The sparkling blue of the sea is almost the same colour of Dick’s eyes as he peers at you over the brim of his sunglasses. He’s grinning, head cocked slightly to the side, mess of dark waves falling into his face. Sunlight falls over his skin, catching on his freshly applied sunscreen and shimmering.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He pleads, “just for five minutes.”

Your answer comes in the form of you kicking yourself further back on your chair and spreading the pages of your book further.

“I mean,” he crouches to sit in the sand next to you, “what’s the point of coming to the beach if you’re just gonna read?”

Dick Grayson, as per usual, is absolutely relentless. He leans closer to you, sun-warmed skin tan and warm against yours. He squints to make out the words on the page you’re currently reading, eyebrows raising.

“I’m relaxing,” you say simply.

“You’ve got to be dying of heat. Come on,” he reaches for your free hand, “just take a dip with me.”

You dogear the page and set your book between your legs. “I know you, Grayson. It’s never ‘just a dip’ with you.”

His smile only spreads, a knowing look on his face. “What’s so wrong with that?” And as if knowing you’re halfway to caving, he rises to his feet, making a big show to stretch his arms over his head. His biceps curl, muscles reflecting the golden sunlight. You can’t help but look, can’t help but trace your eyes up from the tanned muscle of his thigh, to the defined look of his abs, to the shiny white of his teeth.

You sigh. It’s the greatest curse, and blessing, that you happen to have the hottest boyfriend on the planet.

“Okay.” You officially concede, ditching your stuff on the chair and rising to your feet. “Five minutes.”

Dick’s quick to run up to you and wrap his arms around you, squeezing you tight against his muscled chest. “You’re the best.”

“You’re relentless.”

“You love it.”

And unfortunately for you, you really really do.

Dick laces his fingers through yours and tugs you after him, the two of you making your way through the hot sand to where the shore meets the water. Gentle waves lap at the wet sand, your toes sinking into the soft ground. 

Dick wastes no time in running ahead and executing a perfect dive into the water, his body arcing and making a big splash as he hits it. You, not nearly as showboaty as Dick Grayson, slowly wade your way into the water until it’s up to your chest.

Dick surfaces, shaking his wet hair out like a dog. “The water is amazing.”

He leans in so close you can see the water droplets running down his face and purses his lips, pressing them against yours. The cold water on his skin rubs against you and soothes the heat that’s soaked into you throughout the day.

“You’re getting me wet,” you cringe.

“It wouldn't be the first time, right?” You smack his bicep. “Shut up.”

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Tim Drake is in your apartment. The Tim Drake. Wayne Enterprises, billionaire, prodigal son of Bruce Wayne Tim Drake is sitting on your couch, drinking your soda, playing Mario on your Nintendo.

How on Earth did you get here?

The sight of the raven haired boy was enough for you to make a double take when you’d entered your elective class this morning. You recognized him from glimpses of news clippings you caught here and there, full coloured spreads you’d see on social media posts coming to mind.

Sure enough, it was him, sitting alone in the middle of the classroom, a barrier of empty seats on either side of him like a quarantine. You’d frowned when you’d seen that, and despite the nerves chewing away at your stomach lining, forced your feet to move until you were right next to him.

“Is this seat taken?”

His head had perked up, calloused fingers plucking out his earbuds. “What’s that?’

“Oh,” you say, your confidence wavering, “is this seat taken?”

And he'd smiled, something dazzling and performative you’re sure he’s done for hundreds of photographers. You fell for it anyway, and when he patted the seat for you to sit down, you took the bait.

You made small talk after that, talking about your respective majors, your class schedules, your living situations. Tim told you about his dilemma: four 8am classes, and a house on the opposite side of town, and you’d cringed.

The class itself was slow, the professor's words dragging on until your eyelids drooped and you weren’t sure you could take anymore. That is, until Tim Drake tilted his laptop at you, Fireboy and Watergirl paused on his screen.

“Psst, wanna play?”

You looked around, checking for any eyes on you before nodding. As slyly as he can, he pushes his laptop towards you slightly until your hand can comfortably reach the arrow keys. He shuffles closer to you, his own hand hovering over the WASD keys.

The two of you fly through the levels, the drone of your lecture fading into the background until suddenly the people around you are packing up their things. You rub at your eyes, aching from staring at his screen for so long, only to realize how close you’d gotten to Tim over the course of the game.

You move away as casually as you can, packing up your stuff. “Um, do you have any more classes today?”

“Yeah,” he yawns, stretching his arms above his head. “Two more, but not until later in the day. Why?”

“Would you wanna come over for lunch? I live super close.”

To your shock and delight, the man had agreed, slinging his bag over his shoulder and following you to your place.Now, staring at him on your couch, a can of diet soda in his hands, the whole situation feels surreal.

“Y’know, I should’ve gotten a place like this.”

You blink, snapping back to reality. “Yeah?’

“Yeah, would’ve made the 8am blocks easier. Basically just roll out of bed and walk on over.”

You nod in agreement, settling in on the couch next to him and picking up the remote you’d discarded on your bathroom break. “Well, you can always crash here if you have a late night.”

“Sorry if that sounds too forward,” you add, shaking your head. “I just…the company is nice, y'know? And I swear I’m not trying to like, kill you for your inheritance or anything.”

Who the fuck says that? For a minute, you find yourself wishing you were anywhere but here, where the stupidity of your joke hangs in the air like deadweight.

Tim laughs. Not some rehearsed chuckle, not nervous laughter, but a real laugh. He grins, bright and brilliant and beautiful, “well, that’s comforting.”

“Sorry, god. I don’t know why I’m being so awkward.”

“Hey, I like awkward.”

You swallow, taking a sip of your soda to hide the heat rushing to your face.

It’s a week of hanging out with Tim before he stays the night for the first time. 

You’re just getting out of the shower when he shows up with a Bat Burger bag in one hand and his overnight bag in the other. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

You smile, ushering him in. “Is studying going that badly?”

He groans, “you have no idea.”

The two of you settle into your kitchen, munching on the food he brought and talking about the big exam Tim is cramming for. It’s almost strange to you how quickly you warmed up to him, how easily conversation comes around Tim. 

“I’ve never been one of those people who studies.”

It’s a half-truth, really. Tim hasn’t ever really studied for tests or things, relying on his memory and common sense usually. But he’s studied plenty of other things, spent nights pouring over maps and papers and other important mission whatnots.

“Must be nice.”

“I’m serious, usually I just…remember things. But,” he runs his long fingers through his hair, “I haven’t really been paying attention in my classes.”

You gasp, feigning hurt. “More Fireboy and Watergirl? Are you cheating on me?” 

Tim’s quick to shake his head, loose strands falling in his face. “No, no never. You’re actually—” His cheeks flush, face reddening, “you’re like one of the only people in my classes who actually talks to me.”

You feel it then, the kind of loneliness that comes from being Tim Drake. To have all this money and power and influence and still end up entirely alone at the end of the day. Your heart aches.

“Well,” you say quietly, “I guess that means I just have to teach you to study then, too.”

You wake up to find Tim in your kitchen, a pastry bag and a cup of coffee from the cafe down the street on the counter. He grins sleepily when he sees you, the golden sunrays streaming through your window reflecting off his skin.

“G’morning,” he yawns, sipping his own coffee. “Brought you coffee and some breakfast.”

You nod, reaching for the coffee and reciting the label to yourself out loud. Your face scrunches, brows knitting together as you realize he’s gotten your coffee order perfect.

“How did you know?”

“Know what?”

You point to the coffee cup and his mouth forms an ‘o’ shape, that familiar sharpness coming back to his eyes. 

“I uh, did some digging.”

You raise an eyebrow, taking a sip from your coffee as you wait for an explanation.

He smiles sheepishly. “I saw what kind of milk you drink in the fridge yesterday, and I noticed in our lecture this week that you usually drink blond espresso. Flavouring I kinda guessed? But since it’s fall, I figured pumpkin spice was a safe choice.”

You take another big sip, humming in ecstasy. “Y’know, it’s kind of scary when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make…really accurate guesses on things. Makes me feel like you’re a cop, or something.’

“Like 21 Jump Street?”

“Exactly like 21 Jump Street.”

He laughs. “I don’t think GCPD has that in their budget.”

You peel open the pastry bag, wiggling your fingers as you decide what you’re gonna eat. “No, they probably don’t.”

Sleepovers with Tim are a common occurrence after that, more of your nights being spent with him than without. Not that you mind—your nights are comfier with him around, and your mornings seem brighter.

You also don’t mind the company, especially when he insists on walking you to class every morning and carrying your bags for you. 

“It’s the least I can do,” he always shrugs, refusing to let you carry anything. “You’ve been a real life saver.”

People in your lectures whisper about the two of you, nudge each other when you walk by on campus. You’re aware of the rumours that have spread, that people think you and Tim are together. You brush them off, he’s just a friend.

You asked him about it one day, if he knew about the rumours and if they bothered him. The man had just shrugged his shoulders, let them talk all they want.

It’s not just the coffee and the late nights and slow mornings, though. It’s the groceries Tim has delivered to your apartment every week, the little treats he buys you whenever he comes over, the way he looks at you changing one day at a time.

You’re not sure when it happened, or how, but something in your dynamic with Tim Drake has changed.

Tim doesn’t show up for your sleepover tonight. No text, no call, nothing but a distinct absence of Tim Drake on your couch.

You try not to be hurt by it. Some alone time is good for you, and he probably just got busy. It’s nothing personal. At least, that’s what you try to convince yourself.

It doesn’t work.

You do your best to keep yourself busy and not think about his absence. You cook dinner, throw yourself into your schoolwork, watch your favorite show, and still, the night drags on, each moment bleeding into the next. 

You wake up to loud knocking at the door. Blinking, you rub the sleep from your eyes and sit up on the couch. You must’ve fallen asleep watching your show, the ‘Are you still watching?’ screen staring back at you.

There’s another knock, a little more urgent this time, and you rise to your feet, rushing to the door. Tim Drake greets you with a half-smile, looking pale and clammy.

You frown, ready to ream him out for standing you up when you notice the blood soaking through the ribs of his t-shirt. “Tim? Are you okay?”

“Just—” He cuts himself off with a cough, loud and wet and clearly painful from the way he’s wincing. “Just peachy.”

Your face twists into a frown as you usher him inside, “what the hell happened to you?”

He coughs again, stumbling over his own feet as you close and lock the door behind him. He pitches forwards, trajectory set to the ground, before you hook an arm under his shoulders and catch his weight against your body. It’s awkward, sending you stumbling slightly before you catch your own balance.

The two of you fall into an awkward, half-stumble half-walk to your bathroom, and though it’s not that far from the door, your legs burn from carrying Tim. 

“Seriously, Tim, what happened?”

He frowns, the guilt setting in. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. 

He’d had Robin things to do tonight, he didn’t mean to stand you up. But one thing led to another and suddenly it was late and he was hurt and yet all he cared about was you. Seeing you, being with you, grovelling for accidentally standing you up.

He sighs, “I lost a fight.”

A half-truth, but technically not a lie. He did lose a fight—granted, it was barely a loss—and as soon as Steph showed up for backup, he’d gotten right back up on his feet and kicked that goon’s ass right back.

You settle Tim down on your toilet seat, rummaging underneath your counter for any first aid supplies. Normally, you’d have nothing but some polysporin, painkillers and a couple bandaids on hand, but Tim had teased you just last week about not having a first aid kit to the point you went out and bought one.

You pull out the kit, ravaging it for bandages, alcohol pads and other random effects you’re not even sure you need. 

Tim grits his teeth, tugging his blood soaked t-shirt over his head. “You’re gonna—damn, you’re gonna have to clean it with water first.”

You nod, already wetting a cloth with warm water in order to distract yourself from the shirtless man in front of you. The cut isn’t too bad—shallow, superficial, going across the length of his ribs.

You brace a hand on his shoulder, his skin cold to the touch, and slowly dab away at the blood with your other hand.

Tim talks you through it the whole time, giving you expert instructions on how to care for and bandage his wound. Caring for him comes naturally, like you’ve done it your whole life. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say this must be a pretty common occurrence for the two of you.

You’re discarding the bandage wrappers in the trash can under your sink when Tim goes to tug on his old t-shirt. “Wait.”

He cocks his head to the side.

“I have one of yours here from last week, just—” Your voice is a little shaky, a little breathier than usual. Tim clocks it immediately. “Let me run and grab it.”

He nods, and you’re grateful to get away for a minute. Being that close to Tim, to a very shirtless, shockingly muscular Tim, was killing you. You rummage through your drawers until you find the baggy t-shirt, hidden amongst your own things, before running back to the bathroom.

You toss him the shirt, turning away slightly while he tugs it over his head. “You know,” you swallow, “it was kind of freaky seeing you all injured and bloody tonight.”

“Yeah?” He rises to his feet with a groan, gently stretching his arms above his head, “you were worried about me?”

You roll your eyes. “Maybe a little.”

It’s not as fun teasing you when you’re being so tender with him, Tim realizes. His cheeks flush slightly, a hand reaching for one of yours. You blink, looking at him through your lashes as he strokes the back of your hand with his thumb.

“I’m sorry it freaked you out.” He takes a step closer to you, other hand reaching for your hip, “and I’m sorry I missed out on tonight and–and didn’t say anything.”

You frown. You’d forgotten about that part, and under his burning gaze and the strength of his hands, it’s nearly impossible to stay mad at him.

“Is it still okay if I crash here?”

You nod, flustered and not entirely trusting your words right now.

He breathes your name and it’s only now you realize how close he’s gotten to you. You swallow, too nervous to meet his gaze, instead focusing on the feel of his hand on yours, his other hand on your hip, his chest so close you can sense the heat coming off of him.

He drops your hand, trailing his own to cup your chin and force you to look up at him. It’s then that his head dips down, that his lips brush over yours, the taste of his chapstick and something that tastes eerily similar to metal flooding your mouth.

His hand digs into your hip, pulling you tighter to him. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do this,” he mumbles against your mouth.

You smile, fighting the emotion coursing through your body. “Me too,” you say, half-breathed and half-laughed.

“Do you think—” He cuts himself off with a laugh of his own, feeling silly for how incredibly flustered he feels, “do you think I could sleep in your bed tonight?” “I think I’d like that a lot.”

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You’re going to die.

Hung over Green Lantern’s shoulder, Gotham City fading into a blur of rain and half-burnt out streetlights beneath you, it certainly feels like you’re going to die. You squeeze your phone tighter.

You’d dialled the Flash’s number just seconds before trying to use your taser, only to be thrown over the Lantern’s shoulder and rocketed into the sky. You squirm in his arms, clenching your eyes shut in an attempt to fight the nausea from the heights.

I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I'm going to—

“Stop squirming, man!”

You gasp, all of the air in the world seemingly gone. “L-let me down!”

“If I let you down, will you try to tase me again?” He tightens his grip around you, an action that would feel secure if not for your current predicament. “I just want to talk.”

“I—”

It happens so fast, you can barely register it. It’s a blur of lightning and bodies and air. Green Lantern’s grip is torn away from you and suddenly you’re pitched into a free fall, the world around you coming too fast.

You’re going to die.

And then he’s there, catching you, using his momentum to counter the force of your body dropping from the sky. You smell him before you’ve even registered it’s him, the familiar scent of citrussy cologne filling your nose. The Flash. 

He got your call and he came, just like he said he would.

He sets you down in the crest of an alleyway. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? I—sorry I took so long,” he says all in one breath. “There was this thing with Cold and—”

Wally stops dead in his tracks, surprise taking over him when you throw yourself into his chest. You bury your head against him, crying softly into the lightning bolt of his suit. Carefully, like taming a wild animal, he rests his hands on the small of your back and holds you against him.

“Y-you came,” you say softly.

He fights the urge to kiss the top of your head, to squeeze you tightly against him and tell you how relieved he is that you’re okay. “You’re okay? You promise?” You nod, peeling yourself away from him. “I—you lied to me.”

“Come again?”

“You—you said he wouldn’t hunt me down, you said—” Your face pales, realization dawning on you, “where did he go? Oh no. No, no, no.”

Wally scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “I body checked him into a building at about…a million times faster than the speed of light.” 

You’re pacing now, anxiety swelling in your chest. “This is bad, this is really bad. If anyone saw, we’re gonna be on the news and they’re gonna find me and—”

“You need to breathe. Deep breaths, okay?”

“There’s gonna be pictures and-and videos and people are gonna know.”

“Seriously, sweetheart, you need to breathe. I think…you’re having a panic attack.”

The pet name goes entirely unnoticed, his words blocked out by your own screaming thoughts and heavy breathing. The world is beginning to fall away again, the tether that’s kept you together for so long now broken. 

“And you lied.” A sob wracks your body, “you said he wouldn’t come. You promised. I-I never should've helped you, I knew it was a mistake.”

He sucks in a breath, an attempt at pretending he’s not wounded by that. It’s right, of course, but in his defense, he hadn’t thought Kyle would kidnap you. The guilt chews at his stomach lining.

“Let’s get you home, alright?”

Before you can even agree, you’re already in your living room. He’s holding you, head slung over one arm and legs over the other. Wally lays you down on the couch.

“I-I’m gonna go,” he says, quieter than usual, the hurt seeping through. “I’ll deal with GL for you, okay? I-I’m really sorry.”

He disappears in a blur, leaving you alone on your couch. It’s only now that you realize you dropped your bag of snacks in the chaos.

Wally’s furious. Rage boils like heat beneath his skin and no amount of running helps him burn it off. He is so going to kill Kyle Rayner.

He finds the Green Lantern on a rooftop, a familiar convenience store bag laid on the rooftop next to him. He’s gnawing on a chocolate bar, the same kind you’d given him the night you met. The flames in his gut surge.

“What the fuck was that, man?”

Kyle’s not even phased by his entrance, only taking another bite of the candy bar. “Dude, I got tased.”

Wally feels something close to pride peaking through the black hole of anger. “Maybe you shouldn’t go around, I don’t know, randomly kidnapping people?”

“I didn’t—” Kyle rises to his feet, spinning around to face the speedster. “I just wanted to talk. I thought maybe—I don’t know. I thought maybe flying would make it easier.”

“Dude, you kidnapped the most paranoid shut-in of all time. Genius level plan, if you ask me.”

He sighs. “Did you really have to slam me that hard? I think you bruised my ribs.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t hit you harder.”

Kyle sees it now. The defiant glint in his eyes, the puff of his chest. He’s seen this in Wally before, he knows what this is. Wally West has a crush on you of all people.

“Holy shit….you like the blogger?”

“Shut up.”

“I mean I get it.”

Wally stills. “What?”

Kyle can’t help but grin seeing the tension rise in Wally’s shoulders. “I mean, I see the appeal.”

One breath in, one breath out. Wally tries to keep himself steady, to keep the lightning atoms burning in his veins from sparking and blowing up at the surface. Kyle thinks you’re cute. 

Instead of arguing with the Lantern, Wally takes another breath and in a fraction of a blink of an eye, he’s gone.

The Flash has been gone for nine days.

You didn’t notice his absence at first, his absence buried under piles of fear, regret and bitterness. It was around the fourth day, as the feelings thawed and gave way for new things to bloom, that it hit you. You miss him.

The days tick by slower without him. You do your usual writing, post on your blog, sort through tips. You haven’t been back to the store, or left the house at all. An email pops up six days after the incident, from an address you know a little too well.

[email protected]: SORRY FOR KIDNAPPING YOU

You pause over it, the subject line catching your eye. You remember the email from when the Flash had come over the first time, remember him jamming a gloved hand into your computer screen and grinning like a child.

The ‘Past Conversations’ folder confirms what you suspected: it’s Green Lantern.

The email is paragraphs long, but the gist of it is this: he’s very sorry, it was a misunderstanding and if you ever need anything, give him a call. You scoff. It’s almost definitely a trap. 

Still, you star the email before pushing your chair out from your desk and stretching your limbs. Your body aches, partially a result of being inside all day and doing nothing. You’re on your way to the couch, ready to sprawl out for a nap when sirens erupt.

You flinch, head snapping up to the source of the noise. The shrill sounds pour through your windows, echo off your walls, burn when they hit your ears. You blink, pressing your hands over your ears and stumble to your bedroom.

You know that sound. Growing up in Gotham, it’s one engrained into you. The evacuation sirens. Something must be horribly wrong.

You’re mid-stuffing your bag with clothes and your backup laptop that's probably older than Red Robin when the Flash is suddenly in your room. You blink at him, bag falling from your hands.

“What’re you—”

He takes a step towards you, “we need to get out of here. Now.”

“What’s going on?” Another step, his hands reach for you. You shrink away. He pretends he doesn’t see it, pretends something cold didn’t just blow up in his stomach.

“I can’t—no one can know about this. Not yet.”

A tight lipped smile is all you can offer him. “Shouldn’t you be out there helping people then?”

Wally takes a breath. I won’t be able to focus until I know you’re safe. He can’t bring himself to say it, not after almost two weeks of radio silence.

“Flash?” You cock your head to the side, “what aren’t you telling me?” Damn you and your inquisitive nature and those damn eyes looking up at Wally like he holds all the answers. And damn him for keeping them from you, even if it was a direct order. 

He reaches out a hand to you. “Do you trust me?” Trust has always been a heavy thing to you. Something big and ugly and hard to conceptualize, even harder to practice. And yet, you find yourself nodding.

He pulls you into him and then suddenly you’re in an apartment that isn’t yours, plainly decorated with minimal furniture.

He places a hand on either of your shoulders. “Stay here, alright?”

“Where is ‘here’?”

“My place. Central City. I—fuck. It’s safe here, that’s all that matters. Help yourself to anything in the fridge. Wifi password is on the—nevermind.”

“Flash—” “Stay put.”

He disappears in a blur of lightning, leaving you standing in his apartment, wishing you’d grabbed your bag before leaving.

Wally’s not sure he’s ever been in this much pain. By the time he makes it back to his apartment, all of his muscles are screaming in protest. All he wants is to take a shower, relax on the couch, and take a nap.

Except he can’t because you’re nowhere to be found. Silly him for thinking you were anything more than a stray cat, always wandering off and sticking your nose into things. 

He calls your name, carding a hand through his hair. The fabric of his suit against his skin is driving him crazy, the seams of his cowl oddly irritating.

He makes it to his bedroom, calling your name again only for the door of his closet to shift and open slightly, your head popping out of the darkness.

“Oh, thank god.”

“You look like hell.” Despite himself, Wally grins. Looking at you right now, he feels renewed, joy blooming in his stomach. “Yeah? You should see the other guys,” And against all odds, against your paranoia and the fact you’ve been snuggled in a closet for the past two hours, you smile too. Something about him is like walking sunlight to you, like the last golden rays of summer.

He offers you a hand, pulling you out of the closet. His touch lingers, heat fanning off of him. 

“Is this really your apartment?”

He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. His cheeks are flushed, hair slightly damp from sweat. You can smell his deodorant, the scent oddly enticing.

“You don’t have any pictures or anything.”

“I just moved,” he admits.  “Haven’t really had time to decorate.”

You squint. Is that why he’s been gone for so long? He was moving?

“If you give me like,” he trails off as he checks an imaginary watch, “two hours to shower and nap, I can take you home.”

“Take your time.”

Twenty minutes later he’s emerging from a bathroom full of steam, dressed in a pair of baggy sweatpants and an old t-shirt from a band you were a fan of in middle school. He grins, freckled cheeks rounding with the gesture.

You blink. In the time you’ve known him, this is the first time you’ve seen him abandon that cowl. 

His red hair is wet and starting to curl into his face as it dries. Green eyes look kindly on you as he settles into the couch next to you, grabbing the remote and clicking on a show.

“You hungry?” You’re about to shake your head when your stomach growls. “Maybe a little.”

Flash nods, pulling out his phone from his pocket. You watch as his gnawed fingernails dance across the screen, his knuckles dusted in faded bruises.

“Pizza okay with you?” “You’re…ordering it?” “Mhm.”

You can’t remember the last time you had pizza, given you refuse to order delivery and the shop is just slightly out of your comfortable Gotham bubble. 

He frowns, brows pulling together. “You do like pizza, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, it’s just…I can’t remember the last time I had it.”

His mouth falls open like you just said something sacrilegious and then he’s swiping across his screen with a new fervor. You watch him curiously and you can’t help but admire how soft he looks right now. How domestic. 

You wake up to the sun rising, warm pink light stretching across the horizon. You’re curled up on the Flash’s couch, his throw blanket pulled over your body. He’s asleep next to you, snoring softly while a trail of drool leaks from his mouth.

Your eyes ache as you look around for a clock, something to gauge the time. 5:27am.

You sit up, stretching your limbs, and suddenly he’s flinching away. He rubs at his eyes with the backs of his hands, stretching out his arms. You watch the muscles in his arms ripple.

“G’morning,” he yawns, flopping back onto the couch. He points at his tv, stopped at the end of the movie you’d been watching before you fell asleep, “god, that movie was a bore.”

You laugh slightly. Wally’s heart speeds up at the sound.

“Did you—do you want me to take you home?” Part of you wants to stay, to curl back up on the couch and sleep through the day with him. You can’t remember the last time you slept with no interruptions, can’t remember a time you felt so safe with someone.

But you need to get back to your real life.

“Yeah.”

He gives you a couple minutes to gather your bearings before sweeping you up in his arms and taking you home. You don’t manage to catch a glimpse of Gotham as he runs but judging by what he’d told you last night, you don’t want to see.

You’re at the top of your stairs when you realize he’s lingered at the landing, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Flash?”

“Wally, actually.”

You tilt your head, blinking at him.

“My name is Wally.”

“Oh,” you say quietly. “It’s nice to meet you, Wally.”

He smiles, all dimples and freckles and sunshine, before offering you a one-handed salute and rushing off.

Wally. Wally, Wally, Wally.

You’re finishing up your real post for the week, a scathing piece on Waller’s little guard dog, Peacemaker, when your inbox dings with a submission.

[email protected]: NEW SUBMISSION

You graze his email, smiling to yourself as you imagine him writing it. The pictures he attached aren’t bad, either. They’d be enough to at least convince your audience.

Well played, Wally. Well played.

(Alt Text: Arsenal Uses Aimbot)

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'Has the Scarlett Speedster been lying about his height this whole time? Sources reveal the hero may be wearing lifts in his shoes to appear taller, and to act as a sort of sprint block to increase his speed.

Though the hero is said to be around 6ft tall (183cm), he is actually closer to 5’9 (175cm).'

The spoon in Wally’s hand drops, splattering milk along the sides of his bowl. He squints, holding the phone closer to his face, and reads again. His lips tug into a frown when he sees he’s read it correctly, the words on the screen taunting him.

Rising to his feet, bowl of cereal forgotten on the coffee table, he ventures to the bathroom mirror. His reflection looks the same as it always has—tall, lean, a smattering of freckles and unruly red hair. He blinks. 

Stupid, online gossip rags. He shakes his head, making his way back to his now-soggy cereal. Stuffing an angry bite of Fruit Loops into his mouth, his phone buzzes.

Kyle: www.gothamunfounded.com/the-flash-wears-lifts-in-his-shoes/

Kyle: This you?

Wally clenches his phone so tightly he’s worried it’ll break. He can take the occasional dig at him in the papers, a critique of his work online. But this? He won’t stand for something so libelous. 

Wally only reacts to Kyle’s message with a thumbs down, racing to change into his costume. Happily suited up in his costume, a distinct lack of lifts in his shoes, Wally sits back down on his couch and pulls out his laptop. If Dick can track people like second nature, how hard can it be, right?

Wally’s search turns up almost nothing, the rainbow background of the website taunting him. There’s hundreds of articles here, ranging from surface level conspiracies to useful information to utterly insane bullshit.

In the twenty minutes Wally scrolls the page, he only gathers three things: the owner of this website is definitely from Gotham, whoever writes this stuff has major issues, and he has absolutely no idea how to find them.

Giving himself a break from his relentless search, Wally decides to read some of the other wonderful articles on the page.

Here’s what Amanda Waller’s Government Doesn’t Want You To Know

Times That Batman Wasn’t Batman

Guy Gardner Was Grown In A Lab (Proof)

He would be lying if he said he didn’t laugh a little about that last one, clicking on it and reading it all the way through. He has to admit, the writer makes some compelling points and the pictures—grainy and slightly photoshopped—could almost be real.

At the very bottom of the article, he sees it again: The Flash Wears Lifts In His Shoes.

He frowns, picking up his phone and dialling the only person he thinks can help.

“Hey, buddy.” Dick Grayson picks up the phone with a grin, “what’s up?”

“Hey man, do you know something about a blog called ‘Gotham Unfounded’?”

The usual Grayson silence that means he knows something. “Yeah, what about it?” A pause and then, “they didn’t post something about you, did they?”

“...yes.”

He can hear the pad of Dick’s thumbs on his phone keyboard, eagerly searching for the article in question. There’s a swell of laughter. Wally clenches his fists to keep himself calm.

“Yeah, yeah, very funny, Dick.”

“Sorry I just—” He cuts himself off with more laughter, “this is hilarious.”

“It’s not funny.”

“Sorry, sorry.” The phone crackles with a breath, “what do you want to know?”

Wally’s pacing the living room now, a hand in his hair. “Who are they?”

“I don’t know.”

“C’mon, Dick.”

He sighs, “honestly, I don’t. I just know Tim’s a big fan of their work, and we’ve had a few…run-ins with people that weren’t happy about the blog.”

“So you know where they live?”

More silence. Wally groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. Stupid, stubborn Bats, only giving civilians privacy when it doesn’t benefit them.

“Wally, I wouldn’t press them about it. Seriously.” He lowers his voice, “they’re a little…unhinged. Don’t take anything posted to heart.”

“Dude, this is going to ruin my reputation! Kyle’s already making fun of me for it, that motherfucker probably sent the picture in himself.”

“I don’t know, man.”

Wally bites back his frustration. “When have I ever asked you for anything?”

“You asked me for money last week.” Dick chuckles, “and to crash on my couch. And to borrow my bike.”

“I get it. You hate me.”

“I’ll send you the address just,” he breathes a deep sigh, “go easy on them, alright?”

The call ends and the minute Wally’s phone is pinging with the location, he’s sprinting out the door.

Your front door is open. 

You locked it, you know you locked it. You triple checked. Deadbolted it. Took a photo of the locked door after to quell your paranoia about locking it. It was closed, through and through. And now it’s not.

Clenching the thin plastic bag tighter in your hand, you fish in your pocket for the taser you take everywhere with you. Brandishing it in front of you, you kick open the door. 

Nothing seems out of place initially. The front landing of your duplex is as it should be, your slippers sitting exactly where you left them. Dropping your bag on the table you keep by the door, you tighten your grip on the taser and flick off the safety.

It’s when you walk into the living room that you see him, firing the taser before you even register who exactly is sitting at your desk. You flinch when suddenly he’s standing two feet in front of you, having perfectly evaded the prongs of your weapon.

You blink, stunned. “You’re the Flash.”

Wally’s not sure what he expected. By Dick’s description, he expected some neckbearded lunatic in a tinfoil hat. Aside from the slight tiredness to your eyes and the slouch to your posture, you look just like any other person. 

“Did you just try to taze me?” Wally scoffs, eyes narrowed at the weapon in your hand.

His mouth falls open when he sees the sparkly stickers adorning the black material of the taser in your hand. Rainbows, stars, a few cartoon characters he absolutely recognizes.

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, did you bedazzle your taser?”

“Why are you in my house?” You rest the taser against your stomach, using your thumbs to pop out the used cartridge, “are you going to kill me?”

“I—” Wally opens his mouth to defend himself, shoulders slumping, “yeah, this is not a good look for me.”

“You think?”

He raises his hand in surrender, “can we talk this through?”

“Is this about the article?”

The exposed parts of his face underneath the cowl start to redden. Yes. 

You blow out a puff of air through your lips. “Take a seat,” you gesture to the old armchair behind him, “but if you fuck with me…”

“I get it, I won’t.”

You disappear around the corner, coming back with your bag of snacks. You pull out a bottle of soda and a bag of your favorite chips, “do you want something?”

“Got anything sweet?”

You toss him a chocolate bar. “Here.”

Wally catches it in his hands, peeling back the wrapper and taking a big back. He pauses, “you didn’t poison this, right?”

“Shouldn’t you ask that before eating?”

He shrugs, taking another bite. “So, you think I wear lifts in my shoes?”

You fidget slightly from where you’re sitting on your couch, shifting your hip upward to unclip something from your side. Wally’s eyes bulge at the small, silver object wrapped in a pair of wired earbuds.

“Holy shit, is that an iPod shuffle?” He narrows his eyes, looking back to the desk he was sitting at and the off-white, sticker covered pc tower that couldn’t have been made in this century, “what’s with the dinosaur technology?”

“Dinosaur technology? It’s younger than you.”

He presses a hand to his chest like he’s been wounded. “Do you bully every superhero that you meet, or am I just special?”

“You’re the only one I’ve met, so…”

“What? But that’s not what—”

You’re grinning ear to ear, listening keenly to what he’s saying. Too late, Wally realizes he’s stepped into your web. Maybe he isn’t the one holding all the power here.

“I knew it,” you say. “I knew you couldn’t find me on your own. You asked one of the Bats, right? Was it Nightwing? I bet it was Nightwing.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You wear lifts in your shoes.”

His face reddens again, “I do not.”

“I’ve never seen proof that you don’t.” 

You raise an eyebrow, challenging him. Wally’s not one to back down from anything, especially not the unhinged, not-quite-fan of his taunting him. He rises to his feet, about to take off his boots, when he pauses.

“You don’t have a foot fetish, do you?” You scrunch up your nose. Butterflies bloom in the pits of Wally’s stomach. No, he tries to tell himself. Not cute. Not cute at all. It’s a total lie, of course.

“I know you don’t wear lifts in your shoes,” you admit, falling back against your sofa. “Please do not go barefoot in my house.”

“Aye aye, Captain!”

You take a sip of your soda, savouring the sweet taste. On a better night, you’d be hunched over your computer playing SuperTux, or scrolling through your submissions to find this week’s newest post. Better yet, you’d be working on another segment of exposing Waller’s newly formed ‘Bureau of Sovereignty’.

Instead, you’re having snacks with the Flash. Colour you shocked.

“If you know I don’t wear lifts in my shoes, why even post that?”

You rub a hand over your face, “do you know what it means to run a blog like mine?”

He shakes his head, finishing off his chocolate bar and crumpling up the wrapper in his palm.

“Credible news organizations can’t report on things they don’t have concrete proof of, anything without evidence is considered libel and opens them up to lawsuits.”

“I know that.”

You roll your eyes. “So then you know that there are hundreds of blogs like mine, trying to get the truth out there. Always anonymous, always crowdfunded and untraceable. Well, for most people.”

“But not for the Bats,” Wally says, leaning back in your chair. It’s surprisingly comfy, if a little dated. 

“Every once in a while, the blogs gain traction. They expose something big, they get too credible, and that person goes missing.” Your lips press together in a frown, “there are people that don’t want the truth to get out.”

“People like Waller.”

You hum in agreement. “Waller, and everyone else like her. Because if the truth got out, people would be angry.”

You see the exact moment realization dawns on him. His mouth forms into an ‘o’ shape, the light bulb behind his eyes flickers to light. You stay quiet, letting him form his own conclusions.

“So you throw some random things in there. Bullshit conspiracies and misinformation to throw them off.”

“Ten points to Cabin 11.”

“Was that a—you know what? Nevermind.” His eyes meet yours, “so I get you need to do that but did you really need to tell the world I’m 5 foot 9?”

You laugh a little. “No, but it was a submission. And I wanted to.”

“Wait—someone submitted that to you?”

You bite your lip and nod.

“Can you see who submitted it?”

“Duh.”

You’re not sure how he convinces you to let him see but suddenly the two of you are hunched over your computer, the old fans whirring to life. The Flash is sitting close to you, his chair only a few inches from yours. He bounces his leg nervously.

You force him to look away as you scroll through your files, trying to find the submission you logged less than a day ago. He finds it before you do, poking his pointer finger into the screen.

You click it open, scanning the info you’d written down about it. “Yeah, that’s right. This one was…weird.”

“Weird?”

You hum, “it was routed through a bunch of servers that it shouldn’t have been, but the sender didn’t bother to spoof their email address.”

“And the email address was?”

You highlight it for him on the screen. 

Wally leaps out of his chair. “Aha, I knew it!”

You look between him, currently doing a victory dance in your living room that is sure to have your neighbors complaining about you again, and the highlighted text on your screen. 

“You know this person?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was Green Lantern?”

It’s your turn to leap to your feet triumphantly. “I knew that picture had to be taken by another hero. Wait—which Green Lantern?”

“Dorky one, black hair, middle part?”

“Oh, the hot one?”

“The—” Wally pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. His stomach twists in something close to jealousy. “Whatever, man.”

It’s not whatever, man. 

The Flash apologizes again for breaking into your house, making you promise not to slander him again before going on his way. You watch him leave, lightning crackling in his wake, before locking up your doors and windows the way you usually do.

You miss the conversation he brought when the silence comes rushing back in. It’s been a long time since you had a friend, most of your contact being with the Bats after they’ve helped you out of a jam.

With nothing better to do, you settle back in at your computer, starting to write this week’s submission.

The Flash is back exactly a week later, a bag of snacks in his hand. He comes up behind you while you’re typing, catching a harsh elbow before it collides with his throat.

“Jesus,” you shrink back, ripping your arm from his grasp. “How do you keep getting in? The doors are locked.”

“I can phase through walls.” He gives you a weird look, “you didn’t know that?”

“Whatever. Why are you here again?”

“I brought snacks.”

You examine the plastic bag in his hand, clearly purchased from the same convenience store you frequent. At the bottom of the bag, you make out the distinct colour and shape of your favorite soda.

“What’s the catch?” He smiles sheepishly, “I was hoping you could write something for me.”

He pulls your soda out of the bag and offers it to you, the bottle cold and dripping with condensation. You take it from him, your fingertips brushing his and sending shocks up your spine.

You sip on it. “What am I writing?”

His smile turns into something akin to an evil grin as he opens up his phone and shows you a photo of Green Lantern, the same Green Lantern who’d submitted the picture of him a week earlier.

“Dude, no way. What if he comes here?” You cross your arms over your chest, “it’s bad enough you’re here. It’s only a matter of time before someone tracks me and—”

“Holy, paranoid much?” He hesitantly rests a hand on your shoulder, “I’m the fastest man alive, I’m quite literally untraceable. Besides, GL’s not really the type to hunt you down.”

“Oh, so you’re just insane then. Got it.” You point to the phone in his hand, “and by tracking I meant that.”

“My phone? It’s untraceable. Little trick I picked up from Nightwing.”

You relax a little bit. “You swear if I write this, there’s not going to be a Green Lantern at my door later?”

“I promise. The Flash always keeps his word.” He smiles, “and if he shows up, give me a call. I’ll take care of him.”

“Did you just refer to yourself in the third person?”

Wally slumps into the spare chair next to your desk. It’s going to be a long night. 

To his delight, you’re a fast writer, spinning the words together so quickly, Wally wonders if it’s a super power. He can’t help but rub his hands together in anticipation, watching the story unfold on the screen of your computer. Kyle’s not going to know what hit him.

He’s so distracted thinking about how the other man is going to react to this story that he doesn’t realize you’ve posted it until you’re waving a hand in front of his face.

“Hello? Earth to Flash?” 

He blinks. “What’s up?”

“It’s posted,” you say, looking at him in concern. “You better follow through on that promise.”

“I will, I will.”

Wally’s whipping out his phone so fast, opening Kyle’s contact.

Wally: www.gothamunfounded.com/green-lantern-fakes-his-space-missions/

Wally: this you?

Speech bubbles pop up. Excitement flares in Wally’s chest, the redhead happy to finally be getting his lick back. The bubbles disappear and reappear again, and Wally laughs thinking of Kyle at a loss for words.

Kyle: this isn’t the end of this

Joy swells in Wally’s chest, the feeling overwhelming him until he’s pulling you into his chest. You freeze in his arms—when was the last time you hugged somebody? You can’t remember.

Slowly, you bring your arms up and squeeze him back, relishing in the feeling of his warm body against yours. 

“I take it you’re happy with the article?”

“I could kiss you right now!” He freezes, loosening up, “metaphorically.”

You laugh. “Whatever you say, man.”

He hangs around for a little while after that, listening to you ramble about a different article you’re working on. You show him the wall you keep all your evidence pinned on, threaded together with rainbow yarn and stuck to the wall with star stickers.

There’s a shocking amount of detail put into it, and though Wally doesn’t really get your ramblings, he appreciates it nonetheless.The sun is starting to set by the time he leaves, running off into the morning glow to get ready for work. 

The loneliness eats away at you again.

It’s four days later that the Flash returns, this time taking off his shoes at your door and loudly announcing your arrival.

Your voice is meeker today as you shout back, “come in.”

He walks up the stairs, eyes scanning the too-familiar living room until he sees you laying on the couch. There’s an ice pack pressed to your forehead, rainbow bandaids pressed on your cheek, forehead and chin. One side of your lips is swollen.

His smile drops. “What the hell happened to you?”

He’s admittedly a little frantic when he kneels at your side, scanning the rest of your body for similar injuries. There’s an actual tensor bandage wrapped tightly around your wrist, a clear sign of a sprain. A few other colourful bandaids are smattered on your body,

“Your best buddy Nightwing didn’t tell you?”

He’s tempted to tell you that he didn’t tell anyone, not even Dick, about what happened the night you met and what’s happened since. Partly for your safety, partly because he’s not ready to come to terms with the little crush he has on you. 

For now, you’re his. Wholly hidden away until he’s ready to confront his feelings.

He rubs a thumb over the bandaid on your chin. “Seriously, are you okay?”

“I—” You laugh dryly, lacking that usual sense of humour, “I was following a lead. It didn’t end so well.”

“What kind of lead?”

Your breath crackles when you inhale. “Roman Sionis has half the GCPD on payroll and uses them as drug mules.”

“Jesus, what the hell are you getting yourself into?” 

“R-Red Hood helped me out of a jam, not before yelling at me for a good 20 minutes.” You look at him through your lashes, eyes half-lidded, “spare me the lecture.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, pacing around your living room to burn off some of that nervous energy that never seems to go away. He doesn’t like seeing you hurt, doesn’t like the idea of you running around Gotham at night trying to expose its criminal underbelly.

Yeah, the Bats are around. But the Bats can’t protect you forever.

“Call me next time.”

“What?”

He nods, “call me next time. Let me be your backup, take photos for you, whatever.”

You consider it. It would be nice to have some backup, someone to call when you get into hot water with the wrong people again. And as far as people go, having the fastest man alive on your team isn’t a bad idea.

“I can’t pay you.”

“I don’t need to be paid,” he shrugs. “Just…write the occasional article for me and we’re even.”

You fish in the pocket of your sweatpants for your phone, tossing it to him. A silent yes, the action speaks volumes.

He smiles, disbelieving. “You still have a flip phone?”

He turns it over in his hands, thumbs rubbing the seams of the stickers you’ve covered it with. 

“Why is that a surprise? You’re the one that said I have ‘dinosaur technology’.”

He types his number into it, saving himself under ‘Coolest Man Alive’. He doesn’t toss the phone like you did, instead crossing the room and pressing it into your palms.

“Promise you’ll call?”

“Will you be waiting by the phone for me?”

The corner of his lip quirks up. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

It’s during one of your usual convenience store runs that you get caught. Bag in hand, exiting the store with your iPod blaring, you bump directly into his chest. Flinching back, your eyes draw a path up a uniform that looks a little too familiar. 

“We need to talk.” Green Lantern grins at you, holding out his phone screen for you to see.

You stare at the screen in horror, pocket dialling the Flash.

(Alt text: Green Lantern Fakes His Space Missions)

dc masterlist | navigation

— Bruce Wayne:

Bruce is in a meeting when you text him, only noticing the notification an hour after it’s sent. He smiles when he sees your contact but when he opens it to see your location and nothing else, his heart sinks.

Not only have you not been active since you sent it to him, your last pinged location was at the hospital. His blood runs cold.

He’s grabbing his coat and escaping the office before anyone can stop him, calling a car to take him to the hospital asap. The drive over feels like forever, each text he sends you going unread and unnoticed.

People stare when he bursts through the doors of the hospital, hustling his way to the counter. The receptionist looks at him with wide eyes and a shocked smile as she asks him what he’s here for.

He gives your full name, clenching his hands to keep from nervously tapping them on the counter. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “There’s no one here admitted by that name.”

He frowns. “Are you sure?”

She nods, “have you checked the blood donation clinic down the hall? They’re doing a drive today.”

He blinks, suddenly remembering the conversation you’d had this morning. He was too focused on the way the morning light framed your face, the words you said not quite registering with him.

Sure enough, when he enters the clinic, there you are. You’re sitting in a chair, a cotton ball taped to your arm and a cup of juice in your hand.

“Hey!” You smile, “what brings you here?”

“I—” He scratches the back of his neck, the confidence he’d come in here with suddenly fading away. “I came to see you. You weren’t answering my calls.”

“Huh? Oh, I have my phone on silent. Hospital rules.” 

He nods curtly. “You donated blood.”

“Mhm,” you hum. “Remember? I told you this morning. And sent a reminder before I came in.”

A reminder. That’s what the location text was meant to be. A reminder, not some call for help.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” You laugh, clocking the look of realization that falls over his face, “you were worried.”

“A little,” he admits. “Since I’m here, how do you feel about lunch?”

He offers you a hand, helping you out of the chair. You squeeze his hand, “lunch sounds good.”

— Dick Grayson:

There’s two minutes from when you text Dick to when he starts blowing up your phone. He was in the shower when you texted him, grabbing his phone to send you a selfie only for his smile to drop when he saw your location.

His attention is split between dialling your number and tugging clothes on, his hair still drenched from the shower. Every call goes to voicemail, every text undelivered. He forces himself to breathe through it, to think rationally, but all he wants is to crash out.

He’s out of the house, keys clenched in his hands, within five minutes of your text. You’re still not answering, his heart sinking with each passing minute. He’d looked at your location on the map—some cozy little cafe not too far from here.

Nothing worrying, or at least, nothing that should be worrying. But the nature of your text and the sudden radio silence has nausea churning in his stomach.

And then he’s bursting through the door of the cafe, the tips of his hair frozen from the cold winter air. 

You look up, offering him a curt wave from behind the screen of your laptop. Dick takes a minute, takes a breath, before walking up to your table and taking a seat.

“You’re alive,” is all he says.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He holds out his phone for you to look at, showing you the barrage of texts and calls. “You weren’t answering.”

“What?” You narrow your eyes, grabbing your own phone out to show him the lack of notifications, “I didn’t get anything. I—did my messages not go through?”

“Messages?”

“Yeah, I asked if you wanted to have a coffee,” you say. “This stupid phone. It’s been glitching all day.”

“Glitching.”

You nod, taking in his disheveled appearance. His cheeks are pinkened, hair still wet and frosted. His jacket is only half zipped.

You grab his hand in yours. “I didn’t make you worry, did I?”

“No, no,” he laughs though there’s little humour in it, “you made me panic.”

“I’m sorry, baby, can I buy you a coffee to make up for it?”

“A coffee wouldn’t hurt.”

— Jason Todd:

Jason’s not big on texting. He doesn’t care to have the newest phone, doesn’t like the way they all seem to track you and listen in. Still, he has one because it means he can talk to you easier. 

But it’s hard to talk to you when you won’t pick up the damned phone. He stares at the location you’d sent him, already plotting his route while he dials your number for the umpteenth time. 

Then he’s making his way to you, speeding maybe a little too fast on his bike through the crowded streets of Gotham. 

The location takes him away from the city, down the highway and down some windy dirt road that chews up the tires on his bike. It takes him to a farm—a cute little log cabin surrounded by a bunch of other buildings and enough trees to stock a forest. 

Christmas trees. 

Too late, he realizes it’s a plot. 

You’re waiting for him by the log cabin, a cup of hot chocolate sandwiched between your hands. Your face lights up when you see him, offering him a wave with a gloved hand. 

He parks, an unimpressed look on his face as he saunters over to you. “So, you’re allergic to answering your phone now?”

“No…” You tilt your head at him, “but you said you didn’t see the point of having a real tree.”

“And?”

“I wanted to show you.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You couldn’t have just asked?” 

“You wouldn’t have come otherwise,” you look up at him, “would you have?”

“Probably not,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around you into a bruising hug. “Just…don’t freak me out like that again.”

“Does this mean you’re gonna stay?”

“Yes, doll, I’m gonna stay.”

— Tim Drake:

Tim’s mind is racing when he sees the notification of you sending him your location. For a minute, he’s worried someone’s stolen your phone given he already has your location. 

But then the overthinking settles in like fresh fallen snow and he can’t keep the dark thoughts from creeping in. What if you’re hurt? Or in danger? 

He calls you and you don’t answer, and though he tries to stay casual, each minute that ticks by without you calling him back causes panic to swell. 

He calls you again, double checks your location, texts you more times than he’d like to admit. But still, you don’t answer. 

He doesn’t think before he’s throwing on his winter coat, still dressed in his sweats as he sprints out of his apartment. The shoes he’d slipped on crunch against the dirty Gotham snow, but despite the cold, his palm is sweaty where it holds his phone. Nerves. 

Lucky for him, you’re only a few blocks away. Or at least, your phone is. 

He’s not even thinking about where he’s going until he’s stopping in his tracks in front of the library, the sun cresting above the big brick building. 

When he makes his way inside, finding you hunched over a book at a table, notes splayed out all around you, he breathes a sigh of relief. 

You don’t notice as he creeps up behind you, crouching down low to whisper in your ear. “Hey, you didn’t happen to send me your location and then throw your phone in a garburator, did you?”

You flinch, surprised, before laughing. “What?” You turn to face him, slipping a piece of scrap paper in your book to mark the page, “how long have you been there?”

He slips off his jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair next to you, settling in on it. “I just got here. Well, ran here.”

“You…ran here?”

He nods and his slightly flushed cheeks corroborate his story. He leans forward in his chair, tilting his head at you. 

“So, is there a reason you tried to give me a heart attack?” He says, “or are you just trying to send me to an early grave to inherit my fortune?”

You smack his shoulder. “Shut up. I misclicked but the service is so bad here that my texts aren’t going through.”

He breathes a sigh of relief, grabbing your hand in his to reassure himself that you’re here. He feels a little silly now. 

“I’m sorry I made you worry,” you squeeze his hand. “But thank you for coming.”

He smiles, leaning in to kiss you. “Always.”

— Wally West:

Wally’s smile fades when you stop answering your texts. The screen of his phone remains open, staring at that little dot pinging your location. 

He waits for you to answer. He calls you a couple times (more like a dozen), blows up your phone, only to find your location hasn’t updated since you sent it. Dread fills his stomach. 

And then he’s running, phone in one hand, barely watching where he’s going. He follows that little pinging dot, getting to your location in record time only to find…a cafe? 

He pauses, time gets slower. He blinks at you from the other side of the window, watching as you sip on a peppermint mocha and write something down in a notebook. 

Even when he sees you’re perfectly okay, even when he retreats into the alleyway next door to change out of his suit, his heart doesn’t stop racing.

You grin when you hear the chimes of the door, looking up from your notebook to greet him. “Hey, sunshine!”

“Hey? Hey?!” He tugs at his hair, “did you not get my texts? My calls? I-I thought you were in trouble!”

You blink, smile slowly fading. “My phone died,” you scrunch your nose. “The barista has it behind the counter, she was nice enough to charge it for me.”

There’s a look of disbelief on his face. “Your phone…is dead.”

“Mhm. I sent you my location so you wouldn’t worry if I didn’t answer.” 

Wally can’t do anything but hug you right now, pulling you into his arms. The scent of your shampoo and the comfort of your body against his satiates the rapid beating in his chest. 

“I love you,” he says. “Please don’t do that ever again.”

You laugh. “I promise.”

— Hal Jordan:

Hal tries to play it cool but inside, he’s dying. It’s just a text, an innocent text with your location. But he can’t help it—he’s nervous. 

He makes it a whole five minutes fighting against himself before he can’t take it anymore. He flies, maybe faster than he ever has before, only focused on that stupid blinking dot on his phone. 

When he lands in a mall parking lot, getting some stares from a nearby family, he’s confused. There’s no signs of danger, he’d double checked the perimeter. So why did you send him your location, and why aren’t you answering? 

He finds a hidden-ish spot to change back into his civvies, strutting up to the mall entrance with his brows furrowed and hands clenched. He finds you within minutes, standing in the decor section of a department store. 

“Babe?”

You spin around with a smile. “Hey! What brings you here?”

“You sent me your location, I—what are you doing here?”

“I did?” Your face scrunches in confusion and you pull your phone out of your back pocket only to see you did, in fact, send him your location. “Oh, it must’ve sent when I put my phone in my pocket.”

Hal blinks slowly. All of the fear, all of the confusion, all of the worry—because of a misclick? He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 

You assess him, from the worry lines creasing his forehead to the sweat that slicks his palms. “You were worried,” you tease, poking his chest. 

“No.” He huffs but he tugs you into a hug anyway, “maybe a little.”

You cup his cheeks and kiss him. “While you’re here, care to help me pick out some ornaments?”

“Whatever makes you happy.”

— Barry Allen:

Barry Allen is a worrier. You’ve been together long enough to know that, so why aren’t you answering his calls?

His heart sinks when your phone goes to voicemail, the sound of your voice doing little to comfort the anxiety rising in his chest. Every minute that ticks by without hearing from you has his blood pressure raising. 

The sun is setting outside, the incoming twilight only making him worry more. You’re out there alone, maybe you’re hurt, maybe you’re in danger—he can’t take it anymore. 

He makes it to your location in record time, sliding into a stop when he sees you walking just ahead of him. You have a barrage of shopping bags in your hands, shuffling through the Central City mall parking lot. 

You stop in your tracks when you hear him behind you, turning around to grin at him over your shoulder. “Hey!”

Still clad in his Flash costume, the scarlet fabric doing little to hide the concern on his face. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Huh? I’m fine, just finished up my shopping.” You frown, brows knitting together, “are-are you okay? Why are you here?”

“You sent me your location I—I thought you were in trouble.”

He feels a little awkward dressed in full costume, standing in this icy parking lot. He watches while you grab your phone and check it, an embarrassed smile creeping onto your face. 

“I sent that to the wrong person,” you say. “I’m so sorry for making you worry, Barrs. I-I meant to send that to a friend and I misclicked.”

“Oh, thank god.” He breathes a sigh of relief, letting himself fall over you, head dipping into the crook of your shoulder. “Please don’t make me worry like that ever again.”

— Roy Harper:

It’s not unusual for you to send Roy your location, especially not late into the night like this. It’s your way of asking him to come over or bring you ice cream when he’s done running around the city with a bow.

The unusual part is that you’ve suddenly stopped answering him, his texts going unanswered. Time ticks by too quickly for his liking, and even perched on a rooftop in the darkness, his only thoughts are of you.

He tries to fight the panic, swallow it down when it threatens to choke him, but he can’t. He needs to see you, needs to know you’re okay. That’s how he finds himself hiding in the shadows, ducking through alleyways and rooftops on his way to your apartment.

It’s dark inside, the usual signs of life gone. There’s no glow of your tv, no lamps left on. Roy frowns, the feeling that something isn’t right creeping over him.

He calls your phone again, peaking in through your bedroom window only to see it vibrating on your nightstand. And through the dim light it offers, he can see you, asleep on the bed next to it.

He can’t help but laugh. Of course you’re asleep, it’s three in the damn morning. 

Maybe it’s the buzzing of your phone or his quiet laughing outside your window, but then you’re waking up, rubbing at your eyes. You look from your phone to the window, flinching when you see Roy peaking in.

You slide on your slippers, stumbling through your sleep to pull the window open. “Hey,” you say quietly. “What’s up?”

He ducks through your window, throwing his arms around you. “Nothing,” he mumbles, “just missed you.”

“Mhm?”

He nods, soft strands of hair rubbing against your cheek. “Mhm.”

— Kyle Rayner:

Kyle’s sleeping when he gets your text, rubbing his eyes and reaching for his phone. He’s exhausted, body still aching from a particularly rough fight he’d had the day before.

No matter how bad he feels, no matter how sleepy he is, he forces himself awake and checks your message. Adrenaline forces him the rest of the way awake, the glowing dot of your current location staring back at him. 

He’s on his feet after that, nervously twisting the ring on his finger while he tugs on a shirt over his sweats. He calls your phone only for it to go to voicemail. And then he calls it again, and again.

You don’t answer.

His civilian clothes are forgotten when he summons his costume, flying out into the dead of night to find you. It’s cold out and the kind of dark that swallows everything, hides everything.

Still, he finds his way to the bodega you’d sent him, the yellowing lights illuminating the sidewalk. He stands just out of sight, costume dissolving back into his sweats and t-shirt, before he’s bursting through the doors. 

He expects the worst. Injury, a robbery, something that makes his heart stop. Instead, he finds you chatting with the clerk and sipping on a soda.

“Hey, honey.”

You turn when you hear his voice, grinning at him. “Hey!”

He’s confused now. “You’re alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He runs frantic fingers through his messy hair. “You—you sent me your location. You didn’t answer my calls. I-I thought you were hurt or—”

You silence him with a kiss, wrapping your arms around him and pressing yourself as close as you can get. He visibly relaxes within your hold, his heartbeat slowing.

“My phone died,” you say into his chest. “And it’s late and I-I didn’t want to walk home alone.”

“Oh,” is all he says, kissing the top of your head. “I can walk you home.”

You squeeze him again. “I’m sorry I worried you.

“It’s okay, you only took ten years off my life.”

— Clark Kent:

Clark’s interviewing someone when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket, meaning two things: intergalactic emergency, or you. He assumes it’s the latter, a non-emergency given he’s only received one text.

Still, he finishes out his interview quickly, thanking them for their time before retreating outside the building to check his phone. He pauses when he reads your text, the small dot showing your location blinking at him.

He blinks back. Why are you sending this to him? His thumbs click over the screen, texting you back before he slips his phone back into his pocket.

He tries to be patient while he waits for you to text back but the minutes tick by slowly and worry blooms in his chest. He pulls out his phone only a few minutes later, calling you.

Your phone rings, rings again, but you don’t answer. He calls again and it goes straight to voicemail.

Deep breaths and reassurance do little to comfort him and before he knows it, he’s on his way to you. 

You’re in the men’s clothing aisle when Clark finds you, glasses crooked and hair a mess. His cheeks are flushed and clothes are wrinkled—he must’ve flown here, must’ve thrown caution to the wind to get to you as quickly as possible.

“Clark,” you say, confused. “Are you alright? You look winded.”

“You’re…shopping?”

He narrows his eyes at the identical sweaters in your hands, one green and one red. There’s a few bags hanging from your wrists, a coffee cup tucked under your myriad of things.

“Yeah, I—didn’t you get my texts?”

“The one with your location?”

“Yeah, and I asked if you could meet me after work. I—” You hand him the sweaters, digging your phone out of your bag to check your messages, mouth falling open to see the dozen missed calls. “Oh.”

You scroll through your messages to the one with your location, the small text under it asking him to meet you. You hold it out for him to see, “here.”

Clark flushes, suddenly feeling exceptionally silly for leaving in the middle of work. “I-I didn’t see that part.”

You grin at him. “You were worried.”

“I was worried.” 

“And you rushed all the way here.”

“I did.”

You stand on the tips of your toes, kissing his cheek. “My hero,” you tease. “Rushing here to solve my sweater crisis.”

He sighs, “I’m not going to live this down, am I?”

You shake your head.

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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡

Jason Todd does not consider himself a soft man. He’s sharp, rough around the edges. More often than not, his presence looms more than it soothes, and rarely has he ever considered himself ‘cute’.

But here you are, grinning ear to ear and dabbing a spot of whipped cream off his nose. “You’re so cute, Jay.”

His brain fries, short circuiting in that way it always does when you compliment him. He blinks at you, the cup of thermos of hot chocolate in his hand suddenly unsteady.

“What?”

You only hum in acknowledgement, crumpling the napkin in your hand and tossing it in a trashcan. Then your palm is finding its way back to his and you’re continuing your walk around the park like it’s the most casual thing in the world. 

Jason’s flustered still, his freehand awkwardly fisting in the pocket of his jeans. He looks to the ice rink in the middle of the park, to the skate rental shop, to the kids having a snowball fight not even ten feet away. He looks anywhere but you, if only so you can’t see the flush on his cheeks.

If you were to notice—you always notice things when it comes to him—he’d blame it on the cold. On the frosty air biting his nose and ears.

You swing your arm happily with his. “What about skating? Do you like skating?”

“Skating?” He considers your words, “it’s fine. Haven’t done it in a long time.”

You turn to look up at him, slowing your steps, and Jason doesn’t need to meet your eyes to know there’s that pleading look in them. That look that makes him fold every damn time, that makes his heart flutter dangerously.

Jason’s saving grace comes in the form of a patch of ice beneath your sneakers. One minute, you’re next to him and the next, you’re slipping, the slick soles of your shoes kicking up from under you.

It happens fast but Jason’s faster. He catches you by your waist, half-lifting you against his body before you can hit the pavement. He uses your momentum against you, swinging you until you’re flush with him.

You gasp, blinking at him. “Nice catch.”

He nods, though he seems just as bewildered as you. His body is warm against yours, chasing away the December blues with each moment you spend pressed together. 

With the way his arms are bent, the way they curl around your body and enclose you into him, his muscles bulge beneath his coat.

“Wow,” you say, reaching out and squeezing his bicep. “You’re so strong, Jay. My hero.”

He laughs at your antics though you see the hint of a blush forming on his cheeks again.

You bat your lashes at him, “do you work out?”

He rolls his eyes but he’s grinning now, he can’t help it. He tilts his head down and captures your lips against his, and even though your eyes are closed and you’re entirely too focused on the way his stubble is stinging your skin, you can feel him smiling into the kiss.

“Alright, dork,” he says when he pulls away. “Skating?”

“Skating.”

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"Anaxa, I'm just getting up for water..." You murmured back, voice sleepy and tired from having just woken up. He didn't say anything about the name. He never did when it came to you.

"You can get water later. Your hydration level is fine right now. Your hunger as well. As a scholar, I review, follow your data closely, and write these things meticulously down, you know. I checked your schedule for tomorrow, and for the next three months. You need more rest, otherwise it'll create a domino effect. Also, with our combined body heat, it will create the perfect temperature for comfortable sleeping and-"

"Shut up. And how do you know my schedule for the next three months?"

Aventurine

This rich man. He spoils you in every way possible, and that includes in the bedroom. The bed is made of the finest, softest materials, and silk sheets accompany it.

Aventurine only stretches comfortably on the bed, waiting for you to join him as if he hadn't just spent an amount that most people would consider to be their entire life's savings.

Of course, who were you to refuse? You had everything that you wanted, and he was so good to you today, as he was every day.

"Darling~ I want you here by my side, sweetheart. I'm tired after all that spending, and I need some cuddles to regain some of my strength..."

You merely deadpan, your soft mood vanishing as you amusedly watched him be all dramatic as usual. How cute. You supposed he was just that needy, after all.

You slip under the covers, the silk sheets rubbing against you nicely as always. So incredibly soft. He did know how to spend his money...

The moment you got into the bed, he wrapped his arms around you, exhaling in bliss, rubbing his cheek against yours like an affectionate cat, "I love it when it's just me and you..."

"Just me and you forever, right?" Aventurine murmured, gently pulling you closer into his arms.

Blade

After a long and rough day, all Blade needs and wants is just to hold you in his arms in bed and relax with you. He's like a moody, grumpy cat that turns into a needy little kitty suddenly whenever he's in your arms.

Truly, you soothe him. He wants to be with you for all of eternity. Perhaps he could find a way to make you immortal? Or were you already immortal?

He's a soft man underneath the cold, hard exterior. He doesn't even mind when you call him Bladie or Yingxing. Whatever you call him, he doesn't mind when it comes to you.

Blade relaxes in your hold, his arms wrapped possessively around your body, already feeling himself let go. Oh, you were the perfect darling.

He laid perfectly still, content to be snug against you as you rambled on about your day to him. He loves your voice, you should talk more. He wasn't a man of many words himself. He was more content to listen to your voice instead, his beloved.

"Mm." Blade quietly hummed, making sure you knew that he was listening, as always. He nuzzled his head like a cat against you, affectionate as usual.

Blade would do anything to keep you.

Stay with him Stay with him Stay with him

Ah, this was eternal bliss.

Sunday

During the early stages of your relationship with Sunday, he would intensely blush and be flustered, wings twitching and hiding his face every time you even so much as shifted against him in bed. He was so cute, the poor angel.

Now that he was more used to and comfortable with you, he eagerly awaited your touch every night, waiting for what you allowed him to have. He'd take any scraps of your love.

"Darling... Are you ready for bed?" Sunday murmured, hands already reaching out to hold you by the waist. He couldn't help it. You were so irresistible to him.

He could only cutely smile, a lovesick expression in his eyes as you reciprocated his hug, guiding him to the bed. He quietly exhaled, immediately relaxing further as he held you against him once in bed.

"Mm... I love you." Sunday mumbled, his voice muffled as he pressed his face against you. He was obsessed and so, so in love. He didn't care about anything else when he was with you. No other thoughts buzzing around. No other stresses. Your presence was so addicting.

Preen him. Praise him. Hug him. Do whatever you want with him.

Please keep him forever. He's a just a needy little angel. Or birb. Whatever you want him to be, he could be for you.

He never wants to lose your interest.

Sunday is yours, don't forget that <3

Caelus

This raccoon... Caelus is always oddly eager whenever you're around, smiling like a schoolboy with a crush. March 7th would always tease him for it, but he never minded. Who was he to care when he could drag you around to forage through the trashcans? It was the best thing for him to do!

But even raccoons needed rest after a long day of going through other people's trashes... He would snuggle up to you contently, hugging you in bed as he excitedly started recounting what he had found through trashcans. Or maybe just his day in general. The trashcan treasures were more of a preferable topic for him, however.

Caelus nuzzled against you, affectionately rubbing his head against your soft skin, "And so I then found a naked chicken plushie that was wearing a maid costume that was actually a portable tent that also had restorative treatments like face masks and surgeries! Hey, do you think I could sell it and have someone try it out for me-?"

"What are you on about? Go to sleep, Caelus."

"But sweetheart, this is important! Don't you want to hear about the dancing rats that I found in the streets as well?"

Your poor raccoon was too far gone. Just cuddle him and go to sleep.

Phainon

This adorable, fluffy white puppy. He practically drags you to the bedroom any chance he gets with a wide smile on his face, always eager and excited to cuddle.

"Come on! I wanna cuddle and snuggle up and-!"

"Alright, alright. You're already dragging me there anyway." You smiled, amused by his eagerness. He was always like this. Either out and about, battling and challenging Mydei or doing silly, cute stuff just for the sake of your smile, always wanting your attention and to please you. The flowers and gifts he bought you the other day were still sat on the bedside table.

"Sunshine, guess what?! I saw these cute little trinkets today at this shop and I think we should go there tomorrow! I can show you around there, and I bet you'd love it! Oh, and-!"

Phainon continued to ramble, excitedly talking about anything and everything, wanting to keep your attention on him. You only hummed in response, gently petting his head and running your fingers through the silky locks.

"I also challenged Mydei to another sauna competition where we see who can stay in the hot water the longest! Just to prove how competent I am, I'll even throw on an inflatable unicorn costume over my armor!"

"...Sweetheart, no."

Dan Heng/Imbib

So cute. Really, he was like a puppy, except in dragon form. Dan Heng didn't mind sleeping with you in either form. Whatever you wanted was his command. Though, he did secretly like being in his dragon form around you. In bed, his dragon tail would wrap around your form, trapping you oh so sweetly against him.

Dragons are possessive of their mate and treasures, after all. You're considered both in his eyes.

Dan Heng gently rubbed his cheek against yours cutely, his tail wrapping tighter around your body. How could he not? You were just so perfect and snug against him... The perfect match.

Besides, when he was in this particular draconic form, he had more of a hold on you. Metaphorically and literally. He lets you play with his horns and tail, and he gets to literally trap you in his arms and tail at the same time, preventing you from escaping his very much needed and necessary daily cuddling.

"Darling... What do you think about hatching a baby Vidyadhara?"

"Where would we get a Vidyadhara egg?"

Dan Heng only averts his eyes, a light blush coating his cheeks. Must you have him say it out loud to you?

"Well... You're my mate, so... You could just do some things with me and-"

"Night."

Dan Heng only pouted at that, gently huffing against your skin, "The offer's still up whenever you want it... You know I get particularly needy at certain points."

You pulled at the fabric around your neck, eyeing the man stood ordering a black coffee, trying not to meet his dissatisfied gaze. From the sleeve of your thin cardigan, you plucked a stray bit of lint as you pressed your lips together feeling the lip balm you had applied thin out, dryness creeping back across your skin. You were trying. Not like he would ever notice. Or care. That’s what you thought at least. Yet you still tried to get his attention, any kind of positive attention.

“Next.” The barista called you forward, offering you a warm smile, meeting your eyes. You gave him your order, thanking him before passing over your change. You didn’t even other to check over your shoulder to see if the person you had come with was still there, or if he had retreated to a booth to sulk over his notebook because I’d rather, we just explore, this is a waste of time and money you should have eaten beforehand.

You had pestered him to get something to eat before venturing out in the summer evening to a local abandoned children’s hospital, and despite his protests Cain finally had to give in when you complained of low blood sugar after tripping over in front of him.

You sighed to yourself hearing the click of his tongue echo across your memory.

“Something up?” The barista asked as he plated up a slice of cake for you, passing it over the counter. “You seem glum.”

You shook your head. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

“That’s good then.” His previous warm smile crept back over his face, “you’ve got a nice smile, don’t lose it.”

Your cheeks burned as you adverted your gaze, embarrassed at his flirting. It was one compliment, but it was enough to make you shamefully duck your head.

“Oh? Thanks. You as well.” You mumbled picking up your drink and plate, but the barista was not done.

“You look nice. I assume you must be doing something special tonight, all dressed up? I hope it brings you some joy.”

“Oh!” Your cheeks burned, “Um, thanks. I’m not really… doing anything that special.” You said fumbling with the plate of cake. “To be honest I bet you might end up having a more interesting evening than me.” You laughed awkwardly as the words tumbled out of your mouth. The barista had a kind expression, and a warm disposition that was refreshing against Cain’s gloomy vibe, it was enough to perk you up just a little, and the barista noticed.

He laughed leaning in, “I doubt that, but maybe we can both find something interesting to do together later if you’re still bored? Just let me know, I don’t want to keep your friend waiting any longer for you.” As he said those words he pointed to behind you. Turning your head, you were surprised to see Cain standing behind you still, holding his black coffee with a very dissatisfied look on his face. Daggers pointed at both of you with his stare.

“Where do you want to sit?” He asked dryly.

You turned back to the barista, but he had already excused himself and got busy cleaning up mess from previous orders. “Window booth?” You asked feeling embarrassed he had been there the whole time, though you were not sure why.  Cain turned quickly heading to sit down, slumping into a booth seat as you awkwardly followed behind. He slumped down into his seat, setting his drink down rather harshly causing it to spill slightly over the top, dripping down across the table. Yet, Cain paid it no attention as he set his familiar black notebook out in front of him away from the spillage and began his regular intense and abstract recordings. You gave a silent sigh, adjusting your skirt as you sat down, glancing out through the window to the world bathed in a rose-coloured glow. Your fork dug into the cake but for whatever reason you no longer felt that hungry. Just tired.

Time passed, not a lot of it, only a few minutes, and yet as every second passed you felt as if some force was pulling you away from Cain, who only shrunk away further into himself, his pen ever so slightly getting more and more aggressive as it scratched across page after page. Something told you there was a very intense conversation taking place in his head.

Maybe even an argument.

You dropped your fork onto the plate, finishing the last bite of you cake and braced yourself to hit a wall that you were still going to run towards either way. “So, you’ve already been to this place, right? What can I expect?” You forced a friendliness into your voice, scooting yourself to the edge of your seat and closer to the table. Of course there was no reply.

Yet.

“If it’s a children’s hospital, do you think the spirits would like it if we brought some toys, as like offerings since we’re going to poke around and such?”

“I don’t ‘poke’ around. Besides spirits have no need for material objects destined to rot in landfill when the building is inevitably demolished.” Cain’s voice was scratchy, like a record warped in summer heat. He still refused to look up from his notebook, and you knew better than to point that out.

“What about some sweets then?”

“Wasteful.”

“Come on, help a girl out here.” You teased, feeling yourself grow a little more comfortable as the awkwardness of earlier passed. “I want do the right thing when we go-“

“If you’re going to be this bothersome, I’d rather you just leave. I’m not going to hold your hand as if this is some novelty experience.” He was quick to snatch away from you that passing moment of feeling settled, his eyes flicking up to yours to take in the fading smile on your face, not even hiding the satisfaction caused from his spite. “Sorry if that makes me boring and this even less interesting for you.”

Clutching the edge of the table with both hands you ducked your head ever so slightly, something uncomfortable wriggling inside of you. “What’s your problem? If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.”

Cain dropped his pen on the surface of the table and sat up straight, crossing his arms. “Maybe.” He quipped, tongue razor sharp, defences up. Of course he was ready with them, having rehearsed them all before hand in his head in that imaginary argument you had predicted. I should have known better- wait. What were you even thinking? Why were you getting ready to bow to his oncoming tantrum? Cain continued, “Or maybe this was all just a last choice distraction for you until something better came along to take your interest.” His eyes flickered over to the side towards someone else. He lowered his voice “You’ll leave, I know it. Just like everyone else.”

“The hell are you even talking about?” Cain bristled at your choice of words, scowling, but you left no room for him to chastise. “If you’re referring to what I said to the barista I was just being polite. You should try it sometime.” You mirrored him, crossing your arms and leaning back. “God, why is everything an argument with you lately?” You muttered but he still heard. You had gotten along with Cain at the beginning, or well enough compared to the rest of the Hauntnet group, but in the passing few weeks he had seemed more irritated. Intense even. Very quickly he was beginning to swallow you whole with his moods, capturing you with his messages, locking you into chaotic hypnotic conversations that were breaking your perception of the world. While frightening, it was addicting, to hear his ideas, to receive his thoughts on yours no matter if he swung from being judgemental or validating. You had found him interesting at first but now it seemed you had become joined to him enough that you were seeing through to the sharper parts of his personality. And these sides, he only showed them you. He was gritty and intoxicating. And it was becoming a problem since you were letting yourself free fall into him.

“It’s not like that.” He said at last, chewing on his lip.

“I asked you if I could come with you tonight. Privately might I add, I haven’t even told the rest of the group chat we’re exploring you know.”

“That makes your flirting with him even worse-“ He cut himself off wincing as a painful silence settled over the two of you. He mumbled something quiet enough for you to not hear it, but you assumed it was a curse.

“If you think that I was flirting,” you said eyebrows raised, “then you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”

Cain visibly flushed, his ears going red as he played with the metal cross around his neck unconsciously. “He was.” He accused.

“Him.” You said ignoring the unwarranted jealousy in his voice. “And why does it even matter if someone flirts with me? Just because you hate and ignore everyone doesn’t mean the rest of us are like that.”

“I don’t hate…” he paused. There was a word held at the tip of his tongue, but he was denying himself from admitting it, instead he finished his sentence by saying “I don’t hate everyone.” Cain’s voice had lost its edge, his fingers pressing harder into the edges of his cross as he rubbed its surface anxiously. “Look, we can drop it and get going-“

Now it was your turn to narrow your eyes and glare, “No. You said to leave. So, I’m leaving.”

“What, why?” He asked, his voice raising as he ever so slightly raised from his seat.

“Because I know enough about you by now to know this wont be the last attack I put up with tonight. Honestly Cain being your friend is exhausting so you know what, you win, I’m done.” You grabbed your things, ready to storm out. You walked away from the table without even looking back and ignored the faint sound of a regret filled apology fall from Cain’s mouth, trying to win back your attention. He doesn’t mean it. You told yourself. He’ll probably start calling me a ‘sheep’ soon, so I shouldn’t care.

What you didn’t see was the man you had left behind, still sat at the booth, staring at his notebook cursing himself as he flicked through certain pages, running his fingers over the letters of your name scribbled across the paper’s surface. Letters that had found themselves there these past few weeks without him even realising it.

The summer evening was cool; the sky had deepened into a dark red as the sun was almost done setting. You were thankful for your cardigan as the wind drifted over you, the peak of the heatwave having passed. The café you had made Cain stop at was a roadside stop, in the middle of a stretch of nothing but forest in between town and the abandoned hospital.  The nearest bus stop was going to be thirty-minute walk along the main road. And it would feel even longer considering how straight the road was, but you were thankful for it since it would give you time to process everything that had just happened.

The whole time you walked you felt the same uncomfortable presence of judgement loom over you, the same feeling you always had after a disagreement with Cain. The remnants of scrutiny. The forest trees to your side cast dark shadows over you, their rustling in the wind always sounded like whispers as of late. You shivered; the sun was gone now, and the world had been creeping you out as of late. Soon your legs began to ache as the road carried on aimlessly, how much further until the bus stop? You reached in your pocket for your iPod classic, pulling out tangled earbuds and plugged in to your moodiest playlist, ignoring the world around you.

An almost fatal mistake.

As you enjoyed the brief feeling of distance from the emotional ache settled in your stomach you cast your gaze to the sky, eyes wandering over the stars, having now emerged over a navy canvas. It was already too late before you noticed the frantic flashing of a cars lights as it swerved behind you. You turned your head, pulling an earbud out confused just as it approached you, fast, unpredictable and dangerous.

There was no time to swear as you closed your eyes, the breath leaving your chest while a pair of cold hands grabbed you roughly and pulled you into the forest at the side of the road. Your iPod tumbled from your pocked, smashing on concrete as your earbuds were fully snatched away from you by gravity as you and your saviour fell backwards into the trees. All while the car carried on without caution, swerving across lanes down the straight road at sixty miles per hour.

“Fuck.” You heard a familiar dry voice hiss, arms still gripping around you as he sat up. You could smell the familiar scent of his hoodie, the same kind of smell an antiques dealer had, and strangely it comforted you enough that you leaned backwards into his chest, feeling safe.

“Oh my God.” You whispered turning around to see Cain behind you, still holding you by the shoulders.

“Don’t put that-“

“You saved me.”

Cain was not about to show any pride however, he pushed you away from him when realizing how close you were and stood up, wiping his hands anxiously across his hoodie. “You fucking idiot.” He hissed. “Who’s dumb enough to walk away from oncoming traffic? And while not being able to hear anything. You’re so fucking lucky that I came after you.” His criticism may have been right, but damn, it hurt you to hear the words come from his mouth as he towered above you, who was still down in the dirt, fingers pressing into the earth’s dust.

“I’m sorry.” You pulled yourself up to his level, not looking at him. “Are you hurt?” Trying to not let your voice break, you knew Cain wasn’t sympathetic to tears, and it felt too humiliating to break down in front of him now.

He sighed, tutting. “I should be asking you that.” His voice was low, any trace of anger at your stupidity gone as he swallowed hard. “I’m sorry that was… harsh of me.”

Two apologies from him tonight, record breaking. And this one you could not chose to ignore. “What you said was true. I wasn’t thinking, it was dumb of me to be so careless.”

“No.” He shook his head leading you back out onto the now dead road. He picked up your destroyed iPod and handed it over, your fingers ever so slightly brushing. “I know this road better than you; I shouldn’t have let you walk alone. Or at least warned you. Idiots always speed down it since it’s so quiet and with the lack of street lights it can be a problem.”

“Yeah well, I stormed out. Neither of us planned for…” You trailed off shivering in the wind. For a summer’s night it was colder than usual. You pulled your cardigan closer to you and winced, feeling the cold air smooth over your back. “Shit I loved this cardigan.” You mumbled, pulling it off to see the big tear it had down the back and across the sleeve, probably from where you had fallen.

“You are hurt.” Cain said grabbing your arm unexpectedly, twisting your elbow towards him to look at your injury. You glanced over his fingers pressed into your skin, checking his expression for the usual signs of disgust at human contact. But surprisingly he only seemed concerned. It was weird.

“It’s only a graze.” You said pulling your arm from him, a little unsettled at the whole situation, shivering again. “I can clean it up when I get home.”

“I’ll walk you to the bus.” He said already moving ahead before glancing back and stopping. “You cold?” He asked noticing you shiver, clutching your destroyed cardigan, smashed iPod and tangled earbuds in one hand. “Here.” Before you could say anything he was taking off his brown hoodie and putting it over your shoulders in a rather gentlemanly manner. You had yet to see him uncovered by the thick fabric barrier in all the time you had known him. It gave you a chance to cast gaze over his slender torso, black and red striped top clinging to him tightly, an obvious size too small. His notebook remained clutched at his side.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I don’t tend to feel the cold.”

“Oh yeah.” You whispered, “I remember you saying when we first met at the fare.”

Cain nodded continuing to head down the road, you trailing behind watching his messy jet-black hair drift in the breeze and you had to stop yourself from staring. The two of you walked in silence for a while, the trees having ceased their whispering as well.

Suddenly you realised something. “Cain thank you.” You said feeling guilty it had taken so long for you to tell him that.

He did not look back. “Don’t worry about it, I did what anyone would do.” “That’s not what I meant, well, I am still appreciative of you saving me from being ran over, but I meant thank you for coming after me.” That caused him to turn and glance at you, and through the dark you could see his aloof mask slip just a bit from his face.

“I’m sorry. It was a stupid argument.” He said at last turning back. “I don’t want to lose you over it.”

“Lose me?” You asked.

Cain pressed his fingers into his palms, posture stiffening. With a hoarse voice he replied, “Yeah, lose a friend.” The words were forced, but also a warning to not pry further because something told you that he did not even know what the significance of that word meant to him. You were more likely to reach the conclusion of what he wanted before he himself even knew.

And it was becoming clear to the darkness at least, what he wanted was you.

The two of you arrived at a dimly lit bus stop, taking a seat you wished you had brought your flip phone, or watch if only to check the time. The bus came hourly this late, who knew when the next one would come. Cain promised to wait until you got on it though, he himself preferring to walk the long way back to town on his own for what ever reason. Perhaps you thought that it was because of you? Maybe he had had enough awkwardness for the day and wanted the familiar company of just himself for the trip back to town. Or maybe he would finish the adventure and go back the children’s hospital alone like he had done before. Soon thoughts of Cain swam around in your head, keeping you occupied while he returned to scribbling in his notebook until the engine roar of the bus reached both of you. The door pulled open as Cain closed his notebook, turning to you with a new, unreadable expression. His eyes glanced to the bus.

“See you on the node?” You asked.

“If you’re not giving up on me just yet.”

You shook your head. “I’ll give this back.” You said beginning to shrug his hoodie off from your shoulders, but he stopped you.

“Don’t worry about it, keep it, you can give it back whenever.” Cain took a step back, hands in his pockets, notebook resting on the bust stop bench as he chewed on his lip. “I’ll check the node tonight, if you can message to say you got home alright.”

You nodded taking a step towards the bus, Cain’s jacket still wrapped around you. “I will.”

A promise he would hold you to. Cain watched you grab a window seat on the bus as you put both arms through the sleeves of his hoodie, pulling it close to you. It was surprisingly soft. A sad smile tugged at his lips, as he watched the bus drive off after you waved goodbye to him from inside.