#oppsie

I'm all good. Doctors are on it, and everything's fine, but I can't type very well, so the blog might slow down a bit just while I heal up.

Content warning for blood!

Maybe it started as vanity once, but it’s not that anymore. It’s something closer to control, to composure, to pretending they have a handle on things when everything else is slipping between their fingers.

Dick’s been doing it since he was a kid, since before he even had a reason for it.

When he was little, his mother used to fix his hair before every performance, brushing it back with a touch so gentle it never once felt like an obligation. “You’re already perfect, my little robin,” she’d say, pressing a kiss to his forehead, “but you should still look your best.” It had been a ritual, a moment of stillness before the leap, before the spotlights, before he took to the air and did what he was born to do.

And then, suddenly, they were gone, and there was no one left to smooth his hair or press kisses to his forehead.

Bruce had never done things like that. He’d never brushed Dick’s hair back or straightened his collar or fussed over his appearance the way a parent should.

But he had expectations. He was a Wayne now, or at least, he was supposed to be. And Waynes looked the part. Waynes were always polished, always presentable, always in control.

And so, without meaning to, Dick kept the habit. If he caught his reflection in a window, his fingers would move before he even realized it, brushing his bangs back into place, fixing anything that had shifted. And in the years since, it never really stopped. Whether it was in the middle of a mission, a fight, a conversation, it didn’t matter.

He still did it. Because Dick Grayson was supposed to be effortless, wasn’t he? The easygoing one, the charismatic one, the one who never let things get to him. He had to keep looking the part, even when grief still ached beneath his ribs, even when exhaustion weighed down his bones.

Tim’s touch is sharper, more deliberate, like it’s something done out of necessity rather than comfort. His parents had never been gentle about things like appearances.

It wasn’t about affection, about soft reassurances and easy praise—it was about image. It was about always being polished, always being the best, always making sure no one had reason to criticize.

His father in particular had been meticulous about it, about making sure Tim didn’t just perform well but looked like someone who performed well. A well-groomed son was a competent son. A put-together son. A son who wouldn’t embarrass the family name.

So, Tim learned. He learned to straighten his tie before anyone could tell him to. He learned to fix his hair without needing a mirror. He learned to be perfect in the way that was expected of him, in the way that didn’t leave room for mistakes. Even now, long after his parents are gone, after everything has changed, the habit lingers.

It’s instinct. Even when he’s running on fumes, running on too much coffee and not enough sleep, his hands will still move on their own, smoothing his bangs, making sure they don’t fall too far out of place. Maybe it’s muscle memory. Maybe it’s something closer to control, to making sure he can still hold himself together even when everything else is unraveling.

Dick notices it. Of course he does. And Tim notices it in him, too.

It’s not like they say anything. Not outright. Not in a way that matters. But sometimes, in the middle of a mission, in the reflection of a shop window, or in the mirror of a rundown safe house, their eyes will meet just as they’re fixing their hair, just as their hands twitch in unison. And for a moment, there’s something unspoken between them, something that neither of them will put into words.

Then the teasing starts.

“You’re obsessed with your hair, y’know that?” Dick will say with a smirk, arms crossed, watching as Tim smooths his bangs for the third time in a minute.

Tim will roll his eyes, barely looking up. “You’re one to talk.”

And that’s as much as they’ll say about it. The teasing, the lighthearted jabs, they’re easier than admitting what it really is. That it’s habit, that it’s instinct, that it’s something they do to feel like they’re still in control.

Because some things slip. Some things fall apart. Some things get taken away before they ever get the chance to hold onto them.

But this? This, at least, is something they can still fix.