Imagines and such for fictional men I love.

This morning had been a whole new beast. Moving the entire Fisk operation to the Presidential Hotel had been a monumental task from the moment Agent Nadeem entered the office to announce the transfer; trudging countless boxes, files and equipment from the office in New York traffic was practically a prison sentence. A 7am start running back and forth – you were certain that you’d need to buy a new pair of shoes with the way you could feel the sidewalk grating against the balls of your feet, worn thin. And then there was that asshole, you didn’t even know his name, who’d snapped his fingers at you and demanded to know where his latest latte macchiato was.

So, yeah, you’d snipped at him. Told him to fuck off and exactly where he could find it along with the rest of his manners. That had been swiftly followed be a deafening silence across the room, every agent within earshot craning round to catch a glimpse of the drama. Agent whatever had only kissed his teeth and ticked his head to the side, told you to take the rest of the day off since the pressure was clearly getting to you.

The red-hot blush that rises on your cheeks is instant as you begin to shove belongings into your bag, doing your utmost to avoid catching the stare of anyone in the room as you slip away. The sensation of eyes boring into your skin doesn’t even begin to cease until you shove your way through the lobby and out onto the street.

It’s only then that you allow your eyes to glaze over, sucking in a sharp breath in an attempt to quell the tears that threaten to burst over the seams.

A clatter of footsteps stops them from falling.

“Hey, uh, I saw what happened in there. That wasn’t cool.”

You whip around to find the culprit, and to your surprise, it’s a man you only vaguely recognise.

Special Agent Poindexter – but all the others call him Dex. You’d never breathed a word to him, only ever witnessed him in passing moments in hallways, in one room and out of the next. People seemed to like him, he was personable enough, if not with a bit of a snarky disposition. It came with the territory, you supposed, elite SWAT sniper was bound to have something about him. He was handsome though, tall with a collection of sharp edges that contrasted starkly with his warm, brown eyes.

How embarrassing to be called out by someone of such high standing.

“I know,” you sniffed, fixing your eyes on a piece of gum smashed into the concrete, not quite able to meet his eyes, “it won’t happen again, I promise. I know it was unprofessional. It’s just been a long day.”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say its shock that he draws back in, “Oh no, I didn’t mean you. That guy’s an asshole. He’d been snapping at you all day – only got what was coming to him.”

It’s then that you flick your eyes up to meet his, only to find them filled with something so deeply genuine it’s as though his face can’t contain it. Tender. That’s the word for it. Caring. You can’t seem to drag yourself away from his stare, not that you particularly want to.

“Oh, thank you,” it comes out as nothing more than a breath, but you’re certain he catches it anyway. You pause before adding, “Agent Poindexter.”

It’s his turn to blush then; you spy the way it shifts from the tips of his ears to lightly colour his cheeks. He seemed shy, an emotion ill-befitting of a man so notorious for his sharp attitude.

“You know my name?” There’s a reverence in the way he says it, like its tinged with awe. You’re not certain anyone has ever spoken to you with such veneration.

You bite back a laugh, “Everyone knows your name. Especially after you kicked ass with the Albanians.”

Something shifts in his expression briefly, the shine in his eyes seems to dull for just an instant before returning again. It’s practically undetectable, and quite frankly you only catch it because of your sheer inability to shift your gaze from his own. 

He breaks the spell quickly with a cough, thrusting a cup forward in your direction, “You said you’d had a long day. That sounds hard, really hard. I, uh, think I got your order right.”

Wordlessly, you collect the cup in your hands a take a sip. Probably not particularly good vetting for an FBI agent; you’d be terribly easy to poison. But it’s perfect. Exactly how you’d order it yourself. It’s impossible to stop the smile that splits its way onto your cheeks.

“How did you know?”

“Oh,” his eyes dot around a tad frantically. It’s endearing, particularly when his hand comes up to scratch his temple, “I’ve done the coffee run a few times.”

You don’t think you’ve ever ordered coffee with the group, preferring to get it from the cart in front of the hotel rather than the bar. It’s nicer there and the man pouring it always pays you a compliment. Poindexter’s observant, then.

“Well, thank you, Agent Poindexter. I should probably be heading home but,” you pause, offering him one final grin, “I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah. 7am sharp, right?” The exhale that leaves him seems to rattle, something of an ease settling over his features as you nod back.

It’s a tad awkward as you spin on your heel to leave, tucking the coffee cup closer to your chest.

“Oh, one last thing,” he calls out, grin stretching wider now.

“Yeah?”

“Call me Dex.”

2

There’s always something disorienting about cracking your eyes open in a bed that isn’t your own; different scents clinging to your skin, the sun slipping through the curtains at a different angle. The sheets feel starchier, crisper, lacking the worn in feel that you’d associate with home.

But home can very quickly become a person rather than a place, and it was by no means a hardship to get used to waking up in Ben Poindexter’s apartment. 

It had been no surprise to find that his place was absolutely pristine the first time you’d stayed over, everything had its place – some of it purely logical, other parts an order that existed only in the walls of his mind but mattered just as much regardless. It was conscious, you knew that, a choice to dedicate himself to a life of order, but despite his best efforts there were smatterings of himself throughout the place.

It lingered in the carefully folded civvies that sat somewhere amongst the countless pressed suits and tactical gear. Or the baseball paraphernalia tuckered away behind the door that would make him blush and bury his face into the pillow if questioned on it. The specific brands of coffee that he’d claim didn’t matter because he’d drink anything, but you could see the ease on his features when it was one he particularly liked.

You’d long since given up on him lingering in bed in the mornings, he was a stickler for routine that not even the allure of a lazy wake-up could shift. The telltale tinker of pots and pans rings out from the kitchen, the smell of breakfast loitering through the apartment. 9:18. He’d go for a run at 9:30.

It’s a herculean effort to tear yourself from the sheets, consciousness hastened by the biting cold that nips at your skin. Fucking aircon. He always does run hot. It’s soundless as you slip his shirt from the previous day around your shoulders, and act in an of itself that would set his teeth on edge. He liked to see it on you, though. The panelling is freezing against your bare feet, but all of it’s worth it to catch just a glimpse of him.

Naturally, he’s already kitted out in his running gear, headphones nestled in a mop of grey flecked blond as he moves about the kitchen without a sound. There’s a precision in every twitch of muscle, no movement unaccounted for even when swanning around his home. You’d never seen him in action, not truly, but you can imagine that it would be a sight to see.

You revel in the moment he clocks you, a soft grin splitting on his cheeks. The way the corner of his eyes crinkle, brim with a tenderness you’d like to believe was reserved only for you.

“Good morning,” his voice is still rough from disuse, quiet and croaky as he pulls his headphones round his neck. He doesn’t bother asking as he slips a plate in front of you, just slides the cutlery across the counter to slot exactly in your palm.

You’d never had to tell Dex what you liked, he always seemed to just know. He didn’t eat what you did, often opting for some bland, protein-based meal to keep him functional throughout the day. Yet, the first night you’d stayed over, the plate had appeared in front of you, exactly as you wanted.

And it had done every time since.

“Uh, god, I don’t know how you do it,” you yawn and stretch, beginning to stab at the plate with your fork, “I guess I’ll keep you around.”

He seems to preen at that, shoulders straightening out somewhat. Without fuss, he simply leans across the counter to press a quaint kiss your forehead, “I do anything for you, baby, you know that. Breakfast barely scratches the surface.”

“You’re too good to me,” you hum, shoving forkfuls in your mouth.

Something in his expression seems to flicker, his brows knit together in a quiet confusion. You can practically hear the mechanisms in his brain whirring, pupils darting from side to side. His shoulders drop again; the action being replaced with the grating of his jaw.

“Too good to you? Do you not like it?” It’s quiet, wavering, laden with insecurity. He looks hurt, confused even.

You practically lurch across the counter to take your hand in his own, “No, Dex, no. I didn’t mean it like that. You’re perfect. Everything is perfect.”

Your earnest outburst seems to settle him somewhat; but you can still see the tension taut across his temples. He sucks in a slow breath, quiet and self-soothing, only to plaster a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“What are you doing today? Any plans?”

“Oh, I’m meeting an old friend from high school. It’ll be nice, we haven’t had the chance to catch up in years,” you offer it as casually as possible, trying not to give away the concern wedged in the back of your throat.

He hums, strained, “That sounds like it will be really nice.”

“I know, he was so funny in school—”

“He?” It’s severe and instant, and Dex reels so quickly his back hits the other side of the kitchen, “It’s a guy?”

“Dex—”

“No.” He shakes his head, half disbelief, half determination. It’s as though you’ve slapped him, abject horror lacing every feature. You don’t think you’ve even seen him so distraught.

The clock ticks over. 9:31.

“Dex, sweetheart,” it comes out as a shaky laugh, “He’s gay. It’s not like that. He’s just an old friend.”

“He could just be telling you that,” he spits, all venom. It’s a twisted, small anger that worms its way forward, and you can see just how desperately he’s trying to keep himself together, “What if he’s just telling you that?”

You deadpan, “Dex, I’ve watched him make out with men at parties for as long as I can remember. We met because I walked in on him and another man. Trust me, you’re much more his type than me.”

Something in him quiets at that, anger dissipating into something more delicate, “You’re sure?”

“There’s only one thing I’m more certain of.”

He looks like a skittish dog as he stares around the room, desperately searching for any kind of indication of what you could be referencing. It comes out stuttered and broken, “What…what is it?”

It’s 9:34.

“How I feel about you, Dex. I love you. Only you,” you approach him slowly, bringing a hand up to cradle his jaw in the hopes of redirecting his intention to you and you alone. “I want you to trust me.”

He practically melts under your touch, doe eyes split wide, “I love you. I love you so much. I do trust you. Of course I trust you. I just don’t trust them.”

Your heart aches for him, sadness practically bleeding onto the linoleum. You haven’t been privy to the nuances of his upbringing, only bits and pieces here and there, but you can’t stifle the blazing hatred you feel for anyone who would have ever done him wrong. 

It’s uncharacteristically violent, and you can’t help but wonder if maybe that’s the price of loving so deeply.

You’re not quite sure how long passes until you finally pull back from the embrace, but you’re satisfied with the unknitting of his brow.

“Why don’t you go out on your run? It might make you feel better, hm?” you offer, tracing circles on his palm.

“Can’t now.” Clipped. “It’s too late.”

“Well…why don’t you come to lunch with me? James would like to meet you. It could be nice,” you rake a hand through his hair, “Take your mind off things.”

His lip quirks upwards, contained but there. His features begin to brighten, “Really? You want me to meet your friend?”

“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I want them to meet the most important person in my life?”

You’re not entirely convinced he won’t cry, eyes glazing over somewhat. The nod is barely a twitch of his head, and you offer him the brightest smile can you muster. He lets you slip your hand into his own tugging him forward and round the counter.

“C’mon then, sunshine. Let’s go get ready. I think you’ll like the coffee there.”

3

“Dex, I already have a gun. FBI, remember?”

“Nah, that’s some standard issue bullshit. This is a proper gun.”

You’d hadn’t questioned him on it when Dex had told you he wanted to go try out a new shooting range upstate, thought maybe it might snap him out of his slump, ignoring the perfectly good training facility that FBI provided free of charge. Maybe it was some fancy place that would make it a tad more challenging for him. 

But no, it was some dump on the side of a random highway. The place was practically held together by sticks, it’s only patrons drunkards that you weren’t entirely convinced wouldn’t shoot your foot off by accident.

You fling your hands down at your sides in frustration, “I don’t know why we’re here. I can shoot well enough for the FBI.”

Dex only hummed, inspecting the new pistol he’d brought you over in his palms, testing the weight, “Not well enough for me.”

“Nobody can shoot well enough for you,” you huff, snatching it from him, “I hope that’s not what you’re expecting.”

“I’m not unreasonable, baby,” his smirk is coy, “Just wanted to give you some pointers s’all. Go on, give it a go.”

He nudges you forward into the booth with a soft tap on your ass, snapping the ear protectors over your head with a cheeky grin. But he looks tired in a way that no amount of laughing and giggling can mask.

You could just chalk it up to the situation with the Bureau – Dex had not long been reinstated after the drama with the Albanians, only after you’d had to watch him slip into a spiral for weeks. Fucking ridiculous shit. And the hours they’d had him working with Fisk since then. Of course, the asshole needed 24/7 security, but why it always had to be your boyfriend at all times of the night was beyond you.

It could be something more than that, but if there’s one thing you know about Dex, pressing him on it will not get you anywhere close to the answer.

“If I hit the target, will you tell me why we’re in the middle of nowhere?”

“I know you can hit the target,” his arms come to cross his chest, “I’ll tell you if you hit a bullseye.”

“Okay, asshole. What’s a bullseye? It’s a model of a person.”

Something inexplicably dark crosses his features, voice low and unwavering, “Killshot. Heart or Head. Dealer’s choice.”

 Fucking hell. You begin to worry your lip between your teeth, raising up the pistol and getting into the correct stance awkwardly. The gun is different to the ones at Quantico, that’s for certain, and yeah, the FBI taught you to shoot, but it’s not exactly your bread and butter.

Exhaling slowly, you fire two shots, aiming for the head of the target. They’re a bit crooked, one missing entirely and the other landing slightly off centre. Better than not at all. You don’t bother swinging round to gauge his reaction, sensing the word before it comes. Curt and short.

“Again.”

With a sigh, you make an overexaggerated performance of getting into position in the hopes it will break some of the nauseating tension emanating from the man behind you. You fire again, both hitting the chest this time – but again, ever so slightly off centre.

You hear his quiet tut, practically whispering to himself, “Not good enough.”

“Oh, come on, Dex,” you swing around, glaring at him expectantly, “It’s not like he wouldn’t be fucking dead.”

Without a sound, he marches to your side, snatching the damn thing from between your fingers. His eyes remain locked with yours the entire time as he raises his arm, unloading the rest of the clip into the target. Dead fucking centre, every single one. You can hear his teeth grinding against each other as he reloads it with ease, slamming it back into your palm.

“That’s fucking dead.” You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him so serious. 

You’d always known who Dex was, what he’d done and what he was capable of, but to see it so up close was another matter entirely. You’d never been frightened of him, and you weren’t, but there was far too much mystery around this particular hissy fit to let it slide.

“Again.”

“Dex.”

“I said again.”

“This isn’t funny, Dex–”

“Don’t hear any laughing, do you? You should get that checked, baby.”

“Don’t be a fucking–” you slam the gun down against the booth, “–asshole. I’m going to sit in the car.”

‘No, you’re not,” it’s infuriating, the way he can use his whole frame to block your escape. All he has to do is lean against the pillar and you can’t even see the exit, obscured by your ridiculously giant, stubborn-ass boyfriend. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

You’re fucking livid, “I’m not doing anything until you tell me why we’re in the middle of nowhere and you’re training me to be the fucking Winter Soldier.”

He snaps at that, yanking a frantic hand through his hair, “I want to know– need to know that you can protect yourself.”

“You’ve been just fine with how well I can protect myself until now! What’s changed?” You can only stare at him expectantly, glaring as he shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs with infuriating indifference.

“Things are different now.”

“What’s fucking different, Dex?”

“Everything!” He’s shouting, snapping even the drunkards from their daze to glare over at your little altercation. In an instant his voice drops dangerously low, “Things with Fisk are different now. It’s dangerous. And I need to know that you can protect yourself if I’m not there.”

You deflate a little at that, at least some of the tension draining away. Infuriating as he is, it was Dex 101. Overprotective and overzealous in making it known. In all likelihood, something small had ticked him off and he’d decided that it was a reason to kick off the next World War in the name of your safety. It probably shouldn’t endear you to him, it certainly doesn’t in the eyes of your friends, but it does you, nonetheless.

“C’mon Ben,” you sigh, poking his shoulder lightly, “Sweetheart. I can protect myself. You know that.”

It takes a second, but his jaw finally starts to slacken, hand coming up to massage his temple, “I know. I just don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you–”

Hooking your fingers into his shirt, you yank him down to press a kiss against his lips, revelling in the way his body jumps in surprise. A momentary flinch before he melts into it completely.

“Dex, you barely ever leave me alone. I can defend myself, yes, but I also have you around,” you slip your hand under his shirt just to feel the heat burning off him. It’s a dirty trick, knowing the skin-to-skin contact would turn him to little more than a pile of mush.

Of course, it does.

His response is barely even words, a jumble of noises that you can vaguely decipher as yes, baby. Offering him a pointed glance, you slide your hand across the hold the pistol again, shifting it from palm to palm until it feels comfortable.

“Let’s go then, hotshot, hit me with your pointers.”

A sly smile returns to his cheeks as he slots himself behind you, bringing his arms around to cage you in, tweaking your position slightly with murmured instruction. At his command, you fire two more shots. Bullseye. Naturally.

He’s beaming at you when you spin back around, swinging your arms around his neck in a cacophony of giggles while he whispers quiet praise in the shell of your ear.

You draw back, aiming the thing in dramatic poses. “Well, if the Daredevil tries to come for me, I’ll lay him flat.”

“Don’t even joke about that.”

4

You work. You pay your taxes. You always buy a sandwich for the guy sat outside the pharmacy on 9th Avenue on your way back home from work. You’d been found innocent in by a jury in the FBI-Fisk case, free and fit to carry on with your life without punishment.

There is absolutely no reason you should be summoned to Rikers Island.

It’s unnerving, and seemingly unnecessary. The Warden had claimed there was a ‘pressing matter that they would like to discuss in person’, only to clarify that you in fact had no choice in said matter as it concerned the Anti-Vigilante Task Force.

You have to choke down the bile rising in your throat as you recall the only vigilante you could be accused of knowing.

It had been a struggle to even get there, the journey adding another layer of complication to the affair. Just to rub salt in the wound, they kept you waiting for hours, watching aimlessly as the crowd in the waiting room dwindled down, filled up, and then dwindled down again before anyone called your name. At least they were making the day off work worth it.

The office is stifling, and before the Warden even opens his mouth, you know exactly the type. Smarmy and entitled, a power complex that could rival Fisk’s as he makes a point of standing over you perched in the seat in front of his desk. There’s another man there too, AVTF. Your FBI days may be far behind you, but your ability to read people had by no means faltered. He looked mean. Cocky in a way that’s only earned by those lording their power over others.

“We’re sorry to keep you waiting, ma’am,” the Warden folds his hands together in his lap, a disgusting grin plastered on his face, “you understand running a prison is a complicated and time-consuming affair.”

You only hum, unamused, “I can only imagine.”

“I know this may all seem rather unnecessary, but we do have a very important reason for calling you here today,” the man holds a finger up to your face, other hand fishing into his pockets for god only knows what.

He places a tooth on the desk next to him.

Shuffling uncomfortably, you offer him a tight smile, crossing your arms across your chest, “Warden, I don’t know if you’ve got me confused with someone else but I’m no dentist.”

“Well, it’s less a matter of the tooth itself and who it belongs to–”

“Ben Poindexter has escaped.”

Four words and your blood runs ice cold. It’s the AVTF officer who interrupts, barging his way in front of the warden to sit only inches away from your face, pure, unfiltered disgust glaring down at you.

Ben Poindexter has escaped.

You might be sick.

“What…what do you mean Ben Poindexter has escaped?”

The Warden barks out a laugh so jarring it makes your skin crawl, desperate to reinsert himself in the exchange. “We’ve avoided leaking information to the public for the time being – no use creating needless anxiety. He escaped last night after killing two guards and a prison doctor. We have reason to believe he took the staff bus into the city.”

Dex has escaped.

“I don’t understand,” your voice starts low, employing every attempt to steel yourself, “what Ben Poindexter escaping would have to do with me.”

The AVTF asshole leans forward, disgusting breath smothering your senses, “I think you know exactly what Ben Poindexter escaping would have to do with you.”

In a pinch, you muster together a faint laugh, desperately pleading that the men before you won’t peek through the façade, “Yes, me and Ben Poindexter dated a very long time ago. Before, he was found to be the fake Daredevil, institutionalised, murdered Foggy Nelson and got institutionalised, again. I haven’t seen him since before…that.”

“You seem to have a very extensive knowledge of Poindexter’s history, ma’am,” the AVTF officer snaps, laced with accusation. You’re not ignorant to the way his eyes narrow, peeling over every inch of you with pure distain.

It’s not an unfamiliar reaction to people finding out you had sex with Bullseye, regardless of the fact he had just been Dex back then. You’d have thought you murdered Father Lantom right alongside him.

“What can I say? Most girls like to keep tabs on their ex-boyfriends, Officer,” you shrug as nonchalantly as you can manage, ignoring the way it seems to grate your bones against each other.

Ben has escaped.

That gets the Warden howling, slapping his hand against his knee with an overexcited guffaw. AVTF seems less impressed, lips only barely twitching into what could be considered a smile.

“Harbouring anyone accused of vigilante crimes carries a sentence under the Safer Streets Act. You wouldn’t happen to have had any contact with Poindexter in the past 24-hours would you?”

“Do you really think that if Poindexter had paid me a visit in the past day, I would be sat here right now? Do you think he would’ve let me?” The rage is boiling now, and you can feel yourself spitting the words out. Probably not the wisest move, but it’s all you can do to detract from the churning sensation in your gut.

“Couldn’t say, ma’am, you’re much more,” AVTF pauses to rake his eyes across you, head-to-toe, “familiar with him than me.”

Dex would fucking kill you, is all you can manage to think.

You stand, pulling your coat tight across yourself, “No, I have not seen Poindexter in the past 24-hours. No, I do not expect to see Poindexter in the next 24-hours. I have not seen Ben Poindexter in nine years. Am I free to go or do you have something to charge me with, Officer?”

The Warden tuts, plucking the tooth up and inspecting it, “You are free to go, ma’am. Any time. However, we do have this to give you before you leave.”

It’s a feeling of vertigo that overcomes you, and you can only stare back in horror. He holds the thing out expectantly, shaking it in his palm until you open yours, dropping it into with a chuckle. You roll it between your fingers.

“I don’t understand,” you echo for the second time in far too short a time period, “Why are you giving this to me?”

“Poindexter left a note, you see, crazy bastard,” the Warden shrugs, “was very explicit. Said that we had to give it to you.”

Jesus Christ.

It was Dex’s fucking tooth.

You think you might pass out; it’s so miniscule yet so deeply, deeply disturbing. It makes you want to vomit, sit on the floor and wail, batten the hatches of your apartment and never leave to see the light of day again. It feels like a threat.

It’s borderline euphoric to touch a part of him again. 

“How…” you can barely find the words, your throat seeming to fail under the pressure, “how did you get it?”

AVTF offers you a sick smile.

“He spat it at one of the guards. Killed them on the spot.”

+1

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

The noise that crawls its way out your throat is guttural. You can barely find your way to your feet – blood is so much slipperier than the movies make it seem. It’s flooding every one of your senses, hot and metallic and rancid.

And those noise.

He lays flat on the floor, a horrible gurgling sound akin to a draining gutter pipe bubbling out of the wound in his neck. He has to be dead, he has to be, but every latent twitch of his fingertips sends you reeling backwards as far away as possible. All you can do is cry, heaving sobs that shake your whole body to its core. You can’t even wipe at your eyes, lest you get mouthful of another man’s blood congealing against your fingertips.

You’re not sure how long you sit there, crying sometimes, others just staring. Time seems both infinite and instant, the only soundtrack the protests raging on just outside your door.

You scream when the hand settles itself on your shoulders.

“Hey, stop it, it’s me.”

There’s no way.

“Dex?” you stutter out, barely able to form his name between your chattering teeth. It takes less than a second for another wail to tear through, “Dex.”

“I’m here.” He slots himself behind you, pulling you taut against his chest without hesitation; like it hasn’t been nine years or ninety bodies since the last time he held you so close. 

You vaguely notice the whispers he presses into your ear, blurring together in one long slur – he sounds different to how he did all those years ago, gruffer, more tired, but blanker too. Like someone kept all of his words and sucked out the cadence.

Eventually you recognise, “I think you’re going to want me to sort that out.”

You scramble away slightly, finally twisting round to look at his face, “Dex, what are you doing here?”

He looks so much older. There’s more grey striping through his blonde. New scars that litter his cheekbones, the smile lines you’d once worshipped embedded into an expression that was so much more sinister than you remember him. Maybe he always looked like that.

“Watching you,” he offers lazily, “obviously.”

Like that’s supposed to be comforting.

“You can’t– you’re not supposed to be here, Dex.”

He only raises a brow, nodding to the corpse in the corner, “You don’t want me to sort that out then.”

You let out another whimper as you force yourself to glance over to the body, detesting the way his open eyes seem to follow you no matter where you move. You want to protest, want to tell Dex to get the fuck out of your apartment and never step foot in New York again. Not that he would oblige by either.

An almost bored huff whistles through his lips as he begins to heave himself off the floor, “Go have a shower. Leave your clothes outside the door. I’ll sort it.”

“Dex, I–”

“Shower.”

You don’t protest, opting to let autopilot take over. You can barely remember clambering into the shower until the water is scalding your skin, raw and tender. It takes you a second to come to, surveying the welts that litter your arms, shredded skin at your knees. Breaths come heavy, like each one requires you to lift the weight of the world with your lungs. Eventually, you muster up enough air to push yourself forward, flicking the water off with a twitching finger and letting the cold air hit as you rip the curtain back –

Dex is sat on the fucking toilet seat.

It’s an odd sight; he’s massive, so much bigger than he used to be, clad head to toe in tactical gear and knives as big as your forearm, poised languidly in the corner like a cat basking in the sun. He’s picking at his fingernails with your file.

“What the fuck, Dex?” you practically rip the holder out of the wall with the force at which you gather the towel around yourself, hair dripping wet onto the floor.

He doesn’t even spare a glance up, “Not like it’s anything I haven’t seen before.”

For an instant it’s so easy to pretend. To forget about the corpse on your kitchen floor and imagine that it was just a stupid domestic. That Dex does this all the time and it’s just some endearing honeymoon phase quirk that he never quite developed out of. So easy to imagine what it would have been like if he’d been there the whole time.

Instead, you let out a slow exhale, forcing yourself past his outstretched legs only to falter at the doorknob, “Is he–”

“It’s gone,” Dex lets out a low whistle, “Like it was never there.”

You don’t dare ask what he’s done with it. It’s better if you don’t know. That way when they come asking questions you can–

“You wanna tell me why there was a dead AVTF guy in your apartment?” There’s no hostility in it, just infuriatingly casual. He finally sets the file aside with a heavy sigh, hooking two of his gloved fingers in yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You wanna tell me why you’re in my apartment?” You watch as he lifts your hand steadily, eyes dropping down to your fingernails. He only tuts softly, reaching for the file again to chip away the blood left crusted there.

“Told you. Been watching you.”

“Dex.”

You watch his eyes roll, “You really think I’d get out of prison and not keep tabs on you. Especially after the Warden.”

You’re not sure you want to know the answer, “Is he–”

“Dead? Yeah. Other AVTF guy too.”

It’s silent for a bit after that, Dex chipping away at your hands while you stand and let him. At some point, he pulls his gloves off, skin brushing delicately against your own. It’s hard, mainly because you think you might cry. Mainly because nobody has touched you that delicately in nine years, and because it’s Dex who handles you so softly regardless of how many lives those same hands have snuffed out.

Satisfied, he eventually drops your hand and watches it swing at your side for a few moments before finally staring up at you, “Why was he here?”

“Since the Warden they were convinced that you were here, staying with me, or that I was helping you,” the words are wet and heavy in your mouth, “They’ve been by countless times, turn my apartment upside down looking for you.”

“I know. I keep killing them.”

You can’t help the laugh that barks out, and you can only slap your hand across your face in horror, an attempt to stifle the borderline manic giggles, “Well, that’s probably why they keep coming.” 

He laughs too at that, a deep rumble in the back of his throat. He may look a tad different to before, but there’s an occasional twinkle of warmth in his eye that reeks too much of a nostalgia you thought for certain you’d packaged away.

“I think with the protests, he thought he could slip in and take me out. Probably thought he’d save a lot of friends doing it.”

“He wouldn’t have,” there’s an unnerving certainty in Dex’s voice, “I would’ve killed them all.”

“Were you always this disturbed?” You hate the way there’s affection in your words, or the way that you seem to migrate to his touch without meaning to.

“Yes, and you’ve always been a shit shot. You’re lucky you severed his windpipe, because you missed every damn major artery,” the smirk plastered on his face is lethal, and for a second, he looks so handsome you can barely contain the feeling in your chest.

“Do you think they’ll come looking for him? The, uh, AVTF guy.”

“Nah,” he shrugs, “There’s going to be a lot of dead AVTF around tonight, and I made sure no one will be able to trace it back to here.”

For just a second, a sensation so overwhelming threatens to fight its way out of your throat, and you don’t manage to quell the urge to bring a hand up to cradle his jaw, featherlight, but enough.

“I never thought I’d say this,” you let out a breathy laugh, “it’s good to see you again. Thank you for helping me.”

His lip quirks ever so slightly, it’s not much, but it’s the closest thing to genuine you’ve seen written on Dex’s face all night.

“I told you a long time ago, sweetheart, breakfast barely scratches the surface.”

dex: who do you fink gave u the teef?

That was the first lesson.

The second was that someone always had to catch what was left.

Dick had built a life out of becoming that someone. He caught teammates before they hit concrete. Caught civilians before buildings collapsed. Caught the Titans when they spiralled, caught Bruce when he vanished too far inside the Bat, caught Jason’s anger when nobody else could hold it without bleeding, caught Tim’s exhaustion before it became a body bag, caught Damian’s sharp edges and pretended they did not cut.

He smiled. He joked. He opened his arms and made himself the net. It was easier that way.

People trusted nets. People did not ask if nets were tired.

You did, though.

That was one of the first things that unsettled him about you.

You always asked.

“Shoulder?” you said, appearing beside him before he had even fully made it through the medbay doors.

Dick looked down at the red line slicing through his suit, just under the joint. “Hello to you too.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is it the shoulder?”

“It is deeply rude that you know that from ten feet away.”

“It’s my entire thing.”

“Your entire thing is being bossy and magical.”

“My entire thing is healing idiots who think flirting counts as a treatment plan.”

He gasped and pressed his uninjured hand to his chest. “You think I’m flirting?”

“I think you’re bleeding on my floor.”

“That’s not a no.”

You gave him a look.

Dick smiled.

It was easy with you.

That was the problem. Most things with you felt easy, even when they weren’t. Even in the aftermath of horror, with sirens in the distance and smoke still clinging to everyone’s suits, you had a way of lowering the temperature in a room. You came in with steady hands, soft eyes, and a voice like warm water over bruised skin.

You were the Titans’ miracle.

Not that you liked being called that. Gar had tried once, dramatically, from a medbay cot after you healed three cracked ribs and a bruised spleen.

“My angel,” he had declared, one hand thrown over his forehead. “My saviour. My divine little first-aid kit.”

You had thrown a roll of gauze at his head.

Vic had laughed for a full minute.

Kory had kissed your cheek in gratitude.

Raven had watched you with that quiet, knowing look of hers.

Dick had watched too. He watched more than he should have.

He watched the way your face tightened for half a second after you healed someone. The way you always turned slightly away before taking a breath. The way you flexed your fingers like you were shaking off static. The way you insisted on cleaning up alone afterwards.

At first, he thought healing took energy. That made sense. Every power had a cost. Every body had limits.

You told them yours was fatigue.

Dick believed you.

Not because he was careless.

Because he wanted to. Because after years of watching good people stay hurt, there was something dangerously addictive about watching wounds vanish under your hands.

When Raven came back from a mission with psychic backlash clawing through her mind, and you pressed your fingers to her temples until her breathing evened out, Dick did not ask why you spent the next hour sitting alone in the dark.

When Gar twisted his knee badly enough that the sound made everyone in the room wince, and you healed him before the panic really hit, Dick did not ask why you limped afterwards.

When Kory took a blast meant for a child, and her skin split gold-bright across her ribs, Dick did not ask why your own hand shook as you helped her sit up.

He noticed. But noticing was not knowing.

That was what he told himself later. Over and over. Like repetition could turn guilt into absolution.

He noticed. He just didn’t know.

Not yet.

The night everything changed began with rain.

Blüdhaven rain was different from Gotham rain. Gotham rain fell like a verdict. Cold, black, heavy with memory. Blüdhaven rain came down silver beneath neon signs, slicking the streets until every alley looked like it had been painted in oil. It turned rooftops treacherous, fire escapes slippery, windows into mirrors.

Dick loved it anyway.

It was his city. Bruised, stubborn, trying. A little ugly in the right light. A little beautiful in the wrong one.

The Titans had come because the call was too big for one vigilante and too strange for local police. A new metahuman trafficking ring had gotten its hands on alien tech and old magic, which was never a combination that suggested anyone involved had made good life choices.

By midnight, the docks were burning. By twelve-thirty, three warehouses had partially collapsed. By one, the sky above Blüdhaven was full of drones shaped like metal wasps, each one armed with sonic emitters strong enough to rupture glass and destabilise inner ears.

“Tell me again why crime can’t be normal,” Gar shouted over comms.

Dick flipped over a drone, brought both escrima sticks down, and sent it sparking into the rain-slick rooftop. “You want normal crime?”

“I want crime that doesn’t make my teeth vibrate.”

“You have teeth right now?” Vic asked.

“I have emotional teeth.”

“That tracks,” you said over comms.

Dick smiled despite himself. Your voice always did that to him. Cut through the noise. Found him.

“You’re supposed to be behind the barricade,” he said, ducking under a burst of sonic fire.

“I am behind the barricade.”

“You’re too calm.”

“I’m very calm behind the barricade.”

Raven’s voice came in, flat as ever. “They are not behind the barricade.”

Dick exhaled sharply. “Of course they’re not.”

“I’m near the barricade,” you corrected.

Kory flew overhead, a streak of orange through the storm. “Friend healer, there are many injured civilians near the west warehouse.”

“I see them.”

Dick’s attention snapped toward the west side of the docks.

Through the rain, he saw you moving below.

Not at the barricade. Not near the barricade. Running straight toward the worst of the damage, because apparently, self-preservation was not included in the miracle package.

“Absolutely not,” Dick said.

“You sound like Bruce.”

“That was cruel and unnecessary.”

“You’ll live.”

“Not if you keep sprinting into active combat zones.”

“Then stop watching me and stop the drones.”

A drone screamed toward you.

Dick moved before thought could catch up. He launched himself from the rooftop, grapple line firing, body arcing low through rain and smoke. The drone’s emitter pulsed once. Pain stabbed through his ears. His vision blurred.

He released the line. Dropped. Twisted.

His boot connected with the drone hard enough to crack the metal shell. It spun away and exploded against the side of a warehouse in a shower of blue sparks.

Dick landed in front of you, one knee down, rain streaming off his hair.

You stared at him.

He looked up with his best smile. “Hi.”

Your eyes narrowed. “That was incredibly dramatic.”

“I’m a performer.”

“That was incredibly stupid.”

“I’m also Batman-adjacent.”

“Unfortunately accurate.”

Behind you, a civilian groaned.

Your expression shifted instantly.

There was the healer.

The softness vanished into focus. You moved past Dick and dropped beside a woman pinned beneath a collapsed beam. Her leg was crushed at an angle that made Dick’s stomach turn. Her breathing came in panicked sobs.

“Hey,” you said gently, all teasing gone. “Look at me. Not the leg. Me.”

The woman grabbed your wrist with shaking fingers. “I can’t—I can’t feel—”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

Dick watched you place both hands over the injury.

He watched your shoulders rise as you inhaled.

Then the woman gasped.

The beam shifted. Dick lifted it enough for Vic to pull her free.

Her leg was whole. Bruised, but whole.

She started crying.

You smiled at her.

Then, very subtly, your left knee buckled.

Dick caught it.

Not much. Just one hand at your elbow, enough to steady you.

You went stiff beneath his touch.

“You okay?” he asked.

You smiled too quickly. “Fine.”

There it was. That word.

Dick hated it when Bruce used it. Hated it when Jason spat it through bloodied teeth. Hated it when Tim said it without looking up from a laptop.

He hated it most from you.

Because you made it sound kind.

Another drone shrieked overhead before he could say anything.

The docks trembled.

Raven’s voice cut through comms. “Nightwing, the central warehouse is rigged. There are people inside.”

“How many?”

“Too many.”

Dick looked up. The central warehouse stood at the edge of the pier, half its roof torn open, old brick walls glowing with intermittent blasts of alien-blue light. Through the broken windows, he saw movement.

Civilians. Hostages.

The structure groaned. Then the upper floor exploded outward.

Kory shouted. Dick ran.

You called his name.

He ignored you.

He heard you following anyway.

Of course he did.

Inside, the warehouse was chaos.

Smoke. Screaming. Sprinklers raining dirty water from cracked pipes. Drones buzzing between support beams like insects. Civilians huddled behind shipping containers while armed traffickers tried to retreat through a back exit.

Nightwing moved through them like a blade wrapped in blue light.

Strike. Dodge. Flip. Disarm. Smile, because fear spread faster when people saw the hero afraid.

“Exit to the south!” he shouted. “Go! Go now!”

Kory blew a hole through a side wall for evacuation. Vic ripped open jammed doors. Raven shielded a group of children from falling debris. Gar, currently a gorilla, blocked a collapsing beam with both massive hands and yelled, “I would like everyone to appreciate my core strength!”

You were everywhere you should not be. Healing a burned firefighter. Pressing a hand to a child’s forehead. Closing the wound across a police officer’s side. Calm, quick, relentless.

Too relentless.

Dick saw your face pale. He saw the way you pressed one hand briefly to your ribs after healing the officer.

Something in him tightened.

Then the floor screamed.

Not cracked.

Screamed.

The alien tech at the centre of the warehouse pulsed, drawing power from the old magical sigils carved beneath the concrete. The combination sent a shockwave through the building.

Every support beam lit blue.

Raven’s shield shattered. Kory slammed into a wall. Gar lost his grip.

The ceiling began to come down.

Dick saw it happen in pieces.

A family trapped near the upper catwalk. A little boy separated from his mother. The metal walkway beneath them twisting loose.

No time for the grapple. No time for a plan.

Just the fall.

Dick launched himself upward, using a stack of containers as steps. His boots hit metal. His body moved on instinct, rainwater and smoke and adrenaline turning the world sharp.

He grabbed the boy first and tossed him toward Kory, trusting her to catch him.

She did. Of course she did.

The mother screamed as the catwalk tilted.

Dick caught her wrist.

For half a second, they hung there over open air.

“Don’t look down,” he told her.

She looked down.

They always looked down.

A support cable snapped. The catwalk dropped. Dick twisted, threw the woman upward with everything he had, and felt Vic’s metal hand close around her coat.

Then the world gave way beneath him.

Falling was supposed to be familiar.

This was not.

The sonic emitters went off all at once.

His inner ear shattered into static. The building spun wrong. His grapple fired but missed the broken beam by inches. His fingers closed on nothing. His shoulder clipped metal hard enough to tear a shout from his throat.

Then he hit a lower catwalk.

Pain cracked across his back.

He bounced. Fell again.

He tried to turn. Tried to tuck.

Couldn’t.

There were too many angles. Too much debris. Too much noise.

The ground rushed up.

For the first time in years, Dick Grayson did not know how to fall.

He hit concrete.

And everything stopped.

At first, there was no pain.

That was how Dick knew it was bad. Pain was information. Pain told you what was damaged and how much time you had before the body started making executive decisions without you.

No pain meant the body had gone quiet. No pain meant the damage had passed language.

He stared up at the broken ceiling. Rain fell through the hole in the roof, silver and soft against his face.

Someone was screaming his name. Maybe several someones.

Dick tried to move.

Nothing happened.

Not his legs. Not his right hand. His chest moved, barely. Breath scraping in shallow and wrong.

Ah. That was bad.

A shadow fell over him.

You.

Your face appeared above his, wet with rain, streaked with soot, eyes wide with a terror that did not belong on you.

“Dick,” you said.

He tried to smile. He wasn’t sure if it worked.

“Hey,” he breathed.

It came out broken.

Your hands hovered over him, trembling.

That scared him more than the fall. You never trembled.

“Don’t move,” you said.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Your face twisted.

Bad joke. Wrong moment. Classic Grayson.

He tried to lift his hand to touch your face.

Nothing.

Your eyes flicked down.

You saw.

He saw you see.

“Talk to me,” you said.

“Can’t feel…”

He stopped.

Your lips parted.

He did not want to finish the sentence.

He had spent his life moving. Flying. Running rooftops. Dancing along edges so narrow most people could not stand on them without shaking. His body was not just a tool. It was memory. Family. Language. A living echo of the Flying Graysons.

He could not feel half of it.

“Dick,” you whispered.

The building groaned around you. Distantly, Kory shouted for you both. Vic cursed. Raven’s power surged dark and bright somewhere behind the smoke.

You cupped Dick’s face. Your hands were warm despite the rain.

“I’m here,” you said.

He believed you. That was the danger.

“Don’t,” he managed.

Your expression shifted.

He was not Bruce. He had not figured it out fully. Not yet. But something old and instinctive in him understood the shape of sacrifice when it leaned too close.

You had looked pale after healing people. You had limped after fixing Gar’s knee. You had hidden your hand after Damian broke his wrist on a mission with the Supersons. You had smiled through it all.

“You’re hurt,” he said.

You shook your head. “You’re dying.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t.”

Your eyes filled. “Dick—”

“Please.”

That word hurt more than the fall. Please was not a word Nightwing used often in the field. Please belonged to civilians, to scared children, to moments too human for masks.

Your face broke. Only for a second.

Then you leaned down and pressed your forehead to his.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His heart lurched.

“No,” he said, or tried to.

Your hands slid beneath his shoulders.

And then the pain came.

Not his.

Yours.

He knew because it came with your scream. It tore through the warehouse, raw and animal and absolute.

Dick’s body snapped back into itself. Sensation flooded his legs. His fingers. His lungs. Pain, yes, but normal pain. Bruises. Strains. Things he knew how to name.

His spine straightened. His ribs expanded. His right hand clenched.

He gasped and rolled onto his side, coughing through smoke.

For one impossible second, relief hit him.

Then he saw you.

You were on the concrete beside him, twisted at the same angle he had been. Your back arched unnaturally. Blood spread beneath you. One of your legs lay still, too still. Your hand curled against the ground, fingers shaking like they were trying to remember how to move.

Your mouth opened. No sound came out.

Dick’s world narrowed.

“No,” he said.

It did not sound like him.

He crawled to you, hands skidding in water and blood.

“No, no, no.”

Your eyes found his.

You looked relieved. Relieved. Like seeing him move was worth what had happened to you.

Something terrible opened inside him.

“Why would you do that?” he choked.

Your lips moved.

He leaned closer.

“Caught you,” you whispered.

Dick broke.

Not loudly. Not at first. The sound that left him was small. Fractured. A child’s sound buried under a man’s voice.

He gathered you into his arms with shaking hands, trying not to jostle your spine, trying not to touch anywhere wrong, trying not to look at the blood, the angle of your body, the proof.

The proof.

He had fallen. You had become the fall.

“Kory!” he screamed.

The name tore through his throat.

Orange light flashed.

Kory landed beside him hard enough to crack concrete. Her eyes went wide when she saw you.

“Oh, beloved healer,” she breathed.

Dick looked up at her, wild. “We need medevac.”

Vic’s voice came through comms, tight with horror. “Already calling it.”

Raven appeared from the smoke, her hood torn, shadows curling violently around her.

She looked at you. Then at Dick.

Her expression went white.

Not pale.

White. Like she had felt something nobody else could.

“She took it,” Raven whispered.

Dick stared at her. “What?”

Raven’s voice shook. “The injury. She took it from you.”

The warehouse seemed to tilt.

No. No, he knew that. He had seen it. He had felt his body become whole as yours broke.

But hearing it made it real in a way his mind had been refusing to allow.

Gar, shifted back into human form, stumbled toward them. “What do you mean took it?”

Raven swallowed. “Their power doesn’t erase wounds.”

Dick looked down at you.

Your eyes were half-closed now.

No.

No.

No.

“It transfers them,” Raven said.

No one spoke. Even the burning warehouse seemed to go quiet.

Dick pressed his fingers to your throat.

Pulse there.

Fast. Weak. Too weak.

“Stay with me,” he said, voice shaking. “Hey. Look at me. Come on, look at me.”

Your eyelids fluttered.

He smiled because he did not know how to do anything else with terror.

“There you are,” he whispered. “Stay with me, okay? I’ve got you.”

Your lips twitched faintly.

“Net,” you breathed.

“What?”

“You’re… always the net.”

Dick’s vision blurred.

“Yeah,” he said, voice breaking. “Yeah, baby. I’m the net. So you don’t get to fall through. You hear me?”

Your eyes closed.

Dick’s smile vanished. “No. No, no. Open your eyes. Open your eyes.”

Kory knelt beside him and placed one glowing hand carefully against your shoulder, not healing, not touching the wound, just there.

“Dick,” she said softly.

He shook his head. “They’re not dying.”

“No,” Kory agreed, though her voice trembled. “They are not.”

Dick looked down at you in his arms.

He had caught you.

Too late.

But he had caught you.

And he would not let go.

Titan Tower’s medbay had seen bad nights.

This was worse.

The room was full of people trying not to fall apart loudly.

Kory stood by the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her glow dimmed to a low, anxious pulse beneath her skin. Gar sat on the floor with his back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. Vic kept running diagnostics, jaw clenched, his human eye red. Raven stood in the corner with her hood up, shadows tucked close around her like grief with teeth.

Dick sat beside your bed and held your hand.

He had been told to leave twice.

He had not.

The first time, a nurse tried gentle concern.

The second time, Donna tried command voice.

Neither worked.

Finally, Raven had looked at everyone and said, “Let him stay.”

So he stayed.

You lay still beneath white sheets and too many wires, your body strapped carefully to prevent movement. Spinal stabilizers ran along your back. An oxygen line curved beneath your nose. Your face looked wrong without expression. Too empty. Too quiet.

Dick kept staring at your mouth. Waiting for it to quirk. Waiting for you to make a joke about his bedside manner. Waiting for you to open your eyes and call him dramatic.

His suit was still on. Torn, wet, stained with your blood and his own, though technically the blood was all yours now in the ways that mattered. Someone had thrown a blanket over his shoulders.

Probably Kory. Maybe Donna.

He did not remember.

He remembered your scream. He remembered your body twisting. He remembered Raven saying, It transfers them.

His hand tightened around yours. Your fingers did not move.

“Dick.”

Donna’s voice came from the doorway.

He did not look up.

“How long?” he asked.

She was quiet for a second. “The doctors don’t know.”

He nodded once.

Meaningless.

His gaze stayed on your face.

Donna came closer. “They said the injury may not behave like a normal spinal trauma. Their body processes transferred wounds differently.”

“May,” Dick repeated.

“Yes.”

“May not.”

“Yes.”

He laughed once. It was ugly.

Donna’s hand settled on his shoulder.

That almost undid him.

Dick bowed his head over your hand.

“I should have known,” he said.

Donna did not answer.

He hated her for that. Loved her for it too.

“I noticed things,” he continued, voice low. “After they healed people. I noticed.”

“Dick.”

“I noticed and I let it go.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should have.”

Donna squeezed his shoulder. “That is Bruce talking.”

His head snapped up.

She looked at him steadily.

“You are allowed to be hurt without making guilt useful,” she said.

Dick stared at her.

Then he looked back at you.

“Useful is all I’ve got right now.”

Donna’s expression softened.

Behind them, Gar made a broken sound.

“I let them heal me last week,” he said.

Everyone looked at him.

He stared at the floor. “My knee. It was nothing. Like, yeah, it hurt, but it wasn’t—” His voice cracked. “It wasn’t worth that.”

Raven closed her eyes. Kory turned away sharply.

Vic’s metal hand curled into a fist. “They healed my neural interface after Psimon fried half my systems.”

“They helped me after Trigon,” Raven said quietly.

Silence fell.

Not empty.

Crowded.

Every person in the room was remembering.

Every hand you had held. Every wound you had closed. Every time you had smiled afterward and said you were tired.

Only tired.

Dick felt sick.

Not because you had lied.

Because all of them had been relieved enough to believe you.

The door opened again.

Clark Kent stepped in, rain-dark hair mussed, glasses absent, Superman suit visible beneath a jacket he had clearly thrown on in a hurry.

He looked around the room once. Then at you.

His face changed.

“Oh,” he said softly.

That was all.

Just oh.

Dick wanted to stand. Wanted to say something. Wanted to be Nightwing, team leader, eldest brother, person who knew how to make everyone breathe again.

He couldn’t.

Clark came to the other side of your bed.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he said.

Dick nodded.

Clark’s eyes lowered to your still hand in Dick’s grip.

“They healed me yesterday,” Clark said.

Dick’s breath caught.

“Kryptonite burn,” Clark continued quietly. “They looked pale afterwards. Bruce noticed. He told them to rest.”

A horrible laugh escaped Dick. “Of course he did.”

Clark looked at him with infinite gentleness. “Bruce didn’t know either.”

Dick shut his eyes.

He could imagine Bruce finding out. The silence. The rage. The way he would turn terror into protocols and guilt into surveillance. The way he would blame himself first, hardest, longest.

Dick had learned from the best. Unfortunately.

“Can you hear anything?” Dick asked.

Clark’s face tightened.

Heartbeats. That was what Dick meant.

Clark nodded. “Their heart is steady for now.”

For now.

The phrase lodged under Dick’s ribs.

He looked down at you.

“Good,” he said, like the word had weight, like saying it could make it true. “That’s good.”

Clark stayed for a while.

So did everyone else.

One by one, though, they drifted out. Not far. Never far. Titans did not abandon their own. They lingered in hallways, in waiting rooms, in corners with vending machine coffee and red-rimmed eyes.

Eventually, only Dick remained.

He was good at vigils. He hated that too.

Hours passed in monitor beeps and the low hum of machines.

Your hand was warm in his.

That became his whole world.

Warm meant alive. Warm meant here. Warm meant not yet.

Near dawn, your fingers twitched.

Dick nearly came out of his chair.

“Hey,” he said, leaning forward. “Hey, I’m here.”

Your eyelids fluttered.

He forgot how to breathe.

Then your eyes opened. Unfocused at first. Cloudy with pain and medication.

Then they found him.

You smiled. Barely.

It devastated him.

“Hi, pretty bird,” you rasped.

Dick made a sound between a laugh and a sob.

“You’re not allowed to be charming right now,” he said.

Your brow furrowed faintly. “M’dying?”

“No.”

“Then I’m allowed.”

His mouth trembled.

You blinked slowly, gaze shifting around the room. “Tower?”

“Yeah.”

“Everyone okay?”

There it was. First question.

Not, Am I okay? Not, What happened?

Everyone.

Dick had never loved and hated anything more.

He leaned closer.

“No,” he said.

Your eyes came back to him.

“They’re not okay. I’m not okay. You scared the hell out of us.”

Your expression shifted with slow understanding.

Then memory returned.

He watched it happen.

The warehouse. The fall. The choice.

Your eyes filled. “Dick—”

“No.” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard and tried again. “No, don’t. Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t make it easier. Please don’t make it easier.”

You went quiet.

He pressed your hand to his forehead.

His shoulders shook once. Only once.

“I watched you become the fall,” he whispered.

Your breath hitched.

“You were—” He stopped, unable to finish. “You were on the ground. Like me. Because of me.”

“Not because of you.”

“You took my injury.”

“Yes.”

The honesty punched the air out of him.

No deflection. No lie. No, I’m fine.

Just yes.

Dick lifted his head. His eyes burned.

“How long?”

Your gaze slid away.

His stomach dropped. “How long have you been doing that?”

You were quiet.

Too quiet.

Dick understood before you answered.

“All of it?” he asked.

Your mouth trembled.

“Most of it,” you whispered.

Dick stood so fast the chair slammed backward.

You flinched.

He froze immediately.

Regret flashed through him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” He pushed both hands through his hair and turned away, pacing once before spinning back to you. “It’s not okay. None of this is okay.”

Your face had gone pale.

He forced himself to lower his voice. “You took Gar’s knee.”

You closed your eyes.

“Raven’s psychic backlash.”

A tear slipped down your temple into your hair.

“Kory’s burn.”

“Dick…”

“Vic’s neural damage. Clark’s kryptonite poisoning. Jason’s bullet wounds. Tim’s concussions. Damian’s broken bones. Mine.”

Your silence confirmed every word.

Dick felt like the room had tilted beneath him.

“How are you alive?” he whispered.

Your eyes opened.

There was something old in them then. Older than your face. Older than your smile.

“I heal faster than most people.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

“That sounds like something Bruce would say.”

A weak breath of laughter escaped you.

Dick did not smile.

The laugh died.

“I didn’t want you to know,” you said.

“No kidding.”

“Dick.”

His name in your voice hurt.

He came back to the chair slowly and sat down because standing made him want to run through walls.

You turned your head toward him.

The movement was tiny. It still cost you. He saw the pain ripple over your face.

“Don’t,” he said quickly.

You stilled.

He hated this. He hated all of it. The bed. The machines. Your body trapped under injury. His body whole because yours wasn’t.

“I need to know why,” he said.

“You know why.”

“No.” His voice came out sharper than intended. “No, I really don’t.”

Your eyes searched his face.

He let you see it. All of it. The fear. The anger. The betrayal. The love he had been carrying like a secret too fragile to name.

You looked away first.

“I didn’t want anyone to choose pain,” you said.

Dick stared at you.

“Everyone I work with is the same,” you continued. “The League. The Titans. The Outlaws. All of you. If I told you what healing costs me, you’d refuse unless you were unconscious or dying. Maybe even then.”

“Yes,” Dick said. “Because we’re not monsters.”

“You’re martyrs.”

He went still.

You looked back at him. Softly, exhaustedly furious.

“You are,” you said. “Every single one of you. You’d let yourselves bleed out if it meant I didn’t have to feel it. You’d call that noble. I call it stupid.”

Dick let out a stunned laugh. “You cannot be serious right now.”

“I am extremely serious.”

“You are lying in a medbay because you took a broken spine from me.”

“And I’d do it again.”

The room went silent.

Dick’s face crumpled before he could stop it.

You saw. Of course you saw.

Regret passed over your features.

“Dick—”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, don’t say that.”

“I can’t lie to you anymore.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to almost die for me and then tell me you’d do it again.”

“I love you.”

Dick stopped. Everything stopped.

The monitors kept beeping. Somewhere outside, someone walked down the hall. Rain tapped lightly against the Tower windows.

But inside Dick, every moving part went still.

You looked terrified now.

Not of death.

Of him. Of what he would do with the truth.

Your eyes glistened.

“I love you,” you said again, voice breaking. “And I know that’s not an excuse. I know it doesn’t make lying okay. I know it doesn’t make taking the choice away okay. But it’s the reason.”

Dick could not move. He had imagined hearing those words from you more times than he would ever admit. Usually in softer places. A kitchen at two in the morning. His apartment. A rooftop under a kinder sky. Your hand in his, your smile warm enough to make the world feel less like a thing that constantly needed saving.

Not here. Not with your spine braced. Not with your blood still dried under his fingernails.

“You can’t say that,” he whispered.

Your face went blank.

Dick realised what it sounded like and reached for you immediately.

“No. No, that’s not—” He sat on the edge of the chair, one hand hovering near yours. “That’s not what I mean.”

You looked at his hand.

He waited.

This time, he waited.

After a moment, you moved your fingers weakly toward him.

Permission.

Dick took your hand like it was made of light.

“You can’t say you love me like that,” he said, voice shaking. “Like it means your life is automatically worth less than mine.”

Your eyes filled again. “I don’t think that.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do,” he said, gentler now. “Because I know that trick. I invented that trick. I perfected that trick. I have a whole family of emotionally repressed vigilantes who could give a TED Talk on that trick.”

A watery laugh escaped you.

Dick’s thumb moved over your knuckles.

“I know what it looks like when someone calls self-destruction devotion,” he said.

Your smile faded.

He swallowed hard. “I know because I do it all the time.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you whispered, “Yeah.”

He laughed once, and this time it was almost real. “Rude.”

“Accurate.”

“Still rude.”

Your fingers twitched against his palm.

He lowered his head until his forehead rested against your hand.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

He held onto you tighter.

“I love you,” he said again, because now that the words were out, he could not bear to let them stand alone. “I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it. And I am so angry at you that I can barely breathe.”

You made a small sound.

He lifted his head.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“I only wanted you alive.”

His face twisted.

“I know,” he said.

That was the worst part. He knew.

There was no cruelty in what you had done. No malice. No carelessness.

Only love. Misdirected. Secretive. Devastating love. The kind that looked too much like his own.

Dick leaned forward and pressed his lips to your knuckles.

Your eyes closed.

He stayed there.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

“We have to tell everyone.”

Your eyes opened. Fear flickered.

“They already know some of it,” he continued. “Raven felt it. She told us what happened.”

You looked toward the door.

Dick followed your gaze.

Through the small window, shadows moved in the hallway.

The Titans.

Waiting. Hurting. Loving you.

Your mouth trembled. “They’re going to hate me.”

Dick shook his head immediately. “No.”

“They should.”

“No.”

“I lied to them.”

“Yeah,” he said. “And they’re going to be upset. They’re going to be scared. Gar is probably going to cry on you, so prepare emotionally for dampness.”

Despite everything, your lips twitched.

“Vic is going to pretend he’s fine and then build you seventeen medical devices,” Dick continued. “Raven is going to stare into your soul until you confess every symptom you’ve ever hidden. Kory might actually lift a car.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“She might. For emphasis.”

Your smile faded, but some of the terror went with it.

“And you?” you asked.

Dick breathed in.

“I’m going to stay mad for a while,” he admitted.

You nodded.

“But I’m also going to stay.”

Your face cracked open.

He leaned closer.

“I’m not leaving because this is hard,” he said. “I’m not leaving because you scared me. I’m not leaving because you made a bad choice trying to save me.”

Your eyes searched his.

“I need you to promise me something,” he said.

“Dick…”

“No secret healing. Not with us. Not anymore.”

Your jaw tightened. “Emergency circumstances—”

“We’ll define them.”

“You sound like Batman.”

“I know. I’m devastated too.”

A weak laugh.

His heart nearly buckled under the sound.

“I mean it,” he said. “You have to tell people what they’re agreeing to.”

You looked down. “I know.”

“And you have to let us take care of you afterwards.”

“That’s harder.”

“I know.”

“I’m bad at it.”

“Baby, you are catastrophically bad at it.”

You huffed.

He smiled faintly, then sobered. “But we’re going to practice.”

“We?”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushed your hand. “We.”

Your eyes glistened.

“Okay,” you whispered.

It was not enough.

But it was a beginning.

Dick could work with beginnings.

He was a circus kid. A vigilante. A Robin. A Nightwing. A man who had lost the ground and learned to trust the air anyway.

Beginnings were just another kind of leap.

The Titans entered one at a time. Gar cried first, obviously. He tried very hard not to, which made it worse. He stood beside your bed with his arms crossed, lower lip trembling, eyes too bright.

“I’m mad at you,” he said.

Your face softened. “I know.”

“I’m, like, really mad.”

“I know.”

“And sad. And mad. And also really glad you’re not dead, which is making the mad part complicated.”

“That sounds complicated.”

“It is.” His voice cracked. “You took my knee.”

Your eyes lowered.

Gar wiped his face with his sleeve. “It was just my knee.”

“Gar…”

“No, it was. It hurt, yeah, but I would’ve been fine. It wasn’t worth you hurting.”

You looked at Dick. He said nothing.

This was yours to answer.

You swallowed.

“At the time,” you said carefully, “it felt worth it to me.”

Gar looked stricken.

“I know that doesn’t make it okay,” you added quickly. “I know I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

Gar sniffled. Then he leaned down very carefully and hugged the top of your head.

Dick almost told him to be careful.

He did not.

You closed your eyes.

Gar whispered, “You’re not allowed to die. I already decided.”

“Okay,” you whispered back.

“Cool.”

Then he backed away, crying harder.

Vic came next.

He did not cry. He brought a tablet.

“I’ve got three ideas,” he said, voice too controlled, “for a biofeedback system that can warn before a transfer exceeds safe neurological load.”

You stared at him.

“Hello to you too,” you said.

Vic’s mouth twitched.

Dick smiled despite himself.

“Also,” Vic added, “I’m mad.”

“Noted.”

“And I’m building the thing anyway.”

“Also noted.”

Vic’s expression cracked slightly. “You should’ve told us.”

“I know.”

“I would’ve let you help,” he said quietly. “Sometimes. Maybe. But I would’ve wanted to know when helping me hurt you.”

Your eyes filled again.

“I know,” you whispered.

Vic nodded once.

Then he set the tablet on your bedside table like an offering.

Raven came after him.

She stood beside your bed, silent and pale, shadows moving slowly around her wrists.

You looked nervous.

Raven looked at you for a long time.

Then she said, “You took more than injuries.”

Your face went still.

Dick’s attention sharpened.

Raven’s eyes did not leave yours. “Emotional pain too. Psychic pain. Fear. Grief.”

You swallowed.

“Sometimes,” you said.

Dick felt like the floor had dropped again.

Of course. Of course there was more.

Raven’s expression tightened. “Mine?”

You closed your eyes. The silence answered.

Raven inhaled sharply.

Dick started to reach for her, but she lifted one hand.

You opened your eyes. “Only when it was too much. Only when I thought—”

“That I couldn’t survive it?” Raven asked.

You flinched.

Raven looked away.

For a moment, she was very young.

Then she stepped closer and placed two fingers lightly against your hand.

“I understand why,” Raven said. Your tears spilled over. “But do not do it again without asking me.”

“I won’t,” you whispered.

Raven nodded.

Then, after a pause, she added, “You are loved for more than your usefulness.”

You broke then. Quietly. Completely.

Dick stood, but Raven was already there, leaning carefully over you, touching your forehead with hers.

Not a hug. Not exactly.

Something quieter. Something sacred.

Kory came last.

She tried to be gentle.

Kory’s gentleness had always been a force of nature trying to fit through a doorway.

Her eyes shone bright green as she took your hand.

“My beloved friend,” she said, voice trembling, “you have carried pain alone when you had an army.”

You gave a wet laugh. “When you say it like that, it sounds very stupid.”

“It was,” Kory said.

Everyone blinked.

Kory’s chin lifted. “It was brave. It was loving. It was also stupid.”

Gar made a tiny sound. “She said the thing.”

Kory ignored him.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“You will not do this alone again,” she said.

You nodded, crying too hard to speak.

Dick watched them surround you.

Not crowding. Not demanding.

Just there. A net, woven from people who loved you enough to be angry.

For the first time since the warehouse, something inside him loosened.

Not healed. Not yet.

But held.

Recovery was slow. Not as slow as normal spinal trauma, because your body was strange and stubborn and apparently determined to give medical science a migraine.

But not fast either.

Feeling returned in fragments. Left foot. Right toes. Thighs. Hips. Pain followed each return like lightning learning your name.

You hated it.

Dick loved every sign because it meant you were still there, still fighting, still coming back.

He also hated it because every gasp from you felt like punishment.

He spent most days at your bedside.

At first, he tried to make himself useful. He brought food. Adjusted pillows. Read medical updates. Ran interference when too many worried heroes wanted to visit. Smuggled in snacks Alfred absolutely did not approve of but definitely knew about because Alfred knew everything and permitted crimes selectively.

Then you caught him reorganising the medbay supply cabinet at three in the morning.

“Dick.”

He froze with a roll of bandages in each hand.

You stared at him from the bed, unimpressed. “What are you doing?”

“Inventory.”

“This is not your medbay.”

“Organisation helps.”

“You alphabetised antiseptic.”

“Antiseptic deserves respect.”

“You need sleep.”

“So do you.”

“I was asleep until you started stress-cleaning gauze.”

He looked down at the bandages. Then back at you.

“You were in pain.”

Your expression softened.

He hated how easily you saw through him.

“I’m often in pain right now,” you said gently.

His hands tightened.

“Don’t do that,” you said.

“Do what?”

“Make my pain your failure.”

He laughed once, humourless. “Kind of hard not to, considering.”

“Dick.”

He looked away.

You sighed. “Come here.”

He put the bandages down and came to your bedside.

You patted the edge of the mattress.

He gave you a look. “Absolutely not.”

“Sit.”

“I could hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“I’m not risking your spine because you want cuddles.”

“I do want cuddles.”

His expression flickered.

You smiled faintly. “That one got you.”

“Cruel.”

“Effective.”

He compromised by dragging the chair close enough that his knees touched the bed. You reached for him, and he gave you his hand.

It had become familiar now. His hand in yours. Your pulse under his fingers. Your life, stubborn and warm.

“You’re doing the thing,” you said.

“What thing?”

“The smile.”

Dick blinked. “I’m not smiling.”

“The inside smile. The fake one. The one that says, ‘I’m fine, don’t look too closely, I’m very handsome and emotionally functional.’”

He stared at you. “You think I’m handsome?”

“You heard the rest.”

“I prioritised.”

Your mouth twitched.

Dick’s smile came easier this time. Realer.

Then it faded.

“I don’t know how to stop seeing it,” he admitted.

Your thumb moved weakly against his hand.

“The fall?” you asked.

He nodded.

Your face gentled.

“When I close my eyes,” he said, voice low, “I see you on the floor.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No.” He leaned forward. “I’m not telling you so you apologise. I’m telling you because we said no more hiding.”

You absorbed that.

Then nodded slowly.

“Okay,” you whispered. “No more hiding.”

His throat tightened.

You looked down at your joined hands.

“I still feel it sometimes,” you said.

Dick went still.

“The fall,” you clarified. “Not the full injury anymore. But echoes. Like my body remembers impact that wasn’t mine.”

Dick could not speak.

You continued, because apparently both of you had chosen emotional destruction as a bonding activity.

“I don’t regret saving you.” He closed his eyes. “But I’m starting to understand that not regretting it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt you.”

His eyes opened.

You looked at him, open and tired and honest. “I’m sorry for that part.”

Dick breathed in carefully.

Then out.

“I don’t regret being alive,” he said.

Your lips parted.

“I need you to know that. I don’t regret it. I don’t wish you hadn’t saved me if the alternative was dying in that warehouse.”

Your eyes filled.

“But I hate that you paid for it alone,” he continued. “I hate that I didn’t get to say yes. I hate that you thought love meant making yourself the place pain goes to disappear.”

You nodded, tears spilling silently.

“I’m learning,” you whispered.

He kissed your hand. “Me too.”

You studied him. “What are you learning?”

Dick huffed softly. “That apparently I have control issues.”

Your brows rose. 

“I know. Shocking. Alert the media.”

“Front-page news.”

“And,” he continued, “that being the net all the time is not actually the same as being loved.”

Your expression changed.

He swallowed. “I think I liked being needed because it felt safer than being wanted.”

You went very still.

Dick looked down at your hand.

“If people need you, you have a job. A role. Something to do. Something to offer. You can earn your place over and over.” His mouth twisted. “But being wanted? Just because you’re you? That’s terrifying.”

Your voice was soft. “Yeah.”

He looked up. Your eyes were wet.

“I know,” you said.

And there it was.

The mirror. Two people who had made themselves useful enough to avoid asking if they were loved.

Dick smiled sadly. “We’re a pair, huh?”

“A disastrous one.”

“Hot.”

You laughed. This time, it did not sound broken.

Dick felt the laugh settle into his chest like sunrise.

He leaned closer, giving you time to refuse.

You did not.

His lips touched yours softly. Carefully.

There was nothing dramatic about it. No collapsing warehouse. No blue fire. No scream. Just his hand in yours, your mouth warm beneath his, and the quiet, astonishing fact that you were both still alive.

When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.

“Was that okay?” he asked.

Your eyes opened slowly. “You’re asking after?”

“I panicked.”

“Adorable.”

“I can do better.”

“I know.”

He smiled.

You tugged weakly at his hand. “Again.”

This time, he laughed before kissing you.

The first time you stood again, everyone cried.

Gar denied it. He was lying.

Vic recorded the whole thing and claimed it was for medical documentation. Also lying.

Kory hovered with both hands out like she intended to catch you, the bed, Dick, and possibly the entire Tower if necessary. Raven stood nearby, pretending calm while her shadows formed nervous little curls at her feet.

Dick stood in front of you.

Not behind. Not beside.

In front, hands open.

A net. But not the only one.

“You’ve got this,” he said.

You glared at him. “If I fall, I’m haunting you.”

“Reasonable.”

“As a poltergeist.”

“Mean, but fair.”

“I’ll move all your cereal into different boxes.”

Gar gasped. “That’s evil.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Dick’s grin trembled.

You saw. Your expression softened.

“Hey,” you said quietly. He focused on you. “I’m here.”

He nodded.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “You are.”

You took one step. Your knees shook.

Dick did not grab you. It took everything in him. Every instinct screamed. Every memory of your body broken on concrete rose up sharp and hungry.

But he did not grab you. He let you choose the step. Let you own the balance. Let you move.

You took another.

Then another.

Then your strength failed.

Dick caught you.

So did Kory.

So did Vic.

Raven’s shadows braced your legs.

Gar cheered and cried openly this time.

You ended up laughing against Dick’s chest while everyone crowded in, careful and loud and ridiculous.

The pain had gone somewhere. The fear had too.

Not away. Never fully away.

But spread out. Held by more hands.

That was the secret none of you had known at first.

Pain did not become lighter because one person carried all of it.

It became survivable when everyone carried a piece.

Later, after the others left and you were back in bed, exhausted but smiling, Dick sat beside you and traced idle circles over your palm.

“You caught me,” you said.

He looked up.

“In the warehouse,” you continued. “After.”

His face sobered. “I was too late.”

“No.” You squeezed his hand. “You caught me.”

Dick swallowed hard.

“You caught me too,” he said.

Your smile faded into something tender. “I broke all your rules when I did.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m trying not to romanticise that.”

“Good.”

“But I did catch you.”

His mouth curved despite himself.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “You did.”

You looked at him in the soft medbay light. “Now what?”

Dick leaned back in his chair, still holding your hand. “Now we learn how to do the next part without almost dying.”

“Sounds improbable.”

“We can try.”

“Are there snacks?”

“Definitely.”

“Then I’m in.”

He laughed.

There it was again. That bright thing. That impossible thing.

Joy, growing stubbornly in the aftermath.

Dick Grayson still knew how to fall. He always would. But now, when he looked at you, when he felt your fingers threaded through his, when he remembered the warehouse and the scream and the terrible miracle of being saved, he understood something he had spent his whole life avoiding.

Catching someone did not mean never falling. Being loved did not mean never hitting the ground.

Sometimes love was the hand reaching down afterwards. Sometimes it was the person who stayed through recovery. Sometimes it was telling the truth when the lie would be easier. Sometimes it was a whole team gathered around a bed, furious and crying and refusing to let one person become the only place pain could live.

And sometimes, impossibly, it was you.

Alive. Healing. Learning. Smiling at him like the world was still worth saving.

Dick lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles.

“I love you,” he said.

Your eyes softened. “I love you too, pretty bird.”

His heart stumbled. “Still not over that nickname.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

You smiled wider.

Outside the Tower windows, Blüdhaven glittered beneath the rain.

Messy. Bruised. Trying.

Still standing.

So were you. So was he.

He landed three feet behind you with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent half his life making dramatic entrances and the other half pretending he didn’t enjoy them.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Long way down.”

You didn’t turn around immediately. For one strange second, he thought you hadn’t heard him. Then your shoulders shifted, not quite a flinch, not quite a sigh.

“I know.” Your voice was quiet. Worn thin at the edges.

Dick took a cautious step forward. “You okay?”

That made you laugh. It wasn’t a happy sound. It was small and brittle and gone almost before it reached him.

“People always ask that when they don’t know what else to say.”

“Yeah,” Dick admitted. “But sometimes it works.”

You finally looked at him.

And Dick forgot how to breathe. Not because you were beautiful—though you were, in the strange way lonely things often were, like abandoned churches and winter stars. It was your eyes that caught him. They looked too awake. Too aware. Like you had spent years watching life happen through glass and had long since stopped knocking.

“You’re Nightwing,” you said.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“No one.” Your mouth twitched. “No one ever is.”

Dick frowned. “What’s your name?”

Your expression changed. It wasn’t dramatic. There were no tears, no sudden collapse. But something in your face folded inward, like he had pressed on an old bruise.

“You won’t remember it.”

“I’m pretty good with names.”

“No,” you said. “You’re not.”

That should have been impossible. He should have remembered you saying that.

Later, he wouldn’t. Later, all he would remember was landing on a rooftop, finding nothing, and feeling—absurdly, irrationally—like he had lost someone.

But in that moment, with the wind tangling itself between you and the city glittering beneath, he only tilted his head.

“Try me.”

You watched him for a long moment. Then you told him your name.

It entered him like a secret. Soft. Human. Real.

He repeated it once, carefully, like a promise.

Your eyes flickered. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like it matters.”

Dick stepped closer. You stepped back.

Not from fear. Not exactly.

From habit.

“It does matter,” he said.

“You’ll look away,” you whispered. “Everyone does.”

Dick had faced murderers, gods, aliens, assassins, monsters with too many teeth and men with too little mercy. He had been hurt in ways that left scars under the skin. He knew danger. He knew tragedy.

But he didn’t understand the grief in your voice. Not yet.

So he smiled, gentle and warm, the kind of smile that made people believe in sunrise. “Then I won’t.”

You looked at him like he had just offered to hold back the tide with his hands. “You will.”

“Nope.” He tapped two fingers against his domino mask. “Professional watcher. Comes with the job.”

Your mouth trembled. You looked away first.

Just for a second. Just enough.

Dick blinked.

The rooftop was empty.

He straightened, pulse jumping. Why was he on this roof?

He glanced around. No signs of disturbance. No armed suspects. No civilians. Just wind and moonlight and the city humming below.

His comm crackled.

“Nightwing?” Barbara’s voice came through. “You okay? Your vitals spiked.”

Dick put a hand to his chest.

Something hurt. Not physically. Not like a bruise or broken rib. More like grief had stepped behind his ribs and made itself at home.

“I’m fine,” he said, but his voice sounded wrong. “I think.”

“You think?”

Dick scanned the rooftop again.

Nothing. Nobody.

And still.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had just broken a promise.

The second time Dick met you, he was prepared. Sort of. Preparation was difficult when he didn’t know what he was preparing for.

He had started noticing gaps in his patrol logs. Not missing time exactly. Missing context.

Three nights in a row, he found himself standing in places he didn’t remember choosing to go. A rooftop near the old clock factory. An alley behind a closed laundromat. The fire escape outside a condemned apartment building where someone had left a blanket, three granola bars, and a cheap paperback tucked inside a milk crate.

The weirdest part was the notes. His notes. Written in his own hand.

DON’T LOOK AWAY. That one had been scrawled across the inside of his wrist in black marker. Another, written on the back of a takeout receipt: ASK THEIR NAME AGAIN. APOLOGISE. A third, typed into his phone and pinned to the top of his notes app: You met someone. You keep forgetting. This is real. Trust yourself.

Dick trusted himself. Mostly. He trusted his instincts. He trusted his body. He trusted the uneasy pull in his gut that led him back to the rooftop where he had first felt that strange ache.

This time, you were sitting on the ledge. You looked exhausted.

“You again,” you said.

Dick froze. Then he slowly held up both hands. “Okay. Great. We’ve met.”

Your eyes flicked to his wrist. DON’T LOOK AWAY had been rewritten there in thicker marker this time, underlined twice.

Your expression did something complicated. “You’re making notes now.”

“I’m a detective,” he said. “We love notes. Notes, trauma, and dramatic lighting.”

You didn’t laugh. Dick’s smile softened.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

That got your attention. “For what?”

“I don’t know yet.” He swallowed. “But I think I owe you one.”

The wind moved between you. You looked so tired that it made him want to sit beside you and stay there until the world stopped being cruel.

“That’s the worst part,” you said. “You always mean it.”

Dick’s chest tightened. “How many times have we had this conversation?”

You looked away over the city. Dick’s entire body went still.

“Hey,” he said quickly. “Look at me.”

You did.

Too late? No. He still remembered. Rooftop. You. Notes on wrist.

Your face had gone blank with resignation.

“You remembered,” you whispered.

“Yeah.” Relief hit him so hard he almost laughed. “Yeah, I remembered.”

Your eyes shone. It was the first time he saw hope on your face. It broke his heart worse than despair.

“My power doesn’t work like most people think,” you said, voice low. “It’s not invisibility. It’s not mind control. It’s… absence. The second someone stops perceiving me, their mind corrects the mistake. I don’t fit. So reality edits me out.”

Dick went very quiet.

“If I turn away,” he said, “I forget you.”

“Yes.”

“If I leave?”

“Yes.”

“If I sleep?”

Your silence answered.

Dick exhaled. A laugh tried to climb up his throat. It failed halfway and became something smaller. “That’s horrible.”

You smiled faintly. “Yeah. Not exactly party trick material.”

“How long?”

You looked down at your hands. “Since I was thirteen.”

The city seemed to dim. Dick thought of thirteen-year-olds. Of Robin. Of scraped knees and bright capes and wanting desperately to be brave. He thought of childhood as a thing already too sharp without adding loneliness so deep it swallowed your name.

“Your family?”

“They forgot first.”

His hands curled into fists. You said it gently, like you were telling him the weather.

“My mom went to answer the phone. When she came back, she screamed because there was a stranger in her kitchen.” You rubbed your thumb over your knuckles. “My dad called the police. My brother hid behind the couch.”

Dick couldn’t speak.

“I tried for a while,” you continued. “I stayed in the house. Left notes. Photos. Videos. They believed something was happening. They just couldn’t believe in me. Every time they looked away, I became a break-in. A haunting. A threat.” Your voice thinned. “So I left.”

Dick moved before he could think better of it. He sat beside you on the ledge, close enough that his shoulder nearly touched yours.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

You looked at him. “You’ll forget.”

“Maybe.”

“You will.”

“Then I’ll remember again.”

“That isn’t the same.”

“No,” Dick said. “It isn’t.”

You seemed surprised by that. Good, he thought. You deserved honesty more than comfort wrapped in glitter.

“But it’s something,” he added.

You stared at him for a long time. Then, carefully, like you were reaching toward a flame, you rested your shoulder against his.

Dick did not move. He did not look away.

For twelve minutes, neither of you spoke.

For twelve minutes, you existed.

It became a ritual. A strange, fragile, aching thing.

Dick built systems. Because that was what Bats did when faced with the impossible. They made it into a case file, then a contingency plan, then a moral crisis in a cape. He wrote your name on his arm before patrol. He left notes in every safehouse. He set reminders on his phone that went off every hour.

There is someone you love remembering.

That one had been a mistake.

He didn’t remember writing it. He stared at it for a long time anyway.

Someone you love remembering.

Not someone you need to remember. Not someone you are trying to help.

Someone you love remembering.

The words felt like they had been written by a version of him who knew something he didn’t.

He hated that. He hated that there was a version of himself who knew your favourite tea, your favourite rooftop, the way you liked to sit with your knees pulled up when it rained, the fact that you always cried silently during old movies but pretended you didn’t. He hated that he kept becoming a stranger to you.

He hated, more than anything, the look on your face each time he came back.

The guarded hope. The careful smile. The grief already waiting.

“Hi,” he would say.

And sometimes you would say, “Hi, Dick.” Sometimes you would say, “You forgot again.” Sometimes, on the bad nights, you would say, “Please don’t make me do this.”

Those nights nearly killed him.

Because he did make you do it. Not on purpose. Never on purpose. But he always came back with his notes and his guilt and his stubborn, shining heart, asking you to explain the wound again so he could try to love around it.

One night, you snapped.

It happened in his apartment.

That itself had been a miracle. You had never been inside before. You didn’t like enclosed spaces with other people. Too much risk. Too many exits someone else could take. Too many ways to become a stranger in a room you had briefly been welcomed into.

Dick had covered every mirror with sticky notes. DON’T LOOK AWAY. THEY ARE REAL. THEIR NAME IS—

Your name covered his walls. On paper. On tape. On his skin.

It should have been sweet. It was, in a way.

It was also unbearable.

You stood in the centre of his living room, surrounded by proof that you were loved by someone who couldn’t keep you.

“This isn’t living,” you said.

Dick froze in the kitchen, where he was making tea and very deliberately not turning his back. “What?”

“This.” You gestured at the walls. “The notes. The alarms. The way you move around me like I’m a bomb.”

“You’re not a bomb.”

“No,” you said. “I’m a hole.”

Dick flinched.

You laughed, but it broke at the end. “I am. That’s what I am, Dick. I’m this empty space people fall into. They meet me, they care, they forget. And then I have to stand there holding all of it alone.”

He set the mugs down. “I’m trying.”

“I know!” Your voice cracked. “That’s what makes it worse!”

Dick looked stricken.

You pressed both hands to your face, then lowered them quickly, like you were afraid he would vanish if you blocked your own sight.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m sorry. I just—do you know what it’s like to be loved in pieces?”

Dick said nothing.

“You look at me like that,” you said, quieter now. “Like I matter. Like I’m someone you found in the wreckage and decided to carry home. And then your phone rings, or someone calls your name, or you turn your head for one second, and I watch it happen.”

Your lips trembled.

“I watch you lose me.”

Dick’s eyes were wet. You had never seen Nightwing cry before.

Not really. Not like this. Raw and silent and human.

“You get this blank look,” you whispered. “Polite. Confused. Kind, because you’re always kind, which is honestly so rude of you.”

A watery laugh escaped him.

You smiled despite yourself.

Then it faded.

“You ask if I need help. Sometimes you apologise. Sometimes you reach for your escrima sticks because there’s a stranger in your apartment. Once you called Barbara while I was standing right in front of you.”

Dick closed his eyes. Only for a second.

Your breath caught.

His eyes flew open.

Still there. Still remembered.

But the terror on your face gutted him.

“I can’t do this to you,” you said.

“You’re not doing anything to me.”

“I am.”

“No.” Dick crossed the room slowly. “No, you don’t get to decide that your existence is harm.”

You looked away. He reached for you, then stopped himself.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

You shook your head.

“Please.”

When you finally did, tears were running down your face.

Dick’s voice broke. “There you are.”

You crumpled. He caught you because of course he did. Because Dick Grayson had always been good at catching falling things, even when he couldn’t save them from the drop.

You gripped the front of his shirt like you were trying to leave fingerprints in the fabric.

“I’m so tired,” you sobbed.

“I know.”

“I want someone to remember me without bleeding for it.”

“I know.”

“I want to be normal.”

Dick held you tighter. “I know.”

You cried into his chest until your knees gave out. He sank with you to the floor, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressed between your shoulder blades.

He didn’t say it would be okay. You loved him a little more for that.

He only held you. He only stayed.

For a while, that was enough.

Then his phone rang.

Both of you froze.

The sound cut through the room like a blade.

Dick’s hand tightened against your back.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

He didn’t move.

The phone kept ringing. You could see the war in him. Duty, love, habit, fear. The city had trained him to answer every call like someone might die if he didn’t.

Maybe someone would. Maybe that was the cruellest part.

You pulled back first. “Dick.”

“No.”

“You have to.”

“No,” he said again, and this time there was anger in it. Not at you. Never at you. At the world. At the rules. At whatever cosmic glitch had decided you were optional.

“You have to,” you repeated.

His jaw clenched. “Then tell me your name again.”

You stared at him. His eyes burned.

“Tell me,” he said. “Before I lose it. Please.”

So you did.

You told him your name.

He repeated it. Once. Twice. Like prayer. Like defiance. Like if he said it enough times, reality might get embarrassed and stop being such a jerk about it.

Then he turned his head. “Oracle, talk to me.”

The second his eyes left yours, he forgot.

You watched it happen. The soft confusion. The slight shift in posture. The way his body moved between you and the door, protective but uncertain.

His gaze landed on you.

A stranger. In his apartment. On his floor. Crying.

Dick’s hand went instinctively toward the escrima stick on the coffee table.

Your heart made no sound when it broke.

It had learned to be quiet.

After that, you left Blüdhaven.

Not far. You weren’t dramatic enough to vanish across the world, and anyway, airports were complicated when the person checking your passport forgot you between looking at your face and looking down at your documents.

So you took buses. Walked. Hitchhiked with people who were kind for exactly as long as they could see you.

You became good at temporary things.

Temporary shelter. Temporary conversations. Temporary warmth.

You slept in libraries until librarians forgot why they had let you stay. You ate in diners where waitresses refilled your coffee, turned away, and came back startled to find you sitting there.

You stopped using your name. Names were for people who could be called back.

Weeks passed. Maybe months. Time had always been slippery for you. When no one remembered your birthday, age became less of a number and more of a rumour your bones carried around.

You thought Dick would stop looking.

Not because he didn’t care.

Because he couldn’t. Because love needed memory the way fire needed air, and whatever existed between you kept suffocating before it could breathe.

Then, one rainy night in Gotham, you saw him again.

Not Nightwing.

Dick. No mask. No suit. Just a man standing under a broken awning outside a closed flower shop, soaked to the skin, holding a bouquet of forget-me-nots.

Your chest hurt so badly you almost turned around.

Almost.

But he saw you. And the world narrowed to his face.

He looked wrecked. There were dark circles under his eyes. Stubble along his jaw. His hair was plastered to his forehead by the rain. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Knowing Dick, he probably hadn’t.

He didn’t smile when he saw you. He looked relieved in a way that was almost painful.

“Hi,” he said. 

Your throat closed. “Hi.”

His grip tightened around the flowers. “I don’t know your name right now.”

You nodded once.

“But I know I’ve been looking for you.”

Rain slid down your cheeks. Or maybe it was tears. The weather gave you plausible deniability, which was honestly very polite of it.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah,” Dick said. “You keep telling me that.”

A laugh broke out of you.

It was small. Awful. Alive.

Dick looked at you like that laugh had just saved him.

“How?” you asked.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a stack of index cards, carefully laminated.

Of course he had laminated them. Because Dick Grayson loved like a circus kid and planned like a Bat, which meant all his grand romantic gestures came with office supplies.

“I made a system,” he said.

“You already had a system.”

“I made a better one.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“Probably.” He glanced down at the top card. “This says you find that annoying but secretly charming.”

You stared. Despite everything, your mouth twitched.

Dick’s face softened. “There it is.”

“Don’t.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” he admitted. “I’m really not.”

He held out the flowers. You didn’t take them.

His hand faltered.

“They’re for you,” he said.

“You’ll forget giving them to me.”

“I wrote it down.”

“That doesn’t make it hurt less.”

“I know.”

The rain kept falling. You looked at the flowers. Tiny blue petals, fragile as breath. A cruel joke from the universe or a tender one from him. Maybe both.

“I left because I couldn’t keep watching you lose me,” you said.

Dick nodded. “I figured.”

“And you came anyway.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

He looked at the card in his hand. Then he lowered it.

When he spoke, his voice was rough.

“I don’t remember most of it,” he said. “I’m sorry. I hate that. I hate saying it. But I don’t remember our first meeting. I don’t remember your favourite tea. I don’t remember the sound of your laugh unless I’m hearing it. I don’t remember what I promised you.” Your vision blurred. “But every time I forget you,” Dick continued, pressing one hand to his chest, “I miss you.”

You went still.

He looked helpless. “I don’t know how else to explain it. There’s this… space. Right here. Like my heart keeps setting a place at the table for someone my mind can’t name.”

You covered your mouth with your hand.

Dick took one step closer. Slow. Careful. “I find notes everywhere. My apartment. My suit. My phone. Once, apparently, I wrote your name on a cereal box at four in the morning.”

You choked on something between a sob and a laugh. “Very normal behaviour.”

“Extremely normal. Healthy, even.”

“The pinnacle of mental stability.”

“Honestly, Bruce has done weirder with less emotional justification.”

That made you laugh again.

Dick smiled, but his eyes stayed wet.

“I forget details,” he said. “But I remember the shape of loving you.”

The world stopped. Or maybe you did. For so long, you had thought being forgotten meant being unloved. How could it not? Love was supposed to be the thing that stayed. The thing that survived distance and time and bad days and worse decisions.

But Dick stood in front of you, soaked and shaking, holding flowers he might not remember buying, loving you with a heart that kept reaching for you even after his mind went dark.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t enough.

It was everything.

“You don’t know me,” you whispered.

“Then tell me again.”

“I can’t keep doing that.”

“I know.”

“I’m tired of introducing myself to the person I love.”

Dick’s face crumpled.

There it was. The truth. Ugly. Beautiful. Finally spoken.

You loved him. You had loved him across rooftops and forgotten mornings, across notes and alarms and the blank look in his eyes. You had loved him in fragments, in seconds, in stolen hours. You had loved him knowing love could not save you.

Dick stepped closer. “You love me?”

You laughed through tears. “Don’t make me regret saying it.”

“I’m not. I’m just—” He looked overwhelmed, almost dizzy with it. “I wish I remembered earning that.”

“You did earn it,” you said. “Over and over.”

He looked at you like that hurt worse than anything.

Then he held out the flowers again. This time, you took them. His fingers brushed yours.

For one breath, neither of you moved.

“I don’t have a cure,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“But I talked to Zatanna.” Your heart kicked. “And Constantine.”

Your expression must have shifted, because Dick quickly added, “I know. Terrible idea. I brought backup and did not sign anything. Growth.”

Despite yourself, you smiled.

“They think it’s not a power,” he said. “Not exactly. More like a curse that latched onto your metagene and rewrote the rules.”

Hope was dangerous. You had learned that young. Hope was a match in a room full of gas.

Still, you felt it spark.

“Can they fix it?”

Dick hesitated. And because he was Dick, because he knew you deserved truth more than pretty lies, he said, “Maybe.”

The spark flickered.

“They’re not sure,” he admitted. “But there’s a chance.”

“A chance.”

“Yeah.”

You looked down at the forget-me-nots. Tiny blue stars in your hands.

“What happens if it doesn’t work?”

Dick’s voice softened. “Then I keep making better systems.”

Your eyes closed. “Dick…”

“I know,” he said. “It’s not enough.”

“No.”

“But it’s what I have.”

You opened your eyes. He was still looking at you.

Still there. Still yours, for now.

“I’m scared,” you said.

“Me too.”

“I don’t want to hope.”

“I’ll hope first,” Dick said. “You can borrow some until yours comes back.”

It was such a Dick Grayson thing to say. So earnest. So stupidly poetic. So bright it made you want to scream.

Instead, you stepped forward and pressed your forehead against his chest.

He went very still. Then his arms came around you. Careful at first.

Then tighter.

The bouquet crushed slightly between you. Neither of you cared.

“I’m going to forget this if I close my eyes too long, aren’t I?” he whispered.

“Probably.”

His breath shook. “Then I won’t.”

“You have to blink eventually.”

“Rude.”

You huffed a laugh against his coat.

Dick rested his chin lightly on top of your head.

“Tell me your name,” he said.

So you did.

He repeated it. Then again. Then again.

The rain came down harder, turning Gotham soft around the edges. Cars hissed through puddles. Neon bled across the street. Somewhere, sirens wailed, because the city never learned how to be quiet at the right moments.

Dick held you like he could anchor you by touch alone.

Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe, in five minutes, he would glance away and lose you. Maybe tomorrow, you would have to start over. Maybe love was not a cure.

But for one impossible moment, you existed in someone’s arms.

Not as a ghost. Not as a gap. Not as a tragedy waiting to be forgotten.

As a person. As yourself.

Dick pressed a kiss to your temple.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

“You won’t remember.”

His arms tightened.

“No,” he said, voice breaking. “But I’ll come back.”

And the worst part was that you believed him.

The House of Mystery did not like you. That was your first thought.

Your second thought was that the House of Mystery was alive, and you were going to have to unpack that later, preferably with snacks and several hours of screaming into a decorative pillow.

It crouched at the end of a crooked lane beneath a sky the colour of old bruises, all black windows and impossible angles. The front door had a brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head. Its eyes followed you.

Dick noticed. Of course, he noticed.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, keeping his hand around yours. “It does that to everyone.”

You looked up at him. “You’ve been here before?”

“Once.”

“And?”

“And I still have all my limbs.”

“That is a suspiciously low bar.”

His mouth twitched. “Welcome to magic.”

Rain slicked his hair dark against his forehead. He hadn’t let go of your hand once since you left Gotham, like contact alone could make you more real. Maybe it did. Maybe that was hope whispering sweet lies again.

In his other hand, he held a stack of laminated cards. He had added more since you agreed to come with him. Your name was written on the top card. Beneath it: They are real. You love them. Do not panic when you forget. Ask what they need.

You had cried when you saw that one. Then you had called him a menace with office supplies, because love was easier to survive when you insulted it a little.

Dick had smiled so softly you almost forgave the universe.

Almost.

Now he stood beside you outside a sentient magical house, shoulders squared like he could intimidate architecture. Very on-brand. Very stupid. Very him.

The door opened before he touched it.

A man leaned against the frame. Trench coat. Loose tie. A cigarette hanging from his mouth despite the rain. Hair like he’d lost a fight with a pillow and declared himself the winner.

John Constantine looked at you for half a second. Then his eyes slid away.

Your hand tightened around Dick’s.

Constantine blinked. His face went blank.

“Well?” he said to Dick. “You gonna stand there all night, bird boy, or come in before the house decides you’re garnish?”

Dick went still. You felt it happen. His hand was still holding yours, but something changed in the shape of his fingers. Not letting go, exactly. Just not knowing why he was holding on.

He looked down. At your joined hands. Then at you. Polite confusion softened his face.

“Hi,” he said carefully.

There it was. The knife. Familiar as breath.

You tried to pull your hand away.

Dick’s grip tightened reflexively—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to stop you. His brow furrowed.

Then he looked at the card in his other hand.

Read it. Read your name. Read: You love them.

The colour drained from his face.

“Oh,” he whispered.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

His eyes found yours again, devastated and desperate. “I’m sorry.”

“You always are.”

Constantine, who had apparently been watching this with the expression of a man realising his bad day had grown legs and started singing, took the cigarette from his mouth. “Well,” he said quietly. “That’s properly awful.”

You laughed once. It came out sharp enough to cut. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Constantine looked at you. Really looked.

His gaze caught, snagged, fought to stay. The air around him sparked faintly, like invisible wires had been pulled taut.

“There you are,” he murmured.

Then he flinched. Not physically. Not enough for most people to notice.

Dick noticed. So did you.

Constantine’s eyes narrowed. “Bloody hell.”

“What?” Dick asked.

Constantine didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a black marker. He grabbed Dick’s wrist without asking, shoved up the sleeve of his jacket, and wrote your name beneath Dick’s existing notes in quick, ugly letters.

“Oi,” Dick said.

“Shut up, circus boy.”

“Wow. Rude and helpful. Multitasking.”

Constantine ignored him and wrote your name on his own palm next. Then he looked away deliberately. For one second. Two.

His face emptied. Then his gaze dropped to his palm.

He read your name. Looked back up.

“Right,” he said grimly. “I hate this.”

Your stomach turned. “Can you help?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Comforting.”

“I’m not paid to comfort.”

“You’re being paid?”

Dick coughed. “Zatanna said not to ask him that.”

“Zatanna says lots of things,” Constantine said, stepping aside. “Some of ’em backwards.”

The House opened wider. Warm yellow light spilled across the threshold.

Dick leaned closer to you. His voice lowered. “Still with me?”

You stared into the mouth of the impossible house. “No.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Same.”

And because fear was easier to carry when shared, you stepped inside together.

Zatanna Zatara was waiting in the parlour. You knew her from posters, news clips, blurry magical incidents that made conspiracy forums foam at the mouth. She was impossible to mistake even without the stage lights. Dark hair, bright eyes, presence like a velvet curtain lifting before thunder.

She stood beside a round table covered in candles, mirrors, bowls of salt, silver thread, old books, and a vase of forget-me-nots.

The flowers made your chest ache.

Dick saw them too. His fingers flexed around yours.

Zatanna turned when you entered. Her gaze landed on Dick. Then Constantine. Then you.

Unlike Constantine, she did not immediately forget.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh,” she said softly.

One syllable. So much grief inside it.

You hated that. Hated the pity. Hated the immediate understanding. Hated the way kindness could feel like being peeled open under clean light.

“Don’t,” you said before she could say anything else. Zatanna’s expression shifted. Not offended. Just listening. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Dick moved a little closer to you.

Zatanna nodded once. “Okay.”

That was all. No argument. No apology parade. No theatrical sadness.

Just okay.

You liked her immediately and resented that too.

Constantine shut the door behind you. “It’s worse than you said.”

Zatanna’s mouth tightened. “I can see that.”

“You can?” Dick asked.

“I can see the outline.” She walked toward you slowly, stopping several feet away. “It’s like looking at a person-shaped tear in a painting.”

You looked down at yourself.

Person-shaped tear.

Yeah. That tracked.

Dick’s jaw tensed. “Can you fix it?”

“Dick,” you whispered.

“No.” His voice was quiet but edged in steel. “No soft wording. No dancing around it. They’ve had enough of that.” He looked at Zatanna. “Can you fix it?”

For a moment, the room only breathed around you. The candles flickered without wind. Zatanna looked at Constantine. Constantine rubbed a hand over his face.

“Maybe,” Zatanna said.

The word landed like a coin dropped into a well.

Small. Far away.

Maybe.

You hated how badly you wanted to dive after it.

Dick’s grip went tight, then loosened as if he remembered not to hold too hard.

“What does maybe mean?” he asked.

“It means the curse isn’t simply making people forget,” Zatanna said. “It’s convincing reality you were never there.”

You laughed under your breath. “Love when reality has beef with me personally.”

Constantine snorted. “Kid, reality’s a bastard. Don’t take it special.”

Dick shot him a look.

“What?” Constantine said. “That was almost supportive.”

Zatanna ignored him with the grace of someone who had built an entire skillset around ignoring John Constantine.

“It edits perception first,” she continued, “then memory. If someone stops perceiving you, their mind closes the gap. It removes you to protect the shape of what it thinks is true.”

You stared at the candles. “And what’s true?”

Zatanna’s voice softened. “That you belong here.”

Your throat hurt.

Constantine looked uncomfortable, which seemed to be his default state whenever sincerity entered the room and failed to die immediately.

Dick stepped closer to the table. “What do you need?”

“Names,” Zatanna said. “Anchors. Memory has roots. We need to find yours.”

“My records are gone,” you said.

“Not paperwork.” She tapped her fingers lightly against the table. “Moments. Strong ones. The first time someone forgot you. The first person who remembered longer than they should have. The first time the curse changed.”

Your chest went cold.

Dick looked at you. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes,” you said.

His expression flickered.

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“I do.”

“You shouldn’t have to bleed on command just because magic wants trauma receipts.”

Constantine lifted a finger. “For the record, magic does love trauma receipts.”

Zatanna glared at him.

He lowered the finger. “Not helping. Got it.”

A laugh almost escaped you. It got stuck somewhere near your ribs.

You looked at Dick.

The awful part was that he still remembered you.

You could see it. The recognition. The fear. The love he had confessed in the rain and might lose again with one wrong blink.

You wanted to run. You wanted to stay. You wanted a life where those weren’t the only choices.

“I’ll do it,” you said.

Dick looked like he wanted to argue.

Instead, he nodded.

Because he knew. Because he loved you enough not to mistake protection for permission.

Zatanna gestured toward the chair at the centre of the room. “Sit.”

You did.

Dick started to follow.

Constantine moved, blocking him with one arm. “Not you.”

Dick’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“If you stand there staring at them like a kicked puppy with a vigilante complex, the spell’s gonna grab you too.”

“It already grabs me.”

“This is different.”

“I’m staying.”

“No,” Zatanna said.

Dick froze.

Her voice had changed. Not loud. Not harsh. But full of command.

“You can be in the room,” she said, gentler now. “But not beside them. Not touching. The spell needs to see where they end.”

You hated that sentence.

Dick did too. You could tell by the way his face closed around it.

Where they end.

As if that had ever been clear. As if loneliness had not spent years blurring you into doorways and blank spaces and forgotten corners.

He looked at you. Your hand felt cold without his.

“It’s okay,” you said.

“No, it isn’t.”

A small smile trembled across your mouth. “Yeah. But I’m trying to be brave, and you’re making it very difficult.”

His laugh broke a little. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” he admitted. “I’m really not.”

He stepped back anyway. Only a few feet.

It felt like miles.

Constantine took up a place near the fireplace, drawing symbols in the air with smoke. Zatanna lit the candles one by one. Each flame burned blue.

“Tell me your name,” she said.

You did. The candles flared.

Dick repeated it from across the room.

Your eyes snapped to him. He looked almost embarrassed, but stubborn.

“What?” he said. “Backup.”

Zatanna’s expression softened.

Constantine muttered, “Hopeless.”

But he wrote your name on the wall in smoke.

The House shuddered around you.

Not hostile now. Listening.

Zatanna took a silver thread and wrapped it once around your wrist.

“Memory is a door,” she said. “I’m going to open it carefully.”

“Carefully sounds fake.”

“Smart,” Constantine said. “Distrust adjectives.”

Zatanna gave him another look.

He mimed zipping his mouth shut. The zipper sound was somehow literal.

Magic. Exhausting. Camp. Terrifying. Pick a struggle.

Zatanna lifted both hands.

“Rebmemer,” she said.

The room vanished.

You were thirteen again.

You were standing in your kitchen. Morning light fell across the yellow tiles. Your cereal had gone soggy because you had been reading the back of the box instead of eating. Your mom was humming near the sink. Your dad was searching for his keys. Your sibling was talking too fast about school, words tumbling over each other like bright marbles.

You remembered the exact smell.

Toast. Coffee. Laundry detergent.

Home.

Then the phone rang.

Your mom turned away. Your sibling crawled under the table to grab a dropped spoon. Your dad walked into the hall.

For three seconds, no one looked at you.

Three seconds. That was all it took to end the world.

Your mom came back first. She saw you standing by the counter and screamed.

Not a startled scream.

A stranger-in-my-house scream.

Your bowl shattered when you dropped it.

Milk spread across the floor like a pale wound.

“Mom?” you said.

She grabbed a knife from the counter. “Who are you?”

Your dad ran in. Your sibling started crying.

You said your name.

Your mother sobbed harder. Your father called the police.

You kept saying your name.

Over and over.

Like a spell. Like a plea. Like the universe had simply misheard you and would fix itself if you spoke clearly enough.

Then hands grabbed your shoulders.

Not your father’s.

Dick’s.

The kitchen blurred.

You were back in the chair, gasping, doubled over against invisible pain.

Dick had crossed the room.

Zatanna was trying to hold him back with one arm and a half-formed spell, but Dick Grayson had been throwing himself at impossible things since childhood and had never once learned to respect cosmic traffic laws.

“I’m here,” he said, kneeling in front of you. “I’m here, I’m here.”

“Don’t touch,” Constantine barked.

Dick ignored him. His hands hovered near yours, shaking with the effort not to grab on.

You looked at him through tears.

“Do you remember me?”

“Yes,” he said immediately.

Then his eyes flickered.

Just for a second.

He looked confused.

Your heart stopped.

He glanced down at his wrist. Read your name.

The confusion shattered.

“Yes,” he said again, more fiercely. “Yes. I remember.”

“You looked away.”

“I came back.”

“That’s not the same.”

“I know.”

The silver thread around your wrist burned cold.

Zatanna’s voice cut through the room. “The curse is reacting to him.”

Constantine swore. “Course it is. Love always makes magic weird.”

Dick did not look away from you.

Zatanna knelt beside the circle. “Dick, listen to me. If you keep forcing your way into the spell, it may bind you to the curse.”

“Fine.”

“No,” you snapped.

His eyes locked onto yours.

“No,” you repeated, trembling. “You don’t get to martyr yourself into my tragedy and call it romance.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Isn’t it?”

The room went quiet. Even the House seemed to hold its breath.

Dick looked hurt.

Good. You were hurt too.

“You keep coming back,” you said, voice breaking. “You keep writing notes and building systems and bleeding yourself dry trying to remember me, and it’s beautiful, Dick, it is, but it’s also killing me.”

His face crumpled. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“I’m not asking you to stop loving me.”

His breath caught.

“I’m asking you to stop treating loving me like it means surviving damage quietly.”

For a second, no one spoke.

Then Constantine, very softly, said, “Well. That one landed.”

Zatanna stood. The candles flared higher.

“That’s it,” she said.

You looked at her. “What?”

“The curse feeds on isolation,” she said. “But not just yours. Anyone who tries to remember you alone gets pulled into its pattern. The harder one person holds on, the more the curse makes them pay for it.”

Dick went pale. “So I’m making it worse?”

“No,” Zatanna said. “You’re proving it can be resisted. But you can’t be the only anchor.”

A thin, terrible hope moved through you.

“What does that mean?” you asked.

Constantine pushed away from the fireplace. “Means we don’t make one poor sod your whole lifeboat.”

Dick glanced at him.

Constantine shrugged. “No offence.”

“Some taken.”

“Good. Keeps you humble.”

Zatanna placed both hands on the table.

“We build a circle,” she said. “Multiple witnesses. Multiple names. Multiple memories. The curse can erase you from one mind at a time. Maybe even many. But if enough people remember at once—if they keep passing your existence between them—it may not be able to close the gap.”

You stared at her.

A circle.

Not one person staring until his eyes bled. Not one love asked to carry the weight of an entire existence.

A circle.

Your voice came out thin. “Who would do that?”

Dick’s expression changed.

Softened.

Strengthened.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “I know some people.”

“No,” you said.

Dick looked at you from the driver’s seat.

You sat in the passenger seat of his car outside Wayne Manor, arms crossed so tightly over your chest that your ribs protested.

The manor rose beyond the windshield, enormous and golden-windowed, looking less like a home and more like old money learned how to brood.

“No,” you repeated.

Dick turned the engine off. “You haven’t heard the pitch.”

“Is the pitch ‘let’s ask Batman to perceive me as a team-building exercise’?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what is it?”

He hesitated.

You groaned. “Dick.”

“I may have already told them.”

You stared at him.

He winced. “In my defence, I wrote it down first.”

“You told Batman about me?”

“And Barbara.”

“Dick.”

“And Alfred.”

“Dick.”

“And maybe Tim, because if anyone can build anti-curse tech, it’s him.”

“Richard.”

He smiled weakly. “Full name. Yikes.”

You looked out at the manor. Your stomach churned.

Somewhere inside were people who loved Dick. People he trusted. People who would look at you, look away, and forget you like everyone else.

Except this time, you would have witnesses. This time, there would be a whole room full of faces going blank.

A symphony of loss.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

Dick’s smile disappeared. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Your voice cracked. “I know you think you do, but you don’t know what it feels like. Walking into a room and knowing every person there is going to abandon you by accident.”

He went still.

You looked down at your hands.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He sounded rough. “You’re right.”

Silence filled the car.

Then Dick opened his glove compartment and pulled out another laminated card.

You blinked. “Did you stash lore cards in your car?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you did.”

He handed it to you.

This one wasn’t for him.

It was for you.

You are allowed to leave. You are allowed to be angry. You are allowed to want help. You are not a burden because people choose to care.

Your vision blurred.

Dick looked straight ahead, giving you the fragile privacy of not being watched.

“I had Zatanna write the wording,” he said. “I wanted to put something like ‘you’re amazing, and everyone should get with the program,’ but she said subtlety exists for a reason.”

A laugh broke through your tears. “Terrible advice.”

“I know. I was shocked.”

You held the card against your chest.

The manor waited. So did the curse.

So did maybe.

Finally, you whispered, “Don’t let go of my hand.”

Dick reached for you immediately. “Never on purpose.”

And because that was the only kind of forever either of you could promise, you got out of the car.

The Batfamily did not handle magic well. This became clear within ninety seconds.

Bruce Wayne stood in the cave with his cowl down, looking at you with the intense focus of a man trying to out-glare a metaphysical condition. Tim had three tablets open and was muttering about cognitive imprinting. Barbara watched from a screen, expression sharp and sympathetic. Damian stood with his arms crossed, deeply offended by the concept of forgetting someone against his will.

Jason was there too, leaning near the med bay with his helmet tucked under one arm.

He looked at you once.

Looked away.

Forgot.

Looked back.

His hand went to his gun.

Dick stepped in front of you so fast the movement blurred. “Jason.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “Who the hell is that?”

You flinched.

Dick took out a card and held it up.

Jason read it.

His face changed. Not softened. Jason Todd did not soften easily in front of strangers.

But something dark moved behind his eyes.

He looked back at you.

“Ah,” he said. “That’s messed up.”

Your laugh came out strangled. “That seems to be the general review.”

Jason grabbed a marker off Tim’s workstation and wrote your name on his forearm.

Then, beneath it, Don’t be a dick.

Tim leaned over. “Statistically unlikely to help.”

“Statistically bite me.”

Damian clicked his tongue and took the marker from Jason. “Your handwriting is atrocious.”

“My trauma’s got flair, demon brat.”

Damian ignored him and wrote your name on his own wrist in neat, precise letters.

Then he looked at you.

“You will not be forgotten here,” he said, with the absolute certainty of someone who considered reality a personal rival.

You didn’t know what to say.

Alfred saved you.

Alfred Pennyworth approached with a tray of tea, because apparently even curses could be bullied into manners by a British man with perfect posture.

He looked directly at you.

Then he looked down to pour.

The teapot paused.

His expression went blank.

Your heart sank.

Then he glanced at the card pinned to his waistcoat.

His eyes returned to you.

“My apologies,” he said calmly. “Sugar?”

You stared. “What?”

“Sugar,” Alfred repeated. “In your tea.”

You made a sound that was almost a sob.

Dick squeezed your hand.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

“Very good.”

Like this was normal. Like you were simply a guest. Like being remembered imperfectly was not still, somehow, being welcomed.

Bruce watched the exchange with a look on his face you couldn’t read.

Then he turned to Dick.

Wrong move.

The second Bruce looked away from you, his brow furrowed.

He forgot.

You saw it happen again.

And again. And again.

Every person in the cave became a door closing.

Tim turned toward a monitor and forgot mid-sentence. Barbara glanced down at incoming data and lost your name. Damian looked at Dick and his face went cold with confusion. Jason checked the chamber of his gun, looked up, and saw a stranger again.

It was too much.

Your hand slipped out of Dick’s.

You stepped back.

“No,” you whispered.

Dick turned instantly. “Hey—”

“No.”

Your breath came too fast.

The cave walls leaned in. Too many eyes. Too many blank faces.

Too much proof.

“I can’t do this.”

Dick reached for you.

You backed away.

His face cracked open.

But he stopped.

He let his hand fall.

Because you had asked him not to turn your pain into his hero moment.

“I can’t,” you said again, louder now, to everyone, to no one. “I can’t stand here and watch all of you erase me.”

Bruce looked at the note on his hand.

Then at you.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You barked a laugh. “Don’t.”

His mouth closed.

“Don’t be sorry like that fixes it. Don’t look at me like I’m a case.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” You pointed at the screens, the tablets, the notes. “All of this. The systems. The strategies. The little labels on your wrists. I know you’re trying to help. I know. But I am so tired of being a problem everyone has to solve before they can love me.”

The cave fell silent.

Dick looked wrecked.

Zatanna, standing near the edge of the circle she had drawn in chalk, said gently, “Then tell them what you need.”

You laughed weakly. “I don’t know what I need.”

“Yes, you do.”

You hated magic people. They were always saying true things at inconvenient times.

You looked at Dick first. Then at the others.

Your voice trembled. “I need you to stop acting like forgetting me hurts you more than being forgotten hurts me.”

Dick closed his eyes. Only for a second.

When he opened them, he still remembered.

Barely.

You could see him holding on.

You looked at Bruce. “I need you to ask before you test something.”

Bruce nodded once. “Done.”

At Tim. “I need you to explain what you’re doing like I’m a person in the room, not a glitch in your code.”

Tim looked stricken. “Yeah. Yes. Absolutely.”

At Damian. “I need you not to make promises reality can break.”

Damian’s jaw clenched. Then he dipped his chin. “I will try.”

At Jason.

You hesitated.

Jason raised both brows. “What? Need me to stop being charming?”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. “I need you to keep being angry about it.”

Jason’s expression flickered. Then he gave you a grim little smile. “Oh, that I can do.”

At Alfred, your voice softened. “Thank you for the tea.”

Alfred inclined his head. “It is a start.”

It was. A strange, fragile start.

Zatanna stepped into the circle.

“Now,” she said, “we try again. Not to solve you. To witness you.”

The words settled over the cave.

To witness you.

Not fix. Not save.

Witness.

Dick looked at you. This time, he did not reach.

He waited.

You crossed the distance yourself and took his hand.

He breathed out.

The circle began.

Magic, you discovered, hurt like remembering.

Not a clean pain. Not a cut. More like every forgotten version of yourself waking up in your bones at once.

Zatanna spoke backwards, voice ringing through the cave. Constantine answered from the shadows, lighting sigils with a snap of his fingers.

Bruce read your name aloud. Then Barbara. Then Tim. Then Damian. Then Jason. Then Alfred.

Then Dick.

Especially Dick.

Each time someone said your name, the curse screamed.

Not with sound.

With absence.

Lights flickered. Screens glitched. The cave shook. The giant penny tilted dangerously and made everyone briefly consider whether dying by novelty coin would be too embarrassing for the obituary.

Memories tore loose.

Your mother screaming. Your father forgetting your face. Teachers marking you absent while you sat at your desk. Friends laughing with you, turning away, returning with fear. Doctors diagnosing stress. Police calling you a runaway. Strangers offering kindness that evaporated between one blink and the next.

Years of being unseen crashed through the room.

And this time, you were not the only one holding them.

Dick gasped like he had been punched.

You turned toward him.

He was crying. Not silently anymore.

He saw it.

All of it.

Every introduction. Every loss. Every night you had smiled like your heart wasn’t breaking because you knew he would not remember the tears anyway.

“Dick,” you whispered.

“I remember,” he choked.

The spell buckled.

Zatanna shouted something backwards.

Constantine swore so loudly that Alfred said, “Language,” on pure reflex.

The curse lunged.

You felt it reach for Dick. For the shape of his love. For the single bright thread he had tied around you again and again and again.

No.

Not him.

Not anymore.

You let go of his hand.

Dick made a broken sound.

But you turned toward the circle. Toward everyone.

“If you’re going to remember me,” you said through gritted teeth, “then remember this.”

The cave lights exploded blue.

You spoke your name.

Not like a plea this time. Not like an apology.

Like a claim.

The curse recoiled.

For the first time since you were thirteen, the world hesitated before erasing you.

That was all Zatanna needed.

“Dloh,” she commanded.

Hold.

Every person in the cave repeated your name.

Again. Again. Again.

A circle. A chorus. A net.

The curse thrashed, dragging shadows across the walls. For one terrible second, every face went blank.

Dick. Bruce. Jason. Tim. Damian. Alfred. Barbara on the screen.

All of them stared at you like strangers.

You stood in the middle of the circle with your heart in pieces.

Then Jason looked at his arm.

“Don’t be a dick,” he read aloud.

His eyes snapped to you.

“Right,” he growled. “Screw that.”

Damian followed.

Then Tim.

Then Bruce.

Then Alfred.

Then Barbara.

Then Dick.

He looked at the card in his hand. Read it. Looked at you.

And this time, something changed.

The blankness did not vanish all at once.

It cracked.

Like ice under sunlight.

His face filled with pain. With recognition. With love.

Your breath caught.

Dick whispered your name.

The curse broke.

Not with a bang. Not with dramatic lightning, though honestly, with this crowd, it would’ve fit the brand.

It broke like a held breath finally released.

The room went quiet. The silver thread around your wrist dissolved into blue ash.

One candle remained lit.

Then another.

Then all of them.

You stood very still.

No one moved. No one looked away.

Finally, because the universe enjoyed comic timing, Constantine said, “Well. That was horrible.”

You laughed.

It was wet and shaky and half a sob, but it was yours.

Dick took one step toward you.

Then stopped.

Still asking. Still learning.

You closed the distance.

He caught you when your knees gave out, and this time when his eyes shut against your hair, just for one exhausted second, he did not forget.

He opened them again.

Looked down at you.

Still knew you.

His face crumpled.

“Oh,” he whispered.

You touched his cheek with shaking fingers. “Do you remember?”

Dick laughed through tears.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I remember.”

You started crying then.

Not the quiet kind. Not the practised kind.

The ugly, gasping, years-too-late kind of crying that tore through you like weather.

Dick held you on the cave floor while the candles burned blue around you.

No one turned away.

Or maybe they did. Maybe Tim looked down at his tablet. Maybe Jason wiped his face and pretended he hadn’t. Maybe Alfred stepped aside to make more tea. Maybe Bruce closed his eyes because grief had found another child-shaped wound to haunt him with.

But when they looked back—

They remembered.

They remembered.

They remembered.

The cure was not perfect.

Magic rarely was.

Constantine explained it three days later in Dick’s apartment, boots on the coffee table until Dick kicked them off.

“Your existence sticks now,” John said. “Mostly.”

You sat on the couch under a blanket, both hands wrapped around a mug of tea. “Mostly is a cursed word.”

“Appropriate, then.”

Zatanna elbowed him. He grunted.

“What John means,” she said, “is that people who have been anchored will remember you. People outside the circle may still forget if they look away too quickly, especially strangers. But the curse no longer rewrites your entire existence.”

“So I’m still forgettable,” you said.

Dick sat beside you, his knee pressed against yours. “No.”

You looked at him.

His voice was gentle, absolute.

“No,” he repeated. “You’re not.”

Something in your chest warmed.

Terrifying. Tender.

Zatanna smiled.

“New memories should hold,” she said. “With time, the effect may weaken further. But for now, the anchor circle matters.”

“Meaning the Bats remember me.”

“Unfortunately,” Constantine said.

Jason, from where he was raiding Dick’s fridge uninvited, called, “Heard that, trench coat.”

“You were meant to.”

Damian looked up from the armchair where he was pretending not to be emotionally invested. “If anyone forgets them again, I will take it as a personal insult.”

Tim, surrounded by three laptops on the floor, nodded. “I’m building a shared encrypted memory archive.”

You blinked. “A what?”

“A normal scrapbook,” Dick said quickly.

Barbara’s voice came from Dick’s phone. “It is absolutely not normal.”

Alfred, who had somehow made tea in Dick’s kitchen better than Dick had ever made tea in his own kitchen, set a fresh cup in front of you. “Normal is frequently overrated.”

Bruce stood near the window, quiet as a shadow trying to pass as furniture.

He looked at you.

Then away. Then back.

Still remembered.

His expression softened with something almost like relief.

You did not know what to do with that. So you looked at Dick instead.

He was already watching you.

“Hi,” he said.

You smiled. “Hi.”

His eyes went bright.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“Dick.”

“I just like knowing I’ll remember this.”

Your smile trembled.

The room grew quieter around you—not silent, exactly. This family did not do silence. Jason was still arguing with Constantine. Damian was threatening Tim over keyboard sounds. Barbara was providing commentary like a sports announcer. Alfred was pretending not to enjoy any of it. Bruce was brooding.

But somehow, inside all that chaos, there was space for you.

A place at the table. A name that stayed.

Dick reached for your hand.

You let him take it.

For years, you had lived as a vanishing point. A person made of almost.

Almost seen. Almost known. Almost loved.

Now Dick Grayson held your hand in a room full of people who had witnessed your absence and decided, collectively, with alarming stubbornness, to become impossible to erase.

It was not a fairy tale.

It was messier than that.

More fragile. More real.

Maybe tomorrow, a barista would forget your order. Maybe a stranger on the street would bump your shoulder and blink in confusion. Maybe some mornings you would still wake up afraid that the world had changed its mind.

But Dick would remember.

Zatanna would remember. The circle would remember.

And for the first time in years, when someone looked away from you, the world did not end.

Dick squeezed your hand.

You leaned into his side.

Jason opened the fridge again and yelled, “Yo, Dickhead, why do you have six kinds of oat milk and no real food?”

“Because I’m an adult,” Dick said.

Tim looked up. “That sentence has never convinced anyone.”

Damian sniffed. “Grayson’s refrigerator is a cry for help.”

Constantine pointed at Damian. “That kid’s scary. I like him.”

“No,” Bruce and Dick said at the same time.

You laughed.

Everyone looked at you.

Not because they were afraid you would vanish. Not because they needed to check.

Because you were there. Because they heard you. Because joy, even fragile joy, deserved witnesses too.

Dick pressed a kiss to your temple.

This time, he would remember doing it.

This time, you would too.

You were not the loudest member of the League. Not the strongest, not the fastest, not the one reporters chased with microphones and wide eyes. You did not wear a cape or a symbol bright enough to turn hope into branding.

You were usually found in the aftermath.

In the ash. In the medbay. In the quiet corner of the Watchtower, where someone was trying not to scream.

You would kneel beside them, place your hands carefully over the damage, and breathe in like you were bracing for winter. Then the wound would close. Poison would vanish from the bloodstream. Bones would knit. Burns would fade. Panic would ease. Pain would leave.

On paper, your ability was simple.

You could heal anyone. No matter the wound. No matter the cause. Human, alien, magical, divine, chemical, psychic — it did not matter.

The League called you a gift. The Titans called you a lifesaver. The Outlaws called you a cheat code.

Clark once called you “mercy with a pulse,” and you had laughed so hard that Bruce had looked up from his tablet just to watch.

Bruce called you reckless.

Mostly because you were.

You would walk into active fire to reach an injured teammate. You would ignore direct orders when someone was bleeding. You would put your palms against flesh torn open by things that should not exist and say, “I’ve got you,” as if that alone were enough to bully death into backing off.

The worst part was that it usually worked.

The second worst part was that Bruce could never decide whether he hated you for it or loved you for it.

Tonight, he decided he hated it.

Mostly because you were bleeding. Again.

Not severely. Not enough for anyone else to notice. A thin line at your temple. A split on your lip. A tremor in your left hand that you kept hiding against your thigh.

You stood in the Watchtower medbay beneath cold white lights, smiling softly while Clark thanked you for sealing a kryptonite burn across his ribs. The wound had been ugly enough to make even Diana go quiet. Green veins. Blackened skin. Clark’s breathing gone ragged and wet.

Now he stood whole and sheepish, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“You didn’t have to take care of it so quickly,” Clark said. “I could’ve waited.”

“No, you couldn’t,” you replied, like this was obvious. “You were turning a shade of green that even Hal couldn’t pull off.”

Hal, from the next bed over, raised a hand. “Rude, but fair.”

Clark smiled. “Thank you.”

You smiled back.

Bruce watched the tremor in your hand worsen.

He said your name.

Your eyes shifted to him immediately.

It always did something strange to him, that. The way you heard him, no matter how softly he said it. The way your attention arrived like a hand settling over an open flame.

“You need to sit down,” Bruce said.

You blinked. “Hello to you too.”

“Sit.”

“Wow. Full sentences tonight. I’m honoured.”

Hal made a low whistle. “Careful, Bats. They’re armed with bedside manner.”

Bruce did not look away from you. “You’re injured.”

“So are half the people in this room.”

“Not after you get to them.”

Your smile thinned.

There it was. A flicker. Small enough that anyone else might have missed it. But Bruce had built a life out of noticing what people tried to bury.

You looked away first.

“I’m fine,” you said.

Bruce hated those two words more than almost any others. They were a locked door. A smokescreen. A blade held behind the back.

Jason used them like armour. Dick used them like a performance. Tim used them like a spreadsheet refusing to load. Damian used them like a dare.

You used them like a prayer.

Bruce stepped closer. “Let Alfred examine you when we return to Gotham.”

Your expression softened in that infuriating way it always did when he worried about you. Like his concern was something precious and breakable. Like you had no idea what to do with it except hold it carefully until he looked away.

“Bruce,” you said quietly, “I’m okay.”

He lowered his voice. “You’re lying.”

Your gaze held his.

For a moment, the medbay noise faded around you both. No monitors. No League chatter. No hiss of sterilisers or distant hum of the Watchtower’s engines.

Just you. Just him. Just the secret Bruce knew you were keeping and the terrible feeling that one day it would cost more than either of you could pay.

Then the alarm screamed.

Red light washed over the medbay.

Clark straightened instantly. Diana reached for her sword. Hal cursed.

Batman was already moving.

“Report,” Bruce snapped into comms.

J’onn’s voice came through, strained. “Breach in Gotham. East End. Magical signature. Multiple civilian casualties. Zatanna is unreachable.”

Bruce’s blood went cold.

Gotham.

Of course, it was Gotham. The city had a way of calling him home with broken teeth.

He turned toward the exit, cape snapping behind him. He heard your footsteps follow.

“No,” he said immediately.

You scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“You’re staying here.”

“I am absolutely not.”

“You’re injured.”

“I’m useful.”

“You’re compromised.”

“And you’re emotionally allergic to common sense, but we all cope.”

Hal muttered, “Damn.”

Bruce turned on you fully. The others moved around you, preparing, but he could only see the blood at your temple. The way your hand still shook.

“You are not going into another combat zone.”

Your face sharpened. “People are hurt.”

“That doesn’t override your safety.”

“It usually overrides yours.”

“That’s different.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Bruce regretted them.

Your expression went still.

Not angry.

Worse.

Understanding.

“Right,” you said. “Because you’re Batman.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice so only he could hear. “And I’m just the person who puts everyone back together afterwards.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“But it is what you believe.”

“No.”

“Then move.”

He did not.

Your eyes flashed.

“Bruce.”

His name in your mouth was not a plea.

It was a warning.

Diana’s voice cut through the tension. “We need to go.”

Bruce looked at you for one more second.

You looked back, chin lifted, blood drying at your lip like a signature.

He knew that look. He had seen it in mirrors.

There was no stopping you.

Only failing to protect you loudly enough to pretend it counted.

“Stay behind me,” he said.

Your smile returned, quick and grim. “Cute.”

Then you were gone, following the League into the red-lit corridor.

Bruce let himself breathe once.

Only once.

Then Batman took over.

Gotham was burning blue.

Not orange. Not red. Not the familiar hungry gold of fire eating through old wood and older sins.

Blue.

The flames crawled along brick walls without consuming them. They licked over pavement, curled around street lamps, danced across windows with a strange, weightless hunger.

Magic.

Bruce hated magic.

A creature stood at the centre of the East End intersection, too tall to be human and too thin to be alive. Its limbs bent wrong. Its face was a polished black surface with no features except a mouth full of white light.

Around it, civilians lay scattered across the street.

Some moved. Some did not.

Batman landed hard on a rooftop overlooking the intersection. Clark hovered to his left, jaw tight. Diana landed beside him, sword already drawn. You dropped from the Javelin last, boots hitting gravel with a muted scrape.

Bruce glanced back at you.

You were already looking at the wounded.

Of course you were.

“Assess first,” Bruce ordered. “No engagement without—”

The creature opened its mouth.

The sound that came out was not a scream.

It was worse.

It was every scream at once.

Every person in the intersection arched in agony. Civilians. Police. Firefighters. A young paramedic dropped to their knees, hands clawing at their own throat. Clark grunted and clapped both hands over his ears. Diana staggered.

Bruce’s vision went white.

Pain ripped down his spine.

It was sudden. Absolute. Like something had reached inside him and pulled every nerve taut until his bones sang with it.

He hit the rooftop on one knee.

You shouted his name.

He tried to answer.

Couldn’t.

His comm crackled with overlapping voices.

“Batman—”

“Bruce—”

“Status—”

He forced his head up.

The creature’s mouth widened.

The street split.

A line of blue fire shot through the asphalt, up the building, across the roof beneath Bruce’s feet.

He moved too late.

The roof collapsed.

For a moment, there was only falling.

Not fear. Bruce rarely had time for fear during impact.

Only calculation. Distance. Angle. Debris. Cape. Grapple. Left hand functional. Right shoulder compromised from earlier strain. Avoid exposed rebar. Protect head. Roll through—

Something hit him midair.

Not stone. Not steel.

Magic.

Invisible force slammed him downward like the hand of a god.

He crashed through three floors.

The first impact shattered his ribs. The second stole the air from his lungs. The third broke something deep.

Something final.

Bruce hit concrete and knew before he tried to move.

His legs were gone.

Not gone from his body. Worse.

Present. Silent. Dead weight below a line of fire in his spine.

The world narrowed to breath.

In.

Broken glass.

Out.

Blood in his mouth.

He blinked at the ceiling far above, where blue flames crawled like veins through the cracks.

His cowl’s diagnostics flickered.

Spinal trauma: severe.

Lower limb response: absent.

Internal bleeding: probable.

Respiration: impaired.

Bruce closed his eyes. Only for a second.

When he opened them, you were there. Dust in your hair. Blood at your temple reopened. Eyes wide, terrified in a way he had never seen from you.

He tried to say no.

It came out as a wet rasp.

You dropped to your knees beside him.

“Don’t move,” you said, voice shaking.

He would have laughed if he could.

You pressed your hands to his chest, then stopped.

Your gaze flicked downward.

You knew.

Of course, you knew. You always knew where the pain lived.

“Don’t,” Bruce managed.

Your face crumpled for half a second before you controlled it. “Bruce—”

“Don’t.”

The word cost too much. Pain flared behind his eyes. His fingers twitched uselessly against the concrete.

You swallowed hard. “Your spine—”

“I know.”

“You’re bleeding internally.”

“I know.”

“Your lung is—”

“I know.”

You stared at him.

The building groaned around you.

Above, Clark shouted your name. Diana called for Batman. The creature screamed again, and the whole city seemed to twist beneath the sound.

Bruce forced his fingers to curl around your wrist.

Weakly. Not enough to stop you.

Never enough.

“Evacuate,” he breathed.

Your eyes filled. “No.”

“That’s an order.”

“You don’t get to order me to watch you die.”

“I’m not—”

His breath hitched. Something inside him shifted wrong.

Agony tore through him so violently his vision blacked out at the edges.

When the world returned, your hands were on either side of his face.

“Stay with me,” you said. “Bruce, stay with me.”

He wanted to tell you that he was trying. He wanted to tell you to leave. He wanted, absurdly, to apologise.

For the blood on your hands. For the fear in your eyes. For every time he had treated your kindness like a tactical flaw because admitting what it really was would mean admitting how much it mattered to him.

You bent closer.

Your forehead touched his.

“Forgive me,” you whispered.

Panic cut through him sharper than pain.

“No.”

You kissed him.

Not like a goodbye.

Like a promise made with shaking hands.

Then your palms pressed over his spine.

And you breathed in.

Bruce’s world exploded.

Not with pain.

With absence.

The fire in his back vanished. His ribs snapped into place. His lung opened. The blood in his throat cleared. Feeling surged back into his legs with such sudden force that his whole body jerked.

He gasped.

The cowl display stabilised.

Spinal trauma: resolved.

Internal bleeding: resolved.

Respiration: normalising.

Lower limb response: restored.

Bruce stared up at you in horror.

Because you were no longer kneeling.

You were collapsing. Your body folded exactly the way his had. Your breath broke on a sound he would hear for the rest of his life.

Blood spilled from your mouth.

“No,” Bruce said.

This time, the word came out whole.

He caught you before your head struck concrete.

You convulsed in his arms, eyes blown wide with agony. Your hands clawed weakly at his cape, not pushing him away. Holding on.

Your legs did not move.

Bruce’s mind went quiet.

Not calm.

Quiet. The kind of quiet that came before violence. Before grief. Before the part of him that wore a bat-shaped shadow took all the pain in the room and turned it into a weapon.

“What did you do?” he whispered.

You tried to answer. Only blood came out.

Bruce pressed two fingers to your throat. Pulse rapid. Weak. Too weak.

Behind him, debris shifted. Clark dropped through the hole in the ceiling, eyes blazing red until he saw you.

The heat vanished from his stare.

“Great Rao,” Clark breathed.

“Get us out,” Bruce said.

Clark moved instantly.

Bruce held you against his chest as Clark lifted them both through the wreckage. Diana met them on the street, blue fire reflecting off her armour.

Her face changed when she saw you.

That was when Bruce understood.

The horror did not belong to him alone.

Everyone was watching. Hal hovered above the intersection, ring dimming. Flash stood frozen near an ambulance. J’onn’s expression had gone remote with shock. Civilians stared from behind barricades.

And you lay in Bruce’s arms with his broken spine.

His blood. His death.

The creature screamed again.

Bruce did not look at it.

“Diana,” he said.

His voice was Batman’s. His arms were Bruce’s, shaking around you.

Diana’s gaze hardened. “Go.”

Clark reached for you. “Bruce, I can fly them faster.”

“No.”

Clark stopped.

The word had come out too sharp. Too raw.

Bruce adjusted his grip carefully, terrified to jostle you. Terrified not to.

“I have them,” he said, quieter.

Clark looked at him, and Bruce knew he understood.

Not everything. Not yet.

But enough.

Clark nodded once and turned back toward the blue fire.

Bruce carried you to the Javelin.

Every step was steady.

Every breath was not.

The Cave had never felt so cold.

Alfred met them before the landing platform fully opened. He did not ask questions. That was one of the many reasons Bruce trusted him more than anyone alive.

One look at you, pale and bloodied in Bruce’s arms, and Alfred’s face became very still.

“Medbay,” Alfred said.

Bruce carried you there.

Your head rested against his shoulder. Your breath came in shallow, uneven pulls. Every few seconds, your body trembled as if some invisible current was passing through you.

His injury. His pain. His consequences.

Alfred cut away your suit with clinical precision. Bruce stood beside the bed, cowl pulled off, gauntlets still on, blood drying at his jaw.

Your blood. His blood.

He could not tell anymore.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, “I need room.”

Bruce did not move.

Alfred’s eyes lifted to his. “Now.”

The word cracked like a whip.

Bruce stepped back. Barely.

Alfred worked.

Scans. IV. Oxygen. Stabilisers. A spinal brace. Blood transfusion. Drugs strong enough to knock out most people and still not enough to fully touch what you had taken.

Bruce watched every monitor like it owed him obedience.

Heart rate too high. Blood pressure too low. Inflammation along the spine. Nerve shock. Internal trauma.

All copied from his body.

No. Not copied.

Stolen.

No, not stolen.

Given.

No.

Taken.

His mind circled the word like a predator unable to find the throat.

He had been healed. You had been hurt.

It had to go somewhere.

The thought arrived fully formed, and Bruce nearly staggered beneath it.

It has to go somewhere.

Every mission. Every miracle. Every closed wound. Where had it gone?

He turned sharply and crossed to the Cave computer, fingers flying over the keys.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said.

He ignored him.

Mission reports. Medical logs. Watchtower footage. Your check-in records. League debriefs. Gotham patrol incidents. Titan Tower emergencies. Outlaws extractions.

A pattern bloomed across the screen in timestamps and blood.

You healed Clark’s kryptonite poisoning on March 4th. Later that night, you requested private quarters and refused medbay assistance. The next morning, security footage showed you leaning against a corridor wall, vomiting into your hand.

You healed Dick’s fractured femur after a Titans mission in Blüdhaven. Two hours later, you were limping.

You healed Jason’s gunshot wound in Qurac. You vanished for three days afterward.

You healed Tim’s concussion and neural toxin exposure. You spent the next week avoiding bright lights.

You healed Damian’s broken wrist. The next morning, your hand shook so badly you could not hold a mug.

Bruce kept digging.

Burns. Poison. Panic attacks. Chronic pain. Magical backlash. Broken bones.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Your smile in every debrief. Your “I’m fine” in every recording. Your steady hands on everyone else.

Your hidden suffering afterwards.

Bruce gripped the edge of the console until the metal groaned beneath his fingers.

He had built systems to monitor everyone. He had missed this.

No. Worse. He had accepted the miracle because it was useful.

Because the people he loved came back whole when you touched them. Because when Jason’s breathing evened out, Bruce had been too relieved to ask why your hands shook afterwards. Because when Clark stood healed, Bruce had looked at you bleeding from the lip and let you say you were okay.

He had let himself believe you.

A sound came from the medbay.

Small. Broken.

Bruce was at your side before he realised he had moved.

Your eyes were half-open. Unfocused.

“Don’t try to move,” Alfred said immediately.

You made a faint, pained noise.

Bruce leaned over you. “You’re in the Cave. You’re safe.”

Your gaze dragged toward him.

Recognition flickered.

Then relief.

Relief.

Bruce nearly broke.

“You’re alive,” you whispered.

His throat closed.

Alfred adjusted the oxygen cannula beneath your nose. “Against his better judgment, yes.”

Your mouth twitched.

Even now. Even like this.

Bruce wanted to beg you not to smile.

“Can you feel your legs?” Alfred asked gently.

Your expression shifted.

Not fear.

Knowledge.

You already knew.

Bruce watched the answer settle behind your eyes before you spoke.

“No,” you said.

The word hollowed out the room.

Bruce turned away for half a second, jaw clenched so hard pain shot through his skull.

Alfred’s face remained composed, but his hands were not quite steady as he checked your reflexes.

“This may be temporary,” Alfred said. “The injury was transferred through metahuman means. We cannot assume it will behave like standard trauma.”

You looked at Bruce. He hated that you looked at him. Hated that you cared more about his face than your body.

“You’re angry,” you murmured.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

His eyes snapped to yours.

You swallowed, wincing. “Means you’re okay.”

Bruce stared at you.

Then he said your name so softly it sounded more like damage than language.

You closed your eyes. “I had to.”

“No.”

Your eyelids fluttered open.

Bruce leaned closer. His hands gripped the rail of the bed because if he touched you, he did not know whether he would hold on too tightly or fall apart completely.

“No,” he said again. “You chose to.”

Your face went still.

“And you didn’t tell me the cost.”

Your gaze slid away.

That hurt more than he expected. Which was absurd. Everything hurt more than he expected. He had spent years training pain into something useful, something clean, something he could fold into mission parameters and scar tissue.

This pain was not clean. It had your blood in it.

“I never tell anyone,” you said.

Bruce’s voice dropped. “I’m not anyone.”

Silence.

Alfred paused.

Your eyes came back to his slowly.

Something raw moved through your expression. Something soft and terrible.

“No,” you whispered. “You’re not.”

Bruce could not breathe around it.

He wanted to touch your face. He wanted to hold your hand. He wanted to shake you. He wanted to wrap you in every blanket in the Manor and lock every door between you and the world.

He wanted, uselessly, to go back. To stay broken. To stop you.

Instead, he said, “How does it work?”

Your mouth tightened. “Bruce—”

“How does it work?”

Alfred gave him a warning look. Bruce ignored it.

You were quiet long enough that the monitors filled the space between you.

Then you sighed. “It transfers.”

Bruce closed his eyes.

There it was. The word he already knew and still did not survive hearing.

“When I heal someone,” you continued, voice thin, “I take the injury into myself. Usually not permanently. Most things pass faster in me than they would in someone else. Burns fade in hours. Breaks heal in days. Poison burns out. Pain drains eventually.”

“Eventually,” Bruce repeated.

You gave him a tired look. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Sound like you’re about to cross-examine my bloodstream.”

Alfred, traitor that he was, murmured, “A fair description of your tone, sir.”

Bruce did not look away from you. “You’ve been suffering every injury you healed.”

“Not suffering.”

His stare hardened.

You exhaled. “Not always for long.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

“You lied.”

“I omitted.”

“You lied.”

Your eyes flashed, a spark beneath exhaustion. “And you don’t?”

Bruce went silent.

You tried to shift, and pain tore across your face. The monitor spiked. Alfred moved quickly, adjusting medication, his voice low and calming.

Bruce stood frozen as you breathed through agony that had belonged to him.

When it passed, sweat shone at your hairline.

You looked very small in the medbed. You had never looked small before.

That frightened him more than the blood.

“I didn’t tell you,” you said, quieter, “because all of you would have stopped letting me help.”

“Yes.”

You laughed once. It sounded like it hurt. “Exactly.”

“You should have told us.”

“So you could make the choice for me?”

“So we could make an informed choice for ourselves.”

That landed.

Bruce saw it in the way your mouth parted slightly. In the sudden guilt that crossed your face.

He pressed on, because he was cruel when afraid. Precise when wounded.

“Clark would not have asked you to take kryptonite poisoning into your body.”

“He was dying.”

“Jason would not have asked you to take a bullet for him.”

“He was bleeding out.”

“Tim would not have asked you to absorb neurotoxin.”

“He was seizing.”

“Damian—”

“Would rather cut off his own hand than let someone else suffer for him,” you snapped. “I know.”

Your breathing hitched.

Bruce looked down.

Your hands were clenched in the sheets.

“I know,” you said again, softer. “I know who they are. I know what they’d choose. That’s why I don’t ask.”

Bruce felt something in his chest fracture.

Not because he understood.

Because he did.

You were surrounded by martyrs who would rather die than be saved at a cost. So you hid the price tag. You became the loophole.

Bruce looked at you and saw every terrible part of himself reflected back through gentler eyes.

Sacrifice dressed up as duty. Pain hidden under competence. Love turned into a weapon and aimed inward.

No wonder he had missed it.

It looked too much like him.

“You don’t get to decide that your life is worth less,” he said.

Your eyes shone. “Neither do you.”

The Cave went quiet.

Somewhere above, rain began to strike the Manor windows. Soft at first, then harder. Gotham weather, dramatic as ever. The city had never known how to read a room.

Bruce lowered himself into the chair beside your bed.

He removed his gauntlets slowly. One finger at a time. Armour coming off always felt like losing an argument.

You watched him warily.

He reached for your hand. Paused. Asked, because he should have asked before, “May I?”

Your expression cracked. Just slightly.

Then you nodded.

Bruce took your hand with a care that felt almost violent in its restraint.

Your fingers were cold.

He covered them with both of his.

“I was dead weight,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“In the building. I couldn’t move.”

Your throat bobbed.

“You were dying,” you said.

“I know.”

“No, Bruce. You were dying.”

He held your gaze. “I know.”

Your face twisted with something like grief. “Then why are you looking at me like I did something wrong?”

“Because you nearly died.”

“So did you.”

“I’m used to it.”

The words came too easily.

Your stare sharpened, even through the pain.

“That,” you said, “is the saddest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Bruce looked down at your hand.

You turned your fingers weakly against his palm. “You think your death would be easier for me because you’ve rehearsed it more?”

He had no answer.

You continued, voice trembling but steady enough to cut. “You think I could watch you die and call it respect? Call it consent? Call it honouring your choices?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

“I couldn’t,” you whispered. “I’m sorry if that makes me selfish.”

Selfish. The word was so wrong that Bruce almost flinched.

“You call this selfish?”

“I wanted you alive.”

His grip tightened carefully around your hand.

You looked at him like the confession had cost you more than the injury.

“I wanted you alive,” you repeated. “Not Batman. Not the mission. Not the symbol. You.”

Bruce closed his eyes. In the dark behind them, he saw you kneeling in rubble. Your face above his. Your forehead against his. Your whisper.

Forgive me.

He had thought, for one blinding second, that you were saying goodbye.

Maybe you had been.

When he opened his eyes, you were still watching him.

“You should have let Clark take me,” you said after a moment.

“No.”

“He’s faster.”

“Yes.”

“Bruce.”

“I couldn’t.”

The honesty left him rough. Bare.

Your face softened. He hated that too.

He was not the one in the bed. He was not the one with a stolen wound curled around his spine like a curse. He did not deserve your tenderness right now.

“I couldn’t give you to someone else,” he said.

Your eyes filled again.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Bruce lifted your hand and pressed his mouth to your knuckles.

It was not enough. It was nowhere close. But it was what he could do without breaking every monitor Alfred had attached to you.

“I’m sorry,” he said against your skin.

You breathed in shakily. “For what?”

“For not seeing it.”

“You weren’t supposed to.”

“I should have.”

“No.” Your thumb moved weakly across his hand. “Bruce, no.”

He looked up.

You gave him the saddest smile. “You don’t get to be responsible for my secrets too.”

Something in him rebelled against that. Responsibility was the shape he gave to love when love was too dangerous to name. He could hold responsibility. Measure it. Use it. Bleed for it.

But this? This was only terror and your cold hand and the knowledge that you had loved him violently enough to become his wound.

“I’m responsible now,” he said.

Your smile faded. “Bruce.”

“There will be protocols.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Limits.”

“You’re doing it.”

“Medical oversight.”

“You’re making my spinal trauma administrative.”

“Transfer thresholds.”

“Romance is alive and well in Gotham.”

Alfred coughed. It sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Bruce ignored him. “You won’t heal anyone alone again.”

Your expression sobered. “That’s not always possible.”

“Then you don’t heal.”

“You know I can’t promise that.”

His voice hardened. “You will.”

“No.”

The word was quiet. Final.

Bruce stared at you. You stared back.

There you were, barely conscious, temporarily paralysed, still prepared to fight him from a medbed.

He should have been angry.

He was angry.

But beneath it was something more helpless.

“You would do it again,” he said.

Your silence answered before you did.

“If it was you?” you whispered. “Yes.”

Bruce’s chest tightened.

He stood abruptly, because sitting still had become impossible. He paced once, twice, then stopped at the foot of your bed.

“You don’t get to say that like it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“You took my broken spine.”

“Yes.”

“You took my internal bleeding.”

“Yes.”

“You could have died.”

“Yes.”

His hands curled into fists. “Why?”

Your eyes widened slightly, like the answer was obvious. Like he was the impossible one.

Then your face softened.

Because of course you knew. Of course, you saw the question beneath the question.

Why me? Why would you choose me? Why would anyone look at the ruin of him, the sharp edges, the locked doors, the blood-soaked mission that had eaten most of his life, and decide he was worth carrying?

Your voice was barely audible.

“Because I love you.”

Bruce stopped breathing.

Alfred became very interested in the IV line.

Rain filled the silence.

You looked away first, cheeks flushed with fever or pain or embarrassment. Maybe all three.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmured. “Actually, please don’t if you’re about to be noble and emotionally unavailable. I’m very injured and cannot escape the room.”

Bruce moved before he decided to.

He came back to your side, leaned over the bed, and touched your face.

Carefully. Always carefully.

You went still beneath his palm.

He brushed his thumb along your cheekbone, avoiding the bruising near your temple. Your eyes lifted to his.

“I love you,” he said.

You stared.

For once, you seemed genuinely speechless.

Bruce would have appreciated that more under different circumstances.

Then your face crumpled.

“Oh,” you whispered again, smaller this time.

He bent and kissed your forehead.

Your eyes closed.

He stayed there for a moment, lips against your skin, breathing you in beneath antiseptic and blood and rain-damp Cave air.

When he drew back, you were crying silently.

Bruce wiped the tears away with his thumb.

“I’m still angry,” he said.

You laughed weakly. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“I’m going to be angry for a while.”

“Hot.”

His mouth twitched despite everything.

Then his expression broke serious again. “But I love you.”

Your fingers curled around his.

“And we are going to find a way,” he continued. “A safer way. A limit. A counterbalance. Something.”

“You can’t solve everything.”

“No.”

You gave him a look.

Bruce sighed. “I can attempt to solve many things.”

“There he is.”

“I can also sit here.”

Your expression changed.

He saw the exact moment you realised what he was offering.

Not a plan. Not a protocol. Not a war against the impossible.

Presence.

Bruce Wayne’s rarest currency.

“You hate sitting still,” you said.

“I do.”

“You’re bad at it.”

“I am.”

“You’ll brood.”

“Likely.”

“You’ll scare the nurses.”

“Alfred isn’t scared of me.”

“Alfred raised you. He’s immune.”

“Unfortunately.”

Your smile was small and exhausted, but real.

Bruce sat back down.

He did not let go of your hand.

You woke and slept in pieces.

Pain made islands of time.

Sometimes Alfred was there, changing medication, murmuring dry commentary that made the Cave feel less like a tomb. Sometimes Clark visited, guilt written so plainly across his face that you had to spend ten full minutes reassuring Superman, which felt frankly illegal.

He stood at the end of your bed with his hands folded too tightly.

“I should have known,” Clark said.

From the chair beside you, Bruce made a low sound.

You pointed weakly at him. “Do not start a guilt club. I will revoke everyone’s membership.”

Clark’s mouth twitched.

“I mean it,” you said. “No matching jackets.”

“I could design a logo,” Bruce said dryly.

You turned your head slowly toward him. “That was almost a joke.”

“No.”

“Growth.”

Clark looked between you both, something soft dawning in his expression.

Bruce glared. Clark wisely pretended not to notice.

Diana came next. She held your hand between both of hers and bowed her head over it.

“You have carried warriors without allowing them the honour of carrying you,” she said.

You swallowed. “That sounds bad when you put it like that.”

“It was meant to.”

“Cool, cool, love the honesty.”

She smiled faintly. “You will allow us to help now.”

It was not a question.

You glanced at Bruce. He raised an eyebrow.

You sighed. “You told her.”

“I told the League.”

Your stomach dropped. “You what?”

Bruce’s expression did not shift. “They needed to know.”

Anger flashed hot enough to cut through the pain. “That wasn’t your secret to tell.”

“No,” he said. “It was their bodies.”

You froze.

The anger did not vanish. But it changed shape.

Bruce leaned forward. His voice lowered. “They had a right to know what happens when you heal them. You were not wrong to save us. But you were wrong to take the choice away.”

You looked at Diana.

Her face was gentle. Not accusing.

That made it worse.

“I would not have asked this of you,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“And yet I am grateful.”

Your throat tightened.

Diana squeezed your hand. “Both can be true.”

After she left, you refused to look at Bruce for nearly an hour.

He sat beside you anyway.

Brooding. Predictably.

Finally, you said, “I’m mad at you.”

“I know.”

“You had no right.”

“I know.”

“I understand why you did it.”

His eyes moved to yours.

“That does not make me less mad,” you said.

“I know.”

You watched him for a moment.

He looked exhausted. Not the usual kind. Not the clean-lined fatigue of patrols and board meetings and nights spent chasing monsters through the city’s veins.

This was deeper. He sat like a man keeping vigil at the edge of a grave he had almost been lowered into, except you were the one lying down.

“You’re allowed to sleep,” you said.

“No.”

“Bruce.”

“No.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

His face went still.

You realised your mistake immediately.

Bruce looked down at your joined hands. “You don’t know that.”

The words were quiet. So quiet they hurt more.

Your anger softened, unwillingly and all at once.

“Hey,” you whispered.

He did not look up.

You squeezed his hand as hard as you could. It was not very hard.

“Bruce.”

His eyes lifted.

“I’m here.”

His jaw worked.

“I’m here,” you repeated.

“For now.”

“For now is what everyone gets.”

He hated that. You could tell. Hated it with his whole controlled, grieving, impossible heart.

But he did not argue.

That was how you knew he was truly afraid.

On the third day, feeling returned to your left foot.

It was not pleasant.

You woke from a dead sleep with a strangled gasp, pain lightning up your leg. Bruce was on his feet instantly, one hand on your shoulder, the other reaching for the call button.

“What happened?”

“My foot,” you choked out.

Alfred appeared within seconds.

Bruce looked like he might personally fight your nervous system.

“Pain?” Alfred asked.

You nodded, tears springing to your eyes.

“Scale?”

“Six,” you said.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed.

“Seven,” you amended.

Alfred gave you a knowing look. “Nine, then.”

“Betrayal,” you whispered.

Bruce’s hand remained on your shoulder, warm and steady.

After Alfred adjusted your medication and confirmed the return of nerve response was a good sign, the pain settled into something bearable.

Bruce did not. He stayed tense beside you, jaw locked, eyes fixed on your legs like he could command them back into obedience.

“Stop glaring at my spine,” you mumbled.

“I’m not.”

“You sure are.”

He exhaled through his nose.

You studied him through the haze of medication.

He had not shaved. His hair was messy from running his hands through it. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and there was a coffee mug nearby that looked untouched and deeply depressed.

“You look terrible,” you said fondly.

“Thank you.”

“Very Victorian widower chic.”

His eyebrow twitched.

“You need sleep.”

“I’ve slept.”

“Microsleep while threatening medical equipment doesn’t count.”

“I didn’t threaten anything.”

“Bruce.”

“A monitor was malfunctioning.”

“You told it to try harder.”

“It did.”

You laughed, and it hurt, but the hurt was worth it because Bruce’s face changed.

Only slightly.

But it changed.

The tightness eased around his mouth. His eyes warmed with something fragile.

“There you are,” he murmured.

Your breath caught.

He seemed to realise he had said it aloud, because he looked away.

Too late.

Warmth spread through your chest, soft and aching.

“Come here,” you said.

His gaze returned immediately. “What do you need?”

“You.”

That stopped him.

You shifted carefully, making room on the narrow medbed.

“No.”

“Bruce.”

“You’re injured.”

“I’m aware.”

“I could hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“I’m not getting into a medbed with you while you have spinal trauma.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

You sighed. “Okay. Chair closer, then.”

He hesitated.

“Please,” you added.

That did it.

Bruce moved the chair until it was close enough for you to touch him without straining. You lifted your hand. He took it.

“No,” you said. “Closer.”

He leaned in.

You reached up and touched his face.

His eyes closed.

The sight of it nearly undid you.

Bruce Wayne, who held himself like a locked room, leaning into your hand in the cold glow of the Cave.

“You’re alive,” you said softly.

His eyes opened. “So are you.”

“Yeah.”

“You nearly weren’t.”

“As were you.”

His mouth tightened.

You brushed your thumb over his cheek.

“We’re a mess,” you whispered.

“Yes.”

“Like, a medically concerning mess.”

“Yes.”

“Emotionally, too.”

“Obviously.”

You smiled.

He turned his face and kissed your palm.

Your heart stumbled.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured.

Your smile faded into something softer. “About loving me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Your voice shook. “Because I meant it too.”

Bruce leaned forward until his forehead rested gently against yours.

No pressure. No demand.

Just contact. Just warmth. Just the mercy between bones.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted.

“Love me?”

“Let you risk yourself.”

You breathed out. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“I know.”

“You can’t lock me away.”

“I know.”

“You can’t make every choice for me.”

His eyes opened. “I know.”

“And I can’t keep taking choices from everyone else.”

Bruce went very still.

The confession sat between you.

Ugly. Necessary. True.

You swallowed. “I thought if I told people, they’d choose pain. Death. Permanent damage. I thought they’d make the noble choice because all of you are allergic to being loved safely.”

Bruce’s mouth twisted.

“But I think…” Your voice thinned. “I think maybe I was making the same choice for them.”

He did not speak.

His hand tightened around yours.

“I don’t regret saving you,” you said. “I won’t lie about that.”

Pain flickered in his eyes.

“But I’m sorry I made it something you had no say in.”

Bruce closed his eyes.

For a moment, he looked younger.

Not young. Never young.

But younger. Like grief had loosened its grip just enough to reveal the boy beneath the bat. The child in the alley. The man still trying to make every loss mean something.

When he opened his eyes again, they were damp.

He did not let the tears fall.

That was fine. You knew him.

You saw them anyway.

“I would have chosen you,” he said.

Your breath caught.

“If you had asked,” Bruce continued, voice rough, “if you had told me the cost, I would have chosen your life over my legs.”

Your vision blurred. “I know.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” you whispered. “That’s why I didn’t ask.”

He flinched.

You hated yourself for it, but the truth was there now, sharp and breathing.

Bruce absorbed it in silence.

Then he nodded once.

Not forgiveness. Not yet.

Understanding.

That was a beginning.

“We do it differently now,” he said.

You nodded.

“We make rules.”

“Guidelines,” you countered weakly.

“Rules.”

“Strong suggestions.”

His stare flattened.

You smiled. “Fine. Rules.”

“No healing without disclosure unless the person is unconscious and the injury is immediately fatal.”

“Reasonable.”

“No solo transfers above a threshold we determine with testing.”

“Mostly reasonable.”

“No hiding symptoms.”

You grimaced.

His eyes narrowed. “Non-negotiable.”

“You’re so hot when you’re a bureaucratic nightmare.”

“Deflection.”

“Accurate deflection.”

“And,” Bruce said, ignoring that, “when you are injured, you let us help.”

Your smile slipped.

There it was. The hardest one.

Not the pain. Not the risk. Not the blood.

Receiving. Letting care come toward you and not turning it aside.

You looked down at your joined hands.

“I don’t know how,” you admitted.

Bruce’s thumb moved over your knuckles. “Neither do I.”

A laugh broke out of you, small and wet. “God, we’re doomed.”

“No.”

He said it so firmly you looked back up.

Bruce’s eyes held yours. “We’ll learn.”

The words should have sounded impossible. From anyone else, maybe they would have. But this was Bruce. Bruce, who had rebuilt himself from blood and pearls and gun smoke. Bruce, who turned grief into a citywide vow. Bruce, who loved like a locked door but stayed, always stayed, once you found the key.

If Bruce Wayne said he would learn, then God help the universe, he would.

You let your head sink back into the pillow.

“Okay,” you whispered.

He kissed your forehead again.

Then, after a pause, your mouth.

Softly. Carefully. A kiss shaped around the IV line, the spinal brace, the bruises, the terror. A kiss that did not ask for more than you could give. A kiss that said, with aching restraint, I am here. I am not leaving. I am furious. I love you.

When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.

“You need to sleep,” he said.

“So do you.”

“I’ll stay.”

“That wasn’t the argument-ending statement you thought it was.”

You felt, rather than saw, his faint smile.

A blanket shifted. The chair creaked. Then Bruce’s hand was still in yours, his thumb resting over your pulse.

Guarding it. Counting it. Trusting it, maybe.

You drifted toward sleep.

At the edge of it, you murmured, “Bruce?”

“Yes?”

“If you tell Jason, he’s going to yell at me.”

“He already knows.”

Your eyes snapped open. “Bruce.”

“He yelled at me first.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Then he yelled at Clark.”

“That tracks.”

“He’s waiting upstairs.”

You groaned. “I’m critically injured.”

“He brought soup.”

“Jason made soup?”

“Alfred made soup. Jason is taking credit.”

You smiled despite yourself.

The Cave hummed around you. Rain whispered above. Somewhere in the Manor, the family you had saved too many times waited to be angry, relieved, and unbearably present.

You had thought the pain had to go somewhere.

Maybe it did.

But maybe care did too.

Maybe it could move from hand to hand, body to body, not as a wound but as warmth. Maybe, this time, you did not have to be the only place suffering landed.

Bruce’s fingers tightened around yours as if he felt the thought pass through you.

“Sleep,” he said.

“Bossy.”

“Yes.”

“Love you too.”

His breath caught softly.

Then his mouth brushed your knuckles.

“I love you,” Bruce said, like a vow. Like a wound closing. Like the first honest miracle he had ever believed in.

And for once, when you slept, you did not have to carry the pain alone.

Bruce held your hand through every hour of it.

Isn’t this what friends do? Wally lets you hug him any which way you like, Roy piggybacks you through the halls towards the parking lot, Donna feeds you without thinking twice, her fork always filled with yummy pieces of food and Kori plays with your hair in the library, running her fingers through the soft strands over and over again. 

So it was normal when Dick began to take the seat next to you at all times. 

It was normal when he always found you before your 10AM lecture with your matcha order in hand – always sure to text you for your craving every morning.

You told yourself it was convenient. That his lecture was just past your classroom and he always parked by the little cafe over in The Commons. That he just liked routines. That it didn’t mean anything.

It was normal when you had returned his clothes, nice and neat in a pretty little tote bag you had won at the carnival and he only shook his head, putting the bag back into your backseat. 

“Keep it.” He had said, slipping your Longchamp over his shoulder like it was habit, like it weighed nothing at all. “It looks better on you anyways.” 

Something about the way he said it, eyes soft and the little smile on his lips, made your stomach flip, heat crawling up your neck. He didn’t notice – or at least, you don’t think he did. If he did notice, he didn’t say anything at all. He just cocked his head towards the building, a hand outstretched for you to take. “You coming?” 

Of course you went. But you didn’t take his hand. 

Dick didn’t say anything. Neither did you. 

But he made sure he kept his pace matching yours, telling little jokes to make you laugh and carefully guiding you through the sea of students. 

And stupidly, reflexively, you think of Kori. 

You remember how happy and excited Kori had been when you all went out that night. How her eyes sparkled every time Dick pulled her closer by the waist and how carefree she looked when she danced with him, their hips swaying to the beat of the music. 

Kori had already spoken for him. 

So it didn’t matter if they both insisted they were friends now, or that it was better for the both of them to not date. It had still counted. It had still happened — and that was enough for you.

You hesitantly tug on the straps of your bag still hung on Dick’s shoulder. He turns back, a small smile on his face when he meets your gaze. “What’s up?”

“I can take my bag back.” You force yourself to smile properly, careful to crinkle the corner of your eyes . “I’m sure it’s heavy – and you’re already carrying your own backpack.” You gesture to the black Prada backpack slung over his shoulder. “Thanks for helping me.”

Dick cocks his head to the side. “It’s fine.” He adjusts your bag on his shoulder, the little plushie charm smiling innocently at you as it dangles off the straps. “You always complain about how heavy it is.” 

“Right.” You nod, wincing internally. He was right. You always did complain about it – but could anyone blame you? Laptop, charger, planner, pens, water bottle, lip gloss, hand sanitizer – the list could go on and on. 

Wally usually carried your bag for you. At least, until Dick started doing it. 

“But I…” You search the corridors of the hallway frantically, eyes landing on the Filipino Association’s little booth as they sold ube and pandan waffles. “I need my wallet!” You plant your feet on the ground, careful to avoid his sleeve when you gently tug on the leather straps of your bag again. “I really want an ube waffle. And you know, Kori loves pandan so I figured I could buy some for her too.” 

“And maybe some for Roy,” you add in thoughtfully. “He told me he’s never tried ube or pandan before.”

“None for me?” Dick turns to face you, gently removing your hand off your bag. “I’ve never tried it before either.” 

You blink, cheeks burning when he leans over, a teasing smile on his face. He smells like lavender and bergamot, just like before, just like always – and you hate that you notice. You hesitantly take a step back, desperate to calm your rapidly beating heart. “Yeah! Yeah, we can– yeah.” You nod, turning towards the booth. “Let’s just buy a bunch for everyone then.” 

You look back over your shoulder, careful to keep your voice steady. “Kori really likes pandan, so maybe you’ll like it too.”

Dick hums in agreement, following beside you, hand in his pocket as he pulls out his wallet. 

“Can we get three of each please – the ube and pandan waffle?” He looks back at you, gesturing to the menu. “You want anything else?”

You shake your head. Dick turns back to the cashier, pulling out $20. 

“It’ll be $30, actually.” The girl in the register looks up shyly, cheeks rosy red. Dick raises an eyebrow playfully, reaching into his wallet for another bill. “Wow, robbing me in broad daylight.” 

The cashier laughs, a small, soft sound. “You’ll have to take it up with the treasurer. I’m just working here.” She takes the bills in Dick’s hands, her eyes darting quickly to where you stand. 

You smile politely, resisting the urge to open your mouth and clarify. To say something, anything that would put you back in the place where you belonged – where you were safe. 

Dick hands you the pastries in a small paper bag. “Shall we?” He gestures to the library. “I think everyone just ended class and meeting up in Kane.” 

You nod, mind racing. 

Kori was there. Your bag was still on his shoulder. He just paid for all the food – and refused to take back his clothes that you had borrowed. 

“Actually, Dick–” 

He looks back towards you. You hold your hand out for your bag, gesturing to the bathroom. “You go in first. I have to use the bathroom.” 

Dick opens his mouth to retort, but you cut him off, pulling your bag off his shoulder. “It’s that time of the month.” 

He closes his mouth, nodding in understanding. His eyes soften at the corners, his voice lowering as he steps closer. “You okay? Want me to get you anything?” 

You shake your head, slinging your bag onto your shoulder. “Nope! I’m all good, don’t worry.” you take a step back carefully, doing your best to remain nonchalant. You wave him away, already halfway to the bathroom. “Go, go! I’ll see you guys soon.”

You turn around, walking briskly into the bathroom and you don’t look back. 

x.

Kori looks up when you walk towards the table, a piece of her pandan waffle hanging out her mouth. “Hi!” She brightens, gesturing to the seat in between her and Dick. “Come, sit here.” 

Dick only looks up once as you approach, shifting to let you pass by, before he returns his attention back to his laptop screen, headphones back on. You slide into the seat, carefully placing your bag on the back of your chair. 

Dick’s knuckles brush your hand. You look down in surprise, his fingers tapping on the table towards a brown paper bag. Kori glances down at the noise before picking up her waffle again. “Oh yeah. Dick saved some for you.”

She pops another piece into her mouth before continuing. “He saved you half a pandan one and half an ube one.” Kori looks over at you when you don’t move. “Aren’t you going to eat it?”

You pause, looking at the brown paper bag. 

Dick doesn’t even look at you, chewing on the end of his pen as he stares at his laptop with all the intense focus of the world. 

“You didn’t have to do that.” You say, slowly opening the paper bag. You’re not sure who you’re talking to. 

Kori tilts her head, studying you carefully. 

“He wanted to.”

x.

You knock quietly on the door of Donna and Kori’s apartment, carefully balancing a tray of bubble tea in your hands. 

You stare at the white wood of their door, heart beating fast and hard like a hummingbird against your chest. You let go of one hand on the tray, carefully smoothing back your hair again in a desperate attempt to calm down.

The door swings open a moment later. “Hey there silly.” Kori grins, her red curly hair falling over her shoulder. “Come in.” She takes the tray from you, setting it down on the table in front of the TV. 

“Donna’s going to be home in a couple of minutes.” Kori announces from the kitchen. “She had to go buy some cassava. Are you staying for dinner?”

“If you’ll have me.” You answer evenly, unloading the tray. You set down the three bubble teas on the table, popping in the straw for both you and Kori. Kori hums, picking up the cup you hand her. “Of course. Donna won’t care.”

She flops down on the sofa, right beside the giant shark plushie you won her at the arcade. “Anyways, come sit down.” 

You sit down stiffly, curling your hand around the plastic cup. You settle down on the cushions, letting the sound of the TV fill the silence. You scratch lightly at the plastic of the cup, letting the condensation collect on your fingers. 

The sun shines brightly into the room. The TV plays quietly between the two of you, Kori’s laughter mixing in. 

A beat. 

You exhale quietly, clenching the cup around your fingers. It was now or never. You turn around, resting your cup on the shark plushie between the two of you. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Kori nods, eyes still on the screen, entranced by the characters on the screen. 

“Has Dick been… weird with you lately?” You laugh quietly to yourself, shaking your head. “Nevermind, it’s stupid.”

“Weird how?” Kori takes a sip of her drink, tearing her eyes away from the TV. 

“Just…” you gesture vaguely, “you know… around.” 

“He’s been a lot more helpful? I guess?” You let out a small puff of air to yourself, swiping along the condensation on the cup. “And he keeps on showing up? At first, I thought it was normal because of how I am with everyone else but lately it just seems really intentional.”

You hesitate before finally lifting your gaze to meet Kori’s steady ones. Something in her eyes makes you pause. 

“Maybe I’m just overthinking it.” 

Kori stares at you for a moment, letting your words hang delicately above both of your heads. You offer her a small smile, already taking it back. “You know what, I’m just being stupid. You know me, I always overthink–”

“Dick doesn’t really do things halfway.” Kori finally says, cutting you off effectively. You clamp your mouth shut, biting the inside of your cheek. “If he does something, it’s always been intentional.’

“Yeah, but–”

“No, no.” Kori shakes her head, looking at you. “Let me finish.” 

You quiet again, fiddling with your rings. 

“Dick has always been the kind of guy who does the right thing – even going as far as forcing himself to do so, but his body always knows.” Kori continues gently. Her hand reaches out before falling next to where you’re now rubbing your knuckles. “He’s not subtle when he’s fighting himself.”

She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to let her thumb brush against your fingers lightly. You still, blood rushing to your ears. 

“If Dick is showing up for you, it’s because he wants to. Not because he has to. Not because he’s being forced to.” 

Kori smiles gently but you catch the way her cheeks twitch, like she’s forcing herself. 

“Right, but–” You run your fingers through your hair, the motion soothing you – if only for a brief moment. “You guys were dating for a while and I don’t want to make anything weird for anyone. You’re my best friend and I really–” You squeeze your eyes before forcing your shoulders to loosen. “I would never do anything to hurt you. I don’t want to even let whatever Dick is doing get that far if it will ever make you uncomfortable.” 

“You won’t.” Kori says simply. “And you aren’t.”

She gives you a small smile. “And Dick wouldn’t do anything like that to either of us. That’s not the kind of person he is.” She leans back into the couch cushions, eyes flickering briefly to the TV before returning back to you. 

Your chest tightens. “I don’t want to make things weird or awkward for anyone.”

“And you won’t be.” Kori lets her hand fiddle with the shark plushie’s fins for a moment. You say nothing, chest tight and heavy like the weight of the world was sitting on your sternum. 

“What we had,” she continues, voice airy and light, casual on the surface, “is in the past now. We went on a few dates and they were good but we just didn’t have that spark or connection.” Kori looks up, squeezing the fin in between her fingers, the softness of the plushie doing nothing to reduce the way her stomach threatens to roll over. “We weren’t in the same place. These things happen.” 

You study her face, the tight-lipped smile and the little twitch in her eyebrows. “You swear? You’re okay?”

She nods, holding up her pinky for you. “Pinky promise.”

You stare at her finger before slowly lifting your hand to interlock your finger with her. 

“I just…” your finger tightens ever so slightly before you pull it away. “I don’t see why he’d give me all this attention.”

“What do you mean?” Kori’s pinky hovers in the air. She stares at you, absolutely perplexed. 

“I mean, come on.” You let out a small laugh, running your hands through your hair. “We have like nothing in common. He’s Bruce Wayne’s son, for crying out loud.” You stare blankly at the velvet fabric of the shark plushie, a smile plastered onto your face. “We just get along, we have a good time but isn’t that just what friends do?”

Your voice grows small, hesitant. “He’s with me until he gets bored of me, until I become “too much”, until I don’t smile right or laugh the perfect amount, until I misread something and it’s back to square one — and based on how Dick’s wish-washy behavior towards me these past few months, it’s a real possibility.” 

“Dumped by Dick Grayson.” You let out a puff of air, “Real good for my mental health.”

A moment of silence. 

You look up alarmed before smothering it just as quick, a carefully crafted mask placed on your face. “Just kidding.” You laugh. The corners of your eyes crinkle at the corner carefully. “Who would ever think that about me? I’m fun, I’m pretty, I’m cute and smart. I’m a dream come true.”

“Don’t you agree?” Your cheeks strain from the effort. 

Kori stares at you, a million thoughts running through her head as you wait for her answer. 

“You are those things.” She finally answers, the words said quietly. You exhale, smoothing your hair once more. 

“But—“ you look up, confused as Kori continues. “You don’t have to joke what you were feeling away.”

Your smile twitches. 

“That’s not how Dick sees you.” She says quietly. “If he is showing up for you like this, he’s not forcing himself. Your worth and attention is not conditional. Dick likes you — we all like you, just the way you are. Our love and attention to you is not conditional.” 

“Besides,” she pulls back, giving you a wry smile. “What’s so wrong with liking you? I’d date you if I was a man.”

You roll your eyes, falling back against the cushions. “You can date me now if you want.” 

Kori laughs, a real one this time. You can’t help but give a little giggle of your own, matching her. She turns her head slightly, voice dropping slightly. “I was serious, you know. Anyone who’s with you or even gets to be with you is lucky.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You smile, letting your head rest back along the cushions. “Whatever you say.” 

Kori turns to face the TV, her smile still plastered on her face. 

Like she said with Donna, her feelings for Dick would eventually fade. 

Sooner rather than later, she hopes. 

x.

Dick shuffles in his seat uncomfortably, crossing his arms over his worn black Carhartt hoodie (stolen from his younger brother Jason, of course — too big, too heavy, but good for hiding in.)

Kori had been staring at him on and off the entire time the group had met at the library, the kind of stare that made his skin prickle uncomfortably under his hoodie no matter what he did. 

He pretends to type something on his laptop, forcing himself to take a sip of his water under her intense gaze. From across the table, you were leaning against Donna, proof-reading a paper she had written, tapping your pen against your forehead thoughtfully. 

Wally and Roy sit on either side of Dick, both intensely concentrated on their work with Wally staring angrily at his lab, numbers and formulas scribbled haphazardly in his notebook and Roy carefully memorizing the different muscle groups of the body. 

Dick glances back down at his laptop screen, his macro economics lecture paused. He should be preparing for his exam next Monday, not… being made to feel like a specimen under Kori’s serious stare.

You let out a small laugh, looking over at Donna as you point at something on her laptop screen. The sound cuts through the air, clear and bright and Dick can’t help but match your smile, the curves of his lips moving up before he registers it – at least, until his skin prickles under his hoodie again, Kori’s gaze unrelenting on him. 

He clears his throat, dropping his eyes once more to his laptop screen. 

Kori still doesn’t let up. 

Wally throws his pen on the table with a frustrated groan, rubbing his eyes angrily. “You know what, fuck this lab and fuck you Professor Harris.” 

Roy pulls out one of his earbuds, mumbling quietly to himself before tearing his eyes away from the anatomical drawings in his textbook. “You’re too loud for the library.” 

“Yeah, well, this lab is too much for my poor brain.”

You look up, pretty eyes peeking out from over the surface of Donna’s laptop. “Shall we go for a sweet treat run?” You lean forward, eyes sparkling. “Beat the 3PM slump this way?” 

Donna rests her head on your shoulder, stifling a yawn. “I’m down.”

“Count me in.” Wally says, already standing up to stretch. Roy carefully places a sticky note on the textbook page before slamming it closed, scooting out of his chair. “Me too.”

Dick opens his mouth, his fingers dancing across the top of his laptop before slowly pushing it closed. “I’ll come–”

“Dick and I can stay here.” Kori interrupts, finally pulling her gaze away. She turns towards you, giving you a little smile. “We can watch everyone’s stuff. Bring me back something, won’t you?”

You hum nodding thoughtfully bumping shoulders with her affectionately. “Yes ma'am!" You face Dick, your chair scraping against the floor of the library as you stand up. “And you, Dick?” 

Something about the way you said his name made him pause. He blinks before smiling, “Yeah. Just get me whatever you’re having.” 

You stare at him for a minute, biting your lip before nodding, turning away when Wally loops his arm over your shoulder, steering you away from the table. 

Dick watches as you point at something on your phone, letting out a small giggle when Donna says something, the sound threading into his ribs and into his heart. He rubs his eyes, forcing himself to look at Kori across from him, her gaze somehow even more stronger. 

“So,” he lets out an awkward laugh, desperate to smother the uncomfortableness that was creeping up his neck, “I guess they really left us.” 

“Yeah.” Kori hums, nodding. She closes her laptop, tapping her burgundy red nails against the metal surface. “I guess so.”

Dick slips one hand into his gray sweatpants, fingers anxiously playing with a piece of leftover lint. “It’s the first time we’ve been alone together since we decided to just be friends, right?” He tilts his head, giving her another small smile. “Crazy, huh?”

Kori studies him for a moment, green eyes taking in the way he fidgets in his chair, his blue eyes darting from her green eyes to your laptop left open and your baby pink water bottle you always carry around (and always ask Dick to refill for you). 

(He always says yes.)

“Yeah.” She says lightly, “I guess it is.”

Her fingers still on the laptop, tapping one last final time before her palms rest fully against the metal surface. “It’s… different, isn’t it?”

Dick nods. “Yeah. I think so. But we were pretty adult about it, don’t you think?”

“I guess so.” Kori doesn’t say anything else. 

Dick nods again, slower this time. A beat of silence passes between the two of them, stiff and heavy. 

“So, what do you think [Name] will get–”

“I have something to ask you—“ 

Kori and Dick both pause as their sentences overlap. He shakes his head, gesturing vaguely towards her. “You first.” 

She studies him for a moment, making him squirm in his seat. “It’s nothing crazy.” Kori finally says, voice light and airy. “I just wanted to know how you’ve been since we were last… you know.””

“Oh.” Dick pauses. “I’m good. Everything is fine.” He tilts his head, eyes widening slightly. “Are we not fine? Did I misread something?”

Kori shakes her head. “No, no. We're fine. I was just curious since we haven’t really had a chance to talk about it.”

She watches as his eyes flit over to your pink water bottle once more. Kori bites the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to look down at her nails. It was no use denying it – no use to pretend otherwise. 

Dick liked you. 

Kori clears her throat, catching his attention once more. “So, how has the romance department been for you since? Anyone special in your life?”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow, guess we’re getting right into it, huh?”

Kori gives him a little smile, her cheeks aching from the effort. “It’s just a casual question.” She looks down, tapping her nails against the surface of her laptop once again. “I was just curious. I haven’t really seen you talk to anyone else since then. You’re usually with Wally or–” 

Dick follows her gaze to where your seat was. 

“--with [Name].” She finishes quietly.

Dick stiffens, the tip of his ears turning a cherry red. “Yeah, um–” He swallows with difficulty, “You know. Wally lives across from me and I just happen to run into [Name] since she’s always with him too, or our classes are near each other–”

Kori watches him with an amused smile, resting her chin on her palm. “Wow, you’re doing a lot of mental gymnastics over there, aren’t you?”

He laughs sheepishly, looking down. “Is it working?”

“Not in the slightest.” 

Kori gives him a little grin. The gnawing feeling in her stomach dissipates ever so slightly and she lets out a small exhale, shoulders dropping. 

“You don’t have to tell me how you feel about her.” Kori reaches over to gently tap the table space between the two of them. “You don’t have to tell anyone. I just wanted to let you know that it’s fine. I’m fine. You’re good. We’re completely and utterly fine.”

Dick stares at her burgundy nail, breath shallow.

“You don’t need to worry about hurting me. Our chapter has ended and we’ve made peace being friends.” Kori continues, watching the smile on Dick’s face twitch. “Just be honest to yourself, okay?”

He nods slowly, Kori’s words slowly but surely burrowing itself into his brain. 

“You’re very… sweet to her.” Kori says quietly, staring down at the Apple logo of her laptop. “It’s kinda cute - and very obvious, by the way.” She doesn’t look up at him, keeping her palm pressed onto the surface of her MacBook. The sweatiness of her palm returns full force. 

Dick huffs out a laugh. “Thanks. I think.”

Kori nods, satisfied — even if it was just something she had to force herself to feel. 

They both look up when Donna’s shadow appears, falling over the table. She jerks her head behind her, setting down her iced caramel latte. “They’re lagging behind. [Name] ran into a few of her friends.” She lowers her voice, taking your seat. Her eyes light up, a mischievous grin on her face. “I’m pretty sure that one of them likes her. He kept trying to get close to her and everything.” 

Kori glances at Dick briefly before returning her attention to Donna. “Is it the guy with the glasses?” 

“Yes! Oh my god, with the black hair and earrings?”

“And the tattoo? On his forearm?”

Donna practically leaps out of the chair, grabbing onto Kori excitedly. “Yes!”

Dick pulls at his earlobe. 

“He’s been chasing her since freshman year, apparently.” Kori shakes her head, a small laugh escaping her. “Apparently he even had a few girlfriends but they all looked like [Name].” 

Donna lets out a low whistle. “Gotta hand it to him — he knows what he wants.” 

Dick forces a smile when Donna glances over at him. Kori taps her nail again on the table surface. “A man on a mission.” she says, laughing lightly.

Footsteps approach. 

Wally appears with you by his side, your laughter breathless and warm, reaching the table before Dick can see you. Roy holds up a brown paper bag, setting it down with finality in the center of their little library table. 

“We got some popcorn chicken and bubble waffles too.” 

You slide a brown paper cup tray next to it, your hand curling around a plastic cup. “Kori, I got you a dragonfruit refresher. I remember you’ve been craving it lately.” 

She nods, smiling gratefully. You turn to Dick picking up another drink. “Mr. Grayson, you get what I got - passion fruit green tea with herbal jelly. Don’t be upset if you don’t like it.” 

Dick forces a smile, his hand wrapping around the cup as you hand it to him. Your fingers don’t brush. 

Wally takes his seat next to Dick, letting you steal the piece of bubble waffle he had taken for himself from his fingers. 

Dick stares at the smile on your face as you chew happily, eyes lit up as Roy tells a joke. 

Kori says nothing. 

She sees it all. 

a/n: heh an extra long and fast update because... THE KNICKS WON THE KNICKS WON THE KNICKS WON EVERYONE SAY IT WITH ME KNICKS IN FIVE KNICKS IN FIVE KNICKS IN FIVE JALEN BRUNSON I LOVE YOU JALEN BRUNSON IS MY DOCTOR, HE IS MY ENGINEER, HE IS MY MECHANIC, HE IS MY SUBWAY DRIVER, HE IS MY PILOT, HE IS MY DAD. EVERYTHING I DID WAS FOR JALEN BRUNSON RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA SPURS BLEW A 29 POINT LEAD IN GAME FOUR THATSSSSS WILLDDDD AND THEN 16 POINT LEAD IN GAME 5 ??? THAT'S EVEN WILDERRRRRRRRRRRRR YALL HAD WEMbY SAYING HE'S IN ROBINSON'S HEAD & STILL BLEW THAT LEAD HAHAHAHAA GREATEST MF COMEBACK IN ALL OF NBA HISTORY THAT'S WHAT IM FUCKING TALKING ABOUT KNICKS IN FIVE KNICKS IN FIVE KNICKS IN FIVEEEEEE RRAAAAAAAAAAAAA

When he looked back, you watched the recognition drain out of his face like blood from a wound.

His shoulders squared. His expression closed. His hand drifted, subtle and controlled, toward the cufflink that probably concealed some kind of panic signal.

“Who are you?” he asked.

There it was.

The sentence that had followed you your whole life.

You had heard it in classrooms, hospitals, police stations, shelters, grocery stores, subway platforms. From foster parents who had signed forms swearing they would care for you. From teachers who had graded your papers and forgotten your name by lunch. From doctors who walked out of the room to get test results and returned with security.

Who are you?

Not rude. Not cruel.

Just empty.

You swallowed and forced a small smile, because if you did not smile, you might break open right there on the polished floor of Wayne Manor.

“My name is…” You stopped.

Names were dangerous things. Not because they held power, like in old fairy stories, but because they begged to be remembered.

And nobody remembered yours.

“I’m nobody,” you said softly. “Sorry. I’ll leave.”

Bruce’s gaze narrowed. “Wait.”

You laughed once. It sounded ugly. “Don’t look away, Mr. Wayne.”

His eyes sharpened. “What?”

“If you look away,” you said, backing toward the door, “you’ll forget I was ever here.”

A normal person would have looked away immediately. Out of disbelief, discomfort, reflex. People always did. They glanced aside when you said impossible things, and then the impossible thing took you from them.

Bruce Wayne did not look away.

For three full seconds, he stared at you like you were a case file, a crime scene, a bomb under a nursery.

Then Alfred stepped into the doorway behind him.

“Master Bruce, Commissioner Gordon is on the—”

Bruce turned.

Only half an inch.

Enough.

When his gaze returned to the empty space where you had stood, you were already gone.

And Bruce Wayne forgot you.

But not completely.

That was how it began.

Not with love.

With a missing second.

With a blank space in the shape of you.

You learned young that the world was full of doors, and none of them stayed open for you.

Your mother forgot you in a supermarket when you were five.

Not lost you. Forgot you.

She turned around to compare the price of cereal, and by the time she looked back, her face had gone soft and strange.

“Are you looking for your parents, sweetheart?”

You had cried then. Screamed, actually. Clung to her sleeve. Called her Mom, Mom, Mom until she looked frightened enough that a store manager came over.

By the end of the day, there was no missing child report. No frantic search. No relieved reunion.

Just a little kid with no one who could remember she belonged somewhere.

You survived by becoming very good at not needing to belong.

You stole when you had to, which was always. Slept where you could. Learned the rhythm of attention: how long people looked, when they blinked, when they turned away, when they reached for phones, bags, keys, memories.

Mirrors did not help. Cameras recorded you, but people who watched the footage forgot what they had seen as soon as they glanced away from the screen. Photographs became meaningless. Documents misplaced themselves in the minds of clerks. Your fingerprints existed, your face existed, your name existed—until someone stopped perceiving you.

Then you became smoke.

Gotham, in a cruel way, was perfect for someone like you.

Nobody looked at anyone for too long here. The city trained its people to keep their heads down.

You drifted through its shadows like a ghost with a pulse.

And then, because Gotham had a sense of humour sharp enough to cut bone, you got caught by Batman.

Well. Almost.

You were lifting medical supplies from a private clinic that had more money than compassion when he dropped from the ceiling like judgment with a cape.

You froze.

He froze too.

For one strange, suspended moment, Batman looked directly at you.

You hated how seen you felt.

“Put it down,” he said.

His voice was low. Controlled. The kind of voice people obeyed because it sounded like it had already survived every possible argument.

You held the bag tighter. “I need it.”

“For what?”

You almost laughed. Batman was asking follow-up questions. Most people didn’t make it that far.

“For someone who’ll die without it.”

His eyes—white lenses, unreadable—stayed on you. “That doesn’t make theft acceptable.”

“No,” you said. “It makes it necessary.”

Somewhere outside, tyres screamed. A crash shattered the night.

Batman’s head turned.

You felt it happen.

That old familiar snap in the air, silent and total.

When he looked back, he did not know you.

But Batman was different from everyone else.

He noticed the bag in your hands. Noticed his own stance. Noticed the open cabinet. Noticed the shape of the conversation even after the memory vanished.

He did not ask, Who are you?

Instead, he said, slower this time, “Don’t move.”

You did, obviously.

You ran.

He chased you for six blocks before losing sight of you in an alley full of laundry lines and broken fire escapes.

The next night, you found a sealed package on the roof where you usually slept.

Inside were antibiotics, bandages, antiseptic, two protein bars, and a small black recorder.

A note was taped to the top.

Press play.

You did.

Batman’s voice emerged, rough with static.

“If you are hearing this, I found evidence of your presence, but may not retain memory of you. I don’t know your situation. I don’t know your abilities. I don’t know if you are dangerous. But you stole medical supplies for someone else. That matters.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“I want to help. Find a way to contact me.”

You stared at the recorder until your vision blurred.

Then you threw it as hard as you could into the dark.

Because hope was a trap. Because kindness forgotten hurt worse than cruelty remembered.

Because Batman would look away eventually.

Everyone did.

Bruce built systems around you before he understood you.

That was such a Bruce Wayne thing to do.

You learned his name long before he learned yours and kept it. Batman. Bruce. The Prince of Gotham. The man who adopted strays like the city kept daring him to stop.

He left devices in places you frequented.

Recorders. Notes. Cameras with motion sensors. Tiny screens programmed to flash messages at him when your image appeared.

SUBJECT PRESENT. DO NOT LOOK AWAY.

You hated being called subject.

You hated more that it worked.

Sometimes.

The first time Batman managed a full conversation with you, he had locked his cowl into some kind of visual fixation mode. His lenses tracked you with mechanical precision, refusing to let his gaze drift.

“Creepy,” you told him.

“Necessary,” he replied.

“You always this charming?”

“No.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

His mouth twitched. Barely. Almost not at all.

It wrecked you.

People did not smile at you. Not for real. Not with memory behind it.

“What do you want?” you asked.

“To understand what’s happening to you.”

“Cute.”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s worse.”

He studied you. The lenses made it impossible to know what he was thinking, but somehow you felt the weight of it anyway.

“How long has this been happening?”

You looked past him toward the city lights. “Always.”

“Since birth?”

“Since before memory, apparently. Funny, right?”

“No.”

“No,” you agreed. “It’s not.”

The wind dragged cold fingers over the rooftop. Below, sirens rose and fell like Gotham breathing in pain.

Batman did not look away.

You wanted him to.

You wanted him to forget so you could stop standing there with your chest cracked open.

“My mother forgot me,” you said, and hated yourself for saying it. “When I was little. She turned around in a supermarket and forgot she had a kid.”

Batman went very still. “Your father?”

“Don’t know. Maybe he forgot first.”

His jaw tightened.

You shrugged, because otherwise you would cry, and you had learned that tears made people kind for exactly as long as they remembered why.

“Social services?”

“Couldn’t keep a file active. Teachers forgot I was enrolled. Foster placements forgot to pick me up. Police forgot what they were investigating. I became… paperwork static.”