EVERYBODY LOVES SOMEBODY♡
summary | Valentine's Day♡ with the dc boys.
pairing | bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, wally west (my baby boy).
warnings | very romantic, veeeery fluffy.
author's note | I recommend you listen to Everybody Loves Somebody by Dean Martin :) The publication is a little, very, late, but it's worth it, I promise.
You couldn't have been more nervous.
It was that kind of nervousness that gets trapped in your chest, making you breathe faster without even realizing it.
Your husband, Bruce, had called you that same afternoon with a request as simple as it was unsettling: to be ready at eight-thirty sharp. To take your time. To get ready calmly.
He hadn't told you to look beautiful, or spectacular, or perfect... even though he always thought it. He had only added, in that low, deep voice that disarmed you effortlessly, that he loved you.
And that was what threw you off.
Before leaving in the morning, he had warned you that he would be buried in paperwork, meetings, and company business. Cold, distant, tucked away in his own world. Not a trace of those three words you were expecting so much today. That’s why that call stayed circling in your head all day. That’s why the nerves didn't let go of you for a single second.
You spent the entire afternoon retreated in the massive bathroom. The jacuzzi bubbled softly while the air filled with steam, sweet scents, and the dim flicker of scented candles. Creams, oils, time. Lots of time. As if delaying everything could calm what you were feeling.
When you were finishing putting in the rollers to give your hair that volume he liked so much, knuckles rapped on the door.
You put on your pink silk robe and went to open it.
"Is something wrong, Alfred?" you asked, absentmindedly adjusting one of the rollers.
"Master Wayne sends you this, madam," he said with his usual calm, handing you a large black box adorned with a gold ribbon.
"Bruce...?" you murmured.
It wasn't that it surprised you when he gave you gifts; if it were up to him, he would buy anything you looked at... and even the things you didn't. Still, this felt different.
"Thank you, Alfred. Could you prepare a green tea for me, please?"
The butler nodded with his serious face and walked away toward the stairs.
You closed the door with your foot and walked to the bed you shared with Bruce. You left the box on the sheets and carefully untied the ribbon. When you lifted the lid, your eyes went wide.
It was a beautiful dress. White, silk, falling to the knees. Thin straps, a delicate but suggestive V-neck. Tight at the waist and loose as it fell—light, elegant. Exactly your style. Luckily, it wasn't cold tonight.
You smiled, unable to help it, biting your lip as you pressed it against your chest. You imagined yourself wearing it. You imagined his gaze.
Then you noticed there was something else inside the box.
A small, carefully folded note. You instantly recognized Bruce's handwriting.
'I'm sure you love the dress, darling. Wear it tonight. I’m taking you somewhere special.'
You felt the heat rise to your cheeks.
Bruce didn't always know how to express what he felt out loud, or even in writing. But when he did—when he made the effort—every word carried weight, every gesture mattered. And you knew it.
Even if he didn't say those three words, even if he didn't write them... he showed them in a thousand different ways. And tonight promised to be one of them.
The hours passed faster than you expected and, before you knew it, you were nearing the agreed time. Bruce wouldn't be long.
Just then, the room's landline broke the silence.
"Yes, Alfred?" you answered while smoothing your dress one last time, nervous.
"Master Bruce is here, madam."
"Perfect, I'll be down in a moment."
You hung up, grabbed your purse, and left the room with your heart racing.
When you reached the foyer, you saw Bruce from behind, talking calmly with Alfred. Even from there, he was imposing: straight-backed, elegant, impeccable. But when he heard your voice—
And for a second, he stood completely still.
His eyes swept over your figure with a dangerous mixture of surprise and adoration. The dress fell exactly as he had imagined... perhaps even better. He watched you approach and, almost without realizing it, he adjusted his tie. His cheeks flushed a faint but unmistakable red, and it took him a couple of extra seconds to react.
"You look... perfect, my wife," he finally said, his voice a bit lower than usual.
"You don't look too bad yourself, Brucie," you joked, giving him a soft nudge on the shoulder. "Oh, wait... I forgot my jacket. I’ll go up for a second and—"
"You won't need it," he interrupted firmly.
"But... I might get cold."
Bruce tilted his head slightly and looked at you with that expression of his that always meant he had everything under control.
You stood observing him for a few more seconds. The sharp features, the firm jaw, those eyes in which you had lost yourself a thousand and one times. You said nothing. You simply nodded.
He smiled, satisfied, and wrapped a strong arm around your waist, pulling you to his side.
"We’re leaving now, Alfred."
"Have a splendid evening, sir, madam," the butler replied with a slight bow.
Suddenly, you put a hand to your forehead.
"Oh! I almost forgot. Alfred, you know Dick is with his fiancée, Kory, and Jason is... out there somewhere. Make Tim and Damian a simple pizza, okay? Don't bother preparing anything elaborate." Then you raised your voice, looking toward the stairs. "Goodbye, boys!"
You knew perfectly well they were listening, even if they didn't show it.
Bruce shook his head, amused, as he guided you toward the exit.
You left the mansion and got into the car, this time driven by him. The journey was peaceful, wrapped in soft music and fleeting glances that said more than any conversation.
After a few minutes, the car came to a gentle stop in front of an imposing building—tall, with elegant lines and large illuminated windows. It wasn't just any place. The facade exuded luxury, but not that cold, distant luxury; rather one that was curated, intimate... thoughtful.
"Bruce..." you murmured, turning toward him. "Where are we?"
He didn't answer immediately. He turned off the engine, got out of the car, and walked around the vehicle to open the door for you, like a total gentleman. When he offered his hand and you took it, you felt that familiar little tingle running through your body.
You entered the building and, as soon as you crossed the doors, the atmosphere enveloped you. Warm lights, soft music floating in the air, the distant murmur of the city left behind. There were no people around, or at least none visible. Everything seemed... reserved. Exclusive.
"Did you close down the whole place?" you asked in a low voice, half-joking, half-serious.
Bruce cleared his throat.
You looked at him sideways and smiled. Classic Bruce Wayne.
You headed toward a private elevator. As you went up, you noticed how he intertwined his fingers with yours, firm yet gentle, as if he needed that contact as much as you did. You said nothing. You didn't need to.
When the doors opened, you found yourself on a massive terrace. Open. Illuminated by dozens of small warm lights and surrounded by candles flickering in the night breeze. The city of Gotham stretched out before you—vivid, bright, infinite.
You instinctively put a hand to your chest.
"For you," he interrupted. "For us."
In the center of the terrace was a table prepared with exquisite care. Two glasses, an elegant dinner, white flowers. Everything perfectly thought out. Everything very him.
Bruce helped you sit and took his place across from you. For a few seconds he didn't speak, he just watched you. As if he wanted to engrave you in his memory. As if the whole world could wait.
"I’m sorry I didn't say anything this morning," he finally confessed in a deep voice. "I’m not good at... these things."
"I know," you replied softly.
"But I didn't want it to be just another day," he continued. "I wanted you to remember it."
He rose from his seat and walked around the table until he was standing in front of you. He took your hands in his—large, warm, secure.
"Happy Valentine’s Day," he finally said.
It wasn't grandiloquent. It wasn't exaggerated. But it was sincere. And coming from him, that made it everything.
You smiled, your eyes shining.
"Happy Valentine’s Day, Bruce."
You smiled, your eyes shining, and just then Bruce took his jacket from his arm and, with a delicate gesture, draped it over your shoulders.
"That’s why I told you you wouldn't need yours," he whispered, with that mix of confidence and tenderness that only he knew how to convey.
In that moment, you knew nothing else was needed. You were exactly where you were supposed to be.
You had reserved the best day of February for yourselves.
That designated date where couples exchange handmade gifts or lose themselves in romantic dates. Dick and you had the perfect plan: a picnic in a park far from the city's hustle and bustle. Just the two of you. No villains, no Gotham crises, and above all, no "grateful" women looking to catch Nightwing’s attention with the excuse of having been rescued.
At that moment, you were putting the finishing touches on your look in front of the mirror: a bit more blush, flawless eyeliner, and a generous layer of gloss on your lips. You were so concentrated that you didn't even hear the sound of the door opening, until a pair of muscular arms wrapped around your waist with a delicacy that contrasted with their strength.
You let out a small laugh—almost a sigh—as you felt Dick begin to leave small nips on your neck, only to then lick the marks he had caused himself. He was a textbook flirt and a total tease. The best part of all was that this side of him belonged only to you; it didn't matter that you were already his girlfriend, he kept courting you as if he were still trying to get your phone number. And, honestly, you didn't mind at all.
"Stop it... Dick," you laughed, trying to maintain your composure.
But the "Boy Wonder" had no intention of obeying. Defeated and smiling, you spun on your heels to wrap your arms around his neck. The height difference was noticeable, so you forced him to lean down to press your freshly painted lips against his.
"Mmh... I'm starting to change my mind about going out," he murmured between slow kisses, deepening the contact.
"Don't even think about it. Absolutely not," you shot back, looking at him with squinted but playful eyes. "I just did my makeup and got dressed up specifically for today."
"You’re always beautiful, sweetheart. You’d look incredible even if you put a trash bag on."
"Ha, ha, ha. Very funny, Grayson." You gave the tip of his nose a playful tap with your index finger. He, with his vigilante reflexes, didn't even try to dodge it; he simply let himself be adored.
"I’m not lying, gorgeous. You look good in anything," he insisted, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "But since you insist, and because I’m incapable of saying no to that face, we’ll go out. Mind you, when we get back, we’re getting comfortable and doing what we do best: being lazy together."
He gave you a quick kiss on the cheek and skipped out of the bathroom to put on his shoes. You laughed, shaking your head as you took one last look in the mirror, adjusted your hair, and followed him into the living room.
All you had left to do was put on your flats and grab the basket. Well, the basket was Dick's job because, in his own words: "a true gentleman never lets his girl carry the weight."
It didn't take long for Dick to intertwine his fingers with yours, pulling you toward him as you walked to the car parked in front of your house. Although the destination wasn't excessively far, he insisted on driving; he didn't want your legs to get tired, especially wearing those shoes, no matter how pretty your flats were.
After a few minutes, the urban landscape transformed into a green horizon. It was a beautiful park, dotted with wildflowers dancing in the breeze. Crowning a small hill stood an imposing apple tree, its fruit-laden branches offering the perfect shade.
Upon reaching the top, you began the ritual: spreading the blanket over the fresh grass, organizing the plates, and placing the food with care. When everything was ready, you sat side by side, letting your shoulders brush with a natural, almost electric affection.
Without a doubt, this was the best Valentine's Day of your two-year relationship. Last year, the shadow of Nightwing intervened with an emergency that forced him to leave the city in a hurry, but that was water under the bridge now. Today, the outside world didn't exist.
Between laughter and anecdotes, you fed each other and challenged yourselves to paint portraits on small canvases. The results were questionable, but the laughter was worth more than any work of art.
As the sun began to set, the air grew cooler. Dick wrapped his arm around your shoulders, inviting you to rest your head on his chest while you watched the sky turn shades of violet, orange, and gold.
"It's the best Valentine's Day of my entire life..." he murmured, his gaze lost on the horizon.
"Oh? So you've had many other 'Valentine's Days' then?" you joked, turning to catch him off guard.
"What? No! I... wait!" he stammered, completely losing his hero’s composure.
"Relax, Dick. I was joking," you laughed, seeing his face of genuine panic.
The truth was that, although Richard Grayson had a reputation as a heartbreaker, his previous relationships rarely lasted more than five months. By some strange twist of fate, he never made it to February with someone by his side. You were the first—and you firmly intended to be the last—who managed to break that streak.
At first, you both hesitated. Would it be something serious or just a firework destined to burn out? There was no love at the start, just a magnetic attraction. But, with daily closeness and trust, you ended up falling head over heels for one another. And there you were: two years later, with no plans of letting go, enjoying a harmony that few manage to achieve.
"Happy Valentine's Day, babe," he whispered, brushing his nose against your cheek in a gesture full of tenderness.
"Happy Valentine's Day, honey."
You sought each other's eyes and, under the warm tones of the sunset, sealed the promise of many more Februaries with a slow, deep kiss.
“Mmh...” The sound was barely a murmur, muffled by the sheets. You were buried in a nest of blankets, face down, your head sunk into the pillow as if trying to hide from the sunlight filtering through the curtains.
At that moment, Jason appeared at the bathroom door. His hair was tousled, his skin still warm from the steam of the shower, and his chest bare, putting on display that collection of scars that narrated his history. He stretched with the laziness of a predator in no hurry, his muscles tensing before he walked toward you.
“Morning, babe...” His voice, still husky from sleep, vibrated near your ear.
He crouched at the edge of the bed and, with a tenderness he reserved exclusively for you, brushed the stray strands of hair from your face. He placed a soft kiss on your forehead, letting his lips linger for an extra second against your skin.
“Happy... Valentine’s Day.”
For someone like Jason Todd, sentimentality was usually treacherous ground. He preferred to show his affection through protection or shared silence, but with you, it was different. He tried. For you, his fiancée, he was willing to learn a language of sweet words that the rest of the world would never hear him speak.
The wedding was only a couple of weeks away—a ceremony that, to Jason’s relief, Bruce insisted on fully funding. Between dress fittings, guest lists, and Gotham logistics, this was one of the few days where the outside world simply didn’t exist.
“Mmh... Hapy Vay-ntine...” you mumbled into the mattress. Sleep weighed so heavily that the syllables collided in your mouth, creating an unintelligible but adorable sentence.
Jason let out a dry chuckle, a warm sound that made your chest vibrate.
“You are definitely not a morning person. Come on, babe, up you get. Breakfast is waiting.”
With a heroic effort, you managed to sit up. You stretched until your bones popped and, still with heavy eyelids, you clung to Jason’s solid arm to let him guide you toward the kitchen, like a ship seeking its lighthouse.
As you sank into the kitchen chair trying to keep your eyes open, Jason got to work. No questions were asked; he knew your mornings by heart. The aroma of hot chocolate began to fill the room, followed by the sweet scent of maple syrup caramelizing over pancakes.
“Thanks, Jay,” you whispered when the plate appeared in front of you.
You ate breakfast without rushing. Conversation flowed between laughs about your friends' latest gossip and anecdotes from previous patrols. There were no villains, no masks, no contingency plans; just two people sharing a cup of coffee and a future.
When you finished, the plan was simple and perfect:
“Couch?” he proposed, already reaching for the remote.
“Couch,” you confirmed, settling under his arm as the movie began to roll and the rest of the world disappeared.
You settled onto the sofa, but for Jason, "watching a movie" was just an excuse to have you close. He pulled you toward his chest with a firm arm, letting you rest your head in the crook of his shoulder. The television lit the dim room, but his attention constantly drifted from the screen back to you.
“You know...” he started to say, distractedly playing with the engagement ring on your finger, “I still find it hard to believe the old man—Bruce—agreed to pay for a wedding this... ostentatious.”
He gave a nasal laugh, the kind he saved for his ironies.
“It’s probably his way of apologizing for all the years of trauma, or he just wants to make sure I don’t bolt before saying ‘I do.’”
You laughed softly against his skin, feeling the heat emanating from his body. The hot chocolate still warmed your hands, and the atmosphere was so perfect that the chaos of Gotham seemed to be on another planet.
Suddenly, Jason went silent. His fingers stopped playing with your hand and moved up to stroke your cheek, forcing you to look up and meet his steel-blue eyes, which at that moment shone with a vulnerability he rarely showed.
“I’m serious, babe,” he whispered, lowering the TV volume with the remote. “I know I’m not the easiest guy to love. I’ve got scars that won’t fade and a hell of a temper half the time... But thanks for not running away when things got ugly.”
He cleared his throat, struggling against the shyness that came with being so open.
“This Valentine’s... and every one that comes after... I’m yours. No strings attached.”
You snuggled closer to him, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart. It was a rhythm that gave you absolute peace.
“I love you, Jay. Even when you’re grumpy in the morning,” you teased, giving him a quick kiss on the jaw.
He smiled—a real smile, one without a trace of sarcasm.
“Well, enjoy this peace while it lasts. Tomorrow Alfred is sending the final RSVP list, and I have a feeling Dick is going to try to organize a bachelor party that ends with half the city on fire.”
“Please tell me you won’t let Roy help with the planning,” you pleaded with a groan of laughter.
Jason let out a clean, loud laugh.
“I make no promises. But today... today it’s just you, me, and this movie we aren’t even watching.”
You both sank deeper into the cushions, letting time pass slowly. For one day, Red Hood didn’t have to patrol the alleys, and you didn’t have to deal with flower budgets. All that remained was the sound of his steady breathing and the promise of a life together that was about to officially begin.
Your Valentine’s Days with him would never win any awards for exclusivity, but honestly, you didn't give a damn. You didn’t need reservations at restaurants with unpronounceable names, nor choreographed moonlit strolls waiting for him to drop to one knee to hand you a "promise ring."
Those kinds of gestures felt redundant with someone like him. You knew it; you felt it in your bones. There was no need for metal or diamonds when the man never missed an opportunity to remind you—in that voice he reserved only for you—that you were the goddamn miracle of his life. Besides, his hands were incapable of staying away from you; he lived in a state of permanent obsession, a physical devotion that raced across your skin and, to be honest, turned you on completely.
Today’s plan had been the perfect chaos:
* Marathons of mediocre sitcoms.
* Absurdly elaborate conspiracy theories.
* Video game rivalries that ended in fits of laughter.
It was your personalized dose of medicine. Now, the sweet exhaustion of the day kept you both huddled in the sanctuary of your bedroom. Wally had buried himself in the nook of your neck, leaving constant, damp kisses on your skin, ignoring—or perhaps enjoying—the rhythmic shivers he sent through you.
"Mmh... I'm hungry..." he murmured against your throat, his warm breath sending one last electric jolt down your spine.
"Do you want us to order pizza?" you asked, sinking your fingers into his rebellious red hair.
He pulled away just enough to plant a quick, loud kiss on your cheek. That was his version of an enthusiastic "yes."
You picked up the phone and dialed the usual number. The order was straightforward: a Carbonara for him, ham and cheese for you. But then, Wally chimed in with a mischievous little smirk:
"Order the Valentine’s special too. You know, so people don’t say we aren't romantic."
An hour later, the doorbell broke the bubble. Wally let out a dramatic groan; laziness weighed on him as much as the desire to stay glued to your side. But since you had handled the call, the unwritten contract dictated that the field work was his.
He didn't even give you time to blink. Using his super-speed, he was a blur of red energy streaking down the hallway. He whipped the door open, dropped the cash, and practically slammed the door in the poor delivery guy's face before he could even say goodnight.
In less than a second, the mattress sank under his weight again.
"I’m back, princess," he let out with a triumphant grin, flopping down beside you and balancing the pizza boxes over your laps.
Opening the boxes, the aroma of melted cheese and freshly baked dough flooded the room, mingling with the scent of your shared perfume. Wally, with that characteristic chaotic energy, didn't wait a single second. He settled against the headboard, pulling you with him until your back was pressed against his chest—the most comfortable and warmest backrest in the world.
Eating in bed was technically a domestic sin, but today, rules didn't exist. Wally devoured his Carbonara pizza with almost childlike satisfaction, stealing bits of ham from yours just for the pleasure of watching you protest so he could kiss you to silence your complaints.
"This is incredible... but it’s missing something," he said with his mouth half-full, looking at you with those bright eyes.
"More cheese?" you ventured.
"No. It’s missing you not looking at me with that 'I’m going to bite you' face, because then I’m going to drop the pizza and dinner is going to get cold... and trust me, you don’t want me getting distracted."
You laughed, giving him a gentle nudge as your legs intertwined under the blankets. Between bites, the conspiracies continued. You talked about how absurd it was that Cupid was a baby in diapers with long-range weapons, and how your couch "date" beat any five-star dinner where you're forced to use the correct fork for the fish.
Finally, after finishing the two main pizzas, a small box remained in the center. You opened it like a treasure: it was a dessert pizza, heart-shaped, covered in chocolate, strawberries, and an industrial amount of powdered sugar.
"This is an assault on one's health, princess," Wally commented, though he was already tearing off a piece with his fingers. "It’s so cheesy it hurts... I love it."
He offered you the first piece, bringing it to your lips. The chocolate was warm and thick. You got a little on the corner of your mouth on purpose, knowing exactly what would happen next. Wally did not disappoint; he dropped his piece and, with agonizing slowness, leaned in to lick the trace of sweetness from your skin, transforming an innocent gesture into something that made the air in the room grow heavy.
They ate the dessert pizza bit by bit, sharing every strawberry amidst low laughter and whispered confessions that are only said when the rest of the world seems to have ceased to exist.
At the end, only a small triangle of dough and chocolate remained in the center of the box. The last piece. Wally looked at it, then at you. His hands, which hadn't stopped caressing your waist or playing with the hem of your shirt all night, pulled you closer. His breath sought the shelter of your neck again, but this time he stopped millimeters from your lips.
"I'll let you have the last piece if you admit I'm the best Valentine you'll ever have," he negotiated with that arrogant confidence you loved so much.
"You’re a blackmailer, Wally West," you whispered, closing the distance. "But you’re right."
You shared the last bite between you, a chocolate-flavored kiss that lasted much longer than necessary, turning deep, slow, and full of that "obsession" from before. When they finally pulled apart just a few inches, with the boxes empty and hearts racing, he cupped your face with both hands.
"Happy Valentine’s Day, gorgeous," he murmured against your lips, with a sincerity that disarmed you. "Thanks for letting this wreck of a man be yours."
You smiled back, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing closer to his heat.
"Happy Valentine’s Day, Wally"
