Chapter Text
You find that out of all the people to work out with in the Wayne Manor gymnasium, the one you actually feel most at ease with is Dick. Perhaps it’s his easygoing demeanor, or the fact that he doesn’t hover, holding you to a rigorous regimen the way others might.
Instead, he chooses to gravitate near, a celestial body that rotates in similar orbit but never in a claustrophobic manner, intersecting only at opportune moments to check in before retreating away to other matters at hand. You enjoy it because he’s a presence, but not overly present.
And sometimes, it can be a marvel to watch him, especially when he takes to the mats, demonstrating the hard-earned work of years worth of training. While you huff out jagged breath as you slam your barbells to the ground, sweat streaming down your temples, breath is stolen yet again as you watch him take flight. You watch as he tumbles, flips, seems to defy gravity in a manner almost superhuman, muscles pushed to the physical limit with each twist and curl.
When he lands on the ground, it defies the barbarity that seems to stymie your feet to the floor with each plodding step. There’s something beyond him as his feet touch the ground, arms spanned out to grant him bearings as he returns from the air.
And then he turns his head to you as your shoulders catch up, fighting for oxygen with your past exertion. When he smiles, he’s not some daredevil —just Dick again.
“You know,” he states, not even breathing hard, “It’s not so hard to do a double backflip.”
His hands splay out to frame his midriff. “It’s all in the flex of the hips.”
You shake your head dubiously, swiping your palm against the wet span of your forehead. “You say that, but I also didn’t have ‘the flying’ tacked in front of my name for the first decade of my life.”
Said Flying Grayson appears unabashed at your jape. “Don’t need a moniker to be an acrobat.”
“Yeah, but it does give you some street cred.” You argue his point, the syllables catching up to verbal legibility. “If anything gets tacked on in front of my last name, it’ll be something less graceful.”
“Like what?” He asks, putting a hand to his hip. This displays the curl of a bicep that enabled him to stand vertically upon it for a protracted, impressive minute.
You think, searching for the ceiling for a proper response as you search for breath. “Like ‘the adequate fighter’ or ‘the defense-heavy.’ You know, something that really describes my attributes.”
Dick smiles. “Why not just go for the obvious one?”
You tuck a damp lock of hair behind your ear. “Like what?”
He pretends to be lost in thought. “Like ‘the beautiful.’”
You summon enough energy to relegate him with a disbelieving smirk. “Might believe you if I wasn't dripping sweat, Grayson.”
He’s undeterred by this, adjusting the collar to his compression shirt, which illustrates an impressive set of framed muscles. “I’ll make sure to bring it up later, then—just to really get the point across.”
“Ha ha.” You dryly reply without any real heft to it. “I’ll make sure to remind you.”
“Please do.” Is his glib response. “ And you know, acrobatics aren’t that hard. I could teach you.”
You’re not immediately wary, but you certainly pause, palming the back of your neck to send a cautious rub up and down the column of it. He patiently waits for you to organize your thoughts.
“I don’t know—”—you begin, keeping your eyes askance from him—“—It’s one thing to know how to fight. But—being agile and graceful and…flexible are two different things.”
“Please.” He rolls his eyes as though you’ve said something ridiculous. “You speak to the master of all three.”
As if to demonstrate, he makes a sweeping gesture to a figure that you spend a tad too long lingering on the, uh, formidability of.
You recover with humbling alacrity. “Getting kind of big for your britches, aren’t you?”
“Well, if anyone’s going to teach you, then it’d be me, wouldn’t it?” He challenges you, because it’s clear that if any will have that honor afforded them, it will only be him.
“I guess so.” You reply haltingly, because it never hurts to have more skills in your arsenal—but intimidating doesn’t even begin to encapsulate your feelings regarding this offer.
“So what do you think?” He asks, because if there’s one thing that encapsulates Dick Grayson, it’s consistency. “I could teach you tomorrow, if you wanted—I’m free then.”
“I mean, if you wouldn’t mind—”—you watch as Dick’s face considerably brightens before the wall of impending responsibilities crashes down—“—Wait. I can’t.”
His face drops, so you wheel your follow-up statement as quick as you can. “I have a…prior commitment. Could you do the day after?”
It’s clear that this is an alternative that works with him, from the way the smile is quick to return to his face—but far be it from him to not twist the knife.
“I mean, I guess I could.” He cocks up an eyebrow at your inconsistent schedule, prompting you to roll your eyes to the ceiling. “But you’d really have to find a way to make it up to me.”
“I promise I’ll come up with something good.” You reply, clasping your hands together as if in prayer. His eyes dare a little too long at the way your fingers interlace with each other, finally taking a slow, deep breath—effort delayed finally catching up with him, it seems.
He maintains level with your eyes as he says, “I’ll hold you to that.”
Gotham from the skyscrapers is a different view altogether. It’s one thing to walk on the bottom floor with the rabble, part of the rat race that expects you to be a willing cog in the machine. But up here, elevated above all else, it’s calming, freeing—an equanimity that separation from the masses grants you.
You look down to the minute people with their all-encompassing problems and feel like you can finally get a hold on it—if but for a moment. Even if it’s fleeting, it’s a feeling you happily chase, until you descend back to the depths with present company.
Present company feels like now is a good time to interrupt the carefully crafted ennui.
“Is there anything better than patrol on a Friday night?” Jason asks dryly, crossing his arms over his chest, that helmet implacable to any real inclination you might discern from him.
Body language offers little in the way of translating whatever he might actually mean. But in your endured times together on the rooftops, you’ve become something of a skilled linguist.
“It’s not so bad when it’s in good company.” You reply, because it’s true. You watch as a car casts its thin beams of light through the darkness and descends down a shadowy street.
“Am I good company, sweetheart?” He asks. You lean down the great height of the building to the mobile specks you protect below.
“You’re certainly not bad company, that’s for sure.” You smile, granting him only the most momentary of upwards glances. He makes a noise that means little without verbal follow-up.
“What makes me good, though?” He asks, and it’s clear he’s taking the piss because there’s little else to do while you survey for trouble. But you don’t mind; you already have a prepared response.
“Your stellar sense of humor.” You let your teeth show with this smile you proffer his way.
“Here I thought it was my stunning good looks.” He returns in a monotone; you hear the shift of movement besides you and finally turn away from the distant world, back to him.
“Hey—I thought I was the eye candy in this duo.” You crack back at him.
He’s quite candid in his reply. “Eye candy means you don’t have anything else going for you.”
“Oh, what else do I have going for me?” You ask, because part of you is amused, and part of you is preparing for the inevitable insult to be levied your way.
“I’d tell you but then we might be here all night.” He provides to you, rather helpfully. You don’t need the mask to see the shit-eating grin on his face.
“Right, Jason.” You nod knowingly, obsequiously. “Right.”
“You wanna do some sparring after patrol tomorrow?” He asks abruptly, changing tacks—much like the tidal wave he moves as during combat, so he is during conversation. You’ve learned to keep up with the figurative punches.
“Is sparring a code word for breaking skulls open on the pavement violently and with great prejudice?” You ask hopefully, resting a casual hand on your hip.
“Depends.” He retorts simply. “How much prejudice you planning on rolling up with tomorrow?”
“Depends.” You echo him because you can. “How bad do they deserve it?”
“Whatever they’ve got coming,” he says, tone brooking no room for disagreement, “They’ve earned it judiciously.”
You start your assertion rather confidently. “You know, I think I could get behind that—wait.”
He cocks his head at you as the proverbial train grinds to a halt.
“I can’t.” You admit sheepishly, avoiding the broiling gaze you know he’s subjecting you to.
“Something come up?” Jason is not one for subtlety—his casual is someone else’s commanding. Commanding, specifically, an answer from you.
“Oh—”—he’s your friend, but you still can’t help but flounder a little under the intensity—“—I just already made plans for tomorrow—after patrol.”
“After I just made you the skull-crushing offer of a lifetime?” You think if he’s making jokes, you might just get away with it, so you venture forward.
“Maybe.” You grimace good-naturedly at him. “Does that mean my skull is up on the chopping block?”
He’s statuesque in posture as he replies, “I like it more intact than chopped.”
You frown bemusedly. “Should I take that as a compliment?”
“You can take it however you want—as long as you make it up to me two days from now.” He returns, and as he turns to regard you with those whited-out lenses, you know he’ll be charging you with interest.
“I think I can make that happen.” You smile back.
“You’re doing great.” Dick says from above you, holding your ankles against his calloused palms, “Just breathe.”
“Easy—for you to say,” you strain with labored breath, tilting your head to reckon your eyes with the upside-down view. Your fingers clench against the ground, the only thing keeping you suspended in the air—other than he. “You’re not the one—upside-down.”
“You can keep your legs pointed, but I’m holding you.” He reassures you calmly, squeezing his fingers a tick to let you know that he’s your anchor in these troubled waters. “Keep the air flowing.”
“You’re making it harder.” You enunciate through your teeth, affixing your gaze through the gap of his legs, legs which are so close to your face, connected to a body that is so intimately close to you, connected to hands that are holding you so vulnerably—
“Harder how?” He asks, and you know he must be teasing now, but you can’t summon the strength in your suspended state to look and confirm this. His hands seem to grow hotter on your bare skin.
“Your hands—”—you grit out, and at this those fingers seem to curl even further around your ankles, the rough pads of his fingers scraping along, torturous in their purchase.
“My hands?” He repeats you, and you know he’s definitely mocking you now, from the way he chuffs a laugh and the air ghosts over your legs and—
“Help—”—You screw your eyes shut, a great warmth slinking under your skin that isn’t from overextension—“—Help me down.”
For all his vaunted teasing, he’s quick to obey, and guides you through a slow descent to the ground that ensures his hands search up the length of your body. Never inappropriately, but enough that the touch of his palms brand you even after their release—you are laid parallel to him on the mats. He grins down at you as you heave for air.
“You did great.” He promises you, even though you feel like ‘passable’ is a compliment you would accept with glowing pride.
“Does being an acrobat mean you’re also a terrible liar?” You ask wearily from where you lie, feeling your skin already tacking to the vinyl underneath you.
“No, but it does mean I’m a great cheerleader.” He offers you a beaming grin to emphasize his assertion.
“And it makes your hands heat seeking missiles for my pressure points?” You shoot back, noting the way his smile grows sly.
“Didn’t know all it took was some hands on your thighs to make you go to pieces.” He’s coy in his delivery, but you know bait when you see it.
“It is when they’re holding me upside-down.” You defend yourself, trying not to think of how his hands did feel on your thighs. Trying not to think of how confusingly funny you felt as they held you safe, secure.
“Careful—don’t let Joker find out.” Dick chuckles at the newfound chink in your armor. You have the wherewithal to laugh, waving a dismissive hand in his direction.
“Please—if it was Bruce, then it might make a difference.” You brush this away.
“Maybe so. But I’m going to hold onto that information for later.” He wiggles his eyebrows with enduring menace.
“Yeah, yeah.” You turn your head to the side, working out a crick.
“So—you wanna try again tomorrow?” He asks, and there’s no mistaking the eagerness in his voice. No mistaking, as you turn to him, the delight in his eyes at the prospect of reuniting with you here again.
No mistaking, you think, the guilt tremoring through you, as you open your mouth to agree, and then stop.
“Let me guess,” he asks gently, “Prior commitment?”
“I can’t help it if I’m popular.” You say, trying to sort out the bewilderment you feel at letting him down. To your lasting relief, he puts a hand over yours that leaves a ghost of sensation on you, long after he pulls it away.
“Sure, sure—we’ll figure something out.” He says, and it sounds like he means it.
“Nothing like a hearty burger breakfast after some major head trauma.” Jason announces as you enjoy your reward for a raucous night on the town.
You chew musingly, mulling over the flavor, as you admire the murky night sky. You’ve both found perch made amongst the gargoyles for this grand day out. Something about this almost feels like more than two friends eating breakfast together on a rooftop—but you can’t summon the word to describe what that would be.
“Does it count as breakfast if it’s still dark out?” You ask, thinking back to the early night, er, morning hour.
“You’ve been on this team this long and you don’t know that breakfast is a state of being instead of a time constraint?” He asks around a mouthful of ground beef. He still manages to make it sound menacing, somehow.
You hold up a hand beseeching forgiveness. “Sorry—I forgot I was dining with the resident philosopher of the team.”
“That’s why you keep asking to go on patrol with me, right? My cutting intellect?” He asks, dipping a fry from his takeout box in a pool of ketchup. You wonder if the splotch on his sleeve is from a rather exuberant dip, or if it’s blood from earlier.
“Among other things.” You say, feeling like it’s finally your turn to offer someone an ambiguous response. Especially as he returns to this topic of conversation he is so insistent on having out with you. For emphasis, you take a great bite of your food to allot you more time to muster defenses.
“What other things?” Jason presses, because it might work with someone else—but not him, who, with no protection of the mask to guise his face, bores his eyes into you.
“Like the fact that you paid for the food.” You offer gleefully, both of you knowing this is unsatisfactory.
“Can’t be the only thing.” He says, his tone surprisingly level. Why on earth is your heart beating so fast? “What else?”
“And that mean right hook you gave that guy in the stripes.” You supply, pointing at his arm for emphasis. It rests impressively even when not slamming hapless interlopers against brick walls.
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” There’s nothing but a glint in his eye to let you know he’s pleased at this. “Anything else I should know about?”
“Not unless you want to find out how strong my sense of humor is.” You return in a deadpan.
“Sarcasm makes the world go round, sweetheart.” He says, leaning back against the concrete alcove, looking rather fitting next to winged, garish gargoyle. “I can’t help it if you’re lucky enough to patrol with a man of culture.”
“Yeah—funny how that works out for me.” You grin as you look back to the city below. This is tolerable to holding gazes with those green eyes that seem to know you, know everything about you, know your very complicated thoughts pinballing around your head—
“So you want to do it again tomorrow?” He asks lowly, and it would be casual were it anyone other than he who asks it, trying to pinpoint you to commitment right now.
“I would—”—you hope being apologetic grants you his good graces. His eyes are constant upon you.
“But?” And the way he asks spurs your heart again. You feel now is as good a time to return your burger back to the takeout box, which creaks under the assumption of its weight.
“But I’m busy tomorrow after work.” You finish your statement.
“What’s more important than time with me?” He asks, and his gaze is reproachful but his voice is sarcastic again, which lets you know you tread safe waters. You lean back against the curb of the rooftop, the breeze ghosting through your hair.
“The fact I have other people I don’t want to disappoint.” You reply back blithely.
“And if you disappoint me?” Finally, a crack of a smile dawns on his face. “How’re you going to make it up to me?”
“Guess I’ll pay next time.” You smile.
“Yeah, guess you will, sweetheart.” You don’t notice how he doesn’t specify what exactly you’ll pay for. But you’re too busy looking back down at the city to know how his eyes roam over you.
You’re making breakfast with Tim about a week later, at a reasonable time, in the kitchen, with an audience that bears witness to your struggles. Tim’s taken point on the pancakes, which are looking more like charcoal effigies. You’ve settled upon making that protein-hearty breakfast of incompetent champions, scrambled eggs.
Dick has turned his chair sideways, juggling the fruit Alfred’s taken care to place in a crystalline bowl in the centre of the grand table. Jason leans back in his own chair, staring off into the horizon that is far more interesting than being present in the moment.
Either way, the two of them are far less interesting to either of you, who are more focused on making nutrition fit for human consumption.
Tim passes you the stainless steel whisk, which you accept as you grip the bowl of yolks ready for demolition. As you begin your stirring, you can’t stop the wince—and you can’t contain the gasp of pain making clear visual across your face.
“You okay?” Tim asks, both of you unaware that there are two sets of eyes drawn like homing signals to the noise, ready to go and on full alert.
“Yeah—”—You glare into the half-whisked bowl, frustrated at your body’s inability to cooperate—“—Just been doing a lot of extra work lately.”
“Oh, the acrobatic practice?” Tim asks knowingly, to which you nod in affirmation. Behind you, Jason stiffens ever-so-slightly, his shoulders broadening out as something suddenly clicks into place.
“And the extra patrol shifts too.” You add on. Dick pauses, palming an orange and apple mid-air, hand suspended as he pauses for a long instant.
“I can whisk the eggs if you want.” Tim offers out his own limbs as sacrifice. “Give your arms a rest.”
“If I can’t whisk eggs, what am I, really?” You chuckle at his proposal.
“Maybe you’re just putting energy on the wrong muscle sets.” Jason says casually from the table as you return back to your task. You don’t see the way his eyes sweep across the table to his brother that sits before him.
“Or maybe they’re just investing time into the wrong activities.” Dick serenely replies, locking his stare to the opponent within his midsts, in the comfort of his home.
“It’s just eggs,” you laugh, finishing up your work to a tolerable, acceptable mix. “I think I’ll survive.”
Tim spends a great while staring over his shoulder, before glancing back to you, oblivious to all as you pour your work into the pan. The noise is a great, crackling sizzle as things reach a nascent white-hot heat.
All Tim can do is watch as you hum a little tuneless song under your breath, unaware of the two that seem to be making silent, marked claims of territory upon you.
“Maybe it’s more than just the eggs,” Tim shrugs as he feels a headache wreathing around his temples. “But who knows—I could be wrong.”