first one I grabbed!” she exclaimed, snapping her mouth shut when people looked over at them. Her cheeks felt like they were wildfires, and she pressed her head against the cool metal of the rack, sighing with what little relief it provided.

“You know, (Y/N),” he started softly. “If you’re not comfortable, this doesn’t have to go anywhere. I can forget this ever happened if you want me to.” (Y/N) opened her eyes and peered at him, at the concern but also the kindness in his gaze.

“I just—” she murmured and trailed off before letting out a sigh. “It’s kinda complicated.”

“Okay,” Wally nodded. “My mouth might work faster than my brain sometimes but lay it on me.”

She cracked a smile and thought back on Jason’s words. If Wally doesn’t see any of what I just said, then he’s a damn fool and not worth your time.

(Y/N) took a deep breath and looked at him, admitting, “Wally, I have…feelings for you.” His eyes widened and though she felt the sting of embarrassment, she pushed out her words. “It’s stupid, like one of those dumb childhood crushes that just sticks with you, you know?”

She averted her gaze and looked at her peep toe heels. “I just don’t wanna screw anything up because even if you don’t feel anything like I do, I don’t wanna lose you as a friend. Because I do value your friendship.” She sighed. “And Dick. I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable about coming over to see him if there’s a chance you’ll have to see me too. I just—”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Wally interrupted gently, a smile growing on his face. “You’re thinking way big here, (Y/N). Bigger than you need to right now.”

She met his eyes. “Right now?” she repeated, and he reached out, taking her hand in his. His fingers felt tingly against her palm and he smiled.

“I like you, (Y/N).”

She blinked at him, practically dumbfounded. “You…you do?”

Wally nodded and confessed, “Have for a couple years, but I didn’t wanna make a move not knowing if you were interested.” His cheeks tinged pink, and he said, “But I’m glad you are. Like super glad.” (Y/N) giggled, suddenly feeling really foolish for all her worry and Wally let out a chuckle too.

She stared at him for a moment, relishing the coolness of his skin before pulling away, toying with the teddy in her other hand.

“So, about tonight…you staying over?”

Wally let out a groan and looked between her and the lingerie. “Probably, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to get away long enough to spend some time alone with you.”

(Y/N) let out a ‘pfft’ and winked. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Flash. You are the fastest man alive.”

“You’re into quickies? Good to know,” he grinned.

“Can anyone tell me the significance of the crew changing how they refer to Charlotte from her name to Ms. Doy-”

Some chalk had dusted over your hand where you had been writing the question on the board when you hear someone landing a punch behind you. Whipping your head around you see quite the scene laid out in your classroom.

Damian Wayne is standing over Jordan Hawthorne.

The classroom had gone silent collectively holding their breath at the sight. Jordan Hawthorne was, from your understanding, the grade bully. You had called home weekly, practically being on a first name basis with his mother. The school never did anything about him, frustrating you to your wits end. His parents were huge donors for the school, essentially allowing him to do whatever he pleased. He was bigger than most of his classmates along with an insufferably large attitude, and Damian was… small. He was probably the smallest boy in your class and Jordan loved that. He had a knack of picking on the kids who wouldn’t stand up for themselves, the quiet ones. You watched him like a hawk in your classroom when you noticed how he chose his prey. You didn’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable in your classroom, this was school not a war zone. No one should feel unsafe here.

While Damian didn’t get along with most of the kids in his grade he had never outright acted on that dislike. He would sit quietly in his chair, raising his hand when he knew the answer or had a question. On all of his assignments there were impressive sketches of different animals in the margins, you would always write an “amazing” or “beautiful” next to the drawings while grading. Despite his eloquent perspective of life, he was still a little boy who wanted some praise for his skill. It was your job as his teacher to harbor and stimulate creativity. A quick glance at him after handing back assignments confirmed your suspicion, there was a rare genuine smile at the fact that someone had noticed him. While being relatively quiet and unassuming, everything he said and did was done with purpose. Which meant something had happened here. Damian never acted without a cause.

You still had the chalk in hand when you recovered from the shock, and Jordan Hawthorne was glaring at Damian from where he had landed on the floor.

“You’re dead meat kid.” He growled and Damian only put his fists up.

When he props himself up with his hand, you finally snap back into reality and rush to where they are in the center of the classroom. The class has circled around them, and some pulled out their phones to record as though this is primetime TV.  

You push past the congregation of children and unfortunately, neither of the boys saw you coming. They were in their own little world of battle and just as you stepped in between them, Jordan had swung as hard as he could. Punching you right in the stomach.

You were not getting paid enough for this.

It hurt more than you let on. All the wind had been knocked out of you, but you were able to disguise the impact from pain to exasperation. You took a deep breath and see the wide eyes of all your students and order the boys,

“Hallway, both of you. Now.” You lift your gaze around the classroom at the stunned expressions of your remaining students, “The rest of you, sit down and start on the homework.”

And for the first time in your three years of teaching, there was no pushback. No complaints or groaning from students. There was just the quick shuffle of footsteps and chairs squeaking from being dragged across the floor then, silence. Peace and Quiet.

The boys follow out of the classroom, flanking you from each side. You walk to the social studies classroom across the hallway, where there’s a teacher’s aid. She’s an undergrad student trying to get some teaching hours with Mr. Horn, but she helps out around the school too. You open the door and pop your head in with a cautious smile.

Mr. Horn wasn’t particularly kind when his lessons were interrupted. He was super old and believed you should only speak when spoken to, so you wait until he finishes his question to the class and turns to look at you. He has an eyebrow raised prompting you to talk.

“Hi, sorry to interrupt.” The apology was useless, but he still appreciates the sentiment. “Could I borrow Sophie for a moment? I have to walk two students down to the office and need someone to watch my class while I step away.”

“Ah yes, of course.” He doesn’t seem too upset about the interruption, realizing that it was something that couldn’t wait. He looks at Sophie from her spot at the back of the classroom and cocks his head in your direction. She nods with a gentle smile on her face and makes her way out the door.

A bashful smile is on your face while thanking her for the help. She laughs it off with an “Of course!” then walks into your classroom. Sighing you look back at the perpetrators of your quickly bruising stomach.

“Come on you two.” Is all you offer them before you turn around and start the trek to the front office. There’s an echo of two sets of steps following your path and you finally drop the mask. Noticing that there are no eyes that can see your face, it contorts in pain. And as tempted as you are, you don’t bring your hand to your stomach, not wanting to give away how much it actually hurt. The bruise is already forming under the white button down you wore today. You just continue taking deep breaths until you make it to the office.

It takes about five minutes to make it all the way across the Academy. Within the first couple of days here, you learned that it’s not difficult to get lost here. It’s all the same gothic architecture that they refuse to put signs on. The only exceptions to that were the classroom numbers on the doors, which makes it too easy to miss the office in your opinion. It took you about three weeks of working here to finally learn your way around.

You pull open the door of the office, and the boys walk in single file. The secretary greets you with a smile, about to ask why you’re in the office and then sees the boys in front of you. Jordan was a regular here, so she picked up on the unsaid by his presence alone.

“Dawn’s not in a meeting right now so you can walk ‘em right in.” She informs you.

“Thank you, Nancy.” You say with a smile.

On your first day, Horn told you to make sure to get on Nancy’s good side. She knew everything about everyone at this school. Having her on your good side meant protection from the Dean, Dawn. Since everyone knew that Nancy knows everything, Dawn would trust her on her opinions on faculty. Which meant you always smiled a little wider and sometimes would get an extra pastry from your favorite cafe, when you knew you would run into Nancy that day.

You walk to the end of the skinny hallway to where the door to Dawn’s office is cracked open. You stand at the entrance and knock on the wooden door frame, and she looks up from her desktop with a calculated smile. She had long red hair and was in her mid-40s. She always wore pantsuits, she had the same one in four different colors and would rotate them. You avoided interacting with her as much as possible because she had a weird vibe to her, she always looks at you like you were a puzzle she hadn’t figured out yet.

“Good morning, Miss,” She addresses you. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this lovely visit!”

“Good morning, to you too! Unfortunately, I don’t come bearing the best news.” You tell her with an embarrassed half-smile. “I have a Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Wayne out here with me, they um… got in a fight in my classroom.”

She closes her eyes and throws her head back in the same breath. This was the worst part of the job, and you don’t envy her for having to sit through it. “Yes, of course, send Mr. Hawthorne in first. Just make sure to pick up the witness report from Nancy on the way back.”

You nod and step out of the office. Hearing what the Dean said, Jordan walks into the classroom with a smug look on his face. The face of a kid who knows mommy and daddy will get him out of trouble. The door shuts behind him, and you look down at an anxious Damian Wayne sitting in the hallway. His feet don’t quite reach the floor from the chair, and his legs are swinging back and forth, betraying his carefully neutral exterior. You stand next to him in silence just looking at him while he has a staring contest with the patterned office carpet.

“It was unnecessary for you to take the punch for me. I could handle the brunt of it.” He says without looking at you.

“I know,” You try to think of how to word this to him, not wanting to damage the fragile ego he claims is indestructible. “But I don’t like fighting in my classroom.” You place a hand on his shoulder, and he finally tears his eyes from the floor and looks up at you.

“What happened?” You ask him with a gentleness you usually reserved for the children at the orphanage you volunteered at on Sundays.

“Hawthorne said some inappropriate words to Sarah, and you know how she is.” He gestures with his hands, motioning that her personality should be obvious. “She lacks the ability to stand up for herself. What he said was vile and she was uncomfortable. She asked him to stop and he continued. He kept taunting her and she looked on the verge of tears. So, I…”

“Hit him.” You finish the story for him.

“Yes.” He confirms unapologetically.

You exhale while processing the story. You’re trying to figure out your next words to him. In all honesty, you are secretly proud of him. You hated when boys get nasty in your class. It happened more often than you’d like and you tried your best to catch it and put a stop to it, but you couldn’t catch them every single time.

However, you can’t tell your student that you’re proud of him for laying out another one of your students without risking a write-up from your supervisor, despite how much he deserved it. Your only concern now was that you would have to drag poor Sarah into this. She was very shy and would rather swallow a knife than open up. You would have to approach her carefully.

“I’m not sorry.” He cuts into your thought process.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be.” You hold his gaze. He doesn’t look apologetic at the fact that he hit the Hawthorne boy, but there’s a glimpse of worry lingering in his eyes. You’re not entirely sure where it’s from and you don’t get the chance to find out when Dawn opens the door and motions for Damien to join them inside.

“Go on.” You tell him lifting your hand from his shoulder. He nods and gets up, walking around you to go inside. He sits down and right before Dawn closes the door, he looks at you once more with that same flicker of anxiety and then the door closes.

Walking back to Nancy’s desk to pick up the report and regret not calling out sick this morning. This was only the beginning to a very long day. 

° ❀ ⋆ .  ೃ࿔ * : ･ ° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･

Sighing to yourself during your free period you start to fill out the witness report. You’ll have to submit it to the headmaster and call a parent or guardian to set up some form of a parent-teacher conference. Along with your stomach, your head’s been aching all day. For some odd reason, the divorced couple that lived next to you seemed to think that a Sunday night was the perfect time to have reconciliation sex. Safe to say that the headboard slamming into your shared wall at three in the morning was not the alarm you were expecting to wake up to.

Your eyes keep coming in and out of focus and you decide after filling out the date and time of the report, to place the pen back in the cup at the top of your desk. There was no point in filling out the form if you could barely concentrate. Elbows propped on the desk you drop your head in your hands and feel your fingers drag along your face. Peeking through your hand to check the time on the desktop, you bite back a groan seeing that it’s not even noon. It’s been the longest day of the year so far and it’s only 11:52.

You move to pull open the bottom filling cabinet. You might as well try to get in contact with the parents to set up the conference. Looking through the letter dividers, you find Damian’s first and flip it open. You read through some pages before finding the contacts. Scanning through them you notice there’s a father, a legal guardian, some brothers, but no mother. Damian had told you some stories of his mom, and you assumed she was still present in his life, but that didn’t seem to be the case anymore. You had never read through the school ordered file before, you usually never did. There was more to a student than what Gotham Academy records had to say, but this did help piece a fraction of the Damian Wayne puzzle together. You start going down the line of contacts for Damian, to make the first call.

You pull the office phone that lies on your desk closer to you and dial nine to get an outside line. The first number you dial is the phone number that belongs to his father, Bruce Wayne. You’re hunched over your desk on the phone praying he doesn’t pick up. You’ve had the luxury of speaking to him once before when Damian won an award for his essay on animal rights and it was nothing short of awkward. Whether they realize it or not, Bruce and Damian are very similar. The press liked to paint Bruce Wayne as a reckless, playboy, billionaire, and maybe it was because you are his son’s teacher, but he was nothing like that.

Speaking to him felt like pulling teeth, it was so uncomfortable. He stood tall and remained quiet the whole night. Barely saying more than three-word sentences. You’re sure that once you can have a good conversation with him that he’s good company, but this wasn’t going to be the type of conversation you were hoping for.

By some miracle, it seems that someone was listening to your prayers today and Mr. Wayne did not pick up the phone, you let out a breath of relief when the voicemail recording begun playing in your ear. So, you moved to the next contact, Alfred Pennyworth.

He was one of Damian’s other legal guardians, but you’d never met him or heard of him. And apparently, the universe wanted to keep it that way because Mr. Pennyworth doesn’t pick up his phone either.

Does anyone in this family answer the phone?

You try to call the third contact listed on Damian’s information sheet and freeze, staring at the name of his eldest brother. 

There’s no way.

It couldn’t be.

Richard’s a pretty common name, right? And so is Grayson.

Because there’s no fucking way that your Richard Grayson is Damian’s older brother.

He can’t be.

You immediately regret cashing in your prayer for the day, you would have a million conversations with Bruce Wayne if it meant you didn’t have to make this phone call. You weren’t sure how many Richard Graysons there were in the tristate area, but you knew one, and with your luck he would be the one on the other end of the line. You avoided thinking about the way your brain was engraving the phone number to memory; while your fingers cautiously pressed the numbers that created a portal into the years of your life you tried to scrub away in the shower.

Please Don’t Pick up. Please Don’t Pick up. Please Don’t Pick-

“Hey, this is Dick”

Fuck.

Of course, he had to be the person in the family to pick up the phone. Tears well up in your eyes instantly recognizing his voice. How could you not? You used to drift off into sleep while it whispered sweet nothings in your ear every night.

“Hello, this is Richard Grayson correct?” You slap your forehead, fuming that fate has decided to drag this man back into your life after it cost you everything to remove him.

“Yes,” He confirms and you fight every urge in your body to hang up on him. “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

“Hi, I’m Damian’s English Literature teacher at Gotham Academy.” You do everything to avoid saying your name. “I am trying to contact one of his guardians and neither of the others listed have answered. Do you have a moment?”

He pauses for a brief moment, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole at your desk. Holding the office phone against your ear, you drop your forehead to the cold surface of the worn desk and close your eyes. During the short silence you begin to contemplate what you’re doing with your life.

“Yeah, I do, just give me a second.” There’s muffled speaking while he excuses himself from a conversation. “Um- out of curiosity.” The color drains from your face at those words, begging to any god or star in the sky listening that he doesn’t recognize you. “Who are the other contacts listed?”

“Oh yes-” You sit up catching your breath, this was a question you would answer gladly. Looking back at the paper to list off, “I have a Bruce Wayne and an Alfred Pennyworth as his father and legal guardian.”

“Ahhh, yeah. That checks out. They’re… away at the moment. I’ve been taking care of the rascal by myself.” He sighs in a way that indicates taking care of Damian Wayne was a full-time job. “Anyway, what did the little monster do now?” He sounds so casual almost as if he’s kicked back on a desk chair pushed back to the point it’s about to tip over.

You squeeze your eyes shut as tight as they physically can, grateful no one else is in the room. This conversation, his voice, him- it’s bringing too many memories back. Flashbacks of a life you tried to forget. Flashbacks of a life you buried when you left Blüdhaven.

“Damian got into a physical altercation with another student today in my class” there’s a slight pause in between each word while you choose your words carefully, since it technically wasn’t a fight. “It’s Academy policy that I have to meet with the student responsible for beginning the physical altercation’s guardian to discuss his behavior. Since Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth were not available at the moment, I would have to set up a time to meet with you.” The speech comes out robotic, making this call more than enough times in your career here to last you a lifetime. “Unless you can get in touch with Mr. Wayne or Mr. Pennyworth, we can set up a time with them instead?”

You bite your fist struggling to not sound too hopeful with your pathetic attempt of finding an out. This would be a really big fat “fuck you” from the universe, having to hold this meeting with him. You could have been struck with any other typical Gotham luck: you could’ve gotten robbed, kidnapped by Poison Ivy, held at gun point, but no. You had to have a conversation with the man you moved cities to get away from.

“No, I can come to the meeting!” He sounds way too enthusiastic about this, especially considering you just told him that his little brother decked someone. “I can be there around three-thirty today if that works? That’s when school usually gets out right?”

“Yup!” You sounded too perky for your liking. “That works for me, I’ll jot it down in my calendar.”

“Perfect see you then!”

“See you then Mr. Grayson.”

You hang up the phone rougher than the headmaster would probably like, but screw that. It’s his policy that’s making you meet with the man who taught you that heartbreak could make you physically ill.

You spend the rest of your free period dreading this meeting that you forget to fill out the witness report and talk to Sarah. You usually left Jordan’s parents to the Dean or Headmaster because they were such important donors. It was also his fifth strike in the month which meant they would have to deal with it anyway. You end up handling everything during your lunch, one of the firsts you’ve spent alone. The boys were both in lunch detention which meant the little Wayne would not be joining you today.

Damian usually spent his lunches with you because he didn’t like any of the kids in his classes. He was reserved, never spoke much with anyone. Over the course of the year, he slowly started speaking to you more, opening up. You let him tell you what he was comfortable sharing, making sure to not pry with him. On days he didn’t feel like speaking during lunch, you would pull the screen down and put on a nature documentary that you knew he would enjoy. It was a little thing you would do to let him relax, and he’d never tell you how that made your classroom feel more like home than the manor did some days.

After deciding you would talk to Sarah tomorrow to ask her about what happened, and walking to the office to submit the witness report to Nancy, you make it back to the quiet corner of school where your classroom lies. When the door shuts behind you, you slide down to the cold floor and stare at the tile lined ceiling.

You’re sure that somewhere the hands of fate are laughing at you, puppeteering this cruel plot. That just when you had barred Richard Grayson from your mind, he had to make an infamous comeback.

The bell rings which brings the lunch period to a close, along with your pity party. You stand and brush off your clothes with a deep breath and plaster the wide teacher smile you mastered in all those volunteer hours during undergrad.

When the students start filing into your classroom, you throw yourself into your lesson about the girl who left everyone she loved and knew behind to start the life she wanted for herself. Your students would never know that you chose this book every year because you saw more of yourself in her than you cared to admit.

° ❀ ⋆ .  ೃ࿔ * : ･ ° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･

03:27 p.m.

This is the only time it would’ve been convenient for you to have a villain roaming around destroying Gotham, and of course it doesn’t happen. The Joker must have some sick sense of humor, because not even the devil could construct this type of Hell you found yourself in.

Damian is sitting at desk in front of you, in the scary statue-like way he does when you know he’s had a bad day. You keep bouncing your foot and your heels are clinking on the floor while staring out the window.

Why did it have to be Dick?

“I’m sorry that you had to stay after hours for me.” Damian whispers into the void of the classroom.

“What?” You turn to look at the boy genuinely confused. He’s looking at the desk purposefully avoiding your gaze.

“I told you earlier that I wasn’t sorry for hitting Jordan and I’m not. But you are tapping your leg impatiently on the floor, indicating that you want this to be over, and that is my fault. It is my fault that you are here this late.” He pauses and looks up to meet your eyes, and you see a slight crease in between his brows, and it hits you.

He thinks you’re upset with him.

“For that, I am sorry.” He confirms.

“Oh Damian,” You stand from your desk and make your way to crouch in front of his. “I’m not upset with you.”

“You’re not?” He looks cautious, as if he’s being lured into a trap. The doubtful look on his face pulls at your heartstrings.

“No, what Jordan said and did was wrong and while I can’t condone physical violence as your teacher,” you pause with a wicked glint in your eye. “I can tell you that he had it coming.”

When he internalizes your words and the hidden message in it, he smirks. This poor boy had spent all day thinking you were upset with him, that’s why he looked nervous in the office. Behind that mature attitude he had, he was still just a ten-year-old boy at the end of the day. So, when he smirks at you, you made sure to smile back. You smile back letting him know your room would always be open for lunch.

You stand back up letting the unsaid hang in the air and turn to walk back to your desk and before you can sit down, the door to your classroom swings wide open and there he is.

Your ex-boyfriend.

With a bouquet of flowers in hand.

The same bouquet he bought you the first time he took you to dinner.

The breath traveling out of your nose gets caught in your nostrils when your eyes land on him. He’s as devastatingly handsome as the day you left him. You tried to tell yourself his beauty would fade with time, the way every guy does when you break up with them. But no, like some cruel twist of luck, he was beautiful. The unkept raven black hair with the lightening blue eyes you spent hours staring into, took you right back to all the nights you tried to forget from college.

“Why did you bring flowers Grayson?” The catalyst for this meeting asks disgusted from his spot at the desk.

“I always bring flowers on a first date!” He responds with the boyish charm that made you fall in love with him at nineteen.

“This isn’t our first date.” You look at him through the narrow slits of your eyes.

You were going to have to start giving yourself more credit. On the inside you were nothing but an anxious bundle of nerves, but you were doing pretty good at not revealing it. You had his attitude to thank for that. Being annoyed at Dick was easy, almost as easy as loving him.

“Well, I know that sweetheart,” You flinch at the old pet name. “But it’s our first date in a while.”

“Dick, this isn’t a date.” You snap at him.

He doesn’t get to do that. Not now. Not after everything.

“Whatever you say Teach.” He gives you a playful look that almost undoes you on the spot. Trying to keep your cool, you glance down at the shell-shocked little boy that followed both of you with the same intensity that some would watch a Wimbledon match. Hie eyebrows looked just about ready to fly off his face while his left nostril was scrunched up, connecting the dots that there may be some history here.

“Damian sweetie,” you try to regain control of the situation. “Can you wait outside while I talk to your brother for moment? I’ll call you back inside in a couple minutes.”

“Only a couple?” He asks with only one eyebrow raised now.

“Yes, only a couple.” You confirm.

“Okay.” He nods and walks slowly, still glancing suspiciously between you and Dick while stepping out.

When the door shuts behind him you let out a breath and shift your eyes to Dick. Looking at him was almost the same as looking at the sun, it was a sweet temptation that once satisfied, burned within seconds. You move your gaze to the flowers shifting your position to lean against your desk. It felt safer than looking right at him.

“When did you realize it was me?” You ask him, addressing the elephant in the room. The faster you got this over with, the faster you could continue with the conference and go home.

“Come on,” He scoffs, “You can’t really think I didn’t recognize your voice from the second you said my name.”

You meet his eyes abashed, ignoring the thunderous ache in your chest that his striking blue irises brought upon you. “Dick that was like the first thing I said!”

“Yeah, I know.” He shrugs his shoulders in a way that expresses it should’ve been obvious he knew it was you. That it would be crazy if he didn’t recognize you from a phone call where you didn’t even say your name.

You pinch the bridge of your nose trying to ground yourself with the quick burst of pain, coming to the conclusion that Dick Grayson was going to haunt you for the rest of your life.

“So, when did you get this gig?” He looks around waving the flowers. “I thought you were still in Blüdhaven-”

“No.” You cut him off so simply that he stops dead in his tracks. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to ask me about my life. You don’t get to know anything anymore. Not after everything.”

He looks taken aback and a sprinkle of defensiveness pools in his posture when he straightens, “Do I need to remind you that you were the one that ended it?”

You square your shoulders pushing off the desk and narrow your eyes again, “Do I need to remind you why?”

He sighs your name in a broken plea. And just like that, you’re taken back to the run-down college apartment all those years ago where your heart shattered into a million pieces.

° ❀ ⋆ .  ೃ࿔ * : ･ ° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･

It was your two-year anniversary with Dick. Money was a little tight, so you agreed to have a small dinner at his place. You usually hung out at your apartment and preferred to cook there, but he had just fostered Haley. He hadn’t spent a night away from her yet and was nervous about leaving her alone for too long.

The little diva was making figure eights between your legs while you cooked dinner and prepped the key lime pie you were going to make for desert. She had almost tripped you three times already, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to scold her when she looked at you. She had mastered those puppy eyes that turned you into mush. She looked so happy when you shifted your attention to her, that you forgot to reprimand her and tossed some food into her mouth instead.

Turning back to the electric stove you turn the knob of the back left burner to high. There’s a rustling of keys and a smile creeps on your face that he’s finally home. Haley stops pacing in between your legs and dashes toward the door clawing at his door frame. Since moving in, Haley seemed to be on a personal mission in securing that your boyfriend does not get his security deposit back. You’d warned him about getting a dog in the apartment, but he brushed it off.

Dick finally manages to open the front door and Haley leaps at him, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He squats down to her level while she barks and licks his face. In the breaks of his laugh, he manages to get out an “I missed you too” and “easy girl” in an attempt to calm down the energetic puppy. After a minute of him petting her fur, she seems to be more relaxed while rolling over on the floor and he finally shifts his gaze to look up at you. He swears he fell in love all over again.

Your hair was pulled back into a bun that was falling apart around the hair tie, there were patches of flour on your cheek and forehead, you had an apron that he bought you for Christmas last year that had stains everywhere, and he doesn’t think he had ever seen a more gorgeous sight. There was something so magical in the domesticity of coming home to you and Haley. It was a type of love he never thought he’d get to experience again after his parents passed. A type of love he’d never had living with Bruce and Alfred.

He never considered himself a selfish person, until he met you. You were his full moon on a dark night. The elixir that brought him back to life every night when he lost his will on the streets. The princess he thought only existed in fairytales. He never wanted to share with anyone.

He had a habit of staring at you drinking in all your beauty at once, like it would be the last time he’d be lucky enough to lay his eyes on you. He soaked up everything you said, everything you did, every part of you, and he stored it deep in his heart. He worshipped you like you were the only god that mattered in this universe.

Dick truly believed the warmth in your eyes could melt all of the snow January brought to Blüdhaven. Stood in his kitchen with your arms crossed leaning against the counter, you had a smile he was convinced could bring world peace. He was a goner before you’d even said hi.

If you weren’t in college and he wasn’t lying to you about being a vigilante, he would’ve gotten down on one knee that night. He would’ve asked you to marry him. He would’ve made a fool of himself by writing you a sonnet declaring his love. He’d tell you how you restored his faith in the world, how you gave him something to fight for in the nights he put his life on the line, how you gave him something worth living for. He was so drunk in love he’d considered yelling how much he loved you form every rooftop in Blüdhaven.

He hadn’t told you about the double life he hid in the shadows. It ate at him every time you looked at him with narrowed eyes, knowing he was leaving something out of the stories he’d rehearsed. He never wanted to bring you into it. If you found out about him, you would never be safe again. He couldn’t do that to someone he loved, not after Jason. He prayed that you would give him more time, so he could figure out how to explain it all to you without outing Bruce. When you asked about the bruises and cuts, he’d brush it off and say he was clumsy or he pushed himself to hard at the gym. You weren’t convinced but you let it go, and he’d thank the stars for giving him an ounce of mercy.  

“Hello, my love” his eyes were sparkling. “Dinner smells amazing.” He stood to his full length and walked over to you, while Haley was jumping and clawing at his jeans.

“Only the best for you.” It came out more sultry than you planned, but Dick seemed into it. He crossed the short space from the door to the kitchen and made his way toward you. He trapped you against the counter with his arms encaging you. Haley was still barking at both of your legs, but you tuned her out getting lost in each other’s presence. Dick always looked at you like it was the first time he had seen you. There was so much adoration in his eyes that you weren’t convinced you deserved.

A flush creeps onto your cheeks when he leans into you and stops a hair from your lips. You feel his breath on your face, and you can smell the cinnamon gum he had definitely been chewing on the drive over. The spark in the air is electric as the favorite part of your day approached. It was the same routine every night Dick came home, you had gotten used to it, but he had an addicting air to him you could never quit. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes, and you know it’s because he’s testing you. To see if you’ll break first and lean in, you always do.

After counting to fifteen you scoff and push off the counter into him. When your lips meet, you get your first breath of fresh air all day. Blüdhaven’s pollution evaporated when you shared a breath with Dick Grayson. The world melted away and you would die happy if the world came crashing down then. You’d never been kissed the way he had. He was soft and gentle, but desperate. He kissed you in a way that made you feel loved not lusted after. The spark lit on fire every time he touched you, the world had drenched you in gasoline and Dick was the match.

He pulls away too soon for your liking and his breath comes out heavy. He’s giving you that Dick Grayson grin that lights up the sky, and you notice his pupils are blown.

“I missed you today.” He tells you in a low voice that sends a shiver up your spine.

“I missed you too, Grayson.” His arms wrap around you and every threat the world had was nonexistent in his arms. He made you feel safe, at home, at peace with life. Nothing would hurt you in his arms.

He opens his mouth to say something, but you hear the water bubbling from the pot on the stove. You turn your head to see the water boiling and wordlessly break free from your favorite place on Earth. You grab the pasta you’d made from scratch on the counter and slowly drop it into the pot. You’re about halfway done with placing the pasta in the pot when you feel strong arms around your waist.

Apparently, Dick wasn’t satisfied with the kiss and was greedy for more. He hummed quietly in your ear when you told him you’d made crab ravioli for your anniversary. He littered kisses on your neck and shoulders. He held his lips against your skin for a second too long while taking you in. Your favorite place in the world was in his arms, and his was in the crook of your neck. His chin fits perfectly on your shoulder almost as if it was made for him. You felt the smile on your neck when you realized he finally felt like he belonged somewhere.

There had to be a god somewhere that knew the world was going to rip the carpet from your feet and gifted you this last bit of peace. When you finish with the pasta you wipe your hands on your apron and lean against him, your head falling on his chest. He flinches when your head falls back and lets go of you, sucking in a painful breath through his teeth.

Whipping your head around your eyes swim in worry. “What happened? Are you okay? Did I do something?”

He starts shaking his head trying to mask the pain with a smile while dropping his hand that clenched his shirt. “No, no, I’m fine. Sorry” He extended his arms out to you so he could hold you again.

You swat them away and your fingers hover over the wrinkles on his shirt where his hand previously was. “Take it off.”

“Jeez, take me to dinner first.” He tries to lighten the mood with a joke.

Your eyes were as hard as a diamond, and your jaw clenched. “Dick, I’m not playing. Take off the shirt.”

His hands hesitate at the hem of it. A flicker of anxiety he tries to hide behind another smile, but you know him too well for that to work.

“Darling, really. I’m oka-”

“Do I have to take it off for you?” He hears the seriousness when you cut him off and freezes. “Dick, you have all of three seconds to take the damn shirt off.”

Your eyes meet his and it couldn’t be more obvious how much he really doesn’t want to do this, but you’re tired. He comes back multiple times a week with bruises that are black and blue. He’s so sore that he can barely move. You tried asking questions, but he would always brush it off and say he got hurt at practice. He was a P.E. teacher at the high school nearby and the gymnastics coach. You knew there was more to the story, but you let it go, trusting that he’d tell you someday. But you couldn’t wait anymore, if he wasn’t ready after two years he’d never be. Your patience was stretched thin and your worry clouded your judgement.

He sees the relentlessness in your body language and sighs in defeat. His arms cross at the bottom of his shirt and pulls it off in one fluid motion. You could tell by the slight crease in his eyebrows; it was harder for him than he let off.

Your hand flies to your mouth in horror at the sight in front of you. There was a huge gash lining his chest from his left shoulder to the bottom of his right ribcage. He’s already gotten it checked out because it’s been cleaned out and there’s butterfly stitches all around it. You knew this was recent because he didn’t have this last night in bed and the bruises were still pink, not having enough time to fade to the inevitable purple.

“Dick…”

“It looks worse than it is, baby. I promise.”

“Worse than it is?!” He winces at the sudden raise of your voice. “Richard Grayson, you look like someone tried slicing you in half.”

His mouth is opening to make some pathetic excuse when you beat him to it.

“When- How did this happen?”

Behind his eyes you can see he’s fighting a battle with himself, debating what he should tell you. You stare at him, eyes wide waiting for an explanation on why he has gash the size of your arm across his chest.

“Sweetheart I-” he cuts himself short, just looking at you, helpless.

“Dick, tell me the truth.” Your voice is deadly. “All of it: the scars, the bruises, the pain, this- Where do they come from?”

He swallows a lump in his throat and looks around the empty apartment in hopes of a ghost coming to save him. The defeated expression you know too well from your previous fights is etched on his face when he meets your eyes.

“I- I can’t”

“What do you mean you can’t?” Your response is instant.

“I can’t tell you where I got them.”

“Why?” Betrayal flashes across your features and your shoulder square, defensive. “I’m your girlfriend, I’m not going to judge you. I’m here for you. I’ve always been. But I can’t be here for you if you don’t let me.”

He looks so distraught and for the first time in your life, you see tears lining Dick Grayson’s eyelids in frustration. Frustration you don’t know the source of. His mouth parts and shuts multiple times in the same minute, not being able to find an explanation that is both believable and will keep you safe.

“Dick, I need the truth.” There’s a finality in your voice that you hope doesn’t have to come into fruition. “You have to be honest with me, or-” you take a deep breath steadying yourself for what you hope is an empty threat. “Or I leave.”

“No- Please no. Don’t do this.” He crosses over to you in one step and grabs your biceps looking at you with nothing but pain reeking off his figure.

“Then don’t make me make that choice. I don’t want to, but I will.” You’re both crying now, a river of tears pooling at the floor beneath you that you would rather drown in than leave. You couldn’t imagine living a life without Dick Grayson, but you wouldn’t settle for less than the truth. You wouldn’t stay with half of a man.

“I can’t tell you.” It comes out in a whisper. He rests his forehead against yours, as if it’ll transfer the information he can’t spill from his lips. His eyes are shut, not being able to meet the inevitably of yours.

“Then, I can’t stay.” You close your eyes for one last moment against his forehead. Absorbing every last piece of the man you thought you’d marry.

It took everything in you to break free from him. You didn’t look at him when you turned back to the stove and turned it off. You didn’t turn to him when you took your apron off and hung it over the barstool under the counter. You didn’t turn to him when you grabbed your purse from the coffee table.

You pet Haley one last time with tears flowing freely form your eyes and kissed between her eyes. She licked your chin, happy that you had turned back to her, not knowing you weren’t coming back.

You stand back up and look at him one last time. Your heart crumbles when you meet his eyes and he makes one last pathetic attempt with an “I love you” from across the room.

“I love you too,” it comes out more pained than endearing. “But I love me more.”

And you opened the door to a life you’d never wanted to believe could exist. A life without Dick Grayson. You sobbed the whole way home, hating yourself for your standards.

° ❀ ⋆ .  ೃ࿔ * : ･ ° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･

You shake your head at the memory and look back at him with eyes blazing. “No Dick. You lied to me. You lied to me for years.” The sentence comes out heavy, all those years of weekly therapy went to shit the moment he walked into this classroom, and you hate him for it. You hate that he still has this level of control over you. “I didn’t even know you had a brother, or that you were related to Bruce Wayne of all people?!” You throw your hands up in the air laughing to yourself. “You told me you were an orphan.”

“Well, if we are getting into the nitty gritty, I am technically still an orphan. I was never adopted. I’m still just Bruce’s ward.”

It takes all the self-restraint you have to not rip those flowers out of his hand and beat him over the head with them. You just stare at him, no words, no expression, just an empty stare. For the years you spent together it was one of the few things you’d learn that would unsettle him. Dick Grayson could not sit in silence.

Leaning into it, you begin to drown in each other’s existence. Everything you never said, everything he kept from you. Coming to the surface about to break free when he sighs and looks beyond you at your desk. He sees the book that you’re reading with the class and there’s a cautious smile on his face.

“The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle? Again?”

“Yeah, it’s a good book for the kids. I read it with all my classes.” There’s a twinge of insecurity in your tone. You sometimes forgot that he also kept those memories from your relationship, that you weren’t the only one burdened with reminders.

When you and Dick dated you read this book at least twice a year. It was your favorite book when you were younger. Your mom used to read a chapter every night before tucking you into bed. He had read it with you a couple of times when he realized how important this book was to you. And deep in your closet buried with your skeletons, there’s a shoe box full of memories that kept the annotated copy he wrote for you. It was the best present you had ever gotten and when you started throwing everything out, you couldn’t bring yourself to toss it.

“I guess some things never change.” He looks at you with the smile still painted on his face and no judgement in his tone.

He was dressed completely normal, but there were still remnants of your relationship in his clothing. He was wearing relaxed fit jeans which he only started buying when you two were dating because you told him you liked how they fit his ass. He wore a grey T-shirt that clung to his biceps a little tighter than you knew he considered comfortable because you told him once as a joke, you liked having his arm on display. And lastly, there was a silver chain that hung from his neck. He had both gold and silver, and preferred gold, but you told him one day that you thought the silver brought out the blue in his eyes and he never went back.

There was a lump in your throat you couldn’t swallow no matter how hard you tried. He looks frozen in a time where you truly believed that Dick Grayson would have done anything for you. Anything but tell you the truth.

I guess he was right, some things never change.

“Mhm.” Was the only sound you could manage when you look back at him.

“Listen, about everything that happe-” His eyes soften.

“Dick not right now. We’re at a parent-teacher conference and if I keep your brother outside any longer, he’s going to break down my door.” You see Damian’s eyes peeking through the skinny window of your classroom door and attempt to get this conversation back on track.

“Then when?” His eyes have a deep desire in them that roots you to the stone floor. You didn’t realize it but over the course of the conversation he had gotten closer to you, his fingers had made their way to your wrist. He wasn’t holding on tight, but you found yourself incapable of breaking free from his grasp. Your skin was ablaze at the light touch near your hand and you leaned into it, into him.  

“I’m busy tonight but-” You faltered. You were not busy tonight. You had no plans, but this was too much for you today. This was as much of Richard Grayson you were willing to put yourself through at the moment.

“Tomorrow then?” He was on the verge of begging, you’re sure if you told him to get on his knees and ask, he would. “We can meet at the park. Around five?”

“Dick,” you sigh, “I’m not sure abo-”

“I’ll tell you everything- I’ll bring Haley.” He stumbles on his words that you almost didn’t understand him. It took you a second to remember that Haley is his pitbull and not some random girl he brought up for no reason.

Unfortunately, just like you knew everything that would undo Dick Grayson, he knew everything that undid you.

“Okay,” You resign “five it is.” You lie to yourself by claiming the only reason you agreed to this was for Haley, you missed going on walks with her and playing with her.

And Dick, for the first time in a couple of minutes let himself breathe. He was breathing as if his head had broken the surface after jumping face first into the deep end. His hand falls away to his side, hope radiating off his body.

Glancing back at the door you see a tuft of black hair that’s beginning to get restless. You move past your ex-boyfriend toward the door without another word of your plans, ignoring the way your wrist goes cold at the absence of his fingers. Your hand hesitates over the doorknob before letting Damian back inside.

What the hell did you just agree to?

° ❀ ⋆ .  ೃ࿔ * : ･ ° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･

You glance down at your wrist while sitting on the bench.

04:58 p.m.

You got to the park ten minutes ago after sitting restlessly on your couch for an hour. You’d been anxious the whole day while at school and in your apartment. You couldn’t think of anything else. You couldn’t even get through the lesson today and just gave the kids a free day to work on anything they’d like. Your best friend had called you yesterday after work for a “catch up” call and you conveniently left out that you were meeting up with your ex-boyfriend.

After the breakup, his name was forbidden to speak around your friends and family. They hated him. Your mom flew up from where she retired in Florida to Blüdhaven the first weekend after the breakup, since you hadn’t left your bed in three days. Your best friend did the road trip from where she went to university in Central City the weekend after that.

If they found out that you had agreed to meet with the man who destroyed your whole outlook on life, they’d slap you into another dimension.

You stand up moving your purse to your shoulder getting ready to leave after concluding that this is an awful idea and you shouldn’t have agreed to this, when a familiar grey pitbull jumps at your hip with more force than you anticipated. She knocks you onto the dirt path of the park. You land in a side plank on your left forearm, so you can avoid hitting your head.

“Haley No-” The familiar voice comes a little too late.

You sit on the floor while she laps at your face and barks so loud you think you’re going to suffer from temporary hearing loss. She’s running circles around you and jumping over you in such a happy way that the innocence of the scene brings a smile to your face. She’d doubled in size since you last saw her as a baby. Your heart strings are being plucked like a guitar while she catches her breath, looking at you with those big blue eyes you’d missed.

You finally pull your eyes away from her and see… Nightwing?

You shake your head and stand up so fast you get a head rush. You stumble while balancing yourself, and the vigilante reaches out to help you stabilize.

“Hi, um, I’m sorry- I’m waiting for someone.” You rush out. You don’t know what you’re apologizing for, but you want him gone. If he was near, trouble was bound to find his way to him. You were already going to have to deal with Dick, you didn’t want to handle this too.

After living in Blüdhaven, you had become quite familiar with the vigilante. He had saved you a couple times on your late night walks back from the library. You’d almost gotten mugged like seven times in the years you lived there and he had shown up every time. He never stayed long but made sure you were safe before sending you on your way. You weren’t sure what he was doing in Gotham, but you didn’t really care.

“Darling,” he says quietly and your body freezes in recognition. “it’s me.”

Your jaw drops to hell.

You were going to kill him.

Dick Grayson was Nightwing.

You’re not sure how long you were standing there just staring at him when he laughs nervously.

“Please say something, I’m starting to freak out.” He scratches the back of neck, a nervous tick he hadn’t managed to outgrow, even after all the years you were separated.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. In through your nose and out through your mouth, just like your mom taught you. Then you did the only thing that made sense to you.

You back handed him as hard as you could.

“Okay” he groans rubbing his cheek. “I deserved that.”

“Oh, you most certainly did Richard. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Um-” Through the domino mask you can see his eyebrows rising to his hairline. His hand still cradling his cheek from the slight sting.

“What was so difficult of telling me about this all those years ago? Hm?” You feel the rage about bubbling over the cauldron you’d been stirring all day. You had tried to keep your emotions in check, taking deep breaths when they anxiety threatened to take over.

This being his big secret pissed you all the way off.

He slowly reaches for your arms after they started flailing while yelling at him. He holds them so gently, it doesn’t seem to fit the crime fighting persona in front of you. He looks scared that you’re going to strike him again, and you want to, but don’t. He guides you to the bench you were just on and takes a seat next to you. Haley jumps on your lap and you take the distraction for your hands, petting her back.

“Let me explain.” He says softly.

“Oh, I will, don’t worry. And this better be all off it, Grayson. The whole truth.”

He seems to find your exasperation at him funny, and he lets out a laugh. For a second, you think he’s genuinely laughing at this, at the pain that fucking suit caused you for years and then you see it in the way he cracks his knuckles.

He’s nervous. A nervous Dick was not a common sight, and you take another deep breath trying to calm down. Not only for your sake, but for his.

You look around and see that the park is deserted, and you realize you should probably stop referring to him by his full name. You had just revealed his secret identity multiple times in the past minute. Thankfully for both of you, you were positive the trees and flowers would keep his secret if you asked nicely.

You take yet another deep breath while it was his turn to look around at the park making sure no one else was listening in. And against your better judgement, you grab his hand. He stops looking around and turns to you. You keep your gaze on Haley petting her softly.

It was a small attempt at grounding him, a small comfort you would allow yourself. From the corner of your eye, you see him sit up little straighter, bracing himself. Then he starts talking.

Once he had started, he couldn’t stop. It all came pouring out. Some of it you knew, The circus, his family, the Flying Graysons. Then he got into how Bruce Wayne took him under his wing, literally, when his parents were killed. How he grew up as Robin, how Bruce was Batman. Spending his whole life hiding his secret identity. When he finally broke free from Bruce’s shadow, wanting to make a name for himself with the Titans and then in Blüdhaven. How he fought with Bruce over the years and was replaced as Robin by his adoptive brother, Jason Todd. How Jason died and why they never forgave themselves. How it scared him from ever potentially putting someone in that kind of danger.

“When you and I were together, I wasn’t talking to Bruce.” The earnest look in his eyes is almost too heavy for you to hold. “I didn’t know how to tell you without throwing him under the bus too. I couldn’t do that to him, no matter how upset I was with him. I also didn’t want to do that to you.”

He pauses and takes a couple of breaths. You hadn’t said anything to him while he laid himself bare for you. Just nodding and the occasional squeeze of his hand.

“I didn’t want to put you in a position of constant danger. You would be leveraged against me if any of my or Bruce’s enemies found out about you. I wanted to keep you a secret, to keep you safe. I know that’s not my choice to make for you, but I was scared, scared you’d get hurt, scared you’d leave me once you found out and-”

“Dick honey. You’re rambling.” You cut him off.

He sighs and drops his head to your shoulder. The smell of his shampoo almost suffocates you and your eyes well up. You had been biting back tears through the whole tragedy of his childhood, but the shampoo you used to wash your hair with on nights you ran out of yours is what pushed you to tears.

He feels the shake of your shoulder from crying and lifts his head and wipes the tears instantly. Haley had long fallen asleep on your lap, so you two hadn’t been interrupted by her barking for attention.

“Don’t cry, please. I promise I’m okay.” He tells you while his gloved fingers swipe tears from your cheeks.

You give him an incredulous look, “Dick you are many things, but okay is not one of them.”

He laughs, actually laughs. “I know, but I just don’t know what else to say.”

“You could apologize?” You suggest with a slight humor and slight truth in your tone.

He sighs and drops to the floor in front of you. He props himself up in between your legs, on his knees. The sun has long been set, and you’re thankful for it. If someone walked by and saw Nightwing kneeling in front of you at a park, you weren’t sure you could explain it. He takes both of your hands in his and holds them against his chest.

“I am sorry for lying to you. I am sorry for not telling you sooner. I am sorry for causing you all this heart ache. I don’t want you to think that my suffering takes away from yours. I have spent every moment in the wake of this relationship mourning you. I will always love you and that will never change. I thought about you every day and every night. If you’d give me the chance to prove myself, I’d like to try again.”

Your brain shuts down. You try to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Dick doesn’t let you get a word in regardless of what you wanted to say.

“I’ll be honest, I’ll go to therapy, I’ll introduce you to my family, I’ll take you on first dates. We can take it slow, start over, do it from scratch. I’ll do it all again, better this time. I’d do it all in every lifetime if it meant I got to spend this one with you.”

You’re still speechless but you try to focus on his words, repeating them felt easier than making up your own sentence.

“We can take it slow? Start over?” You ask hesitantly.

“Yes, whatever you want, however you want.” He nods his head, confirming he’d do anything for you.

You sit on the bench and contemplate what this will do. What it would mean to get tangled up with Richard Grayson again. Your therapist would kill you for one, but it might be worth it. A part of you hated how weak you were against him, how he could turn up and you’d give everything up for him. Even when he broke your heart, he still managed to be the reason it was still beating. After years being tortured with the ghost of him, this was a very bad idea. But sometimes, all a girl needed was a really bad idea.

 “Okay.” You exhale. “We can try again,” His eyes widen under the mask. “But you get one chance. That’s it. If you screw this one up, there’s not another one.”

Dick starts crying and drops his head onto Haley’s back in relief. He couldn’t believe his efforts weren’t in vain. That you would be willing to try again with him. He knew you weren’t lying, that this was his last chance to get it right. He wouldn’t mess it up this time, he wouldn’t let himself even entertain the idea of fucking up. He knew life with you and without you and he would do everything in his power not to relive those pain ridden years again.

So, when he looks up at you, he sees the girl he fell in love with all those years ago for the first time. Her guard was still up, and her eyes weren’t trusting yet, but it was something along the lines of it. Hope that they could eventually make it work. Hope that their paths crossed for the final time and they’d walk the rest of this life together.  

You brought your forehead against his and his hands found their place in your hair. He steals the breath straight from your lungs and you wouldn’t admit it, but you’d suffocate on the spot if it meant your dying moments were with Dick. You sit in that position leaning against him for a couple minutes with tears flowing, repeating sweet nothings to each other.

"Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, you know."

Tim jumped, spinning around to find Alfred standing behind him with a tray of cookies.

"Alfred! I didn't hear you come in."

"Clearly." The butler's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Might I inquire what has you so agitated?"

"I'm not agitated. I'm just... planning." Tim ran a hand through his hair. "My partner's coming over tonight and I just want—for once—to have a normal, quiet evening without someone bursting in with a crisis or a prank or a—"

"A family member?"

"Exactly." Tim deflated slightly. "Is that too much to ask?"

Alfred considered this. "In this household? Perhaps. But I shall do my best to ensure you have your privacy, Master Tim. I'll inform anyone who returns early that the theater room is occupied."

"Thank you, Alfred. You're the best."

"I know." Alfred headed toward the stairs, then paused. "The cookies are for you and your guest. Do try to relax, Master Tim. You've fought Raʼs al Ghūl. I'm certain you can handle a simple movie night."

Tim wished he shared that confidence.

Interruption #1: Steph

The movie was twenty minutes in, and Tim was finally starting to relax.

You were curled up next to him on the absurdly comfortable theater couch, his arm around your shoulders, a bowl of popcorn balanced between you. The movie, your choice, a comedy he'd already seen but didn't mind watching again, played on the massive screen.

This was nice. This was normal. This was—

The door burst open.

"TIM! Oh my god, you have to help me, I—" Stephanie Brown stopped dead in the doorway, taking in the scene. "Oh. Oh. You're on a date."

"Steph." Tim's voice was pained. "Yes. I'm on a date. A planned date. That I told you about. Yesterday."

"You did?" Steph's face scrunched up in thought. "I don't remember that."

"I sent you three texts."

"Oh, those! I thought those were hypothetical." She grinned sheepishly, then seemed to remember why she'd come. "But this is actually an emergency! I need you to settle an argument."

"Steph—"

"Cass says that I can't pull off the purple highlights I want to get, but I think she's wrong and I need an objective third party opinion." Stephanie turned to you. "What do you think? Purple highlights, yay or nay?"

You looked between Tim's increasingly desperate expression and Steph's earnest face. "I think... purple would look great on you?"

"See! Thank you!" Steph beamed. "You have excellent taste. Tim, you should keep this one."

"I'm trying to," Tim said through gritted teeth, "but it's hard when people keep interrupting—"

"Right, right, I'm going. Enjoy your movie!" Steph backed toward the door, then paused. "Wait, what are you watching?"

"STEPH!"

"Okay, okay, jeez. So defensive about movie night." She winked at you. "Have fun, you two. Use protection!"

"We're watching a MOVIE—" But she was already gone, the door swinging shut behind her.

Tim dropped his head back against the couch with a groan. "I'm so sorry."

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "It's fine. She's excited about her hair. That's cute."

"You're too understanding."

"One of my many charms." You grabbed the remote and rewound the movie. "Come on, we only missed like two minutes."

Tim pulled you closer, determined to enjoy the rest of the film without further interruption.

He should have known better.

Interruption #2: Duke

They made it another thirty minutes.

The main character was just about to confess their feelings when the door opened again, more cautiously this time, but still open.

Duke Thomas poked his head in. "Hey, uh, Tim? Are you busy?"

Tim's eye twitched. "Yes. Very busy. Watching a movie. On my date. That I planned."

"Oh, right! Sorry, man." Duke started to retreat, then stopped. "But really quick, and I mean really quick, do you know where Bruce keeps the good Band-Aids?"

"The... good Band-Aids?"

"Yeah, you know. The ones that actually stick. Not the cheap ones from the medbay that fall off after five minutes."

Tim stared at him. "Duke. Buddy. You have regenerative powers."

"Well, yeah, but this is a really bad paper cut and it stings, okay? I'm suffering here."

You bit back a laugh as Tim's expression cycled through several stages of disbelief.

"Alfred's bathroom," Tim finally said. "Second drawer on the left. The Band-Aids with the little bats on them."

"The ones with the bats! Perfect. Thanks, Tim. Hey," Duke nodded at you, "sorry for interrupting. That shirt looks really nice on you, by the way. Cool color."

"Thanks, Duke."

"No problem. Okay, I'm gone. Ghost. Invisible. You won't even know I was here." He gave an exaggerated thumbs up and closed the door.

Silence fell over the theater room.

"He's sweet," you offered.

Tim made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "I'm going to put a lock on this door."

"You're not going to put a lock on the door."

"I'm going to put several locks on the door. Biometric. Retinal scanner. Maybe a moat."

You pulled his face toward you and kissed him, effectively derailing his security system plans. When you pulled back, he looked slightly dazed and much more relaxed.

"Better?" you asked.

"...Yeah. Yeah, better." He smiled, the genuine soft one that made your heart flutter. "Okay. Movie. Focusing on the movie. No more interruptions."

Interruption #3: Damian (and Alfred the Cat)

Fifteen minutes later, Tim heard scratching at the door.

"No," he whispered. "No, no, no—"

The door opened. Alfred the Cat sauntered in, tail high, and made a beeline for the couch.

"At least it's just the cat," you said reasonably, reaching down to pet Alfred, who immediately began purring like a motorboat.

Then Damian appeared in the doorway.

"There you are, you miscreant feline," he said, striding into the room. "I have been searching for you for twenty minutes. You missed your scheduled grooming time."

"Damian," Tim said with the patience of a saint, "I'm on a date."

"I can see that, Drake. I have functioning eyes." Damian scooped up Alfred the Cat, who mewed in protest. "I am merely retrieving my cat. Although I question the wisdom of your film choice. This movie has a 67% rating on Rotten Tomatoes."

"I like it," you said mildly.

Damian studied you for a moment. "Hmm. You have questionable taste in films but adequate taste in partners. Drake is... acceptable."

"Wow, thanks, Damian. I'm verklempt."

"You should be. I don't give such praise lightly." Damian headed for the door, then paused. "Oh, and Drake? Father wants to speak with you about the Riddler case when you're finished with your... recreational activities."

"Tell him I'm busy."

"I told him you were on a date. He said, and I quote, 'Good for him. It can wait until tomorrow.'"

Tim blinked. "Really?"

"Yes. Even Father understands the importance of maintaining healthy romantic relationships. Unlike some people." Damian cast a pointed look at the door. "I suggest you lock it. Grayson is on his way back from the Titans and you know how he gets about 'family bonding time.'"

With that ominous warning, Damian left, Alfred the Cat giving one last mournful meow as they disappeared.

Tim was already up and heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" you asked.

"To lock this door. Damian was right. Dick will absolutely burst in here with suggestions for a 'group movie night' and then suddenly we'll be watching some acrobat documentary while he does handstands on the couch."

You watched, amused, as Tim engaged what looked like several heavy-duty locks on the door. "Is this a normal thing?"

"You have no idea." He returned to the couch, looking grimly satisfied. "Okay. We're secure. Fort Knox has nothing on this door now. We can finish the movie in peace."

Interruption #4: Dick (The Final Boss)

They almost made it to the end.

The climactic scene was playing out—the one you'd been waiting for—when there was a knock at the door.

"Tim! Timmy! I know you're in there!"

Tim's eyes closed in defeat. "No. Not Dick. Anyone but Dick."

"I brought pizza!" Dick's voice was muffled through the heavy door. "And breadsticks! Alfred said you two might be hungry!"

"We have popcorn," Tim called back weakly.

"But do you have pizza?" There was a pause. "Also, why is this door locked? Did you lock the door? That's so unsociable, Little Wing!"

"That's Jason, not me!"

"I can call you whatever I want, I'm the oldest!" Another pause. "I'm not leaving until you let me in. I'll wait out here. I'll sleep out here. I'll tell Alfred you're not eating proper meals—"

"That's blackmail!"

"It's called being a good older brother!"

You were laughing now, actually laughing, and Tim looked at you with such betrayed puppy-dog eyes that you almost felt bad.

"You think this is funny?"

"Tim. He brought you pizza. He's waiting outside the door. He's not going to leave."

"I know," Tim groaned. "That's the problem. Dick has the patience of a saint and the stubbornness of... well, a Bat."

"So let him in?"

"But the movie—"

"Is almost over anyway. We can finish it later." You squeezed his hand. "Besides, I kind of want to meet the legendary Dick Grayson properly. You talk about him all the time."

"I do not—"

"You absolutely do. It's adorable."

Tim's ears turned red. "Fine. FINE. But he's staying for exactly fifteen minutes and then he has to leave."

He stalked to the door and began undoing the impressive array of locks. When he finally wrenched it open, Dick stood there with a pizza box, a bag of breadsticks, and the brightest smile you'd ever seen.

"There's my favorite little brother!"

"I'm not your, we're not even biologically, you know what, never mind." Tim stepped aside. "Fifteen minutes, Dick."

"Thirty."

"Twenty."

"Twenty-five and I'll tell you about the time Bruce accidentally bought a Costco membership and didn't know how to cancel it."

"...Deal."

Dick bounded into the room like an overgrown puppy, immediately setting the food down and turning to you with his hand extended. "Hi! I'm Dick. You must be the person who's made Tim actually smile at his phone instead of just frowning at case files."

You shook his hand, grinning. "Guilty as charged."

"I like you already. Anyone who can get Tim to take a break deserves a medal." Dick collapsed onto the couch, already making himself comfortable. "So! What are we watching?"

"We're not watching anything," Tim said, sitting down and immediately pulling you close in a possessive gesture that made Dick smirk. "You're delivering pizza and then leaving."

"Rude. I'm hurt. Wounded, even." Dick grabbed a slice of pizza. "But seriously, it's good to meet you. Tim talks about you constantly. It's actually kind of gross how smitten he is."

"DICK—"

"Last week he spent twenty minutes analyzing a text you sent him. Twenty minutes. It said 'sounds good.'"

"I was determining context!"

"You were being a disaster." Dick grinned at you. "But a cute disaster. You're good for him. I can tell."

And despite the interruption, despite the ruined movie night, you felt warmth bloom in your chest. Because this was Tim's family—chaotic, intrusive, loving. And they cared about him enough to bring him pizza and tease him and make sure he was happy.

"He's pretty good for me too," you said, leaning into Tim's side.

Tim looked at you with such open affection that Dick actually cooed.

"Okay, that's it, I'm definitely crashing movie night. This is too cute. I need to witness this."

"DICK!"

Bonus: Success (Sort Of)

Three hours later, the pizza was gone, Dick had finally left (after getting you to promise to come to family dinner next week), and you and Tim were alone again in the theater room.

"I'm sorry," Tim said for the fifteenth time. "This was supposed to be a nice, quiet evening and instead you got the full Wayne family experience."

"Tim." You turned to face him. "It was perfect."

"How? How was that perfect? We got interrupted four times! We didn't even finish the movie!"

"We had fun. I met your family. Duke complimented my shirt. Damian called you acceptable. Dick told me embarrassing stories about you. And—" you cupped his face gently, "—I got to see how much they all love you. How lucky you are to have them. How lucky they are to have you."

Tim melted into your touch. "You're not mad?"

"Not even a little bit." You kissed him softly. "Although, for the record? Next date is at my apartment. Where there are significantly fewer vigilantes."

"Deal. Absolutely. Yes." He kissed you again, longer this time, and when you pulled apart he was smiling—that real, genuine, unguarded smile that made all the interruptions worth it. "I really like you, you know that?"

"I really like you too, Tim Drake."

"Even with my disaster of a family?"

"Especially with your disaster of a family."

From somewhere in the Manor, there was a crash, followed by Jason's voice yelling something about someone eating his leftovers, and Damian shouting back in offended Arabic.

Tim groaned. "We should probably—"

"Nope." You pulled him back down onto the couch. "Alfred will handle it. This is our time now. We earned it."

"We really did." Tim settled beside you, pulling a blanket over both of you. "So... want to start the movie over?"

"Absolutely."

This time, miraculously, no one interrupted.

You don’t budge, eyes purposely wide as saucers, hoping your pleading's visible enough to coerce his sleep-deprived brain cells to work on something that wasn't the large Bat-Computer, illuminating a spotlight on his eye-bags.

He sighs. “Fine. It shouldn’t be that hard to think of.”

“I guess..” He mutters distractedly, multitasking your strange request and his work and an indulgent sip of his over-steeped tea. “He hates clumsiness? One time, Dick knocked over his printed Bat-Cow mug and even though he caught it immediately, you should’ve seen the look on Damian’s face.”

Not off to an amazing start. You don't dare recall the amount of times he’s caught you from face-planting in your shared apartment—or the number of plates you’ve broken when they slipped from your hands while washing them.

“Right. Clumsiness.” Your laugh comes out forced. “Anything else?”

“Hoarders.” He mutters through another sip, even as his nose scrunches at the bitterness. “I keep a bunch of files in the Bat-Cave, because forbid a man for wanting physical archives in case the Bat-Computer’s compromised. He snapped at me on the amount of useless cases I had collecting dust in the corner.”

Your heart squeezes traitorously, already aligning yourself with the trait before you could even deny the semblance. You didn’t expect him to accurately describe someone like.. you?

Your collection of junk is still stored inside a designated cardboard box, keeping letters he’s given you throughout your relationship, receipts from closed-down restaurants, or even the bed that's littered with your worn plushies. You rarely threw away anything as long as it held a small amount of sentimental value.

“Uh-huh.” You mutter distractedly—thinking back on your shared apartment and the amount of drawers you took up.

“I suppose—people who can’t protect themselves?” Tim shrugs apathetically. “He’s already so strict on his own training regime, I doubt he could possibly understand anyone who doesn’t know self-defence.”

You feel like you’re going to pass out. Tim finally stops, looking over to your distressed expression. “Oh, I wasn’t referring to you.” His mug’s 'Best Detective' claim flashes at you, sipping awkwardly at the realisation that he may have made a huge error with his words. “I just think he naturally has a lower tolerance for anyone that isn’t you.”

Tolerance, something that wears out in time. What if Damian was holding in all these things and it could potentially lead to resentment that you’re a combination of all the traits he finds annoying?

“Don’t take it to heart.” Tim says, his expression akin to one trying to disarm a bomb. “Seriously, hell will freeze over before that demon spawn ever hates something about you. You’re like—his only exception.”

You nod faintly, mind too preoccupied to truly listen. Your phone buzzes, lighting the lock screen and a notification for one of your packages has arrived. “Ah, I better get back! Nice seeing you, Tim. Thanks for the.. information.”

“No problem?” He answers, sounding unsure. “Don’t tell Damian I said anything!”

—

“Beloved?” Damian calls.

You barely hear his voice over the furious typing on your laptop, much less his trained footsteps that you could never detect. You raise your head, casting him an over-enthusiastic smile. “Hey, Dami!”

He tugs his coat off, placing it on the coat rack—gaze lingering on your laptop. “What are you doing?”

You feel as if you’re caught in the middle of a heinous act. “Um—” It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong. Maybe he might even be proud that you’re being proactive about improving your self-defence. “I’m signing up for a martial arts class.”

His brows furrow, his expression perplexed. “All of a sudden?”

“Just thought I’d try something new.” Your white lie slips out easily. “With how Gotham is, I realise I should probably learn some moves. Just in case.”

He frowns. “Is there something concerning you regarding safety?” Looking around the apartment, he analyses the astounding upgrades he’s done with a displeased frown. “I was thinking of thickening the window’s glass to have an increased bullet-proof rebound rate. Or installing motion cameras-”

“No! No.” You stop him, already detecting the pattern of his mind, unravelling into a never-ending state of over preparation. You’re sure that even if the Earth splits into two, your apartment would still be standing unscathed with what he’s already done to the structure. “It’s just a hobby, Dami. You did a great job already.”

The last thing you wanted was to add on more burdens for him. He’s been taking on more cases than usual, back on another silent war with Tim on a silly tally-off, not like either has been keeping a fair count, and him being away for more hours meant that you had time—the chance to show him this improved side to you.

He pauses in his fretting, blinking slowly like a feline before beckoning himself over to where you laid, chin tucked to your neck as you hoarded your favorite corner of the sofa.

Brushing your hair aside, he places a soft kiss on your forehead. “Alright. Anything you want.” He obliges. “You’ve already charged it to my card, yes? If you feel anything inadequate about the instructor, cancel it immediately. I’m more than willing to train you myself.”

From the way he’s looking at you, it’s almost like he wants you to say you prefer his suggestion. You almost do, tempted to let him teach you instead—because a hot trainer who is also your boyfriend sounds like a match-made in heaven, then you remember Tim’s words. I doubt he could possibly understand anyone who doesn’t know self-defence.

If Damian saw you with his own eyes on how ill-equipped you were to protecting yourself, what if he sees you as even more inadequate? You shake your head, a perfect vision of Damian's disappointment swarming your thoughts. “I’ll see how the first class goes. Apparently, it’s super beginner-level so it should be perfect for me.”

He stares at you, and you can feel his mind racing in its analysis before he nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll join you.”

“What!” You splutter.

“I have to ensure the instructor is truly capable in teaching you.” He states casually.

“Damian. You’re probably more knowledgeable than he is.” You deadpan. “It’s going to feel like how advanced calculus was for you. Toddler’s work.”

His expression doesn’t so much as shift, but you spot tension in his shoulders. “He? Even more reasons to join then.”

Oh god, what did you just unleash?

—

“Welcome to ‘Gotham Martials-Beginner’s Class'!”

The instructor is in the tightest, most neon-green outfit you’ve ever seen and under the intrusive lights, it nearly blinds you with its reflective power. Damian doesn’t bother hiding his grimace at the sight.

“Don’t be intimidated, folks. I've only held a black belt in Taekwondo for the past fifteen years.” He boasts. “If there’s anyone who’s going to make you Nightwing-material, it’s yours truly!”

The mention of his brother sours Damian’s expression, visible in the tick of his jaw. Sibling rivalry was only ever intensified among him and his brothers. He schools it into perfect nonchalance when you look over at him, trying to contain your laugh.

“Now, who’s a willing volunteer to come up and let me show them the ropes?” The instructor calls out. “As I always say, learning from example is better than theory!”

The instructor eagerly scans the room, and his mark makes its target. “What about you, lady? You look excited to start your journey in becoming a Martial Arts expert!”

It must’ve been your nearly-dying expression over Damian’s scowl that caught you in the web of his gaze. Your smile drops, feeling nervous with the numerous eyes on you from the other trainees. “Well—”

”There’s no need.” Damian calls out, his hand brushing against yours in reassurance. “I volunteer.”

“Ah! An enthusiastic young man.” The instructor claps. “Very well, come on to the front.”

Damian casts you a grimace, before he strides to the front. It was almost a comical sight with how he towers over the instructor, his arms crossed in disinterest. His gaze flickers over to you, clearly unimpressed.

“Ah, the first rule is to never cast your eyes off your opponent—”

It happens in a flash. One moment, the instructor is charging at Damian, and the next, he was on the ground with a loud bang!, with Damian pinning him down.

“Agh!” The instructor chokes out, and a chorus of gasps echoes through the room.

Damian lifts himself off, brushing his hands against his shirt. “You were saying?” He says dryly.

Your own hand is clasped over your mouth, but unlike the others, you’re trying so hard not to laugh. Damian's clearly terrified the rest in the room, as the circle of trainees distance themselves from the spectacle.

The instructor lifts himself off the ground, gripping onto his lower back for dear life. “Ha-ha—Right! I was going easy on you. Good example, folks. This is exactly how you pin someone down.”

His eyes avert Damian’s raised brow, sweat pooling at his brows. “Now, let’s resume the class at its usual distance. I’ll be in the center, and all students will be behind the red circle.” He points down at the faded drawn line, suddenly not willing for an up-close demonstration.

The class continues on with a series of stretches followed by beginner poses. You doubt any moves you were taught would actually save you against an actual criminal on the streets, but seeing Damian being forced to do such minimal movement with a disgusted expression made it all worth it.

“I think I gained a six pack just by watching you.” Your core was still burning from the restraining laughter as he inserts the key to the door of your apartment. “Never seen you so—restrained.”

He casts you an unimpressed look. “The mystery of how this city has so many civilian kidnappings was all answered by that lacklustre session. If that’s the highest rated ‘self-defense’ class in Gotham, it’s no wonder this city’s crime rate hasn’t gone down.”

“It must’ve been a pain for you." You sympathise as best as you could with an Al Ghul prodigy. "Even if the session had been a hundred times better than Mr. Neon Tights, I doubt it would’ve been useful compared to your experience.”

His narrowed eyes soften, hand kept extended to hold the door open for you. When you enter, he swiftly closes the door, arm still hovering over you and cornering you in. “That wasn’t my intention.” He says. “If I had attended for self defence, that would’ve been highly unproductive. But—”

His free hand comes up to caress your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his eyes fully. “My intention was to spend time with you. And seeing you have a good time, regardless of the quality of the session, had always been the goal.”

Your cheeks warm, and he’s doing that weird thing again where he makes you feel special for doing absolutely nothing. “You’re cheesy.”

“Hm.” He hums. “Maybe I’ve been too affected by Mr. Neon Tights.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips out, and his smile deepens—highlighting a soft dimple that you secretly obsess over. Falling into character, you clear your throat. “Aren’t you aware, Mr. Wayne? It’s not always about the result, it’s the journey.”

He huffs in amusement. “I wasn’t aware of such peculiar words of wisdom. From now on, you’ll be training with me. No more of that nonsense, even if it entertains you, beloved.”

“What?” You pretend to gasp. “Whatever shall I do without his neon tights to motivate me, Dami? You’re cruel.”

Leaning in, he murmurs. “I can think of other ways to motivate you.” Hands parting from the door, they wrap comfortably around your waist, gently pushing you back against the wood as he leans in. His lips press softly against yours, and it’s the soft moments of domesticity like this that you wish so desperately to stay longer.

By the time he parts from you, your lungs were screaming for more air than they’ve ever did in that class.

“How’s that?” He taunts lowly.

“Not bad. I feel pretty motivated to do a push-up right now.” You affirm, a little dazed.

Damian’s rare laugh is heavenly to the ears.

—

Damian’s away on another patrol, and in the midst of his absence, you’re uncovering your hoard of memories that look more kindled to trash now that it’s laid out on the floor. Damian’s letters, still too precious to ever even consider throwing away are stacked in a pile to your left, and your childhood stash is on the right.

You stare seriously at your pre-school drawing, a horrible attempt of drawing the Bat with fangs coming out under his mask. It's abstract, and you're much too biased to throw away a four year old's masterpiece. Maybe you could use it as a birthday card for Bruce?

“Beloved, what are you doing?”

You quickly hide the card, your body covering the junk as Damian enters the bedroom from the window. He’s covered in soot, but no blood is seen on his suit. Your immediate relief soothes your body, but his gaze set on the mess behind you seizes you to stand.

“Dami!” Your voice sounds way too chirpy to be anything but suspicious. “Nothing, I was just cleaning out some old stuff.”

“At 3 A.M.?” He asks incredulously.

“Cleaning jitters.” You shrug.

“Alright.” He says slowly. “I’ll take a quick bath, then I’ll assist in sorting it out with you.”

“No, it’s fine!” You quickly interject. “You must be tired after patrol. I’ll just quickly clean this up. So you can go to sleep, I know you don’t like mess.”

His hand lifts to detach his domino mask. Nothing stops his trained eye from sweeping the floor for this supposed ‘mess’ you’re talking about.

“My letters?” He asks, surprised.

“Oh, I just wanted to store them somewhere safely.” You explain. “If it hadn’t been for the letters, we.. wouldn’t be here now. I didn’t want dust mites to get to them.”

His lips quirk up faintly, softening at the memory. He looks over to the corner, where Mr. Paddington, one of your remaining childhood plushies was stuffed into a paper bag.

“Why is Mr. Paddington there?” He interrogates.

You swallow, averting your gaze. It's just a bear. A bear who's been through your ups and downs for the past decade. “I realised he’s—in really bad condition. And I keep hoarding things because of sentimental value, but it’s taking up space over the apartment. Like the bed is 55% my plushies and I don’t want you feeling like you’re running out of space because it’s your apartment too.”

He stares long enough that you start to feel it dig into your skull, before he turns fully and stops in front of you, lowering himself to your eye level.

“Is this an indirect method of asking me to expand our living quarters?” He asks, straight to the point as ever. “I can have us a new apartment by the end of the week.”

“No way.” You say flatly, his words stoking a flame of protectiveness over your shared home.

It’s an understatement to say you love this apartment. Call it being biased, but it was the first place you and Damian truly created into a home, and the memories stored within the brick walls (another addition you love), is something that will have to be pried, tooth and nail, from your cold hands.

“I just—I want to be more considerate, of the space and my junk. You may need more hanger space for your 10% shade differences in sweaters.”

He doesn’t so much as shift at your teasing, a blunt attempt at distraction to his skeptical eye. “Whatever is mine is yours.” He emphasises. “I got us this place because I wanted you to have a comfort space. I want you to use it.”

He bends, taking Mr. Paddington into his arms and patting away some dust that’s gotten on him. “You’re right, the stitching in his eyes has come loose. I’ll send it over to Alfred. He has been itching for something to do ever since most of us moved out, and he’s adequate in sewing.”

You don’t know why, but Damian being so considerate despite you having full evidence of your hoarding habit splattered over the bedroom floor tugs your heartstrings hard. You can’t resist hugging him, even when his suit is dirty. He holds you tight, Mr. Paddington squished between the two of you.

“Is there anything else you want?” He asks gently, his other hand gently rubbing your back. “You can always ask, beloved.”

You shake your head. “No, this is perfect.”

He hums. “Leave it be. We’ll sort it out tomorrow, together. I’ll run a quick bath, so why don’t you put Mr. Paddington back on the bed where he belongs, and I’ll accompany you to sleep as soon as I’m done?”

He’s perfect. It’s almost terrifying how easy it is to lean into his arms and accept his help. You should take care of your mess, not give him another task to do when he’s already tired from patrol. Still, when he places a soft kiss over your forehead, you find it hard to disagree tonight.

When he sinks into the bed, the faint smell of his body wash envelopes your senses. His weight tips you towards him, but even gravity isn’t as quick as your boyfriend’s instincts, pulling you into his arms till his frame shields yours. His chest moves in synchronicity with your breathing against your back, and the thought hits again that you don't deserve him.

Somehow, against all odds of your bad luck where he’s discovered your flaws two times in a row now when you're only trying to improve them, the softness in his gaze has never shifted, annoyance never once making its way into his expression.

Was Tim really right? That Damian’s intolerance for the flaws he listed out fades when it comes to you? You want to ask, but hearing Damian’s slowed breathing, meaning he’s fallen asleep—you think not all hope is lost yet. There’s still one more flaw you could work on, to make his life a little easier for all the times he’s loved you despite your flaws.

—

If you’re not going to get better at self-defence or the habit to hoard, at least you’ll master tackling your clumsiness. You’ve managed in avoiding plate arson for the past week, and call it over-confidence, but when you spot the clock’s hand frozen over the kitchen, you think it’s finally time you get over your fear of ladders.

“Beloved? What are you doing?” Damian calls out, a hint of distress in his voice when he spots you, on the second highest level of the ladder, hands fumbling with the clock.

“Taking out the clock.” You answer, distracted with the hook that’s stuck onto the nail. “Its battery needs changing.”

“I can do it.” He offers, his hands coming up to stabilise the ladder. “You need not concern yourself with small matters like these.”

”Yeah, but I want to.” You answer, finally unlatching the clock. “Got it!”

When you feel your balance tilt, you realise your miscalculation. With both your hands on the clock, you’re no longer holding the wall, and your feet stumble as your back arches backward. You yelp, falling backwards—right into Damian’s arms.

The clock is still in your hands, covering your face halfway to hide your shame as Damian stares at you, and you see the waver of relief, worry, and amusement playing out in the flickers of his gaze.

“That’s so embarrassing.” You mutter to yourself, still using the clock to shield your face from his prying eyes. “Let me down. Oh—can we please pretend that never happened?”

He doesn’t respond, hands still firmly wrapped around your torso, leaving your feet dangling in the air as he pins you under his gaze. “No, I think I quite favour this position.”

“Don’t tease, Damian.” Calling him by his full name doesn’t do the trick. If anything, it makes his smugness triple in size. “I seriously thought I accomplished getting over my fear of ladders. Now it’s hyper-intensified and my fears have turned to actual trauma.”

He snorts softly, carrying you over to the sofa and settling down. You lay there in his arms, which is admittingly, very comfortable, making it difficult for you to climb out of his hold. Not like he’d let you, the only time his arms wasn’t wrapped around you was when he took one hand to tear the clock out of his hands, settling it at the coffee table.

“What is bothering you?” He finally asks.

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

“First, the training classes, then Mr. Paddington, and now, the clock?” He lists out. Damn him and how observing he was. “Something’s bothering you.”

You hesitate. It’s irrational, but what if you list out the traits he hates, and he realises that you’re really all the things he despises? Your mind knows Damian loves you, but at moments, your heart wonders why.

”Well..” You swallow. “Promise not to get mad?”

“I could never be mad at you.” He answers immediately.

You don’t even know where to start. “You always take care of me. And you rarely complain. So I was starting to wonder if there was anything I did that could.. piss you off that you never mentioned.”

His brows pinch together. “Was there anything I did to make you reach that assumption? I know my communication of my feelings still needs.." He grimaces as he manages the word out. "Improvement. If I ever made you feel at unease, it was never my intention. I’ve never felt that way about you. Ever.”

“No—no.” It’s a relief to hear him say that, but it’s much harder to sound convincing when he’s looking down at you with his unbridled concern, his gaze softer than you’ve ever seen. “I just didn’t want to accidentally do something in habit that irritates you when you’ve been nothing but good to me.”

Averting eye contact, you focus on the jammed hands of the clock. “I asked for a list about what you hated and—it felt as if each description pierced right through me, so I panicked and over-compromised.”

His gaze sharpens. “What list?”

“Um—” You discreetly feel Tim’s lifespan shortening. “Just a couple of things. Hearing them made me realise that I could be a burden to you because of all the annoying things you have to deal with—so I tried to improve them. I don’t want you feeling like you have to take care of me because I’m not good in doing it.”

He shakes his head, mouth pursed and ready to argue but not quick enough to avoid the finger you place on his lips. “It’s not that I don’t want you taking care of me, because I love that you do. I appreciate it so, so much that I’m scared that I’m relying too much on you.” You admit, feeling a lump growing in your throat. “And I’m scared that taking care of me gets tiring.”

He gently caresses your wrist, pulling it aside so he can speak. “I want to take care of you.” He reassures you.

“But you hate clumsy people.” You croak out.

“I love your clumsiness.” He answers in a factual tone. "It's easier to get you into my arms."

“And you hate people who hoard.”

“I hoard things you gift me.” He bites back. “It’d be hypocritical of me to judge you for that when I partake in the same habit."

“You—“ Somehow, his easy way of dissuading your worries is working, and you can’t think of much else. “You hate people who can’t protect themselves.”

“Then what is my purpose, beloved?” He asks. “If not to protect you. If I could not fulfill even that duty, I would condone that hatred on myself. Never you.”

“Then what has this week been for?” You moan. “Felt like a humiliation ritual—Like I was horribly incapable as Damian Wayne’s partner.”

His lips quirk up. "Adorable." He whispers, as if he can't help himself. "You are capable. Of more things than you think.”

“You understand people better than I do, which is why you tried to be considerate of me by doing this.” He adds. “I appreciate your efforts, beloved, but you don’t need to be anything more or change yourself because I cherish you as you are. You’re already perfect for me.”

Damian’s love has always been shown through his actions, his unwavering patience he’s harnessed just for you, evident by his siblings’ complaint of unfair treatment. Yet, to hear him say it so directly—you can barely think of what to say back without sounding like an emotional mess.

“Where did you obtain such an unreliable list?” He asks after a moment.

You wince. He stares and stares, akin to a falcon, till it comes out of you. “…Tim?”

He scowls, gaze hardening with a familiar murderous intent. “I’m going to kill Drake.”

“Please don’t.” You plead. “It’s my fault, really. And if it hadn’t been for him, I would still be avoiding this conversation and I wouldn’t have gained the guts to say it out loud.”

His lips purse in a thin line, which is his best attempt at consideration. “I’m still not pleased that he indirectly made you feel unworthy when that’s never been the case. But you are right.” His free hand brushes over your cheek, growing serious. “Next time, if you ever feel this way, tell me first. I’ll listen, always.”

“And believe me when I say—you could never irritate me.” He declares. “You’re my gift in this world, and there’s no other person who brings me peace the way you do. You’re not meant to exist without flaws, and I love every single one of them. It makes you human, and more precious in my eyes. So don’t hide your worries from me. Bear them with me instead, and I’ll reassure you.”

Your eyes feel wet when you blink, your lashes clumping together, and your heart is thumping louder than it should. “Oh, man.” You mutter. “You just made me fall for you all over again. That’s not fair.”

His lips twitch into a soft smile, and presses a feather-light kiss over your forehead. “Then you’ve been unfair on me too. I suppose I'll have to be more unbearable in my affections to not let such silly worries get to you. I haven't been doing a good job in my duty if you could believe in a list like that."

“And for the record.” His gaze softens. “I didn’t see anything we did this past week as a burden. I enjoyed spending time with you, at the martial class, and the morning we spent organising your childhood memories, and even now—because that’s the reason I want to be with you. To be in your life, to be your support, your person.”

Your throat clogs together, and if he wants to succeed in making you a wreck, he's done it well.

“Cause..” He murmurs. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. Isn’t that what we promised?”

“Then, do you also solemnly swear, Damian Wayne—” Lifting up your pinky finger to him, you muster your most serious expression. “That you’re truly in this even with my flaws, on the good and bad days?”

He links his pinky with yours, wrapping it close to his chest right above his heart. “I solemnly swear.”

Damian always keeps his promises. You could ask him to capture the Sun for you, and he'd somehow find a way to do it before Monday.

“What else did that lunatic say?” Damian interrogates.

Your mind scrambles for anything to save your future brother-in-law’s life. “Tim did say I was your only exception.”

He huffs. “I suppose there’s one thing Drake finally got right.”

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In the beginning, Jason was apprehensive about you. You who approached him first, completely unprompted, at your favorite coffee shop. All red and fidgety with nerves when you asked him for his number.

At first he was sure it was a trap, someone sent sweet, unassuming you to catch him off guard. Try and trip him up then get him when he’s unprepared and vulnerable. After all, regular people didn’t just walk up to Jason on purpose to ask him anything, let alone on a date. Jason knew he didn’t really give off dinner and a movie vibes.

Still, something about you drew him in. Maybe it was the overwhelming normalcy of you. Your outfit was overly-casual, like one of those too-late-in-the-week-to-care outfits when it was only Tuesday. You had a kind of anxious, hurried jitteriness to you that screamed that late-for-everything-college-student vibe.

With your bag slung over your shoulder, bursting with notebooks, textbooks, and stray paper, and your iced-coffee order’s condensation beginning to soak your hands, you weren’t extraordinarily beautiful, or blindly radiant, or mysterious like you were hiding a million secrets from the world. You were just any other twenty-something year old running late for her morning classes.

You were also beginning to tense from Jason’s continued silence, embarrassment overwhelming your body language.

Just as you begin to open your mouth, laugh it off and go about your day pretending like you won’t be thinking about the most beautiful boy you’ve ever met’s hard rejection of you at your favorite coffee place (which you’d never be able to return to again) for the next thirty years of your life—he agreed.

With eyes narrowed in suspicion Jason gave you his number, telling himself it was only to figure out who’s ploy this was and what they wanted with him.

Well, Jason’s investigation lasted eight dates before becoming an official label. And somewhere between the meeting your family and the engagement to marriage pipeline, Jason had to admit you might have really just wanted his number.

Jason was unlike anyone you’d ever met, just like you’d known the second you laid eyes on him. He was rugged and rough around the edges in a charming way. Confident and unwavering at one minute, and then second guessing and completely stumbling over himself the next. When it came to you, he was so unsure about everything. Afraid his touch might break you into a million pieces, and his scars—literal and figurative—would scare you away. All he knew was he could not mess this up.

Jason was pretty closed off when you first started going out. He hid secrets you couldn’t begin to decipher and told lies like a priest spreads the gospel. It took a while to crack him open, but when you did the damage was irreparable.

You confronted him one night about his coming and goings at unholy hours of night and morning. It was not too long after the two of you moved in together. It was getting near impossible for him to hide the bruises from you now, and the anxiety of not knowing where your boyfriend was disappearing to kept you up all night.

You wanted to give Jason his privacy, just let the sickening feeling coiling in your stomach slowly eat away at you. Keep it locked up snug and tight. But, one too many sleepless nights and you broke like an old dam under distress.

Tears and flurried words and too many feelings for you to keep up with all came rushing out when he stumbled back into your shared apartment one night smelling of blood, sweat, and something feminine. You asked if he was in some kind of trouble, or if there was someone else—if he didn’t want to be around you anymore that was totally fine, but at least let you know before you get into this too deep—

Jason cut off your rambling with a bone-crushing hug, tripping over his own words in a hurry to reassure you. The thought of losing you enough of an adrenaline rush to have him forgetting about any injuries he may have procured and his heart feeling like it just might implode in his chest.

And then Jason broke too. He told you the truth—about everything. His nighttime activities moonlighting as Gotham’s vigilante slash crime lord, his history, his family. He spoke of the monsters he fought day in day out, the sacrifices he often had to make to keep a temporary peace in his city—often times those sacrifices having to be pieces of himself.

He told you about you, how you were his sanctuary. A reminder of what he fought for. Your innocence and light. You were no saint by any means, but you’d never be able to accumulate half the sin just he had on his hands in four lifetimes. You were there to remind him that there was still good worth fighting for in the world. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.

He then apologized profusely for lying to you, and you could never stay mad at him for long anyway. However, to make up for it (on his insistence) you did make him tell you the civilian identities of all your favorite heroes. A fair trade, you’d say.

Which now brings Jason here. Married, paying off a monthly mortgage, attending Thanksgiving and Christmas parties at your family’s house, waving to neighbors at ungodly hours of the morning as he walked your dog, and soon expecting a little one of his own.

Yeah, it definitely wasn’t what four-years-ago-Jason would’ve imagined himself as either, or even further back than that Jason. He wouldn’t trade a second of it for the world.

He’d like to say a part of him was reluctant to tell his family of your guys’ relationship because they’d disapprove, and that was why they didn’t know. Saying something like you two were rushing into things and that you had no business being in their line of work due to the dangers. But, in all reality, even after Jason had started to rekindle his relationship with his family and see them more often, he’d just…forgotten.

To tell anybody, really. His family, his friends, he just thought at some point he had told people and they just never mentioned it—there was no way the people he surrounded himself with wouldn’t be able to find out. So, they had to have just no interest in you two, right?

Wrong. Apparently. Jason found out this fact firsthand.

Jason didn’t wear his wedding ring while at work, for obvious reasons. Some of the most notable being, it wasn’t very practical nor was it anyone’s business what the Red Hood’s love life was like. Plus, he didn’t want it to get dirty or risk losing it. He often opted out of wearing it all together deciding the best course of action is to leave it at home, however that night had been different.

Patrol had ended early one night, something Jason was rather irked by considering he’d rushed here from out of town visiting your family due to a false alarm ‘emergency’. He’d had to leave you behind and wouldn’t be able to see you for another week, as the excuse he’d given your family was supposed to be long-term and he refused to let you cut your visit short.

He, along with the other assorted members of Gotham’s vigilantes, ended up back in the Batcave. Jason sat by himself, off to the side where he was not sulking, and—more importantly—where you were not answering his messages.

Dick waltzes up to Jason, who doesn’t even acknowledge his presence, and flops down on the couch next to him,throwing his legs over Jason’s body and making a show of getting comfortable.

Jason glares at him over the screen of his phone and roughly shoves Dick’s feet off of him, promptly turning his attention back to his phone.

Dick cocks a brow. Jason had been particularly quiet and prickly tonight—and he means even more than usual.

It wasn’t uncommon for Jason to be in a bad mood, especially around them, but in recent years he’d been better. He’d started to actually spend time with them—even outside patrol, reaching out first occasionally, and they could go several hours without him blowing up and storming off! All in all, Dick wouldn’t call Jason’s behavior unusual, just odd for it to be tonight of all nights.

“What’s so interesting?” Dick asks, nosiness curiosity getting the better of him. He switches his position, instead draping himself over Jason, who was still glued to his phone, and trying to peek at Jason’s screen.

“None of your business, dickhead!” Jason snaps, trying to push Dick away from him.

“What? What is it? Come on! I want to see!” Dick says insistently, chuckling as Jason gets more and more riled up. They wrestle for a moment, Jason outright childishly holding his phone up in the air, away from Dick, as Dick tries to grasp for it but is stopped by Jason’s hands and feet pushing him away.

“Is it something naughty?” Dick teases, mock gasping. “Is that why you won’t show me, Jason? Are you being a bad boy?”

“Shut up! You weirdo!”

Dick howls with laughter as Jason all but tackles him to the floor once Dick gets ahold of his phone. They continue their roughhousing, Dick trying to unlock Jason’s phone screen as Jason fights to get it back. However, Dick has rolled onto his stomach now, and hunches over the phone moving this way and that to prevent Jason from seizing it back. Their commotion draws over the other inhabitants of the cave.

Jason’s phone is snatched from Dick’s hands, Jason lunges after it but is held back by Dick.

“Don’t let him get it, Dami!” Dick says, a wild grin on his face and breathing harshly from laughing so hard.

Damian stands in front of them, Jason’s phone in his hand as he gives the phone a suspicious look. The lock screen is a picture of a woman, her back to the camera as she looks out at the setting sun across the ocean with her hand atop a dog’s head sitting obediently at her feet. Damian raises a brow slightly at this, but opts not to mention it. It wasn’t any of his business what Jason found aesthetically pleasing, after all.

He instead turns back to the real objective at hand: making Jason’s life miserable.

“What is that you’re hiding, Todd?” Damian demands, not asks. “Give it up now and save yourself the trouble. I will find out, one way or another.”

“I’m not hiding anything!” Jason says, irritated. He technically wasn’t lying. He wasn’t intentionally hiding anything from them. He was simply waiting for a very important message from you that he didn’t want to miss because of his annoying, asshole siblings.

Damian clicks his tongue, not believing Jason’s words. He crosses his arms and holds the phone out to his left, handing it over to Tim who starts examining it top to bottom.

Jason rolls his eyes, “You guys are making such an unbelievable deal out of this. It’s just a phone!”

“Nuh uh!” Dick ever-so-helpfully cuts in, his grin still having not left his face as he holds onto Jason even though Jason had stopped struggling. “It’s a phone you don’t want us to see! Which makes it much, much more than just a phone.”

Jason rolls his eyes harder, if that’s even possible, and attacks Dick again. This time just for Dick being obnoxious.

Tim continues to look over the phone with a critical eye. The case is a black otterbox, the lock screen the picture of a woman and a dog, and a basic numbered password locks the phone. Overall, nothing stands out to him. No secret mechanics or buttons. Well, nothing but the fact that this was definitely not the phone Jason used around them.

That was nothing too shocking though, they all had secret phones. Except the other fact that this one seemed to be the personal one, not the work one.

Okay—maybe Jason was hiding one little thing from them, but hiding his personal number from them was nothing egregious.

“A secret phone?” Cass says as she looks over Tim’s shoulder, a smirk on her face and a conspiring glint in her eyes.

“Seems like it.” Tim replies, ignoring Jason and Dick’s squabbling, a twin smirk on his mouth.

“Open it, Drake!” Damian says impatiently, smacking Tim’s arm repeatedly.

“Alright, alright! Stop it!” Tim shakes Damian’s hand off and tries to unlock the phone. He first tries numerous combinations of numbers he knows Jason would use to try and trip them up, but they don’t work. Tim frowns.

Of course they didn’t work, the password was your birthday. But Jason would never use something so simple as a birthday as a password, right? Not that they knew your birthday, anyway.

Jason made it easy for you. He never used his personal phone for anything other than you and the civilian side of his life, anyway.

Usually, he never carries his personal phone with him while he’s at work, much like his wedding ring, and he would never give you his work phone contact to potentially have your number compromised if his phone is ever stolen while he’s out at night. All he has installed on your phone while he’s out is a panic button, it’s made to alert him immediately on any of his devices of your location once it’s activated.

Tonight, though, in his rush he’d kept his personal phone on him—and thank god for it otherwise he’d be bored out of his mind, stuck in the batcave with only his family to keep him company. Well, up till you stopped replying of course.

Tim tries four more passwords before the phone shuts him out for a two minute cool-down. Tim grumbles deep in his throat, starting to get irritated himself.

“Jason, what is it?” Tim grumbles, tapping his foot insistently waiting for the two minutes to finish up. “What’s the password?” Jason doesn’t answer, too caught up with getting out of Dick’s headlock.

“Try one-two-three-four.” Cass suggests.

“Why would it be one-two-three-four?” Tim asks, exasperated. Cass shrugs. Tim sighs.

Jason’s phone suddenly dings with a notification, the sound drowned out by the surrounding chaos. Still, it cuts through the cacophony of noise to Jason like a siren.

“Message from ‘ba—’” Tim starts to read. Jason leaps off of Dick, his brother yelping as he’s trampled under Jason’s feet.

His heart soared when he saw your name on his screen. His shoulders loosens and his face softens, his heart beats a million miles an hour as he taps to open the message. However, his demeanor quickly sours once again once he sees he’s locked out for another forty-two seconds.

Cass’ brows rise imperceptibly as she watches Jason’s body language rapidly change, seemingly going unnoticed by their brothers. She grins and studies Jason closely, thoroughly intrigued now.

She cocks her head, that sly grin still splayed across her lips, and approaches Jason. She peeks over at his phone screen that he alternates from glaring at to Tim and back.

“Who is it?” She asks in a whisper, like they were trading secrets under a comforter way past their bedtime. She hangs over Jason’s arm, trying to get a look at the message as the timer ticks closer to zero, before she’s pushed out of the way by Damian.

“What? What is it?” Damian demands. “I want to see.” He tugs down at Jason’s arm, trying to move it out of the way and snatch the phone back.

Cass pushes Damian back and retakes her spot, Damian doesn’t take kindly to that and soon they’re having an all-out tug of war with Jason’s forearm.

Jason tries to push them both off, but he’s quickly bombarded by his plethora of siblings. Dick finally gets up off the floor with a groan and drapes himself over Jason’s back, and Tim takes a spot hanging over Jason’s other open arm. His siblings’ voices all overlap one another as they continuously get louder trying to speak over the others, making it nearly impossible to pinpoint what one is saying. However, if Jason had to guess, the gist of it all was them wanting to know what was on his phone.

“Would you idiots calm down?!” Jason shouts over them, though it does little to quell their mayhem. However, once he ever-so-casually drops that it’s just you messaging him, that gets them to freeze and the cave suddenly goes dead silent.

Jason rolls his eyes, finally squeezing out of his siblings’ grasps and walking back over to the couch he was previously sitting on. All the while, Dick, Cass, Tim, and Damian stare after him in utter confusion, Jason doesn’t even notice their puzzlement.

The four share looks with each other, looking to one another for answers but coming up short each time.

“Uh…” Tim finally speaks up, “Who?”

Jason repeats your name absentmindedly, like it’s one he says on a regular basis. Like it was one they were supposed to know.

This also catches the attention of Bruce, who’d previously been sitting at the batcomputer ignoring his children’s rambunctiousness. The four kids glance back at him for answers, but he has no answer for him.

“Right.” Dick says, walking over to Jason who was almost giddily tapping away at his phone, completely unaware of their odd behavior. “And…who is that again?”

Dick chuckles awkwardly, trying to gently coax an answer out of Jason. He leans over the back of the couch and peers at Jason’s phone with his siblings joining him, no resistance from the younger man this time.

However, that seemed to be the wrong thing to ask as Jason whirls around to glower at Dick, pure disbelief and outrage on his face like Dick had just committed the most heinous of crimes.

“Are you serious?” Jason asks, tone hard and deadly. “My wife, jackass?”

Jason scoffs and turns away from Dick, and Dick notices for the first time that night Jason’s fiddling with the necklace strung around his throat. The necklace with a wedding ring hung from it, the inside of the ring engraved with ‘Mr & Mrs’ followed by initials of two names, one he knew as Jason’s and the other hyphenated, and a date. A wedding date if Dick was so bold to assume.

The cave was now so quiet Dick could swear even the resident bats had stopped to settle into absolute shock. He could practically hear Tim’s jaw drop to the floor.

Also for the first time that night, Dick got a good view of Jason’s phone screen. Jason was scrolling through a chat on his messages app;

‘baby 💍💖’:

sorry!! I got caught up in a poker tournament (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞

but don’t worry you worry your pretty little head sugar, I won hehe (¬‿¬ )

no matter what that little tyrant cousin of mine tries to say

[6 attachments]

what do you think of these ones??

Dick watches in stunned silence as Jason replies to each message, taking time to reply to the person saved as ‘baby’ with a heart and ring in his phone that texts with emoticons, with care and attention.

Dick thinks he nearly falls to his knees with a heart attack when he sees the images sent to Jason were baby cribs—and he’s pretty sure Bruce actually does when he hears a strangled gasp to his left. He hadn’t even noticed when the man had come up and joined him and the others, but there he stands mouth agape and his skin a worrying pallor.

“Todd…” Damian is the first to break the silence. His voice barely above a whisper at first, though he might as well have just set off a hydrogen bomb.

“You have a wife?!” The boy screeches, voice raising an octave in disbelief.

“Since when?” Cass asks next, in complete disarray.

“Since how?” Tim chimes in, eyes nearly bulging out of his head trying to piece some puzzle together.

“Jason…” Bruce says breathlessly, the quietest among them sans Dick’s abstaining, the gears in his head working overtime trying to figure things out. His brow furrowed and his eyes rapidly blinking, he looks almost…hurt.

Jason looks at them all quizzically, almost appearing as confused as them though Dick is positive that is impossible.

“What? What are you morons talking about?” Jason asks, his demeanor truly lost.

“What are you talking about?” Dick can’t help but throw his question back at him. He feels his legs starting to get shaky and he has to sit down.

“I’ve been married.” Jason says as if he’s stating the sky is blue.

“Jason…I—why didn’t you—when did—“ Possibly for the first time ever Dick witnesses Bruce at a loss for words. No contingency plan existed for missing your son’s wedding, apparently.

Jason stares at them all strangely, seeming particularly unsettled by Bruce’s reaction. “Uh…yeah. I’ve been married for like two years now.” He says casually.

“Two—two years?!” Tim and Dick shout simultaneously, Dick shooting to his feet. Bruce releases another one of those dying animal sounds and sits down where Dick was before he could topple to the floor, rubbing his hand over his face.

“Yeah…” Jason is startled now, clarity slowly starting to creep into his features now. “Didn’t I…tell you guys?” He asks apprehensively.

“No!” They all shout back.

“Well, how did you not know?!” Jason replies defensively. “Aren’t you people supposed to be the ‘world’s greatest detectives’?”

“Jason, no offense, buddy, but you don’t exactly give off the whole loving husband vibe.” Tim says, looking Jason over as if seeing a whole new person.

Jason’s face screws up in definite offense. “Oh fu—”

“You are having a baby!” Cass interrupts, tone caught somewhere between bewilderment and excitement. She’d snagged Jason’s phone while he’d been distracted and now she and Damian scroll through the two of your messages.

Bruce really does collapse that time.

It’s the next day when they all gather together again. The night before, after Dick and Jason had deposited Bruce in his bedroom upstairs, they’d all agreed to get some sleep and resume their talk in the morning. Hopefully, some rest and preparation would help soothe the situation and their conversation can happen in a more civilized manner.

That was the plan, however, when Jason walked into the dining room the next morning for breakfast, he found his family already there looking as if they hadn’t slept a wink.

Jason sits down in his usual seat, ignoring the disappointed look Alfred gives him as he places a plate in front of him. They all sit in silence as Jason serves himself breakfast.

“Look…it was uh—an honest mistake.” Jason says sheepishly, breaking the silence. The sound of forks scraping porcelain halts at Jason’s words as his family all look up and stare at him incredulously.

“An honest mistake?” Dick asks, as if his lack of sleep was causing auditory hallucinations.

“To neglect to inform us that you’ve been in a relationship. The past four years.” Damian tags on—rather judgmentally might Jason add.

“And married. The last two.” Tim says. What was this, some kind of circus act?

“Also, you are expecting a baby.” Cass helpfully adds.

Jason shrugs, finding his food rather captivating. “Could happen to anybody.” That was that catalyst. All of a sudden everyone is shouting, trying to speak over each other.

“Right. That too. Is there anything else you’ve forgotten to tell us about, Jason?” Dick asks, overly sarcastic. “You know, besides your secret family.”

“Any more babies?” Cass—voice bright.

“Oh god, please, no.” Bruce moans.

“Why have you hidden this woman from us, Todd? Are you ashamed?” Damian narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“What—no—!”

“Is she a hero?” Tim.

“Who does she work with?” Bruce.

“Is she a criminal? That would explain your reluctance.” Damian, again.

“No, she’s not—”

“Who is she? What does she look like?“

“Are you going to invite her over?”

“Oh! Tell her to come to dinner tonight!”

Jason could hardly keep up anymore. Between his brothers’ rapid questions, Bruce’s hard scrutiny—as if he could figure out every answer to his questions if he stared at Jason long enough, and Cass making dinner plans with Alfred, Jason couldn’t even hear his own thoughts.

“Shut up! How am I supposed to answer anything if you don’t give me time to breathe?” Jason snaps, huffing and throwing his fork down. “Ruined my damn breakfast.” He mutters, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Oh, quit pouting, Todd—” Damian rolls his eyes.

“I am not pouting, you little—”

“That’s enough!” Bruce cuts in, his tone firm and commanding, quelling the cacophony of voices.

“Jason…” He says, trailing off like he wasn’t sure where he was originally going with his sentence. “Are you sure about this? Marriage is uh…a big decision—”

Jason snorts, cutting Bruce off before he could hurt something with how uncomfortable he was. “Little late for that, big guy.”

“When are you bringing her over?” Cass inquires again. She seemed to be the only one finding the positive in this situation. “Tonight? What should we make for dinner? Does she have any allergies? Alfred—”

Cass turns to Alfred and continues with her dinner plans, not waiting to consult with Jason.

“She can’t come tonight.” Jason rolls his eyes, sighing heavily. “She’s visiting her family in her hometown.”

A collective groan of disappointment resounds around the room, even Alfred and Bruce seem to huff a bit in despondency.

“So even your own wife can’t stand to be around you, huh?” Damian taunts.

“I swear to god—”

A week later, you and Jason stand out front the manor.

“We can leave, if you want.” Jason says, squeezing your hand reassuringly. Though, you think that was more for himself than you. “Really. No offense on either side, we’ll just say something came up with the baby. That you’re not feeling good, or—”

“Jason.” You interrupt, gently gripping his hand in both of yours. “It’s going to be fine. I promise.”

“I know. I know that. Of course it’s going to be fine.” Jason scoffs, seemingly thinking his casual attitude covered up the stiffness of his shoulders. Your sweet Jason, doesn’t he know you know him too well for that?

“Doesn’t mean I have to want to do it.” He mutters under his breath. You huff out a small breath of laughter, shaking your head.

You rub comforting circles on the back of Jason’s hand. “You ready?” You ask, hopping excitedly on the tips of your toes once you two stop in front of the large, double front doors.

Jason softens as he observes you. A smile slowly overtaking his face and his shoulders loosening, your presence calming and your smile infectious. He couldn’t help but almost share in your excitement—almost.

Before you could even finish knocking, the door swings open. Standing in the threshold was Jason’s sister. If you didn’t know any better you’d suspect she’d been standing there watching and waiting for you two to knock.

She looks over you critically, doing a full head to toe scan of you before looking you straight in the eyes.

You clear your throat, squeezing Jason’s hand for courage. However, before you can let nerves get the better of you, her face breaks out into a brilliant smile.

“Hi!” Cass says, her eagerness barely being restrained. “Welcome! I am Cassandra—but just call me Cass.”

Cass reaches out for your hand, pausing for a moment to see if you’re alright with her grabbing ahold of it. You meet her halfway—much to Jason’s dismay—and you swear the sun shines a little brighter as her face lightens.

She pulls you into the foyer, talking amicably with her entire body as if there weren’t enough words in the world to express her thoughts. “I’m so excited to meet you! I can’t believe Jason has tried to hide you from us.”

“I didn’t—” Jason tries to cut in.

“I asked Jason what you like so I hope everything is perfect for you.” Cass says excitedly, ignoring Jason’s grumbling. She pulls you along further and you have to pick up the pace to keep up with her.

“Hey, careful!” Jason growls. You swat at him and quietly tell him to ‘knock it off’. He looks at you with blatant offense, his eyes telling you he can’t believe you’re taking her side. You roll your eyes and continue following Cass.

Cass drags you into the dining room, Jason trailing in not far behind you. The atmosphere is warm with candles lit and the table all set, the air filled with the comforting smell of all your favorite foods.

An old man dressed in a butler’s suit appears through a swinging door, presumably from the kitchen the smells of food are wafting from.

“Good evening, Miss.” He smiles politely, warm and grandfatherly. “I am Alfred Pennyworth, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

You brighten at the familiar name. “Ah! Alfred, yes, Jason’s told me so much about you!” Alfred nods and pulls out a seat for you, you take it gratefully. You smile jubilantly at Jason as he takes the seat next to you, conveying an ‘I told you so!’, absolutely elated with the smooth meetings so far.

Jason shakes his head fondly. Cass pats your arm on her way out of the dining room, smiling reassuringly. Faintly, down the hall in the foyer you’d just arrived from, you hear her voice call out; “They’re here! Dinner!”

A moment of silence goes by. You and Jason were left alone in the dining room speaking quietly amongst yourselves, Jason’s hand never having left yours.

Then, you hear thundering footsteps approaching from the hallway. Jason groans and slumps down into his chair.

The dining room door bursts open, and a man you recognize as Dick Grayson, Jason’s older brother, stumbles in pushing through the crowd of his younger siblings also trying to fight their way in. You giggle and his eyes snap to you, his face brightening with a charming smile.

He calls out your name and approaches you with his arms spread like he was coming in for a hug. “It’s so great to finally meet you! I’d like to say Jason has told me a lot about you, but he really hasn’t.” He says, obviously still bitter over the fact Jason had kept your relationship a secret from him.

You chuckle sheepishly, glancing at Jason who was glaring at Dick. Jason told you about how it may have slipped his mind the least couple years to mention he was in a relationship to his family. You couldn’t even really be upset considering the fact it may have…slipped yours as well?

The thing was you had met his family before! Sort of. About a year into you two dating, Jason had dragged you to a gala hosted by Bruce Wayne, practically begging you to accompany him so he wouldn’t be ‘bored to death surrounded by a bunch of pompous assholes’ (his words, not yours). You’d clung to Jason’s arm the whole time as Jason skirted on the edges of the ballroom, and fifteen minutes in you two had elected to ditch the event as a whole instead having a date night in.

Throughout the evening, however, quite a couple of his family members had chased him down, and at the least greeted him before he could shake them off. Ok, you guess you can see how being seen walking beside Jason at a gala filled to the brim with people could be overlooked as a proper introduction.

But you knew of Jason’s unconventional relationship with his family, he’d only just started—slowly—integrating himself into their lives after all, so you never pushed for anything.

You felt a bit guilty now, though, after finding out how upset his family had been about not knowing of you.

Dick tries to take the seat next to you but Cass is quick and silent as she slips behind him, yanking the chair out from under Dick before he can properly sit down and sending him crashing to the floor. She maneuvers the chair around him and places the seat next to you again, sitting down with a victorious grin.

Jason bursts out laughing. You try to stifle your own laughter and ask Dick if he’s okay, but with the way Cass and Jason are looking at you with amusement you must be doing a terrible job.

The youngest of the bunch, that you know is Damian Wayne, clicks his tongue. “Get off the floor, Richard, you are embarrassing me.”

You nearly lose your composure again after hearing the words coming out of the young man’s mouth. You can’t help finding it incredibly endearing how prim and proper he presented himself. You really do laugh when the boy’s face turns bright red after you tell him that very notion.

Last to enter is Tim Drake, snickering at the sulking Dick who took the seat across from you instead, and the blushing Damian.

You’re pleasantly surprised how easily you all slip into comfortable conversation. Laughing and teasing, trading stories and silly secrets as if you’ve been doing it for years.

You were having an amazing time, any doubt or anxiety you previously had completely disappearing with your reverberating laughter. Even Jason had lightened up.

Bruce Wayne finally made his appearance once Alfred began bringing out the night’s dinner on trays.

You stiffen imperceptibly, that anxiety slowly creeping back into your stomach, but you don’t let it dampen your mood. Only sitting up straighter and keeping your carefree smile on your face.

Jason sets a reassuring hand on your thigh, heavy and warm and familiar. It soothes your nerves and you take his hand in yours, sending a smile his way.

Bruce sits down quietly, the other Wayne family members not bothering to briefly break in their conversations to acknowledge him. He seems content with this so you don’t say anything either, only waiting for him to look up and meet your eyes.

You greet him politely, and he says your name in return with a small nod. From what you’ve heard from Jason that is a wonderful sign and probably the most you’re going to get out of him, so you take it in stride and smile widely returning to the rest of the table.

It was nice being so included in their inner circle. You had a bit of a rocky relationship with your own family, but you’d all been working on it in recent years. However, the way you slipped so naturally into their dysfunctional quota was like a missing piece of a puzzle finally finding its home.

You could feel even through all the teasing and poking fun that this family would always have each other’s backs. Through the rough and hard times, or even when they’re at each other’s throats, they’d never give up on one another. Knowing Jason had something like that to look after him if anything ever happened to you comforted a piece of your soul.

Halfway through dinner, you glanced at Bruce Wayne, having almost forgotten he was there. Silently he sat, eating his dinner and observing the attendants at the table and your heart melts as you saw the contented warmth in his eyes. He met your eyes and gave you a slight, warm smile, you saw the way he watched Jason and you.

How open and easygoing Jason became with you around, his arm thrown over the back of your chair and him openly talking and laughing without a care. Your heart soared as he gave you an approving nod, almost thanking you for taking care of his son.

Wow. You totally got why people lost their mind’s for the Batman’s approval now.

“Hey.” You’re pulled away from Cass and answering her million questions about your pregnancy; ‘Did you know what it was yet?’ ‘How far along are you?’ ‘Have you picked out names?’ ‘What do you think about this nursery? Or this one?’ ‘Have you considered Kassandra if it’s a girl? With a K of course.’—when Tim whisper-yelled your name across the table.

You chuckled leaning in with the others as they all acquired a conspiring glints in their eyes.

“Be honest—did you totally kick Jason’s ass when you found out his incredible incompetence struck again?” Damian asks, almost excited to hear about your imagined wrath.

“Please tell me you did.” Tim chimed in, still whispering as if Jason wasn’t sitting directly to your left.

“Oh, don’t be too upset with him!” Dick says, though his wolfish grin betrayed his true thoughts. “He’s not the brightest person sometimes, but he means well! We all have our flaws.”

Jason scoffs and you could practically hear him roll his eyes. You respond before Jason can retort.

“Well actually…” You begin, tentatively. “I thought you all knew too.” You confess.

The table goes silent.

“I just thought none of you ever mentioned anything! So I didn’t either.” You chuckle bashfully.

Well, weren’t you two just a pair of peas in a pod.

“And technically!” You add quickly, trying to defend yourself. “We have met before! At a gala, three years ago, around Christmas time.”

“The Christmas Wayne Foundation gala…?” Dick mumbles.

“Mhm!” You nod, Jason holding a hand up to you as if you were proving some point of his.

“Three years ago…” Tim says, almost like he’s trying to make sure he heard you right.

“Where Jason avoided us the whole night and then disappeared before the event really even started?” Cass asks, this time. You’re sort of starting to get the feeling you’ve said the wrong thing.

You nod again, a little less assured now. “Well, yes. But I was there with him!”

“That counts as a meeting, right? I did see all of you.” You turn to Jason who nods in agreement.

“Not your fault they couldn’t put two and two together—” Jason tries to say.

“No!” They shout in unison.

“Are you people living in delusion?”

“You didn’t even invite us to the wedding! How’re we supposed to guess that you’re married?”

“Well it was small! There were only like—two other people there anyway!” Jason tries to defend.

“Not even a Facebook relationship status change?”

Lesson learned. Jason will never assume the ‘world’s greatest detectives’ (derogatory) knew everything ever again.

“Jack Torrence,” Marcus chirps.

“Jack Torrence!” Richie claps, making Sugar roll her eyes. She moves closer to Carmen, leaning against the corner of the desk. She crosses her arms. 

“I told you, Carm, you can go see my girl. She’s never done me wrong.” 

That small, gentle smile she has grows on her lips. Natalie gently pushes her brother’s shoulder. “And hey, she stopped me from getting bangs again a few weeks ago.”

Richie’s hands fly upward, pressing together in a prayer pose. “Thank fuck. Bangs were never your look, babe.”

“Shut up, Richie!” Sugar and Carmen’s voices ring out simultaneously, as if they’d rehearsed for this very moment of synchronization.

Carmy’s clogs drag against the tile floor as he braces his palms against the desktop and pushes himself backwards. He scrubs his face with his hands, leaving it tinged red when he finally relents.

He looks up at his sister, a firm wrinkle formed between her brows. Carmen huffs.

“What did you say her name was?” Carmy asks, eyes darting to the clock, searching for the time only to realize no one ever fixed the damn thing. “Hey, Richie! Can you get some fuckin’ batteries in here?”

Sugar’s eyes squeeze shut at the volume Carm’s voice has just reached. But nevertheless, she pinches her nose and says your name. 

“She’s like, fifteen minutes down the road. She went to school for it, she respects shy people, and I promise–she’s not gonna cut your ear off.”

Richie rounds the corner at that exact moment, a pile of double A’s shoved in his pocket. He pulls the analog clock off the wall and pries open the back panel. “Oh, you mean like that time Mikey snipped the tip of his ear clean–”

“Oh my god, enough, Richard!” Sugar’s hands fly around in front of her face. Unfortunately it only encourages Richie further, laughing to himself as he snaps four batteries into place. He’s still laughing—clapping his hands together because he’s so tickled—when he walks back toward the front of the house. 

Carmen’s fist covers his mouth. He’s tempted to laugh himself, but he at least knows better by now. Natalie sighs loud enough for the people across the street to hear. 

“Look, Carm. I’ll even make the appointment for you if that would help, but it’s gotta happen. You look like shit.”

Carmy snorts, standing up from the wonky office chair. “Thanks, Nat.”

Sugar’s phone is already in her hand. 

“So that’s a yes? What time would be best? Actually, I’ll just tell you when you’re going. Settled.”

————

“You getting off, Leigh?”

Your coworker ties her hair up in an artfully messy bun. “Yeah, babe. I took a half day because it’s date night tonight.” She wiggles her eyebrows at you, shimmying her way across the floor so she can plant a sweet kiss on your cheek.

“Your mom got the kids?” You ask, laughing to yourself as you rinse the leftover conditioner from your sink. 

Leigh claps her hands. “All weekend, girl!” 

You toss your gloves in the trash, letting her hug you and bounce up and down in glee. She deserves this. She hasn’t gotten a night out with her husband in months, their three-year-old twins keeping them more than occupied.

“I hope you have fun tonight. Drink something with Irish cream in it for me, will you?” 

Leigh’s hands pat your cheeks gently. “Oh, you know I will. Just wish you were getting out there too.”

You wave her away, and she’s quick to hold up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Is Natalie’s brother still coming in today?”

Your eyes dart to the clock over her head. “Should be here in like, five minutes.”

The doorbell chimes. 

Both yours and Leigh’s heads snap in that direction. 

“Or…now.”

“Oh, fucking Christ.”

Your eyes flick back to each other immediately, having spoken at the exact same time. Leigh is not gonna let your outburst go. 

There’s already a devilish grin growing across her face. “You think he’s hot, don’t you?”

You dart around her. “No. Those words never left my mouth.”

She catches you by the belt loop. “You’re right, I believe your exact words were ‘Oh fucking Christ, he could bend me over right here.’” Leigh’s laughter bubbles up and you fear she might keel over. 

“That is an exaggeration,” you huff. 

Leigh slings her worn out, bright red purse over her shoulder. “Bet you were thinking it though.” She risks a glance over her shoulder. “You’re not wrong though. His arms are huge. And you better go help him before we get a bad Yelp review.”

You start to wave her away. “Yeah, alright.” You follow her towards the front desk. “Have fun tonight,” you shout, “and remember to make sure you have meds for tomorrow’s hangover.”

She fake gasps, pausing just beside where Carmen is standing. “Me? Hungover? Never.” Leigh lowers her sunglasses just slightly and directs her next few words at the man in front of her. “She’ll take real good care of you, youngest Berzatto.”

The doorbell chimes as Leigh makes her way out to her beat up Mustang, leaving you and Carmy alone out front. 

He laughs awkwardly, shuffling towards the front counter to meet you.

“Sorry about her,” you say. “She’s full of it. Anyway, Carmen, right? Natalie told me you’d try and come by today.”

Carmy’s cheeks burn with embarrassment from being put on the spot. But also because you’re so…pretty. He manages to pull together a few coherent words. 

“She really said try?” he asks, the barest of smiles gracing his lips.

You cross your arms and walk over to your station. “No. It was more of ‘He’ll be there at 4:30 tomorrow or else I’m going to burn down The Bear and keep the insurance money for myself.’”

Carmen scratches at his curls. “Yeah, that I believe.”

You gently pat the back of your leather chair. “You can sit whenever you’re ready. I realize I never really introduced myself.” You say your name, and even if it’s a name Carm has heard a hundred times before, it somehow sounds hypnotizing falling off your lips. 

The leather backing is cold through Carmy’s t-shirt. He hopes the shiver that moves down his spine when you thread your fingers through his hair passes off as the coinciding goosebumps. 

“So, what are we thinking today, Carmen?”

His big blue eyes blink at you through the mirror. “Carmy,” he says.

“Hm?” you hum, running a wide-toothed comb carefully through his curls so that nothing snags. 

“You don’t have to call me Carmen. Makes me feel like I’m in trouble.” A low laugh tumbles over his lips. “Carmy is fine.”

You smile at him. “Okay, Carmy. What would you like me to do with your hair today? Buzz cut? Mohawk?” You walk around to face him head on. “Extensions?”

You notice how nervously he plays with his hands. But you get it. You’re hoping to make him as comfortable as you can, and not just for that good Google review.

Carmy runs a hand over his mouth, hiding the sweet smile that’s growing there. The crinkles by his eyes give it away. You’re so fucking charming he can’t stand it. 

He clears his throat. “I was thinking just a trim? It’s kinda long over my eyes, and sometimes it’s good to see things.” You giggle. 

Good god, how’s he gonna get through this?

“Maybe a little shorter on the sides, too.”

“Like a mullet?” You quip.

He snorts. “Nah, not a full mullet. Maybe where it’s barely noticeable that it’s shorter there? I’m also shit at taking care of it, so if you could help with that…”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth. Carmy has to clear his throat, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. “How ‘bout this. I’ll take you to the sink and give it a wash, and then we’ll trim it, and I can have you help me style it so it’s easier when you’re at home?”

Carmy nods. “Yeah, that’d be great, thank you.” 

Your hand slides across the back of his shoulders as you move away and towards the back room full of head-sized basins. “Come on then, Mr. Berzatto. Let’s wash that pretty head of yours.”

————

“That feels so good,” Carmen says, the words leaving his mouth before he has a moment to think them over. “Wait—is that a weird thing to say?”

You laugh from your place behind him. “No, not at all. That’s why I keep my nails a little longer, because my clients always tell me this is the best part.” Your hands are covered in a lavender-scented shampoo, your fingertips massaging the foam into his scalp. “A good head scratch does wonders for the soul.”

You watch Carmy’s lips lift at the corners. His eyes are closed, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he dozed off. You’re always happy to keep a conversation going with clients, but the silence is just as well.

The sounds of foils getting folded in place by your coworker out front, the air conditioner, the radio—it’s all oddly soothing. The radio station Leigh always sets it on has the oddest selection of music choices for one given channel. Not that you mind that either. 

You rinse Carmen’s hair out and apply conditioner to the mids and ends of his curls. You blindly grab a comb, muscle memory putting it in your grasp in seconds.

Carmy swears he’s gonna knock out. He’s trying about as hard as he did in school when he knew he should be paying attention to whatever math lesson but couldn’t keep his eyes open. And when your words reach his ears, he thinks you’ve just read his mind. Sensed the sleep pricking at his eyelids. 

“You do have really nice hair, Carmy. Anyone else in your family have curls?”

You watch the way his brows knit together. “I think my mom? You’d never know it though. She’s straightened it every day since I was a teenager, like even when we weren’t leaving the house.”

You focus on your final rinse of his hair, allowing him to continue. “When I was a kid though, if she showered before bed and I needed her, her hair would be all wet and curly. That’s the only time I saw it like that.”

Carmy sits up when you wrap a thin towel around his head, holding it secure as he follows you back to your station. 

“Leigh, the woman leaving when you came in? She has lots of clients like that. A lot of people weren’t taught how to take care of their curly hair.”

“Is that a hint?” Carmen quips. It makes you snort. 

“Just a gentle one.”

Carmy watches while you cut his hair. Every once in a while your tongue will poke out, or you’ll wiggle your hips to a song on the radio. When you’re almost finished, what Carmen thinks is a Madonna song comes on. 

You start humming, and Carmy knows he’s done for. Richie would call him whipped. He probably will tomorrow morning, just by reading Carm’s face. 

“Out of the sky, I close my eyes…heaven help me.”

Carmy lets out a little laugh because you’re doing this little dance as you sift through his curls. You hear it, and it only encourages you more. 

“Big Madonna fan?” he asks, his hand rubbing over his mouth to hide the boyish grin there. The tattoo on his hand catches your eye. 

“She’s good for the soul.”

You crouch in front of him, rummaging through a cabinet for he doesn’t know what. “Your tattoos are pretty, by the way,” you say. It takes him by surprise. 

“Oh. Thanks.”

You emerge with two bottles. “Do people not usually compliment them?” You spray his hair down with cool water, getting it to the stage of damp you need for the products to work. 

Carmy laughs lowly. Maybe with a little hint of embarrassment. “Nah, they usually ask me what the hell they are or if I was drunk when I got ‘em.”

“Were you?”

He meets your playful gaze. “Only for a few.” Your smile is downright gleeful. 

“M’kay, Carm. Let me give you the rundown.” He straightens and you get a glimpse of the chef he left at The Bear to visit you today. “So this is a leave-in conditioner. After you shower, you put just a little of this in your hands—like this—and kinda run it through your hair all over. Just so it’s in there well.”

You demonstrate, and for the first time, Carmy finally understands how people can look at him and question his ability to cook so seamlessly. That’s the way you do hair. Like it’s as easy as breathing for you. 

“And this is a gel. It’s super lightweight, so it won’t feel gross or anything, and it’s not expensive either. You wanna use a little more of this, but not by much. You can do the same sort of thing, because your hair takes shape really easily since it’s not damaged any. And once that’s distributed, I want you to scrunch it some, just to get any excess product, but also to help any curls that need encouragement.”

You bite your lip because Carmy is nodding along, giving you his complete attention and it’s fucking adorable. 

“And if there’s any curls by your face or anything, you can use your fingers to define them so they look how you want. You think you can do all that?”

Carmy laughs. “Not a chance.” Then you’re both laughing, and it feels so comfortable anyone would think you’d known each other for years. 

“It takes practice. I’m gonna give you these to take home and use.” Your hand disappears in your back pocket for just a moment. “But if you want to put your number in my phone, I can always send you instructions if you need help…”

Carmy pauses. Freezes, even. You look at him nervously, afraid that maybe your ability to read the room has evaporated. Luckily, he proves you wrong. 

“Wow. That was smooth.”

You exhale and laugh into the back of your hand. “I’m never that smooth, I don’t know how I managed that,” you chuckle. Carmy’s fingers fly over your keyboard. 

“Thank you for today, really. I usually avoid the hairdresser at all costs.”

“Sugar did tell me that,” you grin. 

“M-maybe I could make you dinner or something, for putting up with me…?”

Your face warms. “I’d like that, yeah.”

Carmy blinks. His phone goes off where you’ve shot him a text with just your name and a smiley face. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

He rubs his hands together. “Okay, cool. Alright, yeah. What do you like?”

“I wouldn’t say no to pasta. Pasta is good in all forms.”

————

“You can tell me if you hate it. I won’t be offended.”

“I think you might have a nervous breakdown though, and you’re too pretty for that.”

Carmy blushes, shaking his head at you. 

“What?” you laugh. “It’s true.” Your voice has a sing-song lilt to it. Over the past few weeks you’ve gotten to know Carmy a bit better. He’s been busy though, so it’s taken longer than expected to have dinner together. 

He made up for it by providing you with pasta and cheesecake for dessert. He’s wearing this thick sweater, your eyes locking on his forearms where he’s rolled up the sleeves. 

Sugar was so excited when you texted her after his hair appointment. 

Natalie B: How’d it go? Was he a total pain in the ass?

You: it went well! got him all sorted out. he offered me dinner as a thank you (after he paid, of course). would that weird you out??

Natalie B: OMG NO!! He’s got such a giant stick up his ass, maybe your charm pulled it out! Go have fun. Leigh was telling me you hadn’t been on a date in forever last time I was in anyhow.

You: brb blocking both of you shitheads ♥️

You hadn’t expected a haircut to lead to any of this, but sitting here, in Carmy’s sparsely furnished apartment, looking at the soft smile on his face and the nervous way he’s fussing with his fingers as you eat the dinner he made you, you’re grateful.

Not that you’ll tell Natalie that. Or Leigh. They don’t need that ego boost. 

You wipe your mouth on a napkin and look up to see that Carmy is gazing at you expectantly. You laugh, his eye contact making you a little nervous. 

“It’s good, Carm. Really good. You can eat.”

He swipes his hand down his face, but when it comes down to grab his fork, he lets you see his smile. “I’m glad you like it. Not too much parsley or anything? I didn’t add lemon because Sugar mentioned you saying you didn’t like pasta with too much lemon juice in it.”

Your mouth drops open. That’s such a small, easy to forget thing. Maybe you will have to give Nat a hug. 

You reach out to touch his hand. Tentatively, just in case it’s too far. “That’s so sweet, Carmy. It’s perfect, really. And honestly the lemon thing is from one very overpowering pasta experience. Maybe whatever you make me will be better.”

Carmen takes a big bite of pasta and a swig of beer so he has time to collect himself. “Maybe we can fix your lemon-related trauma.”

“As long as there’s a backup snack in case the lemon PTSD can’t be fixed.”

You both burst into a fit of giggles. The rest of dinner goes by, filled with conversation about everything and nothing—Carmy’s lack of knowledge about current television, your love of reading and need for someone to share the plots with. 

Carmen is making you a plate to take home with you when he’s finally psyched himself up to ask his question. He says your name and you peer at him from your spot against the counter. 

“I-uh…I’ve been trying to do my hair the way you taught me, but I can’t get it right. I was wonderin’ if you’d show me? Maybe? You don’t have to—”

“Of course I can. All you had to do was ask.” You push off the counter and beam at him. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

You’re lucky you already learned the way to his bathroom so that your streak of confidence would continue working so well. And when you squeeze out some of the hair gel into Carmy’s hands, you know he just needed an excuse. He’s got it down pat. 

He runs his hands through his hair, scrunching clumps together every now and then, finger-curling the pieces up front and by his ears. Now you’re just waiting to see what he really wanted to say. 

You cross your arms, attempting to look serious, but you can’t hold back the grin spreading across your face. 

Carmen looks over at you, drying his hands now that they’re free of product. He’s never been great at reading people, but that look in your eye tells him he’s a shit actor. 

“So, that didn’t fool you, huh?”

You giggle. “Not at all, Berzatto. You couldn’t even fake how well you’ve learned to do your hair.”

Carmy takes a step closer to you, rubbing his nose self-consciously. “I’m very bad at saying what I’m thinking. Or saying what I want.”

“I can see that.”

He squints at you, his lips ticking up just slightly. 

“So what is it you want but are too scared to say?” you start. “Do we need to play hangman?” 

That would normally get a laugh out of him, but he’s too on edge. Inhale. Exhale. Oh, just fucking say it, Carm. 

“I wanna kiss you.”

Your ears burn. You release your bottom lip from where it was pinned between your teeth. “I was hoping you’d say that. Please do.”

You push up on your tiptoes, suddenly bursting with excitement and hoping that’ll convey to Carmen that he doesn’t need to be nervous because you want this just as bad. 

It works. 

You put your hands on Carmy’s collarbones the second his fingers slip into your hair. Your nervous system lights on fire, thoughts of how much surface area his palms cover racing through your mind. He kisses you all shy and hesitant at first, like he’s nervous he won’t do what you’re hoping. 

His lips are warm, and you can feel the spots where he’s chewed them raw. You can’t help but think that kissing him might be a good way to break that habit. His nose presses into your cheek, tickling you and making you giggle.

Carmen pulls away, smiling at you. “What’s so funny?”

“Your nose was tickilin’ my cheek.”

“Oh? Like this?” He starts dragging his nose across your face and then down to your neck when he feels you start to laugh harder. He thinks he’s finally cracked the code. It seems like pasta and nose tickles are the proper way into your heart. 

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note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!