Archive of Our Own ^beta

“That’s gonna leave a mark,” Nightwing teases, walking calmly over you and the unconscious masked men scattered on the floor. You grip your side, your ribs sore from the big guy’s kick. 

“Well, there goes my modeling contract,” you reply with a deep sigh, feeling the pain spread through your body.

Part of being a vigilante is just being a punching bag for bad guys in masks. To be fair, Nightwing did try to talk them out of it.

The bruises and broken noses are nothing compared to spending your nights out with him. At first sight, you and Nightwing didn’t exactly get along. He’d always butt in on something you were investigating, sharing thoughts whether you asked for them or not. But once, something he said actually led you to a clue you’d been missing. He helped you solve the case.

Since then, the two of you have been patrolling Blüdhaven together, working on cases even detectives can’t crack. He got you new gear, better boots for climbing buildings, and you taught him a few new fighting techniques.

Nightwing snorts, putting his hands on his hips.

“What? You don’t know me, I could be a Victoria's Secret angel, for all you care.” You smile, smiling a little.

“Oh, I’m sure you are, sweetheart.”

You cringe and look away. “Ugh, don’t call me that.”

You start walking around the passed-out men and make your way to the door. You and Nightwing finally got a lead on a case you’ve been working on all week. Apparently a serial robber has been terrorizing private laboratories, stealing supplies and chemical ingredients. Some victims have reported hallucinations and panic attacks, so you suspect Scarecrow is involved.

“Why not?” He asks, joining you at the door, watching as you pick the main warehouse lock.

“It’s just– this guy at work keeps calling me that.”

“Do I need to beat him up?”

You laugh lightly, pausing to focus on the lock. When it finally gives in, you glance back at him. “He’s not worth it.”

He shrugs, “If you say so. Ladies first.” He bows theatrically and you roll your eyes.

Nightwing walks into the lab beside you, tapping his earpiece.

“Oracle,” he says, earning a quick response. “You’re seeing this?”

You hear her voice in your own earpiece too.

“Yeah, and recording,” the soft voice replies.

You and Nightwing don’t know anything about each other; not your real names, not your jobs, not even your faces. Maybe that’s why you work so well together.

The voice in your ear goes quiet as you move through the warehouse, recording every piece of evidence with your masks – technology courtesy of Oracle.

“So, is this guy at work bullying you or what?” Nightwing asks, bringing back the earlier topic.

You snort. “If he was, he wouldn’t be walking.”

Nightwing chuckles, clearly amused.

“He’s just…” you sigh. “Annoying as hell.”

“You know you can file a complaint–”

“It’s not like that. He’s not harassing me or anything. He’s just… he’s like a golden retriever. And I’m–”

“A black cat?” he interrupts with a grin.

“A black cat,” you agree. “And you would know.”

“You have no idea.”

You smile apologetically. You did give him a hard time when you first met.

“Anyway, he’s not worth it.”

“Eclipse,” Oracle’s voice calls through the earpiece. “Nightwing. I’ve got everything I need. You’re free to leave.”

“Thank God,” he sighs, already turning toward the exit. You’re about to follow when something catches your eye. A small vial filled with a bright green liquid. Your gloved hand shakes as you take it and put it in your pocket.

“Eclipse?” Nightwing calls from outside the lab. “You coming?”

You quickly head out, offering a small smile. “I’m hungry. Burgers?”

Nightwing smiles brightly and it makes you warm inside. “You bet.”

…

The sound of your boots echoes through the hallway as you walk up to your desk in the precinct you work at. Unfortunately, your nemesis is already there: Detective Dick Grayson, golden boy of Blüdhaven PD, typing something on his computer like he owns the place.

“You’re late,” he says, not looking up.

“You’re early,” you respond, tossing your bag in the desk opposite to him. You know you’re late, but you had to stop by the precinct’s forensic lab first. The vial you took last night is now under analysis and now you owe a favor to Rob, the analyst available this morning. 

You go through your usual morning routine: computer on, password in, inbox open. All while feeling his eyes on you. 

“And staring,” you add. 

“Just wondering if you’re capable of getting through one morning without glaring at me.”

You don’t look up. “Not if you keep breathing near my workspace.”

He grins. “You know, some people would say we have great chemistry.”

“Yeah, the same way bleach and ammonia have chemistry.”

His chuckle makes your irritation worse. Somehow, it’s impossible to argue with him without feeling like he’s winning.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “I’m just trying to start the day with a little positivity.”

“Then start by not talking.”

“Aw, see? There it is. The ice-cold charm that keeps me coming back.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. Dick Grayson might be handsome as hell, but he’s also annoying as hell. You wouldn’t call him your enemy. He’s just… always there. Too bright, too smug, too good at making your bad mornings worse.

It’s a warm sunny arrow straight through your cold, black soul.

“No, seriously.” Dick insists, leaning over his desk with that annoyingly curious smile. “Who’s got you smiling like that?”

You fight the urge to roll back your eyes again.

“Not who, but what,” you say, fingers still tapping on your keyboard. “I finally got a lead on the serial robber case.”

“Really.” He leans back, biting the end of his pen, eyes glinting with that I’m about to be annoying look.

“Really.” You mimic his tone. “My intel gave me info that leads to the docks, I’m heading there soon.”

A pause stretches between you, just long enough for you to feel his eyes on you. You finally stop typing and look him in the eye.

“Let me come with you.”

“What? No!” you protest instantly. “You just want credit so you can win the bet.”

Ah, yes. The bet.

Whoever solves more cases before the deadline wins. And you’ve been tied for two weeks now. If you win, you get his bike. If he wins, he gets to take you on a date.

The worst date ever.

But when Dick offered to tag along, the bet wasn’t what he was thinking about. He’s just curious. How the hell did you get that lead? Because he and Eclipse (aka you) just broke into a warehouse made into a makeshift lab last night, and Oracle would never leak that kind of info.

“C’mon.” He smiles brightly at you. “We can put the bet on a pause for now. It’ll be fun working together, trust me.”

“Put the bet on hold so you can stop me from winning?” You scoff. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay, fine.” He sighs dramatically, hands up. “Then we can both get a point when we solve it. Deal?”

You exhale sharply and roll your eyes for maybe the fifth time this morning.

“Fine. But no eating in the car.”

…

Blüdhaven’s dock smells like fish and saltwater, and even with the crisp autumn weather, you can still smell sunscreen in the air. You do the usual rounds – a few interviews with sailors, a couple of questions for dockworkers – but you already know what you need is inside that main warehouse.

“So, what now?” Grayson asks, shoving his hands into his pockets as he looks around.

“Now, we get a warrant,” you reply, crossing your arms against the cold. The motion tugs at your sore ribs, and you wince. Grayson catches it immediately.

“You okay?” he asks, tilting his head like a black haired golden retriever. A strand of dark hair falls across his blue eyes, and something in your chest shifts.

God, he’s insufferable.

“‘M fine,” you mutter, turning back toward the car. He follows, hands still tucked in his pockets.

“So, on what evidence are we getting this warrant?”

A slow, smug smile spreads across your lips. You dig into your pocket and hold up a small flash drive between two fingers like it’s a golden ticket to a very dangerous amusement park.

“And that is...?” he asks, brows raising.

“Evidence. Duh.” You unlock the car and slide into the driver’s seat.

Grayson hops in beside you. He waits until you start the engine before speaking again.

“Well? Are you going to tell me where you got it?”

You glance over. He’s watching you, arms crossed, wearing that annoyingly amused expression again.

“I’m not telling you my intel.”

“Why not? Is it someone on the inside?”

“No. Why do you care that much?” you snap, stopping at a red light.

He shrugs, looking away. “You’ve been stuck on this case for days, and suddenly you’ve got a lead? Feels like you’re cheating just to win the bet.”

You take a deep breath so you don’t actually punch him in the face.

“Fine. But if you tell anyone–”

He draws a little cross over his chest and raises his pinky at you. “Pinky promise.”

You roll your eyes, stepping on the gas when the light turns green. “It’s Eclipse.”

He nearly chokes on air. If he had coffee, it’d be all over the dashboard.

Eclipse is helping the Blüdhaven PD? That makes no sense. He remembers her – you – ranting about how much she hated cops, how they only made things worse. The contradiction makes his head spin.

“Eclipse. The vigilante?” 

“No, the actual phenomenon.” You glance at him, sarcasm dripping from your voice.

He scowls. “Yeah, yeah. The vigilante. You’re saying she’s feeding you information?”

“She leaves stuff in my car sometimes.” You shrug.

“Stuff?”

“Evidence, documents, recordings. Stuff.”

He stares at you, trying to make sense of it.

“It’s not cheating, Grayson. It’s intel. Same as if I had someone on the inside.”

“Oh, It’s fine. I’m okay with that.” Dick crosses his arms, clearly faking a nonchalant posture.

You frown, just a second ago he looked like he'd seen an elephant in a pink skirt dancing. “Huh?”

“I’ve got my own vigilante intel too.”

You snort. “Yeah? Who?”

He grins, way too proud of himself. “Nightwing.”

“Nightwing?!” Your foot slams the brake before you even think about it. Tires screech. Dick lurches forward, caught by the seatbelt.

“You’re telling me Nightwing is your intel?” you yell, wide-eyed.

“Yeah, is that so hard to believe?”

“Uh, yeah. Nightwing doesn’t work with cops.”

“He’s helped the mayor before.”

“Yes, the mayor.” You resume driving when a car behind you honks impatiently. “Not low-rank detectives like us.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“He’s not–” You bite the inside of your cheek, stopping yourself just before spilling your biggest secret.

You know Nightwing wouldn’t work with the Blüdhaven PD because you know him. You know he doesn’t trust the department, half of the men and women are corrupt. He’d never hand over sensitive intel to just any detective. Sure, you’re not dirty, but does he know that about Dick Grayson?

“He just doesn’t seem like the type to work with cops,” you say finally, shrugging it off as you pull into the precinct’s parking lot.

“Neither does Eclipse,” Dick counters.

“You don’t know her.”

“You don’t know Nightwing.”

That’s not fair. You do know Nightwing, better than anyone. But you can’t exactly tell him that, can you?

You stare at each other for a beat too long, tension humming under the surface. Then you exhale and unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Whatever,” you mutter, grabbing the case file from the dash. “I’m gonna file a warrant request. You go back to doing whatever it is you do all day.”

He grins, already leaning back in his seat. “Solving cases and annoying you, mostly.”

You roll your eyes as you step out of the car, slamming the door behind you a little harder than necessary.

From the passenger seat, Dick watches you walk toward the building, his smirk softening just slightly. He shouldn’t care. It’s just the bet. Still, he can’t shake the thought: if Eclipse really is feeding you intel…

What else is she hiding?

…

The cold night breeze makes you shiver for what feels like the hundredth time. You’re wearing your best padded suit, but the chill still manages to sneak past it, running down your spine. Your legs dangle off the edge of the rooftop, boots tapping lightly against the brick wall below. It’s been a quiet night, but, after a shitty day, you feel like you deserve it.

“You’re not gonna jump, are you?” Nightwing’s voice cuts through the air from behind you, and the smile is already curving your lips before you even turn around.

“Depends,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “Are you gonna catch me?”

“Always.”

He walks over and sits beside you, close enough that you feel the heat radiating from his suit. He holds out a cardboard tray with two cups.

 “Americano for you, peppermint latte for me.”

“Hmm. Christmas came early?” You ask, taking yours. The cup’s warmth seeps pleasantly into your fingers.

“I wish,” he says, smiling faintly.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. The city hums below – cars, sirens, life moving on without you – and you both just sit there, sipping coffee like normal people for once.

Then he breaks the silence. “Shitty day?”

You let out a sigh, the kind that seems to drag your entire soul with it, and your ribs protest immediately. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“You always hide up here when you’ve had a bad day.”

That catches you off guard. Does he really know you that well?

You can’t exactly tell him you had a warrant for the case you’ve both been working on as vigilantes that failed spectacularly. You can’t tell him you and your annoying partner raided the place, with guns and bulletproof vests, just to find an empty warehouse. Not without giving yourself away.

He seems to sense your hesitation and softens his voice. “I had a bad day too.”

You glance at him, raising your brows in silent question.

“You know that warehouse we broke into this week?” He says. “The detectives working on it raided the place and it was completely empty.”

How does he know that? Dick Grayson must've told him. Great. Now even Nightwing knows about your failure. Thanks, Grayson.

You don’t know what drives you to say what you do next. 

“I know. I was helping those detectives.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

You frown, trying to keep your posture relaxed while your brain screams. Damn Dick Grayson and his big mouth.

“They’re not dirty.” You feel the need to explain. “At least… the woman isn’t.”

“I wasn’t thinking that.”

You suppress a sigh of relief. Why does his opinion matter so much to you?

“I just…” he finally looks at you, eyes soft beneath the faint glow of the city lights. “You said you hated cops, so it felt… out of character for you to be an intel.”

“Hm.” You nod, eyes back on the skyline. “I do hate cops. But she’s different.”

“How come?”

“She said she wanted to actually change Blüdhaven PD. She’s a good one.”

“She said that?”

“Yeah. She grew up with five siblings. She’s tough.” You sigh, swallowing back the sudden lump in your throat.

Nightwing studies you for a long moment, and you can almost see the gears turning in his head.

“Are you a relative of hers?” he asks finally.

You blink. “What?”

“I just mean–” he shifts, turning his body to face you, one knee drawn up to his chest. “You seem to know her really well.”

Shit. You said too much.

“I-I just…” you stutter, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “I did some background check before trusting her, that’s all.”

Silence settles between you, comfortable and tense all at once, as you both finish your coffees. The wind rustles, carrying the distant hum of the city below.

“Doesn’t it bother you that we know nothing about each other?” Nightwing suddenly asks, chin propped on his knee, eyes still on you.

It’s your turn to face him completely: body facing him, legs crossed, elbows resting on your knee.

What you and Nightwing have is very special. He’s the only person you completely trust without ever seeing his full face. He’s the only one who puts up with your mannerisms, laughs at your jokes and knows your favorite coffee order.

However…

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious about him. Just like you, he’s someone who puts on a suit and tries to bring justice to a city considered hopeless every night. You’re curious about his motivations, his goals.

“I have to admit, I’ve thought about getting to knot you.”

“Oh yeah?” He grins, leaning forward, interested. “What do you wanna know?”

“What made you put on a suit and seek justice?”

“Whoa, straight for the origin story, huh?” He chuckles. “My parents died in a tragic incident, and the police failed to bring them justice.”

The faint smile slips from your face. Great start, you idiot.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, voice cracking a little. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“You didn’t know.” Nightwing touches your forearm gently, and your stomach flips.

“My sister died in a shooting,” you confess quietly. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s why I–”

Became a detective. Fought for justice. And when you did everything you could, you put on some dark clothes and went after the guy who killed her.

He doesn’t need to know about that.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, his hand still holding yours. The city noise fades for a second, replaced by the steady rhythm of your hearts.

Then, with perfect timing, he adds,

“So… what’s your favorite color?”

You let out a laugh, sniffing and shaking your head. “Seriously?”

“Hey, too much trauma talk for one night,” he says with a small grin. “Balance, remember?”

You laugh again, softer this time. “Blue.”

“That’s everyone’s favorite color.”

“I know.” You pause. “Cerulean blue.”

“Very specific.”

“Your turn.”

“Robin egg blue.”

You glance at him, smiling faintly. “Of course it is.”

He raises a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” you say, sipping the last of your coffee to hide the grin tugging at your lips.

You both sit in silence again, the kind that doesn’t feel awkward anymore. Just two vigilantes on a rooftop, pretending they don’t already mean too much to each other.

…

You walk into the precinct the next morning with a large coffee cup in hand. Grayson’s already at his desk. On his phone, of course. Hasn’t even turned his computer on.

“Do you ever work?” you ask, tossing your bag onto your chair before sitting down.

“Rough night, sweetheart?” Dick’s eyes flick up, catching sight of your oversized coffee.

“Rough week,” you mutter, glancing at your monitor and pausing.

There’s a small envelope taped to it.

You look around the precinct. It’s early, only you and Grayson are here. You hold up the envelope, eyebrows raised. “What’s this now, Grayson?”

You swear, if it’s one of his stupid jokes…

“I have no idea, detective,” he says, all fake innocence. “Maybe one of your vigilante friends dropped it off.”

It isn’t. You’d know. The only vigilante friend you have is Nightwing.

Still, you hesitate. Could be a trap. You’ve heard about those: people open an envelope and next thing you know, they’re face-down on the floor.

Well, at least if you pass out, Grayson’s here. As annoying as he is, he’s proven he’s got your back.

You tear the paper open. Inside: a single sheet, an address written in neat block letters. You type it into Google. It’s a storage unit.

Your gut twists. And you’ve learned to trust your gut.

“Get your coat, Grayson.” You’re already on your feet, grabbing your bag. “We’re going hunting.”

…

The storage complex is empty despite it being eight in the morning. The kind of quiet that makes your skin itch.

Grayson, naturally, won’t shut up. “We should wait for backup.”

You don’t answer. Gun drawn, vest strapped tight, you move between the units.

Dick’s on edge. He knows how bad this could go. He knew you’d want to check the address he left you immediately, he just didn’t think you’d want to go without backup. Just in case, he quickly texted Oracle on the way here.

Unit 14 is locked, but that’s not a problem for you. Quickly, you kneel on the ground and pull a small pick from your belt.

“You know how to lockpick?!” Grayson says, amused.

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Grayson.” The lock clicks open. You glance up at him. “You ready?”

“I still think we should wait for backup–”

“Detective Grayson.” You meet his eyes, those ridiculous cerulean eyes. “I cannot afford another failure, alright?”

He freezes, watching. He’s never seen you this serious, not even on your worst days.

“I need you to be my backup right now.”

“A-alright.” Great. He stutters now?

The warehouse smells like chemicals and rust. Tables are cluttered with half-empty vials, cracked beakers, and scribbled notes stained with something dark. Wires snake across the floor toward humming machines that look one spark away from exploding.

You take a step inside. Dick hesitates. He’s the one who found this place last night. But he didn’t properly check to see if it was safe to go in. 

“Wait–” Dick starts, but the door slams shut behind you, locking you in.

You jump, heart hammering, and slam your hands against it, yanking at the handle. Locked. Fuck. You hate to admit it, but he was right. Backup. You should’ve waited for backup.

Outside, you hear him pounding on the door, shouting your name.

“You okay?!” His voice is tight, panicked, and your chest tightens even more. When there’s no answer, he curses under his breath, fumbling for his phone.

“Oracle,” he calls, voice low but urgent.

“Already on it,” comes the quick reply.

Thick smoke curls around your legs, making it hard to see more than a few feet ahead. Each inhale burns your lungs, makes your chest seize. You cough violently, choking, your vision blurring at the edges.

“Grayson!” you rasp, voice cracking, waving blindly through the haze. Nothing.

Another deep breath, and you feel like puking, dizziness washing over you. Panic creeps up your spine like ice.

This wasn’t part of the plan. Not even close.

Then, you hear someone calling your name. It’s your sister. You panic.

“Debbie?” You shout, trying to find her. This doesn’t make any sense, Debbie’s dead. She’s been dead for the past 8 years, why is she calling you now? “Debbie, where are you?!”

“Over here!”

You turn around and see a shadow figure. Your throat burns, your eyes water. In the corner of your eyes, you see movement: someone else is here with you.

You point the gun towards them, but the smoke is clouding your vision.

“Show yourself!” You yell trying to breathe. You cough, blinking tears away.

You see the shadow figure lurching towards you and pull the trigger. Dick panics outside and yells your name one more time. You stumble carefully towards the figure you just shot and kneel over their body. Your head feels like it’s about to explode as you roll them over.

It’s your sister.

You start to panic again, coughing and gasping. You can’t breathe anymore, about to pass out.

Then, a bright light blinds you. A much more familiar voice calls your name, urgent and desperate

“Nightwing.” You say his name like you’ve known he’d come for you all this time.

Then, everything goes dark.

…

“Nightwing?” you breathe, his name spilling out before you’re even fully conscious.

All you see is black lipstick and red hair.

“Wrong superhero,” Batgirl says softly, a small smile on her face.

She’s holding an oxygen mask over your mouth. You gently push her hand away and try to sit up… bad idea. The room spins.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

That voice. Familiar.

You turn your head, expecting to see Nightwing, only to find Dick Grayson. His arms are crossed, his jaw tight, brows furrowed in a mix of anger and worry.

“You were hit with fear toxin,” he says, his tone clipped. “You know what that means?”

You blink at him, a little confused, until it clicks for you.

“It means I was right.”  You push yourself up, ignoring Batgirl’s warning look, and stumble toward him. You still feel dizzy and the toxin is leaving a bad taste in your mouth. “I didn’t think Scarecrow himself might have been involved, but a copycat wouldn’t have access to the actual fear toxin–”

“That’s not what I meant, detective.” Dick’s voice sharpens, the anger finally breaking through. “You were in there for three minutes, and it was enough to almost get you killed! I found you nearly unconscious, gasping for air! All because you didn’t want to wait for backup! You’re lucky Batgirl was around!”

Batgirl shoots him a look that clearly says leave me out of this, quietly packing away her med kit.

Three minutes? It felt like hours. You can still taste the toxin burning in your throat, still see the ghosts it made you face. But… he’s right. You could’ve died.

And yet, that also means he was there. He pulled you out.

“I just–”

“Just what? Wanted to win the bet?!” he snaps.

You flinch at his tone, something stinging in your chest.

“No, Grayson,” you say quietly. “I just knew you had my back.”

For a moment, he says nothing. The way he stands there, his hair falling into his eyes, chest still rising fast, arms crossed like he’s holding himself back… it hits you. Maybe it’s the leftover toxin messing with your head, but… doesn’t he look like Nightwing?

You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your fingers to your temples. You’re seeing things, you tell yourself.

Dick’s anger fades as fast as it came. Guilt washes over his face, and Batgirl gives him the apologize look before the wail of sirens fills the distance.

“That’s my cue,” she says, exhaling as she slings her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll leave justice to you real detectives.”

And with that, she’s gone, vanishing into the rooftops just as the ambulances pull in.

The flashing red and blue lights wash over the storage unit complex, sirens echoing the entire place. You sit on the curb, elbows on your knees, calmer now, but still dizzy.

Dick hasn’t moved. He’s still standing a few feet away, arms crossed, the shadow of guilt written all over his face. You glance up at him, a weak smile tugging at your lips.

“You can stop glaring, you know. The toxin’s already worn off.”

He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “You think this is glaring? You haven’t seen me actually pissed.”

You tilt your head. “So this is the concerned version? You seemed pretty pissed off at me just a second ago.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he kneels down in front of you, finally letting the façade drop. His voice softens.

“You scared me,” he admits. “When I found you like that– I thought–” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “You can’t keep doing this. Running in headfirst, trusting that I’ll always be there to catch you.”

You hold his gaze. “But you were there.”

He swallows hard, jaw working. “That’s not the point.”

“It is to me.”

For a second, neither of you speak. The noise around you fades, all background static. His eyes are softer now, that sky blue you shouldn’t know too well. You can almost see Nightwing in them again, and it makes something twist inside you.

“I hate when you do that,” you whisper.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that. Like you’re angry and–” You stop yourself before the word worried slips out.

Dick lets out a quiet, almost tired chuckle. “Maybe that’s because I am.”

You smile faintly, gently pushing him away. “You’re insufferable.”

He stands, offers you his hand. “And you’re reckless.”

You take it anyway. His grip is steady, warm…

“Guess that makes us even.”

… 

You’re not good at not working.

Despite you insisting you were fine, they didn’t let you go back to work. Three days on medical leave. Three days too long. You have evidence that Scarecrow is linked to the case now – if you don’t act fast, it’ll be too late. Who knows what he’s going to do with all that toxin.

That’s why your living room looks like a crime drama set. Corkboard, papers pinned everywhere, red string connecting names and faces. You call it dedicated detective mode. Others might call it workaholic mode.

The first day of leave wasn’t so bad. The dizziness from the toxin still lingered, but you managed to work from home just fine. You even pulled off a little vigilante work that night, sneaking back to the crime scene to make sure you hadn’t missed anything.

The problem starts when you try to sleep.

That fear toxin is no joke. You haven’t had nightmares like that in years. You wake up with a jolt, heart racing, drenched in sweat. The blankets feel suffocating, so you kick them off and stumble toward the kitchen. The clock above the stove says six a.m. On a regular day, you’d already be getting ready for work. But it’s the last day of your leave, so instead you grab a glass of water and down it in one go, throat dry.

You wander into the living room, eyes landing on the corkboard again. None of it makes sense.

You sigh, shutting your eyes. You need coffee. Urgently.

After three nights of barely sleeping and half-working, half-overthinking, you decide you deserve a treat: takeout from the café two blocks away. You throw on something halfway presentable and step outside.

The clear sky is different from the dark version you’ve been looking at for the past two days. It’s brighter, louder. The city’s waking up, and you hate how normal everything looks considering the week you’ve had.

The bell above the café rings when you walk in, the familiar smell of coffee comforting you like a hug. You order your usual – americano, extra shot – and wait for the bartender to call your name.

Maybe today you’ll act normal. Maybe today you won’t think about blue eyes or smoke or the fact that you still haven’t solved the case that’s been consuming your every thought.

You’re halfway through fishing your phone from your pocket when the door opens behind you and someone laughs – that laugh. Smooth, easy, way too familiar.

You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

Grayson.

He’s not in his usual leather jacket this time, just jeans and a hoodie under a thick jacket . He sees you at the same time you see him, his eyes widening, and stops on his tracks.

“Detective,” he says, as if trying to convince himself you’re there. He’s ridiculous, you’ve been gone for two days.

“Grayson,” you say, briefly glancing at the redhead with him. “Nice to see you up so early. Seems like you actually can be on time for once.”

The redhead steps forward, extending a hand. “Barbara Gordon,” she says, smiling warmly. “You must be the partner Dick keeps talking about.”

You raise a brow as you glance at Dick, a question stamped on your face.

“In a fond way,” Barbara adds, smirking. “You two sound like you keep each other on your toes.”

You shake her hand, smiling thinly. “Oh, we do. Mostly because he’s insufferable.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “You love me.”

“Debatable.”

There’s something familiar and easy about the banter, but underneath it your pulse won’t settle. You don’t miss the way Barbara watches the two of you, like she’s seeing something both of you don’t.

“Well,” she says lightly, glancing between you and Dick, “I should probably grab us a table before this one starts making bad puns.”

“You say that like it’s not part of my charm,” he shoots back, but she’s already walking off, waving a hand dismissively

When she’s out of earshot, you smile at him. “She seems nice.”

“She is.” There’s genuine warmth in his tone as he watches her go and, for some reason, that stings more than it should.

“You don’t seem like the relationship type of guy.”

Dick looks back at you, eyes wide.

“No, she’s not– we aren’t–” he stumbles to say. “We’re just friends, very old friends, childhood friends even!”

You raise your brows. They might be friends right now, but his reaction tells you they weren’t just that before.

“Childhood friends make the best marriages.” You tease. “Or so I heard. In fiction.”

“Didn’t know you enjoyed fiction, detective.” Grayson says, amused.

“Didn’t know you actually had friends outside the precinct, detective.”

“Contrary to what you believe,” he says, voice flirty and teasing, “I do talk to people who aren’t you.”

You grin. “Shocking.”

There’s a pause, as your name is called with your drink ready.

“Are you okay?” Dick breaks the silence, looking into your eyes. “After all that happened I…”

“...was worried about me?” You tease taking a sip of your americano. Too hot, you don’t care.

“Yeah, actually.” He confesses.

You freeze, staring at him, surprised. Something shifts inside your chest. Your stomach flips and your heart swells involuntarily.

“Oh.”

You have to look away. His stare is too overwhelming, too– too something. You don’t know what it is yet, but… 

“I’m okay,” you say, sincerely. “Just overthinking and… having some nightmares, but I’m fine.”

Dick smiles faintly. “You have my number if you need something. Even if it’s just… a piping hot latte?”

He points at your coffee trying to guess your order.

You smile. “Americano.”

He furrows his brows slightly, and nods.

“You should get back to your date.” 

“I told you, she’s not my girlfriend.” He sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“But she used to be, wasn’t she?”

That catches him off guard. He pauses, widens his eyes and stutters.

“H-how did you–”

“I didn’t.” You smirk.

Dick exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. You finally understand why he enjoys provoking you – it’s satisfying.

“Anyway.” You grab your cup. “I should get back.”

He looks at you and for a split second, those blue eyes almost make you forget how to breathe.

“I do hope you’re resting and not overworking yourself,” he says finally, your name rolling off his tongue in a soft, teasing drawl. It’s the first time you’ve heard him say it like that. You don’t know why it makes your heart race, but it does.

You swallow hard, the hot coffee burning your throat. “Can’t make any promises.”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ.”

There’s a strange pause, not awkward just… heavy with something you both don’t understand yet. He shifts his weight, thumb brushing the edge of his pocket, like he’s debating saying something else. You find yourself hoping he does, you don’t want this conversation to ever end.

Because for the first time in days, your head doesn’t hurt. The case, the fear, the endless noise… it all fades away when he’s standing this close. And that’s the part that scares you more than Scarecrow ever could.

“Well,” you finally say, forcing a smirk to mask the shift in your voice, “try not to miss me too much while I’m gone.”

He grins, that stupid grin that always gets under your skin. “Oh, I already do, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes, trying to hide the smile threatening at the corner of your mouth as you walk past him toward the door. “Get better material, Grayson.”

“Working on it,” he calls after you.

You don’t look back, but you can feel him watching, and somehow, that feels worse than the nightmares.

…

“I’m so sorry,” Nightwing says, for the tenth time. His hands shake as he pulls the antiseptic bottle from the first aid kit.

You’re both on a random rooftop, though you suspect it’s his rooftop, judging by how fast he disappeared inside and came back with medical supplies like he had a stash ready.

Nightwing panicked when he clipped your eyebrow during one of your sparring sessions. To be fair, your head wasn’t in it tonight. The case and the whole Grayson situation have been driving insane. You were distracted when he landed a punch on your face.

He has been apologizing ever since.

“It was my fault really,” you say, watching him soak a cotton ball in antiseptic. “I was distracted.”

“Still.” He edges closer, the concern written all over the line of his jaw. “I should’ve taken it easy with you. This is gonna sting.”

“Why, because I’m a woman–“ You hiss, clamping your mouth shut and closing your eyes tightly. It does sting for a moment, but the sensation passes and when you open your eyes you find him watching you. 

You can’t see the color of his eyes, but a brief moment, you think of Dick Grayson’s cerulean blue eyes. You try to focus on something else.

“So what got you distracted tonight?” He cuts the silence short, trying to distract you from the pain.

You sigh. You can’t exactly tell him the truth: that you’ve feeling attracted to your dumbass coworker and that his blue eyes are all you can think of.

“You have connections with Batman, right?”

“That’s one way of saying.” He smirks to himself.

“I just can’t stop thinking about that case…” You admit.

“The copycat case?”

“I don’t think it’s a copycat, though,” you say, quietly. “You know the detective at Blüdhaven PD I’ve been helping? She got hit with the fear toxin. It was real, Nightwing. She’s been having nightmares for days.”

Grayson also thinks it’s a copycat, but no copycat would have access to the fear toxin you inhaled… and you’re still waiting for the lab results on that substance you found.

Nightwing starts packing his supplies away, deep in thought. He saw what the toxin could do, he inhaled some of it himself. Not enough to give him hallucinations, but he did have nightmares the night after.

“Scarecrow’s been quiet for two years,” he finally says, packing up the kit. “Last thing he did was start a prison mutiny. A few psychos escaped after that.”

“So his involvement’s still possible.”

He exhales through his nose. “Yeah, but why Blüdhaven?”

You both fall quiet, the air heavy with the hum of the city below.

Then, because apparently your mouth has no impulse control tonight, you blurt,

“Hey, you’re a man, right?”

Nightwing blinks, surprised. “Last time I checked.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, heat rising to your cheeks as you rub the back of your neck. “Forget it.”

He tilts his head, curious. “What is it?”

You sigh, half-embarrassed.

“How can you tell when a guy’s interested in a woman?”

Nightwing pauses mid-movement, medkit still in his hand. You can practically hear the gears turning behind that mask.

Nightwing blinks, caught off guard. “That’s… a curveball.”

“Nevermind,” you say quickly, already regretting it. “That sounded way less pathetic in my head.”

Plus, Nightwing is your only friend. Or the only person you feel comfortable talking to about this.

He chuckles, setting the cotton ball aside. “No, no, it’s fine. I just wasn’t expecting relationship talk mid first aid.”

You shrug, pretending nonchalance. “Well, you’re here, I’m bleeding, and it’s been a weird week.”

He huffs out a genuine laugh.

“Alright. Hypothetically speaking… this guy– does he flirt with you?”

You tilt your head, squinting. “Define flirt.”

“Teases you. Makes you mad on purpose. Finds excuses to talk to you even when he doesn’t have to.”

Your stomach does something you don’t like.

“You’re very confident about this.”

“Let’s just say I know the type.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? You are the type.”

“Maybe,” he says, smirking. “But if he’s anything like me, then trust me, he likes you for who you are. So just be yourself.”

You freeze for a second. The city noise feels distant.

“You don’t even know him.”

“I don’t have to,” he says simply, tone quieter now. “You wouldn’t spend so much energy thinking about someone if they didn’t matter to you.”

Something in your chest tightens. You hate that he’s right. You hate that it sounds so much like something Grayson would say.

You clear your throat, suddenly desperate for air. “That’s surprisingly thoughtful coming from a guy who uses nunchucks.”

He grins. “Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my reputation.”

You shake your head, laughing fondly.

“Did you know my younger brother was obsessed with nunchucks when he was eight?” You chuckle. “I got him plastic ones for his birthday and he hurt himself in the eye with it right away.”

“Didn’t know you had a brother.” Nightwing raises his brows.

“I’m actually the oldest of five brothers. The youngest is seventeen now.”

He smiles, fondly at you. “I’m the oldest of three. And a sister.”

“Look at us. Eldest siblings trying to save the city.” You gently push his shoulder.

“Look at you.” He returns the gesture. “Finally opening up to me.”

You laugh, a little embarrassed. Maybe opening up isn’t so bad after all.

“You give terrible advice, by the way,” you say, after a beat.

“And yet,” he replies, standing and offering you a hand, “you’re still asking me for it.”

You take his hand. His gloves are warm, the grip steady. “You must’ve punched me harder than I thought.”

He laughs, pulling you to your feet. “Come on, partner. Let’s get you home before you start confessing anything else.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t let go of his hand right away.

…

Rain streaks the windshield in uneven lines, blurring the city lights outside. The air inside the car smells like coffee and wet asphalt. You shift in your seat, watching the warehouse across the street, pretending you’re not aware of how close Dick is beside you.

A new lead came up while you were gone, and Dick was kind enough to wait until you got back from medical leave to investigate. A possible suspect tied to the recent fear toxin incidents, a chemist who might have supplied the copycat.

“You’re quiet today,” Dick says, his voice low but easy, like he’s afraid to break the stillness.

“Just tired,” you say.

He hums, eyes still on the warehouse. “Long night?”

“Something like that.”

There’s a pause. Then he turns slightly, studying you in that careful way he does. “You know, I wasn’t going to say anything, but you’ve got a bruise.”

Your heart stumbles. “What?”

“Right there,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward his own eyebrow. “Looks recent.”

You touch your forehead instinctively. “Oh. That.”

“Yeah. That.” He gives a small smile, but there’s a flicker of concern beneath it.

“I’m fine,” you say, voice a little too quick.

“I’m sure you are,” he replies, tilting his head. A few strands of his hair fall on his eyes and he looks like a puppy, all worried. “But what happened?”

“I tripped.” You shrug, forcing a small laugh and turning back to the warehouse.

“At home?”

You exhale, shoulders slumping. “I ran into a pole, okay?”

Dick blinks. Then snorts.

“What?!”

He tries to hold it in, but fails miserably. “You ran into a pole?”

“I was looking at my phone!” You add quickly, which only makes him laugh harder.

It’s ridiculous, really. He laughs until he’s wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, and even though you’re glaring, the corners of your mouth betray you. You bite back a smile, but it sneaks through anyway. Seeing him like this does something strange to your chest.

You remember Nightwing’s garbage advice, to “just be yourself.” Whatever that means. You don’t know when this started, this… pull toward Dick Grayson, but sitting here now, watching the way his smile lingers, you can’t shake the thought that maybe all those stupid little arguments and jabs weren’t just banter.

You open your mouth before you can stop yourself. “So, what are you doing lat–”

“That’s our guy, right there,” Dick cuts in, his tone flipping from warm to sharp in a breath.

Across the street, a man leaves a building in a white lab coat. Could he be more obvious?

The two of you are out of the car in seconds, rain hitting your faces as you take off down the slick street. The sound of boots splashing through puddles, the echo of distant thunder, the rush of adrenaline – you’re so used to it by now, that it feels like a walk in the park.

When you approach him, saying you’re with Blüdhaven’s PD, the man takes off. Naturally, you and Dick chase after the man. He glances back once, eyes widening before he bolts down the narrow alley. His boots splash through puddles, echoing against the brick walls. You follow, lungs burning, adrenaline kicking in.

“Left!” Dick shouts.

You cut around the corner, catching a glimpse of the suspect climbing over a fence. Dick’s already there, climbing it like it’s nothing. He’s good, but you’re better. You do this every night.

Taking a few steps back, you jump over, using a trashcan as support and tackle him without hesitation. You both fall to the ground, your knee on his back, knocking the air out of his lungs.

The rain keeps falling, steady and cold. The man groans beneath you, his face pressed into the slick ground. Dick’s right beside you, cuffing him before the guy can even think about running again.

“Blüdhaven PD,” you say, flashing your badge. “You’re under arrest for obstruction of justice and suspected involvement in the distribution of fear toxin.”

“Fear toxin?” he groans, trying to twist away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then why run?” Dick asks, voice calm but sharp.

The suspect hesitates. You catch the flicker of fear in his eyes, that split second before his mask cracks. He swallows hard.

“He… he forced me to do it! I swear! He said he’d kill me if I didn’t give him the formula!”

You crouch lower. “Who?”

He hesitates, trembling. “A man… a doctor. Called himself Crane.”

Your heart sinks. You were right, it is him.

“Scarecrow,” you whisper, heart racing fast. You’ve never had a case with a criminal as famous as him.

You and Dick exchange a look.

“He’s been in the city for weeks.” The suspect nods. “He’s got a lab near the docks. Said he needed someone quiet to get him the right compounds. I didn’t… I didn’t think he’d actually use them.”

Your stomach drops. You take a step back, the world suddenly feeling smaller. Dick stands beside you, his jaw tight.

He says your name almost as a warning. You understand what he means: don’t do anything stupid.

“I have to,” you say looking into his eyes.

Dick sighs, knowing there’s nothing he can say to change your mind.

“Promise me you’ll wait for backup,” he says, a pleading look on his face.

You nod, “I promise.”

There’s something else he wants to say, you can see it on his face. His eyes flicker to your lip for a brief second.

“Go,” he says, instead. “I’ll be right behind you.”

…

You wait outside the warehouse, pacing near the entrance as rain drips down the collar of your jacket. The sirens in the distance tell you backup is close, but not close enough. Shaking in your wet clothes, you check your comms again. They’re coming, but not fast enough. The cloudy sky is darkening by the second, and you’re wasting time, waiting in the rain.

A shadow catches the corner of your eyes to your right. Your heart races, but by the time you reach for your gun, something pricks your neck.

Shit.

You turn around, but your vision is already blurring, darkening at the corners. The last thing you see is a shadow looming over you as you fall on the wet pavement, losing consciousness.

…

Something jolts you awake. The smelling salt used to wake you up burns your nostrils, but it does its job. Ropes burn your wrists as you try to move, the metal chair digs into your flesh. The air smells like rust and chemicals. You blink through the blur, your vision swimming in and out of focus. The room looks like some kind of abandoned lab, beakers scattered across tables, flickering light bulbs overhead.

“Welcome back, detective.” His voice is distorted, something he might be using under the mask to change it electronically.

What you see is something that might have come straight out of a nightmare. It’s a rotting burlap skull, empty, sunken eyes that seem to swallow the light, and a stitched grin stretched too wide, like it knows exactly what you fear.

You take a breath, forcing your pulse to steady.

“Can’t say this is the hospitality I expected.”

He chuckles softly, pacing in front of you. “I’m not here for hospitality. You’ve been meddling in my business.”

You tilt your head, stalling because stalling is the only thing you can do while tied to a chair.

“You mean kidnapping chemists and spreading the fear toxin around Blüdhaven?”

“Not spreading. Supplying,” he corrects. “I’m simply… a craftsman. A cog in the bigger fear engine turning beneath this city.”

You pull against the ropes, eyes narrowing. “Who’s the buyer?”

He leans closer, his mask inches from your face. The scent burns your eyes.

“Why would I ruin the surprise?”

You swallow, trying to stall. “So what’s the plan? Intimidation? Torture? You’re gonna– gonna spray that toxin on my face and watch me suffer?”

Scarecrow chuckles. “Something like that.”

His gloved hand moves, and before you can react, he’s holding a small gas mask near your face. The hiss of escaping gas fills the air. You twist your head away, but it’s too late.

The world begins to slide. The lights blur into streaks of gold and red. Your heart starts pounding faster, your breaths shorter.

“Tell me, detective,” his voice warps, echoing inside your head. “What do you fear the most?”

You fight it. You blink. You swallow. Your lungs begin to taste of rust. Your vision doubles, then triples. Memory and present slip like two different films playing across your eyes. You hear your own name echo until you cannot place where the echo ends and your voice begins.

And then there’s a sound you know. A crack of glass. A low grunt. Someone’s here.

You lift your head, vision splitting in two. There’s movement at the doorway, quick and precise. The room explodes into chaos. Scarecrow stumbles back as a figure crashes through him. 

“Took you long enough.” You manage to say, relieved Grayson came for you. 

NIghtwing crouches in front of you. “You never make things easy, do you?”

You blink again, trying to focus, but his face blurs and reforms. You could swear it’s Dick Grayson kneeling in front of you, saying your name like he’s afraid to lose you.

But all you see and black and blue, a mask that’s too familiar to you. 

“Nightwing?” You whisper. “Where’s…”

Nightwing’s figure warps right before you.

The edges of his mask blur and in the potion-sick world you are seeing, the blurred mask becomes a familiar face, the one from the precinct with the stupid grin and impossible hair. Dick. You hear Dick’s laugh overlapping with Nightwing’s grounding tone like two tracks on top of each other until you cannot tell which is which.

“…Dick,” you say, breath tearing. 

Nightwing freezes, mid-motion. His hand squeezes your shoulder, just enough to anchor you.

“Stay with me,” he says, and the way he says it is not a line meant for badge numbers. It is meant for you.

The toxin does not care about names. It folds the world back into void and the last thing you feel is hard leather and the steady stamp of another heartbeat not your own.

Then everything fades away as you lose consciousness. 

…

You wake with the sound of rain again, tapping against the window. The lights are bright, blinding you for a moment before you focus your vision on the white ceiling. The air smells like disinfectant and there’s a constant beep from the machines around you.

Dick Grayson is slouched in a chair that looks too small for him. He looks tired in a way you’ve never seen before.

When he notices you’re awake, he straightens immediately, coffee cup gone elsewhere. He leans over you, sitting on the edge of the chair and takes your hands like he’s done it a million times when you were asleep.

“Hey,” he says softly. His voice cracks on the single word.

You can see how red and tired his eyes are. It makes your chest squeeze.

“You’re here.” Your voice is rough from lack of use.

“Of course I am.”

You sigh, staring at the ceiling again. Tears water your eyes, the first time you cried in front of someone ever since your sister’s funeral.

“Where were you, Dick?” You sniff, looking straight into his eyes. “You said you were right behind me.”

Dick’s own eyes water with unshed tears.

“I know,” he replies, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

The nickname doesn’t annoy you for once. Instead, it comforts you.

“Scarecrow?” You ask, wiping your tears.

“They took him to Gotham. He’s back in prison, where he should be.” Dick’s thumb traces circles on the back of your hand.

“He made me breathe that thing. I saw things that weren’t real. Heard voices that weren’t there.” You pause, your throat tight. “And then I thought I saw you.”

He swallows hard. “You probably did. I was there right after Nightwing got you out.”

You blink, confused. “He was there?”

“Yeah.” His voice is quiet, careful. “He brought you in himself. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch you until the medics arrived.”

That makes your stomach twist, though you can’t say why.

Silence stretches between you. The rain outside sounds heavier now. You close your eyes for a second, and it all flashes back: the gas, the hallucinations, that blue suit moving through the smoke.

“Get some rest,” he says, standing. His hand lingers on yours for a second longer than it should. He seems to hesitate before leaning down and brushing his lips on the crown of your head. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

You nod, watching him go. When the door closes, you let your head fall back against the pillow, your pulse still unsteady.

Outside, the rain keeps falling, washing the city clean.

…

The precinct feels colder than usual when you walk in two days later. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright for your still-sensitive eyes. Everything smells like burnt coffee and printer ink. It’s home, in a way.

You drop a folder on your desk, a sigh slipping past your lips as you sit. The bandage on your wrists tugs slightly when you move, but you ignore it.

The elevator’s doors ding open and you see Grayson walking through them.

“You look alive,” Dick says, approaching your desks. He’s holding two coffees and that same half-grin he uses when he’s trying to see if you’ll forgive him yet.

You give him a sideways glance. “Barely.”

He sets one of the cups in front of you. “Decaf. Doctor’s orders.”

“You really know how to ruin a good morning.”

He chuckles softly, glad you still know how to banter. He then slides a file across your desk. “Lab results came in. The toxin isn’t Scarecrow’s usual blend.”

That catches your attention. You straighten. “What do you mean?”

“They found traces of a compound that doesn’t show up in any of Crane’s old samples. Whoever’s behind this has him tweaking the formula.”

“Well, he did tell me he isn’t doing this alone.”

Dick nods. “Looks like it. Someone higher up is funding the whole thing.”

You already feel overwhelmed and you just came back.

“Damn. Seems like we aren’t done working together, after all.” You cross your arms and lean back on the chair.

He smiles, fondly.

“Also…” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a folded scrap of paper with a single mark on it. “I owe you this.”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“The point. From our bet.”

You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

“I thought we both were gonna get points?”

“Consider it an apology. For not showing up.”

You look down at the note, then up at him again. Nightwing's voice echoes in your mind.

Just be yourself.

“You know, you could start making it up to me in other ways.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Other ways?”

You shrug, trying to look casual, though your pulse jumps a little. “Like taking me on a date, for example.”

For a heartbeat, Dick just stares at you, as if he’s not sure you’re serious. Then, slowly, that grin returns, softer this time.

“Is that an official request, Detective?”

You take a sip of your awful decaf coffee, pretending not to meet his eyes. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

He laughs quietly, the sound warm and easy. “Alright then. I’ll pick you up on Friday.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile lingers long after he leaves.

… 

Nightwing sits on the edge of the roof when you arrive, legs dangling like he’s completely unbothered by the six-story drop. The city hums below, all neon and noise.

“Hey,” you say, landing beside him. “Didn’t expect you to beat me here.”

He gives you that easy grin. “Trying to impress you.”

You snort. “Good luck with that.”

The two of you fall into your usual conversation: quick updates about the case, a few sarcastic comments, and the occasional smirk that hangs in the air between you. You haven’t seen him since the Scarecrow mess, but being up here with him again feels weirdly normal.

You’re halfway through explaining a lead when he cuts in, casual as ever. “By the way, I’ve got a date tonight.”

You blink. “A what?”

He chuckles. “A date. You know, two people, dinner, possible disappointment.”

You stare at him, amused. “You date?”

“I try to,” he says, shrugging. “Not my fault crime keeps ruining the mood.”

“Wow,” you mutter. “So that’s what Blüdhaven’s most eligible vigilante does in his free time.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“You’re literally wearing body armor right now.”

He grins. “What can I say? Women love a man with a strong moral code.”

You roll your eyes. “Sure. It’s the moral code that does it.”

He tilts his head, amused. “You sound jealous.”

You scoff. “Please. I’m just shocked someone said yes.”

“Funny,” he says, standing up. “You sound like my last date.”

You glare at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. He knows that.

“Well,” you say, stepping toward the edge of the roof. “If I had to give you one piece of advice it would be… just be yourself.”

Nightwing barks out a laugh.

“No promises.”

You shake your head, half smiling as you drop into the dark. He watches you go, a quiet laugh slipping out, though he doesn’t quite know why.

Nightwing sighs one more time, then stands up as well. He goes home, knowing he’ll see you soon and his heart races. He can’t waste any more time, so he showers, dresses up nicely and, before leaving home, he tides it up a little bit.

He drives through the city on his motorcycle, the cool night air cutting through the usual Blüdhaven noise. Streetlights flicker across his helmet, and for once, his head isn’t full of case files or radio chatter – just one thought circling endlessly: don’t screw this up.

He’s fought drug lords, mobsters, and lunatics in masks, but nothing’s ever made his heart race like the idea of knocking on your door.

By the time Dick pulls up outside your building, the engine’s quiet rumble fades, and he takes a slow breath. He catches his reflection in the dark window of a parked car, hair slightly messed up, collar half-straight. He debates fixing it, then laughs softly to himself.

“Relax, Grayson. It’s just dinner,” he mutters, though he doesn’t believe it for a second.

He runs a hand through his hair before heading up the stairs. Every step feels heavier. He’s not sure if it’s nerves or something else entirely. He looks up, wondering which window is yours when he notices something.

It’s the same building where he and Eclipse hang out at night. Same building he was on just an hour ago. What a weird coincidence.

Reluctantly, he presses the button on the intercom and not much soon later, you answer.

“I’m heading down!” Your voice is quick and you seem breathless. Could you be as nervous as him?

When you show up, in a red sweater and bootcut jeans, his breath escapes his lungs.

“You look…” he starts, then trails off, realizing how stupidly obvious that sounds. “Nice. Really nice.”

You arch an eyebrow, half-smiling. “You sound surprised.”

“Just… impressed,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t know you owned clothes that weren’t bulletproof.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Careful, Grayson. You’re one bad joke away from me going back upstairs.”

“Noted.” He grins, stepping aside and gesturing toward the bike parked under the streetlight. “Ready?”

You glance at it, then back at him. “That’s your idea of a first date ride?”

“Hey, it’s a very cool bike.”

“It’s two wheels and a death wish.”

“Guess you’ll have to hold on tight then.”

You roll your eyes but still follow him to the bike, pretending not to notice how steady his hand feels when he helps you with the helmet strap. Your heart skips for a reason you refuse to name.

“I just know this bike is gonna look so good in my garage after I win the bet.”

He laughs, low and easy. “Confident, huh?”

“Always.”

“Dangerous trait.”

“Still gonna fall for it.”

He shakes his head, smiling like he knows you’re right. Once you’re both on, he glances back over his shoulder. “Ready?”

“Just drive, Grayson.”

He does. The engine roars to life, and the city lights blur past as you cling to him, the wind cold against your cheeks, his body warm and solid under your hands. You don’t talk. You don’t need to. The silence says enough.

When you finally stop, it’s in front of a residential building.

He kills the engine, the sudden quiet almost deafening after the ride. You pull off the helmet, and arch an eyebrow at him.

“So, you’ve brought me to your place.”

He grins, that infuriatingly smug one. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m just saying,” you reply, handing him the helmet. “Most guys wait until date three before the home tour.”

“Most guys aren’t as charming as me.”

You snort. “That’s debatable.”

Dick’s apartment is nothing like you’d imagined it would be. It’s actually neat and very… like him. It has an industrial air, but also homey. There isn’t a lot of furniture, some books stacked nearby the couch, but the view from the big windows is beautiful.

“Make yourself at home.” He bows theatrically.

“I was kind of expecting more of a mess. Maybe some old pizza boxes. Definitely a punching bag.” You walk in, taking the living room and open kitchen.

“There was a punching bag,” he says, following you and closing the door. “My ex made me take it down, though.”

“Bringing up exes on the first date,” you say, looking straight at him. “Very charming.”

He pauses, trying to read your face, but all he finds is the faintest hint of a smile.

“First date?” he teases.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “What’s for dinner?”

“Pizza and wine.”

“Good call, Grayson.”

He brings you a glass, and the two of you settle in to eat. It’s the first time you’ve talked without the job hanging over your heads, no cases, no precinct gossip, just real things.

The conversation moves to the couch, your shoes off, guards down. You tell him about raising your brothers. He tells you about the circus.

You nearly choke on your fourth glass of wine when he says it. “You worked in a circus?!”

“Worked might be generous,” he says with a laugh. He walks to the cabinet beneath the TV, pulls out a framed photo, and hands it to you. “I was just a kid back then.”

In the picture, two acrobats stand proudly in front of a circus tent, smiling with their arms outstretched. Between them, a boy beams at the camera.

“Very cute kid,” you murmur, brushing a thumb over the glass.

He laughs softly and takes the frame back, gaze lingering on it. The look on his face – the quiet kind of fondness – tells you everything you need to know.

Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s just him, but your heart blooms with something warm and dangerous as you look back at him.

He catches you watching him and his smile falters just a little. “What?”

You swallow your feelings down. “So you were an acrobat? That’s your story?”

“Still do some acrobatic stuff in my free time.” He shrugs.

You laugh softly. “There’s a lot I don’t know about you, apparently.”

Dick exhales a laugh, an arm draped on the back of the couch. His fingertips touch your shoulder and you ignore the electricity between you two to mask your nervousness. 

“So what, are you super flexible or something?” You continue. “Can you put your feet behind your head?”

“Something like that…” the look in his eyes makes your smile fade away. You face your face burning for some reason.

He’s suddenly closer to you, your knees touching, his fingers that touched your shoulder now playing with your earring and you do your best to ignore the goosebumps on your skin.

The air shifts, not awkward but a little heavy, both of you waiting for the other to say something first. The city lights spill across the room, catching on his hair, the faint curve of a smile.

“You know,” he says quietly. “I was surprised you suggested a date. Didn’t think you’d actually show up.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you spend half your day pretending you don’t like me.”

You scoff, half laughing. “Pretending? That’s generous.”

He grins, but it fades slower this time. “I’m serious.”

“I’ve never hated you, Dick Grayson.” You confess. “I guess I was just… envious of you.”

“Me?” He raises his brows.

“Yeah, you. You and your stupid, beautiful smile, with your laid back way of living. I mean, you ride a bike! And leather jackets look great on you!”

“Why thank you.”

“What I mean is–“ you breathe out. “I see in you, someone I want to be, Dick.”

“Are you kidding me?” His hand is now cupping the base of your skull, fingers entertained in your hair. “You’re the smartest person I know. You trust your guts and you have so much more ambition than I’ll ever have in my life. You’re perfect.”

“I’m really not.” You whisper. 

He cups your cheek, thumb brushing on your soft skin. Then he leans in. Not fast, not hesitant, just close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath. You don’t stop him.

“You are to me.” He whispers back and closes the gap between your lips.

The kiss is slow, unhurried, but it steals every thought you had. His hand finds your jaw; yours finds his shirt. The tension that’s been building for weeks finally breaks, and you let it.

You get lost in the sensation of his lips moving against yours, soft at first, then deeper. When they trail down to your jaw and the edge of your throat, you gasp silently. At some point, Dick gently takes the wine glass from your hand, setting it aside without breaking the rhythm between you.

His hands slip beneath your sweater, palms warm against your ribs, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the hem of your bra. Your fingers find his hair, curling in it, a quiet shiver running through him when your nails graze his scalp.

“We shouldn’t–” you breathe, the words half-lost as his mouth finds the skin just beneath your ear. “We should take it slow.”

He hums, low and close. “Do you want to stop?”

You meet his eyes, your pulse loud in your ears. “No.”

His answer is a wordless exhale as he pulls you closer, guiding you into his lap. You straddle his legs, your body fitting against his like it was always meant to. The air between you shifts and the world narrows to the press of his hands at your back, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your chest.

You’re not sure who moves first, only that the space between you disappears. The kiss deepens, slower now, almost reverent. His hands trace the outline of your spine through the thin fabric, every touch deliberate, memorizing.

Your sweater slips off one shoulder; his breath catches, and he presses a soft kiss to the newly exposed skin. For a heartbeat, everything else fades, your nervousness, your insecurities, and there’s only the faint sound of your name coming from his lips.

You draw back slightly, searching his eyes.

“Still want to take it slow?” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint.

You manage a small, breathless laugh. “No.”

He grins, grabs the back of your thighs, and lifts you effortlessly.

“Grayson!” you laugh, holding onto his shoulders as he walks you toward the bedroom.

He glances down at you, smiling in that way that makes your stomach twist. “Too late to change your mind now.”

You open your mouth to answer, but whatever you were going to say gets lost somewhere between another kiss and the sound of the door closing behind you.

…

The first thing you see when you wake up is blue eyes and a cocky grin.

“Creep.” You mumble, pulling the blanket over your head.

Dick laughs, hooking a finger on the blanket and pulling it down to stare at you.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he says casually, as if he hadn’t rocked your world last night.

“Good morning,” you respond, your face on fire.

He stretches beside you, hands behind his head like he’s got not a single regret in the world. The sunlight hits him just right, turning his hair gold and making it very hard for you to look away.

“So,” he says, voice still rough with sleep. “How do you feel?”

You grab the nearest pillow and smack him with it. “You’re not allowed to ask me that.”

He laughs, catching the pillow before it lands again. “Okay, okay. I’ll take that as a good sign.”

You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “I can’t believe we actually did that.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I didn’t say that,” you reply quickly, and he laughs again, clearly enjoying himself way too much.

He leans over, brushing a kiss against your shoulder before sitting up. “Stay right there. I’m going to shower, then we’re getting coffee.”

He disappears into the bathroom, and the sound of water running echoes in the quiet of the apartment. For a moment, it feels weirdly domestic – like this is something the two of you have done a hundred times before. You don’t know if that’s comforting or terrifying.

When you finally get up you put on your underwear on and grab a discarded shirt of his to wear. It makes you laugh when you see it in the mirror – it’s a Nightwing T-shirt.

And then, through the reflection, you see it. Just behind you, something blue peeking out of his closet.

Something weirdly familiar.

At first, you think it’s a shirt. But the fabric is darker, heavier. Your chest tightens as you step closer. You know you shouldn’t but your guts tells you to.

You pull the door open.

His suit falls on the floor, as if he hastily shoved inside. Black and deep blue, familiar enough to make your stomach drop. The Nightwing symbol cuts clean across the chest. For a second, you can’t breathe. The mask drops from a shelf and lands by your foot. You crouch, fingers trembling as you pick it up.

It’s impossible, ridiculous. But deep down, you know it’s true.

Every clue you ignored now burns in your mind: Nightwing said he had a date last night. Dick Grayson had a date with you. Dick never showed up to back you at the Scarecrow warehouse – but Nightwing did. Dick called Nightwing his “intel,” feeding you leads only he could know. Even this building – now that you think about it – it’s the same rooftop where he accidentally clipped your eyebrow.

Holy shit. Dick Grayson is Nightwing.

And then, because the universe must hate you, Dick walks out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, hair dripping, completely unaware. He stops cold when he sees you standing there, mask in hand.

“...Oh,” he says quietly.

You blink, still trying to breathe. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Okay, I can explain–”

“Explain?” you cut in, voice shaking. “You’re Nightwing?!”

He hesitates, mouth open but no words coming out.

“Do you get off on this?” you snap the words coming out faster now. “Making me look stupid? Giving me dating advice while you’re out there pretending you don’t know me?”

“Wait, what?! What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t act clueless!” you snap, picking your clothes from the floor and walking away from the bedroom. “You must’ve thought it was hilarious. All those nights on the rooftop, all those conversations– God, you make me sick, Grayson!”

He follows you to the living room, where you collect your belongings; Dick grabs your wrist as you’re about to leave. You open your mouth to tell him off, but he speaks your name first.

“Are you Eclipse?”

That’s when you realize the universe must really hate you. Because you just told on yourself.

“...No.”

Dick exhales a laugh.

“Of course,” he says. “It makes sense. Your intel, the bruise on your eyebrow, the building we always hang out at, your coffee order! You’re her, aren’t you?”

You snatch your wrist from grip and turn around again to leave.

“No, please.” He grabs your arm, gently. You don’t turn around, your throat dry, your heart pounding. “I didn’t know. I swear.”

You glance back, ready to call his bluff, but what you see in his eyes makes your throat close. He looks terrified of losing you.

“Please don’t leave,” he says, voice cracking slightly. “I like you too much… and you’re half naked.”

You blink, looking down. Oh God. You’re wearing his shirt, no pants, barefoot. Great.

“You didn’t know?” You ask, voice shaky, finally turning around to face him.

“I promise.” He steps closer, cupping your cheeks carefully, like you might disappear if he’s not gentle enough. “I swear I didn’t know.”

You shake your head, torn between wanting to scream and wanting to laugh. “Unbelievable.”

“Please, don’t go. Just… stay.”

It’s not a command, it’s a confession.

And against every bit of logic you have left, you do.