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The Demon Spawn Surveillance Strategy (The DSSS)

Chapter 10: The One in Which The Panic Is Incoming AKA DAY THREE (part one)

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A.N: sorry for the late update guyss!! I had burnt both my legs so I couldn't really sit comfortably but it's healing well so now I'm a bit better and I found a way to writee!!!

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previous chapter -

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DAY THREE: AGENT: A-03 CALLSIGN: Red Robin OBJECTIVE: Surveillance System Refresh, Threat Flagging, Pattern Tracking TIMESTAMP: 07:00 HOURS LOCATION: Tim’s Personal Quarters at Wayne Manor (Command Post Alpha)

The hum of tech filled the dim space like white noise. Cables draped over bedposts. Monitors flickered. A stack of half-labeled evidence bags lay beside a half-eaten protein bar.

Agent A-03 — known to the rest of the family as Tim Drake, known to caffeine as its most loyal patron — hadn’t slept. Again. But this was Day Three of the Operation, and sleep was now a luxury reserved for the weak, the uninformed, or the uncurious.

His chair creaked as he leaned forward, hoodie sleeves shoved up to the elbows, knuckles pressed into his eyes until stars burst behind them. He exhaled through his nose, a slow, focused kind of tired. The obsessive kind.

Fingers danced across the keyboard, launching the surveillance diagnostic suite with muscle memory alone.

The 7:00 AM Refresh was sacred. Daily drone diagnostics, camera recalibrations, school schedule syncing.

Damian’s route to Gotham Academy was already pre-plotted with two satellites, one wall-mounted camera, and a fourth lens hidden in the casing of a nearby traffic light.

Three drones offline. Two were rerouting. One had been dive-bombed by a pigeon yesterday. Tim hadn’t forgiven the pigeon. Especially since he had pigeon-shaped drones. He made a mental note to deploy one later — Counter-Pigeon Strike Team Alpha. Vengeance would be swift and avian. He did not forget to tag that pigeon so his AI would follow it through street cam feed. Tim Drake was a petty specimen. And that pigeon messed with the wrong Robin.

Anyways.

The hum of the monitors was a comfort. Familiar. Predictable. Unlike Damian Wayne.

Tim sipped from his mug — black, scalding, three espresso shots deep — and clicked through last night’s drone footage like it was gospel. Motion tracking. Street cams. Blurred heat signatures tagged and boxed.

"Alright... show me the old man," he muttered, typing:

FELIX THOMPSON

into his notes.

Tim didn’t flinch as his retinal scanner lit up for admin-level access. The HUD blinked once—green. The system opened like a shrine.

“Initiate Subject Sweep: Category – Peripheral but Suspicious.” He tapped the Enter key with surgical finality.

A grid of thumbnails popped onto Screen Two.

Subject: Felix Thompson Age: 72 (allegedly) Occupation: Butler / Professional Chauffeur Employer: Private family trust: L/N family Alias: “The Butler 2.0,” “Alfred’s Outside Aid,” “Alfred’s BFF?”

Tim highlighted the file and opened the full log.

There it was again. Exhibit G. The nod. The synchronized eye contact. The eerie, unspoken understanding.

He clenched his jaw.

“You think I forgot about you, Felix?” he whispered to the screen. “Think again.”

Yesterday, guilt had tried to climb into his spine in Alfred’s voice. Today? That voice was silenced. Today was for war.

He zoomed in on a still frame of Felix opening his car’s passenger seat door. 2.4 seconds after the nod with Alfred. Perfectly timed. Deliberate. Calculated.

He annotated the footage:

"This is not service. This is strategy."

Tim pulled a fresh evidence bag from the scattered pile beside him, slipped a printout of the still image inside, and wrote in Sharpie:

EXHIBIT G – NOTATION: The Gatekeeper Sequence Tag: Routine My A$$ Note to Self: This is why we don’t trust charm, butlers, or punctuality.

Tim leaned back, eyes narrowing as the grainy footage replayed once more. The butler’s movements weren’t just polished—they were deliberate, calculated, a performance choreographed to perfection. Felix Thompson wasn’t merely serving Y/N; he was orchestrating her world with an invisible hand.

He dragged Felix’s file into the “Persons of Interest” folder and slapped a bright red flag icon over it.

STATUS: PERSON OF INTEREST – FELIX THOMPSON Reason: Excessive proximity to Subject Y/N, coordinated movements with Alfred Pennyworth, anomalous timing of interactions, possible intelligence conduit.

Tim’s fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, then began typing rapidly, setting parameters for a new surveillance operation:

Objective: Full shadow and pattern analysis on Felix Thompson Methods: Deploy additional drones focused exclusively on Felix’s route to/from L/N estate; Activate covert street cams in vicinity of all known Felix appearances; Establish signal interception protocols on authorized devices; Cross-check known schedules of Y/N with Felix’s logged whereabouts. Priority: High Additional Notes: Confirm Felix’s communications with Alfred Pennyworth’s network. Identify any exchanges of physical or digital intel.

He added a command to his AI:

Deploy Drone Birdwatcher-4 on Felix Thompson. Use infrared and facial recognition to maintain continuous lock. Sync movement data with Subject Y/N’s daily schedule. Log any irregular interactions or unknown contacts. Flag anomalies immediately.

Birdwatcher was just a normal flying, silent drone that was programmed to lock on specific subjects.

Tim leaned forward, sipping his now lukewarm espresso, the caffeine fighting off the growing knot of paranoia.

“You’re on thin ice, Felix. One slip, one moment out of pattern, and you’re under a microscope.”

He initiated a live feed linking Felix’s GPS signal, overlaid with Y/N’s planned calendar events for the day. The AI began stitching together probable trajectories and potential rendezvous points.

Tim’s gaze was sharp, his mind a whirlwind of calculations and contingencies.

“Operation ‘Butler Watch’ is officially underway.”

He placed a final sticky note on his desk near the evidence bags:

“Felix Thompson — Officially suspicious. Eyes wide open.”

The clock blinked 7:12 AM.

Tim sat back, hands poised, ready for whatever came next. ⸻

DAY THREE AGENT: A-01 CALLSIGN: Nightwing OBJECTIVE: Establish rapport with Graphite Dreams clerk; gather updated intel on Subject Y/N’s habits and preferences TIMESTAMP: 08:30 HOURS LOCATION: Graphite Dreams Art Supply Store, Gotham City

8:30 AM – Dick’s Art Store Recon

The bell above the glass door gave its usual sleepy jingle as Dick stepped into the hushed sanctuary of Graphite Dreams. Soft lo-fi jazz crackled from the speakers in the ceiling, competing gently with the hum of the store’s ancient air conditioner. The place still smelled like pencil shavings, watercolor paper, and faint lavender from a mystery diffuser someone must’ve placed behind the register.

Dick had been here twice before. Today, he was no longer a stranger.

The cashier — same tired college student with sketch-smudged fingers and a “don’t talk to me until I’ve had caffeine” expression — glanced up from behind the register. She blinked, recognizing him, and raised an eyebrow.

“You again?” she asked, already fighting a smile. “You must really hate your wallet.”

He pressed a hand to his chest like she’d wounded him. “You say that like I’m not your favorite customer.”

“I said ‘again,’ not ‘unwelcome.’ Big difference.”

Dick gave a lopsided grin, stepping up to the counter and setting down a small boxed set of charcoal pencils he had no intention of using. “You know me. Back to terrorize your inventory.”

“You really don’t need more pencils.”

“I really don’t,” he agreed. “But I needed an excuse to ask you a question.”

She arched an eyebrow, but her curiosity was piqued. “If this is some elaborate ruse to get my number—”

“What? No—well—not this time.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like this was confidential intel. “Actually, I wanted to ask about Y/N.”

That made her perk up. “Y/N L/N?”

“Yeah. My cousin’s friend, remember? The one who might actually own stock in mechanical pencils?”

The cashier huffed a quiet laugh. “She was in here just last weekend. Wiped out our cool-tone watercolors again. I told her we’re not Amazon Prime, but she just gave me this look. You know the one — like she was disappointed in me for not restocking fast enough.”

Dick chuckled. “Yep, that sounds about right. I was just wondering…” He trailed off like he hadn’t quite meant to say it. Then he scratched the back of his neck and went on, feigning casual: “When she drops by, is she usually solo? Or does she come in with, like... anyone?”

The girl tilted her head, suspiciously but not hostile. “Why?”

“I’m not being weird,” Dick said quickly, holding up his hands. “Just curious. My cousin mentioned someone she’s been spending a lot of time with lately — kinda mysterious, quiet guy. I just wondered if he’s ever been here with her.”

The girl thought about it, frowning a little. “She’s usually alone, but… now that you mention it…” She squinted toward the back of the store like the answers were written on the acrylic shelves. “There was this one time, like, two weeks ago maybe? She came in real quick, in and out. Had this guy with her — tall-ish, dark hair, serious face. Didn’t say a word.”

Dick’s heartbeat spiked. He smiled. “That sounds like him. My cousin said he’s got… intense energy.”

The clerk nodded slowly. “Oh yeah. Vibes. Major don’t-talk-to-me energy. I tried to ask if they needed help, and he just kind of…” She mimicked a disinterested glare. “Did that.”

Dick tried not to visibly spiral. “And she didn’t introduce him?”

“Nope. They didn’t really talk, either. I mean, they did, but it was all quiet. Not like… flirty or loud or anything. Kind of like they already knew what the other was thinking. Weirdly synced-up.”

She hesitated, then added, “But he watched her. Not in a creepy way. Just… really closely. Like he was on edge until she smiled at him or something. You know how she gets — all bubbly and excited once she starts talking about paper textures or brush sizes?”

Dick nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s definitely her.”

“Right? So she started rambling about these new graphite sticks that just came in — and you could see him relax. Like, not a lot, but his shoulders sort of dropped. It was weirdly sweet. He never said anything, but it was obvious she had him on a leash. Emotionally, I mean.”

Dick blinked. “She calmed him down?”

The girl laughed. “Totally. Like some kind of human serotonin dispenser. I’ve seen stressed-out artists come in here, but that guy? He looked like he’d just walked out of a black-and-white noir movie and accidentally wandered into a Lisa Frank commercial.”

Dick internally combusted.

“That’s helpful, actually,” he managed. “My cousin was trying to figure out who this mystery dude is, and I’m playing investigative godbrother.”

“Ah, so you’re doing detective stuff.” she teased, resting her chin in her palm.

“Always,” Dick said solemnly. “I’m deeply undercover as a guy who buys overpriced pencils and flirts with the art store cashier.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, you’re not very good at the undercover part.”

He smirked. “Guess I’ll have to come back tomorrow for more reconnaissance.”

She leaned back. “You’re gonna end up with a whole room full of sketchbooks at this rate.”

“Joke’s on you,” he said, already backing toward the door. “I alphabetize them by vibe.”

“Wait—what is the vibe of a red spiral sketchpad?”

“‘Mild regret,’ obviously.”

She snorted as the door jingled behind him.

MISSION LOG – UPDATE: • Subject Y/N may have visited store with companion (unconfirmed identity; matches Damian profile) • Dynamic observed: minimal communication, high synchronization • Clerk rapport improving — now comfortable with light sarcasm and confidential gossip • Recommend return visit with slightly altered questioning tactics; goal: obtain exact visit timestamp and security cam angle

Dick strode down the sidewalk, messenger bag swinging at his hip, mind racing.

So she had brought someone. Just once. Quiet. Controlled. Unspoken chemistry. And worse—she softened him.

They were doomed. ⸻

DAY THREE: AGENT: A-03 CALLSIGN: Red Robin OBJECTIVE: Monitor Subjects L/N and Wayne during shared Chemistry class for signs of behavioral deviation. Maintain drone discretion. TIMESTAMP: 09:00 – 09:50 HOURS LOCATION: Wayne Mannor (command Post Alpha) / Gotham Academy – Chemistry Lab

Connection secured.

The grainy feed flickered to life on Tim’s custom-modified tablet, propped open on a desk scattered with blueprints, sticky notes, and the remains of last night’s dinner (protein bar wrappers and a half-eaten bag of pretzels). A half-empty mug of cold brew hovered dangerously close to the edge of his desk, trembling faintly from the vibrations of the cooling fan inside his monitor tower.

On Gotham Academy’s Chemistry Lab ceiling, concealed discreetly as a smoke detector, Birdwatcher-2 blinked online.

Tim exhaled slowly, fingers hovering above his keyboard.

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

He tapped into the live stream—standard grayscale interior, eight students seated, two benches left unoccupied. The camera adjusted subtly, tracking movement as the classroom began to fill. Lab coats. Textbooks. Teenagers with varying degrees of caffeine withdrawal.

At exactly 09:00:41, the lab door opened again.

Subject Wayne entered.

Black uniform blazer. Crisp stride. Demeanor: restrained violence waiting for permission. Tim didn’t need facial recognition—he could ID that arrogant gait from a blurry satellite photo.

Damian scanned the room like a lion accounting for prey, then moved—no, glided—to the far lab station. Behind him, like a small comet trailing a planet, Subject L/N followed, arms full of lab materials she was already beginning to drop (it was obvious she wouldn’t let anyone else touch them).

Tim squinted closer. She was… talking. Rapidly. Expressively. Something about oxidation and cookies. She gestured with a pencil. It snapped. She blinked at it, unbothered, and just kept going.

Damian said nothing. But he was listening. Carefully. Tim could tell by the way his head tilted half a degree—like he was filtering her words through six internal threat assessments.

Y/N elbowed him playfully. Damian adjusted her goggles wordlessly. She didn’t notice.

Flagged Notation For Review (Not Quite Exhibit Worthy) – Unspoken Gear Adjustment During Lab Prep Timestamp: 09:05:18 AM Source: Birdwatcher-2 – Ceiling Mount, Chemistry Lab Overview: Subject Y/N, mid-ramble about oxidation, elbows Subject Damian Wayne in a gesture of casual familiarity. In response, Damian reaches up and adjusts her protective goggles—specifically correcting their alignment along the bridge of her nose. Y/N does not react. She continues speaking as though unaware the adjustment occurred. No words exchanged. No eye contact. No disruption in rhythm. Analysis: - Unreciprocated Yet Intimate Contact: The elbow bump appears playful; Damian does not retaliate, redirect, or recoil. Instead, he immediately redirects his attention to her safety equipment. - Precision Correction: Adjustment is subtle, efficient, and practiced. He does not pause or hesitate. This is not his first time doing this. - Zero Acknowledgment Required: Y/N’s complete lack of response indicates habitual familiarity—she neither flinches nor thanks him. The dynamic suggests prior occurrences of similar maintenance. Conclusion: This is not flirtation. This is domestic. That was a comfort-level reflex. The equivalent of wiping something off someone’s cheek without asking. He’s not just looking at her—he’s maintaining her. Like he’s responsible for keeping her in one piece. That’s not something you do for a classmate. That’s something you do for someone you care about. Consistently. Quietly. Without ever talking about it. Status: Logged under Y/N_Masterfile_v12_FINAL_FINAL_REAL.zip Classification: Behavioral Evidence – Category: Routine Intimacy / Micro-Nurturing Commentary: Am I losing my mind or was that a silent goggles tuck? Do you understand the level of observational intimacy required to fix someone’s safety gear while they’re talking and have them not even notice?? She elbowed him like they were on the couch watching a movie. He adjusted her goggles like he was fluffing a pillow. And then they just kept going. No pause. No weirdness. Just synchronized... something. They’re speaking a language the rest of us don’t even have the phonetic chart for. This isn’t flirting. This is muscle memory. I’ve seen married couples less coordinated than this. Emergency Addendum: Need to cross-reference with previous shoulder brush incident (see Cafeteria File, Day Two). If I find even one more unsanctioned article of clothing being straightened between them, I’m starting a new folder. Possibly a support group.

Tim sipped his coffee. It had gone lukewarm. He didn’t care. He continued watching for about 12 minutes with nothing interesting happening. He was about to switch views to capture their notes when—

Damian looked up.

Not glanced. Not casually tilted his chin. Not “I think I heard a bird outside.”

No. He looked up.

Directly. At. The. Ceiling.

At the smoke detector.

At Birdwatcher-2.

Straight into the lens.

Through the smoke detector. Through the reinforced fiber mesh. Through twelve layers of encryption.

Through the camera. At Tim.

For a split second—just a heartbeat—Tim froze.

The eye contact was deliberate. Not curious. Not accidental. Targeted.

Like a hawk spotting movement in the trees. Like he’d known it was there the entire time.

Tim choked on his coffee. He doubled over coughing, one hand swatting at the tablet like it had personally betrayed him. The mug teetered and fell—crashing against the floor with a splash of defeat and caffeine.

He sat bolt upright, eyes wild, already flipping to the emergency section of his planner.

🚨 URGENT EMERGENCY: CODE RED: SUBJECT D.W. MADE DIRECT VISUAL CONTACT WITH B-2. TIMESTAMP: 09:17:36 NOTES: UNBROKEN STARE. NO VISIBLE SURPRISE. CONFIRMED AWARENESS. HE KNOWS HE KNOWS HE FREAKING KNOWS POSSIBLE COUNTER-INTEL? DO NOT PANIC (PANIC).

His fingers moved faster than his thoughts. Pages flipped. Plans formed.

A second later:

• BUILD BIRDWATCHER-6 WITH ANTI-GLARE LENSING AND RADAR DISPERSION MESH. DISGUISE AS CEILING TILE. • ENGINEER SELF-DESTRUCT FUNCTION (SUBTLE??)• TEST - IS DAMIAN IMMUNE TO INVISILENSE??? • CREATE CONTINGENCY PLAN FOR PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE. HE’S TOYING WITH ME.

He forced himself to switch back to the live feed. Damian was… writing. Calm. Composed. Like nothing had happened.

But Tim saw it. The faintest upward twitch of his left eyebrow. A smirk he didn’t quite finish. Calculated restraint. He was enjoying this.

The drone’s audio picked up Y/N saying cheerfully, “Wait, is the fire extinguisher supposed to be that close to the Bunsen burner?” Followed by: LOUD POP. HISSING NOISE. Y/N: “Oh. That wasn’t supposed to happen.” Damian: “Tt.” Teacher: “EVERYONE STEP BACK.”

Tim sighed and hit the ‘mute’ button on the chaos. New note:

• Smoke Detector Cover = PLAUSIBLE. Create incident cover story.

Also… • Subject D.W. protected Subject Y/N from chemical splash. Physically pulled her back. Soft spot = confirmed.

Tim stared down at his coffee like it had failed him. All he could think about… was that look.

That look Damian had given the ceiling. The calculated stillness. The flicker of amusement.

Tim narrowed his eyes. “This means war.”

He opened a fresh page in his planner and began sketching a new drone with predator evasion coding, cloaking camouflage, and— A detachable decoy camera lens. Maybe two.

New Mission: Outwit the Demon. Priority: Stay unpredictable. Stay invisible. Secondary priority: Stop panicking. Tertiary priority: Build caffeine IV. REMINDER: TELL THE OTHER AGENTS

Somewhere in the background, his phone buzzed. He ignored it.

Red Robin’s surveillance had been seen. The predator knew the bird was in the trees.

And Tim Drake was not going down without a fight. ⸻

DAY THREE: AGENT: A-02 CALLSIGN: Red Hood OBJECTIVE: Sleep. (Recover from Social Mission: "Boys’ Night") TIMESTAMP: 09:20 HOURS LOCATION: Unnamed Safehouse, Gotham City (possibly the one with the broken fridge, unclear)

The safehouse was quiet. Still. Almost reverent.

Its cracked drywall and suspicious ceiling stains bore silent witness to the following tactical data:

Jason Peter Todd. Currently: Unconscious. Position: Face-down, starfished across a mattress that was probably stolen from an abandoned hotel. Snoring like a motorcycle with asthma.

There’s an empty pizza box near the nightstand, a half-eaten box of cereal on the floor, and a stack of classic literature books acting as a coaster for a 64 oz insulated coffee mug labeled “DEATH BEFORE DECAF”.

One foot is hanging dramatically off the side of the bed like he lost consciousness mid-exit. The only movement: the occasional twitch, accompanied by a low mumble of—

“You try saying that to my face, Tolstoy…”

Followed by a sneeze. Then deeper snoring.

AGENT A-02 WELLNESS CHECK Status: Inactive. Threat Level: Minimal (unless awakened prematurely). Pulse: Surprisingly stable. Hair: Perfectly tousled. Possibly styled by pillow rage.

Classified Note (added later by Jason, in his mind, upon waking up with cereal stuck to his cheek): I’d just like to thank God and all four hours of whiskey chicken wings for knocking me out cold. If Damian’s dating someone, that’s his problem. Y’all act like he brought a vampire into the manor or something. Chill. (i’m out here thinking that when i’ve probably spiralled the most. Classic.)

Next Check-In: When he wakes up. Which might be noon. Maybe later. Depends if the raccoon in the attic shows up again. ⸻

DAY THREE AGENT: A-03 CALLSIGN: Red Robin OBJECTIVE: Dual Track Surveillance – Target A (Felix Thompson), Target B (Alfred Pennyworth) TIMESTAMP: 09:30 HOURS LOCATION: Command Post Alpha

Tim Drake hadn’t blinked in six minutes.

Not because of the caffeine (though the triple-shot espresso wasn’t helping), but because the municipal traffic feed near the L/N estate had just pinged Felix Thompson. Facial recognition: 97.9% confidence. Exiting the property. Alone. Driving the same nondescript black car he always did.

Timestamp: 09:30:12 Designation: Target A Status: Mobile

ACTIVITY LOG: 09:30:12 – Facial recognition hit from municipal traffic cam #338-B (showing L/N Estate gates): → Felix Thompson, age 72, departing L/N estate. Confirmed ID match: 97.9% confidence.

He pivoted instantly, cross-referencing Wayne Manor’s private security grid. Scanned Gate Cam 1, then Entry Hall 3—

Alfred Pennyworth. Keys in hand. Also exiting.

Timestamp: 09:30:53 Designation: Target B Status: Also Mobile FLAG: Unacceptable coincidence.

09:31:08 – Quick system cross-check. Wayne Manor front gate camera confirms Alfred Pennyworth is also leaving the property—within 90 seconds of Felix’s exit.

❗Flag: This is not a coincidence. ❗Flag: This is orchestrated movement.

Tim sat up straighter.

“Nope. Nope, nope, nope—absolutely not. I don’t believe in random butler outings.”

He slammed a keyboard shortcut. Drone deployment protocols initiated.

09:32:10 – Emergency deployment of surveillance units:

DEPLOYMENT REPORT • Birdwatcher-4: Modified pigeon drone with cloaked rotors, thermal lens, 2.5K resolution, long-range WiFi, and a subtle chip on its shoulder. Fast, discreet, deeply judgmental. • Birdwatcher-5: Audio-visual microdrone disguised as a spider. Contains directional mic, micro-cam, and crippling emotional baggage. Creepy, crawly, tiny, deeply effective. Being piggybacked into the field by BW-4 Currently being piggybacked into the field by BW-4 like a slightly unsettling carry-on. (Birdwatcher-4 aka. pigeon drone nb2, is holding up Birdwatcher-5 aka. Spider drone and flying it no the desired location.

“Spider’s mounted. Pigeon’s in the air. Let’s go, boys.”

Status: Spider locked and loaded. Aerial unit en route.

09:35:00 – Both targets are en route.

Both cars departed on separate routes. Felix to the north, Alfred to the west. But Tim was already one step ahead—running a predictive location overlap algorithm with timestamp syncing.

09:36:24 – MATCH CONFIRMED. DESTINATION: Same upscale grocery store in Midtown. Organic produce. Niche imports. Stupidly expensive jam.

He froze. Then exhaled slowly.

“Bingo.”

THEORIES UNDER ACTIVE CONSIDERATION: • Weekly errand coincidence? Please. Felix and Alfred don’t do coincidences. • Deep-cover mutual grocery mission? Highly likely. • Clandestine meet-up between two butlers who may or may not be co-conspirators in Damian’s romantic entanglement? • Alfred and Felix are coordinating. Possibly a shared agenda. Possibly brunch.

PLANNER ENTRY: • THE BUTLERS ARE OUT. OPERATION: SPIDER-BUG IS LIVE. • IF THEY’RE BUYING POMEGRANATE JUICE TOGETHER I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.

Status Update: Birdwatcher-4 maintaining high altitude circling pattern. Birdwatcher-5 (spider) preparing for insertion phase once Alfred and Felix enter the grocery store.

Tim didn't move for several seconds. Then, slowly, like a villain in a low-budget conspiracy doc, he whispered to himself:

“What the hell are you two planning?”

10:00 - OBJECTIVE: Infiltrate Alfred–Felix Meetpoint (Codename: “Grocery Gate”)

Tim Drake had three different screens open. One: the grocery store's public-facing CCTV network, hijacked through a backdoor he definitely wasn’t supposed to have. Two: Birdwatcher-4’s live feed—wide angle, circling overhead, catching cars in the lot. Three: Birdwatcher-5’s POV—a spider-eye view crawling across a shelf of blueberry jam.

His left eye twitched. Not from fatigue—he’d had three espressos and one cold brew—but from what he was seeing on his screen.

The scene playing out before him was, to the untrained eye, completely normal.

To Tim?

It was psychological warfare.

There they were.

TARGET A: Felix Thompson, age 72, butler, enigma, possible Alfred Pennyworth clone from a parallel universe. TARGET B: Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth, age “older than secrets,” former intelligence agent, current keeper of Bat secrets and fine linen. LOCATION: Organic aisle, just past the heirloom tomatoes. OBSERVED ACTIVITY: Smiling. Talking. Smiling while talking. UNACCEPTABLE.

AUDIO FEED ACTIVE — BIRDWATCHER-5 Voice ID Match: 99.8% confidence. Sentiment Analysis: Positive. Smug.

Felix: “He tucked the napkin into her collar, Alfred. Like she was royalty. Just gently reached over and—no fuss, no embarrassment. Napkin. Collar. Back to eating.” Alfred: [chuckling] “Napkin placement is a critical skill. I once trained Master Damian to fold a dinner serviette into the shape of a falcon. He said it was ‘beneath him.’” Felix: “Now look at him. Fussing over her like a Victorian husband.” Alfred: “It’s astonishing, isn’t it?” Felix: “Like watching a wolf bring soup to a lamb.” Alfred: “A lamb with bite.” Felix: [quiet laugh] “She has opinions about marmalade.” Alfred: “So does he.” Felix: “They had a nine-minute debate about orange peel texture last Sunday. I timed it.” Alfred: “And who won?” Felix: “They both apologized. At the same time.” [Both men laugh, quietly but with unmistakable fondness.]

Tim blinked rapidly.

Was he hallucinating? Was this some new psychological defense mechanism butlers were developing—weaponized wholesomeness?

AUDIO SAMPLE – ADDITIONAL DIALOGUE LOG Source: Birdwatcher-5 (Spider Drone) Quality: 96% clarity, 100% emotional damage Transcript Begins:

Alfred: “—He asked me if it was a date. I nearly swerved into traffic.” Felix: [coughs] “He asked you?” Alfred: “Out loud. No riddles. Just: ‘Pennyworth, is this a date?’” Felix: “My word.” Alfred: “Exactly.” Felix: [soft laughter] “Progress.” [Shared chuckling. Duration: 3.2 seconds.]

Tim stared at the screen like it had betrayed him.

“HE ASKED IF IT WAS A DATE?” Tim hissed. “Damian doesn’t even ask if things are emergencies—he just shows up and fixes them or breaks them depending on his mood. Now he’s asking Alfred about romantic labels?!”

Exhibit H – Voice Capture: The Grocery Store Conspirators Timestamp: 10:03:44 AM Source: Birdwatcher-5 – Embedded Microphone Feed | Audio Enhancer Protocols + Tone Analysis Overlay Overview: Captured audio of Alfred Pennyworth (Wayne Manor Head of Staff) and Felix Thompson (L/N Family Estate Steward) engaging in soft-spoken conversation in the honey and jam aisle of Gotham Market. The exchange revolves around Subject Y/N and Subject Damian Wayne, focusing on their relationship progression. Dialogue is warm, conspiratorial, and frankly alarming. View Pinned Transcript Fragments. Analysis: - Tone is soft, conspiratorially amused, and deeply affectionate. - Vocal modulation from both speakers suggests genuine emotional investment in the relationship. - Shared laughter indicates comfort and familiarity. Neither denies the relationship—they speak as if it is thriving. - Alfred’s commentary implies active role in Subject Damian’s emotional life. - Alfred’s reaction is not one of surprise but confirmation. - There is no skepticism. There is no concern. There is only... joy. Conclusion: This is not standard acquaintance banter. This is butler-to-butler romantic war-room coordination. We are looking at the co-captains of the Dami/N, and they are currently shopping for overpriced blueberry preserves while casually dismantling every layer of plausible deniability I’ve built over the past 48 hours. They are encouraging this. Facilitating it. Possibly matchmaking it. Status: Logged to Y/N_Masterfile_v12_FINAL_FINAL_REAL.zip Classification: Social Evidence – Category: Emotional Exposure, Butler-Facilitated Commentary: I no longer believe I am surveilling the Batcave's youngest cryptid and a charming civilian girl. I am surveilling the slow, deliberate merge of two legacy families—and their handlers are rooting for it. What’s next? A double family dinner? Coordinated garden walks?? WHO GAVE THE BUTLERS PERMISSION TO CARE. I thought Alfred was supposed to be my stoic grandfather figure. I can’t emotionally process this betrayal. Felix is out here with jam and soft-voiced encouragements and emotional traffic incidents. They’re not just butlers. They’re romantic confidants. This is an emotional coup d’état and I am losing my grip on the chain of command.

He switched camera feeds again, as if hoping one angle would undo what he’d just heard.

Nope. Birdwatcher-5 was still catching clear visual of Alfred smiling—smiling—like a proud grandfather.

And Felix? Felix was holding up two jars of locally sourced honey, comparing them like he wasn’t harboring a thousand classified secrets.

Tim leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching the screen.

“…This goes deeper than I thought,” he whispered, like a man unraveling the very threads of fate. “They're not just in on it. They’re rooting for it.”

Status: SpiderCam has latched onto a nearby honey jar. Visual: steady. Birdwatcher-4 maintains circling pattern above checkout lane #2.

Mood: Claustrophobic. Paranoia Level: Elevated. Surveillance Satisfaction: 8.5/10 Likelihood Alfred is actively trolling Agent A-03: Astronomically high. ⸻

DAY THREE AGENT: A-01 CALLSIGN: Nightwing OBJECTIVE: Locate patterns in Subject D.W.’s work files; assess emotional anomalies TIMESTAMP: 10:40 HOURS LOCATION: Batcave – Batcomputer

10:40 AM – Cold Case Files Ft. Feelings

Dick wasn’t proud of what he was about to do.

Okay. He was, a little.

Because while his brothers were all racing around campus like caffeinated rats in an Ivy League maze—scrambling for class schedules, art club rosters, hallway footage, and Y/N L/N’s last known locker combination—Dick had remembered something far more crucial. Something they’d all been too distracted to realize.

This wasn’t about her. Not entirely.

Y/N L/N might’ve been sunshine in a school uniform, sure. Smart. Soft. Perpetually surrounded by the scent of fruit-scented pens and a disturbing number of sticker-covered sketchbooks.

But she wasn’t the anomaly in this investigation.

No. The anomaly was Damian.

They’d all been looking at it backwards. And Dick had just figured it out.

It wasn’t her they needed to be worried about. It was him. It was Damian.

And if no one else was brave enough to launch a full investigation into their little brother, then fine. He’d do it himself.

He made sure the cave was empty before coming in. Bruce had a meeting at WE. Damian was in school. Steph and Cass were having a brunch at a place that newly opened up. Babs was with her dad since he had taken the morning off. Duke was sleeping. Perfect.

With a steely sigh, Dick dropped into the Batcave’s command chair, spinning once for dramatic flair as the triple-monitor array flickered to life. Cold artificial light washed over his face like a noir detective about to unlock a decade-old mystery. He cracked his knuckles.

“Alright, Baby Bat,” he muttered. “Let’s see what skeletons you’ve got buried behind those pressed collars and that cursed glare.”

He was in Damian Wayne’s terminal in under ninety seconds. Cold cases. Field logs. GCPD-purged databases. Surveillance loops from Gotham, Blüdhaven, Tokyo, Amman—hell, even a few missions from Atlantis.

Everything was perfectly categorized. Encrypted. Immaculate.

And at first, everything looked exactly as it always had: high-level vigilance, brutal logic, no margin for emotional contamination.

But that’s what made it worse.

Because there were gaps.

Over the past six months, Damian’s review frequency of cold cases had dropped by 43%. But his incident reports were loner. Even more descriptive that before. Dick didn’t even know that was possible. There were redactions—ones Damian had written into his own reports. Emotional detachment, once his signature, was slipping. Damian was starting to care about each and every single file. These cases stopped being just puzzles for Damian.. they became people.

And Dick, who had personally walked this gremlin through kindergarten-level empathy exercises, knew exactly what this meant.

“Emotional interference,” he whispered, eyes narrowed.

He opened a compressed folder: “GCPD_Untagged_Archive_Bats”. Supposedly a general dumping ground for old, unsolved civilian-level cases. Something the Bats sometimes used to test facial recognition updates or sharpen their deductive skills.

But Damian had accessed this same folder three times in the last week. No notes. No flags. Just… viewed.

Dick opened the first file:

An unsolved break-in at a local bookstore. • No suspects. No leads. • Surveillance footage: fuzzy. Low-res. • Location: Six blocks east of Gotham Academy

He frowned. Opened another.

Petty theft at a clay jewelry stall. • No police follow-up. • Victim: “elderly woman, handmade artisan.” • Location: The alley next to Graphite Drams Art Supply Store.

Another.

Vandalism at a Le Petit Noir Café. • Y/N, Damian, and Jon’s normal Monday hangout spot.

Dick’s cursor slowed. His breath caught.

Every single case was near one of Y/N’s known hangouts.

Art-adjacent. Student-accessible. Obscure enough to avoid GCPD attention. Exactly the kind of overlooked danger zones Damian would keep tabs on—if he were personally invested in protecting someone who frequented them.

“You’re not solving these,” Dick whispered, dread building like a pressure chamber in his lungs. “You’re watching over her.”

These weren’t random crimes. They were proximity alerts.

He opened a timestamp overlay of Damian’s patrol routes. Cross-referenced it against the case logs. The overlap was sickening.

Damian had patrolled within 300 feet (90 meters) of those locations within 24 hours of every incident—sometimes before the crime was reported.

This wasn’t protocol. This wasn’t routine. This was intentional concealment.

“You absolute sneaky little—” Dick pushed back from the console, pacing. “You’ve been rerouting your patrols to shadow her. You’re buffering her life like she’s a walking USB stick full of your emotions.”

He laughed. It was not healthy. It was one of those man-on-the-brink-of-detective-hysteria laughs.

“This is your version of romance? Stalking her via micro-crime and monitoring back alley pottery thefts?!”

He whipped back to the terminal and started typing furiously.

And then—he found it. A routine patrol log from 18 months ago, archived with an “Area A” tag—Wayne-standard for residential zones.

Patrol Shift Update – Nightly Assigned Zone: Central Gotham - Residential Zone Priority: Passive Observation Attached item: map route Notes: “No incident.” (Repeated 562 times.)

Dick stared at the patrol log like it had personally insulted him.

Five hundred sixty-two entries. Five hundred sixty-two “No incidents.” Same zone. Same route. Every. Single. Night.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then—he opened the map.

And the Batcomputer, in all its sterile, emotionally detached cruelty, displayed a time-lapse.

One by one, little red lines bloomed across the Gotham skyline—forming circles. Tight, deliberate, concentric loops around the same residential quadrant. Same elevation. Same pacing. Same radius.

L/N Estate.

Dick leaned in.

Each route change, each pivot, each micro-adjustment across the rooftops accounted for elevation differences, traffic noise, and moonlight angle. Damian hadn’t just been patrolling the area.

He’d been orbiting her.

For 562 consecutive days.

No breaks. No excuses. Rain, snow, blood moon, blackout. Damian Wayne had spent every night silently carving aerial devotion into the Gotham skyline like a vigilante love letter in Morse code.

And not once had he noted her name.

Just: “No incident.” Every entry. Every day.

No emotion. No slip-ups. No confessions.

Except this was the confession.

This was a 562-day-long surveillance sonnet. A rooftop rosary of reverse love notes. Damian had been safeguarding her perimeter like a medieval knight with WiFi.

And Dick—who, until ten minutes ago, thought himself clever—could only gape at the sheer, operatic insanity of it.

He clicked a route at random.

Timestamp: 03:17 AM Route overlay: “SE Ridge > Smokehouse Chimney > Balcony Line” Note: “No incident.”

Dick’s chest ached.

Not because it was creepy. Not because it was protective. But because it was so painfully Damian.

He’d said nothing.

Not even in the safety of a private report.

Just… patrolled.

Circled.

Watched.

Ensured her safety with the intensity of a hawk and the subtlety of a shadow.

And never asked for credit. Never even wrote her initials.

Just “No incident.”

Dick slumped back in the chair, running a hand through his hair, mind reeling.

“They’ve been together this long?” he murmured. “This whole time?”

It wasn’t just a crush. It wasn’t infatuation. This was a routine. A discipline. A choice. Repeated 562 times.

Every night, after school, after missions, after everything—

He went to her.

He didn’t visit. He didn’t text.

He patrolled.

And if that wasn’t the most twistedly romantic Batfam thing Dick had ever seen, he didn’t know what was.

“…You absolute emotionally constipated freak of a boy,” he whispered, voice cracking with something suspiciously close to awe. “You’ve been in love with her since—since two Christmases ago.”

Dick stared at the map again.

Every line felt heavier now.

Every loop was a heartbeat.

Every rooftop—a prayer.

“Guess you really do believe in protecting what’s yours.”

He swallowed. Then typed:

EVIDENCE PIECE I: THE ORBIT PATTERN - AKA: NIGHTLY LOVE ROUTE - AKA: 562 DAYS OF “NO INCIDENT” MY ASS HE’S BEEN CIRCLING HER HOUSE FOR 562 NIGHTS NO INCIDENTS. NO BREAKS. JUST HER. THIS IS NOT NORMAL. THIS IS BATMAN-LEVEL DEVOTION IN A BOY WITH TOO MANY FEELINGS AND A SWORD. I THINK THIS IS HIS VERSION OF FLOWERS. I AM GOING TO LIE DOWN ON THE FLOOR AND EXPIRE.

MISSION LOG – UPDATE: • Subject of interest officially shifted from Y/N L/N to Damian Wayne. • Cold case review patterns align with Y/N’s known social orbit. • Behavior suggests covert protective surveillance. • Reports show deliberate emotional redactions, route tampering, and metadata concealment. • The Demon Spawn is emotionally compromised. And in denial. • Status: Deep in the love sauce • Recommendation: Ongoing surveillance and possible sibling intervention (or group therapy) • Also possible blackmail opportunity. To be evaluated.

Commentary: I knew it. I knew it. She didn’t seduce him—he assigned himself to her like she was a long-term reconnaissance project. He’s protecting her like a medieval knight with a vengeance complex. He’s doing emotionally repressed Romeo LARPing through Gotham’s unsolved larceny scene. And the worst part? He thinks no one noticed. But I did. I noticed. And I am never letting him live this down. Prepare the intervention. The murder muffin is in love. God help us all. ⸻

DAY THREE AGENT: A-03 CALLSIGN: Red Hood OBJECTIVE: Resist emotional contagion. Reassert dominance. Avoid group chat. TIMESTAMP:12:00 HOURS LOCATION: Jason’s Apartment, Crime Alley District

12:00 PM – Morning Routine ft. Existential Horror

Jason woke up at noon, as God intended.

The bedroom was dark, quiet, and aggressively unbothered by sunlight—until a single golden beam slipped through the gap in the blackout curtains and stabbed him directly in the face like a divine insult.

He squinted. Grunted. Rolled over.

The sun didn’t care.

It’s like it got even brighter.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, throwing back the covers and dragging himself upright like a man being resurrected against his will for a second time. “I’m up.”

The floor was cold. The world was loud. His brain was louder.

First step: shower.

Fast. Hot. Mechanical. Routine.

He scrubbed his face, ran both hands through his wet hair, and stared into the fogged-up mirror like it had dared him to feel something.

“I am not spiraling,” he told his reflection. His reflection didn’t believe him.

Second step: coffee. Black. No sugar. No joy. Two gulps in and he still wanted to commit a federal crime. Three gulps in and he was considering cardio instead.

He downed half the mug and got into some comfortable wear, just a hoodie and sweatpants.

Third step: training.

He dropped to the floor and started cranking out push-ups.

By the time he hit fifty-nine push-ups, his brain was finally fully awake.

Seventy push-ups in, he started thinking about the fun he had last night with Roy and Bizzaro.

Ninety pushups in his thoughts drifted to the cursed couple of the year: Damian Wayne and Y/N L/N.

Jason flipped over and started doing sit-ups. Fast. Aggressive. He needed movement. He needed blood flow. He needed to drown out the mental image of Damian smiling while handing a girl a sketchbook with little hearts on the cover.

Seventy-five sit-ups later he started sweating.

Pull-ups next. He gripped the bar in the doorway and lifted himself up like a man trying to reach salvation through upper body strength alone.

“What the hell even is a Dami/N,” he hissed.

Hung there for a second. Scowled at nothing. Dropped down and immediately started pacing the apartment while shadowboxing like a caged animal.

He cracked open the fridge. Stared at a bottle of hot sauce, two protein bars, and a half-empty container of leftover takeout.

Nothing about that was going to help him feel less unhinged.

So he ignored it. Grabbed the protein bar. Ate it on autopilot while standing in the middle of the kitchen like a man in a war flashback.

13:29 PM – Strategic Planning ft. Delusional Brilliance

Jason sat at his kitchen counter, still munching on the protein bar. He opened his laptop and pulled up the shared intel folder from Monday’s mission briefing.

SUBJECT: Y/N L/N AGE: 17 ENROLLMENT: Gotham Academy CONNECTION TO TARGET: Suspiciously close. Emotionally entrenched. Spiritually entangled. Possibly soulmates.

Jason scrolled past the basic background files and clicked open the most opened document—Class Schedule + Extracurricular Alignment Chart—curated, naturally, by Tim Drake.

It opened like a bomb detonating in his face.

Today, Y/N had:

1. Biology 2. Chemistry – shared with Damian 3. Math 4. English – shared with Damian 5. Arabic – shared with Damian 6. Robotics 7. Free Period: Art Club

Notation: After-School Activity: Gymnastics Practice Time: 3:30–5:30 PM Location: Gotham Academy Athletic Center

Jason stared at the screen.

Then squinted. Then zoomed in.

Then whispered, deadpan:

“Of course she does art club. Of course she does gymnastics. She’s the overachievers’ final boss.”

He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and let the data sink in.

Last period art meant she’d be vulnerable to emotional exposure. People get soft around paints and sketchbooks. Sentimental. Open. And gymnastics? That was peak post-school adrenaline. Muscle memory. Endorphins. Guard down. Loose tongue.

Red Hood Strategic Infiltration Plan – Operation: What Even Is A Dami/N • 3:15 PM – Depart apartment → Transit via motorcycle. No license plate. No helmet. No gods, no laws. • 3:45 PM – Arrive near Gotham Academy perimeter → Ditch bike two blocks out. Approach from east side to avoid cameras. → Enter via underground staff access hatch mapped by Barbara a couple years back. Bribe janitor if necessary. • 4:00 PM – Infiltrate Art Wing → Locate Y/N’s personal cubby, sketchbook, or workstation. → Take photos. Collect evidence. Observe brushstroke aggression levels. → Contemplate her painting style. Is it soft and sweet? Violent and tortured? Does she paint him? Has she painted him? → (Internal note: do not get weird about it.) • 5:30 PM – Track subject’s departure path → Ensure she gets into car/ teleportation bubble safely. → If alone: tail vehicle from distance until home drop-off is confirmed. → If with Damian: reassess entire identity. • 6:10 PM – Return to safehouse → Debrief self → Lie down and think about literally anything else → Fail

Jason exhaled through his nose. Tapped his pen against the counter.

"This is fine. This is normal. People do casual surveillance of their youngest brother’s maybe-definitely-girlfriend to keep their sanity intact. Happens all the time.”

He shut the laptop and stood, already moving with purpose toward the supply closet.

The plan was airtight. Efficient. Strategic.

Just how he liked it.

He just needed to make sure he avoided doing anything too creepy that would drive away Damian’s only possible chance at love…

He revised all the boundaries he and the other agents agreed on.

• NEVER watch her in her house. • DO NOT try to listen in on her conversations with anyone but Damian. • ABSOLUTELY NO blood sample collection. (Jason had not been the one who needed that rule, thank you very much.) • NO interfering with her social life unless it’s a verified, documentable, life-or-death situation. And even then, get unanimous agent approval. • DO NOT treat this like a murder case. → She’s a person, not a suspect. You’re not the police. • DO NOT follow her anywhere unless it’s a safety check to ensure she arrives home safely. • DO NOT photograph her without a justifiable reason. Photograph her belongings? Yes. Photograph her if DAMIAN IS IN THE SHOT WITH HER? Okay. Get camera footage of Dami/N interactions? Fine. Images of her alone? NO. → If it wouldn’t make sense in a legal affidavit, don’t take the shot. • Respect her privacy. → If a door is closed, metaphorically or literally, leave it closed. • If she notices you, BACK OFF IMMEDIATELY. → You are not stealthy. You are not slick. You are six feet of emotional damage in boots. • Remember: the goal is to protect Damian from heartbreak, not Y/N from herself. → She’s not the threat. Your brother’s feelings are. • REMEMBER: If she’s making him happy, she’s on our side.

Jason stared at that last one for a second longer than he meant to.

“… Sappy little gremlin.”

He shook his head, grabbed his gear bag, and slung it over his shoulder.

The plan was set. The rules were reviewed. The boundaries were (mostly) sane.

All he had to do now… was not emotionally implode in the middle of a high school art room. Easy.

He paused at the door, glanced back at the laptop still glowing on the counter, and muttered:

“God help me if she’s actually nice.”

And with that, Red Hood went to war. Against fate. Against the unholy concept of Dami/N.

Against the quiet, traitorous hope curling somewhere in his chest — —that maybe, just maybe, his little brother was gonna get the one thing none of them ever really knew how to ask for.

He didn’t think it’d be Damian who got there first.

All he could do now was hope the kid held onto it better than the rest of them did.

But hell, if anyone ever tries to take it from that boy— They’ll have to go through Jason Todd. And Dick Grayson. And Tim Drake.

And although, at some point, they each had a rocky relationship with Damian… He was their baby brother. They would do anything to protect him and anyone who made him happy. Even if they didn’t understand that love. ⸻

DAY THREE AGENT: A-01 CALLSIGN: Nightwing OBJECTIVE: Surveillance Recon – On-Site Inspection TIMESTAMP: 13:30 HOURS LOCATION: Batcave – Upper Vault

13:30 – A Robin’s Secrets

Dick Grayson moved through the cave like a ghost. No acrobat flourishes today (Which for Dick was saying something). Just silent footsteps and a mission to uncover The Truth According to Damian Wayne, hidden somewhere inside Robin’s meticulously maintained gear locker.

He made direct eye contact with Damian’s gear vault.

He approached it slowly. The boy’s suit locker was locked, sealed, triple-authenticated, and—if Dick had to guess—probably rigged with some kind of passive alert system only he would recognize.

But Dick Grayson wasn’t the first Robin for nothing.

A few swift motions, a stolen biometric override key (that he would absolutely return), and a precision bypass of Tim’s latest “unpickable” lock, and the vault hissed open with a soft mechanical click.

Inside was exactly what he expected.

A neatly folded Robin uniform, precision-aligned down to the seams. Utility belt arranged in perfect symmetry. Gear compartments labeled in clean, efficient lettering. A replacement hood, a dagger sheath, a fresh pair of gloves—all laid out like a museum exhibit.

“Classic Little D,” Dick muttered, amused. “What kind of 17-year-old lives like this.”

Only once the photo was done did Dick begin his search.

He worked with care. No fingerprints. No dust displaced. Gloves on. Tools ready.

He rifled through the compartments with care, gloved fingers slipping between armor panels, pouches, and foam inlays. Most of it was standard-issue: extra grappling lines, a pouch with common antidotes for variations of joker gas, fear gas and what-not.

He then moved to search the utility belt—standard. Birdarangs, smoke pellets, grappling hooks, lock picks, freezing gas, tracking devices, etc. No weird notes, no hidden pictures, not even a smuggled protein bar.

Then the chestplate.

At first, nothing.

Then, beneath the vest lining, folded into a slot where most Robins used to store a backup comm unit or field map: a slip of paper.

He pulled it out gently, unfolded it like an artifact from a shrine.

Neat, swooping handwriting in black pen. Simple. Direct. A little heart at the end. “Don’t forget to sleep well, my love! ❤️”

Dick exhaled.

He did not say anything. For once. Instead, he just stood there in silence, holding the little note between his fingers.

His heart made a weird, twisty movement he didn’t like.

Damian. Had kept it. Had folded it like it was something precious, and tucked it next to his heart in his field gear. And hadn’t thrown it out. Or burned it. Or scoffed and called it sentimental weakness.

No, the kid had carried it. Carefully. Intentionally.

Dick’s voice, when it came, was a whisper that barely made it past the cave’s humming lights.

“Oooohhh, Dames,” he whispered, dragging a hand down his face, “you’re so in love, it’s disgustingly cute.”

He took a photo of the note.

Put everything back where it belonged.

Stepped away from the gear vault.

Went up to a random study in Wayne Manor.

Printed a copy of the note.

And sighed.

EVIDENCE PIECE J: Love Note in the Vault She wrote it. He kept it. He went on patrol with this folded next to his ribs like a secret shield. The youngest’s heart is not just spoken for — it is cared for, it is loved. The universe isn’t just shipping them. It’s officiating.

⸻

DAY THREE: AGENT: A-03 CALLSIGN: Red Robin OBJECTIVE: Passive Surveillance – Subject Wayne + Subject L/N TIMESTAMP: 14:00 HOURS LOCATION: Command Post Alpha, Watching Over: Gotham Academy – Lockers’ Hallway

14:00 – The Hallway Incident

You’re walking next to him again. Shoulder to shoulder, like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like the world hasn’t just shifted three degrees sideways under Tim’s feet.

You’re talking—hands moving, eyes bright, something about Art Club probably—and Damian, for all his legendary emotional constipation, is nodding. Tracking you. Like he wants to hear it.

Tim watches from the feed. Static-lined. Side-angle GA Hallway cam. He hasn’t moved Birdwatcher-2 since Chemistry. He can’t—Birdwatcher-2’s still stuck inside the Chemistry classroom, and the last time Damian looked directly into the lens, Tim had to recalibrate his entire self-worth.

So now he’s watching from the hallway cam instead. From a safer distance.

You reach your lockers. Yours on the left, his across the hall. His locker isn’t really close to yours. Perfect vantage moment. You crouch, digging through your backpack—sketchbook, pencil case, watercolors. You drop a pink pouch behind you and don’t notice.

But Tim does.

Damian glances over from his locker. Just for a second. Just long enough. And Tim sees the whole thing in grainy grayscale. Damian doesn’t seem to look at the pouch.

‘Of course he’s looking at her. Of course he’s watching her when she’s not looking. Of course he—'

Focus.

Tim switches feeds. Activates Claw-Bot, a palm-sized microdrone with claws. His reliable evidence collector.

It rolls out from beneath a vending machine on six silent wheels. No one in the hallway notices. No one ever does.

The bot makes its approach. Locks on target. Retrieves the pouch. Reverses.

By the time you and Damian vanish down the Art Wing corridor, the drone has left GA grounds and Birdwatcher-3, the pigeon, swoops in.

Claw-bot drops the pouch on the steps of GA then returns stealthily and hides in a hallway. In the meantime, Tim controls Birdwatcher-3 to pick up the evidence.

Once the evidence is secure in Birdwatcher-3’s pigeon claws, the drone returns to base. And Tim is already reaching for it with latex gloves and a label maker.

The pouch is small. Soft. Pink. Patterned with bows. You didn’t even flinch when you lost it. You probably didn’t even realize.

But this?

This is a goldmineof evidence.

Exhibit I – Emergency Pouch Timestamp: 14:00 Source: GA Hallway / Claw-Bot Retrieval Overview: Compact pink bow-print pouch. Zipper intact. Weighs 178g. Contents: categorized, curated, absurdly wholesome. Purpose: general preparedness + soft emotional chaos. Conclusion: This isn’t just a pouch. This is a survival kit for kindness. Logistical evidence of an aggressively caring personality. Mission impact: High. Emotional intel: Alarmingly high. Status: Logged to Y/N_Masterfile_v12_FINAL_FINAL_REAL.zip Classification: Emotional Evidence – Category: Comfort Arsenal Commentary: I wasn’t ready for this level of domesticity. What kind of teenage girl carries around emergency empathy? What is she planning for? Who is she planning for?? Am I okay? No.

Exhibit J – Cherry Lip Balm Timestamp: 14:00 Source: GA Hallway / Pouch Contents Overview: Worn tube of cherry lip balm. Cap secure. Faint scent detectable from approx. 8 inches. Usage indicates frequent application. Conclusion: Functionally: standard lip care item. Emotionally: weaponized femininity. Mission impact: Moderate. Emotional intel: So much worse than expected. Status: Logged to Y/N_Masterfile_v12_FINAL_FINAL_REAL.zip Classification: Emotional Evidence – Category: Casual Intimacy Commentary: If he ever borrows this I’m going to pass out. Why does she smell like fruit and light? Why does this feel like a threat?

Exhibit K – Hair Tie Timestamp: 14:00 Source: GA Hallway / Pouch Contents Overview: Black elastic hair tie. No visible stray strands. Standard make. Minor stretching. Conclusion: Functional utility. Zero glamour. Quietly personal. Mission impact: Low. Emotional intel: Medium, rising rapidly. Status: Logged to Y/N_Masterfile_v12_FINAL_FINAL_REAL.zip Classification: Emotional Evidence – Category: Soft Utility Commentary: Is it hers? Is it his? Is this a shared resource? Why does that thought terrify me?

Exhibit L – Strawberry-Scented Lotion Timestamp: 14:00 Source: GA Hallway / Pouch Contents Overview: Travel-sized tube. Approximately 50% remaining. Scent: artificially sweet, nostalgic, devastating. Conclusion: Tactile comfort item. Fragrance selected with intent. Mission impact: Medium. Emotional intel: Nuclear. Status: Logged. Classification: Emotional Evidence – Category: Sensory Signature Commentary: Why is everything she owns scented like safety?? I touched it and now I can’t stop thinking about middle school crushes and unresolved emotional needs.

Exhibit M – Printed Bandaids Timestamp: 14:00 Source: GA Hallway / Pouch Contents Overview: Peach-toned bandaids with cartoon bunny and flower prints. Individually wrapped. Unused. Conclusion: Practical. Pain-adjacent. Intentionally cute. Proof of care in even the smallest hurts. Mission impact: Unexpectedly intense. Emotional intel: Practically violent. Status: Logged to Y/N_Masterfile_v12_FINAL_FINAL_REAL.zip Classification: Emotional Evidence – Category: Micro-Tenderness Commentary: She’s prepared to treat paper cuts with visual joy. If she ever puts one of these on him, I’m going to scream.

Exhibit N – Compact Mirror Timestamp: 14:00 Source: GA Hallway / Pouch Contents Overview: Palm-sized compact mirror. Slight rim chip. White with cherry-prints and a worn sticker that reads: “✨Sleepy but trying✨” Conclusion: Personal vanity item with passive self-affirmation. Evidence of gentle self-talk and internalized softness. Mission impact: Devastating. Emotional intel: I need to sit down. Status: Logged to Y/N_Masterfile_v12_FINAL_FINAL_REAL.zip Classification: Emotional Evidence – Category: Self-Soothing Commentary: She’s fighting for her life with glitter and grace. Who is this girl??? Damian. Damian, what have you done.

Final Note: I went into this expecting a dropped pouch. I came out with psychological warfare disguised as cuteness. Bingo.

⸻

DAY THREE: AGENT: A-02 CALLSIGN: Red Hood OBJECTIVE: Infiltrate Gotham Academy’s Art Wing. Identify and secure items of emotional leverage. Resist urge to set fire to everything. TIMESTAMP: 15:15–16:05 HOURS LOCATION: Gotham Academy, East Perimeter

15:15 – Operation: Brushstroke Recon: INITIATED

You didn’t know it, but somewhere across the city, Jason Todd had just swung a leg over his unregistered matte-black motorcycle. The kind that rumbled low enough to feel in your ribs and roared loud enough to swallow a conscience.

No helmet. No license plate. No gods, no laws.

Just Jason, the engine, and the creeping dread that his little brother’s romantic life might be… artistic.

The streets had thinned for the afternoon lull. Traffic lights clicked lazily between red and green, and the air had that late-summer thickness that made Gotham smell like wet brick and cheap coffee. He cut through the avenues like a shadow, weaving between yellow cabs and box trucks without slowing.

Every now and then, he’d catch a glimpse of the Academy’s spires in the distance, rising like something out of a Gothic painting.

Jason didn’t care about the art, not really. But he cared about patterns; about the kind of things people left behind when they weren’t thinking about being watched.

And if you’d left anything behind… he was going to find it.

15:45 – Operation: Ghost Entry: INITIATED

Jason ditched the bike two blocks east of Gotham Academy, tucking it behind a bakery that smelled like cinnamon and bad decisions. The east approach was just as Barbara’s old, archived notes promised: no visible cameras, no posted guards. Only ivy-strangled walls, black iron gates, and the kind of manicured self-importance that made him itch.

The underground staff hatch was exactly where the campus blueprint had marked it: beneath a sagging garden shed with a sun-bleached sign that read CAUTION: FERTILIZER STORAGE in peeling paint. The padlock was dusty, unalarmed, and insultingly easy.

He slipped inside without a sound, suddenly finding himself in a cramped supply closet that smelled like mop water and resignation. Shelves lined both walls, stacked with dented paint cans, paper towel rolls, and spray bottles of industrial cleaner. A busted oscillating fan sat in the corner, its cord knotted like it had been strangled.

Jason eased the hatch shut behind him, letting the muffled world above vanish. His boots sank into the thin, gritty layer of dust coating the tile. The fluorescent light overhead flickered once, then steadied.

He listened. No footsteps. No distant voices. Just the faint thrum of building ventilation.

The door creaked open into a narrow maintenance corridor: unpainted cinderblock walls, scuffed gray linoleum, and the echo of his own breathing. A cart full of folded cafeteria aprons and detergents stood abandoned halfway down the hall like the janitor had been mid-task and vanished.

Jason moved low and quiet, pacing himself to match the rhythm of the ventilation system’s hum. He passed a bulletin board layered with curling flyers: auditions for the winter play, a chess club championship, student council bake sales, etc.

The air changed as he turned to the left into a brighter hallway. The standard institutional beige gave way to deep green walls, lined with glass cases displaying student sculptures and framed paintings.

The deeper he went, the quieter it got. His footsteps echoed too easily in the high-ceilinged hallway. Dust motes drifted in the sunlight streaming through the tall, arched windows. Lockers here were taller, older, their paint chipped in elegant patterns.

A set of double doors ahead bore a brass plaque: ART WING – AUTHORIZED STUDENTS ONLY. Jason smirked. Sure.

Beyond the doors, the hallway narrowed, lined with mismatched benches and a few lopsided potted plants that looked more like performance art than greenery. The walls were colored with thousands of different shades and hues in multiple different shapes and sizes. The air here was saturated with the smell of drying paint and wet clay. Somewhere deeper, a lone pipe ticked in the wall.

And then— Bingo.

The main art room door loomed at the end of the hall. Heavy oak, paint-smeared around the frame from years of careless entry.

Jason’s gloved hand hovered over the door’s handle.

16:00 – Operation: Easel Sweep: INITIATED

The door gave under his hand with a soft click, opening into an array of colors. The place was empty, but alive — every surface screamed of recent chaos. Tall windows along the far wall poured late-afternoon sunlight over the room, igniting a mixture of paint splatters across the hardwood floor. The air was thick with turpentine and something sweeter — maybe linseed oil, maybe just the ghosts of too many still-life fruit bowls.

Tables sat in loose clusters, each one cluttered with brushes, palettes, and mason jars full of cloudy rinse water. Easels formed a crooked perimeter; their canvases turned inward like they had secrets to keep. Some were soft, pastel landscapes; others were jagged, violent bursts of color that looked like they’d been painted with malice and a butter knife.

Jason’s gaze drifted to the far wall, where rows of wooden cubbies marked the territory of each student. The wood was worn smooth, polished by years of anxious hands and frantic work sessions. Names were scrawled hastily in Sharpie across each cubby, paint drips like fingerprints marking their owners.

His eyes locked on a name in neat, slanted handwriting: Y/N L/N.

Her cubby was a still life of its own. Stacks of sketchbooks, all bound with elastic bands stretched tight as if to keep them from spilling their secrets. A folded smock lay stiff and cracked with dried acrylic paint. Next to it, a tin of watercolor pans peeked out, the colors half-used and half-ruined.

The cubby’s tiny walls were a whole different canvas of their own, filled with an array of colors and paints.

Jason knelt, running a gloved finger along the sketchbook stack. They looked innocent enough. But Jason knew better: quiet things held the loudest secrets.

He hesitated. If he took the top books, she’d notice—they were probably the ones she used most recently. The risk was high. His hand moved to his chin in a mock-think pose, dragging out the moment like a Shakespearean tragedy.

Decision time.

Slowly, he slid the bottom sketchbook free from the pile. It was heavier, thicker, like it had soaked up years of unspoken thoughts.

He flipped it open with deliberate care.

Inside, pencil sketches bloomed across the pages — delicate, almost fragile drawings of flowers. Roses with trembling petals, lilies arched in elegant curves, daisies that seemed to lean towards the light. Some were soft, shy, curling under the weight of a gaze like they might wilt away. Others were bold, dark-edged, almost bristling with a protective fierceness, as if daring anyone to look too long.

Jason’s eyes narrowed. There was a story here, but it wasn’t one he was ready to read yet.

He carefully closed the book and slid it into his backpack.

ITEM TWELVE: THE FLORAL WAR DIARIES Great. She’s got a sketchbook full of flowers. That sounds sweet, right? WRONG. These aren’t your usual dainty, sunshine-and-rainbows florals. These flowers look like they’d bite your face off if you got too close. Who knew botany could be a contact sport? Bottom line: Y/N paints flowers like she’s been through something. Either that or she’s secretly auditioning to be the Dark Lord of Floriculture. Also: why do I feel like these flowers are judging me?

He didn’t want to get too deep in this emotional garden maze, so he shut the book and moved on.

His eyes scanned the cluttered cubby until a splash of bright yellow caught his attention. A paintbrush lay discarded in a cup, bristles still thick with wet, stubborn paint. He picked it up, careful not to smear the vivid color.

He stared at it for a long moment before grabbing a tissue from his bag and wrapping the paintbrush in tissues.

Once he was satisfied with how secure the brush was, he added it into the smallest zipper of his backpack.

ITEM THIRTEEN: THE YELLOW SABOTEUR Wet paint. On a brush. Like a ticking time bomb waiting to ruin your day. Yellow, huh? Bright and impossible to ignore. I can only assume this brush has been wielded with the delicate touch of a tornado. Also her cubby walls?? Either she’s an artistic genius or a tiny paint grenade went off in here. Probably both.

Standing up, he stretched his back and glanced around the room, letting his eyes wander over the scattered canvases leaning against the walls and easels. Each painting was like a frozen shout from someone’s soul — some wild and angry, others so soft they might dissolve if you looked too hard. He smirked. Art class was basically the teenage battlefield where feelings went to get messy.

His gaze landed on a collection of canvases lined up haphazardly near the corner, all with chairs facing them. Most were explosions of color and emotion—splattered abstracts, angry swaths of crimson, landscapes that looked like they’d been painted with fists. His eyes roamed the different still canvases brought to life with color. The paintings were gorgeous.

A panda eating bamboo. A koala hanging from a tree branch. AN array of gargoyles on a tall building. The bat-symbol.

They all were detailed to perfection.

But then something caught Jason’s eye.

It was a canvas with a neat little nameplate taped to the corner: Y/N L/N.

The painting was different. Calm but fierce, poetic but raw. It showed a small boat struggling against a storm-tossed sea, waves curling like wild beasts under a dark, swirling night sky. But the sky wasn’t just storm clouds—No, it was alive. Wisps of a magical light spilled through the gaps of the clouds, shimmering like some secret hope trying to break free.

Jason’s breath hitched just a little. It was beautiful. Tragic, even. Like a silent scream wrapped in a lullaby.

He took a step closer, feeling a strange respect for the artistic side of Y/N.

Then his eyes flicked down — and froze.

There, tucked beside the easel, was a chair. The kind that looked like it belonged in a classroom, scratched and beaten but stubbornly holding together. And draped over it was something unmistakable: a hoodie.

Jason slowly picked up the hoodie. It was plain black, unadorned except for the unmistakable navy blue paint stains splattered and smeared across the front and sleeves like a slow-motion explosion of color caught mid-flight. The paint looked fresh in some places, cracked and peeling in others, as if time itself had fought to wash away the evidence but failed.

He swallowed a quiet chuckle, because he knew he’d seen that hoodie before — more times than he could count. He knew that hoodie. He’d seen it in the manor, in the Batcave, in the car, and too many other places to count. Damian’s hoodie. Not just any hoodie, but the hoodie. The one Damian wore when he disappeared into the Batcave at odd hours. The one Damian has like, fifteen copies of because it’s just that comfortable. The one Damian definitely reaches for when he doesn’t know what to wear. It was plain, tough, and stubborn — just like the teen who owned it.

Seeing it here, so out of place among the paints and brushes, felt like stumbling onto a secret no one meant to share.

Jason crouched down, the floor creaking slightly under his weight, and pulled the hoodie closer. His fingers traced the fabric, feeling the softness under the worn surface and the sharp texture of dried paint crusted into the threads. He pulled back the collar to check the tag, a habit he’d developed during his years of sneaking through closets, lockers, and secret compartments (do not ask which closets.).

Sure enough, the tag was unmistakable: a familiar logo from Damian’s go-to clothing store—nothing flashy, all practical, and definitely not catered to anyone looking for frills or fashion statements. The label read plainly: “Men’s Cut – Custom Size.” Not a girl’s size. Not something borrowed or shared casually. This hoodie was made for Damian—his exact size, his exact fit, his exact style. Made exactly for him after a custom order to this store.

Jason let the hoodie slip from his hands slowly, almost reverently, before folding and stuffing it carefully into his backpack. The thing smelled faintly of Damian’s signature cologne, a faint floral perfume, and paint. The mixture of Damian’s manly cologne, Y/N’s feminine perfume, and the neutrality of the paint scents stirred a weird sense of happiness in Jason’s chest. It was like carrying a piece of Damian’s world, one Jason rarely ever saw, one filled with love and joy.

“This,” Jason muttered under his breath, “is exactly the kind of mess I was looking for.”

The storm painting, the ruined jacket — they weren’t just art supplies and discarded clothing. They were clues. Pieces of a story that maybe, just maybe, had a lot more color than anyone was letting on.

And Jason wasn’t about to stop digging now.

ITEM FOURTEEN: DAMIAN’S HOODIE — THE PAINT-RIDDEN SACRIFICE This poor thing looks like it fought its way through an emotional paint grenade explosion and lost spectacularly. like Y/N was trying to decorate Damian by force. I’m pretty sure Damian has no idea he’s accidentally turned into a walking art project. somewhere deep down, this hoodie is screaming, “Why me?!” and it smells like Dami/N’s wholeass CHILD! for a moment there I thought this was domesticslly cute, then I remembered it was Damian… not able to be cute but like…. He GAVE HER HIS HOODIE TO WEAR WHILE PAINTING WHATTTTTT are we sure he wasn’t taken by Ra’s and then replaced by a clone???

He let out a slow, sarcastic sigh. “So, this is where the soft underbelly of my brother’s soul lives. Paintbrushes, flowers that fight back, and a hoodie that’s seen things.”

Jason smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching into a reluctant smile.

Maybe it’s not all bad. Maybe this mess means something. Or maybe it’s just another puzzle piece in this ridiculous saga of ‘Damian’s Dating Disaster.’

He hefted his pack, the collected evidence feeling heavier than just paint and paper — it carried a story he was just beginning to understand.

Jason stood up, a genuine smile creeping across his face as he let the quiet weight of the discovery settle. The mission wasn’t just about spying anymore. It was about understanding. And somehow, that hoodie was the loudest thing in the silent room.

And Jason?

He felt peace.

Because as much as that little shit got on his nerves…

Jason was glad Damian seemed happy…

But he wasn’t too sure that this WAS Damian and not a clone…

Anyways.

⸻

DAY THREE AGENT: A-01 CALLSIGN: Nightwing OBJECTIVE: Evaluate Subject L/N’s acrobatic skill and secure “favorite future brother-in-law” status through strategic gear procurement. TIMESTAMP: 16:00 HOURS LOCATION: Dick’s Bedroom at Wayne Manor — Overseeing GA Camera Surveillance Hub

16:00 – Acrobat-to-Acrobat

Dick Grayson had been in deep surveillance mode for a solid thirty minutes now, elbows on his desk, chin in his hands, eyes locked on the grainy Gotham Academy Athletic Center’s camera feed.

You were in the middle of a tumbling pass, every muscle firing in perfect sync. Even through the low-res security footage, he could tell you were good—really good (not as good as him but… no one was). Acrobat-to-acrobat, you had his respect. Future-brother-in-law-to-be, you had his investment.

You seemed to be getting ready to hit another series of acrobatic moves, starting to run.

“Okay,” he murmured, tapping the desk in rhythm to your approach run. “Solid speed… weight’s forward… and—” You hit a flawless handspring into a twisting layout. Dick actually clapped.

He grabbed the notebook lying open beside him, the cover labeled in neat block letters: SUBJECT: Y/N L/N — Acrobatics Evaluation.

Note: Landing: clean. Arm extension: textbook. 9.2 out of 10. She sticks it like a pro. Chef’s kiss.

He turned his attention back to the screen to see you hit a front tuck on beam, and Dick tilted his head like a coach at the Olympics.

Note: Needs a touch more wrist pressure on takeoff to maximize vertical lift. Still… gorgeous execution.

You performed another dismount. Flawless.

Note: Graceful exit. Doesn’t flinch. Girl’s got nerves of steel.

His gaze drifted lower in the frame—to her gear. Worn grips, faded leotard, chalk bag that had clearly survived multiple eras of her gymnastics career. It hit him right in the big-brother heart.

“Oh, no. Nope. We’re not letting our girl train like that.”

Before his brain could argue, his fingers were already flying across the keyboard.

Dick opened a new tab, typing in “Wayne Enterprises Gymnastics Gear” (Bruce added that unit for him)(nepo baby), and went full vigilante shopper:

Leotards in every possible color, from “Midnight Elegance” to “Cotton Candy Daydream.” … each color in 5 different sizes.

Grips in every size imaginable—because guessing was for quitters

Chalk bags in every shade of the Pantone spectrum

Matching warm-up sets in XS through XXL in every color in stock

A custom-made black beam bag with “Y/N” embroidered in glitter thread—because presentation mattered.

Chalk bags in enough shades to make a rainbow jealous.

Did he know her favorite color? No. Did he know her size? Absolutely not. Was that going to stop him? Please. Dick Grayson didn’t let minor details like facts stand between him and his “Favorite Future Brother-in-Law” title.

He hit ‘Overnight Shipping’ like the fate of the world depended on it. “Because heroes don’t wait five-to-seven business days.”

He also called in Bruce’s WE secretary to have her rush the order.

“Operation Favorite Future Brother-in-Law is officially underway,” he announced to his empty room.

On the camera feed, you had started another tumbling pass. He pointed at the screen like you could hear him. “Point your toes, kid. Not because you have to, but because it looks cooler.” Then softer, more to himself: “You’re killing it.”

Note: Could point toes harder. Still a queen.

From downstairs, the faint click of the Manor’s front door echoed up the stairwell, followed by the familiar shuffle of Damian’s school shoes on marble. Dick’s head lifted immediately.

He closed the notebook with a crisp snap, but not before scribbling one last line in the margin:

Note to self: ask Alfred if it’s socially acceptable to gift someone fifty-seven pieces of gymnastics gear at once.

As he stood, the order confirmation still fresh on his screen, he could already imagine Damian’s face when Dick gifted you the gear. And honestly? That was half the fun.

⸻

DAY THREE: AGENT: A-03 CALLSIGN: Red Robin OBJECTIVE: Link Material Purchases to Behavioral Affection Indicators. TIMESTAMP: 16:00 HOURS LOCATION: Command Post Alpha, Watching Over: Gotham Academy

16:00 – The Giftpocalypse

Tim had already spent the better part of the afternoon swimming in a sea of plastic evidence bags and Post-It-labeled “Exhibits,” each one meticulously sealed and waiting to be catalogued. The floor around his desk looked like a crime lab met an obsessive college student’s desk—half investigation, half coffee-fueled chaos.

He was supposed to be sorting it. That had been the plan.

But plans had a way of derailing when you were as sleep deprived as Tim Drake, and a new thread had just dangled itself in front of him, one too tempting to ignore.

You were in the middle of your gymnastics class, and surveillance from the GA cams confirmed you were safely preoccupied. Which meant Tim had a perfect window to dig into something he’d been curious about all day: your recent purchasing activity.

Not the boring, standard public-order-history stuff anyone could see. No. Tim was about to pull up every online order placed on your home’s Wi-Fi network in the past month, plus a timestamped log of every package delivered to the L/N estate’s front door.

And yes, he could explain how he was doing this. But he wouldn’t.

He slid into his desk chair, tapping the keys in a practiced rhythm until the first list populated on his screen. Lines of data populated the screen. Tracking numbers. Item descriptions. Payment timestamps. All sorted neatly because Tim Drake did not tolerate chaos in digital spaces.

Lines of data populated the screen. Tracking numbers. Item descriptions. Payment timestamps. All sorted neatly because Tim Drake did not tolerate chaos in digital spaces.

A low whistle slipped out of him as he scrolled. “Oh… oh-ho-ho.”

L/N Estate — Order Log — Past 30 Days:

Extra-Large Luxury Gift Box — Delivered 13 days ago.

“Ooh~ Someone is planning something bigg~”

Custom-Made Hoodie With A Great Dane Mid-Jump Embroidery — Delivered 11 days ago

“Dayumm gurll! Titus? On a hoodie? That’s definitely a gift for Damian.”

Custom-Made Sketchbook With ‘D.W.’ Embossed On The Cover — Delivered 9 days ago.

“…Okay, that’s… not subtle.”

Set of Japanese Ink Brushes & Bottled Ink — Delivered 8 days ago

“Alright, alright, Damian does use those exact— wait.”

Organic Cat Treats in Bulk 5kg bag — Delivered 7 days ago.

“She does not have a cat…. But Damian does…?”

Personalized Bookmark, Engraved in Arabic: ‘You are my favorite story.’ —Delivered 5 days ago.

“…Huh.”

Limited Edition Chess Set Black & Gold Pieces. — Delivered 3 days ago.

“Damian’s gonna lose his mind over this.”

Handmade Ceramic Tea Set — Out for delivery.

Tim sat back in his chair.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment, eyes flicking over the list again and again. The hoodie. The brushes. The sketchbook. The chess set. The tea set. It wasn’t random—it was a coordinated strike.

A giant, weeks-long, romantic coordinated strike.

This was a carefully woven, heartfelt campaign of gifts — a “bombshell of affection,” as he mentally labeled it.

He let out a quiet groan. “This is worse than I thought.”

Flagged Notation For Review – Coordinated Romantic Assault (a.k.a. ‘Mega Gift Package’) Timestamp: Compiled over the past 30 days Source: Combined purchase/delivery history – L/N Estate Overview: Cross-referencing Y/N’s recent purchasing patterns with delivery logs reveals a sustained, strategic gifting operation. Items are thematically consistent with Subject Damian Wayne’s known personal interests, habits, and aesthetic preferences. Timeline suggests deliberate pacing: high-quality, personalized items arriving in staggered sequence over a two-week-plus window. Final delivery—handmade ceramic tea set—pending arrival. Evidence Items: - Luxury gift box – large scale, suitable for composite presentation. - Custom Titus hoodie – direct pet association. - Sketchbook with “D.W.” monogram – personalized artistic tool. - Japanese ink brushes/ink – matches Damian’s favored media. - Organic cat treats – aligns with Alfred the cat’s dietary pattern. - Arabic-engraved bookmark – emotionally intimate messaging. - Limited edition chess set – matches Damian’s competitive interest. - Handmade tea set – traditional, minimalist, implies shared use. Analysis: - Intentional Targeting: Each item corresponds directly to known Damian Wayne preference profiles. - Emotional Layering: Mix of practical, sentimental, and high-value gifts. - Delivery Cadence: Suggests anticipation-building strategy; not random purchase spree. - Relationship Implication: This is not casual. This is “I know you so well I can shop inside your soul” territory. - Operational Name: Project Spoil-the-Demon™. Conclusion: This is not happenstance. It’s a coordinated affection offensive. Classification: Behavioral Evidence – Category: Romantic Campaign. Status: Logged to Y/N_Masterfile_v12_FINAL_FINAL_REAL.zip Commentary: This is worse than I thought. She’s not just “kind of into him.” She is staging a full-scale, multi-pronged gift bombardment like it’s Valentine’s Day, his birthday, and their wedding anniversary all at once. The hoodie alone would have been incriminating. The Arabic engraving is basically a confession. This is the relationship equivalent of a siege—except the castle wants to be conquered.

Tim’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again, because apparently his brain had skipped to buffering mode. “Oh… my god,” he breathed. “She’s building him… a gift arsenal.”

⸻

DAY THREE: AGENT: A-01 CALLSIGN: Nightwing OBJECTIVE: On-Site Surveillance – Lunch Observation & Shadowing Subject Wayne TIMESTAMP: 16:10 HOURS LOCATION: Wayne Manor

16:10 – The Dining Room Stakeout

Dick knew Damian’s patterns. He’d memorized them during years of “bonding” (read: getting side-eyed until he left the room… but Damian warmed up to him now so it doesn’t happen so often anymore). Lunch was sacred — not because of the food, but because it was one of the few times Damian let his guard down without realizing it.

Dick knew precisely where to plant himself..

The Wayne Manor dining room could make a person feel small.

Not just because the table was long enough to host a diplomatic summit, but because the room itself seemed to be judging you. Dark wood panels lined the walls like they were carved from the trunks of ancient, disapproving trees. A chandelier hung low enough to light every pore on your face but high enough to make you feel like you weren’t important enough to reach it. (Dick lost count of the amount of times he’s swung on this particular one)

It was a room designed for quiet, formal meals… and, for Dick, quiet, formal surveillance.

It was also one of the easiest places to observe Damian Wayne without him catching on — if you knew how to blend into the furniture.

He’d been in position for six minutes: halfway down the left side of the table, a glass of water in front of him, a folded Gotham Gazette spread just enough to obscure his face if Damian glanced his way. His “casual” posture had been carefully calibrated: elbow on table, chin resting on hand, eyes allegedly scanning the crossword puzzle.

He wasn’t reading the news — he was tracking the door at the far end.

From the far door came the faint sound of polished shoes on hardwood.

Right on schedule, the door opened.

Showtime.

Damian entered, walking like he owned the floor his feet grazed… well, technically, he did. He had changed out of his school uniform into a black compression shirt and sweatpants. His dark hair was perfectly neat save for a single, stubborn strand that had slipped loose.

He gave Dick a single glance that managed to convey both recognition and “you have no business here,” then took his seat three chairs from the head of the table.

Alfred followed moments later, wheeling in a tray that looked like it belonged at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

The air shifted as the scents reached Dick — roasted vegetables, citrus, the faint nuttiness of quinoa, and something smokier beneath it all.

Alfred wheeled the cart to Damian’s usual seat.

Dick’s mind took notes on its own.

Today’s menu:

Main: roasted sweet potato wedges dusted with smoked paprika.

Side: sautéed broccolini with garlic and lemon.

Additional: quinoa salad with cucumber, mint, and pomegranate seeds.

Condiment: a ramekin of tahini dressing, placed precisely at 12 o’clock relative to his plate.

Beverage: chilled hibiscus tea in a tall glass.

The kid sat. Ate. Methodically. One bite, chew, swallow, sip tea.

And the whole time? That expression. Neutral.

Dick watched from behind the safety of the newspaper. He wasn’t looking for what Damian was eating — he knew the kid’s plant-based habits by now — but how. He was observing the ritual.

Chewing cadence: consistent, unhurried.

Cutlery grip: formal; he’d definitely been trained by the league and Alfred.

Distraction level: minimal, except…

There it was. A small, black notebook set to Damian’s right.

Dick squinted. Observing and cataloguing.

Bite of sweet potato → chew exactly six times → sip hibiscus tea.

Forkful of quinoa salad → chew eight times → small pause to write something in the black notebook set to his right.

Broccolini spear → deliberate slice into thirds → chew slowly → another glance at the notebook.

The notebook.

Its cover worn just enough to look handled daily. It rested half-under his napkin, angled away from the room. Between bites, Damian would nudge it open and jot something down in small, tight handwriting, then close it again.

no open textbook, no class schedule sheet = not school related

the pen moved too smoothly, no sketching of crime scene layouts or shorthand cipher = not patrol related

This was personal.

He took a slow sip of water, eyes flicking over the rim of the glass to study the micro-expressions on Damian’s face. A faint crease in the brow when writing. A barely-there curve at the mouth when rereading.

Damian paused.

Glanced up.

Made direct eye-contact with Dick.

Smirked.

Jotted something down in the notebook.

Smirked again.

Kept eating.

WTF?

Dick leaned forward in his chair, pretending to scroll his phone while his eyes tracked every move.

Damian finished his meal exactly 23 minutes after he’d begun. Stood. Collected his dishes. Rinsed them without being asked. The picture of politeness, which, for Damian, meant something was up.

And then, Dick saw Damian’s shadow leave the kitchen, coming back.

The notebook went into Damian’s hands. Smooth. Like it had value. Like it was important.

Damian held onto it, guarding it close to his thigh as he walked.

The motion was quick but deliberate, the kind of reflex that comes from repetition. That notebook was always close.

Dick’s instincts screamed.

As Damian walked away, Dick gave him a 10 second head start then followed.

Damian went into Bruce’s study then the telltale click of the grandfather clock opening to lead towards the entrance of the Batcave was heard.

Dick’s heart rate ticked upward.

Because now, finally, the universe had offered it to him on a silver platter.

The Perfect Opportunity to snoop.

He turned around, and made his way toward Damian’s bedroom.

Final Observation: - Subject appears to be in possession of a classified personal artifact (suspected to be emotional in nature). - Recommendation: further intel acquisition via notebook retrieval or photographic evidence. - Risk level: extremely high (subject will stab). - Reward level: equally high

⸻

SUSPICIONS PRIMARY SUBJECT AT THE MOMENT: Grayson, Richard SECONDARY SUBJECTS: Todd, Jason – Drake, Timothy OBJECTIVE: Counter-surveillance — Observation of Observer TIMESTAMP: 16:10 HOURS LOCATION: Wayne Manor Dining Room

16:10 – Dining Room

Damian was aware of Grayson’s presence before he opened the door. The man was incapable of subtlety (outside of the field). Even from the hallway, Damian had clocked the slight displacement of light across the hardwood, the faint crinkling sound of cheap newsprint, and the way the air carried that faint smell of his cologne.

It was always the same. Grayson assumed stealth was a matter of posture and props. Pathetic.

He stepped inside, calm, controlled, the black compression shirt and sweatpants clung to his skin—a comfortable attire compared to his school uniform.

His notebook, black and meticulously maintained, rested in his right hand, close to his thigh. Every suspicious detail from the morning—every anomaly, every minor suspicion—was already logged. Today’s entries had started before third period even began, and they were extensive.

__________

Notebook Entries — Suspicious Interactions So Far: 1. Date: Monday Evening Location: Batcave Pre-Patrol Main Suspects: Grayson, Richard – Todd, Jason – Drake, Timothy Suspicious Behaviour Overview: • Grayson was adjusting gloves repeatedly; overcompensation noted = hiding something and trying to act casual. • Todd tense, muscle twitching observed and signs of excessive sweat without prior exercise = nervous. • Drake absorbed in irrelevant file; deviation from standard tactical pre-patrol protocol = trying to avoid being spoken to • Coordination between three actors: suspicious. Pattern recognition: ongoing. 2. Date: Monday Evening Location: Gotham Rooftops and Streets (Patrol Route) Patrol Main Suspect: Todd, Jason Suspicious Behaviour Overview: • Emotional irregularity detected; subject displayed subtle micro-twitches when hypothetical emotional scenarios presented. • Green sticky note under strap; probable coded message. • Analysis: potential destabilization attempt; log for behavioral pattern. 3. Date: Wednesday Morning Location: Gotham Academy, Chemistry Lab 2nd Period Main Suspect: Unknown – Most likely: Drake, Timothy Suspicious Behaviour Overview: • Smoke detector (northeast corner) displaced slightly during setup; lens rotation detected before 2nd period began. • Drone disguised as one of Drake’s inventions. • Was placed in Gotham Academy. Possible purpose: covert surveillance of Subject Y/N. • Immediate conclusion: Y/N is current target of active monitoring. • Operator: high likelihood of it being Drake. • Threat: ongoing. • Countermeasures required. 4. Date: Tuesday Morning Location: Gotham Academy, English Classroom 3rd Period Main Suspect: Unknown – Most likely: Drake, Timothy Suspicious Behaviour Overview: • Noticed a new smoke detector, the same as the one that rotated during chemistry class on Wednesday (the next day) 5. Date: Wednesday Afternoon Location: Gotham Academy, Locker Hallway Between Periods Main Suspect: Unknown Suspicious Behaviour Overview: • During time away from my girlfriend, Y/N, due to distance between lockers, Y/N drops pink pouch behind her. • As my view is obstructed by a passing student, the object disappears. • Operator/Thief unknown. • Possible micro-drone retrieval. • Pouch recognized as Y/N’s “emergency pouch”, from earlier personal interactions with my girlfriend, I have concluded and remembered that the pouch includes: → Cherry lip balm of the brand: “Summer Fridays” – condition: brand new, bought last week → Plain black hair tie – condition: lightly stretched → Strawberry-scented lotion of the brand “eos” – condition: approximately 50% full → Band-aids of a peachy color with cartoon bunny and flower prints bought from local pharmacy – count: about 3-4 band-aids in the pouch → Compact mirror with cherry-prints (gift from me) bought from the “Graceful Glow” beauty store + a sticker that reads: “Sleepy but trying” with sparkles, bought from “Graphite Dreams” art supply store • High priority: retrieval of pouch or purchasing of identical pouch and pouch contents (Y/N loves that pouch.)

__________

Grayson’s presence at lunch was simply the next data point.

Damian settled into his usual chair with the precision of a practiced predator, every movement measured, every angle accounted for. Alfred’s tray arrived moments later, the scents of roasted vegetables, citrus, and the faint smokiness of paprika filling the air. Damian’s eyes barely registered it. His focus was elsewhere.

He placed the notebook on the table, partially beneath his napkin, angled so that no casual observer could detect its contents. Then, Damian opened the small black notebook, flipping to a fresh page. The pen scratched quietly as he began logging observations, not about the meal, not about himself, but about the intruder in plain sight.

He noted the familiar signs immediately: Grayson’s posture, elbow propped on the table, newspaper strategically folded, eyes flicking under the rim of the paper at the far end of the room. The usual display of “casual” casualness, utterly transparent to Damian.

Damian pretended to not pay his eldest brother any mind as he took a measured bite of sweet potato. Six chews. Sip tea. Forkful of quinoa. Eight chews. Pen to paper.

He didn’t have to look up to know Grayson was watching every movement like it was a code to crack. Which, in a way, it was—but the code wasn’t for him.

Notebook Entries — Dining Room Observation • 16:12 – Observer detected: Richard Grayson. Attempting concealment behind newspaper. • 16:13 – Grayson shifts elbow. Chin in palm. Feigned casual. Micro-twitch of left eyebrow indicates overcompensation. • 16:17 – Head tilts left slightly every time I shift my hand or pen. Eye movement predictable: darting toward notebook approximately every 12–15 seconds. • Micro-expressions cataloged: subtle smirk at 16:11; slight furrow at 16:15; dilation noted in eyes at 16:17. • Posture: casual, relaxed; weight distributed unevenly. Non-field stealth technique, inadequate. • Observation conclusion: Grayson actively monitoring me, unaware of counter-surveillance. Advantage: primary subject under full observation.

He let the silence stretch. Then looked up. Met Grayson’s eyes.

And smirked.

Underlined the last note. Added:

• 16:24 — Subject’s pupils dilated upon eye contact. Signs of slight panic. He is curious. He believes he is winning. Incorrect.

Smirked again. Returned to eating.

Grayson’s “casual” phone scroll attempt was almost insulting in its transparency. Damian noted it without breaking rhythm.

He finished precisely 23 minutes after he started eating. Right on schedule. Damian had training to do. The youngest Wayne got up to the kitchen, cleaned his plate, rinsed it, dried it. He left the notebook closed on the table… just to taunt his brother.

Upon returning to the dining room, he took the notebook in hand, kept it close to his thigh—the natural carry position for an item one refuses to relinquish.

He left the dining room without hurry, heading toward Bruce’s study.

He knew Grayson was following. Even if there was no sound to indicate it, Damian simply knew the way his brother functioned,

Damian knew he was busted.

His brothers knew about you.

But he didn’t want you to notice.

He needed to protect you.

He needed to make sure you didn’t get too affected b his brothers’ amateur attempts at surveillance.

He knew an average civilian wouldn’t notice these practiced moves but he didn’t want to take any chances with you.

He definitely didn’t want these heathens to scare you off.

So he would end this little game before it came anywhere near his beloved.

⸻

DAY THREE: AGENT: A-02 CALLSIGN: Red Hood OBJECTIVE: Leave Gotham Academy Art Wing without detection TIMESTAMP: 16:10 HOURS LOCATION: Gotham Academy – Art Wing → East Gate

16:11 – Operation: Exfiltration: INITIATED

Jason Todd was not the kind of guy who “strolled casually.” If he was walking anywhere, it was with purpose — usually toward trouble or away from it, depending on how much trouble he’d just caused.

Right now? Definitely away from it.

The Art Room door clicked shut behind him, sealing in the faint scent of acrylic paint and pretension. His backpack felt heavier now, thanks to the hoodie he’d rolled up and stuffed in there like contraband, the sketchbook carefully tucked inside, and the paintbrush he’d wrapped in paper towels like it was an ancient artifact.

This was the good stuff. Evidence. The kind that made the whole snooping worth it.

He adjusted the bag on his shoulder, scanning the hallway. No students. No teachers. Just him and the echo of his boots on the polished tile. Perfect.

He kept his pace casual, like a guy who totally belonged here and wasn’t about to vanish through a secret staff access hatch like a petty criminal in a heist movie.

His escape plan was simple: take the east hall, cut through the service corridor, slip out via the janitor’s supply closet hatch again, leave GA, and end up on the quiet alley where his bike was stashed.

In and out. Smooth as butter.

Easy.

Or at least, it was.

He rounded the last corner toward the service hall…. and stopped dead in his tracks.

There, standing between him and the gorgeous supply closet exit, was… a janitor.

Not just any janitor. This guy had presence. Mid-to-late fifties, wiry build, Gotham Academy baseball cap pulled low. Eyes sharp enough to tell Jason instantly that this wasn’t the kind of custodian who tuned out the world behind a mop bucket. No. This guy noticed things. Remembered them. Probably filed them away in some mental Rolodex for later.

The mop handle rested against his shoulder like a weapon, and the key ring on his belt jingled faintly when he shifted his weight.

And those eyes… locked onto Jason immediately.

His gaze swept over Jason like he was cataloguing the exact level of ‘you don’t belong here.”

Jason gave him a friendly nod. “Afternoon.”

The janitor didn’t smile. “Students ain’t supposed to be in this hall after hours.”

“Good thing I’m not a student,” Jason said easily. “I’m, uh… helping out.”

“With what?”

Jason glanced down at himself — black hoodie, dark jeans, motorcycle boots. Absolutely zero indicators of any sanctioned school activity.

“…Maintenance.”

The janitor raised an eyebrow so high it could’ve scraped the ceiling. “Uh-huh.”

16:17 – Operation: Negotiation Protocol: INITIATED

Jason sighed. “Look, man. You seem like the kinda guy who’s been around the block a few times. You know how it is. People wander into places they… technically shouldn’t.”

The janitor didn’t blink. “And?”

“And sometimes,” Jason continued, fishing into his pocket, “it’s just easier to make those little inconveniences disappear.”

The janitor didn’t answer, but the faint squint in his eyes suggested interest.

Jason pulled out a crumpled twenty and smoothed it flat with one hand, holding it between two fingers like a peace offering.

The janitor stared at it for a beat, then back at Jason. “Son, that’s not enough to make me forget what you look like.”

Jason grinned, pulling out another twenty. Then another. Then two others. Five crisp bills now sat in his palm, fanned like a poker hand.

The janitor’s lips twitched — not quite a smile, but the kind of expression people make when they’re weighing the price of silence.

“…You got a name?” he asked.

“Not one you need to remember,” Jason replied. “All you gotta know is I was never here and you never saw me.”

The janitor chuckled under his breath and pocketed the cash. “Exit’s that way, son. Don’t scuff the floor, I just mopped.”

Jason grinned. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

16:22 – Operation: Exfiltration: INITIATED

He slipped past, opened the supply closet door, and ducked through the narrow, dimly lit space until he reached the side exit. The cool air outside hit him like a reward — crisp, carrying the faint smell of rain and city exhaust.

He headed toward his hidden bike two blocks over.

MISSION PROGRESSING WELL.

EVIDENCE ACQUIRED.

Also… GA janitorial staff is now better funded. Side mission accomplished.

⸻

DAY THREE: AGENT: A-01 CALLSIGN: Nightwing OBJECTIVE: Covert Search – Subject Wayne’s Personal Quarters TIMESTAMP: 16:40 HOURS LOCATION: Wayne Manor – Damian Wayne’s Bedroom

16:41 – Breach Point

There were rules in Wayne Manor. Some were written down. Most weren’t.

Rule #14: Do not enter Bruce’s room. Rule #17: If you get caught switching Tim’s coffee to decaf… ABORT! Rule #19: NEVER make waffles without making some for Steph. Rule #23: Do not enter Damian’s room without a helmet.

And yet, here Dick was: palm resting on the doorknob of enemy territory.

This wasn’t casual curiosity. This was investigative necessity. The opportunity had presented itself like a divine blessing: Damian was occupied in the Batcave, locked in one of his obsessive duels with the sparring drones. Alfred was safely stationed in the kitchen, Bruce was on a mission with the league, the girls were not in the manor, Duke was somewhere, Tim had disappeared into a caffeine-fueled haze in his room again, and Jason… well, Jason was a problem for another day.

Dick took a breath, twisted the knob, and slipped inside.

16:43 – The Quiet of the Beast’s Lair

Damian’s room was unnervingly still. Not silent, but still. The air smelled faintly of parchment, clean linen, and the barest hint of lavender soap. Everything was precise, deliberate.

Bed: perfectly made. Books: aligned by height, spines flush. Desk: bare except for a stack of sketchpads and one fountain pen aligned exactly parallel to the desk edge.

Dick’s lips curved. Oh, this was going to be good.

Rule number 1 of high-stakes snooping: Photograph before touching. He drew his phone, snapping wide shots from three angles, then began his sweep.

The desk drawers slid open without a sound. Drawer one: pristine school assignments, clipped and labeled by date. Drawer two: pencils and fountain pens lined with military precision.

And then — jackpot.

In the corner sat a small paper bag, folded with surgical precision, sealed with a neat strip of tape. Dick crouched, phone in hand, capturing every angle before gently peeling it open.

Inside: a single cupcake, wrapped in wax paper. Pink frosting swirled high, crowned with a tiny sugar heart. A folded note lay beneath it.

The note read: “I know strawberry is your favourite so I baked you a cupcake.” – Y/N

EVIDENCE PIECE K: THE MYSTICAL STAWBERRY SWEET TREAT AND THE NOTE OF ROMANCE THIS WAS NOT STORE-BOUGHT. NOT GENERIC. THIS WAS CUSTOMIZED AFFECTION THE KIND YOU ONLY BAKE FOR SOMEONE YOU KNOW INTIMATELY. HIGH EMOTIONAL SIGNIFICANCE.

Dick took multiple pictures of both the note and cupcake. He then used the pictures he took before touching them for reference, putting both items in place just the way he found them, down to the angle.

Damian would notice if it was even slightly creased.

“Exhibit J,” he murmured, committing it to the official log in his mind.

17:01 – The Planner Revelation

His gaze shifted to the bookshelf. Books and sketchpads stood in perfect formation, but nestled between them was Damian’s school planner.

Black cover, gold-embossed initials.

Snap. Snap. Snap. (Document position before breaching.)

Dick opened it carefully. Neat handwriting filled every square inch — no doodles, no idle scribbles. And as Dick checked for secret notes like he was taught between the book edges…. He found it.

There, tucked in the inner back pocket… the real treasure.

A polaroid image… of Y/N crouched beside Titus, one arm wrapped loosely around his neck. Mid-laugh. They seemed to be in the local dog park.

EVIDENCE PIECE L: THE POLAROID OF ADMIRATION SHE KNOWS THE DOG. THE DOG KNOWS HER. SHE HAS MET THE DOG. THE DOG APPROVES OF HER. THIS IS HUGE. DAMIAN TOOK POLAROID PICTURES OF THEM. AND PUT IT IN HIS PLANNER. HE PROBABLY STARES AT THIS WHEN HE MISSES HER. OH MY GOD.

Dick couldn’t help but smile. “Ohhh, this is going on the board,” he whispered, taking multiple images of it before returning it to its original place and tucking the planner back into the bookshelf.

Wow.

17:08 – The Backpack Payload

Just as Dick turned to see what else he could look for, his gaze found it.

On the floor beside the desk, Damian’s backpack sat with the zipper dead center — of course. Damian and his undiagnosed OCD. Dick eased it open. Inside, right on top of the books, sat a black pencil case, edges unscuffed, zipper perfectly smooth.

This was going to be a goldmine of evidence. (Hopefully)

Another round of photos. Then, the reveal.

Nothing could have prepared Dick Grayson for what he had witnessed lying in that pencil case.

Glitter gel pens.

The kind Y/N buys in bulk.

In every single color imaginable.

Beneath them?

Mini origamis. Some in the shape of stars and some in the shape of hearts.

WHAT. WAS. THAT.

Oh wow wow wow wow wow.

Dick got right to taking pictures.

EVIDENCE PIECE M: LOVELANGUAGE = GEL PEN COLLECTION I CAN NOT BELIEVE HE HAS SPARE GEL PENS FOR HER. THAT BOY NEVER USES COLOR. ONLY HIGHLIGHTS AND BLACK PENS. HE HAS THEM FOR HER. AND JUST WHEN I THOUGHT THIS COULDN’T GET ANY CUTER. DID DAMIAN WAYNE JUST… OUT-ROMANCE ME? EVEN I HAVE NEVER DONE THAT FOR ANY GIRL OH LORD!! I THINK I NEED TIPS FROM THE GRANDPA IN A TEE BOD. OH GODDD!

EVIDENCE PIECE N: LOVE IN PAPER ORIGAMIS HE HAS MINI ORIGAMI HEARTS AND STARS. IN HIS PENCIL CASE EVERYTIME HE OPENS IT HE SEES THEM HE IS SOFT MY HEART CAN NOT HANDLE THIS ANYMORE! SEND HELP.

Dick’s grin spread into dangerous territory. This was gold. Pure, uncut, hang-it-on-the-wall kind of gold.

Dick did not think he could handle any of this anymore.

He made sure to check all of Damian’s textbooks for anything… nothing.

He put everything back into place, making sure to move the zippers to the middle and smooth out the crease of the backpack.

His next target: Damian’s blazer.

After intense cataloguing and picture taking, Dick felt safe enough to touch the uniform hanging in Damian’s walk in closet.

Just as he was checking the inner pocket, finding some money in it, he was interrupted by a sound.

17:31 – Extraction and Escape

Footsteps in the hall. Light but fast.

Time’s up.

Dick’s reflexes kicked in — items returned to exact positions, every fold, every angle replicated. He slid out of the room just as a Duke rounded the hall.

He leaned casually against the wall, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly as if he’d been there all along.

Duke was too immersed in a TikTok he was watching to notice Agent A-01.

Dick let out a slow, silent exhale.

Goal: Take Advantage Of This Perfect Opportunity — SUCCESS.

⸻

DAY THREE: AGENT: A-03 CALLSIGN: Red Robin OBJECTIVE: Break + Evidence Sorting TIMESTAMP: 17: 30 HOURS LOCATION: Wayne Manor – Kitchen

17:30 – Snack-Based Forensics (Interrupted)

Tim Drake was operating on what could only be described as dangerous levels of caffeine and self-righteousness.

He had gone beyond “tired” into a state best described as functioning on spite alone.

He was completely exhausted.

Not the normal exhausted where you can at least form words and pretend you’ve been outside in the past 48 hours. No — this was the deep, soul-dehydrating kind that only came from spending an entire day neck-deep in drone footage, butler conspiracies, and the discovery that Y/N L/N had apparently launched a romantic siege against Damian Wayne.

He needed a break.

So here he was, standing at the Manor’s marble kitchen island, surrounded by an army of Ziploc evidence bags, a roll of masking tape, and his label maker.

Tim snapped on fresh gloves with the grim focus of someone about to defuse a bomb.

His laptop was open to a spreadsheet titled Y/N_Masterfile_v12_FINAL_FINAL_REAL.zip, column after column of timestamps and commentary. The cursor blinked impatiently, waiting for the next entry.

He was halfway through sealing the bandaids when a slow, deliberate thunk-thunk-thunk of sneakers against tile echoed from the hall.

Stephanie Brown wandered in, nursing an iced coffee that could hydrate a small village. She stopped dead in the doorway, straw halfway to her mouth.

“…What in the Target clearance aisle crime scene is this?”

Tim didn’t look up. “Evidence.”

Steph blinked. “…Are you doing a beauty haul or solving a murder?”

“Don’t touch anything,” Tim said sharply, without looking up.

Steph’s eyes narrowed. “Did you… sniff the lip balm?”

“No—maybe—wait—Steph, put that down!”

Too late. She’d already plucked Exhibit J from the lineup, holding it up to the light. “‘Exhibit J: Cherry Lip Balm. Emotional Evidence. Category: Casual Intimacy.’” She looked at him over the top of the bag. “Timothy. You’re unwell.”

“It’s part of a pattern,” Tim muttered, reaching for it.

She stepped back, grinning like a cat with a laser pointer. “Uh-huh. And does this ‘pattern’ happen to belong to the mysterious girl you’ve been low-key stalking?”

“I’m not—”

“Oh, come on.” She pointed at the lotion bag. “Travel-sized strawberry lotion. That’s not ‘evidence,’ that’s ‘I went through her purse.’”

“It was dropped. In a public place,” Tim said quickly.

Steph gasped theatrically. “Oh my god, you are stalking a crush. This is adorable. Creepy! But adorable.”

“I’m not—”

She leaned over, reading another label. “‘Exhibit M: Printed Bunny Bandaids. Category: Micro-Tenderness.’ Tim. That’s not a police file, that’s the start of a rom-com montage.”

“It’s not—”

She picked up the mirror bag. “‘Exhibit N: Compact Mirror. Category: Self-Soothing.’ This is so a girl’s stuff. You are so in love with whoever this is.”

Tim’s jaw clenched. “Steph—”

“You’re in love, you’re stealing her lip balm, you’re vacuum-sealing it like it’s going in the Smithsonian—”

“I didn’t steal it!”

She ignored him, pacing slowly around the counter. “So. Mystery girl. Pretty, obviously. Nice enough to carry cute bandaids. Smells like strawberries. Hmmm. Who could it be…”

Tim buried his face in his hands. “You’re making insane assumptions.”

“Am I?” she asked sweetly, tucking the lotion under her arm like she might walk off with it.

“Yes!”

“Then prove me wrong. Tell me what this is really about.”

“It’s classified.”

She beamed. “So you are stalking a crush.”

Tim groaned.

Steph patted him on the shoulder as she finally put the lotion back. “Don’t worry, Drake. Your secret’s safe with me… unless I get bored.”

She walked out, muttering to herself, “Micro-Tenderness… seriously, he needs therapy.”

Tim stared down at the neat lineup of plastic bags and realized, with dawning horror… she might be right.

Then, from the hallway: “I’m gonna figure out who she is, Drake!”

Tim froze. “…Oh no.” ⸻

DAY THREE: AGENT: A-02 CALLSIGN: Red Hood OBJECTIVE: Investigate A Weird Gut Feeling TIMESTAMP: 16:40 HOURS LOCATION: Wayne Manor – Damian Wayne’s Bedroom

17:35 – Operation: Instinct Tripwire: INITIATED

Jason Todd had been holed up in one of his less-busted safehouses, the kind with a cracked windowpane, a flickering lamp, and just enough furniture to look like no one sane lived there. His backpack lay gutted on the table, contents spread out like evidence from a crime scene that only made sense to him.

On the left was Item Twelve: the floral sketchbook. Next to it lay Item Thirteen: the tissue-wrapped yellow paintbrush, sitting there like a radioactive banana. And finally, Item Fourteen: Damian’s hoodie, folded with the reluctant reverence of a guy who’d accidentally stolen a piece of his brother’s secret domestic life.

He leaned back, boots kicked up on the table, flipping idly through an old Outlaws case file he’d dug out from an old Outlaws op. It smelled like mildew and gunpowder memories. His helmet sat on the table beside him, catching the dim light.

For a minute, the world was still. Just him, his thoughts, and the quiet hum of the city through cracked windows.

And then it hit. That itch. That low-belly churn that wasn’t hunger, wasn’t nerves, wasn’t anything you could pin down with logic. Just a pull. A twist. A whisper in the bones that said: something’s wrong. Jason froze mid-page, eyes narrowing at the wall like it might explain itself. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. He checked the clock on the table. 17:36 Gymnastics class at Gotham Academy should’ve just ended. Which meant Y/N was walking out right about now. Into the Gotham evening. Into whatever the hell his gut was screaming about. Jason closed the file slowly. The chair creaked as he dropped his boots to the floor. He didn’t know why the thought needled him. Didn’t know why it made the hairs on his neck stand up like a warning. But he trusted instinct, always. Instinct had kept him alive when logic failed. He dropped the Outlaws file. Pulled the Red Hood helmet closer. “Not too early for patrol,” he muttered. In a practiced motion, he strapped on his gear, adjusted the holsters at his thighs, and let the familiar weight settle over his shoulders. Heavy leather, Kevlar, the faint bite of gun oil. His second skin. He stared at the scattered evidence one last time. Hoodie, sketchbook, paintbrush. Domestic mysteries and soft edges. All that could wait. The feeling in his gut? That couldn’t.

17:59 – Operation: Roof Runner: INITIATED

Jason moved like smoke over the rooftops. Gotham Academy’s stone spires fell behind him as he tracked the sleek, polished sedan nosing its way out of the east parking lot. He knew that car — the one with Felix Thompson behind the wheel. Jason expected it to angle south, toward the wealthier end of town, where the L/N estate loomed in its private, manicured silence. That was the routine. That was the pattern. Except… the car didn’t turn south. It drifted east instead. Jason slowed just enough to clock the turn, helmet tilting. “…Wrong way, Jeeves,” he muttered, already pushing forward again. Jason narrowed his eyes behind the helmet, picking up his pace along the roofline. “…Not home,” he muttered. “So where the hell are you going?” He kept to the high ground, moving parallel as the sedan wound through tighter streets. Jason trailed from above, keeping the sedan in view as it swam through traffic. He knew every shortcut, every alley, every dead-end in this district, and Felix wasn’t headed anywhere near the L/N estate. Finally, the car eased to a crawl, blinker ticking. Jason dropped into a crouch, peering down. Art supply store. Of course. Because apparently, his little brother’s girlfriend couldn’t go a few days without adding to her arsenal of paints and brushes. Jason huffed a laugh into his helmet, half exasperation, half relief. Felix pulled up to the curb, engine purring. You hopped out, your bag slung over one shoulder, your energy so obvious Jason could feel it from above. Felix, ever the chauffeur, pulled away to circle for a parking spot. Which left you standing alone. Jason’s shoulders tensed. His instincts hated that picture — bright girl, wide open sidewalk, no buffer, no protection. Gotham didn’t forgive those kinds of mistakes. From his vantage point, Jason scanned the block. Storefronts glowed with weak, yellowed light. A few pedestrians drifted past, uninterested. A bus hissed at a stop a block away. Normal. Almost too normal. And that’s when Jason saw him. A man leaned against the brick wall just down the block, half-hidden under the flickering light of a broken streetlamp. Clothes rumpled, stance coiled in the way that made Jason’s instincts snarl awake. Not loitering. Not harmless. Predatory. Jason’s breath slowed, steadying. He knew that type. The way they measured the street, tracked movement, timed exits. And right now? That guy’s eyes were locked on Y/N. Jason shifted forward, boots digging into the rooftop ledge.

18:15 – Operation: Street-Level Intercept: INITIATED

It happened fast. One second you were adjusting your bag on your shoulder, walking into the art store. The next, the man peeled off the wall like a shadow coming alive. His stride was all wrong, it was too direct, too hungry. Jason’s pulse spiked. Move. The guy’s hand shot out, clamping down on your wrist. You gasped, stumbling back against the store’s glass window, the hollow thud making you flinch. “Hey- what the hell?!” she started, voice sharp but scared. The man leaned down, face shadowed, muttering something low and ugly. Jason couldn’t hear the words — didn’t need to. He knew that posture, the cornered stance, the too-close grin. And that was enough. Jason didn’t bother with a warning. He vaulted off the ledge. He landed heavy, pavement shuddering beneath the impact, and rose in one smooth motion. “Let. Her. Go.” he growled through the helmet vocoder. Damian would blame himself forever if something happened to Y/N. The man barely had time to whip his head around before Jason was on him. A fist connected with the side of his jaw, the crack loud in the quiet street. Blood sprayed from split lips as the grip on you broke instantly. Jason’s free hand shot back to steady you, gently pushing you a step behind him. “Stay behind me,” he barked, not taking his eyes off the guy. The creep spat blood, snarled, and lunged. Knife flashing from his pocket, sloppy but fast. Jason’s lip curled beneath the helmet. Amateur. Jason twisted sideways, the blade whistling past his jacket. His boot swung up in the same motion, connecting with the man’s ribs. The impact thumped through the street, and the guy staggered sideways, choking. Jason advanced. Calculated. Heavy steps like thunder. The knife came again, this time stabbing low. Jason trapped the man’s wrist with one gloved hand, twisting until the bones ground under pressure. The knife clattered to the sidewalk. Jason slammed an elbow into the guy’s temple, snapping his head back. Still, the man swung wild with his free hand, catching Jason’s helmet with a weak punch. Jason barely felt it. He shoved the man backward, shoulder-checking him into the brick wall hard enough to rattle the loose mortar. The man wheezed, scrambling for breath, eyes wild. Jason didn’t give him the chance. His fists came down in brutal rhythm — jaw, cheekbone, gut. Each strike was precise, merciless. And under it all, Jason’s mind whispered: What if I hadn’t been here? What if Damian got the call that she’d been hurt, or worse? He already lost so much. I can’t let him lose her too. Blood smeared onto the bricks. The guy sagged against the wall, groaning, but Jason wasn’t done. He grabbed the man by his jacket collar, yanking him up so they were eye level with the red of his helmet. “You think Gotham’s sidewalks are hunting grounds?” Jason hissed, voice low and venomous. “You think you can put your hands on unsuspecting high school girls?” What he really wanted to say was ‘You think you can put your hands on my brother’s girl?’ but he didn’t… secret identity and all that. Then he slammed the man down onto the concrete. The impact knocked the wind from him, leaving him sprawled limp, a broken marionette. Jason stood over him, chest rising steady, rage simmering in silence. The street was quiet except for the buzz of the streetlamp… and the faint sound of your uneven breathing behind him. Jason turned. Slowly. Deliberately. And his eyes met you through the whites of his helmet. You looked terrified. “Hey. Are you okay?” He asked, softer than intended. That seemed to snap you out of your trance. “Yes. Yes..” You gulped. “Thank you so much Mr. Red Hood!” Jason grunted back in response. After a few beats filled with ‘thankyou’s, you had finally turned to enter the art store. Jason’s instincts finally stopped screaming at him. When all of this was over… Damian owed him big time. But Jason was glad you were safe. He doesn’t know what would happen to Damian if you were to be harmed.

⸻

DAY THREE AGENT: A-01 CALLSIGN: Nightwing OBJECTIVE: Chill TIMESTAMP: 18:20 HOURS LOCATION: Wayne Manor - Gymnasium

18:23 – Dick’s Art Store Recon

Dick was exactly in his element. Flipping gracefully on the trapeze. He often liked to come to Wayne Manor’s gymnasium to practice some old trapeze routines from his time at the circus. It made him feel closer to his parents. Music blasted through the speakers, his body moved on muscle memory, and—for once—his mind was at ease. Until he caught a glimpse at his phone mid-flip. “What the—?” Dick landed lightly, grabbing a towel on his way down. His screen was absolutely flooded with notifications from the tracker app. His stomach dropped. He swiped it open, heart hammering. Please don’t be kidnapped. Please don’t be kidnapped. Your dot blinked on the map. Not on your usual route. His frown deepened. “Hmm… unexpected detour,” he muttered, squinting. He zoomed in. “And she’s in… the art store?” Phew. False alarm. For a second he thought it was snatch-and-grab territory. He pulled up street cams to double-check Felix’s position. The footage loaded—grainy, jittery, worse than the Gotham DMV camera feed. Dick leaned closer. There you were, stepping out of the art store, arms piled high with supplies, Felix hovering like the world’s most dignified pack mule. Even pixelated, your bounce was obvious. And then he noticed your hand pressed to your ear. “Phone call.” Dick muttered, squinting. “Of course,” he leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “She’s talking on the phone… and I can’t hear a single word. Fantastic.” “Come on, come on…” he muttered, frustration creeping in. He frantically tapped on the phone’s keyboard, toggling noise filters, adjusting the contrast, trying to sharpen the image. He increased the audio gain, hoping to isolate your voice from the city noise. Cars passed by, their engines roaring. A bus rumbled down the street. Footsteps echoed. The faint hum of the city overwhelmed her voice entirely. He couldn’t really hack as efficiently as he wanted on a damn phone. “This is… useless,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. “Phone, I love you, you’re a good phone, but you are not the Batcomputer. You are not even close. You can’t do this.” Batcomputer was off-limits anyway—Damian was on it right now. His laptop? In the DSSS safehouse. Shit. He leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “Okay, think. What’s my priority here? Her safety. That’s it. Not listening in for curiosity… safety. Safety, Dick. Eyes only, no interference—just… precaution.” On screen, Felix took your bags, opened the car door for you, and you slipped into the passenger seat. Perfectly normal. Perfectly safe. Felix placed the supplies in the back seat before driving off. “Okay this is good, there is nothing wrong..” Dick released a sigh of relief, before tensing up again. “…but who was she talking to? Was it Dames? Or Jon? Or her friends? Or her parents? UGHHH I don’t need to know….” He threw himself into a chair, hair ruffled from dragging his hands through it. “…But.. not knowing only makes me want to know more.” After a few moments of contemplating… Dick finally leaned back in defeat, reluctantly dialing someone.

“Babs? Hey, I need a quick filter assist. Something’s bugging out with the contrast of a street cam video— can you patch in?”

There was a pause, then Barbara’s voice came through, dry as ever. “You call me at dinner time for a filter?”

“You’re my favorite ex. Be nice.” Dick tried to smile, but his stress made it look more like a grimace. Dick quickly sent her the link.

“Mm-hmm,” Barbara replied, fingers flying over her own console. Within moments, the cleaned-up feed appeared on Dick’s screens. “Sending cleaned-up feed now. Happy now? So… what’s this for? A mission?”

Dick rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh… kind of. It’s a… side project. Long story. Nothing major.”

Barbara raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair. “You’re looking at street cam security footage. Art store. (pause) Is that… a teenage girl?”

Dick flailed a hand defensively. “It’s not what it looks like!”

Barbara folded her arms, unamused. “Since when do you stalk high school girls, Grayson?”

“It’s not—!” he sputtered, waving a hand defensively, “I’m not stalking. It’s protective surveillance! And it’s—fine, fine, maybe it looks like stalking—but it’s for her safety. It’s Bat-adjacent! Really!”

Barbara smirked, tilting her head. “You just described half your worst ideas.”

Dick groaned, sliding down in his chair. “Please don’t tell Bruce.”

“I’ll think about it.” Barbara tilted her head at the screen. “Okay, so… now what? You got your pretty picture. What are you hoping to see?”

Dick stared at the feed. You, pixel-perfect now, laughing into your phone as Felix loaded the car. Whoever was on the other end of that call made your whole face light up.

“…Confirmation,” Dick admitted under his breath. “I just… need to know who’s on the other side of that line.”

Barbara sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Grayson, that’s not recon. That’s obsession.”

“Tomato, tomahto,” Dick muttered. “Can you clean up the audio too?”

Barbara froze mid-keystroke. “…You want me to bug a teenager’s phone call?”

Dick winced. “When you say it out loud like that, it sounds bad.”

Barbara: “Because it is bad.”

Dick: “…but could you?”

Barbara: “…I’m hanging up.”

The line went dead.

Dick dropped his forehead against the desk with a groan. “I hate it when she’s right.”

But he couldn’t peel his eyes from the feed.

You were still talking, animated hands moving as you laughed. Then, suddenly, you pressed a palm over your mouth as though to stifle a giggle—then glanced up and around, almost shy, like someone had said something especially sweet.

Dick’s heart sank. “Oh, no. She’s definitely talking to Dames. I know that look.”

He pushed away from the desk, pacing the gym floor in restless circles.

“If she’s smiling like that… Damian’s in deeper than we thought.” ⸻

DAY THREE: AGENT: A-03 CALLSIGN: Red Robin OBJECTIVE: Break + Evidence Sorting TIMESTAMP: 20:00 HOURS LOCATION: Wayne Manor – Command Post Alpha (Tim’s Bedroom)

20:00 – The Alfred Callout

Tim’s room was dim except for the glow of three monitors and the faint hum of his laptop fan. A half-finished Wayne Enterprises quarterly report sat open on one screen, untouched for the past twenty minutes, while the other two monitors were running background scrubs on surveillance logs. His fingers moved automatically, purging and re-indexing files, trying to cover tracks that didn’t technically exist.

He told himself it was just paranoia. It was fine. Everything was fine.

A quiet knock-knock broke the silence.

Tim startled, nearly dropping his stylus. “Uh—come in.”

The door opened with the kind of measured calm only Alfred Pennyworth could summon. The butler stepped inside, posture immaculate, expression unreadable.

“Master Timothy,” Alfred said gently, “dinner is served.”

Tim nodded quickly, eyes darting back to his paperwork. “Right. Yeah. Be down in a minute.”

Alfred lingered a moment longer than usual. Then, with perfect composure, he added:

“…I also believe one of your drones was watching me at the grocery store this morning.”

Tim froze. Slowly, he swiveled in his chair, blinking at Alfred like a deer in the path of a semi-truck.

“That…” His throat felt dry. “…shouldn’t have been visible.”

Alfred’s brows lifted the slightest degree. “Indeed. I do hope you remember your manners next time. It is quite rude to eavesdrop.”

Tim’s heart flatlined. He whipped back to his keyboard, fingers flying. Purge protocols. Wipe logs. Cover tracks. Every shred of drone footage and analysis tagged Exhibit H suddenly felt radioactive. His heart rate spiked like he was under interrogation.

Behind the door, Alfred’s footsteps retreated with impeccable composure. “Do join us in the dining room, Master Timothy. The roast will not wait.” The door clicked shut.

Tim stared at his monitors, sweat prickling at his neck, and muttered under his breath: “…I’m so screwed.”

⸻

A.N: I dont like this chapter at all but like anyways THIS TOOK SO LONG TO WRITE AND IDK I just didn't have the motivation to write it honestly but like the next chap will be better

taglist❤️: @zomqiez @spidermanfang1rl @chiizuluvr @maymaymarch @maaaahhhiii @cupid73 @nyxisnotok @astrililu @mmentallyelsewhere @pennepastalegit @amandjslpz @burnthecheshirewitch

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yourlocallgothamite · 10 days ago

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Dick: If you left me for someone else, I’d be happy for you.

Y/N: Aww.

Dick: …And then I’d fake my death and become a masked opera villain lurking in your walls.

Y/N: There it is.

#batfam #batfamily #wayne family adventures incorrect quotes #dick grayson incorrect quotes #dc incorrect quotes #batfamily incorrect quotes #batfam incorrect quotes #incorrect quotes #dick grayson x y/n #dick grayson x you #bf dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson #nightwing x y/n #nightwing x you #nightwing x reader #nightwing #richard grayson

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yourlocallgothamite · 14 days ago

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Bruce: What happened?

Jason: Damian threw a batarang at me.

Bruce: [sighs] Did you deserve it?

Jason: I mean… yeah, kinda.

#batfamily #batfam #dc incorrect quotes #batfam incorrect quotes #incorrect quotes #damian wayne #jason todd #bruce wayne #batfamily incorrect quotes #dc batman #wayne family adventures incorrect quotes #dramatic dick grayson #batbros #batboys #red hood #robin

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yourlocallgothamite · 15 days ago

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Gotham vs Metropolis (Civilian Edition) 💥 - PART 3 ft. Central City

Gotham X Metropolis SMAU

okay y'all this is part 3 of the gotham vs metropolis civilianss I added a central city girl

PART 2

NEW CHARACTER INTRO:

OKAY SO she is Central city born and raised, but she works in Metropolis, she is a pilates gurlie who works as a hair stylist

THREADS:

SO BASICALLY, she was raised in Central City, is now living in Metropolis, and wants to move to Gotham so she needs tipss...

HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED IT SO FAR ITS SO FUN TO DO HONESTLYY EVEN IF IT DOESNT GET POPULAR BCZ OF THE TAGSS

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yourlocallgothamite · 16 days ago

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Texts With Your Boyfriend, Dick - D.G.

Dick Grayson x Reader SMAU oneshot

Summary: random texts between dick/nightwing and his gf.

⸻

mix of fluff and comfort

the boredom is starting to get to me

(note: if y'all dont know Haley is Dick's dog)

#batfam #batfamily #fluff #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson #dick grayson x y/n #smau #dc smau #dick grayson texts #nightwing x y/n #nightwing x you #nightwing x reader #nightwing #nightwing smau #fake texts #bf dick grayson

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yourlocallgothamite · 16 days ago

Note

Hey!!! You don't have to respond to this but I thought I'd just tell you now that the series has come to an end how much you made my day every time I woke up!!! I've been in and out of the hospital the past week and finding this story like literally just made me excited to wake up and read more. Thank you so much for spreading your talent and I literally am so happy and grateful to read your work!! 10000/10

Ilysm!

OMG HELLO

THANK YOU SOOO MUCH YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH THIS MEANS TO ME❤️❤️❤️

gurll i hope you're doing welll❤️❤️💖💖💖 get well soon❤️❤️

THANKYOU SO MICH FOR READING IM SOSOSOO GLAD YOU LIKED THE SERIESSS💖💖💖

#inbox #reply

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yourlocallgothamite · 16 days ago

Note

LOVE YOU QUEEN MANIFESTING SPEEDY HEALING ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

THANKYOU SO MUCHHH ILOEVYOUUU😭❤️❤️❤️❤️

❤️❤️❤️

#inbox #reply

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yourlocallgothamite · 17 days ago

Note

okay FINALLY

the moment we have ALL been waiting for has arrived 🥳🥳😭😭❤️❤️❤️❤️

#inbox #reply

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yourlocallgothamite · 18 days ago

Note

WILL THIS SERIES END SINCE THEY FINALLY KISSED?? PLEASE PLEASE SAY NO IM TOTALLY SOLD ONG

GURLLL THIS SERIES ENDEDD UNFORTUNATELYYY

BUT I AM NOT OPPOSED TO BONUS CHAPTERSS IF YOU WOULD WANT TO READ SOME

IM SO GLAD YOU LIKED ITTT❤️❤️❤️❤️

#reply #inbox

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yourlocallgothamite · 18 days ago

Text

Can’t Help Crushing (On You)

Jason Todd x Outlaw!Reader Series

Chapter 13: Epilogue: Something Definitely Happened

A.N.: an added chapter because Roy and Kori needed to know it finally happened.

⸻

previous chapter

⸻

The mission had gone shockingly well.

The warehouse was in shambles, Monarch’s men were toast, the seller was officially in Earth custody until Tamaranean police could come pick him up, and the Tamaranean tech was safely in Outlaw hands. The mission had gone off almost too perfectly. No explosions. No injuries. No last-minute betrayals. A rare Gotham miracle.

But something… was off.

It started small.

Jason walked into the safehouse first—armor scratched, helmet under one arm, and for once, not scowling. In fact, there was something weird on his face.

Upon closer inspection, Roy reached a horrifying conclusion.

It was a smile. Jason Todd. Smiling. Like that. That “I just did something I never thought I’d get to do and now I’m in a dopamine coma about it” kind of smile.

The kind that never reached his face unless something really good—or really stupid—had just happened.

Suspicious.

Behind him, you trailed in with your own soft kind of glow. You looked like you were about to float off the ground, hoodie sleeves pulled down over your hands, eyes sparkling brighter than they’d been in days. You weren’t limping. You weren’t bleeding. And yet… you looked completely wrecked in the emotionally combusted kind of way. The kind that screamed: something happened.

Suspicious x 2.

You and Jason kept… glancing at each other. And then looking away. And then glancing again. Like two middle schoolers sitting three inches apart at a movie.

Suspicious x 3.

Roy Harper—Agent of Chaos, Certified Himbologist, and President of the “Just Kiss Already” Club—immediately squinted in their direction.

Jason murmured something to you. You laughed. Not a little chuckle—an actual laugh, quiet and breathless and warm like it had been pulled straight from your ribs. You swatted him lightly on the arm as they passed by the kitchen island, and Jason looked away like he was fighting for his entire life.

Suspicious x 4.

Roy froze mid-sip of his energy drink.

Kori clocked it at the exact same moment. She didn’t say a word at first—just raised one delicate brow at Roy and tilted her head like a bird of prey scenting blood.

Jason cleared his throat. “So. Mission success. Files are uploaded. Monarch’s drones are fried. And, uh—good job, team.”

“Yup,” you chirped. “Good job, team.”

That was it. No bragging. No banter. No Roy asking who broke the most bones. No Kori declaring victory in the name of Tamaran. Just weird little smiles. Weird knowing smiles.

Kori leaned in to Roy and whispered, “They’re being weird.”

“They’re being weird.”

Roy didn’t even have to ask who “they” was.

“I know,” he hissed. “That’s the third time Jason’s smiled this hour. I’m starting to think it’s a medical emergency.”

“Right.” She murmured back, astonished. “Also, what’s up with the silence?”

“I know,” Roy muttered back. “They’re never this quiet unless something unholy happened.”

Kori narrowed her eyes. “Look at their proximity. The hovering. The shared glances. The mutual unspoken giddiness. It reeks of rooftop confessions.”

“I swear to god,” Roy muttered, “if they confessed without me present to see it…”

Before he could finish the sentence, Jason cleared his throat and addressed the room.

“So, uh… I’m gonna go check on the med kits. Inventory.”

“Yup,” Y/N said again, fidgeting with her sleeves. “And I’ll go… not do that. Somewhere else.”

They turned and walked off—in opposite directions—but still managed to brush shoulders and go red in the face like they’d been caught kissing behind the gym.

Roy’s eyes narrowed.

They turned and immediately brushed shoulders in the hallway. Both froze like deer in headlights, eyes wide, pink creeping into their faces. Then they bolted in opposite directions.

Gone.

Silent.

Suspicious x 5.

Kori turned slowly toward Roy with the expression of a woman who just discovered her favorite soap opera was real and unfolding in her living room.

“Roy.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Roy.”

“I know.”

“They finally—”

“Something happened up there. 1000%. I can smell the hormones from here.”

“Should we interrogate them?”

“Maybe,” Roy said, already lunging for the clipboard stashed beneath the couch. “We need to figure this out.”

Roy flipped open the Clipboard of Cupid Failures™ like a man possessed. A man wronged. A man who had spent weeks watching two oblivious, emotionally repressed people pine from opposite sides of the couch, only to finally—finally—smell victory in the air like fresh pie.

The clipboard was a graveyard of beautifully labeled heartbreak.

Attempts #1 through #6 stared back at him, reminders of his total failures.

So many dreams. So many schemes. So many near-successes that ended in emotional combustion and, inexplicably, zero making out.

But now—now he could feel it in his bones.

Jason and Y/N had returned from that mission different. Lighter. Floatier. Glowing. Smiling like absolute lunatics. Hovering like two magnets playing chicken. There had been arm touches. Shoulder brushes. Muted giggles.

And worst of all: they weren’t fighting it anymore.

Roy scrawled across a new page in all caps:

ATTEMPT #7 (???): UNPLANNED. ROOFTOP KISS????? STATUS: SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR. INVESTIGATION NEEDED.

“Okay,” Roy muttered, pacing. “Let’s run it back. They disappeared after the mission. Gone for ten minutes. Jason came back with that look. Y/N had that weird post-kiss glow. And they’re acting like they committed a federal crime in front of us. They keep smiling at each other like idiots and looking away like it hurts. That’s post-kiss behavior. That’s giddy-post-kiss-and-I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-my-hands behavior.”

Kori nodded gravely. “This calls for subtle extraction techniques.”

Roy blinked. “You mean, like, spy stuff?”

“I mean,” Kori said solemnly, “we interrogate them separately. With snacks.”

Before he could ask, she was already floating toward the kitchen with unnerving purpose. Roy scrambled after her as she rifled through the Outlaw snack cabinet—her face lighting up as she retrieved one unopened emergency packet of strawberry Pop-Tarts, a bag of gummy bears, and an ancient, slightly smushed granola bar.

He stared. “You’ve been hoarding interrogation snacks?”

“One must always be prepared.”

“...You’re terrifying.”

She smiled beatifically.

“Okay,” Roy said, collecting himself. “I’ll take Jason. You take Y/N. Casual vibes. No pressure. Just two extremely normal friends asking invasive emotional questions. Watch for signs of flinching, sudden hoodie attachment, or unexplained blushing.”

Kori grinned. “Do not worry. I am very good at secrets. And even better at finding them.”

Roy raised his pinky.

Kori looped her pinky with his. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

⸻

Meanwhile.

You stood in the hallway trying to breathe. Not that your lungs were malfunctioning or anything. But something about kissing your best friend under the stars and then brushing shoulders in the hallway and then walking away like you hadn’t just confessed lifelong feelings via hoodie exchange was making it extremely hard to function.

You clutched your sleeves. Your brain was spiraling. Did I imagine it? Did he imagine it? Did the kiss actually happen or did I black out from emotional overload? Was it real if we didn’t talk about it yet?

Enter: Koriand’r, floating into view like the soft, glittery chaos goddess she was.

She smiled sweetly, holding something behind her back. “Would you like a Pop-Tart?”

You blinked. “…Is this a trap?”

“No! Of course not!” She revealed the silver-wrapped pastry like it was a gift from the stars. “I simply thought you might want to… process your emotions. With me. In the form of sugary carbohydrates.”

You blinked.

She handed you the Pop-Tart. You took it, suspicious.

“…Did something happen on the roof?”

You choked on your bite. “What!? Wh—why would you say that?”

Kori beamed. “No reason. You are glowing like someone just whispered sweet nothings into your heart.”

You blushed hard and stuttered.

She tilted her head. “Something romantic, perhaps?”

You nearly dropped the Pop-Tart. “I—I—no! I mean maybe! What—what do you mean romantic?!”

“You are glowing,” Kori said softly.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Flushed down to your toes.

Kori smiled. “If you need a distraction, we can braid each other’s hair later.”

You sputtered something unintelligible.

Kori nodded sagely and floated away, giggling to herself.

⸻

At the same time.

Jason was cleaning his guns in the armory in the least convincing display of casual behavior the safehouse had ever witnessed.

He wasn’t polishing them so much as repeatedly wiping the same spot on his sidearm like it had personally offended him. His expression was blank. Or at least trying to be.

Then Roy walked in with a smoothie.

And the energy of a man who knew everything.

“Soooooo,” Roy said, dragging out the syllable like it owed him money. “Kissed any emotionally volatile best friends lately?”

Jason immediately dropped the rag he was using.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Roy shrugged, sipping obnoxiously. “No reason. You’ve just been, I dunno—smiling.”

“I always smile.”

“Yeah, when you’re hitting someone in the face.” Roy leaned in. “You’re being weird, man. Giddy. Lightly dazed. Like someone just confessed to loving you.”

Jason froze.

Roy’s mouth fell open as his eyes widened. “NO.”

“Don’t—”

“NO. WAY.”

Jason opened his mouth. Closed it. Walked straight into the gun locker.

“Oh my GOD,” Roy whisper-yelled. “YOU TOTALLY KISSED—”

“Shut up,” Jason snapped, but he was already red in the ears.

“YOU KISSED ON THE ROOFTOP—”

“I said shut up, Harper!”

“DOES THIS MEAN I WIN THE BET WITH KORI?”

Jason groaned and slammed his head against the locker—on purpose this time.

⸻

Later that night, once the dust had settled and all interrogation snacks had been consumed, the safehouse fell into a rare pocket of peace.

You were curled up on the couch under a blanket that definitely wasn’t yours (it was Jason’s, obviously), hoodie sleeves still tugged over your hands. You were scrolling half-heartedly through your phone, not reading a word.

Jason wandered in, silent, steady, and a little bit hesitant.

He sat beside you like he always did—close but not too close, casual but deliberate. You didn’t look at him, not right away. Just nudged his knee with yours and exhaled softly.

There was a beat of silence.

“…So,” you whispered, not looking at him, “you’re still smiling.”

Jason glanced at you. Then away. “…So are you.”

Silence again. But the kind that wasn’t awkward. The kind that buzzed under your skin, warm and unfinished.

You finally leaned your head on his shoulder. “So. Is this a thing now?”

“Dunno,” he murmured. “You still naming stuff after me?”

His hand found yours beneath the sleeve, fingers warm.

You grinned. “You still gonna let me keep the hoodie?”

He laughed—quiet and real—and rested his head against yours.

“…I was gonna give it to you anyway.”

⸻

Across the room, behind the cracked kitchen door, Roy was vibrating with uncontained energy.

“I KNEW IT,” he hissed. “I FREAKING KNEW IT. SAY IT, KORI. SAY I WAS RIGHT.”

Kori rolled her eyes, smiling fondly.

“You were right,” she said. “But only because I softened their hearts with emotional encouragement and Tamaranian wisdom.”

Roy did a fist pump and scribbled the final note on his clipboard:

CONFIRMED. ATTEMPT #7: SUCCESS. OPERATION: OUTLAW LOVE – COMPLETE.

Kori hovered closer, reading over his shoulder.

“…Do we count this as our success, even though it was accidental?”

Roy chewed his pen cap thoughtfully.

“Uhm? DUH. They wouldn’t have cracked if we hadn’t softened ‘em up with the Fake Dating Mission™ and the Only One Bed™ gambit. We laid the groundwork. This was just the natural emotional combustion.”

Kori beamed. “I love emotional combustion.”

Roy smirked. “I’ll take a kiss over a concussion any day.”

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yourlocallgothamite · 18 days ago

Text

Can’t Help Crushing (On You)

Jason Todd x Outlaw!Reader Series

Chapter 12: Finally.

A.N.: THE MOMENT YOU ALL HAVE BEEN WAITING FORR IS HERE.

this chapter is dedicated to this wonderful reader: @thejokersfavouritecrowbar

⸻

previous chapter - last chapter

⸻

The rain hadn’t started yet, but the sky over Gotham was swollen and dark, the kind of night that promised a storm. Inside the safehouse, it was warmer, but just as tense. The hum of the holotable filled the quiet room, glowing blue against the low lights, illuminating tired eyes, scarred knuckles, and worn gear.

They’d been in the field all week. No one had slept properly in days. And yet… something about this mission had the Outlaws sharper than usual. Focused. Edged.

Jason Todd stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, face unreadable. Tactical mode, activated.

He clicked a few buttons and then the hologram above the table lit up.

The footage floating above the table was grainy, taken from a distant drone: a warehouse on the edge of the city, flanked by loading docks and floodlights. The camera zoomed in—frame by frame—on a massive crate being unloaded under heavy guard.

It shimmered faintly, wrapped in a containment field of alien design.

Kori’s expression changed the moment she saw it.

“That crate is Tamaranean,” she said quietly, voice clipped and cold.

“Alien tech,” he said, gesturing to the glowing crate frozen midair. “Illegally smuggled onto Earth, scheduled to be sold tonight to a human buyer.”

Kori narrowed her eyes. “The design is pre-exile. This weapon was supposed to be destroyed decades ago.”

Jason stood next to her, arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes locked on the image. He didn’t look away.

“Well, it wasn’t,” he said. “And now someone’s trying to sell it to a human buyer with too much money and no clue what they’re dealing with.”

He tapped the side of the holotable, pulling up a schematic of the warehouse—detailed, clean, annotated with intel they’d compiled in the last 48 hours. Entry points, weak spots, roof access, guard rotations.

Roy gave a low whistle and leaned back in his chair, boots up on the edge of the table. “So we’re dealing with space contraband and war relics. Love that for us.”

You stood at Jason’s left, flipping through another set of images—still shots of heat signatures, weapon scans, timestamps.

“They’ve been moving crates in and out for days,” you said, zooming in on the northwest loading bay. “We don’t know how many, but it’s at least six. Maybe more.”

Jason glanced down at you. “We need someone close enough to count them.”

“If we set up here,” you said, pointing to the northern rooftop, “we’ll have line of sight on the loading bay, the interior floor, and every exit. Best place to count crates, tag henchmen, and maybe catch a glimpse of the buyer.”

Jason nodded. “You and I will take the rooftop. Recon only unless things go sideways.”

“Rooftop?” Roy repeated, chewing on a protein bar like it was a cigar. “Just the two of you? On a dark, isolated roof?”

Jason didn’t even look at him. “Yes.”

Roy cackled. “What a totally strategic and not at all emotionally charged choice, boss man.”

“Stop messing around, Harper.” Jason hissed.

Roy kicked his feet up onto the table. “Of course. Strictly business. Zero pining. Just mission talk and rifle scopes.”

“Roy,” Jason said flatly. “You’re going in.”

That got him to sit up.

Jason brought up a second schematic—security footage of various mercenary groups moving through Gotham. One of them looked suspiciously like Roy, if Roy had five more pounds of muscle and two fewer brain cells. But with a cap and some dirt on his face, and is he tied his hair back a bit, Roy could definitely pass as him.

“You’re posing as hired muscle. Monarch’s crew is bringing in new guards tonight, probably local. You’ll slip in with the group at the south entrance and act like you belong.”

Roy cracked his neck. “So I blend in with the morally bankrupt scumbags and buy time by being loud and suspiciously overconfident. Perfect.”

Jason didn’t deny it.

“Keep your comms open,” Jason said. “No heroics. Just ears and eyes. Your job is to stall and listen. Arsenal you will record any and all conversation necessary and your job is to blend in.”

“I’ll also look very cool while doing it all,” Roy added, already spinning a knife in one hand. “You may call me… Glornak.”

Kori didn’t look up. “No one is calling you Glornak.”

“Yes you are.” Roy fake-glared, amused.

“You are not going into a black market arms deal using the name Glornak,” you said, trying to keep the laughter from slipping into your voice. “No one will take you seriously.”

“I demand to be taken seriously,” Roy said, gesturing to his whole face. “Look at me. I’m terrifying.”

“I’m begging you to shut up,” Jason muttered.

You coughed into your sleeve to hide a laugh.

Jason pointed to another section of the schematic—a thin access corridor on the eastern side of the warehouse. “Starfire, you’ll enter from above. There’s a reinforced catwalk system tied into the rafters. It’s the only way in without tripping the sensors. Once Roy’s inside, you’ll move. If necessary, Arsenal will provide an excuse as to if you make a sound and if you need an escape plan Arsenal will act as a distraction. The main goal is for you to not be seen. Get close to the crates and confirm what we’re dealing with.”

Kori’s eyes darkened. “If I can get close to the crate, I’ll confirm whether it’s authentic. But if the weapon has been modified—”

“Then we figure it out from there,” Jason said. “But don’t engage unless you have to. Stay cloaked and keep moving.”

She nodded silently.

Jason tapped the table again. A final image popped up: a shadowy figure, half-obscured by distortion and static. No face, no features—just a tall frame and a sharp coat. The alias MONARCH blinked in red underneath.

“Buyer’s identity is still unconfirmed,” Jason said. “All we know is they’ve got money, power, and zero sense. If they walk out of there with Tamaranean tech, we’ve got a planetary problem. But this person has been poking around in off-world tech markets for months. This isn’t their first deal—it’s just the first one we’ve been able to catch in time.”

“And probably, hopefully, the last if we get this right,” you added, crossing your arms.

“Assuming no one screws it up,” Jason said, glancing at Roy.

Roy saluted with two fingers and a sarcastic smile. “Sir, yes sir. Glornak reporting for chaos.”

Jason ignored him.

“You and I will stay on overwatch,” he said to you. “Rooftop gives us the best vantage. Count crates. Confirm henchmen. ID Monarch. No action unless I call it.”

You nodded. “Clean and quiet.”

Roy muttered under his breath, “Romantic.”

Jason ignored that, too.

Roy flicked a peanut in the air and caught it with his mouth. “So: I stall. Kori scans. You two make out on a rooftop—”

“—Observe on a rooftop,” Jason corrected flatly.

“Right. Observe each other’s feelings,” Roy muttered under his breath.

You kicked his chair lightly. “Focus, Glornak.”

Kori clipped her comm to her ear and checked her weapons. “The buyers will arrive in less than an hour.”

“Then we move in twenty,” Jason said. “Everyone check your gear. Load light. In and out.”

As the group broke apart to prep, you lingered near the table, watching the holoscreen slowly flicker through each camera angle. The weapon glowed faintly in the darkness of the warehouse—sleeping, waiting.

Jason stepped up beside you. You didn’t look at him, but you felt the heat of his presence anyway.

“Still think rooftop’s our best call?” he asked, voice low.

You smirked faintly. “Unless you want to send Roy up there with you.”

Jason visibly shuddered. “No. God, no.”

You finally looked at him, smile teasing, pulse louder than it should’ve been.

“Besides,” you added, “I pack snacks.”

He exhaled—almost a laugh. “We’re not eating on the roof during a weapons op.”

You shrugged. “You might. If things go sideways.”

His lips twitched. “That why you always volunteer for rooftop duty?”

You didn’t answer.

⸻

The city was restless below, wind picking up as storm clouds muscled their way across the skyline. Lightning pulsed silently behind thick clouds.

The Gotham waterfront was cloaked in fog and steel, the heavy scent of oil drifting off the bay.

From your perch on the rooftop ledge, you could see almost everything: the flickering floodlights casting long shadows over the loading bay, the line of armored crates being wheeled toward the center floor, the thick-bodied mercs with bad attitudes and worse aim patrolling the perimeter.

You had just finished positioning and loading your sniper and fishing out your binoculars.

Beside you, silent and steady, Jason shifted into position, his weapon mirroring yours.

You adjusted your scope and whispered into your mic.

“North rooftop. Visual on the loading bay confirmed. Crates are being moved inside—currently counting six. At least fifteen guards.”

A pause.

Then Jason’s voice crackled in your ear, low and clear. It came from the comms and from next to you.

“Copy. I see them. No movement near the secondary exits. Maintain surveillance. We’re looking for the buyer and any signs of secondary personnel.”

He moved with precision—fluid, practiced. No wasted energy. Even now, crouched beside you in the dark, rain soft against his jacket, he carried the weight of leadership like it was a second skin. He didn’t have to remind you he was in charge. He just was.

But that wasn’t why your pulse was quickened.

The proximity was.

The silence.

The quiet knowledge that his leg pressed against yours through combat pants and Kevlar, and neither of you were moving away.

You swallowed and focused on your scope.

He seemed to be invested in the mission with full focus.

Except for the way he kept glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

Below, guards paced the loading area. Most were human, dressed in mismatched tactical gear. A few were armored, helmets full-faced and polished chrome. They moved like trained mercs—sharp and silent—but not sharp enough to notice the two shadows watching from above.

Then, a black van pulled up to the loading dock.

The seventh crate was being moved into the warehouse. You tracked it with the scope, noting the containment shimmer. Definitely off-world tech. Definitely dangerous.

Jason adjusted his comm frequency. “Arsenal, status?”

Roy’s voice came through instantly, too casual, when when he was whispering.

“Inside the lion’s den and blending beautifully, RH. They bought the fake creds. I’m now officially muscle for hire, guarding space crates for an anonymous warlord. They think I’m here to babysit the shipment while the buyer shows. Real friendly guys. Smell like wet dog and gun oil.”

“Status on the guards inside?” Jason asked.

“Four on the floor, three near the bay doors, two at the crate perimeter. Couple of floaters upstairs. All human, no alien movement yet. Buyer hasn’t shown.”

Jason’s jaw shifted slightly. You could feel the tension radiating from him.

“And the tech?”

Roy’s tone dropped, serious now.

“It’s glowing, RH. Real deal. Crates are tagged with sigils. One of the crates started humming a few minutes ago. I don’t know what it does, but I definitely don’t want to be here when it turns on.”

Jason looked toward the far side of the warehouse, narrowing his eyes.

He exhaled through his nose. “Starfire. Status.”

There was a soft crackle, then Kori’s voice—calm, whisper-quiet.

“Rafters breached. Making my way across the south beam. No eyes on me yet. Scanning now.”

You flicked through thermal overlays on your scope, catching the faint red streak of her body heat weaving through the steel framework high above the floor. Silent, efficient, deadly.

“She’s in position,” you confirmed.

Jason adjusted his rifle slightly. The quiet scrape of his gloves against the metal stock was somehow louder than the wind.

He then exhaled slowly. “Alright. We hold. Eyes open, fingers off triggers. We ID Monarch, then we move.”

“Copy that,” you said, shifting slightly to brace against the wind.

You nodded, still watching the warehouse floor—but your awareness was split. Half of it on the mercenaries below. The other half on him.

The rooftop was slick under your boots, the metal damp from the rising humidity. Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, low and tense, like the city was holding its breath.

You reached for your thermals again, pausing just long enough to feel the warm brush of Jason’s shoulder as he leaned in to check your screen.

You didn’t move away.

He didn’t, either.

You’d been on rooftops with him before. Missions like this weren’t new. But something about this moment was different.

He was too close. Or not close enough.

“Think this is gonna go smooth?” you murmured, just for him.

Jason gave a quiet snort. “It’s Gotham. Nothing goes smooth.”

He didn’t sound nervous. But his jaw was tight.

“Still,” he added, more quietly now, “I’m glad it’s you up here.”

You blinked, pulse catching just slightly.

You didn’t know quite what to say, so you just let the silence stretch.

Then, a few minutes later, he was the one to break it again.

“You good?” he asked suddenly, still looking through his scope.

You turned your head slightly, voice low. “Yeah. You?”

A pause. Then, softer than it had any right to be: “I’m good when you’re here.”

Your breath caught. Not enough to break formation. Not enough to lose your edge. But enough.

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

But before you could answer, Roy’s voice buzzed into both your ears, shattering the serene moment.

“Glornak reporting in: still unstabbed. Situation stable. Probably gonna blow up in fifteen, but stable.”

You bit back a laugh. Jason did not.

“Comm silence unless it’s relevant, Arsenal.”

“I am relevant,” Roy argued. “I’m so relevant.”

“Muting you,” Jason said flatly.

You heard Roy’s indignant squawk before the click.

Thunder rumbled again. Below, one of the guards lit a cigarette and glanced up—then moved on. No sign they’d seen anything.

Jason leaned forward, adjusting the zoom on his scope.

“Stay sharp,” he said. “The buyer should be here any minute.”

You nodded, lowering your voice.

“I’ve got you covered.”

His eyes flicked toward you. Held.

You looked back, steady. Quiet. Sure.

Then:

“Yeah,” he said, almost too soft for comms. “I know.”

⸻

The storm was still holding back. Just wind now—steady, low, brushing across the rooftop and carrying the cold bite of the harbor with it. The warehouse below had settled into a rhythm: guards rotating, crates secured, weapons checked. No sign of hostility. No sudden moves.

You adjusted your rifle and scanned the floor again, then double-checked the loading bay. Nothing out of place. Monarch’s people had arrived, but the deal hadn’t started yet. It was nearing the end—another two hours, maybe three, and the Outlaws would be done here.

Finally, a clean op.

Starfire was able to check the tech, plant a tracker on it, and she even managed to tamper with it quite a bit so it wouldn’t be deadly.

Anytime anyone was close to seeing or hearing her, Arsenal would provide a distraction.

The crates were counted. The guards had been tagged and tracked. Kori was a shadow in the rafters, and Roy—despite the fake accent and refusal to shut up—was doing an annoyingly decent job stalling the buyer’s team.

The warehouse lights flickered below, the soft hum of generators rising faintly through the rain-slick air. From where you were posted—high up on the north rooftop—you could see everything.

Including the boy sitting silently beside you.

Jason was perched just a few inches away, one knee up, his rifle steady against the ledge.

You exhaled, letting your cheek rest briefly against the scope, muscles finally beginning to unwind from their tightly coiled readiness.

Beside you, Jason shifted.

Not with urgency. Not the way he usually moved during a mission.

He reached one gloved hand up to the side of his helmet and tapped the comm once—muting it. The small green light blinked off.

You blinked at him in confusion.

He then took off the helmet, only the fabric of the black domino mask were left to hide his face.

He turned to look at you, and even through the shadows, you could feel the warmth in his gaze. Not urgent. Not mission-critical. Just… something else. Something softer.

He gave a small, half-smile.

Then he nodded toward your comm—gently, like a suggestion, not a command.

He made a subtle gesture: two fingers, a short arc in the air.

That meant ‘mute your comm.’

You blinked, surprised. “Jason—”

He met your gaze. Not sharp. Not demanding.

Just… quiet.

Even through his silence, his eyes spoke thousands of words.

‘Please.’

You hesitated only a second, then mirrored his motion. The line clicked off, and just like that, the world went quieter. No voices in your ear. No status updates. Just wind and the occasional distant rattle of thunder.

Now it was just the two of you, crouched together in the dark, the city wind curling around your shoulders, the only sounds the soft hum of floodlights and the distant boom of thunder over the bay.

Jason leaned back a little against the rooftop vent. From your spot, you could just barely see curve of his mouth and the soft stubble on his jaw. His hair was damp from the mist, a few strands curling near his forehead.

He wasn’t looking at the warehouse anymore.

Just you.

Then he spoke, voice low.

“I know we’re not supposed to talk during ops.”

You looked over at him. “Pretty sure you’re the one who made that rule.”

“Yeah, well,” he murmured, eyes still forward. “I think I’m gonna break it.”

You tilted your head. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, no—it’s just—”

He exhaled a soft laugh and glanced down at his gloves, suddenly fascinated by the seam on one of the fingers.

You waited. Not pushing. Just… there.

He finally turned his head, met your gaze.

“I like this,” he said.

The wind tugged at the edge of his jacket. Rain dotted his shoulder, beading on the matte grey armor. His voice, low and soft, cut through the hum of the night.

“Not the mission. Not the weird space weapons. Just… sitting here. With you”

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

Jason glanced away—like he wasn’t sure he should’ve said that out loud. His thumb tapped idly against the barrel of his rifle, a restless tic he only had when he was thinking too much and saying too little.

You tried to keep your voice even. “Even with all the rain and rooftop rust?”

“Especially with the rooftop rust,” he said, glancing back up at you with a crooked grin. “And the fact that you keep pretending your snack bag is standard mission gear.”

You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “Snacks are essential in a high-stress environment.”

“Oh, definitely,” he said. “That’s why I always bring you on overwatch. Tactical granola bars.”

You both laughed softly, rain pattering gently around you.

Then, quieter now—less joking, more earnest—he added:

“I know it’s stupid,” it sounded softer than the earlier banter. “But every time we end up posted on some rooftop together, watching bad guys do stupid shit—I don’t know. It feels… easier.”

He laughed once, under his breath. Not sharp. Not bitter. Just tired.

“You don’t look at me like I’m gonna snap. Or like I already did.”

Your stomach twisted. You sat up slightly from your rifle, shifting so you were facing him more fully now. The warehouse below was still, quiet. Nothing moved.

“You always look at me like that?” he asked suddenly, not quite meeting your eyes.

You blinked. “Like what?”

He hesitated.

“Like I’m the only thing in your world,” he murmured. “Even when we’re surrounded by chaos.” His eyes found yours again, steady, unflinching. “Like I’m the only one that matters.”

The words hit hard—too raw to be rehearsed. Too soft to be a deflection. You felt it in your chest, a slow, aching swell of emotion that had no safe place to go.

You froze for a half-second. Then—heart full and voice barely above a whisper—you said,

“Jason,” you said quietly, “You are.”

No hesitation. No caveats. Just truth.

His eyes widened just a little, like he hadn’t expected you to say it out loud. His mouth opened like he was going to say something equally devastating back, and then promptly forgot how to speak.

He stared at you for a long second, eyes searching. And then something broke behind them—not violently, not painfully. Just… cracked open. Like whatever wall he kept between the world and himself had quietly given way, just for you.

He melted.

“Wow,” he said.

You smiled. “Yeah.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, ears visibly red under the edge of his hair.

“I swear, if you say one more thing that makes me feel like I’m gonna explode, I might actually fall off this roof.”

“You’re The one who muted the comms to talk.”

“I know,” he groaned. “Worst idea ever. Now I want to hold your hand and possibly die.”

You giggled.

He smiled.

And for just a second, with the city below and the storm above, there was nothing between you but warmth and want and all the things left unsaid.

Jason turned back toward the warehouse slowly, mouth twitching into the faintest of smiles.

“I knew I liked rooftops for a reason.”

⸻

Rain misted lightly over Gotham, the storm still dragging its heels somewhere beyond the skyline. The docks were quiet now, settled. Monarch’s crew was stalling, guards were on loops, and the Tamaranean tech had stopped humming. Everyone was in position.

Everything was going according to plan.

And still—Jason hadn’t unmuted the comms.

You sat cross-legged next to him on the rooftop, your rifle resting at your side, the mission all but forgotten in the silence between you. The two of you had been talking—really talking—for almost half an hour now. Quiet voices, soft laughs, just enough space between your knees to say I want to be closer but I’m trying so hard not to make it weird.

Jason leaned back against the rusted rooftop vent, one arm draped casually over his knee. His helmet resting behind him like a helmet-shaped paperweight. His hair was damp, his jaw slightly scruffed, and he looked at ease in a way you almost never saw.

His expression was relaxed. Genuinely relaxed. You didn’t see that often.

He tilted his head toward you, thoughtful.

“Okay,” he said. “Serious question.”

You turned your head. “Hit me.”

He pointed at you with a gloved finger, dramatic. “Waffles or pancakes?”

You blinked. “That’s your serious question?”

“Extremely serious. Critical. The entire future of our partnership depends on your answer.”

You squinted at him. “This feels like a trap.”

“It is a trap,” he said. “Choose wisely.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, leaning back on your hands. “Fine. Waffles. No hesitation.”

Jason blinked. “Wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

He grinned. “Pancakes. Easy. Classic. Better.”

“Pancakes get soggy,” you argued. “Waffles have structural integrity. Waffles were designed by engineers. Pancakes are just floppy bread discs with a superiority complex.”

“They get fluffy,” he argued, sitting up slightly. “And they hold syrup better.”

You shook your head. “Waffles have little syrup pockets. They were engineered for joy.”

Jason looked personally offended. “Wow. You’ve clearly never had my pancakes.”

“Wait—you cook pancakes?”

“I cook great pancakes.”

“Oh, now I have to see this for myself,” you said, grinning. “Next safehouse breakfast. Prove it.”

He pointed at you again. “You better be prepared to apologize when I make you the fluffiest, golden-brown, melt-in-your-mouth pancakes of your life.”

You shrugged. “You talk a big game, Todd.”

“And I deliver.”

You both broke into laughter, and for a moment it was just that—laughter echoing across a rooftop, warm and low and easy.

Then Jason spoke again.

“Okay,” he said, “next one. Top three favorite movies. Go.”

You groaned. “That’s evil.”

“Exactly.”

You thought for a moment, tapping your fingers against your thigh.

“Okay. Number one is that old sci-fi epic with the terrible effects but the really good alien romance subplot.”

Jason raised a brow. “You mean The Great Moon Alliance?” (A.N.: fake movie names guys I got no idea what movies to put)

“YES. It’s terrible but also perfect. And the scene where they kiss in zero gravity? C’mon.”

“You cried during that scene, didn’t you?”

You gave him a flat look. “First of all, rude. Second of all, absolutely.”

He gave you an amused look.

You groaned. “It was a good kiss! The alien glowed when they touched!”

Jason laughed again, full and genuine this time. “That is so on brand for you.”

He laughed softly, and you continued.

“Top 2 is probably ‘Love, Technically’”

“You’re into rom-coms?” He inquired.

“Of course??? Who isn’t? Anyways top 3 is probably….. ‘ The Third Wheel’”

“Ooh I like that one.”

“RIGHT? IT’S GREAT!”

He chuckled again, leaning his head back to look at the sky.

You glanced at him—at the soft smile tugging at his lips, the way his hair curled damply at his temples, the way the wind didn’t seem to bother him when he was with you.

God, you loved seeing him like this. Peaceful. Light.

“What about you?” you asked. “Top three?”

He suddenly looked serious. “Don’t laugh.”

“Never.”

He sighed dramatically. “The animated Robin Hood.”

You blinked. “The one with the fox?”

He groaned. “I said don’t laugh.”

“No, I’m not laughing. I’m just—oh my god that’s adorable.”

He scowled. “It’s nostalgic!”

“It’s adorable,” you repeated.

He muttered something under his breath that sounded like regret. You leaned your chin on your knee, smiling at him.

“Okayy…” You trailed off. “Top 2 and 3?”

He tilted his head. “Dying Runner. And probably that one weird indie movie about the guy who makes grilled cheese for a living.”

You laughed. “The Cheese Sandwich?”

“It’s soothing,” he defended. “He opens a food truck and heals generational trauma.”

“You are so much softer than you pretend to be.”

Jason shrugged, pretending to inspect his gloves. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”

You smiled, letting the silence settle again, this time warm and heavy like a blanket.

Below, the warehouse continued its quiet rhythm, but it felt far away now—like something happening on a different planet. Up here, there was only the two of you.

You looked up at the sky—dark and full, streaked with faint stars trying to peek through the clouds.

Jason followed your gaze.

“We don’t get a lot of stars in Gotham,” he said softly.

“No,” you murmured, “but sometimes the ones we do get feel like they’re just for us.”

Jason was quiet a long moment. You thought maybe he was going to let it drop. But then—

“When I was a kid,” he said, “I used to sneak onto the library roof at night. Lay there and count the planes overhead and pretend they were stars.”

You glanced over, heart tugging.

“I didn’t think I’d ever leave the city,” he added. “Or meet anyone who made me feel like I wanted to.”

You didn’t speak. Not yet.

He looked at you, and this time, he didn’t look away.

“But then there’s you,” he said.

Simple. Gentle. Honest.

And you felt it like a pulse under your skin.

You smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “There’s you, too.”

Then it quieted for a few minutes.

Not awkward. Just… still.

Jason glanced out at the skyline. The soft orange glow of Gotham lights bled into the fog. The city looked almost peaceful from up here—like it wasn’t full of villains and shadows and all the things that had made both of you who you were.

“I like this,” he said suddenly.

You turned your head toward him again. “The view?”

“No,” he said. Then corrected, “Well, yeah. The view’s nice. But I meant…”

He hesitated. Then looked back at you.

“I like this. Us. Sitting here. Talking like this. No pressure. No mission noise. Just… you and me.”

Your heart skipped something unsteady.

You swallowed. “Me too.”

“I don’t get to do this often,” he said. “Actually relax with someone. Feel like I’m allowed to enjoy it.”

“You are.”

He gave you a look. “Yeah, well. That’s easier to believe when it’s coming from you.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“What do you mean?”

Jason ran a hand through his damp hair, eyes dropping for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You just… you look at me like I’m not broken. Like I’m not this walking graveyard of every mistake I’ve ever made. I’m used to people flinching, or walking on eggshells, or treating me like I’m about to go off.”

You shook your head. “Jason—”

He glanced back at you.

“But you don’t do that. You just… show up. Like it’s easy. Like I matter.”

Your breath caught.

He said it so simply. No dramatics. No defenses. Just the raw truth of it, resting in the space between you like something sacred.

You leaned forward slightly, voice quiet but steady.

“You do matter. Not because of the things you’ve done or haven’t done. Not because of what people expect from you. But because you’re you. And I care about you. A lot.”

Jason looked away for a second, his jaw tightening like he didn’t know what to do with that much sincerity.

You smiled gently.

“I’m serious,” you said. “You’re one of the best people I know.”

“That’s concerning,” he muttered, but his voice was soft, and his ears were a little pink.

“Sorry,” you said, grinning. “You’re stuck with me now.”

He glanced at you, something warm flickering behind his eyes. “I’m not complaining.”

Silence fell again, but it was full this time. Full of unspoken things. Full of the kind of comfort that only came when you stopped pretending you weren’t completely and stupidly in love.

You nudged him with your knee.

⸻

Jason hadn’t said anything in a while.

Not because there was nothing left to say—no, the air between you was thick with all the words that hadn’t been spoken yet. But because he was looking at you the way someone might look at a sunrise after surviving a year of storms. Like you were something he didn’t want to blink and miss.

You were quiet, too. But not uncomfortable. Not awkward. Just here, breathing the same night air, hearts syncopated, legs brushing on the ledge of a rooftop that, for once, didn’t feel like a war zone.

Jason had been glancing at you more and more often—like he couldn’t help himself. Like something had shifted and now he didn’t know how to put it back where it was. His helmet was off, and that alone made him look softer, but it was the way he was smiling that really got to you.

Like you were snlight and he hadn’t seen daylight in years.

Finally, he exhaled. Slow. Measured. But not steady.

He rubbed the back of his neck suddenly, a rare flicker of nervousness crossing his face. “Hey… can I tell you something?”

You turned toward him, curious. “Yeah, of course.”

He didn’t look at you at first. He was watching the skyline, the way the rain shimmered against glass, the soft pulse of red lights in the distance. He spoke like it had been sitting in his chest for a while.

“I thought you liked someone else.”

You blinked. “What?”

He glanced away like it was safer to look at the skyline. “I figured I didn’t really stand a chance. I mean—you were always close with Roy. And sometimes you’d talk about people you met during undercover missions. You were always laughing. And I guess I assumed… I don’t know. That I wasn’t on the list.”

You stared at him.

Then you burst out laughing.

Jason blinked. “Hey—why is that funny?”

“You thought I was in love with Roy Harper?”

Jason looked defensive. “Don’t laugh. He’s got the dumb hair and the stupid smile. He is stupidly charming.”

“And a disaster. He once lit a microwave burrito on fire while it was still frozen,” you reminded him, grinning. “That’s who you thought I had a crush on?”

Jason shrugged, looking way too proud of himself. “Look, I’ve seen your taste in movies. You’re unpredictable. Plus, stranger things have happened.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. “You idiot.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, voice dropping, “maybe. But I just… didn’t want to hope too hard.”

That made your smile falter a little. Not in a bad way—just enough for your heart to squeeze.

You shifted, facing him a little more. “You wanna know something stupid?”

Jason looked at you. “Always.”

“When I was younger, before I got my powers, I was maybe six or seven,” you said, “I used to make up these stories. Space adventures. Galaxies and pilots and found families.”

He tilted his head, curious.

You smiled, just a little shy. “And I had this starship—the best one in the fleet. It was called The Jason. It was the fastest one. Could outrun anything. The most loyal, too—never left anyone behind.”

Jason’s expression froze. “Wait. Seriously?”

You nodded. “Didn’t even know who you really were yet. Just knew the name. I had heard my mom say ‘Jason’ on the phone one time. And it just… stuck. I liked it for some reason. It sounded brave. Sharp. Like someone who protected people and didn’t take crap from anyone.”

Jason looked like he’d been hit with a tranquilizer dart made of emotion. He blinked once. Twice. Slowly.

“You—you named a spaceship after me?”

You nodded again, trying not to laugh at his expression. “She was sleek, red-trimmed, nearly indestructible. Saved all the other ships more times than I could count.”

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

He made a helpless little noise and dropped his face into both hands. “Nope. Nope. I can’t handle this. I’m out.”

You were grinning now. “You okay there?”

“I was already at the edge,” he said, voice muffled behind his hands. “This just shoved me over.”

You leaned closer, voice light. “You short-circuiting, Mr. Hood?”

“I need a minute,” he muttered. “I’m rebooting.”

And still—you could see his smile. Even with his face buried in his hands. He peeked out between his fingers, cheeks flushed pink.

“You’re seriously trying to kill me.”

“I would never,” you said, grinning.

“Okay. Yeah. I’m done. You’ve killed me. That’s it. I’m dead.”

You giggled. “That easy, huh?”

He looked up, face red, but glowing. “You’re not allowed to be this perfect. It’s unfair.”

Jason exhaled, shook his head slowly, then looked up at you again—eyes soft, completely unguarded.

He stared at you a little longer, like you were the most ridiculous, wonderful thing he’d ever seen.

And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—he leaned in.

Slow. Tentative. Like you were a wish he was scared to say out loud.

Then you heard him mutter, voice barely a whisper.

“Can I kiss you now, or do I have to earn that after I actually build you the spaceship?”

Your breath hitched and you blinked. Then slowly nodded.

“Please.”

Jason didn’t rush it.

He reached for you like he’d done it a hundred times in his dreams. His hand found your cheek, gentle, careful, like you were something precious. You leaned in, and he did too—until your noses brushed, breath mingled, and then—

His lips met yours.

And it was perfect.

Warm. Slow. Full of years of aching and waiting and not saying the things you wanted to say. It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t messy. It was tender. Like he had time. Like he wanted to savor every second of it.

It deepened slowly—rain misting over your shoulders, city lights flickering in the distance, but none of it mattered. Because Jason was kissing you like you were the center of his world. Like nothing before had ever made sense.

His hand cradled your face, your fingers curled in the fabric of his jacket, and you kissed him like the world had finally aligned.

When you finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, you both just sat there, eyes closed, smiling like idiots.

"You have no idea how long I have been dreaming of doing that." His warm breath hit your skin.

You smiled. "I think I do."

He pulled your body closer, cradling you into his chest.

You then breathed, “So… can I keep your hoodie for real this time?”

Jason let out a breathy laugh, still dazed. “I was gonna give you my last name. But yeah. Start with the hoodie.”

You opened your eyes, grinning against his skin. “I already have your last name, Mr. Hood.”

He smirked, eyes still half-lidded and fond in a way that made your whole chest ache.

“Not that one,” he murmured. “Future Mrs. Todd.”

You snorted. “Oh my god.”

Jason laughed, completely wrecked in the best way.

And then he kissed you again. Just because he could.

Turns out, they didn’t need the chaos siblings and their flamethrowers, fake dating, or matchmaking antics.

All it took was one rooftop, some tension, and spaceship talk. And a reason to kiss.

⸻

last chapter

A.N.: Would you guys wanna see an epilogue? Like Roy and Kori's reactions? Cause I might have a draft of it already...

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yourlocallgothamite · 19 days ago

Text

Can’t Help Crushing (On You)

Jason Todd x Outlaw!Reader Series

Chapter 11: The Six Times Cupid Failed

⸻

previous chapter - next chapter

⸻

Batburger’s neon sign buzzed like it was one short-circuit away from spontaneous combustion. A bored teenager stood behind the counter, barely glancing up as two bloodied vigilantes walked in like it was a Tuesday night tradition.

Jason didn’t bother taking off his helmet this time. He was too tired. Too sore. Too focused on one thing.

“Double Nightwing burger,” he rasped, voice deepened by the voice modulator and muffled under the helmet. “Extra cheese. Large curly fries. Joker shake.”

You blinked at him from behind. “You’re seriously ordering that while looking like you just lost a knife fight with a paper shredder?”

Jason turned his head slightly. “I won the knife fight, thank you very much.”

You gave him a look. “Barely.”

“You healed me. That counts as a tactical advantage.”

You stepped up to the counter, wincing as your own ribs protested. “Just a small fry and... I guess the Robin Nuggets. Don’t ask me which Robin, I’m emotionally fragile.”

The cashier didn’t even flinch. Gotham teenagers were built different.

A few minutes later, you were both seated in a reclusive corner booth, away from prying eyes and hidden by the shadows, a mountain of greasy food between you, still smelling faintly of blood and gunpowder. Jason had his helmet on the seat beside him, hair flattened and a smear of dried blood trailing along his jawline. You took your (his) helmet off your head and placed it next to you as well, leaning your elbow slightly on top of it.

Your domino-clad eyes stared at the whites of his domino mask.

You shoved a fry in your mouth and broke the silence. “We’re going to get salmonella. Or sued.”

Jason shrugged, mouth full of burger. “Worth it.”

You watched him chew. Watched the way his eyes looked just a little more tired than usual, a little less guarded. He was alive. He was here. He was eating a grotesquely large burger and pretending like everything was fine.

And somehow, that made it a little easier to breathe.

“I thought I lost you,” you said suddenly.

Jason paused mid-bite. He swallowed. Slowly.

“I know.”

You fiddled with your fries. “It didn’t feel nice at all.”

He stared at you, his burger almost forgotten in his hands.

Then: “You didn’t lose me.”

You looked up.

“I’m still here,” he said quietly, nudging your foot under the table. “Thanks to you.”

You stared at him. At the messy hair and calloused knuckles and those stupid, stupid teal eyes that were way too soft right now.

You grabbed a curly fry and chucked it at him.

He blinked. “Rude.”

“You’re not allowed to almost die and then say emotionally significant things at Batburger.”

Jason grinned. “Okay, fine. I’ll wait ‘til dessert.”

“Jason.”

“What?”

“Thank you.”

Jason blinked, mid-chew, like the weight of your voice cut through the haze of grease and adrenaline still lingering in the air between you.

He swallowed. Tilted his head.

“For what?” he asked, voice quiet. No teasing this time.

You hesitated. Just for a second.

Then you said, softer than before, “For… trusting me. For believing I could do it. That I could save you.”

His gaze didn’t waver. Not for a second. “Of course I believe in you.”

You smiled—barely. It trembled at the edges.

“Even when I don’t.”

Jason reached across the table, fingers brushing against yours—just enough to feel the warmth of your skin.

“Especially when you don’t.”

You paused for a moment, gulping. “What if it hadn’t worked? What if I couldn’t save you?”

Your eyes welled up with tears.

Jason didn’t answer at first.

He just looked at you. Really looked at you. Like maybe he could memorize the exact shape of your guilt and wring it out of your lungs himself.

“You always could,” he said finally, voice low. “I just reminded you.”

You swallowed hard. Your eyes stung.

He let his hand grip yours in comfort from over the table. His tight grip lingered for a moment too long before he let go.

And just like that, the noise of Batburger—the buzzing lights, the faint sizzle of fry oil, the obnoxious speaker playing some godawful remix of the Bat-Signal—faded into the background.

Because the only thing that mattered right then was this: Jason was alive. He was here. And he believed in you, even when you couldn’t.

You didn’t speak after that. Just sat across from each other in quiet understanding, fries half-eaten, milkshake slowly melting between you.

Maybe tomorrow you’d deal with what that almost-confession meant. Maybe tomorrow you’d talk about what was really said in that warehouse.

But for now… he just passed you a napkin and said:

“You’ve got ketchup on your face, Mrs. Hood.”

You looked at him, then at the napkin, then you grabbed the bottle of ketchup and squirted some straight on his check, touching the edge of the domino mask.

He groaned, dropped his head to the table, and muttered something about “betrayal.”

You smiled anyway.

Because you were both still here.

And that’s what mattered.

⸻

The safehouse shook just slightly as something, no—someone—landed in hard on the roof.

Then, a thud echoed through the living room, followed by the telltale shimmer of alien light as Princess Koriand’r of Tamaran walked gracefully across the safehouse—eyes glowing, boots steaming, fiery hair floating like it had its own personal wind machine.

She touched down with all the drama of a celestial goddess, right in the middle of the rug Jason had spilled ramen on last week.

“Home,” she said brightly, then paused. Sniffed. “...Why does it smell like melted protein powder and ketchup in here?”

No one answered.

She looked around the empty room, then sighed and pulled a comm from her belt. With one graceful motion, she flicked it on.

“Roy,” she called. “Are you alive?”

There was static. Then a rustle. Then Roy’s voice came through, far too smug for someone allegedly working a recon job in Blüdhaven.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Queen of the Stars herself. Miss me?”

Kori rolled her eyes, floating a few inches off the ground again as she glided toward the kitchen. “Only during moments of peace and silence.”

“Ouch. Harsh.” He sounded like he was smiling. “How’d it go?”

“Four intergalactic smugglers apprehended, three diplomatic treaties signed, and one attempt at assassination thwarted by simply existing. You know. Friday.” She opened the fridge and made a face. “Why are there three half-empty bottles of hot sauce and nothing else in here?”

Roy snorted. “Ask Jason. He’s the one treating condiment storage like emotional catharsis.”

At that, Kori paused.

Her smile turned sly. “Speaking of Jason…”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Roy groaned. “Oh no. You’ve got that tone. The ‘I’ve returned and am ready to cause romantic chaos’ tone.”

Kori drifted up onto the couch and settled there cross-legged, looking far too regal to be sitting next to a throw pillow that said ‘Live Laugh Lock & Load.’

“I was gone for one week, Roy. Please tell me something finally happened between them.”

Roy sighed. “Define ‘something.’”

Kori perked up. “Did they kiss?”

“No.”

“Confess feelings?”

“Nope.”

“Hold hands while dying?”

“…Okay, that one’s a maybe.”

“Ah,” she said, glowing slightly. “Progress.”

Roy groaned again, louder this time. “You weren’t even here and somehow you’re still scheming.”

Kori’s grin widened. “Of course I’m scheming. You and I are the only competent ones left. Those two are walking tension coils with matching trauma disorders. If we don’t intervene, they’ll be seventy before someone confesses.”

“I give it six more missions before one of them faints from sheer romantic repression.”

“Five,” Kori countered. “I sensed tension through atmospheric interference.”

“…That’s not how tension works, Kor.”

“It is when it’s them.”

Roy sighed heavily. “I don’t get it. They’re already basically a couple. They fight like one. They brood like one. She stitched him back together last week and then sat next to his bed for hours like some tragic Victorian novel.”

Kori sighed. “And he didn’t say a word about it. Not even a thank-you kiss?” She paused. “Or a dramatic declaration of undying affection?”

“Not even a flirty bandage comment.”

She gasped. “Blasphemy.”

“I know. It’s criminal.”

She floated into the kitchen again, opened the pantry, closed it dramatically. “Jason Todd is the most emotionally constipated human in the galaxy.”

“Right behind you-know-who.”

She smirked. “Which is why they’re perfect for each other. Equally terrible at vulnerability. Equally likely to die in a warehouse trying to avoid their feelings.”

“And we love them.”

“Very much.”

“So… what do we do?”

Kori hovered back toward the couch, firelight in her hair and mischief in her smile. “We create an environment in which they must either confess their feelings… or combust.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. I’m thinking: morning training session. Close quarters. Casual praise. No supervision.”

Roy’s jaw dropped, “You want to trap them in a room together.”

Kori grinned, “Emotionally, yes.”

He groaned. “Jason’s gonna know exactly what we’re doing.”

“Of course. But he’ll be too flustered to stop it. And she will start rambling. And then… something will slip.”

“I swear to God, Kori, if this works—”

“—we are naming their first child.”

“Yes.”

They paused for a moment, proud, chaotic, and way too invested.

“Tomorrow morning. Training room. You bring him in.”

“And you just happen to leave Y/N there alone?”

She beamed. “Exactly.”

“…It’s insane. But I’m in.”

She floated off the couch again, already glowing with excitement. “Operation: Push the Idiots Together resumes at dawn.”

Roy hummed. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Jason ambush?”

“Exactly.”

They grinned—miles apart, but in perfect sync.

Because if the traumatized, emotionally repressed idiots in love wouldn’t make a move… their chaos siblings absolutely would.

⸻

Back at Batburger, you and Jason were having the time of your lives.

The ketchup slowly began to dry on his cheek, glinting faintly under Batburger’s flickering overhead light.

Jason sighed, dramatically dragging a napkin across his face. “Let the record show, I almost died and you ruined the mood.”

You snorted, stealing one of his curly fries without remorse. “You ruined the mood when you ordered a Joker shake.”

“Oh my god, let it go—”

“Literally named after your murderer.”

He groaned and thumped his head lightly against the booth wall. “I’m re-dying. Right now. You’re killing me again.”

You leaned back too, mirroring him, your muscles finally starting to unclench. A slow breath left your lungs, like your body had just remembered how to breathe again. “Well. At least this time, you’ll go out with fries.”

Jason turned his head toward you, cheek still pressed to the wall. His knee bumped yours beneath the table—just a small, unspoken check-in. You didn’t move away.

“You really scared me,” you said.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice low. “Me too.”

You looked over at him. The ketchup was drying. The grime clung to his suit. And still—somehow—he managed to look at you like you were the only steady thing left in the world.

And then he smiled. Just a little. Soft. Honest. A smile just for you.

“…Wanna split a Bat Brownie?” he asked.

Your heart hadn’t stopped racing since the warehouse. But here, in this booth, in this quiet moment where nothing was crashing down… you nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, okay.”

Jason flagged down the teenager behind the counter with a lazy two-finger wave. “One Bat Brownie. Extra fudge. It’s for medical reasons.”

The kid raised a brow but didn’t argue. Gotham teenagers knew better.

You nudged Jason under the table.

He nudged you back.

Because maybe trauma did taste better with fries. And maybe—just maybe—dessert could taste like hope.

⸻

Operation: Push the Idiots Together: ATTEMPT NUMBER 1:

The next morning…

The safehouse training room was quiet, save for the low mechanical hum of the lights and the soft whir of the ceiling fans overhead. The mats were freshly laid. Sparring dummies reset. Weapons racks polished to near obsessive perfection.

Kori hovered in front of the mirror wall, adjusting a training pad on her arm with unnecessary precision.

You stood near the lockers, tugging your shirt down over your still-sore ribs. You hadn’t really slept, and the memory of Jason’s voice saying “Especially when you don’t” kept looping in your head like a cursed lullaby. But your limbs needed to move before your brain exploded, so here you were.

“Hey,” you said casually. “Didn’t think anyone else was up yet.”

Kori turned toward you, radiant and far too awake for 8:00 a.m. “Oh, just finishing cooldown. I was about to head out.”

“Oh. Cool,” you said, stretching your arm across your chest.

Kori smiled. “You should stay. I hear training clears the mind. And perhaps… the heart.”

You blinked. “Uh—”

The door slid open behind you with a hiss. Boots on tile. You turned.

Jason.

Of course it was Jason.

“Morning,” he said, a little hoarse. His hoodie was slung half-on, hair damp from a recent shower, the curve of a bruise still fading under his jaw.

You froze like a socially awkward deer in combat boots. “Oh. Uh. Hey.”

Kori’s eyes sparkled like she’d just won a galactic lottery.

“Well, look at the time!” she announced. “I must go… do something elsewhere.”

She floated gracefully to the door, patting Jason on the shoulder as she passed. “Enjoy your session.”

Jason furrowed his brow. “Wait, session? I thought— Roy said I was just—”

The door hissed shut behind her.

Then locked.

Audibly.

There was a pause. Then:

Jason tried the panel. It blinked red. “Uh. What the hell?”

You walked over, tried it yourself. “It’s locked?”

“Yup. We’ve been locked in.”

You both turned toward the security camera in the upper corner.

Somewhere—maybe in the comm room—Kori and Roy were probably high-fiving like giddy evil masterminds.

Jason rubbed his face. “God. It’s an ambush.”

You groaned. “They’re matchmaking again, aren’t they.”

“Feels like it.”

You both stood there for a second in awkward silence, exactly five feet apart like you’d been choreographed by fate and social anxiety.

Finally, you cleared your throat. “So. You wanna train? Or just dramatically pretend to train and wait them out?”

Jason grinned faintly, stretching one shoulder. “If we’re stuck, might as well get sweaty.”

“…That wasn’t meant to sound weird,” he added quickly.

You gave him a look. “Mm-hmm. Punch me, Todd.”

He laughed—relieved, maybe—and stepped onto the mat.

Because Operation: Push the Idiots Together was officially in motion. And the first rule of emotional warfare?

Sweat makes it harder to lie about feelings.

⸻

Kori hovered cross-legged in front of the large monitor, still in her workout gear, sipping on a bright pink smoothie that looked aggressively radioactive.

Roy stood beside her with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the screen.

On the monitor: a muted security feed of the training room. You and Jason were sparring—actually sparring—with brutal focus and minimal talking. The occasional half-smile or casual snark was there… but no lingering stares. No accidental confessions. No surprise kisses in the middle of a roundhouse kick.

Just tension. Muted. Suppressed. Fully repressed.

Kori stared blankly. “They are—how do you say—emotionally defective.”

Roy sighed loudly and slumped into the chair beside her. “They beat the crap out of each other for forty-five minutes straight.”

“They barely made eye contact!” Kori cried.

Roy threw up his hands. “I saw more sexual tension between him and a gun last week!”

Kori pointed at the screen. “And did you see? She fell. He caught her. He had her in his arms. And what did he do?”

Roy deadpanned, “He helped her up. Said ‘you okay?’ And then went back to punching things.”

They both groaned in synchronized despair.

Kori sipped her smoothie. “Attempt number one: complete failure.”

Roy grabbed a sticky note off the desk and scribbled in Sharpie: “Operation: Push the Idiots Together — Attempt #1: LOCKED ROOM → STATUS: Useless Garbage Outcome.”

He stuck it on the whiteboard next to several other mildly unhinged Post-it plans.

“I should’ve gone with my sleep-deprivation hallway trap idea,” Roy muttered.

“I was in favor of the shared shower prank,” Kori replied solemnly.

He gave her a Look.

She sipped her smoothie.

A long pause.

Then Roy said, “Alright. What’s next?”

She didn’t blink. “Movie night.”

Roy blinked. “What?”

She set her smoothie down with the gravity of a royal decree. “We initiate a casual group bonding activity. Pillows. Blankets. Dimmed lighting. Limited seating.”

Roy leaned in slowly. “…You're thinking shared couch confinement.”

“With proximity. And warmth,” Kori confirmed. “Human bonding is accelerated by perceived safety and oxytocin regulation. Also… blankets.”

Roy nodded solemnly. “God, I love it when you go full science on their emotional constipation.”

She beamed. “We lure them in with popcorn. You curate the couch arrangement. I shall distract everyone else.”

“Operation: Accidental Cuddling. Attempt Number Two,” Roy muttered, already digging through the kitchen drawer for Post-its.

He slapped a new one on the board.

📝 OPERATION: PUSH THE IDIOTS TOGETHER ATTEMPT #2 — MOVIE NIGHT → STATUS: IN PROGRESS

⸻

The lights were low. The TV cast a flickering glow across the room. A truly cursed “Gotham’s Funniest Criminal Bloopers” DVD played on-screen—Roy’s idea, naturally.

Blankets and pillows were stacked like a fort across the couch. Snacks were everywhere. Jason was sandwiched in the corner seat, hoodie on, arms crossed like he’d rather be anywhere else but also kind of didn’t want to move.

Roy tossed popcorn into his mouth with dramatic flair. “Okay, seating plan is sacred. No switching. Movie law.”

You raised a brow. “That’s not a real law.”

“Is now,” he said, already half under a weighted blanket. “Now sit. We’re watching a four hour montage of the Condiment King falling off of dumpsters and rooftops in HD.”

Kori floated in from the kitchen with a bowl of glowing Tamaranian trail mix and parked herself on the opposite end of the room with suspiciously pointed disinterest.

You shrugged and flopped down next to Jason. Close. Too close. The only blanket left was the one already covering him. Roy handed it to you with a grin too wide to be innocent.

“Sharing is caring,” he sing-songed.

You glared. Jason looked away. But neither of you moved.

Ten minutes in, your shoulder brushed his.

Fifteen minutes in, your head tipped against his bicep.

Twenty-five minutes in, you were asleep.

Jason Todd did not move a single muscle for two full hours.

Not when your hand curled near his chest. Not when your knee bumped his. Not even when Roy fake-coughed “awww” into his popcorn.

Jason just stared straight ahead like a man being interrogated by Deathstroke. His heart was doing 200 BPM. His soul had left the building.

Eventually, you stirred. Blinking groggily, you sat up fast.

“Oh my god. I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Jason snapped out of his statue state, blinking down at the spot where your head had been. “It’s okay. You, uh… looked comfy.”

You sat bolt upright on the opposite side of the couch like the blanket had betrayed you. You didn't touch him again for the rest of the movie.

Jason didn’t reach for you, either.

Because you thought you’d made him uncomfortable. And he thought you regretted it.

But in your mind, you were thinking, ‘He didn’t push me away. That means something… right?’

While Jason was internally freaking out, ‘She moved away. She didn’t want to stay. She thinks I’m weird. I’m going to dig a hole in the floor and live there now.’

Across the room, Roy stared at the two of you like he was witnessing the death of joy.

Then, with zero ceremony, he stood, turned the TV off mid-fall, and left.

Kori followed a second later, shaking her head and muttering something in Tamaranian that probably translated to “May the stars grant me patience.”

You stared at the paused screen, hugging your knees under the blanket. Jason stared at the floor.

⸻

Somewhere in the hallway, Roy slammed the whiteboard marker down and wrote:

Operation: Push the Idiots Together — Attempt #2: MOVIE NIGHT → STATUS: Hellish Disaster

He underlined it. Twice.

Then added:

ATTEMPT #3: ??? — BEGINS TOMORROW.

Because chaos doesn’t rest. And neither does love.

⸻

It was the next night.

The Outlaws were lounging around the safehouse’s living room, post-mission and post-shower, scattered across beanbags and couches in various states of mental exhaustion.

It started as a joke. A harmless suggestion. Kori had been floating lazily above the couch, sipping a fizzy neon drink and watching Roy dramatically re-enact their latest mission disaster with sock puppets when she said, “We should play a game. Something of bonding. Perhaps… Truth or Dare?”

Jason groaned immediately. “Nope. No way. Absolutely not.”

Roy grinned. “Which means we’re definitely doing it.”

You didn’t mind. It had been a rough couple of days. A little distraction couldn’t hurt.

You did not know what was coming.

TEN MINUTES LATER.

Kori was glowing faintly. Jason was slouched against the arm of the couch like a man being sentenced to death. You were cross-legged across from him, chewing on a Twizzler like it was a stress cigarette. Roy was too enthusiastic.

Kori pointed at Roy. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“I dare you to do ten pushups while singing your nation’s anthem.”

“Bet.”

He dropped to the floor immediately. “O say can you SEEEE—ugh, who put a gummy worm under this pillow?!”

You burst out laughing so hard you nearly fell over. Jason smiled quietly to himself.

Roy groaned through his pushups. “This is not the freedom I fought for.”

“You’ve never fought for anything but the last slice of pizza,” Jason said dryly.

“Exactly,” Roy wheezed. “A patriot.”

Kori clapped once. “Your turn!”

Roy rolled over and pointed at Jason, gasping dramatically. “Truth or dare, Red Death?”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Truth.”

“Lame,” you and Roy said at the same time.

Jason flipped you both off without looking.

Roy grinned. “Alright, lover boy—what’s your type?”

Jason blinked. “What?”

“Your type,” Roy repeated, grinning like a man with zero survival instinct. “You know, romantically. Spill.”

Jason made a noise like a car refusing to start. “I—That’s—Why would you—”

Kori perked up, eyes glowing. “Yes. This is of the intrigue.”

Jason looked at you for half a second, then looked anywhere else. “I hate all of you.”

Roy leaned forward. “C’mon. We won’t judge. Much.”

Jason groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Fine. Whatever. I guess… someone who’s not afraid to throw a punch. Or punch me, if necessary.”

Kori nodded. “Strong spirit. Good.”

“And… funny,” he muttered. “Like… not a try-hard. Just naturally funny. The kind who doesn’t even realize they’re funny.”

You tried very hard not to visibly combust.

Jason continued, barely above a mumble. “Also… someone who doesn’t give up. Even when it sucks. Even when they’re scared.”

Roy wiggled his eyebrows. “Anyone we know?”

Jason stared at him like he was planning Roy’s slow, creative death.

Roy held up both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, geez, chill with the death stares will ya?”

Jason didn’t look at you.

You didn’t look at him either.

Kori’s grin was visible from orbit.

And then she turned to you next. “Truth or dare?”

“…Truth.”

“What was your first impression of Jason?”

You choked on your Twizzler.

Jason froze.

Roy dropped his drink in anticipation.

You scrambled. “Uh—loud. Bloody. Way too much leather.”

Jason looked mock-offended. “Excuse you, the jacket’s vintage.”

“I thought you were gonna shoot me in the face.”

Roy grinned. “You thought wrong. He was just falling in love.”

“ROY,” Jason hissed.

You avoided eye contact with everyone.

Roy was still snickering when you turned the tables. “Okay, Harper. Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“I dare you to—” you squinted at the snack pile, “—build a crown out of Twizzlers and wear it like the drama king you are.”

Roy bowed deeply. “Your wish is my cursed command.”

He immediately began constructing a sticky mess of candy hair art.

Jason leaned toward you, voice low. “You realize this is only encouraging him?”

You shrugged. “He’s having a good time. And I get to watch him struggle with food-based arts and crafts. It’s a win-win.”

Jason huffed a laugh under his breath.

Roy flopped dramatically onto the couch, now crowned with a very wonky Twizzler tiara. “Behold. King of the Idiots.”

“Long may he trip over his own shoelaces,” Jason muttered.

You clapped. “Okay. My turn again. Jason. Truth or dare?”

Jason looked at you for a moment—then said, “Dare.”

You smirked. “I dare you to say three nice things about me. Out loud. Right now. No sarcasm.”

He blinked.

Kori perked up like a cat hearing a can opener.

Jason rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s cruel.”

“Still counts,” Roy whispered loudly.

Jason looked at you again—long enough that your heart hiccupped in your chest. Then, finally:

“You’re brave. Even when you think you’re not.” “You’re fast on the field. Smarter than you let on.” “…And you’re good at keeping me grounded. Which is hard to do. Trust me.”

You stared.

Kori’s smile turned downright evil.

You cleared your throat and looked down at your lap, suddenly very interested in the remaining Twizzlers.

Jason turned away just as fast, tossing a popcorn kernel into his mouth like nothing happened.

Roy whispered, “This is better than reality TV.”

Kori nodded solemnly. “I am emotionally invested.”

You kicked Roy’s leg. “Truth or dare, King of the Idiots?”

“Truth.”

“…What’s something you’ve never told us?”

Roy thought. Looked around the room. Then said very seriously:

“I once tripped on my own bowstring and fell off a rooftop. I told you guys it was enemy fire. But it was me. It was always me.”

Jason snorted so hard he nearly choked.

You wiped a tear from your eye. “This game was a good idea.”

Kori beamed. “I always have the good ideas.”

Jason grumbled, “You also had the idea to ‘accidentally’ trap me in the training room.”

“I plead the fifth,” Kori said brightly.

Roy gave her a high-five behind your back.

Kori clapped her hands once, like she was summoning drama from the heavens. “Final round,” she declared. “The grand finale dare.”

Jason immediately looked suspicious. “Nope.”

“Oh yes,” Kori said sweetly. “And it goes to… you and Y/N.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

Roy grinned with far too many teeth. “Group dare. Bonding exercise. No take-backs.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like where this is going.”

Kori tilted her head innocently. “You are both dared to... kiss.”

Jason froze.

You nearly choked on your own soul.

“WHAT,” you said, voice cracking like a teen on live TV.

“Just a little one,” Roy added way too casually. “It’s tradition. End-of-game bonding. Totally normal.”

Jason made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now,” Kori said brightly. “Come, it is just lips. You both have them. Use them.”

You stared at Jason.

Jason stared at you.

Time crawled.

Then Jason stood up way too fast, knocking over the popcorn bowl.

“I—uh—left my—my—gun. Somewhere. I should go find it.”

“You don’t even use it in the house!” Roy called after him.

Jason was already halfway to the hallway, muttering something about “tampered rules” and “emotional blackmail” and “not falling for the chaos twins again.”

You, still frozen in place, blinked at the empty space he left behind.

“…Cool,” you said weakly. “Coolcoolcool.”

Kori slowly turned her head to Roy. “I thought it would work.”

Roy picked up the abandoned Twizzler crown, placed it on his own head again, and sighed. “They’re incurable.”

Kori slumped onto the floor like a deflated star.

Kori lifted her smoothie in a solemn toast. “To repressed feelings and stubborn boys.”

Roy clinked his Capri Sun against her glass. “May tomorrow bring better nonsense.”

Somewhere down the hall, Jason was probably hiding in a closet.

And back on the couch, you stared at the empty popcorn bowl and thought: ‘…Did he just run out so he wouldn’t have to kiss me? He hates me. He likes someone else. I knew it. I knew it. Oh god oh god.’ While Jason, curled up in emotional chaos, was thinking: ‘She must hate me now. What did I do? I totally gave her the ick. I’m moving to a cave.’

Attempt #3: failure.

The mission had failed.

But the chaos?

The chaos had only just begun.

⸻

Later that day, in Kori and Roy’s mission plan room, Roy scribbled furiously on the whiteboard:

📝 Operation: Push the Idiots Together — Attempt #3: FORCED KISS DARE → STATUS: Immediate Disaster Casualties: One bowl of popcorn, Jason’s emotional stability, everyone’s dignity

He stared at it for a moment.

Then added: ATTEMPT #4: TBD. WE REGROUP AT DAWN.

He looked at it one more time.

Then underlined “DISASTER” five times.

Next to him, Kori hovered with a pensive frown.

“We need to escalate,” she said.

Roy muttered, “Next attempt: fire. Literal fire.”

They high-fived in solemn solidarity.

Because these two idiots? Were gonna need divine intervention. Or a flamethrower.

⸻

ATTEMPT #5: FAKE DATING MISSION

The safehouse briefing room was unusually quiet.

Which meant something was terribly wrong.

You knew it the moment you walked in and saw Kori standing in front of the mission board with a laser pointer in hand, a slideshow titled “Operation: Smooch & Surveillance” already queued up on the projector.

Roy was slouched in his chair with a Capri Sun and an evil glint in his eyes.

Jason entered just behind you, took one look at the setup, and muttered, “Nope,” before turning on his heel.

“You sit your emotionally stunted butt down,” Roy called cheerfully. “This one’s gonna be good.”

Jason sighed like a man who already regretted every life choice that led him here, then grudgingly took the seat beside you.

Kori beamed. “Excellent. Let us begin.”

The lights dimmed. Roy dramatically hit the spacebar on the laptop like he was announcing the next Marvel Phase. The screen displayed a photo of a high-end Gotham gala invitation—gold trim, fancy cursive, probably smelled like rich people and corruption.

“The couple we are surveilling,” Kori said, clicking to the next slide, which showed two grainy photos of a man and woman looking like they were about to devour each other, “will be attending this charity gala tomorrow night. Very touchy. Very suspicious. Possibly smuggling illegal tech. But also—” she tapped her pointer with increasing intensity, “—very handsy.”

You squinted. “What kind of intel is that?”

“Body language, Y/N. It reveals much,” Kori replied solemnly. “They are always kissing. Touching. Whispering sweet nothings.”

“Gross,” Jason muttered.

“They’re in love,” Kori corrected.

“No, they’re in tax fraud,” Roy added helpfully.

“Anyway,” Kori continued, undeterred, “to successfully blend in, we need to send a couple who can… mimic this energy.”

You started getting a bad feeling in your stomach. A terrible, sinking, Kori-has-a-plan kind of feeling.

Roy grinned. “That’s right. We’re sending in our most emotionally constipated agents.”

She clicked to the next slide. It was a picture of you and Jason from last week, standing sort-of close while arguing over whether or not decaf counted as a war crime.

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Why do you have a PowerPoint folder of us?”

Roy took a loud sip of his Capri Sun.

“That’s not important,” Kori said. “What is important is this: you two will be attending the gala. Together. As a couple.”

You blinked. “A fake couple. Right?”

“Oh, yes,” she said sweetly. “So fake. Entirely pretend. Very not real.”

Jason leaned forward, face a mask of horror. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” Roy cut in. “You two already flirt like you’re in a low-budget romcom.”

“We do not—” you and Jason said at the exact same time.

Roy pointed triumphantly. “See?! THAT! That right there!”

Jason threw his hands up. “This is entrapment.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t make you share a fork,” Kori said.

You stared. “That was an option?!”

Roy grinned. “We’re saving it for Attempt #8.”

Jason turned to you, eyes wide. “Please tell me you have an escape plan.”

“I did,” you said flatly. “Until you followed me in here.”

Roy was scribbling something into a notebook labeled “Stupid Love Mission Logs.”

Kori clicked her pointer dramatically. “You’ll dress up. You’ll hold hands. You’ll smile like you’re not internally combusting. And you’ll gather intel while looking adorable.”

Jason buried his face in his hands. “God help me.”

You folded your arms.

Roy tapped the whiteboard with his marker. “Repeat after me: Fake dating. Real danger. Maximum chaos.”

Jason groaned. “You people are demons.”

You sighed. “And we’re doing it anyway, aren’t we?”

“You’re doing God’s work,” Roy said solemnly.

Kori gave you two thumbs up. “Operation: Hot People in Love commences at 1900 hours.”

Jason slumped back in his seat like a man already writing his own eulogy.

Roy, meanwhile, whispered under his breath, “This is gonna be so dumb. I love it.”

“Congratulations,” Kori beamed. “You’re fake dating now.”

And just like that, the trap was set.

Attempt #5 had begun.

And neither of you were emotionally prepared.

⸻

You stepped out of your room, heart doing a weird double-flip in your chest. The dress Kori had picked out was stunning—a floor-length, deep red number that hugged you just enough to be flattering but made you feel ridiculously exposed at the same time. You tried to ignore the way the black trench coat felt heavier than usual, like it was silently daring you to survive this mission without melting into a puddle of awkward.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror outside your room. ‘Not bad’, you thought. You took a deep breath, psyching yourself up.

Then, you stepped into the living room.

Jason was there, leaning against the edge of the couch, adjusting his gloves—because apparently he needed gloves for this mission, too, as if being a walking brooding leather jacket wasn’t enough. You cleared your throat.

He looked up.

And then just… stared.

For a beat. Too long a beat.

You felt like every inch of your skin was suddenly under a microscope. Did something snap? Did a seam rip? Was there a Twizzler stuck to my shoe? You swallowed hard, managing to squeak out: “…What?”

Jason’s eyes darted away like you’d just asked him to solve a Rubik’s Cube while juggling flaming bats. His voice came out a little choked, and you could tell he was trying desperately to sound casual but failing miserably.

“Nothing. Just… good to know trench coats can look that good.”

Did he just—? Your brain was short-circuiting like a busted circuit board. You couldn’t even think of a snarky comeback. You just kind of… died a little inside.

Jason was immediately regretting it, you could tell. His cheeks darkened to a shade of red that you had never seen before. You swear he looked like he wanted to crawl into a fireplace or disappear through the floor.

‘Why did I say that?’ he thought, mentally facepalming. ‘Why didn’t I just say, “You look fine”? Or “We’re here to do a job”? No, let’s definitely compliment a jacket when the girl’s wearing a stunning dress’.

Meanwhile, your own thoughts were racing.

‘He noticed. He noticed and he said something—kind of? Sort of? Oh god, does this mean he likes the jacket or me or both? Am I reading into this wrong? Probably wrong. Definitely wrong. Stay cool. Don’t hyperventilate.’

From the hallway, Kori’s excited squeal shattered the fragile bubble of silence.

“Oh my gods, you two!” she chirped, floating in with the enthusiasm of a kid at a candy store. “This is exactly what I was picturing! The trench coat with the dress? Iconic! And the matching colors? PERFECT!”

Jason shot her a look that clearly said You’re gonna pay for this later.

You tried to match Kori’s grin, but your brain was still reeling from Jason’s unexpected compliment.

Jason coughed again, voice barely above a whisper. “I—uh—yeah. You look good.”

‘Okay, definitely an improvement from “trench coats are great”,’ you thought, smiling despite yourself. But inside, your heart was doing somersaults.

‘He said I look good. He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, but I bet he spent ten minutes trying to figure out how to say it without sounding like an idiot. He’s a mess. But he’s my mess. UGH I love him so much.’

Jason caught your eye and quickly looked away, but this time you caught a flicker of something different—something soft, maybe even a little shy.

You cleared your throat, trying to act like it wasn’t a Big Deal™, but your fingers were twitching with nerves.

“Well,” you said, trying to sound casual, “I was gonna say ‘thanks,’ but now I’m wondering if you meant the jacket or me.”

Jason’s head snapped back toward you, eyes wide. “I meant—uh—both! Definitely both. The jacket’s killer, but you… you’re just… something else.”

You tried not to smile like a total idiot.

‘He’s blushing. Jason freaking Todd is blushing. This is new territory’

Kori floated over, practically vibrating with excitement. “This is progress, people! Emotional growth in action!”

Roy peeked his head in from the other room, grinning. “Did I miss the part where they actually kissed yet? No? Okay, carry on.”

Jason groaned, throwing a cushion at Roy. “Not helping.”

You laughed softly, feeling the strange, warm glow of something like hope—or maybe just relief.

Whatever it was, you were pretty sure this mission just got a whole lot more interesting.

⸻

Once you two had infiltrated the enemy territory—aka, successfully entered the event as Mr. and Mrs. Dodd, (Dodd? Really Roy?) —you scouted the area for your targets.

You looped your arm through Jason’s like a pro—calm, composed, utterly undercover. You had rehearsed this a hundred times in your head, and yet, your heart was thumping like a drumline on parade. Professional. Calm. Fine.

His hand found your waist almost before you could even blink.

You completely flatlined.

‘Okay. That was unexpected’. You could feel the heat radiating from where his fingers settled, light but firm. Like he was trying to anchor both of you in the moment. And somehow, it made your insides both freeze and melt all at once.

Jason’s voice was low, just above a murmur. “Relax.”

You blinked, eyes wide. “You’re touching my waist.”

He didn’t pull away.

“Yeah,” he said, voice dry but not unkind. “That’s the job.”

You scoffed quietly. “I hate the job.”

“Same.” He sounded like he meant it.

But Jason’s mind was a mess. ‘Okay, focus. You’re here on a mission. Act cool. Act normal.’

But every time his hand moved a fraction of an inch closer to you, his brain short-circuited.

‘She smells like jasmine and something like rain. Why am I noticing this?’ ‘Her laugh last night? The way she bites her lip when she’s nervous? OH SHITTT MY HEARTT—’ ‘Keep it together, Todd. This is not the time to freak out over a waist touch.’ ‘But damn, it feels… right. Steady. Like I’m not completely alone in this insane world.’

He squeezed just a little—not enough to be obvious, just enough to remind you he was there. That he had your back.

And your mind was doing somersaults too. ‘He touched my waist. Not like a panicked “I’m protecting you” grab, but a steady, confident kind of touch’. ‘Is this what normal people do when they’re undercover?’ ‘Why does this feel like the most intimate thing anyone’s done to me in forever?’ ‘Focus. The mission. The gala. Don’t melt in his arms.’ ‘But also—he’s right here. Right now. And it’s… not scary. It’s comforting. Even when I want to punch him for being so calm.’

Jason leaned in just a fraction closer, voice dropping another notch. “You look good. Like… not just tonight. Always.”

You almost missed it because your heart was beating too fast. You glanced sideways. He was looking right at you, eyes shadowed but sincere.

You swallowed hard and whispered, “You look good too. Like… real good.”

He smirked, that half-grin that made your knees go weak. “Glad to hear I’m still in the game.”

You squeezed his arm gently. “You’re not just in the game. You’re winning it.”

Jason’s gaze flicked to the mission board across the room, where the target couple was mingling under glittering chandeliers.

He sighed softly. “Right. Back to work. But—” he glanced down at your joined arms “—we’re doing pretty well, undercover or not.”

You nodded, suddenly feeling a little braver. “Together.”

Jason’s hand tightened on your waist, a silent promise.

The mission was serious. The stakes were high. But somehow, wrapped in this moment of fake dating, everything else faded into background noise.

Because for once, maybe, you weren’t just fighting a battle against villains—you were fighting for something real.

The night went by in a blur of dances and surveillance.

You found yourself holding Jason’s hand as you crossed the polished dance floor. The soft clink of glasses and muted classical music filled the grand hall, but all you could focus on was the electric tension humming between your fingers.

‘Why did I agree to this again?’ you thought, eyes flicking nervously to the two guards watching you like hawks. ‘Because Kori said so. Because Roy promised no flames this time. Because apparently ‘fake dating’ is the only way to not get caught.’

Jason’s thumb brushed lightly over your knuckle.

You forgot your own name.

‘What the hell is he doing?’ The simple, steady movement was so small, so casual — and yet it made your heart flip like a gymnast.

Jason’s voice came low, barely above a whisper but sharp with command. “Smile. That guard is looking at us all suspicious.”

You forced it, a shaky grin tugging at your lips. “You’re going to kill me.”

He smirked without looking down. “That’s rich. You’re the one in that dress.”

You rolled your eyes. “Professional attire.”

He arched an eyebrow, lips curling into a teasing grin. “Sure. Professional murder.”

You squeezed his hand back, trying to steady your racing thoughts. ‘Okay, focus. We’re here on a mission. Just two pros, pretending to be a couple. No awkward feelings allowed.’

But as you glanced at him, the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, the steady warmth of his hand holding yours—it was all a lie. Just pretend. For the mission.

Jason’s inner monologue wasn’t any calmer:

‘God, she looks good’. He stole a glance down at the red dress hugging your figure beneath the trench coat. ‘Too good. This is supposed to be a job, but I swear every time she smiles like that, I’m one step closer to messing it all up.’

His thumb brushed over your knuckles again, a silent promise.

‘Just get through this.’‘Keep your damn cool’.‘But maybe… don’t let go just yet.’

Two guards stiffened as you passed, but you and Jason kept your smiles practiced and steady—two perfectly in-sync actors on a dangerous dance floor.

⸻

BACK AT THE SAFEHOUSE.

Mission complete. Intel secured. No actual heart attacks confirmed—though you definitely came close to one or two.

The safehouse was quiet except for the low hum of Kori and Roy reviewing the mission footage side by side. You and Jason dropped onto opposite ends of the couch, bodies still buzzing with adrenaline and relief.

Kori glanced up, eyes gleaming with mischief. “So... did you kiss? You know, to make it convincing?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What? No. That would've been—unprofessional.”

Jason’s head snapped up, eyes wide, and he nodded way too quickly. “Yeah. Didn’t need to. It was... convincing enough.”

Roy, who had been silently watching, let out a strangled, “Oh,” before bolting upright and sprinting for the door.

Kori chased after him with an exasperated laugh. “Roy! Come back! We still have plans!”

Left alone, you and Jason exchanged a glance—equal parts amused and exhausted. You both shrugged simultaneously, a silent agreement that some things just couldn’t be helped.

The moment stretched quietly, the chaos of the mission replaced by the quiet weight of unspoken words and unfinished business.

And maybe that was exactly how you wanted it—for now.

⸻

Later that night, in his own private hell of emotions, Jason Todd lay face-down on the couch, whispering softly into the cushion like it was the only safe place for his feelings to escape. “She looked so good... I’m never recovering.”

His thoughts raced, chaotic and wild: ‘Why did the coat look so damn good on her? Why did her smile hit harder than any punch? I’m officially screwed. How do people survive this?’

Down the hall, you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding in the quiet darkness. Your voice was barely a whisper, a confession to the empty room. “His hand was on my waist… Oh my….”

You replayed the moment again and again, the warmth of his touch sending sparks through your veins, the way his voice had been low and steady, like an anchor in the storm. ‘Why does he have to be so infuriatingly perfect?’

Both of you, rooms apart but tangled in the same chaotic feelings, trapped in a silent symphony of mutual pining, wondering how something so simple—a touch, a look—could feel like the entire world tilting off its axis.

And neither of you dared to say it aloud. Not yet. But maybe… maybe soon.

Attempt #5: complete disaster.

Attempt #6: incoming. God help them all.

⸻

Roy flung his clipboard across the room with a spectacular thwack that echoed off the walls. “I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE,” he yelled, voice cracking somewhere between frustration and despair. “THEY’RE TOUCHING WAISTS AND TALKING ABOUT JACKETS AND NOT KISSING?!”

Kori hovered nearby, her glowing eyes softening as she gently patted his back. “Next time, we bring fire. Actual fire.”

Roy turned dramatically to face the whiteboard, his finger stabbing the air like a general issuing battle commands.

📝 Operation: Push the Idiots Together Attempt #5: Fake Dating Mission → Status: Mutually Assassinated by Feelings → Casualties: Roy’s clipboard, Y/N’s heartbeat, Jason’s brain function → Plan for Attempt #6: ??? → Escalation Level: 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

Kori sighed, floating a little lower. “At this rate, we might need to bring a flamethrower and a marching band.”

Roy wiped a sweat drop from his forehead. “And maybe a therapist.”

They shared a knowing look — because when it came to Jason and you, subtlety was clearly not their strong suit.

⸻

A few days later, Roy burst into the safehouse common room like he’d just uncovered the secret to world peace.

“Alright, team! Listen up!” he announced, hands on hips, eyes sparkling with the kind of enthusiasm only a man who’s been living on caffeine and chaos could muster.

Kori floated down from the ceiling, eyebrows raised. “What now, Roy? Another one of your brilliant plans to ‘fix’ the team?”

“Better!” Roy declared, pulling out his phone and waving it like a trophy. “I’ve booked us a two-day hotel stay. A vacation! Away from missions, drama, and… well, each other for a bit.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, folding his arms. “You sure this isn’t just another attempt at matchmaking? Last time, you nearly blew up the training room.”

Roy grinned sheepishly. “That was… tactical. This time, it’s pure R&R. Relaxation. Bonding. Maybe some room service. No combat, no chaos. Just us, a hotel, and maybe a little… vacation magic.”

You leaned forward, intrigued despite yourself. “Sounds… suspiciously nice. What’s the catch?”

Roy’s grin turned mischievous. “Catch? There is no catch. Just pack your bags. We leave tomorrow morning.”

Kori clapped her hands excitedly. “I’ll bring the glitter.”

Jason muttered, “Great. Can’t wait to see how this goes.” But even he looked a little curious.

Roy winked. “Trust me. This is exactly what the Outlaws need.”

⸻

The sun had barely risen over Gotham when Roy swung open the kitchen door like he was hosting a reality show and not a staged matchmaking mission disguised as a ‘team bonding experience.’

“RISE AND SHINE, LOSERS! It’s vacation time!” You blinked at him from the couch, still wrapped in a blanket burrito. “Roy, it’s 6 a.m.” “Exactly!” he beamed. “Optimal road trip launch window!” Jason, emerging from the hallway with his hair still damp and his shirt half-buttoned, muttered, “I will launch you into the sun.”

Kori floated in behind him, holding a tray of neon smoothies. “We must pack snacks and matching shirts. It is a sacred ritual.”

“What kind of ritual—?” Jason began.

“The fun kind,” Roy said, tossing him a travel pillow shaped like a flamingo. “Catch.” Jason didn’t catch it. The flamingo bounced off his shoulder and hit the floor with a sad little phoomf.

You eyed Roy warily. “You’re being suspiciously enthusiastic.”

“Excuse you,” Roy gasped, clutching his chest. “I simply care about your mental health. And you know what’s good for your mental health?”

“…Sleep?” Jason offered.

Roy pointed dramatically at you both. “Wrong. Romance.”

Jason looked dead into the camera that wasn’t there.

⸻

The Outlaws had crammed themselves into Roy’s tragically named SUV—the Red Rocket—a vehicle that rattled slightly at 60 mph and smelled vaguely of hot Cheetos and weapon oil. It had survived more missions than any of them, which said less about the car’s durability and more about their disturbing luck.

Kori was happily humming along to some alien pop track she found on an intergalactic playlist. It sounded like dolphins screaming in harmony with a kazoo. Roy claimed it slapped.

You were in the backseat, sipping a drink Roy had insisted was “hydration juice” (it was very much an energy drink with glitter in it). Jason was sitting next to you, behind the driver’s seat.

And Kori was enjoying life in the passenger’s seat.

Jason looked one wrong lyric away from throwing himself out the window.

You turned in your seat to check on him. “Doing okay?”

Jason’s voice was flat. “I’m being crushed by Kori’s third suitcase and someone’s knife. And, I found a fork in the seatbelt slot.”

“That’s mine,” Roy called from the front. “Emergency snacking fork.”

Jason stared blankly. “You’re banned from cutlery.”

Kori smiled sweetly and handed Jason a smoothie that glowed neon blue. “Here. For hydration.”

He held it like it might explode. “This is bubbling.”

“That means it’s working!”

Jason looked like he was contemplating death.

You fought a grin and turned back to look out the window. “This trip’s going great so far.”

Jason muttered something about mutiny and seatbelt homicide.

After about 30 minutes of driving, Roy had finally given in and let someone else touch the playlist. That someone was you. Which meant chaos.

“Absolutely not,” Jason said the moment the opening chords of Careless Whisper played.

“Too late,” you smirked, turning it up.

Kori gasped. “Is this the ‘saxophone of seduction’?”

“That’s the one.”

Jason groaned and leaned his head back against the seat. “This is a hostage situation.”

But then he looked at you—and you were smiling, wind in your hair from the cracked window, legs curled up in the seat, lip-syncing to George Michael like you were the main character in a tragic spy rom-com.

And Jason Todd, grump of the century, completely short-circuited.

Jason’s brain: ‘don’t look at her’ ‘you’re looking at her’ ‘STOP SMILING. SHE’S GONNA NOTICE’ ‘oh god she smiled back abort abort—'

You interrupted his thoughts with a confused “What?”

Jason’s brain short-circuited, “Huh?”

You tilted your head. “You were staring.”

Jason coughed. “You were lip-syncing. It was… distracting.”

“…In a bad way?”

Jason looked away so fast he nearly snapped his neck. “No.”

Roy, watching through the rearview mirror, was vibrating with unspoken screaming.

Then, about an hour into the road, Jason had shifted so that his knee was now brushing against yours. It was innocent. Probably. Maybe. Possibly?

You hadn’t moved an inch.

Jason hadn’t either.

You didn’t speak of it.

Jason was now actively cataloging every molecule of contact like it was a case file. ‘Contact time: 32 minutes. Point of impact: right knee. Threat level: catastrophic.’

He glanced at you. You were leaning your head on your hand, hair brushing your face, smile faint but real.

Jason forgot how to breathe for a second.

You, meanwhile, were trying not to spontaneously combust.

He smelled like soap and leather and maybe regret. His thigh was right there. His hair was still messy from the morning and— ‘Abort mission.’

You bit the inside of your cheek and turned toward the window. ‘Breathe. In. Out. He doesn’t like you like that. He’s just being polite. Don’t fall for the knee. IT’S JUST A KNEE.’

Jason’s voice broke the silence. “So… uh. Room assignments.”

You flinched like he’d caught your thoughts mid-thirst. “What about them?”

“Roy said—uh—what did he say about the rooms?”

You nodded. “Apparently 3 or 4 rooms I’m not sure what he said exactly.”

“…Right.”

Silence.

You both nodded awkwardly at the same time.

Jason’s brain: ‘Cool cool cool. I will now cease to exist.’

Your brain: ‘Time to fake my death and flee to space.’

From the driver’s seat, Roy exhaled loudly. “Y’all good back there?”

You and Jason said, in perfect unison: “FINE.”

Roy raised a brow. “That was terrifying.”

And lastly, about an hour and a half in, you all calmed down.

Roy was now humming again. Kori had fallen asleep with a smile, head tilted toward the window.

You and Jason had drifted off too—heads slightly leaning toward each other, shoulders almost touching again. Not quite. Just… close.

Jason cracked an eye open and saw you like that. Peaceful. Trusting. Beautiful.

And he whispered, to himself, quietly enough for no one to hear: “…I’m so screwed.”

⸻

The Outlaws pulled up to the hotel driveway just after noon.

It was—unfortunately—gorgeous.

A sleek boutique place nestled in the hills outside Gotham, with ivy-wrapped balconies, huge glass windows, and a smug air of “couples who stay here definitely kiss under moonlight.”

Jason looked up at the heart-shaped topiaries. “That’s a red flag.”

You tilted your head at the glowing sign above the entrance. “Did that say 'Lover’s Escape'?”

Roy was already unloading bags from the trunk of the Red Rocket. “Yeah, it’s got great Yelp reviews.”

Jason blinked. “From who? Hallmark characters??”

Kori hummed dreamily, floating beside you. “The hot tub has rose petals.”

You elbowed Jason lightly. “Maybe we are dying here after all.”

Inside, the lobby was a fever dream of soft jazz, dimmed chandeliers, and uncomfortable intimacy. A crystal bowl of heart-shaped mints glistened on the check-in desk like a threat.

“Okay, team,” Roy said cheerfully, slapping down a set of hotel keycards. “Room assignments!” Jason raised an eyebrow. “You booked four rooms, right?” “Obviously,” Roy said. Kori nodded. “Two for us. And…” There was a pause. A long one. A dangerous one.

Then Kori clapped her hands. “Oops! We already checked in!”

Roy handed her one of the keys and turned to you and Jason, smiling like he hadn’t planned this whole thing with three spreadsheets and a playlist called Slow Burn but Make It Unbearable. “There… may have been a mix-up.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “What kind of mix-up.”

Roy looked to Kori. Kori looked to the ceiling.

“Well,” Roy said, “we meant to book four rooms—”

“But Roy clicked on the wrong option,” Kori cut in sweetly.

“I wouldn’t say wrong,” Roy muttered. “Just… romantically optimized.”

Jason blinked slowly. “Romantically. Optimized.”

Kori nodded. “We ended up with a deluxe honeymoon suite. For you two!”

You stared.

Jason stared.

The air was silent except for the dulcet sound of an actual waterfall somewhere in the building.

“…What,” you said flatly.

Roy held up a brochure. “It has mood lighting. And a fire pit!”

Jason stared at it like it might bite him. “Is this a brochure or a threat?”

You snatched it and flipped it open. “‘Romantic moonlit balcony… couples spa menu… lover’s swing set?’ What the hell, Roy?!”

Kori, already steering him toward the elevator, called back:

“Oh noooo. What a tragic oversight!”

“You did this on purpose!” you yelled.

“You Googled romantic getaways! Don’t lie!” Jason added.

“I regret NOTHING,” Roy cackled as the elevator doors slid shut.

You and Jason turned to each other.

Then to the remaining keycard.

Then to the front desk, where the receptionist was already smiling like she’d seen this trope play out a hundred times.

Jason inhaled sharply, like a man preparing to argue with fate. “I’m fixing this.”

You blinked. “How?”

“By not dying of emotional whiplash tonight,” he muttered. “Watch me.”

He stalked over to the front desk like he was storming a battlefield. You followed half a step behind, still holding the offending keycard like it might explode.

The receptionist beamed at him—early 30s, business casual, eyes gleaming with dangerous matchmaking energy. Her name tag read Cindy, and you were 90% sure she wrote Reylo fanfiction in her free time.

“Hi there!” she chirped. “Checking in?”

Jason gave his most intimidating glare. It had felled crime bosses, mercenaries, and at least three coffee shop baristas. “Yeah. About that. There’s been a mistake.”

“Oh no,” she said, with theatrical concern. “What kind of mistake?”

Jason slapped the keycard on the counter like it had offended his honor. “We were supposed to have two rooms. Not a… honeymoon suite.”

Cindy gasped. “Oh, you’re the Todd couple!”

You winced. Why did Roy register you as a couple. Why ‘Todd’. Why anything.

Jason ground his teeth. “Look, can we switch? Please? We’ll take anything. A broom closet. The roof. Anything.”

Behind him, you physically deflated, ‘Is it that bad to share a room with me? Did I do something wrong?’

Cindy gave a regretful little wince. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Todd. We’re fully booked this weekend.”

Jason squinted. “Fully booked?”

You leaned forward. “There’s like seven cars in the lot.”

Cindy smiled brighter. “We’re hosting a very exclusive Lovers’ Retreat this weekend. Silent yoga. Couples pottery. Firelight confession circles.”

Jason visibly recoiled. “That’s not even legal.”

“Would you like a complimentary rose-scented massage oil basket?” she offered.

You gently elbowed Jason before he could explode. “It’s fine. Let’s not make a scene.”

“It’s not fine,” he hissed. “They’re gaslighting us with aromatherapy.”

Cindy slid the keycard back across the counter, along with a heart-shaped mint. “Enjoy your stay, lovebirds.”

You and Jason both stared at the mint.

It sparkled.

You and Jason both stared at the sparkling mint like it had cursed your bloodline.

Jason slowly turned away from the desk, muttering under his breath, “We’re gonna die here. I’m going to strangle Roy with a complimentary robe belt.”

You were halfway through sighing when Cindy perked up again.

“Oh, before you go!” she chirped. “May I take your bags up to your suite?”

Jason blinked. “No thanks, we can handle it.”

“Oh, I insist!” she practically sang, snapping her fingers. A bellhop appeared out of nowhere, looking like he’d been summoned from the shadows just to participate in your emotional demise. “We’ll get everything delivered. You two just relax and enjoy the experience.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “What experience.”

But before either of you could argue, your bags—your actual luggage—were already being rolled away toward the elevators like hostages in a rom-com-themed ransom video.

Cindy smiled angelically. “We want your stay to be… unforgettable.”

You both turned at the same time. “What.”

Then the real nightmare began.

Because when you tried to follow the bellhop to the elevators, Cindy stepped directly in your path.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, clearly not sorry at all. “Your room’s still being... prepped. Something about setting up the champagne fountain. But not to worry! While you wait, why not enjoy one of our included amenities?”

Jason’s jaw clenched. “What kind of amenities.”

She produced two glittery pink wristbands and snapped them onto both of you before you could react. “You’re just in time for our couple’s massage session! Oils, stones, maybe even a shared playlist. Super intimate!”

“I hate this hotel,” Jason whispered.

You stared at your wristband. It had a tiny heart sticker on it. “How do we always end up in situations like this.”

“Roy,” Jason said simply. “It’s always Roy.”

Speak of the devil—because the elevator dinged and Roy emerged in matching tropical swim trunks and sunglasses. He held a virgin piña colada and the soul of a man who had just made a deal with the matchmaking gods.

“Heyyy, you guys ready for your romance itinerary?” he asked, far too gleeful.

Kori walked down beside him, beaming in a flowing wrap dress and sandals. “We’re doing the full Lover’s Escape experience! Couples spa, moonlit swim, the heart-shaped pasta buffet…”

You and Jason stood frozen. Trapped. Betrayed.

Jason looked at you. “Run?”

You sighed. “Too late. We’re glitter-coded now.”

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, you were lying facedown on a massage table beside Jason, separated by a potted fern and a lifetime of unspoken tension.

Soft harp music floated through the air. A diffuser hissed lavender mist like it was mocking you.

“Please,” the masseuse cooed, “take each other’s hands. The oils respond best to shared energy.”

Jason didn’t move.

The masseuse took your hand and guided it towards Jason’s.

Your fingertips brushed his.

Jason made a sound that might’ve been a suppressed scream. Or a sigh.

The masseuse beamed. “Perfect. Now release the tension. From your soul.”

Jason whispered into the table cushion, “I am the tension.”

You couldn’t even laugh. You were too busy trying not to spontaneously combust from the contact.

‘His hand is warm. Oh my god. This is happening. I’m going to die on this table and they’ll have to bury me in this stupid robe.’

Meanwhile, Jason’s brain was a Category 5 disaster.

‘Don’t flinch. Don’t look at her. Her hand is soft. What does that mean? Why does this feel like a blood pact?’

⸻

After the massage (and what Roy loudly dubbed “Hot Oilgate”), the group made their way to the pool.

Roy immediately cannonballed into the deep end.

Kori swam beside him like a celestial being made of sunlight and sunscreen.

You and Jason hovered by the edge like a pair of socially awkward mannequins.

Jason folded his arms. “This swimsuit was a mistake.”

You tried not to look too hard. “You look fine.”

“…Fine?”

“Great. Fantastic. Like… offensively hot. Shut up.”

Jason blinked. “Okay.”

He didn’t shut up. He smirked.

You turned so fast you nearly fell into the shallow end.

He followed you in. Which was rude. Also, illegal, probably.

“I’m just saying,” he muttered as he waded over, “if Roy’s plan was to drown us in unresolved tension, he’s doing great.”

“Stop talking,” you hissed, dunking yourself underwater.

When you came back up, Jason was still there.

Still close.

Still too pretty in the sunlight.

The kind of pretty that made your brain stutter and your lungs forget how to oxygen.

Roy, floating past on a flamingo floatie, called out, “YOU TWO LOOK SO CUTE TOGETHER.”

Jason immediately tried to drown him with a splash.

You laughed, wiping water from your face. “You missed.”

Jason leaned closer, voice low. “I wasn’t aiming for him.”

You stared at him. He stared at you.

It was a moment.

It was dangerous.

You looked away first.

“Let’s go to the room before Roy tries to start couples karaoke,” you muttered.

Jason nodded. “Agreed.”

You both turned back toward the front desk, hearts racing.

Neither of you noticed Cindy watching from the front desk, sipping her latte like she’d just orchestrated the fall of Troy.

Roy gave her a thumbs-up behind his sunglasses.

Attempt #6 was going perfectly.

⸻

By the time you and Jason finally dragged yourselves upstairs, the sun had set and the hotel hallways had dimmed into a soft golden glow—like the building itself was trying to seduce you.

Jason muttered under his breath, keycard in hand. “I swear to god, if this room smells like vanilla and heartbreak…”

He tapped the door.

It clicked open.

And the two of you froze in the doorway.

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

Because the room was insane.

Rose petals. Everywhere. Scattered across the floor, artfully arranged in a heart on the bed, sprinkled in the champagne bucket like someone got drunk in a flower shop.

Mood lighting glowed from the corners of the room, flickering soft and pink. A fireplace crackled gently, as if it had been waiting for your unresolved feelings to arrive.

There was a chocolate fountain.

An actual, three-tiered chocolate fountain.

And champagne. And wine. And some kind of rose-scented candle melting slowly in the shape of an anatomically incorrect heart.

Jason stepped inside cautiously, like he expected the furniture to start whispering romantic poetry at him.

“...This is a threat,” he said.

You stared. “This is an ambush.”

He opened a mini-fridge.

It was filled with chocolate-covered strawberries and chilled lotion samples.

He closed it immediately.

And that’s when it hit you.

You turned slowly, dread pooling in your chest.

“Oh no.”

Jason had already realized. His shoulders tensed.

He turned toward the bed—the one, very large, very romantically lit bed.

You and Jason exchanged a long, silent look.

It was huge. Way too huge. Way too tempting. Way too awkward.

Jason broke the silence first, rubbing the back of his neck like he was fighting a war. “You need space, right?”

You nodded too quickly, forcing a smile. “Oh, definitely.”

Jason looked at the floor. It was covered in rose petals and what might’ve been edible glitter.

“I’m not letting you sleep on that carpet,” he said, like it was non-negotiable. “It’s cursed.”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool despite the sudden rush of adrenaline. “We could… pillow barrier?”

Jason nodded. Too quickly. “Pillow barrier. Tactical. Strategic. No eye contact.”

You both moved at the same time, walking around the bed like it might detonate.

Jason grabbed two pillows. You grabbed four.

Neither of you spoke.

The tension in the room was louder than the fireplace crackling.

You arranged the pillows in a sad little Great Wall of Denial across the center of the bed. Jason added one with too much force, like he was mad at it for existing.

Then, the two of you stood on opposite sides, staring at the bed like it was a moral dilemma.

“So,” you said.

“So,” Jason echoed.

“I’m gonna change,” you blurted, grabbing your bag and fleeing to the bathroom.

“Cool,” Jason said to the empty room, running both hands through his hair. “Great. Normal. Totally not losing my mind.”

He looked at the champagne bottle.

He looked at the bed.

Then he looked at the chocolate fountain and muttered, “Roy Harper, I’m going to strangle you with fondue.”

From the bathroom, you stared into the mirror, whispering to yourself, “It’s just a bed. Just one stupid bed. You’ve survived worse. You survived stage five of genetic hell. You can survive… proximity. Besides, we have slept next to each other many times before…. But that was because of nightmares… And not on a romantic suite king-sized bed…. UGHHH”

You banged your head on the sink (gently).

You opened the door to find Jason standing in a loose t-shirt and sweats, arms crossed, face unreadable.

Your heart betrayed you instantly. He looks so good when he’s mad. Stop it. STOP IT.

Jason looked up. You smiled awkwardly. “Your turn.”

He nodded and slipped past you into the bathroom.

You got into bed first.

The sheets were warm.

The pillow barrier was already failing.

Jason returned, hesitated for a moment, and then climbed in on the other side.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you breathed.

Jason’s voice was soft in the dark. “If I roll over and accidentally crush you, just… yell or something.”

You bit back a laugh. “Got it. If I kick you in my sleep, it’s not personal.”

“Totally fair.”

Silence.

The glow of the fireplace danced across the ceiling.

And eventually—eventually—Jason mumbled, so quietly you almost missed it:

“…Goodnight.”

You swallowed.

“Goodnight, Jay.”

And for the first time all day, neither of you moved away.

Not even when your fingers accidentally brushed across the pillow wall.

Not even when your heart tried to leap out of your chest.

Not even when Jason—half-asleep and dreaming already—shifted a little closer.

And somewhere in the hotel security office, Cindy and Roy high-fived.

⸻

You didn’t sleep.

Well—you technically did. But it was the kind of sleep where your body shut down while your brain screamed into the void because Jason Todd was three inches away and breathing softly like some sort of emotional torture instrument.

And when you woke up?

His arm was around you.

Your face was on his chest.

One of your legs was definitely—definitely—involved in some kind of scandal with his.

You stayed still for five full minutes, trying to convince yourself this was a normal platonic accident and not the exact thing you had dreamed about and then immediately felt guilty for.

Jason stirred beside you with a groggy grunt. His voice was still rough from sleep. “...Morning.”

You panicked.

“YEP. YES. GOOD MORNING. HAHA.” You flung the covers off like they were on fire and made a beeline for the bathroom.

Behind you, Jason groaned into a pillow.

⸻

Later, at breakfast, you and Jason sat across from Roy and Kori at a heart-shaped table in the hotel’s scenic breakfast patio. Everything smelled like waffles and forced intimacy.

Nobody spoke for the first few minutes.

Jason poured himself coffee like it was whiskey and avoided looking at you. You buttered your toast with military precision. The tension sat between you like a fifth wheel in a rom-com.

Roy leaned back, sipping orange juice through a straw. “Sooooo…” he said, way too casually. “Did you two sleep okay?”

Your hands froze mid-spread.

Jason visibly tensed.

And then, like a synchronized diving team trained in awkward avoidance, you both lifted your coffee mugs at the same time and sipped silently.

Roy raised his brows. “Wow. That was terrifying.”

Kori blinked slowly, watching the two of you like an astrologer reading your deepest secrets. “Your auras are… closer today.”

Jason choked on his coffee.

You knocked over the syrup bottle.

It splashed across the table, narrowly missing Roy’s lap and landing in a sticky puddle next to Jason’s toast.

“Sorry!” you blurted, grabbing napkins like you were trying to put out a fire.

Roy leaned over, unbothered. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Tension syrup accidents happen. Totally normal after cuddling your soulmate all night.”

Jason flinched so hard he nearly knocked over the butter dish. “I DIDN’T—WE DIDN’T—THAT’S NOT—”

Kori blinked innocently. “So you did cuddle?”

You stood up so fast your chair screeched. “I need fresh air.”

Jason stood at the same time. “I’ll—uh—go with her. For air. Oxygen. That.”

You both fled like you were escaping a crime scene.

Roy turned to Kori, smirking. “That went well.”

Kori stirred her tea, unbothered. “Their body language revealed synced heart beats this morning.”

Roy fist-pumped the air. “Attempt #6 is thriving.”

⸻

It all started with the spa fire.

Well, technically, it started with Roy trying to light one (1) heart-shaped candle during the rooftop couples meditation.

“I swear I followed the instructions!” he yelled as a very flammable towel ignited behind him.

Kori had to put it out with her bare hands. The instructor wept.

Then came the Power Outage of Doom™.

Turns out the ancient hotel wiring system wasn’t built to handle a chocolate fountain, two champagne coolers, sixteen heart lamps, and a Bluetooth speaker blasting Barry White.

Everything short-circuited. Half the rooms lost power. The other half got stuck in Romantic Emergency Lighting Mode, which was just a red filter and the faint scent of cinnamon despair.

You and Jason were just stepping out of the elevator when the lights flickered.

Jason looked around. “Is this… supposed to happen?”

The hallway lights dimmed to an ominous red hue.

From somewhere in the walls, saxophone music began playing—slowed down, haunted.

Jason deadpanned: “We need to leave.”

And then the fire alarm went off.

Somewhere down the hall, Roy screamed, “I DIDN’T EVEN LIGHT ANYTHING THIS TIME—!”

Kori floated into view, covered in glitter, holding a fire extinguisher. “The chocolate fountain has… melted through the table.”

You grabbed your overnight bag.

Jason grabbed the car keys.

Roy ran up, soaking wet, barefoot, and holding his broken flamingo floatie like a war casualty. “Wait—WAIT. We’re not done! We haven’t even gotten to the private couple’s vow exchange under the moonlight!”

Jason shoved past him, stone-faced. “We are going home, Harper.”

“NOOOO—”

⸻

The drive back was silent.

No one spoke. Not even Kori, who had somehow fallen asleep mid-air during the ride.

You sat shotgun. Jason drove like a man escaping a cursed prophecy. Roy sat in the back, sulking loudly with every breath.

By the time you reached the safehouse, the mood was officially grim.

Jason dropped the keys on the table. You dropped your bag beside his.

Roy flopped onto the couch like a rejected Bachelor contestant. “I just wanted a little love… a little magic… a tasteful montage—”

Jason grabbed the remote and turned on the news. “No more romance ops.”

Kori floated by and patted Roy’s head. “Attempt #7 will require more planning.”

Jason turned the TV up louder. “NO IT WILL NOT.”

You flopped next to him, exhausted. “At least we didn’t die.”

Roy lifted his sunglasses to glare at the ceiling. “But you didn’t kiss either. Not even once. Not even by accident.”

Jason blinked slowly. “You tried to trap us in a room with a rose-scented chocolate hot tub.”

Roy whispered, “And you still didn’t kiss. I’m losing my edge.”

Kori handed him a clipboard labeled Plan #7: Marriage of Convenience AU??

You immediately threw a pillow at it.

Jason groaned and rubbed his face. “I’m moving into a cave.”

But then, later that night—when you quietly climbed into his bed like you always did after a nightmare—Jason shifted just slightly closer.

Not close enough to admit anything.

But close enough to say:

“…Next time, we’re booking our own hotel.”

You whispered back, “Deal.”

And neither of you mentioned how your knees touched under the blanket the whole night.

⸻

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