#i spent like 10 minutes figuring out where to put the read more fjdkjd

[cosmicheromp3]

so yesterday it was 2am and i was feeling soft and i remembered this dumb post, and, well, i made it into an actual thing. and today it was 12am and i was feeling soft again and finally finished editing it. anyways here have some dickroy tenderness

A fist connects to a jaw and there’s barely any give under it, and that’s when Dick knows he’s in trouble.

There are one too many henchmen on a night where he shouldn’t, if he followed any logic, have gone out. He doesn’t remember the last time he got more sleep than just a quick nap – if he stopped to think about it, he’d realize it was more than three days ago. But to Dick, world-on-his-shoulders Dick, any night where he isn’t bedridden with an injury is a night when he can – should – go out. 

That’s not how the human body works, however. And Dick, for all the magic and powers and aliens that are part of his life, is just that. Human.

Maybe not “just” human, as he is still powering through, against all odds. He isn’t entirely himself, though, and anyone who knows him will notice – not enough flips, not enough show, not enough grace. His body, always yearning to take off and fly, seems to want to stay close to the ground. The limited space is working in his favor, the platform on the docks narrow enough that he can push attackers to the water, but a mistake is bound to happen any second.

And it does. One of the henchmen gets hold of a gun that, if Dick was the tiniest bit more lucid, he would have discarded properly. And this henchman, he points, to the bright blue symbol on Nightwing’s chest – shining in the night like a target he put on himself. 

But he never gets to pull the trigger. What he gets, instead, is an arrow knocking the gun off his hand and scraping his trigger finger, hurting him no more than a paper cut, like a warning.

It works like the flick of a switch; the air, heavy and humid like it always is in the docks, now feels electrical, like a song where there’s a sudden crescendo. Dick’s face is lit up by a grin that can’t be wider because it’s physically impossible, a slightly unsettling image paired up with the white eyes of his domino mask. Shrouded by the shadows, on his vantage point on top of a crate, the mysterious archer smiles, and almost wants to laugh. 

Even so far apart, they fight together like it’s a dance. No commands need to be called out loud; no warning to duck, no signal for where to shoot. It’s the practice of two people who’ve been teammates for as long as they can remember, and it’s the familiarity of two people who understand each other better than themselves. 

With a backflip and a kick and one last arrow zipping through the air, it’s done. Habit takes over and without stopping to think about it Dick’s tying up the mostly unconscious henchmen (only a preventive measure, for now, before he figures out what his course of action is here). He uses these seconds to try to get his breathing back to normal, but he doesn’t seem to be able to, and not entirely because of the fight.

“You can come out now.” He says to the now still darkness around him.  

Then, there he is. Roy Harper, bathed in moonlight, red hair and sparkling green eyes; he looks – impossible. Like a dream. With the sound of the waves splashing rhythmically against the docks, Dick thinks it’s hard not to find the poetry in the moment. He’s suddenly entirely awake, his chest pulsing with something he recognizes but doesn’t dare name. 

It’s been too long since he last saw him, and Dick aches. Roy does too. 

They both take a step forward at the same time – carefully, like they don’t want to disturb the night around them, but eager, hungry, impatient. 

Another step forward, another step forward, and then they’re only a breath away. The adrenaline wearing off and exhaustion kicking in, Dick is unable or unwilling to move, lest his muscles give out from under him – he only manages to stand there and breathe in Roy, his presence, his warmth. Roy lets his head fall, just the slightest bit, so his forehead rests against Dick’s. Dick is sweaty and his hair curls and sticks to the edges of his face, but neither of them notice, or care, for that matter. 

“You were supposed to arrive tomorrow.” Dick says, finding his voice, hoarse, and feeling the – the suggestion of Roy’s lips, so close, as his move to form the words.

“Something told me I would need to save your ass.” They both let out a breathy laugh, and their chests brush, if for a second. But it’s short lived, and then they’re still again. Roy tilts his head, not to kiss, not yet, and gets even closer: cheeks pressed together, softly leaning on each other. Dick’s arm, with a mind of its own, moves so that his hand curls around the side of Roy’s neck, thumb softly tracing the line of his jaw.

“Besides,” – breathe in; breathe out – “I wanted to surprise you.” Roy’s voice, barely above a whisper, fades out and melts into the night. 

For a moment, neither of them feel anything but their own breaths and each other’s heartbeats. When Dick’s body finally collapses – when he lets himself finally collapse –, Roy’s arms are ready to hold on to him, and Dick’s face fits perfectly snuggled into the crook of Roy’s neck. And if there’s a kiss, now, it’s only a brush of soft lips against dark hair; and if there’s a kiss, later, it’s in the comfort of home and in the privacy of each other – except, except, home was never really about a place.