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You are being stupid, really.
Logically, you know Dick loves you.
Logically, you know there is nothing going on between them.
Logically, you know Dick is an extremely influential hero, and that basically everyone in the hero community looks up to him since he’s been in it for forever, which makes it normal for him to have had many flings with people he still to this day works with.
However, logic doesn’t stop jealousy from burning in the pit of your stomach every time you see him interacting with one of them.
It’s not even one particular event that sets you off, more so a series of tiny little things.
Each reunion, each debrief, each cheesy quip, each mission, they all pile up until what was once only a tiny twinge of jealousy has turned into a gaping hole in your chest, out of which comes only anger and insecurity.
You aren’t an intergalactic princess like Koriand’r.
You aren’t a historic sidekick partner and lifelong friend like Barbara Gordon.
You aren’t some charming top-model or Lord-knows-what-else that his past stories surely are.
You’re just you, and while you don’t necessarily think badly of yourself, nowadays you aren’t sure that ‘you’ is enough.
And all of this is so unfounded that you feel silly at the thought of even voicing it, and you really didn't mean to make a fuss, but when Dick comes home after the umpteenth space mission with the Titans, raving about Starfire's intergalactic ambassador skills, you can't help the irritated quip that makes it's way past your lips.
“Cause she’s always so amazing, isn’t she?” You huff. Satisfaction coils in your gut, a bit of the tension inside you easing as a bit of your pent-up frustration finally finds release. You stifle it as best you can.
At that Dick looks up at you, startled. You feel your previous satisfaction wither right alongside the happiness in his eyes.
You are in your shared apartment’s kitchen, the island between you as he sits on a stool while you lean against the counter.
“What?” He asks, confused. His expression is rapidly morphing, reminding you of something awfully akin to a kicked puppy.
You backtrack as fast as possible. “Nothing, don’t think about it.”
Shame colours your cheeks, and their sting joins the burning of your mounting shame, bubbling under your skin. You turn your body away from him, not wanting him to see.
Dick isn’t having that though, because your boyfriend, your sweet and perceptive boyfriend, sees the way your shoulders are hunched and your brow is slightly furrowed and immediately clocks what your remark was all about.
He shoots you a concerned glance. “Babe, you alright?” He asks while sliding off the barstool, making his way around the kitchen island. Ever the tactful one, as always. “If there’s something bothering you, we can talk about it—”
You cut him off. “I said it’s nothing. There’s nothing to talk about.” The irritation in your voice is a poor shield to hide behind, a hastily put-together cloak of dryness and hardened stares for your shame to shroud itself in.
Dick remains standing there, halfway around the kitchen island, as you make your exit to the bedroom.
————————————
The day passes, and you keep your distance. Just the thought of how Dick would react to you voicing your insecurities, the absolute hurt that would mar his features at his girlfriend accusing him of cheating of all things, makes the flame of shame and self-hatred re-ignite in your ribcage, inflaming your lungs with every breath.
You manage to deflect any attempts at confrontation in the car, spending the whole ride to the Manor looking out the window and blasting music through your earphones.
————————————
It all comes to a head in the Batcave, obviously.
You’re training in a corner of the gym area, going through your usual routine. Dick comes up to where you are and stands there, waiting for you to pay attention.
After a solid five minutes of him standing there unmoving and of you stubbornly ignoring him you cave and pause your reps. You keep your eyes stubbornly fixed ahead of you.
He tosses you a roll of bandages. “You up for a spar?” His voice is quiet. Your resolve breaks.
You grab the bandages and swiftly wrap your hands. He stays watching you the whole time. You wonder wether his gaze is damning or merely analytical.
When you’re done you move to the training mats. Getting into position is reflex by now, readying your stance and falling into a weird stand-off, both waiting for the other to swing first. You keep your eyes fixed to a spot above his shoulder.
You attack first, lunging at him and throwing a right hook, meanwhile trying to kick his feet off of him.
Dick swiftly avoids your punch, sidestepping it and catching your entire arm in his grip. He uses that to leverage your body over his shoulder, rendering useless your attempt at getting him off-balance.
You recover in mid-air, landing in a roll and getting back up while he’s still in the process of turning toward you, and manage to land a punch to his stomach.
He sputters but manages to step aside in time to avoid your other arm coming to enclose on his waist, and your momentum makes you loose your balance.
You go for another roll, but before you can do more than turn on your back you find yourself locked into a full-body pin.
Dick’s almost laying on top of you, his knees on either side of your hips, his chest pressing on yours so his bodyweight weighs you down too much to get up.
His forearms are laying on either side of your head, though. You could easily slide your arms out from where he’s got them pinned against your sides and make him loose his balance, if you wanted.
Trapped like this, though, your face inches from his, you have no choice but to stare right into his eyes.
What you find there stops you from fighting.
His expression his open, his brows slightly furrowed. In those oceans he’s got for irises swims something you aren’t sure you know the name of, but it doesn’t burn you and you aren’t sure you like that. Aren’t sure you want the unfamiliarity of it to keep festering.
Dick Grayson reads people like one does library handouts, laid bare with all their weathered discolouration and all their folded corners for whoever comes across to see. You are no exception.
So why, just why in the hell doesn’t his gaze burn? Why doesn’t it scorch you with the familiar flames of hatred, resentment and anger?
You want to turn away. You do, really. Aren’t sure you can keep looking into those mariana-trench deep wells of something you can’t name without drowning. You steel yourself, though. You have a feeling that looking away would be too much like a condemned man flipping the switch of the electric chair himself. You’re gonna leave that job to him.
“You know I hate it when there’s something wrong but you won’t tell me about it.”
His voice is soft. It doesn’t burn. That damned something permeates it, as well.
“You already know everything you need to. What’s the point in making a bigger fool of myself?”
The shame stings your cheeks. The way the something remains plastered on his face unperturbed instead of giving way to something fiery soothes it. The lack of condemnation rips the confession from your lips.
“I’m sorry.”
The admission. You’re right, it says. Everything you read in that torn-up book of my soul is true. Add another tear to it’s pages. Rip it to shreds.
How could you? How could you have, even second-handedly, doubted his loyalty? How could you have been so self-absorbed and childishly jealous, when that forsaken something embeds itself into every fibre of his being? While it washes over you to soothe every burn and extinguish every flame you yourself caused?
Dick’s expression changes. It morphs. The something is joined by something else now, not unlike a breeze parting clouds previously hanging in a greyed sky.
“It’s okay. I just wish we’d work together when there’s something bothering one of us.”
It’s okay. Absolution.
You think the sky would’ve parted. You think you should be hearing trumpets right now.
You are reminded, then, that there is a whole world outside of this cave. That who you have in front of you is just a man, and that the universe is filled with something bigger than yourselves.
But even with this knowledge at the forefront of your mind, here, with Dick’s forearms resting on either side of your head, your entire universe boils down to him. To his almost-creaseless brow. To his something-filled irises.
And in this moment of clarity you realise that right now, with all your little hurts bare to see, his entire universe boils down to you.
“Yeah. Let’s.”
You wish you had more to say. You wish your brain could come up with something more substantial.
You hope the something shining in your eyes is enough.
It feels a lot like love.