Carpe Diem Bitch

Home, Where the Water Runs Hot by GalacticRover - kyle rayner x fem!reader

He pulls her close by her hip, one hand flush to the small of her back holds her against him as his nose presses into the crown of her head. Breathing together, two people, they take a moment just for themselves. "Welcome home."

Bedroom hymns by biirdwatcher - dick grayson x kyle rayner x reader

It's a quiet moment, something private and gentle. A moment you want to bottle and keep forever.

Meet me on the rooftop by ceirinen - dick grayson x reader

You feel safe in his arms.

Electrical Storm by flashsnikes - wally west x fem!reader

After a battle with Abra Kadabra, Wally West vanishes from the world -- and from his friends and loved ones' memories. Only one person remembers him, and that's his ex, Y/N L/N. It is up to her to bring Wally back -- no pressure.

Night Swim by Butwhyduh - garth of shayeris x fem!reader

Being the younger sister of Nightwing while having a crush on one of his coworkers is interesting.

Flower rescue by lattebiscuit - clark kent x reader

A delayed flower delivery brings you to the warehouse district, where you find that not only will your flowers not be delivered, but there's also some shady drug deals going down. Who else do you call, besides Superman? Must be logged in to read

The Justice League Med-bay (and Those Who Live in it) by SaltySweetTaffy - platonic!justice league x teenage!fem!reader

A platonic!JLA x Reader story about a teenage!Mc who got caught up in a villian attack, and was left in a pseudo-coma. Must be logged in to read.

Camp Crystal What? by Offendedfish - platonic!damian wayne & jon kent x reader

Camp Crystal Lake is a fine and dandy place to spend your summer, said no one ever. You are inclined to agree with that and so are Damian and Jon.

Real heartbreak occurs quietly. It chips at you slowly; small cracks at first until you can no longer ignore the gaping wound in your chest. The missing center behind your ribcage. By the time you realize what has happened, the hole is too big to fill. The chasm impossible to bridge. They don’t tell you that it sneaks up on you, the curl of a cold-blooded snake around your neck that restricts your ability to breathe, to function. It hisses in your ear, a gentle whisper that only gets louder when the puncture isn’t tended to. 

Before you know it, the serpent has bared its teeth and sunk its poison into you. 

You didn’t think you would experience heartbreak with Dick Grayson. The man is loyal, loving. He anticipates your needs before you can even determine what’s missing. Raised to be observant and thoughtful, Dick is a fierce protector of those he cares about. You happen to be lucky enough to be one of them. 

You’ve seen how he is with his family, his friends, the people that he chooses to protect with his body, mind, and soul. There is not a thing he wouldn’t do to keep those he cherishes safe, even if it means sacrificing himself. 

Because of all this, Dick has to juggle one too many priorities. Not only are they things he already planned on doing, but he also has to account for the emergencies that crop up from time to time. Given that this is Blüdhaven, time to time means all the time. 

You’re used to it. Coming in second, that is. 

Your relationship with Dick is relatively new. Your dates aren’t life or death. So when he has to up and leave in the middle of dinner, it’s something you’ve grown accustomed to. The moment his phone vibrates on the table, you set your expectations. 

The first vibration, he ignores. 

The second one, his eyes flick down to his device before he refocuses on you.

Third time’s the charm. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly after you finish recounting your day. “Let me just check and make sure it isn’t anything urgent.”

But you already know the answer to that. It’s always urgent. It’s the city. You can’t blame him for it. Corruption is the norm in Blüdhaven; it bleeds through every crack and corner. From the police commissioner to the mayor, to the elites. Dick is ambitious, he thinks he can rid the city completely of its decrepit moral compass. 

The flicker of guilt that passes through his baby blues is the first sign. Then comes the sour curl of his lips when he realizes that he can’t disregard the threat alert from Oracle. Then comes the sympathetic look when he finally turns back to you. 

It’s that look that you can’t stand. That’s the one that always gets to you. Because you don’t want him to pity you. 

So you plaster a smile onto your lips and nod. “Go. The city needs you.”

Apologies automatically fall from his lips as he places a chaste kiss on your forehead, presses his credit card into your hands, and takes off. His dinner sits cold on the pristine white tablecloth. 

And you wonder if there will ever come a time when Blüdhaven will no longer need Nightwing. Or Dick Grayson. 

Maybe then you’ll have a chance at coming first. 

In his defense — and perhaps it comes from months of making excuses first for him as a friend and then as a lover, he does try. He tries to make time for you, slipping you into the little gaps he has in between investigations, philanthropic work, and patrols. It’s how you met him in the first place. 

Your job at the community center allowed you some governmental access which you used to help him take down a few bad apples in the mayor’s office. Small-time fry. But then he started doing more work for the people, building affordable housing and programming to help the city’s children, and you started seeing more of this elusive Dick Grayson. 

At first, you had been starstruck. The man is renowned all throughout the city — a savior to the good, a menace to the bad. The more time you spend with him, the more you learn about the Dick that he doesn’t show to the outside world. 

It’s the man who is weary down to the bone, cutting off one evil head only for two more to grow. It’s the man who bears the city’s burdens on his shoulders, carrying the weight of a million expectations with the limited resources that he has. It’s the man who slinks back into your arms after a long day and curls himself around you like it’s the only place he is meant to be. 

Falling in love with Dick had been all too easy. It’s like taking a nosedive off a cliff, knowing you’ll land in a wide-open ocean with a life jacket. 

When you find out that he also spends his nights as the masked hero Nightwing, he had been wary of how you would react. It’s ridiculous to think that you would feel anything other than pride when you see him in full gear for the first time. 

For some reason, Dick feels… further once you learn this fact. He already felt unattainable before —untouchable — as this generous, intelligent billionaire, heir to the famous Wayne family. Now that you know he is also a crime-fighting superhero, you feel those buried feelings of insecurity rise to the surface. The creeping voices clawing into your skin to question how you could ever be an adequate partner for him. 

How could you — someone so normal, so average — compare to the living legend Dick Grayson?

Of course, once the Nightwing gates are open, you also see the people he surrounds himself with. Martians. Kryptonians. Shapeshifters. Trained assassins. And Barbara Gordon — how do you even begin to describe Barbara Gordon?

Between Kori and Barbara, you were convinced that Dick had a thing for redheads. Dick reassured you that he really didn’t have a particular preference. No, no preference in terms of hair, but you can clearly see the pattern — all of his exes are skillful. Powerful. Hot.  

Gorgeous in a way that takes your breath away. Not only that, they’re fierce and bold and intelligent. They are out there saving the world day in and day out, whether it’s through ultraviolet energy projections or hacking into the most secure servers on the planet. 

That monster inside of you peeks around the corner with its talons out, ready to pierce through your fragile heart once more. You hate yourself for even thinking this way. It’s part of his job, these are his friends. You should feel lucky that you were even introduced to them. 

But that feeling has taken root and consumed your heart. Insufficient. Inadequate. Incapable. Who are you compared to all this greatness? 

It’s why you keep your head down, why you keep your mouth shut even as the fissures begin to appear in your heart. You disregard them, brush them off as a temporary blip in your confidence. You tell yourself that you’re lucky Dick’s even giving you the time of day. You can’t be another burden for him to bear. You should be making his life easier. 

So when he apologizes, you wave off his concern and tell him to go out there and save the world, Boy Wonder, because that’s what he does. The world comes first. You come second. It’s how it’s always been. It’s how it should be. 

The deeper you try to bury these feelings, these insecurities, the greater the cuts you slice inside your heart. You’re carving it out slowly, an excruciating process as you try to preserve what’s left of your emotions. 

Dick makes it up to you each time with flowers, with butterfly kisses, with the gentle touch of his hand. He promises you that next time will be better. He keeps his word. A few dates over the course of a few weeks, uninterrupted time, undivided attention. You’re on cloud nine by the time he drops you off at the doorstep, lingering for a fraction longer, enough time for you to invite him in to stay. 

He does. Every time. 

There are nights he returns to your side in uniform. His suit ripped, blood coating his skin crimson. These are times you’re reminded that he’s mortal. Human. You’re reminded that you could so easily lose him in all the work that he does. 

Nothing makes you feel more powerless than knowing that all you can do is help him tend to the aftermath. Your hands shake when you dab the antiseptic, when you wipe off all the red, when you wrap up the gauze around his body. 

You’re different from Barbara who guides him, who serves as his eyes and ears, and maps him a solution and exit each time. You’re different from Kori who fights alongside him with powers that he doesn’t have. You’re different from Bruce, Jason, Tim, and Damian, who know him in such intimate ways, moving in sync as he works through the city. 

You are someone watching from the sidelines. A character that could be so easily removed from his story, and nobody would blink twice. 

The thought pains you, but you suck it up and deal with it anyway. It’s easy to let these thoughts go when Dick murmurs saccharine sweet phrases into your neck. It’s easy to forget your place when he marks constellations across your body when he feels like having your company. 

You didn’t think it could get worse. You can only help. Right?

But you’re proven wrong the one time you’re all gathered at the Wayne Mansion. It’s a family dinner. The mood is light, the drinks are flowing, the food is delicious. Laughter ripples through the table and, for once, you aren’t overthinking your place at the table. 

That is, until an alarm sounds and everyone is immediately on high alert. They all seem to know what to do, whipping into action quickly while you sit there frozen. 

Dick gears up and then stiffens when he remembers you still at the dinner table, watching them all in awe and surprise. He looks at Alfred who is also preparing to help with the potential invasion of the mansion, then looks at you. “Stay here, okay? I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

You open your mouth, ready to offer your assistance, but stop when you look around the room. How can you possibly even think about helping these heroes? They are the heroes of the story. You are the damsel in distress. 

“Okay,” is all you manage to say.

True to his word, Dick returns a few hours later. You’re right where he left you. He looks relieved to see you untouched, immediately coming up to you to inspect you. “Are you okay?”

Even when the worst is happening, his concern is on you. You’re adding more weight to his already hefty load. 

“I’m okay,” you reassure him. “Is everyone else okay?”

He softens and nods. “Yeah, they’re okay. Let’s get you home, yeah?” 

Dick’s kisses should’ve chased away those worries as they always have, but the feeling persists. It’s an itch you can’t scratch. An invisible scar you can’t heal. The feeling festers and grows, sprawling into this ugly hopelessness inside of you. 

It doesn’t disappear when Dick picks you up from work the next day, chattering on about the programs he is hoping to stand up with the help of the new mayor. 

It doesn’t disappear when the two of you run into Barbara outside of his apartment, telling him that there’s work to be done with Blockbuster.

It doesn’t disappear when Dick shoots you an apologetic look, asking for a rain check on your movie night — even when he’s already carrying the bags of popcorn and treats. 

The more you think about it, the more you consider where you stand with Dick. He’s already so busy with everything else. The last thing you want to be is another item on his checklist, another to-do to cross off. He already has enough on his plate, you don’t want to make it harder for him by adding another thing for him to complete. 

So you do what you thought was best. 

“I don’t think this is working out, Dick.”

Dick’s gaze falters, a shudder in his confidence. “What— why would you say that?”

“You’re very busy. You have a lot of things going on. I don’t think a relationship is a good idea right now.” Not for you, you add in your mind. This is for Dick, you remind yourself. This is to help him, the only way you know how. 

He’s quiet, lips pinched together as he frowns. The two of you were supposed to get lunch together, but you thought it best to sever it clean before the two of you sit down for what would likely be an awkward meal. So here you two are, standing in front of a restaurant. People mill about, barely paying you any mind. Some pause to look at Dick in admiration, but he is only looking at you. 

“Is this what you want?” His voice is lower when he asks this. 

No. But, of course, you don’t say that. 

“Yes. I think this is what’s best.”

A part of you wants him to resist, wants him to fight for you. That selfish part of you begs him to beg you to stay, to tell you that he wants this as much as you do. That he cares about you as much as you do him. 

But the responsible voice inside of you wants him to agree and walk away. 

Luckily – or not, he agrees with the latter. So the two of you hug and part ways. You walk away with shoulders held high and the tears streaming down your face. You don’t let him see it. You never want him to see it. 

And that’s the day you walked away from Dick Grayson.

It may be dramatic to say that there is your life before Dick and a life after him. You never thought you would ever consider romance to be the end-all-be-all of your life — and it isn’t. But Dick Grayson is something special, isn’t he? He isn’t just any romance. 

He is the romance. 

The type that sticks to you, a permanent fixture like he’s been tattooed and engraved into an everlasting mark on your skin. He clings to you like a persistent memory. No matter how many drinks you swallow, how many things you do to keep busy, you can’t seem to shake the thought of him when you’re alone.

The nights are the worst. The world inside your head is too quiet, even in a city like this one. Even when there are sirens blaring from every corner of your apartment and neon lights glare into your bedroom, you’re left to pick apart the decision you’ve made, constantly turning it over in your mind to determine whether it was the right one. 

There are nights when you find yourself reaching for your phone, your thumb hovering over his contact. It would be easy to call him, to ask for him back. You miss him, incredibly so. It would be so simple to send him a text saying as such. 

I miss you. What are you doing tonight?

Thinking of you, are you thinking of me?

I made a mistake. Will you have me again?

You try not to think about him, but the ask is akin to asking you not to breathe. Thinking about Dick comes naturally to you. It’s in the places you frequent, the ghost of him is the only constant lurking in the shadows. It’s the voice inside your head, calming you down when the city gets too much. It’s the absence that you feel the most — the sudden quiet when you don’t have him talking to you about his day, about his family, his friends, his ambition. The silence when he isn’t peppering you with follow-up questions about your week, sincerity and genuine curiosity entwined into his every syllable. 

And just as you’re swirling into this black hole, your phone lights up with an email reminder. A date the two of you were supposed to have. Movie tickets booked weeks ago because you had been so excited to see it, Dick had purchased the tickets immediately. With everything that has happened, you completely forgot to cancel it. 

However, instead of wallowing, you decide to go for it anyway. You’ve been cooped up in your home for too long, burying yourself under this mountain of self-despair. Quality time with your friends helped, but it didn’t cease the voices at night when you’re alone. 

The movie is good, it could’ve been better if you didn’t have this empty seat next to you. The theater is full and yet there is this one gap that sticks out like a sore thumb on opening night. Your mind is half on the movie and half imagining what it would be like to be here with Dick.

He would get popcorn ahead of time, with extra butter, just the way he knows you like it. He would get sweet tea, not cola, because he knows how you don’t like to pair bubbly drinks with airy snacks. He would let you hold onto the bucket and take it as an opportunity to reach closer to you whenever he grabs a handful, even sliding an arm around you to tuck you into his side. When the popcorn is gone, he would hold your hand, squeezing whenever he thinks you need the extra support. 

It’s an almost miserable experience. It’s pathetic how far gone you are for him that you can’t even enjoy time by yourself anymore.

But as they say, heartbreak is supposed to get easier with time. Eventually, you won’t remember what his touch felt like, the warmth of his body next to yours. You won’t think about him every time you pass by the basketball court he used to frequent to keep the neighborhood kids company. You won’t cry when you realize how many people you’ve gotten to know and lost in the process. You won’t think about him and you’ll remember that you can be perfectly content on your own again. 

You try not to fall under the weight of your worries as you step out of the theater. Everyone else filters out in pairs or groups, and you’re left standing there alone in the golden light that casts a glow across the rain-streaked sidewalk. You’re waiting for a cab. A cab that you will soon learn won’t find you. 

Not when you feel the breath down your neck.

“Aren’t you a pretty little bird?”

The unknown voice has you jumping, but not too far when a firm grip wraps around your bicep. Your eyes flash to betray your fear as you take in the masked assailant. He looks familiar, like a photograph hung somewhere in the back of your subconscious. Maybe one of Dick’s files that he tends to strew across your coffee table. 

“You’re Grayson’s girl. I’ve seen you around with him. Blockbuster’s going to want to see you.”

“I’m not— we’re not—” together, you want to say, but you don’t get a chance to finish your words when the man zaps you out cold. 

By the time you wake, there is a dull throbbing on your side where you’ve been electrocuted. The room smells of wastewater but looks relatively clean. You must be near the sewage plant. There is no one in the room and your eyes quickly dart around. What would Dick do in this moment? 

Your hands are tied up with a rope behind your back, feet against the legs of the chair. You systematically go through your surroundings. A shelf with all sorts of items. Books, random paraphernalia, and a glass bottle at the top. An idea pops up in your head, the films you watch finally coming in helpful; it might not be one that Dick approves, but he’s not here to scold you right now. 

Based on the distance and the weight of the chair, you scooch your way towards it. You use your shoulder to bump the shelf, rattling it with the little force you have. You can hear the bottle stumble a bit, but it’s not quite there yet.

Another hard push with your limited movement has it finally dropping on its side, rolling down the shelf until it lands, split in pieces, on the ground next to you. Now, you have to carefully drop yourself onto the floor, making sure you’re not getting the shards on your skin. There is no graceful way to do this, so you just tip yourself over. With your face pressed against the cold cement floor, your hands wriggle around behind you to grasp a piece of the glass, slicing the tip of your finger in the process, but at least you have this. 

Slowly, you use the jagged edge to cut through the rope. It’s an arduous process. The entire time, you’re praying that maybe — on the very off-chance — Dick is still keeping track of you. That he’ll notice your disappearance. Maybe he’ll come to your rescue. It’s a naive thought, but it’s the hope that you cling to.  

When your wrists are finally free, you get to work on your ankles. Another slice on your leg in your hurry to break free before your captors return. You don’t know where you are or how you plan to escape, but that tiny window looks promising. 

You’re halfway up the wall, standing on your chair, struggling to unlock the window when the front door swings open. You whip around and see the imposing figure duck into the room. Fuck. It’s Blockbuster. He is the man who’s been out for Dick’s blood for as long as you can remember. 

And now he has you, trapped in this room. His broad frame takes up nearly half the width of the space. You fiddle with the lock faster, praying for some miracle that you can escape in time. 

But the man doesn’t even give you a chance — his thick arms wrap around your torso before he lifts you up and throws you back onto the ground. If you didn’t know any better, you swear you hear bones cracking. The pain that shoots through you is fast, blistering, blinding. It’s hot-white and has your vision spotting. 

“Where do you think you’re going, pretty bird?” Blockbuster rumbles in vile amusement. “You’re not leaving this room. You’re not leaving this space until I get some answers.”

“Answers about what?” You spit out, the liquid coming out in a smattering of red on the grey floor. 

“Grayson. I want to know his weaknesses, his vulnerable points. I want to know everything there is to know about him to destroy him.”

The wide smile that stretches across his face has your stomach churning in disgust. He crouches on the floor, leans towards you, close enough that his platinum hair brushes against your face. 

“Or maybe you’re it. Maybe you’re his only weakness. Maybe I already have the pretty bird in my hands to take him down.”

“He’s not going to let you get away with this, or anything. He’s going to destroy you before you even come close to him.”

Blockbuster laughs, the sound booming. “This bird’s got claws. I can see why Grayson likes you. Don’t worry, pretty. I’ll break each one before you leave today. I’ll make sure you can’t sing for him anymore. I’ll make you squawk.” 

The threat settles in deep in your gut and your heart plummets six feet under. 

Then it begins. The beating, the brutalizing. You’re on the ground, against the wall, and flying through the air. Your face, your ribs, your hair, your legs, your arms. It goes on and on for what feels like hours. The only light you see is the one that hangs overhead, but even that begins to fade as your eyes struggle to stay open. Your chest heaves with heavy breaths, strained wheezes slipping past your lips in your desperate attempt to stay alive. The glass bits you were so adamant on avoiding before are now affixed to your skin like glitter. 

Your vision goes between white and red and pitch black. When you start to lose consciousness, he jolts you awake again. The only sounds ringing in your ear are his questions, now a jumbled blur of words, and a cacophony of foul laughter. 

You’ve never been religious but in those final moments, you pray. You pray for a savior. You pray that you’ll survive this. You pray that Dick doesn’t have to see you in your final moments.

Despite all that has happened, you like to hope that Dick still cares — and when Dick cares, you know he would live with this weight for the rest of his life. The last thing you want to leave him with is another burden to carry. 

Your ears start ringing from the abuse you’ve undergone. At some point, the pain no longer flares, it ebbs and flows as your body grows numb. Not a single part of you untouched. You don’t think the man even has questions anymore; he only takes ill gratification in the fact that he has destroyed something of Dick’s. 

You swear you hear a different voice, a different sound. No longer your screams or his laughter. A curse, a thud, a yell. Your brain can’t fully comprehend it, not when your senses can no longer be trusted. Not when they barely work. In the spread of red, you see glimpses of blue and black. 

You hear your name. You hear it before you feel a gentle touch, a brush that’s barely there on your head. 

Then it all goes black. 

“We need you to let her go. Sir, we are trying to help.”

“You don’t know what she’s gone through—”

“We will work to diagnose all her injuries. For now, we need you to let us do our jobs.”

“I’m surprised she’s still breathing. The damage she’s taken…”

“Let’s just get through this and let the family know.”

“Sir, this is family only—”

“I am her family,” Dick’s voice snaps back. You’ve never heard him raise his voice like that before. 

Then you hear someone else, more stern, still warm. Bruce. “If you’ll allow my son to stay with her, she doesn’t have family in the area. I’ll handle the paperwork, if you’ll lead me.”

“Sweet girl, I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m not leaving.”

“Dick, you need to eat at least. You can’t help her like this.”

“I’m the reason she’s here to begin with. I’m not leaving her.”

“How’s she doing?” The deep baritone, you think it’s Bruce. 

Dick’s voice frays at the edges, like he’s barely keeping it together as he inhales. You can feel his eyes on you. “Better. Doctors think she’ll be fine but she doesn’t have the energy yet to be fully conscious.”

“She’s a strong one. She’ll be fine, Dick.”

A pause. You wonder how Dick looks, if he’s been eating— “I don’t think I can ever forgive myself if she isn’t.”

“I should’ve been there with her, you know. We bought those tickets weeks ago. I thought she refunded them when she broke up with me. Didn’t think she’d go alone to such a late showing.” 

A sigh. More high-pitched. Maybe Barbara. She’s been worried sick about him based on how many times she has come to visit. Her voice is more familiar than others. “You can’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known that would happen.”

“It’s Blüdhaven, of course, something like this would happen. I should’ve expected this, that’s my entire job.” 

“Babs sent me here to deliver this. Can you please just eat first? Everyone’s worried about you.”

There’s the rustling of a plastic bag. You hope that Tim picked up Dick’s favorite Thai spot downtown, the one with the pad see ew he likes. Hopefully, that’ll cheer him up. “Thanks, but I’m good for now.”

“Dick, you’re not doing anyone any favors by punishing yourself. What would she say if she saw you like this, huh?”

“Well, she can’t really say anything now, can she? Because of me.”

“Stop blaming yourself. It’s Blockbuster’s fault. She wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“Should’ve been me in this bed.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. God, I’ll do anything — I’ll give up anything. Just please wake up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t do this without you. I need you to wake up, pretty girl. Need to see those eyes again. Need you looking at me again.”

“I swear I’ll do better. I’ll work harder. Please. Don’t take her away from me.”

When your eyes finally flutter open, you feel as if it’s been years since you’ve seen the light. The bright fluorescent lamps above blind you as you groan and turn away. Crust nearly keeps your eyes shut but you reach up to brush them away, only to wince at the searing pain by your side.

“Hey, pretty girl, easy. Don’t move too fast. You’re hurt.” 

Dick. You slowly turn to the side to find him there. Then you briefly analyze your surroundings. 

White. All white. Hospital. The only splashes of color are in the flower arrangements sitting at the end of your bed. Large and wild. Alive. 

You’re alive. 

Christ, you’re alive. 

But Dick — he looks disheveled, the most you’ve ever seen him at least. There’s certainly more than a day’s worth of stubble peppering his jaw, his blue eyes shadowed by the circles surrounding them. His hair is a mussed-up mess, like he’s been running his hand through it nonstop for days. 

He’s fast to approach, gentle to touch. You swear you see the slight tremble in his fingertips as he brushes your hair away from your face. His eyes search yours, drinking you in like he is memorizing every inch of you. Old habits die hard, you suppose. He’s probably cataloging your injuries as if the doctor hasn’t done that already. 

“Hey, Dick,” you smile weakly, the stretch painful. Your throat feels dry, your voice comes out grainy. There’s a stiffness around your neck, which you soon realize is a brace. It hurts to breathe, let alone speak. “What day is it?”

Dick scrambles to grab the glass of water at your bedside table. He eases the rim between your lips, letting the cool liquid slowly pour between your chapped lips. “Easy, not too much. Not too fast,” he whispers, then adds, “Been four days.”

“Hmm, that’s a while, huh? Hope my boss doesn’t fire me for missing work that long. God knows we’re understaffed.”

Your attempt to laugh falls short when you feel the piercing twinge in your stomach, and it comes out as a raspy cough instead. 

Dick’s eyes widen and you shake your head to reassure him. You don’t like the way his forehead creases in concern, how dim his usually bright eyes are. Dick forces a smile at your poor endeavor at humor. “No, I’m sure you’ll be fine, sweetheart. Called in for you.”

“Good. What a waste of PTO though.”

“Sweet girl,” Dick breathes out, closer this time as he leans forward and presses his lips against your temple. You barely feel it, still slightly numb under the bandage wrapped around your head. His breath is shaky when he exhales. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve been there.”

You roll your eyes, but it only makes your head ache. “Don’t be silly. Why would you have been there? It wasn’t as if we had plans.”

“We were supposed to go together. We—” Dick chokes on his words as he sits on the chair next to your bed, bringing your hand up to his face and flattens the back of it against his cheek. “I’m sorry. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am that I wasn’t there.”

“You were, Dick. You came for me. I knew you would.”

“I wasn’t fast enough.”

“You were as fast as you could be.”

“I didn’t get him. I wanted to, but you were there and you were hurt and I needed to get you to the hospital first. He escaped and—”

“You’ll get him next time.”

“I let you get hurt.”

“You didn’t do anything except save me.”

Dick’s lips quiver as he inhales again, as he looks at you. 

“I love you.”

Then you hear another sharp gasp. Yours. 

“I love you. I should’ve told you that a long time ago, pretty girl. I love you so much. I shouldn’t have let you walk away. I should’ve fought harder for you. I just— I thought you deserved better than me. Someone who could treasure you properly. Hopefully, someone who loves you as much as I do, even if I don’t think it’s possible.”

Your throat is tight. Whether it’s the tears or from the injuries you’ve sustained, you’re not entirely sure. Your question is only answered when you taste the saltiness on your tongue, your fingers reaching up to touch the wet mess rolling down your face. 

“But I can’t let you go. People think I’m selfless, but god — I’m so fucking selfish when it comes to you. Never want you to leave my side again. I want you close so I can protect you, keep you safe, love you proper. I want you to know how much you mean to me. I want to remind you of it every day. I took it for granted before, but never again. I love you. I’ll do it right this time, if you’ll let me. If you’ll still have me.”

“Dick…”

“God, look at me babbling away when you should be resting,” Dick huffs, disgruntled with himself. “I’m sorry. I’ll get the doctor. I should’ve done that first.”

“Stay.”

“I have to—”

You reach for his fingers again, intertwining them. It’s been a while since you’ve had his big hands up close. These hands always remind you that you’re safe, that you’re his. Gentle, a contradiction against the harsh touch of Blüdhaven. “Just for a little while.”

Dick glances between the door and your joint hands in conflict. He caves in to you, because — of course, he does. He’s never been one to deny you when you want to touch him. It’s his weakness. If Clark had his Kryptonite, he had you. 

“For a little bit,” he murmurs reluctantly, “but I want them to check on you right after this, okay? I have to make sure you’re good.” 

For a while, the two of you let the silence seep in. It wraps around you like a blanket, warm and steady. The worries of the past few days — even the past few weeks — seem to melt away as you let your eyes slide close once more, your head pressing back into the pillow. Dick’s fingers twitch in your hand and you give him a squeeze to assure him you’re okay. 

“I was scared,” you admit quietly. You can’t meet his eyes. Not for this. “I wasn’t scared of Blockbuster. I was scared of what would happen if you found me a minute too late. If I didn’t make it.”

“Wh— why would you be scared of that?”

“Because I know you’d blame yourself. You already have, even though you saved me. I didn’t want to be another weight to carry. Another burden on your shoulders.”

There is a fracture in Dick’s voice when he says your name. Like a prayer. Like a desperate plea. “You could never be a burden. I— I don’t know what I would’ve done if I didn’t make it in time. I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Might make things easier for you,” you try to tease, but the joke lands bitter on your tongue. “One less thing to worry about. I guess I already was when I ended things.”

Dick is quiet for a moment, you can’t even hear him breathe. So you turn to look at him again, curious eyes finding his slumped shoulders. “Don’t even joke about that. That’s not something I’m entertaining. I’m never not worrying about you,” he mutters, “kept tabs on you even after you broke up with me. I wanted to make sure you always had someone looking out for you, even if it’s someone you didn’t care about anymore.”

You frown then. “Why would you think I don’t care about you?”

His head tilts in question then, brows furrowing. “Isn’t— I mean, isn’t that why you ended things? Because you weren’t interested in me anymore. I wasn’t a great boyfriend, I know that. I should’ve done more. That’s on me. I just thought, you… didn’t care about me anymore. Maybe you found someone else.”

“Dick, oh my— no, not at all. I just—” your teeth sink into your bottom lip, the truth hanging on the tip of your tongue but you refuse to let it slip. 

He looks at you with such earnest eyes, ones that urge you to continue. 

How can you say no to him? How could you think for one second you could let him go?

“I thought it would be easier for you, if we broke up,” you admit quietly and are immediately answered by the deepening of his frown, “you have so much going on. Between Nightwing, Blüdhaven and Gotham, and all the community outreach you were doing, it just didn’t seem like you had time for a relationship. It’s not as if I was helping you in any way, I can’t really do that. Not like the others. So I did what I thought was best.”

The look on Dick’s face now, you don’t think you ever want to see again. He looks absolutely crestfallen. His lips slightly parted, eyes carrying the sort of melancholy that comes after a loss. “You— fuck, you thought that breaking up would be easier for me? How can you— what would even make you think that? I know I’ve been busy and I haven’t been the best boyfriend, but god, you— you never made things harder. Ever. If anything, I feel so much lighter with you around. I feel as if I could breathe again. When this city chokes out the last of me, I know I’ll at least have you. And god, I wasn’t perfect, I was a terrible boyfriend, but you put up with me. I don’t know why you did for as long as you did, but— I didn’t know that’s how you felt with me. I wish you’d told me.”

A laugh of disbelief escapes him, rising from his chest with acid on his tongue. 

“You were always so patient. I thought— I thought that’s all you wanted from me. A few dates here and there. I didn’t want to ask more of you, didn’t want to scare you off. I can be intense, overwhelming. I know I can certainly be, and I didn’t want you to think I was being too demanding.” 

“Dick, you’re… unbelievable. Do you know how much I admire you? Everything that you do? Sometimes, I don’t know what you see in me. When you have all these incredible people around you, when you’re doing all these incredible things. I didn’t think I’d be… enough.”

Dick stands then, cupping your face in his hands. His eyes are wild, alive now. It’s as if he’s been electrified in the last few moments of your conversation. “You are more than enough. You’re everything. Every day I see how hard you work, how much of your heart you put into this city and its people, and it reminds me of why I want to protect this city. It’s because of you. I want you safe, I want you happy here — with me. God, I fucking love you, you know that. I’m going to remind you of it every day. If you’ll let me have you again, I promise you — you’ll never have a doubt in your mind ever again when it comes to where you stand with me. You’ll see what I see in you.”

You crack another small smile, cheeks aching. You’re probably ripping open a couple of stitches, but it’s worth it when Dick breathes a sigh of relief. “Love you too, Dick.”

The smile he offers you is magnificent. The kind that you memorize, print, and tuck away for safekeeping on a rainy day. He presses another kiss to your forehead, then your hand. Firm this time. More confident. He hesitates before he leans to brush his lips against yours. 

And it feels like homecoming. 

“I’m going to put a tracker on you from now on. I’ll drop you off at work and pick you up. I’ll install new security measures in your office and our apartment—”

“Our?”

He freezes then flushes, pink tinging his neck. “If you want. I mean, I think you’ll be safer there. I know we haven’t been together long but I’ll feel better if you’re with me. We can spend more time together, I don’t have to let you go at the end of the day. If you’re not comfortable, I’ll set up a separate room for you first — not to say I won’t be crashing in there every night, but—”

“Dick,” you reprimand teasingly. “I’ll think about it. That’s a big move.”

“Right, yeah. Of course. You don’t have to. I’ll implement new security cameras and sensors at your place. I’ll booby trap some of the windows so no one can break in. We’ll upgrade your—”

“Dick,” you say again, softer this time. “Your offer isn’t a bad thing. I just… I have to think about it. I love you, I do. It’s just been a lot.”

He nods solemnly and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Always working. Always looking for a solution. 

“It’s not a no, baby.”

The pet name has him perking up, his eyes illuminating for the first time in a while since you’ve seen him. Crystal blue staring right back at you. 

“And Dick—”

“Yeah?”

“Probably time to get the doctor. I might’ve split open a few stitches.”

“Oh, shit yeah.” He jumps to his feet, ready to run out when you call for him again. He pops his head back in, gaze curious, happy, concerned. 

Your lips tug into a smile. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, pretty girl.”

dick is flying to (taglist): @catclaw1 @lunexiax @esunarint @lunaryoongie @alli0-0 @avgdestitute @parker-barnes-af @onecojg @lynnidc @winnichu173 @c3liaaaaa @my-drvidess @fruitypebsworld @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @take-it-on-the-run @a-very-fictional-girl @eiaf4uwn @vivianna2392 @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @its-pomegranite @athenxt

You’d been twelve the first time you realised it wasn’t normal. Your teacher looked down at your homework, looked back up, and asked whose desk you were sitting in. Your classmates laughed because children could always sense when the world had found a new way to be cruel.

Your parents forgot you in pieces. At first, it was little things. Leaving your plate out at dinner. Locking the front door while you were still on the porch. Calling the police about “a child in the house” when you came downstairs for water.

By sixteen, you had learned to keep your backpack packed. By eighteen, you had learned not to tell people your name unless you were prepared to watch it die in their mouths. By twenty, you stopped expecting anyone to hold onto you.

Then Gotham happened.

Gotham had a way of making tragedies feel ordinary. A city full of curses, chemicals, ghosts, gods, monsters, and miracles gone sour. People disappeared here every day. Some of them even left bodies.

You were good at disappearing. Not invisibility, exactly. Nothing so useful. People saw you. They could talk to you. Touch you. Hurt you. Help you.

But the second they looked away, you were gone.

Not physically. Just from them.

A thought ripped clean from the page. A footprint swallowed by black water. A name left out in the rain until the ink ran.

You called it your forget-me-not curse.

A joke, originally. 

A bad one. The kind you made alone because there was no one around long enough to laugh.

You tracked Red Robin because he was the only person in Gotham paranoid enough to believe evidence over memory.

Batman would have been the obvious choice, but Batman was myth and shadow and trauma in Kevlar. Nightwing was too bright. Red Hood was too dangerous. Robin was a child with swords and the emotional range of an alley cat.

Red Robin, though—Red Robin solved things. Red Robin noticed patterns. Red Robin built answers out of scraps.

You had watched him for three weeks before you approached him.

Not stalked.

Watched.

There was a difference, though you were pretty sure the difference would not hold up in court.

He moved like exhaustion had learned martial arts. Sharp, efficient, clever. Always three steps ahead of everyone except himself. His cape snapped behind him as he crossed rooftops, and his voice over comms, when you caught pieces of it through stolen frequencies and cheap equipment, was dry enough to sand paint off a wall.

You liked him immediately.

Which was unfortunate. Liking people was how hope got its teeth in you.

Still, you needed help. So you followed him onto a rooftop in Chinatown during a rainstorm that turned every neon sign into a bleeding wound.

He had just finished taking down three men trying to move unmarked crates through the back of a restaurant. You watched him zip-tie the last one to a drainpipe, then crouch beside a broken lockbox.

“You missed one,” you said.

Red Robin spun so fast his bo staff was at your throat before your second breath.

You froze.

Rain ran down the side of your face.

His white lenses narrowed. “Who are you?”

There it was.

The beginning. Your least favourite place to stand.

“My name won’t matter in about ten seconds.”

“Try me.”

“You’re going to forget me.”

“Unlikely.”

You almost laughed. “Everyone says that.”

His jaw tightened beneath the mask. “Meta?”

“Maybe.”

“Threat?”

“To myself, mostly.”

“Explain.”

You lifted one hand slowly, pointing toward the alley below. “There’s another guy under the fire escape. He has a gun. You missed him because he didn’t come in with the others.”

Red Robin didn’t look away.

Smart boy.

His head tilted slightly. Listening.

A second later, he threw a birdarang without taking his eyes off you.

A pained shout rose from the alley.

You blinked.

“Nice.”

“Thanks. Now explain.”

“I need help.”

“With?”

You swallowed. This was always the hard part. The moment before someone knew enough to pity you and not enough to stay.

“With being remembered.”

For a second, he didn’t speak.

Rain tapped against his armour. Somewhere below, a siren cried like a mechanical animal.

Then his comm crackled.

“Red?” a voice said. “Status?”

His eyes flicked away.

Just for a second.

Just enough.

When he looked back, his bo staff snapped up again.

“Don’t move,” he said. “Who are you?”

There it was.

The ending.

Your throat tightened anyway.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “That’s the problem.”

His grip shifted on the staff. “How did you get up here?”

“I climbed.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“No,” you said. “I expect you to forget this conversation, too.”

“What conversation?”

You closed your eyes. Rain, cold and patient, slid down your neck.

“Never mind.”

You stepped backwards off the ledge.

Red Robin lunged, but you had already dropped onto the fire escape below, landing hard enough to rattle your bones.

By the time he looked down, he shouted, “Hey!”

Not your name.

Never your name.

You ran.

Behind you, Gotham swallowed the sound.

The second time you met him, you brought a folder. The third time, a USB drive. The fourth time, a whiteboard marker, because you were starting to get desperate. The fifth time, you wrote YOU WILL FORGET ME across his left gauntlet while he was distracted disarming a bomb.

He noticed the writing forty-three seconds later.

Unfortunately, he noticed it after looking away from you.

“Why does my arm say that?” he demanded.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of an abandoned subway station, chin propped in your hand. “Because subtlety wasn’t working.”

His eyes narrowed. “Did you write on my suit?”

“With consent.”

“I don’t remember giving consent.”

“Exactly.”

He stared at you. You stared back. Somewhere above you, a train rumbled through a city that had forgotten this station existed.

Relatable.

Red Robin looked down at his gauntlet again.

Then at you.

Then at the folder in your lap. Then at the cheap burner phone you had placed beside it, already playing a video of the two of you from fifteen minutes ago.

On the tiny cracked screen, Red Robin said, “Testing hypothesis. Subject claims memory alteration occurs when visual attention is broken. I am recording this willingly.”

Onscreen, you gave a tired little wave.

Current Red Robin went very still.

You hated this part. The suspicion. The recalibration. The way people looked at proof of you like it had crawled out of a sewer.

His voice dropped. “What did you do to me?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

The recording continued. Onscreen, Tim — Red Robin, but by then you had found his name in enough public footage and gala clips to know the shape of him outside the mask — looked intensely uncomfortable.

“Subject claims this has occurred throughout their life. Existing theory: anomalous cognitive deletion tied to direct perception. Memory resets after loss of visual contact. Physical evidence remains. Emotional impressions may remain.”

Current Red Robin slowly looked at you. “Emotional impressions?”

You shrugged, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to wounded animal. “Sometimes people feel something. Déjà vu. Unease. Comfort. Anger. Depends on the person.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line. “What do I feel?”

You shouldn’t answer. You knew that.

Hope was a mousetrap with velvet on the spring.

Still, he asked, and you were very bad at denying yourself crumbs.

“You feel comfortable,” you said quietly. “Usually. Around me.”

He didn’t respond.

The recording ended. The silence after it was massive.

He crouched in front of you, careful and slow, like you were something wild.

“How many times have we had this conversation?”

You looked away first.

It didn’t matter if you looked away. You always remembered.

“Six.”

His breath caught. “Six?”

“Seven, if we count the rooftop, but that one was short.”

He sat back on his heels. “You tracked me down seven times?”

“You’re hard to catch.”

“You should not have been able to catch me at all.”

“Yeah, well.” You gave him a tired smile. “Being forgettable has perks.”

That landed wrong.

You saw it on his face. The way his suspicion cracked open just enough for sadness to show through.

You hated that too. Pity was a warm blanket made of needles.

“Don’t,” you said.

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re already sorry.”

His lips parted, but no sound came out.

Then his comm chirped.

You saw the instant he registered it. You saw the calculation.

His gaze flicked toward the sound.

“Wait,” you said.

Too late.

His eyes moved away.

His face emptied.

Not dramatically. Not cruelly.

Just blank.

When he looked back, he was a stranger again.

His hand went to his staff.

You exhaled shakily.

He looked at the folder. The phone. The writing on his gauntlet.

Then at you.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “I’m guessing we’ve done this before.”

Your laugh broke halfway through. “Yeah.”

His posture eased by one painful inch. “I’m sorry.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t know what he was apologising for.

He meant it anyway.

Oh, that was dangerous.

That was so, so dangerous.

Tim Drake made a problem board.

Of course he did.

You found out two nights later when Red Robin left you coordinates scratched into the edge of a takeout menu you’d taped to his belt before he forgot you.

The coordinates led to a safehouse.

Not the Nest. Not the Cave. Somewhere smaller. Older. A third-floor apartment above a closed pawn shop, with three separate exits and windows reinforced from the inside.

There was a note taped to the door when you arrived.

If you are reading this and you are the person I keep forgetting, come in. I gave you the code. If I didn’t, check under the gargoyle across the street. If you are not that person, this door is electrified. Good luck.

You smiled despite yourself.

The code was under the gargoyle.

The safehouse smelled like coffee, dust, and circuitry. Three laptops glowed on a folding table. A whiteboard stood against the wall, covered in branching theories and question marks.

At the top, in sharp block letters, Tim had written:

FORGET-ME-NOT Under it: Not invisibility. Not standard telepathy. Not illusion. Perception-linked mnemonic erasure?

Then: DO NOT LOOK AWAY WITHOUT RECORDING.

Then, circled three times: THEY ARE REAL.

You stood in front of those words for a long time. Long enough for your chest to hurt. Long enough to hate yourself for how much it mattered.

They are real.

Not subject. Not anomaly. Not possible threat.

They. Real.

Your fingers lifted before you could stop them, hovering just beneath the words.

You didn’t touch. Touching felt too much like asking.

The bathroom door opened.

Tim Drake stepped out in sweatpants, a black T-shirt, damp hair curling at his forehead, and a toothbrush in his mouth.

He froze. You froze.

He blinked at you.

You lifted one hand weakly. “Hi.”

Tim removed the toothbrush from his mouth.

There was a very long silence.

Then he said, “I’m guessing you’re Forget-Me-Not.”

“Please don’t make that my codename.”

“I already made it your case designation.”

“That’s worse.”

“I’m bad at branding.”

“I’ve noticed. Red Robin?”

He pointed the toothbrush at you. “Okay, low blow from someone whose entire thing is being forgotten.”

You stared. He stared back.

Then both of you laughed.

It surprised you so badly that you almost didn’t recognise the sound coming out of your own mouth.

Tim’s smile faded first.

Not gone. Just softened.

“Sorry,” he said. “That was—”

“Funny,” you said.

His eyes searched your face. “I didn’t hurt you?”

You looked at the board again.

THEY ARE REAL.

“No,” you said. “You didn’t.”

He nodded once, then glanced toward the mirror over the kitchen sink.

Your stomach dropped. “Tim—”

His gaze shifted. His face went blank.

You hated mirrors. You hated reflective windows. Phones. Passing cars. Anything that gave people an excuse to stop looking at you.

Tim looked back. His eyes landed on you.

His hand tightened around the toothbrush.

Then he looked at the whiteboard. Back to you. Whiteboard.

You.

“Okay,” he said after a moment. “That’s deeply unsettling.”

You swallowed the ache in your throat. “Welcome to the club.”

He crossed the room carefully, eyes fixed on you with almost comic intensity. Like a cat trying not to lose sight of a laser pointer.

“Do I know your name?”

“Yes.”

“Do I get to know it again?”

You told him.

He repeated it.

Softly. Correctly.

Like it mattered. Like names were not disposable things.

Then he wrote it on his wrist in black marker.

Your chest went tight. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I do, actually.”

“Tim.”

He paused.

It was the first time you had said his name to his face. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask how you knew.

He only looked at you. “What?”

“You’re going to forget anyway.”

His expression shifted. Not pity this time.

Determination. Very different.

Much worse for your heart.

“Then I’ll remember again.”

You looked away.

The words hit somewhere deep. Somewhere, still twelve years old, standing in a classroom while everyone laughed.

“You say that like it’s easy.”

“No,” Tim said. “I say that like it’s possible.”

The apartment hummed around you. Computers. Rain. Gotham breathing through broken brick.

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him.

That was the problem with starving.

A crumb looked like a feast.

Tim built protocols.

Protocol One: Cameras on before conversation.

Protocol Two: Notes visible on every surface.

Protocol Three: If he forgot you, he had to read the red folder before engaging.

Protocol Four: No sudden movements after reset, because apparently the third meeting had involved him pinning you to a wall and then feeling guilty about it for forty-eight hours, based solely on the bruise and your annoyed sticky note reading RUDE.

Protocol Five: Coffee.

You weren’t sure why coffee was a protocol.

Tim insisted it helped.

“You just want an excuse to drink more coffee.”

“That’s a serious accusation.”

“You have a mug that says ‘sleep is a social construct.’”

“It was a gift.”

“From who?”

“Me.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

Then he shrugged. “I know what I like.”

The work was slow. Messy. Painful.

Tim forgot you dozens of times.

Sometimes in the middle of a sentence. Sometimes, while reaching for a pen. Sometimes because his phone lit up and instinct won before caution.

Every reset cut, but not always the same way.

Some were clean. His face would go politely guarded, and he would ask for an explanation, and you would hand him the folder like a nurse handing over bad news.

Some were worse. Once, after a long night of testing, Tim laughed at something you said. Really laughed, head ducked, eyes bright, shoulders shaking. You had been talking about the time a mugger forgot he was mugging you halfway through and apologised for standing too close.

Tim laughed, and you laughed too, because it was stupid and awful and somehow funny in the way tragedies became funny if they happened enough.

Then he turned to grab his coffee.

When he looked back, the laughter died on his face.

He stepped back. “Who are you?”

You sat very still.

Your smile felt glued on. “No one.”

His eyes flicked to the notes.

He read them fast.

Too fast.

His face crumpled in slow motion.

“Wait,” he said. “We were laughing.”

You didn’t answer.

“I was laughing,” he said, quieter.

“Yeah.”

“With you.”

“Yeah.”

“I forgot that?”

You looked down at your hands. “You forget everything.”

Tim didn’t speak for a long time.

Then he said, “Not everything.”

You almost snapped at him.

You wanted to. You wanted to tell him not to soften it. Not to romanticise it. Not to turn your curse into a puzzle with a hidden blessing, because there was nothing beautiful about being erased. There was no secret poetry in sitting across from someone who had smiled at you three seconds ago and watching their eyes turn unfamiliar.

But then Tim touched two fingers to his own chest.

“My heart rate is elevated,” he said. “But not fear response. My shoulders are relaxed. I’m angled toward you. I reached for coffee without checking my weapon first.”

You blinked.

He looked at you, eyes steady.

“My body knows you,” he said. “Even when my brain doesn’t.”

That shut you up completely.

Tim seemed to realise what he had said a second after saying it.

His ears went pink. Extremely pink.

You stared at them because you were sad, not dead.

He cleared his throat. “Scientifically speaking.”

“Right,” you said.

“Physiological familiarity.”

“Obviously.”

“Conditioned trust response.”

“Super romantic.”

His blush deepened.

You smiled despite yourself.

Tim saw it. Something in him eased, like he had been waiting for proof he hadn’t ruined everything.

You looked away first.

Not because you wanted to.

Because wanting was getting dangerous.

You started staying longer. That was the mistake.

At first, you only came by for testing. Then for updates. Then because Tim texted a number he had written in six different places and asked Are you safe?

You stared at the message for twenty minutes.

No one asked you that. Not and remembered long enough to care about the answer.

You typed back Mostly.

His reply came instantly. That is not a yes.

You should have ignored it. Instead, you went to the safehouse.

Tim opened the door with a laptop under one arm, hair a disaster, a hoodie hanging off one shoulder.

He looked you over. “You’re hurt.”

“Barely.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“That’s what barely means in Gotham.”

He stepped aside.

You came in.

He patched your arm with hands so careful they made you want to scream.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t. Because he kept looking at you. Kept his gaze trained on your face while reaching blindly for gauze and antiseptic.

“You can look down,” you said.

“Nope.”

“You’re going to tape my sleeve to my skin.”

“I have done worse with less.”

“That is not comforting.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

His fingers brushed your wrist.

You both went quiet.

Tim’s gaze stayed on yours. There were shadows under his eyes. Purple-blue and stubborn. His mouth was set in that familiar line of someone trying to outthink the universe through sheer spite.

“You’re tired,” you said.

“I’m always tired.”

“That’s not as cute as you think it is.”

“I think you think I’m cute?”

Your soul left your body.

Tim froze. His ears went pink again.

A gift. A treasure. A tiny biological betrayal.

“I meant—” he started.

“You said what you said.”

“I’m sleep deprived.”

“You’re always sleep deprived.”

“Then I’m always not liable for my words.”

You smiled. He smiled back.

For a second, there was no curse.

No whiteboard. No folder. No grief waiting in the corner with its coat still on.

Just Tim’s hand around your wrist, warm through his gloves, and his eyes on yours like looking away was the one thing he refused to lose.

Then his phone rang.

Both of you flinched.

Tim did not look away.

The phone kept buzzing on the table.

He stared at you. You stared back.

“Could be important,” you whispered.

“Probably.”

“You should answer.”

“I know.”

“Tim.”

His jaw worked. “I don’t want to forget this.”

Your breath caught. “This?”

His thumb shifted against your wrist.

His voice dropped. “You.”

Hope was a stupid thing. A stubborn weed growing through concrete.

You wanted to rip it out by the roots.

Instead, you sat very still while it bloomed.

“Tim,” you said softly. “You will.”

The phone stopped ringing.

Then started again.

He closed his eyes.

Your heart jumped.

But he didn’t turn away.

Eyes closed, he said, “Still thinking about you.”

“That’s cheating.”

“That’s science.”

“That is absolutely not science.”

“It is if I write it down later.”

You laughed, but it hurt.

His eyes opened.

He looked almost relieved to find you still there.

The phone stopped again.

A beat passed.

Then his comm went off.

Oracle’s voice filled the room.

“Red Robin, if you’re ignoring me because you found another conspiracy wall, I’m sending Nightwing.”

Tim grimaced.

“You should take it,” you said. He did not move. “Tim.”

“I know.”

You gently pulled your wrist from his hand.

He let you.

You stood.

His expression tightened. “Don’t leave.”

The words were too raw. Too young. Too much like your own secret prayers.

You swallowed. “I’ll come back.”

“You don’t have to say that just because I won’t remember.”

“I know.”

“Will you?”

You should have lied less softly.

“No,” you said. “Not tonight.”

His face went still.

You stepped back. “Because you’ll forget me, and I don’t think I can watch it again right now.”

The comm crackled.

Tim’s gaze stayed on you.

You gave him one last smile. It was probably a bad one.

Then you slipped out the window onto the fire escape.

You heard him say your name. Then Oracle said something urgent. Then the night took you.

By morning, he had sent seventeen messages. All to the number he did not remember saving.

I’m sorry.

I don’t know what happened.

There’s a note on my arm that says I hurt you.

Please tell me what I did.

Please be safe.

You don’t have to answer.

But please be safe.

You deleted none of them. You answered none of them.

Avoiding Tim Drake was harder than finding him had been.

This was unfair, frankly.

Gotham was huge. You were practically a professional non-entity. You had evaded landlords, social workers, police officers, and one very confused census worker who kept rediscovering you on your own couch.

You could avoid one vigilante. In theory.

In practice, Tim Drake was a nightmare with Wi-Fi.

He left messages in places no sane person would think to check.

On rooftops. In police scanner chatter. In the metadata of a corrupted file you had stolen from a Falcone server. Once, in a fortune cookie.

You still had no idea how he managed that.

The fortune read: YOU ARE NOT A BURDEN. ALSO, PLEASE STOP GHOSTING ME. UNFORTUNATE WORD CHOICE. SORRY.

You kept that one in your wallet.

Not because it mattered. Obviously.

You avoided him for eleven days. On the twelfth, you found Red Robin bleeding on a rooftop.

Because Gotham had a sense of humour, and it was mean.

He was propped against an air-conditioning unit, one hand pressed to his side, cape torn, breathing shallowly. Three unconscious men lay scattered around him. A fourth crawled toward a gun.

You kicked the gun off the roof.

The man looked up at you, startled.

Then he glanced away toward Red Robin.

When he looked back, confusion washed over his face. “What the—”

You punched him.

He went down.

Red Robin made a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t wrapped in pain.

“Nice,” he rasped.

You crouched beside him. “You’re an idiot.”

His lenses were cracked. One had gone dark, leaving a sliver of blue eye visible beneath the mask.

He looked at you. Really looked.

Your chest ached.

“You came back,” he said.

“You got stabbed.”

“Technically shot.”

“Do not get pedantic while bleeding.”

“Sorry.”

You pressed your hands over the wound. He hissed. “Where’s your emergency beacon?”

“Damaged.”

“Comms?”

“Jammed.”

“Backup?”

He gave you a weak smile. “You?”

“Terrible plan.”

“Working so far.”

“Tim.”

His smile faded. The exposed corner of his eye softened.

“I know you,” he whispered.

Your hands froze. Blood slicked your fingers.

“What?”

“I don’t—” He swallowed hard, face twisting. “I don’t remember. But I know you.”

You tried to breathe. “Tim, stay with me.”

“Trying.”

“You need pressure here.”

“Okay.”

“And you need to keep looking at me.”

His laugh came out broken. “Was already planning on it.”

You hated how that hurt. You hated how good it felt.

You dragged him upright, and he leaned heavily against you. Too heavily. His head dipped toward your shoulder.

“Eyes on me,” you said quickly.

He forced his head up. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

“I feel like that’s true.”

“It is.”

“Good to know.”

You half-carried him across the roof toward the stairwell.

Halfway there, the door slammed open.

Nightwing burst through, escrima sticks raised.

Behind him came Batman.

Of course. Of course, the universe looked at your worst night and said, Actually, let’s add the emotionally constipated bat-themed father figure.

Nightwing saw Tim. Then saw you.

“Step away from him.”

Tim’s grip on you tightened.

“Don’t,” he said.

Batman’s eyes narrowed. “Red Robin.”

Tim breathed hard. “They’re helping.”

Nightwing looked at you.

Then away, scanning the roof.

Then back.

His expression blanked. “Who are you?”

Your stomach sank. Tim went rigid against you.

“No,” he snapped. “Look at the notes.”

Nightwing blinked. “What notes?”

“Left gauntlet,” Tim said through gritted teeth.

Batman moved first, taking Tim’s wrist carefully.

Written across the inside of Tim’s gauntlet in white marker were the words: IF SOMEONE IS WITH ME AND YOU DON’T KNOW THEM, TRUST THEM. MEMORY HAZARD. DO NOT LOOK AWAY.

Batman read it. Then looked at you.

You expected suspicion. You got it.

Then he looked at Tim’s blood on your hands.

You expected threat. You got that too.

But beneath both, there was calculation.

“Can you get him downstairs?” Batman asked.

You nodded.

Nightwing stared at the message on Tim’s gauntlet, face pale.

“How long has this been happening?”

“Long enough,” Tim muttered.

His knees buckled. You caught him with a panicked noise.

Batman stepped in, taking some of his weight.

For one terrible second, Tim’s gaze slipped from you to Batman.

You felt the exact moment he forgot. His body went tense. His hand jerked toward his weapon.

Then stopped.

His eyes dropped to his wrist. To the writing. To the blood. To your hands still holding him up.

He looked at you again.

No recognition.

But his shoulders eased.

His voice came out hoarse. “Hi.”

You almost broke.

Right there on that rooftop. With Batman watching and Nightwing confused and Tim bleeding between your fingers.

You almost shattered into every version of yourself that had ever been left behind.

Instead, you smiled. Small. Devastated. “Hi, Red.”

His eyes flickered. “Red?”

“You hate when I call you that.”

“I do?”

“Yeah.”

He considered this. Then, barely audible, “Feels familiar.”

Batman’s jaw tightened. Nightwing looked like someone had punched him in the chest.

Good.

Let them see it. Let someone else hold the horror for once.

Tim swayed.

Batman said, “Move.”

So you did.

The Cave remembered you better than people did.

Computers didn’t forget unless told to. Cameras kept your shape. Motion sensors tracked your movement. The Batcomputer marked you as UNKNOWN ENTITY until Tim, pale and stitched and furious from the medbay cot, demanded Batman change it.

“To what?” Batman asked.

Tim looked at you. He had forgotten you three times since arriving.

Each time, he read the notes. Each time, his face did something painful.

Now he sat upright despite Alfred’s stern disapproval, one hand pressed to his bandaged ribs, eyes stubbornly fixed on you.

“Forget-Me-Not,” he said.

You groaned. “Tim.”

“It’s accurate.”

“It’s corny.”

“It’s poetic.”

“It sounds like a Victorian ghost with abandonment issues.”

Nightwing, who had been trying very hard not to stare at you and failing because staring was now medically necessary, whispered, “Kind of on brand, though.”

You pointed at him. “Don’t encourage this.”

Nightwing held up both hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then he looked away toward Batman.

His face blanked.

He looked back at you. Startled. Tim pointed at the gauntlet.

“Oh, come on,” he said, horrified. “I did it again?”

“Yep.”

He dragged both hands down his face. “This sucks.”

You laughed.

You didn’t mean to. It just escaped.

Nightwing looked stricken. “That was insensitive. I’m sorry.”

“No,” you said. “It does suck.”

Tim smiled faintly.

Batman did not. Batman had been watching the recordings.

All of them. Every safehouse interaction Tim had saved. Every reset. Every time Tim’s face went from warm to blank. Every time you flinched like you had been slapped, and then patiently explained your own existence again.

Bruce Wayne had an excellent mask. Batman had a better one.

Neither was good enough. Not for this.

When Tim finally fell asleep — reluctantly, after Alfred threatened sedation with the casual authority of a man who had raised vigilantes and regretted much — Batman approached you near the computer.

You stiffened.

He stopped several feet away.

“Tim trusts you,” he said.

You looked toward the medbay. Tim’s face was turned toward you even in sleep. “He trusts evidence.”

“No,” Batman said. “He trusts you.”

You laughed under your breath. “He forgets me.”

“Those are not the same thing.”

You hated him a little for that.

For being right. For saying it in that gravelly voice, like truth was a verdict.

“He shouldn’t,” you said.

“Why?”

“Because I’ll get him hurt.”

Batman said nothing.

You looked at Tim again.

“He keeps trying to remember me. He gets distracted. He hesitates. He writes things on his skin and loses sleep and builds systems and—and cares.” Your voice cracked. You hated that. “He cares, and he doesn’t even get to keep why.”

Batman was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Tim is very difficult to stop once he decides someone matters.”

Your throat tightened. “Bad survival trait.”

“Yes,” Batman said. “It runs in the family.”

That almost got a smile out of you. Almost.

Bruce looked toward the medbay.

“He has been calmer,” he said.

“What?”

“Recently. Still sleep-deprived. Still reckless. Still Tim.” A pause. “But calmer.”

You stared at him.

Batman’s gaze returned to you. “I didn’t know why.”

You had no idea what to do with that.

So you did what you always did. 

You prepared to leave. “I should go.”

Batman’s voice sharpened. “That’s not necessary.”

“It is.”

Tim stirred faintly in the medbay. Your feet rooted to the floor.

“He’ll wake up,” you said. “He’ll forget. Then he’ll remember from notes, then he’ll feel guilty, then he’ll try harder. It’s a loop.”

“Then we break it.”

You looked at Batman. Something like anger sparked under your ribs.

“You can’t punch this.”

“I’m aware.”

“You can’t adopt it either.”

One corner of his mouth twitched.

Tiny. Devastatingly father-like.

“I’m aware of that as well.”

“Then what?”

Batman’s eyes moved to the computer. “Tim has theories.”

“Tim has a caffeine addiction and a martyr complex.”

“He also has a working prototype.”

You froze.

Bruce tapped a key.

A file opened.

CONTINUITY ANCHOR — FMN PROJECT

Your breath stopped. Schematics filled the screen. A visual tracking system. HUD integration. Facial recognition. Constant line-of-sight proxy through micro-cameras. Audio prompts. Haptic alerts. A recording loop designed to feed Tim reminders before, during, and after attention breaks.

A way to outsource memory. A way to build a bridge over the gap.

Not a cure. Never a cure.

But a handrail in the dark.

“He didn’t tell me,” you whispered.

“He likely intended to finish it first.”

“Of course he did.”

Because Tim Drake would rather bite through his own tongue than offer hope before he could guarantee it.

Your eyes burned.

On the screen, beneath the diagrams, was a note.

Not technical. Not polished. Just Tim’s writing, rushed and uneven.

They deserve continuity. Even if I can’t give memory, I can give consistency. That has to count for something.

You covered your mouth.

Batman looked away. Then immediately looked back, jaw tightening as his memory reset.

You laughed wetly.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Annoying, isn’t it?”

Batman stared at the screen. Then at you. Then, very carefully, he said, “I understand why Tim is angry.”

That undid you more than pity ever could.

Tim woke three hours later and forgot you before saying good morning.

His eyes opened. They landed on you.

Blankness.

Then he saw the note taped to the ceiling directly above his bed. YOU KNOW THEM. DO NOT PANIC. ASK FOR THE BLUE FOLDER.

He stared at it. Then exhaled.

“Morning?” he guessed.

You sat beside the medbay cot, knees pulled to your chest. “Afternoon.”

“Did I sleep?”

“Under duress.”

“Alfred?”

“Alfred.”

He nodded gravely. “Powerful man.”

“You have no idea.”

His gaze drifted to your face. Stayed there.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You sighed. “Tim.”

“No, don’t ‘Tim’ me. I know you hate it when I apologise for something I don’t remember doing—”

“I never told you that.”

His mouth shut.

You raised an eyebrow.

He looked briefly smug. “Physiological familiarity.”

“You are impossible.”

“I feel like you’ve said that before.”

“Many times.”

“Nice.”

You shook your head, but you were smiling.

He noticed. Tim always noticed. Even when he forgot why it mattered.

His expression softened. “You stayed.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

You looked at your hands.

Because you were tired. Because he kept trying. Because you had spent your whole life being temporary, and Tim Drake had looked at your curse and said, then I’ll build something that lasts.

Because hope had teeth, yes. But maybe you were tired of bleeding alone.

“You got shot,” you said.

“Again, technically stabbed after being shot.”

“Tim.”

“Right. Not the time.”

A quiet beat passed.

Then he said your name.

You looked up.

He was watching you with that unbearable focus.

“I don’t remember meeting you,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t remember most of our conversations.”

“I know.”

“I don’t remember why you look sad when I look away.”

Your throat tightened.

“But I know I hate it,” he said softly.

You stared at him. Tim’s fingers curled against the blanket.

“I know there are gaps,” he continued. “I know something is missing. Every time I reset, it’s like walking into a room after someone has stopped crying. I don’t know what happened, but I know it mattered.”

Your eyes burned. “Tim—”

“I’m not saying that fixes anything.”

“Good, because it doesn’t.”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

His face changed.

You regretted it instantly. But the words were out now, and maybe they deserved air after all.

“You don’t know,” you said, voice shaking. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to prove you exist every single day. To explain yourself over and over until your own name sounds fake. To watch someone care about you and then lose it because they looked at a clock.”

Tim went very still.

You stood because sitting hurt too much.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be someone’s favourite person for five minutes and a stranger for the rest of your life.”

Silence.

Huge. Electric. Tim’s eyes did not leave you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You laughed once, broken and sharp. “I know.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“No.”

“What does?”

You looked at him. He looked so tired. So young, suddenly. Not Red Robin. Not the genius detective. Just Tim, with messy hair and stitches in his side and your name written on his wrist like a prayer he refused to stop saying.

“I don’t know,” you admitted.

Tim absorbed that. Then he nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“If there’s no fix yet, then we start with no fix.”

“That’s not a plan.”

“It’s the beginning of one.”

Despite everything, a laugh trembled out of you.

He smiled faintly.

“There it is,” he said.

Your heart did something stupid. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

His smile faded. “Like what?”

“Like I’m someone you could keep.”

Tim’s expression went quiet. Then he reached toward the tray beside him, picked up a marker, and wrote something on his palm.

He turned it toward you.

TRY.

One word. Three letters. Ridiculous. Insufficient.

Everything.

Your breath caught.

“That’s not enough,” you said.

“I know.”

“You’ll forget.”

“Probably.”

“It’ll hurt.”

“Probably.”

“You’ll get tired.”

His eyes sharpened. “No.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes,” Tim said. “I can.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to run. You wanted to believe him so badly it felt like standing on the edge of a building with no grapple and calling it flight.

Tim lowered his hand. “I don’t get to choose what my brain keeps,” he said. “But I get to choose what I do about what it loses.”

You pressed your lips together.

He swallowed. “And I choose to try.”

Your vision blurred. “Every time?”

His voice softened. “Every time.”

You looked away.

For once, someone else remembered the important part.

The prototype was ugly.

You told Tim this. He looked offended.

“It is functional.”

“It looks like a beetle married a security camera.”

“That’s mean.”

“It has antennae.”

“They’re signal stabilisers.”

“They’re emotionally antennae.”

Tim scowled at the device clipped onto his cowl.

Nightwing, who had been instructed not to look away and had taken this to mean he should stare at you with the intensity of a golden retriever witnessing a magic trick, nodded. “It’s a little buggy.”

Tim pointed at him. “You’re not invited to science anymore.”

“I was invited to science?”

“No.”

“Harsh.”

The Continuity Anchor worked. Mostly.

Tiny cameras mounted in Tim’s cowl maintained visual contact when his eyes moved. His HUD displayed a small marker whenever you were in range. If all visual tracking broke, an audio cue played in his ear.

You know them. Look for notes. Do not panic.

Tim recorded it himself.

You hated the first version. He sounded too clinical.

The second version was worse. Too gentle.

The third version made you leave the room.

You came back to find Tim sitting alone, staring at the recorder.

He looked up at you.

“I don’t know how to talk to myself about you,” he admitted.

Your anger dissolved on impact. “Try talking to me.”

So he did.

The final version said Hey. You forgot. That’s okay. They’re real. You trust them. They are not leaving because of this unless you make them feel like they should. Be kind. Start there.

You listened to it once. Then never again.

It lived in Tim’s ear now. A tiny ghost of himself, guiding him back.

The first field test happened on a rooftop at dawn.

Gotham stretched around you in bruised purples and dirty gold. The city looked almost soft from up there, which was one of its better lies.

Tim stood beside you in full Red Robin gear, the new system humming faintly.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No.”

“Great. Me neither.”

You gave him a look.

He smiled. Nervous. Hopeful.

You hated how beautiful he looked in the thin morning light.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to look away.”

Your stomach clenched. “Okay.”

“I’ll look back.”

“You might not know why.”

“I’ll have help.”

You nodded.

He took a breath. Then slowly, deliberately, Tim Drake turned his head and looked out over Gotham.

The world did not end. For him, maybe it shifted.

For you, it cracked open.

His profile was sharp against the sunrise. The wind tugged at his cape. One second passed. Two. Three.

Then he turned back.

His eyes found you. For half a heartbeat, there was blankness.

A terrible, familiar void.

Then his HUD must have triggered.

His hand twitched.

His gaze dropped to the writing on his wrist.

Then back to your face.

Recognition did not return.

Not fully. Not magically.

But something else did.

Choice.

“Hi,” Tim said softly.

Your eyes stung. “Hi.”

He stepped closer. “Did it work?”

You laughed, and it came out like crying. “Depends what you mean by work.”

“Did I panic?”

“No.”

“Did I threaten you?”

“No.”

“Did I make that face?”

“What face?”

“The one that makes you look like you’re trying not to disappear on purpose.”

Your breath left you.

Tim’s mouth tilted, small and sad. “I don’t have to remember everything to notice you.”

That was unfair.

That was devastating.

That was Tim.

You wiped at your face quickly. “This is still going to be hard.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m still going to get hurt.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just tech-solution your way out of grief.”

He winced. “That one felt personal.”

“It was.”

“Fair.”

You both stood there, the sun rising behind Gotham’s teeth.

Then Tim held out his hand.

Not grabbing. Not assuming.

Just offering.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

You stared at his hand. “How very dare you be respectful right now.”

His lips twitched. “Trying something new.”

“It’s rude.”

“I’ll stop immediately.”

“No.”

The word came out too fast.

Tim’s smile softened.

Slowly, like approaching a scared animal or a miracle, you placed your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours.

Warm. Careful. Real.

He looked down at your joined hands.

Your heart lurched. “Tim—”

His gaze snapped back to your face.

Still there. Still knowing enough.

The camera on his cowl gave a tiny mechanical whirr.

He grinned. “Science.”

You laughed wetly. “Dork.”

“Accurate.”

He rubbed his thumb once across your knuckles. “Can I ask you something?”

“You usually do.”

“Have I asked you on a date yet?”

Your entire brain short-circuited. “What?”

“I’m guessing no.”

“Tim.”

“That sounds like no.”

“You cannot ask me out because your own tech is bullying your memory into cooperating.”

“Actually, I can do whatever I want. I’m very stubborn.”

“You got stabbed yesterday.”

“Shot, then stabbed.”

“I swear to God—”

“Coffee,” he said.

You stopped.

His thumb moved again. “Just coffee. Somewhere public. Somewhere with reflective surfaces covered if needed, cameras on, notes ready, exits clear. Worst first date ever, logistically, but emotionally? Strong concept.”

You stared at him.

He looked nervous now. Actually nervous. Tim Drake, who fought assassins and solved murders and apparently stared down gods with caffeine and audacity, was nervous because he had asked you for coffee.

Your heart broke in a new direction. A better one, maybe.

“You might forget halfway through.”

“I might.”

“You might look back at me and not know we’re on a date.”

“I might.”

“That would be awful.”

“Probably.”

“And you still want to?”

Tim’s voice went quiet. “Yes.”

You searched his face.

There was no perfect answer there. No cure. No promise safe enough to build forever on.

Only Tim. Only trying. Only a boy with too much grief and too little sleep, holding your hand like forgetting was not the same as letting go.

You squeezed his fingers.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Tim’s smile bloomed slowly. The sunrise caught on his lenses, turning them gold. “Okay?”

“Coffee.”

“Coffee,” he agreed.

“And if you forget, I’m leaving you with the bill.”

His smile widened. “Reasonable.”

“And I’m picking the place.”

“Smart.”

“And no making Forget-Me-Not my codename.”

He hesitated.

“Tim.”

“Fine.”

“Tim.”

“Fine.”

You laughed. He looked at you like the sound was something worth surviving for.

Then, because the universe was still cruel but maybe not only cruel, Tim looked away.

A gull cried overhead.

The city moved.

His hand stayed in yours.

The device in his cowl whispered softly.

His fingers tightened.

Then he looked back.

For one splintered second, his face was blank.

Your heart braced itself.

Then he glanced at his wrist. At your hand. At your face.

And smiled.

“Hi,” he said.

You smiled back, tears slipping hot down your cheeks. “Hi.”

Tim lifted your joined hands, pressing his mouth gently to your knuckles.

Not because he remembered everything.

Because he chose to begin again.