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I like the idea of Talon!Dick too much 😩

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hey I just wanted to drop by and say I loved Cut and Run so much. I love the way you write settings and emotion. like when I first read the chapter introducing Mercado, the atmosphere felt so real I felt like I had been there before, like i genuinely was part of that community and knew the place. your writing and descriptions of each character thoughts and feelings are also so raw and human. looking forward to any writing you share in the future :)

Hey Nonny!! Thank you so much! Mercado was for sure my favourite setting to write - I do think local markets / food courts might be my favourite places in the world so maybe that passion came across! <3

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Superman 2025 was fantastic. I enjoyed literally every moment of it. Have some Robins instead.

Once again, I could not resist the calls of sibling dynamics

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Wally West, the MOST skrunkly

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Gotham Drawl: Effective Under Duress

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader

Genre: Aggressive fluff

Warnings: Mild swearing, illness, mentions of past trauma

Word Count: 3.7K

Summary: Jason Todd has faced death, war, and worse - but a nasty case of the flu might be his greatest nemesis yet. Refusing to rest, he suits up in pyjamas and a helmet for a late-night patrol … only to beef it on a rooftop and get ratted out by Damian.

Part four of my Unfit for Duty series. Find the other parts here!

He says he’s fine.

Which, of course, is a goddamn lie.

Jason Todd says he’s fine the same way Gotham says it's “under control” - with blood in its teeth and a twitch in its left eye.

You find him exactly where you left him this morning: slouched on the couch like a fallen statue, half-buried in a mess of mismatched blankets he definitely didn’t fold himself. His hoodie is bunched up awkwardly around his ribs, one boot still on like he lost the will to finish the job halfway through. The coffee table looks like it got looted during a riot - bottles of cough syrup, fever meds, vitamin C tablets, and what is unmistakably an almost-empty bottle of whiskey with a half-peeled label.

And tissues.

God, the tissues.

Crushed into balls, some soggy, some flung like he was aiming for a bin and missed. One is tucked into the collar of his shirt like a sad little surrender flag.

You don’t even step inside at first. Just lean in the doorway, arms crossed, your coat still damp from Gotham’s signature mix of icy rain and godless wind. You stare. He glares.

“You’re sick,” you say flatly.

Jason grunts. It’s low, throaty, miserable. Not a word, just a noise. The same kind of noise he made the time you found him bleeding in an alley and he insisted, “It’s just a graze.” That graze needed seventeen stitches.

“That wasn’t English,” you deadpan. “Wanna try again, Shakespeare?”

He groans, dragging the blanket higher over his face like he can disappear if he just commits to the bit hard enough. “M’not sick.”

“Bullshit.” You kick off your boots with a thud and stalk in. “You sound like you gargled broken glass and washed it down with cement.”

“I’ve had worse,” he mutters, congested and hoarse, which only proves your point.

You snort. “That is not the flex you think it is.”

He glares at you again, red-eyed and fever-glossed. His nose is raw, his skin pale and waxy, and the faint sheen on his brow tells you he’s burning up. But the jaw? Still clenched in that signature Todd pride. Like being sick is some sort of weakness. Like letting someone see him this way might crack the street-tough armour he’s welded into his bones.

You’ve seen him shot. You’ve seen him bleed. You’ve seen him curled in bed after a nightmare so bad he couldn’t breathe, saying your name like it was the only thing tethering him back. But this - this flu? This refusal to admit he’s not invincible?

This is a different kind of stubborn.

“I’ve been stabbed and walked it off.”

“Yes, and now you’ve been felled by a virus like a Victorian orphan,” you mutter, crouching beside the couch. “What’s next, Jason? Consumption? A tragic monologue about the cruelty of fate?”

He sneezes like a cannon blast, then groans so loudly it echoes, sinking lower into the couch like death itself is pressing down on him.

You try - really try - not to laugh.

You press a knuckle to your lips, trying to contain the laugh. It bubbles up anyway.

Because it's Jason. Gotham’s snarling, brooding, trigger-happy avenger. The guy who once uppercut a man through drywall because he was “having a bad day.” The man who has more scars than healthy coping mechanisms. And here he is, drowning in DayQuil and denial.

He notices. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, absolutely.” You rise and grab the whiskey, eyeing the label. “Is this your idea of NyQuil?”

“It’s aged,” he rasps.

You give him a look. “So are your sinuses, apparently.”

He groans again, lower this time. The sound shudders through him like a dying engine. You move around the couch, lean down, and run your fingers through his hair. It’s sweat-damp and tangled, the strands sticking to his forehead.

“Jesus, Jay,” you whisper. “You’re burning up.”

He tries to shrug. “I run hot.”

You pause. The joke lands. But underneath it, there’s a quiet crackle of worry that burns in your chest.

He leans into your touch anyway, miserable and mutinous. The hoodie shifts as he moves, revealing a flash of skin beneath the hem, the scar that curls beneath his left side like a memory.

Your voice softens. “You should’ve called me.”

Jason’s gaze doesn’t quite meet yours. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

Your jaw tightens. It’s not the first time he’s said something like that - some echo of the guilt that crawled home with him from every rooftop, every busted job, every failure he never really forgave himself for.

“You’re never a bother, Todd.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You tilt his chin, gently, until he’s looking at you. “Like what? Human?”

His lips part, but nothing comes out. Just breath. Shaky. Warm. A little desperate.

Then closes his eyes.

You see it now - not just the fever or the flu or the lingering ache behind his eyes. But the weight. The kind he’s always carrying, like if he lets go for even a second the whole city will collapse under him. He's tired. Not just flu-tired. Bone-tired. The kind that slips in when the adrenaline fades and all the armour cracks.

You kiss his temple. “Get under the blanket.”

“I am under the blanket.”

You roll your eyes. “Properly, Jason.”

Grumbling, he shifts, shedding the boot, then the hoodie, wincing as he tries to sit up. You help him, hands steady and warm, and he lets you. That alone says everything.

When he’s finally curled under the weight of the blanket, head in your lap, you brush the hair from his forehead and whisper, “You know you don’t have to be the strong one all the time, right?”

His voice is barely audible. “Don’t know how not to be.”

You lean down and kiss the words into his skin. “Then we’ll learn together.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

His hand finds yours, callused fingers curling into your palm like a tether.

The chicken soup is non-negotiable.

Jason finds this out the hard way.

You walk in from the kitchen, one arm balancing a steaming bowl like a weapon of war, the other braced at your hip. There’s still a faint simmer of garlic and thyme in the air behind you, a warm curl of broth and heat clinging to your clothes. The second he spots you - eyes narrowed, lips chapped, hoodie half-zipped and one sock missing - he visibly regrets whatever plan he was hatching.

He’s halfway through a half-assed attempt at sitting up. Shirtless, hair a wreck, a tangle of blankets trailing behind him like the world’s saddest cape. There’s a bruise peeking from beneath his ribs and an empty tissue box balanced on the armrest like a throne of lies.

You take one look at him and scoff. “You are going to eat this.”

Jason squints at the bowl like it might bite. “That smells like guilt.”

“It smells like chicken and survival,” you correct, setting it down with a thunk that says I dare you. “Which is more than I can say for you.”

He groans, low and guttural, flopping back against the cushions with the kind of drama reserved for Shakespearean death scenes. “Sweetheart. Angel of my nightmares. I don’t need soup. I need a bazooka.”

“What you need is a thermometer, hydration, and to stop being a dramatic little bitch about it.”

He peeks out from beneath his forearm, fever-glazed eyes narrowed. “You used to love me.”

You kneel in front of the couch like you’re about to perform a citizen’s arrest. “I still love you. That’s why I’m threatening bodily harm if you don’t eat.”

He holds your stare, defiant. You’ve seen this exact expression before - the night you dragged him out of an alley with a shattered rib and a busted knuckle, and he still tried to drive his motorcycle home. That same stupid pride. That same aching, bruised tenderness beneath it.

“You wouldn’t hit a sick man,” he says, smirking just enough to make you want to roll your eyes clean out of your skull.

“Jason Todd, I have made grown men cry with words alone. Try me.”

The smirk falters. Briefly.

Then: “You gonna feed me, then?”

Your brow lifts. “You seriously trying to weaponise your man flu into hand-feeding?”

“Don’t got the upper body strength right now, doll. You gonna let me waste away in front of you like this?”

You sigh like the heavens themselves have failed you. Then you stab the spoon into the soup and lift it to his mouth. “Open up, crime prince.”

He grins, croaky and triumphant. “Y’know, there’s a joke in there-”

“Swallow it and live.”

He does. Grumbling like it’s a crime against humanity, but he swallows.

“Tastes like manipulation.”

“It tastes like not dying of influenza, you idiot.”

He tries not to enjoy it.

Fails.

By the third spoonful, the fight starts to fade. His shoulders slump. His lashes droop, sticking together from a low fever-sweat. He goes soft in that way he only ever does around you - half-lidded and heavy, his breathing evening out with every bite.

“You called Bruce yet?” he mumbles, slurring a little at the edges now.

You reach for your phone. “Was going to wait until you finished your soup so he wouldn’t hear you whining in the background.”

“I don’t whine.”

“You whined when I made you take your hoodie off.”

“That was tactical resistance.”

“You fake-coughed when I brought the thermometer.”

“I hate things in my ear, doll-”

You tap your phone speaker. The line rings twice.

Then: “Wayne.”

“Hi, Bruce,” You say sweetly. “Just calling to let you know Jason is not going on patrol tonight.”

Jason snaps upright like a cat dunked in bathwater. “Don’t tell him-!”

You press a palm to his chest. “He’s sick,” you say calmly, like you’re ordering a coffee. “And full of shit.”

There’s a long pause on the other end. Then a weary sigh. “How bad?”

“ Wretched. An absolute menace to himself and the couch cushions. I caught him trying to suit up earlier. I’m putting him on legal lockdown.”

“I hate you,” Jason rasps, glaring like it might work if he weren’t wrapped in three layers of flannel. You glare. He immediately sinks back into the couch like a scolded dog.

“I’ll inform the others,” Bruce says, unaffected. “He’s benched until you say otherwise.”

“Thank you, Bruce,” you say primly. “If he tries to sneak out the window, I will physically fight him.”

Jason coughs - innocent, definitely not guilty.

“You looked at the window,” you snap.

“I was just checkin’ the weather!”

“You don’t even have shoes on!”

“I’ve done worse with less,” he mutters. “Ain’t that deep.”

“You’re not allowed to slip into your Gotham gremlin accent to distract me, Jason.”

He groans, voice low and nasal. “C’mon, babe - jus’ lemme do one rooftop. I’ll be real quiet. I won’t even punch nobody-”

“No,” you say, your tone firm. “If you set one toe on a fire escape I will file an injunction against you personally and get Alfred to enforce it.”

Jason pouts. Full lower-lip tilt. “You wouldn’t.”

You lean down, cup his fevered face in both hands, and kiss his forehead with the kind of slow, devastating fondness that makes his ears go red.

“I would. Because I love you. And because you're a stubborn bastard who thinks coughing up a lung is a character arc.”

He smiles, sleep-soft and miserable. “Y’know what’s real messed up?”

“What?”

“You bossin’ me around like that’s kinda hot.”

You sigh, laughing as you brush his hair back.

“I know.”

Jason curls into your side, finally giving up, finally letting himself rest.

And you hold him there like a secret, warm and steady, the sheer force of your love enough to wrestle even Jason Todd into submission.

At least until the next spoonful of soup.

The fever wakes Jason up at 2.14 a.m.

Hot. Achy. Breathing like a car with a dying transmission. Jason blinks up at the ceiling, disoriented and pissed off, every breath rasping like sandpaper down his throat.

He’s drenched in sweat. Skin sticky, shirt clinging, the sheets kicked halfway to the floor. His muscles ache like he spent the night fist-fighting concrete and lost.

He turns his head.

You’re curled beside him, cheek tucked into your pillow, one hand reaching for the space where he used to be. Peaceful. Beautiful. Entirely unaware of the criminal intent radiating off the man you love.

Good.

Because Jason Todd has made a decision.

A bad one.

He drags himself out of bed like it’s a war effort. His spine protests every movement. His knees crack like gunfire. He pauses halfway upright, swaying, and catches the edge of the dresser like it might keep him tethered to this mortal plane.

“I’m fine,” he mutters hoarsely. “I’m Batman’s worst idea. I can survive a cough.”

He’s sweating through your stolen Gotham U hoodie. The one you ripped off Tim out of spite when he made a crack about Jason needing therapy. His pyjama pants are a Wonder Woman print you got him last Christmas as a joke. (He wore them so often, it stopped being funny. Now they’re a comfort item.)

But he’s a vigilante, damn it.

He’s been shot, stabbed, drowned, resurrected. A head cold isn’t going to stop him.

And he’s got a lead on a burner arms cache out in the Narrows that cannot wait.

Even if his vision blurs every third step.

He gets halfway through the living room before he remembers to grab his helmet off the console table, slipping it on with something close to reverence. He adjusts it with slow, practised fingers. It’s heavy. Grounding. A second skull that doesn’t feel the fever.

Good enough.

He opens the window.

Does not cough.

(Progress.)

And swings into the Gotham night.

The air hits him like a slap - cold, wet, and soaked with city rot. It cuts right through the fever haze, but not in a helpful way. Just enough to make him shiver violently as he stumbles his first landing, his knees barely catching the weight of him before he pushes off again.

One rooftop.

Two.

On the third, he lands ugly - an off-kilter roll, a misjudged pivot. He stumbles, catches himself, coughs so hard his ribs ache. The kind of cough that lights your lungs on fire and makes your ears ring. He wheezes through it, doubled over, gasping for air that won’t settle.

There's a brief moment where he genuinely thinks he’s about to go face-first into a chimney.

That’s when he hears it.

A soft tsk from the next roof over.

From the roof opposite: Damian.

Balanced like a gargoyle on the ledge, arms crossed, expression carved from contempt.

Jason blinks through the haze of fever and humiliation, helmet fogging up as the kid’s voice slices through the silence like a scalpel:

“Interesting.”

Jason straightens slowly. His balance shifts like the floor’s moving underneath him. “Damian,” he rasps, voice full of gravel and doom. “Be cool.”

Damian’s eyes gleam with glee - the kind of evil joy only younger siblings can muster. “You’re in pyjamas.”

Jason glances down at the Wonder Woman pants. “I’m doing recon.”

“You’re wheezing.”

“I’m still operational-”

Damian doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Already pulling out his comm.

Jason takes one wobbly step forward. “I will pay you.”

Damian's smile is pure poison. “You don’t have enough money.”

Before Jason can stop him, the kid’s already tapping his comm.

Jason lunges forward. “Damian-!”

“Father,” Damian says calmly, not even flinching. “The idiot has breached quarantine. In sleepwear.”

Jason groans like a man already halfway to the grave.

There’s a pause. Then Bruce’s voice, sharp and low through the comm: “Copy. Tell him to go home.”

Damian’s tone doesn’t change. Doesn’t even glance at Jason.

“Oh,” he says coolly. “He will.”

Jason stares at the skyline like it’s personally betrayed him. He wipes condensation from the outside of his helmet with the sleeve of his hoodie, breathing like he’s run a marathon underwater.

Then he glances down at his pants.

“… Fuck.”

The window creaks like a guilty hinge as Jason climbs back inside - soaked, freezing, and moving with all the grace of a zombie burglar.

His hoodie clings to him like betrayal, rainwater dripping from the hem, sleeves sodden and heavy. Every part of him aches. His ribs throb from coughing, his knee’s got a new scrape, and his helmet? So fogged up he damn near kissed the fire escape on re-entry.

He drags it off his head with a wet shlup and lets it fall to the floor. Then he collapses next to it, limbs folding like bad origami. He’s exhausted. He’s sweating through his fever again. He smells like cold metal, rooftop grime, and a terrible idea.

He’s already bracing for impact.

But nothing - and he means nothing - could prepare him for the sight that greets him across the room.

You.

Awake.

Leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed, eyes murder-sharp and glittering. You’re wearing his shirt - oversized, hitched up one hip - and an expression like someone who just caught their man cheating with death itself.

The kitchen light’s on behind you, casting gold across your face and catching the snarl on your mouth. You look like Gotham’s vengeance incarnate. He’s seen Batman less terrifying.

“Jason Peter Todd,” you say, voice low and deadly, “I swear to God-”

“Hi, baby,” he croaks, hands up in surrender like he’s being held at gunpoint. “Before you say anything, I just wanna point out that I made it back alive.”

“You left. In pyjamas.”

“I was being stealthy.”

You stalk forward, slow and measured, like you’re debating which bone to break first. “You were sick, Jason. Are sick. I tucked you in like a burrito. You had a fever. You were sweating. You couldn’t sit upright. And still you had the audacity to swing out of our bedroom window-”

“Technically,” he mutters, “it’s the living room window-”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

He freezes, mid-shrug, caught between a charming grin and death.

“You had a fever,” You continue, voice rising. “You were half-delirious, you forgot your comms, and you left this apartment in Wonder Woman pants, which means you are legally unfit to make field decisions!”

Jason rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “In my defence, those pants are insanely comfortable. And I didn’t forget the comms - I left ‘em so I wouldn’t wake you.”

“Oh, how noble.” You jab a finger at him. “Leaving me to find out from Damian. Who called me. At two-thirty in the morning. With the joy of a six-year-old setting a house on fire.”

Jason grimaces. “Yeah, Dami ... got me good.”

“You beefed it on a rooftop.”

“I didn’t beef it,” he mutters, half-collapsing on the edge of the couch. “I ... stumbled with purpose.”

You glare. “Did your purpose include landing on your ass?”

“It’s Gotham architecture! Not up to code.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, breathing like you're trying not to commit a felony. “I’m going to scream.”

“Please don’t. I think m'ears are clogged.”

Silence.

Then, your eyes narrow. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“I would never-”

“You’re using your hoarse voice.”

Jason gives you a slow, greasy grin. “Is it working?”

“No.”

“Really?” He thickens the Gotham drawl until it drips off his tongue like molasses. “Doll, don’t be mad at me - I was jus’ tryna keep the city safe, is all.”

You almost crack. Jason sees it - the twitch at the corner of your mouth - and presses in.

“Y’know how it is, baby. Boots on the ground. Crime in the alleys. Vigilantes in thermal jammies.”

“You are-” You choke on a laugh, rage and affection warring across your face. “You are unbelievable.”

He shrugs, wheezy and triumphant. “Couldn’t sleep. Felt like hell. Figured if I was gonna suffer, might as well do it on a rooftop like God intended.”

“God didn’t intend shit,” you snap. “And if you ever pull that stunt again, I’m taking your bike to the shop and selling it for parts.”

Jason leans back, eyes heavy-lidded now, the pain catching up with him. “Yeah, okay. I’m sorry, alright? I was stupid. Thought I could push through. I’ll ... I’ll be good now.”

You stare at him, hard. Then disappear into the kitchen. He hears the tap. The clink of glasses. You come back with water and press one into his hands, your expression unreadable.

“Bed rest,” you say. “You’re grounded.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have the authority to ground me.”

You tilt your head. “Wanna bet?”

He drinks his water.

You follow him to the bedroom, nudging him ahead like a very determined nurse with violent tendencies. He shrugs off the soggy hoodie under your glare. You towel off his hair with brisk, efficient movements that make him feel like a damp retriever who got caught in a sewer grate.

But beneath the fire and fury, there’s something else.

Care. The kind he doesn’t know what to do with.

You push him gently onto the mattress, haul the blanket over him, and settle beside him. Your palm finds his fevered cheek, thumb stroking just beneath his eye.

“You’re staying in this bed for the rest of the week,” you say softly.

“Can I make requests?”

“No.”

He laughs - raspy and wrecked - and closes his eyes. The ache doesn’t matter so much now. Neither does the guilt or the fever or the bruised pride. Because you’re here. Because he’s warm, and home, and safe in a way that doesn’t feel like weakness.

“You’re scary when you’re mad,” he murmurs.

“You’re an idiot when you’re sick.”

A beat of silence. Then:

“…You did like the accent though,” he murmurs, lips curling.

You don’t answer.

But you kiss his forehead, long and slow and grounding.

Which is as good as admitting it.

He notes it for later - Gotham drawl: effective under duress - and lets himself drift off, safely home, thoroughly chastised, and, for the first time all night, just the right temperature.

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I think this is actually how the identity reveal happens.

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BATBROS PHOTOCARDS 🦇

Here’s the designs for the photocards that are gonna be in my shop!

I decided to give them an idol vibe, since- yk they’re actual celebrities even in their civilian identities (jason not exactly but that’s irrelevant)

Anyways preorders opening soon!

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The Late Edition

Pairing: DIck Grayson x fem!reader

Warnings: Mature content, canon-typical violence, explicit language

Summary: In 1980s New York, the headlines change faster than the subway lights.

You're a rookie journalist chasing a story that no one else believes - tall tales of a masked man in electric blue leaping from rooftops, showing up at crime scenes before the cops, disappearing like smoke.

But when a chance encounter turns into an off-the-record interview, you're pulled into something bigger than just a scoop.

Because Nightwing isn’t just a rumour. He’s real. And he’s not the Boy Wonder anymore.

A/N: Hi all! Please check out my latest Dick Grayson fic, ongoing on my AO3 now. Here is the first chapter, but you can find the updates over on the official fic page.

July 1987. New York City.

The first time you saw New York City, it was a painting in a textbook - clean lines, stark angles, and too perfect to be real. A city built in grids, wrapped in glass towers that gleam under a perfect sun, with broad avenues filled with yellow taxis weaving through half-organised chaos. 

The first time you felt it, though, the city hit you like a neon fever dream. 

You'd arrived in the mid-June heatwave - wide-eyed, fresh out of college, and armed with nothing but a couple of cheap suits, an old manual typewriter your grandmother had gifted you, and a head full of ambitions that, even now, feel too big for your hands.

The skyscrapers are bigger than you remember. The heat, thicker. The air is sharp with exhaust, sizzling pavement, and the ever-present hum of sirens that never quite go quiet. It's a place where the lights never go out, where the shadows stretch like they have a life of their own, constantly shifting and changing as if the city can’t decide whether it’s a home or a battleground.

The scent of roasting chestnuts from a cart near the corner mingles with the acrid bite of car exhaust and distant garbage, a smell that’s both familiar and foreign. You wonder if you’ll ever get used to it, or if New York will keep changing its flavour on you, just when you think you’ve figured it out.

You spent your first few days in the city wandering, disoriented but excited, trying to get a feel for the ground beneath you, trying to find your feet. That's the thing about New York. It doesn't wait for you to catch up. It doesn't care that you're new, doesn't care that you aren't yet sure who you are. There are hundreds, thousands, millions of people here. You're just one of many who'll come and go.

And you have no grand plan. No polished connections. Just the one thing that brought you here in the first place: the desire to write. But that, too, feels out of reach.

You’d applied to a dozen places - papers, magazines, small rags that hardly pay in a city that charges you for every inch of space you occupy. Each rejection letter, each unanswered email, adding another layer to your self-doubt, another crack in the illusion that you can actually do this. That you can survive here.

And now, standing on the corner of Broadway in the late afternoon sun, watching the world move around you - people hurrying, pushing, blending into one another like ants in a colony - it’s hard to believe in the possibility of something more.

You came here to find your voice. But right now, the city feels like a smothering force, drowning out everything except the noise, the lights, the speed at which everything spins. And there’s a part of you that wonders if you’ll ever find a way to slow it down long enough to hear what you’re meant to say.

The first time you saw New York, it was a painting. The first time you felt it, it was a fever dream. And now, somewhere between the two, you’re trying to find out who you are in this world that’s moving too fast to care.

You have no idea how you’re going to get there, but that’s the thing about this city. Sometimes, you just have to keep moving.

***

You burst through the door of the Westside Chronicle, one hand clutching your coffee cup, the other pushing your hair out of your face. The air is thick with the smell of old newsprint, bitter coffee, and the faint scent of cigarettes. The fluorescent lights hum above you, the kind of hum that feels like it might just drive you insane if you listen to it long enough.

"Late again?" Greg calls from his desk, voice thick with mock amusement. You glance over, the mess of his workspace barely visible beneath the piles of papers, newspapers, and empty coffee cups.

Greg Stevens is the kind of guy who could make any office look like a crime scene. He’s got a perpetual five o’clock shadow, like he hasn’t seen a razor in days - possibly weeks - and the kind of expression that suggests he’s either thinking about the last whiskey he drank or the next one. His shirt’s usually wrinkled, sleeves rolled up with a cigarette tucked behind his ear like he’s auditioning for a 40s film noir.

He says he’s a “local crime reporter,” but you’re pretty sure he’s had some past life in the mafia. Either that, or he’s just really good at making his mundane job sound more dangerous than it is.

“Hey, I’m not the one who schedules these damn subway delays,” you mutter, taking a quick detour to grab a napkin to wipe a smear of coffee off your sleeve.

“Subway? Pfft,” Greg sneers in mock sympathy, “sounds like an excuse from someone who’s always late.” He raises an eyebrow, then smirks. "What is it this time? A stubborn pigeon at the platform? Or maybe the train's tryna get you to quit?"

You roll your eyes, dropping your bag and slumping into your desk. “Not everyone has a luxury car, Stevens.”

“Ah, touché,” he grins, tapping his fingers against the edge of his coffee mug like he’s giving you a round of applause. “Anyway, don't worry, rookie. You can make it up by finding me a juicy headline for my next piece.” He winks as you roll your eyes again. Greg’s banter has the unfortunate side effect of making you feel like you’ve got a whole lot to prove in this place, and somehow, you kind of like it.

The newsroom is as chaotic as always: the clatter of typewriters and the click-clack of computer keyboards mix with the steady, low hum of phones ringing. There’s a constant chatter of voices, too - T.J. is in the corner, grumbling about an editor’s note; Alice is hunched over her developing station, earbuds in, head bobbing to the beat of whatever punk album she’s got on repeat on her walkman. The hum of the office is almost its own heartbeat, one that you’ve come to depend on in the past month since you started.

You dart toward your desk, a corner spot that's a bit smaller than you'd like, surrounded by stacks of paper and empty coffee mugs. There’s no window here, just the flicker of the lights overhead and the sight of the cluttered desks of the reporters around you.

You’ve claimed this spot out of sheer necessity - it’s the place closest to the filing cabinet and the fax, and if you’re being honest, you don’t mind the proximity to the chaos. You’ve gotten used to it. And the bigger bonus? No one else seems to want it.

Your desk is a mess. A half-empty notebook with notes on local crime stories, a copy of The Post with an old headline circled in red ink, and a crumpled napkin with your own hastily scrawled ideas for a story about the East Village’s latest street art craze.

You’ve only written one real article for the Chronicle so far - a piece on a robbery gone wrong in the Bronx. Nothing special, just a few lines about a crime that most outlets covered, but you worked with T.J. on it, and he gave you the chance to do a few interviews. It felt important. At least, to you.

You pull your typewriter from its resting place - a trusty old model that smells faintly of dust - and pull out the story you’re editing, checking for any last typos. Then you take a deep breath, glancing at the clock: 9:45 AM. Just under the wire.

And then, just as you hit your stride, Elaine Carter appears at the entrance of the newsroom, her sharp gaze scanning the room before it lands on you. 

Your editor is the kind of person who seems to run on coffee, sharp words, and a rigid sense of professionalism. She doesn’t bother with pleasantries. She doesn’t need to. When Elaine Carter walks into a room, it feels like the rest of the world gets quieter, whether she wants it to or not. Like the paper can’t function without her - or maybe it’s just that no one dares try.

You’ve seen her take down an argument with a single raised eyebrow, make grown men shrink with just a look. She’s the kind of woman who could make an editor’s chair feel like a throne. And you’re pretty sure she knows it.

"My office, now," she calls, not even waiting for a response as she turns on her heel and marches toward her office. You swallow your nerves and follow quickly behind, your heart suddenly racing.

Elaine’s office is small but tidy - just enough room for a cluttered desk piled with press releases, a few old awards hanging crooked on the walls, and a lone potted plant that somehow manages to survive even in the harshest of conditions. The city’s grime has somehow never managed to touch her space, unlike the rest of the newsroom.

She waves you to sit in the chair across from her, her gaze fixed on the story you just handed in. She flips through the pages of your recent crime piece, her brow furrowed slightly. A tiny knot tightens in your chest as you wait for her judgment. Is there a mistake she’s going to catch? A glaring flaw? Did you miss something in the details?

“I have to say, I’m impressed,” Elaine says, her voice low but serious. “This piece on the robbery in the Bronx - it’s well done. For someone who’s only been here a month, I expected a little more stumbling, shall we say? But this ... you found the angle. You brought in enough background, added some local colour, and tied it together. Good work.”

Your chest puffs up with pride at the compliment, despite the casual tone she uses. “Thank you,” you manage, swallowing back the excitement bubbling up. It’s been weeks since you submitted anything of real substance, and hearing her praise it, even in her usual understated way, feels like a win.

She’s still reading through your work, flipping the pages and nodding slightly to herself. For a second, you wonder if she’s going to find a typo or a detail you missed - but then, she looks up at you.

“You’ve done good work here,” she says, her tone a little warmer now. “And you’ve earned this.”

You blink, confused. “Earned what?”

Elaine leans back in her chair, folding her arms. “A chance. A real shot. I’m giving you the opportunity to pitch your own feature article. Your first one. I expect a full pitch by the end of the week. You have five days to come up with an idea that will actually make it onto the front page.”

Your heart nearly stops for a moment before a huge wave of relief crashes over you. A feature. Your very own. This is what you’ve been waiting for since you stepped foot in this paper. You can already feel the adrenaline kicking in, the possibility of having a voice, a story that could matter to more than just the local readers.

Elaine continues, her voice steady and calm. “But listen - this isn’t some fluff piece. We’re not writing feel-good, soft stories here. It’s got to hit. We don’t do boring.”

You nod quickly, the weight of her expectations settling in heavy on your shoulders. “I understand. I won’t let you down.”

She arches an eyebrow, as though assessing whether you really will. “I don’t doubt you, but don’t let the heat of the city distract you. This story needs to make people sit up. It needs an edge. And you need to be ruthless about getting it.”

A beat of silence hangs in the air. You nod again, trying to focus as Elaine leans forward, the steel in her voice returning.

“You’re on a deadline. You’ll pitch it to me at the end of the week. And I expect results. Got it?”

“Got it,” you respond, your nerves already firing with the rush of it all. Your first real story. Your chance to make a name for yourself.

Elaine nods, and you’re about to get up and leave when she stops you with one last thought.

“And one more thing,” she says, the tiniest of smiles tugging at her lips, her voice softening just a little. “You may want to check in with T.J. and Greg. They’ve got their eyes on something juicy. Could be useful.”

You stand up a little straighter. “Thanks, Elaine.”

You leave her office feeling a heady mix of excitement and sheer determination. You’ve got work to do - and now, for the first time since you arrived at the Chronicle, it feels like the city is yours to conquer.

As you walk back to your desk, the buzz of the newsroom feels different today. Not just a hum of routine, but a hum of opportunity. 

You’ve got five days. And you’re not about to waste a single one.

You make it halfway back to your desk before Greg whistles low through his teeth.

“Big shot now, huh?” he grins, leaning back in his chair like it’s a throne of crumpled crime reports and coffee-stained printouts. “What’d the Ice Queen want - my job?”

You shrug, trying not to look too pleased. “She gave me a feature.”

Greg lets out a theatrical groan, reaching for his mug. “God help us all. T.J.!” he barks over his shoulder. “Get over here! The rookie’s got a feature!”

T.J., who looks like he hasn’t slept since the war, ambles over with a half-eaten bag of pizza chips and the expression of someone who’s just remembered rent is due.

“A feature?” he repeats, blinking at you. “Already? You threatening to quit or something?”

“No,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “I just wrote a good piece.”

Greg snorts. “Well, look at that. A journalist who does their job. We should have a damn parade.”

T.J. flops into the chair across from you and gestures vaguely with his chip. “You need an idea, yeah? We got something. Weird gig going down tonight - art gallery in SoHo. Private party. One of those nouveau-riche gallery owners is trying to buy credibility. Word is, some sketchy buyers are showing up. Could be some dirty money floating around.”

You nod slowly, typing it out into your notepad even as your chest deflates.

It’s not a bad story. Hell, it could turn into something juicy with the right lens - gentrification, corruption, money laundering, all the classic Wall Street ingredients - but it doesn’t spark. Not the way you need it to.

Greg leans in, eyes narrowing. “Don’t tell me it’s not sexy enough.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. You’ve got that look.”

You glance over your notes again. Art scene fluff with a criminal undercurrent. It’s the kind of thing you could dress up, sure. Maybe even spin it into a character study or culture piece. But it doesn’t light that fire in your gut - the one that pushed you to this city in the first place.

Still. You promise them you’ll check it out.

By 2 p.m., you’re still at your desk, staring down the blinking cursor like it’s personally offended you. The newsroom’s hum has turned to a low-grade headache. Every half-formed pitch you type sounds like you’re trying too hard. Too preachy. Too obvious. Too safe.

You pull your typewriter toward you, but even the comforting clack of keys doesn’t help. You scroll through your notebook, your tape recorder, your crime blotter leads - nothing sticks.

At 4:15, you finally give up. You sling your camera bag over your shoulder, grab your coat, and mutter something about "field work" loud enough for Greg to hear.

He salutes you with a paper cup and mouths, don’t get stabbed.

***

The train ride to SoHo is hot and crowded, all elbows and attitude. You cram yourself into a corner by the window, watching the city blur past in shades of brick and steel. It’s not until the train clatters out into the open, light bleeding in through the gaps in the elevated track, that your brain finally stops buzzing.

Maybe you’ll get a lead. Maybe it’ll just be another gallery filled with bored socialites and overpriced neon sculpture. Either way, you’ll get photos. A quote or two. Something.

The train hisses to a stop at Prince, and you step out into the heat, the sidewalks shimmering like a mirage. SoHo hums with too much wealth for this time of day - loafers without socks, linen suits, dripping earrings. You start walking, camera bouncing gently at your hip.

You’re halfway down the block when you hear it.

A sound you’re starting to learn how to recognise - not a gunshot, not exactly. Not screaming, either. Just the after. A shudder of movement. A sharp, wrong-feeling silence.

Then a crash - metal on brick, followed by the slap of footsteps overhead.

You stop dead. Look up.

Someone’s on the rooftop.

You can’t see more than a blur - blue, maybe. Moving fast. There’s a thud, another sound like something (or someone) hitting the pavement hard in the alley across the street.

You snap a picture before you can stop yourself.

The gallery’s down the block.

But this?

This feels like a story.

You glance once toward the crowd outside the gallery - buzzing around like bees at a champagne hive - and then bolt across the street, slipping into the shadowed alley just as another body hits the ground.

Not dead. Not unconscious either. The man is groaning, trying to crawl toward something, a dropped weapon, maybe. But whatever hit him is already gone.

You press your back to the wall, camera already up, heart racing. You snap three, four shots - of the alley, of the fallen man, of the shadow on the fire escape above, just vanishing from sight.

And then it's quiet again. No more crashes. Just the low moan of the man on the ground and the distant throb of bass leaking from somewhere nearby.

You step closer. The guy’s muttering something under his breath, blood trickling from a split lip.

You catch just enough to make out the words: “He wasn’t even winded. Came outta nowhere. Guy moved like a damn ghost.”

You kneel. Ask softly, “Who?”

But he’s already slipping into unconsciousness.

You don’t think.

You just run.

The payphone is half a block away, past a broken hydrant and a mural of a jazz musician someone’s graffitied devil horns onto. You jam a coin in with shaking fingers, dial the emergency number, and give them the alley’s cross streets as clearly as you can, trying not to sound out of breath. They ask if it’s life-threatening. You hesitate, then say yes. Because you’re not sure it’s not.

By the time you get back to the alley, the guy’s still sprawled against the wall, but his breathing is louder now - wet, like he’s trying to suck air through cotton. He stirs as you crouch next to him, one eye blinking open, glassy and bloodshot.

He startles hard when he sees you.

“Whoa, hey,” you say quickly, raising both hands. “I called an ambulance, okay? You’re gonna be alright.”

He tries to scramble up - doesn’t get far. Groans like the movement set fire to something in his ribs. “Shit-”

“Yeah, don’t do that,” you say, shifting to block his path without touching him. “You're in no condition to crawl anywhere. Just breathe.”

He eyes you with suspicion. Not fear - he doesn’t look like someone who gets scared, not in the traditional sense. No, this is the kind of man who’s learned to clock exits before he clocks faces. The kind who’s made more back-alley deals than dentist appointments.

Slick black hair, thick at the front and thinning at the crown. Gold chain mostly hidden beneath a sweat-stained collar. One sleeve of his button-down is torn halfway off, revealing a tattoo that might’ve meant something once - now just a blur of prison ink and scar tissue. He’s got the kind of face that belongs on a Most Wanted flier: long nose, busted lip, dark bags under darting eyes. You’re guessing mid-40s. Been doing this dance too long.

He squints at you like he’s trying to place you. “You a cop?”

“Nope.”

“Social worker?”

“Worse,” you say, sliding your notepad out of your pocket. “Reporter.”

He groans again, this time more from principle than pain. “Jesus Christ.”

"I'm not here for you," you add quickly, because technically you aren't. You don’t want him getting scared and clamming up. "I saw what happened. Or, what’s left of it.”

He leans his head back against the wall, wheezing softly through his nose. “That guy ... whoever he is … guy ain’t normal.”

You hesitate, then flick open your notebook.

“I can’t quote you unless you’re willing,” you say, voice low. “You want to stay off the record, that’s fine. But I’ve got a deadline, and this - this is something.”

He lets out a huff that turns into a cough. “On the record, off the record … hell, what’s it matter? You think he gives a shit about paperwork?”

“‘He’ being …”

“Blue freak,” He mutters. “Jumps off a goddamn roof, kicked Vinnie in the chest like a rocket, flipped over Joey like he’s in the circus, then whipped some kinda … I dunno, glowing wire-thing at my legs. I hit the ground so fast I forgot m'own name.”

You scribble fast, trying not to look too eager.

“Can you describe him?”

“Tall. Not jacked like a ‘roid-head, but built. Real fast. Real quiet. Wears black and blue - blue like, bright. Like a sign. Idiot’s gonna get himself shot dressing like that, but … nah.” He licks blood off his lip. “He wants you to see him. You get me? He wants the show. Like it’s part of the job.”

You nod slowly. “And his face?”

“Mask. Covers everything but the mouth. Hair’s black. Floppy.”

“Floppy?”

He shrugs. “You want adjectives, go read poetry.”

You suppress a smile. and glance up, just for a second, at the fire escape above. Empty now. Not even a whisper left behind. But you can feel it. Whoever that was - he left an impression.

The distant whine of an ambulance starts to rise.

The man hears it too. He sighs through his teeth. “Great. Cops’ll show up next, wanna know how I ended up eating pavement.”

“You planning on telling them?”

“Hell no.” But he looks at you again, longer this time. “You sure you’re not a cop?”

“Just someone with a notebook,” you say. “And a good eye.”

The ambulance turns onto the block, red lights flashing against the graffiti and trash bags and dripping fire escapes. You close the notebook gently, tuck it away, and rise as the paramedics rush past you.

And your story?

Just found you.

***

The newsroom has a different vibe in the evening - looser, darker, a little unhinged. Most of the office windows are black mirrors now, reflecting back the mess: half-drunk coffee cups, stray paperclips, desk fans rattling in place like they’re trying to lift off. The air smells like ink, stress, and whatever Thai food someone nuked in the break room an hour ago and forgot to eat.

You bolt straight past Greg’s desk, which looks like it belongs to someone on a government watchlist. He barely glances up from his third cup of coffee, eyes rimmed red behind his glasses.

“Look who crawled back,” he mutters, too lazy to smirk.

You don’t answer. You’re already moving.

Your desk is exactly how you left it: scattered notes, a lukewarm mug of instant coffee, and the clunky typewriter that’s seen better decades. You dump your bag on the floor and drop into your chair hard enough to rattle the keys. Your fingers fly to the notepad in your coat pocket, flipping it open to the scribbled quotes from your crook, eyes scanning, circling, underlining.

'He wants you to see him.'

'He grins. Makes a joke. Then he breaks your wrist.'

'Blue like a sign. Idiot’s gonna get himself shot.'

You repeat the words under your breath, already translating them into the bones of a pitch.

Then you lunge for the archive cabinet.

The drawers shriek like they’re protesting their own age, but you’re used to that. You start yanking out local crime clippings from the last twelve months - anything flagged as “unidentified assailant” or “masked figure,” anything involving aerial escapes or unaccounted arrests. You’re looking for patterns. Language. A footprint he didn’t mean to leave.

And sure enough, after a few minutes, the names start repeating.

"Acrobatic style of attack..."

"Victims describe a man in black and blue..."

"Unidentified vigilante spotted near Pier 17, vanished before NYPD arrived..."

"Not Batman - too fast. Too flashy."

You lay the articles out across your desk in a frenzy, highlighter streaking across headlines as you draw arrows, connections, dates. It’s not perfect. Some of it might be noise - copycats, rumours - but the pieces start to hum when you hold them all together.

You can’t help the way your heartbeat picks up. You’ve never felt this electric in your entire life. Not even when you got the Chronicle job. Not even when Elaine called your last article "decent." This is different. This is big.

You check the wall clock. Almost 8 p.m.

The newsroom has thinned, but the clatter of typewriters and whirr of fax machines still echo around you. It’s just you, a couple of editors still pretending to read things, and T.J., half-asleep under his desk lamp.

You stare down at the map you've pinned together with old coffee-stained clippings and bent thumbtacks. There’s a loop - an invisible route the vigilante seems to trace around lower Manhattan. Pier 17. East Village. Lower East Side. A rooftop near Alphabet City. And now … SoHo.

You whisper, “What are you looking for?”

Because it’s not just randomness. He’s not swooping in at random. He’s patrolling. Patterning. Stalking the city like a dancer marking his steps.

You reach for another sheet of paper and start sketching out a headline in pencil, whispering as you write:

"Blue Streak, Black Mask: The Acrobat in SoHo's Shadow."

You pause. Then cross it out. Too dramatic. Too vague.

You try again.

"New Face in New York: Vigilante Steps into the Spotlight."

Better.

You underline it twice, hard enough to tear the page.

You pause. Lean back. And for the first time all day, your mind isn’t sprinting - it’s wandering.

You didn’t grow up with this.

The place you came from barely had a working traffic light, let alone a vigilante. The most excitement your town saw was the occasional fistfight outside a bar or some church kid getting caught sneaking out with a six-pack. You used to watch the news from cities like New York and Metropolis like they were science fiction.

Caped figures. Shadow men. Women who could lift buses. People in masks fighting people in other masks. It all felt ridiculous, and yet … inevitable. Like the bigger the city, the deeper the rot, and something had to crawl out of the cracks to stop it.

You weren’t sure what you believed, even when you moved here.

You’d heard the stories - everyone has. The Bat. A girl in armour. Rumours of someone with red eyes in the East End. Even whispers of a woman with a white cloak who only shows up when things are really bad. One guy swore he saw a man turn into smoke. Another said someone with wings saved his daughter from a burning building.

You don’t know what to think about vigilantes. Part of you still feels the natural scepticism of someone who believes in facts, in proof, in tape recorders and cold hard quotes. But there’s something else now. A pull. A curiosity you can’t shake.

You reach for your camera and flip through the few quick shots you got before the ambulance arrived. Blurry. Mostly shadows. A streak of blue caught in motion. But it’s something.

Tomorrow, you’ll hit the streets. East Village. Alphabet City. Pier 17. You’ll talk to anyone who’s willing. The sandwich cart guy. The cigarette vendor. The kids who hang out by the basketball courts at night. You’ll chase the whispers. The gaps in police reports. The spots where the shadows hang just a little heavier than they should.

And maybe - just maybe - you’ll find him again.

Or he’ll find you.

You snap the light off at your desk, still buzzing, and whisper to the quiet room:

“Let’s dance.”

[wingfiled]

The Boy Who Cried Sick

Pairing: Wally West x gn!reader

Genres: fluff, not-quite smut

Warnings: Suggestive content, MDNI, injury, faked illness, mild cursing

Word Count: 3.2K

Summary: Wally West is dying. Or so he claims. Which works - until your poor, sick boyfriend starts grinning mid-cough and getting a little too handsy for someone allegedly on death’s door.

Part three of my Unfit for Duty series. Find the other parts here!

You’re halfway through unloading groceries when your phone buzzes on the counter with that telltale ding-ding-ding triple-text chime - the one Wally uses when he’s being deliberately dramatic.

You wipe your hands on your shirt, still slightly damp from the condensation off a milk jug, and glance over.

Wally

i may not make it through the night. tell my story. bring soup. and maybe a priest.

You snort, abandoning the celery mid-fridge shelf in favour of snatching up your phone. One tap and the little cartoon heart next to his name wobbles from the movement.

You

How bad is it?

The reply is immediate - suspiciously immediate. As if he was lying in wait for your text like a spider in a web.

Wally

flu. plague. doom. fever’s probably 112. i’ve seen the light. …it’s shaped like you.

You’re already grabbing your coat.

Because for Wally to admit defeat - to skip training, to bail on plans, to not show up at your apartment with an armful of your favourite snacks and a loud “babe I’m hereee” - it has to be bad.

Illness hits him like a truck. You’ve seen it before: the speed vanishes, and suddenly he’s all chills and aches and curled up in a hoodie, dozing in and out while clutching a tissue box like a lifeline. Wally, normally a constant blur of movement and affection and flirty one-liners, melts into a blanket-clutching gremlin the moment he gets sick. His dramatic streak triples. His need for cuddles becomes unbearable.

He gets miserable.

And you?

Well. You’re not much better.

You’ve always had a soft spot for taking care of people - but with Wally, it’s instinctual. Automatic. The minute he’s down for the count, some hidden caregiver switch flips and you go full Florence Nightingale, soup and forehead kisses included. Your friends make fun of you for it. Wally adores you for it.

You’ve dated stoics and martyrs before - men who pushed through illness like it made them noble. But Wally? Wally demands tenderness like oxygen, and for some reason, you’ve never minded giving it.

By the time you’re pulling into his apartment complex, your car is packed with a ridiculous amount of supplies: a bag of herbal teas, your go-to Tupperware of chicken noodle soup (made from scratch last winter when he nearly cried from gratitude), three different colours of Gatorade (just in case), a bulk pack of cough drops, a microwaveable heat pack shaped like a dinosaur, and the fluffiest blanket you own. Also - because you’re soft and maybe a little whipped - the stuffed bear from your bed he once jokingly said had “a chill vibe.” You never forgot.

You don’t even knock. The door’s already unlocked - Wally never locks it when he’s sick and waiting on you. You elbow it open, juggling the grocery bags and box of tissues like a chaotic but determined nurse.

“Emergency care incoming!” you call. “Don’t be dead, I brought lemon-ginger!”

From the living room: a croaky, pitiful, “Baaaaabe?”

You follow the sound and find him on the couch, half-upright and half-mummified, swaddled in at least three blankets - including one fleece one you know came from the backseat of your car. His hoodie is pulled tight over his head, his nose is pink, and there are tissues scattered around like he sneezed into a snowstorm. His feet are sticking out at awkward angles, one sock on, one sock off. A half-eaten banana rests tragically on the coffee table next to a bowl of dry cereal that looks abandoned mid-bite. The TV is playing an old episode of Scooby-Doo on mute.

Wally’s holding a hot water bottle to his chest like a relic from a war you weren’t part of.

Your heart cracks a little. You drop your bags and crouch beside him, brushing your fingers over the damp fringe of hair stuck to his forehead.

“God, Wally,” you murmur, brow furrowing. “You look like roadkill.”

“Feel worse,” he croaks, eyes fluttering shut like he’s about to be buried at sea. “Everything hurts. Even my eyelashes.”

You laugh softly, guilt already blooming. “You poor thing.”

You help him sit up a little, propping pillows behind his back, then gently place a mug of tea into his hands. He lets out a pleased little sigh and takes a slow sip, leaning into your touch as you adjust the blanket around his shoulders and fuss over the sleeves of his hoodie so he can hold the cup properly.

“How long have you been like this?” you ask, unzipping the bag of cough drops and setting one on his knee.

“Since-” He pauses. “What day is it?”

You pause too, mid–unwrapping of cough drops, and narrow your eyes.

He’s grinning.

It’s fleeting. A twitch at the corner of his mouth, there and gone in a blink. But you know that look. It's the same look he gets when he sneaks into the shower right as you’re about to step out, all faux-innocence and wandering hands, mumbling about water conservation.

You blink.

He coughs. Loud. Overacted. Like someone who’s just been shot in the third act of a play.

You squint. “Uh-huh.”

But your hands still move, still pulling the blanket tighter around him, still brushing your knuckles over the flushed line of his cheek. You’re weak for him. You always have been.

And if there’s the slightest chance he’s telling the truth, you’re going to give him every drop of comfort you can. Because he’s Wally. Because he’s yours. Because even if he is faking it, the thought of him spending the whole day alone, hoping you’d come, is enough to make you soften.

“Alright, you ridiculous man,” you murmur, stroking his hair. “Let’s get you better.”

He hums at that - something quiet and deeply pleased - and scoots a little to the side, tugging you closer with a blanket-covered hand until you’re tucked against his chest. His nose nuzzles into your hair. You feel the smile he’s trying very hard not to show.

And you let him have it. Just bask in the sweetness of it. Because loving Wally West - especially when he’s being a nightmare - is still one of your favourite things.

You settle deeper into the couch cushions with a satisfied sigh, one leg tucked underneath you, the other stretched out just far enough to brush Wally’s thigh. He’s flopped across the rest of the couch like a fallen warrior - blanket around his shoulders, hot water bottle abandoned beside him, your stuffed bear cradled to his chest like it’s been through the war with him.

He looks ridiculous. And soft. And impossibly smug.

“More forehead kisses,” he mumbles without opening his eyes, voice pitiful. “I think they were healing me.”

You arch a brow, fingers threading through his hair like he’s earned it. “You’re the neediest fake patient I’ve ever seen.”

He opens one eye, grinning. “Not fake. Just ... clingy.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.”

“I could be dying.”

You lean down anyway, brushing your lips to his hairline, and feel him melt like butter in the microwave. He’s warm - not fever-warm, just cuddly-warm - and completely at ease, sprawled like a cat in a sunbeam. It would almost be convincing … if he hadn’t clearly perked up in the last hour.

No sniffles. No winces. No dramatic declarations about his impending doom.

He even caught your mug mid-fall from the coffee table earlier with speed. And the way his foot is absently bouncing against the couch edge? Not exactly deathbed behaviour.

You narrow your eyes, lips curling into a slow smile. Time to test a theory.

“So,” you say lightly, drawing circles on the inside of his wrist with your thumb, “if you’re so sick, I guess you wouldn’t be up for … anything else tonight.”

He freezes.

You trace the edge of his palm with a feather-light touch, casually letting your fingers drift up his arm. “Not even a little cuddly makeout session?” you murmur, voice warm and just shy of suggestive. “Wouldn’t want to … pass anything along.”

Wally’s eyes flutter open. Wide. Bright. Alarmingly alive.

“I mean,” you go on, utterly sweet, “if you’re too weak, I’ll understand. Wouldn’t want to put any unnecessary strain on your delicate system.”

His body reacts before his mouth does. Spine straightens. Shoulders roll. There’s a familiar twitch of energy, like he’s been hit with a jolt of battery acid-flavoured anticipation.

“Uh,” he coughs - badly - “I might … have a few minutes of energy left. In the name of love.”

You tilt your head. “Hmm. Amazing how fast you bounce back when I mention making out.”

“I’m resilient,” he says quickly, sitting up a little straighter. “It’s probably adrenaline. A miracle. Hormonal surge. Honestly, babe, it’s kind of beautiful-”

You pin him with a look. “Wallace West.”

He freezes. “... Yes?”

“You’re not sick.”

He blinks. “I was sick.”

“You faked being on your deathbed for cuddles.”

“I prefer to think of it as strategic,” he says, unrepentant, leaning in with that signature, shit-eating grin. “Also, the cuddles were really good.”

You stare at him, jaw slack. Then blink. Then groan, dragging both hands down your face with a muffled, “You absolute asshole.”

Wally winces - just a little. “But like … your asshole?”

“Wally.”

“Yeah?”

“You made me believe you were dying.”

“Well, I was suffering-”

“You made me carry three bags of soup,” you cut in, voice flat. “One of which spilt in my car. I ran three red lights getting here. I gave you my favourite blanket - and the bear off my bed, and you- ”

“I loved every second,” he says, beaming.

You shove him - not gently this time - but he catches your wrist like it’s nothing and has the audacity to kiss your knuckles, all tender and innocent, like that’ll fix anything.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something sinfully soft, tugging you closer until your thighs brush. “And soft. And dangerously good at taking care of me. You should take responsibility for that.”

Your glare is immediate. “You’re unbelievable.”

He tilts his head, eyes glittering. “Unbelievably cute?”

You stare at him. Stone-faced. Betrayed. And then you lean in - sweet, slow, syrup-thick - and whisper, “You are so in trouble.”

Wally’s grin falters for just a beat. “Trouble like … fun trouble?”

“No,” you say, looping your arms around his neck, voice dark with the promise of retribution. “Like I’m going to make you earn the rest of those cuddles. Like you don’t get to lie to me, fake an illness, and still come out the smug little spoon.”

He swallows. “So … disciplinary action?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you purr, leaning in until your lips brush his ear. “You're going to be very, very sorry.”

And the way his breath hitches tells you exactly how not sorry he actually is.

He shifts under you, already keyed-up, hands finding your hips like muscle memory. “God, I love you.”

You straddle him on the couch, knees bracketing his hips, your palms planted firm against his chest. His hoodie is soft beneath your fingers - worn, faded, smells like vanilla, static, and the faint ozone aftertaste of speed. The fabric warms fast under your touch, like he’s already burning for you from the inside out.

Wally looks up at you with wide, reverent eyes - like you just caught the sun between your hands and told him it was his. Like he still can’t believe he gets to have this. Have you.

“I didn’t lie,” he says, aiming for innocent, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth is nothing short of criminal.

“You faked sick, West.”

He hums, breath hitching, hands gliding up the backs of your thighs, fingertips tracing goosebumps like they’re treasure. “Only to feel your nurturing touch,” he says with mock sincerity. “Is that so wrong?”

You roll your hips slowly, deliberately - just enough to make him gasp. His whole body stiffens for a moment, chest rising sharply under your palms.

“Wrong enough to deserve consequences,” you murmur, dipping to kiss the corner of his mouth, just barely grazing. “You don’t get to play damsel and rake in sympathy points.”

“But I like sympathy points.”

“You’ll like this better,” you promise, and then you kiss him.

Really kiss him.

His mouth meets yours like it’s been waiting all day - hungry and soft and warm, lips parting in a sigh against yours. He groans into it, low and needy, hands flying to your waist as though it’s reflex, like gravity dragged him there. But you catch his wrists mid-reach, press them into the couch cushions, and pin him down.

“Uh-uh,” you say, lips brushing his cheek as you shift higher on his lap. “Sick boys don’t get to lead.”

Wally lets out a broken sound - half laugh, half moan - his face flushed with frustration and desire and need. “You’re killing me.”

“I thought you were dying already?” you tease, tracing the shape of his mouth with your thumb before leaning back in.

He laughs, breathless and hoarse. “You’re mean.”

“You lied to me.”

“I lied because I missed you,” he breathes, honest now, eyes glassy with more than lust. “Because I wanted you close. I just - I don’t know, babe. I wanted a day when I didn’t have to run. I just wanted to be held.”

That softens you, as it always does. Because you know him. You know how he burns through the world - bright and fast and never still - and how rare it is for him to stop. Even now, he’s buzzing under your hands, the charge of movement held barely in check.

“I’d hold you,” you whisper, brushing his hair back gently. “You don’t need to break my heart with fake last words to get cuddles.”

He swallows, throat bobbing. “I know.”

You shift again, hips slotting against his, rolling slowly. “So shut up and take your punishment.”

His grin is lazy, lopsided, and all heat.

You kiss down his jaw, then his throat, slow, warm, savouring each patch of pale skin like a secret. His hoodie bunches beneath your hands as you work it up over his ribs, exposing the firm lines of his torso. His skin is golden and flushed, already warm to the touch. The faint buzz of his metabolism under your palms makes him feel alive in a way no one else ever could.

Your hands explore him with reverence - slow strokes, soft pressure, a worship you don’t rush. Because you know this body. You love it. And right now? It’s all yours.

Wally's head tips back against the couch cushions, mouth parted, eyes fluttering shut. “Can I touch you yet?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Not yet,” you say, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. He shudders. “You’ve got some suffering to do first.”

“Suffering,” he echoes, dazed. “Got it. Suffering’s good.”

You kiss him again, this time deeper - your tongue brushing his, drawing a long, trembling noise from the back of his throat. His hips buck up against yours, instinctive and needy, but you press him back down with your weight. Your hands tangle in his hair. His lips chase yours with an urgency that borders on desperate - every movement a plea, a promise, a please.

His breath stutters. “God, I missed this,” he says, reverent and raw. “Missed you.”

You let him feel that. Let him burn under your palms. Your fingers curl around the waistband of his sweats, his hoodie pushed high on his chest, his pulse racing beneath your lips - and then-

THWACK.

CRACK.

“OW - OH GOD - OW-!”

The sound is so sharp, so sudden, it echoes off the living room walls like something catastrophic. Your breath catches, the warmth still blooming through your chest from the kiss you were in the middle of vanishing in an instant.

You jerk back like you've been electrocuted. “What?! What happened?!”

He’s already curling inward, face contorted in real, undeniable pain - his hands clutching low on his back, hoodie wrinkled and riding up as he twists on the couch like a dying bug.

“I think - I think I pulled something - ohmygod - I can’t - babe - I think I threw out my back-!”

For a second, your brain won’t even compute it. You just stare at him, blinking, heat still prickling down your spine, breath caught somewhere between lust and horror.

“You - what?! How?! You were lying down!”

“I - I tried to lift my hips to - you know - engage!” he whimpers. His voice breaks over the word like it physically hurts to say. “That was a mistake. A terrible mistake.”

And just like that, the haze of arousal fully burns off, replaced by ice-cold concern as you scramble off him, almost tripping over a cushion. “Are you serious?! Wally, are you serious right now?”

“My spine!” he howls dramatically, face mashed into the cushions. “My beautiful, fast, sexy spine-”

You let out a strangled noise and grab a throw pillow, smacking him square in the shoulder - gently, but with feeling.

He yelps like a kicked puppy and flinches, curling around his agony. “Babe! I’m wounded!”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, pacing for a second as your heart finally catches up. “I knew this would happen. I knew you were overcommitting to the bit. I felt it in my bones!”

“I was committed to love!” he whines.

“You were committed to horniness!”

“Same difference ...” he groans, voice muffled against a throw blanket.

You drop onto your knees beside the couch, inspecting him like he might shatter. His hoodie’s rucked up over his back, his boxers askew from how he twisted, and his hair is a complete mess - flat in places from how he’s been laying, sticking up in wild tufts in others. His skin’s flushed, brows drawn tight in discomfort, and he's panting like he just ran five miles instead of trying to thrust while horizontal.

The absurdity of it all makes your throat burn - equal parts panic, frustration, and such deep, bone-deep affection you can’t even stand it.

“Jesus, Wally,” you mutter, grabbing your phone from the coffee table. “I’m calling your chiropractor.”

“Nooo, don’t leave me,” he moans, flailing one arm weakly in your direction. “Hold me - I'm dying again-!”

“You’ll live,” you mutter, brushing his hair back with exasperated fondness. “You don’t get cuddles until I’ve iced your back and you swear on your stupid sneakers you won’t fake another cold for at least a month.”

He peeks up at you with the saddest, most pitiful watery eyes imaginable, lower lip trembling with cartoonish devastation. “Two weeks?”

“A month, West.”

He groans, flopping his head back dramatically.

But his hand - hot and a little clammy - finds yours anyway. Fingers twitching until you slide yours into the spaces between. Even now, even injured, there’s a buzz in his skin, like lightning sulking beneath the surface.

And you - wrecked spine, derailed couch makeout, and all - squeeze it back.

Because he’s Wally. Because he's ridiculous. And annoying. And impossible.

But also yours.

And god help you - you wouldn't trade this for anything.

Even if he’s literally the fastest man alive … and still manages to injure himself while horizontal.

[wingfiled]

An illust trade with @snersona ! ! ! 🖤🦇

[wingfiled]

all blades are fun and he should use them more

[wingfiled]

Official Champion of Gotham Fun Run

Pairing: Dick Grayson x gn!reader

Genres: Domestic fluff

Warnings: Suggestive content, injury

Word Count: 4K

Summary: He did a flip. He landed wrong. Now he’s milking his injury for all it’s worth - blankets, snacks, remote-control foot acrobatics, and a truly unreasonable amount of pouty charm. Good thing you’re in love with him.

Part two of my Unfit for Duty series. Find the other parts here!

The sun is still high in the sky when you arrive, the soft glow of late morning soaking through the trees as you jog the final stretch of the park's winding path. Gotham, of all places, has gifted a golden day - the kind that feels like it slipped out of someone else’s city entirely. There’s colour everywhere: balloons bobbing in the breeze, kids shrieking as they barrel through foam tunnels, and every direction you turn smells like kettle corn or funnel cake or the chemical-sweet tang of those cheap freeze pops melting into little hands.

You’re painted. Completely. Your shirt's a lost cause and there’s streaks of neon blue and hot pink smudged down your arms, your legs, even your cheek - collateral damage from a very enthusiastic six-year-old with a bucket and zero sense of restraint.

But you're grinning. It's hard not to. It’s all been ridiculous and wholesome and a little too sticky, and somehow that’s exactly what you needed.

Dick's been a feature at the charity fun run since early this morning. You saw him when you first arrived, chatting with volunteers while coordinating where the obstacle course should go, the bounce houses and inflatable slides all aligned just right to make sure there's enough room for the kids to run wild.

You know he has to be tired - he always is, even when he doesn't show it - but that doesn't seem to slow him down. If anything, it fuels him.

He'd signed up for everything - managing the check-in stations, guiding families through the run, helping set up the vendor booths, and, of course, being the official "entertainer" for the kids. It's not unusual. You've seen it before. The way he throws himself into every task, every responsibility, like if he just keeps moving - just keeps helping - he won't have to face the inevitable pile of things left undone. 

The need to fix it all.

It's part of who he is. You love that about him, in a way. You love that he cares enough to pour so much of himself into things that, to others, might seem insignificant. But there are times - too many times, honestly - that you just want him to let someone else take a bit of the weight. 

You're crossing the grass toward the food tents, two hot dogs in hand - one an actual meal, the other a red-slicked abomination you’re 90% sure violates FDA standards - when you spot him.

Dick's standing on a tightrope.

Of course he is.

The makeshift rig has been strung up low between two inflatable pylons, clearly meant for children. But he’s balancing in the middle of it like a tightrope walker in Cirque du Soleil, arms loose at his sides, knees slightly bent, grinning like he’s just remembered he can fly.

There’s a group of kids around him, small bodies bouncing like popcorn, eyes huge. And Dick is eating it up - that impossible grin lighting up his face as he talks, gestures, swings from one foot to the other. He’s in full showman mode, all animated charm and practised grace, a natural-born ringmaster with a heart full of glitter and chaos.

“And remember,” he tells them, crouching just slightly, “the secret to a perfect jump is timing - and trusting your audience to count you down. Ready? One … two …”

You slow your steps. Watch.

“Three!”

He flips.

It’s clean. Effortless. Silky smooth like breath drawn in reverse, and he lands with dancer’s precision, arms thrown wide like he’s just stuck the landing at the Olympics. The kids go feral, and Dick gives them a stage bow, like he didn’t just casually defy gravity.

You can’t help it - you laugh. Shaking your head, you bite into your hot dog and watch him with an ache of affection curling up beneath your ribs.

His face is a war zone of paint. Swirls of orange and blue streak across his cheekbones, someone’s stubby-handed attempt at a lightning bolt is smeared across his forehead, and there’s a tiny green star just off the tip of his nose. His hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed pink from exertion, shirt clinging to his back in places you’re not going to think about right now, and you swear - he’s still the best thing you’ve ever seen.

He turns - mid-laugh, mid-sentence, something in his body already aware you’re near before he even spots you. And when he does?

That smile changes.

Gets softer. Lopsided. Private.

He sees you like you’re the only real thing in the whole damn carnival.

“Alright, alright!” he calls to the kids, clapping his hands, that performance edge slipping back into his voice. “You’ve been an amazing crowd - but now, for the grand finale. If I stick this landing, I’m the official Champion of the Gotham Fun Run. Tell your parents. Write your congressman.”

The kids cheer, totally on board with the legislative campaign.

You roll your eyes. “Show-off,” you mutter, more fond than annoyed.

He steps back. Bounces once on the balls of his feet. Then takes off running. The children gasp in delight, their cheers filling the air, and you watch him soar, effortlessly reaching for the sky-

You know the exact moment it goes wrong.

The moment is almost slow-motion, the perfect form of the backflip twisting just a fraction before he touches down. It’s barely anything - just a little twist at the top of his arc, a misalignment mid-flip - but it’s enough. He hits the ground with too much weight on one ankle, and the sound he makes is not theatrical.

It’s real.

There’s a thud. A wobble. He catches himself on an inflatable cone and mutters, “Ow,” through gritted teeth, voice an octave lower than usual.

The kids go dead quiet. Then one giggles.

Then they all burst into laughter.

And Dick - ever the professional - offers a pained bow.

You jog the last few feet, abandoning your heroic hot dogs on a nearby bench, hands already half-reaching.

“Seriously?” you call out, voice laced with amusement and the barest thread of concern. “You couldn’t just … not flip for once?”

He squints up at you, clearly trying to decide if he’s more wounded or embarrassed. “For the children,” he says hoarsely, then winces as he shifts his weight. “I did it … for the children.”

“Oh my god.” You can’t help but laugh, even though there’s a thread of concern pulling at you. You reach his side quickly, slipping your hand beneath his arm and gently looping it around your shoulder. "You're such an attention queen."

He leans into you further, a soft, grateful sigh escaping his lips as his head tilts just a little, like he’s sinking into the moment. “You love that about me,” he murmurs, and there’s no trace of that showman bravado anymore.

You roll your eyes, but there’s affection in the gesture, something tender that catches in your throat. “I love most things about you. Your hubris? Not so much.”

He gasps, scandalised. “You wound me.”

“Not as much as that flip, apparently.”

He groans, hobbling alongside you with a wince as you help him move away from the field. The soft buzz of the fun run continues behind you, but it feels like a distant hum now, the crowd’s energy fading into the background as you focus on him. His heavy breathing, the slight tinge of sweat still clinging to his skin, the smell of grass and heat all wrapped up in the lingering freshness of the paint covering him.

“I think I might need to be carried,” he says, still grinning through the pain.

You snort. “Not a chance. You’re sweaty and covered in paint.”

He gives you a look - all pleading eyes and mischievous smirk. “But I’m cute.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Rude.”

You grin, letting him lean more heavily against you. “You’re lucky I like you.”

He hums, nuzzling closer, like he knows exactly what he’s doing - like he’s found the one person who will always be there, no matter how much of a disaster he is. “You more than like me,” he says, his voice low, warm. It’s playful, but there's an undeniable truth in it that you can’t shake.

“I tolerate you aggressively," you retort, but it’s a lie - one that you both know too well.

“You kissed me under fireworks last month.”

“You cried during Paddington 2.”

He puffs out his chest, clearly proud. “I’m emotionally in touch."

You shake your head, trying not to laugh, as the two of you shuffle toward a quieter patch of grass, away from the boisterous families, the sticky-sweet sound of kids and cotton candy vendors fading behind you. Dick’s still grinning, a little sheepish now, a little sore, but it’s the kind of smile that makes everything else feel unimportant. It’s the kind of smile that makes you swoon, even when he’s being a complete idiot.

You help him sit down on a bench, but before you can pull away, he leans his head closer to yours, his voice soft, like he’s only half-joking. “You know, if I’d stuck the landing, I was going to dedicate it to you.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart does a gentle, traitorous little flip.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, gaze warm and playful, fingers brushing yours. “But this way’s better. Now you have to take care of me.”

You snort. “Manipulative bastard.”

“Only for you, babe.”

And the worst part is - it’s working. Because when he looks at you like that, like you're the only person in a world full of light and colour and chaos, it’s impossible not to fall a little harder.

Even if he did sprain his ankle trying to impress a bunch of six-year-olds.

You sigh, the soft ache of love settling in your chest as you reach for his face. You cup it gently, letting your paint-smeared hands frame his features. His skin is warm under your touch, soft and real, and you lean down, pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s soft, just a quick press, like the world outside has paused and left only the two of you here in this moment.

“Official Champion of Gotham Fun Run,” you murmur against his lips, “and world’s biggest idiot.”

He grins, eyes bright.

“But still cute.”

“Yeah,” you admit, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and then kiss him again.

“Still cute.”

You don’t even get the door fully closed before you hear the television blaring some mid-2000s rom-com and the unmistakable sound of a remote thunking softly to the floor.

“Babe?” Dick’s voice floats down the hall, high-pitched and tragically put-upon. “I think I’m dying.”

You sigh. Loudly. Dramatically. But your feet are already steering you toward the bedroom.

The sight that greets you is … well. Something.

Dick is half-upright in bed, completely cocooned in three different blankets - one of which you’re pretty sure belongs to the dog. The dog in question is sprawled across the foot of the bed like a gloriously indifferent queen, clearly unbothered by the chaos around her. One of her floppy ears flicks as she acknowledges your presence, but otherwise she remains settled, chin resting on a pillow she’s definitely claimed as her own.

There’s an untouched bowl of popcorn resting on Dick’s chest like an offering to the gods, an open packet of sour candy cradled beside him, tissues sticking out from between the pillows like sad little flags of surrender. The television is blaring from across the room. And he’s clicking the remote with his foot.

“I see you’ve taken this injury very seriously,” you deadpan, shrugging out of your coat. “Tragic. Brave. Bedridden.”

“It’s worse than you think,” he groans, flopping back dramatically and narrowly avoiding launching popcorn into the air. Haley grunts and lifts her head with a glare, clearly displeased by the movement.

“My ankle is definitely broken. Possibly my spirit, too.”

You raise a brow, setting down your bag and stepping closer to the bed. “Did the spirit part happen before or after the sour straws?”

“After,” he says gravely. “They betrayed me. Too sour.”

“You poor thing.” You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead - still slightly warm, but no longer the furnace he was last night. “Have you eaten real food today?”

He looks away, guilty. Even Haley shifts to glance at him like Really? Again?

“Dick.”

“I had popcorn!” he protests. “And, uh … animal crackers. I also drank water. With electrolytes!”

You give him a flat look. “You mean Gatorade.”

“Hydration is hydration,” he says solemnly.

You roll your eyes and gently start unwrapping him from the excess blanket layers like a very large, very needy burrito. Haley watches this process with lazy interest, tail thumping once when Dick tries to tug one of her blankets back.

“I brought soup. You don’t deserve it, but I brought it.”

“You’re an angel. A saint. A vision of mercy,” he says, grabbing your wrist dramatically as you try to move away. “But there’s one more thing I require.”

You blink at him, unimpressed. “More snacks?”

“No.” He pouts. “Cuddles. Immediate. Stat.”

You laugh, unable to help it. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m injured,” he counters. “Bedridden. Abandoned by the world. But not, hopefully, by my stunningly hot partner who promised to love me in sickness and in health.”

“We’re not married.”

“A technicality,” he says airily, pulling back the covers with a hopeful smile. “Come on. I’m warm. And I smell like vanilla body lotion.”

“You do not.”

“I could.”

And you should say no. You should insist he eat first, or shower, or at least clear the popcorn off the bed. But he’s looking at you like you hung the moon, ankle elevated on two pillows, eyes soft and open in a way they rarely get when the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

The world is always heavy for Dick. But not today. Not like this.

You sigh, take off your shoes and crawl into bed beside him. Haley shifts to make room, letting out a put-upon sigh of her own as she nestles back against your leg like she’s allowing this intrusion.

Dick immediately wraps an arm around you and tucks his face into your neck like you’re a particularly cuddly pillow.

“Better?” you ask, settling in.

He makes a noise of contentment that vibrates right against your collarbone. “So much better.”

And even though he’s a complete baby when he’s sick - or injured, or slightly inconvenienced - you let him be. Because he never lets himself have days like this. Never stops moving long enough to be cared for.

So yeah. You’ll bring the soup. You’ll kiss the bruises. You’ll let him steal your warmth and hog the pillows and pout until you give in.

Because he needs it. And you love him.

Even if he does click the remote with his foot. And steal Haley’s blanket.

By day four of Dick’s medically mandated bedrest, it’s clear he’s descending into madness.

Not dramatic madness. Not even vigilante madness. No - this is something worse.

This is bored, restless, coddled, can’t-sit-still-for-more-than-two-minutes madness.

You can hear it before you open the door: the low thump of music that doesn't match the usual 'sick and sulking' playlist.

When you push through the bedroom door, Dick is lying diagonally across the bed, one leg still propped on pillows like an injured prince, sunglasses on despite the cloudy afternoon outside, and the NutriBullet spinning something suspiciously green beside him on the nightstand.

“Oh, look who’s back,” he says with a theatrical sigh, lifting the sunglasses halfway to glance at you. “Was it nice? Your journey to the other realm? Did you find joy and freedom out there in the wild world of … gainful employment?”

“I went to work,” you say, balancing your keys on the bowl beside the door. “Like people do.”

“Must be nice.” He sinks lower into the blankets, eyes hidden once more. “Must be liberating to have full use of both ankles.”

“You are literally lounging in pyjama pants with Haley spooning your good leg. I don’t think you’re suffering.”

Haley, for her part, gives one slow tail wag, clearly choosing to stay loyal to the most immobile warm human in the room.

“I am suffering,” Dick insists, flinging off the sunglasses just in time for them to ricochet off the floor. “I had to take the elevator down to get mail. Do you know what that does to a man’s soul?”

You blink. “You had me bring you grapes, smoothies, and two different brands of electrolyte water in the last twenty-four hours.”

“And yet-” he lifts his chin, regal and martyred “-you refused the foot rub I asked for this morning.”

“You’d just used your foot to turn off the TV.”

“It was dexterous.”

You level a look at him. “It was gross.”

He flashes a grin. “You weren’t saying that when I used those same feet to-”

“Finish that sentence and I’m feeding you nothing but off-brand ramen until your ankle heals.”

Dick gasps. “-sweep you around the dance floor! Obviously."

There’s a moment of silence. Then, slowly, like a particularly charming hydra, he rises from the pillows - messy hair, stubbled jaw, shirt riding up on one side - and squints at you with a smile far too wolfish for a man surrounded by heating pads and dog hair.

“You know,” he drawls, “I’m starting to think physical activity might actually help the healing process.”

You fold your arms. “Oh?”

“Mmm.” His voice lowers. “Y’know. Like a little exercise. Cardiovascular … exertion. Partner-assisted, preferably.”

You try not to laugh. He notices.

“I’m serious,” he says, tilting his head in mock seduction, one hand flopping across his abs like he’s waiting for a romance cover shoot. “I’ve been cooped up all week. I have … energy. Needs.”

“You have half a sprained ankle and worse self-control than Haley,” you reply, biting back your smile.

“Which means I need a responsible adult to help me manage both.” He gives you that look. The one that’s gotten him out of a hundred lectures and into plenty of trouble. “Come on, baby. For medicinal reasons.”

You let the silence stretch.

Then: “Huh. That’s interesting.”

“What is?” he asks, all false innocence.

“Well, just yesterday, you had me bring you a very specific mango smoothie, then told me I was abandoning you when I dared to answer emails.”

“That was different. I was lonely.”

“And the day before that, you made me pause my own movie to fluff your pillows and Google your symptoms, which were, and I quote, ‘wounded dignity’ and ‘cabin fever.’”

“In my defense,” he says, sheepish now, “that second one was real.”

“And today,” you continue, advancing slowly, “you duct-taped the elevator because walking ten steps made your ankle feel ‘emotionally unsupported.’ But nowyou want to perform bedroom acrobatics?”

He hesitates. “... Only the easy ones?”

You burst out laughing, and he immediately tries to pull you closer by the waistband. “I’m being punished for my past sins, aren’t I?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, crawling onto the bed, careful to avoid the injured ankle. “But I’m a merciful god. So maybe - maybe - if you behave …”

“Yes?” His eyes brighten, hopeful.

“You get cuddles and soup.”

He groans dramatically and drags you into his chest like he’s never known happiness until this very moment. “You’re perfect. You’re flawless. You’re - ow, ow, Haley, not the foot-”

Haley, unbothered, has shifted to reassert her rightful place between you both. There’s a brief wrestle, some shuffling, and then Dick’s face ends up squished against your collarbone again, sighing like he’s just survived a war.

“So no sex, huh?”

“Not until your ankle can handle stairs.”

You’re already half-asleep when you feel him shift, again, for the third time in two minutes.

“Dickie,” you murmur, your voice a sleepy sigh, “you’re worse than the dog.”

“I am not,” he whispers back indignantly, though he doesn’t pull away from where he’s curled into your side like a very large, very clingy heat-seeking device. His leg is slung heavy over yours. His arm is tucked across your middle. His hair is warm and ticklish where it brushes your chin.

“You are,” you mumble, fingers carding slowly through his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp. “You’ve been squirming around for hours.”

“I’m injured,” he breathes dramatically, pressing his face further into your neck. “I can’t get comfortable.”

“You can’t get comfortable,” you echo dryly, “but you also won’t take more ibuprofen, you won’t elevate your foot properly, and you won’t stop demanding smoothies at ten o’clock at night.”

A muffled sound, halfway between a whine and a laugh, escapes him. “I’m just saying,” he says into your collarbone, “that if I’m going to be a man of leisure, I should at least be treated like a Roman emperor.”

“Only if you promise not to get stabbed in the back,” you murmur, smiling sleepily. “Or do any more backflips for children.”

“That was one time.”

“One time too many,” you murmur, stroking your fingers down the back of his head. “Have you learnt your lesson yet?"

He huffs, then goes quiet. Still tucked close, still soft and warm and obnoxiously affectionate, but … quieter now. A beat passes. Another.

“I don’t think I know how to rest,” he says suddenly, voice hushed and threadbare in the dark. “Not really.”

You blink, heart stuttering slightly beneath his cheek.

“I try,” he goes on, a little looser now, like the words are tumbling out unguarded. “I’ll tell myself I’ve earned it - like, okay, I did the mission, I helped the kid, I made the world a fraction less terrible, I should be able to rest now. But then I sit still for too long and everything creeps in. Guilt. Pressure. That voice in my head that says someone else needs help, and I’m wasting time. And I just-” He exhales, curling a little tighter into your side. “I get itchy. I get stupid.”

You don’t say anything. Just keep stroking his hair gently, steadily, as he continues. He’s told you bits of this before - always indirectly, always wrapped in humour. But hearing it like this, voice low and limbs tangled in yours, feels like being handed something sacred.

“This week’s been hard,” he admits. “Harder than it should be. And I know I’ve been kind of a brat.”

“You have,” you agree softly, nudging his knee with yours.

“But I think …” He hesitates, then presses a barely-there kiss to your collarbone. “I think I needed this more than I realised. Not just the forced bedrest, but the … you part. Being allowed to be annoying and needy and ridiculous, and not having to be Nightwing or a big brother or a leader or anything except yours.”

Something hot flickers behind your eyes, but you blink it away.

“You’re always allowed to be mine,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his hair.

He hums, a soft, reverent sound that melts something inside you. “I know. I just forget sometimes. Or don’t let myself believe it.”

You tighten your arm around him just a little. “Well. You’re here now. Wrapped around me like a koala. Which means you’re trapped. No escaping the affection.”

He chuckles, the sound sleep-heavy and sweet. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You press your cheek against his temple. “Good. ‘Cause I love you, brat and all.”

Another beat of silence, thick and full and warm.

“I love you too,” he says, so quietly it’s nearly lost in the dark. “Even if you didn’t feed me grapes.”

“You’re never letting that go.”

“I’m at peace with it,” he murmurs, already drifting, the words slow and fading. “As long as you keep playing with my hair.”

You do.

And sometime not long after, you both fall asleep - twined up, close and content, the world outside quiet for once. And for tonight, at least, Dick lets himself rest.

[wingfiled]

When u were a baby

[wingfiled]

Masterlist

A/N - Hi everyone! Welcome to my blog, I'm so grateful to have you here! I hope you enjoy what you find (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Unfit for Duty

Part One: Roy Harper

Napkins on the Table

↳ Major fluff, 4.1K

Roy Harper gets hurt (again), refuses to rest (again), and you come home just in time to stop him from reopening his stitches while making grilled cheese.

Part Two: Dick Grayson

Official Champion of the Gotham Fun Run

↳ Fluff, suggestive content, 4K

Dick did a flip. He landed wrong. Now he’s milking his injury for all it’s worth - blankets, snacks, remote-control foot acrobatics, and a truly unreasonable amount of pouty charm. Good thing you’re in love with him.

Part Three: Wally West

The Boy Who Cried Sick

↳ Fluff, not-quite smut, 3.2K

Wally West is dying. Or so he claims. Which works - until your poor, sick boyfriend starts grinning mid-cough and getting a little too handsy for someone allegedly on death’s door.

Part Four: Jason Todd

Gotham Drawl: Effective Under Duress

↳ Aggressive fluff, 3.7K

Jason Todd has faced death, war, and worse - but a nasty case of the flu might be his greatest nemesis yet. Refusing to rest, he suits up in pyjamas and a helmet for a late-night patrol … only to beef it on a rooftop and get ratted out by Damian.

Please also check out my AO3 for longer-form content!

Jason Todd

Cut and Run

↳ Angst, fluff, hairdresser!reader, 141K

In a city like Gotham, information is currency. And you've made a career out of getting people to talk. Not by force. Not with threats. Just a salon chair, a mirror, and the kind of silence that makes people fill it with secrets. Affairs. Deals. Who’s moving into which block. Who’s gone missing. Who’s about to. You’re not a vigilante. You don’t wear a mask. You just know when something’s about to crack - and lately, Gotham’s been humming like a live wire. And you weren’t supposed to matter. Not to anyone. And especially not to the man who just blew up a bar because you said it gave you a bad feeling.

Dick Grayson

The Late Edition

↳ Fluff, angst, suggestive content, journalist!reader, ongoing

In 1980s New York, the headlines change faster than the subway lights. You're a rookie journalist chasing a story that no one else believes - tall tales of a masked man in electric blue leaping from rooftops, showing up at crime scenes before the cops, disappearing like smoke. But when a chance encounter turns into an off-the-record interview, you're pulled into something bigger than just a scoop. Because Nightwing isn’t just a rumour. He’s real. And he’s not the Boy Wonder anymore.

[wingfiled]

Napkins on the Table

Pairing: Roy Harper x gn!reader

Genre: Major fluff

Warnings: Sexual insinuations, injury

Word Count: 4.1K

Summary: Roy Harper gets hurt (again), refuses to rest (again), and you come home just in time to stop him from reopening his stitches while making grilled cheese.

Part one of my Unfit for Duty series. Find the other parts here!

You unlock the door with your heart already half inside.

The hallway light’s off, and the apartment smells faintly like burnt toast and rosemary shampoo. That combination alone tells you exactly what kind of evening it’s been - chaotic, probably, and stubbornly managed. You toe off your shoes by instinct, the floorboards cool beneath your socks, your shoulders already softening beneath your coat. Outside, the city is winding down, all engine noise and slanted golden light. But in here, it should be quieter. Softer.

Home.

And maybe that word means different things to different people, but for you, tonight, it means Roy on the couch and Lian on the floor with her markers and glitter glue, a throw blanket tangled around her shoulders like a cape. It means the TV murmuring in the background, your name written in fridge magnets, an arrow tucked into the umbrella stand (because Roy never remembers it doesn’t belong there), and the smell of something actually edible wafting out of the kitchen.

That’s what you hope for.

That’s what you let yourself imagine, the second before the lock clicks open.

You hope that Roy sat this one out like he was supposed to. That when you told him this morning - cupping his face gently, careful not to press too hard on the bruising at his jaw - that he didn’t need to prove anything, he actually listened. You hope he let himself rest. Took the damn pain meds. Put his feet up and let someone else carry the weight of the world for once.

But you're not that naïve. Not when you know the man you love like this.

Roy Harper doesn’t know how to sit still, even when he’s bleeding. Especially when he’s bleeding. There’s a part of him that still believes he's only worthy when he’s useful, when he’s moving, fixing, doing. He wears his pain like an afterthought, wraps it in jokes and shrugs, then hides the limp until it becomes a stagger. Until he can’t hide it anymore.

You push the door open and brace for whatever version of that you’re walking into.

The apartment is warm. Dim except for the glow of the TV, which flickers soft blue light across the living room. Lian’s blanket-cape is crumpled on the rug, her little sparkly sneakers kicked off at odd angles. There’s a plastic bowl of dry cereal abandoned on the coffee table and a construction-paper crown draped over the lamp.

You smile, just a little. It’s the kind of mess that means a good time was had.

Then you hear him - low curse, sharp intake of breath - from the kitchen.

Of course.

You follow the sound, and there he is.

Leaning on the counter, trying to dice a red bell pepper with one hand and his full weight resting on the other. There’s a dish towel tucked under his elbow and tension in his shoulders. His hair’s still damp from a shower (good), but he’s in a pair of worn shorts and a T-shirt clinging to the curve of his back with sweat (less good). The gauze at his thigh peeks out from under the fabric, fresh enough to make your heart squeeze.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s too focused on pretending everything is fine.

You exhale softly and set your keys down, letting the jangle announce you.

His head lifts, and the smile he gives you is instant, bright, and just a little guilty.

“Hey, babe. Dinner’s almost ready. Don’t freak out.”

Which, of course, only makes you want to freak out more.

You walk toward him slowly, tugging your coat off your shoulders, folding it over the back of a chair. You don’t say anything yet. Not until you’re close enough to see the way he’s favouring his left leg, the pinched set of his jaw, the way he instinctively straightens when your gaze catches on the bloodstain seeping through the side of the gauze.

You rest your palm on the counter beside his, not quite touching him yet.

“You were supposed to rest today.”

He shrugs, like he’s just remembered. “I did. For like, most of the day. Lian wanted grilled cheese. You gonna say no to that face?”

He tilts his head toward the living room, where the faint sound of a child’s giggle bubbles up from behind a cushion fort. It’s such a Roy answer it almost makes you laugh. Almost.

But instead, you reach out, brush a strand of hair from his forehead. Let your fingers linger there a moment longer than necessary. Feel the slight fever under his skin, the soft puff of his breath when he leans into your touch despite himself.

There’s so much you want to say. That he’s allowed to rest. That the world won’t fall apart if he doesn’t cook dinner. That being soft doesn’t make him less. That loving him means wanting him whole.

But instead you say:

“Go sit down. I’ve got it from here.”

And because he’s tired - because maybe part of him wants to be looked after, even if he doesn’t know how to ask - he lets you.

He lets you guide him to the couch, and this time, he doesn’t argue.

You take over the kitchen in practiced motions - pan to low heat, cheese to the good bread, not the cheap stuff Roy buys when he’s pretending to budget. The comfort of movement helps. Helps keep your heart steady, your hands calm. Helps keep you from marching back into the living room, throwing his ass over your shoulder, and duct-taping him to the couch until he figures out what "rest" actually means.

You steal a glance toward the hallway, where Roy’s just out of sight, and the memory rises before you can stop it. A sharp, familiar flicker that always follows close behind the sight of bandages and bruises.

You're colouring with Lian when the phone rings.

Well - she's coloring. You're mostly trying to keep the glue from permanently bonding her to the floor while pretending not to notice that the princess in her drawing looked suspiciously like a sparkly version of Wonder Woman.

You hadn’t expected the call. At least, not from him.

Hey,” Jason says, casual in that way that means it isn’t casual at all.

You hear the wrongness in it immediately - too even, too slow. The sound of someone trying not to say something.

“Jay, what’s up?” you ask, shifting the phone to your other ear as Lian climbs into your lap, babbling about her purple crayon being a magic wand.

“Just checking in,” Jason says. “How’s the gremlin?”

You blink. “Lian?”

“Yeah. You mind putting her on?”

That's when the first real shiver of unease crawls down your spine. Not because Jason doesn’t love Lian - he does, in the rough, reluctant, soft-hearted way of someone who’d never admit it - but because he never asks to talk to her first. Not when it' Roy who's supposed to be meeting you after patrol. Not when he should be the one calling.

“She’s a little busy,” you say slowly. “Drawing a portrait of an Amazon warrior. What’s going on?”

You can hear voices in the background then - muffled at first, until someone (Roy) barks:

“Jason, seriously, stop stalling and tell her I’m fine. I’m literally walking right now, aren’t I?”

You don’t even flinch.

It isn’t the first time. It won't be the last.

You inhale through your nose, heart skipping like it always does - but not out of panic. You learned long ago that Roy’s injuries aren’t usually the problem. The way he handles them is. Or doesn't.

“Can you ask him, Jay,” you say into the phone, pressing a kiss to the top of Lian’s head as she hums and kicks her feet. “Does he want me to bring Lian to the hospital?”

There's a pause. You can hear Jason’s exhale - short, dry.

You can picture it, too: Roy half-perched on an alley wall, bleeding from somewhere stupid, Jason standing next to him with that impatient look he wears like armour, both of them momentarily stumped by the assumption in your voice.

Because of course you’d assume he's going to the hospital.

Because that’s what people do. When they're hurt. When they aren't trying to prove they're indestructible.

“He’s, uh. He’s not exactly hospital-level,” Jason finally says. “It’s a cut. Couple cracked ribs. Nothing-”

“Jason.”

Another pause.

You don't raise your voice. You don't have to.

“Fine,” Jason grumbles. “Leslie it is. But he’s telling her you made him come.”

“Deal."

And that was the compromise. Not a hospital, but Leslie Thompkins’ clinic. Familiar. Trusted. Somewhere Roy wouldn’t have to explain the scar tissue or dodge eye contact or feel the kind of vulnerable that makes him shut down completely.

He hadn’t liked it. But he’d gone.

Which was something. A start.

The grilled cheese hisses quietly in the pan, and you press it down with a spatula, the scent warm and buttery and grounding. You hear a soft thump from the living room, followed by a muffled “ow,” and resist the urge to sigh.

He’s here. He’s safe. And he’s still very, very bad at letting himself heal.

But you’re here too.

And if it takes grilled cheese and stubbornness and every ounce of patience you have to get him to stop doing this alone - so be it.

You’ve got all night.

You turn the burner to low, wipe your hands on a dish towel, and step into the living room, already bracing for whatever version of chaos Roy has allowed in your absence.

It’s not as bad as it could be.

But still.

The couch cushions have been repurposed into some sort of fort-adjacent structure, blankets draped in unconvincing angles from the coffee table, one of Roy’s old T-shirts acting as a drawbridge. A Barbie doll peeks out from under the recliner, missing an arm but proudly wearing a cape made from what you strongly suspect is a torn sock. There are Batman stickers on the wall and crayon scribbles on the whiteboard Roy uses to track Lian’s school schedule and snack inventory.

And in the middle of it all: Roy Harper, in full dad-mode glory, pinned beneath a giggling five-year-old as she straddles his good hip and waves a plastic sword triumphantly in the air.

He’s holding her steady with one arm - his uninjured one, you note with both relief and exasperation - and grinning like an idiot despite the clear strain in his jaw.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says the moment your eyes meet, breathless and smug. “She needed entertaining.”

Lian chimes in with a fierce little war cry, followed by a smooch to Roy’s cheek that leaves a glittery lip print behind. Roy winces - whether from pain or the sheer sticky chaos of it all, you’re not sure.

You cross your arms and tilt your head, trying to maintain even an ounce of your resolve. It’s a losing battle. Because there’s something about this - about him, sprawled out like a wounded rogue action figure, covered in sparkle slime and stubborn devotion - that’s so irritatingly, unfairly adorable you have to bite your lip just to keep from smiling.

“You’re an idiot,” you murmur fondly, walking over.

“Your idiot,” he says, already triumphant.

You crouch and carefully lift Lian into your arms - she’s buzzing with energy and absolutely sticky from who-knows-what, but she leans into you with all the weight of a child who knows she’s loved. She smells like apple juice and crayons. You smooth her hair down and plant a kiss on her temple.

“C’mon, peanut,” you whisper into her ear. “Let’s go set the table and let Daddy not re-open his stitches.”

She gasps like it’s the most thrilling mission in the world and nods solemnly. “Yes, chef!”

Roy groans dramatically as you help her over the cushion barricade and back into the kitchen.

“I was winning,” he mutters.

“You were about to throw out your back.”

“Still winning.”

You don’t even dignify that with a response. Just flick a glance over your shoulder as you settle Lian on her feet by the counter and pass her the napkins. “Okay, go - two at every seat, remember?”

“Yes!” she says again, already dancing over to the table with them clutched to her chest.

You turn back to check the grilled cheese - perfectly golden now - and plate them with a small sigh of domestic victory. It’s only when you look up, mid-reach for the tomato soup, that you catch sight of Roy again.

He’s still on the couch.

Still reclined, arm slung lazily behind his head, a heating pad balanced somewhere beneath him.

And watching you. Really watching you.

Like he’s seeing something too good to believe, like he’s memorising it.

Like he’s seeing everything.

His daughter setting the table with solemn importance, her hair in lopsided pigtails. You in your work clothes, barefoot now, flipping grilled cheese like it’s sacred. Your voice coaxing calm from chaos. Your hands moving through this space like it’s yours. Like you’ve always belonged here.

And his face-

That look.

It’s the softest, most open you’ve ever seen him. No cocky grin, no smart remark. Just wide, aching affection in those eyes. A kind of quiet awe that makes your breath catch.

Like he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this. Like he doesn’t believe, even now, that it’s real.

You feel your cheeks warm, and there’s something in your chest - something gentle and fierce and rooted - that tightens, just a little.

You glance down, adjust the sandwiches on the plate like it matters, and say the only thing you can manage in that moment:

“Dinner’s ready.”

And from the living room, soft and hoarse:

“Yeah. I know.”

The plates are stacked in the sink, the crusts of Lian’s grilled cheese untouched (but the soup bowl suspiciously empty), and the overhead lights are dimmed to that soft, amber hue that means the day is winding down.

You swaddle Lian into her dinosaur pajamas while she chatters through the whole ordeal - tiny feet kicking, arms flailing, somehow resisting every sleeve despite clearly being exhausted.

“But I promised to finish my map,” she yawns, as you wrestle the shirt over her head. “It has the haunted swamp and the secret strawberry village and the-”

“We’ll finish it tomorrow,” you say gently, smoothing her hair away from her face. “After breakfast. Right now, it’s story time.”

“Story time,” she echoes with a grin, already halfway out of your arms and bounding toward the living room. “Daddy reads it best!”

Of course he does.

You trail after her, slower now, hands rubbing tired circles into your lower back. Roy’s still on the couch, one leg up, an ice pack poorly hidden under a throw pillow, a well-worn copy of Where the Sidewalk Ends in his lap. He holds it in his uninjured hand like a sacred text, dog-eared and loved, the spine taped together twice over.

Lian clambers back onto the couch like a cat in a windstorm - knee to shin to chest - finally settling in beside him with a blanket wrapped around her like a burrito. She’s wriggling with excitement, but Roy just raises his brows at you like, “See? Everything’s fine.”

You fix him with a long look, just to make your point clear: If she elbows your ribs, I’m not dealing with your whining later.

He winks.

You roll your eyes and back out quietly, ducking into her room to grab her night blanket - the soft purple one, the one she insists she can’t sleep without because it smells like sunshine and dryer sheets and "home." You breathe it in for a second without meaning to.

And when you come back into the living room-

You stop.

There they are.

Lian, already asleep, her tiny face smushed against Roy’s side. Against his injured thigh, no less. One hand curled in the fabric of his shirt. The book slipped from his fingers, still open to a page he clearly didn’t finish. He doesn’t seem to mind. He’s not even trying to move.

His arm is around her, gently. Protective. As if every part of him, even the bruised, broken ones, knows exactly how to hold her without waking her up. Without letting her go.

You want to be mad. You really do. You should be mad.

That’s his bad leg. That’s the reason you’re heating soup instead of chasing him down Gotham’s rooftops. He shouldn’t be her mattress right now.

But.

God. Look at them.

You stand there for a second longer, blanket in your hands, chest soft with the kind of ache that has no name. The kind that just is. The kind that builds quietly and lives somewhere behind your ribs, deep and warm and rooted.

Roy looks up when he hears you. His face is quiet. Easy. That tired, half-lidded look he gets when the adrenaline finally fades and the pain’s dulled into something slow and bearable.

But his voice is soft when he speaks. Almost shy.

“She wouldn’t stop asking when you’d be home.”

He glances down at the little person passed out on his hip, his fingers brushing her hair back with instinctive tenderness.

“Guess you’re her favourite too.”

You walk over and kneel beside them, laying the blanket across her shoulders, careful not to shift her too much. Your hand grazes his in the process, warm skin to warm skin.

You don’t say anything for a moment.

You just look at him.

At them.

And then you whisper, like a secret just between the three of you:

“She has good taste.”

The house is quiet now.

That specific kind of quiet that only comes when a child is truly asleep - room dark, limbs flung wide across a stuffed animal kingdom, the faint sound of slow, even breathing through a cracked door.

You linger in the hallway for a moment, just listening. Letting the silence wrap around you. Your hands are still scented faintly with baby shampoo and warm milk.

Then you turn, barefoot and soft-footed, and make your way back to the living room.

Roy’s where you left him - half-sprawled on the couch, one arm draped over the back cushion, his eyes fluttering open at your return like it took too much energy to keep them closed.

He smiles, sleep-drunk and lopsided.

“Hey,” he says, voice scratchy. “Missed you.”

You arch a brow and lower yourself beside him. “You’ve been unconscious for five minutes.”

“Still counts.”

You don’t argue. Instead, you pat your thigh and murmur, “C’mere.”

Roy obliges with a quiet groan, maneuvering himself slowly, gingerly, until his head is in your lap. He exhales like your lap is his home base, and maybe it is. His hair spills across your thighs - messy and somehow still slightly damp, curling at the ends where it brushes your skin.

You run your fingers through it with absent care, and his eyes flutter shut again.

“God, that’s not fair,” he murmurs, voice all gravel and ache. “You do that and I start thinking you might actually like me.”

You hum softly, checking the gauze at his side. Still clean. Still holding. But your hand lingers anyway. Just to feel the warmth of him. The solid weight of someone here.

“You always say the dumbest things when you’re tired,” you murmur.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then-

“I don’t deserve you.”

The words are barely audible, more breath than voice, and they land between you like a confession meant for the dark. Like they’d slipped past his lips before he had the chance to swallow them down.

You still hear them. 

Your fingers pause in his hair, tangled in strands longer now than they used to be, brushing just past his shoulders. You wonder absently, almost tenderly, if he’ll finally let you cut it now that he’s stuck sitting still. He always used to grumble through it, but he’d let you anyway, let your fingers shape the wild mess into something vaguely manageable - like he liked the excuse to feel your hands on him, even then.

He keeps talking. Quietly. Eyes still closed.

“I’ve done some real shitty things,” he says, and the weight of the words presses against your chest like a bruise. “You know that. Stuff I don’t even talk about. Stuff I don’t want Lian to ever know. And I keep thinking - any second now - you’ll remember you could be with someone easier. Someone... I dunno. Less patched together.”

There’s no venom in it. No self-pity. Just the raw, vulnerable scrape of a man who’s spent too long believing he’s only the sum of his mistakes.

You slide your hand down, from his hair to the sharp line of his cheekbone, fingers warm against the roughness of stubble. You turn his face gently, coaxing his gaze toward you. You want him to see your face when you say this. You want him to know.

There’s no pity in your expression. No wide-eyed, naïve affection. Just steady knowing. The kind that comes from time. From history. From nights spent curled up together with too many wounds between you and still choosing not to let go

“Roy,” you say, voice low, steady, “I didn’t fall in love with you because you’re perfect.”

His eyes flicker, searching your face like he’s bracing himself.

“I fell in love with you because you keep trying. Because you love so damn hard it spills into everything you do. Because you made grilled cheese with a bruised rib and one good arm just to make our daughter smile.”

He blinks. Swallows. You can see it - the way his throat works around the swell of emotion he’ll pretend isn’t there later.

“And,” you continue, brushing a curl back from his forehead, “you’re not alone anymore. You don’t have to keep proving you’re worth staying for. I already stayed.”

He exhales hard, like the wind’s been knocked out of him, but gently this time. From inside. From somewhere deep.

You know what it costs him. To be this still. This open. This seen.

“God, you’re gonna make me cry,” he mutters, the corners of his mouth tipping up, even as his eyes shine. “That’s a dirty move.”

You smirk. “You like my dirty moves.”

“I do,” he says, that crooked Harper grin coming in hot, even through the haze of fatigue. “Speaking of - since you’re already fussing over me, I’d like to file a formal request for a sponge bath. Very official. I can email the paperwork.”

You arch a brow, lips twitching. “I think you’re forgetting what happened the last time you pulled a stitch.”

“That was not my fault,” he says quickly, eyes wide with theatrical innocence. “You were - very distracting. I can’t be blamed for biology.”

You lean in, letting your fingers drift down to rest over the bandage on his ribs, gentle but unmistakably firm. Your voice drops to a hush, the kind that curls heat low in his belly.

“When you’re healed,” you murmur, letting your breath tickle the shell of his ear, “and only when you’re healed - I will personally ruin you.”

He makes a noise - something between a groan and a whimper - and tips his head back with a grin that could outshine the city skyline.

“God, marry me.”

You laugh, warm and fond and thoroughly unfooled.

“Bandage first. Proposal second.”

“Fine,” he sighs dramatically, but you can feel the happiness radiating off him, even in his half-broken body. “But just so you know - I’m proposing the second I can walk without limping.”

You smile, soft and fierce and entirely his. You’ve seen this man at his worst, held him through withdrawals, patched up bullet wounds, cried in his arms when you didn’t know how to help, and kissed him breathless when you did. You’ve built something out of those nights. Something stronger than either of you thought you deserved.

So when you press your forehead to his and whisper-

“Looking forward to it.”

-you mean every word.

[wingfiled]

barista (t.d.)

Pairing: Tim Drake x Reader

Word Count: 6.2k

Summary: You have a big, fat crush on your regular—Gotham’s very own friendly neighborhood coffee addict, Tim Drake.

A/N: Please compliment me about the banner I worked very hard on it <3 Also Happy New Year!!!

Getting a job in food service was honestly the last thing you wanted to do. You had heard enough horror stories from your friends who had taken many summer jobs unlike you. They often complained of insufferable superiors, bad working hours, and even worse pay and even though their stories of annoying Karens were extremely entertaining, you didn't think you'd be any good at handling them yourself. Unless your boss was okay with you cussing them out.

So, when your parents brought up you getting a job, you had vehemently refused. It's not like you particularly needed the money, however, they made a good point about needing to gain experience and how you were practically a rotting pile of flesh since you had begun summer break.

You couldn't argue with their points, even you knew that you needed to get back into a routine and get some fresh air. However, a job as a barista was the last thing you wanted to do.

But when your parents mentioned that you'd be working at your aunt's cafe, you were quick to change your tune. You always had a blast with her, and she'd definitely pay you well, lest she face the rath of her older sister, your mother. Plus, she often claimed that you were her favourite niece, despite not having any other but you supposed it was the thought that counted. Plus, you'd make extra money that you could use for pretty much anything.

So, now adorned in an apron, you stood behind the counter and took orders. Your aunt oversaw the pastry making and baking while you were in charge of the register and making drinks.

The thing you liked the most about your aunt's cafe was that it was a rare find for many customers. The cafe was the perfect space for people to sit in the quiet and get some work done. There was rarely ever any rush unless a big party came, however even then you were never really spread thin. You suppose you should feel bad that your aunt wasn't getting much business but she more than made up for the lack of customers with her overpriced coffee and cakes. But you would never tell her that. Besides, she made most of her profits from custom cake orders.

That's not to say that you didn't get any customers, you had very many loyal regulars that were always polite and would always strike up a conversation with you. Most of them were residents from the high-rise building above the shop so they were usually pretty wealthy and thus knew how to tip well.

And of course, the most loyal customer of them all, Gotham’s very own coffee addict; Tim Drake.

You take back your previous statement; he was definitely the thing you liked the most about the cafe.

You would have been down bad if he had just been just good looking; with blue eyes that were unusually bright and clear, like as though God cut the fabric of the afternoon sky and the clear blue ocean and made his irises with them. His pale skin and dark hair definitely made them seem even brighter.

He was so good looking that your customer-service-smile had frozen onto your face when he first entered the cafe, barely hearing his order over the thumping of your heartbeat and your brains incessant chatter trying to tell you to pay attention to what he was saying. Eventually, you had to apologize and ask him to repeat his order in your stupor, giving the excuse that you were new even though you had been there for more than 2 weeks.

He just smiled politely and told you not to worry before fishing his wallet and paying for his drink, tipping 50%. He wasn't just gorgeous but also well-mannered and sweet. You were down so catastrophically, cataclysmically bad.

The next time he came in, you learnt his name by pretending you needed to write it down on the cup and he casually commented how you didn't really do that last time. You said it was because he had been the only one in the store last time even though there was only one additional customer there. And you all were aware that you didn't bother to ask for the other customer’s name.

Tim continued to come almost every morning for the next couple of weeks and once you learnt how to actually comprehend the words coming out of his mouth instead of just listening to angelic singing every time he looked at you, you realized he was actually very interesting.

He'd always strike up a conversation with you and sometimes you'd take your lunch break and sit with him at the table while you talked. He was hilarious and intelligent and creative and the more you talked with him the more your plain attraction turned into affection before you knew it.

"I see you like Red Robin." Tim commented casually, noticing the insignia pin that you had on your apron. You glanced at the enamel pin that you had bought from a bodega on an impulse out of instinct before nodding, "Yeah, he's my favourite amongst the bats."

"Oh really? How come? Most people really prefer Nightwing, like me."

You shrugged, "I dunno, I just feel like he doesn't get enough appreciation as compared to the others. Plus, he makes the papers the least often."

"So, what? You felt bad that no one pays attention to him?"

You shook your head, clutching the screen as you typed in his order that you had already memorized. A brown sugar shaken espresso that you had convinced him to try just once, and he had immediately been hooked onto. You obviously added a couple extra shots of espresso for his caffeine addicted self.

"On the contrary, the fact that he's not seen in the paper probably means that he's getting the job done quietly and efficiently. Or maybe not. But that's just my guess. He's not bad looking either."

Tim chuckled, passing you his card, "Don't let him hear you say that; he might just swoon at the compliment."

"Well, I haven't actually seen his face, so I can't say with full certainty."

Tim lingered by the counter while you made his coffee, speaking loudly due to the absence of customers at this time. You had once mentioned that this was your least busy time; you wondered if he visited during that time, so he'd get to talk to you for longer.

You shook your head, reminding yourself not to get a big head as you pulled a double shot of espresso, quickly adding it to the shaking glass with brown sugar.

"I bet I’m better looking."

You really hadn't meant to laugh as hard as you had; you just pictured Tim Drake, with his posh posture and Gotham elite personality, sniffing at Red Robin as he tried to critique and compare looks. You were fairly sure that Red Robin was a head taller than him as well. The more you thought about it, the harder you laughed.

When you finally managed to wipe the tears from your eyes, Tim was still standing at the counter with a star-struck expression, pink beginning to paint his porcelain skin in beautiful blooms. You bit your lip, smiling in apology. He must have been quite embarrassed at your boisterous laughter.

"S-Sorry, you caught me off-guard." You explained, still giving him a sheepish smile as you grabbed a napkin and straw for him. The red had made its way up to his ears and down his neck before disappearing underneath the hoodie he was wearing.

Great, you had a crush on the guy and just laughed at the thought of him being better looking compared to a guy you had never even seen before.

"It's fine, it was meant to be a joke, so I suppose I’m flattered."

"No, I was being mean, you're definitely better looking." You teased, "If I ever meet Red Robin, I’ll definitely let him know that."

"I’ll hold it to you." He joked, grabbing his drink.

Having a crush was way more physically taxing than you had remembered it being. Every time Tim was around you, your heart slammed so sharply against your ribcage you would get breathless, and your stomach would twist into so many knots you'd find your abdomen getting sore.

You'd grow visibly excited when it was around the time for him to enter the store, making sure everyone else's orders were fulfilled so that you could give him as much of your undivided attention.

After being hopelessly infatuated and pining for him for a while, you had thought that you had gotten used to the incessant butterflies flapping their fingers against the walls of your stomach. However, Tim continued to prove you wrong.

You had just finished wiping down the steam wand of the espresso machine, when the bell above the store door had jingled, telling you that you had a customer.

When your eyes landed on the man standing behind the register, you couldn't help but freeze, stomach squeezing so tightly you could feel your heart crawl up to your throat, stopping you from welcoming him inside.

Tim Drake was wearing a suit.

His hair was styled for the first time you had ever seen him; dark tresses neatly gelled away from his face aside for a couple strands that tickled his nose.

You clenched the cloth in your hands so tightly you could feel the rough fabric beginning to slightly burn your skin. A part of you wanted to collapse into a puddle on the floor, already knowing how weak your knees had gotten at the site of him adjusting his watch. Oh, you wanted to dissolve into a pile of warm syrup, and you bit your lips to hide a dopey, lovesick grin.

Another, more repressed part, wanted to grab his tie in a single fist and yank the handsome man toward you, climbing over the counter and kissing him all over until his white shirt was stained with your lip gloss, his immaculate hair was messed up by your fingers and his cologne had rubbed off on your skin instead. You forced that part of yourself into the corner because she seriously needed a time-out.

"Um, hey?"

This was the first time he had spoken, clearly noticing how you just stood awkward frozen in time. Oh god, his voice was so much more attractive than you remembered. This wasn't fair.

"H-Hi, where are you going off to so prim and proper?" You asked, pulling yourself together by pinching your thigh so painfully that you could feel a bruise beginning to form.

"Oh, I just have a meeting at work. I do most of the work from home, but I’m needed in the office today." He explained, handing you his card like clockwork and you nodded, stepping away so you could start making his drink.

"Wow, how adult." You mused, shaking the tumbler quickly before pouring it into his cup and handing it to him.

"You look good, by the way," His warm fingertips grazed against your own when you handed him the tissue and straw. You watched as a bashful smile grew on his face at your compliment, making your heart flutter like a feather floating through the wind, "Much better than Red Robin."

He rolled his eyes, small smile turning into a full-blown grin.

***

This was the first time since you had met Tim that he hadn't come to the bakery alone and thus it would be the first time in a very long time that you actually had to take the order instead of automatically input his drink order.

Unfortunately, it would also be the last time you would be taking his order. You were supposed to work at the coffee shop for the rest of the month, however you had gotten an opportunity from your professor to be a part of his research team for the next semester and he required you to begin early. Which meant that you would no longer have the time to work for your aunt.

You had yet to tell Tim, upset at the thought of not being able to see him every morning from now onwards.

You had thought long and hard about it last night after you had confirmed your participation on the research team; you didn't want it to be the last time that you spoke to Tim tomorrow, you wanted him in your life.

So, you came to the conclusion that you would finally confess to him. You didn't want to continue the pining and end up in the purgatory that is the friendzone so you figured it would be the least risky to admit your feelings to him on your last day there. If he said no, you'd no longer have to run into him again every morning. If anything, he might be relieved that his regular coffee runs wouldn't be awkward from now on.

However, there was one new detail that was going to make your plan more embarrassing—

"This is my older brother, Dick." Tim introduced and you nodded, recalling when he talked about his extremely big family. Also, there was no one in city who wasn't aware of the Gotham prince, Dick Grayson, the oldest son of billionaire Bruce Wayne. Your eyes flittered between the both of them; despite being adopted, they shared a striking resemblance to each other.

You gave him a kind smile, "It's nice to finally meet you, Tim talks about you a lot."

"Good things, I hope." He responded, ever the ray of sunshine and you found yourself turning toward him like a lone sunflower. You realized he had that effect on people, the other customers also were privy to his presence. It was almost like he had a halo shining on the top of his head. The term 'Prince of Gotham' was certainly well-earned.

"Those are state secrets." You joked, playfully winking at him and he gave you a good-natured grin.

"So, what will you be having today?"

Tim ordered his regular and Dick got a matcha along with a vegan cheese tart for 'Dami' who you assumed was Tim's youngest brother Damian.

Tim held his card out for you to pay for their drinks and you inhaled sharply, digging your heel into your other foot to strengthen your resolve.

It was now or never, (Y/N).

You shook your head, trying your best to remain nonchalant even though your stomach was taking a rollercoaster ride, and you pins began to prick at your toes from how hard you were stepping on it with your other foot.

"it's on the house."

Tim tried to protest but you shut him down, not even making any moves to try and take his card from him, only handing him his receipt with the order number on it.

"Don't let your boss find out you're handing out freebies to everyone." He teased, sliding his card back into his wallet and you dug your nails into your palm, trying not to chicken out in the last second.

"Actually, the freebies are only for the cute customers that the barista has a crush on." You replied smoothly, grabbing the filter for the espresso machine and not looking back at Tim, afraid of his reaction.

Oh god, was your voice shaking? You tried your best to remain collected on the outside even though on the inside your heart was erupting like a volcano, magma flowing through your veins and setting your entire body ablaze.

You spared a small glance at his older brother, embarrassed that he was here to witness this. A sizzling heat began to run up your neck and to your cheeks, fingers stiff as you tamped the coffee.

A chuckle brought you out of your stupor and your stomach sank. It wasn't the usual laugh that Tim had, instead a mirthless sound that made you look back up at him, only to find him staring at the receipt you had given him, now crumpled him in a tight fist.

"Glad I’m the exception then," He said through gritted teeth, "I’m gonna go."

He left without making so much as another glance at you and your cheeks coloured in humiliation when you had realized his brother had seen that whole interaction with an equal expression of shock and pity that made you quickly bite down on an ice cube to prevent any tears from lining your lashes.

You quickly made the drinks, reminding yourself that it was okay since you were never gonna see him again, keeping your customer service smile on until his brother had left the store and then some before you finally let it fall.

***

"Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?" Dick asked, placing Tim's coffee order on the console of the bat computer, already finished his matcha. The coffee had long been watered down; the ice had melted in the Gotham heat on his walk back home since Tim had just left him there at the coffee shop.

The younger brother ignored him, staring at the screen with a glare that began to get increasingly annoyed. When it became clear to him that Dick wasn't going to move from his side until he got an answer, Tim finally sighed "I’m sorry for ditching you at the coffee shop."

"Apology accepted but that's not what I meant. Why were you so mean to that poor girl? I mean if you didn't like her, you could've at least turned her down gently."

Tim scoffed, incredibly peeved, "Are you stupid? She was clearly asking you out! I've been going there for like 2 months now and she's never been so blushy and nervous before you walked in there with your stupid tall height and stupid big grin and stupid good looks!"

Dick's jaw dropped open; blue eyes wide with shock. Wasn't Timothy meant to be like the smartest and most logical one amongst them? As far as he knew he was also acknowledged by R’as Al Ghul himself as a remarkable detective. Hell, he had discovered the dark knight's secret identity when he was nine.

And yet—

"Are you fucking stupid? She wasn't asking me out! That cute little flirty compliment was clearly directed at you!"

Tim still looked upset, though Dick could clearly see that he was beginning to doubt his conclusions. Thank goodness, he didn't inherit Bruce’s or his brother's stubbornness.

"So, you like her but thought she was hitting on me, so you got all emo?" Dick deftly deduced, watching as an embarrassed rash spread across his pale skin, "Dude, you really hurt her feelings. I think she was about to cry when you walked out like that."

You had really tried to look like Tim's exit hadn't affected you and to an untrained eye it probably would've looked like that, but Dick noticed how you were chewing down on your bottom lip til it bled just to prevent from crying.

Tim's eyes now raised to him, now completely uncertain with a touch of guilt and Dick sighed.

He wasn't the son of the greatest detective for nothing, but it wouldn't take years of training to know what a lovesick boy looked like. He had found out that Tim had been visiting this particular coffee shop every day at the same time when he flat out refused to have Alfred’s French press in favour of driving across town to the penthouse, he'd sometimes sleep in just to get coffee.

Tim would never refuse Alfred’s French press unless he was unconscious. Or dead.

Which lead Dick to do some sleuthing.

Didn't take any effort to check his credit card statement and find out that he had been visiting this particular store every single day. Which is really the reason that Dick tagged along that day, to meet the girl who had so clearly captured his little brother's attention.

He was honestly giddy when he realized that you were shooting your shot right in front of him. Oh, he could see the wedding happening before his eyes already, where he would very obviously make his groomsman speech, telling the crowd how he had been there the day you finally became a couple.

But Tim merely crushed up the paper receipt in his hand before storming out and he was left alone in the coffee shop, having to watch as Tim's future wife kept her gaze anchored to the floor while she tried to make the coffee that she had just given them for free. He left a fifty in the tip jar right then.

This would not be the last time that his brother would do something stupid throughout the duration of your relationship. He supposed you might have dodged a bullet due to the misunderstanding but Dick was biased toward his brother and so he felt obligated to try and get you both together.

"Are you sure?"

Dick pinched the bridge of his nose, "Tim, she didn't even speak to me after you left because she was so upset that the guy she had a crush on brutally turned her down."

His eyes narrowed still, "Are you sure?"

This time Dick had had it. He grabbed Tim's ear, unaffected by his shouts of pain and curses at him as he dragged him toward the elevator, "Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, you go back to that coffee shop, apologize for being a jackass and ask her out. And you better take her to a fancy ass restaurant on your first date to make up for this mess."

"Okay! Okay!" Tim conceded, finally ripping his brother's hand from his ear and he crossed his arms, "You know, this wouldn't have even happened if you hadn't been a nosy ass and followed me to the coffee shop."

"This wouldn't have happened if you weren't an idiot either."

***

Tim had been silent during the patrol and while he wasn't the most talkative, it was unlike him to be this quiet. They were already an hour into the patrol and batman had yet to hear this voice of his son over the comms, but he didn't ask about it. He'd inquire about his son's personal life after patrol when he was back to being his parent and not his partner.

Something was definitely off however, since even Nightwing was more on the quiet side of the spectrum that night, which was extremely out of the ordinary.

It all had to do with what happened right before patrol--

Tim really hoped that Jason wouldn't kill him for stealing one of his motorcycles that he left at the manor but honestly it was the fastest way for him to get to the coffee shop without getting stuck in Gotham traffic. And really if Jason didn't want anyone to be using his motorcycle, he really shouldn't have left it in the garage with the keys there for anybody to take. Hadn't he learnt his lesson after Damian had tried to take one of Bruce’s cars?

Even though there were still a couple of hours for closing time, when Tim entered the store, you were nowhere to be found. Hearing the bell, your aunt had answered from the kitchen instead, telling him that she'd be right there in a moment.

When she finally emerged, wiping her hands on her apron, she stopped, recognizing Tim as a regular but he could tell that she didn't really know anything about him or even his name, "What can I get you?"

He angled his neck, trying to see if someone was in the kitchen but when he couldn't spot anything he turned back to your aunt who waited patiently, "Um, is (Y/N) not here?"

"Ah," She shook her head, "Since it was her last day working here, I let her go early."

Oh, Tim really should've had his coffee today because the caffeine withdrawal was starting to make him hear things. He could've sworn he just heard your aunt say that it was your last day working at the coffee shop.

"Last day? What do you mean?"

Tim returned to the Batcave just in time for patrol, shoulders hunched over and a pitiful frown on his face that had answered Nightwing’s question before he could even ask how it went. He didn't say anything else, just walking over to the change rooms without so much as a glance to his father or younger brother.

Understandably, your aunt refused to give your phone number to Tim considering she had no idea of your relationship with him. If there was any relationship anymore. You clearly had every intention to not be in his life anymore if he had turned you down, explaining why you decided to confess on your last day.

He had asked your aunt to pass his number to you but there was no telling whether she actually would or if you would call him even if she did.

And in retrospect it would be fairly easy for him to find your number or address or which university you went to, but how was he meant to explain how he coincidentally managed to run into you before explaining the misunderstanding and confessing his feelings?

His mind was wracked with questions, and he continued to beat himself up for thinking that you had been flirting with Dick in the first place. If he hadn't been such an idiot, he could've avoided this whole mess and could've avoided upsetting you.

Now even if he managed to find you, there was always a possibility that his reaction managed to turn you off and change your mind.

"Woah Timmy isn't that the girl you like?"

Dick's voice cut across the unusual silence for that night, ringing in his ears so suddenly that for a second, he didn't even register what he had said.

However, when he did, it was almost comical the way his head lurched up like a meercat, spotting Nightwing’s figure a couple of buildings away and immediately grappling toward him, nearly throwing himself off the side of the terrace trying to spot you.

You stepped out of Gotham university, hands clutching a binder to your chest. Tim wasn't sure what had his heart beating faster—the sight of your frost-bitten nose, tinged red from the cold—or that you weren't alone.

You were laughing with a man who, much to Tim’s dismay, was undeniably good-looking and wearing a lab coat, which meant he was clearly smart and shared your interests and oh you both were going to get married, and he was going to be alone and coffeeless for the rest of his life.

"What are they saying?!" Tim leant over the edge of the roof like a right fool.

"This is beginning to get creepy, baby bird." Dick commented from behind him, but all Tim could tell him was to shut up because he couldn't hear just what had you giggling so animatedly.

"it's great that undergrads get a chance to be on a research team; I know it might not seem like much but it's gonna look great on your resume, (Y/N)."

You narrowed your eyes teasingly, "You're just saying that because you're relieved someone is gonna be doing the literature review and wash your empty beakers."

The junior assistant, a postgrad student was in charge of showing you around the lab and giving you a list of your responsibilities. Since it was short notice, you were going to have to learn the ropes quite quickly so as to look competent to the other professors.

He laughed, patting your shoulder and you could've sworn you heard a sound similar to a bird shrieking from above you, "You caught me there. But you'll get your name on your first research paper so that's there."

"I am but a modern-day Cinderella." You grinned, walking with him til he reached his car. He sat in the driver's seat, not yet closing the door when he called out for you just as you were beginning to walk away, "Are you sure you don't want a ride home?"

You smiled but shook your head, "No, thank you, maybe next time."

You watched him pull out of the parking space before driving away, wondering whether you should wait for the bus or just take a cab back home. The next bus wasn't for another 25 minutes, and you didn't want to wait around in the dark, however, a cab would be four times the amount you'd spend using the bus.

You suppose you could've called your father and asked him to pick you up from the university, but he had just gotten home from work, and you would hate to ask him to have to come and get you.

You sighed and muttered underneath your breath, "I should've just asked him to take me home." before beginning your trudge home. A part of you was scolding yourself for taking possibly the most dangerous route home but the other part reminded yourself that it was unlikely for anything to happen.

Besides, you had seen Nightwing patrol the area earlier that night and it was way too early for the bats to turn in for the night. With any luck, he was still roaming around here.

***

Looking back, taking a shortcut through an alleyway wasn't the smartest plan you had ever made. However, you were lucky enough because it seemed like the bats had been watching over you for the night; you didn't even have the chance to get mugged before Red Robin has scared off your potential attackers. You hadn't even noticed them creeping up behind you.

You simply stared at him, starstruck. It was the first time you had ever come into contact with the Gotham cryptids and you had least expected an encounter with the most elusive of them, Red Robin.

You had known he had black hair but through a screen it had really looked more like oily snakes that had further cemented your belief that they were demons.

But up close, his hair was soft and silky, he smelt of sweat and grime but with a slight tinge of cologne hidden underneath. You continued to stare at him, feeling like you could tattoo the sight of him onto your retinas.

"Um," You began, not sure how to even begin the conversation. Should you thank him for saving your life? Or apologize for being an inconvenience. Instead, you found yourself following his gaze to the lapel of your lab coat, only to find him staring at the Red Robin insignia pinned there. It was then you had been reminded of the same interaction with Tim Drake.

"Just so you know, you're way better looking than Tim Drake."

You were in slight awe of Red Robin and also still heartbroken over Tim Drake's scorn earlier that day, so you felt the need to settle the score with him even though it would clearly never make its way back to him.

Afterall what were the chances that the vigilante Red Robin knew the trust fund baby Tim Drake? They didn't exactly run in the same circles.

The masked man just stared at you in surprise, quite frozen after your declaration and honestly you couldn't blame him. He had just saved your life and instead of thanking him you began complimenting his good looks while at the same time insulting a completely random man, when really you had no business doing because you didn't really know what he looked like.

Though the more you stared at his face, finding your eyes drawing lines down the same jawline, cupid's bow, and nose bridge, you couldn't help but find similarities between the man you had just compared him to—

You physically shook the thought out of your head.

"Okay, then," You finished, finally turning around to walk away from him, having had enough of standing awkwardly in the middle of the alley, "Thank you agai—!"

"(Y/N), wait!" His gloved fingers clasped around your wrist, and you cut yourself off abruptly, staring up at him in surprise. It seemed his response had surprised him as well, considering the way he continued to stare at you. You couldn't really see his wide-eyed gaze due to the domino, but you could tell from the slight gap of his mouth and the raised brow.

Your lashes fluttered as you lowered your eyes to the hand still around your own, his voice echoing through your head. He had a modulator but this close to him it felt like you could hear the voice underneath it. His voice was crisper, cleaner and lighter underneath the automated depth, you could hear it just slightly through the syllables of your name.

You looked back at the whites of his mask, "How did you know my name?"

You weren't accusing him of anything, at least he didn't think so, not from your voice. You sounded genuinely curious and your eyes ping-ponged over his features, trying to find something. Then he noticed the ways they slightly narrowed before you whispered, "Tim?"

His jaw went slack, eyes going so comically wide now that you had just known you knocked the hammer right on the head. He took a step back, finally releasing your hand and you cupped your gaping mouth, in shock yourself.

"Wait seriously?! I was just guessing! Why on earth would you make it so obvious!" You chastised.

"I’m sorry, ok?! I didn't have any coffee today and so my brain isn't braining today!"

You crossed your arms over your chest, "And who's fault is that? You're the one who stormed out of the cafe after rejecting me—after I literally gave your drinks for free!"

Red Robin—Tim winced, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze fluttered guiltily away from yours, "That was...not my best moment."

"Not your best moment? You acted like I spat on your whole family and condemned you to death!" Okay perhaps you were being a tad bit dramatic, but it had been an extremely long day, and you kept being presented with new information which was a lot to take.

You were just a girl, for god's sake!

"Ok, in my defense, I thought you were confessing to my brother—not me! So, if anything, I was upset that you might like my family a little too much!" He retaliated and you gaped at him, incredulous.

"You are just—wow, unbelievable." You finally breathed. Truthfully, you didn't know what to even do now, something told you that you weren't going to be able to walk home completely unharmed. Since you knew his identity, the worst that could happen was that one of his bat friends was hanging over you to put you out of your misery. Best case scenario, you'd sign an NDA and be on your merry way home.

"I’m sorry, (Y/N). This is all my fault, I was being an idiot earlier and I got insecure cuz I thought you were asking out my brother which stung cuz I’ve been crushing on you for like months now." He finally admitted, holding his gaze low.

If you hadn’t been deafened by the sound of your heart pounding wildly in your chest at his confession, you would’ve given him a hard time about how nervous he seemed—just as you had been before he so brutally turned you down.

"You like me?" Your question, simple as it was, still managed to make Tim's heartrate escalate.

"Yes—I mean, of course—How could I not?"

You blushed, a gleeful response already on the tip of your tongue. Well, you would have, if you hadn’t suddenly been shrouded in a bat-shaped shadow that had you instinctively pressing yourself closer to Tim.

"Oh, I’m so dead." Tim muttered under his breath the second he had caught the figure of his father standing atop a building, having heard everything over the comms.

Your eyes widened and you stepped closer to him, a hand tightening around the utility belt strapped to his chest. You had remembered the rumours of what had happened to the second robin.

Tim's attention was snapped back to you the second he heard your sharp intake of breath, "N-Not literally, really (Y/N). I’m probably just gonna get grounded."

That got you to loosen your grip with a relieved sigh, relaxing and letting go.

"Grounded? As in Red Robin is grounded. Or Tim Drake?"

"Probably Tim Drake, Red Robin is still needed in the field. Maybe both." He admitted with a wince, and you have him a gentle pat on the chest that was meant to be a kind of 'there, there'. He gave you a small smile, gloved fingers holding the hand to his chest.

"I suppose our first date will have to wait, huh?"

Tim would be lying if a part of him hadn't kind of expected you to rethink everything. I mean, he had been so mean to you when turning you down after jumping to wild conclusions at no fault of your own. Then there was also his secret that he had been stupid enough to reveal to you.

You didn't deserve this; you deserved much better.

Still these thoughts were extremely fleeting, easily overthrown by his feeling of giddiness and outright joy, a blinding grin taking over his face.

"I guess so. I'll make it up to you, though—Dinner's on me."

You scoffed, "It better be, I’m standing in an alley 15 minutes past curfew with the identity of one of the illusive bats all because you thought I had a thing for your brother."

If his cheeks weren't already bitten from the cold, you would have watched as they went aflame, "I was young and stupid."

"It was this morning!"

"I was eight hours younger."

***

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[wingfiled]

Superman & Batman scene redraw