diana

jason isn't stupid—he knows there's rules that define whether or not two people are dating. but he is just a bit dense.

you'd met on a rooftop about a year ago, a classic vigilante encounter. instant tension, instant bickering between you and jason. he hadn't been entirely smitten. he simply thought you were beautiful, but that didn't mean anything.

not until you two start working together. bruce sends the two of you out on a mission, and you say something along the lines of, "let's make it a date, then." you said it with such an arrogant, cheeky grin.

and because that mission had gone so well, you and jason are consistently sent out together. alone.

because you'd said "let's make it a date!" he began to say it back. just a little joke. he'd say something like, "save the date..." quite bashfully. and you'd snicker and agree.

and that consistency is what makes jason think the two of you have started dating.

every single time the two of you are dispatched on a mission, it's always "save the date" or "let's make it a date" with you.

it happened so effortlessly, in his mind. so seamlessly. he doesn't feel like he needs to perform around you. he's not a blushing mess, he doesn't stutter or even treat you very differently, hence why you don't notice that he thinks the two of you are together.

except for when he stops by and gets little trinkets. maybe a stick of chocolate for valentines day. not flowers, because he wasn't able to gauge whether or not you'd want some.

for your birthday, he got you a small gift. something that reminded him of a childhood story you'd once babbled on about.

he's just a little bit sweeter and a little bit softer around you, compared to when he's conversing with other teammates.

this you notice, and you begin to consider that maybe he has feelings for you. a little crush. but you'd never in a million years consider that he thought you guys were fully dating.

his strange acts of kindness spark a tiny crush inside of you. you're spending more time with him. enjoying your missions with him just a bit more. laughing, smiling. and he begins to feel like home.

you wonder—should you ask him out? he doesn't seem like he's going to make a move any time soon. and, after all, he's been picking up so many small gifts for you here and there. maybe he's waiting for you to do something.

so, one night, you consult his brothers.

"jason likes you. i can tell," dick reassures. "he likes being around you, whether that's as friends or because he likes likes you, i dunno."

"definitely," tim had said. "jason with chocolates in his hand? never seen before. until you."

damian rolled his eyes when you asked. he scoffed and said, "i've been waiting for you to catch on. why don't you just ask each other out already?"

they act like jason is acting so differently. perhaps you just don't know him as well as they do.

one night, on a mission, you gather enough courage to turn to him and ask. "hey..."

"yeah?" he says, tipping his head towards the starless sky.

"i...um...i know we do a lot together. and i don't want to ruin our friendship."

"friendship?"

you nod. did jason even consider you a friend? why did he seem so confused? "yeah. i just...i really like having you around. so don't make it weird, okay?"

he dips his head. "okay...?"

"do you...want to go on a date with me?"

he blinks. once, twice. "are we not on one right now?"

you shrug. "i mean, i would hardly consider this a date." you gesture to the honking cars below, to your feet swinging off the edge of the roof.

"why are you asking me out?" he says, leaning forward.

you're a little stunned. a bit hurt. "because...i like you? because we spend a lot of time together and i think you're fun to be around? i don't know."

jason waves his hands in the air. "yeah, i know. but...why? i mean, we're already dating. if you wanted to go for a date and not have to go on a mission at the same time, you could've just said—"

"i'm sorry, what?"

"you...could've just said you wanted to do something different for our dates?"

you shake your head frantically. "no, no, no. you said that...you just said that we're dating?"

he stares at you like you're the one not making sense. "yeah...?"

"we're not dating, jason."

his mask hisses as he pries it off his face. his brows furrow and his cheeks redden with embarrassment. "we're...not?" he says it so softly, so painfully that you almost want to convince him that you are dating him.

"jason...oh, jason. did you think that all our talk about dates made this a date?" you can barely stifle your laughter. "jason, oh jason...you're so sweet. darling, it's an expression."

"so we're...not dating?"

"how long have you thought that?"

"about a year now." bashfully, jason's shoulders sink. "i thought we were, since you never turned down any of my gifts."

"i just thought that was you being nice. i'm sorry, i never thought to give you anything back. i just...thought you were being nice."

"of course i was just being nice. i...liked having you around."

it sounds silly saying it all aloud, but now that you think of it, jason's loyalty to you was plain as day. he was a reserved person, so it was easy to think he was just being a loner, like usual.

there was time the two of you went undercover. two girls had been ruthlessly vying for his attention. both infinitely attractive. some men, too. and he hadn't even blinked. you assumed he was just playing his part when he scooped you into his arms and wouldn't let go of you the entire night.

the way he listened to you—that gift he'd bought you for your birthday. reminiscent of some stupid childhood story you'd told him on some meaningless, random night. yet he'd remembered.

because that night hadn't been meaningless to him. no night with you had been meaningless.

perhaps he wasn't dense or stupid for thinking the two of you were already dating. perhaps you were in fact the dense one, for not seeing the signs. for not seeing how sweet he was sooner, for how silently loyal he was.

"jason." you loop his hand in yours. his pulse beats steadily. he's not nervous around you. neither are you anymore. "how long did you say we were dating?"

"we're not—"

"how long did you say we were dating for?"

he bites his lip. "tomorrow would've been...uh, our one year anniversary. i didn't know if you wanted me to plan something. you didn't seem to care very much, like the people do in the movies." because you hadn't even known. "i did want to plan something, though. you just never seemed like an 'event' sorta person." he chuckles. "i guess...i guess i know why, now."

"i love surprises," you mutter. "you can still plan something. there's still time."

"but we're not...you said we're not dating." he just seems so damn sad about it.

you shake your head. "what're you talking about?" you grin and rest your head on his shoulder. you can't believe he thought you just didn't like events, you didn't want to cuddle. you just hadn't known.

so you smile, allowing the stench of gotham celebrate the countdown to your first anniversary. the moon hangs high in the sky, and you check your watch. midnight strikes, and you snuggle into jason.

DICK GRAYSON

This man is a FREAK, since you've started dating, the two of you have done just about every position possible. That being said, he's obsessed with giving you head. And by the time he is ready to cum he wants to do it whilst fucking you, not in your mouth.

It takes some manoeuvring, catching him after a long patrol or work out when he’s slumped against the couch (you don’t let him get the sheets sweaty if it’s not from sex). But the second your hand wraps around the base of him and you’re pressing a teasing kiss to the tip of his dick he’s putty in your hands.

He’s got a trembling thigh thrown over your shoulder, hands clutching the closest couch cushion as he babbles incoherently.

Tries to pull you off several times cause “baby, He’s not gonna last. Honey, he’s gonna cum before he can fuck you” :((.

Somehow still doesn’t get that that’s kind of the point. Ends up accidentally overstimulating himself cause he’s trying not to cum while you’re trying very hard to make him.

JASON TODD

It's not often that Jason's in the mood to let you suck him off, not when he deals with and sees so much fucked up shit every day. When you do fuck, he wants to hold you close. Wants to kiss you senseless and bury his face in your neck.

Your best bet? Wake him up with it. Jason’s a light sleeper, he’ll pretty much wake up if you shift even an inch beside him but it’s not impossible. It still takes his brain a few seconds to kick the sleep from his system and if you’ve already got your lips wrapped around his dick then he’ll simply malfunction.

Forgets your name, forgets his name, forgets where the fuck he is the only thing he knows for sure is the glorious warmth sucking his soul out.

Tries to hide his groans by burying his face in his arm, you’re not afraid to use a little teeth to warn him otherwise.

Genuinely meets god for a few seconds after he cums, hips jerking as he moans so loud the neighbours are definitely gonna complain later.

TIM DRAKE

Blowjobs are how you often bribe him into spending time with you.

He’s working on a case for too long? Hand in his pants, until you can get your mouth on him, a lot harder for him to smack you away.

Busy dealing with WE shit? You’re on your knees beneath the desk until he’s dragging you home/to bed.

You really, really want something? He’s so fucking weak to the feel and sight of your tongue sliding against his dick that you can get him to promise you anything in the moment. Though he probably will forget about it so you need to record him making those promises :))

Cries. No matter how often you suck his dick he never gets used to it. It’s like he’s a virgin and it’s the first time anyone is ever touching him Every. Single. Time.

He’s so overworked and exhausted all the time that it honestly doesn’t take much before he’s trying to tug you off as tears line his lashes cause sweetheart you’ve already made him cum twice. He’s sensitive. He can’t go again yet!

(Spoiler alert: he can. Though he might need a few hours to recuperate after)

BRUCE WAYNE

We all know he's done some questionable shit to maintain his secret identity. Once you've been dating for a while you're even willing to sometimes help him nurture the Brucie Wayne act. It's never anything super raunchy, but one encounter with a slightly too friendly-for-comfort Selina Kyle later and it's you who's acting up.

Pulling him into an abandoned corridor of whoever's sprawling mansion this party is taking place in and dropping to your knees. He puts up a token protest, (you both know he could easily stop you) as you undo his slacks but the second your lips wrap around him he's a goner.

Listen, he’s disciplined. He’s withstood literal torture but the way you swirl your tongue against him before you take him so deeply your nose brushes his pelvis is probably the most overwhelming sensation he’s ever experienced.

Keeps one large hand on the back of your neck, forgets to even use it for leverage he’s so out of it, thighs shaking and head thrown back against the wall as he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood.

You certainly hadn’t expected to end up in his office, dressed in business attire you’d bought just the day before, because how were you supposed to explain to the Batman that you’d been joking when he’d gone out of his way to schedule this meeting himself? 

You weren’t naive enough to believe that Bruce spent enough time actually working at Wayne Enterprises to even warrant having a PA. Nor would his control freak tendencies. Thus, the silent question, “Why were you here?”

He quirked a perfectly sculpted brow, no sign of the mask he adorned for the paparazzi in sight, as the two of you stared each other down. Your skin prickles slightly under his gaze. Bruce Wayne is, after all, an unfairly beautiful man, yet you refuse to be the one who breaks first. 

“I have to admit, I was surprised to read your application.” He drawls, eyes flashing with a hint of amusement that has you wanting to melt into the floor. Instead, you lean back in your seat with a pout, crossing your left leg over your thigh, the pencil skirt you’d chosen riding up slightly. 

His eyes follow the movement before quickly flicking back up to your face, but it’s too late, you’ve seen him looking, and suddenly, it's not nerves stirring low in your belly. Slowly, you change your position once more, shifting an arm so it pushes up your tits, tilting your head slightly to show off your neck and collarbone. 

Bruce’s face remains placid, but blue eyes flicker down traitorously to trace the expanse of skin in a barely there movement. 

Interesting. Perhaps there was slightly more merit to that Playboy “persona” than the League believed. 

Teeth dig into your lower lip, perfectly manicured nails drumming a line across the meat of your thigh. “So, do I get the job?”

“Hmm,” he raises a brow, blinking once before he seemingly regains his composure, “the job… Yes, I’m sure we can work something out.”

The contract is all for show; you don’t need this job, nor do you expect to do much paperwork. But you still grasp Bruce’s calloused hand eagerly as he “welcomes you to the team,” and boasts about “what a pleasure it’ll be to have you working with him.”

His touch lingered just a little longer than strictly appropriate, not that you minded. “I do believe the pleasure will be all mine.” You bite back a victorious smirk. 

Just like you didn’t technically need the job, you didn’t technically need the fancy new apartment Bruce had set you up in. Not when you had a zeta tube readily available for your use, though, given how difficult it would be to explain you suddenly zipping between Gotham and Star City repeatedly, you’d taken the leap and moved to rainy Gotham. 

Your father had, predictably, pitched an absolute fit. 

Not that you cared much when it meant you got to have Bruce beneath you like this, a red flush spreading across his sweaty chest and face, muscles taut beneath your hands as you rolled your hips teasingly. 

It had taken surprisingly little to coax the older man into your bed. A few carefully tailored outfits, lingering gazes, and touches. A little game for just the two of you, seeing who will bend first under the pressure. 

The bat breaks first, slipping through your window, bruised and bloodied after yet another night of fists thrown and hurtful words exchanged with his second eldest son. 

As Roy’s older sister, you’ve seen a lot of Jason in recent years and witnessed the fallout from many arguments as well. “He loves you, Bruce, it’s why he lashes out so much. If he didn’t care, then he wouldn’t bother.”

It should have been weird, discussing one of his children when you’d fantasised about climbing him like a tree for the past few weeks, but the minute relaxation of his muscles at your words had made it worth it. You weren’t sure how the world never seemed to notice the pressure Bruce placed upon himself, trying to shoulder every burden alone. Then again, you doubted many people cared enough to look past the carefully crafted veneer he donned. 

“I suppose you’d know, having spent a lot of time with him.” Bruce’s voice is gruff, his brow furrowing as he lets you take off the cowl to assess the damage, and your hands pause in their movements. There was something there, an underlying… bitterness? Jealousy? 

Your stomach swoops. He wasn’t trying to imply… “I have never been involved with Jason!” Your voice is slightly shrill as you reel back to look Bruce in the eyes. “I… where… why would you even think that!” 

“You seem… close.” He grumbled, shrugging his broad shoulders in an attempt at nonchalance, but the way he continued to avoid your gaze betrayed him. 

No way, he really was, “Are you jealous?” The giddy words slip past your lips before you can think better of it, a grin tugging at the corners of your mouth, only for it to drop as he slips out of your grasp abruptly. You can see his walls going up as he retreats, and you reach for him desperately, fingers curling around his bicep in a grip you both know he could easily escape. 

“Wait, Bruce?” You try not to let your sudden panic show, but you doubt you succeed. 

His jaw clenches. “I didn’t come here to be mocked.” 

There are a hundred things you could say, that you should say, instead, what comes out is a hoarse whisper. “Then what did you come here for?”

He remains stoic in his silence, but his eyes, always so expressive for you, dart down to your slightly parted lips. You don’t think; you simply move, grabbing his face with both hands so he can’t wriggle away, and you kiss him. 

He inhales sharply against you before grasping your hips in a split second, pulling you closer until you’re standing torso to torso. Your hands slide down his neck, arms locking themselves behind his head as one of Bruce’s migrates to rest on the small of your back. 

You pull apart for breath, his forehead resting against yours as he gasps. “This is… we shouldn’t.” 

“I know.” You whisper, but don’t move. 

You’re not quite sure who initiated the second kiss, but neither of you pulled away. Neither of you stopped when clothes were shed or when you collapsed clumsily onto your mattress together. It’s… tender, a far cry from the teasing little game you’ve been playing and the earlier kiss, fuelled by desperation. 

Bruce worships you with his touch, takes you apart bit by bit, and before the night is even over, you know it can never be a one-time thing. Bruce has ruined you for all other men. And when you wake the next morning, still curled up in his arms, you think a part of him feels the same. 

Sex with Bruce is always Earth-shattering, whether it’s rough and desperate or slow and gentle, and every time you fall into bed together, you find yourself falling a little more in love, though you’d never dare to voice it. Lest you lose the blissful rhythm you’ve fallen into together, one that sees you lying with your head on his chest, a palm splayed over his heart, still beating slightly faster than its normal resting rate. 

It’s the middle of the day, and Bruce probably has all sorts of responsibilities, but he doesn’t seem inclined to move, and you won’t be the one to bring it up. In fact, “we should just spend the day in bed,” you plead, eyes still closed as you try to snuggle further into his side. 

“Whatever you want, darling.” He hums, still slightly sex drunk, and you press a kiss to his chest to hide your gleeful giggles. 

Unfortunately, your bliss doesn’t last much longer, not when fate itself seems determined to fuck with you, in the form of your father. 

It’s like something from a horror movie, the way your bedroom door swings open and your dad’s familiar voice filters into your previously peaceful space. 

“Sweetheart, are you home? Can we talk? Don’t you think it’s time you quit with the rebellious act… and come… home?” His voice trails off into nothingness as you sit upright, tugging the blankets up to cover yourself. 

“Dad!” You scream. 

“Bruce?!” He yells shrilly in outrage, the man still lying beside you, sighing as he mentally prepares for the inevitable confrontation.

“Oliver.”

“Bruce! You— My daughter?! What the fuck is wrong with you? I’ll fucking kill you!” His skin has gone nearly purple with rage, and you suspect it’s only your body acting as a barrier that prevents your dad from launching himself at Bruce. 

“Dad!” You scream again, throwing a pillow at him, “Get out!”

“So that deviant can make a hasty retreat out the window? I don’t think so!”

“So I can get dressed, you freak!” He hesitates, but when you reach for your bedside table to brandish the lamp menacingly, he gets the hint. 

Bruce is silent as the two of you get dressed, and it makes the nerves in your stomach worsen tenfold. You feel as if you’re about to throw up, until Bruce takes the shirt from your hands, the confused question dying before you can ask when he slips you his shirt instead. Holding out his hand for you to take, he leads you out to meet your father. 

Oliver scowls fiercely as he notices your conjoined hands, mouth opening to no doubt start yelling again when you beat him to it.

“Bruce and I are together, and you’re just going to have to deal with it.” You’ve never voiced it out loud, what this thing between you and Bruce is, and you don’t dare to look at him for fear of how he’ll react. Your fears are instantly assuaged when his thumb softly strokes the back of your palm, grounding you with a silent message: I’m right here. 

“He treats me like a princess.” You admit softly, overcome with a sudden wave of embarrassment. 

“I treat you like a princess!” Oliver whined, actually whined like he wasn't a fully grown man nearing 50. 

You shoot him a withering scowl, refusing to back down, you’d always given in to your father before, always been the one keeping the peace in your fucked up dysfunctional family, but not this time. Not when it mattered. 

Like always, your dad breaks first, collapsing against the couch dramatically with a huff, as if he were a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Fine!” You raise a brow in surprise at his easy acquiescence but allow your shoulders to release some of their tension, letting out a sigh of relief as you lean into Bruce’s side, only to jump when your dad starts screeching bloody murder once more. 

“Nope! Nu-uh, we’re not doing that!” He leapt between you, pushing you behind him and holding an arm out like he was shielding you from some great threat. “Don’t smirk at me, you asshole!” Oliver jabs a finger at Bruce, who only thinly veils his amusement. Which of course, sets off your father even further as you fight back a whine. 

You rolled your eyes, trying to appear nonchalant, but you couldn't prevent the flutter in your stomach at his attention. It was hardly your first gala together, Dick had seen you dressed up plenty of times before, but everytime he looked at you as if you were a goddess.

He drapes an arm over your shoulder, pulling you snug against his side. "Let’s just get through this thing. Then it’s you, me, some cheap Chinese takeout, and most importantly, no pants."

"Oh, baby, you really know how to treat a woman." You giggled, kissing his jaw and leaving a lipstick stain that he either doesn't notice or doesn't care to wipe off.

The two of you stay like that, standing on the fringes of the room, content to ignore everyone else, until you spot Cass looking longingly at the dancefloor.

"Dick," you nudged him, "you should dance with Cassie."

You can tell he's hesitant to leave you, but Cassie clearly wants to dance and Dick would do anything to make his siblings happy. "Take this?" He holds out the drink he'd been nursing for 10 minutes but had yet to touch.

"Why, Mr Grayson, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get me drunk." You joked, gently tugging him closer by the lapels of his jacket.

He grins as you steal a kiss just before lifting the rim of the glass to your lips. "Moscato?" You raise a brow at the choice, your favourite, "You really were planning this."

"I didn't say drink it." He tries to play innocent, but you both know he's been waiting to hand it off to you. You give the liquid a swirl before taking another sip, relishing in the sweet taste as it coats your tongue.

"Now go on, dance with your sister."

Dick’s still smiling when he leans in, brushing your cheek with a kiss. "I’ll be back in a minute."

"I'll count the seconds." You joke, waving him off like a woman seeing her husband off for war, delighting in the way Cassandra lights up as Dick leads her onto the floor.

With Dick gone, Tim sidles up to your side seamlessly, your own sleepy little guard dog as he eyes the other gala goers mistrustfully.

You snort before pulling him into your side, which he readily accepts. Your heart swells with affection for the boy you'd come to view as your own little brother.

You take another drink, trying to stave off your sudden bout of cotton mouth. When that doesn't work, you clear your throat before downing the rest of your glass.

Tim gives you an odd look, but you wave off his concern, "just a little thirsty." You don't admit that your throat is suddenly drier than the Sahara as you take a glass of water from the nearest waiter.

You take slow sips, but no matter what you do, your tongue still feels like paper. Annoying, but not unbearable, an unfortunate side effect you sometimes suffered when drinking.

A few minutes pass, and you start to think something might be wrong when your vision blurs a little. You unconsciously lean slightly against Tim, who startles as he feels the heat emanating from you. Placing the back of his palm against your forehead, before you can stop him. "Jesus, you're hot."

"Careful Timmers, wouldn't wanna make Dick jealous." You joke weakly, fanning yourself with your free hand as the heat crawls down the back of your neck and chest. "Though, it is kind of hot in here."

"I guess." Tim seemed a little unconvinced, pulling out of your grip, only for you to stumble. "Oh wow, I think you might've had a bit too much to drink."

"Hmm, maybe." You agree even if you don't remember having that much. You turn your head, wincing a little as the light reflects harshly from the chandeliers into your eyes.

"Ok, I think it's time we get you home." You nod your head, only to immediately regret it when the world spins a little bit.

"What's this? My little brother is trying to abscond with my girlfriend? Say it ain't so." Dick suddenly appeared, a hint of worry hiding behind his good natured demeanour.

You beam, going to embrace your boyfriend, only to trip when your ankle wobbles. Your heart thumps wildly against your chest, as you lean heavily against Dick's chest.

You don't see the alarmed glances Tim and Dick exchange, keeping your eyes closed to try and abate the odd pressure building up behind them.

Dick says something, hand cupping your jaw as he keeps your head upright, but you don't hear it. His voice is muffled, as if he is trying to speak to you through water.

He seems worried, but you don't understand why; everything's so floaty.

"I'm fine... think I just need to... to" you trail off, losing your train of thought.

"Hey—hey, no, no, no. Stay with me." Dick’s voice cuts through the haze, low and urgent, a stark contrast to the earlier soft teasing you’d shared over stolen kisses and that glass of Moscato.

His hand is warm against your jaw, gently cradling it, thumb brushing your cheek as he keeps your head propped up.

Despite your best efforts, your vision slips in and out of focus. All you can see is Dick's face, so pretty even in his panic. You don't want him to look at you like that, you never want him to be upset, you want him happy, always.

You try to tell him that, but your tongue refuses to cooperate. You don't know why he's so frantic; you're just a little overheated. Your mouth finally opens, but you can't remember what you wanted to say. The thought, whatever it was, slips from your grasp like sand.

Your legs suddenly give out, the new glass of water you'd been clutching slipping from your lax grasp and shattering against the marble floor.

Dick is already moving, catching you before you hit the ground. His arms wrap tightly around you, cushioning your fall.

"Hey, hey—look at me. Look at me, baby."

The sound is distant to your ears, as if from another world entirely. But the commotion grabs the attention of the nearby gala goers, and alarmed whispers reach Bruce's ears from across the room just in time for him to witness his eldest catch you and sink to the floor.

He forgets his charming, genial mask, shoving through scandalised socialites as he runs to reach his son.

Tim's already calling an ambulance, and Damian has appeared suddenly as if from thin air, snarling at anyone attempting to get a closer look.

Dick is hysterical, tears in his eyes as he holds your face in his hands as he tries to get you to respond, but any words he can elicit from you are slurred and confused.

His son doesn't even register his presence until he's kneeling opposite him, clasping a grounding hand on his shoulder. Dick looks up at him, tears sliding down his devastated face. "Bruce, Dad, help her, please!" He begs, voice cracking.

Bruce inhales sharply, the word Dad hitting him like a freight train. Dick hadn’t called him that in months. Years, maybe. It's a word he'd secretly ached to hear for so long, but not like this, not tinted with raw desperation.

Bruce inhales sharply at that, at his son desperately looking at him to fix something they're both powerless to combat.

"She’s going to be okay," Bruce tells him, quietly, as if trying to soothe a wounded animal.

"You can't know that! You can't promise me that!"

Dick looks down at you, taking in the way you gasped raggedly for air, pupils blown wide as you twitch in his grasp.

"Dick." Bruce squeezed his shoulder, grounding him and forcing him back to the present moment. "The ambulance will be here soon. She's still breathing and still has a pulse, she's going to be okay."

"She just... she just collapsed," Dick babbles, as if he hadn't even heard Bruce. "She was fine when I left her, she was, she was fine! But when I got back she couldn't, couldn't breathe - "

"She’s breathing," Bruce murmurs, his hand pressed lightly to your neck. "Pulse is faint, but still there."

"She couldn’t focus. She can’t speak, Bruce." Dick sounds like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. "I don’t... I don’t know what’s happening!"

Bruce doesn’t answer right away. Not because he doesn’t care—God, he cares so much it aches—but because he doesn’t know, and that terrifies him.

Dick is muttering, a mindless stream of thoughts as he clutches you tighter against his chest. "I gave her my drink," he stammers suddenly, as if the memory just struck him. "I didn’t touch it, I just… handed it to her. It was moscato, she likes moscato."

He looks up at Bruce, haunted. "Did I do this? Did I—was it the drink? Or—what if it was something else, what if something's wrong with her heart, or she's sick or something, she was unwell last week. I don't know. I don’t know."

Bruce doesn’t answer right away. Not yet. His mind is already spinning, cataloguing symptoms, possibilities: low blood sugar, dehydration, cardiac event, something neurological. The possibilities were endless.

"We’re going to figure it out," he tells Dick quietly. "Help will be here soon, she'll be ok son."

"She has to be," Dick whimpers, thumb brushing over your cheekbones, and then a little quieter. "She promised me forever."

Bruce watches, his heart in his throat as he watches Dick's hand absentmindedly reach into his pocket for something. Was that... a ring?

That train of thought is abruptly derailed when the paramedics finally arrive.

Dick tries to stay with you as they check your vitals, his hand gripping yours like a vice even as you're lifted onto a stretched and rolled into the back of the ambulance.

One medic tries to gently pull him back, but he doesn’t budge, refusing to leave your side. "I’m staying," he snaps, voice low and dangerous. The paramedic hesitates, glancing at his colleague, who just nods their assent.

"Just stay out of our way," he mutters, but Dick barely hears him, already sinking onto the bench beside the gurney, white-knuckled fingers still wrapped around yours. 

"She was fine," he whispers to no one in particular. "Twenty minutes ago, she was teasing me about getting her drunk. We were laughing."

He can't stop the tears from falling any longer when they attach an oxygen mask, your eyelids fluttering open and closed at random intervals.

"Stay with me, please, baby, just hang in there." He begs you feverishly. Your head lolls toward him, something like recognition flashing in your eyes before it's gone again in a blink. 

"Miss," the second paramedic says suddenly, gently lifting one of your eyelids and shining a small penlight into your eyes. "Miss, can you hear me?"

"Pupils are dilated. Sluggish response," he mutters, more to his partner now. "Could be neurological."

Dick’s stomach drops. "Neurological? Like what, a stroke?"

"We won’t know until we get her stable. It could be toxins. It could be a reaction to something. Could be—" The medic stops himself, shooting Dick a look. "Could be a lot of things."

"She didn’t take anything," Dick says quickly, defensively. "She doesn’t even like taking Tylenol without checking with her doctor first."

"You gave her a drink?" the other medic asks.

Dick nods slowly. "Moscato. Mine. I hadn’t touched it; I was holding it for too long. I didn’t want to waste it—" He swallows. "She was happy. She kissed me. She was fine."

You let out a soft, breathless sound. Not quite a moan. Not quite a word. But it yanks Dick forward like a lifeline, his hand tightening around yours.

"Hey, hey, I’m here," he says urgently. "Babe, can you hear me? Just squeeze my hand, yeah? Just let me know you can hear me."

You don’t respond, you can’t, and Dick nearly starts to sob again. Helpless to do anything but watch and pray to a god he doesn’t believe in, as the paramedics work around him. He rests your clasped hands against his lips, rocking restlessly back and forth as he watches for any change in your condition. 

Your eyes flutter weakly open for half a second, glassy and unfocused, and he leaps to reassure you. "I’ve got you," he whispers, running his free hand gently down your cheek. "I swear, I’ve got you. Just stay with me."

Your fingers twitch—the smallest, weakest movement, but Dick clings to that like a lifeline. His hand tightens around yours, and you suddenly twitch again, your whole body flinching as your eyelids blink rapidly.

"Hey, sweetheart." His voice shakes as he leans forward, cupping your cheek again. "You with me?"

Your eyes are wide open, but they’re not focused, unseeing as you stare right through him before abruptly attempting to recoil. "Don’t touch me!" you gasp, trying to pull your hand away, though he doesn’t let go. "Get off me, get—"

"Hey, hey, it’s me!" Dick says quickly, panic clawing up his throat. "It’s me. It’s Dick, you’re safe, baby, you’re safe."

You’re thrashing now, feeble but undoubtedly panicked. Your pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the colour of your irises. 

"There’s someone! He’s behind you, Dick!" you sob suddenly, eyes locked on the corner of the ambulance where no one sits. "He’s watching me, he’s watching me. Stop looking at me—"

"There’s no one there," Dick breathes, helpless. "There’s no one there, I promise, I swear—"

One of the medics leans over. "Hallucinations. She’s panicking, we need to sedate her before she hurts herself."

"No," Dick says reflexively. "She’s scared. She needs to know she’s not alone. She doesn’t like being sedated."

"She can’t hear you right now," the paramedic says gently, already preparing a sedative. "You have to let us do our job."

You scream again, incoherent, like you’re fighting something only you can see. "I’m right here. I’m not leaving," he says, voice trembling. "You’re okay, I’ve got you. There’s no one else here, just me. It’s just me."

But you don’t hear him, head thrashing from side to side, murmuring something over and over, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. His heart splinters.

"Give it to her," he says quietly. "If it’ll help her stop being afraid... do it."

The sedative enters your bloodstream through the IV, and your breathing begins to slow within moments. Your muscles go slack, and your face's tension eases slightly.

Dick swallows hard, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand once more.

"I’m right here," he whispers. "You’re safe now. Whatever you’re seeing… It’s not real. I promise. I won’t let anything hurt you." But the words feel cheap and hollow against his tongue, because he’s already failed to keep you safe. 

His mind's a mess, but Dick’s sure that this whole thing really is his fault. The timeline, the symptoms, you’ve been poisoned, with a glass of wine that had been meant for him. If you die, it’ll be all his fault. If you die, then Dick thinks he might just die with you. 

The thought hits him like a bullet to the chest. He can’t imagine a world where he doesn’t hear your laugh, doesn’t feel your hand reaching for his across crowded rooms, doesn’t get to kiss you goodnight and pretend, just for a moment, that the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

You whimper in his arms, body twitching against the restraints that keep you from hurting yourself. The EMT had told him it was necessary, but it felt like cruelty.

You start to seize right as they get to the hospital, thrashing against your restraints as they wheel you through the ER doors. The paramedics speak rapid fire at the awaiting nurses and doctors, Dick barely hears any of it.

"Sir, you need to stay here—" someone tries to stop him from pushing past the double doors, but Dick shrugs them off with more force than necessary.

"I’m not leaving her!" he shouts, his voice cracking at the last word. His fists are clenched so tightly at his sides that they tremble.

"Mr. Grayson!" An overworked nurse tried to calm him down, and had he been in his right mind Dick would have been appalled at his behaviour.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder, pulling him back and Dick whirls around, snarling in Bruce's face.

"Let them work," Bruce says quietly, yet sternly.

Collapsing into Bruce's awaiting arms, Dick feels like a small child again. Completely helpless. He's sobbing, gasping against Bruce's chest.

The man is silent, aware that nothing he says can make it better, no matter how badly he wants to take away his son's pain. He wishes he could absorb it all and make everything magically better. But he can't, so he remains a pillar of support, holding his son up.

Time doesn’t pass normally in the hospital. Every second feels like an eternity, every tick of the clock on the far wall drawn out like torture. Bruce tries to get him to sit, but Dick refuses, staring at the doors they wheeled you through like it will bring you back.

"Please be okay," he whispers into the silence, his voice barely audible. "Please." He doesn't know who he's begging anymore: you, the doctors, God, or himself.

The hours feel eternal, a torturous, maddening slog as they wait for any sort of news.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly white glow that makes the hospital hallway feel more like a purgatory than a place of healing.

Dick’s been pacing outside the ICU for so long he’s probably worn a hole in the ludicrously expensive shoes. Every nurse who walks by earns a hopeful glance, and every time they pass without stopping, it feels like another knife to the gut.

He’s running on adrenaline and guilt, the phantom image of your limp body in his arms haunting every breath.

Then, finally, footsteps approach, and Dick's nearly manic when someone finally adresses him.

"She’s stable. Still weak, but the anticholinergic treatment’s working. We’ve flushed most of the toxins from her system. You can see her now"

Anticholinergic treatment? That meant... poison.

Dick's already moving before she finishes, murmuring a breathless "Thank you" as he slips past her and into the private room Bruce is undoubtedlybpaying for.

The sight of you hooked up to various machines, IV lines, oxygen monitors, heart rate beeping slow and steady, makes his chest tighten, but at least you’re here. Alive.

He drags a chair up to your bedside and takes your hand, careful not to jostle the IV. It’s warm, but no longer searing like it had been in the ambulance.

"Hey, baby." He murmurs, voice cracking as he brushes his thumb gently across your knuckles.

You don’t respond.

He speaks softly anyway. He promises you’re safe, that everything's fine, that he’s right here, and that his family is already tearing Gotham apart, trying to figure out who did this.

The nurses try to get him to leave when visiting hours are over, but Dick kicks up a such a fuss that he's sure he accidentally scares them. Bruce ends up flashing some money to smooth things over, the benefits of being rich.

He refuses to leave your side; he won't leave you alone when you're so vulnerable. He does his best to stay awake, he needs to be there for you when you wake up, but eventually he succumbs to the exhaustion.

The room is quiet, save for the steady rhythm of the heart monitor and the soft mechanical whir of the machines monitoring your vitals.

Dick sits slouched in the chair beside your hospital bed, one arm resting awkwardly across his chest, the other still holding your hand like a lifeline. His head is bowed forward, chin tucked against his chest, breathing deep and even.

His suit jacket has long since been discarded, his tie loosened, his hair a mess, and dark circles paint shadows beneath his eyes.

You stir slowly, fighting desperately against the lethargy. Your eyelids feel like cement is weighing them down as you attempt to open them.

Your fingers twitch. A slight, barely perceptible movement before you manage to curl them around the hand clasped in yours.

The light is blinding, burning your retinas when you finally manage to pry them open. The world swims, but you push through it, turning your head as you follow the trail of the hand holding yours up to the blurry image of your sleeping boyfriend.

"…Dick?" Your voice is raw, no louder than a whisper. Not enough to stir him from his exhausted slump.

You squeeze his hand weakly, but it’s enough for him to jerk upright, eyes wild with panic, before they lock on yours.

"Hey," you croak, attempting to smile, but your facial muscles won't cooperate.

For a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s not sure he’s really awake. He lets out a shaky, tearful laugh before dragging the chair closer. "You’re awake," he breathes through a sob.

"I… yeah," you rasp, coughing from the dryness of your throat. "Hurts."

"I know love." He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You’ve been out for almost a day. They said you were stable, but, god, I didn’t know if—" His voice cracks on a sob, and you want nothing more than to reach out and comfort him but your sluggish body refuses to obey.

"M'sorry, didn’t wanna scare you."

"No, no, no, honey. Don't apologise, this isn't your fault." He shakes his head, eyes wet with unshed tears. "It's mine—"

"Don’t," you interrupt as sternly as you're able. "Don’t do that. Not your fault. I’m okay. I'm okay."

You start to cough again, and Dick reaches for the cup of water on the bedside, helping you drink slowly through the straw.

He helps you lie back down against the pillows, looking at you with such tenderness you almost cry. "You didn’t leave."

He smiles, a broken, crooked thing, but still shining with so much love. "I never will, never."

Butterflies erupt in your stomach, a broad smile stretching across your face.

"You two are sickeningly sweet," Donna rolls her eyes, but her own fond grin gives away her true feelings, "it's cute, even if it makes me feel depressingly single."

"With how sexy you look tonight? That could be about to change." You wriggle your brows.

"From this crowd? They'd be so lucky," she scoffed, making you throw back your head and laugh.

As if your words had been a spell to summon desperate assholes, a hand slides down your back, resting dangerously low. You turn to smile at Dick, only to falter at the sight of a complete stranger. "Buy you ladies a drink?"

Even when you recoil in shock, a smirk he must think is suave pulls at the corner of the man's lips, but Donna's look of disgust lets you know she's not charmed either.

Your skin crawls as you slide out from his grasp and next to Donna, who's stepped forward, shielding you slightly from view. "Not interested," she deadpans, arms crossed and showing off her impressive biceps.

The douchebag only flinches minutely before his grin comes back full force, apparently suicidal as he steps closer into your personal space, even when you and Donna back away even more.

"Playing hard to get? I like that in a woman." He reaches for your face, only for you to smack his hand away harshly.

"What are you? A cartoon villain? The answer's no. N-O." You sneer over Donna's shoulder.

That strikes a nerve, his eyes narrowing as he looks between you and Donna, "Oh, I get it, you're a —"

Fury lights in your chest, and a nasty retort readies itself on the tip of your tongue as you push past Donna, but Dick beats you to it, appearing from thin air and clapping a hand down on the creep's shoulder harshly.

"You harassing my girl?" Dick's voice is upbeat, an eerie smile stretching across his cheeks.

It's more than a little satisfying to watch the man wilt under Dick's stare, and if you're being honest with yourself, it's kind of hot.

"I—your—no?" the guy stammers, flinching away from Dick's touch and wincing when Dick's grip tightens painfully.

Your boyfriend leans in, whispering something that you can't make out over the music blasting from the dancefloor speakers, before he lets go.

You don't think you've ever seen a man scamper away from you so quickly, nor so inelegantly, as he ends up stumbling and crashing into the corner of a table.

Dick's by your side in an instant, sliding a hand up to cup your cheek loosely as he scans your person, "You ok?"

"Mm, you got here in the nick of time," You nod seriously, even if your smile betrays your mirth, "my hero."

Leaning up to him, you press a kiss on his cheek, turning to whisper in his ear when he pouts that 'you missed', "You know, seeing you defending me like that was sexy. What do you say we head home early?"

Since then, Clark had unintentionally made it a goal of his to study each and every microexpression, committing each to memory. He could spend hours just staring at you, admiring every emotional detail as it flickered to life.

Not in a creepy way! You're just so... special.

He sighs softly, unaware of the knowing smirks thrown his way, Batman pausing mid-sentence as he turns to stare at his friend with a raised brow. "Superman?"

When Clark doesn't answer, Bruce follows his gaze, huffing as he crosses his arms in a show of stern disapproval despite his internal amusement at Clark's obvious pining.

"Superman?" Bruce clears his throat, speaking a little louder as snickers ring out across the room.

Sensing a change in the atmosphere, Clark blinks rapidly, a blush covering his sheepish face as he stares into the blank white lenses of Batman's cowl whilst trying to play off his inattention.

"Anything to add, Superman?"

"I, er..." he coughs, "No, I think you've covered everything."

There's a handful of snickers that let Clark know he's failed spectacularly, and he has to fight the urge to sink down in his chair. Mortification flooding his veins, cheeks flushing an undoubtedly bright red, had he really been so obvious with his... admiration of you?

Oh gosh, had you noticed him staring? He thinks he might throw up. What if you thought he was some weirdo lecher?

You hide a laugh behind your hand that only he can hear, eyes sparkling in amusement, and suddenly the embarrassment is worth it.

The first to intervene are Oliver and Dinah, a half cocked plan forming over wine and dinner the night of Clark's pitiful display during the League meeting.

"Oh, come on, Ollie, you have to admit, it's cute."

"It's pathetic, I was cringing in second-hand embarrassment for him." Oliver denies. "I mean, he's been pining like a puppy for how long now?"

"You're getting really worked up about this, babe." Dinah raised an amused brow.

"I mean, they're clearly perfect for each other." Ollie tugs at his hair, "It's painful, Di, painful I tell you!"

Dinah's not sure how that one conversation led her here, sitting next to you in a cozy cafe across from Ollie and Clark in what is definitely a double date, despite her husband's reassurances they were just friends 'hanging out.' But she's starting to understand Oliver's frustration.

"Where are Hal and Barry?" You ask, clearly a little suspicious when 15 minutes pass and neither of them shows up, narrowed gaze focused on a fidgeting Oliver.

"I didn't tell you? They're uh busy, work things, you know how it is."

"Yeah, work things." You hum.

"Right, looks like it's just the four of us then, who's ready to order?" Oliver claps, flagging down a waiter as Clark keeps alternating between staring dopily at you and staring holes into the poor menu.

"So, Clark, you working on anything at the moment? This one's always telling me how much they enjoy reading your articles." Dinah prompts, elbowing you with a sly grin as you stare at her with wide eyed betrayal.

"Really?" Clark coughs, staring at you hopefully.

"Well, yeah, you're a talented reporter, Clark. I can tell you put a lot of heart into everything you write." Clark looks torn between puffing his chest in pride and collapsing in on himself in embarrassment.

"I think you're really talented too!" Clark blurts, and it's your turn to be flustered at the compliment.

Dinah's beginning to see what Ollie means.

Diana's the next to meddle, deciding it's time for a more physical approach. Which is how you somehow find yourself standing across from Clark in the Watchtower training room, trying (and failing) to keep your traitorous eyes from trailing over his ridiculously toned form.

The biceps he usually kept hidden away beneath his suit were on display for once, drawing your attention like a blaring neon sign. Look at me! They taunted you, beckoning your gaze as your imagination began to delve into sinful places. How easy it would be for him to pick you up, hold you against him or even throw you around—

"Are you ready?"

"Ready?" You parrot in a daze, swivelling to stare at a smug Diana.

"To spar?" Right. Yes. That. The spar, the spar you were about to have with Clark. The no powers, close quarters, sweaty, contact-filled spar.

Your heart hammers like a jackrabbit, and though Clark throws you a concerned glance, he's kind enough not to mention it.

The spar is, quite frankly, painfully embarrassing.

At first, you're both hesitant, circling each other as you test the waters. When it becomes clear that Clark won't attack first, you make the first move, slowly building confidence as you find a rhythm. Confidence, which turns to annoyance to outright anger when Clark doesn't even attempt to hit you back.

As your frustration builds, so too does the power behind your hits. "You're not even trying," you hiss.

"I don't want to hurt you." Clark stammers, and your rage reaches an all-time high. Did he think he was better than you?

"Excuse me? What's that supposed to mean?" Instantly, Clark knows he's said the wrong thing, your brows furrowing even further in anger. His stumbled explanations fall on deaf ears as you lash out with renewed vigour.

"Yeah! Kick his ass!" The unexpected voice takes you both by surprise, your eyes briefly darting to the sidelines, and when did Wally and Nightwing get here?

You looked away for one second. One second of inattention, a brief, infinitesimal moment in time. But one second was all it took (you could practically hear Batman's scolding tone in your mind) before pain exploded across your face like a supernova.

You're not even entirely sure what's happened as your knees buckle, hands instinctively clutching your face, only to come away concerningly wet.

Tears of pain slide down your cheeks, but you don't even notice over the searing agony of your definitely broken nose.

The gallery devolves into chaos; the spectators are yelling, clamouring around you as Clark profusely apologises repeatedly. There's horrified tears in his eyes, and you can't help but think that if anyone should be crying, it's you.

Still, he's clearly distraught, trailing after you as you stumble half blindly toward the infirmary.

"I'm okay," you try to reassure him, the word's garbled through your mouth full of blood.

This has the opposite effect of reassurance.

You see very little of Clark in the weeks following him accidentally breaking your nose. Not because you’re holding it against him, but because he’d looked so distraught upon seeing your healing face that you’d opted to stay away from the Watchtower until it completely healed over.

That didn't stop the influx of apology texts, or the apology flowers, or other little knick-knacks and souvenirs from around the globe. It was cute at first, but your living space was starting to get a little crowded.

"Clark, seriously, it's fine, it was an accident." You sigh, for what must be the hundredth time.

"I know, but—"

"But nothing." You take his anxiously twiddling hands in yours without thought, just wanting to calm him down. It stuns him into a flustered silence, and in keeping up with your emboldened momentum, you manage to bite the bullet. "Make it up to me then. There's a movie I've been wanting to see. Come with me? You're paying."

The high of your victorious attempt to ask Clark on a date lasts all of five seconds before it's ruined in the form of Booster Fucking Gold.

"Wait, are you guys talking about that one with the hot redhead? I wanna come!"

"He likes you too, you know." Bruce can't believe he's doing this, but it's been years, and neither you nor Clark has made a move. It was pitiful.

(Also, he may have overheard his children concocting some harebrained kidnapping scheme with Harley Quinn of all people and decided enough was enough.)

"What?! I have no idea what you're talking about." You respond somewhat shrilly, the picture of nonchalance. Trying not to falter under the weight of 'unimpressed batstare vol. 3.'

Your shoulders hunch in on themselves, eyes alternating between the monitor and his stone faced expression. "Really? I mean," you cough. "he said that? Like... to you?"

Even behind the mask, Bruce's stare is deadpan, the kind that said he'd rather be literally anywhere else right now. "Just put us all out of our misery and kiss him already."

"Wha? Like right now?" His stare is expectant, with the promise of hell to pay if you don't get out of his sight right now.

You take the hint. Nearly tripping over your feet in your scramble to escape from under Batman’s heavy stare.

You're not sure if you're hoping Clark is currently on the tower deck or not. Batman’s words had given you the confidence boost you needed, but there was still that underlying anxiety.

What if he was wrong? What if Clark’s feelings had changed? What if -

Clark finds you first, sunny smile on his face as he approaches you. He’s so beautiful, radiant even in the sterile watchtower lighting. He’s saying something, asking you a question maybe but you barely hear it over the roar of blood in your ears.

You don't speak, you know you'll lose your nerve if you do, and quickly lean in to kiss him mid sentence. Gently at first, hands just ghosting the tops of his shoulders, giving Clark ample opportunity to pull away should he want.

Large hands move to cradle the small of your back, pushing you closer against your chest as Clark tilts his head, deepening the kiss with a soft sigh.

Your arms move to lock around his neck and Clark lets out a small hum of approval that makes your stomach swoop.

“Get a room!”

“Yeah Supes, get some!”

“Fucking finally!”

The various jeers and exclamations startle you so badly you jolt in Clark’s arms. If it weren’t for him holding you up you likely would’ve hit the floor, because at some point during the kiss Clark had started floating.

Over his shoulder you catch a glimpse of some colourful costumes before you’re suddenly whisked away. It’s not the first time you’ve experienced Clark’s speed but it’s still enough to pull an alarmed scream from your throat.

“Clark!” You hiss in embarrassment when he finally sets you down in a room occupied only by the two of you, though his hands still linger on your hips.

“Sorry, just wanted to get you alone.” He grins bashfully, and it’s enough to douse your annoyance. Your eyes stay narrowed in a mock glare but you both know there’s no heat behind it.

“I’ll make it up to you.” He whispers before kissing you once more.

The familiar soft call of your name and a warmer-than-average hand on your shoulder have you stopping in your tracks. Shit! You were so close! The zeta was literally within steps' reach, but Barry Allen was just too goddamn fast.

Mentally bracing yourself, you turn to meet Barry's gaze, face devoid of his cowl, leaving you to read every ounce of concern with perfect clarity.

"Barry," you sigh, traitorous voice already a little wobbly as you valiantly tried to keep the tears at bay.

For Fuck's sake! He hadn't even said anything yet, and already you were crumbling under the weight of his stare.

"Hey, kiddo. Heard you'd hit a bit of a rough patch with Wally, wanna talk about it?"

"No." Though you try to remain strong, to sound disinterested, your traitorous voice cracks, lower lip wobbling pathetically. You maybe could have played it off, if it weren't for the sudden onslaught of tears spilling down your cheeks.

"Oh, sweetheart," Barry murmurs, already pulling you in for a hug, one of his hands cupping the back of your head. "Let's get you somewhere more private, yeah?"

Barry doesn't wait for an answer before the world is blurring around you, and within a blink, you're in a different room. It's modest, bare bones, with a small desk and bed, and you realise this must be Barry's room on the watchtower. You doubt he'd ever even used it. Why would he, when he had Iris waiting for him at home?

The thought sends a pang through your chest, a harsh reminder that your once shared space with Wally is now barren of his presence, bereft of his warmth, leaving you cold and alone.

Abruptly, the tears start anew, loud and gut-wrenching sobs filling the silence as Barry pulls you in for another hug.

"Let it out, kiddo." Barry hums, rubbing comforting circles on your back as you soak his shoulder.

"He's such an idiot!" You wail.

"Boys usually are."

"I just don't understand, why would he even—"

"I don't know, you'll have to ask him that, but I know Wally regrets the things he said." At that you pull back a little, an unimpressed scowl covering your face.

"I'm not just taking his side. You're both miserable, and I know Wally's a stupid idiot boy, but do you think maybe there could be a conversation?"

"Only if you're there to back me up." You mumble, averting your gaze from Barry's deadly earnest gaze.

"Course, kiddo." The warmth in his tone nearly makes you cry anew because for as much as you'd missed Wally, you'd nearly missed Barry just as much.

If you're being honest with yourself, you were always going to fold the second Barry turned those big blue eyes of his on you.

As if on cue, the door slides open and a dishevelled Wally stumbles in. There's a brief moment of satisfaction as you notice that Wally looks worse than you do before you betrayal shoots down your spine.

"You set me up!"

"Sorry kiddo, would it help if I said it was only because I missed you?"

Before you can respond, a pair of arms wrap around your waist, as Wally looks up at you like a pitiful puppy as Barry stifles a laugh.

"Please, baby, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't mean it, I'm a mess without you, I can't do this without you. I'll do whatever you want, please—" The words come out rapid fire as mortification floods your veins.

"Oh my God, yes fine! Just get up!" You practically shout, accutely aware of Barry watching the scene.

"Yes! Thank you! I won't let you down!" Wally celebrates like he's been chosen to be team leader instead of you giving his pathetic ass a second chance and it's nearly enough to make you take it back.

But then he looks at you with with such adoration in those wide, watery green eyes of his and you know you never truly stood a chance against him either.

KYLE RAYNER & HAL JORDAN

You were being hunted.

Donna called you paranoid. Kori tried to reassure you that no, Hal Jordan wasn't staring at you ominously across the watchtower, plotting your death. (Though Gar insisted he was, little shithead.)

It only worsened in the week following your fight with Kyle, the feeling of being constantly watched. Everywhere you went, there was suddenly a Green Lantern staring intently.

John, to his credit, did his best to give you space, throwing you somewhat pitiful glances. Likely just checking in on you, a little embarrassing but kinda sweet. Guy just leered but had yet to try and approach you, annoying, but ultimately harmless.

It was Hal who was the problem. Hal, who suddenly stared with the intensity of a horror villain. Hal, who you swore nearly vaulted the table after a mission debrief, in his quest to get to you.

Hal, who was now chasing you through the streets of your hometown, desperately calling your name, "Why are you running?"

"Why are you chasing me?" You yelled back, stopping only momentarily to wave off a few concerned citizens with a strained smile. It's in the midst of one of these reassurances when a large green hand scoops you up and into the air.

"Hal, what the hell! Put me down!"

"No can do, little lady." His voice is a little hysterical, and it's enough to make you stop squirming and really look at him. Hal's normally perfect hair is in disarray, his skin a little paler than usual, and though you can't see his eyes behind the mask, you can practically see the widened, manic irises.

"Hal... are you okay?" You ask, suddenly a little concerned for his mental state.

"Am I—Am I okay?" He repeated shrilly, reaching out to place his hands on your shoulders, making you freeze as he suddenly leaned in as if to deliver a secret.

"You need to take Kyle back."

"Hal—"

"No, no, listen to me! He's been crashing at my apartment, figured it couldn't be that bad, help him get back on his feet, right?"

"Right?" You agreed, only to instantly feel like you'd chosen wrong.

"Wrong! At first, he was just depressed, you know how sensitive he is, but then I tried to get him to take a shower, and you know what he said? He said he couldn't even shower because it reminded him of you! I don't care what kind of sex life you two had, but the man needs to shower!"

"That's—"

"I'm not finished!" He burst, "He won't stop painting you! Everywhere I turn, there you are! I'm running out of space in my shitty apartment!"

Before you can even think to respond, a secondary green blur appears, knocking Hal away from you and disrupting the construct keeping you afloat.

A scream tears from your throat as you suddenly free-fall, heart hammering frantically against your chest until another pair of arms catches you.

"Are you okay? He didn't hurt you, did he?" Kyle's voice is frantic, one of his hands cupping your cheek, forcing you to look at him.

"Hurt me? Kyle? What are you— Did you just bulldoze Hal?!" You yell in disbelief, attempting to turn in his arms to find the other Lantern.

"Hurt him?" It's Kyle's turn to be confused, "Why are you concerned about him? He kidnapped you!"

"Hal didn't kidnap me. Why would you even think that?"

"Because it's all over the news—Wait, Hal?"

"Yes, Hal!" An irritated voice snaps, as a scowling Hal Jordan flies toward you and Kyle, "What the hell, man, I'm on your side!"

"Hal?"

"Is there an echo in here or something? Yes Kyle! It's me, Hal, the guy whose couch you've been soaking with your tears for the past week."

"I thought—the news said you'd kidnapped her." Kyle stammered, voice suddenly a little quieter, "I thought maybe Parallax had gotten to you again."

The absurdity of the situation settles over you amidst the stunned silence, and it's not long before the silent giggles you'd attempted to hide erupt into full-blown laughter. Tears slide down your cheeks as you hold your aching side.

"Ok, well, it wasn't that funny." Hal grumps, which of course, makes you laugh harder.

And maybe, you lean a little further into Kyle's touch, a move he accommodates easily. And maybe, you don't hate the way he still feels like home.

ROY HARPER & OLIVER QUEEN

You wake to a persistent knocking on your front door, pulling you from the few hours of sleep you had managed to get. Fury and irritation flood your veins as you wrench the door open with a snarl. "Oh my god, Roy, go home alrea—" You trailed off, blinking at the sight of a dishevelled Oliver Queen instead of the ex-boyfriend you'd been expecting, "—dy"

You go to slam the door closed, but Oliver's faster, jamming his foot in the threshold, only to yelp when you nearly crush the appendage. One of your neighbours even pokes their head out at all the noise, to which you nervously laugh him off before pulling Ollie inside.

"Oliver, what the hell are you doing here?" You seethe, patience already frayed from Roy's constant attempts to contact you, raging from lengthy voice messages, to sleeping outside your door.

"Please take him back." Oliver barely waits a second before he's pleading with you.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, not you too." You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Please! I know he can be an idiot sometimes—"

"Wonder who he gets that from?" You murmured, but Oliver ignored you, continuing his pitch.

"But Roy's a good kid, and he loves you! You're the best thing that's ever happened to him!"

"Yeah, and now he's sending you to fight his battles, huh?" You remained unimpressed, even if internally your heart ached with longing for Roy.

"No, Roy doesn't know I'm here; he'd probably kill me for interfering," Oliver admitted, running a hand through his hair before coming to sit next to you on the couch you'd collapsed into.

"Look, I made a lot of mistakes with Roy. Lord knows I haven't always been there for him, but somehow, despite me, he's turned into someone to be proud of. I just, I want you to remember that. To remember how much he loves you. Trughtfully, I think Roy's loved you since before he even realised what love was."

"Oliver..."

"I have to admit part of this is a selfish venture. I've always hoped I could one day officially call you my daughter."

Oliver's words bring tears to your eyes before you can stop them, and the man's face suddenly becomes comically panicked at the sight of your tears.

"Wait, no, if Roy finds out I made you cry, it's game over for me." He fretted.

"I won't tell if you won't." You laugh through the tears.

"Sounds like a deal to me."

Of course, Roy chooses that exact moment to crawl through your window, blasting Haddaway's What Is Love' through a shitty speaker.

DICK GRAYSON & BRUCE WAYNE

Of all the places you'd ever thought you'd meet your end, an elevator had never made the list. You'd forever curse yourself for allowing Batman to corner you like this, but in your defence, you hadn't expected him to launch through the closing doors like a missile as you frantically shoved the 'close door' button.

Batman hits the emergency stop button without a word, and your stomach sinks. He really is going to kill you. You broke his son's heart, and now he's here to enact parental vengeance on behalf of his beloved eldest son.

He reaches toward you, and you, highly trained vigilante that you are, freeze like a deer in headlights. Batman's hands clasp firmly on your shoulder, eyes wide behind the cowl as he looks at you with the intensity of 1000 suns. "Please take my son back."

You blink, flabbergasted as the words sink in, the dread in your gut morphing into something near incredulous. Batman, the Dark Knight, terror of Gotham and scourge to petty criminals and villains alike, was begging.

Barreling over your confused silence, he keeps going, "He got a haircut. It looks atrocious. I'm told this is a result of extreme emotional distress caused by your breakup."

Were you hallucinating? Was this some sort of alternate reality? Too dazed to even begin to formulate a response, you simply blink, gaping like a fish.

"I don't know what he did, but I'm sure it was stupid, and I will personally ensure it never happens again."

"I don't think—"

The elevator moves, and the doors fling open as a concerned-looking Superman peers inside, "You two ok?"

"Fine." Batman saunters out, not even sparing you a backward glance, no indication of the near manic energy he'd just unleashed upon you.

"Sweetheart?!" Nightwing barrels past Superman, reaching for you instinctively, only to freeze at the last second.

Despite yourself, fondness fills your heart at the sight of him, even as you cup your hand to your mouth to hide the gasp.

It truly was a horrendous haircut.

MICHAEL CARTER & J'ONN J'ONZZ

You could safely say that you liked most of your colleagues, closer to friends, really, on the Justice League. Even Guy Gardner had squirmed his way into your heart, though he still tended to piss you off most days of the week.

J'onn, though, had always secretly been your favourite. Not a fact you hid from him, it would be pretty difficult to, given his set of powers, but more so, Bea and Tora didn't pout over it.

So it wasn't exactly a surprise when J'onn sought you out almost as soon as you boarded the watchtower after a personal weekend away. What was a surprise, however, was the slight furrow to his brow and the palatable concern that seemed to be floating off him in waves.

"J'onn, is everything ok?" You mentally asked, unsure if this was a conversation to be had around prying ears.

J'onns' telepathy had never bothered you the way it still did for many others, likely what had contributed so greatly to your close friendship over the years.

"Yes, I am fine, Booster, however..." He trailed off, an interesting experience during a telepathic conversation.

"Oh, you heard about the breakup then?" You outwardly cringed before projecting a sense of gratitude that he'd thought to check up on you.

"Yes, I... heard. Loudly." J'onn spoke, horror threatening to overwhelm you as he realised his meaning. "I've done my best to maintain his, and your, privacy, but he is quite...sad."

A polite way of putting pathetic.

"Are you talking about the boss? He's been crying into tubs of ice cream all weekend."

"Skeets!" You scolded the little robot, gaze swivelling to see if there were any eavesdroppers.

"You wanna see videos?" Skeets buzzed, almost excitedly.

Yes.

"No! Skeets, that's horrible!" You tried to maintain the outraged facade, but one look from J'onn let you know your performance was weak at best.

"Not even the one where he compares your smile to the 'dawn's morning rays, chasing away the frost and bitterness of the night?'"

That's— "He said that?" You fiddle nervously with your necklace, something you just now realise Michael had bought for you.

"You dumping him has created a poet, it seems."

"What," you cough, pretending to be nonchalant, "what else has he said?"

"That you were his only reason for living and he couldn't bear to face the cold, cruel world without you."

"What?" You gasp, "Skeets, that's legitimately concerning!" Hurriedly pushing past the now seemingly callous little robot. Suddenly desperate to see the man you never stopped loving.

"Too far?" Skeets questioned the Martian as they both watched you frantically scurry to find Michael. Neither seemed too concerned.

"Not if it stops the constant barrage of sadness against my mental shields, my little friend." J'onn hummed with a commiserating glance at his unintentional companion to Michael's misery.

"Wait, I need to film this!" Skeets suddenly flew after you, leaving J'onn alone in blessed silence.