I’ve Got A Real Problem

The tension in the car trailed you both inside, seeming to expand and strengthen with malicious glee as Jason nudged the door closed behind him. You felt it in its contradictions. A heaviness in your shoulders, a weightless shiver in your stomach. The breathless moment between the clumsy knocking of a glass off a high table and the chaotic shattering as it hits the floor, slowed enough to feel suffocating.

It wasn't supposed to feel like this. Being with Jason had never felt like this.

The air shifted as he again held out his phone, a little more force behind the gesture.

"I won't stay, but you still need to eat something. Order before I go."

"I'm not hungry."

Your throat felt tight, wishing for possibly the first time in your long friendship that he would leave you alone.

"Food always helps you when you get a migraine." He wasn't budging, brows raised expectantly in challenge, daring you to argue, to admit the real reason for your early departure.

"Let it go," you warned lowly.

"Let what go?"

"Jason."

He stepped closer, too close, phone tipped forward to rest against your collarbone, his own voice dropping to match your tone.

"Either tell me what's wrong or order the damn food."

Stress fractures spreading slowly, insidiously, through a pane of glass. The faintest tap would bring it crashing down.

“Why are you acting like this?”

"You know why."

"No, I really don't. Because what the hell do you even have to be mad about?"

"Are you fucking serious?" He choked out a humorless laugh, tossing his phone away onto the couch cushions and turning away from you for a moment, knuckles pressing into his closed eyes. "Were we not at the same party tonight?"

"He didn't do anything to you! The two of you barely even talked. Thanks for putting in that effort you promised me, by the way."

"You're angry at me?" Jason asked incredulously, turning quickly to face you again. "The fuck did I do?"

"Well you sure as hell didn't try!"

"I didn't - I wore all this shit," Jason said, gesturing at his formal wear before wrenching his tie free with an aggravated huff, letting it flutter to the ground. "I said hello. I shook his hand. What - "

"All the comments about the suit-"

"He didn't even hear that!"

"The thing with his name -"

"It's a stupid rich guy name."

"And the comment about not having heard about him -"

"That was true!"

"Jason, if you don't stop interrupting me, I swear to fucking God!"

You both seemed to freeze for a moment at the volume of your voice, snapping back into yourselves for a moment. Your breathing was ragged, heart racing in your chest. Jason had a hand shoved in his pocket, clenched tight enough to be uncomfortable.

"Say what you want to say then," he said into the quiet, dropping unceremoniously onto the arm of your couch.

"What?"

"Keep telling me what a shitty friend I am. I'll shut up."

"That's not - " You sighed, shaking your head. "I just don't understand. I know we haven't done anything like that before. The whole 'meet the boyfriend' thing, but… I just wanted William to meet my favorite person. You were still… you even in the hallway. Where did that Jason go in the two minutes it took for us to find him?"

"He doesn't deserve that version of me," Jason said with an unapologetic shrug. "You've earned it. He hasn't."

"Well he didn't deserve Bitchy Jason either," you argued bitterly. "You didn't even give him a chance."

"He deserved fucking… Homicidal Jason, is what he deserved," he muttered, crossing his arms.

"Okay, this is what I'm talking about," you said, voice starting to rise again. "What the hell is your problem?"

"My problem is you keep putting yourself in the position to get stomped on by shitty men, and it makes no fucking sense."

"Excuse me?"

"How is this still happening? It's not even getting better. There's -"

"What, you want me to apologize for the fact that I haven't given up on the whole fucking world like you have?"

"Wow." Jason gave a soft, dangerous laugh.

"At least I'm trying. Instead of blowing up the flaws of every single person I meet."

"Well, with the people you choose, you're not making it real hard for me, are you?"

Anger flared hot and sharp in your chest, knocking the breath out of you. You forced your eyes away from him, trying to breathe through it. A slap wouldn't fix anything, no matter how fucking good it might feel right now.

"And how did William manage to piss you off so quickly? Grace me with your great worldly wisdom, why don't you," you said, condescension dripping from your tongue in a way that soothed some of the ache.

"What a generous invitation," he bit back. "Happy to accept."

Except he was moving into your space again, forcing eye contact you really didn't want with the tilt of his head.

"You were the only reason he was on the list for that party. And he couldn't even be bothered to show up with you? He had time and preparation to change first and show up early, but not to come here and pick you up? He wasn't even invited. He was a plus one."

That tone was back, the one he rarely used with you before tonight. Low, artificial calm stretched razor thin over a deep anger.

"If you didn't want to come get me, you could've said no."

"That's not what I'm saying. I didn't even consider another option. That's the point."

"So his crime is not thinking exactly the same way as you?" you asked, raising a judgemental brow.

"He didn't meet you at the door. He left you within minutes of your arrival to chase political points. He wouldn't even dance with you."

You turned away from him again, eyes beginning to sting in a way that made your cheeks begin to warm.

"He either didn't notice you were miserable, or he didn't care. I don't know what's worse. I could tell from across the fucking room."

"You've known me for ten years, Jason," you argued, voice mortifyingly shaky. "It's not fair to expect him to -"

"Yes, it is," he interrupted firmly. "I expect him to at least care enough to be looking."

"Great, wonderful," you hastily blotted your eyes with the back of your hand. "You think my boyfriend doesn't give a fuck about me. Are you done now?"

"Just -"

You flinched away from him when you felt his hand on your arm, felt him back away just as quickly in response. He missed the apologetic glance that followed, frowning deeply at his own shoes, both hands shoved in his pocket.

"I didn't mean- I'm not scared -"

"Okay."

"Jason…"

He shook his head, waving off an apology and backing towards the front door.

"I wasn't trying to hurt you."

"I know you weren't, but you also already are. I didn't -" You gestured helplessly at the tears that had begun to fall, the ones you had been trying to hide from him.

You'd cried in front of him countless times over the years, but this was different. These were inflicted tears, and he'd been the one to put them there.

Jason heaved out a sigh at the sight, muscles tensed in indecision given the way you'd just responded to his touch.

“Just… Why introduce him to me at all if you didn’t want my opinion? I've always… You never had a problem with me speaking my mind before."

“I just… wish you didn't have such a low opinion of me," you said quietly.

"I don't! What are you talking about?"

You shook your head.

"You must believe I'm really, really stupid if you think I'm giving so much time and attention to someone with no redeeming qualities at all."

Jason grimaced, but seemed unsure of how to respond.

"You really don't trust me or my judgement at all, do you?" you asked. "I think that might be the worst part."

You turned your back on him again, this time with enough finality that Jason took it for what it was. A dismissal.

And as much as he hated to leave it there, the tangle of anger, love, disappointment, and grief was enough to choke him. The only answer he seemed capable of a slamming door. The loud sound shook loose a breath you didn't know you were holding.

But your peace was short lived.

Less than a minute after the door closed, Jason was shoving his way back inside, scowl still in place. He crossed to where you stood frozen on the rug, nudging your shoulders to turn you away from him again.

“I’m still angry,” he said, hands much gentler than his voice as he unclasped and unzipped your dress in two smooth motions. “But I don’t want you stuck sleeping in that dress. You panic about the clasp when you're tired.”

“Thanks,” you said tightly, keeping your back turned to him, clutching the fabric against you. 

“Yeah.”

He made it most of the way back to the door before a sudden fear snagged in your heart.

“Jason…”

You weren’t sure what to say, had started your sentence without a plan or motive beyond delaying this abrupt goodbye. 

He paused, pivoting slightly, not conceding fully to give you his undivided attention, but you were clear enough in his peripherals. Your face was pinched, unhappy, more uncomfortable than angry. The two of you didn’t fight very often, and the experience had you off-balance. 

It didn’t feel right to Jason either, but irritation still prickled under his skin. He wasn’t ready to drop this. But he wouldn’t torture you unnecessarily either. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Okay.”

The tension in the car trailed you both inside, seeming to expand and strengthen with malicious glee as Jason nudged the door closed behind him. You felt it in its contradictions. A heaviness in your shoulders, a weightless shiver in your stomach. The breathless moment between the clumsy knocking of a glass off a high table and the chaotic shattering as it hits the floor, slowed enough to feel suffocating.

It wasn't supposed to feel like this. Being with Jason had never felt like this.

The air shifted as he again held out his phone, a little more force behind the gesture.

"I won't stay, but you still need to eat something. Order before I go."

"I'm not hungry."

Your throat felt tight, wishing for possibly the first time in your long friendship that he would leave you alone.

"Food always helps you when you get a migraine." He wasn't budging, brows raised expectantly in challenge, daring you to argue, to admit the real reason for your early departure.

"Let it go," you warned lowly.

"Let what go?"

"Jason."

He stepped closer, too close, phone tipped forward to rest against your collarbone, his own voice dropping to match your tone.

"Either tell me what's wrong or order the damn food."

Stress fractures spreading slowly, insidiously, through a pane of glass. The faintest tap would bring it crashing down.

“Why are you acting like this?”

"You know why."

"No, I really don't. Because what the hell do you even have to be mad about?"

"Are you fucking serious?" He choked out a humorless laugh, tossing his phone away onto the couch cushions and turning away from you for a moment, knuckles pressing into his closed eyes. "Were we not at the same party tonight?"

"He didn't do anything to you! The two of you barely even talked. Thanks for putting in that effort you promised me, by the way."

"You're angry at me?" Jason asked incredulously, turning quickly to face you again. "The fuck did I do?"

"Well you sure as hell didn't try!"

"I didn't - I wore all this shit," Jason said, gesturing at his formal wear before wrenching his tie free with an aggravated huff, letting it flutter to the ground. "I said hello. I shook his hand. What - "

"All the comments about the suit-"

"He didn't even hear that!"

"The thing with his name -"

"It's a stupid rich guy name."

"And the comment about not having heard about him -"

"That was true!"

"Jason, if you don't stop interrupting me, I swear to fucking God!"

You both seemed to freeze for a moment at the volume of your voice, snapping back into yourselves for a moment. Your breathing was ragged, heart racing in your chest. Jason had a hand shoved in his pocket, clenched tight enough to be uncomfortable.

"Say what you want to say then," he said into the quiet, dropping unceremoniously onto the arm of your couch.

"What?"

"Keep telling me what a shitty friend I am. I'll shut up."

"That's not - " You sighed, shaking your head. "I just don't understand. I know we haven't done anything like that before. The whole 'meet the boyfriend' thing, but… I just wanted William to meet my favorite person. You were still… you even in the hallway. Where did that Jason go in the two minutes it took for us to find him?"

"He doesn't deserve that version of me," Jason said with an unapologetic shrug. "You've earned it. He hasn't."

"Well he didn't deserve Bitchy Jason either," you argued bitterly. "You didn't even give him a chance."

"He deserved fucking… Homicidal Jason, is what he deserved," he muttered, crossing his arms.

"Okay, this is what I'm talking about," you said, voice starting to rise again. "What the hell is your problem?"

"My problem is you keep putting yourself in the position to get stomped on by shitty men, and it makes no fucking sense."

"Excuse me?"

"How is this still happening? It's not even getting better. There's -"

"What, you want me to apologize for the fact that I haven't given up on the whole fucking world like you have?"

"Wow." Jason gave a soft, dangerous laugh.

"At least I'm trying. Instead of blowing up the flaws of every single person I meet."

"Well, with the people you choose, you're not making it real hard for me, are you?"

Anger flared hot and sharp in your chest, knocking the breath out of you. You forced your eyes away from him, trying to breathe through it. A slap wouldn't fix anything, no matter how fucking good it might feel right now.

"And how did William manage to piss you off so quickly? Grace me with your great worldly wisdom, why don't you," you said, condescension dripping from your tongue in a way that soothed some of the ache.

"What a generous invitation," he bit back. "Happy to accept."

Except he was moving into your space again, forcing eye contact you really didn't want with the tilt of his head.

"You were the only reason he was on the list for that party. And he couldn't even be bothered to show up with you? He had time and preparation to change first and show up early, but not to come here and pick you up? He wasn't even invited. He was a plus one."

That tone was back, the one he rarely used with you before tonight. Low, artificial calm stretched razor thin over a deep anger.

"If you didn't want to come get me, you could've said no."

"That's not what I'm saying. I didn't even consider another option. That's the point."

"So his crime is not thinking exactly the same way as you?" you asked, raising a judgemental brow.

"He didn't meet you at the door. He left you within minutes of your arrival to chase political points. He wouldn't even dance with you."

You turned away from him again, eyes beginning to sting in a way that made your cheeks begin to warm.

"He either didn't notice you were miserable, or he didn't care. I don't know what's worse. I could tell from across the fucking room."

"You've known me for ten years, Jason," you argued, voice mortifyingly shaky. "It's not fair to expect him to -"

"Yes, it is," he interrupted firmly. "I expect him to at least care enough to be looking."

"Great, wonderful," you hastily blotted your eyes with the back of your hand. "You think my boyfriend doesn't give a fuck about me. Are you done now?"

"Just -"

You flinched away from him when you felt his hand on your arm, felt him back away just as quickly in response. He missed the apologetic glance that followed, frowning deeply at his own shoes, both hands shoved in his pocket.

"I didn't mean- I'm not scared -"

"Okay."

"Jason…"

He shook his head, waving off an apology and backing towards the front door.

"I wasn't trying to hurt you."

"I know you weren't, but you also already are. I didn't -" You gestured helplessly at the tears that had begun to fall, the ones you had been trying to hide from him.

You'd cried in front of him countless times over the years, but this was different. These were inflicted tears, and he'd been the one to put them there.

Jason heaved out a sigh at the sight, muscles tensed in indecision given the way you'd just responded to his touch.

“Just… Why introduce him to me at all if you didn’t want my opinion? I've always… You never had a problem with me speaking my mind before."

“I just… wish you didn't have such a low opinion of me," you said quietly.

"I don't! What are you talking about?"

You shook your head.

"You must believe I'm really, really stupid if you think I'm giving so much time and attention to someone with no redeeming qualities at all."

Jason grimaced, but seemed unsure of how to respond.

"You really don't trust me or my judgement at all, do you?" you asked. "I think that might be the worst part."

You turned your back on him again, this time with enough finality that Jason took it for what it was. A dismissal.

And as much as he hated to leave it there, the tangle of anger, love, disappointment, and grief was enough to choke him. The only answer he seemed capable of a slamming door. The loud sound shook loose a breath you didn't know you were holding.

But your peace was short lived.

Less than a minute after the door closed, Jason was shoving his way back inside, scowl still in place. He crossed to where you stood frozen on the rug, nudging your shoulders to turn you away from him again.

“I’m still angry,” he said, hands much gentler than his voice as he unclasped and unzipped your dress in two smooth motions. “But I don’t want you stuck sleeping in that dress. You panic about the clasp when you're tired.”

“Thanks,” you said tightly, keeping your back turned to him, clutching the fabric against you. 

“Yeah.”

He made it most of the way back to the door before a sudden fear snagged in your heart.

“Jason…”

You weren’t sure what to say, had started your sentence without a plan or motive beyond delaying this abrupt goodbye. 

He paused, pivoting slightly, not conceding fully to give you his undivided attention, but you were clear enough in his peripherals. Your face was pinched, unhappy, more uncomfortable than angry. The two of you didn’t fight very often, and the experience had you off-balance. 

It didn’t feel right to Jason either, but irritation still prickled under his skin. He wasn’t ready to drop this. But he wouldn’t torture you unnecessarily either. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Okay.”

“I need you to ask her to dance,” Jason answered, nodding his head towards where you still stood uncomfortably ensconced in the Mayor’s social circle with a frozen smile and halfway vacant eyes. 

Dick let out a low whistle as he too made a quick scan of your body language.

“Can do. You guys in a fight or something?”

“Trying to avoid one, actually. I promised to be nice.” 

“Ah. Does he suck?” Dick asked sympathetically. 

“Yes.”

"That checks out. I’m on it.”

Jason tried to roll some of the tension from his shoulders as he watched Dick head in your direction, a studied casualness to his strides making it appear to any observer that he had no particular destination in mind until the last second. He joined the fray with the kind of cheerful audacity few people could get away with, slinging a companionable arm around your shoulders by way of a greeting and offering your boyfriend a handshake in the same breath. Even from this distance, the introduction went undeniably better than Jason’s had, no detectable tension between the three of you as you talked. 

Minutes later, Dick was dragging you onto the dance floor by both hands, your expression one of fond exasperation. Jason let out a slow breath, taking some small comfort in the sight of you with Dick before turning his attention back to Woodley.

He too had stared after you for a little while, looking slightly curious but not displeased, before refocusing on the fellow guests around him.

From here, it was easier to see him objectively, see the cracks in the veneer that paradoxically vanished up close. In a group, his eyes were in near constant motion, guiding a relentless cycle of studying, assessing, and mirroring the men around him. His laughter and replies seemed too quick off the tongue, anticipated, like he was working off a teleprompter. There was an eagerness, a stiffness to his performance of social ease that signaled he was a new, if rigorous, player in this game. Campaigning hard for respect and significance rather than waiting to be recognized. Jason’s study was interrupted before it could delve any further. 

“Can I help?” The sound of Bruce’s voice just behind him had Jason’s shoulders tensing with surprise. The old man could still pull off an ambush, even in a tuxedo. 

“With what?” he asked, shifting his posture in an effort to appear unaffected.

“With whatever’s going on here,” Bruce answered, gesturing his conspicuously full champagne flute towards the dance floor, where Dick appeared to be trying to break some kind of consecutive twirl record. 

Your dress flared out prettily at the movement, but your laugh was still more attention-grabbing, floating above the music and chatter of the other guests. 

“Nothing’s going on,” he said quickly, drowning the words in his own drink as Woodley paused his performance to trace the sound of your laugh as well. Jason’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. Probably time to lay off the alcohol.

“I know I said I would try not to pry - ”

“But you’ve found another excuse to ignore that conversation?” Jason guessed, pointedly turning his back to the dance floor and the group gathered across it, facing Bruce head-on.

“This is different. It seems personal. I’m not asking as - ” He broke off with a tired sigh. “If it has anything to do with this side of life, this side of Gotham,” he said, “I might be able to help. If you want. If you’ll let me.”

“Dick’s already helping.”

“I see that,” he said, eyes flicking briefly over Jason’s shoulder. “Mediating?”

“Cheering up,” Jason corrected.

Bruce just stared, waiting for more information, hoping it would be offered freely and perhaps more comfortably if he did not ask. And in the meantime, no doubt, drawing conclusions of his own.

With an impatient breath, Jason made a decision.

“Pinstripes. In the group with the mayor, to the left of the doors.”

With a natural ease, Bruce scanned over the crowd, an expression of only passive interest on his face, a bored monarch observing his kingdom.

“William Woodley. New assistant prosecutor in the DA’s office. Moved to Gotham four months ago. Diamond District, but he’s rarely home. Workaholic. Hasn’t been trusted as lead yet, but his work so far seems clean and ambitious.,” he rattled off, neutral expression never slipping. 

“Why did both you and Dick know about him before I did?” Jason complained.

“Professional capacity, not personal,” Bruce assured him. “New players in our justice system always catch my attention, at least briefly. You have concerns?”

“He’s seeing my best friend, so yes, I have concerns.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened, snapping back to Jason.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Are you? Why?”

Bruce pursed his lips slightly, clearly choosing his words with care. 

“Because I know this may complicate your relationship with her. A relationship that’s… important to you.”

“Hey, if she’s happy…” Jason said with a cheerless smile.

“Is she?”

Jason shrugged uncomfortably. 

“She says she is.” 

Bruce gave a quiet hum, eyes traveling between the man glad-handing the mayor and the woman he’d long been hoping to more formally welcome as a daughter, smiling as she spun away on the dance floor with an infectious joy. After a moment, he allowed his attention to be drawn away, aware that his son was now staring at him with an odd sort of frown.

Not that Jason frowning at him was any kind of revelation, but this one was different. Smaller, softer, concealing some kind of question trapped between clenched teeth.

“What is it?” he asked, as gently as he was able, as gently as he thought Jason would allow.

“What did you mean about this complicating our relationship?”

“Well…” Bruce took a breath. “From what I understand, the two of you are very close and fairly… affectionate friends. There’s a strong possibility that her new partner may have a problem with that.”

Jason recalled the way that Woodley had guided you away from him only moments after arriving at your side.

“But that’s just… how we are. How we like to be.”

“I know,” Bruce said softly. “And hopefully you can find some kind of compromise you’re all okay with. She’s a smart young woman. She won’t want to lose you.”

Jason felt a jolt in his chest, almost like falling. He clenched his jaw harder through the feeling. 

“I don’t want to compromise. He shouldn’t get a say in what our friendship looks like.”

“Maybe he won’t,” Bruce said, placating. “I just want you to be prepared for the possibility.”

“Yeah…”

Out of habit, Jason glanced over to check on you again, only to see Dick alone, frowning after your retreating form.

“Something’s wrong,” Jason said by way of goodbye, moving quickly through the crowd to reach his brother.

“What happened?”

“Boring new boyfriend happened,” Dick answered with a dissatisfied look in the offending party’s direction. “Noticed it a little while ago but was able to keep her back to him most of the time.”

“What did he do?”

“Technically nothing. But after a while he started looking over at us like she was doing something wrong. Embarrassing him or something. As soon as she noticed, she said she wasn’t feeling well and took off.” 

Something hot and angry flared to life in Jason’s chest, tightened in his throat. 

“God fucking forbid one person have fun at this damn party,” he said, turning to follow after you when Dick caught his arm.

“You might want to give her some space.”

“Once I get her away from that asshole, she can have as much space as she wants.”

He didn’t stick around to hear anything more than a plaintive sigh of his name, wholly uninterested in listening to any kind of reason. He was aware he was probably coming in much too hot, picking it up from the looks he earned as he crossed the room, ranging from slightly nervous to fully alarmed. With a concentrated effort, Jason forced a few deep breaths. He was distantly aware that someone had started following him, but he couldn’t be bothered to check.

“Hey,” he said, hand coming to rest lightly on your elbow when he was close enough. Despite the force of the irritation and concern warring within him, he kept his voice quiet enough to not derail the group discussion you were hovering at the edge of. You met his eyes briefly, offering a strained smile and a quiet hello before looking away again.

“Dick said you weren’t feeling well. You okay?” 

That, unfortunately, drew Woodley’s attention, and he guided you a few steps away from the group, Jason close behind.

“You should have told me,” Woodley said, nudging at your chin until you met his eyes. “Are you alright? Did you drink too much?”

“She barely had anything,” Jason said defensively.

“Migraine,” you cut in. “Probably just tired.”

Woodley seemed to accept your explanation, humming sympathetically and squeezing your shoulder. But Jason knew you too well, knew the cues of your discomfort and unhappiness better than his own. He knew what you looked like with a migraine.

Your head would be tilted down, eyeline kept low to avoid any light sources. Your arms would be crossed, shoulders tense and high. Your eye would twitch every so slightly at any sharp or unexpected sound, an imperfectly suppressed flinch. 

But now?

Though your eyeline was low, it seemed incidental, the product of defeat rather than a conscious and controlled movement. Your arms were crossed, but your shoulders were slightly slumped. You gave no reaction to the loud clinking of glasses that accompanied a spontaneous toast just behind you.

Before Jason could decide on how to respond, he noted Woodley’s eyes flickering in a double-take over his shoulder, hands falling away from you as he nervously smoothed his tie. 

“We should get you home,” Bruce said kindly. “This is the last place I’d want to be with a migraine.”

“Mr. Wayne. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I wish it was under better circumstances, of course.” 

Bruce only spared him a brief glance and a nod, about as strong a dismissal as anyone could get from him in this setting, his attention fully settled on you.

“You’re probably right,” you said. “I’m sure I’ll be okay after some rest.”

Bruce nodded reassuringly, this time aiming a much more pointed look at your boyfriend.

“Oh, I could - ” Woodley turned back to you. “I could call you a car if you’d like to go home. I’d hate for it to get worse.”

Not us. You. A car for you. 

Jason bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, trying to quiet the sound of his impatient sigh.

“I’ll take you home,” he said, voice softening for you as it so often did. “We can get you something to eat on the way.”

“Take my car,” Bruce said, pulling a valet ticket from his pocket. “Faster. And gets fun looks at a drive-through.” 

“Thank you, Bruce,” you said quietly as Jason took the ticket.

“That really is very generous of you, Mr. Wayne.”

“Feel better. Or I’ll sick Alfred on you tomorrow.”

You smiled weakly, sparing one more hopeful glance at your date.

“Text me when you get home,” he requested, leaning to kiss your cheek. “I’ll call you later to check on you, but let me know if you need anything before then.”

You nodded, swallowing down the last of your hopes for the evening as you followed Jason out the doors.

*****

TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK before I pass out. Did we enjoy the Bruce cameo? What's gonna happen when they get hooooome?

That seemed to catch your attention, and you spun quickly to face him.

“Yes. Tonight’s a big deal. You know that, right?”

Jason raised a brow.

“It’s just another Wayne Foundation gala. You’ve been to dozens of them. You’ve planned dozens of them. It’s your job, and you’re damn good at it.”

Despite the kind words, your lips fell into a frown.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

He did know it, unfortunately. Because what you actually meant is that you were introducing your fancy new boyfriend to Jason tonight. Your New York new money, Gotham transplant, up and comer in the Gotham DA’s office with irritatingly private social media accounts boyfriend. 

“What are you so worried about? Help me understand,” he said patiently, trying to ignore the twist in his stomach that felt suspiciously like dread. It had no right to be dread. Jason wasn’t scared of shit. Certainly not a 30-year-old man with an overly-gelled comb over. 

“I haven’t ever introduced anyone to you before,” you said, nibbling on your bottom lip. “I feel… weird about it.” 

“This was your idea. If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll just drop you off and go home. You can tell him I’m sick or something.” 

Because honestly, Jason wasn’t looking forward to this either. You were right. You’d never introduced anyone to him in the almost ten years you’d been friends. You’d dated here and there, but never anything serious enough that you bothered with… all this. And Jason didn’t love the fact that you were bothering with it now.

“No, no. I need to stop putting it off. It’s important,” you said, sitting beside him. “I’m just… nervous.”

“I can see that,” he whispered, gesturing around at the disaster zone that was your room and earning an elbow to the ribs in the process.

“Just be nice,” you pleaded, moving to stand in front of him, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. 

“I will.”

“Jason.”

“I will!” he repeated with a laugh.

You still didn’t look convinced, eyes slightly narrowed and a cute little pout on your lips. 

“I’m serious. Please. I know how you can get.”

“Okay, what does that mean?” 

“You can be a little… quick to judge.” You hurried to continue when you recognized the flash of hurt in his eyes. “Not me! And not even most people. But like… when you see someone doing something you don’t approve of, you kind of…. Have a hard time letting that go sometimes.” 

“Because you let it go too quickly,” Jason said, brief memories of your past relationships passing through his head like a very convincing powerpoint. “I balance you out.” 

There was the one who stood you up and didn’t call you until the next day to apologize, rattling off excuses that all could have been easily communicated while they were happening. Jason had refused to call him anything other than Ghost Boy for the remainder of your relationship.

Then there was the one who documented his every movement on social media to an alarming degree, always taking pictures when the two of you were together and posting them with cringey, coy captions that had made Jason roll his eyes so hard they hurt a little bit afterwards. He’d named him The Tourist.

And there was no forgetting Small Dick Energy 1, 2, 3, and 4 who had all had huge issues with your best friend being a man in general, and Jason Todd of the Wayne family specifically. You hadn’t seemed aware of the actual problem, just the symptoms: showing off, being obnoxiously vocal about your relationship when you preferred privacy, a dozen different instances of insecurity, becoming possessive and clingy especially when you wanted to make plans with your best friend. It had been very clear to Jason that he was the problem. And he found he didn’t particularly mind it. You deserved better anyway.

“Meet me in the middle,” you requested, squeezing his shoulders to regain his attention. “And I’ll try to meet you in the middle too.” 

“I can try…” Jason said slowly, smiling despite himself when you patted his cheek in approval.

“That’s all I ask. Zip?” 

You turned, standing perfectly still while Jason zipped up your dress, taking the extra time to fasten the tiny hook and eye clasp at the top for good measure. 

“All set.” 

“You’re the best,” you said easily as you moved back toward your vanity, sorting through your various tubes of lipstick.

“I know. It’s a curse.” 

You snorted but didn’t argue, turning once again to present him with four different shades of lipstick. 

“Which one?”

“What color are your shoes?”

“Black.” 

Jason tapped the deep burgundy.

“Ooo. Going bold tonight,” you commented, tossing the others back in your makeup bag.

“You don’t have to,” Jason said with a shrug, but you were already leaning into the mirror, carefully smoothing the rich color over your lips.

“No, I like it.” 

Things moved more quickly after that. You made Jason pick out your purse while you put on your shoes, and he chased you to the front door with a bottle of perfume Bruce had bought you last Christmas.

The ride was quiet. Jason had opted for the Wayne’s favorite car service tonight, since you were attending a public event. It always made you a little uncomfortable, carrying on a conversation as if there wasn’t a third person in the car. You texted each other instead. 

Jason didn’t protest when you directed the driver to the service entrance of tonight’s ritzy hotel venue. Even though you were technically a guest tonight, you’d earned enough favor with the staff of every fine event venue in the city to get special treatment. Including a way in that avoided the paparazzi stationed out front. 

“Can’t believe you sprayed me with that stuff,” you groaned as you led Jason down a service hallway, plucking at your dress with dissatisfaction. It was nicer than what you usually wore when working these events, but not by much. Still unadventurous in color and cut, designed to help you blend in. 

Jason caught your hand, gave it a comforting squeeze before releasing it.

“Do you not like it?” he asked, eyes wide with artificial innocence that made you scoff. 

“I smell like an old rich lady,” you complained. 

“Gonna break Bruce’s heart, talking like that. I’m pretty sure he actually picked that out himself.”

“Well we’re not going to tell him, are we?” 

He caught your hand again, intercepting it before you could fuss with your hair. 

“Will you stop? You look amazing. There’s nothing to worry about.”

You sighed, pausing before the door that would let you into the hotel ballroom and brushing your hands over your dress again.

“Easy for you to say.” 

Jason frowned.

“Hey,” he said softly, guiding your chin up until you were meeting his gaze. “Tell me how to make this easier for you.”

That alone seemed to do something, tension beginning to ease from your shoulders.

“I don’t know,” you sighed. “Just…”

“Be nice. I know.” He offered you his arm with an encouraging smile. 

“I mean it.” 

“I’ll be so nice he’ll fall in love with me, and you’ll regret ever introducing us.”

“Well, I believe the second part of that statement,” you laughed as he led you through the door and into the ballroom. By the look of things, about half of the invitees had arrived, small groups of business magnates, socialites, and philanthropists forming along the edges of the room to network and gossip and generally be seen together. 

“Rude,” Jason said drily, smiling when you pinched his bicep in retaliation. “Alright, where is this guy?”

“Umm…” You stretched up to your tallest, peering around at the near-identical suits around the room. “Right over there!”

He followed the direction of your gaze to 

“Is he wearing pinstripes?” 

“Jason.”

“I’m not being mean! I’m asking a question.” 

“Fine. Yes, he’s wearing pinstripes,” you said, flashing a bright smile as the man in question met your eyes and started making his way towards you.

“To a charity gala?” 

“I told you he was coming straight from work.”

“You did. Except the lines of that suit are too sharp for him to have been wearing it all day. Which means he changed into a pinstripe suit. For a charity gala.”

“Stop using your weird observation powers to be a bitch.” 

“You love when I - ”

“Well not right now I don’t. Cut it out.”

“Does he think he’s on Wall Street? Or a Law and Order rerun?”

“Jason.” A fierce whisper, accompanied by a sharp elbow to the ribs announced the arrival of your boyfriend, and Jason let out a sigh of defeat. 

“There you are!” 

The voice was, irritatingly, pleasant. A voice fit for radio. Or campaign videos. 

His greeting was smooth, polite, moving you from Jason’s arm to his own with subtlety and a kiss to your cheek. 

“You smell nice. New perfume?”

Jason bit down hard on his lip to contain a laugh, flashing innocent eyes at you as you glared at him over your boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Did you send my staff into a panic by turning up early?” you asked.

“Early is on time,” he replied, with the intonation of a phrase often repeated. “On time is late.” 

“I don’t think that rule applies to parties,” you laughed. 

“Definitely doesn’t apply to Wayne parties, anyway,” Jason added, snagging a champagne flute from a passing waiter and handing it to you. 

“Oh, thank you! I suppose now’s the time for introductions...”

“You must be Jason,” the other man said, holding out his hand. “Sorry, is it Todd or Wayne? I’ve seen it both ways in the paper.”

“Todd,” he said firmly, reaching to accept the offered handshake with a bit more strength than was strictly necessary. “Unless I need a last minute dinner reservation. Or I want to meet a famous person.” 

He knew how to play this game. Kind of. He’d seen Bruce and Dick play it often enough, anyway.

“Good for you,” the other man said with a polite laugh. “Making use of your connections. I’m William Woodley.”

“Middle name?”

William tilted his head curiously, but appeared unfazed.

“Samuel.”

Jason clicked his tongue in disappointment.

“Was hoping for another W.”

Take that, asshole. 

William gave another news anchor-esque laugh.

You looked faintly confused. 

“Well, I’ve heard a lot about you. Good to finally meet you in person.”

“You’ve got the advantage then. I only started hearing about you last week.”

Your sharp gaze bit into the side of his face, and he was sure if there was a subtle way to do it, you would have stomped on his foot for good measure. And he deserved it. That was too clumsy of an insult to land properly. 

“I can’t blame her,” William said, turning his full attention on you until your eyes softened again. “I’ve wanted to keep her all to myself too.”

Gag. Damn, he was good at this. 

“So, how did you two meet?” Jason asked, though you’d already told him the story. Twice.

“We - Oh, pardon me. Is that the mayor? Darling, we should go introduce ourselves,” William turned to you, eyes bright with excitement. 

“I’ve met him,” you said patiently. “Several times. And last week, I’m pretty sure his wife called me the help, so I think you stand a better chance at a good impression if you go without me.”

His eyes scanned over you quickly, assessing, smile beginning to slip.

“Oh. I don’t… I don’t have to go. We could find a different group to join.”

“It’s alright! Go ahead.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’ll be fine! I still have Jason.”

It was Jason’s turn to be assessed, though more cautiously. 

William gave a noncommittal hum, dropping another kiss to your cheek and whispering something Jason couldn’t hear before heading off towards the growing crowd of sycophants surrounding Gotham’s mayor. 

“Well, that was quick.” 

“Why are you being weird?” you asked, an overly-polite smile on your face as you watched William make his way across the ballroom. 

“I’m not being weird.” 

You gave him a flat look. 

“I’ve never met one of your boyfriends before! I don’t know how I’m supposed to act.”

“Like a human person, preferably,” you muttered, taking a long sip of champagne. “Like yourself, would be nice.” 

Jason’s sigh was drowned out by an enthusiastic voice calling out your name. 

“Seriously?” he complained quietly. 

Dick Grayson bounced up on sunshine and smiles (and expensive booze), snatching up your hand and guiding you into a graceful twirl before you could even say hello.

“Good to see you! You look lovely.” He dropped a gallant kiss to the back of your hand. “What did it cost you to get Jason in the building tonight?”

“I asked nicely,” you said, with a fond smile. “It’s good to see you too.”

“Funny, I always ask nicely for things - ”

“You do not,” Jason cut off, rolling his eyes. 

“Never works for me!”

“Well, she’s prettier than you.”

“Rude,” Dick said before turning to wink at you. “But fair. Was that William Woodley from the DA’s office you were just talking to?”

You blinked in surprise. 

“Uh, yes. He - ”

“He’s her boyfriend.”

Something in Dick’s brain seemed to glitch, and his eyelid twitched.

“Interesting! When did that happen?”

“What do you mean interesting?” you asked suspiciously. 

Dick hummed, rolling back his exuberant public persona as he searched for the right answer.

“Is he not a little… serious? For you?” 

“Have you met my best friend?” 

“Jason’s Jason. It’s different,” he said, waving you off.

“What does that mean?” Jason asked, feeling like he should probably be offended. This night was already giving him a headache.

“William’s sweet,” you defended. “And it’s kind of nice to be with someone more serious. He knows what he wants.” 

“Sure…” Dick slipped the champagne flute out of your hand, handing it to Jason. “Think you need that more than she does. You look like you tried to eat a snail. Again. I’m gonna go charm more rich people out of their money. Have fun!”

He turned away after a hard clap on the shoulder, taking only a second to identify his next target before he was off again, shouting out someone else’s name with his arms wide open.

Jason drained the rest of your glass, trading it for a fresh one which he handed to you. 

You took it without looking, your eyes once again fixed on William through the crowd and your perfectly-painted lips tugged into a slight frown. 

That was Jason’s fault, at least partially. And he knew it. 

He took a deep breath.

“You should go ask him to dance,” Jason said, plastering on his most convincing  smile when you glanced at him curiously.

“Why?”

“Because you’re a guest, they just started playing a new song, and you’re supposed to be having fun.” 

You tapped the edge of your champagne flute absently.

“Yeah… but he doesn’t get a lot of opportunities like this. And he doesn’t really like to dance, I don’t think.” 

Jason took your glass back, giving you a little nudge.

“He will if he knows it will make you happy.”

“You’re being sweet,” you said, tone nearly accusatory as you look over your shoulder at him.

“How dare you. Would you get outta here?” 

Your eyes narrowed a little, but you smiled anyway.

And Jason watched you make your way through the assorted guests, watched you come up beside William, your hand gentle on his shoulder. Watched the way his eyes lit up, the bright beaming smile he aimed at you. Tried, really really hard, to think you two looked like a good match. Tried to be happy for you. 

But your own soft smile faded after a few exchanged words, turned into something plastic and polite that clashed with the disappointment he could see in your eyes even from across the room. 

Something tightened in Jason’s chest, and he let out a slow breath. He didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t know how to fix this, how to make you happy. Not anymore.

What he wanted to do was shove everyone out of the way until he could stand right next to you. He wanted to steal you away into an alcove, make rude jokes about the elitist guests until you laughed, until champagne threatened to come out of your nose. He wanted to dance with you. Because he knew it would make you happy. Because your boyfriend wasn’t. 

Because Jason Todd had been your best friend for ten years. And he’d been in love with you for eight. 

*****

— Hal Jordan:

Hal Jordan loves nothing more than pissing off your boyfriend. He loves reminding him that he’s not good enough for you, that he’ll never be able to take care of you the way Hal does.

Tonight is just another excuse to rub it in his face.

He clocks the disappointment in your eyes when your friends get up to dance with their partners. He sees the way your mouth quirks downwards when you ask your boyfriend to dance and he shrugs you off. He sees the light fade from your face as you resolve yourself to sitting on your ass and nursing a dirty shirley for the rest of the night.

He can’t help it. When it comes to you, he can’t help himself. Hal is on his feet before you can even finish slumping in your chair, offering you his hand and a reassuring grin.

“Can I have this dance?”

Your boyfriend starts to speak, opening his big mouth. 

Hal turns to him with a smile as vicious as it is fake. “Don’t worry pal,” he tilts his head to the side and winks, “I got it from here.”

Before he can protest more, Hal is guiding you onto the floor and into the crowd. He keeps you close, your skin close enough to warm him until you disappear into the sea of bodies and conveniently out of your boyfriend’s eyeline.

Hal sings to you while he dances, occasionally spinning you around in a way that has you giggling. The vindication he feels at besting your boyfriend once again is nothing compared to the way his heart flutters at the brilliant smile on your face.

— Dick Grayson:

Dick Grayson is every insecure man’s worst nightmare, and your boyfriend happens to be an insecure man. Dick relishes every moment he gets to annoy the shit out of him.

Dick’s the one that invited you out to the club and he was only half surprised to see you show up with your boyfriend lagging behind you. He smiles at you, commenting on how nice you look while only offering your boyfriend a curt nod.

“Let’s get you a drink, hm?”

Your boyfriend snatches your hand, trailing after you while Dick leads you to the bar. Dick notices immediately the tight way he holds you—possession, not affection—and it’s right then that he resolves to snatch you away. 

His perfect opportunity comes when you beg your boyfriend to dance. “Just one song?” You plead.

“These songs are lame.” 

Your shoulders slump and that’s Dick’s queue to swoop in. “I happen to love this song.” He offers you his hand, “come dance with me?”

“I guess I can do one song.”

Dick has to fight his grin when you shrug him off. “It’s fine,” you say, “these songs are lame.”

Dick makes sure to keep the two of you in eyeline. His hands keep a respectful distance, only occasionally brushing your hips or waist or shoulders as a sort of ‘fuck you’ to your boyfriend. 

Dancing with him is easy, he knows every movement your body will make before you make it. He knows the words to all the songs, knows the steps to every dance from Cadillac Ranch to the Macarena.

He would be lying if he said he didn’t get a spark of joy from seeing the annoyance on your boyfriend’s face. 

— Jason Todd:

Jason hates night clubs. He hates the shitty music, the sweaty bodies, the idiots spilling their drinks all over the place. He much prefers the lowkey atmosphere of his regular bar.

The only thing Jason hates more than this stupid club is seeing you sad. He sees the way you glance wistfully to the dance floor. He sees the way you glance at your boyfriend hopefully every time he speaks, only for your shoulders to fall in disappointment when it’s another boring statement about his podcast. 

Jason chugs the rest of his beer, rolling his stiff shoulders in their sockets. God, he is so going to regret this. “Are you guys,” he glances from your boyfriend to you, “gonna dance?”

Your eyes light up and you open your mouth to speak, only for that babbling idiot to cut you off. “We don’t dance.” 

Jason scoffs, his intense eyes falling on you. “You love dancing. Come on, I’ll come with you.”

You nod your head and rise to your feet. Jason places his hand on the small of your back, leading you through the crowd. Your boyfriend starts to say something but Jason shoots him an angry look over your head and flips him the bird.

The longer you dance with Jason, his strong arms fending you off from the bodies that would bump into you, the better you feel. He watches as you smile again, as the light returns to your eyes. 

You sing to him as you dance, jumping around wildly and giggling. Despite how awkward he feels, he tries his best to dance with you. Jason hates night clubs, but he wouldn’t dare tell you that—not if it means he gets to dance with you like this forever.

— Wally West:

Wally rests his chin in his hand, unable to keep the frown off of his face. He just doesn’t get it—you love fun, you love dancing, so why on Earth are you dating the most boring man on the planet?

While you chat excitedly about this new book you’re reading, he scrolls on his phone, not even listening to a word you say. Wally forces a smile and nods along, trying his best to encourage you to keep going despite the shitty man next to you.

He shakes his leg so fast it’s practically vibrating. God, he can’t stand to sit here another minute and watch him treat you like this. Watch him ignore you. The very thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Wally finds the perfect excuse when your favorite song starts playing, jumping to his feet. “Hey, it’s your song!”

He knows he’s done the right thing when you grin ear to ear, finishing off your drink and standing with him. For the first time tonight, your boyfriend glances up from his phone.

“Where are you going?”

“It’s my favorite song,” you say sheepishly. “I want to dance.”

Wally hates the way your shoulders shrink in, the way you try to diminish your excitement for this loser. 

“Oh, I can dance too.”

Wally knows he shouldn’t but he just can’t help himself. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, flashing your boyfriend a smug smile. “Nah man,” he glances at your boyfriend’s phone, “I’m sure you have some real important stuff going on.”

You don’t laugh out loud but Wally can feel your shoulders shake lightly beneath his arm. He doesn’t waste another second in taking you out to the dance floor, guiding you through the sea of sweaty bodies and as close to the speakers as he can get you.

Wally’s arm slides from your shoulders to your waist, keeping you close while the two of you dance. He knows all the words, his dance moves matching the lyrics he’s singing. He savours every moment of being close to you like this and dreads when the song ends and you’ll go back to him. 

dc masterlist | navigation | fall festival

He left eventually, needing to get back to Gotham, and you had all but fallen into your bed, fully clothed, laying atop the covers, and passed out. You awoke to the sun streaming in through open curtains, feeling groggy, dehydrated, and sure that your time spent living like a pack rat as of late was about to brutally catch up with you.

You don’t care. You can’t. Not now that you know he’s safe. You drag yourself into the kitchenette of your apartment and regain sympathy for your neighbours. The smell is ripe. Or is that you? When did you last shower?

You flick on the coffee machine and pour some cereal. Only to discover the milk has soured. Of course.

You clap your hands together as you come to a new plan. Shower, fresh clothes, and you’d bring in coffee and pastries for the pen. That should score you some points towards keeping - or regaining your job.

Peeling off your clothes and stepping into the hot water, you rehearse your argument.

“I know I disappeared, and that is unacceptable. But please understand I was under extreme stress given the loss of my partner due to presumed death…” You sigh as you lather yourself in body wash. No. No, that won’t work. You can’t appeal to Captain Harrison’s sense of humanity or compassion - you seriously doubt he can even spell the word empathy, let alone demonstrate it.

“You can’t fire me. You don’t have any other female detectives. How would that look?” As you massage in shampoo, you consider it. It’s low. Manipulative. While it’s true his sexism had kept other women out of the bullpen and you got in because he couldn’t deny all the women in his force without being suspicious… It feels slimey to use it. Mc Elroy wouldn’t hesitate to go lower, and that ran in laps around your brain as water circled the drain. You had told yourself that you were looking out for the little guy. That you picked your battles to try and do real good.

What good have you done?

You have agreed to help Nightwing - to help Dick, and for all your scheming and red string what have you done?

Nothing about the system has changed. You have done nothing but fall apart when Dick couldn’t come to your window.

Distantly it registers that you are no longer standing. You have curled up on the floor, back to the tiled wall and knees to your chest. That while you cannot feel tears for all the other water, you must be crying by the heaving of your chest.

You scream. You are so tired and feel so ineffectual and useless and for the first time in so long you feel you have an excuse to leave the force and its corruption and find something that doesn’t wear away at your soul…

But you are going back. Not just going, you are going to have to swallow your pride and plead to be granted your perch back in Bludhaven’s finest, the vultures of misfortune.

You wipe your snot on your forearm and let the water wash it away.

Strangely your little tantrum had helped. You were going back.

You had to go back. You HAD made a difference.

Mc Elroy made a comeback, but you had still kept him off the force for months by speaking out and when you had the bastard that was helping Heartless, you would turn your gaze and fury on Mc Elroy in force. You would watch him like a dog and you would not be complacent again. You’d have his balls on a fucking platter one day.

And no, you hadn’t made grand systemic change. But the urge to was new, inspired by the literal superheroes that were now dropping into your little apartment. You had however, done your best to do right by every case, no every victim, that had crossed your desk, and that had mattered.

You were going back. You were going to get whoever was helping heartless. No you haven't done it yet, but plenty of cases take time. You just had to stick with it.

You push yourself off the tiled floor and to stand. You are about to reach for your conditioner, but instead go very, very, very still.

It’s hard to hear over the crash of water on tile. But there is someone breathing in your bathroom.

The wooden stick holding your loofah isn’t very heavy, but it is the best weapon adjacent thing available to you and would surely hurt when cracked over this creep's head. Then, you’d run for the bedroom where you kept your gun in the top draw when not affixed to your uniform.

You raise it over your shoulder as you throw back the curtain, only for it to be caught by a black gloved hand with blue stripes along the fingers.

You aren’t sure if it is a name or an insult but you yell it all the same. “DICK!”

He’s not even looking, that awful, privacy respecting, heart attack inducing, wonderful man.

By the way he laughs, guilty and uneasy, he must take it as the latter.

“Sorry! Sorry! Please put down the bathing suplies!”

“What is wrong with you?”

You scold, letting the curtain fall back as you turn off the water and grab your towel.

“In my defense-” Dick cuts himself off as he starts out overly passionate, takes a deep breath and tries again.

“I saw the windding on my way across town and let myself in and then well, I don’t make a habit of following attractive women into the bathroom, but you screamed and I thought maybe you needed help. Once you stopped and seemed okay I… look. Sometimes you follow a woman into a bathroom because she’s screaming bloody murder and then you realise that if you leave and shut the door she’ll hear and get freaked out but there’s no not terrifying way for there to be a man in your bathroom so you can’t just sing out… and while you’re trying to work out what to do you get attacked by a loofa. Ya know?”

As you wrap the towel around yourself you take a deep breath. “Can’t say that’s ever happened to me, no.”

Nightwing chuckles wryly. You laugh too. “But I - I’m not mad. I see the logic. Thank you for… coming to help.”

“Anytime. I’ll uh… I’ll be outside.”

It was only a white lie. Not even a lie really. He had seen the wingding. So what if his little brother had said she was in a depression spiral so he’d come to see if there was anything he could do to help? He had seen the wingding coming in.

And it was bad. He made himself useful bagging up some of the takeaway and cracking open a window, but the state of the apartment was nearly as bad as Wally’s room had gotten back in the young justice days. And his dear partner didn’t have super speed to make the tidying easier.

The red string board was near unreadable for the sheer quantity of sticky notes and string. His own face stared back at him. Had she not taken it off out of suspicion he was the suspect still, or because she was reluctant to accept the notion that he had died in that fire as he had wanted everyone to believe?

It had hurt hiding from everyone. Lying was a necessity of the burden he took on, but that didn’t make him somehow immune to the pain of imagining his civilian friends - of imagining his partner - fearing for him. Grieving for him.

He is roused from his thoughts by her reappearing. Having dressed in black slacks, a white top, and a blue jumper.

Nightwing blue? Or did he need to spend time with his younger brothers to have his ego checked?

“Are you okay?”

I’m sorry. Please forgive me. The words burnt unsaid on his tongue, but Nightwing hadn’t faked his death as far as she knew. He had no blame in her mind and owning to it would raise to many questions.

“No.” she admits, sitting on the couch, and he moves to join her.

“Want to talk about it?” he offers, wrapping an arm around her. She snuggles closer and every part of him aches to never let go of this moment. Of her in his arms and safe, the two of them together in a way that can never truly last outside of it.

“Red Robin filled me in but…” she sniffs. Dick hands her a tissue.

“I spent the last… however long… thinking the man I love is dead.”

Dick feels himself tense. “...oh?”

He needs to swallow, because his heart probably shouldn’t be next to his Adam's apple.

She gives him a strange look. Pained and hurt and lost and almost angry.

“My partner. Grayson.”

Contray to what his shower deliema and subsequent loofa attack may suggest, Dick wasn't an idiot. He was one of the worlds foremost detectives. It was incredibly difficult to shake him.

But here he was, holding and attempting to comfort his dear, beloved, yearned for partner while she confessed love - not the passing affection or attraction he had known she felt for him but love - for his alter ego. And he could do practically nothing about it due to the blue V shaped bird on his chest and the black mask on his face.

"But… is he… not a suspect in your investigation?" He asks, his tounge feeling thick and heavy and terribly clumsy in his mouth.

"He is, He was. It isn't him. I know I pointed out a good deal of suspicios circumstances but I … I know he is innocent in this."

She knew he was innocent. She loved him.

He should be all but over the moon. Except he felt numb. Hollow even.

She loved him and he had decived her their entire time of knowing each other. She wanted him and he wanted her in turn and he couldn't ever do a thing about it because even if she found it in his heart to forgive his many, many, many lies, the need to lie would put her in danger as long as she was in her life and he could not let that happen.

"He's a lucky man" he manages after a long and terrible moment of silent guilt.

It hadn't slipped out per say.

It was more that in the recovery of your distress, his closeness after missing him so long, and the self hating guilt of what you would need to do to stop the Heartless mole, you were simply to tired to keep up your act or keep any more secrets from him.

So you tell him the truth. Of why you helped him and of what you know - at least in part.

"He's a lucky man" Dick says awkwardly, and you can't help but smile, supressing the urge to hit him on the arm. You wished for a return of the notion but figured he would not give it in the mask. You'd have to wait - which would be an agony - but no matter what he would say when he last said it, you were sure he would at least do it kindly.

"Do you think he knows?" You ask, wiping at your eyes, smiling as you try to enjoy your game once more.

"I- I doubt he deserves you either way." he croaks, his gloved palms running over his thighs.

"Not what I asked." is your reply. Dick is quite for a moment, his jaw working overtime.

"Well, you may be my favourite detective in Bludhaven… but he seems like a particularly talented one. He … might have worked it out, yeah."

You do laugh then. It's freeing, and had he not been there it seemed unlikely you could have done it. It erupts out of you like a shaken bottle of lemonade.

"Oh I don't know - he may need it spelt out for him. I agree he's an incredibly talented detective… but he does miss some rather obvious hints from me. I- I sampled peeps popcorn for him, and I don't think I would do that for anyone else."

"Peeps popcorn? That sounds… well it sounds pretty tastey to me. Sweet, crunchy, foolproof, cheap, makes you think of a carnival… I have a new favourite detective in bludhaven. You lost serious points for this anti peeps behaviour." He teases, his mask shifting up to accomodate his mask.

"Take your sides. I am and always will be right." You say, pushing off the couch.

Dick doesn't get up just yet, looking at you from his spot on the couch. "I missed you"

he mutters, soft, but you catch it all the same.

"And I you." you reply as you shove your things into your purse.

"So… you'll need your job back yeah? I - I think I can help with that. Or at least I can get you help. I have a good relationship with Mayor Zucco and I can ask her for a letter to back up your reinstatement."

You take a deep breath, and you nod. "I would… appreciate that. I hadn't been quite sure what to do."

"Hey. I aim to serve and protect bludhaven. And her people are better served and better protected by having you on their police force."

You can't help but feel warmed by the pure sincerity in his voice. To be belived in by him, it feels almost recklessly uplifting. As though you could do anything at all. It was giddying.

"You flatter me."

"It's not hard to do. Just need to be honest."

The mayors email is remarkably effective to restoring your positon, and remarkably fast. You almost don't want to know what he has on the Mayor.

It did not howerver help the fact that your reinstatment was clearly against Captian Harrison's wishes, based on the tone of his welcome and the fact that he'd already had most of your personal possessions are in a box in lost and found. Someone has taken your good pen.

It's on officer Jame's desk. Prat. At least hide it.

You set your laptop on your desk and open your inbox. As you skim through for anything particularly urgent, Dick comes swanning into the bullpen. Someone gasps.

You do to, performativly, a few seconds later. "Dick!"

It's less of a performance to push back from your roller chair and cross the room to hug him, pressing him tight against you as you act as though this is the first reunion, for his benifit, and the first you've heard of his saftey for the beinifit of the many prying and peering eyes.

He smells diffrent than this morning, the sweat smell that lingered on his nightwing suit gone and replaced with his regular cologne, mingling with the clean laundry smell of his recently washed shirt and his shampoo, it was enough to send your head spinning with a strange sense of coming home.

"Missed you." he mumbles, his chin resting on the top of your head.

"Fuck you. You scared the snot out of me!" you scold, trying to sound angry but similing anyway.

"And m'sorry. Terrible thing to do to the best partner a detective could want." He says sincerly, squeezing your shoulders.

"Never do that to me again." You insist.

"I solemly swear to never deliberatly have a group of assasins try to kill me, set my home on fire and be forced into witness protection for my own saftey - because it would upset my partner." He says very seriously.

You nod, and take a step back from him. "Good. Good. I will hold you to it."

As you step away, a group of uniformed officers and a few detectives move forward to shake Dick's hand and welcome him back.

You try not to be jealous. He'd been on the run for his life - a reason you agreed was valid to miss work - and your distress and grief was not seen as the same in the slightest.

But something, no someone, or rather their abscence, catches your attention. Officer Janet Rodwell had not moved from her place by the watercooler, her cup crushed, water on her shoes, looking queasy.

You try to meet her eyes, and she turns away.

But you do not surrender easily, and cross the floor towards your friend and ally. Something is wrong, very wrong, and you refuse to let her face it alone.

"Janet? are you okay?" You ask, moving to stand in her path, tilting your head to the side in concern.

She blinks rapidly, wringing her hands. "Yes. Yes of course I just didn't expect to see y- him back so soon."

You nod. It had gone over very well, all things considered. "mm. Things are really looking up. I- I do feel bad."

Janet clapses into her chair, her fingers drumming on her leg as she stares at the laminate wood surface. "For what?"

"Well I said I would watch your back. And then I completly fell apart and abandoned you to the wolves." You admit, sitting on her desk.

"You were grieving. Hurting. I understand." she still doesn't look you in the eye.

"I have some work to do, so if you don't mind?" she contines pointedly, and you take your cue to leave.

As you return to your desk, Dick is looking through his own files, and offers you a warm smile as you sit down.

"I hope Janet is okay. She seems stressed. Or ill."

"It would make sense," Dick says, hand on his chin.

"What, with her son's health."

"Yes…" you mutter, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

"He has a bad heart doesn't he?" you feel your brows go heavy and sink down your face in thought.

"Say uh Dick…" you shut the laptop.

"Who was in charge of the barricade in the Heartless case?"

"Would have been in the notes that went missing." he says thoughtfully.

You nod. Its a thread. You need to get back to your board. You need to think and you cannot do that properly right under the nose of the woman you are coming to suspect. You slip your purse into the draw of your desk and then lock it. Then you wait.

Ten seconds.

Thirty seconds.

A minute.

Two minutes.

Three minutes.

Four minutes.

Five minutes.

Six minutes.

Seven minutes.

Eight minutes.

Nine minutes.

Ten minutes.

Elven minutes.

Twelve minutes.

Thirteen minutes.

Fourteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes.

Sixteen minutes.

Seventeen minutes.

Eighteen minutes.

Nineteen minutes.

Twenty minutes.

Twenty agonising minutes you look busy and wait, till you look over your side and groan in frustration. "Dammit I left my purse at home. I- I need to run and get it. I will be back before you have time to miss me."

Dick looks up at you from his files in confusion. "But I thought-"

"I left it behind. I have to go Dick." you tell him firmly and he seems at least to understand that there is urgancy in your voice.

You stare at your board.

“Is that an objective opinion?” Red Robin had asked you.

It most certianly had not been.

Janet Rodwell had motive. Her little son in desperate need of care. Of a heart. Of exactly what this sick fuck had been harvesting.

She would not have had access to the files traditionally, but given her specific pain and her likely involvement in the case, if your memory severed, no one would have raised an eyebrow to her curiosity.

Her pledges to look out for you - your return of them. Had she been toying with you? Was the commradiere real?

She'd been horrified to see Dick back - was it because he was onto her?

Or… no. She hadn't said Dick to start.

She had begun to say something else. "Y-"

You.

You rip the picture down off the wall and glare at it. She was working for him but… was it a true choice or was it the last desperate attempt of a mother not to burry her little boy?

But how many parents had been burried as children wept because of the involvement of Janet?

You had been so blind. But more then your own foolishness want taunts you is the betrayal. That and the sickening thought of if you had been the friend you had wanted to be would she have confessed?

You watch the sun set over- not that wasn't right it wasn't time yet. But the sky was strangly dark as your gaze fell on the wingding and the dust it accumlilated in the deepest depths of your depression. Strangely dark and … what was that red glow on the greying blue horizon?

There comes a knock on the door. Dick, you assume, here after waiting a suitible time to avert suspicion and to crack open the case.

You pick up the wingding and wipe it on your sweater as you open the door, the picture crumpled in your other hand.

It is not the kind eyes of Dick Grayson that greet you.

Dick is not making a joke or calling you sherlock of Bludhavens best detective or offering awful snacks or terrifying you in the shower.

Janet looks at you with eyes red from witholding guilty tears. She sighs as you take a frightened step back.

"I'm sorry to." she croaks.

"It would be better for you if he had really died. Then maybe you wouldn't have to."

Janet isn't very big, you'd stand a chance. But she saw more feild work then you did, and you'd just come from a significant time rotting, you'd been far fitter before that.

Hopefully, despeartly, you near pray you will get the chance to tell him yourself. But somehow you doubt you will have that joy, or many others in your short remaining life.

Janet lunges at you. You lunge at Janet.

She would have a gun. You know she has one issued to her. She is not going for it. So, it stands to reason she is not wanting you to die by a bullet.

you kick out at her chest. She dodges you, and grabs your arm as you try to move away.

The photograph falls to the floor.

You can't throw a wingding, but it is sharp, so you slash out with it, cutting her face but crucially missing her eye.

She yelps in pain and you look around, frigtend and desperate you dive for your phone. The screen glows a strange red and pulses like a heartbeat. You have been hacked. Cut off.

This was planned, and properly. Not a hit because of what you know, you must have been an intended target for some time. You feel your chances at survival slipping through your fingers.

You scramble for the paper. It costs you lowering your gaze and your back. You get the paper but bending to retrive it results in a blow to your spine as Janet hits you from above and behind with a lamp.

You hit the rug with a grunt, and as Janet flips you over and wraps her hands around your neck, in a last ditch of effort you stab her picture through the wingding and hurl it out the window as hard as you can. Glass breaks. Dick would be able to work it out when he saw the broken glass that something had happened, and the missing photo would tell him at least the who if not how you came to know it. Then with that he could trace back the same things you had.

She has not simply shot you. This attack was planned and she works for heartless which means you…you are an offering. You, for whatever reason, will be the next person found with a hole punched through your heart and nothing in your chest. You have time, at least till her boss arrives.

But as the acrid smell of smoke hits your nose with the breaking glass, you realise with dread that time will not be enough to save you.

Dick is not coming. Not now. Not for hours.

The reddening sky. The grey cloud blown by the wind, faint yet still detectable to the nose - after all, humans are well equipped to detect and flee from our most primal fears.

Dick, Nightwing… neither is coming. He is not coming. The smoke, the red glow in the distant city… you know the spot well. You spent long hours staring at it when you thought him dead.

Your partner, Grayson, is not coming to save you, because he is busy.

Haven is on fire.

Before you get mad at me. I am NOT sorry and I will do this again. Thank you for reading - I hope you enjoyed it, I would offer to pay for therapy but uh... I am very small and I have no money.

Comments and reblogs are my coveted beloved! always happy to yap!

banners are by @toxisyddy. Thank you to everyone who has commented or sent asks.

Over the last week, you’d been slowly yet steadily collecting evidence. You’d done your best to be impartial towards James. But you had found cause for suspicion. He had arrived the day the file was moved. He knew people in high places, as evidenced by his promotion. But he wasn’t your only suspect. Honestly, finding a corrupt cop wasn’t hard in Bludhaven. It was finding the right one, who was the correct needle in a massive stack of needles instead of hay. You look around the break room, where Dick’s lunchbox of horrifically sweet snacks isn’t in the fridge, out at the dividing glass into the bullpen as you make yourself a sandwich. 

Your captain would have unquestioned access. He had little care for Buldhaven’s homeless population, but catching a suspected serial killer would be a feather in his cap and a ticket to an early retirement. A beat cop could have snuck in and done it. Less power, but they could have been bought or blackmailed. So could anyone, really. You’d been sifting through the entire department. Last time you saw him as Nightwing you had gone a little too far. Taken up too much of the time you had with your little false accusation prank. Not to mention, he had not taken it particularly well. Over the last week, he’d gone out of his way to be helpful to you. When you’d asked him for a favour, he’d been strangely intense. Grabbed your shoulders and told you he’d never let you down. So clearly, righting your perception of him was something he was desperate to do. You occasionally felt bad about it all. Then you remembered he’d called himself Richard bloody Grerson to your face and expected it to work, and were annoyed enough to let go of the guilt. 

Grerson. Did he think you were an idiot? 

How the hell has he maintained a secret identity up to this point? Fucking Grerson. You finished making your sandwich and sat back down at your desk, trying to act as if nothing was wrong and you weren’t so worried you felt like you might cry. You almost envied the time when you hadn’t known. You’d assume he’d been out late, or he was sick. 

Now you knew, and you were worried that he’d been murdered, or he’d missed a grapple and was lying in some alleyway all alone and in pain. You're so busy worrying about Dick that you don’t even notice when someone occupies his seat. “Hey.” You look up. Sitting across from you is Officer Rodwell. 

She’s a wiry woman. Curly hair in a messy bun, kind eyes, deep brown skin and an overall soothing presence. She looks exhausted. You know the feeling. She looks scared, and you know why. You are too. “He's back.” she says, fiddling with one of Dick’s many desk toys, a newton's cradle, full of nervous energy. “He’s back.” you agree, resting your chin on your hand, holding your fingers over your mouth. “Honestly soon as he came back I felt like I was an idiot for not seeing it coming.” you admit. “Same.” Janet says, shaking her head. “If he tries anything… I’ll watch your back if you watch mine.” she says, and you nod. “Of course, Janet.” your agreement is immediate. But your concerns run deeper. You would help, you meant that. You just didn’t know if it would matter. “Might happen sooner rather than later, Captain Leo has asked to see me in his office at 12.” You furrow your brow and pull open your calendar. “Well, look at you Ms Priority, he doesn’t want me till 12:30.” The invitation glows menacingly, lingering in your mind's eye even as you close the tab.  “What do you expect it’ll be about? How he’s sorry Mc Elroy came back and he won’t let him get up to his old shit?” Janet snorts. “That’d be lovely. Also, he’ll tell me I can take the detectives exam early.” You hum. “Well… guess there’s not long to wait.” It’s not, objectively. Subjectively? It feels like an eternity until you are called into your captain’s office. You only catch the last few words of what Captain Harrison says to Rodwell as the door shuts “...and give my best wishes to your son, eh? We’re all thinking of him. I’m sure the insurance will pull through.” You exchange a tight smile, a nod, and brush past her into the office. 

Captain Harrison took care of his officers. That was not an endorsement. To him, the thin blue was a religious idol. He covered up whatever he deemed necessary as part of the benefits of the job, looked away and denied the most egregious acts committed by those reporting to him. He’d never forgiven you for taking the Mc Elroy incident further than his precinct, but while he’d make your life hell with the worst assignments, he would probably cover it up if you shot a kid. Pig. He grins at you as you slip into the seat across from him. Says your name with a warmness you resent from a man like him. “You wanted to see me Captain?” “Yes, yes, no need to look nervous. I just wanted to be sure that the Sargent has been behaving himself?” You bristle. Yes, in your one, supervised interaction, he had not committed a reportable offence. “Why would you think he wouldn’t be?” is your deflection. 

He taps his hands against the desk in lighthearted annoyance at Mc Elroy you know he doesn’t truly feel. 

“So defensive. Look, you're the best gal in my bullpen-” you are the best in his bullpen. Second to Grayson maybe. It’s hard to be sure given he cheats with his connections. “But while what he said wasn’t on, Me too, I’m with her, and all that, when we can’t present a united front, well, it emboldens the scum.”

Disagreeing at this moment will make everything worse for you, and for Rodwell. So you present a united front. Nod and pick your battles. You hate yourself for it. But you hadn’t joined the force with the intention to fix it from the inside, because you can’t. The rot is too deep for that. You joined in the hopes that you could help a few people. Every case that comes across your desk is in the hands of someone who cares, rather than the Mc Elroys and Harrisons of the force, and that's the best you can do. 

“But, all's well that ends well. So long as you keep your head down, I can see you getting a similar promotion in the not so distant future. Even with this terrible Grayson business.”

This whole time your heart has been teasing at moving into your throat, and now, finally, it has. 

“What?” You croak, as the office fades away and you are blinded by dread. “I mean to say, the announcement he made this morning is a nice idea-” Announcement? What… oh. Dick had done something. You, for all your thoroughness in investigating Nightwing, you’d neglected the other half. “Heaven, or whatever high handed title he gave his project… Really, he should have gone into social work if he wanted to be so soft about these things. You, I at least get, you like the puzzles and the solving, him? No clue why he wanted the badge.” Your tongue is too big for your mouth and too heavy to speak with. 

“I’m a little out of the loop,” you admit. “Has something happened?” “Well, if we do need to assign you a new partner, I hope you keep a closer eye on him, eh? Yes. As far as I know he’s alive, but I'm afraid someone’s put a price on his head.” You are on your feet in a second. “Who? Why?” Badge on your belt - check. “Who, I can’t say. Sufficient enough sum that it could only be a few people. He announced some hippy bullshit save bludhaven project. Re- vamping that tent city those kids hideout in to be something decent or some such…best guess blockbuster didn’t like that. I sent out an order to bring him into protective custody.”

Gun on your hip - Check. Hopefully you wouldn’t need it, but things could get ugly if someone had gotten to him by the time you caught up.

You're leaning over the desk, close enough to see Captain Harrisons pores and smell the tuna salad he had for lunch. “Rescind it.” You say all too quickly, racing the part of your brain that wants you blindly running into Bludhavens streets to get to him. You needed to stay calm. Reasonable. You aren’t a vigilante, you can’t run into the danger head first. You need a plan, and you don’t have a secret identity to carry it out as. Harrison knew what would happen if Dick came into protective custody. He’d have some tragic accident. Something would go ‘wrong’, and he would be dead, a fish in a barrel. He knew and he would let it happen, because unlike you, Dick was too good to bite back the bile and keep his head down. He’d made one too many waves and he was being left to his fate. 

“I’ll get him.” You leave no room for argument. “No need to waste the resources. He listens to me. I’ll make sure he’s safe.” And you're off, out the door. Across the bullpen. Out of the precinct. As fast as your feet, and then your patrol car, will carry you.

You go out too fast. You don’t see it. The eyes on you. The person taking information on your partner, Grayson, and giving it to the heartless killer out of desperation. You don’t see it, and Dick hasn’t seen it yet either. But someone does. Someone with a vested interest in anything Richard Grayson had to lose. And now, they know he has you. Can lose you. 

It’s a pity. You are liked. But when a child is in need of a heart transplant and has been denied, horror befall those who would underestimate a mothers desperation. 

Captain Harrison took care of his detectives. His uniformed officers less so. Allowed to bear the brunt of the consequences of crossing Mc Elroy, Officer Janet Rodwell had been left alone against the hate. 

Fucked over by Shel Pharmacuticals when her son needed a new heart, and offered a solution by a monster, which, with no where else to turn, she took. 

Her boy needed a new heart, and to ensure that… she’d help tear Grayson down, if she had to. 

His partner… it was a pity they were so close. Perhaps if they hadn’t been, she could have been spared. Collateral is a leading cause of death in Bludhaven, and surely she will join them. Pity indeed. 

You had made it to his apartment. Made it just in time to see it burn to the ground. He helped with the evacuation. Of course he did, that wonderful fool. You wouldn’t change that, wouldn’t hope otherwise, because to do anything else would not have been him. There were no other casualties. A miracle, some think. Richard Grayson, you know. You just wished he’d made it out. He probably did, you tell yourself. Probably he’s up in the justice league's space satellite or the batcave or something insane. Because if he is alive, he surely made the call to get out of Bludhaven. At least for now. 

But you put the wingding in the window anyway. And you get to work. Take away containers pile up and mold over, and you work. Your clothes feel like cardboard, and you work. The smell, the fact that you haven’t left your apartment in days, and the general aura of despair you must be radiating causes three neighbours to come and check if you’re alive. 

You’re pretty sure you get fired at some point. Not ideal, but you can get your job back. Say you were in mourning or something. You might be. He’s been gone so long now. You’d figured he’d make it out, lay low, and come back. He wasn’t back. The wingding in your window is dusty. You don’t remove it. You work, and you work, and you work. You think you're close. Too many corrupt cops to find one, but you study the ways they are corrupt. Blockbuster doesn’t seem to be aligned with heartless, and that eliminates a vast swath of them. So you keep working. It wasn’t your Captain, too busy bending over for blockbuster, and you reluctantly had to acknowledge Mc Elroy’s innocence. And you work. 

Till eventually there’s the rap of knuckles on your window. You don’t think you’ve ever moved so fast. Or been so disappointed to see the red and black of Red Robin. Or felt such cold dread in the presence of a young man.  Why was he here? If his brother had come to see you… were all your worst fears true? “Yes?” you say quickly, opening the window and stepping back for him, too tired and too scared and too sad to care about playing dumb “Is Dick okay?” “Who?” Red Robin asks, cocking his head innocently. “Cut the shit, Tim” is your snapping reply. Red Robin drops away, and you are staring at a befuddled boy in a cape. “He told you?” “For fucks sake - I am a goddam detective. No, he didn’t say a word, but his mask covers 20% of his face at most, and his extended family all have rather obvious physical similarities to the rest of the bats.” Tim nods, and furrows his brow “well, that’s… I of all people can’t be mad about that I guess.” You don’t know what that means. In better days to come maybe you’ll ask. Not today. “Tim. Is he okay?” The young man nods. “Relatively speaking, yes. He is. I- Well given you know I suppose I can tell you a lot more than I planned. We were able to track down and arrest enough major players to scare others off taking the hit on him - Dick can return to public life soon. But when he does, we’ll want you with him. Or people you trust. Most of the time he’ll have someone a little better equipped watching him as well - No offence -” You shrug. “Glad to hear it. I’m a decent shot and a good detective but I am by no means one of you.” Tim continues “But it will also help to have you on him, and to keep up the appearance that he’s not anything special.” “Even without Nightwing, I don’t think you could convince a single person that Dick isn’t something special.” Is it true? Yes. Is it an embarrassing thing to have slipped out in front of his little brother? Also yes. Tim doesn’t comment, but you know it’s been filed away in the steel trap of his mind. 

“Well, regardless, be on your toes. You’re a target too, now.” That almost draws a laugh out of you.”Me? Why would I be a target? I don’t matter, not on the scale he operates at.” Red Robin snaps back into place as the young man stares at you like you just asked how people were sure the Joker was mentally unstable and not just misunderstood. “Ohhh you’re another one” “Another what?” “Idiot genius.” “Excuse me?” You take a step back in slight offence. “You’ll work it out.” is his reply, but he does smile. “Dick will be coming back soon. I know he’s had you working through potential moles put in the BCPD by Heartless. Any progress?” You nod, and wave him further into your apartment to see the board. Well. Presumably the cork board is still in there somewhere, having absorbed the wall it rested on. Ten newspapers. Seventeen files you absolutely shouldn’t have. Thirty pages of printer paper. Forty nine sticky notes. Over 200 pins and eight balls of red wool. It is a thing of beauty in your humble opinion. Red Robin clasps his hands together. “Mhm. Yes. We’re going to be friends.” “So, finding a clean cop in Bludhaven is basically impossible. Hell, by the definition I don’t even count, given I’m helping vigilanties. So I’ve tried to narrow down who works for Heartlesses competitors. My instinct was the new Sergeant, Mc Elroy. But it can’t be him, the timeline is all wrong. My Captain wouldn’t do it either. He’s scum, and he is letting Heartless get away with wildly too much, but he doesn’t do murder. White collar crime and letting others off the hook, as long as he can lie to himself about being the hero. He wouldn’t work with an obvious sadist.” “Which just leaves everyone else.” Red Robin hums.

“Less opportunity, but so many of them…”  “Exactly” you agree, hand on your chin.

“I have a good swath of people ruled out… so many of them work for Blockbuster or corrupt officials who lead back to Blockbuster. So many. It’s depressing, honestly. I have found a few that are suspiciously clean… and therefore suspect.”

You take a ruler and tap out your suspects faces where they are pinned at eye level.

“Dick Grayson; we can safely ignore him, but he acts suspicious enough to be a decent red herring, and to not consider him would be suspect if I was caught and this was found.”

“Bet Nightwing loved that.” Tim laughs.

“Oh his face was classic.But moving right along… Officer Jeeves, Officer Rodwell, and Officer Hughes. Jeeve’s is green, but he’s viable. Hughes, I haven’t been able to find anything on really. Rodwell… It wouldn’t be her.”

“No?” Red Robin fixes you with a stern look. “Is that an objective opinion?”

“No.” You admit. “But I trust her.”

At this point you have read nearly 10,000 words of this series, and so should really REBLOG, because likes on tumblr are meaningless! Please share your thoughts, I feed off them like a validation vampire. @sunnie-angel is the BEST beta a girl can ask for and you should check out her work! Banner was made by @stangergraphics

It's probably the coffee thing. Coffee, then you’ll decide if you're going to kill him and how. As you sit at your table, surrounded by notes you’d made at 4am, the urge to throttle Grayson slowly subsides. You hadn’t slept a wink. You’d had a weird night. But if you were going to do this, help him find this killer… you’d need a plan for if it all goes to hell. A diversion. A plan so that if you’re made, maybe the killer will think you’re on the wrong track. A dummy investigation. But simultaneously one that you won’t overthink, so that you can devote your time and brainpower to the truth. Luckily for you, you have the perfect person to pretend to accuse. After all, your partner, Grayson, is an incredibly weird guy. 8:55 am finds you walking into the station sipping your third coffee of the morning, only to find Grayson sat at his desk. Shirt pressed, tie perfect, hair shampoo commercial glamourous yet slightly messy. The urge to murder your partner returns, just a little. How dare he be so… normal? So unaffected? How dare this man fight crime by night, and be smiling at you as he is now, chipper and bright and perfect, before 9am? The nerve. Maybe you could hit him with a patrol car and claim it was an accident. “Morning detective… Long night?”

Oh.. This fucker. Your partner, Grayson, is the most annoying man alive. You hate how badly you have to fight the urge to grin at the sheer audacity.

She looks exhausted, the poor thing. Dick remembered the feeling, but at some point he’d adapted to running on less sleep than was by any means reasonable. He hoped she wouldn’t need to. That this would be over in a few weeks and she’d be back to getting a full eight hours. “Morning Detective… Long night?” She glares at him like he’s caused personal offence. He raises an eyebrow at her to prompt a response. Inside though, he panics. Had he done something wrong? Could she suspect? No. no of course not. But whatever she said next would surely be important. It was a test of sorts. What would she say she’d spent the night doing? Would she betray his alter ego? Could she sell the lie if she didn’t? “Just had a night in, had a little too much to drink,” she shrugs, opening her bag and removing a notebook. Casual, calm, partially true and nearly impossible to disprove short of a blood test or breathalyser, and even then there was deniability. Dick nods, and looks back down to his computer to hide the grin that splits his face in half. He knows he can’t dwell on it, knows he can’t act on it, but it’s completely unfair that she was that smooth. That helpful. She’d agreed to help him - as Nightwing - instantly. Her words about how Blud owed him a debt had played in his mind on loop for the rest of his patrol. He knew what it felt like to fly. To flip through the air at dizzying heights, gravity a mere afterthought. It was cruel, frankly, that he’d found someone who made him feel even better than that, only for her to be someone he couldn’t be with out of principle and professionalism. It wasn’t that he objected to her as a partner - short of his family, she was possibly the best he’d ever met. Frankly, if she was transferred to Gotham, the bat signal would be turned on far less frequently. And he didn’t object to rules about dating fellow officers, especially one’s partner. Objectively it made sense. But it didn’t change the fact that her smile was the best part of his day. That on the rare times she laughed he could swear he heard an angel just straight up quit its position in the heavenly chorus out of pure envy. That when she’d said she’d help he’d wanted nothing more than to grab her face and kiss her till she was breathless. But he can’t. Or at least Dick Grayson can’t. A new voice breaks him from his spiralling thoughts. “Detective Grayson.” The man standing behind his partner's desk has a hand on the back of her seat, preventing her from swivelling around. 

“We haven’t met yet, I’m Sergeant James McElroy. Seems you spent most of my first day back stuck on a stakeout.” “Pleasure.” he responds, with all the charm he’s learnt to use at galas and parties, forcing down the venom incurred by the way his partner had seemed to lose a gallon of blood at the sound of his voice, and the way she had seemed not to breath since the name was spoken.

He's not touching you. Of course not. He knows better than to do anything so blatant. It's how he’d gotten away with it for so long last time. He doesn’t touch you, or say the things he was so clearly thinking. He would masterfully walk the line between making you feel unsafe, alone, and naked, while never crossing over into anything actionable. Till one day he had. It had been in a crowded lift where he’d used the crush as an excuse to grab and to feel, whispering something vile in your ear. 

He’d figured he’d gotten away with it when you tried to tell your captain and he’d asked if you had a witness. You’d thought he’d gotten away with it too. Till a uniformed officer, Janet Rodwell, had stepped up to have your back. You should have known, really. For the second time in 24 hours you feel like a fool. But while the first time it had been accompanied with a dizzying realisation of love, this time the realisation is dark and chilling to your core. You’d thought you’d won, that it was over. But he’s back and he’s not touching you, but you feel the ghost of his hands all over. You can’t win. He’d been sent away and you thought you were safe again, but he’s back and he’s a sergeant now. Because Bludhaven, as it is, rewards men like him. You can’t bring yourself to look over your shoulder at him, so you look straight ahead, across your desk and to your partner’s adjoining one.

It's not Dick Grayson’s eyes you meet though. They aren’t cheerful, carefree and beautiful. Well, they are beautiful. But they are angry, intelligent, and fierce. You meet Nightwings gaze, and you feel the claws around your lungs relax, even if they do not recede. 

His partner did not rattle easily. Did not panic unnecessarily. 

Pinned down by the Penguin’s smugglers, he’d thought their goose had been cooked unless he could work at his true capacity, so he had shot out the lights and gotten to work. He’d taken out nine, but been unable to find the tenth, until he’d heard the struggle. 

She’d taken him down blind, without drawing her gun. When he’d asked her why she hadn’t, she’d told him she’d lost sight of him in the chaos, and was unwilling to risk it. He wished he hadn’t shot the light out so he could have seen it. 

Still, he had been oblivious. It had hit him like a batarang to the face last night, in that moment where she agreed without hesitation to help him find a serial killer. He’d known she was beautiful, and brilliant. That he had a crush. 

He’d realised last night he was in far, far deeper trouble than that. So, if she was frightened and upset by the presence of this man, then Dick would take his looming over her as a serious threat. He trusted her gut. “You haven’t introduced yourself to my partner, Detective—-” He’s cut off with a dismissive wave that boils his blood. “Oh we’ve met. In fact, she was my partner first. Until the misunderstanding.” There are many ways to snap someone out of a panic. He’s seen sheer rage do it many times. As it does now. “There was no misunderstanding,” she says, her voice firm, her teeth gritted. “Well. I want you to know-” he moves from directly behind her, to her side, leaning down over her, invading her space. Dick wanted to hit him. “I understand that what I did could have been seen as invasive, and you may have felt that I overstepped. I have completed a course, as demanded by HR, and will attempt not to cause you to feel that I have been inappropriate again.”

She takes a deep breath. He can practically hear her count in his head. He stands, moving around the desk to stand beside her, not quite a barrier but a comforting presence, or at least he hoped. “Well. Whatever occurred, we have work to be getting on with, if you don’t mind.” It takes a great deal of the restraint his training has given not to add the words ‘you bastard’, or something far more creative. “But of course. Detective. Detective.”  

Your hands shake as you sit back down in your seat. Your partner, Grayson, returns to his own, his gaze - Richard’s gaze, never leaving your face, crumpled in concern. “I don’t want to overstep… but are you alright? What … did he do?” “I…” you want to tell him, in part. Or maybe you don’t, and you want him to know without having to go through the ordeal of rehashing it all. Maybe by consulting whatever ‘oracle’ he used as nightwing. But you can’t right now. So you don’t. “I… need some air.” Your partner just gives you a comforting smile, a nod, and lets you leave without question. Wingding in the window 

It's five days later, on his patrol, when he notices it. The wingding left in her window. He stops on the roof of the building adjacent to her. As far as city roofs go, this one’s relatively nice. Someone’s placed some potted plants around, in an eclectic attempt at a rooftop garden. Some of these pots contain small pebbles as cover for the soil from the wind. Grinning to himself, he takes a handful. 

Was this a good idea? No. 

Was it deceptive? Well, no more than anything else he did as Nightwing… well, maybe a little more. 

But it hurt, holding her at arm's length, when a part of his soul he tried to ignore yearned to be as close as she would allow. He knows it’s not good. He knows it’s a violation of the utter trust she seems to hold in Nightwing. Really, it would only make things even more messy for his chances as Dick. But he wants to make her smile. Blush, even. He knows she finds him attractive, and in both contexts, but he wants more than that. Over the last week he’s realised just how much he wants to have with her, and it terrifies him. 

If it was simple lust he could deal with it.  But it wasn’t, and so here he was, about to attempt the cheesiest move known to hallmark films, just to see if it would make her laugh at him again. 

He’d managed to be professional while surrounded by highly capable, badass women in skintight clothes for most of his life. He’d had crushes before and gotten over them. He wanted everything with her. And that was not something he knew how to handle, given the mess of their situation. Dick shakes his head, snapping himself out of his doom spiral. He had a detective to meet, and a serial killer to find.

Bap. Bap. Bap. You look up from your book. You’d been getting ready for sleep, wearing your cosy pyjamas, curled up in bed with a book and a hot chocolate. You go still, listening. Bap. Bap. A pause. Then, the rap of knuckles on glass. “I ran out of rocks”

You know that voice. “With you in a moment.” You pull on a dressing gown, and take a moment to curse the fact that your slippers are rabbits before pulling the curtains aside. Nightwing is crouched on your windowsill. You lift it, stepping back as he enters through the window with all the grace of a cat. You know that you shouldn’t be embarrassed to be in your pyjamas, it's late, you had no means of knowing when he’d arrive. But he looked divine in that suit. An adonis. And you're in your old bathrobe and bunny slippers. Truely, you must have done terrible things in a past life. “Nice footwear.” Nightwing says with a smirk. Curse him. Curse his cheekbones and the way his lips look so damn inviting. “You picked up what, five rocks?” you sass right back. Nightwing makes a noise you suspect was supposed to be a scoff, but is more of a squeak. “Do you see a lot of pocket space on this?” 

“Fair.” you say, leading him out of your bedroom and into your living room. He sits on your couch, one leg spread wide, the other’s ankle resting on its thigh, as you open a drawer on your coffee table and produce your masterpiece. Nearly five metres of red string. Names, photos, dates, all studded with pins so pressed so tightly in they haven’t a prayer of accidental removal. You prop it up on the coffee table. 

Maybe your friends were right. Maybe you did need to touch grass. A line of thought for later. You look at Nightwing, who’s no longer relaxed and laying back on your sofa like he owned the place. 

Its years of maintaining a poker face in interrogations and more recently, dealing with his shenanigans that prevents you from grinning. 

He's as pale as you’ve ever managed to see him, and leaning forward now, elbow on knee and chin in hand. “Well, this is… impressive.” He sounded like he’d inhaled helium. “Shall we start with Sergeant McElroy?” you offer, smiling your best ‘there’s nothing wrong’ smile, enjoying making him squirm. “You seem to have … a significant amount of evidence against Detective Richard Grerson?” You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you take a ruler, poking your picture of him between the eyes. You hadn’t planned to do him first, you’d hoped to discuss evidence that would actually lead somewhere. 

This was still going to be fun though. You take a deep breath, and pause for a suitable level of dramatic effect, and begin your game. 

“Detective Richard Grayson. He’s my partner. He’s an excellent detective, and a good man. You might have heard of the charity he founded.” Nightwing makes a noncommittal humming noise. “But is it all too good to be true?” you ask, moving to your first notecard. “Exhibit one. He asked about the file. On its own, innocuous. But then, exhibits two through four. He’s prone to frequent disappearances on cases. He often knows a little too much about the criminal underside of Blud. Things that I have triple checked are not in any police database.”

You run a hand through your hair. “He’s a highly trained combatant. I once saw him take down nine men armed with guns, in the dark. They don’t teach that at the police academy.” “No? No.” Nightwing says, clearing his throat. “I mean yes. That is… suspicious.” “Incredibly. Which brings me to exhibit five. Now I’m no behavioural analyst or shrink. But I know my basics. Childhood trauma and instability can have… lingering impacts. I… don’t feel the need to dredge up his past, but I did look into it… and it’s grim. He was then taken in by Bruce Wayne. His relationship to his father, whatever it is, is something he’s even tighter lipped about then… everything else honestly. It’s not on the board because it’s circumstantial at best… but he has this skill of being able to hold long conversations and yet you come away not having learnt anything deeper about him.” 

He was pretty sure he’d been nodding for a good thirty seconds at this point.  

It would be funny if it didn’t hurt so much. 

The worst part was that it was all well reasoned. Practical. He had done everything she accused him of. She had just drawn a far more down to earth conclusion, that he was a corrupt cop, rather than Nightwing. 

It made sense. Too much sense. How could he shut this down without seeming invested in his own innocence? 

That isn’t what causes his lungs to burn though. No. The root of that was that even if he’d forced himself to maintain a professional - if friendly - distance from her, he would have hoped that she trusted him. 

But in this moment, looking at the evidence, looking at her holding that ruler to his photo’s face like a judge's gavel ready to condemn… he knows. He knows that she will never look at Dick the way she does as Nightwing, happy to see him, believing in his mission, ready to help as soon as he’d asked. Even if he clears himself of this crime, she would surely suspect him of others. 

He’d known it, at least on one level, ever since he’d first met her. He knows it now all the deeper, and he wants to scream. Dick Grayson will never get to tell her how truly wonderful she is.

How highly he regards her. 

How she is one of the reasons he keeps fighting for Bludhaven. 

Dick Grayson will never get to tell her that he loves her. 

But… perhaps Nightwing could have something. Because if she was his north star, then the way he’d felt when she agreed to help him had been like being engulfed by a supernova. 

If she was water, then seeing her cosy and ready for bed and smiling as she let him in through the window had been an oasis in the Sahara. 

If music was the food of love, her attempts not to laugh and stifled giggles over his peeps popcorn had been a symphony orchestra. 

But he’d never have her as himself. Not at all. Nightwing though? She at least found him attractive. Aligned with his ideology. No, he’d never feel that warmth of 10,000 stars directed at the real him. 

No, he’d never be able to be quenched by her life saving presence. 

No, he’d never feel her laughter shaking his bones as if in a musical crescendo.

But even the dimmest and most distant star gave off some light.

Even the last drop in an empty water skin was better than nothing.

Even the memory of a melody could be sweet. True, he would only ever have scraps of her affection. True, he could flirt, and perhaps go even further… but he’d never truly be with her. 

But who was a starving man to deny scraps of sustenance? He’d take what he could have and try to ignore the lingering hunger. 

“Perhaps we should discuss… another suspect?” he prompts, realising how long he’s been silent. How long she had been too, watching him with a strange, concerned look.

She nods, and moves on to their Captain.

Dick is almost relieved when some ten minutes later Oracle calls in a robbery downtown. “Well - sorry Sherlock.” He takes a picture of her board for further study. “I’ll be around next week to continue this discussion, and look over this in my own time till then. Duty calls.” “Be safe,” She says softly, as he’s halfway through the window He looks over his shoulder. “As you wish.”

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