We Protect Those Who Cannot Protect Themselves.

„Hello?“ a rough, sleepy voice answers the phone.

“Hey, Tim? Can you pick me up at work, please?” You are in the employee bathroom at work, keeping your voice low, eyes fixed on the door and overly observant of the sounds coming from behind it.

“What? Why?” After a short pause in which you feared he fell asleep again, he added, 

“I mean sure, but why?”

You sighed. “Do you remember the new hire at my work? The creepy guy?”

“Yes, what happened?” You could hear ruffling on the other end and what sounded like a chair rolling over his offices´ floor.

“Calm down, nothing serious. But I kinda told him I had a boyfriend.”

The noise stops for a split second. “But you don’t have one?”

“Exactly. But I have you?” He follows up with a tiny “oh.” 

“Please come pick me up and,” you lower your voice even more, hoping he would catch your words, “pretend we’re dating?” 

“On my way.”

The call ends and you prepare yourself mentally to face the guy who makes your days even more stressful than they already are again.

Not even twenty minutes later, thanks to the lunchtime rush, you've been able to avoid the guy for the most part when Tim enters the café.

He wears a suit, his hair slightly ruffled and his tie loosened up. Even from afar you can make out the dark circles under his eyes. Still, he looks stupidly good.

He scans the room, bypassing the last few people waiting to give up their orders. His eyes land on a man behind the counter, typing in something on the screen. Tim waits for him to finish serving the customer.

He walks up to the counter. 

“Hello -” your coworker begins.

“You work here?”

The man behind the counter narrows his eyes, looking Tim up and down. “Obviously?”

“You’re the new hire.” That wasn't a question. The shitty latte art gave it away.

The man quickly looks to you, helplessly. “Yes?” 

“She’s not going to help you.” Tim's tone was detached, his gaze dropping down to the other man. “Matter of fact, you’re not going to speak to her again. I would ask for your manager's name but I already have that information. Do these cameras work?” Tim turns away from the counter and points up. Your coworker nods slowly. “Do you have more?” your coworker shakes his head, still confused about what is happening.

You finish the order for a young woman, the last person from the long line of people that come here every day at noon.

You take a few steps toward them, not having heard the men's full conversation.

Tim's eyes are fixed on your coworker. “Probably still enough evidence on there, not to mention the statements of the other employees.”

“What the hell is happening? What do you want dude?”

“Why am I not surprised about your lack of social awareness?”

The man is about to protest.

“Don’t use up your remaining brain capacity, you'll need it when looking for a new job.” Tim finally looks at you, a warm smile replacing the icy look he had just a second ago. “Hey.”

“Hey.” You say, kinda breathless. His gaze is intense but still welcoming. You love his eyes, especially on you.

“Ready to go? Picked up the wine you like, thought we could have dinner tonight?”

You don't know if it's just the lighting, but Tim’s face has the faintest pink blush.

You hope he isn't noticing you blushing as well. “Just gonna go get my bag. Wait a second.” 

You vanish into the back, still able to hear your coworker say,  “Who even are you?”

“Her boyfriend.” Tim’s tone is flat and indifferent, his eyes already drifting away toward the exit.

It's just pretend, you tell yourself. But hearing him calling you his girlfriend makes your chest feel warm and ache painfully at the same time. 

It’s just pretend. 

A few moments later, you leave your workplace behind. Tim takes the liberty to hook his arm into yours.

“I think you scared him for life,” you laugh. “Thank you, Tim.”

“No problem.” He looks at you, a smile on his face again. 

You two stop in front of his car. He opens the passenger door. On the seat, a bottle of wine and a bouquet of your favorite flowers. You turn your head, looking back at him. One hand is already on his neck.

“I planned on coming in with that. To, you know, make a show. But figured that might be too much.” He laughs shyly.

You look at the flowers and the wine again. “Oh wow.”

“You know, since we have the wine now anyways, we might as well drink it. We can order some food if you want?”

You can feel your neck and ears burning hot. He made it sound like an actual date. 

“Statistically,” he starts, “pretend dating shows success in long-term romantic partnerships.”

At that, you laugh, turning to him again. “That's a lie.”

The corners of his lips lift up cautiously. “We can try to make that a study?”

“Are you asking me out for real right now?”

“Depends what your answer is going to be. If it’s no, I'm just joking.” 

Frank sat at her side every hour, except when he went to their homes to grab some clothes or some fast food. He even got Peter a change of clothes from his apartment.

'He would use them,' he told himself. 'He would.'

He also managed to get (y/n) to take a shower in one of the hospital's vacant rooms. It had only taken Frank one look at the nurse for her to agree and open up the room for (y/n) to use.

It was another day after that before they were allowed to see him. Nothing could have prepared (y/n) for the sight before her---wires and IVs surrounded Peter's bloody and broken body. Tears immediately sprang to her eyes as the doctor spoke.

"He shouldn't be alive, but he is. It's a miracle."

Frank stepped forward, wrapping an arm around (y/n)'s shoulders. "When... when should he wake up?"

"A day? A week?" he shrugged. "We're not sure."

(Y/n) sniffled and turned to the doctor. "But he will wake up?"

"We believe so."

She nodded and approached the bed, leaving her father to get the specifics from the doctor. He looked so small. So pale. Sinking down on the edge of the bed, (y/n)'s thumb lightly traced his cheek, careful of the dark bruising and stitched cut to his temple.

"Hey, Spider-Man," she said in a broken whisper. "I need you to wake up for me. Please."

The steady hum of the ventilator was the only response.

Shakily sighing, she gently took his hand and moved to one of the two chairs beside the bed, scooting it as close as possible. Frank joined her a few minutes later, eyes red-rimmed as he stared at the broken hero lying in the bed.

"He's how I thought he would look, you know."

(Y/n) glanced at the door. They were alone. "Spider-Man or my boyfriend?"

"Both, really," he huffed. "You've got a type."

"What does that-"

"I'm just glad it's not guys like me, alright? You've... found a good one. I-I like him."

"I was gonna tell him about you, but it just didn't feel like the right time." (Y/n) waved her free hand in the air. "Then all this happened, and we both came clean. I told him I knew he was Spider-Man, and he told me about the problems he's been having."

"I'm sorry, (y/n). This is all my fault. I should've-"

She clenched her eyes closed. "Stop. He won't blame you. He's too good." Her glossy gaze met her father's. "I don't. Blame you, I mean. I just want him to wake up."

And that's how the next two days passed---sitting at his bedside, telling him everything about anything she could think of. Stories from the coffee shop, how she felt the first time she saw him, how she felt now. The three words she'd held back slipped from her lips without restraint as she talked to him.

Nurses took the ventilator out after day one, settling with a mask supplying him the extra oxygen he needed to make up for the weakness in his lungs. Her eyes drifted to his stomach beneath the scratchy blankets. Due to his body's strength from the powers, the exit wound had been much smaller than normal.

.50 cals didn't leave small exit wounds.

What did it look like now with his speed healing? Did the stitching hurt? Was the damaged tissue repairing itself right then?

"Sweetheart. How about you go take a shower?"

She cut her eyes over at her dad. "Do I smell that bad?"

"No," he grinned. "You just... need a break. I'll sit with him."

(Y/n)'s mouth opened, but he cut her off with a nod. "I'll holler if anything happens. You're ten feet away."

After a long moment of deliberation, she relented, kissing Peter's forehead and disappearing into the bathroom. The water soothed her aching back as she let the heat settle into her bones. That chair was nothing short of a torture device designed to destroy the occupant's posture and offer no support.

Maybe it was all a ploy to get people back in the hospital.

(Y/n) shook her head. What was going on? Was she delusional?

Possibly, seeing as she'd only slept a few hours the past few nights. But how could she? When she closed her eyes, she saw the man she loved bleeding out before her. When she opened them, he lay breathing in the bed beside her.

One option was clearly better than the other.

(Y/n) quickly finished her shower and changed into gray sweatpants and a navy NYC sweatshirt. She opened the door, towel-drying her hair as she exited. "You happened to grab my favorite sweatshirt-"

The towel slipped to the floor.

"Peter?" she whispered.

He turned and smiled weakly at her from the window. "Hey."

For the first time in days, (y/n) felt like she could breathe. She was at his side the next moment, kissing every part of his face she could touch, tears trickling down her cheeks. "You're awake."

"I'll, uh, give you two a minute." Frank closed the door behind him.

(Y/n) helped Peter back into bed. She sat on the edge, gripping his hand for dear life. He was awake. His brown eyes stared back at her, dazed, but very much his.

Peter leaned back into his pillows with a sigh. "I guess I wasn't very careful."

"Peter," (y/n) breathed, shaking her head. "It's too soon for jokes."

They simply stared at each other for a few minutes, savoring each other's company. Her eyes lowered to their joined hands, then to his stomach.

"I thought I was gonna lose you. When we found you, I-" Her voice broke. "You were just... just lying there in a pool of your own blood."

Peter sat up further, wincing slightly as he did so. "Hey, I need to tell you something. Can you look at me?"

(Y/n) looked up at him through her lashes.

“When it… happened, my first thought was of you. I thought I was going to die without...” He shook his head, eyes glistening. “Without telling you how much you mean to me.”

Peter took a deep breath and pulled her closer by the hand. “I love you. More than anything, and when-”

He didn’t get the chance to finish his confession. (Y/n) kissed him softly, hands cupping his cheeks. “I love you, too,” she whispered against his lips.

With a content sigh, Peter smiled and slowly wrapped his arm around her, tugging her to lay beside him. He ignored her protests and leaned into her. Her warmth seeped through his thin hospital gown and deep into his bones.

“Does it hurt?”

He hummed against her hair.

“Pete.”

“Yeah,” he sighed.

“Did you, uh, talk to my dad?”

He raised a brow. “As your boyfriend or Spider-Man?”

“Either. He’s really cut up over what happened.”

“I know. But I’m okay. Really.”

Peter chuckled under his breath, and (y/n) sat up enough to look at him. “What?”

“I guess your dad really did shoot me.”

“Pete.”

“I asked you if he knew who I was, and you said he’d probably shoot me on site.”

She buried her face in his neck. “Still too soon.”

“Well, I’m just glad we got it out of the way.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So experimentation and torture?" (y/n) asked, popping into the back of the screen.

"Yes. Wait, who are you?"

Peter shooed her out of the camera and quickly shut down Yelena's questions. With a quick thank you, Peter ended the call and found (y/n) pacing in her room.

"I know you've gotta go, but Pete, please be careful. Rescue her, but don't forget she's still dangerous."

He gently cupped her cheeks, cutting off her rambling. "I will be, okay? I promise."

"Okay," she whispered. "Now go save the day, Spider-Man."

Then he was gone, swinging through the city like a madman as he raced to Roosevelt Island. Back at the docks, (y/n) continued to pace. Her stomach rolled at the thought of Peter facing Jean and Damage Control alone.

She had to do something.

"Dad!"

~~~

Myrtle's tired screeched to a halt as Frank slammed on the brakes to avoid the ten-car pileup. They both hopped out of the car with furrowed brows. Everyone within the shimmering dome stood frozen. A little white dog's leash was caught halfway down the strap. It frantically barked at its frozen owner.

(Y/n) smiled as she thought of Peter's fake story from the day before. His explanations were always hilarious because she knew the truth about his daily habits.

"Yo, kid!" Frank hollered into his comms. "We've got a problem. The girl's frozen everyone within a mile-and-a-half radius of the island."

"Okay. I'm here now. Is (y/n)-"

She flipped on her comms. "Hey, Spider-Man."

"What?! Why aren't you at Frank's?!"

"We thought you might need backup."

"I've got it under control, alright. You need to go back-"

Frank shook his head. "She's safer with me, kid. Trust me."

"Alright. I gotta go. Frank, I've got a plan. Don't interfere with it."

The comms cut out without another word, and the pair's eyes met. It only took one second for (y/n) to know he would never listen to the young hero. If there was one thing about Frank Castle, he always had a backup plan, a failsafe.

He hurried over to the van. "Get in."

They sped down the streets, laying on the horn as they swerved through traffic to somewhere only he knew. Frank pulled over and grabbed his rifle case from the trunk before running inside the nearest building. (Y/n) followed him up the stairs to the roof, where he quickly assembled his rifle.

"Spider-Man said not to interfere. You better not use that unless you're sure you have to."

"I'll do whatever I see fit. And what's with you and Spider-Man?"

"Oh, just shut up," she groaned. "You're reaching."

"Really?"

"Yes, now--Dad! It's expanding!"

"Okay, okay." Frank rested the bipod at the edge of the building and set up the shot. It only took him a moment to adjust for the range.

BANG.

(Y/n)'s brows lifted, and she stood as she scanned the city around her. "It's gone! You did it." She tapped her comms. "Spider-Man, the dome's gone!"

Silence.

"Spider-Man?"

The next thing she knew, Frank grabbed her arm and rushed them down the stairs and out of the building. The stricken expression on his face told her something was wrong. Was he upset about shooting Jean?

So upset that he left his specialty long-range rifle?

"What's wrong?" she asked as they climbed into the car and sped toward the Roosevelt Island bridge. Other than the occasional grunt, he didn't respond. "Dad?"

It was only when they arrived at the Damage Control facility that it all came together. She sprinted behind her dad toward the shattered facility. Frank pushed through the ajar door and froze for half a second.

There, in the center of the destroyed room, was Spider-Man. And he was lying in a widening pool of blood.

Frank was by his side in an instant, putting pressure on his pouring wound. "Hang on, kid. Hang on."

(Y/n)'s feet remained glued to the floor. She couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't come to terms with what had happened.

Her dad had shot Spider-Man. He had shot her boyfriend. He had shot Peter. Her Peter.

Then, as if everything crashed down on her at once, she ran for him with everything she had, sliding to her knees on broken glass beside him. Tears streamed down her face as she knelt over him, cradling his unconscious face in her hands.

"Peter? No, no, no, no," she cried. "Pete, you're gonna be okay. You hear me?"

"We gotta get him to a hospital. Now!"

Frank hoisted him into his arms with a grunt and dashed to the van. He laid Peter in the back, and (y/n) jumped up with him while her dad put the pedal to the metal.

"Put pressure on it! There should be some, uh, a med kit back there."

With one hand pressing on the wound, she rummaged through the junk around her until she found a roll of gauze. (Y/n) pushed against the wound using her full weight, begging him to stay with her.

"We're so close, baby. Come on."

"One minute out!"

The minute passed in what seemed like a few seconds. Then the doors flew open, and Frank hoisted Peter into his arms again. Just as he was about to make for the doors, (y/n) pulled his mask over his head.

"He'd--he'd want-"

Frank didn't need a further explanation as he bolted through the automatic doors. "Get me a medic! Now!" he bellowed.

In a flash, Peter was on a gurney and being rolled down the hallway as hospital staff swarmed his bed. Hands quickly cut his suit and removed the mask as they got to work. (Y/n) and Frank tried to follow, but two nurses stopped them.

"I'm sorry. You can't go back there. The doctors need to work."

"The hell I can't!" yelled Frank, pointing at the crowd disappearing down the hall.

After the threat of calling security was raised, he stepped back and sank into the closest chair, dropping his head in his hands. (Y/n) stood motionless as she stared down the hallway. His blood, Peter's blood, soaked her dark tactical jacket down to the skin. She still felt the fading warmth of his body beneath her touch as she slowly looked down at her hands.

Drying blood covered every inch---caked beneath her nails, the crevices of her shaking hands. Her vision blurred, and everything became too much. She numbly followed the signs to the bathroom, where she collapsed and emptied her stomach into one of the toilets. Then she dry heaved when there was nothing left.

And when that finally ceased, (y/n) just leaned back against the bathroom stall and let everything go. She held herself tightly as she sobbed, shaking uncontrollably until the emotions ebbed into numbness.

She stumbled over to the sink, leaving pink splotches on the white porcelain. (Y/n) scrubbed and scrubbed until her hands were raw. The only blood beneath her fingernails was there due to her own cracked nails. Her eyes caught on the pink soap as it swirled down the drain.

But when she caught sight of herself in the mirror? That's when things truly fell apart. Eyes red and swollen, tearstains streaking through smears of blood, clothes still slick with Peter's blood...

(Y/n) took a shuddering breath and braced her hands on the sink.

"He's okay. He's gonna be okay," she whispered to herself. She needed to believe it. Had to. A life without Peter seemed heartless, devoid of all warmth and love. Of course she loved her dad, too, but that was different.

Her dad.

Emotions warred within her at the thought. He shot Peter, but he was trying to save everyone from Jean. Anger and sadness. Frustration and understanding. In the end, an overwhelming exhaustion won out.

She washed her face and cleaned her clothes to the best of her ability before returning to her dad. Two chairs had been moved directly beside the ICU doors for the two of them in their own makeshift "waiting room."

Frank glanced up when he heard her footsteps. "So I guess I have met Peter Pan, huh?" he croaked, shaking his head when emotion filled his voice.

She only nodded as she sat beside him.

"I am so sorry, sweetheart. I..." Frank trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. He took a moment to compose himself before continuing. "I messed up. Bad. And I hate myself for it. I'm so sorry."

(Y/n)'s eyes burned once again, and her throat closed up. Unable to speak, she reached over and grasped his hand, squeezing once. That was all it took for Frank to pull her into a hug.

He cradled the back of her head. "I'm here."

________________________________________________________________

A/N: Okay, I can't leave y'all hanging. Part four is in the works!

"No." Peter shook his head. "It's just... the mask. It kind of defeats the whole anonymous superhero thing."

Frank opened his mouth with a retort, but (y/n) beat him to it. "What happened to your face?"

He scoffed, pointing to Peter with his spoon. "Ask this dum-dum. He bashed up my van."

"Myrtle?"

"Myrtle."

Peter frowned beneath the suit. He'd been the one hiding so much that he never thought she'd been hiding anything. She'd said her parents were gone, which appeared true if Frank "adopted" her. But what would push a bristling man like him to do something like that?

That was a question for another day.

The trio finished supper before long, and Peter went off to work on his inhibitor. He was pleasantly surprised that Frank had the tools he needed. After the day he'd had, he was starting to learn to not count the man out. He couldn't help but overhear the pair's conversation from their spot in the living room.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "It's been a day."

"What happened?"

"One second I was on my lunch break, and then I was swinging here with Spider-Man."

By the creak of the couch springs, it sounded like he sat down beside her. "That girl... The kid said she's after you."

"I don't know why."

"You're not leaving this boat until I take her out."

"Dad-"

"No. I'll put a bullet between her eyes before I let her get to you again."

"I know," she whispered.

Silence stretched between them.

"How are you and Peter Pan, or whatever his name is?"

(Y/n) laughed softly. "We're good."

"Why haven't I met him yet?"

"Don't even act like you haven't done some crazy illegal background check on him."

"What? Me?"

Peter shook his head and pulled off his mask with a huff, suddenly aware that he was definitely prying. On his girlfriend of all people! Sure, Frank being her adopted dad was a bombshell, but he trusted her. She would tell him in her own time.

Before long, footsteps echoed down the hallway, and (y/n) emerged. Thankfully, he had the curtain pulled between them.

"I bet it's crazy having Frank as your dad."

A deep breath was the only indication she'd heard him. Too much, Peter thought. Leave it be.

"I didn't mean for you to find out this way," she said quietly.

He looked up from his work, brows furrowing. "What?"

"Can you come out here, please?"

What was going on?

"Uhh, sure."

He tugged back on the mask and slid back the curtain. (Y/n) sat on the cot with her hands on her head. When he entered, she looked up at him.

"Without the mask, Peter."

If his mind was already frazzled, that sent it into overdrive. "My name's not Peter," he sputtered, raising his hands. "I don't even know a Peter."

(Y/n) stood slowly and approached him, a slight smirk on her lips. "I'm not stupid."

Peter's mouth went dry. "I never said you were," he ground out.

And then she was only a foot away, smiling at him and slowly pulling up his mask until it rested on his nose. Her warm breath fanned against his face. "I know you, Peter," she whispered.

(Y/n)'s hands hooked around his neck and pulled off the mask as she closed the distance, soft lips meeting his. Peter responded immediately, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer. They pulled away, breathless, and pressed their foreheads together.

"Hi," she whispered when their eyes opened.

"Hi."

(Y/n) smiled. "You're Spider-Man."

"You're Frank's daughter."

She nodded, stepping back from him, but Peter kept his hold around her waist. "It's a long story."

"You don't have to tell me now. But when did you find out? About me, I mean?"

"About eight months ago."

Peter's eyes widened, then narrowed in confusion a moment later. "What? How?"

"It wasn't hard," (y/n) smirked. "You're always out at night, you cancel all the time, you always have random cuts and bruises. But what really sold it was the red and blue lint in your dryer vent."

He shook his head with a groan, closing his eyes. "I should've known. You never asked me about anything."

"I knew you'd tell me when you were ready."

"Yeah. Does, uh, does Frank... know?"

"No," (y/n) insisted. "I wouldn't do that to you. Besides, I think he might shoot you on sight."

Rolling his eyes, Peter pressed a quick kiss to her lips and moved back to his workstation. Her eyes roamed the screen as he sank into the rolly chair. "Peter, what is this? Arachnid DNA?"

So he told her everything---from his episode with the cacoon to the inhibitor he now worked on. By the end of his spiel, she stared down at him with tears in her eyes.

"You've been going through all of this alone? Pete. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to put you in danger. What happened to May... that was because of me. I couldn't live with myself if that happened to you, too."

A wave of deja-vu washed over him. He'd said the same words to her earlier, except it wasn't her. It was Jean.

"Well, now we're in this together," said (y/n), running a hand over his hair. "Let's get this figured out."

~~~

A few hours and brainstorms later, they figured out the goggles were messing with the inhibitor's magnetic field. Relief flooded his senses as it activated, lowering the arachnid DNA in his bloodstream.

"Are we sure this is a good thing?" she asked cautiously.

"Yeah, I'm sure. I don't want to turn into a monster."

"You could never be a monster."

Peter's gaze fell to the floor. "(Y/n), you haven't seen what happens when it takes over. I-I can't control myself."

"I understand, but pushing it down... that can't be good."

Before he could respond, Frank called out for (y/n), and she retreated to the living room with a sigh. They would talk more about it later. He used the time to set up a visual search for Jean Gray.

~~~

The next morning, Peter found himself sitting across from Frank, sipping a cup of coffee while he scoured the internet for any trace of the girl. He'd found nothing but a few adoption records.

"What really happened yesterday," asked Frank, "-with (y/n)."

Peter's gaze met his. "I already told you-"

"Don't bullshit me, kid. I know there's something you're not telling her."

"Alright," he sighed. "When Jean inhabited her, she, uh, made her jump off the roof."

"And why is she being targeted?"

Because she's my girlfriend? Absolutely not.

"I'm not exactly sure."

Frank didn't seem convinced, but didn't push him. "Thanks for keeping her safe."

"Yeah."

A chime filled the air. SUSPECT SIGHTED.

"Jean's been sighted. Looks like she's attacking Damage Control HQ. I gotta go." He looked over his shoulder at the door she slept behind. "Can you make sure-"

Rolling his eyes, Frank scoffed. "You don't have to ask. Go."

A few moments after Peter disappeared, (y/n)'s door creaked open. She crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head at her dad.

"You're really gonna let him go alone? You owe him after Staten Island."

"Oh come on, sweetheart. You know I-"

"Dad."

Frank reluctantly rose from his chair, grabbing his vest from its hook by the fridge. It only took him a few seconds to grab all his equipment and stand before her.

"You stay here, you hear me?"

(Y/n) nodded. "Be careful."

"Aren't I always?"

With a kiss to her forehead, Frank followed Peter into the fray. (Y/n) stared at the door, saying a silent prayer that the two most important people in her life would return to her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I just might be working on a part three if y'all want it! Let me know in the comments! Thanks for reading!

"No, I was-I was just, uh- working out and-"

"I'm kidding," she interrupted with a smile.

Peter huffed and sank into one of the two chairs at his "dining table." Dining table, workstation, counter space... that table did it all. Everything became multipurpose in such a small apartment. He wiped a few crumbs from the table while he watched (y/n) flit around the kitchen, telling him about her day at the coffee shop.

He listened intently about the group of teenage girls who'd spent the whole morning sitting across from each other without saying a single word. She absentmindedly chopped up the vegetables she'd brought from the store.

"What's the point of even hanging out if you're just gonna stare at your phone the whole time?" (Y/n) shook her head. "I don't get it."

He couldn't help but chuckle.

"What?" she asked with a raised brow.

"Nothing."

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh at me. How about you tell me what you did today, Parker?"

What could he say? Yeah, I passed out and then woke up in a literal spiderweb? Or I'm currently fighting against arachnid DNA taking over my body?

"I just... delivered some DoorDash orders. A little dog got out, and I had to chase it down."

The expression on her face changed from faux annoyance to suspicion. “What color was it?”

“White,” he answered immediately.

“Hmm.”

Then she went back to cooking. Peter got up to join her, but then he bowed over, clutching his head with a hand on the chair for balance. (Y/n) ran over to him and helped him to the couch.

"Pete?" she sputtered, kneeling in front of him with her hands resting on his knees. "Hey, hey, hey. I'm here. What can I do?"

Her only answer was another groan as he tightened his grip on his head. Peter's headaches had started a few months prior and got progressively worse. This was the worst she'd seen.

(Y/n)'s eyes scanned the room, thinking of what she could do to help when they landed on the medicine cabinet. Advil. It wouldn't do much, but it would give him a little relief... right?

Promising she'd be right back, (y/n) sprinted to get the bottle and a glass of water. By the time she returned a few moments later, it appeared the worst of it had passed. She got him to take a few pills before sitting next to him.

She soothingly ran her fingers through his curls. Peter leaned into her touch as she whispered. "Feeling any better?"

Peter nodded slightly.

"Good... Babe, have you been to the doctor yet? They keep getting worse and-"

"I'm fine," he ground out. "I don't need to go. The meds are helping."

(Y/n) opened her mouth, but Peter beat her to it. He squinted over at her. "Dinner's burning."

"Shoot."

With a gentle kiss to his hair, she got up and sprinted to the kitchen. A sharp pain rang through his head at the loss of her touch. He didn't understand it-how he'd become so attached so quickly. One day he was content with being alone. But then the next, she was there, smiling at him from across the hall as she moved in.

And a year later, he couldn't imagine his life without her. Gone were the days of endless Little Caesars boxes littering his apartment. Instead, he had home-cooked meals most nights before patrols. (Y/n) brought back a light in his life that had long been extinguished... a warmth that had disappeared when May died.

May would like her. Peter had no doubt about that.

His heart beat a little faster, and his mind got fuzzy in her presence. He knew love was the word to describe how he felt, but saying it out loud made it more real. More dangerous.

The closer they got, the more danger she was in. Peter had battled within himself time and time again about telling her, but he could never justify putting (y/n) in more danger. So he kept her close, but just shut out, just far enough away to keep her from knowing the truth about him.

But a few days later, when the... thing that was inhabiting people found him, it shook him to his core.

"You know, your apartment is just what I expected. A sad, twenty-something man's apartment. Imagine my surprise when I read the letter on the fridge. Sweet really."

Peter's brows furrowed beneath his suit. "You're bluffing."

They had to be.

"Am I?" Then the thing jumped across the way to inhabit a man walking by. "Does (y/n) know about this side of you, Peter Parker? Does she know about the… monster inside you?"

Peter took a step closer, ignoring the forming pit in his stomach. “What do you want? V-MAX? You’re not getting it.”

The person laughed. “I can get whatever I want. I think (y/n) would love to know that her beloved boyfriend is New York’s favorite web slinger.”

“You don’t know where she is.”

“It’s a long way to the coffee shop.”

His heart sank. The letter. She’d talked about going there on their first date. And there was the picture hanging beside the letter of them. Peter was pretty sure you could see the window art behind them.

Before he could move, the thing switched to a woman twenty feet away. “Race you.”

And then he was off, frantically swinging through the city after the thing as it inhabited person after person. Peter couldn't, wouldn't let it near (y/n). If anything happened to her... no, he couldn't think about that. But then the thing inhabited the helicopter pilot, and Peter thought it was over. His heartbeat echoed in his ears as he frantically got E.V. to figure out its max jump distance.

33 feet.

Peter managed to trap the thing by webbing the helicopter to a crane, suspending it with no one inside the jump radius. He breathed a little easier as he swung to the bakery.

He checked the time on his HUD. 2:30. She'd be on her lunch break, probably eating her sandwich on the roof of the building like normal. Peter smiled at the memory of that conversation.

"Why do you go up there?"

(Y/n) shrugged, smiling over at him. "I just like feeling the sun on my face."

It was the little things that made him love her. How she cooked for him without being asked, how she never pried about his past, how she was always patient when he had to cancel. But most of all, how she grounded him. Spider-Man had started to take over Peter Parker's life.

But then she'd arrived.

Peter found her just where he thought he would, sitting in a ratty beach chair atop the building. The crust of her sandwich lay in the plastic bag on her lap. Perching on the far corner of the building, Peter found himself watching her for a few moments.

A warmth he could only describe as adoration settled inside him where worry and fear had been occupying minutes earlier. She was safe.

But if this thing could travel that fast, he had to get her out of here. But where was far enough from people to keep her safe? Then it hit him.

Who was the one person who isolated themselves from everyone and could actually defend her if need be? Frank.

He turned on the voice changer on his suit and hopped down from his perch. "Miss (y/l/n)! You need to come with me right now. You're in danger."

She whipped around so fast that she almost fell out of the chair, barely managing to catch herself before shooting up. "Spider-Man? What are you talking about?" she sputtered.

"There's no time," he said with a shake of his head. "Someone's after you, and we need to get you out of here. Right now."

"But-"

"We gotta go." Peter extended a hand to her. "Trust me."

(Y/n) narrowed her eyes for half a second as she came to a decision. After a moment, she sighed. "Okay."

In a flash, she was in his arms, clutching him for dear life as he swung them across the city. Holding her close eased some of Peter's anxiety, but he wouldn't feel completely at ease until they reached Frank's.

"Hey! Spider-Man!" She cried, tapping his shoulder. "Put me down and tell me what's going on! Now!!"

They didn't have time, but he swung them onto a nearby roof anyway. She immediately stepped back from him. He expected her to run her hands through her now-tangled hair, but instead she bent over and placed her hands on her knees. After taking a few deep breaths, she stood up and approached him with wide eyes.

"What's happening right now?"

"There's this thing... it-it can inhabit people and control them," Peter stuttered. It was even scarier saying it out loud. "And now it's coming after you. We've got to get you out of the city so it can't reach you."

Her brows drew together. "Why is it after me?"

Peter took a moment to think. 'Because you're my girlfriend' didn't seem like the best answer at the moment. "I don't know."

"You don't know? Then how do you know it's coming after me?"

"I just do, okay?!" He took a few steps toward her so they were only a couple of feet apart. His voice softened. "You're going to have to trust me."

"I don't know you."

"(Y/n), please."

The desperation in his voice appeared to convince her. "Fine. But I need to let my boyfriend know I'm okay."

Peter couldn't help but chuckle. The irony of it all. "I'll take care of it."

"How do you know my boyfriend?"

"Peter, right?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. "He, uh, delivered my DoorDash the other day. Told me about his girl who loved Spider-Man. Even showed me a picture. Respectful guy."

She turned from him, pacing. "He didn't mention that," she muttered. (Y/n) stopped pacing and wrapped her arms around herself, standing on the edge of the building and staring out over the city. "I think he’s cheating on me.”

“What!? No!” Peter’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. “He’s crazy about you, (y/n), I swear!"

She peered at him over her shoulder, eyes shining with tears. "And how would you know that, Spider-Man?"

"Because I..." Peter trailed off.

He had to tell her.

Turning off his voice changer, Peter approached her. "Because I know how I feel about you, (y/n)."

"Peter?"

Her face morphed from sadness to confusion as she recognized his voice. She raised her hands to his shoulders, then up to his face before slowly peeling off his mask.

"Hi," he whispered. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. It's because I-I love you, and I don't want anything to happen to you because of me."

(Y/n) shook her head at him, hands resting on his face. "You could've told me. And I love you, too."

Their lips met a moment later. She threaded her fingers through his hair as they kissed. Pulling away, she smiled and turned back toward the edge.

"It's funny, you know?"

"What?" he chuckled, unable to stop a wide grin.

"That you thought she'd accept your lies."

Peter's smile dropped. No, no, no, no...

(Y/n) turned around to face him, backing her heels to the edge of the building, sending a few rocks tumbling to the street below. Her face no longer held the warmth he'd seen moments before.

"Still didn't mention the monster inside you, Peter."

He held out his hands. "Please, just leave her alone. Please."

Then she was falling, nothing but air between her and the street. Peter darted after her and managed to wrap his arms around her just before she hit the pavement. He propped her up against his chest.

"Hey, hey, hey. You're okay," breathed Peter.

(Y/n)'s chest rose and fell slowly, and he felt like he could breathe again. That was until a car pulled up and its driver got out. The inhabited man threatened them one last time before getting back in and pulling away. Peter's HUD managed to get a picture of the culprit.

It was a girl. A teenager.

He would find out her identity later. The unconscious woman in his arms was his only priority. Wrapping his arms around her, Peter took off through the streets, swinging toward Frank's.

They were almost there when (y/n) came to. She started thrashing in his hold for a moment before realizing she was a hundred feet in the air.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! How'd I get here!? Spider-Man?"

"It's okay! I'm taking you somewhere safe, alright? Just breathe."

To his surprise, she only held him tighter and didn't ask any questions. Only when they landed at the docks did she speak.

"Look, I need to tell-"

He nodded back at her. "Your boyfriend knows you're safe."

"Okay, thanks, but that's not what I was saying," (y/n) said with a smile. "Make sure to watch where you're-"

Click.

A moment later, Peter set off a series of booby traps that ended with them rolling down into the dry dock. "You good?" he asked breathlessly.

(Y/n) nodded and rose to her feet just as a rough voice echoed through the empty warehouse. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

Peter raised a brow. "Didn't really have time to call, Frank."

"Not you, daffodil," Frank scoffed. "Sweetheart, what are you doing with web-slinger here?"

Sweetheart?

She shrugged. "I don't really know."

"Why is she here, kid?" said Frank, his attention returning to Spider-Man.

"There's this thing after her, and I need somewhere to keep her safe."

The man's face shifted to something resembling worry. Peter had never seen the expression on Frank's face before. He'd expected to have to convince him, but he only scanned the dock's entrance before smiling down at (y/n).

"Made your favorite chili."

Peter glanced between the two of them. "You two know each other."

"Yeah," she chuckled. "He's my dad."

"Your dad?!"

________________________________________________________________

A/N: You can now find part two here!

Hope you enjoyed!

This wasn't unusual on its own, evident by your endless collection of tiktok links tracing back months to years, but what was surprising was that the username had the words 'alpha' and 'male' with an underscore in between.

It was a mutual agreement between the two of you to never send each other any tiktoks pertaining to that demographic in order to preserve each other's algorithm and sanity. So, when you see the latest TikTok she had sent, you are a little taken aback as you sit upright against the headboard of your bed.

But once you click onto the video, you realize why she had sent you.

There he was — your husband, wearing a leather jacket that was slightly worn from years of resistance against the icy cold winds of Gotham City and its never-ending rain, paired with black underneath, standing with a down turned curl to his lips.

It looked like he was standing at the crosswalk, one hand holding his helmet and the other a brown paper bag, scrunched between his fingers, the diamond on his ring glinting against the overhead lamppost.

Almost like something had clicked into place, you remembered that day clearly. It was a week ago when you and Jason were out on a date night, only having to end it early due to your period arriving sooner than expected. He had gone to the nearby convenience store to buy you some sweet treats and extra tampons.

"Are you single?" the interviewer — a man who looked like he would be in his early twenties tilts the microphone towards Jason.

"No, I'm happily married," Jason grumbles, looking straight ahead.

"What would they have to do to make you break up with them?" The interviewer asks, a wide grin stretched across his face like he was going to hear a very specific answer. Perhaps Jason fit the part of an 'alpha male' but what do they say? Do not judge a book by its cover.

"I'd have to die first."

The answer is immediate, like he had thought about it before. Like the words were on a script catalogued into his mind of endless scenarios that could take place in his life. Overthinking does that — helps you imagine scenarios that had 0.1% possibility of ever happening.

Silence falls between the two men amid the bustling traffic of Gotham streets. Jason threads his fingers through the black before his thumb rubs at the diamond of his ring.

He continues despite the interviewer's sudden silence, "I don't think she would do anything like that. In fact, if our relationship comes to an end, it probably would be my fault. "

" But what if she —"

"No."

Jason doesn't let the man finish the sentence, green eyes sending a glare that could slither a person's confidence. With that, the crosswalk was open, and Jason walked towards the other side of the street, leaving the interviewer with his mouth wide open while his crew members chuckled as the video came to an end.

"What are you looking at?" Jason asks, his hair all over the place from likely ruffling it every time the main character of the book he was reading did something nonsensical. He lays down onto the comfy bed, one heavy arm over your waist while his head was on your stomach, tracing tiny circles onto your bare skin.

You showed him the TikTok, eyes shiny from a tiny layer of glaze, with your smile so wide, it hurt your cheeks.

"Oh yeah, this was some kid interviewing guys on the street and —" he mumbles before noticing a tiny tear rolling down your cheeks, "— are you crying?"

You shake your head; a small laugh slips past your lips, "You love me so much?"

"If you're asking me that question, that means I don't show you enough." Jason grabs your waist, pulling you down under him as his forearms cage your head. Immediately, his lips press onto every inch of your skin so much so that it tickles you as a shriek escapes.

"JASON!"

Now you were crying from laughter as the shared sound of your giggles and Jason's 'I love you' permeated through the home you had built on years and years of love. Finally, he cups your face, pressing one last kiss on your mouth before whispering:

"Just in case you ever foolishly forget, I am never not thinking of you."

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You and Bob were both called for the Uranium Mission which meant it was time for your favorite game, how long does it take for them to realize you're married? It started as a joke at your first command. You two had been dating since high school and got married at 21, it was just at the courthouse but it was done so you two weren't separated in the Navy. Even if you were both WSOs and it forced the detailers to have to find open slots for both of you at the same places.

This time, it was your favorite of them. You and Bob couldn't lie and say you didn't know each other, especially since you both came from Lemoore, but you two also didn't say you were married; which was made easier since neither of you wore your rings to work so they didn't get hurt or lost. Normally the others would start making jokes about getting you two mixed up or something else, but not this group.

It was pretty much pushed to the side until you were all asked to stay in Miramar after the mission. That's when the jokes started, or picked up. Jake had made another pass at you, saying he could be a good husband or whatever. "I quite like my last name, thanks though," you responded, sending Bob a sly wink from across the room.

You were all hanging out in the rec room, everyone still staying in barracks while you tried to find places to live. "Are you saying you wouldn't change your last name to your husband's?" Javy was just genuinely curious when he asked.

"I didn't say that," you muttered, rolling your eyes. "I just like my last name."

"Just marry Bob at that point then," Natasha teased, a good natured smile on her face.

You rolled your eyes again before looking at her with slightly narrowed eyes and a scrunched nose. "If my choices are Hangman or Bob, I'd chose Bob in a heartbeat," you told her before the focus shifted to Mickey tripping over his own feet and falling to the floor.

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When you and Bob turned in your paperwork for being married and living together, Pete and Beau promised to keep it a secret so you two could keep up your little game. Which led to where you were currently.

The team decided to go back to the beach, a team bonding day as they justified it to Pete to get him to join. You were laid out on your towel, your eyes closed since you took your sunglasses off to avoid the tan lines. "What is your dream man actually like?" Jake asked and you almost groaned at the annoyance.

"Why do you care?" you questioned, not moving.

Jake shrugged, not that you could see it. "Just curious," he responded.

"Not you."

"Come on," Jake was smiling when you opened your eyes to look at him. "I actually mean it."

You sighed and closed your eyes again. "Kind," you said first. "The type of kind where he'll always help another but won't be a push over. Smart, I want to be able to play logic games or word games and actually be challenged. Bonus points if he lets me win occasionally because he loves to see the smile I have when I win. He has to be understanding, especially because of the job we have," you had a small smile on your face as you spoke, just explaining what you love about Bob.

"What about physically?"

You rolled your eyes even though they were still closed. "I don't care at the end of the day," you told him. "But I guess taller than me and blue eyes wouldn't hurt," you told him, knowing that this could end your little game.

"Alright," he nodded. "I'll leave you be," he added and you nodded with pursed lips.

You were alone for maybe a few minutes before Bob sat down next to you, you knew it was Bob because you could smell the last wisps of his cologne clinging to him. "What did Hangman want?" Bob asked.

"Asking about my dream man," you replied.

"What'd you tell him?"

"Kind, smart, understanding," you labeled off the three you said. "Also told him that blue eyes wouldn't hurt either."

"Getting bold here, aren't you?" Bob teased and you laughed, opening your eyes to look at your husband.

"Something tells me they're going to try setting us up," you winked, Bob laughing with you.

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You were peacefully sitting in the ready room with Javy when Jake walked in. "Why are you single, Mystic?" Jake asked, sitting down across from you.

"Why do you care, Hangman?" you questioned, looking towards your front seater to see if he knew what was going on.

Javy gave away nothing but something told you that he knew what Jake was doing. "Just asking," he shrugged.

"Fine, I just haven't found someone I've liked enough to date," you answered.

"Ever?"

"No," you laughed, shaking your head. "Just in a while."

"And by a while you mean…?" Jake trailed off, waiting for you to answer.

You looked at him with narrowed eyes, wondering where this was going. "High school, freshman year to be exact," you revealed.

The way both Jake and Javy's eyebrows shot up was amusing to you, so much so that you were laughing. "You haven't dated anyone since high school?" Jake asked.

You had two options, lie and keep the game alive or finally tell them you're married. "What's wrong with that?" you questioned, the game always winning in these small moments.

Jake leaned forward with furrowed brows as the others walked in. "It's just shocking, you're hot and you haven't had a boyfriend since high school?" The others all made various noises of shock as you laughed a little.

"If it makes you feel better, he was my boyfriend until we were 21," you added, trying not to make eye contact with Bob and ruin the whole thing by laughing.

"What happened?" Natasha cut into the conversation, sitting down next to you.

You were having fun and trying not to laugh at the way you were telling them without telling them. "We both decided we'd be better off not dating," you shrugged, not technically a lie. Bob and you both decided that you'd be better off married than dating.

"So you haven't dated someone since you were 21, not high school," Jake said.

"That's not what I said. I said I haven't met someone I want to date since high school, there's a difference," you pointed out right before Pete walked in, telling everyone what was the plan for the day.

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You were walking away with Natasha as the team hung out at the beach again, your laughter trailing behind you. Bob was watching you leave, a small smile on his face. "Ok, what's up with you and Mystic?" Mickey asked, his eyes cutting from you to Bob.

Bob looked at Mickey, confusion on his face. "What?" Bob questioned, brows furrowed a little.

"You look at her like she hung the moon for you and your just waiting for the stars next," Mickey sat down on the towel next to Bob. "So do you like her or…?"

Bob would be the first to admit he's not as good as you are at lying off the cuff, but he likes to think he's good at it. But when in doubt, Bob has found playing dumb works just as well. "Of course I like her, she's my best friend."

"First of all, ouch," Mickey dramatically put his hands over his heart. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that. But that's not what I meant."

"Oh," Bob's cheeks went pink and he knew you'd tease him for it if you were with him. "I mean, she's great and all."

Mickey sighed, looking over to where you were still walking with Natasha. Though you were headed back and Mickey knew the time Natasha said she could give him was coming to a close. "Are you in love with Mystic?" Mickey straight up asked.

Bob blinked a few time. "Yes," he couldn't lie about that. He wouldn't lie about that, not now or ever.

Natasha had somehow convinced you to detour towards the others to tease Jake about losing the bean bag toss, giving Mickey more time to talk with Bob. "Then why not ask her out?"

This, Bob didn't need to lie about. "She'd probably laugh," he said. And he was right, if he asked you out you'd laugh and say you're already married, but you'd love to go out with him. That last part didn't need to be told to Mickey though.

"I'm sure she wouldn't," Mickey tried to be supportive.

"No, trust me," Bob shook his head, looking towards where you were laughing with Natasha over Jake missing again. For a man good at darts, he sucks at bean bag toss. "She'd laugh, but I don't think I'd mind as long as I got to hear it."

Mickey rolled his eyes and muttered something about Bob being hopelessly in love with you before standing up. You caught Mickey walking over out of the corner of your eye and Bob watched as Mickey told you something that had you walking over. "I was told you wanted to talk to me," you mused.

Bob shook his head at you softly, his soft smile on his face. "I think he's just trying tell the others about our conversation."

You smiled at him, giving him a wink. "As long as it wasn't bad," you muttered.

"It wasn't," Bob promised before you had an idea.

"Let's go get some ice cream, I don't know about you but I'm melting," you told him.

"Ok," Bob was confused but didn't question you.

"We're going to get ice cream!" you called over to your friends. "We'll be back!" you added before tugging Bob along with you towards the little ice cream shop along the beach.

Instead of going into the shop, the door having been facing away from the beach, you tugged Bob along to the other side where you'd be hidden from your friends. "What are you doing?" Bob asked, following as you tugged him closer to you.

"I want to kiss my husband, is that a crime now?" you teased, looking up at him.

"I suppose not," Bob mumbled, leaning down to kiss you.

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"Are you coming to the bar tonight?" Bradley threw his arm around your shoulders as you started walking to the parking lot. Bob was already out there, you had to stay back and talk to Pete about something that went wrong during the BFM training you ran through today. It wasn't your fault, it was just a faulty weapons system, but they needed your eye witness account for the techs that were coming in.

"Yeah, why?" you asked, waving at one of the mechanics as she walked past.

Bradley smiled down at you. "Hangman wants to know, I think he's trying to set you and Bob up," he told you.

You huffed a laugh but there was a genuine smile on your face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, I don't think he'd noticed the rings on both of your dog tags," Bradley mused and you smacked his stomach.

"Hey, you promised that you'd keep that secret," you told him, pointing at him.

Bradley laughed while he nodded, mumbling that he was keeping the secret. Bradley had been on a boat with you and Bob once and promised when you saw him the first night to keep what he knew to himself. "I'm just saying, this is the first time someone has tried to set you two up. And I think something is going to happen tonight at the bar," he defended.

"I figured, and Bob and I have been laughing about the fact that they're setting us up."

"How long are you going to keep this up?"

"Until it'll be funnier to tell them than to keep it a secret. Though we'll probably end it tonight anyway," you mused as you reached Bob's truck.

"Well, I'll see you two later," Bradley nodded before leaving you with Bob.

"What was he talking about?" Bob asked, opening the passenger door for you.

"Jake trying to set us up," you told Bob, letting him get into the car before you started talking again. "Bradley thinks something is going to happen at the bar tonight," you added.

Bob nodded slowly. "He's probably right, I was asked if I was in love with you by Fanboy the other day," Bob told you.

"What'd you say?" you asked, even though you knew the answer already.

"Yes, obviously," Bob said like there was no other option. "But Payback also asked if I had a type today."

"Wow, they're all in on it," you laughed softly, taking Bob's right hand in yours.

"At least even they know we're perfect for each other."

You huffed a laugh and kissed the back of Bob's hand. "You're cheesy, you know that?"

"Only for you, sweetheart," Bob replied, kissing the back of your hand in return.

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The Hard Deck was busy like normal and you stuck close to Bob as you two walked towards the back. Both of you had your rings tucked Bob's pocket, waiting for the moment where you could make it the best reveal you could think of. "There you two are!" Jake announced when he saw you two. "We were staring to think you weren't coming."

"And miss seeing Bradley beat your ass in pool? Not a chance," you shot back, a smile on your face as you sat down on one of the taller chairs. Bob whispered to you that he was going to go get drinks.

"You've got your money on Rooster?"

"There's a bet?" you asked, looking towards the others.

Natasha handed you the envelope with a smile. "20 dollar buy in, pick your winner," she told you.

"Bradley, duh," you rolled your eyes, dropping 40 in there.

"Only one to pick him, beware," Mickey told you.

"I'm not afraid to lose 40 dollars," you challenged. "Though Bradley won't let me lose it, will you?"

"I've got your back, Mystic," Bradley winked as Bob came back with drinks for both of you, neither alcoholic.

You and Bob always sat together while the others did what they wanted at the bar, really only going because you two liked the team bonding time. Tonight though, you were more interested in the pool game than the little conversations you and Bob would normally have. "We lose 40 dollars if Bradley loses, by the way," you whispered to Bob a few minutes into the game.

Bob looked towards you with an eyebrow raised. "The 40 dollars I won from Payback?" Bob asked.

"The very same," you smiled at him and he shook his head with a smile. "I have faith in him though, so we'll have more."

"You always have faith in him," he pointed out.

"When has he failed us?"

"Fair," Bob shrugged, looking back towards the table. You know you should have too, but Bob was so pretty you just wanted to stare at him a little longer.

"So, Mystic," Jake's voice made you look away from your husband with pinched brows.

"What do you want, Hangman?" you asked.

"I was wondering how you feel about blind dates," he was leaning against the pool table while Bradley lined up his shot.

"Not happening," you muttered, taking a sip of your drink.

"Oh come on, I know a guy who is exactly your type," he smirked, looking at Bob for a moment.

You rolled your eyes before looking towards Bradley for a second to see him laughing a little. "Still not happening."

"What if I can promise he's a gentleman?"

"Stop," you told him, real annoyance bleeding into your tone.

"But what if-"

"Drop it, Hangman," Bob cut into the conversation, his voice taking on an icy tone none of them had heard from him before.

There was a charged silence, one where you could tell Jake was defending on whether or not to keep going. But Jake cleared his throat and nodded. "Alright then," he muttered, focusing back on the game.

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The game ended and you were almost 200 dollars richer, a satisfied smile on your face as you got the envelope full of money. You handed it to Bob so he could put it in his pocket to hold, which apparently was crazy for you to do. "Just giving Bob your winnings?" Jake asked, an eyebrow raised.

You turned your head slowly, lips in a straight line and face annoying neutral for Jake. "We live together and I have no real pockets," you deadpanned.

Jake nodded, like he forgot until you reminded him. "You know, you and Bob act like a married couple," Jake practically sing-songed.

"Oh really?" you asked, nodding slowly like you didn't believe him.

Jake smirked, like he hit the jackpot. "Yeah, you do," he doubled down before continuing talking. "I really do think you should go on that blind date I want to plan. I think you'd like the guy."

"And why's that?"

"He's kind, smart, and understanding," Jake told you. "You know, the three main wants you have," he added.

"No bonus point?"

"I wouldn't know, hold on," Jake cleared his throat before turning to look at Bob and you had to look at the roof to stop yourself from laughing. "Would you let Mystic win at word games occasionally because you love her smile?"

"I already do, why do you think it's part of her description?" Bob muttered.

Jake blinked as you looked back towards your friends and pulled your drink to your lips to hide your smile. "What?" Jake dumbly asked.

"What did Natasha say the first time you asked about my last name? I might as well marry Bob?" You were pulling the magnetic wallet off the back of your phone. You had decidedly chosen to carry your old driver's license for this exact moment of the night.

Jake was still staring at you two like his brain wasn't working when you handed him your old ID. Jake read your name aloud, first name and maidan last name. "You're not a Floyd?"

"Try again," you handed him your new license, the one with your name now.

Jake was staring between the two while Bob slipped your engagement ring and matching wedding band onto your finger before slipping his own wedding band on. "No way," he muttered. "You're fucking with us."

Your shrugged, taking your IDs back to put into your wallet once again. "Ask Bradley, he's known since we were on a boat together a few years ago," you challenged.

Jake looked towards Bradley, who nodded in confirmation before Jake looked back at you. "This whole time…" Jake trailed off. "Why keep it a secret?"

"It's fun," you said first. "But also because we've been married for years now, and yet most don't believe that we are even if we straight up tell them. Why not let people think what they want and have some fun until it's more fun to reveal it?"

"But you said you hadn't dated since 21," Mickey cut in.

"I said I haven't found someone I want to date since freshman year of high school, when Bob and I got together. You all assumed that I broke it off with him when I said we decided we'd be better off not dating. Because we got married," you explained.

"You fucking word played us?" Javy asked, laughter threatening to take his voice over.

"Words have meaning. I never once said my maidan name was Floyd nor had we ever once we weren't together or married. We just avoided questions and let you come to your own conclusions," you finished your drink after you spoke.

"Who's idea was it to do this little game," Natasha asked you.

"Mine," Bob admitted, a smile on his face when you stepped into his space.

"What's the shortest time you two have played this little game?" Mickey asked.

"Two seconds," you told them. "There was a pilot called Twit who seriously hit on me and Bob got jealous."

Bob gave your hip a small squeeze and you gave him a smile over your shoulder before leaning into his side. "Didn't think you'd be the jealous type Bob," Jake finally got his wits back.

You laughed as Bob rolled his eyes a little. "Just wait until we have to go to a gala, I don't think I've ever not been by his side," you smiled. "Not that I've ever complained," you added.

"Why keep your tags hidden?" Javy questioned.

"We don't per se," you told him. "We normally have them on our dog tags so they don't get hurt during work. Plus there was once Bob had a few layers of his skin peeled off because of his ring getting stuck at work," you explained.

Everyone winced at the thought while you ran your finger over Bob's ring finger, right where he got hurt. You always did when you thought about that moment, you were so worried for him when it happened. "Why not get those rubber ones then?" Natasha asked.

You paused for a moment before looking at her fully. "Yeah, never thought about that," you muttered, already planning to go find some for Bob and you.

"Wait, did you two know we were trying to set you two up?" Jake clarified.

"Mhm, we figured it out when you started to ask us questions about our types. Plus, we had an inside informant," you tilted your head towards Bradley.

"Perks of knowing they're married already," Bradley mused.

"You know, this has been fun," you told them. "But I'm ready to go home with my husband." Oh how you loved to be able to say that. "We'll see you all Monday," you waved and walked away with Bob.

"That could have gone worse," Bob told you as you both made your way to the door.

"Yeah? How?" You looked at Bob, trusting him to lead you to the door safely.

"Could have announced it like you did on that boat," he muttered into your ear.

You felt the heat crawl up the back of your neck as you remembered how you got maybe a little too loud one night when you were supposed to be in your bunk asleep. "Shut it," you hissed playfully.

"I promise you, baby, you're not going to want me to be quiet tonight," he promised, pressing a lingering kiss right behind your ear as you both stepped out of The Hard Deck. You were in for a long night, not that you'll complain.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests If you want to be added to the tag list, follow the directions on my masterlist

Bruce’s voice cut through the steady hum of the comms, low and gravelly. You were on patrol tonight, stationed high above the concrete labyrinth of the city. Bruce was only checking up on you—he always kept a tight leash whenever you were out on a solo run.

“Osprey to Batman. Confirming position on 3B, North Gotham. Over,” you responded, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

The sleek cowl over your head did its job well, breaking up the silhouette of your shoulders and making you look sharper, taller, more menacing than you actually were. The suit was a matte midnight-black, broken up only by sharp, stark white accents across the chest and gauntlets—designed to melt into the heavy shadows of the city just like your father and brothers did.

Sector 3B was a jagged, gothic high-rise looming right over the harbor, where a whisper of street intel suggested a major drop was going down tonight. Bruce had been skeptical about the validity of the tip, which is exactly why he’d sent you to scope it out. But you weren't entirely alone. You knew Nightwing was lurking a few rooftops over, keeping a watchful eye just in case.

Of course he was. Your older brothers always hovered, fiercely protective no matter how much you fought them on it. And tonight, you didn't mind the backup quite as much; Gotham had been pulling some serious weirdos out of the woodwork lately, and you still didn't know exactly who you were hunting.

When you were younger, you had worn the red and yellow, earning your stripes as Robin just like the boys before you. You and Tim used to trade off the mantle, letting him handle the heavy lifting with the Teen Titans while you ran the rooftops of Gotham at Batman's side.

But things change. Now Damian was Robin. Tim had rebranded as Red Robin—whatever the hell that was supposed to mean—and you had chosen Osprey. Jason had tried to ruin the moment by smugly pointing out that real-world ospreys were diurnal birds that only hunted in the daylight, and you had simply told him to fuck off. That had been the end of that discussion.

Bruce trusted you. Of course he did; you had earned your place in this war. But there was always a catch. To the Dark Knight, you were still his little girl.

And you would never, ever stop being his little girl.

A sudden flicker of movement down by the pier snapped you out of your thoughts. You adjusted the lenses of your cowl, zooming in on a rusted cargo ship docked at the edge of the harbor.

Bingo.

Men in heavy coats were quietly unloading unmarked crates from the hull, moving with the frantic, quiet rush of people who knew they were running out of time. At the center of the operation stood a man holding a sleek, pointed umbrella, barking quiet orders into the freezing night air.

Oswald Cobblepot. The Penguin.

A smirk crept onto your face as you crouched low on the ledge, the wind whipping against your cape. The irony wasn't lost on you. Penguin’s whole brand was built on being a flightless bird obsessed with the sea. And Bruce had sent an Osprey—a literal sea hawk whose entire biological purpose was to dive from the sky and tear fish out of the water. Jason would probably have a field day with the metaphor if he were here.

"Batman, I've got eyes on the prize," you whispered into the comms, your voice dropping into its official field tone. "The Penguin’s crew is at Pier 4. They're unloading heavy crates. Looks like tech, not drugs."

There was a brief, agonizing pause on the other end line. You could almost hear the gears turning in Bruce’s head back at the Batcave.

"Copy that, Osprey," Bruce’s voice crackled back. "Observe only. Do not engage until Nightwing is in position."

Right on cue, a familiar, cheerful voice chimed into the frequency. "Too late, B. I'm already on the adjacent rooftop. Osprey, you take the crane, I'll sweep the perimeter?" Dick's tone was light, but you could hear the underlying readiness in it. He was giving you the high ground. He was letting you take the lead.

You looked down at the thugs below, your fingers twitching near your utility belt. You could wait for Dick to make the first move, or you could show your big brother exactly how a real bird of prey hunts.

“I’m going for the goons. Keep an eye on the Penguin,” you instructed surely, your voice steady and authoritative despite the adrenaline starting to pump through your veins.

Before the words had even fully left your mouth, you unclipped your grapple gun. With a swift pull of the trigger, the line shot out, anchoring perfectly to the steel framework of a towering shipping crane. You stepped off the ledge, plunging into the freezing harbor air.

You engaged your cape, catching the sharp updraft from the water and gliding silently into the dark maze of metal containers where the drop was going down.

"Copy that, Osprey. Happy hunting," Dick’s voice crackled smoothly in your ear. There was nothing but pure pride in his tone. He didn't question your play; he trusted your instincts entirely. "I've got Cobblepot's exit blocked. Knock 'em dead."

"Focus, both of you," Bruce’s deep rumble cut through the comms, though he didn't tell you to pull back. He knew better than to interrupt when his kids were working in perfect sync.

You dropped from the sky like a ghost, landing soundlessly on top of a rusted blue container directly above two of Cobblepot’s thugs. They were struggling to haul a heavy wooden crate, breath misting in the cold air, completely oblivious to the predator perched right above their heads.

From this angle, you could see the packing slip on the crate. It wasn't standard black-market artillery. It bore a high-tech corporate logo—experimental Wayne Enterprises tech that had gone missing from a transport truck last week. No wonder Penguin was down here personally supervising.

You pulled two customized batarangs from your utility belt, the matte white details on your gauntlets catching the faint glow of the harbor lights. Moving with practiced, lightning-fast precision, you slipped from the containers, silently neutralizing the perimeter guards one by one. You kept your movements tight, staying entirely out of the Penguin’s line of sight. There was no need to engage him directly; your job was to secure the asset.

“Osprey, keep your comms open, please,” Bruce’s voice sounded in your ear, the low rumble carrying that familiar, heavy weight. You just hummed in agreement, not wanting to break your focus. You knew he worried. Of course he did! He always did.

“She’s doing fine, B! Don’t worry. I’ve got my eyes on her,” Nightwing defended you, his tone a little too cheerful for your liking. You didn’t respond, keeping your eyes moving, scanning the blind spots between the towering shipping crates.

“I know. I just... have a feeling,” Bruce murmured.

Dick let out a soft chuckle through the frequency. Bruce always got this way when it came to you. “Since when do we operate on feelings, Brucie?” he teased.

The only response your father let out was a frustrated, heavy sigh. Under any other circumstance, you would have smiled at their bickering. It was standard Batfamily radio chatter. But you couldn't laugh. You needed to focus. You were focused.

Then, your breath hitched.

A sudden, violent wave of goosebumps broke out across your skin. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. Bruce was right. Something was wrong.

Before your brain could even process the threat, a massive shadow loomed behind you. A thick, heavy forearm clamped around your neck, and a chemical-soaked rag was slammed brutally over your mouth and nose. You gasped in surprise, instantly inhaling the sharp, sweet, toxic fumes. A muffled scream caught in your throat.

Didn’t Dick have eyes on you?!

Your limbs immediately went heavy, turning to lead. “Batman, I lost her! Shit—” Dick’s voice crackled faintly in your ear, the playful cheer instantly replaced by sheer, unadulterated panic.

You tried to fight. You tried to reach for your utility belt, to throw an elbow, to use the leverage to flip your attacker—to do anything you had spent years training to do. You had survived death-defying drops, lethal combat, and the worst Gotham had to offer. You never got nervous. You never froze. But your muscles refused to obey. It had only taken a single second. Just one second of slipped focus, and your body was entirely failing you.

The world tilted violently. The harbor lights smeared into streaks of sickening yellow and white against the dark sky.

Bruce was screaming your name now, a rare, terrifying sound of absolute dread tearing through his usual stoic composure. Not your code name, but your name.

But his voice sounded like it was underwater, fading rapidly into the distance. Your eyelids fluttered closed, the heavy blackness of the night rushing in to swallow you whole.

And then, you couldn't hear anything at all.

“She’s doing fine, B! Don’t worry, I’ve got my eyes on her.”

“I know, I just… have a feeling.”

“Since when do we operate on feelings, Brucie?”

“Batman, I lost her! Shit—“

Your head overplayed the last conversation you heard. Your eyes fluttering open slowly, your head hanging to the front. You were tied up on a chair. Your utility belt gone. You still had your cowl intact. Which was both bad and good news. The good one was that whoever had you didn’t mind your secret identity. The bad one was that if they didn’t want to know your real name or what your face looked like… it was probably one of Gotham’s favorite weirdos.

You look around quickly, your breath is heavy. Your comms is gone. You want to guess.

Scarecrow. It most likely was Scarecrow.

You try to test the ropes around your wrists. Tight. Professional. No wiggle room.

The room around you is damp and freezing, smelling heavily of rust, stagnant harbor water, and the sickly-sweet scent of decaying burlap. You are likely still somewhere near the docks, tucked away in one of the abandoned warehouses where the GCPD never bothers to patrol.

Footsteps echo from the darkness ahead. Slow. Rhythmic. Dragging.

"Ah... the fledgling has awakened," a raspy, distorted voice speaks from the gloom.

A figure steps into the pale light of a single, flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling. The tattered, straw-stuffed mask of the Scarecrow glares down at you, the empty eyeholes practically glowing with a sadistic curiosity.

"I must admit, Osprey, I was quite curious when Gotham's great Dark Knight brought a new bird into his cage," Crane says, tilting his head as he approaches your chair. He raises a gloved hand, the rusted syringes tipped on his fingers clicking together like claws. "Tell me... does the little bird fear the fall? Or does she fear the shadow of the Bat?"

You swallow hard, your throat feeling like sandpaper. The toxin is making it hard to think straight, the faces of Bruce and Dick flashing behind your eyelids, their frantic voices still echoing in your mind.

You are a Bat. You don't break.

But you are human. As you remind yourself, some goon hitting you right on your belly with a breathtaking punch. You see Scarecrow smile, while everything is defusing. You’re confused. Somewhere out there Bruce is desperately looking for you, being self deprecating and blaming Nightwing for not keeping the leash on you tight enough.

The punch to your stomach strips the remaining oxygen from your lungs, leaving you gasping, your head dropping as your vision fractures into sharp, vibrating pieces. The physical pain is sharp, but the creeping fog of the toxin is worse.

Your thoughts are a chaotic blur. You can practically hear the fallout happening in real-time across Gotham. Bruce, stone-faced but burning with a quiet, lethal rage, tearing through the harbor. Dick, eating himself alive with guilt because he took his eyes off you for one single, fatal second. They’re tearing the city apart looking for you, but right now, you are utterly on your own.

“Let’s explore this little bird’s worst nightmares, shall we?” Crane’s voice distorts, warping into a deep, echoing hiss as he steps closer.

He presses the trigger. A thick, hissing cloud of pale straw-colored gas erupts from the canisters, enveloping your face.

You try to hold your breath, but your bruised ribs betray you, forcing you to take a sharp, ragged gasp. The sweet, metallic taste of the fear toxin floods your system, and the warehouse instantly begins to dissolve.

The concrete floor under your chair liquefies into a pitch-black abyss. The ropes binding your wrists tighten, turning into heavy, freezing iron chains that drag you downward. The single flickering lightbulb above explodes into a swarm of frantic, screeching bats—but they aren't here to save you. Their eyes are glowing, malicious crimson slits, and they begin to swarm you, tearing at your suit, blocking out the light.

Through the roaring sound of thousands of wings, the voices return. But they aren't the comforting, protective voices of your family anymore.

"You weren't ready," Bruce’s voice echoes from the darkness, cold and deeply disappointed. "I shouldn't have trusted you."

"It's my fault," Dick’s voice whispers right into your ear, sounding broken and bleeding. "I let you drown."

The hallucination is heavy, pressing down on your chest until you can barely breathe. The toxin is forcing your mind into its darkest, most vulnerable corners, tearing down every ounce of training you have.

The darkness stretches infinitely, heavy and suffocating. You are completely blind, stripped of the visual tactical edge you’ve spent years training to rely on. All you have are your other senses—and right now, they are entirely turned against you by Jonathan Crane’s twisted chemistry.

Your skin crawls. The atmosphere feels thick, smelling heavily of copper, old grease, and that sickening, cheap white face paint.

“Stupid, stupid little bird.”

The voice slices through the void, high-pitched, manic, and dripping with a sadistic glee that makes your stomach bottom out. The Joker. The one rogue who truly terrified you. The one rogue Bruce kept you as far away from as humanly possible. You can’t see him, but you can hear the clicking of his shoes on the concrete, circling your chair, closer and closer until you swear you can feel his hot, rancid breath against the edge of your cowl.

Your body betrays you. A violent, uncontrollable shiver wracks your frame. The clown's diabolical, wheezing laugh echoes from every direction, bouncing off the walls of your own skull. You are trapped in pitch blackness with a monster.

But then, the laughter starts to warp. It stretches out, deepening, turning into a strange, roaring distortion.

And against the absolute dark of your blindness, a sharp, sudden flicker of light cuts through.

A... what?

It’s an orange-gold flash. Small at first, like a match striking in the distance, but it rapidly grows, dancing against the dark. It’s a flame. It expands into a wall of bright, crackling fire that tears directly through the illusion of the dark warehouse.

The heat hits your skin—not the cold, clammy sweat of the fear toxin, but actual, blistering heat. The sickly sweet smell of the gas is suddenly choked out by the heavy, suffocating scent of burning wood and melting steel.

Through the roaring of the flames, the clown's laughter turns into a harsh, metallic hacking sound. The darkness is burning away, but it’s not Bruce or Dick breaking through the door. The warehouse around you is genuinely on fire. Someone is tearing the place apart.

The orange glow of the fire bleeds into the dark, melting the Joker's manic face into ash. The blistering heat is real, but your mind is slipping back down into the heavy, suffocating weight of the sedative. Your head lolls back against the chair, the smoke stinging your eyes as they flutter one last time.

Through the roar of the collapsing warehouse, the voice cuts through again. It doesn’t use Osprey. It doesn't use Robin. It screams your actual name, the raw panic in it vibrating right through your bones. But your brain, thoroughly poisoned by Crane's toxin, can't map the sound to a face. It’s a ghost of a voice.

And then, a silhouette breaks through the wall of smoke and flame.

You expect the heavy, broad shape of Batman. You expect the sleek, agile form of Nightwing. You expect the harsh, metallic red helmet of Jason. But the figure kneeling in front of your chair doesn't fit any of them. The image burns into your fading vision—a face you know, deep down in a place the fear gas couldn't touch, but your paralyzed tongue can't find the words to speak it.

They exist. They're real. They're here.

A pair of hands, trembling but firm, cups your face, lifting your head up. You feel the sudden, sharp release of pressure around your wrists as the ropes are sliced away, but you’re already too far gone to slide off the chair. Strong arms wrap around you, lifting you entirely off the ground and pulling you tight against a chest that is rising and falling in frantic, terrified gasps.

The heavy scent of smoke and the faint, comforting trace of a familiar leather jacket is the last thing you register before the world goes completely black.

When you finally wake up, the roaring of the fire is gone. You’re resting in a comfortable bed that makes you straighten in a second. The cozy bedroom looks nothing like your home, full of posters of bands you take a second to recognize. It’s nightfall. You try to reach for your comms, your utility belt. Anything. You’re not wearing your suit anymore, but a loose t-shirt and some sweatpants you’re sure gonna fall down if you get up. You pull the string, making a tight knot before you get up and an older woman rushes to you.

“Sweetheart! Be careful, you’ve been asleep for two days!” she leaves a tray with what looks like soup right on top of the nightstand, the spoon clattering as she takes your arm to help you up. You blink disoriented.

The mooing of a cow lets you know you no longer are in Gotham.

Your head is throbbing, your heart beating too loud in your chest and an explosion that you didn’t know that happened was still ringing in your ears. You look around, in a swift movement you’re away. You could have easily held her in a headlock, but she doesn’t look that threatening. Even so, your guard is never down enough. You were a vigilante!

“Where am I?” you demand, your voice doesn’t even shake at your question. She smiles warmly.

“This is Smallville, darling,” her hard Kansas accent surprises you enough. You furrow your eyebrows.

“What am I doing here?”

Her smile doesn’t faint. “Conner thought it was best to bring you here. Said you were in trouble or s’mthin.”

You scan your brain; Conner, Conner, Conner… Conner! Right on time he appears with that smug smile, the piercing on his left eyebrow and those eyes that screamed how he’s been through trauma, but was never gonna admit it out loud. You’re glad he’s here, yet confused to why you are here with him.

You blink slowly, staring at him.

“How you feeling, Doll?” he asked in a soft tone, grabbing your hand to hold you for a second.

The puzzle pieces in your head finally click together, the lingering fog of Jonathan Crane’s fear toxin instantly evaporating at the sight of him.

Conner.

Tim’s best friend, the clone, the boy who wasn't supposed to exist but somehow became one of the most real things in your life. The mysterious face in the fire, the one who had screamed your actual name through the smoke while your brothers were still frantic on the comms—it had been him. He had ripped you out of that burning warehouse before the Batfamily even breached the perimeter.

“Conner,” you breathe out, your voice a little rougher than you intend. You don’t pull your hand away from his grip. Instead, your fingers tighten around his, grounding yourself against the solid, impossible warmth of a half-Kryptonian.

His mom—Martha Kent, your brain finally supplies the name as you look at the gentle, worried woman—looks between the two of you with a knowing, soft expression. She quietly slips out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her to give you both some space, leaving the steaming bowl of soup behind.

You let out a breath you feel like you’ve been holding for two days, looking down at the oversized T-shirt you're wearing, which you now realize definitely belongs to him.

“You took me out of Gotham,” you say, your tactical brain immediately calculating the absolute chaos currently happening across the state line. You stare up into those blue eyes of his. “Conner, Bruce is going to lose his mind. Dick thinks I’m dead or worse, and Jason probably blew up half the harbor looking for Crane. Why did you bring me to Kansas?”

Conner’s smug smile fades just a fraction, replaced by something much softer, much more vulnerable. He rubs his thumb over the back of your knuckles, his piercing catching the faint light from the window.

“He knows you’re here,” he says quietly, his voice dropping into that serious tone he rarely uses unless it really matters. “Bruce contacted Clark and it got to me. We had a better chance at finding you on time than them. By the time I smashed through the roof, Crane had you completely under. You were screaming, Doll. You were looking right at me and seeing monsters.”

He steps closer, closing the distance between you, his eyes scanning your face to make sure you're actually okay. His hand goes to your chin to hold it back and your breath hitches. He chuckles as he noticed, checking your face for any injuries. “Until we know why Scarecrow was targeting you, you’re staying here with Ma, Pa and me.”

You hiss. “I was targeted?” you asked with furrowed eyebrows and he carefully lifts your shirt, not much, just enough to check on your bruised ribs.

“Do they hurt?” you shrug. Bruised ribs were nothing compared to how hurt you ended on training. Bruce never went easy. “We don’t know why you of all the bats. Maybe the bad guys figured you’re Batman’s favorite.” he smiled and you nod.

Your face warms a little at his comment, the sudden rush of heat having absolutely nothing to do with the fear toxin or Ma Kent's hot soup.

Batman’s favorite. You want to roll your eyes and tell him to shut up, but with his hand still gently cupping your chin and his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, the words catch in your throat.

When you were a teenager, Conner Kent had been the center of your universe. Back when you and Tim were trading off the Robin cape, you used to actively look for excuses to look over Tim’s shoulder at Titan's monitors just to catch a glimpse of the boy in the black leather jacket and the tactile t-shirt. You had the biggest, most agonizing crush on him for years. He was everything a Gotham-bred kid shouldn't be: loud, bright, incredibly stubborn, and completely unbothered by the shadows.

And right now, standing in his childhood bedroom wearing a t-shirt that completely swallows your frame, those old feelings are roaring back to life with a vengeance.

"I'm nobody's favorite," you finally manage to mutter, though your voice lacks its usual sharp, vigilante bite. You reach down, gently but firmly patting his hand away from your shirt before he can keep inspecting your ribs. "And I don't need to be coddled, Kent. I've handled worse than Crane."

"Yeah, I know you have," Conner says smoothly, not missing a beat. He drops his hand from your chin, but he doesn't step back out of your personal space. That smug, devastating smile slowly creeps back onto his face, his eyebrow piercing glinting in the dim light. "But you're missing the point, Doll. I wanted you here."

Your heart does a stupid, irregular thud against your ribs.

"Tim is already losing his mind trying to run data diagnostics from the Titans Tower to figure out how Crane bypassed the harbor's security grid," Conner continues, leaning back against the wooden bedpost and crossing his arms over his chest. "And Dick's been calling my phone every twenty minutes to check if you've opened your eyes yet. I told them I'd keep you safe. I intend to keep that promise."

He looks you up and down, his blue eyes softening as they linger on the oversized shirt you're wearing. "Now, are you going to sit down and eat Ma's soup like a good guest, or do I have to use the super-strength to make you rest?"

Your heart does that stupid, betraying thud again—louder this time, enough that you're painfully aware of his super-hearing. You narrow your eyes at him, trying to channel every ounce of Batman’s stoic intimidation, but wearing his faded band tee with string-tied sweatpants completely ruins the effect.

"You wouldn't dare," you say, taking a step toward him.

"Try me, Osprey," Conner smirks, tilting his head. "I've faced down Darkseid's forces, but making a stubborn Bat sit down and take care of herself might be my toughest mission yet."

"I am resting," you insist, though your voice softens as you look at him. The teasing banter feels so familiar, but the air between you suddenly feels charged, heavy with a tension that definitely wasn't there when you were teenagers running around behind Tim's back.

Conner steps in close again, effortlessly closing the gap between you. The smugness melts off his face, replaced by that quiet, genuine intensity that always used to make your throat go dry. Without asking, he reaches out, his large, warm hand gently cupping the side of your neck, his thumb tracing the sharp line of your jawline.

Your breath hitches loud enough that there’s no hiding it this time.

"You scared the hell out of me," he murmurs, his blue eyes searching yours, completely dropped of all bravado. "When Bruce said comms went dark... I didn't think, Doll. I just flew. I don't care why Crane was targeting you, or what kind of chaos your brothers are causing back in Gotham right now. All I cared about was getting you out of that fire."

"Conner..." your voice is barely a whisper. You reach up, your fingers wrapping around his wrist. You tell yourself it's to push him away, to keep your tactical wall up, but your hands betray you, resting against the steady, thrumming pulse in his arm instead. "I'm okay. I'm tough. You know that."

"I know you're tough," he soft-smiles, leaning down just an inch closer. His thumb lightly brushes over your lower lip. "You're a Bat. You're terrifying when you want to be. But you don't have to be invincible around me."

The room falls dead silent, save for the faint hum of the crickets outside in the Kansas night and the rapid, pounding rhythm of your own heart.

He notices it, of course. A low, wicked smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as his eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up to yours.

"Your heart's beating pretty fast, Osprey," he teases softly, his voice dropping into a low rumble that sends a shiver straight down your spine. "Is that still the fear toxin... or is that me?"

"Shut up, Kent," you breathe out, but you don't pull back. Instead, you tighten your grip on his wrist, pulling him down that last little bit of distance until his forehead rests against yours.

His skin is warm, radiating that steady, impossible heat. Conner lets out a soft, low breath, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone like you’re something fragile—something he’s terrified of breaking, despite knowing you could tear through a room of Gotham goons without breaking a sweat.

"I mean it," he whispers, his eyes searching yours in the dim light of the bedroom. "I’ve seen you take down guys twice your size. I’ve seen you stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Bruce and not back down an inch. But seeing you in that warehouse... shivering, screaming at ghosts while the fire caught your cape..."

His jaw tightens, a flash of pure, unadulterated pain cracking through his usual cocky facade. His grip on your jaw firming just a fraction.

"I hated it," he admits, his voice dropping into a rough, jagged edge. "I hated that I wasn't there five seconds sooner. I hated that I couldn't punch whatever was inside your head out of it."

The angst in his tone hits you right in the chest, sharp and heavy. You reach up with your free hand, resting your palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. It beats with a slow, powerful, steady thud— a rhythm so drastically different from the frantic, dark chaos of Gotham.

"Conner," you say softly, tilting your head up so he’s forced to look at you. "Look at me."

He blinks, his blue eyes locking onto yours.

"I’m here," you tell him, your thumb running over the soft fabric of the shirt— his shirt— covering your chest. "Crane didn't win. The gas is gone. I'm sitting in Smallville, wearing a t-shirt three sizes too big, arguing with a boy who used to drive me crazy when I was fifteen."

A tiny, reluctant laugh breaks through his lips, the tension in his shoulders dropping just a fraction. "Used to?"

"Okay, still do," you admit with a faint, tired smile. "A little bit."

Conner leans into your touch, his hand sliding down from your cheek to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your dark hair. The warmth of his hand spreads down your spine, turning your knees to water. He shifts his weight, carefully taking your waist with his other hand and lifting you just enough to sit you back down on the edge of the mattress, completely ignoring your mild grunt of protest.

"You're supposed to be resting, remember?" he murmurs, dropping to one knee right between your legs so he’s looking up at you. It’s such an uncharacteristically gentle position for Superboy— the guy who punches through alien metal— to be kneeling on the hardwood floor of his childhood bedroom just to be close to you.

"You're insufferable," you mutter, but your hands find their way into his dark hair, your fingers resting near the crop of his faded undercut.

"Yeah, but I'm your insufferable clone," he smirks, though the softness in his eyes completely undoes the tease. He rests his forehead against your knee for a second, inhaling deeply, before looking back up at you. "Tim called three times while you were out. Bruce called Clark twice. I told them all to go to hell until you woke up."

Your heart does another stupid, irregular flutter. "You yelled at Batman for me?"

"I'd punch the moon out of the sky for you, Doll," he says simply, no hesitation, no swagger, ”just pure, dangerous honesty. "A phone call to Bruce Wayne is nothing."

Before you can digest the weight of those words, the nightstand suddenly lights up, vibrating loudly against the wood and buzzing with a frantic, metallic ringtone that could only belong to a modified Bat-comm link.

Conner’s eyes flick to the phone, his jaw setting into a stubborn line, but he doesn't move an inch away from you. His hands stay resting on your thighs, anchoring you to him.

"Do we answer it?" you ask softly, your fingers still tangled in his hair, the warm fluff of the moment suddenly wrapping around the cold dread of reality calling you back to Gotham.

Conner looks up at you, his thumb gently caressing your knee. "Only if you want to. Otherwise... we can let Gotham wait until morning."

You don’t dare to look away from him, your eyes locked on him, in his face. First those piercing blue eyes and then down to his nose, his lips… those lips you really wanted to kiss, while he toyed with the snakebite piercing he had on the left side of his mouth. You can’t even think about answering Bruce. He knows you’re okay, thanks to the guy standing in front of you; you are. His eyes go down to your lips as well, his lashes brushing his cheek slightly, and he leans up, finally taking your mouth slowly, gently. He’s got no rush right now. You’re okay, you’re safe. Right between his arms.

His hand travels behind you to grip your waist and bring you closer to him, his lips parting slightly, and you can feel the wet velvet slipping through.

The taste of him is warm and grounding, entirely washing away the lingering metallic aftertaste of Crane’s gas. The sudden warmth of his body pressed flush against yours sends a jolt straight down your spine.

For someone built out of steel and raw power, Conner touches you like you’re made of spun glass. His lips move over yours with a slow, agonizing patience, completely unhurried, as if he’s spent years waiting for this exact moment and intends to savor every second of it. His hand at your waist is firm and possessive, pulling you in until there’s no air left between you, his thumb pressing gently into the small of your back.

You melt into him, your fingers tangling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss. You part your lips in response, a quiet gasp escaping you as his tongue slides past yours, slick and hot, deepening the rhythm until your mind goes entirely blank.

There are no vigilantes here. No Gotham shadows, no smoke, no raging Batfamily, no expectations. Just the quiet rustle of the Kansas wind outside the window and the undeniable, breathtaking heat of Superboy holding you like you're the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

When he finally pulls back just an inch, both of your breaths are coming in short, ragged hitches. His forehead rests against yours, his eyes still dark and heavy as he stares down at you, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles on your hip.

"You have no idea," Conner rasps softly, his voice thick and rough, "how long I've wanted to do that, Doll."

A low, familiar smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, the silver piercing on his lip glinting in the faint moonlight. "And before you say anything... no, I am definitely not letting you go back to Gotham anytime soon."

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, resting your hand against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. "Conner...” You want to fight him, to tell him you have to go, that you have a duty and a debt to your city. Things he would never understand.

The sound of the helicopter right outside is loud and unmistakably Wayne, which made you pull apart from the superhuman fast, rushed, like a caught teenager. You rush to the window, and you see him right there, standing outside of the parked helicopter that scared Ma Kent’s cows. You stare at his tall, intimidating figure, and you know you’re going to meet a scold, the sermon of your life. You’ll probably be grounded for a while for the mistake you made, for sliding into Nightwing’s blind spot when you weren’t supposed to engage.

But everything about that night is still fuzzy and confusing. You’re not sure how you made the mistake you did, nor how you ended up in harm’s way. Conner took your waist, and he knows. He just knows how the Bat-family manages, how Bruce shows care and worry through yelling and scolding, and how he punishes by not letting you leave the Manor. Making you feel worthless at the same time.

You take away and walk out of the house to see him. Your posture is perfect, even defiant, as you walk up to him. To Bruce Wayne.

“Hey, B,” you give him a small smile, timid and shy. You don’t know how he’ll take it.

But his ever-stoic facade isn’t up in his mask today. He’s showing noticeably worried and concerned, his eyes softening as you greet him. He rushes into you, taking you in his arms in a crushing hug.

It’s a new sensation to have your father like this. The man who never showed worry, the man who probably would scold you for eternity, was now hugging you in a way that said I was so afraid to lose you.

“I failed you,” he whispered close to your ear, and you freeze. Him? Not you? Not you did everything wrong and that’s why you almost got yourself killed?

“You didn’t. It was a trap. Penguin and Scarecrow were working together. They knew we were coming,” he nodded. Of course he knew before you figured it out.

“They weren’t specifically targeting you. But they knew I was going to send in someone. Scarecrow took me by surprise. I knew about the drop-off. I didn’t think—” he stopped. Bruce was the guy who anticipated everything about everyone, every move. “I failed. And I’m sorry. I almost lost you.”

He hugged you again while Conner was staring at the two of you. The kiss was still making your lips tingle slightly, even when you tried to focus on the destroyed father who thought you were dead hours prior. When no one knew if you would wake up and couldn’t risk taking you anywhere else than the Kent farm.

You melt into Bruce's embrace, resting your forehead against his heavy tactical armor as the steady hum of the helicopter blades fades into the background. For the first time in your life, you don't feel the crushing weight of Gotham’s expectations or the suffocating guilt of a failed mission; you just feel safe. You wrap your arms tight around your father, whispering a quiet reassurance against his shoulder that you're okay, that you're right here. But over Bruce’s shoulder, your eyes lock with Conner’s across the dusty farm yard. Superboy stands by the porch, his hands shoved nonchalantly into his pockets, wearing that warm, devastating smirk that lets you know he saw every single blush, every soft moment, and every uncharacteristic tear. Your lips still tingle from his kiss, the phantom heat of his touch contrasting sharply with the cool Kansas breeze. Bruce tightens his grip on you one last time before pulling back, his hand resting heavy and protective on your shoulder as he prepares to bring his little girl home—but as you take that first step toward the Batwing, you know Gotham isn't the only place holding a piece of your heart anymore.

You text him one afternoon, asking if he´s free tonight to pick you up.

You're on closing shift with the creepy new hire who won't stop flirting with you, no matter how many times you've told him to back off.

Your friends joked about getting a fake boyfriend to pick you up and desperate times sometimes meant desperate solutions.

When Dick texts back, it was almost time to close the store. You wash the last couple of mugs and glasses while your coworker took out the trash. When he comes back through the door, a second person steps in.

"Sorry, we´re closed." Your coworker says.

"Oh, no that´s my boyfriend." You look at Dick. You may or may not have forgotten to tell him.

He looks confused for a second, then, his usual confident grin takes over. "Babe, when can we go? I´m hungry."

"I´m finished in a second you can wait inside." You say, relief washing over you.

Dick pulls out his phone and sits down by a window.

Your coworker eyes him, annoyance visible on his face.

As you step into behind the counter again, collecting the cloths laying around by the sink to hang them up, your coworker suddenly gets very close. 

"Didn´t think that was your type." His voice is condescending and sour. "All this time, leading me on when you got someone waiting at home. Does he know?" He was quiet enough that you didn't think Dick could hear.

You scoff. "I never gave you any reason to even think that way." You don´t bother to keep your voice low. "And if you don´t leave me alone soon, you can explain yourself to my boyfriend yourself." Dick´s head snaps up at that. Eyes focused on the guy staying way to close too you.

He gets up and walks over to the counter and leans against it. "Problem?"

You smile at him. "Not anymore. I think." You look back at the other man, having taken a step back by now.

"When are you finally finished? I was being serious, I´m starving." 

Ten minutes later, you two walk to Dick´s car. 

"So, what was that about? Thrilled to be your boyfriend, just wished I knew sooner." His tone was teasing. You elbow him and he mockingly gasps.

"I´ll buy you dinner. As a thank you."

"So we´re going on a real date now?" You stop walking and look up to him, expecting to find a grin or some other unserious expression, but his face had an unusual, unconfident smile on it.

You hesitate. "Would you want it to be a real one?"

He looks straight ahead, then back to you. "I kinda wanted to ask you out at some point anyways," he admits.

You did not expect that. "I mean, you can ask me out now."

"Okay, okay." He clears his throat dramatically. "Do you want to go out on a date with me?"

It takes you a minute to answer. Dick raises a brow.

"So creative," you laugh.

Dick rolls his eyes. "Oh wow, way to make a guy feel confident. Yes or no?"

"Yes, obviously." 

Tonight was supposed to be different. Tonight, Jason had Webster cornered between a condemned apartment block and the crumbling back wall of a laundromat that had not been open since before Batman had adopted his third Robin. The alley was narrow, slick with rain, and lit by the weak electric buzz of a single flickering sign. Webster’s men were unconscious behind him. Webster himself was bleeding from the mouth and breathing hard, one hand clamped around a knife while the other pawed uselessly at the brick wall as if he could dig his way through it.

Jason raised one of his guns. “Drop it.”

Webster laughed, but there was panic caught beneath it. “You don’t shoot people anymore.”

“Who told you that?”

“The Bat.”

“Batman also says to pull my punches. Doesn’t mean I listen.”

Webster’s grip tightened on the knife.

Jason saw the shift in his shoulders a second before he lunged. He stepped sideways, caught Webster’s wrist and twisted, but the rain made everything slick. Webster slammed his forehead into Jason’s helmet. The impact rang through the reinforced casing, not enough to hurt but enough to break his grip. Webster came at him again, faster than Jason had expected, the knife scraping across the armour over his ribs.

Jason drove an elbow into his jaw. Webster stumbled, recovered, and reached inside his coat.

Jason moved for the gun at his thigh.

Then something bright red came flying out of the darkness and struck Webster squarely in the side of the head.

Webster froze. Jason froze.

The object bounced off the wall and landed in a puddle. It was a can of tomato soup.

“What the—”

“Hey, discount Dracula!”

The voice came from above them.

Jason looked up.

You were sitting on the fire escape three floors overhead, one leg hooked through the railing, your soaked hood pulled low over your face. You could not have been older than fifteen. Sixteen at a stretch. You had one hand wrapped around the rusted metal bars and the other digging around inside a plastic grocery bag.

Webster stared at you.

You pulled out a second tin. “I’m talking to you, Nosferatu.”

“Kid,” Jason said carefully, “now is a really bad time to—”

You threw the second can.

Webster ducked this one, but the distraction was enough. Jason crossed the distance between them, caught Webster by the collar and drove him into the wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. The gun inside Webster’s coat clattered onto the pavement. Jason kicked it away, swept Webster’s legs from under him, and pinned him face down in the rain.

It was over in less than five seconds.

Webster groaned. Jason zip-tied his wrists.

Above them, the fire escape creaked.

Jason looked up just in time to see you swing one leg over the railing.

“Don’t,” he said. You paused. “Seriously. Stay there.”

You looked down at him, then at the fire escape ladder hanging nearly twelve feet above the ground. “I got up here fine.”

“Congratulations. Stay there.”

Webster cursed beneath him. Jason tightened the zip tie until the man hissed, then opened a comm channel to report the location to Oracle. He did not mention you. Not yet. He had learned a long time ago that the moment he told the family there was an unsupervised civilian kid in the middle of an active crime scene, the comms would become unusable.

He waited until he heard distant sirens before hauling Webster toward the alley entrance. By the time he came back, you had ignored him completely and climbed down.

Of course you had.

You were standing beside the abandoned soup cans, inspecting one for damage as if you had not just interrupted an armed confrontation between a crime lord and Gotham’s most heavily armed vigilante.

Jason stopped in front of you.

Up close, you looked younger. Not in the face, exactly. There was a sharpness around your eyes that did not belong to someone your age, the wary calculation of a kid who had learned to read rooms before entering them. But your hoodie sleeves swallowed your hands, and one of your shoelaces had been replaced with a piece of yellow string. Rainwater ran from your hood onto your nose.

You put the dented can back into the bag.

Jason folded his arms.

“What,” he asked, “was that?”

You shrugged. “Soup.”

“I know it was soup.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

Jason stared at you through the white lenses of his helmet. You stared back.

Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wailed.

“You threw canned goods at an armed criminal.”

“You were losing.”

“I was not losing.”

“He had a knife.”

“I have guns.”

“You weren’t using them.”

“I was making a choice.”

“You were taking ages.”

Jason inhaled slowly. This, he thought, was probably how Bruce felt every time one of them had been a teenager. The realisation did not inspire sympathy. It mostly inspired the urge to go back in time and apologise to exactly no one.

“What’s your name?”

Your shoulders tightened.

There it was. Not fear, exactly. More like a door slamming shut.

Jason changed tactics. “Fine. Don’t tell me. How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Nineteen.”

“You are getting worse at this.”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Kid.”

You looked away.

The flickering laundromat sign painted one side of your face an unsteady blue. There was a bruise along your jaw, yellowing at the edges. Too old to have come from tonight. Jason’s attention dropped to the plastic bag. Four cans of soup, a packet of stale crackers, two cereal bars and a bruised apple.

No umbrella. No coat. No phone visible.

He looked at the time displayed inside his helmet. Two seventeen in the morning.

“Why are you out here?”

“Shopping.”

“At two in the morning.”

“The shop’s open twenty-four hours.”

“Where’s your adult?”

You laughed, and the sound was so humourless that Jason felt something cold settle behind his ribs. “My adult?”

“Parent. Guardian. Older sibling. Whoever’s meant to be making sure you’re not wandering around Crime Alley in the middle of the night, throwing groceries at gun smugglers.”

“No one asked you to make sure.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

You shifted the bag to your other hand. “Can I go?”

Jason looked at the bruise again. Then at the worn soles of your trainers. Then at the packet of crackers visible through the thin plastic.

“Where do you live?” Your face closed completely. “Yeah,” Jason murmured. “Thought so.”

“I have somewhere.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“You made it my business when you joined my fight.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You could’ve been shot.”

“But I wasn’t.”

“You could have been.”

“But I wasn’t.”

“That doesn’t make it smart.”

“It worked.”

Jason had to resist the sudden, powerful urge to pick you up by the back of your hoodie and carry you somewhere safe by force.

It was not an unfamiliar urge. He had grown up in Gotham. He knew how the city made children sharp at the edges. It taught them to steal before it taught them algebra, taught them which footsteps to run from and which shop owners would look the other way when they slipped a sandwich beneath an oversized coat. Gotham raised its children like weapons and then acted surprised when they came out dangerous.

Jason had been one of them.

Maybe that was why you irritated him so immediately. You stood like he used to stand, balanced on the balls of your feet, ready to bolt. You answered questions with questions and wore bravado like body armour. Even the soup had been stolen. He could see the security sticker half-peeled from the bottom of one can.

“Did you take those?”

Your grip tightened on the bag.

Jason sighed. “I’m not a cop.”

“You’re wearing a helmet and carrying guns.”

“Not traditionally part of the uniform.”

“You beat people up.”

“Cops don’t have exclusive rights to that.”

For the first time, your mouth twitched. It vanished quickly, but Jason saw it.

He reached slowly into one of the pouches at his belt.

You flinched.

It was small. Barely there. A quick movement of your shoulders and a single step backwards, but Jason felt it like a blow.

He stopped. Then he pulled out a wrapped protein bar and held it toward you.

You eyed it suspiciously. “What?”

“You look hungry.”

“I’m not.”

Your stomach growled loudly enough that even the rain could not cover it.

Jason looked pointedly at your abdomen. You glared at him.

“Traitor,” you muttered.

He almost laughed.

Almost.

“Take it.”

“I don’t need charity.”

“It’s not charity. It’s payment.”

“For what?”

“The soup.”

“You didn’t buy the soup.”

“Neither did you.”

You stared at each other.

Then you snatched the protein bar from his hand.

Jason decided not to comment on the speed with which you opened it.

He waited until you had taken three bites before speaking again. “Where you going?”

“Home.”

“And where’s that?”

“Around.”

“That’s not a place.”

“It is in Gotham.”

Unfortunately, you had him there.

Jason glanced toward the mouth of the alley. The sirens were louder now. Webster would be collected soon, along with the men Jason had left unconscious near the warehouse. He should leave before the police arrived. He also could not leave you here.

“You’re coming with me.”

You nearly choked. “No.”

“Wasn’t asking.”

“Pretty sure that’s kidnapping.”

“Pretty sure you’re a minor out after curfew with stolen food and a bruise on your face.”

“So?”

“So either I walk you home, or you come somewhere warm while we figure out who’s supposed to be looking after you.”

“No.”

“You already said that.”

“I meant it both times.”

Jason stepped forward. You stepped back.

He stopped again. There was something in your face now that had not been there before. Real fear. Quiet, controlled, but unmistakable. Your hand curled around the half-eaten protein bar until the wrapper crackled.

Jason knew that expression. He had seen it in mirrors.

He lowered his voice. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“That’s what people say.”

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “It is.”

Rain tapped steadily against the helmet.

Jason looked at the alley around them, at the black windows overhead and the overflowing rubbish bags piled near the kerb. There were a dozen ways to force the issue. He could call Batman. He could call social services anonymously. He could follow you without your knowledge, find out where you slept and investigate from there.

Every option felt like a trap closing around you. So Jason reached up and removed his helmet.

Cold rain struck his face immediately.

You stared. Most civilians knew Red Hood’s face was hidden for a reason. Even with the domino mask beneath the helmet, the gesture meant something. It was vulnerability, or as close as Jason Todd tended to get while standing in an alley at two in the morning.

“My name’s Jason,” he said.

Your eyes flicked over his face, pausing at the white streak in his hair and the scar cut through one eyebrow. “That your real name?”

“Yeah.”

“Why would you tell me?”

“Because I’m asking you to trust me for the next ten minutes.”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

“That makes two of us.”

“You’re a vigilante.”

“You threw soup at a gunman.”

“He looked annoying.”

“He was annoying.”

That almost-smile appeared again.

Jason held out the helmet.

You stared at it. “What?”

“Hold this.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s expensive.”

“That does not answer my question.”

“It’ll keep your hands busy while you decide whether you’re going to run.”

You hesitated, then took it.

The helmet looked too large in your arms.

Jason turned his back on you. It was a calculated risk. You could run. You could drop the helmet and vanish into the dark. You could hit him with it, though he doubted you would get much out of the attempt.

He took two steps toward the alley mouth.

Behind him, your shoes scraped against the pavement.

Not away.

Closer.

Jason did not let himself react.

“My bike’s around the corner,” he said. “I’ve got a place ten minutes from here. Food, heat, clean towels. You stay until the rain lets up. Then you can decide what happens next.”

“Just for the rain?”

“Just for the rain.”

“And you’re not calling anyone?”

“Not without telling you first.”

“That’s not the same as no.”

“No,” Jason agreed. “It isn’t.”

You were silent for several seconds.

Then you handed him the helmet. “Your head’s weirdly big.”

Jason put it back on. “Get on the bike.”

His safehouse was not designed for guests.

It was barely designed for him. There was one bedroom, a narrow bathroom, a kitchen with mismatched cupboards and a living room dominated by weapons cases disguised as cheap furniture. Books had colonised every available surface. A leather jacket hung over the back of the sofa. Three mugs sat beside the sink, though Jason lived alone and had no idea how all three had become dirty.

You stopped just inside the doorway.

Jason locked it behind you, then immediately stepped away so you would not feel blocked in.

“Bathroom’s there,” he said. “Towels under the sink. I’ll find you something dry.”

You stayed where you were. Water dripped from your clothes onto the floorboards.

Jason pulled off his helmet and set it on the kitchen counter. “You can keep your shoes on.”

“I wasn’t going to take them off.”

“Great. Saves us both time.”

He went into the bedroom and found an old T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring. They would drown you, but they were dry. When he came back, you had moved exactly three feet farther into the room.

You were looking at the books. “Those yours?”

“No, I broke into someone else’s apartment to use their shower.”

“You’re sarcastic.”

“So are you.”

“I’m charming.”

“You threw soup at a man.”

“That was charming.”

Jason handed you the clothes. You took them carefully.

His eyes caught on the bruise along your jaw again. “What happened there?”

You touched it automatically, then dropped your hand. “Fell.”

“Into a fist?”

“Into a door.”

“Someone open it into you?”

Your expression sharpened. “Bathroom, you said?”

Jason’s jaw tightened, but he pointed down the hall.

You disappeared inside and locked the door. He heard the lock click twice.

Jason stood in the middle of the living room for a long moment.

Then he pulled out his phone.

He did not call Bruce. That would turn one frightened kid into a family emergency. Dick would start making gentle eyes. Tim would quietly run a background check on every missing teenager in Gotham. Damian would pretend not to care while preparing a list of suitable weapons for self-defence. Bruce would arrive in the Batmobile and somehow make everything ten times more intimidating simply by standing there.

Instead, Jason texted Oracle.

Need a discreet search. No alerts.

Her reply came almost immediately.

Age? Name?

Teen. No name yet. Found near Park Row. Bruise. Hungry. Says they have somewhere to live.

Three dots appeared.

Then:

That sentence has never once ended well.

No kidding.

Get me something to work with.

Jason looked toward the bathroom.

The shower had not started.

He crossed the living room and stopped outside the door. “You okay?”

Silence.

“Kid?”

“I’m changing.”

“The shower works.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

Jason leaned against the wall, careful not to touch the door. “You don’t have to use it.”

“I know.”

“You can just change and come out.”

“I know.”

He recognised the brittle edge in your voice. Too many choices could be their own kind of threat when you were used to having none.

“I’m making food,” he said. “Any allergies?”

“No.”

“Anything you hate?”

“No.”

“That’s statistically unlikely.”

“I don’t care.”

Jason pushed away from the wall. “Grilled cheese it is.”

“You said food.”

“Keep talking and I’ll burn yours.”

He heard something suspiciously like a laugh from behind the door. It was small, muffled quickly, but it loosened something in his chest.

By the time you came out, the sandwiches were done and a pan of soup was warming on the stove. Tomato, because Jason enjoyed irony and because it was the only kind he had in the cupboard.

You had rolled the sweatpants four times at the waist. The T-shirt reached halfway down your thighs. Your wet clothes were clutched against your chest.

Jason pointed toward a chair near the radiator. “Put those there.”

You did, but only after checking the pockets. Then you sat at the table and stared at the plate he placed in front of you.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Then eat.”

You picked up half the sandwich.

Jason turned away under the pretence of checking the soup. In the reflection of the microwave door, he watched you take one cautious bite, then another, then eat the entire half in less than a minute.

He poured the soup into two bowls.

“You live alone?” you asked.

“Mostly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means people ignore my boundaries.”

“Family?”

Jason set a bowl in front of you. “Unfortunately.”

You looked around the apartment again. “They know you do this?”

“They also do this.”

“You’re all vigilantes?”

“Some of us have hobbies.”

“Like what?”

“Being annoying. Emotional repression. Acrobatics.”

You dipped the sandwich into the soup.

Jason waited until you had eaten enough that your shoulders had begun to lower. “What’s your name?”

You kept your eyes on the bowl. He did not push.

After nearly a minute, you told him.

Your voice was quiet, as if the name itself was something precious you were not used to handing over.

Jason repeated it once.

You looked up sharply. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You said it weird.”

“I said it normally.”

“You said it like you were going to remember.”

Jason leaned back in his chair. “Usually how names work.”

Your gaze dropped again.

Jason texted Oracle beneath the table. He gave her your first name, approximate age and location. It was not much. Gotham had thousands of teenagers, and too many of them were unaccounted for.

Still, Oracle was Oracle. The reply came twelve minutes later, while you were scraping the last of the soup from the bowl.

Possible match. Fifteen. School absence issues. Lives with maternal aunt. Mother deceased. Father not listed. Welfare reports made twice, closed after home visits.

Jason read the message twice.

Any details?

Aunt has prior charges for possession and assault. Current address is six blocks from where you found them.

His stomach turned cold.

You noticed. “What?”

Jason placed his phone face-down. “Your aunt know you’re out?”

The spoon stopped halfway to your mouth.

There it was.

Confirmation.

You set it down carefully. “You said you weren’t calling anyone.”

“I didn’t.”

“How do you know about my aunt?”

“I have a friend who’s good with computers.”

“You looked me up.”

“I needed to know if someone was searching for you.”

“No one’s searching for me.”

The words came out too quickly.

Jason felt anger flare behind his ribs, sudden and familiar. Not at you. Never at you. At the aunt who had not noticed you were gone. At the social workers who had visited and found whatever performance your guardian offered convincing enough to close the file. At Gotham, which had been swallowing children for longer than either of you had been alive.

He kept his voice steady. “How long have you been out tonight?”

You stood.

The chair legs scraped harshly against the floor.

“I’m leaving.”

“Your clothes are soaked.”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s still raining.”

“I said I’m leaving.”

Jason rose, but kept the table between you. “I’m not stopping you.”

You froze.

He hated the surprise on your face.

Jason nodded toward the radiator. “Take your clothes. Keep mine if you want. There’s more food in the cupboard.”

You did not move.

“But,” he continued, “I need you to answer one question first.”

“No.”

“You can lie if you want.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“Is your aunt the person who gave you that bruise?”

The apartment became very quiet.

Outside, tyres hissed over wet pavement.

You looked toward the door.

Jason knew the answer before you spoke.

“She didn’t mean to.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides. He forced them open.

“What happened?”

“She was drunk.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know.”

“Has it happened before?”

You crossed your arms tightly.

Jason softened his voice. “You can lie.”

Your mouth trembled. You looked furious about it.

“She gets mad,” you said. “Sometimes.”

“How often is sometimes?”

“She’s not always bad.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“She took me in.”

“That doesn’t mean she gets to hurt you.”

“You don’t know her.”

“No,” Jason said. “I know you’re fifteen, you’re out at two in the morning buying food you can’t afford, and you flinched when I reached for my belt. I know there are bruises on your face and nobody has called to ask where you are.”

You swallowed hard. “She’ll be better tomorrow.”

Jason had said things like that once.

Not those exact words. But close enough.

His father would be calmer tomorrow. His mother would wake up tomorrow. The electricity would come back tomorrow. Someone would notice tomorrow. Batman would save the city tomorrow. Tomorrow was a dangerous promise. It kept kids alive, sometimes. It also kept them in places that were killing them.

Jason moved around the table slowly and sat on the edge of the sofa, lowering himself until he was no longer towering over you.

“You can stay here tonight.”

Your chin lifted. “You said until the rain stopped.”

“I lied.”

“You’re bad at trust.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because if I told you I wanted you to stay before, you would’ve run.”

You glanced toward the door again.

Jason followed your gaze. “You can still go.”

“Why would you let me?”

“Because trapping you won’t make you feel safe.”

Something in your expression cracked. It was not dramatic. You did not collapse or start sobbing. You simply looked suddenly, terribly tired.

“I don’t have anywhere else,” you whispered.

Jason’s anger went quiet.

Not gone. Never gone. But sharpened into something useful.

“You do tonight.”

You slept on the sofa. Jason did not sleep at all.

He gave you the bedroom first. You refused. He offered to take the sofa. You refused that too, glaring at him as if the suggestion itself was suspicious. Eventually, he found a spare blanket in the cupboard and left it folded beside you.

You waited until he had gone into the bedroom before pulling it over yourself.

Jason left the door open.

He sat on the edge of the mattress with both guns disassembled across his knees, cleaning each piece with methodical care while listening to the apartment settle. Pipes knocked in the walls. The refrigerator hummed. Rain tapped against the window.

At three forty-two, he heard your breathing finally deepen.

At four fifteen, you startled awake.

Jason was in the living room before you could get your feet beneath you.

You were sitting upright, one hand clamped over your mouth, eyes wide and unfocused.

He stopped several feet away. “Nightmare?”

You stared at him. “Where am I?”

“My place.”

Your breathing came too fast.

“Jason,” he said. “My name’s Jason. We met in the alley. You insulted my head.”

Recognition returned slowly.

You lowered your hand. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Waking you.”

“I was awake.”

“That’s worse.”

“Probably.”

You looked toward the window. “Is it morning?”

“Not yet.”

You drew your knees beneath the blanket.

Jason sat on the floor with his back against the opposite wall.

“Do you always do that?” you asked.

“Do what?”

“Wake up when someone else does.”

Jason considered lying. “Mostly.”

“Why?”

“Same reason you do.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then you looked away.

Neither of you said anything else.

By sunrise, you were asleep again.

Jason made pancakes.

He had no idea why. He usually drank coffee and called it breakfast, occasionally adding toast when Alfred’s voice in the back of his mind became particularly judgmental. But pancakes felt like the sort of thing an adult was supposed to make for a kid who had woken from a nightmare in a strange apartment.

The first batch burned. The second looked diseased.

The third was acceptable if viewed from a distance.

You shuffled into the kitchen wearing his shirt and rubbing one eye. “What happened?”

“Breakfast.”

“Did it fight back?”

“Sit down.”

You sat.

Jason placed a plate in front of you.

You poked one pancake with a fork. “It moved.”

“It did not.”

“I saw it.”

“Eat your haunted pancake.”

You took a bite. Your face did something complicated.

“That bad?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m trying to be polite.”

“You threw soup at a criminal yesterday.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Jason poured you a glass of orange juice.

You watched him over the rim. “What happens now?”

There it was. The question he had been avoiding since four in the morning.

Jason leaned against the counter. “Now, you tell me what you want.”

“What I want?”

“Yeah.”

“Adults don’t usually ask that.”

“Most adults are idiots.”

You looked down at the pancakes. “I can’t go back.”

Relief and fury moved through him in equal measure. “Okay.”

Your head lifted. “Okay?”

“Okay. You don’t go back.”

“What about my stuff?”

“I’ll get it.”

“She’ll be there.”

“That sounds like her problem.”

“You can’t just break into her flat.”

“I don’t break into places.”

“You’re a vigilante.”

“I enter creatively.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth.

Then it disappeared.

“Where am I supposed to go?”

Jason had options. 

Not good ones. He could contact child services and hope the third report succeeded where the first two had failed. He could call Bruce and let Wayne money carve a clean, legal path through Gotham’s bureaucracy. He could ask Dick, who had somehow become the family expert in frightened teenagers despite still behaving like one whenever cereal was involved. He could reach out to Leslie Thompkins, who would understand immediately and ask fewer intrusive questions than anyone else.

All of those options involved handing you over. Jason found that he did not want to.

The realisation arrived whole and inconvenient.

He had known you for less than twelve hours. You had insulted him repeatedly, stolen soup and bled rainwater over his floor. You were wary, stubborn and reckless enough to involve yourself in a gunfight because a stranger in a red helmet looked like he might need help.

Jason understood you. That was the problem.

He knew what happened to kids like you when adults passed them from hand to hand, each promising safety and none willing to stay when safety became difficult. He knew the careful silence of unfamiliar homes. He knew what it felt like to keep your shoes beside the bed in case you needed to run.

“You can stay here,” he said.

You went still.

“For now,” Jason added quickly. “Until we sort something permanent.”

“You don’t know me.”

“You saved my life.”

“You said you weren’t losing.”

“I was being dramatic.”

“You had guns.”

“He had an ugly coat. Could’ve gone either way.”

You studied his face as if searching for the trick.

Jason let you.

“What do you get?” you asked.

“Headaches, probably.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“People don’t just let someone stay.”

“Someone did for me.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

You glanced around the apartment again, at the books and the second-hand furniture and the helmet resting on the counter.

“Batman?”

Jason grimaced. “Unfortunately.”

Your eyes widened. “You’re one of his?”

“Don’t phrase it like that.”

“You’re Robin.”

“I was Robin.”

“No way.”

“Lower your voice.”

“You’re one of the Robins.”

“I’m reconsidering the offer.”

“Which one?”

“The best-looking one.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down.”

Jason stared.

You smiled properly for the first time.

It transformed your face. The bruise was still there. So were the shadows beneath your eyes. But for one brief second, you looked your age.

Jason felt something in his chest give way.

“Finish breakfast,” he muttered.

“You’re bad at pancakes.”

“You can go back to your aunt.”

The smile vanished.

Jason’s stomach dropped.

“Hey,” he said immediately. “No. That was a joke. A bad one.”

You pushed the plate away.

Jason crossed the kitchen and crouched beside the chair. “I’m sorry.”

Your jaw tightened.

“I’m not sending you back.”

“You don’t have to keep saying it.”

“I think I do.”

You looked at him then.

Jason held your gaze.

“I’m not sending you back,” he repeated. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not when you get annoying, which I’m guessing will be frequently. Not when this gets complicated.”

“You don’t know how complicated.”

“Kid, my family tree looks like a conspiracy board.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.

Jason rested his forearms on his knees.

“I’m not promising it’ll be easy,” he said. “There’ll be social workers. Paperwork. Questions. We’ll need help from people I trust. You might hate some of it.”

“I already hate most things.”

“Great. You’ll fit in.”

You looked down at your hands. “Can I keep the shirt?”

Jason glanced at the faded university logo across your chest. “It’s my favourite.”

“You have six others.”

“How do you know?”

“I looked in the wardrobe.”

“You went through my stuff?”

“I was checking for hidden cameras.”

Jason closed his eyes. “You’re going to be a nightmare.”

“You said I could stay.”

“Yeah,” he said.

The word came out softer than he intended. You heard it anyway.

The legal process took months.

Bruce tried to make it take weeks.

Jason nearly shot him when he suggested moving you to the manor “temporarily,” not because the manor was unsafe but because you had chosen Jason’s cramped safehouse. You had begun leaving your shoes beside the door instead of beside the sofa. Your toothbrush sat in a chipped mug in the bathroom. Your schoolbooks spread across the kitchen table every evening, pushing Jason’s weapons-cleaning supplies onto the counter.

Moving you again, even somewhere larger and grander, would have felt like proving every fear you carried correct.

So Bruce funded a lawyer. Barbara untangled old reports. Leslie documented the bruises, the malnutrition and the history you revealed in careful pieces. Dick brought groceries without making a big deal of it. Tim set up a laptop for school and pretended not to notice when you slept with it under the bed for the first week. Damian informed you that throwing soup was an inefficient combat technique, then spent an entire afternoon teaching you how to use a weighted training baton.

Jason established rules. You hated all of them.

No patrols. No leaving after ten without telling him. No stealing unless survival depended on it, and even then, call him first. School attendance was non-negotiable. No weapons in bed.

The last rule was added after he discovered a kitchen knife beneath your pillow.

You shouted. He shouted louder.

You told him he was not your father.

The words landed between you like broken glass.

Jason went silent.

So did you.

Your anger collapsed immediately, leaving terror behind.

You looked toward the door.

Jason saw it. The expectation. The certainty that you had finally pushed too far, that he would decide you were not worth the trouble and send you away.

He sat down at the kitchen table.

“No,” he said. You remained standing. “I’m not your father.”

Your face crumpled.

Jason continued before you could speak. “But I am the guy who checks whether you ate lunch. I’m the guy who picks you up from school when you get suspended for punching some little punk who deserved it but still shouldn’t have been punched on school property.”

“He made fun of your helmet.”

“I know. His criticism lacked nuance.”

A wet laugh escaped you.

Jason’s throat tightened. “I’m the guy who leaves the hall light on because you hate waking up in the dark,” he said. “I’m the guy who knows you pretend not to like the marshmallows in hot chocolate and steal them out of my mug when you think I’m not looking. I’m the guy who’s going to keep showing up.”

You wiped your face with the sleeve of your hoodie.

Jason pointed toward the chair opposite him.

After a moment, you sat.

“The knife makes you feel safe,” he said. You nodded. “Okay. We’ll find something else.”

“You said no weapons.”

“I said no weapons in bed. We can put a lock on your door. Alarm on the window. Panic button beside the mattress.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You won’t take the knife?”

“I’m taking the knife.” Your shoulders tensed. “And replacing it with something less likely to stab you when you roll over.”

You glared at him through tears.

Jason held out his hand.

It took almost a full minute before you placed the knife in his palm.

He closed his fingers around the handle.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he said.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“I know.”

That night, Jason installed three locks, a window sensor and an emergency button connected directly to his phone.

You slept through until morning.

The adoption papers arrived on a Thursday.

Jason pretended it was not adoption at first.

“Permanent guardianship,” he corrected whenever Dick used the word.

Dick smiled in a way Jason found deeply irritating. “You’re adopting them.”

“It says guardianship.”

“You’re buying them school uniforms.”

“They need clothes.”

“You went to a parent-teacher conference.”

“Their maths teacher has it out for them.”

“They set fire to a worksheet.”

“It was algebra. I understood the impulse.”

“You packed them lunch in a little box.”

“It was the only clean container.”

“It had a note inside.”

Jason threatened to throw Dick off the roof.

The hearing was small. Bruce attended in an expensive suit that made the courthouse staff nervous. Leslie sat beside him. Barbara watched remotely because an emergency at the clock tower kept her away, though she sent seventeen messages before noon. Tim brought coffee. Damian brought a knife as a gift and seemed genuinely offended when the security guard confiscated it.

You sat beside Jason in clothes Alfred had helped choose, your knee bouncing beneath the table.

Jason placed one hand over it.

You went still.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“What if they say no?”

“They won’t.”

“What if they do?”

“Then we appeal.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“We appeal again.”

“And if—”

“Kid.”

You looked at him.

Jason leaned closer. “You’re coming home with me today.”

The word home caught in the air.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The judge asked questions.

Jason answered most of them badly. Yes, he had stable employment, though explaining the source of Red Hood’s income required creative phrasing and significant intervention from Bruce’s lawyer. Yes, the apartment met safety requirements, now that the weapons had been moved into locked storage. Yes, he understood the responsibilities involved in caring for a teenager.

That question almost made him laugh. He had been caring for you for months. He knew which cereal you liked and which nightmares left you unable to speak. He knew you studied better with music playing, that you hated socks with seams, that you became quiet before you became angry and angry before you became afraid. He knew the exact sound your key made in the lock and how long to wait before checking on you after a bad day.

He knew you.

You knew him too. You knew his nightmares made him pace. You knew he forgot to eat when cases became difficult. You knew the scars along his shoulders ached before storms and that he secretly liked the ridiculous patterned socks Alfred bought him every Christmas. You knew when to talk and when to sit nearby without saying anything.

The judge looked between you.

Then she signed the papers.

Outside the courthouse, you stood on the steps clutching the folder against your chest. The city moved around you. Cars passed. People hurried along the pavement. Somewhere nearby, a street vendor shouted about hot dogs.

Jason shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

“So,” he said.

“So.”

“You’re stuck with me.”

You nodded. “Tragic.”

“Devastating.”

“You want lunch?”

“Can we get soup?”

Jason looked at you. Your expression was perfectly innocent.

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s sentimental.”

“It was a weapon.”

“It was our first bonding activity.”

“You assaulted a man with tinned tomatoes.”

“I saved your life.”

“You distracted him.”

“Heroically.”

Jason started down the steps. You followed.

At the bottom, you caught the sleeve of his jacket.

He stopped.

You did not look at him. “Can I call you something?”

His heart stumbled.

Jason kept his voice light. “Depends. If it’s Old Man, I’m leaving you here.”

“Not that.”

You tightened your grip on his sleeve.

Jason waited.

The city seemed to quiet around you, though he knew it had not. Gotham was never quiet. It breathed in sirens and shouted conversations, in footsteps against cracked pavement and the distant rumble of trains beneath the streets.

You looked up.

“Dad?”

Jason forgot how to speak.

Your face changed immediately. “You don’t have to—”

“Yeah,” he said, too quickly.

You blinked.

Jason cleared his throat. “Yeah. You can.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Neither of you moved.

Then you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

Jason stood rigid for half a second.

After that, he folded himself around you. One hand cradled the back of your head. The other pressed between your shoulder blades. You buried your face against his jacket, and Jason held on with a carefulness that hurt.

He had been many things in his life.

A street kid. A thief. A Robin. A corpse. A weapon. A warning. A son who did not know how to forgive his father.

He had never expected to become someone’s safe place. But here you were, holding him as if he was.

Jason closed his eyes.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured.

You clung tighter. “I know.”

That night, he left the hall light on.

Not because you needed it anymore. Because somewhere along the way, it had become a promise.

Earth was blue, loud, and comfortably predictable by comparison.

Another message appeared.

I SAY YOU OWE ME FOUR MONTHS OF MOVIE NIGHTS.

You opened a response channel.

I WAS PREVENTING AN INTERPLANETARY WAR.

Roy answered almost immediately.

SO YOU ADMIT YOU MISSED THEM.

You were still smiling when Kyle drifted closer. His green aura brushed the edge of yours without resistance. The rings adjusted automatically, preventing the fields from disrupting each other as the two of you descended through the atmosphere.

“Is that Harper?” he asked.

“No.”

“Your ring displayed his contact identification.”

“My ring has become disrespectful.”

“It also increased the oxygen flow when you started smiling.”

“That sounds medically unnecessary.”

“I think it was worried.”

You dismissed the messages. “I can leave you in Nevada.”

Kyle glanced toward the expanse of desert beneath you. “Hal invited me to dinner.”

“Hal once invited a man home because they were both angry at the same vending machine.”

“Did the man come?”

“He stayed for three days.”

“Then Hal has excellent instincts.”

“You’ve met him before?”

“Briefly. He spent most of the conversation arguing with Guy.”

“That was meeting him.”

The two of you broke through the last layer of cloud together. Coast City stretched beneath the late afternoon sun, its streets and beaches rendered in familiar lines that your ring identified before you consciously recognized them.

Hal’s house appeared near the edge of the city. The place had always looked too ordinary for a man who spent half his life carrying the weight of entire worlds. The siding needed repainting. The backyard fence leaned slightly toward the neighboring property, despite Hal insisting every spring that he had fixed it. The roof above the garage had been replaced during your last visit, although the new shingles failed to disguise the dent where Kilowog had once landed without warning.

Three vehicles crowded the driveway. One belonged to Oliver. One was Dinah’s. The third was Roy’s truck.

Your ring increased the oxygen flow again.

Kyle heard the chime. “Concerned.”

“Quiet.”

You descended into the backyard before he could say anything else.

Hal stood behind the grill in a faded apron, arguing with Oliver over whether a burger could be considered cooked when the center remained visibly pink. Dinah sat at the picnic table with a glass of lemonade, watching the disagreement with the resigned expression of someone who had already accepted that neither man would listen to her.

Roy was leaning against the porch railing.

You noticed him before anyone else. His red hair had grown slightly longer while you were gone, curling around his ears and at the nape of his neck. He wore a dark shirt with the sleeves pushed over his forearms, exposing the scars and freckles scattered across his skin. One ankle was crossed over the other, and his posture suggested he had been standing there casually rather than waiting for the first glimpse of green light in the sky.

Then Hal looked up. The spatula fell from his hand.

“There she is.”

You barely had time to dismiss your uniform before he reached you. Hal wrapped both arms around you, lifted you from the ground, and squeezed hard enough that your ribs protested despite the protective layer of energy your ring maintained around you.

“You’re late,” he said into your hair.

“By eleven minutes.”

“You came from space. You should have left earlier.”

“I came from another galaxy.”

“Traffic?”

“Terrible.”

His arms tightened again.

The teasing slipped from his voice when he said, “Welcome home, kid.”

Your throat tightened. Hal had called you that from the beginning, when you were fourteen and newly chosen by a ring neither of you understood. He had been your instructor first, then your guardian, and eventually your father in every way that mattered. The legal paperwork had come later, after years of family dinners and emergency contact forms on which neither of you knew what category to select.

You pressed your face briefly against his shoulder. “I missed you too.”

He set you down and immediately began examining you.

“You’re thinner.”

“I’m wearing fitted clothing.”

“When did you last eat?”

“On the ship.”

“That isn’t a time.”

“Three hours ago.”

“What did you eat?”

“Kyle made something.”

Hal looked over your shoulder.

Kyle had landed several feet behind you and dismissed his uniform. “Pasta.”

“From a packet,” you added.

“It contained all the necessary nutrients.”

“It contained powder.”

“Powder can be nutritious.”

Hal turned toward the grill. “I’m making her two burgers.”

“Make her three,” Oliver called.

“I can feed myself.”

“You clearly can’t,” Hal said.

Dinah rose to greet you, wrapping you in an embrace that was gentler than Hal’s and somehow warmer. Oliver followed, kissing your temple and informing you that he had personally prevented Hal from serving dinner two hours early.

“You arrived at three,” Hal said.

“I was helping.”

“You brought one bag of chips.”

“They were good chips.”

You laughed against Oliver’s shoulder before pulling away.

Roy had not moved from the porch. His gaze rested on you with a steadiness that made the backyard seem quieter than it was. The messages had been light, but his expression held something more complicated now that you were standing in front of him.

Relief, perhaps.

You crossed the grass.

“Harper.”

“Lantern.”

He waited until you reached him before unfolding his arms.

“You planning on greeting me properly?” you asked.

“I sent four messages.”

“One of them said you were charging interest on missed movie nights.”

“Emotional interest.”

“That isn’t a thing.”

“It is now.”

You opened your arms. Roy regarded you for another second, making a show of reluctance that neither of you believed. Then his hands settled around your waist, and he pulled you against him.

Your arms went around his neck. Roy hugged differently from Hal. He did not crush you or lift your feet from the ground. He held you carefully, one hand spread between your shoulder blades while the other rested at the curve of your waist, his forearm firm against your back.

The position brought your face close to his neck. He smelled like soap, machine oil, and the faint leather scent that clung to his equipment. Four months of alien air disappeared beneath one familiar breath.

“You took your time,” he murmured.

“I came home as soon as the assignment ended.”

“Could’ve staged a coup.”

“I was trying to prevent one.”

“See? Lack of initiative.”

His voice remained easy, but his hand tightened against your back.

You closed your eyes. “You missed me.”

“The crime rate increased while you were gone.”

“That sounds like a yes.”

“Property damage also increased.”

“You tracked property damage?”

“I was bored.”

“Because you missed me.”

“Because there was nothing good on television.”

You leaned back enough to see him. “You could have watched our list.”

“You said I wasn’t allowed to continue without you.”

“And you listened?”

“I have principles.”

“You broke into my bedroom when we were sixteen because you thought Hal had confiscated your arrows.”

“He had confiscated my arrows.”

“They were in Oliver’s car.”

“Where Hal put them.”

“Hal moved the car because you kept looking through the windows.”

“He was concealing evidence.”

You laughed.

Roy’s gaze dropped to your mouth.

His thumb moved once against your side before becoming still.

The contact made you abruptly aware of how little space there was between you. Roy’s chest rested against yours. Your arms remained looped around his neck, and his hand sat low enough on your waist that the warmth of it reached through your shirt.

Before either of you could decide what that meant, Kyle spoke behind you.

“Am I interrupting?”

Roy released you. You stepped back, trying not to react to the sudden absence of his hands.

Kyle approached with the duffel he had brought back from the assignment hanging from one shoulder. He looked from you to Roy, apparently registering nothing unusual about the way Roy’s jaw had tightened.

“Kyle, this is Roy Harper,” you said. “Roy, Kyle Rayner.”

“We’ve met,” Kyle said, extending his hand. “Briefly.”

“League meeting,” Roy replied.

“That was it. You had the exploding arrows.”

“I have several exploding arrows.”

“The ones shaped like boxing gloves.”

Roy stared at him.

Kyle frowned as he reconsidered. “Those might have been separate arrows.”

“They were.”

“Right.” Kyle smiled and shook his hand. “She talks about you.”

Roy glanced toward you. “Does she?”

“Mostly when something breaks.”

“I talk about him when other things happen.”

“Sometimes when something catches fire,” Kyle continued.

“That was one story.”

“You mentioned the chili incident twice.”

“Because it was funny.”

Roy released Kyle’s hand. “The chili was sabotaged.”

“You forgot it was on the stove,” you said.

“The stove ran hot.”

“You went to the store.”

“We needed sour cream.”

“You were gone for forty minutes.”

“The first store had the wrong brand.”

Kyle nodded with genuine interest. “This explains a lot.”

Roy’s attention sharpened. “About what?”

“Her standards for cooking.”

You covered a smile with your hand.

Kyle had not noticed anything. That was the worst part. His friendliness contained none of the deliberate edge Roy seemed to hear in it. Kyle was simply tired, pleased to be back on Earth, and apparently eager to meet the person who appeared in half the stories you told during long patrols.

Roy looked less pleased with every passing second.

Hal shouted from the grill. “Kyle, you want cheese?”

“Sure.”

“American, cheddar, or the one Dinah bought because she thinks we need to expand our horizons?”

“Cheddar.”

“Coward,” Dinah said.

Kyle set his bag near the porch. “Do I need to do anything?”

“Keep Hal away from the propane,” you said.

“The propane is fine,” Hal called.

Oliver pointed toward the grill. “He already singed his sleeve.”

“It was deliberate.”

“It was your favorite jacket.”

“Exactly. Tactical sacrifice.”

Kyle went to help, leaving you beside Roy.

Roy watched him cross the yard.

“He’s staying?”

“He has his own apartment.”

“I meant for dinner.”

“Hal invited him.”

“Hal invites strangers into his house.”

“Kyle isn’t a stranger.”

“Apparently.”

You studied Roy’s profile. “Are you being weird?”

“No.”

“That sounded weird.”

“Maybe four months in space affected your hearing.”

“My ring monitors my hearing.”

“Your ring is an enabler.”

Before you could press him, Hal called your name and demanded that you explain why the grill had begun making a clicking sound.

By the time you turned back, Roy had moved toward the table.

Dinner began at seven forty-three, which Dinah declared a personal victory.

You sat on one side of the picnic table with Kyle beside you. Roy sat directly across from you, one arm resting along the back of the bench while Oliver and Hal continued arguing over the proper way to season grilled corn.

For the first twenty minutes, everything felt almost exactly as it had before you left.

Hal asked too many questions about your health while pretending they were questions about the mission. Dinah wanted to know whether the diplomatic settlement would hold. Oliver listened to your explanation of the border dispute with surprising attentiveness until Hal revealed that he was actually waiting for an opportunity to compare the hostile planetary government to a city councilman he disliked.

Roy said little. He watched you.

You noticed every time his attention moved toward your face, your ring, or the small bruise along your wrist that had not quite faded. He noticed when you pushed aside the tomato from your burger and silently reached across the table to take it. You stole several fries from his plate in exchange.

The familiar rhythm should have relaxed him.

Then Kyle took one of your fries too.

Roy looked at his hand.

Kyle ate the fry without noticing. “Did you tell them about the negotiations on Vespasi?”

“I was getting there.”

“You have to tell them about the ceremonial robes.”

You groaned. “I absolutely do not.”

Hal leaned forward. “What robes?”

“The local council required diplomatic delegates to wear traditional clothing,” Kyle explained.

“What kind of clothing?” Dinah asked.

Kyle reached for another fry.

Roy moved his plate slightly out of reach.

Kyle switched to yours instead. “They were elaborate.”

“You said I looked nice.”

“You did look nice.”

“Then why did you laugh?”

“Because the sleeves were wider than you were.”

“You walked into a door.”

“The hood obstructed my vision.”

Oliver looked delighted. “Do you have pictures?”

“Of him walking into the door?”

“Of both.”

“My ring recorded the entire ceremony,” you said.

Kyle pulled his phone from his pocket. “I transferred a few.”

“You what?”

“For the mission archive.”

“You sent one to Guy.”

“He asked how negotiations were going.”

“You sent him the one with the crown.”

“You were wearing it.”

“It was six feet tall.”

“It was culturally significant.”

“You added sparkles.”

“The original image lacked drama.”

Roy looked between the two of you. “You have matching costumes?”

“Diplomatic robes,” you corrected.

“Matching diplomatic robes.”

“They weren’t matching,” Kyle said. “Hers were green.”

“Of course they were.”

“Mine were blue.”

Roy’s brows drew together. “Why blue?”

Kyle shrugged. “They thought it complemented her outfit.”

You felt Roy’s gaze settle on you.

“It was an arranged color scheme,” you explained.

“They also thought we were married,” Kyle added.

The table went quiet.

You closed your eyes. The misunderstanding had lasted less than an hour and had been corrected before negotiations formally began. It had not mattered enough to mention in the mission report, but Kyle delivered the information as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.

Roy’s hand became still around his glass.

Hal looked sharply at you. “They thought what?”

“The council assumed Lantern partners meant married partners,” you said. “We corrected them.”

“Eventually,” Kyle said.

Your knee struck his beneath the table.

He winced. “Immediately. We corrected them immediately.”

Roy leaned back. “Lantern partners.”

“It’s the standard term for two Lanterns assigned to the same mission,” Kyle explained.

“I know what it means.”

Kyle smiled. “Right. Sorry.”

Roy’s expression did not change.

You reached for one of his fries. He moved the plate back within your reach before you could ask.

Oliver took a slow drink, watching Roy over the rim of his glass with obvious amusement. Dinah noticed too. Her mouth curved, although she was kind enough not to say anything.

Hal was less restrained. “Why didn’t you tell me an alien government tried to marry you?”

“They didn’t try to marry us.”

“They prepared one room,” Kyle said.

You turned toward him. “Kyle.”

“What? They did.”

Roy’s glass touched the table with a quiet click.

“One room?” he asked.

“The lodging coordinator thought we were married,” you said.

“And there was a cultural prohibition against changing assigned accommodations after sunset,” Kyle added. “It was complicated.”

“So you shared a room.”

“We shared a suite.”

“It had one bed,” Kyle said.

Your ring could not protect him from you on Earth without a valid threat assessment.

You considered providing one.

Roy’s gaze moved from Kyle to you. “One bed.”

“I made another one with my ring.”

“It disappeared when you fell asleep,” Kyle reminded you.

“I slept on the sofa.”

“For an hour.”

“Then the sofa disappeared.”

Roy folded his arms. “Because you fell asleep.”

“Yes.”

“In the bed.”

“At the edge.”

Kyle nodded. “She kicks.”

“I kicked you once.”

“Three times.”

“You were stealing the blankets.”

“They were communal blankets.”

“There is no such thing.”

Kyle glanced toward the others. “She also talks in her sleep.”

Roy’s expression shifted.

You felt heat rise into your face. “I do not.”

“You do.”

“What did I say?”

“I couldn’t understand most of it.”

“Most?”

“You said Roy’s name once.”

Every head at the table turned toward you.

Kyle continued eating his burger.

The silence apparently failed to register.

Roy’s voice was quieter when he asked, “She did?”

“Probably because she was trying to remember the chili story.” Kyle looked at you. “That was the night you told me about it, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You also stole my pillow.”

“I was asleep.”

“You tucked it under your arm and told me to get my own.”

Roy’s jaw tightened.

Kyle finally seemed to notice that the conversation had changed.

He looked around the table. “Did I say something?”

“No,” Roy replied. “You’ve said plenty.”

“Roy,” you warned.

“What?”

Kyle glanced between you. “Should I—”

“Tell us about the weapons shipment,” Dinah said smoothly.

Grateful for the change of subject, Kyle began explaining the criminal operation that had complicated the final week of your assignment.

Roy remained quiet.

You watched him instead of listening. His irritation was obvious now, although he kept it contained beneath the rigid set of his shoulders and the small crease between his brows. He was not angry at you. You knew Roy well enough to recognize the difference.

He was uncomfortable. Worse, he was trying to hide it.

When Kyle reached across you for the mustard, his shoulder brushed yours. Roy’s gaze followed the movement.

You leaned back slightly.

Kyle thanked you and continued speaking, unaware that he had just made Roy’s grip tighten around his fork.

A few minutes later, he casually rested his arm behind you along the top of the bench to make room for Hal when he squeezed past. His hand remained several inches from your shoulder.

Roy stared at it as though Kyle had produced a weapon.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

There was something almost endearing about his complete inability to disguise jealousy once you knew what you were looking for. Roy had always been quick to needle anyone who paid you too much attention, but you had assumed it was the same overprotective instinct he applied to most of the people he loved.

This felt different.

It felt promising.

Then Kyle leaned toward you and quietly asked whether you had remembered to deactivate the translator implant before it reset overnight.

You turned your head to answer him.

From Roy’s angle, the movement must have looked intimate. Kyle’s face was close to yours, his voice too low for anyone else to hear, and one of his hands rested on the bench behind your back.

Roy stood.

The bench scraped against the patio stones.

Everyone stopped speaking.

“I need another drink,” he said.

His glass was still half full.

Oliver looked at it. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

Roy took the glass with him and crossed the yard toward the house. The screen door snapped shut behind him.

Hal watched him go. “What’s wrong with Roy?”

Oliver stared at his best friend. “You really don’t know?”

“Know what?”

Dinah sighed. “Fourteen years.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you owe me fifty dollars,” Oliver said.

“For what?”

“The bet.”

Hal frowned. “That bet expired when they turned twenty-one.”

“You don’t get to invent expiration dates because you’re losing.”

You pushed away from the table.

Kyle looked concerned. “Did I offend him?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? He seemed fine when we arrived.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“I kept taking his fries.”

“You took everyone’s fries.”

“That might be the problem.”

“It isn’t.”

Kyle lowered his voice. “Do you want me to apologize?”

The sincerity in his face removed any remaining suspicion that he had been trying to provoke Roy. Kyle genuinely had no idea what he had done, because he had done nothing except behave with the ease of someone who had spent months beside you.

That ease was the problem.

“It’s okay,” you said. “I’ll talk to him.”

You left the table before Hal could ask another question.

Behind you, Oliver said, “Pay up.”

“I still don’t understand what we bet on.”

“That’s why the odds were so good.”

The kitchen smelled faintly of charcoal smoke and whatever seasoning Hal had spilled across the counter earlier.

Roy stood at the sink with his back to the doorway. His half-full glass sat beside him while he ran water over his hands, even though there was nothing on them that needed washing.

“You left my welcome-home dinner,” you said.

“It’s Hal’s house.”

“He cooked for me.”

“He burned food in your honor.”

“It was touching.”

Roy shut off the faucet and reached for a dish towel. “Kyle wondering where you are?”

“He thinks you’re upset about the fries.”

“He should stop stealing people’s food.”

“You drank from my milkshake the first time we met.”

“I was fourteen.”

“You finished it.”

“You said you didn’t want the rest.”

“I said I wanted a napkin.”

“You were unclear.”

You stepped farther into the kitchen and pulled the back door closed behind you. The sounds from the yard softened to a blur beneath the hum of the refrigerator and the quiet rush of water still draining from the sink.

Roy dried his hands longer than necessary.

“Talk to me,” you said.

“I am talking.”

“You’re pretending to wash clean hands in Hal’s kitchen while sulking.”

“I don’t sulk.”

“You left because Kyle leaned near me.”

“He was practically sitting on you.”

“He was asking about my translator.”

“That isn’t better.”

You blinked. “How?”

“I don’t know. It sounded intimate.”

“A translator implant sounds intimate?”

“He whispered.”

“Because Hal was talking.”

“Hal’s always talking.”

“So everyone who wants to speak to me should leave the yard?”

Roy tossed the dish towel onto the counter and braced both hands against its edge. “I know I’m being an asshole.”

The admission surprised you into silence.

He looked down between his hands.

“I know Kyle didn’t do anything,” he continued. “He seems nice. He’s probably great. Everyone likes him.”

“You like him.”

“I liked him before tonight.”

“You dislike him because we shared a bed?”

“You didn’t share a bed.”

“We technically did.”

His head lifted.

You tried not to smile. “For part of one night.”

“That isn’t helping.”

“I’m trying to understand.”

“You understand.”

“I think I do, but I want to hear you say it.”

Roy laughed once without humor. “Of course you do.”

He pushed away from the counter and turned to face you fully. The kitchen was not small, but his movement changed the room, making the space between you feel more deliberate.

“You disappear for four months,” he said. “Then you come home with a guy who knows what you look like in ceremonial robes, knows how you sleep, knows the things you say when you’re dreaming, and apparently spent half the assignment sharing rooms with you.”

“One room.”

“That distinction isn’t making me feel better.”

“He knows those things because we were working together.”

“I know.”

“Kyle isn’t interested in me.”

Roy’s mouth tightened. “He called you his partner.”

“He is my partner.”

“I know what it means.”

“Then why are you acting like he announced an engagement?”

“Because he can go with you.”

The irritation left his voice as quickly as it had come.

You stared at him.

Roy looked toward the window rather than your face. “He can fly out of the atmosphere beside you. He understands Corps assignments, alien customs, whatever the hell a translator implant does. When you tell him something happened three sectors away, he knows where that is without pretending he’ll look it up later.”

“You look things up?”

“Sometimes.”

“Roy.”

“He fits into that part of your life.”

The words emerged reluctantly, stripped of the humor he usually used to conceal anything that might hurt.

“And I don’t,” he finished.

Your chest tightened.

Roy had never asked you to give up the ring. Even when you were younger and assignments frightened both of you, he understood that being a Lantern was not something you could separate from yourself. The ring had chosen you, but Hal had taught you that the choice to answer belonged to you each time.

Roy had always respected that choice.

You had not realized he believed it was taking you somewhere he could not follow.

“You fit into every part of my life,” you said.

“That isn’t true.”

“It is.”

“Do you talk about me on Oa?”

“All the time.”

“Kyle knows the chili story.”

“Everyone knows the chili story.”

“Great.”

“He knew your name before you met.”

Roy’s gaze returned to yours.

“You were the first person I called after my promotion,” you reminded him. “You helped me choose the apartment I barely use. You have access codes to my ship.”

“The ship tried to eject me.”

“You insulted its navigation system.”

“It took us through an asteroid field.”

“It was avoiding a solar flare.”

“It could have mentioned that.”

“You argued with an artificial intelligence for twenty minutes.”

“It started it.”

You stepped closer.

Roy watched you cross the remaining space between you, but he did not move away.

“When the assignment became difficult, I wanted to talk to you,” you said. “When Kyle made me laugh, I thought about whether you would have laughed too. When I couldn’t sleep, I listened to the messages you sent, even the one where you complained about a delivery driver parking in front of the building.”

“He blocked the entrance.”

“For thirty seconds.”

“It was inconsiderate.”

“I know.”

You stopped in front of him.

Roy’s hands hung at his sides, close enough to touch you but held carefully still.

“Kyle can go into space with me,” you said. “That doesn’t make him home.”

Something shifted in Roy’s expression.

You continued before courage failed you. “You are.”

He stared at you.

The refrigerator hummed behind him. Somewhere outside, Hal laughed loudly enough that the sound carried through the closed door, followed by Dinah telling him to lower his voice.

Roy did not seem to hear any of it.

“You should be careful,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I’m already jealous enough to hate a perfectly decent guy over some fries.”

“I noticed.”

“You telling me things like that isn’t going to help.”

“I’m not trying to help.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

The warmth beneath your skin spread lower.

“What are you trying to do?” he asked.

“Get you to admit why you’re jealous.”

“I thought I just did.”

“You admitted Kyle fits into my Lantern life.”

“He does.”

“You haven’t admitted why that matters.”

Roy looked at you for a long moment.

His voice was quieter when he said, “Because I’m in love with you.”

The words settled between you with startling simplicity.

You had imagined hearing them before. Sometimes after long missions, when exhaustion stripped away your better judgment. Sometimes during nights spent on Roy’s couch, your feet tangled beneath a blanket while he pretended not to notice when you leaned against him.

In your imagination, he always delivered the confession smoothly.

The reality was better.

Roy looked irritated by his own vulnerability, his shoulders tense and his hands curled as though he needed something to hold. There was no performance in it. He was not trying to charm you or make the words less frightening with a joke.

He was only telling the truth.

“How long?” you asked.

His expression became wary. “Does it matter?”

“I want to know.”

“Seventeen.”

Your lips parted.

Roy gave a small, embarrassed shrug. “Maybe sixteen. You wore that green dress to Dinah’s birthday and threatened to throw me off the roof because I said it made you look like a traffic light.”

“You said a sexy traffic light.”

“You remember.”

“I remember throwing you into the pool.”

“You ruined my jacket.”

“You deserved it.”

“I still thought you looked good.”

You smiled despite the ache in your chest. “You’ve been in love with me since we were teenagers?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were seventeen.”

“So were you.”

“You had just started training off-world. Every time I saw you, you had another story about some planet I couldn’t pronounce. You looked happy.”

“I was happy.”

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

Roy sighed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “You had a whole universe opening up in front of you. I wasn’t going to be the guy who asked you to stay because he finally figured out what everyone else already knew.”

“You think loving you would have made me stay?”

“I thought it might make leaving harder.”

“It was already hard.”

His hand lowered.

You closed the last inch between you and placed your palm against his chest.

Roy inhaled.

His heartbeat moved quickly beneath your hand.

“You were always the hardest part,” you said.

His fingers settled around your wrist, holding you there. “You don’t get to say things like that after letting me think you and Rayner were sharing a honeymoon suite.”

“It was a diplomatic residence.”

“One bed.”

“I built another bed.”

“It disappeared.”

“You were listening closely.”

“I was suffering.”

You laughed.

Roy’s eyes narrowed, but his thumb moved over the inside of your wrist.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accused.

“A little.”

“I walked away from dinner because Kyle leaned close to you.”

“I saw.”

“Oliver’s never going to let me forget that.”

“He’ll be too busy collecting his bet.”

“What bet?”

“I’m not sure, but Hal owes him fifty dollars.”

Roy closed his eyes. “They bet on us?”

“Apparently.”

“I hate our family.”

“Our family?”

His eyes opened again.

You smiled.

Roy’s hand tightened around your wrist.

“That was deliberate,” he said.

“Maybe.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You missed me.”

“I did.”

The honesty in the answer erased your teasing.

You raised your other hand to his face, letting your fingers follow the edge of his jaw. The faint roughness there caught against your skin.

Roy became very still.

“I missed you too,” you said.

“How much?”

The question was soft, but his gaze had darkened.

You moved closer until your body brushed his. “Enough to think about you while I was sharing that bed with Kyle.”

Roy’s hand left your wrist and settled at your waist.

“That’s cruel.”

“Nothing happened.”

“I know.”

“I slept for four hours. Kyle complained that I stole the blanket. We spent the next morning arguing with a council about mining rights.”

“I know.”

“You’re still thinking about the bed.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“Do you want help?”

His fingers flexed against your side.

“You should probably explain what kind of help you’re offering.”

You rose onto your toes and kissed him.

Roy froze.

For one terrible second, you wondered whether you had misunderstood everything. Then his hand slid around your back and pulled you firmly against him.

He kissed you like he had been waiting years and resented every second of it.

The first press of his mouth was almost careful, but it lasted only until your fingers slid into his hair. Roy made a quiet sound against your lips, turned you with him, and walked you backward until your shoulders met the closed back door.

One hand braced beside your head. The other remained at your waist, his thumb pressing into the narrow strip of skin exposed where your shirt had shifted.

You kissed him again before he could speak.

His mouth opened beneath yours.

Roy had always been tactile. He threw an arm around your shoulders, leaned against you on the couch, and touched your back when guiding you through crowds. You had spent years pretending those casual points of contact did not leave warmth behind.

There was nothing casual about him now.

His body settled against yours, solid and hot, one thigh easing between your legs as he deepened the kiss. Your ring registered the increase in your pulse and offered to perform a medical scan.

You silenced it with a thought.

Roy pulled back just far enough to breathe. “Did your ring just say something?”

“No.”

“It chimed.”

“It’s nosy.”

“Can it see us?”

“It doesn’t have eyes.”

“Can it record us?”

“Not without authorization.”

“Good.”

His mouth returned to yours.

You laughed into the kiss, and Roy’s hand slid from your waist to your hip. He pressed you more firmly against the door, his thigh shifting until the pressure made your breath catch.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Roy drew back, his lips brushing yours when he spoke. “That okay?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

You used the grip you had on his hair to pull him closer. “Harper.”

His mouth curved against yours. “That sounds like a yes.”

He kissed the corner of your lips and moved lower, his mouth tracing your jaw before settling against the side of your neck. Your head tipped back against the door.

Roy’s hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt.

His palm spread over your bare side, warm and roughened by years of archery. His thumb moved beneath your ribs while his lips found the place below your ear that had always made you shiver when he touched it accidentally.

There was nothing accidental now.

“Roy.”

He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your pulse. “I’ve wanted to hear you say my name like that for a long time.”

“How long?”

“Don’t make me answer questions while I’m trying to kiss you.”

“You were the one who wanted honesty.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

His teeth grazed your skin.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, and Roy exhaled against your neck. The sound sent a sharper rush of warmth through you.

“You keep doing that,” he murmured, “and your dad’s going to find us in a situation nobody wants to explain.”

“My dad has been waiting for this since we were teenagers.”

“Hal threatened me when I asked if you had a date to prom.”

“He threatened everyone.”

“He showed me the ring and said space was very large.”

“That was subtle for him.”

Roy lifted his head. His lips were flushed, and his hair stood unevenly beneath your fingers.

You had known him almost half your life.

You had never seen him look at you quite like this.

His gaze traveled over your face before dropping down the length of your body. The movement was unhurried, open enough to make heat gather beneath your skin.

“You’re staring,” you said.

“I’m making up for lost time.”

“You had fourteen years.”

“I was trying to behave.”

“You were terrible at it.”

“That’s probably why Hal threatened to leave me in space.”

You hooked one finger into the collar of his shirt and drew him back. “I could protect you.”

“From a Green Lantern?”

“I’m a Green Lantern.”

“You’re biased.”

“I’m very biased.”

Roy kissed you again, slower this time. The edge of desperation softened into something deeper, although his hand continued moving beneath your shirt, following the curve of your waist before stopping just below the band of your bra.

He gave you time to object.

You didn’t.

His fingertips traced the edge of the fabric.

Your hips shifted against his thigh.

Roy broke the kiss with a rough breath. His forehead dropped against yours.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You looked down between your bodies.

“I have some idea.”

“Don’t.”

You smiled. “You’re the one pressing me against a door.”

“You kissed me.”

“You confessed your love.”

“You accused me of being jealous.”

“You were jealous.”

“I’m still jealous.”

“Kyle has probably eaten all your fries by now.”

Roy groaned and buried his face against your neck. “I was starting to forget he existed.”

“You brought him up.”

“Because you’re evil.”

“You love me.”

“Deeply unfortunate.”

His mouth returned to the mark he had left on your neck.

You turned your face into his hair, breathing him in. “Kyle really isn’t interested in me.”

“I believe you.”

“He’s going to be horrified when he realizes why you left.”

“I’ll apologize.”

“You’ll apologize?”

“Eventually.”

“You were rude to him.”

“I shook his hand.”

“You interrogated him about cheese.”

“He seemed suspicious.”

“He asked for cheddar.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed, and Roy lifted his head.

For a moment, the jealousy and humor faded. He touched your cheek, his thumb moving slowly beneath your eye.

“You’re really home?” he asked.

The question carried more weight than the words should have held.

You understood anyway.

“For a while,” you said. “The Corps approved two months of Earth rotation. After that, I’ll probably take shorter assignments.”

“Probably?”

“I can request them.”

“For me?”

“For myself.” You leaned into his hand. “Because I’m tired of pretending Earth is only somewhere I visit between missions.”

Roy studied your face. “I don’t want you changing your life because I was an asshole over Kyle.”

“I’m not changing it for you.”

“Good.”

“I’m making room for you.”

His expression softened.

“That’s worse,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because now I want to kiss you again.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“It’s a burden.”

You tugged him closer by his shirt. “Be brave.”

Roy’s mouth had barely touched yours when someone knocked hard against the other side of the back door.

Both of you went still.

“Dinner’s getting cold,” Hal called.

Roy closed his eyes.

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.

A second voice came through the door. “You’ve been gone long enough for the burgers to qualify as leftovers,” Oliver added.

“We were talking,” Roy said.

“Sure you were.”

Hal knocked again. “Also, keep the door unlocked.”

“It is unlocked,” you called.

There was a pause.

“That isn’t better,” Hal replied.

Roy lowered his forehead to your shoulder. “I’m never coming back here again.”

“You say that every time.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You promised Hal you’d help him fix the fence next Saturday.”

“I’ll fake my death.”

Oliver’s voice came next. “We can hear you.”

“Go away,” Roy said.

“We’re trying to eat dessert.”

“Then eat it.”

“Kyle asked if he should save you pie,” Hal added.

Roy lifted his head. “Tell him to stop being so nice.”

You laughed hard enough that your shoulders shook beneath his hands.

Roy stared at you for a moment, then began smiling despite himself.

“This is your fault,” he said.

“You were the one acting jealous.”

“You slept in another man’s bed.”

“You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Maybe in ten years.”

“You were in love with me for almost that long without saying anything.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I suffered quietly.”

“You walked away from dinner in front of everyone.”

“I said quietly, not subtly.”

Hal knocked again. “Are you dressed?”

Roy looked toward the door with something close to despair.

You caught his face between your hands and kissed him before he could answer. The sound outside disappeared for several seconds beneath the warmth of his mouth and the immediate tightening of his hands around your waist.

When you pulled back, Roy followed, trying to continue the kiss.

“We should go outside,” you murmured.

“We really shouldn’t.”

“They’re waiting.”

“They can keep waiting.”

“Kyle might eat your pie.”

Roy’s eyes opened.

“You fight dirty.”

“I learned from you.”

He looked at your mouth, then at the door, visibly weighing his options. “We’re continuing this later.”

“That sounds threatening.”

“It is.”

“How much later?”

Roy’s hand slid down to your hip. “As soon as I figure out how to get you out of your father’s house without being shot into orbit.”

“My room has a lock.”

He stared at you.

You smiled.

Roy’s gaze darkened all over again. “You can’t say that while I’m trying to behave.”

“I thought you gave up on behaving.”

“I’m trying to preserve what remains of my relationship with Hal.”

“He’ll survive.”

“I might not.”

You opened the back door. Hal and Oliver stood on the other side. Dinah remained at the table, watching with her chin resting on one hand. Kyle sat beside her with a plate of pie, his expression concerned.

Roy immediately removed his hand from beneath your shirt.

Hal’s eyes moved from your swollen lips to the mark on your neck and then to Roy’s rumpled hair.

His face went completely blank.

Oliver held out his hand. Without looking away from Roy, Hal reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and placed several bills in Oliver’s palm.

“You bet against us?” you asked.

“I didn’t bet against you,” Hal said.

“You said they’d take another five years,” Oliver replied.

“I was being realistic.”

“You thought I was going to wait five more years?” Roy asked.

Hal looked at him. “You waited this long.”

“That was different.”

“You were scared.”

“I was respecting her career.”

“You were scared,” Oliver repeated.

Roy pointed toward the driveway. “I can leave.”

“You just said you were never coming back,” you reminded him.

Kyle looked between the two of you.

His gaze paused on Roy’s hair, then your neck.

Understanding slowly crossed his face.

“Ooooh,” he said.

Roy folded his arms.

Kyle placed his fork down. “Were you jealous of me?”

“No.”

“Yes,” everyone else said.

Kyle looked horrified. “I didn’t know.”

“I know,” you assured him.

“I kept talking about the bed.”

“You did.”

“And the robes.”

“Yes.”

“And I put my arm behind you.”

Roy’s expression tightened. “You can stop listing things.”

“I’m sorry.”

Roy sighed. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I ate your fries.”

“That was personal.”

“I’ll get you more.”

“See?” Roy looked at you. “He’s impossible to hate.”

“You tried.”

“I committed.”

Kyle pushed the plate of pie toward him. “Peace offering?”

Roy considered it.

“What kind?”

“Apple.”

“With cheddar?”

Kyle frowned. “Why would it have cheddar?”

Roy accepted the plate. “All right. We’re good.”

Hal pointed the spatula at him. “You and I are talking later.”

Roy took a bite of pie. “About what?”

“Boundaries.”

“You invited me.”

“To dinner. Not to make out with my daughter in my kitchen.”

Roy glanced behind him. “It’s technically her kitchen too.”

“That is not helping you,” Hal informed him sternly.

Oliver shook his head. “Nothing you say is going to help you.” 

“The chili was not my fault,” Roy said.

“It burned through a pot,” you reminded him.

Roy glanced toward you. “Are you on my side at all?”

You stepped closer and slipped your hand into his.

His fingers closed around yours immediately.

“I’m standing beside you.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“It’s what you’re getting.”

Roy looked down at your joined hands.

His expression softened despite the audience.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

Roy stayed until the others began leaving.

Kyle departed first, collecting his duffel from beside the porch after apologizing twice more for accidentally making Roy jealous. Roy claimed he had not been jealous at all, which might have been more convincing if he had not kept one hand on your waist throughout the conversation.

Dinah hugged you goodnight and whispered that she expected details later. Oliver kissed the top of your head, gave Roy a look that promised he would be hearing about tonight for years, and followed her toward the driveway.

Eventually, the last of the guests had gone, leaving you, Roy, and Hal behind. Hal washed dishes with unnecessary force while Roy carried the remaining plates in from the backyard. The silence between them grew heavier with every trip.

You leaned against the counter and watched them avoid eye contact.

Finally, Hal shut off the faucet.

“You hurt her,” he said, “and I’m sending you to the edge of known space.”

Roy dried his hands. “Fair.”

“I’ll revoke your house privileges.”

“That seems worse.”

“It is.”

“Dad.”

Hal looked at you. “I’m being supportive.”

“You’re threatening him.”

“I threatened him years ago. This is a reminder.”

Roy set down the towel. “I love her.”

Hal’s expression changed.

The words sounded different here than they had when the two of you were alone earlier. Less desperate, perhaps, but no less certain.

“I know,” Hal said.

Roy blinked.

“You know?”

“I’ve known since you were seventeen.”

“Then why did you threaten me?”

“You were seventeen.”

“That seems unfair.”

“It was extremely fair.”

Hal looked toward you. “You love him?”

You met Roy’s gaze.

His hand found yours beside the counter.

“Yes.”

Hal exhaled and rubbed both hands over his face. “Great.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

“I am happy.” He lowered his hands. “I’m thrilled. My daughter is dating Oliver Queen’s son. This is a wonderful development that cannot possibly make family dinners more complicated.”

“Roy isn’t his son,” you said.

“Tell Oliver that.”

Roy’s thumb moved across your knuckles. He looked at Hal before saying, “I was planning to take her back to my place tonight. Are you okay with that?”

You glanced at him. “You know we don’t need permission.”

“I know.” Roy’s fingers tightened gently around yours. “I’m asking because you’ve been home for six hours, he’s your dad, and I’d rather not start this by being more of an asshole than necessary.”

Hal stared at him for a moment.

Roy held his gaze without backing down, although there was nothing challenging in his expression. He was not asking Hal to decide for you. He was acknowledging that taking you away on your first night home mattered to the man who had spent four months waiting for you to return.

Hal’s shoulders eased slightly. “I appreciate that.”

“I’m still going with him,” you said.

“I know you are.” Hal looked toward you. “You’re an adult. I don’t get a vote.”

“You get an opinion.”

“Oh, I have several.”

Roy’s mouth twitched. “I assumed.”

Hal pointed at him. “Breakfast is at nine. Both of you.”

“We’ll be here,” Roy promised.

You leaned against Roy’s shoulder as his arm settled around your waist. He turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, the gesture so easy and affectionate that your chest tightened.

Hal watched the movement. Something fond reluctantly softened the concern on his face before he turned back toward the sink.

You waited until his back was to you before murmuring, “Nine is optimistic.”

Roy’s arm tightened around you.

“You’re going to kill me,” he whispered.

You looked up at him. “Be brave.”

His smile was slow, warm, and just dangerous enough to make your stomach tighten.

Behind you, Hal dropped a plate into the sink.

“I heard that.”

You pressed your lips together, but Roy made no effort to hide his smile.

Hal set the plate down with exaggerated care. “I’m choosing to believe the two of you are capable of exercising judgment.”

“That seems optimistic,” Roy said.

“Roy.”

“I’m done.”

“You said that like you expect me to congratulate you.”

Roy glanced toward you. “Do you think he wants me to apologize?”

“I think he wants you to stop talking.”

“That feels unreasonable.”

Hal pointed toward the front of the house. “Go before I reconsider how maturely I’m handling this.”

You pushed away from Roy long enough to cross the kitchen. Hal’s irritation softened before you reached him, and when you wrapped your arms around him, he held you tightly enough to remind you of the moment you had landed in the backyard hours earlier.

“I’ll be back for breakfast,” you promised.

“I know.”

“And I’ll message you when we get there.”

“I was going to ask.”

“You always do.”

“You spend months crossing galaxies without telling me when you’ve slept, eaten, or entered an active war zone. I’m allowed to ask for one message when you travel fifteen minutes across Coast City.”

“You’ll get your message.”

Hal kissed your temple before releasing you. “I’m glad you’re home.”

The words caught somewhere beneath your ribs.

“Me too.”

Roy waited beside the counter, giving the two of you the moment without trying to interrupt it. When Hal finally looked toward him, Roy straightened slightly.

“Nine,” Hal said.

“We’ll be here.”

“Not nine thirty.”

“Nine.”

“And don’t let her claim she isn’t hungry.”

“I know what she’ll eat.”

Hal studied him for a moment, apparently reassured that Roy knew the answer without needing to think about it.

“Fine,” he said. “You can keep her.”

“That wasn’t really in question,” you reminded him.

“I was talking to myself.”

Roy took your hand as you passed him. Hal followed the two of you to the front door, where he repeated the breakfast instructions and watched from the porch while you crossed the driveway. His truck sat beneath the yellow wash of the streetlight. He opened the passenger door for you, one hand resting against its frame.

You looked from him to the open seat. “I can fly.”

“I know.”

“My ring could have me at your apartment before you finish walking around the truck.”

“I know that too.”

“But you still want to drive.”

Roy’s mouth curved. “I’ve spent four months waiting for you to come home. Let me have fifteen more minutes.”

The answer softened something inside you. You climbed into the truck.

Roy shut the door and circled the front, sliding behind the wheel a moment later. He started the engine but did not immediately pull away. Instead, he rested one hand against the steering wheel and looked toward you in the dim light from the dashboard.

“What?” you asked.

“I’m checking.”

“Checking what?”

“That this actually happened.”

“You accused Kyle of seducing me with cheddar cheese, confessed that you’ve been in love with me since we were teenagers, and made out with me in my father’s kitchen.”

“I didn’t accuse him of seducing you with cheese.”

“You found his choice suspicious.”

“It lacked imagination.”

“You asked for cheddar on the pie.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I was establishing dominance.”

You laughed, and Roy’s expression softened as he watched you.

He reached across the center console and touched your face, his thumb moving over your cheek with none of the urgency that had shaped his hands in the kitchen. This kiss was gentler too, lingering without deepening into something that would keep you parked outside Hal’s house until he came to investigate.

When Roy pulled back, he did not move far.

“You can still change your mind,” he said.

“About going home with you?”

“About any of it.” His fingers slipped into your hair. “You got back today. The dinner turned into an interrogation, I behaved like an asshole, and now everyone we know thinks we’re dating.”

“Are we not?”

Roy paused. “I was trying to be responsible.”

“You’re doing a terrible job.”

“I’m out of practice.”

You leaned closer. “I had four months to miss you and almost fourteen years to fall in love with you. I’m not changing my mind.”

The last of the uncertainty left his face.

“Almost fourteen?”

“You were annoying when we met.”

“I was charming.”

“You drank my milkshake.”

“You weren’t drinking it.”

“I was looking for a napkin.”

“We remember that evening very differently.”

Roy kissed you once more before finally putting the truck into reverse.

The drive to his apartment was familiar enough that you could have followed the route with your eyes closed. Coast City passed outside the window in quiet streets and warm storefronts, smaller than the worlds you had crossed but more precious for the lives contained within it. Roy kept one hand on the wheel and the other linked with yours across the center console, his thumb moving absently over your knuckles whenever the truck stopped at a light.

His apartment looked almost exactly as it had when you left.

Your green mug remained beside his in the cabinet. The blanket you always stole was folded across the back of the couch, and a stack of takeout menus occupied the corner of the coffee table. Beneath the television remote sat the movie list that the two of you had been working through before your assignment.

You picked it up.

The last completed title had been crossed out in your handwriting. Everything beneath it remained untouched.

“You really waited.”

Roy locked the door behind him. “I told you I have principles.”

“You watched three seasons of that detective show without me.”

“That wasn’t on the list.”

“That was a technicality.”

“It was a legally sound distinction.”

You lowered the paper. “Four months is a lot of movie nights.”

“You owe interest.”

“Emotional interest?”

“I established the terms before you entered Earth’s atmosphere.”

Roy approached until the coffee table pressed lightly against the backs of your legs. His hands settled at your waist, and the look in his eyes made it clear that the television would not be in use immediately.

You rested your arms around his neck. “How were you planning to collect?”

“I had several ideas.”

“Any of them involve an actual movie?”

“Eventually.”

Your ring chimed.

A message from Hal appeared between you in glowing green letters.

NINE MEANS NINE.

Roy looked at it. You looked at him.

A second message appeared.

AND EAT SOMETHING BEFORE BED.

Roy closed his eyes. “He’s going to do this all night, isn’t he?”

“Probably.”

“Can you block him?”

“He raised me.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

You dismissed the message and curled your fingers into the back of Roy’s shirt. “The ring has a silent mode.”

His eyes opened. “That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“You’re easily impressed.”

“I’ve been waiting fourteen years. Let me be impressed.”

Roy drew you against him, his mouth finding yours as the movie list slipped from your fingers onto the couch. Beyond the apartment walls, Earth continued turning beneath the same stars that had followed you across three sectors and four long months away.

The universe would still be there tomorrow.

Tonight, you let Roy pull you closer, and you stayed exactly where you wanted to be.

Dick caught you before you hit the deck. His arm closed around your waist with practiced accuracy, and your hands landed against his shoulders as naturally as though the two of you had rehearsed the movement. There was no startled collision, no awkward attempt to recover your balance. Dick absorbed your weight, turned with the momentum, and lowered you onto your feet without loosening his hold until he was certain your knees would support you.

For one dangerous second, neither of you remembered the room was full. His eyes searched your face.

“You okay?”

The concern in his voice was too quiet and too immediate. You stepped out of his arms. “My ring went dead.”

Across the table, Hal Jordan had become very still. Bruce had not moved at all, which was worse.

Barry finally lowered his sandwich. “Dead as in temporarily unresponsive, or dead as in the most powerful weapon in the universe just became jewelry?”

You raised your hand. The ring sat dark against your finger. There was no answering current beneath your skin, no familiar pressure at the edge of your awareness. It felt heavier without the energy running through it, as though the metal had remembered it was only metal.

“Completely unresponsive.”

Hal crossed the room in three strides and caught your wrist. He turned your hand beneath the light, checking the ring as though external damage might explain the silence. His own ring shone steadily.

“That isn’t possible.”

“You’ve said that before,” you reminded him.

“Usually right before something explodes,” Barry said.

Hal ignored him. “When did you last charge?”

Dick answered before you could. “Four hours ago.”

Silence settled over the observation deck. You closed your eyes. Dick’s expression did not change, but you could feel the moment he realized what he had said.

Hal’s head turned slowly toward him. “How do you know that?”

Dick released a breath through his nose. “She mentioned it.”

“I did not,” you said.

There were times when lying to Hal was useful. There were other times when the lie was already dead and continuing to defend it only gave him something to dismantle.

Dick looked at you. You looked back. That silent exchange lasted perhaps half a second. It was still enough for Bruce’s attention to sharpen.

Hal released your wrist. “Why does Nightwing know your recharge schedule?”

“Because I pay attention,” Dick said.

“That did not answer the question.”

“It answered the question exactly.”

“Then I dislike the answer.”

The alarm began before Hal could ask anything else. This one was not subtle. Red light flooded the observation deck as the Watchtower’s emergency systems engaged, and a mechanical voice announced a stationwide lockdown. The viewing panels shuttered over the curved windows. The doors sealed simultaneously, cutting off the corridor beyond.

Clark abandoned the report. “Watchtower, identify the threat.”

There was no response. Bruce was already at the nearest terminal. His hands moved across the controls, but the display remained blank except for a single pulsing line of alien characters.

Victor stepped beside him and pressed one hand to the console. Silver circuitry spread from his fingertips across the dark screen. He jerked back immediately.

“Something’s in the system.”

“Malware?” Barry asked.

“Not exactly.”

Victor stared at his hand. The circuitry across his palm flickered an unhealthy violet before returning to blue.

“It reacted to me.”

Hal lifted his ring. A grid of green light swept across the room. “No biological signatures apart from ours.”

“The Watchtower has been compromised,” Bruce said. “The attacker may not be biological.”

A violent shudder moved through the station. The lights dimmed. Somewhere beyond the sealed door, metal screamed.

Your ring remained dark as Dick shifted closer to you, not enough for anyone unfamiliar with him to notice. You felt the heat of his shoulder near yours and resisted the instinct to lean into it. Six months of careful entrances, separate departures, and deleted messages, and Dick had given everything away because you fell three feet.

You should have been annoyed. Instead, a small, foolish part of you wanted to smile.

The Watchtower shook again. A seam of violet light appeared along the far wall. Bruce turned from the terminal. “Move.”

The wall ruptured.

Dick caught your arm and pulled you behind the conference table as shards of metal tore through the observation deck. Clark moved in front of the group, taking the worst of the debris against his body. Diana crossed her bracers, deflecting a concentrated beam that burned a black line through the ceiling.

Something stepped through the breach. It was humanoid only in the broadest sense. Long limbs folded from a narrow armored body, each joint bending in one direction too many. Its face was hidden behind a smooth silver plate. Violet circuitry moved beneath translucent sections of its armor like blood beneath skin.

Hal fired first. The construct struck the creature squarely in the chest and dispersed without leaving a mark.

The violet circuitry brightened. Hal’s ring flickered. “No,” he said.

The creature lifted one hand. Every screen in the room flashed with the same alien text.

Your ring burned suddenly against your finger, not with energy but with heat. You tore it off before it could sear the skin and caught it in your other hand.

Hal staggered as his construct collapsed. The creature was feeding on Lantern energy.

“Jordan, cut your ring output,” Bruce ordered.

“I noticed.”

The creature crossed the room with impossible speed.

Dick vaulted the table. One escrima stick left his hand, spinning end over end before it struck the side of the creature’s head. The impact did not injure it, but it altered its path long enough for Diana to meet it with her shield. The collision drove her backward.

Clark seized the creature from behind and carried it through the ruptured wall. Metal buckled as they vanished into the adjoining corridor.

Victor slammed his hand into the terminal again. “I can open the doors, but the system keeps rebuilding the lock.”

“How long?” Bruce asked.

“Longer if you keep talking to me.”

Barry vanished in a streak of red, circling the perimeter of the room. “No secondary exits. Shutters are reinforced. Air system is still running, which feels like good news.”

“It means the attacker wants us alive,” you said.

Dick landed beside you. “Any idea what it is?”

You watched the violet current still moving across the damaged wall. “Kharidian siphon technology.”

Hal’s attention snapped toward you. “That was destroyed.”

“The Corps destroyed the known prototypes.”

“That is not the same thing,” Bruce said.

Hal scowled. “Thank you, Batman.”

“You’re welcome.”

A burst of violet light filled the corridor. Clark flew backward through the wall and struck the floor hard enough to dent it. The creature followed, moving without hurry now that it understood the strength of everyone in the room.

Diana met it again. This time, when her sword cut across its shoulder, the armor opened. There was nothing beneath it but light.

The creature caught Diana by the throat and threw her across the observation deck.

Dick moved before she landed. He slid beneath a sweeping arm, drove one escrima stick into the open seam at the creature’s shoulder, and discharged the weapon.

Blue electricity crawled through violet circuitry. The creature convulsed.

“Again,” you shouted.

Dick struck the same point with his second stick. The damaged armor cracked further.

The creature turned toward Dick, and you had never hated the absence of your ring more as it reached for him. You caught a broken section of the conference table and swung it with both hands. The metal edge struck the opening Diana had made. Violet energy burst outward, throwing you and Dick in opposite directions.

Your shoulder hit the floor first. Pain tore down your arm. You rolled onto your back and saw the creature looming above you.

Then Hal was there. He formed a shield despite the way his ring flickered under the siphon’s pull. The creature’s hand crashed into the construct, driving Hal to one knee.

“Move!” he shouted.

You pushed yourself upright as the construct fractured. Dick appeared behind the creature and looped a cable around its throat. He planted both boots against its back and pulled, using his weight to drag its head away from Hal as the shield collapsed.

Bruce threw an explosive charge, and Dick released the cable and flipped clear a moment before it detonated inside the damaged shoulder joint. The blast tore one arm from the creature’s body. It made no sound. It only turned its silver face toward Bruce.

“Victor,” Bruce said.

“Working.”

“Work faster.”

“I’m going to install a mute function in your cowl.”

The Watchtower shuddered so violently that the artificial gravity failed. Everyone lifted from the floor.

The creature adapted instantly. Its remaining hand opened into hooked blades, which it drove into the ceiling. Dick had nothing to anchor himself with. He drifted toward the breach, momentum carrying him toward the corridor where exposed wiring spat violet sparks.

You kicked away from the table.

Without the ring, there was no controlled flight, only direction and force. You caught Dick around the middle as you passed him. He twisted in your grip, fired a grappling line toward the opposite wall, and caught both of you before you reached the breach.

The line went taut. Your injured shoulder screamed. Dick’s arm locked around you.

“Let go with that hand,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

You looked down. Blood had soaked through the shoulder of your uniform where a piece of metal had cut across it. You had not noticed the warmth spreading down your arm.

Hal had. 

Even while bracing himself between the floor and ceiling with a green construct that looked increasingly unstable, he found enough breath to say, “Why is his hand under your shirt?”

Dick’s hand was not under your shirt. It was beneath the torn edge of your uniform, pressed over the wound to slow the bleeding.

“This is not the time,” you said.

“It is never going to be the time.”

Bruce caught the edge of the table with one hand. “Jordan.”

“What?”

“Priorities.”

“Your son’s hand is on my kid.”

You nearly lost your grip on Dick.

“I’m not your kid.”

“You were fifteen when I met you.”

“And I am not fifteen now.”

Dick adjusted his hold. “Also, not his son.”

Bruce looked at him, and Dick grimaced. “This is going great.” Above them, the creature pulled itself along the ceiling toward Hal.

Clark launched himself from the floor and drove both feet into its chest. With no gravity, the impact sent them spinning through the room. Diana caught the creature’s remaining arm in her lasso. Barry anchored the opposite end around a support beam.

“Victor,” Clark called.

The doors opened. Every unsecured object in the observation deck flew into the corridor as emergency decompression alarms joined the stationwide warning. The breach in the adjoining section had reached the outer hull.

Victor sealed the corridor again before the air could fully escape.

Gravity returned without warning. You and Dick dropped together. He turned beneath you, taking the impact against his back. The grappling line recoiled as soon as you hit the floor.

“Dick.”

“I’m good.”

“That sounded painful.”

“Occupational hazard.”

Hal stared at you both from the other side of the room. Dick’s arm was around your waist, your hand was spread across his chest, and his other hand remained pressed against your bleeding shoulder. There was no plausible version of professional concern left.

The creature slammed Clark into the floor.

Bruce threw another charge into its exposed chest cavity. “Containment bay three.”

Victor understood immediately. The doors behind the creature opened. Barry moved in a red blur, striking it from every direction too quickly for its sensors to follow. Diana used the lasso to pull its legs from beneath it. Clark seized the damaged torso and drove it backward through the open doorway.

Victor sealed the bay.

A violet hand struck the small observation panel from the other side. The reinforced glass cracked.

“That will not hold,” Diana said.

“It doesn’t have to,” Bruce replied. “The containment bay has an independent launch mechanism.”

Victor’s eye brightened. “You want to eject it.”

“It entered the station by accessing our systems. Remove it from the station.”

“I like this plan,” Barry said.

Victor merged with the terminal. The lights flickered across the observation deck, alternating between red and violet as the creature fought him for control.

Your ring pulsed once in your palm. The faintest green light appeared around its edge before violet static swallowed it again.

“It’s still drawing power,” you said.

Hal looked toward the containment bay. “From both rings.”

“The siphon is using the Watchtower as an amplifier. Launching the bay won’t stop it unless we separate the connection first.”

“How?”

You studied the circuit patterns moving across the sealed door. The technology was familiar in the way a scar was familiar. You had spent three months dismantling a Kharidian network after they tried to drain an inhabited planet’s electromagnetic field. Their systems did not distinguish well between energy sources once they had established a link. They consumed whatever they could reach and converted it into the same violet current.

“We overload it.”

Hal’s mouth tightened. “Absolutely not.”

Bruce looked between the rings. “Explain.”

“The siphon has adapted to Lantern energy. If Hal and I feed it everything at once, the system will exceed its conversion threshold.”

“And both rings shut down completely,” Hal said.

“Until we can reach Oa.”

“If the overload doesn’t kill you.”

Dick went still beneath your hand.

“It won’t.”

“You do not know that.”

“I know the technology.”

“You’ve seen a siphon after it consumed one ring, not two.”

You pushed yourself to your feet. Dick rose with you, his hand moving from your waist to your elbow when your injured arm trembled.

Hal noticed that too. His expression darkened.

“Stop touching her.”

Dick stared at him. “She’s hurt.”

“I can see that.”

“Then you should understand why I’m helping.”

“I understand more than you think.”

“Do you?”

“Dick,” you said.

“No, I’d actually love to hear this.”

The station shook again. Another crack spread across the containment bay window.

Bruce stepped between them without appearing to move. “You can discuss this after we survive.”

Hal pointed at Dick. “This conversation is not over.”

“I assumed that when you started it during an alien attack.”

The corner of Clark’s mouth twitched until Bruce noticed and Clark quickly looked away.

You slipped the ring back onto your finger. The metal was still hot, but the faint current had returned. Somewhere beyond the walls, the siphon was trying to force its way deeper into the station’s primary power systems.

Dick caught your hand. He did not care who saw this time.

“What are the odds?” he asked.

You looked at his fingers closed around yours.

The first time you met Dick Grayson, you had been nineteen, newly assigned to an Earth-based investigation and furious that the Justice League had sent someone without powers to supervise you.

He had smiled when you told him exactly what you thought of the arrangement.

Then he had disarmed three smugglers before your ring finished identifying the weapons in their hands.

You had spent four years pretending that the warmth low in your stomach whenever he stood too close was professional respect. Dick had spent most of those years finding reasons to stand closer.

Six months ago, he had kissed you on the roof of a Blüdhaven apartment building after a mission that should have killed both of you. Neither of you had mentioned Hal or Bruce until the following morning.

The secrecy had seemed sensible at first. Then it became fun.

Now Dick’s thumb moved over your knuckles, and there was no humor in his face.

“The odds,” he repeated.

“Good enough.”

“That isn’t a number.”

“You don’t like numbers when they’re honest.”

“I like them better than evasive Lantern bullshit.”

Hal inhaled sharply. “Watch your—”

“Hal.”

You did not raise your voice. You did not need to.

He stopped.

Dick lowered his forehead briefly toward yours, close enough that only you heard him.

“Come back to me.”

You squeezed his hand. “Always do.”

The containment glass broke, and Victor shouted a warning as the creature forced its remaining arm through the opening. Violet circuitry spread along the door and into the surrounding walls.

You and Hal raised your rings. Green light filled the observation deck.

For one breath, your ring felt alive again. Energy flooded your body, fierce and familiar, answering the shape of your will. Beside you, Hal built a construct around the containment bay: overlapping bands of green energy designed not to restrain the creature but to give it more power than it could process.

You joined him.

Your construct threaded through his, reinforcing every connection. The creature absorbed both streams immediately. Violet light swelled beneath its armor.

The pull struck you like a hook beneath the ribs, buckling your knees. Dick caught you from behind, one arm locked around your waist while the other braced your injured shoulder without touching the wound.

“Stay with me, baby.”

You forced more power through the ring. The creature expanded. Cracks spread across its armor as the violet circuitry brightened toward white.

Hal grunted beside you. His ring sparked.

“Now, Victor!”

The containment bay released. The outer wall separated from the station, carrying the creature into space. For a moment, the severed bay hung beyond the shuttered windows, visible only through the security feed that Victor had forced onto the damaged terminal.

The creature reached toward the Watchtower. The siphon link stretched between the station and the drifting bay, a twisting line of violet light.

You closed your fist.

Every remaining trace of power in your ring discharged at once. Hal did the same.

The feed turned white. Your ring went dark. So did everything else.

The Watchtower lost power completely.

In the sudden absence of artificial gravity, Dick’s arms tightened around you.

You heard Hal curse somewhere to your left.

Then the emergency systems restarted. Dim blue lighting replaced the red alarms, and the gravity returned at half strength. Everyone settled toward the floor as Victor restored essential functions one system at a time.

The security feed came back last, revealing that the containment bay was gone. Only a fading cloud of violet energy remained beyond the station.

Your legs gave out. Dick lowered you before you could fall. He knelt on the deck and pulled you back against his chest, his hand covering yours where the dead ring rested against your thigh. “Hey.”

You opened your eyes. His face was too pale.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“You like that about me.”

“I like other things more.”

Hal stood over the two of you. He looked exhausted, furious and frightened enough that the anger barely disguised it. His ring was as dark as yours. A thin burn circled the finger where the siphon had drawn power through the metal.

His gaze dropped to Dick’s arms around you. Dick met his stare, and nobody spoke until Bruce said, “Medical bay.”

The argument was postponed for eleven minutes.

That was how long it took to move from the observation deck to the nearest functional medical station, confirm that the creature had not left any secondary programs in the Watchtower’s systems, and convince Hal that having his ring examined did not constitute surrender.

You sat on the edge of an examination bed while a medical scanner passed over your shoulder. Your uniform had been cut away from the wound. The gash was long but shallow, requiring a sealant strip rather than stitches.

Dick stood between your knees, holding a compress against the injury while the automated unit prepared the sealant.

There were six other chairs in the room. He had not considered using one.

“You’re pressing too hard,” you said.

“You said that when I was barely touching it.”

“I was hoping you would become discouraged.”

“You know me better than that.”

You did, and that was becoming increasingly obvious to everyone else.

Hal occupied the opposite side of the room while Victor examined both rings beneath a suspended field. Bruce stood beside him, reviewing station diagnostics on a portable screen.

Neither of them was pretending not to listen.

Clark had left to inspect the exterior damage. Diana was coordinating repairs. Barry had announced that the tension in the medical bay was more dangerous than the assassin and escaped before anyone could assign him work.

The automated unit chimed, and Dick removed the compress, leaving his fingertips stained with your blood. Hal’s eyes fixed on them, making you nearly sigh. Dick noticed. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t a nothing face.”

“You know my recharge schedule and my nothing face. Very impressive.”

His mouth curved. “I also know you keep emergency chocolate in the upper-left cabinet of your apartment and that you pretend not to like reality television.”

“I do not watch reality television.”

“You complained for twenty minutes when they eliminated your favorite contestant.”

“The judging was inconsistent.”

“Of course.”

Hal stepped away from Victor. “You have the access code to her apartment?”

The medical unit applied the sealant strip. You barely felt it.

Dick looked toward Hal. “Yes.”

“Why?”

You answered before he could. “Because we’re dating.”

The room became silent enough to hear the hum of the scanner. Dick’s eyebrows rose slightly. He had expected more preamble.

You were tired, injured, temporarily stranded without a functioning ring, and no longer interested in behaving as though loving him required an apology.

Hal stared at you. Bruce looked at Dick. Victor became deeply interested in the suspended rings.

“For how long?” Hal asked.

“Six months.”

“Six months.”

“Yes.”

“You have been seeing Batman’s son for six months.”

Dick glanced at Bruce. “This feels like a bad time to revisit the terminology.”

Bruce ignored him. “When?”

Dick turned back. “When what?”

“When did this begin?”

“Six months ago,” Hal said. “She just told us.”

“I am asking for the circumstances.”

“You want the date?”

“The location.”

Dick’s expression changed, and you recognized the exact moment he decided that honesty would be funnier.

“Roof of my apartment building.”

Hal looked at you again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

There was enough hurt beneath the question to drain the amusement from the room as you reached for the edge of the examination bed.

“Because you react like this when Dick holds pressure on a wound.”

“He had his hand under your uniform.”

“I was bleeding.”

“I know why his hand was there.”

“Do you?”

Hal folded his arms. The dark ring on his hand made him look strangely incomplete. You had known him without a uniform, without confidence, and once without memory, but you had rarely seen him without the constant green light accompanying his gestures.

“You think I object because he’s a Bat,” he said.

“I think you object because he’s Bruce’s.”

“I object because he is exactly charming enough to convince people he’s less dangerous than he is.”

Dick nodded thoughtfully. “That was almost flattering.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I heard charming.”

“You would.”

Bruce lowered the diagnostic screen. “Jordan is correct.”

Dick looked at him. “About me being dangerous or charming?”

“Yes.”

“Great.”

You held out your uninjured hand. Dick gave you his without hesitation. His fingers settled between yours, blood cleaned away but his skin still warm.

Hal watched the movement. “It wasn’t supposed to stay secret this long,” you said.

Dick leaned his hip against the examination bed. “We were going to tell you.”

“When?” Bruce asked.

Dick considered it. “Eventually.”

“That is not a date.”

“We hadn’t selected one.”

“Because every time we considered telling you,” you said, “you and Hal were already arguing about something.”

“We do not argue that often,” Bruce said.

Hal turned toward him. “Last week, you called my patrol strategy reckless.”

“It was reckless.”

“It saved the eastern seaboard.”

“It endangered the eastern seaboard first.”

“You see the problem,” Dick said.

Bruce’s attention returned to him. “You concealed an operational conflict.”

Your temper sharpened. “Our relationship has never interfered with a mission.”

“You caught her instead of assessing the attacker,” Hal said.

“She was falling.”

“Three feet.”

“She didn’t have her ring.”

“She can survive a three-foot drop.”

Dick’s hand tightened around yours. “I know.”

The words were quiet. Hal stopped. Dick’s expression had lost its amusement again. 

“I know what she can survive. That doesn’t mean I’m going to stand there and watch her hit the floor when I can catch her.”

You looked down at your joined hands.

For years, people had praised Lanterns for surviving. The Corps trained its recruits to function through vacuum exposure, radiation, torture, and isolation. Hal had taught you how to build a shield around a collapsing star before he taught you how to ask for help.

Dick had never been impressed by what you could endure. He cared about what you should not have to endure.

Hal saw something in your face, and his shoulders lowered by a fraction, although Bruce was less easily moved.

“You knew her ring was recently charged,” he said.

Dick nodded.

“You know where she stores personal items.”

“Yes.”

“You have access to her residence.”

“Yes.”

“Does she have access to yours?”

Dick glanced at you. “She has a key.”

“Two,” you corrected. “You gave me the spare to the loft.”

Bruce looked at Dick.

“The building key and apartment key are separate.”

“You also gave her access to the cave.”

“I did not.”

“You gave me your emergency code,” you said.

Dick closed his eyes. “Thanks.”

Hal’s head snapped toward Bruce. “She has access to the Batcave?”

Bruce’s stare turned glacial. “Apparently.”

“In fairness,” you said, “I haven’t used it.”

“That is not helping,” Dick murmured.

Victor detached himself from the rings and set them carefully onto the tray. “They’re intact.”

Everyone turned toward him as Victor continued, “The siphon burned out the active charge and damaged the internal conduits, but the rings should function once repaired and connected to a central battery.”

“How long?” Hal asked.

“Not something I can do here. You’ll need Oa.”

Hal exhaled. “Communications?”

“The station’s long-range systems are still offline.”

Bruce consulted the diagnostics. “The teleporters are damaged. Docking controls are inoperative.”

“So we’re stuck,” Dick said.

“For several hours,” Victor replied. “Possibly longer.”

Hal looked at your hand in Dick’s again.

“No.”

You stared at him. “No what?”

“No being alone together.”

Dick blinked.

You laughed before you could stop yourself. The sound pulled at your injured shoulder, but it was worth the pain for the offense on Hal’s face.

“You cannot be serious.”

“You concealed this for six months.”

“Because of exactly this reaction.”

“You have demonstrated that my reaction was necessary.”

Bruce returned his attention to the portable screen. “Their relationship has no bearing on the station repairs.”

Hal looked at him in disbelief. “You’re allowing this?”

“They are adults.”

Bruce considered that. “Reasonable.”

Hal stared at him. “Whose side are you on?”

“There are no sides.”

“You developed contingencies for me before you learned my middle name.”

“I still don’t know your middle name.”

“That is not the point.”

Dick leaned closer to you. “Would this be a bad time to mention I keep clothes at your apartment?”

Hal’s head turned sharply. “Grayson.”

Dick smiled at him. “Jordan.”

“You are not helping yourself.”

“I stopped trying ten minutes ago.”

Bruce turned back to the screen before anyone could determine whether the slight movement at the corner of his mouth was amusement.

The Watchtower required seven hours to restore basic docking systems.

The first two were spent repairing the breached observation deck and confirming the siphon had not transmitted its location to anyone else. The next three were occupied by an increasingly hostile attempt to rebuild the station’s communications network.

The final two involved Hal following you and Dick through every corridor with the determination of a man who had spent years patrolling entire sectors of space and had finally discovered a threat he could not punch.

You tried to be patient. For the first forty minutes.

“What does he call you?” Hal asked.

You looked over your shoulder. “What?”

“He used a nickname earlier.”

Dick became extremely interested in the relay.

“You are not getting a list of nicknames,” you said.

“That implies there is a list.”

Hal looked between you. “This has been happening for six months?”

“Longer,” Dick said.

You turned toward him as Hal froze. “Longer?”

“The dating has been six months.” Dick picked up the relay again. “The rest of this has been happening for years.”

You felt heat climb your throat. There were some aspects of your relationship that had never been spoken aloud in front of anyone else. The years of wanting each other were one of them, largely because Dick refused to call it pining and preferred to describe the four years before your first kiss as an extended tactical assessment.

Hal’s expression shifted. “You had feelings for her before you started dating.”

Dick looked at you, the amusement fading from his face and leaving something warmer. “Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“Hal,” you warned.

Dick answered anyway.

“Since she threatened to throw me off the Watchtower.”

“I did not threaten you.”

“You said the next time I touched your controls, I’d be taking the fast route to Earth.”

“You rerouted my patrol assignment.”

“You were overworking.”

“You did not know me well enough to decide that.”

“I knew you hadn’t slept in thirty hours.”

Hal looked at you. “You hadn’t?”

“That is not the relevant part.”

“It is to me.”

Dick’s voice softened. “She slept.”

You remembered waking in one of the Watchtower’s private quarters, your boots off, a blanket pulled over you, and Dick asleep in the chair beside the door. He had claimed he remained because the security system was malfunctioning.

You had believed him for almost ten minutes.

Hal studied Dick with new attention. It did not resemble approval. It was, however, less openly murderous.

“How long?” he asked again.

Dick returned to the damaged relay. “Four years.”

The answer settled inside you. You had known. Of course you had known. You knew the shape of Dick’s desire as intimately as you knew his body now. You knew the way his gaze lingered before he learned you wanted it to, the way every joke became gentler when he aimed it at you, the way he found reasons to contact your sector even when your assigned route was nowhere near Earth.

Knowing was different from hearing him admit it.

“You waited four years?” Hal asked.

“She’s intimidating.”

You threw a piece of insulation at him. He caught it without looking.

Hal’s eyes narrowed. “You’re Nightwing.”

“Very observant.”

“You fight assassins.”

“Yes.”

“You have gone into combat against Darkseid.”

“Didn’t enjoy it.”

“But asking her on a date was too dangerous.”

Dick finally looked at you. “You weren’t ready.”

The room quieted because you had not been. The Corps had given you responsibility before it taught you how to stop trying to earn your place. You had spent years measuring your worth through completed missions and sectors kept safe, convincing yourself that intimacy was merely another vulnerability hostile forces could exploit.

Dick had understood without forcing you to explain. He had waited until your hand lingered in his after a rescue. He had waited until you began visiting Blüdhaven without inventing a League-related excuse. He had waited until you kissed him first.

Hal knew enough of your history to understand what Dick meant. He looked away.

The stationwide communication system activated with a violent burst of static.

Victor’s voice followed. “Docking bay controls are online. Also, I can hear all of you, and Batman wants you on the command deck.”

Dick touched his comm. “How long have you been able to hear us?”

A pause.

“Long enough.”

“Delete the recording,” you said.

“What recording?”

“Victor.”

“I’m offended.”

“Delete it.”

“Already sent it to Flash.”

Hal strode toward the door. “I am going to dismantle him.”

Dick offered you his hand. You took it. Hal looked back. Neither of you released the other.

The command deck had survived with less damage than the observation level, although several consoles still displayed lines of alien text beneath Victor’s replacement interface. Bruce stood at the central terminal beside Clark and Diana. Barry occupied a chair several stations away, staring determinedly at a blank screen while failing to conceal his grin.

You pointed at him. “Delete it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Dick glanced at you. “That’s my line.”

“You don’t own it.”

“I use it the most.”

Bruce interrupted before Barry could contribute. “A Lantern vessel responded to the emergency beacon. It will arrive within twenty minutes.”

Hal’s relief was visible despite his attempt to suppress it. “Good.”

“They will transport both of you to Oa.”

You nodded. “Once the rings are repaired, I’ll return to my sector.”

Dick’s hand shifted around yours. The movement was small, but both you and Hal noticed it.

Bruce tapped the central display. A map of the damaged Lantern outposts appeared.

“The assassin’s navigation system retained three coordinates before it was destroyed. One corresponds to the outpost attacks. The others are outside mapped Corps territory.”

You stepped closer. “Kharidian space.”

“The Kharidian network is supposed to be gone,” Diana said.

“It was fragmented, not eliminated.” You studied the coordinates. “Someone rebuilt the siphon program using surviving technology.”

“And sent it to the Watchtower because you were here,” Dick said.

Hal’s expression hardened. “It tracked her.”

“The projection she was displaying included data from the attacked outposts,” Bruce said. “The program may have transmitted through the files.”

You felt a cold pressure settle beneath your ribs. “I brought it aboard.”

“You didn’t know,” Dick said.

“That doesn’t change what happened.”

“It changes the part where you blame yourself.”

Hal and Bruce looked at him simultaneously.

Dick sighed. “Could both of you stop doing that?”

“Doing what?” Hal asked.

“Looking at me like I’m trespassing every time I know something about her.”

Bruce’s gaze shifted toward you. “Does he often correct you?”

“He tries.”

“Does she listen?” Hal asked.

Dick laughed. You elbowed him. He caught your wrist before you could pull away and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

The entire command deck witnessed it: Barry made a strangled noise, Clark briefly closed his eyes, and Diana smiled.

Hal pointed at Dick. “No.”