A Simple Mistake, Yandere Nightwing/ Dick Grayson x Reader Chapter 4
CW: Unwanted touching, extreme emotional distress, stress inducing situations.
After lunch Dick had taken your dishes and deposited a plate of fruit for you to eat whilst he cleaned the dishes. You ate and he cleaned in an alarmingly comfortable silence. After he plucked the plug from the sink and the water hissed down the drain he turned back to you and told you to go back to “your room”.
Once in the room again you sat on the bed in a slouch as you heard Dick shuffling throughout the apartment, he comes in a minute later holding a small menagerie of items. Several paperback books, a nice hardcover journal and a black ballpoint pen. He places them on your bedside table and turns to you, “I know you like reading, but you never have the time to anymore, so here you go.”
He picks up the first book on the bedside table and places it on your lap, you pick it up gingerly and flip it. It’s harmless enough looking you deduce, it’s a YA fantasy novel about the political diplomacies between two nations coming together. “Thank you Dick, I appreciate it.” You reply, albeit half-heartedly as you thumb through the pages.
The pages are starchy white and leave a dry feeling on your finger pads, the ink is still a deep dark black. This is a new book that has evidently never been read. Dick blows a semi raspberry, seemingly giddy as his hands clench and unclench into fists at his side. “Don’t mention it. It’s probably not very mentally stimulating to be doing nothing all day every day.” He shrugs, attempting nonchalance as his hand paws at his chin.
“Anyway, I’ll bring you out for dinner at five. I’ll be leaving here at sundown which is I think 6:50 tonight.” You glance at the clock on the bedside table, 1:36 PM. You grit your teeth. Good God you cannot wait until 6:50 arrives.
After continuing to babble on for too long for your tastes Dick finally takes his leave, closing the door but not locking it behind him as he does so. You hear the vacuum switch on and dump the book back onto the pile with the others. You look to the table again and notice the journal, picking it up you inspect it. It’s weighty, the pattern on the front is a textured dragon with swirling clouds and fire trails surrounding it in the middle.
It's the kind of journal you could only dream of owning, they only sold these overly exorbitant things at fancy stationary shops well out of you tax bracket or newsagents. You peruse the pages, they’re steady and thick almost card like with thin grey lines acting as a guideline on where to write. Your shoulders tense as an
insidious question slithers into your gut like a bulbous slug.
Why would he buy you a journal, is there an ulterior motive to this outstretched hand of his? You pinch you upper lip with your thumb and forefinger. You flip another page, fingers running over the luxuriously textured paper before stopping. On the left side of the page there lies indents running from the top of the page to the bottom. You give the top of the page a gentle tug and it peels out smooth as butter.
You turn to the very back of the journal and rip out three more pages and hurriedly stuff them inside of your pillowcase. You scribble the date and time inside the first page hurriedly with the ballpoint pen Dick had also provided, making sure to jot down a few faux thoughts and feelings to please him if he did ever decide to read it.
You halt midsentence, your hand shaking ever so slightly. You scratch out the previous notes and write something anew: ‘Dick is so nice to me. It’s been so long since I’ve had someone this… close before.’ You cringe at the text, your throat tightening and bubbling with acidic reflux. You box your shoulders and trudge onwards.
‘I’m still scared though… as much as I try to hide it, I’m petrified. He is just a stranger to me, if he was a passerby on the street of course I would know him from a bar of soap- he’s Gotham royalty. However, do I know him? Do I know the real Dick Grayson? A small part of me wants to, yet another part is wanting to go and continue on with my banal life.’
You flatten your mouth in a grimace at how piteous you sound; however, Dick seems to enjoy taking pity upon things. He said his main goal is to ‘help you’, whatever that means. So, he must view you as some poorly unfortunate creature he must nurse back to health. Spinning one’s neurotic disillusionment directed towards you is not in poor taste, you remind yourself with a set jaw.
You write down a few more sentences, metaphorically exposing your belly to Dick’s hunting knife. You stroked his ego like a beggar praying to his king at their execution. Dick was a teenage prodigy, he’s dated models, prominent socialites and any other kind of high-standing women you can think of. He was most certainly a vain teenager, you’re just hoping that sliver of adolescence has transcended into adulthood too.
You close the journal and place it on the nightstand. You’ll have to use it, keep up the illusion that you are actively partaking in his little world he has planned out for you.
•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•
Dinner was uneventful, tomato soup and thick slices of toast with butter now sit heavy and warm in your stomach. You glance towards the clock where 6:48 glares back at you. He’s set to leave in two minutes, and you are utterly reverent at the thought. He’s probably going off to a social event with his father to shmooze other wealthy Gothamites to donate to their 100th tax deductible charity under the Wayne name.
Dick’s hoard wealth truly sickens you. Why is that family so filthily rich? They have no need for all of that money. You had heard whispers in the past of Bruce Wayne and co. trickling it back into the world but you simply snorted. Those people do not care about the waitresses and burger flippers of the world and it’s utterly absurd to give the thought a penny.
You grind your teeth together in frustration when two gentle knocks interrupt your brooding, sitting up quickly Dick walks in, clean shaven and showered. You’re disgusted at how good he smells, it’s not a distinct smell- just nice, clean. He’s wearing a black compression suit with white trimming at the cuffs of his wrists and ankles and thick blue boot socks on his feet.
Dick sees your obvious confusion at his garb before he shrugs with a light-hearted chuckle. “My job is quite physical. It’s to keep me warm.” He mumbles something else under his breath like an animated cartoon character, you could have sworn he said the word ‘chafing’. “Anyway, I’m heading out for the night now, lights off at 10. There’s a two pack of paracetamol in the bedside drawer; I put it in this morning in case you get a headache and a bottle of water, if you want something sweet there’s also a small bag of chocolates.” He says the last part with an all knowing, shit eating smile.
You only nod in compliance, not really looking at him, merely looking at the doorframe to his right, or the ajar door on his left. “Okay, so. I’m going now, stay safe, sleep well I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He turns to leave, pauses for just a moment, glancing over his shoulder as though he has something dire to say before his shoulders slump and he walks out like a deflated child.
He closes the door with a click and then a lock. Your eyes narrow at the doorknob, he’s trapped you again and you have been nothing more than a bystander again. The thought makes you want to rip bunches of your hair out in pure unbridled rage. Nonetheless you skulk over to the door, and lie flat on your stomach as you watch Dick’s feet.
He goes left to the bedroom where you ever so faintly hear the sounds of zippers, clicking and buckling. He lets out a deep sigh that seemingly echoes throughout the whole apartment before he walks back out, he walks directly past you, his boots are smooth with blue soles. Your eyes squint in confusion, this man truly does elude you in all matters of being. Who wears those kinds of things to work?
Shaking the thought away you lean forward in a hope to see or hear anything more of Dick before he leaves. After a moment of bated breath, the sound of a window shimmying open is heard, it’s swiftly closed again and the muffled noise of something groaning and then nothing. You know you’re completely alone now. You huff out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding in. You let out an airy humourless laugh and stand up again, brushing off your knees and walking back to the bed.
You peel back the corner of the mattress and remove the pin and phone from the oddly grooved slat, placing them on the floor in front of you. You drop and then push the mattress back into place, once it’s slid back over the metal frame you reach for the pillowcase where you had hidden the ripped-out paper from earlier. Rummaging through it you retrieve it and place it on the floor next to the pin and phone. You spread it all out in a semicircle in front of you.
A phone with no SIM card and Wi-Fi access, four pieces of paper and a large pin are your current tools. You pick up the pin and inspect it, twisting it between your fingers and holding it up to the light. You place it back down; the pin is the only thing you know will be definitively confiscated if you are caught with it.
Your phone is a grey area, sure it was in the room when you woke up, however Dick simply could have forgotten to take it back with him. Although the absent SIM card makes a strong case for him allowing you to have it. You’ll simply have to test the waters on the subject of the phone in the future. The paper, as it is would not get confiscated. However, once written on it most certainly could depending on what was written on it.
You glance back up at the clock, 6:57. You shuffle to the bedside table and pick up the ballpoint pen, clicking it and writing on the first sheet.
. Dick has “night” job (social obligations?), leaves at sundown.
. Dick locked the door on night 4 as he left, (typically leaves door unlocked when he is home).
. Job is “physical”, he does not like discussion surrounding job. He shut down all questioning.
. Did not give an exact time of arrival home- flexible hours?
You fold the paper up into a tight, thin strip, running pinched fingers across the paper to ensure it’s well folded. You title the note page as '1', leaving it purposefully vague so as if he were to find them he would not know what you were writing about instantly. You push back the mattress, lift up the slats and place it along the bedframe so the slats would cover the paper.
The second piece of paper is to lodge the dates. You know if you forget the date every day will start to bleed together. You can’t afford to lose your sense of time. You fold it up exactly the same as the previous paper and place it next to the '1'.
For the third one you write about Dick’s personality.
. Tries to be sweet and warm, has a layer of anger bubbling beneath that.
. Assertive and confident.
. Cheery and extroverted. He’s aware people like him.
. Is obviously the oldest child.
You don’t know why but you smirk at the last line. Just as soon as the faint hint of a smirk appears it flees. Your chest feels weighted as you think about your own sister back home. Is she okay? Did she graduate high school? Does she have a job yet…? You choke back tears, letting the paper fall to the ground.
You haven’t spoken to her in so long.
“Why did I do this to myself?” You whisper, albeit it to no one. You tightly wrap the paper up, scrawl a '3' on it and smuggle it into the bed frame alongside its brethren. You tuck the last piece of paper back into the pillowcase and sit back down on the floor in a dampened heap. You close your eyes and think of home, the familiar trees, main street, the convenience store, your old high school, the bends and twists of the roads, the grooves of the pavement and the sounds of the birds.
All of it makes you want to rip your heart out of your chest so you may never feel anything ever, you have felt homesickness before, home-anguish is a new term you’re willing to coin. You hate Gotham. You hate the grey. You hate the smog. You hate the people. You hate the rain. You hate Dick Grayson.
When you leave this godforsaken mad house of a city you should have abandoned years ago, the first thing you’re going to do is apologise to your mother and sister for being an idiot and not coming home soon enough.
You’ve always been able to distract yourself with work and other adult obligations, or more to the point excuses masquerading as obligations to avoid picking up when the familiar ring tone plays.
You simply couldn’t face the disappointment you knew you would receive when you let your family know you dropped out of university. You were the spark of hope, always the agreeable one who put her head down and worked hard. You were going to be something. You got a full ride scholarship to Gotham State University; you travelled thousands of miles to become brighter than a spark, an inferno your mother had crooned at you holding up the acceptance letter as though it were gold.
You never disappointed others. That was what you did, you were always the reliable one, the shoulder to cry on, the one who put others first.
Moving to Gotham, being the first in the family to move up in the world, it was supposed to be your metamorphosis into an iridescent butterfly, shimmering and gleaming with pride. Instead, it was more akin to a cockroach emerging from its chrysalis and resolving itself to a life of shame as to how hideous it has become.
A spark that has fizzled out, that is all you are. You cover your mouth with your hand to try and swallow a cry.
You roll onto your back and stare up at the ceiling. There is no fly annoyingly buzzing around the dome of warm light, no faint keyboard clacking, no loud TV playing, no cats scratching at doors. There’s nothing.
Your hand drifts to your chest and lays flat against your sternum. Similarly to the state of the apartment your chest feels empty, void of life. As though the soul crushing sadness you felt just moments ago has completely carved your very being out of you.
Tears wobble down the sides of your face, dripping onto your earlobes and then falling to the floor.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper to no one in particular.
You lay there for what feels like hours. Everything is so heavy. You can’t move. Not until you hear the faintest sound of scratching to your left, you turn your head towards the sound, your eyes red and vision bleary from the tears that have long since dried. The scratching continues, it’s muffled and small.
Your eyebrows knit together as you flip onto your stomach and wiggle beneath the bed to get close to the scratching sound. You press an ear to the wall; your head uncomfortably edged beneath the bed slats and between the walls. The scratching stops a second after you placed your ear, the small sounds skitter away.
You bring a knuckle to the wall and knock against it, it’s hollow. There’s a crawl space right next to you and there’s small animals inside it rummaging and sniffing about. With a too hopeful smile you scramble back out from under the bed, picking up the pin and the ballpoint pen. You unscrew the grip of the pen and place in the pin, pulling it slightly forward so it pokes out.
You screw it back on tight and grab your phone with your other hand. You crawl beneath the bed, making sure to tuck in your legs behind you. You knock against the wall again, place your thumb against the clicker and press the pen-tool into the wall. It goes through like a knife cutting a sponge cake.
You begin to saw it up, the friction from it making white dust fall into your face causing you to squint your eyes. After five minutes of sawing you made a corner of a square with the pen-tool. You press your fingers against the plaster, and it crumbles beneath your touch. You hold back a shout of delight, you bring your phone up to the small hole, turning on the torch and shining in a cylinder of light. The crawl space is large enough to fit a human you quickly deduce.
Structural beams, fiberglass wool and cobwebs all align the walkway. This must be quite an old apartment to have a crawl space, an expensive one too. A mouse
hurriedly runs past you, its bead like eye shines at you. You carve out some more plaster until there’s a square the same size as your palm, you brush the dust up to the skirting boards, placing your pen-tool above you wedged between the mattress and the bed slats. You gently fidget with the pen-tool, moving it around until it lies horizontally and is now masked completely, you move your phone to the bed slat closest to the head of the bed, so if Dick were to search under here he would find the phone but hopefully not the pen-tool.
You grab handfuls of the plaster, shoving them anywhere they’ll go on your person. You retrace your steps and leave from out underneath the bed. You quickly open the bedside table drawer and take out the yellowed copy of 'Pride and Prejudice' before scurrying back beneath the bed and propping it against the wall to disguise your hole as best you can. For the umpteenth time you wriggle from out underneath the bed, stand up and walk back over to the small ensuite, closing the door behind you and ridding yourself of the evidence. The toilet makes a groaning gurgle, like an old man swallowing a vitamin too large as the plaster chunks disappear
into the depths swirling down the chute in an opaque cloud.
You dust off your head and clothes of any plaster dust leftover. You will have to find something better to hide the hole than a wilted copy of Pride and Prejudice but once it’s as broad as your shoulders you should be able to wriggle through and flee through the crawl space. With a smug smirk your splash your face with water and pad it dry with a hand towel. You fling the hand towel onto the toilet and walk back into the room.
“Why are you still up?” Dick now sits on the bed in a black singlet and dark blue tracksuit pants, his face steely with a large red welt blossoming beneath his eye as he looks to you with a completely blank expression. Your hands tremble as you glance to the alarm clock on the bedside table, 4:36 AM. Your mouth contorts into a thin smile, “I tried going to sleep, but I couldn’t. I was thinking.”
It’s not exactly a full lie; you’ve never been a good liar so things like half lies and skirting around things have always been your most helpful tool in evading the truth. Dick looks up at you through his brows, his mouth downturned into a serious expression, he heaves a rather grandiose sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“What were you thinking about, exactly?” He asks it with such blatant disinterest it’s almost enough to turn the gut boiling anxiety you’re feeling into blood curdling anger. “My family.” You know he’s an older brother, he has several younger brothers, one of whom died years ago. The family card is more than likely going to draw a response from him, and most importantly it’s not a lie.
You set your jaw and look up at him through your tear lumped lashes; his face is blank almost quizzical as he tilts his head to the side observing you. “Your family?” He reiterates. You nod, “yes. I was… I was thinking about my younger sister and my mother. As you know, I haven’t talked to them in a while and… I just,” your chest heaves up and down, “I just… miss them. I want to see them again.” You omit wanting to leave Gotham as that would not help you in tugging on his heart strings.
Dick thumps his leg up and down, his eyes narrowing in on you for another second before they soften and he shrugs. “Your mom misses you.” He states bluntly. You screw your nose up albeit lightly in confusion. “How… how would you know?” You ask voice impossibly meagre. He places his fist to his mouth pressing it against his lips before he lowers it and stands up, silently waking out of the room, he stops in the doorway, fingertips resting on the doorknob, he quickly looks over his shoulder, "I'll show you, okay?" Before disappearing into the dark apartment leaving the door completely open in his exit.
For a split second all you can think to do is run. Bolt out of here and barrel through the front door. You take a step forward, and then just as quickly step back.
Something grows from the floor beneath you and ensnares itself around your ankle and fastens you in place. He’s angry enough, and he’s extending you an olive branch by giving you information regarding your mother, you need to play the long game.
You stand in place with your blunt nails clenched into your palms when Dick walks back in holding a phone. He stands unbearably close to you so close in fact you can feel the air exhaling from his nose caress your cheek as you look down at the phone presented towards you.
“They think you’re dead.” He murmurs toward you. There staring back up at you is a photo of you smiling ear to ear in your pyjamas and trainers at the airport gate, your 20-year-old hands thrown up in naïve glee at the future opportunities unfurling before you. The fact this is the most recent photo your mother has of you makes your heart sink impossibly further.
'(Y/N), (L/N), reported missing 16/10, 25 years old.' Is in bold black text in a white caption below the photo.
Beneath the photo is a video of your mother standing at a podium, her eyes downcast and lip clenched between teeth. Dick clicks play and the sound of her voice alone is enough to nearly make your knees buckle, "hello, thank you everyone for coming here today." She speaks into the microphone, her voice taut to the point it sounds as though it's about to snap.
"I'm here to discuss my daughter, who has now been officially missing for... 48 hours." Her eyes squint at that, her lips purse and she places a hand to her eyes as she stifles a sniffle back. "I have not spoken to her in quite some time, and it breaks my heart that it has been that way." She laughs, voice somewhat bitter, "I am, to put it lightly furious at myself for never going to Gotham and pulling her back home by the ear." The crows in front of her let out a bevvy of muttered laughs.
Your mother shakes her head licks her lips, her chest puffs up and down as she continues, "regardless of my own feelings towards my daughter, the point is she is missing. She was reported missing by her manager, Yvonne Michaels as of Thursday evening and now it is Friday night. (Y/N) is not one to be tardy to work. She is diligent, she is kind," your mother's voice begins to crack as bullets of tears begin to fall from her eyes, "she always does what is best for other people. She's m-my baby. I wan- I want my baby home, please, (Y/N) if you're watching this, please come home. I miss you... I love you, so much. So much more than you will ever know." She begs people to please contact the Gotham City Police Department if they have any more details before she is ushered off the stage by two burly men.
You can feel your whole body, every nerve ending flickering and blinking, every tiny movement of your eye, every small creak in your fingers as they absent mindedly twitch, the pounding of your heart jackhammering against your chest, everything is all too much and too little at the same time. You let out a dry wheeze and look up at Dick. He doesn’t say anything further although his face is poised into one of sympathy, his eyes have taken on a pallid glossy look. He scrolls down again and it’s a r photo of your old friend from home holding a photo up of you with your mother’s statement copy and pasted in the caption.
Dick continues to scroll and scroll and scroll. Faces now wizened with time and the stress of the world cauterise themselves to your eyes so every time you blink all you see is your mother’s face trembling with an unbearable sadness etched into her face. He scrolls down once more, and you then see it, the nail in your metaphorical coffin.
A candlelit vigil in front of your favourite restaurant back home, bunches of flowers wrapped in twine sit around your framed high school graduation photo, your eyes round with glee, lips pulled into a full blown teeth bearing grin. People surround it in a crescent moon, their heads hung low. A girl who was in the year below you in high school stands with a morose expression, the soft glow of the candlelight highlights her soft face as she holds a cardboard sign.
RIP (Y/N). You were someone.
Before you can really stop it the, feeling of being too much and too little all at the same time comes to a crescendo causing your stomach to flip and fizzle and empty out onto the floor at Dick’s feet, covering them in your own sick.
He doesn’t react, instead curls a finger beneath your chin and cradles your face rubbing his thumb along your cheekbone, “I know, I know. It’s a lot. She misses you so much. She still loves you so much. It’s hard, just breathe for me okay?” He takes your shoulders gently and walks you to the ensuite.
He twists on the tap and dampens a hand towel, wringing it out and padding at your vomit coated lips and chin. “Do you feel better now?” He asks impossibly quietly.
As you look at him a thought you had earlier crosses your mind, “you hate Dick Grayson.” In this moment you truly do hate Dick Grayson. You hate his face, you hate his manner of speaking, you hate his body, you hate his hands, you hate him.
Your jaw juts out and you feel yourself begin to froth and bubble in rage. You grit your teeth together as he continues to wipe at your face with too much gentleness, his eyes flitting all over your face with too much care for someone he just officially met four days ago. Your jaw goes slack, it’s Sunday now, he has kept you here for five days, nearly a full week now.
“Dick.” You hiss, the ‘ck’ in his name clicking like the safety of a revolver in the back of your throat. He glances to you stepping back and crouching on the balls of his feet as he gazes up at you, “yes?” The red welt is starting to mellow into a bruise; little pockets of purple have begun sprouting up along his cheekbone. How easy it would be to lunge down and bite off his nose, rip it from his face and then spit it back out.
Yet somehow, the rage within you simmers back down. From a blazing inferno spreading through your body setting each nerve alight to a quiet flicker in your chest. You almost want to cry again, but the thought of crying in front of Dick again, being vulnerable in front of Dick again is enough to scare you away from the prospect. “I’m sorry for throwing up on the floor and… not going to bed when you asked.”
The blasted words taste like damned raw sewerage. Why are you apologising to him? Why are you backing down? You should be trying to claw his eyes out, pluck his testicles, set him alight, rip each individual hair out of his head! Instead, you find yourself... empty, anaesthetized. The rage simply vapourises into plume of smoke in front of you as you exhale. Dick rolls his eyes in a jovial way, his cheeks puffed out, “it’s okay. I’ve put up with far worse than vomit on my feet.” He lazily smirks at you eyes half lidded, his dimples blooming on each cheek.
You let out a hollow chuckle and stare at the ground, your hands clench in fists as they bunch up the fleecy material of your pyjama pants. Dick looks up at you silently for another moment before giving your chin an affectionate squeeze and standing up, walking from the bathroom presumably to clean up the puddle of what was formally tomato soup and toast.
Your head falls to your hands as your back hunches inward, a silent sob wracks your body. You let out a high-pitched squeak and watery saliva dribbles past your swollen lips and drips onto your pants. A scream is lodged into the back of your throat, tight and snug and no matter how hard you try to push it out, get it to leave you in some form of catharsis, it does not.
You sit in the bathroom for what feels like an eternity, billions upon billions of thoughts buzzing around your head like distorted pixels on a black and white TV, your ears ring alongside the static, tinny, ringing and deafening. You jab yourself in the ribs as hard as you can with your thumb, trying to distract your mind. Each thought that begins to manifest itself is a new dull ache that claws at your stomach and chest from the inside out. In a matter of minutes Dick had brought your entire world crumbling down around you and then torn the ruined rubble to ribbons.
People thought you were dead. Your mother thinks you are dead. Your friends think you are dead. Everyone thinks you are dead. Your body goes bone chillingly cold, then blazing hot then numb, like a paralysing balm has been rubbed all over you. You feel limp and leaden, like a reanimated corpse still having to roam this earth. Your mind is so dullen and dazed it couldn't stay aware enough to notice Dick walking back in and coming to stand at your side until he nudges your shoulder, jolting you from your stupor.
“You look like death warmed up. Let’s get you to bed, okay?” He kisses the top of your head and scoops you up against his chest, his thumb absently rubbing at your arm through your top. He pulls back a corner of the plush duvet whilst keeping you firmly held to his chest, you feel as though you are a ragdoll. A spirit simply inhabiting a vessel as it gets pulled, tugged and thrown around at everyone else’s whims.
He places you onto the mattress, brushing your sweaty face with the back of his hand before he places a chaste kiss to your forehead. He reaches down and grabs your hand, squeezing it tight. “I know, it’ll be hard at first, but I promise it will get easier. It will, whether you realise it or not, every single day this will get easier and easier.” He interlocks his fingers with yours.
Your breath hitches, “you worked at ‘The Blue Rooster Bistro.”, “You lived in The Bowery.”, “it’ll be hard at first but I promise it will get easier. It will, whether you realise it or not, every single day this will get easier and easier.” He tucks the blanket over you, gently tucking it as he fusses over a pillow, you look up to him eyes owlish and bloodshot with conclusion.
“You were never going to let me go home, were you?” You ask so quietly for a moment you’re not even sure he heard. He brushes his knuckles against your cheek and sighs, his own eyes looking glossy and forlorn as though they’re filled to the brim with unshed tears.
The dam broke in the back of your throat and out tumbled an anguished wail that would be felt for eons to come.
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AN: Thank you everyone for all of the follows, likes, reblogs and comments!!!!!! It really does make my day a lot better seeing people enjoy the things I've created lol and I hope I will continue to make people happy with my work. Happy new years!
