Berrus

JASON TODD

He doesn't get it.

He doesn't fucking get it.

You— you— want him? All the time? Every second of every day? You, with your soft hands and your pretty smile and your laugh that sounds like something he doesn't deserve to hear— you want Jason Todd, the dead Robin, the black sheep, the one with blood under his fingernails and a body count longer than his book collection?

"Again, sweetheart?" he rasps, and his voice cracks, actually cracks, because his throat is raw from moaning your name, and his thighs are shaking, and there's a bruise forming on his hip from where you grabbed him too hard and he didn't even notice because he was too busy moaning like a whore.

You nod. Just nod. Like it's nothing. Like you're asking him to pass the salt.

His heart lurches.

He's scared. Not of you— never of you— but of the moment you realize you can do better. The moment you wake up and think why am I wasting my time with this broken, angry, fucked up excuse for a man when I could have someone better?

So he fucks you like his life is depended on it.

Every time. Every single time.

"Alright," he says, rolling on top of you even though his arms are jelly, even though he came so hard ten minutes ago he nearly blacked out, even though he's so tired he gonna pass out at any moment— "Alright, c'mere, I got you, I got—"

"Jay." You catch his face in your hands. "You're crying."

What? No he's not. He's not— shit.

He scrubs at his eyes, pissed, embarrassed, and you're looking at him with that soft, worried expression and he can't handle it, he can't handle this.

"I'm fine," he lies, "I'm fine, I just— I got something in my eye, it's fine, do you wanna do it from behind this time or—"

"Why are you crying, baby?"

Baby.

The word break something in his chest. Something that was already cracked. Something that's been held together with spite and rage and the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he's allowed to have nice things.

"I-I don't know," he chokes out, and now he's really crying, ugly sobs tearing out of his throat, "I'm just s-so overwhelmed and I-I *sob* I don't d-deserve you *sob* you should be with someone who isn't a—a—a—"

You kiss him.

You kiss him through the tears and the snot and the self loathing, and you don't pull away, and you don't look disgusted, and your hands are so gentle on his scarred skin, and he just— he just breaks down.

But it's just because he's overwhelmed by sex, okay?

He buries his face in your neck and sobs and you hold him, you hold him like he's something precious, something worth keeping, and his stupid dick is still half hard against your thigh because he doesn't know what else to do.

"I want you," you whisper into his hair, "just you, Jay. Always."

"...Promise?"

"Promise."

He pulls back, eyes red, face blotchy, looking like a mess.

And then he laughs— his cracked, broken laugh.

"Okay," he says, "okay. But if you're gonna kill me with sex, at least let me grab some water first. And maybe a snack. I'm not dying of dehydration before I make you come again."

You grin.

Yeah his girl's so pretty.

"Alright."

He's still crying a little. He's still hard. He's still certain he doesn't deserve this.

But you're here.

And you want him.

So he'll keep going until his heart gives out, because dying in your arms sounds like the best way to go.

TIM DRAKE

He has a spreadsheet.

No, wait, hear him out— it's not weird, okay? It's organized. It's practical. It's what any rational person would do when confronted with a girlfriend who wants to have sex literally all the time and he needs to make sure he's— that he's—

Meeting expectations.

Performing adequately.

Being a good boyfriend.

Column A: date. Column B: time of day. Column C: position. Column D: duration. Column E: number of times you said his name (sub column for "just Tim" vs. "oh god Tim" vs. the rare, precious "Timmy" that makes his whole body shudder). Column F: notes. (You like it when he flick his tongue. You didn't like when he tried to flip you over and almost dropped you. He needs to work on his upper body strength. He'll add more pull ups to his training regimen. Done. Noted.)

He's on his third coffee and it's 3 AM and you're asleep next to him— finally, finally asleep, worn out after four rounds and a fifth that he had to tap out of because his vision started doing that staticky thing—

And he's updating the spreadsheet.

Because he loves you. And love means making sure you're comfortable. Love means making you happy. Love means making sure he's the best possible version of himself for you, that he's anticipating your needs, that he always make you cum, that he never, ever falls short—

"What's that?"

Oh fuck him.

You're awake. You're squinting at his laptop screen. He slams it shut, but it's too late, you already saw the color coded tabs, the pie chart (yes, there's a pie chart, he was curious about the distribution of positions, sue him).

"Tim." Your voice is still sleepy and it does things to him, weird things, his body is already responding and he just finished updating a row that said he couldn't go again, scientifically, medically, his body has limits—

"It's nothing."

"Timothy Jackson Drake."

Full name. He's in trouble. He's so in trouble. His stomach flips and his dick twitches and god, why does you being like this make him harder—

"It's— a spreadsheet."

"Of our sex life."

"...Yes."

...

Why aren't you saying anything?

You're in shock aren't you? You're in so much shock you can't even talk.

Of course. You just saw your supposed normal boyfriend as the obsessive freak that he is.

"I'm sorry," he blurts, "I know it's weird, I just— I wanted to make sure I was doing a good job, that I wasn't missing anything, that you were— satisfied— because you want it so often and I thought maybe I wasn't enough and I had to do something—"

"Tim."

"—and I know it's creepy, I'm creepy, I'm a creepy insecure little bitch who can't just enjoy things—"

"Tim."

He shuts up.

You're smiling. A soft, fond, adoring smile.

"You want to know if you're doing a good job?"

He nods, throat too tight to speak.

"Come here."

He crawls into your arms and you pull him against your chest and he can hear your heartbeat and it's the most beautiful sound in the world.

"You're doing amazing," you murmur, stroking his hair, "you're perfect. You're so good to me, Tim. The best."

Best.

The words hit his bloodstream like a drug. He makes a sound— a high, needy, embarrassing sound— and presses his face into your collarbone, his whole body trembling.

"I love you," he whispers, "I love you so much, I'm sorry about the spreadsheet, I'll delete it—"

"Don't you dare. It's hot."

"...What?"

"Knowing you put that much thought into making me cum is honestly..." Your hand slides lower, and he sucks in a breath. "The sexiest thing anyone's ever done for me."

What the fuck?

"You— really?"

"Mmhmm. Now... you said that you couldn't go again, but maybe we should test that hypothesis?"

He's already kissing you before you finish the sentence.

He's going to need a new row. And a new coffee. And possibly a medical professional.

Worth it.

DAMIAN WAYNE

This is absurd.

You are absurd. Your libido is absurd. The fact that he— Damian al Ghul Wayne, heir to the League of Assassins, Robin, the son of the Batman— is currently hiding in the bathroom like a coward because his Beloved crooked her finger at him for the seventh time today is—

"Damian~"

Tt.

He clenches his jaw. His body betrays him instantly, heat pooling low in his stomach, his cock stirring traitorously against the zipper of his tailored slacks.

He is not a beast. He is not ruled by base urges. He was trained from birth to master his desires, to transcend the weakness of the flesh—

"Habibti, please, if you need release I will happily provide it, I am more than capable, but we have already—" his voice drops to a whisper, "—six times today, and I have a Wayne Enterprises board meeting in an hour—"

"And?"

And. You says and like it's nothing. Like his legacy, his reputation, his carefully constructed facade of professionalism isn't crumbling around him because of a woman who looks at him like he's a three course meal she hasn't finished.

He emerges from the bathroom.

Big mistake.

You're on the bed. His bed. Dressed in nothing but his shirt— the one with his family crest embroidered on the pocket, the one he wore the first time you fuck him— and you're looking at him with those lustful eyes—

"I missed you."

"You saw me twenty minutes ago."

"Too long."

He's already walking toward you.

Why is he walking toward you?

He should be walking away. He should be asserting dominance. He is a master of seventeen forms of martial arts and he cannot, for the life of him, make his feet move in the opposite direction of you.

"I have a meeting," he says, but his voice is pitiful, needy, and he hates how much he wants you, hates how you've turned him into this— this creature who craves your touch more than anything—

"Cancel it."

"I cannot cancel a board meeting, Beloved, there are protocols—"

"Tell them your girlfriend needed you."

"They will not accept that as a valid excuse—"

"Then make them."

Make them.

The sheer, casual authority in your voice sends a shiver down his spine.

You speak like you own him. Like he should do as you say. Like he should obey every order, as if—

He has his phone out before he can stop himself.

"Pennyworth. I will be... indisposed this afternoon. Inform the board the meeting is postponed."

"Very good, Master Damian. Shall I prepare a nutrient rich smoothie? You've been quite occupied lately."

He can hear the amusement in Alfred's voice.

Very amusing Pennyworth. Very amusing indeed.

He wants to die. He wants to crawl into a hole and never emerge. But then you're crooking your finger again and all thoughts of dignity evaporate like morning mist.

"I canceled the meeting," he says, approaching the bed, trying to maintain some shred of his pride, "I hope you are satisfied—"

You grab him by the tie and pull him onto the bed.

He yelps. He yelps. Like a startled cat. Like Titus when the vacuum cleaner turns on. And then you're straddling him, pinning him down with your body, which shouldn't be possible given his training but his muscles have apparently decided that being pinned by you is exactly what they want—

"I am never satisfied," you murmur against his lips, "not when it comes to you. You know that, right?"

His heart— his cold, closed off, carefully guarded heart— warm up a little.

"Beloved..."

"You're mine, Damian. Every inch of you. Every minute of your day. And I'm going to enjoy what's mine. Understood?"

He swallows hard.

"...Understood."

"Good boy."

His face flushes a deep, humiliating red, and his whole body trembles with the desperate need to hear those words from your lips, to know that he has pleased you, that he is worthy—

One day, he'll tell you. One day, he'll confess how much he needs your approval, your praise, your love. One day, he'll stop pretending he's above these feelings.

But not today.

Today, he'll just lie back and let his Beloved have her way with him for the seventh time, and he'll bite his lip until it bleeds to keep from begging, and when it's over he'll hold you like you're the most precious thing in the universe—

Because you are.

Tt.

He's getting hard again.

Pathetic.

But at least he's happy.

Happier than ever.

𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝖼 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𖹭

Dick: "Awww, Honey. Don't cry it's okay. It's just a bit of hair. You look beautiful as always." He rubs your very pregnant belly, pregnant with one boy and one girl he couldn't've wished for a better outcome. Dick's been over the moon but even so he sees just how hard it is for you to do anything like tie your shoes or shower or in this case shave.

"But they're gonna come out with like carpet burn or something. It's so bad." Tears pour down your face as you look in the mirror, usually you kept it neat and right now due to pregnancy and hormones and all it look like the Amazon, thick and wild. You've been sobbing about it for the last hour.

"Okay, okay. What if I shave it for you? Will that be better?" Dick's frantically trying to please you in anyway to get you to stop crying. He's been so supportive and paitent throughout this whole journey and you wouldn't have it any other way. His heart dropping when you cry harder.

"You'd do that for me? Oh my god. Baby..." Your voice is full of happiness but you're now sobbing cause he's willing to trim your bush, Dick breathing a sigh of relief as he realizes that you just being hormonal.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's no problem." He guides you to the chair you've been using to shower since standing really isn't an option right now and sitting in the tub most definitely isn't one either. Dick grabs your trimmers and your shave cream, gently spreading your thighs as he starts trimming the long hairs into much shorter and more manageable hairs.

You hand found his hair, something you'd been doing to calm and distract yourself lately. His hands gently working to make sure he's gentle around your very sensitive vagina due to being almost ready to pop.

"Can we go all the way I don't want to have to do it again." As your hormones came down you kinda felt bad for having him do this. "This wasn't really in our vows..."

"Baby, it's no big deal. We can do it again later. I don't wanna go shorter cause I know you get ingrowns and that'll suck being pregnant and all or if you have em early it'll be even more annoying. I don't mind this, I actually like taking care of you...and my little ones." He gently wipes any excess hair from your vagina and kisses your stomach, the same look in his eyes the day he married you. It never ceases to to amaze you how sweet and in love he is but same goes for him, the way your eyes shine when you see him. He's won the jackpot and he's ready to do anything to keep his prizes, all three of them.

Jason: "No, it's fuckin bothering me, Babe and I can't fuckin do anything about it being bedridden cause Bruce doesn't want me pullin my damn stitches again."

"Jay, just let me do it." You hold the trimmers in your hand ready to do it for him so he doesn't have to bend over just to shave his pubic hair.

"There's a certain way you have to do it!" He starts to get up but gets quickly pushed back onto the bed with a small hand against his chest, your hand shoving him back into the bed.

"Jason Peter Todd, It's trimming your balls, not rocket science. I know to be careful, you aren't doing this yourself. Quit being a stubborn asshole. Lift your hips and shut up before I duct tape your mouth shut, Got it?"

"Babe-"

"Don't "babe" me again. Lift your hips" Your eyes soften from their narrowed state as he does as you ask gently lifting just enough so you can get a towel under him and gently but swiftly take his boxers off careful of his wounds.

Carefully you apply a warm wet washrag to his pubic area so that it can soften the pores while Jason sits there and very poorly pretends to be upset which makes you roll your eyes just a bit, he always pouts when people help him with anything. You pinch his thigh a bit, a quick way of telling him to quit pouting like a kid.

"Can't you just be grateful I'm gladly shaving your pubes? Now which attachment do you use? Oh wait nevermind its gotta be this one it's the only one thats out of the package. Okay..."

Jason's eyes soften a bit, he can tell you care about this. You arent just being willy nilly about all this, you clearly care. He tries to not be stubborn for once, tries for once to let someone take care of him.

Soft musical hums leave your lips as you trim him down a bit, Jay always liked just enough to keep it all neat and in check since his hair is so dark, it's sparse but it grows quick. Careful around the family jewels of course, you make sure to be very gentle not wanting to cause any skin irritation especially with him being bed ridden for now.

"And we're back in business, Baby." You hand him a mirror after you clean up any excess hair with a bit of water and a clean rag.

"Oh thank god, you didn't draw like stars or some shit." This is his way of saying thank you even if he wasn't quite saying the actual words, you know he's happy to be taken care of even if he isn't used to it.

You stand up still wearing his shirt and a thong earns a different appreciative expression from him as he smacks your ass on the way out so you can put the trimmers up. "Need ta get you a lil slutty nurse outfit, you keep takin care of me and walkin around like that, Baby."

Bruce: "I really don't see what the big deal is. Hairless or otherwise, I don't mind you either way." Bruce mentioned as he helped you into the shower, normally he'd be doing this out of pure love and not necessity but due to the fact you hurt your back pretty bad on patrol he's "grounded you" and is waiting on you hand and foot like the sweet man he is. (Plus he needs a break, not that he'll admit it even for a second.) So Dick came up from Blüdhaven and Tim was more than happy to take over for Bruce.

"I get that, My Love and I'm greatful that you do and I'm not usually bare but it's starting to look like a chia pet down there and it'll be a lot more manageble if I just shave it all off."

"You know I don't mind, I'm always more than happy to get you naked even if I have to do some lawn maintenance for you." He smiles that shit eating smirk that he passed down to all of his boys, that playboy look that just brings men and women alike to their knees. He playfully yanks you to his chest, untying your robe as he kisses on your throat, groaning softly.

"So fuckin beautiful." His speaks against your skin causing it to slightly vibrate to the tone of his voice guiding you back towards the bed. "Lay back for me."

He grabs the electric shaver and checks the battery, gently nudging your thighs apart so he can start shaving.

Bruce locks in making sure to do a perfect job, no nicks, no missed patches, no razor burn. He's so focused it's almost adorable, it's so odd seeing him like this, Bruce Wayne Playboy by day and Batman by night neither of those titles screaming the phrase "adorable" but it's true he looks adorable.

"Happy now? You're bald now." He teases with that cocky tone of his, gently rubbing cooling shave gel onto your skin to calm the sensitive area down there.

"Don't act so cocky about it, I'd do it myself if I could." You say as you sit up, grabbing your underwear to get dressed with a playful eyeroll. He's so much less broody when it's just you both, like he can relax and bring his walls down just for you.

"Yeah but you can't and you asked me." He smacks your ass, giving it a little squeeze as his smirk gets somehow even wider.

"You're the bane of my exsistance." You say as you mock up an annoyed tone but lean into him telling him everything he needs to know.

"Oh, yeah? I'll remember that when you need help on patrol next time." His eyes glimmering with a playful shine, something you haven't seen in a while. These few days off so far even with taking care of you have done wonders for him, the dark circles under his eyes look lighter, his body is not in so much pain and he's a lot happier. The boys have noticed but they know better than to comment about it infront of Bruce, you're good for him and they're more than happy to have Bruce not being such a stick in the mud all the time.

Tim: You bought some trimmers online having decided to finally make a switch to something a little more friendly to your kitty down there. You had asked him to open and bring in the package you got to the bathroom; to your suprise Tim was more than happy to help. You didn't even have to ask him before he's sitting on the toilet reading the directions as you soak in the bathtub.

"So it says to make sure it's charged of course.," He flips it on to make sure it's working before turning it off. "Make sure to exfoliate the area...and then....yeah...okay...Yep, pretty easy. I should be able to do this with little issue. What attachment do you want or...I mean- you could go bald if you wanted to I'm happy with whatever you have going on down there. Whether thats a full bush in a thong or a baldie in some boyshorts."

You blush and run your hands over your face as you try not to laugh at the phrase "baldie in some boyshorts." "I'm gonna pretend you didn't say either of those things....Um, You don't mind helping out?"

"Oh, yeah. No problem really, I don't mind it whatsoever. I guess I didn't really ask if you wanted help, I just assumed. Would you like some help?" He asks as he scratches his nose a little looking at his gorgeous girlfriend in the bathtub.

"Well, I mean if your willing then there's no reason not to especially with a new device like that. I'll probably need help I can get." You smile with appreciation, Tim's always so so supportive and he never has to be asked to help he just does what any real man would do and gets it done.

"Okay so let's get out of the tub. Dry off and... Ye- Yeah. Like that." He watches you dry yourself off and sit on the edge of the tub. Carefully he knees between your legs and cuts the hair between them, sticking his tongue out a little as he does so. It's honestly rather endearing the way he's so careful about it. You reach out holding onto his shoulder so you don't fall back into the tub.

"You know, I really think we should do a movie night tonight. We haven't done one in a while and I'm not on patrol tonight so I think it's be perfect. I want to rewatch Top Gun again though both of them, I just have been having a hankering for Tom Cruise's middle tooth, you know?" He jokes and speaks so casually which does wonders for your nerves, just droning on and on about the movies.

Damian: "Do I even wanna ask why you want to do this?" Damian asks as he runs his hands over his face, the last couple days have been rough on him from patrols to meeting and such, he's dead on his feet.

"Not really? I just wanna take care of you and between a massage, a face mask and doing your nails, I might as well shave you too. Plus it keeps you from having to deal with it later."

"I mean I usually keep it pretty smooth down there, I just haven't had the time with all this busy body bullshit Father has me on. I don't mind if you help me out, just let me go shower, while I do that go get the shave gel, the trimmers and the aloe vera gel." Damian's not gonna make a big deal out of it all even if he had the energy, he likes allowing his walls to come down around you to the point you feel safe doing all this for him, it's so very domestic.

"Yeah, i'll put it on the list of stuff I need to get out. Now go shower, I wanna take care of you." You gathered face masks, lotions, oils, gels, the trimmers and your nail kit ready to literally do as much pampering as you can for him. Of course you know the Waynes usually have a masseuse but that isn't nearly as fun as doing it yourself.

"Wow, you really thought of everything, My Love." Damian looks at the things organized on the bed as he walks out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist looking like Michelangelo hand sculpted him himself. He presses a small kiss to your temple before letting you lay him down and start your pampering.

"First off we should do the face mask, pubes, massage then I wanna do you hands." You've very clearly thought this out step by step, applying the blue gel mask gently to his face but your careful of his dark and damp hair having to move a strand sticking to his forehead out of the way so you can continue to apply it. Damian doesn't fuss, he just relaxes and lets you do your thing, his hand coming up to squeeze your hip a little as a mini thank you but he doesn't get in your way at all.

Working methodically you make sure to get around his balls very gently, his thighs and every other little area going with the grain to avoid any unesscesary friction and irritation like it's second nature.

"By the time thats dry I should be done with your downstairs." You state as you check the trimmers before applying the shave gel to his skin, making sure to cover all the hairs throughly but not too much product as to gum up the trimmers. The last thing you'd wanna do is cut him or leave it all different lengths.

After that'd done you have him lay face down so you can massage his back and not even ten minutes in and he's asleep and not just barely asleep but full fledged deep sleep. Of course you finish up massaging him cause at this point he's definitely not waking up bit you still do everything you promised, massaging him, cleaning under his nails, clipping them and filing them and gently massaging his sore hands from so much time on patrol making sure to get some lotion on them due to the dry but cold weather here in Gotham.

Of course, after you clean him up and apply the aloe gel over the shaved areas to help with any irritation, rushing to the bathroom to wash your hands and wet a washrag so you can wipe any residue from the face mask off Damian's face.

-> 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

You just wanted to take a nap after the long day you had. Really, just one, quick nap to feel less like a walking corpse and have at least some energy for your plans tonight.

But two hours later, you get woken up by your door bell ringing. You look at your phone, fuck.

You hurry to your apartment door and press open, you unlock the door. You hear quick footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

You see black hair and soon enough, the whole man coming up the last step and approaching your door.

Dick  wears a nice shirt and well fitting jeans. To put it simply, he looks hot.

“Forgot about me?” He asks, looking you up and down.

You still wear a loose shirt and comfy shorts you threw on after coming home.

“Well,” you begin, “I had a really stressful day and needed a nap.”

His smile is soft and you almost melt. It was embarrassing how much you were pining after that guy.

“Can I come in?” His head slightly rolls to the side, some hair falling into his face.

You step aside, letting him in and he takes off his shoes. 

He begins to head for your bedroom, which doubles as your living room.  

Then, suddenly, you remember.

You rush past him, blocking his way through the door.

“You can't go in.” Your back moves closer to the door handle. “Not now.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Why not?" I don't care if it's messy.”

Offended, you scoff. “Thats not why, but thank you for thinking that I'm messy.”

You hear him laugh.

“Then why can't I go in? I don't want to wait in the hallway. It's boring.”

Your mind wanders to the pillow on your bed, the one you've just been sleeping on, the one with Dicks shirt draped over it as a pillowcase. No way he won't see that when going in.

“Too bad, you will have to. Sorry Dick.” You shrug your shoulders dramatically. Maybe you could go in first, hide the shirt and tell him he could come in? Maybe he would believe you if you would say you needed to change?

Before you could overthink anymore, Dicks hand reaches behind you, opening the door.

You almost fall in, but he holds you up.

He looks into your eyes, then down? And just as quickly up again.

You two are pressed close together by the hips. The scene coming across is way more dramatic than it actually is. 

He lets you go after reality hits him and just pushes past you. He could feel his face getting hot. He runs a hand through his hair as he tries to avoid facing you. 

He really needed to get a grip on himself, god.

He looks around the room to distract himself, everything looks as ever. Until his eyes land on the dark shirt covering a pillow. His shirt.

He turns around to you, embarrassment gone and replaced with pure, evil joy. A grin spreads across his face.

“Is that the shirt I spilled my drink on last weekend?” 

You're already red and stammering. "Look, I don't have fresh pillowcases anymore. They're all in the washing machine and I didn't want to stretch my shirts.”

“Your other pillow has a pillowcase tho?” he mock observes.

“I don't like that pillow.” you say.

“Then why not use that case on the pillow you do like?” His grin grows wider.

You want to choke the life out of him right now. “I don't like the pillowcase either?” You try, but fail because the knowing look on his face persists.

“Maybe you just missed me?” his tone was teasing, “Oh damn, does it still smell like me?” He laughs out.

You were still standing by the doorframe where he held you just a minute ago. 

You remember the first time you pulled the shirt over the pillow. A friend had mentioned setting Dick up with someone else. It had seemed easier than admitting how badly you wanted it to be you.

You feel like a creep now that he knows as thick wetness fills your eyes. You look to the side, too scared to find the disgusted look in his eyes.

“Whoa, hey.” Dick steps closer. “Hey, why are you crying?” He pulls you into a hug, resting his shin on the top of your head. “No need for that, I think it's adorable.”

You sob. “Its really not.”

One of his hands starts to play with your hair, he chuckles quietly before saying, “no it is, I didn't know you liked me that much.”

You bury your face into his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt already soaked in your tears. Enjoying the touch of your hair and the calmness of his breathing.

“Next time just text me to come over, okay? The real thing is way better anyways.”

The thought of your feelings for him destroying your friendship fading away in an instant. 

What?

You lift your head to meet his eyes. Tears weighing down your lashes. 

“You don't think I'm a creepy perv or whatever?”

Dick has the audacity to laugh at that. You were about to say something but his smile was almost blinding you. He looks so happy and beautiful, for a second you forget about the whole situation.

“Can I kiss you,” he says, adding a “please” when you don't answer immediately. 

“Yes,” your voice is barely audible.

He softly places a hand on your cheek, the other one traveling down from your shoulder, along your arm and then finding its place at your hips.

He softly strokes your probably red cheek. 

He holds the eye contact a second longer, before leaning down and placing a soft, almost shy, kiss on your lips.

The second one is longer, his lips pressed harder to yours but still careful. 

You lift your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer. 

Dick bites your bottom lip gently before pulling off of you. You let out a sigh. 

“I know we had plans, but I really don't feel like going out tonight.” He leans his forehead against yours. “Can we stay here?”

You nod and try to find your voice again.

“Am I that good?” His initial soft smile turns into a teasing grin again.

“Way to ruin a moment.” You swallow down your still lingering embarrassment and escape his grip to move to your bed. “And this,” you pull off the shirt from the pillow, “is freshly washed. It doesn't even smell like you. You can have it back.” You throw it at him.

Dick catches it, of course he does. “You don't need it anymore anyways.”

He follows you to bed and lets himself fall onto it. He gestures to you to lay down next to him and you do. He turns to his side and puts his arms around you, holding you close and warm.

After a moment, you shift again. “Your clothes are uncomfortable, my god.”

Jason is on all fours in front of you. You sit behind him, nervously fiddling with the lube bottle in your hands. 

The bright redness on his face is visible whenever he turns around, trying to predict your next move.

"Do you want to make me wait any longer?" he huffs.

You aren't really sure how it got to this moment. Was it after you got home drunk from a night out that you two ordered the pink strap on? And when it arrived and both of you tried to remember why the hell you ordered the thing, that Jason said you should try it? Just once, just for fun?

Well whatever, you obviously said yes, maybe a bit too enthusiastically, but now actually had to perform.

You open the lid of the bottle, squeeze out some of the lubricant onto your fingers and lightly press them against his hole.

"You ready?" You ask him. 

Jason nods, back muscles tensing visibly.

"We don't have to." Your other hand calmly strokes the side of his hip.

He grunts. "Do it, I'm ready." After a short pause, he adds "and I really want to." Almost too quiet to hear.

A slight grin spreads across your face. "Okay then, Im going in."

"Don't say it like tha-" he gets cut off by one of your fingers slowly pressing in. "Ah, fuck-"

"You tell me when it gets too much baby, okay?" His answer is a short nod again.

You press deeper and soon enough a second finger follows. Jason's whines get harder to hide with every slow stroke in and out. At some point his arms give out. The pillow under him now muffling his sounds even more. A shame, really.

"You look so pretty like this." You coo, your hand gently moving along his back to his hips and eventually circling part of his ass with your thumb. "So pretty baby."

Jason moans at that.

"You want my cock now?" 

"Yes, yes please, god-" his begging sends a chill down your spine. You´ve never seen him like this before. All whiny and pathetic, begging you to fuck him. Jason turns his face and you can see his flushed cheeks and watery eyes.

You lean down to press soft kisses to his muscular back. Then pull out your fingers, wipe them clean on his ass cheek and line up the silicone cock strapped to you.

The head rubbing against his hole made him involuntary back up into it. "You really want it, huh?" Jason whines louder this time, not even bothering to hide it.

You chuckle. Then press forward again, guiding it in. Gently, watching your cock disappear inside him. 

"You still okay?" Your question is answered by a whiny "Yes".

"You're doing great Jay. So good." He whines again and rocks his hips back, pathetically trying to get more. "Patience, don´t want to hurt you." You lean down again to plant feather light kisses along his spine.

When you get up once more, you move your hips back, seeing the pink silicon appear again. You do it slowly, dragging every little whine and moan out of him, then pushing back in. You continue in an agonizingly slow pace.

"Baby, please-" his words get choked out by a low hum escaping his lips. "More, please, just ah-" 

You keep pushing in and out, speed increasing after every thrust. "Like this?" You can hear your own voice getting more hoarse and desperate.

Your hands are gripping his hips tightly. The more that the speed increased, the harder it is for you to keep yourself up straight. Your one hand loosens its grip and slides down Jason's sweat coated back till it reaches his shoulders. Your hand finds his hair and gripped it.

One hand now on his hips and one in his hair.

"´s that good?" Your voice nothing more than a breathy whisper. 

There is no real answer, just a thick groan and more huffing. You can feel him tensing again, his muscles shifting under his skin. 

He turns his head again, his eyes darker than usual. His expression tells you he's completely lost in the moment

A few strokes later, he shudders and collapses onto into the pillow, his legs still shaking after you pull out. 

You discard the harness and sit down beside him. One of his arms finds its way over your thighs around your waist and his face nuzzles against your warm skin.

Allie Hayes – the confident, beautiful, outgoing girl who managed to lock down Dean fucking DiLaurentis just by wearing a J-Lo costume at a party.

And sure, you shared the same confidence and beauty as her, but following her around like a lost puppy, literally and figuratively, only seemed to reinforce the idea that you were really just known as ‘Allie’s little sister’. The thoughts race through your head as you bike over to the hockey house, Allie insisting you come by and hang out. Music plays loudly in your headphones as you pedal down the street before arriving at the house, pulling up to the steps.

Climbing off your bike, you unbuckle your helmet, running your hands through your hair. Your back faces the front door as you take your bag out of the front basket of your bike. Taking your phone out, you pause the music, removing the headphones and putting them in your bag. Before you can lock your bike up, the front door swings open.

You turn around, seeing Logan rushing down the stairs.

“Lemme grab that for you,” he insists as you step back, hiking your bag up on your shoulder. 

“Oh hey, thanks,” you smile. You toss the lock in the basket as he effortlessly lifts the bike, walking up the stairs as you follow him. He perches your bike up against the house.

“I… haven’t seen you around lately,” Logan says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Oh, you know with finals around the corner, studying is taking up most of my time,” you say, nervously laughing, half telling the truth.

The full truth being you’re harboring the world’s biggest crush on John Logan, and you know he’d never feel the same way about you so you’re avoiding him as much as possible in the hopes that your crush will eventually go away. A mission that’s currently failing as his brown doe eyes look into yours, captivating you.

“Huh, I can’t imagine you struggling with finals, or anything really,” he says, the compliment going straight to your heart, a confidence boost radiating through you at the idea that maybe, just maybe, he was flirting with you. A light smile crawls onto your face, the blush on your cheeks definitely noticeable.

“Well, I gotta keep that scholarship somehow, right?” you joke, trying not to blatantly flirt with him, just in case you’re misjudging this entire conversation.

“Right…” he trails off. He looks as if he’s about to say something, when the front door swings open, a mop of blonde hair peeking out behind Logan’s shoulder.

“What up Lil Hayes,” Dean says, peeking out the front door, immediately killing the moment, that same feeling of feeling small rushing over your body once again, depleting any confidence you had. Logan notices the subtle shift in your body language as you press your lips in a fine line before meeting Dean’s gaze.

“Hi Dean,” you reply.

“Allie’s looking for you,” he says, looking from you to Logan before heading back inside. Your eyebrows raise for half a second before your eyes meet Logan’s again. He turns to the side, holding his arm out, motioning to let you walk in first. You smile at him as a ‘thanks’ before he follows you in, shamelessly letting his eyes trail down your body as you walk inside.

Logan knew he liked you after your first interaction. The way your smile lit up the room, your confidence and personality had him whipped from the start. As bubbly as you were, you were a bit hard to read. He struggled to gauge how you felt about him, and the thought of ruining the friendship you had already developed scared the shit out of him, so he just felt it was better to keep these feelings to himself. In the meantime, he resorted to little flirty comments here and there, going above and beyond for you, not just to impress you.

But because he wanted to.

Clearly, he didn’t keep his feelings hidden well enough, Dean winking at him as he makes his way into the kitchen. Logan slightly shakes his head at him in confusion, walking past you and Allie on the couch, chatting about something you clearly had interest in. Your smile big and your eyes widening, him truly thinking your eyes could sparkle if they wanted to. Dean’s eyes follow Logan’s to the couch before looking back at Logan when the realization dawns on him.

Logan approaches Dean in the kitchen, questioning the very smug grin on his face. “You like Lil Hayes, don’t you,” he says, the first time those words ever leaving someone’s mouth making his heart drop into his stomach.

Logan didn’t know why, but he didn’t like the nickname. Sure, it was cute and quirky, but something about it rubbed him the wrong way. It was almost as if it made you seem like you weren’t your own person, you were just Allie’s sister. But you were so much more than that. He could tell you didn’t like it either.

The subtle way your body would tense up when you hear it, trying to hide any discomfort as you swallow down the emotions, it happening just moments ago on the porch. After he saw your negative reaction to it the first time, he made a promise to himself.

He would never call you that.

“She’s really cool and we get along, how does that mean I have a crush?” he asks Dean, trying to deflect.

“I know what it looks like to be captivated by a Hayes,” he says, a hint of humor in his voice as he continues, “And she definitely likes you too, so you should go for it,” he says, making Logan’s head whip towards Dean.

“What?” he says, unsure he heard Dean correctly. Dean just shrugs, taking a sip of Gatorade and patting Logan’s chest before heading out to the backyard where Garrett and Tucker already are, working out. Logan’s eyes find you again, laughing at something Allie said. Your eyes glance over to him, the smile staying on your face that he gladly returns, before he heads up to his room to change to join the guys for a workout.

“You so like him!!” Allie says, grabbing your hands and bouncing lightly on the couch.

“Will you keep your voice down?! And no, I don’t” you deny, the lie falling a little too easily off your lips. 

“I love you, but you are so naive if you think he doesn’t like you back,” Allie sternly says. One of the many things you admired about your sister was her bluntness to call things like she sees it. And Allie was never one to lie to anyone. About anything.

You and Allie go back and forth as Logan eventually catches your eye once more, rushing back down the stairs, before he heads to the backyard. Your eyes follow him as he walks through the living room, the cut sleeveless hoodie allowing your eyes to be blessed with the sight of his arms flexing, while he ties the red bandana behind his head as he continues walking outside.

“Yeah, that wasn’t subtle at all,” Allie sarcastically states, watching you basically eye fuck him. You look back at her, rolling your eyes, laying your body onto the back of the couch, hugging a pillow close to your chest.

“I don’t like him.” 

“Whatever you say…” 

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

“Thank you all for coming,” Allie says, having a presentation style hangout a few days later as Hannah, Garrett, Dean and Tucker sit around the couch watching her.

“Aren’t we missing two…? Tucker asks, looking around noticing you and Logan missing.

“No no my sweet Tuck, they are the reason we are all here right now.” Allie says very adamantly before continuing, “It’s so obvious they like each other but they’re both too scared to do anything about it. We have to intervene,” she finishes. The rest of the group looks around at each other, waiting for someone else to speak up. 

“I’m in,” Dean says, “I talked to Logan about it the other day in the kitchen and he clammed up. He totally likes her,” he says. The rest of the group nods, more than willing to help their friends out. Allie’s eyes widen in excitement.

“Exactly. I love my sister, but I also know her, she’s gonna clam up the second he makes some cute comment, which is his passive way of trying to let her know he’s into her and then that stupid voice in her head is gonna sike her out and she’s gonna shut down,” she rambles, exhaling at the end.

“Okay, so how do we do this?” Hannah asks.

“It’s gotta be something good, no inviting her to a game or any of that crap,” Garrett chimes in.

Allie smirks, “I have the perfect idea.”

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

“You stole her fucking bike chain??!”

Allie stands there, having not been gone 30 minutes, her hands now all greased up, a bike chain dangling in one hand, a pair of pliers in the other. “Just trust me, okay? She’s gonna get out of class, realize it’s stolen and go to the one person we all know who can fix it. We all just need to be out of the house when it happens so they’re alone when they get back here,” Allie says, a smile on her face.

The group looks at her with a mix of emotions – impressed, shocked, concerned – as Garrett checks his watch.

“Logan’s probably still at the rink,” he says, mentioning how lately he’s been staying after practices to get extra skating time.

“Perfect, she gets out of class any minute now, that’s enough time for Logan to still be there while she realizes she’s screwed and reaches out to him all ‘damsel in distress’ like. This is gonna be great you guys, trust me!” she exclaims, the group just nodding in agreement, not wanting to hurt her feelings at the extremity of her way of trying to get the two of you together. It really was sweet how she just wanted you to be happy.

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

Your heart sinks as you approach your bike, the chain clearly missing from your bike. Who the hell even robs someone of a bike chain? The bike route from the campus building to your place was long enough as is, having to lug a broken bike all that way definitely not an ideal situation. You sigh, eyes darting around as you try to come up with a solution.

Logan’s phone buzzes repeatedly in his hockey bag, him catching the tail end of it after his shower before rushing over to his bag. Pulling his phone out, a light smile on his face seeing your name. Then, a wave of concern. You never call him. 

“Hey, what’s up?” he asks. The panic in your voice sets alarm bells off in his head.

“Hey, sorry, are you free right now? I just got out of class and some asshat stole my bike chain. It’s a long way to my place to have to drag the bike with me. I didn’t know if you had a spare chain or anything to help me…” you trail off, sighing, embarrassed at your rambling.

“I’m actually still at the rink, I don’t have any tools or anything with me, but I can come by and take a look at it,” he offers. He grins, hearing the sigh of relief that came from the other end of the call.

“You’re a lifesaver,” you say, telling him which building you’re at before the calls ends. Logan arrives about ten minutes later, the sad look on your face making his heart ache before that look turns into your face brightening up when you see him. You greet each other before he takes a look at the bike.

“Yep… It’s definitely missing,” he says, a hint of sarcasm in his voice as you look down at him blankly, trying not to laugh. “Wow, thanks” you reply sarcastically, crossing your arms.

“It’s weird, it looks like it was yanked it out with pliers or something,” he says, confused.

“Yeah, who steals a fucking bike chain?” you rhetorically ask, rubbing your hands over your face, this being the last thing you need right now. The tense sigh that leaves your lips catches Logan’s attention, him standing up, wiping his hands before coming up to you. Your hands go back down to your sides as he speaks.

“Hey, we’ll figure it out. We can just take the bike to the hockey house, I’ll stop by the shop on our way to get a chain and it’ll be as good as new,” he reassures you, a light smile arriving on your face, incredibly thankful for his willingness to help you.

“There’s that pretty smile. Alright, let’s go,” he says, turning his back to you to grab the bike and put it in the bed of his truck.

Your brain nearly malfunctions, replaying that in your head, making sure you heard him correctly. He pulls the passenger door open for you. You hop in and before he can shut the door, you turn your body towards him. “Thank you so much, seriously, I owe you,” you say sincerely. 

“I’d help you any time,” he replies, closing the door gently, the butterflies swarming inside your stomach.

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

One new bike chain later and you and Logan are sitting on the hockey house couch facing each other, the conversation flowing effortlessly. Your elbow is perched on the top of the couch, your head resting in the palm of your hand as Logan’s arm is sprawled across the top of the couch, his fingers dangerously close to your arm.

“I don’t know that we’ve ever hung out just the two of us… It’s nice,” you admit, his eyes softer than ever as he looks at you.

“It is nice,” he reaffirms, adjusting his arm as his hand gets even closer to you. Your eyes flicker down to his hand before quickly making eye contact with him again. The tension in the air feels incredibly thick, you both soaking in the moment.

“You are so beautiful,” he says, the intention in his voice clearer than ever, all the negative thoughts swarming in your head dissipating as you look down shyly, a blush creeping up on your cheeks, smiling as you look back at him.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Before you can come back with any self-deprecating comments hidden inside a joke, Logan continues,

“I know sometimes it can feel like you’re living in your sister’s shadow. But I want you to know that I see you for you. And I think you’re incredible,” he finishes, the warm feeling in your body radiating all throughout as your eyes slightly well up, lightly smiling at him.

“Thank you,” you say, your eyes telling a much larger story. And Logan was an expert in reading.

Logan’s position on the couch changes, him still facing you as he sits up, scooting even closer to you. You sit up too, the air getting heavier as he leans in slightly, gauging your reaction. Your eyes flicker from his eyes to his lips as Logan leans in, connecting your lips.

Describing the kiss as fireworks would be an understatement, his hand coming up to hold your face as you lean into him, deepening the kiss. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you in even closer, your hand placing itself on his shoulder, slowly trailing down to his arm, squeezing his bicep, taking full advantage of the opportunity.

Smiling into the kiss, you slowly pull away, giggling lightly. Fighting the smiles growing on your faces was a lost cause, the both of you feeling giddy like kids again.

A smack on the window snaps the two of you out your bliss, your heads whipping over to the window, catching several heads quickly ducking, including a very delayed duck by a bright blonde mop of hair. You stare in bewilderment,

“Are they fucking watching us?!”

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

Majorie Deacons, 83. Survived by her husband, Harold, of 62 years, her three children–Mary, Thomas, and Steven–and 10 grandchildren. Worked as a paralegal for 48 years before retiring to the Poconos with Harold. Moved back to Pittsburgh when she got sick. Died from sepsis as a result of her cancer-weakened immune system.  

That was all you knew of the woman laying in front of you, her skin pale and body unnaturally still. You thought about her life as you removed her engagement and wedding ring, the crucifix pendant around her neck, the diamond bracelet around her frail wrist–all logged securely for the family to pick up at their convenience. 

You thought about her life, about the 83 years she spent on this earth. Where did she grow up? Was Harold her high-school sweetheart, or did they meet in college, or a bar? Did they travel? What sights did they see, how many sunsets did they share? Did she remember exactly where she was when Kennedy was assassinated, like most older folks did? Did she like red lipstick or pink? When did her hair turn white–did she hate it or did she embrace it? 

Did she feel welcomed by death, or did she fight it kicking and screaming? 

83 years, such a long life and yet still not long enough for the people who loved her. 

You spent a lot of time grieving people you’d never met before as a morgue technician. It was a tough job–one spent with people on the worst days of their lives. Sure, you weren’t the one responsible for saving lives–didn’t have a relationship with the patient while they were living–but sometimes you thought maybe it was worse in a way. You learned about these people from their families, from the people so deeply grieving their loved one that often all you felt was gut-wrenching sadness for the hole that now lived in these people’s hearts. You didn’t get the benefit of seeing them interact with their loved ones, didn’t get to know their personality or see their quirks. All you experienced was the grief their loss wrought, not the joy their life had created. 

You liked being there for people, though. Death is not something Americans are accustomed to talking about openly, the aftermath of losing a loved one often impersonal and shrouded in mystery. Especially at the hospital, it often felt more clinical than anything else, with procedure and policy often taking center stage over the deceased.  

You liked bringing a sense of humanity to the process; liked to have the families reminisce about their loved ones, liked getting to know them through the people who cherished them the most despite the deep ache it sometimes left in your chest. 

You learned about Marjorie upstairs, from the family as you collected the body, and you’re looking forward to learning more about her when the family comes to collect her effects. You found that getting people to talk about the person they lost made it easier to discuss funeral and transport arrangements. You didn’t want them to feel like they were just another box to check off your to-do list. 

A knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts. 

“Hey, we got another one upstairs. Transport’s been taking forever tonight,” Elise, your boss, said, rolling her eyes. “They have one job: get the body from point A to point B. What gives?” 

You shrugged, sighing as you finished cataloging all of Marjorie's effects. “I’ll be back soon,” you said, squeezing her hand gently before making your way to the elevators, up to the emergency department. 

Transport was supposed to, well, transport the body. But they were often backed up for one reason or another, and delays in moving the body meant a valuable room remained occupied when it could otherwise be used for another patient. So, more often than not, Elise sent you up to grab the body and bring it back down for processing. It was faster that way, and often gave the family some peace knowing that their loved one wasn’t just sitting in the emergency room. 

You didn’t mind, exactly. As much as you enjoyed the quiet and solitude of the mortuary, you liked peaking your head up in the ED and seeing the hustle and bustle there, the way it teemed with life as well as death, even at night.  

And it didn’t hurt that the senior night shift attending was perhaps the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d had a crush on him since you met him, your introduction being maybe one of the most embarrassing moments of your life. 

It was your first time up in the emergency department, the incessant beeping and constant chatter a stark difference to the quiet morgue–if people were talking down there, something was seriously wrong. 

You’d been taken on a brief tour by the charge nurse, Lena, who gave you a rundown of the transport procedure. You met a few of the residents, Dr. Ellis and Dr. Crus, and a handful of nurses, all of whom seemed nice enough.  

But you almost stopped dead in your tracks when you met the kind hazel eyes of the graying, curly-haired man standing at the nurses station. 

“And this is Dr. Abbot, senior night shift attending. You’ll need his or Dr. Shen’s signature whenever you transport a body,” Lena introduced you, “Dr. Abbot, this is the new morgue technician. She graciously offered to help with transport.” 

You held your hand out, brain nearly turning to mush when he shook it. His palm was rough, calloused from many years of working with his hands, and unbelievably warm. His hand also dwarfed yours, which sent a tingle down your spine. 

“New morgue technician?” he asked, “Well, no offense, but I hope we don’t see you too much around here,” he joked with an easy smile on his face.  

“I guess that remains to be seen,” you said, and followed it up with a ‘ba dum tss’ sound effect and finger guns. Yes, you really did that. 

The joke didn’t land; they never did. Jack cocked his head to the side, an almost-smile gracing his lips, and shot you an inquisitive look, like he was trying to figure you out. 

His intense stare made your cheeks heat and your tummy swirl. You weren’t sure if you were aroused or uncomfortable, or some combination of both.  

You couldn’t get out of there sooner. 

It felt like you could never get your foot out of your mouth when Jack Abbot was around. And so the cycle began: get called up to retrieve a body, make an ill-timed joke, embarrass the hell out of yourself, and return back to the safety of the morgue as quickly as possible. 

You never made jokes in front of patients or families; you knew that it was something strictly reserved for your peers, people you thought understood the challenges you all face in healthcare–and deathcare. 

You weren’t sure why it seemed physically impossible for you not to use humor as a defense mechanism. Part of it was the nature of your job–gallows humor was a coping mechanism you latched onto and couldn’t seem to shake off. It was the same way some people laughed when they were nervous or panicked–a reaction to pent up emotions and stress that manifested as humor instead of as tears. 

But you’d also always been like this, trying to diffuse uncomfortable situations with humor instead of meeting them head on, or making a joke at your own expense before someone else could. It hurt less that way, if you could subvert something painful into something lighthearted.

You’d always been admonished for it, by your parents, friends, partners. Had been told that it was inappropriate and that you were too crass, too loud, too much. Which was probably true. It confused you, though, how some people did bond over humor, in the occasional callousness of it, when you were criticized for it. That was something you’d never been able to work out, how it was always wrong when you did it; why you’d never been able to bond with people the same way others did. Well, there was a reason you worked the night shift at a morgue, after all. 

You pushed those thoughts away and instead tried to talk yourself up as you stood in the elevator, willing yourself not to be weird. 

“Hey, Lena, heard you got another customer for me?” you grinned at her, leaning against the nurses station. 

“Sure do, sweets. Her name is Cary West,” she replied with a soft smile. Lena, at least, seemed to like you. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

She pointed you to the correct room, where Mateo was cleaning up the body. You stood silently as he finished, taking a moment to honor the person they were and the people they’re leaving behind. These moments always felt weird–liminal, in a way. No longer a patient, but not yet ready for the funeral home–they were entrusted in your care in the meantime. 

There was no family in the room, which wasn’t abnormal for night shift. Folks had gone home, to sleep or cry or do whatever else one does to process the grief. You always hope you’ll meet the family of the deceased, but you’re not holding on hope on this one. It was 4am, the family would likely be back during the day to take care of funeral arrangements and Ms. West would be long gone by then. Still, though, you thought about her life, her wants, her dreams–tried to insert some humanity where it had been lost.  

“Sorry you had to come back up so soon, I know you just got down there with Ms. Deacons,” Mateo said quietly, pulling the sheet over her head. 

“Oh no worries, I don’t mind. It's not like she’s gonna talk my ear off.” 

He just shook his head at your joke, unimpressed and unamused. 

“Looks like Dr. Abbot is at the nurses station. C’mon, and we’ll get the transfer paperwork signed,” he said, holding the door open for you to push the gurney through. 

Dr. Abbot looked worn out. His eyes were tired, and the kind smile he usually sported was replaced by a slight frown and a furrow between his brows. His shoulders were drawn up tight, the tension built up there almost looking painful. It must have been a rough night. 

You greeted him with a soft smile, and handed over the clipboard for his signature, which he promptly filled out. 

He handed you the clipboard before turning his attention back to the gurney. His jaw was clenched tight, a pained look on his face as he squeezed Ms. West’s hand peeking out from the blanket. 

“Treat her well for us, please,” he said, voice hoarse. 

“Always do, I wouldn’t want to know what the reaper-cussions would be if I didn’t,” you joked before you could think better of it, cringing internally at your lack of tact. 

There was a split second of silence, the tension simmering hotly before fully boiling over. 

“Jesus fucking christ, can you be serious for one fucking second? This is a hospital, not a fucking comedy club. There are people grieving here. You need to learn to be an adult and keep your fucknig mouth shut,” he boomed, his face red and chest heaving. 

He was looming over you now as he spit out, “get the fuck out of my ED.” 

Your ears were ringing. You weren’t sure if the department had actually fallen silent or if you’d just temporarily lost the ability to hear.

You couldn’t breathe, oxygen not flowing properly into your lungs. It felt like you’d been punched in the gut, all the air sucked out and replaced with lead.  

“S-sorry,” you stuttered out, cheeks burning and throat closing in on itself. Tears were building up quickly in your eyes, but you weren’t going to cry in front of these people; you weren’t going to give them the satisfaction. 

You gripped the edge of the gurney and pushed ahead, desperate to get out of there as fast as humanly possible. No one stopped you, no one offered any apologies or sympathies, just watched your humiliated form disappear into the elevator. 

The minute the elevator doors closed the tears fell, the hot trails burning your face as you tried to conceal your sobs. 

“I’m s-sorry, Ms. West, I shouldn’t be crying like this. I don’t really have much to be upset about in comparison,” you apologized to the corpse, feeling guilty for being so upset when you were literally transporting a dead woman. 

You managed to calm yourself down before you reached the morgue. You didn’t want to explain what happened to Elise, didn’t want to recount every embarrassing detail that was already replaying in your head. 

You soothed yourself with routine, with the repetitive motions of logging personal effects, filling out reports, and contacting the funeral home to make arrangements. 

By the time 7AM rolled around, you were more than ready to get the hell out of there.

The sun is blinding against your puffy eyes. The past two days were a blur, mostly spent crying and replaying the incident over and over. You called out of work, citing a stomach bug. Which wasn’t all that untrue–the thought of encountering anyone in the hospital did make you feel violently ill. 

You had already put in for a transfer to day shift, feigning some excuse about your school schedule changing. You couldn’t wait to finish your studies and officially become a mortician. You’d leave the hospital and start your own business, helping people through the grieving and burial process in your own way. 

And maybe you’d never have to see Jack Abbot ever again. The thought was as relieving as it was devastating, because you liked him. And you were starting to think maybe he liked you too–at least as a friend or acquaintance. 

It was a slow night, which you were thankful for. It meant there weren’t any bodies in the morgue–that there weren’t any deaths so far tonight. So you weren’t too bent out of shape when you got shipped up to the ED to collect a body. 

You found Dr. Abbot quickly, signed the necessary paperwork, and wheeled the body out to central. 

“Thanks for picking up, I don’t know what the hell’s going on with transpo tonight,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it, we’re actually empty right now. There’s no body there,” you said, a cheeky grin crossing your lips. 

And Jack laughed. A full-on, deep-throated laugh. It was one of the most beautiful sounds you’d ever heard. Your chest swelled with pride, and all you could think about was making him do it again. 

He shook his head at you, smile still lingering on his face, “what makes a girl like you want to work night shift at the morgue?”  

“Girl like me?” you asked coyly, raising your eyebrow at him. 

He assessed you, eyes flitting over your face, “yeah, young, smart… pretty.”

You flushed at that, your body getting all warm and tingly, “well, I’m not a mourning person, for one,” you joked, earning another laugh from Jack. 

“I, uh, I’m in school for mortuary science,” you continued, giving him a real answer, “I want to be a mortician when I’m done.” 

“That’s… admirable,” he said, “you don’t get the glory of saving lives but you do get all the dirty work. Good for you.” 

Jack’s attention made you feel like you were on fire–like a white hot ball of flame that would spread given the littlest bit of ammunition. His stare was brazen, unapologetic–you couldn’t look away if you tried. 

You cleared your throat, breaking some of the tension, “I guess I should probably get him downstairs,” you said, gesturing to the gurney in front of you. 

“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Jack said, moving to stand by your side. He rested his hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the elevators. The touch was electrifying–you could feel the warmth radiating from him through the layers of scrubs. He was close enough now that you could smell the warm amber of his cologne mixed with his own musky scent. You felt dizzy, and all you wanted to do was press yourself against him, to nestle yourself in the crook of his neck and inhale. 

He pressed the button for the elevator when you arrived and helped you wheel the gurney in. 

“It was good seein’ you, pretty girl,” he said, and just as the elevator doors were closing, he winked at you. 

You were surprised you didn’t turn into a puddle right then and there. 

Your chest twisted at the memory. Maybe that’s why his words hurt so much–why they’d sunk into the marrow of your bones, confirming that he thought as lowly of you as you already thought of yourself. He’d given you hope, shown you kindness where no one else in the ED had. 

It was stupid, anyway. Thinking that a man like Jack Abbot could feel anything other than disdain for someone like you. Of course the hot, older, accomplished attending wouldn’t want anything to do with the awkward morgue technician. 

Every time you thought about it, your heart ached, a dull pang ringing through your chest and reverberating through your body. Tears pooled in your eyes at the mere thought of the incident. It felt like you were back in high school, asking Alex Williams to the school dance just to have him laugh in your face and say he wasn’t going to go with a freak. 

You couldn’t dwell on it, though. You had a job to do, bills to pay. You could only hope that day shift was better, or that you could whip yourself into shape and keep your comments to yourself.

“Jesus, why is the body in north 2 still there?” Jack asked, eyes trained on the board ahead of him. Wait times were astronomical and chairs was full to the brim–the sooner they moved the deceased out, the sooner they could move a new patient in. 

“Not sure, I called transpo an hour ago, but you know how concerned they are with being timely,” Lena responded. 

“What about the morgue? Why haven’t they sent anyone to collect the body?” 

Lena looked at him over the top of her glasses, an unimpressed look on her face. 

“Oh, you mean that sweet girl who helps us out by transporting bodies when transpo is dicking around? The one you screamed at in front of the entire department? Gosh, I can’t think of a reason she’s not chomping at the bit to come up here,” she deadpanned, fixing Jack with a glare. “Last I heard she switched to day shift. Said she had some personal schedule conflicts, but I think we both know that’s not true.”   

Jack winced, guilt coursing through him. He hadn’t meant to make such a scene, to be so cruel. It had just been such a monumentally horrible day, his chest wound so tight and hackles raised that your little joke set him off. It was stupid, too, because Jack had easily made far worse jokes at far more inappropriate times. 

It could have easily been anyone else that he snapped at, would have been, if you weren’t there. But you were, and so you bore the brunt of his wrath. 

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been replaying the look on your face, the way it crumpled and tears welled up in your pretty eyes. He remembered how your breath hitched, how you shrunk in on yourself and ran away as fast as you could. 

It made his chest ache to think about. He wanted to find you, to apologize, but he thought he might just make it worse. And selfishly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for the conversation that would ensue. He assumed he’d see you up here at some point, where he could take you aside and beg for forgiveness–he didn’t think you’d rearrange your entire work schedule just to avoid seeing him. 

He wasn’t sure why he acted so indifferently toward you. Or rather, he did–he just didn’t want to acknowledge the way you made him feel. You made him feel giddy–made his face warm and his heart race, like a teenage boy flirting with a pretty girl for the first time. He briefly tried flirting with you, but he was pretty sure you were oblivious to it–either that or you didn’t feel the same. He was hoping for the former.  

He hadn’t felt this way about someone since he started dating his wife. Frankly, it made him uncomfortable to think about, made him feel like he was betraying her in some way. He knew that wasn’t true, knew that his wife would want him to be happy, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling. 

He’d been talking about it with his therapist, trying to cope with these feelings–trying to get up the courage to ask you out.

And the kicker was he was going to, he was getting bolder, complimenting you and finding any excuse to, respectfully, put his hands on you. And now he’s fucked it all up. 

“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands down his face.  

“Yeah, shit. I suggest you take your ass down there and apologize. Properly.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll handle it,” he said absent-mindedly, already wracking his brain for the right words to say to you.

The change to day shift was brutal. Your body wasn’t used to waking up when you were supposed to be going to bed, and vice versa. You were also working less hours to accommodate your school schedule, which was the reason you were on night shift to begin with. But you took it in stride the best you could. Lemonade out of lemons, and all that. 

You’d been up to the ED a couple times since the incident, feeling as awkward as ever even though most of them weren’t on shift when Dr. Abbot berated you. You covered day shift a few times, so you weren’t completely unfamiliar with the staff. Dr. Robby seemed nice enough, though you never stuck around long enough to build rapport. It was in and out from now on, speaking as little as you could before you retreated back to the morgue. 

You wished you could flat out refuse to go up there, but you didn’t want to punish innocent people just waiting for a bed. The sooner you got the bodies to the morgue, the sooner someone else could be seen by a doctor. 

Right now, though, you were sat at your desk, filling out log reports and finishing up paperwork before you inevitably got another body. It was monotonous work, yes, but calming in a way. The mindless action gave your brain a break between decedents–gave you a chance to mourn the person and compartmentalize it away before it ate away at you. 

You faintly heard the door at the end of the hall open and close, and assumed Elise was taking her lunch break. 

That is, until you heard a painfully familiar voice call out, “Hello? Anybody in here?” 

Oh no, why is he here? Attendings rarely visited the morgue–usually only if there was a particularly complex cause of death that they wanted to further examine. But there were no such cases right now, the only bodies currently in custody being a run of the mill STEMI and a GSW to the head–both pretty self-explanatory. 

And the night shift hadn’t started yet, the clock reading 5:34pm. There’s no plausible reason for Jack Abbot to be down here right now. 

His steps were getting louder–he was almost at your office now. 

You panicked. That is the only explanation you have for scrambling up from your desk and darting into the small storage closet to your left. You pressed yourself against the wall to the side, out of view of the frosted glass window. Was this the mature course of action? Absolutely not. But you weren’t sure you could handle seeing him right now. You hadn’t seen him since the incident, had done everything in your power to avoid any and all interactions. 

He called out again, and you could see his silhouette standing in the doorway of your office. 

Eyes closed, you took deep breaths to try and calm your rapidly beating heart. Hopefully he’d see the empty room and take his leave quickly.  

It was quiet, and for a moment you thought he’d left until–knock knock. 

“I could be crazy, but I’m pretty sure I heard someone stumble into this closet and slam the door shut,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone. 

You didn’t answer, hoping maybe you could convince him he was crazy. 

The doorknob rattled, and you instinctively grabbed it, pulling it with all the force you could muster to keep it closed. You weren’t sure why–surely he was much stronger than you and could rip the door open if he really wanted to. And god, why was thinking about how strong he was making you flustered?  

It’s not that you were scared of him, you were just… woefully unprepared for this conversation. Despite ruminating over the incident itself, you hadn’t actually pictured a scenario where you’d ever speak to him again. Hadn’t had time to go over it a million times in your head, coming up with the best comeback and constructing the perfect barb to lodge in his soft underbelly, the way he’d done to you. 

He sighed, resting his forehead against the glass. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for the other day, if you’ll give me the chance.” 

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, considering. You’re not sure that an apology will do much for you, not sure that it’ll quell the pit in your stomach that’s opened and doesn’t show any sign of closing. 

You nodded to yourself anyway, letting out a quiet, “go ahead.” 

He chucked lightly, “face-to-face, if you don’t mind.” 

Damn him, you groaned internally. Taking a deep breath, you slowly opened the door. Jack stood opposite you, hands tucked into the pockets of his scrubs. You crossed your arms and fixed your gaze on your scuffed up shoes, the thought of looking him in the eye daunting and exciting at the same time.  

He let out a deep breath, “I’m really sorry for how I acted the other night. It was an exceptionally shitty night, and it wasn’t your fault but I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have.” 

You nodded, appreciated the effort it took to come down here and apologize. It did little to soothe your bruised heart, though. There was still a painful twinge in your chest, his words having already wormed their way into your brain and confirmed every worst thought you had about yourself. 

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot, apology accepted,” you said curtly, moving past him to get back to your desk. 

He stopped you, his hand resting on the bare skin just above your elbow. Goosebumps prickled against your skin from the roughness of his palm. You hated how your body craved more, how you wanted him to slide his hand up to your neck, tilt your head back and kiss you. Traitor. 

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, “that woman that night, the one you picked up, she died of ovarian cancer,” he said. He looked conflicted, eyes flinty and mouth twisted to the side like he was warring with himself as he bit out the next words, “that’s how–my wife–she died of ovarian cancer.” 

Oh. You didn’t know that, didn’t even know he had a wife. Your eyes drifted to his left hand and saw the slightly lighter patch of skin there. Your heart ached and your defenses softened just a tad at the revelation. You could only imagine what it would feel like to lose a patient in the same manner you lost the person closest to you, could imagine the ugly emotions it would pull out of you. It didn’t make what he said okay, but you understood the circumstances that led him to say it. 

“And before that we had a kid who died from drowning, and a couple close calls, and a bunch of Dr. Google bullshit. And your joke was just… the straw that broke the camel’s back. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, not like that and not in front of everybody. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m truly sorry,” he said, and you could feel the sincerity dripping from his words. His eyes were soft and pleading as he looked at you, and once again you found yourself unable to look away. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that–about your wife,” you said softly, not wanting to make it any more painful than it already was, “and I’m sorry about the joke. I know it’s not appropriate, and I’ve been trying to stop, but you know how hard it is to quit unhealthy coping mechanisms,” a small smile lifting the corner of your lips. 

He shook his head, “please don’t, you have nothing to apologize for. Gallows humor is how we all get by; I can’t tell you how many off-color jokes I’ve told in my day. It was really the pot calling the kettle black, if I'm being honest,” he said, “If it wasn’t you who set me off, it would’ve been Ellis or Shen, or some other unsuspecting person. I promise you it had so much more to do with me than it did with you.” 

You nodded, accepting his explanation. You felt a little lighter, a little less burdened by his words.    

“I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me,” he said, “maybe coffee or dinner, if you’re up for it?” 

You shook your head, “That’s really not necessary, Dr. Abbot. I meant it, I accept your apology, you don’t have to do anything else.” 

He nodded at that, looking a little deflated but otherwise satisfied that you’d accepted his apology. 

Jack felt the need to make it up to you anyway. 

It started with coffee after his shift ended. The first time, he brought you the most insane coffee order you’d ever seen–a mocha cappuccino with 5 extra shots of espresso, pistachio syrup, vanilla cold foam,  caramel AND white mocha drizzle, and salted caramel topping–a monstrosity borne from a recommendation from the woman ahead of him in line. You’re not sure how you didn’t immediately get cavities in all of your teeth. 

You couldn’t lie, though, the fact that he made the effort to go out and get coffee after his 12 hour shift was endearing, and once you gave him your coffee order, he got it right each and every time. 

It became routine over the next month for Jack to bring you coffee, and even though you didn’t have much time to talk in the morning, you began looking forward to the 10-15 minutes of conversation you shared with him each morning. You never discussed what this was, if it meant anything or if it was just a kind gesture between friends. You certainly hoped it meant something, but you weren’t going to get your hopes up. 

You were catching up on paperwork when his text came through. 

Jack: Can’t make it for coffee this morning, sweetheart, how about I bring you lunch later? 

Your cheeks heated at the pet name. He hadn’t called you that before, and you hoped you weren’t reading into it. 

You: sounds great, see you later :) 

You spend the morning counting down the minutes until Jack showed up. It only slightly hindered your progress on your paperwork, your mind only occasionally wandering off to think about his pretty pink lips.

It’s noon before you know it, and someone’s rapping their knuckles on the door frame to your office. 

“Knock, knock,” Jack said, shooting you a smile as he walked over to your desk. He set down a truly alarming amount of food. You laughed as he took out container after container, the sack resembling a clown car more than a fast food bag. 

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a variety,” he said, a little bashfully, “you can take home whatever’s left for dinner or lunch tomorrow.” 

You selected what you wanted from the smorgasbord he presented you with, and settled into the chair next to him. 

It was a little awkward at first. Most of the conversations you’d had with him up to this point were pretty surface level. Even your coffee chats were light-hearted affairs that didn’t really go deeper than what you did over the weekend. 

But Jack didn’t let it stay awkward for long, as if he knew that once you started talking, he’d be hard-pressed to get you to stop. 

“So, I realized that despite our coffee talks, I don’t really know that much about you. How long have you been a mortuary tech?” 

“About a year and a half. I got the job after I started school for mortuary science. Before that I taught for a little bit, but I didn’t really like it and I don’t think I was much good at it. I was a bartender for a long time too.” 

“So what made you make the jump to mortuary school?”

“I studied anthropology in college and death culture always really fascinated me, especially the way different cultures deal with grief and the burial process. America is so sanitized, so averse to looking at death straight on. We think death needs to be palatable, that the deceased need to look exactly as they did in life to avoid accepting the fact that our bodies are fundamentally different after death–that they are on their way to being absorbed back into the earth.

“I think the way we treat people in death is just as important as how we treat them in life. To some people, that person on the table is just an assemblage of bones and flesh, but to others that was a friend, a mother or daughter, father or son. And I figured as a mortician, I’d be in a position to offer families the kind of support that helps them work through their grief, not just hide it behind pretty floral arrangements.” 

You felt a little shy at the rapt expression on Jack’s face. He was giving you his undivided attention, listening intently to every word that came out of your mouth. You’re not sure any man has ever listened to you as attentively as he was now. Yes, the bar was in hell, but it didn’t make it any less hot.  

“Sorry, that was a lot, I didn’t mean to info dump on you,” you said sheepishly. 

He shook his head, “Please info dump, I could listen to you talk all day,” he said honestly, “do you want to continue working at the hospital when you’re done or do you want to start your own practice?” 

“I don’t think I’ll stay here. I mean, I like helping people through the immediate grief, but I think I just want to help grieving families lay their loved ones to rest in a way that honors the life they lived. I don’t care about selling fancy caskets or high-dollar cemetery plots, I just want to narrow it down to what really matters to preserving and celebrating the individual that was lost.”   

Jack nodded, “I don’t remember a lot about planning my wife’s funeral–Robby helped a lot with that–but I do remember it being really… almost commercial, in a way? Like, ‘do you want cedar or oak for the coffin? Do you want the casket lined in silk or velvet?’” he said, laughing bitterly, “like it was a fashion show or something, not the vessel my wife was going to be buried in. I couldn’t give less of a fuck what the damn thing was lined in.” 

You laid your hand on top of his, giving it a comforting squeeze as he continued. It made your heart swell that he felt comfortable enough to talk about his wife with you. 

“I mean, they were very compassionate, but it always felt like a business–which I get, we’re a capitalist society, but that’s not exactly what you want to feel when you’re burying someone,”  

You nodded, “that’s probably the thing that bothers me the most about this industry. Sometimes it seems like profit is the priority, and the real, hurting people come second.” 

Jack just looked at you with soft eyes, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he smiled at you. He turned your hand over in his, tracing the lines of your palm with his thumb.

“I think you’re going to be an amazing mortician,” he said, without an ounce of amusement or teasing, just pure honesty. “I think you’re exactly the kind of person that people want around them when they're going through the worst days of their lives.”  

You couldn’t help the tears that pricked at the corners of your eyes. It was the kindest thing someone had said to you about your career path, except maybe Elise. And it was nice to shed happy tears over something Jack Abbot said instead of embarrassed ones. 

You talked long after your lunch break was over, but Elise was out and you didn’t have any pressing work to get to at the moment, so you figured there was no harm, no foul. 

But eventually he had to leave to get ready for his shift, and you did have work to do, though you’d gladly forsake it for a few more minutes with him. 

You got up to dispose of your trash and walked him to the door. 

“Lunch was really nice,” he murmured, resting his hand on your arm, right above your elbow. 

Your breath hitched at the contact and goosebumps prickled up and down your arms. You gaze was locked on his, unable to look away, “yeah, I really enjoyed it,” you said breathily, your heart already racing. 

He moved closer, settling his hands on your waist, and backed you up slowly until the back of your knees hit your desk. 

You leaned back against your desk, widening your stance to allow Jack to step between your legs. His body was warm against you, his hands running up and down your sides soothingly. 

“Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. You could feel his breath against your lips, so close but still so far away. 

You nodded, a pathetic mewl leaving your lips without permission. It was embarrassing how badly you wanted to kiss this man.  

He pressed closer, his lips just barely grazing yours, his nose slightly bumping your cheek. You wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as you moved to close the miniscule distance between your lips–

CLANG! 

The door down the hall slammed shut, and hurried footsteps approached your office.  

You nearly jumped out of your skin and stumbled back onto the desk, out of Jack’s grasp. He seemed just as shocked, his hand clutching his chest in surprise. 

A second later Elise came rushing into the room, saying something about a mass casualty event and how you needed to make as much room down here as you could to prepare for the inevitable. You nodded, turning to Jack to apologize, but he beat you to it. 

“Shit, I gotta go, sweetheart, they’re probably gonna call all-hands-on-deck,” he said, a genuinely mournful look on his face. 

“Yeah, of course. I hope it’s not too bad,” you said, equally as disappointed, but understanding. Duty calls.  

He wrapped you up in a tight hug, your cheek resting against his firm chest. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to savor his embrace for a moment before he had to go.

“We’ll finish this later, yeah?” he asked against your hair, his hand rubbing circles on your back. 

You smiled against his chest and nodded, “yes, please.” 

He pulled away and planted a chaste kiss to your cheek before heading out. 

“What was that all about?” Elise questioned, raising her eyebrows at you.  

You didn’t say anything–your hot cheeks and dopey grin were worth a thousand words.

You were called up to the ED several times, each time worse than the last by the looks of the staff. It still felt a little awkward being in the emergency department. Even though most of the people here weren’t on shift when Jack yelled at you, it still felt like the department went still when you walked in, people stopping and staring like you were some sideshow circus freak. 

You were back up here collecting yet another soul, waiting for someone to sign off on the transfer. It seemed like things had calmed down, the worst of it over now. You were lost in thought at the nurses station, picking at the skin around your nails anxiously. 

You hoped Jack would be the one to come over and sign the paperwork–hoped you’d catch another glimpse of him before your shift was over. All you could think about all day was that almost-kiss you shared with him. You couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto your face every time you thought about it, which meant you basically had a permanent grin affixed to your face. 

You’re only pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of hushed voices to your left. You glanced over and saw two nurses you didn’t recognize taking a break and engaging in some friendly workplace gossip. Or so you thought. 

“–so happy about?” a nurse whispered incredulously. 

“Probably daydreaming about Dr. Abbot,” another said, her tone most likely accompanied by an eye roll.  

“God, when is she going to get a grip? Her fawning over him is not cute.” 

“Yeah, I think he just doesn’t know how to let her down… I mean when he yelled at her she changed her whole schedule, he probably feels guilty.” 

“True. Maybe she’ll realize how embarrassing it is to be so down bad for a man she has no chance with.” 

You stopped listening after that, crestfallen and heartbroken all over again. The illusion of the past month shattered and the feelings from before came roaring back full force. 

Your chest twisted painfully–like someone had grabbed ahold of your heart and squeezed, the squishy flesh bulging between their fingers. Your throat ached, tears surely not far behind. 

You knew you shouldn’t put too much stock in what these two random nurses were saying. You knew that they likely had no idea what they were talking about, that they were just mean girls blowing off steam and you seemed to be the target of it–like always. 

But there was the little gremlin in the back of your brain, the one that told you everything they said was true. That Jack just felt guilty, that he was making himself feel better for the way he treated you. Insecurity wrapped itself around you like a vise, squeezing around you like a boa constrictor, until it was the only thing you could feel. 

And that almost-kiss? Well, he was a man, after all. Maybe he was just overcome with the physical urge to kiss you, get in your pants if he could. But he wasn’t that kind of man, was he? You didn’t want to think so, but all rational thought was obscured by the hurt blooming in your chest that you couldn’t be sure. 

You startled at the hand on your shoulder. You looked up to see Dr. Robby standing there, brows furrowed in concern. Squeaking out an apology, you handed him the transfer paperwork. 

“I called your name three times, you okay?” he asked, flipping through the pages and signing where appropriate. 

“Fine,” you smiled, not trusting your voice not to break. 

He looked skeptical, but didn’t push. 

“Alright, all done. Hopefully that’ll be it, at least from the mass cas,” he said, handing back the paperwork. “We have a trauma counsellor available if you need to talk to someone,” he said before backing away to move onto the next patient. 

You chuckled at that. Of course he thought you were troubled by the amount of death that occurred today. But no, here you were, post mass casualty, and you were more concerned about a man than you were about the people that had died tonight. How fucked up were you? 

Jack showed up with coffee the next morning like usual, setting the paper cup down on your desk, “here you go, sweetheart.” 

“Thank you,” you said without looking up from your paperwork. You tasted acid in your throat, the words from the nurses station echoing in your head in an ugly cacophony. You’d memorized them by heart over the past 12 hours, twisting and turning in bed as they invaded your mind against your will. 

He just doesn’t know how to let her down.

He probably feels guilty.

Her fawning over him is not cute.

You cleared your throat, “you really don’t have to do this anymore, you know,” you said nonchalantly, like it wasn’t tearing your heart out to say. 

He was quiet for a moment. “I know… I do it because I want to, because I like spending time with you,” he said, head cocked and brow furrowed.  

“Sure,” you muttered under your breath. 

“What was that?” 

You sighed and set your pen down, shifting your full attention to him, “I’m just saying you don’t have to prostrate yourself in front of me because you feel guilty, Jack. You’ve done your penance, if that’s all this is. You’re forgiven, no hard feelings.” 

Your throat was tight, but your voice didn’t waver. You blinked back tears furiously as he stared at you, mouth agape. He looked a little more disheveled than usual, his eyes tired and the lines on his face a little more pronounced, like he’d been frowning all night. Obviously, he worked like 16 hours last night. You felt another wave of guilt rush over you–he was wasting his much needed rest time to come placate you. 

He crossed his arms, shaking his head in confusion, “What the hell are you talking about? Where is this coming from?” 

You stood up and started behind your desk, feeling restless and hurt and foolish. 

“You just–you don’t have to hang around me because you feel bad or something,” you said, “you’ve more than apologized. I just wish you didn’t make me feel like–like…” you trailed off, ragged breaths tearing through your chest. It was getting harder to force the words out, tears falling down your cheeks in earnest now. 

“Like what?” 

“Like this means something!” you choked out. God, you felt so silly. Aw, is someone upset that their crush doesn’t like them back? 

He looked at you in disbelief, “It does mean something,” he said, rounding your desk and stopping in front of you–effectively ceasing your pacing. 

“Please don’t lie to me,” you hiccuped, your bottom lip trembling violently, “I know I’m too much, I know no one at the Pitt likes me–you don’t have to pretend you do.” You fixed your gaze to the floor–you didn’t think you could handle the pitying look that was undoubtedly in his eyes. 

“Hey, hey, look at me,” he said, cupping your face between his large hands. You tried to wiggle away, but his grip was unwavering–he wasn’t going to let you look away from him. He brushed away your tears, “I don’t know what ideas you’ve gotten into that pretty little head of yours, but if you think I’m anything but smitten with you, you’re dead wrong.” 

You laughed weakly, “who’s making bad jokes now?” 

He didn’t take the bait, didn’t let you deflect from the topic at hand. He pinned you with his eyes, his gaze steady as he delivered his next words. 

“I’m serious. I need you to know that I’m being honest with you when I say this: I’ve been scared for a long time to make a move on you, and I’m not letting anything–not even you–get in the way now, okay?

“I’ve liked you for a while now, pretty girl. You’re the best part of my day, the only thing keepin’ me going some days. I love your smile, your laugh, the way your face lights up when you talk about something you’re passionate about. I love the way you care about people, alive and dead, and I love your jokes, even if they can be a little off color. 

“And I can’t tell you how much I regret how I treated you. The only silver lining is that it kicked my ass into gear, made me realize I’ve been an idiot for waiting so long to make you mine. You’re not too much, and even if you were, I’d want more–I want everything you’re willing to give me.” 

You almost couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, but he was nothing but sincere. His eyes pleaded with you to believe him, to give him a chance–and you desperately wanted to. 

“You mean that?” you asked, gnawing at your lip anxiously. You didn’t want to get your hopes up just to have them crushed again. 

“With all my heart,” he said, grabbing your hand and placing it over his heart. It was racing just as fast as yours was. “This is how I feel every time I see you, sweetheart. Feel like I should be hooked up to a monitor sometimes,” he joked. 

“I…I like you too. I have since the day I met you. But I’m scared,” you swallowed thickly, voice small as you finished, “I don’t want to get hurt.” 

“I know, sweetheart, I am too. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this–haven’t since my wife–and I don’t want to fuck it up. We’re in this together, as long as you’ll have me,” 

“I want you,” you whispered, placing your hand on the side of his neck tentatively. 

He grabbed your waist and backed you up against your desk, replicating your previous position from yesterday. 

“Can I kiss you now, sweetheart? Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since we were interrupted,” he asked, thumb stroking your cheek. 

You nodded, “me either,” you said, heart pounding as he leaned in. 

His lips were soft when they met yours. It was tentative–just a slow, gentle press of his lips against yours, like he was trying to maintain some level of decorum.

He started to pull back, and you whined at the loss of contact. You fisted your hands in his scrub top and pulled him back in, your mouths meeting in an uncoordinated mash of teeth. He chuckled against you, “greedy girl,” he murmured, steadying your head in his hands and deepening the kiss. 

He tamped down your eagerness but didn’t erase any of the heat building between you–just kept you right where he wanted you. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip and you readily opened your mouth for him, desperate to taste him. He licked into your mouth, tongue hot as it tangled with yours. You were greedy, sucking and lapping and nipping at his tongue and lips, getting messy with it and thoroughly forgetting where you were and how inappropriate a setting this was. 

You were like horny teenagers, hands grabbing at whatever bits of flesh they could reach, tangling in each other’s hair, and moaning louder than was appropriate. 

When you finally pulled back, you were both gasping for air, chests heaving against each other. Jack rested his forehead against yours as he caught his breath. You didn’t want to waste another moment not kissing him, though, so you began peppering his face with kisses–to his nose, cheeks, chin, wherever you could reach. 

He laughed at the onslaught, craning his head to the side to give you access to his neck, which you happily latched onto, “you’re insatiable, aren’t you?” 

“I guess you’ll have to find out,” you replied as you pulled away, biting your lip and batting your eyelashes at him. 

He shook his head fondly at you, “Now, as much as I’d like to do very, very inappropriate things to you right now, I came here this morning planning to ask you out to dinner. Would you allow me to ask you out properly now, sweetheart? Let me be a gentleman?” he asked, thumbs stroking your jaw. 

You nodded, still dizzy from his kiss–still reeling from the fact that Jack actually liked you. 

“Would you please make me the happiest man in the world, and accompany me to dinner at Altius tomorrow night at 7?” 

“I’d love to,” you grinned, pulling him in for another kiss. 

“And after, we'll see just how insatiable you are.” 

A/N: shoutout to my fellow anthropology majors lol glad that my degree is coming in handy for something cause its certainly not a job

“Bruce I’m telling you, that’s a second a line.”

“It could be a faulty test, an evaporation line.”

“For the world’s greatest detective, your deduction skills need to be brushed up on. You watched me pee on four other tests. All of which confirmed that there’s a fetus,” you sighed and set the last of the pregnancy test on the sink counter before turning to him.

“What’re we going to do? We have no idea how to take care of a baby”

“We will figure it out. We always do.” He replied and pulled you in for a hug.

“A baby.” You say again still in disbelief.

“Our baby,” he confirms and rubs your back.

“What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that this baby is going to be loved and that they’ll have to learn to survive in a house with six older siblings,” he replied softly with a teasing tone. You laughed and hugged him a bit tighter.

Since then the two of you did figure it out. Well… as much as you could. Bruce panicked a bit when you heard the heartbeat for the first time. Instead of talking it out like he knows he should’ve, he used Batman.

“Are you and Bruce fighting?” Dick asked one day as he came to Wayne Enterprises to have lunch with you.

“What? No, why would you say that?” You replied as you shuffled papers around at your desk so he could set the food he brought down.

“He’s been more stressed than usual. Swearing that our patrols haven’t been enough. That we’re not getting enough done.” Dick replies as he flopped in the chair across from you.

You bite the inside of your cheek and sigh. “We’re not fighting but he is stressed. I’ll talk to him about it”

You and Bruce did talk about it later that day. It was honestly more like you chewing him out.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard, you’re pushing the kids too hard.”

“I’m trying to make everything go smoothly so when you’ll need me further in the pregnancy I can be there”

“Gotham’s always going to need you Bruce but it can survive without Batman. It’s not like there’s not at-least six other vigilantes that can keep watch in your place.” You say a bit teasingly.

He grumbles, a sign he’s not impressed.

“We should tell the kids. I’d rather they hear it from us than figure it out on their own”

“You’re barely nine weeks along, we should wait.”

“I’m two months along, and luckily the first trimester has been good to me. I want to tell the kids.”

“Okay”

Cue trying to gather all your children before patrol and trying to make sure everyone is in Gotham for the announcement. This was a much harder task than you thought it’d be but you succeeded.

In front of you and Bruce, all dressed in their uniforms stood Dick, Jason, Cass, Tim, Duke, and Damian.

“Right, so before everyone gets going for patrol. I want to tell you all something important.”

“Are you dying?” The question came from Jason followed by a “Are you sick?” From Tim.

“No and No. I’m pregnant.” You say, figuring the best way to get it over with was just to say it outright.

It was quiet for a bit then the yelling came,

“Pregnant?! You guys are having a baby?” Jason reacted first

“I knew Bruce was acting weird when I went to see you last week!” Dick yelled over Jason.

“Congratulations mom! How far along are you?” Cass, comes up to hug you and then Bruce.

“Congrats you two,” Duke came up next and gave you both a half hug.

“Does this mean we all have to help orrr?” Tim asked next.

After the initial shock went down, the boys gave their congratulations, all except Damian who just stood there silent.

“Dami? You alright?” You asked softly approaching him.

“I’m fine mother, congratulations to you and father,” he says a little harsh before turning away.

It took a lot of encouragement and reassurance for Damian to finally come around to the idea of being a big brother.

The rest of your pregnancy was relatively easy going if you consider always having a bodyguard in the forms of your husband, sons, and daughter, easy going. Everyone hovered but it was out of love.

When you finally went into labor, everyone lost their minds. Bruce, for once lost his cool.

“We need to get you to the hospital. Your water broke.”

“Bruce my contractions aren’t even consistent right now. We have time.” You argued.

That argument didn’t last long as baby Wayne was just as impatient as their father.

Less than three hours later in a private suite at Gotham General, your sweet baby girl Martha Alice Wayne was born. Bruce cried when he heard her cry. He cried again when he cut the umbilical cord and held her for the first time.

“She’s perfect” he whispered as he held her to his chest.

“She is. Bruce Wayne officially a father to two girls now. How’s it feel?”

“Unreal, I don’t have any idea what I’m doing but having her in my arms just feels right”

Since that day in the hospital when Martha was born, Bruce felt like a whole new person. Which is how now, even after the more lack of sleep than usual, the millions of dirty diapers, the tantrums, and spit up, Bruce does his best to enjoy every second of it.

Even if that means being nap trapped and screamed at by a three month old.

Bruce was really nervous about taking Dick to Haly's Circus, sure it was Dick's birthday and he really wanted to come but it was also his first birthday without his parents and Bruce didn't want to tigger something in Dick. But then, two weeks ago, he received a letter from Mr. Haly saying that the circus would be in Gotham and since it would be Dick's birthday by then, they all would be really happy to see him but they would understand if he couldn't visited and would send him a gift instead. Dick was so excited to see all his old friends again that Bruce couldn't say no, but he made Dick promise that when he felt uncomfortable he tell Bruce and they would drive home.

"Come on," Dick says, tugging on Bruce's sleeve and bringing the man out of his nervous state.

Bruce didn't have time to reply before Dick tugged at him again so he just gave him a small smile and tired to keep up with the boy.

"Mr. Haly!" Dick calls, letting go of Bruce to run to the man he hasn't seen in a long time.

Mr. Haly lets out a small grunt when Dick runs directly into a hug, making the man take a step back to try and hold balance. "You made it."

"Of course," Dick beams up at him. As if Dick would ever not come. He missed them all so much, sure it's pretty cool with Bruce but he really missed the life in the circus.

Bruce walks slowly towards them. He's sure everyone in a two meter radius could hear the exited ramble of the now nine-year-old.

"Mr. Wayne," Mr. Haly greets, letting go of Dick to shake Bruce's hand. "I'm really happy to see you again."

"Me too. It's been a long time."

"Yeah, we thought it'd be nice to make a short stop here in Gotham before we make our way to Metropolis."

Dick leans slightly against Bruce. He was already bored. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘢𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬? He doesn't want to talk about the weather or whatever other boring things adults talk about. He wants to go around and greet everyone, and he wants to go and greet Sitka, he missed his best friend. He couldn't wait to see her again. But he couldn't just go around without Bruce, sure he knows the people around here but he promised him to be within reach, so that if he would get overwhelmed he wouldn't be alone.

"And we have a surprise for Dick." Now that got his attention.

"What is it?" He looks between Mr. Haly and Bruce but the latter just shrugged at him. Bruce really didn't know what the surprise was.

Mr. Haly points to the tent with a knowing smirk. "Why don't you just go and see for yourself?"

Dick doesn't even reply to him but starts running in the direction of the tent before he stops to look at Bruce for permission. Bruce smiles at him and gives him a nod. And that's all the boy needs for running into the tent.

Dick stops when he's inside. It's been something over a year since he saw all of that and he feels an uncomfortable shiver run down his spine. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘉𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘦. But before he turns around, he sees a present lying on the floor, and his curiosity and excitement were bigger than this uncomfortable feeling.

He slowly approaches the box. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘹 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦? Dick looks around and frowns. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦? Nobody was in the tent which is very weird. They all should be here and greet him, and above all, practice their performance.

His frown forms into a pout. But since he's already here, he can open his present. The boy opens the box happily but that turns into confusion pretty quickly. A note. All that's in the box are a few words written on a piece of paper.

Dick grabs the note. 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘹 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘮?

It did not.

So he finally reads what's written on the paper.

'𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘶𝘱!'

Dick frowns slightly but looks up anyway. There is a sign that reads: '𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵!'

He got really excited and looks to the right but there was nothing, except that this side of the tent was really dark.

𝘞𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘥. 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦 𝘢—

Dick's thoughts are interrupted when a spotlight on the ground turns on and illuminates the dark side of the tent. The birthday boy blinks a few times to adjust his eyes to the new brightness. And then he blinked a few times more because he couldn't fully grasp what he saw. Standing in front of him were all the people he missed so much: Sando the Strongman who played tug-of-war with him, Waldo and Harry—the funniest clowns he ever met, Palmer the juggler, and many many more.

A big smile stretches on Dick's face when he runs forward to greet everyone.

🎂🦇⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅🐘🎪

"Have you had fun so far?" Bruce asks, helping Dick clean his face—how the boy got more cotton candy on his face rather than in his mouth was beyond him.

"Yes!" Dick says, putting another piece of cotton candy in his mouth. "This day couldn't be better."

"I have something that would make the day even better," says Mr. Haly.

Dick stares at the man with wide eyes. "What is it?"

"It's not a what, but a who?"

"Who?" Dick frowns, "everyone is here."

"𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?" This voice. Dick knew this voice. But it couldn't be, could it?

The boy turns slowly around before he lets go of his candy in complete shock. 𝘠𝘰𝘶. It was really you. Dick hadn't seen you in over two years and now you stood before him. Tears welled up in his eyes and with a soft whimper of your name he starts to run in your direction.

You squat down when Dick is near you to give him a better hug. He's bigger than the last time you saw him but in this position you could hold him tighter against you.

"Hi, my little robin," you whisper in his hair, trying to speak around the lump that formed in your throat. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," he whispers.

You smile to yourself before you lean back and cup his face in your hands to get a better look at him. It's been so long since you last saw him.

You worked and lived in the circus your whole life, so you knew Dick since he was a newborn. His parents and you even had a performance together. But then your mother got sick and you took a break to look after her, and when she died you needed time to heal. A few months ago you decided to return, and that's when you learned about John and Mary's deaths. Mr. Haly told you everything about it and that he didn't want to burden you with this matter as well, but all you could think about was Dick and the mysterious but kind man who took him in.

"I'm so sorry I wasn't there when you needed me," you wipe some of the boy's tears with your thumbs away. This was something you'll probably never forgive yourself for.

Dick sniffs before he starts to wipe your tears away as well. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘳𝘺?

"It's fine," he says when a big smile stretched out on his face, "you're here now."

"I am."

"Come on, I have to introduce you to someone."

He took your hand when you stood to your full size again, walking with you to a man around your age. He was dressed in only black but he had a soft smile on his lips when he looked at Dick.

"You okay, chum?" The man asks when you stand in front of him. Dick nods his head, and starts to introduce you to the man you assumed took him in.

"It's really nice to meet you Mr. Wayne." You say with a soft voice and smile, stretching your hand out.

But the man only looked at you with wide eyes. You knew you looked probably like a total mess right now with your red and swollen eyes, but it was kinda rude of him to just stare at you.

Luckily for you, Dick felt the same way.

"Bruce?" the boy whispers, "you're being rude."

Dick was completely confused by the way Bruce acted. He was always polite to everyone, even tho those he didn't like, so him acting like this was very weird and confusing to Dick. But he was even more confused when Bruce starts to blink his eyes a few times, like he was trying to wake himself up and a slightly rose colour blossomed on his cheeks and ears.

"Yeah, I-I'm sorry," Bruce says, shaking your hand softly, "nice to meet you as well, and please call me Bruce." 𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘊𝘙𝘈𝘊𝘒? 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨.

To his luck you just smile sweetly at him.

🎂🦇⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅🐘🎪

"Wait," Damian says, his voice sharp and his hand stretched out to signal his oldest brother to stop talking, "you're really trying to tell us father is terrible at flirting?"

"Yeah," Tim nods, "he's Bruce Wayne, when he doesn't have game who does?"

"True," Jason mutters. He can't believe he just agreed with the younger boys. "But it's also dad, and we know how he is around ma," he continues, seeing that everyone agrees with him on that matter. "What I don’t understand is why you’re telling us this story?"

"Isn't that obvious?"

"No."

"Negative."

"Only to you, dickhead."

"It’s the reason why the front seat should go to me!" Dick says, looking down at his brothers who sat down on the edge of the roof they were currently waiting for their father and the Batmobile.

"That's a stupid reason," Jason scoffs, taking his phone out to reply to a stupid meme Roy sent him two hours ago.

"I kinda understood the point in you being...," Damian begins before he turns his head to Jason, "what did you call him?"

"𝘈𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵," Jason says with a smirk, still looking at his phone.

"AnCiEnT?!"

"Right," Damian completely ignores Dick, "I kinda understood the reason you need the front seat because your 𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵, and therefore you have poor bones and other things that old people get."

"I'M NOT THAT OLD!"

Damian gives Dick a dismissing hand before he continues, "but what is the point in you telling us the story on how our parents meet for the first time?"

"Hey, I'm Richard," Dick says, stretching his hand out, "𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮!"

"Nah," Tim shakes his head, "we have her because dad is very charming."

"He wasn't when I introduced them," Dick grits out, "his voice literally CRACKED!"

"Who's voice cracked?" The deep voice of his father makes Dick freeze for a few seconds.

"According to dickhead over here, yours."

"My voice didn't crack, my throat was just dry."

"And what about your red face?"

"It was really hot that day."

"Hot?" Dick asks in disbelief, looking more confused when Bruce nods. "A hot day in Gotham? In March?"

Bruce just rolls his eyes before he directed his next question to all his children, "did you figured out who's getting the front seat?"

"I'm the reason you have a wife."

"I died so y'all own me something."

"I'm to tired for this shit but I took down the most guys, so it's only fair I get the front seat."

"Father, I should get the front seat because—"

"You're not the 'Superior Robin'," Dick, Jason, and Tim shout at the same time to which Damian just scoffs.

Bruce groans in annoyance. "Dick get in the front seat, everybody else goes in the back." Did he really think that would sit right with everyone besides Dick?

"Seriously?"

"Old people privileges I guess."

"Father, you can't be really—"

"Enough," Bruce says in a stern voice (but it's his stern dad voice, not his stern Batman voice, and yes the dad voice has a better effect), "it's Dick's Birthday so he gets the front seat. End of discussion."

With that he makes his way to get finally to the Batmobile, mumbling a quiet, "do you have any idea what your mother would do to me if we were late to Dick's surprise party?"

"Surprise party?!" 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘵, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.

"I'm sure that whatever ma would have done to you is less harmful than what she'll do to you when she finds out you've just spoiled the surprise party to her '𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘯'," Jason laughs when he claps his father on the shoulder, moving to the fire escape to wait in The Batmobile. If he has to sit in the back, then at least he should sit by the window.

"I guess your side of the bed goes to me tonight," Damian says with little satisfied smile before he frowns when he noticed that Tim was in the back as well, which means he has to sit in the middle. Again.

"I'm really sorry, Dicki," Bruce apologies, seeing the pout on his eldest son (some things just never change).

"It's fine," he responds, making his way to the fire escape as well before turning back towards Bruce. "I don’t tell mom, but you own me one and I don’t know what's worser for you."

Bruce just chuckles, following Dick down to the car where he can hear the other three arguing again.

🎂🦇⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅🐘🎪

"Some little birdie told me you spoiled the surprise party," you say to your husband who was about to hand you a drink.

Bruce narrows his eyes. "It was Damian, wasn't it? The little traitor, just wants to sleep on my side of the bed."

You chuckle, grabbing the drink from your husband. "Wrong bird."

"Well," now he has to think about it, "it wasn't Dick 'cause I own him one now."

You take a sip from your drink and shake your head. You absolutely love the look on Bruce's face when he was deep in thought. "It was the idiot bird."

𝘐𝘥𝘪𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥? 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘰𝘵. 𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳—

"It was me, wasn't it?"

"Hm?"

"It was me," he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, "you didn't know, so you tested me, and I just told you myself."

"Your pretty smart for an idiot," you snort, giving his cheek a kiss before you lean closer to his ear. "You're in so much trouble."

"I know," he whispers back, but you could hear the smile on his face. "But we still have guests here, so you'll be nice to me."

His arms wrap around your waist before he starts peppering your face with kisses. Bruce always does this when he knows that your angry with him. He does this to try and charm his way out of trouble. Did it ever work? No. Does he still do it because he loves your giggle? Absolutely.

You try to gently push his face away from yours when he starts nuzzling his nose against yours but to no avail. So you wrap your arms around his neck and peck the corner of his mouth.

A disgusted sound appears next to you so you turn your head and see Dick's frowning face.

"Can you please not be this disgustingly sweet on my birthday?"

You look from your boy to your husband with a mischief smirk, and when he nods you turn back to your boy. "You're right, sweetheart. We shouldn't be disgustingly sweet on your birthday."

Bruce nods along to your words, letting you go in favour to grab Dick. The last thing you see on his face is the terrifying look that dawns on him when he realises what your plan is.

"We can be disgustingly sweet with you," you say, sandwiching Dick between you and Bruce.

"That's so embarrassing," he whispers, looking around to try and find one of his brothers. "Jason! Please help me."

"Oh, I'm helping," Jason says, going around you three to take pictures of this f̶u̶n̶n̶y̶ sweet moment.

Dick turns his head in another direction. "Tim?"

"Busy, helping Jason," he says, turning the flashlight on his phone on for better lightning.

Hope shines in Dick's eyes when his gaze lands on his youngest brother who is on his way to get himself another drink. The birthday boy is smart this time and doesn't ask Damian for help, instead he grabs the younger boy and pulls him into the hug.

"Let go of me old man," Damian scoffs.

"I AM NOT THAT OLD!"

You laugh at the bickering of your boys, and then even more when you got an idea, looking your husband in the eyes.

𝘉𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘦'𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝟣 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘸: