You Can Call Me G

oh, don't even get me STARTED, dude

Nightwing x reader 

Summary: Reader gets caught up trying to chase a lead for their story and Nightwing comes to the rescue 

Masterlist

Asks/requests are open!!

The Gotham Gazette didn’t give second chances. You’d learned that your first week. By your third, you understood something worse: they didn’t give first chances either, not the kind that mattered. Not the kind that put your name on a front page instead of buried under someone else’s byline.

So when the lead came in, half-whispered, barely substantiated, passed between desks like something fragile and unwanted, you took it before anyone else could decide it wasn’t worth the risk. Falcone-connected movement. Late-night shipment. East End. Sketchy enough that not one senior wanted to touch it without backup.

Perfect.

The building looked like it was trying to cave in on itself. Brick sagging. Windows blacked out. A single flickering light near a side entrance that made everything look worse instead of better.

You crouched behind a rusted dumpster across the street, camera pressed to your chest, breath shallow but controlled. Your phone stayed on silent. Your notes were already tucked away. You told yourself this was what proving yourself looked like. You told yourself you weren’t shaking. A car rolled up. Then another. Men stepped out, heavy jackets, heavier posture. The kind of stillness that came from knowing they were the most dangerous thing in the room. You lifted your camera.

Click.

Click.

Zoom in, faces, hands, the exchange of a crate.

Click.

Your pulse climbed higher with every shot, adrenaline creeping in, sharpening everything. This was it. This was the story. This was—

A sound cut through the air. You froze. It was soft. Almost nothing. A high, sharp trill. A birdcall. You frowned slightly, lowering the camera just a fraction. Another answered from somewhere above. Lower this time. Shorter. Your stomach dropped. That wasn’t random. That was—

A third sound. Different rhythm. Closer. Your head tilted up slowly. Rooftop. Movement. You didn’t even fully process it before chaos rained down.

They didn’t enter. They descended. A blur of black and blue dropped from the roof like gravity had finally decided to take sides. Another figure followed, red, heavier, more brutal in the way he landed. A third swung in from the side, precise and calculated. The fourth, smaller, faster, hit the ground already moving.

For a split second, the entire room stalled. Then everything broke.

“—What the—”

“BAT—!”

Too late. Nightwing hit first. You’d heard things about him. Everyone in Gotham had. The nice one. The one who smiled. The one who talked people down. The one kids pointed at when they saw shadows on rooftops and said, that one won’t hurt you.

You watched him move, and felt something cold settle in your chest. Because there was nothing gentle about it. His escrima sticks snapped out with a sharp crack. The first goon barely got his hands up before Nightwing struck, fast, controlled, precise, but hard. The sound echoed in the room like a drumbeat.

Crack—shoulder.

Crack—ribs.

Crack—knees.

Not wild. Not uncontrolled. Worse.

Intentional.

Measured.

Like he knew exactly how much force it took to drop someone without killing them, and rode that line without hesitation. Another man rushed him. Nightwing pivoted. The sticks moved again, faster this time, rhythm picking up.

It was almost—

Your breath caught. It was almost musical. Like a drum kit. Each hit placed with terrifying accuracy, building into something fluid and relentless. The goon didn’t stand a chance. None of them did. And Nightwing, he didn’t stop smiling. Not wide. Not friendly. But there was something there. Something focused. Something that looked right in the middle of the violence.

Gunfire.

Red Hood answered it. Loud. Immediate. Controlled chaos as he moved through the room like a storm given form. Red Robin was already disabling weapons, pulling people down, tying fights off before they could escalate. Robin, fast, furious, took down anyone who slipped past the others with sharp, efficient strikes. But you? You couldn’t look away from Nightwing.

A goon swung a pipe. Nightwing blocked it, twisted, brought his escrima stick down again, crack, and the man dropped. Another tried to run. Nightwing’s foot caught him mid-step, sending him sprawling before a final strike ended it. Clean.

Final.

Done.

Your camera hung useless in your hands. You should’ve been taking pictures. You should’ve been documenting everything. Instead, you were staring. Because this wasn’t what people described. This wasn’t the softened version of Gotham’s protectors people told themselves so they could sleep at night. This was something else entirely. Something sharper. Something real.

Nightwing paused. Just for a second. Breathing steady. Shoulders rising and falling once. Then, his head turned. Directly toward you. You froze. Completely. Your heart slammed against your ribs as his gaze locked onto yours across the room. The mask hid most of his face, but not all of it. Not the eyes. They flicked over you once, quick, assessing. Camera. Notepad. Civilian. Alive. Safe. He started walking toward you.

Your brain short-circuited. Move. You should move. You should step back, say something, do something. Your feet didn’t listen. Each step he took felt louder than the entire fight had been. Measured. Calm. Controlled in a way that made everything else, the chaos, the noise, the violence, feel even more real in hindsight.

He stopped a few feet away. Close enough that you could see the faint rise and fall of his chest. Close enough to notice the small scuffs on his suit. Close enough that the adrenaline still clinging to him felt almost… tangible. “Hey,” he said. Not sharp. Not accusing. It threw you off more than anything else. “Are you hurt?”

You blinked. Once.

Twice.

Your mouth opened, nothing came out. “I—no—I mean—” your voice caught on itself, tripping over the words. “No, I’m—I'm fine. I think. I didn’t—” God. You sounded ridiculous.

Your grip tightened on your camera like it might anchor you to something real. “I was just—working. I didn’t—I wasn’t—” You stopped. Because you didn’t even know what you were trying to explain.

Nightwing tilted his head slightly, watching you, not in that sharp, calculating way from before, but something quieter now. Checking. Making sure. “Okay,” he said after a second. “Just… making sure.”

There was a pause. Your pulse hadn’t slowed. If anything, it felt louder now in the silence. You swallowed. Your brain scrambled to catch up, to make sense of what you’d just seen, of him. The stories.

The rumors.

The way people talked about him like he was the safe one.

The easy one.

The one you wouldn’t be afraid of if you ever ended up this close.

Your eyes flicked to the escrima sticks still in his hands. To the unconscious bodies scattered across the floor. To the memory, fresh, vivid, of the way he’d moved. Precise.

Relentless.

Unstoppable.

Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “…you’re the nice one?”

There was a beat. Then, Nightwing blinked. And let out a short, quiet laugh. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t harsh. It was almost, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing around the room for half a second before looking back at you, something a little amused tugging at his voice. “I get that a lot.”

You stared at him, something uncertain pulling at your expression. “…that’s not what I expected from the nice one.”

That earned you something closer to a real smile, brief, but there. “Probably not.”

Another pause settled between you. Lighter this time. Still tense, but different. He nodded once toward your camera. “You get what you needed?”

You looked down at it like you’d forgotten it was there. “I—yeah. I think so.”

“Good.” His tone shifted just slightly again, firmer, but not unkind. “Next time, don’t do it alone.”

Next time. Like he already knew there would be one. Like he knew you weren’t the type to stop. You let out a small, breathy huff that might’ve been a laugh. “…noted.”

Across the room, a voice cut in, “We need to move.” Red Hood. Impatient. Watching. 

Nightwing stepped back. The distance returned all at once. “Get somewhere safe,” he said. Then, softer, almost like an afterthought, “And try to stay out of trouble.”

Before you could respond, he turned. One step.

Two

And then he was gone, the others moving with him, shadows folding back into the night like they’d never been there at all. The silence hit differently this time. Not empty. Just… settling. You stood there for a long moment, staring at the space he’d been. At the aftermath. At your shaking hands.

Slowly, you lifted your camera. Checked the shots. Every frame told the same story. Violence.

Precision.

Control.

Truth.

But none of them captured the way he’d looked at you. You lowered the camera slightly, exhaling. “…the nice one,” you muttered to yourself. Then, after a beat, you almost laughed.

Nightwing x reader 

Summary: Reader gets caught up trying to chase a lead for their story and Nightwing comes to the rescue 

Masterlist

Asks/requests are open!!

The Gotham Gazette didn’t give second chances. You’d learned that your first week. By your third, you understood something worse: they didn’t give first chances either, not the kind that mattered. Not the kind that put your name on a front page instead of buried under someone else’s byline.

So when the lead came in, half-whispered, barely substantiated, passed between desks like something fragile and unwanted, you took it before anyone else could decide it wasn’t worth the risk. Falcone-connected movement. Late-night shipment. East End. Sketchy enough that not one senior wanted to touch it without backup.

Perfect.

The building looked like it was trying to cave in on itself. Brick sagging. Windows blacked out. A single flickering light near a side entrance that made everything look worse instead of better.

You crouched behind a rusted dumpster across the street, camera pressed to your chest, breath shallow but controlled. Your phone stayed on silent. Your notes were already tucked away. You told yourself this was what proving yourself looked like. You told yourself you weren’t shaking. A car rolled up. Then another. Men stepped out, heavy jackets, heavier posture. The kind of stillness that came from knowing they were the most dangerous thing in the room. You lifted your camera.

Click.

Click.

Zoom in, faces, hands, the exchange of a crate.

Click.

Your pulse climbed higher with every shot, adrenaline creeping in, sharpening everything. This was it. This was the story. This was—

A sound cut through the air. You froze. It was soft. Almost nothing. A high, sharp trill. A birdcall. You frowned slightly, lowering the camera just a fraction. Another answered from somewhere above. Lower this time. Shorter. Your stomach dropped. That wasn’t random. That was—

A third sound. Different rhythm. Closer. Your head tilted up slowly. Rooftop. Movement. You didn’t even fully process it before chaos rained down.

They didn’t enter. They descended. A blur of black and blue dropped from the roof like gravity had finally decided to take sides. Another figure followed, red, heavier, more brutal in the way he landed. A third swung in from the side, precise and calculated. The fourth, smaller, faster, hit the ground already moving.

For a split second, the entire room stalled. Then everything broke.

“—What the—”

“BAT—!”

Too late. Nightwing hit first. You’d heard things about him. Everyone in Gotham had. The nice one. The one who smiled. The one who talked people down. The one kids pointed at when they saw shadows on rooftops and said, that one won’t hurt you.

You watched him move, and felt something cold settle in your chest. Because there was nothing gentle about it. His escrima sticks snapped out with a sharp crack. The first goon barely got his hands up before Nightwing struck, fast, controlled, precise, but hard. The sound echoed in the room like a drumbeat.

Crack—shoulder.

Crack—ribs.

Crack—knees.

Not wild. Not uncontrolled. Worse.

Intentional.

Measured.

Like he knew exactly how much force it took to drop someone without killing them, and rode that line without hesitation. Another man rushed him. Nightwing pivoted. The sticks moved again, faster this time, rhythm picking up.

It was almost—

Your breath caught. It was almost musical. Like a drum kit. Each hit placed with terrifying accuracy, building into something fluid and relentless. The goon didn’t stand a chance. None of them did. And Nightwing, he didn’t stop smiling. Not wide. Not friendly. But there was something there. Something focused. Something that looked right in the middle of the violence.

Gunfire.

Red Hood answered it. Loud. Immediate. Controlled chaos as he moved through the room like a storm given form. Red Robin was already disabling weapons, pulling people down, tying fights off before they could escalate. Robin, fast, furious, took down anyone who slipped past the others with sharp, efficient strikes. But you? You couldn’t look away from Nightwing.

A goon swung a pipe. Nightwing blocked it, twisted, brought his escrima stick down again, crack, and the man dropped. Another tried to run. Nightwing’s foot caught him mid-step, sending him sprawling before a final strike ended it. Clean.

Final.

Done.

Your camera hung useless in your hands. You should’ve been taking pictures. You should’ve been documenting everything. Instead, you were staring. Because this wasn’t what people described. This wasn’t the softened version of Gotham’s protectors people told themselves so they could sleep at night. This was something else entirely. Something sharper. Something real.

Nightwing paused. Just for a second. Breathing steady. Shoulders rising and falling once. Then, his head turned. Directly toward you. You froze. Completely. Your heart slammed against your ribs as his gaze locked onto yours across the room. The mask hid most of his face, but not all of it. Not the eyes. They flicked over you once, quick, assessing. Camera. Notepad. Civilian. Alive. Safe. He started walking toward you.

Your brain short-circuited. Move. You should move. You should step back, say something, do something. Your feet didn’t listen. Each step he took felt louder than the entire fight had been. Measured. Calm. Controlled in a way that made everything else, the chaos, the noise, the violence, feel even more real in hindsight.

He stopped a few feet away. Close enough that you could see the faint rise and fall of his chest. Close enough to notice the small scuffs on his suit. Close enough that the adrenaline still clinging to him felt almost… tangible. “Hey,” he said. Not sharp. Not accusing. It threw you off more than anything else. “Are you hurt?”

You blinked. Once.

Twice.

Your mouth opened, nothing came out. “I—no—I mean—” your voice caught on itself, tripping over the words. “No, I’m—I'm fine. I think. I didn’t—” God. You sounded ridiculous.

Your grip tightened on your camera like it might anchor you to something real. “I was just—working. I didn’t—I wasn’t—” You stopped. Because you didn’t even know what you were trying to explain.

Nightwing tilted his head slightly, watching you, not in that sharp, calculating way from before, but something quieter now. Checking. Making sure. “Okay,” he said after a second. “Just… making sure.”

There was a pause. Your pulse hadn’t slowed. If anything, it felt louder now in the silence. You swallowed. Your brain scrambled to catch up, to make sense of what you’d just seen, of him. The stories.

The rumors.

The way people talked about him like he was the safe one.

The easy one.

The one you wouldn’t be afraid of if you ever ended up this close.

Your eyes flicked to the escrima sticks still in his hands. To the unconscious bodies scattered across the floor. To the memory, fresh, vivid, of the way he’d moved. Precise.

Relentless.

Unstoppable.

Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “…you’re the nice one?”

There was a beat. Then, Nightwing blinked. And let out a short, quiet laugh. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t harsh. It was almost, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing around the room for half a second before looking back at you, something a little amused tugging at his voice. “I get that a lot.”

You stared at him, something uncertain pulling at your expression. “…that’s not what I expected from the nice one.”

That earned you something closer to a real smile, brief, but there. “Probably not.”

Another pause settled between you. Lighter this time. Still tense, but different. He nodded once toward your camera. “You get what you needed?”

You looked down at it like you’d forgotten it was there. “I—yeah. I think so.”

“Good.” His tone shifted just slightly again, firmer, but not unkind. “Next time, don’t do it alone.”

Next time. Like he already knew there would be one. Like he knew you weren’t the type to stop. You let out a small, breathy huff that might’ve been a laugh. “…noted.”

Across the room, a voice cut in, “We need to move.” Red Hood. Impatient. Watching. 

Nightwing stepped back. The distance returned all at once. “Get somewhere safe,” he said. Then, softer, almost like an afterthought, “And try to stay out of trouble.”

Before you could respond, he turned. One step.

Two

And then he was gone, the others moving with him, shadows folding back into the night like they’d never been there at all. The silence hit differently this time. Not empty. Just… settling. You stood there for a long moment, staring at the space he’d been. At the aftermath. At your shaking hands.

Slowly, you lifted your camera. Checked the shots. Every frame told the same story. Violence.

Precision.

Control.

Truth.

But none of them captured the way he’d looked at you. You lowered the camera slightly, exhaling. “…the nice one,” you muttered to yourself. Then, after a beat, you almost laughed.

ten year old Tim Drake who already knew who Batman and Robin were, finding out he now has a secret tunnel in his garden connecting his house to their lair, and he’s just like ‘fuck yeah that’s cool.’ and starts exploring.

thirteen year old Jason Todd bored and fucking around alone in the batcave system when he comes across a fucking ten year old who knows his identity, clearly idolises the hell out of him, and is just kinda wandering around the cave system alone and completely chill about it. they see a super dangerous spider and Tim just starts info-dumping on the species. when asked if he has a curfew to go back home by he goes ‘uh, July i guess? that’s when mom and dad get back.’ it is early February.

thirteen year old Jason Todd who takes a minute and then goes ‘ok this is funny as fuck i promise i won’t snitch to Bruce.’

Jason Todd and Tim Drake being secret cave buddies. Jason Todd and Tim Drake hanging out in the tunnels and making fun of Batman and Nightwing from the shadows. Tim Drake who has to buy a whole new set of night-vision camera lenses for his new photo album that’s just photos and selfies of him and his new best friend Robin fucking around in the underground pitch-dark.

Jason Todd who dies, gets revived, is told by Talia that Tim Drake has ‘replaced him’ unknowing they’re already friends, and Jason who all he can think of is that time they played hide and seek in the cave system and Tim clung to the fucking ceiling via a stalactite for 45 minutes straight. Jason Todd who just looks at Talia and goes ‘yeah sounds about right for him.’

Jason Todd being told he has to deliver Damian to Bruce and he decides ‘absolutely the fuck not’ to the idea of even touching the front door. they have a Ring camera he is not getting caught on that bullshit.

Jason Todd who just goes to Drake Manor and uses Tim’s old entrance to get into the tunnels, his home away from home, dragging Damian along, until he gets to a spot where he can secretly signal into the batcave for Tim to sneak the fuck away.

fifteen year old Tim Drake who gets called into the tunnels to find the Red Hood, unmasked as Jason, presenting to him a random child which he declares to be the son of Batman.

fifteen year old Tim Drake who comes full circle and says ‘ok this is funny as fuck i promise i won’t snitch to Bruce.’

the cave boys are reunited. a third is added to the club. a new photo album is filled. when Tim brings Damian up through the tunnels into the cave he looks Bruce dead in the eyes and says fully straight-faced ‘this is your cave son. i found him wandering, he was born from the shadows of the bat.’

eleven year old Damian Al Ghul-Wayne who’s spent the past three and a half years under Jason Todd’s influence and sombrely declares ‘the cave birthed me for you, father. i am darkness. i am your child.’

Dick: -was arguing with B for like three hours. he's genuinely trying to crack down on- *panicked yelp* *grunt* -whoooooly shit that was close, i almost swung straight into that stop sign.

Jason: you have got to stop drinking and swinging.

Dick: you're the one that dared me to shotgun it! it's fine, it's a bank holiday tomorrow. nobody ever does shit before a bank holiday; like they think they deserve a break from committing crimes as well.

Jason: tell me about it, i got so bored on my patrol route i've stopped and i'm now painting the outside of this lady's house for her. do you think you'll take some drinks on the stakeout?

Dick: *considering hum* depends on if i win my argument with B and get to take Dami with me. he's really trying to put a stop to unneeded team ups on stakeouts, it's insane.

Jason: he's such a coward, like he wants us to get along and spend time with each other, but once we're suited up? nooooooo~,

Dick: *annoyed mimic* 'taking more than one person to go sit in a room and watch for information is a waste of assets that we cannot afford right now' -one of us needs to take one for the team and get horrifically injured while on a solo stakeout so that he has to eat his words and admit we shouldn't do them alone.

Jason: i blame Tim. i fully blame Tim, because two weeks ago he took Steph, Kon, and that Flash-kid all on a 'stakeout' to watch for drug exchanges during some party. 50 minutes in and they got bored, started playing truth or dare, and Tim ended up just going and joining the fucking rager.

Dick, snickering: fuck, yeah Damian told me about that over the phone, what the fuck were they thinking? he's still grounded from that, isn't he?

Jason: i dunno but now they've ruined it for the rest of us because now B is cracking down- oh. oh hold on,

*faint mumbles from Jason's com*

Jason: No, no, no te preocupes, estoy bien, no necesito limonada. Estoy usando un casco, no funcionaría.

*more mumbles*

Jason: *chuckle* Gracias, gracias. -ok i'm back.

Dick: who the fuck drinks lemonade at half twelve at night? actually- who the fuck asks for their house to be painted at half twelve at night?

Jason: to be fair to her she's like, seventy and nocturnal. also she just wants the whole building to be white, it's kind of hard to fuck up regardless of the light levels. and the helmet has night vision.

Dick: *grunt of acceptance*

Jason: so do you think you'll get B to let Dami join you on that stakeout?

Dick: if he says no i'll just sneak him out to me anyway; i miss the kid, we haven't hung out in a while.

Jason: *hum*

Jason: also, Damian on a stakeout is, like, my favourite thing to experience in the entire fucking world. he is genuinely the funniest child i've ever met.

Dick: *abrupt excitement* rIGHT?!?! LIKE WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENS TO HIM THAT HE JUST BECOMES A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT PERSON?!

Jason: oh my- no, D, you don't even know. I've literally had conversations with Talia where we've drained entire bottles of wine discussing the science behind this, it's insane.

Dick: he is just... a creature. and i love him.

Jason: my theory is that because he's so obsessive about being productive and busy at all times, that the only occasions where his brain will let him, like... chill the fuck out and just sit, is when he's on a stakeout or something. because in his brain it's like 'well this is still vigilante work, so you have to do nothing for a while'. and then he instantly transforms into my favourite person on the planet.

Dick: what gets me- what makes me laugh is the snacks. have you seen the shit he makes himself when he's locked in on a stakeout for hours on end?

Jason: seen? motherfucker i'm the one who taught him to cook, may i remind you,

Dick: *laughs* ok so- so can you- can you tell me what's up with the custard thing...?

*pause*

Jason: *dramatic, long sigh*

Dick: *cackles* WHAT- WHAT WAS THAT?

Jason: i'm just-! *breathy laughter* no i'm just- i'm just preparing myself, because the custard thing- fucking hell,

Dick: ok so you do know what i'm talking about then?

Jason: *resigned* yeah,

Dick, amused and expectant: go on then.

Jason, resigned and hesitant: well... it was something cheap i could make easily when i was a kid, right? because it's literally just a couple dollars for a massive tub of powder and then you just mix a little of it with milk and sugar and bam, a whole meal-!

Dick, incredulous: -OF PLAIN CUSTARD?

Jaosn: FUCK OFF MY MOM WAS AN ADDICT. anyway, when i got to the league i realised that Day was like, the main heir of the league and therefor his entire existence was just about training; the kid got fed nutrition bricks and the occasional slab of meat, that was it. so when i became heir and like, usurped Damian's position, i told everybody that since he wasn't the firstborn anymore that they could all fuck off with their shitty child rearing and start treating him like a person,

Dick: -yeah didn't he mention he used to sleep in a cell before you came along?

Jason: yeah he fucking- i changed all that shit. made them give him a bedroom, cut down on his classes, started sneaking him out of the compound to spend the evenings with me and my crew in Nanda Parbat; and then i started getting him to try new foods and shit, cookin' for 'im.

Dick: and you made him *snort* -sorry, and you made him custard?

Jason: fuck off, ok? he wanted to help me cook and i figured just stirring a pot 24/7 until the goop thickened was as easy enough job. so it was the first thing i taught him to cook and i guess it stuck with him. he says the smell of it's nostalgic now, like a comfort food.

Dick: ...i guess that is kinda sweet.

Jason: yeah but now it's like, the first thing he starts craving the second he wants to relax or chill out for a bit. like i remember the first time i did a stakeout with him in Gotham we were planning for it and i was like 'ok this is gonna be at least eight hours so i need to grab some cigs; i need me some vices to stop from getting bored' y'know? and fucking Damian just hums in agreement and then goes 'agreed, i'll have to bring a portable gas cooker', and i'm like what the fuck are you-

Dick: *audible gleeful* HE- HE, THE FIRST TIME I DID A STAKEOUT WITH HIM- the first time i did a stakeout with him i didn't see what he'd packed for it until we got there, so i didn't know what the fuck was going on until an hour in when i brought out a pack of jelly babies and asked if he wanted a snack, and he went 'oh i'll make my own' and pROCEEDS TO SET UP AN ENTIRE FUCKING CAMP KITCHEN-

Jason: *starts laughing, slowly increasing in pitch*

Dick: AND I'M THERE-, i'm sat there side-eyeing him while keeping track of our target as he starts filling an entire fucking pot with milk and heating it up, just thinking like, 'shit i can't question him about this; what if this is like, a part of his culture or something-?'

Jason: *hand clapping* a part of his culture,

Dick: LIKE WHAT IF THIS IS AN ARAB THING AND HE THINKS I'M MOCKING IT?! I DON'T FUCKIN' KNOW,

Jason: and he- the worst part is that he will literally make like, five servings in a single fucking batch. like- like the pot is full by the time he's done, and then he'll carry it and one of those big ass adult-spoons over to where he's sat and just proceed to raw dog this entire pan of fuckin' custard; face blank, eyes unfocused, just shovelling it in,

Dick: *weeping*

Jason: *eager* -he took a pot to the movie theatre once.

Dick: *indignant* FUCK. OFF.

Jason: no i'm serious, we did a- *choked snort* we did a stakeout once that got cut short abruptly, because the guy killed himself three hours in, and we'd already blocked out most of the night to be there, so we were like 'ok well shit, what do we do now?' and there was a movie theatre down the street from where we were based, so i was like 'well we could go watch a movie', right?

Dick: *prompting hum*

Jason: and we settle on a movie and i go onto the site to book the tickets online real quick, and i notice this little fucker out the corner of my eye, as he starts nonchalantly getting out his fucking pot,

Dick: *abrupt wheeze*

Jason: and i'm like, don't you- *wheeze* kid don't you fuckin' dare,

Dick: *silent gasps of laughter*

Jason, struggling not to laugh: he looks me dead in the eyes as he brings out the custard powder and says *solemn tone* 'i will need snacks for the movie, brother'. AND I'M FUCKING- i have to be like 'hey, hey Damian? Damian, my sweet sweet boy? NOT THIS.'

Dick: *bursts into a new round of cackles*

Jason: LIKE THAT'S- THAT IS ILLEGAL. YOU CANNOT DO THAT. YOU CANNOT- and this fucking child proceeds to cook himself one of his fucking pans of custard, shoves a spoon in, and then carries it down the street into the movie theatre.

Dick: *while crying* and you- you had to go in with him...?

Jason: i swear to god i showed the ticket guy our tickets, the dude looked at me, looked at Damian with his fucking pot of steaming custard, looked back at me, and i had to be like 'yeah man- i'm not fucking happy about this situation either; like this is also not where i want to be on earth right now, you and i are both victims here, but unfortunately this child does have pepper spray on him right now and i don't think trying to take the pan away would be very productive'.

Dick: -aND THEY LET HIM IN WITH IT?!?!

Jason, sombre: Dick- Dick. you don't understand. he finished the fucking pan before the ads were over.

Dick: HE- *uncontrollable choking wheezes*

Jason: i saw him mentally calculating whether or not he could go and make another pot before the movie started and i had to put my foot down like 'if you dare leave this fucking seat before this movie is finished i will shave your fucking head'.

Dick: *still crying, tone high-pitched* i love stakeout Damian so much...

Jason, voice dry: yeah he's a fuckin' gem.

Dick: -no that- that misconception is what pisses me off the most.

Jason: RIGHT?!

Bruce: i will admit even i was confused when he said it.

Dick: -like, me and Jason did not spend that much effort on making shit the fuck up and then rabbit-holing until it seemed slightly plausible just for Tim of all people to swoop in and take our role.

Bruce: i didn't even know he meant Tim at first, either. Clark was just talking about conspiracy theories online and Oliver asked me 'oh your kid's really into conspiracy theories, right?' and i said 'yeah Dick and Jason used to be really obsessed', and he responded with 'no i meant the third one, Red Robin.' and my mind went blank. pass me that screwdriver, Damian. thanks.

Jason: such bullshit; everybody's forgetting our roots.

Damian: i thought Tim was the conspiracy theorist of the family? by the way, father, the cave is low on bandage rolls.

Jason: shit, is there enough for my leg? i got nicked by a knife just before we came back in.

Dick: there's some spare in the batmobile i think,

Jason: oh hell yeah- somebody smack Damian by the way, that was disrespectful as fuck.

*smacking noise*

Damian: *squawk* RICHARD-!

Dick: he's right, though, that was so disrespectful. Tim being the true conspiracy theorist? me and Jay used to live on those back in the day.

Damian: *amidst distant clacking* i think there's a difference between what Tim does and how stupid the two of you are when put in the same room unsupervised.

Jason: no- fuck off! *whining* Bruce, tell him!

Bruce: *sigh* sorry Damian, i do have to agree with your brothers. they were surprisingly crafty when they were younger.

Dick, incredulous: 'surprisingly crafty', we were geniuses,

Bruce: chum, i love you but i don't think a single thing you two came up with was correct. *strained grunt* ...ok, Jaylad try the engine?

Jason: yeah im turning the key, it's doing fuck-all. you really fucked it up this time huh?

Bruce: i need my tool kit, Damian can you go and grab-?

*metallic thud*

Bruce: ...thank you. but next time don't throw it.

Damian: i'm not walking all the way over there. you can tell me to type up the night's reports or you can tell me to help you fix the car; you can't tell me to do both.

Jason: *whistles* you know if i ever spoke to my dad like that, he'd hit me with a golf club.

Dick, bland: Jay, your dad was a criminal.

Jason: what, and B isn't? just because he's the commissioner's favourite criminal doesn't mean it isn't still illegal for him to physically assault people in the streets.

Bruce, offended: hey,

Jason: shut up.

Bruce, indignant: see- *hissing* and you wonder why he thinks it's ok to talk to me like that-!

Jason: -listen if you didn't establish dominance over your first two kids then them influencing the new ones is honestly on you. the point is, me and Dick were hardcore into theorising when i was Robin; Timmy-boy doesn't have shit on us.

Damian: were you two that bored back then? i thought the golden era was supposed to be 'more insane and cartoonish than anything we could imagine'?

Dick: to be fair, it was like... the only thing we could talk about without arguing.

Jason: yeahhhh, for the first two years at least we couldn't stand each other, but Alfred and B kept trying to make us hang out and be brothers.

Bruce: you two were nightmares. conspiracy theories were like that generation's version of cocomelon. you were at each other's throats 24/7, but if i sat you both down in front of that creepy pasta website and told you one of them was real and about a JLA member? you'd be happy for hours.

Damian: *snort* you're joking.

Dick: dude, we- *snicker* we would make a mystery out of anything. i remember once i had to come home for thanksgiving and we spent the entire holiday obsessing over the possibility of uncle Clark lying about being an alien because i saw him taking human-medication in the front hall.

Bruce: *slightly smug* yeah, those were mentos. i told him to eat them in a 'suspicious manner' so you two would behave while we had guests.

Jason: -I FUCKIN' KNEW IT!

Dick: unbelievable- this is why we have trust issues you asshole!

Bruce: I DON'T WANT- I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT; YOU ONCE THREW THE TURKEY OUT THE WINDOW OVER A GAME OF GIN RUMMY.

*two seconds of silence*

Dick: that's actually-

Jason: yeah ok-

Dick: -i'd lie too.

Jason: -were a handful, sure.

Bruce: thank you.

Damian: you actually thought that being from Krypton was something Superman would feel the need to lie about?

Dick: hey, it wasn't nearly as buck-wild as some of the theories Jason came up with.

Jason: hey- hey, my conspiracy theories were, and always will be, fuckin' smart. may i remind you i predicted the court of owls being involved with haley's circus YEARS before that whole thing went down.

Dick: oh- fuck off, Jason. you didn't predict shit-

Jason, yelling over him: i said- I SAID, THAT THERE WAS A BIRD CULT,

Dick: -YOU SAID HAD NOTHING TO FUCKING DO WITH THE COURT OF OWLS-,

Jason: -OWL IN THE NAME,

Dick: -YOU THOUGHT MY PARENTS WERE BIOLOGICAL BIRD MUTANTS, TWATPOLE-

Jason: -AN OWL IS A BIRD-

Dick: -ITS A POLITIAL GROUP NOT A DAMN-

Jason: -HAS WINGS, HAS BEAK, LAYS EGGS,

Dick: YOU STUPID FUCKING-

Damian:

*complete and utter silence*

*more silence*

Jason, carefully: Damian, i want you to know that although scientifically that was funny, if you come within fifteen feet of me during the next twenty-four hours i will throw you into Gotham harbour by your balls.

Dick: -my ears are bleeding and you are no longer my brother.

Bruce, exhausted: Damian, step away from the batcomputer before you get yourself hurt. please. and stop using it to play music clips through the cave speakers.

Damian: well somebody needed to break them up and you said cocomelon-

Bruce: NOT WHAT I MEANT AND YOU KNOW IT- just go take off your suit. just- just- for once. for once, Damian. for once. listen to your father.

Damian: ...i will, but only because you seem to be on the verge of tears.