Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Steam curled off the bath’s surface, thickening the air with lavender and heat. You knelt beside the tub, fingers wet, knuckles aching from holding the faucet lever steady. The water hissed softer now—half-full and quiet enough to hear the click of Bruce’s belt landing on the marble floor behind you.

He didn’t speak. Just stood there, not moving, jacket still on.

“You gonna sit in that or just glare at it?” you asked, not turning.

A pause. Then: “I’m not glaring.”

You looked back over your shoulder. He was.

Dark circles dragged under his eyes like bruises drawn in charcoal. He hadn’t shaved, hadn’t changed out of the suit, and the collar still stuck slightly to the line of his neck. Dried sweat. Gunpowder. Whatever else he’d bled into that night.

You pointed at the edge of the tub. “I made it hot. Like you like. Not enough to boil you, just enough to piss off Alfred.”

Bruce exhaled, but didn’t smile. His hand rose, slow, to the knot of his tie. He tugged it loose. The movement stalled halfway down.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said.

“I know.”

He didn’t finish untying it. Just stood there, fingers on the fabric like it might slip away on its own.

You turned back to the water. Dipped your hand in, tested the temperature again. Warm enough to sting a little. You leaned over and shut off the tap.

Behind you, cloth rustled. Metal clinked—belt buckle, watch. A soft thump. Then bare footsteps on tile, slow and uneven.

When you finally looked back again, he was shirtless. Pale skin marked by bruises you didn’t ask about. One shoulder sat higher than the other. You knew what that meant. Dislocation. Again.

He met your gaze once, then looked away, stepping into the tub like he wasn’t sure the floor would hold him.

The water sloshed up around his thighs. He hissed through his teeth but didn’t stop moving. Just sank in slowly, arms stiff, breath shallow. When he finally sat, the bath cradled him up to his ribs.

His head dropped back against the tile with a quiet thud. His eyes closed.

Steam clung to his jaw, collecting at the corners of his mouth.

You sat on the edge, one hand against the lip of the tub, the other finding a clean towel. You didn’t speak.

After a long while, he did.

“Smells like something.”

“Lavender. A little cedar. Maybe bergamot.”

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“You smell like blood and gasoline.”

Bruce hummed. Not quite a laugh. Not quite anything.

You dipped the corner of the towel in the water and reached for his arm. He let you lift it. The muscle tensed when the heat hit, but he didn’t pull away. You ran the cloth slowly from wrist to shoulder, careful around the scrapes. The towel left clean streaks on his skin, steam curling in their wake.

He exhaled again, this time longer.

“Should sleep after this,” you said.

“I won’t.”

“I know.”

You didn’t push. Just wrung out the towel and started again on the other arm. He closed his eyes. You watched his throat move as he swallowed.

The silence held. Not empty—just full of breath, warmth, the sound of water shifting when his body did.

You didn’t fill it. Neither did he.

The cloth moved slow over his skin. You kept your touch light—not cautious, just... measured. His body always came back marked. The kind of damage that didn’t bleed loud, but settled deep.

He didn’t flinch this time. Just breathed. Shallow at first, then deeper, like he was trying to relearn it.

You dipped the towel again, let the water weight pull it heavy in your palm. Swiped it across his chest. There was a faint line under his collarbone, purpling already.

“Rooftop?” you asked.

“Balcony,” he said. “Third floor. Loose tile.”

You nodded. Wiped higher. He grunted when you reached his ribs—half reflex, half memory of the hit. You paused.

He shook his head. “Keep going.”

You did.

The bathwater sloshed as he shifted again, settling deeper. One arm draped along the rim of the tub, fingers splayed open. The other hand hovered near his knee, twitching now and then like it couldn’t decide what to do with itself.

“You should let Alfred look at that shoulder.”

“I will.”

“You won’t.”

“I won’t.”

You folded the towel over, fresh side down. “Then let me.”

That made him crack an eye open. Just one.

“It’s not dislocated anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s fine.”

His gaze held yours, steady, unreadable. You didn’t blink.

Then, after a moment, he closed the eye again. Not permission exactly. Not surrender. But he didn’t argue.

You reached over the side, careful not to splash, and brushed your fingers lightly along the joint. It felt too tight under your touch. Still swollen. Not hot, but close.

“Don’t lift anything above your head,” you said.

“That’ll be easy,” he muttered. “I can’t feel half my arm.”

“Good.”

That pulled the corner of his mouth—just a flicker, but there.

You let your hand fall to the edge of the tub, rested it there. Warm tile under your palm, steam slick on your wrist.

He leaned his head against the back of the tub again. Not hard this time. Just settled. Eyes closed.

Minutes passed. You didn’t check the time.

His voice broke the quiet, low and rasped: “You always do this?”

You frowned. “Do what?”

“Stay. After.”

Your throat felt tight in a way you didn’t want to name.

“Sometimes.”

Bruce nodded once. Slow. Then: “Don’t stop.”

You didn’t answer. Just dipped the cloth one more time, wrung it out slow, and reached for his jaw. The stubble scraped against the cotton, rough like the night had been.

You wiped carefully, and he let you.

His jaw slackened under your hand—not in surrender, just in stillness. The kind of stillness that only came when everything else had been spent. Muscles empty. Breath quiet. Eyes closed not to shut you out, but because keeping them open took more effort than it was worth.

The cloth dragged over the curve of his cheek, across the bridge of his nose. His skin was warm now—wet with steam instead of sweat. You ran the towel along his temple, where a thin scab traced the edge of his hairline.

“Bat or pipe?” you asked, too low for the question to hang.

He didn’t answer right away. Then: “Pipe.”

You nodded. Folded the towel again. You didn’t press.

The bathwater had gone quiet. No movement, no ripples—just the faint scent of lavender fading into the heat. His chest rose slow, ribs shifting under the surface like driftwood.

“You should eat,” you said. Not a suggestion.

“I did.”

“Coffee doesn’t count.”

He gave a small shrug. The motion barely moved his shoulders, but it jarred the water enough to lap against the porcelain. You watched a single drop run from his collarbone to the center of his chest before sinking into the water.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

You didn’t reply. Just set the towel aside and reached for his hand—the one resting loose on the tub’s edge. You took it without ceremony. His fingers were still half-curled, knuckles scraped, pads rough from a week’s worth of damage. You turned his palm over, let it rest in yours. Not searching for anything. Just holding it open.

His thumb twitched once. Then stilled.

You leaned forward, elbow on your knee, the edge of your wrist brushing his.

“I’ll make something,” you said. “Even if you don’t eat it.”

He didn’t argue this time.

More quiet. It wasn’t peace, exactly. It was just less. Less noise. Less weight. Like the gravity in the room had pulled in around the tub and settled there.

You pressed your thumb lightly to his pulse, counting beats without realizing. He didn’t pull away. His head tilted slightly toward you, not quite touching, but close enough for the warmth to bridge the gap.

Then, low—almost a whisper: “Do you ever regret this?”

You blinked. “What—?”

“This.” He shifted again. Not enough to make eye contact. “Being here. Staying.”

You stared at his profile, the sharp cut of it gone soft with steam and half-sleep.

You didn’t rush the answer. Just brushed a damp curl off his forehead.

“No,” you said.

Another pause. Then he exhaled—slow, chest rising with it, like he’d been holding the breath for longer than a moment. Maybe longer than a day.

You leaned down, let your forehead rest against the curve of his. Not kissing. Not quite an embrace. Just touch. Just weight. The tile was cold against your thighs. His hand stayed in yours.

“Finish your bath,” you murmured. “Then food. Then bed.”

A quiet hum of agreement. Then nothing.

But he didn’t let go. Not even when you moved to stand.

Chapter Text

You hiccup halfway through your sentence and accidentally spit out a bit of your water.

Dick doesn’t even try to hold it in. He doubles over, almost sliding off the kitchen stool, shoulders shaking hard enough to knock the bowl of grapes. “Oh my god,” he wheezes, voice strangled through laughter. “That—what was that noise?”

“I was—hic—talking,” you snap, or try to, but the hiccup stabs up your throat mid-word and turns it into a garbled squawk.

Dick slaps the counter, his breath catching in ragged bursts. “You sound like a dying goose.”

“Shut—hic—up.”

“Stop talking! You’re making it worse!”

“I can’t—hic—I’m not—doing it on purpose!”

You try to glare at him, but the next hiccup punches straight through your ribs and folds you over slightly. You clutch your stomach, half out of frustration, half out of self-defense. Your diaphragm feels like it’s staging a rebellion.

Dick leans his forehead against his hand, still laughing. He’s trying to speak, but he keeps breaking into fresh fits every time you so much as breathe . His voice comes out in short gasps: “You— hic —”

He freezes.

You both look at him.

He blinks. You blink.

“Did you just—”

He holds up a finger. “Nope. Don’t—don’t say it.”

You press your lips together, shoulders shaking now not from hiccups but from trying not to laugh. “Did you—hic— just —”

“No, no no no—” he groans, stepping back like he can dodge it. “It’s sympathy hiccups. That’s a thing, right?”

You hiccup again, louder this time. It echoes off the fridge. Dick flinches, like you threw something.

He hiccups.

You lose it.

Your knees buckle as you double over, laughing harder than you should for something so dumb. The kind of laugh that hurts your chest, that makes your eyes sting. Dick’s not far behind, hunched over the sink now, hiccuping like a cartoon character caught in a time loop.

“You— hic —this is your fault,” he wheezes.

“Mine? You—hic—laughed first—”

“You startled me!”

“You—hic— mocked me!”

“Yeah, well— hic —you deserved it.”

You both hiccup at the same time.

There’s a long beat of silence, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the squeak of the ceiling fan above. Then:

“Okay,” you breathe. “This is never going to end.”

Dick points at the glass of water on the counter. “We could try— hic —drinking it upside down.”

You stare at him.

“What?” he says. “I saw it on a video once. You bend over and—”

“I’m not risking a concussion and drowning just so your hiccups go away.”

“Mine? Yours started this!”

“You caught it like a virus!”

Dick opens his mouth. Hiccups again.

You snort, hiccup, and groan all at once.

Then you both give up, sliding down to the cold tile floor, backs to the cabinets, gulping air between hiccups and broken laughter. His leg presses lightly against yours. Neither of you moves. You’re too tired. Too breathless. Too far past caring who started it.

“I think,” Dick says slowly, hiccupping right through it, “this is how we die.”

You nod solemnly. “Killed by water and pride.”

Your stomach spasms again, sharp and sudden.

He hiccups back, in perfect sync.

You both crack up.

Chapter Text

The city was quiet, but your bedroom was anything but peaceful. As the clock struck midnight, you jolted awake—drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Again. You glanced over at the source of your nocturnal discomfort: Dick Grayson, aka Nightwing, who was firmly glued to your side like a human burrito.

“Dick,” you whispered, trying not to wake him fully. “I’m melting here.”

He stirred, his arms tightening around you in a protective embrace. “You’re adorable when you’re sweaty,” he murmured sleepily, nuzzling into your neck. “Besides, you always say you like cuddles.”

You sighed, wiping your damp hair off your forehead. “I do. Just not when I feel like I’m in a sauna.”

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through your chest. “I can’t help it. I’m a cuddler. You’re warm. It’s like a magnet.”

“More like a heat trap,” you teased, poking his side. He twitched but didn’t let go.

“But... you smell like strawberries and danger,” he grinned, clearly proud of his poetic compliment.

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “That’s my perfume: ‘Eau de Batcave.’ Very exclusive.”

As you both settled back into your positions, the room seemed to cool down—until Dick’s body heat revived the sweaty cycle. You chuckled softly, realizing this was going to be your nightly routine: waking up, complaining, cuddling, and repeating.

“Promise me one thing?” you asked, voice muffled against his chest.

“Anything.”

“Try not to turn me into a human puddle.”

He tightened his arms once more, whispering, “No promises.”

And just like that, you melted again—this time, happily.

The next night, you braced yourself as you climbed into bed, already anticipating the inevitable cuddle attack. Sure enough, within minutes, Dick was wrapped around you like a koala on a eucalyptus tree.

“Okay, seriously,” you whispered, fanning your face with your hand. “Are you trying to turn me into a puddle or a popsicle? Because right now, it’s definitely puddle.”

Dick grinned, eyes sparkling in the dim light. “I’m just trying to keep you safe from the monsters under the bed.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Monsters? What, like the ones that steal all the blankets?”

“Exactly,” he said solemnly. “And I’m the blanket guardian.”

You laughed, poking his side. “Well, blanket guardian, could you maybe not smother me to death?”

He feigned offense. “I’m offended! You wound me.”

You snuggled closer anyway, despite the heat. “I love you, you know.”

“Love you more,” he whispered, tightening his grip.

Suddenly, you felt a cool breeze and realized the window was open. “Wait,” you said, “if you’re so warm, maybe you should sleep near the window.”

Dick shook his head. “No way. I’m a night creature. Plus, you’re my heat source.”

You groaned, realizing you were doomed to sweat through the night again. “Great. I’m basically a human radiator.”

He kissed your forehead. “And I’m your personal blanket. Deal?”

You smiled, surrendering to the warmth and the ridiculousness of it all. “Deal. But tomorrow, I’m buying a fan.”

Chapter Text

You crept into the kitchen, toes pressing into the cold tile. The microwave’s harsh beep sliced through the silence—three, four, five times before you lunged forward, fingers fumbling for the stop button. A faint grunt echoed behind you.

Jason’s voice cracked the dark. “Seriously? That noise again?” His tone was low, rough—half annoyed, half sleep-torn.

You twisted, caught in the glow of the microwave’s panel, cheeks burning. “Sorry. I didn’t want to wake you.” Your hand lingered on the microwave’s edge, trying to steady the sudden rush of heat rising in your chest.

He pushed off the countertop, rubbing his jaw. “Didn’t stop it fast enough.” His eyes, sharp in the dim light, traced your movements like you were a fragile thing about to break. “Late-night snack?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, stepping closer, the scent of reheated pizza mingling with the faint musk of his jacket hanging nearby. The floor creaked under your weight, an unsteady rhythm in the quiet room.

Jason’s gaze flicked to the clock. “You know it’s past two.” His voice cracked on the last word, betraying exhaustion.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you admitted, voice barely audible. Fingers nervously tapped the microwave’s side.

He let out a slow breath, then moved to stand beside you. The air shifted—tense, but not quite hostile. “Maybe eat quicker next time.” The corner of his mouth twitched like a smirk, but didn’t quite land.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of the moment stretch between you. “Noted.”

He nudged your shoulder with his. “Try not to start a kitchen concert at this hour.” Then, quieter, “I’m not exactly the world’s best sleeper.”

The microwave beeped again—this time your stomach growled louder.

Jason rolled his eyes, grabbed a slice, and bit into it without waiting for an invitation.

You laughed softly, the sound strange in the silence, but real.

“Next time, I’m guarding the microwave,” he muttered, chewing.

You met his eyes, steady, and said, “Deal.”

Jason’s teeth scraped the crust, slow and deliberate. You leaned against the counter, watching the faint crease at his brow soften in the muted light.

“Could’ve been worse,” he muttered between bites. “Could’ve been the smoke alarm.”

You swallowed, hand tracing a cool ring on the counter. “You always wake up when something’s wrong?”

His eyes flicked to you, sharp again. “Mostly.” The bite of sarcasm was there, but it didn’t quite reach him. “Besides, you messing with the microwave? Not suspicious at all.”

You shifted your weight, the cold tile pressing through your socks. “I’m harmless.”

Jason snorted. “Sure.” He took another bite, eyes narrowing. “You trying to fatten me up? Late-night calories?”

You glanced down, fiddling with the microwave button again. “It’s not like you’re complaining.”

“Not yet.” His voice dropped, softer this time. “But you should know… I’m watching you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Watching me?”

“Yeah.” He stood straighter, mouth full, like it was a challenge. “Can’t have you sneaking snacks without supervision.”

You laughed, the sound bouncing off the cold walls. “Guess I’ll have to be more careful.”

He reached out, flicked the microwave off again. “Or just make me your accomplice.”

The room pulsed with quiet, the only sound your breathing mingling with the fading beep.

Jason’s shoulder brushed yours. Not quite a touch, but close enough.

Neither of you moved.

Chapter Text

Dick sat down on the couch with a triumphant grin, laptop in hand. Finally — some downtime after a long patrol, and he was ready to catch up on some tech news and maybe finish a few emails.

He stretched his legs out, scanned the room… and froze.

There you were, curled up like a cat, comfortably nestled with your back against the armrest and your head resting on the couch cushion. And, most crucially, your legs draped right across his lap.

“Uh…” Dick blinked, shifting the laptop carefully so he could see the screen. “Hey, Y/N.”

You didn’t move. You just gave a soft hum of contentment and pulled the blanket tighter around you.

“Look, I really need to use this,” he said, gesturing to the laptop.

You stretched your toes dramatically. “This is my spot.”

“No, it’s the ‘Dick’s unwinding with a laptop’ spot,” he countered.

You wiggled your eyebrows. “I thought it was the ‘personal lap blanket’ spot.”

“Yeah, well, I’m kind of the one who owns the laptop,” Dick said, trying to sound serious but failing because you were already smiling.

“Hmm. Maybe I can share,” you said slyly, inching your legs further down onto his thighs.

Dick shifted uneasily, feeling his legs slowly trapped under the growing weight of your limbs. “Or… maybe I just sit over here,” he suggested, nodding toward the other end of the couch.

You shot him a mockingly wounded look. “Abandoning your loyal blanket? I’m hurt.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re a blanket?”

You gave a slow, exaggerated nod. “The best kind.”

Dick laughed and tapped his laptop open again. “Alright, lap blanket. I’ll make a deal. You stay here, I use the laptop. But if you hog all the screen time, I get to commandeer your snacks later.”

You paused, considering. Then grinned. “Deal. But I expect full tech support if the Wi-Fi acts up.”

He smirked. “You got it.”

As you settled in, resting your head against his shoulder, Dick felt the couch suddenly a lot warmer — and infinitely better.

Lap wars might be a thing, but with you, he wasn’t even mad about losing.

Chapter Text

The floorboard near the fridge betrayed him.

Jason froze mid-step, shoulders tightening under his shirt, half a protein bar between his teeth. He glared down at the plank like it had personally wronged him. The soft creak had barely registered, but the shape of your body in the blanket on the couch didn’t move. He waited. Counted to five.

Still breathing slowly.

He released the breath through his nose and moved again—this time heel first, careful, the way Alfred walked when he was trying to be invisible. The wrapper in his hand made a dry crinkle as he folded it smaller. It sounded like thunder in the quiet.

Your socked foot dangled off the cushion, limp. One of the little red pom-poms had come loose and lay stranded on the rug. Your lips were parted just enough to see the pink edge of your tongue, and your face was pressed into the corner of the throw pillow like it had stolen something from you.

He stopped in the doorway, chewing slow. The protein bar tasted like chalk and peanut dust. Not worth it, but he’d already opened it, and the crumpled wrapper was warm in his palm now. No way to put it back.

You shifted. One arm slid up over your chest, hand curling near your collar. The blanket slipped a little. Not much. Just enough to see the strap of your tank top where it had twisted down your shoulder. He watched your chest rise. Then fall.

He backed up a step.

The corner of the coffee table caught his shin, and he hissed between his teeth. Didn’t curse. Just hissed. Loud in the silence.

Your brow twitched.

Jason stood still as stone. His foot throbbed. He deserved it. Fucking table had been in the same spot for weeks. He knew that.

Your fingers twitched.

His back touched the fridge door. He didn’t move. Not even when the condensation bled through his shirt.

The kettle on the stove clicked once—cooling metal. The clock above it ticked, slow and even, and Jason looked at it like it might lie to him. He needed ten more minutes. Just ten.

The couch creaked.

You stretched—long, full-body, toes flexing, spine arcing like a cat in the sun. The blanket slid lower. Your mouth made a soft sound, not quite a word. Jason froze again. His hand went to the side of his neck, rubbing hard.

You blinked one eye open.

He winced.

"...Are you sneaking?"

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You have your ‘I’m sneaking’ face on.”

He dropped his head back against the fridge. “You have a face for that?”

You groaned, dragged the blanket higher, and rolled toward the back cushions. “You're so loud when you're trying not to be loud.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought about finishing the protein bar.

“Put the rest of that in the microwave,” you mumbled, voice muffled by the pillow.

“It’s not that kind of food.”

“You’re not that kind of quiet.”

He smirked. Walked back to the kitchen, this time letting the floorboards creak. Opened the drawer and let it clack. Dropped the wrapper in the trash with a little more force than needed.

From the couch, you made a sleepy, sarcastic applause sound. One hand. Weak clapping.

Jason leaned on the doorway, chewing the last bite, watching the rise and fall of the blanket.

“You could’ve stayed asleep.”

“You could’ve stayed still.”

“Not in my nature.”

You made a low noise. Almost a laugh.

He stayed there a while longer, watching, one shoulder against the wall, like he could memorize the rhythm of you breathing.

The silence stretched. You'd gone still again, but not the deep stillness of sleep. This was different—aware, waiting. Jason could tell the difference now, after months of learning the language of your breathing.

"You're staring," you said into the pillow.

"No, I'm not."

"I can feel it."

He pushed off the wall, moved to the sink. Turned the faucet on just to have something to do with his hands. The water ran cold, then warm, then hot enough to steam.

"Go back to sleep."

"Can't now."

"Why not?"

You rolled over, blanket twisted around your waist, hair sticking up in directions that defied physics. One side of your face bore the imprint of the pillow's seam. You looked at him with eyes still heavy from sleep, but sharp enough to catch the way he was avoiding looking directly at you.

"Because you're being weird."

Jason turned off the water. "I'm not being weird."

"You are. You're doing that thing where you hover."

"I don't hover."

You sat up, blanket pooling around your hips. The tank top had ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of skin above your waistband. Jason's eyes flicked there, then away, then back before he could stop himself.

"What time is it?" you asked.

He glanced at the clock. "Three forty-seven."

"Why are you awake?"

The question hung between you. Jason dried his hands on the dish towel, taking longer than necessary. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance—ambulance, not police. He'd learned to tell the difference.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Nightmare?"

"No." He folded the towel, refolded it. "Just... restless."

You watched him fidget with the towel, understanding something in his posture that he wasn't saying. After a moment, you shifted on the couch, making space.

"Come here."

"I'm fine."

"Jason."

His name in your sleep-rough voice made something loosen in his chest. He looked at you—really looked—and saw the way you were holding the blanket open, an invitation.

"I'll keep you awake," he said.

"I'm already awake."

He hesitated, then moved toward the couch. Slow, like he was approaching something that might bolt. When he sat on the edge, you didn't give him time to second-guess. You pulled him down, maneuvering until his back was against your chest, your legs bracketing his hips.

"This okay?" you asked, voice quiet against his ear.

Jason nodded, not trusting his voice. Your arms came around him, loose but present. He could feel your heartbeat against his shoulder blade, steady and warm.

The restlessness that had been crawling under his skin all night began to ebb.

"Better?" you murmured.

"Yeah," he said, and meant it. "Better."

Chapter Text

It started with a pair of big, pleading eyes and a wagging tail that seemed to have a mind of its own.

Dick was walking home after a late patrol when he noticed the scruffy little puppy trotting alongside him. No collar, muddy paws, and an adorable enthusiasm that instantly melted his usually unflappable heart.

“Hey, buddy. Where’d you come from?” Dick crouched down, offering his hand. The pup sniffed and then, decisively, plopped down beside him.

Dick chuckled. “Guess you’re coming home with me.”

The problem was… you were already waiting inside, and you definitely did not know about the newest “guest” Dick was sneaking in.

Carefully, Dick carried the pup through the door, hoping you wouldn’t notice.

You did.

You appeared in the hallway, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. “Dick… what’s that?”

Dick froze. “Uh… it’s a… uh… new security system.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Security system?”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah! It’s very... enthusiastic. Protects the place with... puppy eyes.”

The pup barked cheerfully and immediately trampled over your feet.

You sighed. “Dick, you can’t just bring home a puppy.”

“It’s not just a puppy,” Dick protested. “It’s our puppy now. Look at him! He’s perfect.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Perfectly mischievous, you mean.”

Dick grinned. “I was going to hide him. But then I realized… hiding this level of cuteness is impossible.”

You shook your head, but there was no stopping that little tail wagging around your ankles.

“Well,” you said, bending down to scratch behind the puppy’s ears, “I guess we better get him a name.”

Dick smiled. “You’re really okay with this?”

You gave a small smile. “I’ll forgive you if you handle the midnight bathroom breaks.”

The puppy yipped, like he was already signing the contract.

Dick laughed. “Deal.”

And just like that, the newest member of the Bat-family was home — much to your amused disbelief.

Chapter Text

The window latch clicked louder than it should have.

Tim’s breath caught. He stilled, half-crouched in the narrow frame, gloved fingers curled around the wood. For a second, the only sound was the slow tick of your ceiling fan. He waited, spine coiled, listening for footsteps—floorboards, door hinges, anything.

Nothing.

He eased one boot down onto the sill, shifted his weight, and ducked inside. His knee knocked your plant stand. The plastic pot jerked sideways, trembled, but didn’t fall. A curl of soil spilled onto the floor.

He swore under his breath. Soft. Pointless.

Your room smelled warm. Not just the faint, familiar perfume from your sheets—something sharper, clean, like lemon balm and fresh fabric softener. The desk lamp was still on, casting long shadows over the rug. There was an empty water glass on the bedside table, half a granola bar beside it. One sock on the floor, turned inside out. A notebook, spine cracked and full of scribbles. A hoodie—his—folded messily over your desk chair.

Tim shut the window behind him and turned.

You were sitting up. No words. Just watching.

“Jesus—” He flinched, voice too loud, instinct pulling his hands halfway up like he’d been caught.

You blinked at him, pillow in your lap, half-covered by your blanket. “The hell, Tim?”

“I—sorry,” he said. “I texted.”

“I have Do Not Disturb on. Like a sane person.” You looked him over, expression hard to read. “It’s one in the morning.”

“I wasn’t gonna—wake you.” His foot shifted, heel brushing the floor. “I mean, not on purpose.”

“You climbed in my window.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his hoodie tugging at the collar. “I didn’t wanna knock. That felt...worse.”

You stared. “You’re bleeding.”

He glanced down. His right sleeve was torn, just below the elbow. Not bad. But messy. His skin stung under the cut, a thin line of red already drying. He pressed his hand over it.

“I’ve got stuff,” you muttered, swinging your legs off the bed. “Come on.”

You padded past him, barefoot, the hem of your sleep shirt brushing your thighs. Tim followed without a word. The hallway light flared yellow, too bright after the dark. He blinked against it.

The bathroom was narrow, cold tile under his boots, mirror streaked from the last time you’d cleaned it in a hurry. You opened the cabinet and pulled out a red plastic box. Handed him an antiseptic wipe without looking at him.

He took it. Sat on the edge of the tub, the porcelain cold through his jeans.

“Did you break in anywhere interesting?” you asked, voice low. Not sarcastic. Not really.

He tore the wrapper with his teeth, winced at the sting as he wiped the blood away. “Just my own head.”

You opened a bandage. The sticky tab clung to your thumb. You peeled it off with care, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

“Next time,” you said, “use the damn door.”

“I didn’t wanna wake your parents.”

“They’re in Vermont.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “Then I didn’t wanna wake you.”

“I was up,” you muttered, and knelt to pick up a stray cotton pad from the tile. You handed him the bandage. Your fingers brushed his. Cool. Steady. Still slightly damp from the faucet.

He looked at the strip in his hand, then at your reflection in the mirror. You weren’t watching him now—your gaze had dropped to the floor, one thumb pressing into your palm.

“Are you staying?” you asked.

His fingers flexed around the gauze.

“I don’t have to,” he said.

You didn’t answer right away. The hum of the fan filled the silence. You turned to lean against the counter, arms crossing. “If you say no, you’re going back out the window.”

He huffed a breath. Almost a laugh. The bandage peeled as he pressed it on.

You still weren’t looking at him.

Then, quietly, he said, “Yeah. I’m staying.”

You turned, the smallest shift of weight. “Good.”

Tim didn’t move for a while. Just sat there, elbows on knees, the smell of antiseptic sharp in his nose, your presence warm and solid in the narrow space. No mask. No mission. Just here.

And here, for now, was enough.

Chapter Text

The pasta water bubbled over the rim of the pot, hissing against the gas flame. You turned the heat down with one hand while reaching for the wooden spoon with the other, your hips swaying to the music streaming from your phone. The kitchen filled with steam and the scent of garlic browning in olive oil.

Damian stood in the doorway, still in his work clothes—pressed slacks and a button-down that somehow remained crisp despite twelve hours at Wayne Enterprises. His briefcase hung from his fingers, forgotten. You hadn't noticed him yet, too absorbed in your impromptu performance for an audience of simmering vegetables.

You spun around the kitchen island, bare feet sliding across the tile as you reached for the pepper grinder. The oversized sweater you wore—his sweater, actually—slipped off one shoulder. You caught it and tugged it back up without missing a beat, grinding pepper into the pan with theatrical flourish.

"Pathetic," Damian murmured, but the word carried no venom. His lips curved upward despite his best efforts.

You finally spotted him and grinned, not stopping your dance. "You're home early."

"Traffic was lighter than anticipated." He set his briefcase down, movements deliberate and controlled. Everything Damian did was controlled. Except for the way he looked at you—like you'd invented music itself.

"Perfect timing. Dinner's almost ready." You twirled past him to grab plates from the cabinet, close enough that your sweater brushed his shirt. "How was the board meeting?"

"Tedious. The quarterly projections—" He stopped mid-sentence as you began humming along with the chorus, stirring the pasta sauce with one hand and conducting an invisible orchestra with the other. The wooden spoon became your baton, sauce droplets flying.

"You're making a mess," he observed.

"That's what paper towels are for." You bumped his hip with yours as you passed, heading for the strainer. "Dance with me."

"I don't dance."

"You do everything." You offered him your hand, sauce-stained apron and all. "Come on. One song."

"The pasta will overcook."

You glanced at the timer. "Three minutes left. Plenty of time."

Damian stared at your outstretched hand. His training had taught him to assess threats, calculate risks, identify weaknesses. But you weren't a threat. You were the opposite of every dangerous thing he'd learned to recognize. You were Sunday mornings and terrible jokes and the way you left books open on every surface because you couldn't bear to lose your place in any story.

He took your hand.

You pulled him into the center of the kitchen, where the overhead light cast everything in warm gold. His free hand found your waist automatically, muscle memory from the galas where you'd waltzed in ballgowns while he counted exits and potential threats. But this was different. This was you in his sweater, barefoot in your shared kitchen, with tomato sauce under your fingernails.

You swayed together, barely moving. The song was upbeat but you ignored the tempo, choosing instead to rest your forehead against his chest. He smelled like expensive cologne and the faint trace of ink from signing contracts all day.

"You know," you said, voice muffled against his shirt, "for someone who claims he doesn't dance, you're not terrible at it."

"I've had practice."

"Mmm. All those fancy Wayne family events." You tilted your head up to look at him. "But this is better."

"This is adequate."

You laughed, the sound vibrating through his ribcage. "High praise from Damian Wayne."

The timer chimed. You started to pull away but his arms tightened around you, keeping you close for three more heartbeats. Long enough for him to memorize the exact shade of your eyes in this light, the way your hair fell across your forehead, the small scar on your chin from when you'd fallen off your bike at age seven.

"Pasta," you reminded him gently.

He released you, but slowly. Reluctantly.

You drained the noodles while he cleared space on the counter, moving your scattered ingredients with practiced efficiency. You worked around each other without speaking, a choreography you'd perfected over months of shared meals. He plated while you tasted the sauce, adding a pinch more salt. You poured wine while he found napkins.

"Perfect," you announced, settling into your chair across from him.

Damian twirled his fork through the linguine, considering. The sauce had the right balance of acidity and richness. The pasta had the proper bite. But his eyes kept drifting to you, watching the way you closed your eyes when you took the first bite, the small sound of satisfaction you made.

"It's acceptable," he said.

You grinned at him over your wine glass. "I love you too."

The words hit him like they always did—unexpected, undeserved, impossible to believe entirely. He'd been raised to understand love as weakness, as leverage to be exploited. But you made it look simple. Natural as breathing or dancing in the kitchen while dinner cooked.

"You have sauce on your chin," he said instead of responding.

You wiped at it with your napkin, missing entirely. "Better?"

"No." He reached across the table, thumb brushing the spot you'd missed. Your skin was warm under his touch. Soft. Everything about you was soft in ways that should have made him uncomfortable but didn't.

"There," he said, but he didn't pull his hand away. Not immediately.

You caught his wrist gently, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Thank you."

For the sauce, he told himself. She's thanking you for pointing out the sauce.

But the way you looked at him suggested otherwise. Like he'd given you something precious instead of just pointing out tomato sauce. Like the simple act of touching your face was worthy of gratitude.

"Eat," he said, voice rougher than intended. "Before it gets cold."

You smiled and returned to your pasta, humming under your breath. The same song from earlier, still stuck in your head. Damian found himself listening for the melody, trying to understand what made you want to move to it.

Outside, Gotham's evening chaos continued—sirens and car horns and the distant sound of construction. But inside your kitchen, with the overhead light casting everything in gold and your quiet humming filling the spaces between conversation, it felt like the safest place in the world.

Damian had been trained to be suspicious of safety. But watching you eat pasta with sauce still smudged on your sweater, he decided some risks were worth taking.

Chapter Text

Your lips brushed over his forehead, light and quick, barely grazing the skin. The room’s muted shadows seemed to close in around you, the faint hum of the city leaking through the cracked window. You expected a soft response—maybe a smile or a sleepy murmur—but Jason’s brow tightened instead, his eyes narrowing like you’d just slapped him with a feather.

“You missed,” he said, voice low and a little rough, as if the words themselves weighed more than usual. His tone carried a teasing edge, but the way he watched you suggested something deeper, something sharpened by hours spent hiding behind masks.

Your mouth parted, blinking in confusion. “What?”

Jason shifted, the couch creaking beneath him. He leaned forward, closing the distance between you in a way that caught your breath before it could settle. His face hovered close—too close for casual comfort. The sharp scent of leather mixed with a metallic tang lingered in the air, pulling your senses taut.

Then his mouth pressed against yours, slow and deliberate, rougher than you expected. Not gentle like the kiss you’d offered, but edged with a kind of raw, unpolished need. His lips moved over yours, pausing just long enough to leave a trace of heat before retreating slightly. The weight behind the kiss was palpable, like he was testing the waters, feeling for something beneath your skin.

You didn’t pull away, though the sudden closeness made your pulse kick against your ribs. Your hands found his—fingers slipping between his knuckles, thumb dragging softly over the coarse skin where his bones crept close to the surface. The simple contact grounded you, threading a quiet connection through the charged space.

Jason pulled back just enough to let you breathe, but not so far as to break the tension. His dark eyes searched yours, intense and steady.

“Try again,” he whispered, voice rough but earnest, like a dare wrapped in promise.

Your lips curved into a crooked, uncertain smile. “Guess I’m due for a second shot.”

Chapter Text

The grass tickled your ankles. Damp still from the sprinkler, it stuck to your skin in clumps of green and brown, but you ignored it. You had bigger things to focus on.

Bruce Wayne—billionaire, brooding, scowling Bruce—was letting you put flowers in his hair.

You were careful not to press too hard. His scalp was a patchwork of old fights, too many to name. You knew the shapes of some of the scars beneath your fingers. This one, just behind his left ear—that was the bar in Prague. The thicker ridge along his temple? The car crash. Not the public one. The one with the black SUV and no license plates.

He didn’t flinch. Not when your fingertips grazed the sensitive spot at the base of his skull, not when your knuckles brushed the bruise just beginning to yellow under his jaw. He just watched you, quiet, his breath shallow but even. Like you were performing surgery instead of threading clover through his hair.

"You're taking this very seriously," he said.

You pulled back slightly, squinting at your work. "You have very stubborn hair. It's resisting me. Like a metaphor."

"Mm."

The hum was noncommittal, but his posture shifted. He leaned, just a little, toward your hand.

You picked another flower from the pile beside your knee—a violet with one torn petal. It wouldn’t last. Still, you fit it gently above his ear, pressing it into a thick, unruly wave that had fallen forward when he sat down.

A breeze rolled in from the edge of the garden. Not strong, but enough to rustle the leaves overhead. A few strands of his hair lifted. So did the edge of your shirt. You reached to tuck it back, and your wrist brushed his cheek.

He didn’t look away. But something behind his eyes went quieter.

"You're not bored?" you asked. You meant it as a joke, but it came out too flat, too bare.

He turned his head slightly, not enough to dislodge the flowers, but enough to face you head-on. "No."

You stared back. Sunlight dappled the space between you. The smell of grass and honeysuckle stuck in the air.

Then you cleared your throat. "You could say something sappy, you know. About trust. Or tenderness. Really lean into the moment."

He raised an eyebrow. "Would you like that?"

"Depends. Would it be genuine, or you messing with me?"

Bruce considered that. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

Another long pause. The only sounds were birdsong and the slow, rhythmic squeak of a swing set in the distance. Somewhere beyond the hedges, Alfred was likely muttering to himself about the state of the compost bin.

"You’re careful with me," Bruce said, after a while.

You looked at him. Your hand still rested near his temple, fingers brushing petals, skin.

"I try to be," you said.

He nodded. Not quite a response—more like an agreement he hadn’t figured out how to say out loud.

You placed the last flower, a faded marigold, tucked just behind the curve of his ear. It didn’t match the rest. A little crumpled. A little too orange. It fit anyway.

He reached up slowly, fingers brushing over the blooms like he didn’t believe they were there. His hand dropped again.

“I should look ridiculous.”

You shrugged. “You look like a man sitting still. That’s rare enough.”

That got a quiet laugh—short, not sharp. He didn’t laugh often. Not like that. Not when it meant something.

When you leaned against him, your shoulder met his. He stayed solid beneath you. You could feel the faint rise and fall of his breathing, the heat radiating through his shirt, the scratch of stubble against your temple when he turned slightly to speak.

“You’re not taking a picture,” he said again. Lower now. More curious than before.

You shook your head. “I don’t need one.”

A silence settled between you. Not tense. Just present. The kind that fills the air instead of breaking it.

You stayed that way until the sun slipped a little lower. Until a petal fell into your lap again, and he picked it up, rolling it between his fingers like a secret he wasn’t ready to part with.

He didn’t hand it back.

You didn’t ask.

Chapter Text

The window frame bit into Damian's shoulder blades as he pressed against it, watching Gotham's skyline blur through rain-streaked glass. His uniform clung to his skin, damp with sweat and precipitation from three hours of rooftop pursuit. The fabric scraped against cuts he hadn't bothered cataloging yet.

She moved through the apartment behind him—bare feet against hardwood, the soft rustle of fabric, cabinet doors opening and closing with deliberate quiet. He tracked each sound without turning, his body rigid with an exhaustion that went deeper than muscle fatigue.

"Coffee or tea?" Her voice carried no expectation of an answer.

Damian's jaw worked. The question felt like a trap, though he knew it wasn't. Every choice seemed to require something he couldn't identify, couldn't name. His fingers found the window latch, metal cool and solid beneath his grip.

"Neither."

She hummed—not agreement, not disagreement. Just acknowledgment. The kettle filled with water anyway, a steady stream that meant she'd chosen for both of them.

Heat radiated from the radiator beneath the window, but Damian's skin remained cold. The tremor in his hands had nothing to do with temperature. He'd been trained to suppress such physical betrayals, to lock away the body's demands until mission completion. But there was no mission now. Only this apartment, this woman who moved like she understood spaces he couldn't map.

"Patrol was long tonight." Not a question. She spoke to the kitchen, not to him, which made it easier to process.

"Three hours, forty-seven minutes." The precision felt necessary, like armor.

"Longer than usual."

Damian finally turned. She stood at the stove, profile illuminated by the blue flame beneath the kettle. Her sleep shirt hung loose over shorts, her hair pulled back in a way that suggested interrupted rest. But her posture held no resentment, no irritation at being woken.

"You waited up." The accusation emerged before he could stop it.

"I read." She gestured toward an open book on the counter, pages splayed like wings. "Lost track of time."

A lie, delivered so smoothly he almost believed it. She'd been listening for his return, had probably watched the clock edge past his usual arrival window. The thought created a pressure in his chest he couldn't categorize.

Steam began to curl from the kettle's spout. She moved to retrieve mugs—two of them, though he'd refused. One bore a chip along the rim that caught the light. The other was plain white, utilitarian. She gave him the chipped one.

"I don't want tea." But his hands accepted the mug anyway, wrapping around ceramic warmth.

"Chamomile. It won't keep you awake."

Sleep felt impossible anyway. His mind replayed every miscalculation from the night—the half-second delay before a grappling hook deployment, the stumble on a fire escape that had cost precious momentum. Father would want a full debrief in the morning, would dissect each failure with surgical precision.

The tea tasted of flowers and honey. She'd sweetened it without asking, had somehow known he'd need the extra comfort even if he couldn't request it.

"You're bleeding." She nodded toward his left temple.

Damian's free hand rose automatically, fingers coming away red. He'd forgotten about the shard of glass that had grazed him during the warehouse confrontation. "It's superficial."

"Still needs cleaning."

She disappeared into the bathroom, returning with supplies that she arranged on the coffee table with medical efficiency. Cotton pads, antiseptic, small bandages in neat rows. She'd done this before, had learned his body's patterns of damage.

"Sit."

The command came gently, but it was still a command. Damian found himself obeying, settling onto the couch with the tea balanced on his knee. She knelt beside him, close enough that he could smell her shampoo, could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

"This might sting."

The antiseptic bit sharper than any wound he'd sustained tonight. He didn't flinch, had been trained not to show such weakness, but something in his breathing must have changed because her touch gentled.

"Almost finished."

Her fingers worked with practiced care, cleaning the cut with movements that spoke of countless late nights like this one. When had she learned to read his injuries like a language? When had he started letting her?

"There." The bandage pressed against his temple, sealed edges smooth against his skin. "Better?"

Better was too simple a word. The cut still throbbed, the exhaustion still sat heavy in his bones, the failures still waited to be acknowledged. But something had shifted in the space between question and answer, in the gap where she'd moved without being asked.

"Yes."

She settled beside him on the couch, her own mug cupped between her palms. Close enough to touch, far enough not to crowd. The distance felt calculated, chosen specifically for him.

"Bad night?"

Damian considered deflecting, offering some abbreviated version that would satisfy without revealing. Instead, he found himself speaking.

"I made mistakes. Father will—" He stopped, unsure how to finish.

"Will what?"

"Expect explanations I don't have."

She nodded as if this made perfect sense, as if the weight of inherited expectations was something she'd carried too. Maybe she had.

"Want to talk about it?"

The offer hung between them, patient and undemanding. Damian felt something in his chest loosen, some wire that had pulled taut during the night's work. He could refuse. She wouldn't press, wouldn't pry. But the silence felt less necessary now, less like protection and more like habit.

"The warehouse had more exit points than anticipated." The words emerged slowly, each one tested before release. "I miscalculated the suspect's escape route. Cost us twelve minutes."

"Did you catch him?"

"Eventually."

"Then it worked out."

"But the process was flawed. Efficiency matters."

She was quiet for a moment, steam rising from her mug in lazy spirals. "Sometimes the process isn't the point."

Damian wanted to argue, to explain why precision mattered, why failure compounded into larger problems. But fatigue made his thoughts sluggish, made the argument feel less urgent.

The apartment settled around them—heating pipes clicking, distant traffic humming through rain-soaked streets. His tea had cooled to drinking temperature, the sweetness more apparent now. She'd known he'd need this, had prepared for his return without being asked.

"How?" The question escaped before he could examine it.

"How what?"

"How do you know? What I need before I know myself."

She smiled then, a small curve that changed her whole face. "Practice, maybe. Or just paying attention."

Paying attention. As if his needs were written in a language she'd taken time to learn, as if his patterns were worth memorizing. The thought created that pressure in his chest again, but softer now, less like pain and more like recognition.

His head found her shoulder without conscious decision, drawn by gravity and exhaustion and something else he couldn't name. She didn't move, didn't speak, just let him rest against her warmth while rain painted patterns on the windows.

"Thank you." The words barely qualified as whisper.

Her hand found his hair, fingers moving through dark strands with careful gentleness. "Always."

Always. A promise that felt too large for the moment but somehow fit anyway, like armor forged specifically for his dimensions. Damian closed his eyes and let himself trust it, let himself believe that some things didn't require asking for.

The dream fractured at 4:17 AM—warehouse scaffolding collapsing inward, metal screaming against concrete. Damian's body jerked upright before consciousness caught up, muscle memory cataloging threats that existed only in neural misfiring. The couch cushions held the impression of his weight. She'd covered him with the throw blanket from the back of the chair, wool scratchy against his forearms where his sleeves had ridden up.

She wasn't in the living room.

His feet found the floor without sound, joints protesting the shift from horizontal to vertical. The apartment held that particular stillness of deep night—not empty, but paused, waiting. Light seeped from beneath the bedroom door, a thin gold line against hardwood.

He should leave. Return to the manor, to his own bed, to the familiar territory of solitude. Instead, he found himself moving toward that bar of light, drawn by something he couldn't articulate.

The door stood ajar. Through the gap, he could see her propped against pillows, laptop balanced on bent knees, fingers moving across keys with deliberate quiet. The screen's glow carved shadows beneath her cheekbones, painted her in blues and whites that made her look ethereal, untouchable.

She paused mid-sentence, head tilting toward the door. "Can't sleep?"

No surprise in her voice. She'd been listening for him to wake, had probably heard the moment his breathing changed from sleep to consciousness. Another thing she'd learned to read without instruction.

"I should go." But he pushed the door wider instead of retreating, stepped into the sphere of lamplight that made the room feel separate from the rest of the world.

"Should you?"

The question held no judgment, no manipulation. Just genuine curiosity about what he actually wanted versus what he thought he should want. The distinction felt important, though he couldn't explain why.

The bed was large enough for two people who respected boundaries, who understood the difference between proximity and intrusion. She'd already proven she could provide comfort without demanding intimacy, could offer care without expecting reciprocation.

"What are you working on?" He nodded toward the laptop screen, deflecting from the decision he wasn't ready to make.

"Grant application. Due tomorrow—today, technically." She gestured at the clock on the nightstand. "Lost track of time after you fell asleep."

Another lie delivered with practiced ease. She'd stayed awake to monitor his rest, to ensure the nightmares didn't pull him under completely. The thought created that familiar pressure behind his sternum, but warmer now, less like suffocation and more like expansion.

"You need sleep."

"So do you."

A stalemate built from mutual concern, each of them prioritizing the other's wellbeing over their own. In another context, it might have been funny. Here, it felt like recognition—two people who understood the weight of unspoken needs.

Damian moved to the bed's edge, mattress dipping slightly under his weight. Close enough to feel her body heat, far enough to maintain the illusion of choice. "Tell me about the grant."

She shifted to make room, laptop screen angling so he could see the document. Words arranged in academic precision, formal language requesting funding for community outreach programs. The kind of work that helped people without expecting headlines, without demanding recognition.

"Youth programs," she explained, scrolling through budget projections and outcome assessments. "Kids who need alternatives to what the streets offer."

Kids like he might have been, in another life. Children growing up in circumstances that offered few choices, fewer chances. The parallel sat unexamined in his throat.

"The deadline?"

"Noon. I have time."

Not enough time, if she planned to review and revise properly. But she'd already sacrificed sleep for his comfort, had rearranged her priorities around his unspoken needs. The guilt felt sharp and immediate.

"I'm interfering with your work."

"You're not interfering with anything." Her fingers stilled on the keyboard. "This can wait."

"It shouldn't have to."

She studied his face with that particular intensity he'd grown accustomed to, the way she seemed to see through constructed facades to whatever truth lurked underneath. "Are you asking me to work, or asking if you can stay?"

The question cut through pretense with surgical precision. He could deflect again, could manufacture reasons to leave that would spare them both the vulnerability of direct admission. Or he could answer honestly, could risk the possibility that his needs might not be burdensome.

"I don't know how to ask for things." The words emerged rougher than intended, scraped raw by admission.

"You don't have to ask."

She saved the document, closed the laptop, set it aside with movements that spoke of decision made and executed. The bed stretched between them, suddenly vast and charged with possibility.

"I have nightmares." Another confession torn from some buried place. "They're worse when I'm alone."

"I know."

Of course she knew. She'd probably heard him struggling through dreams on nights when he thought he'd hidden the evidence, had learned to read the signs of interrupted sleep in his posture and temperament.

"And you don't mind?"

"Why would I mind?"

Because his damage required management, because his needs came with complications, because caring for him meant accepting responsibility for problems he couldn't solve alone. All the reasons he'd learned to expect rejection, to preemptively withdraw before others could demonstrate their limits.

Instead of voicing these fears, he moved toward the bed's center, toward the space she'd created for him. The sheets smelled like her soap and something else—safety, maybe, or simply the absence of threat. He settled beside her, close enough to feel her breathing, far enough to retreat if necessary.

She reached for the lamp switch. "Light on or off?"

Another choice offered without pressure, another way she'd learned to accommodate needs he'd never voiced. In the dark, nightmares felt more substantial, more capable of dragging him under. But light meant exposure, meant she'd see whatever played across his features during sleep.

"Off."

Darkness settled around them, broken only by city glow filtering through curtains. The mattress shifted as she arranged herself beside him, careful not to encroach on his space but close enough that he could feel her presence like a anchor point.

"Better?" she whispered.

Better was still too simple, but more accurate now. The exhaustion remained, but it felt manageable instead of crushing. The nightmares waited at the edges of consciousness, but her steady breathing created a rhythm he could match, could use to maintain stability.

"Yes."

Sleep came gradually this time, seeping in around the edges instead of ambushing him. Her hand found his in the darkness—not grasping, just touching, fingers intertwined loosely enough that he could pull away if he needed to.

He didn't need to.

The warehouse scaffolding stayed intact in his dreams.

Chapter Text

The apartment door clicked shut behind Dick, and the scent hit him immediately—thick, desperate, honey-sweet with an undertone of distress that made his alpha instincts surge to the surface. You hadn't answered his texts for two days. Now he understood why.

"Hey." His voice carried through the dim hallway, careful not to startle. "It's me."

A muffled sound from the bedroom. Something between acknowledgment and plea.

Dick set his overnight bag down by the door, muscle memory from a dozen similar visits. The apartment felt smaller when you were in heat, the air heavy with pheromones that spoke directly to the part of his brain that wanted to fix, protect, provide. He'd learned to breathe through his mouth during the first few minutes, letting his system adjust before the biological imperative could override his conscious mind.

The living room looked like a hurricane had torn through it. Couch cushions scattered across the floor, throw pillows arranged in careful circles, blankets pulled from every closet and draped over chairs to create makeshift walls. Your nesting instincts had kicked in hard.

"Can I come in?" He paused outside your bedroom door, hand flat against the wood.

"Dick?" Your voice sounded raw, smaller than usual. "Is that really you?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. Really me."

The door opened slowly. You peered through the crack, pupils blown wide, hair mussed from hours of restless movement. The sight of you made something protective and possessive unfurl in his chest—not the claiming kind of possession, but the fierce tenderness reserved for precious things.

"How long?" he asked.

"Started yesterday morning. Tried to text you, but—" You gestured vaguely at your phone, abandoned on the nightstand with a dead battery.

Dick stepped closer, and you immediately pressed your face against his chest, breathing him in like he was oxygen. Your hands fisted in his shirt, holding tight enough that he could feel your knuckles through the fabric.

"Better?" he murmured into your hair.

You nodded against his collarbone. The tension in your shoulders eased fractionally, but he could still feel you trembling—whether from heat exhaustion or relief, he couldn't tell.

"Show me what you've built."

You pulled back, suddenly animated despite the exhaustion written in the lines around your eyes. "It's not finished. I couldn't—the scents were all wrong, and I kept moving things, but nothing felt safe enough."

Dick followed you through the apartment, cataloging the nest's architecture. You'd pushed the coffee table against the far wall and built a complex structure of cushions and blankets in the center of the living room. Pillows formed careful barriers, creating an enclosed space just large enough for two people. It was impressive work, the kind of intricate construction that spoke to deep biological programming.

"This is incredible," he said, and meant it. "But you're right about the scents."

Your face fell. "I tried using your cologne, but it's not—"

"It's not the same as having me here." Dick shrugged out of his jacket, then pulled his shirt over his head. The cool air raised goosebumps along his arms, but the way your expression brightened made it worth the momentary discomfort. "Where do you want this?"

You took the shirt with reverent hands, pressing it to your nose and inhaling deeply. The sound you made was purely omega—satisfaction and comfort rolled into one soft exhalation.

"The center," you said. "It needs to go in the center."

Dick watched you arrange the shirt carefully among the pillows, smoothing wrinkles with gentle fingers. Your movements had purpose now, the frantic energy of earlier replaced by focused intent.

"What else?"

You looked up at him, hope and hesitation warring in your expression. "Your sweater? The blue one you wore last week?"

He dug through his overnight bag, producing the requested item. It still smelled like him—detergent and skin and the faint trace of his cologne. You buried your face in the soft wool before adding it to the nest's foundation.

"Socks?"

"Socks," he confirmed, sitting on the edge of the couch to peel them off. "Though I have to warn you, I've been wearing these since this morning."

"Perfect." You practically snatched them from his hands. "The stronger the scent, the better."

Dick felt heat creep up his neck as he watched you position his socks near what he was beginning to recognize as the nest's entrance. There was something intensely intimate about seeing his clothes incorporated into your most basic biological imperative, woven into the space where you felt safest.

"Anything else?"

You bit your lower lip, suddenly shy. "Your pillow? From home?"

"I brought it." He'd learned that lesson the hard way, after spending an entire heat cycle watching you try to make do with pillows that smelled like fabric softener instead of alpha. "It's in the bag."

The transformation was immediate. You clutched his pillow like a lifeline, and Dick watched the last of the desperate edge fade from your scent. Still honey-sweet, still thick with heat, but no longer tinged with the sharp note of distress that had hit him at the door.

"Better?" he asked again.

"So much better." You looked up at him with clearer eyes. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. We still have three days to get through."

Dick had done this before—not often, but enough to know the rhythm. The first day was always the hardest, when heat hormones peaked and rational thought became secondary to biological need. You'd want him close but not too close, present but not overwhelming. A careful balance between alpha and friend.

"Do you want to test it out?" He nodded toward the nest.

You crawled in first, settling among the carefully arranged pillows with a sigh of contentment. The space was just large enough for Dick to follow, though he had to duck his head to avoid disturbing the blanket canopy you'd constructed overhead.

"How's this?" He arranged himself along the nest's perimeter, close enough to provide comfort without crowding.

"Perfect." You curled toward him, one hand resting against his bare chest. "Your heartbeat—I can hear it."

Dick concentrated on keeping his breathing even, his pulse steady. You needed consistency right now, reliability. Something to anchor yourself to when heat made the world feel unstable.

"Sleep," he murmured. "I'll be here when you wake up."

You were already drifting, the exhaustion of building and rebuilding finally catching up now that safety was secured. Dick felt you relax against him by degrees, muscles unclenching as sleep pulled you under.

He stayed awake longer, cataloging the weight of you against his side, the way your breathing gradually deepened and evened out. The nest smelled like both of you now—his familiar alpha scent mixing with your omega sweetness to create something new and complex.

Through the apartment windows, Blüdhaven's skylight painted shifting patterns on the walls. Dick closed his eyes and let himself drift, lulled by your steady breathing and the knowledge that you were safe, comfortable, exactly where you needed to be.

You woke to the sound of Dick moving carefully around the apartment, trying not to wake you. Late afternoon light slanted through the windows, and your internal clock told you you'd slept for hours.

"Hey." Your voice came out rough with sleep.

"Hey yourself." Dick appeared in the nest's entrance, holding a glass of water and looking concerned. "How are you feeling?"

You took inventory. The desperate edge from earlier had retreated, replaced by a deeper, more manageable warmth. Your head felt clearer, though you could sense the heat building again beneath the surface.

"Human," you said. "Mostly."

"Good. Drink this." He passed you the water, and you drained half the glass in one go. "And eat something. I ordered Thai food."

The mention of food made your stomach clench with sudden hunger. You couldn't remember the last time you'd eaten something more substantial than crackers and whatever had been lurking in your refrigerator.

"You don't have to take care of me," you said, but without much conviction.

"I want to." Dick settled beside you, careful not to disturb the nest's carefully constructed walls. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't dehydrate."

You leaned against his shoulder, grateful for the solid warmth of him. "How do you always know exactly what I need?"

"Practice." His hand found your hair, fingers combing through the tangles with gentle patience. "And paying attention."

The simple touch sent warmth spiraling through you—not heat, exactly, but something deeper and more complex. Contentment, maybe. The bone-deep satisfaction of being cared for by someone who understood your needs without needing explanation.

"The food's getting cold," Dick said, but he made no move to leave the nest.

"Five more minutes."

"Five more minutes," he agreed.

Outside, the city hummed with evening traffic, but inside your carefully constructed sanctuary, time moved differently. Dick's fingers in your hair, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, the perfect blend of your scents creating a bubble of safety in the middle of chaos.

You could feel heat building again, a slow wave that would crest in a few hours and leave you desperate and needy. But for now, in this moment, you were exactly where you belonged.

"Dick?"

"Mmm?"

"Thank you. For this. For understanding."

His hand stilled in your hair for a moment. "You don't have to thank me for caring about you."

You tilted your head to look at him, taking in the serious expression, the way his blue eyes had gone soft and warm. "I love you too, you know."

Dick's smile was answer enough.

Chapter Text

The door's metal handle burned Dick's palm through the cold as he yanked it open. Arctic air slammed into him, sharp enough to make his eyes water and his lungs seize. The scent of snow—clean, metallic, somehow empty—flooded his nostrils.

"Really? Snowman?" The words scraped past his throat, rough from the sudden temperature drop. He pressed his palms together, skin already stinging, the friction generating pathetic heat against the assault of winter air streaming through the doorframe.

You stood there like some snow-drunk maniac, mittened hands clutching your scarf while your breath formed crystalline clouds. Your cheeks blazed red, but your grin stretched wide enough to split your face. "Yes! Snowman. It's the one thing you can't train for in crime-fighting."

Dick's eyebrow climbed his forehead as his mind automatically catalogued the physics—snow density, structural integrity, time required for construction in sub-freezing temperatures. His fingers flexed inside his jacket pockets, muscle memory still expecting grappling hooks instead of winter gloves. "And how exactly do you propose we build a snowman without freezing solid?"

You scooped up a handful of snow and thrust it toward him like a weapon. Ice crystals clung to your mitten, and Dick watched them catch the weak sunlight filtering through gray clouds. "By getting to work. Come on, Snow-Grayson, first step: rolling the base."

The nickname hit him sideways—unexpected and ridiculous enough that his chest loosened despite the cold. Dick exhaled hard, watching his breath dissipate into the frigid air. "I'm more of a 'catch the bad guy' kinda guy than a 'roll giant frozen balls' kinda guy." But his knees were already bending, his hands reaching for the snow before his brain fully committed to the absurdity.

The snow bit through his gloves immediately. Wet, gritty, and somehow both soft and sharp at once. Dick's fingers went numb within seconds, but he packed the snow anyway, his movements automatic—compress, rotate, add more material. Like prepping smoke bombs, if smoke bombs were made of frozen precipitation and required zero stealth.

"Maybe Nightwing needs to diversify." Your voice carried that teasing lilt that always made him want to prove you wrong. You worked beside him with infuriating efficiency, your snowballs perfectly round while his looked like lopsided disasters.

Dick's competitive instincts flickered to life, the same drive that pushed him through training sessions until his muscles screamed. His movements sharpened, more deliberate. Snow crunched under his boots as he rolled the base larger, adding weight and density with each revolution. "Alright, let's make this snowman epic. Like… a ninja snowman."

Your laugh burst out in visible puffs of vapor, sharp and delighted. From your coat pocket, you produced a carrot with the flourish of a stage magician. "Ninja snowman, huh? Does he have throwing stars or just really sharp icicles?"

Dick paused, considering the question with the same seriousness he'd apply to tactical planning. His breath steamed as he spoke. "Both. Plus, an intimidating scarf."

Without hesitation, you unwound your scarf—soft wool that had been warming your neck—and draped it around the snowman's forming shoulders. The fabric looked absurdly cheerful against the white, like a splash of color in Gotham's perpetual gray palette. "Perfect. He's basically the coolest snowman in Gotham."

Dick stepped back, snow crunching under his heels, and studied their creation with the analytical eye he usually reserved for crime scenes. The snowman stood crooked but solid, its three-section body somehow managing to look both childish and oddly dignified. "Not bad for a couple of amateurs freezing our butts off."

His fingers had progressed from numb to actively painful, and he could feel ice crystals forming on his eyelashes. But something warm spread through his chest as he watched you beam at their ridiculous snow sculpture.

"Come on, Snow-Grayson, let's give him some eyes."

You pressed two pieces of coal into the snowman's head, your movements precise despite your thick mittens. The black dots stared back at them with blank intensity, and Dick found himself meeting that empty gaze. "You know, I think this snowman might actually be smarter than me."

The words came out before he could stop them, carrying more truth than he'd intended. Here he was, a trained acrobat and detective, standing in sub-freezing temperatures building frozen sculptures like a kid on winter break.

"Speak for yourself." Your snowball caught him in the shoulder with surprising accuracy, snow exploding against his jacket in a burst of white powder.

Dick's hand moved without thought, snatching the projectile from the air before it could hit the ground. His reflexes kicked in—the same split-second timing that let him dodge bullets and catch falling civilians. The packed snow sat cold and dense in his palm, perfect ammunition. His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile but held all the promise of retaliation.

"Game on."

The words hung in the crystalline air for exactly one heartbeat before chaos erupted. Dick's snowball flew with the precision of a batarang, aimed for your center mass. You dove sideways, boots skidding on the icy ground, already packing another projectile. Snow flew between you in rapid volleys, each throw carrying the competitive edge that turned every interaction into a challenge.

Dick's training kicked in automatically—dodge, weave, calculate trajectory, return fire. But instead of criminal adversaries, he faced someone whose laughter rang out with each near-miss, someone who fought back with equal determination and zero regard for dignity. Snow clung to his hair, melted down his collar, and somehow the burning cold transformed into something that felt like exactly the kind of fight he'd forgotten he needed.

The freezing temperature that had seemed like punishment minutes earlier now provided the perfect battleground for a war that required no strategy beyond joy.

Chapter Text

The Red Robin suit hung draped over the back of Tim's chair like discarded armor, the Kevlar still warm from three hours of rooftop reconnaissance. Case files scattered across his desk in calculated chaos—photographs of entry points, floor plans annotated in his precise handwriting, surveillance footage stills marked with red ink. The Penguin's latest smuggling operation, finally cracked. Another night of Gotham's endless cycle.

Tim rolled his shoulders, vertebrae popping in sequence. The muscle between his shoulder blades seized—a knot of tension that had been building since he'd spent forty minutes crouched behind an air conditioning unit, camera lens trained on warehouse loading docks.

"That sounds painful."

He turned. You stood in the doorway of his apartment, takeout bag in hand, studying the rigid line of his posture with the analytical gaze he recognized from crime scenes. Three months of dating a vigilante had taught you to read the map of strain across his body.

"Occupational hazard." Tim's fingers found the spot, pressing ineffectively through his t-shirt. "Nothing coffee won't fix."

You set the bag on his kitchen counter, moved behind his chair. "May I?"

Tim's hand stilled. Physical contact outside of patrol situations remained unfamiliar territory—his body trained to catalogue threats, not comfort. But your fingers had already found the rigid muscle, thumbs pressing into the knot with surprising precision.

"Where did you learn to do this?" The question emerged rougher than intended as you worked at the tension.

"YouTube University." Your pressure increased, following the line of his trapezius. "Plus trial and error on my own neck after too many late nights grading papers."

Tim's breath caught as you found a particularly stubborn knot. His analytical mind catalogued the sensation—pain dissolving into relief, the gradual loosening of muscle fibers. "Remind me to thank the education system for overworking teachers."

"Very funny." But your fingers gentled, reading the catch in his voice. "Too much?"

"No." The word came out sharper than he'd intended. Tim forced his shoulders to relax, allowed himself to lean into the touch. Trust came in increments for someone trained to sleep with one eye open.

Your thumbs worked deeper, tracing the architecture of tension beneath his skin. Tim's breathing steadied, the hypervigilant alertness that kept him alive on Gotham's streets finally dimming. The apartment settled around them—distant traffic humming through reinforced windows, the soft whir of his computer processing facial recognition algorithms.

"You're thinking too loud," you murmured, fingers finding another knot.

Tim's mouth quirked. "Occupational hazard number two."

"What's the case this time?"

"Penguin's moving something through the docks. Weapons, maybe. Or worse." Tim's voice carried the weight of too many nights spent unraveling Gotham's criminal infrastructure. "We got enough evidence tonight to shut down the operation, but there's always another one."

Your hands paused. "We?"

The slip registered immediately. Tim's body tensed, the careful compartmentalization between his civilian and vigilante identities reasserting itself. "The GCPD task force. I've been consulting."

The lie sat bitter on his tongue, but necessary. You knew he worked with the police in some capacity—his cover story for the odd hours and occasional injuries. The full truth remained locked away, another casualty of loving someone who lived two lives.

Your fingers resumed their work, finding the new tension that had crept into his shoulders. "You don't have to carry all of it alone."

Tim's eyes closed. The irony wasn't lost on him—sitting here accepting comfort while his patrol suit hung three feet away, tangible proof of exactly how alone he carried Gotham's burden. "I know."

"Do you?"

The question hung between them, weighted with months of watching him disappear into cases, into the consuming darkness of a city that demanded everything and gave nothing back. Your hands stilled against his shoulders.

Tim turned in his chair, faced you directly. The desk lamp cast shadows across his features, highlighting the dark circles beneath his eyes, the too-sharp angles of cheekbones carved by missed meals and longer nights. He looked younger in the amber light, and older simultaneously—boyish features aged by responsibility that should have belonged to someone twice his age.

"I'm not used to..." He gestured vaguely between them. "This. Having someone who worries."

Your hand moved to his face, thumb tracing the hollow beneath his eye. "Everyone needs someone to worry about them."

Tim's breath caught. The simple touch carried weight—an acknowledgment of the space he'd carved out in your life, the way you'd adapted to his strange hours and stranger absences. His hand covered yours, fingers interlacing.

"The case tonight," he said quietly. "Kids were involved. Penguin's using them as runners, probably threatening their families." His jaw tightened. "I keep thinking about what happens to them when we shut this down. Where they go."

The admission cost him. Tim Drake didn't often acknowledge the cases that burrowed under his skin, the ones that made sleep impossible even when exhaustion dragged at his bones. But your fingers had worked loose more than muscle tension—had found the tight knot of responsibility he carried for every victim he couldn't save in time.

"You can't save everyone," you said gently.

"I know." Tim's voice cracked slightly. "Doesn't stop me from trying."

You leaned forward, pressed your lips to his forehead. The kiss was soft, grounding—an anchor point in the endless spiral of Gotham's darkness. Tim's eyes fluttered closed, the hypervigilant tension in his body finally easing.

"The kids," you said against his skin. "You'll find a way to help them. You always do."

Tim's arms came up around you, pulling you closer. For a moment, the weight of Red Robin's responsibilities faded, replaced by something simpler—the warmth of another person who chose to care about him, not because of what he could do for Gotham, but because of who he was when the mask came off.

"Stay tonight?" The request emerged quietly, vulnerable in a way that Tim rarely allowed himself to be.

You smiled, fingers combing through his dark hair. "Already planning on it. Someone needs to make sure you actually eat that takeout instead of diving back into case files."

Tim laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in days. "Fair point."

But neither of you moved to retrieve the cooling food. The night settled around them like a protective shell, the city's chaos held at bay by reinforced windows and the simple presence of someone who understood that even vigilantes needed sanctuary.

Tim's computer chimed softly—another algorithm completing its search, another thread in Gotham's criminal web mapped and catalogued. The work would always be there, endless and consuming. But for now, Tim Drake allowed himself this moment of peace, this brief reprieve from the weight of a city's salvation.

Outside, Gotham's sirens wailed their eternal song. Inside, two people found solace in the space between heartbeats, in the quiet acknowledgment that some burdens were easier to carry when shared.

Chapter Text

Your phone buzzed against the bathroom counter, screen lighting up Dick's contact photo—him mid-laugh at the carnival last month, cotton candy stuck to his bottom lip. The text made your stomach drop three floors.

Can you send me a picture? I want to prove to all of my friends that angels really do exist.

The mascara wand froze halfway to your lashes. In the mirror, your reflection stared back with one eye done and the other bare, looking lopsided and unprepared for whatever this was supposed to mean.

Dick Grayson didn't do cheesy pickup lines. Not with you. Not after eight months of stolen kisses in stairwells and his jacket draped over your shoulders during Gotham's bitter February nights. He saved the charm offensive for undercover work and old ladies at the bodega who slipped him extra apples.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. The bathroom fan hummed overhead, cycling the same stale air while you tried to decode whether this was some kind of test you were failing in real time.

what

Three dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Sorry, that sounded better in my head. Roy bet me I wouldn't send it.

The relief lasted exactly two seconds before irritation took its place. You set the phone down harder than necessary, the plastic case clattering against marble.

Dick was at Roy's. Which meant Arsenal was currently reading over his shoulder, probably laughing at whatever face you'd made when the message came through. The thought of being reduced to fodder for their entertainment made your skin crawl.

so this is a joke

No! God, no. It came out wrong.

Your phone rang before you could respond. Dick's voice filled the small space when you answered, tinny through the speaker.

"Can you—hey, give me a sec." Muffled sounds, Roy's voice in the background making kissing noises. "Shut up, man. Seriously."

"I'm hanging up."

"Wait, please don't." The background noise cut off, replaced by the sound of a door closing. "I'm sorry. That was stupid."

You capped the mascara with more force than required. "Which part? The pickup line or letting Roy turn me into entertainment?"

"Both. All of it." Dick's breathing came through uneven, like he was pacing. "I just—we were talking about our girlfriends, and Roy said something about how I never shut up about you, and then Jason started in with his whole thing—"

"Jason's there too?"

"It doesn't matter who's here. What matters is I screwed up." A pause. "I was trying to tell them how beautiful you are, and it came out like some creepy text instead of... I don't know. What I actually meant."

The fight drained out of you slowly, like air from a punctured tire. You knew Dick's tells—the way his voice got smaller when he was embarrassed, how he talked faster when he was trying to fix something he'd broken.

"What did you actually mean?"

Silence stretched long enough that you checked to make sure the call hadn't dropped. Finally: "That I'm crazy about you. That sometimes I look at you and forget how to breathe properly." His laugh came out shaky. "That Roy's right, and I probably do talk about you too much, but I can't help it because you're..."

He trailed off. You pressed the phone closer to your ear, waiting.

"Because I'm what?"

"Perfect. Not like—not perfect perfect, because that's terrifying and boring. But perfect for me. Like you were designed specifically to drive me insane in the best possible way."

Heat crept up your neck. Dick had a way of dismantling your defenses with surgical precision, usually when you were determined to stay mad at him.

"That's still a terrible pickup line."

"I know. Roy's never letting me live it down."

You caught your reflection again, half-done makeup and Dick's oversized Gotham Knights t-shirt hanging loose over your jeans. Not exactly angelic. "For the record, I look like garbage right now."

"Impossible."

"I'm wearing your shirt and I haven't washed my hair in two days."

"Send me the picture anyway?"

The request hung between you, gentler now but somehow more vulnerable than the original text. This wasn't about proving anything to Roy or Jason. This was Dick asking to see you, Tuesday afternoon hair and all, because distance made him miss the sight of you in his clothes.

You switched to video call without warning. Dick's face filled the screen, eyes widening slightly before his expression melted into something soft and unguarded.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi yourself." You angled the phone to avoid the worst of the bathroom lighting. "This count as proof?"

"More than enough." Dick's smile started slow and spread until it reached his eyes. "Though I might have to keep this one to myself."

"Probably for the best. I don't need Roy and Jason commenting on my skincare routine."

"What skincare routine? You just wake up like this."

"Liar."

"Scout's honor."

"You were never a scout."

"Details." Dick leaned closer to his camera. "Come over when you're done getting ready? I'll make it up to you. Properly this time."

The bathroom felt smaller suddenly, warm from the space heater and Dick's attention through the phone screen. "What did you have in mind?"

"Dinner that isn't takeout. Wine that costs more than fifteen dollars. An apology impressive enough to make you forget I ever said the word 'angels' in a text message."

"That's a tall order."

"I'm very motivated."

You laughed despite yourself, watching Dick's face light up at the sound. Eight months, and he still looked at you like you were something miraculous he'd stumbled across by accident.

"Give me an hour," you said.

"I'll be here."

The call ended, leaving you alone with the bathroom fan and your lopsided reflection. But the irritation had evaporated completely, replaced by something warm and anticipatory that settled in your chest like a cat in sunlight.

Dick Grayson might be terrible at pickup lines, but he was exceptional at making you believe in the impossible things he saw when he looked at you.

Chapter Text

The box wasn’t wrapped. Just a flat matte envelope tucked inside a cardboard sleeve, the kind that photographers use when they’re trying to look fancy. You slid it across the kitchen counter without saying anything.

Jason raised an eyebrow. He was still chewing the last bite of his leftover pizza, shirtless, hair damp from a shower. You watched his fingers—broad, nicked from last week’s knife fight—pick at the edge of the flap like it might be rigged.

“You gonna open it or just—”

“I’m opening it,” he said around his thumb, voice a little thick. “Just... the way you’re watching me, it feels like a trap.”

You leaned on your elbows, chin in hand. “Wouldn’t be a very sexy trap.”

That made him hesitate.

He peeled the flap back. A stiff breath. Then the photos slipped out, glossy and precise. He caught the first one between two fingers before it slid too far.

And froze.

You weren’t watching his face anymore. You were watching the vein twitch along the side of his neck. The way his throat bobbed. His grip tightened on the edge of the print.

The photo showed you in red. Bra with scalloped lace, stocking seams sharp against the curve of your thighs. You were half-turned, elbow on a vanity mirror. Chin tucked. The photographer had caught the second before your smirk turned into a full smile.

He shuffled to the next one. Then the next.

You cleared your throat. “I picked ‘40s style. Felt like your vibe. Cigarette curls, winged liner. No actual cigarettes though. Obviously.”

Jason coughed. Loud and sharp, like he’d swallowed wrong. “You—how many are in here?”

“Enough.”

He flipped another—this one with you bent over a velvet chaise, garters taut. Another. Legs crossed at the ankles, toes pointed, gloves pulled up past your elbows.

Jason made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze. “Jesus Christ.”

“You like them?”

He glanced up, ears pink. Really pink. “You’re insane.”

“That’s not a no.”

He looked down at the stack again. His thumb brushed a spot on your hip. Not your hip-hip, the one in real life. The one in the photo.

You shifted, standing straighter. Your palms were sweaty. When you’d picked them up from the studio, you’d almost chickened out. Even now, watching him—Jason, the guy who once cleaned a gun while kissing your shoulder—go completely silent was... weirdly vulnerable.

“You’re not saying anything,” you said. “And that could mean—”

“No, hey, I’m saying something,” Jason cut in, too quick. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m just trying to—fuck, give me a sec.”

You waited. You didn’t fill the space. The air conditioner rattled on. He leaned back on the counter and looked at the ceiling like it might offer advice.

“I’ve never—no one’s ever done that for me.”

You tilted your head. “Worn lingerie?”

“Not that.” He gave you a look. “I mean. Yeah. But like... this. You. Planning it. The shoot. Knowing it was for me. Posing like that.” His eyes flicked down to the photos again. “Looking like that.”

You walked around the counter. He didn’t move. The edge of your fingers found the waistband of his sweatpants. You tugged lightly, just enough to anchor yourself.

“You don’t have to say anything fancy,” you said. “I just wanted you to have something beautiful. For the nights I’m not here.”

His voice dropped. “You’re beautiful in a hoodie eating cereal out of the box.”

“Yeah, but I don’t wear that with heels and vintage panties.”

Jason choked again—this time more of a snort—and then dropped the stack of photos face-down on the counter. His arms came around your waist, hard and fast, and he pulled you against his chest.

His skin was hot. Damp. You felt the way his breathing hitched against your shoulder, how long he stayed there.

“You gonna frame one?” you asked, cheek pressed against his.

“No way,” he said, muffled. “If Dick sees one of those, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

You grinned against his neck. “You could keep them in the safe.”

“I’m keeping them under my goddamn pillow.”

He pulled back enough to look you in the eye, his hand warm and heavy on the small of your back.

“You really did this for me?”

“Only you.”

His jaw flexed, like he was chewing over what to say. Instead, he kissed you. Slower than usual. No tongue. Just lips. A little off-center, a little too long. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything back.

When he pulled away, he glanced at the envelope again, then at the bedroom.

You raised an eyebrow. “Wanna go look at them again?”

He huffed. “Babe. I’m never looking at anything else again.”

The bedroom door was cracked. Just enough to catch the edge of light on laminate.

Jason was still in the shower.

You were on your back across the bed, reading a text chain with three different versions of “wyd” from Steph and two voice notes from Cass that didn’t play.

Then the silence shifted. A footstep. Not Jason’s.

You sat up.

“Hey, Jay?” you called. Nothing. The pipes were still running. Shower definitely on.

The bedroom creaked again. Wood under weight. Soft and careful.

You got off the bed, crossed the carpet, and pulled the door open fully.

Dick Grayson stood in the hallway holding the matte black envelope.

His mouth was open. His eyes were wide. And in his other hand, one of the prints—one of the prints—was halfway out of its sleeve.

“Dude,” he said, voice cracking like puberty hit twice. “Dude, are you—are you serious?”

You lunged.

He dodged, spinning to shield the photo behind his back like it was state evidence. “Whoa whoa—look, I didn’t know what it was, it was just on the counter—”

“Put it back,” you said through your teeth, reaching for it.

“Jason left pin-up photos of his very naked partner—on the kitchen counter. Not my fault. I thought it was a mission dossier or something!”

“You thought the Bat Computer started printing lingerie shoots?”

Dick grinned, wide and completely unrepentant. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest Thursday.”

“Give it.”

“Why is one of them in a garage?” He blinked. “Is that the GTO?”

Before you could lunge again, the bathroom door opened with a puff of steam and a low groan from old hinges. Jason stepped out in a towel, hair wet, rubbing it dry with the other.

He clocked you, then Dick, then the envelope, then the photo.

His face dropped.

“What the fuck,” Jason said, very quietly.

Dick held up both hands. “In my defense—”

“There is no defense. I'm gonna kill you.”

“I thought it was a case file!”

Jason moved. Not a run. A very fast walk. You barely had time to back up before he grabbed the print and yanked it out of Dick’s grip. His knuckles went white around the edges.

Dick was still laughing. Not loud. Just the kind that couldn’t stop, like hiccups or poison.

“You left it on the counter, man.”

“I was gonna put it somewhere private.”

“Like the dining table?”

“It was under my phone!” Jason hissed.

You tried not to smile. You really did. But it slipped out at the edges.

Dick leaned in, grinning harder. “I just wanna say—you’re a very lucky guy. Tasteful lighting. Excellent poses. Ten outta ten.”

Jason threw the envelope at his chest. “Leave before I throw you down the stairs.”

Dick caught it. “Framing this one for Father’s Day.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Okay, okay—” Dick held up his hands, backing down the hall. “Enjoy your afterglow or whatever. Next time, label it NOT FOR BROTHERS. ”

Then he was gone. Footsteps down the stairs. The front door opened and closed.

Jason stood in the doorway, eyes closed, head tilted back like he was praying to a god that didn’t answer anymore.

You stepped close and tugged at the towel around his waist. “So... you keeping them under the pillow didn’t pan out.”

His hand found your hip. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

He cracked one eye open. “You wanna make more?”

You blinked. “Photos?”

He leaned in. “Yeah. But this time, I’m the one with the camera.”

Chapter Text

The coffee table groaned under the weight of Tim's laptop as you dragged it across the hardwood floor. He crouched beside the couch, threading a purple bedsheet between the cushions and the bookshelf.

"Pass me that clothespin," he said, gesturing toward the scattered supplies. His hair stuck up at odd angles from crawling under furniture.

You tossed the wooden clip to him. "The structural integrity of this thing is questionable at best."

"Says the person who wanted to use duct tape as a primary support system." Tim secured the sheet's corner and stepped back. The blanket fort stretched across half the living room—a patchwork cathedral of mismatched linens and precariously balanced furniture.

The doorbell rang.

Tim's shoulders tensed. "Please tell me you didn't."

"I invited Damian." You ducked under the fort's entrance, testing the clearance. "He's been complaining about being left out of our 'juvenile activities.'"

"Those weren't complaints. Those were insults disguised as observations."

The front door clicked open without ceremony. Damian's voice carried through the apartment. "The structural engineering of this... dwelling appears fundamentally flawed."

"See?" Tim hissed.

Damian appeared in the doorway, school uniform pristine despite the late hour. His eyes swept the blanket fort with clinical assessment. "The load-bearing calculations are incorrect. This will collapse within minutes."

"It's held up for three weeks," you said.

"Impossible."

Tim crawled deeper into the fort, muttering about privacy and personal space. You followed, leaving Damian standing at the entrance.

Inside, string lights cast warm shadows across the fabric walls. Pillows formed a semicircle around Tim's laptop. He opened a new tab and began typing with aggressive precision.

"You could invite him in," you said.

"He called our fort 'an exercise in domestic incompetence.'"

"Last week."

"Some wounds don't heal."

Damian's silhouette appeared at the entrance. "The ambient lighting suggests LED strips rated at approximately 2700K. Adequate for reading but insufficient for detailed work."

Tim's typing stopped.

"Are you coming in or providing external commentary?" you asked.

Damian hesitated. His uniform made soft sounds as he crouched, then crawled through the entrance. Inside, he sat with perfect posture while Tim and you lounged against pillows.

"The acoustics are surprisingly effective," Damian admitted.

Tim closed his laptop. "Don't sound so surprised."

"I assumed the textile barriers would create echo distortion."

"We tested it," you said. "Week two of construction."

Damian nodded, filing away this information. "Today's patrol yielded three separate instances of corporate espionage. Father assigned me surveillance duties while Drake handled digital infiltration."

Tim straightened. "The Lexcorp situation?"

"Among others."

Their conversation shifted into tactical analysis, voices lowering instinctively despite the fort's privacy. You settled back against the pillows, watching Tim's hands gesture as he described security protocols. Damian listened with focused attention, occasionally interjecting corrections or alternative strategies.

The string lights flickered once.

"Electrical fault in the connection," Damian observed.

Tim reached overhead and jiggled the battery pack. The lights steadied.

"Temporary solution," Damian said.

"Most solutions are."

Damian pulled a small multitool from his pocket. "May I?"

Tim blinked. "You want to fix our fort?"

"I want to prevent a potential fire hazard."

"Same thing," you said.

Damian set to work on the battery connection, his movements precise and economical. Tim watched with grudging interest as Damian stripped wire and created a more secure junction.

"There." Damian tested the connection. The lights remained steady. "This should last significantly longer."

"Thanks," Tim said, the word emerging slowly.

Damian settled back against a pillow, his posture relaxing by degrees. "Perhaps the structural integrity isn't entirely compromised."

"High praise from the Wayne family engineer," you said.

Tim pulled his laptop back onto his lap. "Want to see the security footage from Tuesday's stakeout?"

Damian leaned closer to the screen. "The camera angle suggests you were positioned approximately fifteen feet too far east."

"I was avoiding the spotlight."

"Which compromised your visual range."

"Better than compromising my cover."

Their debate continued, voices weaving together in familiar rhythm. Outside the fort, Gotham's sirens wailed in the distance. Inside, the string lights cast steady illumination over three figures huddled together, their different worlds temporarily aligned under a canopy of borrowed sheets and shared purpose.

The fort held.