☆LOVE ME DEAD☆

Maybe you flirt back a little with that beat cop who stops into the coffee shop you work every morning, who throws you a wink and says he's keeping the city safe for you, even though you know you shouldn't. Maybe you even agree to go out with him for a drink and let him take you on a ride to the docks on his bike afterward. Maybe even more than once. He's handsome, charismatic. Probably would make a good boyfriend. It's a shame you have a roster of other men in your phone who would too.

But dick is sweet, and hot, and you don't have it in you to let him go, or maybe you just don't want to give up the attention he gives you. So when he sends you "good morning, beautiful ;)" texts, you leave a couple extra heart emojis at the end of your reply.

The texts get more frequent, a touch more invasive. He asks you where you're going whenever you tell him you can't hang out, and if it's anywhere farther than the corner store at the end of your block (and even then sometimes) he'll pester you to let him walk you there because "he doesn't know what he'd do with himself if you got hurt."

You always politely decline, of course, because nine times out of ten you're actually going to see another man, and he's never pressed you more than a couple of times. Still, you keep getting this creepy feeling that keeps you looking over your shoulder as you walk, keep catching flashes of blue in your periphery that make you think it's time for another eye exam.

Things get weirder still when you find out a week later that a few of the guys you had been seeing were actually in cahoots with one another in a drug-selling scheme. That nightwing guy had caught them selling to a group of teens and dutifully turned them in, answering questions on the news with that award winning smile of his.

His smile is kind of familiar, though you can't place from where.

None of it makes much sense, and frankly, it's all kind of upsetting. Dick contacts you a few times, but you ignore him. Not because he did anything wrong per se, but because you don't want to talk to any men right now, really. You ask your manager to be switched to the day shift at work so you won't have to explain yourself to him and assume that will be that.

Unfortunately, it is not the last you hear from him, because a few days later you get a knock on your door, and it's him in uniform. You freeze at the deadpanned way he looks at you. You try to explain yourself to him after a beat of silence, stumbling over words as you try to apologize, but after about a minute of painful dialogue, he cracks a smile and tells you not to worry about it. He's just here to get testimony from you since you were recently in contact with the subjects of the recent arrest.

You ask if you have to, he says that you do.

So you let him in, get him a glass of water and squirm as he asks you questions about the men you were seeing, the types of relationships you had with them, how long you'd been seeing them, if there were any others.

Dick, for the most part, is professional. Keeps that golden boy smile plastered on his face the whole time, though you see it waver for just a second when you explain that you'd been seeing more men. The interview is over in about thirty minutes, and he asks to use the bathroom before he leaves. Soon enough, he's walking out your door and you pray to every god you can think of that you never see him again.

A few days later, while you're taking a shower, you think about texting him. Not to start anything up again, but maybe to clear up any negative feelings. The last thing you wanted was for any bad blood between you to lead to you getting more roped into this legal mess. You move to grab your razor but catch something in your periphery as you do. A little black dot in the corner across the room. At first you shudder, thinking maybe the roach problem you had a few months ago was coming back, but the more you look at it, the clearer it becomes that it's not a roach. In fact it's not a bug at all, because bugs aren't reflective.

It's a camera.

Panic sets in immediately. You throw a towel over yourself and run into your room, locking the door behind you before rifling through your closet to find the baggiest clothes you own and putting them on. You search the bedroom top to bottom for any cameras. Pulling out drawers, ripping off covers, knocking trinkets off shelves. Only once you’ve absolutely wrecked the room do you calm down, panting on the floor, more confident - but not certain - you aren’t being watched.

You think back to who could have planted it there. Obviously it was Dick. Probably for the investigation. But why would he put it in your bathroom? Why not your bedroom or kitchen? Wouldn’t that make more sense for a crime investigation?

Suddenly, a deep wave of unease washes over you. This wasn’t for the crime investigation. Dick had been way too nice to you when you talked, you should have known there was an ulterior motive. You weren’t sure if this was a sick joke or if Dick had actual problems, all you knew was that having a stalker was one thing, but having a stalker who's a cop is another. 

You wrack your brain for what to do. It’s not like you could turn him in to the police. You could move, maybe, but with what money? Dick knows where you work, where you live, and now after that interview, copious amounts of other personal information on the people you care about. You need a neutral party, someone who isn’t connected to the justice system but still has some kind of authority. 

And in Bludhaven, there's only one person who comes to mind.

You read on an internet forum that people often spot him getting food at a shop on the north side of town when he’s working, so you hunker down there. You bring a book to read while you wait, but can’t focus enough to absorb any of it, so you pass the time watching the dim, flickering tv at the corner of the store playing local news and worrying yourself sick.

At around 1 AM, the door chimes and there he is. Nightwing. He laughs at a joke the shop owner makes to him and you try and fail again to place his smile. For some reason, it makes your stomach roll.

Just as he’s about to walk out the door, you finally muster your courage and tap him on the shoulder.

“Nightwing, sir, I um... I'm sorry, I just-” You stumble on your words.

He smiles warmly at you, “You want an autograph? I’d be happy too,” he looks down, searching the pant legs of his suit, “I just don’t have a pen on me-” 

“No!” you interrupt, blushing at your own rudeness as he glances back up at you “I’m sorry, I just… I need your help. I don’t know who else to go to.” 

You tell him about Dick, about his interview and about the camera you found in your bathroom, how it made you scared. He listens with a frown until you’re finished before speaking. “That does sound scary. But don’t worry, I think I can help you.”

Your face lights up as a wave of relief floods over you. “Really?” you ask.