#dcember

“Oh, so you’re Dick Grayson? I know who you’re looking for. She happens to be my patient. I’ll take you to her, alright?”

The man smiles warmly and leads the way, making Dick slow down his steps, as well as his breathing.

“Is she… is she okay?”

“Oh, she’s quite well. She was very lucky, her helmet saved her from an open-skull injury. But she did hit her head pretty hard…” The doctor stops and puts both of his hands on Dick’s shoulders.

“I have to warn you—” the man looks Dick in the eyes with a kind of seriousness that cannot be deflected. ”She’s still in shock. We think she’s suffering from PTA, Post-Traumatic Amnesia.”

“What?!”

“The good thing is, it’s usually temporary. Her CT scans and MRIs came clear, there’s no major trauma to her brain or other internal organs.”

“Can I see her?”

“Of course. But, remember she might be confused.”

Dick’s heart sinks low when your eyes meet—there’s barely any recognition in yours. There’s a few minor cuts scattered on your face; your left side is still a little swollen, so you can barely move your head.

You look at the ink-haired man, worry twisting his face in a familiar grimace. You’re sure you have seen him before. His name is at the tip of your tongue, it’s…

“You’re my boyfriend?”

“Yes, my love. It’s me, Dick.” He drops to his knees right next to your bed and cups your palm in his, grazing the calloused pad of his thumb over your knuckles. It feels foreign, too forward for someone you barely know and recognize. You take your hand away gently, so as to not anger the man. His jaw stiffens and his eyes drop down, but he doesn’t impose touch again. Instead, he gets to the door with the speed and grace that almost surprises you.

Dick doesn’t turn to you and the doctor when he asks quietly with a trembling voice, “When can I take her home?”

“I’d suggest tomorrow morning, just to be on a safer side.”

The man nods silently and then he’s gone, leaving you with a dull ache in your chest. You’re still not sure who he is exactly, but you never intended to hurt him.

“Home?” You look at your doctor with wide eyes.

“Yes, home. That man introduced himself as your boyfriend; I suppose you two live together.”

“Me and—? Are you certain?”

“You have him as your emergency contact. I know it’s still very confusing. Just give it time and you’ll go back to feeling like yourself soon.”

You look away, the floor suddenly looking very interesting. You’re playing with the hem of your duvet cover, just so there’s something to do with your hands, when you ask, “So… what now?”

The doctor smiles gently, “Now you rest, miss.”

—

“This is us,” Dick says as he’s fumbling with the key. His hands are shaking and it makes you nervous as well. “We’ve been living here for the past year and a half.”

He opens the door and invites you in, just as if it wasn’t actually your place. But you have no better option than to trust him—you don’t really have anywhere else to stay.

You step inside and immediately feel at home, even though at the same damn time you feel like you’ve never been here before. The apartment’s bathed in warm tones and your favourite shade of wood, the furniture and decorations making you smile, just a little. A collage photo set on the wall catches your eye; when you walk up you can see it’s you with him. Dick. Your supposed boyfriend.

His hand on your lower back startles you. When you turn, he’s looking at you from under thick, black lashes, eyes a little glassy, when he asks:

“Do you remember me now?”

“You feel… familiar, Dick—” his name still sounds a tad foreign on your tongue, “—but I can’t recall much.”

“Really? Nothing?”

Pure sadness in his eyes weighs you down. Your mouth goes dry and you step away.

“I—no, not really. I’m sorry.” The words barely come out.

He flops down on the sofa, covering his face with his hands. “Sure. Yeah, okay.”

You flick your eyes over him and you can instantly tell he’s scared. You’re not exactly sure how you know that—it’s just a gut feeling.

“Are you… angry with me?”

“What? No—” he turns his head, his jaw gritting hard. “I’m… I’m sad. I just don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand? You—”

“Amnesia doesn’t work this way.” Dick kicks a cardboard box harder than he probably wanted, some of its content falling on the floor. He gets to his knees and starts slowly picking everything back up.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I shouldn’t have done that.”

His tone makes your throat thick and something deep inside you tells you to comfort him, so you get on your knees to help him. Your hands meet when you both reach for the same festive miniature tree and he lingers for a moment. Somehow, you wish he lingered more this time. The more stuff you hide, the more you realise those are winter holidays decorations, and instantly your mood lightens. Dick glances at you and his whole demeanor shifts as well.

“Would you like to put them up? You really love decorating the place for any and every existing holiday.” He chuckles with a soft smile that would bring you to your knees if you weren’t on them already. “We were supposed to do it yesterday, anyway. But…”

“But I got myself flown out of my bike across the street instead.”

“Yeah,” he smiles again, though a little sadder this time. “Something like that.”

—

The sofa feels nice and soft under your weight, like it’s memorised and molded to your shape. You’re mostly  looking at the dark-haired man putting up holiday posters on the wall, but you can’t help yourself from inspecting the room you’re in. 

Everything in here feels familiar to some extent, but not enough to jog your memory. And it’s frustrating, to be honest. It’s like you have the name of something at the tip of your tongue, at the back of your head, and you’re almost getting it, but it slips away every damn time.

There’s bird albums on the coffee table, along with a half-full coffee mug and a framed photo. You take the latter into your hand and study it closely. There’s Dick, and next to him there’s you, hugging him with a big smile. There’s other people in the picture, all of whom might be your family or friends; you’re not really sure.

From the outfits and the surroundings you make out it’s a holiday get-together. A smile catches at your lips as you trace the shapes on the photo. You look happy there, and so does he. And you’d give everything in the world to know and understand that feeling now.

“So… is your name really Dick?” You ask, putting the frame away.

“Correct.”

“Seriously? Like… you know…”

“Oh my God,” he drags a hand down his face, trying to hide a grin. It’s definitely not the first time he’s heard it. “Yes. It’s an abbreviation from Richard.”

“I’ve asked that question before, haven't I?” You chuckle at yourself and at his terrible attempt to look bothered.

“You and many others.”

“Well,” you cross your arms, cocky smile stretching on your face in what feels like second nature, “shouldn’t it be Rick though? Or Rich?”

“It may be… but I like Dick.” He leans on the wall, mirroring your pose. “And I like your pet name even more.”

That gets you perked up. You shift forward on the couch, closer towards the man in front of you.

“Can you remind me what it is?”

“I can give you a hint; it’s a blue bird.”

You roll your eyes—that’s too vague. There are hundreds of birds whose feathers are blue.

“First letter please?”

“It’s ‘c’.”

“Blue bird whose name starts with a ‘c’... Can I get more hints?”

“Only if you pass me the tiny bell string lights.”

You reach into the box set up next to the sofa and stretch your arm out. Maybe by accident, or maybe not at all, he takes your hand instead of the lights. And he doesn’t linger, no, he doesn’t move away on purpose this time. The touch is soft, but firm; his calloused pads tracing small circles over your knuckles leave you tingling, and feeling more connected to him with every second that passes.

“So… About that hint…”

“Ah! Right.” Dick sets up the stringlights quickly and turns them on. And it’s like they have lit your brain up, casting light on what was hiding in the shadows. “It’s a cuckoo bird.”

You ponder for a second, sticking your tongue a little out like you always do when you focus.

“Is it… coua? The blue coua?”

“Bingo!” He laughs, and the sound is sweet like honey. “Your bird knowledge never fails to impress me.”

“Wait… I remember!” You fly up from the sofa in an instant, excitement rushing through your veins. “I came up with it when I first saw your suit!”

“Oh my God, yes!” Dick almost falls from the ladder with excitement, but he gracefully lands on both feet in front of you. “That’s right!” He wants to catch your hand but stops short. Somehow that saddens you a little.

“And maybe… you can dig up my work name?”

“It’s uhh… Something-wing?”

This time, he takes your hand in his and squeezes it gently, followed by a playful wink. 

“Close enough.”

“What is it then?”

“When's the most crime happening?”

“Nightwing!”

“Good!”

Dick moves fast, already in position to hug you, but you take a half-step back, suddenly shy. So, instead, you give him a high five which doesn’t land and leaves you feeling awkward.

“So… Is there a reward for getting it right?”

“How about I give you your present early, hm?” He takes your arms in his hands, rubbing them down in a soothing manner. And it’s working; all the weirdness and shyness going away with every swipe of his palms over your skin. “I have a feeling it might help you remember even more.”

You tilt your head and knit your brows. “How so?”

“You’ll see. Wait here, please.”

He walks—no, runs into another room; must be your shared bedroom. You use this opportunity to snoop around—though can it be called that if you’re just walking around your own place? Because somehow, it still feels like it.

You can hear boxes rustling, drawers opening and quiet curses from another room, and you smirk—you’re not the only one here who doesn’t remember things, apparently.

A small, wooden bookcase tucked in the corner of the room is where you decide to check first. You trace the bookspines with your finger, feeling the ridges and lettering under your tip. There’s mostly ornithology books, with a few criminology textbooks and detective stories tucked in between.

On the top of the cabinet there’s a decorative bowl full of trinkets of different shapes and sizes. There are material headbands from music festivals, mussels from the seaside with just a little sand still in them, and a bunch of public transit tickets from around the world.

“Found it!”

Dick skids back into the living room, breathless, holding out a small box wrapped in cream paper with a silver ribbon tied a little crooked—like he redid it twice and still didn’t get it right. He looks nervous again, that familiar tightness around his mouth you’re starting to recognize as fear.

“This is… for me?” you ask.

“For you,” he nods. “Go on.”

You sit back down on the floor and carefully undo the ribbon, peeling the paper away. Inside is a sleek glass bottle nestled in velvet. The name printed on the label makes something twist low in your stomach—sharp and aching and close.

“I know this,” you whisper, fingers brushing over the lettering. “I— I know this.”

Dick’s eyes soften instantly. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You wear it a lot.”

You glance up at him. “I do?”

“All the time,” he smiles, small and fond. “Especially when you want to feel brave.”

Your throat tightens. “Should I…?”

“Spritz it,” he encourages gently. “Just a little.”

You lift the bottle with trembling hands and press the nozzle. Once. Twice.

The scent hits you like a wave.

It’s warmth and late nights and laughter muffled into someone’s chest. The plush blankets and cold air and Dick’s hands steady at your waist. It’s your laughter echoing through this apartment, bare feet on the floor, his voice calling your name like it’s something precious. It’s love—sudden and overwhelming and devastating in its clarity.

Your breath shudders. Then it breaks.

You sob.

It tears out of you without warning, violent and messy, your whole body folding in on itself as memories crash back all at once—first dates and stupid arguments, quiet mornings tangled in sheets, the way he always smells like city air, the way he looks at you like you’re home.

“Oh— hey, hey—” Dick drops to the floor immediately, pulling you into him like it’s instinct, like he’s done this a thousand times before. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You clutch his shirt with desperate hands, crying into his shoulder as everything comes rushing back too fast, too much, your heart struggling to keep up.

“I remember,” you choke. “Dick, I— I remember.”

His arms tighten around you. You feel his breath hitch. “Yeah?” he whispers, like he’s afraid the word might scare it away.

“Yes,” you nod frantically. “The balcony in Blüdhaven. The broken kettle. Bruce visiting and pretending not to notice we were hungover. You falling asleep on me every time you said you wouldn’t and snoring into my ear.”

He laughs wetly, pressing his forehead to yours. “God, yeah. That one’s accurate.”

You stay there on the floor together, the apartment half-decorated around you, lights tangled and posters crooked, as you talk through memories like they’re happening again.

“Do you remember Madrid?” you murmur.

“Yes.”

“The museum where the guard yelled at us?”

“Yes.”

“The night we stayed up till four naming birds we’d never even seen?”

He smiles into your hair. “Every single one.”

Your breathing slowly evens out, exhaustion settling heavy and warm in your limbs. Somewhere between his heartbeat and the soft glow of the string lights, your eyes finally flutter shut.

Dick doesn’t move when your weight slackens against him. He only adjusts his hold, one hand stroking soothing patterns into your back, the other cradling your head.

“Welcome back, starling,” he whispers into your hair, voice thick with love. “I missed you.”

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