Probably Writing

Six days ago, you woke up with your entire world light-years out of reach with no recollection of how you got here. The only clues that awaited you were the miscellaneous items in what seemed to be your duffle bag, and the man beside you who was just as clueless. It only took a few hours to stumble your way to a window and see the vast expanse of space in front of you. In another life maybe you would have felt joy—perhaps hope—but now, all you saw was a dark coffin surrounding you with tiny buds of stars for decoration. 

It was suffocating for something so boundless. 

“It seems likely,” you heard from beside you. You breathed in, grounding yourself back to the photo in your hands. “I mean, it would be weird if they stuck two strangers on a ship and never had them talk to one another beforehand.” 

You briefly looked over at the man beside you. His hair was unkept and tousled from his hands frequently running through it; his eyes were a vibrant blue hidden behind a set of wired glasses, a striking difference to the current world around you full of dreary grays and fluorescent whites. He wore his space suit up to his waist and a science pun shirt. The duality was almost comical.   

“Right,” you exhaled. “I guess I was just curious if we were…” you trailed off, unsure. You shrugged, looking over at the photo in his hands, which also showed himself—alone. “Friends?”

Grace puffed out a breath of air, his shoulders dropping slightly with the release. He did that often, you noticed, especially while writing or fiddling with things on the ship. He glanced over at you briefly before looking forward at the two body bags in front of you. His eyes flicked between the deceased pilot, Yao, and engineer, Ilyukhina. He was quiet while committing their faces to memory, even despite their hallowed cheeks and the decomposing tint of their skin. 

You stood abruptly, your legs wobbling slightly at the sudden movement, muscles creaking as they adjusted to being used. Grace jolted from beside you, but stumbled to a stand too. 

“Yao, I don’t know if I knew you, I don’t even know if we were friends,” you started, having no clue what to say. “But I’d like to think we were. I’m sure we had a few good laughs before all this, maybe a few drinks,” you choked on a laugh that came out like a sob. You could feel the burning behind your nose building. Your hands dropped to your thighs, lost on what to do, what to say. 

Grace cleared his throat. “We must’ve known you,” he tried, “but we just don’t remember. You make a funny face in literally every picture.” He held up a photograph of Yao and what you both assumed was his son as he spoke. 

He coughed down his own sadness as he carefully walked towards Yao’s body, gently placing the photo under his hands. “You must have been very smart and strong…”

“—and brave,” you supplied as Grace drifted off. He nodded, “And brave.”

The air was thick and heavy between you two. The silence on this ship seemed to pierce your ears and settle into your lungs until it was hard to breathe in. You stuttered in another shaky breath. 

“Ilyukhina,” Grace started again, “First, I owe you three bags of vodka.” 

You tried to chuckle at his humor, but found yourself letting out another pained sob, your eyebrows scrunching and eyes blinking back a wall of tears. The room blurred, and you were almost thankful you could no longer see the details of the bodies in front of you. 

“You seem to have had a lot of friends. This picture of you, what looks like sneaking into the Kremlin…is…legendary.” He placed Ilyukhina’s photo into her skeletal-like hands. 

You spoke up in a whisper. “I hope we shared a few drinks together at some point. You seem like a great person to be around. I wish,” you struggled, “I wish you were still here.” 

You hated how hollow you sounded. For a eulogy, this sucked. It felt so impersonal. “You were both very loved, and you deserve much more than this.” You choked out the tail end of that sentence, your shoulders hitching with each shaky breath.

The sorrow behind Grace’s eyes matched your own, his bluey hues blurring with unshed tears. He walked back to your side, his hand gently resting on your shoulder. It was slow, deliberate, as if he was telegraphing his movement to avoid startling you. 

“We will do our best to make sure that you don’t…” he began, stopping as fought back his own tears that were threatening to fall. He used his other hand to wipe at his face. “You know, that you didn’t…” His hand fell harshly, his head and body shaking with the movement. He was just as worn down and hopeless as you felt. It was visible from a mile away. He cleared his throat and straightened, swallowing down his grief. 

“We’ll do our best.”

⋘⋙

The next few weeks blurred together. Grace was quiet these days, as were you. The harrowing reality of your lives and the passing of two crewmates left much to be processed. You were like ghosts, passing through each other without much thought. His mind was noticeably preoccupied with equations, questions, and maps, while yours was…empty. Your brain seemed to disconnect not just your memories, but your ability to stay in the present and stay grounded into your body. 

Even now, you could barely feel the marker between your fingertips without conscious effort. You stared blankly at the whiteboard on the desk in front of you. You heard the squeak of Grace’s marker, but it seemed distant despite being just across the room from you. You were supposed to be helping him, but it was hard when your body felt so heavy you couldn’t even twitch your finger if you wanted to. Your vision was fuzzy at the edges, your peripherals falling out of view. 

Distantly, you knew this wasn’t good, but presently, you couldn’t form a coherent thought outside of why can’t I move my fingers. Your heart rate jumped—why can’t you move your body? You were starting to get scared. If your lungs weren’t breathing on autopilot, you’d be hyperventilating by now. You wanted to breathe deeper, you wanted to scream, you wanted to throw this marker against the wall—

Why couldn’t you?

The white of the board in front of you covered your vision, lines of black smudging into blobs in front of your unfocused eyes. It was like a thick layer of glass separated you from the rest of the world. Everything was hazy, your body numb. 

Why don't you know what’s going on? You should know what was going on. You had a PhD for heaven’s sake—wait, you had a PhD? A PhD in what? How could you forget 7 of the most grueling years of your life?

“...calculations…11.9 light-years…means we’re close to—okay?”

Words filtered through your ears and jumbled around in your brain, muddled by the cloud that had sunk into your body. More words floated past you. It would be useless to try and grab them and make sense of them. Your body had shut down, and despite your best efforts, you couldn’t stop it. 

You were scared. 

You felt your body blink slowly, your eyelids heavy from the movement. It took conscious effort to keep your eyes from falling shut entirely, because if they did, what would keep you from succumbing to the darkness completely? 

Why shouldn’t you? It was all around you, all-consuming, constantly taunting you every time you walked past a window. What difference would it make if you let it take you? 

“—hear me?”

You knew it was Grace. It’s not like it could be anyone else. If you concentrated, you could hear the worry in his voice, hear the concern lacing his syllables. You felt your eyebrows scrunch together in the middle only to soften a second later as your muscles weighed down. 

A blur of tan, red, and black ran past your vision—his hand, his watch. “—scaring me,” you heard his voice say. I'm scaring me, too, you thought. 

You tried scrunching your eyebrows again, tried twitching your finger, tried telling him anything—saying anything. It didn’t work. You hand laid limp on the desk, your body barely sitting upright on its own. 

You could hear the timbre of Grace’s voice in a steady stream but couldn’t focus for long enough to make out what he was saying. He was speaking a lot, and fast; he tended to do that a lot when he was nervous. You felt guilty for scaring him; you wanted nothing more than to tell him you were okay, but at this point you think that’d be a lie. 

“—touch you? I… say something…understand—?”

His voice faded in and out, like a radio broadcast filtering through static. Then, your shoulders felt heavier, almost weighed down by something. You felt your body move slightly with the new weight, your head bobbing and hand titling. The gentle shaking did very little to dissipate the heaviness settling into your chest, nor the static filling your veins. 

In a breath, the weight lifted, to be replaced by a set of hands on your cheeks. They were firm yet shaky, large enough to cover the sides of your face but gentle enough that you barely felt them. Your vision swirled until your view of whites turned into blues. 

A pair of startled blue eyes met your gaze. Your eyes locked into his, outlining each shade of blue as they melted into one another—a dark ring of blue faded into vibrant, light hues, only to fade back into a set of black pupils. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, undoubtedly hanging from his ears instead. 

You breathed a little deeper as your vision sharpened just an inch. From your peripherals, you could see his mouth moving before your ears registered that he was speaking to you. You should be concerned that you could barely understand much of anything around you other than his eyes. Those eyes squinted again, his eyebrows scrunching at the movement. 

“—can you hear me?”

You caught the tail end of his last sentence. 

I can hear you, you willed yourself to say. Frustration creeped into your skin when your lips didn’t follow the command your brain had sent. You tapped your finger instead—you tapped your finger. He must’ve noticed the movement because his eyes flickered down to where your hand lay limp on the desk. 

“If you can hear me, can you tap your finger for me? Just tap it once for ‘yes.’ Can you do that?” He kept speaking, repeating the same instruction to you while holding your gaze between the palms of his hands. You tapped your finger in response, the movement subtle and jerky, but there regardless.

He breathed out in relief, a smile covering his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes yet. You watched as his eyes jumped between your finger and you. 

“Okay! That’s great! That’s awesome, okay. You can hear me.” His ramblings of relief had the same effect on you. You were scared, but you felt safer knowing he was there, holding you together with his bare hands. 

“Okay, okay, okay. Can you do one tap for ‘yes’ and two taps for ‘no’?” Your singular tap was met with another glowing smile in response. 

“You’re doing great,” he said, almost to himself as much as you. He was crouching down slightly to be eye-level with you. You distantly wondered if he was so good at this because of his past as a teacher—did he comfort his students frequently just like this? Was he used to making himself shorter, rambling words of encouragement, and plastering on a smile even when things were obviously not okay?

“Do you know what’s happening? Does this happen often to you?” he asked, only to backpaddle immediately after. “Nevermind, stupid question. How would you even know if this has happened to you before when we barely remember anything?”

You stared at him. “Right, sorry. Do you know what’s happening to you?”

You tapped twice. He nodded absent-mindedly, collecting his thoughts. You could see the gears shifted behind his eyes as he pieced together information. It was the same look he had every time you watched him calculate something you didn’t understand or fiddle around in the lab with tools you barely knew the name of. You were a commander, not a scientist.

Grace frowned. Okay, Focus. 

“I think I might, but I don’t really know how to help.” He gnawed at his bottom lip as he thought. “Touch seemed to help.” His fingers shifted on your cheeks. “Did it help?”

You tapped once. 

He nodded slowly, processing the new information. “I’m gonna squeeze your arms okay?” He waited for your affirmation before gently releasing his hands from your face. Your head bobbed slightly from not having his hands to prop you up, but you quickly jerked it back up, eyes blinking from the effort. Grace winced out a ‘sorry’ before squeezing the sides of your arms. 

“Can you feel this?”

You nodded, your neck muscles having jolted awake moments prior. Grace seemed ecstatic at the new mode of communication, you might have even heard a ‘fantastic’ quietly fall from his lips. You squeezed your eyes shut and blinked them rapidly, trying to clear the fog from behind your eyes with little success. 

“I know,” he said sympathetically while seeing your struggle, “but you’re doing great. Just focus on me okay?”

You nodded slightly, trying desperately to not fade back into the distant calls of numbness. Tendrils of paralysis licked at your skin only for Grace’s hands to chase them away with each hard squeeze. His hands traveled down your arms until he reached your hands. You let him take the marker out from between your fingers and set it down somewhere outside your field of vision. 

He grasped onto your hands and gave them a squeeze. Your nerves sparked back to life from the heat of his palms. “Just focus on this. Focus on my touch and nothing else.”

He loosened his grip. “Can you squeeze my hands?” He squeezed. “Like this.”

He waited as you slowly processed his words, searching your eyes for any sign of recognition. Your gaze fell to your clasped hands. Your stomach flipped but settled under the weight of your next breath. You willed your fingers to move, calling each nerve that Grace brought back to life. You squeezed his hands weakly, but he beamed at you as if you achieved something far greater. 

“You did it!” If anyone else had talked to you like this, you would have thought they were belittling, but Grace had a way of speaking that made you feel like you really were doing great things. You heard his genuine care and felt nothing but safe. “I just need you to come back to me completely, okay?”

Come back to me. 

Your stomach flipped again, but you were too busy trying to squeeze his hands again that the feeling dispersed before you gave it a second thought. “Just keep squeezing my hands. Just like that.”

Moments passed of you squeezing his hands and him periodically snapping your attention back to him whenever you faded away too far. You swallowed, feeling the blood rush back into your veins and cool your skin. 

“I think ‘m okay,” you mumbled, blinking away the last remnants of fog from your vision to look around the room. Your gaze swept over grayish-white panels and compartments until they landed back on Grace. 

“You sure?” he asked hesitantly, “You’ve been pretty out of it for awhile.”

You nodded slowly, like gravity weighed against each movement tenfold. “Yea.” You creaked your legs back to life by moving them slightly against the stool you were on. “I’m back.”

Grace breathed out in relief. He pulled his hands away from you slowly, as if hesitating that without his touch to ground you, you’d fade away again. He wasn’t entirely wrong, and you ached for his warmth again, but you willed yourself to stay, even if it pained you with the effort it took to keep on trying. 

“I don’t know what that was,” you said softly. “I’m sorry.” 

He pulled up a stool to sit beside you. “Don’t apologize. Things like that are bound to happen given,” he cleared his throat, “our current situation.”

Your lip twitched upward in silent gratitude. You clenched your fists to get used to the feeling back in your hands again. “Thank you, anyway. You didn’t have to do all that.”

“I was happy to. I’m sure you’d do the same for me.” 

You nodded, smiling over at him. “Without hesitation.”

He breathed in deeply, his chest dramatically rising before falling back down again with his shoulders. “Dissociation,” he said. “That’s what that was. I’ve had a handful of students struggle with it.”

“What causes it?” 

“Depends on the person.” He shrugged, looking around the room as he spoke. “It usually happens when your brain struggles to process overwhelming situations. It’s your brain’s way of protecting you from stress or trauma that might be too difficult to process at the moment.”

“Oh.” 

Grace peered over at your deflated form. “I don’t blame you. This whole situation would be difficult for anyone to process. But at least now we know how to get you back.”

You met his gaze with a smile. “Hopefully we won’t need that information again.”

“It’s okay if we do. I’ll be here to bring you back any time.” He extended his pinkie in a silent promise. You took it with your own and he let you hold onto it for a while, just letting you come back into your body with him by your side.

Taglist ♡

@anothertimdrakestan

@cherry-dropp

@missredrobin

ᝰ Batmom Fics

Not my mother. By @mischieveousmayhem

Jason Todd x Batmom

❝never a tear, baby of mine❞ by @the-daydreaming-show

Jason Todd x Batmom

“Long Overdue” by @apocalypse-shuffle

Reader was with Bruce in the past but grew distant after Jason’s death. No one tells her when he comes back from the dead until Bruce is forced to bring her in on a raid when they’re overwhelmed. -Jason and Batmom!Reader reunion.

Jason Todd & Batmom!Reade

Different by @batarangtotheheart

Batmom is Bruce’s new girlfriend. After a while, she got Dick and Damian to like her. Now she tackles Bruce’s mysterious and angry son, Jason.

when batmom gets mad by @thatawesomenerdygirl

hot mama  by @/thatawesomenerdygirl

Batmom (Reader) is hot, gorgeous, too kind for her own good and oblivious. The boys don’t like the way people stare at her.

Mothers by @toastedside

Damian had dinner with Talia and they talked about Batmom.

Interviews by @c-nstantine

More interviews with Mr. and Mrs. Wayne

Respect by @battymommastuff

Batmon finally puts her foot down.

I Saw It Coming When You Threw The First Punch by @/ragingbookdragon

What Is A Mother, But The Woman Who Loves Us Most? By @/ragingbookdragon

Happy Birthday Batmom by @/ragingbookdragon

I Have Too Many Children by @/ragingbookdragon

Batmom!Reader x Batfam by @cherryinsalemverse

My father's daughter pt2 by @raineydays411

We take a looking into how the Wayne family seems to be handling the news.

Clingy mornings by @kurogxrix

IN WHICH your clinginess towards your husband never fails to disgust your sons.

Missing Something You’ve Never Had by @xoxo-mylove

You walk in to your home to find your family looking a t you like a stranger. Your family’s counterparts discover the life they could have had and you severely miss your version of the batboys

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus by @cait-writes-stuff

You know the song I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus? Pretty much what the title says with Damian being shocked to see Batmom kissing “Santa Bruce Wayne Claus”.

Damian Wayne x Batmom

Code: Mom by @uncpanda

Batmom going up to the watchtower dragging batman down to the manor so he can eat and pass time with the family

Batmom with Scarlet Witch Powers HC by @kimberly-spirits13

batfam + batmom + hugs by @reveluving

Anniversary Blues by @bluebellhairpin

Bruce wakes up on the morning of his wedding anniversary to an empty bed. But his wife is more than prepared, and makes sure the day isn’t wasted anyway.

In the Life of by @/bluebellhairpin

A collection of goings-on’s of Wayne Manor, some dating back to… a while ago.

Count On Mom by @alisonwritesimagines

The kids try to get Bruce to get away from the computer. Luckily, there is always one person who can take his mind out of anything including Batman duties. You.

BatFamily Masterlist by @/alisonwritesimagine

Earned Position by @secretsandwriting

first kicks by @streetlamp-amber

batfamily x batmom!reader

CHRONOLOGICALLY INCORRECT | @iydiamartinx

YOUR MOM IS SUCH A MIL- | @athenalvss

ᝰ Batsis!reader

since you came into my life… by @denouemwnt

Bruce always notices that you always say “I love you” to him when he leaves you, doesn’t matter the occasion. Lots of fluff between Bruce and the reader.

True blood son...and daughter - Damian Wayne  by @ellana-ravenwood

Your first meeting with your half-brother didn’t really went well, both of you being quite hot headed…Slowly but surely however, you guys warm up to each other.

More than blood:  by @igotanidea

batboys x bat!sister

Circus Kids by @rynne311

Aftermath by @headcans-oneshots-and-stuff

Hey Brother by @book-place

Family strengths are always proven in the worst situations

Batsis Headcanons by @astralis01

Uh Oh! By @laalaaliaa

in which the batfamily is nosy

Brotherly Love by @strangeshoepatrolbandit

Turning Into Jason  by @/lazydoodlesandfanfic

Bruce Wayne X Daughter!Reader

Little Daredevil  by @/lazydoodlesandfanfic

Nothing Said by @/lazydoodlesandfanfic

Knock knock, let your new big brother in. by @dead-sane-stuff

New to the manor and the real world, (Y/N) meets a tall stranger with a some white strands of hair.

The Mysterious Visitor 3 by @deebris

Bruce begins to suspect that Damian is hiding something after the two of you finally see each other, and the father-son trust between them is shaken. Tim finally sees your face, and something strange happens. The meeting between siblings was not successful, and to their dismay, Bruce will need to confront Talia face to face once again.

ᝰ Other

Day at the Pool | @unmotivatedwrit3r

Headcanons - First Meeting | @bluebellhairpin

✨Who’s the Sunshine and the Midnight Rain in Your Relationship?✨ | @/bruhseidon

bat dads or girl dads ? girl dads ! | @pinkhoodi

ᝰ Masterlists

BATMAN/ BATFAMILY MASTERLIST | @lazydoodlesandfanfic

Batfamily Masterlist | @avengerdragoness

Batfamily Masterlist | @ragingbookdragon

BATFAM MASTERLIST | @catxsnow

Batfam Platonic Masterlist  | @book-place

Batfam Masterlist | @toastedkiwi

Batfamily Masterlist | @/avengerdragoness

and it means that your heart performs an impressive backflip and sticks the landing only to dissolve into a melted puddle when you open the door and find him in a casual, soft t-shirt and sweatpants combo with a winter coat and warm smile to top it off. “hey.”

hey. which is a common ass word. that should mean nothing.

that should absolutely not make you want to smile like an idiot, because everyone says hey.

you sigh heavily instead, stepping aside to let him in. “c'mon, ballerina boy," you mutter, leaning heavily against the door. "let’s get this over with.”

“what, not looking forward to it?” he quips, with that smug, stupid little head tilt he does as he slips past you.

and, for some stupid reason, you hold his gaze the entire time. it's maybe, maybe two whole seconds, but it feels like longer, because he's… him.

like somebody took a romcom and gave it a pulse, and a nice smile, and pretty brown eyes.

you swing the door closed with a soft click, and resign yourself to ignoring all of that. “i’m not looking forward to stepping on your toes. literally.”

“don’t worry, i grabbed the thickest shoes i own,” he teases, slipping off his coat and setting his keys and phone on the coffee table you'd slid out of the way. “plenty of cushion.”

“the dress shoes and sweatpants thing is an interesting statement, i’ll give you that.”

“you’re just jealous that i-” he glances pointedly at your own shoes and sweatpants as you stop a few feet back, that dumb little smile making your crisis much worse- “can make it work.”

you roll your eyes, because what else is there to do when the handsome guy about to teach you to waltz is being a playful jerk? “yeah, well, some of us don’t get to look good in everything.”

at least it earns you a sputter of laughter.

it's the little things, really.

-

“ready to go?”

“ready is a strong word, todd.”

“so grumpy. what, you afraid you’ll learn something?”

it's not the learning you're afraid of, not that you'll tell him that.

for one thing, you really are nervous about stepping on his toes.

for another, you're afraid of breaking the comfortable, teasing rhythm you've found yourselves in. afraid that if you step into his orbit, the pull may truly be too strong to escape.

it's one thing to swallow butterflies and mask surges of affection with playful eyerolls from across the room, but up close and personal? more challenging, especially considering you're trying to hide from the protégé of the batman himself.

because he couldn't just be pretty and clever and sweet. no, he also has to be the most observant person you've ever met. why not?

“hey,” he calls, snapping you out of your thoughts. his smile's shifting from playful to reassuring, warmth seeping from him and threatening to melt you all over again. “c'mon, we’ll go slow.”

he offers you his left hand, steady and confident.

you lay your right palm over it, trying not to focus on the feeling of warm, calloused skin, or the way his fingers squeeze your hand.

“there we go. now your hand on my shoulder-” he nudges his right shoulder forward slightly, an open invitation you carefully take (against your better judgment)- “and mine on your waist. this good?”

“this is good,” you respond, a little more honestly than he'll realize. yes, it's unnerving holding and being held by the guy that makes your heart do kickflips, but his hands are gentle despite the visible wear and tear and his movements are cautious and slow. doing what he can to make you comfortable.

which almost works, actually. because when he's not making you want to throttle him or kiss him stupid, he's… calming. which is why you're doing any of this.

it's one thing to have a handsome guy that likes to grin at you and go round-for-round with stupid teases. that would be an easier thing to ignore. no, this handsome guy grins and teases and is also a good friend that makes everything seem more manageable.

he nods a little, which jogs you out of your thoughts, and shifts slightly before clearing his throat. “okay. so here’s where things get tricky.”

“oh, joy.”

“i figure i’ll lead, because i actually know what i’m doing, so i’ll start by stepping forward with my right foot like this-” he shifts forwards, watching his shoes and nudging the toe of yours gently- “and you’ll step your left foot back to make room.”

“like this?”

“yeah, that’s good. step back onto the ball of your foot- yep, perfect. now,” he says, glancing up at you and nodding to his left, “other foot that way.”

you step sideways slowly, actually grateful to be focusing on the moves instead of him, and he mirrors your movement.

“just like that. now just step in, bring your left foot right.”

you do, and hum a little curious sound to see if that was what he meant.

“that’s it!” his gaze jumps back up to meet yours, a goofy hint of a smile on his face. “half a box step down. now we just gotta do it backwards.”

“…you’re kidding, right?”

“uh… no. sorry.”

you sigh. he doesn’t look sorry, and you point it out under your breath, ignoring the cute little laugh he gives you in return before guiding you into the reverse.

-

“-and he does this thing- i’ve told you about the grumble thing before,” jason pauses, pointing his water bottle at you in a silent question and mimicking your nod before taking a sip and continuing. “so he does the grumble thing with his voice, right, trying to figure out who hired this guy and he must have had a death wish or something because he flips him- bruce- off.”

this is better. sitting on your couch and listening to him tell stories- ones he almost definitely shouldn't be telling you, but you're not about to stop him- this is much more familiar ground.

there's something sweet about it. mundane and calm. just watching him as he tells a family story. it's… cute.

“seriously?”

“dead serious. he flips him off and goes-” he raises his voice to a nasally, high tone- “your mom hired me.”

you wince, somewhere in the middle of a startled laugh, just imagining having the guts required to say that to batman. sure, you've never actually seen the bat, but you've heard enough to picture an intimidatingly enormous, angry looking figure. “ouch.”

“yeah, he had a bad time after that.”

“did you ever find out who hired him?”

he pushes up off the couch, stretching towards the ceiling with a groan. “not yet, but i’m sure bruce’ll know by the time i get home. he said he had a lead this morning.”

“well,” you follow suit, setting your water off to the side. “sounds like you’ll have your work cut out for you tonight.”

“usually do,” he sighs. “alright, break time’s over. back to ballroom bootcamp.”

you laugh again, quickly (weakly) covering it with a serious expression as he shoots you something you're sure is supposed to look chiding. “right. time to be serious.”

“mhm,” he mumbles dubiously, which only serves to make you giggle again. “yeah, you sound very serious.”

“you just said ballroom bootcamp, jason. what did you expect?”

he rolls his eyes, and you pretend not to see the smile he hides behind another sip of water before closing his water bottle and tossing it onto the couch. “c'mere, let’s run through the basics one more time and then we’ll call it a day, yeah?”

-

“well,” he says, bringing his feet to a stand-still, but continuing to sway back and forth. “there’s the basics.”

you want to complain. or at least make a joke about how the two of you describe basic differently.

you don't.

you smile, instead.

“i guess that wasn’t awful.”

“no?”

“nope.”

and maybe that's a mistake, because the ghost of a smirk is on his face as he slows the little sway to a stop. “so does that mean i win?”

you roll your eyes and sigh again, his smugness becoming even more evident as you stall. “you’re the worst, y'know that?”

“is that a yes?”

he's still holding you.

his hands are loose, sure, so you could pull away. probably should, if you're honest with yourself. but you don't, just yet, because he's leading this stupid dance.

he can end it.

“yes, jason,” you say, more resigned than you genuinely feel. because now his smirk is warmer, dipping into something more sincere than his usual ribbing, and you've never been very good at resisting his sincerity. “you win.”

“i’m mature enough to spare you the ‘i told you so’, but-”

even there, even being a know-it-all that's too proud of himself, he sounds warm. so you interject. “you told me so?”

“a little.”

you huff a laugh, and he finally pulls his hand from your waist. so you take the queue and slide your hands off of him, swallowing the mild disappointment at the loss of warmth and turning to get some water instead.

“so,” he starts slowly, and if you didn't know better, you'd almost call his tone cautious. nervous. “does that mean you’ll come?”

“wasn’t that the deal?” you ask, taking a sip of water and glancing back.

“well- i mean, yes, but-”

“yes," you cut him off gently, because jason todd stumbling over words can not possibly be good, and the last thing you want is for him to think that all of your grumbling was actually your attempt at wriggling out of this. "i’ll be there.”

his grin comes back full force, dazzling and warm, the kind that you wish you could put in a bottle and open on bad days to make everything better. “cool.”

“cool?”

“cool.”

-

jason todd leaves your apartment two full hours after he arrived.

leaving you to drop onto your couch and stare at nothing, cheeks burning and water gripped loosely in your hand.

he gets back to the manor with a spring in his step he very much tries to hide.

so, obviously, bruce is in the foyer, the least convienent place possible. impossible to avoid without doubling back around to the mudroom instead of the front door.

bruce, the most infuriating man alive, takes one look at jason's poker face and smiles right into his stupid cup of tea.

impulsively going back the next morning to buy two of the figurines was easy enough, too. (well, easy to choose one dressed in black for him. yours was a painstakingly slow process of choosing between two dressed in different shades of your favorite color, a process that took long enough that the shop owner actually came over to ask if he was alright.)

the tricky part is deciding what to do with yours now that he has it. it feels like too perfect an opportunity to pass up: win or lose, the stupid bet he'd bantered and teased his way into ends with something dangerously close to a traditional date.

so… technically he has multiple plans. ideas for plans. quasi-plans.

but he needs a plan plan.

it'll depend on you, he knows that.

the only one that can decide whether or not you successfully learn to dance is you. so, if the idea of being in the crowd of snobs flocking to wayne manor is too much, you have an easy way out. which he likes.

and as much as he would like- love,honestly- to have you there to make things more tolerable, it's not like jason can really complain about the idea of taking you out for ice cream. hell, it's one of his favorite things to do; sit in your favorite booth and playfully argue about something that doesn't matter or pretend not to notice when you drop ice cream on your shirt. (again.)

point is, either way, win or lose: perfect chance to find out if you feel the same way he does.

(assuming that he, the guy that jumps off buildings every night, doesn't chicken out. which… he might. the idea of fumbling the one place in his life where he gets to be a normal dude and be honest about his nightly activities is more than a little upsetting.)

so he needs a plan.

which is what he's turning over in his mind now, studying the table as he idly stirs the soup alfred made for dinner. it had also been on his mind on the drive to class, and during his lecture, and the ride home, and while sparring with tim- the last of which had given the kid the chance to punch him square in the jaw.

on the bright side, it had helped ease jason’s concerns about him stepping into the world of bats and birds and homicidal criminals.

because it hurt.

(more than it should have, considering he could throw tim halfway across the cave.)

on the other hand, though, he’d gotten punched in the face.

and to make matters worse, alfred saw it, meaning it's bound to come back up eventually.

“master jason,” speak of the devil, “i did not intend for that to be a centerpiece. i believe eating would be a better use of your time than stirring it.”

he glances up with a sheepish smile, because he's lost track of how long he's been sitting here- which means it's been entirely too long. “sorry, alfred.”

the older man hums in acknowledgement, a warm sound that's almost always followed by curiosity. usually the kind that will make jason embarrass himself, just a little.“distracted again, sir?”

“a little, i guess.”

“historically,” alfred says, walking forwards to stand opposite jason, across the table. “a busy mind has led to poor results in your nightly activities. would you care to voice your concerns, or shall i prepare the infirmary in advance?”

jason lets out a small huff of laughter, dropping his gaze back to his bowl. “i’m alright, thanks.”

“ah, i see. a bruised ego as well as a jaw, hm?”

there it is.

but maybe that'll be it. a jab or two, and then dropping it.

yeah, right.

“i can take a punch, alfred," jason mutters without any real heat, taking an obedient bite of soup. delicious soup, actually. "even if itisfrom the kid.”

“then perhaps,” alfred says, entirely too knowingly, “this is related to your sudden interest in figurine collection?”

jason's spoon is set right back down in his bowl.

he's not going to say it out loud, but he legitimately has no idea how alfred knows about that. the figures are in a box in jason's closet, and alfred hadn't even been home when he'd brought them in.

…ah. alfred hadn't been home. alfred had been out.

"you shop over there a lot?" jason asks dryly.

"shall i remind you how many buttons i must replace on a weekly basis, sir?"

the fabric store up the road from the thrift shop. of course. meaning that he'd probably seen jason staring up at a bunch of ceramics, like an idiot, which means that he can't even pass this off as a passing interest.

“i ever tell you that you’re where bruce gets the know-it-all thing?” he asks after a beat.

he earns an amused tilt of the head. “quite fair, sir. much like you gained master bruce’s tendency to let things consume you.”

“maybe,” jason mutters, not quite as rueful as he was hoping for.

having alfred of all people compare him to bruce still feels like a compliment, even when it's for something jason could ring bruce's neck over.

even when it's followed by one of those patented alfred silences that get someone to admit to murder.

“hey, alfred?”

maybe plans are overhyped.

“yes, sir?”

screw it.

“it’s not as hard as it seems,” he responds easily, voice just a little quieter than usual as he takes a hand out of his jacket pocket to pick up the nearest figure. he studies it, thumb tracing the details of the ceramic skirt as you try to keep your eyes from tracing his hand. “you get the hang of it.”

you scoff lightly, rolling your eyes playfully away from him and back to the display. “yeah, sure, mister grace on two legs.”

“it’s like riding a bike.”

“and grace doesn’t come in handy there either, huh?”

he reaches past you, setting the figure back on the shelf with one of those flat looks that doesn't actually make it to his eyes. the one that means you're successfully amusing him and he's not willing to give you the satisfaction of knowing it yet. “fine, it comes in handy. but this kind of thing-” he brings down a different figure, this one featuring two small, ceramic people in formal wear frozen mid-sway- “doesn’t take much. just a little practice.”

“mhm.” you shift to the side, eyes passing over the next batch of knick-knacks and landing on a set of dolls having a tea party. “somehow i feel like you have an advantage, there.”

“want to bet on it?”

that catches your attention again. “what?”

“i can teach you to dance,” he says, playful confidence coating the statement. easy, smooth, like it's nothing he hasn't done before. (has he done it before?) “and i can do it between now and bruce’s big benefit on the 20th."

"bullshit."

"if i can’t, i’ll buy us extra large sundaes from grover’s.”

you're looking him square in the pretty brown eyes as he doubles down, and you should definitely know better than to take him up on something like that.

one, you're not a dancer. two, being that close to the guy you definitely have feelings for is a terrible idea. (doubly so when he's, y'know, batman's kid. hiding anything from jason is a lot like trying to use glass for wrapping paper.) three, he never cocks his head like that unless he's got someone right where he wants them, and that innocent smile is bad news, too.

“ooh… grover’s, huh? that’s pretty high stakes, jay.” you quip anyway, tilting your head with a similarly playful smile. because even if you know better, you can't help but be a little curious about where he's going with this. “what do you get if you actually pull it off?”

“if i can…”he trails off dramatically to look over the figurines again before meeting your eyes again. “you come as my plus one to the gala. keep me from dying of boredom.”

…excuse me?

you stare at him for a beat (which feels like six), trying to decide if you think he's serious or not.

"what?"

he shrugs.

“don’t you think you should ask bruce or something?" you ask, brows raised and heart faster than you're willing to acknowledge at the moment. "y'know, before you just start tossing around invitations to commoners?"

"he’d be happy to have you, trust me." he looks- and sounds- very much like he means that. it's wry, and quick, but genuine.

(which- okay, you'd probably be better company than the usual crowd that goes to these things, if even half the stories jason has told you are accurate. but it's still weird to hear.)

"besides, what’s one more person in a crowd that size? bet he wouldn’t even notice if i didn’t tell him.”

you raise a brow.

“okay, he notices everything,” he admits, somehow twirling the figure in his palm- some little finger flick you don't really track, mostly focused on how much that figure will shatter if he messes up. “but that’s not the point.”

an amused hum escapes you as you consider the offer. ice cream with a friend, or a fancy wayne event spent watching jason pretend to be amused by muckety mucks. either way, you get free entertainment; but either way, you have to get through him teaching you to dance without falling on your face, swooning, or otherwise dying of proximity-based embarrassment.

you should say no. you should roll your eyes and tell him to shut up and nudge him towards the books or something.

you should treat this like the joke it could oh-so-easily be.

for some reason, you don't.

“you'd better be ready to go all out on toppings when you lose.”

“oooor,” he drags the word out with a boyish grin you suspect could charm the city to a stop, catching the figure solidly in his palm (because of course he does). “when i win, you better be ready to put up with the sound of business men fake laughing about the weather for hours.”

your nose scrunches up, making him laugh.

another warm, cozy sound.

the pattern isn’t lost on you- how warm and cozy he always manages to seem- but instead of unpacking the butterflies it sets loose in your stomach, you finally roll your eyes and sigh. “fine, deal.”

his grin returns, softer this time. “cool. so-” his eyes widen, darting past you- “woah, now that is a jacket.”

he puts the figurine down and slides by you, barely brushing your shoulder as he passes and leaving a hint of his cologne in his wake: a burst of something floral wrapped in faint cedar and something else you can’t quite identify.

as you trail after him, heart skipping erratically from the ridiculous conversation, you catch yourself hoping you’ll get another chance to try.

he's wiggling out of his varsity-style gotham university jacket, gently draping it over a nearby rack before tugging on one made of a tan leather. you catch his eye in the mirror as he adjusts the collar, fingers as graceful and as easy as all of his stupid movements.

“what d'you think?”

you twirl a finger, and he follows the motion with a smooth spin, arms out to showcase the sleeves. upsettingly, it looks good. really good. just like everything else this bastard puts on. but it looks good like a costume looks good- there's something about it that just isn't right, and you can't really put it into words.

“hm… it’s nice, but…”

he cocks his head again, eyes on your expression like he can read your mind. “not me?”

“not really, no.”

he clutches a hand to his chest, feigned hurt barely disguising that amusement you've spent the last few months trying not to chase. “what, don’t think i’m cool enough for a leather jacket?”

“sorry, jason," you say, not even close to sounding sorry as you reach for his jacket and wave it playfully. "besides, this one brings out your eyes.”

a small laugh escapes him, and he shakes his head, shrugging the tan leather off. “that was totally a priority when i bought it, too.”

“...looks good on you,” you offer, watching him pull his own jacket back on. watching the black and yellow fabric settle on shoulders you try not to think about too much.

Dick is squinting at the sliver of light leaking through your blackout curtains when you return to the bedroom. He must have forgotten to close them all the way when he got back from patrol last night. 

“Want me to close the blinds?” You ask, pulling socks from your dresser drawer. 

“Nah, I’m awake now.” Dick rolls out of bed and into his morning stretching routine. “I’ll just nap later. And besides,” he says, reaching up to grab your wrist from where he’s splayed out on the floor, “now I get more time with you.” 

“That would be a lot more charming if there wasn’t a drool stain on my pillow.” You’re teasing even as you bend down, acquiescing to the kiss he’s demanding in not so many words. “How long’s today’s shift?” 

“I’m teaching two classes today so it starts at nine and ends at two.” Dick moves through his stretching routine as you brush your teeth and change into work clothes. “So I’ll head back and take a nap before dinner and then head out to patrol.” 

You step out for a moment to turn on the coffee machine. “Napping here?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Mkay.” 

“Here is where all my favorite hoodies are.” 

You shrug, losing the fight to keep a smile off your face. “Wonder why that is.” 

The coffee machine warms up and beeps to let you know. Dick moves on to standing stretches. You make your hair presentable. 

“Ah shit,” Dick laments from the bedroom. In the kitchen with you, the toaster oven returns your bagel, now a light brown. You quickly spread a topping over it and shove it into aluminum foil to eat in the car. 

“What?”

“I left my work stuff at the manor. So I’ve got to drive all the way over there and then all the way to work. Which means I’ll be lucky if I get in on time.” 

“Any way I can make your trip easier?” You ask, watching Dick pour and chug a cup of coffee. Your bagel is deposited on top of your work bag so you can pull on your shoes. There’s tension in his shoulders now that wasn’t there before and you hate it. 

“No, I don't think so. Unless you can control the traffic.” You cup his jaw, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “Although,” Dick continues, “that does sound like something a supervillain would do. Please don’t become a traffic-controlling supervillain.” 

You laugh, pressing another kiss to his temple before you pull away. Your bag is draped over your shoulder and you grab your keys and sunglasses before searching your pockets for your phone. 

“You know, it would probably be a lot easier if—” Your pockets are empty. “Where—?”

“Here.” Dick tosses it to you.

“Thanks. It would probably just be simpler for you to move in for real than for me to become a traffic-controlling supervillain.” 

Dick’s expression shutters. “Yeah, maybe.” 

You want to ask him what's wrong. As if to disagree, your calendar alert buzzes 7:30 in your pocket. If you don’t leave now, you are going to be late. 

“Okay, I’ll see you later. Text me if you need anything before I get home, okay?” 

“Yeah,” Dick muses distantly. “I will.” 

“Love you!” 

“Love you too.”

The door shuts with a click.

Dick isn’t sleeping in your room when you get home. You don’t even think he’s been back since the morning. His coffee mug is clean and on the drying rack. Upon a second glance, some of his stuff is missing from your bathroom sink. 

Hey, you text. Did you end up napping at the manor? 

There’s a twenty or so minute delay before your phone vibrates in your pocket. 

Yeah, sorry, Dick replies. Bruce wanted to brief me on something for tonight. 

No worries. Still up for dinner here? 

The typing symbol appears and disappears a few times before you get a response. 

I’ll probably just eat here. Don’t want to fight the rush hour traffic

Yeah, makes sense, you reply even as disappointment settles in your chest. Text me if you need anything, okay? And be safe

Dick’s next response is much quicker. Anything for you ;)

You don’t even try to suppress the butterflies. God, you love this man. 

Dinner is a little lonelier without Dick, but he sends you what you gather is a pre-patrol selfie of himself, Cass, and a reluctant Jason. They’re all maskless and the photo shows only from their shoulders up, but you know the nightwing suit inside and out at this point. And you recognize Jason’s jacket. Even so, there’s a weird feeling niggling the back of your brain all night.   

With your intuition, you’re starting to think you should try gambling. As soon as you take your phone off of do not disturb at seven-thirty in the morning, you’re greeted with a dozen missed texts. You push down the panic that threatens to choke you and look at the situation rationally. If you only got text messages, everything is probably fine. Or at least not urgent. Dick’s calls are on an emergency bypass so, if something happens and your phone is on Do Not Disturb mode overnight, you can still be reached by anyone calling from his phone. And you know Barbara or even Tim would get ahold of you if Dick’s phone was out of the picture. You have the batcave number on bypass too, under “In-laws” in your contacts. A middle of the night call has only happened twice in the last few years. Once was an extreme reaction to fear toxin. The other was a near fatal stab wound. 

You scroll up to the top. There’s a message from Babs first. Whatever he tells you, she typed, it is a knee sprain. Then: He’ll be okay with a couple weeks of PT

I fucked up my bad knee, Dick’s first texts reads. 

But not badly 

Staying at the manor tonight 

There’s a gap of about a half hour until the next text. 

Actually might stay for the couple weeks to make PT easier 

You don’t have to rush over here, Alfred’s got it handled 

And Bruce is doing enough mothering for three people 

So you don’t need to skip work or anything

But if you could bring me some of the sweats I keep in your apartment, those are the ones I wear braces with usually

I only have one pair here  

Also I just realized I kind of spammed you but I’m actually fine 

Don’t panic

Love you 

Dick’s “don’t panic” text kind of makes you smile, but the anxiety in your chest doesn’t dissolve at all until you hear a response from Barbara as you head out the front door. Is he really okay? Should I call out sick?  You asked. 

He’s okay, minor painkillers. Just walking with crutches for a couple days. No reason you should skip work  

Okay, thank you. I appreciate you, you text back. In the parking garage, your car chirps a response to your key fob. You pull in a measured breath, closing your door behind you and engaging the door locks. 

“He’s fine. I’ll see him later.” 

~

The air in your apartment is stale when you return from work. You crack open a window and just breathe for a moment. It’s not like Dick is always at your place when you get home. He has a job (and a night job) and technically lives in Bristol, but you couldn’t shake the anxiety from that morning during your entire workday. And you didn’t see him the night before. The smell of exhaust that pervades Gotham air brings you back to yourself. 

“Okay, sweatpants, the book he was reading. Brace is in the…second drawer?” you mutter to yourself, puttering across your apartment. You change your clothes and pack an extra set (to potentially wear tomorrow if you stay the night at the manor) before adding your laptop and a couple other essentials to your bag. 

There’s some amount of rush hour traffic—as you expected there to be when crossing central Gotham in the later afternoon—but you get to Wayne Manor in just about forty minutes, including the five minutes it takes to get up the driveway and through the gate on the way in. 

You don’t have a key, but Alfred greets you at the door almost immediately. Last he’d seen Dick, your partner was in the main living room and, sure enough, he’s napping on the couch when you get there. 

“Hey, my love,” you murmur, letting your bag softly fall to the floor as you sink down on the couch beside him. There’s a new bruise blooming around the corner of Dick’s jaw and a scrape on the same cheek. His knee, iced and wrapped in a clunky brace, is elevated on a pillow. The sight makes your chest tighten. Dick has a lot of patrol injuries of various ages that act up on occasion; the whole family does. His right knee is the one that comes back to haunt him the most. 

Still half asleep, Dick leans into the hand you’re running through his hair. He wakes slowly. You catalog every second, from the way his fingers twitch around the blanket someone must have draped across him after he fell asleep to the slow blinks you only see when he’s waking up somewhere he feels completely safe.

“Mm hi,” Dick mumbles at you, voice soft and rough from sleep. “When’d you get here?” 

“Just now.” You don’t stop running your fingers through his hair. “Good nap?” 

“Mhm. This is the best nap couch.” 

“Oh, so I’ve been told.” 

Dick shuffles a little, shifting to sit up. You only catch the flicker of pain that crosses his face because you’re searching for it. 

“Feeling okay?” 

“Better now that you’re here,” he grins. 

You stop running your fingers through his hair to give a light squeeze to the back of his neck. “Sap.” 

“I’m not ashamed.” 

You bend to kiss the smug smile off his face. “I know.” 

“How was work?” Dick asks, leaning to press a kiss to your shoulder. 

“Same old.” 

“You sure? You look stressed.” 

You huff a laugh. “I was worried about you.” 

“Oh.” Dick says. “You don’t have to be. I’m good.” 

“You, my dear, and your entire family, have painfully skewed standards for what ‘I’m good’ means.” Your foot nudges the bag you’d left on the floor. “Oh, I brought you a couple things. The sweats you wanted but also the brace you left at my place a few months back. And the book you’ve been reading because I know there’s at least one person in this huge house that will help me pin your butt to a bed or a couch for the next day. And then a couple other random things I thought you’d want.” 

You pass the bag to Dick when he makes a move to lean over and grab it, eyebrow raised in reprimand. Dick’s face contorts into an expression of pure innocence you don’t believe for a second. For a moment, you wonder how on earth Bruce said no to this man when he was a kid. 

“Hey I’ve been looking for this!” Dick exclaims, holding up a Flash zip-up hoodie. You shrug. 

“It needed to be washed.” Your partner raises an eyebrow. “So I wore it and then put it in the laundry. Your fault for leaving it behind.” 

“I wore it before patrol.” 

“Your point?” 

Dick rolls his eyes, smiling. “Thank you.” 

“Of course. And I-” “Are these your work clothes?” 

You blink at him for a second, not expecting the tone shift in his voice. “Uh, yeah. I figured I should have them. In case I end up here too late to want to go home and just end up staying over.” 

“You should go home.” 

“Now?” you ask, startled. “I just got here.” 

“No, not now. But tonight. Getting to your job from here is an extra thirty minute drive in morning traffic.” 

“I know. But it would be worth it to be here with you tonight.” 

Dick doesn’t answer, eyes dropping down to the blanket. You watch him for a moment then slowly move your hand across the blanket, fingers crawling over the fabric, before flipping it over. Dick’s hand slides comfortably into yours. 

“Are you okay? I just-”

“I’m okay. Tired,” Dick offers. “And I should probably take another ibuprofen.” 

“Alright.” You squeeze his hand before letting go and standing up. “I’ll get it for you. And put this back in the freezer.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Of course.”

You take the melted ice pack and press a kiss to the top of his head before heading out of the room. Dick’s gaze is heavy on the back of your neck as you leave. 

When you wake up in the morning, your bed is empty. Again. You knew it would be. Even so, that doesn’t stop your half-asleep brain from reaching for the warmth that usually occupies the other side. The stark cold of the sheets wakes you up. You saw Dick yesterday and you already miss him. It’s better for him to be at the manor for PT, you remind yourself. And he doesn’t actually live here. Nevertheless, both truths sink like rocks in your chest. 

There’s no one stretching on your rug, no second set of prescriptions on the bathroom counter, no extra pair of shoes sitting by the door. Dick’s mug sits still in the drying rack. You consider using it sometime around day three. It feels wrong. You put it back. 

“If it’s any consolation, so did I,” Jon shrugged. 

“I didn’t mean to miss the last hour,” you argued. 

“Last hour of what?” Damian stood up in the aisle, pulling Jon’s carry-on out from where he’d tucked it in. Jon grabbed his backpack then helped you pull your suitcase upright. 

“Of—thanks Jon—of time left with you guys.” You winced. Maybe that was too honest. Tugging your backpack over your shoulders, you followed Jon towards the exit at the end of the car. Damian stopped at the car door. You braced yourself with your suitcase to avoid toppling over as the train shuddered on the tracks. It really did feel like the plane turbulence from earlier. 

“This stop, Gotham Station,” the loudspeaker declared. One thing airplanes have going for them, you thought, better sound systems. The train’s announcements were barely audible. “Doors will open on the right side of the train. Please watch your step.” Anything further was indecipherable under the burbling of the speaker. 

“Wait, why did you say the last hour?” Jon asked as the three of you took the escalator up to the station's main area. 

“I have no idea how to contact you after this.” You pulled your suitcase over the lip of the escalator with a tug and continued on. Despite the amount of public transportation you’ve taken, Damian seemed to know the station better than you. You followed him as he weaved through the groups of people sprinkled around the area, Jon right behind. 

Damian stopped just outside a side entrance, and you moved around to his other side to avoid blocking the door. Jon followed. 

“We do all have phone numbers,” Damian suggested pulling out his phone. You assumed he was texting whoever was picking up him and Jon. 

“Oh, duh!” 

Jon’s excitement made you smile. The thought had crossed your mind earlier, but you’d dismissed it as a non-starter. You felt a little silly for that now. 

Jon’s phone was already open to a new contact sheet when he handed it to you. You weren’t sure if you’d ever actually given them your last name or if they remembered ever seeing it on your train ticket or boarding pass, but there was bound to be someone between Gotham and Metropolis that shared your first name, so you added it in anyway. Jon took it back from you and started typing. 

Your phone buzzed straightaway. You pulled it out of your pocket, smiling. 

“hi :)” the first message read. It was sent to you and a third number. Then “it’s jon”

“Huh,” you mused, reading it. “I’ve never seen anyone spell it like that before. That’s cool.”

You unlocked your phone, opened it to the group chat, and held it out to Damian. 

“Would you mind? So I don’t misspell your name?”

Damian muttered an assent and took it from you. He returned it with both contacts filled out. 

“Oh, great, thanks.” You chuckled at Jon’s contact. The name, instead of the Jon offered by the initial text, had been filled out as “Jonathan Kent.” Damian’s name, you were proud to say, was spelled the way you imagined it was. The last name was a funny coincidence, you thought, considering he lived in Gotham. 

“Wayne?” You asked, about to make a teasing joke. 

“Like Bruce Wayne, yes.” Damian said, carefully watching your reaction. 

“Like ‘Wayne Enterprises’ Wayne?” He nodded. “Holy shit. Wow, okay, I didn’t expect that. Wow.” You couldn’t read the expression on his face. Some part of you wondered if he was waiting for you to make a comment about his money or his father. 

“Why did you take the train with me?” You asked instead. The concrete was rough beneath your shoes, a noticeable contrast from the smoothness of airport flooring. “You could have easily had someone pick you up. Pick both of you up. So why–?” 

“Because we wanted to,” Jon answered simply. 

“I am not in the habit of making,” Damian hesitated, “friends and then leaving them behind.” 

“Yeah,” Your heart thudded loudly in your chest. “I’m glad we agree on that.” 

An unfamiliar black car pulled up beside you. You took a couple steps back. It was nice, but anything unfamiliar, nice or not, wasn’t worth the risk. 

Damian, on the other hand, moved in closer. He opened the passenger door and said something to the driver then turned back towards you. 

“Do you want us to drop you off at home?”

You hesitated for a moment. Jon was looking hopefully at you. Damian’s “friends” echoed in your head. 

“Yeah,” you agreed. “That would be great.” 

Jon’s face split into a grin. The corner of Damian’s lips quirked up. There was some warm feeling in your chest at the fact that you caught it. You smiled back. 

Alfred Pennyworth, as you learned his name was, stopped the car right outside of your building less than thirty minutes later. 

“I’ll get your suitcase,” Jon offered, hopping out of the car as you collected the rest of your things. 

“Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.” 

“You are very welcome,” he answered. 

You shut the door behind you, now face to face with Jon. 

“Is a hug okay?” You asked him. “I’m not sure if that’s a thing you do but-“

Jon gives good hugs, you decided immediately. You could feel the weight and warmth of his arms where they circled your shoulders. 

“I’ll text you, okay?” He let go, hands moving to shove in his pockets. “I’ll take a picture of Metropolis when I get home and send it.” 

You smiled at him; there was something concrete to look forward to. Damian came around the back of the car. 

“You’re not a hug person, right?” You asked him. He shrugged. 

“Only for certain people.” 

You nodded, oddly disappointed. Damian opened his arms. 

“Are you sure?” You asked him. He nodded and you let him set the pace, tightening your grip only when he did. Damian was a good hugger too, you realized. You wondered if the older brother you heard of hours ago on the plane and Jon both had something to do with that. 

“You guys know where I live now,” you adjusted your backpack over your shoulder and pulled up the handle on your suitcase. “So come visit sometime, okay?” Your gaze wandered over to Jon. “Well if you’re in town, I guess. Metropolis isn’t exactly walking distance.” 

Jon chuckled. 

“I’m here pretty often.”

Damian scoffed a quiet laugh. 

“We will. And keep in touch.”

“Yeah,” you smiled. “You guys too.”

You gave a final wave before heading into your building. A cloud of melancholy followed you inside. You ignored it, pulling dirty clothes from your suitcase to toss in the hamper before heading to take a shower. 

Hair dripping but finally clean, you flopped onto your bed, reaching for your phone. Three messages were waiting for you. You answered the one from your parent, asking if you’d gotten home safe. The second was an email. You’d deal with that later, after you got some sleep. The third was a picture from Damian. 

He didn’t even make it through my shower, the attached message read. On your screen, Jon was lying on a couch underneath Damian’s large dog. He was fast asleep. 

“It feels more like a train right now than a plane.” 

“I agree. This is irregular at best.” 

You nearly missed the crackle of the loudspeaker from underneath the raised voices of those around you. 

“Ladies and gentleman, there has been a slight issue with one of our regulators. As of now, all passengers and attendants are to remain seated for their safety. Our next step is to make an emergency landing at the Philadelphia airport where there will then be connecting flights to Gotham. If you would rather find an alternate method of transport, let the front desk know as soon as we arrive so any luggage is forwarded to baggage claim.” 

You could barely process the new information over the sudden uproar. 

“This has never happened to you, I assume?” Damian spoke loudly. 

“No, nothing like this. I’d never even had a delay this bad before but this? No it-it’s crazy.” The answer to your question was chiseled into the shaken expression on Damian’s face but you asked anyway. “Either of you?”

Twin shakes of the head confirmed your assumption. 

“It’s not an emergency right? Like I know it’s an emergency landing but not a fall out of the sky kind of emergency right?” Jon’s blue eyes were wide. You shrugged helplessly.

“I want to say they’d tell us if it was but-”

“But they’ve been less than forthcoming so far so why begin now?” Damian finished. 

“Yeah,” you agreed. “Exactly.” 

Beside your seat, the emergency exit lights lit up. 

“That doesn’t bode well.” Damian pulled the words out of your brain. “But panicking,” he hissed at the woman lamenting in the row behind you, “will not solve anything.” 

You didn’t think Damian realized Jon was clinging to his hand. You didn’t think he knew he was holding yours.  

“Jon, you’re shaking the floor.” The words came out harsher than you intended. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be-I just-it’s-”

“Sorry I just-” Jon switched from tapping his foot to holding Damian’s left hand in his, focus tuned on his fingers. Damian’s gaze was locked on where his right hand was linked with yours. You pulled away as if his gaze burned you. “I’m never flying commercial again,” Jon finished. 

The laughter that bubbled out of your mouth was more hysterical than you intended. 

Another bout of rough turbulence wracked the plane. You kept your hands to yourself his time, arms crossed against your chest to squeeze at your biceps. 

You barely heard Jon’s whispered cursing underneath the panic rising throughout the rest of the plane.

Damian stayed quiet, but the hand that wasn’t held in Jon’s was tightly clenched. If he wasn’t human, you might have expected there to be holes bored into the head of an older man across the aisle. You wanted to quiet the guy yourself; his catastrophic ranting was only adding into your own anxiety. Instead, you spent a couple minutes making sure all of the stuff in your backpack was tucked away. 

“He does know everyone else can hear him, right?” You asked as you sat up. Both boys chuckled. Jon’s fingers tapped rapidly on his thigh. 

“Alright folks,” the pilot’s voice interrupted the catastrophizing. “We’ve begun the landing process. Please be aware that further turbulence is normal. We should be on the ground soon.”