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something about a legacy that was never supposed to become one. about a grief never meant to become a title. he drives me insane

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I will say, the fact that I started getting into batman through the anthologies of golden age comics that I loved borrowing from the library as a kid and continued getting into batman by seeing it mentioned in the articles about historical queer pop culture that I loved reading online as a teen... that does make the whole batfam phenomenon kind of hard for me to process, even though rationally i know that bruce being the adoptive father/father figure to several children of varying ages is the standard, established understanding of the wayne household in dc now and has been for years. i'm not criticizing it i'm just disoriented. what do you mean dick is basically bruce's son? what do you mean he's the oldest of many siblings?? what do you mean shipping batman and robin is incest??? what do you mean they're not two young gay men with a significant-but-not-unreasonable-in-fiction age gap who are living together because they are life partners who fight crime together and have been in a secret relationship for years????? i thought we all made that assumption growing up.

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The energy of Blüdhaven shifts. It’s subtle at first, a new current in the city’s dark heart. The criminals feel it first.

A new kind of story circulates in grimy bars and on rooftops during shady deals. It’s not about a shadow that breaks bones. It’s about a silence that falls from the sky.

They call him The Ghost of Blüdhaven.

He doesn’t stalk. He appears. One moment, the alley is empty. The next, he’s just there, a streak of black and blue under the neon lights, already in motion. He doesn’t growl threats. His fighting style is a brutal, beautiful, and utterly silent language of disarms, pressure points, and perfectly timed strikes that sound like muffled drums in the night. He leaves criminals webbed to lampposts with tough, black, elastic cables—neatly trussed, dossiers of their crimes sometimes tucked into a pocket for the police.

He is a rumor, a superstition. They say he can’t be shot; he moves like the wind changes direction. They say he doesn’t have a secret identity because he’s not a man at all, just a vengeance that the city finally cooked up for itself. He has Batman’s terrifying efficiency, but none of the mythos. It’s colder, more clinical. More final.

But for the people of Blüdhaven, the story is different.

He’s the hero who stops.

A young girl, crying over a stolen backpack, looks up to see him perched on a fire escape. He doesn’t swoop down dramatically. He just drops her backpack—retrieved, cleaned—gently at her feet with a soft thump. He gives her a little two-fingered salute before leaping back into the sky, the movement so fluid it’s like he’s being reeled upward by a wire.

He’s the one who buys hot dogs for the unhoused folks on his route, leaving them on the grate without a word, a blur of blue seen only from the corner of the eye.

Kids on rooftops point at the sky, not at a signal, but at a silhouette arcing between buildings. “Look! It’s Nightwing!” He’s their neighborhood hero. They draw him on sidewalks with chalk, a blue stick figure with a domino mask, swinging next to Spider-Man. He has Batman’s respect, but he has their love.

And the key to it all? The feeling he’d been chasing since he was eight years old…

Thwip. Thwip. CRACK.

The custom-designed grapple launchers on his wrists are his masterpiece. They don’t fire a grappling hook; they fire a line of ultra-strong, quick-hardening polymer filament—a black, tensile thread that anchors with a sharp, satisfying crack.

And then he flies.

He swings through the canyons of Blüdhaven not with the grim purpose of a bat, but with the wild, exuberant joy of a acrobat finally, finally set loose. He uses the momentum, lets it carry him, adding flips and twists and dives just because he can. The wind whips at his hair, and for the first time in years, the mask feels less like a mask and more like part of his skin.

This is it. This is the feeling. The precise calculation of trajectory, the g-force pulling at his body, the dizzying drop before the swing catches him. It’s the exact sensation of flying on the trapeze, of letting go of one bar and trusting that the other will be there, that his hands will find it.

He is Dick Grayson of the Flying Graysons, and the city is his big top.

He is free. He is untethered. He is a competent, self-contained machine of justice and compassion, operating on his own terms. He is the legend criminals fear and the protector citizens smile about.

He is not Batman’s shadow. He is not Bruce’s partner. He is not grieving.

He is Nightwing. And he is, finally, home.

{just wanted to write something where Nightwing is happy. and i wanted him to swing buildings like Spidey cause my boy deserves to fly. he doesn't need super strength to absorb the force of the swing, he is Dick fucking Grayson. i don't make the rules.}

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i need to ask Does Roy actually hate Dick? because while reading fanfics i know that they were friends and sometimes actually are. but most of them Roy is either bitter or Angry at for some reason or other. and i can't help but notice it's mostly when jason is part of the story.

Did something happen or is it the same situation with Dick supposedly hating jaybin. (which is totally incorrect and it's people's bias or opinions that even brought that incorrect fact to life.)

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okay. just had my heart broken by a Dick grayson fic with Bad Bruce wayne Fic(comic accurate unfortunately for recent ones). And then I went to read a golden age comic where my boy Bruce was still good. went to read a fanfic with good person bruce and then i said you know what. Here is a short fic where good bruce stumbles on Dick from Bad bruce universe. just cause.

---

Dick Grayson has always been good at keeping secrets.

He keeps this one ferociously.

No one knows about the man living in his apartment. Not Alfred, not Barbara, certainly not Bruce. (Not his Bruce, anyway.)

It’s safer that way, he tells himself. The Justice League has protocols for interdimensional breaches, and Batman especially doesn’t take kindly to duplicates. If they found out—

(If they found out, they’d take him away. And Dick—Dick can’t lose this. Not now. Not ever.)

So he lies.

He lies with easy smiles and brighter laughter, with “Nah, just ordering takeout for one!” texts and strategically timed patrol routes. He lies when Jason eyes the two coffee mugs in his sink, when Tim raises an eyebrow at the extra toothbrush in his bathroom.

It’s nothing, he says.

(It’s everything.)

---

Not-Bruce notices, of course.

He notices the way Dick tenses when the comms crackle to life, the way his fingers dig into Not-Bruce’s wrist when someone knocks on the door just a little too hard.

“You don’t have to hide me,” he murmurs one night, tracing the line of Dick’s spine where he’s curled against him.

Dick goes very still.

“Yes,” he says, voice raw. “I do.”

(He doesn’t say: Because if they take you, I’ll break.)

(He doesn’t have to.)

---

It’s selfish.

Dick knows it’s selfish.

But for the first time in his life, he has something—someone—who looks at him like he’s precious. Who doesn’t flinch when Dick reaches for him, who lets him fuss and fret and care without ever telling him to stop, to focus, to be better.

Not-Bruce likes his cooking, even when it’s terrible. He listens when Dick rambles, even about nothing. He holds him at night like he’s afraid Dick will vanish if he doesn’t.

(And Dick—Dick melts into it. Like a flower finally turning toward the sun after years in the dark.)

---

The guilt comes, sometimes.

When he sees his Bruce—the real one, the one who raised him—and feels nothing but a dull, distant ache. When he realizes, with a pang, that he hasn’t thought about that Bruce in days.

(What does that say about him? That he’s so willing to replace the man who gave him everything?

But then—

Did Bruce ever hold him like this?

Did he ever look at him like he was loved?)

---

Not-Bruce catches him spiraling once.

“Hey,” he murmurs, cupping Dick’s face. “Where’d you go?”

Dick’s breath stutters.

“Nowhere,” he lies.

(It’s getting easier.)

---

(Also, yes, Dick 100% has a go-bag ready in case they need to flee the country. Not-Bruce knows about it. He thinks it’s adorable.)

Not my best work, i didn't flesh out anything. but it does show my point. LET DICK BE HAPPY!!! IF HIS BRUCE WON'T I'LL GIVE ONE THAT WILL!! LET MY BOY BE!!!

(i'll add another part if i feel like it or flesh out the backstories or add something. we'll see.)

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just read a fic and holy shit. Dick, oh Dick... My baby..

oh Dick. When you have the responsibility of a wife but not the pleasure of a bride. When the man you swore everything to, the man you gave and still give everything to doesn't treat you like anything more than a co-worker at best. When the bruce of now isn't like the bruce you first met, the bruce you loved, the Bruce who *loved* you. But Dick is loyal to a fault, isn't he? He swore his loyalty to Batman once, a long time ago. and Dick is helpless to do anything but that.

Dick who supported bruce, Dick who loved bruce, Dick who raised the children Bruce took home.Dick who doesn't know how to not love bruce.

Dick who raised Damian,a child that looks so much like bruce but with talia's (Dick's) skin tone.

(please any fic with this tone.)

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When you first start liking Dick Grayson and you’re like: I love him because he’s so funny and sexy!

and then you keep reading his comics and you realize

Dick

x

Is

(Titans vol 3 #34)

Literally

(Nightwing Vol 2 #153)

The

(Nightiwng vol 2 #153: Dick fixing the light post Bruce’s parents died at)

Light

(Grayson #5)

Of

(Battle for the Cowl)

Everyone’s

(Grayson:Futures End)

Life

(Robin war #1)

He’s

(Convergence) 

Literally

(x)

The 

(Teen Titans vol 3 #6)

Peacemaker 

(x)

And

(Titans Hunt #2)

The

(x)

Heart

(x)

Of

(x)

The

(Titans #10)

DCU

(x) 

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Dick grayson signing golden. that's it. that's the idea. thanks for coming to my ted talk.

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Dick Grayson was exhausted.

The mission was over, the plane hadn't crashed, and the android was now a melted heap of scrap metal-thanks, in part, to a very flammable tube of lipstick. He'd showered, changed into loose sleep pants and an old Blüdhaven University hoodie, and was halfway to collapsing into bed when his phone rang.

Bruce.

Of course.

Professional. Right.

He swiped to answer, pressing the phone to his ear.

"Mission debrief?" Dick said, aiming for dry, aiming for normal.

Bruce's voice was a low rumble through the line, steady as always. "Just confirming the target was neutralized."

"Yeah, well." Dick smirked, even though Bruce couldn't see it. "Turns out beauty products are deadly."

A pause. Then, the faintest exhale- almost a laugh. Almost.

"You made it work," Bruce said.

Dick's stomach flipped.

Stupid.

He was stupid for this. For the way his chest tightened when Bruce sounded even vaguely approving. For the way his fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, imagining, just for a second, that it was Bruce's shirt instead. That the call wasn't just a debrief. That Bruce had called for-

Something else.

Dick swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Bruce was still talking, something about the League's cleanup crew, something about the android's tech-but Dick wasn't listening. Not really.

He was too busy imagining Bruce's voice saying something different.

"Come home."

"I miss you."

"You were beautiful tonight."

Dick's cheeks burned.

He pressed the phone closer, as if he could crawl into the sound of Bruce's voice, live there, wrapped up in that impossible warmth.

(And across the city, in the Cave, Bruce watched the feed from the hidden cameras in Dick's apartment-watched the way Dick's lashes fluttered, the way his lips parted, the way his free hand had drifted absently to his own throat, fingers brushing where the necklace Bruce gave him had rested earlier.)

(He didn't say a word.)

"-understood?" Bruce finished.

Dick blinked.

Shit.

"Yeah" Dick lied. "Understood."

A beat. Then, quieter: "Get some rest, Dick."

Dick's breath caught.

You could stay on the line. You could tell me to come back. You could-

"Yeah" he murmured. "You too."

The call ended.

Dick let the phone drop onto the mattress, his chest aching.

Pathetic.

He dragged a hand through his hair-still long, still tied back in that damn ponytail -and exhaled sharply.

Across the room, unnoticed, a tiny camera lens glinted in the dark.

[tcffantfu276]

The mission went sideways.

It was supposed to be recon. Quick in, quick out. But the gas that filled the old asylum wing wasn’t laced with anything standard. It didn’t knock Dick out, didn’t slow his motor functions.

It just… stripped away the walls.

Stripped away the carefully honed masks and left him flushed and pliant, humming with emotion. Open. Unfiltered.

By the time Bruce got them home, Dick was on the floor of the cave, sprawled between Bruce’s knees, his head resting—no, nuzzled—against Bruce’s lap.

He should’ve moved. Should’ve pushed Dick off. But Bruce didn’t.

He sat back in the chair like stone, gauntlets still on, cape pooled behind him, while Dick…

Dick looked like paradise found.

Cheeks flushed, lashes heavy over dazed blue eyes, lips parted in a drunk, sun-drenched smile like Bruce had just whispered I love you.

He hadn’t. God knows he hadn’t.

But he had said—

“You’re not leaving my side again, Robin.”

And that’s what did it.

That name. That claim.

Dick had gone still for half a heartbeat.

Then—like it struck something inside him and filled him up all at once—. A soft, crumpling sound, full-body, and immediately curled closer, breath catching like he'd been kissed.

Bruce watched the way Dick trembled, hips giving a tiny involuntary roll, face nuzzling further into his thigh like Bruce was warmth, safety, home.

“You okay?” Bruce asked tightly. His voice was all gravel, rigid in his throat.

Dick’s smile turned beatific. Soft and messy. Like Bruce had blessed him.

“You said Robin,” he whispered, voice syrup-sweet, eyes heavy-lidded and drunk. “Say it again…”

Bruce swallowed. “You’re compromised. You need rest.”

“M’fine,” Dick slurred gently. “Just… just love it when you call me that.”

The words landed like a punch.

“Love it,” Dick repeated, hands curling loosely near Bruce’s boot. He held it like an anchor, fingertips brushing the laces like he was petting it. “Love when you say my name like that. Like I still matter.”

“You always matter,” Bruce said before he could stop himself.

And fuck—

Dick’s eyes fluttered, cheeks flushing darker. His smile turned helpless. Drenched with affection. He looked up at Bruce like he’d handed him the moon.

Bruce’s hand—traitorous, treacherous thing—fell into Dick’s hair.

Dick shuddered.

His lashes fluttered and he actually arched into the touch, letting out the softest, most contented noise Bruce had ever heard from a human being.

“You’re flushed,” Bruce murmured, trying to distract himself. “Your temperature—”

“M’not sick,” Dick interrupted, dreamy and warm. “Jus’… you keep touching me.”

Bruce froze.

Dick smiled wider. His lips were pink. Kiss-bitten. His eyes were glassy, glowing.

“You’re touching me, Bruce,” he breathed, reverent. “And I don’t wanna move. Ever.”

“You’re high.”

“I’m happy.”

Bruce’s jaw ticked. His hand still hadn’t moved from Dick’s hair.

And now Dick was—purring wasn’t the word. Not really. But something inside him was buzzing, alive, and it made Bruce feel it in his chest like a second heartbeat.

“You’ve never let me,” Dick whispered. “Just… just be here. Just be soft. Just be yours.”

Bruce closed his eyes. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t let this happen. But Dick was there—at his feet, radiant and unraveled, looking like he’d burn the world for another stroke of Bruce’s hand.

“You’re my partner,” Bruce said quietly. “You always have been.”

Dick’s whole body stilled.

Then: a broken little gasp.

Then: collapse.

Head bowing, fingers trembling, he pressed his cheek harder into Bruce’s lap, like he could sink into him.

“Yours,” he whispered, “always yours. Say it again. Please. Please.”

“You’re mine.”

“Yours.”

“My partner.”

“Yours.”

Bruce looked down.

Dick looked younger. Brighter. Like the boy he once was, only now all grown up and beautiful and dangerous and so damn full of love.

He’d laid himself bare. Caged on the ground. Head in Bruce’s lap like it was the only heaven he’d ever known.

His body was loose now. Malleable. Not sexual—but offering. Worshipping.

Not because he had to.

Because Bruce had let him. Acknowledged him. Touched him.

“You don’t need to do this,” Bruce said, quiet.

Dick’s eyes shone. “But I want to.”

The words were heavy. Full of things unsaid.

Bruce curled a hand behind Dick’s nape. Pulled him closer.

“Then stay,” he murmured.

Dick smiled.

That fucking smile. All giddy and open and glowing.

Bruce had never seen anything so lovely.

“I’m yours,” Dick said again. Not a whisper now. Just truth.

“Always yours.”

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The magic of Brudick is that their fear gas hallucinations and deepest desire fantasies are the same thing

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(UNDERCOVER AS A MARRIED COUPLE(brudick edition.))

Scene: "A Waltz of Thorns and Silk"

(The Grand Ballroom — Undercover as Newlyweds, But Are They Really?)

The chandeliers dimmed, casting the ballroom in warm amber. The polished marble glowed beneath the soft candlelight, the illusion of intimacy settling over the room like a well-spun lie. But Bruce had never been one for illusions.

He exhaled slowly as his hand slid from Dick’s waist to the small of his back, pulling him closer. His palm pressed firmly, fingers splaying just enough to possess rather than merely guide. Their thighs brushed with every step, the waltz smooth, effortless—dangerous.

Dick made a quiet sound—barely a hitch of breath, just audible enough for Bruce to catch. His fingers curled into the fabric of Bruce’s shoulder, grip tightening.

Bruce tilted his head slightly, voice low. “Nervous?”

Dick’s lips curled. “Please. You wish.”

The music swelled, strings trembling with the weight of something unspoken.

Dick leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted against Bruce’s ear. “Eyes on me, husband.” His voice dipped on the last word, rich with amusement—except, was it?

Bruce’s grip tightened without thinking. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

Dick’s thumb traced the sharp line of Bruce’s jaw, a featherlight touch, utterly improper for Gotham’s ever-watchful eyes. “And you’re not?”

Bruce exhaled, rougher than he meant to. “We’re being watched.”

“I know.” Dick’s smirk was pure mischief. “Why do you think I’m making it convincing?”

Bruce fought the urge to huff. “Your definition of convincing is questionable.”

Dick hummed. “Admit it, you’d rather suffer through this mission with me than anyone else.”

Bruce’s response was immediate. “You’d be insufferable if I denied it.”

A laugh, quiet and warm, nearly lost beneath the hum of the orchestra. But then Bruce moved—sweeping Dick into a low dip, one hand spanning his spine, the other firm against the curve of his neck.

Dick didn’t falter, but something in his expression did—just for a split second. His head tilted back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. His lips parted, caught between a word and breath, though neither quite made it out.

The room watched.

Bruce’s gaze flickered downward, lingering—not at the crowd, not at the mission—just for a moment, just enough to blur the line. His fingers pressed just a fraction tighter at Dick’s waist.

Dick’s lashes lowered, a slow blink. His voice, when it came, was quiet, steady. “The target’s watching.”

Bruce inhaled sharply. “…I know.”

Dick smiled, slow and knowing. “Then sell it.”

And he leaned in—closing the gap—

Almost.

Bruce turned his head at the last second, the kiss landing on his cheek instead. But it wasn’t avoidance, not really—because Bruce held him there, let Dick linger, let the warmth of his breath linger.

Dick’s laugh, when it finally came, was honey and something sharper underneath. “Coward.”

Bruce didn’t argue.

They parted, applause breaking the moment before it could become something. But Bruce’s thumb lingered at Dick’s hip, a touch that neither of them let go of right away.

And for just a second—just the barest fraction of a moment—Dick’s smirk faltered.

Somewhere in the Batcave, Alfred quietly set down his tea and wondered just how long the two of them planned to keep up this ridiculous charade.

[tcffantfu276]

Stay With Me

The plea is quiet. Barely a whisper.

"Come with me."

The words alone wouldn’t have been enough.

But it’s the way Bruce says them—the way his voice is soft, pleading—that makes something in Dick tremble.

A gloved hand presses against his back, solid and real, and he can feel the warmth even through the layers of his suit.

"Please."

And then—a kiss.

Gentle. Not demanding. Just a quiet press of lips against his temple, a whisper of warmth in a world that’s been so cold.

"Dickie."

Dick swallows hard.

It’s been eleven months.

Eleven months since he last saw his Bruce—the Bruce of this world, the one who should have cared enough to look for him, to listen. Eleven months since he last talked to him, if you could even call it that. If a cold shoulder, a distant glare, a refusal to hear him counted as a conversation.

It’s been eleven months since his own world made it clear that he didn’t belong here anymore.

And now—

Now there’s this Bruce.

One who wants him.

Not out of duty. Not out of some obligation to the symbol on his chest.

But because he chooses to.

Because this Bruce looks at him and sees light, not a failure, not a mistake.

Dick doesn’t even realize he’s shaking until Bruce pulls him in tighter, arms wrapping around him like he’s afraid to let go.

And Dick—God, Dick—

He holds on tighter, too.

Because they have the same face. The same voice, the same presence.

And Dick has never been able to deny Bruce anything.

Not when he was a kid, clinging to the man who saved him from the worst night of his life.

Not as Robin, looking to his mentor for guidance, for approval, for love.

Not even now, when every instinct is screaming that this is dangerous, that this is a bad idea, that letting himself need Bruce again will only lead to pain.

Because for the first time in almost a year—

Bruce is here.

Warm. Real. Holding onto him.

And Dick—broken, tired, aching—

Holds on back.

Post-spyral. trope of the batfamily giving Dick the Cold shoulder.

A Ghost That Holds On

Dick doesn’t realize how cold he’s been until he starts coming home to warmth.

At first, it’s jarring. After all, he’s used to coming back from patrol, peeling off the suit, and collapsing into bed with only the faint hum of the city outside his window keeping him company. Used to silence. Used to nothing.

But now, there’s him.

This Bruce.

A man who isn’t his, but looks at him like he is.

"How was patrol?" Bruce asks, the first time Dick walks through the door after a particularly brutal night.

Dick hesitates, fingers still on the zipper of his suit. No one has asked him that in months.

Not his Bruce. Not his family.

So, against his better judgment, he answers. "Same as usual."

Bruce nods. Doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. He just motions to the couch. "Come here."

And Dick—tired, fraying at the edges, so fucking lonely he can taste it—goes.

Because when he sits next to Bruce, the man shifts just enough to wrap an arm around him, slow and careful, like he’s afraid Dick might vanish if he’s not gentle enough.

"Good," Bruce murmurs, like it matters. Like Dick matters.

And God, it feels nice.

He doesn’t fight it when Bruce pulls him in, when he ends up half-leaning against him on the couch.

Doesn’t fight it when the warmth of another person seeps into his skin, when Bruce holds him like something precious.

It’s not his Bruce.

But this one wants him.

And for now… that’s enough.

[tcffantfu276]

part! 2 (Other Bruce POV)

The Bat Who Stole the Sun

Bruce had always known that grief was a living thing.

A beast with gnashing teeth, hollow eyes, and unrelenting hunger. It clawed at the edges of sanity, whispering that something—someone—was missing. That the world was fundamentally wrong in a way that could never be fixed.

He had lived with that beast for years. Let it hollow him out.

Until he found him.

Until he found his light again.

Not his—not yet. Not truly. But God, did it matter?

Because there he was.

Smiling. Laughing. Breathing.

This world had kept him. Had let him grow. Had let him live.

And that Bruce—the one who had let him go—had the audacity to push him away.

It made him sick.

So he watched.

Every day, he observed from the edges of Blüdhaven’s rooftops, from the shadows of its alleys. He memorized the way Nightwing’s movements had shifted over the years. He cataloged each minuscule change, from the way his landings were softer now to the way his muscles coiled just so before he threw a punch.

The way his mouth curled when he spoke to a victim. The way his shoulders sagged ever so slightly when he thought no one was looking.

And, eventually, the way he hesitated just a second too long before leaving patrol.

As if he had nowhere to go.

As if no one wanted him home.

Fools.

They didn’t deserve him. That Bruce didn’t deserve him.

He had replaced his boy with cheap imitations. Let him be cast aside, let his family turn cold. Let him break alone.

Well.

Bruce would not let it stand.

So, when the time came—when Nightwing returned home after another long night, shoulders tight with exhaustion—Bruce was there.

And he saw it.

Saw the way Dick’s face shifted when he caught sight of him. That tired surprise curling at the edges of his expression.

"How was patrol?" he asked, voice smooth. Casual.

And for a moment, just a moment, he saw the hesitance. The way Dick's fingers lingered on his zipper, as if he wasn’t used to being asked.

Monsters.

Bruce’s teeth clenched, rage curling deep inside him. But he softened it—flattened it into something usable.

Because when Dick finally spoke, it was with quiet reluctance. "Same as usual."

And that was enough.

For now.

So he nodded, letting the silence settle, before gesturing to the couch. "Come here."

It was a gamble. A test.

A part of him feared that this Dick—this bright, brilliant, wounded creature—would flinch. That he’d refuse Bruce’s touch. That he’d shake his head, say no, and remind him that he wasn’t his.

But he didn’t.

No.

Instead, his body moved.

Like instinct. Like trust.

And God—when Dick sank onto the couch beside him, when Bruce wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close—he swore he could breathe again.

Because this was right.

This was how it was supposed to be.

His boy, alive.

His boy, safe.

His boy, his.

Dick belonged to him.

And if his counterpart had been too much of a blind, unworthy fool to see it—if he had abandoned this beautiful, precious thing—then Bruce would simply take him.

And this time, he would never let him go.

Post-spyral. trope of the batfamily giving Dick the Cold shoulder.

A Ghost That Holds On

Dick doesn’t realize how cold he’s been until he starts coming home to warmth.

At first, it’s jarring. After all, he’s used to coming back from patrol, peeling off the suit, and collapsing into bed with only the faint hum of the city outside his window keeping him company. Used to silence. Used to nothing.

But now, there’s him.

This Bruce.

A man who isn’t his, but looks at him like he is.

"How was patrol?" Bruce asks, the first time Dick walks through the door after a particularly brutal night.

Dick hesitates, fingers still on the zipper of his suit. No one has asked him that in months.

Not his Bruce. Not his family.

So, against his better judgment, he answers. "Same as usual."

Bruce nods. Doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. He just motions to the couch. "Come here."

And Dick—tired, fraying at the edges, so fucking lonely he can taste it—goes.

Because when he sits next to Bruce, the man shifts just enough to wrap an arm around him, slow and careful, like he’s afraid Dick might vanish if he’s not gentle enough.

"Good," Bruce murmurs, like it matters. Like Dick matters.

And God, it feels nice.

He doesn’t fight it when Bruce pulls him in, when he ends up half-leaning against him on the couch.

Doesn’t fight it when the warmth of another person seeps into his skin, when Bruce holds him like something precious.

It’s not his Bruce.

But this one wants him.

And for now… that’s enough.

[tcffantfu276]

Post-spyral. trope of the batfamily giving Dick the Cold shoulder.

A Ghost That Holds On

Dick doesn’t realize how cold he’s been until he starts coming home to warmth.

At first, it’s jarring. After all, he’s used to coming back from patrol, peeling off the suit, and collapsing into bed with only the faint hum of the city outside his window keeping him company. Used to silence. Used to nothing.

But now, there’s him.

This Bruce.

A man who isn’t his, but looks at him like he is.

"How was patrol?" Bruce asks, the first time Dick walks through the door after a particularly brutal night.

Dick hesitates, fingers still on the zipper of his suit. No one has asked him that in months.

Not his Bruce. Not his family.

So, against his better judgment, he answers. "Same as usual."

Bruce nods. Doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. He just motions to the couch. "Come here."

And Dick—tired, fraying at the edges, so fucking lonely he can taste it—goes.

Because when he sits next to Bruce, the man shifts just enough to wrap an arm around him, slow and careful, like he’s afraid Dick might vanish if he’s not gentle enough.

"Good," Bruce murmurs, like it matters. Like Dick matters.

And God, it feels nice.

He doesn’t fight it when Bruce pulls him in, when he ends up half-leaning against him on the couch.

Doesn’t fight it when the warmth of another person seeps into his skin, when Bruce holds him like something precious.

It’s not his Bruce.

But this one wants him.

And for now… that’s enough.

[tcffantfu276]

1. The First Time Dick Says It

Gotham Docks, 2 AM

A warehouse collapses, trapping Batman inside. The thermal scans show no life signs.

Tim, frantic “We need to call in the League! He’s gone—”

Dick, already digging through rubble: “He’s not.”

Jason: “Are you blind?! The scans—”

Dick, calm as a sniper: “If he were dead, my heart wouldn’t be beating.”

*Silence.*

Steph: “…That’s the creepiest thing you’ve ever said.”

Cass, nodding: “Truth.”*

Bruce crawls out of the wreckage 20 minutes later. Dick doesn’t even look surprised.

---

2. The First Time Bruce Says It

Blüdhaven, 3 AM

A bomb levels Dick’s apartment. Footage shows Nightwing’s mask in the debris.

Damian, voice shaking: “Grayson is… he’s—”

Bruce, sharpening a batarang: “He’s alive.”

Tim: “Bruce, the evidence—”

Bruce: “If he were dead, I’d feel it.”

*The Cave freezes.*

Jason: “Oh hell no. You’re both delusional—”

Alfred, sipping tea: “Master Dick *did* once sense Master Bruce’s appendicitis from three countries away.”

Dick calls an hour later, laughing: “Miss me?”

---

3. Jason’s Breaking Point

After a Joker gas attack “kills” Dick:

Jason: “Face it, old man. He’s *dead*.”

Bruce, not looking up from case files: “His pulse is steady. He’s undercover in Markovia.”

Jason: “*What the fuck* is wrong with you?!”

Dick, over comms: “Language, Jay. Also, hi.”

Jason chucks a smoke bomb at the Batcomputer.

---

4. Tim’s Scientific Meltdown

Tim rigs the Cave with biometric sensors to “study” their bond.

**Tim:** “Heart rates synced 98.7% of the time. Cortisol levels mirror each other. This isn’t love—it’s symbiosis!”

Dick, stealing his coffee: “Or we’re just *awesome*.”

Bruce, reviewing data: “…Fascinating.”

Tim: “NO. Not fascinating! This is clinically unhinged!”

---

5. Damian’s Reluctant Witness

Damian finds Dick mid-panic attack after Bruce is stabbed.

Dick, gasping: “He’s alive. He’s alive—”

Damian: “Father’s heart stopped for 37 seconds.”

Dick, fierce: “Then why am I still breathing?”

Damian stares. Later, he burns his “Grayson is Irritating” journal.

---

6. Steph’s Hilarious Take

Steph catches Dick humming while Bruce is “dead” (again).

Steph: “You’re weirdly cheery for a widow.”

Dick: “Check the news.”

Headline: BATMAN SAVES ORPHANAGE, STILL ALIVE, STILL HOT.

Steph: “You’re both the worst. Marry already.”

Dick: “Aw, you do care!”

---

7. Cass Sees the Truth

Cass watches Bruce and Dick fight back-to-back, movements mirrored.

Cass, signing: “One soul. Two bodies.”

Barbara: “Poetic. Also terrifying.”

Cass: Grins. *“Perfect.”*

---

8. The Family’s Final Verdict

*After the 12th “death” fakeout:*

Jason: “I’m adopting a dog. Dogs *stay dead*.”

Tim: “I’m writing a paper. The NIH will freak.”

Steph: “I’m selling merch. *‘I Survived the Bat-Bond’* tees.”

Damian: “I’m… *grateful*. Do not tell Grayson.”

Alfred: “I’m increasing the sedative dosage. For myself.”

---

Final Scene:

Bruce and Dick, bruised but alive, listen to the chaos from the Cave’s vents.

Dick: “Think they’ll ever get used to it?”

Bruce: “No.”

Dick: “Good.”

They fist-bump. Gotham sighs.

---

Post-Credits:

Jason’s dog “accidentally” destroys Tim’s biometric sensors. Cass frames Damian. Steph profits.

[tcffantfu276]

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the curtains of Dr. Agasa’s living room, casting a warm, golden glow over the cluttered space. Conan sat cross-legged on the floor, his phone resting in his hands. The soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant ticking of the grandfather clock filled the room, creating a quiet, almost meditative atmosphere.

On the screen of his phone was a photo of Kaito Kid, captured by a news helicopter during his latest heist. The thief was mid-air, his white cape billowing like a pair of wings against the night sky. His grin was as sharp and confident as ever, a playing card held between his fingers like a challenge to the world. Conan’s thumb hovered over the image, his expression softening in a way that was rare for the usually sharp-eyed detective.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling until Haibara’s voice cut through the silence, dry and knowing.

"Let me guess," she said, leaning against the doorway with a cup of tea in hand. Her tone was as calm as ever, but there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. "It’s about him again."

Conan blinked, startled out of his thoughts. He quickly locked his phone, the screen going dark, and tried to school his expression into something neutral. "What are you talking about?"

Haibara raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faint smirk. She stepped into the room, her movements graceful and unhurried, and set her tea down on the coffee table before sitting across from him. "Your thief. Kaito Kid. Don’t play dumb—it doesn’t suit you."

Conan frowned, his cheeks tinged with pink. "I wasn’t—"

"You were," Haibara interrupted, her tone matter-of-fact. She tilted her head slightly, studying him with that piercing gaze of hers. "You had that same dopey look on your face that you always get when he’s involved. Honestly, it’s a miracle no one else has noticed."

Conan opened his mouth to protest, but Haibara wasn’t done. She leaned back on her hands, her smirk widening. "You think you’re so subtle, but you’re not. Every time his name comes up, you get this… look. Like you’re trying not to smile but failing miserably."

Conan’s frown deepened, but there was no real heat behind it. He glanced away, his fingers tightening around his phone. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Haibara rolled her eyes, her expression a mix of exasperation and fondness. "Of course you don’t. Because you’re oblivious. But for the record, it’s painfully obvious to anyone paying attention. You’re lucky the professor is as clueless as you are."

Conan crossed his arms, his expression a mix of embarrassment and defiance. "Even if I was looking at something related to Kid, it’s not a big deal. He’s a criminal. It’s my job to keep an eye on him."

Haibara’s smirk turned almost predatory. "Is that what you’re calling it now? ‘Keeping an eye on him’? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks more like you’re smitten."

Conan’s face turned a deeper shade of red, and he looked away, his ears burning. Haibara watched him for a moment, her smirk softening into something almost fond. She reached for her tea, taking a slow sip before speaking again.

"You know," she said, her voice quieter now, "it’s not a bad thing. To care about someone. Even if they’re a thief."

Conan glanced at her, surprised by the shift in her tone. There was a rare gentleness in her expression, one that she didn’t often show. "It’s not like that," he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

Haibara shrugged, setting her cup down. "If you say so. But for what it’s worth… he’s not the worst person you could be smiling at like that."

Conan didn’t respond, his gaze dropping to his phone. He unlocked it, the photo of Kid still on the screen. For a moment, he just stared at it, his expression softening despite himself. The thief’s confident grin, the way the moonlight caught the edges of his cape, the playful glint in his eyes—it was all so *Kaito*. And for some reason, it made Conan’s chest feel warm in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

Haibara hid a smile behind her cup as she stood, brushing imaginary dust off her skirt. "Just don’t let it distract you too much. We’ve got bigger problems to deal with."

Conan nodded, though his eyes didn’t leave the screen. "Yeah. I know."

As Haibara left the room, Conan’s thumb brushed over the photo, his lips curving into that same soft, unconscious smile. And for a moment, just a moment, he let himself enjoy the warmth blooming in his chest.