“and every bright neon sign turned into stars”

Not because you remembered losing your own parents. There had never been anyone for you to remember. No faces blurred soft by time, no voices you could almost hear in dreams, no treasured story about where you came from that anyone had been able to give back to you. Your life began, as far as anyone at Haly’s could tell, in a basket left near the performers’ entrance before dawn, wrapped in a blanket too thin for the weather and tucked beneath the faded canvas awning like whoever had left you there hoped the circus might know what to do with unwanted things.

The circus had.

Haly’s had taken you in the way a traveling circus took in anything strange, broken, useful, or lost. Not neatly. Not legally at first. Not with the clean lines adults liked to draw around family. You were passed between trailers and arms, fed from chipped bowls, tucked into spare bunks, watched by whoever was not performing, repairing, rehearsing, or sleeping. The roustabouts taught you knots. The clowns taught you how to make people look where you wanted them to look. The animal handlers taught you patience. Mary Grayson taught you how to braid your hair so it stayed out of your face. John Grayson taught you how to fall without breaking your wrists.

Dick taught you how to be a child.

He had been born into the circus, bright and laughing and fearless, with a last name that meant applause and parents who caught him whenever he leaped. For a while, you thought that made him different from you in some permanent, untouchable way. He belonged to people. He belonged to the air. He belonged to the story everyone told when the lights went up, and the Flying Graysons climbed toward the rigging.

Then he caught you stealing sugared almonds from a vendor’s crate when you were six years old and immediately asked why you had not taken more.

“You’re supposed to tell,” you said, clutching the paper bag to your chest.

Dick looked offended by the idea. “I’m supposed to get half.”

That was the beginning of everything.

By the time you were old enough to understand that the Graysons were not yours in any official way, it no longer mattered. Mary still checked whether you had eaten before shows. John still lifted you onto his shoulders when the crowds got too thick. Dick still came looking for you first whenever he had something funny, stupid, or dangerous to do. You were not a Grayson on paper, but you knew the rhythm of their trailer at night. You knew the smell of Mary’s perfume and rosin. You knew John’s laugh from across the lot. You knew Dick’s hand in the dark without needing to look.

They were still the first people who made you understand what parents were supposed to feel like.

The night they died, the air smelled like sawdust and rain.

You remembered that more clearly than you wanted to. The damp edge of the tent canvas. The crowd murmuring with that restless, eager hunger that came before the big act. The yellow-white glare of the lights. Dick’s shoulder pressed against yours backstage as he bounced on his toes, pretending not to be nervous. He was wearing red, green, and gold, the colors bright enough that he looked almost impossible to hurt.

Mary kissed his forehead before she climbed.

John winked at you.

“Watch closely, little sparrow,” he said. “You’ll miss the best part.”

You did watch.

For years afterward, you wished you had looked away.

There was a particular kind of silence that came after the ropes snapped, a silence too large for the tent, too large for the crowd, too large for your body. It opened like a wound. For one suspended moment, everyone seemed to believe that gravity could still change its mind.

Then Mary and John Grayson hit the ground.

Dick screamed.

You did not remember moving, but you remembered reaching him. He was fighting every adult hand that tried to hold him back, his small body twisting with a violence that made men twice his size flinch. You wrapped both arms around him from behind and held on because you knew he would try to run to them if you let go, and some desperate, practical part of you understood that if he got close enough to see everything, something inside him would never come back.

He elbowed you hard in the ribs. You did not let go.

“Let me go,” he choked.

You pressed your face into his shoulder and held tighter. “I can’t.”

“They’re my parents.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know.”

The words tore out of him before he could think better of them, and the second they were in the air, you felt him go still. Even in the middle of the worst moment of his life, Dick Grayson knew when he had cut too deep.

You closed your eyes. Your chest hurt where he had hit you. It hurt worse where he had not meant to.

“They were mine too,” you whispered.

Dick broke then. Not neatly. Not quietly. His knees buckled, and you went down with him in the sawdust, your arms still locked around his shaking body while the circus collapsed into shouts and footsteps and sobs around you.

You sat beside him on the narrow cot in the back of the medical tent and held his hand while the circus packed itself into whispers around you. Someone had wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. It kept sliding down one side because he would not release you long enough to fix it.

Bruce Wayne arrived in an expensive coat with a face like carved stone and eyes that looked too familiar for a stranger’s. He spoke to the police first, then to Mr. Haly, then to a woman from social services who kept glancing at Dick as if he might shatter if she looked directly at him for too long.

Finally, Bruce came to the cot.

He crouched instead of standing over Dick. That was the first thing you noticed about him. He was rich enough to own the ground beneath his feet, probably, but he crouched in the dirt and mud of the circus lot so Dick would not have to look up.

“Dick,” he said gently. “My name is Bruce Wayne.”

Dick stared at him.

“I knew your parents,” Bruce continued. “Not well, but enough to know they loved you.”

Dick’s fingers tightened around yours until your knuckles ached. You did not pull away.

Bruce’s gaze flicked briefly to your joined hands. “I want to help.”

It was the sort of thing adults said when they had already decided what help meant. You knew that too, though not because you remembered being left. You knew because you had grown up with the knowledge of it sitting under your skin like an old splinter. Adults said help and meant papers. They said help and meant moving. They said “help” and meant a bed in a room that smelled wrong, and a life chosen by strangers who got to go home afterward.

Dick knew it from you.

He had watched you grow up with the vocabulary of being left behind. He had seen the way you went quiet whenever inspectors came too close, whenever someone asked who was responsible for you, whenever an adult with a clipboard looked at you like a problem that had learned to walk and speak. He had followed you around until you either had to talk to him or throw something at him, and when you had chosen to throw something, he had only ducked, grinned, and declared that your aim needed work.

He knew what happened to children who belonged nowhere.

So when Bruce Wayne said, “You can come with me,” Dick did not ask where.

He looked at you.

The woman from social services shifted. “Mr. Grayson—”

“No,” Dick said.

It was the first word he had spoken in hours. His voice was raw and small and still somehow absolute.

Bruce did not move. “No?”

Dick lifted his chin. His eyes were red, but dry. “I’m not going without her.”

The woman started to say your name, then stopped because she had only read it off a file and did not know how to make it sound like it belonged to you.

Bruce looked at you again. Not with pity, exactly. With calculation, maybe, but not the cold kind. His face changed by degrees as he understood that this was not a child asking to bring along a favorite toy or a familiar blanket.

This was Dick Grayson drawing a line around the last piece of home he had left.

“I see,” Bruce said.

“You don’t,” Dick snapped.

You flinched at the sharpness of it, but Bruce did not.

“No,” Bruce agreed quietly. “Probably not.”

Dick looked ready to hate him for that too. He looked ready to hate anything that required less effort than falling apart. Then his hand trembled in yours, just once, and his face twisted before he managed to force it still again.

You leaned closer until your shoulder touched his.

Bruce saw that too.

The argument lasted longer than it should have, though most of it happened above your heads and around corners. There were phone calls. There were questions about guardianship, placement, emergency petitions, and temporary arrangements. You heard the phrase “not related” at least four times, always in the tones adults used when they thought blood was the only thing that made a family hard to separate.

In the end, Bruce Wayne did what rich men in Gotham did best.

He made the impossible bureaucratically inconvenient enough that people stopped telling him no.

You left the circus in the back seat of his car with Dick pressed against your side and both of your lives packed into two bags in the trunk. Wayne Manor rose out of the dark like something from a ghost story, too large to be real and too silent to be kind.

Alfred Pennyworth met you at the door.

He took one look at Dick, then at you, then at the way neither of you had released the other’s hand.

“Master Dick,” he said, as if Dick had always been expected. Then, turning to you, he added your name with the same grave courtesy. “Welcome home.”

You did not believe him.

But Dick breathed for the first time since the circus lot, and because Dick breathed, you tried.

Wayne Manor did not become home quickly.

The manor was too large. That was your first thought, and it remained your strongest impression for weeks. Too many rooms. Too many staircases. Too many windows looking out over grounds that did not pack up and leave at sunrise. The quiet was not peaceful. It pressed against your ears until you missed the generators, the animals, the distant laughter, the familiar arguments over equipment and laundry and pay.

Dick hated it more openly than you did.

He ran through the halls like speed could make the walls less solid. He climbed banisters, chandeliers, bookshelves, anything that allowed him to get his feet off the ground. He argued with Bruce, with Alfred, with tutors, with anyone who tried to tell him what he was allowed to feel. At night, when he thought you were asleep, he left his room and sat on the floor outside yours.

You started leaving the door open.

Neither of you talked about why.

Bruce tried. You would give him that later, when you were old enough to understand the shape of his failure. He cared clumsily, intensely, with the panic of a man who had never learned how to help a grieving child except by giving him a mission. Dick was angry. Bruce had a place to put his anger. That was how Robin was born.

Dick told you the first night. Of course he did. He came to your room before patrol, still pulling at the gloves, trying to look brave and failing because he kept checking your face.

“Bruce says it’s training,” he said.

“Is it?”

Dick looked down at the bright colors beneath his jacket. “It’s something.”

Three weeks later, he came through your window at two in the morning with a split lip, bruised knuckles, and no chance of pretending it was only training anymore.

You stared at him from your bed.

He stared back.

Then you threw a pillow at his head.

“Ow.”

“You’re wearing traffic-light colors.”

Dick, who had clearly expected fear, anger, or betrayal, looked down at himself. “They’re not that bad.”

“You look like Christmas got into a fight.”

He pressed a hand to his mouth, trying not to smile because his lip was bleeding. “Don’t tell Bruce how bad it looks.”

“Bruce was there.”

“Then don’t tell Alfred.”

“Alfred definitely knows.”

Dick sighed and leaned back against the wall beneath your window. His face changed when the joke faded. In the moonlight, he looked younger than he had all day.

“I can do something now,” he said.

You sat up slowly. “Does it help?”

He looked at his hands. “Sometimes.”

That was the first night you cleaned blood from his face.

You did not know what you were doing then. You used too much antiseptic and made him hiss. Your hands shook. Dick sat on the edge of your bed and let you work, his knee bouncing until you slapped it still. He watched you with those huge blue eyes that had once reflected spotlights and now carried rooftops.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

Because Mary was not there to check him. Because John was not there to teach him how to fall. Because Bruce was turning him into something sharp, and Alfred could not be everywhere, and you had already lost too much to sit still while Dick came apart in pieces.

Because he had said she’s with me, and you had never stopped being grateful.

You dabbed at his lip more gently. “Because you’d do it wrong.”

Dick smiled, small and real. “Probably.”

So it began.

Robin came home bleeding, and you learned. Alfred taught you first aid with the weary resignation of a man who knew forbidding you would only make you sneakier. You learned how to clean cuts, how to wrap ribs, how to spot a concussion, how to tell when Dick was joking to hide pain and when he was joking because he was genuinely pleased with himself. You learned that Bruce went quiet when he was worried, that Alfred used sarcasm as a pressure valve, that the Cave was colder than any place under a home should be.

You did not become a vigilante.

Dick asked once, carefully, after you had thrown a practice knife so hard it stuck in the training mat beside his head.

“You could,” he said.

You looked at him. He was fourteen then, all elbows and restless guilt, still growing into his grief. “Could what?”

“Train. Come out with me.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“I did. No.”

His shoulders dropped, though he tried to hide it. “Why?”

“Because someone has to be here when you come back.”

That shut him up.

You were proud of that for almost two whole days.

Years passed the way they did in Gotham, measured less by birthdays and more by scars. Dick grew taller. His voice changed. His smile became something people followed without knowing why. Robin became a name whispered by criminals and children alike, bright enough to make Batman’s shadow seem survivable.

People started noticing him before either of you knew what to do with it. Girls at school first, then women at galas, then everyone. It was impossible not to. 

Dick Grayson had a way of making attention feel accidental, as if he had only smiled because he could not help it, as if the warmth in his voice belonged entirely to whoever stood in front of him. He could lean against a doorway, flash that grin, and make strangers feel as if they had been chosen. He flirted the same way he fought, quick and graceful and half a step ahead, leaving people blinking after him as if he had taken the light with him when he moved on.

You learned to look away. 

Not all the time. Not enough for anyone to notice. Just when someone laughed too brightly at something he said, or when his hand lingered at a waist during a gala dance, or when he came back from patrol with lipstick on his cheek and blood on his knuckles, grinning like both had been equally harmless.

You told yourself it did not matter. 

You had known him before the charm fit right. Before the smile became practiced. Before Robin turned him into Gotham’s golden boy. You had known the child outside your bedroom door, knees drawn to his chest, too proud to cry where anyone could see.

Somehow, that made it worse.

You watched from the Cave, from the Manor, from the edge of his life where you had always stood, with bandages in one hand and your heart in the other.

Then Dick began to outgrow Robin.

Or Bruce began to outgrow the idea that Robin could belong to anyone who questioned him. Or Gotham asked too much of a name that had been built for a grieving boy in bright colors. Maybe all of it happened at once.

At first, it happened quietly. A costume worn with impatience. A name that no longer fit cleanly in his mouth. Arguments with Bruce that ended with doors closing too carefully, because slamming them would have admitted too much. Dick had spent years turning Robin into something bright enough to survive Batman’s shadow, only to realize brightness could become its own kind of cage.

And you, selfishly, missed the cage.

Not because you wanted him trapped. Never that. But Robin had been the part of him that still came home to the Cave, still climbed through your window, still bled where you could reach him. Whatever came next would belong to the world even more than he already did.

You hated yourself a little for knowing that before he said it aloud.

Their fights got worse before they got quieter. That was how you knew it was serious. Dick and Bruce shouting was unpleasant, but familiar. Silence between them felt like a door closing.

By the time Dick chose Nightwing, it no longer felt like a costume change. It felt like an escape route.

He came home in black and blue for the first time with blood on his jaw and something fragile beneath his smile, as if he had expected the new colors to make him feel free all at once and had been disappointed to discover that becoming yourself still hurt. You stood in the Cave with gauze in one hand and antiseptic in the other, looking at the winged symbol across his chest.

He looked older. Not because of the suit, though the suit helped. Not because of the blood, either; you had seen too much of that for it to mean what it should have. He looked older because, for the first time, he seemed to be standing outside the life Bruce had built for him and deciding whether to come back in. 

“Nightwing,” he said, like he was testing whether the name would hold.

You looked up at him. “That’s what you’re calling yourself now?”

His smile flickered. “You hate it?”

You hated that you didn’t.

You hated that it suited him. The dark, the blue, the clean break of it. You hated that Robin had looked like a boy trying to survive grief, and Nightwing looked like someone who might actually outrun it.

“No,” you said, softer than you meant to. “I don’t hate it.”

Something in his shoulders loosened. Not much. Just enough to hurt.

He stepped closer, holding still while you pressed gauze to the cut along his jaw. “Bruce does.”

“Bruce hates anything he didn’t build himself.”

Dick laughed under his breath, but it did not last. His eyes dropped to your hands. “Do you?”

You knew what he was really asking. Not whether you hated the name. Not whether you hated the suit. Whether you hated that he had chosen a door and walked through it without you.

“No,” you said again.

This time, it cost more.

He sat on the edge of the med table and let you clean the cut along his jaw. For once, he did not fill the silence with jokes. He watched your hands instead, his eyes following the familiar motions like they were the only part of the night he trusted.

“Does it look stupid?” he asked eventually.

You glanced up.

There were a dozen easy answers. You could have teased him about the collar, the symbol, the dramatic little wings. You could have told him the suit was impractical in at least three places and that he still needed better armor around his ribs because, apparently, every criminal in Gotham had decided his torso was a community punching bag.

Instead, you looked at him properly.

He was older than Robin had ever been allowed to become. Not fully grown, not fully free, but closer to himself than he had looked in months.

“No,” you said. “It looks like you.”

Dick went very still.

Then he looked away, blinking too quickly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He breathed out, and for a moment the Cave did not feel quite so cold.

Then Jason came.

He arrived all elbows and suspicion, a street kid with quick hands, quicker teeth, and the wary look of someone who expected every kindness to come with a bill. Bruce brought him into the manor with that familiar grim certainty he wore whenever he had already decided a child needed saving and had not yet considered whether the child wanted to be saved by him.

Dick did not take it well.

He was older by then, old enough to know that a lonely child deserved food, shelter, training, and someone willing to stand between him and the city. He was also young enough for it to hurt when Bruce looked at another dark-haired boy with bruised knuckles and saw a mission. The manor shifted around Jason the way it had once shifted around Dick, and Dick smiled too brightly through it, which meant he was angry enough to be careful.

Jason noticed, of course. Jason noticed everything. He noticed the Cave, the rules, the silences, the way Bruce gave orders instead of comfort, the way Dick’s name still lived in the walls even after he had started spending more nights away than home. He noticed you too, hovering near the med bay with gauze in your hands and an expression that probably looked too much like pity for his taste.

“I don’t need a nurse,” he snapped the first time Bruce brought him back bleeding.

“Good,” you said, snapping on gloves. “I’m not one.”

Jason eyed you. “Then what are you?”

“Tired.”

Dick laughed from the other side of the Cave, sharp and surprised, and Jason looked deeply offended that anyone had found the exchange funny.

You liked him immediately.

Not because he was easy. Jason was not easy. He bit at every soft thing offered to him and then looked startled when people did not take it back. He argued with Alfred, hoarded food as if he would not be fed again, read books as if he expected someone to confiscate them, and pretended not to lean into the warmth of the manor, even as it slowly sank into his skin.

He was not Dick.

That should have made things simpler. It did not.

Because Jason eventually put on the Robin colors, and the first time you saw him in them, your stomach twisted before you could stop it. The suit had been altered, fitted to a different body, a different stance, a different kind of anger, but the colors were the same. Red, green, yellow. Bright enough to dare the dark to look away.

Dick went very quiet that night.

Jason noticed that too.

“You got a problem?” he demanded, chin lifted like he was ready to swing first and find out why later.

Dick’s smile was pleasant in the way storms looked peaceful from far away. “No.”

“Liar.”

“Jason,” Bruce warned.

“No, he’s been looking at me like I stole something.”

Dick’s face changed.

You saw it happen and stepped forward before Bruce could make it worse. “Jason.”

“What?”

“You’re bleeding on the floor.”

That distracted him for exactly half a second. “So?”

“So Alfred just mopped.”

Jason looked down at the small red drops near his boot, then back at you. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

“Yes.”

“You people are weird.”

“Deeply. Sit down.”

He sat, muttering, and you cleaned the cut across his forearm while Dick stood a little too far away and watched a boy who was not him wear the name he had not realized he still thought of as his.

After that, something in the manor changed again.

Jason became Robin loudly, defiantly, with less grace than Dick and more force. He argued with Batman in the field, swore when he thought Alfred could not hear him, and came to you with injuries he pretended were not bad until you raised an eyebrow and he folded under the weight of being known. Sometimes, when Dick came home, he found Jason in the med bay eating your snacks and insulting your bandaging technique. Sometimes he looked amused. Sometimes he looked like he had walked into his own past and found someone else living there.

You never asked if that hurt.

You knew it did.

Dick was not cruel to Jason. That almost made it worse. Cruelty would have been simple, and Dick had never been simple where lonely children were concerned. He taught Jason holds that Bruce had never bothered to explain gently. He showed him how to land on bad rooftops, how to listen for the difference between a scared witness and a lying one, how to talk Batman down when his silence started turning into something sharper. He complained afterward, of course. He told you Jason was reckless, stubborn, mouthy, impossible.

You always waited him out.

Eventually, Dick would sigh and add, “He’s good, though.”

And you would say, “I know.”

And Dick would look toward the Cave, where Jason’s laughter sometimes echoed too loudly because he had not yet learned that the manor punished joy by making it sound lonely.

“Bruce doesn’t know what to do with him,” Dick said once.

You pressed fresh gauze to the cut above his eyebrow. “Bruce doesn’t know what to do with anyone.”

Dick smiled faintly. “You do.”

“No. I just know where the bandages are.”

“That’s more than most people.”

The problem was not that Jason had taken Robin. Not exactly. Dick had already chosen Nightwing by then, had already stepped into black and blue and tried to tell himself that leaving the old colors behind meant they no longer had the power to hurt him. The problem was that Bruce had let the name move on more easily than he had let Dick move on. Robin could become someone else. Dick was still expected to remain within reach, still expected to answer when Bruce called, still expected to translate silence into need and orders into love.

It wore at him.

Their fights changed shape. They were no longer only about patrol routes, curfews, training, or whether Dick had disobeyed an order in the field. They became fights about who Dick was allowed to be when he was not standing beside Batman. They became fights about distance, independence, loyalty, and the ugly little question Bruce never asked plainly: if Dick was not Robin, if he was not a boy in need of saving, if he was not Batman’s partner first, then what was he to him?

The shouting was unpleasant, but familiar.

The silence after was worse.

When Dick told you he was leaving, he did it on the roof of the manor.

He had always liked heights when he had something difficult to say. You found him sitting near the edge, knees drawn up, the city spread below him in glittering black and gold. He was older than his parents had ever gotten to see him become. That thought hit you sometimes without warning and made you want to sit down.

“Blüdhaven,” he said.

You lowered yourself beside him. “That’s a city, not an explanation.”

“It needs help.”

“So does Gotham.”

“Gotham has Batman.”

“Gotham has you.”

He looked at you then, and there was something tired beneath the familiar warmth. “That’s the problem.”

You did not answer right away. The wind pulled at your hair. Far below, the grounds of Wayne Manor stretched dark and endless, a place that had sheltered you without ever fully becoming yours.

“When?” you asked.

“Soon.”

“Apartment?”

“Crappy.”

“Dangerous neighborhood?”

“Probably.”

“Elevator?”

He winced. “Sometimes.”

You nodded. “I’ll pack light.”

Dick’s head snapped toward you. “No.”

You raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“I’m not asking you to come with me.”

“Good thing I didn’t wait for you to ask.”

“I’m serious.” He turned fully now, one knee tucked beneath him, hands moving the way they always did when he wanted to reach for you and thought better of it. “This isn’t like before. I’m not a kid telling Bruce I won’t go without you.”

“No,” you said. “You’re an adult trying to make my decisions for me. Very different.”

His mouth tightened. “Blüdhaven is dangerous.”

“So is Gotham.”

“I’ll be doing this alone.”

“No, you won’t.”

He stared at you, and for a second, he was twelve again, sitting on the steps of a trailer with your sleeve twisted in his fist.

“You have a life here,” he said.

You softened despite yourself. “Dick.”

“You do.”

“I have a room here. I have work here. I have Alfred threatening me with tea every time I skip breakfast. I have Bruce pretending not to care whether I’m home before midnight. I have all of that because you brought me here.”

His face shifted.

You reached over and took his hand. His fingers closed around yours automatically. They always had.

“You didn’t leave me behind,” you said. “Don’t insult me by thinking I’d do it to you.”

For once, Dick Grayson had nothing clever to say.

The apartment in Blüdhaven was, as promised, crappy.

The heat worked when it felt appreciated. The shower made a sound like a dying animal. The kitchen cabinets had been painted an optimistic yellow by someone who had clearly given up halfway through. The bedroom situation was awkward for exactly fourteen seconds, because there was one actual bedroom and one narrow living room with a couch that looked personally offended by the idea of sleep.

“You take the room,” Dick said.

You dropped a box of medical supplies on the counter. “We’ll switch.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll take the couch.”

“No.”

“Then we’ll both sleep standing up in the hallway.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “Why are you like this?”

“Circus-raised. Poorly socialized. Deeply charming.”

“You forgot stubborn.”

“I assumed that was implied.”

You took the bedroom. Dick took the couch. Two weeks later, after you found him asleep half on the floor with one leg bent at an angle that made your spine ache in sympathy, you bought a secondhand bed frame and shoved it into the bedroom while he was out. He came home through the window at three in the morning, bleeding from the shoulder and halfway through a complaint about someone named Torque, only to stop dead in the doorway.

“Why are there two beds in here?”

“Because your spine is going to turn into modern art.”

He looked from the beds to you.

You pointed at the bathroom. “Shower. Then stitches.”

“You moved furniture by yourself?”

“I had help.”

“From who?”

“The terrifying woman downstairs who smokes on the fire escape and calls you Pretty Boy.”

Dick blinked. “Mrs. Alvarez?”

“She likes me.”

“Everyone likes you.”

“That is demonstrably untrue. Shower.”

Domesticity arrived without either of you inviting it.

It came in the form of grocery lists stuck to the fridge beneath a pineapple-shaped magnet. It came in arguments over whether cereal counted as dinner. It came in Dick leaving escrima sticks on the coffee table and you threatening to hide them in the freezer. It came in your scrubs in the laundry with his compression shirts, your medical textbooks stacked beside his case files, your shampoo in the shower next to the cheap body wash he bought because it had been on sale.

It came in windows left unlocked.

Nightwing was different from Robin. You saw it before anyone else did, maybe because you had known Dick before the masks. Robin had been defiance in bright colors, a child refusing to let grief be the last thing his parents gave him. Nightwing was something else. A choice. A declaration. A man stepping out of Batman’s shadow and building his own silhouette against the skyline.

Blüdhaven did not teach you that Dick was beautiful. You had learned that lesson years ago and suffered through the review often enough. Blüdhaven only removed the distance.

In Gotham, wanting Dick had been something you could fold away between patrols, galas, and all the other people drawn into his orbit. There had always been space if you needed it: the Cave, the Manor, the long hallways, the easy excuse of being busy. Blüdhaven took all of that away.

It put him across from you at breakfast, sleep-warm and shirtless, reaching around you for coffee with his chin nearly brushing your shoulder. It put his laundry with yours, his bruises under your hands, his laughter in the next room, his body in your peripheral vision until looking away became less of a choice and more of a survival skill.

Survival, unfortunately, required practice.

He came out of the shower with towels low on his hips and water running down the lines of his back. He cooked shirtless when the apartment got too hot, which was both often and completely unnecessary. He stretched in the living room after patrol, all long limbs and controlled strength, while you stared aggressively at insurance paperwork and pretended not to notice the way his muscles moved beneath bruised skin.

Worse, he was affectionate.

Dick had always touched easily, but Blüdhaven sharpened it into a habit. A hand on your lower back when he passed behind you in the kitchen. His chin hooked over your shoulder while you stirred pasta. Fingers tugging gently at the end of your braid when he wanted your attention. His body collapsing beside yours on the couch after patrol, head landing in your lap like he had never once considered the possibility that it might be dangerous for your sanity.

“You smell like smoke,” you told him one night.

“Warehouse fire.”

“You were at the docks.”

“And there was a warehouse fire.”

“Convenient.”

“Not for the warehouse.”

You flicked his forehead. He smiled up at you, eyes half-lidded, hair mussed, one cheekbone blooming purple. Your hand was still in his hair because he had put it there ten minutes earlier and then made a pleased sound when you scratched lightly at his scalp.

Your heart did something foolish.

Dick noticed because he always noticed you, even when he missed the obvious thing sitting between you with a neon sign.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You did the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The quiet thing.”

“I’m quiet all the time.”

“No,” he said, and his voice gentled. “You get quiet when something hurts.”

That was the problem with being loved by someone who knew you before language had finished forming around your wounds. Dick had too much access. He knew how to read you by the breath, by the pause, by the angle of your hand on his shoulder. You could lie to anyone else. With him, the lie had to be built around the truth or he would see through it immediately.

“I’m tired,” you said.

That was true enough.

His hand found yours where it rested against the couch. “Go to bed. I’ll clean up.”

“You say that like your version of cleaning up doesn’t involve putting dishes in the sink and hoping they emotionally mature into being washed.”

“I’m giving them room to grow.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Your menace.”

He said it easily. Carelessly.

Your chest ached for the rest of the night.

The years did not stay kind enough to let Jason remain only a complication.

Jason died.

After that, the Manor became a mausoleum of everything no one had said in time. Bruce got quieter. Dick got worse at coming home. Alfred polished silver no one used and set places at tables no one could sit at without feeling the empty chair.

Then Tim came, clever and too young and carrying a camera, a theory, and the terrible conviction that Batman needed Robin to keep from becoming something worse. Bruce let the colors back into the Cave because grief had never stopped him from repeating himself.

By the time Jason came back, he was older than he should have been and crueler than death had any right to make him. 

You and Dick had been in Blüdhaven long enough by then for the apartment to smell like his shampoo, your coffee, and rain off the harbor, long enough for the city to become familiar enough to complain about, long enough for everyone except the two of you to notice what had been sitting in the room for years.

Barbara noticed first, because Barbara Gordon noticed everything and had the decency to pretend she did not until pretending became insulting.

“He’s in love with you,” she said one afternoon, not looking up from the tablet balanced on her knees.

You nearly dropped the mug you were washing. “Who?”

Barbara looked at you over her glasses.

You turned back to the sink. “No, he isn’t.”

“I didn’t say a name.”

“There are a limited number of people you could mean.”

“Mhm.”

“He’s Dick.”

“Yes. Tragically, I’ve met him.”

“He’s like that with everyone.”

Barbara’s expression softened, which was worse than teasing. “No, he performs with everyone.” A pause, brief enough to be mercy. “Some of us learn that the hard way. He rests with you.”

You hated that enough to remember it.

Jason noticed with less grace.

He was in Blüdhaven for reasons he refused to explain, which meant they were either criminal, personal, or both. You found out only because he came through the apartment window just after midnight, bleeding from the eyebrow and carrying a red helmet under one arm, as if proximity had made your kitchen an acceptable substitute for a med bay.

“No,” you said from the kitchen table.

Jason paused with one leg inside. “Wow. Rude.”

“The Cave has med kits.”

“The Cave has Bruce.” 

“You have safehouses.”

“Safehouses don’t have you.”

You blinked.

Jason looked annoyed that he had said it. “And the Cave has Alfred.”

“Alfred knows where the bandages are.”

“Alfred asks questions.”

“And I don’t?”

Jason swung the rest of the way inside and dropped into the chair across from you. “You ask meaner questions, but you don’t make me answer them.”

You stood slowly, already reaching for the kit under the sink. “That better not be arterial.”

“Do I look like I’d climb six floors with arterial bleeding?”

“You look like you’d do it out of spite.”

“Fair.”

You pulled the kit onto the table and looked at him properly. “Why me, Jason?”

His grin thinned into something almost honest. “Because you knew me before the helmet.”

You went still.

Jason looked away first, his jaw working once, as if he regretted saying even that much. “Before I died too,” he added, like he could make the words casual by saying them badly. “And you don’t do the thing.”

“What thing?”

Jason’s mouth tightened. “Look at me like you’re trying to figure out which parts came back wrong.”

For a moment, the kitchen went quiet.

Then he ruined it on purpose. “Also,” he added, “you have the good tape.”

You let him have the deflection because he had already given you more than he meant to. “It’s normal medical tape.”

“Yeah, but you don’t make it feel like a leash.”

That one landed closer to the bone than you expected.

“Jason.”

“What? I said you had good tape.”

You let the lie stand. “You came here because you’re bleeding on my floor.”

“It can be two things.”

You snapped on gloves and stepped between his knees, tilting his chin toward the light. 

Dick was still on patrol, and Jason had clearly counted on that too. Every masked man in your life had the self-preservation instincts of a moth near a porch light, but Jason was the only one petty enough to schedule his bleeding around Dick’s absence.

Jason watched you clean the cut for about thirty seconds before saying, “So, are you and Boy Wonder still doing the world’s saddest foreplay routine?”

You pressed gauze harder than necessary against his eyebrow.

“Ow.”

“Hold still.”

“Hit a nerve?”

“I’m holding antiseptic and you’re bleeding above the eye. Choose your next words carefully.”

Jason grinned. “That a yes?”

“It’s a no.”

“Sure. That’s why he calls you when he’s bleeding, smiles like an idiot when you yell at him, and keeps your favorite cereal on the top shelf where he thinks I won’t find it.”

“You went through my cabinets?”

“It was reconnaissance.”

“It was creepy.”

“It was educational.” His eyes flicked toward the window, then back to you. “He know?”

You did not pretend not to understand. Jason would only get more annoying. “There’s nothing to know.”

“Oh, this is worse than I thought.”

You taped gauze over the cut. “There. Try not to get punched in the same place for at least six hours.”

Jason stood, still grinning, and picked up his helmet. “You know, when he figures it out, he’s gonna be unbearable.”

“He’s already unbearable.”

“Yeah, but he’ll be happy unbearable. That’s worse.”

Tim noticed within three minutes of his first visit and said nothing, which was how you knew he was Bruce’s son in all the most unsettling ways.

Alfred noticed before anyone, probably before there was anything to notice, and handled it by sending care packages addressed to both of you with enough tea, suture thread, homemade biscuits, and pointed silence to qualify as emotional warfare.

Dick noticed nothing.

Or he noticed and chose not to name it.

There were women. Of course there were women. Dick Grayson did not set out to collect devotion, but he drew it the way bright things drew hands. You watched him date because you had watched him do everything. You gave opinions on shirts, traded shifts at the clinic when his dinner plans ran late, listened when things ended, and pretended not to feel relieved when they did.

It was not fair to resent people for wanting him.

You wanted him too.

That was the thing you folded carefully and hid beneath the guise of being useful. You were good at being useful. Useful had kept you fed as a child. Useful had earned you a place in spaces where no paperwork proved you belonged. Useful gave your hands something to do when Dick came home bleeding and your heart tried to climb out of your throat.

Then he came home one night with lipstick still smudged at the corner of his mouth.

It was a stupid thing to break you.

Not the bruises, not the danger, not the years of him smiling at other people. A faint red stain near his lower lip, half-wiped and still unmistakable, where someone else’s mouth had been. He was talking while he climbed through the window, breathless from patrol or maybe from whatever had happened after patrol, and you stood by the counter with a roll of bandages in your hand, staring like the world had narrowed to the shape of his mouth.

“Hey,” he said, slowing. “You okay?”

You looked up. “Fine.”

His brow furrowed. “You’re doing the thing again.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Dick.”

“What happened?”

You laughed once, softly, and hated the sound. “Nothing happened.”

He stepped closer. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t want to.”

That stopped him more effectively than shouting would have. You rarely refused him directly. Not because you could not, but because the two of you had built your lives on being reachable to each other. Even when you fought, even when you were angry, there was always a door left open somewhere.

Dick looked at you as if he had just heard one close.

“Okay,” he said carefully. “That’s okay.”

It was not okay. You could see him trying to make it okay because he loved you as a friend, because he was kind, because he had no idea that his kindness was another hand around your throat.

You set the bandages down. “I think I should move out.”

The apartment went quiet.

Dick stared at you.

For a long second, he did not seem to understand the words. Then his face changed so quickly it hurt to watch.

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“No, you haven’t.”

Your temper sparked because he was right. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You don’t get to decide what I’ve been thinking.”

“I know when you’re lying to me.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

It was cruel. You knew it as soon as you said it, but you were tired and jealous and ashamed, and the lipstick on his face was still there, small and red and damning.

Dick flinched.

You wanted to take it back. You wanted to walk into his arms. You wanted to be ten years old again, small enough to crawl into Mary Grayson’s lap and let someone else decide what happened next.

Instead, you folded your arms over your chest.

Dick’s voice dropped. “Do you want to leave?”

No.

The answer filled your mouth so completely you had to swallow around it.

“I think it would be better,” you said.

“For who?”

“For both of us.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Dick.”

“No.” His own anger showed then, not loud but bright enough to light his eyes. “Don’t do that. Don’t use the voice you use when you’re trying to get me to hold still for stitches.”

“I am trying to have a conversation.”

“You’re trying to leave without telling me why.”

“Because you don’t need me here forever.”

His mouth parted slightly.

The words kept coming because once you started bleeding, you had never known how to stop neatly.

“You don’t. You needed me when we were kids, and maybe you needed me when you left Bruce, but you have a life here now. You’re Nightwing. You have friends, and teams, and women who don’t spend their nights cataloging your injuries like that counts as intimacy.”

His expression shifted. Something in it sharpened with painful understanding.

You looked away too late.

“Oh,” he said.

You closed your eyes. “Don’t.”

He took one step closer. “Is that what this is?”

“No.”

“You’re upset because I kissed someone?”

“No.”

“No?”

You laughed once, softly and miserably. “I’m upset because you came home with her still on your mouth and asked me what was wrong.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Please.”

That was worse. Dick rarely said “please” like that, careful and quiet, as if he knew he was asking for something you might not be ready to give.

You looked at him.

The red smear on his face was still there. His hair was windblown. There was a bruise forming beneath his jaw and a scratch near his temple. He was too familiar. Too beautiful. Too much the center of the life you had built around him without meaning to.

His voice softened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You laughed again, and this time it nearly broke. “Tell you what, Dick? That I get jealous when you date? That I can’t sleep until you come home? That sometimes you touch my back in the kitchen and I think about it for the rest of the day like I’m sixteen and pathetic? What exactly was I supposed to say?”

He stared at you as if you had put your hand through his chest and closed your fingers around his heart.

You wiped at your face angrily, even though you had not realized you were crying. “You’re my best friend.”

“I know.”

“You’re my family.”

“I know.”

“You’re the only permanent thing I’ve ever had.”

His face crumpled for half a second before he caught it. “I know.”

“So no, I didn’t tell you. Because wanting you like this feels selfish and dangerous, and I don’t know what happens to me if I ruin us.”

Dick moved then.

Not fast, not like Nightwing, not with the clean precision of a body trained for impact. He crossed the space between you carefully, as if approaching something wounded, and stopped close enough that you could see the unsteady rise of his chest.

“You think you could ruin us by loving me?”

The words hit so directly that you almost stepped back.

“You don’t have to say it like that.”

“How else am I supposed to say it?”

“Like it isn’t easy.”

“It’s not easy,” he said. “It’s just true.”

You went still.

Dick lifted his hand, then hesitated. That hesitation undid you more than the touch would have. He was asking. After years of casual closeness, after a lifetime of knowing your body in safe, familiar ways, he was asking permission to cross a line neither of you could uncross.

You nodded once.

His fingers touched your cheek.

“I didn’t know how to tell you either,” he said.

Your breath caught. “What?”

He smiled then, but it was a wrecked thing. “Yeah.”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

“Dick.”

“I know.” His thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I know, okay? I know I should’ve said something. I know I’m an idiot.”

“You dated other people.”

“I tried dating other people.”

“That is not better.”

“No,” he admitted. “It’s not. But every time I thought about telling you, I kept seeing you looking at me like I’d taken the only safe thing we had and made it complicated.”

“It is complicated.”

“Everything about us has always been complicated.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to make him work for it. You wanted to hold on to the thin, miserable shield you had built out of practicality and fear.

Instead, you leaned into his hand.

Dick inhaled like it hurt.

“I don’t know when it changed,” he said quietly. “Maybe it didn’t. Maybe loving you was always there, and I just kept giving it different names because I was scared of wanting the one thing I couldn’t bear to lose.”

Your throat tightened.

“That’s not fair,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You don’t get to say things like that with another woman’s lipstick on your lips.”

His eyes widened. For one absurd second, he looked almost panicked. Then he dragged the back of his hand over his lips and saw the red smear there.

“It was a goodbye kiss,” he said quickly. “After patrol. I ended it.”

“That is not better.”

“No,” he admitted. “It’s not. But she asked if there was someone else, and I said your name before I could think.”

Oh.

Your heart stumbled so hard it felt like falling.

“I ended it before I knew you felt this way,” he said. “I came home because I couldn’t keep pretending.”

Dick stepped closer, his hand sliding from your cheek to the side of your neck. “I came home to tell you.”

“You came home through the window.”

“I was nervous.”

“You’re Nightwing.”

“I’m still nervous.”

“You flirt with everyone.”

“Not like this.”

The room seemed smaller than it had been a few minutes ago. Warmer. The yellow cabinets, the stacked dishes, the half-open med kit on the counter, the city noise beyond the window. All the ordinary pieces of the life you had built together held their breath.

Dick’s eyes dropped to your mouth.

Your pulse jumped.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

You had imagined it before. Of course you had. Quietly, guiltily, in the dark, where wanting him could not hurt anyone but you. You had imagined smooth confidence, cinematic timing, some perfect version of yourself who knew exactly where to put her hands.

In reality, your voice shook.

“If you don’t, I’m going to be really embarrassed.”

Dick laughed, soft and breathless, and kissed you.

It was gentle for about two seconds.

Then your hand fisted in the front of his suit, and his restraint broke with a sound that went straight through you. He kissed like he had been starving for years. Like every almost had been stored somewhere under his skin and was now burning its way out. His mouth opened against yours, warm and desperate, and you made a helpless sound when his hand slid to your lower back and pulled you flush against him.

He froze instantly.

You almost cursed.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Dick, I swear to God—”

He kissed you again before you could finish, smiling into it, and you hated how much you loved that you could feel the smile. Your hands slid over the armored lines of his suit, the same ones you had repaired so many times from the outside, and he shivered as if this were the first time you had ever touched him at all. 

When your fingers slid beneath the collar, his eyes went half-lidded, all that careful restraint thinning under your hands.

“You touch me all the time,” he murmured against your mouth. “Why does it feel different?”

“Because this time we’re allowed to want more.”

His eyes went dark.

The next kiss was deeper, slower, less frantic, and somehow more devastating. Dick backed you toward the counter until your hips hit the edge, then lifted you onto it with an ease that made heat pool low in your stomach. He stepped between your knees, and the shape of him there, broad and warm and familiar in an entirely unfamiliar way, nearly stole your breath.

You touched his face.

He turned his head and kissed your palm.

It was so tender that it hurt.

“Don’t be sweet right now,” you whispered.

His mouth curved. “Bossy.”

“I mean it. I’ll cry.”

“Okay.” He kissed the inside of your wrist. “I won’t be sweet.”

“You’re being sweet.”

“I’m trying to stop.”

“You’re bad at it.”

“I’ve had complaints.”

You pulled him back by the collar and kissed him until the teasing dissolved. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing slow circles through the fabric of your sleep shorts. You had worn them without thinking, one of his T-shirts and shorts, nothing meant to seduce anyone, but Dick looked at you like he was watching a miracle unfold in bad apartment lighting.

His gaze dragged down your body and returned to your face with visible effort.

“You’re killing me,” he said.

You laughed unsteadily. “I’m wearing old pajamas.”

“I know.”

“You’ve seen me in these a hundred times.”

“I know.”

“Dick.”

He leaned in, mouth brushing your jaw. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve come home and seen you half-asleep in my shirts, or yelling at me with medical tape stuck to your hand, and had to remind myself not to do exactly this?”

His lips touched the side of your neck.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

“Exactly what?”

He kissed beneath your ear. “Put my hands on you.”

Another kiss, lower.

“Take you apart.”

Your breath left you.

“Make you say my name like you’re not trying to hide it.”

“Dick.”

His grip flexed on your thighs. “Yeah. Like that.”

The room tilted. You had patched bullet grazes with steadier hands than you had now. Dick kissed down your throat with unbearable patience, and every place his mouth touched seemed to wake years of wanting beneath your skin. When his fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, he paused again.

You pulled back enough to look at him. “I’ll tell you if I want to stop.”

His eyes searched yours. Whatever he saw there made his shoulders loosen.

“Okay.”

“And you’ll tell me.”

He nodded. “I’ll tell you.”

“Good.”

Then you lifted your arms.

Dick took your shirt off like he was trying to memorize the act. His eyes dropped, and for one vulnerable second, you almost crossed your arms over your chest. He caught the motion before you completed it, not by grabbing you, but by leaning down and pressing his mouth to the spot just above your heart.

Your hand settled in his hair.

“Beautiful,” he said against your skin.

You closed your eyes. “That sounds sweet.”

“Then I’m bad at following instructions.”

His mouth moved lower, and your laugh turned into a gasp.

Dick Grayson, as it turned out, applied the same focus to taking you apart that he applied to everything else he truly cared about. He learned quickly. Too quickly. His mouth found your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked gently, and pleasure sparked so sharply through you that your knees tightened around his hips.

He groaned.

That sound changed something in you.

You reached for the closures of his suit with hands that only shook a little, and he helped you because he knew the damn thing better than you did, peeling it down from his shoulders and letting it gather at his waist. You had seen him shirtless more times than you could count. Injured. Tired. Fresh from the shower. Half-asleep at the stove. This was different because you were allowed to look, and because he was looking back.

There were bruises on him. There were always bruises.

You touched one near his ribs, and the old instinct rose immediately. “This is new.”

Dick looked down. “Pipe.”

“Pipe?”

“Bad guy had a pipe.”

“Descriptive.”

“I was distracted.”

“By the pipe?”

“By wanting to come home to you.”

Your fingers stilled.

He covered your hand with his. “Too sweet?”

“Dangerously.”

His smile softened, then faded when you leaned forward and kissed the bruise with featherlight care. His breathing changed. You kissed another mark, then another, mapping the evidence of violence with your mouth until his hand slid into your hair and held there without pushing.

“You’ve been doing this for years,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Putting me back together.”

You looked up at him. “You always came back in pieces.”

“I always come back to you.”

The words settled between you, heavy and certain.

Then you kissed him again because there were some truths too large to answer any other way.

He carried you to the bedroom.

You were grateful for that, because your legs had become theoretical somewhere between the counter and his mouth on your neck. He lay you down on the bed you had forced him to share the room with, one knee sinking into the mattress beside your hip. For a second, you both looked at the other bed across the narrow space and laughed.

“This room is ridiculous,” you said.

“Our whole life is ridiculous.”

“You’re still half in the suit.”

“That seems fixable.”

It was. Barely. There was a deeply ungraceful moment involving one boot, a curse, and you nearly getting hit in the shin by a knee pad, but then Dick was in his briefs above you, laughing into your shoulder, and the last of your fear loosened its grip.

This was still Dick.

The man you wanted, yes, but also the boy who had stolen sugared almonds with you. The teenager who had bled on your bedspread. The man who forgot to buy dish soap and remembered the anniversary of every terrible thing without you having to say it aloud.

He kissed your shoulder. “Hi.”

You turned your face toward him. “Hi.”

“You still with me?”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned. “There she is.”

You pushed at his chest, and he caught your hand, kissing your knuckles before pinning it gently beside your head. The shift was subtle, but your body noticed. Heat curled through you as he lowered himself over you, not resting his full weight, just enough to make you feel surrounded.

“You like that?” he asked.

Your face warmed.

His expression changed, not smug exactly, but attentive. Interested. “Oh.”

“Don’t sound so pleased.”

“I’m learning.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’ve also had complaints about that.”

You rolled your hips up, just slightly, and his words cut off.

That was satisfying.

Dick looked down at you, eyes dark and mouth parted, and then his hand slid down your body with purpose. Over your ribs, your waist, the soft give of your stomach, stopping at the waistband of your shorts.

He waited.

Your voice came out quieter than you intended. “Yes.”

He kissed you as he pulled them down, and you were glad for it because it gave you something to do with the sudden rush of vulnerability. His hand smoothed over your thigh. He murmured something against your mouth, not quite words, maybe your name, maybe a prayer, and then his fingers slipped between your legs.

You both went still.

You, because the first careful stroke through your wetness made your whole body tighten.

Dick because he felt it.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

You tried to laugh. It came out ruined. “Observant.”

“You’re wet.”

“Again. Observant.”

“For me?”

You opened your eyes. “Who else is in the room, Grayson?”

The look he gave you then was not sweet at all.

He lowered himself down your body, kissing a path over your stomach, your hip, the inside of your thigh. Your breath caught when he settled between your legs, broad shoulders spreading them wider. He looked up at you from there, hair falling over his forehead, mouth kiss-swollen, eyes so blue and intent that you nearly lost your nerve.

“We don’t have to,” he said.

“I know.”

“I want to.”

“I know.”

His hands held your thighs, thumbs stroking once. “Tell me I can.”

The words landed low and hot.

“You can.”

Dick kissed the inside of your thigh.

Then his mouth was on you.

Your head fell back against the pillow. It had been years of yearning, years of telling yourself that the ache was survivable because it had to be, and none of it prepared you for the reality of Dick between your legs, licking into you with a soft groan like he was the one being undone. His tongue moved slowly at first, exploratory, learning what made your breath hitch and your fingers twist in the sheets. Then he found your clit, and your hips jerked.

He made a pleased sound that vibrated through you.

“Dick.”

He looked up without stopping.

The sight of his blue eyes so dilated you could barely see the pretty color nearly finished you on its own.

One of your hands flew to his hair, and he leaned into the grip, eyes fluttering for half a second before his focus sharpened again. He slipped one hand from your thigh and pressed a finger inside you, careful and slow, watching your face as your mouth fell open.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He added his mouth again, and language became difficult.

Dick had always been a performer, but this was not performance. This was attention. This was devotion turned physical. He listened to every breath, every movement, every broken sound you tried to swallow. When he curled his finger and found the place that made your back arch, he did it again, then again, mouth working over your clit until pleasure gathered fast and bright beneath your skin.

You tugged his hair. “I’m close.”

His eyes lifted to yours.

He did not stop.

The orgasm broke over you hard enough to shock you, your body tightening around his finger as you gasped his name. He held you through it, mouth gentling but not leaving, drawing out the aftershocks until you had to push weakly at his shoulder.

He climbed back up your body with a look on his face that could have ruined your life in any context.

“You look proud of yourself,” you managed.

“I’m trying to be humble.”

“You’re failing.”

“I know.”

You kissed him and tasted yourself on his mouth, which should have embarrassed you more than it did. Instead, it made you want him with a sudden, aching intensity that left no room for fear.

Your hand slid down his stomach.

Dick’s breath caught when you palmed him through his briefs. He was hard, hot and heavy against your hand, and his hips pressed forward before he caught himself.

“Sorry,” he said roughly.

You kissed his jaw. “Don’t be.”

His forehead dropped to your shoulder. “I’m trying very hard to be good.”

Something tender and wicked moved through you.

“You are good.”

He shuddered.

“Oh,” you whispered. “You like that.”

He laughed into your skin, embarrassed and turned on and so painfully Dick that your heart squeezed. “Shut up.”

“You do.”

“I’m not above begging.”

Heat flooded you. “That was not the deterrent you thought it was.”

He lifted his head, and the humor between you stretched thin under the wanting. You pushed his briefs down as far as you could reach, and he finished the job with shaking hands. When he settled between your thighs again, bare this time, the feel of him against you stole the teasing from both of your mouths.

Dick kissed you once. Then again.

“We should use a condom,” he said, sounding like the words had physically pained him.

“I have an IUD.”

His eyes closed. “That information is going to kill me.”

“We can still use one.”

“No, I mean yes, if you want, obviously, but if you’re saying—”

“I’m saying I want to feel you.”

He made a sound you had never heard from him before.

Your hands slid up his back. “Is that okay?”

He looked at you, and all the humor, all the heat, all the years of almost seemed to settle into something frighteningly honest.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s okay.”

He reached between you, guiding himself against you, and paused with the head of his cock just barely pressing inside. Your fingers dug into his shoulders. He watched your face, jaw tight, holding himself back so carefully that you could feel the tremor in his arms.

“Breathe,” he whispered.

You laughed unsteadily. “That’s usually my line.”

“I learned from the best.”

Then he pushed in.

Slowly. Carefully. Inch by inch until the stretch of him filled every thought you had. Your eyes burned, not from pain exactly, though there was an edge of that, but from the sheer intimacy of it. Dick above you, inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath shaking as badly as yours.

He stopped when his hips met yours.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The city sounded distant beyond the window. A siren somewhere. A car passing below. The old pipes complaining in the walls. Ordinary things continuing while your whole life rearranged itself around the feeling of him buried inside you.

Dick’s voice was rough. “Tell me you’re okay.”

You turned your head and kissed his wrist where his hand braced beside you. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He moved then, a slow drag out and back in that made your nails scrape down his back. His control faltered. You felt it in the way his hips stuttered, in the low sound he pressed into your neck.

“Sorry,” he gasped.

“If you apologize one more time, I’m kicking you out of bed.”

He laughed breathlessly. “That would be awkward.”

“You’re inside me. Everything is awkward.”

“Not everything.”

Then he moved again, and you had to concede the point.

It did not stay slow for long. Maybe it could not have, not with years behind it, not with both of you already stripped raw by confession before anyone took off their clothes. Dick found a rhythm that made your body arch into his, each thrust deep and deliberate, his mouth moving over every part of you he could reach. Your shoulder. Your throat. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth when you turned your face away because the pleasure was too much.

“No,” he murmured. “Don’t hide.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” He kissed you, hips rolling into yours until your breath broke. “I want to hear you.”

You moaned before you could stop yourself.

Dick’s composure cracked.

“God,” he said, and then he was fucking you harder, one hand sliding beneath your thigh to hitch it higher against his hip. The new angle made you cry out, and he cursed, pressing his forehead into the pillow beside your head.

“Again,” he said.

You were not sure whether he meant the sound or the movement. It did not matter. You gave him both.

The second orgasm built slower than the first, deeper, tied to the drag of him inside you and the weight of his body over yours. You could feel him losing control by degrees, his breathing rough, his praise turning fragmented against your skin.

“Good,” he murmured. “You feel so good. You’re so good for me. Wanted this so long, you have no idea.”

Your body clenched around him.

His hips stuttered. “Fuck. Do that again.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I don’t care. Do it again. Please.”

You laughed, and the laugh became a moan when he slipped a hand between you and found your clit. The pleasure sharpened instantly, almost too much, and you grabbed his wrist.

“Dick.”

“I’ve got you.”

“You always say that.”

“I always mean it.”

That was what undid you.

You came with his name in your mouth, your body tightening around him as he thrust through it, face buried in your neck. He lasted another few seconds, and then he groaned, deep and helpless, and came inside you, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

Afterward, he did not move for a long time.

You did not ask him to.

His weight was warm and grounding, his heartbeat racing against yours. Your fingers drifted up and down his spine, feeling the old scars, the new bruises, the sweat cooling on his skin. Eventually, he lifted his head enough to look at you.

His hair was a disaster. His eyes were soft.

Your heart hurt.

“Hi,” he said again, softer this time.

You smiled. “You keep saying that.”

“I keep finding you here.”

The words were quiet enough to pass for teasing if you let them.

You did not.

“I’m here,” you said.

His expression shifted. He kissed you once, gentle and lingering, then carefully eased out of you. You hissed softly, and he immediately looked alarmed.

“I’m okay,” you said.

“I’ll get a washcloth.”

“Dick.”

“And water.”

“Dick.”

“And maybe—”

You caught his hand before he could launch himself into post-sex triage like a man possessed. “In a minute.”

He looked down at you, then at your joined hands.

Some of the panic faded.

He lay beside you instead, gathering you in carefully, as if tenderness could bruise if handled incorrectly. You tucked your face against his chest. His hand moved over your hair, slow and reverent.

The other bed sat across the room, empty and ridiculous.

You laughed softly.

“What?” he asked.

“We should just get a bigger bed.”

His chest shook beneath your cheek. “Mrs. Alvarez will be thrilled.”

“She’ll say she knew this would happen.”

“She did know this would happen.”

“Everyone knew this would happen.”

Dick kissed the top of your head, still laughing. “Everyone, apparently, except us.”

You pinched his side. He yelped, then caught your hand and held it against his heart.

Quiet settled again.

Not the manor’s quiet. Not the stunned silence of a circus tent after tragedy. This quiet was smaller. Warmer. Chosen.

Dick’s fingers traced idle shapes over your wrist. “Were you really going to leave?”

You closed your eyes.

“No.”

His breath left him slowly.

“I thought about it,” you admitted. “For maybe five horrible minutes. I thought if I left first, then at least I’d be choosing it.”

His arm tightened around you.

“I don’t want to be another thing you feel responsible for,” you said.

“You’re not.”

“I know you say that.”

“No.” He shifted, making you look at him. “Listen to me. You are not here because I can’t survive without you.”

Your throat tightened despite yourself.

Dick brushed his thumb over your cheek. “I probably could. I’d be worse at it. Miserable. Badly fed. Much more concussed.”

“Obviously.”

“But I don’t love you because I need a medic. I don’t love you because you came with me from the circus, or because you know what it was like before, or because you stayed.”

You swallowed. “Then why?”

He smiled, small and certain.

“Because it’s you.”

The answer was too simple for how much it hurt.

You pressed your face into his chest before he could see everything it did to you. He held you through it anyway, because of course he did.

Dick had always caught you, even when neither of you knew who was falling.

Much later, after he had finally gotten the washcloth and water and fussed enough to satisfy whatever part of him needed to be useful, you ended up tangled together beneath the sheets. Your leg was hooked over his. His hand rested on your hip. The apartment was cooling around you, the city beyond the window still restless, still dangerous, still waiting.

Nothing was fixed.

Bruce would be insufferable in his silence. Alfred would know before anyone told him. Barbara would say something devastatingly mild. Jason would never let either of you live it down. Blüdhaven would still bruise Dick and send him home bleeding. You would still worry. He would still leap before looking. The past would still be there, stitched into both of you, old grief under new skin.

When you opened your eyes, Dick was looking at you like he had, after everything, still ended up exactly where he was supposed to be.

“You know,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion and mischief, “technically, I refused to leave you behind first.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you trying to claim credit for our entire relationship?”

“I’m just saying, I had good instincts when I refused to leave without you.”

“You were grieving and concussed.”

“Emotionally concussed, maybe.”

“You also thought your Robin costume was subtle.”

“It was iconic.”

“It was traffic-light cosplay.”

He gasped. “Take that back.”

“No.”

“You wound me.”

“I know how to patch you up.”

His smile softened until the joke became something else. He leaned in and kissed you, slow and sleepy and certain.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“You’re my home,” he whispered.

You had been a child left at the edge of a circus with no name anyone could give you. You had been a girl in the sawdust, holding on to a boy whose grief matched yours closely enough to cut. You had been a shadow in Wayne Manor, a pair of hands in the Cave, a woman in a cramped Blüdhaven apartment pretending that waiting was not another word for love.

You had followed Dick Grayson through every version of himself.

Robin. Nightwing. Best friend. Roommate. The boy who refused to leave you. The man who came back to you.

You kissed him once, softly, and felt him breathe you in.

“Then stop leaving your suit on the bathroom floor,” you said.

Dick laughed, bright and helpless, and pulled you closer.

It had taken a couple of weeks for you to agree to go out with Dick Grayson. 

The eldest child of Gotham’s billionaire prince, with looks so effortlessly stunning that he was pursued relentlessly by modeling agencies, let alone paparazzi. His Instagram was full of candid photos so picturesque that they looked like they had been staged for hours, but you knew that’s just how Dick was. And the comments underneath, well. They were lustful at best, at times downright vulgar. Not that you disagreed with their sentiments. 

And he was nice. So charmingly kind and careful of every person in the room, no matter how much of a wallflower they were attempting to be. He noticed you and he championed you with a soft, encouraging smile, a gentle hand on your shoulder, or a subtle nod. 

It was entirely unfair. So when he asked you to go out to dinner with him, you politely declined. If it had been any other gorgeous celebrity, you would have thought it was a prank, a joke spared at your expense. But you knew Dick was genuine, which made it even more intimidating. 

Not that you were particularly insecure, but Dick was Dick. Standing beside him, you looked so painfully average that it made your self-confidence take a nose dive. Every strong characteristic you thought you had seemed to pale in comparison to his. He could have any supermodel, Victoria’s secret angel, Olympian, movie star. So, why would he stoop to asking for your company?

But Dick was nothing if not persistent. You began running into him more frequently with questionable serendipity, and at each subsequent date proposal, you found it more difficult to come up with an excuse not to go. 

So you finally relented, agreeing to be his date to some charity gala after his pleads of desperation. And you hadn’t prepared for anything more in your entire life. Hair appointments, nail appointments, shaving from the eyelashes down. A dress and shoes so luxurious that your legitimacy in the boutique was scrutinizingly side-eyed. When he picked you up in a tuxedo with a waiting limousine, you still thought that he looked better - effortlessly so. He disagreed entirely.

He was a perfect gentleman and the night was nothing short of magical. Public eyes dissecting your every pore, watching you cling to Richard Grayson on the dancefloor as he twirled you all night. At first, the attention was smothering, but as the night persisted and his sweet, soft praises of how mesmerizing you looked, how captivating you smelled, and how enchanted he was that you had finally said yes to one of his proposals, you couldn’t have cared less if the whole world was watching. 

That night on the balcony, he nothing short of begged you to go out with him again, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear that had strayed in Gotham’s brisk winter wind. And who were you to resist his advances after that?

So, you began dating. As subtly as possible at first, but eventually the big media piece broke. News that Dick Grayson was no longer an eligible bachelor, and who was his nobody of a partner? 

The tabloids bothered you initially, but Dick was comforting. Strong and reaffirming. Repeating time and time again that it was he who was the fortunate one in the relationship. The one who had struck gold after all. 

When he disclosed to you that he was Nightwing, you felt your bond solidify impossibly stronger, and your doubts all but disappeared. Short of his family, no one else was privy to his secret identity. No one else had that piece of him and you clutched it close to your chest. 

And nobody else got to hold him in the night, running their palms across the old scars littering his torso. Nobody else got to smooth their fingers through his inky locks, listening to him purr from the sensation of your nails on his scalp. Nobody else knew how he liked his eggs in the morning, how he took frigid cold showers no matter how icy it was outside, and how his nose wrinkled in poorly-hidden disgust when you talked about your coworker that chewed with his mouth open. 

That was you and Dick. Your relationship. Your love. The man that was wholly yours.

So, why were you watching Nightwing relentlessly flirt with a news reporter on your television screen right now?

It wasn’t that late. Dick had headed out for patrol early in the night, claiming that Batman had requested his assistance with a drug shipment bust in Gotham. He kissed you on the forehead, then the cheek, then cornered you in the kitchen and devoured you, leaving you counting the minutes until his return. He placed his mask on with a smirk, the white lenses over his eyes molding into amused crescent moons, and tossed you a sultry look over his shoulder before diving backwards out of your apartment window. 

And now, you were watching him toy around with the reporter - a truly gorgeous woman with smooth, supple skin that illuminated in the Gotham moonlight. Her body was taut, obnoxiously toned, and you thought the shadow that she cast in the film lights must be as skinny as a straw. She flipped her shiny hair to her opposite shoulder, biting her lip as Nightwing provided her with another smooth one-liner. When his muscular arm reached out to fix the corner of her collared shirt, you reflexively turned off the television. You couldn’t stomach any more. 

For minutes, you sat in the dim lighting of your shared apartment, staring at the blackened television screen. Your ears were ringing despite the only sound present being the gentle whirring of your apartment dishwasher and distant traffic outside. Your body felt boneless, and you went slack, slouching in on yourself from the weight of your intrusive thoughts. Your eyebrows pinched together so hard it was giving you a headache, and you bit down on your bottom lip with enough force that you drew blood. 

After moments, minutes, hell it could have even been hours, you gathered the strength to turn off the living room lamp and retreat to your bedroom. Forgoing your bedtime routine, you pulled back the covers and tucked under the sheets, curled into a fetal position, staring at the wall. 

Later, when the unlocked window in your bedroom slid open, you felt yourself involuntarily stiffen. When he slipped into bed behind you, beefy arms searching to constrict themselves around you pull you into his embrace, you felt the fiber of your being repel him similar to like magnets. Noticing your rigid posture and tidal breathing uncharacteristic of slumber, he lifted up on a forearm to peer over your shoulder. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, voice soft but blue eyes analyzing you in the pitch dark. 

“Nothing, ‘m fine.” You replied in a meek tone. Unconvincing at best.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” He asked. 

“Couldn’t sleep.” You replied. No teasing quip about waiting up for your favorite rogue or being unable to bed down without his embrace. 

Your reluctance was palpable to the Average Joe let alone the vigilant Dick Grayson, who knew your exact mood by the way you held your coffee mug in the morning. But, he let it lie, his own exhaustion deep to his core, hoping that whatever it was would have faded or become revealed in the daylight. Eventually, you did fall asleep. Still facing away from him in an inflexible curl, with his palm uneasily resting on the small of your back instead of wrapped around your waist. Dick didn’t fall asleep. Or if he did, it was a light unconsciousness, an unsettled feeling keeping him in limbo of the waking world. 

That morning, you were no better. Despite your reputation as a late riser, you were up first, startling him from the unsatisfying nap that he was plunged in. As his bleary eyes blinked to focus, he saw you trailing into the kitchen, clad in your own worn pair of pajamas. He frowned immediately. Typically, you would be wearing his shirt. 

Within moments, you felt his presence behind you as you started the coffee. You grit your teeth, still unwilling to confront the despair and envy that tangoed in your chest as you replayed the scene from the night before behind your eyelids. Dick noticed that your rigidity hadn’t faded.

“Good morning, honeybun.” He said, in that husky morning tone that normally sent shivers down your spine. 

You chirped back a near silent and feeble response, focusing all of your energy on the coffee beans as you loaded them into the grinder. Typically you would have savored the smell, but this morning you weren’t feeling typical. 

Dick’s lanky, gymnast form wrapped around you from behind, but your body didn’t mold into his like it used to. You were like a statue rooted deeply into the ground. You felt him frown against the nape of your neck. 

“What’s got you up already?” He inquired, voice muffled as he pressed into your skin. 

“I’m gonna head into the office early.” You replied. “I’ve got some work stacked up. Want to get it taken care of.”

He didn’t reply, but you felt his frown deepen further. He noticed you dancing around his presence as you got ready for the day, slipping a single piece of bread into the toaster instead of asking if he wanted one too. He would have typically endured the scalding water of your shower to accompany your morning wash, but somehow, he felt like he would be intruding. You nearly grimaced as you gave him the smallest peck on the cheek before disappearing out the door without a further word. Dick was left alone in the apartment by 8:00 AM, with crossed arms and thinned lips. Something was definitely wrong, but he didn’t have a clue.

Work was only semi successful at distracting you from last night. You could get engrossed in a task but as soon as it was finished, all you could think of was Dick’s suave words at the target of another woman. Your greatest fears come alive. It felt like the pit in your stomach was neverending, a vortex all consuming and threatening to take down the months of your relationship that filled you with confidence and adoration. You tried to remind yourself that it was a persona - not your Dick Grayson on television being a tease, but Nightwing. Still, it did little to soothe your despair knowing that the two were simply separated by the thin latex of a mask. 

While you normally intently watched the second hand push forward, as soon as your shift was over, you almost felt a flicker of regret. You delayed your route home as much as possible, and facing your front door felt like facing a formidable foe. As soon as you sunk your key into the deadbolt, you felt dread rising.

Entering the apartment that normally filled you with so much love and comfort, you felt like you wanted to disappear. You would have gotten a hotel but that would leave your confrontation with Dick looming dangerously on the horizon and you weren’t entirely sure that he wouldn’t just show up anyway. As you rolled your jacket from your shoulders, a delicious aroma filled your nose.

“Hey there, dearest.”

The sight of your boyfriend angling to spot you from the kitchen. He was dressed in casual comfort, with the frilly pink apron you had gotten him for Christmas wrapped around his slim waist. He moved with agility across the kitchen, unable to shirk his status as gymnast even years later in your humble home.

You grumbled an unintelligible reply, aiming to resign to your bedroom as quickly as possible. Unfortunately for you, his nimbleness caught you instantly in the hallway, arms splayed between both sides of the doorframe to capture you in his embrace. Desperate for your affection, he didn’t care how frozen you were, pulling you deeply in his grasp.

“Missed you today.” He grumbled, pouting at your wriggles for freedom. Normally you were a more than happy prey within his catch.

You murmured something, unintelligible and not the expected “I missed you too, Dickie”, causing him to grip further, aiding your frustration.

A hand snuck down to pinch your butt and that’s when you felt yourself lose it. The gall of initiating such intimate intention, where he would normally whisper such wanton sweetness in your ear and make you forget about reality, when last night he was chatting up someone else… it burned you deep at your core. You summoned your strength to buck him.

“Dick, get off of me!” You screeched, using your might to fling him from you, knowing he would only be mildly displaced.

Dick unlatched immediately, turning to face you with a perturbed look. He could have bested you easily in strength, but by one look you could tell that his temper was fighting a different battle.

“Why are you giving me the cold shoulder?” He asked, his face in a slight snarl. “You’ve been acting weird since last night!”

Usually, you would have more restraint, but his abhorrence to your reasonable upset ignited your anger as well.

“Leave me alone, Dick!” You fumed. You ducked under his bicep and started down the hallway once again. You barely got three steps before you felt a hand on your hip pulling you back.

“No, something’s wrong with you!” He said, spitting as he dragged you towards him. “I’m not letting you go until you tell me what it is!”

With all of your might, you elbowed him in the ribs. You knew that to him, the pain was minuscule, but the surprise was enough for him to drop you from his clutches. Your whole body shook with rage.

“NO!” You yelled back, surprising yourself with the volume of your own voice. “Something’s wrong with YOU, Dick. Something’s wrong with YOU, making me feel for you, striking down my defenses. Something’s wrong with YOU, insisting that you take me out, ensuring that I’m the one for you and that there’s not a soul out there that compares. There’s something so wrong with you that you made me believe that I was on par with you, THE Dick Grayson, and then whored yourself out on public television, showing me once and for all that I was no more than a sorry suck-up to believe that your lies could have been true.”

Every word you spat with vitriol, with all of the insecurity and grief and anger that you could muster. Your finger jabbed the air like a dagger with every enunciation. When you looked into his eyes, you saw a frenzy so fierce that you suddenly felt the fear that Nightwing’s enemies must realize moments before their own demise. You wouldn’t have wished it upon them without knowing the horrors that they committed.

Within the fumes in his watery blue eyes, you saw something else. Concern, sadness, regret. A desperation that made you want to drop it all, run to him, and fall to your knees.

The rage burned stronger. You marched down into the foyer, retreating to your abandoned coat and slinging it over your shoulder. You pulled the front door open, and with one more vengeful look at your lover, you slammed it shut behind you.

You’d be staying in that hotel room, after all.

If you couldn’t sleep in the bed that you and Dick had maximized for comfort, with those satin navy sheets that matched the exact hue of his blue suit accents, then there was no way you were sleeping in a shitty motel bed. The room smelled like cigarettes and mothballs, and your personal space heater was noticeably missing. 

Calling it quits on trying to sleep, you stepped out on the balcony. The scratchy cotton of the hotel robe was your only defense against the chill Bludhaven air, and you pulled it closer to you as you blinked, looking out into the city skyline for answers. The city was tacit, reluctant to respond.

Folding your arms on the balcony railing, you leaned, looking forward into the dusky smog. You imagined the nights you had spent lonesome in your apartment, waiting, while your boyfriend performed his acrobatics across the skyscrapers, thwarting threats. In prior weeks, it would have made your heart surge with pride. Now, it just made you burn.

The brisk air was comforting on your bare limbs, and you were about to close your eyes, when you felt the hair on the back of your neck start to stand. Eyelids forced open, you started, staring off into the skyline once more in search of a silhouette. A shadow that revealed a pair of analytic eyes burning back on you.

Unable to identify them, you pulled the robe tighter still against your torso, before retreating inside. As you slid the sliding glass door closed and locked the deadbolt with a click, you missed the way that Nightwing’s shoulders slumped with defeat, his figure perched atop the building just adjacent the balcony where you recently stood. He let out a defeated sigh, watching you draw the curtain to your hotel room closed.

Morning brought no reprieve for the second day in a row. You pulled yourself from your uncomfortable bed and tugged on your day-old work clothing, resigned to head into the office early to bury yourself in work. 

Staring at the computer screen only amplified the anxiety within your core. Eventually, you would have to return home, where Dick would be waiting, and face the music with some kind of clarity. However, the uncertainty of mixed emotions churned in your cauldron of a stomach. This was serious. How were you supposed to navigate this with the delicateness required to salvage your relationship without even knowing how you felt in the first place?

Gathering your materials, you went up to your boss and let them know you were taking off early for the day. You needed some space to clear your head. 

Thankfully, when you returned home, Dick was out. Mindlessly throwing some clothes and toiletries in a bag, you scribbled a quick note on a legal pad, leaving it abandoned on the kitchen countertop. As you walked from the threshold of your shared apartment, you tried to steel your nerves and focus on organizing your thoughts.

“Dick - I’m staying with a friend for a couple of days to figure things out. I’ll text you when I’m coming back and we can go from there.

-- Y/N"

When Dick appeared on Jason’s doorstep, the younger brother reflexively slammed the door, but Dick’s grasp prevented him from closing it all the way. A pair of sweatpants hung loose on Jason’s hips, his hair ruffled from tossing and turning throughout the day. If Dick were to wager a guess, Jason returned home from Red Hood duties early in the morning and his knuckles on the door woke him from much needed slumber. 

“What?” Jason grumbled, less of a question and more of a sharp statement.

“Can I come in?” Dick asked, the typical joviality gone from his eyes. 

“No.” Jason replied, running a hand through the white streak in his bangs. 

Dick didn’t reply. Simply casting Jason a most pathetic and desperate look without even trying. Despite Jay’s desire to shut the door in his brother’s face and return to his shitty nap, Dick’s pitiful and uncharacteristic countenance delayed his reaction for a couple of seconds too long. With a deep sigh, Jason shoved the door open wide enough for Dick to slip through, grunting as he turned around to retreat to a worn recliner. The arms were littered with cigarette burns where Jason must have fallen asleep with a light in between his fingers.

“What’s wrong with you?” He asked, folding his arms over his chest.

“I screwed up.” Dick replied, vaguely.

“No shit.” Jason replied, without much empathy. “Why else would you be bothering me at home on a Thursday?” 

Dick took a seat opposite Jason, sinking uncomfortably in the extremely tattered couch. He felt his tailbone dip in the flattened cushion and touch the frame of the sofa. He picked at his cuticles before speaking.

“I screwed things up with Y/N.” He admitted. 

Jason gave an disapproving huff in reply. His eyes were trained on his sibling, lips pulled into a tight expression. If Dick was going to bother him at home, he was going to have to fess up on his own accord. Jay already had limited patience for playing therapist today, there was no way he was going to goad Dick into opening up.

“Did you see the news segment last night?” Dick asked, looking up from his fingernails.

A look of realization crossed Jason’s eyes before he settled back into his grumpy demeanor. He nodded.

“Awful slutty of you, ‘Wing.” He grumbled.

It was Dick’s turn to move his fingers through his hair in an uncoordinated ruffle. He knew he wasn’t coming to Jason for sympathy, nor was he seeking it. But hearing confirmation of his screw up from his little brother didn’t exactly feel great either.

“I don’t know, I just…” Dick trailed off, eyes unfocused in the background of the shabby apartment. “I got caught up in the moment. Huge bust. Went smooth as silk, smoother than expected even. Shit, B basically told me he was proud of me. Y’know, in the way that he does.”

Jason maintained his furrowed look. 

“I was feeling like hot shit, I guess is what I’m trying to say.” Dick replied. “And made an ass out of myself and humiliated the person I care the most about. I didn’t even realize it until they lit into me yesterday. I’ve never heard them yell like that.” 

Dick let out a colossal exhale. 

“I think I’ve lost them, Jay.” He replied, voice hushed as if he was afraid to speak it aloud. “They spent the night in a hotel. You should have seen the way they… looked at me.”

He let his head fall into his hands, broad shoulders pinched in discomfort. 

“I don’t know what to do. I’ve been Nightwing, even Robin, for so long that the duty is ingrained in me.” He admitted. “But coming home to them is the only thing that actually makes it feel worth it. If I’ve screwed that up for good… I don’t think I’m going to be able to live with myself.”

He finished his diatribe with his eyes cast to the floor. The admission of guilt was cathartic in the worst way, as if speaking his mistakes out into the open made them more final, cemented. The two brothers sat in uncomfortable silence for what felt like minutes. Jason leaned back in his chair, the poorly built frame giving a contemptible squeak at his bulk. 

“I don’t know why you came here, Dick.” Jason said, his voice a low growl.

After several beats, Dick replied. 

“I don’t either.”

More silence. His confession of guilt hung thickly between them, Jason like a stoic priest holding a grudge. But despite his hardened stare, Jay felt the despair emanating off of his older brother, who he had looked up to so dearly as a kid. Despite his flaws, the sibling that insisted on maintaining the family bond. Holding their brokenness together. For that, Jason thought that Dick deserved a response.

“Well, you’ve got two choices.” Jason said, breaking the silence. “Accept that it’s over, that you’ve fucked it. Try to move on.”

Dick’s shoulders slumped further.

“Or, you repent and change. Not with words, but with choices.” He finished. “No guarantee you’ll get them back. In fact, you probably won’t. But atoning for it is the best chance you’ve got.”

When Dick looked up, he caught the trained eyes of his younger brother, reveling in the hidden softness in his gaze that only Jason’s closest companions would notice. He sunk into the appreciation he had for the hardened man hearing him out, listening to his confession, and offering his advice, trying to let that drown out his shame.

Dick replied with a knowing nod, relishing the silence, however uncomfortable, for it was still time and companionship that his brother had afforded him. 

The weekend came, but you didn’t greet it with your usual delight. Although, staying with your friend had proven to be the right choice. Even though you were sleeping on a pull-out couch, the change of scenery had provided you the clarity to think things through, and more importantly, to consider what you wanted going forward. But for every revelation you made, you felt three uncertainties rise in return. Most of the time, you felt like you were being held captive by your conscience. 

“Hey, something came in the mail for you.” Your friend said, rifling through bills to find an envelope addressed to you.

Your returning look was perplexed, but you reached out a hand to receive your parcel. Your stomach clenched at the immediate recognition of the scrawl. You ran a finger between the seam, disrupting the glue and pulling the scratch paper out to unfold it.

“Y/N: I know you don’t want to see me right now. But, I desperately want to see you. Need to see you. Talk things out. Apologize. 

If you’ll give me that grace - and I don’t blame you if you won’t because I don’t deserve it - meet me on the bench by the lake on the central park trail tomorrow at noon. I hope you still remember the one.

Love, Dick”

That night, you hashed out every possibility with your friend, waffling between holding your ground and refusing to go, showing up to read him the riot act, and moving to another country to start a new life. After what felt like hours of going around and around, you let out a sigh, throwing up your hands.

“I’m going.” You said, exasperated. Your friend returned with a raised brow. “I’m tired of being in limbo. We just need to figure this out so we can get over it.”

With a reassuring hand on your back, they gave you a nod.

“You’ve got this, and you’re always welcome to stay with me if you need it.”

“I hope you still remember the one” Dick had written, but how could you forget? 

The first - well, technically second - official date that you had gone on as a couple, days after the gala. He collected you at your apartment with eagerness, held your hand and stroked it with his thumb as you walked the Bludhaven central park trail. He did most of the talking, filling the silence with stories of his rambunctious childhood, but when you came upon the bench by the lake, he had quieted, pulling you over to the bench to sit and enjoy the view. 

Approaching that same bench now, you felt your heart squeeze looking at the silhouette of the back of his form. Those tousled obsidian locks meeting the strong muscle of his upper back at the boundary of the nape of his neck. The region that made his impressive figure buckle when you pressed kisses to the skin there. He had one arm extended along the back of the bench, and you admired the vasculature in his forearms, running down to terminate in lean and skillful fingers. At your soft footsteps in the grass, you saw his slender nose and profile come into view.

He looked at you with incredible softness, a somber undertone painting his features. He looked worn, tired, uncertain. It was a stark difference from the boldly confident man that you had come to know in the last year. 

“Can I sit?” You asked.

He nodded in response, pulling his arm from the back of the bench to give you space. You took a seat next to him, a strained distance between the two of your bodies that were typically pressed as close together as they could be. In your peripheral vision, you saw the way he looked at you. Such fondness undermined by sadness.

“I finally worked up the confidence to kiss you for the first time here.” He murmured.

You let out an involuntary snort.

“You worked up the confidence to kiss me?” You replied, in disbelief. “I don’t think there’s a person on this planet who would have rejected that.”

“But you did.” Dick corrected, causing you to turn to face him head on with a scowl. You most certainly had not, remembering how your heart fluttered as you leaned into his lips. “Rejected me, that is. I remember the first time that I asked you out, I had it all planned. Rehearsed the exact words in the car. And you still said no.”

You fixed your gaze out on the shimmering body of water in front of you, confused as to why he belabored this point. At your silence, Dick continued.

“And you’re right, nobody had ever rejected me like that before.” He said. “I was disappointed. Surprised, too. But I went home that night, and still couldn’t stop thinking about you. So I kept trying.”

You remembered your cat and mouse phase well, in prior months with some fondness, though now with the sting of something else.

“Every time, you were ‘out of town’, or ‘at a work event.’ Or had a friend that was moving, and they needed your help.” He persisted, with an airy laugh. “But even when you said no, you had the sweetest look on your face. Kept telling me ‘maybe some other time’ hoping that I would drop it. But I couldn’t.”

Dick ran his palm over his face, scrubbing at the corners of his mouth. 

“And when you finally said yes, I felt like… I don’t know. Like I had won the lottery. Like I had just done heroin. That night at the dance, when you finally let down those walls and let me have you… I lost sleep replaying it over and over in my head that night.”

A sad smile graced his lips. His pause was brief.

“But anyway. Thanks for meeting with me. I wasn’t sure you were going to show up. In fact, I thought you weren’t going to.” Dick said. “Wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.” 

“I wasn’t sure I was going to.” You admitted.

“I just needed to… talk to you.” He said. “I have some things I need to say. Before you, y’know, make your final decision.”

You didn’t respond, silently urging him to continue.

“What I said and did on TV… was stupid. Betrayed your trust that I worked so hard to build.” He continued. “Crushed your heart I’m sure. All of those nights I spent reassuring you that you were the only one for me and that you were worth it. It’s still true. Not like my actions have shown it.” 

Dick sighed. Your emotions were all over the spectrum, but you let him finish.

“I went to Jason’s place the other day, before I came home and saw your note.” He admitted. “I told him about that night. How the bust was easy, Batman was even openly proud of me, for once. I remember how excited I felt knowing I was going to get to come home early to you, actually getting to spend the evening with my favorite person. It all went right to my head. That reporter pulled me aside and begged for a segment and I just… made a complete ass out of myself. Got so caught up in the Nightwing persona, feeling on top of the world. Making an ass out of myself, that I could live with. But humiliating you, that I can’t.

“I knew I fucked up immediately, but when I came home from the cave and saw you asleep, felt your resistance - that’s when it really sunk in. Then we got into that fight and you left, and I knew it was all over. That I fucked up irreparably this time.”

Dick turned to you, reaching for the palms overturned in your lap with an uncharacteristic, shaking hand. Despite a small part of you wanting to pull away from him, you let him take your hand.

“I’ve played this over and over in my head, from every viewpoint and every angle, and I can’t make it work out.” Dick said, his voice cracking. “I’d spend the rest of my life making it up to you, showing you that you are the most important thing in my life - that coming home to you is the only thing that makes being Nightwing worth it, but I can’t ask you for that in good conscience.”

You nodded, a gravity coming over the both of you. Was this really the end of the romance that you had with Dick Grayson? The man that made you internally pinch yourself to overcome the disbelief that you were dating?

“So, I’m putting the ball in your court. I’ll do whatever it is you want to do. But just know that if I could take it all back, I wouldn’t hesitate.” He finished.

You sat in silence then, both staring out onto the lake, scanning it for possible answers. It had none to provide. His hand was limp in yours, not grasping with that assuredness, that possession that you were used to. It felt awkward. More uncomfortable than the first time that you had met him. 

After what felt like an eternity, you spoke.

“I won’t pretend that this makes it all okay, Dick.” You admitted. “The reason I ducked your advances for so long was because I was sure that there was no way THE Dick Grayson settled on me when there were a million other worthy people in the world. People that knew your lifestyle. People who could understand you. And when I finally gave in, you made me believe that I was one of those people. I truly believed that until the other night.”

Dick felt the shame continuing to boil in his gut. He had never hated himself more than in this moment.

“But, it also didn’t erase the love that I feel for you. The love that we have built over the last year, that was more true than anything I’ve ever known.” You countered. “So I’ve spent the last couple of days trying to reconcile those things in my head.”

You shifted, releasing his hand to bring a palm to his cheek. He all but melted into your touch.

“I’m not willing to throw that away just yet.” You said. “I’m not going to be able to bounce back - for things to go back instantly to the way they were. I am too hurt for that. But if you say you’ll spend the rest of your life showing me how you truly feel? Well. I can’t bring myself to deny you or I that opportunity.”

He blinked slowly, lids oscillating as if they weighed hundreds of pounds and caused great strain to lift. You felt a grave serenity overcome him, as if he was grateful to be released from the purgatory of the last couple of days.

“We’ll start from square one.” He agreed. 

You leaned in to give him a chaste peck, his hand grasping your knee as if it was his only lifeline. Pulling away, you settled your head onto the curve of his shoulder, staring off into the lake which had changed so little in the course of time that your relationship had changed so much. But being near Dick again, even though the proximity came with so much uncertainty, soothed a part of your soul that had been deeply hurting for the last week.

Epilogue:

Over the following couple of months, Dick proved true to his word. That night that you rekindled on the park bench, he returned to the cave to inform Batman that he would be taking a step back for a while. Asked Jay and Roy to keep a watchful eye over Bludhaven while he focused on the priorities of his life. 

Slowly, you recovered. Bundling your PTO, Dick took you away for an extended vacation overseas. He booked a little house by the ocean where you stayed for a couple of weeks, getting lost in the privacy of nature and finding each other again, in the absence of news reels or tabloids. You remembered all of the reasons you admired Dick in the first place - the way he made you laugh, could read your mind at the most inconvenient of times. And Dick showed you a vulnerability that he had been unknowingly holding back, revealing the most authentic parts of himself that nobody who knew Richard Grayson or even Nightwing were privy to. 

You had the privilege of falling in love with Dick Grayson twice. 

A couple of weeks after your return, you found yourself on that same balcony of Wayne Manor. Spiffed up for yet another charity gala, things felt so similar and yet so different than they had just shy of two years ago. You still spent hours cultivating your look. You still felt the omnipresence of Gotham reporters, eager to leech a story out of the sudden disappearance and subsequent return of Dick Grayson and his lover. You still felt the same weightlessness when Dick spun you on the marble floor, pulling him into you with a protectiveness that bordered on possessiveness, unwilling to share you with the rest of the world. 

And he still had the ability to sneak up on you when you were lost in thought. 

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?” He asked, his deep voice breaking you from your reflection. 

You smiled, a genuine thing, as you turned to face him. He still looked mouthwatering in a tuxedo. 

“Just waiting around for my playboy.” You teased, earning a faux injured look from your man. 

He pulled up next to you, snaking an arm around your waist. His nose traced the side of your neck before you felt his plush lips place the most gentle kiss to your pulse. 

“What do you say we get out of here a little early?” He asked. 

“And where would we go, Mr. Grayson?” You countered.

“I know a place.” He replied, taking you by your hand. 

The two of you looked extra out of place on the park city trail in the dark of the night, dressed in black tie attire. Dick had offered to carry you, but you declined, trodding along the gravel in your dress shoes, though you let him hold the train of your dress as you marched. Coming upon that fateful park bench, your heart softened and you smiled, leaving Dick on the trail as you approached the edge of the lake. You cast your gaze out into it, silently urging it to tell you of its power, to admit to you the nature of its mystery. 

Your eyes closed to the serene melody of late night warblers and gentle rustle of wind through the trees. You felt the breeze kiss your skin, and thanked a higher power for time. For the months of growth and reflection, for the opportunity for your relationship to not only sprout but to fortify. The journey had been tumultuous, but you wouldn’t have changed a thing about it as long as it led you right to where you stood. 

Behind you, admiring the way that your head lolled back in relaxation, was Dick. He soaked in the sight of his lover completely at ease, his heart light yet full of wonder that for all of the choices he made and regrets in his life, he was still the luckiest man in the universe. Mostly because he had you. 

As you cherished the moonlight casting itself on the lake, you turned around to face him, where he knelt lowly on one knee, a small wooden box perched in his hand, and a smile that said “thank you for knowing me”, reserved only for you, for the rest of time. 

Dividers both by: toxisyddy

He plans things, real things, not generic dinner-and-a-movie things, but things: a midnight breakfast at a diner he loves in Blüdhaven, a borrowed canoe at four a.m. so you can watch the sun come up on a reservoir, a rooftop he knows about with a view of the river, the back room of a salsa club where he knows the owner and has known the owner since he was fifteen, a bookstore that's open late where he buys you a book he thinks you'll love and inscribes it with something funny and slightly breathtaking.

He texts back immediately, he calls when he says he'll call, he remembers every offhand thing you mention, he shows up on time, he opens doors, he has manners in a way that's real and was beaten into him by both his parents and Alfred and his own native warmth, and the manners are not a performance.

He is, also, physical in a way that disarms you immediately.

Dick was raised by acrobats and lives in a body that doesn't have the boundary between platonic and not-platonic that most people's bodies have; his hand will be on your lower back when he's guiding you through a crowd, his arm will be slung around your shoulders when you're walking down the street, he'll pull you into his lap on the couch with the easy thoughtlessness of a man who's been physically affectionate with everyone he loves since he was a child, and within the first two weeks you'll already feel like you've been touching him for years.

The flirting is playful. Dick teases the way he was taught to tease, lightly, never punching down, with a grin that lets you know he's having a wonderful time.

He calls you gorgeous and beautiful and uses your name like a song, he winks at you across rooms with the kind of dial-up wink most men cannot pull off to save their lives but which on Dick reads as charming because his face was made for it, he flirts like flirting is a love language he speaks fluently in three dialects and is willing to teach you any of them.

And then (and this is the first crack) you'll notice, somewhere around week six, week eight, that you don't actually know him. Not yet. You know an enormous amount about him: the surface biography (orphaned, raised by Bruce, was Robin, became Nightwing, lives in Blüdhaven, used to date Barbara, used to date Kori, used to date a half-dozen women whose names you've heard in passing and who he speaks of with affection that's also slightly unnerving because who manages to break up with that many women and still be friends with all of them—the answer is Dick).

You know his routines, and you know his favourite restaurants, and you know which of his brothers he can tolerate this week. You know that his back hurts when it rains, and you know how he takes his coffee. But you don't know what scares him, or what he thinks about when he can't sleep, and you don't know what he has not told you, because Dick is a master of giving you so much that you don't notice what's being withheld.

This is the central paradox of dating Dick Grayson, and you have to understand it early or you'll spend years confused: he's not lying, he's not hiding from you in any way he could be called out for, he's not a secretive man. He is, in fact, by Bat-family standards, a radically open one, a person who hugs his friends and tears up at movies and tells you he loves you without flinching.

But he has a way of being present with you that doesn't require him to be known, and it can take you a year to even register that you've been giving him your whole inner life and getting back something that feels like the same coin but is actually a different currency altogether.

The flaws (because yeah, golden boy has those) are real and they're specific, and the first one is that he's conflict-avoidant in a way that can drive you genuinely insane.

Dick was raised by Bruce, and Bruce communicates by glaring through plate glass for forty years, and Dick reacted to that by becoming the opposite on the surface (affable, talkative, easy) but underneath he's still a Bat, which means when something is actually wrong, when something is sitting between you that needs to be dealt with, he'll smile, deflect, and he'll change the subject.

He'll give you a hug and a forehead kiss and a we're fine, baby, we're great, and the issue will not get addressed, and three weeks later it will resurface in some roundabout way and you'll realise he's been carrying it around the entire time and just not telling you, because telling you would have been a fight, and Dick Grayson has spent his whole life trying to be the person who never has to fight with the people he loves.

The second flaw is over-extension. Dick says yes to everything, Dick is in a dozen people's emergency contacts, Dick is the one his brothers call at 2 a.m., Dick is the one Babs calls when she needs help, Dick is the one Bruce calls when something has gone wrong with the family in a way Bruce can't fix on his own.

Dick is the police officer (or the consultant, depending on which era we're talking) who can't say no to overtime, Dick is on the Titans roster, Dick is in the JLA rotation, Dick is mentoring three teenagers and checking in on six others, and you'll find, in the second or third month of dating him, that he's exhausted in a way he will not admit to.

The exhaustion has consequences for you. He'll fall asleep mid-sentence on your couch, cancel plans last-minute with apologies that sound rehearsed because he gives them too often. He'll be physically present with you and mentally three calls behind on his to-do list, and when you try to talk to him about it he will look at you with those big blue eyes and tell you he's fine, baby, I promise, I just need a few hours, and you'll have to learn that a few hours in Dick's vocabulary means I'm not going to address this, please stop asking.

The third flaw (and this one's the worst) is what Babs once called, in a fight that he absolutely did not handle gracefully, his martyr complex.

Dick has internalised the idea that he's responsible for the wellbeing of the people he loves, that their pain is his to absorb, that if anything goes wrong it's on him to fix it.

The way this shows up in a relationship is that he'll not let you take care of him, not in any way he could not have explained as just being thoughtful, not in any way you can call out without sounding ridiculous. But the asymmetry is real.

He'll hold you when you cry, but won't cry in front of you; he'll ask you about your day with focused interest, then deflect when you ask about his; he'll let you in to the version of him that needs to be the strong one, and he'll pretend the version of him that needs anything else doesn't exist. And if you're not paying attention you'll fall in love with the strong version and never notice that the other one is starving.

Then there's the family. Dick's family is, depending on the day, either a delight or a structural threat to your relationship. Dick is the eldest son, the golden boy, the one who absorbs all of the Bat-family chaos and metabolises it into functional family dynamics, and being his partner means inheriting an entire tribe of complicated, traumatized, dangerous men (and women), some of whom will adore you and some of whom will decide instantly that you're not good enough for him.

Damian will be politely contemptuous of you for at least a year before grudgingly admitting that you have your uses; Jason will needle you and Dick equally and call you sister-in-law in that lazy drawl before you've even talked about marriage just to watch Dick choke on his beer; Tim will run a background check on you because he runs background checks on everyone Dick dates and is genuinely apologetic about it (maybe); Cass will simply look at you for a long quiet moment and then either nod or not nod, and there's no court of appeal for what Cass decides; Babs will be polite to your face and reserve judgment, and you'll understand within ten minutes of meeting her that she and Dick share a history that is cellular in a way that nothing can quite touch, and you'll have to make peace with this or you'll lose your mind.

Bruce will be Bruce about it, which means he will not openly disapprove and he will not openly approve, he'll simply observe, and you'll leave every dinner at the manor unsure whether you passed or failed. Alfred (bless Alfred) will be the one who actually tells you the truth, in tiny offhand asides delivered while he refills your tea, things like, "Master Dick has not slept well this week, Miss, I trust you will encourage him to take a proper rest", and you'll understand that Alfred is the only person in this entire family who's going to tell you what's actually going on, and you'll love Alfred for the rest of your life (don't we all?).

Now, the Barbara thing. Because we have to address it.

Babs is one of Dick's people in a way that you, no matter how much he loves you, can't fully displace at the level of history, and you have to decide early whether you can live with that or whether it's going to corrode you from the inside.

They've known each other since they were teenagers, they've loved each other in every possible way (romantically, platonically, professionally, with grief, with rage, with the kind of forgiveness that only comes from people who've survived each other), and there's a frequency on which they communicate that no one else can pick up (half-sentences finished by the other one, references to events that don't have names, the particular way she says Grayson that sounds like a whole conversation) and the texture of their friendship is going to take some getting used to, because they are close, they'll always be close, and that's information you have to absorb without resentment.

But (and this is very important) Dick knows what it looks like from the outside, Dick has been in this exact situation with previous partners. Dick has watched relationships die on the Babs hill before, and he's not going to let that happen with you, and the way he'll not let it happen is by being crystalline about where you stand.

The first time the topic comes up (and it'll come up, you'll say something offhand, or he'll catch a flicker on your face when she calls, or someone at a Bat-family thing will make a comment that lands wrong) he will stop, turn to you, take your hands or your face, and he'll say it: "hey. hey, look at me. she's my friend. she's my best friend. she's not—she's not what you are. you are what you are. you. okay?" and the use of the word you twice, the you-are-what-you-are, is going to land in your sternum like a bell, because Dick chooses words for a living and he's chosen these ones on purpose. What he's telling you is not don't worry about her but understand who you are to me, specifically, and let that be enough.

He'll do it more than once, because he understands it has to be reiterated. Because he understands that with him in particular the past is populated, and reassurance with Dick is not a one-time conversation it's a practice.

He'll bring it up unprompted sometimes, when he's noticed something you didn't say, "hey, by the way, you know that thing earlier? Barbara and I are gonna be like that forever, that's not changing, but you also know there's no version of my life where I'm not coming home to you, right? you know that?", and the willingness to say it without being asked is the thing that, over months, defuses it.

He'll not perform a separation from her that isn't real, but he'll absolutely perform, in the most direct and least ambiguous terms possible, his choice of you, and you'll learn, slowly, to trust that the choice is renewed every day on purpose.

And the small things matter: he keeps a photo of you on his nightstand, where her photo used to live (he'll mention this exactly once, casually, watching for your reaction, "used to be a different picture there, now it's you, just so you know," and it'll take you the rest of the night to recover).

He introduces you, every time, by your full name followed by my girl; he holds your hand at family dinners (the small everyday hand-holding, not performance) even when she's at the table.

He asks your opinion on cases when both of you are present, because he wants you to know that you're not in the second tier, that the room you occupy in his life is the room with the lights on; and the cumulative weight of all of these small choices, made consistently over years, is what makes the difference between a partner who eats herself alive over Babs and one who learns, eventually, that being his now is not a lesser thing than being someone's was, and may in fact be the bigger thing.

The Kori thing is different and easier, because Kori lives in a different gravity than the rest of you do, and her relationship with Dick is something he carries with him like an ache rather than a pull. It's the past, it really is, but the past did something to him that you'll feel sometimes. The way he gets quiet when stars come up in conversation, the way he doesn't talk about the time after the Titans first broke up. You don't push it, the same way you don't push the rest of it, because Dick is not a man who responds well to being excavated.

Now, the intimacy. This is where everything that's been laid out so far really matters, because Dick in a relationship looks one way and Dick in bed looks another, and the difference is illuminating about who he actually is.

You'd think (based on the charm, the easy physicality, the way he flirts, the half-dozen famous exes) that Dick would be a suave lover, a smooth one, the kind of man who orchestrates a seduction the way a conductor runs a symphony, and the truth is more interesting than that and a little bit funnier:

Dick is technically extraordinary (this is a man who has the body control of an Olympic gymnast, the cardio of a working acrobat, and the kind of physical literacy that means he can find any nerve cluster in your body within four minutes of meeting it), and yes, he absolutely could run the symphony version, and sometimes does, but his actual default mode in bed is delighted, almost playful, with a generosity that borders on excessive.

Because Dick was raised in a culture where giving someone pleasure is a form of love, and he has internalised this so thoroughly that he genuinely doesn't understand selfish lovers, finds them confusing, considers them a category mistake.

The first time is not fast. Dick is not a man in a hurry, he's waited his whole life to find out what you like and he's not going to rush.

The experience of being undressed by Dick Grayson the first time is a thing that will spoil you for other people, because he treats it like an event. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world (and he does, and he's going to use all of it), and when his hands first move under your shirt the touch is so unhurried and so deliberate that you'll, briefly, forget how to breathe.

He undresses you slowly, watching your face, narrating with his hands rather than his mouth. The first thing you'll notice is that he's quiet in bed at first, not silent but attentive, listening to you, watching, learning, and the second thing you'll notice is that he smiles against your skin, often, like he's having a wonderful time, like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

The smiling against your skin is going to undo you, because nobody has ever made you feel that welcome in your own body before.

He has specific physical tells in bed that are just him, and you'll come to recognise them like signatures:

He hums. A low, almost-not-audible hum against your skin when he's particularly enjoying something, a sound that's not a moan and not really a growl but something closer to a contented animal noise, and the first time you feel it vibrate against your collarbone you'll understand why his exes never quite got over him;

He has a habit of pausing mid-thrust to grin at you, just stop and grin, like he can't quite believe his luck, and the grin will be at close range and unguarded and if you weren't already in love with him it would do the job;

He taps his fingers. When his hand is resting on your hip or your thigh, his fingertips will tap absently, an irregular little rhythm, the same way they tap on a coffee cup when he's thinking, and you'll realise he doesn't even know he does it;

He has a ticklish spot just below his ribs on the left side that he does not announce and will absolutely deny if asked, but if your mouth happens to land there during the slow exploration phase he will jolt and laugh, surprised out of his cool, and the laugh (that real laugh, the one his handsome face was made for) will derail the next ten minutes;

He kisses foreheads, constantly, mid-fuck, between thrusts, after climax, your forehead, your temple, the crown of your head, like a punctuation mark, and you'll learn that the forehead-kiss is his most reflexive expression of affection and it shows up in bed as often as it shows up anywhere else.

He's a worshipful lover in a way that can take you a few times to get used to.

Dick goes down like it's a hobby, he goes down like he's competing with himself for Olympic gold. He goes down for long stretches and shows no signs of getting bored. The eye contact is intense in a way that will short-circuit you the first time, because he wants to watch your face fall apart, he wants the information, and the entire time his hands will be doing other things, attentive things, his fingers laced with yours or holding your thigh pinned open or pressed flat against your stomach so he can feel you breathe.

Afterwards he will rest his cheek against your hip for a moment with this expression of quiet satisfaction that will make you want to weep, because he's pleased with himself, in the best way, like he just executed a perfect double-twist and stuck the landing without a single wobble.

He's vocal in a particular register. Dick praises, constantly, and the first time you notice the pattern it's a little dizzying because you have not, until this point in your life, been told you are gorgeous, perfect, fucking incredible, baby look at you, that's it, just like that, fuck you feel so good, you have no idea what you do to me by a man who clearly means every single word.

The praise is not generic, it's specific. He tells you about the noise you just made, tells you about the way your back arched just now, he tells you about how you taste, tells you about something you did three minutes ago that he can't stop thinking about. And the cumulative effect is that being in bed with Dick is like being told an extremely flattering story about yourself in real time and discovering, against your will, that you might actually believe it.

He calls you baby (that's the dominant one, the one he uses the most) and beautiful and sweetheart and honey and your name, often, comfortably. The use of your name is not a wall to be brought down because the wall isn't there; the first time he says I love you in bed it will be relatively early (months early) because Dick says it easily, he says it freely, and he means it every time.

You'll have to decide whether the easiness of it is a comfort or a complication, because the words come faster from him than they did from anyone else you've loved and that doesn't necessarily mean less, but it does mean different.

He's ridiculously attentive. He reads you in real time and adjusts, he learns your body in two or three sessions in a way that some people don't manage in years. He remembers what worked, he tries new things and watches your face for your reactions, he asks (verbally! with words! like a regular person!) what you want, and the asking is hot rather than awkward because Dick is genuinely curious, he wants to know, the wanting to know is part of the wanting you.

The cumulative effect of all of this, over months, is that the sex with Dick becomes some of the most pleasurable sex you've ever had in your life, and that fact, in itself, is going to start to bother you in a specific way that takes you a while to identify.

Because here's the thing nobody tells you about being a generous lover's partner: you start to notice, somewhere in month three or four, that the dynamic is asymmetric.

Dick is very, very invested in your pleasure, he derives a great deal of satisfaction from giving it to you, but the bulk of every encounter is structured around making you fall apart, and you'll start to wonder, gently at first, what he actually likes. What he actually wants. What would happen if you took the wheel for an evening and made the night about him, and you will discover, over time, that this is genuinely difficult for him.

Dick has trouble receiving. This is the bedroom version of the wider pattern (the over-extension, the conflict avoidance, the martyr-complex thing) and it shows up in bed as a deflection, a graceful one, almost imperceptible.

You start working your way down his body and he'll roll the two of you so suddenly you're underneath him again and he's grinning at you like yeah, no, my turn; you'll try to slow him down and he'll redirect with a kiss and his hand between your legs; you'll say it, eventually, Dick, hey, let me, and he'll laugh (that easy charming laugh, the deflective one) and say baby, I'm having fun, I'm great, c'mere, and the conversation will end and you'll be on your back again and you will, an hour later, lying next to him while he's drifting off, realise that he's done it again.

The first time you sit with this, properly (the first time you understand what's happening) you'll feel a little sick, because you'll realise that the generosity you'd been mistaking for sexual confidence is partly a deflection, a way of making the encounter about you so it doesn't have to be about him. A way of staying in the role of the giver because the role of the receiver is one he was not, somewhere along the way, taught how to occupy without flinching.

The way you have to crack it is the same way you have to crack every other layer of him, which is patiently, over time, with a kind of attention that mirrors back the attention he's been giving you.

What you do, slowly, is insist, gently, repeatedly, without making it a confrontation: you take his hand and put it on the headboard above his head and you say stay there, you laugh when you say it, you keep it light, but you mean it, and he'll laugh and try to move and you'll say no, stay, and he'll go very still and look at you with something new in his face (a flicker of genuine surprise, almost a kind of unease) and what yo're doing in this moment is showing him that the room is going to hold him whether he's in motion or not.

The first time he actually lets you do what you want with him, the first time he just lies there and lets you take him apart, slowly, with no escape route, you'll see his composure crack in real time and it'll be one of the most extraordinary things you've ever witnessed, because Dick Grayson unguarded is a rare phenomenon and you're getting it because you earned it.

And what you'll discover, when he finally lets himself receive, is that he is extremely responsive. Vocally, physically, emotionally. That the surface charm has been masking a deep, almost unbearable sensitivity, that he gets loud when he's being properly attended to, that he has shake in him when someone is patient with him.

He will say things (broken, half-finished things, baby, please, oh god, fuck, don't stop, please) that you have never heard from him in any other context, because Dick when he's being taken care of is a different person than Dick when he's taking care of you.

The moment you get access to that other Dick is the moment the relationship begins to deepen into something the surface version could never have built on its own.

The other thing about Dick in bed (and this is important) is that he's strong, in a way that doesn't always register because his charm makes him read as soft. The way this surfaces in bed is genuinely startling the first time you encounter it.

Dick can pick you up, easily, without much effort, and rearrange the geography of the bed with the kind of casual physicality that comes from a man who routinely flips off rooftops, and the first time he does it (the first time he just lifts you, hands under your thighs, and walks you to a different position with no apparent strain) you'll have a small private revelation about what the rest of his life is like, and the thing he holds back.

The strength he's being careful with around you, is going to become a quiet erotic undercurrent for the entire relationship.

And then there's the flexibility, which you can't talk about Dick in bed without addressing.

The man can do things with his body that other people genuinely cannot, and it's not a party trick, it's just physical fact. He can hold positions other men would tap out of within minutes, his hips have a kind of fluency that's difficult to describe and impossible to forget.

He can fold you up into shapes you didn't know your body would do and hold you there long enough for the position to stop being an act and start being a place you live, and he's not show-offy about this, he doesn't lead with it, he just uses it, casually, the way other men use their hands.

The first time it really registers what you're working with you'll laugh, mid-act, an involuntary disbelieving laugh, and he'll stop and grin at you and ask what, and you'll say nothing, nothing, keep going, and he'll know exactly what, and his ego will preen for a week about it.

He can kneel between your thighs with his back arched and his hands braced wide on the headboard for as long as he wants to; no shake, no shift, no sign of strain, just steady working focus. He can fold himself almost in half over you while still keeping perfect rhythm, his forehead against yours, his elbows planted on either side of your head, his hips doing something that should not be physically possible from that angle but apparently is when it's him.

He can sit back on his heels with you in his lap and stay there for hours, his hands on your hips guiding you, his thighs not trembling once, his breathing barely changed, and the patient quality of that stillness (the way he can just hold and let you move on him at your pace) is one of the most erotic things you've ever encountered, because he's not enduring it, he's enjoying it, you can see it on his face.

His hips are their own subject, and you'll think about them in spare moments for the rest of your life.

There's a fluency to the way he moves that other people simply don't have, an unbroken liquid quality, the same physical literacy that makes him a working acrobat showing up here as the ability to change rhythms mid-stroke without losing the through-line, to slow down without losing the angle, to grind in a slow circle that finds something specific inside you and stays there until you're making sounds you don't recognise, and the worst part is that he knows.

He has the information, he's clocked the angle that makes your breath catch and he can return to it with surgical precision whenever he wants to, and he does, often, with a small private smile against your shoulder.

He has a habit to pick you up mid-fuck and walking you somewhere else without losing rhythm. This is a real thing he does and the first time he does it you will go slightly insane, because you'd been on the bed and you'd thought you were going to finish on the bed, and instead he's reached under your thighs, lifted you cleanly into his lap with his hands cupping you, stood up, walked you to the wall, and pressed your back against it without ever pulling out.

The casualness of the whole manoeuvre (the way it's genuinely no effort for him) is going to recalibrate your understanding of what sex can be; he does the same thing with the bed-to-counter relocation, with the bed-to-shower transition, with picking you up off the couch when neither of you is going to make it to the bedroom in time, and every single time he does it he treats it as completely unremarkable, which is somehow worse than if he were trying to impress you with it.

The positions he prefers shift over time, too.

His early-relationship favourites are these: he loves having you on top of him with his hands on your hips, because he likes watching you, he likes the angle, he likes being able to reach every part of you at once (your hips, your stomach, up to your breasts, your throat if you tip your head back), and he likes the freedom it gives his mouth. He can sit up and meet you, pull you down against him, kiss you while you move, or lean back and just watch, eyes dark, jaw slack, with the kind of frank wonder that's going to feel like being looked at by a man who has never seen another woman in his life.

He loves having you face-down with his weight on your back, one of his hands flat against the mattress next to your head and the other gathered in your hair, his mouth at your ear narrating playful filth, because the angle is good and the intimacy of his mouth that close to your ear is a thing he's very aware of.

He loves having you on your side with him behind you, slow and deep and unhurried, his arm under your head and his other hand splayed across your stomach holding you against him, because this position is the one where he can stay closest to you for the longest, and Dick prioritises closeness above almost everything else.

He loves (and this is one of his giveaway favourites) having you sit in his lap, facing him, both of you upright, your legs around his waist, your foreheads together, his hands on your back holding you against him.

This is the position he reaches for on slow nights, the one he gets you into when he wants the whole encounter to be one long unbroken kiss, and the slowness of it (the way it forces you to breathe in time with him, the way his eyes are right there, two inches from yours, the way every shift is felt across your whole pressed-together body) is the position where he's most undone, where the surface charm comes off completely and you get the real him.

There's also the mid-sex things he does that will become the texture of the relationship.

He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and turns his head to kiss the inside of your knee, never breaking rhythm, and the casual grace of the gesture (the fluency of it, the way it costs him nothing) will undo you the first dozen times he does it;

He catches your hand when you reach for him and laces your fingers and pins it to the mattress next to your head and holds it there, palm-to-palm, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist, an entire conversation happening in two square inches of contact; he stops, sometimes, mid-thrust, and just looks at you, his rhythm gone still, his eyes traveling your face like he's trying to commit something to memory, and when you ask what he just shakes his head and smiles and kisses you and starts moving again, and you'll never get the answer to what, but you'll learn that this is one of his most reflexive expressions of love.

He talks against your skin (not on it, into it) his mouth pressed to your throat, your shoulder, the soft place under your ear, and the praise comes out muffled and warm and slightly slurred. Like he can't quite focus enough to enunciate, and there's something about the vibration of his voice directly against your pulse that hits a frequency words alone can't reach.

He murmurs into the join of your neck and shoulder, a small steady stream (baby, fuck, you feel—fuck—)and the sentences don't always finish, and the not-finishing is the proof that he means them.

He has a habit of brushing your hair back from your face mid-sex. Your hair will fall across your forehead, or into your eyes, or stick to your temple, and his hand will come up automatically and touch it, gentle, almost absent, like he can't bear to have anything between him and your face.

The gesture is so reflexive he doesn't even know he does it; he does the same thing with hair stuck to your temple from sweat (smooths it back with his thumb, presses a kiss to where it was, keeps moving) and the overall effect of being touched this attentively, this casually, while he's taking you apart between your thighs, is going to ruin you for partners who treat sex as a contained event with discrete inputs, because Dick treats it as a continuous field of attention, and once you've experienced that you can't go back.

He sucks on his fingers. Sometimes after he's had them inside you, holding eye contact, deliberate, with a small smile that's the smuggest expression on his entire face, and you'll hate him for the smugness and you'll love him for it. And you will, eventually, give up on which one wins; he does it casually, like it's the most natural follow-through in the world, and the unbothered quality of the move is what makes it work, because if it were performed it would be obnoxious and instead it just reads as a man who's genuinely enjoying himself.

He kisses down your body in a continuous unbroken line. Dick doesn't skip, Dick doesn't jump-cut. He gets from your mouth to where he's going by traveling, lips against your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, your sternum, the soft place between your ribs, your stomach, your hip.

The journey takes as long as it takes, he's in no hurry, and he stops at points along the way to settle in for a minute, sucking a mark into the place where your shoulder meets your neck, scraping his teeth lightly across your hipbone and watching you twitch, and the deliberateness of the trip is more arousing than the destination.

Dick has a thing he does where he'll be inside you, going slow, and he'll stop moving entirely. Just stop, just stay there, deep, holding still, and lean down and kiss you, hungry and unhurried, for a full minute, two minutes, however long, while the rest of him is just present inside you, not moving, not building, just there.

The held stillness combined with the kissing is going to do something to your nervous system that nothing else has ever done, and he knows, and he does it on purpose, and he watches your face afterward with this small satisfied expression that says yeah, that one's mine, I did that.

He gets a flush (high on his cheekbones, down his throat, across his chest) when he's getting close, and the flush is one of the few things about his body he can't control. The first time you notice it (you'd been watching his face) you'll feel the small private thrill of having identified one of his tells, and after that you'll watch for it deliberately, and he won't know you're watching for it, but when it appears you'll know before he does, which is a strange small power that becomes one of your favourite things about him.

He stretches afterwards, in bed, with the unselfconscious physical grace of a cat. Arms over his head, back arched off the mattress, a long luxurious extension of every muscle group, and the first time you watch him do it you'll understand viscerally what kind of body you've gotten access to, and you'll think about the stretch in inappropriate moments for years; sometimes he'll do it half-on top of you, his weight pleasantly pinning you to the mattress while he stretches his arms above his head, and the unconscious comfort of the gesture (the way he'll just use your body as a place to land) is one of the most affectionate things he does.

He puts his ear to your chest, sometimes, after you're both finished. Head tucked under your chin, ear flat against your sternum, and listens to your heartbeat, and he does this often enough that you'll realise it's very much deliberate. He's checking, that something in him is soothed by the sound of your heartbeat; he won't explain why, and you won't ask, but you'll find yourself, on the nights he does it, automatically running your fingers through his hair, holding him there, letting him stay as long as he wants. Because you understand on some pre-verbal level that this is one of the ways he loves you.

He likes (and this is something you'll have to learn over time, because he doesn't volunteer it, it has to be asked for) being underneath you. Not just casually. But in a true sense. With you setting the pace.

He likes pinning your hands above your head and watching you try to move under him; he likes (and this is the one that surprises you both) being held afterwards in a particular way, your arms around his ribs, your face against the back of his neck, your whole body tucked against his, and the first time you do it without thinking.

The first time you fold yourself around him and just stay, he goes still in the way that means I didn't know I needed this and now I will not be able to live without it, and he won't say anything, but in the morning he'll be a little softer with you than usual, a little more clingy, and that'll be his way of telling you.

He also has, and this takes you longer to notice, a thing about hair (yours specifically, but his too) he likes you running your hands through his hair (and his hair is thick and a little wild and slightly too long and he uses some kind of product that smells like cedar, and you will find yourself reaching for it constantly), and he likes pulling yours, gently, at the right moment, with the kind of precision that suggests he has done his homework on what you can take.

He likes when you scrape your nails along his scalp, soft slow drags from temple to nape, and the first time you do it absent-mindedly while watching a movie he goes liquid on the couch beneath you and you'll think you've broken him, and then you'll do it again, on purpose, in bed, and he'll make a noise you've never heard him make before.

He's a kisser in a way that some men are not. Some men kiss as a transition, a means to an end, a thing you do on the way to other things. Dick kisses as a destination, kissing is part of the event, and he'll kiss you for absurd lengths of time without escalating, just kissing, slow deep unhurried kissing, his hand at your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone.

There are nights when the whole evening is essentially just that, hours of just kissing on the couch like teenagers, and you'll realise at some point that he's doing this on purpose, that he's savouring, that he genuinely loves the act of kissing you and considers it not foreplay but its own complete category of intimacy.

The slow nights with Dick are soft in a way that's almost embarrassing. He's not afraid of softness, he leans into it, he enjoys it. He kisses you for forty minutes before anything else happens because he genuinely loves kissing you, he wraps his whole body around yours and moves slowly enough that you can feel every shift. He keeps his eyes on yours, he talks, but quieter than usual, the praise reduced to its essentials, baby, baby, you're so perfect, I love you, fuck I love you, and the I-love-yous on these nights are easier than they have any right to be, because Dick really does love easily, that part isn't a lie, the difficulty is what's underneath the loving, but the loving itself is real.

Dick is a man who feels things deeply and was trained from childhood to perform composure, and there are nights (usually after he's let you take him apart, usually after a stretch where work has been hard and he's been carrying too much) where he'll hide his face in your neck afterwards and you'll feel his breath catch, and you'll feel something wet against your skin.

He will not acknowledge it, and the way to handle it is to do nothing (don't comment, don't question, don't make it a thing) just hold him, run your hand up and down his back, and let him do it, because what is happening is that he's letting himself feel the day, and the only place he's allowed to do that is here, with you, and if you make a fuss about it he won't be able to do it again without feeling like a burden.

Aftercare with Dick is seamless. He's good at it the way he's good at everything socially calibrated, but the early version of his aftercare has a quality of checking that you've to learn to read past (are you good? you good, baby? you need water? you need anything?) and this is partly genuine concern and partly anxiety, partly his own need to confirm that he did the encounter right.

The loving thing to do, eventually, is to take his face in your hands and kiss him gently and say yes, I'm good, I'm great, come here, and pull him down and hold him, and let his version of aftercare give way to your version, and the long quiet hours of just lying tangled up in him, his head on your chest, his hand in yours, are the hours when he is most himself, when the performance is fully off, when he's just a man in a bed with someone who loves him.

He's deeply affectionate post-sex in a way that will spoil you.

Dick doesn't roll over and just fall asleep. No. Dick wants to talk, Dick wants to cuddle (he uses this word, unironically, he's not embarrassed by the word cuddle, he's comfortable with all of his feelings in a way that took him years of work to get to).

Dick will trace shapes on your back for an hour, he'll kiss the top of your head every few minutes like he's checking in. Dick will tell you stories from his childhood at 2 a.m. with your head on his chest and his hand in your hair, and these are the hours when he gives you the real him, the one that exists underneath the glossy charm, and you'll learn that the way to access this Dick is to be still with him. To not rush it, not ask him questions that put him on the spot. To just be a warm body next to his and let him talk, and over months, over years, the stories will accumulate, and you'll know him in a way that few people have ever truly known him, and that knowing will be the thing that makes the relationship real.

His general affection, outside of bed, has its own grammar that you'll learn to read as well.

He's a toucher, constantly, never aggressively, just always. His hand on your knee at dinner, his fingers tangled in yours under the table at family events, his arm around your shoulders on the couch, his hand at the small of your back when he's standing behind you in any line for any reason.

He's a forehead-kisser, as established, and the forehead kiss is his most freely given affection. Dispensed dozens of times a day, when you walk past him in the kitchen, when you hand him coffee, when he leaves for patrol, when he comes back.

He' a nape-of-the-neck-toucher, his palm warm and broad against the back of your neck when he's leaning in to say something close, and there's a soft, possessive quality to the touch that he himself doesn't quite recognise, the kind of soft mine that doesn't need to be said out loud.

He likes holding your hand, full hand, fingers laced, in public, walking down the street, at parties, at dinners, like he wants people to see, and the wanting-people-to-see is its own kind of declaration.

He cooks for you. Badly. But with great enthusiasm, and he'll get better over the years because Dick gets better at everything he applies himself to.

He learns your favourites and makes them on bad days, he leaves you notes on the kitchen counter with hearts on them like he's twelve years old, he sends you texts in the middle of the day that are just thinking about you, beautiful, hope your day's going okay, and the weight of all of these gestures is what builds the relationship into something solid.

Dick understands (in a way many people don't) that love is not a feeling you have once and refer to forever, it's a practice, it's the daily choice, and he's good at the daily choice, which is one of the most quietly extraordinary things about him.

He dances with you in your kitchen. Actually dances. Not the joke kind, real dancing, he was raised by acrobats and learned to dance before he could read.

He can lead, and he'll teach you, and the first time he pulls you up off the couch to dance to something that came on while he was making dinner you will feel like you have walked into a different kind of life

He sings, badly, in the shower, loud, unselfconscious, and the badness of his singing is one of the only things he is genuinely unselfconscious about, the only place where the surface composure cracks without him noticing.

He laughs at your jokes. Not in some polite way, in a full way, head thrown back, with his whole body, and the laugh is so generous it will make you try harder to be funny, just to hear it again, and you'll become, over the course of dating him, slightly funnier than you were before, because he's been treating your humour like a thing worth investing in. And he'll become happier, because you're one of the few who can bring simple, uncomplicated happiness into his life with a few sentences.

He remembers everything. The names of your friends from college, the specific wine you liked at that one restaurant two years ago, the way you take your eggs, the title of the book you'd mentioned wanting to read. And the effect of being remembered like this, of being attended to at this granularity, is destabilising in a way that takes you months to recover from. Because most people in the world are not paying attention at this level, and discovering that one of them is paying it to you will change your understanding of what attention can be.

Now, fights with Dick are their own thing because they're terrible in a specific way. Dick doesn't yell, he doesn't storm out. Dick instead does the worst possible thing, which is get quiet, get gentle, smile at you with sad eyes and say you might be right, baby, let's just—let's just take a beat, okay? and then leave the apartment for three hours and come back composed and ready to not talk about it.

The first time he does this you're going to be furious in a way you don't quite have language for, because he didn't fight back, he didn't engage, he just side-stepped and you're now standing in your living room with all of the original anger and nowhere to put it.

You will learn, over time, that the way to fight with Dick is to refuse the side-step: you have to make him stay in the room, you have to ask him direct questions and not let him deflect with charm.

You have to be willing to call him on the we're fine, baby when you're not, in fact, fine, and you have to do this without yelling, because yelling triggers his shutdown, the version of him that learned at age fourteen that the way to survive Bruce Wayne in a bad mood was to be agreeable and inscrutable.

You have to be steady, and you have to be patient, and let him know that the conversation is going to happen, today, and that you're not going to be charmed out of it.

When he realises you've figured out the trick of him will be a moment of genuine pain on his face. Not anger, not annoyance, grief, almost, because something he's used to manage relationships his whole life has just stopped working, and he's now going to have to actually be in the room with you, and he is, on some level, terrified, and that fear is a thing you have to handle gently, because what is being asked of him is enormous, and what he's going to discover, on the other side of it, is that he can survive being known.

Over time, the relationship with Dick stabilises into something that's both easier and harder than the early days suggested it would be.

Easier because he's genuinely a wonderful person to be around, because he makes you laugh, because he's reliable in the ways that matter. Because he loves you with a steady warmth that doesn't ever waver. The sex remains, against all odds, better than it was at the start.

But harder because the work of dragging him out of his own self-effacement, the work of insisting that he be a whole person with you and not just the version that takes care of you, the work of sitting in conflict with him until the conflict is actually resolved... that work is constant. IT doesn't get easier, you don't fix it once and have it stay fixed. You have to do it every six months, every year, every time something gets stressful and he reverts to his old habits, and you have to decide if you have the energy for that work, because you'll need it for the rest of your life with him.

The big picture, the actual truth of dating Dick Grayson is this: he's the easiest man in the world to fall in love with, but one of the more difficult ones to actually know. The gap between those two facts is the entire territory of the relationship.

Butt if you're willing to do the work, if you're willing to refuse his deflections without breaking him, and you're willing to be the person who insists on his full self instead of accepting the gracious half he hands you, what you get on the other side is a man who is radiantly good.

Who loves you with everything he has, who is kind in a way the world doesn't produce many of anymore, who will show up for you for the rest of his life, who will hold your hand in the hospital and your face when you cry and say your name like a prayer when he comes.

Who, when he finally lets you all the way in, will look at you with the kind of relief that suggests he's been waiting his whole life for someone to refuse to let him hide, and you will understand, then, what the charm was for: it was simply the door. It was never the room.

You had come to protect your baby cousin, Kal-El. That had been your mission. But when you finally reached this new world, he was already… grown. A man. Strong, self-assured, and standing taller than you’d remembered from Krypton. The task you were assigned for had vanished, almost before it even began.

Everything you knew was upside down.  The world you had arrived on didn’t make sense. The sun was brighter than Krypton’s, the gravity… well gravity was weak, yet heavy in ways your muscles weren’t used to. Food had flavors, textures, and smells that made no sense. Fruit wasn’t the same as the nutrient pods back home. The technology wasn‘t as advanced as it was on Krypton. You learned quickly though when it came by living under this planet‘s rules with Kal‘s (or Clark‘s) help. But there was one thing you and Kara hadn’t quite mastered yet…. And that was 'superhero-ing' in Metropolis.

You had all the strength, speed, and heat vision you could ever want. You could fly faster than any plane, lift cars without breaking a sweat, and stop falling debris like it was nothing. Yet somehow, somehow, people still screamed, cars still honked, and you kept nearly punching innocent bystanders in your enthusiasm.

But you are willing to learn and do things right. That‘s why Clark could never really get mad with you. He knows, you and Kara are trying. You are trying to adapt to Earth. Respect its rules.

You weren’t perfect. You were clumsy. Sometimes a little stubborn. Sometimes a little dramatic. But you were learning.

And slowly, that effort started to pay off.

Citizens began to notice. People whispered as you and Kara flew past the skyline, even if you had accidentally knocked over a streetlamp the week before. Bystanders cheered when you landed to help with a collapsing building, even if your “heroic pose” was a little exaggerated.

Some days, you’d still stumble, still bump into things, still argue with Kara about the right way to save the day. But each day you flew a little straighter, each rescue a little cleaner, and each smile from a saved citizen reminded you that even on a world so far from Krypton, your efforts mattered.

FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE

You were sprawled across the crystalline floor of the Fortress of Solitude, Krypto’s head resting on your lap, paws splayed, tongue lolling. The giant ice dog snored happily while you scratched behind his ears, blissfully ignoring the echoing voices from the main hall. "I swear Kal, I am not doing this mission if Batman and Robin are there!“ You hear your sister‘s voice, sharp and dramatic. You glance up lazily, raising an eyebrow.

"It‘s just a simple patrol, you‘re overreacting.." Clark tries to talk gently to her.

“I am not,” Kara shot back immediately. “And you know exactly why I don’t want to work with him.”

That got your attention. You paused mid-scratch, Krypto’s tail thumping lazily against the ice as you tilted your head. Oh. That. (For those who don‘t know: Supergirl and Robin (Grayson) went once on a date in the comics (I think World’s finest?) and let‘s say…it was not the best experience.)

Clark blinked. “We’ve been over this—”

“No, Kal” Kara interrupted, arms crossed tight against her chest. “You don’t get to say that like it was nothing. You weren’t there.” She gestured vaguely, frustration radiating off her. “He was… unbearable. Smug. And he showed up in costume like it was a mission, not—” She cut herself off, jaw tightening.

You hummed thoughtfully, eyes drifting back to Krypto as you resumed scratching behind his ears. “Wow,” you muttered. “Still sore about it, huh?”

Kara whipped her head toward you. “Do not.” “Oh, I absolutely will,” you said lightly, lips curling. “You went on one single—”

“It was not a date anymore for sure!” Kara snapped. Clark cleared his throat a little too loudly. “Kara—”

“She asked him” you added helpfully, grinning now. “You asked him. That part matters.”

Kara glared at you for a long moment before turning back to Clark. “And another thing,” she said, her voice rising again, “why is it always me who has to go on these missions with you? With Batman and other Justice League heroes and their sidekicks?”

She threw her arms out in exasperation. “Every time it’s the Justice League, it’s always Superman and Supergirl. But somehow”—she shot you a look—“she never has to deal with this.”

You blinked, offended on principle. Krypto lifted his head like, yo what the hell.

Clark frowned. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is!” Kara insisted. “She gets to stay here, or she gets solo patrols, or she gets assigned somewhere else. I’m always the one stuck there while you talk strategy with adults and their—”

“—sidekicks?” you supplied sweetly.

Kara pointed at you again. “Exactly.” Clark crossed his arms now, calm but firm. “Kara, that’s not fair. You know she goes on missions too.”

“Oh?” Kara challenged. “Name one.”

You smirked, leaning back on your hands as Krypto flopped dramatically onto his side again. Clark didn’t miss a beat. “She was just on a mission with Kid Flash,” he said.

There it was. Kara froze. “What?”

“Wally West,” Clark added, helpfully. “Central City. Evacuation effort. Chemical spill.” You lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “He talks a lot,” you said. “But he runs fast, so it evens out.”

“That’s not a fair comparison,” she said flatly.

Clark tilted his head. “Why not?”

“Because you,” Kara jabbed a finger in your direction, “and Wally are friends.” She emphasized the word. “You get along. You joke. You don’t spend the entire mission arguing about protocols or being stared at like you’re some kind of experiment.”

"I‘m telling you it‘s not that deep—" you say. Kara ignored you completely now as she turns to Clark. “That’s different, Kal. Completely different. You sent her with someone she likes. You’re sending me with someone who—” She stopped herself, jaw clenching. “Who makes things… complicated.”

Clark exhaled slowly, clearly trying to stay patient. “Kara—”

“No,” she cut in, planting her feet like she was anchoring herself to the ice. “I’m not doing it. I won’t. You can ground me, lecture me, whatever you want—but I am not going on that mission.”

The Fortress went quiet.

You raised your eyebrows, impressed. “She said what she said."

Clark stared at Kara for a long moment, the silence stretching until even Krypto seemed to sense the tension. Finally, Clark sighed—long, resigned, very Superman dealing with family. “…Alright,” he said.

Kara blinked. “Alright?”

“If you’re refusing,” Clark continued evenly, “then I’ll find a fitting replacement.”

That seemed to deflate her just a little—but she masked it fast. Kara huffed, spun on her heel, and threw one last glare over her shoulder. “Good,” she said. “Have fun.”

And just like that, she was gone, boots lifting off the ice as she shot out of the Fortress, flying away.

You leaned back onto your elbows, immediately reclaiming your spot on the floor as Krypto scooted closer, tail thumping. “Wow,” you said lazily.

Clark didn’t respond.

Instead, he turned slowly. And looked directly at you.

You felt it immediately. That look. “No,” you said at once. “Absolutely not.” Clark clasped his hands together. “Just hear me out.” “Nope.” You flopped back dramatically, staring up at the crystalline ceiling. “I’m off-duty. I am unavailable. I am bonding with the dog.”

Krypto barked softly, as if to back you up. Clark rubbed his face. “I need someone I trust. Someone capable. Someone who can handle… different personalities.”

You groaned loudly, rolling onto your side. “Clark, please. I just got back. My boots aren’t even dry.”

“It’s important,” he said gently. “And I wouldn’t ask if I had another option.”

You cracked one eye open, glaring at him. “…You’re the worst when you do the soft voice.”

Clark smiled. Just a little. You sighed, long and exaggerated, pushing yourself up to sit. “Ugh..” You dragged the word out painfully. “Fiiiiine.” Krypto perked up, tail wagging harder. “But,” you added, pointing a finger at Clark, “if this goes badly, I’m blaming you. Publicly.” Clark’s smile widened, relief clear on his face. “Deal.”

GOTHAM CITY:

You scanned the area. The mission wasn’t complicated—rescue, patrol, stay out of the way—but already your mood was sour.

“Why do I even have to show up if Batman isn’t here?” you muttered, hands on your hips, boots scraping the rooftop tiles. “I mean, really. The guy who’s supposed to lead this team is conveniently absent, and yet here I am. Doing… whatever this is.”

Then he arrived.

Robin. Batman’s 'sidekick', acrobat, detective human teenager, and apparently now your newest headache. He landed a few feet away, rolling fluidly to his feet as if he owned the rooftop—and judging by the smug grin, he already assumed he did.

You barely looked at him. “Oh,” you said flatly. “It’s you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

"Well it‘s you. Robin." You say.

"Yeah I heard about you too. You are (your superhero name). Superman’s cousin?" Robin blinked as he shook his head slightly. “Alright,” he said going immediately straight to business, “let’s get one thing clear. We don’t have time for theatrics. We shouldn’t waste a single second.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“And,” he continued, voice dropping just low enough to be pointed, “try not to… you know… destroy half the city while we’re at it. Like your sister does. Or you.”

Your eyes narrowed, and you straightened immediately. “Excuse me?”

“I said what I said,” he replied evenly, tone almost smug.  You just roll your eyes and mutter to yourself "Try-hard"

“Alright,” he said, scanning the streets below. “We move fast, stay coordinated. I‘m leading—”

“Leading?” you interrupted, floating a little higher, arms spread casually. “I thought this was a team effort. You know, co-patrol?”

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I know Gotham better. I know the alleys, the rooftops, the patterns.”

You narrowed your eyes for a moment, annoyed by the implied “new here = less competent” comment, but you waved it off with a lazy flick of your hand. “Uh-huh. Sure,” you muttered, floating a little higher, deliberately ignoring him.

Robin’s jaw tightened, clearly unused to being spoken over. “Ignore my instructions—fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when—”

He didn’t get another word out.

A sharp crack split the air—gunfire. Not aimed at you. At him.

Robin reacted instantly, flipping backward as bullets sparked off the edge of the rooftop where he’d just been standing. Below, in the alley, a group of men scattered from the shadows, weapons raised, movements sloppy but aggressive.

“Ambush,” Robin snapped, already reaching for his comm. “Six—no, eight hostiles. Armed.”

You glanced down, unimpressed. “That’s it?”

“Don’t—” He cut himself off as one of the men fired again, this time a rocket launcher scraping the side of the building as it misfired. “Great. They upgraded.”

You sighed dramatically. “Finally. Something interesting.”

Before Robin could finish issuing orders, you dropped—fast. The impact cracked the pavement as you landed between the attackers, the shockwave knocking two of them flat on their backs. “Hey,” you said brightly. “You’re being very rude.”

“Wait—don’t engage yet!” Robin shouted from above, grappling down after you. “We need to contain—”

Too late.

One of the men swung a metal pipe at your head. It bent on impact.

You blinked. “Wow. You really committed to that.” You grabbed the pipe, flicked it aside, and gently (as gentle a Kryptonian can be) pushed the man back. He flew into a dumpster with a loud clang.

Robin landed nearby, eyes wide. “I said contain, not—!”

Another gunman rushed him from behind.

You moved without thinking, crossing the distance in a blur and yanking Robin out of the way just as the shot went off, the bullet embedding itself harmlessly in your shoulder.

You looked down at it. Then back up. “…Rude.”

Robin stared. “You just…? did you even feel that?”

You shrugged. “Tickled.” The remaining men hesitated now, fear finally dawning as they realized exactly what they’d picked a fight with.

Robin took advantage of it immediately. “Alright,” he barked, slipping back into command mode, “you—left flank. I’ll take right. Disable, don’t demolish!”

You glanced at the cracked pavement. “…Define demolish.”

He shot you a look. “Minimal property damage!”

You rolled your eyes. In seconds, the alley was silent except for groans and the distant wail of police sirens.

Robin stood there, breathing hard, surveying the scene. “…You didn’t follow a single instruction,” he said.

You dusted off your gloves. “And? Crisis solved. You’re welcome. You haven‘t contributed anything to it.“

Robin’s head snapped toward you. “I haven’t contributed anything?” he repeated, incredulous, voice sharp with offense. “I identified the threat, evacuated civilians, coordinated containment, and prevented that idiot with the launcher from turning this block into rubble.”

You tilted your head, unimpressed. “Mmm. You talked a lot, I’ll give you that.”

He scoffed. “You dropped out of the sky like a meteor and almost collapsed the sewer system.”

“Allegedly,” you said, holding up a finger. “The sewer system was already weak.”

Robin dragged a hand down his face, clearly fighting the urge to yell. “This…this is exactly what I was talking about. You don’t listen. You don’t coordinate. You just—” he gestured vaguely at you “ punch everything in brute force and call it a win.”

You inhaled slowly through your nose. Once. Twice. Patience. Clark would be proud. You let the comment slide—barely—and turned away, scanning the alley instead of rising to the bait. Sirens were closer now. Time to move on. “Are you done?” you asked calmly. “Because the city’s still standing, no one’s dead, and I’m not in the mood to keep arguing in a puddle.”

Robin blinked, clearly not expecting you to not snap back. “…We’re not done,” he said, immediately slipping back into that annoyingly composed, command-tone that made your eye twitch. “We continue the patrol. East side rooftops. Stay above street level. Follow my lead.”

You glanced at him. Then at the rooftops. Then back at him. “…Wow,” you muttered. “You really love hearing yourself give orders, don’t you?”

He ignored that entirely. “I’ll take point. You provide aerial coverage. No sudden drops. No shockwaves. And try—try—to keep collateral damage under control.”

You closed your eyes for half a second.

Patience. Patience.

“Copy that, Batman jr.” you said flatly, lifting off the ground. “Aerial coverage. No fun allowed. Got it.”

He shot you a look. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I know,” you replied, floating higher, already moving ahead of him. “That’s why it’s so tragic.”

Robin sighed sharply and fired his grappling hook, swinging after you with practiced ease. “Slow down. You’re breaking formation.”

You glanced back over your shoulder, barely slowing. “Then pick up the pace.”

He clicked his comm in irritation. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you said lightly, hovering just out of his reach, “you’re still trying to boss me around.”

They continued like that—Robin issuing instructions every few minutes, you half-following them out of sheer restraint rather than respect. He mapped routes, called angles, named blind spots. You listened… selectively.

Still, despite the arguing, despite the tension, you didn’t leave. You stayed. And Robin noticed that too—even if he’d never admit it.

The rooftops blurred beneath you as Gotham stretched on—dark, endless, restless. You hovered just ahead of Robin when his grappling line snapped back with a sharp click.

“Fly me.”

You stopped midair.

Slowly, you turned your head. “…The fuck did you just say?”

Robin landed hard on the edge of the roof, cape snapping behind him. “Fly me. It’ll be faster than me grappling across three blocks.”

You stared at him like he’d just asked you to hand over your cape. “Absolutely not.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

“First of all,” you said, ticking points off on your fingers, “I don’t do taxi service. Second, you didn’t say please. Third—” you gestured at him “—you weigh more than you look.”

He scoffed. “Superman flies Batman all the time.”

You blinked once. “Well I’m not Superman.”

Then Robin stepped closer, eyes sharp, voice low and serious. “Do you want to make this work here or not?”

That shut you up (sadly).

You rolled your eyes, groaning loudly. “Ugh—fine. But if you drop your grappling hook into my cape, I’m letting gravity handle the rest.” You grabbed him under the arms, lifting off smoothly. He stiffened for half a second—clearly not used to being carried—but quickly adjusted, gripping your forearm for balance.

“See?” he muttered. “Efficient.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you shot back, gaining altitude.

“You know,” he went on, completely missing—or ignoring—your mood shift, “if you angle a little to the left, you’ll save energy. Gotham air currents pull east at this height.”

You glanced at him sideways. “…Are you backseat flying right now?”

“I’m just saying—”

“Because that would be wildly brave of you,” you cut in, voice sweet but edged, “considering you are currently not touching the ground.”

He scoffed. “Relax. I trust you.”

That did it.

You smiled. Not the nice one. But the one that gave away that you have an idea. “Do you?” you asked lightly.

Before he could answer, you slowed—just a fraction—hovering over a tall rooftop, easily high enough to make a point, but nowhere near dangerous. You loosened your grip.

Robin’s body dropped an inch.

“What—” he started.

Then you let go.

He fell.

Not far. Not reckless. Just enough to steal his breath and spike his heart.

Robin twisted instantly, pure instinct taking over. He flipped midair, boots hitting the rooftop in a clean, acrobatic roll before he popped back up into a crouch, cape snapping behind him. He looked up at you, eyes blazing. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped.

You threw your head back and laughed—full, unapologetic, echoing off the Gotham rooftops. It wasn’t a little chuckle. It was that laugh, the one that made Robin’s scowl deepen like he’d just been personally violated.

“You seriously just did that,” he hissed, brushing off his pants and adjusting his cape.

“I did,” you said, hovering lazily above him, arms crossed, smirk fully in place. “You were being… annoying. Consider it… corrective action.”

He pulled out his comms, voice clipped, trembling with indignation. “Patrol’s over. I’m done.”

You snorted. “Oh, dramatic much? Calm down!”

“I will not calm down!” he shot back. And with that your work was done and you just flew away back to Metropolis.

FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE:

The Fortress of Solitude shimmered under the crystalline light. You were sprawled across a crystalline ledge, boots off, cape messy, Krypto snoozing by your side. Clark hovered nearby, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“I asked you to go,” he began evenly, voice steady, controlled, “because I was afraid something like this would happen if Kara went again. I thought you would exercise… restraint.”

You blinked, guilt prickling just a little.

Clark continued, unhurried, his tone measured but heavy, like a glacier sliding over a cliff. “Humans are fragile. Robin is not Kara. He is not another Kryptonian. He does not recover from impact the way she—or you—do. You cannot assume otherwise. You could have seriously hurt him.”

You shifted, trying to sound casual, brushing imaginary dust off your gloves. “It… was not thaaat serious.”

Clark’s gaze narrowed, patient but deadly. “Not that serious? The margin for error with humans is never ‘not serious.’ You must consider their limits, their biology, their capabilities, and—most importantly—the responsibility you carry as someone with powers far beyond their own.”

You froze, feeling the words settle like ice in your stomach.

He hovered closer, eyes steady on yours. “So… you will apologize to him.”

The words hit you like a freight train. Apologize.

“…Wait. Excuse me,” you squeaked, voice cracking just a little. “I… I apologize?!”

Clark’s expression didn’t change, calm and immovable. “Yes. You will apologize. It is the right thing to do.”

You groaned, sprawling back onto the crystalline ledge. “Nope,” you said firmly. “Absolutely not. I am not apologizing to Robin. He was bossy, he talked too much, he thinks he’s in charge of everything..”

Clark tilted his head, calm but firm, like he always did when he was about to make a point you had to consider. “I understand why you feel that way.”

You perked up slightly. “Oh? You understand?”

“Yes,” he continued, voice patient, steady, the kind of voice that made you feel like the world was both safe and quietly judging you. “Robin isn’t being difficult because he dislikes you, or because he wants to be irritating.”

You snorted. “Oh really? Then why does he do that?“

Clark crossed his arms. “Because he’s used to leading. He’s the leader of the Titans. He’s responsible for people who look up to him, who depend on him every day. That instinct—stepping in, taking charge—it comes naturally. When you appeared on that patrol, he automatically assumed the role of team coordinator. That’s just how he operates.”

You blinked. “…So he’s bossy because he’s… used to being in charge?”

Clark nodded. “Exactly.”

You chewed on that for a moment, arms crossed, jaw tight. “…I still will not apologize."

Clark only sighs. He does not even try to argue back anymore. He has learned the hard way that you and Kara like to do things your way. He just learned to hope that you do tjings right.

Speaking of Kara, she definetly had a good time laughing with you about how you gave Robin a heart attack by dropping him mid-fly.

“Metropolis needs extra hands,” he’d said over comms. “Nothing complicated. Just support.”

That should’ve been your first warning.

You and Kara landed side by side in the city, capes fluttering as you touched down near an abandoned warehouse district. Kara stretched her shoulders, already annoyed. “If this turns into another joint operation—”

“It won’t,” Clark had said quickly. Too quickly, in hindsight.

You scanned the area, senses stretching outward—heartbeat, movement, familiar presences—

And then you felt it.

Two signatures you recognized immediately.

You froze mid-step.

“…Kal,” you said slowly.

Too late.

From the shadows ahead, two figures emerged. Tall. Broad. Black cape. And beside him—red, green, yellow.

Batman and Robin. Your soul left your body. Kara stopped dead beside you. “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Robin looked up first.

And the moment his eyes landed on you, his expression shifted—not shocked, not angry, just painfully aware. Like oh. It’s you.

Batman’s gaze flicked between all of you, unreadable as ever.

Clark landed between the two groups, hands raised slightly. “Alright—everyone’s here. Good.”

You stared at him, betrayed. “You said nothing complicated.”

“This isn’t complicated,” Clark replied smoothly.

You turned your head slowly. “You lied.”

Robin crossed his arms. “Wow. Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”

You scoffed. “Trust me. The feeling is mutual.”

Kara glanced between you and Robin, eyes narrowing. “…Why do I feel like I missed something important?”

“Nothing,” you and Robin said at the same time.

Batman finally spoke, low and even. “We need all available allies. There’s movement underground. Weapons trafficking. Time-sensitive.”

You folded your arms, jaw tight, refusing to look at Robin. “Fine. We’ll help.”

Clark leaned in just enough for only you to hear. “This would be a good opportunity.”

Your eyes widened. “…No.”

“To clear the air.”

“No.”

“To be responsible.”

“Kal—”

Robin’s voice cut in. “I’ll take point.”

Of course he would. Your eye twitched.

Kara leaned toward you, whispering, “Why does he sound like he’s in charge?”

You muttered back, “Because apparently he always is.”

Robin glanced over his shoulder at you. “You coming, or are you going to hover dramatically again?”

You smiled sweetly.

“Oh, I’m coming,” you said. “Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”

And you had a horrible, sinking feeling that this time—

You weren’t getting out of that apology.

The mission briefing barely finished before you decided something very important.

If you were being forced to work with Robin again, you were at least going to ragebait the hell out of him again.

Batman disappeared into the shadows almost immediately—because of course he did—leaving Clark and Kara coordinating from above. That left you walking a few paces behind Robin as he led the way into the warehouse district, posture straight, shoulders squared, already in full leader mode.

You watched him for a moment.

Then you smiled.

“So,” you said casually, floating upside down beside him, hands folded behind your head, “is the brooding walk mandatory, or is that just a Gotham thing?”

Robin didn’t even look at you. “Focus. You hummed. His jaw tightened. Just a fraction. Interesting.

You drifted a little closer, still upside down, eyes scanning him with theatrical seriousness. Then you clicked your tongue.

“Huh,” you said. “I see you finally got yourself some pants.”

That made him stop.

Slowly, dangerously slowly, Robin turned his head toward you.

You smiled wider.

“I was almost worried,” you continued sweetly, “why a billionaire’s adoptive son would be running around without pants. Budget cuts? Artistic choice?”

Kara let out a very undignified snort from above since she can hear you two with her super-hearing.

Robin’s ears went red instantly. “They were shorts.”

“Ohhh,” you said, nodding as if that explained everything. “Of course. My mistake. Totally different. Very professional!“

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you not do this right now?”

“Do what?” you asked innocently, floating right in front of him now. "Ask questions? I thought humans liked curiosity.”

“This isn’t curiosity,” he shot back. “This is harassment.”

You gasped. “Whoa. That‘s now a pretty intense accusation, don‘t you think?”

Robin didn’t even slow his pace. “You’re mocking my suit, my upbringing, and my competence. That’s not curiosity.”

You floated in front of him again, forcing him to stop unless he wanted to walk straight through you. “I haven’t mocked your competence,” you said calmly. “Yet.”

Kara made a choking noise somewhere above. Clark very pointedly said nothing.

Robin folded his arms. “You think this is funny.”

“I think it’s hilarious,” you said, voice bright, almost sing-song, floating lazily a few inches above him.

Robin’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing dangerously. “You will regret this.”

“Oh no,” you said, voice dripping with faux terror, tilting your head innocently. “I am so scared.” Robin’s eyes widened slightly, and for a brief, glorious second, you thought you saw him flinch.

“Okay,” you said, straightening midair and placing a hand dramatically over your chest, “I am very much convinced you hold grudges against me.”

Robin scoffed, shaking his head as he resumed walking. “You dropped me off a building.”

“Correction,” you replied smoothly, floating alongside him, “I released you in a controlled environment to observe your survival instincts.”

“That is not better.”

“I disagree,” you said. “You landed beautifully. Very graceful.”

He shot you a glare. “You don’t get to compliment me after that.”

"I thought you liked your ego flattered. Oh Rao, it‘s not that deep. I thought you get thrown across Gotham by villains all the time"

Robin stopped. He turned his head toward you. “…That’s different.”

You blinked. “Is it?” “Yes,” he said flatly. “For one, I expect villains to try to kill me.”

“Ohhh,” you said, eyes lighting up. “So it’s a trust issue.” His jaw clenched. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.” “I’m not,” you replied easily. "Why can‘t you just apologize for almost killing me?“ Robin snapped.

You recoiled like he’d just insulted your entire bloodline. “You see,” you said slowly, pointing at him, “that again is a pretty intense accusation.”

“I fell off a building,” he shot back. “Because you let go.”

“And you lived,” you countered immediately.

“That is not the point!”

You floated backward, hands raised in mock surrender. “Okay, wow. Humans are dramatic. I did not ‘almost kill you.’ I released you for—” you paused, searching for the right word, “—educational purposes?"

"That does not justify almost killing me?!“

You snort again at his outburst. For someone as smart as him to be taken under Batman‘s wing, he sure was stupid enough to f all for your ragebait.

Robin’s eyes narrowed, jaw tight. “I am still waiting for an apology, by the way.”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it seriously. “An apology, hmm?”

“Yes,” he said, voice low and serious. “For, you know… letting me fall, disregarding my limits, almost killing me—”

"Yeah so that‘s not really happening.“ You stubbornly cross your arms in front of your chest. Clark just sighs as he decides to fly with Kara back to you two.

“I told you this would happen,” Kara muttered under her breath as they landed. “I literally warned you.”

Clark shot her a look. “Not helping.”

Robin turned immediately to Superman, relief and frustration mixing on his face. “She refuses to apologize.”

"And now we are snitching“ You roll your eyes. Over the past weeks, Clark didn‘t let you have a break about the whole apology-thing. You also know he will not let you get off the hook soon.

"Superman, I‘m sorry. I really try working with her but—"

“But what???” you snapped, spinning midair to face him.

“She is completely psycho—”

“Oh,” you said, dropping down to eye level instantly. “Wow. Psycho. That’s the word you’re going with?”

Robin lifted his hands defensively. “You dropped me. On purpose.”

“You were fine.”

“That is not the point!”

Clark stepped between you before the volume could escalate, hands raised in a calming gesture. “Okay. That’s enough.”

You scoffed. “Did you hear him? He called me psycho.”

Batman finally emerged from the shadows, silent as ever. His presence alone shifted the air.

“This conversation is unproductive,” he said evenly. So did you all go back to your actual mission continue but you know that you and Robin re not going to be friends soon

A YEAR LATER: JUSTICE LEAGUE WATCHTOWER:

The Watch tower was quiet in a way Earth never was (yes because it‘s in space bruh).

You floated just off the observation deck, hands on the window, watching the blue curve of Earth turn slowly beneath you. Why were you up here? Well, over the time, you started to evolve more as a superhero and the Justice League always had an eye on you and your sister. Wonder Woman (Diana) was one of the first ones to suggest to your cousin Clark about you having great potential into becoming a member for the Justice League and fight alongside them.

Clark hadn’t said anything at first.

He rarely did when Diana spoke. He listened (as he should). And over time, he’d begun to see what she meant. You weren’t just powerful. Power was common among Kryptonians. What had changed was you.

You thought before acting now. You watched before moving. You learned when restraint mattered more than showing off strength.

The League noticed.

It wasn’t one moment that brought you here, but many missions completed without cities shaking, civilians saved without spectacle, choices made with intention rather than impulse. You were still fierce, still sharp-tongued, still unapologetically yourself, but you were no longer reckless.

That mattered.

“She’s learning,” Diana had said once, calm and certain. “Not to be less of what she is—but to be more.”

So Clark brought you here for today so you can have an insight what a day in the Justice League fully looks like and that you can decide for yourself what you would like to do once you‘re a little bit older.

Clark floated beside you, hands folded calmly, eyes scanning the Watchtower like he always did when he was on duty. “Alright,” he said, voice even, “today is about getting a real sense of what life here looks like. You can ask questions about anything—any procedure, any mission, any—”

“Wait, anything?” you interrupted, eyes lighting up. “Like… including stuff you don’t usually tell Kara or me?”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Anything. Within reason.”

“Ohhh,” you said softly, biting your lip, pretending to be serious, but your brain was already racing with possibilities. “That’s useful.”

Before Clark could answer, Diana appeared beside you, graceful as ever, sword strapped, aura calm and commanding. “I can answer questions too,” she said, voice warm.

You froze for a split second, and then blinked rapidly. “…Oh my Rao,” you whispered under your breath, heart beating faster. “She’s… actually here. Diana. Wonder Woman. Right in front of me.”

Clark’s eyes narrowed slightly, just enough that you caught it in the corner of your vision. He cleared his throat. “I was going to be the one to answer all the questions…”

You waved a hand dismissively, grinning. “Yeah, yeah, Clark, I got it. You’re wise. I respect it. Now let’s focus on the fun part.”

He blinked, clearly caught off-guard, then sighed quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course,” he muttered.

You were already swiveling toward Diana, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Okay, real question,” you said, voice dropping conspiratorially, “do you… ever get tired of carrying the whole Justice League on your back during missions? Like, seriously? Constantly?”

Diana’s lips quirked into a faint, amused smile. “It can be… demanding. But it’s not a burden. It’s responsibility. And sometimes, it’s necessary for the greater good.”

You leaned a little closer, fascinated. “Okay, but… how do you not snap at them? Don’t they ever frustrate you? Superman, Batman, Flash….?"

Clark’s arms crossed again, subtly—but you caught the flicker of mild jealousy in his gaze. He wanted to be the all-knowing one here, and Diana was happily stealing your attention.

Diana chuckled softly. “They frustrate me, yes. But I’ve learned that patience, observation, and knowing when to step in makes the difference.”

You nodded eagerly, typing on your phone.

Clark floated a little closer, raising a hand like he was about to confiscate a dangerous object. “Seriously, you should put the phone away. This was supposed to be—”

You waved him off without looking up. “Relax. I’m not scrolling on social media. I’m… taking notes.”

For a moment, Clark blinked, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips. “…Notes?” he said, a hint of surprise in his voice. “Oh. Of course. Very attentive.”

You tilted your head, grinning innocently. “Yeah, of course. Because Lois asked me to.”

Clark froze. “…Lois?”

You tapped your phone lightly. “Just… checking on what you really do up here. You know… for accountability.”

Clark’s tiny smile faded into mild exasperation. “…You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” you said sweetly, eyes gleaming, “but thorough. Can’t have Lois thinking you’re slacking off or… doing anything… weird, can we?”

Clark groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose again, but you caught that little flicker in his eyes. A mix of disbelief and amusement.

The soft hum of the Watchtower shifted, and your attention snapped toward the docking bay.

A familiar shadow detached itself from the entrance—tall, dark, unmistakable. Batman. Of course. The brooding presence filled the space immediately, silent and vigilant.

And then, because life apparently liked to challenge you, another figure stepped in right behind him.

Robin.

You froze for half a second, your brain catching up.

“…Oh no,” you whispered under your breath, a slow, wicked grin spreading across your face. “…ohhh no no no no no.”

Clark’s eyes followed yours, and he subtly tried to warn you without saying a word. Too late. You were already hovering forward, floating just a fraction above the floor, hands clasped behind your back like an innocent student about to interrogate a teacher.

Robin’s eyes immediately locked onto you. You could see the tension coil in his shoulders. Human. Very, very human. Very, very easily flustered.

And you? You were fascinated.

“Wow,” you said casually, voice loud enough for him to hear, “didn’t expect to see you here. Thought Batman would be alone today." Robin’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” you continued, floating lazily a few inches higher. "It has been quite a while the last we‘ve seen eachother.“

Robin’s jaw tightened, and you could see the familiar tension coil in his shoulders. “Yes,” he said evenly, voice low, “it has been a while.”

You tilted your head, letting your hair drift around your face like it was part of the performance. “I almost worried you forgot what I look like. That would’ve been… tragic, don’t you think?”

His eyes flicked briefly toward Batman, who said nothing, stoic as ever. That left Robin with no escape. He glanced back at you, expression unreadable but his posture screaming tense.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he muttered, flatly.

You let out a hum, floating a little closer so your cape brushed lightly against the air around him, as if to remind him you were right there.

“Hmm,” you said, tilting your head, “I was half-expecting you to be taller. Or at least… less grim.”

Robin’s jaw tightened, and he straightened even more, as if sheer willpower could make you disappear. He didn’t answer, didn’t even glance your way—clearly trying very hard to ignore you.

Perfect.

“Ohhh,” you said softly, as if realizing something. “Ignoring me? How… brave. Or is it stubbornness? Humans have so many fun ways of defending themselves.”

He kept walking, eyes fixed on the floor panels, posture rigid.

You floated a little higher, tilting your head again, letting your hair drift lazily. “I mean… really, I can’t even tell if you’re irritated or just… flexing your self-control. It’s fascinating. Truly.”

He still did not give you an answer.

You hovered a little closer, eyes sparkling with that too-casual curiosity, voice soft but loaded. “I hear you’ve been doing… quite well with the Titans lately. Leadership, strategy… apparently you’re actually pretty good at it.”

Robin’s head snapped just slightly, barely a flinch, but you caught it. Perfect.

“Of course you had to be the leader,” you continued lightly, as if making an innocent observation. “Already taking the ‘brilliant’ Batman’s footsteps, huh? Someone’s gotta make the humans feel… special.” You tilted your head, letting a teasing grin creep across your face. “Especially when you’re surrounded by people who are basically gods—” you waved vaguely toward the Watchtower’s panoramic view of the League’s heroes “—speedsters, Kryptonians, Amazons… literal princesses. Someone needs to tell the others, 'hey, we have a human here too. Pay attention!'.”

Robin’s jaw tightened, knuckles whitening at his sides.

He’s thinking about it now. About what you just said. About being the “one human” in a room full of gods and aliens. About how, no matter how much training he had, no matter how many Titans he led, no matter how clever or capable he was… he was still, fundamentally, human. Fragile. Limited. And you—floating there, kryptonian, impossibly strong, impossibly fast, impossibly confident—were just casually pointing it out.

You notice the flicker in his eyes, the flash of something unspoken—maybe irritation, maybe insecurity, maybe both. It’s subtle, but it’s there. He’s comparing himself to you, to Wally, to Kori, to Donna… and the calculus isn’t kind.

He hates that you see right through him. Hates that he can’t argue without sounding ridiculous. Hates that, somehow, despite being a leader, despite being trained, he feels… small.

And yet. There’s a spark in his chest. A stubborn, human little spark that refuses to let you—or anyone—actually win. He’s annoyed, sure, but also confused, that you, who could easily crush him in every way that matters, keeps testing him. Curiously.

You grin, tilting your head as if reading his thoughts aloud. “Oh, don’t get flustered,” you murmur softly. “I’m just… observing. You humans are endlessly entertaining.”

That‘s what humans really were to you for now. The way you keep toying with Robin is harmless fun to you. In fact, it makes you feel superior. Superior, knowing that you actually have such freedom to do anything here on Earth because here you met a species that is physically inferior to you. The feeling of people not only in Metropolis but also in the world actually being dependent on you, your sister and cousin. Humans are such funny little creatures you always thought. They react so quick and intense. They love and hate so openly and intensely. You rarely saw that on Krypton.

That fragile, fascinating thing humans carried: pride mixed with fear, ambition mixed with doubt. The constant awareness of limits. You’d never had to think about what your body couldn’t do. Gravity was optional. Pain was negotiable. Death was… distant.

For him? It was always close.

You drifted a little closer, studying him the way a scientist might study a volatile element—not maliciously, just curious. Amused. A little too amused.

He finally spoke, voice calm but tight. “Are you done?”

You blinked, genuinely surprised. “Done with what?”

“With whatever this is,” he said, gesturing vaguely between you. “The creepy staring?“

“Oh,” you said, smiling again. “That.” You considered it for a moment, then shrugged. “Probably not.”

His jaw clenched.

You felt a flicker of something warm in your chest at that—not anger, not cruelty. Just the quiet thrill of knowing you could do this. Push. Prod. Say things without consequence. Because what was he really going to do?

Nothing.

You barely had time to smirk before the Watchtower groaned—a deep, mechanical creak, the kind that made your stomach drop.

“Uh-oh,” you said softly. “That’s not supposed to do that.”

Before you could analyze further, a panel on the floor beneath you sparked violently. Sparks flew, lights flickered, and a metal support bar whipped loose, clanging toward you both.

Robin’s eyes snapped to it instantly. Instinct first, human reflex second.

“Move!” he barked, and in a single, fluid motion, he lunged toward you.

Before you could object, he grabbed you under the arms and threw you sideways toward another platform, perfectly calculated or so it seemed.

You twisted midair, flipping as he expected… except the bar rebounded off the wall at the exact wrong angle.

“Whoa—” you yelped, arms flailing.

And in his haste to save you, Robin dove after you, trying to intercept. Except—physics, timing, and sheer chaos were against both of you.

There was a sharp collision of bodies, a thud, and suddenly…

You were pressed against the floor and he was on top of you. Arms on either side, chest close, eyes wide and probably just as stunned as you were.

“…What the hell?” you breathed, voice squeaky, frozen.

“I—uh…” Robin’s face went red almost instantly. “I didn’t—this wasn’t—”

Robin froze for a heartbeat, chest heaving slightly from the adrenaline rush and in that split second of silence, his eyes flicked unintentionally, but instinctively first to your eyes and then to your lips. Just a glance. Enough to make your stomach do a little flip you didn’t admit to yourself.

You caught it, of course. And your lips quirked ever so slightly, not in a smile exactly, more like amusement mixed with disbelief. Really? He thought a single glance could intimidate you?

You didn’t panic. You didn’t squirm. You didn’t even try to push him off. Instead, you let your gaze settle on his, calm, slightly cocky, but not overly smug. Because—let’s be honest—you were not going to enjoy the fact that he had to save you. That part grated on you more than the collision itself.

“Wow,” you said with your voice steady, “humans really do get intense when things get uh.. physical.”

Robin blinked as his jaw tightens with a flicker of frustration? or was it embarrassment?

You rolled your eyes internally.

“ I’m fine,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, still hovering, hands tense at his sides.

“Oh, I know you are,” you replied, leaning back slightly as you pushed yourself to your feet. “Don’t worry. I always land on my feet. Usually.” You reply and just try to act nonchalant about this by flipping your hair and leaving.

You hated the fact you did not react fast enough and it took him— a human, to save you.

METROPOLIS:

You were standing in the middle of your bedroom in Metropolis, arms crossed, glaring at the chaotic mess that had once been your wardrobe. Clothes were strewn across the floor, some on the chair at your desk and some hanging at your wardrobe‘s doors.

Kara leaned against the doorframe, with her arms folded while giving you her patient-but-already-amused look.

“You’re… making a mess,” she said carefully, raising an eyebrow.

“I know,” you shot back, grabbing a sparkling jacket and tossing it on the bed. “But you can’t just pick an outfit for Wally’s birthday.“ You paused dramatically, gesturing wildly at the pile of clothes. “I want to look cute but not make people think I‘m trying to be the main character at the party but also not make them think that I did not even try to get ready.” Kara blinked. “…You mean you’re stressing about what to wear to a birthday party?” “Yes!” you said as you shove a pair of shoes with your foot out of the way. “A birthday party. For a speedster. "

Kara leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, clearly trying not to laugh. “You do realize it’s just Wally, right? Not a Justice League summit.”

"I know but the other Titans are also gonna be there and I want to look good.“

Kara sighed, rolling her eyes but reaching into the wardrobe anyway. She pulled out an outfit without a word, holding it up with a little shrug.

“You’re wearing this,” she said simply.

You stared at her for a beat, then grinned, tossing your hands in the air. “Fine, fine.“

Within moments, the outfit was on, , hair falling just right. You gave yourself a quick, approving spin in the mirror, then floated up to the window, one hand on the sill.

“Alright,” you declare to her with a mischievous sparkle in your eye, “I‘ll be gone for the next hours. Bye bye!”

With that, you shot off into the sky, wings of wind carrying you toward the Titans’ celebration, leaving a faint trail of glittering air in your wake.

The Titans’ common room smelled faintly of cake and energy drinks, the sound of laughter and casual chatter filling the space. Streamers sagged a little from the ceiling, and Wally’s “Happy Birthday” banner hung crookedly above the snack table.

You floated through the open window and landed gracefully near the entrance. In your hands was a neatly wrapped gift—a safe, normal birthday present, because you were here to play nice.

Wally spotted you instantly, eyes lighting up. “Hey! You made it!” He grinned, stretching out a hand.

You stepped forward, smiling politely, and handed him the gift. “Happy Birthday, Wally,” you said softly.

He laughed, shaking his head. "Thank you!"

Before you could step back, Wally spun on his heel like a blur, practically buzzing with excitement. “Everyone! Everyone! Look who’s here!” Heads turned immediately.

Wally beamed at you like he’d just won the lottery. “This is Y/N! She is a superhero, Superman’s cousin! Supergirl’s sister!“

You waved lightly, floating just above the floor. “Hi,” you said softly. You see some familiar faces. You recognized Donna who you met before when you and Clark were on a mission with her and Diana. The other faces were from young heroes you just heard of before but not interacted with.

And then your eyes landed on him.

Dick Grayson.

He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, in his civilian clothes that somehow made him look even more human than the last time you’d seen him in his Robin suit. A small, playful grin tugged at your lips. 

You let your gaze linger for a moment longer before turning away, floating lightly over to the other side of the room.

Instead, you moved toward Donna, who was chatting politely with Starfire.

Wally, impossibly energetic as always, clapped his hands together. “Okay, okay! I’ve got an idea!” His grin was ridiculously wide. “We should totally play Seven Minutes in Heaven!”

The room froze for a split second. A few giggled nervously. Donna’s eyebrow shot up. Starfire tilted her head in curiosity.

“Wait,” you said, voice soft but sharp, “what is Seven Minutes in Heaven?”

Wally blinked at you, clearly shocked that you didn’t already know. “What do you mean? Everyone knows it! You pick two people, they go in a closet—or a room, somewhere private”

His grin widened, maybe a little too mischievously. “And then you figure out the rest.” You blinked, letting the words sink in. “…You mean… you lock two people in a small space for seven minutes?” “Yes!” Wally practically vibrated with excitement. “Trust me, it‘s fun“

You all were sitting in a circle and the bottle was placed in the middle.

Wally set the bottle down in the center. “Alright! Birthday privilege—I spin first.”

“Oh no,” you murmured, already entertained.

He spun it hard.

The bottle clinked softly against the floor, spinning, slowing… everyone leaned in. A few Titans held their breath. Roy whispered, “C’mon, chaos.”

The bottle stopped. Pointing straight at Roy."Bro, why me?“ he mutterd while running a hand over his face.

Wally burst out laughing. “ you can‘t fight fate, The bottle has spoken.”

Donna smirked. “Looks like you’re up.”

Roy leaned back on his hands, eyes flicking around the circle. “Okay, okay, fine. I can handle this.” He grabbed the bottle with exaggerated confidence. “Let’s make this interesting.”

He spun it.

The bottle clattered softly against the floor, spinning fast at first, then slowing… wobbling… dragging the moment out in the most annoying way possible.

You watched it lazily, chin resting in your palm, hovering just inches above the ground. Humans really did love suspense.

It ticked past Dick.

Past Wally.

Past you and Kori.

Then it slowed.

Slower. And stopped. Pointing directly at Donna.

“Oh wow!!,” Wally shouted.

Roy’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Kori immediately covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

Donna and Roy disappeared into one of the side rooms amid loud cheering and whistles. You stood there for like three minutes before you go with an unimpressed look "That‘s it? We just going to wait here until they come out? That‘s lowkey boring…“

Wally gasped “Hey! Anticipation is part of the fun!”

You squinted at him. “You humans really stretch the definition of fun.” Kori tilted her head, considering this. “If waiting is unenjoyable,” she said brightly, “could we not simply continue playing?”

You smiled. “I like that idea.” Wally snapped his fingers. “Yes! Multitasking. Genius. Okay—spin it again!”

Kori stepped forward eagerly and spun the bottle with just a little too much enthusiasm. It clattered across the floor, spinning fast, reflecting the lights overhead.

You watched with mild interest, hovering a bit higher, already prepared to be unimpressed.

It slowed.

Passed Roy’s empty spot.

Skipped Kori.

Slid by Wally.

It wobbled. Paused. And stopped. Pointing straight at you. The room reacted instantly. “OH” Wally shouted.

Kori‘s eyebrows shot up. Someone whistled.

You blinked. “…Oh.” Your gaze followed the direction of the bottle’s neck. Straight to Dick. He froze. Actually froze.

Wally then cheered as the room exploded into noise, and suddenly hands were pushing the two of you while laughing.

“Seven minutes! Seven minutes!”

Before you could even process it, Dick cleared his throat sharply and turned away, already moving. “Let’s just—get this over with.”

You raised an eyebrow but followed, drifting after him as he opened a door down the hall and stepped inside. The door shut behind you with a solid click.

You turned slowly, a grin already tugging at your lips. “Wow,” you said, voice light and amused, “why the long face?”

Dick exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can you not start.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely starting,” you replied cheerfully. “What, were you hoping for Starfire?” You tilted your head, mock-thoughtful. “Thought she’d give you some sweet little kisses in here?”

His head snapped toward you. “That’s not—”

“Because I hear she’s very affectionate,” you continued, floating a few inches off the floor just to be annoying. “Very open. Very warm. Very—”

“Stop,” he said sharply. “That’s none of your business.”

You blinked, then smiled wider. “Oh, it definitely is if we’re locked in a closet together.”

He crossed his arms, jaw tight. “You don’t take anything seriously, do you?”

“Sure I do,” you said easily. “Just not this.” You gestured vaguely around the room. “Or you.”

That earned you a look. A real one. Sharp and annoyed. “Why are you like this?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Why are you?” You drifted closer, peering at him like a puzzle. “So tense. So grim. It’s a party. Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

You snorted. “That’s the biggest lie I’ve heard all night.”

He opened his mouth to argue—

“Silence,” you cut in instantly, holding up a hand.

He froze, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t listen to a person whose name is Dick,” you said matter-of-factly.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I’m deadly serious,” you replied sweetly. “Your name is literally Dick.“

"It‘s a nickname for Richard, y‘know?“

You waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. Richard. I know,” you said, lips twitching. “Still doesn’t help your case.”

He stared at you, disbelief slowly turning into something like resignation. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?” you asked innocently, floating backward until your shoulders brushed the wall. “Pointing out facts?”

His expression snapped.

Not irritation. Not sarcasm.

Something sharp and ugly finally broke through.

“Oh my god,” he let out a harsh laugh, shaking his head. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

You raised an eyebrow, still wearing that easy smile, still floating like none of this could touch you. “Get what?”

“You,” he said bluntly. “All of this.” He gestured at you—your hovering, your tone, your casual distance from everything. “No normal person just drops someone mid-fly from the sky."

Your smile twitched, but you held it. Dick noticed that.

“No one normal does that,” he repeated again as his voice rose despite himself. “No one thinks that’s funny. That’s not curiosity, that’s messed up.” His jaw clenched hard. “You’re fucked up in the head if you think that was okay.”

You chuckled softly, trying to keep it light, tilting your head. “Wow. Harsh. You humans are really dramatic when your feelings get hurt.”

He didn’t laugh. “That’s what I mean,” he said, dead serious now. “You just can‘t hold yourself accountable for your actions.“

You crossed your arms, floating just an inch higher like it might restore your balance. “You’re overanalyzing.”

“No,” he shot back. “I’m asking a question.”

He stepped closer, eyes locked on yours. “Is this about Kara?”

You blinked. “What?”

“The date,” he said flatly. “Is this some weird revenge thing, the two of you planned? Because if it is, that’s pathetic. And if it’s not—” his voice dropped “—then what the hell is your problem with me?”

For the first time, your chuckle sounded forced. “I don’t have a problem,” you said lightly. “I just don’t like people who act like they’re in charge.”

His brows knit. “I am in charge sometimes.”

“And that’s exactly it,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to. The words slipped out before you could soften them. “You bark orders like it gives you worth. Like being the leader is the only way you can stand next to people stronger than you.”

Because that‘s what you relied on your whole time. On leaders. People who are supposed to take care of the others. On Krypton you have done the same thing. You relied on your father Zor-El and the science guild to fix the crisis of Krypton that later turned out to be the reason to take your home away.

Dick’s eyes darkened slightly, a slow, calculating glint replacing the anger that had flared moments ago. He didn’t move immediately andjust stood there, letting your words hang in the room. Then, quietly, with a voice low enough that you had to strain to catch it, he said:

“I’ll remember that.”

You blinked, tilting your head. “…Remember what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flicked briefly toward the door. “Seven minutes are up,” he said finally, the words clipped. “And I heard… you’re on your way to becoming a Justice League member."

You raised an eyebrow, curious. “Uh yeah, what about it?“

He shrugged once, but something in it felt colder than the Watchtower air around you. “Nothing,” he said, and that was it. The calmnes was a little unsettling. You even saw some Batman in him, right now.

Before you could even respond, he stepped toward the door. In one fluid motion, he was gone, leaving the room feeling smaller and quieter. "Circus freak.“ you just mutter in an eye roll as you also left the room.

Years passed. Faster than you could keep track of when you were flying across the globe and stopping disasters. You were your own hero. Your own name. Your own style. And officially a member of the Justice League.

It wasn’t just a title. It was acknowledgment of everything you’d done. Every mission, every rescue, every time you’d saved humans. It was validating.

You were leaning against the edge of the Watchtower’s observation deck, arms crossed, boots tapping lazily against the floor as the Earth rotated slowly beneath you. Kara hovered nearby, idly flipping through some intel on a floating screen, while Clark floated over, a stack of holographic mission papers in hand.

“Alright,” Clark said, voice calm but carrying that subtle weight of authority, “this is a joint Titans and Justice League operation. Intelligence indicates…” He launched into the usual debriefing spiel, highlighting threat zones, logistics, and coordination plans.

You skimmed the projections lazily, nodding along, used to the strategic overlay, used to Clark’s tone that somehow made everything feel both urgent and soothing.

Then he added casually, "Oh and Nightwing will be temporarily leading the League’s portion of the mission alongside Batman.”

You froze mid-hover, eyes snapping to Clark. "Wait. Did you just say Nightwing?” Clark gave you a slow, careful look, already sensing the storm brewing. “…Yes. Dick. Nightwing.” You snatched the papers out of his hands, letting them hover in front of you like a shield. You whisper under your breath to yourself: "I hate my life.”

You sank into one of the chairs near the far end of the Watchtower’s mission deck, arms crossed, legs stretched lazily under the table. The hum of the holographic displays, the faint whir of monitors, and the quiet buzz of coordinated chatter filled the room. Titans and Justice League members moved efficiently, exchanging intel, verifying coordinates, and updating mission plans.

And there he was.

Nightwing.

Standing next to Batman like it was his table, fingers tracing trajectories and coordinating positions. The sheer precision in his posture, the quiet authority in his voice—oh, it was beautiful… if you weren’t internally dying.

“Alright,” Nightwing said smoothly, projecting calm but cutting through the room like a whip, “the League will cover the east sector. Titans take the south corridor. We synchronize on my mark.”

Batman’s voice, deep and measured, nodded in agreement. Superman and Wonder Woman flanked them, arms crossed, nodding occasionally, adding their insights when necessary.

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard it hurt. Every syllable of Nightwing’s commands made your blood boil a little more. He’s leading. He’s in charge. He’s using that perfect, human, ridiculously smug brain to direct everyone. And there you were, powerless to change a single thing.

Kara leaned slightly toward you, whispering softly, “He’s… actually good.”

You shot her a glare sharp enough to cut steel (lowkey you could with your heat-vision). “Yes, Kara. I see it. I am fully aware."

The rest of the day blurred into a precise sequence of briefings, strategy adjustments, and holographic simulations. You sat there, legs crossed, fingers tapping absently on the table, listening, watching, seething. Every time Nightwing’s voice carried across the room, giving clear, concise orders, you felt a thrill of dread mixed with that old, familiar annoyance.

The meeting wound down the way it always did. Holograms faded, chairs scraped softly, and conversations split off into smaller, quieter ones. Batman, Wonder Woman, and Clark stayed behind, already deep in discussion again.

You stepped away from the table, turning your back to the room. Arms crossed. Waiting.

Kara came up beside you. “I’ll be outside,” she said quietly.

You smiled at her and nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be right there.” She left, footsteps fading down the corridor. You stayed where you were, staring out at nothing in particular, just killing time until Clark was done.

Then you suddenly hear—

“Y/N.”

Your name. Not your hero name. Your actual name. Your smile faded. Slowly, you turned around, arms still crossed, eyes landing on him.

Nightwing stood a few steps away.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

It had been years. Not a dramatic realization—just a quiet, heavy one. He looked different. Older. Broader in the shoulders. Nightwing fit him in a way Robin never had.

You studied him openly, no rush, no smile.

“…Did you need something?” you asked at last, voice flat.

He nodded once, calm. Too calm. “Just wanted a word.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You got it.”

He took a step closer—not invading your space, just enough to be intentional. “It’s been a long time.”

You shrugged lightly. “It has.” Another pause. Not awkward. Measured.

“I figured,” he said, “it’d be strange if we didn’t talk. After everything.” Your jaw tightened just a bit. “Funny. I don’t remember us ever being the talking type.” A corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “People change,” he said simply.

You held his gaze, unreadable. “Some of them do.”

You let out a soft, exaggerated sigh, tilting your head like you were pondering some great tragedy. “So… Nightwing, huh?” you drawled, dragging the name out, letting it hang in the air. “I mean… really? That’s the name you went with?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t snap. Didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Just looked at you calmly. “It’s the name I chose,” he said smoothly, voice quiet but deliberate. “It fits.”

You scoffed theatrically, spinning on one heel. “Fits? Oh sure, let’s just steal a Kryptonian legend’s name for fun. Makes perfect sense.”

Still nothing. Just that calm, controlled gaze.

“I don’t see it as stealing,” he said evenly, voice soft but firm. “Superman suggested it. Told me the name had… significance. I chose it because it fits who I am now, not because I wanted to take anything from your people.”

You blinked, taken aback for a fraction of a second, before your dramatic act kicked back in. “…Oh, so now it’s approved by Superman? That makes it… totally fine?”

He didn’t rise to it. Just let his eyes meet yours. “I didn’t ask for approval. I just made a choice that works.”

He let out a slow breath, just enough to fill the space between you with calm control. “Look,” he said, voice smooth, measured, “whatever happened back then that’s in the past. We’re adults now.”

You blinked. Adults. Right. That made you smirk carefully.

“And,” he added, tilting his head slightly, “if there’s anything you need, or any concern about the mission you can share it with me. I’m part of the leadership now, too.”

You froze for a split second.That little throwaway line you said years ago about hating people who act like they’re in charge? Yeah. He never forgot as he promised.

Your smirk twitched. Slowly. Carefully. Because you knew you were trapped. You cleared your throat, trying to act casual. "Right” you muttered, voice low, fake-smiling. Dick caught the fake smile.

He gave you a small nod, just enough to acknowledge your presence, and then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

You watched him go and your performative fake smile dissolved. The fake brightness slipped off, leaving only a frown appeared on your face.

You let out a long, slow breath, trying to shake off the lingering tension. But the truth settled uncomfortably in your chest.

The thought of Dick now finally and really being in charge made you roll your eyes, muttering under your breath,

"Why is my life so hard?“

You tilted your head. Didn't your mom and dad say that was a bad word? "Kids are mean."

He wanted to ask more questions, like what did that mean, where did you come from, and are your parents gone too, but a man walked in. He was tall. Freakishly tall, but he wore glasses and walked like he'd trip over his own feet. That man knelt in front of you.

"Hey, honey." He murmured, smiling. You looked at him in fascination. You'd never seen a man that tall before. Did they make men who almost touched the ceiling? "My name's Clark, I'm here to take you home."

Something about this man helped you trust him. He looked like a warm hug in a person, so you took his hand. You mud-tracked the floor as you approached the door, and he thought he'd never see you again. Maybe you never cared.

You turned around and waved. It made him happy.

He felt weird, going to school in a custom made Prada backpack. All of the bags he had before had Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on them. At least the butler Alfred got him a TMNT pen.

That was cool.

"If anyone tries to upset you, Master Dick, don't be afraid to give me a ring." Alfred said. He sounded weird, you didn't find many people with Alfred's accent in Gotham. But he was a nice guy, he made Dick's favourite food for dinner on his first night: pizza with little mushrooms on them with dino nuggets on the side. Handmade. "I'm sure your father will be busy at work."

"Will Dad be at dinner?" Dick asked. He'd only seen Bruce once. Alfred had picked him up from the foster centre-thing, and Bruce had only been a passing sight as Alfred led him to his bedroom.

He had a fun time so far. His bed was bouncy, he had a huge TV to play video games on, Alfred always kept dino nuggets in the house, the banister was slide-material. But the house was empty. Like a void. If a void had echoes.

"I'm afraid not." The old man sighed, shaking his head. "He has a investor's meeting that will run late, if the punctuality of the attendees are anything to consider."

Alfred always used such big words.

With a strong pat on the back, he was ushered out. "Off you pop, young sir. Remember, at the first sign of trouble—"

"Call you, I got it." He grinned, hopping out of the Royce. The kids at the gate were gaping at it. "Thanks for the ride, Alfie!" The door slammed shut.

Alfred tsked, amused. "He might be more difficult than Master Bruce was." He had potential.

Dick jogged up the steps to Gotham City Middle School (it was spelled in huge letters on a sign). It looked huge, but murky. He couldn't see his face in the floors, and the doors had dents in them.

Why didn't his dad pay to enrol him in a fancy-schmancy private school?

"Hey, it's you!" It was you, equipped with the same blinding smile he'd seen a week ago. He thought he'd never see you again. You lived in Metropolis now, but it didn't have a middle school. But your new dad got you there very fast.

It was nice to have a friend. "Heya, bear." He teased, rocking back and forth on his heels. "How's the new digs?"

"So cool." You raved, sparkles in your eyes. "My new dad even has a dog. What about yours?"

"My dad has a mansion."

"Woah."

sixteen.

Bruce would never notice. Right?

Dick was all giggles, stupidly large bedroom tilting on an axis as he shoved you inside, shushing you. "Shush, bear. Respectfully. Alfred'll hear us." The man had the hearing of a bat. No pun intended there. None at all.

"Come on, there's no way Alfred can catch us." You flopped on the bouncy bed, rolling in the European goose downs with crushed velvet covers. Dick was so rich.

He produced a bottle of whiskey from his zip up. "Alfred has super hearing." He sat down on the bed, unscrewing the bottle cap. "C'mon, bear, today's the day we become adults."

You rolled to face him. "We're sixteen." But you sat up anyway.

"Humour me." His glance wasn't poisonous, scooching to face you. "Bottoms up?"

"You first." You retorted, wrinkling your nose. Only grown ups drank alcohol. Your dad would not be happy. "Wait, are you sure about—"

It was too late, Dick had thrown his head back and taken a gulp. His heart skips, slows, cheeks flooded with cherry.

Then he coughs. Splutters, even. It burns.

"Oh, golly—" You slapped his back to help him, brows knitted. "Are you ok?"

He's banging his chest with a fist, hacking; the whiskey felt like someone flicked a lighter and dropped it down his throat. His body felt tingly, there was a roasting pit in his stomach— woah.

The world tilted again, giggles bubbling from his throat. Why was he woozy? The lights stung his eyes, his vision swam and floated, ooh, you looked so pretty. "I'm a-ok." He hiccuped, covering his mouth when he handed over the bottle. "T—Try some, it's so good." His spine felt like jelly, head nestling into marshmallows. Pillows. Not marshmallows.

The rim of the bottle touched your lips, golden liquid sliding down your throat, scorching following after. Clapping your hand over your chest, wheezing, the burn suffocated you.

Your brain started floating, like it suddenly weighed a feather, and everything seemed funny. Dick’s room having a whole couch was funny. The large paintings Bruce had purchased on auction were hilarious— how were paintings worth more than you’d make in one lifetime? Why weren’t comedies about how you’re breathing in what you couldn’t see?

How did anyone know air wasn’t out to get ‘em?

The ceiling ended up in your direct line of sight, Dick’s hiccuping head lolling onto your shoulder. “We’re drunk, right?” You whispered loudly.

“I think so.” He whispered back, sniffling. “We drank a tiny bit, m’not sure why.” He pouted, woozy blues staring straight up at you. “You’ll be my best friend forever, right?”

You held up your pinky. He took it.

Swoosh.

Sunlight stung Dick’s brain, the unmistakeable figure of a seventy-something, very amused butler halo-ed in the window. “Master Dick, it is almost noon.”

Oh no. He’d been caught.

With Bruce’s whiskey.

A bony eyebrow was raised. “And, it seems, you have grown a taste for Master Wayne’s Bruichladdich.” He was so busted. You were so busted. “I will arrange a hangover cure, and I will drive the young miss sleeping beside you home later. I have already informed her father where she is.” He paused. “I hope you behaved yourself, Master Dick.”

Huh—

Dick pouted, throwing the covers over his head. You were still peacefully slumbering, crushed velvet cupping your chin. “I hate you.” He mumbled, half-heartedly. Alfred was his grandpa at this point.

Alfred smiled. “The feeling is mutual.” He left the room, shutting the door beside him. Dick’s head popped up from under the covers, turning to you. Your eyelashes fluttered when you breathed, your lips were parted, apples of your cheeks rosy from the whiskey.

He couldn’t stop a smile. Which instantly dropped; why was his belly warm?

eighteen.

Seeing you give a speech as valedictorian was the happiest moment of Dick’s life so far.

It had been weeks of sucking on a lollipop while you slaved over books, whining, pouting, scratching your head in his lap which brought you to the stage with a sash over a black gown. You deserved this. He’d screamed and whooped from his seat, clapping while holding a large bouquet of flowers which Alfred plucked from his arms when they almost went flying.

Everyone looked like they were cosplaying Batman.

Mr Kent had been sat beside him, Lois holding his arm as tears welled up in his eyes — “that’s my baby, she’s so smart,” — which was the first time he’d seen Mr Kent cry. His dad had been watching from the back. He’d showed up from a board meeting just in time to watch his gangly son skip up on stage and receive his certificate.

He’d even blown a kiss to the cheerleaders in the audience. Maybe the kid was more like him than he thought.

Bruce had been keeping an eye on you and Dick the entire time. He noticed things. Whenever he cracked a joke, he checked if you were laughing. He clung to your every word. Stuck by your side like a leech, even when the certificate ceremony was over. His son wasn’t good at hiding it, his earlier point may be disproven.

“Are you proud of your son, sir?” Alfred asked him, both of them standing at the edge of the party like two mismatched security guards. “He’s done exceptionally well.”

“Straight As. It’s commendable.” Bruce replied, his eyes trained on you. He first thought you’d be a distraction to Dick and his work as Robin. A better term to describe you was a help, not a hindrance. Seeing you strive for greatness made Dick spur himself on. Maybe he’d reserve a seat for you in Wayne Enterprises, as long as you wanted one. “The girl. Dick likes her.”

Alfred guffawed a little. “Young love, Master Bruce, young love." There was an opportunity to goad. Bruce would never clap back. "Not unlike you and Miss Kyle, I might say.”

Bruce adjusted the lapels of his coat, stiff. Low blow. “That’s different, Alfred.”

“So you deny that you spent an awfully long time with her in your office at work?”

“Alfred.”

Dick knocked the wind out of you, sweeping you off your feet in a bear hug when all your friends stopped congratulating you. He was probably more ecstatic than you were. “Hey, congrats!” Goofy-grinned, tomato-faced, a firework ready to go off. He was such an idiot. Your idiot. “You were really inspiring. I had an irrational urge to be a better man."

"Ugh, anything but that." You rolled your eyes playfully, fingers digging into his shoulders. You were not falling today. "Do I even weigh anything to you?"

"No."

"Ass."

"Thank you." He put you down, cocking his head. His eyes gleamed, as it did when he had something up his sleeve.

Oh, no. He was thinking. "What?" You deadpanned, crossing your arms. "You're thinking again, that's never a good sign."

"Chillax, I was gonna suggest that we sneak out. You think so low of me." He opened his gown a little like he was showing a fucking gun, your eye catching on to the massive gummy bear packet bursting from his pocket. It was holding on to dear life. "I wanna be a Scrooge and gatekeep these."

Huh. "So, you have a point." You mused. "Where, though?" You already knew. Every day without fail, you two had hung out under this massive oak tree planted by GCHS alumni years back. It was the one place in school that wasn't gross.

"Aw, you know where."

Shade blanketed both of you, Dick shined anyway. Fuck, he did, with the jokes you laughed at even when you didn't get his silly references. He loved niche movies, his favourite pastime was gatekeeping them.

The sweet packet lay half open, rested on his leg, gummies hoarded in his cheeks like nuts in the cheeks of a squirrel on the branch above you. Puffed out, unintentionally pouting. He was so greedy sometimes.

He swallowed the mouthful. "So. Met U, huh? Sounds fancy." You were moving close to home, he knew that was going to happen. Clark lived in Metropolis, and better ground zero for alien attacks than ground zero for every felony known to man. He'd go too, but he'd be spoiled for choice. Where were you supposed to start in a city that big?

"Yeah, I got in that course for journalism. And Dad got his boss to agree to get me an internship while I'm there. Might help me pay off student debt." You decapitated a bear with your teeth. "And you?"

A pregnant pause. He'd never thought about that, he just... he always thought he'd be Robin. Learning from Bruce, saving the city, taking a job at WE so he could pay some bills and keep close to his dad. Can't choose your cards if you don't know 'em all, so. "Well, I got a course in Business at Hudson University. And they have a place on the, uh, on the basketball team. For me."

Pride choked you. You knew he'd worked so hard, more than the mental sense, physically, psychologically. You'd cried whenever he showed up to school with a black eye. He'd cried whenever you got your heart broken by some dumb boy in your maths class, just cause you were. He needed to escape.

You traced his slender fingers with yours. The knuckles that were purple two weeks ago. "I'm gonna miss you, Dickie." Your voice split, dread stabbed him. No. No, that wasn't goodbye. It would never be goodbye, you'd both grow old, still friends, still being mean to each other and sharing Ben and Jerry's till you got diabetes. Sitting foward, he cupped your cheeks, panic radar going off.

"Hey, shh, no, we're still gonna talk. Don't be like that." He assured, his own words fluctuating between registers. "We're gonna find cool apartments and call every day to complain about work and life and guess what? We'll never change." He held up his pinky, grinning. "Promise. Scout's honor."

You wrinkled your nose. "You're not a Boy Scout."

"Just stop and smell the flowers, bear."

You sighed, shifting so you laid over him, he melted into it like butter. Arms winding round you, tucking your gown so it wouldn't ruin your pretty dress, he was a self appointed protector of it. You chose it cause it looked like the one from How To Lose a Guy in 10 Days. His lips blessed your temple, taking in the shampoo you religiously stuck to all these years. Some name he couldn't remember, it disappeared into the haze of the sun.

It was rarely sunny in Gotham. Thank fuck rare occurred today.

nineteen.

It'd been an unreasonably long day. The laptops at the library kept crashing, you spilled coffee all over your favourite jumper, and the dry cleaning line was so long. Where was Lady Luck when you needed her? For fuck's sake.

The clock was your ultimate nemesis. Why did it have to tick so slow? An hour was an eternity, dragging your face through metaphorical mud until you face planted on your bed, your own tiny laptop open, your unfinished assignment lobbing insults at your existence.

Proofreading was hell. What was the point of grammar mistakes? It could read just fine, who cares if you used who's instead of whose? You shouldn't have become valedictorian, you set the bar too high too early. There'd be less margin to fail if you'd dropped out of high school.

A green circular button floated onto the screen, pulsing. Video call from dickie !!, coming five minutes late. You could let him go, or you could be a bitch about it, it was more entertaining to be a bitch.

Click. His voice crackled through the speaker. "Hey, there's my future Pulitzer winner." Dick's starlet smile blinded you from the screen, even though the grain of a crappy camera. Strands of the silky insult he liked to call his hair fell in front of his eyes — huh, he'd grown it out, it looked... nice — and his Gotham Knights hoodie swallowed him up.

"You're late." You pouted, rightfully. "You left me alone for five whole minutes with my assignment. I think it's alive." No kidding. At this point you wake up in a sweat cause it found you in your dreams.

"I'm sorry I can't rescue you from it, bear, sounds horrible." He chuckled, leaning forward. "How's the new digs? Any foul smells, unexplainable substances, posters of the Lorax?"

You raised a finger. "We've talked about this, the Lorax is a hero. He speaks for the trees, and sustainability is a massive problem in today's socioeconomical landscape."

"English, sweetheart." Ker-thunk. Your heart missed a beat. Had he ever called you sweetheart before? No, he’d been calling you bear after the first five seconds of knowing him. Plus the occasional shortcake, if he felt saucy. He always felt saucy, he was the human embodiment of fettuccine alfredo. “I’m kidding. I agree.” He shrugged. “Still.”

You snorted. “You’re so fruity sometimes.”

“I like to call it adapting to the seasons. It’s almost the summertime.” He grinned a shit-eating grin. A pretty grin that made your heart hurt. “Bruce and Alfie say hi. I went to go visit them last weekend, Bats doesn’t like saying it, but he misses you.”

“It’d be awkward if he didn’t.” You giggled, resting your hand on your chin. It was strange, going to university every day and not seeing Dick making leaps and literal bounds beside you. A part of your life was painfully missing. “When are you coming to visit? It’s boring without you here.”

“The moment the private jet is free, I’m there.” He leaned closer, the screen was too huge of a barrier for him. How was he able to be so far away from you for so long? Maybe his brain chemistry was altered. “I promise.” He hadn’t broken one yet, and you trusted him with your whole heart. He was gracious enough to keep his word, at least.

You really shouldn’t question what made you swoon. If memory served you correctly, a skinny little boy with spiky hair and a disproportionately toothy grin was who you first met. He’d grown into the hoodies, his biceps were like basketballs — you exaggerated on that one — he was taller, confidence in spades, he’d grown a striver — always putting in the extra mile to prove himself — but he looked fully proved now. Was it wrong to look at your best friend that way? Maybe, it felt close to objectification.

“I want visual proof.” You retorted, grinning, fighting off the down-bad case of tomato-cheeks. “Once you’re here, then we’ll talk.”

“Hard bargain.”

“Hard? That’s generous.” You joked. The screen could swallow you up if it wanted, all you wanted was to feel close to Dick again. A larger-than-two-hundred-mile wedge between you and him was less than ideal, when threads had woven your hands together, separation didn’t feel great. Your smile thawed. “I’ve gotta get back to my assignment, it’s… due tomorrow.”

He hummed, nodding. “I’ve gotta go too, I have some plans for tonight.” He shrugged, checking his phone. Roy had invited him to some frat party happening in a different dorm, but they were basically orgies between the frat boys and sorority girls, party scenes at Hud U were pretty wild. His business major had been taking his soul out of him, chewing it up and spitting it out, maybe some rest and recuperation was warranted, y’know? He needed some fun.

“See you.” You said before clicking the hang up button, leaning back in your chair. Your assignment frowned at you. “I hate you.” You mumbled.

It hated you too.

twenty three.

Dick’s graduation, your turn to scream like a maniac. Front row, hands cupping your mouth and screaming, all so he’d flush red right before he got on stage. The astronomical effort it took him to make his face its normal shade right before he accepted his graduate certificate was downright embarrassing. Like, c’mon. You didn’t have to do that.

He liked that you did, though.

He knew after this would be a life of doing coffee runs for Bruce and working his way up the Wayne Enterprises food chain, the leg up didn’t do shit. Only cause being the boss’ son would make life hard for him there, while you’d already taken up your position, interning at the Daily Planet. Coffee runs, mostly, but Clark convinced Perry to let you audit in interviews.

You sometimes sent Dick silly selfies at work, the occasional mirror selfie in the break room — it had really good lighting — and he checked every single one of them. You really had the corporate/reporter look going for you, flared pants, badge, pretty blouse.

It was kinda hot.

…

Oh, no—

Your arms strangled his neck, body colliding with his at the speed of light, woah, he had to hug you in response and take a couple steps back to avoid falling. “Oh, hey, silver bullet, slow down.” He chuckled, spinning you around before setting you on the floor. “I’m not a bowling pin.”

Did you care? Probably not, you were humming with the energy of a honeybee. “What?” He blinked. “You’re nonverbal, you’ve planned something, haven’t you?”

You shoved a box in his hands, wrapped in the fanciest wrapping you could find, white with some gold detailing. A lumpy package, with two protruding ends— the fuck could this thing be? His throat swelled at the thought of you getting anything for him at all, so his nail slid under the tape, releasing the paper and unfolding it. He couldn’t damage your hard work.

An electric blue teddy, in the shape of a gummy bear. Little smile, wide puppy eyes, little paws holding a framed Polaroid in its hands, of the two of you, the night of your high school graduation. Cups of shitty beer raised that you used to think was the holy grail. “Oh, bear.” His wrist caught a tear before it fell. “You didn’t— you shouldn’t have—” His arms flew around you, kissing your cheek and your temple. Of course, you almost fell over, he was massive and made your knees fight to avoid keeling.

You hugged him back, the fur of the bear pressing against your back, your dress ruching between his slender fingers. He couldn’t let you go, he didn’t want to, but after this he’d be in Gotham, slaving at Wayne Enterprises while you took on the journalism world with a mighty sword (your pen). He’d be the corporate slug with a night job and you’d accept a Pulitzer or Nobel on a world stage, but wasn’t that how it was meant to end?

Yeah. That’s how it should end.

The day was spent in Hudson’s high street, roaming around with cones of melting ice cream clutched to your chests. Walking hid reality, it stretched the day until it snapped. You’d already been to a couple of thrift shops, your clothes he’d swiped his credit card for hanging in bags from his arms.

Look at him. He was made to carry shopping bags.

“Let’s go to LV, or, I don’t know, Giorgio Armani, I can get you something from there.” He offered, like it was nothing, nodding to the part of Hudson reserved for the luxury shops that showed the massive difference between your wealth class and his. “I really wanna spoil you.”

What? No, you couldn’t take that much money from his bank account. Even if it wouldn’t make a dent. “I can’t do that, it’s too expensive. Plus, thrift shops have the best stuff for cheap. Great way to trend recycle.”

You were something else. In the best way.

He pouted, plush bottom lip jutting. “You don’t ever let me spoil you. It’s the last time we get to pretend to be young and stupid, at least let me splurge on you, bear.”

“No.”

He folded like wet paper. “Your loss.” His hand rested on your opposite shoulder, lips brushing the crown of your head with a hum. “I’ll miss you, sweetheart.”

There he went again. Sweetheart.

Your nose wrinkled. “You make it sound like I’m dying.”

“Well, you’re not dying, I know that, but you’ll live in Metropolis, and I’ll be in Gotham, and I won’t be able to see you everyday.” He sighed. The sun was disappearing below the horizon.

You stopped walking, standing in front of him. Your eyes were beautiful— stop that. “We’re still gonna be best friends. We promised, right?”

You held up your pinky. He took it.

That promise hadn’t changed. You could never let go of him— it would be cruel if you did, letting go of the one thing that made you what to go to school every day. He was your little ball of sunshine — not little anymore, he was big, tall, hot, even — uh, um, where were you? Oh, right.

His shoulders unravelled. “Yeah.” He breathed, kissing your forehead. “‘Course, yeah, you’re right.” His arm slung over your shoulders again. “C’mon, we’re going to Louis Vuitton anyway. No arguments.”

“But—”

“Nope!”

twenty five.

Your FaceTime was blooping, your face on the screen flashing back at you, waiting for Dick to pick up. Two years on and you both made waves that overlapped— he advanced quickly in Wayne Enterprises, proposed a few too many business deals, got ‘em signed, was promoted from coffee boy to VP in record time.

“Keep it up and you’ll be CEO,” Bruce had said. With a blank expression. He was... so emotional.

You’d written a demo piece for Perry on, guess what, Wayne Enterprises and the work on sustainability over the past two years. Coincidentally, Dick was the one who proposed that plan — your advocation for the Lorax inspired him — so Gotham's carbon emissions reduced by 5% and revenue grew by 10%, so Dick was essentially a hero.

Plus, it gave him an excuse to visit you.

Dick's face popped up on the screen. "Hey, hey." He grinned, chin resting on his palm. He looked... so happy. Like he had a great year, which he did. "How's my favourite journalist?"

"I'm great." You giggled, cause your article about him decided to blow up, which meant payday. You took the liberty to buy more groceries than you usually did. Ok, yeah, you found joy in the little things. "The article on your work has been blowing up, the numbers are doing so well. People are finally seeing how valuable you are." The way I do, you added in your brain. You held your tongue, though.

He raised a perfect eyebrow. “Credit yourself, y’know. I did the deed, sure, but you wrote the article.”

You rolled your eyes, making a yapping motion with your hand. He didn’t have to be modest, he could just sit tight and take a fucking compliment, but hey, we can’t get what we all want. “There you go again. Really, Dickie? You revolutionised corporate sustainability and reduced Gotham’s emissions by five percent. Five. Do you know how much carbon dioxide enters Gotham’s air every day?”

Gotham was so polluted even the stars had booked it.

All throughout your rant, you didn’t catch the goofy smile. That’s cause he was doing it… internally. To save face. “Hey, look, I’m just trying to give you your flowers. You could win a Nobel.”

“You should win a Nobel.” You set down your pen. “You proved that you’re not a nepo baby.”

“I am a nepo baby.”

“Dick.”

“Is that meant in a my name context or an insult context?”

“Both.” You deadpanned.

“Right.” He cleared his throat, checking the time. “Well, I better be off, I’m sorry, it was a short chat today, but I’m going out tonight. Bruce gave me the day off today for good behaviour.”

You snorted. “It’s work, not prison.” But you waved him off, shaking your head with a giggle. “Go, have your fun. You deserve it.”

“Cheers, bear.” He pointed at you. “You’ll be ready for next week, right?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. Now go.” You ushered, cutting the call on his cute-ass pout, setting the phone down. Dick, rose from his chair, finding the mirror by the door and checking himself. The hair looked good, his navy shirt was ironed to perfection, the cream trousers were a little dangerous for a food date, but no matter. She’d like it.

He flicked his hair out of his eyes one last time, checked if the guyliner wasn’t too obvious but subtle enough to make his eyes look sexy enough, smoothed down his pants— yep, looked perfect. He clicked his tongue, smiling to himself. “Don’t mess this up, Grayson.”

He pulled out his phone, dialling a number and holding the phone to his ear, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, Morgan. Yeah, I’m heading out right now, will you be out in five minutes?” The response made him laugh. “I’ll wait all night if I need to, sunshine. Alright, see you in a moment.” He pressed the red button, grabbing his keys and a bouquet, shutting his front door.

Click.

Dick showed up next week in Metropolis. Sure, the drive was long cause he was impatiently waiting for when he'd see you, but long nonetheless. He was biased.

Hauling his suitcase out of the cab, muttering to keep the change, he forked out a small pile of fifty dollar bills and gave it to the very puzzled cabbie, who drove off with plans to spoil his wife formulating in his head.

"Dickie!" You gasped, sprinting, and he was ready, catching you as you launched yourself onto him, arms secure around your waist as he spun you around. His laugh was loud, his suitcase fell over, but he finally felt at home.

You were home.

A lady watching turned to her husband. "What a lovely couple." She muttered, heading on her way.

"Hey, bear." He grinned, setting you down and propping his suitcase back up again. His cheeks hurt from all the smiling, but no matter, he'd keep at it till they fell off. He was a self proclaimed masochist. "How's my favourite girl?"

"She's amazing, now come on, I wanna show you my new coffee machine." You grabbed his hand, dragging him through the street to your apartment building.

You really were happy with the simple things. His eyebrows raised.

"Say no more."

Ok, the coffee actually was incredible. And you followed the instruction manual by the letter, imagine the wonders you could perform without it.

"Huh. Didn't expect it to taste this good." He shrugged, sipping the beverage. "Or maybe the coffee at WE programmed me to like coffee anywhere else. No offence meant, of course, to you."

You nodded in agreement, sipping your own. "No, I see what you mean, the coffee at the bullpen tastes like balls dipped in ass and lathered in pickle juice."

Woah. Weirdly specific— wait, hold on.

How did you even know what that tastes like—

He nodded. Slowly, like he knew which corner of your high functioning brain you pulled that from. "Sure. Yeah. Totally normal but accurate description." A pregnant pause. "Have you... had balls that were dipped in ass and lathered in pickle juice? Out of curiosity." And out of a strong urge to fill in the blanks of your life when he wasn't here.

"No." You shrugged. "But if the coffee at the Planet had a description, that would be it."

"Fair enough."

You pointedly sipped your coffee, watching him check his phone with the same stupid smile he had when his high school, tenth grade, on-and-off girlfriend Tracy Mathers texted him. "You're seeing someone.” The words felt sick in your mouth. They’d felt like poison

He jumped, the very expensive phone almost clattering to the floor. "Hm, what?" He blinked. How did you know? Were you psychic? Did you develop some sixth sense working at the Planet? It would make sense, you needed to have one to be a reporter. "Huh? How'd you know?"

"I can read minds." You said solemnly, then shrugged. "Donna told me. Why didn't you say anything?"

His demeanor changed. He looked like a lovesick puppy, tongue tripping over words, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, Donna knew cause I met said someone through her, and, well, I wanted to see if this was going anywhere, if she could handle, y'know, my night job."

Nightwing was a huge part of his life, of course, sometimes he'd be abroad for missions Bruce would assign him, Bruce's VP was a pretty fucking good cover. "Yeah, of course." Your voice warmed. "Is she nice? What's her name?"

"Morgan. Morgan McAdams— what are you doing?" He'd made the mistake of telling you her full name, cause you were already on Instagram, scrolling for her profile. You know, reconnaissance. You found her profile immediately, wow.

You didn't know Dick had game like that, she was stunning. Vogue pretty— oop. Yeah, she'd been on the cover of Teen Vogue at seventeen. When you were seventeen you were on the cover of your high school's theatre production flyers.

Wait. Why were you comparing?

"She's hot." You mused, nodding. Was she handcrafted by a man's wet dreams? She was perfectly proportionate, to the point where the creator of the golden ratio would burst out crying. Her red hair almost reached her ass, just the right amount of freckles smattered her nose and it slapped you in the face. Her clover green eyes looked like gemstones in the light of one of the pictures, taken at a wedding, not hers. She was perfect.

Yeah, you could see why Dick was seeing her. “You have to tell me how you pulled this off.”

“How I pulled this off?” He scoffed. “I’m charming, and charismatic, I dress nicely—” He checked his current clothes to see if he was well dressed enough to make that claim. Yes, he was. “Yeah, I dress nicely. And I love spoiling a lady, I’m not a heathen.”

“Frat boy you was a heathen.” You muttered into your coffee, which he caught, that was the point, but he snapped his fingers jokingly.

“Hey, what happens in sorority houses stays in sorority houses.” Frat boy him was a heathen, god. “I swear, you know my darkest secrets.”

“I’m sorry for knowing what goes on in your life, dear best friend since we were twelve.” You snorted over your mug.

“I do.” He chuckled, then straightened up, the I wanna propose something posture. “I want her too meet you. I want… Morgan… to meet you. Cause I want your approval, and I’ve asked Bruce to come to the dinner as well.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And he’s actually coming? He agreed? By himself.”

“After some puppy dog eyes and recruiting Tim and Alfie to be a part of the convincing team, yes.” He chuckled. “Dark days when my puppy eyes don’t work on him anymore.” The answer was that was probably puberty.

“Dark days.” Dark days, indeed.

“He’s seeing someone?” Lois gasped through a mouthful of pancakes for dinner Clark made. “That’s it, I’m getting my baseball bat.”

“I hid it at the Fortress, honey.” Clark said softly, his wife had threatened assault too many times he was being cautious, setting a plate in front of you with a kiss to your hair. “Here you go, sweetie.” He winked at the glare Lois shot him, chewing. She couldn’t be mad, though, the pancakes were divine. Fuck her husband and his perfect cooking. “And if Dick chooses to date someone, that’s his business, Lois.”

Lois waved her hands around wildly, hand almost catching the sugar pot. Clark put it farther away. “But, they— they’re, y’know, remember their graduation from university?” That affair had Jimmy bawling his eyes out from the corner.

“I remember, but he’s a twenty five year old man.” Clark blinked at his words, reaching up to adjust the glasses he’d left on the counter. His hand hovered by his eyes. Oh. “Golly, I’m old.” He muttered under his breath.

Lois rolled her eyes, reaching across to grasp your hand. Why were they treating it like your heart was broken? You were fine. This didn't affect you. Dick could date, he always had. "He doesn't get it, hon."

"I get it—"

"Smallville, respectfully, I'm comforting our daughter." Lois smiled, her hand wrapping around his, lifting it to her mouth to soothe the blow. "Look, Dick's an idiot, but he's a smart idiot, he'll come around."

Clark was going to say something about the noun and the adjective contradicting each other, but he held his tongue. "Look, sweetheart, how do you feel about this?"

You took a deep breath, your lips tugged into a smile and shrug. "I'm fine. By what he's told me, she's nice and he's happy, I'm fine as long as he is." At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Clark and Lois shared a look. Words were quieter than face in this case, your smile didn’t reach your eyes. Your eyes crinkled when you smiled, it didn’t this time. Your pancakes were left untouched. You hesitated before you said you were fine.

They didn’t like that. Clark had raised you for thirteen years, this was the first time he’d seen you genuinely upset about a boy. You were his best girl, it hurt his heart to see you like this.

“Stay the night.” He said finally, abnormally large hand resting on your shoulder, squeezing, your hand instinctively rested on top. His father-side was rearing its head; he couldn’t leave you alone when you were hung up over your best friend. “It’s late. I’ll set up the guest bedroom for you.”

As he left for the guest bedroom, Lois sighed. “I know that boy’s trained by Batman or whatever, but if he hurts you, he’ll find my foot so far up his—”

“Honey.” Clark interjected firmly, popping his head out from the guest bedroom. It almost made you laugh. “Behave.”

Lois shrugged dramatically. “What? I’m just being honest.”

You held back on the bear hug this time.

Dick stepped out of his car, that stupid, immaculate crisp black fitted shirt and blue jeans, a chain hanging from his neck, enough to look hot but not sleazy. A couple of decorative rings hugged the fingers of his left hand, which he reached out to open the passenger side door.

You first saw a Louboutin.

Black, sleek, red sole, stiletto heel hitting the pavement with a soft click as the longest leg you’ve ever seen emerged from the car, and there she was, in all her glory. Morgan. Her hair was tossed behind her, those earrings were probably worth more than your paycheck, a purse hung from her arm. Fuck, even her smile was perfect. Her lips were painted scarlet, lips that she placed on Dick’s as a sweet thank you, manicured nails carding into his hair.

He melted.

His body melted after two seconds, eyebrows twitching, like he couldn’t believe someone that perfect was entertaining him. Like how you wondered how someone like him could even talk to you. God, when did this all go so wrong?

“Thanks.” She whispered, pecking his lips one more time and wiping some lipstick off him with her thumb before turning to you. “Oh, this must be the famous bear!” She laughed, a weirdly in tune laugh.

Dick hurriedly stepped forward, his hand on Morgan's waist. "Uh, yeah, bear, you know Morgan, Morgan, this is—"

"Oh, handsome, I know who this is, I'm such a huge fan." She beamed, hugging you. Huh. She was so nice. "I've read all your articles in the Daily Planet, they're so fascinating, especially your articles on Superman and global issues. It inspired me to speak out more on my Instagram."

Checked out. She had posted a lot of stuff about world problems on her account, Tim had reported back to you about it. After his Internet deep dive, of course, he needed to see whether this girl was legit.

You weren't... participating in this. To be clear.

"No one looks that way without a tit job," Had been Jason's unhelpful comment. It was his way of trying to cheer you up, he just got a smack to the nape from Steph.

"T—Thank you." You stammered out, arms still outstretched from the hug. This felt so... weird. You couldn't find flaws. No personality flaws so far, no physical flaws, clearly, she was nice and sweet and loved your best friend.

And he loved her.

Dick yanked the suitcases from the trunk. "Tell me the lift was fixed." He begged, his puppy eyes almost made you blush in front of his girlfriend. Maybe they did still work.

"Yeah, it was. Don't get your panties in a twist."

"I won't, they're silk." He joked, carrying both suitcases inside.

You blinked. Were they really?

Morgan took your arm in hers, babbling happily. "This is the first time I've been to Metropolis, the air's so clean here, we should totally go shopping together tomorrow, that would be so fun—"

Your heart sunk to hell.

“Do we like her?” Jason whispered in your ear, folding his arms across his chest, not taking his eyes off Morgan, who was yapping to a mildly traumatised Bruce, who made polite conversation back. He hated too-long conversations. Yeah, she was objectively hot, Jason'd be a hater not to admit that, but it didn’t feel right. Not to Tim, not to Alfred, or Barbara, she filled the you-shaped hole.

Whether she was sweet or not, that was good reason to hate her.

Jason was another reminder that time ticked on. He’d been a skinny, overconfident kid who thought he could take on the world in red spandex, the little brother you never knew you’d have but loved. His resurrection came with the added perk of a whole, like, seven inches to his height and an overload of protein, he had to bend down so you could ruffle his hair. Then again, it wasn’t a dysfunctional Wayne family without exceptionally tall men.

Tim would have his time too.

How had Jason been convinced to attend this thing anyway? Dick had asked just Bruce to come and meet Morgan, and with him came Jason. Luckily, Jason wouldn’t actually be there for the dinner, he just had some work in Metropolis.

He shuddered to think what work meant in Jason’s dictionary.

“She’s Dick’s girlfriend.” You forced, in the same stance beside him, just more… rigid. An incredible feat, by the way.

“Great observation. Not my question.” He shot back immediately, glancing to you. “Do. We. Like. Her?”

You wanted to say no, she was horrible, no one should like her, but she’d made breakfast for you that morning, had lent you her expensive leave in conditioner, and had bought you a YSL dress as a ‘first meeting’ present. You couldn’t say anything bad. “Yes.” You mumbled, head hanging.

His eyes narrowed. So, he didn’t like Morgan.

Everyone over the past few days had been treating the situation like you and Dick had broken up with each other, broken up with a man who was never yours. He was a grown man with his own autonomy, you had no stake to claim. If only you did.

“Dinner’s ready.” Dick called from the kitchen, the aroma of sarmale, made pita bread and zacusca floating into the living room. “C’mon, guys, can’t let it get cold.”

“That’s my cue to leave. Dickhead gets annoying about food.” Jason patted your shoulder, squeezing it. “Text me if you need me to bail you out.”

“It’s not prison, Jay.” The laugh jumped out of your mouth.

“Might as well be.” He didn’t say a word that sounded vaguely like patronising you, or like people thought you were crying over ice cream. He just bowed his head for your hand to ruffle his hair.

You didn’t miss the chance. “Stay safe.”

“You know it.” The moment the door closed, you felt alone again, feet dragging you into the kitchen, where Bruce was sitting himself as far away from Morgan as possible, meaning that you sat in front of her.

Absolute silence. “So,” Morgan chirped as Dick served the food, “Mr Wayne, I wanted to know more about your company, it seems so interesting.”

“I don’t share details about my company if the public doesn’t know them first.” Bruce said simply, stacking on the tension as he started eating with his knife and fork. “You understand, it’s a privacy concern.”

”Oh, that’s fine.” Morgan giggled, taking Dick’s hand mid sentence, his cheeks flooding red. Her eyes landed on you. “How long have you and Dickie been friends, hon?”

You choked through a bite of pita and zacusca, swallowing it down with the aid of Bruce’s hand patting your back. “We’ve been, um, best friends since we were twelve.”

“Oh, how cute!” She gasped, turning to Dick. “You’ve been friends for that long?”

Dick nodded, clearing his throat. “Yeah, we—” His phone started ringing— his secretary, Eddie. “Sorry, I’ve gotta take this.” He excused himself, heading into another room.

“Holding a friendship that long is impressive. Wow, I would’ve gotten sick of you by now.” That…

That comment didn’t sit right with you. The way Bruce’s forehead creased a little, it didn’t sit right with him either, but there was no malice to prove, she looked like she meant it as convo grease, but it wasn’t the tone, it was the you. The you echoed in your head.

Dick came back in, breaking the silence with his soft footfalls. “Sorry, work call.” He grinned, unaware of what just happened. Blissfully. He chuckled. “Where were we?”

“The food is delicious, Richard.” Bruce muttered, now not bothering to address Morgan directly. He didn’t know if her words were a dig at you, but he wasn’t taking chances, any insult thrown at you was personal to him. His hand reached under your table to briefly pat your knee.

Morgan hummed in agreement, turning Dick’s chin to face her, his lips fell apart, like he was transfixed. “Your dad’s right, you did an amazing job.” Her lips met his, not a chaste kiss, cause, you know, his dad was right there, a full, I’m trying to eat your mouth kiss that had everyone’s eyebrows raising, including Dick’s as his pretty lashes fluttered and lids fell shut. Bruce swallowed down the last mouthful, standing up abruptly, the chair screech breaking the kiss.

“It’s late.” He said stiffly. It was seven in the evening. “I should go to the hotel, thank you for dinner, it was lovely, meeting you, Morgan.” He briefly kissed Morgan’s hand as a gesture of feigned goodwill, taking his jacket, laying his hand on your shoulder, squeezing. “Dear.”

You laid your hand on top of his, smiling gratefully. Thank you. “Bruce.”

He picked up his jacket, promptly leaving, Dick blinking in surprise, the corner of Morgan’s mouth turning down for the first time.

Dread filled you.

Three weeks since and you’d been on around three outings with them, the third wheel on a dysfunctional car, watching Morgan hug Dick’s arm to her like he was candy on her pinky finger. He wasn’t a possession, he was the sweetest man you knew, and he hung onto her every word.

Jason knew he hung onto Morgan’s every soft syllable with the intensity he used to do with you. Bruce knew he hugged her the same way he hugged you at your college graduation. Clark knew he held you in the same gaze he held Morgan. Alfred understood that, deep down, Dick Grayson wished it was you instead. Even if he didn’t know it.

Tim had done a secret scan for any love toxins. None. She’d just enchanted him with sweet words and adoring eyes.

You’d been zoning out on this ‘date’, staring out the window of the cafe while Morgan traced her name on Dick’s hand with her scarlet manicure, at least he felt like the only guy in the world. That’s all you wanted, as long as he felt special, it was enough for you.

You didn’t mean to love him, you kept that close to your heart.

“Hey, bear.” Dick’s honey-soaked voice pulled you out of your haze, no one else could do it. He was staring expectantly, interested, insistent on keeping you in the loop and flow of the drifting conversation. “How’re your articles going?”

“They’re ok, just writer’s block.” You muttered. The block was him. Clark, so far, had been finishing your pieces for you so Perry wouldn’t be on your ass, suggesting a co-write credit. Losing control of your work life would just make you spiral.

When did you give so much of yourself to your best friend?

Even he seemed out of it, overwhelmed by Morgan’s every affection, transfixed with every touch of her fingers to his chin, it felt like you were peeking in on something you shouldn’t. A window of his life you wished would never have existed. Maybe if you knew sooner.

You’d turn back time, but that wouldn’t erase your memories of this.

She’d been launching subtle, snide comments for those few outings, like I love your charity shop clothes; God, he spends so much time with me, doesn’t he? I hope it doesn’t bother you, like she knew what was ringing in your head, the calling to devote your life to loving your best friend.

You’d been nonverbal. His calls came everyday, but sometimes you responded with some work excuse or family excuse, like dinner with your dad and Lois or that Perry needed you to work a story. Every time you’d been out with Morgan and Dick, you’d texted Jason to bail you out, just like now.

He delivered on that promise.

Get me out of this, you typed out to him beneath the table, five seconds later, you got a call, Jason’s name flashing on your screen. Your thumb pressed the green button, phone lifting to your ear.

“I’m dying,” He drawled, words drier than the Sahara, you had to hold back a laugh, “no, seriously, I’m on the floor, there’s an icicle about to hit me, Grey’s Anatomy style, come save me.” He could at least be a little more convincing.

You choked back a giggle. “On my way.” You glanced up to Dick. “Sorry, it’s Jason, he needs me.”

Dick’s brow furrowed; that was the third time Jason had needed you when he was out with you. Jason wasn’t the problem, it was the excuse being repeated. “Again?” He asked, eyes saddening, but he pulled out his wallet. “Don’t worry about your bill, I’ll take care of it.”

You opened your mouth to protest, Morgan’s hand hovering over his wallet, as if was about to say no, his hand dodged hers. “No. No arguing, I always take care of the bill.” He sighed. “You’ll be here for the birthday dinner, right?”

You’d never miss it. “Of course.” You assured, smiling at them both before hurrying out. “You almost made me laugh, Jay.”

“You asked for bail, not for five star acting.” He chuckled. “Enjoy your day, wren.”

“Thank you, again.”

You’d cried before Dick’s birthday dinner.

You’d depuffed, cried some more, depuffed again so he couldn’t tell, spent the night before with Clark so he could emotionally support you with Krypto as backup, Lois coming armed with as much Ben and Jerry’s as she could.

Like how Dick used to do with you, but this heartbreak was one he couldn’t solve. You finally saw why people treated it like you were dying, pieces of you died the more Morgan chipped away at you.

Bruce had stopped coming to see Dick when Morgan was around, Jason didn’t address her, Tim gave her death glares, Babs gave Dick himself death glares, and all the while no one said a word about what the problem was. Had he done something?

But the dinner was going well, there’d been polite conversation, where he was gauging your reactions, weighing them out, trying to use systematic deduction to figure out why you were pulling away. You’d never done that. Every time you were upset, you talked it out, never stayed mad at him for more than two hours. Bile burned his throat at the mere thought.

“Hey, thanks.” He grinned stupidly when Morgan handed him a gift— a Cartier watch gleamed from beneath a glass casing. A Cartier watch which Dick already had in his closet, he’d worn it on his third date with her. The thought was forced down, she’d cared, that’s all that mattered. “Wow, this is— it’s gorgeous, Morgan, thanks, baby.” He pecked her lips, of course she made it anything but chaste. His eyes were closed, hers half open.

You had your gift in your lap, about to present the lumpy, small package when the food arrived— your food a larger portion than you’d anticipated, Morgan’s eyes locked onto it. You braced.

“Wow, that’s a lot of food.” Her tinny laugh stabbed you. “You sure you don’t want to share it? I mean, you seem like you wanna cut down on your intake.”

That was your last straw.

There was a clatter as your fork clattered to the table— and Dick’s. He was wide eyed, staring straight at Morgan, at her sweet smile, but it was poisoned. Fuck, how didn’t he see that before? She was staring straight at you, at your horrified face, at the colour draining from your cheeks, anger flooding into his—

You stood up, rushing out, black tears streaming down your face, mascara smudging onto your wrist as you rubbed them away.

He was mortified, standing up too, putting on his jacket hurriedly. “That was disgusting.” He fumed, taking out his wallet, leaving cash on the table, enough to cover the meal and the server’s tip. “Fucking disgusting.”

She scoffed, like nothing was wrong, laying her hand on his. “Dickie, I didn’t—”

“You did, don’t bullshit me, Morgan.” He adjusted the lapels of his jacket. “I won’t let you insult my best friend like that.”

“You’re throwing a tantrum over her feelings?” She snapped back, standing up.

“Oh, yeah.” He put on his scarf. “I’m throwing a big tantrum, Morgan. It’s not her feelings, you — you body shamed her — forget it. We’re done.” He left, the glass for swinging beside him, sprinting to his car and getting in, driving to you.

How long had this been going on? How long had he not noticed? Everyone else had, he was too busy being a lovesick puppy for a girl who hated you. Who could hate you?

He’d been out of it the whole time dating Morgan, leaning into every touch because blinking once made him see you, not his girlfriend. Another blink and he’d gone back to seeing her cherry-lipped smile. Maybe he’d been hallucinating. He hadn’t been, there were signs that he shook off because one girl treated him like he was God’s gift to women.

The car ride mulled over his thoughts, his shaking shoulders, knuckles blanching at the wheel until he stopped outside your apartment. Rushing up the steps, knocking hurriedly on your door. “Bear? Bear, please, let me in.” He found your spare key, unlocking the door and entering, finding you against the kitchen counter, a present held in your hands.

Fuck.

"Bear, sweetheart, I'm so sorry, I had no idea." He pleaded, hands stopping short of your face, dropping. You didn't yell. Or step back, you just looked into his eyes with glassy ones. And held out his present, wrapped in his Nightwing blue, lumpy, small, rectangular in its essence.

His heart tore into two.

"Happy birthday, Dickie." You mumbled, oh, your voice was small. Your body was shrinking in on itself, he'd never seen you like this before. And you still had it in you to wish him a happy birthday. You needed to yell at him. Be angry, throw curses and insults, kick him out, give him the silent treatment, but you wouldn’t. You physically couldn’t.

"I—I broke up with her, ok?" He stammered, eyes darting between the gift and you, the gift and you, back, forth, up, down. "We're over, I couldn't stand her saying that to you—"

"Happy birthday." You said firmly, insisting on giving him the present, so he took it. The wrapping paper fell away, a fluffy blue teddy bear in his hands, Polaroid between its little paws, of the two of you on the night of the launch of his economic sustainability plan. The bear was shaped like a gummy bear. Just like the one from his college graduation.

"Want one?"

He was a blur. The bear wobbled on your kitchen island, warm hands covering your cheeks, hot lips on yours, open mouthed, breathing the oxygen in from your lungs, he needed it to stop feeling dizzy when you were around. Your hands flew to his waist, his shirt bunching under your fingers, head spinning, reacting instinctively.

Fuckin’ finally.

Every insistent, desperate press of his lips stacked up to outdo your daydreams, small, sharp moans coming out between him stealing your thoughts and locking them away. Thoughts were future you’s problem.

“I love you,” He shuddered in a breath against your lips, arms hooking under your thighs, lifting you up, almost moaning when your legs locked around his waist, your hands burying into his hair, hips rolling forward into his. Lordy, this was surreal. Were you really kissing the boy you used to share gummy bears with?

He felt the pressure hit the right place, a breath sucked into his lungs as his lips broke from yours, sloppily burning down your jaw and your neck, tongue soothing over every kiss, hand shifting to grab your ass, other palm encouraging you to grind on him by pressing on the small of your back. “I—I’m sorry,” He sat you on top of the kitchen counter, panting against your shoulder.

His hair was messy. His cheeks were flushed, pupils wide, staring up at you through his lashes. “I just— shit, bear, this is a long time coming, you’re so fucking pretty, I—I get it if you don’t—”

You moved forward to silence him with your lips, he melted, even before you kissed him again, his hands taking yours, guiding your fingers to the buttons of his shirt.

Your body was warm the next morning. The covers were toasty, like they were weighted, dragging you further into sleep. The weighted part was Dick’s arm, thumb brushing up and down your stomach, tracing your name into his skin. It was the only word that mattered right now, gazing down at you, bathed in soft sunlight.

His nose traced a line from your pulse to y the slope of your shoulder, mouth open, kissing hearts into your skin, tickling you with a gentle brush of his knuckles to your side.

“Mm, stop. M’trying to sleep, Dickie.” You mumbled, swatting his arm, still revelling in the beautiful ache in your thighs and the hum of your body. He held you so highly.

He laughed, kissing the corner of your mouth, tilting your head with a thumb on your chin, lips dragging across your skin to kiss you slow, deep, a hum swallowed by your lips. “No can do, sweetheart. I need a repeat of last night.”

“We had five rounds.”

“My lucky number’s six.”

© 2026 all rights reserved - nxbodysangel. do not modify, repost, plagiarise or claim my work as your own without permission.

You know he’s charming. Half of your faculty does. The golden boy. With his easy and generous smiles he always gives, accompanied by those dark blue eyes you sometimes catch yourself staring at. He is smart, not only on paper, but by the way he talks. How people seem to gravitate towards him, and people always feel like they’re the center of the world when he’s listening. 

And most of all… he was beautiful, but you never admit it. Not to your friends, not even to yourself.

You finally exchanged names during one of your lectures when he was borrowing a pen, then again at another time in the library when you had to leave your belongings to go to the bathroom.

“Hey, Grayson?"

“Hey– uh– what was your name again?” he asks sheepishly. You offer him your name, no hard feelings, you know that you are a wallflower if it were not for your friends.

“Can you keep an eye on my stuff for a bit?” as you stood up from your chair, closing your laptop with you.

“Yeah,” giving you his signature smile, and you return it with a small smile of your own.

It stays like that. You guys don’t really talk; both of you sit on opposite sides of the class, so the professors never group you together on a project, and whenever you walk past him, he would only give you a nod if he wasn’t surrounded by his friends (and fans).

Him the golden boy, you the wallflower.

Until it changes.

It was a weeknight. Not late enough where the danger of Bludhaven is inevitable, but it was visible that people were beginning to slow down from the day. 

You were exiting the campus library, clutching your bag tight while your other hand gripped your pocket knife hard–

When something crashes into the alley beside the building.

You immediately flinch, heart pounding as your knuckle turns white around your knife, spinning just in time to see a body hit the brick wall and slide down the concrete floor from the weight of gravity.

Nightwing. 

Your heartbeat immediately settles down. It was just the nightly vigilante– probably from patrolling and protecting the city from its crimes.

But your feet stood frozen. Watching him brace himself on one knee as the other seemed to give up.

“Shit,” he grunts, still too in shock to notice you were watching—listening.

You never heard the vigilante speak before; hell, you never even met the guy in person. So why does it sound… familiar?

“Are you–” you stop yourself, the words restraining in your throat.

He finally notices and looks up.

And that’s when you see it.

The iconic domino mask—his signature—cracked clean through one side, blue-black carbon fiber splintered like glass. One half still clings to his face, covering his eye, while the other reveals it.

It was blue.

In an instant, panic rises inside your stomach.

You know those eyes.

You’ve known it since freshman year. Since he borrowed your pen in a lecture. Since you asked him to watch your stuff in the library. It was the blue you would recognize anywhere since you stared at it for too much.

“...Oh,” breathing out as you break out of your trance.

He doesn’t move, still too stunned and hurt to do so. He doesn't even reach the mask, just stares at you as if you were a predator and he’s the prey.

“Grayson…” you whisper in acknowledgment. Back straightening before you take a one-overview look at his grimy face and suit.

He exhales shakily, closing his eyes to ground himself, before muttering “...Fuck.” like a surrender.

The silence stretches between you. Only filled with the quiet streets of Bludhaven, before you let out a small laugh.

“I heard you do gymnastics… but this is a bit much, don’t you think?’ tilting your head with a small grin on your face.

He let out a scoff that sounded too painful, more of a groan, really. “You’re taking this surprisingly well.”

You only hum before, “want me to run instead?”

“No.” He replies before you even finish. Small smile on his face. “You’re not scared?”

You take a step closer, kneeling before him. “I would be if it weren’t you,” quietly. Like it was a confession.

He stays silent, reading your face, searching for cracks and fear. Finding none—only concern.

Your hands hover over him. “Can you stand?”

“Yeah,” he nods, palms bracing against the dirty floor as he stumbles in an attempt to stand. Immediately shooting your hand to brace his waist, and you finally felt it. His warmth, too real.

“Okay, slow down, big guy,” you smirk, making him roll his eyes playfully in return. You then wrap his left arm around your shoulder. Doing your best to hoist up his taller figure.

“This stays between us,” you promise unpromptedly.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

“I didn’t think you meant anyone to find out at all.” Glancing towards him with a small smile.

“Let’s get you fixed up, yeah?” you say softly, looking around the now quiet streets as you lead him into your car.

After that night where he ended up sprawled on the floor of your bathroom, things began to shift—subtly.

He starts sitting closer during lectures. Waiting for you after class before walking you back to your place like it’s casual. He starts to go to you after a rough night of patrol now. The familiar activity of him sitting on your toilet, wincing with every wipe of antiseptic against the cuts on his skin.

You become friends the way people do when there’s a secret between them, which both of you never concede.

When you graduate, it seems like everything tenfolds.

Your apartment has become the regular place now. Not only for fixing his cuts and bruises, but also for everything in between.

Takeout nights as you ramble about an internship you’re starting, movie nights where you exchange secrets and movie recommendations (he won’t say it to your face, but he enjoys the romcoms as well). He starts showing up unannounced. Unlocking your door with the key you gave and immediately dropping onto your couch like he owns the place.

Whenever his patrols gets bad, he comes to you bleeding and exhausted, pretending it’s nothing. Yet he remembers how you take your coffee anyway, and you remember how he sometimes prefers sleeping on your couch rather than coming back to his place.

You just clean him up whenever he comes over, and he always asks about your day.

You never push, never ask.

You date other people, so does he.

Telling him snippets—complaints, half-stories, and he always listens.

His ears perk as he hears about a guy, how happy you are with him, and how close the two of you are getting. Aaron? Aiden? He didn’t care to remember, but he knows that his heart cracks. Just a bit where he can still shove it down.

“He’s nice, Dick…” you smile as you clean up a cut on his jaw. “Bought me flowers, paid for the first date,” your tone giddy.

“You know that’s the bare minimum, right?” One of his brows raises, a small grin on his face.

You rolled your eyes in return, pushing the cotton ball harder, making him wince. “Hey–”

“I know it’s the bare minimum… but my bar is already so low,” you sigh. He hums, eyes locking on your face. Encaptured by the beauty of it.

How your hair is messy but still looks so soft, how your brows furrow whenever you’re focused on something, how your lips slightly pout in determination, and how badly he wants to kiss it–

“You okay?” as you notice his flushed cheeks that weren’t there before.

“Yeah. Just a bit hot,” offering a tight-lipped smile.

“I’ll bring the temperature down. Just let me finish this first,” you mutter.

After patching him up, both of you then spend the night on the couch watching a movie. Though you quickly fell asleep on his shoulder. Making him sigh as he shifts so you don’t ache when you wake up.

“I’m not in love,” Dick whispered to himself. Fingers tracing your arms as he watches how your chest rises softly in your sleep.

“I’m not in love…” one more time. Desperation in his tone.

Things began to shift. Again.

You begin to hang out with Aaron more (oh, so that’s his name, Dick thought to himself), making him unable to visit as frequently as he wants.

“Sorry, I have a date with Aaron.”

“I don’t think I’m free this weekend.”

“He is coming over tonight. Can you take care of yourself alone?”

If you’re being true to yourself, you hate it. Hate how you keep turning him down because of how scared you are of your feelings for him. Hate how you try loving Aaron so bad, so you can get rid of your love for Dick.

“I’m not in love,” a mantra you tell yourself whenever you wish that it were him next to you. Not Aaron.

Because the fact is, no one understands you like he does—knows you like he does. Sure, Aaron buys you flowers, gives you sweet kisses, but Dick’s hugs are warmer, his laughter rings like melodies during your darkest days. You want him so bad it hurts because you know… You can’t.

You can’t lose Dick Grayson as your best friend.

So both of you began to detach. You decline, and he stops asking so much.

Then one night, he was perched on the rooftop of his apartment. Feeling hollow even after succeeding in taking down a drug ring just an hour ago, before his phone rings.

You. 

He began to panic. You never call him unless it's for emergencies. Especially now, when both of you were drifting.

He picks it up in an instant. Heart pounding faster now he heard your shaky breaths, and before he even gets the chance to call for your name–

“Can I come over?” your voice breaks.

There’s a pause on his end, just for a beat. Until, “yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You hang up. Immediately reaching for your car keys and drive to his place.

You never went there before. Your apartment is the basecamp. So you notice how his place is quieter than yours. Barely decorated, just filled with necessities.

His heart shatter a piece as he sees your state. Shoulder slumping, eyes red and swelling, unable to look at him.

He immediately crushes your frame to his. Arm snaking around your waist while the other cradles the back of your head.

“I’m here, sweetheart…” he murmurs against your hair. Feeling your body beginning to relax in his embrace. You nod weakly before he pulls back slightly just to see your face.

“Let’s get you inside,” offering his soft smile. Oh, how you missed it. That soft—genuine—smile that never fails to make your pulse quicken.

He then leads you inside. Setting you on his leather couch before kneeling on the floor before you to make sure you’re comfortable. Fingers tangling with yours, squeezing them to let you know he’s here.

“You wanna talk about it?” after a few seconds of him just studying your face.

You shrug. “Not really…” 

“Okay,” he nods. Thumb brushing your knuckles softly

Minutes pass, the city continues to hum outside.

“I broke up with him tonight,” you say finally.

Dick was stunned, brows lifting slightly. “Aaron?”

You nodded, “Aaron.” Fingers squeezing his hand tighter now, making him let go of it, before sitting down beside you. Leaning back against the couch, opening his arms in a familiar gesture.

You break the moment you curl into him. How you feel so safe yet hurt at the same time. How he feels too much like home.

“He… cheated on me.”

He tenses under you immediately. “What?”

“I was borrowing his laptop because mine was charging…” You take a deep breath. “Guess he forgot to close a tab.” Exhaling shakily.

His jaw tenses, eyes lacing with anger. “Do you want me to–” as you cut him off with a shake of your head.

“Sorry,” he sighs. His apartment grows silent once more, thick now.

“I didn’t come here just because of him,” you add.

He stays silent, a cue for you to continue what’s on your mind.

You felt his fingers brush absentmindedly against the fabric of your sleeves. “We date other people,” you say. “We act like it’s normal…”

“We’re allowed to,” he replies too quickly. “It’s not a problem,” he sighs, sounding more like a shield.

You turn your head towards him. “Isn’t it?”

A beat. He opens his mouth before quickly closing it.

“You’re my best friend.” his words feel like a dagger through your heart.

Breath hitching as you force out a reply. “Right.”

“I’m not in love,” he hesitates. Like he was convincing himself rather than you.

“...Me too,” you sigh, feeling as if you can’t breathe and the ground just swallowed you whole.

His heart tugs as he feels you shift away from his arms. You lean against the couch now, away from him, eyes looking forward to hide your feelings.

Outside, the city keeps breathing.

You sit beside each other, just a few inches of space between you, yet you never feel so far away from each other. The apartment is now silent again, but it feels heavier. It feels like something can just combust.

Dick’s head tips up, staring at the ceiling. He replays every time he says it—I’m not in love—like it’s more of a defense mechanism instead of the truth.

That’s when you notice it.

The picture.

A small frame resting on the TV stand, just beside a console he had, as if it wasn’t meant to be seen.

A picture of you.

You remember that night, both of you in your apartment, laughing at something over cheap Mexican takeout. It must be a picture he took secretly, as you were mid-laughter, eyes crinkling and teeth showing—like you were the happiest person in the world.

Your chest tightens before you can stop it. “Didn’t know you had that,” softly. Still processing what you saw.

You can feel him going rigid. Looking at your eyeline.

“Oh– that.” He rubs his nape. “There was a stain behind it. Didn’t want to look at it.”

You turn towards him now. “So you covered it with me.”

He exhales defensively. “Don’t ask me to take it down or give it back. It doesn’t mean that much.”

Your heart lurches, aches. Though you notice how his voice sounded too… rehearsed.

You only nod, letting the silence stretch once more. Both of you are hurting, so much to say yet so little courage to do so.

Minutes pass.

Then–

“Dick?” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever get tired of saying it?”

“Saying what?”

“That you’re not in love,” because I do, you think to yourself.

He exhales sharply, finally turning his head towards you. “I’m just being honest.”

“No–” you say quietly. Then sharper because the hurt is turning into exasperation now. “You’re being careful.”

He sits up straighter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You huff out of frustration. “It means you always hide behind that sentence whenever it gets too real,” sitting up now too. “Do you think I’m that stupid to not notice?” brows furrowing with vexation.

“What–”

“I’m not finished,” you cut him off with a scoff. “You let me patch you up. You fall asleep on my couch. You know everything about me—even better than I know myself. But the second it feels like more, you pretend it’s nothing.”

“That’s not fair,” his lips tugging downward as his tone sharpens.

“Really?” you shoot back. “Because from where I’m standing, you get to have me for years now.”

His jaw visibly ticks. “You think this is easy for me?” full of fury as his chest starts to heave.

“I think you’re scared,” you provoke, fist clenching by your sides. And before you can stop yourself– “I think you’re a coward.”

He freezes in an instant.

“...Wow,” he chuckles darkly. “If I’m a coward, then what are you?” returning the question.

Your eyes twitch as he struck a chord, seething now.

“Is that why you dated him? That Aaron guy? So you can forget about your feelings for me?”  accusing, shifting closer you can feel the warmth of his breath now.

You feel yourself panting.

“Yes! Yes, Dick!” you finally blow up, sitting fully now. “You happy now? To know that I am so in love with you that I had to force myself to love someone else?!” your chest panting as you fumed.

“Sweetheart–”

“You won’t even admit you want something unless you’re sure it won’t hurt you,” you hiss, finally taking a deep breath to calm yourself down.

“You don’t even know how much I want things… how much I want you,” he shudders. The anger in his face subsided into sadness. Like he was disappointed at himself, not at you. Never at you.

“Then why won’t you say it…” You breathe out.

“Because I am scared,” his face devastating, yet still breathtaking. Your fingers twitch as you fight the urge to reach out to hold him, to whisper him white lies and how everything is going to be okay.

“I tell myself I’m not in love because I know loving you would ruin me…” his voice breaking despite who he is. “Because if something happened—if I lost you—I don’t think I’d survive.”

You notice how his eyes seem to glisten now under the low lights of his apartment. You feel your own lips trembling, throat tightening as you push down your tears.

“...You don’t think I feel the same?” you whisper, voice threatening to falter.

He took a deep breath, letting a few beats pass, before pulling you onto his lap in one swift motion. His arms find their place around your body, pushing your chest against his.

“I love you, Dick…” you finally declare. Hands find his face as you hold it softly. Making his breath hitch audibly, and his eyes flutter close.

“I know… if I lose you, it would hurt—so bad—but wanting you and not having you will hurt more.” You leaned closer, so close your breaths began mingling.

He opens his eyes.

“I love you too, sweetheart… so much it hurts sometimes.”

Then, one of your hands grabs his shirt, fisting it, and pulls him towards you.

You kiss him messily. Desperate. Like months of restraints and needs snaps. He freezes for half a second– then kisses you as his life depends on it. 

His hands on your face, thumb brushing your cheekbones. Your own fingers curl into his hair, tugging it, making him exhale against your mouth. Forehead pressing to yours when you finally break apart.

“I am in love with you,” he whispered. Voice terrified, relieved, honest.

Your lips tugged softly. “I know. I love you too.”

He let out a soft chuckle and kisses you again, slower this time. Full of devotion.

No more practiced words, just sincerity.

© neeeed-y, 2026 ༝ likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. thank you for reading! ᢉ𐭩

He looked devastatingly handsome in a suit that was tailored to perfection—a deep midnight blue that bordered on black, a subtle nod to the life he led in the shadows. But today, there were no masks. There was only the man. His blue eyes, usually dancing with mirth or narrowed in concentration, were currently swimming with an emotion so raw and open it made your breath hitch in your throat. He was holding your hands, his thumbs gently brushing over your knuckles, grounding you as the rest of the world—Alfred, Bruce, the Titans, the Batfamily, your friends—faded into a soft focus periphery.

The officiant had just finished the opening remarks. The air was thick with anticipation. It was time for your vows.

You took a shaky breath, your fingers tightening around his. You had written these words on scraps of paper, on the backs of receipts, and in the notes app of your phone over the last three months, but saying them aloud felt like unlocking a vault.

"Dick," you started, your voice trembling slightly before finding its strength. "I like shiny things."

A ripple of soft laughter went through the crowd. Dick grinned, that lopsided, heart-stopping grin that had been the ruin and the salvation of you.

"I do," you continued, smiling back at him. "I like the way the city lights look against the rain. I like the way diamonds catch the light. But...I think we both know that I’d marry you with paper rings if that’s all we had. Because the shiny things aren't what got us here."

You paused, letting the memory wash over you, pulling it from the archives of your history to share with the people who loved you both.

"I was thinking about the beginning. The very beginning. The moon was high that night, cutting through the smog of Gotham. It was loud, and chaotic, just like your friends were the night that we first met."

You looked over Dick’s shoulder to where Jason Todd was standing next to him, looking surprisingly presentable, though he smirked when you caught his eye."I remember walking down that street," you told Dick, your voice taking on a narrative cadence. "It was 2:00 AM. I was coming home from a double shift, tired, cynical, and just wanting to get to my front door. And there was this group, spilling out of a venue, loud and boisterous. Jason was there, loud as ever, and a few others. They were... enjoying the night a little too much. The air smelled like cheap beer and bad decisions."

Dick chuckled, looking down at his shoes for a split second before looking back up.

"And then there was you," you said softly. "You were the only one standing straight. You were trying to herd them like cats, trying to keep them out of traffic. But from where I stood, through my tired eyes, I just saw another chaotic boy in a chaotic city. I thought you were just as gone as they were. So when you bumped into me—trying to stop one of your friends from tripping—and apologized, I didn't even look at you properly."

"The wine is cold," you stated softly, "like the shoulder that I gave you in that street."

You squeezed his hands. "I brushed past you. I was cold, and dismissive. I thought, 'Just another Gotham night, just another guy.' But you... you didn't get mad. You just shouted, 'Get home safe!' after me. And something about the clarity in your voice made me pause at the corner."

"I asked Jason—who was, at the time, trying to climb a lamppost—who you were. He laughed and yelled, 'That's Dickiebird! Mr. Dick Grayson' He introduced you, in his own way."

You took a deep breath. "I went home that night. I kicked off my shoes, sat on my floor, and I opened my laptop. I tried to stalk you on the internet."

Dick raised an eyebrow, feigning shock. "Stalk? Me?"

"Extensively," you admitted with a laugh. "I had a first name and a description. It didn't take long. Gotham is a big city, but you... you take up a lot of space in it. I typed in your name. And then I sat back, staring at the screen, feeling the blood drain out of my face."

"I found out you weren't just the sober guy herding his drunk friends. You were a detective. You were a Blüdhaven police officer. And then, I scrolled down and saw the gala photos. The ties to Bruce Wayne. The adoptive son of the Prince of Gotham."

You glanced briefly at Bruce, who offered a rare, stoic nod from the front row.

"I remember closing the laptop and thinking, 'Oh, absolutely not.' I thought I was terrified. I thought, 'This man is worlds apart from me. He's detectives and billionaires and galas.' I felt like I had read the prologue to a book I wasn't qualified to write."

"Now," you said, your voice softening to a whisper, "I've read all of the books beside your bed. I know you don't just read case files. I know about the sci-fi novels and the history books. I know the man behind those search results."

Dick’s thumb caressed your hand, his eyes shimmering.

"But it wasn't a straight line, was it?" you asked rhetorically. "It was cat and mouse for a month or two or three. I dodged you. You pursued. Not aggressively, just...consistently. You were always there, coincidentally, at the coffee shop, or walking the same route. You wore me down with your charm and bad puns."

"But," you said, shifting your weight, the fabric of your dress rustling softly, "I promise to be honest. And to speak about the moments that cemented you in my heart. The moments that colored my world."

"Everyone thinks of you as this golden boy," you said, looking at the guests before locking eyes with him again. "Bright. Sunny. The acrobat who catches everyone when they fall. But the memory that stays with me, the one that proved to me that I was in this for the long haul, was when you painted me blue."

A confused murmur went through the crowd, but Dick’s smile widened, recognition dawning in his eyes.

"It was the first time you brought me here, to the Manor," you explained. "It was the dead of winter. January. The grounds were covered in snow, beautiful and silent. I was so nervous. I was meeting the family. I was shaking in my boots, terrified I’d say something wrong or break a vase."

"We were walking by the indoor pool house, but the glass doors were open to the outdoor section. The steam was rising off the heated water, clashing with the freezing air. You looked at me, saw how stiff and anxious I was, and you stopped."

"You said, 'You're thinking too much.' And before I could ask what you meant, you didn't just take off your coat. You didn't just dip a toe in. You, in your jeans and sweater, ran and cannonballed into the water."

Laughter erupted from the guests. Alfred sighed audibly, shaking his head with a fond smile.

"I stood there, frozen on the deck, snow in my hair, watching you surface. You were laughing. You were soaking wet, fully clothed, and you looked so...free. You shouted, 'Come on! It’s warm!'"

"And that was the choice, wasn't it?" you said, your voice thick with emotion. "Stay on the dry, safe concrete, or jump into the chaos with you. You painted me blue that day—the blue of the water, the blue of the cold air, the blue of your eyes daring me to live a little."

"So I jumped."

"I dove in, clothes and all. The shock of the water, the weight of my clothes dragging me down, and then your arms pulling me up. We treaded water in the middle of winter, laughing until we couldn't breathe. That was the moment I stopped looking at your background, or your job, or your money. I just saw the man who would ruin a good sweater just to make me smile."

"And that memory," you continued, "bleeds into another. A quieter one. It reminds me of the day we decided to help paint Damian’s room."

You looked at the youngest Wayne, who was standing near the altar as another groomsman, arms crossed, trying to look unimpressed but failing to hide the slight quirk of his lip.

"It was supposed to be a simple touch-up," you said. "A specific shade of slate blue. Serious. Dignified. Just like Damian wanted. But you...you can't just do things simply."

"You flicked paint at me. Just a drop on my nose. And I, being competitive, painted a stripe on your cheek. Within five minutes, the walls were forgotten. We were covered in it. Blue paint in my hair, on your shirt, on the floor."

"I remember Damian walking in," you laughed. "He looked at the walls—which were half-done—and then at us, tangled together on the drop cloth, covered in paint, giggling like teenagers. He didn't even yell. He just pinched the bridge of his nose and scolded us."

You adopted a deeper, serious tone, mimicking Damian. "'You two are being ridiculous. Cease this display of affection immediately. You are missing the trim.'"

"We just giggled," you whispered to Dick. "We kept being cute. We couldn't help it. Because with you, even a chore is a game."

"So," you concluded, tightening your grip on his hands. "I promise you this, Dick Grayson. I promise to jump in the pool when it’s freezing. I promise to handle your chaotic friends and your complicated life. I promise to be the one who knows the books on your nightstand. I want to drive away with you. I want your complications. I want your dreary Mondays. Because, honey...without all the exes, fights, and flaws, we wouldn't be standing here so tall."

"I love you," you finished, breathlessly.

Dick looked at you as if you were the only source of light in the universe. He blinked rapidly, clearing the moisture from his eyes, and brought your hands to his lips, kissing them reverently before taking a deep breath to steady himself.

"Follow that," he muttered to the crowd, earning a ripple of laughter that broke the tension.

He cleared his throat, his expression shifting from playful to profoundly sincere. He looked down at you, his height giving him that protective, encompassing presence that you had grown to crave.

"y/n," he began, his voice rich and steady. "You talked about the books on my nightstand. But you are the best story I have ever read. And I never want to finish it."

"You mentioned my exes, and the fights, and the flaws," he said, acknowledging the rocky road of his past relationships. It was no secret that Dick Grayson had loved and lost, that he had struggled to balance his dual life with his heart. "For a long time, I looked at my past as a series of failures. 'Accidents' of timing. Accidents of circumstance. People I hurt, or people who hurt me because I couldn't be what they needed."

"I hate accidents," he stated firmly. "In my line of work, an accident means someone gets hurt. An accident means a lack of control. I spent my life training to eliminate accidents. To catch the bar every single time. To land on my feet."

He stepped closer, invading your personal space in the way only he was allowed to do.

"I hate accidents," he repeated, softer now. "Except for when we went from friends to this."

"Because that wasn't a plan, was it? It wasn't a mission briefing. It was messy. It was the happiest accident of my life."

"You stand here and say you want my complications," Dick shook his head in wonder. "Do you have any idea what that means to me? People usually want the hero. They want the mask, or the smile, or the Wayne connections. They want the bright colors."

"But my life isn't always bright colors. Sometimes it's grey. Sometimes it's black and blue."

"I want your dreary Mondays too," he vowed, his voice thick with emotion. "I want the days when you're tired and cranky and don't want to talk. I want the days where the laundry piles up and the sink is broken. I spent so much of my life flying high above the city, looking down at the lights, that I forgot what it was like to just...live in a home."

"You give me that. You give me the ground. You give me a place to land."

He squeezed your hands. "So, let the paper rings be enough. I don't need the shiny things either. I don't need the accolades or the headlines. I just need you."

"I want to wake up next to you when we're old and grey. I want to argue about what color to paint the nursery—and I promise to actually paint the walls that time." He turned and winked at Damian, who rolled his eyes but looked pleased.

"I want to drive with you. Anywhere. Nowhere. As long as you're in the passenger seat."

"Because," Dick lowered his voice, making the moment intimate despite the audience, "darling, you're the one that I want. Through the long nights, through the cold winters, through the noise of this city... it's always been you."

The officiant, sensing the sheer magnetic pull between the two of you, cleared his throat gently. He went through the exchange of rings—gold, not paper, though the sentiment held true. You slid the band onto Dick’s finger, his hand warm and steady. He slid yours on, his fingers lingering on your skin.

"Do you, Richard John Grayson, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do," Dick said, the words vibrating in the air.

"And do you, y/n y/m/n y/l/n, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do," you answered, your voice ringing clear.

"Then, by the power vested in me," the officiant smiled, closing his book, "I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Dick didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, cupping your face in his hands as if you were something precious and breakable, though he knew you were made of steel.He kissed you once. It was soft, a featherlight brush of lips, a promise. For the friendship.

He pulled back a fraction of an inch, his eyes searching yours, before leaning in again.

He kissed you twice. This one was firmer, filled with the warmth of the memories you had just shared—the pool, the paint, the chase. For the love.And then, as the crowd began to cheer, he leaned in a third time.

This kiss was the one that sealed it. It was deep and lingering, pouring every ounce of his soul into you. It was the kiss of a man who had finally come home. It tasted of joy and relief and a future that stretched out endlessly before you. It went on, ignoring the polite duration of a wedding kiss, ignoring the whistles from Jason and the applause from the Titans. It was a kiss that said, I’m not letting go.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you breathless, foreheads resting against each other, the world felt dizzy and new.

The applause was a roar in the background, but in the small space between your faces, there was only silence.

"You're the one that I want," you whispered, the words falling from your lips like a prayer.

Dick smiled, that dazzling, genuine smile that was just for you. "You're the one that I want," he whispered back, in perfect unison.

And somewhere in the distance, you could have sworn you heard a melody start to play.

em speaks!

Ummmm so I may have cried writing this. After not writing for a while and then coming back and writing this....boy oh boy did it pull out the water works.

Somebody take "..." away from me pleasee

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“Nothing.” You bite back a grin, heat bubbling up despite the danger. “It’s just, everyone always makes you sound… I don’t know. Taller. Broodier.”

He glares. “I’m not here to live up to your expectations.”

You can’t help it. You laugh, a nervous little sound muffled against your sleeve. “Okay, sorry, don’t get your tights in a twist boy wonder.”

His scowl only deepens, and then a crackle from his comm has him turning his head. A man’s voice, Batman, you realize with a shiver, low and commanding. Robin mutters something back, sharp and clipped, before his gaze settles on you again.

“Go home,” he says, more tired than angry this time. “This isn’t a game.”

“But my dad…” You hesitate. Your dad is still out there, talking fast, and you can’t tell if he’s winning or losing.

“Your dad’s fine,” Robin adds quickly, softer now. “Batman’s got him. But if you stay, you’ll make it worse.” 

You study him for a beat, and beneath the impatience, you catch it: the edge of worry. Not just about the mission. About you. Something inside you twists.

“Fine,” you mutter. “But only because you’re bossy.”

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He just takes your wrist and tugs you down a different alley, cape brushing your arm as he half-drags you back toward the safer streets. He doesn’t let go until the noise has faded and the streetlamps burn steady again.

When you reach the corner near your house, he finally stops. Folds his arms. “You’re gonna stay put this time?”

“Yes, mom,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. For the first time, he cracks a smile. Just a twitch of his mouth, quick and bright, before he shakes his head like he can’t believe you.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “You’re lucky you’re not grounded for life.”

And then he’s gone, a flash of cape against the skyline.

You stand there on your street corner, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with mobsters, and think, So Robin is shorter than expected. Bossier. Maybe even kind of annoying.

But also…he might just be the most interesting person you’ve ever met.

-

The second time you see him, it’s by accident. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You weren’t looking for him. You swear you weren’t. You were only out walking because your apartment felt suffocating and Gotham, for all its broken glass and shadows, still felt like it might offer air. But when you cut down Burnside Avenue, past the flickering neon of the diner, he drops from the fire escape two feet in front of you. The cape swishes. The boots hit concrete.

“Seriously?” he mutters. “What are you doing out here again?”

You nearly jump out of your sneakers. “Oh my god! Do you always sneak up on people like that?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of my thing.” He’s glaring, but it doesn’t land right. His mouth is tight, sure, but his voice sounds more like a boy caught between annoyance and…something else. Worry, maybe. “You don’t learn, do you? Crime Alley ring any bells?”

You cross your arms. “I wasn’t in Crime Alley. I was, like, three blocks over.”

“That’s not the point.” He sighs, the sound way too old for his age. “Gotham’s not safe for late-night strolls.”

You almost tell him it’s not safe in daylight either, but then you catch it; the way his shoulders hunch, like the weight of protecting a whole city has been shoved into bones that haven’t even finished growing. And suddenly you don’t feel like arguing. Instead, you shrug, pretending casual. “You always hang around diners waiting for girls to wander by?”

His mask tilts toward you, eyes narrowing. Then, to your surprise, he huffs a laugh. It’s short, almost embarrassed. “You think I was waiting for you?”

“Well, were you?”

“No.” Too fast. “I mean…no.”

But later, when you climb the fire escape to your roof and find him sitting there, swinging his legs like he owns the place, you realize you don’t actually believe him.

-

The roof of your building isn’t glamorous. Tar paper bubbled from rain, rust stains streaking down the side of the water tank, the occasional pigeon that refuses to be intimidated by you. But when you push the heavy door open and step out, the air feels different. Gotham’s hum is still there, sirens, horns, the buzz of neon, but up here it doesn’t press as hard against your ribs.

And more often than not lately, he’s already there. Robin sits cross-legged on the ledge, or sprawled on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes, cape fanned around him like he doesn’t care how ridiculous it looks. Sometimes he drops down a few seconds after you arrive, startling you with the scrape of boots on metal. Either way, it starts to feel like a routine: your door creaking, his head lifting, both of you pretending not to be waiting for each other.

“Busy night?” you ask one evening, sliding down to sit a safe distance away.

“Busier than yours,” he deadpans. “You know, most people spend their nights doing homework. Watching TV. Not scaling fire escapes.”

“Homework doesn’t come with a view.” You tilt your head at the skyline. Gotham glitters in a way that almost tricks you into thinking it’s beautiful.

He snorts, but when you glance sideways, you catch the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. That’s how it always goes. You jab at him, he pretends he’s above it, and somewhere in between, you both soften.

-

Over time, the conversations stretch longer. You tell him about your dad, how he’s never home, how he burns through notebooks and cups of stale coffee like they’re oxygen. How you’re not sure if you admire him or resent him, and how sometimes it feels like Gotham chews your family as much as it does everyone else.

Robin doesn’t laugh, doesn’t brush it off. He just sits there, chin in his gloved hand, listening like every word is weighty. When you finish, he nods once, sharp and certain, like he’s filing it away as important.

And then, in quieter moments, he lets pieces of himself slip through. Not many, always measured, always cautious, but enough. How Batman trains him until his bones ache. How his armor never feels like it fits, how the bruises bloom in places no one ever sees. How sometimes he doesn’t know if he’s saving Gotham or if Gotham is slowly eating him alive.

His voice is always lower when he says those things, almost lost to the hum of the city. Like he’s afraid of being overheard by shadows.

You never tell him, but that’s when the crush starts. Not the giggling, diary-scrawled kind your friends whisper about. This is quieter. He isn’t even cute, not really. His ears stick out, his voice still cracks if he laughs too hard, his nose looks like it’s been broken once already. But he carries himself like every problem in Gotham belongs to him, and when he looks at you, you feel like you matter in a way the city never lets you.

-

Some nights you talk about nothing at all. Pizza debates that spiral into full-blown arguments.

“New Trioni’s is better than Angelo’s. Don’t argue with me, I’m right.”

“You’re so wrong,” he shoots back, mock-offended. “Trioni’s slices flop over like wet paper. Angelo’s can hold its shape when you fold it.”

“Who folds their pizza?” you demand, eyes wide.

“Real Gothamites,” he says with all the gravitas of someone who’s fourteen and just learning what the word “gravitas” means.

The bickering lasts twenty minutes, ending with you scribbling “TRIONI’S > ANGELO’S” on the back of your notebook and holding it up in his face until he swats at you.

Other nights, you complain about teachers. Yours, who you swear has made it their personal mission to fail you, and his, who he can’t talk about too much but still slips through in hints. “It’s like… training disguised as lessons. Fail and you do push-ups until your arms give out.”

You tell him that’s got to be child abuse. He rolls his eyes. “It’s Gotham.”

-

It happens on a night when Gotham feels especially sharp. The air smells like rain on copper pipes, and somewhere far off a siren wails, long and low. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t sneak out again, but promises don’t hold much weight in this city. You’d only been a few blocks from home when the shouting started. Two guys fighting over a busted radio, the kind of thing you should’ve ignored. You’d frozen, pulse climbing, when one of them noticed you watching.

It doesn’t take long. Heavy footsteps. A hand grabbing too close to your arm.  And then he’s there. Robin drops from the fire escape like a shadow snapping into place. A blur of red, green, and anger. His boot catches the guy’s chest, sends him sprawling. The other one bolts.

“You again,” he grits out as he drags you behind him, voice cracking just enough to remind you he’s not much older than you.

You mean to thank him, but the words catch when you see him stumble. Just a hitch, a fraction of a limp as he turns. His arm is tight against his side, hand flexing like he’s trying not to use it.

“Are you hurt?” you blurt.

“I’m fine.” He tries for firm, but it’s more defensive than convincing.

“You’re bleeding,” you insist, catching the dark smear seeping through his tunic.

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Your voice sharpens, louder than you mean it to. “And you’re not going back out there until you let me look.”

He stares at you, eyes unreadable behind the mask, like he’s calculating the odds of you actually tackling him if he refuses. Finally, with a long, theatrical sigh, he mutters, “Fine. Five minutes.”

-

Your apartment is embarrassingly small. Peeling wallpaper. A couch with stuffing trying to claw its way out of the seams. The bathroom’s worse, barely enough room for the sink, the tub, and both of you crammed inside.

“Sit,” you order, tugging at his wrist until he perches awkwardly on the closed toilet lid, cape spilling over the floor like dark water.

“This is unnecessary,” he says, though his voice wobbles when you press a towel against his ribs.

“Unnecessary is bleeding out in a back alley,” you snap, trying to hold your hands steady. The towel comes away red. Too red. “God, do you even know how to take care of yourself?”

His eyes flick up at you then, sharp, defensive, but there’s something softer underneath. Something that makes your stomach twist.

“You sound like him,” he mutters.

“Batman?”

He doesn’t answer, but the silence is enough. You grab the first aid kit from under the sink, bandages, alcohol wipes, the kind of things your dad keeps for paper cuts and clumsy accidents, not vigilantes. Still, you make it work.

“Hold still,” you warn, tearing open an alcohol pad.

“I am still.”

“You’re fidgeting.”

“You’re bossy.”

“Better bossy than dead.”

That finally earns you the tiniest smile, quick and crooked, gone almost before you register it.

You’re close now, too close. Kneeling in front of him, hands braced against his side as you patch what you can. The smell of leather and sweat clings to his tunic, the faintest hint of smoke in his hair. His breathing evens under your touch, like he’s not used to anyone bothering to fix him up.

When you look up, his eyes are already on you. The mask gleams under the bathroom’s weak light, distorting him into something untouchable. And suddenly it feels wrong. Wrong to be this close to someone whose face you can’t really see.

“You ever get tired of it?” you ask quietly. “The mask?”

His shoulders tense. He looks away, down at the cracked tiles. For a second you think he won’t answer. Then his hands lift, hesitant and slow.

The domino comes off.

You freeze. It’s not some hardened soldier under there. Not a myth. Just a boy. Hair damp and stubborn where sweat’s plastered it to his forehead. Eyes too big, too tired, too human. A face you recognize from posters years ago—the acrobat from Haly’s Circus.

“…you’re Dick Grayson,” you breathe, the name spilling out before you can stop it.

His chin tips up, defensive. “You gonna tell anyone?”

“Of course not.” The words fall out fast, desperate to close the space between you. “I’d never.”

He studies you, eyes searching your face like he’s bracing for betrayal. Whatever he sees must be enough, because his shoulders ease, his breath lets out slow. “I shouldn’t have told you,” he mutters. “Batman would kill me if he knew.”

You nudge his knee with yours, a tiny grin tugging at your lips despite the tight knot in your chest. “Guess it’s a good thing Batman doesn’t know everything.”

For the first time, he laughs. Really laughs. It’s uneven, boyish, and it shoots straight through you, leaving you dizzy. And in that cramped little bathroom, with the hum of the city seeping through the cracked window and the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air, you realize this isn’t just Robin anymore. It isn’t just Dick Grayson either. It’s both.

And it feels like a secret only you get to keep.

-

The day you find out you’re leaving, it doesn’t feel real. Your dad doesn’t sit you down or soften it, he just mutters over cold coffee and half-packed files, “It’s not safe anymore. We’re going. End of discussion.”

That’s all you get. No details, no vote. By nightfall, cardboard boxes are stacked in the living room, your whole life folded and taped shut. Gotham shrinks to the size of a trunk and a suitcase. You don’t cry. Not right away. But when the apartment gets quiet, when your dad slams another box closed and the walls echo hollow, you slip out the window and climb.

The roof is empty at first. No cape on the ledge, no boy dangling his boots. Just the hum of the city below, as if it doesn’t care you’re about to vanish. You wrap your arms around yourself and stare out at the skyline, hoping, willing, he’ll show.

And then, like he always does, he drops into place beside you. “You weren’t gonna say goodbye?” he asks, voice soft under the gravel.

Your throat goes tight. “I didn’t know how.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, mask half-lit by the flicker of a neon sign, waiting.

So you talk. About how your dad’s stories finally drew the wrong kind of attention. About how Gotham feels like it’s about to spit your family out after chewing through you all so thoroughly there will be nothing left, and this time there’s no choice but to run. About how much you hate leaving; not the apartment, not even the city, but this. These nights. This secret. Him.

He listens like he always does, quiet and intent, the kind of quiet that means he’s holding every word.

Finally, you look at him and whisper, “I don’t want to forget this.”

Something flickers in his expression, too quick to name. He shifts, pulling the domino mask off and turning it in his hands until the edges press little crescents into his palms.

“Then don’t,” he says simply. “Don’t forget me.”

Your heart lodges in your throat. You want to tell him you won’t, that you couldn’t if you tried. You want to tell him that the crush you’ve been burying is bigger than you can hold, that you’re leaving with a piece of yourself you didn’t know you’d given away. But you’re fourteen, and the words are too big, too heavy.

So instead you nod, fiercely, until the tears blur the skyline. “I won’t.”

For a moment, you swear he leans like he might say something else. Might ask you to stay, might admit he doesn’t want to forget either. But then your dad’s voice calls up from the street, sharp and impatient, and the moment shatters.

You stand. He stays seated, mask still in his hands, like he can’t quite put it back on. You want to hug him, to make the promise tangible, but you’re not sure if that’s allowed, so you just hold his gaze for one more beat and whisper, “Goodbye, Dick.”

“Goodbye,” he echoes, voice raw around the edges.

You don’t look back as you climb down the fire escape, suitcase handle cutting into your palm. The car door slams, your dad starts the engine, and Gotham begins to slide past the windows like a dream smearing at the edges.

But when you finally let yourself glance back, there he is, perched on the rooftop, cape trailing behind him, mask dangling loose in his hands.

A boy too small for the weight he carries, silhouetted against a city that will never stop asking more. Watching you leave like it’s the last thing he’ll ever let himself do.

And then the car turns the corner, and he’s gone.

-

You’d always told yourself you weren’t keeping tabs, not really. But the truth is you couldn’t help it. Gotham’s headlines are hard to ignore. Batman never vanished; he’s a permanent fixture in the background of every crisis, every scandal, every blurred photograph of a cape against a floodlight.

Robin was there too, at least for a while. But not your Robin. This one was smaller, sharper, someone else’s kid in colors that weren’t his. The news never explained the swap. Gotham doesn’t explain anything.

As for Dick Grayson? You never let yourself look too hard. Some nights in Metropolis, you’d type his name into a search bar, just to hover over the letters. Circus boy, ward of Bruce Wayne, rumored dropout. Then you’d slam the laptop closed before the results could load. It felt like breaking some unspoken promise, like trespassing on a secret that had only ever been yours.

So you let him fade into the background of your memory. Or tried to. Life went on. You grew up. Metropolis U gave you a degree you’re still not sure you earned. You dated a little, kissed boys who didn’t make your chest ache the way rooftop laughter once did. You told yourself you were moving forward, not circling back. And yet, here you are. Returning to Gotham with a job at the paper, retracing your father’s path like a shadow.

Your dad isn’t with you this time. He’s staying behind, insisting he’s too old for Gotham’s grind. So it’s just you and your boxes, your byline, and the faint echo of footsteps on tar paper that you never really forgot.

You pause on the corner outside your new apartment, suitcase wheels caught on a crack in the sidewalk. Gotham breathes heavy around you; neon flicker, taxi horn, the muffled thump of bass from a club down the street.

You wonder, not for the first time, if you’ll see him. And just as quickly, you remind yourself: probably not. Gotham eats people. It chews them up, spits them out, and even the ones who survive don’t always stick around.

Still, when you climb the steps and let yourself into the dim little apartment, you can’t help glancing out the window at the rooflines beyond. Half of you expects to see a flash of cape, the silhouette of a boy you once knew.

But the skyline is empty.

-

By now, Gotham has settled into your bones again. It’s been months since you unpacked your last box, months since you stopped flinching at the way the city exhales smoke and sirens instead of air. The novelty wore off fast. Gotham is like that; she lets you think she’s offering something new, then reminds you it was always just grit and rot under the paint.

Your nights taste like coffee grounds and exhaustion, your mornings like stale bagels eaten while jogging across crosswalks. The newsroom smells of burnt ink and anxiety, and it clings to you even when you leave.

So when your editor sent you chasing whispers across the river, you didn’t think twice. Blüdhaven, he’d said, a smuggling ring near the docks. Gotham’s smaller, meaner cousin, the kind of place your dad used to warn you about but still sent you to buy fireworks from when you were twelve.

You’d told yourself you could handle it. Gotham-born, seasoned on backstreets and rooftops, no stranger to shadows. You’ve always been too curious for your own good.

Turns out curiosity doesn’t count for much when the alley closes in on you.

-

Blüdhaven smells worse than Gotham. Like saltwater left too long in a rusty bucket, sharp and sour all at once. The alley is narrow, brick pressing close on either side, graffiti bleeding into one another under the yellow smear of a streetlamp. You’d only meant to skirt the block, maybe snap a photo of the cargo crates stacked like crooked teeth along the waterline. Instead, you’ve got three men cutting you off, their boots heavy, their breath reeking of stale beer.

The wall is cold against your back.

“Where you think you’re going, sweetheart?” one asks, voice slick. He’s taller than you, bulkier too, the kind of man who’s never been told no in a way that stuck.

Your pulse kicks hard. Your mind tries to measure exits, two steps left, maybe a sprint to the chain-link, but they’re already tightening the circle. The sound of their shoes on wet concrete echoes too loud, too final.

Your hand clamps around your notebook, knuckles white. For one mad second you consider swinging it like a weapon. And then the air splits.

He comes from above. A shadow drops out of the night, suit a streak of ink, boots hitting the first man’s chest with a crack that rattles the brick. The impact sends him sprawling, air rushing out of his lungs in a howl. The second man barely has time to register movement before a blur of blue arcs through the dim. The escrima stick connects with his jaw, a clean, efficient crack that folds him sideways.

The third curses, steel flashing as he pulls a knife, but it’s useless. The stranger moves faster, duck, twist, wrist locked and wrenched. The blade clatters uselessly to the ground. A sharp elbow, a spin, and the man collapses onto the damp concrete, groaning. It takes less than a minute. You don’t breathe until it’s over. Then theres silence.

The three men groan in a heap, nursing their bruises, and you’re left standing in the mouth of the alley with your notebook pressed to your chest like a shield.

He straightens. Under the weak streetlight, he looks unreal. Black and blue armor clings to broad shoulders, the stylized bird spreading across his chest in sharp, gleaming lines. He spins one escrima stick in his hand like it weighs nothing, the move so casual it’s showy. The mask gleams, eyes whited out, hiding everything but the shape of his mouth, the curve of his jaw.

And then he turns to you.

“Still can’t stay out of trouble, huh?” The voice hits first. Familiar enough to send a jolt through you. It’s smoother now, deeper, no trace of the cracks it used to have, but you know it. You know it like you know your own pulse.

Your knees nearly give. “I-what?”

He steps closer, head cocked, smirk curling at his mouth like he’s been waiting years to use it. Except there’s nothing boyish about him anymore. His shoulders fill the armor like it was built for him, lines sleek and lethal. His movements hum with confidence, a looseness earned from years of knowing exactly what he can do and knowing everyone else is a step behind.

The mask hides half his face, but what it doesn’t hide is worse. The jawline is sharper, cut like someone sculpted it with glass. His mouth is curved in a smile that’s both infuriating and magnetic. His body radiates energy, command, like he could take on the whole block if you dared him.

Your brain scrambles. This isn’t the boy you knew. This isn’t the awkward kid who smudged ink into your margins and laughed too hard at your jokes. For a second you’re convinced you’ve conjured him out of memory. That your exhaustion and the shadows stitched together a hallucination just to taunt you.

And then, like he knows you need proof, he lifts his hands and peels the mask away.

The world tilts.

“…Dick?” It’s his eyes that betray him. Blue. Bright. The exact shade you’d memorized years ago under the moonlight on your roof. But steadier now. Sharper. Older.

“Hi.” His grin spreads slow, deliberate, every inch of it self-satisfied. “Miss me?”

You forget how to breathe. Because this…this is really not the boy you left. Not your awkward crush with too-big ears and a voice that squeaked mid-laugh. Not the kid who leaned stiffly when you first bumped his shoulder.

This is a man. He’s taller, towering over you in a way that makes the brick wall at your back feel unnecessary. Every inch of him looks carved, built, honed. His arms ripple with muscle that wasn’t there before, his chest fills the blue emblem like it was made to draw the eye. His hair is longer, darker, his mouth sharper, the grin edged with confidence you don’t know how to stand against.

He looks like someone who walked out of a fantasy you never would’ve dared to put on paper.

You blink once. Twice. Three times. Your brain refuses to reconcile the two images; the scowling boy with smudged gloves and this unfairly gorgeous man standing in front of you. “What… what happened to you?” The words fly out, strangled, mortifying. Heat floods your face before you can stop it.

His eyebrow arches. He tucks the mask into his belt, casual. “Puberty?”

It should be funny. And it is funny. The corner of your mouth twitches in betrayal, a laugh half-born and dying in your throat. But your chest is twisting, hard, because you can still see him underneath it all. Still see the boy who leaned too far forward on ledges, who let his laugh crack when he forgot to control it. The boy who told you secrets in the dark and asked you not to forget.

And now here he is, all swagger and charm and jawlines that should be illegal. Handsome in a way that would be arrogance if he couldn’t back it up with every move he just made. Your pulse is hammering, and the spiral is real. What do you do with a crush that was built on personality, on earnestness and laughter and responsibility, when it comes packaged now in a body like this? When it’s sharpened into something magnetic, commanding, impossible to look away from?

You stare at him, dazed, like you’re trying to catch up to reality. “You… you were not this good-looking when we were kids.”

His grin only widens, cocky and warm all at once. “So you were paying attention.”

You want the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Because Gotham didn’t just chew Dick Grayson up and spit him back out. It reforged him into something you are absolutely not ready for.

For a few stunned seconds after he speaks, you stand there and do nothing but hear your heart in your ears. The alley is wet and ringing; distant gulls, a siren far-off, the tinny drip-drip of a faulty gutter. One of the guys on the ground groans, rolls over, thinks better of it, and stays facedown. The streetlamp above you flickers like it’s chewing glass.

“Okay,” you manage finally, voice rasped thin. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. He tips his head, searches your face like he’s tracing the years there. Then, practical as a tide, he tucks the mask back over his eyes. The Nightwing look clicks into place with a finality that makes your stomach dip. “Walk with me,” he adds. “This block’s loud for all the wrong reasons.”

He offers a hand. Warm leather. Callused palm. The glove creaks when you take it, and you try very hard not to catalog the new details; how much larger his hand feels than it used to, how steady it is, the easy strength under the restraint. He doesn’t tug so much as guide, falling into step beside you like your bodies remember the distance they’ve always kept.

You exit the alley into air that smells like engine oil and salt-stung wood. The docks breathe: winches clicking, a forklift grumbling, water slapping pilings in a thawed rhythm. Nightwing angles you toward the brighter avenue, keeping himself between you and the shadows without making a show of it. His presence folds around you the way his cape used to on rooftops; same instinct, different body.

“You’re really here,” you say, because it’s the only sentence that keeps starting in your brain.

“So are you,” he answers. “Thought I was hallucinating when I saw you in that alley. Journalism, huh?”

“It runs in the family,” you say, apologetic and defiant all at once.

He hums. “I noticed.”

“You noticed?”

“Hard to miss,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Bylines. Two pieces on the housing ordinance, a profile on the Jackson Street food pantry, a fire that shouldn’t have spread as fast as it did. Your ledes are cleaner. Fewer adverbs.”

You blink at him. “You… read them?”

He shrugs one shoulder. The motion makes the blue stripe arc over muscle in a way that should be illegal. “I keep an eye on Gotham. And people who used to live on rooftops with me.”

It takes a few steps to realize your face is doing the warm thing again. You look away, huff out a laugh like you can steam the heat into the Blüdhaven night. “Still a critic.”

“Still right,” he says, and there’s the grin; quick, bright, and edged with something fond. “You got sharper.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he says, tilting his chin, “you’re not the kid who followed trouble because it glittered. You followed it in there because you had a plan. You clocked their shoes before their faces. You kept your notebook hand free. You put your back to a wall.”

You glance up at him. “You saw all that in, what, thirty seconds?”

“Ten,” he says, entirely too pleased with himself. “Give or take.”

The walk bleeds you out toward the waterfront road. Nightwing crosses you behind a stack of palettes with the same unthinking choreography he used to have on rooftops. One hand light against your elbow, a check for traffic, the quick tilt of his head as his comm crackles something at him you can’t hear. He answers it without breaking stride, then flicks the channel off and comes back to you like you’re the station he meant to tune to all along.

“Your dad?” he asks after a beat.

“Back in Metropolis,” you say. “He says he’s retired. I give it six months.”

His mouth pulls wry. “Retirement never sticks.”

“Does it for you?” The question flies out before you can leash it. You mean it to be casual; it lands heavier, threaded with too many years, too many unsent searches of his name at one a.m.

He doesn’t flinch. “Didn’t for me,” he says. “I needed… different air. A city I could learn without being measured against a cape that walks like thunder.”

“Blüdhaven,” you say. “Gotham left out in the rain.”

He huffs a laugh. “Something like that.” Then he glances at you from under the curve of the mask, gravity sliding back in. “It grows on you if you let it. Like mold. Or a stray.”

“Romantic,” you deadpan.

“Hey, I never promised romance,” he lies very badly, because even his walk is a little romantic now, loose-hipped and careful in the dark, shoulder brushing yours when the sidewalk narrows, the night clicking into place around him like it’s learned the shape of his stride.

You pass a shuttered bait shop with a neon marlin blinking. A stray cat watches you from a garbage can lid, eyes pearls in the lamplight. Your shoes squeak; his steps don’t make sound at all. Every few yards he scans the roofs with that lifted chin. You remember the gesture, how it used to be smaller on a smaller body, and you picture the mental map overlaid on what your eyes see: viable fire escapes, plausible ambushes, routes-out stitched in blue light.

“How long were you on that roof?” you ask. “Before you dropped in.”

He contemplates the question like it has a proper answer. “Long enough to count three sets of footsteps and a knife. Not long enough to forgive you later if you’d been stubborn enough to run.”

“I wasn’t going to run,” you start, then hedge, “for long.”

He barks a laugh. It slides into something softer before it’s done. “You’re… different,” he says, the word careful, as if he’s testing the edges to make sure it won’t cut.

“Older,” you offer.

“That, yeah.” The corner of his mouth tugs. “But it’s not just that. You walk like you own your space now, not like you’re renting it. You look people in the eye longer. You… speak headline and copy without thinking.” He flicks his gaze over you, deliberate enough that you feel seen rather than scanned. “You still don’t fold your pizza, I bet.”

“I will die on that hill,” you say gravely.

“You will die incorrect,” he returns, equally grave, and a piece of rooftop-laughter that you thought you’d boxed up somewhere years ago shakes itself awake and trots between you like it never left.

“Okay, Mr. Puberty,” you say, putting a hand to your chest as if to ward off the unfairness. “Since we’re making observations, what exactly are you eating to look like you could bench-press a yacht?”

“Protein bars and spite,” he says, deadpan. “Mostly spite.”

You trip on a cracked tile and he catches you without thinking, a warm bracket at your elbow and the lightest pressure of his other hand at your hip to steady you. It lasts half a blink, then he’s gone again, space restored, the afterimage of touch ringing in your nerves like a bell. The alley stench loosens for a second, and you catch the smell of him beneath leather and city: clean soap, ozone, summer heat trapped in fabric that moves like skin.

“Thanks,” you say belatedly, and hope he can’t see the flush doing somersaults up your throat.

“Occupational hazard,” he says lightly. “Saving journalists who don’t fold their pizza.”

“I saved the notebook,” you argue, brandishing it. “That counts as self-preservation.”

His eyes crinkle. “God, I missed that.”

You were not prepared for those words. They land like a warm hand on your sternum, like the exact right weight after too many years of empty space. You swallow once, twice. The docks open into a long, bleak avenue where the streetlights flock in nervous clusters. He steers you toward the brighter end.

“I kept tabs,” you admit, voice tucking itself small. “Not… really. Not like a creep. Just… Batman was always there, and then there was a Robin who wasn’t my Robin, and I didn’t…” You shake your head, chase off the tangle. “Sometimes I typed your name and closed the laptop before the results could load. It felt wrong, like prying at something that was mine because you gave it to me.”

He walks a few slow steps without answering. The night stretches, thin and elastic. When he finally speaks, it’s soft, the timbre reaching you beneath the noise. “I’m glad you didn’t,” he says. “Go looking, I mean. Part of me… needed to earn being found.”

You glance up. His expression is harder to read with the mask back on, but the mouth, older now, yes, and built for trouble, goes gentle in the corners. He kicks at a pebble; it skitters into the gutter. “The leaving was messy,” he says. “I had to be more than a shadow to a shadow.”

“And now you’re a bird,” you say. “Blue suits you.”

“Figures you’d appreciate the re-branding,” he says lightly, then, “yours does too, though.”

“What?”

“The re-brand. It suits you,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice now that didn’t exist when he was fourteen. “You grew up into your name. Your bylines. Your whole… thing. It looks good on you.”

You stare at him, cheeks doing that heat thing again. “My… thing.”

“Your spine,” he clarifies, and the tease bumps to the side to let the truth through. “You always had one. It just… fits you better now.”

The ridiculous urge to cry chooses that exact moment to crest, so you let out a little choking laugh instead and look at a billboard for a discount mattress warehouse like it’s fascinating art. “You’ve gotten complimentary in your old age,” you mutter.

“It’s the protein bars,” he says, solemn, and you trip into laughter that tastes like your rooftop nights, cold air, the city in your lungs, the right person at your shoulder. A night bus sways past; he slow-blinks away the wind grit. You fall quiet for a block, footsteps scuffing in sync. Somewhere inland, someone’s playing a radio too loud. It spills a chorus that means nothing and everything past the brick and rebar.

“You’re staying?” he asks eventually. “Gotham, I mean. Not a six-month and run?”

“I’m staying,” you say, and feel the words set in your body like a foundation finally poured. “When I told my dad, he said it’s my turn to decide what Gotham is to me.”

He nods, thoughtful. “Blüdhaven’s an extension of the same storm. We share weather fronts.” His mouth twists, fond and rueful. “I’ll be around.”

“You always are,” you say before you can help it.

He glances sidelong, and the grin that takes his face then is uncomplicatedly pleased. It should be arrogant; somehow it just looks like sunlight found a gap in the boards. You wonder how many people get to see that one and decide maybe you don’t want to know.

A woman behind a plexiglass window sells cigarettes and bus passes. The night wind lifts the edges of the taped notices, makes them whisper. You stop under the awning, the two of you edged into the white noise of the fluorescents, and the city swivels into a gentler key.

“I can call you a car,” he says. “Or,” He hesitates, then crooks two fingers. From somewhere you don’t see, a motorcycle growls to life, a sleek, low thing that rolls obediently out of the gloom to settle at the curb like a well-trained animal. He pats the seat with absent affection. “I can take you back.”

You stare. “Did you name it? Like the Nightcycle or something equally as lame?”

“I absolutely did not,” he lies, horrendously, then swings a leg over and steadies the bike with a boot. Up close, he’s too much again; too many lines and angles that weren’t there the last time you catalogued him, too much easy strength, too much blue. “Helmet,” he says, offering one out. It’s heavier than you expect; when you take it, your fingers brush, leather over skin, static jumping.

You hesitate. “Are you going to drive like a responsible citizen?”

He gives you a look that is eighty percent angel, twenty percent criminal. “Define responsible.”

“Alive when we get there.”

“Deal.”

You settle onto the bike behind him with the kind of care that admits you are about to do a reckless thing on purpose. Your knees fit against his hips like there’s only one way to sit; your hands find the line of his jacket and pause, hovering. He reaches back without looking, takes your wrists, and draws your arms around his waist until your palms meet. The gesture is matter-of-fact and wildly intimate. You can feel him laughing, silent and low, at your ear.

“Still bossy,” you say, because your voice needs somewhere to put the tremor.

“I remember you like being told what to do,” he says, and then, so quick and soft you almost miss it, “Sometimes.”

It shouldn’t hit the way it does. It shouldn’t make heat pool low in your stomach, shouldn’t make your pulse trip against your throat, shouldn’t leave you wondering if the helmet’s padding is enough to hide the color climbing up your cheeks. But it does.

You laugh, helpless, a little breathless, because if you don’t laugh, you might actually whimper. The sound crackles in your throat and goes thin in the rush of the night air. You can feel the vibration of the engine through your thighs, the leather of his jacket under your hands, the solid line of his body in front of you, and now, layered over all of that, his words, humming through your nerves in a way that feels dangerously good.

He glances back once, eyes catching yours over his shoulder, mask bright in the streetlight. The look is quick, but it’s enough. He knows what he said. He knows how it landed. And then the bike glides into the street, smooth and certain, as if nothing in the world has shifted, even though everything inside you just did.

The city rushes at you, neon and shadow blurring into ribbons. You clutch harder without meaning to, breath hitching, and he adjusts his posture just enough to shield you from the first hard push of wind. The shift presses your chest closer to his back, your knees locking tighter against his hips.

Your chin bumps the back of his shoulder. There’s damp salt there, leather warmed by body heat, and the sound of him breathing, steady, rhythmic, the same cadence you used to fall asleep to on rooftops when he kept watch.

The bike thrums beneath you, vibration rolling up through your thighs, settling into your stomach, buzzing in places you don’t want to admit are suddenly very awake. Every curve of the road asks you to lean with him, to trust the drop of his weight and the strength in his shoulders, and every time you do, you feel him there under your hands; solid, certain, unshakable.

He doesn’t go fast. He goes sure. The kind of riding that says I know this grid with my eyes shut and my hands tied, and I am choosing to bring you home. But the steadiness only makes it worse; it gives you time to notice everything.

The way his body heat seeps into you through layers of leather. The flex of muscle when he shifts gears, the ripple of his stomach under your forearm as he leans into a turn. The casual way his hand adjusts the throttle, so close you imagine what it would feel like if he used that grip on you.

At a light, he puts a boot down, head turning just enough that you catch the angle of his jaw beneath the mask. He checks on you without a word. You don’t know if he can see the flush burning under your helmet, but you feel seen all the same, and it does nothing to calm the pounding in your chest.

When the light changes, he rolls forward, and you press into him again, tighter this time, because the vibration and the closeness are unraveling you inch by inch. Small things, all of them, his steadiness, his quiet, the way his body seems to know yours is there and adjusts like it belongs pressed against him.

They add up to something you don’t let yourself name yet, but you feel it everywhere.

The bike growls to a halt a block from your building. The engine cuts, and in the sudden hush the night feels sharp, like the air itself is watching. The silence rings in your ears after miles of vibration. He doesn’t move right away. He reaches back instead, gloved fingers brushing over yours where they’re still hooked around his waist. A silent reminder: you can let go now.

You don’t. Not immediately. Your fingers unclasp a second too late, reluctant to surrender the heat of him, the solid line of his body. He feels it, he has to, and yet he doesn’t call you out, just slides his hands free of the handlebars with a kind of deliberate patience.

He swings one leg over and plants his boots on the ground, bracing the bike steady with practiced ease. Then, before you can fumble an exit, he turns and holds a hand out. “Careful,” he says. His voice is rougher than you remember, steady but edged with something lower, something weightier. “It’s a little taller than you think.”

You could protest. Tell him you’ve managed steps taller than this since kindergarten. But the way he’s standing there, broad and sure, palm open, the easy invitation of it, undoes you in a way stairs never could.

You take it. His hand is warm through the leather, steady as you swing your leg back over the bike. You slide down too close, body brushing his chest for the briefest moment. The contact snaps across you like static. You feel the give of his armor under your shoulder, the heat rolling off him in a wave, the faint tang of leather and sweat that clings to him.

It should be over in an instant. Just a hand-off. But his grip lingers, a fraction longer than necessary, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around yours. Enough that you notice. Enough that your breath catches, shallow and sharp, before you tug back.

You’re on your own two feet now, the pavement gritty beneath your shoes, but your body is still buzzing from the bike, from him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears, your palms hot where his gloves touched.

“Still trouble,” he says at last, because he can’t help himself.

“Still bossy,” you volley back, because you can’t either. But this time, it doesn’t feel like banter tossed across a rooftop. It feels like a line pulled taut between you, humming with something you’ve both pretended not to hear for years.

He studies you for another long, unapologetic moment. His voice, when it comes, slips a layer down. “You grew up, you know.”

You swallow. “So did you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and it sounds like he’s acknowledging an ocean and a bridge and a lot of half-built scaffolding. His mouth curves, not the cocky smirk he used in the alley, but something older, carved from relief and surprise and the joy of recognizing someone in a crowd. “Feels like we should…” He gestures, uselessly, as if the city might supply the word.

“Pizza,” you say, because the universe clearly wants callbacks. “So I can prove you’re wrong.”

“You won’t,” he says immediately, but his eyes go bright, pleased, like you just handed him the right answer to a test he wanted you to enjoy taking.

He reaches into a belt pouch, produces a small black rectangle you’d charitably call a phone if phones weren’t usually made by people not afraid of the apocalypse. He toggles it awake, thumbs something in. When he looks up, he’s all business again, but the softened corners remain. “Same roofline,” he says. “Different skyline. You call, I land.”

“Is that your way of giving me your number?” you ask, amused and a little breathless.

“It’s my way of saying I read your ledes and I don’t want to do that from far away anymore,” he says, and that’s it. That’s the line that carves through every defense like they were drawn in chalk.

“Okay,” you say, because a bigger word would crack your throat right now. “Nightwing?”

“Mmm?”

“Thanks for the rescue.”

He dips his head once, like you just pinned a medal on him he didn’t expect to care about. “Anytime, Trouble.”

He fits the mask better on his face, swings onto the bike, and then he’s gone, blurring back into the dark with a roar that falls away quick, swallowed by Blüdhaven’s wet lungs. You stand there in the sodium light, hair mussed by a wind you’ll be thinking about for hours, hands stupidly empty of leather and heat, and you try to file this under something. Reunion. Whiplash. Beginning again.

The city exhales. Somewhere a gull laughs like it knows something. You look down at your notebook; rain freckles have started to drink through the top page. On instinct, you flip to a clean sheet, jot three words at the top: Familiar. Stranger. Home.

-

You fall into a new rhythm without meaning to.  It starts with accidents, running into him on rooftops, in alleys, when your investigations overlap his patrols. But it stops feeling accidental when he begins showing up at your office at the end of your shift, leaning against the wall like he belongs there. When he texts pizza? before you’ve even decided if you’re hungry. When you start leaving your fire escape window cracked, because somehow you know he’ll be there.

It isn’t dating. Not really. But it also isn’t not.

He has made it clear, in every way except saying it out loud over the past few months, that he wants to be in your life. And you? You haven’t decided if you’re brave enough to admit that you want him in yours just as badly.

-

The first time he picks you up after work in his civilian clothes, it knocks you sideways. You’re shuffling out of the newsroom with ink on your fingers, hair pulled back in a half-hearted bun, when you see him leaning against a lamppost. No mask. No armor. Just Dick Grayson in jeans, forearms bare, sunglasses tucked into the collar of his shirt.

He waves like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like he hasn’t just shattered the delicate line you’d kept between “him at night” and “him in the day.”

“What are you doing here?” you demand, adjusting the strap of your bag.

“Picking you up.” He shrugs, casual, like the ground didn’t just shift. “What, you’d rather take the bus?”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking the bus.”

“Sure,” he says, grin tugging at his mouth. “But where’s the fun in that?”

It’s disorienting, walking beside him in broad daylight. You keep expecting people to notice, to point, to whisper Nightwing…but no one looks twice. They just see Dick Grayson, easy in his own skin, fitting himself into your day like he’s been there all along.

And when he slings a leg over the motorcycle and offers you the helmet with that cocky tilt of his head, you don’t argue. Not really.

-

The rhythm builds. Some nights it’s him dropping by your apartment, sprawled on your couch in a t-shirt while you rant about deadlines. Some nights it’s you stitching him up again, fingers brushing skin that’s too warm, too scarred, your pulse thundering at the contact.

“You’re staring,” he says once, voice sly, eyes glinting.

“I’m working,” you snap, fumbling with the gauze.

“You’re staring,” he repeats, softer this time.

You don’t deny it. You can’t. Because sometimes it hits you out of nowhere, the sheer physicality of him. The breadth of his shoulders when he leans against your counter. The casual way he tosses his escrima sticks onto your table, muscles flexing as if they’re part of the furniture. The way his laugh curls low in his chest now, rich enough to make your skin prickle.

You’d had a crush on him once, built on personality and laughter and the relief of being seen. But now that crush is packaged in arms and jawlines and a body that moves like it knows exactly how much power it has…and you don’t know what to do with that.

You catch yourself looking more often than you should. He catches you every time. And the worst part is, he doesn’t seem to mind.

-

Pizza becomes your running joke. Trioni’s booth, sticky varnish under your elbows, slices steaming on paper plates. He folds his, smirking at you the whole time, waiting for your inevitable groan of horror.

“You’re not going to win me over,” you say, waving your floppy slice at him.

“You’ll cave eventually,” he counters, leaning back in the booth, grin sharp and pleased. “I can be very persuasive when I need to be.”

“Not this time.”

He doesn’t break eye contact as he takes a slow bite of his folded slice, chewing like he’s proving a point. It’s ridiculous. It’s infuriating. It’s so goddamn attractive you want to scream.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

He smirks. “Maybe I do.”

You throw a napkin at him. He laughs, catches it easily, and the sound rings through you like a struck bell.

-

He hadn’t planned to follow you. He hadn’t. His patrol had taken him toward the Narrows, toward the docks, a dozen other places that needed him more than one crowded strip of nightlife where you were laughing too loud in a dress that glittered like you’d stolen the stars.

But the second he spotted you, he stopped. You were walking in the middle of your pack of friends, arm hooked through one of theirs, head thrown back in a laugh that made your hair slip down your shoulders. Your dress caught every scrap of neon, sequins winking like Morse code, and for a second it was all he could see. Sparkling. Distracting. You, right there, alive and incandescent. He told himself to keep moving. To stick to patrol. 

He didn’t. He slipped into the shadows above instead, tracking you from rooftop to rooftop, his body humming with an uneasy mix of irritation and awe. You shouldn’t be out here this late, drunk and stumbling. Gotham eats people like that alive. And yet seeing you bright and unguarded, cheeks flushed, smile wide, it does something to him. Like he’s watching a life he doesn’t belong to but can’t look away from.

Then he hears it.

“Wait, wait, wait,” one of your friends slurs, catching your arm as you teeter on the curb. “You had a crush on Robin? Little Robin? Short shorts and all?” The words hit like a sucker punch. His boots still on the ledge, heart lurching up into his throat.

You groan, dramatic. “Don’t say it like that.”

Laughter erupts, loud and merciless. “I mean, Batman was literally right there,” another says. “Broody, mysterious, tall. And you went for the kid in green?”

“Listen,” you argue, slurring but determined, your hands slicing through the air as you stumble forward with them. “It wasn’t even because he was, like… hot.”

Dick goes still. Breath locked. Not hot. Not Batman. Not Superman. But… him. His fingers curl tight around the edge of the roof until the stone bites through the gloves. The city noise fades under the thunder of his pulse.

Your friends don’t let up. “You were in Metropolis for years! What about Superman? Have you seen him? Gorgeous. Dimples. Arms. Literal sunshine.”

“That’s not the point!” you insist, cutting them off with a shout, your heels clicking unevenly against the pavement. “Robin, he was… earnest, okay? Thoughtful. Responsible. He listened. He…” Your voice softens. Fragile and fierce at the same time. “He made me feel like I mattered.”

The words gut him. Because he remembers. He remembers every night on rooftops, every time you sat beside him with your knees pressed together, every secret you whispered into the dark because you trusted him to hold it. He remembers the way you looked at him like he was more than Batman’s shadow. Like he was enough. 

He’s gripping the ledge so hard he thinks it might crack under his hand.

Your friends are howling again, teasing, “God, you really do have a type. What’s next, Green Lantern?” But he’s not listening anymore. He’s locked on you, on the way your laughter shakes loose and dizzy into the night, on the memory of the boy he used to be, the boy who never believed anyone would pick him.

And here you are, years later, admitting you had. He doesn’t care that you’re drunk. Doesn’t care that you might not remember this tomorrow. Because he will. He’ll remember the conviction in your voice, the way you doubled down, the way you said he made you feel like you mattered.

Up on the ledge, hidden in shadow, Dick feels it burn through him. A match struck in the dark. And he knows he’s not letting you run from this. Next time his eyes linger, next time his hand presses at the small of your back, next time his voice drops lower than it should, you won’t get to brush it off as banter. You won’t get to hide behind excuses. Because you said it. You chose him. You always had. And he thinks you still might. And God help him, he’s not about to let you pretend otherwise.

-

The problem with Dick Grayson isn’t that he doesn’t know how to look at you. It’s that he does. He knows exactly how long to let his eyes linger before you catch him. He knows how to tilt his head so it looks like he’s teasing when it feels like something else. He knows when to let his gaze soften, how to press just enough warmth into it to make you think about things you shouldn’t, not when you’re supposed to be friends.

And this morning, as you’re face-planted into the couch cushions in a tiny, sparkly black dress, head throbbing, stomach rolling, the last thing you need is for Dick Grayson to be looking at you.

Unfortunately, he is.

“Rough night?” His voice is bright, smug, like sunshine filtered through something wicked.

You groan into the cushions. “Go away.”

“No can do.” You hear his boots cross the floor, the quiet shift of weight as he crouches beside the couch. “I figured you’d need a little… moral support. Or maybe electrolytes.”

“I need you to shut up,” you mutter.

He laughs low, warm, and irritatingly fond. “You look like roadkill.”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. He’s crouched at your side, forearms resting on his knees, hair damp from a shower, dressed down in a t-shirt that clings a little too well. His eyes take you in shamelessly; your hair a mess, mascara smudged, sparkly dress creased from sleep.

“You’re not cute. Don’t look at me,” you mumble, shoving your face back into the couch.

“Too late.” He leans his chin into his palm. “It’s seared into my brain now. You, draped over a sofa like a tragic starlet.”

“Kill me.”

“Nah.” His grin sharpens. “Not when you give me material like this.” You don’t remember how he got in your apartment. You don’t remember much, actually, past stumbling in the door last night and half-collapsing onto the couch. But you do remember the way your friends had teased you on the walk home. Robin. Batman. Superman. And your stubborn, drunken insistence that it had always been Robin.

Heat flushes through you even now, a full-body cringe. God, what if you’d said too much? What if someone had recorded it? What if—

“You snore,” Dick says, breaking into your spiral.

Your head snaps up. “I do not.”

“Like a chainsaw.” He smirks, infuriatingly pleased. “It’s cute, though. Endearing.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it one-handed, effortless, then tosses it back onto your stomach, knocking the breath out of you. “Jerk,” you wheeze.

“Roadkill,” he volleys back like he is affirming his earlier statement. The banter is easy, familiar, but there’s an edge to it today. You feel it in the way his eyes keep tracking over you, softer than they should be. In the way he hasn’t moved from his crouch, too close, knees brushing the couch.

You shift, meaning to sit up, but your limbs betray you. Instead you flop sideways, head landing on the pillow, legs still dangling over the armrest, knees bent awkwardly on the floor. Your dress rides higher, glitter catching in the sunlight slanting through the blinds. His gaze flickers, quick and sharp, before snapping back to your face.

“You’re staring,” you accuse.

“You’re imagining,” he shoots back. But his voice is a shade too low, and it twists something in your stomach.

You try to change the subject. “So what, you just decided to drop by and harass me while I’m defenseless?”

“Defenseless, huh?” He leans in, close enough that you smell his soap and the faint tang of leather clinging to him. “Funny. Last night, you didn’t sound very defenseless.”

Your heart stutters. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His smile turns slow, wicked. “Oh, nothing. Just that you’ve got… interesting taste.”

It hits you like a bucket of ice water. Oh. Oh, no. He heard. He had to have heard.

“Shut up,” you say quickly, too quickly, your cheeks blazing.

“Robin, huh?” he presses, voice feather-light but edged with something deeper. “Not Batman. Not Superman. Me.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I’m never drinking again.”

His laughter curls low in his chest. He nudges your knee with his hand, playful. “Relax. I’m flattered.”

“That makes one of us,” you groan, wishing the couch would swallow you.

But when you peek at him through your fingers, his eyes aren’t just amused. They’re intense, sharp, gleaming with the memory of your drunken confession. He’s not going to let you forget it.

The comedy of errors continues when you try to sit up. Your foot catches on the armrest, your heel slips, and you pitch forward, straight into his chest. He catches you easily, an arm banding around your waist, the other braced on the couch. Suddenly you’re nose-to-nose, his grin right there, his heartbeat loud against your palm where it’s landed on his chest.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“I hate you,” you whisper, breathless.

“Liar,” he says softly, “You have a crush on me.” And it feels like a strike.

For a second, neither of you moves. The air between you hums, heavy, loaded. His eyes flick down to your mouth before darting back up. You feel it, every millimeter, like a live wire under your skin.

“Had,” you whisper. His eyes followed the shape of your lips as they formed around the word. 

“Have.” He says again, voice more firm this time. Your gaze traces his lips this time.

Your head tilts closer, like instinct, like your body is done pretending it doesn’t want him. His arm is still locked firm around your waist, holding you steady, keeping you pressed against the heat of his chest. Your palm flattens against him, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the give of muscle under cotton, the impossible warmth of him seeping straight through your skin.

He doesn’t pull away. Just looks at you, steady, unblinking, eyes so blue they feel like they could cut you open if you let them. His breath brushes your mouth, warm, uneven. You can taste coffee and something darker on it, and your lips part without permission, every nerve in your body straining toward the last millimeter of space.

The air thickens, heavy as syrup. His fingers at your waist flex, just once, enough to draw you an inch closer. His chest rises against yours, and you feel the faintest shiver where his nose grazes your cheek, his forehead brushing yours, testing the contact without closing it.

You don’t think. Your hand slides higher on his chest, tracing over the solid line of his collarbone, up the curve of his shoulder, fingers brushing the back of his neck. His hair is still damp from his shower, soft and warm under your touch. He exhales raggedly, his whole body tightening like he’s holding back a wave.

Because the problem with you isn’t that you don’t want Dick Grayson. It’s that you do.

“You’re not fooling me,” he says, voice low, rougher now that your lips are so close you can taste the warmth of his breath. “Not with that look on your face. Not with your hand all over me.”

Your fingers twitch against his chest, traitorous, pressing into solid muscle as though proving his point. Heat curls low in your stomach, sharp and insistent, and you hate that he can read it so easily.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you manage, though your voice shakes.

His eyes darken, his thumb tracing slow circles into your hip where his hand grips you. “Say it again. Say you don’t still want me. Say it while you’re this close.”

You can’t. The words lodge in your throat, choking on the truth you’ve been dodging for weeks. His smirk softens, just barely, eyes narrowing in satisfaction as he leans in until your noses brush, your pulse stuttering wildly under his stare.

“Had,” you whisper again, desperate, as if repeating it might make it true.

“Finish the sentence if you mean it, sweetheart.” The words vibrate out of him, certain and unshakable. His gaze dips to your mouth again, slower this time, deliberate, and the sound you make is soft, caught halfway between a breath and a plea, and it has his jaw flexing tight like he’s fighting himself.

“Dick…” His name leaves your mouth broken, trembling, and he shudders like you’ve just lit a match against his skin.

His forehead tips to yours, contact so small but devastating, heat bleeding from him into you. “You can lie all you want, Trouble,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting across your lips, “but you don’t let someone this close unless you want it.”

Your head tilts, your lips part, your palm sliding up to his collarbone in a silent answer. For one perfect, electric second, the whole world narrows to the inch of air left between your mouths, heat, and his heartbeat under your hand.

Your lips brush his, so faint it’s almost not contact, just the ghost of it, but the shock of it rattles you down to your toes. His breath shudders out, shaky and hot, and when you lean in that last fraction, his mouth finally meets yours. It isn’t clean. It isn’t careful. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging just enough to make your stomach flip and a whimper catch in your throat. The sound seems to break something in him, because suddenly his arm around your waist tightens, dragging you fully into his lap.

You straddle him before you realize you’ve moved, dress riding high on your thighs, his heat pressed solid between your legs. His hands slide down, big and certain, cupping your ass through sequined fabric, pulling you flush against the thick line of him. The spark between you roars into fire.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting years for it, messy, hungry, devouring. Your palms splay across his chest, clutching at the muscle under his shirt, your fingers curling into the warm skin at the nape of his neck. His tongue slides against yours, slow at first, then harder, deeper, until you’re gasping into his mouth, moving against him without meaning to.

His hands squeeze, firm and sure, guiding you into him, hips arching up to meet yours. The friction makes your head spin, your pulse pounding everywhere at once. He tastes like wine and want, and the low sound he makes into your mouth vibrates all the way down your spine.

For a breathless stretch of moments, there’s no Gotham, no rain, no history. Just this. Just you and Dick, tangled up, finally giving in, kissing each other like you’ll never get enough.

Your lips part beneath his, and he takes the invitation greedily, kissing you deeper, tongue stroking against yours with a hunger that has your head spinning. It’s clumsy in places, teeth clicking, mouths chasing, but that only makes it worse, better. It feels alive, electric, like every ounce of restraint you’ve both held onto has finally gone up in flames.

You rock into him, desperate for more friction, and he groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating into your mouth. His hands tighten on your ass, dragging you down against him, grinding you into the thick, unmistakable weight straining against his sweats. The pressure makes your breath hitch, your body clenching around the ache building low in your belly.

You clutch at him harder, fingers fisting into his t-shirt until the fabric rides up, exposing hot skin. You smooth your palms over his stomach, the ridges of muscle flexing under your touch, and he shudders, biting your lip again as though to punish you for it. You moan into him, nails digging lightly into his sides, and he hisses through his teeth, kissing you harder, like he can pour every ounce of his want straight into your mouth.

The kiss tips sideways, and suddenly you’re gasping, laughing into him when his stubble grazes your jaw. He doesn’t let up. His lips trail fire down the line of your throat, teeth scraping lightly over the delicate skin there before sucking hard enough to make your toes curl. You arch into him, dress shifting higher, sequins scratching his hips where your thighs cage him in.

“Dick,” His name rips out of you, broken and desperate, and his mouth is back on yours before you can say more, swallowing the sound like it belongs to him.

Your hips roll against him, helpless, chasing the friction, and he meets you halfway, thrusting up into you in short, sharp motions that make you whimper into his mouth. His tongue tangles with yours again, messy and wet, and your vision sparks at the edges. His hands are everywhere, palming your ass, sliding up your spine, threading into your hair to tug your head back so he can kiss you deeper, rougher.

You’re dizzy with him, his taste, his weight, the sheer size of him under you. Every breath you drag in is filled with him, every nerve alight with the demand to get closer, closer, until there’s nothing left between you at all.

When you finally break for air, your foreheads slam together, both of you panting like you’ve run miles. His lips are swollen, glistening, his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving under your palms. He looks wild. Starved. Perfect. And then he’s pulling you back down, kissing you again, hungrier than before, open-mouthed, filthy, like he’s making up for every year he didn’t.

Your body can’t stop moving against him, chasing every drag of friction. The sequined dress has ridden high on your thighs, hem bunched at your waist as you straddle him. His hands are greedy now, sliding over bare skin, thumbs digging into the soft bare curve of your ass like he’s waited his whole life to touch you here. He drags you down harder, grinding you over him, and the blunt thickness straining his sweats makes you gasp into his mouth.

He’s huge. You knew he was, the outline impossible not to notice whenever he sprawled careless in those pants, but feeling it pressed solid against you, hot and heavy even through layers, makes your stomach twist and your core clench with want. You rock down on him harder, helpless, and the sound he makes is low, guttural, and almost pained. It shoots straight between your legs.

“Fuck,” he groans against your lips, kissing you harder, tongue driving deep like he’s trying to drown himself in you. His hips surge up in answer, rutting against you, the thick head of him catching just right against the soaked center of your panties. Your cry muffles into his mouth, nails scraping down his chest until you find skin, dragging up his shirt until it’s bunched under his arms.

His abs are hot and hard under your palms, slick with sweat, muscles flexing as he thrusts up into you. You break from his mouth to gasp down his throat, and he’s on you instantly, lips latching to your jaw, your neck, sucking and biting bruises into your skin like he wants to mark every inch he can reach.

“Say it,” he rasps against your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse. His hands knead your ass, grinding you down over him, the thick bulge in his sweats perfectly aligned with your clit. “Say you still want me.”

You can’t speak, not with the way he’s rolling his hips, relentless, the pressure building sharp and unbearable. You whimper his name instead, broken and needy, and he groans like the sound undoes him.

“Fuck—yeah, you do,” he breathes, pulling you down harder, guiding you to rock over him faster. The sequins of your dress scratch at his bare stomach, your panties soaked through, clinging to your folds as you grind over the obscene bulk of him. Each pass drags his thickness right against your clit, each grind shooting sparks down your spine until you’re gasping against his mouth, trembling in his lap. “She’s honest with me, even if your mouth won’t be,” he pants. 

He kisses you senseless again, filthy and wet, tongues clashing, teeth tugging, his hips never stopping. You roll against him desperately, chasing it, chasing him, your thighs trembling where they cage him in. His cock strains against the thin cotton, massive, the outline pressed hot and unyielding against your swollen pussy, and all you can think is how good it would feel inside you.

His hand slides up your spine, into your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bite at your throat again, his breath ragged. “Thatta girl. Keep grinding, Trouble. Wanna feel you cum all over me.”

The words hit harder than anything. You moan brokenly, hips stuttering against him, the rhythm sloppy but desperate, pleasure winding sharp and tight in your belly. His hands hold you steady, dragging you over him in rough, perfect circles until you’re shuddering, mouth open against his, every nerve screaming as you teeter on the edge.

And he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let you run. He keeps you pressed to him, grinding against the thick, straining length of his cock until you’re shaking apart in his lap, soaking through your panties, every pulse of your orgasm spilling hot and messy against him.

He kisses you through it, swallowing your cries, biting your lip until you can barely breathe. When you finally slump forward, wrecked and trembling, his hands are still on you, still firm, still wanting. And he’s still hard, throbbing against you, sweatpants damp with your release, the sheer size of him twitching under you like a promise. 

His mouth breaks from yours only to press wet, biting kisses down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, muttering against your skin like he can’t stop himself. “Feel how wet you are,” he growls, his voice rough and ruined. One hand slips lower, his long fingers sliding under the edge of your ruined panties. You whimper as his knuckles brush your slick folds, every inch of you drenched and swollen. His groan vibrates against your neck when he feels just how soaked you are.

“Fuck, Trouble…” His middle finger drags up through your wetness, slow, obscene, parting you until he finds your clit. You jolt hard against him, crying out, and he swallows the sound in another bruising kiss. His finger circles you once, twice, then dips lower, pressing inside with a stretch that makes your whole body seize. He’s so much bigger than your own hand, so much deeper, curling at the knuckle just right until your thighs clamp tight around him.

“Look at you,” he rasps, pumping in and out, his thumb pressing cruel circles to your clit. “Soaked for me. Always were, weren’t you?”

You can’t answer. You can only grind helplessly into his hand, your hips jerking against him, your mouth open and gasping against his. He slips a second finger in beside the first, the stretch sharp, delicious, filling you in a way that makes you sob into his mouth. His thumb works you mercilessly, dragging another wave of pleasure out of your trembling body.

Then he pulls his fingers out, sudden, leaving you clenching around nothing. You whine at the loss, but before you can protest, he shoves his slick fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. His eyes lock on yours as he groans low in his throat, tasting you, devouring you.

“You’re so sweet, baby,” he murmurs, voice dark and reverent. “Could live on this.”

Your whole body shudders. You surge forward, kissing him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue, swallowing his groan as his hands drag at your hips again. But it’s not enough. The thick weight straining his sweats is pressed solid against your soaked panties, and you need more—you need him.

“Dick,” you gasp against his mouth, clawing at the waistband of his sweats. “Out. Now.”

His laugh is harsh, breathless, wrecked. “Now who’s bossy.” But he obeys, shoving his sweats down just enough for his cock to spring free, thick and heavy and already slick at the tip.

Your breath catches. Even soft he’d been obscene; hard, he’s devastating. Long, flushed dark, veins ridging the shaft, the broad head flushed and dripping precum. Your cunt clenches just looking at him, your thighs shaking with the need to feel it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, wrapping a hand around the base, stroking once, slow, groaning through gritted teeth. “Been dying to feel you on me.”

You grind down against him, soaking panties dragging over the thick length of him, smearing wetness across his cock. The slide makes you both groan, your clit catching against his head with every pass.

He curses again, gripping your hips so hard you know he’ll leave bruises, guiding you to rock on him. His cock drags along your soaked center, fat and hot, the head bumping your clit with every grind. You can feel the pressure of him catching against your entrance, the blunt head pushing at your soaked panties, teasing what you both want.

“You feel that?” he groans, eyes wild, forehead pressed to yours as his cock slides thick and heavy under you. “So wet you’re gonna ruin me. Gonna let me in, Trouble? Let me split you open on this cock?”

Your moan is answer enough. You grind harder, desperate, the head of him pushing your panties aside just enough to catch against your opening, stretching you slightly before slipping away again. He groans raggedly, pumping his cock once against your soaked fabric, precum smearing across the sequined dress bunched at your waist.

“Gonna make you feel so good,” he pants, kissing you hard, messy, teeth clashing. “Gonna bury this cock so deep you won’t be able to say my name without cumming.” His hands slide down, fingers curling under the edge of your panties, tugging at the damp fabric. “These coming off, or can I rip ‘em?”

“Rip,” you gasp, dizzy, desperate. And he does. The lace tears with a sharp sound, shredded by his long fingers like it’s nothing, the ruined fabric dragged aside as he growls into your mouth. The sudden cool air against your bare cunt makes you shiver, but then his cock is there, thick and hot and real, dragging through your soaked folds, smearing your slick up his length.

“Fuck,” His voice breaks, guttural. “You’re dripping. Been dreaming about this for so long sweetheart, about feeling you like this.” Your hips jerk forward, chasing it, and the broad head of him catches at your entrance. He holds you still with hands locked bruisingly tight on your ass, forcing you to feel it, just the heavy pressure of him nudging in, stretching you wide, parting you slow.

The stretch steals your breath. He’s so big your body fights to take him, and the sting makes you gasp into his mouth. But underneath is heat, thick, overwhelming heat, like your whole body’s been waiting for this exact moment.

“Christ,” he groans, forehead slamming to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “So tight. Gonna ruin me.”

You claw at his shoulders, nails biting through cotton, panting. “More…please, Dick.”

He whines softly, and then he thrusts, hard. The thick length of him drives into you, slow enough to split you open, deep enough to make you cry out. Your walls seize around him, clenching helplessly, trying to adjust as inch after inch slides into your body. The stretch burns, pleasure laced sharp through pain, but he’s groaning against your mouth, kissing you through it, muttering ragged curses into your skin.

“Taking me…fuck, you’re taking all of me so well,” he grits out, his hips jerking up, forcing the last thick inch inside. His cock bottoms out deep, the blunt head pressed right against your cervix, so deep it makes your vision blur. You sob against his mouth, your body clutching him, trembling. The fullness is as unbearable as it is addictive; like he’s rewired you from the inside out.

“Look at you,” he pants, dragging back an inch only to slam forward again, grinding deep. “My pretty girl. So good for me.”

You moan brokenly, your hips rocking without thought, meeting him. The friction is devastating; bare, raw, his cock dragging against every swollen inch of you. Slick gushes down his shaft, wetting the base of him, smearing against his stomach where your dress is bunched. His rhythm builds fast, messy. Years of wanting crashing into each thrust, hips snapping up into you hard enough to jolt the couch under you. You cling to him, legs trembling around his waist, your cunt gripping him so tight he groans with every stroke.

“Oh baby,” he whines, mouth crushed to your jaw, teeth scraping. “You’re so fucking wet, gonna make me cum so deep inside you.”

You can only gasp, moan, sob against him, every thrust lighting you up. His hands cup your ass, dragging you down onto his cock harder, grinding you into him until your clit rubs against the base, sparks exploding in your belly. You’re close again; too close, the pressure building sharp and fast. You roll your hips against him, desperate, and he feels it, feels the way your walls flutter and clench around him.

“Gonna cum?” he rasps, voice breaking, his cock driving into you relentlessly. “Gonna soak me like a good girl? Let me have it, c’mon.” Your body shatters. Pleasure rips through you, hot and unbearable, your cunt clamping down on him as you scream his name into his mouth. Slick gushes around him, soaking him, dripping down your thighs, and he curses, rutting into you harder, chasing his own end.

His rhythm falls apart, hips slamming up into you in ragged, desperate thrusts, his cock throbbing inside you with every grind. His forehead presses to yours, sweat dripping, breath coming in short, broken gasps. “God, you feel so good,” he groans, the words spilling without thought, low and raw against your mouth. “So tight around me, so wet for me. Fuck, sweetheart, you’re perfect. Perfect.”

Each word is a strike, praise so filthy and reverent your whole body shivers around him. You moan into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders, rolling against him, your cunt clenching tighter every time he speaks. He thrusts deep, almost to the hilt, then stops, shaking with restraint, his cock swelling thick inside you. His voice cracks when he mutters, “I can’t…I’m gonna cum. Please. Please, let me…inside you, I want to.”

The sound of him begging makes your breath catch, your walls fluttering around him. You feel him shaking under you, his control frayed to nothing, but still he doesn’t let go, doesn’t cross the line until you give him the word. His mouth crashes to yours, messy and frantic, his tongue tangling with yours as he whispers against your lips, “Say yes. Tell me I can. Please, Trouble, I need it. Need to fill you up.”

The plea wrecks you. Heat coils sharp in your stomach, the pressure unbearable. You tighten around him, nails raking down his back, and gasp, “Yes, yes, Dick, cum inside me, please!” The sound he makes is broken, guttural, like you’ve torn the air from his lungs. His hips jerk up violently, his whole body locking under you as he buries himself deep, cock swelling as his release rips through him. 

“Fuck, oh, fuck, thank you,” he gasps, his voice sick with praise, chanting it against your mouth as he spills inside you. Thick heat floods your cunt in heavy pulses, and the sensation drags your orgasm out all over again; you clench down hard, milking him, crying into his kiss as he moans your name like prayer.

He holds you down on him, grinding up into you, desperate to push every drop deeper. “So good…so good for me, fuck, you’re perfect. Taking all of it, all of me.”

You collapse against his chest, trembling, both of you panting hard, still joined, his cock still twitching inside you as his release drips hot between your thighs. His forehead presses to yours, his voice wrecked, almost breaking. 

His forehead presses to yours, both of you still trembling, breaths dragging in uneven gasps. His voice is wrecked, almost breaking.

“Years,” he whispers, softer now but still aching, still desperate. “Wasted years not feeling you like this.”

Your chest tightens, words lost somewhere in your throat. So you kiss him instead, messy, deep, your lips swollen and clumsy. He kisses you back with equal fervor, but slower now, as if he wants to savor, to commit the taste of you to memory. His cock is still sheathed deep inside you, twitching faintly as he softens, but neither of you makes a move to part.

You shift against him, and his hands instantly tighten on your hips, keeping you down, keeping him buried inside. His laugh is low, roughened by exhaustion and bliss. “Don’t even think about it. Not letting you go yet.”

You groan against his chest. “You’re heavy.”

“Good,” he mutters, dropping his lips to the damp slope of your shoulder. “Means you’ll stay put.” He breathes you in, deep, reverent. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you?”

You pull back just enough to search his face. His eyes are glassy, unguarded in a way you’ve never seen. “How long?” you ask quietly, brushing his long dark hair out of his face.

He swallows, thumb brushing slow along your cheek, still cupping your face as if you’re fragile. “Since fourteen,” he admits, voice soft, bare. “Since the first night you sat on that roof and talked to me like I wasn’t just Robin. Like I was… a person.” His jaw flexes, like saying it out loud costs him something. “I never stopped, even when you left. Even when you came back and seemed distracted by my face.”

Your breath catches. The weight of it hits you hard, heavy and bright all at once, knocking your chest open. You don’t have to think. You know, suddenly, fiercely, that you’re falling in love with him. Not just the boy who once unmasked for you, not just the man currently buried inside you, but all of him.

“Dick…” you whisper, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over the rough stubble there. “You’re ridiculous.”

His lips twitch, a crooked grin breaking the tension. “What, because I’ve been in love with you since I was a scrawny circus kid?”

“Because,” you correct softly, rolling your eyes even as your chest aches, “I liked you when you were gangly and angry at the world, and awkward with your kindness. That’s what got me.” Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw. “Not… all this.”

His smile gentles, the teasing melting into something shy, almost boyish. “Doesn’t hurt, though, right? The face.”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head, but it comes out tender instead of sharp. “No. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Good because you,” he says, kissing your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth in quick, playful succession, “are stuck with me now. So remember that when I get on your nerves.”

You sigh, pretending exasperation, but you can’t stop smiling. “Guess I am.”

-

You stay like that for a while, tangled and warm, the storm outside softening into a steady patter. His thumb strokes along your cheekbone, lazy, reverent, like he can’t quite believe you’re real. Eventually, though, the ache in your thighs reminds you both of reality. You shift, wincing slightly, and he feels it immediately.

“Hey,” he murmurs, kissing your temple, “don’t move. I’ve got you.”

You make a soft noise of protest when he finally pulls out, the stretch easing but leaving you empty in a way that makes your chest squeeze. Heat spills between your thighs, sticky and messy, but he’s already tucking you back against the cushions, murmuring, “Stay,” before disappearing down the hall.

When he comes back, he’s barefoot, carrying a damp towel and a glass of water, his hair even messier from running a hand through it. “Lift,” he says gently, and when you blink at him, dazed, he smiles. “C’mon. Let me take care of you.”

You do, cheeks warming as he crouches between your knees, wiping you clean with careful, unhurried motions. His hands are steady, reverent, as though the act itself is holy. He kisses the inside of your thigh when he’s done, soft and fleeting, before standing to hand you the water.

You take a sip, your throat dry, then glance at him over the rim of the glass. “You always this bossy after sex?”

“Back to bossy again?” His brows lift in mock offense as he sinks back onto the couch beside you. “But, please. I’m efficient. There’s a big difference.”

You laugh, weak but real, tucking yourself into his side. “You were efficient at fourteen too. Efficiently broody. Efficiently avoiding eye contact.”

He groans, dropping his head back against the cushions. “God. Don’t remind me.” Then, softer, with a smile that curves like memory, he adds, “And somehow you still liked me.” His face warms with a smile as he says it, looking more boyish than you’ve seen him look, like the thought of you having felt something for him all these years makes him giddy.

“I didn’t like you because of the brooding,” you tease, tilting up to meet his gaze. “I liked you because you couldn’t hide how good you were. Not from me.”

His eyes soften, his hand smoothing gently over your hip. “You’ve always seen too much.”

“And you’ve always pretended it bothered you,” you shoot back, but your smile is quiet, your chest aching.

He presses his lips to your hair, lingering there. “Never bothered me,” he admits into the crown of your head. “It scared me. That’s different.”

His lips linger in your hair, warm and steady, until your eyes slip closed. The storm outside has softened to a drizzle, a steady hush against the glass, and the room feels like it’s holding its breath with you. You set the glass of water aside, curling instinctively into him. His arm comes around your shoulders without hesitation, hand smoothing slow circles over your arm. It’s grounding, the weight of him, the heat of his body still seeping into yours.

“You should sleep,” he murmurs against your temple.

“So should you,” you mumble back, your voice heavy with exhaustion.

“Not tired,” he lies, and you can feel the smile pressed into your hair.

“You’re full of it,” you whisper, but the fight is already gone from you. Your head sinks against his chest, ear over his heartbeat. It’s steady, strong, the sound you didn’t know you’d missed all these years until now.

He shifts, adjusting you both, and before you realize it, you’re stretched across the couch together, tangled under the throw blanket. His hand stays at your hip, fingers curled there like an anchor, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away in the night.

You reach up, tracing lazy circles over his chest. “Dick?”

“Mmm?”

“I think,” you murmur, words already blurring at the edges of sleep, “I might be falling in love with you.”

He stills, then exhales slow, his lips brushing your hair. “Good,” he whispers. “Because I’ve been in love with you for half my life.”

Your throat tightens, but your body relaxes, the truth settling into you like warmth. You smile against him, soft and certain. Outside, Gotham exhales under the rain. Inside, you let yourself drift, safe in the arms of the boy you once knew, the man you’re choosing now.

-

The city looks different from up here. It always does, under his arm.

You’re sitting on the ledge of a Blüdhaven rooftop, legs dangling over the streetlights, the night air cool against your bare skin. Dick’s beside you, mask pushed up into his hair, the blue symbol catching the glow of the skyline. His hands are warm where they rest on your hips, steadying you like you might slip, even though you both know you never would with him here. Both his thighs bracket yours. 

“Déjà vu,” you murmur, glancing at him over your shoulder.

His grin tilts sideways, boyish and wicked all at once. “Except this time I get to kiss you instead of lecture you.”

“Mm,” you hum, leaning back into his chest. “Not sure which one you’re worse at.”

He gasps, mock wounded, then dips his head to mouth at your neck. “Harsh. And here I was thinking I’ve improved since the green tights days.”

“You have,” you say, fighting a smile. “Marginally.”

“Marginally?” He nips lightly at your skin, enough to make you squirm. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live,” you tease, twisting in his hold until you’re facing him. His hands slide automatically to your waist, thumbs stroking slow against the fabric of your jacket, and his eyes soften in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“You know what hasn’t changed?” he says quietly.

“What?”

“You.” His smile curves, tender under the tease. “You still sneak out when you shouldn’t. Still get yourself into trouble. Still make me chase after you.”

You snort. “Admit it. You like it.”

“Like it?” He laughs low, kissing you once, quick and sure. “I live for it.”

The kiss deepens, sweet and unhurried, the city buzzing around you, forgotten. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his voice soft enough for only you to hear. “Feels like we’ve been waiting years for this,” he murmurs.

“Maybe we have.” You smile, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Worth it, though.”

He grins, eyes bright as the city lights. “Definitely worth it.”