Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One of the first things that you learned about Blüdhaven is that it the city smelled like sweat, motor oil, and depression.   

The second thing?

Apparently, it had its own vigilante

Because why wouldn’t it?

You stood on you 10th floor apartment window, overstuffed moving boxes at your feet, watching a dumpster fire a block down the road. No metaphor, just an omen you tried to ignore. The city welcomed you with fire.

“I moved to fucking Jersey for this?” You muttered shoving your phone between you shoulder and ear as your best friend’s snorted at you. “No, seriously, it smells like Gotham got white girl wasted and pissed itself.” 

“I mean, it is Blüdhaven.” she replied. “But on a cleaner note, you’ve got Nightwing now.”

You blinked. “What the fuck is a Nightwing?”

“He’s like Batman’s hot younger brother. With an ass that don’t quit and way better hair.” 

You blinked harder. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait! Don’t! You need to know these things. He’s kind of the unofficial guardian of the city. Imagine black and blue suit, high kicks, and major authority issues. Real thirst trap material.”

You stared out of our window again and sighed. “The whole reason I even moved to this city is to get away from vigilantes with a superiority complex. I feel like they’re inescapable.” 

“No, the reason you moved cities is because our lease was going to expire and you got offered a job.”

“Well, you’re the one who decided to get engaged without asking me.” You teased.

 Actually, the timing of it all was undeniably convenient. 

 About four years ago, the day after you picked up your degrees from a local university in Oklahoma, you and your best friend packed everything you owned into a rented U-Haul and shipped out to Gotham—chasing “bigger and better things.”

Turns out, “bigger and better” meant a third-floor walk-up in a not-too-shady part of town, no elevator, and a garbage paycheck writing puff pieces for Gotcha, Gotham! Magazine.

At 22, though, you couldn’t have asked for more. The city was rough, and you were broke as hell—but you were free. And you were in it together.

After about two years, the novelty of the magazine wore off. You were restless—desperate for something real. Something exciting. Something that let you put your nosiness and sharp eye to actual use, maybe even serve some real justice for once.

You couldn’t stomach another “Superman or Batman: Who Would Be the Better Boyfriend?”Or “Top 5 Vigilantes Ranked by Shirtlessness (You Won’t Believe #3).”

You needed out—preferably before you lost more brain cells to glitter headlines and clickbait crime.

Two weeks ago she had gotten engaged to her boyfriend of two years, just a few weeks shy of when you were due to renew your lease.

Wildly, the very next day one of the listings you had sent your resume into, when you were drunk and moping on your couch had actually sent you an offer. The Blüdhaven Bulletin, a real newspaper, with real stories had sent you an offer. Admittedly, it was modest offer, but enough to rent out a studio apartment big enough for you and your cat. Who were you to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

So, at the ripe age of 26, you packed all your stuff and had a tearful goodbye. Roughly 45 minutes later you were saying hello to you tiny studio in Blüdhaven, New Jersey. 

You had been here a total of one hour and already your glasses were a little less rose-colored. She always had to cramp your style, didn’t she?

“Look on the bright side, now you work for a real newspaper! They already gave you a press badge and everything. You won’t be stuck behind a desk anymore, forced to write about heroic vigilantes in Gotham’s version of BuzzFeed. Now you can actually get up close and personal with one of them. Purely for furthering your budding career in investigative journalism, of course.” 

You sighed harder. “Yeah. Purely for my career. Silver lining and all that bullshit.” Looking out to the distant coastline you saw a figure running on the a rooftop, sirens screamed down the road.

“…Did you just see him? Speak of the Devil.”

“No. I just witnesses a crime.”

“See! You’re gonna love it there.”

~~~

It had been six whole weeks since you’d dragged boxes, your attitude problem, and surprisingly good investigation skills to the coastal city. You weren’t here to make friends. You were here to find sources and chase a lead—something big, huge even. Something that had made your last two journalism veterans request for reassigned, one of them being too quiet about the whole thing.

The city’s renovation funds were disappearing, the cops to dirty to handle, and to top it all off, a new Gotham brute-turned-boss named Lockjaw, had been trying to make a name for himself. 

You didn’t have the time, or to be frank, really even care about vigilantes in way to tight spandex. You didn’t need some doofus with a cheerleading background to save you. You were tough and determined, aka delusional, to be saved by a man. You had a pepper spray keychain, a taser you bought off Amazon, and a sailors nasty vocabulary.

So, two weeks later-when you heard the name Nightwing again, whispered by a guy who was the muscle man in a blackmailing scheme targeting a city councilman, you rolled your eyes hard. 

“Seriously?”  You looked at him, incredulously, while scribbling in your notebook with a cigarette between two fingers. “Everyone’s scared of a man who dances around in a skintight leotard like a ballerina?’

Snapping your notebook shut with a smidge too much force, you stalked off with heavy steps, taking a long drag and tossing your smoke on the ground. 

He was just a masked show-off. 

You were going to expose half the city council. You didn’t have time for vigilantes with daddy issues and delusions of grandeur. 

You had a job to do. 

But… every once in a while, when the lights were low and the city felt like it took a pause you’d look out on the skyline and think about the figure you saw running across the rooftops like he was an actual bird, not just a wannabe superhero named after one. 

Like a school girl, you’d wonder if he knew who you were, if he’d noticed you at all. 

(He had.)

Chapter Text

4 full months of lining in Blüdhaven had taught you a few things:

1. Don’t get involved 
2. Don’t get distracted 
3. Don’t make eye contact 

So far, you were batting a thousand. 

Blüdhaven wasn’t so much a city as it was a cautionary tale in urban development. The old beer smell seemed to be permanent as did the rampant drug problem. Your favorite bodega had gotten raided twice, your neighbor had offered you the aforementioned drugs, a man dressed like a dollar store Flash had tried to mug you. 

Welcome to the ‘Haven

It was perfect. 

Perfect cities didn’t need journalists like you.

Chaos was good for journalism, it made people talk. And when people talked, you listened. Picking out tips and leads from the regular chatter and gossip had only gotten easier, like an instinct. And lately, your instincts were screaming. 

Money was moving to places it shouldn’t. Businesses were being torched and condemned left and right, permits being forged, properties bought and rebuilt under new LLC’s that appeared out of thin air. Suspicious, very suspicious.

And everything was leading back to one  familiar name: 

Lockjaw. You had been keeping tabs on the Gotham deserter who was big, loud, and dangerous. He was also moving up the cities crime ladder at an alarming rate. 

Somehow, all of the clues you collected had culminated into you sitting in the corner booth at a shitty, run down pool hall on a dreary Thursday night, eavesdropping yet again. 

Currently you were struggling to drink a beer without gagging, while also pretending not to record two of Blüdhaven’s finest.

“The new guy’s too clean,” the ugly one said spat, sneering. “Thinks his pretty face and suck-up act’s gonna save him from the ass beating he about to get. Been at the station for a year tops, and now he’s acting like he runs the place. ”

“We should let the boss handle it.” The uglier one grunted, “He don’t fucking miss.”

Tucking a stray hair behind your ear, you didn’t look up as you hit record on your phone. Scribbling short hand on a napkin under your piss flavored beer, while your bladder was screaming at you. The things you did for justice.

You were in the zone. 

Until he showed up.

It happened something like this:

The lights flickered , once, then twice. The hall went eerily silent. 

A smug voice rang out from above “Wow. I thought the floor smelled liked like cheap whiskey and drunk sex, but I guess its just you two.”

Oh fuck. 

 You knew that voice. Or rather, you’d heard it before. Unfortunately, you were familiar with the memes. You had the an endless thread of thirsty edits from your best friend to prove it. 

There was a thump as something heavy -but graceful- landed on the pool table behind you.

You turned your head just enough to peak at the scene unfolding behind you and there it was. 

The ass that made actual headlines. 

The man standing proudly over the two stunned cops was clad in a black-and-blue, skintight tactical suit. He had toned legs a mile long, a slutty little waist, and a very Dorito shaped upper body. Top that off with the perfectly tousled hair and a movie star smile, you could see why he was such a page turner in the media. 

What a whore.

“Nightwing.” Ugly hissed.

“Aw, you remembered me.” the masked man said, while twirling a baton around like it wasn’t a lethal fidget spinner. “I’m touched.”

Fuck. You thought

The last thing you needed was some crime fighting ballerina and coming in and ruining the weeks-in-the-making story you were cooking and turning it into another headline-grabbing, vigilante dick measuring contest. 

Nightwing moved like water. The following fight was fast. Efficient. Annoyingly graceful. A blur of batons, knees, and witty commentary.

You dove under a nearby table that had flipped over, cursing under your breath. You stayed low, hiding in hopes that you didn’t catch a stray bullet or get accidentally punted across the bar.

You had almost -almost- made it to the exit unscathed, when something heavy and metallic  rolled against your foot. 

A Baton.

His baton. 

You stared at it, then looked up.

Locked eyes with a domino-mask. Nightwing stood a few feet away with his hands on his hips -emphasis on hips- eyebrows raised.

“Hi,” he said.

You scowled, “You blocked my shot.”

“What?” He blinked.

“My sources were finally talking about something other than gross straight-white man topics, then you cartwheeled in here,  and now they’re unconscious. My story is bust. Ruined. Thanks for that.” You sassed, standing up straight and kicking his baton back to him in frustration. You felt like you could cry.

Just great, you thought, weeks and weeks of work down the drain all because of this fucking dude. God, please do me a solid and just end it now. I’m begging.

He blinked at you again, hands not moving from the slim waste you couldn’t help but be a little jealous of. “Umm, cool. And… you are?” 

Rolling your eyes, you stepped towards the exit. “Leaving.”

He was in front of you before you reached the door. “Hold up. You can’t just leave. You were recording.” 

“What? No, I wasn’t.” You lied smoothly. “And so what if I was? It’s not like it’s any of your business.” 

He ignored the attitude, “You’re not from around here, the accent gives you away. You could barely drink the beer you ordered. And you started to squirm when they mentioned Lockjaw, which is… pretty  specific.” You could feel his eyes move up and down your figure, even though the domino mask hide them from your view. “Reporter?” He asked.

You gave him a tight smile. “Annoyed. And I prefer the title ‘journalist’, but it's still really none of your business. Goodbye.” You tried make a hasty retreat by stepping around him, but the man didn’t give you an inch. 

He only had about two inches on you but he seemed to loom over you at that moment. “Look, I see the whole Lois Lane thing you’ve got going on. In this city, reporters who get too close to guys like that, seem to end up washed up on the river bed.” 

You shot him a look, “You ruined my lead and said bad jokes while making those two paraplegics. I’m not impressed.”  

“Okay, ouch.” He said clutching his chest dramatically. “Harsh. Even after I saved your life?” 

“No one was aiming at me.” 

“They would have.” Finally taking a step back, he continued. “I’ve seen lots of your kind. Storm into a soon-to-be crime scene with just a pen, no backup plan, and a lot of pent up rage too, probably.” 

“And i’ve seen a lot of your kind,” you shot back. “Dudes in fucking onesies and masks who think that being hot makes up for being a story-ruining, annoying inconvenience.” 

His raised both eyebrow, “Hot?”

“…Not the point.” 

He grinned, “You noticed, though.”

You finally were able to slip by him and turn away from him. “Oh my God, I hate you.”

“You don’t even know me.” He called as you pushed against the door.

“Exactly!”

The door slammed behind you.

Nightwing watched as you made your way down the side walk, muttering explicits under your breath, while trying to light a cigarette.

“… Cute,” he said quietly to himself, then frowned. “and definitely gonna be pain in my ass.”

~~~

The night was brisk, the street brightly lit and still buzzing despite the fact it was almost two o’clock in the morning, and your feet were killing you—but you were ecstatic.

You had something now. Something solid.

An entire corner block of buildings had been condemned eight months ago for “water damage.” Not mold. Not foundation issues. Just vaguely defined “water damage.” And yet the city cleared the entire block out within two weeks. No repairs. No public updates.

Then the properties were bought up—every single one—under an LLC that hadn’t even existed a week earlier. You cross-checked the name three times. It was a shell company. Zero online presence. No parent organization. No board. Not even a single employee on public record.

The zoning reports filed with the city didn’t match the updated blueprints and floor plans you’d found in a dusty digital archive no one had bothered to secure. The reports said “community religious center.”

The floor plans said chemical refinement facility.

The entire block was being taxed as a church. But a quick Google Maps search showed truck deliveries, employee entrances, and enough ductwork to give OSHA an aneurysm. Fully operational. Hidden in plain sight.

And then—oh, the cherry on top—there were names. Actual, printed names. A handful scrawled in the margins of the original documents, like someone had forgotten to wipe the evidence clean. You recognized two of them immediately. Political donors. One deputy mayor. One retired federal judge.

People you weren’t supposed to touch.

People who didn’t get touched.

You were going to be riding this high for days. Hell, maybe weeks. You were practically skipping down the sidewalk.

Which is probably why you didn’t notice right away when someone started tailing you.

It actually took an embarrassing amount of time, if you were being honest. Especially considering what you did for a living. And even more especially considering how bad he was at it.

A few blocks from your apartment, you caught it—a flicker of electric blue just barely visible on the rooftop across the street. You froze mid-step, going stiff like a cat that just saw a cucumber.

Goddammit.

Not this dude again.

You made a detour. Picked up street tacos from a truck that was still going strong and grabbed a horchata for good measure. Across the street, your shadow slowed on the roofline, watching you like a gargoyle with performance anxiety.

You turned around and walked the opposite direction.

He followed.

You jaywalked to the other side of the street without looking.

Zip—he grappled his way to the other rooftop, trying to blend in with a very obvious forward crouch.

Wow. Not much for subtlety, huh?

Must be the suit. Maybe it cuts off circulation to the part of the brain responsible for not being incredibly conspicuous.

You ducked into an alley—not a sketchy one, just a shortcut back to your block. Before you reached the corner, you stopped and raised your camera like you were fiddling with a setting. Flash primed.

Then, without warning, you spun on your heel and snapped a photo up toward the rooftops behind you—using the brightest, most obnoxious flash you could possibly get out of that lens.

You didn’t need to check the photo.

You already knew what you’d caught 

~~~

Ten minutes later, you were perched on your fire escape in ratty sweats, chain-smoking cigarettes like a noir cliché with student loan debt.

Your laptop balanced precariously on one knee, you zoomed in on the photo you’d snapped in the alley.

There he was—Nightwing, crouched on a rooftop, all drama and neon, just like you’d expected. Electric blue glinting in the flash. Arms tensed. Hair fluttering slightly in the wind, because of course it was.

He looked way too serious for someone who had just spent ten minutes tailing a woman in jeans and a worn-out army jacket who smelled like carne asada and menthols.

And he was pouting. Pretty dramatically, actually.

Like he couldn’t believe he’d actually gotten caught.

Like this was somehow your fault.

You stared at the screen, took a slow drag from your cigarette, and exhaled with a muttered:

“Ugh.” You sneered. “Why am I not surprised? 

~~~

The next day you didn’t leave you apartment at all. You didn’t even put on pants. 

No, you spent the whole day doing what any self-respecting journalist with a cork board and a crippling caffeine addiction would do: obsessing over blueprints, zoning records, and digital trail of a company that legally should not even exist. All while listening to the background ambiance of “The Big Bang Theory.” Real journalism type shit. 

You were mid scroll on a Blüdhaven conspiracy reddit forum, when your eyes started to water from the strain. It was in the middle go the night. Your eyes felt numb, you head felt like a ballon,and you were on your fifth Dr. Pepper of the night. You needed to stretch your legs and hit of nicotine. 

So, yeah. Cigarette break.

You climbed out on the fire escape in a worn college football shirt from your alma mater and a pair of mens briefs that said, “On my way to fuck your mom” across the ass. Lit up. Took a long drag.

That’s when a voice spoke from above, low and infuriatingly smug, ruining your moment of inner peace. 

“You know those are like, super bad for you, right?”

You screamed.

It was more of a strangled yelp-high and undignified-dropped your cigarette, and almost fell off the side of the fire escape. 

He laughed. The gall. 

Whipping around, you looked to the roof directly above your head and there he was. Crouched in a superhero pose, looming over the edge of the roof with what could only be described as a smirk on his face. 

“Jesus fuck! Are you trying to get tased?” You growled at him.

“Not a great opener,” he shrugged. “But fair.”

“Do you just haunt rooftops? Is that like… your schtick?”

He tilted his body a little more of the edge. “Would you believe me if said I was just passing by?”

You glared. “Not on your life.”

He full on grinned, teeth shining. 

You exhaled sharply through your nose, moving back to the corner of the fire escape you had been leaning on. You lit up a new cigarette, “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably hot, you mean.”

“Oh my god.”

“What? You were thinking it.”

“Please stop.”

You were absolutely not thinking it.
(You had briefly thought it the night you first saw him in the pool hall. But that was private and didn’t count. Irrelevant.)

You glanced up at him again only to find him still watching you, all wind swept and musclely. You wanted to ask him is he practiced poses in the mirror. 

Before you could, his eyes softened slightly. “You need to be careful.”

“God, not this again. What are you? My mama?”

He suddenly dropped down on your fire escape, right next to you. He leaned forward, hovering over you, effectively cornering you. He was doing that thing again. Posturing himself in a way that made him feel seven feet tall.  “I’m being serious.”

You simmered. “You don’t even know me. We’ve had one conversation.”

“I know enough.” 

Something about the way he said it set off alarm bells in your head. 

“Oh my god. You’re stalking me. You went home and stalked me on your fancy-shmancy computers.” You accused, pointing a finger in his face.

“I’m monitoring you.”

“Right.” You snapped. “Thats what all stalkers say.”

“I had to make sure you weren’t going to get yourself killed.”

“You don’t even know my last name!”

“I do now.”

You gaped at him. “You absolute fucking creep.”

“Hey!” He whined “I’m not a creep. It was just… intel gathering.”

You took a long drag off your cigarette. “Why do men.”

“Because you’re still wet behind the ears,” he said, ignoring you barb. “You don’t have any field experience, any backup. You bought your taser off of amazon and you grew up in one of the smallest and safest towns in Oklahoma.”

“I can handle myself.”

“I was following you for at least three blocks before you noticed, and that was only because I let you notice.”

“Excuse you, but I am a professional.”

“Exactly,” he said deeply, leaning closer still. Not too close, but enough to make you lean back slightly on the railing. Just so you could breathe a little easier. “You’re a professional journalist. Not a spy. Not a fighter. And definitely not bulletproof . You’re digging into things and places that people don’t survive.”

You hated the silence that followed. You hated how real it sounded when he said it.

“Did the you get that from the ‘How to be a vigilante handbook?’” You asked to break the tension. 

“Nope.” He leaned away from you, flashing his dimples. “That was all me.”

“Are you done?”

“Just about.”

He hesitated, like he was going to say something wise and profound, but then decided against it. Pssh, typical. 

Instead he just stood up straight, sent you a diabolical side eye, and turned around to the face the inner city.

“Be careful out here, all alone at night. You never know if a crazy person is out here, watching you.” He said it like he was trying to be helpful, like he was doing you a favor. 

Deeply ironic coming from one from a man who followed you for six blocks in a superhero cosplay and had most likely seen your private search history. 

You flicked the ash off your cigarette. “Thanks for the tip, Bird Brain.” 

One foot already on the ledge, he paused. Giving you one last unreadable look over his shoulder, he then just fell off the fire escape. No grappling hook, just arms spread wide, like he was accepting his fate.

“Holy shit!” You gasped loudly and scrambled to get other side of the structure. Hitting the railing hard, you looked over the edge trying to see if there was a Nightwing shaped hole in the ground below. 

Instead you saw absolutely nothing. Just two abnormally large rats fighting over a slice of pizza.

You blinked. “Seriously? Who the fuck does that?” 

Chapter Text

You couldn’t sleep. 

Not because of the story you were chasing, or the fact that you had just argued with a man fully capable of snapping your neck while you were wearing men’s boxers with the word obscenities printed across the ass.

No. You couldn’t sleep because Nightwing jumped off your roof like a goddamn damsel and your brain would not let it go. Who does that? Who just steps off a building like gravity is a suggestion? You kept trying to picture the mechanics. The landing. The logistics. Did he grapple to a flagpole? Flip onto another building? Free-fall into a gymnastic roll like some Olympic-level lunatic? All from a ten-story fire escape? Did he just… go home after that? Like he didn’t just defy Newtonian law in front of you? Was that a normal Wednesday for him?

It wasn’t even that it was hot. Or cool. Or attractive in a stupid, dangerous, devil-may-care, “I definitely peaked in high school” kind of way.

It was that it was annoying.

The next morning, you opened your laptop with the jittery energy of a woman who had absolutely not been lying awake all night thinking about a man who wore fingerless gloves in 2025.

Fingerless. Gloves. Jesus Christ.

Armed with the strongest cup of coffee known to man and a grudge, you opened a new tab. More research. You had bigger fish to fry: corruption, money laundering, city council coverups, and a definitely illegal chemical lab disguised as a church.

A church which, by the way, was receiving weekly truck shipments of a chemical so heavily redacted in city reports it might as well have been Fort Knox. You were deep into footage from a cracked security cam on the West loading dock when you saw it.

Just for a second. Barely a frame. A blur of black and electric blue in the top right corner of the screen.

You paused.

Rewound.

Zoomed in.

Nightwing.

That bitch was in your footage.

Sitting casually on the edge of a rooftop,  long legs swinging like he had every right to be there. Like he belonged in your stakeout.

Unreal. Not only did he ruin your last story—now he was somehow already haunting the next one.

It shouldn’t have bothered you. Vigilantes were known for being pests, not partners. They ruined crime scenes. Punched leads unconscious. Then vanished into the night like they hadn’t just blown up three weeks of investigative work and caused several thousand dollars in property damage. They weren’t team players.

~~~

Everything was fine. You were fine.

You definitely weren’t spiraling.

You just hadn’t left your apartment in three days. You’d been obsessively scrubbing every frame of footage, every half legible word doc, and enough tax records to make the IRS weep. Painstakingly sorting out what was legitimate evidence and what was just your average gross misuse of public funds. Totally normal behavior. Totally sane.

By hour two you were color coding. By hour six you’d started talking to cork board. At some point you’d decided boiling water was too much work and opted to eat your dry. Even you’re cat seemed concerned.  

It felt never-ending. Exhausting. Like your brain was running a marathon no one else even knew was happening. Honestly, it was so tiring being one of the only people in this godforsaken city with both a functioning brain cell and a moral compass.

But the worst part? The part you absolutely hated, the thing gnawing away at your already-frayed nerves?

You still couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Nightwing.

He hadn’t really even done anything, just showed up and threw his weight around in a cocky and infuriating way. You’d only had total of two conversations with him and he’d somehow burrowed himself into your frontal lobe. That obnoxious, creepy know-it-all who wore fingerless gloves. 

How the hell was he always so many steps ahead of you? Could you get one break? Just one? A crumb of dignity? A fraction of a lead that he hadn’t already danced over in those stupidly tight pants? Why was he so attractive anyway? No one who was  essentially a professional narc was aloud to look that good, right?

You slammed your laptop shut a stood up so fast your couch moved. No. You couldn’t keep dwelling on it. You needed movement. You need a distraction that did not involve gymnast thighs and a stupid voice that somehow manages to be cocky and flirty and fucking condescending at all once. 

You were going to go chase a lead. A good one.

First you needed a goddamned cigarette. And a shower. 

~~~

Two nights deep, you’d highlighted on a smudged shipping manifest buried in a mass of redacted documents. 

Pyrixaline. Not uncommon, but not exactly harmless, either. A precursor chemical. Controlled substance. Sometimes used in medication. Mostly used for home cooking, if you catch my drift. In the last three month seven deaths were reported and had a heavy amounts of pyrixaline found at the scene. It was highly volatile, but pretty easy to acquire. 

It was a tiny detail, you just so happened to see it when you were going over the same document for the fifth time - and you had latched onto it like an angry pitbull. 

You’d tracked the delivery truck to the east side of Blüdhaven. Where the camera systems were conveniently offline. You lost the truck after that. A quick google search had helped you narrow down the location of a warehouse that could hold the volume of chemicals being shipped a day.  

So here you were in thick jeans, your worn-out army jacket, and your favorite pair of Doc Martens. Without your press badge you felt naked, but you had to ditch it for the sake of anonymity. You had no exit plan, no strategy. Just your phone, a notebook small enough for you to shove in your back pocket, and your rapidly deteriorating sanity. 

The warehouses just stood there, menacingly.

.

“Definitely not engaging in reckless behavior because of a man.” You muttered to yourself. “Nope. This is a perfectly normal thing to be doing at two o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday.” 

You ducked through a bent piece of fence, heart already pounding with adrenaline. You were finally doing something besides thinking about a man in tights.

Which meant God was about to prove that he had a sense of humor.

You turned with the corner of the building and stopped dead in your tracks. 

No. No. No no no no no no no no. 

Why was he already here?

Nightwing stood by the back entrance, right under the security light. His toned arms were crossed over his chest, and he was leaning oh-so-casually against the building. He was already looking you dead in the eye with a grin like he was about to make you the punchline of a joke. 

You turned right back around.

“Going somewhere?” he called out.

You flinched so hard you dropped your phone. 

That voice-so smug, so smooth, said in that annoyingly charming cadence-made you want to throw a brick at his face.

You didn’t stop walking. “Yep. Literally anywhere but here.”

“Don’t be like that, partner.”

“Partners? This ain’t Scooby-Doo.” You whipped around, only to be eye-level with his chin. 

“Jesus. How do you move like that?” you gasped, jerking a step back just to get some space. “Have you ever heard of personal space? Boundaries?”

“No, can’t say that I have.” Smart-ass.

“Ugh.” You nearly whined, wiping both hands over your face. “Why are you even here? I thought you’d leave me alone after your mysterious exit.”

“And leave you yearning for the rest of your life? Please. I’m a gentleman.”

You stared at him. Hard. You liked him a lot better when he kept his mouth shut.

“Do lines like that usually work for you? I’ve heard better from drunk men in gas stations.”

The silence that followed was loud.

You snorted and turned your head to the side. “Wow. The bar is on the floor.” You were having a hard time not laughing in his face.

He sighed loudly and looked up at the sky. “Anyways…” He dragged the word out, clearly signaling it was time to move on. “I was gathering intel.”

You sobered instantly and side eyed him. “This wouldn’t be the same ‘intel gathering’ you were doing the other night. On my roof.”

“I was just trying to give you a heads-up. Like a good neighbor should. And it is intel gathering, so don’t use air quotes.” He sassed, planting his hands on his hips.

“We’re not neighbors. I’m pretty sure you crawl out of a hole in the ground every morning. Also, that’s not a no, you stalker.” You matched his stance, chin high. 

“Semantics.” He waved it off like it was nothing.

“What? No-you’re being weird and keeping tabs on me.”

“It’s my job as this city’s protector to keep the young and naïve safe.”

“Young and naïve?” You nearly shrieked. “I turned twenty-six three months ago and I lived in Gotham for four fucking years. But you already knew that, huh?” Your eyebrow twitched. He knew exactly how to get under your skin. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

He shot you a look, all sharp edges and narrowed eyes. “You can barely take care of yourself. You didn’t leave your apartment for almost four days. You chain-smoked two packs of cigarettes. You slept maybe ten hours in the last forty-eight. At least you showered and changed before you left your cave, Sméagol.”

“Fuck you, asshole! I’m a grown woman and I don’t need a spandex-wearing know-it-all in my business! I was doing intense research, while you were lurking around my apartment like a perverted vampire, piggy-backing off my leads!” You stamped your foot on the ground, full tantrum.

“Really? Intense research? You scrolled Reddit for two hours.” He deadpanned. “Also—it’s kevlar.”

“Oh my god—” You threw your hands in the air, completely exasperated. “I don’t care what your stupid suit is made of! I want you to leave me alone! For Christ’s sake—I have one nerve left and you’re dry-humpin’ it!”

He took a step closer, leaning down slightly, posturing again like the smug menace he was. His smile was so wide you could see his dimples. Dimples.

“No.”

The way he said it made your toes curl in your boots.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you pinched the bridge of your nose and took a deep breath. Maybe if you counted to ten, he’d shut up.

He did.

Small blessings.

Then, of course, he reached out and tugged lightly on a strand of your hair.

“You’re funny when you’re mad,” he murmured. “Your accent gets thicker.”

“Please. Leave me alone.” You whined, weakly slapping his hand away. 

“Nah. You’re fun to mess with.”

“You’re weird. You do back flips for no reason and you harass poor, lowly journalists for fun.”

“Hey,” he protested lightly, hand to his chest like you’d wounded him. “I backflip with purpose, looking better than everyone else and you’re not poor. You’re lower middle class.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You’re aware of my tax bracket?”

“I’m just observant.”

“You’re a stalker.”

“Protective,” he corrected, smiling again.

You blinked slowly. “I don’t need protection.”

“You need a lot of things,” he said. “Like a sleep schedule and to stop smoking.”

You made a noise in the back of your throat. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

He tilted his head. “Then why haven’t you walked away?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. “Because I—Ugh! I was walking away. You keep saying stuff!”

“You’re still standing here.”

You made a strangled noise and turned sharply, storming off for real this time.

“Hey!” he called after you. “You forgot your phone!”

You whipped back around, half expecting him to be waving it like bait. But no. He was crouched casually, holding it out in one hand, that same infuriating little grin plastered on his stupid face.

You stalked back and snatched it from him.

He didn’t let go right away.

Your fingers brushed against his because of those fuck-ass gloves. His eyes flicked up to yours, still covered by the domino mask.

He stood. Too close. Again. He always did this-moved like gravity didn’t apply to him but insisted on orbiting directly in your goddamn personal space.

“Thanks,” you snapped, yanking your hand back like it burned.

“You’re welcome,” he said, voice far too warm for your liking.

You pocketed your phone and turned. “I’m going to kill you and take your mask as a trophy.”

“You’d miss me.”

“I’d get over it.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response. Just threw him a middle finger over your shoulder and kept walking. 

He didn’t follow.

Which should’ve been a relief.

It wasn’t.

You made it maybe twenty feet before glancing back, just in case he was tailing you again like he was a clingy cat—but no, he was standing under the security light again, like when you first turned the corner. Arms crossed. Head tilted. Watching you like a predator watches prey.

You scowled harder and turned back around, stomping off with purpose you didn’t actually have. The air felt colder the second you left his vicinity. Or maybe that was just your brain trying to rationalize whatever the hell was going on.

“Hey!” he called again.

You stopped. Closed your eyes. “What now.”

There was a pause. Longer than before. Long enough to make you glance back.

He was still there, half in shadow, that same casual posture-but the grin was gone. And when he spoke again, it wasn’t all snark and swagger.

“…Are you sure you don’t just wanna come with me?”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Not like… for fun. Just—wherever you’re going. I’ll stick close. Make sure it’s not a trap or something.”

You blinked.

“This is about being ‘careful’ again, isn’t it.”

You could tell the air quotes annoyed him. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You’re the one making it weird.”

“I’m offering backup,” he said, tone defensive now. “Not… whatever you think this is.”

“This,” you said, moving your hand in a back-and-forth motion between the two of you. “Is me having to deal with you having narcissism and a pathological need for attention.”

He looked skyward, exhaling hard. “God, you’re exhausting.”

“You’re stalking me! You knew I didn’t leave my apartment and that I spent two hours on Reddit!””

“I’m trying to keep you alive, you ungrateful asshole!”

“Wow. I’m going to have to ask you to calm down.”

He ran a hand through his hair, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “why is it always the loud ones” under his breath.

“Go fall off a building,” you said flatly.

“Haha, you’re so funny. You won’t be laughing when I throw you off your fire escape, Brat.”

“I’d like to see you try. I’d claw your eyes out.” You turned around again, furious and flustered.

Behind you, his voice followed:

“Just think about it. I could be your muscle. The brawn to your brain. One time-just once-you wouldn’t have to pay people. They pay you to talk to them. I can be very persuasive.” You raised your hand and flipped him off again. No hesitation.

He chuckled, low and smug, but didn’t stop you this time.

Chapter Text

You should’ve been asleep.

Instead, you were sitting crisscross on the floor, surrounded by creased blueprints and stolen shift schedules, plotting how to break into a pseudo-church without triggering a silent alarm, getting tackled by security, or tumbling face-first into a vat of definitely-not-regulated chemicals.

Or-worst-case scenario-running into that spandex wearing asshole. Again.

You’d pulled your blinds tight, hoping to keep him off your trail. Just a few hours of uninterrupted scheming. Was that too much to ask?

You were furious-and not the righteous, change-the-world kind of furious. This was the twitchy, overstimulated, if-he-shows-up-again-I’m-biting-his-face-off kind of furious.

Your cat, perched on the arm of the couch, was once again deeply concerned. He blinked slowly at you, the way animals do when they sense that something in their food-bringing human has snapped.

He’d already ruined your last would-be stakeout before you could even find a good stakeout spot, shadowed you like some overprotective vigilante-dad hybrid, and kept acting weird. Not normal weirdo-weird. Weird weird.

How was he always ahead of me? Why was he so far up my business? Why was he watching me?

You shoved the blueprints into your bag and stood, knees cracking. Maybe he was tracking your phone. Maybe he’d bugged your apartment. Maybe he was a nosy little freak with boundary issues and too much free time.

Whatever his malfunction was you weren’t giving him an inch tonight.

You muttered something incoherent and violent under your breath as you threw on your jacket and shoved your phone and the folded blueprints in your bag, along with your lock pick and pink taser. You’d triple-checked the timing. Memorized the rotation. You were good to go. If something went wrong tonight, it wouldn’t be because you weren’t prepared. You even had a few tricks up your sleeve.

Moving like a ghost through the building you took the stair well down and then left out the door that lead you to the back alley, where the trash was piling up. The city was cold, damp, and felt heavier than usual. 

You kept your head down, moving and blending in with the last callers and late shift smokers. Just another worn out face in a worn out city. 

The “church” wasn’t far—just a few blocks over, tucked beneath a decommissioned train track like a secret too ugly to bury properly.

If the documents were accurate, tonight was your last shot before a massive shipment of “inventory” disappeared into the wind.

The reason for the order? Redacted.

The buyer? Also redacted.

The price tag? Disgustingly large.

You’d read the report earlier in your apartment, and the implications had left your stomach turning. Something about the vague language and official seals made it feel worse than if it had just spelled out the crime. Whatever it was—they didn’t want it traced.

Which meant you had to.

Your inner monologue didn’t shut up the entire walk over. Boots hitting pavement, hood drawn up, rage still simmering low and sharp under your skin.

This was your lead. Your story. You weren’t going to let some crime-fighting gymnast with a savior complex swoop in and screw it up. Not again.

By the time the building came into view, you were practically vibrating with determination-and a little caffeine withdrawal.

It honestly didn’t look like much. Just another forgotten building in a city full of them—beige, blank, with pops of color bleeding through the stained-glass windows like a lie someone painted over truth.

But the security? That was a different story.

More than standard. Way more. The back lock had a magnetic seal—military grade or damn close. The fence lining the property was tall enough to keep out anyone without a death wish or a grappling hook.

You clocked three cameras and two motion-sensor lights on the back of the building alone. Lazy in layout, but still effective. Just enough coverage to catch a wandering truck, a curious neighbor, or- someone too nosy for their own good.

Guess which one you were.

You crept close to the building, staying low, ducking behind a rusting dumpster that smelled like chemical waste and bad decisions. 

Pulling out your phone and a handheld jammer from your bag—short-range, temperamental, and held together with cheap wiring and maybe some duck-tape.

It buzzed to life in your palm, the low hum barely audible over the city noise.

The first camera glitched, then froze on a grainy image of a rusted dumpster. The second one crackled, blinked, and died. The third sputtered like it was trying to tattle and then gave up entirely.

Too high to reach. You weren’t scaling a building just to slap tape on some discount security rig. You weren’t here to show off. You were here to get in, get proof, and get the hell out.

Which brought you to the motion sensor lights.

You crept toward the nearest conduit line and found the fuse box—locked, naturally. Cheap padlock, though. You popped it open with your lock pick and yanked the panel aside.

You pulled out your taser. The very one you bought when amazon was having a sale. It was pink , bedazzled, and lethal. You favorite combination 

It sparked once in your hand like a little demon greeting you. You jabbed it into the guts of the fuse box and pulled the trigger.

ZZZZT.

There was a pop, the scent of burnt plastic, and then-darkness.

You stood back and admired your work. Cameras blind. Lights dead. No alarms. Who’s wet behind theirs ears? You though, smuggly. 

You slung your bag higher and moved toward the low, cracked window. The opening gaped like an invitation.

You crept along the side of the building, boots silent in the fresh cut grass, fingers brushing the concrete as you moved.

The window you were aiming for sat low to the ground-one of those basement-style things, tucked just above the foundation. You crouched beside the window, thighs protesting as you peered inside. It was pitch black past the glass, but the stale air leaking out smelled like chemicals.

You tested the frame. Unlocked. Of course.

Arrogant idiots.

You slid the window open as far as it would go and dropped your bag through first, then turned around and backed up to the ledge.

Feet first. Always. You weren’t about to get stuck halfway in a window like some horror movie cliche.

You lowered yourself slowly, feeling for the floor with the tip of your boot. When your foot finally hit solid concrete, you eased the rest of your body in with the awkwardness of someone who has very bad balance and no coordination or finesse. 

A soft thud echoed as your other foot hit the floor.

You were in.

It was darker than expected. Hot, too. The air smelled like something between bleach, rust, and the inside of a locked drawer.

Something was humming in the dark—low, mechanical, steady.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and moved forward, slow and silent.

Time to see what they were hiding.

As your eyes adjusted to the dark, you realized the basement was bigger—way bigger—than you expected. The interior wall was old brick, cracked and crumbling like it had been here since the building’s first life, long before it became the front for what you were pretty damn sure was the base of operations for a drug ring. Overhead, pipes groaned and hissed, bursting with steam and adding to the already spooky, don’t-touch-anything-or-you’ll-need-a- tetanus shot kind of vibe.

Your hands shook as you pulled out your flashlight, sweeping it across the floor. You were hoping—no, praying—to find something solid. Something incriminating enough to make this whole thing worth it. Then you could get the hell out of Dodge. Because this place? It gave you the fucking willies. 

Every creak made you flinch. You told yourself it was just the building settling. That was a thing buildings did, right? Groaned. Shuddered. Threatened your life in subtle, creaky Morse code. I’m gonna die, you thought bitterly. This is some white people shit.

You kept moving, edging around a grimy 50-gallon drum that looked like it had been dipped in glue and shame. The beam of your flashlight wobbled in your grip, casting jumpy, paranoid shadows across the walls. Out of the corner of your eye, something shifted—tall, broad, person-shaped.

You froze. Heart dropping into your stomach. Breath caught somewhere halfway up your throat.

You blinked hard had clutching at your heart. A tarp. Just a tarp. A very…person-shaped tarp. 

You swallowed and pressed on.

Somewhere behind you, a puff of stem shot out with a loud hiss. You squeaked. Just a peep, before you covered your mouth with your hand. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you whispered, turning around and glaring at the pipe. “Get it together. This is exactly how bitches in horror movies die.”

You moved on, stepping over something squishy that you refused to investigate. The air was thick, humid, metallic—it felt wrong. The kind of wrong that burrowed into your spine and made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Still, like a dumbass, you continued.

You were looking for anything—an inventory sheet, a shipping label, maybe a step-by-step recipe for drugs—literally anything to justify the gray hairs this night was giving you.

Your flashlight slid over a dull glint—metal.

A door handle.

Bingo.

You moved closer, heart thumping just a little harder as the beam caught on the chipped white paint of a door marked OFFICE in crooked stenciled letters. The kind of door bad things hid behind in movies. You reached out and twisted the knob—

Locked.

“Shit.”

You glanced around, then reached into your jacket and pulled out the best lockpicking kit twenty bucks and google could get you. 

You were halfway through jamming the pick in when a soft thud landed behind you.

You froze.

Your whole body locked up.

You turned slowly, breath tight, fight-or-flight firing on all cylinders—

And someone moved.

You screamed—loud, high, and completely, unapologetically terrified.

Fight instinct took the wheel and yeeted your flashlight straight at the intruder’s head.

“OH MY GOD!” a voice shrieked back, just as high-pitched and panicked as yours.There was a blur of motion, feet scrambling, a loud thunk as something slammed hard into a pipe.

You dove for your flashlight, grabbed it off the floor, and whipped the beam toward the noise.

There, crumpled on the ground like a dramatically murdered Disney Princess, was a very familiar figure.

Black suit. Blue bird. Domino mask.

Nightwing.

Flat on his back, clutching the back of his head with both hands, groaning.

Well. At least you knew what that sound was.

You crouched down and jabbed your flashlight into his ribs. “Are you concussed? Groan if yes.”

He let out a long, drawn-out groan.

You rolled your eyes. “What a performance.”

He didn’t move, just laid there like the muse for a renaissance painting. 

“Well, walk it off, Bird Boy,” you said. “Despite how mean I am, my best friend would never forgive me if I let you die down here.”

You stood up and stepped back, flicking your light toward the office door. “Get up, drama queen.”

He didn’t move right away. Just groaned again—louder this time-like he was auditioning for “Wounded Soldier #2.”

You sighed. “Okay, seriously. Either get up or I’m calling animal control.”

“Pretty sure they don’t handle vigilantes.”

“You creep around like a demented opossum. I’m sure they’ll make an exception.”

You turned back to the office door and crouched, pulling out your lockpicking kit with a huff.

Behind you, Nightwing groaned again. “Why do you even have that? Please don’t tell me you make a habit of breaking into drug labs.”

“I don’t make a habit of it,” you muttered, tools already slipping into the lock. “But I’ve found it’s better to be prepared when half the people I write about carry guns and trust issues.”

A pause.

“You really are a walking liability,” he said, voice lower now. Less teasing. More…worried?  

The pick slid in and clicked softly. You worked the mechanism with steady fingers, distracting you from reading into it too much. 

Behind you, he shifted upright with a grunt. “I give it… ten seconds before you ask me for help.”

“I give it five before I throw my flashlight at your face again.”

“Just sayin” He snorted and took a slow step closer. “Want me to—?”

“No.”

“Are you—”

“No.”

“Can I—”

“I will tase you.”

He leaned over you, chest brushing your shoulder. You felt you face heat up.

“Get away-“

Then he reached past you with one gloved hand, gave the lock a quick flick with a tool from his belt-click.

The door creaked open.

He preened, obviously pleased with himself. “It’s okay. Everyone gets performance anxiety sometimes.

You slowly turned to glare up at him. “Do you enjoy being this unbearable?”

“Only with you, Brat,” he said casually, still leaning over you like he lived there. “You seem to bring out my worst qualities.”

His breath was warm against your cheek. The space between you was nonexistent. You were still crouched. He was still looming—like he hadn’t noticed, or maybe just didn’t care.
Too close. Too casual.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

You exhaled slowly. “If you’re waiting for a thank-you, it’s not coming.”

He grinned. “Oh, I never expect gratitude. Just stunned admiration.”

You raise an eyebrow skeptically “Bold of you to assume I’d ever admire you.” 

His grin only widened. “Denial isn’t only a river in Egypt.”

You stood up fast, shoulder knocking into his chest as you moved passed him and into the office. 

He followed, voice low and far too pleased with himself. “Careful. If you keep treating me like this I’m gonna start we’re friends.”

You rolled your eyes. “By all means, reconsider.”

He laughed loudly. “Do you ever laugh? Get out of your shoebox of an apartment?’”

“Of course I laugh, I’m fucking hilarious. Just not when you’re around. You make me want to eat glass.”

“Are you flirting with me?” 

“Oh my god.” You groaned out. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Not around you, apparently.” 

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, then moved deeper into the office. It smelled stale—old paper, dust, and the kind of mildew that sank into your clothes.

There was a desk leaning precariously to the left, like it would topple over if you so much as breathed wrong. A moth-eaten office chair sat behind it, and a pair of rust-covered filing cabinets loomed in the corner like they'd given up on life.

Glamorous.

You dove right in, not wasting any more time. You flung open the top desk drawer and rifled through it. Pens. Old receipts. A literal Rolodex. (Woah.)

Nothing important.

You groaned. “Ugh. This place is a graveyard.”

Still, you kept digging. You yanked open another drawer, harder than necessary, and it shrieked like a dying cat. Inside: the usual junk—faded memos, crumpled folders, something that might’ve been a sandwich at one point.

Then you spotted it.

Tucked flat against the bottom, almost hidden. A slim folder, newer than the rest. No label, but your gut immediately didn’t trust it—which meant it was probably gold.

You opened it and gasped. 

Names. Drop points. A paper trail straight to a minor player of the organized crime ring of the city. This was it. The perfect piece to complete your story. And to help fuel the upcoming ones. 

Off to the side Nightwing swung his head around to look any you. “What? What did you find?”

You closed it and tucked it tightly to your chest “Nothing.”

“Hand it over, brat. You don’t want to fight this battle.”

You took a step back, clutching the folder tighter. “No games. Just you trying to steal evidence I rightfully found first. Finders keepers.”

He stepped towards you. “I’m being serious.”

You took a big step back. “So am I. Back off, Birdboy.”

He sighed. Loud. Dramatic. Like he was carrying the weight of the world and your attitude. “I have to turn that in. Proper intake procedures, documentation, evidence storage—boring legal stuff.”

Your eyes widened in horror. “You’re a cop.”

He gave a short, humorless cough. “I’m not a cop.”

“You just used cop language at me.”

“I’m a consultant—sometimes—for the BPD. That doesn’t make me a cop.”

“You’re a snitch,” you shot back. “And you can’t just take it. This is weeks of work—my big break into the biggest crime ring in the city. Do you even know what this could do for my—”

“That’s exactly why I can’t let you have it,” he cut in, voice sharp enough to slice through yours.

You froze, caught off guard by the sudden shift. His voice lost that boyish charm and the grin that seemed to be permanently plastered across his face went slack. His hands dropped from his hips, and he stepped forward with the kind of quiet, deliberate speed that made your instincts flare.

“You don’t get it,” he said, looming just close enough to make you tense. “This isn’t a story. It’s not a career milestone. It’s not something you hang on your wall when you’re done. It’s dangerous, and you are so far out of your depth it’s actually painful to watch.”

You bristled. “I’m not—”

“I’ve read your work,” he cut you off, eyes narrowing. “All of it. Every piece you’ve ever published is still floating around online, and I went through the whole damn lot. Gossip columns. Celebrity sightings. Fluffy human-interest garbage. Vigilante fan-bait. Not one shred of actual field investigation until you got here—and now you think you’re Woodward and Bernstein because you talked your way into a bar full of mid-level thugs?”

Your stomach went cold, heat crawling up your neck at the same time. He’d read it. All of it. Every cringey byline. Every filler piece your old editor had shoved on your desk.

You opened your mouth, but he kept going, stepping in so fast you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. “You think this is cute? You think this is some kind of game? That you can just waltz into a gang’s base, grab whatever you want, and walk out without anyone noticing? You are not special. You’re lucky you’ve made it this far without someone putting a bullet in your skull.”

Your grip on the folder tightened. “So what—you’re just gonna swoop in and take it because you think I can’t handle myself?”

“I know you can’t handle this,” he shot back without hesitation. “And the fact that you can’t see that is exactly why you shouldn’t be here.”

It stung. He’d said it like it was fact. Like he’d already written you off. Like you not being special wasn’t even up for debate.

“Fuck you,” you snapped, stepping in so fast your boots hit his. 

“I don’t have to be special to give a damn about the people of this city. And I sure as hell don’t need you acting like you’re the gatekeeper to doing good in the world.”

You squared up, toe-to-toe, chin high. Not flinching. Not slouching. Just rage. “You don’t get to decide where I can and can’t go. You’re not my boss. You’re not my keeper. You’re just some asshole in a bird suit who can’t take a hint.”

Your voice sharpened, every word a jab to the ribs. “You’ve been following me like a fucking stalker for weeks—lurking on rooftops, popping up in alleys, watching me in my own damn apartment like you’re begging me to file a restraining order. I’m not your responsibility. I’m not your sidekick. And I didn’t ask for your help.”

He laughed once, cold and humorless. “Right, because nothing says capable like a burnt out stoner with no self preservation skills. You’re just little girl from the middle of no where who thinks an article and a few pats on the back from her editor makes her important.”

Fury crawled up your throat like bile. “And you’re so fucking great? A washed up ex-side kick that Gotham didn’t even want? A man in his thirties dressing up and clinging to the Bat’s cape, pretending you still relevant?”

His smile didn’t waver, but it went meaner, sharper. “Better washed up than never relevant at all.” Every word out of his mouth had been meaner than the last, not the flirty, smug jabs you’d come to expect. These weren’t digs for fun—these were meant to cut.

You were livid and embarrassed about all the things he’d brought up, the heat of it making your hands shake around the folder,. Confusion sat just under the surface like a splinter. Why was he being this mean? What had you done to flip the switch from playful irritation to this? And why, even as you wanted to scream in his face, did it still sting like you’d been caught doing something wrong. 

“Oh, I’m sorry—did I interrupt your night of brooding on rooftops and flirting with anything that has a pulse? Get over yourself, bitch.”

You knew it was getting out of hand, but you couldn’t stop. All the resentment, the frustration, the constant gnawing presence of him in your head—it all boiled over, spilling out as pure venom. Your voice cracked halfway through, to your horror, and the burn in your eyes hit before you could swallow it down.

You blinked hard, willing the heat in your chest to choke out the tears, but they still stung at the corners. Not soft, not sad—just hot, humiliating, angry tears. The kind that made your throat tight and your hands shake even harder around the folder.

The shame was a punch to the gut, but it landed right beside the anger, and together they made your throat tight, your vision hot. You hated him for knowing it would hurt. You hated him more for being right that it did.

He froze. Just for a beat. His eyes flicked over your face, catching the glint of wetness at the corners of your glare. His mouth curved—not in sympathy, but in victory.

Then he stepped in closer, voice low and dripping with condescension. “There it is. That’s the real you—thin skin, no follow-through, and a résumé full of bull shit you didn’t even like writing. You can’t even stand here and and argue without nearly crying, and you think you’re going to stand up to people who kill for fun?”

He let out a short, dismissive laugh. “You’re not tough. You’re just loud enough to get yourself noticed, and dumb enough to think that’s the same thing as being capable. And when someone finally decides you’re not worth the trouble, you’ll be nothing more than a blood stain on the sidewalk and another case gone cold.”

You again felt the sting of tears. Your retort was halfway up your throat when the sound hit—heavy boots pounding against the concrete stairwell just outside the door. Low voices, male, close, and getting closer.

His head whipped toward the sound, shoulders tensing, the fight between you shoved down in an instant. “We’re done,” he muttered, already moving. “Keep your damn mouth shut and follow me.”

When you didn’t move right away, he reached for your wrist—but you jerked back, shaking him off like his touch burned.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you hissed.

The doorknob rattled. His head snapped toward the sound, then back to you. In one swift motion, he caught your wrist again, yanking you toward his chest with a force that made the breath hitch in your throat.

“Stop. It.” His voice was a low growl, each word bitten off. You could feel the tension in his grip, the hammering pulse under his skin. “Just do the smart thing for once in your life and listen to me.”

You tugged once. Twice. His grip didn’t budge.

He raised an eyebrow, the look on his face daring you to try again, and squeezed your wrist just hard enough to make his point perfectly clear—he wasn’t letting go until you moved.

The voices outside were right on the other side of the door now. One of them laughed, the sound sharp and ugly, followed by the metallic snick of a gun being readied.

His gaze stayed locked on you. You considered being stubborn, petty—standing your ground and taking your chances with the armed men on the other side of the office door.

But then you thought of your cat waiting at home, probably curled up on the couch, blissfully unaware that you were about to make a very stupid, very final decision.

You took a deep breath and nodded once, sharp and clipped, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an actual answer.

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t push. Instead, his grip shifted to the back of your arm, firm and unyielding, guiding you toward the far corner of the office where the shadows swallowed you both. The voices outside were muffled again, but the faint jingle of keys made your pulse thud in your ears—seconds, maybe less, before the door opened.

“Stay close,” he murmured, voice pitched low enough to blend into the dark. No smugness, no bite—just a command, the kind that didn’t leave room for argument.

Keys jingled, followed by a rough laugh—then the door slammed open. He yanked you toward the far wall, one of the men’s shouts slicing through the air, sharp and angry.

“Run,” he barked—no room for debate.

Your feet moved before your brain caught up. The two of you tore across the bottom floor as boots thundered behind you, a chair crashed, and somewhere a gun cocked with a metallic snap. He veered toward the stairwell, shoving the door so hard it rebounded off the wall.

“Up!” he ordered, already taking the steps two at a time.

You followed, lungs burning, boots pounding on metal. Halfway up, your toe caught the edge of a step—you pitched forward with a startled gasp, but his hand shot back, catching your upper arm and hauling you upright. He didn’t slow, shifting his grip from your bicep to your elbow, dragging you on. A gunshot cracked, sparking off the railing, and you flinched.

“Eyes up. Keep moving. Don’t turn around,” he said, voice like granite.

You burst onto the next floor, sprinting down the hall with his grip still locked on you. At the end of the corridor, the emergency exit loomed—then a door to your right flew open. A man stepped out, bigger than you, faster than you could react. His hand clamped on your arm, yanking you to a stop so hard your shoulder wrenched. His other hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back. Pain ripped through your scalp, and a sharp cry escaped you.

Nightwing halted and spun. In two long strides, he was on you, his hand clamping the man’s wrist. A sharp twist, a grunt, and the grip on you broke. He shoved you behind him and drove a boot into the man’s temple, sending him crashing to the grimy floor.

“Go!” he barked, not looking back.

You stumbled forward, heart pounding from the violation and the sting in your scalp, humiliation burning hotter than fear. You hated that you’d frozen. Hated that you’d needed him.

He caught up in seconds, his hand locking on your wrist as he hauled you through the emergency exit into the freezing night. The metal door slammed behind you, trapping the echoes of the fight inside.

You didn’t stop until your legs ached and your lungs felt scorched. He slowed, scanning the street, listening. The cold bit into your face, adrenaline ebbing into a shaky aftertaste. His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go.

“You good?” he asked, eyes sharp. He turned fully, gaze sweeping over your messy hair and flushed cheeks.

You nodded stiffly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“Good. Let’s go.” His grip shifted to your elbow, pulling you down the alley. You stumbled to keep up, still clutching the folder—until his hand slid to it, prying it away with practiced ease.

You should have fought for it. Told him to give it back. But the words didn’t come, and your hands stayed empty.

The streets narrowed into a maze only he seemed to know. You kept your eyes down, silent except for ragged breathing and the dull echo of boots on wet pavement. Finally, your building came into view. He stopped short of the door, letting go but dragging his hand down like he wasn’t ready to break the connection.

“Make sure to lock your door and windows,” he said, voice low.

You wanted to tell him to go to hell. Wanted the folder back. Wanted… something. But you stayed quiet, and he disappeared into the shadows without another word.

You walked toward your building, hoping he’d call out, say something annoying like always—but the silence stayed. Tears prickled, and you muttered to yourself, You can cry when you get upstairs.

You burst into tears the second you stepped inside—ugly, shaking sobs. Embarrassment tangled with the ache of your hurt feelings in your chest; your shoulder throbbed, and you were sure that thug had ripped out hair.

You stripped off your jacket and collapsed onto the couch, the sobs still coming in harsh waves. The adrenaline was gone, leaving only hollow ache. Your pillow grew damp beneath your cheek, your breath hitching until exhaustion finally dragged you under.

Across the street, tucked into the shadows of a fire escape, Nightwing stayed where he’d been since you walked through the front door of you shady building.

He hadn’t even known you’d be left your place tonight By the time he got there, you were already inside the facility. Not that he had a security detail or was tracking your every move—just keeping tabs, like any friendly neighbor vigilante. Or so he told himself.

It was supposed to be simple—make sure you locked your place, confirm no one had followed. But his eyes kept straying to your window, searching for movement that never came.

He should’ve left minutes ago—other things needed him. Instead, he lingered, arms folded, replaying the look on your face when his words cut deep. He knew he’d hurt you, embarrassed you. But you were getting too close to something seriously dangerous. You needed to stay away from it. From him. The events that transpired earlier only solidified his opinion. 

He knew that he’d gotten carried away, but couldn’t afford to get involved with a civilian. He’d learned that the hard way. Caring about you, even a little, was the fastest way to put you in the ground. And yet… he still hadn’t moved.

You never got up to lock your window. He crept closer, enough to see it was at least closed—and that’s when he heard it. The muffled sound of your sobs.

It twisted in his chest, but he turned away. This was for the best, he told himself. It had to be.

Chapter Text

It had been almost a week since you’d stepped foot outside your apartment.

The pity party was championship-level—no music, no guests, just you, your cat, and a bed-rotting marathon that had probably left a permanent dent in your crappy couch. The air smelled faintly of takeout and stale smooth, with empty cans of Dr Pepper lined up like trophies for terrible life choices. Your cat judged you from the armrest, clearly drafting a tell-all memoir.

Embarrassment, humiliation, and insecurity had been tag-teaming you nonstop. You kept replaying every second of that night: his smarmy voice, the thug’s fist in your hair, the folder snatched from your hands without a fight, and the pounding in your ears when you realized you’d been outmatched. Every mental rewatch burned like battery acid.

Worst of all—the part you’d tried to drown in caffeine, nicotine, and enough weed to sedate a horse—was the truth you didn’t want to admit: he hadn’t been wrong. About anything.

So you worked. If you couldn’t fix the bruise to your ego, you’d bury it under deadlines. Your living room looked like a conspiracy theorist’s fever dream—maps, notes, string, sticky notes with illegible scribbles, and enough coffee cups to qualify as a landfill. You even sent your editor a 3 a.m. draft, clinging to the illusion of control. The more you worked, the quieter that night became in your mind—until the silence roared back.

When the work finally ran out, the quiet was deafening. And unfortunately, your brain had nothing better to do than think about him.

Your phone buzzed violently. Homegirl 🌼.

Her face filled the screen, a perfect mix of relief and outrage. “Where the hell have you been? I thought you died.”

“Hello to you too,” you muttered, angling the camera away from the war crime that was your floor. A pizza box shifted when your cat stepped on it.

“You’ve ignored my texts, my calls, my TikToks—what happened? Did your editor kill you? Did you finally get sued for libel?”

“What? No!”

She threw up her hands. “Then why do you sound like you just watched someone drop-kick the cat?”

You hesitated. You’d never told her about him—not once. But you couldn’t untangle this mess alone.

“Okay. I made a mistake.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my god—are you pregnant?!

“Worse.”

“That’s impossible.”

“You have to promise you won’t freak out.”

“I’m already freaking out.”

“It’s… Nightwing.”

She blinked once. Twice. Then unleashed a scream so loud your cat bolted under the couch.

“What do you mean Nightwing?!”

“Would you relax—”

“RELAX?! You just told me you’ve met the hottest man alive!”

“It’s not—he’s not—”

“Oh my god. Did you fuck him?!”

“What?! No!”

“Because I would have. Twice. Minimum.”

“Stop. This is serious.”

“Exactly! Seriously hot—”

“Seriously hanging up if you don’t stop.”

She mock-saluted. “Fine. Start from the beginning. And if you skip what he smelled like—”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“Oh my god, so you do remember!”

You groaned. “First time was a dive bar. I was tailing dirty cops; he scared them off before I got anything useful.”

“Is he hotter in person?”

“Second time, he followed me home. Later, I caught him just… standing on my fire escape.”

Her jaw dropped. “Is he Edward Cullen or…?”

“Third time, warehouse. I’d been there seconds when he appeared.”

“Oh yikes, that’s serial killer behavior.”

“Fourth was when I broke into a church doubling as a drug factory.”

She held up a hand. “Pause. A drug ring disguised as a church? You’re telling me this like it’s a Target run.”

You waved her off. “Anyway. That night ended… badly.”

“How badly?”

“Like, he yelled at me.”

She frowned. “Like how we yell at each other?”

“No—like my mom when she had to bail us out of Mardi Gras jail.”

Her eyes went wide. “Okay, now you have to tell me everything he said.”

You took a breath. “He’s read all my work—every fluff piece, every gossip column, every filler article.” The thought made your throat tighten. “He called me a small-town little girl playing big-city games. Said I wasn’t special—just loud enough to get noticed and dumb enough to think that’s the same thing as being capable. And that someday I’d be a bloodstain on the sidewalk.” 

She stared. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish. And then, just to drive it home, I got shot at. Some guy yanked my hair hard enough to keep a souvenir. And that smug, spandex-wrapped menace had to swoop in and save me. Humiliating. I can’t leave my apartment again.”

“So… he verbally destroyed you and then went full bodyguard?”

“Don’t make it sound heroic. It was necessary. And I hate that he was right.”

Her voice softened—just a little. “He’s full of shit. You worked through four years of college in Oklahoma, moved to Gotham with me and our cat, got into GothamU for your master’s on a full ride while working full-time at that shitty magazine. You’ve written pieces that mattered, even when they got buried under all the other garbage that Gotcha published. That part-time stripper in crime-fighting drag has officially made my enemies list.”

The insult broke through your pity haze and dragged a laugh out of you-messy, mid-tear, but real. “Wow. I thought he was your one free pass?”

She grinned. “Time to grow up. Move on. Superman’s single, has a cute dog, and hasn’t insulted you yet.”

You rolled your eyes, shoulders finally easing as your cat padded back into view. For a fleeting moment, you felt almost normal again.

You stayed on the phone for another hour, trading increasingly unhinged insults about Nightwing, brainstorming her wedding, and sifting through the mountain of gossip she’d been saving for you. At one point, you laughed so hard you had to sprint to the bathroom so you didn’t pee yourself, and for the first time in days, your voice didn’t sound brittle.

By the time you hung up—with a weekend sleepover penciled in—the tight coil in your chest had loosened. Not gone, but slack enough to let air in again.

As you cleaned your hazmat-suit-worthy apartment, you replayed the “game plan” you’d formed mid-call. Confidence restored-well, duct-taped back together-you decided to get back out there. Sure, you didn’t have martial arts training or fancy gadgets, but you had something better: a functioning brain, an unholy amount of spite, and zero dignity. The folder would’ve made things easier, sure, but you didn’t need it.

So, you’re starting from scratch. 

Pyrixaline—the chemical that had led to your second and third run-ins with Nightwing.

You spread the mess of documents across your coffee table, eyes blurring over receipts, permits, and shipping manifests. Bureaucratic static. You were one line item away from giving up and doomscrolling when a familiar detail blinked back at you.

An address.

Not just once. It showed up on a permit. Then again on a shipping log. Then again, buried in a receipt. A building that should’ve been invisible kept waving at you from the paperwork like it wanted attention.

You knew that building—big and beige, aggressively boring. Just the corporate office of a water filter company. You’d passed it a hundred times on the way to your favorite bagel place and never spared it a second thought.

Google painted the same picture: spotless reputation, no lawsuits, no debts, revenue so steady it looked preprogrammed. They made the kind of parts you’d see in bulk at a hardware store and forget existed two seconds later.i

Which would’ve been fine—except their address kept showing up next to shipments of industrial chemicals no water filter would ever need.

What better way to fly under the radar than actually being legit?

An actual company with employees, paychecks, and everything—just with a slimy underbelly tucked inside. A boring office up top, shady business underneath. The exact opposite of what illegal chemical and drug trafficking usually looked like. Which, in your opinion, made it the perfect front.

You smiled devilishly. The only way to make sure was to check it out yourself. Fuck a man in tights telling you what to do.

He could flip, kick, and fly around all he wanted, but he wasn’t the only capable one. Screw him for doubting you-worse, for making you doubt yourself. The insecurity still gnawed at the back of your brain, whispering what if you get in over your head? You shoved it down. I’ll just be careful. And if I live, I’ll finally take that self-defense class.

~~

The next morning you dressed the part of the invisible corporate drone. A skirt from your college interview days, maroon button-down, sensible flats, and a cardigan designed to suck the life out of whoever was wearing it. The finishing touch: a name badge from a long-expired internship. Just like that, you looked like any other corporate lifer trudging toward a cubicle to fulfill a life-long sentence.

You caught your reflection in the bathroom mirror and almost laughed. The woman staring back at you didn’t look like someone planning to go undercover into a potential chemical trafficking head quarters. She looked like someone who would cry if the vending machine ate her dollar. Which, of course, was exactly the point. Bland was camouflage.  Anonymity was key. 

As you packed your satchel with a notebook, a couple pens, and a rinsed-out disposable coffee cup for appearances, you ran through the plan again. Get inside, walk the halls, poke your nose where it didn’t belong, and look like you belonged all the while. Smile just enough to be approachable, never enough to be memorable. Simple. 

Still, your stomach twisted with unease. If Nightwing knew what you were doing, he’d probably swing down, wag a finger, and tell you off again. He’d definitely smirk, maybe throw in a backflip just to rub it in. But he wasn’t here, and you weren’t about to wait around for his permission.

This was your story, your lead, and you weren’t letting him derail it. You had to become immune to… well, him. His demeanor. His attitude. The all-around annoyingness that radiated off him in waves. And his disarming good looks. 

You checked the badge one last time, tucked your hair back, and forced your shoulders into a slouch. Corporate worker mode: engaged. If all went well, by tonight you’d have more than scraps and speculation—you’d have proof and a new hook for your editor.

Wishful thinking. Nothing ever went well for you

~~~ 

The office building looked gloomier than you remembered. Dull, beige and boring. A squat structure with tinted windows and a revolving door that wheezed in protest every time someone pushed through. You joined the flow of workers shuffling inside, clutching your coffee cup like a lifeline. No one spared you more than a second glance. Perfect.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and toner. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everyone in a sickly, pale glow. You flashed your expired badge at the security guard, who barely looked up from his crossword puzzle before waving you through. Either he didn’t care or he’d seen a hundred faces just like yours today. Probably both.

Your shoe clacked against the linoleum as you blended into the herd heading for the elevators. A woman beside you muttered about spreadsheets. A man ahead of you adjusted his tie three times in thirty seconds. Office drones in their natural habitat. You slipped in among them, invisible by association.

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open to reveal a cramped metal box already half-full. You squeezed in, shoulders hunched, head down, and let yourself be carried upward. Every detail of the building screamed monotony, and you couldn’t help but marvel at how genius a cover it was. Who would ever suspect crime thriving behind beige cubicles and quarterly reports?

When the doors opened again, you stepped out into a hallway that looked like every office hallway you’d ever seen—identical doors, numbered plaques, the faint sound of keyboards clacking in the distance. Your pulse quickened. You were in.

The next few hours passed in a haze of wandering and eavesdropping. You drifted past break rooms, loitered near printers, pretended to be lost while scanning nameplates and bulletin boards. The conversations you caught were as riveting as paint drying: complaints about commutes, gripes about bosses, the latest tragedy with the vending machine’s Cheetos supply. A woman ranted about her dog chewing through three pairs of shoes. A man sighed over an impossible spreadsheet. All painfully, dreadfully normal.

By your third cup of stale coffee and second lap of the fourth floor, the buzz of excitement had dulled to a nagging ache. You’d known this was a long shot, but disappointment still nipped at you. Still, your instincts told you not to walk away yet. Your gut hadn’t been wrong yet.

Finally, just as you debated calling it quits, fate—or maybe sheer dumb luck—intervened. A harried-looking woman with a stack of papers barreled straight into you outside the copier room. “Oh, thank god,” she gasped, thrusting the pile into your arms before you could protest. “Can you take these up to twelve? I’m late for a call, and Johnson will have my head if these don’t get signed.”

You opened your mouth to explain you had no idea who Johnson was, but she was already gone, heels clattering down the hall. And just like that, you were holding a bundle of official-looking documents and an excuse to poke around floors you hadn’t yet explored.

The elevator carried you higher, papers hugged to your chest. When the doors opened on twelve, the atmosphere shifted. The hum of office chatter thinned, replaced by quieter hallways and heavier doors. You wandered around trying to find…Johnson? Nothing around but big doors and fake ficus. You were passing large wooden could be doors when you heard it. Low urgent voices. 

Finally, something interesting. 

You leaned closer, pressing your ear against the crack in the door, heart thundering in your chest. “…shipment delayed again.” “…the break-in at the manufacturing plant on Ninth last weekend…” “…Nightwing and some girl…”  “Lockjaw can’t find out.”

Every muscle in your body went rigid. Holy shit. They weren’t just talking about shipments or plants—they were talking about you. The break-in, the files, the chaos you and Nightwing had stirred up-your name wasn’t spoken, but the shadow of it was there, threaded through every word. The realization hit like ice water down your spine, setting every nerve on edge. Your pulse hammered, thoughts spinning a million miles an hour, so loud in your head that you almost didn’t register the scrape of chairs and footsteps approaching.

The door swung open before you had time to move. A knot of sharp-suited men spilled into the hallway, stopping short when they saw you standing there, papers clutched tightly to your chest like a shield. You forced your expression into something bland, neutral, corporate.

One of them frowned, suspicion sharpening his voice. “What are you doing up here?”

Your mind raced, but your face stayed carefully neutral. You shifted the stack in your arms as if to emphasize the point. “I’m looking for Johnson’s office. He needs to sign these.” You kept your voice soft and your eyes low, the picture of harmless deference.

A few of them exchanged looks, lips curling with thinly veiled disdain. One snorted. “Figures. Dumb interns. Explains why you’re wandering around like you’ve never seen a hallway before.” Another chuckled nastily, shaking his head.

“Johnson’s office isn’t up here,” the first man finally said, tone dripping with mock patience. “He’s on fifteen. Corner office. You can’t miss it. Try not to get lost on the way, sweetheart.”

The group laughed, brushing past you with the kind of dismissive arrogance only men in expensive suits could perfect. They didn’t spare you another thought, already caught up in their own conversation as they disappeared down the hall.

You didn’t waste time lingering. Instead, you straightened your cardigan, adjusted the papers in your arms, and made a casual beeline for the elevators again. The ride to fifteen felt slower, every floor tick echoing your pulse. By the time the doors opened, you had your neutral mask back in place—even though you were one wrong move away from a panic attack.

The fifteenth floor was sleeker—polished wood accents, fewer doors, an air of authority pressed into the carpeting. Corner office wasn’t hard to find. The brass plaque read J. Johnson, CFO. 

Bingo

You hesitated only long enough to pull a slow breath, then meandered down the hall like you belonged there. A bored receptionist barely looked up as you drifted past, too busy scrolling on her phone to care.

You slipped through Johnson’s door with the stack of papers still in hand, closing it softly behind you. A frown tugged at your lips. Get in, get out. You weren’t going to push your luck and get caught—not when you already knew they were talking about you. Well, maybe not you, but they knew some girl was running around with Nightwing. And that was enough to give you the hibee-jibees.

Johnson wasn’t here. The monitor on his desk still glowed, screen unlocked. You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek—then curiosity won. Hugging the papers close, you drifted toward the desk, unable to resist a look.

Spreadsheets, shipment logs, and innocuous-looking emails blinked back at you. But the deeper you clicked, the uglier it got—altered invoices, shell accounts, multiple documents mentioning Pyrixaline. There it was, bold as day.

Your pulse leapt. This was it—proof, like the holy grail of proof. You slid your bag off your shoulder, fumbling for the slim flash drive you always carried for long-shot breaks like this. With a quick glance at the door, you jammed it into the USB port and started dragging files. Dozens of them. Bank transfers, rosters, manifests—the kind of things your editor would salivate over.

The loading bar crawled, each second stretching into eternity. Sweat prickled your hairline. Any minute, Johnson could walk in. Or worse, one of those assholes from upstairs. Finally, the bar hit one hundred percent. You yanked the drive free, tucking it deep into your bag.

You left the papers on the desk, smoothed your cardigan, and carefully backed away from the desk. Heart still hammering, you whispered to yourself: “Gotta go. Gotta go. Gotta go.”

You made it out of the office building unnoticed. Adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, you walked fast, head down, every nerve expecting someone to shout after you. But nothing. Just the hum of traffic, the neon blur of signs, the smell of rain on pavement.

A few blocks from your apartment, you ducked into a corner store and slapped down a crumpled twenty. New pack of cigarettes in hand, you found a chipped bench under a flickering streetlight, lit up, and finally—finally—let your shoulders sag.

The first inhale burned. Felt good. Felt earned. You pulled out your phone and hit dial.

“Okay,” you whispered when your best friend picked up, already grinning, “don’t freak out. But I may have committed, like… full blown espionage today.”

Her shriek of WHAT nearly made you drop your phone. You laughed, lowering your voice, spilling it all—how you’d snooped around, how some suits practically handed you Johnson’s office on a silver platter, how the flash drive was currently sitting snug in your bag.

You were mid–rant about the arrogance of men in expensive suits when the bench groaned. “So, did you have a good day at the office, Honey?”  

You almost swallowed your cigarette. Phone still pressed to your ear, you twisted around—and there he was. Nightwing. Mask gleaming in the streetlight, smirk practically audible, and apparently zero concept of personal space. He wasn’t just leaning over the back of the bench, he was looming—chin in hand, torso bent low enough that you could count the seams in his suit. His face hovered so close you nearly singed his nose with your cigarette.

“WAS THAT A MAN’S VOICE? OH MY GOD IS THAT HIM?” your bestie shrieked through the phone.

You fumbled the phone away from your mouth, glaring at him. “Do you mind? I’m busy.”

He smiled, completely unbothered. Like the last time you saw him he hadn’t chewed you out and left you reeling. Just leaned closer, smug as ever, like this was a perfectly normal reunion. “Busy getting lung cancer? Yes, I can see that.”

You rolled your eyes. Pulling the phone back to your ear, you tried to squeeze in a quick goodbye to your best friend.

“Don’t you dare hang up on me-who was that? Was that HIM?” she demanded, voice sharp enough to make you wince.

“I’ll explain later,” you hissed, keeping your voice low as you side–eyed the looming vigilante. “Promise. I’ll call you back.”

“You better or I’m showing up at yours tomorrow morning with a baseball bat. Tell Nightwing I said hi.”

You huffed and said your goodbyes, finally hanging up.

“What the fuck do you want?” you snapped, not even giving him the satisfaction of a pause.

“You have friends?” he asked, like he hadn’t just spent the last five minutes eavesdropping.

“Yes, unlike you.”

Instead of backing off, he swung around and dropped onto the bench beside you. The old wood groaned under his weight. He sprawled like he owned the whole block—long legs out, mask glinting under the weak streetlight. His gaze drifted past you, cataloging the yellow pools of light and the slick blacktop like it all mattered more than your glare.

“So, she a fan?” His tone was mild, but smugness clung to every syllable.

“Ugh. You didn’t answer my question. What do you want?” You flicked ash off your cigarette and rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

He groaned theatrically and slouched deeper into the bench, one arm flung over his eyes like you’d personally ruined his night.

“I want,” he drawled, dragging it out like every syllable hurt, “to know why you keep swan-diving into danger after I specifically told you not to.”

 You grimaced. “Ew. Don’t pretend you care—it’s creepy.”

His hand dropped, mask glinting as he gasped in mock horror. “Creepy? Excuse you, I’m a hero. Caring is literally my brand.”

“No, your brand is running around in a spandex leotard punching criminals. Not harassing journalists until they quit their jobs.”

He scoffed, flicking his hair back with unnecessary flair. “That was me caring—just at an excessive volume. And saving dummies from their own doom? Also in the job description.”

“Bullshit.” Your voice cut like glass. “You didn’t ‘care.’ You humiliated me. Told me to pack it up and go home. That’s not caring—that’s loathing someone so much you don’t even want them breathing the same city air.”

He pressed a hand to his chest like you’d stabbed him. “Loathing? I was going more for ‘constructive criticism.’”

You leveled him with a glare. He only grinned wider. “Besides, if I really didn’t like you, I wouldn’t waste my breath yelling. I’d just let natural selection do its thing.”

Like you? The words tripped through your brain before you could stop them. Who said anything about him liking you? You suddenly realized how close he’d leaned in, his shadow cutting across yours.

Your spine snapped straight, putting some distance between you. “Gross. Stop trying to convince yourself that you’re not the asshole here.” 

He leaned back on the bench, stretching out languidly like a cat sunbathing. “You call it yelling,” he said, voice deceptively mild. “Maybe it was just me… making sure you heard me.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, please. They heard you in fucking Africa.”

He smirked faintly, eyes still on the street instead of you. “Yeah. But you listened to me, didn’t you?”

Something about his tone made your skin prickle. You shifted, realizing how close he’d edged without you noticing. “So what—humiliating me was part of your master plan?”

“Not humiliating,” he corrected smoothly. Finally, he looked at you—too long, too steady. “Just… keeping you focused on me.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it. Focused on him? Cue Kill Bill sirens.

Your breath hitched. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

He let the smirk bleed off, just a fraction. “Look- that stunt you pulled today? It was bold, but stupid.” 

You blinked, thrown off kilter at the sudden change in demeanor and he barreled on.

“You’re clearly motivated and bright, but you keep doing the dumbest shit.”  You snorted out a laugh. 

“I’m serious.” His voice stayed low. “Those suits you had a run in with today? You know they were talking about you. Not your name, not yet—but ‘the girl with Nightwing’ narrows the math.” 

“So what? You here to ground me and take my phone?”

“I’m saying that if your going to keep doing this-which I know you are- you’ll need to be smarter. You need boundaries. Rules.”

“Boundaries? Coming from the man who doesn’t know what personal space is?” 

He snapped his fingers. “Exactly that man. Congratulations- you’re my new partner-in-training.” He smile was wide and nearly blinding.

You stared at him. “I’d rather have a lobotomy.” 

“Tempting, but no. This is nonnegotiable.” He stood suddenly, stood in front of you, and crossed his arms. “You want in? Fine. But you will play by my rules. Otherwise, the next time someone grabs you, they can keep you.”

“Ultimatums aren’t really your thing, huh?” 

“No ultimatums, just a tentative partnership.”

 You blew smoke at him, unimpressed. “You can’t just promote me to partner because it makes your life easier.”

“Not easier,” he said, tilting his head. “Safer. For you.” 

The words landed heavier than you wanted to admit, making your insides all warm and fuzzy. 

But then you remembered that he called you a burnt out stoner.

The gooey feeling evaporated like smoke in a gust of wind. You narrowed your eyes, jabbing your cigarette toward him like a weapon. “Oh no. Don’t think I forgot about all the shit you said to me the last time we were together.”

He had the nerve to look down at you, amused. Prick.

“Think of it more like constructive criticism.”

“Constructive? I didn’t leave my house for a week.”

“Yeah,” he said lightly, “and now you’re back, meaner than ever. You’re welcome.” 

You gawked at him, “You’re delusional. Why would I want to be your partner?”

His grin flickered back, bright and annoying. “Good benefits. Exposure. And be honest, l’m irresistible.”

You barked out a laugh. “Oh, that’s rich. You think I’d sign up to be your side kick because you’re… what? attractive?”

“Exactly.” He answered gleefully. 

You were still unimpressed. 

“You dig up dirt, I shut it down. We’re already doing the dance, might as well admit it.”

You took a final drag of you cigarette before stubbing it out. “If this is a dance, you’re stepping on my toes.”

“Then let me lead,” he shot back, too smooth, too fast

You blinked, caught off guard for half a second, and his grin widened like he’d just won something.

You opened your mouth, then shut it again, glaring because-annoyingly-he had a point.

“Face it,” he pressed, smug returning in full force. “You’d rather deal with me than do this alone. You know it. I know it.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Ugh! God, Fine. I’ll think about it. Just think about it. No promises.”

“That’s a ‘yes’ in my book.”

“That’s a maybe at best. More like a ‘don’t get your hopes up’.” 

“I’ll take it.” And then his expression shifted—smugness slipping into something softer, unguarded. A genuine smile spread across his face, bright and startling.

He was always handsome—you knew that, everyone with working eyes knew that—but when he smiled like this, really smiled, it was something else. It was unfair. It made your stomach lurch like you’d missed a step on the stairs.

Your cheeks heated before you could stop them. Damn him.

He extended a hand. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

“Chivalry will get you nowhere,” you muttered, but you slid your hand into his anyway.

He pulled you up with ridiculous ease, and for half a second you were closer than you meant to be. You cleared your throat and yanked your hand back.

“We’re only, like, two blocks from my place. You don’t need to walk me home,” you muttered, falling into step beside him.

He shrugged. “It’s not like I have anything better to do. Besides, I can’t have my new partner wandering the streets alone-you’d get lost.”

Your eyes narrowed. “I’ll push you into oncoming traffic.”

He laughed, low and smug. “No need to be violent, Brat. I’m just messing with you.”

Before you could snap back, his gloved hand landed on your head, ruffling your hair like you were some wayward kid instead of a grown adult.

“Hey!” You swatted at him, scowling as you tried to smooth your hair back down. “Touch me again and I’ll actually throw you in front of a bus.”

He only grinned wider, totally unbothered. “You wouldn’t do that to your partner, would you?”

“I’m not your partner,” you snapped. “I said I’d think about it. And yes, I would. I tolerate you at best.”

His grin turned wicked. “Tolerate me? Be still my heart.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. Your building came into view, mercifully close. “Whatever. I can make it the rest of the way by myself.”

For once, he didn’t argue. He just gave a lazy little salute and stopped at the corner, smirk still tugging at his mouth. “Sweet dreams, Brat. I’ll see you later.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” You replied as you turn and stomped the remain half block to your building. When you got to the door you looked over your shoulder, and he was still there making sure you got inside. He waved at you. You sneered in reply.

By the time you walked through the threshold of your home the exhaustion hit you in full force, but at least you finally had some peace and quite. Or so you thought 

You barely slipped your shoes off before you heard a soft knock at the window. 

You turned, and sure enough, there he was- crouched on your fireplace. “Hey, it’s later.” You heard him say, muffled through the glass. 

You made your way over to the window and ripped it open. “God, you’re like herpes. Can’t seem to get rid of you.” 

He smirked. “Persistent, hard to ignore, life-altering. Yeah, I see the resemblance.”

Not bothering to reply, you leaned toward the slam the window down. 

But his expression shifted before you could. The smirk slipped away, his voice dropping low. “Look… I’m sorry about the other night.”

You froze.

“I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I was way out of line,” he went on, meeting your gaze through the mask. “I was upset and worried, and I took it out on you. That wasn’t right. You didn’t deserve that.”

For once, there was no smugness, no theatrics—just plain sincerity. And damn it, that gooey feeling came rushing back, knocking you off balance before you could shove it down.

He barreled on, oblivious to the way your stomach had just done a traitorous flip. 

“I don’t want you to quit,” he said, steady now. “You’re good at this. Smarter than most of the cops I’ve ever worked with. But you can’t keep doing it like you’re invincible. Because you’re not. No one is.”

His gaze didn’t waver, the streetlight catching in the white lenses of his mask. “You matter. And I don’t want to see you get yourself killed just to prove a point.”  

You opened your mouth, then shut it again—completely blank for once.

He drew in a breath, voice quieter but no less certain. “I shouldn’t have said you weren’t special. You are. You’re stubborn and tenacious. You’ve got the heart and the will to make this city better. But I can’t stomach losing another person to it.”

The words hung heavy between you, heavier than you wanted to admit.

“I want you to seriously consider being my partner,” he finished, the last word deliberate, measured. No smirk. No theatrics. Just an offer laid bare.

He held your gaze, steady. “Not a sidekick. Not an errand runner. A partner. You bring things to the table I can’t-an untapped pool of sources, anonymity, and fresh eyes. You’ve already proven you can do it. You just… need someone watching your back.”

His jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of something raw crossing his face. “Let me be that. Let me make sure you don’t end up another name I can’t forget.”

You drew in a slow breath, your voice low and a little unsure. You weren’t used to this kind of sincerity.

“I appreciate the apology. And I really… will think about being your partner.”

Your gaze dropped, fingers fussing with your nails to keep from meeting his eyes. “I’m also sorry for what I said. I can get carried away when I’m upset.”

Silence stretched between you, steady and strangely comfortable.

Then he stood up straight and stretched his arms high above his head, “Well, Brat, I’m actually going to go this time. Let you have sometime to think it all over.” 

He turned around, getting ready to leap from the fire escape. “See you later, sweetheart. Try not to miss me too much.” 

Your brain blue screened. But he was already gone, vaulting into the night with unnecessary acrobatics that made your stomach twist in ways you refused to name.

At the same moment, your phone vibrated. Pulling it out of your bag, you saw a text from your friend.

Homegirl 🌼: did you kiss him yet?

You nearly dropped it. Heat flared up your neck as you jabbed out a reply with way too much force.

You: Absolutely not. Stop projecting.

Homegirl 🌼: not projecting. Manifesting 

~~ 

Later that night you were tallying up pros and cons like they were sheep, trying to make your brain as exhausted as your body felt.

You really were thinking it over, like he’d asked.

Pro: he’d apologized-an honest, sincere apology that had caught you off guard.

Con: he’d also called you sweetheart, and you were having a harder time than you wanted to admit dealing with the butterflies in your stomach every time you replayed it.

You flipped the blanket over your head, as if smothering the word would make it stop echoing. It didn’t. The pros and cons blurred together until they weren’t a list anymore-just him. His voice. His grin. The infuriating way he lingered even when he was gone.

Somewhere between irritation and exhaustion, your mind finally slowed to match your breathing.

The last thought that slipped through was soft, quiet, and entirely unguarded:

He probably has pretty eyes.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Dick was in the gym trying to come to terms with the fact he’d just signed himself up for a lifetime of torture.

Okay, maybe not an actual lifetime. Or actual torture. But dealing with you came in a close second. He’d done enough agonizing over you this past week to prove it.

You had this uncanny ability to needle under his skin the way his siblings did—ignoring him, pushing buttons, rolling your eyes at every warning he gave. You never listened, even when he was just trying to do what was best for you. Add the chain-smoked cigarettes and your Dr Pepper addiction, and he had all the proof he needed that you had zero regard for health or well-being. You were a walking, talking train wreck.

Yes, he’d asked you to be his partner. And yes, it would be beneficial for both of you. He wasn’t lying when he’d said you could do things he couldn’t. Sneaking around was easy for him at night, but a bright blue bird on his chest wasn’t exactly subtle for daytime infiltration. Going undercover as Dick Grayson wasn’t an option either. His face was too recognizable. People didn’t usually stop him for pictures, but it was rare that he went anywhere without someone noticing. He’d picked up two phone numbers just grabbing milk for his Lucky Charms.

Meanwhile, people talked to you. They trusted you. They let their guard down in ways they never did with him—unless he leaned on intimidation. You, though? They thought you weren’t a threat. He was betting it was your accent. Subtle most of the time, but when you got mad there was no denying where you were from.

And he couldn’t deny you were good. Annoyingly good. You’d been in Blüdhaven for less than five months and you’d already sharpened your skills. Your recent Bulletin articles were getting real attention—fresh eyes on a city that hadn’t changed in decades. He knew because he’d looked into you.

His first run-in with you had caught his attention, so then he’d done what he always did: snooped. That night he’d followed you home, found your building, pulled your lease. From there it was too easy. At first it was just a background check-standard stuff. Full legal name, date of birth, criminal record. He confirmed the Bulletin job, the move from Gotham. Nothing screamed hardened criminal, unless you counted that Mardi Gras night in college where you and your roommate had been booked for public intoxication and… indecent exposure. Honestly, who was he to judge?

Then he’d read your work. All of it. The magazine pieces in Gotham. College essays. Your master’s thesis. Even the blog you ran in high school. The older you got, the sharper the writing became.

He knew he’d crossed from “responsible background check” into “borderline stalking” the second he found out you got your tonsils removed at twelve. It wasn’t his fault-Bruce’s program was just too good. Still, it stung every time you called him a stalker, because, well…

The truth? He felt guilty. He’d gone too far, and he knew it. He tried to justify it as keeping you safe, but the excuses didn’t hold. Not when he could still hear your voice cracking when you yelled at him. Not when he remembered the way your eyes brimmed with tears. Nothing haunted him more than the sound of your broken sobs he’d overheard that night. He hated making girls cry. Even the shrew-like ones.

And you were stubborn. He knew you’d throw yourself back into danger just to spite him—and he was right. That morning, he’d gotten an alert you’d finally left your apartment after a week of hiding. He’d trailed you all day, waiting for the chance to pop up in your path and interrogate you about the days events.

The “partner” offer hadn’t been premeditated. You’d just lifted a flash drive from some shady company like it was nothing—the exact kind of thing he’d told you not to do. So he’d blurted it. Not exactly a joke. Not exactly serious. But the more he said it, the more it felt right. By the time he’d watched your lights flick on that night, he’d convinced himself it was the best way to keep you alive. The guilt relief was just a bonus.

So yeah, he scaled your building and practically begged forgiveness. He apologized because he needed you to believe him. Because the thought of you ending up on the long list of people he couldn’t save twisted something in his chest. And maybe—just maybe—he couldn’t stand the idea of you actually hating him. But that was just his people-pleaser streak… right?

He couldn’t just ignore it either: he liked your company. You kept him sharp, never letting him get away with anything. You were funny in ways that caught him off guard, and he’d started keeping score of which of his flirty remarks actually hit their mark.

Am I a masochist? The thought shook him to his core.

By the time he finished his workout, his body was wired high and his mind still buzzed with thoughts of you. You were unlike anyone he’d ever met and not in a weird cringy way. Half the time he wanted you to shut up forever. The other half, he wondered what it would be like to sit through a horror movie marathon with you. It was giving him whiplash.

He stripped off his sweat-soaked clothes and let the shower scald some sense into him. Usually he wasn’t this indecisive about women. Shameless and respectful was his M.O. Always. But you…you didn't even seem remotely interested in having anything to do with him. You didn’t want his help, even when you needed it.

Fortunately, by the time he’d rinsed the shampoo out of his hair, he’d reached a conclusion: go with the flow.

He would go over to yours today. Just to solidify the new partnership he knew you were going to agree to, especially since he was planning on bringing breakfast to sweeten the deal. He’d get a good look at the flash drive and see what the next course of action he could take with your help. 

As the water pounded over him, a stray thought slipped in, uninvited but stubborn.

I wonder if her cat will like me.

~~~

You woke up slowly, the white noise of your fan like a lullaby. You reached for your cat, hoping to shove your face in his fur and lose yourself in his soothing purrs. Running your hand gently over the side of the bed where he usually slept, you blinked your eyes open when you didn’t feel the familiar tickle of his fur. He wasn’t there, which was odd. He always slept next to you, waiting for you to wake up and give him attention.

You stretched your arm over your head and yawned so hard your eyes watered, the urge to pee strong. You squinted, struggling to see. You usually kept all the curtains and blinds shut tight-you couldn’t stand the light peeking through-but this morning you were assaulted with bright sunlight as you shuffled toward the bathroom. With your terrible astigmatism and your glasses abandoned on one of your bookshelves, you were practically flying blind.

You made it to the bathroom, only smacking your shoulder once. You left the door cracked but the lights off, still trying to wake up. After washing your hands and rubbing your eyes with a damp washcloth, you stumbled back out into the glow of daylight. You were never a morning person.

You squinted against the brightness again, sure you’d closed the curtains last night. Yawning, you stumbled toward the fire escape window, tugging the blinds and clumsily yanking the curtain shut.

A familiar trill sounded behind you. Smiling, you turned toward the sofa, ready to scoop up your cat and get your fill of cuddles—only to stop dead in your tracks. There, a black-and-blue blur lounged on one side of your couch.

“Good morning, Sunshine. Have good dreams about me?” Nightwing’s voice rang out, smug as ever.

“I must be having a nightmare,” you muttered, voice rough with sleep. “There’s no way I’d wake up to you.”

“That’s rude,” he whined. “I’ll have you know, waking up to me is a privilege.”

Your traitorous brain, still fuzzy with sleep, conjured an image of his toned gymnast’s body sprawled across your purple sheets. Heat flushed your cheeks and you quickly turned away, shuffling toward your tiny kitchen. Still half-blind and flustered, you didn’t see the coffee table until your shin slammed into it, hard.

You yelped, clutching your leg. Nightwing hissed a breath between his teeth and was suddenly at your side, warm hands steadying your shoulders.

“Damn, I know that hurt.” His voice was laced with concern, which was crazy coming from someone who got stabbed on a semi-regular basis. “I’ll get you something from the freezer. Do you have an ice pack?” He pushed you gently, making sure you were seating on the couch. 

“No,” you squeaked. “I do have a bag of diced potatoes, though.”

“I guess that’ll work.” He opened the freezer and rummaged around. “Aha!” He returned and offered it out. “Here.”

You reached, missed. Tried again, missed. Depth perception: zero.

“Hey. Are you good?” His voice softened. “I thought you hit your leg, not your head.”

You bristled, embarrassed. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just can’t see,” you admitted.

“What do you mean, ‘you can’t see’?”

“I mean I can’t see shit without my glasses.”

“Oh.” His tone shifted into something sounding almost fond. “Where are they? I’ll get them.”

“On a bookshelf, over there.” You waved vaguely toward the shelves that divided your bed from the rest of your studio. They gave you some semblance of privacy in the open space, though not much. Back in Gotham, you’d at least had your own room.

You listened to his footsteps pad across the carpet, mortified at the thought of him scanning your belongings. Trinkets, knickknacks, shelves stuffed full of books-and, unfortunately, your embarrassingly large collection of romance and smut novels proudly lined up at eye level. Including the monster smut. Why had you ever thought that was a good idea?

Thankfully, he located your glasses quickly and padded back over. But not before putting them on, checking your perception out for himself. “Holy crap, these are thick. What’s your prescription? -100?” 

“Ha, no but close. Now gimme.”  You put your hand out to retrieve the glasses, and flinched when his finger tips brushed yours-rough callouses scraping lightly against your wrist as he wrapped his hand around it. With the other, he carefully slid the glasses into your palm but didn’t let go right away.

Even through the blur, you could feel him. Close. Too close. He had a habit of hovering, filling up every inch of space like it belonged to him. A Bat trait, no doubt.

You weren’t sure if it was the lingering fog of sleep or the fact that you were basically blind, but your pulse jumped all the same. You were keenly aware of him—his warmth, the steady grip, the unshakable presence. Clearing your throat, you waited for him to retreat.

He did, eventually, but not before his hand slid up the back of yours in one slow stroke. The hairs on your arm stood at attention, your skin buzzing in the wake of his touch. You shoved the glasses on as quickly as possible, trying to mask the heat creeping into your cheeks.

Your vision finally focused, and you were immediately assaulted again. That bright smile-dimples out, teeth showing. His front teeth overlapped just slightly, imperfectly perfect in a way that made you stare too long. His hair was damp, like he’d showered recently, the scent of clean soap still clinging faintly to him. The black domino mask cut across his cheekbones and nose, sharpening the lines of his jaw. His eyes were whited out, unreadable, but you knew-knew-he was watching you.

His eyes were blue. You’d bet money on it. The thought slipped in before you could shove it away, and this time you couldn’t blame sleep deprivation. He was just too much-too pretty, too close-for you to take without nicotine or weed in you system.

You broke eye contact first, fumbling with the pack of frozen potatoes you’d placed on your leg. Catching a glimpse of the wicked bruise already blooming on your shin, you groaned. “Yikes. That’s gonna last a week.” Then, sharper: “What are you doing here?”

“I brought breakfast. Even though it’s basically lunch.” He dropped onto the couch beside you. Too close, not close enough.

“Why?”

“Because you need to eat. And I want to look at the flash drive.” He passed you a to-go container, maple syrup and bacon steamrolling your defenses.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re bribing me?”

He rolled his eyes, heading for your desk. “Not a bribe. Just making sure you eat. You’re my partner now, which makes you my responsibility.” He slid into your rolling chair, gaze roaming your workspace until it landed on your printer. Covered in sticky notes. “‘Don’t forget to drink water.’ ‘Electric bill due on the 9th’ ‘Call your mama, she misses you.’ ‘Destroy the mayor <3. ’” He snorted. “What the hell are these?”

“Encouragement and affirmations,” you said, ripping the lid open

Chocolate chip pancakes. Bacon. Hash browns. Heavenly. You didn’t even try to be polite, just tore into the silverware, scooted the coffee table closer, and sat cross-legged on the floor. The first bite almost made you moan.

You pointed your fork at him mid-chew. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet. And even if I did, you don’t just get to break in and wait for me to wake up. This isn’t Twilight, you freak.”

His mouth curved. “I’ve always been more of a Buffy guy.” He popped your flash drive into the port without asking. “Besides, you’re eating. Which means I win. Partnership confirmed.”

“That proves nothing except these are god-tier pancakes.”

He gave you a sideways grin. “Sure, Brat. Keep telling yourself that.” He leaned back, studying your cluttered apartment while your ancient laptop wheezed open the drive. “Nice place. How many books do you own?”

“Four hundred ninety-two.” You cleared your throat and reached for the coffee he must’ve snagged for you. Books were everywhere—the shelves around your bed, the TV stand, even random surfaces stacked like mini towers.

He raised a brow. “And how many have you actually read?”

“Half, maybe.” You shrugged. “Buying books and reading books are two totally different hobbies.”

“So… you’re a hoarder.” He started clicking through invoices, tax records, whatever else you’d swiped.

“It’s called collecting. Takes a thousand to qualify as a library.” You dabbed syrup on your finger and held it out. Your cat leapt from the back of the couch to lick it off, purring like Nightwing hadn’t just invaded our lair.

“What exactly are looking for?” you asked, trying to shift his focus. “I only skimmed it when I grabbed it.” 

“I’ve been trying to pin Lockjaw to the drug problem for months,” he muttered, irritation bleeding through. “But there’s nothing written. I can only beat up so many guys before I need something on paper-something that can actually shut down a multi-city ring.”

You smirked, enjoying his frustration, while your cat perched on your shoulder, nosing after your bacon. “So why couldn’t you get this yourself?”

“Because every time I tried, it was locked up. And I couldn’t crack it. No matter how many times I tried, or how many programs. They’re smarter than I gave them credit for.” His shoulders tightened; you could see it bruised his pride.

Now you were interested. “So you couldn’t just… walk in? Like I did?”

“Uh, no. I can’t.” He hesitated, sheepish. “People would recognize me.”

You squinted at him. “Recognize you? What are you, famous or something?”

The shame vanished, replaced instantly with that smug grin. “Or something.”

“You’re serious?” Your frown deepened. “You’re actually famous?”

“I mean, not like a movie star. But yeah-people know me.” His tone was casual, and you could tell he wasn’t lying.

“Why? Why would people know you?”

“They only know me by association. My dad’s the important one.” He waved a hand, clearly eager to change the subject. “Point is, like I said last night-you can get into places I can’t. That’s useful.”

“Ohhh, I get it now.” You shoved the empty container aside, grinning like a cat with cream. “Little bird can’t solve his own problems, so he has to rope me in to do it for him.”

He didn’t even flinch. “To be fair, you did it without me asking. I’m just reaping the benefits of your recklessness.” His fingers flew over the keys; your printer wheezed to life like it was dragging itself out of the grave.

He stood, striding back over, every inch the field commander. “I’ll pass this to the police.” He gestured toward the sputtering printer. “Meanwhile, you write the article. Get the story out, make people see who’s involved. Send a copy to your editor ASAP. Keep a hard copy for yourself and at least three online backups.”

He didn’t stop there, words clipped and certain, like he was used to being obeyed. “And start combing through the rest of the drive. We need fresh leads if we’re going to tear this ring down from the inside.”

The bossiness scraped at your nerves, but damn it—he wasn’t wrong. Until you had a final draft ready to go, there wasn’t much else you could do. Then you could spend hours, days even, crawling through every PDF on that drive.

“Fine,” you said at last, uncrossing your legs and standing to face him head-on. “I’ll do it. But not because you told me to. I was already going to—before you started giving orders.”

He merely rolled his eyes, not bothering to respond. Instead, he crouched down and let your cat sniff his fingers.

Within seconds, the little traitor was rubbing his head into Nightwing’s palm, demanding ear scratches. 

You clicked your tongue in disgust. Unbelievable. After years of not liking anyone but you and your roommate, your cat had the gall to fall for Nightwing of all people? You were going to have a stern talk with him later. He had to understand-he couldn’t just slut himself out to every pretty boy who scratched behind his ears. It never ended well. You’d learned that from experience.

Nightwing didn’t look up from the cat, now sprawled on his back, fluffy stomach shamelessly exposed for belly rubs. The sight almost made you stroke out.

“I’ll be back soon to help you go through the flash drive. Hopefully tonight.” He gave your cat one last indulgent scratch, then pushed to his feet and crossed to the sink. You blinked as he ran a paper towel under the tap. “I want us back on the streets no later than Thursday.”

“Yeah, yeah, Bossy. The sooner the better. Overdoses are at an all-time high.” You kept one eye on him, still wondering what the hell he was doing.

He trudged back over and held the damp paper towel out to you.

You squinted at it. “What’s this for?”

“You’re sticky.”

“What?”

“You’ve got syrup on your face.”

Your hand flew up—and sure enough, there it was. Syrup smeared at the corners of your mouth and on your chin, tacky on your fingers, too. Heat flared across your face. You snatched the towel from him, scrubbing furiously. “Get out.”

“Hey!” He threw his hands up, all mock innocence. “I was being nice. No need to get your panties in a twist.”

You shoved your glasses higher, pinching your nose like a headache was brewing. “Either hand me a cigarette or get out. I can’t deal with you nicotine-less.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll leave you alone—for now.” He finally made his way to the window, swung it open, and stepped out onto the metal grate of your fire escape.

The second he was outside, you darted forward and slammed the window shut. Just in time, too—he’d turned back, mouth already open to say something else.

He glared through the glass, lips moving around a very distinct, Really?

You threw your hands up, gave him an over-exaggerated shrug, and pointed to your ears before mouthing back, Sorry, can’t hear you.

He narrowed his eyes, then tapped two fingers from his mask to you—the universal “I’m watching you.”

You flipped him the bird.

He barked a laugh you could hear even through the glass, then upped the theatrics by stepping onto the railing itself. Six stories up, balancing like it was a curb. He somehow leaned back with casual arrogance, lacing his arms behind his head so his biceps flexed in your direct line of sight.

You hated yourself for looking. For noticing the easy stretch of his shoulders, the muscle definition that the suit only hinted at. For letting your eyes linger longer than necessary before dragging them back to his stupidly smug face.

And of course, the son of a bitch caught you.

He grinned like the devil himself, lifted one hand, and blew you a kiss.

Your cheeks burned hot enough to rival the damn sun.

Before you could think of a comeback, he toppled backward off the fire escape in a perfect trust fall.

Thankfully, he was gone before he could see your jaw drop-or the steam practically whistling out your ears like a damn cartoon.

Dick, you thought bitterly.

A few deep breaths later, you calmed down enough to pretend none of that had just happened. You cleaned up the breakfast mess, shoved the traitor-cat off your desk, and braced yourself for a long day of being chained to your computer.

Settling into the chair, you flipped open your laptop—only to find a sticky note smack in the middle of the screen.

Call for a good time.

XXX-XXX-XXXX

Your face went nuclear all over again.

~~

Later that night-technically the ungodly hours of the morning-you were still glued to your desk, the glow of your laptop bleaching your apartment in artificial light. Your ashtray was overflowing, you’d been through two pots of coffee, and your cat had abandoned you hours ago for the comfort of your bed.

The long hours you’d put into combing through the flash drive, made you exhausted, but you could turn your brain off. Not even close. On and off all day, your thoughts had been hijacked by Nightwing.

You’d be buried in invoices, and suddenly picture him stretched out on your sofa like he owned the place. You’d skim tax records, then imagine him in your kitchen, cooking pasta like some domestic fever dream. And worst of all—every time your mind wandered to him fresh out of the shower, water dripping dangerously low, steam curling around his shoulders-you wanted to slap yourself.

You’d drag yourself back to work, force your focus, only for your brain to betray you all over again. It was agonizing.

You checked the clock. Nearly three in the morning. Normal people were asleep. Responsible people. People who weren’t… well, you.

You told yourself you were just waiting for another file to finish downloading, or for the caffeine to wear off, or for your cat to finally come back and curl up on your lap. Definitely not waiting for him to show up again.

Nope. Not you.

You were absolutely not sitting here like some idiot, keeping yourself awake just in case you heard a tap at your window.

The fact that you were still reeling over having his number didn’t help your nerves. He didn’t mean anything by it. He didn’t want you to text him memes, didn’t want late-night calls or small talk. He’d only handed it over because you were “partners.” Nothing more.

Right?

Snap out of it. You were a grown woman-you could not have some stupid crush on Nightwing, for fuck’s sake.

He was the definition of unobtainable. Hell, Starfire-a literal smokin’-hot alien goddess-couldn’t tie him down. What chance did you have?

You? A surly journalist who barely left her apartment. A girl who’s always been taller than all her friends growing up, and definitely not what anyone would call cute. And-fine-you could admit you were kinda a brat. A hard pill to swallow, but true.

This was just proximity, you told yourself. That was all. When he lost interest—and he would—you’d forget all about him.

You were being pathetic, and you knew it. Secretly pining after a guy who would never notice you—God, it was like high school all over again.

You groaned loudly, unfolded your legs, and shoved away from the desk. Standing, you stretched until your back popped like bubble wrap. Rubbing your eyes hard, you shuffled toward the kitchen, hell-bent on curing your cotton mouth.

The fridge greeted you with absolutely nothing. Not even a stray bottle of water. Ugh. You didn’t want to go out, but the corner store was literally around the block. A short walk. Doable.

The problem? Real pants. Shoes.

Still, your mouth felt like the Sahara, and the thought of a cold Gatorade was enough to tip the scales. With a groan, you tugged on your coat, slid into flimsy sandals, and grabbed your keys-

-just as your window rattled.

Your heart flipped before you could stop it, and the butterflies in your stomach came in full force. You froze, keys clutched tight in your hand.

For a split second, you debated ignoring him—pretending you hadn’t heard a thing. You weren’t ready to face him, not after spending the entire day plagued with… let’s call them inappropriate thoughts. Egregious thoughts that had no business existing in the first place.

The tapping continued, insistent, pulling you toward the curtains until you finally yanked them open.

And there he was—crouched on your fire escape in all his spandex-clad, smug glory.

You groaned loud enough to rattle the glass and reluctantly shoved the window up, the bite of the night air stinging your bare toes.

You opened your mouth, a snide remark ready to fly-

-but he cut you off first. “Why are you still awake? It’s after three in the morning.”

“Me? What about you? You’re the one loitering on my fire escape.”

He arched a brow. “Uh, hello? Masked vigilante of the night—Nightwing? It’s literally in the name.”

“I’m too tired for you,” you whined, rubbing your strained eyes beneath your glasses.

His head tilted, that grin sharpening his voice. “Then why are you still up? Don’t tell me you were waiting on me.”

You bristled, snapping defensively voice dry. “Don’t be dirty old man. I wasn’t waiting for you-I was working.”

Liar, you thought. I was totally waiting up for him.

He gasped, actually offended. “Old man? I’m thirty-one, thank you very much. I’m in my prime.”

He finished with a dramatic huff, arms crossed like a sulky teenager.

You shivered, teeth almost chattering. “Suck it up and climb in or leave. It’s freezing.”

He muttered under his breath as he swung a leg inside, “The things I put up with…”

By the time his boots hit your floor, your nerves went haywire. You were bone-tired, eyelids heavy, body aching for sleep—but suddenly you were wide awake. He was here. Just like he’d promised. And your heart did a full-on gymnastics routine in your chest, somersaulting so hard you were afraid he could hear it.

Heat crawled up your neck, and you busied yourself with pointless little movements—tugging at your sleeves, adjusting your glasses, anything to keep from looking directly at him. Because the second you did, your brain short-circuited into a chorus of: don’t gawk, don’t blush, be cool, you fucking idiot.

He didn’t say a word. Just stood there, watching you.

The window was still open, cold air spilling in and nipping at your bare skin. You hugged your arms around yourself, shivering again. He must’ve noticed, because he finally turned, slid the window shut, and locked it with a firm click. 

“Were you about to leave?” he asked, pulling the curtains shut before glancing over his shoulder at you, keys still dangling in your hand.

“I was about to go to the bodega. I’m thirsty.”

He turned fully toward you. “It’s three in the morning.”

“And? It’s just around the corner.”

His brows drew together. “You’re a woman. You can’t just walk around alone at night. Especially dressed like that.” He gestured at you.

You followed his eyes down: a worn oversized band tee, boxers, and flimsy sandals. Even with your jacket thrown over it, you had to admit it wasn’t exactly weather-appropriate. But provocative? Not even close.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

His look screamed are you serious?

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” he said finally, exasperated. “Except it looks like you’re not wearing pants.”

“Well, I am wearing pants,” you shot back, tugging at your boxers for emphasis. “So yes, I’m going to the store. I’m dying of thirst. And I want something to munch on. I’m starving.”

He slipped into a bossy tone. “Have you eaten anything since I brought you breakfast?”

Your bravado wilted under his tone. “…No,” you admitted, sheepish.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was at eleven this morning. You’re telling me you’ve gone over twelve hours without eating?”

You sank deeper into your jacket, wishing it would just swallow you whole. “…Yes.”

His head snapped up. “Why-how? Weren’t you hungry all day?”

“No!” you protested, a little too fast. “I only got hungry after I got off the computer. I was in the zone all day and-I don’t know-I didn’t notice.”

He dragged in a slow breath, the kind that screamed I cannot believe you right now, and fished his phone out of some hidden pocket in his suit.

Your brows pulled together. “What are you doing?”

“Ordering food.” He didn’t even look at you. “What do you like for Chinese?”

“…What?” You blinked.

“I know a place that never closes. What do you want-orange chicken? Fried rice? Lo mein?”

“You don’t have to do that.” You waved him off, startled by how casual he was about it. “I’ll be fine. You already bought me breakfast. I don’t want you spending more money on me.”

That finally earned you a look. His eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Wow. You’re being nice. You must be dying. That’s the only explanation.”

You groaned. “I’m not dying. I just don’t like taking handouts.”

“Don’t think of it as a handout,” he said smoothly. “Think of it as a perk of the job. You need to eat, and I need peace of mind that I won’t show up here one night to find your corpse slumped over the keyboard.” His thumbs moved quickly across the screen. “And don’t worry about ‘putting me out.’ I can afford it.”

Right on cue, your stomach growled so loud it echoed in the quiet room.

You froze. His smirk spread slowly, like he’d just won something.You finally surrendered with a sigh. “Fine. Chicken fried rice and a couple egg rolls. Please.”

He hit dial without missing a beat, phone pressed to his ear. “Atta girl,” he said casually, right before someone on the other end picked up.

Your brain short-circuited. Heart rate flatlined, then spiked like you’d been hit with a defibrillator. Did he just—he did. He absolutely did. And he said it like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t currently frying every last neuron in my head.

You sat frozen, face hot enough to melt steel, while he calmly rattled off the order like he hadn’t just sent you into cardiac arrest.

Now you really needed that drink. Or a cold shower. Maybe both.

You pulled off your glasses and fiddled with the earpieces, eyes squeezed shut like that would help. Refusing to look at him felt safer. He was too much—too close, too casual, too everything. Better to be blind than risk meeting his eyes again.

He ended the call with a quick thank-you and a click, slipping the phone away like nothing had happened.

“What are you doing?” he asked, watching you fuss with your glasses.

“My eyes hurt,” you said without missing a beat.

“This is why you shouldn’t spend hours glued to a screen.”

This is why you shouldn’t lurk around my apartment and give me heart palpitations, you thought darkly, refusing to look at him.

You cleared your throat, desperate to change the subject before your face betrayed you. “I’m still thirsty.”

“Then I’ll walk you down,” he said, like it was non-negotiable.

“No. I can’t be seen in public with you. What about my street cred?”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t have any to start with.”

You gasped, clutching your chest in mock offense. “Excuse me? I’ve always had street cred. And I refuse to have my good name sullied by being seen with you.

He only rolled his eyes. Reaching forward, he gave your jacket pocket a little shake until your keys jingled. “Uh-huh. Let’s go, Compton.”

With that, he herded you toward the door.

The elevator ride down was quiet but comfortable, the soft music playing like a lullaby. You shut your sore eyes, leaned back against the wall, and started to doze.

It didn’t last long.

“Sully your name,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear. “What a load of BS.”

Your eyes cracked open in a sleepy glare. “Hush. It’s bad enough to be seen with you, I can’t have people thinking I actually want to associate with you.”

You shut your eyes again, determined to tune him out. 

You heard a shuffle, then a shadow fell across you. Just as you were about to open your eyes and tell him to back off, he plucked your glasses straight off your face.

“Let’s see how high and mighty you are without these,” he drawled, smugness dripping from every word.

“Hey! That’s like… illegal. It has to be!”

“So? Who’s gonna stop me? You? You can barely see a foot in front of you.”

You stiffened, posture straightening as the air shifted — he was close, hovering. Even through the blur, you could still make out the line of his mask, the curve of his lips.

Then his breath ghosted across your cheek, warm and maddening.

“Say you’re sorry,” he murmured, “and I’ll give them back.”

You stuttered, the word catching in your throat. He only leaned closer, closing the gap until you could smell him—clean soap, leather, the crisp bite of night air clinging to his suit.

Your breath hitched, traitorous, and you hated yourself for it.

He chuckled, low and amused, like he was savoring every second of your unraveling. The sound rolled through the narrow space between you, smug and warm, settling under your skin.

He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned closer, until you could feel the ghost of his breath against your ear. The blur of his face was all sharp edges and suggestion, mask and lips and the curve of a grin you knew was there.

Your pulse hammered in your throat. Every nerve screamed don’t react, don’t give him the satisfaction, but your body hadn’t gotten the memo.

“Careful, Brat. You actually look like you’re enjoying this.”

You balked, heat rushing to your face. “I’m not enjoying this, you freak. All I wanted was some Gatorade, and somehow I ended up with you harassing me. Again.”

“It’s not harassment if you like it,” he quipped.

The elevator dinged and creaked open. You felt him finally step back. “Come on. I can’t wait all night.”

Refusing to beg for your glasses, you lifted your chin and strode forward—only to clip your shoulder hard against the metal doorframe before you even cleared the threshold.

His laugh echoed down the hall. “It’s embarrassing watching you struggle.”

Still rubbing your shoulder, you felt him lean in. With deliberate care, he slid your glasses back into place.

“And I’m the one who’d ruin your reputation,” he murmured, smug as ever.

The rest of your walk was uneventful-if you didn’t count the stares of everyone you passed.

“See? What did I say? Everyone’s staring at you.” You turned your head and hissed the words low at him.

“Me? I’m not the one who looks like they forgot their pants.”

“You’re in a skin-tight suit with a neon bird plastered across your chest. Of course they’re staring at you.”

By the time you made it to the bodega, you split from his side like you were escaping, nearly running to the coolers. You yanked one open, grabbed a fruit punch Gatorade, and ripped the cap off before chugging it like you’d been stranded in the desert.

He took his time, sauntering through the aisles until he finally caught up with you-just as you lowered the bottle to take a breath.

He stopped beside you, arms crossed. “Slow down. You’re going to make yourself sick. Especially after not eating all day.”

You scowled at him over the rim. “Thanks, Doctor Spandex. I’m fine.”

His brow arched. “Don’t tell me you’re fine. I’m surprised you haven’t passed out yet.”

You rolled your eyes and yanked the cooler open again, grabbing another Gatorade for the road.

He followed you to the counter, where the usual overnight guy was working. You set the bottles down and reached into your pocket for your wallet-only for Nightwing to slap a fifty onto the counter first.

“Keep the change,” he said smoothly.

Before you could even sputter a protest, he scooped up the drinks with one hand and your elbow with the other, practically dragging you out of the store.

You stepped outside, the cool air biting at your bare legs and ankles. Before you could shake off his grip or protest at all, he shifted his hold.

His hand slid from your elbow down the length of your forearm, skimming past your wrist until his bare fingers brushed yours-then laced them together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He tugged you along, and suddenly your brain was a static-filled mess. You- twenty-six years old, alleged career woman with her life together- were getting bent out of shape because a guy was holding your hand.

A guy in spandex and fingerless gloves.

You couldn’t think of a single thing to say. So you stayed quiet and let him lead you back toward your building, your thoughts circling one humiliatingly simple observation:

His hand is so warm.

The moment didn’t last long. By the time you stepped back into the elevator,  his voice broke through your stupor.

“So,” he asked casually leaning forward to click the number six button, “did you find anything good today?”

“What?” You jerked your gaze away from your hands.

“The flash drive.” His tone was all business, like he hadn’t just fried every circuit in your brain. “You spent all day on it. Worth it?”

You exhaled hard, frustration slipping into your voice. “I only got through a third of it. It’s packed with legal jargon, and they’re burying their tracks inside their own documents. It’s aggravating.”

Without warning, his hand gave yours a light squeeze-enough to send a jolt of electricity racing up your arm.

“It’s fine,” he said easily. “Honestly, I’m surprised you made it through that much of it by yourself.”

You tried to think of something to say, anything, but your mind came up blank—too distracted by the warmth of his hand still twined with yours.

Thankfully, the elevator dinged. The doors slid open, and you seized the chance to shake your hand free, slipping past him into the hallway.

You didn’t look back as you fished your keys from your pocket, retreating to the safety of your apartment door. By the time you pushed it open, he was right there at your shoulder, slipping inside like he owned the place.

“Alright,” he said, setting your drinks down. “Show me exactly what you picked through today. We’ll start there.”

He dropped into your desk chair and flipped your laptop open. You followed, leaning over him to point the cursor at the document you’d been buried in before your late-night craving derailed you.

Before you could explain anything, his finger tapped the sticky note still stuck to the corner of the screen. “Why didn’t you text me today?”

“Huh?” You straightened, blinking.

“My number.” His tone was casual, but his eyes flicked up to yours. “Why didn’t you text me?”

You were stunned. “I thought it was like an… in-case-of-emergency thing. I didn’t think you wanted me to just text you random crap. Like memes or whatever.”

His mouth curved into that annoyingly familiar grin. “I’d actually appreciate the memes. No one ever just texts me normal stuff.”

“Normal stuff?” you repeated, suspicious.

“You know,” he said with a shrug, “like ‘hey, how was your day?’ or ‘doing anything later?’ Stuff friends text. Instead, it’s always work… or my siblings being annoying.”

You snorted. “That’s what you want? The conversations I have with my friends are just insults, gossip, and the occasional TikTok.”

“That sounds nice. Normal.” His grin softened into something quieter, more honest.

“I wouldn’t call it normal,” you said, clearing your throat. “But it’s how I’ve always texted my friends.”

“Don’t make me ask.”

You frowned. “Ask what?”

“Don’t make me ask you to send me memes. Like we’re friends.”

Your brows shot up. “Are we friends? I thought you only kept me around because you I was convenient.”

“Duh.” His grin came back, wide and unbothered. “Of course we’re friends. I wouldn’t bug you about-well, everything-if I wasn’t. You being convenient is just an added bonus.”

“Wow. Just what I need-another friend who’s bossy and insults me. God help me.”

“Glad we’re on the same page. Now hurry up and show me what you’ve got. Food’ll be here in ten minutes.”

You huffed and tapped your laptop screen. “This is where I left off. We already have solid evidence the church is a front for the drug lab, but I’ve been trying to connect it to the water filter company. I’ve combed through invoices, tax records, even emails-but so far? Nothing. I really thought this was the holy grain of incriminating evidence, but I guess I was wrong.”

You leaned back, frustration creeping in. “And no mention of Lockjaw, either.”

“Have you found anything else of interest?” he pressed. “Doesn’t have to be about the drugs or Lockjaw.”

You frowned. “I guess I don’t get what you mean.”

“Like…” he leaned forward, gesturing at the screen, “did a name keep popping up? An address? Something that didn’t add up?”

“Not really,” you admitted with a sulk. “I don’t want to sit here and painstakingly comb through the entire drive, but… it might be something we have to do.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I stopped by police headquarters today. Based on what I gave them, they’ll keep a heavy lookout on both the church and the company. But without probable cause-acquired legally-they can’t do much right now.”

“So we’re back to square one?” you asked, deflating.

“No,” he countered firmly. “We’re not back at square one. We’ve got eight whole gigabytes of classified documents to study.”

“Great. It’s not like I need to sleep or anything,” you muttered.

A knock came at the door. Before you could even move, Nightwing was already there, cash in hand, taking the bags from the delivery guy.

The smell hit immediately, rich and mouthwatering, and your stomach growled on cue.

“Don’t be so negative,” he said, setting the food down. “Taking down a drug ring doesn’t happen overnight. We’ll find something.”

You snagged your drink and plopped onto the couch. Nightwing joined you, passing over a takeout container before settling in beside you.

You flipped the TV on, clicking on South Park- the background noise made the room feel less… charged.

You cracked open the container, the steam hitting your face as you dug in. First bite of chicken fried rice and you nearly groaned out loud.

“Okay,” you said around a mouthful, pointing your fork at him. “You might actually be useful for something after all.”

He smirked, cracking open his own box. “Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.” You shoved another bite in your mouth.

He leaned back against the couch, chopsticks moving with practiced ease. “So this is what your Saturday nights usually look like? Cartoons, take out, the works?”

You snorted. “First of all, it’s Wednesday. And second, don’t pretend this isn’t an upgrade from whatever you usually do at three a.m.”

He raised a brow. “Pretty sure fighting crime is a little more productive than streaming episodes of South Park.”

“Debatable,” you shot back, sipping your drink. “At least I don’t risk pulling a muscle every night.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, and the sound was warm enough that you buried your face in your container just to hide your smile.

“So…” he started, refusing to let the comfortable silence stretch, “what’s with the glasses?”

“Hmm?” you hummed around a mouthful of egg roll.

“If you’re that blind, how come I’ve never seen you wearing them before?”

“I usually wear contacts. Glasses can be a hassle.” You shot him a pointed side-eye. “Especially when people think it’s funny to just take them right off your face.”

“You really don’t like them?” he asked, voice gentler now.

“I mean, they’re okay.” You shrugged, eyes flicking back to the TV. “They’re made cuter now, thank God, but when I was younger they were horrendous. Thick as Coke bottles. I hated them.”

“That sucks.”

“What?” You looked over, surprised.

“That you don’t like wearing them,” he said simply. “I think they suit you.”

“Really?” You asked carefully, bracing yourself for the inevitable punchline.

But none came. His gaze was steady, his grin softer this time. “Yeah. You look good in them. You should wear them more often.”

You immediately choked on a mouthful of rice.

You hacked and coughed, pounding your chest as he shoved your drink toward you, barely containing his laughter.

“Smooth,” he said, grinning. “Real smooth.”

“Shut up,” you croaked, eyes watering. “You’re the one who keeps being… weird!”

You took a gulp, your face still burning for reasons that had nothing to do with rice going down the wrong pipe. He was still watching you, expression softer than you could handle.

“You don’t take compliments well,” he stated, matter-of-fact.

You froze, rice still halfway to your mouth. “Maybe because they don’t usually come from guys who stalk me and harass me in elevators.”

His grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So you’re saying you only get embarrassed when I compliment you? 

His grin widened as you stuffed your mouth, refusing to answer.

“No denial?” he teased. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You shot him a glare over the rim of your container, cheeks still burning, but he just chuckled and went back to his lo mein like he’d won.

The room fell into an uneasy quiet, broken only by the background noise of South Park and the clink of plastic forks against takeout boxes. You pretended to focus on the TV, but you were hyper-aware of him sitting there—too close, too casual, like he belonged on your couch.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered finally, half to yourself.

He smirked without looking up. “And yet here you are. Letting me buy you dinner at three A.M”

You rolled your eyes, stabbing another bite of rice. “Trust me, this wasn’t on my to-do-list for the week.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, stretching one long arm along the back of the couch, annoyingly comfortable. “You don’t seem to hate it that much.”

You refused to take that bait, burying yourself in another mouthful instead. After a pause, he gestured toward your laptop on the desk.“So-back to the flash drive. You said you didn’t find anything about Lockjaw?”

You nodded, chewing slowly. “Not yet. People like him pay other people to cover his tracks. But sooner or later, I’ll find something.”

“Good.” He didn’t take his eyes off the TV. “Sooner we shut this shit down, the better I’ll sleep.”

He leaned back against the couch like it was just another late-night hangout. “Half the time on patrol all I see are dealers ducking into alleys and drunk guys trying to fight streetlights.”

You snorted. “Sounds riveting.”

“Same as always-B&Es, a couple muggings.” He shrugged, casual. “Did swing by a club tonight, though. Heard a call on the scanner about an OD. Guy turned out to just be drunk and passed out.”

He said it like nothing, casual as ever, and maybe it would’ve made your heart stutter if something hadn’t snagged your attention.

Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. “A club?”

“Yeah.” He waved his chopsticks dismissively. “Big neon sign, long line, same as half the joints downtown. Why?”

You scrambled over to the laptop, fingers already flying. “This wouldn’t happen to be Club Majestic, would it?”

He blinked, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. “Yeah. That’s the one. Why?”

Your pulse kicked up as you pulled open a folder on the flash drive. “Because I’ve seen multiple receipts written off as business expenses. I thought it was just gross executives getting dinner served to them by strippers. But it’s regular. Weekly.”

His expression shifted, sharper now. Setting his food aside, he tapped quickly on his phone and lifted it to his ear. “Hey, Oracle. Need you to run a search for me.”

A muffled female voice answered on the other end.

“How many overdoses have there been in the past six months?” he asked.

More chatter.

“Okay… now how many of those happened in or around a two-block radius of Club Majestic?”

Another pause. His jaw tightened at whatever she said.

“Thanks. Talk to you later.” He ended the call and set the phone down, leaning back into the couch like the weight of it had settled over him.

“More than half the reported ODs in the past month have been in or around Club Majestic.”

Your stomach twisted, not from the food but from the numbers. “That’s it. That has to be it. They’re using the club as the main highway to get drugs to the locals. Those ‘weekly dinners’ aren’t just dinners-they’re business meetings.”

He gave a small nod, eyes still on the TV but focus miles away. “Looks that way.”

You slammed the laptop shut, adrenaline spiking. “So we hit it.”

His head turned toward you, one brow arched. “Hit it?”

“Go there. See what’s going on inside. If they’re using it as drug den, then there is no way they can keep it quite amongst the patrons. 

He studied you for a beat too long, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re enjoying this.”

You ignored the heat crawling up your neck and reached for your Gatorade. “I enjoy being right.”

“Dangerous hobby,” he muttered, though the spark of approval in his eyes gave him away.

“I’d like to point out,” he added after a beat, “you keep saying we. I already told you-I can’t go undercover.”

You frowned. “Why not?”

“People will recognize me. Especially there. Me walking in as a civilian? Out of the question.”

You bit back a laugh, sipping your Gatorade. “So what—you want me to go in?”

“Exactly.” His smile was sharp.

You blinked at him. “What? Don’t you think that’s a little intense? Just the other day you were yelling at me for throwing myself into dangerous situations. Like… this exact one.”

“Yes,” he said smoothly, smug as ever, “but that was before you had me to back you up.”

He leaned back against the couch, looking far too pleased with himself. “Congratulations, Brat. You’re officially going undercover.”

Your stomach dropped, adrenaline buzzing in your veins.

“Oh, hell no-”

Chapter Text

The sequined halter clung too tight, the mini-skirt refused to stay put, and the heels had already drawn blood. You felt like a clown, painted face and unflattering outfit included. 

I look like a Dollar Store disco ball, you thought grimly.

“Relax, sweetheart,” Nightwing’s voice slid into your ear, smug as ever. “You fit right in.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not walking into a sex club dressed like a knock off Bratz doll.”

“You’re underselling it. A knock-off Bratz doll with killer legs.”

Your face burned as you tugged the skirt down another inch. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Not when I’m this much fun.”

Inside, the staff hallway smelled faintly of perfume, cheap champagne, and sweat. A cluster of other bottle girls were crowded around a mirror, reapplying lip gloss and dusting glitter over their cleavage like they were competing for gold medals.

One girl glanced up, immediately clocking you. She looked you up and down with an approving nod. “New hire?”

You cleared your throat, forcing confidence you didn’t have. “Yeah. First night.”

She grinned, already digging in a pouch at her hip. “Then you need more glitter.” Before you could backpedal, she patted a heavy sprinkle across your chest, dusting your collarbone until you sparkled like a human chandelier.

Nightwing’s laugh exploded in your ear. “Oh, this is the best night of my life.”

“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered under your breath, brushing futilely at the sparkle.

“This was worth it.”

Another girl tugged you by the wrist before you could respond, dragging you toward the main floor. “VIP section’s already heating up,” she explained briskly. “Big tippers by the stage, frat boys by the bar, and if anyone tries to grab you, just smile and move. Security doesn’t care.”

Your eye twitched. “Good to know.”

“Also—” the girl handed you a tray piled with ice buckets and sparklers, voice low and practiced, “keep your shoulders back. Stand up like you own the room. How tall are you in heels?”

You swallowed, the tray suddenly heavier. “Uh—more than six feet?”

The bass hit the wall ahead of you before you reached the door; the lights answered in time. The girl’s smile split, equal parts impressed and spiteful. “Damn. Own it—guys eat that up. Walk like you can step on them and they’ll pay double.”

A laugh, too familiar, crackled in your ear. “Oh, she’s got that covered,” Nightwing said, impossibly smug even through the tiny speaker.

You muttered, “I will step on you.”

“Promises, promises,” 

You pushed through the curtain and onto the main floor. The music slammed into you, all bass and strobe lights, and suddenly you were in the deep end: drunk men shouting, women dancing on tables, sparklers fizzing, neon glittering across every surface.

You exhaled through your nose, smile frozen in place, and thought back to earlier that night—back when he first showed up with this disaster of an outfit in hand.

Earlier that evening, you’d been sprawled on your couch, trying to lose yourself in the same paragraph of a book you’d been re-reading for the last twenty minutes. It wasn’t working. Your brain kept circling back to the smug bastard who’d vaulted off your fire escape days ago with a parting shot of, “Don’t forget to send me memes.”

You had, in fact, not sent him memes. The pressure was too much. Every time you scrolled through your phone, you panicked and locked the screen again.

So when the heavy thump of boots landed on your fire escape, your stomach dropped.

“I don’t remember giving you permission to just stop by whenever,” you called out, pretending to sound irritated instead of flustered.

“The window was open. That’s an invitation,” he said, voice maddeningly chipper.

You barely had time to sigh before he climbed through with that gymnast grace you hated to admit was unfairly attractive. He had something draped over his arm—black, sparkly, and already giving you hives.

You sat up warily. “What’s that?”

“This,” he announced, grinning like he’d solved world hunger, “is how we’re getting you into the club tonight.”

He tossed it onto the couch beside you. Sequins glittered under the lamp like they were mocking you.

You stared. Then stared harder. “That’s not clothing. That’s a hate crime.”

“Bottle girl uniform,” he corrected, perching on the arm of the couch like he lived there.

You picked it up between two fingers, horrified. “This is a sequined halter top and a skirt that’s smaller than a napkin. Where’s the rest of it?”

“That’s all of it,” he said, entirely too smug.

You glared. “What bodily fluids are on this?”

“Relax. It’s clean. I checked.”

“Checked how?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

You threw the outfit back at him like it was radioactive. “Absolutely not. Nope. Find another sucker.”

“Yes, you are,” he countered, crossing his arms. His jaw twitched, the tiniest crack in his calm. “The club’s moving product. We need proof. You’re the only one they won’t recognize.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Translation: you can’t go in, so you’re volunteering me.”

“Pretty much.”

“This is extortion.”

“This is teamwork.”

You groaned, flopping back against the couch. “I didn’t survive college just to get roped into undercover bottle service.”

“Don’t think of it as bottle service,” he said, leaning closer, grin tugging. “Think of it as… espionage. With glitter.”

You buried your face in a pillow and groaned again. “I’m going to regret this.”

“Probably,” he said, utterly unbothered. Then, as he hopped back toward the window, he added, “Your shift starts at ten. Don’t be late. Oh, and—do your hair. Blend in.”

You sat up, scandalized. “Fuck you!”

But he was already halfway out the window, laughing under his breath.

Four hours later, you were sweating glitter, your back ached, and your feet felt like they were walking on broken glass. Despite the torture, you were kinda having a good time. You forgot how good it felt to make your rent in one night. 

The latest offender had been some sweaty guy in an untucked dress shirt who thought grabbing your waist meant you’d sit in his lap. You set the bottle on the table, smiled sweetly, and then smacked his hand away with the tray hard enough to rattle his drink.

“Touch me again and I’ll crack this Grey Goose over your fucking skull,” you hissed.

His friends howled; he blinked, dazed, then shoved a wad of cash at you.

You slid the bills into your bra without breaking eye contact. “Thanks for the tip, asshole.”

Back at the bar, one of the other bottle girls sidled up, eyeing the bulge of money at your chest.

“First night and you’re already rolling in it? Not bad.”

You shifted the tray to your hip with a shrug. “Apparently being mean pays better than smiling.”

She smirked. “Girl, in this place, men love it when you humiliate them. I’ve seen girls pay off student loans in a week with tips.”

“Well I’m not in debt but I did already make my more than half my rent.” you muttered, pulling a bill free and waving it.

Her eyes widened. “In four hours?”

You grinned, wicked. “Guess I should start charging extra for bruised egos.”

In your ear, Nightwing’s chuckle was low and smug. “Professional and mean. My favorite combo.”

“Shut up,” you whispered, plastering your smile back on as you moved toward the next table.

“You’re a natural, you know,” he went on, clearly enjoying himself. “I’ve been watching you rake in cash like it’s a sport. What’s the total now?”

You palmed another tip from a drunk who barely noticed, stuffing it into your bra. “Enough to make you jealous.”

“Cute. But remember, Brat—this isn’t about padding your rent. You’ve got a job to do.”

“Don’t worry,” you muttered, tray balanced against your hip. “I didn’t forget.”

And then you saw it.

Not the catcalls. Not the champagne showering over the dance floor. Something quieter. A corner booth where two men leaned close, voices low and hurried. One hand slid under the table. A baggie glinted under the strobe, quick and dirty, before it disappeared into a jacket pocket.

Bingo.

You angled toward them, pasted on your sweetest smile, and set your tray down just close enough to lean in. “Need any refills, gentlemen?”

They waved you off, distracted—but your tiny camera, clipped discreetly to the strap of your halter, caught everything.

“Beautiful,” Nightwing murmured roughly in your ear. “Just like that.”

Your breath caught, but you pushed through it, keeping your smile fixed as another stack of bills changed hands and the baggie vanished for good.

Twenty seconds, and the deal was sealed.

You straightened, tray balanced at your hip, pulse thudding harder than the bass. “Got it,” you whispered. “Tell your friends in blue it’s party time.”

“Already on it,” Nightwing said. His voice was steady, but you could hear the satisfaction threaded through it. “Hold tight, Brat. Showtime’s about to start.”

The bass rattled the walls, champagne fizzing across the air as sparklers hissed at half a dozen VIP tables. For half a breath, everything looked normal—then the double doors at the far end blew open with a crash that drowned out the beat.

The DJ kept spinning, too high or too stubborn to notice. But the crowd did.

Uniformed cops swarmed in, weapons drawn, voices booming over the music: “Down! Everyone get down!”

Panic spread faster than the strobe lights. Screams cut across the bass, glass shattered against the tile, tables flipped. A stampede surged toward the exits, heels snapping, bodies slamming into each other hard enough to bruise. Glitter sprayed the air like shrapnel.

You ducked behind a pillar, clutching the tray against your chest until you could ditch it on the floor. Your camera was still recording, red light steady.

“Nice work,” Nightwing’s voice cut sharp in your ear. “Now get out—front left exit.”

“Copy,” you hissed, forcing yourself into the crush.

The crowd shoved back instantly, pressing you in the wrong direction. Your sequined skirt rode higher as you fought against the tide, heels sliding on broken glass slicked with spilled vodka. Your ribs screamed under the corset; your lungs burned from the stench of sweat, perfume, and fear.

Then you slammed into something solid.

Your head snapped up into the scarred face under a tilted fedora, a wall of pinstriped muscle cutting through the chaos like a battering ram.

Lockjaw.

He barked something at his men, his voice lost under the screams, but his gaze snagged on you. For a second—half a second—you swore recognition flickered.

Cold swept your spine.

You yanked your corset higher, spun fast, and let a shrieking knot of party girls block his line of sight. Your tray clattered to the floor behind you, forgotten.

The sharp crack of gunfire split the air.

The crowd shrieked louder, bodies dropping low, tables toppling with deafening crashes. A gun lifted somewhere in the mess, muzzle flashing once, twice—lightning strobes of violence cutting through the neon haze.

“Shots fired,” Nightwing’s voice snapped, suddenly stripped of humor, all business. “Move, Brat. Now.”

You bolted, shoving hard through the stampede. Heart pounding so hard it drowned out the music. Someone elbowed your ribs, another heel dug into your foot, and still you pushed.

A second gunshot cracked, closer this time. Glass shattered overhead, raining down in jagged sparks. You flinched as shards stung your arms and shoulders, sparkling against your skin like fresh glitter.

Your lungs screamed. The heels betrayed you, slipping on liquor-slick tile, sending you crashing into strangers who shoved you forward without looking back.

You fought, teeth gritted, eyes locked on the glowing red EXIT sign.

Closer. Just a little closer—

The crowd surged again, bodies slamming you against the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of you. Someone screamed in your ear, someone else shoved past, and then you were free—bursting through the door with the force of the stampede behind you.

Cold air hit like a slap.

The alley stank of garbage and stale beer, steam hissing from a grate as people scattered in every direction. You staggered forward, one heel skidding on wet pavement, then braced yourself against the brick wall.

Your lungs burned. Your feet screamed. Your corset pinched so tight it felt like you were being squeezed from the inside outs.

But you were alive. And you had the proof.

Hands shaking, you dug out your cigarettes, lit one, and took a long drag until the tremor in your chest eased. The smoke curled white against the dark, almost beautiful in the dirty lamplight.

You tipped your head back against the brick, exhaling. Four hours in heels, five hundred bucks stuffed into your bra, Lockjaw’s eyes almost pinning you to the wall, gunfire behind you—

Yeah. You’d earned this cigarette.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Your stomach sank.

Two uniformed cops drifted out of the shadows, badges glinting under the sickly yellow light. Their eyes swept over your sequins, your bare legs, the cigarette between your fingers.

“You working tonight?” one asked, smug. “Solicitation’s still a crime.”

You took another drag, unimpressed. “Yeah, I’m working. Just helped bust a drug ring, in case you missed it.”

The second cop chuckled. “Cute. Let’s make sure.” His hand clamped on your arm and shoved you down.

Your palms scraped the wet pavement, cigarette skittering away. Rage shot up your spine.

Then a blur of blue dropped from above, hitting the ground hard enough to rattle the fire escape.

Nightwing.

The first cop hit the wall with a grunt, baton across his throat. The second had the air kicked out of him before he even realized what was happening. Two groans, and it was over.

You sat on the ground, palms stinging, heart hammering.

He turned, eyes catching on you—legs, sequins, hair loose in the lamplight—and froze for a beat too long. A flush rose quick across his cheeks, creeping to his ears before he dragged his gaze away, jaw tightening.

“You okay?” His voice was low, clipped, rougher than usual.

“I’m fine,” you said, brushing grit off your hands. “Pretty sure the floor lost that fight.”

He bent and offered his hand. You hesitated only a second before taking it. The strength in his grip pulled you up like you weighed nothing. For a beat, he held on longer than he needed to—thumb brushing your wrist—before he released you too fast, stepping back.

“Thanks for the save,” you said, catching your breath. “They were calling me a prostitute. Can you believe that?”

His ears burned hotter. “They’re idiots.” Short, sharp, nothing else.

You frowned. “That’s it? No lecture?”

He cleared his throat, already turning, cape shifting behind him. “Let’s go.”

You followed in silence, still confused by how clipped he sounded. You didn’t notice the way his face stayed flushed under the mask, ears red all the way to the tips. 

You were practically buzzing on the walk back. Adrenaline, nicotine, and the fact you’d just landed undeniable proof—it was the closest thing you’d had to a high in months.

Your heels clicked against the sidewalk as you lit another cigarette, blowing smoke up into the cold air. “Can you believe that? I got it. Clear as day—cash, product, the whole thing. My editor’s going to flip. I haven’t felt this alive since—God, I don’t even know.”

Beside you, Nightwing walked in silence, steps steady, shoulders rigid.

You grinned, flicking ash onto the pavement. “And hey, I made five hundred bucks on top of it. More than half my rent in four hours. Maybe you’re right—I missed my calling.”

His head tilted your way, eyes hidden behind the mask, but his ears were still flushed red. “You’re not doing it again.”

You laughed, high on victory and nicotine. “Oh, relax. I was amazing. You should’ve seen that guy’s face when I smacked his hand away. He still tipped me.”

“I did see it,” he muttered. “And you’re not doing it again.”

You exhaled a cloud of smoke, cocking your head. “What’s your deal tonight? You should be celebrating. We got proof, Lockjaw’s rattled, and I didn’t even break an ankle.”

He didn’t answer, gaze fixed ahead. The flush creeping up his neck betrayed him, but you were too wrapped up in your own buzz to notice.

Back at your apartment, the first thing you did was rip off your heels. Relief hit so hard you nearly groaned. You staggered to the couch and collapsed face-first into the cushions, muffling a long, pitiful sound that might’ve been mistaken for dying.

“Never again,” you muttered into the fabric. “I don’t care if the fate of the city depends on it. I’m never wearing heels again.”

Nightwing leaned against your kitchen counter, arms crossed, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “You survived four hours in stilettos and walked out with a wad of cash. Doesn’t sound like a bad night.”

You rolled onto your back, throwing an arm dramatically over your eyes. “You owe me hazard pay.”

“You already got it.”

“That’s just the flat rate,” you argued. “There should be a shots-fired up-charge.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. The sharp edges he carried into the alley were softer here, dulled by the glow of your lamps. For a second, he almost looked like he belonged in your living room—like he wasn’t a vigilante who’d just dropped two cops in an alley.

You peeked at him from under your arm, lips twitching. “Admit it. I killed it tonight.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to argue, but instead he sighed. “You pulled it off.”

Smug warmth spread through your chest. You sat up, kicked your legs onto the coffee table, and tugged a wad of crumpled bills from your bra. Tossing them onto the table, you grinned. “And I made five hundred bucks doing it. Tell me that’s not impressive.”

Nightwing’s gaze flicked to the pile of cash, then back to you. “You stole from drunk idiots.”

“I was tipped by drunk idiots,” you corrected sweetly. “Big difference.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Profitable,” you shot back, scooping the bills into a messy stack. “You realize I just paid half my rent in one night? I’m finally buying the good toilet paper.”

You leaned back against the cushions, fanning yourself with the wad of cash. “Not bad for one night’s work.”

Nightwing muttered something about “not worth the risk,” but he didn’t move when you stretched out. Your legs brushed his—barely—but close enough to notice the solid warmth of him at the other end of the couch.

The air between you seemed to change, heavier somehow. You chalked it up to the adrenaline finally wearing off, but it made your chest feel tight.

You could feel his eyes on you before you even looked. When you turned your head, ready to toss out another joke, you caught it—his gaze, a second too long, fixed on you. On the sequins glinting in the lamplight. On the bare skin the ridiculous outfit left exposed.

It made heat crawl up the back of your neck.

“What?” you asked, half a laugh in your throat, trying to cover the strange flip in your stomach.

He jerked his eyes away immediately, jaw clenching like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. His ears were red—obvious, impossible to miss.

You smiled and leaned closer to him, voice sing-song. “Aww, is the little bird embarrassed?”

“No,” he said quickly, leaning back just enough to put space between you. His gaze stayed fixed on the far wall. “I’m not embarrassed.”

You grinned wider, shifting closer anyway, chin propped in your hand. “Really? Because your ears are bright red. Are you sure you’re not embarrassed?”

“My ears aren’t red and I’m not embarrassed.,” he muttered, jaw tight.

You tilted your head, studying him like a puzzle, until your knee brushed his. “Then why won’t you look at me?

His whole body went stiff. He grabbed the shorts from the armchair and dropped them into your lap like you were contagious. “Change. Now.”

You blinked, then let out a laugh. 

He didn’t say anything else. Just crossed his arms and fixed his gaze firmly on the far wall, ears still blazing.

Rolling your eyes, you pushed yourself up and padded toward the bathroom. “Ugh, Fine. Don’t get your spandex in a twist.”

The door clicked shut behind you, and you leaned against it for a second, staring at your reflection in the cracked mirror. Glitter clung to your collarbones, your hair was wild, and the stupid halter had left angry red lines across your shoulders and collar bones.

You snorted at yourself, shaking your head. “Embarrassed. Sure. Probably just sick of looking at me.”

With that, you wriggled into the shorts , tugged the oversized shirt over your head, and sighed in relief at the soft cotton. Back to being normal.

Whatever was up with Nightwing, you didn’t want to crack that open tonight, you were to tired. He was being weird and that was nothing new.

Nightwing was stretched full-length across your couch like he owned the place. The TV was on, and he’d put on South Park again.

“This is my house,” you groaned, shuffling forward on sore feet. “You can’t just usurp my couch.”

He gave a small huff of laughter, almost quiet enough to miss. The tension in his shoulders had eased; his gaze flicked over you once, softer this time, before he looked away.

You eyed the couch, then the floor. No way were you sitting on hardwood when your feet already felt like they’d been through a woodchipper.

“You’re really gonna make me sit on the floor in my own apartment?” you asked, arms crossed.

Nightwing didn’t budge, still stretched out on his side like the couch had been custom-built for him.

“Move,” you said, nudging his shin with your knee.

With a long, theatrical sigh, he finally started shifting upright, dragging his legs out of the way.

That’s when you pounced. “Don’t put your shoes on the couch.”

He froze mid-motion, looked down at his boots, then back up at you with a scowl.

“I live under a tyrannical regime ,” he muttered, yanking them off and tossing them to the floor , he dropped back onto the couch and folded himself crisscross, right in the middle.

You glared. “Really? You’re gonna take the whole couch like that?”

“There’s still room,” he said smugly.

You wedged yourself into the narrow space anyway, your knees bumping his as you sat down.

“See?” he said, grin tugging. “Told you.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

Before you could settle, he leaned back, shifting his weight—and suddenly shoved one of his socked feet toward your face.

“Seriously?” you yelped, jerking back.

His grin widened. “What? You were staring. You could’ve just admitted you have a foot fetish.”

You swatted his ankle hard enough to make him laugh. “You are disgusting.”

He shoved his feet toward your face again, wiggling his toes obnoxiously.

You recoiled, throwing your hands up. “Oh my God. Are you five?”

“Six,” he shot back instantly, grinning like the menace he was.

He gave his toes one last triumphant wiggle before finally dropping his leg back down. The couch was cramped, leaving your knees pressed against his, the contact impossible to ignore.

You leaned your head back against the couch and sighed, settling in. “Oh, by the way,” you said casually, eyes starting to feel heavy, “I ran into Lockjaw.”

Nightwing went rigid. His whole body stilled, and when you cracked one eye open, his head had already whipped toward you.

You shrugged, eyes closing again. “In the club. Big scar, ugly fedora, whole mob-boss vibe. I practically bounced off him when the raid kicked off. He looked at me, but he didn’t recognize me.”

All the softness you’d managed to wring out of him since you got home vanished like smoke. His jaw flexed, voice sharp. “You should’ve told me the second it happened.”

“Meh. Relax.” You waved him off, hoodie sleeve falling over your hand. “I booked it before he got a super good look. I’m sure I looked like every other woman in that club. Glitter can be deceptive.”

“Not funny.” His scowl was audible, even without you looking.

You blew out a long breath and lolled your head to the side, finally cracking your eyes open. His face was closer than you expected, sharp lines under the glow of your lamp, the blue of his suit cutting against the soft shadow of your apartment.

“Look, I survived that outfit, those creeps, and I didn’t get shot. Can we just consider this a win and move on?”

“No,” he said flatly. His voice was sharper than it had been all night, all the softness stripped away. “Lockjaw doesn’t forget faces. If he saw you, even for a second—”

You cracked an eye open, head still tipped lazily against the couch cushion. His face was closer than you expected, eyes hard, mouth set in a grim line.

“You’re overreacting,” you said, half a yawn in your voice.

“I’m not,” he snapped back, and the steel under it made your stomach twist—not with fear, but with the sudden reminder of how serious he could be when the mask slipped into place.

You blew out a breath, closing your eye again. “Then I’ll just have to hope he’s more distracted by my goods than my face.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the TV’s tinny laughter and the faint scrape of his glove against the couch fabric as his hands flexed, restless. He didn’t move his leg away from yours, though. If anything, his knee pressed harder into yours, like he couldn’t let go of the point even if he couldn’t bring himself to keep arguing.

Finally, his shoulders eased. He dragged a hand down his face and muttered, softer this time, “Just… please don’t joke about it.”

You arched a brow. “That sounded dangerously close to concern.”

He leaned back, gaze sliding to the TV again. “Don’t get used to it.”

The edge in his voice had dulled, though, and the silence that followed wasn’t so sharp. The weight in the room shifted, softer, quieter, until you could almost forget the way he’d just bristled at Lockjaw’s name.

Your head tipped back against the cushion with a sigh. The adrenaline that had kept you buzzing since the club was finally ebbing, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. Your eyes drifted closed, too heavy to fight.

Beside you, he stayed still. But you felt it anyway—the solid warmth of him where his knee pressed into yours, steady and unshifting.

The TV droned on with tinny voices and crude humor. Your breathing slowed.

Somewhere in the haze between awake and asleep, you thought you heard him exhale, low and quiet, almost like a laugh. Or maybe a sigh.

By the time you forced one eye open again, he’d turned his head, studying you in the soft glow of the lamp. His mouth pressed into something not quite a smile, not quite a frown.

Your lids grew heavy again, too tired to hold the moment.

And when sleep pulled you under, his knee was still pressed against yours.

~~

Nightwing couldn’t bring himself to get up off the couch. Not when your leg was pressed against his. Not when your breathing had slowed and deepened, the tension that always sharpened your edges finally slipping away.

He let out a long breath. Tonight had been a whirlwind. He’d had a ball teasing you, sure—but keeping it together when those customers got handsy had been harder than he’d ever admit. And when shots rang out over the radio? When he saw those useless cops shove you down like you were nothing? He’d lost his cool before he could even think.

His cheeks burned as another memory crept in: you in that bottle girl uniform. He hadn’t realized handing it over was like signing his own death warrant. He’d told himself it was just strategy. Necessary. But when he saw you in the alley, covered in sequins and glitter and heels, and he’d barely been able to string words together.

Shifting, he studied you now in the dim glow of the lamp. The oversized shirt swallowed you whole. There was still makeup smudged around your eyes, blurring into the dark circles underneath. Without your usual glares and sharp retorts, you looked softer. Almost sweet. The stubborn flecks of glitter stuck in your hairline caught the light every time you shifted, like they refused to let you go.

Earlier, when you were all dressed up, he’d almost struggled to recognize you. Sure, you’d been a knockout—anyone with eyes would see that—but this version of you? In comfy clothes, clheek pressed into the couch cushion, breathing slow and even? He couldn’t stop thinking you looked better like this.

His hand moved before he could second-guess it. His hand moved before he could second-guess it. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, fingers catching on flecks of glitter that refused to let go. You shifted faintly in your sleep, but instead of pulling away, you moved closer, pressing into the space between you.

His chest clenched. 

He let his palm settle against your cheek, thumb tracing lightly across your skin. Warm. Softer than he had any right to notice. You sighed, tilting instinctively into the touch, and he felt a gnawing in his chest. 

His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone before slipping lower, ghosting over the curve of your lips. The faintest brush. He tugged lightly at your bottom lip, catching the barest glimpse of your teeth as you shifted against his hand.

And then he froze.

His heart thudded so hard it drowned out the TV. He jerked his hand back like he’d touched fire, dragging it over his own mouth as if he could erase the feeling.

What the hell was he doing?

He shot to his feet like the couch had burst into flames, pacing a few steps before realizing there was nowhere to put all the nervous energy buzzing under his skin. His hand still tingled, like your cheek had branded him.

Distance. He needed distance. Right now.

He turned toward the window, but froze when he caught sight of you curled up against the cushions, hoodie swallowing you, cheek mashed ungracefully into a pillow. A snore rattled out of you so loud it made him blink.

His lips twitched before he could stop it.

Still, he grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over you with the careful precision of someone diffusing a bomb. You sighed in your sleep and burrowed deeper into it, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like “French fries…”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Great. Now he was standing here, cheeks on fire, watching you dream about fast food.

Muttering under his breath, he backed toward the window. “You're an idiot.”

And yet… he made sure the blanket was tucked in at your side before he left.

His boots hit the fire escape with barely a sound, the night air cooling his overheated skin. He was just about to leap into the dark when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Dick answered on instinct. “Yeah?”

Jason’s voice crackled over the line, dry as ever. “Where are you? We were supposed to meet an hour ago.”

“I was with… someone. Just—someone,” Dick stammered, dragging a hand over his face. His eyes flicked back through the window at your sleeping form before he forced himself to look away.

There was a pause. Then Jason’s voice sharpened with amusement. “Uh-huh. And would this mysterious someone happen to be a woman?”

Dick groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “…No comment.”

Jason barked a laugh so loud Dick had to hold the phone away from his ear. “Well, hurry up Casanova. We’ve got work to do.” And then hung up. 

“Jackass.” Dick said shoving his phone back into his belt and vaulted into the night, but the ghost of your cheek against his palm clung stubbornly to him, following him all the way home.

~~

A few hours later, you stirred awake on the couch, groggy and disoriented. The TV was still buzzing faintly in the background, the lamp casting weak shadows across the room.

It took you a second to realize there was a blanket draped over you. You gathered it tighter, blinking at it like it might explain itself.

A quick scan of the room told you everything you already knew: Nightwing was gone.

It must’ve been the exhaustion, because a lump formed in your throat before you could stop it. He’d left.

You pushed yourself up, the blanket slipping from your shoulders as you shuffled toward your bedroom. You told yourself it was stupid to feel disappointed.

So why did it ache that he hadn’t stayed?

Chapter Text

The next day, you wrapped up a blurb your editor wanted for tomorrow’s front page. His exact words: “Give me a fun take on a drug bust.” How the hell a drug bust could be fun, you’d never know, but you managed to cobble something together. Direct involvement not included.

By late evening, you decided to reward yourself with a grocery run. Thanks to last night’s extra cash, you had a little wiggle room this month. A bougie trip. Real butter. Maybe even the fancy six-dollar pasta instead of the off-brand elbows. And toilet paper that didn’t feel like sandpaper against your ass. Dreams really did come true.

You grabbed your keys, a shlepped on your jacket and locked up your apartment, you started toward the closest store. That’s when your thoughts finally drifted back to Nightwing.

You hadn’t seen or heard from him since he left you on the couch last night, and you were still trying to figure out how you felt about it.

Normally, sleep was a battle—your mind kept you up until dawn replaying every awkward thing you’d ever done. But last night? You’d just… knocked out. Curled against him, his warmth seeping into your leg, the steady rise and fall of his chest lulling you out before you even realized it. You’d felt… safe.

And then he’d left.

Of course he had. He didn’t owe you anything. He wasn’t your babysitter. He had better things to do than hang around some stubborn journalist who didn’t listen. You told yourself not to get soft about it, not to read into anything. It meant absolutely nothing.

You repeated it twice on your walk, just to make sure it stuck.

It meant absolutely nothing.

So why did your chest ache like it did?

Lately it felt like your brain had been hijacked, every other thought circling back to him whether you wanted it to or not. Ever since that first run-in at the bar, he’d been living in your head rent-free. It was infuriating. You didn’t invite him in, didn’t ask for this. Yet here you were—constantly replaying every word he’d said, every twitch of his stupid eyebrows, every flash of white teeth under that damn mask. It was exhausting. It was humiliating. And worst of all, it wasn’t stopping.

He wasn’t helping either. He was a flirt—everyone knew that. The way he leaned too close, touched too long, and smiled like he meant it. You kept telling yourself it was just part of his act, the mask, the performance. He didn’t mean anything by it. Except your body apparently hadn’t gotten that memo, because it reacted every time like you were starring in some trashy romance novel.

By the time you made it to the store, you’d chewed your nails down to nubs.

Enough. You weren’t going to waste another second spiraling over him. Not tonight.

You shoved your earbuds in, pulled up your grocery list on your phone, and stalked off with your cart. If you focused hard enough on picking out produce and debating which overpriced pasta sauce was worth it, maybe—maybe—you could shove him out of your mind for five damn minutes.

Your plan seemed to have worked, because before you knew it, you were practically bouncing with impatience in the checkout line. Earlier you’d decided on your mama’s chicken and dumplins’—comfort food supreme—and the longer you thought about it, the stronger the craving gnawed at you.

Your basket was stacked with everything you needed, plus a few luxuries you couldn’t resist. Not only had you splurged on the good toilet paper, but you’d also tossed in bottles of new vanilla-scented shampoo and conditioner. You felt like maybe it could wash your thoughts of Nightwing. 

You loaded your haul onto the belt and paid. Finally following the path back to your home, when your phone rang. Unknown number. 

You frowned, wedging the phone between your shoulder and ear while you adjusted your grip on the bags. “Hello?”

“Whatcha doin’?”

Your steps slowed. You pulled the phone back to check the screen again—still unsaved—before bringing it back to your ear. “Um. Sorry, who is this?”

“You don’t even have my number saved?!” The voice rang out, dripping with betrayal.

Your stomach clenched. So much for getting him off your mind. “Oh. It’s you. What do you want?”

“Well, now I want to know why you don’t have my number saved.”

“Because I don’t like you.” A bald-faced lie.

He hummed like he didn’t buy it for a second. “We’ll circle back to that later. What are you doing tonight?”

“Why do you want to know?” Your cheeks heated—traitorous things.

“I got a tip from a buddy at the BPD,” he said, casually . “They’ve been cutting deals with the guys they pulled in during the raid. A few of them mentioned the docks—claimed it’s their supply hub. They want eyes on it. Photos of who’s coming and going. Maybe even ID the distributor. Interested?”

You blew out a slow breath. “I guess I can clear my schedule.”

“How generous of you. It’s not like you had plans anyway.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Sure, whatever you say, Brat. Meet me at ten sharp. I’ll text the address. Don’t be late.” And just like that, he hung up.

You checked the time: after nine. So much for chicken and dumplins’. Dinner would have to wait.

A second later your phone pinged.

Unknown number: 528 S Miller St. I’ll be on the roof. Text me when you’re close.

You: 🖕

~~~

A little less than an hour later, you were approaching the address Nightwing had sent you. The street was quiet and damp, tucked by the docks. The seawater was pungent, briny enough to sting your nose.

You stopped under a flickering streetlamp and pulled your phone from your pocket, shooting him a quick text to let him know you’d arrived.

While you were already scrolling, you fired off another text.

You: might die tonight 🤪

Homegirl 🌼: ???

You: going on a stakeout with Nightwing. Thought you’d wanna know.

Homegirl 🌼: have fun on your date pookie Homegirl 🌼: remember to use protection

Your cheeks flushed.

You: ew. please stop

Homegirl 🌼: sent link

Homegirl 🌼: Make sure you look at the pictures. YW <3

The link opened a news article. You skimmed the headline:

“Red Hood and Nightwing, Reunited.”

Red Hood? The guy who uses guns in Gotham? Why would he be hanging around Blüdhaven?

You scrolled through the article, speed-reading past the boring parts. Something something, intense battle with a metahuman… yadda yadda, almost lost the fight, blah blah, triumphant victory, hooray justice.

Then you hit the photos—

—and your brain malfunctioned. 

The first shot was Nightwing mid-combat, teeth bared in a wild grin, stained pink with blood. His suit was shredded in places, small and long lacerations striping his chest and ribs where the blood had smeared. His hair clung damp to his forehead, slicked back with sweat.

The second shot was his partner: a man in a battered leather jacket, face hidden behind a glossy red helmet. Straps of weapons and ammo crisscrossed his frame, clinging to thick thighs that looked like they could snap steel. You wouldn’t call Nightwing short—he only had you by an inch or two—but next to this guy? Nightwing looked downright compact. The stranger had to be at least six-four, all shoulders and muscle.

The camera caught Nightwing with his back turned. His back looked like it had been carved by Michelangelo himself—broad shoulders tapering into a trim waist, every muscle shifting in crisp, impossible definition as he did something as simple as resting his hands on his hips. The curve and dip of his spine was the kind of thing artists wept over.

You didn’t even think you were a back girlie, but apparently life was all about learning new things.

The third photo nearly gave you a nosebleed. Nightwing was caught mid-laugh, clutching his chest. Something about the image—him smiling so genuinely, looking like he was actually having fun, with blood still smeared all over—made your face burn. You turned the screen away and slapped a hand over your face, breathing like you’d just run a marathon.

Holy shit, you thought. This is porn.

Naturally, you opened the phone back up two seconds later and quickly saved the shots. You were halfway through zooming in on his blood-stained grin when someone cleared their throat.

You froze, whipping your head around, fully expecting to see Nightwing lurking behind you. Nothing.

Your eyes darted across the shadows anyway, paranoid. Still nothing.

You were about to unlock your phone again when you heard it again—the distinct sound of someone clearing their throat.

Your head snapped up.

And there he was. Crouched casually on the top of the streetlight above you like some kind of freaky gargoyle.

Your undefined yelp rang out along the abandoned street and your phone nearly slipped from your hand as you staggered back, heart hammering.

“Jesus Christ!” you gasped, clutching your chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you do that?”

Nightwing tilted his head, one eyebrow arched, clearly enjoying this. “‘Cause it’s fun.”

Then, because apparently he couldn’t just walk, he flipped dramatically off the lamppost, landing gracefully less than a foot in front of you.

The light caught his face, throwing sharp angles across his jaw. A fresh cut traced along his cheekbone, thin but angry red. Your gaze dipped lower—and stalled.

Gone were the fingerless gloves, the scuffed boots, the same old spandex you’d already memorized against your better judgment. In their place was something different—sleeker, sharper, and somehow even more unfair.

The blue bird still stretched bold across his chest, but this time it didn’t stop at his shoulders. The design swept wider, wrapping over the full breadth of them, like the suit had been engineered to frame just how broad he really was. The lines tapered into crisp stripes that cut cleanly down his arms, slicing through the black until they reached his gloves.

And those gloves—God help you. No more fingerless half-assery. Now the blue carried on down to his middle and ring fingers, sharp and deliberate, making his hands look lethal and elegant all at once. Like even the smallest gesture could be dangerous. Like the suit had been designed to draw your attention exactly there.

Your eyes dropped lower, and the details just kept piling on. Seamless black running over his torso and enveloped his long legs, sculpting around muscle like it had been poured onto him. The boots cleaner, tighter, finishing the silhouette with brutal precision.

Your throat went dry.

Thankfully, your phone buzzed in your hand, saving you from gawking any longer than you already had.

Homegirl 🌼: did I kill you?

You: shut up

She immediately sent back a string of kissy emojis.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and shoved your phone into your pocket.

When you looked back, Nightwing still hadn’t moved. He stood exactly where he’d landed, balanced and effortless, just… studying you.

“You still have glitter in your hair,” he said, voice low.

You huffed, flicking your fingers through your hair like you could shake it loose. “Yeah, well, that shit sticks to everything. It’s gonna take me forever to get it out.”

Then you turned further down the street, scanning the shadows like the comment hadn’t meant anything.

Behind you, he lingered, mask tilted just slightly your way.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” he called out.

“You gave me the address,” you shot back, gesturing loosely toward the alley. “I’m going to find the way up.”

He let out an amused huff, while making his way to you. “You can’t get up that way. There’s no fire escape.”

“Okay, so… what? We’re breaking in and taking the stairs?”

“Nope.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then how am I supposed to get up there? Fly?”

“Nah. I’ll take you up.”

“What?” Your voice went flat.

“I’ll give you a lift.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I literally just said I would.”

“There’s literally no way you’re taking me up.” You spun on your heel. “I’ll just go home.”

That’s when he grabbed you—an arm cinching tight around your middle from behind before you could even finish turning away.

“Hey—!” you yelped, legs kicking as your feet left the ground.

He didn’t flinch. His chest pressed solid against your back, the hard lines of muscle unmistakable through the thin stretch of his new suit. Heat radiated off him in waves, the faint scent of leather and smoke clinging to the night air around you. One smooth motion, and his grapple line fired with a sharp thwip, yanking you both skyward.

The alley dropped away beneath you, your stomach lurching as the city spun in a blur of steel and shadow. Every shift of his body was impossible to ignore—his grip locking you in place, the flex of his arm across your ribs, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your spine.

You clutched at his forearm on instinct, nails digging into the reinforced fabric. “AHHHH-”

“Chill,” Nightwing drawled in your ear, perfectly calm as he swung you up like this was a Sunday stroll. “You’re as light as a feather.”

“Put me down!”

He only laughed, momentum carrying you both higher until your feet hit solid rooftop again. He set you down without even breaking stride, while you were still trying to remember how breathing worked.

“Never do that again,” you gasped, bent over with your hands braced on your knees.

His laugh rang out, loud and unbothered. The absolute gall.

“Come on,” he said, already strolling off. “I found the perfect vantage point.”

Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he crossed to the far edge of the roof, the side facing the docks. He dropped easily onto the ledge, perched like it was second nature, and turned to look at you.

You stopped several feet short. The building loomed over the street below, the dizzying drop making your stomach twist.

“Have I ever mentioned that heights aren’t really my thing?” you muttered.

Nightwing grinned at you, all teeth and mockery. “Really? You’re fine with getting shot at, but this is where you draw the line?”

“I’m not fine with getting shot at. I just prefer my snooping to stay on the ground, thank you very much.”

His grin tugged wider for a second, then eased into something gentler. “Fair enough.”

He held a hand out to you, steady and sure in the glow of the streetlights. “Come on. I’ll make sure you don’t fall.”

You stared at it like it was a trick. Your palms were already clammy, your pulse a hammer in your ears. Heights you could handle at a distance—but sitting on the edge of one? That was different.

“I… I don’t know,” you muttered, fingers twitching uselessly at your sides.

“Hey.” His voice was calm, annoyingly steady. “I’ve got you.”

You swallowed hard, then—before you could talk yourself out of it—slid your trembling hand into his. His grip closed warm and unshakable around yours, pulling you forward until you were lowering yourself onto the ledge right beside him, knees touching and  dangling over open air.

Your stomach swooped violently, the dizzying drop below clawing at your nerves. You realized you were crushing his hand in a death grip, knuckles white against his glove.

Nightwing glanced at your death grip, then at you, amusement flickering in his eyes. 

Suddenly, after a beat: “So tell me—why didn’t you save my number?”

You whipped your head toward him, incredulous. “Are you seriously bringing this up right now?”

“Of course I am,” he said, perfectly unfazed. “No time like the present. Do you know how hurtful it is, waiting by the phone for a meme that never comes?”

You blinked at him, unimpressed.

“And then today,” he went on, hand still steady in yours, “I find out you don’t even have my number saved. The ultimate betrayal. I thought we were friends.”

You snorted. “Friends don’t stalk each other across rooftops.”

His grin widened. “Sure they do. The good ones.”

You rolled your eyes, heat still prickling under your skin. “Fine. I’ll save your stupid number. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” he said without missing a beat, smugness radiating off him. “And send me something funny while you’re at.”

You tore your hand out of his, fingers suddenly clumsy as you fumbled your phone from your pocket. The screen glow lit your face while you scrolled to his unsaved number.

Nightwing leaned just close enough to peek, mask glinting in the dark. “Careful what you put me under,” he said lightly. “This is a big moment.”

Your lips curled into a wicked grin as you typed. A second later, you turned the screen so he could see.

Contact saved as: Bird Boy 

“… Really?”

“Consider it a promotion.” you said sweetly,but the second the gallery popped up, your stomach plummeted. Front and center were the photos you’d saved earlier—the bloody grin, the sculpted back, the kind of thing no sane person should have on their phone.

Your thumb flew across the screen, scrolling up in a blind panic. Too late.

“Was that… me?” Nightwing asked, leaning in just enough to catch a flash of blue and black before you could hide it.

“Nope!” you blurted, practically jamming the phone against your chest. “Absolutely not.”

His brows lifted behind the mask, his mouth twitching. “Looked like me.”

“It wasn’t. You’re hallucinating.”

“Sure.” His grin spread slow and infuriating. “Whatever you say.”

You hurried and settled on the “when the problem asks you what the problem is” meme. A classic. 

Next to you his phone dinged, he pulled it out of who know where and unlocked it. 

You moved closer to him so you could peer over his shoulder to see your contact name. 

Brat 🤠 

Your jaw dropped. “The cowboy emoji? Are you serious?”

Nightwing didn’t even flinch. “Felt appropriate.”

You gawked at him. “Appropriate how?!”

He bit back a laugh, eyes glinting under the mask. “You’ve got the accent. Figured the hat suited you.”

Your mouth fell open. “You cannot just stereotype me with an emoji.”

“Sure I can,” he said easily. “I just did.”

He typed something on his phone, before shoving it into some hidden pocket. 

Your phone vibrated in your pocket. You shot him a look and pulled it out again. 

Bird boy: sent a photo. 

It was a photo of you from the night he’d bought you Chinese food. You were mid bite, mouth open wide, ready to take a bough chunk of the eggroll you had been scarfing down.

“Delete that right now!”

He leaned back, clearly delighted. “Are you kidding? This is art.”

“How did you even get that, you creep?!”

“A magician never reveals his secrets.” he said smoothly, tucking his phone away with a flourish.

You opened your mouth to argue, but the low rumble of an engine cut you off.

Both your heads turned toward the sound.

A van crept into the alley below, headlights off, tires squeaking softly. It rolled to a stop beside the docks, the doors swinging open with a metallic groan.

Nightwing’s grin vanished, replaced instantly by sharp focus.

“Stop fooling around,” he murmured, eyes locked on the alley below. “It’s showtime.”

You clamped your mouth shut, the last retort dying on your tongue. Following his lead, you settled beside him on the ledge. For the first half hour, you both sat in silence, eyes trained on the van parked below. Figures moved in and out of the shadows, but nothing about them screamed criminal empire.

Another twenty minutes crawled by. A dockworker strolled past, whistling off-key, and flicked a cigarette into the water. Ten minutes later, two guys hauled crates out of a storage unit and argued loudly about sports. Someone even stopped to feed a stray cat that strutted along the edge of the pier like it owned the place.

You shifted, your legs prickling from sitting still so long. “So… this is it? This is the big criminal underworld in action?”

“Patience,” Nightwing muttered, still locked in place like a statue.

“Right. Because watching some guy complain about his fantasy football team is really gonna crack this case wide open.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t look away from the docks. “Good things come to those who wait.”

You snorted, crossing your arms. “Yeah, well, if we’re here much longer, I’m ordering pizza to the rooftop.”

~~~

The hours dragged on. You only occasionally spoke with Nightwing, between a comfortable silence with him. 

You watched dockworkers cycle in and out, men unloading crates, a stray cat making three separate rounds to beg scraps off different crews. Even the arguments stayed boring—sports, beer prices, somebody’s lousy brother-in-law.

By the fifth hour your butt was numb, your spine hated you, and you were pretty sure you’d memorized every squeak of the ships rocking in the harbor.

You cast a sidelong glance at Nightwing. He hadn’t budged an inch, sitting perfect still, eyes fixed on the alley like something had to happen.

Nothing did.

By the wee hours of the morning, the van finally pulled out of the alley—empty-handed, quiet as it had arrived.

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s it? That’s our big night of vigilante espionage? Absolutely nothing?”

Nightwing stretched, grunting when his vertebrae popped like bubble wrap after six hours of being a statue. Then he smirked.

“Welcome to stakeouts.”

“You owe me coffee,” you snapped. “And six hours of my life back.”

He only grinned wider, maddeningly unbothered. “Tell you what—how about I compromise and get you off this roof?”

You leveled him with a flat look. “You were going to do that anyway.”

He tilted his head, faux-innocent. “Was I?”

“Don’t play coy.”

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I was going to do that anyway. But as a bonus, I’ll walk you home.”

You arched a brow, unimpressed.

He groaned, throwing his hands up. “Okay, okay. Coffee. I’ll buy you coffee.”

“That’s the least you can do,” you muttered, arms crossed tight.

“Don’t be like that,” Nightwing said, still maddeningly relaxed. “Stakeouts take time. We just have to be patient and wait.”

“Patience isn’t one of my virtues.”

His lips tugged into that insufferable grin again. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Before you could snap back, he was already on his feet, offering you a hand. “Come on. We can try again tomorrow.”

You groaned, sliding your hand into his. He steadied you as you swung your legs over the side of the building, countering your weight with practiced ease. Your body protested the movement, legs and back stiff after hours hunched on the ledge.

You twisted at the waist until your spine cracked in relief, then shuffled after him toward the side of the roof facing the street.

He moved to the very edge of the building, boots balanced like it was solid ground. Before you could ask how he planned on getting you down, his hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. With one sharp pull, he hauled you up beside him—straight into his chest.

You stumbled, palms landing against the hard plane of his suit. Suddenly you were flush with him, his arm firm around your waist to keep you steady. Heat radiated off him, his heartbeat steady against your ribs while yours went wild. The city yawning open below barely registered—your brain short-circuited on the feel of him: heat, muscle, the faint scratch of kevlar under your palms where you’d caught yourself. 

“Ready?” he asked, voice low by your ear.

“What?” The word came out dazed and breathless; you were so distracted by him you didn’t even know what you were supposed to be ready for.

He glanced down at you, the corner of his mouth quirking. “To jump.”

Your stomach lurched. “Jump—?”

But before you could finish, the grapple line hissed and the world dropped away beneath your feet.

You screamed bloody murder, instincts taking over as you wrapped yourself around him like your life depended on it. Legs cinched tight around his waist, arms choking his neck, you clung to him like a backpack possessed.

He burst out laughing—laughing—while the two of you swung out over the empty street.

“Relax!” he managed between chuckles. “You’re fine!”

“I HATE YOU!” you screeched in his ear.

“You say that,” he called back, grinning wildly, “but you’re not letting go.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE NO CHOICE!” you shrieked, right in his ear. 

He winced at the volume but only laughed harder, swinging you both through the air like it was the easiest thing in the world.

His boots hit the pavement in a perfect landing, smooth and controlled. You stayed stuck to him a moment too long, clinging like your body hadn’t gotten the memo that the ride was over.

When it finally hit you, you pushed off fast, nearly tripping as you put space between you. You smoothed your shirt like nothing had happened, even though your pulse was still jackhammering.

“Stop doing that.” you snapped, trying for sharp but coming out a little breathless.

He straightened, brushing at the spot on his shoulder where your arms had been locked tight. His grin was pure smugness. “Funny. You didn’t seem too eager to let go.”

Heat flared up your neck. “That was pure survival instinct. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Mm.” His smirk deepened. “Survival instinct. Got it.”

You let out a frustrated sound and stormed off down the alley, streetlight flickering. 

Behind you, his laugh echoed, positively amused. 

He quickly caught up, falling into step with you easily. “Cmon, Don’t pout. I was only teasing.” 

He bumped his shoulder into yours—not hard, but enough to send you off balance. You turned, ready to bite, and found him grinning.

“I’m not pouting,” you said, shoving him back.

“Oh?” His voice dipped low, amused. “Then what would you call it?”

You held his gaze. “Ignoring you. Because you’re fucking annoying.”

“Mm.” His smile widened. “You’re not doing a very good job.”

You huffed and kept walking, pretending you didn’t hear the laugh he was holding back.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the soft splash of your boots in shallow puddles and the hum of a flickering streetlight overhead. The air smelled faintly of ozone and wet asphalt.

He walked close enough that you could feel the brush of his arm every now and then—accidental, maybe. Or maybe not.

The silence wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it wasn’t bad either. Just… strange. Like you were both waiting to see who’d break it first.

When your building came into view, neither of you had said a word in blocks.

He stopped on the sidewalk, looking up at the crooked fire escape that led to your window. “Home sweet home.”

You snorted. “More like slum sweet slum.”

A beat. Then, a faint grin. “See you tomorrow?”

You rolled your eyes, but it came out softer than you meant. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

He gave a little two-finger salute and melted back into the shadows.

Once you made it inside, you immediately peeled off your jacket and shoes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. You were halfway to face-planting onto the couch when you caught sight of your cigarettes sitting on the coffee table—right where you’d left them hours ago.

You blinked.

You hadn’t even thought about them. Not once.

You’d been with Nightwing for almost a full business day and hadn’t felt so much as an itch for a smoke.

The thought made you pause, a faint groan slipping out as you flopped onto the couch.

Fantastic. He was buried so deep in the folds of your brain he was starting to mess with your vices now. 

~~

The next evening, you decided to make good on your promise of dinner before heading out for the stakeout with Nightwing.

You had just finished plopping the dough and chicken into the broth, when a sharp knock echoed from your window.

You froze, pulse ticking once before you sighed and turned toward the sound. Sure enough—there he was, perched on the fire escape like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You stomped over and unlatched the window. “You know,” you said dryly, “most people knock on doors.”

“I like to keep you guessing,” he shot back, grinning as he swung one leg inside.

You just scoffed and stepped aside as he dropped into your apartment with unfair, catlike ease.

He glanced around, nose twitching. “You’re cooking?”

You turned back to the stove, pretending the warmth on your neck was from the burners. “Yeah, shocking, I know. I decided I wanted something that didn’t come out of a to-go box for once.”

Shuffling into the kitchen, he leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “What are you even making?”

“Chicken and dumplins’.”

He blinked. “Chicken and what now?”

“Dumplins’,” you repeated.

“That’s not a real thing. It sounds made up.”

He edged closer to the stove, peering into the pot that currently held the creamy base for the soup.

You groaned. “It’s not made up just because you’ve never heard of it.”

“Then explain it to me,” he said, lips twitching. “Enlighten the poor city boy.”

You turned to face him fully, spoon in hand. “It’s something I grew up eating. It’s chicken. And dumplins’. Little balls of seasoned dough that cook right in the pot with the broth—it gets thick, creamy, comforting. And it doesn’t come in a tinfoil wrapper, you uncultured swine.”

He snorted. “Sounds like a lot of carbs.”

You shrugged. “It is. But at least it’s not deep-fried and covered in gravy.”

Placing the lid on the pot, you said, “Now we wait,” wiping your hands on a dish towel.

He hummed, leaning back against the counter. “I’m bad at that.”

You scoffed. “What happened to ‘patience is a virtue’?”

He waved you off. “That’s only for stakeouts. Not when I’m starving.”

“Your greed sickens me.”

He laughed, the sound low and easy, settling somewhere between the hum of the stove and the soft crackle of simmering broth.

Dinner didn’t take long after that. You ate straight from mismatched bowls, leaning against opposite counters. It wasn’t fancy, but it was easy—easier than it should’ve been.

~~~

By the time you reach the rooftops that lined the docks, the street had a heavy silence that only fell when everyone with good intentions went home for the night. The air smelled like brine and diesel, the cold air bit harshly at your cheeks. You fiddled with the strap of your camera, and you peered at the rooftops from the alley below. 

You were calculating which rusty pipe you could shimmy up without dying, when a head peered from the stories above.

“Don’t even think about it.” Nightwing called down, voice carrying easy on the cold air.

You squinted up at him. “Are you sure there aren’t any stairs?”

He shook his head, already dropping into a low crouch on the lip of the roof. “Like I said the other twenty times you asked. No. I checked. Multiple times.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he’d already fired a line. The grapple thunked into the wall above and, before you could bolt, he was on the ground in front of you—close, warm, pleased with himself. 

“Shortcut.”

“No.” You took a strategic step back. “Last time you took me on a ‘shortcut,’ I almost peed my pants.”

He grinned like that was the highlight of his week and stepped closer, closing the little bit of space you’d tried to put between you. “No point in arguing. We’re going up—kicking and screaming optional.”

Before you could tell him exactly where to shove his shortcut, his arm slid around your waist and pulled you flush against him.

“Promise I won’t drop you.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

He leaned in, the blue of his emblem catching the alley’s weak light. “I promise I like you better alive.”

It was stupid that worked on you.

You barely had time to exhale before the grapple hissed, and the ground disappeared beneath you. Wind whipped your hair back, the alley shrinking in a blur of brick and shadow. His arm tightened around you, steady and unshakable, every shift of muscle controlled and effortless.

You clamped a hand over his chest, fingers digging into the armor. “Oh my God—fuck this!”

“Relax,” he called over the rush of air, laughing. “This is fun!”

“You and I have very different definitions of fun!”

His laughter vibrated against your ribs, maddeningly light. “You just need to quit being a spaz.”

“Put me down!”

His grin turned positively wicked. “Alright.”

The grip around your waist loosened, and for a horrifying half second, you dropped.

You screamed, grabbing at him like your life depended on it. “NO! No! Don’t put me down! Don’t put me down!”

He was laughing so hard you could feel it through his chest. “See? You are having fun.”

“Nightwing, I swear to God—!”

He cackled, adjusting his grip again, solid and secure as the grapple line reeled you both onto the rooftop. He landed soft as a cat, setting you on your feet before you could fully process verticality again.

You immediately smacked him. Repeatedly. “You’re such a fucking asshole! I can’t believe you!”

“Ow! Dang—okay, you hit hard!” He threw his hands up in surrender, grin still unstoppable. “Stop! Uncle!”

“I would have never dropped you,” he said between laughs, his tone softening just enough to catch you off guard. “And if you did fall, I’d catch you.”

Muttering under your breath about the various ways you were going to desecrate his stupid, perfect body, you stomped over to the side of the roof facing the alley and dropped into your spot from the night before. Too irritated to even care about the yawning drop below, you glared out over the docks like you could will something illegal to happen.

Nightwing followed, still wearing that smug little half-smile, and sat beside you like this was a perfectly normal midnight stroll.

You didn’t look at him. You refused to. The only sound for a while was the wind skimming over the rooftop and the distant clang of metal from the pier.

The silence dragged. Nothing moved below.

“Still mad?” he asked quietly.

You shot him a look. “I’ll kill you.”

“Oh-Kay.” He breathed out. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

After a beat he nudged your shoulder with his. “I’m sorry I scared you.” He muttered sheepishly.

“Save your apologizes. I’ll get my revenge.“

His eyebrows rose. “Did you just threaten me?”

You smiled coldly. “Yes.”

He blinked, then grinned. “Should I be worried?”

“Terrified,” you said flatly, focusing the camera on nothing.

That earned a quiet laugh—the kind that vibrated under your skin more than you wanted it to. You focused on the docks instead, pretending the sound didn’t do something to your pulse.

The rest of the night dragged by in silence. Every creak of the pier made you twitch. Every gust of wind reminded you how dumb this job was. You kept your lens trained on nothing, partly out of duty, mostly out of spite.

Eventually, you felt his shoulder brush yours—barely there, like an accident. You didn’t move. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

Time crawled. The city yawned around you—distant sirens, the hiss of tires somewhere blocks away, the endless lapping of water below. Nothing happened. Not a single van, not a whisper of movement.

You checked your watch, scowling. “We’ve been up here for six hours.”

“Six and a half,” Nightwing corrected, maddeningly calm.

You dropped your hands from the camera. “Fantastic. A new record for wasted time.”

He stretched, vertebrae cracking in a long roll of motion. “Alright, let’s call it.”

“Finally.” You groaned, pushing stiffly to your feet. “I can’t feel my ass.”

“The price of greatness,” he said lightly, standing beside you.

You squinted at him. “You’re enjoying my discomfort.” 

“Maybe a little.” His grin was unrepentant.  “Ready to head down?”

You eyed the edge of the building. The ground was a long way down.

“This is getting old, fast,” you sighed.

Behind you, Nightwing chuckled. “What, the rooftop view or the part where I have to carry you down?”

You shot him a scathing look, “Both.”

He sighed and stepped up onto the edge of the roof. “I should make you ask me to take you down. You know—like you sincerely mean it.”

“I’d rather jump.”

He crouched, putting himself at eye level with you, grin cutting through the dark. “I mean, I am doing you a favor. The least you could do is ask nicely.”

You gritted your teeth. “No.”

He smiled like he’d been waiting for that answer and gave your shoulder a light shove. “Fine. I’ll just leave you up here to freeze.”

You didn’t even think about it—you shoved him back, harder.

It happened fast—his balance tipped, his eyes went wide for half a second, and then—

“Nightwing!”

He vanished over the ledge.

Your stomach dropped clean out of your body. “Oh my god—oh my god—”

You scrambled to the edge, knees slamming against the wall as you leaned over, searching the dark below. The streetlights swam in your vision. “Nightwing!” you shouted again, voice breaking.

No answer. Just the rush of wind and the dull roar of blood in your ears.

You swallowed hard, a shaky breath catching in your throat. Oh my god—I just killed Nightwing, you thought, panic spiking hot in your chest.

“Miss me?”

You yelped, spinning around so fast your knee nearly buckled.

Nightwing was behind you—upside down—balanced on his hands like it was completely normal.

“WHAT THE—” You clutched your chest. “I thought you died!”

He kicked up onto his feet in one smooth motion, landing light as air. “Please. It’d take more than that to kill me.”

“You’re such a jackass!” you shouted, smacking his arm. “I was about to call— I don’t even know who! The police? Batman?”

He laughed, the sound bright and utterly unapologetic. “Aw, you were worried about me.”

“I thought I committed a felony,” you snapped. “There’s a difference.”

“Mm-hmm.” His grin widened. “I’m flattered, regardless.”

You glared. “Just get me down before I actually kill you.”

You were too pissed to get flustered when he grabbed you around the waist. You refused to make a sound on the way down—no screaming, no gasping, not even a grunt. Just pure, silent rage.

The line hissed, wind whipping through your hair as the city tilted beneath you. His arm stayed firm and steady across your middle, the movement so smooth it made you angrier. By the time your boots hit the pavement, your jaw ached from how hard you’d been clenching it.

He landed beside you like it was nothing, infuriatingly graceful.

You couldn’t help it—your intrusive thoughts won, and you punched him square in the chest.

He let out a startled grunt, stumbling back half a step. “Ow! What the hell was that for?”

“For fucking with me all night.” You seethed. 

He rubbed at the spot you’d hit, a grin creeping back onto his face. “You’ve got a mean right hook, you know that?”

“Next time I’ll aim for your face.” You said flatly, stomping off down the street. 

You’d barely made it half a block before his voice called after you. “Hey—hold up!”

You turned, arms crossed, glared steady. “What now?”

He jogged to catch up, “Relax, I’m not here to start round two. I’ve got somewhere to be.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What, off to terrorize another innocent civilian?”

He smirked. “Family thing. Meeting up with one of my brothers.”

That caught you off guard. “Oh.” You blinked, surprised he’d even mentioned it. “Didn’t think you’d be the family-dinner type.”

“Dinner, no,” he said, voice light. “But he’s hard to ignore.”

You snorted. “Must run in the family.” 

He laughed softly, already backing toward the alley. “Try not to get into trouble while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” you muttered.

He grinned wider, giving a lazy two-finger salute. “See you tomorrow, Brat.”

Before you could roll your eyes, the grapple hissed and he was gone—swallowed by the dark like he always was.

You stood there for a moment, the echo of his laughter still buzzing in the air, before shaking your head. “What the hell am I doing?” you muttered, and started home.

~~

Dinner. Rooftop. Silence. Repeat.

It had started as a fluke, but somewhere between late-night stakeouts and shared takeout containers, it turned into a routine. He showed up. You argued over nothing. Then you both sat on the same stretch of concrete for hours, waiting for something illegal to happen.

It was becoming… normal.

He didn’t bother waiting for you to open the window anymore; you didn’t bother pretending to be annoyed when he climbed through. Sometimes he brought takeout, sometimes empty handed, prepared to raid your meager rations, but always wearing that smug grin. Either way, he had left a permanent crease in your couch.

The silence between you had changed, too. It wasn’t charged or competitive anymore—it was… companionable. Familiar. The kind of quiet that happened when you didn’t need to fill it.

“Y’know,” he said one night as he dropped onto the ledge beside you, “we’re basically best friends at this point.”

You snorted without looking up from your camera. “Wow. That’s sad for you.”

He grinned, leaning back on his palms. “Don’t act like I’m not your favorite person in Blüdhaven.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, too. “You’re the only person I know in Blüdhaven.”

“Exactly,” he said, smirking. “I’m winning by default.”

You huffed a small laugh. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“It does, actually.”

For the next several nights, it was more of the same—comfortably boring. You’d sit side by side for hours, listening to the hum of the city and the slap of water against the docks. Every time you thought about skipping, you didn’t. Neither did he.

It wasn’t much of a life, but for a week straight, it was yours.

Tonight wasn’t any different—until it was.

~~

It started with Nightwing pacing restlessly across the rooftop, all coiled muscle and pent-up energy, like a caged panther.

“You’re gonna wear out your shoes,” you said, not looking away from the dockworkers you were watching through your lens.

“I’m bored,” he announced, stopping near the ledge. “We’ve been staring at the same patch of nothing for a week.”

“What happened to patience?” you asked dryly. “Stakeouts take time, blah blah blah.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a man of action,” he said, turning toward the next row of warehouses. “We should switch it up.”

You frowned. “Switch what up?”

“The view,” he said, gesturing like it was obvious. “I vote we move rooftops and find something else to look at. Before I die of boredom.”

You sighed heavily. “Okay.”

He blinked, surprised. “That was easy.”

“Believe it or not, I’m also tired of staring at the same thing every night,” you said, reaching out when he offered his hand.

His grip was warm and steady, his grin downright smug. “Great minds think alike.”

“Sure, if that’s what you wanna call us.” You deadpanned. 

You followed him across the ledge and over the narrow gap between buildings, your heart hammering harder than you wanted to admit. The jump wasn’t big—he’d cleared it like it was nothing—but the sight of the street yawning open below made your stomach twist.

“Eyes up,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t look down.”

“I wasn’t,” you lied, landing hard enough that your knees ached.

He steadied you with one hand, smirk tugging at his lips. “You sure?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, brushing past him before he could say anything else.

The new rooftop stretched out in cracked tar and puddles of rainwater. He was already scouting the next jump before you’d even caught your breath.

“You know,” you said, hands on your hips, “some of us aren’t built for parkour.”

He turned, walking backward with that infuriating grin. “You’re doing great! Very graceful” He called.

You scoffed, and tried not to trip on your own feet as you followed him to the next edge. “Graceful? You watched me trip two seconds ago.”

He smiled, already leaping to the next building. “Progress. Not perfection.”

You stared down at the alley between rooftops—far, far down—and exhaled a long, shaky breath. “Progress, my ass,” you muttered, before forcing yourself to jump.

He caught your arm as you landed, steadying you easily.

“See? You’re getting better at this.” he said.

“I don’t think so.” you replied, voice tight gripping his forearm hard.

He grinned. “You’ll get used to it.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t move your hand. “Don’t bet on it.”

By the third building, your nerves had mostly settled into a dull buzz—manageable, if you didn’t look down. The docks stretched out beneath you, dark water shimmering in the distance.

“See?” he said, pacing near the ledge, hands moving as he talked. “Totally worth it. New scenery, a chance to stretch our legs. You can go ahead and say thank you.”

“Ask again when I’m on solid ground.”

He was walking backward on the thin roof of the warehouse, smirking at you. “You can just admit that I had a good idea. It won’t kill you.”

“It might.”

He grinned wider. “You say that, but—”

The roof gave a sharp, splintering crack.

There was a blur of blue and black, a very undignified “SHIT—!” and then a THUD from the floor below. He disappeared in a burst of dust and a half-swallowed yell, the sound echoing off the alley below.

“Nightwing!” you gasped, sprinting forward. You skidded to your knees beside the hole, coughing through the haze of grit and debris. “Oh my god—are you dead? Please don’t actually be dead this time!”

A groan drifted up from below. “I’m okay.”

The dust cleared, and you leaned over the edge. Nightwing was sprawled on his back, half-buried under a shredded tarp and broken bits of metal. He looked ridiculous.

A grin tugged at your mouth before you could stop it. You pulled out your phone. Click.

He blinked up at you, betrayed. “Did you just take a picture?”

You could barely keep a straight face. “You’re right,” you said brightly, turning the flash on for good measure. “This was a great idea.”

He glared up at you, hair full of dust. “You’re cruel.”

You smiled, all teeth. “You wanted a change of scenery. How’s the view from down there?”

He groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “I liked it better when you were scared of heights.”

You laughed and pocketed your phone, as you scanned the roof for a way down—there was a rusted maintenance ladder bolted to the side. It looked questionable at best.

“If I die trying to rescue you, I’ll haunt you.”

“Can’t wait.” He muttered.

When your boots hit solid ground, you spotted him immediately—still flat on his back, one arm draped across his stomach, the other flopped out to the side like he should have a chalk outline.

You clapped your hands together in prayer and said. “Here lies Nightwing. He was ok, I guess. Amen.”

“Good to know you’ve got my eulogy covered.” He said dryly.

“Anytime.” You offered a hand. “Now Cmon. Might as well look around since you broke the floor getting us in.“

He groaned but took your hand. You tugged, expecting him to pop right up—but instead, he stumbled forward, momentum carrying him closer than you’d planned. His hand shot out to steady himself, fingers catching around your upper arms.

For a split second, everything stilled.

He was close—close enough that you could see the faint dust clinging to his hair, the thin scrape across his cheekbone, the flash of blue where his suit caught the light. You could feel the warmth radiating through the armor, the uneven rhythm of your own breath catching between you.

He cleared his throat, letting go as he turned away—red dusting the tips of his ears. “Graceful entrance, huh?”

You snorted. “So graceful. Maybe you were an acrobat in a past life.”

He laughed, loud and unguarded. “Maybe I was.”

You waved him on, forcing your heartbeat to even out. “This building’s being held together by thoughts and prayers. Let’s go before it collapses on us.”

You weren’t really expecting to find anything. You were more just looking for the sake of looking. Trying to least make climbing down worth it. To be honest, it hadn’t looked like anyone had been in here for years. 

The air was heavy and stale, thick with the scent of rust and stale seawater from the bay. Every step echoed faintly off the cracked concrete, your boots disturbing years of built up grime.

You swung your flashlight around, catching nothing but rotting beams and the random junk left behind from when the building had actually been in use.

“Ugh. Place is a dump,” you muttered. A loud creak made you flinch. “And spooky.”

He scanned the building, light sweeping over the walls. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is when one wrong move could send me falling twenty feet.” Your griped. 

He smirked. “You’re being awfully dramatic for someone who breaks into places for fun.l

You scoffed and crossed your arms, defensively. “I don’t break into places for fun. That’s strictly on company time.”

“Right,” he said, crouching to peek under a broken workbench, his flashlight beam sweeping over rusted nails and scattered debris. “Is this what you think investigative journalism is?”

You tilted your head. “I mean… I’m a journalist, and I’m investigating.”

He glanced back at you, unimpressed. “That’s a low bar.”

“I have a camera, too.”

He huffed and turned away, clearly done with you.

Not giving him the satisfaction, you walked off in the opposite direction, determined to make it to the ground floor first.

The stairs were half-collapsed, the railing loose, but you made it down in one piece. The air was heavier down here—damp and metallic, thick with the smell of rust and something faintly chemical.

You swung your flashlight across the cracked concrete, expecting the same old nothing. But near the far end of the building, something broke the pattern.

The dust wasn’t even. A trail cut through it—long drag marks mixed with scattered footprints—starting at the wide barn doors of what looked like an old loading dock. The tracks wound deeper into the warehouse, vanishing into the darker corners where the light couldn’t quite reach.

Your brow furrowed. You stepped closer, crouching to trace the edge of one of the prints with your finger. The dust shifted under your touch—fresh.

“Hey,” you called, your voice echoing off the rafters.

A muffled clang sounded somewhere behind you. “Yeah?”

“Get over here. You’re gonna want to see this.”

Footsteps approached, soft but sure, until his shadow stretched across the concrete beside you.

He crouched low, flashlight sweeping over the marks. “Footprints?”

“More like tracks,” you said. “Something heavy was dragged in. Or out.”

He followed the trail with his light, his expression tightening beneath the mask. “And not long ago.”

You straightened slowly, eyes scanning the dark ahead. “So much for the place being empty.”

He followed the line of prints with his flashlight, the beam cutting through the dark. “They head toward the back wall.”

You fell into step beside him, your boots crunching softly against the grit. The warehouse seemed to close in the farther you went, air thicker, colder.

“Looks like they looped through here,” you murmured, crouching again when the tracks crossed a patch of smoother concrete. “See that? Same tread pattern.”

He leaned in, studying the marks. “At least two people. Maybe three.”

“And something heavy,” you said quietly. “These drag lines aren’t from a dolly. Looks like a crate.”

He nodded once, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he followed the lines with his beam. The trail ended at a wall of stacked crates shoved neatly against the far side of the building. They looked newer—different wood, fewer cobwebs.

He crouched and pressed his hand against one, testing. It shifted slightly with a dull scrape.

“Bingo,” he murmured.

You frowned. “Please don’t say that when we don’t know what’s behind it.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?”

You glared. “Must’ve left it at home with my common sense.” 

He glanced back at you, grinning faintly, before bracing his shoulder and shoving the nearest crate aside. It groaned against the floor, dust spilling into the air.

Behind it, the beam of his flashlight hit metal—flat and dull, inset into the ground.

You stepped closer, pulse picking up. “Well I’m be damned. Is that—?”

“Trapdoor,” he confirmed, crouching again to brush away the rest of the grime. The edges were clean. The bolts looked new.

You stared down at it, heart thudding. “Who the hell hides something under a place like this?”

He glanced up at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Criminals.”

You exhaled through your nose. “Ya don’t say.”

He hooked his fingers under the latch and gave it a tug. It didn’t move.

“Locked,” he muttered.

“Of course it is,” you said, crouching beside him.

He glanced your way, a hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You want to handle it, or should I?”

You gestured grandly. “By all means, Houdini.”

He worked the latch with practiced ease, the quiet click of metal echoing a little too loudly in the still air. After a beat, the hatch gave way, creaking open to reveal a narrow set of stairs descending into black.

A breath of air crawled up from the dark below, cold and sour. It smelled like oil, mildew, and something faintly chemical. The kind of smell that clings to your clothes long after you’ve left.

You leaned over the opening, shining your flashlight down. The beam vanished after a few feet. The stairs descended into pure black.“Either that’s a basement or a portal to hell.”

“Only one way to find out,” he said, already making his way down.

You sighed, muttering under your breath. “He says, right before we die.”

Each step creaked beneath your boots, the sound echoing too loud in the narrow stairwell. The air grew colder with every rung, heavier. You could hear the slow drip of water somewhere below, steady as a metronome.

By the time your feet hit concrete, your flashlight beam cut through a haze of dust and vapor. The space stretched wider than you expected—long rows of shelving, shadows swallowing the corners.

It was silent. The kind of silence that pressed against your eardrums, like the world was holding its breath.

You turned in a slow circle, startled by the sheer size of the underground room.

Nightwing’s flashlight swept past your shoulder. “Storage.”

You swallowed hard and followed the sound of his boots as he moved deeper, careful and deliberate.

The light caught on metal—a shelving unit packed to bursting with crates. Dozens of them lined the walls, stacked to the ceiling, sealed tight and marked only with faint scuffs. A few bore faded numbers. Most didn’t have markings at all.

You crouched beside one, brushing your hand over the wood. It was damp, cold to the touch, like it had been dragged in recently.

“This one’s new,” you said quietly.

He wedged his fingers under the lid and pried it loose. The creak of the wood echoed through the bunker, sharp enough to make your skin crawl.

Inside, the flashlight beam hit metal—rows of rifles lined in perfect formation. The next crate held sealed plastic bags filled with white powder. Another, duffel bags stuffed with bricks of cash. And another still—packed with explosives. Enough to level half of Blüdhaven.

You exhaled slowly, heart thudding in your ears. “Oh my god.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared, jaw tight, eyes hard in the thin slice of light.

You took a step back, voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady. “Who the fuck needs this much firepower?”

“Someone with something to prove,” he said quietly.

The words settled heavy in the stale air.

Making your way through the maze of crates and finally at the far end, A heavy steel door stood.

Nightwing stopped, scanning the edges with a careful sweep of his flashlight. “Looks like another exit.”

You frowned. “Exit to where?”

He pressed his palm against the metal, pushing it open inch by inch. The door groaned, the sound echoing through the corridor.

The next room was smaller, lit only by a single flickering bulb swinging from the ceiling. Tables lined the walls, covered in scales, plastic wrap, and scattered residue. The metallic tang of chemicals hit the back of your throat and stung your eyes.

You swung your flashlight across one of the tables. Dozens of small plastic baggies lay in a pile—some empty, some half-filled with the same glittering white powder you’d seen exchanged when you were undercover. The same green logo stamped on the side of each one. 

You picked on up between your fingers “Nightwing, look. These are the same baggies from the club.”

You scanned the rest of the room. “If they’re dealing then what’s all the stuff in the other room for? Why stockpile all that below ground if they’re just selling to street dealers?”

He didn’t answer right away. His flashlight swept over the walls—pipes, vents, wiring. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “But we’re going to find out.”

You were about to reply when a faint sound cut through the air—muffled at first, hard to place.

Music.

You froze, tilting your head. It was coming from somewhere deeper in the bunker, faint and distorted through the concrete. The kind of cheap bass that rattled tin speakers.

He was already moving toward the sound. “Stay close.”

The music grew louder as you followed a narrow corridor, the rhythm echoing weirdly off the concrete walls. Every few feet, the lights overhead flickered, throwing jagged shadows across the floor.

You peeked around the corner and froze.

Ahead was a group of gangbangers, huddled around a massive flat-screen TV like it was movie night. The pounding bass you’d heard in the hallway blasted from a pair of mismatched speakers, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls.

They were laughing—loud, careless, oblivious. Beer bottles clinked. Someone shouted at the screen when their team missed a shot.

You blinked, incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Beside you, Nightwing leaned forward, shoulder brushing yours as he exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “I know these guys,” he murmured. “Petty thugs. Small-time. They’re not motivated enough to pull something like this off.”

You risked another glance past the glow of the TV. Their setup was almost opulent—surround sound, game system, and all. Junk littered every surface: bottles, ashtrays, food containers, and things you didn’t want to identify.

On what looked like a makeshift kitchen table sat a pile of crumpled bills with a gun resting beside it.

One of the guys bent over the coffee table, snorting a line without even pausing the game.

You swallowed hard, the burn of cheap cologne and stale smoke thick in the air. “Then why are they here?”

Nightwing’s eyes swept the room—the crates, the cash, the guns left carelessly out. You could practically feel the calculation humming through him.

“Because someone’s paying them to sit on the stock pile,” he said finally, voice pitched low. “Cheap labor. Cannon fodder. Someone needs grunts to move the supply. They’re perfect—loud, dumb, and disposable.”

“That’s comforting,” you muttered.

You shifted slightly to see better, and his gloved hand instinctively came up, fingers brushing your arm to steady you. He didn’t move it right away.

The flickering light painted the walls in alternating flashes—color, shadow, color, shadow. One of the guys shouted at the TV again, laughing so hard he nearly fell backward onto the couch.

They weren’t even trying to be quiet.

Their voices carried over the pounding bass—loud, obnoxious, and way too pleased with themselves.

“I’m just sayin’,” one guy said, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth, “if the boss didn’t want us taking a little off the top, he shouldn’t keep leaving so much of it lying around.”

Another scoffed. “You’re an idiot, man. Last guy who skimmed got his ass beat and his car set on fire.”

“Yeah,” a third chimed in, wiping his nose with his  sleeve, “and now his girl’s screwing the guy who beat his ass.”

That earned a chorus of laughter—deep, ugly, snorting laughter.

“Tell you what,” one of them said, cracking open another beer, “if we hit another payday like last month, I’m buyin’ myself a jet ski.”

“A jet ski?” another repeated. “We live in Blüdhaven. The water glows.”

“Still,” the first said proudly, “I’ll be the coolest radioactive bastard on the bay.”

You stared, jaw slack.

You felt Nightwing’s breath near your temple when he spoke. “You getting all this?”

“Yeah,” you whispered back, not daring to move your head. “If I ever live to write it.”

For a heartbeat, the world was still—just the hum of bad speakers and the shared thud of your heartbeats echoing in your ears.

Then something moved.

A faint scuffle near your boot.

You froze. “…What was that?”

“Probably nothing,” he whispered.

It wasn’t nothing.

Two rats scurried out from behind a crate—huge, mangy things with tails like cables. You made a sound that wasn’t quite a scream but definitely wasn’t dignified.

“Nightwing—”

“Shh!” His hand shot out, clapping firmly over your mouth. “Don’t. Move.”

He was suddenly right against you, his chest pressed to your back, the solid weight of him pinning you gently but completely still. You could feel every slow, controlled breath he took—steady where yours stuttered.

You glared up at him, wide-eyed. He glared back, his hand warm against your face.

And then one of the rats climbed right over your shoe.

You made a strangled noise, muffled against his palm. He winced, trying to keep you quiet.

“Stop moving,” he hissed.

“It’s on me!” you tried to say, but it came out a garbled squeak against his hand.

The rat darted between you, brushing against his leg. He flinched—his thigh bumping yours, his shoulder knocking yours hard enough to send you into the wall with a solid thunk.

The sound echoed. Loud.

Both of you froze.

From across the room, someone called, “Yo! What was that?”

Nightwing exhaled slowly through his teeth. “…Shit.”

A flashlight beam sliced through the dark.

You held your breath as it swept across the floor—past the crates, over the couch, inching closer.

Nightwing shifted, stepping in front of you, his shoulder brushing your cheek as he blocked the light. You could feel the tension rolling off him, tight and coiled.

“Check it out!” someone barked.

The beam swung higher—straight toward you.

Nightwing sighed under his breath. “So much for stealth.”

Then he moved.

He was gone in a blur of blue and black, vaulting over the nearest crate like gravity didn’t apply to him. The first guy didn’t even have time to shout before Nightwing’s boot caught him square in the chest. The thug went down hard, the flashlight spinning out of his hand and skittering across the concrete.

Shouts erupted.

Two more rushed him. Nightwing pivoted, using the downed man’s shoulder as a springboard. He twisted midair, landing a heel to one guy’s jaw and an elbow to the other’s ribs before either had their weapons up. Both hit the ground in a tangle.

The air filled with noise—yelling, crashing glass, the metallic clang of pipes hitting the floor.

Another thug came at him swinging a metal bat. Nightwing ducked under the first swing, caught the second mid-arc, and drove his knee up into the man’s gut. When the guy folded, he wrenched the bat free and used the momentum to knock a fourth clean off his feet.

You stared, half-hidden behind a table, completely forgetting to breathe. He moved like he was dancing—fluid, fast, precise—but every step hit with bone-deep power.

Then the fight started to turn.

There were too many of them, and one came at his back with a knife.

You even didn’t think about it.

You grabbed the first thing within reach—a red fire extinguisher wedged under a crate—and swung with everything you had.

The metal connected with a wet crack. The guy crumpled instantly

The handle compressed in your grip, hissing a thick burst of white powder into the air. It billowed between you and Nightwing like smoke.

He turned through it, eyes catching the glow from the busted TV, chest rising fast under the armor. “You okay?”

You were panting, hands shaking around the extinguisher. “Yeah. I think I got him.”

Even through the haze, you saw the corner of his mouth twitch and look at the man slumped over. “I think you did.”

Another man came barreling out of the haze, swinging a length of chain. The links whistled through the air.

Nightwing ducked under the first swing, caught the second with his forearm, and used the momentum to yank the guy forward into a knee to the stomach. The impact echoed like a drumbeat.

Before the man could double over, Nightwing twisted, flipping him clean over his shoulder. The thug hit the ground hard and didn’t move.

You didn’t even have time to process it—someone else grabbed you from behind.

You yelped, instinct kicking in before fear could. You drove your elbow back into his ribs, once, twice, hard enough to make him grunt and loosen his grip. Then you spun, swinging the extinguisher like a baseball bat.

It caught him square across the face. He went down instantly, the clang of metal against bone still ringing in your ears.

The room still echoed with the sound of fists and bodies hitting concrete. Nightwing moved through the haze like something pulled straight from a nightmare—efficient, merciless, controlled only by habit. Every blow landed clean. Every movement ended with someone on the ground.

You hit the last man that came for you, hard enough to send him sprawling, and then everything went still.

White dust hung in the air, glowing faintly in the flicker of the busted TV.

Your pulse thudded in your throat. Nightwing exhaled once, low and even, scanning the floor. “That’s everyone,” he said. Then he frowned. “Almost.”

A groan broke the quiet. One of the men was still moving—slow, crawling toward the door.

Nightwing crossed the space in two strides, grabbed the guy by the back of his jacket, and hauled him upright. “Not so fast.”

The thug wheezed, coughing. “You… you don’t scare me.”

“Good,” Nightwing said flatly. “Then we can skip the part where you pretend you don’t know who you work for.”

The man laughed, a wet, rasping sound. “We don’t get names. Just a bag of cash and a time to show up to load up the truck with those fucking boxes. Some slick bastard in a suit—expensive watch, real smug—said it’s all for Lockjaw.”

You paused. “Lockjaw?”

 He turned his head toward you, eyes narrowing with mean recognition. “You his new toy or somethin’? Didn’t think The Boy Wonder went for mouthy types.” He grinned, teeth pink with blood. “What’s the gig, sweetheart? You write his press releases or just keep your mouth busy another way?”

The words hit like a slap. You didn’t move—didn’t even blink—but your throat locked up.

Nightwing went still. Completely still.

Then his hand shot out, slamming the guy back into the wall hard enough to rattle the pipes. The thug grunted, tried to shove him off, but Nightwing only pressed in harder, forearm digging against his chest

“You think that’s funny?” His voice came out low, dark—too calm to be safe.

The man tried to grin, but his mouth split wider, bleeding. “What, she too mush of a bitch for you? Can’t keep her on a leash?”

Nightwing’s expression didn’t change, but his voice went dead calm. “You talk too much.”

The punch was fast—one clean hit to the jaw. The man went limp, sliding down the wall to the floor.

Silence dropped heavy.

You swallowed hard. “Was that necessary?”

His breathing was rough, uneven, the kind of sound that didn’t belong to the version of him you’d seen before.

He stood there for a long second, knuckles flexing, then stepped back. He turned toward you, eyes cold behind the mask. “Yeah.”

You nodded once, quiet. “Good.”

The man slid down the wall, leaving a dark smear behind him. The room was so still you could hear the soft drip of water somewhere in the corner.

You stared at Nightwing. He wasn’t breathing hard anymore, just standing over the body—still, coiled, unreadable

The light flickered once, painting him in pale flashes of white and shadow.

Your voice came out low. “He said Lockjaw’s name.”

That got his attention. His head turned slightly, but his eyes didn’t leave the unconscious man “Yeah. I heard.”

“You think he was lying?” 

“No.” Nightwing crouched beside the body, patting through the man’s jacket with quick, practiced motions. “Lockjaw’s been creeping up the food chain for months. Mostly street work, small-time rackets. But the explosives downstairs?” He exhaled, the sound sharp through his nose. “That’s not street-level anymore.”

You folded your arms, staring at the man on the floor. “You think he’s planning something?”

“Maybe. Or testing the waters. Guys like him don’t stockpile that kind of hardware unless they’ve got a reason.”

He pulled something from the man’s inner pocket—a crumpled sheet of paper, edges smudged with blood and grease. Nightwing smoothed it open under the beam of his flashlight.

You stepped closer. “What is it?”

“Address,” he said, scanning the paper. “With dates and times. It’s on the other side of town.”

You frowned. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head, straightening. “Nope. Other side of the city—industrial strip off Washington.”

You blinked. “Wait. So what the hell were these idiots doing here?”

He gestured vaguely toward the unconscious thugs. “Selling product out of the stash house, by the looks of it. They’re supposed to be guarding Lockjaw’s supply, not skimming off it.”

“So they’ve been dealing right out of the place they’re meant to protect?” you said slowly, the absurdity dawning.

“Pretty much,” he muttered. “Lockjaw probably doesn’t even know. They were getting high, selling cheap, drawing attention—basically begging to get caught.”

You let out a low whistle, glancing at the rows of crates. “So we just tripped over his operation by accident.”

“Yeah.” His mouth twisted, somewhere between amusement and irritation. “Sheer dumb luck.”

You crossed your arms. “Sucks for them.

Nightwing huffed a dry laugh and crouched again, tucking the paper into one of his belt compartments. “They’ve been sitting on enough contraband to start a small war, and they’re too busy playing video games and snorting lines to notice they’re sitting on a few hundred felonies.”

He pushed to his feet, dusting his gloves off. “Meanwhile, we’ve been freezing our asses off on the roof while Lockjaw’s been pulling strings from across town.

You let out a slow breath. “So this whole week was one big wild goose chase.”

“Pretty much.” He shot you a faint, crooked grin. “On the bright side, I think our partnership really blossomed during all that mutual suffering.”

You arched a brow. “Blossomed? That’s what we’re calling it now?”

He shrugged, smug. “I mean, look at us—crime-fighting coworkers, thriving under pressure.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched anyway. “You’re lucky you’re useful.”

“Finally,” he said, spreading his hands dramatically. “Recognition.”

You groaned, but your lips twitched as you reached for your camera. “Fine. Help me make this misery worth it. I need clear shots for the BPD.”

“Right,” he said, stepping back to give you space while still scanning the room. “Wouldn’t want all my hard work to go unappreciated.”

“Your hard work?” you scoffed, snapping a photo of the crates. “You fell through the roof.”

He chuckled, unbothered. “Tactical entry.”

“Uh-huh. Very tactical.” You knelt, lining up another shot of the baggies and the faded logo. “These pictures might actually give the BPD something to work with—assuming they don’t screw it up.”

“Not holding my breath,” he muttered, crouching beside you as you zoomed in on a line of crates marked with shipment numbers. His voice softened slightly. “Get the serials. They’ll need them for the chain of evidence.”

“Already on it,” you said, snapping three quick shots, then another of the duffel bag stuffed with cash. You stood, the flash briefly illuminating the concrete ceiling above you.

“Think that’s enough?” you asked.

“Yeah.” He scanned the shadows, every muscle coiled and alert. “Let’s not overstay our welcome.”

You turned toward the stairs automatically, then hesitated. “Please don’t tell me we’re climbing back up that death trap.”

Nightwing nodded toward the far wall. “There’s another exit. Probably used to move shipments.”

“Of course there is,” you muttered.

He grinned faintly, stepping ahead of you toward the narrow corridor leading out. “Hey, look at it this way. Every time we take a shortcut, something exciting happens.”

You followed, rolling your eyes. “You really need to stop saying that like it’s a good thing.”

He glanced over his shoulder, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Come on, partner. Let’s get your evidence to the BPD before our luck runs out.”

You adjusted your camera strap and exhaled. “Yeah. Before something inevitably explodes.”

He chuckled under his breath. “That’s the spirit.”

The night air hit cold and sharp as you climbed out of the warehouse’s side exit. The city was quieter here—no traffic, just the slap of waves and the low hum of a distant freighter engine.

You adjusted the camera strap across your chest and started down the cracked sidewalk, boots splashing through shallow puddles. “So what now?”

“Now,” Nightwing said, falling into step beside you, “we send everything to my contact at the BPD and pray they don’t screw it up.”

You shot him a look. “Comforting.”

He shrugged, unbothered. “And you get to write about how an ‘inside source’ tipped you off to a major warehouse bust off the docks. Make it sound mysterious.”

“I can do that,” you muttered.

He smiled faintly, eyes glinting under the streetlight. “I’ll have Oracle dig into the other addresses we found. If Lockjaw’s spreading his operation across the city, those sites might tell us where he’s planning to hit next.”

You tightened your grip on the camera, heart still thudding from everything you’d seen underground. “So… this is our life now?”

Nightwing let out a breath that was half laugh, half disbelief. “Guess so. Drugs, guns, secret bunkers… really living the dream.”

You snorted. “Remind me to update my résumé. This takes ‘works well under pressure’ to a whole new level.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what? Almost getting me killed?”

“For the story,” he said with mock sincerity. “I’m practically your muse.”

You looked at him flatly.“My muse wears kevlar and makes bad jokes.”

He grinned, bright and unrepentant. “Exactly. Front-page material.”

By the time you reached your apartment building, the night had turned sharp and still. The air smelled like salt and rain-soaked asphalt, and your body ached with exhaustion. 

You stopped on the sidewalk, craning your neck to look up at the old brick high-rise. “Thank God for elevators,” you muttered.

“Or,” he said, already fishing a grapple from his belt, “we could take the scenic route.”

“I think you're just trying to show off.”

“Maybe.” He grinned before his arm slid around your waist and the line fired. You let out a strangled noise—somewhere between a gasp and a curse—as the two of you shot upward in a blur of motion

Wind whipped your hair across your face; the city lights spun below.

Then, suddenly, metal under your boots. The landing was soft, but your heart wasn’t. You were pressed against him, his arm still snug around your middle. The heat of him bled straight through the suit, through you. 

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

“See?” he murmured. “No elevator needed.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse didn’t get the message. His arm lingered for a moment too long before he finally stepped back, giving you space.

You were about to say something—anything to break the air that had gone too still—when a lazy voice drifted from above.

“Well, this is cozy.”

Nightwing’s shoulders tensed.

Your head snapped up, eyes tracking the sound. A figure crouched on the next rooftop over—broad shoulders, a battered leather jacket, and a gleaming red helmet that caught the light like a warning flare.

Nightwing groaned under his breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

Red Hood leaned forward, voice crackling through the modulator with a smirk you could hear. “So this is where you’ve been sneaking off too.”

“I haven’t been sneaking,” Nightwing snapped, crossing his arms. “I told you I’d meet you later. How did you even find me?”

Red Hood held up his phone, tilting it like he was showing off a trophy. “I have my ways.”

Nightwing’s eyes narrowed behind the mask. “You put a tracker on me?”

Jason’s shrug was pure smug. “What can I say? Old habits die hard.”

You couldn’t help it—you snickered. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”

Nightwing shot you a glare over his shoulder. “Don’t.”

You raised your brows, lips twitching. “What? I’m just saying, it’s kinda poetic.”

Nightwing’s head snapped toward you. “Stop. It.”

Red Hood leveled his gaze on you, head tilted to the side like he was sizing you up. Even with the helmet on, you could feel the smirk underneath.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice low and rough through the modulator. “So this is her, huh?”

You arched a brow. “Her?”

He ignored the question completely, still studying you. “This the one you’ve been ditching me for all week? You didn’t tell me she was this pretty, Wing.”

You froze. “I—sorry, what?”

Nightwing was on him before you could blink, stepping between you with a snap of movement. “Don’t. Start.”

Red Hood chuckled, resting his hands casually on his hips. “Relax, dude. I’m just saying—you’ve got good taste.”

Nightwing threw a hand up like he was physically swatting the words out of the air. “Nope. Not happening. Don’t talk to her.”

You leaned to the side, peering around Nightwing’s shoulder. “So… you two know each other?”

Red Hood laughed softly, like that was the understatement of the century. “Oh, we go way back. We’re practically brothers.

You frowned. “That sounded vaguely threatening.”

“Only vaguely?” he teased.

Nightwing exhaled hard, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, that’s enough. You—” he pointed at you without looking— “inside. You—” he pointed up at Red Hood— “gone.”

You crossed your arms, not budging. “Why do I have to leave?”

“Because I said so,” Nightwing snapped, eyes flicking toward you before softening. “Please. Just—go inside. I’ll handle this.”

Behind him, Red Hood let out a low whistle. “Wow. Controlling much? Didn’t think you were the jealous type, Wing.”

Nightwing whipped around so fast it startled you. “Jealous? I’m not—no. Stop. You stop right now.”

“Sure,” Red Hood said, voice lazy and amused. “Whatever makes you feel better.”

You smirked, mostly because watching Nightwing flounder was wildly entertaining. “I don’t know, I’m kind of curious where he was going with that.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Nightwing hissed over his shoulder.

Red Hood tilted his head your way, like you’d just made his night. “See? I like her.”

That did it. Nightwing turned, physically herding you toward your window. “Inside. Now.”

You dug your heels in, but he didn’t give you much choice, building you forward with both hands firmly grasping your shoulders. “You’re being weird.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Red Hood called after you, grin audible even through the modulator, “you ever get tired of Boy Wonder over there, come find me.”

You twisted halfway around, mouth opening for a retort, but Nightwing was faster—his glare sharp enough to peel paint. “Don’t. Call. Her. That.”

Red Hood laughed, deep and distorted. “Touchy, touchy.”

You looked between them, baffled. “Okay, seriously—what is happening right now? You two got some weird territorial thing I should know about?”

“Nothing’s happening,” Nightwing said quickly, pushing you the last few steps to your window.

“Sure doesn’t feel like nothing,” you muttered.

Behind you, Red Hood’s grin was practically audible. “You’ve got an attitude, sweetheart. Just my type.”

“I swear to God—” Nightwing turned halfway, voice dropping to that dangerously low register that somehow made him even hotter when he was pissed—“If you say one more word—”

Red Hood raised his hands like he was being arrested. “Fine, fine. Don’t get your spandex in a twist.”

You snorted, hiding your laugh behind a cough.

Nightwing turned to you, exasperated. “Inside.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” you said, stepping through the window, smirking over your shoulder. “You boys have fun with your… testosterone standoff.”

“Night, sweetheart,” Red Hood threw in one last time, clearly doing it just to watch Nightwing combust.

“Jay!” Nightwing barked.

The window slid shut, cutting off the rest of their argument, but you could still hear muffled voices through the glass—one sharp, one laughing.

And for some reason, you went to bed smiling.

~~

The window clicked shut behind you, and for a moment, the only sound left in the alley was the low hum of the streetlight.

Nightwing exhaled hard through his nose, trying to pretend the heat crawling up his neck wasn’t real. He’d just barely started to get his bearings when a voice drawled from above.

“What are you doing here?” he snapped, spinning around just as a figure dropped down from the rooftop.

Jason landed with a heavy thud, casual as ever. “Easy, man. I was just doing the brotherly thing and checking up on you.”

He pulled off his helmet, shaking out his hair and smiling in that stupid know-it-all way. 

“You’ve been secretive as hell since I got into town,” Jason went on, tucking the helmet under one arm. “You ditch patrols, vanish for hours, skip check-ins,… and now I know why.”

Dick groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Jason grinned wider. “What? I’m not judging. She’s pretty.”

“That’s not what this is,” Dick said flatly.

“Then what is it? Because I’m pretty sure I just met your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Dick snapped, sharper than he meant to.

Jason lifted a brow. “Touchy.”

“Don’t start,” Dick warned.

Jason smirked. “Hey, I’m just saying—you’ve got good taste. Kind of a handful, though.”

“She’s not a handful, she’s—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “—a source. End of story.”

“Sure.” Jason’s modulated voice oozed disbelief. “And I’m the pope.” 

“Dick shot him a glare. “What are you really doing here, Jason?”

Jason’s smirk softened just enough to look smug instead of mocking. “Bruce sent me. There’ve been multiple drug busts in Gotham, and every trail leads right back here. Blüdhaven’s the new middleman.” He tilted his head. “So, congrats—your little stakeout date just made my job easier.”

Dick’s jaw tightened. “It wasn’t a date.”

Jason’s grin came back full force. “Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”

Jason leaned a shoulder against the brick, the grin in his voice unmistakable. “Relax, big bro, all I’m saying is it might be nice for you to go out with someone more… normal.”

Dick shot him a look. “She’s not— I told you, I’m not going out with her.”

Jason snorted. “Yeah, I caught that part. You’re just eating dinner together, walking her home every night, risking your neck for her leads, and pretending it’s all professional. Totally platonic.”

Dick folded his arms, jaw tight. “She’s my partner. It’s work.”

Jason hummed, amused. “Right. Work. You always did have a strong work ethic.”

“She’s a pain in the ass,” Dick snapped. “Does whatever she wants and somehow drags me into it every damn time.”

Jason snorted and rolled his eyes. “Wow, she sounds awful. You should definitely spend every night with her.”

Dick glared. “Are you done?”

“Almost.” Jason turned, raising a hand in mock salute. “Just don’t screw it up. You’ve got that whole tortured hero thing going on—chicks eat that up.

He pulled his helmet back on, the modulator crackling to life. “Later, Loverboy. 

He fired his grapple and disappeared into the dark, laughter echoing faintly off the brick.

The alley fell quiet again.

Dick stood there, still, pulse ticking in his throat. The air felt colder now, sharper.

He looked up toward your window, faint light still spilling through the curtains.

“I don’t like her,” he muttered under his breath. “She’s impossible. Stubborn. Always arguing.”

His voice dropped, softer. “She’s not my type.”

The words hung there, hollow and unconvincing.

He sighed, dragging a hand over his face as the corner of his mouth twitched in something dangerously close to a smile.

“God, I’m screwed.” 

The grapple fired, and he vanished into the night.

~~~

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Chapter Text

It was the middle of the night, and Dick had just finished being a little too rough with a couple of thugs behind a shuttered pawn shop. He told himself they deserved it, but really, he was in a mood—and he blamed you for that.

He’d been in one ever since he left your apartment earlier that week. The fight hadn’t been catastrophic, but it was bad enough to leave him stewing. Now he was taking it out on every lowlife unlucky enough to cross his path.

He’d tried to tell himself it wasn’t a big deal—that you’d both cool off, talk it out, move on—but days had passed, and you still hadn’t texted.

Not that he was keeping track.

Much.

So, yeah. Maybe he was in a mood.

He’d been short with the perps, shorter with Barbara and Jason, and by the time he swung up to a nearby rooftop, his patience was hanging by a thread. He ripped off his domino mask long enough to drag a gloved hand down his face and decided to call it what it was: snack time.

A protein bar. Half melted. The gourmet choice of exhausted vigilantes everywhere.

He tore into it, leaning against a rusted ventilation unit while the city buzzed below, lights blinking like half-hearted stars. The night air was cool, his pulse finally starting to settle—and then, of course, his phone rang.

Because peace was too much to ask for.

He pinched the bridge of his nose before answering, still chewing. “This is Nightwing.”

“Wow. Don’t get too excited.”

The voice was familiar—Officer Anna Ramirez, the only officer in the Blüdhaven PD that he actually trusted. 

He sighed. “It’s two in the morning, Ram. What’s up?”

“We booked a girl a couple hours ago. I’m pretty sure it’s your girlfriend.”

He froze mid-chew. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Oh, my mistake. Thought it was the same girl you roped into the Majestic bust—big mouth, smartass, called the arresting officer a fascist?”

His stomach dropped. Of course, it’s her, he thought ruefully. 

Groaning, he pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Why was she arrested?” 

He laughed good maturely. “Trespassing. I talked them out of adding resisting arrest. She’s been raising hell since she got here.”

He sighed, already pulling his mask back into place. “Say no more. I’m on my way.”

“Good deal. Didn’t think you’d want your girl locked up for the night.” 

“She’s not my girl,” he muttered. “She’s a brat who doesn’t like to be told no.” 

“Uh-huh,” Ramirez said, smirking through the phone. “Bet that’s going well for you.”

He didn’t answer. The call clicked off as he slipped the phone back into his belt, the remains of his protein bar forgotten on the rooftop.

“I’ll kill her.” he muttered to himself, bitterness bleeding through the words. “I don’t hear from her for three days and she decides to get arrested?”

The wind whipped at his suit as he stepped up onto the ledge. A small smile tugged at his mouth, despite himself. “Yeah… sounds about right.”

And with that, he dove into the dark.

~~~

“Let me out of here, you tyrannical pigs! Haven’t you ever heard of the first amendment?” You yelled out once again, shaking the metal doors of your holding cell to emphasize your point. 

You’d been in detained for almost three hours, which was exactly three hours longer than you’d planned to be.

Technically, you hadn’t planned to get arrested at all, but plans were flexible things, and you’d always been more of a “we’ll cross the bridge when we get to it” kind of person.

The bench was cold, the lights were blinding, and some guy three cells down wouldn’t stop humming Sweet Caroline. You were pretty sure that was the real punishment.

You leaned back against the wall and sighed, tugging at the edge of your jacket. Your phone, camera, and dignity were all sitting in some evidence locker right now, and the only thing keeping you entertained was planning how you were going to word your strongly -worded email to the Blüdhaven PD.

Thank God Nightwing wasn’t here. He’d never let me live it down. The thought slipped in before you could stop it, unwelcome and annoyingly warm. You’d been making a point not to think about him—no rooftop drop-ins, no smug grins, no stupid blue finger stripes—but apparently your brain hadn’t gotten the memo.

If you were being honest, half the reason you’d gone out tonight was to get him out of your head. Your apartment had felt too quiet lately, too still. Just you, the cat and the echo of everything you snarked at him before he walked out a few days ago. 

And now, it seemed the universe was punishing you for it. 

Your mental self-flagellation was interrupted by the sweet jingle of keys. The pretty officer from earlier was standing at the door to your cell, keyring in hand and a grin tugging at her mouth.

You perked up and asked her sweetly, “Can I get my phone call now? Please? I promise I won’t yell anymore.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Actually, girlie, it’s your lucky day. Your bail’s just been posted. You can pick up your stuff at the front desk.”

You blinked. “Wait—seriously? By who?”

She tilted her head, amused. “Your boyfriend. Who else?”

“I don’t have a—”

The words died in your throat the second you saw him.

Leaning against the counter, arms crossed, still in full suit—blue stripes, mask, and all—with furrowed brows and a clenched jaw. He looked unfairly good when he was mad.

Sucks for your ovaries that he looked pissed.

You swore under your breath and muttered to the officer, “I could just stay here.”

She snorted and smiled at you. “Not an option. Good luck with him, though.” She gave you a reassuring pat on the back, and turned away. Now it was just you versus the world’s most melodramatic vigilante. 

You squared your shoulders, pasted on your best RBF, and began the slow, humiliating walk of shame toward the counter.

He didn’t say a word. Just watched you, silent and unblinking, his gaze tracking you like a spotlight. You could feel it—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.

You stopped beside him, gave your name to the officer at the desk, and tried not to look directly at him.

It didn’t help.

His mouth twitched like he couldn’t decide whether to yell or laugh. “Really? This is how you decide to do to get my attention?

You gaped at him. “You think I got arrested for you?”

He tilted his head slightly, lenses flashing under the awful fluorescent lights. “The thought crossed my mind.”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you,” you shot back. “I was working.”

“Working?” he echoed, a sharp laugh breaking through. “Is that what they’re calling trespassing now?”

You turned toward him fully, ignoring the officer awkwardly walking back with your belongings. “Yes, working. For my job. You know—the thing that pays the rent for the apartment you like to rot in?”

The officer slid your phone, camera, and bag across the counter like she was handing you live explosives. You grabbed them quickly, mumbling a thank-you.

The room was uncomfortably silent. You could feel the eyes on you—half the precinct pretending to file paperwork while watching Blüdhaven’s favorite vigilante argue with a woman fresh out of holding.

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks and snatched your bag off the counter. “Great talk. Can we go now?”

Nightwing sighed, pushing off the wall. “After you, felon.”

You rolled your eyes and stormed past him, muttering, “You’re a dick.”

He smirked at you in return.

The chill outside hit harder than expected. You tugged your jacket tighter as the heavy door slammed behind you, the sound echoing down the empty street.

Nightwing trailed close behind, quiet just long enough to make you suspicious.

“So,” he said finally, “do you wanna explain exactly how you ended up behind bars?”

“No,” you said, starting down the steps. “I want to go home and act like this never happened.”

“That’s not how this works.” He huffed. “What is wrong with you? I leave you alone for seventy two hours and you get arrested?”

“Save the lecture, Dad-wing. I really don’t need it.”

“Clearly you do!” He shot back. “I just bailed you out of fucking jail.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that!” You snapped back “How did you even know I was here? Were you fucking stalking me again? Did you put a tracker on me?”

He blinked, incredulous. “You think I’d need a tracker to find you? You’re the reason hurricanes are named after people.”

You laughter bitterly. “Wow. How long did it take you to come up with that one?”

He glared, mouth twitching.

The space between you crackled—same tension, same tone, same frustration that had been simmering since the last time you saw him.

~~

Nightwing had been in your apartment for all of twenty minutes before he ruined the peace that you’d learned to find in his presence.

You’d been engrossed in a book, perfectly content to ignore him while he raided your fridge and claimed his usual spot beside you on the couch. He’d already made himself comfortable—boots off, posture lazy—like this was just another night at home.

He’d just finished off the last of the chips when he nudged you lightly with his elbow and said your name, breaking you out of your literary trance.

You hummed, eyes still on the page.

“You busy?”

“Well, I’ve been trying to read, but you’re kinda being obnoxious,” you said, turning another page without looking at him.

He ignored that. “I need to talk to you about something.”

You lowered the book just enough to give him a suspicious look. “That’s ominous.”

He hesitated, which only raised your hackles further. “It’s not that bad.”

“Okay.”

“At least in my opinion.”

“Okay.”

“But you’re gonna get mad.”

You sighed, marking your page with a finger before setting the book in your lap. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m not stalling.”

“You are absolutely stalling.”

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a gloved hand over the back of his neck. “Okay… maybe a little.”

You arched a brow and nudged his leg with your foot. “Just spit it out, twinkle toes. We don’t have all night.”

He had a pained look on his face. “After looking into the addresses we found,” his voice was flat—monotone, like he’d rehearsed it—“I’ve decided I can’t take you with me.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You blinked, then laughed—sharp and disbelieving. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s not up for debate,” he said quickly, like saying it faster would make it sound reasonable.

You snapped your book shut. “Ha-ha. No.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Look, this isn’t a dig at you. Oracle confirmed activity—actually, an increase in activity. They’ve upped security since we got involved. It’s going to be dangerous.”

“Oh my God,” you said, standing. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve been chasing this story for months. I wrote articles before I ever met you. You think I don’t know what these people are capable of?”

He stood too, hands out in that infuriatingly calm gesture. “I’m not saying you don’t understand. I’m saying you’re not prepared for this fight.”

“Then prepare me,” you shot back. “You promised partnership, remember? You said we were doing this together.”

His jaw tightened. “I also promised that it would be safer. The safest thing is for you to stay as far away from those addresses as possible.”

You laughed again, this one harsher. “Safe? You mean quiet. You mean out of your way.”

“No, that’s not—” He stopped himself, then tried again, tone softening. “Look, I’ll wear a camera. You’ll get the feed in real time. Oracle can patch you in if—”

You barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless. “You’re offering me footage? That’s your big compromise? ‘Sorry, brat, you can’t come, but here’s a nice video of me almost dying’?”

“It’s the safest way you can still help.”

“It’s insulting,” you said flatly. “You’re turning me into tech support.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being an asshole.”

That earned you a glare. “These aren’t street punks, okay? They’re trained. They’re killers.”

You crossed your arms and practically growled. “So what, you’re going alone?”

“Not alone,” he said, and the pause that followed made your stomach twist. “I’m taking Red Hood.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re taking Red Hood.”

He didn’t flinch. “He knows the territory. Gangs and drugs are his specialty. We’ll get in, get what we need, and be out before anyone dies.”

You stared at him, completely floored. “Unbelievable. You’re taking your ‘bro’ from Gotham but not the person who actually helped find the damn addresses?”

“Don’t twist this—”

“I’m not twisting anything!” you snapped. “You’re cutting me out of the story I helped uncovered.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head, heart pounding in your ears. “You’re a prick. You can’t handle not being the one in control, can you?”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Oh, please.” You stepped closer. “You want a sycophant, not an equal.”

His mouth twitched, frustration cracking his calm. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” you said, voice shaking now. “Because from where I’m standing, you just don’t trust me.”

He opened his mouth, but whatever he meant to say never made it out. He looked at you for a long moment—eyes unreadable behind the mask—then turned toward the window.

“I’ll call you when it’s done,” he said quietly.

You laughed, bitter and tired. “Don’t bother.”

He didn’t look back. One step, one leap, and he was gone.

The apartment fell quiet, save for the small, broken sound of your own breathing.

Your throat tightened. You wiped at your eyes with the heel of your hand, angry at yourself for feeling anything at all.

You told yourself to move on, to let it go, but the ache in your chest made it hard.

~~

“Hey.”

You blinked, dragged abruptly back to the present. Nightwing was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, the streetlight catching the scowl on his face. You’d stopped walking at some point—standing on the curb, bag clutched in one hand, anger simmering beneath your skin.

You scowled harshly. “Don’t talk to me.”

He let out a low breath—too heavy for a laugh, too light for a sigh. “You’re really gonna give me the silent treatment after I bailed you out?”

“I’ll say it again: I didn’t ask you to bail me out.” You started walking again, quick and sharp, your boots slapping against the wet pavement.

“Yeah, that part was obvious,” he muttered, following anyway. “You never ask for help. You just do something reckless and expect me to—”

“What? Swoop in and save me?” you snapped, spinning on him. “You don’t have to save me, Nightwing. I made that perfectly clear from day one.”

He stepped closer, tone tight. “You can’t save yourself!”

“Oh my God—” You threw your hands up. “I would’ve posted my own bail in the morning. You just had to insert yourself into my business. Again.”

“I didn’t insert myself.” he shot back. “You’ve been ignoring me for three days, and suddenly I get a call saying you’ve been booked for trespassing and resisting arrest.”

You rolled your eyes. “It was barely trespassing. I’d just stepped onto the property when they started questioning me. And it’s not resisting if you’re just asking questions! I stayed away from the addresses just like you told me, why can’t you just get over it?”

“You’re such a brat,” he snapped, furiously. “I tell you no one time and you—”

“You cut me out!” you interrupted, stepping closer. “You took my leads, my work, and decided I wasn’t good enough to finish it! What else was I supposed to do?”

“That’s not what happened.”

“That’s exactly what happened.”

He took another step forward, voice low and warning. “You don’t listen. You don’t think. You just jump in like you’re bulletproof—”

“And you don’t take me seriously!” Your voice cracked, and that pissed you off even more.

He stilled, eyes flicking to your face. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” you said. “You don’t trust me to do anything without you there to hover.”

“I’m not hovering,” he said tightly. “I’m making sure you don’t get killed.”

“That’s not your job.”

“IT IS MY JOB!” He yelled loudly. “I’ve spent most of my life saving people, and I’m not going to stop now because you’re throwing a fit about it.”

“Oh, fuck you! I’m not throwing a fit!” You practically stomped your foot, hands flying up. “I’m trying to get my point across! You said we’re partners, right? Well, last I checked, partners listen to each other—they don’t just give orders and disappear!”

His head tilted, jaw tight. “You weren’t listening.”

“I was listening. I just didn’t agree.”

“You’re still not listening.”

“Oh, I hear you loud and clear. You want a puppet. Someone who does what you say and doesn’t make you question if you’re right.”

“That’s not true. You don’t— you just— ugh. Why are you so difficult?”

“Because you make it impossible not to be!” you snapped, taking a step closer. “You talk like I’m a problem to solve, not a person who knows what the hell she’s doing.”

He huffed out a bitter laugh. “Most the time you don’t know what the hell you’re doing!”

“At least I’m trying!”

“You think I’m not?” His voice rose, raw and sharp. “You think I like arguing with you every damn time I try to help?”

“Then stop trying to fix me!”

“I’m not trying to fix you!”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

He froze. The rain filled the silence between you, thunder rumbling low in the distance. His mouth opened, but whatever he meant to say never made it past his teeth.

You waited, heart hammering, but he just stood there—so many words unsaid it almost hurt to look at him.

When he finally spoke, his voice had gone quiet too quite for you to hear. “You make it really hard to do my job.”

He exhaled through his nose heavily and rubbed a gloved hand over his jaw, taking a moment before he waved you along. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

You scoffed, still heated from your fight. “I can walk myself. I don’t need anymore ‘constructive criticism’ from you.”

“You sure about that?”

Your glare was sharp enough to cut glass, but you started walking anyway. He fell into step beside you, silent except for the rhythm of his boots in sync with yours.

The street was mostly empty—just the rain, the flicker of a dying neon sign, and him. Always him.

After half a block, you muttered, “We literally just fought in the street. You don’t have to babysit me.”

“Didn’t realize walking next to you qualified as babysitting,” he said.

“It does when we just had a whole argument about it.”

He didn’t answer. Just shoved his hands deeper into his belt and kept walking. The only sound was the quiet slap of boots on wet pavement and the buzz of rain hitting the neon sign behind you.

A few steps later, you added, “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

You huffed. “Then why are you?”

“Because if I leave you alone, you’ll probably get arrested again.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, but didn’t reply back. 

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t hostile either. Just heavy. The rain whispered against the asphalt, the city around you muted and slick. His shoulder brushed yours—once, then again—and neither of you moved to stop it.

The steady rhythm of footsteps filled the space where your anger used to sit. It didn’t feel gone, just quieter.

Finally, after what felt like blocks of nothing but rain and unsaid words, your dingy apartment building came into view—its familiar shape cutting through the haze like a sigh you didn’t want to let out.

You slowed, stopping under a street lamp. You turned to say something snappy, but the snark died in your throat.

He just stood there, rain dripping off the edges of his hair, staring at you for a long moment, something soft and unguarded flickering behind the mask before he shut it down. Then he reached into his belt, pulled out a small flash drive, and held it out between two fingers.

“Here. Footage from the last few nights.”

You swallowed, not moving to take it. “Why are you giving me this?”

“Because I really don’t like fighting with you,” he admitted, voice low and rough around the edges.

You blinked, throat tight, and tried to fight off the warmth surging in your chest. “Then maybe stop picking fights with me.”

He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

Then he stepped forward and caught your hand, pressing the flash drive into your palm. His gloved fingers lingered for a moment—long enough to make your breath hitch. For a split second, despite your better judgment, you missed the fingerless gloves.

He let go first. The space where his hand had been felt colder than it should’ve. “Sweet dreams, brat. I’ll see you later.” He said softly as he took a step back and turned away.

“Goodnight, Dick-wing.” 

He flashed you a soft smile, and then grappled onto the night. 

You stood there for a moment, rain drenching your hair. The flash drive warm in your palm and the ghost of his touch still clinging to your skin.

When you finally took the elevator, your hallway greeted you with its usual peeling paint and humming pipes. You pushed through the door, dropped your keys on the counter, and leaned against it, exhaling slowly.

The city noise filtered up through the cracked window—distant sirens, the low hum of traffic, the echo of his voice saying I really don’t like fighting with you.

You stared down at the flash drive in your hand, thumb tracing the metal edge.

“Yeah,” you muttered to yourself. “Me either.”

But you still didn’t plug it in.

~~

The next day, you felt off.

You’d tried to distract yourself—coffee, errands, anything—but the echo of I really don’t like fighting with you still followed you around like a song you couldn’t get out of your head. 

Going to the cramped bookstore you frequented seemed like a good idea. Retail therapy always did just the thing, your overflowing bookshelves proved that. 

You were halfway through the synopsis of an outdated Harlequin novel when the sound of hardcovers tumbling to the floor pulled your attention.

You turned, spotting a redheaded woman in a wheelchair bent over awkwardly, reaching for the stack of books scattered across the ground.

You crouched without thinking. “Here, let me give you a hand.”

“Thank you.” Her laugh bubbled up, light and self-deprecating. She was maybe a few years older than you—thick red hair tucked neatly behind her ears, bright green eyes framed by sharp glasses. “Usually, I’m not such a butterfingers.”

You picked up a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice and handed it back to her. “You’ve got good taste.”

Her eyes lit up. “You’ve read Austen?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t be a true romance lover if I hadn’t.”

That earned a quick, genuine grin. “I feel the same way. It’s nice to meet you—I’m Barbara.”

You smiled and stood, brushing dust off your jeans. “Nice to meet you, Barbara.”

She nodded toward your empty hands. “You haven’t found anything yet?”

“I was just browsing.” You shrugged, trying to sound casual. “Not really in the mood for anything specific. More just… trying to distract myself.”

Barbara tilted her head, that sharp, curious look settling in behind her glasses. “Rough week?”

You huffed out a laugh. “Something like that.”

“Bookstore therapy,” she said knowingly. “It’s effective. At least until you see the receipt.”

You grinned, surprised at how easy it felt to talk to her. “I just tell myself that if I pay in cash, it’s like it never happened.”

“I’ll have to remember that.” She laughed lightly and gestured toward the table of paperbacks. “So what kind of distractions work best?Mystery? Sci-fi? Trashy romance?”

“Honestly?” you said, eyeing the shelf. “Anything that doesn’t remind me of work.”

“Ah,” she said, tone light but interested. “And what do you do when you’re not haunting used bookstores?”

“Investigative journalism” you said, then grimaced. “Unfortunately.”

Barbara’s smile didn’t fade, but something in her expression sharpened—just for a heartbeat, like a thought she didn’t voice. “That must be hard.”

You snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I have friends that work in a similar field, so I’m familiar with the struggle.” She grimaced, green eyes swimming with sympathy. “Long hours, longer nights, and very little reward.” 

You laughed softly. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

Barbara tilted her head, watching you with that patient kind of curiosity that made you feel both seen and slightly cornered. “So what do you do to unwind after all that?”

You shrugged. “Unwind? I don’t think I remember how.”

She smiled. “Then let’s start smaller. What do you try to do?”

You thought about it for a second, deciding whether to be honest or not. “Well, I usually just stay in my apartment. I moved here less than a year ago, so I don’t really know anyone.”

“Honestly,” you added with a wry smile, “it’s kind of pathetic.”

Her expression softened. “You don’t have anyone you can talk to?”

“I mean… I call my mom,” you said. “And my old roommate when she’s not drowning in med school and wedding stuff.” You hesitated for a beat, thumb tracing the crease in a paperback cover. “And there’s this… I don’t know. Friend? Coworker? It’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?” she asked, her tone easy, not prying.

You huffed out a small laugh. “He’s just— he kind of inserted himself into my life. Shows up when he shouldn’t, disappears when it’s inconvenient. He’s… hard to explain.”

Barbara smiled, the kind of knowing smile that made you feel like she’d been there before. “Let me guess, he thinks he’s helping but he mostly just drives you crazy?”

“Yes,” you groaned, hands flying up. “Exactly! He’s everywhere, all the time. Whenever I finally get him out of my apartment, he’s still in every corner of my brain. I can’t even smoke a cigarette without thinking about him. It’s like he’s Pavloved me into associating nicotine with him.”

Barbara laughed softly, that warm, low kind of laugh that said she completely understood. “That sounds… exhausting.”

“It is.” You dropped your shoulders, letting out a slow breath. “He’s infuriating. Arrogant. Smug. Always has to have the last word. And then—” you stopped, realizing how much you were saying, “—he’ll do something decent, and I forget why I was mad in the first place.”

Barbara tilted her head, studying you for a long, quiet moment. “Sounds like you don’t actually want him gone, though.”

You blinked. “What makes you say that?”

“You sound…” she paused, searching for the right word, “fond of him. Even when you complain about him.”

You felt it immediately—the warmth creeping up your neck, slow and traitorous. “I’m not—” you started, then sighed. “I just—he’s a lot, okay?”

Barbara smiled softly, that kind of patient smile that made you feel seen in ways you didn’t ask to be. “Bet it doesn’t help that he’s easy on the eyes.”

You froze, blinking at her. “Excuse me?”

She laughed, light and unapologetic. “Come on, don’t tell me he’s not. You wouldn’t sound this conflicted if he looked like a foot.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my God. You’re worse than my friend.”

“Probably,” she said, clearly amused. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

You peeked at her through your fingers, trying not to smile. “He’s… fine.”

Barbara arched an eyebrow. “Fine,” she repeated, like she didn’t believe a word.

“Objectively,” you added quickly. “In the way people on tv are fine. Doesn’t mean I like him.”

“Of course not,” she said, far too easily. “You just think about him constantly and talk about him in bookstores to strangers.”

You glanced down at the books in her lap, still trying to will the blush from your cheeks. “You’re dangerous.”

Barbara tilted her head. “Don’t flatter me.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “Thanks for letting me vent. I don’t usually dump all my drama on strangers.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said easily. “We all need a neutral party now and then.”

You grinned. “You make a good one.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“So,” you said, desperate to shift the conversation away from Nightwing before you embarrassed yourself further, “what do you do when you’re not giving free therapy to strangers?”

She laughed lightly. “I work in I.T. at Wayne Enterprises in Gotham.”

Your eyes widened. “Wow. Badass. What brings you to Blüdhaven?”

“I’m visiting a friend of mine. I’m actually waiting on him and his brother to come get me. They’re running behind, as usual.”

Before you could reply, the bell over the door chimed and you both turned.

Two men walked in, and Jesus.

Both tall. Both broad. Both unfairly handsome in completely different ways. The slightly shorter one wore a dark button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, slacks that fit too well, and a pair of sunglasses that probably cost more than your rent. His hair was dark, neat, a little windswept. The man beside him was rougher around the edges—taller, shoulders broader, a motorcycle helmet tucked casually under one arm. A white streak cut through the dark at his widow’s peak, framing his face in a way that made him even more interesting to look at.

They looked completely out of place in the quiet little bookstore. Too sharp, too alive for the still air and paper dust.

Sunglasses waved off something the taller one said, scanning the shelves with an easy sort of focus until he spotted Barbara. His whole face softened, a practiced smile pulling at his mouth as he started toward her—confident, smooth—until his head turned .

His step hitched, subtle but unmistakable. The smile faltered. His hand froze halfway to his sunglasses, and for one dizzy second, it looked like he’d seen a ghost.

You couldn’t help staring back, thrown by his body language. 

Barbara smiled faintly. “Perfect timing, guys.”

He blinked, pulling himself together. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Sure.”

The taller one had been wandering toward a display, pretending to browse. “Sorry you had to wait, Babs,” he said. His tone was easy, teasing, the kind that told you he was always like this.

When his eyes flicked toward you, though, his grin shifted—slow and sly, like he knew something you didn’t.

He tilted his head slightly, green eyes catching the golden hour light and flashing bright, wicked amusement. “Hey.”

Your toes clenched in your shoes.

“Uh… hi,” you said softly, the word coming out a little more breathless than you’d intended. His attention felt like sunlight—warm, focused, and impossible to ignore.

He chuckled, low in his throat, like he was enjoying your fluster. “What’s your name?

Before you could answer, Barbara’s voice cut cleanly through the moment. “Jason.”

Her tone wasn’t loud, but it carried that distinct you better behave edge.

He turned just enough to glance at her, grin widening. “What?” He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug but didn’t look away from you. “I’m being nice.”

“You’re being creepy,” Barbara snapped. “Stop perving on my friend, before I put another virus on your phone.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting a smile. “Are you two always like this?”

“All the time.” Sunglasses finally cut in. He’d been observing up till this point.

Barbara clear her throat and looked between you two. “This is the friend I mentioned. Dick.”

Dick. Of course it was.

“And this is my other… friend. Jason.” She gritted it between her teeth, like the word friend pained her to say. 

“Oh come, Babs. Don’t be so mean.”

You ignored their bickering, flashing a smile at Dick before your brain caught up. “Dick,” you repeated. “That’s… bold.”

He blinked.  “What?”

You waved a hand quickly. “Nothing. Forget it.”

He was smiling now, though it looked like he was trying very hard not to. “It’s short for Richard.”

“Sure it is,” you said under your breath.

Jason snorted, grinning like he’d just witnessed the best part of his day.

He offered his hand, and you took it, instantly regretting how aware you were of everything — the warmth of his skin, the easy strength of his grip, the way he seemed to look directly at you even through the sunglasses.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

“Yeah,” you managed, pulse kicking up. “You too.”

Then, as the light shifted through the window, you caught it — a flash under the dark lenses.

Blue.

Not just blue — stupidly blue. Bright, cutting, the kind of color that you thought only existed in shitty Wattpad novels. 

It hit you so hard you almost forgot to let go of his hand.You blinked fast, trying to play it cool. “Sorry, I—uh—you just look kinda familiar.”

He stiffened, smile faltering for a heartbeat. “Do I?”

“Yeah. Maybe I’ve seen you around?”

“I doubt it,” he said a little too quickly, thumb brushing the edge of his sunglasses as if to remind himself they were still on. “I don’t really get out much.”

You squinted, studying him a little harder. “Huh.”

Jason’s grin widened, voice full of mischief. “Careful, sweetheart. Keep staring like that and he’s gonna start blushing.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “He’s fine.”

Jason smirked. “I’m sure you think so.”

Your face flamed. 

“Alright, that’s enough outside time today, Jason.  You’ve terrorized enough people.” Barbara cut in, saving you the embarrassment of the long silence that was sure to follow. 

“What?” He shrugged. “I was just making conversation.”

“Is that what this is?” Barbara sniped back. 

He grinned, finally backing off, and turning toward the door with his helmet under one arm. “Fine, fine. No fun allowed.”

Barbara rolled her eyes but followed, steering after him. “Don’t touch anything on the way out.”

“I’d never,” Jason said, already halfway through the door.

“You would,” Barbara shot back.

He just laughed, the sound low and easy as he pushed into the sunlight, holding the door open for Barbara. 

Before she rolled out, she turned, flashing you a sunshine smile. “Thanks again for the help, it was so nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you too.” you said, giving her a gentle wave goodbye.

For a second, the noise of the bookstore seemed to drop away — just the faint hum of the air conditioner and the creak of the floor under his boots. He gave you another dazzling smile.

“It was nice seeing you again,” he said.

You smiled back automatically, your heart doing something deeply inconvenient. “Yeah. You too.”

He nodded once, like he was on the verge of saying something else, then thought better of it. The light from the window hit the side of his face as he turned — a brief flash across the dark lenses — and then he was gone, the bell above the door chiming softly behind him.

You stood there staring at the space he’d occupied like an idiot.

Then you looked down at your book, caught your own reflection in the glossy cover — flushed cheeks, wide eyes — and as the confusion slowly clicked into place, you muttered, “…Did he say ‘again’?”

~~

The second the door shut behind him, Dick exhaled like he’d just gotten off an eight-hour shift.

Barbara rolled smoothly alongside him, Jason matching their pace with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets. For about ten seconds, no one said a word—long enough for Dick to almost believe he’d escaped the inevitable.

“Well,” Jason drawled. “That was painful.”

Dick shot him a vicious side eye.

“Hey, I’m just stating the obvious. You froze up like a deer in headlights. Very smooth, dude.”

“Well,” Barbara interjected, “I thought it was cute. She so in love with you her subconscious recognizes you.”

Dick groaned, contemplating every decision that had led to this exact moment. “Why—of all the days—I had to run into her without the suit on, it had to be when you two were lurking around?”

Jason shrugged, smiling boyishly. “Cosmic timing. It was meant to happen. Fate, baby.”

Dick rolled his eyes, but then something clicked. His head snapped toward Barbara. “Wait—why were you even talking to her?” He pointed an accusatory finger at her face.

Barbara held up both hands in mock surrender. “She helped me pick up some books I dropped, and we got to talking. She said she was a journalist, but I didn’t even realize it was her until she started mentioning a ‘coworker situationship.’” By the end, Barbara was smiling like the cat who’d found the cream, eyebrows waggling at him.

Dick groaned again. “Oh my god.”

“Also,” Barbara added casually, “cut me some slack. She’s… different than how you described her. And that driver’s license photo you showed me didn’t do her justice—she’s pretty.”

“That I do have to agree with.” Jason cut in again. 

“Did she really say ‘coworker situationship?” He asked Barbara, unable to help himself. 

She smiled deviously. “No, I’m taking some creative liberties, but based on what she said, that’s kinda what you guys have going on.”

“What exactly did she tell you?” Dick asked.

“I’m not telling you that. It’s strictly girl talk.” She said pushy, turning her nose up.  

“You’re definitely gunna tell me later, right ?” Jason asked leaning around Dick to look at her. 

“Of course I’m going to tell you later.” Barbara laughed. 

“What? What happened to girl talk?”

“Jason’s a girls girl, so of course I’m going to tell him. Also, if I don’t tell him, who’s going to help me parent trap you guys.”

“Why is everyone suddenly so interested in my love life?” Dick asked, exasperated.

“Because it’s fun to mess with you.” Jason said. 

Barbara nodded, completely serious. “It really is. You give us a good reaction every time.”

They reached the curb where Jason’s bike was parked, the afternoon sun glinting off the chrome. Dick swore the walk there had taken a year off his life.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I hate both of you.”

Barbara smiled sweetly. “You love us.”

Jason smirked. “Who else would put up with your self-righteous bullshit.”

Dick groaned again. “I’m going to throw myself off a bridge.”

Jason was still grinning as he straddled his bike. “Sorry to ruin the vibe, but I’ve got to head to the east side. Got an errand to run before tonight.”

Dick narrowed his eyes. “What’s the errand?”

Jason swung the helmet up into his hands. “Relax, Grayson. I’ll meet you at nine. Same place as always.”

Dick gave in, clearly Jason wasn’t going to give him anything. “Fine. Try not to kill anyone.”

Jason smirked. “No promises.”

Barbara rolled her chair towards Dick’s car, giving Jason a dry look. “Behave, or I’ll personally reroute all your GPS systems to the middle of the Hudson.”

Jason grinned, already sliding the helmet on. “Love you too, Babs.”

“Go away, Jason.”

He saluted them with two fingers. “See you losers tonight.”

The bike roared to life—loud, obnoxious—and he took off down the street, leaving behind exhaust, echoing laughter, and the faint headache that always came with him.

Dick watched him disappear. “Every time he says ‘see you tonight,’ I break out in hives.”

Barbara chuckled. “You’re the one who insisted he be involved.”

He opened the car door for her, muttering, “I make bad decisions.”

“Clearly,” Barbara snarked, setting her brakes before he helped her inside.

~~

They drove for a while in comfortable silence. The city outside blurred past the windows—gray buildings, rusted signs, neon cutting through dusk like a heartbeat.

Barbara watched him for a minute before saying suddenly, “Seriously though, I’m not trying to get involved in your love life.”

Dick shot her a look. “You sure? Because you guys seem pretty committed to the bit.”

“We just care about you,” she said simply.

He blinked, caught off guard by the softness in her tone.

“It’s been years since Kori,” she continued quietly. “And ever since, you’ve been… somewhere else. Moved out here alone, buried yourself in the job, stopped letting anyone in. I just—” she paused, then smiled faintly. “I’m glad you found someone you even want to be around. Romantic or not.”

Dick’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “Babs…”

“I’m not judging,” she said softly. “I know you’re still figuring stuff out. I just don’t want you to be lonely for the rest of your life. You deserve better than that.

He didn’t respond—just kept his eyes on the road, jaw flexing as they turned down his street.

“Besides,” Barbara added, sing-song, “she likes you.”

Dick’s cheeks flushed instantly. “Ugh. Can you not?”

“What? She does.” Barbara grinned, eyes glinting mischievously. “You should make a move before she combusts. Or looses interest.”

“We’re through with this conversation.”

“Sure we are,” she said, far too satisfied.

He groaned, running a hand down his face as he focused back on the road. The rest of the drive passed in companionable silence—or as close to silence as Blüdhaven ever got. The streets outside blurred into streaks of amber light and rain-stained reflections.

When they pulled up outside his building, he parked and unbuckled his seat belt. “You sure you’re good to set up here?”

Barbara was already reaching for her bag. “Yeah. I’ll get the Oracle program online in your office while you nap.”

“I’m not sleeping,” he lied, stepping out of the car to retrieve her wheelchair from the trunk.

She leaned out of the car and shot him a look. “You’re taking a three-hour nap. Minimum.”

He smiled faintly, unfolding the chair. “You’re bossier than I remember.”

“Getting old does that,” she said, maneuvering herself from the sedan into the chair with practiced ease.

He followed her up the ramp. “You really think we’re old?”

She stopped at the front door, waiting for him to open it. “I wouldn’t call us young and spry.”

He shook his head and followed her inside.

Carrying her gear in, he watched her roll straight to his office and start unpacking cables with the kind of precision only Barbara had. Screens flickered to life one by one, washing the room in soft blue light.

“Seriously,” she said, glancing at him as she plugged in the last cable, “go rest. Jason’s expecting you later, and you look like you’ve been awake since the Carter administration.”

Dick huffed out a laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Wake me up in three.”

“Got it.”

He lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching her work—the steady rhythm of her movements, the quiet hum of tech spinning to life.

“Thanks, Babs.”

She didn’t look up, but her smile was audible. “Go to bed, Dick.”

He retreated to his room, closing the door halfway behind him. The apartment fell quiet except for the soft, rhythmic tapping of Barbara’s keys and the slow drip of the faucet in his bathroom.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, dragging a hand through his hair until it stood on end. His pulse hadn’t slowed since the bookstore.

Your face flickered behind his eyes—the curve of your mouth when you smiled, the way the sunlight had hit your skin, the sound of your voice saying his name. His real name. For a split second, he’d thought you knew. That you’d seen him, really seen him, and the idea had burrowed in his chest and made him short of breath.

He exhaled, long and unsteady, then leaned back until he hit the mattress. Still in his clothes. Shoes on. 

He told himself to shut it off. To stop thinking about you. To sleep. But his brain didn’t listen.

Somewhere between awake and dreaming, you were there again—closer this time. His gloves were gone. His hands were on you. One sliding up your neck, thumb brushing your jaw; the other pressed on the back of your neck, tangled in your hair.

You were looking at him with soft eyes and a softer smile. Like you were happy to be with him. 

He leaned in. Felt your breath catch. And right before his lips met yours—

Sleep took him like a hit to the ribs—sudden and heavy

He didn’t remember when Barbara shook him awake hours later; but he’d spent his entire dream reaching for you.

~~

Your apartment was quiet except for the sound of Aliens vs. Predator playing on your TV.

It was supposed to be background noise. Something to fill the silence, to keep you from thinking too hard about the conversation you’d had at the bookstore.

What a topic to unload on a stranger.

Barbara had seemed nice enough, smart, easy to talk to—and apparently that was all it took for you to start word-vomiting about Nightwing like a thirteen-year-old with a crush. You couldn’t even remember how it started. One minute you were talking about books, the next you were talking about him.

And now here you were, sitting on your couch, realizing she was right—you were absolutely, completely fucked.

You did like him. You’d known it for a while now, even if you hadn’t wanted to admit it. Staying up until three in the morning, pretending you were just “working late,” when really you were hoping to see him swing past your window. Getting twitchy whenever your phone buzzed, just in case it was him. It was obvious.

At first, you told yourself it was a proximity thing. He was around a lot, that was all. But the more you got to know him—the more you saw how he worked, how he moved, how he cared—the worse it got.

He was good. Like genuinely good. The kind of person you wanted to believe still existed. He looked out for people. For you. Always making sure you ate, that you slept, that you didn’t do anything dangerous by yourself. You could pretend it annoyed you, but it never really did.

It threw you off instead.

You’d always been taller. Solid. Built like someone who could handle herself — and you could. You always had. “Sturdy,” your grandmother used to say, like it explained everything about you. You’d spent most of your life making peace with it. People didn’t see someone like you and think fragile.

But Nightwing… he didn’t seem to see you that way.

He treated you like you were made of glass. Like you could break if someone wasn’t careful. And you didn’t know what to do with that—how to be angry and flustered at the same time.

You weren’t delicate. You didn’t want to be. But for some reason, when it was him— it didn’t sound so bad.

You shifted on the couch, tugging your blanket tighter around your waist. The blue light from the TV flickered over the half-empty Dr Pepper on the table, your cat asleep on the clean laundry you hadn’t bothered to fold.

“He’s probably out there right now,” you muttered. “Using my leads. Doing all the fun, dangerous shit he said I wasn’t ready for.”

Your voice came out flat, but the sting underneath it was sharp.

You tried to focus on the movie. Hot alien, gross alien, woman in peril—perfect escapism. Except it didn’t work, because, for whatever reason, every time the Predator showed up, you thought about Nightwing again.

You groaned into the couch cushion. “I need a better distraction.”

Your cat flicked an ear but didn’t move.

Then suddenly, a distinct thud on the fire escape shook the window.  

You froze.

Another thud followed—heavier this time. The glass trembled in the frame.

“Dude, are you serious? Get up.”

The voice was muffled, distorted through a modulator, and absolutely dripping with irritation.

You blinked at the window. That was definitely not a pigeon. 

Heart picking up, you stood and grabbed the first thing within reach that could technically qualify as a weapon—your half-empty Dr Pepper can—and immediately realized how pathetic that was. You swapped it out for a nearby umbrella instead, brandishing it like was a baseball bat.

Someone yelped and then there was a thud against the window hard enough to make it rattle again.

You jumped back, umbrella raised. 

The window shoved open from the outside, wind and rain cutting through the warm air of your apartment.

And standing there—broad shoulders, soaked leather jacket, helmet gleaming red under the TV’s blue light—was Red Hood.

“Oh good, you’re up.” He said, stepping into your apartment tracking in mud and dripping rain on your floor. 

You stared, umbrella still raised. “What the fuck? What are you doing here?”

“Making a delivery,” he said simply. The distortion in his voice made it hard to tell if he was joking or not. 

You opened your mouth to ask what the hell that meant, but he was already turning toward the window again. Rain gusted through the opening as he leaned halfway out, muttering something under his breath.

“Get your ass out of the rain, man.”

Red Hood grunted, bracing a hand on the frame, and yanked hard.

Nightwing tumbled into your apartment.

He hit the floor hard, catching himself on one knee, his gloved hand smearing rainwater across the tile. For a second, you thought he might pass out right there. He looked… wrong. Heavy. Slow. Like his body had forgotten how to move the way it always did—graceful and light on his feet.

You helped him onto his unsteady feet and got a better look at him. A cut ran along his hairline, dripping crimson down his cheek, and his lip was split clean through. There were bruises creeping up the side of his neck, dark and ugly, and the rest of him didn’t look much better.

“Oh my god,” you said, your voice softening despite yourself. “Nightwing, what happened to you?”

He blinked slowly, like he had to process the question. Then his gaze found you—slow and uncertain—and something bright and unsteady cracked across his face.

“Hi,” he said, soft and slurred, smiling way too wide with a split lip.

“Hi?” you echoed, caught completely off guard.

He swayed once, then slumped forward, closing the distance between you and wrapping his arms around you in what felt like an almost desperate embrace. The rain soaked through your clothes instantly, cold against your skin where his suit pressed against you.

“I missed you,” he murmured into your shoulder, his voice cracking halfway through like the words hurt to get out.

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid. Your brain short-circuited. He was solid and heavy against you, the heat of him seeping through the soaked fabric, his heartbeat uneven and frantic beneath the damp kevlar.

You made a strangled sound in the back of your throat—half surprise, half panic—and kept your arms hovering uselessly behind him. “Okay,” you said, voice pitching high, “I think you need to sit down.”

He didn’t. Instead, his grip tightened, pulling you closer until you could feel every line of muscle and armor pressed flush against you. His head dropped lower, his breath ghosting across the side of your neck—warm, uneven, and far too close for your heart to handle.

You squeaked, startled, and twisted just enough to look toward Red Hood. “What the hell is wrong with him?”

Red Hood leaned against your window frame like he’d been waiting for that question. His voice came out flat through the helmet, but even the modulator couldn’t hide how done he sounded.

“Some metahuman freak on Lockjaw’s payroll went spelunking in his brain. Crossed a few wires, and killed his last brain cells. Oracle says it’s some kind of neural scramble .”

You blinked. “A what?”

“Means his brain’s soupy,” Red Hood replied, dry as sandpaper. “Oracle says it’s temporary—something about psychic overstimulation and chemical feedback. Basically, he’s having a neurological meltdown.”

You blinked at him. “English, please.”

He sighed. “He’ll be fine. He’s just… off. You’ll see.”

You looked down at Nightwing—still wrapped around you, face buried in your hair, his breath catching every few seconds like he couldn’t get it right. Your stomach twisted.

“I don’t know, Red Hood… he probably needs a hospital.” You tried to keep your voice even, but you heard the worry in it anyway. And maybe the quiet panic. You weren’t built for … this. This version of him. This soft, clingy Nightwing.

“No hospitals,” Nightwing mumbled into your hair. “I wanna stay here.”

You nearly swallowed your tongue.

Red Hood didn’t even blink. “I agree with him. We can’t call an ambulance for a vigilante, and I already carried him all the way here. Do you know how heavy he is?”

You glared. “He’s bleeding.”

“Occupational hazard.”

Nightwing sagged even more, practically melting onto you now. You had to stumble back a step just to keep standing. Instinct took over—your arms wrapped around his middle, holding him up.

“Hey,” you coaxed gently, patting his back. “You need to sit. You’re gonna take us both out.”

He made a low grumbling sound—something between frustration and exhaustion—then drew in a deep, unsteady breath. Slowly, reluctantly, he lifted his head and loosened his hold.

You took his hand—warm, damp, and ridiculously steady despite the rest of him—and guided him toward the couch. He followed you easily… but he didn’t let go.

You tugged once.

Nothing.

His grip only tightened, fingers curling around yours like he was convinced you’d vanish.

You sighed and raised your free hand. “Okay. Fine.” Then pointed at your cat. “I offer him in my stead.”

Nightwing blinked at you. Then at the cat. Back at you. He loosened his grip immediately.

You set the cat gently into his lap. He exhaled like you’d given him a priceless artifact.

Running a hand down your face, you groaned and turned back toward Red Hood. “You can’t possibly be thinking about leaving him here.”

“Right on the money actually.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Red Hood didn’t shift from his spot by the window. “Oracle and I figured he’d stay put with you.”

You blinked slowly. “…Why me?”

Red Hood tipped his helmet toward Nightwing as if the answer was obvious. “He practically begged me to bring him here.”

You turned, expecting—hoping, maybe—that was an exaggeration.

It wasn’t.

Nightwing was rubbing his face into your cat’s fluffy stomach, like the fur was the softest thing he’d ever touched. Little circles. Slow nuzzles. A faint grin tugging at the corner of his swollen lip.

He wasn’t listening to a word being said. He wasn’t even pretending to. He looked… happy. Stupidly so.

Your chest tightened in a weird, unwelcome way.

You swallowed. “Begged you?” you repeated, quieter this time.

“Yeah,” Red Hood said. “Multiple times. Very annoyingly.”

You forced your eyes away from Nightwing’s ridiculous display of feline affection and faced Red Hood head-on. “He actually asked to come here?”

“He insisted,” Red Hood corrected. “Kept saying he needed to talk to you. Explain. Make sure you alright. That kind of thing.”

Your stomach flipped. “He said all that?”

“Yeah.” A shrug. “With lots of adjectives.”

You looked back at Nightwing again—his fingers buried gently in your cat’s fur, his expression soft around the edges. He looked up for half a second, met your eyes, and smiled like the sight of you made his day.

Your breath caught, small and sharp.

Red Hood noticed. You could tell by the way he tilted his helmet slightly, arms still crossed.

“Point is,” he continued, “we don’t think he’ll run off if he’s here. I can’t say that about anywhere else.”

You dragged in a slow breath and exhaled through your nose. “This feels like a bad idea.”

“You’ll be fine,” Red Hood said, stepping back toward the window. “Give him some Tylenol and put on How It’s Made. He’ll be out in five minutes.”

You gave him a flat stare. “You cannot be serious.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Works like a charm.”

Your eyes drifted back to Nightwing—who was now holding your cat under the arms like he was trying to read his aura, whispering something about destiny or treats.

Your cat looked deeply uncomfortable.

“This is not safe,” you said. “You can’t take him anywhere else?”

“For his physical safety and my mental sanity,” Red Hood said, waving vaguely at Nightwing, “this is the best place for him.”

“That’s not an answer,” you snapped.

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

“No, I’m serious,” you insisted, stepping closer. “Take him to— I don’t know—take him to Batman. Or Robin. Or… whatever. One of your spooky little coworkers.”

Red Hood barked a sharp laugh. “Yeah. That’ll go well.”

“I’m failing to see the issue!” you said, gesturing wildly. “Don’t you all have caves full of medical supplies? Crying tanks? Robot bats? Whatever you people do?”

Red Hood’s helmet angled toward you very slowly. “You want me to bring this version of him to Batman?”

He pointed at the couch. You followed his finger.

Nightwing was now gently patting your cat’s head while saying, completely seriously, “You’re so brave. You’re the bravest little man in the whole universe.”

You stared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Red Hood turned his helmet toward you slowly, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“If you think I’m taking that”—he pointed at Nightwing, who was now making kissy noises at your cat—“to see The Dark Knight, you must be out of your mind.”

“Nu-uh,” you fired back before you could stop yourself.

“…What the fuck do you mean ‘nu-uh’?” Red Hood demanded. “You don’t even know him.”

“I mean,” you said, flustered, “he’s just… another one of you guys, right? He’d help.”

Red Hood let out a sound that was probably a laugh, but it was too bitter to tell. “He’s terrifying.”

You opened your mouth—

Stopped—

Thought about it for a single second—

And closed your mouth.

Red Hood stared at your silence, nodded once, decisive.“Thats what I thought.”

“I don’t even say anything,” you snapped.

“Doesn’t matter.” He jerked his thumb at Nightwing. “He’s staying.”

You looked back at Nightwing.

He was lifting your cat like a strangely reverent offering to the gods, didn’t even notice the existential crisis happening two feet away.

You dragged your eyes back to Red Hood. “So what now? You’re just leaving?”

“Yep.”

“That’s—NO. No, absolutely not. What am I supposed to do with him?”

Red Hood didn’t bother answering right away. He just stared at you through the visor like he was waiting for you to connect the dots yourself.

You threw your hands up. “I’m not equipped for this!”

“You’re more equipped than he is,” he said plainly. “And he’ll listen to you. Thats enough.”

“That’s not enough!”

He tilted his helmet a fraction. “What, you want me to take him back out into the rain where he’ll wander off into traffic?”

You opened your mouth and paused. 

Looked at Nightwing, who was now gently bouncing your cat and whispering, “Do you think I could carry you with one hand? Wanna try? No? Okay, that’s valid.”

…and closed your mouth.

Again, Red Hood took your silence as compliance.

“Great,” he said briskly. “I’ll send Oracle an update.”

“Wait—Red Hood—”

He was already stepping onto the ledge. “You’re doing a public service.”

“I did not sign up for vigilante daycare!”

He gave a small, unapologetic shrug. “Field assignments evolve.”

You took a desperate step toward him. “Red Hood, seriously—how am I supposed to—”

A warm hand wrapped around your wrist.

You froze and looked down.

Nightwing was looking up at you from the couch, fingers wrapped gently—but firmly—around your wrist.

“You weren’t looking at me,” he said quietly, like it was a fact of deep emotional importance.

Your heart vaulted straight into your throat.

Red Hood didn’t miss a beat.

“See?” he said. “He’s imprinting on you like a baby duck. You’ll be fine.”

“THAT DOESN’T MAKE ME FEEL BETTER—”

“Good luck, sweetheart.”

And then he was gone—out the window and into the rain with zero remorse.

The apartment fell quiet except for the soft hum of your TV and the faint, rhythmic purring of your cat.

Nightwing tugged on your wrist—gentle, persistent. “Sit with me,” he murmured, voice dipped in warmth.

You swallowed hard. “Um… how about we clean you up first?”

He blinked up at you, bright and hopeful. “We sit together after?”

Your knees nearly buckled. “We’ll… see,” you said, because answering yes felt like stepping off a cliff.

That must’ve counted as encouragement, because Nightwing’s whole face lit up. “Okay,” he murmured.

You took a steadying breath and offered him your hand. “Can you stand?”

“Yes,” he said confidently.

He was a liar.

The second he shifted his weight, his knees buckled and he lurched forward. You barely caught him—your hands gripping his arms, his forehead knocking into your chin with a soft, stunned thunk.

“Jesus—” you hissed, tightening your grip to keep both of you upright. “Okay. Yeah. No. You’re can’t stand.”

“Sorry.” He whined, rubbing his forehead with one hand and gripping your shoulder with the other. “Is your face ok?”

You were trying to ignore how close his face was to yours.

“My face is fine,” you said, adjusting his arm over your shoulders. “Come on. Bathroom. Slowly.”

He leaned into you without hesitation, one arm sliding around your shoulders easily. He was heavy, too warm, and entirely too comfortable pressed against your side.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured as you guided him toward the hallway.

“Good at what?” you asked, grateful for anything that distracted you from the fact that he was pressed firmly along your side, practically molded there.

“Taking care of me.”

Your step hitched. “I’m pretty sure this is just… basic human decency,” you said, trying to keep your voice level. “If someone’s bleeding and falling over, you help them.”

“Hmmm,” he hummed, thinking about it far too deeply for someone barely upright. “Maybe. Still feels nice.”

He let you steer him through the bathroom doorway. Once inside, he blinked around like the room needed interpreting.

Then his gaze landed back on you.

“What are we doing in a bathroom?” He asked. 

You sighed heavily and tried to ease him toward the tub. “You’re getting cleaned up. You’re dripping all over the floor.”

“Ohhhhh,” he said pleasantly. “I was wondering why I was so cold.”

“Yeah, genius. Sit on the edge of the tub.”

You guided him toward it, keeping one hand on his arm until he lowered himself—slow, careful, wobbling but successful—onto the ledge.

“Good,” you murmured. “Stay there.”

You crossed to the sink, turned on the warm water, and reached for a washcloth. Then you grabbed your first aid kit from under the cabinet, setting both beside you.

When you looked back, he wasn’t staring off or blinking around the room anymore. He was watching you, studying you. 

You whipped around again. Get it together.

You wrung the washcloth out too hard—water splattering across the counter—and forced yourself to turn back.

He was still watching you.

You swallowed, stepped in close, and tilted his head up to clean the blood from his lip. He winced.

You paused. “Sorry.”

“I’m fine,” he said softly. “Just stings.”

You kept wiping—jaw, cheek, temple—your hand pushing his damp hair back so you could get to the cut near his hairline. He stayed quiet, breathing slow and deep.

“Nightwing,” you said, checking he was still with you.

“Hmm?”

“Wake up.”

“I’m awake,” he slurred. “Just… feels good.”

You said nothing, turning back to the sink to rinse the cloth—

—and froze.

He wasn’t wearing his domino mask.

“Oh my GOD.” You slapped a hand over your eyes. “WHAT are you doing?!”

There was a beat of silence.

“…Sitting?” he offered, unsure.

“The MASK,” you snapped, he pointed directly at the wall. “Your MASK. Why is it OFF?”

“It’s gross,” he said simply.

“Nightwing, that is your identity. That’s your whole LIFE. You can’t just take it off!”

He made a small, baffled sound, like you were the one being unreasonable. “You were cleaning my face.”

“That doesn’t mean TAKE IT OFF!”

“It was in the way.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “You’re messed up right now. You can’t make decisions like this!”

He blinked at you, unconcerned. “I couldn’t see you.”

“That is NOT the point!”

“You won’t hurt me.”

“THAT IS ALSO NOT THE POINT!”

He tilted his head, expression soft, almost amused. “You’ve seen my face now. It’s okay.”

“No,” you whispered, horrified. You pressed your fingers to your eyes so hard you saw stars. “Do you understand how serious this is?”

He swung his legs slightly, heels tapping the tub. “Noooo?”

“You can’t just show people your FACE—!”

“But you’re not ‘people,’” he said, voice small and plaintive. “You’re you.”

You froze.

“And I trust you,” he continued, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out.

You turned away so hard your neck cracked, staring at the wall like it had personally wronged you.

“You’re really not gonna look at me?” he asked after a moment—voice small, needy, confused.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Why?” he asked softly.

“Because you’re maskless,” you hissed. “You don’t just—take off your face around people!”

“You’re not ‘people,’” he repeated, as if that settled the matter.

“That’s not—Nightwing, oh my GOD—”

He let out a tiny, wounded noise. “…Do you not wanna see me?”

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“It’s not that!” you snapped, still refusing to turn. “It’s that you only did it because your brain is scrambled like an egg!”

“I can put it back on,” he offered, sounding unsure. “If you want.”

You risked a glance over your shoulder and saw the cracked, blood-smeared mask dangling from his fingers— And whipped your head back around.

“NO! No, do NOT put that back on. That thing is disgusting.”

He perked up slightly. “So I leave it off?”

“No! Yes! I— I don’t know! Just—DON’T MOVE.”

“‘Kay,” he murmured, weirdly content.

There was a beat of silence. 

Then—“So you’re really not gonna look at me?”

“No, Nightwing! I’m not looking at you.”

“Is it because I’m ugly?”

“What the fu—NO!”

“Then why won’t you look?”

“Because you’re bare-faced, you weirdo! That is PRIVACY! That is SECRECY! That is your whole thing!”

He hummed, like he was genuinely considering this. “So… not ugly.”

“Of course you’re not ugly!”

“So… attractive?”

Your soul packed a suitcase, left your body, and caught the next flight to hell.

God, strike me down where I stand. I can’t do this.

He perked up like you’d handed him a medal. “So that’s a yes?”

You made a sound that didn’t belong in the human language. “No comment!”

He gasped softly—like you’d confessed undying love. “That means yes.”

“That means SHUT UP.”

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Instead, you heard the faint shift of weight as he leaned forward on the edge of the tub. “…If I’m attractive,” he said softly, earnestly, devastatingly, “why won’t you look at me?”

“Oh my fucking god! Because you’re MASKLESS!” you hissed. “I am respecting your boundaries! Even if YOU aren’t!”

“I don’t have boundaries,” he said immediately.

“That is abundantly clear!”

“I like when you look at me.”

“Please. Stop. Talking.”

“You look at my face a lot when I have the mask on,” he pointed out, weirdly proud. “I do notice things.”

“Nightwing, I am begging you to shut the fuck up right now.”

“…Are you blushing?”

You slapped a hand over your whole face. “I am going to drag you outside and leave you on the sidewalk.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

He hummed, smug in the way only a concussed acrobat could be. “You think I’m cute.”

“I think you’re brain is fried.”

“Noooo,” he sing-songed. “You liiiike me.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, “Red Hood left you here so I could kill you instead.”

Then—because the universe was cruel— his voice softened. “…I wish you’d look at me.”

Your knees almost buckled.

Taking a deep steadying breath, you murmured the order “Close your eyes.”

He obeyed instantly, lashes lowering in one soft sweep. 

You swallowed and moved back to his side, lifting the washcloth again with hands that didn’t feel like they belonged to you.

You started wiping the dried blood from his cheek, focusing on each stroke of the cloth so you didn’t have to think about what you were really doing—touching Nightwing’s bare face. His actual face. The one no one was supposed to see.

But once you started you couldn’t stop.

Everything about him was strong and defined. Not just physically—though God, that too—but in the way his features sat together, like someone had carved them with the intent to be admired. 

Up close, without the mask, he seemed younger. Not childish—just… human. Less myth, more man.

You knew he was only thirty-one, so it wasn’t like the mask aged him—but without it, he lost something intangible. That sharp, mysterious allure, that vigilante distance. And what replaced it was worse.

Because he wasn’t just handsome. He was devastatingly handsome.

The kind of handsome that made your stomach drop, made your brain fizzle, made you absolutely certain he would never—ever—look at you the way you’d accidentally started looking at him.

You always knew he was attractive—he had that aura, that confidence, that stupid, unfair charisma—but this? Seeing him without the mask?

It was startling.

And you… you couldn’t help it.

While you wiped, you studied every feature intently, like memorizing him might keep him here a little longer.

Like maybe in the morning, when he was back to himself and gone again, you’d at least still have this.

Defined eyebrows that matched his rain-soaked dark hair. Thick lashes framed the dark circles beneath his eyes—earned, not sloppy—giving him a tired, softened look you weren’t prepared for. A perfect nose, strong and elegant. A pronounced cupid’s bow that shaped his lips just right—plush, expressive, made for smirking and complaining and saying your name in that voice that made you insane. A strong, capable jaw. The kind you could cut your hand on if you weren’t careful.

He felt unreal under your fingertips.

You lifted the cloth to his temple again, brushing back a damp lock of hair, and he hummed softly—barely there, content or comforted or simply surrendering to your touch. You didn’t know. You didn’t dare think too hard about it.

When you pulled the washcloth back to check your work, his eyes fluttered open.

His gaze met yours instantly — and every coherent thought in your brain flatlined.

His eyes were blue. The exact shade you’d guessed they might be. The exact shade you’d secretly hoped they’d be. A clear, vivid blue framed by dark, stupidly thick lashes that anyone would kill for.

This is too much, you thought, dizziness pricking behind your ribs. Way too much.

He blinked at you, soft and slow, completely unaware of the meltdown happening behind your face.

“…Why’d you stop?” he asked, voice low and rough from exhaustion.

You had to physically force air back into your lungs before you could get anything out. “Your… your face is clean,” you said, the words barely above a whisper.

Nightwing blinked slowly, still staring at you with those unfair blue eyes.

You tore your gaze away. “…Right. Clothes. You need dry clothes.”

He gasped, scandalized. “You’re just trying to see me in the nude.”

“What? No I am not!”

“You’re trying to take advantage of me in my vulnerable state,” he continued, swaying slightly as he pressed the back of his hand to his forehead like an overdramatic Victorian widow. He was absolutely doing this on purpose.

You reacted without thinking — loud, panicked, mortified. “I’m just trying to get you dry, you sicko! If I ever saw you naked, I’d— I’d claw my eyes out!”

He perked up like a dog hearing the treat bag.

Then smirked, dimples showing, clearly pleased with himself for riling you up. “Are you thinking about it?”

Your brain hiccuped. “What?”

“Seeing me naked.” His smile plus those bright blue eyes was lethal. You could feel your blood pressure spike.

“No!” you screeched, face going nuclear. “Not everyone is a perv like you!”

He pointed at your cheeks triumphantly. “You’re so thinking about it. Your face is the color of a stop sign.”

“You’re a freak!” you shouted, flailing an accusing finger at him.

He leaned in a little, swaying, eyebrows raised in innocent curiosity. “You’re really not thinking about it?”

“Well I am now!” you exploded, throwing your hands up.

He let out a full, high-pitched, absolutely unhinged shriek. “AHHHHH! You’re thinking about me naked!”

You slapped both hands over your face.

“It’s your fault! You keep talking about it!”

“You’re STILL thinking about it!” he said, pointing at you  

“STOP SAYING IT AND I WON’T!”

He gasped again — dramatic, offended, delighted. “She’s imagining me NAKED,” he whispered loudly to your cat, who stared back with dead, judgmental eyes.

You made a strangled noise from the depths of your soul. “Oh my GOD—” You grabbed the nearest towel and flung it at his head. It hit him square in the face; he swayed like you’d struck him with a log. “I’m getting you clothes. JUST—STOP TALKING.”

You turned and stormed away, hearing him mumble behind you — still loud enough to be heard:

“…She totally is.”

You tripped over your own feet. 

In your living room/bedroom combo, you rummaged through drawers with frantic energy. You pulled out the first things that might fit him: a pair of old sweats that had survived college, and a short-sleeve Rick and Morty t-shirt with a suspicious hole in the armpit.

Whatever. The bar was low. 

Heart hammering, you marched toward the bathroom—clothes clutched in your shaking hands, doing your best not to replay the unmasked eye-contact apocalypse that had just occurred.

He had stripped half out of his suit. 

The entire top half hung low on his hips, exposing a tan, solid chest, arms corded with corded muscles and ropes of veins. Healing bruises in all shades and scars painted his body in a violent mosaic. A trail of dark hair disappeared into the sharp V of his hips, and the waistband of his underwear peeked out, taunting you. 

You started openly, unable to peel your eyes off him. 

He looked up at you and Smiled. Hazy blue eyes flashing at you. 

You panicked and threw the clothes directly into his face. They hit him with a dull fwump. He made a small, confused noise under the fabric.

You spun so fast you nearly wiped out on the tile, slammed the bathroom door behind you like you were sealing away a curse, and stumbled toward the couch. The second you hit the cushions, you shoved your face into the pillow and let out a full-volume scream. You kept screaming until your lungs burned, until you had no air left, until the panic inside you had nowhere else to go.

After you finally ran out of steam, you lay there limply, contemplating how you were supposed to survive the rest of the night. He was going to do you in. Truly. Completely.

This was the first moment you’d actually had to think since Red Hood dragged him into your apartment like a wet, concussed cat, and the weight of it all finally hit you at once. The entire train wreck from the moment Nightwing collapsed onto your floor had been one long, unbroken disaster. And now—finally still—you felt every second of it.

The gravity of seeing him unmasked settled over you like a brick on your chest. His face. His eyes. His everything. You weren’t supposed to see that. Not you. Not anyone. And tomorrow, when he was himself again, when he was sharp and collected and fully Nightwing—what then? Would he regret it? Would he blame you? Panic? Shut you out completely?

The thought made your stomach twist.

And as if that wasn’t enough, he was… too attractive. Ridiculously, unfairly, ruin-your-life attractive. It was obscene. Cruel, even. Maybe he wasn’t consciously trying to fluster you—his brain was soup, after all—but you knew, deep down, somewhere in that sick little head of his, he was laughing his ass off about how thoroughly he managed to get under your skin.

Better than he ever had before.

You groaned into the couch cushion.

You were doomed.

You were still face-down on the couch, trying to convince yourself your life wasn’t falling apart at the seams, when you heard the slow creak of the bathroom door.

You shot him a side-eye from beneath your pillow, absolutely not ready to deal with him yet.

Your clothes fit him surprisingly well. The sweatpants were a little short, the shirt a little snug, but at least he wasn’t half-naked anymore. Small victories.

He took a few unsteady steps toward the couch, wobbling like a baby deer, and tapped the bottom of your foot where it hung off the cushion.

“Whose clothes are these?” he asked.

You didn’t move, face still mashed into the throw pillow. “Mine?” you mumbled, muffled and defeated.

“Where did you get them?” he pressed, and for some reason, he wrapped his fingers gently around your bare ankle like he needed to keep your attention from drifting away.

You lifted yourself onto your elbows, glaring at him through disheveled hair—ankle still caught in his hand. “Goodwill? Why are you interrogating me?”

Instead of answering, his hold slid from your ankle to the arch of your foot. His thumb pressed in—firm, curious, like he was checking the structural integrity of your soul.

“So…” he said slowly, eyes narrowing like he was solving a crime, “…some guy didn’t leave them here?”

You flinched violently and let out a full-body squeal the moment his thumb moved. The bastard started tickling you.

“A-AHHHH—! Some guy???” you screeched, kicking wildly but unable to escape because he had a surprisingly solid grip for someone whose brain was scrambled eggs.

He kept poking at the sole of your foot with earnest concentration, like this was part of the investigation.

“No guy?” he asked seriously, thumb brushing under your toes in a way that made you jolt like you’d been electrocuted.

“STOP—!” you shrieked through laughter, face burning, “YOU FREAK—! NO! No guy! Oh my God!”

He finally stopped, hand resting warm around your ankle again, satisfied.

“…Good,” he murmured, and your whole body locked up. You stared at him like he’d just said something he definitely shouldn’t have said, while he blinked back at you with soft, unfocused sincerity, completely unaware of how intimate that single word sounded coming from him.

Before you could react, his fingers shifted around your ankle—and suddenly he gave a gentle tug. You slid down the couch with a startled yelp, your pillow launching somewhere behind you, until your calves ended up draped neatly across his lap. You pushed up on your elbows, wide-eyed and breathless.

You gestured at where he was holding your legs in his lap. “You can’t just manhandle me, Nightwing.”

He didn’t even pretend to take your indignation seriously. Instead, he ran a slow hand up and down your calf, thumb brushing the curve of muscle like he wasn’t aware he was doing it. “This feels right, though.”

You groaned, exhausted—not physically, but emotionally. He’d been tugging at your heartstrings all night, whether he realized it or not. Instead of fighting him, you turned back toward the TV, shifting just enough to get comfortable while still half-sprawled across him.

The moment you moved, his grip tightened on your ankle—not painful, but firm, steady.

“Don’t leave,” he said quietly.

You scoffed, heat creeping into your chest. “I’m not leaving,” you murmured. 

His shoulders relaxed immediately, his whole body sinking deeper into the couch. He practically melted next to you. 

He finally quieted down, his grip on your ankle loosening as he slouched into the couch. The room settled with him, warm and dim and still, and for a few minutes you truly thought he’d drifted off. His head tilted slightly toward you, lashes low, breathing even. You dared a glance at him.

Rookie mistake.

He wasn’t paying you a bit of attention, fully absorbed in the movie, which meant he had no idea you were silently staring holes into the side of his head.

You took your time studying him—because tomorrow, when he came to his senses and realized he ripped his mask off and cuddled with you on the couch, he would absolutely never speak to you again. And you wanted to remember his face. You’d never been an artist, but you admired beauty when you saw it, and Nightwing’s face rivaled every piece of art you’d ever witnessed.

How does he get anything done?

The credits finally rolled, and when he turned to look at you, you snapped out of your trance so violently you nearly jolted.

His eyes were hazy and half-open—thank god he was this out of it.

“What are we watching next?” he asked softly.

You cleared your throat, desperate for something to do with your hands. “You decide. I need to get you some Tylenol.”

He blinked, confused. “For what?”

You slipped out of his grip before he could tighten it again. “Because that’s what you give people who are hurt?”

You retreated to the kitchen like the room was on fire. You grabbed the bottle, filled a cup of water, and took a second to breathe. He was injured, loopy, vulnerable, and definitely not doing… whatever this was… on purpose. He wasn’t playing with you. He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t trying to ruin your life.

You repeated that to yourself twice before returning.

When you sat back down on the coffee table in front of him, he immediately straightened, like your presence alone reeled him in. His knees bumped yours. His eyes tracked every movement of your hands as you shook two pills into your palm.

“Here,” you said gently, offering the Tylenol.

He took the pills, then the water, fingers brushing yours. For a second, he didn’t drink—he just stared at you.

Then a gooey smile over took his lips, his eyes warm. “You’re so pretty.” He’d said it causally, like it was something he told you all the time. 

You blushed furiously, and turned you head away embarrassed. “Nightwing,” you whispered, horrified, “stop. Please stop saying things like that.”

He swallowed the pills, took a sip of water, and had the audacity to act like you were the one being a weirdo. “Why? You are.”

“Because! You’re brain is fucked up right now. You’re gunna regret everything you’ve said tonight.” Your heart beat was erratic. 

He blinked once. Slowly. Then leaned a little closer, studying your face intently.

“Ohhhh,” he said, voice dipping into a soft, relieved hum. “I get it.”

He leaned back into the couch, still looking at you with that sleepy, unguarded sincerity.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said simply. “I’ll think you’re pretty tomorrow. You’re always pretty.”

Your soul left your body.

“That’s not what I’m talking about!” you yelped, burying your face in your hands with a strangled groan. “Please, Nightwing, just—just stop talking.”

Naturally, he did the opposite.

He tilted his head, eyes warm and unfocused, voice soft with that dreamy honesty he’d had all night. “You don’t believe me?”

“Drop it!” you snapped, resisting the urge to throw the Tylenol bottle at his face.

He lifted both hands in mock surrender, palms out. “Okay, okay. I get it. You just don’t take compliments well.”

You peeked at him between your fingers. “I take compliments fine. Just not the ones you give.”

His jaw dropped dramatically—like you’d said something truly heinous. “What? Why not mine? Mine are good.”

“Because you’re concussed,” you hissed. “You’re saying stuff you don’t mean.”

He squinted at you, offended. “I mean everything I’ve said.”

“You wouldn’t be saying these things to me if you’d come here under normal circumstances.”

And that was what you kept clinging to. None of this would be happening if he’d crawled through your window like usual—annoying, smug, impossible. But because his brain was, sigh, soupy, he’d been softer and needier and oddly charming in ways he didn’t even realize. You were just the convenient victim of whatever malfunction he was running on tonight. You’d been reminding yourself of that all night, but every minute sitting here with unmasked Nightwing made it harder not to get lost in the fantasy. He didn’t mean any of this. He’d probably call a potato pretty if you put it in his hand.

“I think it a lot,” he said, earnest and immediate.

You eyed him suspiciously. “Think what a lot?”

“That you’re pretty.” He said it casually, like it wasn’t sending your heart into a sprint.

“Ugh.” You reacted without thinking, snatching the pillow you’d spent the afternoon on and smacking him square in the face with it.

He fell back into the couch with a high-pitched whine, more offended than actually hurt.

You took the moment to curl up as far from him as the couch would allow. You really needed another chair.

“You’re so mean,” he whined again. “I’m just being nice.”

“Whatever. Just pick a movie,” you grumbled, pulling the blanket up to your chin.

“Oh yeah! The movie,” he said pleasantly, already forgetting the whole exchange that had just derailed your cardiovascular system.

He grappled for the remote, clicked the wrong buttons twice, and finally landed on Transformers. Not a terrible choice. Loud and distracting.

Ten quiet minutes passed—just enough time for your jaw to unclench—before he spoke again.

“You’re sitting soooo far away.”

“I’m sitting on the other side of the couch.”

“Which is soooo far away,” he insisted.

This was starting to get exhausting. “Nightwing,” you sighed. “Just watch the fucking movie.”

He crossed his arms like a petulant child. “Fine.”

It lasted less than a minute.

“If you’re mad at me you can just say that,” he murmured, staring at the TV.

“What?”

“That’s why you’re sitting so far away, right? Because you’re mad at me?”

“I’m more annoyed than mad right now,” you said honestly. “Mostly because you keep interrupting the movie.”

“If you’re not mad, then why are you sitting so far away?”

“Because I think it’s best if we have some space.”

“That’s what people who are mad say.”

“Oh my god,” you said lightly, already defeated. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Then sit closer to me.” He reached for you.

You jerked away instantly. “I want to stay over here.” Your eyes flicked down to his bare hand, that stupidly warm, ungloved hand, and you quickly looked away.

His face fell so fast it made your stomach twist.

“You are mad at me,” he whimpered dramatically, crushed beyond reason.

“I’m not mad,” you said, already exhausted.

He shook his head, stubborn. “You are. You have to be. Because of… everything.”

“Everything,” you repeated flatly.

“Yeah,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “The fight the other day. When I told you you weren’t coming with me.”

You sighed softly, trying not to rise to it.

“And then last night.” His voice tightened. “At the station. Outside. Walking home. We fought the entire time. And you didn’t even look at me when we got here.” He swallowed hard. “So yeah. You’re mad.”

You stared at him for a moment. “Nightwing—”

He shook his head again, this time sharper, eyes glassing over more from emotion than confusion . “I hate it,” he said, voice cracking just enough to pull your breath from your chest. “I hate it when you’re mad at me.”

Your throat tightened. “I’m not—”

“I can deal with getting my ass handed to me,” he said, running right over your protest. “I can deal with bruises, concussions, stabbing—whatever. That stuff doesn’t bother me.” He swallowed, a slow, shaky pull of breath that barely made it past his ribs. “But I really hate fighting with you.”

It hit you in the exact same cadence, the exact same softness, as the night he’d walked you home. 

He kept going, the words tumbling out like he’d been holding them back for days.

“I hate fighting with you and then leaving you all alone in this fucking apartment,” he continued, voice thinning at the edges. “I hate not hearing from you. I hate not knowing what you’re doing or where you are.”

“All I could think was—what if you’re out there chasing some stupid lead without me?” His voice dropped, strained. “What if something happens? What if you’re scared or hurt or… stuck somewhere you shouldn’t be with nobody to call?”

His breath hitched hard on that last word, rough and unsteady, like it scraped on the way out. He blinked quickly, jaw tight, but the shine in his eyes was unmistakable.  

Before you even had time to think, you closed the space between you, reaching out and brushing your hand across his forehead. Your fingers swept his damp hair back, slow and steady, smoothing it away from his eyes. 

He leaned into your touch immediately—almost desperately—and when he looked at you again, the sadness in his expression almost knocked the air out of you.

He kept talking, voice cracking in the middle of it. “I’m so sorry for leaving you behind. I shouldn’t have bossed you around. I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.” His eyes lifted to yours, raw and miserable. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

You brushed his hair back again, thumb grazing the soft skin at his temple, and your heart clenched at the tear tracks gathering beneath his lashes—thin silver streaks you hadn’t noticed until they caught the light.

“And if you’d gone with me tonight,” he went on, breath shivering, “it could’ve been your brain they fucked with.” His voice cracked—an audible fracture—before he steadied it again. “Your head they bashed into the floor.”

His mouth trembled with emotion. “I know you don’t need me, but I want to keep you safe. I keep thinking about it. About how easily it could’ve been you. About how—how fast everything went bad. That’s why I had to come here tonight.”

You swept his hair back again and wiped the tear sliding down his cheek. Still totally unequipped to deal with a concussed vigilante having feelings on your couch, you grabbed his calloused hand because it felt like the only thing you could do. He let out a shaky breath the moment your fingers laced with his. 

You leaned on him—mostly so he’d stop wobbling—and he inhaled deeply, trying (and failing) to act like he wasn’t crying.

For a moment, it was quiet.

Then he shifted. You felt it—the slow drag of an arm wrapping around your back, then the other. He was clearly about to give a bear hug.

You stared at him, horrified. “Whoa—what are you doing?”

He pulled you closer.

“Nope—nope—NO, sir—” you protested, hands coming up like you were stopping a wild animal. “We are not doing emotional cuddles—“

“I just need to hold you,” he said, voice breaking like he was confessing a murder.

You deadpanned. “Oh my god.”

Alas, he didn’t let go. And you could feel—literally feel—his breath shaking against your neck, the way his fingers pressed into your back like he needed the contact to stay upright.

Which was… unfortunately effective.

You huffed loudly, dramatically. “Fine,” you muttered. “FINE. But this is out of pity. Pure pity.”

He made a tiny, embarrassing noise—half laugh, half whimper—and burrowed his face into your shoulder.

“You’re crushing my boobs,” you informed him.

“No,” he mumbled miserably, “I’m… comforting you.”

“You’re comforting me?”

“Yes,” he said into your shirt, sounding offended by the question.

You snorted but didn’t move. His grip stayed warm, heavy, almost protective. His breathing slowly evened out, the tension melting out of him inch by inch until his whole weight slumped into you.

At some point the exhaustion caught up with both of you. His arms stayed around you the entire time, even as his head slipped against yours, breath settling into that slow, heavy rhythm that meant he was completely out. 

Transformers droned on in the background, and the heat of him pressed along your side finally dragged you under. You gave up fighting it. His chest rose and fell steadily against your back, and your breathing fell into the same rhythm without you meaning to.

The two of you ended up wrapped around each other for the rest of the night—messy, tangled, warm—like two people who were too tired and too lonely to pretend they didn’t want the closeness.

~~

Across town, Jason and Barbara paused over the map on Dick’s computer, saw the unmoving GPS dot at your address, and exchanged a knowing look.

“Called it,” Jason said.

Barbara smiled mischievously. “Looks like the universe ships them too.”