#dc writers

The apartment always felt a little too quiet after midnight, the kind of stillness that made the hum of the refrigerator sound like a physical weight in the room. You were curled on the edge of the worn out velvet sofa, the cheap fabric scratching gently against your bare shins, with a blanket thrown carelessly over your knees. You were exhausted, the kind of bone deep fatigue that comes from staring at a screen for too long, but sleep remained just out of reach,, a frustrating half-inch away.

With a soft sigh, you reached down and pulled the hem of the faded, oversized gray cotton t shirt lower over your knees, burying your nose into the stretched out collar.

It smelled like leather, stale coffee, and the sharp, unmistakable metallic tang of Gotham’s rain. It smelled like Jason.

The shirt was massive on you, the shoulder seams dropping halfway down your bicep, the fabric thin and softened by years of rough washes and rougher wear. It was an old Blüdhaven University athletics tee he’d probably stolen from Dick a lifetime ago, one that had mysteriously gone missing from the bottom drawer of his dresser three weeks out. He’d grumbled about losing it for a solid ten minutes before forgetting it entirely, moving on to some new grievance about Bruce or the rising price of ammo. You had stayed entirely quiet during his search, your heart doing a guilty little flip against your ribs while the shirt sat safely tucked beneath your own pillows.

You didn’t mean to keep it. Not at first. But when Jason went away on business,, the kind of dangerous, off the grid business that left you staring at a silent phone for days on end,, the apartment felt entirely too large. The bed felt too cold. Having the shirt was like keeping a small, physical piece of his presence anchored to your space, a sensory promise that he would actually come back.

You closed your eyes, letting the familiar scent soothe the anxious knot in your stomach, finally feeling the heavy pull of sleep beginning to drag you under.

A sudden, sharp click from the front door broke the silence.

Your eyes snapped open, your heart immediately leaping into your throat. In Gotham, an unexpected sound at 2:00 AM usually meant a trip to the emergency room, or worse. You froze, your muscles tensing as you prepared to dive behind the counter, your eyes darting to the heavy ceramic mug on the coffee table to use as a makeshift weapon.

The door swung inward with an agonizingly slow creak, letting in the damp, cold air of the alleyway. A tall, broad silhouette filled the frame, the yellow streetlights from outside catching the sharp edge of a dark leather jacket.

The figure stepped into the dim light of your kitchen, pulling off a heavy helmet with a tired, fluid motion. A shock of white hair caught the ambient glow of the microwave clock.

Jason.

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, your shoulders dropping in a massive wave of relief. "Jason," you breathed, your voice rough with sleep. "Jesus, you scared the hell out of me. You weren't supposed to be back until Friday."

He paused, hanging his helmet on the back of the kitchen chair with a heavy thud. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes prominent in the shadows, his jaw shadowed with a few days of dark stubble. But as his eyes locked onto you sitting on the couch, his entire posture shifted. His brow furrowed, his gaze dropping from your face, down to the collar of your shirt, following the faded, cracked lettering across your chest, all the way down to where the hem pooled around your thighs.

A slow, dangerously sharp smirk began to pull at the corner of his mouth.

"Well, well, well," Jason drawled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through the quiet room. He took his time walking over, his heavy boots clicking softly against the linoleum before hitting the carpet. He stopped right at the edge of the sofa, towering over you with his hands tucked casually into his jacket pockets. "Look what we have here. I spend three days tracking a lead in the Narrows, and I come back to find a thief in my living room."

Your face caught fire instantly, a furious heat rushing up your neck and pooling in your cheeks. You instinctively pulled your knees closer to your chest, trying to bunch the fabric up, but it only made the situation worse, stretching the shirt tight enough to display the familiar university logo perfectly.

"I'm not a thief," you mumbled, looking anywhere but at his smug face.

"Oh, really?" Jason leaned down, resting his forearms on the back of the sofa, bringing his face dangerously close to yours. The smell of the actual rain and leather on him immediately overwhelmed the faded scent of the cotton. His blue eyes danced with absolute amusement. "Because that looks an awful lot like the shirt I spent an hour looking for last month. The one you swore you hadn't seen. The one you claimed the laundry mat must've swallowed."

"It's comfortable," you shot back, your voice entirely unconvincing as you buried the lower half of your face back into the collar, realizing too late that the action only proved his point.

Jason let out a low, dry chuckle, the sound rich and self satisfied. He reached out, his large, calloused fingers catching the excess fabric at your shoulder, giving it a playful, teasing tug. "Comfortable? Sweetheart, it looks like a tent on you. You're practically drowning in it. If you wanted to borrow something, you could've just asked. Didn't know you were running an special operation out of my closet."

"I didn't steal it to start a opperation," you grumbled, swatting his hand away. You shifted on the cushion, turning away from him to hide your burning face. "Just go take a shower. You smell like gunpowder."

"Hey, don't change the subject," Jason said, his voice dripping with an insufferable level of smugness as he walked around the couch, throwing himself down on the opposite end. He stretched his long legs out across the coffee table, leaning his head back against the cushions while keeping his eyes entirely locked on you. "Come on, confess. How long have you been hoarding my laundry? Is there a secret stash under the bed? Do I need to start counting my socks?"

"It's just the one shirt, Jason," you snapped, though there was no real anger behind it, only the intense mortification of being caught red handed.

"Why this one, then?" he pressed, his smirk widening. He crossed his arms over his chest, clearly enjoying the way you were squirming. "There are plenty of nicer blankets in the closet. You’ve got your own sweaters. Why are you sleeping in something that looks like it went through a woodchipper?"

You bit your inside lip, the playful banter suddenly dying in your throat. You looked down at your hands, your fingers twisting into the soft, worn out hem of the shirt. You could lie. You could tell him it was just the first thing you grabbed from the drawer, or that your own pajamas were in the wash. But looking at him,, seeing the faint, fresh cut along his cheekbone and the heavy exhaustion he was trying so hard to mask behind his usual arrogant bravado the lie felt useless.

"Because it smells like you," you said softly, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

The smug, teasing grin on Jason’s face instantly vanished.

The silence returned to the apartment, but it wasn't the cold, empty silence from before. It was thick, heavy with an unexpected vulnerability that caught him entirely off guard. Jason froze, his arms still crossed over his chest, his eyes widening just a fraction as the words processed through his brain. The playful, arrogant lines of his face completely softened, the sharp Gotham vigilante melting away to reveal something incredibly raw underneath.

"What?" he asked, his voice losing all of its gravelly mockery, dropping into something quiet and tentative.

"It smells like you," you repeated, forcing yourself to look up and meet his gaze, determined to own the confession despite the heat still lingering in your cheeks. "When you're gone for days, and I don't hear from you, and the news is talking about rogue activity in the Diamond District... the apartment gets really empty, Jason. And I get tired of staring at the ceiling. Sleeping in this... it makes it feel like you're actually here. Like you're safe, and you're coming back."

Jason stared at you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. For a man who always had a sarcastic comeback or a witty insult lined up, he was entirely speechless. His chest tightened, a strange, profound ache blooming behind his ribs at the realization of just how much your universe revolved around his safety,, how much you missed him when he disappeared into the dark. He spent so much of his life feeling like a ghost, a dead boy walking through a city that had forgotten him, that the simple fact that his scent on a piece of old cotton could bring someone comfort felt entirely overwhelming.

Slowly, without a word, Jason uncrossed his arms. He shifted his weight on the couch, sliding over the cushions until there was no space left between you.

He didn't say anything about the shirt. He didn't make another joke. Instead, he reached out, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as he caught your waist and pulled you into his lap. You didn't protest, sliding your arms around his neck, burying your face directly into the crook of his shoulder.

He wrapped his large arms tightly around you, burying his face into the crown of your hair, inhaling deeply. He felt massive, warm, and entirely solid against you, the steady, rhythmic thud of his heartbeat pressing against your chest,, a thousand times better than any old t-shirt could ever be.

"You're an idiot," he murmured against your hair, his voice incredibly soft, entirely stripped of its usual armor. His grip tightened around you, pulling you so close it felt like he was trying to merge your two frames together. "You could've just told me."

"You would've teased me," you mumbled into his jacket.

"Yeah," he admitted, a faint, genuine smile tugging at his lips as he rubbed his hand in slow, soothing circles up and down your back, feeling the thin fabric of his own shirt under his palms. "I probably would have. But I would've left a fresh one behind, too."

He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his thumb coming up to gently trace your jawline, his blue eyes incredibly warm in the dim light. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a quiet, fierce devotion that he only ever showed behind closed doors.

"I'm sorry I was late," he whispered, his thumb brushing over your cheek. "The tech took longer to crack than I thought. But I'm back. I'm safe."

"I know," you said, leaning into his touch. "I can hear your heart."

Jason let out a soft, breathy laugh, leaning down to press a warm, lingering kiss against your forehead, then your temple, before finally resting his lips against yours in a slow, deep kiss that tasted like a homecoming. When he pulled away, he shifted, adjusting your position until you were tucked securely against his side, your head resting on his chest while his arm remained wrapped securely around your shoulders.

"Go to sleep, sweetheart," he murmured, his fingers gently tangling in your hair. "I'm not going anywhere."

No one at school seemed to agree with you on that. They all thought he was a perfect angel, so you stopped trying to convince them of your anti-Drake agenda a long time ago. Thankfully, you had one person in your life who always listened to your rants.

“He sounds like a douchebag,” Red Robin said, sitting cross-legged on your bed with an ice pack against his lip. 6 months ago, you found a beat-up hero on your fire escape and offered to help patch him up. A few days later, he came back to say thank you, and when you told him he was always welcome to stop by, it became a habit. 

It was a mutually beneficial friendship. For him, it was an apartment almost exactly halfway between safe houses, so on nights like tonight, when he was a little bloody and bruised, he’d stop in. For you, it was a captivated audience for your late-night rants.

“Oh, he totally is! Thank you for that. No one ever agrees with me,” You rolled your eyes, thinking about how many times you’d heard people gush about the billionaire brat. You sat down across from him and opened the first aid kit you’d just dug out from under your bed. 

You were too busy rifling through the various bandages and ointments to notice your vigilante friend desperately trying to hide his smirk. “Oh yeah, no problem,” 

“He’s way smart too, which is super annoying.” You found the healing gel you were looking for. “I swear he’s hiding something; he must be like an alien or something.”

You looked up to see a laugh-suppressing grin on the hero's face, “Don’t laugh, I'm serious! This guy is a pain, and just because he’s hot, people let it slide!” 

Red's face went completely serious, and you could’ve sworn you saw his cheeks tint pink underneath his domino mask, but then again, his left side had a sizable cut on it, so you really couldn’t tell. “You- you think he’s hot?”

“That is so not the point I'm trying to make!” You rolled your eyes and dabbed a bit of gel on the cut. “But yeah, his looks are like his only redeeming quality.” Once you had applied a thin layer to the cut, you used butterfly bandages to hold it closed. It wasn’t exactly pretty, but it would heal well, and the gel would make it nothing but a small scar in a week or so. “You know, you kinda look like him. Is that what you're hiding behind this mask?” You used this opportunity to tap the bottom edge of the mask. “Rugged good looks and a billionaire smile.”

“Oh, ha ha,” He retorted sarcastically, lightly moving your hand away from the fabric. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t dying to know his identity. It’s not that he didn’t want to tell you, it’s just that he’d heard you complain about his alter ego enough times to worry about your reaction, plus the whole ‘your-life-would-be-in-constant-danger-if-you-knew’ thing. Lately, he’d found himself going out of his way to end up knocking on your window, and he didn’t want what you had to change.

“Hmmp, you're no fun.” You huffed playfully, hopping off the bed and stashing the first-aid kit once again. You heard a small buzz and knew that Red had gotten an alert. 

He stood up and listened for a second. You could only guess he was getting instructions via earpiece. “Got it, I’m on my way.” He called over coms before turning back to you with an apologetic look.

You spoke before he could get an apology out. “Let me guess, some goon’s breaking open an ATM, and everyone else is busy?”

“Pretty much yeah,” He ducked under your windowsill onto your fire escape. “Thanks for the help. I don’t know where I'd be without you.” 

“Probably bleeding out on someone else's fire escape. Or at that robbery already,” You gently shoved him the rest of the way through the window and bid him farewell. You watched him grapple off into the dim moonlight before getting back into your bed. Over the past few weeks, you’d started staying up later just in case a certain someone happened by; this, of course, made those full 8 hours a little harder to come by. You didn’t really care, though. A little less sleep for a little more time with him seemed like a fair trade. 

The next morning finally came, and you weren’t exactly pleased to hear the familiar beeping of your alarm clock. Still, you forced yourself out of bed, pulled your uniform on, and got your stuff together for another day at Gotham Academy. 

You didn’t have any classes with Tim on Fridays, but you usually saw him passing you in the hall or at lunch. Today was different. One might even say he was avoiding you, but why? You saw a glimpse of him quickly heading away from you before the second period, and at lunch, you got a great view of the back of his head for about 30 seconds before he ducked out to go who knows where. Sure, you weren’t exactly friends, but today it seemed he’d gone completely out of his way to make sure you didn’t see him. And it was pretty successful, at least until you literally collided with him. 

School had let out, and you had almost left the building before you remembered you’d left a textbook behind. On your way back to your locker, you turned a corner without caution and slammed into him at full force. The folder in your arms went flying, and all the homework inside was scattered across the floor. You both bent to gather the pages.

“Ah, shit, sorry, I’m so sorry I didn’t see-” That’s when you actually saw who it was you’d bumped into. “Tim?” 

“Sorry, sorry, I should have been watching where I was going.” He apologized as you both stood up, and he handed you the sheets he’d grabbed. Something about him was super off. He wouldn’t even meet your eyes; in fact, he kept his gaze firmly to his left. Maybe he’d somehow heard you complain about him, and now he wanted nothing to do with you. You still didn't like him, but the idea of him knowing as much made you feel guilty about the trash-talking. 

You were about to awkwardly say bye and shuffle off when a locker a little ways away from you slammed shut, startling you both and causing Tim to finally look to his right. 

“Whoa, what happened to your face?” You asked, leaning in slightly to see the hefty hash that had been carefully held together with butterfly bandages. “That looks just like,” It clicked. “hOLY-”

“SHHH!” Tim acted fast; he clapped a hand over your mouth, effectively putting your mind-shattering realization on hold, and rushed both of you into a thankfully unlocked maintenance closet nearby. 

Suddenly, a million pieces were falling into place in your mind. Tim cursed. “God, if you know now what I think you know, you’re gonna have a lot of questions. So I'm gonna move my hand, but you have to be quiet about it. Ok?” He spoke softly and with full concern. After all, he may have just caused a massive overload in your brain. Your archenemy and your closest confidant were the same damn person, who knows what that could do to someone’s psyche.

You nodded profusely, still unable to even conjure a sound. Slowly, Tim lifted his hand away from your mouth and watched you closely. You didn’t say anything for a beat, you just stared back at him, and then, “What the actual hell! You’re- and he’s- and I- which means- I mean all this time- and… what?!?”

“Umm, yeah?” In all honesty, this was going better than Tim had imagined. Whenever he’d envisioned you finding out, it usually started with you cursing him out and ended with you never talking to him again, but now here he was. You hadn’t cursed him out and you were kind of still talking to him, so overall, better than expected. “I wanted to tell you ages ago. I just know how you feel about… well, me.” He gestured down to his civilian attire.

“All this time,” You were still definitely in shock. “All this time you were him, and he was you! And you never told me! I talked to you about you! I called you hot!”

“Oh yeah, thanks, by the way.” A shit-eating grin had made its way onto his face, and you were not pleased.

“Oh fuck off!” You sank down onto a little step stool that happened to be in the closet. “I can’t believe I was so dumb. I mean, how did I not see it sooner!”

Tim crouched down in front of you. “To be fair, we put a lot of effort into keeping our secrets.”

“We? Wait a second! If you’re Red Robin, that makes Batman-”

“...Yup.”

“And Nightwing-”

“Oh yeah.”

“So Robin is-”

“A total pain in the ass. But yeah, it’s Damian.”

“Holy shit!” 

Tim finally let himself laugh a bit at your reaction. You were smart, and he knew that. There had been a few times over the past few weeks when he thought you might start to suspect his secrets, and he’d gone out of his way to cover it up. Including, but not limited to, a leaked story to the tabloids about a Tim-Drake-kidnapping-attempt that was thwarted by the one and only Red Robin. 

While the tabloids weren’t the most believable sources it had planted a seed in your brain that Red and Tim were in the same place at the same time. Of course, thanks to that cut on his cheek, he wouldn’t need to lie to you anymore.

“Don’t laugh! This is serious! I can’t believe I didn’t see this months ago. I mean, your stupid mask doesn't even cover that much!” You exclaimed, throwing your arms in the air to emphasize your point. 

Tim lightly grabbed your arms and brought them back down. “Ok, ok, I’m serious, but you seriously need to calm down.” 

“I’m calm,” You defended. “I mean, considering. Wait, how did this start? Did you have to train long? When did you find out who Batman was? Is he really a Vampire?” You rattled off questions a mile a minute. Finally, the shock and slight annoyance had given way to pure curiosity.

Tim looked around the small maintenance room, as if he were contemplating a really bad idea. “I can’t explain anything else here, but if you want, I can take you to the Batcave? I mean, you’ve already guessed most of the secrets, and even if I don't tell you the rest, you’ll probably figure it out anyway.”