#m.dc

You appraise him, eyes lidded. Dick stares back, uncowed, looking unexpectedly serious. His hand has since moved, curled around your hip a smidge tighter than necessary. 

“Careful,” Dick says lightly, despite the tense lines of his body. “I might develop a complex about you not wanting to be seen in public with me.”

You deflate, gaze going soft. You’ll never stop needing to feel like a secret, you suppose. How else would you leave? This is better; when Dick one day wakes up, and realizes there is something fundamentally wrong with you, you can give him an easy exit. 

“I didn’t want to intrude on a reunion between old friends,” you say carefully, recalling the incident of Dick’s old team dropping by his apartment for an impromptu night out.

“As you’ve said,” Dick exhales through his nose. “Everyone wanted to meet you.”

You stay silent. 

He looks at you resolutely. It makes you feel like the only person in the world, like you could never be forgotten, just as long as he keeps on looking at you. Dick is good at that, at making you feel like a human being. “I want you to come.” A hint of humor lightens his expression. “Please?”

“If you want me,” you say slowly.

A smile spreads across his face. There’s a painfully earnest look in his eyes. “I’d miss you too much otherwise.”

It’s the self assured smile of a man who is keenly aware of the fact that there is nobody on Earth who hasn’t forgiven him, and a smile that is impossible to say no to. 

You close your eyes, reach down as your fingers gently entangle themselves in his hair, and feel him smile.

—

“I know you and Bruce have your differences, but he doesn’t actually hate you.”

Dick pulls up to the gated entrance of Wayne manor, and seconds later, with a groan and the sound of gravel crunching, the gate slowly opens. 

There’s a ghost of a smile on your face. “I don’t really think Bruce hates me. I don’t think Bruce hates anybody.” Bruce loves the man next to you more than he could ever hate you. In the end, the truth is you don’t believe Bruce Wayne to have the capacity to hate more than love. There’s something to be said about a man who unflinchingly dresses up as a bat every night in an unending war against crime. He is a man capable of great love, the kind evident in the man next to you.  

Dick glances at you, contemplative. The finger he had been previously tapping on the wheel stills. “Astute observation.”

“He just wishes I’d disappear.”

Dick frowns as he drives down the driveway, towards the manor. “No he doesn’t.”

“From your life,” you clarify, growing amused. 

“He’s just awkward,” Dick says exasperatedly. “You know all that playboy Brucie Wayne persona is bull, right?”

“Of course,” you reply easily. You know all about personas . You just haven’t figured out whether Bruce Wayne or Batman is the mask, and that makes you wary. 

Dick parks the car, and looks at you, expression withdrawn as if bracing himself for a hard landing. “Is it Bruce?”

You blink.

He exhales. “Is Bruce making you uncomfortable? I’ll talk to him, I promise.” His hand reaches out for yours, squeezing. Your hand stays limp under his.

“It’s not Bruce,” you say carefully, trying your best to convey the opposite of the fact that you could care less about what Bruce thinks of you lest you hurt Dick’s feelings. It’s difficult, being careful with your words. You’ve never liked lacing your words with easygoing sentiments. All the guile and dishonesty has tired you. You do not trade kisses for names or sex for information anymore, but you still feel tired. 

It’s your recalcitrance to integrate into Dick’s life. His friends, his family, his father. He senses it; he’s been watching you closer than usual lately but there are no openings, no indication that anything is wrong. It’s been driving him crazy; the prevalence of some feeling, a precursor to something bad. He holds you a little tighter, kisses you a little desperately, looks at you a little longer. 

You had watched Dick slide his arms around his friends, and press a kiss to cheek to a woman who smiled at you. They crowded him enthusiastically with cheers. A red headed man had winked at you. You thought. More family. Then you felt sick to your stomach, a suckerpunch to the gut made of pure longing that paralyzed you. You thought of a mansion, the lilt of a Southern accent, of a kiss pressed to your temple and a cross pressed into your hand, and felt that you might do something dangerous. 

You slipped out of the room, straight to the fire escape of Dick’s window, and let your feet take you home. 

You’ve been thinking of leaving.

You are not meant to be anything other than a secret. You do not fit in Dick’s life as seamlessly as others would. You are meant to be a ghost. You suppose all this makes you an easy person to dislike. You can’t object to Bruce’s feelings towards you. If the world’s best detective sees you, has deciphered you to your core, then he sees everything about yourself you hate. 

“If I were your father, I wouldn’t like myself for you very much either.”

There’s a crease between his eyebrows as his lips purse. “Well, I like you,” he says quietly. “I like you a lot.” His voice gains a hard edge. “And I don’t care what Bruce thinks—”

You reach out, fingertips sweeping his face, lean close and capture his lips with yours. Dick goes lax underneath your touch, surging forward. You feel his hand curl around the nape of your neck, caressing but firm. 

Of course you do, you don’t say when you’ve pulled away, Dick’s fingers attached to your fluttering pulse like a brand. You calmly look towards the front, and past the windshield.

Dick follows your gaze and you feel him jump. His hand pulls away. “Ch-rist.”

Damian stares you down, crossing his arms. His gaze is flinty, marked by a clear disapproval, and more subtly, a disappointment that envelopes his entire body. 

Dick straightens and opens the door. You watch him open his arms, beaming. “Come here kid, I missed you!”

Damian makes a face, and lets Dick wrap his arms around him for a good three seconds before he begins to squirm. “Richard,” he says, somehow managing to find his bearings after a good hair shuffling, “I see you aren’t alone.”

You’ve left the car, leaning against the door as Damian scrutinizes you.

“Couldn’t just leave my girl behind,” Dick says amiably, the words pointed. “Say hi Dami.”

“The invite didn’t allow for a plus one,” he sneers. “Father will be displeased.”

“Hi Damian,” you say before Dick can respond. “It’s nice to see you too.”

“I wish I could say the same,” he says coolly. 

That draws a twitch to the corner of your lips while Dick frowns. “Dami, we talked about this.”

A dark cloud descends on his face. “Your tendency to run your mouth does not constitute an equivalent exchange of ideas.”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” Dick says, annoyance starting to seep through his expression, one that reads: didn’t you say you’d be on your best behavior?  

“I’m sure we wouldn’t want to keep Alfred waiting,” you interrupt. Damian fumes at your blatant intervention, before turning on his heels and stalking back into the house.

Dick inhales. Exhales. There’s an apologetic smile on his face when he turns to you, one that pairs well with the warmth in his eyes. It doesn’t mask the rigid hold of his body. He encircles your waist. “Have I told you I am endlessly grateful for your patience when it comes to my family?”

“Dick, it’s okay. Really.” You aren’t even lying when you say, “he’s cute.”

In a deadly sort of way. Like a venomous spider. A memory rushes to the surface before you can stop it, and you can see the curl of her lips, the slight pout. The man had died too quickly, back when the two of you had clung to apathy to survive. Not enough suffering. Not enough pain. It’s so rare we get to kill people who deserve it, she said.  

All you could think was that you deserved it more, and if anybody killed you, you wanted it to be her. You imagined it lovingly.

“That’s a first.” You watch his jaw work through the words, finding the right ones. “Damian can be extreme. His upbringing was…difficult as you know.” To put it lightly. “He’s a lot better now! But man, those first couple of years were tough. Then Bruce came back from the dead, and…” he trails off, face overcome by a soft nostalgia only unlocked by the years he had spent flying through the air with Damian at his side, as the Robin to his Batman. I wanted to adopt him. I was young, and I could barely handle my own life, but god I wanted…

“He’s better now,” Dick finishes. “But you’ll tell me if he does anything, won’t you?” He looks at you solemnly. “If he says anything, even the slightest bit suspect, I want you to come to me.”

You fix him with a wry stare, putting your hand on his neck, right where it meets his shoulder, and feel him go slack underneath your touch. You don’t think Damian exactly does subtle. He is a boy who has learned to expect the world at his fingertips. One who never expected he’d have to fight for a father’s love, and now finds another one pulling away from him. “No faith?”

“Of course I have faith in him,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing at your waist. “But he has his bad days, and he’s been in some kind of mood lately. Tim’s been refusing to eat dinner downstairs just to avoid a fight. I just don’t know what’s going on with him. I really thought they were doing better.”

You have an idea or two, and all involve you and Dick. “We all have our bad days.”

"He has a bit more than most," he says lightly, "and I have socks older than him." But there's a hint of a growing smile. In the end he acquiesces, head inclined. His gaze grows lidded, zeroed in on the bottom half of your face. “I want you to be comfortable.”

His hand strokes your face, tilts it to the side, and he kisses you once more. There’s a warmth in your body. Your feet are rooted to the ground, and the idea of walking away when Dick’s arms are around you seems wrong. There’s a lump in your throat. 

You could leave, but it wouldn’t be easy. Maybe it is too late.

He presses one more chaste kiss to your lips, eyes twinkling, before he groans and lets his forehead fall on your shoulder. “We don’t want to keep Alfred waiting,” he says, with effort. 

The two of you stay entwined for just a moment longer.

—

Tim and Damian glare at each other from over their bowls of risottos. Cassandra picks at her food, taking bird bites from both her and Stephanie's plates, while Stephanie eagerly chatters about college life with Duke, who had stopped by the manor after his own classes. The two of them come to the conclusion that group projects, well, suck. Bruce is absent, but you’re sure he’s around, judging from Alfred’s clear dismay as he announced dinner without the head patriarch.

Dick converses with them, while keeping a cautious eye on Tim and Damian. Although he and Stephanie soon become embroiled in a conversation about penguin naming conventions. The Gotham Zoo had just unveiled a baby penguin whose name was unimaginably stupid, according to Stephanie. You hope Dick doesn’t tell her about Mr. Wiggles. 

Duke turns to you, a lopsided grin on his face. “So, how’d Dick wrangle you back here?”

It was always nice to see the fellow mutant. Not that he’d know what you are. Duke had been introduced to you with an easygoing smile on his face and a shrewd, quick thinking gaze. It’s easy to like him; another eccentric member of the Dick’s family, one too smart for their own good.

You offer him a small smile. “He asked very nicely.”

“That easily?”

You affect innocence. “He’s convincing when he wants to be.”

Duke snorts, before his voice lowers. Amusement paints his features. “I think B is avoiding you. He hasn’t left the Batcave since you guys arrived.”

You don’t even blink. “Now why would he be doing that?”

“Because you,” Stephanie says, spoon swinging to point at you, “refuse to be intimidated by his—" she clears her throat, making it gravelly "—I am the night. Fear me. schtick." 

Damian makes a noise from his throat.

“O-kay,” Dick cuts in immediately, before the night ends in disaster. “Can we change the topic please? B’s not even here to defend himself.” He flashes you a grin, hand reaching for yours underneath the table. “Not that I disagree.”

“Are you coming to the party?” Stephanie asks, leaning forward. Her eyes are bright with a mischievousness that spells trouble. “Please tell me you’re coming. You’re way too cool for Dick to be hiding you away all the time.” The grin grows sharp. “Have you met Brucie Wayne yet?”

Dick covers up his laugh with a cough. His hand squeezes yours. “Yes, she’s coming. Yes,” a pointed look towards Stephanie’s direction, “Bruce knows. Don’t you youngsters have other things to talk about other than gossip?”

Damian stabs his plate of sauteed vegetables with a little more force than necessary as Stephanie and Duke protest the use of the word youngsters. You watch Damian, body pressed into himself, tight and compact as if bracing for a blow, the white knuckled grip on his fork, and the sullen expression plastered to his face. 

“I pay my own phone bill!” 

“Yeah, with Tim’s credit card.”

“Tim claims me on his taxes! Tell him, Tim!”

“She’s a dependent,” Tim replies dryly. 

“Fancy way of saying sugar daddy,” Duke teases as Cassandra shakes her head.

Tim chokes while Stephanie guffaws gleefully: Thank you dadddyyyyyyyyy. Oops, guess I shouldn't let Kon hear me say that!"

“So,” Dick murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Bruce has a pool.”

You subtly angle your head towards him. “A pool.”

“A big, fancy, private heated pool.” His arm snakes around your waist. 

You look at him, face carefully deadpan. “I didn’t pack my bathing suit.”

Dick grins, looking as if he’ll kiss you. It’s a dangerous look in public. “Neither did I.”

Damian scowls and pushes his plate back. The china rattles. “This inane prattle has eliminated my appetite.” 

As the room goes silent, Cassandra stills, and Tim rolls his eyes. “Here we go,” he mutters.

“Aw Dami,” Dick coos cajolingly, turning his attentions to the boy, still in good humor. “Talk to me. What’s going on at school? Taking any interesting classes? Made any new friends?”

Damian’s face grows tight, hand curling into the placemat. “I’m surrounded by imbeciles.”

Tim squeezes his lips together, as if holding back a particularly nasty retort.

Dick’s eyebrows are furrowed in concern. “Dami—”

The chair squeaks against the floor as he stands. “Save it, Richard. I’d rather a lobotomy.” He glowers at you, and disappears down the hall. 

Dick pinches the bridge of his nose, looking stressed. 

“God he’s angsty,” Stephanie remarks after Damian leaves. “What crawled up his ass?”

Tim blows a hard breath. “You’re telling me. I’m the one that has to live with him. He nearly bit off my hand yesterday for breathing his air yesterday.” 

“Is he fighting with Bruce?” Dick asks, looking into the hallway as if Damian might reappear through sheer strength of want.

Tim shrugs, face closed off. He has a good poker face, but you can still discern the chagrin underneath. The woes of a middle child. “Not to my knowledge, but I’m busy with my own cases,” he says pointedly. There’s a pause, an inability to resist Dick when he asks so nicely. “He got in trouble at school the other day though.”

Dick looks to him, blinking. “When was this?”

“Last week?” Tim looks to Duke.

Duke snaps his fingers. “Tuesday. The movie theatre bombings. Bruce benched him.”

Dick shakes his head. Before he can open his mouth, Cassandra stands, as quiet as a shadow. 

“I’ll…go.” She doesn’t wait for a response before gliding out the room.

“He didn’t finish dinner,” Dick says mournfully. Tim stares down at his plate of food.

Dinner ends quickly after that. Alfred reappears shortly after, glancing at Damian’s half finished plate with an understanding that makes him sigh. The table is easily cleared with multiple hands, and dishes are quickly washed. Alfred wraps Damian’s leftovers.

You’re helping Dick dry everything as Dick and Alfred converse about Bruce’s new case; the introduction of a drug targeting at-risk youths in shelters, inducing violent hallucinations and bloody confrontation. A new strain of fear toxin, except the Scarecrow is currently locked up in Arkham. 

The conversation falls silent. You continue drying dishes.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says. “I’m glad you’ve deigned to come up for dinner.”

“B,” Dick turns, shoulder still pressed to yours. “Hey.”

You hear Bruce clearing his throat. “Welcome home.” There’s a pause. “Both of you.” 

You put the plate down. “Hello Bruce,” you greet.

He tilts his head in response, face unreadable. Batman? Or Bruce Wayne? It’s clear he’s come from some work out, fresh from the shower. There’s a towel around his neck, and Alfred places a shake of some sort in front of him. You push the thought away. Your curiosity is unwarranted. 

Out of the corner of your eye, Dick stifles a smile that quickly disappears. “What trouble did Damian get into at school?”

There’s a ripple in his impenetrable facade as he takes the cup, eyebrows heavyset in a way that spells trouble. “There was an…altercation with another student.”

Dick raises an eyebrow, demanding more. “Altercation?”

“It’s handled,” Bruce says firmly, shutting down any other mention of the topic.

“It clearly isn’t if he’s still lashing out at everyone,” Dick says, tone dangerously edged. He’s gearing up for an argument. “Is he going out on patrol tonight? Or are you still punishing him?”

Bruce is silent, gaze sliding to you. Dick straightens, eyes narrowed. “Come off it already, Bruce. What more is there to keep a secret? She knows.”

“Trust is a two way street,” he replies calmly, eyes bearing into yours with an intensity that makes you feel like you’ve committed a crime. You’ve committed many crimes. It tells you all you need to know. Your paperwork is faked. You have no birth certificate. You are not recorded in any kind of registry. Proof of your existence dates back to a year and a half. You are a complete unknown. He’s right to be wary.

You stare back unperturbed. “I’m an open book.”

WIth that, you lock eyes with Dick. It’s okay. Don’t fight. You lightly brush by him and leave the kitchen. 

“Don’t you dare start this now,” Dick says, voice catching through the hall as you walk away. This is an argument you shouldn’t be privy to. 

You head towards the west wing of the house, treading on carpet through the portraits eerily hanging on the walls, catching up to Alfred who holds a tray of food in his hands. 

“I can take that.” 

Alfred lurches in surprise. It makes you realize you forgot to make your footsteps audible. 

“Forgive me,” he says, smiling warmly at you. “You startled this old, frail man.”

“Sorry,” you say. “I…thought I could take that up to Damian myself.”

Hesitation mars his face. “An undoubtedly kind gesture. However, I’m afraid Master Damian can be stubborn.” You’ve heard that one before. 

Your lips curl at the corners. “I can handle stubborn.” You can handle angry, disgruntled, child assassins just as well as you can handle troubled teenagers with powers too big for their bodies. “He probably won’t even come out, but I think I want to try.”

Alfred holds your gaze before assenting. “Very well,” he says kindly. “I must insist you call at even the slightest disturbance.”

“I will.”

He pauses. “Master Damian is rough at the edges, but beneath it all he is a kind boy. I can only humbly request that you give him patience.”

You walk to Damian’s room, tray in hand. His leftovers, a plate of warm cookies, and a glass of milk. As you approach, you can hear hushed murmurs coming from his door. They go quiet as you step in front of his room. You knock. 

Silence.

Just as you raise your hand once again. 

The door swings open, and Damian stands in front of you, nose crinkled. “I’m busy, Pennyworth—” 

You look at him. Then glance at the scuffed up shoe sticking out from beneath Damian’s bed. 

The door slams shut in front of you with enough force that the plates tremble. 

Nothing you didn’t expect. You stand there for a couple seconds. “Dick was worried because you didn’t finish dinner.” You tell the closed door. “I’ll leave your food here.”

You place the tray on the floor and leave.

—

Dick comes in while you’re lying in his bed, staring at a sliver of moonlight illuminating the floor. You don’t move, but you hear him pad to the bathroom, and wash. 

He collapses onto the bed with a huff, but before you can turn, he presses himself to you. Arms wrapping around you, you can feel the light puffs of his breath against the back of your neck, and his lips when he brushes them right beneath your ear. 

You wait for him to speak.

“He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

“I don’t mind.”

His arms around you tighten. “There’s a lot you don’t mind. I wish you would.”

You stare at the dark wall. The two of you fall into a silence. 

“I’m scared I failed him,” Dick says quietly. “Did I make a mistake leaving him here?” He holds you to him; the two of you breathe together.

“He’s with his father.” You decide to play devil’s advocate.

You don’t have to look to see the stubborn set of his jaw. “Bruce doesn’t understand —” he huffs a breath. “He’s not happy.”

You almost smile at that. “Kids his age rarely are.” You turn to face him, and gently push him to his back. You settle next to him, fingers reaching out to brush his damp hair out from his face. His gaze grows slightly lidded, head leaning into your touch. “You did your best.”

He blows out a tremulous breath, looking to you. His eyes are pleading. “And if that wasn’t enough?” 

“Dick,” you say, fingers stilling. In the darkness, you can still make out his defined features. His blue gaze fixed to your face, and a hand resting on your bare waist. “Damian is not angry or violent or even troubled. He’s a child, unorthodox upbringing aside. All because of you. A difficult child, maybe, but you did your best. He loves you.”

He’s just a little boy, you think. You can imagine him, uprooted from all he has ever known, to come to this dark, looming mansion in New Jersey to be with his father who he has known to be more myth than man. Damian is a little boy who loves his brother, desperately so. A boy who still looks to Dick, more than Bruce who is heavy handed in his ways, unyielding in his actions. A boy who takes each rejection to the heart, bundles it up with his hurt, and lashes out. 

You remember the time you spent locked in your room, the days after you had first come to the mansion. You remember the noises terrified you. People running along the hall, laughing, talking, and yelling. So many people. It made you feel wrongfooted, as if you had landed on some alien planet where people could afford to be kind. Everything hurt, as if someone had torn out your bleeding, wanting, disgusting heart. You wanted her.

Dick’s face goes pained. “God, I love that kid. He makes me want to tear my hair out some days, but…” That simple nostalgia seeps into his expression, as if he’s envisioning some fond memory. He briefly closes his eyes. “I could have made it work. Adopting him.”

“I know.” Your hand traces the silhouette of his face. He holds your hand there, and tucks a kiss into the palm of your hand. The warmth is searing, sending a prickle down your back. But would it have been enough? You do not tell him Damian would undoubtedly be happier with him than Bruce. You do not tell him that a part of Damian is still longing for what their relationship had once been, but maybe he already knows. All children have to grow up. 

You imagine Dick, one large, tender wound in the days after Bruce’s seeming death, living in grief. You know the hand he extended to Damian to have meant everything to him. You remember your own grief had licked at your ankles, forcing you away. Everything else seemed insignificant. You floated through it, until the waves swallowed you whole.

“It’s not always enough,” you say quietly. You can’t help but think Dick would have been enough. Sometimes, you can love someone more than yourself and they will still die. A fist squeezes your heart. You lay down and place your head, face first, into the crook of his neck, and try not to think about anything.

Dick holds you for a long time. 

—

The party is in full swing around you in the Wayne backyard when Damian approaches you, face arranged into a completely neutral expression. 

“I have poisoned your tea,” he says, eyes flashing in the low garden lights. “Drink and perish.”

You look at him, and then the flute of champagne in your hand that a random man had pushed into your hand. Interesting. “Just my tea?”

“Pennyworth has relayed to me that you scarcely partake in imbibing yourself silly, unlike these fools, so he has taken pains to brew you a special concoction. I have poisoned it.” 

“Okay,” you say. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll be careful.”

He stares at you, expression slowly growing into bewildered outrage. “I have told you—”

“Damian,” Tim appears, tugging at his sleeves. He flashes you a weary but no less genuine smile. He tells Damian, “Bruce is looking for you.”

Damian glares at you for a few more seconds, then turns it on Tim, before disappearing into the crowd of socialites. Tim’s face takes on a severity that could be alarming.  

“Was he threatening you?” He asks, glancing back at the crowd as if Damian might make a reappearance.

You give him a small smile. “Hardly.” You’d say the opposite if he was giving you a heads up.

Tim winces, straightening when a few men passing wave in greeting. “I’ve been on the other side of a few Damian threats myself. Trust me I know the look. But I didn’t think—I mean Dick made it pretty clear if he’d be pissed if the demon spawn tried anything tonight.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean any of it,” you say, despite the skeptical look on his face. “Dick still running late?”

Breakthrough on a case. He texted you earlier saying he wouldn’t be missing the party, just a little late, combined with an indulgent amount of emojis.

“He said he’d be here by 8,” he replies apologetically. “Not even Damian would try anything if Dick were here…”

“He doesn’t like me,” you remark. Understandably.

The two of you share a smile. "Welcome to the club," he says.

“I can deal with it.”

“Damian isn’t exactly like the other kids on the playground.”

“I don’t know, he seems like one to me.”

TIm raises an eyebrow. “What kind of kids have you been around?”

Children that could level a city with a thought. Children who could sever necks with a snap of their fingers. Children who had been abandoned, rejected, and alone. Children who hated the world around them.

“How’s Connor?” You ask, enjoying the flush that rises to his face. “Is he here?”

“He’s good,” Tim says nervously, as if he would rather talk about anything else. There’s a story there, but you won’t push. “Not this time."

You watch his face. "You should visit more often," you find yourself saying. "Dick is always saying how you don't come by like you used to."

Tim exhales, a self deprecating scoff that tumbles out before he can stop it. "Yeah, sure."

You tilt your head. "You don't believe me."

"Not like that," he says quickly. A grimace marks his face. "It's just. Dick would say the same about anyone. I'm not special."

I made a lot of mistakes with Tim, you recall the memory of Dick saying. I don't know how he ever found it in his heart to forgive me.

You're his little brother just as much as Damian is, you want to say, but it's different. You know it's different. It's not something that should come from you. The fact that Dick's relationship with Damian will never be what Dick has with Tim. Dick admires and loves Tim in equal measure; it's an entirely different relationship.

"Do you know what happened on our fifteenth month anniversary?"

His eyebrows crease. "There's no such thing as a fifteenth month anniversary."

The curve of your lips is pure amusement. Of all the things to fixate on. "You don't need to tell me. He's the one that insisted we celebrate some made up, arbitrary date. I think he just wanted to celebrate. It was important to him."

"That's Dick for you." He pauses. "What happened?"

"He stood me up."

Tim's eyebrows are almost to his hairline. "What an asshole."

"November 6th. Last year." 

Understanding dawns in his eyes. "Oh," he says.

"So," you say. "Come over next week. Bring some friends or don't. I'll make Dick cook."

He's still taken aback. "He...really?"

"Tim. His little brother asked him. Of course he had to. Now say yes."

He jerks his head down. "Okay, yeah. Yes." He looks at you, meeting your gaze easily. There's a forthrightness to him you like. "I'd like that. Thank you."

"No need," you reply softly. The rest is a conversation for Dick to have. It's not your place to tell him how Dick doesn't stop talking about how proud of him he is.

A group of men call to Tim to talk shop. W.E. business. You watch the sudden shift in his demeanor as he straightens with great interest. You excuse yourself when Tim begins to talk about the state of last quarter’s finances. You could excuse yourself to the kitchen with Alfred until Dick comes. You could also observe Bruce in another context, where he acts the fool on purpose. 

You don’t have to make a choice, because Alfred approaches you with a tray in his hands, and a smile on your face. There’s a beautiful, ornate teapot on it that you know must be steaming, and a teacup. 

“Master Dick has made me aware that you do not drink.” He smiles. “This is a special Arabian blend with an Assam base that is typically steeped for twelve minutes.”

You soften. “Thank you Alfred. You shouldn’t have.”

“Nonsense,” he says, placing the tray down on the table. One of the dozens set up throughout the first half of the garden. “It was my pleasure. Master Bruce can be vexing, but I would hope that you do not take his behavior to heart.”

You watch him pour the dark, translucent liquid with curiosity. He passes the teacup on a saucer to you. The tea is warm and fragrant; no cloudiness or slight scent to the poison. You wouldn’t expect anything less. 

It’s just poison. Your body has been trained to do many things. You can survive poison, just as you trained yourself to find sex pleasurable. Just as you trained yourself to embrace pain and ignore it. 

You put your lips to the rim of the teacup, and tilt it forward. Your liquid just barely touches your tongue when a pressurized spray of cold water blasts you in the face. You protect the teacup with your hands to prevent it from shattering, until the water gradually dies down.

You meet Damian’s wide, panicked gaze.

The music comes to an abrupt stop, and the crowd goes silent. People stare at you wide eyed, and gawking. Tim’s jaw has dropped, and Stephanie who has found her way to his side looks torn between horror and laughter. Even Bruce looks downright bewildered, his arms around the waist of two beautiful women. His arms drop back to his side as he intends to make his way forward.

“M-Master Damian!” Alfred splutters at your side, unfortunately not spared from the waterfall. The two of you are drenched, dripping onto the garden tiles. “Just what—”

“Damian!” Dick’s voice is as sharp as a whip, and just as cutting, face angrily contorted as he walks over to the boy. “What the hell are you doing!?”

You gently place the teacup on the table, overturning the rest of the liquid into the grass. Better not take any chances. 

“Oh my,” Alfred says harriedly, dabbing at his ruined suit. 

You walk over, and put a hand on Dick’s taut shoulder with a bright smile at the passerby as you plant a kiss on his cheek. “Well, this is what I get for saying I wanted to go for a swim,” you say pleasantly.

That draws a laugh from the crowd, air immediately lightening. People still eye you warily, whispering as the quartet reluctantly starts up again. You are soon relegated to yesterday’s gossip. Though a few people mill around you, undoubtedly still interested, whether in Dick or the situation at hand.

Dick shrugs off his jacket, placing it around you. Concern is bright in his eyes as he scans you.

Damian is hunched over, shoulders nearly up to his ears. His knuckles are pronounced as he holds the garden hose in his hand. He looks as if he’s poised for execution, the inevitable blow. You look at Damian, small, and think of how the Red Room had not spared you either.

Dick takes your cue, and forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his hard eyes.

“We are going to talk about this, do you understand me?” He murmurs to Damian, whose gaze is glued to the ground. He jerks his head down.

“What’s this?” comes Bruce’s jovial voice as the crowd parts to let him appear. There’s lipstick stains on his open collar. “If I had known this was a pool party, I would have brought my trunks!” Everyone laughs, breaking into chatter. Bruce gestures to Damian, the movement curt. “Come here, son.”

Damian is pale, eyes wide, as he shuffles forward. Bruce clamps a hand down on his shoulder. Crowd sufficiently distracted, Dick takes your wrist and leads you away back into the house. He doesn’t stop until the two of you are back in his room. 

He shuts the door, locks it shut, and places both hands on your face, appraising you seriously. “This is proving every point of yours right, isn’t it?”

You exhale with a tinge of laughter. Your dress is uncomfortably clinging to you, and there’s water in your heels. “Actually, this trip has been very entertaining.”

“Please don’t joke right now,” Dick says, still upset. “I really thought everybody would be on their best behavior this time. He’s never been like this. I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, looking one breath away from pacing the length of the room. “I can’t believe he did that. I’m mortified.”

You place a hand on his face. He stills. “We were playing a game.”

Dick looks at you in disbelief. “A game.”

“I lost.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to—”

“I’m not,” you say. You shouldn’t have needlessly antagonized Damian by trying to take a sip. You had just been curious. You know he recognizes something in you that makes him wary. He can’t put a name to it, or he won’t, perhaps out of fidelity to Dick. It’s impossible to begrudge him that. Both of them. You should have left when you could. 

Dick examines you, like a detective analyzing blood splatters left on a wall. You pretend not to notice.

“Don’t be too harsh on him. He’s dealing with things.”

Dick brings you close, without a care for your soaking clothes, and presses your foreheads together. “I didn’t even get a chance to tell you that you look beautiful. I wanted to dance with you,” he adds ruefully. 

You slowly wrap your arms around his neck and smile. “What’s stopping you?”

Your tongue swipes against your upper lip, where you can taste the faint traces of poison. It almost makes you laugh. Spider venom. 

—

Dick makes his way to Damian’s room, each step a study in muscle memory, still slightly high off the memory of your kisses. Dick could walk this path blindfolded, one hand tied behind his back, and on one foot. He made the journey to Damian’s room almost daily when it had been just them two in a haunted manor. Damian, callous and biting and terrified. Dick, hanging on a thread, restless, and exhausted. He hated the cowl, he hated how Damian refused to listen, he hated Bruce for leaving them in pieces. 

The first thing they had shared was not a father. It was the grief. He had looked at Damian, and thought, he’s too young. It’s not fair. 

Then he remembers the first time he had cradled Damian’s small form in his arms, trudging down this exact hall, listening to Damian’s slow breaths, and how he had held him to his chest just a little bit tighter. 

He remembers a lot of things about their time together. Damian sick, sweating onto the sheets in the medbay as he slapped the medical tray out of Alfred’s hands with a snarl. Damian sitting next to him, meticulously organizing a large box of colored pencils according to color. Damian beaming at him, the excitement of a child lighting up his face and a deep satisfaction spreading over his chest. 

It’s not good to indulge in memories as much as he does when he looks at Damian, but he can’t quite help it. There was the bad, but there was also the good. So much good. Sometimes when he leaps into the air, just before the click of the grapple, he can hear Damian’s laughter along with the rush of wind in his ear. It takes everything in him not to look.

It’s odd, how some of the happiest memories of his life could have only been formed from grief. Given meaning from sorrow. 

Dick knocks on Damian’s door. “It’s me Damian. Can we talk?”

He doesn’t expect the door to open as quickly as it does, as if Damian had been waiting for his fist to meet the door.

Damian’s face is grave with a seriousness that makes him want to joke, who died? He’s sure it wouldn’t be appreciated when Damian looks like he’s seconds from being hanged. Dick closes the door, leads Damian towards his bed, and takes a seat. Damian stands, as stiff as a board. Keeping his distance, Dick notes. The thought makes his stomach unfurl uncomfortably. 

Maybe he should be angrier; he had taken two steps in your direction before Damian had blasted you with enough water to refill the fountain in the center. He had been upset, and he still is. No matter Damian’s feelings towards you, that was unacceptable. You’ve done nothing to warrant his ire. He’s half surprised Damian hasn’t run you off yet, but you have a way of always doing what he least expects.

“Don’t spare my feelings now,” Damian says tightly, fists balled. “Tell me you despise my very essence, that you wish the foulest of curses upon me, and that you,” he sucks in a breath that makes Dick’s heart twinge, “ you never want to see me—”

Dick blinks, completely baffled. He’s never seen Damian so repentant before. Over some horseplay? “Woah, woah.” He raises his hands up. “Hold on just a second. What’s going on? Dami, your behavior earlier was unacceptable, but I’d never—” Dick stares at him, as if he can convey the sheer amount of love he has for the boy in front of him. “I love you. You know that right?”

Damian eyes him in disbelief, chest heaving. “Is she…” his voice warbles, “okay?”

A bewildered breath of laughter escapes Dick’s throat. He places his hands on his brother’s face, and looks at his ghostly pallor, before bringing him to his chest and holding him tight. “Dami,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to his head. “She’s perfectly fine. Soaked, but fine.” Fine enough that you had given him several kisses, and very generously let him into the shower with you. Not exactly the train of thought he wants to pursue right now.

He lets go, Damian owlishly blinking at him as he regains his height, and Dick crosses his arms. “Which is why I’m here. The two of you were playing some kind of game?”

An obvious lie on your part, but Dick decides to play along. If anything, it’ll grant you points in Damian’s book while giving him an excuse to make sure nothing like this ever happens again. 

Dick watches Damian closely as the implication falls on his face. “Game,” he repeats.

Dick arches an eyebrow. “I’m assuming you won.”

“Yes…” Damian starts slowly, straightening. The color returns to his face. “The game.”

Dick feels a loose smile appear on his face despite it all. He pats the spot next to him. “Sit down, please?”

Damian reluctantly takes a seat.

Dick keeps his voice gentle. “You know that wasn’t right, don’t you?” He pauses, trying to make a lighthearted joke. “You’ve never been this bothered by my love life before.”

“As dismal as it is,” Damian sniffs. Dick snorts. 

Dick knows you have your reservations about his family, or even family in general. You are tightlipped about anything pertaining to your own birth. Dead parents, no relatives, no siblings. He knows it’s a lie. Most of it. He knows you were hurt by some amorphous childhood you never bring up. Just like he knows you’re waiting for him to leave. He’d be offended, if he wasn’t confident he could wait you out. 

What was your childhood like? He asked you, early into your relationship when you shied away from calling it a relationship and him your boyfriend. The two of you in bed, one of the rare times you stayed past midnight.

You looked at him, face indecipherable. It happened, you simply said. He had gotten the sense that you could have lied about it, but didn’t.

You left soon after, making Dick wonder what he should have said to make you stay.

He couldn’t help but think it was an odd choice of words. If he were to look too closely into it, he’d say a detached trauma response, but it felt wrong. You weren’t another case file or some printed name in the newspaper. You were a person, an impenetrable wall of mystery that shouldn’t have called to him as strongly as it did. 

It happened. Something, someone. And it happened to you. Someone hurt you, and he’d known he was in too deep when it didn’t even matter anymore. All that really mattered was making you flash him that smile of yours that slightly trembled at the edges, as if you wanted to laugh but didn’t know how. 

Damian stares at his lap. “She is…” he trails off, quiet. He pointedly does not meet Dicks gaze. “Do you love her?”

Somehow, he had known this was coming. He runs his hand through Damian’s hair, lightly petting. It’s easier than he expected to say, “Yeah, I do.”

It’s crushing to see his brother’s face fall. He meets Damian’s red rimmed gaze. “You do not know her. She is…dangerous.”

Dick thinks that’s a bit disingenuous. He doesn’t not know you. The person he knows now is as much as a person as you were before he met you, just as Nightwing is a part of him as much as Dick Grayson is. He’s able to interpret the subtlest of your cues now, the shape of a lie when he kisses it off your tongue…and the nights you’ve locked yourself in the bathroom, and he listens to you breathing heavily, you’ve stayed where before you’d slip off into the night. He knows there are so many things you want to say, but can’t.

You’re still a question, an inexplicable presence that might up and disappear for good if he pushes too much. But maybe you won’t be able to leave, not if he learns you completely. 

“Yeah,” Dick breathes out, smile turning pained. “She is.”

Nobody is as still as you are without being trained for it. Not calm, still. There exists a preternatural quality to your demeanor. An observing stillness that watches the world around them instead of being a part of it. Are you aware he’s watching you back?

His mouth goes dry, and he’s all too aware of every single heartbeat in his chest. The hand he has rubbing Damian’s back, stills. “Do you think she’d hurt you?”

What Dick thinks doesn’t matter. It’s about the boy in front of him. The boy who started not as a choice, but an obligation. The boy he will always be responsible for in some way, even if they are separated by distance and time. It’s about the boy who let Dick carry him to bed and pretended to be asleep just to keep him with him a little longer. 

It’s always been about this boy.

Damian presses his lips together, shaking his head.

The relief is a soft balm. He smiles, voice low and coaxing. “Then I need to know.”

Damian takes a slow breath. Then in an even, devastating voice he says: “She will leave, and she will take you with her. Because you intend on keeping her.”

Dick is aware of his mouth parting in slight disbelief. The words make his chest ache. There’s a litany of things that come to mind, but he knows they wouldn’t be the truth. Not the entire truth.

Because the truth is this: Dick loves his city, his friends, and his family, just as much as he would die for each and every one of them. He’s got one beating heart in his chest, twenty-four hours in a day, and too much love to give. When you disappeared for a week he had been enveloped by an ice cold terror rivaled by the worst day of his life. It was the entirely new prospect of dying before ever seeing you again that terrified him. It’s something that he can freely admit to himself now. Wanting to live for someone is so much harder than wanting to die for someone.

“Damian,” Dick says, slipping off the bed to kneel in front of him. He takes his hands in his. “I can’t stay.”

Damian’s face is shadowed, body still. 

Dick tries for a smile, but he can’t muster up the humor. “We were good together, weren’t we?” He waits.

There’s a crack in his composure as he begins to blink. A lost child. “We were the best.”

Dick licks his lips, feeling them loosen enough to speak. “Listen up, because I need you to know this: nothing could ever take me away from you. You’re my brother. You’re family.” Once, Dick thinks, you could have been my son. He lets the thought wrap around his heart like a vice, and then lets it go. “I love you. I don’t want you to ever think it’s some kind of competition, because it’s really not. You…you deserve more than what I can give you. Back then and now.”

Dick thinks: you deserve a chance to be whatever you want. Whoever you want. Something more than just my Robin because I know you are so much more. 

Now Dick knows, it wouldn’t have been enough. But there will always be that nudging inkling. That what-if.

There's a tremor in his voice. "Do you understand?"

Damian holds his gaze, and slowly begins to nod.

Dick hears your voice. He’s just a child. And knows you’ve seen Damian just as he does. Just like you see him.

Dick feels the small tug of a smile, and grips Damian’s hands. “You’re never getting rid of me. Ever. I promise.”

He plans on watching Damian grow up, at being at Damian's graduation, seeing wherever his passions take him. He thinks, I'm going to be there for you. Always.

After a small silence, Damian finally speaks with the gravitas of his usual self. “My behavior has been abhorrent.” It’s a front, a weak show of strength at best, acquiescing to the shapeless, unformed concept that everything will be okay. Dick is immeasurably proud of him. He also thinks he might cry.

Dick stands, forcing himself to grin, feeling wrung dry. “Glad I didn’t have to say anything,” he jokes. 

“I would like to apologize tomorrow.”

He places a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “She’d appreciate that, kiddo.”

“Goodnight Richard,” Damian says quietly, peering up at him.

It’s this simple sentiment that almost has Dick unraveling. Placing Damian beneath his sheets, and pulling them over him. He remembers placing his hand on Damian’s face, remembers thinking how small he looked curled up in his comforter. Just before he closed the door shut: Goodnight Grayson , in a voice so small it had barely carried to his ears.

“Goodnight Dami.”

All good things come to an end. Bruce had come back, saved by Tim’s unflinching belief, and Dick had packed his bags once more. He would never be comfortable as Batman, but he had been Batman for long enough for it to be dangerous. It was dangerous because the more Dick looked at Damian, the more he forgot about the weight of the cowl. It was a single, composed thought: 

I wouldn’t mind forever. 

–

Dick enters the room quietly. In bed, your gaze travels to him immediately to where he wordlessly stands. 

“Come here,” you murmur, gaze indescribably sad.

When Dick reaches you, kneeling on the bed, you hold his face between your hands. He knows at once you share the same grief when you press a kiss to his temple. 

You wrap your arms around him. The two of you are in his bed. He shudders into your neck, and you whisper something to him in a language he doesn’t recognize.

—

“I apologize for my behavior yesterday,” Damian forces out, the words stilted. He glances at Dick, who pretends to be stern despite the smile inappropriately inching onto his lips. “Richard has made sure to impress on me the importance of appropriate conduct in a public setting.” There’s a pause. “Last night’s party was inopportune timing for our… game.”

“That’s okay,” you say gently. “It was all in fun.”

Damian assesses you, lips pressed into a line. Not distrustful, but contemplative. 

Dick drops the guise. “See, that wasn’t hard!” he reaches out and tousles his hair. Damian lets him, unmoving. “I’m proud of you.”

Damian’s gaze is glued to the ground. “I will miss you Richard.”

Dick softens, gaze turning forlorn. You walk over to the car, and unlock it. Dick kneels down, lips moving. Dick wraps his arms around the boy, pressing a kiss to his temple. You watch Damian cling to him. The two of them stay, forehead to forehead, as Dick murmurs more to him.

The two of them reluctantly disengage; Damian wrenching his arms back. Damian walks over with Dick. Dick goes to put your bags in the trunk. 

“You drank it,” Damian says quietly. “I saw you.”

“People are afraid of spiders, but I like them,” you reply blithely. “You guessed correctly.”

Dick waves to Damian once more from the car. Damian watches you until he grows smaller in the distance, and Dick is blinking hard in the rearview mirror. 

You stare at him blankly until the high resting smile on his face slightly falters at the edges.

You return your attention to the monitor. 

Lucy’s grip on the armrest of your chair tightens. “He’s coming,” she rushes out, with a note of reverence in her voice. “He’s walking over. Oh god, he’s so hot. He looks like he smells good. He’s got to be single, right?” She straightens.

You don’t plan on finding out. You rise from your seat, and grab the nearest stack of books to be shelved.

There’s three books in your arms. Alice in Wonderland, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and The Little Prince. You’re systematically rearranging the middle shelf of books, when someone approaches from the other side of the stacks. You can see his face through the gaps of the books. You don’t stop. 

“I haven’t seen you around,” the man says casually, head slightly cocked to the side. The blinding smile is back, revealing pearly white teeth. “I’m Dick. Are you new here?”

It’s not flirtatious as you had been anticipating. He sounds genuinely curious. It doesn’t mean anything. Before you find yourself focusing on the cadence of his voice, the rhythm of his breaths, and the dilation of his pupils, you shelf a book. No more, you think. Not anymore.

Be friendly , Fiona, the head librarian had hissed to you hours earlier. The parents are complaining you’re unsociable.

“Yes.” It had taken a chance job opportunity, a twenty minute hack job, and a fake degree, and you had somehow managed to swing the job interview by playing up your enthusiasm for the dewey decimal system and how you didn’t mind working overtime. What else did you have to do.

“Thought so. I check up on a few kids here, and thought I haven't seen you around before. New to the city?”

You give him a once over, taking in the lax posture, and easy smile. Except. You can tell his weight is evenly distributed on both feet; ready for fight at a hat’s drop. He had walked towards you swiftly, steps light, while also conserving his pace. The gait of a man who thinks quickly on his feet, and moves even faster. His body is subtly angled towards the exit, either suspiciously shifty or keen on observing the people walking in and out of the library. 

Not a cop. Not even special services. Something more. 

“Yes.”

He nods. “I moved to Bludhaven myself a couple of years ago. I’m from Gotham.”

If the man is daunted by your monosyllabic responses, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he seems completely at ease with this one sided conversation. You straighten a few books, and rearrange a couple of books on the wrong side of the shelf. 

There’s a few heartbeats of silence.

He drums a few fingers on the shelf from the other side of the stacks. “So, you like books?”

Only a sliver of his face is visible. You meet his gaze through the singular empty gap in the shelf, just narrow enough for The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Dark blue. You think of the sky just before a storm, and the ocean you tried to drown yourself in.

There’s a look on his face as he regards you. Calculating, amused, and fascinated all at once. It reminds you of her so much you can’t look away. It reminds you of her so much you almost ask him to stay. 

“No.” You slot the book in place, removing his face.

2.

You’re being followed. 

You clock it as soon as you turn the corner. Petty thieves looking to make an easy penny. You’ve never experienced being mugged before. You suppose walking around with a famous six foot something super soldier around the streets of New York practically guaranteed criminals away. You’re almost tempted to let them take your wallet. It’s nice being a normal person. 

Bludhaven is a city of suspicious character. When you first arrived in this world, you had discovered cities by names you didn’t recognize. Gotham. Metropolis. Star city. Central city. Vigilantes abound, protecting their individual cities. In your world, you had observed your government try to enact a law regulating super powered individuals, and the ensuing civil war. You don’t know how these vigilantes would feel about such a thing. But perhaps the group calling themselves the Justice League bypasses it all anyway.

Your google search for Bludhaven’s vigilante yielded easy results. Pictures of dubious quality to pictures shot with professional cameras unearthed a man in skintight spandex. Black with some sort of bird stretching across his chest down his finger stripes. Nightwing. You perused it all: reddit threads dedicated to tracking the movements of vigilantes, facebook fan groups speculating different identities, twitter users liveblogging hero sightings. 

Not so much different from your world. Though your heroes didn’t care much for hiding their identities. Peter was the exception. Except, Peter always seemed to be the exception. 

Out of all the cities in the United States, the general consensus seemed to be that Gotham was the most crime riddled, with its own set of depraved villains that had everybody but the Gotham born and bred wondering why anybody lived there.

Bludhaven, Gotham’s sister city was separated by a forty minute drive on the freeway and boasted the same impressive crime rate. You had chosen this city to be your home. Strange, and bleak, but interesting. Which is why none of this comes as a surprise to you. It’s 2am. You had bid James a goodnight, watching him get onto his bicycle and speed away like hell was on his wheels. You suppose he didn’t want to stick around these streets at night. Now you are walking the full forty minutes to your apartment, right next to the water you’re sure doubles as toxic waste. 

You slip into an empty alleyway with a dead end. You hear footsteps following. Three men. One of whom is slightly drunk. You turn just as they fan out, surrounding you.

“Hey there missy,” one of them says, saggy, patched jeans and a greasy shirt. He smiles, revealing a chipped tooth. “Lovely night, eh?”

You stare at him. 

“This one doesn’t seem like much a talker,” the one to your direct left says. Bald. He leers at you. “But I’m sure I can get some nice noises out of you. Where d’you live sweetheart?”

Another one laughs. There are pit stains on his dirty white button up. “In fact, why don’t we all have some fun?” He eyes your bag, but he leans on one side of his body. The drunk one. “We’ll make this nice and easy fer ye. Just hand yer bag over—” out of his back pocket he pulls out a 9mm handgun “—and let’s have a nice time at yer place.”

“I’d rather you shoot me,” you intone.

The three exchange a brief look of disbelief. 

The man with the gun tightens his grip, an ugly snarl building on his face. “I don’t think you understand me—” 

There’s a movement in the darkness behind the men. You don’t bring attention to it by not looking. Then a glass bottle shatters on the ground, and a wide eyed blonde girl stares at the four of you in shock, before taking a step back. She looks like she just stumbled out of the nearest dive bar. A college student.

The man swings around, pointing the gun at the girl, whose eyes go very, very wide.

“Well, well, looks like we’ve got another one.”

“Um. I. I. I can give you my wallet.” The girl fumbles with the purse at her side. Her fingers are shaking. “I have money. I can—”

“Shut up.” He’s still pointing the gun at her. The man to your right looks uneasy. The one on your left grins, staring at the girl’s bare legs in her leather miniskirt. Nothing good can come from a look like that. “Get over here.”

The girl flinches. “I—”

“He’ll shoot you!” The bald one cackles. He saunters over to the girl, body locked tight. “C’mon sweetheart, we’ll give you a good time. Promise.” He slides a hand down the girl’s bare back before pushing her towards your direction. 

The man without a gun has her wrist in his hand, her body trembling in his grip. “Just stay still,” he mutters, annoyed.

You don’t move a muscle because you know the man is trigger happy enough to shoot. The appearance of a younger, much more frightened girl has emboldened him. Now, he’s serious. You should have taken these degenerates out on the street. Your mistake.

“We can go to my apartment,” you say quietly. “Without the girl.”

He snorts. “Why have one when I can have two?”

You watch as an epiphany hits his face, and know what he’s about to do. All you need is two seconds. No time to think. One gun.

You hesitate. Normal. You promised yourself. No, you promised her. No, she promised you. No more. Just us . Except there was no you without her. There is no you without the blood on your hands. You feel your stomach curl. No more, you told yourself. No more. 

In the next second, the man has the college student in his clutch, arm pressed to her neck, as he holds the gun to her head. To you, he says, “Take off your shirt.”

The relief cuts against the despair, so stark it snaps you back into the correct mindspace. This, you can do. 

You unbutton your shirt. It drops to the ground.

“That’s more like it,” baldly groans, coming up behind you and pressing his body against yours. He smells of something rancid. 

The girl is crying silently now, eyes pleading with you. You don’t think your gaze conveys much comfort. She closes her eyes. You look to the third man, who doesn’t meet your gaze.

“Don’t leave me waiting now,” the man grins. “Pants too.”

Your pants join your shirt in a crumbled heap.

A whistle right behind you. An arm snakes around your waist, fingers playing with the edges of your panties. “ God damn! Think I need this one on her knees. Let me take a go with her first. You went first last time!” You let him roughly shove you to the ground, on your back. Rocks dig into your skin. 

“Oh god,” the girl whimpers, crying harder. “Oh god.”

He forces your legs open. The man unzips his fly, shoving down his pants. You wait. Until he gets close enough that you can put him to sleep. 

“Shut the fuck up bitch,” he grinds out in her ear. “Just wait until your turn and—”

Two things happen at once. An escrima stick slams the gun out of his hand. It skitters underneath the garbage disposal. The girl is let go of, and she drops to her knees as a blur of a man dressed in black lands a kick straight to his chest, sending right to the ground. The man is ripped off of you. Nightwing throws him into the nearest brick wall, hard enough that you hear something crack, and punches him until he’s unconscious on the ground once more.

The girl stands on shaky legs, and runs out of sight.

The third man starts to run after, but Nightwing catches up easily, slamming a baton into the side of his face. You see blood and a tooth that gleams in the light, both landing somewhere in the dark.

You rise from the ground.

“— scum like you who have nothing better to than—”

“You’ll kill him.”

Nightwing stops, one hand clenched around the man’s shirt, the other bloodied fist raised high in the air. His chest is heaving, but not from exertion. The domino on his face makes his gaze indecipherable. 

In all the pictures you’ve seen, there’s usually a smile on the vigilante’s face. An air of joviality that surrounds him, so that you can discern it, even in pictures. It’s uncharacteristic of a vigilante that operates out of a crime infested city. You think this is a sight he must see often enough. A drunk man, a half naked girl. The anger surprises you, even though you shouldn’t. You know good people exist. 

Nightwing lets go of the man, who falls in a pool of his blood. His fingers curl shut, knuckles briefly going white.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he tries casually, trying to infuse his tone with good humor. There’s a smattering of blood across his cheek. It falls flat. “Are you alright?”

The concern is real. He doesn’t approach, as if you’re some easily spooked horse. It reminds you that you aren’t wearing clothes. 

“Fine,” you say, turning back to your crumbled clothes. Nightwing glances away as you redress, shifting on the balls of his feet as if he doesn’t quite know what to do. His body language is taut, torn between outrage and the need to comfort. He hides it well. You can tell he’s still angry. Angry enough to punch out a few more teeth. 

“The police are coming to get them,” he says solemnly, jaw tight. “I won’t let them hurt anyone else.”

“Thanks.” You rarely have an opinion on the police on a good day other than useless.

You walk away, expecting him to disappear into the shadows or the rooftops or whatever the vigilantes of this world do. Instead, he follows.

At the foot of the alley, connecting to the main street, the girl is crying into her knees on the curb.

You debate on letting good samaritan Nightwing handle it. You’ve never been good with comfort. You can feel his gaze bearing into the back of your head, and know he’ll likely follow you home. You also can’t help but feel…responsible.

You sit down next to her, leaving enough space not to overwhelm her.

“That was scary, wasn’t it?” You say softly.

She lifts her head, tear face puffy. “That was awful! I’m so sorry,” she chokes out. “They were going to—”

“There’s no point in focusing on the what ifs. You’ll drive yourself mad.”

She blinks at you. Her lipstick stained lips warble. “How are you so okay?”

Because there is nothing a man could do to you that hasn’t been done to you already. That you had been opening your legs for men since you were a child. That it’s much easier to be afraid of things you don’t know. You know men.

“I’m not,” you lie, looking her in the eye, “but I will be.”

Nightwing slowly sits down on the opposite side of her, making himself smaller. “Do you have anyone that can take you home?”

She wipes her face with her arm, nodding. “My friends are coming in a cab now,” 

He breaks out in a smile. “That’s good. I’m Nightwing, what about you?”

She giggles, albeit tearily. “You can call me Julie.”

The two make light conversation until a cab pulls up.

“ Omigosh Julie, are you okay?”

A crowd of coeds exit out of the cab. 

“Guys, I’m fine. I’m literally fine. It’s okay!” The girls crowd around her, but more than a few glance at you and then, much more interestedly, Nightwing.

Minutes later, Julie and a couple other girls are waving out the window as the car drives off. Nightwing grins, waving back until the two of you are alone, once again. 

You stand. Nightwing clears his throat. “I can walk—”

“No need,” you dismiss, knowing you’ll be followed from the rooftops anyway. “I’ll be fine.”

He hesitates, pressing his lips together in clear disapproval. You trace the lines of his face in the dark, that familiar runner’s build. “If you say so,” he musters up cheerfully.

There’s a smothered twinge of annoyance. All these ghosts, all these memories. Everything you want to forgot. Tonight is not a good night. “She would’ve been fine. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to her.” That is the truth.

You watch the steel line of his jaw, and you wonder if you’ve hit a nerve. But Nightwing’s voice is exceedingly gentle. “Julie’s not the one who was—”

“Better me than her.”

You hold his gaze in the dark, daring him to say more. 

Then you turn on your heels and walk away.

3.

The restaurant is nearly closing when Dick rushes in. Your server, a college student by the name of Kimberly, who had given you a free glass of wine on the house after you appeared to have been stood up, glares at him. Dick winces.

Approaching your table, he eyes the appetizers and plate of food the servers had heaped upon your table in pity. There’s only you and one other table, a group of friends towards the end of the room. You calmly appraise him. 

“I am so sorry,” Dick says, genuinely upset. “I know there’s no excuse. I had a—family emergency. And by the time it was over, I realized I completely forgot—!”

From the host stand, Kimberly shakes her head in pure judgement, eyes narrowed.

You can tell he’s avoiding weight on his left side, and favoring his right. Bruised ribs, and maybe even a leg injury. 

He clears his throat. “How long have you been here?”

You shrug. “Four hours, give or take.”

Dick blinks, taken aback. “And you stayed?”

Why had you stayed? You had stayed because you had been curious. You wondered if he’d come. You knew firsthand fighting crime could easily become a priority, overtaking everything else in life. It left no room for a life outside it. Some people threw themselves into the life, some people left it for love. Dick Grayson, you think, chooses both. 

“I had nothing else to do anyway.”

He winces again, looking apologetic enough that Kimberly stops glaring at him from the entrance of the restaurant. “Oh god. I’m a dick. No pun intended. Please let me make it up to you.”

He awaits your response with the apprehension of a hostage waiting for a gunman to pull the trigger. You stare at him in silence, as he looks uncharacteristically fidgety.

“Okay.” You stand. “Let’s go.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Right now? I mean, you’re not even going to throw that drink at me?”

“I can if you want to.”

He raises both hands up, a relieved smile teasing at his lips. “I deserve it, and I would definitely understand. Can I say you’re taking this exceptionally well?” He has a dimple. The girls in the back crane their necks to see him, giggling. Even Kimberly looks less apprehensive. 

You incline your head. “I’m reserving judgement.”

“As you should,” he agrees cheekily, offering you his arm. 

The restaurant is about to close as Dick pays for your meal, tipping Kimberly generously, eventually winning her over.

The two of you go to Dick’s favorite pizza joint down a couple of blocks. You’re not as hungry, but you take a square slice to go. Dick talks about himself easily enough. So easily, that not many people would notice how he carefully side steps here and there from revealing too much information. He talks about growing up in a circus. Then with a billionaire after his parents’ deaths. His childhood with Bruce, and eventually wanting to step away from Gotham to become his own person. Not so different from you. You understand the need to step away from everything.

He’s a beat cop, not necessarily out of any love for the job. You don’t ask him why. You can gather it has something to do with an investigation. A more personal one. This is when you’d usually play the role of an interested date and ask all the right questions. Except right now, you find that your curiosity is organic. Genuine in a way you usually aren’t.

You tell him a sanitized version of the mundane life you’ve made up for yourself. You grew up in New York. When your parents died you were shuffled around from one foster home to the next before aging out of the system. A ghost of a grimace flickers across Dick’s face at the mention of the foster system.

He believes you. You haven't given him a reason not to.

Dick has siblings. Bruce Wayne’s adopted brood of children. Siblings, Dick happily goes into details about. You tell him you’re an only child, and ignoring the whiplash of phantom anguish, like vines wrapping around your heart.

By the end of the night, Dick drops you off at your apartment. If he was a mark, you’d kiss him and bring him back to your bed. You don’t kiss him.

You leave him there, on your doorstep. 

4.

Dick is staring at you hard enough that you can’t bring yourself to keep quiet. 

“Is there something on my face?”

He breaks into a smile, but worry lines the corners of his eyes. “Can’t I admire my girlfriend?”

Girlfriend doesn’t imply a permanency you remind yourself. 

You lean back into Dick’s couch, and put down the remote. Something’s bothering you , you’d say. Except that would imply knowing something’s wrong. You watch as he draws a breath, just before the tense lines of him soften, and feign ignorance.

“Lucy told me you've been calling out regularly,” he says lightly. “Feeling better?”

You think Lucy should learn to keep her mouth shut. 

“Just a sore throat. On and off,” you reply. Last week, you spent the day tracking down the girl you had seen off into a cab with Nightwing. Julia Bell. A twenty one year at Bludhaven U whose sorority initiation that night had taken a turn for the worse. You were glad to see her in high spirits again after that whole ordeal. Apparently, getting saved by Nightwing himself made her a celebrity on campus.

Dick’s practiced smile turns a degree strained. “Just that?”

You look him in the eye and say, “Yes.”

He presses his lips together, jaw working as if the words won’t quite come out.

Dick is an exceptionally easy person to talk to in a way you’ve never known anyone else to be but one. A man you regarded more like a brother than a friend, whose devotion to his faith made talking to him feel vaguely like a confessional. You watch him carefully, for the nuances of internal conflict in the planes of his face. Whether to push too hard and reveal his identity or let you be. This the precipice of your relationship: how many lies will he take? How many until he won’t? 

On the other hand, you could tell the truth. It's been months since then. You had hoped it'd be forgotten by now, except it hasn't. You know objectively you haven’t exhibited any behaviors characteristic of sexual assault victims, because the truth is you were never in any real danger. Only Julia. In your previous line of work, in another life entirely, sex was commonplace, one of the many rules that governed the world you lived in. Another asset in your arsenal. 

On account of having had it so many times, your feelings on sex border a blasé indifference, except for the rare times you do want it. A passing pretty girl in the bar, the minister’s wife while you had been on an assignment in a southern methodist town, the one and only man you had ever wanted to be with intimately.

Well, not the only one.

You pick up the remote, turn back to the tv, and press play. Dick had been appalled when you told him you never watched 101 Dalmatians . You didn’t tell him the only Disney movies you were familiar with were all propaganda you were forced to listen to. 

Dick pulls you close into his chest, and you can pick up the slightly elevated pace of his heartbeat. Not enough to be worried, but enough to let you make an educated guess.

Forty minutes into the movie, and Dick is still making smart quips about this and that. But you know he isn’t paying attention. Not completely, when he’s still lost in thought. He hasn’t quite settled, legs tense as if putting effort into not shaking. You feel his fingers absentmindedly rubbing your shoulder. A livewire ready to erupt.

You pause the movie. 

It takes several seconds for Dick to notice. He blinks, eyelashing fluttering. You turn, sliding your palm against his cheek, and kiss him. His hands come to your waist, fingers curling into you, as he presses into you eagerly. Lips slotted against your own, you feel his breaths in your mouth, just before his tongue slides against your own. Bold without being overbearing. Not needlessly dominant. You like that. You feel a tendril of heat spreading to your panties, and feel slick gathering.

The Red Room took too much from you. Every small, unexpected pleasure is a victory. 

He’s a good kisser. It’s your last thought before Dick ruts into you, hard. 

“Bed?” He asks against your lips.

“Sure.” Bed, couch, floor, you don’t really care.

Dick rises, carrying you with him, movie forgotten. He’s stronger than he looks. In normal circumstances, you’d run your hands over his body, assessing. Now you just want to touch him. His is a body built for movement and agility. He had grown up an acrobat, and he’s clearly stayed the course. You’ve seen shaky videos of Nightwing executing flips and turns that should be inhumanely impossible. But he’s no mutant either. Just a flesh and blood human being. 

His lips are on yours as soon as the two of you enter his bedroom. The bed is soft against your back. You lose your jeans, and Dick tugs off his shirt, losing it somewhere in the darkness of his bedroom. Then the two of you are kissing once more, as if he can’t bear to be separated for more than seconds. Your hands trace his lean muscles, the various scars crisscrossing his body. You wonder how he explains his scars to an unsuspecting hookup or two, and if he’s waiting for you to ask.

You won’t. You’re past the need of trying to discern him with uncomfortable questions here and there. You’ll let him keep your secrets. You have too many of your own. 

With one hand, Dick pushes down his jeans, revealing briefs. Your lips quirk as Dick aims a lopsided grin at you while attempting to wiggle out of his pants. 

You push him down back on the bed, straddling him and pulling off your shirt. You hadn’t bothered with a bra. Dick’s gaze darkens, a heat in them that has a fresh wave of anticipation licking at your skin. 

You’re no stranger to a man’s gaze against your naked skin, but like the way Dick looks at you. Without claim. Just fondness. 

You press kisses to his jaw, and your hand sneaks down, lightly pressing the heel of your palm into the wet fabric of his briefs outlining his cock. He exhales, head tipped back, revealing his jugular, the bob of his throat. 

You haven’t killed a man in bed in a long, long time. 

Precum has gathered on the tip of his cock as you slide your hand down the length of him, rough without any lubricant, and squeeze. 

“Jesus,” Dick nearly wheezes, strong thighs bucking into your hand. “You’re killing me.”

You’re glad to know you haven’t completely lost him. You’d rather he lose himself in you than his thoughts.

One of his hands is splayed on your bare back, heated. It strikes you that you haven’t been with anyone in years now. Nobody has touched you since her death. You briefly close your eyes. 

“Are you going to fuck me?” You ask, his hardness filling your hand. You want him to, just as you want to get on your knees and work him into your throat until he’s whining. You want him to hold you down on the floor and fuck you until your knees are bruised. Until you dissolve into nothing. 

“Anything,” he says, and it feels like a promise. He gently tugs your wrist away, before flipping you back on your back, eyes glinting. “My turn.”

Dick’s hand traces the outline of your face, thumb pressing on your bottom lip. You draw two of fingers into your mouth, listening to his breath hitch in his throat, his eyes wide, and suck until saliva runs down his hand. Dick’s tongue is in your mouth as his fingers press into your cunt, opening you up. The tightness burns, and you let out a breath that sounds like relief. His thumb circles your throbbing clit.

The two of you briefly separate after a sloppy kiss. You break the string of saliva by licking your lips. Dick doesn't break from scissoring you open with deft fingers, accompanied by hot sparks of pleasure racing down your spine. You burn with want. Useless, useless, want. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, pretty eyelashes casting shadows on his cheek. “So, so, beautiful.” He looks at you like he’s never had another girl in bed. Flatterer, you think, with the highest regard. But you like that, being just another girl in Dick Grayson’s bed. A normal, boring girl. One he whispers flatteries to in the night because he’s a good man. You won’t do him the disservice of not believing him. 

You raise a hand to his nape, and bring him back to your lips. He sucks your lips, your tongue, swipes his tongue against your lip, all wet heat and need.

“I want you to fuck me,” you say quietly, intently. You want to feel him stretch you open. You want to feel his body drape over yours. 

Amusement fills his face. “We’ve got all night. What’s the rush?” He kisses your cheek. “You’re tight,” he murmurs, lips tracing the shell of your ear. “Gotta open you up.”

“It’s been a while,” you reply.

It’s the wrong thing to say. You know it as soon as it leaves your lips. You’re not used to saying the wrong thing. Never.

Dick’s fingers still in you. His shoulders go rigid, chest beginning to heave. You feel the spike of his heartbeat. The underpinnings of panic on his face. He’s seeing you on the ground, half naked, a strange man between your legs. 

“Dick,” you say. 

“I have to know,” he says, a touch too quickly. “I can’t just—” his eyes are wide, and very blue in the dark. “Do you want this?”

You look at him calmly. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He looks torn.

First, you think: someone hurt this man, and you will make them pay. And then you think: it’s unfair that bad things happen to good people. You are different: you deserved everything you got. 

“Do you want me?”

Dick stares down at you, eyes blown dark with arousal. “I—Yes,” his throat works. “Yes.” It’s less a word, and more one raw noise.

He reaches over into his bed stand and quickly grabs a condom in his top drawer, sliding it over his rapidly hardening cock. You don’t bother telling him you can’t get pregnant.

Dick slides into you after pumping himself once, grip tight, and claims your lips once more. You exhale unsteadily into his mouth at the ache. You close your eyes as Dick rocks into you, effortlessly practiced, and too gentle. His fingers stroke your clit in synchronous movements, and you hook your legs into him to bring him closer. You’re dripping, and Dick lets out a small, awe infused huff of laughter that also doubles as a moan when he bottoms out.

“You feel amazing,” he says breathlessly, hand on your face, eyes peering into yours. Looking for assurance. Your hand joins his, fingers running over his scarred knuckles. 

This is normally the time you’d stare at the ceiling and go over every detail of your plan. What you need to take, what you’ll say to him in the morning, how easy it’ll be to disappear. How you’ll contend with her disappointment later. 

Then Dick pulls out enough that your body is immediately mourning his loss, and thrusts back in at an angle that has white edged pleasure turning your nerves alight. Your mouth parts soundlessly. You buck into him, and Dick shoots you a cheeky grin as he spreads your folds wider around him. You could kill him. But his hands are everywhere on your body; your thighs, the plane of your stomach, your breasts, teasing and pinching, sending heat directly between your thighs. 

An easy rhythm is established, and each push is made slicker and wetter. Dick adjusts his hips just enough that you’re throbbing, feeling pressure build in your gut. His hands dig into your hips, holding you down just the way you like it; and then his cock brushes that sweet spot that makes you see white at the edges of your vision, rocking directly into it. 

Something like a moan leaves your lips. Every pound of his cock makes you feel full, and slightly lightheaded: a flood of feelings that makes you feel like it’s all too much. You had forgotten that when it was good, it was good. It could be good. 

“Dick,” you breathe out, and his fingers are pressing against the sensitive bundle of nerves at your core.

“C’mon sweetheart,” he murmurs, without missing a beat, “you’ll come for me, won’t you? I want you all over my—”

You yank him down by the neck and kiss him. He moans enthusiastically. 

Dick thrusts in just right, and your body arches off the bed, feeling wave after wave of pleasure. You shiver, just as Dick slams into your body once more, as if he wants to mark you permanently. He exhales roughly in your ear, and you listen to him breathe, the thump thump of his heartbeat. You had wanted him to come in you.

He pulls off, making quick work of the condom. There’s a slight ache at the side of your neck as he collapses on his side and then his back, and brings you with him, arms curled around your waist, holding you to his chest.

“That was—” he breaks off. He absentmindedly rubs at your back. “Wow.”

The smallest movement at the corner of your lips has him immediately perking, shedding off all post sex exhaustion.

“That was a smile!”

You school your face back into neutrality. “No.”

“You can’t fool me. I know what I saw.”

You don't respond, laying your head on his chest.

He grins, a hand curling around your neck. You feel his fingers brush the spot of throbbing and you meet his sheepish gaze. A hickey. How mundane. You take him in, all swollen lips and tousled hair, and no hint of earlier ghosts in his eyes. This is a man whose entire being is rooted in touch. It could not be further removed from your own touch averse lifestyle. 

Later, when Dick is sleeping, you rise from his bed, slip on your clothes, and walk out his door. He has patrol in an hour.

You’re doing him a favor.

5.

You meet Damian Wayne for the first time at a park in Gotham. You are sitting on a bench, watching a surprising amount of ducks swim around the large lake.

Gotham seems to be a polarizing topic on social media, with many lamenting why anybody would choose to live in a city with villains as absurd as the condiment king and a murderous clown. And of course, the infamous vigilante Batman. The urban myth turned into reality. The city is a mixup of towering modern skyscrapers, and gothic architecture incorporating flying buttresses and gargoyles overlooking the city, and at the center of it all, is Wayne Tower, the highest building in Gotham. 

With the onset of winter, the sky is gray, giving the usual polluted air of Gotham an even more gloomy tone. Even the lake is freezing over on the edges. The cold numbs your fingers, and nothing can prevent the heartache that swallows you up whole. You think of her hand pressed to your heart, the both of you shadowed in the dark. Just the two of you. 

You stare out, waiting for it to pass. It always does.

You hear Dick call your name and turn to see him approaching with a boy at his side. Side by side, they almost do look related. Except Damian’s eyes are a piercing green, just a shade darker than hers. You look away, and stand.

Dick grins, one hand on the sullen boy’s shoulder. You maintain a safe distance footsteps away. No normal twelve year old boy carries himself like a soldier.

He narrows his eyes at you, and then turns to Dick, betrayed. “You are a liar Richard,” he grits out, “You told me you were taking me to the museum.”

You share the boy’s sentiments to a lesser degree. He isn’t the only one who’s blindsided. Though, you suppose you should’ve been expecting it. You had feigned ignorance to his pointed remarks about missing Gotham, and dropping in at the manor to visit his brothers.

“This is Damian,” Dick squeezes Damian’s shoulder in a show of reassurance, but you’re sure it’s more for your benefit. Be good, it says. Don’t do anything incriminating. “My youngest brother.”

The silhouette of the boy’s body gives you the image of a cat crouched low, tail dangerously swishing side to side. He looks like Mr. Wiggles, the feral cat who roams your apartment building as a free agent. You feed him occasionally. 

You don’t step closer. “Hello,” you say, not unkindly, and introduce yourself.

“Hello,” Damian repeats curtly, before crossing his arms, and looking away. 

“Aw, don’t be like that Dami. I am taking you to the museum! I just thought we could make it a fun day out!”

Only Dick could manage to put a positive spin on a forced bonding outing, and truly believe it. 

Damian scowls. “You’re delusional.”

You look to Dick who winks, clearly used to it. 

“This could have all been avoided had Pennyworth stayed.”

Dick squeezes his shoulder once more, in actual reassurance. “C’mon Dami. Even super butlers need their time off.”

Damian scrutinizes you once again, looking distinctly unimpressed. “Your romantic relationships are an exercise in futility Richard.” Then he walks off to crouch low and stare at the ducks squawking at each other. 

“Jeez, that kid.” Dick says, offering you a sheepish smile. “Surprise?”

“He’s definitely someone’s kid,” you say as Dick’s hands cover yours, thumb rubbing at your knuckles. You feel the first warmth of the day in his hands. It becomes easier to breathe. 

“I don’t have to come,” you say, softly. “Really.”

“He’ll get over it,” Dick replies confidently. “He’s just out of sorts because Alfie—our butler—is out for the week. Thank god Bruce is off—” he chokes, stumbling over his words “—out on a business trip. In Nepal. I was going to invite Tim, but he’s in San Francisco for the weekend.”

You accept it. “If you say so.” 

Dick drives you three to the museum in a Rolls Royce that would give a certain man made of iron car envy. Dick doesn’t even attempt to be subtle. You suppose in Gotham there’s always some notorious image to live up to. Lucy has started leaving you glossy covered gossip mags on the shared table in the staff room as if you care whichever supermodel of the week Bruce Wayne is dating. 

You glance at Damian in the back with the front view mirror. Sitting in sulky tempered silence, he glares out the window. You suppose you’re the unwelcome third party here. You know Dick has been busier as of late, some investigation as Nightwing he hides from you. Visits to Gotham have been sparser. 

You understand the childish resentment. Wanting someone’s attention all to yourself. Hating having to share. Wanting it to be just the two of you, forever. Then you grew up.

At the wheel, Dick is rambling about his coworkers, and how despite it all, he hates the fact that there are no Bat Burger chains in Bludhaven. 

Thirty minutes later, at the museum, Damian stalks off for the exhibit he had come for. 

Dick’s fingers slip into yours, and the two of you wander around the museum. Dick points out a few paintings here and there. Turns out, Bruce Wayne has an entire wing of the museum named after him, with a collection of Seurats donated straight from his own private collection, along with a handful of other French post-impressionist artists. 

The two of you circle back around to the exhibit Damian had come for. A photography exhibit. Surprising, but it seems Damian has an eye for art in all forms. You think of Peter, swinging around New York with a camera slung around his neck, and the picture of the sunset he had taken on top of the Statue of Liberty, and feel a knot in your throat. 

You tell Dick you’ll meet him after you use the bathroom, but instead make your way down the emergency exit stairwell until you reach a door leading you to an alley with garbage disposals lined against the walls. You figure Dick and Damian could use one on one time. So you’ll wait out the rest of the day here.

You pull out a box of cigarettes from your pocket, and the cheap lighter you had bought at a bodega before meeting up with Dick and Damian. You light the end and inhale. 

Not your preferred brand, because your preferred brand doesn’t exist here. You’ll make do, as you have. 

You finish your first cigarette, and then your second. You’re on your fourth when the door slams open, hitting the side of the building. Damian steps into the alleyway, car keys swinging in his grip. Of course. 

He freezes when he sees you, eyes momentarily going wide. In the next second, a trained composure settles over him, stance going on the defensive. 

Damian eyes your cigarette, unable to hide the distaste on his face. 

You stay silent, the two of you staring at each other. Your cigarette burns, warming your fingers as ashes fall to the ground and smoke wafts. You stub it out with your thumb, enjoy the dull flicker of pain from the nerve signals in your thumb that haven’t been burned off, and wait for him to speak first.

Damian scowls, as if understanding exactly what you’re doing. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” you lie, and watch him carefully. “I don’t think the cops will take too well to a twelve year old driving, no matter who his father is.”

He stiffens, as if your words have hit him square on the chest. He rears forward, fists clenched. “ You have no idea—”

“No. I don’t.” You don’t bother with fake sympathy. “Dick is looking for you. He was excited to finally spend time with you.” Are you going to hurt his feelings?  

Damian settles, anger dissipating. There’s a flash of uncertainty splayed across his face, but he covers it up, clicking his tongue. “You’re the interloper,” he mutters.

“That’s me,” you say agreeably. “It’s hard to hate someone with good intentions, isn’t it?”

Damian scoffs, crossing his arms, and for the first time since you met him, looks his age.

“...I’m keeping the keys.”

“Car accidents are the third leading cause of death. It’s estimated that 115 people die daily.” 

“Perhaps if the lung cancer doesn’t kill you first,” he sniffs. 

Charming.

You think of Yelena, for the first time in a long time.

You reek of smoke.

You don’t tell him you’d be surprised if it was lung cancer of all things that killed you. You’ve been subjected to chemicals, radiation, injected with strange substances, and experimented on. It’s made you hardy. You are exceptionally durable. 

Damian goes to open the door.

A memory overtakes you like a tidal wave: she is sitting, feet propped up on the counter of your kitchen table, complaining about the lack of edible food in your cabinets in a safehouse in Budapest as she swallows a spoonful of milk drenched honey nut cheerios.

Ice cream, you think. She wanted ice cream. Mint chocolate chip. 

“Grayson is late.”

“Well, you might have to wait a little longer.” You start unpacking the food, body moving on autopilot while you inwardly reel from the memory. “Emergency meeting at the precinct.” You hesitate, wondering if you might be overstepping. You wouldn’t want to imply he can’t feed himself in his brother’s own apartment, or suggest that Bruce doesn’t feed him enough. Who knows, imagined slights are a tricky minefield, and Damian is prideful enough to interpret aggression in the most nonchalant of statements. You settle on: “Have you eaten?”

He scrutinizes you, crossing his arms. A part of you thinks he’s about to inform you about the nutritional value of granola bars you’re sure Alfred would have opinions on, to suggest you butt out of inquiring into his dietary habits, but instead he says, “Yes.”

There’s a haughty jut to his chin as he coolly surveys you. You are an open book, you remind yourself. Despite the fact that there’s nothing stopping Damian from looking into you further with all the resources of Batman and the Batcave at his disposal. Your paperwork is solid, but not Tim Drake solid. You take comfort in the fact that Tim is more likely to stop Damian than help. Except that Tim is a curious one. Like a bloodhound catching scent of a trail. They all share that with Bruce you suppose. That single minded obsession that verges on religious zealotry. Dick hides it better than most of his siblings, all easy, congenial smiles on his handsome face, but you understood it the moment you saw it. You thought, loving this man could be dangerous.  

“Okay,” you say. She wanted ice cream. “Do you want ice cream?” Dick likes Dandy’s, a mom-and-pop ice cream store right down the street. When Damian is on his best behavior, Dick takes him down for two scoops of vanilla, chocolate drizzle, and sprinkles, all stacked on top a warm toasted waffle cone. Dick denied the attempt at Pavlovian conditioning, but one eyebrow raise later admitted that it wouldn’t hurt to help his still-occasionally-homicidal baby brother associate good behavior with good treats. It’s a wonder Damian hasn’t caught on yet.

Damian stands a beat too quickly. You don’t smile, but he goes stiff with embarrassment anyway. “You should have led with that.” 

You watch as he strides to the door. He turns his head to look at you over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. It distinctly reminds you of Bruce in an unsettling way; an entitlement that can’t be taught, only bred into the foundations of one’s self. Then he’s gone, expecting you to follow.

You catch up to Damian easily, the two of you walking to the ice cream store in silence. You could be two strangers enroute to the same destination. You study him, the confident gait of his walk, to every single trained, even, breath that leaves him. He is bred for maximized efficiency, you think. Every lithe line of him serves him in the art of killing. Speed, strength, dexterity, intelligence. You’re morbidly curious about wanting to see him in the throes of a fight, to see how she’d measure up. 

“Did you take the train from Gotham?” You ask to fill the air.

“Car.”

You wisely refrain from asking more because if Damian drove here on his own, at his grand total age of thirteen, you don’t want to know.

There’s a multitude of things he could want. You already know the troubled extent of Bruce’s parenting abilities. Dick has fulfilled the emotional aspect and burden of parenting his brothers seamlessly, and he wouldn’t want it any other way. You are used to being woken at odd times of the night, Dick pressing an apologetic caress to your cheek as the phone pressed to his cheek illuminates his sympathetic face.

Damian orders three scoops of chocolate, and while grasping the ice cream in one hand, looks at you expectantly despite the fact that he is heir to dynasties of obsequious generational wealth. 

It takes you aback. The mundanity of it all. It’s easy to gaze upon Damian with all the knowledge of your experiences, but right now, all you see is a child. Maybe this is what Dick sees, but you suppose Dick can be sentimental. At times, he only wants to see the child, and nothing else. 

But that single gesture of expectation utterly unarms you. You’ve seen it too many times before, in the woman who calls you sister. Family. A face turning to you in need. The expectation that you'd answer. Is she still alive? You abandoned her, just like you abandoned everything else. It comes easy to you, doesn’t it? Leaving. 

When you open your eyes, the cashier, a high school girl you recognize to titter around Dick when he comes into the store, is staring at you. Damian is frowning. 

Wordlessly, you take out cash and collect the change. Damian starts to walk, cone in hand, a determination in his steps that speaks to a destination in mind. You follow, immediately clocking the route to the dog park nine blocks away.

“How is Titus?”

“Fine.”

You aren’t sure what to say, or what to do, but Damian seems content with your hands off approach. Children aren’t so far removed from what you know, but Damian is not a normal child. For all your similarities, the differences grow starker. 

This is why you do not like to spend time around Damian, and perhaps the feeling is mutual. You understand him more than you should, and if he senses your calculated distance, it has made his suspicions grow. There’s an inherent distrust in the way he perceives the world. 

Just like—

You wonder if she is still alive. There are too many things you left unsaid. 

She has to be. She is daring, young, and resourceful. She is better than you and [her] ever were. She is the Black Widow. The very last one. 

Damian leads you to a bench with an excellent view of the dogs running within the gated area as they bark and yip at each other, and turns his attention to his ice cream. You aren’t quite sure what to say so you alternate between watching him out of the corner of your eye, and gazing at the dogs and their owners ahead until Damian clicks his tongue.

“Tt. It is unseemly to be so distracted all the time.” His gaze bears judgement easily. You can easily see her in the set of his face, the proud upturned chin, the curl of his lips. You stare at him, finding the irony in the fact that out of all the things to have in common with Dick, it is this: a younger hot-tempered homicidally inclined sibling.

“What are you doing here?” You ask him suddenly, watching his face sour as if he’s sucked on a lemon. You know why he’s here. Why anyone comes looking for Dick. They want his comfort, his advice, his attention. For a second, you are gripped by an unfathomable envy. Dick is everything you could never have been to her. What you should’ve been. It is another reminder of why he is everything you don’t deserve. You close your eyes, feeling the accusatory burn of a heated glare. 

His grip on the ice cream cone imperceptibly tightens. “I require Grayson’s assistance.” Not that it is any of your business goes unsaid.

“You don’t like me much, do you.”

He scrutinizes you. “I do not know you. Nobody does.” He aggressively finishes the cone of his ice cream. “You may have… beguiled Grayson, but I see you. Grayson is my—”

Brother, you think. Batman. A robin always protects his Batman, Dick murmurs into your neck. I’ll always be there for B, even if he doesn’t want my help. He’s annoyingly stubborn.

Like father, like son.

Dick had nipped you on the neck in response.

Damian’s teeth click loudly as he bites down on his words. “You are not what you seem.” 

His words bring a wry smile to your lips. “And what is that?”

He crosses his arms, settling back into the bench, and answers you with a tt. Your amusement must have triggered some kind of tripwire, because Damian says testily, “You do not like my father, and you do not like me.”

So he has caught on. You’ve forgotten how uncannily intuitive children can be, Damian even moreso.

You look at him, wondering if you could lie. You could get away with it, sure. But you’re also tired of lying.

“Bruce unnerves me,” you say finally and truthfully.

Dick caught onto it rather quickly, your apprehension towards Bruce. Your awkward first meeting with the Wayne patriarch notwithstanding. You shied away from conversing with Bruce one on one, knowing you wouldn’t be able to be anything but ingenuine. It comes too easily to you. Smile when you should, a delicate laugh between two pauses, direct eye contact, demure and coquettish. You don't know how to act. You should want him to like you, but you suppose you burned that bridge already. 

You told Dick you were discomfited by older male figures. A partial truth. He had looked at you with those sad, blue eyes, and hadn't pushed further.

Bruce doesn’t like you much either. You take comfort in the fact. You unnerve him more than he unnerves you. You know you are not who he would have wanted for his eldest, prized son. So you two smile and bear each other for the short amount of time Dick requires the two of you together. And to be polite, the two of you pretend to not notice the relief on the other’s face when it’s time to part.

The slightest hesitation shadows his face. “And me?”

“I have a little sister,” you say, despite the fact that you had planned on saying anything but. Children have a way of carving the truth out of you, and you’ve grown tired of these fabricated lies. Sister. Sister. Sestra. sёstry. You had hurt her immeasurably, and yet she had continued to come back. You had not taught her to find comfort in the hurt—that right belonged to the Madame—but you had still done it anyway.

“You remind me of her.”

Damian blinks at you. You see the instinctual affront, before it is quickly smoothed over.

“I don’t dislike you Damian.” Then in the most gentle voice you can muster, you say, “I’m sorry. It was never my intention to take Dick from you. Whatever I am to him, he’ll always be your brother first.”

You realize that maybe it hadn’t been dislike that had been keeping Damian away. What child isn’t sensitive to abandonment, or even the question of it? The first thing an infant seeks is a sense of belonging, and Damian has always been eerily cognizant of his place in the world, secure in the knowledge that if nothing else, he is heir to two grand legacies. There are few fundamental truths in the world to a child. If anything, Damian deserves to be secure in the knowledge that his older brother loves him. 

You look at him. “You’re family. That'll never change.”

Damian's fingers imperceptibly tighten at his sides. There’s no change in the frequency or rate of his breathing, but you can catalogue the slightest hitch in breath right before he speaks. “You have a sister.”

Two dogs begin to playfully wrestle each other in the grass, teeths bared. 

“Not anymore.”

A slight furrow between his eyebrows. “She is dead.”

In this world where everybody you have ever known and loved has never existed, you have nothing but your own questionable memories. But you’ll never forget the hatred in her eyes, the constant hurt. Whatever, whoever, she wanted, you didn’t want her to find it with you. You were tired of expectations, and just wanted to die. Leave me alone, you had said. You didn't know her. Not like I did. “Something like that.”

You lean back into the bench, and exhale. You are happy here in this smog filled Gotham sister-city, where the towering skyscrapers and blinking lights are just similar enough to the New York City you called home for years. Correction. You are happy here, in an unremarkable apartment in a moderately safe area where the likelihood of getting stabbed is not exactly zero, small enough that you can feel Dick’s hips brush yours in the kitchen, where the weathered walls, peeling paint, and the stained linoleum tiles in the bathroom have seen you disinfect Dick’s wounds, reset his bones, bandage him up, and kiss him into a functional human being. And just like that, it almost feels like a place you can call home.

Home. Far away from the biggest and largest skyscraper in New York, where your room was an entire indulgent, sun flooded floor, right above hers. Far away from a large, looming mansion upstate, overlooking an sprawling estate full of people who saw you as one of their own.

No more names, no more identities, no more bloodshed. Just you in all the ways you’ve cobbled together.

“The two of you would get along,” you lie, because the thought is immensely amusing. 

She would undoubtedly try to kill him the second he opened his mouth. This precocious child whose sharp tongue and wit is on par with the blades he wields. You wonder if she’s fixed that impulsive nature of hers. That impatience. 

Damian straightens, and this time, doesn’t bother to hide the affront on his face. “ Tt. I have been trained in the art of assassination since infancy, along with all the necessary endeavors to become heir to the Demon’s Head. I have no equal—”

You’ve pretended not to notice the shadowy figure traversing the rooftops, slowly following your path. You haven’t looked back once, despite it.

“—recite it in my sleep. My mother —”

He stops so abruptly that for a second you wonder if he’s finally noticed, but the boy looks ashen instead, shoulders folded in on himself that he looks small, like the boy of thirteen he is in.

The two of you sit in silence. 

“My mother is in Gotham,” Damian says quietly, looking down at his hands. “I…” came here.  

You wait.

“I am not the son she wished for. Not anymore.” He swallows. “I cannot let her see…this… weakness,” he spits out. 

You can’t imagine caring this much about the opinions of the woman who had birthed you. There is nothing left but apathy in the question of your parentage. You discarded that part of yourself long ago. You were birthed by the Red Room, nursed on the poison in its walls, and brought to life by her touch.

You are ill equipped to deal with this. Dick would know what to say. He’d find all the right words, complete with tactile comforts that you would never be able to replicate. Not genuinely.

Damian stands, and you know at once you've already lost your chance as he schools his features into cool disinterest.

“I do not need your advice. Or your comfort. Consider it an…informational exchange.” There’s a pause. “Clear your schedule. Next week you will accompany me to the zoo. Titus requires a minder.”

Damian doesn’t wait for a response as he turns. You watch him go lethally still. 

There’s a full blown scowl on his face. “Get down here!”

A slight breeze accompanies a sheepish child with tousled black hair and eyes so blue they could be an alien shade, obscured by large frames that overtake his face. 

“Ahaha—”

“Were you listening?” Damian immediately asks, shoulders drawing tight as he bristles. There’s a hand inside of his jacket pocket. You know better than to pray to any higher beings. The ones you've met are subpar and aren't worth the deference they seek. 

“Of course not! That’s rude, and I have manners! So you can keep the kryptonite out of it. Thanks.” The statement is pointed, but the boy’s fingers twitch once at his side, a damning tell. Damian uncharacteristically doesn’t notice, too occupied by his ongoing diatribe on country hicks who find themselves too far from home. The boy sheepishly catches your gaze, and brightens. “Hello! My name is—”

Damian snarls. “Names! Did you hit your head on a passing bird? ”

The boy rolls his eyes, undeterred in the slightest. “Heck Dami, I think you can let this one go. I’m not even in costume! Nobody saw me. Promise! Besides, it’s just your sister-in—”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

The boy’s smile is shy. “Jonathon Samuel Kent, ma’am. You can call me Jon!” His voice drops to a stage whisper. “He’ll never admit it, but I’m his best friend.”

The boy’s face is guileless in a charming way. This boy in his ripped jeans and scuffed shoes and an unkempt appearance that must have old women cooing at him and petting his cheek in the streets.

“Why do I even bother,” Damian mutters, face looking increasingly sour. “What are you doing here Kent.”

“Well sorry for being worried!” Jon exclaims, hands gesturing wildly. “You just disappeared on everyone! Your father’s outta his mind.”

“Tt. My business is none of his concern.”

“Um. I’m pretty sure that it is actually. You’re like. Thirteen. Wait. Did I actually surprise you?” The grin is blinding. If anything, you think, that’s what gives it away. That smile is Superman’s smile, through and through.

“I let you follow us,” Damian sniffs, lying through his teeth. “As if an untrained, bumbling oaf like you could possibly sneak up on me.”

“I totally snuck up on you!" Jon says delightedly. "You didn't notice a thing!”

“You—”

You answer the phone that’s been insistently buzzing in your pocket.

“So…” Dick says, voice on the tail end of a laugh. “You wouldn't happen to be in possession of a wayward child, would you?”

“It’s your lucky day,” you reply, voice light, keeping an eye on the two boys who have begun to stare each other down. “For I happen to have not one, but two, in my possession.”

You can see the smile through the phone. “Jon?”

“Dinner for four tonight.”

“Shame. I had a hot date tonight.”

You smile. “Hot date? Tell me more.”

Dick chuckles. “Well, we’ve been dating for a year now. She’s quiet. Smart. Intimidating. I was shaking in my boots trying to ask her out.” Dick pauses. “She doesn’t like talking about herself, and it drives me crazy sometimes. She’s also one of the kindest people I know.”

Your throat imperceptibly tightens. “Yeah?”

“She doesn’t say anything, but I know she feeds all the stray cats around the alley. Stays at the library past closing so that the kids can read some more. Picks up her boyfriend’s little brother’s favorite granola bars on the off chance he might swing by. And hey. She gave me a second date, didn’t she?”

“Well, something must’ve gone right on the first, if she gave you another chance.”

“Ha! I knew it. You were seduced by my juggling prowess.”

You let Damian snatch the phone out of your phone. “Tt. Cease your inane flirting Grayson. You should be embarrassed.”

You turn to Jon, who looks apologetic on Damian's behalf. When Damian, still conversing with Dick, starts walking back to the apartment, the two of you obediently follow.

“Soooo, my dad says you’re a librarian.” His hand easily slips into yours with a trust that feels natural. “I like books too!”

The two of you converse about everything Jon likes to read, with Damian interjecting about how the finer aspects of literature are lost on neanderthals who only read illustrated chapter books, to which Jon points out that Damian reads manga. Damian is effectively silenced with a scowl that might be permanently affixed to his face. 

When you arrive back at the apartment, Dick is waiting for you in the lobby of his apartment. 

“Hey,” you barely get out before Dick is pulling you into him for a kiss. 

Damian makes a disgusted noise. “Come Jon. I refuse to be witness to such voyeuristic displays of romance.”

“If that was bad, you wouldn’t survive a day in my house—”

The two disappear into the building, shoulder to shoulder. 

“Hi,” he grins, all blue eyes and brilliant white teeth. “Should I get B to install a Damian SOS button in the apartment?”

“We got ice cream,” you say. “Then we went to the dog park.”

Dick looks wildly happy in a way that soothes you. His smile is knowing in the way only an older brother can be. “I knew you’d grow on him. He just needed time.” There's a pointed implication in there about Bruce. Dick, being the older brother he is, hasn't given up on the prospect of you coming to the Wayne Manor Sunday Dinners, even if you're certain you and Bruce will try to politely ignore each other the entire time, much to Alfred's great chagrin. You know Dick is quietly gathering your good favor, patiently waiting for the right time where you won't be able to say no. You know you won't be able to refuse him, but you figure you should at least make him work for it.

“I wouldn’t jump the gun just yet,” you say dryly. You smooth the collar of his shirt, fingers flitting over his pulse. “You should talk to him. His mother’s in town.”

Dick’s gaze hardens immediately with a look of pure irritation. “Talia.” The severe set of his jaw softens, as he meets your gaze, pure fondness overtaking his face. He then exhales. “I thought B was being more evasive than usual. Damn. Yeah, I’ll talk to him.”

Once again, you marvel over this man you would have never known if it hadn’t been for an time-space catastrophic accident. A man for all intents and purposes you shouldn’t know. But you found him. Somehow. You’re happy here, for as long as this can last. You never thought you’d be happy again.

He noses into your neck. “What else did the two of you talk about?”

Dogs. The weather. We’re going to the zoo next week.

It all gets stuck in your throat. 

“My sister.” You don’t meet his eyes. Saying it twice in one day doesn’t make it ache any less. All your loses are both heartbreakingly palpable and negligible, and the whiplash nearly makes your head go light. "I had a sister."

“Oh,” he breathes out, torn between inordinate pleasure at the voluntary disclosure of any and all personal information that he can gather from your lips, and the quietly devastating news. “Had?”

I had a sister. I had a sister. I have a sister. Sisters, sister, sister.  

“It’s complicated.” One as dead as the ashes you spread over the arctic ocean. One who deserves to kill you on sight. You think of the accumulation of all the hurts and resentments, and wonder if she’d ever want to see you ever again. 

You expect Dick to respond with a pithy, you don't have to tell me twice.  

“You speak Russian in your sleep," Dick says instead, voice soft and cajoling, but his eyes are politely prying in a way that would make a lesser person both exasperated and fond. 

Your face easily stays neutral. 

Dick studies you, clearly waiting, but you’ve opened up enough wounds today. 

“So,” you say casually, as if the last minute never happened. “You’ve been talking to Superman about me, have you?”

If he’s disappointed at the sudden change in topic, he doesn’t show it, playing along with a performer's ease. Dick looks at you, and says, very seriously. “I talk about you to everyone. Your name may or may not be banned at the Manor dinner table. What’s the point in being the luckiest man alive if I don’t get to be obnoxious about it?”

You lean into him, hand sliding down his nape. You feel the tension leaving his body, along with the slight hitch of his breath. You close the gap. Dick responds eagerly, slotting his lips against yours, hands firmly on your waist.

Your hands grasp his face, thumbs running over his cheekbones, memorizing the feel of his smile. “You’re a good brother, Dick.” And an even better person.  

He blinks, a pained expression flitting over his face. “I wasn’t always.”

Your fingers curl over his, back down at your side, and he smiles as you give him a chaste kiss once more. "Your family's lucky to have you." You mean it. Bruce may have brought children into the family, but he would have never been able to keep them. "I'm lucky to have you."

His eyes go soft.

“We should head up. I don’t know how long Damian’s patience is going to last,” you say lightly. “Just after I got myself into his good graces.”

Dick seems to be in no rush to move as he rests his head against the curve of your neck, smiling. “Which is why you should do the honors of telling him that I,” his presses a kiss to your neck, “am spoken for tonight.”

A nice girl, he thinks. If not a bit reserved. From Bruce’s silence, he’d been expecting the worst.

Clark Kent, he had introduced himself while Jon had bounded over to you with a wide grin and a wave, before running off with Damian. Clark offered you a hand, and your gaze had dropped to it, expression unreadable. Clark had just begun to think he made some faux pas when you shook his hand. He’d been saved from further conversation when Dick entered the conversation. Seeing the two of you together, your silent demeanor, Dick’s sunny grin, had brought the thought of an unlikely pairing to mind. He couldn’t say anything to that: the same had been said of him and Lois. 

Bruce turned to him abruptly, face stony. “I need your assistance.”

Clark raises an eyebrow. “Meaning…? Take your time, I’ll wait.”

“Hmph. I’ll keep it short. You can register somatic nuances; minute biological responses to external stimuli.”

It’s Clark’s turn to cross his arms. Of course. Bruce and his second motivations. Always. From anyone else, the request would be offensive. “That’s an invasion of privacy, Bruce.”

“She’s in my house.”

Clark rolls his eyes exasperatedly. “Which means she’s a guest. Even worse. Does Dick know about this?”

Bruce stays silent. 

“She seems like a perfectly fine young woman. Jon likes her.” Much more impressively: Damian liked her.

“Forgive me for not taking your eleven year old son’s opinion into account,” Bruce replies curtly. “She’s suspicious.”

Clark pauses. He isn’t quite sure how to break it to Bruce that he’s pretty darn sure that Dick is serious enough to marry you. Clark wouldn't be surprised. But he’ll leave that for Alfred. At least Alfred gets paid.

“Well, the answer’s no.” Clark sees Damian trying to teach Krypto to sit while Jon rubs Titus’s belly. “You know, if you’re that worried, you could try talking to her. Or even Dick. How do you think he’ll take it if he finds out you wanted me to spy on her?”

“He wouldn’t.”

“You trained him,” Clark points out. “You know him better than anyone. I hope you’re ready to die on that hill.”

Bruce’s face quickly cycles through exactly three subtly shifting microexpressions, before settling on a distinctly judgemental purse of his lips. Clark only manages to catch all of it because of his superior Kryptonian senses.

“We should call the kids in soon,” Dick says, climbing up the patio stairs. “Alfred’ll have a fit if the food gets cold.”

Bruce grunts in affirmation. Dick raises an amused eyebrow. “It’s a bit too early to be nonverbal, isn’t it?”

“...”

“Is this about—? C’mon she apologized.” 

Clark’s curiosity is piqued. And well, Clark isn’t an investigative journalist for nothing. 

Dick grins, looking at Clark with a shared exasperation that comes with knowing Bruce Wayne for years. “Just a little mix up when they met. No harm done.” At Bruce, he pointedly says, "it was a joke."

Clark can't imagine you smiling, let alone tell a joke.

Dick looks out to the lawn where you’re nearly kneeling on the ground, petting Titus. Jon is in front of you, his mouth moving at an impressive speed. He wildly shakes the stick in his hand. You nod, serious in a way most adults aren’t when confronted with an eleven year old. It’s not difficult to see why Jon enjoys spending time with you. Damian shakes his head, exasperated as Krypto runs around him in circles. Dick’s face is fond. In love, Clark’s mind suggests. He knows that look on Dick’s face, as does Bruce. 

Clark has made it a point to try not to use his powers out of costume. Especially without good reason. There’s no telling how easy it’ll be to continue to use his powers once he starts. He decided early on that Clark Kent would be a normal human being, along with all the hardships and mundanity that came with it. And it all starts with acceding to the demands of a paranoid friend who would rather have him surveil his son’s girlfriend than talking it out.

That being said. Clark isn’t perfect.

It’s easy to loosen his ironclad control over his abilities, and listen. Just for a few seconds, he thinks. He won’t tell Bruce a thing. He refines his hearing, zeroing on the beating of your heart, roughly 50 yards away. It comes to him at once, past Jon chattering away to Damian, Krypto’s wagging tail, the rustle of leaves on the trees and the grass on the ground, past the rushing of your blood.

Your heartbeat is remarkably stable. 

Clark is intimately acquainted with the sound of different hearts. It’s a personal signature of a kind. Yours is…on par with Bruce’s heart right next to him. Trained, he wants to say, but shouldn’t. 

You turn your head, meeting his gaze, and Clark blinks, taken aback. Your face gives away nothing. You turn back to the boys.

“Damian, Jon, I think dinner’s ready,” he hears. 

Both boys straighten immediately, and Clark can hear stomachs rumbling.

Clark draws his hearing back, just as Dick shakes his head.

“You need to be civilized,” he tells Bruce. “Do you know how hard it was to convince her to come to dinner in the first place?”

“...”

Dick turns to him. “Will you make sure he doesn’t escape to the cave? Have him help Alfred set the table or something.”

Clark smiles as Bruce’s face turns foreboding. “My pleasure.”

In that moment, reality and dream coalesced into one. You didn’t know where she was, or why the spot in bed next to you was empty, but in the moment she was there. Within reach. She was coming back. The sun was bright, and the sun was warm. Sorrento? Riga? Marseille? Somewhere in Europe. One of your safe houses scattered all over the world in places they shouldn't be. Seeing her bathed in the sunlight instead of the shadows always made you hyperaware of all that you had overcome to stand here.

Reality had been worse than a douse of ice cold water. It had sent your heart careening into a frenzy. You stared at the ceiling of your apartment in Bludhaven, blood rushing in your ears, numb to everything until you forced your heart to settle. Like a normal human being. 

You rose, got dressed, and called out of work. 

One hour later, you are sitting on a plane to St. Petersburg. Somewhere towards the back, a baby starts crying, and the mother lulls him back to sleep with a familiar sounding lullaby. It almost sounds the same as the one you know, implanted into your memories along with a warm hand tucking you to sleep. This is another reality that doesn’t exist. Memories of an idyllic childhood, unraveling at the seams, dissolving into the murky waters of your mind. 

There’s a buzzing in your ears, the beginning of a pulsing headache thundering in your head.

You don’t remember closing your eyes, but when you open them you’re standing in Pulkovo Airport, at a car rental reception desk. You smile, and the woman returns it. You slip into your native tongue effortlessly. It comes back as easily to you as turning on a switch. You’ve never liked speaking Russian, but some things remain etched in your brain forever.

You walk around aimlessly in St. Petersburg. The silhouette of the buildings look familiar, but on closer inspection, are not what you know. Not exactly. You slip into another dream. One of another life where you slipped into a taxi and slit a man's throat with a steel garrote. 

You blink and you’re standing in your hotel room with your luggage. You take two steps into the bathroom, and emerge in a dark, crowded bar. A man slips his arm around you, leading you to the chairs in the back, and puts you on his lap. His breathe smells like whisky, and his Russian is guttural. His suit is unkempt, but his shoes are polished and his hands are soft. The leather of his briefcase is worn. A government worker. 

Does anything you know exist here? You can’t fathom it. All the dead girls, spinning around in a perpetual pirouette, the punishments, the serum. The cold. 

He calls you Nata—

You awake in the snow, on your hands and knees. There is no part of your body that isn’t numb. You don’t know how you got here, but you know exactly where you are. The coordinates of your childhood burned into you, whether in this universe, or an entirely different one. Snow swirls all around you, falling heavily. There is not a single living soul out here for miles. Winter in Russia. You were impulsive and stupid, and this is how you die: giving into your emotions, into your grief. Putting reckless fingers into an open, festering wound and letting the rot overtake you. You could have been content. Maybe even happy. 

There is no proof of your existence here. You did not survive anything. You are stuck in an odd purgatory. 

Your knuckles are split open, cracked and bleeding. You close your eyes, wanting to die. You’ll die here, just like you were always meant to. You’ll do anything, take anything, just for it to end. No more, you think. No more.

Distantly, the wind howls. She was there, and then she wasn’t. She’s dead. She doesn’t exist. There’s no gravestone. No headstone, no marker. Not here. Not there. Where are you supposed to find her? You can’t trust your memories, you can’t even trust yourself. The grief you have sequestered away, deep in the hollow of your ribs has come spilling out, like the innards of a freshly butchered rabbit, cleaving you bare.

It’s tearing you in two. Can you continue to pretend? Not when Dick Grayson has made you real. 

A strangled noise leaves you.

Dick.

You didn’t…

You remember now. You had agreed to meet him later that day. He would’ve been waiting for you. Waiting… You can’t. Not to another good man again. You have to…

And…

And…

And…

You wake up in a bed you don’t know. Your first thought is that there was a man. You had taken him to bed, because that’s what you do when your body takes over.

You slowly turn your head to the empty space in bed next to you. The sheets aren't crumbled, the pillow left undented. There’s no evidence of anyone else, just you.

The relief is a cold balm. You stumble to the bathroom. Turn on the faucet and splash your face with cold water. Your knuckles throb, cut up and scabbing. You take a shower under scalding water and examine your naked body in the mirror. There are several fading cuts on your arms, one on your leg. Your body’s healing factor rapidly at work. No bullet wounds. That would be difficult to explain. Though you aren’t sure how you’ll explain anything when you don’t remember anything. You are used to the disorientation, but it's been so long you can't do much but stare at yourself blankly.   

Back in your room, you dig up a cotton dress you don't remember buying. You step out onto the balcony and recognize the blue rooftops and white buildings immediately: Santorini. You catch the salty whiff of air from the ocean. You can almost feel the water licking at your ankles. Suddenly, a sense of claustrophobia closes over you.

The last time you were in Santorini…

You think of lemon baked sea bass, and a glass of Assyrtiko on a rooftop overlooking the ocean. Her sun warmed skin across from you, and the gentle slope of waves in the distance. Her laughter.

You stumble into the room, fall to your knees, and empty the remains of your stomach in a trash can. Raising your head, you inspect the room. Not much in the way of belongings except for the suspicious amount of cash inside of the duffel on top of the dresser. More money than you came with. That’s a thought for later.

Thirty minutes later, you check out, and ask the receptionist if you can borrow a phone that can make international calls. 

You type in Dick’s number and stare at the screen.

Exhaling, you click call.

Dick picks up on the third ring, voice sounding ragged. “Hello?”

Your mouth goes dry. Silence.

Dick says your name in a rush of relief. “Are you okay?” You strain to catch the cadence of his words through the receiver. “Tell me you’re okay.”

You know what he wants to say: Is somewhere there? Is someone listening?

“Dick, I’m fine,” you reply, finding the words difficult. “I promise.” You aren’t sure how to tell him you haven’t been hurt, ransomed, or kidnapped in the days you’ve been gone. Though you aren’t sure how to say any of it. You’re a civilian, a nondescript librarian: the very last person on anyone’s radar. You have no enemies, no friends. Just Dick. Or Nightwing. 

You’ve stumped him. There’s a silence that spans several heartbeats. “What…where have you been?” He’s pacing, you can tell. “Do you know how worried I’ve been!? I thought—” he breaks off with a choked noise. 

You briefly close your eyes. Your knuckles are still raw, stinging when you make a fist. “I know. I just…”

You can sense his hurt, his anger, his dismay. You’re halfway across the world and all you want to do is listen to his voice, like a flower reaching out for the sun. 

Dick’s voice sounds odd. “Are you coming back?”

“Yes.” A pause. Your heart feels odd, as if it's suspended in time. “I didn’t mean to worry you—”

The line goes dead. Out of minutes.

You put your head in our hands and breathe and breathe and breathe. You squeeze your hands into fists as pain bursts to life in your knuckles, but even that sensation is dulled. You imagine the sharp sound of every single bone in your body snapping on the rocks below the nearest cliff, right before the waves carry you away. 

Then you return the phone with a bright smile.

There are no flights straight to Bludhaven or Gotham. The fastest plane will get you there in 32 hours. Three layovers. You don’t trust yourself on a flight with that many stops. You’ll need something faster. Something private. 

The sun is just about to set, casting an orange glow on the buildings as you venture out to the nearest luxury jewelry store nearby. You pick out dangly pearl earrings. Then you pick out a charm bracelet, solid 18k gold. Juvenile, but classy. Expensive, but not too expensive. You know exactly what impression you want to make. You use most of your cash.

Thirty minutes later, you walk into one of the most expensive restaurants in the area. Early enough to get a table. No reservation, but maybe a table for one? Bar seating not preferred, a table if you have it, please. I would be so so grateful. Tipping implied. 

After making more congenial conversation with the hostess, she graciously seats you on the balcony. Couples dine around you. Women in sundresses and leather sandals, men in pastel shorts, linen shirts, and boat shoes. You order everything on your server’s recommendation. You don’t have much of an appetite. 

Someone’s staring. You look around the room, as if curious about your surroundings, and catch his eye a minute later. He’s towards the back, seated across another man. Not alone like you would’ve liked, but another man can be a positive. Men are easier to work in groups. They feed off each other; compel each other to follow. The two men are a bit older than you, and they wear suits. A deliberate choice when everyone else is in beach wear. 

You send him a shy smile, then turn away before he can react. 

Five minutes later, your server approaches with a bottle of the restaurant’s most expensive Assyrtiko. 

“My buddy over there said I should tell the server to tell you that it’s on the house, but I wanted you to know it was from me,” comes a voice from behind you.

The man smiles. “Scott,” he reaches out for your hand, and you take it. 

He quirks an eyebrow. “Not going to tell me your name?”

Your lips spread into a smile, slow and seductive, just the way you know men like. “You’re going to have to try harder than a free bottle of wine for that.”

He likes that. “As long as you give me a chance.” He gestures to the empty chair across from you, but not before serendipitously glancing down at your dress. No bra. He likes that too. “May I?”

Scott is in Santorini on a quick pit stop to refresh before he and his friend, Theo, jet off to America, chartered jet on standby. Bingo. He loves this restaurant because his father used to bring him here when he was younger. He doesn’t feel bad for leaving Theo on his own because Theo is on the phone with his fiance. Guy’s the luckiest bastard in the world. Smoking hot French supermodel. Oh the two of them? Founders of a tech startup making waves in the news. Some blockchain software. An ‘unprecedented’ amount of seed money and investors. You don’t really care for anything except for the fact that the two have a meeting in Gotham in 26 hours with Bruce Wayne. 

Perfect.

“Bruce Wayne?” Your eyes are wide.

“The man’s pretty infamous for being a flake, you know?” Scott says, with a smirk, a glass of wine in his hand. “But my father plays golf with Bruce at our private golf course in Florida every other month, so rest assured, my father will be having words with him if he doesn’t see us.”

You pretend to be impressed.

“He canceled on my father last month.” Scott's lips curl in derision. “Something about an ‘important family matter’ and it turned out to be some parent teacher conference with that problem son of his.” From your understanding, that could be Damian or Tim.

You wonder if the parent teacher conference correlates with the incident Dick had dubbed “the cafeteria fork incident” involving Damian, a bully, and a spork. 

“Honesty, it’s like he doesn’t even care that…”

You nod, smile, and giggle along. For all the skins you’ve slipped into and out over the years, there’s something almost meditative about becoming someone new. You don’t need to think about anything else, because there is nothing else. Just you and a man you’ll take to bed. It’s the easiest thing you can do. 

It takes Scott forty minutes to ask you something about yourself that isn’t, surprisingly, your cup size.

“Is he boring you?” A man you assume to be Theo says, approaching. Roughly the same age as Scott. 5 o'clock shadow. Neatly groomed. Pressed suit not a wrinkle out of place despite the heat. Unlike Scott, his gaze is firmly affixed to your face. Not entirely monogamous considering the flirtatious curl of his lips. This one’s the brain. 

You match his smile. “I haven’t been this invested since last year's Saks’ anniversary sale. You two jetset around frequently?”

Theo straightens, just as a server brings another chair over for him to sit. “I’m sure Scottie here’s told you we have a meeting with Bruce Wayne soon.” 

“I told him we had to stop by here,” Scott says. “We’re flying in from Istanbul. It was on the way anyway. Who could resist a day on these beaches?” 

“Oh, it was beautiful,” you gush. “I could walk on these shores forever. You affect a forlorn sigh. “I’d love to stay longer…”

Theo raises an eyebrow, glancing at your knuckles. “That’s quite the injury there.”

You flip your hands over, shyly, before he gets any ideas. Like touching you. “A boating incident,” you let out a giggle. “Those ropes are no joke!”

“It’d be a shame if it scarred. You have lovely hands,” he says smoothly. At your blush, he smiles as Scott scowls. “Where are you from?”

“Actually. Gotham.”

“What? Same destination?” Scott straightens. “What a coincidence!”

You wave a lazy hand. “I know what people say, but we’re out here. I promise!” You look around, face pensive. “Speaking of… I should get ready to catch my flight. Daddy’ll be so worried.”

As you move to stand, Theo puts a hand on your wrist. “It’d be a shame for the night to end here.”

“Oh,” you say, affecting uncertainty. “I don’t know. My dad is going to freak if I’m not home soon.”

“We have a private jet,” Scott says eagerly. “Remember?”

–

Eight shots of vodka, several innuendos, a hotel keycard, and fourteen hours later, you land at Archie Goodwin International Airport. 

Scott, still drunk, stumbles off the plane. You sidestep his kiss and let it land on your cheek, thanking the two of them profusely for the ride. You give them a fake number and slip away while Theo is in the bathroom.

You’ll never see them again. 

Two hours later, you walk up the stairwell to your fifth floor walk up apartment.

Dick is…

Probably sleeping before patrol. It’s late. Tomorrow. You won’t wake him up for a conversation that can be saved for later. Tomorrow, you’ll talk to him.

All you want to do now is take a shower and change into clothes you recognize. 

You realize your mistake when you open your door. Careless. You can see the light on in your kitchen, and the shadow of a figure at your dining table. 

You blink, as if you may be hallucinating. 

Dick is up in an instant, and then he’s in front of you. He looks at you, face writ with a worry so deep you wonder if it’ll be permanently etched in his face, before he crushes you in a hug, arms winding around you tight. Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt. You let the familiar scent of his body wash envelop you, ignoring the way your stomach flips in distress. You’re in no state to be touched. You don’t want him to touch you, not now. Not when you spent the last fifteen hours letting two men touch you. 

His chest heaves. He pulls back, fingers threading through your hair, and petting. You’re unsure if the movement is meant to be comforting to you more than it comforts him. He examines you with a trained eye, gaze sweeping over you. They stop at your knuckles. The skin is fully peeling now. Healing. You don’t feel a thing. 

“Where were you?” The words are guttural, pulled straight from his chest. Dick’s fingers curl over your nape. His gaze doesn’t leave your knuckles. He looks at you, eyes wide and pleading. “I thought someone hurt you.”

You move to step away. Dick’s arms reluctantly fall back by his side. Someone , you think. One of Dick’s many enemies, you’re sure. “I’m fine,” you say, not quite meeting his eyes, but your words are calm, nonchalant. Not your best lie. You don’t have the energy.

You planned on being able to fabricate a story, anything to fill the blanks in. Lies that have come to you easily, thousands of times before. It all dries up underneath in his presence. You can count on two hands the amount of times you’ve been at a loss for words. This is another tally. You don’t want to lie to him.

Dick stares at you in plain disbelief. His hand comes up to rub at the ghost of a shadow on his chin. “You disappeared, called me after a week and a half from Santorini, and showed up fifteen hours later only to say you’re fine?” He exhales, gaze cutting away to behind you. “I’ve been worried sick.”

“Someone stole my phone,” you lie. “I…I didn’t want to worry you. I just needed to…”

“Leave,” Dick finishes. He closes his eyes. “You came back,” he says, so quietly, you’re unsure if he’s talking to you or himself. He opens his eyes, looking wrecked, voice a faint tremor. “You came back.”

You want to curl up into a ball. You want to touch him, cradle him in the palms of your bloodied hands, and hold your ear to his chest. If you could, you’d cry. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe nothing matters, except for the fact that you exist in the here and now. There is a man. His name is Dick Grayson, and you came back to feel his arms around you once more. 

“I came back.”

7.

There’s a knock at your door.

You’re past the days of hiding a gun in every single room of your apartment, including underneath the table in the hall connecting to the entrance. Now you have just one in your bedroom, where Dick will never find it.

You open the door.

A dark skinned woman, with dark eyes and a knowing smile, stands at the door. Dick leans on her, heavily bandaged, but a smile on his face nonetheless.

“Delivery for a—”

“There you are,” Dick breathes out, winding himself around you, tucking his head into the crook of your neck with a hum. He continues to mumble something indecipherable into your skin. You hold him, staring at her blankly.

“He’s been whining for you since this morning,” she says, without much explanation. “He’s also high off his ass.” Dick makes an affirmative noise, nosing into your neck, while the woman watches on in thinly veiled amusement. 

She steps into your apartment, presumably to help you with Dick. Although that seems less and less likely by the second as she glances around your bare bones apartment, her curiosity evident. 

The two of you try to take Dick into your bedroom, but he sets his feet into the floor in protest. Couch. Unless you’re staying in bed with him. No? Then couch.

Dick sags into your couch immediately, eyes closing as soon as his fingers successfully reaches for yours. You stare at the woman sitting across from you, too comfortable in a stranger’s home.

“Water?”

She glances at your interlocked fingers, the smile on her face growing. “Wouldn’t want to wake loverboy up. He’s supposed to be in a sling by the way. His right arm's broken.”

The two of you gauge each other in silence.

“Helena Bertinelli,” she finally says, eyes alight with a challenge. An archer, you can surmise. Swift hands, sharp eyes, and a keen mind. Another spy. Though this one’s been out of the field for too long: her intentions are too clear, too easily read. You can’t say much to that: it’s not as if you’re at your best either. 

She smiles. She’s a beautiful woman: tanned skin and dark eyes and curls of hair you wouldn’t mind seeing plastered against a pillow. “I’m sure he’s mentioned me.” He has. An ex in every way but name. Dick has many exes.

Dick is open with you about his past relationships. He’s good friends with every single ex and then some. You wouldn’t know. The last time you had tried at a relationship, long before Dick, you had irreparably hurt him in ways you would never forgive yourself for. You never thought you’d try again.

“Not really.”

She’s unfazed, just as you expected her to be. “Well, he’s mentioned you. Quite a bit. The librarian. Cute.” She settles back into the chair. “You should’ve heard him this morning. All he wanted to know was where you were. I thought Bruce was going to have a conniption.” She waves a flippant hand, but it doesn’t disguise the gleam of curiosity in her eyes. Another prying Bat with a nose like a bloodhound. “He doesn’t like you much, does he.”

"Not at all,” you reply easily. The angle Dick’s neck is currently resting against the couch is going to have him complaining when he wakes.

When you pull your hand away from Dick’s grip to take him to the bedroom, his eyes snap wide open, as if struck by a foreboding feeling. “Hngghh?”

You and Helena lock gazes. She looks supremely amused. She rises, a silent offer to help you wrangle him into your bedroom. 

“A skydiving incident,” she says smoothly. “You know how it is. Adrenaline junkies, the lot of them.” She manages to sound both exasperated and fond. Boys will be boys. “Anyway! He won’t be able to tell his left hand from his right until tomorrow, but he should be fine in a couple of weeks or so, according to the butler. I’d tell you to tell him to take it easy, but I think we both know that’s impossible.”

The two of you settle Dick, too hazy to protest, onto your bed. From the doorway, she tosses you a prescription pill bottle of vicodin that you catch. The good stuff. Broken ribs? Ankle fracture? Broken wrist? You’ll look over him later. 

She takes a moment to observe you. “Take care of him, won’t you?”

You look at her.

She snorts. “You’re not exactly the talkative type are you?” She shakes her head. “Well, I’ve done my job. Tell loverboy to text me and Babs when he wakes.”

She’s gone in the next breath, leaving behind the lingering scent of plum blossoms. 

You turn back to Dick on the bed, who blinks sluggishly. You put a hand on his arm. “You need to rest.” From what you can see there’s a cut underneath his chin, and another across his cheekbone. The placement of his other arm suggests that placing pressure on it hurts. You’re sure you’ll find even more underneath his clothes. The couch would have been uncomfortable, but he had wanted to stay with you. 

Helena left you a comprehensive first aid kit on your countertop, courtesy of Alfred you’re sure. Dick is lightly dozing off, but blinks into consciousness when you enter the room once more. He hums tonelessly, eyes lidded as he stares at you while you clean and rebandage him. You’ll save the vicodin for if he asks, and take out the ibuprofen instead. 

“Are you going to stay?” his voice is a murmur, but there’s a hint of clarity in his gaze that betrays him. 

You settle into the bed next to him, and Dick smiles. 

8.

Your first meeting with Tim Drake is over the phone. It’s a particularly gloomy day in Bludhaven; the overcast sky is gray, and there’s a hint of an icy storm in the wind. You wouldn’t be surprised if it started raining soon. All around you people tighten their jackets in anticipation for the coming weather and walk faster. 

Nearing the street your apartment is situated on, your phone begins to ring. You glance at it. An anonymous number.

You connect and stay silent on the call until someone clears his throat. “Hello?”

“Hi.”

The voice hesitates. “Hi. Um. We haven’t met yet in person. I’m Tim. Dick’s brother.”

The infamous child of millionaires turned child of billionaire you’ve yet to meet. Tim Drake. You don’t know much about Tim Drake, but you know he’s extremely smart. You know Dick feels guilty about not supporting him enough during a difficult time in his life a couple of years ago. You know that Tim did not get along with Damian. They’re amiable now. Dick’s rose tinted words. You’re unsure of how much stock to put in his words. You’ve met Damian. 

“Hi Tim,” you greet, as amiable as you can be to one of Dick's beloved brothers. “Is something wrong?” 

“No, not at all!” He says, a touch too quickly. He’s nervous, and you can hear him swallowing over the receiver. “Not to alarm you or anything, but have you heard from Dick?”

“I spoke to him yesterday morning. He said he wasn’t feeling well.” He was lying then of course, and so are you. You last spoke to him a couple of days ago. You could tell even through the phone when he called you to tell you he’d probably be MIA for a couple of days. He was feeling under the weather, and would hate for you to catch something. You caught the tension beneath his words, loud and clear. He wanted to be left alone. He needed to be alone. You understood the feeling, despite the wrongness of the situation nudging you in the chest.

You’ve given him enough time. 

“Gotcha, gotcha,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “If you happen to see him, can you tell him to call? He and Bruce got into a bit of a row earlier this week. I’m sure he’s just blowing off steam, but I’m worried.” He regains his confidence easily, words coming out evenly, but you know he’s lying. 

Something has happened to Dick, if the Bat family and all the resources at their disposal can’t find Dick. If even Donna, Wally, or Barbara, which you’re sure Tim has already tried, haven’t heard from him.

“I’ll find him,” you say, knowing Tim won’t take your words for more than those of a concerned girlfriend.”

“Thanks." For a second all you hear is the sound of fingers flying over a keyboard. "Let me know!” 

The line disconnects.

You change course to Dick’s apartment, thirty minutes away. You run your thumb over the ridges of Dick’s house key as the cab pulls up on the curb. You already know Dick won’t be inside. Entering with the key Dick had pressed into your palm after kissing you and hightailing it away before you could say anything feels wrong. You could break in, but disabling Dick’s batman level security would take too much time, and there are too many questions you’d have to answer after.

The door unlocks with a click. The apartment is how you remember it when you had woken up in Dick’s bed last week. No gathering of dust on any surface tops. You make your way to the fridge, and check its contents. Nothing moldy or bad, but the bananas on the island counter are browning.

You enter the bedroom, and sit on the bed. This would be easier if you were privy to Dick’s nightly outings. Dick tries his best to keep his second life separate, despite the questions that would plague a normal person. The bruises, broken bones, gun shot wounds that Dick fields with easy going smiles, makeup, casts, and bandages. Bruce imparted onto him a love for extreme sports, he often says. Don’t you know Bruce Wayne is regularly in and out of the hospital because of some accident while skiing in the Aspens? 

If you were normal, of course you’d be put off by it all. No sane person would put themselves through the dodgy lies, black eyes, and mysterious disappearances every once in a while during some world catastrophic event. No matter how easy Dick is on the eyes. Maybe for his smile. But you don’t mind the lying, despite the hints of conflict that shadow that weather his face with every lie. 

Dick isn’t meant for lies, and you can see them wearing himself thin. Not like you are. He wants to tell you, but he isn’t sure how. 

-

In the end you don’t need to find him. He finds you.

Well. Nightwing finds you.

You haven’t even opened the door before Dick collapses into your arms. You pull him into your apartment and shut the door. You kneel down, combing his hair out of his face. Trembling, body emanating a feverish heat, and dirt streaked, you wonder how long he’s been out as Nightwing. There’s days old blood dried on his suit. 

“Dick,” you murmur his name quietly. “I’m going to clean you up, okay?”

He tenses in your arms. “I—” the whites of his domino mask are focused, concentrated on you with an intensity. “I came back. I wasn’t leaving,” his voice is raspy, but oddly insistent. His hand closes over your arm. “I had to come back. To you.”

You gently take his hand. “Yes. I know. I understand.” He grows slack as soon as the words leave your lips. He’s delirious with fever. The words are probably inane babble he won’t remember in the morning. You take a few seconds to hold him. Just to feel him in your arms, and bring him closer to your heart. “I was worried,” you tell nobody in particular. “Thank you for coming back.”

There’s no indication he heard you other than the slightest twitch of his fingers on your back. Every single ragged breath he takes sends a jolt of urgency through you that makes it difficult to breathe. You move to get up and start running the water in your bath, but Dick’s hand shoots to your wrist; a blur of a movement that gives you pause as he struggles to get up to you.

“I’m not leaving. I’m just going to the bathroom.”

Dick is shaking his head. “I didn’t want—” a strangled noise leaves his throat. “I didn’t want it.” His breathing speeds, erratic. “I promise. I thought she was—”

His grip on your wrist is bruising. Your other hand gently closes around his face, and he falls silent. Gently, you remind yourself. “Can I take off your mask?”

His mouth opens and closes. His teeth clack shut loudly, as he nods once. A jerking movement that looks more like a marionette movement. You slowly move your fingers to the edges of the domino, in case he changes his mind, and peel the mask off as quickly as you can to limit your touch.

Dick’s eyes are cloudy and unfocused instead of their usual alertness, but they slide to your face immediately.

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” you say steadily. “I’ll be here the entire time.”

A slight nod. His fingers loosen.

You slowly get up and make your way to the bathroom, keeping the door open. You run the bath with warm water, stop by your room to get Dick’s clothes in your dresser, and go back to Dick who stares at the ceiling with slow blinks. 

You kneel next to him, making sure he can see you. “I’m taking you to the bathroom.”

It takes a few minutes to reorient him on his feet. If you easily take his weight, he doesn’t notice. The two of you slowly make your way to your bathroom. You put him down.

“Dick, can I take your clothes off?”

No need to indicate he’s wearing his Nightwing suit. You aren’t sure what he’s registered, and what he hasn’t. If he even recognizes you past the last time you spoke on the phone.

When he nods, you slowly peel the fortified kevlar off him, cataloguing every bruise and cut. Nothing too extreme, luckily. There’s a cut on his shoulder in the shape of a sheepsfoot blade. It’ll take a while to heal. You know how to do this.

In the bath, your movements are rhythmic, muscle memory, as you rinse off all the sweat, grime and blood from his body and face. You’re gentle, quick to pull away, and silent as you work. You shampoo his hair with light fingers, and wash it all away with warm water, body chasing your touch. You watch all the build up drain away as you refill the water. Dick watches you, eyes barely open, as if in a trance.

When your fingers brush over his cheek, he imperceptibly tilts into your touch, and all you can see is her. The bathroom is humid, your clothes are damp, and the soapy smell tickles your nose, but you aren’t here right now. You’re somewhere else.

Her hands gentle on your body, her hands in your hair, her hands on your face. Your hands gentle on her body, your hands in her hair, your hands on her face. She rinsed the blood from your body, and you remade her anew in the water. If you close your eyes, you can smell the faint hint of chamomile, feel the weight of her body against yours. The two of you sitting on the grimy bathroom floor of a safehouse in Southeast Asia, her head tucked into your neck. Your entire world, concentrated in the sound of her feather light breaths.

You did this once. You never thought you’d do it again.

Your fingertips skim the lukewarm water, hanging, as you sit besides him outside the tub, water dripping off your elbows. The air is steaming and muggy, condensing on your body. He reaches for your soapy, wet hand. His hands are surprisingly cold. You blink at his sudden proximity. 

He looks at you, blue eyes framed by long wet eyelashes. His gaze is impossibly soft. Trusting. Vulnerable. 

You brush away wet hair from his face, and tip your head forward to meet his forehead. You close your eyes and listen to him breathe. There is benediction in the curve of his lips, and the way he touches you. It is the most religious experience you will ever have, far more intimate than an invocation of a prayer, and much too forgiving for supplication. God is in the dim spray of fluorescent light above you, in every droplet of water falling from the faucet, in the firm thumb he presses to your lips.

It feels wrong, to draw comfort from him when he needs you more. But Dick is nothing if not forgiving. 

Dick’s hand strokes the side of your face slowly. When you open your eyes, his cracked lips form some semblance of a weak smile.

“Hey,” he manages, weak, but eyes are sharper now. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Your throat is thick, chest heavy with memories you never wanted to think about again as you pull away. “I wouldn’t leave you.”

His gaze turns slightly awe filled. You turn away from it. His throat bobs, once, before he exhales, lips curled in a wry smile. “It’s been a bad couple of days.”

Dick’s fingers tighten on yours. “It happens,” you say. You get it. 

He raises a hand to his shoulder, and winces at the cut, glancing behind you. His uniform lies on a messy heap in the corner. “Guess the cat’s out of the bag, huh.” Contrary to his words, he looks relieved. He scrutinizes you. “You don’t look all that surprised.”

“I know you,” is all you say to him as you rise. You know Dick Grayson. You know he is kind and good and everything you don’t deserve. You would know him in his suit, and outside of it. You’ve run your lips over his face, and spent too many nights committing the lines of his smile to memory. “I should change.”

You put your kettle on the stove in the kitchen. In your bedroom, you press your forehead against the cool wall and take a shaky breath. All you can smell is chamomile, invading your senses, and your memories, bringing forth all the things you thought you left behind. In the darkness, you close your eyes, and pray to her. 

By the time you’ve changed and texted Tim that Dick is safely home with you, Dick is sitting on your couch, hair still damp. You bring him a cup of steaming tea, and a cup of water, and place it on the table.

Exhaustion lines his face, still awfully evident in the slump of his shoulders. 

You take a seat next to him, making sure to maintain some distance. “It’s late.” This doesn’t have to be a conversation for now, you can’t say. 

“I want to,” he says, running a hand through his face. “I just…” he looks torn, and unsure, “I don’t know how.”

“You don’t have to start at the beginning.” 

He tilts his head, gaze slightly clouding over. Somewhere far away. You put your hand on top of his, feel his fingers squeeze yours, the slight tremble in them. 

“Her name was Catalina Flores.”

-

Glass shatters against the wall. Alfred sighs; a tired, withered thing as he shakes his head and disappears through the door. 

You stare at the wall while Tim clacks away next to you, a physics textbook abandoned next to him in favor of extremely high speed Tetris. He’s remarkably unbothered by the argument happening one room over. 

“You know,” Tim muses, eyes latched onto the screen, “it’s never as bad as they make it.”

You turn to meet his gaze. His eyes briefly dart away in a show of nervousness, before returning with a glimmer of curiosity. Interesting. 

“Do they fight often?”

He shrugs, closing his laptop. “I mean. This probably doesn’t even break their top ten worst fights.” Dick’s raised voice is muffled through the wall. “There was that fight about Talia—Damian’s mom—that made Dick break a table. Now that was top five material. They need to scream it out every once in a while.” He says confidently. “It’s good for them.”

Tim must take your silence for worry. “He’s been wanting to tell you. Dick is probably the only person in the world that can get away with not needing Bruce’s approval, but he wanted it. Seeing as you found out anyway…” a crooked smile crosses his face, as he holds out a hand. “Red Robin. Nice to meet you.”

You figured. Not the first vigilante, crime fighting family you’ve known. You shake his hand. 

Tim raises an eyebrow. “No jokes about the fast food chain?”

“They’ve got good fries,” you reply. People have named themselves worse things.

Tim grins.

9.

Five hours later, you quietly enter Dick’s apartment. The door closes behind you with a click. You’re drenched from the rain, with the acrid taste of tobacco on your tongue and ghosts looking over your shoulder.

Dick is waiting for you, both hands splayed out on the countertop in the kitchen, phone in front of him. He looks up immediately when you step in, the relief stark on his face. 

He approaches you slowly. You stare at him. His hands hover over you, afraid to touch.

You take his hands, and place them on your shoulder. A sharp exhale between his teeth. “You’re freezing,” he says, looking disheveled, as if he’s the one who walked miles in icy cold rain.

You kiss him, one hand on his face, the other on the back of his neck. Dick surges forward immediately, a hand sliding down to your waist, the other running over your body as if to warm you up. The tobacco in your mouth meets mint. Dick doesn’t seem to mind. 

The slick wet press of his tongue swiping against yours, practiced. Just the way you like it. Your mouth parts, and warmth begins to envelope you. You push down your shorts, leaving you in your panties, Dick’s mouth on your neck, murmuring your name over and over. Your hands are no longer numb as you push him to the floor, straddle him, and rock against him. 

His hands rest on your waist. You feel him harden into your thigh, and you grind down on his jeans. The friction of the hard denim sends a curl of pleasure down your spine. He rises until he’s face to face with you. Dick pulls off his shirt. You touch him immediately, fingers sliding over his chest, landing on a scar on his side that you find yourself fixating on when faced with an undressed Dick Grayson. 

A thumb circles your nipple through the wet fabric of your shirt until they grow hard. You rest your face against his neck, and feel the pulse of your cunt along with the blood in your ears. You want him to stuff your cunt full, until you can feel him in your throat, until all you can think about is him, him, him.

His fingers slide under your panties, fingers swiping over your slick, before sinking three long, thick digits into you. You exhale in relief at his touch. 

“Is this okay?” He asks quietly, gaze glued on your face. 

“Yes,” you reply, feeling the pleasant burn as Dick stretches you open. You rut down on his fingers, chest to chest. Dick’s deft fingers are overrun by your arousal, one dark stain on his jeans. Pressure builds in your gut.

“Stop,” you manage.

Dick freezes. Before he pulls away, you take his hands and squeeze once. Then you cradle his face. “I want you.” 

A slight wince passes his face, before a ghost of a sheepish smile appears on his lips. “No condoms.”

“I’m on birth control.” Something like that anyway. You press a kiss to his shoulder, a scar in the shape of a scrape of a bullet. “I want you in me. Dick please.” You’re breathless and dizzy with need, and want him in you now. 

Dick makes a noise from deep in his throat. “Unfair,” his voice is thick with arousal. “You know I can’t resist you when you say please.” 

But you’re already unzipping his jeans. His hand gently runs over your hair, petting, an intimate gesture out of place when you’re about to ride him into oblivion. 

Dick huffs a laugh, raising his hips to push down his jeans just enough to reveal the thatch of dark hair down his stomach, and his cock outlined in his brief. You can almost feel the weight of him in your mouth, and hear the noise he makes right before his fingers curl in your hair. “I’m right here, sweetheart.” He swallows. “And hard. Really hard right now.” 

You choose not to respond, pressing down on his clothed erection. Dick grunts, and you know he can feel you wet against him. He reaches down into his briefs, using his hands, slick with your arousal, to stroke himself. 

You easily slide your panties to the side, pressing down just enough to engulf the tip of his cock, and hold yourself there. Dick’s head tips back to hit the floorboard. “Fu-ck. You are so—”

You sink down on him fully, straight to the hilt. The look on Dick’s face is pure breathless bliss, and an exhale of your name leaves his lips like a prayer.

The pace is punishing, your hands on his torso as your cunt takes him deeper and deeper. The only noises in the room, your heavy breathing and Dick’s soft murmurings, and the rhythmic rough slap of skin and arousal. 

There’s something dirty, something raw about fucking on hardwood when the two of you are barely undressed. The floor is unforgiving on your knees as Dick pushes into you, meeting you with every snap of his hips, strong hands steady on your waist; faster, harder, deeper until the ghosts in your head fade back into a whisper.

You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as his cock hits you at an angle that has your knees buckling. The world explodes in white, a livewire gone off, traveling your body like a thunderbolt.

You blink, pressed up against Dick’s chest, as his hips thrust into yours at a merciless pace, an urgency that was absent earlier. Your cunt, sensitive and swollen, squeezes against the intrusion. The ache is pleasant. You breathe into his neck, but Dick gently lifts you by your neck, and slots his lips against your own. 

“Inside me,” you murmur, pushing past the oversensitivity of your body to match each thrust. “Don’t leave.”

Something pained ripples across his face, and he twitches inside you. “Yeah, I can do that.” He mouths at your neck, tongue laving over the bruises he’s left. His thumb spreads you open even wider. “Gonna fill that pretty pussy up.”

Blunt nails dig into your hips, pinning you down. You take what he gives you, and when he comes, you let the warmth of him wash over you as you milk him dry. A groan stutters from his mouth when you deliberately squeeze around him. 

His come is leaking out of you, making a mess on his jeans, but Dick is content to wrap his arms around you as you lay on his chest. 

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” Dick says quietly, into the dark. His voice wavers, a touch of horror aimed at himself. “Was it me?”

“No,” your reply is immediate. You look at him, lips swollen and bruise bitten. “I thought you were…” someone else.  

“You ran away so quickly. I thought. I don’t know.” You feel harsh laughter reverberate from his chest. His fingers curl into your back. “I was terrified. God help me, I was terrified.”

Very gently, you press your lips to his.

Dick’s eyes flutter shut, body growing lax underneath you.

Morning spills through the curtains, casting the room with an orange glow. 

Someone shifts in bed next to you.

“Hey,” Dick murmurs, blinking slowly awake at your quiet panic. The concern is apparent in his gaze as he reaches out for you. “Everything okay?”

You let the warmth of his body wash over you as he pulls you close. A hand steadies itself on your bare lower back, and it scalds. Dick has always been good with tactile comfort, as foreign as it is to you. 

You close your eyes, trying to chase away the sensation of fingers brushing against your cheek. “Just a bad dream.” You try to ignore the worry emanating from him, now alert, and the slight furrow of his eyebrows as he takes you in. You don’t want to look at him, because looking at him makes you real. This life of normalcy you’ve carved out for yourself, in this world that is so much like and unlike your own, where the grief that lives in the hollow of your ribs can be neatly tucked away. You want it to hurt until you can’t breathe. You want to suffocate in it.

But you can be happy here, you tell yourself. You are happy here, you tell yourself, when Dick smiles at you, fingers slipping over your own.

You can almost see the questions working their way out of Dick’s throat when the alarm goes off. He immediately groans at the noise, pulling you into his arms and rolling on top of you, until you are swallowed up by him, and there is no more room for ghosts. 

“Don’t let me go,” he mutters into your ear. “Let’s stay in bed.”

You exhale. “Some of us have jobs.”

“Ouch,” he nips at your neck, and a heated shiver rolls down your spine as he turns a devastating grin on you. “I happen to be over-employed actually.”

You reach out to brush some of his tousled dark hair back, something wrenching at your chest when Dick leans into the cradle of your palm. Despite finding it difficult to breathe, you plaster a wry smile on your lips and lean in close. You hear his breath hitch. You’ve always been good at pretending.

“Moonlighting as a vigilante doesn’t count,” you whisper against his lips, pressing close to him, just enough for a firm, chaste kiss.

Then you push him off you. 

He squawks into the duvet as you rise to get ready for work. “Sexy,” he mutters, “ Sexy vigilante.”

You are a legal, law abiding citizen of Bludhaven. To Dick, a librarian from the wrong side of the tracks. Not a criminal, and definitely not a hero. This is the normalcy you’ve always wanted, away from everything you’ve ever known and loved. 

“Don’t forget,” Dick calls out from the bathroom as you stick two pieces of bread into the heated toaster, and contemplate sticking your hand in just to feel the skin blister, “Picking you up at 5!”

Right. You pull yourself away. “Should I be worried?” You tease gently. “Is there a contingency plan?”

Dick wraps his arms around you, dropping a kiss on your neck, and resting his chin on your shoulder. You lean into him, reveling in the scent of aftershave and the mint off his breath. You want to suck the flavor off his tongue, press him down, and—

“Should I be offended?” He says jovially, “I am perfectly capable of planning a date. Prepare to be wowed.”

“Will do.” You can’t help but press a kiss to his jaw. “See you later?”

He turns to you, fitted in his uniform, gaze soft as he takes you in once more. Enamored, the other ladies at the library titter when Dick strolls in, whistling, a cup of coffee in hand, exactly the way you like it. A gentleman , they sigh, when Dick appears to walk you home to the apartment that is more his than yours because old habits die hard and laying roots in a single place goes against the very essence of your being. He doesn’t know about the apartment you keep in Tail’s End, under a different name. And so hot, they think, when they crowd him and innocently ask him what attracted him to the unsmiling, distant librarian who rejected every social gathering to go home.

At first that was all it was. You knew you would appeal to people more if you were attached to another. You didn't want to make friends, but you didn't want to be disagreeable either. With a relationship, you had an excuse to go home and avoid outings. Objectively, being in a relationship made you more palatable. Your standoffish behavior reframed as a girl in love. How easy it is manage the perceptions of others with a little nudge. 

So you had said yes to the police officer who came in searching for Pride and Prejudice. 

By the end of your first date, you witnessed 1) a fire 2) a crying child 3) Dick juggling for said crying child and buying her an ice cream sundae moments later. He sent you a flash of that disarming smile, one that gave your heart a lurch for the first time in a long, long, time, and you thought, maybe, a second date wouldn't be the worst decision you've ever made.

He kisses you, lips searing like a brand. Then exhales. “Later.”

He winks, waving a piece of toast in the air, and then he’s gone. 

—

Do you have any idea, Veronica had started, as soon as Old Betty stalked off to the bathroom with a warning glare in your direction, who that police officer who comes in all the time to check you out is?

You glanced at the glossy magazine cover she had pulled on top of the pile of books you had been scanning. 

Bruce Wayne’s Bahama affair!PAGE 23 EXCLUSIVE : All about the swimsuit model sighted with the playboy billionaire!

She continued, undeterred by your silence. That delicious man happens to be Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne’s ward.

You stared at her, and Veronica had stared back, befuddled.

Bruce Wayne? Billionaire CEO of Wayne Enterprises? She frowned. In Gotham? Joker? Batman?

You cleared your throat. Who is Batman?

—

"I didn’t realize this was going to be an overnight trip.”

Dick looks sheepish, keeping his eyes on the road as highway gives way to the tall, shadowy skyscrapers of Gotham. “I was thinking we could stay overnight at the manor. Take our time back since it’s the weekend. I packed for you.”

You stare out the window, imagining the lit up skyline of the city Dick had called home as a boy, wondering if you have it in you to fool Bruce Wayne once more, knowing that it still comes easily to you as a pirouette. You can be anybody you want, and you are good at it. The best. You have more in common with Bruce Wayne than you’d like to think. And when he gives you a genial smile that verges on flirtatious as he goes to shake your hand, the lax lines of his shoulder will give him away as trained in a mistake you’d never make. What a lot of people don’t know, is that you have to give yourself fully to the performance. It is life or death. You cannot pretend, you must be. You are. And the best way to build an identity is to raze it all down and start anew. Every single time and leave nothing behind. You were trained to be naught but a moldable vessel. There is no need to raze it all down if there is nothing there to begin with.

Bruce Wayne will never be able to give himself to the performance. He is not a performer, not a true one. There is too much behind his gaze, too much pain, horror, grief. There is no separation or distance. It is with him always, simmering just beneath the surface.

Sometimes, when you close your eyes you can feel the heat of the spotlight. There is blood on your tongue and lipstick between your teeth, and maybe you are sweating, crying, or bleeding, or some combination of all three. You drown in the heat as the music crescendos, right before cold fingers tear your leotard off of your shoulders and hands pin you down like an immobile butterfly.

“If Bruce is willing to have me,” you finally say. “Then why not.”

Dick chuckles at that. “Everyone knows Alfred calls the shot when it comes to the manor.”

“Of course,” you say dryly. “If Alfred is willing to have me.”

He glances at you, all warmth and amusement and a genuine fondness that makes your throat close up. You’ll never be used to the overt affection in every look and touch that Dick gives you. So freely, you always think. It’s a gift you treasure. You collect these smiles, and tuck them away. “He’ll be delighted to see you again. I had to talk him out of decorating the manor, but cooking a feast, now that’s a non negotiable. You’re the guest of honor.”

Nobody had thought you to be a permanent fixture in Dick’s life, least of all yourself. Then one month had become four, and four had become a year and a half. You had met Damian, Bruce, and then Tim. You know there are more, like Jason, but Dick doesn’t like to talk about him.

You study him, evening shadows transforming his face as he navigates downtown Gotham traffic, impatiently tapping on the steering wheel. 

“You miss them.” You aren’t completely ignorant of Robin’s occasional drop in’s in Bludhaven, but Damian has also made his disdain for you quite clear. Which is why you try your best to stay steer clear when Damian is in town. Besides, it does you well to spend time alone, in a apartment that belongs only to you. Just like it does Dick well to spend one on one time with Damian.

Dick softens, despite his fingers tightening on the wheel. “It’s been a while. I just worry about them, you know?” There’s too much to unpack in that statement, so you lean over and press a kiss to his cheek just as Dick pulls into the wide driveway leading to the manor.

Alfred is already in the front. He ushers the two of you in, taking your coat before you can even blink. Then Dick is wrapping his arms around the man. Alfred pats him on the back with a fond smile, and says, “Master Richard, I’ve prepared your old room.”

“Thanks Alfred,” Dick murmurs. "And Bruce?"

"A pressing last minute engagement."

You are inwardly relieved.

The butler turns to you with a greeting. “It’s a delight to see you again.” He even means it. “I do hope you find your stay enjoyable. Now, I must check on the roast, but Master Damian should be back soon.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “School’s been out for three hours.”

“Master Damian has decided to partake in extracurriculars.”

The eyebrow raises impossibly higher. “Damian? Joined a club?” Dick looks delighted, and you can’t help but share in his joy. “God,” he runs a hand through his hair, “He’s growing up isn’t he?”

There’s a twinkle in Alfred’s eye. “Indeed.”

Then Dick is gently taking your arm, fingers curling around yours, and giving you a tour of the lavish rooms and gilded hallways tastefully decorated with art and portraits that would put the more ostentatious displays of wealth you’ve seen in your lifetime to shame. He points out various crooks and nannies, hidden alcoves where he used to hide when the grief of losing his parents was too strong to comprehend, and regales you with tales of Bruce letting him eat nothing but potato chips for five days straight until Alfred had demanded Dick eat a proper meal. With vegetables.

You listen and observe, trying to picture the man next to you as a small boy, bouncing through these corridors with a grin splitting his face, exuberant and alive. You find the image charming.

“I used to hide in that chandelier,” Dick murmurs into your ear as you gaze at a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “Alfred had to call the calvary when I refused to come down.” 

“Bruce?”

“Bruce.” He grins. “He always says I took twenty years off his life that day, swinging up there like a monkey.”

“I believe it,” you exhale with a laugh at the imagery. Something in your chest turns at the boy that he must have been. 

There’s a silence. 

“You know, you don’t really like to talk about yourself.” An uncharacteristic hesitation flits across his face for a brief second, before resolve quickly replaces it. “Or your past.”

“There’s nothing much to talk about,” you say gently, consolingly. “I had parents, and they died. I grew up alone.” No, not alone. You shove down the deluge of memories threatening to escape, shove it down until the ache is barely bearable.

His face falls, and you can’t help but feel you’ve let him down somehow. You just don’t think you can. It’s nonsensical at best, asylum seeking at worst. Sometimes, you think you imagined all of it, but you know better. How do you even begin to start talking about your arrival? That you had a life, and while you were never a hero, you did your best. How do you even begin to formulate the words that there was someone whose body you knew as intimately as your own, that inexplicable feeling of a synchronization during a pas de deux so uniform it was intimate, someone whose blood you licked off your knuckles, just to taste it against her lips. Someone, who is buried, somewhere far, far away. There are no words. Not anymore. She took them all with her when she died.

A previous life, that’s what it is. 

“Then,” you say slowly. “I met you.”

Dick stares at you as if fathoming out a puzzle. He is, you think, not going to be allayed by your lies much longer and you find comfort in the fact that he does not love you. That Dick finds the vulnerability that accompanies love as difficult as you do. Dick is too smart, too loving, too curious to not want to pick you apart with hands that are gentle in their suffocation, but he’s also somewhat of a hypocrite. You shouldn't find it as endearing as you do. Sometimes when you catch him looking at you, you feel like he wants to flay you open and keep your secrets for himself, with an intensity that sends a prickle down your spine.

In a way he can’t help it you suppose. He grew up with the ultimate jigsaw puzzle as a parent figure. A puzzle he’s been trained to solve, but has yet to put together because Bruce Wayne is an unfathomable, omniscient presence in the lives of the children he raised and didn’t, a voice in the dark that both guides and chokes.

But for now the suspicion in his eyes fade, back to the recesses of his mind where it can be dissected another day as Dick takes your face between his hands, and kisses you soundly, if not desperately.

—

“Will you tell me where we’re going now?”

Dick grins, looking handsome in a tux that fits him to perfection as the two of you drive into a neighborhood with cleaner streets and urban apartments. “I can tell you it’s a secret. I can also tell you we’ll be there in five.”

You hum. “Say the word and we can still go to Bat Burger.”  

He makes an offended noise. “I have a bit more class than Bat Burger. I’d at least take you to a diner.”

“And they say romance is dead.” But that’s all that leaves your lips because Dick pulls up to a grand white building with marble columns, large painted glass windows, and a long stairway leading to the entrance. There are banners fitted to the columns: THE METROPOLITAN BALLET.

You force your gaze away and force yourself to measure the beat of your heart until it goes steady. He couldn’t have. He doesn’t…

Dick is already stepping out and passing the keys to a valet with a beaming face as cameras flash in his direction. This is Dick Grayson in Gotham, prodigal eldest son of the city’s beloved Bruce Wayne. You close your eyes, collect yourself, and step out. Dick easily winds an arm around the waist of your black slinky dress, and the two of you walk up, while you discreetly ensure difficult camera angles shield your face. Luckily, it’s not you they’re interested in. Just one of many pretty birds on the arm of a Wayne boy.

“Surprise!” Dick says, gesturing to the building with a nod as the excitement builds on his face. “You haven’t met my little sister Cassandra yet, but she’s a dancer. Ballet. And she’s amazing.” He rambles on about how tonight is Cassandra’s first ever public performance and how upset Bruce is to have to miss it because of a business trip (ie: off planet mission with the league) and how he’s going to take all the pictures like the doting eldest brother he is just to rub them in Bruce’s face later.

“She’s going to love you,” Dick says in genuine happy belief when the two of you enter the lavish lobby. He takes your silence as nerves. He’s not wrong. You feel brittle and pathetic in that even a mere shadow of lace and tulle might cripple you. It doesn’t need to, you think. A few moments in the bathroom, and in the time it takes you to reapply your lipstick you can be someone deserving of a man who looks at you like you’re worth something. You don’t have to be a walking, aching tragedy.

But a part of you—

You don’t want to be someone else. Not when you’re with Dick. 

You gently extricate yourself from him. “Bathroom,” you say lightly. “I’ll meet you inside?” You glanced at the tickets earlier: front row seats. 

Dick gives you that look, that weighted stare combined with the stubborn set of his jaw that makes you think he might stop you. Are you alright? You can almost hear him ask. You’ve been off since this morning . He nods, fingers curling into his palm in your absence. “Okay. I’ll find you.” It sounds like a promise. You reluctantly let go of his hand, and as soon as you walk away, six socialites take your place.

You wind up the stairs to use the bathroom on the top floor in hopes that it'll be more secluded. You count each step, you count your breaths, you count each note in Bach’s Orgelbüchlein currently playing overhead. You realize you neglected to ask Dick what performance was playing. The Nutcracker? Le Sacre du printemps? Don Quixote? Or did you? It's all a blur.

The running tap begins to steam. Without a second thought you stick your left hand into the scalding water until your skin turns an angry color. You focus on the pain flooding your nerves, and the ensuing numbing sensation. Then you switch the tap off, pointedly avoiding your reflection. It’s just a show. 

It’s just a show.

The show is just starting when you run into Dick at the entrance to the theatre.

“Get lost on the way?” He jokes. “I was just about to look for you.”

Mouth dry, you manage a smile. “Something like that.”

“C’mon. Tim and Damian are already seated.” You make sure Dick takes your right hand as he leads you into the dark. Tim raises a hand at your arrival, rolling his eyes when Damian gives you a pointed sniff and crosses his arms.

In the dark, Dick’s voice ghosts over your ear. “Swan Lake.” 

The curtains are red, you note, distinctly ill, as they slide open. 

It’s easy to discern Cassandra Cain, front and center. She is dark haired, lithe, and beautiful as she expertly executes a grand pirouette on the stage as if she was meant for it. She’s good. Every single movement is refined to perfection to the extent that it almost looks uncanny, as if you’re watching through an altered projection. Objectively there are no flaws in every arabesque, allegro, or fouetté turn. You know this dance intimately, as both Odette and Odile. 

You feel the spotlight once more. But this time, bile rises in your throat. You distantly wonder if Dick can feel the heat radiating from your skin, because it feels like you are boiling alive under the strength of a thousand suns. The music crescendos, and to your ears it sounds cacophonous. Dissonant in a way that demands you to balance straight ( straighter ), to point your broken toes at an angle that makes you swallow back blood, to force the dislocated joints in your arms above your head. And hold—

Cool fingers flit over your thighs, before resting above your tights. A burst of fear shoots through you, and then: resignation.

You squeeze your left hand tight, until the sore skin around your knuckles are on the verge of splitting open. Under the guise of fixing the strap of your shoe, you sink your nails into the flesh of your ankle until blood sinks into the dark fabric. You mentally apologize to Alfred. You’ll ask Dick to take the dress back to Bludhaven just so you can wash it without drawing suspicion. 

Exhaling, you absentmindedly look to Dick, to find him already looking at you with an amalgamation of affection and worry. You wonder how it feels, to wear the emotions you feel on your face, to let yourself plainly feel them. Dick feels. He cares. You wonder how he hasn’t drowned yet. 

He’s beautiful, and right now, he is yours. You already know you’ll never find another person like him. In a way it makes sense. All these memories resurfacing, this wave of unrelenting grief. Maybe you’re already mourning what will be lost. What it means to not be cold and bereft and lonely. 

You reach for the warmth of Dick’s hand, and squeeze. The audience erupts in the applause around you, but you can’t quite tear your gaze away from him.

—

Tim and Damian hand Cassandra a comically large bouquet as they congratulate her on a job well done. But then a blonde haired girl with an even larger bouquet appears, slinging her arms around Cassandra. You turn to Dick. Another one?

Dick grins. His hand hasn’t left your waist since the four of you got up. You wonder if he might be trying to make a point. 

There are things you notice about Cassandra up close, the first being that she is a trained killer, the second being that trying to kill her would be quite difficult. It’s impossible to turn off: that voice in your head that tells you to observe, to plan, to escape. You swallow, distantly hearing Dick introduce you to both Cassandra and Stephanie. It feels like you’ve been submerged underwater, but if there’s one thing you know how to do, it's smile.

“32 Fouette turns isn’t easy,” you add to the conversation, with a small smile before your silence becomes suspicious. “I’m sure you’ll be Prima soon.” If she isn’t already.

Cassandra looks at you, discerning in a way her brothers have learned how to hide. You wonder how well she sees through you. You’ve heard bits here and there, and for all the people you’ve met, you’ve never quite met anyone who could read body movement to the extent of clairvoyance.

Her gaze is unnerving. “Are you…a dancer too?”

You blink, blood running cold as everyone turns to look at you. “Oh,” you say with a laugh, instantly defaulting into plausible denial. Is that what she sees? A fellow ballerina? Maybe in the end that’s who you are, stripped of everything else. Every name, every smile, every kiss, every lie. Away from the bite of cold steel, the finger on the trigger, and the immeasurable horrors of your youth. You are a small girl in a leotard and everything hurts but you have to move, faster, faster, faster, teetering like a spinning top about to blitz off a table. Spinning, spinning, spinning before everything collapses, a comet hurtling towards earth, destroying everything in its fiery wake. You are a bullet, a finely honed blade, spread thighs, gardening shears snipping away the rot.

You are a tool, and tools are meant to be used. 

The sentiment brings you more comfort than it should.

“No, not me.” The more you lie, the easier it becomes. You can feel every minute change in you as all the apprehension and worries begin to ebb away, becoming vaguer, until it becomes one indistinct picture, and that streak of red hair you once loved becomes so faint it could be the memory of snow and the swift darting of a fox, its pelt gleaming in the sun.

These are the immutable facts: you are a legal, law abiding, citizen of Bludhaven. A librarian. You are alone. You were alone. You are alone. 

It's Cassandra’s turn to blink. “Your…” she makes a gesture with her hand as she grasps for the words. “Posture. Movements.” She hums. “Ballet.”

“A little,” you acquiesce after a pause, as if you’re embarrassed. People are always more inclined to disregard little things in the face of overt discomfort and embarrassment. “Just a little. When I was young. Nowhere near your level,” you’re scared at how easy it comes to you still, terrified at the way Dick has stilled next to you, the way he is looking at you like you are someone he doesn't know. And well, that's the truth isn't it? “You were wonderful, by the way.”

Cassandra takes your compliment too modestly. 

You let conversation flow over you, piping in when acceptable while Dick quips about this and that, fondly mussing both Tim and Damian’s hair. Dick is emotive and sensitive, and loves with such unadulterated joy, you often forget.

Dick is good at pretending too.

—

There are more things that happen that night. Alfred’s roast is even more delicious when eaten in the dining room with a nearly full table of people. You meet Barbara who is as smart as she is beautiful. Tim and Damian end up tussling over an ill timed quip about fratricide, and Dick ends up having to yank Damian away from the silverware before any bodily harm is done.

Dick holds you that night, and you listen to the gentle beat of his heart in silence in a room that used to be his, in a house that used to be home.

“Sometimes,” Dick says conversationally, staring at the faded stick on glow-in-the-dark stars plastered to the ceiling, “I think you might fall apart if I hold you too tightly.” 

If there is anything to say, you are glad it is just this. You can’t tell much from his voice. You find it difficult to look at him. And yet, he had still opened his arms to you, and you had still curled up in them. 

There’s more, of course. But there’s a logic to this. In the quiet of the night, in the glow of the moonlight, some things are better left unvoiced. Right now, you listen to Dick’s steady breaths, and try to match his heartbeat to yours. 

“I’m right here,” you say into his bare chest.

There’s a wretched, pained humor in his voice. “Are you?”

You tip your chin up to look into those piercing blue eyes. Those sad, blue eyes. You have to remind yourself that this isn’t love. 

A hand cradles your face. “Who are you?”

There are so many things you could say, but you’re tired. In the end, these ghosts are all yours. 

In the sparse light, you can see yourself, reflected in Dick’s eyes. You’re not sure who or what he sees. So in the end, you settle on what you can. Whoever you are—

“You have me.”

For what it’s worth, you think. For what it’s worth.

You wake up in a pool of sweat, Dick’s arm loosely wrapped around your waist. You immediately still, regulating your heartbeat, as to not wake him. Dick is a light sleeper—when circumstances dictate it so. A sharp intake of breath, any sudden movement, a wrong step. The trick is to go slow, lest he wake up and ask you what’s wrong.

You can feel his breaths, the lightness of them ghosting against your nape. You should want him off of you, rip your covers off, and run. 

Instead, you close your eyes and try to focus on the sound of his breaths, following the subtle, loping, rhythm. 

You gently extricate yourself from him, watching Dick’s face scrunch up as he mutters something about pancakes and spray paint and Damian that is not a butterknife—

Your knuckles briefly brush his face. You grab Dick’s sweats off the floor, and then you’re gone.

You’ve already memorized all the different halls, rooms, and wings in the manor, barring the batcave. You’ve never even stepped foot in there, despite knowing the several passageways in. At this time of the night, nobody will be awake, except maybe Tim reviewing case files. Dick has absentmindedly said that after twelve, Tim rarely leaves his room.

Nobody will wake up as long as you keep away from the bedrooms and don’t trip any alarms meant for the occasional assassin. The manor is even darker in the night, when its inhabitants have gone to sleep. As you traverse hallways and stairs, the shadows get longer, and the large portraits hanging on the walls follow you with their permanently fixed stares.

It’s always interesting to slowly peruse the manor in the same manner you’d observe a museum. Every room brings something different. A new aesthetic, an old one from the 70s when velvet was popular, a thousand year old vase from the Zhou Dynasty, a monet painting. Rooms with weeping curtains draping over windows, luxurious persian and oriental rugs covering half the floor, priceless china inside temperature regulated glass, shining mahogany bookshelves. If you had time, and were completely sure that Bruce wasn’t monitoring your actions somehow, you’d pick a room and completely comb it from top to bottom. An intellectual exercise. Spyware, wires, traps, cameras, weapons, all hidden within the various crooks and crannies of the room. You’d take each item apart and put it all back together sans a single piece. Then you’d hide it all back exactly where you found it. Two inches to the left. And you’d start with Bruce’s first floor study.

But you aren’t.

So you tread onwards to one of the smaller kitchens in the manor, on the first floor, click the light on, and pour yourself a glass of water with hands that tremble exactly once as you lift it to your lips. A weakness you allow yourself in the presence of nobody else.

You aren’t sure where your feet are taking you until you’re unlocking the doors leading the patio overlooking the private gardens in the back. You’ve probably tripped multiple sensors, but you don’t care as you sit down on the top step leading down, and let the cool air brush over you. You’re not dressed to be outdoors during a Gotham fall night, but the cold has never bothered you as much. You grew up with winter, and it has never left you. 

The large hedges and bushes are immaculately trimmed. It’s aesthetically pleasing, and distinctly shaped enough that you get the impression that they’re meant to distort satellite imaging of the manor. A far fetched notion if it was anyone other than Batman.

You remember Dick mentioning Alfred’s highly prized and coveted roses. So you stand and plan to aimlessly walk through the small, elaborate hedge maze, until you feel like a person again. Because the thought of Dick seeing you as anything else makes your stomach turn. 

The faint rumble of an engine reaches your ears. You still, turning your head in the direction of the noise. The east wing of the manor. Dick’s room is in the far west end. Same wing as Tim, different floors. The east wing belongs to Damian who you know to have commandeered a room and the top floor, and…

Re-entering the manor, you follow one of the halls until a loud crash, followed by a colorful line of curses that echoes through the hall. 

–

Jason doesn’t want to be here. In fact, the manor is the last place he wants to be, pretty much all the time. ‘Cept beggars can’t be choosers, not when he’s currently bleeding out all over Alfred’s silverware.

Two bullets: one clean shot through his thigh, the other through his arm, and both hurt like a fucker. 

He had been at the docks, tracking a lower rung mafia family and their lowlife grunts who would be receiving a new shipment of trafficked girls when gunshots had rung out accompanied by screams. One girl tried making a run for it and it had gotten her a bullet to the head.

Jason had started shooting.

Which brings him to his current predicament. Rifling through the drawers of one of the smaller kitchens in the manor, the one furthest from Bruce’s room. He knows Alfred keeps emergency provisions in nearly every room in the manor—including this one. The struggle is in finding it. Somewhere an awed hookup of Bruce’s, or a curious stray reporter wouldn’t be able to find a military grade emergency kit and start asking questions.

Besides, he’ll never pass up the opportunity to steal—whoops— borrow from Bruce. The man can afford it. 

He’ll take the kit, patch himself up until the bleeding is temporarily staunched, and get his bike (hidden in the bushes underneath a patio towards the east), and nobody would be none the wiser. Bruce is still out on patrol, along with his latest Boy Wonder. Timbo’s probably doing…whatever the hell he gets up to in his room. Video games? To his knowledge, Dickwad’s still in Bludhaven. 

Ignoring the twinge in his arm, the constant throb of pain in his leg, and the steady flowing blood, he rifles through pans and pots and silverware. 

“Looking for something?”

He doesn’t think before whirling around, pressing a body into the wall, a gun pressed to their stomach. 

He didn’t hear a thing. Not a single god damned thing. It’s eerily reminiscent of Dick’s own soundless steps. You had been quiet enough to sneak up on him, in his heightened, adrenaline spiked, unmasked state. 

Jason meets your gaze. A woman, maybe a little older than him. You look supremely unbothered despite the cold, hard weight of the glock digging into your side. “You must be Jason.”

It’s far too late to hide his face. His red faceguard lies on the kitchen table, but you had hardly glanced at it. And you look unsurprised to see a random stranger bleeding out in the kitchen. It’s not hard to put two and two together. 

“Who the hell are you?” Call him rude, sure (Alfred would despair at his manners, but he’s always been a lost cause anyway). People know better than to sneak up on him when he’s vulnerable unless they want to walk away with one less kneecap. He uses his height to his advantage, all looming bulk and menace. It says something that even the scum denizens of crime alley avoid his path when he’s unmasked. Not even a flicker of uncertainty across your face.

“A librarian.”

He blinks. “What?”

Taken aback, he lets you push the gun away with a flick of your hand. You look at him, and he feels vaguely like he’s on the receiving end of Alfred’s raised eyebrow. Or Bruce’s stern gaze, arms crossed, about to tell him off for being reckless. Like he’s done something wrong. Like he’s nine again, swinging from buildings, and fighting crime dressed in an atrocious red, green, and yellow color scheme.

His arm drops, the other throbbing with an increased intensity. He stands there awkwardly, not quite divested of all his guns. Not quite knowing what to do. Is he hallucinating? Maybe it’s the lateness. Combined with the bright fluorescent lights Alfred never bothered to replace because this is a smaller, secondary, kitchen, in an area of the manor that scarcely anyone passes, this feels like some weird fever dream. Except weirder things have definitely happened.

Like dying and coming back to life.

“Sit down.”

You don’t wait for a response, turning into the cabinets. Moments later there is an open emergency kit on the table. The wet cotton with antiseptic. “Take off your clothes.”

He looks you up and down. He’d definitely remember you if he met you. He quirks the best nonchalant brow he can manage. “Don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.” 

You stare at him for an unnervingly long time. A second later, he’s tearing off his blood soaked kevlar and pants without another word, feeling stupidly bare in nothing but his boxers. You’re unfazed as you study his wounds in silence. Then you begin to disinfect his wounds with practiced motions.

He doesn’t know what he expected from this night, but it definitely wasn’t letting some strange woman in the manor patch him up after a patrol gone bad. If anything, he would’ve expected Alfred to sweep into the kitchen, eye him with concern, and hover around him. 

You’re so quiet he almost misses Dick’s inane on and off rambling. He’d take Dick arbitrarily ranking the best cereal in terms of color than this mind numbingly awkward silence.

He’s used to silence. God knows, Bruce can tell a million words with his. Disappointed silence, happy silences, contemplative silences, pleasantly surprised silences. Bruce is emotive with his silences. Bruce’s silences are decodable, something you get used to after a few dinners after you get over your awe of the mansion, the kind butler, the feeling of not having to fight for survival every single damn day of your life, that innate suspicion that everyone is out to get you. 

You, on the other hand…

“So,” he coughs, when a particularly painful dab of antiseptic to his arm makes his eye twitch. “A librarian.” 

As he’s come to expect in the ten minutes he’s met you, you don’t respond. He figures an open statement is a bit too much for you. He settles on, “You like books?” Me too. Then he thinks about the two overdue library books he had left laying around in the South safehouse and inwardly winces. Oresteia , a trilogy of Greek tragedies, and Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus . Maybe you’re karma. But hey, the ladies of the Gotham City Public Library happen to love him. They’ll send him away with some stale cookies from the staff room and an exempt fine he’ll still pay. 

If your hand hadn’t been within his sight, he would’ve missed it. Your grip on the tweezers imperceptibly tightens.

You concentrate on bandaging up his thigh. “Dick asked me the same thing the first time we met.”

Jason resists the urge to groan, and bang his head on the table. Of course he’d pick the one weekend Dickbird’s in town. Fuck. Furthermore, the association with the original boy wonder leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Not to mention the fact that Dick probably meant it as some corny, half assed pickup line (that obviously worked.) That’s embarrassing. Fuck. He’ll blame this entire night on the blood loss. And the trauma from dying. That always works. 

You’re definitely not just some civvie. You’re a civilian that knows their identities. Of all of them, it figures that Dick would be the most well adjusted for a long term relationship with a non-vigilante. Which isn’t saying much. The bar is in hell. He’s never seen it himself, but Dick’s temper tantrums are infamous. Even Bruce maintains a distance when boy wonder’s in a rotten mood. 

“You never answered the question,” he says gruffly, tugging on the bandages wrapped around his arm and thigh. They’re secure; on par with Alfred’s own expert fingers. At least he didn’t need stitches this time around.

“Not really.”

He damn near chokes on his spit. “Yeah? You tell Dick that?”

You look him straight in the eye, and say monotone: “I told him I’m passionate about the dewey decimal system.”

Jason snorts, chest heaving. Except pain shoots up his arm and thigh, which makes him stifle the rest of his laughter. “You’re a real hoot, you know that?” He can’t imagine Dick with a girl like you. At all. 

Your gaze flickers to the doorway. 

Seconds later, Alfred steps into the room with a handful of fresh clothes. The man’s gaze is soft. “Master Jason…I believed I heard your voice.”

The amusement is instantly sapped out of him. “Hey Alfie,” he croaks. Sure, Bruce took him in, gave him a roof over his head, clothes, food, no matter how brief it was. But Alfred. Alfred would make his favorite breakfast, with the eggs exactly how he liked it whenever he wanted. Alfred patched him up with gentle hands after bad patrols that would reduce Bruce monosyllabic noises. Alfred still brings him home cooked meals so he isn’t living off box mac n cheese. Jason still isn’t completely sure how Alfred is finding his safehouses, but he knows Oracle probably has a hand in that because the woman loves making his life difficult. 

The emergency kit clicks shut, and you stand. “Good morning, Alfred.”

Alfred doesn’t take his gaze off of him. “It is indeed.”

Jason swallows, feeling his throat thickening as Alfred lays the clothes down on the only place in the counter that isn’t bloodied. You’re definitely not going to be any help now. No attempt to even break the silence. You’re washing your hands, content to let the two of them hash out a heart to heart which is something he can’t handle right now.

He shifts uncomfortably. “Thank you…for the roast.” He pats the clothes. “And the clothes.” He pauses. “And I can clean up here—”

“There is certainly no need for that ,” Alfred says, daring him to argue. Jason knows better than getting in between Alfred and his complicated cleaning system, so he lets the matter lie. “And all of that was my pleasure, Master Jason.” He hesitates, “Would you…indulge this old man and stay for breakfast?”

And that’s his cue. Of course he feels bad. He always feels bad whenever he turns Alfred down. They do this dance every time Alfred catches him taking supplies or money whenever Bruce is out. He pointedly lowers his gaze, and begins changing into clothes that are still warm. 

“Sorry Alfie, I’ve overstayed my welcome.” The clothes fit perfectly, and he refuses to think about why there are clothes his size in the manor when he left years ago. Bloody clothes in a plastic bag, check. All guns accounted for, check. Knives, check. Keys, check. “I should skedaddle before the big man catches me.”

“Master Bruce would not—”

Jason clears his throat. He turns, figuring he should thank you, but there’s nobody there. He doesn’t know exactly how you managed to leave when the doorway was within his gaze the entire time.

“Was all that real?” Maybe he hallucinated you. A genuine concern after all the years of getting his skull getting knocked around here and there. 

Alfred’s forlorn face turns amused. “I assure you Master Dick’s guest is no ghost, no matter her penchant for wandering the manor at night.”

Could’ve fooled me. “She always that…uh,” he twirls a finger, realizing he has no idea how to describe you other than inexplicable silent emotionless.

“Yes,” his expression turns thoughtful. “She is an odd one, isn’t she? I figured the two of you would get along. She and Master Bruce appear to have their own share of… differences.”

Jason raises an eyebrow at that. “Seriously?” He can’t imagine what you and Bruce would talk about, let alone have differences about. Would the two of you even talk? The silence would be excruciating. He stifles laughter at the thought of Dickbird desperately trying to facilitate conversation between two nonverbal adults.  

“An unconventional first meeting, I’ve gathered,” Alfred says, moving from cabinet to cabinet, and tidying. “Master Dick despairs regularly.”

There’s a glint in Alfred’s eye. Jason recognizes that glint. Some scathing statement is about to follow, packaged neatly in the Queen’s English. Which in Jason’s opinion, makes it all the more devastating. “In my humble opinion, Master Bruce is simply discomfited by the girl. Hmph. You and I know how he loves those neat little boxes in his head. Heaven knows when a person is too much for his tiny head to comprehend.”

Jason lets out a huff of laughter. He knows, of course. He knows that to Bruce, he’s regularly caught between two boxes himself: enemy or ally . 

He unclenches his fists.

“But you didn’t hear anything from me,” Alfred finishes lamely.

Jason grins. “My lips are sealed, Alfie. At least it sounds entertaining. I’d pay good money to see it.” 

The butler blinks innocently. “Perhaps if you stayed for breakfast, you could witness it for yourself.”

Jason is tempted. Because in the end, there’s nothing more he’d love than to see Bruce squirming in his seat.

But he’s also not welcome here. It’s a bleak fact. Every time he sees Bruce, it’s another beating to the heart. Another disappointment. There’s only so many times a whipped dog comes back.

“Sorry,” he says evenly, “Looks like a full house today and I could do without the noise.”

Alfred accepts his refusal with a sigh. “Then if you’d wait a moment.”

Alfred steps out of the room, and within a blink, he’s back, stacks of tupperware in his hand.

At the look on Jason’s face, he raises an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t let this old man’s cooking go to waste, would you?”

He closes his mouth. There must be something in the air, because he has to blink it out of his eyes. “No, I wouldn’t.”

–

It’s not until Jason’s speeding away on the 109 that he realizes he never even got your name.

– 

Dick is still sleeping when you return. 

You sit down on your side of the bed, and immediately feel Dick’s arm snake around your waist. 

“Nghghnhgh,” is the barely intelligible noise that leaves his mouth, pressed against your hip.

“Morning.” You gently sweep his hair out of his face.

“Too early,” he mutters. Then he cracks open an eye. “I thought you were getting water, but you never came back.”

“I took a walk.”

Dick aims a pout at you. “Without me?”

You do not point out the fact that Dick is someone who needs at least 4 hours of beauty sleep to be able to function as a human being. 

His hand brushes a wet stain on your shirt, and he’s up in a flash, hands on your shoulders, splaying you out for inspection.

“Why do you have blood on you?”

You reach out to stop him. “I met Jason.”

Dick blinks. “Jason’s here?” In one swift movement, he’s across the room, pulling on a shirt. “And he’s bleeding?”

“Well, I think he’s gone now.” 

As if on cue, the revving of a motorcycle engine reverberates throughout the grounds, loud enough to wake its inhabitants up. You already anticipate the grumbling at breakfast.

This family and their flair for the dramatics.

Dick inspects you closely, expression severe as his fingers brush your body. “Did he…”

You think about Jason. How he had been poised to attack. The strength coiled in his body, ready to strike at any given moment. You understood at once that he was someone who would do what he had to, putting him at odds with the rest of the family. Making him dangerous. 

Fortunately for you, he had come at the perfect time. You needed the familiarity of the sharp scent of antiseptic to tether you back to the present. You needed to think about anything else than the ghosts hounding your dreams. Jason ceased to be a person. Instead, he became a task to complete. 

You hadn’t even realized until he had made conversation. Oh, you had thought. This is Dick’s little brother. Be gentle.

“He was fine,” you say softly, wisely not touching on your tension fueled first seconds where you briefly thought he’d pull the trigger, and then welcomed the thought. “Perfectly amiable.”

Dick wraps his arms around you. “‘Perfectly amiable’ are not the words I would use to describe Jason. Tell me he didn’t threaten to shoot you,” he says lightly, despite the tension outlining his body. “You can tell me. I get it, any sane person would run for the hills.”

Any sane person would’ve ran a year ago. A sane person would’ve done anything but kiss the charming smile off Dick Grayson’s face when he had been bleeding out on the ugly rug in his living room dressed in spandex. A sane former Black Widow would have left him in his bed months ago, and left for the airport with nothing but a one way ticket straight to Tibet.  

But now in Dick’s arms, you’re neither. It’s less of a loss than you would’ve thought. But then again, you’re used to changing identities at the drop of a hat. Existing within the fringes of yourself. Losing yourself to the next new name. It was okay to lose yourself, you always knew. She’d always be there to help you make sense of yourself. She’d know you, even if you didn’t know yourself.

You press a kiss to his cheek, and wrangle yourself free from his grip. You need a shower. “Breakfast in an hour.”

Dick flops onto the bed, a grin playing at his lips. “An hour’s long enough.”

You give him an unimpressed look, before turning and shrugging off your shirt in full view as you step into the bathroom.