LOGAN HOWLETT

You’re mid-argument. Something about him leaving his dog tags on the nightstand again, something about the smell of cigar smoke clinging to your favorite sweater. He’s doing the thing where he just growls instead of using words, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking like a man carved from angry marble.

You are trying to be mad. You really are.

But then your eyes drift down. To the hem of his worn, grey henley. To the way it’s riding up just a fraction of an inch above the waist of his jeans.

“and you never listen, and you just—Logan, hold still.”

He stops mid-snarl. “What?”

You don’t answer. You just walk forward, grab the damp, frayed cotton, and yank it straight up to his collarbone.

Silence.

For a full three seconds, he just stares down at you. Then at your hands on his shirt. Then at your face, which is currently doing a very poor job of hiding the fact that you are openly ogling the geography of his abdomen. The map of scars. The ridges of muscle that look like they were carved by a very angry, very horny god.

“…The hell you doin’?” he finally asks, voice dropping an octave.

“Checking for injuries,” you lie, voice barely a squeak.

He catches your chin with two fingers, tilts your face up. His eyes are unreadable, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Bub. I heal.”

“Then I’m checking for… symmetry.”

He stares at you for another long, agonizing moment. Then he sighs, the kind of sigh that carries the weight of a century of suffering. He gently pulls his shirt down, but not before you catch the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.

“You’re a menace,” he mutters, turning back to the argument. But now he’s holding his coffee mug a little lower. And the next time he crosses his arms, he makes sure the shirt rides up just a little more. For the sake of symmetry.

WORST WOLVERINE

You find him on the couch. It’s 2 PM. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of Wade’s hot pink sweatpants (they were the only clean ones), a stained white tank top that has seen better centuries, and an expression of profound, feral exhaustion. Dogpool is licking his own foot on the floor. Blind Al is somewhere in the kitchen, loudly trying to microwave a fork.

You are supposed to be bringing him a beer. You do bring him the beer. But as you lean over to set it on the coffee table, your gaze snags on the hem of that tank top.

It’s already barely there. But you want more.

So you do it. You just grab the thin, greasy fabric and hoist it up to his armpits.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at you with those dead, tired eyes. His torso is a mess—a spectacular, horrifying, fascinating mess. Hair, scars, the memory of a thousand deaths. You could count his ribs if you wanted to, but you’re too busy looking at the way the muscles in his obliques twitch.

“…You done?” he asks, voice like gravel being dragged over broken glass.

“No,” you whisper.

He sighs. It’s the sigh of a man who has seen the multiverse crumble and found that this (his girlfriend ogling his post-apocalyptic abs) is the final indignity.

“You’re as bad as the red one.”

“I’m worse,” you admit, not letting go of the shirt.

WADE WILSON

You don’t even get to pull the shirt up. You barely reach for it.

One second your fingers are brushing the hem of his faded, chimichanga-stained t-shirt. The next, he has exploded out of it. The shirt is in tatters on the floor. He is standing in the middle of the living room, arms spread wide, wearing nothing but a pair of unicorn-print boxers and a triumphant grin.

“BABY! Why didn’t you SAY so?!” he bellows, striking a bodybuilder pose. “These bad boys have been DYING for a curtain call! Say hello to the lads! Upper management! The twins! The abdominal ambassadors!”

You blink. “I was just going to-”

“Shhhh.” He presses a finger to your lips. “No talking. Only looking. Feast your eyes, my little goblin. Feast upon the glistening, scar-riddled, perfectly-healed-from-forty-seven-stab-wounds terrain of TRUE LOVE.”

He then proceeds to do a full, unironic, unhinged strip tease to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” on his phone speaker. He flexes. He points at each individual ab (he counts nine, there are four). He makes the muscle dance. He asks you if you want to “leave a tip in the tip jar” while gesturing vaguely below the belt.

By the end of it, you are crying with laughter, curled up on the floor. He takes this as a win, scoops you up, and carries you to the bedroom, whispering, “I knew my degenerative muscle disorder would pay off one day.”

You never did get to pull the shirt up. You didn’t need to. He pre-emptively detonated it.

ORIGINS! WADE WILSON

This Wade is smooth. Dangerously smooth. You two are sparring (lightly) when you trip him—not hard—and he lets you pin him just to see what you’ll do.

You lift his shirt.

He doesn’t flinch. He grins. “Checking for wounds, or checking for weapons?”

“weapons,” you say, eyes on the perfect V-line.

“Plot twist,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. “the only weapon I’m hiding is right—"

You slap your hand over his mouth. “Finish that sentence and I’m leaving.”

He shuts up and lets you look. He even does a little half-crunch so the lighting shifts. But the second your fingers drift too low, he catches your hand, kisses your knuckles, and flips you effortlessly.

Now he’s on top. His shirt is still up. “Your turn to show me something.”

“I don’t have abs like that.”

“Did I say abs?” He grins, all teeth. “I said ‘something.’”

REMY LEBEAU

You’re sitting on his lap in a booth at some dimly lit New Orleans bar. He’s in the middle of a truly insufferable poker story. You’re bored. So you lift his shirt.

He doesn’t stop talking. He just smirks.

“—and den de man, he say, ‘Gambit, you cheat,’ and I say, ‘Monsieur, I never cheat at cards. Only at love.’ Ah, chère, you likin’ what you see, non?”

You nod, transfixed. His skin is warm. There’s a fine trail of hair below his navel.

He finally looks down, still smirking, and flicks a playing card from his sleeve. He tucks it under his own shirt, right above his hip bone. “Find dat one, and you get a prize.”

You spend the next hour with your hand up his shirt, searching for a card that keeps changing positions via kinetic energy. The bar loves it. He loves it. By the end, you’ve forgotten the card entirely and are just holding his waist.

He kisses your forehead. “You cute when you focused.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Oui.” He pulls his shirt down. Then up again. Then down. Then up. “But you ain’t complainin’.”

KURT WAGNER

You are both in the X-Mansion’s library. It’s late. Rain is pattering against the windows. Kurt is reading a battered copy of The Three Musketeers in German, his tail curled contentedly around your ankle. He’s wearing a soft, black long-sleeved shirt that fits him like a second skin.

You’re not reading. You’re watching the way the fabric pulls across his shoulders. The way his biceps flex every time he turns a page. The way his tail flicks.

You lose the battle.

You lean over, grab the hem of his shirt, and yank it up to his chin.

He yelps. Actually yelps. The book goes flying. He bamfs—teleports—out of your grasp and reappears on the other side of the room, clinging to the ceiling like a startled cat, his shirt still bunched up around his neck, his golden eyes wide.

“Mein Gott!” he gasps, a flush spreading across his blue-furred cheeks. “What-why- schatz!”

You are laughing so hard you can’t breathe. He’s still on the ceiling, tail lashing, looking like a very confused, very sexy gargoyle. His abdomen is a work of art. Lean, powerful, dusted with the same velvety blue fur as the rest of him.

“I just wanted to see,” you wheeze.

He drops down from the ceiling in a puff of sulfur, landing in front of you with his shirt still askew. He looks at you, really looks at you, and his embarrassment melts into something softer. Something warmer.

“You could have asked,” he says, his accent thickening. He takes your hand and presses it to his stomach, right over his navel. The fur is incredibly soft. “You never have to steal what is already yours.”

EDDIE BROCK (& VENOM!)

You come home to find Eddie in the kitchen, hunched over a tub of tater tots, looking like a man who has made several poor life choices. He’s wearing a faded Newsies sweatshirt (don’t ask) and sweatpants.

You don’t even say hello. You just walk up, grab the hem of the sweatshirt, and hoist it up.

Eddie freezes, a tater tot halfway to his mouth. His stomach is… well. It’s not a six-pack. It’s a soft, solid, eat-a-whole-pizza-and-still-look-good kind of stomach. A little hair. A little scar from that time he got impaled by a symbiote hater. It’s perfect.

Before either of you can speak, a black tendril shoots out of Eddie’s chest and gently pushes the sweatshirt back down.

“No,” Venom’s voice growls, low and possessive. “Ours. Only WE get to look.”

“Venom, dude, they’re my girlfriend,” Eddie says, still not moving.

“Then WE will look at HER. Not at US.”

Another tendril wraps around you, and before you know it, your shirt is being torn off of you by a very insistent alien goo monster. Eddie chokes on his tater tot. You shriek.

“Better,” Venom rumbles, apparently satisfied with the view. “Now we are even. We will keep the sweatshirt down. You will keep YOUR shirt up. This is the new rule.”

Eddie buries his face in his hands. “This is not the new rule.”

“VOTE.” One tendril raises Eddie’s hand. Another raises an invisible one for Venom. “Two against one. New rule passes.”

You are now sitting on the couch on your bra, eating tater tots, while Eddie pretends to not be staring. You consider this an absolute win.

STEVE ROGERS

You’re in the kitchen of the Avengers Tower. Steve is making breakfast: pancakes from scratch, because of course he is. He’s wearing a soft, cream-colored henley and an apron that says “Kiss the Cook.” You have never wanted to kiss a cook more in your entire life.

He flips a pancake. His forearm flexes. The henley strains across his back.

You crack.

You walk up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist, and yank his shirt up.

He doesn’t react violently. He’s Steve. He just freezes, pancake flipper in hand, and looks down at your hands splayed across his bare stomach. His body is a monument. A tribute to the pinnacle of human (superhuman) achievement. Every muscle is defined, even after years of retirement. There’s a light dusting of blond hair below his navel. You could cry.

“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice that low, patient, dangerous captain’s voice. “What are you doing?”

“Admiring American history,” you whisper.

He turns off the stove. Slowly. Deliberately.

“We are in a common area. With cameras. That Tony definitely watches.”

“I wanted to see your abs.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Rubs the back of his neck. “You… you see them every day. When I change.”

“Not up close.”

He looks left. Right. Then, very quickly, he lifts his own shirt for exactly 1.7 seconds—then drops it. “There. Satisfied?”

“No. That was a crime.”

“You know,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his perfect lips, “in my day, a lady would simply ask to see a gentleman’s torso.”

“In my day,” you retort, “we just took what we wanted.”

“If I let you look for five seconds, will you stop doing this in transited areas of the Tower?”

“Deal.”

He lifts his shirt. You stare. He counts down from five out loud, but he goes slower on the “two.” And when he says “one,” he doesn’t let go.

You end up with your hands on his waist, him holding his own shirt up like a gentleman, for nearly a minute. Sam walks in. Sam walks back out.

Steve buries his face in your hair. “I am never going to hear the end of this.”

“Worth it.”

TONY STARK

You are in his workshop. He’s under a car (one of his classic convertibles) wearing a grease-stained band t-shirt and jeans that hang low on his hips. DUM-E is handing him wrenches. He is muttering about torque ratios.

You crouch down, slide a hand under the car to grab at the plank he's laying on and tug it out, and before he can say “Friday, what the hell,” you grab his shirt and yank it up to his neck.

Tony blinks. He’s on his back, covered in grease, and his girlfriend is now straddling his thighs, staring at his stomach like it’s the last slice of pizza on earth.

“...Okay,” he says slowly. “I’ve been in a lot of situations. Hostage situations. Space situations. That one time in Budapest with a goat. This is… new.”

“Shut up, Tony.”

“I’m not complaining!” He holds up his greasy hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, most people buy me a drink first. You went straight for the home run. I respect it. I’m a little scared, but I respect it.”

You run your fingers down the middle. He shivers. Actually shivers.

“Friday,” he whispers, “cancel my three o’clock.”

“You don’t have a three o’clock, boss.”

“Then cancel my existence. I’m busy.”

He pulls you down on top of him, shirt still up, and kisses you until you taste like motor oil and twenty-year-old guilt. When you finally come up for air, he’s grinning like the man who has everything, and just found out he gets to keep it.

PETER PARKER

He is hanging upside down from the ceiling. Because he’s Peter Parker, and he cannot just sit on a couch like a normal person. He’s wearing a ratty old t-shirt that says “I ❤️ NY” and has a small hole in the armpit.

You walk under him. He grins, upside-down, all big brown eyes and messy hair. “Hey, my lov—”

You grab his shirt. You pull it up (or is it down?).

It slides down all the way to his chin, revealing his entire torso. And oh no. Oh no. He’s lean. He’s wiry. He’s got that swimmer’s build, all long muscle and narrow hips, and a faint trail of dark hair that makes you want to do things that would make your Catholic grandmother faint.

His face, already upside-down, goes nuclear red. “Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa-!”

He tries to flip off the ceiling, but he’s so flustered he miscalculates and falls directly on top of you. You both crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs. His shirt is now down. He is now on top of you. He is very warm.

“I- you—why- my abs?!” he squeaks, his voice cracking like he’s fifteen again. “You wanted to see my- I have- they’re not even- they’re just-muscles!”

“Nice muscles,” you say, reaching up to poke one.

He makes a sound like a deflating balloon. “Oh my God. Oh my God, you’re touching them.”

“That’s generally what happens, yeah.”

He buries his face in your shoulder, ears burning red. But he doesn’t pull his shirt down. And he doesn’t get off you. And after a minute, you feel him mumble into your neck: “…do you want to see the back too?”

You have never loved anyone more.

THOR ODINSON

You are in New Asgard. Thor is on the couch, wearing a flannel shirt (sleeves rolled up, of course), eating a bowl of popcorn the size of your head. He’s in his “comfortable” era, softer around the edges, happier, more him.

You climb into his lap, because you fit there now. He grins, that big, golden, sunshine-in-human-form grin. “Hello, my love! Would you like some popcorn? I have also procured-"

You grab his flannel. You pull it open. Buttons fly everywhere. The shirt hangs off his shoulders, revealing his broad, glorious chest. He’s not as cut as he used to be. There’s a softness there now, a layer of warmth over the godly muscle. It is, objectively, the most attractive thing you have ever seen.

Thor freezes, a piece of popcorn halfway to his mouth. Then he looks down at his exposed torso, then at you, then back at his torso.

“…Did you just… de-shirt me?”

“Button-de-shirted you,” you correct. “And yes.”

He considers this for a moment. Then he puts the popcorn down, leans back slightly, and spreads his arms wide on the back on the couch. His smile turns slow, warm, and devastating.

“You know,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, register-rattling rumble, “on Asgard, it is customary to ask before one disrobes a prince.”

“On Midgard,” you reply, “we do what we want.”

He laughs a full, booming laugh that shakes the couch, and pulls you against his bare chest. He is so warm. So soft. So impossibly huge.

“Then by all means,” he murmurs against your hair, “take what you want, little mortal.”

You stay there for hours. The popcorn gets cold. Neither of you moves.

JOHNNY STORM

You are in the middle of a fight. A real one. He forgot your anniversary. You are screaming. He is deflecting. The Human Torch is currently being verbally immolated by his very angry girlfriend.

“and you said you would remember this time, Johnny, you promised!"

“Babe, I’m sorry, I was fighting a Mole Man—”

“THERE IS ALWAYS A MOLE MAN!”

You are so angry. So furious. Your blood is boiling. And then your eyes drop to his waist. He’s wearing his Fantastic Four uniform, the blue and black one, and the top is slightly untucked from his bottoms.

You grab it. You yank it up.

Johnny stops mid-sentence. His abs are obscene. A perfect, chiseled, airbrushed-by-the-gods six-pack that looks like it was designed in a lab specifically to make you forget why you were mad.

You stare.

He stares at you staring.

“…Are we still fighting?” he asks cautiously.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I forgot.”

His cocky grin returns. Slow. Smug. Infuriating. “So my abs just… saved the day?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m not pushing anything. You’re the one who pulled up my shirt in the middle of a screaming match.”

You drop the shirt. It falls back down. You immediately pull it back up again.

He throws his head back and laughs, bright and loud and Johnny. “Oh, you’ve got it bad, sweetheart.”

“Shut up and take off the rest of the suit.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

PETER QUILL

You are on the Benatar. In space. There’s a nebula outside the window. It’s very romantic. Peter is trying to impress you by playing Come and Get Your Love on his Zune and doing a stupid little dance.

He’s wearing his iconic red leather jacket, a grey t-shirt underneath, and that stupid, gorgeous, annoyingly charming smirk.

You walk up to him. He thinks you’re going to dance with him. He holds out his hand.

Instead, you grab his t-shirt and yank it straight up to his chin.

The music stops. Peter looks down. There’s a faint line of hair from his navel down. He’s suddenly blushing all the way to his ears.

“…Okay,” he says slowly. “I was not expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I dunno. A slow dance? A compliment about my eyes for once? Not-not a surprise shirt-ectomy!”

You run a finger down his sternum. He shivers violently.

“Dude,” he whispers. “My nipples are out.”

“I’m aware.”

He looks at you. You look at him. The nebula glows purple outside the window. The song is still playing, forgotten.

“…You wanna see the rest?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly.

“Peter Quill, are you offering to strip?”

“I’m offering to negotiate.”

“Just do it!” The gun digs harder into your back, right between your shoulder blades.

Of course this is how you die. Not in some heroic way, not peacefully in your sleep at ninety- no, you’re going to get shot at an ATM on a Tuesday because you needed quarters. The universe has always had a sick sense of humor when it comes to your life.

You press the button for withdrawal from checking. “You know, statistically, you’d make more money just getting a minimum wage job. Even after taxes- ”

“Shut up!”

“I’m just saying, this is really inefficient- ”

You don’t get to finish your observation about the economics of street crime because suddenly the weight of the gun disappears from your back and there’s a crash behind you. You spin around- stupid, you should run, but curiosity has always been your fatal flaw- and watch as a blur of black and blue slams your would be mugger into the brick wall of the bodega next to the ATM.

The man crumples. The gun skitters across the pavement. And standing there, illuminated by the flickering streetlight and the harsh glow of the ATM screen, is Nightwing.

You’ve seen him on the news, obviously. Everyone in Bludhaven has. The cops hate him, the people love him, and the criminals fear him. He’s all lean muscle and acrobatic grace, his suit highlighting a body that’s been honed into a weapon. The blue bird across his chest seems to shimmer as he moves, and his escrima sticks hang from his hands like they’re extensions of his arms.

He turns to you, and even though you can’t see his eyes behind the domino mask, you can feel the weight of his gaze.

“You okay?” His voice is different than you expected; younger, with an edge of genuine concern that seems almost out of place on someone who just took down an armed mugger in three seconds flat.

You blink at him. “That depends on your definition of okay. Physically unharmed? Yes. Emotionally scarred by yet another reminder that the universe is chaotic and uncaring? Also yes.”

There’s a pause. You think you see his lips twitch.

“That’s… pretty specific.”

“I’m a pessimist. We’re detailed oriented.” You glance at the mugger, who’s groaning on the ground. “Is he going to need an ambulance, or just a therapist after you’re done with him?”

Now he definitely smiles. “Little of both, probably. You should get out of here. I’ll wait with him until BCPD shows up.”

“Right. Because the Bludhaven PD is so reliable and not at all corrupt.” But you’re already grabbing your card from the ATM, which, miraculously, still dispensed your pathetic forty dollars. “Thanks for the rescue, I guess. Even though I probably would have just given him the money and filed a police report that would go nowhere.”

“You guess?” He sounds amused now.

You shrug, stuffing the cash in your pocket. “I mean, appreciate the help and all, but let’s be real, I’ll probably be mugged again within six months. This is Bludhaven. Lightning strikes twice here. It’s practically a meteorological certainty.”

“That’s not how lightning works.”

“And yet.” You gesture vaguely at the unconscious mugger, the sketchy street, the flickering streetlight that’s been broken for three weeks. “Here we are.”

You walk away before he can respond, but you can feel his eyes on your back until you turn the corner. You’re not sure if he thinks you’re funny or just deeply disturbed.

Probably both.

Of course, both is good.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You’re hanging from a fire escape.

It’s been two weeks since the ATM incident, and you’d actually started to think that maybe, just maybe, your luck was turning around. You got a fifty cent raise at work. Your landlord didn’t increase your rent. You found a dollar on the sidewalk.

But the universe doesn’t like it when you get comfortable.

You’re not even doing anything weird; you just came out here to water your singular, struggling tomato plant (which refuses to actually produce tomatoes) when the rusted bolts finally gave way. The fire escape tilted, you grabbed for the railing, and now you’re dangling four stories above an alley that definitely contains at least three used needles and a suspicious puddle.

“Help!” You scream, but it’s 11 pm and your neighbors include: one elderly man who’s definitely deaf, two college students who are always high, and a woman who once told you she “doesn’t believe in interference.”

This is exactly how you’d thought you’d die but you’d appreciate it if you weren’t right.

Your fingers are slipping. The metal is cutting into your palms. Below you, the suspicious puddle seems to shimmer with menace.

You’re wearing your nice jeans. The ones without holes. It seems important that someone know this.

“I’M WEARING MY NICE JEANS!” You yell into the void.

“Hold on!” A voice calls back, and you’re so startled you nearly let go.

Then he’s there, like some kind of acrobatic miracle, flipping up from the alley below and landing on the tilted fire escape with perfect balance. Nightwing grabs your wrists and hauls you up with absolutely no effort, pulling you against his chest as the fire escape groans ominously beneath you both.

“We need to move,” he says, and then he’s grappling to the roof, one arm wrapped firmly around your waist.

Your stomach does a complicated flip that has nothing to do with the sudden altitude change.

He sets you down on the roof, hands lingering on your arms to make sure you’re steady. “You okay?”

You’re breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through your system. “You know, you keep asking me that, and the answer keeps being ‘technically yes, but actually no.’”

He tilts his head, and there’s something about the gesture that’s almost bird-like. Fitting, given the whole theme. “Wait. ATM girl?”

“Oh, perfect. I have a nickname now.” You brush off your nice jeans, checking for damage. One knee is torn. Of course it is. “Yes. ATM girl. Also known as ‘that pessimist,’ ‘fire escape failure,’ and ‘person who can’t keep a tomato plant alive.’ Hi. Hello. Thank you for saving me again.”

“You remember me.” He sounds pleased.

“You’re dressed like an exotic bird and you saved me from a mugger. You’re pretty memorable.” You peer over the edge of the roof at your apartment window. The fire escape is completely detached now, hanging by a single bolt. “Great. There goes my security deposit.”

“You’re taking this pretty well.”

“What’s the alternative? Crying? I cried in 2019 and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.” You turn back to him, and in the moonlight, you can see more details; the curve of his jaw, the way his hair sticks up slightly, the almost absurd width of his shoulders. “So, do you just patrol this neighborhood specifically, or am I cosmically marked for disaster and you’re following the trail of chaos?”

He laughs, and it’s a good sound, warm and genuine. “Little of both, maybe. What were you doing on the fire escape?”

“Watering my tomato plant. Which has never produced a single tomato and probably never will, but I’m nothing if not committed to lost causes.” You sigh. “I should call my landlord. He’s going to love this.”

“It’s not your fault the fire escape collapsed.”

“And yet, I guarantee this somehow becomes my problem.” You pull out your phone, then pause. “Thanks. Again. For the rescue. You’re really good at those.”

“It’s kind of my thing.”

“Well, it’s a good thing.” You swallow, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing, how the moonlight catches on the blue of his suit, how he’s looking at you like you’re something interesting instead of just another disaster in motion. “You should probably go stop actual crime instead of babysitting the woman who clearly has a death wish via incompetence.”

“I don’t think you’re incompetent.”

“My fire escape would disagree. Also my tomato plant. Also my general life trajectory.”

He’s smiling again. You’re getting used to that smile, the way it makes something warm unfold in your chest despite your best efforts to remain emotionally neutral about everything.

“Get inside safely,” he says. “And maybe water your plant from the window from now on.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll keep trying. That plant and I both know it’s a doomed enterprise.”

But you’re smiling too, just a little, as he grapples away into the night, all grace and controlled power.

Your landlord does, in fact, make the fire escape your problem.

Of course he does.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You’re stuck in an elevator.

“I should have taken the stairs,” you say to the ceiling, because talking to the ceiling feels more productive than screaming into the void. “I always take the stairs. But no, today I thought, ‘You know what? Live a little. Take the elevator. What’s the worst that could happen?’”

“To be fair,” Nightwing says from his corner of the surprisingly spacious elevator, “this is more of an inconvenience than a disaster.”

You turn to look at him. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking frustratingly calm for someone who’s been trapped in an elevator for twenty minutes. You, on the other hand, are definitely spiraling.

“We’re stuck in an elevator. In a building that’s scheduled for demolition next week. Because apparently, the city of Bludhaven doesn’t believe in proper notices or functional elevators in condemned buildings.”

“You didn’t see the notices?”

“I saw a flyer for a lost cat named Chairman Meow. I assumed that was more pressing than construction permits.” You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor. “What are you even doing here?”

“Got a tip about some guys using the building as a storage facility for stolen goods.” He nods toward a duffel bag in the corner that you hadn’t noticed. “Found them. They ran when the elevator got stuck.”

“Of course they did. They probably took the stairs like sensible criminals.”

He moves to sit across from you, and even in crisis, he moves like water, all fluid grace. It’s unfair, really, how coordinated some people are. You trip over flat surfaces.

“You know,” he says, and you can hear the amusement in his voice, “most people would be more worried about being stuck.”

“Oh, I’m worried. I’m just also unsurprised. This is exactly the kind of thing that happens to me.” You let your head fall back against the wall. “Last month, I got jury duty for a case that was immediately dismissed. I didn’t even get to feel civically important. The month before that, I found a twenty dollar bill on the street and immediately stepped in gum.”

“The universe has it out for you.”

“The universe has it out for everyone. I’m just aware of it.” You glance at him. “Aren’t you supposed to have some kind of gadget that can fix this? Bat-elevator-escape-tool?”

“I’m Nightwing, not Batman. My utility belt has like, six things.”

“Wow, budget constraints even in vigilantism. That’s so Bludhaven.”

He laughs, and you’re starting to really like that sound. It feels like finding something valuable in a thrift store, unexpected and somehow precious because of it.

“You’re funny,” he says.

“I’m fatalistic. People often confuse the two.”

“No, you’re definitely funny.” He leans forward slightly. “And you’re handling this really well for someone who was hanging from a fire escape two weeks ago.”

“Oh, you think this is me handling it well? This is me disassociating. There’s a difference.” But you’re smiling despite yourself. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck?”

“I already hit the emergency call button. Fire department should be here in ten, fifteen minutes.”

“So enough time for you to tell me why you do this.” You gesture vaguely at his suit, his mask, the duffel bag of stolen goods. “The whole vigilante thing. Is it a rich person hobby? A elaborate form of therapy? A very committed cosplay situation?”

“What makes you think I’m rich?”

“That suit looks expensive. Also, you have incredible teeth. Dental work like that doesn’t come cheap.”

He grins, and yeah, those are really good teeth. “I can’t tell you my origin story while we’re stuck in an elevator. That’s terrible narrative pacing.”

“Fine. Tell me something else then.” You’re not sure why you’re pushing, except that sitting in silence feels worse than potential rejection. “Tell me why you remember me. ATM girl. Fire escape failure. Elevator disaster.”

“Because you’re different.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “Most people I rescue are either terrified or grateful or both. You were critiquing the economics of street crime while there was a gun pointed at you.”

“That was just my anxiety talking. I babble when I’m nervous.”

“And when you’re not nervous?”

“I’m always nervous. We live in Bludhaven.”

“Fair point.” He’s quiet for a moment, and you can feel him looking at you, really looking. “You act like you expect the worst, but you still watered your tomato plant. You still took the elevator instead of the stairs. That’s not pessimism. That’s hope wearing a disguise.”

The words hit something soft inside you, something you thought you’d armored over years ago with sarcasm and emotional distance.

“That’s a very poetic assessment of my character flaws,” you manage.

“I don’t think they’re flaws.”

Before you can figure out how to respond to that, before you can unpack the warm, fluttery feeling in your chest that feels dangerously close to something you can’t take back, there’s a grinding sound and the elevator lurches.

“Fire department?” You ask hopefully.

“Fire department,” he confirms, standing and offering you his hand.

You take it, and his grip is strong and steady, and you let yourself hold on for maybe a second longer than necessary.

The doors pry open to reveal two firefighters who look unsurprised to see Nightwing and very surprised to see you.

“Ma’am,” one of them says, “what were you doing in a condemned building?”

“Looking for Chairman Meow,” you say without missing a beat. “He’s still missing, by the way, if anyone’s seen an orange tabby with delusions of political grandeur.”

Nightwing makes a sound that might be a laugh or a cough.

As the firefighters escort you out (with several safety lectures), you glance back once. Nightwing is watching you go, duffel bag in hand, and even though you can’t see his eyes, you feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.

You wave.

He waves back.

You tell yourself the flip in your stomach is just residual adrenaline.

You’re definitely lying to yourself.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

The fourth time you meet Nightwing, you’re not actually in danger.

You’re on your building’s roof (the landlord finally fixed the fire escape, but you’ve developed trust issues), lying on a blanket and looking at the stars. Or trying to. Light pollution in Bludhaven means you can see maybe seven stars on a good night, and most of them are probably planes.

“You know,” a voice says from behind you, “most people would consider this suspicious behavior.”

You don’t even flinch. Of course he would show up. Of course.

“Most people don’t live in my apartment,” you say, not sitting up. “My upstairs neighbor is having extremely loud makeup sex, my downstairs neighbor is learning the drums, and the person across the hall is watching what I think is the entire Fast and Furious franchise at maximum volume. I’m seeking refuge.”

Nightwing moves into your peripheral vision, then sits down on your blanket without asking. The casual intimacy of it makes your breath catch.

“All at once?” He asks.

“The universe coordinated it specifically to drive me to the roof. Where I will probably be struck by lightning or hit by a meteor.”

“Still not how lightning works.”

“And yet, you keep showing up during my disasters. What’s your excuse this time?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and when you finally turn your head to look at him, he’s staring up at the sky with an expression you can’t quite read.

“No excuse,” he admits. “I was patrolling nearby and saw you up here. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Checking on ATM girl? I’m touched. Truly.” But your voice is softer than usual, missing its typical sardonic edge. “I’m fine. Well, as fine as I ever am. No muggers, no collapsing structures, no stuck elevators. Just me and the seven visible stars.”

“Eight,” he says, pointing. “That one’s really faint, but it’s there.”

You look where he’s indicating and squint. “If you say so. I’ll take your word for it, since you seem to have superhuman vision along with superhuman acrobatics.”

“Just good training.”

“Right. Training. That you definitely do as part of your regular person job that’s definitely not related to being a billionaire or anything.”

“I never said I was a billionaire.”

“You also never said you weren’t.”

He laughs, and shifts slightly closer. You can feel the warmth of him now, even through his suit. “You’re very suspicious.”

“I’m very realistic. People don’t become vigilantes because they had a super normal childhood and well adjusted emotional regulation.” You pause. “No offense.”

“None taken. You’re not wrong.” He’s quiet for a beat. “You want to know something?”

“Is it your secret identity? Because I should warn you, I’m terrible at keeping secrets. I once accidentally told my coworker that another coworker was pregnant before she announced it, and I didn’t talk for three months out of shame.”

“Not my secret identity.” He sounds amused. “I was going to say that I actually look forward to running into you.”

Your heart does a complicated somersault. “You look forward to me nearly dying? That’s kind of dark.”

“I look forward to talking to you.” He turns to face you properly, and even in the darkness, you can see the curve of his smile. “You’re real. No filter, no performance. Just genuinely, refreshingly honest about how absurd everything is.”

“That’s just depression with better marketing.”

“It’s not, though.” He’s closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of color in his mask, the slight stubble on his jaw. “You keep showing up. You keep trying. You’re watering that terrible tomato plant and taking elevators and lying on roofs looking for stars. That’s not giving up. That’s the opposite of giving up.”

You swallow hard. “You’re doing the poetic assessment thing again.”

“Is it working?”

“I’m not sure. My emotional processing system has been out of order since 2016.”

But you’re not pulling away. Neither is he.

“Can I tell you something?” You hear yourself say. “And you can’t make fun of me.”

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would, but I’m going to tell you anyway.” You take a breath. “I think I’m starting to actually look forward to the disasters. Because at least then I get to see you.”

The silence that follows feels enormous, stretching between you like something physical. You’re about to take it back, laugh it off, blame it on the drums and the makeup sex and the Fast and Furious franchise-

“Good,” he says quietly. “Because I’ve been taking extra patrols through this neighborhood for two weeks hoping to run into you.”

Oh.

Oh.

“That’s very inefficient crime fighting,” you whisper.

“I’m okay with that.”

He’s so close now. You can see the way his chest rises and falls, the slight curve of his lips, the angle of his jaw. Your hand moves without permission, reaching up to trace the edge of his mask.

“Can I-”

“Not yet,” he says, but he catches your hand and holds it against his cheek. “Soon. I promise. But not yet.”

“Okay.” And it is, somehow. Okay. “This is insane. You know that, right? I don’t even know your name.”

“You know me, though.” His thumb traces circles on your wrist. “You know the important parts.”

“I know you have good teeth and a concerning habit of showing up during my worst moments.”

“Your most interesting moments.”

“Same thing, in my life.”

He laughs, and then he’s leaning in, and you’re leaning in, and-

An alarm goes off somewhere in the distance. Police sirens. Something that sounds like gunshots.

He pulls back with a sigh that sounds genuinely regretful. “I have to go.”

“Of course you do. Crime never sleeps, and neither does my terrible luck with timing.”

But he’s standing, getting ready to grapple away, and you’re standing too, and before he goes he turns back and cups your face with one gloved hand.

“Same time next week?” He asks. “Same roof?”

“You’re scheduling our coincidental meetings now? That seems very organized for a spontaneous vigilante.”

“Call it hope wearing a disguise.”

He’s gone before you can respond, flipping off the roof with that impossible grace, and you’re left standing there with your hand pressed to your cheek where he touched you, smiling like an idiot at the seven- no, eight- stars.

This is dangerous, you think.

This is terrifying.

This is exactly the kind of thing that will definitely end in disaster.

You can’t wait.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You're getting mugged again.

"I told you," you say to Nightwing as he drops from the fire escape above, landing between you and the two men who'd cornered you outside the 24-hour bodega. "I told you lightning strikes twice in Bludhaven. It's been exactly three months."

One of the muggers makes a run for it immediately. The other one pulls out a knife, which seems optimistic given that Nightwing was in the news for taking down an entire robbery crew last week with what you're pretty sure was just a pair of escrima sticks and audacity.

"You were counting?" Nightwing asks, disarming the guy with a move so fast you barely see it. The knife clatters into a storm drain. The mugger wisely chooses to follow his friend's lead and runs.

"I have a very specific relationship with probability and disaster." You hold up the energy drink you'd been buying. "I was just getting caffeine for my night shift. Is that too much to ask? One energy drink without a felony?"

He turns to you, and even though it's been three months of scheduled roof meetings (and several unscheduled disaster interventions), your stomach still does that stupid flip when he looks at you.

"You okay?" He asks, like always.

"Physically fine. Emotionally processing the fact that you either have a tracker on me or the universe is actively coordinating our meet-cutes through crime." You pause. "Wait. You don't have a tracker on me, right?"

"No tracker. I was two blocks away when I heard yelling."

"My yelling specifically, or just general Bludhaven yelling? Because there's a lot of ambient yelling in this city."

He steps closer, does that thing where he checks you over for injuries even though you've told him you're fine. His hands hover near your shoulders, not quite touching. "Your yelling has a specific quality."

"Is it the desperation? The resignation? The underlying notes of 'I knew this would happen'?"

"It's distinctive." His lips twitch. "You want me to walk you home?"

"Nightwing, it's three blocks. Surely there's actual crime happening somewhere that needs your attention more than my tragic walk of shame back to my apartment."

"Humor me."

So you do, because you're weak and he's looking at you like that, and honestly, your Tuesday (of course it's a fucking Tuesday) is already so absurd that adding a vigilante escort service barely registers.

You walk in silence for half a block before he speaks. "How's the tomato plant?"

"Dying. Finally gave up last week. I'm weirdly proud of it for lasting eight months though. That's longer than most of my relationships."

"You're in a relationship with your tomato plant?"

"Was. It's complicated. We wanted different things. It wanted proper drainage and sunlight. I wanted it to not be a metaphor for my inability to nurture living things."

He's laughing now, that warm sound you've become maybe slightly addicted to over the past few months. Your roof meetings have become the highlight of your week, even though you're both pretending they're casual. Even though you're both pretending that the almost-kiss from that first night didn't fundamentally alter something in the space between you.

"I got a new plant," you admit. "A cactus. The guy at the store said it was indestructible."

"How long has it been?"

"Four days."

"And?"

"It's looking suspicious. I think it's plotting something."

You've reached your building. The one with the formerly broken fire escape, the drum learning neighbor, and the upstairs couple who have apparently decided that their relationship drama is a communal experience.

You should go inside. He should go stop crime. This is where the night should end.

"So," you say instead, because you're bad at good decisions. "Thursday. Roof. Same time?"

"Wouldn't miss it." But he's not leaving. He's standing there, closer than necessary, and the streetlight is flickering (because of course it is), and something in his posture has shifted.

"What?" You ask.

"Nothing. Just..." He reaches up, almost touches your face, then drops his hand. "Be careful. Please."

"Careful? You do remember who you're talking to, right? I'm the fire escape girl. The elevator disaster. The woman who gets mugged on a schedule."

"Exactly." And there's something in his voice now, something that makes your breath catch. "So be careful. Because I..." He stops, shakes his head. "Thursday. Don't be late."

He's gone before you can ask what he was going to say, grappling up into the darkness, and you're left standing there wondering if it's possible to have your heart broken by someone whose real name you don't even know.

(It is. You're pretty sure it is.)

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

Thursday arrives with all the enthusiasm of a dental appointment.

You're on the roof at 10 pm sharp, because apparently you're the kind of person who's punctual for secret meetings with a masked vigilante now. The blanket is spread out. You've brought snacks this time- chips, because you're not fancy, and two cans of the fancy lemonade from the bodega that doesn't get robbed as frequently.

He's late.

By 10:15, you're starting to worry, which is a new and uncomfortable feeling. Usually you're worried about yourself and your own impending disasters. Worrying about someone else requires emotional bandwidth you're not sure you have.

By 10:30, you're pacing.

By 10:45, you're googling "Bludhaven crime news" on your phone, which is probably exactly what you shouldn't be doing but your anxiety brain has never been good at following directions.

At 11:07, he lands on the roof, and you're on your feet immediately.

"You're late," you say, and it comes out more scared than annoyed. "You're never late."

"I know. I'm sorry. There was a thin- " He stops, and even in the darkness you can see something's wrong. He's favoring his left side. There's a tear in his suit near his ribs.

"You're hurt." It's not a question.

"It's nothing. Just- "

"Sit down." You're already moving toward him, hands hovering uselessly because you have no idea what to do with an injured vigilante but you need to do something. "Sit down right now or I swear I'll- I don't know what I'll do, but it'll be annoying."

He sits, probably more from surprise than actual obedience. You kneel beside him, trying to assess the damage through the suit.

"It's really not that bad," he says, but his voice is tight with pain. "I've had worse."

"That's not as comforting as you think it is." Your hands are shaking. When did your hands start shaking? "What do I do? Do you have a first aid kit? Do you need a hospital? Should I call Batman?"

"Please don't call Batman."

"I don't even know how to call Batman. That was an empty threat." You're rambling now, the words spilling out in a rush. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to help you. I barely know how to help myself. I once put a band-aid on upside down- "

"Hey." His hand catches yours, stops the flailing. "Breathe."

You breathe. It doesn't help.

"I have supplies in my belt," he says calmly. "Just need to... patch it up. It's honestly not serious."

"You have a hole in your suit. There's blood. That seems serious."

"I've had worse nights." But he's pulling out a first aid kit that's somehow compact enough to fit in his utility belt, wincing as he moves.

You take it from him before he can argue. "Let me. Please. I need- " Your voice cracks. "I need to help. I need to do something."

He looks at you for a long moment, and then nods.

His suit has some kind of panel near the injury that peels back, revealing a gash along his ribs that makes your stomach turn. It's not as deep as you feared, but it's definitely more than "nothing."

"Knife?" You ask, focusing on the injury instead of the implications, instead of the fact that this man you've been slowly falling for risks his life every single night.

"Broken glass, actually. Went through a window."

"Consensually or...?"

"The window was very against it."

You laugh, because the alternative is crying, and you carefully clean the wound with the supplies from his kit. He doesn't flinch, which is somehow more concerning than if he had.

"You do this a lot," you say quietly. It's not a question.

"More than I'd like."

"And you just... patch yourself up and go back out the next night."

"Usually."

You're applying butterfly bandages now, careful and methodical, trying not to think about how this could have been worse. How it could always be worse.

"Why?" The word comes out smaller than you intended. "Why do you do this?"

He's quiet while you finish bandaging, and you think maybe he won't answer. Then: "Someone has to."

"That's not an answer. That's a deflection."

"You're getting good at reading me."

"You're getting easier to read." You sit back, surveying your work. It's not pretty, but it'll hold. "Or maybe I'm just paying more attention than I should be."

"Is that what you think? That you're paying too much attention?"

You look up at him, and even with the mask, even in the darkness, you can feel the intensity of his gaze.

"I don't know what I think anymore," you admit. "Three months ago, I was just a person who got mugged sometimes and had a dying tomato plant. Now I'm the person who waits on roofs and worries when you're late and apparently knows how to do field dressing for vigilante injuries. I don't know how that happened."

"I do." His hand comes up, cups your face like he did that first night. "You kept showing up."

"You literally scheduled the meetings."

"You could have said no."

"Could I have?" Your voice is barely a whisper now. "Because I don't think I could have. I don't think I can. And that's terrifying."

"Why terrifying?"

"Because you're- " You gesture at him, at the suit, at the fresh bandage on his ribs. "This. All of this. You jump off buildings and fight criminals and apparently go through windows. You're not safe. This isn't safe. And I'm- I'm a person who expects the worst because the worst usually happens, but somehow you've become the exception and I don't know what to do with that."

His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "What if I told you I'm terrified too?"

"You? You're Nightwing. You're not afraid of anything."

"I'm afraid of you not being here next Thursday." The words are quiet, honest, devastating. "I'm afraid of you deciding this is too complicated. Too dangerous. Too- "

You kiss him.

It's not graceful. You basically just lean forward and press your mouth to his, cutting off his words, and for a second he's too surprised to respond. Then his hand slides into your hair and he's kissing you back, and oh, this is-

This is nice.

You break apart after a moment that feels both infinite and far too short. You're breathing hard, and he is too, and you're still close enough to count his heartbeats.

"That was..." he starts.

"Impulsive? Stupid? A terrible idea given the circumstances?"

"I was going to say worth waiting for."

You laugh, and it comes out shaky. "You're bleeding through your bandage and I just kissed you. This is the most Bludhaven romance ever."

"Is that what this is? A romance?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

He leans his forehead against yours, careful of the mask. "I want it to be."

"Even though I'm a disaster?"

"Because you're a disaster. My favorite disaster." He pulls back just enough to look at you. "I need to tell you something. Soon. About... everything. Who I am. But not tonight. Not when I'm- "

"Bleeding and probably concussed?"

"I'm not concussed."

"You went through a window. You're at least mildly concussed."

"Fair point." He's smiling though, even through the pain. " I'll tell you everything. Soon. I promise."

"Everything?"

"Everything you want to know."

You should be scared. This is the part where your pessimistic brain should kick in, should start listing all the ways this will inevitably end badly. But looking at him now, at the way he's looking at you like you're something precious instead of just another disaster in motion...

"Okay," you say. "Okay. I'll see you next Thursday. But if you're late again, I'm implementing a three strike policy."

"What happens after three strikes?"

"I'll have to actually learn your name through investigative journalism. It'll be very embarrassing for both of us."

He laughs, then winces. "You should go. Get some sleep. I'll watch you get inside safely."

"You'll watch me walk down one flight of stairs?"

"Humor me."

So you do, gathering your blanket and your unopened snacks, and when you reach the roof door you look back. He's still sitting there, hand pressed to his ribs, watching you with that impossible attention.

"Be careful," you call back. "Please."

"You first."

"That's statistically unlikely, but I'll try."

You're smiling as you head down the stairs, heart racing, lips still tingling, completely terrified and completely sure all at once.

This is definitely going to end in disaster.

But maybe- just maybe- it'll be the good kind.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

Nightwing hands you an envelope.

You're on your usual rooftop, and he drops down from seemingly nowhere, landing in that cat like crouch that should be illegal in terms of sheer attractiveness. You've been seeing each other- if you can call these rooftop rendezvous "seeing each other"- for almost four months now, and your heart still does that stupid flutter thing every time he appears.

"I have something for you," he says, and there's a nervous energy to him that's new.

"If it's another apology for having to leave mid-kiss last week because of a police scanner, I'm going to start charging you per interruption."

"It's not that." He sits next to you and pulls out a cream colored envelope, expensive looking, with your name written on it in actual calligraphy. "I want you to come to something."

You take the envelope like it might explode. "Is this a ransom note? A summons? A very formal breakup letter?"

"Just open it."

You do, and your brain immediately short-circuits.

You are cordially invited to the Wayne Foundation Annual Charity Gala...

"This is- " You look up at him, then back at the invitation. "This is a joke, right? This is fake. You printed this at like, a FedEx or something."

"It's real."

"Nightwing. This is a Wayne gala. As in Bruce Wayne. As in billionaire Bruce Wayne. As in- " You wave the invitation. "There's no way this is real. These things are invite only for like, celebrities and politicians and people who own multiple yachts."

"I know."

"So this is definitely fake."

He takes off one of his gloves and reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "It's real. I want you there. I want..." He pauses, and you can see him gathering courage. "I want you to meet me. The real me. Not just the mask."

Your heart is doing dangerous things. "You're going to be there? At a Wayne gala?"

"Yeah."

"As yourself. Your real self."

"Yeah."

"And you're either Bruce Wayne's secret son, or you're about to tell me you're Batman, or- " You stop. "Oh my god, are you Batman? Is that why you said you only have six things in your utility belt? Is it a budget thing or a 'I'm actually just a vigilante with a day job' thing?"

He's laughing now, soft and genuine. "I'm not Batman. But yes, I'll be there. And I want you there too. If you want to come."

"This is insane."

"Probably."

"This is going to be a disaster."

"Maybe."

"I don't have anything to wear to a Wayne gala. I can't exactly show up in my 'I Survived Bludhaven' tshirt and jeggings."

"You'll figure something out." He squeezes your hand. "Please? I know it's scary, and I know this is all backwards and weird, but- "

"Okay."

He stops. "Okay?"

"Okay. I'll come." You look at the invitation again, at the embossed Wayne logo, at the date that's only three days away. "I'm going to regret this. This is going to end terribly. But okay."

He kisses you then, deep and relieved and tasting like promises that you're terrified to believe in.

"Saturday night," he says against your lips. "Wayne Manor. Seven pm."

"I'll be the one having a panic attack in the corner."

"I'll find you."

After he leaves, you sit on the roof for another hour, holding the invitation and trying to convince yourself it's real.

It's probably fake, you think.

This is definitely a prank.

There's no way this ends well.

Saturday arrives with all the inevitability of a dental appointment.

You've spent the last three days having a sustained, low level panic attack. You went to every thrift store in Bludhaven and finally found a dress that doesn't look like it was donated after someone's divorce in 1987. It's black, because you're not ambitious enough for color, and it fits reasonably well if you don't breathe too deeply. It cost $27, which is $20 more than you've ever spent on a single item of clothing.

You've paired it with shoes you already owned (black flats with a scuff on the toe that you colored in with Sharpie) and a small purse you borrowed from your coworker who asked exactly zero questions, bless her.

You look in the mirror and see exactly what you are: a person in a discount dress pretending to be someone who belongs at a Wayne gala.

"This is fine," you tell your reflection. "This is totally fine. The invitation is probably fake anyway, and you'll get turned away at the door, and you can go home and eat ice cream and never think about this again."

The invitation sits on your counter, looking aggressively real.

You grab it, grab your purse, and head out before you can talk yourself out of it.

Wayne Manor is exactly as intimidating as you imagined, which is to say: very.

The uber driver drops you off at the end of a long driveway that probably costs more than your entire apartment building. There are actual literal limousines pulling up to the entrance. You can see people in gowns that cost more than your yearly salary stepping out with the kind of casual grace that comes from never having worried about rent.

"This is fine," you mutter, walking up the driveway because there's no way you're asking to be driven up like you belong here. "This is totally fine. The bouncer will definitely kick you out and then you can go home."

But when you reach the entrance, holding out your invitation like a shield, the man in the tuxedo just smiles and says, "Welcome, miss. Enjoy your evening."

And then you're inside.

Wayne Manor is obscene. There's no other word for it. The foyer alone is bigger than your apartment, with marble floors and a chandelier that probably costs more than a small country's GDP. Beautiful people in beautiful clothes are everywhere, holding champagne glasses and laughing with the kind of ease that comes from never having checked their bank account before buying groceries.

You are immediately, viscerally aware of every single flaw in your discount dress.

The woman next to you is wearing something that shimmers like starlight and probably has a designer name you can't pronounce. Her jewelry is real. Her hair is professionally styled. She smells like expensive perfume.

You smell like the lavender body spray you got on sale at Target.

"This was a mistake," you whisper to yourself. "This was absolutely a mistake."

You're about to turn around and leave, invitation be damned, Nightwing be damned, your own curiosity be damned, when a waiter appears with a tray of champagne.

"Would you care for a drink, miss?"

You take one because it's free and you're definitely going to need alcohol to get through whatever fresh humiliation this evening has planned.

The champagne is good. Annoyingly good. Even the alcohol here is fancier than you.

You drift through the crowd like a ghost, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, trying not to draw attention to your discount dress and your Sharpie-ed shoes. You find a corner near an elaborate flower arrangement (are those orchids? those are definitely orchids. you killed one once) and try to blend into the wallpaper.

This is fine. You'll stay for twenty minutes, drink your fancy champagne, and then leave. Nightwing was probably joking anyway. Or maybe he forgot. Or maybe-

"Excuse me," a voice says, and you turn to find a woman in a red dress that probably costs more than your car would if you had a car. "Are you here alone?"

"Um." You clutch your champagne. "Yes?"

"Oh, how lovely! I'm Caroline Whitmore. My husband is on the board of the Wayne Foundation." She gestures vaguely at a man across the room who's wearing a tux that fits him like a second skin. "Is this your first Wayne gala?"

"Is it that obvious?"

She laughs, but it's not unkind. "A little. You have that 'deer in headlights' look. Don't worry, everyone feels that way their first time. The Waynes can be a bit... overwhelming."

"That's one word for it," you mutter into your champagne.

"The trick is to just enjoy the free food and avoid Bruce Wayne's new girlfriend. She's dreadful." Caroline leans in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I think he just dates models because he doesn't know how to have a real conversation."

You're saved from having to respond by a commotion near the entrance. The crowd shifts, and you can feel the energy in the room change, the way everyone's attention suddenly focuses on one point.

"Oh, there they are," Caroline says. "The Wayne family. They always make an entrance."

You shouldn't look. You should stay in your corner with your champagne and your discount dress and your existential dread.

But of course you look.

Bruce Wayne enters first looking exactly like the billionaire playboy philanthropist he's famous for being. Tall, handsome in a way that's almost aggressive, wearing a tux that probably costs more than your entire life.

Behind him is a younger man who looks uncomfortable in his suit, dark haired and scowling. Then another man, broader, with a white streak in his hair and an expression that suggests he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Another younger man who’s looking down at his phone and looks like he hasn’t slept since the day he was born.

And then-

And then-

Your champagne glass slips from your hand.

It hits the marble floor with a crash that echoes through the sudden silence, and everyone- every single person in the room- turns to look at you.

But you're not looking at them.

You're looking at the man who just walked in behind Bruce Wayne. Dark hair that sticks up in a way that's immediately, devastatingly familiar. A smile that you've seen in moonlight and shadows, now displayed under the crystal chandelier. A suit that's perfectly tailored to a body you've traced with your hands on rooftop meetings.

He's looking right at you.

And you know.

You know.

"Oh my god," you whisper. "Dick Grayson."

Because of course Nightwing is Dick Grayson. Of course he's Bruce Wayne's ward, the former circus performer turned billionaire's son, the golden boy of Gotham society.

Of course you've been making out with someone who's probably worth more than the entire city of Bludhaven.

Caroline is saying something about the broken glass, and a waiter is rushing over, but you can't hear any of it because Dick Grayson-Nightwing- is walking toward you.

The crowd parts for him like he's Moses and they're the Red Sea.

He stops in front of you, and up close, without the mask, you can see his eyes. Blue. Bright blue. The same eyes that have looked at you with concern and humor and heat.

"Hi," he says, and his voice is the same, exactly the same. "You made it."

"I- " Your brain is offline. Completely offline. "You're Dick Grayson."

"Yeah."

"The Dick Grayson. The- the son of Bruce Wayne. The- "

"Technically adopted son, but yeah."

"I've been kissing Dick Grayson on my roof."

He grins. "You have been."

"I told you that you were probably rich and you lied."

"I said I never said I was a billionaire," he points out. "Technically true. Bruce is the billionaire. I just have access to his credit cards."

"That's-you-" You look around at the crowd that's definitely, absolutely watching this entire interaction. At the broken champagne glass at your feet. At your discount dress next to his designer tux. "I'm going to pass out."

"Please don't." He takes your hand, the same way he has on the roof, his thumb finding that spot on your wrist that always makes you shiver. "Come on. Let's get you some air."

"I broke a glass. There's-I should clean that up. I should- "

"The staff will handle it." He's already guiding you through the crowd, past the staring faces and the whispered comments. Past Bruce Wayne, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Past the scowling boy and the man with the white streak and the teen that’s no longer looking at his phone but looking at you in curiosity.

He leads you out to a balcony that overlooks the grounds, and the cool night air hits your face like a slap.

"Okay," he says, turning to face you. "You can yell now."

"I can't yell. I'm at a Wayne gala. There are probably rules about yelling."

"There are definitely rules about yelling, but I'm giving you permission to break them."

You stare at him. At Dick Grayson. At Nightwing. At the man you've been falling for without knowing he's literally famous, literally rich, literally everything you're not.

"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress," you say finally.

He blinks. "Okay?"

"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress from a thrift store, and my shoes have Sharpie on them, and I colored in the scuff mark this morning because I don't own fancy shoes. Everyone in there is wearing clothes that cost more than my rent, and I'm- I'm- "

"Beautiful," he says simply. "You're beautiful."

"I'm a disaster."

"You're my favorite disaster."

And despite everything- despite the humiliation and the broken glass and the fact that you're definitely the poorest person at this gala- you laugh.

"This is insane," you say. "This is actually insane. I've been dating- are we dating? I don't even know if we're dating- I've been something with Dick Grayson and I didn't even know it."

"We're dating," he confirms. "Definitely dating. I'm not in the habit of having regularly scheduled rooftop makeout sessions with people I'm not dating."

"Your life is so weird."

"Says the woman who critiques muggers while they're actively mugging her."

You're about to respond, about to say something about how at least your weird is normal weird, not billionaire vigilante weird, when there's a commotion from inside.

Not the normal gala commotion. Something else.

Something wrong.

Dick's entire posture changes, his body going taut in a way you recognize from when he's in the suit.

"Stay here," he says.

"Yeah, that's not ominous at all."

But he's already moving back toward the ballroom, and you follow because of course you do, because the universe has never let you make smart decisions.

The scene inside is chaos.

The lights are flickering. People are screaming. And standing in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by henchmen in matching green suits, is a man with a purple suit, a cane, and a smile that makes your skin crawl.

The Riddler.

Because of course. Of course this gala is being crashed by a Batman rogue. Of course this is happening.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The Riddler's voice carries across the ballroom with theatrical flair. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything important. Though I suppose that depends on your definition of 'important,' doesn't it? After all, what's more important: champagne and canapés, or the answer to a riddle that could save your lives?"

You're frozen in the doorway. Dick is next to you, and you can see him calculating, planning, probably figuring out how to get to wherever he keeps his Nightwing suit stashed.

"Here's the riddle," the Riddler continues, twirling his cane. "What has hands but cannot clap, a face but cannot smile, and tells you when it's time to die?"

The crowd is silent, terrified.

And you-

You can't help yourself.

"A clock," you say.

It's not loud. It's barely more than a mutter.

But in the terrified silence, it carries.

The Riddler's head snaps toward you. "What was that?"

"I said it's a clock." Your voice is stronger now, because apparently when faced with mortal peril, your anxiety manifests as mouthy confidence. "The answer is a clock. It has hands, it has a face, and depending on your philosophical relationship with mortality, it tells you when you're going to die. Although technically, that's more metaphorical than- "

The Riddler stops in front of you, studying you with unsettling intensity. "You're not afraid."

"Oh, I'm terrified. I'm just also really annoyed because I was about to have a whole crisis about dating someone out of my league, and now you're here with your- " You gesture vaguely at his outfit. "Your whole situation, and I have to deal with that instead."

There's a beat of absolute silence.

Then Dick makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob.

"You're dating someone?" The Riddler looks delighted. "How wonderful! And who might this lucky person be?"

"That's really none of your business, but thanks for the interest in my personal life. Very invested for a supervillain." You pause, and your brain- your traitorous, anxiety ridden brain- decides this is the perfect time to keep talking. "Actually, you know what? Can I ask you something?"

Dick's hand tightens on your arm. "Please don't- "

"Why are you even doing this?" You gesture at the terrified crowd, the henchmen, the whole hostage situation. "The crime thing. You're clearly intelligent. Like, really intelligent. Your riddles are actually good, which is more than I can say for most people's riddles. Why aren't you running an escape room empire or something?"

The Riddler stops. Blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Escape rooms!" You're on a roll now, your anxiety manifesting as what can only be described as aggressive career counseling. "Think about it! You could corner the entire market! You're already creating elaborate puzzles and death traps; just make them non lethal and charge people seventy five dollars a head to try to solve them. People LOVE that stuff. You'd be rich in like, six months. Plus, you'd get to feel superior to everyone who can't solve your puzzles, which seems like a big thing for you- no offense- and it would be completely legal!"

The entire ballroom is silent. Even the henchmen look confused.

The Riddler is staring at you like you've just spoken in an alien language.

"You- " He stops. Starts again. "You think I should open an escape room?"

"Not an escape room. Multiple escape rooms. A franchise. 'Nygma's Enigmas' or something. Trademark it. Get investors. Go on Shark Tank. You could be a millionaire legitimately, and you'd get to watch people fail at your puzzles all day, every day, and they'd literally be PAYING you for the privilege. It's the perfect business model for someone with your specific skillset and psychological needs!"

"I- " The Riddler looks genuinely taken aback. "I have never- "

"And think about the branding opportunities! Merchandise! Puzzle books! A YouTube channel where you explain how people failed! You could be internet famous! Do you know how much money internet famous people make? A LOT. More than you're probably getting from- " You gesture at the current hostage situation. "Whatever this is supposed to accomplish."

"She has a point," one of the henchmen mutters.

The Riddler spins to glare at him. "Whose side are you on?"

"I'm just saying, boss, the last three jobs haven't really paid that well- "

"SILENCE!"

"Plus, the Bat keeps catching us," another henchman adds. "An escape room business would have way better job security- "

"Are my henchmen seriously discussing CAREER CHANGES in the middle of a HEIST?"

"It's not a bad idea," a third henchman says thoughtfully. "My cousin runs an escape room in Metropolis. He cleared six figures last year."

"Yeah, and he doesn't get punched by Batman," the first henchman points out.

"EXACTLY," you say, pointing at them. "See? Your employees understand basic risk benefit analysis! You could offer them actual benefits! Health insurance! A 401k! Paid time off!"

Dick has given up trying to stop you. You can feel him shaking next to you, and you're pretty sure it's silent laughter.

Bruce Wayne is pinching the bridge of his nose in the background.

The Riddler looks like he's having an existential crisis. "But- but the CHALLENGE! The battle of wits with Batman! The thrill of outwitting the law!"

"You can still have that! Just make one of your escape rooms Batman themed! Make it really hard! Charge extra! He might even show up to try it, and then you get to watch him struggle with your puzzles in a legal, controlled environment! It's a win-win!"

"Batman themed," the Riddler repeats slowly.

"With like, gargoyles and batarangs and stuff. Make it super dramatic. People will eat that up. Gotham loves Batman. Merchandising nightmare, but that's what lawyers are for."

There's a long, long pause.

"That's..." The Riddler trails off. "That's actually not a terrible idea."

"RIGHT?!"

"I could create the most challenging escape rooms in the world. People would come from everywhere to test themselves against my intellect- "

"And PAY you for it!"

"And I could rate them. Publicly. On their failures- "

"Make a leaderboard! With shame tiers!"

"A SHAME LEADERBOARD." The Riddler looks genuinely excited now. "That's brilliant! That's- " He stops. Looks around at the terrified gala attendees. At his henchmen, who are all nodding enthusiastically. At you, in your twenty seven dollar dress, having just accidentally talked a supervillain into considering legitimate employment.

"This is..." He shakes his head. "This is the strangest hostage situation I've ever been in."

"Is it still a hostage situation if we're having a productive career counseling session?" You ask.

"I don't know! I've never had this happen before!"

"Well, there's a first time for everything. So, are you going to let everyone go, or..."

That's when the lights go out.

There's the familiar sounds of a Batfamily in action the thwip of grappling hooks, the thunk of escrima sticks, the crack of martial arts, and what sounds like a tiny angry Robin yelling something about "incompetent fools."

When the lights come back on, the Riddler and his henchmen are zip tied on the floor. Batman is glowering. Nightwing is clearly trying not to laugh behind his mask. Robin looks deeply offended by the entire situation.

"Did she just- " Robin starts.

"Give the Riddler career advice? Yes," Batman says flatly.

"Is that... allowed?"

"I don't think there's a protocol for this, Robin."

The Riddler, zip tied and defeated, looks up at you from the floor. "You know, in another life, I think we could have been friends."

"In another life, you could be a legitimate businessman," you counter. "It's not too late! Think about the escape rooms! Think about the shame leaderboard! If Martha Stewart can make bank after prison, so can you!”

"I AM thinking about it!" He actually sounds enthusiastic. "The possibilities are- "

"Okay, that's enough," Batman interrupts, gesturing for the GCPD. "Take him in."

As they're hauling the Riddler away, he calls back: "If I do this- if I actually do this- I'm naming you as a consultant!"

"I don't want credit for this!" You yell back.

"Too late! You're getting a percentage!"

"A percentage of WHAT?!"

"MY ESCAPE ROOM EMPIRE!"

And then he's gone, still yelling about business plans and shame leaderboards, and you're left standing in a ballroom full of Gotham's elite, having just accidentally become a business partner with a supervillain.

Dick appears at your elbow, back in his regular tux, no mask. He's grinning so wide it looks painful.

"Did you just- "

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You just convinced the Riddler to consider a legitimate career- "

"I was dissociating. My mouth just does things when I'm nervous!"

"That was the most amazing thing I've ever witnessed."

Bruce Wayne materializes on your other side. He looks at you for a long moment.

"If he actually does open an escape room franchise," Bruce says seriously, "and it keeps him out of crime, I'm writing you a recommendation letter for whatever you want."

"I don't- I can't- " You look between them. "This is insane. This whole night is insane. I came here in a thrift store dress and now I'm a business consultant for a supervillain?!"

"Twenty seven dollar dress," Dick corrects, still grinning.

"NOT THE POINT."

Caroline Whitmore appears with champagne. "Same time next year?" She asks cheerfully.

You take the champagne and down it in one go.

"Sure," you say faintly. "Why not. What else could possibly happen?"

The universe, as always, is listening.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You wake up disoriented, head full of static, and for a moment you’re convinced the entire Wayne gala was a stress induced fever dream. The ceiling above you is definitely not the water stained plaster of your apartment: this one is smooth, painted a gentle gray, and if you squint you can see tiny glow in the dark stars scattered in one corner.

There’s a slow, delicious ache in your thighs that’s definitely not from stress.

You shift, and the sheet slithers over bare skin, warm and expensive, and the motion pulls your attention to the weight at your waist; an arm, long and golden and dusted with soft brown hair, wraps you close.

Oh.

You twist, carefully and there he is: Dick Grayson, hair rumpled, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, mouth parted with the kind of sleep heavy softness that makes you want to press your face to his shoulder and never move again.

Last night comes back in flashes: his mouth on yours as the adrenaline bled out in the back seat of the car, his hands clumsy and urgent as he unlocked the door to his apartment, laughter tangled with kisses, a trail of your thrifted dress and his designer tux winding through the hall.

You’d made love with the kind of desperate relief that comes from barely surviving- again- a night that should have been a disaster but somehow wasn’t.

Dick shifts, blinking blearily, and his gaze finds you, blue and bright and so gentle you could cry.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice gravel soft with sleep. “You’re still here.”

“Wasn’t sure I would be.” You mean to say it with a laugh, but it comes out quiet, almost vulnerable.

His thumb brushes over your bare hip, slow and affectionate. “You always have a choice. You know that, right?”

You nod, trying not to melt into him. “You snore, by the way.”

He grins, no shame at all. “And you talk in your sleep. You told me the exact tax rate on laundromat quarters.”

You flush, and Dick leans in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your throat, the corner of your jaw. “It’s adorable.”

You let yourself settle against him, the two of you tucked into the soft tangle of his sheets, sun leaking in around the blackout curtains.

Dick rolls you gently onto your back, hovering over you, hair falling into his eyes. “You know what I want?” he says, voice gone low and teasing, eyes warm as sunrise.

“What’s that?”

He ducks down, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s slow, sweet, the kind you never thought you’d get from someone like him. “I want to make you breakfast. And then I want to see if you’ll let me keep you here all weekend.”

Your heart does a ridiculous, traitorous thing in your chest. “You’d get sick of me by noon.”

He nips at your jaw, grinning. “Not possible. I’m insatiable.” He punctuates it with another kiss, this one lingering, his hand sliding over your waist, palm broad and steady.

You can feel him, hard and wanting against your thigh. The temptation to tease is irresistible. “Didn’t you say you needed to rest after last night, Mr. Grayson?”

He groans, but his mouth is already sliding down your neck, teeth scraping lightly. “I lied. Or maybe you just recharge me.”

Your hands slide into his hair as he kisses down your body, worshipful, reverent. His lips find your breast, tongue circling, and his hand drifts lower, cupping your thigh, thumb stroking lazily at your skin. The ache between your legs turns electric, all soft warmth and want.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin, breath hot.

“Don’t you dare.”

He laughs quiet, and so, so happy and then his mouth is on you, slow and patient, mapping every inch. When he finally presses inside, the stretch is familiar and perfect, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him close, moving together in the drowsy gold of morning.

He presses his forehead to yours, both of you grinning like idiots.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

He kisses you, slow and sure, as if sealing a promise: “Good. Because you’re my favorite disaster.”

The sun climbs higher, and you think, for once, that maybe- just maybe- everything is exactly as it should be.

“Just do it!” The gun digs harder into your back, right between your shoulder blades.

Of course this is how you die. Not in some heroic way, not peacefully in your sleep at ninety- no, you’re going to get shot at an ATM on a Tuesday because you needed quarters. The universe has always had a sick sense of humor when it comes to your life.

You press the button for withdrawal from checking. “You know, statistically, you’d make more money just getting a minimum wage job. Even after taxes- ”

“Shut up!”

“I’m just saying, this is really inefficient- ”

You don’t get to finish your observation about the economics of street crime because suddenly the weight of the gun disappears from your back and there’s a crash behind you. You spin around- stupid, you should run, but curiosity has always been your fatal flaw- and watch as a blur of black and blue slams your would be mugger into the brick wall of the bodega next to the ATM.

The man crumples. The gun skitters across the pavement. And standing there, illuminated by the flickering streetlight and the harsh glow of the ATM screen, is Nightwing.

You’ve seen him on the news, obviously. Everyone in Bludhaven has. The cops hate him, the people love him, and the criminals fear him. He’s all lean muscle and acrobatic grace, his suit highlighting a body that’s been honed into a weapon. The blue bird across his chest seems to shimmer as he moves, and his escrima sticks hang from his hands like they’re extensions of his arms.

He turns to you, and even though you can’t see his eyes behind the domino mask, you can feel the weight of his gaze.

“You okay?” His voice is different than you expected; younger, with an edge of genuine concern that seems almost out of place on someone who just took down an armed mugger in three seconds flat.

You blink at him. “That depends on your definition of okay. Physically unharmed? Yes. Emotionally scarred by yet another reminder that the universe is chaotic and uncaring? Also yes.”

There’s a pause. You think you see his lips twitch.

“That’s… pretty specific.”

“I’m a pessimist. We’re detailed oriented.” You glance at the mugger, who’s groaning on the ground. “Is he going to need an ambulance, or just a therapist after you’re done with him?”

Now he definitely smiles. “Little of both, probably. You should get out of here. I’ll wait with him until BCPD shows up.”

“Right. Because the Bludhaven PD is so reliable and not at all corrupt.” But you’re already grabbing your card from the ATM, which, miraculously, still dispensed your pathetic forty dollars. “Thanks for the rescue, I guess. Even though I probably would have just given him the money and filed a police report that would go nowhere.”

“You guess?” He sounds amused now.

You shrug, stuffing the cash in your pocket. “I mean, appreciate the help and all, but let’s be real, I’ll probably be mugged again within six months. This is Bludhaven. Lightning strikes twice here. It’s practically a meteorological certainty.”

“That’s not how lightning works.”

“And yet.” You gesture vaguely at the unconscious mugger, the sketchy street, the flickering streetlight that’s been broken for three weeks. “Here we are.”

You walk away before he can respond, but you can feel his eyes on your back until you turn the corner. You’re not sure if he thinks you’re funny or just deeply disturbed.

Probably both.

Of course, both is good.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You’re hanging from a fire escape.

It’s been two weeks since the ATM incident, and you’d actually started to think that maybe, just maybe, your luck was turning around. You got a fifty cent raise at work. Your landlord didn’t increase your rent. You found a dollar on the sidewalk.

But the universe doesn’t like it when you get comfortable.

You’re not even doing anything weird; you just came out here to water your singular, struggling tomato plant (which refuses to actually produce tomatoes) when the rusted bolts finally gave way. The fire escape tilted, you grabbed for the railing, and now you’re dangling four stories above an alley that definitely contains at least three used needles and a suspicious puddle.

“Help!” You scream, but it’s 11 pm and your neighbors include: one elderly man who’s definitely deaf, two college students who are always high, and a woman who once told you she “doesn’t believe in interference.”

This is exactly how you’d thought you’d die but you’d appreciate it if you weren’t right.

Your fingers are slipping. The metal is cutting into your palms. Below you, the suspicious puddle seems to shimmer with menace.

You’re wearing your nice jeans. The ones without holes. It seems important that someone know this.

“I’M WEARING MY NICE JEANS!” You yell into the void.

“Hold on!” A voice calls back, and you’re so startled you nearly let go.

Then he’s there, like some kind of acrobatic miracle, flipping up from the alley below and landing on the tilted fire escape with perfect balance. Nightwing grabs your wrists and hauls you up with absolutely no effort, pulling you against his chest as the fire escape groans ominously beneath you both.

“We need to move,” he says, and then he’s grappling to the roof, one arm wrapped firmly around your waist.

Your stomach does a complicated flip that has nothing to do with the sudden altitude change.

He sets you down on the roof, hands lingering on your arms to make sure you’re steady. “You okay?”

You’re breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through your system. “You know, you keep asking me that, and the answer keeps being ‘technically yes, but actually no.’”

He tilts his head, and there’s something about the gesture that’s almost bird-like. Fitting, given the whole theme. “Wait. ATM girl?”

“Oh, perfect. I have a nickname now.” You brush off your nice jeans, checking for damage. One knee is torn. Of course it is. “Yes. ATM girl. Also known as ‘that pessimist,’ ‘fire escape failure,’ and ‘person who can’t keep a tomato plant alive.’ Hi. Hello. Thank you for saving me again.”

“You remember me.” He sounds pleased.

“You’re dressed like an exotic bird and you saved me from a mugger. You’re pretty memorable.” You peer over the edge of the roof at your apartment window. The fire escape is completely detached now, hanging by a single bolt. “Great. There goes my security deposit.”

“You’re taking this pretty well.”

“What’s the alternative? Crying? I cried in 2019 and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.” You turn back to him, and in the moonlight, you can see more details; the curve of his jaw, the way his hair sticks up slightly, the almost absurd width of his shoulders. “So, do you just patrol this neighborhood specifically, or am I cosmically marked for disaster and you’re following the trail of chaos?”

He laughs, and it’s a good sound, warm and genuine. “Little of both, maybe. What were you doing on the fire escape?”

“Watering my tomato plant. Which has never produced a single tomato and probably never will, but I’m nothing if not committed to lost causes.” You sigh. “I should call my landlord. He’s going to love this.”

“It’s not your fault the fire escape collapsed.”

“And yet, I guarantee this somehow becomes my problem.” You pull out your phone, then pause. “Thanks. Again. For the rescue. You’re really good at those.”

“It’s kind of my thing.”

“Well, it’s a good thing.” You swallow, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing, how the moonlight catches on the blue of his suit, how he’s looking at you like you’re something interesting instead of just another disaster in motion. “You should probably go stop actual crime instead of babysitting the woman who clearly has a death wish via incompetence.”

“I don’t think you’re incompetent.”

“My fire escape would disagree. Also my tomato plant. Also my general life trajectory.”

He’s smiling again. You’re getting used to that smile, the way it makes something warm unfold in your chest despite your best efforts to remain emotionally neutral about everything.

“Get inside safely,” he says. “And maybe water your plant from the window from now on.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll keep trying. That plant and I both know it’s a doomed enterprise.”

But you’re smiling too, just a little, as he grapples away into the night, all grace and controlled power.

Your landlord does, in fact, make the fire escape your problem.

Of course he does.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You’re stuck in an elevator.

“I should have taken the stairs,” you say to the ceiling, because talking to the ceiling feels more productive than screaming into the void. “I always take the stairs. But no, today I thought, ‘You know what? Live a little. Take the elevator. What’s the worst that could happen?’”

“To be fair,” Nightwing says from his corner of the surprisingly spacious elevator, “this is more of an inconvenience than a disaster.”

You turn to look at him. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking frustratingly calm for someone who’s been trapped in an elevator for twenty minutes. You, on the other hand, are definitely spiraling.

“We’re stuck in an elevator. In a building that’s scheduled for demolition next week. Because apparently, the city of Bludhaven doesn’t believe in proper notices or functional elevators in condemned buildings.”

“You didn’t see the notices?”

“I saw a flyer for a lost cat named Chairman Meow. I assumed that was more pressing than construction permits.” You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor. “What are you even doing here?”

“Got a tip about some guys using the building as a storage facility for stolen goods.” He nods toward a duffel bag in the corner that you hadn’t noticed. “Found them. They ran when the elevator got stuck.”

“Of course they did. They probably took the stairs like sensible criminals.”

He moves to sit across from you, and even in crisis, he moves like water, all fluid grace. It’s unfair, really, how coordinated some people are. You trip over flat surfaces.

“You know,” he says, and you can hear the amusement in his voice, “most people would be more worried about being stuck.”

“Oh, I’m worried. I’m just also unsurprised. This is exactly the kind of thing that happens to me.” You let your head fall back against the wall. “Last month, I got jury duty for a case that was immediately dismissed. I didn’t even get to feel civically important. The month before that, I found a twenty dollar bill on the street and immediately stepped in gum.”

“The universe has it out for you.”

“The universe has it out for everyone. I’m just aware of it.” You glance at him. “Aren’t you supposed to have some kind of gadget that can fix this? Bat-elevator-escape-tool?”

“I’m Nightwing, not Batman. My utility belt has like, six things.”

“Wow, budget constraints even in vigilantism. That’s so Bludhaven.”

He laughs, and you’re starting to really like that sound. It feels like finding something valuable in a thrift store, unexpected and somehow precious because of it.

“You’re funny,” he says.

“I’m fatalistic. People often confuse the two.”

“No, you’re definitely funny.” He leans forward slightly. “And you’re handling this really well for someone who was hanging from a fire escape two weeks ago.”

“Oh, you think this is me handling it well? This is me disassociating. There’s a difference.” But you’re smiling despite yourself. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck?”

“I already hit the emergency call button. Fire department should be here in ten, fifteen minutes.”

“So enough time for you to tell me why you do this.” You gesture vaguely at his suit, his mask, the duffel bag of stolen goods. “The whole vigilante thing. Is it a rich person hobby? A elaborate form of therapy? A very committed cosplay situation?”

“What makes you think I’m rich?”

“That suit looks expensive. Also, you have incredible teeth. Dental work like that doesn’t come cheap.”

He grins, and yeah, those are really good teeth. “I can’t tell you my origin story while we’re stuck in an elevator. That’s terrible narrative pacing.”

“Fine. Tell me something else then.” You’re not sure why you’re pushing, except that sitting in silence feels worse than potential rejection. “Tell me why you remember me. ATM girl. Fire escape failure. Elevator disaster.”

“Because you’re different.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “Most people I rescue are either terrified or grateful or both. You were critiquing the economics of street crime while there was a gun pointed at you.”

“That was just my anxiety talking. I babble when I’m nervous.”

“And when you’re not nervous?”

“I’m always nervous. We live in Bludhaven.”

“Fair point.” He’s quiet for a moment, and you can feel him looking at you, really looking. “You act like you expect the worst, but you still watered your tomato plant. You still took the elevator instead of the stairs. That’s not pessimism. That’s hope wearing a disguise.”

The words hit something soft inside you, something you thought you’d armored over years ago with sarcasm and emotional distance.

“That’s a very poetic assessment of my character flaws,” you manage.

“I don’t think they’re flaws.”

Before you can figure out how to respond to that, before you can unpack the warm, fluttery feeling in your chest that feels dangerously close to something you can’t take back, there’s a grinding sound and the elevator lurches.

“Fire department?” You ask hopefully.

“Fire department,” he confirms, standing and offering you his hand.

You take it, and his grip is strong and steady, and you let yourself hold on for maybe a second longer than necessary.

The doors pry open to reveal two firefighters who look unsurprised to see Nightwing and very surprised to see you.

“Ma’am,” one of them says, “what were you doing in a condemned building?”

“Looking for Chairman Meow,” you say without missing a beat. “He’s still missing, by the way, if anyone’s seen an orange tabby with delusions of political grandeur.”

Nightwing makes a sound that might be a laugh or a cough.

As the firefighters escort you out (with several safety lectures), you glance back once. Nightwing is watching you go, duffel bag in hand, and even though you can’t see his eyes, you feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.

You wave.

He waves back.

You tell yourself the flip in your stomach is just residual adrenaline.

You’re definitely lying to yourself.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

The fourth time you meet Nightwing, you’re not actually in danger.

You’re on your building’s roof (the landlord finally fixed the fire escape, but you’ve developed trust issues), lying on a blanket and looking at the stars. Or trying to. Light pollution in Bludhaven means you can see maybe seven stars on a good night, and most of them are probably planes.

“You know,” a voice says from behind you, “most people would consider this suspicious behavior.”

You don’t even flinch. Of course he would show up. Of course.

“Most people don’t live in my apartment,” you say, not sitting up. “My upstairs neighbor is having extremely loud makeup sex, my downstairs neighbor is learning the drums, and the person across the hall is watching what I think is the entire Fast and Furious franchise at maximum volume. I’m seeking refuge.”

Nightwing moves into your peripheral vision, then sits down on your blanket without asking. The casual intimacy of it makes your breath catch.

“All at once?” He asks.

“The universe coordinated it specifically to drive me to the roof. Where I will probably be struck by lightning or hit by a meteor.”

“Still not how lightning works.”

“And yet, you keep showing up during my disasters. What’s your excuse this time?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and when you finally turn your head to look at him, he’s staring up at the sky with an expression you can’t quite read.

“No excuse,” he admits. “I was patrolling nearby and saw you up here. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Checking on ATM girl? I’m touched. Truly.” But your voice is softer than usual, missing its typical sardonic edge. “I’m fine. Well, as fine as I ever am. No muggers, no collapsing structures, no stuck elevators. Just me and the seven visible stars.”

“Eight,” he says, pointing. “That one’s really faint, but it’s there.”

You look where he’s indicating and squint. “If you say so. I’ll take your word for it, since you seem to have superhuman vision along with superhuman acrobatics.”

“Just good training.”

“Right. Training. That you definitely do as part of your regular person job that’s definitely not related to being a billionaire or anything.”

“I never said I was a billionaire.”

“You also never said you weren’t.”

He laughs, and shifts slightly closer. You can feel the warmth of him now, even through his suit. “You’re very suspicious.”

“I’m very realistic. People don’t become vigilantes because they had a super normal childhood and well adjusted emotional regulation.” You pause. “No offense.”

“None taken. You’re not wrong.” He’s quiet for a beat. “You want to know something?”

“Is it your secret identity? Because I should warn you, I’m terrible at keeping secrets. I once accidentally told my coworker that another coworker was pregnant before she announced it, and I didn’t talk for three months out of shame.”

“Not my secret identity.” He sounds amused. “I was going to say that I actually look forward to running into you.”

Your heart does a complicated somersault. “You look forward to me nearly dying? That’s kind of dark.”

“I look forward to talking to you.” He turns to face you properly, and even in the darkness, you can see the curve of his smile. “You’re real. No filter, no performance. Just genuinely, refreshingly honest about how absurd everything is.”

“That’s just depression with better marketing.”

“It’s not, though.” He’s closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of color in his mask, the slight stubble on his jaw. “You keep showing up. You keep trying. You’re watering that terrible tomato plant and taking elevators and lying on roofs looking for stars. That’s not giving up. That’s the opposite of giving up.”

You swallow hard. “You’re doing the poetic assessment thing again.”

“Is it working?”

“I’m not sure. My emotional processing system has been out of order since 2016.”

But you’re not pulling away. Neither is he.

“Can I tell you something?” You hear yourself say. “And you can’t make fun of me.”

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would, but I’m going to tell you anyway.” You take a breath. “I think I’m starting to actually look forward to the disasters. Because at least then I get to see you.”

The silence that follows feels enormous, stretching between you like something physical. You’re about to take it back, laugh it off, blame it on the drums and the makeup sex and the Fast and Furious franchise-

“Good,” he says quietly. “Because I’ve been taking extra patrols through this neighborhood for two weeks hoping to run into you.”

Oh.

Oh.

“That’s very inefficient crime fighting,” you whisper.

“I’m okay with that.”

He’s so close now. You can see the way his chest rises and falls, the slight curve of his lips, the angle of his jaw. Your hand moves without permission, reaching up to trace the edge of his mask.

“Can I-”

“Not yet,” he says, but he catches your hand and holds it against his cheek. “Soon. I promise. But not yet.”

“Okay.” And it is, somehow. Okay. “This is insane. You know that, right? I don’t even know your name.”

“You know me, though.” His thumb traces circles on your wrist. “You know the important parts.”

“I know you have good teeth and a concerning habit of showing up during my worst moments.”

“Your most interesting moments.”

“Same thing, in my life.”

He laughs, and then he’s leaning in, and you’re leaning in, and-

An alarm goes off somewhere in the distance. Police sirens. Something that sounds like gunshots.

He pulls back with a sigh that sounds genuinely regretful. “I have to go.”

“Of course you do. Crime never sleeps, and neither does my terrible luck with timing.”

But he’s standing, getting ready to grapple away, and you’re standing too, and before he goes he turns back and cups your face with one gloved hand.

“Same time next week?” He asks. “Same roof?”

“You’re scheduling our coincidental meetings now? That seems very organized for a spontaneous vigilante.”

“Call it hope wearing a disguise.”

He’s gone before you can respond, flipping off the roof with that impossible grace, and you’re left standing there with your hand pressed to your cheek where he touched you, smiling like an idiot at the seven- no, eight- stars.

This is dangerous, you think.

This is terrifying.

This is exactly the kind of thing that will definitely end in disaster.

You can’t wait.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You're getting mugged again.

"I told you," you say to Nightwing as he drops from the fire escape above, landing between you and the two men who'd cornered you outside the 24-hour bodega. "I told you lightning strikes twice in Bludhaven. It's been exactly three months."

One of the muggers makes a run for it immediately. The other one pulls out a knife, which seems optimistic given that Nightwing was in the news for taking down an entire robbery crew last week with what you're pretty sure was just a pair of escrima sticks and audacity.

"You were counting?" Nightwing asks, disarming the guy with a move so fast you barely see it. The knife clatters into a storm drain. The mugger wisely chooses to follow his friend's lead and runs.

"I have a very specific relationship with probability and disaster." You hold up the energy drink you'd been buying. "I was just getting caffeine for my night shift. Is that too much to ask? One energy drink without a felony?"

He turns to you, and even though it's been three months of scheduled roof meetings (and several unscheduled disaster interventions), your stomach still does that stupid flip when he looks at you.

"You okay?" He asks, like always.

"Physically fine. Emotionally processing the fact that you either have a tracker on me or the universe is actively coordinating our meet-cutes through crime." You pause. "Wait. You don't have a tracker on me, right?"

"No tracker. I was two blocks away when I heard yelling."

"My yelling specifically, or just general Bludhaven yelling? Because there's a lot of ambient yelling in this city."

He steps closer, does that thing where he checks you over for injuries even though you've told him you're fine. His hands hover near your shoulders, not quite touching. "Your yelling has a specific quality."

"Is it the desperation? The resignation? The underlying notes of 'I knew this would happen'?"

"It's distinctive." His lips twitch. "You want me to walk you home?"

"Nightwing, it's three blocks. Surely there's actual crime happening somewhere that needs your attention more than my tragic walk of shame back to my apartment."

"Humor me."

So you do, because you're weak and he's looking at you like that, and honestly, your Tuesday (of course it's a fucking Tuesday) is already so absurd that adding a vigilante escort service barely registers.

You walk in silence for half a block before he speaks. "How's the tomato plant?"

"Dying. Finally gave up last week. I'm weirdly proud of it for lasting eight months though. That's longer than most of my relationships."

"You're in a relationship with your tomato plant?"

"Was. It's complicated. We wanted different things. It wanted proper drainage and sunlight. I wanted it to not be a metaphor for my inability to nurture living things."

He's laughing now, that warm sound you've become maybe slightly addicted to over the past few months. Your roof meetings have become the highlight of your week, even though you're both pretending they're casual. Even though you're both pretending that the almost-kiss from that first night didn't fundamentally alter something in the space between you.

"I got a new plant," you admit. "A cactus. The guy at the store said it was indestructible."

"How long has it been?"

"Four days."

"And?"

"It's looking suspicious. I think it's plotting something."

You've reached your building. The one with the formerly broken fire escape, the drum learning neighbor, and the upstairs couple who have apparently decided that their relationship drama is a communal experience.

You should go inside. He should go stop crime. This is where the night should end.

"So," you say instead, because you're bad at good decisions. "Thursday. Roof. Same time?"

"Wouldn't miss it." But he's not leaving. He's standing there, closer than necessary, and the streetlight is flickering (because of course it is), and something in his posture has shifted.

"What?" You ask.

"Nothing. Just..." He reaches up, almost touches your face, then drops his hand. "Be careful. Please."

"Careful? You do remember who you're talking to, right? I'm the fire escape girl. The elevator disaster. The woman who gets mugged on a schedule."

"Exactly." And there's something in his voice now, something that makes your breath catch. "So be careful. Because I..." He stops, shakes his head. "Thursday. Don't be late."

He's gone before you can ask what he was going to say, grappling up into the darkness, and you're left standing there wondering if it's possible to have your heart broken by someone whose real name you don't even know.

(It is. You're pretty sure it is.)

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

Thursday arrives with all the enthusiasm of a dental appointment.

You're on the roof at 10 pm sharp, because apparently you're the kind of person who's punctual for secret meetings with a masked vigilante now. The blanket is spread out. You've brought snacks this time- chips, because you're not fancy, and two cans of the fancy lemonade from the bodega that doesn't get robbed as frequently.

He's late.

By 10:15, you're starting to worry, which is a new and uncomfortable feeling. Usually you're worried about yourself and your own impending disasters. Worrying about someone else requires emotional bandwidth you're not sure you have.

By 10:30, you're pacing.

By 10:45, you're googling "Bludhaven crime news" on your phone, which is probably exactly what you shouldn't be doing but your anxiety brain has never been good at following directions.

At 11:07, he lands on the roof, and you're on your feet immediately.

"You're late," you say, and it comes out more scared than annoyed. "You're never late."

"I know. I'm sorry. There was a thin- " He stops, and even in the darkness you can see something's wrong. He's favoring his left side. There's a tear in his suit near his ribs.

"You're hurt." It's not a question.

"It's nothing. Just- "

"Sit down." You're already moving toward him, hands hovering uselessly because you have no idea what to do with an injured vigilante but you need to do something. "Sit down right now or I swear I'll- I don't know what I'll do, but it'll be annoying."

He sits, probably more from surprise than actual obedience. You kneel beside him, trying to assess the damage through the suit.

"It's really not that bad," he says, but his voice is tight with pain. "I've had worse."

"That's not as comforting as you think it is." Your hands are shaking. When did your hands start shaking? "What do I do? Do you have a first aid kit? Do you need a hospital? Should I call Batman?"

"Please don't call Batman."

"I don't even know how to call Batman. That was an empty threat." You're rambling now, the words spilling out in a rush. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to help you. I barely know how to help myself. I once put a band-aid on upside down- "

"Hey." His hand catches yours, stops the flailing. "Breathe."

You breathe. It doesn't help.

"I have supplies in my belt," he says calmly. "Just need to... patch it up. It's honestly not serious."

"You have a hole in your suit. There's blood. That seems serious."

"I've had worse nights." But he's pulling out a first aid kit that's somehow compact enough to fit in his utility belt, wincing as he moves.

You take it from him before he can argue. "Let me. Please. I need- " Your voice cracks. "I need to help. I need to do something."

He looks at you for a long moment, and then nods.

His suit has some kind of panel near the injury that peels back, revealing a gash along his ribs that makes your stomach turn. It's not as deep as you feared, but it's definitely more than "nothing."

"Knife?" You ask, focusing on the injury instead of the implications, instead of the fact that this man you've been slowly falling for risks his life every single night.

"Broken glass, actually. Went through a window."

"Consensually or...?"

"The window was very against it."

You laugh, because the alternative is crying, and you carefully clean the wound with the supplies from his kit. He doesn't flinch, which is somehow more concerning than if he had.

"You do this a lot," you say quietly. It's not a question.

"More than I'd like."

"And you just... patch yourself up and go back out the next night."

"Usually."

You're applying butterfly bandages now, careful and methodical, trying not to think about how this could have been worse. How it could always be worse.

"Why?" The word comes out smaller than you intended. "Why do you do this?"

He's quiet while you finish bandaging, and you think maybe he won't answer. Then: "Someone has to."

"That's not an answer. That's a deflection."

"You're getting good at reading me."

"You're getting easier to read." You sit back, surveying your work. It's not pretty, but it'll hold. "Or maybe I'm just paying more attention than I should be."

"Is that what you think? That you're paying too much attention?"

You look up at him, and even with the mask, even in the darkness, you can feel the intensity of his gaze.

"I don't know what I think anymore," you admit. "Three months ago, I was just a person who got mugged sometimes and had a dying tomato plant. Now I'm the person who waits on roofs and worries when you're late and apparently knows how to do field dressing for vigilante injuries. I don't know how that happened."

"I do." His hand comes up, cups your face like he did that first night. "You kept showing up."

"You literally scheduled the meetings."

"You could have said no."

"Could I have?" Your voice is barely a whisper now. "Because I don't think I could have. I don't think I can. And that's terrifying."

"Why terrifying?"

"Because you're- " You gesture at him, at the suit, at the fresh bandage on his ribs. "This. All of this. You jump off buildings and fight criminals and apparently go through windows. You're not safe. This isn't safe. And I'm- I'm a person who expects the worst because the worst usually happens, but somehow you've become the exception and I don't know what to do with that."

His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "What if I told you I'm terrified too?"

"You? You're Nightwing. You're not afraid of anything."

"I'm afraid of you not being here next Thursday." The words are quiet, honest, devastating. "I'm afraid of you deciding this is too complicated. Too dangerous. Too- "

You kiss him.

It's not graceful. You basically just lean forward and press your mouth to his, cutting off his words, and for a second he's too surprised to respond. Then his hand slides into your hair and he's kissing you back, and oh, this is-

This is nice.

You break apart after a moment that feels both infinite and far too short. You're breathing hard, and he is too, and you're still close enough to count his heartbeats.

"That was..." he starts.

"Impulsive? Stupid? A terrible idea given the circumstances?"

"I was going to say worth waiting for."

You laugh, and it comes out shaky. "You're bleeding through your bandage and I just kissed you. This is the most Bludhaven romance ever."

"Is that what this is? A romance?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

He leans his forehead against yours, careful of the mask. "I want it to be."

"Even though I'm a disaster?"

"Because you're a disaster. My favorite disaster." He pulls back just enough to look at you. "I need to tell you something. Soon. About... everything. Who I am. But not tonight. Not when I'm- "

"Bleeding and probably concussed?"

"I'm not concussed."

"You went through a window. You're at least mildly concussed."

"Fair point." He's smiling though, even through the pain. " I'll tell you everything. Soon. I promise."

"Everything?"

"Everything you want to know."

You should be scared. This is the part where your pessimistic brain should kick in, should start listing all the ways this will inevitably end badly. But looking at him now, at the way he's looking at you like you're something precious instead of just another disaster in motion...

"Okay," you say. "Okay. I'll see you next Thursday. But if you're late again, I'm implementing a three strike policy."

"What happens after three strikes?"

"I'll have to actually learn your name through investigative journalism. It'll be very embarrassing for both of us."

He laughs, then winces. "You should go. Get some sleep. I'll watch you get inside safely."

"You'll watch me walk down one flight of stairs?"

"Humor me."

So you do, gathering your blanket and your unopened snacks, and when you reach the roof door you look back. He's still sitting there, hand pressed to his ribs, watching you with that impossible attention.

"Be careful," you call back. "Please."

"You first."

"That's statistically unlikely, but I'll try."

You're smiling as you head down the stairs, heart racing, lips still tingling, completely terrified and completely sure all at once.

This is definitely going to end in disaster.

But maybe- just maybe- it'll be the good kind.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

Nightwing hands you an envelope.

You're on your usual rooftop, and he drops down from seemingly nowhere, landing in that cat like crouch that should be illegal in terms of sheer attractiveness. You've been seeing each other- if you can call these rooftop rendezvous "seeing each other"- for almost four months now, and your heart still does that stupid flutter thing every time he appears.

"I have something for you," he says, and there's a nervous energy to him that's new.

"If it's another apology for having to leave mid-kiss last week because of a police scanner, I'm going to start charging you per interruption."

"It's not that." He sits next to you and pulls out a cream colored envelope, expensive looking, with your name written on it in actual calligraphy. "I want you to come to something."

You take the envelope like it might explode. "Is this a ransom note? A summons? A very formal breakup letter?"

"Just open it."

You do, and your brain immediately short-circuits.

You are cordially invited to the Wayne Foundation Annual Charity Gala...

"This is- " You look up at him, then back at the invitation. "This is a joke, right? This is fake. You printed this at like, a FedEx or something."

"It's real."

"Nightwing. This is a Wayne gala. As in Bruce Wayne. As in billionaire Bruce Wayne. As in- " You wave the invitation. "There's no way this is real. These things are invite only for like, celebrities and politicians and people who own multiple yachts."

"I know."

"So this is definitely fake."

He takes off one of his gloves and reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "It's real. I want you there. I want..." He pauses, and you can see him gathering courage. "I want you to meet me. The real me. Not just the mask."

Your heart is doing dangerous things. "You're going to be there? At a Wayne gala?"

"Yeah."

"As yourself. Your real self."

"Yeah."

"And you're either Bruce Wayne's secret son, or you're about to tell me you're Batman, or- " You stop. "Oh my god, are you Batman? Is that why you said you only have six things in your utility belt? Is it a budget thing or a 'I'm actually just a vigilante with a day job' thing?"

He's laughing now, soft and genuine. "I'm not Batman. But yes, I'll be there. And I want you there too. If you want to come."

"This is insane."

"Probably."

"This is going to be a disaster."

"Maybe."

"I don't have anything to wear to a Wayne gala. I can't exactly show up in my 'I Survived Bludhaven' tshirt and jeggings."

"You'll figure something out." He squeezes your hand. "Please? I know it's scary, and I know this is all backwards and weird, but- "

"Okay."

He stops. "Okay?"

"Okay. I'll come." You look at the invitation again, at the embossed Wayne logo, at the date that's only three days away. "I'm going to regret this. This is going to end terribly. But okay."

He kisses you then, deep and relieved and tasting like promises that you're terrified to believe in.

"Saturday night," he says against your lips. "Wayne Manor. Seven pm."

"I'll be the one having a panic attack in the corner."

"I'll find you."

After he leaves, you sit on the roof for another hour, holding the invitation and trying to convince yourself it's real.

It's probably fake, you think.

This is definitely a prank.

There's no way this ends well.

Saturday arrives with all the inevitability of a dental appointment.

You've spent the last three days having a sustained, low level panic attack. You went to every thrift store in Bludhaven and finally found a dress that doesn't look like it was donated after someone's divorce in 1987. It's black, because you're not ambitious enough for color, and it fits reasonably well if you don't breathe too deeply. It cost $27, which is $20 more than you've ever spent on a single item of clothing.

You've paired it with shoes you already owned (black flats with a scuff on the toe that you colored in with Sharpie) and a small purse you borrowed from your coworker who asked exactly zero questions, bless her.

You look in the mirror and see exactly what you are: a person in a discount dress pretending to be someone who belongs at a Wayne gala.

"This is fine," you tell your reflection. "This is totally fine. The invitation is probably fake anyway, and you'll get turned away at the door, and you can go home and eat ice cream and never think about this again."

The invitation sits on your counter, looking aggressively real.

You grab it, grab your purse, and head out before you can talk yourself out of it.

Wayne Manor is exactly as intimidating as you imagined, which is to say: very.

The uber driver drops you off at the end of a long driveway that probably costs more than your entire apartment building. There are actual literal limousines pulling up to the entrance. You can see people in gowns that cost more than your yearly salary stepping out with the kind of casual grace that comes from never having worried about rent.

"This is fine," you mutter, walking up the driveway because there's no way you're asking to be driven up like you belong here. "This is totally fine. The bouncer will definitely kick you out and then you can go home."

But when you reach the entrance, holding out your invitation like a shield, the man in the tuxedo just smiles and says, "Welcome, miss. Enjoy your evening."

And then you're inside.

Wayne Manor is obscene. There's no other word for it. The foyer alone is bigger than your apartment, with marble floors and a chandelier that probably costs more than a small country's GDP. Beautiful people in beautiful clothes are everywhere, holding champagne glasses and laughing with the kind of ease that comes from never having checked their bank account before buying groceries.

You are immediately, viscerally aware of every single flaw in your discount dress.

The woman next to you is wearing something that shimmers like starlight and probably has a designer name you can't pronounce. Her jewelry is real. Her hair is professionally styled. She smells like expensive perfume.

You smell like the lavender body spray you got on sale at Target.

"This was a mistake," you whisper to yourself. "This was absolutely a mistake."

You're about to turn around and leave, invitation be damned, Nightwing be damned, your own curiosity be damned, when a waiter appears with a tray of champagne.

"Would you care for a drink, miss?"

You take one because it's free and you're definitely going to need alcohol to get through whatever fresh humiliation this evening has planned.

The champagne is good. Annoyingly good. Even the alcohol here is fancier than you.

You drift through the crowd like a ghost, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, trying not to draw attention to your discount dress and your Sharpie-ed shoes. You find a corner near an elaborate flower arrangement (are those orchids? those are definitely orchids. you killed one once) and try to blend into the wallpaper.

This is fine. You'll stay for twenty minutes, drink your fancy champagne, and then leave. Nightwing was probably joking anyway. Or maybe he forgot. Or maybe-

"Excuse me," a voice says, and you turn to find a woman in a red dress that probably costs more than your car would if you had a car. "Are you here alone?"

"Um." You clutch your champagne. "Yes?"

"Oh, how lovely! I'm Caroline Whitmore. My husband is on the board of the Wayne Foundation." She gestures vaguely at a man across the room who's wearing a tux that fits him like a second skin. "Is this your first Wayne gala?"

"Is it that obvious?"

She laughs, but it's not unkind. "A little. You have that 'deer in headlights' look. Don't worry, everyone feels that way their first time. The Waynes can be a bit... overwhelming."

"That's one word for it," you mutter into your champagne.

"The trick is to just enjoy the free food and avoid Bruce Wayne's new girlfriend. She's dreadful." Caroline leans in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I think he just dates models because he doesn't know how to have a real conversation."

You're saved from having to respond by a commotion near the entrance. The crowd shifts, and you can feel the energy in the room change, the way everyone's attention suddenly focuses on one point.

"Oh, there they are," Caroline says. "The Wayne family. They always make an entrance."

You shouldn't look. You should stay in your corner with your champagne and your discount dress and your existential dread.

But of course you look.

Bruce Wayne enters first looking exactly like the billionaire playboy philanthropist he's famous for being. Tall, handsome in a way that's almost aggressive, wearing a tux that probably costs more than your entire life.

Behind him is a younger man who looks uncomfortable in his suit, dark haired and scowling. Then another man, broader, with a white streak in his hair and an expression that suggests he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Another younger man who’s looking down at his phone and looks like he hasn’t slept since the day he was born.

And then-

And then-

Your champagne glass slips from your hand.

It hits the marble floor with a crash that echoes through the sudden silence, and everyone- every single person in the room- turns to look at you.

But you're not looking at them.

You're looking at the man who just walked in behind Bruce Wayne. Dark hair that sticks up in a way that's immediately, devastatingly familiar. A smile that you've seen in moonlight and shadows, now displayed under the crystal chandelier. A suit that's perfectly tailored to a body you've traced with your hands on rooftop meetings.

He's looking right at you.

And you know.

You know.

"Oh my god," you whisper. "Dick Grayson."

Because of course Nightwing is Dick Grayson. Of course he's Bruce Wayne's ward, the former circus performer turned billionaire's son, the golden boy of Gotham society.

Of course you've been making out with someone who's probably worth more than the entire city of Bludhaven.

Caroline is saying something about the broken glass, and a waiter is rushing over, but you can't hear any of it because Dick Grayson-Nightwing- is walking toward you.

The crowd parts for him like he's Moses and they're the Red Sea.

He stops in front of you, and up close, without the mask, you can see his eyes. Blue. Bright blue. The same eyes that have looked at you with concern and humor and heat.

"Hi," he says, and his voice is the same, exactly the same. "You made it."

"I- " Your brain is offline. Completely offline. "You're Dick Grayson."

"Yeah."

"The Dick Grayson. The- the son of Bruce Wayne. The- "

"Technically adopted son, but yeah."

"I've been kissing Dick Grayson on my roof."

He grins. "You have been."

"I told you that you were probably rich and you lied."

"I said I never said I was a billionaire," he points out. "Technically true. Bruce is the billionaire. I just have access to his credit cards."

"That's-you-" You look around at the crowd that's definitely, absolutely watching this entire interaction. At the broken champagne glass at your feet. At your discount dress next to his designer tux. "I'm going to pass out."

"Please don't." He takes your hand, the same way he has on the roof, his thumb finding that spot on your wrist that always makes you shiver. "Come on. Let's get you some air."

"I broke a glass. There's-I should clean that up. I should- "

"The staff will handle it." He's already guiding you through the crowd, past the staring faces and the whispered comments. Past Bruce Wayne, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Past the scowling boy and the man with the white streak and the teen that’s no longer looking at his phone but looking at you in curiosity.

He leads you out to a balcony that overlooks the grounds, and the cool night air hits your face like a slap.

"Okay," he says, turning to face you. "You can yell now."

"I can't yell. I'm at a Wayne gala. There are probably rules about yelling."

"There are definitely rules about yelling, but I'm giving you permission to break them."

You stare at him. At Dick Grayson. At Nightwing. At the man you've been falling for without knowing he's literally famous, literally rich, literally everything you're not.

"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress," you say finally.

He blinks. "Okay?"

"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress from a thrift store, and my shoes have Sharpie on them, and I colored in the scuff mark this morning because I don't own fancy shoes. Everyone in there is wearing clothes that cost more than my rent, and I'm- I'm- "

"Beautiful," he says simply. "You're beautiful."

"I'm a disaster."

"You're my favorite disaster."

And despite everything- despite the humiliation and the broken glass and the fact that you're definitely the poorest person at this gala- you laugh.

"This is insane," you say. "This is actually insane. I've been dating- are we dating? I don't even know if we're dating- I've been something with Dick Grayson and I didn't even know it."

"We're dating," he confirms. "Definitely dating. I'm not in the habit of having regularly scheduled rooftop makeout sessions with people I'm not dating."

"Your life is so weird."

"Says the woman who critiques muggers while they're actively mugging her."

You're about to respond, about to say something about how at least your weird is normal weird, not billionaire vigilante weird, when there's a commotion from inside.

Not the normal gala commotion. Something else.

Something wrong.

Dick's entire posture changes, his body going taut in a way you recognize from when he's in the suit.

"Stay here," he says.

"Yeah, that's not ominous at all."

But he's already moving back toward the ballroom, and you follow because of course you do, because the universe has never let you make smart decisions.

The scene inside is chaos.

The lights are flickering. People are screaming. And standing in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by henchmen in matching green suits, is a man with a purple suit, a cane, and a smile that makes your skin crawl.

The Riddler.

Because of course. Of course this gala is being crashed by a Batman rogue. Of course this is happening.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The Riddler's voice carries across the ballroom with theatrical flair. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything important. Though I suppose that depends on your definition of 'important,' doesn't it? After all, what's more important: champagne and canapés, or the answer to a riddle that could save your lives?"

You're frozen in the doorway. Dick is next to you, and you can see him calculating, planning, probably figuring out how to get to wherever he keeps his Nightwing suit stashed.

"Here's the riddle," the Riddler continues, twirling his cane. "What has hands but cannot clap, a face but cannot smile, and tells you when it's time to die?"

The crowd is silent, terrified.

And you-

You can't help yourself.

"A clock," you say.

It's not loud. It's barely more than a mutter.

But in the terrified silence, it carries.

The Riddler's head snaps toward you. "What was that?"

"I said it's a clock." Your voice is stronger now, because apparently when faced with mortal peril, your anxiety manifests as mouthy confidence. "The answer is a clock. It has hands, it has a face, and depending on your philosophical relationship with mortality, it tells you when you're going to die. Although technically, that's more metaphorical than- "

The Riddler stops in front of you, studying you with unsettling intensity. "You're not afraid."

"Oh, I'm terrified. I'm just also really annoyed because I was about to have a whole crisis about dating someone out of my league, and now you're here with your- " You gesture vaguely at his outfit. "Your whole situation, and I have to deal with that instead."

There's a beat of absolute silence.

Then Dick makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob.

"You're dating someone?" The Riddler looks delighted. "How wonderful! And who might this lucky person be?"

"That's really none of your business, but thanks for the interest in my personal life. Very invested for a supervillain." You pause, and your brain- your traitorous, anxiety ridden brain- decides this is the perfect time to keep talking. "Actually, you know what? Can I ask you something?"

Dick's hand tightens on your arm. "Please don't- "

"Why are you even doing this?" You gesture at the terrified crowd, the henchmen, the whole hostage situation. "The crime thing. You're clearly intelligent. Like, really intelligent. Your riddles are actually good, which is more than I can say for most people's riddles. Why aren't you running an escape room empire or something?"

The Riddler stops. Blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Escape rooms!" You're on a roll now, your anxiety manifesting as what can only be described as aggressive career counseling. "Think about it! You could corner the entire market! You're already creating elaborate puzzles and death traps; just make them non lethal and charge people seventy five dollars a head to try to solve them. People LOVE that stuff. You'd be rich in like, six months. Plus, you'd get to feel superior to everyone who can't solve your puzzles, which seems like a big thing for you- no offense- and it would be completely legal!"

The entire ballroom is silent. Even the henchmen look confused.

The Riddler is staring at you like you've just spoken in an alien language.

"You- " He stops. Starts again. "You think I should open an escape room?"

"Not an escape room. Multiple escape rooms. A franchise. 'Nygma's Enigmas' or something. Trademark it. Get investors. Go on Shark Tank. You could be a millionaire legitimately, and you'd get to watch people fail at your puzzles all day, every day, and they'd literally be PAYING you for the privilege. It's the perfect business model for someone with your specific skillset and psychological needs!"

"I- " The Riddler looks genuinely taken aback. "I have never- "

"And think about the branding opportunities! Merchandise! Puzzle books! A YouTube channel where you explain how people failed! You could be internet famous! Do you know how much money internet famous people make? A LOT. More than you're probably getting from- " You gesture at the current hostage situation. "Whatever this is supposed to accomplish."

"She has a point," one of the henchmen mutters.

The Riddler spins to glare at him. "Whose side are you on?"

"I'm just saying, boss, the last three jobs haven't really paid that well- "

"SILENCE!"

"Plus, the Bat keeps catching us," another henchman adds. "An escape room business would have way better job security- "

"Are my henchmen seriously discussing CAREER CHANGES in the middle of a HEIST?"

"It's not a bad idea," a third henchman says thoughtfully. "My cousin runs an escape room in Metropolis. He cleared six figures last year."

"Yeah, and he doesn't get punched by Batman," the first henchman points out.

"EXACTLY," you say, pointing at them. "See? Your employees understand basic risk benefit analysis! You could offer them actual benefits! Health insurance! A 401k! Paid time off!"

Dick has given up trying to stop you. You can feel him shaking next to you, and you're pretty sure it's silent laughter.

Bruce Wayne is pinching the bridge of his nose in the background.

The Riddler looks like he's having an existential crisis. "But- but the CHALLENGE! The battle of wits with Batman! The thrill of outwitting the law!"

"You can still have that! Just make one of your escape rooms Batman themed! Make it really hard! Charge extra! He might even show up to try it, and then you get to watch him struggle with your puzzles in a legal, controlled environment! It's a win-win!"

"Batman themed," the Riddler repeats slowly.

"With like, gargoyles and batarangs and stuff. Make it super dramatic. People will eat that up. Gotham loves Batman. Merchandising nightmare, but that's what lawyers are for."

There's a long, long pause.

"That's..." The Riddler trails off. "That's actually not a terrible idea."

"RIGHT?!"

"I could create the most challenging escape rooms in the world. People would come from everywhere to test themselves against my intellect- "

"And PAY you for it!"

"And I could rate them. Publicly. On their failures- "

"Make a leaderboard! With shame tiers!"

"A SHAME LEADERBOARD." The Riddler looks genuinely excited now. "That's brilliant! That's- " He stops. Looks around at the terrified gala attendees. At his henchmen, who are all nodding enthusiastically. At you, in your twenty seven dollar dress, having just accidentally talked a supervillain into considering legitimate employment.

"This is..." He shakes his head. "This is the strangest hostage situation I've ever been in."

"Is it still a hostage situation if we're having a productive career counseling session?" You ask.

"I don't know! I've never had this happen before!"

"Well, there's a first time for everything. So, are you going to let everyone go, or..."

That's when the lights go out.

There's the familiar sounds of a Batfamily in action the thwip of grappling hooks, the thunk of escrima sticks, the crack of martial arts, and what sounds like a tiny angry Robin yelling something about "incompetent fools."

When the lights come back on, the Riddler and his henchmen are zip tied on the floor. Batman is glowering. Nightwing is clearly trying not to laugh behind his mask. Robin looks deeply offended by the entire situation.

"Did she just- " Robin starts.

"Give the Riddler career advice? Yes," Batman says flatly.

"Is that... allowed?"

"I don't think there's a protocol for this, Robin."

The Riddler, zip tied and defeated, looks up at you from the floor. "You know, in another life, I think we could have been friends."

"In another life, you could be a legitimate businessman," you counter. "It's not too late! Think about the escape rooms! Think about the shame leaderboard! If Martha Stewart can make bank after prison, so can you!”

"I AM thinking about it!" He actually sounds enthusiastic. "The possibilities are- "

"Okay, that's enough," Batman interrupts, gesturing for the GCPD. "Take him in."

As they're hauling the Riddler away, he calls back: "If I do this- if I actually do this- I'm naming you as a consultant!"

"I don't want credit for this!" You yell back.

"Too late! You're getting a percentage!"

"A percentage of WHAT?!"

"MY ESCAPE ROOM EMPIRE!"

And then he's gone, still yelling about business plans and shame leaderboards, and you're left standing in a ballroom full of Gotham's elite, having just accidentally become a business partner with a supervillain.

Dick appears at your elbow, back in his regular tux, no mask. He's grinning so wide it looks painful.

"Did you just- "

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You just convinced the Riddler to consider a legitimate career- "

"I was dissociating. My mouth just does things when I'm nervous!"

"That was the most amazing thing I've ever witnessed."

Bruce Wayne materializes on your other side. He looks at you for a long moment.

"If he actually does open an escape room franchise," Bruce says seriously, "and it keeps him out of crime, I'm writing you a recommendation letter for whatever you want."

"I don't- I can't- " You look between them. "This is insane. This whole night is insane. I came here in a thrift store dress and now I'm a business consultant for a supervillain?!"

"Twenty seven dollar dress," Dick corrects, still grinning.

"NOT THE POINT."

Caroline Whitmore appears with champagne. "Same time next year?" She asks cheerfully.

You take the champagne and down it in one go.

"Sure," you say faintly. "Why not. What else could possibly happen?"

The universe, as always, is listening.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You wake up disoriented, head full of static, and for a moment you’re convinced the entire Wayne gala was a stress induced fever dream. The ceiling above you is definitely not the water stained plaster of your apartment: this one is smooth, painted a gentle gray, and if you squint you can see tiny glow in the dark stars scattered in one corner.

There’s a slow, delicious ache in your thighs that’s definitely not from stress.

You shift, and the sheet slithers over bare skin, warm and expensive, and the motion pulls your attention to the weight at your waist; an arm, long and golden and dusted with soft brown hair, wraps you close.

Oh.

You twist, carefully and there he is: Dick Grayson, hair rumpled, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, mouth parted with the kind of sleep heavy softness that makes you want to press your face to his shoulder and never move again.

Last night comes back in flashes: his mouth on yours as the adrenaline bled out in the back seat of the car, his hands clumsy and urgent as he unlocked the door to his apartment, laughter tangled with kisses, a trail of your thrifted dress and his designer tux winding through the hall.

You’d made love with the kind of desperate relief that comes from barely surviving- again- a night that should have been a disaster but somehow wasn’t.

Dick shifts, blinking blearily, and his gaze finds you, blue and bright and so gentle you could cry.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice gravel soft with sleep. “You’re still here.”

“Wasn’t sure I would be.” You mean to say it with a laugh, but it comes out quiet, almost vulnerable.

His thumb brushes over your bare hip, slow and affectionate. “You always have a choice. You know that, right?”

You nod, trying not to melt into him. “You snore, by the way.”

He grins, no shame at all. “And you talk in your sleep. You told me the exact tax rate on laundromat quarters.”

You flush, and Dick leans in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your throat, the corner of your jaw. “It’s adorable.”

You let yourself settle against him, the two of you tucked into the soft tangle of his sheets, sun leaking in around the blackout curtains.

Dick rolls you gently onto your back, hovering over you, hair falling into his eyes. “You know what I want?” he says, voice gone low and teasing, eyes warm as sunrise.

“What’s that?”

He ducks down, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s slow, sweet, the kind you never thought you’d get from someone like him. “I want to make you breakfast. And then I want to see if you’ll let me keep you here all weekend.”

Your heart does a ridiculous, traitorous thing in your chest. “You’d get sick of me by noon.”

He nips at your jaw, grinning. “Not possible. I’m insatiable.” He punctuates it with another kiss, this one lingering, his hand sliding over your waist, palm broad and steady.

You can feel him, hard and wanting against your thigh. The temptation to tease is irresistible. “Didn’t you say you needed to rest after last night, Mr. Grayson?”

He groans, but his mouth is already sliding down your neck, teeth scraping lightly. “I lied. Or maybe you just recharge me.”

Your hands slide into his hair as he kisses down your body, worshipful, reverent. His lips find your breast, tongue circling, and his hand drifts lower, cupping your thigh, thumb stroking lazily at your skin. The ache between your legs turns electric, all soft warmth and want.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin, breath hot.

“Don’t you dare.”

He laughs quiet, and so, so happy and then his mouth is on you, slow and patient, mapping every inch. When he finally presses inside, the stretch is familiar and perfect, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him close, moving together in the drowsy gold of morning.

He presses his forehead to yours, both of you grinning like idiots.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

He kisses you, slow and sure, as if sealing a promise: “Good. Because you’re my favorite disaster.”

The sun climbs higher, and you think, for once, that maybe- just maybe- everything is exactly as it should be.

It's been about 5 minutes after Yorozu's confrontation, and the nervousness you'd been feeling all day had risen into a full blown panic. You don't know what Sukuna could have said to her that would make her want to visit you. He couldn't have rejected her. Every person wants yorozu. men and women alike. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought about her that way before as well. She's beauty incarnate, and she always reminds you of that. She says that you're lucky to be her friend, that people only talk to you because of her. You believe it. 

A knock on the door takes you out of your thoughts. You take a deep breath and open the door slightly. She pushes the door open and throws her finger in your face.

“ITS YOUR FAULT! BEFORE HE MET YOU HE LIKED ME! HE WANTED ME! AND FOR SOMEEEE REASON NOW HE DOESN'T CARE ABOUT ME! WHAT DID YOU TELL HIM?”

“Zuzu, I'm sorry! I don't know what he did or why but it's not my fault!” you pleaded.

“WHAT COULD HE POSSIBLY SEE IN YOU? YOUR NOTHING!”

“i -i dont know what you're talking about!? Why would he like me??? He's probably just playing hard to get! Or-or.. Maybe he's gay!”

“NO HE WANTED ME UNTIL YOU GOT IN THE WAY!”

With every accusation you could feel your anger rising. This is your so-called best friend, why is she taking this out on you? According to her, you weren't pretty enough for people to like you. So why is she insistent that you're the reason sukuna doesn't want her?

You don't mean to let it, but the anger you'd been holding for years finally bursts out.

“I'M SORRY THE FIRST MAN IN YOUR LIFE DOESN'T WANT YOU BUT THERE'S NO NEED TO TAKE IT OUT ON ME !”

“..what did you just say?” she whispers, disbelief in her tone

“You heard me”.

SLAP!

Your head snaps to the side and your face burns from the impact. You both sit there in silence for a few seconds that feel like hours. You're waiting for.. Maybe an apology? Anything but the surprised look in her eyes and agape mouth.

You get neither. Her eyebrows knit together in anger before she pounces at you.

taglist!

maybe it's a sign.

it's nearing 3:00 am in the morning, and you still haven't had a lick of sleep. suddenly everything was too loud, being only able to focus on anything else but actually closing your eyes. there's the occasional sounds of cars driving by, the ticking of your clock--and the bzz of your phone.

you should probably check it, but you know who's calling. you know why you've been hearing it four times in a row. he's just drunk, you tell yourself. but maybe it's a sign, the universe's sign you should pick it up.

but you love him, too much actually. it takes you a minute to turn over and pick up the phone, and another 30 seconds to hesitate pressing the button to answer.

"dean?"

he knows he's been an asshole to you, lashing out and starting arguments with you wasn't something he was planning on doing at all this week. but his dad's off on another hunt, sam ran off to college, and he screwed up a solo hunt just earlier this week because he was distracted. distracted by the thought of you.

you're irritating. you make his heart beat fast, his palms sweaty and worry him whenever you're out of reach. like he's been shot by cupid over and over when he's near you, and even when you're not there. like a sap. you make him feel better just by being there, he hates you. and he hates how that isn't true. he loves you. but that's sammy's thing.

he's not cut out for this, he's an awful guy--always away on hunts, getting drunk and having one night stands are his thing. he knows it, he's owned up to it. falling in love with you? not his thing! he's never been the type for relationships, and he wasn't going to change that for you- is what he told you a few days ago. and since then, you've stopped talking to him. which is okay. he needed to go out and get drunk again anyway.

he's dean winchester, he'd rather jump into a busy street than admit that he's sorry. sorry and in love with you. it's why he's here at a bar, the taste of overpriced drinks in the air and the sound of relaxed lounge music in the background suddenly everywhere around him. he's drunk, he knows--he knows he might forget this in the morning, he knows you probably won't pick up your phone, and you probably won't understand his texts. he knows a lot of things. and one thing is for sure; he's desperate to talk to you. with the help of a drink or two (or ten), he pulls his phone out. his thumb pressed over your contact.

strictly no chick flick moments.. but it won't count if he's drunk, right?

itd me babym.. d. i screewed up imsorry 2:30 am

he orders another drink, downs it in one go. he has the bartender looking at him weird. like he's some helpless, pathetic drunk who recently got into an argument with his girlfriend. it takes him a while to press the right emoji, wanting the one that might get him some more pity points.

im ddo sorry ☹️ 2:37 am

1 missed call and another drink later, another text. now the bartender is refusing to give him a drink, but you're still not picking up. but he's not giving up.

ilove younbabybpick hp pls 2:40 am

"sweetheart.. are you there?" you almost roll your eyes and end the call right then and there. highlight almost, you care too much. you can tell he's drunk based on the way he slurs his words, the long pauses between his words and.. his texts. "yes, dean i'm here. are you only calling me because you're drunk?" "mhm.. obviously.. i jus' wanted to say that 'm sorry sweetheart. i know 'm an asshole.. shouldn't have-have told you that, baby." his words tug at your heartstrings, but you're trying to think with your head, not your heart. you know that better than anyone else. "dean, are you alone?" "all the time." "fuck- dean, where are you right now?" "downtown at that bar we first met.. don't come though, sweetheart. i'll be fine, jus' wanted to tell you 'm sorry." " we can talk about it in the morning." "i'm.. fine."

you hang up before you hear anything else, dragging yourself out of bed and shrugging your jacket on. you look like you just rolled out of bed, and you did, but it's three in the morning and you couldn't give a shit if anyone saw--if anyone was awake at all. atleast, not anybody you know (with the sole exception of dean.)

downtown isn't far from your place, it's a good walking distance actually. so it's not a surprise when you get there fast, stepping inside to a bar with a no smoking sign--it's just there for a guide, the place reeks. you spot him immediately, just from the back of his head--where he's frustrated about the bartender worrying about him. " 's none of your business, holmes." rolling your eyes, you lightly tap him on the shoulder.

"dean let's go back to my place, i can take care of you there better."

"don't fuckin' touch me.." you flinch at his harsh tone, you knew he told you not to come--but he didn't have to be rude about it. you two were of opposite worlds, and this moment only reminds you of that. you know it in the way you're only dressed in your pajamas, you've only just rolled out of your bed--he's been awake, dressed up and having already downed around 13 drinks.

"dean let's just.. go home. i know you didn't want me to come, but please don't start a scene. it's 3 in the morning." you try again, pulling at his shoulder gently. you're trying your best not to attract any attention, the bartender had already been staring at you two with an understanding look. he's seen this play out thousands of times with different people over and over.

"nah.. back off, angelina jolie.. i got a girl already." another woman? is he serious? "quit it, dean." you're trying not to raise your voice, maybe the reason he's been so distant is because you're the problem. he's in another relationship, you're a homewrecker and he's a cheater and- he mumbles your name, his thumb hovers over the call button on his phone again. "w-what?" you chuckle nervously, you're unsure of how to act--you don't know how to. but he's already yelling out your name--your heart almost skips a beat. he's yelling something a long the lines of; "damn it.. i already have my girl.. hic! pissed, can't be talking to some random chick."

is he seriously this drunk?

"your girlfriend's name is..?" you can't help the small smile on your face, the heavy feeling in your heart slowly lifting. going through three emotions in the span of 10 minutes wasn't that bad. he says your name confidently, a crooked grin creeping onto his face. "i told you, back off.. i don't need no side chick, she's.. she's my girl an' i don't need.. anybody else.." "dean-" "nd it doesn't.. hic! help that you sound like her.." "look at me, please." you smile, wiping off the tears that threatened to roll down your cheeks earlier.

"see! mmf, they always go for the taken ones!" stubborn even in an intoxicated state, he refuses to look at another woman because he has you. if only he would actually sneak a glance this time, because that other woman he's refusing to look at; is you right now. it makes you wonder just how many unsuccessful women have been coming up to him to flirt tonight. you can't help the giggle that escapes you, the giddiness you feel has you smiling like an idiot. you murmur your full name into his ear. "dean... i'll spell out my middle name for you if you need it."

"shapeshittteeerrr.." "dean-" "shifter." "call your real girlfriend then." he squints at you for a moment, grumbling as he finally presses the call button on your contact--your phone rings not long after, and you give him a deadpanned look before you pull your phone out for him to see. "hhg.. oops."

dragging a guy that's a little over 6'1 and 183 pounds back to your place is hell, especially because its 3:25 am and you're in no mood to put up with anyone else's bullshit. you let him crash at your couch, because you were not about to haul him upstairs just so he could sleep next to you. you smile at his form snuggled into your extra pillows, pulling your phone out to take a picture.

you drift off not long after, in the chair next to him and with a smile on your face. you can't wait to tease him about this tomorrow, and to seriously talk about your.. relationship now. communication is key after all.

author's note : sorry if dean might b a little ooc, hopefully u guys understood the ref i couldn't think of anything that dean woulf say LMFAO😳🙏 might make a part two, do u guys want that? #lmk👀👀👀👀👀👀

Tony claimed that he wanted it to be festive and fun, enlisting everyone to help put up the fake snowflakes and sleighs and reindeer figurines, uttering nothing more than, "We spend so much time staring down the barrel of a gun; sue me if I want a little more Christmas cheer when I'm home!"

There were… varying levels of enthusiasm. It ranged from cheerful (Wanda), to curmudgeonly (Clint). Natasha went along with it, not wanting to waste energy fighting Tony's wild, seemingly uncrushable holiday spirit, and Sam followed her lead, just smiling and shaking his head every time Clint finished with a box, satisfied, and Tony would breeze by with another one, tinsel spilling from the top. Steve didn't really understand the point of spending so much time on decorating every aspect of the Tower, right down to the utility rooms, but he didn't argue. He'd let Tony have it if it meant that he was easier to deal with.

Bucky, however, was in two minds. Tony's raucous glee made him think of before all that he'd had to endure. Before the war. Before everything. It made him think of Christmases spent with his sister and mother, the house warm and smelling of nutmeg, the old newspapers used to wrap presents. It made him think of shop windows with fluffy cotton snow, gathered in the corners. It made him think of ice skating and the bite of frost in the air. He didn't know if the traditions had changed all that much, since then. He'd had no time for holiday cheer when he'd been on the run, and there hadn't much to celebrate, at the time. He was mildly interested, nonetheless, though he'd never say so. He wondered if he would feel less alone, being here with the team. Or maybe he'd be overstimulated, still unused to the rowdiness that was the Avengers team at a party, let alone gathered around a tree or pulling at crackers or passing around eggnog.

You'd been stringing up tinsel snowflakes over doorways, humming under your breath. It was the same song over and over, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. When Bucky got close enough, he could just hear the words escaping your mouth, somewhat mumbled, but he could still understand most of what you were saying. He recognized the lines of the poem. He didn't know that it had become an actual song, four years after he'd fallen off the train. He couldn't have known, frozen and thawed over and over, trained until the control finally took. But that simple little poem had dozens of iterations, blared over speakers and sold on holiday CDs, so that even if you weren't trying, you'd know the words. And he knew them too, knew what the next line in your private concert would be.

Bucky liked you, in both a general sense, and a personal one. You were never too much, never invasive. You were a comforting presence, one he'd gotten used to much more quickly than he'd expected. You'd never assumed that you knew where you stood with him, never overstepped any boundaries, never had the hair raising on the back of his neck. You were charming, sweet and quietly funny, quick to soothe and slow to anger.

He also liked you right now, with how you weren't making a big show of being excited for the holidays. You'd been quietly getting into the spirit—Christmas themed socks, for one. They peeked out from under your jeans, happy little snowmen and penguins disappearing under the cuffs. The hot chocolate you'd been making with extra cream and marshmallows, the ingredients scattered across the counter top, which he'd been offered a handful of times. Your sweaters looked cozy, like you could just snuggle up into them and disappear.

Right now, you were standing on a ladder tacking the tinsel up, and Bucky came to stand next to you, passing you the tacks as needed, not needing to say anything. Your fingers brushed across his palm every time you reached for one. You were oblivious to the fact that he was looking at you like you were an angel on top of the tree.

He held his hand out so that you had a steady grip on something as you descended the ladder. He didn't let go of your hand right away, eyes caught on the stray string of silver and blue tinsel that had snagged on a strand of your hair. He let go with a jolt when Tony muttered in his direction, "Hey, you two! You aren't done yet!"

You tilted your head curiously, and it took Bucky an extra handful of seconds to stop staring at your face and make eye contact with Stark instead. Tony tossed something small and green at you—mistletoe. "These are going in every doorway," he said triumphantly.

Bucky knew all about this tradition. He eyed the fake plant with a curious gaze. For once, disdain had darkened your expression. You cast a glance at Tony, asking, "Really? You want us to go through a humiliation ritual every time we walk through the door with someone?"

Tony snapped his fingers at you. "That's what Christmas is all about, kiddo. Remember: FRIDAY's always watching." He said it with a smirk, before looking over his shoulder and exclaiming, "No, no, no!" at Clint's lopsided lights display.

You rubbed your finger along the fake holly berries, the styrofoam painted a glossy red, and then looked at Bucky with a shrug. "I'll see about stealthily getting these taken down in a few days, I guess. This won't last very long, I'm sure." And then you were back up the ladder, fastening it in place on the doorframe.

It happened a bit at a time.

Everyone had been very strategic about going single file through the doorways, especially in the living quarters. There was mistletoe all through the Tower, but less so in high traffic areas, lest rookie agents be caught necking for all to see. You were unsuccessful in your attempt to take it down, because Tony had arranged for FRIDAY to sound an alarm every time someone tried tampering with it. You were pretty sure that he'd put more care into that security system than any other one he'd ever installed.

The first time had been an accident, four days after the mistletoe had been put into place. Wanda and Sam, caught going opposite ways, one tied up on the phone, the other looking through a file folder. The lounge was half full at the time, a few of you coming and going as the day had worn on, and everyone looked up in surprise when they heard Tony's voice, an automated message playing through FRIDAY's system speakers. "Pucker up, people! It's the season of kissing!" There was a shared grimace from Wanda and Sam, and she kissed him on the cheek before they both shuddered and moved past each other.

It seemed that Clint was finally warming up to the Christmas cheer, slapping his knee as he laughed.

And so, the mistletoe madness began.

Everyone was rather halfhearted with it, much to Tony's chagrin. It was all cheek kisses, gentle pecks, or in the case of you and Wanda one evening, kissing your own hands and high-fiving. Tony wasn't pleased, but he'd never instated a rule on exactly how to kiss.

It was completely by mistake that Bucky ended up under there with you. You were standing under it already, calling to Nat, who was sitting on the couch. You were asking a question, though Bucky hadn't really been listening to what it was. He was right by the door, near the wall, and he stepped back and away to make room for Steve walking past. And then, the words blared through the speaker. "Pucker up, people! It's the season of kissing!"

He froze in surprise. One one of his feet was just barely in the doorway, but it was enough to trigger the camera. The entire room turned to stare, because of all of them, Bucky had never been caught in the crossfire. You raised an eyebrow in surprise. Of everyone to get caught with, he was glad it was you. You were gentle at the worst of times, soft as a feather at the best. You had a degree in psychology, did your entire graduate thesis on PTSD in soldiers. You'd always been patient with him, never demanding. You never made him feel breakable, either. "We don't have to… I can explain to Tony later." You offered.

"It's fine." He said it more tersely than he meant to, but you'd never been one to question him.

"Okay." Your voice was soft, so that only he could hear.

Then you were on your toes, reaching a hand up to cup his face, and pressing a kiss by the corner of his mouth. You were shorter than him—you'd probably aimed to go higher, the center of his cheek, and miscalculated. Sam murmured a saucy, "Oooooh," while Natasha whistled. They made a big production out of it, delighted that the moodiest Avenger had finally gotten stuck under the mistletoe. Bucky flushed, caught between retreating and being under your spell. You only offered him a sweet smile before moving out from the doorway, as if nothing was amiss.

All Bucky could wonder is what would have happened if there had been nobody to witness you both. Would he have been able to tell you to kiss him for real? Put his hands on your waist, listen to the way you might sigh? Might melt against him?

He resolved to find out.

It was easier said than done, to find himself under the mistletoe with you again.

He was trying to time it so that the surrounding areas would be devoid of people, but he hadn't been so lucky. The only person he was particularly comfortable having as a witness was Wanda, because she, like you, wouldn't use it as ammo with which to tease. But if Sam, Nat, or Clint were in close proximity? Fat chance. And he couldn't bear to look Steve in the eye, because if Bucky was a diary under lock and key with everyone else, he was a book on display in a library, pages open and plain to see under a glass case, to Steve. He'd already dodged many conversations in which Steve had tried to bring up the topic of you, feeling like an embarrassed teenager having 'the talk'.

He got a single shot when Clint was on the phone with his wife, his back to the room, facing the city's skyline. You were holding a stack of books—you were something of a bookworm, and he knew that you kept a regular book club with some of the rookie agents—on your way to return them to your room. It was easy to slide into the doorframe with you, for the telltale of Tony's voice to blare through the speakers. Clint moved to turn and see, but got held up his children wanting to have a turn to speak to him. He was absorbed in farm life once more, and Bucky was absorbed in you. Was it subconscious that he licked his lips, or was it anticipation? "Oh! I guess I wasn't paying attention. Sorry!" you let out a flustered laugh.

"It's okay. It's bound to happen." Bucky said lamely.

No, it wasn't.

He was an assassin and soldier. You were an agent. Usually, you were both much more eagle-eyed. "No one's here, so we could probably make a break for it." You were giving him another out, compassion in your eyes.

You'd seen the way he'd ducked his head in self-consciousness the last time. "Tony'll give you the third degree, won't he?" Bucky tried for lighthearted, and went for a smile. "It's not a big deal. We can be quick."

There it was: your eyes flicked from his own to his mouth. He had been trying not to do the same. "Quick. Okay." But he didn't let you make the first move—he leaned down to you, this time.

He pressed his lips to yours in a kiss so chaste, you could almost make yourself believe that it hadn't happened. Your cheeks went rosy as he pulled away. He suddenly regretted it. Clint be damned, he wanted a real kiss with you. He'd barely even touched you, for God's sake. But he'd wanted to give you an out, he supposed. And besides, he didn't want to come on too strong, or else you'd know—

"What did I miss?" Clint's voice cut in, and he'd turned to stare at you both, his phone now tucked away into his pocket. "Did it happen already?"

You laughed and pushed your hair behind your ear. "I'm not telling you, Barton. That's up to your imagination, now." And then you were gone, and Bucky licked his lips again, the faintest trace of sugar cookie on his tongue.

Why was it so hard to corner you and get you under the mistletoe? And more importantly, why the hell was everyone always in the god damned lounge? Didn't they have their own rooms to go and hang out in?

It was getting to him, a little. Sure, he could have asked you out for coffee or something, get the ball rolling. But this was the easiest way for him, at least right now, to glean your interest. He thought that you might like him romantically too, but he'd sooner die than ask you outright. It had been a very long time since he'd done this whole courting thing.

It happened by chance.

It was late. The lights from the city glittered, the lounge and kitchen dark save for the little bulb above the stove, yellow and dim. Everything was in soft shadow. It was supposed to snow tomorrow. Christmas was a week away, and with it, Stark's holiday party.

Bucky usually hit the gym in the mornings, but he had opted for a late session this evening, after a busy day. It was pretty late, close to midnight, when he came up to the living quarters, damp with sweat. He showered quickly before dressing. He wasn't tired yet, but he was hungry. A trip to the kitchen, something like a sandwich in mind, sounded like a good idea.

He was surprised to see you at the stove, ladling hot chocolate into a mug. He hung back so that you didn't see him. Your pajama pants had gingerbread men on them. You were humming to Rudolph again. You were alone save for your phone blinking up at you from the counter. He watched you turn towards the doorway after taking a test sip. If he timed it right, he could catch you. The camera wouldn't be able to pick up anything very well. It wasn't dark enough to trigger the night vision, but it also wasn't bright enough to capture anything with great quality, either.

He stepped through the doorway right as you did, your hot chocolate threatening to slosh over the rim. "Oh, you scared me! I didn't think you were around. It's late for you." you said, holding your phone to your chest.

Tony's voice and the phrase you'd all begun to mock rang out at the same time. You shook your head. "Not again. It's always you and me, huh?"

"Yeah," he said, his mind blank save for you.

"Okay, let me just—" You leaned to the side, awkwardly placing your cup and phone on the closest surface. "Tony better be paying us for all the entertainment we're giving him. Nice Christmas bonus." You meant to say it like a grumble, but Bucky had never heard you grumpy a day in your life, and you weren't about to start sounding that way now.

"I don't know. Maybe I should be the one paying him." He said softly, little more than a whisper.

You weren't given a chance to respond because one of his hands slid tentatively around your waist, the other on your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin. Those movements alone seemed to have stolen your voice.

He kissed you gently. A press of his mouth on yours. He could smell the hot chocolate on you. You went still for a second, which made him panic for a breath, two, three. But then you did sigh. You did melt against him, like a marshmallow in your drink. He was able to pull you closer as your hands found his shoulders and slid up, until your arms were wound around his neck.

Now he was really kissing you. Your lips parted and he licked into your mouth. Chocolate. You were sweeter than sin. Your tongue was hot and he couldn't tell if it was from the drink or if it was just you. His hand moved down, from your cheek to your throat, and he could feel your pulse there, quick as a rabbit's, though the kiss was languid, like you were both floating down a lazy chocolate river.

He couldn't get enough. He considered the fact that he might be intoxicated by you, but he hadn't realized quite how true that was before now. Your fingernails brushed at the hair at the nape of his neck. His hand went from throat to waist, and now he was encircling you in both arms, and you were flush against him. His lips left yours to pepper kisses down the line of your jaw. He stopped at your throat, listening to your ragged breath. He pulled back a little, his nose brushing yours in the process. Kissed you once more, timid, gentle again, before retreating so that he could look into your eyes, gauge your reaction. They glowed like twin lights, even in the dimness. He could count your eyelashes, if he had the time. Your body was so warm in his arms—he could feel the heat of you through his t-shirt.

"That was… wow." Was all you could say.

If Bucky held your face right now, he was sure he would be able to feel the flush on your cheeks, blooming red. He didn't have a reply. He was too caught up in admiring you. It felt like his heart was a bird, and the cage of his chest was open for it to fly out of, right into your waiting hands. "When's the last time you kissed someone, the 1940s?" You meant it as a light tease, not meant to hurt or poke fun.

Because really, that assumption was hard for you to believe. There was no way it had been almost 80 years—no one could kiss like that if they had been out of practice for eight decades. But then you saw the look on his face, like a shy puppy. Like you'd caught him pawing at a jar of treats. "Oh my God, it was." You said in awe.

You had just… assumed that he'd been with other women since joining the Avengers. Everyone had their dalliances, they were just private about it. But no, he hadn't. Of course he hadn't, you realized. Though maybe it would have been cathartic for him to seek someone out that didn't know him or his backstory, to lose himself with a stranger, that would have ben too much, for him. He needed to be able to trust the people he was with. Especially with himself, his body. And he was trusting you. "I just—was it bad?" he fumbled over the words, and you'd never heard the Winter Soldier sound flustered before.

"No, no! Not at all." One of your hands came down to smooth over his chest. "It felt like you gave it your all. I think I can understand why you used to have women swooning over you."

His smile was bashful, like he didn't want to react but couldn't help it. "Well, I think I'd prefer to just have one woman swoon over me, if she'll have me?" He looked pointedly at you, but he couldn't hide his hopeful smile. It was crooked, and he probably didn't know it, but it made him look rakish, more handsome than you'd thought possible.

"Under the condition that you don't only kiss me under doorways from now, on, yes. Just keep those blue eyes trained on me, soldier, and I promise I'll be swooning all the time."

The camera footage was very grainy, poor quality, just like Bucky had predicted. Tony knew you were one of the people in the shot, because you'd been in the kitchen. He just didn't know who the other party was, and you'd been tight-lipped about the whole thing.

You'd both decided to have a little fun with it. You'd been dating in secret. Bucky had wined and dined you the next night, and even though it was still very new, you were enjoying your time together. It felt as easy as tying your shoes, as opening the curtains in the morning to let the light in. You also knew that it was a matter of time before someone discovered you both. Secrets never lasted long in the Tower. You figured it was better to expose yourselves on your own terms, rather than get caught in the act like a pair of college kids. Tony's holiday party was the next night, and you'd been trying to decide whether to let everyone know that you and Bucky had started seeing each other at the party, or right before.

Opportunity struck at the perfect time, making the decision for you. Everyone had convened in the lounge after a particularly drawn out meeting. Crime fighting stopped for no holiday, but everyone was trying to wrap things up if they could, before festivities began.

It was strategically planned, a silent conversation shared between glances. You stopped under the mistletoe under the guise of fixing your watch strap, and Bucky stepped into your radius. "Pucker up, people! It's the season of kissing!"—everyone chimed in for the second half, used to hearing the words by now.

All eyes turned to you both. Of course, they expected the usual, the type of kiss reserved for your elderly relatives. They did not expect for Bucky to put one hand around your waist, the other at the back of your head, and to dip you backwards into a kiss so steamy, Clint dropped his bagel on the floor, smearing cream cheese on the wood, and Sam put his hand in front of Wanda's eyes, trying in vain to preserve the youngest from witnessing something that electric.

When you were swung back up to standing, you and Bucky traded grins, your hands finding each other's, fingers interlacing, and caught the look of utter shock on everyone's faces. Tony's was by far the richest, his mouth forming a perfect little 'o' of surprise. "These mistletoe decorations better be gone by the end of the day, Tony," you pointed a finger at him, "or you're gonna wish you never put 'em up to begin with."

"Yes ma'am," he muttered, chastised.

Secretly, Bucky wouldn't have minded getting caught with you a few more times, but at least he knew that now he didn't have to rely on a sprig of green plastic to steal a kiss from you. No, now he didn't even have to ask. Maybe holidays spent at the Tower wouldn't be quite so bad, after all.

Jason’s family not knowing about you had nothing to do with you or his relationship with them. He just wanted one thing for himself. One thing that wasn’t tainted by the mess that is his life as a vigilante, something that doesn’t remind him of his nightly escapades to keep the city safe. It’s why your shared apartment is just outside of Gotham, closer to Metropolis and far away from the manor. It’s why he never bothered to bring you up at family dinner and actively ensured that there was no way for his separate lives to cross.

He could fake being broody or act like he didn’t care. He was a pro at shoving his emotions so far down that he could be experiencing absolute joy and it would look like he was mildly annoyed at best. Pretending like you didn’t exist around his family was easy, but what he didn’t account for was the more subtle ways that you were affecting him to give you away.

Jason Todd- the infamous Red Hood- bad ass vigilante with a mean streak that leaves thugs and villains alike quaking in their boots started smelling a lot less like Gotham’s signature stank and more like…vanilla?

“No, no. You gotta strike like this-” Jason was helping Tim with training. They had just started their shift at the bat cave, on call for back-up. Tim figured he’d get a few tips from Jason while they waited. Jason just shrugged and took some of his gear off to spar with him. They hadn’t been sparring for long, at least not long enough to work up a sweat, when Tim gets a waft of a sweet smell.

“Wait, what’s that smell?” Tim stops and sniffs the air. He definitely got it after Jason swung the staff at him.

“What smell?” Jason sniffs the air, and then his pits. “It’s not a bad smell. I definitely showered before coming here”

“No, you’re right. It’s not a bad smell” he keeps sniffing and eventually makes it to Jason’s jacket and gear and then Jason himself.

“Oh…. it’s you?” Tim raises a brow at Jason. He’s spent a fair amount with each of his bat siblings to know they all have their own distinct smells. And much to his dismay, he most certainly watched Jason scrub his pits with Dawn dish soap before, so the change in scent wasn’t unwelcome just…strange.

“What’s wrong with the way I smell?” Jason asks defensively.

“Nothing! I just didn’t expect for you to smell..good..” Tim cringes as Jason looks at him quizzically.

“Good?”

“Yeah, good. I mean… we all smell bad at the end of patrol but this is the beginning of it and we hadn’t really gone out yet-” He was fumbling with his words, still thrown off with the fact that Jason smelled like a dessert or something. “You smell, good. That’s it..” Jason rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, whatever.” Jason quickly changes the subject, away from him and back to sparring. He makes a mental note to not use your body wash before a shift again. Admittedly, it was in a haste. He knew he had to meet Tim at the bat cave, but prying himself from your warm arms after a post dinner nap was a much more difficult task than he had anticipated.

—----------------------------------------------———

The next family dinner, everyone was sitting around the dinner table. Random conversations were made here and there and in the midst of a semi-heated argument about which weapon is the best for close combat, Jason runs his hands through his hair. Maybe it’s because he’s used to seeing everyone covered in grime and sometimes caked with blood, but Dick never realized how curly Jason’s hair was.

“Was your hair always that curly, JayBird?” Several of his siblings look at Jason’s hair. It was defined and shiny. Like he had used product in his hair.

“Uh, I mean…it’s the same as it always been,” Jason pulls a curl down his forehead. “Actually, I think I’m due for a cut soon.” He lets the curl go and it springs back into place. It definitely didn’t do that before. At least not since he was a kid, that piqued Bruce’s interest.

—----------------------------------------------———

Jason’s siblings had a secret meeting when they peeped Jason stopping in front of any random mirror surface- the chrome panel of his bike, a glass pane of a warehouse window, the actual mirror at the entrance of the manor- to fix his hair before going back home. Who was this and what did they do with the real Jason?

“So you might be wondering why I’ve gathered you all here today..” Dick starts pacing back and forth, “there’s something going on with Jay and I’m determined to get to the bottom of it”

“Aside from Jason weirdly looking at himself in the mirror all the time, what else have you got for us?” Earlier, Steph watched as Jason carefully smooth his hair into a satin skull cap before putting his helmet on. She knew there had to be a girl behind that but she kept that to herself for now.

“I’m glad you asked. Timothy..” Dick steps aside as Tim dramatically turns his chair around, fingers tented like he’s ready to present a case.

“Thank you, Richard. I will not be disclosing how long it took for me to find this particular product but I present to you exhibit A-” he pulls up a picture of a winter edition vanilla body wash. Nearly everyone is confused. “This is the Cozy Vanilla Bourbon body wash from Bath and Body Works. Now you might be thinking, what does this have to do with Jason? Well, exactly two weeks ago while we were on call, I caught a whiff of Jason and he smelled like this exact body wash…”

“I do not understand, Drake. Why does it matter if Jason is using actual body wash instead of dish soap?” Damian asks and everyone shudders at the same memory.

“Think about it. Can you imagine Jason in a Bath and Body Works? The girls definitely, myself and Dick, probably. And I bet we could convince Duke and Damian to tag along if we really wanted to, but him?” Damian sits back in thought.

“Very well, continue…” Tim clicks to the next slide. This time it was a mousse designed for curly hair.

“Exhibit B. This one took a little longer to figure out. I took a sample of his hair from his helmet and ran a chemical analysis on it. He used this specific mousse on it”

“So he’s using a different body wash, curly hair products…” Cass starts to list out,

“-and I saw him use a satin skull cap!” Steph blurted out, seeing her chance to reveal her piece of evidence. The space was filled with assorted comments from the group.

“This can mean only one thing” Bruce’s voice says out of the shadows, surprising all but Damian. “He’s hiding someone”

“Not just anyone… a girlfriend” Tim sits back and watches as the group deliberates.

“No no, that would make sense. He’s been a lot nicer”

“And he smiles a lot more often, even if he thinks that he’s not”

“Oh my gosh, has he really been keeping someone under the radar all this time?”

“We have to find out who she is”

“Or maybe Master Jason has kept her a secret for a reason…” Alfred’s voice startles everyone, including Damian and Bruce, as he emerges out of the shadows. “I’m sure Master Jason will open up about his relationship with us when he is ready. Until then, it’s in our best interest to stay out of it..” Alfred’s statement hung heavily in the air long after he left. It would be the right thing to do. After all, getting Jason to come around was like getting a stray cat to trust you and they shouldn’t do anything to violate-

“Fuck that. I at least wanna see what she looks like…” Tim says and everyone mumbled in agreement. A few hours later, they find you. Naturally they ran a background check and combed through your social media accounts with a fine tooth comb. It was for..security reasons, of course. But turns out you were just a regular civilian with a regular life.

“Strange… I wonder how they met” Steph ponders as she looks through your archived IG pictures. The bat computer pinged and Tim was beside himself.

“Aw man, guys. Look at this.” there was a string of messages from Hinge of all places. Jason met you through a dating app.

“Guys? Alfred said you were down here-” Jason’s voice echoed and it was like the group collectively shared two brain cells. They scrambled to turn the monitors off when eventually Bruce settled for unplugging the whole thing, shrouding them in darkness. “Whats going on?” Jason asks suspiciously.

“Nothing!” Dick says quickly, earning a sharp elbow to the ribs from Steph.

“Nothing?” Jason crosses his arms and Cass sighs.

“We were planning your birthday present” she says dejectedly, the others quickly go along with the lie.

“Yeah..you caught us” Tim looks down at his feet. Jason is unconvinced.

“My birthday’s in August..”

“Yeah? And?”

“It’s January” damn, got them there.

“Well it’s not surprise anymore…” Steph drawls out. “Guess we’ll have to find another place to gift plan” she shrugs as she plugs the bat computer. But what she didn’t account for was the bat computer’s specialized data loss prevention program to plaster your face across the screens once it loaded up.

“Oops…” she squeaked. Anger flashed across Jason’s features and everyone tensed for what might come next. But as quickly as the anger appeared, it was gone. Jason took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“It’s fine” he said quietly.

“What?” Bruce cautiously takes a step closer to Jason.

“I said, it’s fine. You guys were bound to suspect something eventually. Besides, she’s been helping me with my anger, like…to chill out and shit..”

“So you’re not mad?” Dick asks.

“I’m pissed but I get it. I would be curious if you were hiding something as amazing as her from me, too” no one really knew what to do. Was this… healthy communication? Do they…. hug? Should they…move on with their day?

Jason simply shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking away. “You can’t meet her. At least not for a while-“ he was halfway up the stairs when everyone seemed to get out of their daze. “Consider it punishment for snoopin’!”

The hotel suite sat on the top floor of a glass-walled tower overlooking the Coachella Valley, where the desert was already bleeding into gold and violet dusk. The floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the living space, turning the entire room into a glowing box of sunset and distant festival haze.

Inside, everything looked expensive in a way that was almost too clean to feel real: cream linen couches, a marble coffee table cluttered with water bottles, VIP passes, and half-open packaging from last-minute wardrobe fixes. The faint thrum of bass from the festival outside pulsed through the glass like a heartbeat the entire city shared.

Before any of them even spoke, your presence was already everywhere in the room... not physically, but in the way every screen seemed to orbit around you. On Sam’s phone. On Natasha’s tablet. On the muted hotel TV looping entertainment news. Your face kept appearing in fragments: rehearsal clips, paparazzi shots, fan edits already dissecting your outfits for the night. It was always like this around you, even when you weren’t there.

You weren’t just performing at Coachella that night.

You were the headline.

You weren't just famous in the way most celebrities were famous. You were globally unavoidable. The kind of pop star whose songs didn’t just chart, they lived in public memory like landmarks. Every comeback broke streaming records. Every tour sold out in minutes that felt almost suspiciously fast. You were called the “princess of pop” by magazines that ran out of new ways to describe your consistency: flawless vocals, cinematic concepts, stage presence that made arenas feel intimate and personal even from the nosebleeds.

And then there was the other layer, the internet.

The one where your image became mythology. You were a sweetheart in interviews, soft-spoken when you wanted to be, laughing easily in a way that made people think they knew you. Fanboys adored you openly. Fan edits multiplied daily. Entire corners of TikTok treated your expressions like lore, slowing down your smiles like they were clues.

And somewhere in all of that, the Steve Rogers narrative had taken root and refused to die.

Bucky stood near the couch, one boot resting on the edge of the coffee table like he had forgotten furniture was not decorative. He wore a fitted black henley with the sleeves pushed to his forearms, dark tactical pants that somehow looked more casual than military now, and his hair was pulled back into the low bun you had texted him about earlier that day. It was neat. Intentional. And unfairly attractive in a way that made Sam visibly suffer the moment he saw it.

“You look like you fix motorcycles and ruin women emotionally,” Sam had said immediately.

Natasha was lounging on the arm of the couch in a black satin slip dress with a loose robe half-tied around her waist, red hair still damp like she’d rushed through getting ready just to avoid being early to anything. She held a champagne flute like she was already bored of the evening and waiting for something interesting to happen. Steve stood near the glass wall in a plain gray shirt and baseball cap he was doing absolutely nothing to hide behind, sunglasses hooked lazily in his hand. Sam was slouched in a chair, phone in hand, scrolling with the intensity of someone trying to argue with the internet.

Bucky’s phone lit up, your contact photo filling up the screen immediately.

His expression changed before he could stop it, softening instantly.

Sam noticed. “Oh no. That’s the face again.”

Natasha leaned slightly to look over his shoulder.

It was a mirror selfie. Backstage. You, already in your first outfit of the night. You wore a baby pink rhinestone corset, tiny white fur trim, glitter catching in the corners of your eyes like stardust. Your hair was pinned up messily, strands falling loose around your face. You looked like trouble disguised as perfection.

The message read:

first outfit <3 u ready? :)

put the bun back exactly how i showed you or i’m ignoring you tonight

Bucky exhaled through his nose, then typed: that a threat?

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

it’s a guarantee.

Then another message:

i can tell when you’re overthinking. stop it. just do the bun right.

Sam leaned forward. “She talks to you like you’re her emotional support soldier.”

Natasha didn’t look up. “That’s because he is.”

Steve finally turned from the window. “She’s very particular.”

Bucky muttered, “She’s bossy.”

Natasha’s mouth twitched. “You like it.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Instead, he adjusted a loose strand near the bun automatically, like his body had already decided it was going to obey you whether he admitted it or not.

Then Bucky’s phone buzzed again.

send proof of bun.

He angled the camera and took a quick photo—bun tight, hair cleanly pulled back, black henley framing his shoulders under the warm hotel light.

Sent.

Three seconds later:

okay wow. don’t let anyone else look at you tonight :P

Sam groaned. “I hate this relationship.”

Natasha smiled into her glass. “No you don’t.”

Steve adjusted his cap again, glancing at the time. “We should head out soon. Traffic will be bad.”

Bucky barely had time to lock his phone before it started lighting up again, except this time it wasn’t you.

It was TikTok.

He didn’t even open it before Sam pointed. “Oh no. Don’t do that. That’s how you lose peace.”

Bucky ignored him and tapped anyway.

Immediately—

A video loaded.

A fan edit of you and Steve at last year’s gala, slow-motion, cinematic filter, soft piano music layered over it.

Text on screen says, "she looks at him like he’s home.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

Swipe.

“You cannot convince me Y/N isn’t dating Steve Rogers. look at this.”

The clip starts with you laughing at something Steve says during an interview, head tilted slightly toward him, crowd noise fading into romantic audio.

they’re literally endgame!

this is america’s royal couple idc

Swipe.

A compilation titled: “moments Y/N forgets she’s not in love with steve rogers”

It showed clips of you and Steve walking a red carpet side by side. Steve adjusting your microphone at an event. You touching his arm briefly during a charity appearance camera zooming in on shared smiles that were probably nothing and everything at once depending on who was watching

Bucky’s thumb paused for half a second longer than it should have.

Natasha noticed immediately. “Don’t do that thing.”

“What thing.”

“The thing where you let TikTok convince you reality is optional.”

He didn’t respond, just kept scrolling.

Another video loaded.

“Okay but be serious for a second,” a girl said into the camera, “Y/N and Steve are literally built like a romance novel. like she’s the princess of pop and he’s captain america, that’s insane storytelling.”

Cut to another clip: your interview answer about “admiring people who do the right thing no matter what.”

Bucky read the big bold text overlay flashing right in front of him: "SHE MEANT HIM."

Sam laughed from the chair. “They’re doing narrative analysis on her like it’s a thesis.”

Swipe. Another.

This one had a million likes already.

Steve smiling at you during a press event, and you smiling back. The caption: “if they’re not together what is this energy? mom and dad fr"

Bucky’s grip on the phone tightened slightly.

Swipe.

Another video immediately autoplayed.

A compilation of fan comments scrolling too fast to read fully, but the gist was clear: Steve and Y/N are perfect, Steve is so respectful, they’re both America’s image, this is what healthy looks like.

Bucky finally locked the phone for a second.

The screen went dark.

Silence in the room held for maybe two seconds.

Then it lit up again.

Your name.

Another message from you, like you could feel the shift through the silence.

i’m going on soon. don’t get weird about anything online. can't wait to see u after the show :)

Bucky stared at it.

Sam leaned forward slightly. “That’s… actually kind of unfairly calming.”

Natasha smiled faintly. “She knows him.”

Steve exhaled, almost relieved. “She really does.”

Bucky put his phone down this time, properly, like it had weight now.

“Let’s go,” he said again, quieter.

The roar of the crowd hit them before they even reached the VIP section. It wasn’t just noise, it was pressure, like the entire desert had turned into a single living thing that reacted to your name. Thousands upon thousands of people packed into the festival grounds beneath flashing lights and towering LED screens, the air itself vibrating with bass so heavy it felt like it was coming from inside the ribs. Giant spotlights swept across the audience in slow, cinematic arcs, catching waves of raised phones and glittering signs, while drones hovered above like silent eyes recording every second.

Your name illuminated the entire stage in pink and gold lettering: Y/N. It wasn’t just a title above a performer anymore, it looked like a monument. The stage design stretched wider than anything Bucky had seen in person before, all layered platforms and moving risers, with a long catwalk slicing straight into the crowd like a runway built to swallow distance. LED panels wrapped around everything in shifting visuals with soft pink hearts one moment, sharp metallic glitch effects the next, already cycling through aesthetics that matched your eras like chapters in a story.

The audience even screamed every time a crew member so much as stepped into view because they thought it might be you. Even shadows got mistaken for you. Even your absence felt like anticipation.

Bucky stayed close behind Natasha as security pushed them through a side corridor into the VIP barricaded area near the front. The closer they got, the more overwhelming it became—heat from bodies, the smell of desert dust mixed with perfume and sweat and smoke machines already testing their cues. The bass wasn’t just heard anymore; it physically pressed against his chest in rhythmic pulses that matched nothing but the scale of what he was about to watch.

People noticed them almost instantly.

“Oh my god.”

“Is that—?”

“The avengers! They're here!”

Phones lifted like a wave cresting all at once, screens glowing as they tilted upward. The reaction spread through the crowd in ripples, turning heads, pointing fingers, half-shouted guesses bouncing between strangers who suddenly had something else to look at while waiting for you to appear. Steve pulled his cap lower instinctively, shoulders tightening as cameras caught sight of him from every angle. Sam, on the other hand, grinned and gave a casual wave like he was at a neighborhood barbecue instead of standing in front of tens of thousands of screaming people, which only made the reaction louder.

Bucky kept his head down, moving with Natasha’s lead until they reached the side-stage viewing area. From here, everything opened up.

The catwalk stretched out like a glowing spine into the crowd, cutting through the sea of people and ending in a circular platform surrounded on all sides. Above it, suspended lighting rigs hovered like mechanical constellations, shifting colors in slow gradients that bathed the audience in pinks, reds, and deep electric blues. The main stage loomed behind it like a skyscraper of screens, layered with moving visuals. Your past music videos are playing in edited loops, clips of choreography, close-ups of your face slowed down into something almost unreal.

Bucky could feel the crowd more than he could see them from here. It wasn’t just cheering anymore, it was anticipation stretched to the breaking point. A thousand conversations all happening at once, all orbiting the same name, the same expectation.

And then he started hearing it.

“Steve Rogers is here too, right?”

“I swear I saw him backstage earlier—like at that charity thing with her—”

“He's definitely here for her, I wonder if she knows"

Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly at that, subtle but immediate, his attention shifting without him meaning to. Another cluster of fans nearby, phones angled toward the stage, voices rising over the bass.

“Now that he’s here it’s literally confirmed though.”

“Right? Like why would Captain America be at her show unless—”

“Unless it’s real. It HAS to be real.”

Bucky’s hand flexed once at his side, metal fingers twitching faintly before he forced them still. His gaze stayed forward, fixed on the empty stage as if looking anywhere else would make it worse. Natasha, walking just ahead of him, didn’t turn around, but her voice dropped slightly anyway, just enough for him to hear.

“Don’t spiral,” she said simply.

“I’m not spiraling,” Bucky muttered automatically.

“Sure,” she replied, dry.

Behind them, another fan voice carried, louder this time, almost excitedly convinced of itself.

“I’m telling you, this is like the official confirmation episode. Steve’s here, she’s performing, it’s literally going to happen on stage.”

That one hit a little differently, like it landed heavier than the rest.

Bucky looked down for half a second, then back up again, steadying himself without acknowledging it.

Steve, who had been quietly taking in the scale of everything with a more reserved expression, shifted slightly closer. He had heard enough by then, enough repetition of his name next to yours, enough certainty in strangers’ voices that didn’t match reality.

He glanced at Bucky briefly, then stepped in closer beside him as they stopped at the viewing rail.

“Hey,” Steve said quietly.

Bucky didn’t look at him. “It’s fine.”

Bucky looked at him then, sharp but controlled. Steve met it without flinching, tone steady, grounded in something calmer than the crowd.

“She’s performing,” Steve said. “That’s all this is right now. The internet is going to build stories no matter what happens in front of them.”

Steve glanced back toward the stage, then toward Bucky again. “Plus, you're the one she’s texting during all of this,” he said quietly.

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze returning to the empty stage where every light was now building toward your entrance.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, quieter than before. “I know.”

And then the entire stadium lights shifted again, as if the desert itself had decided the waiting was over.

The stadium went black like someone had pulled the plug on the entire desert at once. No light, no movement, just a suspended silence that lasted half a heartbeat too long— long enough for eighty thousand people to hold their breath without realizing they were doing it. Then the screen above the stage flickered once, twice, and burst open in a wash of neon pink, yellow, and white strobe. Your name didn’t appear this time. It announced itself.

A single note hit first. It was low, distorted, almost like it was being dragged through glass. Then another layer stacked on top of it, brighter, faster, until the sound built into something unmistakable. The opening of your set. Your signature intro. The one every fan recognized instantly even before the visuals fully resolved. The desert lit up in pulses, synchronized like a heartbeat trying to catch up with itself.

And then you appeared.

Not immediately center stage, but elevated, on a platform that rose slowly through the floor like it had been waiting beneath the world the entire time. White light hit you from below first, turning you into a silhouette before the color fully caught up. Then everything snapped into focus: you in a structured, crystal-studded bodysuit that shimmered between soft pink and chrome under the lights, a matching sheer cape that moved like liquid behind you, hair styled in soft waves that framed your face like it had been painted there on purpose.

The crowd screamed.

The sound wasn’t just loud, it was physical. It rolled through the VIP section like a shockwave, vibrating through the barricades, through the stage, through Bucky’s chest before he even fully processed that you were there.

Natasha tilted her head slightly. “There she is!"

Sam let out a low whistle. “Yeah, okay. That’s insane.”

Steve didn’t say anything at first, just watched as the stage transformed around you—lights shifting into synchronized geometry, dancers appearing in layers behind you like they had been hidden in the architecture itself. Moving platforms rose and fell in time with the beat, and the entire stage felt less like a set and more like a living system built entirely around you.

Bucky wasn’t speaking either.

He just watched.

Because you didn’t stand still for even a second. You moved like the stage was reacting to you instead of the other way around, every step triggering a shift in light, every turn pulling the audience deeper into the performance. The camera screens flashed between close-ups and wide shots, cutting between your face and the sea of people losing their minds in real time.

Your voice came in clean, controlled, effortless over the production. It was bright and teasing, already fully in command of the crowd. You weren’t easing into it. You were owning it from the first second.

A few songs later, the set started building.

The visuals shifted. Pink turned into deeper reds. Glitter into sharp light beams. The choreography tightened. The energy changed... not slower, just sharper, like something was about to pivot.

The music kept rising, playful but charged now, that familiar teasing tension threading through the arrangement as dancers moved in formation behind you, creating shapes that looked almost like they were spelling something the crowd couldn’t read yet.

You paced toward the end of the catwalk, still singing, still smiling, completely unbothered by the scale of what you were doing to the audience.

Bucky’s grip tightened faintly at his side without him realizing it.

This was where the performance stopped being just performance and started becoming something else entirely.

The lighting softened.

The crowd screamed louder because they could tell what was coming even before it arrived.

“Coachella,” you said into the mic, and the desert answered instantly. The crowd erupted so loudly it felt like the ground itself shook in response, a wave of sound rolling through the VIP barricade and into the night sky.

You laughed softly, letting it breathe for half a second before lifting your gaze across the sea of lights.

“Before my final song I just wanted to ask something.”

The cheers grew louder immediately, scattered screams turning into a single rising roar.

You tilted your head, pacing slowly at the end of the catwalk like you were thinking out loud.

“Has anyone of you become obsessed with something?”

A beat.

“…or someone?”

The crowd exploded.

Even the Avengers section reacted. Sam let out an impressed “ohhh,” Natasha smirking into her drink, Steve raising his eyebrows slightly like he already knew where this was going. Bucky, though, just stared at you like the rest of the world had disappeared behind your voice. There was something soft in his expression now, something almost disbelievingly fond, like he still wasn’t used to the fact that this was his life.

“…cause I have.”

The scream that followed was deafening.

You smiled into it, unbothered, glowing under the lights.

“I wanna dedicate this song to someone…”

You paused, letting the anticipation build, eyes drifting across the stadium before landing right on the camera.

“You know who you are.”

The jumbotron cut to your face instantly. Close-up. Soft lighting. Glitter in your lashes. You smiled directly into it like you were speaking to one person in a stadium of thousands.

Bucky saw it on the screen and smiled without meaning to, small and quiet, like it slipped out of him before he could stop it.

Sam immediately leaned in. “Oh my god, she’s about to emotionally ruin you in 4K.”

Bucky didn’t look away from the screen. “Shut up.”

The beat dropped.

“Don’t have to tell your hot ass a thing / Oh yeah, you just get it”

The crowd screamed again, louder than before, immediately locking onto the energy shift. Cameras flashed everywhere. Somewhere in the audience someone yelled, “SHE’S SINGING THIS FOR STEVE!” and it spread fast.

Steve actually heard it this time.

He gave a small sideways glance toward Bucky, something calm and almost reassuring in it, like he wanted to cut through the noise before it built into something heavier.

Bucky met his eyes briefly.

A silent exchange.

Then Steve gave a faint nod, like ignore them, like it’s not what they think.

Bucky nodded back once, understanding without needing more.

“You make me wanna make you fall in love”

The crowd roared, lights shifting pink and gold across the stage as dancers moved in tight formation behind you. You didn’t miss a beat, voice steady, playful, teasing the entire stadium like it belonged to you.

Bucky’s gaze followed you instinctively, softer now, fully locked in. There was something almost unreal about watching you like this, and the fact that with thousands of people screaming your name, every light in the desert pointing toward you... your expression still felt personal in the way it always did when you texted him stupid things at 2 AM.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling again.

Sam noticed anyway. “Yeah, okay, he’s in love.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky said again, but there was no bite in it.

Steve’s attention flicked back toward the crowd as another wave of chatter rose near the barricade.

“Steve and Y/N are literally happening tonight, I swear—”

“That’s why he’s here, look at him—”

Steve exhaled quietly, then leaned just slightly closer to Bucky so only he could hear him.

“For the record,” Steve said, calm, steady, “I’m not confused about any of this.”

Bucky glanced at him.

Steve added, “And neither should you be.”

Bucky held his gaze for a second, then nodded once, slower this time.

The music pulsed forward.

“I know you want my touch for life”

The crowd erupted again, phones rising like a wave. Bucky watched you move across the catwalk, lights catching on your outfit, your smile sharp and bright as you played with the audience like it was second nature.

And despite everything, the noise, the theories, the constant wrong assumptions, there was something grounding in how clearly you were performing for this moment, not for the narrative being built around it.

Sam bumped Bucky’s shoulder lightly. “Hey. Eyes up. She’s literally doing her thing.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh under his breath. “Yeah. I see her.”

“...let you lock me down tonight”

The beat softened into something more teasing, more dangerous, the kind of rhythm that made the crowd lose their minds without fully understanding why.

Bucky felt it anyway. That pull. That focus. Like the entire show was narrowing in real time.

He didn’t notice the comments anymore. Not really. He keeps on watching you.

That was it.

“Can’t help myself, hormones are high / Give me more than just some butterflies”

Your eyes lowkey swept the VIP section.

Scanning.

A little slower this time.

Bucky straightened slightly without thinking, like he felt it before he understood it.

The crowd took it differently.

A ripple went through them instantly.

“Is she looking for Steve?!”

“She’s literally scanning for him—”

Sam groaned. “Oh my god, they’re narrating again.”

“Wanna try out some freaky positions?”

The crowd screamed so loudly it almost swallowed the next beat.

You suddenly ran forward toward the camera, playful, grinning like you were about to break the entire internet on purpose.

“Have you ever tried this one?”

You blew a kiss directly into the lens.

The screen cut instantly.

Steve.

Close-up on the jumbotron.

The crowd lost it completely. Even louder than before.

Sam wheezed. “OH NO—”

Steve blinked once, clearly caught off guard, then let out a short breath through his nose like he had accepted his fate.

Bucky heard it now—different pockets of the crowd reacting exactly how the internet had trained them to.

Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly before Sam immediately leaned in again.

“You okay man?”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Because you had already moved.

A quick glance, again, towards the VIP section.

Toward him.

Not long, but enough.

And then you turned back to the crowd and started walking.

“... you know I just might / let you lock me down tonight”

You moved toward the stairs now, still singing, still perfect, still fully in control of the entire stadium.

Bucky’s attention tracked you immediately.

You passed the barricade slowly as you sang, cameras following, security adjusting as you descended into the crowd-level walkway.

The audience went feral, reaching out, screaming your name as you moved closer and closer to the VIP section.

And then—

you walked past Steve.

Steve shifted slightly aside instinctively as you passed, more out of awareness than anything else.

And then you stopped...

Right in front of Bucky.

The sound didn’t drop, but it sharpened. The crowd saw it at the same time.

“No way—”

“WAIT—”

“OH MY GOD.”

You continued singing.

“Adore me… hold me and explore me…”

And you sang it directly to him. Eyes locked.

No crowd in your face anymore.

Just him.

Bucky froze for half a second, breath catching, expression softening immediately like he didn’t know how to function under that kind of attention.

Steve, just behind, stepped slightly closer behind Bucky, not pushing, just guiding the moment forward as the barricade tightened with security and movement.

“mark your territory, tell me I’m the only only only only one…”

The stadium erupted again, louder than anything before it.

Bucky didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Because you were looking at him like there was no one else in the world.

“...hold me and explore me”

Your voice softened slightly, still carrying, still perfect.

And then your hand lifted.

Pressed gently to his chest.

The crowd absolutely detonated.

Bucky inhaled sharply, eyes flickering for just a second like he felt everything at once.

“tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one…”

Your hand slid down his chest slowly as you finished the line, deliberate and controlled, the entire stadium screaming like it was witnessing something irreversible.

Sam made a sound like he had given up on life entirely. “OH MY GOD.”

Steve let out a quiet, almost amused breath behind them, like he couldn’t believe the internet was about to implode this hard.

And you—

You just smiled at Bucky like it was easy.

Then you stepped back and let go.

Turned.

And ran back toward the stage.

Still singing.

Still owning every second of the chaos you had just created.

You were already moving back toward the stage as the moment at the barricade dissolved into chaos behind you, security guiding the flow but never touching you. The bass never let up, carrying you forward like you were still fully inside the choreography even off-center. Fans reached out as you passed, screaming your name into the desert night, phones shaking as they tried to keep up with you.

“I know you want my touch for life”

Your voice stayed steady as you stepped up toward the stage, the camera catching you mid-motion, glitter flashing under the lights as you glanced once toward VIP before turning back.

Bucky hadn’t moved. Just watched you like everything else had gone quiet around him.

Sam leaned slightly. “She’s really just acting like that didn’t happen.”

Natasha hummed. “It did. Just not for her.”

Steve stayed quiet now, eyes on you, expression softer than before.

You reached the stage again, lights snapping back into full intensity as dancers fell into place behind you.

“If you love me right, then who knows?”

The crowd roared instantly, the energy snapping back into full performance mode.

"I might let you make me Juno"

You moved across the stage with ease, smiling like you never left.

Bucky’s gaze stayed locked on you, unblinking now.

Sam muttered, “Yeah, she’s enjoying this way too much.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Because you were still looking his way sometimes.

"Let you lock me down tonight"

The lights shifted warmer, fireworks beginning to glow faintly in the distance as the crowd built toward the end.

Bucky exhaled slowly, shoulders easing without him noticing.

“One of me is cute, but two though?”

The crowd screamed the lyric back at you, phones rising higher.

“Give it to me, baby”

You pointed out over them, playful, effortless, in control of every second.

And then—

“You make me wanna make you fall in love!"

The Avengers Tower common floor was doing its usual post-viral-event routine: pretending everything was normal while the TV on the wall refused to stop replaying Coachella like it had become permanent programming. Your performance looped again in glossy slow motion. The pink-gold lights, the barricade moment, that frozen frame of Bucky with your hand on his chest played while a scrolling headline insisted beneath it:

FANS STILL DEBATE BUCKY BARNES VS STEVE ROGERS AFTER COACHELLA MOMENT.

On the coffee table, someone’s phone was just running TikToks on its own at this point.

Yelena sat curled up on the couch with a bowl of cereal, watching like it was live sports. “She is very dramatic walker,” she said flatly as another slowed edit of you crossing the stage played again.

Alexei nodded seriously from the armchair, scrolling. “No, no. This is artistic movement. Very precise. Like ballet, but with internet consequences.”

Yelena glanced at him. “You are enjoying this too much.”

“I enjoy truth,” Alexei said, immediately liking a zoomed-in edit of your hand on Bucky’s chest set to cinematic music.

Natasha stood in the kitchen making tea like none of this qualified as emergency behavior. Steam curled up as she finally said, “You two are going to give yourselves headaches.”

Then—

the elevator dinged.

Bucky stepped out and stopped immediately upon seeing the TV.

His face. Your hand. Crowd screaming.

Frozen in the worst possible angle for someone trying to have a normal morning.

Yelena lifted her cereal bowl slightly. “Oh good. The internet’s boyfriend is here.”

Alexei waved. “Hello, prince charming.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just walked toward the glass wall instead, like distance could somehow reset reality.

Outside, the city below the tower entrance was already packed. Fans. Cameras. Press vans. All clustered tightly like the building had become a landmark overnight. Phones pointed upward. Waiting.

Natasha watched him over her mug. “So, what did her publicist say about this?”

“I don't know, haven't checked,” Bucky said immediately.

Yelena tilted her head. “You are staring very hard at outside people.”

“I’m observing.”

Alexei leaned forward. “They are observing you back. Very intense social ecosystem.”

Before Bucky could respond, the TV switched to live footage.

LIVE: Y/N L/N ARRIVING AT AVENGERS TOWER

Yelena sat up instantly. “Oh. She is early.”

On screen, your SUV door opened. The crowd outside surged like it had been waiting for that exact moment all morning.

Bucky turned fully now. Watching despite himself.

You stepped out calmly. Sunglasses on. Hair loose. Outfit too put-together for 7 AM and paparazzi chaos. Security formed instantly, but microphones still pushed forward.

“Y/N! IS THIS ABOUT BUCKY BARNES?”

"ARE YOU HERE FOR STEVE ROGERS?”

"WHY BUCKY?”

You paused, then said, very calmly, “I forgot my coffee upstairs.”

Silence.

Then chaos exploded.

Yelena pointed at the screen. “That is worst answer. I respect it.”

Before anyone could recover, you added casually, “Also, I’m here for Bucky.”

That did it. The crowd detonated again in real time.

And then another clip cut in on someone’s phone at the coffee table, this one already going viral: a girl in front of a messy bedroom setup, speaking like she was delivering sworn testimony.

“I knew y’all got the wrong guy when I saw her wearing Bucky’s hoodie months ago at that Starbucks,” she said, pointing at the camera like it was evidence in court. “Y’all are just in DENIAL.”

The video zoomed in aggressively on a screenshot of you in an oversized hoodie, coffee in hand, walking beside Bucky months earlier.

Text overlay says:

RECEIPTS WERE RIGHT IN FRONT OF US THE WHOLE TIME

Yelena leaned forward slightly. “Oh this one is confident.”

Alexei nodded approvingly. “Strong argument. Poor grammar, but strong conviction.”

Bucky didn’t say anything.

Because he was already moving.

Natasha called after him, “Hey, you don’t need to—”

But he was already gone.

The lobby felt louder than it should have been, even for Avengers Tower. Security radios crackled. Cameras clicked outside the glass doors. The crowd pressed forward like the building itself had become a stage.

Bucky came down too fast, then slowed immediately when he saw you.

You were already inside.

Just past the entrance zone. Calm in the middle of moving chaos, surrounded by security and microphones and overlapping questions.

“Have you ever dated both of them?”

"Why Bucky Barnes specifically?”

"What happened at Coachella?”

You removed your sunglasses just as the doors closed.

And Bucky was there.

Ten feet away.

He stopped.

You stopped too.

Everything behind you stayed loud, but the space between you was oddly quiet. Like it didn’t belong to the internet.

You looked at him and smiled.

“Hi,” you said.

Bucky blinked once. “Hey.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the chaos behind you. Then back.

“You said coffee?" he added, quieter.

You nodded.

That got him. A small laugh slipped out before he could stop it. He stepped forward.

You met him halfway and took his hand like it was obvious you would.

Behind you, the lobby exploded again—cameras, shouting, headlines being born in real time—but it stayed outside the moment.

Bucky looked down at your hand in his, then back at you.

“You’re kinda early,” he said.

You shrugged slightly. “Traffic was emotional.”

His smile softened properly now.

“Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”

A/N: im backkk?!?! this is like a warm-up one shot cuz i haven't written in a long time lol // anw how r yall??? // will probs write again for bob just bc i kinda miss him