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encachette · 2 months ago

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𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒚𝒂 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒘𝒃𝒐𝒚… ch. 1

3, 2, 1… 𝓁ℯ𝓉’𝓈 𝒿𝒶𝓂!

Ch. 2 here

❣ Dick Grayson x F!reader

❣ cowboy bebop au; neo-noir space western crackfic, loosely follows the plotline of the anime; animal(s) with human-engineered intelligence ❣ cw: angst, romantic and existential; begrudging friends to lovers; eventual smut; graphic depictions of (gun) violence ❣ MDNI ❣ Word Count: 6.4k ❣ Summary: The year is 2080. A ragtag team of bounty hunters traverse the galaxy aboard the Bebop, in search of their next few bands of Woolong (￦) and settling debts with their pasts.

❣ Author’s Note(s):

Been on r/GWA lately and I kinda want a certain VA to translate Dick’s character into a GWA piece. Sorry if you have never watched the anime, this is the only piece of fanfic I’ve ever written where I’ve actually cared to watch and/or read the source material. As always, feedback is appreciated. I didn’t make Dick Grayson’s gun of choice the Jericho 941 (Spike Spiegel’s gun) because it is Isr**li made (I’m a c*mm*nist from the American South, we like guns and hate g*n*cide). You don’t have to watch the show to understand the story, hopefully. At least, I'm trying my best to make that the case. Anyway, enjoy.

Ch. 1: 3, 2, 1… 𝓁ℯ𝓉’𝓈 𝒿𝒶𝓂!

⋆｡°✩ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊✩₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ✩°｡⋆

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

｡･ﾟﾟ･　　･ﾟﾟ･｡

　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

　　　. 　　˚　　　　*　　　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　　　　　　 ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖✶ ✦　　

In the glooming fog of dawn, two men in a spaceship adorned with the name “Bebop” whiz through the asteroid belt, hurtling away from the horizon of Ganymede, one of Jupiter’s moons colonized after Earth became virtually uninhabitable. Below, the metropolis surrounding Ganymede’s space station glowed neon, brilliant purples and eye-scorching blues fighting to get through the haze.

In one of those decrepit high rise apartments, a family of four, two mothers and two boys, sit around the TV, dinner trays upright and bathed by the schizophrenic glow of the television. One of the boys was flipping the channels, before his mother commands he pause on whatever program he landed on. “Eat your vegetables, bubba,” she encourages.

On the TV screen, a fuzzy duo appeared on the screen, exaggerated characters of a Western Cowboy from Earth and his milkmaid. A giant, flashing title card reads “Big Shot: For the Bounty Hunters,” while a raucous banjo screeches diegetically all throughout the man’s speech.

“On today’s bounty roster, the feds are kickin’ a whoppin’ ￦3,000,000 for the capture of Doctor Pamela Isley, operating under several botanical themed aliases.”

The mothers’ ears perked up at the bounty reward and they tune into the rest of the program, doing their best to interpret the thick hyperbolic American southern accent emanating from the screen, foreign on the cowboy’s tongue.

“The Inter-Solar System Police believe Dr. Isley to be ridin’ toward Mars with a gang o’ goons from the Red Dragon Crime Syndicate.” A few cartoonish gun shots ring out. The insipid banjo, now accompanied by an off-tune harmonica, seems to be magnified by the sickly neon glow emitted from the TV, old enough to be floating out there with the space junk.

The milkmaid, which upon further inspection was actually a rather curvy blonde, in Daisy Dukes and a plaid button up that put her breasts on display. She provides an exaggerated, pornish dimension to the program that often has the mothers clutching their pearls and covering their sons’ ears. But not today. Today, they wondered, What could be so bad about this fugitive that the ISSP would offer such a high reward?

“Oh, no!” the hussy wails, “Not Red Dragon!”

“Oh, yes!” the man responds with a slap on her ass, bleating like a goat, and turning around to put a bullet through a wooden Red Dragon prop. “Believed to be traveling under the alias Poison Ivy, Dr. Isley is wanted under suspicion of terrorist violence in Tijuana. Approach with caution. Wanted dead or alive by the ISSP.”

The crude cowboy lays another slap on the blonde’s ass, to which she yelps in a falsetto, “Oopsie daisy! The button on my shirt just— “

“Alright, that’s enough. Change the channel, honey,” one of the mothers drones out, snatching the remote control from the grubby little hands of her porcine child.

Nobody bats an eye as the Bebop streaks through the cotton candy sky, horizon slowly becoming amenable to the neon metropolis as the view from the high rise window adjusts to the foreground. Jupiter loomed behind all the floating space junk and the silhouette of the skyline, stable and foreboding as the spacecraft disappeared into hyperspace.

.⋆⭒˚.⋆☾ .🪐˖☽⋆⭒˚.⋆

Alba City, Mars

It was cosmic, Dick Grayson swears it now.

The first time he sees you, you’re spending the last couple of bucks you have on some dog food for Haley, who was whining and nipping at the leather of your cowboy boots instead of standing guard like she was instructed. She acts as if I starve her, Dick huffs, shaking his head and stuffing his Beretta M9 into the gun holster underneath his leather jacket. As his towering figure approaches you, Dick is struck by how tiny you were compared to him, especially up close. A pretty girl, this random stranger, ripping open a small bag of kibble and pouring it into a makeshift bowl from the souvenir hat you swiped on your way out of the bodega. When you stand up straight and readjust the lengths of your hair so they stay put behind your ears, Dick gets a good look at you, unable to quell the interest. Flicking his cigarette butt into the trash and turning his head, Dick takes note of your lax smile, eyes glittering with affection for Haley. His eyes then land on his dog.

“Haley, girl,” he whistles, “there you are!” He starts to bend to the pitbull’s height, and opens his arms, “I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for ya, Bitewing — come here!” The grey tail waves, white snout huffing the air and snorting with excitement when Haley figures out who dared to disturb her snacking.

As owner and dog meet and rejoice at their reunion not two feet away from you, you take a second to appraise the companion of your new three-legged friend (who was adorably panting with joy, tongue floppin’), disapproving frown sprouting on your pretty face. What kind of dog owner would leave such a precious dog alone in these streets?, you thought to yourself.

“Leave my girl for one second and you’re beggin’ on the streets, huh Hales?” he says affectionately, scratching her behind ears before he addresses you, “Thanks for lookin’ after her.”

When he hears no response he stops glances up to catch your disapproval transform into feigned friendliness.

“No worries,” you respond politely, taking stock of your surroundings and identifying the most efficient escape route.

“I saw that,” Dick says, turning on his usual boyish charm and nodding toward the proto-pet bowl. A quirk of his lips and a practiced smolder — reliable social shortcuts he liked to whip out whenever he wanted a woman to like him.

“Dunno what you mean, chief,” you offer monotonously; emotionless, like you couldn’t be all that bothered to give him the time of day, but your heart starts hammering. Steady beat under your lungs, slight ring in your ear — you mentally get ready to reach for the gun sheathed inside your jacket.

Dick frowns and straightens up, now looking down at you. Pretty eyes, if they weren’t shiftin’ all over the place, he thinks. He notices how silent your movements were despite the gravel on the concrete and what appeared to be hardy military-issued cowboy boots. You pull your Neo-esque sunglasses down to shield yourself.

“You okay?” his eyebrows knot in the middle. You notice a confident timber in his voice, cool and friendly, like he just wanted to help. Too earnest to be a cop, you think.

“No sweat,” you respond after a beat, finality ringing out with your voice as you turn and swiftly proceed toward your intended destination. Dick watches you walk down the block, black miniskirt waving along with your hair as you make a swift turn under a neon sign that glows in pink letters: “C’est La Vie.”

Dick scoops up his beloved dog, turning on his heel and bending down to lovingly chide, “We gotta have a chat about following orders, Hales.”

The dog just whines.

☄. *. ⋆

“Get anything?” Jason questions Dick when he boards the Bebop, Haley cradled in his arms as he kicks off his own leather boots. The older brother nods, tired and hankering for a snack. Haley settles on the rug in front of the clunky TV, salvaged from some horrid Earth tag sale over half a decade ago.

“Spotted some Red Dragon goons patrolling around downtown.” Dick flexes his muscles and contorts himself into a stretches, groaning at the relief coursing through his aching body. “You got anything?” he asks before flopping down on the deformed excuse they referred to as a couch.

From his seat in front of an array of computer monitors, Jason Todd, a handful of years younger than Dick, was in tunnel-vision mode as he read through case reports downloaded from ISSP’s poorly encrypted intelligence database. Each case bore the image of Poison Ivy, some criminal scum horticultural biochemist who had blown up several small towns in the Tijuana Asteroid Colony.

Jason takes a sip from his coffee mug before he debriefs Dick.

“Every bomb she set off was detonated at a Cherious Medical plant,” he reports, flipping through his file on her. “Chick’s probaby mad about the shit they dump into the atmosphere, I figure she’s gonna target the company headquarters here.” Dick mulls over the information. Something felt off.

“But why is she with the clan though?” he questions.

“Maybe she needed backup, who knows?” Jason shrugs. “Let’s just focus on nabbing her and calling it a day. Fridge is getting empty and I know Haley wants a can of wet food soon.”

“Oh, the mutt already ate today,” Dick grumbles before turning his attention toward Haley, whose tail was now thumping rambunctiously on the couch, “Didn’t you, Hales? Didn’t you swindle some hot chick into feeding you? Yes you did! Good girl,” he coos, scratching his beloved baby under her chin.

“Hot chick, huh?” Jason raises an eyebrow at his brother, knowing how Dick likes to spend his free time, how the sway of a woman’s hips could derail his attention. “No time for chicks. You saw how high the bounty is — this isn’t amateur hour, Richard. Focus.”

Dick just smiles wryly, carelessly flipping Jason the bird before moving to the next topic.

“Have you found out where the clan carries out operations here, now?” he asks his brother, “Saw nothin’ near their old haunts.”

Jason usually takes care of OPSINT; it was easier to sit at a computer and do research, assembling a plan of attack. He couldn’t risk venturing outside without adorning his red mask, and he only really dared to leave the Bebop when necessary — like when a certain fugitive resurfaces. A certain fugitive who has massive bounties on her head because the ISSP couldn’t possibly marshal its infinite resources to fight crime if their asses depended on it.

“Several of their usual hangouts have been shuttered, no reports of activity for a few weeks. But a few of our eyes and ears on the streets say they’re encroaching on all gambling territory throughout the city,” Jason answers, scrolling to pull up a map of Alba City and gesturing to Dick to come look at the screen. “All intel triangulates around this area.”

Dick wanders over, eyes widening in recognition when he reads the name of the location Jason highlights.

“Huh. Well I’ll be damned,” Dick mutters. Again, more to himself than anyone else.

“C’est La Vie? You familiar with it?” Jason asks. Dick’s usual playful disposition seems to deepen in intensity, sly grin plastered across his face as he states:

“Nope, but I’m sure I’ll see a familiar face.”

☄. *. ⋆

“Check, 1. 2. 3. Check, 1. 2. 3.” Jason’s voice comes through the comms piece in Dick’s ear, “Hello? Dick? Is this thing on? Check, 1. 2. 3.” The sound of Jason’s fidgeting with the buttons on his keyboard and readjusting his hardware. Somewhere in the background, Haley’s yips can be heard, faint and, as always, jovial.

“Alright, cut it out,” Dick hisses, “I can hear you fine.”

They had skipped lunch, both out of financial necessity and because taking the time to essentially kidnap and transport an eco-fascist terrorist required their full, undivided attention. Nevertheless, Dick was still in a grumpy mood, couldn’t help the inexplicable anticipation gurgling in his gut. He lights up an American Spirit, flicking the cap of his Zippo shut and inhaling the nicotine, delicious poison, getting closer and closer to the pink neon lights. C’est La Vie.

“Okay, I have the building blueprint in front of me. Just make sure nothing obscures the camera lens and I can direct you through the building,” Jason instructs. Dick just hums his understanding, blowing out a stream of smoke and looking down to ensure that there was nothing obfuscating the lens embedded in his jacket button, not even a piece of lint. Nifty little thing, he thinks.

“This is kinda cool,” Dick compliments, reasoning that small talk might calm his nerves, “Where do you find this shit?” Another drag, another exhale.

“Dad. Obviously. None of this stuff is on the market,” Jason says impatiently, “Now focus. This place is probably crawling with clan members.”

“Yeah, yeah. Quit nagging. I’m goin’ in,” Dick mutters, pushing through the revolving doors of C’est La Vie, an upscale pool hall with a swanky, circular bar platformed right in the center of the room. Toward the back, a jazz band lulled the patrons into a blissful reverie. Cheeks blushed and martini glasses clinked as men desperately tried to woo women with their pool skills. Two guys near the bar were laser focused on the one remaining black and white 8 ball in the center of the green, having placed a substantial amount of money on the game. Golden chandelier light ricocheted off at every angle, reflected in the floor to ceiling mirrors on every wall except the one behind the stage. Dick spots several obvious security cameras, lingering so Jason could see what he saw.

In an effort to blend in, Dick makes his way to one of the high stools, catching the eye of the bartender and giving him a nod. Gruff, if not a bit oafish, the bartender looks absolutely incongruent with his environment as he grunts his acknowledgement,

“What can I get you?” Dick just smiles, unaffected.

“Gin and tonic, please,” he says smoothly, naming the first drink that came to mind.

“What are you, an old Southern woman?” Jason’s voice crackles through comms, “Order a manlier beer next time.” Dick waits for the bartender to turn around before he spits out as quiet as possible, “Shut up. I’m going into the basement.”

He had spotted a trick door, down a hallway bathroom, hidden to most passersby, whose senses were too dulled by the cocktails and haze of lust permeating through the pool hall to actually notice the seven foot door camouflaged as part of the mirrored wall. He wasn’t too sure until a goon who resembled Bartender Oaf here, suspiciously looking over his own shoulder to make sure no one was watching, pushed the rectangular mirror-door and disappeared underground, head swallowed by the darkness.

“Not yet. Give a walkthrough of the room so I can make sure you’re not missing anything,” Jason directs.

“Roger.” Dick schools his face back into one of friendly, unprovocative politeness as he spots the bartender returning.

“Gin and tonic,” he grunts, unceremoniously placing the drink in front of Dick, no napkin to keep the clank of glass on the marble surface. “Cash or card?”

“Cash,” Dick responds, raising an eyebrow.

“Guy’s a little out of place, huh? Thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” crackles through his earpiece. He waits for the bartender to make his rounds to the other end of the bar before he responds,

“Reckon he’s got a dragon tattoo on under all the ￦cDonald’s filet-o-fish sauce?” Jason gives a hearty chuckle, before inserting his own roast.

“Red Dragon’s lost its touch since I left, huh? These guys look like they wouldn’t last 2 seconds in hand-to-hand combat.”

“Don’t need to know how to fight like a man if you got a gun on ya,” Dick whispers, throwing a couple thousand Woolong on the table for his drink.

“Please, that guy has no idea how to aim a gun. I’d bet money on it,” Jason jokes as he types a few things into the computer, “Now focus, Richard.” Clicking and clacking away before dictating his next set of instructions to Dick:

“I sent in a surveillance drone through the HVAC system fifteen minutes ago and it looks like there are four guys, probably armed, guarding a vault in the basement.” Some more clickety-clacking, before Jason’s voice takes a more concerned tone, “I don’t know where the vault entrance is though, it’s not in the official city blueprint for the building.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for the vault.” Dick picks up his glass, pretending to be immersed in the jazz musicians or the various games being played as he makes his way around the floor. Every once in a while he makes a show of sipping his drink before disappearing behind a corner to dump a few sips into a potted plant. Nothing out of the ordinary, Dick notes.

Pretty women and men in suits enjoying a night out in a city built on one of the wealthiest planets in the solar system. Dick had been born and raised on Mars, silver spoon thrust in between his little baby teeth after Bruce had rescued him from Haly’s Circus. His parents had apparently been performers, prostituted out as court jesters of the rich on Mars by a man only known as the Joker. Both had been murdered by a man named Slade Wilson in his feud with the Joker.

He missed Mars, and cherished the missions that brought him back here. It was home.

“You can start making your way to the basement now,” Jason’s command breaks Dick out of his nostalgia. He clears his throat, pulling at the too-tight collar of his shirt before making his way toward the basement entrance. “One foot in front of the other, Grayson. Not too fast. Don’t look too eager.”

“Hey, Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“I know what I’m doin’,” Dick states matter-of-factly.

“Right, I’ll shut up now.”

Usually, Jason was so aloof Dick had to pull his fuckin’ teeth out to get him talking. But today, the anxiety in his voice put Dick on edge, a feeling quite foreign to him. To soothe his kid brother, though they both were in their middling twenties, he attempts to inject a mood booster into the conversation,

“How hard can this be, huh? It’s just ￦3,000,000, no big deal,” he chuckles, albeit nervously. “Besides, we hold the record for the highest bounty won this decade. Relax, man.” He keeps walking toward the door, looking both ways before pushing through the mirror-door smoothly. No one batted an eyelash, even the supposed goons managing the floor.

“We hold the record for the highest bounty but it was ￦2,500,000 and we had to spend it all on Bebop repairs because SOMEONE wanted to play chicken with a fuckin’ MILITARY SPACECRAFT IN TIJUANA.”

Dick flinches at the volume, half a mind to rip the comms piece out of his ear.

“Geez, one time and I said I was sorry!” he whisper-yells, “Now shut up. I need to focus.” Jason just huffs in the mic, angrily clicking and typing but offering no response.

It was quiet. Too quiet. The piercing clear jazz became increasingly muffled the further Dick descended underground, punctuated by the creak of the wooden stairs. By the time the music was nothing more than a faint memory, Dick had made it down a dark hall, shivering even under his leather jacket, the smell of damp and mold assaulting his nose.

“Is something off to you?” Dick asks Jason, “I didn’t hallucinate that clan lookin’ dude come down here?” His voice rings out through the eerie quiet of the basement hall, lit every ten feet or so by a flickering sconce in desperate need of a new bulb.

“No, I saw him, too. It’s too quiet,” Dick can hear the scroll of his mouse as Jason zooms in on a screen. “Keep going, there’s another exit on the North wall. Leads to the back of the building and right out onto a side street.”

“Roger,” Dick affirms. “They have to be around here somewhere,” he muses quietly as he pulls out his Beretta, turning off the safety. No finger on the trigger, though. Not yet. A few rats behind him, feet clapping against the paved ground and forcing the hair on the back of Dick’s neck to stand up. Still, he keeps moving.

Up ahead, Dick could start to make out a few moans of pain, like a wounded animal. A feeble “help” rasped out in a breathless whisper. Dick followed the noise The closer he came to the source, the more clear the sound of a fist colliding with flesh, over and over and over again intermingled, then drowned out the cries for help.

Three men lay on the ground in front of a vault entrance, at least eight feet in height and wide fuckin’ open. The men on the ground right outside of the vault were either dead or about to be, sprayed with bullets from what looks like an automatic. Dick cocks his gun, alert and ready, taking care to step over the corpses before stepping inside the vault. Whoever was getting beaten to a pulp in there was holding on for dear life.

“Those are three of the four guys the drone caught on tape earlier. Fourth one has to be in there.”

Pointing his gun toward the entrance of the vault, Dick makes his way through a second door into a deeper chamber.

He almost drops his gun at the site in front of him. Almost.

☄. *. ⋆

In the middle of the fuckin’ room, which couldn’t have been bigger than a public bathroom, a big, burly man not like the oaf bartending upstairs was getting his ass handed to him by the pretty girl who had given Haley her lunch earlier today.

“Uh, Dick? What the fuck is going on?” Jason calls through the earpiece. Dick doesn’t answer, unable to tear his eyes away from the situation in front of him.

“One more time, babe,” you simper, “Maybe it’ll get through your thick fuckin’ skull.”

Dick watches you wind your fist back, admiring your form and recognizing your moves as ones honed by years of expert training. Military? ISSP?, he thinks to himself.

“WHERE,” Punch, “IS,” Punch, “SHE?!” Roundhouse kick. Dick almost cringes in on himself when he hears the crack of the guy’s jaw, your powerful kick coming out of nowhere and taking both men in the room by surprise.

You had ripped the guy’s jacket off, exposing his Red Dragon tattoo etched over his heart, adding color to the various smatterings of bruises you had littered across his face and torso. Poor guy is spitting out another tooth into a pool of blood at your feet, daring to challenge you.

“You’ll never get her,” he bares his teeth at you, simultaneously cowering and trying to crawl away from you. “Crazy bitch,” he pants out, attempting his damned hardest to heave his sack farther away as you pull out a 45mm, cocking it in his face.

“You wanna say that again?” you taunt, venom thick on your tongue as your pistol whip the guy once more, enjoying the crunch of the magazine colliding with his cheekbone. The clan goon slumps to the ground, groaning and whimpering for his mother.

Now was probably a good time to intervene, Dick reasons.

“Oof, now that looks like it hurts,” he calls out, amused. “You got quite the punch on ya, don’t you darlin’?”

You whip around, gun now cocked and pointed at his chest. He noticed your finger on the trigger and your chest heavy. Out of shock, or panic, he couldn’t tell.

“Dick. What is going on? Who is this?” Jason’s starting to panic too. He could hear it.

“Oh, gonna shoot me already?” Dick feigns a heartbroken expression on his face, “I thought we could be friends, ya know.” You don’t lower your gun. “Since you were kind enough to feed my dog and everything,” he adds, a bit awkward.

You look down at your victim and back up at Dick so quickly he would’ve missed it had he been blinking. Dragon goon looks like he won’t be getting up any time soon, what with the broken appendages and swollen eye the color of puce. So you keep your pistol trained on this strange man in front of you, suspiciously eyeing him up and down. His combat boots were scuffed, leather jacket hiding a muscular, svelte build. You notice that his torso was too bulky for there not to be a gun holster under there and you kick yourself for not noticing this earlier when you were feeding that three-legged dog.

“Hello? Dick? What the fuck is goin’ on, man? You’re too far underground for the visual to transmit clearly.”

“Who are you? Why are you following me?” you demanded, no trace of fear or cowardice in your tone. Your frown deepens when he scoffs at your inquisition.

“Following you? Don’t flatter yourself, princess,” Dick smoothly rolls your tone off of his back, opting for a nonchalant smile. Dick prided himself in his ability to schmooze himself out of any sticky situation. “Now what’ve we got here?”

He makes a show of surrendering his weapon, situating his gun back into its holster, where he liked it best. Dick preferred hand-to-hand combat, rationalizing it as the most honorable way to engage in a one-to-one fight. Man to man. Or in this case, man to woman.

“Richard. Grayson. What the FUCK is going on? Did you just put away your weapon?” Dick could picture the vein popping out of Jason’s forehead with the effort it was taking him not to explode in fury.

Unfortunately for Dick, you only tighten your grip on your gun, snarling at him.

“I’m going to ask you one more time. Who are you?” you demanded quietly. Deadly.

“Just another bounty hunter,” Dick offers, voice all friendly and non-threatening, shrugging in your direction, “like you, I assume?” You don’t answer him, instead turning over all of your possible options in your head. He takes your silence as a concession. This lunkhead (albeit hunky, you concede that) was getting real close to meeting his grave, you thought.

“Not that I regularly come into contact with bounty hunters who are also pretty girls,” Dick muses aloud, eyes twinkling with mirth at the blush creeping across your face. Your eyebrows go up, but the frown remains. Ok, tough crowd, he thinks.

“This isn’t a joke, Grayson. What is going on? Can you find Poison Ivy or am I gonna have to come out there myself?” Dick decides now is the appropriate time to assuage his brother’s anxiety.

“I’m fine, Jason,” he says out loud, “Everything’s under control.” A huge sigh of relief crunches through Dick’s earpiece.

“Then answer me next time, asshole.”

Your freaked-out shriek rings as Jason finishes his sentence.

“Who’s Jason? How many people are down here with you?” You start eyeing the vault entrance with panic, though never unsteady enough to let the gun in your waver from your intended target.

“Relax, princess,” the stranger drones on, pointing to the comms piece in his ear. “It’s just my teammate,” he pulls at the wire to show you he was telling the truth. You look at it, relief flooding you. Still, you don’t lower your weapon.

“My name’s Dick. My partner’s name is Jason. We’re bounty hunters,” Dick makes sure to flash his million dollar smile, pearly whites with just the right, charming amount of crooked. You can’t help but think that he’s handsome. Pretty, even. You don’t answer. Your gun stays pointed at his chest.

“What’s your name?” he asks, after another awkward beat.

“My name doesn’t matter to you. You can leave, and we can forget this ever happened,” you retort, annoyed at the delay. You should’ve been hot on Poison Ivy’s tail by now, getting ready to take her into Bruce for your bounty reward. Your annoyance deepens by leaps and bounds at the next few words the handsome stranger throws at you.

“See, can’t do that now, can I, sweetheart?” He poses it like a question. Like a question he knew he wouldn’t get an answer to. “Seems like we might be lookin’ for the same thing, actually,” he suggests, leisurely approaching you while nodding at the couple of men you had to drop by the entrance to the vault.

“Back off,” you warn, seething at the thought of losing the bounty reward to this pretty boy over here, “She’s mine.”

“Yeah?” Dick looks amused, smugly so, “You and what army? Didn’t you know the bounty is in the millions?”

“So what?” you rebuke, indignant attitude and impatience lacing through with the usual venom of your tone.

“So what? So, princess,” he teases, “You’re gonna need a whole lot more than that little pistol if you’re gonna force a violent eco-terrorist all the way to ISSP Headquarters all by your lonesome. I wouldn’t bet money —” You cut him off with an ultimatum.

“Okay, pretty boy, enough blabbering. Either get the fuck out or I paint these walls with your brains.” Your index is right on the trigger, thumb on the hammer of the pistol, and Dick nearly gulps when he sees it.

All of a sudden, in a flurry of shouting and sudden movements, Dick screams, “Watch out!” The goon by your feet had attempted to lunge at you when your attention was occupied by this interloper. A fools’ errand you thought, quickly recovering from the surprise,

“Bad move, bucko,” you declare with confidence before pulling the trigger of your gun, aimed at his last working appendage. The Red Dragon henchman doubles over at the bullet you put through his thigh, directly where his femoral is located.

In the seconds it takes for the altercation between you and your unfortunate opponent, it takes Dick even less time to get to you, pulling his own gun and taking advantage of the distraction created by the henchman to gain the upper hand. Henchman was going to die now anyway, so Dick trains his Beretta on you, no longer dumb enough to let your pretty face trick him into thinking you were just another harmless chick to ogle at.

You look up at Dick from your position on the ground, chest heaving from the adrenaline. Lips parted in panic as you scramble to train your gun back on him. Dick smirks, waggling an eyebrow to dare you to make the first move.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, attempting to keep the concern from seeping into his question.

“F-fine.” It was unconvincing, you knew that.

All of a sudden, both of you were taken by surprise as gunshots started firing upstairs, several shots a second. Bar patrons started screaming, mixing with the sounds of glass shattering and people scamering toward the exit, footsteps stomping on the ground above you and Dick in panic. You two look at each other, mirroring the panic you heard upstairs.

“We’ve got a situation up here. I have a live feed from the ground floor and it looks like some Red Dragon are down headed your way,” Jason’s voice crunched through the static once more, urgent and focused. “There’s too many of them, Dick. Locate that exit. Now.”

Dick tenses, uttering a terse “On it,” in acknowledgement to his brother. He turns his attention to you.

“Do you wanna make it outta here alive?” Dick asks you, solemn and impatient. No longer the easy-going flirt he was two minutes ago. Your eyebrows just scrunch in response, but your grip on the magazine loosens just the tiniest bit.

“Are you kidding me, Grayson!? We need to have a talk about you always thinkin’ with your dick when we’re on an active hunt.” Jason thinks about what he just said, adding “No pun intended.”

“What are you talking about?” you demand, “Who’s on their way here?” You raise your weapon, pointing it directly at Dick’s head.

“No time,” he responds, turning around and making his way out of the vault, so casual and with so much confidence in the belief that you wouldn’t pull the trigger . Dick stops at the door of the vault, not hearing the sounds of your footsteps following him.

“You comin’?” He turns off the safety on his Beretta. You notice that his finger is on the trigger now, unlike when he had it pointed at you.

It was a decisive moment that was so incongruent with your character; a choice that, to this day, you can’t explain. You followed a complete stranger, blindly pinning your hopes of avoiding gunfire on someone who was, by all accounts known to you, quite the negligent pet owner.

☄. *. ⋆

The two of you end up in front of the only other door in the basement.

“This has to be the exit, right?” Dick supposes. He pushes the handle, but the wood doesn’t give.

“How should I know?” you volley back, still unable to let go of your snark.

“How should I know?” Dick mocks your girlish voice, laying on the falsetto. He pivots — “Jason, what’s going on outside?” he says into his comms piece.

“No clue. Let me send the drone out,” Jason answers, pausing to add, “Alba City Police crafts are on their way though. You might wanna make yourself scarce in the next ten minutes and head back to the Bebop.” Dick pictures his little brother at his computer with a map of active police vehicles in front of him, tracking the little red dots making their way across the screen. He takes a few more cracks at the door, ramming his large frame into the door.

You watch this sad display of chivalry for a few seconds before shoving him aside, surprisingly forceful for a girl your size.

“Get out of the way, Jesus Christ,” you huff, pulling your gun out. One, two, three clicks of the trigger and the lock stutters loose, destroyed beyond recognition.

“Are you crazy?! Way to give away our location!” Dick yells, about to lose his mind.

“Put your eyes back in their sockets, pretty boy,” you reply, sardonic and slightly annoyed that he wasn’t grateful, “Better than watching you shatter your little muscles, don’t you think?”

Dick just kind sputters at you, put out. Without a witty rebuke, he just mutters indignantly under his breath,

“They’re not little.” He looks down at his biceps, as if to confirm his assertion. You just giggle as you make your way out into the dark alleyway. As Dick follows you through the door, a few faint sirens form a chorus — probably less than two miles away now, he surmises by the volume. Overtaking you, Dick is quick on his feet as he leads the two of you down the alley way toward the only exit.

By the time you reach the street, a green car screeches to a halt in front of you, almost knocking you off of your feet.

“Watch where you’re going, moron!” you screech back, waving your fist at the driver, who just ignores you. The door of the backseat snaps open and a rather voluptuous woman emerges, ginger hair lit aflame by the setting sun. Her skin, tinged with chlorophyll and bespeckled with thorns, was weirdly beautiful, you thought to yourself.

Immediately, both you and Dick had your guns trained on the woman, whom you recognize as Dr. Pamela Isley — the woman you’d been actively hunting for months now.

“Well, well, well,” Dr. Isley practically purrs, “We meet again, Dick Grayson.” She sends a flirty smile, imbued with bad intentions and toxicity, at the man standing next to you. You can’t help the look of disgust that crosses your face when you think about the two of them together.

“Dr. Isley,” Dick responds cordially, “Or is it Poison Ivy now? Impressive bounty on your head this time, huh?” His finger flexes on the trigger.

“Oh, you know how the media are,” she simpers, “Always looking for a snazzy name to keep the attention of you and your knitwit band of bounty hunters.” She’s unfazed as she takes a few steps toward you, clad head to toe in a green catsuit that does nothing to hide her curves. She looks you up and down, “Didn’t know you had a girlfriend, Dick.” The false smile she throws you is so sweet you feel your teeth wanting to rot out of their sockets.

“Don’t take another step,” you raise your gun, tightening your control of the weapon in your hand and readying your next shot, “Not if you don’t want a bullet in your brain.” That wipes the smile off of her face.

“Ugh, you’re no fun,” she grumbles toward you, stopping just a few feet in front of you and pulling two guns from behind her before pointing them each at you and Dick. Fuck, you start to panic. You sneak a glance over at Dick, who seems to be completely calm with a neutral expression on his face.

“Now,” the ginger takes a more assertive tone, “Lower your weapons, let me through, and no one gets hurt.”

A few beats pass, though it feels like an eternity to you, before Dick slowly lowers his weapon. Great, an idiot who can’t call a bluff, you thought to yourself.

“Good boy,” Dr. Isley says happily, then turns to you. “Your turn.”

“Put the gun down NOW and I blow a hole in your handsome boyfriend, here, honey,” she commands more authoritatively when you don’t make any move toward following her orders.

“Listen to her,” Dick hisses at you, both of his palms up in surrender. You ignore them both, thinking through your possible routes of escape. Dr. Isley takes this time to address Dick, determined to grate on your nerves.

“Your girl here doesn’t seem to have working ears, Grayson,” she spits, now training both of her guns right at you.

Another few beats pass before Dr. Isley takes you both by surprise, screaming:

“NOW!”

Suddenly, a puff of what you assumed to be neon green glitter fills your vision and lungs when you exhale. A burning sensation starts scalding your head, your throat, your lungs. It was like your balance started to seep out of your body. That pulling in the deep pits of your stomach starts yanking, causing your knees to wobble and your vision to blur. Pretty streaks of green blur in front you and a faint shout of “No! Stay with me!” rings in your ears. You’re vaguely aware of a warm hand cradling your cheek as a black abyss overwhelms your senses, your grip on consciousness seeping out of you just like your balance. The last thing you’re cognizant of is your head about to hit the pavement, skull buffered by a large, warm hand before it could really hit the ground.

.⋆⭒˚.⋆☾ .🪐˖☽⋆⭒˚.⋆

#writing in hiding₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧₊#cowboy bebop au #dick grayson x you #dick grayson #dick grayson fanfiction #x reader #fanfiction #dcu #dc x y/n #dc x you #dc comics #dcu comics

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