#a misunderstanding

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Dick laid awake in his bed that night, the covers splayed around his legs. The thoughts swarming his mind about the earlier meeting kept him awake. Your face, your mannerisms, everything – nothing changed after sixteen years. 

No, that’s not true. You had changed. You were no longer the kid he knew back when he was in the circus. You grew up, just as he had. And the time in your apartment proved it.

He didn’t know what pushed him to visit you. To check on you, he said, but that was something he thought of in the moment, a simple excuse to talk to you more. 

He brought his hands to his face, palms against his eyes as he sighed into the still air.

He felt like an idiot. How could he have let the time go? Why did he not respond to your letter all those years ago? 

Actually, Dick knew why. He knew exactly why he dropped the letter into his drawer and forced himself to ignore it. But, it seemed so stupid in retrospect.

He shifted to lay on his side, hoping the change in position would allow him some much needed sleep. Instead, his eyes caught sight of his desk.

A thought formed in his mind and he sat up. 

He could write you a letter – a letter explaining what happened. Maybe he could ask to meet-up, if you were willing.

And with hope filling his chest, he left his messy bed and set to work.

——

You were stressed. Stressed out of your goddamn mind for the exam that was tomorrow. 

Honestly, you probably didn’t have to be as worried as you were – you had been putting your all into your classes. But, it never hurt to study more, to go to the library for a last-minute review.

Reaching the first floor of your apartment building, you passed by the long hallway of mailboxes.

You paused by the entrance, deciding on a whim to look in your own. It was long since due for a check-in, a pile of letters no doubt straining against the small compartment. Everything was digital nowadays, including your bills. Opening the small storage in the wall, you wondered what kind of mail you’d receive.

There was less than you imagined. Approximately six sat inside and you pulled them out, sorting through each, none grabbing your attention. That was, until the last letter came into view.

It was sleek – the envelope colored black with the flap on the back taped down by a dark blue sticker. It was charming. You read the white-inked ‘from’ address, the name almost making you drop everything you were holding. 

Dick Grayson.

“What the hell,” you slowly whispered into the empty hallway, your brows furrowing. You re-read it two more times, disbelieving the written name. 

How the hell did he get your address? And why was he sending you a letter now? It’s been sixteen years! He should’ve forgotten all about you at this point.

You thought he had, after not receiving a reply. A nostalgic ache settled in your chest, the familiarity of it making you shake your head, stuffing the black letter and the others into your bag. You didn’t have time for this, you needed to get to the library. 

The walk to the building was filled with thoughts about nothing but the letter. What could he have written? What would have made him send you a message, sixteen years after you sent yours? Did he only now receive the letter you sent? 

You scoffed at the last idea. 

You had more faith in the postal service than the fucking police, there’s no way it was only now delivered. Then, what could the reason be? It felt as if the envelope was burning a hole in your bag, you being acutely aware of it sitting inside, holding the answers to all your questions.

By the time you arrived at your destination, you had mentally gone through every possibility. Countless scenarios ran through your mind and none of them seemed to fit. 

This was bad – you needed to focus on studying. 

Finding a secluded area in the library – a table in the back – you plopped into a chair and pulled out your laptop, some papers and set to work. Every so often, your eyes traveled to your bag, the letter taunting you. It was after thirty minutes passed and all you managed to do was stare at a page thoughtlessly, that you finally decided to open it.

You gently took out the envelope and slowly peeled the blue sticker from the back. Lifting the flap, the page inside felt expensive. Sliding the paper out and unfolding it, your eyes scanned the words, absorbing the content inside.

To Y/N:

Hope you’re doing well. It’s been a long while since we've last seen each other, huh?

 …Mainly my fault, I admit. 

I did get your letter all those years ago, but I placed it in a cabinet and forgot. Life became busy, time sped by, and I never had the chance to look at what you sent me.

Until I began looking through old bins in storage and found yours inside.

I promise I never forgot about you. Not one day. I just never had…time.

I know it's been almost 16 years, and it might be a bit late for me to mend ties – but would you want to grab coffee sometime?

Here's my number if you–

You stopped reading, feeling an inexplicable wave of indignation course through your veins.

Were you that easy to brush aside? To forget? Surely, in sixteen years, there would have been at least a moment where he could've reached out to you.

And yet, here he was, sixteen years later with a half-assed explanation and a nonchalance that irritated you.

He was funny if he thought you would cave so easily. To rush to send him a message, to call and hear his voice.

You ignored the slight clench of your heart. 

If he made you wait sixteen years, he'd have to accept waiting a little bit more. 

——

You didn’t know how you got through that exam, but you did. 

The moment your feet stepped onto the sidewalk outside your college building, you felt an imaginary weight lift off your shoulders. Taking a deep breath, the air inside your lungs almost felt cleaner. Almost.

With the results of that exam out of your hands now, all that was left was to enjoy the break and wait for the final grade. You had half the mind to go out to the club to celebrate, but the recent mugging still made your blood run cold.

Bing-watching a show with take-out it was, then. 

And two hours later, that was still the plan – until a certain hero dropped by your fire escape window and invited himself inside to lounge on your couch.

"Is this gonna be like – a thing?" You motioned ambiguously toward the situation with your hands. "You stopping by my apartment on your patrols?"

He shrugged and grinned, a cheeky smile reaching his eyes. "It can if you want it to be." 

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, instead opting to offer the man some of your food. “Want some? It just came, like, fifteen minutes ago.”

He smiled at the hand-out, taking the deliciously-filled plate with both hands and chowing down as he settled back into the cushioned seat. “Plus, I’m on break. The others can call if they need me,” he said, stuffing his mouth with a forkful of food. “So, what are we watching?” 

“Well,” you began. ”I’m watching a space documentary. You’re trespassing.”

Nightwing gasped dramatically, splaying a hand across his chest. “Me? Trespassing? I would never.”

You chortled, deciding right then that he’d always be permitted in your apartment – but you wouldn’t tell him that. Pressing play on the remote, you leaned back and copied his position against the couch.

While you were absorbed in the beautifully rendered scenes of the cosmos, you didn’t notice Nightwing glancing around your living room, taking in every little detail. His eyes landed on a certain black envelope sitting on a desk by the window.

“Damn, that’s insane!” You exclaimed, amazed by the facts shown on the screen. You leaned forward and placed your fork down with your finished plate on the coffee table. “Hey, do you think the stars–” you cut off, seeing his head turned toward the window. “Nightwing?”

He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment until he replied, “yeah? Sorry, what were you saying?”

You paused, observing his expression before responding softly. “Everything all right?”

“No, yeah, definitely. Just got distracted by something shiny, s’all.” He got up, taking his empty plate along with yours to the kitchen sink. “You know, that black envelope looks fancy. Looks like one of those wealthy Gala invitations.” 

“Huh?” Your eyes fitted over to your desk. “Ah, that? Nah, it’s just a letter from someone I knew.”

“Knew?” You heard the sound of running water and dishes clattering. What a gentleman. “Not a lover, then?”

“Pfft, no,” you laughed, taking a sip from your cup. “He’s a childhood friend I lost contact with. Somehow he found my address and sent a letter.” After a moment, you added, “and now that I think about it, it’s a little creepy.”

Forced laughter seemed to bubble from Nightwing’s lips, the sound reverberating through the small apartment.

“Can I ask who the sender is?” His voice held a light note to it. You raised a brow. 

“Why? Jealous?” You teased, almost wishing he was.

A bark of a laugh escaped his being as he replied. “Jealous? Yeah, sure, let’s call it that.” 

Deciding to satiate his curiosity, you answered truthfully. “If you really want to know, it’s from Dick Grayson.”

“Grayson, huh? Bruce Wanyne’s trust fund kid?” At your wordless confirmation, his lips upturned in a joking manner. 

“Tell you what, if he’s creepy,” Nightwing paused, placing his hands on his hips. “I’ll protect you from him.”

“Oh, yeah?” Your lips matched his own, humor thick in your voice. “And how are you going to do that?”

He crossed his arms. “With my fighting skills,” he answered defensively, then mumbled, “obviously.”

You chuckled at the pout on his lips. “Obviously.”

“In all seriousness though,” he moved around across the room and lifted the letter before continuing, “wouldn’t hurt to reach out to him, if you’re comfortable. Did you two part on bad terms?”

“I mean,” you paused, resting your cheek on your palm and mulled over the answer. “I don’t think so?”

Nightwing shrugged. “Then it’d probably be fine, right?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but something about his attention to the letter felt off. With the way he was acting, it seemed personal. You narrowed your eyes.

“You know,” you tilted your head. “With how determined you are, it’s almost like…” 

Nightwing’s head swirled toward you, waiting for you to finish your sentence.

“You’re friends with him, aren’t you?” 

His shoulders visibly sagged at your statement, the corner of his lip lifting. “Was it that obvious?” 

“Wait, so is that how he got my address? From you?” You stood up, slowly walking towards the man standing by the desk as you became lost in thought. “Was that why you were shocked when you saw my ID? Did Dick talk to you about me?” Hope filled your voice, the emotion speeding up your words.

Nightwing raised his hands, stopping you from crashing into his chest. “Slow your roll, Y/N. One question at a time.”

“Did you tell him my address,” you asked, crossing your arms and straightening your back. 

“I did,” he answered. No part of him appeared guilty, however. 

Your mouth tightened with displeasure. “Without my permission? Why?”

He brought his hand to the side of his head, scratching the space behind his ear. 

“I knew how much he wanted to see you again, so I thought it'd be fine.” After a moment of your unwavering stare, he quickly added, “and now that I see your reaction, I’m never going to do that again before asking you.”

You breathed out a laugh. “You say that like there’ll be others asking for my address.” 

Nightwing’s body relaxed at your softened expression. ”Knowing you for as long as I have, I’m sure there will be.”

You take a moment during the lull in conversation to walk toward the couch and sit on the armrest.

“What’s he like?” You brought your uncertain gaze to his. ”Do you think I should reply to him?” 

He leaned back against the desk and lifted his shoulders nonchalantly. “From my standpoint, I’d say go for it. If you decide he’s not worth it, just block him. No harm, no foul.”

He moved toward the window, opening it just enough to slip onto the fire escape before turning back and facing you.

“And if he was truly a dickhead, I’d tell you. In the end, though, it’s up to you. Your choice.”

——

That night, you kept turning the letter in your hands, rereading the last lines. 

Here’s my number if you want to give it a chance. Text or call, anytime. 

(xxx) xxx-xxxx

Your friend always,

Dick Grayson

Nightwing was right.

There’s no harm in catching up with an old friend. And if things go south, you could just block him and move on. You've moved on once before, you could do it again.

Contemplating it one last time, you steeled your resolve and saved his number into your phone before typing out a message.

————————–

“Hey there, doll,” said the man on the other side. Not the one you were expecting.

“Where’s Steve?” you asked, trying your best not to sound annoyed. It would only fuel his ego.

Bucky Barnes was, in no uncertain terms, an insufferable blockhead. But it just so happened that you shared a best friend, and it remained in your best interest not to chuck him in the East River. For now.

“Got caught up with Mrs. Johnson. She wanted a new mural painted on the front window and we ran into her on our way here. He shouldn’t be too long.”

Which, in Steve terms, meant dinner would probably be cold before his perfectionist ass had painted the perfect picture of bread or milk or whatever other sale the Johnsons wanted to advertise this week. It also meant that you were stuck in Bucky’s presence for the evening, because Steve would hand him his ass if he left you alone after you had spent the afternoon cooking.

Not to mention that, even though it was supposed to just be Steve tonight, you had already made extras for the very likely possibility that Bucky tagged along. He didn’t seem to be aware of the animosity between the two of you, though you couldn’t ever forget the harsh words that had changed your attitude towards him forever.

It had been a couple years, you had just gotten off your shift at the bar on the corner and you were supposed to meet Steve and Bucky for a late dinner. You hadn’t been friends with them long, only a couple of months, but it had been long enough that you were surprised to see that Bucky didn’t have a girl hanging off his arm.

That’s usually how your meetups went - Steve looking happy to see you and Bucky focusing solely on the unlucky dame who would wind up with a broken heart the morning after. But that night was different, with no one but your two friends in sight as you shuffled down the street, pulling your ragged coat tighter around you as the New York winter picked up. Bucky’s back was facing you, so he didn’t see you approach, and you caught the tail end of his rant.

“-always fucking everything up! I don’t see why you even bother with her anymore.” He sounded angry, nothing like the usual laid back and charming James Barnes, and you knew without a doubt that he was talking about you.

Instead of interrupting their conversation, you brushed past them on the sidewalk, practically shouldering Bucky out of your way. He called after you, but you kept walking without a word. You didn’t see either of them again for a week, and by then you were resigned to act like it never happened. You never spoke of it again, even when Steve asked you over and over again what had happened between you and Bucky.

You figured neither one of them thought you were close enough to have overheard Bucky’s insult, and that’s why their thick heads couldn’t figure what might have changed that night.

“-any help?” You were brought back to the present by Bucky’s voice, right in front of your face, and you realized you had no idea what he had said.

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you needed any help, doll. Can’t let my best girl do all the work herself.” He winked at you, and for the first time since that night, his casual flirting made you see red.

“It must be hard with your sense of direction, never being able to find your way to a decent pickup line.” Though your face carried a sickeningly sweet smile, the sharp tone in your voice must have thrown Bucky off. You didn’t dwell on it, though, simply brushing past him into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he caught your wrist as he passed, and you wrenched it from his grasp. He took a step back, obviously feeling the anger that was radiating from you. “What’s wrong, doll?”

“As if you don’t know,” you snapped, inhibitions down enough that you were ready to lay your grievances bare. “But that’s right, I just fuck everything up anyways! How could I ever think that the great James Barnes might be the problem for once?”

“Fuck everything up? I don’t understand. I don’t think you fuck anything up, Y/N.” The sincerity of which he said your name gave you pause, and when you looked at him, he seemed genuinely confused. Your anger waned enough for you to explain that night, and how badly it had hurt your feelings.

“I was talking about Dot. That night, she had cornered Steve at the dance hall again, acting all sweet on him. Just like she had done every other night in the few weeks before. And then she left him high and dry, trying to make moves on me when I went out back for a smoke. I thought she was using him - which she was, by the way - and I wanted him to cut it out.

“He got mad at me when he walked out and she was trying to shove her hand in my pants. Thought I was jealous he was gettin’ attention or somethin’.”

You weren’t angry anymore, not after the bomb Bucky had just dropped. Instead you just felt numb, and stupid, to have spent so long holding a grudge for no reason.

“I thought you really liked Dot, though, why wouldn’t you have taken your chance anyways?” It seemed like the most trivial thing in the world to ask, yet it was what your brain chose to focus on.

“Well besides the fact that tried to get to me by using my best friend, I’ve had my eye on one dame for a while now.” You tried not to let your heart constrict at the thought, and you tried to remember a girl he had talked about since then that may have caught his eye. But you couldn’t remember a single one in the years since that night.

You figured he had grown tired of your sarcastic comments about his promiscuous behavior, and kept the girls away from you, but maybe you were wrong. Maybe there hadn’t been any since then. You didn’t want to let yourself entertain the idea, so you threw out a random name.

“No, not Beth,” he responded. “It’s you, Y/N. I’ve been holdin’ out for ya, and I get now that I really hurt you, but I’ll keep holdin’ out until you kick me to the curb.”

You didn’t let your mind make any decisions as you lurched toward him, instead letting your heart take the lead. Because up until that winter night, you had been pining for Bucky just like every other girl in a 50 block radius, but you kept it to yourself, knowing his dating habits - or lack thereof - and your friendship with him and Steve both was more important to you.

You could have never let yourself hope he might feel the same, that he might want you beyond a single night. But that hope was reignited as his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him and slotting his mouth against yours.

The two of you were so lost in each other, so lost in the moment that had unknowingly been building for years, that you didn’t hear the knock at the door, or the creak of the hinges as it opened. It wasn’t until a heavy thud sounded against the floorboards that your sprung apart, both turning to see Steve, shocked, in the doorway.

“I’m thirty minutes late for dinner, and this is what I miss?”