Chapter Text
Dick’s carrying the plant. It’s a sad looking flowering one, and neither of them know exactly what kind of flower it is. But it looked sad sitting on the shelf outside the flower shop, and it was only two dollars and fifty cents. Barbara holds the pot and tray, and they’re walking past the three-story brownstones that fill their neighborhood. It’s a nice day in Gotham city; no supervillains promising the death of the city, no clouds hiding the sun, and no blistering heat to keep them indoors.
Barbara grips his hand.
It’s nice, having these moments. But they’re nicer because these moments only happen with her. He’s grateful for that. He’s so, so, so grateful but every time he’s tried to express that to her, it didn’t come out right. It never felt adequate enough.
“You’ve got your brooding face on,” she comments as they wait for a light to change.
“I don’t have a brooding face.”
She raises her eyebrow. Why does every important person in his life have the ability to raise one eyebrow perfectly? He decides Bruce, Alfred, Clark, and Barbara probably all practice together.
“I don’t have a brooding face!”
“Sure, you don’t, Mr. Grayson-Wayne.”
“That’s a low blow,” he grumbles as they finally start crossing the street. “And you know it.”
He adjusts the plant so he can hold her hand. He likes that. He likes the way her fingers tangle with his. He likes showing the world that he’s hers. Brooding face. He doesn’t have a brooding face. Plus, what does he have to brood about? He’s got Barbara, and now their plant.
“Okay. Fine. I have a brooding face. But I wasn’t brooding. It’s my thinking face,” Dick says as he holds the door to their building open.
Tom, the doorman, waves to them as they head for the elevator. A few other people join them, and he tightens his grip on her hand.
“What were you thinking about?” She asks as the last of the fellow riders got off at the tenth floor.
“You. Us. Look at us, being all domestic. We bought a plant. We have a place together. You’re still as pretty as the day I met you. Also, we need to name our plant,” he says as they get off the elevator.
She places the tray and pot on the small table by the window once they get inside. He gets a small cup of water, places the plant in the tray and waters it. Once he’s done, he catches her watching him.
“We’ve come a long way, Dick. Feels like just yesterday we were saving a flower shop from getting ‘repurposed’ by Poison Ivy. Now look at us, and our new plant, Pamela.”
He leans down and kisses her. “We’re not naming the plant Pamela.”