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Chapter Text

There's something about coming back to Gotham that makes him feel like he's stretched too tight in his own skin. Seeing Alfred is always nice, he loves spending time with Damian and Tim, Jason, if he'll give him the time of day, but it isn't home.

Bludhaven is a thirty minute commute and that distance somehow gives him space to breathe just a little more.

The manor is as spotless as ever, dark hardwood gleaming from Alfred's daily upkeep. There was a historian who once went to pieces over hearing that it was all still the original flooring from when the house was built in the 1800's but that doesn't mean much to him. It does, however, make him realize that there haven't been any changes to the house since he was a kid. It's a strange thing to think about somewhere so important to him, a place with as many happy memories as bad memories, but the Wayne Manor is a mausoleum.

The large portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne looms overhead from the top of the stairs. Their faces are kind but the weight of their presence is oppressive. The entrance has always been his least favorite part of the house.

It always reminds him that the lives of the dead should never trump the lives of the living.

Bruce didn't learn the same lesson.

*

Dropping by the kitchen is like stepping into another universe. The kitchen is Alfred's domain and the memories there are of baking cookies, and on one disastrous occasion, a hot sauce injected, deep fried turkey attempted by Jason because "It was basically the same thing as wings but bigger and way better than a boring old turkey."

He remembered multiple attempts to hide his cereal because Alfred hated having such an unhealthy thing in his pantry. The older man always made an exception in the end, though he only allowed him one box at a time, which was probably for the best given his sweet tooth. The upside of being an adult is definitely that his cereal can live out in the open.

The comforting aroma of freshly baked bread makes his mouth water but his goal is to get in and out so he pushes it aside. Alfred is putting the finishing touches on a platter of roast beef sandwiches, a separate selection of hummus, deep red cherry tomatoes, and pita likely for Damian.

Omniscient as ever, Alfred greets him without even turning around "Hello, Master Richard, will you be staying for lunch?"

"Hi, Alfred, and no, not today, is Bruce around?" He smiled at the old man, charting the new wrinkles around his eyes as the man faced him.

"Master Bruce is currently in the cave. Are you certain you would not like to join us? I've managed to convince Master Timothy to finally leave his office."

The statement really meant Tim couldn't say no to Alfred anymore and that the butler caught him neglecting his health again. There's a pulse of concern when he realizes it but Tim had warned him off meddling again. Tim reversed his payment on his electric bill the last time he butted in and he spent hours waiting on the phone for someone to come out and switch it back on.

He takes a second to consider getting involved anyways but something about today has him on edge. "Sorry, Alf, I've got too many things at work to get back to."

It's not even a lie, reforming Bludhaven PD is a work in progress. It's been a work in progress the last six to seven years but the excuse still holds water.

"Perhaps next time, then."

*

Bruce is still in his suit and he's practically planted in front of the screen of the Bat Computer. He must've been there for hours because the oils of his coffee are floating around the surface and the dark rings under Bruce's eyes look like bruises.

Pale blue eyes catch on his own as the chair turns.

"Dick, I need you to take over as Batman for an indefinite period while I investigate a series of transactions linked to multiple groups in Eastern Europe. It's a possible large scale threat to the infrastructure of Gotham and the motive is unclear."

The demand sends a surge of annoyance trickling through his veins. Bruce never asks, he always expects him to drop everything and anything but with Bruce he knows you always have to read behind the lines.

"Is this Ra's related?" He can't think of anything else outside of a JLA mission that would take Bruce out of Gotham for any extended amount of time.

His foster father's silence says it all and he feels his heart rate start to speed up.

"Is it Tim or Damian who's the target?" Urgency colors the question; Damian is the obvious answer as heir presumptive to the Al Ghul legacy but over the last few years Ra's has shown an unsettling interest in Tim.

Ever since the then teenager bested him while Bruce was lost in the time stream, he seemed to pay more attention to the younger man. Personally, he doesn't care that the man considers Tim the true heir to the mantle of Batman, he never wanted that anyways, but he does care about Ra's getting his hands on another of his little brothers.

He can feel his nails bite into the leather of the chair he's perched on.

"I don't know as of yet, I need time to piece together the whole picture of what's going on. I'm holding a press conference tomorrow to announce that I'll be traveling to the Himalayas for a spiritual retreat."

The Brucie Wayne persona has a well documented history of disappearing and reappearing so the idea works. He can even appreciate it from a tactical viewpoint. But would it have killed Bruce to give him notice? God knows he could've arranged for leave with all the vacation time he hadn't taken over the years.

Unable to stop himself from sending the man a sarcastic smile he joked "I'm so glad you've found a new cause to dedicate yourself to." He probably wouldn't have said it in front of the others but they're alone so he feels like he can let himself go a little.

Bruce ignores him and states "I'm benching Tim for the time being, he'll have to be the sole face of Wayne Industries while I'm gone. Damian will be sent to the Titans."

He gleans two things from that, benching Tim means that Bruce thinks Tim is the target and sending Damian to the Titans is the best way to hide the situation from Damian while keeping him out of harms way.

And there it is, that's where Bruce usually goes wrong. He always has good intentions but not speaking to Tim or explaining the rationale to Damian is like 99% of the family turmoil they have. He won't even broach the subject of how it would've helped with Jason, that wound is still fresh even though his brother has been back in their lives for years.

"You know Tim isn't going to like this, don't you?"

Tim is the worst kind of workaholic and being in the cape is something that actually relaxes him. He's going to be neurotic.

The subject of sending Damian to the Titans is the one thing that he can get on board with, even if his reasons are different from Bruce's. Being around other teenagers can only help his emotionally stunted baby brother's social skills.

Blowing out a deep breath, he stares at Bruce hoping he'll change his stance, even if it's like wishing for rain in a drought.

"Tim will do whatever is needed for the mission."

And there go his hopes of any free time in the future.

"Okay, but how am I going to do this? Gotham is too big for one person to patrol and you know I have a day job."

"Reach out to Barbara and Batgirl and coordinate accordingly. Cassandra may come to help if you call."

*

The call to Babs feels as awkward as he thought it would be and he can't stop his leg from jumping up and down as the dial tone sounds. Sinking into his couch for comfort doesn't work, it's some modern monstrosity that's more for looks than comfort.

He's jittery, like he's had three shots of espresso. They haven't spoken about anything outside of vigilantism in the last few years and normally those types of calls happen on comm.

Why did he use his cell?

He isn't angry anymore, but he's not in love either. He's not sure what he wants.

Her voice comes on the phone and it's so weird how a voice he used to love feels so foreign.

"You forget my number?"

It's the tone that gets him, she's taking it easy on him.

But unwilling to explore his own feelings he takes a page out of Bruce's book and cuts straight to the chase "I need your help, your's and Stephanie's."

They hatch things out from there, Babs is always efficient. It's Stephanie that he doesn't speak to in the whole process and it makes him feel like a hypocrite.

*

It's not cool of him but he has to admit that he's never registered Stephanie with anything more than a general appreciation that Gotham had another protector. It's such a bland impression and it's not much better than the mental note he has of her being Tim's ex-girlfriend.

Every time he'd gotten it in his head to apologize for biting her head off there was something else that demanded his attention.

Gotham nights were never quiet. Damian and Tim in the same place meant refereeing and the confiscation of sharp objects. Jason in the area meant extra kevlar, because, even if he wasn't shooting at them anymore, his cases almost always turned into firefights. Cass, thank god, was one person in the family he didn't have to actively worry about. Cass was always competent and cool headed in the field. It's unfortunate that her visits are on the rare side but Hong Kong is her haunt in the way that Gotham was most of theirs.

Everyone covered their own unofficial territory. The system worked well and made sure no one was stepping on each other's toes but with Bruce out of the field pursuing leads for his case, Tim being benched, and Damian taking a rotation with the Titans, he would be taking double shifts unless he managed to wheedle her into a few nights on rotation with him. Which was dicey, because, and he hated to think about it, he really was a complete bastard to her when they first met in the beginning of her time as Batgirl. He hoped she didn't hear him and Babs arguing over her but with his luck she probably heard every word.

Extenuating circumstances aside, his brief stint as Batman while Bruce was presumed dead meant she met the worst version of him. He'd channeled Bruce pretty heavily for those months and strained all of his close relationships so repairing his first impression with Stephanie, a virtual stranger, had been on the back burner.

And not to make excuses but that persona was the only thing keeping him from breaking down back then. So, yeah, he wasn't exactly welcoming the interloper that Bruce disapproved of. Even Tim ended up as an unfortunate casualty of his insensitivity. Damian escaped the worst of it because he didn't have the heart to be a bastard to an orphaned 10 year old, problematic and homicidal or not.

Maybe if he asked Tim?

He winced at the thought, he was already on thin ice with the other man for switching his coffee to decaf his first week back. It was for his brother's health, Tim had started to look ragged, the bags under his eyes had luggage, but the other man had been testy with him ever since. So, goal accomplished, but he was persona non-grata for getting in the way of Tim's coffee addiction.

He was just going to have to talk to her, wasn't he?

He sighed at the thought of the doubled patrol, the commute between Bludhaven and Gotham, and his day job. He was already behind on paperwork for the month, an idiot flasher just had to run through Bludhaven's Memorial Parade, 314's were such a pain…

*

He doesn't apologize, he doesn't even know why it's so hard for him to do.

*

Working with Stephanie was a lot like trying to herd cats. He didn't need to be convinced that she would happily do the opposite of any order he gave her, he knew she would, and over the last three weeks, she did it with a particular flare that he once thought only belonged to Jason.

She got the job done, he would give her that much credit, but keeping up with her rapidly changing moods was more than he wanted to deal with. And for someone with the reputation of being friendly he knew he was more exclusive about people's places in his life than most would assume.

Stephanie just wasn't one of his people. She was an ally and he appreciated her in the general sense he appreciated most other heroes. As a force of good. He understood what it meant to dedicate yourself to a cause that never really ended but that appreciation didn't mean he was okay with her constant insubordination.

Maybe he could word things differently but in the field hierarchy was important which was why it needled at him when she went off script. He, objectively, had more experience, he was a proven leader.

*

Watching from a distance he saw Stephanie stop to talk to the mother and child that she'd saved, the situation too low on the totem pole to need both of them to intervene. Her voice drifts through the air in a low murmur that he can't quite make heads or tails of but the tone is low and soothing in a way he doesn't normally associate with the loud blonde. The would-be assailant is zip tied and unconscious off to the side of her, a purpling goose egg forming on his forehead from the trash can lid she'd thrown at him when she ran out of bricks.

Part of him is still wondering why she used bricks instead of hand to hand, her style had always been more about brawling, but mostly he thinks it's unnecessary showboating even though, per Bruce, his own style could use fewer somersaults himself.

The kid is still hiccuping, tears only just beginning to subside as he burned off the adrenaline and suddenly Stephanie is crouching down, purposely making herself seem nonthreatening.
Her hand flickered to her utility belt and suddenly the kid's face lit up. It was like the sun came out of the clouds and-

Were those lollipops?

She'd fanned a selection of the sweets out between her fingers as she smiled, something smaller and gentler than anything she'd ever given him, the rainbow variety of them going jewel bright under the streetlights.

And maybe there's a tiny bit of admiration in him when she does that, because he's always thought giving hope to victims was just as important as saving them. It was the driving force of why he'd chosen to be a cop in his civilian identity. Sometimes the things done in the daylight made an impact that couldn't be replicated in the dark.

It was something he would've done if he wasn't stuck as Batman for the foreseeable future.

He…was being an ass again wasn't he? He sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his face, the pulsing ache behind his temples intensifying.

Logically, he knew Batgirl was an independent entity, she wasn't Robin so why was he treating her like she was? Why was he treating her like Bruce? Better yet, why was he treating her like a sidekick? He'd spun it to her like they would be partners.

He really hadn't kept up to his side of the deal, he thought, as he fought the downturn of his lips.

And she just had to look back at him at that moment, right then when he frowned. Were they destined to misunderstand each other?

The mantle of Batgirl was always about independence and defiance and that didn't change no matter who actually wore the suit. Stephanie was a proven hero in her own right and he needed to get to know her better. They didn't have to be best friends but they had to be able to trust each other while patrolling.

*

It turns out Stephanie had a good reason for using bricks. Someone is dealing a bastardized version of Bane's Venom on Gotham's streets. He doesn't believe her until he sees how one missed punch from the mugger dented the metal of the solid steel exit door of a Bodega. That kind of force is the kind to cause real injuries so for once he listens to her set up a plan without chiming in.

"We need to find the source so we should talk to the working girls, they usually have a better idea of what's going down in the streets before anyone else."

She pivoted away from him to look for something in a compartment of her utility belt, an "Ah ha!." escaping her when she found what she wanted.

Her blue eyes bored into his "Suppliers usually stay more towards the Narrows but something about the case feels different than usual. For something like this, most dealers know to go straight to a rogue, that's where the money is, even if the danger level multiplies. It makes no sense for a nobody to run around while high and give up the game."

She sounds authoritative, certain of her course, and he feels like he has to reevaluate his idea of her as they run along the rooftops. Her intuition is a hell of a thing and he's curious to see how much of what she's thinking is right.

They stop by Leslie's clinic and Stephanie ducks in and out, a small nondescript bag thrown over one shoulder. He almost asks what she's carrying but before he can open his mouth she starts running at a fast clip to the seediest intersection in all of Gotham and he has no choice but the give chase.

"Let's head down and start the investigation." He says when they reach Bell St. It was as fair a place as any to begin but Stephanie seems to have her own ideas and shushes him, looking for someone as they watch from the roof of a crumbling colonial.

"Hold back" she raises a hand to stop him from following her down "You'll scare the girls and Batman isn't really known for just talking to them. Saving them, sure, but he's not their buddy. I'll keep you looped in by leaving my comms on." She tapped the earbud on her right side to activate the conference function before rappelling down.

*

Stephanie as Batgirl is interesting; she strolls up to an older, scantily clad brunette with large eyes and heavily decorated nails, and greets her like an old friend. He wonders how she even knows the woman but that matters less than what the woman has to say so he settles on his perch.

She wouldn't know it but this was him extending some trust, letting someone else take point didn't come easy to him.

"Bambi, how's the night going?" Her voice is light and almost girlish.

For her part the woman squeals and says "Same old, same old. It doesn't change even if the guy does, between you and me most of 'em don't know how to use it anyways!" Her head is thrown back as she laughs, drawing a chorus of "Amens!" and the attention of the other women on the corner. The pack of them strutting over, heels clicking on the pavement. "I'm more interested in you, honey, how're you doin'?"

"Eh, I clipped a shoulder. Mugger who tried his luck with a mom and her kid on their way home from getting groceries"

He hadn't known she'd injured herself, she made no indications of pain. He'd be impressed if injury in the field didn't often mean death or long term consequences. As it was he made a note to himself to have Alfred check her over later, he doubted that she would let him do it.

"You okay?" The woman's hands don't hesitate as she leans in closer, the rhinestones on her nails glittering as she probes Stephanie's shoulders. Stephanie doesn't flinch and lets the woman fuss over her, a sheepish look apparent even with the mask over her eyes.

"I'll live. I think he was hopped up on something a little crazier than heroin or coke. He was strong, like, fracture your bones with a push and break your bones with a shove, strong."

"Oof, that reminds me of poor Chrissy, one of her regulars got her good, more than usual. He was always kinda rough with her, one of those asses who thinks he's an alpha male and not just a woman hater." Her hair bounced as she shook her head "she had some real bad bruising and a couple fractures. Claims he doesn't remember a thing, he was on something new called 'Scarlet' but none of us are willing to get in a car with him anymore."

"Is she okay?" The words come out quiet but the upset is clear in her voice. It's a display of emotion that surprises him but makes the other woman give her a fond smile.

Another woman, tall with bronzed skin and a steady voice, volunteers an answer "She's staying with Donna" gesturing to a blonde with a fringe in white gogo boots who tilts her head.

"At least she's somewhere safe." The concern doesn't quite leave Stephanie's face but she seems to gather herself up well enough.

"Girls gotta stick together, especially out here." Bambi says emphatically before being hip checked by the curly haired woman next to her, a small grin creeping onto her lips, affection apparent as their hands brushed.

Casting her net a bit wider, Stephanie sweeps her gaze at the cluster now surrounding her. "Any chance you other ladies know anything?"

The blonde, Donna, speaks up "Chrissy said her regular was always buying from Domingo, the dealer on Brudenells st, maybe you wanna check over there?"

"Thank you, Donna, that'll help me keep others from getting hurt like Chrissy"

He gives an approving gaze, Stephanie uses their names as much as she can whenever she addresses them. It's something that he knows creates a rapport, he does it all the time as a cop, but somehow he doubts that it's on purpose for her.

That's when the bag she'd insisted they drop by Leslie's to get comes into play. Small plastic pouches filled with gold foiled condoms and unused needle packs leave her hands. She presses them into every one of the women's hands and tells them to take care of themselves before meeting him in the darkness further down the alley.

As if she can guess the turn of his thoughts she answers. "I set it up after talking to Leslie, it helps with keeping them clean from STDs and not contracting secondary infections from needle sharing"

It's an aspect of things he'd never considered before and he takes a beat too long to respond before she cuts in.

Stephanie seems to think his silence is a form of disapproval, her body going stiff with tension while the open look on her face disappears. She bites out a defensive "I could've been one of them, Bambi probably doesn't remember the pregnant 15 year old she talked down, but this is the least I could do." before shrugging the hand he'd subconsciously placed on her shoulder off.

*

Ice is definitely in the air as they search and Stephanie doesn't speak to him in more than monosyllabic answers. Part of him wonders if he'd done such a great job being a complete jerk that she would never let it go even if his last offense was just being too slow to respond. The thought makes him uncomfortable and he shifts from foot to foot.

It's a few false starts before they pin down the right guy. In his corduroy pants and a button up shirt, Domingo Abrantes looks more like an accountant than a drug dealer, but hiding in plain sight is common for the smarter of his type of criminal. The only thing that gives him away is the man's accent, the vowels are all upper eastside Gotham but the sound is undercut by a cadence more common to those who grew up in Crime Alley.

The man practically jumps out of his pants when they drop down on either side of him. They must look like they materialized out of nowhere and he just knows it'll be one more thing to add to the stories that surround the bats. It's a promising reaction, he has none of the hallmarks of a hardened criminal, Gotham's repeat offenders have a tendency to roll with the punches, so a large part of him thinks that this all must have been an opportunistic crime.

Keeping his unspoken resolution to follow her lead he nods at Stephanie to start the interrogation.

Stephanie pulls it all out of the guy pretty easily. He folds like wet newspaper when they apply pressure in the form of just how many laws he broke and what it would mean for his jail sentence.

She rattles them off like she's a textbook.

Drug trafficking, intent to sell, distribution of illegal substances. The charges add up, but nothing scares him more than the bullshit she spins about the last guy who crossed Bane. By the end the man is obviously starting to see jail as protective custody, all nervous and twitchy like a cockroach sprayed with Raid.

It's incredibly hard to not smile and he can feel the corners of his mouth curling up. She has a knack for storytelling that matches his own and he feels lucky that she isn't looking at him because he's not entirely sure if he wants to shed his hardass image just yet.

Per the man practically begging to be cuffed, during Bane's last attack before the police got to the scene, he'd stolen a few cases because they were just sitting there. He'd picked them up thinking he had something to pawn off for a big payday but it just turned out to be vials of a glowing red substance.

Abrantes sat on it for a few months, cutting it with help of a chemist that he knew, one Barclay Atkins. Venom was known for boosting Bane and they came up with the idea to sell it as a strength enhancer. Diluting the substance left them with a pretty big supply and the customer base was definitely there in Gotham so they figured they would give a few people samples to show the effects to buyers.

They just hadn't realized that their guinea pig would wander off and try to mug people. It's a rookie mistake, they should've just provided a demonstration, but he's not going to be the one to teach the man to be a better criminal.

Watching as police crowded Abrantes apartment, gallon after gallon of 'Scarlet' finding its way to a hazmat team he turned to Stephanie.

Keeping his gaze steady on hers, he decided to make himself clear "For the record, what you and Doc Thompkins are doing does a lot of good. I don't hate your idea."

Her blue eyes flash as she takes that in and he guesses that it's as much a surprise for her to hear as it is for him to say.

"You did good tonight."

The hesitant, half guarded smile she levels at him is worth the momentary discomfort.

Chapter Text

GCC doesn't have the sprawling grounds of Gotham U but there's something beautiful about the way the ivy crawls up the rust red brick. Nearly two years in and she still can't get over how the place exists smack dab in the middle of downtown. Cobblestone pathways and arching corridors in a lighter style than Gotham tends to go for makes it seem like a backdrop for another city altogether.

She'd never thought she'd attend any kind of secondary school, community college felt like it was out of reach as a teenager, but here she was, finishing up her Associates in Nursing. Dying in the process, bookwork wasn't a strength of hers, but inching towards the finish line anyways.

It's grounding to be surrounded by average people who just want to get somewhere with their lives. Being around the Bats and other heroes tended to skew your perspective. Exposure to the genius, the overpowered, the high profile, could make a girl feel a little less than. And she wasn't less than.

*

She really believed that she was better off most days. It was easier when she didn't think about Tim. Tim was usually the tipping point between tequila and moping at home and she was too busy to fall into that pit again.

Going back to school is maybe the one good thing that came out of their break up.

*

There are some people who live for the joy of torturing their students and Professor Canton doesn't look like one of them. She's eighty years old, has an apple sweet smile on her face every time class is in session, but underneath that "Oh don't mind me, dearie" exterior is a closet sadist.

Who else would base a pass or fail test on a chapter that was sixty-two pages long? Sixty-two pages doesn't sound like much but medical textbooks are dense. They are dry. They make her want to bang her head against the solid wood of her desk, and with all the knocks she already gets to the head while moonlighting, it can't be good for her.

Was it sad that her last test, a bright 74 circled in red, made her want to cry in relief?

The woman loved her hypotheticals and Murphy's law was her favorite thing to inflict on her students. It meant every question on a test required a mini essay where you had to explain the likelihood of a particular disease being the issue and what possible treatments would be. And, morbidly, what would go wrong if you fucked up.

She's pretty sure that the premed students don't have to work this hard but it does make her better at sounding like she knows what she's doing all the time, does wonders for her analytical reasoning.

She watched the octogenarian cross the room and the woman winked and gave her a sunny smile, casually terrifying an unlucky classmate who fell asleep with a soft pat to the shoulder.

The bubble of laughter it provokes is something she can barely hide.

Could she grow up to be her?

*

Her mother isn't the type to do mother-daughter bonding but she does let her commiserate over her NCLEX exams. They've never had anything in common before and it makes something in her warm and flutter as her mother puts a hand on her arm and points out the differences between fractures and medial breaks of the ankle.

She complains about how her partner in labs is a serious mysophobe. How the other girl is going to be a nurse when she gets sick at the thought of bodily fluids is a mystery to her.

"Those types tend to fall out of the program before long and if they get their license they burn out very quickly. It might suck to have to handle all the labs by yourself but you'll be better off when you get to clinicals."

The casual faith that she'll get that far puts a skip on her step the next time she heads out to class.

*

A familiar arm draped itself over her shoulders and she had to fight the urge to duck out from underneath it, disguising the flinch with a sip of her frappuccino.

"Hey Babe" Kayden, the guy she'd started dating, greeted her, his brown hair brushing her cheek as he leaned in for a kiss.

Truth be told, she'd rather not be touched at all, the rigid back of the chairs in this coffee shop provided no support for her spine and the bruise on her ass from a goon's desperate attempt to avoid jail had turned her entire left asscheek a shade of purple not even she could love.

Babs said she should be grateful the crowbar landed somewhere with cushion and not on bone but her staunch refusal to use painkillers might be the actual death of her. The bruise is a constant ache that she can't seem to get used to and shifting to keep her purse from falling over prompts another pang of pain.

Of course, there's no way she can tell him any of this.

'Hey honey, I don't want to hang out today and almost flaked on you for the nth time because I'm a vigilante' wouldn't exactly go over well.

So, pasting on a smile of her own, she returned the kiss with a quick peck, ignoring the prickle of guilt that'd become depressingly common whenever they met up.

Kayden's an objectively handsome guy and he seems to really like her. In a twist of all twists, he's honestly nice. So why does she always feel so lost?

He was a decent enough person, she just…needed to give him more of a chance.

*

There's a metaphor about icebergs that would probably be appropriate for the situation. It would probably go, don't date someone who can't know every part of you, except that didn't work out either.

She always learns the hard way.

*

"Kara, you are officially my favorite person."

The blonde shot her a smile, spoonful of Cherry Garcia pausing in the air. "I've always been your favorite, I'm your designated Super."

She snickered at the statement.

It really was a thing, wasn't it? Most days she denied her connection to the Bats but they all had an affinity for the Kents. Tim and Conner, Damian and John, Clark and Bruce, there was some connection between Clark and Dick that she couldn't remember, but four out of six, not including her, was a pattern.

Who else was going to let her bitch about Anatomy and Physiology at 2am?

Holding back a sigh, she flopped onto the couch, one pillow falling to the floor "I want my life to make sense again. I want to burn this textbook."

"Oh stop it, you know you're having a good time."

Propping her head up on her hand she looked at her best friend "Yeah, yeah."

She doesn't go into detail but she knows the other girl is picking up on her rare contentment. Nudging Kara's calf with a toe she says "Your choice?"

Kara is probably going to choose a mindless action movie, which is vaguely hilarious given that she can massively outclass any one of the fictional heroes she loved watching, but for tonight she won't complain.

Hair swinging and almost hitting her in the face, her friend bounds over to grab the remote and they stay up as long as their eyes will let them.

*

She's in the middle of peeling off her suit when she hears Babs let out a quick breath. Her mentor's husky alto is eerily steady and it tells her the woman is forcibly suppressing her emotions. The tone is half hostage negotiation and half this affected nonchalance.

It's exactly the kind of thing that sends alarm bells ringing through her body.

Who's on the phone?

Tension builds with every second she isn't looped in and part of her wonders if she needs to zip her suit back up. Her fingers are already on the metal tab when Babs catches her eye and waves her off, profile hidden in the darkness as she rolled her wheelchair onto the balcony.

Few people can provoke that kind of reaction in the iron-willed woman and she almost wants to listen in, step a little closer instead of following the silent directive.

Stopping herself isn't something that comes naturally to her but she manages it. It's definitely some growth on her end. Two years back she would've tried to conceal herself in the rafters and failed. The redhead always seemed to know when she wasn't listening.

Deciding to erase the temptation by leaving the room entirely, she trudged to the shower. Not even unlimited hot water that she doesn't have to pay utilities for can stop her mind from flying through a variety of increasingly depressing scenarios. By the time she's toweled her hair and padded back into the room she manages to work herself up. Chest tight in the way it was as a kid when her mom tried to hide the bills.

Anxiety churned in her stomach as she called out a tentative "Babs?"

The woman turned to her with a grim look "Bruce is going to be incommunicado for an unknown amount of time, Tim is benched, and Damian is being sent to the Titans. Dick will be Batman in the interim."

It's to the point and there is absolutely no context, which shouldn't surprise her, but still rankles. She can see the echo of her own frustration in wintry blue eyes.

Regardless, she knows exactly how things are going to go next. She'll have to step up. It's the one part of her that she has never had to change.

She's always done what needs to be done.

*

The most annoying thing about this is that she knows there's infinitely more good to Dick Grayson than the raging jackass he was in his first run as Batman. Just one minute with him and Damian illustrates the fact perfectly, no one runs with the teenager's brand of snark and outward rejection of affection, quite like him. No one, but her. Although her relationship with Damian is as much about challenging him as it is dragging him into normality. Though Damian would call it "Banality" or "Mediocrity" depending on his mood.

In any case, this detente she's had with him for the last 5 years isn't one she's all that gung-ho to change. It's enough that they're polite, it's all business between them and they rarely cross paths. Why rock the boat? He's in Bludhaven, she's in Gotham and happy to stay in her lane.

She's just really not all that keen to rejoin the Bat clan in any formal way, especially not after how Bruce kicked her out into the literal and metaphorical cold the first time. She refuses to be the "Matchstick Girl" in this story.

And she heard Dick arguing with Babs about her becoming Batgirl when she was seventeen. That one stung. She'd given up on any acknowledgement of her having worn the Robin suit but had thought she was doing a fair enough job as Batgirl.

Maybe there's a bit of a grudge. She's human.

So she'll play nice, drop by like a bad penny to visit Alfred, his cookies are worth braving her way to Bristol, and never ever admit that she can no longer drink boxed wine. That's enough for her, she's a creature of simple tastes.

That's why she's surprised when Dick asks if he can talk to her. For a moment she spirals, like, what the hell did she do this time? She thinks she's been pretty solid, so careening into a panic attack sucks.

She might not ever eat meatloaf again, it's a lot less appealing when it comes back up.

Dick doesn't so much talk to her as he does talk at her. There's a pretty line about it being a temporary partnership but the power structure is completely in his favor. He details how he wants things to be for the upcoming patrols and doesn't let her give him any input at all.

When he finishes she can't help but quip "Whatever you say, boss." The ire in her voice goes over his head completely.

If he would listen, she would tell him that Thorn Hill needed less monitoring than it used to because the nonprofit in the area had actually made a difference in recidivism. That the Bowery was slowly gentrifying which, for good or bad, was transforming the typical demographics and optics of the neighborhood. He's not interested in hearing her so she bites her tongue, it's vindictive, but if he wants to tire himself out, she'll let him.

*

Patrol with Dick is a soul sucking affair. The only thing that could be worse is patrolling with Bruce or Tim.

Bruce, for obvious reasons would be the worst, he had the annoying ability to make her feel like she was a kid again. The man just never let up and growth be damned, her mistakes were always there waiting for him to bring them up as weapons.

Tim broke her heart. The less said about it the better.

Dick though, is unquestionably the most infuriating. They were, for all intents and purposes, colleagues, and he kept treating her the way the lawyers at her part-time gig as a legal assistant treated the interns. He was treating her like she was Robin and while it would've thrilled her when the Robin mantle meant something more than rejection, she wasn't fifteen and searching for approval anymore.

*

"You can take care of it." Dick's words echoed as they scoped out the situation below.

A little anger starts spilling into her, molten in her veins at yet another example of his pathological need for control. She's not mad that she's the one who has to stop the mugging, she wants the kid and his mom to be safe, but that hand gesture, was she a dog or something?

Bad at controlling her expression, she knows she looks like she's sucking on a lemon, she nevertheless manages a short "Going now."

She tries to be calm, her lungs expand and deflate to counts of four as she rappels down. Considering the best angle to approach the trio before settling on a rear entrance squarely in the blind spot of the attacker, she calls out "You've got one chance to leave without any trouble."

Classic deescalation fails, there are plenty of criminals who, as soon as they see a Bat, tuck their tails in, but this guy runs at her like a bull. Gravel flying under his feet as he pivots towards her.

When she's in the crush of the fight, dodging, because the way the wind splits under the mugger's punch is unusual, the man's fist slams into the door behind her. The thud of her heart is matched only by the perfect imprint of the man's fist in the solid steel of the door.

Not a typical mugger after all.

Studying him for a moment she concludes that he's not meta, his fist is already purpling and she'd bet on at least 4 different breaks. It's strange how he doesn't seem to feel the obvious damage but she now knows that he has normal durability due to it.

Pulling herself up onto a fire escape, bars of the ladder slippery under her gloves, she looks for something she can use to shift things in her favor.

For the first time she's glad that the Narrows is in such bad shape. Dashing forward, she picks up a few cinder blocks abandoned by some construction crew and starts launching them at her aggressor. The barrage lures him away from the cowering forms of the kid and his mom exactly as planned.

Now, what would be a relatively vulnerable body part even in a high adrenaline state?

She only gives herself a moment to think before she launches herself at the guy with a trash can lid. With as much strength as she can put into it she smashes it into the man's face, avoiding the temples. The goal is to knock him unconscious, not kill him.

Winded as the man finally drops, she pulls zip ties out of her belt. Tugging on the restraints to make sure they were secure on his wrists, tripling them for good measure, she turned her attention to the mother and son pair.

The kid's name is Matty and when she lowers herself to his level she hopes the shooting pain from her shoulder doesn't show in her expression. She jokes a little with him and she knows it's a weird thing to keep in her utility belt but she takes out some lollipops. It's the same rationale as chocolate making everything better and she's glad she adapted the idea from her dentist.

It was a random impulse but it pays off and the boy stops crying. The kid doesn't forget to tease her for keeping candy on her but she can't stop the small smile from forming on her face as he comes back into himself. Her eyes meet the gaze of his mother over his head and she knows they're thinking the same thing which is a combination of "Kids are weird" and "Thank, god."

She stays until she can hear the sirens of an oncoming cop car before heading back.

*

"So, Mister Mugger wasn't exactly normal. He was for sure on something different from the garden variety heroin or coke." She cast a surreptitious glance at the man besides her, feeling something in her gut sink at the unconvinced look on his face

"At least look at the door he dented." Frustration leaks into her voice and she beats back the urge to shove him.

Why did he have to make everything so difficult?

Seeing the crater-like impression in the solid metal door for himself does what five minutes of trying to convince him that her judgment is sound, doesn't.

When he speaks again it's to ask "What's the course of action?"

She doesn't think about why he's tossing the reins to her, her brain already cataloging what she wants to do. Everything comes out smooth as she works through her thoughts. It's the lack of interruptions during her series of observations that tips her off to the strangeness of his behavior.

And that's when it dawns on her.

This is a test.

She can't divine any other reason that he would let her lead. Part of her is furious, because testing her is such a shitty move, but the other more stubborn part of her thinks that if he's gonna test her she's going to freaking ace it.

They drop by Leslie's so she can pick up supplies. She refuses to alter her usual behavior with the working girls just because he wants to get to the bottom of things faster. Truth be told, there's a not so small sliver of her that really enjoys keeping him in the dark, the curiosity she spied in his eyes is too fun to not play with.

Leslie, for her part, doesn't even blink when she heads in through the back to grab one of the usual go-bags.

The older, graying, brunette, only looks at her from over the tops of her glasses and tells her to "Grab double, it's a weekend." The doctor's hands are already picking up her next patient chart and she doesn't say a proper goodbye but she knows that's just how she is.

Sparing a smile, she salutes, spinning on her heel with the words " Thanks, Leslie" left floating in the air.

*

Holding up her hand, palm physically warning Dick off, probably gives her way too much pleasure. Giving him an order that he can't deny the logic of is a bit of a power trip but after weeks of dealing with a cardboard cutout of a partner she sort of feels like she's allowed to bask in it a little.

As she ambles over to her favorite informant she feels herself start to relax. The usual dynamic she shares with Bambi and all the other ladies is the hard won work of nearly three years of proving that she'll listen to them. Maybe her protection isn't as lethal as Red Hood's but they like her. They know she'll never judge them for what they do, it's just survival and she'd never knock someone for staying alive.

Five to ten minutes of chatting rewards her with a wealth of information. The name of a victim, she hates that she can't do any more than take down the perp's name to nail him to the wall later, all because Chrissy is a hooker, a dealer, and a possible location.

*

The blank look Dick sends her when she finds her way back over compels her to explain the reason she gives out unused needles and condoms. It's an important cause to her and letting him know about it at all leaves her feeling off.

The moment is charged with something she can't properly name and his lack of a response sends a brief spark of disappointment through her, she'd thought better of him than that.

"I could've been one of them, Bambi probably doesn't remember the pregnant 15 year old she talked down, but this is the least I could do."

The November of that year had been bitterly cold, even for Gotham, and she'd just gotten off the bus from school, the heft of her belly prompting a pain that made her unwilling to leave the bench. For whatever reason, she couldn't find it in herself to go home, something about the numbness spreading through her body felt comforting. She kept telling herself "Not yet, not yet."

The light of the day faded and the working girls came sashaying onto the streets, their dresses and shoes the only bits of color in the gloom.

Bambi was the one to strike up a conversation with her.

"Honey, don'tcha have ta get home?" the faint southern twang in her voice had been stronger back then.

"It's not much of a home." she'd muttered, hunching into her oversized coat, hands shoved into her pockets.

"Sure it is." The brunette chided, wrapping the scarf she'd been wearing around her neck, fluffing the fabric around her face like she was a little girl. It smelled of peppermint and something floral and sweet "If there's at least someone you might miss."

She'd been so gentle as she'd done it that the normal instinct to watch out for strangers faded away entirely. It was the closest thing to the hug she wished her mom had given her when she found out she was pregnant.

The way those tears felt as they slid down her face, like liquid trails of fire…

She didn't realize until years later that Bambi had walked her home during prime time.

The heat of Dick's hand on her shoulder jolts her out of the memory and suddenly she can't stand the idea of touch at all, jerking the appendage out from underneath him.

Why had she even said that?

*

Monosyllabic responses are her solution to the fact that she can't trust her mouth tonight. It makes searching for the 'Domingo' character the girls talked about very quiet and the competent demeanor she'd had all night melts like it was a lie.

She doesn't know what she was expecting but the almost clean cut man in his late 30s isn't it. She knows appearances can be deceiving but he looks like a total paper pusher.

When Dick tilts his head at her, she puts her game face back on.

Menacing doesn't work for her the way it does for the rest of the Bats. At 5'5 she's even a little shorter than average so she weaves a story that has the man shaky and pale by the end of it.

She starts slow, the legal knowledge she'd learned through osmosis from work getting the chance to shine. The half made up story about Bane is the cherry on top, bits and pieces from their long history with the man giving the tale some flair. Bane had even broken Bruce's back once, she scrubs the fact that he did it to Batman, they were all better off when villains saw him as invincible, but she does let her medical background detail all the ways breaking a disc can affect someone's life. No one loves hearing about colostomy bags.

Abrantes caves so fast she's surprised the man doesn't get vertigo. And the story really is a case of dumb luck. This all could have spun out of control so fast and with only her and Dick on the streets she dreads thinking of what would've happened.

And she blames Professor Canton but she's not content to leave until she witnesses every single container delivered to the hazmat team on site. And even then she almost wants to follow the disposal vehicle. She can feel her eyes squinting and evaluating each yellow suited person in the cordoned off area.

While she's mulling over the possibility she hears Dick speak directly to her, his voice is softer than she's ever heard it. A note of uncommon vulnerability as he looks at her with earnest blue eyes.

"For the record, what you and Doc Thompkins are doing does a lot of good. I don't hate your idea."

Discreetly pinching the inner side of her elbow she can only stare at the man who, for the last three weeks, has been a royal pain in her ass.

"You did good tonight."

Dick is saying all the right things and she's still not sure if she can take things at his word, not entirely, but she does send him a smile. Maybe the first genuine one since they'd started patrolling together.

*

After the 'Scarlet' case, there's a definite thaw. Dick is a bit quieter in the field, which initially makes her think she misstepped somewhere, but at some point she realizes that he's just giving her space to put her two cents in.

It's bizarre to finally feel respected.

*

They're laying on the roof of an abandoned factory watching Black Mask's goons duck in and out of an armored truck when he cracks a joke.

"Black Mask's control fetish has reached new heights, they all look like they're in gimp suits." barely suppressed laughter colors his tone "What are the chances that they've all got daddy issues?"

For a second she's not sure what she's hearing. Her resulting laugh is more from surprise because a joke from someone wearing the Batman suit is wild. The heavy cloud of tension that had pressed itself to her sternum, breaks.

There's a flicker of amusement in his eyes, the tiniest pleased quirk to his lip, and 'Oh' she thinks. 'This must be what the others mean when they say he has a way of growing on you.'

*

Later that night she actually looks up what gimp suits are and the image search makes her laugh so hard she cries.

What the hell?

She's definitely going to have to scrub this from her history or else her ads are going to be positively explicit. Like, what dark side of the Internet did you have to go to to come across that?

More than the rare praise, more than him telling her she's made the right call, that's what cracks her reserve.

She still steps lightly around him but every once in a while she sends out a probing joke of her own. They're like two cats finally getting used to being in each other's space and she starts feeling a little more optimistic about the future.

*

The first laugh she steals from him makes her want to take a picture.

Chapter Text

Black Mask being back in town had put a hard look in Stephanie's eyes that made him deeply grateful that she didn't use guns like Jason. She reminded him of a documentary he'd watched once, he couldn't decide if she was the lion or the gazelle in this case.

He would have told her to switch out with someone if there was anyone else available, some villains you shouldn't handle alone. For him it was Zucco, for Jason it was the Joker, and, he glanced at a stiff necked Stephanie peering down the fire escape, for her it was Black Mask.

They'd been following the villain's men for the last week and Babs still hadn't heard of anything circling the drains.

He had a feeling that the man was lying low, waiting for an opportunity. Sionis was smart, less of a power than in previous years, but still capable of upending the board. He tended to play things closer to the chest now that rival mobs had gathered up the remnants of his former empire but the caution actually made him more dangerous.

The man of the hour appeared, his namesake stark against the pinstriped white of his suit. Polished, for all the messiness of the violence he dealt. A study in contrasts that would thrill Arkham psychiatrists.

He couldn't fault her, he'd seen the photos of what Sionis had done in the hours before she was rescued by Bruce. Multiple contusions, two black eyes, three broken ribs. There had been a power drill at the scene and god knows what he would have done with that.

The way her eyes follow every movement is unsettling. Stephanie has a face meant for livelier expressions.

"Black Mask's control fetish has reached new heights, they all look like they're in gimp suits." He pitched his laugh so he sounded more amused than he actually was "What are the chances that they've all got daddy issues?"

There's a minute, when he says it, where he wonders if he's made a mistake.

And then she laughs.

*

She cracks jokes now. Not all the time, but enough that he realizes that there's a difference between Stephanie liking you and Stephanie tolerating you. He doesn't think he's someone she likes yet, but he's more than someone she has to endure.

*

He pulled out the small foil package he'd stored in his bike, the aluminum wrinkling under his hands.

"Is it that good?"

She peered around him to stare at the plain frybread in his hand.

"It's the fourth time this week you've had it before patrol."

He rolls the words around in his mouth before letting them go. "It reminds me of something I used to eat a lot of as a kid."

*

He'd volunteered to take the shift a few weeks before Bruce had asked him to step in, the current case effectively binding him to the manor. Damian needed at least the appearance of adult supervision while Brucie Wayne swanned about in the Himalayas. So now he was stuck adjusting his schedule to account for the commute between Gotham and Bludhaven.

The very thought of that lost half hour is upsetting in a way that makes him feel like a child throwing a tantrum.

Amy had begged him to take her shift so she could celebrate her 9th wedding anniversary. She'd showed up to his desk with burritos from the cart in front of the Bludhaven Natural History Museum. Extra salsa verde with extra guac.

He could've sworn he'd brought food that day but when he rummaged through the break room fridge he didn't see anything. Which, of course, was when the newly promoted detective dangled it in front of him.

"Oh my god, thank you." His voice had gone reedy with relief. A fourteen hour shift with no lunch was brutal and while he had a sweet tooth he refused to be that cop who always had a donut in hand.

"These burritos have conditions attached."

The smell of spices and grilled meat made his stomach mutiny against him.

Amy wouldn't ask for anything too excessive, he told himself.

A smidge defeated, he tossed out "Whatever you want, consider it done."

"Take my weekend shift in three weeks."

Her and Jim were only driving to Metropolis for a weekend but she hated to leave anything up to chance. Gannon had been her first choice but the man had been put on medical leave for a bullet to the shoulder. He'd be out for, maybe, another month for physical therapy.

Honestly, he understood. Corruption was still a problem in Bludhaven PD even if it wasn't as bad as before, though he still wouldn't put it past one of the other cops to muscle in on her less squeaky clean CI's.

"Alright, I'll do it." He furrowed his eyebrows, chair moving backwards as he stuck her with a speculative look "How did you know I didn't have lunch?"

"Choose your moment, rookie." Amy waved him off with a smirk as she walked through the door.

He found the lunch he'd brought hidden behind Cathy, the front desk secretary's yogurt, the next day.

*

A beam of light spilled from the direction of the family room. They didn't normally use that space, much less at three in the morning, so it sent warning signals through his brain.

Shifting into a more versatile stance, one ready for action, he stalked forwards. He wouldn't put Ra's above sending assassins at this time of night but it would be unusual. The man had rules of engagement that were archaic but generally predictable. The man would hate the comparison but he was like an old school mobster and this wasn't his normal MO.

A dark head poked up over the back of the sofa and he relaxed.

Damian.

The tension coiled in his shoulders disappears. And then he hears a second voice.

For a moment he wonders if his brother has finally become a teenager, if he's snuck a friend in. Non-homicidal rebellion would actually be an improvement.

'What universe is this?' He thinks as he tries to wrap his head around the scene in front of him.

"I refuse to watch the drivel that you call entertainment."

"It's Housewives of Houston, it's totally cultural commentary. Texas is super different from Gotham, what if you need to go undercover?"

Stephanie is trying to sell Damian on it but the innocent look she's going for slips very much into 'Used Car Salesman' or 'Pyramid Scheme Recruiter', both of them look the same to him. She can't seem to help the grin on her face that's giving her away.

His brother is staring at her with the flat expression he usually saves for when he forces him to go to 'pointless social rituals that are of no consequence.'

"In what case would" Damian wrinkled his nose "the merits of hairspray versus mousse be knowledge that I would require?"

"If you have to go undercover at a beauty pageant to prevent a bomb threat and capture a terrorist."

It's the plot to Miss Congeniality but she plays it with such a straight face that Damian raises a considering brow and he just knows his younger brother is going to sidestep conceding verbally but go along with what she wants.

At that point he can't help but laugh, the burst of sound echoing all along the hallway, startling the pair huddling on the couch. Their faces turn to his and suddenly he feels a touch embarrassed.

He wasn't exactly invited to the party, was he?

Stephanie is looking at him like she's never seen him before and he has to admit, she's never really seen him out of work mode. He can feel his own eyes stalling on her face before registering the pleading look in her eyes.

A playful smile pulled at his lips and for a moment he considers ruining her fun, if only so he can see how Damian would extract his revenge.

To Damian, revenge was a dish best served cold, he took his time and retaliated weeks after an offense. He'd asked once why he put it off so long and Damian stared at him and said "For the psychological damage." as if he'd asked a stupid question.

His idea of revenge had gotten much less deadly over the years so it was a safe enough impulse. The last attempt at embarrassing Tim was switching out his salad fork with a fish fork. He would've never even noticed the difference between them but Damian had been so convinced it would cause Tim utter humiliation at a high society dinner.

Tim summoned a waiter for a replacement so the plot fell hilariously flat.

"Grayson, don't just stand there, watching like some ill bred miscreant. If you are going to intrude you may as well join our "cultural" exploration."

His brother gestured for him to claim his own spot on the sectional, waving like a Russian oligarch.

He's a bit shocked that Damian invited him to join what was obviously a bit of a tradition. They look too natural for this to have happened only once, but he shuffles over obligingly.

They're repositioning themselves on the couch when he asks, under his breath "What are you doing here? It's 3am."

He's hoping that it comes out the way he means it to, he's not investigating per se, he's curious. He knows his words come out harsher, even when he doesn't mean to, around the blonde and he doesn't want to ruin the comfortable atmosphere of what he stumbled into.

Why was it so easy to charm literally anyone else?

"Damian texted." she doesn't move her eyes from the screen.

He can sense her mild discomfort. She sits a tad more properly on the couch, no longer sprawled like a starfish, but she still doesn't elaborate.

Loyalty is a trait he can appreciate.

It's ballsy of her but he's learning that she genuinely doesn't give a damn about his authority, he thinks it might be endearing instead of irritating.

Letting his eyes slide around the room he catalogs a a slew of drawings in charcoal that look as though they had been pushed around in frustration, a half finished canvas, the paint strokes messy and without any clear intent.

Something had been bothering Damian.

And he contacted Stephanie.

An unexpected swell of appreciation swept through him, the emotion rattling in his chest. He hadn't known that they were so close and while a part of him wished that Damian had come to him, he'd been up one flight of stairs, he was also oddly relieved that there was at least one more person Damian could turn to.

He loved Bruce but emotional literacy was not a strength of his.

Adopting a lighter tone he ventured "Miss Congeniality, huh?"

She shushed him, casting an eye at Damian whose eyes were focused intently on the screen of the TV, before flashing him an impish smile that he almost felt compelled to return.

"I've gotten him to watch Legally Blonde, Sixteen Candles, The Devil Wears Prada, and Clueless." Her blue eyes are glittering with triumph.

"He's receiving a solid cinematic education. You're really filling in the blanks here." He volleyed.

"He's lived a deprived life", she says, the dryness of her tone forcing a choked laugh out of his throat.

Before he can craft a response Damian starts complaining about the lack of subtlety in the show's cast and she's rushing to present her case for continuation.

Her case is that most people are dumb.

Damian nods with the most solemn look he's ever seen on his face and the dam holding back his laughter breaks.

The rest of the time before shift is spent watching the verbal ping pong match between the two.

*

She'd disobeyed orders again, blonde hair flying as she swooped in from above like their namesake. A brass knuckled punch to the groin of the man controlling the Riddler's latest lethal puzzle.

He'd almost wanted to whistle, it was unorthodox but then, she usually did things in a way that was out of his expectations.

It made the henchman next to him careless with his knife, but it was objectively the right judgment call, even if he did end up with six stitches to his right bicep. He'd take a flesh wound over ten civilians falling off the Riddler's hacksawed platform in Gotham Square any day.

They were heroes; this was an occupational hazard, but whenever he tried to say as much from his place behind Alfred, who had deftly cleaned and sewed up his wound, she cringed and fussed even more with their gear before making a quick excuse to dart out of the cave.

A guilty Stephanie was a sight that he'd never encountered, usually she blazed through things with an unapologetic energy so he had to say that this felt very Twilight Zone. The part of him that was perpetually stuck in mentor mode wanted to track her down and dispense wisdom but he had a feeling it might backfire.

Probably better to leave it alone, his finger traced the edge of his glass.

*

"So, is Stephanie doing okay?" He asked Damian, shooting for unconcerned as he poured milk into his cereal.

For someone he was patrolling with nearly every other night she had gotten very good at avoiding him. They weren't friends but he'd gotten used to her chatter and it felt like things had regressed.

"Fatgirl is perfectly adequate."

Fatgirl? That was…not the nicest nickname.

He felt the urge to reprimand him before recognizing the tiniest hint of affection in his brother's voice.

He should've known, with Damian it was less about what he said than how he said it.

*

She brought him food.

She made him Romani food based on a throwaway comment he'd made weeks ago.

As he stood behind her, the smells of his childhood filling the room, there was a little part of his heart that cracked open. Rabbit Stew, Xaritsa, Pufe, Pirogo. When was the last time he'd had any of these dishes?

As they sat down he shot her a hesitant smile and dipped his spoon into the soup. It wasn't quite like his mother's, she'd used bacon instead of ham and his mother had liked to spike things with paprika, but the thoughtfulness of it remained.

It was crazy how someone who didn't even know him had been the one to find a way for him to remember his parents in a way that didn't trigger any dark thoughts. The ugliness of their death was what usually kept him from thinking about his childhood. This? This left him feeling warm like he'd been submerged in honey.

Popping a bit of the Xaritsa in his mouth, he stifled a groan of pleasure. The crunch gave way to a savory sweetness that melts in his mouth.

She's good at baking, one more thing he hadn't known about her.

He throws a glance at Stephanie and knows it has to be her first time trying it, she's licking the crumbs off her fingers instead of letting them litter the table, the most blissful look on her face. It's a simple food but she reacts so strongly that he wants to laugh.

When he dips the Pufe into his soup Stephanie follows his example with the same gravity of a child learning a new skill. He's reminded of star studded nights around the roaring heat and smoke of the campfire with other circus folk. Communal meals ladled from large wrought iron pots and his parents' helpless smiles as he ran around, bowl held by the tips of his fingers because he could never sit still. Soup sloshing over and dripping down his wrists between rotations to Zitka and Old Man Haly.

"Thank you." He doesn't quite know how to begin the conversation but he infuses his voice with as much gratitude as he can. They're not enough for the warmth this all kindles inside him but some bit of it must manage to come through because Stephanie relaxes in her seat, the anxiousness that had followed her since the Riddler's rampage fading, the nervous drumbeat on the table trailing off into nothing.

"I've gotta say, it was harder to find rabbit than I thought it would be"

"As the person on the receiving end, I'm wondering how you found it too."

"Two trips to a supermarket, the betrayed look of my butcher, and another hike uptown to Grammercy to 'A Cut Above' to see his buddy."

He feels vaguely guilty, she went to a lot of trouble, and even though he didn't ask her to, he wonders how he can reciprocate. Maybe if he-

"Once I decide on a plan, it's go big or go home"

Focusing back on her face, the sincere cast of it arousing his curiosity he prods with an implied question of his own "Romani food isn't exactly mainstream."

"Googled it. Don't worry, everything other than sourcing the rabbit was simple. And I bake bread on the regular; it's great for my shoulders and cheaper than getting a massage." she gave him a shrug and a grin, her nonchalance putting him at ease.

It doesn't quite answer his question, but it hits all the right notes.

He'd noticed that about her, she was good at reading people, but in a different way from him. Stephanie was geared towards sensing people's emotions and he was better at taking in the small details and building a picture, two ways to get to the same conclusions. It was the difference between sight and touch.

"I wasn't sure what recipe you would've grown up with so I went with a basic one for the soup." She cocked her head waving a hand back and forth.

Most people would've picked one and called it a day, had she been nervous about this?

"My mother grew up as part of a Romani Community in Hungary so paprika was very popular. She used to put so much in that the soup turned bright red. Paprika doesn't have much of a taste, she liked the color." He offered the tidbit casually, like he hadn't just spoken about his mother for the first time in years.

The smile curling on Stephanie's face makes it strangely easy. It's not the one she gave that kid she saved, or the one she gives Damian, but it feels like the wall between them is being dismantled.

"She must be where you got your love of color from." She wiggled her fingers in an approximation of the Robin suit.

Thinking about it for a moment he has to nod and surprising himself he says "You know how I grew up in a circus, right?"

"Mary and John Grayson, the Flying Graysons."

"What if I told you their names weren't actually Mary and John?" A conspiratorial grin settled over his face.

"What? Really?" Her eyes are wide and utterly absorbed in what he's saying and his fingers itched with the desire to pat her head.

"Their names were actually Marya and Ion, Mary and John played better for the audience and the last name Grayson was one they picked up from the man who helped them elope."

"Does this mean you have a different name?"

"Not in so many words, my nickname was Robin."

She mouthed something to herself before unleashing the full force of her eyes on him.

"So your parents weren't always with the circus?"

He shook his head "Before I was born they were part of two different Romani communities, my mother's was based in Hungary and my father's enclave was in Romania. They wouldn't have met if not for a routine trading trip. My mother wanted perfume and it was a rare thing. Romani keep to their own spaces when possible, my father was the only one who would go into town for what the elders called useless luxuries. From there they fell wildly in love and because the marriage wouldn't be allowed, they ran away."

There's a lot of specifics on why they weren't allowed to marry, their communities favored in-clan marriages, but he doesn't think she needs to know about that.

He feels himself sink into the story. "My mother was the one with the idea to run, the one with the bold ideas. They stumbled into working for a circus in Europe, at first not as part of any act but as extra hands to set up the tents. She was the one who fell in love with the highwire, the first freedom outside of marrying my father that she snatched for herself."

"It all sounds magical." Stephanie looks enchanted by what she's hearing, like she's listening to a fairytale instead of his family history. It makes him want to lean into the entertainer side of him.

"It was. My father took some time to come around to it but she never let anything stop her" A private memory of his tall and muscular father groveling at his mother's slippered feet flashed along the forefront of his mind and softened his face "and he could never really say no to her."

He quoted his mother "And so, this man, so rooted in the earth, learned to dance on tightrope because where she went he would follow."

It'd sounded terribly mushy to him as a kid but as an adult he could appreciate the sentiment behind it.

"They might've stayed with their original troupe if they hadn't been approached by Old Man Haly. I'm still close to him even though he wasn't able to take me in. No court would choose an elderly, nomadic, circus ringmaster over someone like Bruce, the Prodigal Son of Gotham." A small snort escapes him "You have no idea how many times I tried to run away the first few weeks. Bruce was lucky to have Alfred."

The British gentleman who'd become a grandfather figure had been the main one to get him to open up. His mother had raised him polite and the unfailing courtesy the butler exuded made it impossible to argue with him. Bruce, on the other hand, didn't get that privilege.

"Living here sounds like it was a big change for you."

It was. He'd gone from a large extended family and relative freedom to roam to the boundaries and social restrictions of Gotham. It hadn't been a pretty transition.

"Bruce saw his ghosts more than he saw me at first. And there's only an eleven year gap between us so our relationship is a complicated mix between father and brother. Kind of like me and Damian, I guess. Those two years without him bonded us."

Feeling somehow nettled by his own admission he asked "So, what about you? What was your childhood like?" Not thinking about his words in an effort to switch the subject.

Stephanie recoiled, his questions breaking the cozy atmosphere. He wasn't sure where he'd misstepped at first because it was such a general question and then he remembered the profile Bruce wrote on everyone. Childhood in the Narrows, pregnant at 15, a B-list Supervillain father, Cluemaster.

Stephanie cut in, a bit more subdued, "Nothing you don't already know. Shouldn't we dig into the Pirogo now?"

Caught flat footed and unable to apologize he stuffed a forkful into his mouth.

It was… He didn't like it, an expression of disgust dawning on his face. It was too sweet, the texture wasn't bad but from what he could see of her face he could see she'd had the same thought. Her eyes catching on his before the laughter began.

"I remembered that tasting a lot better when I was a kid" He'd used to love it so much that his mother made it for his birthday instead of cake.

"Yeah, I had my doubts when I was making it." she pushed the dish away from her like distance would scrub the taste from her mouth.

He almost offers tea, it's what Alfred would have done, but she cuts him off before he can begin.

"Well" she trailed off, throwing him a borderline bashful smile. "I'm gonna get going, I've got patrol and coursework and the commute."

Her hands are fiddling with the strap of her bag before she straightens up and beelines for the door.

He's barely able to say goodbye before she sweeps out of his life again. He's left feeling like he's encountered the human equivalent of a hurricane. Not because she made a mess of him but because she'd unearthed beautiful things he had buried. It reminded him that sometimes good things came from disaster.

He finally understands why Damian, and Tim, and Cassandra like her.

*

"Did you actually cook?"

His eyes flew to the older detective, Turpin rarely talked to him.

"What?"

"You're using tupperware." The man cocked an eyebrow at him like he was being stupid.

He knew he had a reputation around the station but he didn't think his takeout habits were that bad.

"It's homemade but I didn't cook it."

"Better return the favor then." the man said gruffly. "It's not a small thing to feed someone."

*

Getting to know her becomes a long term project.

The first time he brings her food she's surprised but thankful. The second time, she's confused. The third time, she doesn't seem to know what to think. The fourth time she gets a little irritated and he learns that she hates charity, he manages to smooth it over eventually. With Alfred's help, not that he knows it.

It's the first time he's gone out of his way to make a friend.

Chapter Text

Just who was laughing?

Craning her head back, the tall and lean figure of one Dick Grayson was practically falling apart against the doorway.

'Crap', she thought, heart starting to race, 'what part did he come in at?'

Was he going to give up the game? It had taken her hours of nagging and a trip to a petting zoo to "liberate" a companion for Bat Cow to get Damian into this routine. What some would call a corruption of good taste she called vital to getting her favorite stab-happy gremlin to relate to people instead of just animals.

Movie and media analysis, when presented as a form of training, made for a surprisingly pliable Damian. They made lessons like 'Glowing green water is bad' and 'Stabbing is not always the answer' way easier to handle.

Letting her eyes go round and watery, she told herself 'think of Sarah McLachlan, running out of chocolate on your period, your favorite show getting canceled on its first season, breaking your favorite mug' and met his eyes.

In the back of her mind she'd known that he was staying at the manor but for some reason she didn't think she'd run into him. One, it was three in the morning, two, for some reason she had this idea in her head that he was that responsible adult who always slept at the same time, rinse and repeat.

Interaction outside the suit felt weird, it was like going out as a kid, seeing your teacher, and realizing your teacher also had a life and that they didn't just exist at school.

Sleep rumpled, hands combing through messy hair, there was no trace of the imposing guy she usually patrolled with. He looked like a different person altogether. Someone who was all soft smiles and warm laughter. Someone, she was surprised to think, that she would like.

It was a strange thought because until recently they'd been antagonistic acquaintances. He'd been broody and judgey and she'd been sick of him in 0.001 seconds.

Things had eased up, especially since the bizarre joke about gimp suits, she still couldn't think of Black Mask's henchman the same way, but they weren't exactly buzzing with conversation or having heart to hearts on patrol. It was more like they were sharing quiet observations and she now got to put her two cents in.

Comfortable, would be the word for it. It was the comfortable you had with a coworker that you were content to put out of your head when you got home.

While all of that was contributing to the chaos of her mind, Damian invited him to stick around in his typical high handed way. Part of her was nervous but even more of her was curious.

What was Dick like around people he loved?

She'd only seen glimpses of it from afar over the years, heard things through secondhand anecdotes. This might be her only chance to take measure of him for herself.

As he settled onto the couch, closer than she'd thought he would, and really, there was so much space and he chose a seat so close that she felt like she could feel the heat of his body? She tensed. Arranging her limbs into something more proper, skin prickling, she heard him mutter a question under his breath.

"What are you doing here? It's 3am."

Like his laugh a moment ago was a lie, that tone he always took with her was back.

Well, too bad for him, she thought pettily, she was Fort Knox and the ability to keep a secret was her specialty. Plus, if Damian wanted him to know, Damian wouldn't have called her.

She gave herself one point for not looking at him, and an extra point for the two word response even though she was dying to see how frustrated he was.

When she caved and looked over she noticed that outright ignoring his unspoken question somehow made him seem to admire her, the look on his face growing more appreciative, which was patently unfair because when he was being an ass it was way easier to ignore how pretty he actually was.

His easy silence made that quick peek turn into outright staring, she couldn't drag her eyes away from the tiny little twitch of his mouth.

Call her crazy, but was he trying not to smile at her?

"Miss Congeniality, huh?" The low tenor of his voice was smooth and almost distracted her from the question.

Mr. Policeman knew what that was? She couldn't help but feel surprised. What would he know about Rom-Coms?

Extending an olive branch she smiled back, a little cautiously, but humor returned to her face. It felt like her whole body was taking cues from his, maybe because, for once, he was relaxed around her.

"I've gotten him to watch Legally Blonde, Sixteen Candles, The Devil Wears Prada, and Clueless."

"He's receiving a solid cinematic education. You're really filling in the blanks here."

He looked playful, boyish. God, this was so weird but oddly fun. Struggling to contain herself, she delivered her next line.

"He has lived a deprived life."

She doesn't get to see his reaction, Damian steals her attention away for a moment and they fall into their usual dynamic, but then the sound of his laughter bursts into the air and wrenches it back.

What she sees leaves her feeling a little starstruck.

When Dick laughed, he laughed with his entire body, it was like the light in him couldn't be contained. He had that unknowable quality that made you sit up and pay attention to someone.

She desperately wanted to take a snapshot.

A picture, or it didn't happen.

There was just something a little proud in her that she managed to crack the marble man.

*

Riddler's plot today was a wild mix of Jenga and 'The Price is Right' except they ranged from simple riddles to ones in other languages, which was really screwed up of him. Most people weren't equipped for his riddles in the first place and now he was spicing it up in Spanish and Japanese?

The madman was literally monologuing about culture while haranguing the multiple people standing on a series of unstable platforms.

Dick, however, apparently had no problem entertaining the Riddler's increasingly erratic questions while battling his henchman. If Riddler threw him a riddle in a different language he already freaking knew it and it had the added bonus of keeping the villain's attention off of dropping his first victim.

It was both awesome and terrifying to witness.

Did Bruce make all of his actual Robins learn that much? Because she would've worn the Robin suit for way less time if he'd tried to make her pick up multiple languages.

The ominous sound of shifting earth made her break out into a cold sweat and glancing over at the controls on a lower deck she saw a lumbering giant of a man make for a bright red lever.

She didn't need to know a language to know that red was a bad color when it came to this stuff so launching herself off the third platform, wind whipping through her hair, she went for a low blow. Now, was junk punching the goon her best ever move? No, but it was the most effective. There was even the tiniest speck of joy when his voice hit a whistle tone as he fell.

He had at least nine inches and a hundred pounds of muscle on her. She wasn't exactly going to be able to knock someone like that out. She didn't have Cass's or Damian's knowledge of pressure points. Her nurse training was more about preventing damage rather than causing it.

Though, a part of her privately wondered, wouldn't that mean that she knew where she could cause the most damage? Either way, this guy wasn't going down if she didn't crack a few eggs.

She'd wince in sympathy if she had any but the jerk was going to drop people into Gotham Square and watch them go splat like water balloons. He deserved it.

*

She didn't do well with regret but she sure as hell was great at dodging unwanted conversations.

It was surprisingly easy on patrol, if only because she threw herself into every and any call on the police scanners. She'd been stopping muggers, helping old ladies cross the street, arresting vandals and petty thieves at a rate that could objectively be called impressive.

Batgirl was going up in the popularity rankings, not that it mattered, but it was still cool to hear.

Her body might feel like giving out but she hadn't had to speak more than four times to Dick on any given patrol so she'd say she was doing exactly what she meant to. Which was, squirrel away and stew in the aftermath of disaster.

Seriously, how does one apologize for ditching someone and inadvertently getting them stabbed?

*

It all started on impulse, guilt is a fantastic motivational tool and this time there was a bit too much of it for her to realistically push down.

She'd known it would be hard to source rabbit but two supermarkets and now a visit to Caparelli's? It's more of an adventure than she'd planned on and her hair is all but plastered to the back of her neck with sweat. The weather in Gotham at this time of year was humid and the heat brought it into subtropical so it wasn't unexpected but it was still unpleasant.

Soothed by the blast of air conditioning as she stepped onto the red checkered floor of the butcher shop, she called out a bouncy "Hi, Mal." and turned up the wattage on her smile towards the white haired old man washing his hands at a long porcelain sink.

The man paused before turning to greet her.

"Stephie, there you are. Where have you been?" He dragged her into a gentle hug after throwing his apron on a hook.

"Where haven't I been today."

He hummed at her answer "So what brings you here?"

"Any chance you started stocking rabbit since the last time I was here?"

Mal was staring at her like she'd shot him or stolen his favorite knife and he usually adored her, being from the same burrough of Gotham and all. The last time she'd gotten this particular look of disappointment she'd been in pigtails.

"Try the upscale butcher shops near Gramercy, we don't keep specialty meats. We got beef, pork and chicken, none of that fussy stuff, Stephie."

"I know, I know, it was a bit of a Hail Mary but I was trying to make something for someone. I was" she searched for the right words "trying to make it the authentic way, you know?"

Mal, who was the definition of a soft touch, melted right then and there. His wrinkled face patterned itself into something a little more relaxed.

He was all about feeding people and before his wife, Clarissa, died he used to have her and her mother over for dinner. As she got older it was mostly just her. He'd gotten out of the habit of hosting over the years but still loved her like a granddaughter, a fact she'd found useful when Damian still ate meat and would only consume meat that was halal.

Nowadays Damian was vegetarian but Mal never stopped sourcing halal suppliers, though his official word was that it brought in more customers.

Peeking at him from under lowered lashes "You think you could give me a name?" A wheedling tone to her voice as she asked. Anything north of the Bowery or Narrows was bound to be a touch rich for her wallet.

"Look for Ambrose at 'A Cut Above'" he scoffed at the name "They're all about Ar-tees-a-nul bull" it was so like him to botch the word on purpose " there."

Relief coursing through her she gave a bright smile before running out. A quick "Thanks, Mal." thrown over her shoulder.

His voice chased after her "You better buy a roast here next time!"

What he really meant was 'Come visit.'

*

The motions of making bread were soothing even if she'd picked it up more as a way to save money. Rolling dough between your palms was a lot like squeezing a stress ball and between the crick in her neck due to the unforgiving nature of her mattress, and her frustration over her pharmacology course, she figured had a fair chance at finishing early.

A weak breeze flirted over her sweaty skin and she raised the back of her hand to brush the tendril of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail.

Was this too much? It was kind of a big gesture, well, a personal gesture, she amended privately.

When they were gearing up for patrol on that roof, even though half his face was covered by his mask, there was something wistful to the twist of his mouth when he mentioned that that frybread tasted close to something he ate as a kid.

She knew where he got it, even if she'd never had it personally. Begay's was known for its willingness to pile their frybread with anything you could want. Their selection of toppings could go from Greek, to South African, to Brazilian, they really didn't have a limit, which was impressive for a storefront that was maybe 15x20 feet. She imagined that the owners probably wondered why he only ever ordered the bread.

There was something about it that bothered her. He shouldn't have to settle. If her apology meal could make him feel a little closer to his childhood then that was great.

*

"You brought me dinner?" Dick's face looked uncharacteristically open when she popped up on the manor's doorstep.

Her original plan was to drop it off in the kitchen, there was a note on the bag and everything. She'd been prepared to flee, having decided sometime after she made it through the gates that this was too intimate.

His appearance in front of her meant that it was no longer an option. Dick had been half raised by Alfred, there was no way he wouldn't invite her to eat with him. Even if he might not want to.

That usual mask of pleasant, polite, neutrality gave way to a freer expression, one she had never seen directed at her. She was used to three looks from Dick, the "I disapprove" which was almost a carbon copy of Bruce's, the "I disagree", and the "I don't believe you" which was not as frequent after their 'Scarlet Case' but still made its way over on occasion.

The novelty of it made her want to shuffle her feet, and, suddenly shy, she had to avert her eyes while she answered in an affirmative. It was a very schoolgirl kind of reaction and at 22 she'd hoped she would be more confident, it felt like she was six years old all over again, offering her Reese's to Mackenzie Albright for her friendship.

Interrupting the spiral of her thoughts, Dick started waving his hands as if to ward them off, his fingers blurring with the force of his movements.

"No, no, no, don't feel bad. I'm just surprised, no one's done something like this for me before except maybe Alfred."

Plucking the bag from her hands he motioned for her to come inside, which was a warmer welcome than she'd been expecting.

"Well, being second to Alfred isn't too bad." Her reply came out more uncertain than she'd wanted it to as she stepped forward.

"Give me a second, I'll grab some plates"

"Bowls would be better, there's soup involved."

"Got it." He pulled down a few bowls from a high open shelf.

Arranging the mismatched containers on the kitchen table she started to open the foil packages. Steam billowed from the pot of soup, the smell of marjoram and thyme floating into the air. Judging critically, the soft, golden, Xaritsa was less crisp than when she first fried them but they were still appealing. She'd had to stop herself from sampling earlier, and, thankfully, the Pufe had kept the surprisingly light texture it came out with, unusual for unleavened bread. When she made it she was half convinced it would be rock hard, the usual first time nerves when making some new.

With noticeably less enthusiasm she settled the Pirogo on the counter. She still wasn't sure how that one would taste, it vaguely reminded her of Christmas fruitcake, a mishmash of things, but with noodles instead of bread. Individually, the ingredients didn't seem bad at all, it just had a visually unappealing look to her, or maybe that was her aversion to overcooked noodles.

Turning on her heel, she froze. Dick looked as though a million things were flying at him at once. It was a far cry from the strict look she always seemed to catch him looking at her with and a lot like what she'd imagine a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car would look like.

Clearly it wasn't a wise idea to make any food at all for him, let alone something from his childhood. She swallowed hard and bit her lip, hand crossing her chest to grip at her other arm, the pinch of her nails grounding her.

This was exactly why she couldn't always trust her own judgment, she thought, the plans to run away getting more and more over the top. Part of her wanted to just sink into the floor and the other part wanted Babs to comm them and say there was a breakout at Arkham.

A breakout would've meant hours of punishing patrol and paranoia that lasted for weeks, but even that was vastly preferable to how small and stupid she felt at the moment.

Formulating a getaway plan fell to the wayside as he pressed a bowl into her hand and motioned for her to take a seat, having snapped out of whatever trance the sight of the food trapped him in while she was screaming internally.

The relief only started trickling in, a cool balm to her fraying nerves, when his face brightened. She had confidence in her food, she was a fair cook, a necessity when you grow up in the Narrows, but her budget meant that what she ate was on the basic side. Not fancy by any measure, but filling. The Middle Eastern dishes she'd made for Damian aside, this was the first time she'd ever made something for a guy, she didn't think Damian counted because he was the kid brother she forcibly adopted.

He seemed to feel as lost as she did so she tried to make a little conversation and, well, they were limping along. Sending up a small prayer under her breath she thinks they might make it through this with minimal awkwardity.

It's then that Dick does something completely unexpected, he talks about his parents.

It's like that moment when you're staring at murky water and the light refracts in just the right way to let you see straight to the bottom. She just finally sees the version of Dick Grayson that everyone is so in love with. Out of the suit, in his own space, he's so expressive, his hands flutter and swoop as he describes his childhood.

The way he talks about them brings a softness to his face that takes her breath away and she's leaning in before she even knows what she's doing, like he's some kind of snake charmer and the timbre of his voice is a woodwind instrument.

The spell breaks only when he asks her about her childhood.

What could she possibly say that he didn't already have the cliff notes on? Was she supposed to bare her heart to him? He hadn't wanted that from her before and she wasn't willing to listen to any commentary. Her past wasn't a nice thing.

So she fled, good deed accomplished, and told herself that was that.

*

Why did he share all of that with her?

It's hard to sleep that night, it keeps echoing in her thoughts like a song she can't get out of her head.

*

When Dick sets the paper bag in front of her she can't stop herself from joking "If you're trying to bribe me for something, you picked the right kind of food. I will eat anything drowned in garlic butter."

"It's just something extra I ended up with."

That boyish smile that she was half convinced was some exhaustion induced mirage showed up again before he turned away and headed towards his own food.

'I'm too grateful to be awkward right now.' she thought as she inhaled the aroma of spaghetti and garlic bread.

*

This time it was food in a styrofoam container that dripped with the red gold of chili oil.

She wasn't entirely sure what was going on but playing along she teased "Trying to get something outta me?" She sent a considering gaze to the box of takeout he'd placed on the table.

"Nope, just trying to get something into you."

Wait what? Was that an an innuendo? Her jaw dropped and she whipped her head up to stare, wide eyed, at a mortified Dick Grayson, blush high on his cheekbones as he stumbled. His normal calm and collected demeanor nowhere to be seen.

"I, oh god, I didn't mean it that way. I just-"

Laughter tumbled out of her throat.

"You're fine, um, I totally didn't think you were trying to proposition me on purpose. But you should know, I'm not that type of girl." She pitched it deep and exaggerated so he knew it was a joke after watching the way his body cringed in on itself.

Taking pity on him she said "Sit down." The surface of the rooftop scratchy against her palm.

Wasn't this a weird scenario, she mused. She'd sort of thought the brief moment of banter that night with Dick had been a fluke.

*

Clambering up from the nest she'd made of her bed she pinned her best friend with a conflicted look.

"Kara, this is driving me kind of crazy, I'm just…so confused. It's like he wants to be friends now. He's been bringing me food and, ugh, it's kind of working." Her fingers tapped out a restless rhythm on her knee.

"Well it makes your life easier, you always forget to eat, so I'm kind of in favor of him." The Metropolis native chirped before popping another chip into her mouth.

"Kara, I don't want him to spend money on me, takeout is expensive and it adds up."

Just one meal was pricey and he always seemed to buy add-ons that stretched into leftovers. Admittedly, it had saved her twice this week already, but she hated owing people.

"Maybe he's just returning the favor?"

"I cooked for him one time, and it was only because he got hurt because of me."

What she said wasn't entirely honest but she wasn't sure she wanted to get into how deep the gesture truly was. She definitely didn't feel like she could tell Kara that Dick had opened up about his parents. It felt like he'd trusted her with something precious and even if she was frustrated she wanted to honor that.

The other girl rolled her eyes, "Well, ask him to stop."

Whatever look she had on seemed to make Kara backtrack and speak again.

"I don't really know Dick. I know he's close to Clark, which is a pretty good indicator of character. But you don't need to think about him. How do you feel about it?" Her friend looked at her in that annoyingly earnest way that all the Kents seemed to have on lock.

Sorting through her feelings, it ultimately came to this.

"I think I still deserve an apology."

*

She was clearly getting too used to this all, she thought as she settled into their usual space.

And that was a funny thought. They had a usual space. The pre-mission hangouts, could she call them hangouts? Should she call them hangouts? Were becoming the most frequent social interaction she could handle between studying for NCLEX and going on patrol.

Shaking her head in exasperation as Dick loped up to her with that effortless grace he always seemed to exude, foil package in hand, she sighed "Hey, I thought I said no takeout."

"It's not takeout, they're cookies. Homemade."

His statement stopped her from lodging more than a light glare at him as he sat down next to her. Using Alfred was a loophole but technically it didn't cost extra money, she'd have to let it slide.

"What's the forecast today?" Dick leaned back on his hands, watching the cityscape come blinking to life, after plopping the pile of treats between them.

"I'm both surprised and pleased. You listened for once."

Cookies were never a bad thing, especially when they were Alfred's cookies. Part of her shivered with delight as she bit into a sugar dusted piece of bliss. The muffled moan she made left Dick looking unnecessarily satisfied and she almost wanted to say 'Yes, you have the best butler/grandfather in the world. But you still didn't make these.' to knock him down a peg. But he was doing what she asked and at least wasn't spending a fortune on takeout anymore.

"Thank Alfred for me, would you?" She reached over for another cookie, feet swinging against the edge of the roof, only to freeze when he spoke again.

"Actually, I made these." Dick got a little quieter and flashed a tentative smile when she turned to look at him head on.

Something in her sort of twisted and melted at the same time.

He made her cookies?

She had to admit it, it was a sweet gesture, way sweeter than she would've expected. Even though she'd made something for him she doubted he was someone who cooked as often as she had to.

"They're really good."

"Would you say you're…supleased?" He cracked with the most ridiculous grin on his face, blue eyes dancing.

It was hard to keep a grudge when Dick was like this, she'd have thought he was a clone or imposter if he hadn't rattled off the ridiculously long code phrase Bruce required everyone who worked with him to know.

Scoffing she shot out "That is so not a word. Damian would say you're butchering the English language." She meant to scold him but she couldn't quite manage to suppress the delight swimming through her. All the other Bats could be so serious, and until now she'd thought he was serious too.

"Damian and his sharp pointy things aren't here right now, I reserve the right to hold to the spirit of English; which is to mangle everything it comes into contact with."

"Is English your first language?" She cocked her head, turning to look at him.

He seemed to know so many during their tangle with the Riddler and with the exception of the stabbing, it was fun to watch.

"Ha, try my third. I'm 'An International Man of Mystery'."

Was he quoting who she thought he was?

Shifting towards him, letting her voice dip low "Austin Powers or James Bond?" Her eyes scanned his seriously, what followed would either push them closer or pull them apart.

He let out a beaming smile "Austin Powers."

Damn it.

He had taste.

*

They could be friendly, they weren't friends.

They weren't, really, she told herself as she fell asleep. She had to hold out for the apology first.

Chapter Text

To some degree he understands that a lot of it is his fault. It's harder to overturn a bad first impression than it is to make a good first impression but he wishes she would stop looking at him as though he was going to flip a coin and become Bruce.

He's never wanted to be Bruce. Or Batman. Even if he is, by circumstance, currently the latter.

And he's never felt more frustrated than he was when he realized that the suit is a large handicap to his efforts towards befriending her; she's ten times more wary of him when he puts it on than when he has it off. The mantle instinctively puts her on the back foot and understanding that, he's been on his best behavior.

It's not false, the back and forth, it's startlingly easy to fall into conversation with her when she's comfortable. In an empty room, he'd bet that she could still find something to talk about, something to laugh over.

There were people who might get annoyed by that but he found that kind of lightness of spirit refreshing.

So what he does is listen carefully. She says she hates celery? No celery. She has something to add during patrol? He would take it into consideration.

Admittedly, that resolution is harder to put into practice. He's used to commanding others, used to others following his say so. It's the same trait that had driven Amy crazy when he was a new cop under her wing.

Thinking about it, he really is lucky that Amy didn't wash him out of the program, that she saw potential in him despite the outright disrespect of her authority. He'd viewed every cop in the department as potentially corrupt and in those early days his attitude hadn't done him any favors.

Disobeying orders and flying off into the field based on his own judgment, forgetting that autonomy in the Bludhaven PD was non-existent unless you were a detective or a sergeant, would've been a death sentence for any other rookie.

His disregard for hierarchy when it suited him was a hypocrisy he'd only recently come to recognize.

As of late, she'd been worried about her Microbiology finals, books replacing the pre-patrol conversations they'd been settled into.

Golden head bowed over a textbook, the tip of a pen between her teeth, she seems more than ready to either throw it away, start a bonfire with its innards, or toss it over the top of a high building. Frustration is given visible form in the cramped scrawl that started to fill the blank edges of her reading material.

Stephanie's script, while not necessarily neat, was usually more fluid than that.

An interruption is the surest way to invite her wrath so he watches her instead, trying to tease out what kind of learner she is.

He makes it a challenge, what could he learn about her without speaking to her?

Pale fingers wander over a page, her knee jumps in a rhythm he can discern no pattern to. There's a catchy song sung under her breath that has something to do with, he strains his ears, leaning forward, protozoa?

It's…cute and for a second he wants to laugh, these moments of unexpected humor are what always get him, but he bites his lip instead.

She would misunderstand, she could be very defensive when it came to her not knowing something or her own struggles. It's the sole reason he treats their situation as if he's trying to calm a spooked horse.

But the expression on her face when he manages to do the right thing? That sends a sense of achievement ringing through his body that he hasn't had in a while.

A smile of hers makes a smile of his own curl into existence. That's why he keeps at it.

Sometimes life is in little moments.

*

Stephanie's preparing to go to war and he hears her long before he sees her. Her echoes fill the cave, the sharp, heavy, staccato of her footsteps broadcasting her mood before she ever says a word.

She doesn't even greet him before launching into her battle plans. A distant part of him wonders if this is what he does and when he can't form a counter argument he knows it is.

"I've got to go undercover, the Mad Hatter's been abducting women and the victims are getting younger and younger. There's been no attention from the Gotham PD and the latest kidnapping victim is fourteen, Dick."

In a knee jerk reaction, he rejects the plan before he can even really comprehend the scope of it. The automatic response embarrasses him but he manages to save himself with a few well placed words.

Letting her speak, the sordid tale comes lumbering out. Multiple women in the Bowery had been abducted and returned in the last two months and they hadn't heard a thing. No one would listen to the women, none of it even showed up in the papers.

A single, sexist, cop had marked all of these women's identical reports as inconsequential. To him, what they experienced was mass female hysteria, not confinement and kidnapping.

It would be laughable if he wasn't so mad about it, the man was caricature straight out of a bad 1950s PSA. If Gregory Hart was in Bludhaven PD he knew he'd do everything in his power to get the guy off the force. As it is, he's already planning an anonymous tip off to Vicky Vale.

He believed, to an extent, that you couldn't always be picky about the bodies who upheld the law but this kind of damage reverberated through a city, it was a damage that sent rot into places it had never been before.

The thought of Stephanie even playing at being kidnapped by Mad Hatter made him sick with nausea but if the villain was escalating the way she said he was it was imperative that they took him down. He'd seen the casefiles she fanned out onto the table, the pictures of those who'd been returned.

Maybe Tetch hadn't touched them, no one had passed his test to become his 'Alice' over the years, but he'd stolen something precious from those women, they wouldn't be able to walk around with any sense of safety for a long time.

"There's just too much for me to not take the most direct route here." The way her voice rings out over the rooftops is loud and impassioned.

Fighting the part of him that wanted to respond in kind, he reigned himself in. Too much emotion would probably lead to preventable missteps so he let himself take a moment before responding.

"It's too risky."

She shook his words off, too caught up in her own thoughts. "We missed it. It's our responsibility to bring him in and if it means I go in alone, I will."

A small spark of irritation flared in his chest.

Did she really have to use his own sense of duty against him?

Why was it that the things that he liked about Stephanie were also so often the ones that frustrated him?

His eyes flitted over her solid stance. Hands braced against her hips with an obstinate expression on her face, the short blonde would plant herself in front of him and grow roots if that was what it took to get her way.

He resisted the urge to sigh, running a hand through his messy hair. "Let me make it clear, I'm not saying no because it's a bad idea but there are a number of reasons that going in without immediate backup is dangerous."

Leaning his hip against the cool metal of the control panel he started explaining the ins and outs of her proposal but none of it changed her mind.

"Well, I don't see any other blue eyed blondes coming up to bat here, so are you on board or not?"

The tension in her frame bleeds out when he goes the non-combative route instead of dismissing her.

He hates that he's so swayed by her opinion of him now.

Swallowing the part of him that wanted to make her stand down, even if he had to act like Bruce to do it, he said, just a bit sour "Fine."

*

As far as bait goes she's exactly Mad Hatter's type, beyond the prerequisite blonde hair and blue eyes she amped up the classical good girl archetype the man prefers. The ribbon in her hair and the cardigan are a start but something else is nagging at him when it comes to the case.

Babs is too entrenched in Jason's investigation to assist with this one so he does what he can to arm Stephanie to the teeth. He's taking a page out of Damian's book but the corded bracelet around her wrist can unsnap and double as a garrote, the comms for the mission are disguised as an IIC hearing aid. At the very least she won't be entirely alone or weaponless.

He's impressed to know that she can work her way out of a knot or a zip tie but ends up teaching her how to pick a cuff. The rest of the night is dedicated to tactics when outnumbered and she's begging him for a break by the time he relents.

*

One of the first things Bruce ever taught him was to find the patterns in any given event. All these women and girls were taken on their way home, somewhere between 8pm and midnight. There were various locations in the Bowery but they all overlapped with one thing.

The church on 52nd. It's too obvious for a hideout but there must be something there that he's missing.

He doesn't know how or why it ties in but they do find out one thing.

Mad Hatter has added a new dimension to his delusions.

*

Being stuck on comms is one of the things he hates most. With no visuals, all he can hear are the muffled sounds of shifting fabric and the hum of a car. He'd feel better if she was pretending to be unconscious but Mad Hatter's hired help used high grade tranquilizers. It was a piece of information they found out only when they grabbed her.

Now the rest of the plan was hinging on whether it filtered out of her system fast enough for them to take initiative as planned. The one solace he has is the blinking dot moving across the digitized map of Gotham.

*

"Dick, I have to get out of here now. Mad Hatter's merry band of psychos are talking about making an example out of me." There's a carefully hidden terror lurking beneath her words. Her voice is blaring into his ear through her comms and up the long metal opening up to the roof she found.

Whatever had happened in there unsettled her so much that she'd started to spiral. The realization spurs him into action and heart pumping at double speed, he spies a pallet of cinder blocks, rebar, and rope.

He can do something with that.

His plan comes together quickly and lifting the heavy rebar over the tube Stephanie stood under, the bar clanging as it dropped, he began looping the rope over and under the pallet.

The rope is rough against his hands even under the suit, their gloves are the one point in their costumes designed for more tactile input than heavy protection.

"Tell me your weight."

"Seriously, not the time to grow a sense of humor." her voice went high and shrill.

"I am seriously asking, now tell me your weight."

"One hundred twenty-eight." She answers promptly.

The blocks are about thirty-eight pounds and she would need over three to match the figure. He'd have to put four on the platform in order for this to work, even if it would accelerate her ascent too much.

"I need you to back away while I lower this down."

He's feeding the rope through when he hears her mumble "Shit."

Footsteps that aren't her own are sounding closer and the shaky note in her voice makes his own anxiety spike.

This was exactly why he'd argued against her going under cover alone.

"I've got you" he tried to soothe her "hold onto the rope, it's gonna go fast so you have to be prepared to grab onto me."

Muscles straining, a dull ache building as he started lowering the counterweight down the industrial exhaust pipe, she rocketed up, knees knocking into his ribs. The thunderous crash of what he'd cobbled together reminding them of how badly things could have gone.

They're lying there winded, her breathing labored with a shudder still zipping through her body when he takes the sight of her in. The relief at getting her out of there is muted by the realization she's only in her underwear.

"What did they do?" Fury is burning a way through his veins.

"They only undressed me, I didn't get far into their beauty pageant."

He can detect something off in her tone but he can't quite grasp the emotion undercutting her words.

The two of them studied the profile exhaustively to make sure she was the perfect bait.

Where did they go wrong?

She's pressing the material he'd salvaged from a tarp against her stomach, somehow the rest of her was fine but not that. He's already seen it, C-section scars are distinctive so he doesn't realize why-

'Oh' he thinks, 'that's why she didn't make it through the selection.' and the moment the thought hits he feels the rare sensation of anger building under his skin.

*

They're back in the cave after wrapping things up with Gotham PD when he thinks to ask for it.

"Give me your number."

Stephanie looks puzzled, she seems like she has to readjust a picture in her head, but nonetheless types it in from her place behind him.

Her scent lingers in the air from where she'd leaned over his shoulder to tap at the screen. It's something floral and sweet, summer distilled into a glass bottle, the season layered over her pulse and the nape of her neck.

He can't recognize the notes, and for a moment that's all he can think about. He's still a little distracted when he tosses her a USB on her way out of the cave.

It's been a long time since he added a new contact to his phone.

*

He waves at her from where she's parked across the street and she crosses over in a brisk jog, high ponytail swinging behind her.

Late, but he'd expected that, over the months they'd worked together, she'd had a pattern. It's not something he minds when off the clock. And now, as they're sitting in the cracked leather booth of Di Contini's, a small mom and pop pizzeria, he has a sense of comfort.

She's studying the interior, the flowers in mismatched glass vases and the old woman, Mama Contini, greeting people from a little desk near the entrance. Skeins of yarn and knitting needles litter the top of it, taking up as much space as a stack of menus. Half finished socks didn't exactly belong in a restaurant but the quirkiness of the owners is half of why he loves the place.

Stephanie finally meets his eyes and says "This is way less weird than I thought it'd be."

At first he wonders if she's talking about the venue but then he realizes she's talking about the easiness between them.

She's right, at first he'd thought there might be some lingering awkwardness but she hadn't retreated into her shell around him at all. On the contrary she was being uncharacteristically open about her thoughts, so much so that he lets himself chuckle.

"Yeah, I was wondering if it was the usual Batman-Robin dynamic."

Robins were always the cheerful counterpoint to the Batman tendency to brood. They lightened him up even when he brought them down. He hadn't known if it would hold once they were sans mask.

She stared at him as if he'd said something odd before moving on.

"I always kind of wondered about that! Even Damian is the teensiest bit more emotive. He's still an edgelord who wants to fridge everyone but he actually deigns to speak to us"

"God, that description-" he choked out a laugh before continuing. "Learn that word from Damian?"

It was funny how Damian, easily the least sociable in the family, was always able to bring them together.

"He's like those "One Word a Day" calendars" her hair swung back and forth as she laughed "He's probably raised my IQ by 5 points due to sheer proximity"

Waving over a server, he glanced over at her "First round on me?"

"Yeah, that's fine. Now the REAL question is, is the pie here any good?"

"You have no idea. This place single handedly keeps me in leftover pepperoni pizza"

"So basic" she teased "you don't add pepperoncinis or something? Jalapenos? Pineapple?"

He shook his head "I don't mess with the classics and I bet as soon as you have a slice you'll understand"

"And I bet you'll love my standard mix of toppings"

He could see a challenge in her eyes and answered it, if only because he wanted to be proven right.

"Two pies?"

"Two pies."

The server came back with their beer and before he got a word in edgewise Stephanie was rattling off a list of ingredients. Throwing a glance over to him, the waiter took her cue and asked for his order next.

"Medium Pepperoni" he raised his voice slyly "the only real choice."

"Hah! You'll learn." she huffed at him and leaned back, relaxing into the seat.

Shaking his head he took a sip of his beer, hiding a smile against the rim.

Not too long after that the server set down their food and he has to concede that her pizza is editorial worthy. There's pesto on it, he hadn't realized you could put that on a pizza here, pillowy white spoonfuls of ricotta, and something else turned brown and crunchy by the wood fired ovens that he can't identify.

Stubborn, he reached for a slice of his usual, pausing when he felt a tug to his shoulder sleeve.

"Nope, you gotta try mine first. You gotta taste it with a clean tongue or something"

Throwing Stephanie an indulgent, if disbelieving, look, he grabbed a piece. Pesto dripped over the table, pools of intense green probably staining the tablecloth.

"Damn it, this is delicious." he mumbled over the slice, the hot cheese almost scalding his tongue.

"I told you!" She sat there preening before snatching up a piece of his to make her own judgment.

She's about as bowled over as he is, and maybe just as stubborn. They end up splitting because they can at least agree that both are fantastic so their hands keep creeping back and forth to steal each other's slices.

"This sauce tastes familiar, where have I tasted this before?" Stephanie pursed her lips.

"It's where I got that pasta from awhile back."

"Oh, that's what it was!" She did an about face and looked at him with furrowed brows "You got me pasta when I could've gotten pizza?"

She seems so betrayed, pout forming on her face, that he can't help joking back "I had to decide if you were worthy, still not sure yet."

"Well, now I can get it from the source, you have no power over me." Her face fills with a warmth that makes his heart stumble.

She's never looked at him like that before.

They talk about normal things, not related to vigilantism. They talk about jobs, and coworkers, he trades cop stories for office cooler gossip from the firm she's a legal secretary at. It's a surprisingly pleasant time and, not ready to end the night after they settle the check, he shocks himself and offers "Round three?"

Stephanie radiates surprise, blue eyes wide as if she hadn't expected anything else, before she stuck him with a curious glance.

The words come out slowly as if she's testing the weight of them on her tongue.

"What'd you have in mind?"

"There's a bar, maybe 10 minutes by foot, around here. A third round of beer and a game of pool? Darts might be unfair" he said, thinking of how much practice he had with batarangs. Stephanie rarely used those, she was as much a brawler as Jason despite her short stature.

"Lead on!" She tilted her head, a lopsided smile hitching onto her right cheek.

*

Maybe it'd been awhile since he'd gone to this bar but he swears that the green felt of the pool table is more faded and threadbare than it used to be. Stephanie doesn't seem to notice but he wonders if he chose the wrong place.

They've already got pints so they won't be leaving any time soon but there is that part of him that overthinks it all.

Stephanie sets down her drink and says "So, I propose we play pool with small bets just to make it interesting."

"Money?"

"Just ones and fives."

"You're on."

He and Wally made a habit of playing pool during their off time at Hudson and he can feel his lips curl up. Though the corners quickly dropped when he saw how deftly she picked up a cue, polishing the tip with a dust cube as well as any pro.

"Am I about to get swindled?" He raised his eyebrows, formulating his own plan beneath an innocent face.

"Probably!"

They make it through two rounds, in the first, he lets her completely decimate him. She's practically dancing in circles, a contagious grin on her face.

The second? Well, it was his turn to return the favor. And now that she was a friend, he reasoned that he didn't have to be on such good behavior.

At first he pretended to fumble, "Talk about dumb luck, can't believe I made that shot."

"Show me some tips", he said, letting her manipulate the cue for him, her hands adjusting his grip. Letting her stand behind him and critique his form. But as each ball sailed in he forgot to play up his 'inexperience', the slack jawed expression on her face making amusement bubble through his veins.

By the time he was done, her red face was equal parts impressed and outraged. She marched up to him and shoved at his chest, no real strength in it, but enough for him to rock back half a step.

"You asshole."

Her face was accusing but he could recognize the inflection in her voice that meant she was actually pleased. That very same one she had started to use when he managed to say the right thing while they were patrolling.

He could feel his body shaking, the power behind his laughter causing him to lean on his cue. It felt like he couldn't catch his breath and when he did, when he was about to tease her for falling for his trick, they were interrupted by a deep, slightly incredulous voice.

"Grayson, that you?"

Blanching, he turned to see his partner from Bludhaven PD, Gannon, walking towards them. The blonde haired man set his drink on the edge of their pool table, eyes flitting between the two before his face broke out into a goofy grin.

It was a grin that reminded him of Wally right before he was going to do something that would make him want to disavow his status as his best friend. That aspect of his personality was why he'd resolved to himself that Gannon and Wally should never meet.

"Dick, is this a Cop Bar?" Stephanie said, suddenly delighted.

He didn't understand her fascination with his being a cop. The helping part was great but the paperwork half was killer.

"Well no," the brown haired woman hidden by the bulk of the man's frame, answered "Cop bars aren't really a thing anymore but it's true enough that a lot of us tend to get drinks here."

'Of all the times to-' his thought was cut off at registering the playfulness in the brunette detective's eyes.

Between the two of them he might not have any dignity left intact by the night. He didn't have a lot of embarrassing stories from work but the ones that he did have were ones they were always so generous to share.

Please don't bring up the Pollyanna case, he prayed.

The Pollyanna case was a fake case they let every rookie cut their teeth on and he hadn't caught onto the fact for weeks. He kept trying to make the pieces fit and Detective Turpin finally had to take pity on him.

It had been nearly six years since he started being a police officer and the dour older man still stared at him like he was stupid. What was it that he called him? Oh, yeah "a persistent idiot with more hope than sense." The comment still stung.

"Hey Amy, Gannon. Post shift drinks?" A half grimace made itself at home on his face.

Amy swept considering eyes over him before turning to Stephanie and introducing herself. Gannon, per usual, followed her lead and after ignoring him for a few minutes while they got to know Stephanie, they went into lockstep, identical, shit-eating grins on their faces.

"So all it takes is a pretty blonde to get you to go out, huh?" Amy teased.

"I'm a pretty blonde and I was never able to get him to come out with us." Gannon joked, putting a hand on his chest as if he was offended.

Stephanie was eating it up, 'Karma' she mouthed from her position behind the two, eyes crinkling at the corners with the force of her mirth.

He couldn't say too much, that it was usually his activities as Nightwing that prevented him from joining his coworkers. He let out a quick sigh, immediately regretting it when the twosome visibly brightened.

They'd think what they wanted anyways.

Giving them an exasperated look he said "She's a friend from Gotham."

Stephanie chimed in with a chipper "I'm here to entertain the elderly as my part of community service. Teach Dick to be less boring. Real quality of life stuff."

"Steph!"

"Fine, you're not old." she shrugged with a flash of teeth that's more charming than he wants it to be.

Amy and Gannon, traitors, the both of them, acted like it was Christmas in July and Santa had gotten them the toys that they always wanted.

This would either be fun or excruciatingly painful.

*

He knows that she can take care of herself but he walks her back anyways. Chivalry isn't dead and he wants to think she's happy for the company even if they don't speak much.

They're walking along the sidewalk, enjoying the gentle breeze rustling the branches of the trees planted along the avenue, when she stops, blonde hair gone platinum under the halo of a streetlight.

"Fireflies." Her voice is soft and quiet, the last traces of an alcohol induced buzz leaving her.

Her eyes glow as she stares up at something he didn't see previously. Flickers of burning orange catch his eye and he has to wrack his mind for a moment.

Fireflies aren't native to Bludhaven.

"No fireflies." He hates to break the dreamy illusion. "Just assholes" he raised his voice a tad louder to address the guy smoking on the balcony above them "who think they can pitch their cigarettes anywhere they want."

The man scoffs and he can hear a faint curse as the stranger heads back into his apartment, the sound of his sliding door squeaking shut.

When he looks back at Stephanie there's a pink flush painting her cheeks.

He wants to say she doesn't have to be embarrassed but he thinks that words might make her run.

What was it like to still look at the world like that?

Chapter Text

"Bambi, how's your side business going?" She leaned back against a street lamp letting the kinks in her back pop.

"It's all going great, you know people love it when I color their hair." The usually brass-balled brunette smiled a shyly.

Bambi had just started some cosmetology courses and had been thinking of getting off the streets. She'd been glad to hear it, she'd even heard one blue haired beatnik call Bambi a 'Wizard with a Washtub' The man had been in his 70s with the widest smile she'd ever seen and he didn't have much to give, it was against his lifestyle but he did apparently he know a lot of people who wanted to get their hair colored.

The older woman suddenly looked a tad more serious "Anyways, I've got some news. I don't know how much of it's, y'know, a thing. Just makes me wanna bundle myself up and I ain't never been so happy to have brown hair."

Shifting from side to side, stilettos grinding against the asphalt, "Women have been going missing in the neighborhood and all of 'em are blonde and blue eyed. Weird thing is, some of 'em come back, or so I hear."

"Maybe I would've put it aside, just another Gotham urban legend, which ain't too far outta the imagination since we got a crocodile man in our sewers, but little Annie Cooper who lives on Fossoway got reported as missing last week."

"Little? How old is she?"

"She's a nice kid, only fourteen." The woman waved her hands as if to stop her from thinking that the girl was a runaway. "Annie's blond and blue eyed. I know it's a long shot" she shook her head "could ya take a look?"

And wasn't that just like Bambi? That soft spot a mile wide for kids in trouble never changed. There was a reason everyone else on the street gravitated towards her. People could say what they wanted about her profession but she was good people.

The woman had a hopeful face on, faith so naked on her features that she felt even worse about missing something like this.

How could something like this happen in her neighborhood? Under her watch?

She'd have to dig into it herself and enlist Babs, she knew the redhead was working on some other big case with Red Hood, had for months, still, a missing fourteen year old girl had to take precedence.

"Batgirl's on the case."

The promise sits heavy in the air.

*

Babs isn't able to help much though she did send her a series of case files for blue eyed blondes who filed police reports within the last two months. She'd been hoping that the other woman would be able to help her narrow it down more, however, knowing now that the case Babs was working with Red Hood involved human trafficking, she understood.

How could she not? When she herself put studying for her NCLEX aside for this? Sometimes you had to pick and choose. It never made it easier, but she understood the concept of 'Net Good'.

It was daunting though, Gotham was a large city and she had over three hundred police reports to go through. Her eyes already felt tired and she hadn't even opened the multiple boxes of paperwork.

For whatever reason the thought of asking Dick for help before she can properly make her case leaves her with a feeling of rejection, so she doesn't reach out.

She starts at eight am and it's almost two am the next day when she finds the first one, a woman named Janet Fragoli. The twenty-eight year old school teacher reported being abducted as she was going home. She said she was held for three days and the only human contact she had was with men, or at least they sounded like men to her, in full body white suits. None of their faces were visible. And they kept asking intrusive questions about her life, limiting her water and food unless she answered.

In her statement she mentioned that she didn't know why they released her, only that one day she woke up in the park she had cut through to get home when they kidnapped her.

Marissa Tholomyes, twenty-six, was walking her dog down 52nd when she was taken. Similar details, men in white suits. Her case received slightly more attention because her dog was caught by the Gotham City Animal Control and taken to the animal shelter. Her husband Gabe reported her missing when he received a call to pick up their dog, Sammy, he'd been on a business trip when it all went down.

She said the men in white got angry when they discovered her wedding ring on a chain around her neck. She normally didn't wear it, she was a sculptor by trade and hadn't wanted it to get dirty. The next thing she knew, she was on a bench in Robinson Park.

Tholomyes' was the only report with any followup.

Tara Spencer, a radiologist, was leaving for her graveyard shift at the hospital when she was taken. A type 1 diabetic, she almost died as they denied her food and water. She remembered very little yet recalled some panicked shouting and said something about thinking she was on LSD, there were so many colors and weird shapes, animals in the background, as they carried her out. If she hadn't been found by a businessman on his way home from work she would've died.

Lucy Carmichael, an eighteen year old GCU freshman, was at a restaurant with some friends when she went outside to make a phone call. She'd just broken up with a boyfriend and her friends assumed that she'd gone home to cry. She was held for five days and it had been spring break so it went unnoticed. She said that the white suited men had numbers on their chests.

On her end, Stephanie thought the girl had bad friends, who would leave a friend who just broke up with their boyfriend alone?

Gia Romero was blonde and blue eyed though she noted the girl was a bottle blonde. Gia spent only a couple of hours in captivity before being dropped unconscious at a playground near her home. As soon as she woke up she headed to the hospital who ruled out any evidence of assault. The girl was smart and thought to get her blood tested though whatever she'd been dosed with had already cycled out of her system.

The youngest, fourteen year old Annie Cooper had been missing for a week. The girl had probably been snatched on her way to Catholic school. There were no indications it might be the same people as the rest but as the victims' ages kept getting progressively younger, she had a gut feeling that Cooper fit the pattern. That Bambi was onto something.

Compiling the documents she noticed one signature that kept popping up, G. Hart. Her hands are blurs as she spreads each case out, fingers speeding down the last page of the Tholomyes report.

The connections start forming in her mind, the Tholomyes report had originally been handled by an R. Montoya and the secondary review that closed it was initialed by G. Hart.

Mind whirring to life she went digging through GCPD's personnel database, keys clacking noisily in her desperation to get to the bottom of things.

Gregory Hart was a fifty-two year old veteran on the force. No complaints or other red flags during her surface review but his reasoning for the dismissals made her want to cry, made her want to punch something.

He called what was happening "Shared, female, mass hysteria." The words "A cry for attention" featured heavily throughout. He said they probably got the details off an internet message board.

Just how many women's cases got dismissed by this guy? If he'd just done his job this wouldn't have gone as far as it did.

White Suits with numbers on the chests, strange shapes and colors in the background. Animals.

Blue eyed blondes, they had to be natural blondes.

This was Mad Hatter.

Why escalate to multiple abductions? Why were some returned and others kept?

*

"No."

She'd almost forgotten that she and Dick didn't get along at first because he could be a colossal asshole. Between the food and the banter it was easy to slip up, but hearing him say that, point blank, as if his word was god made her remember exactly why she couldn't stand him before.

The words "We missed it. It's our responsibility to bring him in and if it means I go in alone, I will." fly out after detailing the entirety of the case. She's actively gearing herself up for a knock-down drag-out fight when he speaks again.

"Let me make it clear, I'm not saying no because it's a bad idea but there are a number of reasons that going in without immediate backup is dangerous."

His statement completely deflates her anger.

Did he have to be so flat about it?

She's proud of herself for sounding more confident than she is when she spouts the next line "Well, I don't see any other blue eyed blondes coming up to bat here, so are you on board or not?"

For whatever reason he doesn't argue with her anymore despite obviously hating it. The "Fine" that she drags out of him causes him an almost visceral pain.

Is it trust, in spite of it all, that makes him go along with her idea? The thought swims across her mind and she wants to believe that more than anything, it just doesn't matter if it isn't.

She can handle this, she knows she can. Better her than any other poor girl, at least she knows how to give and take a punch.

Self talk had to work at some point, right?

*

Dick is strict when they go over the profiles of the women and girls abducted, though in a strange way it makes her feel a smidge better about going undercover. The serious look on his face inspires confidence and makes her believe she can rely on him, though she still doesn't tell him that the ribbon in her hair makes her almost identical to Alice Tetch at fifteen. It's a provocation she's not sure he would be okay with.

"This is how you loop the cord to create a makeshift garrote." The braided fabric goes taut with the force of his demonstration.

His hands on hers are light as he teaches her how to use the paracord he keeps in his belt. It boggles her mind how much damage something so tiny could do. For something that's neither explosive or sharp it is a fantastic weapon in the hands of someone who knows how to use it.

She is not one of those people, so he drills her over and over.

The tenor of his voice is low and steady as he guides her through different movements, sweat dampens her tank top and shorts as they go over things again and again.

She hopes absentmindedly that it isn't too gross to touch her right now, though knowing Dick, he doesn't care, mind too focused on the mission.

When he slips the paracord bracelet he'd brought for her over her wrist, beyond a faint shadow of surprise, the first thing that comes out of her mouth is "You chose purple?"

He favors her with an unfamiliar look "It's your color, isn't it?"

And even if she can't decipher why, for the first time all night the low key anxiety she'd been fielding eases.

*

"Are you ready?" Dick's voice is soft in her ears.

"As ready as I can be."

"Van approaching." The line goes silent.

Maybe it's that she knows they're coming for her, but every sense feels amplified to an almost painful degree. The dying light of the day spills red all over her white skirt, the cold of the stone bench leaching into her veins. She knows that this was her idea, that it's the most direct way to get in and see what's going on; being in this position is terrifying.

The thrashing of her legs is real, she knows she only needs to give the impression of resistance but her fear response makes her swing her legs harder than she means to. The muffled scream tearing itself out of her throat is authentic.

One of the suited men groans when she catches him in the stomach with her arm and another one curses when she stomps on his instep. Her pulse is deafening in her ears when Dick speaks up.

"I'm here."

It's such a simple thing to say but it helps her regain some control and she lets herself go limp as they pin her down.

'This is the plan' she thinks, willing her adrenaline to subside, only for a panic to spike when she feels the sharp prick of a needle.

*

Head ringing, her mouth tasting faintly of iron, she wakes under bright lights in a dingy gray room.

It's hard to breathe and the world is dizzying when her eyes lock onto the crazed, unshaven, face of Jervis Tetch.

"She's so beautiful" the man croons, his fingers toying with the ribbon in her hair.

The damp heat of his breath on her skin makes her want to throw up.

"Those eyes, such a perfect blue." He leans closer to her "The expression in them is uncanny." He reads her hate with a joyful upturn of his lips and from this distance she can see the gaps in his smile, a cavity on his left molar.

Whatever drugs she was injected with leave her paralyzed and if she had any autonomy she would have strangled him with the cord on her wrist. Purple, she tries to think with some humor, would be better wrapped around his neck than that hideous red ruffled thing.

"She might be the most perfect one yet." His voice sounds tender and she despises how he stalls over the word 'perfect'.

Tears erupt as her fingers finally twitch.

She can do this. She can.

Dick is here, she can't speak to him, but he's here, she tells herself, willing herself to stop crying, a distressed moan almost erupting from her mouth.

As if Dick knows she's awake, her comms come to life "You've got this, Stephanie, you aren't alone."

"Take her to the room with the others." Tetch's voice trills as he leaves.

*

She recognizes some of the other women in the room with her from cases that were still open.

Tiffany Dowling stares at her from her perch in a corner and greets her with a dour "Welcome to the club."

Louisa Frasier is kind and eases her into a sitting position, massaging her legs as if she knows how badly the tranquilizer they had to have used was affecting her.

It's a punch to the gut when she realizes that the woman did, in fact, know personally.

"Dick." She says under her breath "There are more hostages than I thought there'd be." Being able to speak again does miracles for her nerves.

"Good to hear your voice" The relief is so blatant that she can almost imagine what his face must look like.

"Do you think you can make it out, now that I know where you are?"

"Let me do some recon first."

When she lets her eyes wander she sees Annie Cooper, quietly crying, and still in her school uniform. The sight of the girl is both a blessing and a nightmare.

While she'd been investigating she had worried if she was one more victim in Bab's and Hood's trafficking case instead, it's messed up that this is the better alternative.

What kind of screwed up audition was this?

*

The men in white suits, now that she can see them, are playing cards. The numbers denote their positions, symbols embroidered on their hands. It's a clean aesthetic for how messily Mad Hatter usually has his henchman dressed.

They take the women one by one and they return crying or pale faced in white and blue dresses, there's a word for them, she knows, pinafores. Each of them sport shiny, black leather, Mary Janes and ribbons identical to the one she's already wearing in her hair.

When the bastards start reaching for Annie Cooper though, she starts throwing herself at them. She annoys them enough that she can feel some bruises from their grip forming on her waist where they try to haul her off her feet. The girl's eyes are so damn grateful that she can't stop herself from smiling and winking to reassure her even though making herself memorable is the opposite of what she should be doing.

She's not gonna let them take the fourteen year old kid anywhere. Hell no. At least if Cooper's here she's relatively sheltered by the other women.

The room they pull her towards, this one with double doors they drag her kicking and screaming though, isn't all that different from the first, the only object in there is a hanger with an identical getup to the others.

Staying relatively calm she lets them pull her top and skirt off, ultimately deciding that conserving her energy would be for the best. Of course, she does it while glaring stonily at them, letting each piece catch at an awkward bend of her body to give them extra trouble.

That's when the mutterings start up in earnest.

"Not pure" they hiss, starting to circle like vultures.

"We were so sure."

"She's a lie" the sounds overlap in an eerie harmony.

"Not worthy, the unworthy should die." They rhyme, the words ominous to her ears.

"Aren't I the lucky one?" She taunts them, hoping it will put them off their game. They didn't seem like they were used to victims fighting back.

The sound of Dick snickering gives her a kind of strength that she didn't know she needed and she can't stop herself from smiling.

Murder has never been Mad Hatter's MO.

The other women got returned so why are they changing things up for her?

That's when she realizes where their rabid gazes are concentrated, the long silvery C-section scar vertical on her belly.

Was purity the missing piece of the puzzle? How would they even know that about the other women?

It's such bullshit yet somehow also right up Mad Hatter's alley that she doesn't know how it wasn't before.

Either way, she snaps off the paracord on her wrist, brandishing it the way Dick taught her, winding the extra length around her fists.

They converge like a pack of hyenas and she's slammed into the edge of the dressing room table. Pain exploding across her body, she's barely able to dodge a punch as she trips over the shoes they set out for her. She manages to knock one out with a lucky elbow to the face, but they keep advancing and even though she has a high pain tolerance, without her suit she's significantly more vulnerable.

"Dick, now is the time to find me a way out of here." She says into her comms.

They've pulled out switchblades and their faces scream that they're ready to play doctor.

His voice is tight with anxiety as he responds "I'm narrowing it down now, I have to pull the schematics for the factory."

"Well, speed it up!"

She takes a few more punishing hits and one sucker punch to her sternum that makes her rib cage rattle before she can angle herself towards the doors, heart racing as she narrowly shuts and bars the entrance.

The broken broom handle won't hold them for long so she starts sprinting.

"Where am I going?" She pants as she runs through the hall. The sound of her feet slapping against the floor echoes in her ears.

"Five hundred feet to your right the hall leads into an abandoned boiler room, there's an exhaust pipe that leads up through to the roof.

"Okay, I'm here" Dismay blankets her as she stares up at the opening he indicated. It's big enough for her to fit through, sure, there just aren't any handholds or ladders. There's at least ten feet between her and the start of it.

In the distance she can hear the sound of a door being torn off its hinges.

The next few minutes are a blur and the sense of safety that fills her as she's hurtling up the pipe steals the air from her lungs.

*

"What did they do?" Dick's face is blank and somehow it makes him seem even more dangerous.

"They only undressed me, I didn't get far in their beauty pageant." She absolutely doesn't want to bring up the nuances of that panic driven episode.

Focusing back on Dick, whose eyes have gone flinty and cold, some part of her is weirdly comforted by how murderous he sounds, she knew they'd gotten friendlier but not 'Stab Someone' friendly. She doesn't even mind the way he's checking her over for wounds, hands brushing over the graze on her knee and the bruise on her upper arm from where she'd knocked into the rebar when she flew up the exhaust pipe.

His touch is a grounding experience and her eyes flutter shut as she leans into it, the events of the last few hours sloughing off her soul, shakiness subsiding against the warmth of his body.

The urge to fill the silence makes her ask a random question.

"How did you know I was awake back then before I could actually talk to you?"

He licks his lips as he replies "I didn't, I hoped."

Those words solidify some truth in her that she's been fighting against, it's just not the time to examine it. If she can have it her way she'll put it off till she gets an apology.

They've got a job to do.

*

Going home and washing up is all that she has on her mind and she's toweling her hair when she remembers. Half of her is guilty but another half can't regret it. Saving Annie Cooper and those other women was the right thing to do. She just wishes she didn't have to disappoint someone else to do it.

A text message just doesn't cut it, it would be a shitty thing to do so even if she doesn't feel like talking she leaves a message.

"Hey Kayden, sorry for bailing on our date. You know how it is, NCLEX is killer to prepare for. I'll make it up to you next time. Night."

Falling back onto her bed she stares at the ceiling, sheets rising and falling all around her she closes her eyes.

She really should study for NCLEX, shouldn't she?

At least one section of that shouldn't be a lie and if she fails she won't just disappoint herself, she'll disappoint her mom, the last thing she wants is to add to her list of regrets.

Even knowing that, it's unreasonably hard to pull herself out of bed. She even knocks the contents of her purse out on the ground, keys clattering against the floor. And as she picks up her chapstick, she spies a black USB wedged halfway under her bed frame.

Carefully wiggling it out she has to wrack her mind for a moment.

Didn't Dick toss that at her before she left?.

She'd been a little preoccupied before she hurried out so she'd forgotten about it. To be honest, it probably would've lived in her purse for months if she hadn't upended her bag.

She's also been carefully avoiding what she's realized tonight, giving it a name makes it real.

As always, curiosity wins out. Leaning over and loading it into her laptop she sees just one file labeled 'Workout Mix'.

What was this? She thought to herself, opting to sit down at her desk.

"Microbiology, a text by Herman Gruber…"

How did he?

He found an audiobook of her textbook? She hadn't even known there was one, she hadn't even been that open about her struggling to find time to study.

The last bit of resistance she has towards him just withers.

It's why she doesn't find a way to wriggle out of his invitation for pizza and beer the next day.

*

Di Contini's is the definition of a mom-and-pop shop and she doesn't know what she was expecting but it wasn't this. When he said pizza and beer she expected a pub, this is way better.

There's the sweetest old lady knitting socks at what she thinks is the hostess area and she kind of wants to go talk to her. People who were that fearless and uncaring of public opinion had the best stories.

Deciding to bite the bullet she says "This is way less weird than I thought it'd be."

For a half a second she wonders if that came out sort of mean, Dick doesn't seem to think anything of it. In fact, it's what Dick says that puts her in a momentary tailspin.

"Yeah, I was wondering if it was the usual Batman-Robin dynamic."

Did he even realize that he just lumped her in with the rest as a Robin?

She's simultaneously touched and upset that it took till now for someone to say it, even if it was in the most understated way ever. It's a lot for her to dissect.

Going the safe route she brings up Damian and what she says has the added benefit of being undeniably true. The teenager really does act more like a kid in the Robin suit, violence and all.

It makes Dick laugh and she counts it as a win. Not that she should be keeping score.

1 to 0.

After that things fall into place, they banter, they argue over their orders, she steals slices of his pizza and he steals slices of hers. It's all natural in a way that she's only ever experienced with one or two other people. The rhythm of their conversation, once they start, doesn't stop.

It's when they settle the check that he throws her a curveball; an extension to the night.

There's a piece of her that wants to bow out, leave everything on a high note, but she's braver than that so she slings a smile in his direction before telling him to lead the way.

*

The bar he takes her to is nice, all wood paneling and leather seats, just not in the curated way of anywhere like the Iceberg Lounge which she's honestly grateful for.

She'd been afraid that she was going to have to drink $16 cocktails that wouldn't get her buzzed, not that she had anything against them. She liked them, they were sugary and delicious, she just preferred it when she wasn't the one footing the bill. It was a numbers game and the cost of, like, two or three of those versus a few cheap beers could get pretty steep. Now she rarely took advantage of her standing invitation to Wayne events but the open bar was definitely the main draw.

Dick heads off to grab their third round and it's both funny and infuriating how easily he gets the attention of the bartender. If she tried, she would've been waiting, at minimum, another five minutes.

Perhaps that's why she has the bone deep need to prank him. She eyes him speculatively from the side, playfulness welling up as she stops in front of him.

"So, I propose we play pool with small bets just to make it interesting."

"Money?" He cocks his head.

"Just ones and fives." Ones and fives would be enough to pay for the next round, she fought the impulse to laugh.

"You're on."

She doesn't bother to hide that she knows how to handle a cue and the way his eyebrows leap makes her grin up at him. Just for good measure she twirls it between her fingers in a display of dexterity she hadn't known she had in her.

When he asks her if he's going to get swindled she can't find it in her to lie and then sinks every ball on her first turn. She doesn't let him pick up his stick even once. His gobsmacked expression sends ripples of glee through her body and she mimes dropping a mic.

The second game he gets to start and she seriously can't believe how hopeless he is at pool when he was the one who suggested coming here. Dick asks her for tips and pitying him she starts with adjusting his grip.

Touching him is strange out of a work context, at least at first, and she ends up distracted by how much bigger his hands are than hers. She bizarrely wants to measure hers against them, it's a third drink instinct that she's having some trouble ignoring but at least it's a harmless one.

He also doesn't know how to angle himself at all and pushing down on his back she feels the muscles of his shoulders contract. Dangerous territory for anyone but her. She's impervious to the Grayson charm so the redness creeping up her face most definitely isn't a blush.

Before she knows it, he's sinking all his balls even if he holds the cue in unorthodox ways, while smirking at her.

He honey trapped her.

She would be mad but she's too entertained by it to do more than shove him and call him an asshole. Except calling him an asshole only makes him laugh so hard that he has to lean on his pool cue.

The full body cringe Dick has when his coworkers interrupt them and introduce themselves makes her even more interested in pulling them into their orbit.

"I'm here to entertain the elderly as my part of community service. Teach Dick to be less boring. Real quality of life stuff." Spills out of her mouth and at that point he calls her Steph.

In the course of a single night she's earned a nickname from him, which is wild because in all the years he's known her he has always called her Stephanie. Steph is a nickname that everyone else she knows uses but out of his mouth it's a tiny, teensy, bit special.

It makes her a little greedy. She knows what he's like around someone he loves, now the question is, what is Dick Grayson like at work?

*

Dick Grayson is a dork.

She's learning so much about him tonight. Probably, she muffles a chuckle, things he didn't want her to know. Like the Pollyanna case, which makes her laugh so hard she ends up pounding the table. The sheer embarrassment blazing across his cheekbones is oddly endearing and she wants to tease him more than she probably should.

His coworkers, Amy and Gannon are hilarious and seeing Dick in this light, all awkward and fidgety, really just makes her like him more. The way he beats a quick retreat to the bar on the pretense of getting a round for them all, has her turning to look at the other two and they all end up cackling.

The bartender, in contrast to Dick's wishes, immediately serves him. The bartender even puts slices of lemon on the rims, so he got even better service this time around, which is just ridiculous.

What life does he even live?

Her incredulity must show on her face because the other woman, Amy, started complaining, fondness bleeding through the mild irritation.

"Isn't it annoying how he gets people to do what he wants with barely any effort?"

Before she can agree, head already bobbing up and down, Dick interrupts and says "Being nice typically does that." A bemused look on his face as he pushed her drink towards her and set down the others.

Putting her two cents in she says "It's easy when you have an eight pack."

Dick shot her an unimpressed look "Well, they don't see the eight pack."

"But they do see your face."

"Are you saying I'm pretty?" He said, suddenly smug.

"You know you're pretty! Such a peacock." She rolled her eyes.

The bird simile seems to make his smile toothy and goofy and when Dick opens his mouth, she knows he wants to say 'I'm a Robin'. She has to do a quickstep and nudge him with her shoulder.

It's not exactly the best place for that to come out.

He gets the message and closes his mouth, a sheepish expression coming to life on his face.

And yep, she's definitely not letting this slide anytime soon.

Amy and Gannon look questioningly between them but neither of them budge.

Thankfully, Gannon chimes in with "Children, we all know that I'm the pretty one here."

Amy shoots the blonde man a flat look "You're a real princess." The drawl in her voice making everyone else laugh.

The rest of the night is a variation on that and by the end Dick is laughing as much as she is.

*

"You know I don't need to be walked back right?"

"I know."

In hindsight maybe she did because she made an idiot out of herself and started talking about fireflies.

Dick at least had the grace to not comment too much.

She's going to strike this memory from her mind forever but the rest of the night can stay.

*

On the way home she admits, maybe grudgingly, actually, yes, grudgingly, that he's a friend. She wasn't gonna say it straight to his face, but strangers didn't make you smile like this.

Chapter Text

They're winding down for the night, already back in the cave when Stephanie turns to him and asks.

"Any way you'd feel like watching a movie at my place tomorrow, Kara bailed on me and watching a movie alone is sad."

Her eyes are shiny and puppy-like, she draws the line at clasping her hands but it's a near thing. He wants to pause just to create a sense of suspense but the automatic "Sure" rockets out before he can act on it.

He's eager, he realizes, as he runs a hand through his hair, gazing at her preoccupied figure. She's stretching to find the zipper to her suit at the base of her neck and when she stops to look at him, throwing him a weird look for staring, he goes back to taking off his own suit.

His hands automatically start dismantling his grappling gun, pieces grouped by function on the table, for him to do maintenance on later while he thinks about recent events.

The ball had been in her court for about a week now and he'd thought the last hangout, even after being turned into something of a group outing, turned out okay. Some small piece of him thinks he must have been waiting for the next step given how fast his reply was.

And what exactly was the next step supposed to be? He doesn't have a real answer for that.

The impatience he feels is a relatively new feeling since other people are usually the ones to reach out to him if he gives even the slightest effort. It doesn't escape him that the sunniest person he knows in Gotham has, ironically, given him the most trouble.

Hanging up his armor he wonders what they'll be watching. He's not sure what her taste in movies is but he hopes she likes comedy, the fact that she's all for Austin Powers over James Bond is enough to raise his expectations.

'Maybe I can circumvent the no takeout rule', he thinks. It'd be rude if he showed up with nothing in hand wouldn't it?

He's already scrolling through his tried and true list of restaurants, ready to pull the 'Alfred would say' card when she yells "No takeout!" on her way out.

*

Empty handed on her doorstep, he wonders if he should have just ignored Stephanie and brought something anyway. Her mother, Crystal Brown, is staring at him and he feels like a mouse in front of a viper. Maybe, the woman gives him a dismissive once over, the viper isn't particularly hungry but the dangerous air around her is warning enough.

She's an older brunette with pale frost green eyes, shares no resemblance to her blonde daughter, and has a remote look on her face, intimidating in that same way that Doc Thompkins is. No-nonsense would be the word.

Dark navy, the color of her scrubs, gives her away as an ER nurse for the public hospital halfway between the Bowery and the Narrows. He doesn't know her but he's kind of impressed. You had to be a certain kind of resilient to last more than a year in that place.

The only part of her that he feels is like Stephanie at all is the fixation on the color purple. Her mother gravitates towards plum, muted mauves, eggplant. Traces seen in the color of their throw pillows from his limited view of the couch, the scarf thrown over a hook by the door, and the cardigan sweater the older woman has draped over her arm.

It's the same hue of Stephanie's former suit as Spoiler and wondering if Stephanie chose the color on purpose brings a small smile to his face, momentarily breaking the tension.

He's getting ready to introduce himself when she sidesteps him and calls out to Stephanie that she's heading out. It's not a warm introduction at all and he can't hide the grimace on his face. The sight of the blonde behind her however chases away the unpleasantness.

"Sorry about her." Stephanie's eyes are apologetic, the blue of them a shade darker than usual "she's kind of…" she waved her hands while tapping her foot.

And he understands, he has Bruce.

"It's fine." He sends her a reassuring smile, it's not like he's got to field the older woman's glares for the rest of the night.

*

Finally inside the apartment properly he sees items that are more distinctly Stephanie everywhere. Knick knacks litter the shelves, and while the windows are fogged up, the space is bright and welcoming.

He stares so long that she asks "Are you claustrophobic?'

It's a joke of course, but there's a subtle edge in her voice that he doesn't feel right about.

It makes him answer her a little more seriously. "No, it just made me think that it's just like you." He trailed a hand along a rack, a sheaf of old cooking magazines bowing the flimsy metal.

"Small and broke?"

"Small and cheerful." He picked up a wooden block carved with affirmations and smiled.

There had been a few in Dinah's office, she tossed them to whoever she was speaking to when they had something to talk about with her, he'd been a teenager the last time he'd seen one of these.

Changing the subject he asked "What are we watching today?

"We've got two choices. Comedy or comedy." She shrugged at him with a grin, going with the change of subject.

"That's right up my alley." He can feel his shoulders relax.

"I'm guessing romance and action are usually a no." She draws out the vowel on the no long enough that it makes him laugh.

"Romance would've been fine but action?" he shrugs "Death defying stunts do nothing for me. I've been swinging from the trapeze since I was five. Gunfire and sirens are my background music."

"Oh my god, I know, action puts me to sleep. I could watch a foreign film, subtitles only, and be more invested." She pounded on her fist with her other hand. "It could be about, I don't know, Cholera, and I'd take it!"

"Action movies put me to sleep too, now Wally, Wally never gets tired of them. We spent a lot of nights during university dedicated to feeding his obsession with explosions. If I hadn't been dating someone" he's not sure why he omits Kori's name, maybe that wound is still too fresh "I'd probably have been dragged to countless theater blind dates the way Vic was."

She nods her head absentmindedly, she'd probably heard of the two from Tim.

"He sounds like Kara. She loves things that go boom. I actually think she chooses her more brainless movies just because she knows they bother me. But like, this is also Kara who's happiness on steroids so I feel nuts for thinking it."

Her description of her best friend is funny to him because Stephanie is the one he'd call sunshine incarnate. None of the Bats could be called lighthearted, except for him, and she hadn't gotten to know that side of him till recently.

"Wally is a genius but he hasn't figured out that my 'fascination' with horror is fake. I don't mind it but, the truth is, I only watched them to freak him out."

The confession takes Stephanie by surprise but it seems like she wants to high-five him for it.

"Evil, I like it."

"You should've seen his face when I put on 'The Ring'. Wally forgot to use his superspeed" at that part, Stephanie slaps a hand over her mouth, laughter making her shake. "The thump he made as he tripped up the stairs trying to get away before the opening screen even came up is something I will never let him forget."

He can't help guffawing at the memory "Wally yelled at me and said he hoped I'd get appendicitis. Which, for him, is honestly more vicious than anything else he's ever said to me. Too bad for him, but by then I was already used to Jason's brand of asshole."

Trading stories with him, she offers "You already know this but I've made it my personal project to inject pop culture into our favorite gremlin. It fills me with insane amounts of joy when I hear him reference stuff. He thinks it's only about media analysis but it's about getting him to relate to people." She says it in a hushed voice, like it's a secret.

The way those eyes are twinkling at him makes him feel like a co-conspirator and it's silly but he vows to never tell Damian.

"Damian is uncomfy with the word soft unless it's used as an adjective for an animal so I really had to roll a Natural 20 to get that going."

He doesn't know what she means by Natural 20 but he gets the gist of it. Getting his younger brother to do something he's against is nigh impossible.

Turning away for a second, she grabs a huge metal bowl filled with popcorn and shakes it at him, the words "Movie Theater Butter" on her lips.

He loved Movie Theater Butter popcorn, maybe even more than most because Alfred insisted on making his own healthier popcorn. There was just something about that slightly artificial aftertaste that made him feel like a kid.

He begins to think that the night is just an all around good idea that he wouldn't mind repeating.

*

The light gray couch is tiny and as they settle in for a movie, it's hard for him to stretch out comfortably. He tries his best but all his fidgeting eventually makes Stephanie puff out her cheeks out at him.

"Do you need to sit on the floor or something?"

"I might be too tall for your couch" he tapped his leg drawing attention to the space between the bend of his knee and the edge of the cushion.

She gives him a considering look before speaking again.

"Give me your legs."

"What?"

She sighed and grabbed for his ankles and he was left bewildered as she repositioned his body so his legs laid across her lap.

"Better?"

It is, but it's also a lot closer than he's even been to her outside of work or that night at the bar when he had her "teach" him pool so he could prank her.

"Don't be weird, I do this with Kara all the time."

He finds his humor at that moment and retorts "In that case just consider me one of the girls." A laugh leaves him as she bites back a snort.

"Just watch the movie."

*

They settle into a back and forth that becomes one of the best things about Gotham outside of Alfred and his brothers.

She makes it easy to breathe there.

*

'Tacos are the only thing that can soothe my soul.'

'Tacos?' He sends, before he realizes Taco Tuesday is a thing. Getting tacos on Tuesday just fit so well into his takeout habits that he never thought about it all that deeply. He just never worries about what he's eating that day.

As far as her ideas go, dedicating a day of the week to one of the most amazing foods ever made is something he's on board with.

Her next three messages come in quick succession.

'My boss is the most Karen of Karens'

'Is there a male version of Karen'

'Ken or Kevin? Kyle?'

It's like she's right in front of him and he can never resist the urge to tease her so he sends 'I am in the range of tacos.'

The text is meant to taunt but he feels like it's missing something and he seriously thinks about sending her a picture of the food truck in front of him. He brings up his camera to capture the shiny red paint job and black chalkboard of the truck but before he can snap and send, his phone buzzes with a meme of the most miserable blob thing he's ever seen.

A 'Where???' Popping up across his screen less than a second later.

'Near.'

Right about now her frustration must be reaching boiling point so he types in 'Chicken or Beef?'

'I can buy them myself, just tell me where, c'mon? Don't be a gatekeeper. Be a bro'

He can almost hear her protesting and it makes him smile.

'I'm already in line and I have no shortage of bros'

'You know what I mean'

If she could roll her eyes through text he knows she would. He possibly takes too much pleasure in that.

'Friends treat friends. Basic rule of friendship. This is a dagger to my heart' He texts.

His phone is quiet for a beat too long so he makes a last offer.

'I'm almost up. Chicken or beef?'

'… Beef' She sends a gif of her throwing something at him that makes him laugh, the sound drawing the gaze of the hipster in front of him.

Probably proving her fears right, he orders too much, the lady taking his order asks if he's having a party and he doesn't bother explaining otherwise. Soon the smell of Carne Asada, lime, and grilled peppers and onions fills his car while more napkins and forks than he needs drift along the leather of his back seat.

She forgives him for using her stomach against her by the time he pulls up in front of the firm she works at and he nets the dubious honor of meeting her boss, Alton Schuster, the third he says, like that last part is so important, for all of five minutes when the rat of a man recognizes him as Richie Wayne.

The lawyer clearly wants to get into his good books so, tossing an arm around Stephanie's shoulders, ignoring the suspicious look she sends his way, he turns up the charm and thanks the guy for giving Steph a "generous hour long lunch."

It's his win when the guy sputters that it's no problem, no inconvenience at all but Stephanie's conflicted look, warring with delight and relief is the real prize. She still socks him in the shoulder when they turn the corner.

*

"Do you cook?" The words trickle out lazily from the direction of the chair Stephanie had been spinning around in for the last half hour, her blonde hair trailing in the air like the tail of a kite.

The sun had kept hitting the strands, turning them into threads of gold and he hadn't effectively been able to go over case notes for as long as she'd been there, eyes straying to that halo again and again.

She'd taken to studying at the manor because the air conditioner had gone out at her apartment and she didn't feel like "elbowing and yelling at pervs on the subway to get to the library." looking at him skeptically when he asked her why she didn't sit down.

"And what?" She'd said "Ignore the sad, sad, eyes of the elderly asking me to give up my seat while also talking about their last hip surgery?"

She said it with so much feeling, pen dropping against the desk like a gavel, that he couldn't help but laugh and gesture for her to take closer seat next to him, completely taking him out of the zone he entered while analyzing current criminal trends.

So the gist of it was, she was here to stay, and she'd be wrecking his concentration as long as she was because her words were always a trap and he'd trip if he didn't pay attention.

He already had plans in place because it would be rude to not return the favor, less extreme than an eye for an eye, but he did want to see her on defense for once, not because he wanted to make her uncomfortable but because competition with her was fun.

"No, not really." He hedges his bets, he could cook some basics but he never did much more than that. She didn't need to know exactly how far his takeout habits went, or about the binder in his kitchen with the menus of places that would deliver to his neighborhood.

The lecture he'd gotten from her back when he was trying to get into her good graces was enough for him to know she would absolutely judge him. Or laugh. Both were scenarios he didn't want to think about. Amy and Gannon had already effectively shattered his image of being cool.

"Is that code for 'not at all'?" She seemed to have caught on anyways, smile growing into something wider with more teeth.

"I've survived until now." He shoots for bland but he can't entirely disguise the momentary scrunch of his brow, thinking of the countless plastic containers living in his fridge.

When was the last time he brought actual groceries?

He really is doing a terrible job of being a responsible adult, isn't he? He thinks, amused despite himself.

"Okay, I've decided what we're doing this weekend. I am going to teach you how to cook at least one more thing that isn't completely basic. Payback for how you hustled me."

He's finding it hard to connect the two. What was her angle? It's not a direct train of thought at all but it definitely seems to make sense in her contrary little mind.

She's tapping her fingers against the armrests as she stares at him.

"I've got a short shift this weekend in Bludhaven." An implied denial on his breath.

That should be enough to stop her, it's a half hour commute just one way and who wants to do that on a Saturday? If it were up to him he would sleep in, and she's juggling a part-time job, college, and their night time exploits.

But like she lives to prove him wrong, Stephanie rebuts with "Then after."

She says it so upbeat that he abruptly feels like he can't argue, the snap of his jaw closing shut jolting him and making him sit up straight.

"So what time are you off?"

He'd forgotten how relentless she could be when it came to something she wanted. He was just never someone she'd wanted anything from before.

Back when she'd been dating Tim and he only knew her from the periphery, she'd been able to drag the caffeine addict out of his designated section of the cave without so much as a few words.

They'd been trying to track down an up-and-coming weapons dealer who decided that setting up shop in Gotham made sense, given the, at the time, territory disputes after Black Mask's criminal empire came crumbling down. It was a mad rush to consolidate power and the third Boy-Wonder had taken up the mission like it was a personal vendetta.

Knowing the circumstances, which he hadn't been completely dialed into back then, it was.

Fearless, Stephanie had marched right up to Tim, who predictably, had parked himself in front of a slew of monitors, bloodshot eyes bouncing between them like he was playing pinball, clapped both hands on his face, leaned in close, and, he hadn't heard what she said, he'd been too far away, but Tim had allowed her drag him from his chair and out of the cave. Still unhappy, but at least taking a moment to breathe.

Tim hadn't returned for hours and he looked like he'd eaten, hair damp from a shower, by the time he resumed his position. It was one of a handful of moments that he'd registered and felt appreciative of her presence over the years before being distracted by something else.

Knowing that, it was a little funny that it applied to him too. That take-no-prisoners tone made him want to smile as much as it made him want to groan.

"I'm off at two."

"Okay, cool, that gives us a few hours to get dinner ready then."

Just how bad at cooking did she think he was? He was rusty but there was no way it would take hours for them to follow a recipe.

He still didn't want to make it easy for her so he threw a few fastballs her way. He doesn't know why, but letting her win anything too easily when it comes to him is against his nature.

"Chicken or beef?" She continued with a sly glance.

An exasperated laugh barreled out of him, she evidently hadn't forgotten that he'd paid for tacos last Tuesday.

Dropping his file, gaze sliding sideways, he took in how bonelessly relaxed she looked, head pillowed on an arm over the edge of the chair, those bright eyes glittering in victory.

His weekend was going to be completely co-opted, wasn't it?

*

The thing about becoming someone's friend was that you were inviting them into your life. He'd somehow forgotten that it also meant you were leaving yourself open for commentary.

Stephanie is standing on his doorstep in acid dyed lavender shorts and a loose tank top that's not all too different from what she wore when he visited her place to watch a movie. Her eyes are wide, staring around his apartment, and it's alien to him but he feels self conscious. His place is empty, maybe because he only views it as a place to sleep, but it's also probably not as big as she was expecting.

He was living on a cop salary after all.

The hardwood and blank white walls are a stark contrast to her home, which was littered with things that screamed her name or her sense of humor, the image of a shot glass that featured the words 'Take a shot like Superman' coming to mind.

She bends to slip off her sandals, 'Maybe a habit from Cassandra?' He thinks as he guides her through a short showing of the kitchen where she sets down a few plastic totes, the living room, the hallway bathroom, and the small office to the right of his bedroom where all his gear is hidden behind a false wall in the closet.

Damian had criticized him for having his weapons in a separate room but he'd liked the idea of his bedroom remaining a sacred space.

He hesitates before he opens the door to his bedroom but he manages his feelings by keeping the time there brief. A large part of him is relieved that it's just a quick glance, the door clicking shut behind them as he ushers her back into his kitchen.

Even if his bedroom is as seemingly impersonal as the rest of his apartment, there are keepsakes that he's stored away in the oak dresser next to his bed that he doesn't share. Simply having her in the room makes him feel exposed.

In the bottom drawer of the dresser is a dagger that Damian had given him for his first birthday after Bruce disappeared, Tim's most prized candid of his days in the Robin suit, his brother had captured him as he leapt between buildings, cape swanned out behind him like he really did have moon tipped wings, and a dried flower from Cass in the days after she had discovered that flowers could say what she could not. For a while he had even learned about flower languages with her, though he'd forgotten most of it in the years since, and, in the farthest corner, an unopened, probably petrified, granola bar that Jason had shoved into his hands when he'd visited the apartment not too long before his death.

To the left is, not the first family photo with Bruce and Alfred he's ever had, but the first where he felt like smiling, his father's tea stained book of poetry, pages still embedded with something herbal and the barest hint of smoke, and an engraved silver locket that his mother had never taken off her neck, nestled in a spill of colorful origami stars they had folded, wishes from his younger self hidden at the heart of them.

He'd shown Kori once and she tried to unravel a star, not understanding why a wish had to be hidden. He'd snatched it back, cradling it in his palm like it was a wounded animal.

He hadn't been angry but he'd never showed her again.

He's not sure if anyone would understand exactly what these items meant to him.

*

She's digging through his kitchen and some of what she unearths is stuff he hadn't even known he'd had. There's this aluminum container thing with holes she called a colander that he could swear he never bought. Part of him wonders if it came with an apartment or was left behind by a previous tenant.

A tall and wide pot is placed on his island alongside a skillet and the skillet is the only thing he recognizes because he's used it for eggs.

Pulling out vegetables from the plastic totes she brought in she beckons him over asking for a cutting board.

He pulls one out from the cabinet to the right of the oven when she pokes his ribs. Looking up at him she asks "Dick…where are your herbs and spices?"

That was something he hadn't thought about. A sheepish look starts to grow on his face as he gestures to the two black and white shakers next to his stove.

Her face as she gapes at him is hard not to laugh at, even if he's embarrassed by how spartan everything is.

"Oh, my god, how, why the hell do you only have salt and pepper?!"

"Well…waste is bad, right? Wouldn't it be bad to keep something I don't use?"

It's a lame excuse, even by his standards, but all of this actually makes him think of the week Alfred went out of town, leaving Jason and him to fend for themselves.

Jason took one look at him struggling with making, what was it? He can't remember. He just remembers Jason pushing him over and adding a bunch of powdery stuff to a pot on the stove.

"Jesus, Dickhead, I'd rather starve than eat that, and I'm from Crime Alley! Move over so I can make this edible."

Even if he'd been insulted, it's a good memory, Jason was laughing and that was a hard won thing.

The way Stephanie looks at him sends this mad rush of affection flowing through him. Even as she pushes him into putting on his shoes so they can go grab "Essentials that every adult needs." he can't say he minds.

*

He's never been to Specific Pacific Foods, the tiny grocery store on the corner five minutes from his building, and he's lived there since he came to Bludhaven. It's family owned and has been around for nearly thirty years. The owner, a middle aged woman with a thick dark braid of hair who just took over from her mother, insists that he and Stephanie try some of her side dishes.

It's such a sweet welcome that he immediately decides he should come back even if milk is a dollar fifty more expensive here than at his normal grocery store.

As they walk along the aisles Stephanie grabs garlic powder, onion powder, an assortment of jars stuffed with green flecks, and chili flakes.

She stalls along produce, takes one look at him and declares that he's getting oranges because she doesn't trust him not to get scurvy.

And really, scurvy? He's not that bad.

*

They finish cooking not too long after they come back, she decides his knife skills aren't bad after she makes him give her a demonstration, trusting him to cut the vegetables while she browned and cubed the beef she brought.

The rustic smell casts a spell and everything feels warmer and more alive, her presence filling the empty space. It's such a tender thing, to be taken care of. Like touching a bruise.

He's normally the one who looks after the others, because even with his past and growing up in a circus, he's still closer to normal than anyone else in his family is. He doesn't mind, he's always loved too much, sometimes too much to say anything, and sometimes too much to say no.

Stephanie is setting down a portion of the beef stew that they made onto a plate for him and she's turning to get her own when he tugs at her wrist.

When he reaches out, he doesn't know what he's doing at first, not until the pads of his fingers brush her skin.

She raises an eyebrow in question, a puzzled look on her smiling face. "Something wrong?"

"Sit down." He can't stop his voice from softening as he stands and pushes back his chair.

He should be the one to make her plate this time.

Chapter Text

Inviting Dick over for a movie is impulsive but it has a lot of questions layered underneath.

She asks him first because Kara bailed on her, one of her baby nephews had some award ceremony, she couldn't remember if it was Jon or Conner, who she didn't think counted since the man was married, but it was something. The other is because she wants to know what kind of friends she and Dick are going to be.

Are they going to be work friends or friends that would bury a body? The murderous gaze he had on their last mission is promising but it never hurts to be sure. She operates on an all-in principle and it's not too much to ask the other person for the same.

*

'Well, mom definitely doesn't like him', she thinks, wincing, picking at her fingernails behind her back, heel dragging along the worn carpet under her feet.

Her mom was doing that thing with her lip that meant she wanted to sneer, the one she saved for people who didn't know how to parallel park or who didn't have their coupons together before they got in line. Crystal Brown was not a welcoming person by anyone's standards but she was dead sure that her mom took one look at Dick, handsome, dark haired, and blue eyed, and hated him on principle.

If she knew that Dick was Tim's older brother it would have been infinitely worse. The woman had taken the role of hating on Tim when she couldn't bring herself to after their breakup.

She didn't even think she could call her on it, back then every single one of her friends not in the know were either half in love with Tim, or, if they were, knew him too personally to pick sides. So she was honestly grateful to her mother and didn't stop her because at least one person other than Kara, and Damian who disliked Tim anyways, was on her side.

She can feel the rush of blood to her cheeks and she's so close to texting Kara for a fake emergency. This isn't just the wrong foot, this is missing a step and rolling your ankle.

Thankfully, Dick shrugs it off, probably because he's used to appeasing people for Bruce when the man played Brucie Wayne. And probably still when Bruce was Batman or the slightly less intense version of himself as a man. Either way she's grateful.

*

Dick stares around her apartment so intently that she starts getting that prickle of defensiveness that she'd mostly stopped feeling around him. His eyes aren't judging or dismissive but the gleam in them is the one he has while looking at case files and that kind of focus is maybe a little intimidating, they leave her feeling as if she's under a microscope even though he's not looking at her.

If she's honest, when she asks him if he's claustrophobic, he narrowly misses a landmine. It wasn't an entirely fair question but she's not afraid or ashamed of where she came from, she's fiercely protective of it. The scrutiny of her space needles at her.

In a strange way, the way someone acted in her home had become a measure of how much she'd let them in. Tim, even Tim when he loved her, didn't see the beauty in the Bowery or Narrows that she did. And sometimes, because he didn't see it, it felt like he didn't see her, so they normally spent their time out of uniform in the more sanitized areas of Gotham.

You couldn't say she didn't learn.

Mal had said once, back when he'd lived in New York in the years before he set up Caparelli's in Gotham, that your neighborhood became a huge part of your identity, not unlike sports fans and their favorite teams. Her bones were split between the Bowery and the Narrows and they always would be.

"Small and broke?" She makes the comparison before he can, it's both the truth and a misdirection.

"Small and cheerful." He volleys back.

And she has to do a mini pause at that because how did Dick always find the right thing to say?

He does it, as far as she knows, entirely on instinct, which makes her want to lob something at him to cover up how unfair and oddly touching that was.

Ignoring the tiny jab at her height; cheerful? Really?

That's something she always finds herself working on. She doesn't view herself as all that cheery, she just feels determined not to let every little thing ruin her day. Kara is a way more accurate example of cheerful, golden retriever that she is.

They start talking about movies and she learns more about him and the fact that he gets why she can't stand action movies?

Instant point in his favor.

Dick talks about Wally, who seems to be his Kara, and hearing about his perfectly normal university days strips more of the mystery away from him. The story he tells her about Wally forgetting that he had powers because he was scared of watching a horror movie is just the right type of ridiculous to start the night.

He tells it so animatedly, hands gesticulating and diving to illustrate the crash of Wally's body, and suddenly they're sitting in the kitchen of the manor and he's talking about his parents again, that first real glimmer beneath the Batman persona. The first hint of a person behind the image of the golden boy or the forbidding partner slash pain in her ass.

His confession about torturing said best friend with horror movies makes her helpless with laughter and prompts her to make some confessions of her own.

The way he looks at her when she does that makes her shiver a little, the goosebumps you get when you're listening to a song and someone hits the perfect note. Smiles come on and off his face, like comets, or shooting stars, this smile is like the sun.

The rhythm they fall into after that is proof they don't have to drink for them to get along. They even start the movie later than she planned on, the clock hitting eight before she realizes that their sodas have all but turned into water.

*

Fifteen minutes into the movie she notices his squirming, the knock of his knees makes the cushions shift and she ends up sliding closer to him.

Now, the movie they're watching can't be why he's nervous so she curls her legs up, chin half resting on her knee as she turns her head towards him.

"Do you need to sit on the floor or something?" She leaves it open ended in case he wants to leave, which would disappoint her, but is why she's stocked Ben and Jerry's in her freezer. Three flavors for three levels of disappointment. Mint Chocolate Chance, Half Baked, and Chocolate Therapy, which was reserved for reality TV finales that didn't make the cut and other things that depressed her, like her student loans.

"I might be too tall for your couch" his voice rings with a smidge of self-consciousness.

Her eyes dart to his legs and, wow, how did she miss that? Dick looks like he's sitting in a kiddie chair. Poor guy.

"Give me your legs."

His "What?" floats into the air as she unfolds herself and rearranges his body til his legs lie on top of hers.

The heat of his legs is a great substitute for a throw blanket and she wasn't cold before but she does find it a little soothing. Now it isn't so much like they're hugging opposite ends of the couch.

In retrospect, it's amazing that they were able to avoid much contact before, the couch is small and she understands now why they call two seater couches loveseats.

"Better?" She asks, hazarding a glance at his face.

Dick is frozen, his brain isn't working and she shouldn't find it as adorable as she does. It's like he's a toddler still learning his shapes and he doesn't get why the square doesn't fit through the circular hole.

"Don't be weird, I do this with Kara all the time."

"In that case, just consider me one of the girls."

She can't help the snort that his reply almost forces out of her. Dick? One of the girls? He's pretty, no one could look at him and deny it, but the 5'10 bulk of him in a dress, even if he isn't as ripped as some of the other heroes she's seen, is laughable.

"Just watch the movie." She nudges him with her shoulder and he nudges back, playfulness looping back and forth between them.

*

He brings it up again before he leaves and it takes her a minute to place where he's coming from.

"With the exception of the couch, nothing about your apartment feels too small for me."

Had he been stuck on that all night?

She'd looked at him and he'd smiled again in that careless way that hid the serious part of him so seamlessly. A society smile.

"I used to sleep in the closet when I first came to stay with Bruce, the manor felt too big."

It's a secret that she's willing to bet he's only ever said to her and he says it like there isn't any weight to it at all. She would've thought it didn't bother him if not for how his hand had stalled on her shoulder, as though he wasn't sure how he should say goodbye after that.

That tiny bit of hesitation is why she takes the initiative to go up on her tippy toes and wrap him in a full contact hug that you would only give to someone you cared about.

And she did care, she realized as she relaxed into him, the strain in her calves easing as she let more of herself lean on his chest.

He's a little stiff at first but the way he melts underneath her hands and returns her hug is a sweet sort of ache. For some reason she doesn't think he gets a lot of hugs.

He's one of her people, she decides, it's that simple.

A side hug would've worked for how tentative this was, but fifteen minutes ago his legs were draped over hers and his voice lived in her ear.

This much, she thinks, could be allowed.

*

There's faint movement near her ear and suddenly her field of vision is clearer, no flyways or tendrils to brush at her cheeks. She doesn't blink or startle or move back, it's just Dick again, tucking back her hair.

It doesn't even seem to be conscious for him anymore, his eyes immediately falling back onto a sheaf of case files. Pen shifting between his fingers as he hunches over the desk.

The light from the window behind him leaves half his face in shadow but he still looks like something out of a daydream.

It leaves a vague envy thrumming through her. Wasn't the sun supposed to be harsh? Wasn't it supposed to show all the enlarged pores and unevenness and everything that filters existed for?

She wonders if she should invest in hair ties, the feeling of his fingers in her hair is starting to feel natural.

*

When she sends him the text she doesn't expect much, maybe just one reply in solidarity.

Her desk is a battleground and the half hour lunch means that vending machines are her best bet at feeding herself between running to the printer to get everything in triplicate and searching up precedent.

Trust Schuster to complain about one hair out of place being unprofessional when he dropped food over all of his documents so frequently that she practically lived with the copy machine.

'Honeybuns or Beef Jerky?' She thinks, before sighing.

To her right, Camila, fellow paper pusher and punching bag, signals for her to just get both from her place at a desk. The other girl knows her too well to even play with the 'Be Healthy' argument. Being healthy would mean that she'd quit this job.

'Ugh. Being an adult sucked.' She thought before her phone vibrated again. His texts keep coming and at some point it turns into a chain.

When she laughs, it's as much a surprise to her as it is anyone else. Camila raises one perfectly threaded eyebrow, she should ask where she gets them done, but she waves the other girl off.

'Friends treat friends. Basic rule of friendship. This is a dagger to my heart'

Dick really is relentless.

She knows she's being stubborn for the sake of being stubborn but typing out a positive reply means she's losing so she contemplates leaving him on read, the barest hint of a smile curling on her lips.

'I'm almost up. Chicken or beef?'

They aren't strangers anymore, she reasons to herself. Does she actually want to stop him from caring about her?

Now that question is a little harder to answer.

People start mobilizing in the background, the low hum of chatter going dead silent, which tells her Schuster is back from his last appointment and that he's in a foul mood.

Screw it, her stomach wins.

She appeases her pride by sending a gif of her throwing something at him.

*

When he walks up, clean cut and casual in a white button up that probably costs as much as her rent, her boss is just about to give her another lecture, this time on the flats she decided to wear instead of the usual heels. She's just guessing by the way his eyes are zeroed in on her shoes but she's usually not wrong.

From behind him, Marissa, the secretary who mans the front desk, on her way back from fighting with the Keurig, is making the most obnoxious 'Girl, get it' face, finger pointing at Dick who, she wants to groan, not only sees it, but throws a quick grin her way before returning to smooth talking her boss.

She's so busy trying to stop the woman from being more embarrassing than she already is that she tunes back into the conversation between Dick and Schuster too late to protest.

"...generous hour-long lunch."

Her boss is shooting her a look out of the corner of his eye. Schuster would push her out the door himself if letting her leave for an extended period would give him entry to the elite of Gotham. 'Richie' Grayson-Wayne, is this city's very own version of a prince and going by the oily smile on his face as he simpers at Dick, if she refuses, she'll be sitting through more ranting than usual.

"Haha, yes, thank you." The sound of her laugh is artificial but acceptable enough to Schuster. The man has never been able to tell when she's upset with him or mocking him. She's not sure if it's because she's basically a lowly peasant to him or if he's seriously that oblivious.

Dick's arm curls around her shoulders as she nods and she keeps a wooden smile on her face but as soon as they turn the corner she ducks under it, spins on her heel, and punches him.

He blows out a joking 'Oof' as if she winded him but remains otherwise relaxed which makes her throw him a dirty look.

"Okay, an hour long lunch is objectively awesome, but you do know he's got ideas now, right?"

"You're a family friend and your boss is too much of an opportunist to bother you now that he knows you're connected to the Waynes."

"What you're saying is, take advantage of my Wayne connections?"

"C'mon, you're not exactly draining our bank accounts, call it leverage. Didn't you call him a male Karen?" His hand slipped to the small of her back as he led her away.

Ethics aside, what he's saying makes sense but part of her still rails against it.

"Some people call that nepotism."

"Did they know you knew us when you applied?"

'I guess he knows me after all.' she mused.

She wonders if she should be worried about how easily he pulls her into his pace.

Mood softened by a cool breeze that wound through her hair, she let the tension of the day roll out of her. She was waking up all over again, the fresh air had nothing in common with the borderline muggy temperature of the back office where the board cut corners to save on utilities. She wouldn't have had this without him.

"So, where are we going?"

"I don't actually have a place for us to really sit but my car." He sent her a boyish grin "Still better than nothing though, right?"

"Then why did you bring the bag of takeout to the front of my office?"

"I figured that seeing it would blunt your anger because I was always going to charm your boss into letting you go." The toothy smile he sends her way makes her want to hit him again.

"That was premeditated?"

She doesn't know whether she's mad or impressed.

"Well, I paid for an hour of parking." His eyebrows fly into his hairline "An hour of parking is expensive downtown!"

"You're complaining about the cost of renting a parking space for an hour but not the amount you paid for more tacos than either of us can eat in one sitting?"

The bag he's shaking in front of her looks like it's part of a catering order.

'Okay, I'm not mad', she decides as laughter comes careening out of her.

*

They're in the library at the manor and she has a battle plan but the heat is still coming off her body like she's hot out of a fryer. If it was cold she could have just thrown on a sweater, but no, heat had to be evil and harder to escape.

Just why did the AC have to break for both her apartment and her car in summer?

She wanted to whine at how unfair life was. They said bad things came in threes and she was already counting the bill to fix the AC on both units as the third, but with her luck, she really didn't know.

At least she had the manor to escape to.

She'd been spinning in a chair for the last half hour enjoying the sensation of the air against her flushed skin when she finally starts laying her trap.

She doesn't have a graceful way to segue into it so she just outright asks "Do you cook?"

"No, not really."

"Is that code for 'not at all'?" She should probably tone down the smile, the teeth are probably tipping him off too early.

He looks a little cornered but amused when he replies with an "I've survived until now."

And that is the opening she'd been looking for, she can't stop herself lacing her fingers together like a B-rate villain. "Okay, I've decided what we're doing this weekend. I am going to teach you how to cook at least one more thing that isn't completely basic. Payback for how you hustled me."

"I've got a short shift this weekend in Bludhaven."

Did he think that would stop her? Cute, but no. She turns up the wattage on her smile, enjoying how his resistance shrinks under the power of it.

"Then after."

And following it up with the equivalent of an uppercut in a video game "So what time are you off?"

He gives a soft sigh "I'm off at two."

"Okay, cool, that gives us a few hours to get dinner ready then."

He looks a little insulted but she's planning on something that might take awhile to make, it's not quite the jab he thinks it is, even if she does have dubious thoughts about the level of his cooking skills.

*

A little later, after he's already surrendered, she poses her last question because she's been dying to land this hit all day. Her toes literally can't stop tap dancing on the floor because the thought of doing it has been on her mind for the last hour.

"Chicken or beef?"

Dick definitely gets the reference because a helpless smile pops up on his face.

*

"You're back! For that roast, right?" Mal is smiling while wiping down his counter.

"Actually, yes. But I'm also totally here for you, Mal. How've you been?"

"Better, with my favorite blonde in the area."

"I thought that was Clarissa?" She tapped her chin in mock thought.

"She's my goddess, different ball league, Butterfingers." He leveled her with a fond look.

The nickname was one he trotted out when he was in a good mood. Like, he won a chess match against George, the other gruff grandpa-esque figure on the block who ran the deli next door.

Mal came up with it when he and his wife had her over for the day when she was six and she slipped and dropped half the cake they just baked onto the floor. There was chocolate frosting dripping from the ceiling and they'd just mopped the floor. Neither of them minded but she was so embarrassed that she ran to their bathroom and locked herself in. She cried so hard that he sat against the bottom of the door and talked her through it, Clarissa chiming in from the kitchen as she cleaned up.

He, admittedly, hadn't been great at it and the both of them had to coax her out with a promise to go to the park. Mal spent the rest of the day teaching her how to catch and throw, improving her hand-eye coordination. He turned running up and down the stairs into a game, something she only recognized as an homage to his love of boxing movies when she was older. And when she caught her first fastball Mal crowed to her that he'd turned her into a softball superstar and swung her up onto his hip.

She could still remember the smell of freshly cut grass and the sound of Clarissa's shoes on the pavement as she walked back with treats from the ice cream truck. Clarissa sprang for one of the fancy cartoon characters, one with a gumball nose, and pulled her hair back into a braid as she devoured it in less than two minutes. It was probably one of the happiest days of her life.

Mal kept calling her Butterfingers after that because by the end of the day she never missed a beat. It was a reminder that effort piled up. And she knew her school nurse, Ms.Tali, was grateful, she'd been so accident prone back then that she spent half of every recess in her office.

"What're ya thinkin?" The man spoke, bringing her out of the memory.

"Something with a lot of connective tissue to cook down."

The old man grinned "Comfort food? Something happen? Or Is it for the same person as last time?"

"What, can't I just enjoy the finer things in life?" She rapped a knuckle against the display case.

Mal tossed her a look that said he knew she was too cheap for that. And, okay, fine, she liked her sales and deals.

"No, he's just a friend."

"I believe you, but this person's becomin' pretty important, huh?"

"Well yeah" she laughed "When someone becomes your friend they tend to grow on you."

The nosy look he sends her way just makes her laugh harder, for a man who loved his sports epics and Rocky Balboa, he was a terrible romantic.

*

For someone whose costume for years was a combination of traffic light, red, yellow, and green, Dick's apartment lacks both character and color. It isn't big but it has a sleek minimalism to it that she would've expected from Tim, all stainless steel and mirror shine appliances.

Even Tim's place had more stuff lying around than this. No magazines, no throw pillows, even for decorative purposes, and, at least as far as the living room was concerned, no framed photos. It was like stepping into a show home.

"I don't spend much time at home" Dick explained, probably reading her in that uncanny way that she couldn't connect to the severe person in her memories.

Maybe when she was younger he hadn't felt the urge to be considerate to his kid brother's girlfriend. It was a bit of an uncharitable thought but one that probably had some basis in reality.

It's so weird to her how his place is bigger than hers and there's even less to see.

*

His kitchen is beautiful but, as she rifles through his cupboards, she finds that it's also virtually empty. Some of his pots still have price stickers on the bottom and Dick continually looks amazed by what she's pulling out onto his counter. It's like she's been pulling a rabbit out of a hat for the last ten minutes.

Vegetables are rinsed and ready for prep, she's ready to guide him through the recipe but she can't find his spice rack.

"Dick…where are your herbs and spices?"

He shakes a limp hand to the two black and white shakers on the right side of his stove.

"Oh, my god, how, why the hell do you only have salt and pepper?!"

How can he live like this? Is this why he has a takeout problem? She's guessing he has one, it's not entirely confirmed, but she doesn't think she's wrong.

"Well…waste is bad, right? Wouldn't it be bad to keep something I don't use?"

Oh yeah, he definitely does.

Before she can tell herself not to push or judge she has him pulling on his shoes. She's pretty sure there's a corner grocery store a few minutes walk from his apartment.

*

Lalita, the older lady who runs the shop adores Dick from the moment he compliments her on how well organized and fresh everything looks. The way she brightens up is frankly the sweetest thing ever.

The woman all but adopts him and before they know it she's pulling out side-dishes for him to try. She gets to try them too, primarily because she's with Dick, but she knows her welcome wouldn't have been so enthusiastic. She's good with people but Dick is magnetic.

As they're walking through the aisles there's this sense of domesticity that she's never shared with anyone else. Her mom wasn't much of a cook and she'd been taking care of the groceries since she was old enough to ride the bus by herself. By the end of it they've debated multiple times on whether he actually needs a jar she's picked up.

He usually loses the argument.

Dick also gives her a look when she grabs a bag of mandarins and jokes that she doesn't trust him not to get scurvy.

"Steph, I don't live like a 17th century pirate."

"You have no fresh food in your apartment besides what I just brought over."

Lalita even gives Dick a 15% discount on the mind boggling amount of herbs and spices he doesn't have in his cupboard. Obviously the universe is on her side.

*

"I don't trust your knife skills so you've gotta show me what I'm working with here."

"I handle batarangs which are probably ten times sharper than these."

The earnest look he gives her inspires absolutely no confidence given the position of his index finger along the spine of the chef's knife in his hand.

"But you hold batarangs the right way, like what are you doing?"

He changes his approach and says "Isn't experience the best way to learn?" He says it so innocently but there's this amused and smug look in his eyes that tells her he knows he's driving her nuts.

"Were you that kid that touched the stove to find out if it was hot?"

Maybe it's because she can only ever be half serious around him but he gets theatrical. It's the silliest she's ever seen him act with her and damn it, it's cute. Like, offensively charming.

"Teach me, oh, magical kitchen witch, how to not slice off my fingers." Dick threw himself over the top of the island, his hair narrowly falling onto the cutting board as he grinned up at her.

"Keep this up and I'm going to make you wear a hair net next time."

The way Dick scrambles up, blue eyes alarmed at the threat, might be the highlight of the night.

She hadn't entirely believed Damian when he said Dick was vain when it came to his hair but this could be proof.

*

She's not sure why he insists on grabbing her a plate, she's already up, but it's a nice gesture. It's just, when they sit down at the table together, it feels charged.

Was he always the type to look people in the eye like this?

And that was a stupid thought, not looking at who you're speaking to is rude. It's manners. It's probably the result of Alfred's parenting, not Bruce's, Dick had to pick it up from somewhere.

Scrub the weirdness from your thoughts, she tells herself.

*

All she says is that it's a little cold, she doesn't ask Dick to grab her anything or turn up the heat but the way he automatically goes to adjust the thermostat…something about that is just, there's something about that that sends butterflies fluttering through her stomach.

Her eyes track him across the room as he fiddles with the controls before she shakes her head.

What is she doing?

She's got to murder those butterflies.

Chapter Text

The man's voice booms through the speakers before he can get a word in, a habit from his years as ringmaster for the circus.

"My boy, how are you?"

He sandwiches his phone between his shoulder and ear as he opens up his apartment door. "I'm doing okay, Bludhaven is Bludhaven." A pained chuckle leaves his mouth as he thinks of his backlogged cases at the station "I'm just getting back from a grocery run. How are you?"

"I'm healthy, hale, hearty. All of the words you can associate with living a long life."

"Glad to hear it, so-"

"If you're running errands, you're free, right?"

Ah, there it was.

Cautious, he answers with a drawn out "Yeah…" unable to lie to the man who was as much a grandfather as Alfred.

At this point he's just hoping that he won't get roped into another investigation. It's not that he wouldn't be glad to see everyone but the last "case" was finding the master keys to the animal cages and they turned out to have been left in the caretaker's extra coat.

It had been a miserable hour of wading through the community laundry for the keys when it took him all of ten minutes to solve.

The other man doesn't even recognize his slightly awkward tone as he forges ahead "We've just set up in Bludhaven for the long weekend and you must come and visit. You should take advantage of your standing invitation to the greatest show on earth."

Old Man Haly is still speaking when the gears in his head start turning; it's two birds with one stone, it's the perfect way to bring Steph's spirits up and he really thinks she would enjoy meeting Zitka.

There's a soft part of him that likes the idea of his oldest friend meeting his newest friend.

"Can I bring a friend?"

"Of course!"

*

"Dick?" Her voice goes faint for a second as he passes through a tunnel.

"The first thing you should know is that this is free."

It isn't a bad opening considering how much she loves a deal and he pauses before sending out his next words "I know you've been stressed and, well, I have standing invitations to Haly's. They're in Bludhaven right now."

Steph had been a convincing stand-in for a coat rack and there was something profoundly disturbing about seeing someone who was normally so full of life so flat. He'd checked her pulse in concern at least four times in the last week.

Discreetly of course, brushes of skin as they made a turn, a hand up as they scaled buildings during patrol, gear maintenance instruction. He'd wondered if she was anemic, iron deficiency in their line of work could be a death sentence.

"I don't know, I should study."

He hums but doesn't agree with her.

She's probably making the face she makes when she's caught between the responsible choice and the choice she actually wants to make.

On better days it's the choice of steamed versus fried dumplings at the Chinese food place he'd gotten her obsessed with, but it hadn't been a better days sort of choice for going on three weeks now.

He'd seen it twice when she had to put her Girl's Night plans with Kara on hold and two times when she canceled on the movie that had become a tradition of sorts.

There was only one person she never canceled on.

Yanking himself off that train of thought he said "I can promise you free funnel cake and an introduction to my oldest friend."

The strangled sound from the other end of the phone tells him he hit his target.

Sensing her weakness he pushes again with a less subtle "Self-care is important too." It's more direct than he likes to be and he waits, eyes falling to his fingers which are drumming against the wheel.

Had he picked up that habit from her?

"Well if there's gonna be free funnel cake..."

He can hear the smile in her voice so he gives up on processing that thought.

"Think you can get ready in, say," he glanced at dash "twenty-two minutes? I'm about to turn onto the Littleneck Narrows Bridge."

It's not a lot of time to get dressed but there's so much he wants to show her. A small thrill zips through him because he knows she'll appreciate the circus the way it should be appreciated.

"That's fine, I'll just throw on cutoffs and a T-shirt"

He can already hear her stumbling off the couch, voice just a little breathless.

"Alright, see you soon" he tapped the 'End Call' button, a smile pulling at his lips.

*

His drive down to the Bowery takes less time than usual, with the circus in town traffic is likely more hectic heading into Bludhaven than out of Gotham. It isn't long, he's even early by the time he's parked in front of the street of her building.

Not the best area, the brick facade is noticeably damaged in some spots, pieces discolored and crumbling. He hadn't taken too much notice of it before, he usually came to the neighborhood at night, but he thought it could be called charming, like the ivy crawling up the walls was on purpose instead of mild neglect.

The people were the real draw, an eclectic mix of longtime denizens who strode across the street without a glance at oncoming cars or the traffic lights and wide-eyed hipsters who looked like they would expire in the heat. A flock of girls in neon traveled in lockstep down the street and DIYers were dragging a wooden dresser from the dredges of an alley. A quartet of cellists thumbed an upbeat rhythm near a mom-and-pop restaurant up the corner to his left.

He could see why Steph loved it, the Bowery had a soul. She'd never said as much but she protected it the way Jason protected Crime Alley.

Shooting off a text to tell her he arrived, he leaned back, hoping she wouldn't take too long. His phone vibrated a minute or two later with a return message but before he could read it the sound of doors swinging open brought his gaze to the entry of her complex.

It's his turn to be a little breathless, the air expelling from his lungs like he'd been sucker punched.

She isn't wearing a T-shirt and cutoffs.

He can't even say that she dressed up specially, sundresses were as much a part of summer as shorts and t-shirts.

Does it throw him because it's not something he would normally get to see from her?.

The fingers of his free hand fight the urge to toy with the lavender ribbon that winds its way along the top of her chest, tug at the matching bows on the small puffed sleeves that fall to the sides of her shoulders as she climbs into his car.

It's an almost childish impulse, like pulling pigtails in primary school.

*

Their drive to Bludhaven is a quieter affair than it would usually be because she opts for a quick nap and it feels like mercy. By the time they pull in she looks reenergized and they bypass the entrance as he waves to Maksim, the former Strongman having become a ticket seller in the intervening year since his last visit.

The fairgrounds are bustling with people out to enjoy the rare, uninterrupted, stretch of sunlight that graced Bludhaven. Kids are running around laughing, one intrepid girl leading a gaggle of children, cousins by their shared features, to a food vendor peddling clouds of spun sugar. She brandishes a twenty dollar bill in her hand like a sword, like she's Napoleon, and he and Stephanie struggle to contain their smiles.

She nudges him when she spies a food stand selling elote. The fire roasted corn is shaved off oversized stalks into bags of Hot Cheetos or Fritos and layered with cotija cheese, mayo, and sour cream that strain under the added ingredients.

"I'm not hungry yet but we are totally getting some before we leave."

The part of him that had been off kilter relaxes and they fall into more natural patterns.

She didn't suddenly become a new person.

*

Steph is bubbling over with happiness as they wander, her head cranes left and right as though she doesn't know where to start. She's practically prancing, the force of her shoes sending up small dust clouds before she can restrain herself, stopping only when he laughs too loudly.

They circle by the outlying attractions and it's there, out of the corner of his eye that he catches sight of the navy blue velvet of a familiar tent, a small sign with whorls of stars and planets on an iron picket to the right of a gauzy, storm gray, curtain.

An idea starts percolating, Maggie is a great intro to the circus and she would kill him if he didn't come to say hi.

The older lady was one of the circus aunts who babysat him the most as a child and he had a special place in his heart for her even if she didn't always skew on the side of appropriate. Truth be told, that was probably why he'd adored her so much as a kid. His mother had scolded her plenty of times for smoking in front of him but the thick skinned woman just raised the long, inlaid mother of pearl, pipe, and blew smoke rings around her face.

When she wasn't working she was lounging like Cleopatra across the antique chaise that she insisted was necessary for the atmosphere of her act. Maggie had, what was the word Old Man Haly always said? Panache. The fancy seashell shaped chocolates she always fed him didn't hurt either.

In a roundabout way she was what made him open up to Alfred that first night at the manor. When Alfred brought out that gold embossed box it felt like a little bit of home had returned to him.

"You are getting your fortune read today, maybe your palms too." He placed his hands on her shoulders.

Stephanie appears a little hesitant, which is a surprise because he'd thought that this would be right up her alley.

"I've always kinda wanted to get those done but I'm also paranoid. Like, am I messing with powers that should not be-"

Ah, she's messing with him, the crooked bent of her mouth tipping him off.

"Steph, you're not going to be playing with a Ouija Board. C'mon." He responded as he tried to march her through the curtain.

"Constantine is a walking warning that things exist though" she leaned back into him like she was dragging her feet, those big eyes dancing with humor as she whispered "I probably won't survive, I'm not a brunette, you definitely won't-"

She shrieked as his fingers brushed over some ticklish spot on her ribs in his attempt to get her to move forward and he can't help the laugh that tumbles out of him before he taunts her. "You might as well do it, we're already here."

"You manhandled me!"

The way she looks at him is part respect and part shock before her expression alters into something competitive? Devious?

He's not sure which.

There is a very real possibility that he'll regret this later but he's too pleased to care.

That's when Maggie swans into view, the jingling of her caftan from the hand sewn beads and bells she favored announcing her arrival. The fabric trailed over the Persian rug with an audible rustle and the menthol smell of camphor and the smoke and spice of frankincense filled the air like the promise of rain.

"Darling, I assure you, what I do is not particularly occult or dark."

Stephanie straightened up, blush apparent on the apples of her cheeks even in the low light of the tent. "Oh, I, uh, in that case, I'm thrilled to get my palms and fortunes read."

Maggie's gaze met his and he gave a smile for her to continue.

"Come sit, sit."

"As for your friend," Maggie said "he should step out for a moment. Readings are private." a scolding note in her voice.

Shooting Dick a playful look, a recovered Stephanie echoed "Yeah, Dick, it's etiquette." She stressed the syllables of the last word like she was teaching it to him.

*

Waiting outside was something he should've expected but as the minutes passed by he started getting antsy. Normal readings, Palmistry or Tarot, took no longer than a few minutes, so what were they getting up to?

Pacing, he drew a line towards the entrance.

He wasn't eavesdropping, he told himself, he was just…stationing himself closer in case they asked for him.

Laughter floated out and he'd known the two would get along but did they forget about him? He'd been outside for, he checked his watch, nearly half an hour.

Lifting the curtain he shuffled back inside only to see a grinning Stephanie and the arched brow of Maggie.

"I don't think we called for you, did we?" The blonde shot Maggie a conspiratorial look.

"The sheer gall of him."

'Like a house on fire' he thought as he looked at the scene he walked into. Maggie had pulled out those seashell chocolates like she was hosting, well, him.

A marbled brown and white piece, his personal favorite, was pincered by two of Steph's fingers, mid-journey to her mouth.

"Well, this lowly peasant would like to beg for an audience anyways." And sketching an exaggerated bow, with not one, but two flourishes of his arm, he brought Stephanie's free hand to his lips.

His impish smile deepened when she started sporting an embarrassed expression. She tried to tug her hand out of his but he didn't let her.

He had to savor these moments, he rarely got to win against her.

Maggie's full bodied laugh filled the space.

"Handsome boy, you have brought me a delight." Maggie called out before she swept towards him and laid a kiss to both cheeks in the continental style, ever contrary to the typical Hungarian stoicism. "She might have supplanted you as my favorite, but more importantly, how do I look?"

"Glamorous as ever, Maggie" he injected the words with the weight of his affection. "You haven't said anything too bad about me, right?"

"Only so much as I am aware of." She took a prim sip of her tea.

Okay.

Stephanie probably heard every embarrassing story up till he was taken in as Bruce's ward, including his very literal running streak.

Three year old Dick Grayson didn't care that it was winter or that he was in the middle of a bath. Three year old Dick Grayson heard that robins traveled south for the winter, thought he was late for the trip, and of course he couldn't leave Zitka.

His father laughed himself sick when he found him shivering in her stall and had ended up bundling him into his shirt like a kangaroo. As for his tiny waif of a mother, she harangued Old Man Haly for letting Dick think he was a bird, for weeks. Her revenge was realized in successive, ice cold meals and delayed laundry that had the ringmaster cleaning his own shirts with a washboard.

"So everything then?" He said a little flatly with a long suffering look on his face.

What was it with all the women in his life loving to take him down a peg?

Later, when Stephanie ended up in a conversation with Maksim, the older gentleman having stopped by on his break, Maggie crooked a finger at him.

Walking a ways over to the older woman, but still keeping Stephanie within his line of sight, she asked, switching over to her native Hungarian "Kicsim, ő a kedvesed?/Little one, is she your sweetheart?"

It takes him a second to translate internally, he hadn't kept up too well with the language since he'd left the circus. As a kid he'd learnt most of the basics at her knee but once he'd been taken in as Bruce's ward there was no one to practice with.

When he works it out in his head he haltingly replies "Nem, ő csak egy/No, she is just" he stops to choose his words carefully "nagyon jó barát./a very good friend."

Vowels dipping and winding around the words, Maggie commented disapprovingly "You need to work on your Hungarian, it is a benefit to know many languages."

"I know six other languages." he defended himself lightly.

"It should make relearning easy then." she nodded her head imperiously, as if the subject was closed.

"I'll never win against you, will I?" he said, the corner of his lip turning up.

"No, you won't." the hint of a fond smile emerging before her expression turned crafty "Are you aware of how much you touch this "good friend" of yours? You are taking liberties."

Liberties? Heat crept up his cheeks as he denied her claims but no matter what he said Maggie only looked more and more unimpressed before walking over to Stephanie.

She patted the young woman on the shoulder companionably, catching her attention and dragging her away from Maksim's spirited recollection of the time he "fought" a lion.

Before he can say anything, Maggie sticks him with a gimlet eye while commenting "You must deal with a lot, with that one"

Stephanie shot him a quizzical look "I sort of do."

The undertones are innocent, he knows exactly why she said it, but without context they all but fuel the wrong idea about them to Maggie.

While she isn't a gossip, Maksim who is standing next to her is. Maksim is already looking far too invested, his Yosemite Sam mustache quivering.

*

Did he touch Stephanie that much?

He watched the blonde from the corner of his eye, the way she went golden under the adoring light of the sun.

There isn't anything that feels strange about it. He's a touch oriented person, he lives in the realm of the physical. If his family were more of the same, hugs wouldn't be so rare or limited to major holidays.

It's the fascination with her hair that bothers him.

The number of times he's absentmindedly played with or tucked back a tendril of her hair is starting to make him wonder if he's actually a toddler in the body of an adult.

Throughout the day he notes the migration of his hands to her shoulders, her waist, the small of her back as he leads. They link themselves arm to arm as they walk.

It's a consequence of the crowd.

*

An extra 10 inches of height, the hundred or so pounds of muscle that he'd put on since puberty, and his biceps prove useless.

A kernel of frustration welled up in him. It shouldn't be that hard. He's taken down aliens, he's taken down ninjas, countless Gotham rogues, people twice his size.

The milk bottles remain intact despite the solid smack his ball makes against them.

His pep talk clearly isn't working.

Their booth attendant is someone he doesn't recognize, a fast tasking man in his mid to late 40's with a voice meant for radio. He's so adept at leading the conversation that he's out twenty dollars before Stephanie hip checks him and moves into his place.

"I'm taking over from here. At this rate your wallet is gonna dry out and I was promised funnel cake."

The attendant is outright laughing at him, and Stephanie is trying and failing at hiding her own mirth. He'd feel more sour about the state of things but she's having such a great time that he ends up smiling goodnaturedly instead.

Stephanie, as it turns out, is excellent at these games, she knocks over the milk glasses easily, winding up her arm like a pro pitcher.

So she's great at either baseball or softball, she's never elaborated, she can play a hell of a game of pool, it all makes him believe that she'd probably be a shark at bowling too.

Silly smile on her face, she mimes puffing up her chest like she's telling him that this is how it's done before turning her attention to the prize wall, squinting as she scans over the collection.

Maybe she'll pick the white bear with-he registers sudden silence from the woman next to him and glances back over.

Reading her lips he sees her mouth out a silent 'Oh my god' blue eyes practically glittering.

She's pointing over at a large bat that he honestly hadn't even noticed looming from its perch at the back end of the stall. It wouldn't have looked out of place in the cave and he has to do a double take.

"That's the one, its gotta be that one!"

The vendor looks at her like she's some strange creature. Out of all the much cuter and colorful plush toys she chooses the hyper realistic bat?

He's probably chalking it up to 'Gothamites are weird' and he can't disagree, Gothamites are built different, people don't stop for anything but a rogue attack. And even then it has to be one they're in the direct line of fire for.

Practically pirouetting towards him, skirts flying, Stephanie says with a shit-eating grin "It's a Bruce you can actually talk to!" before shoving the monstrosity into his arms so enthusiastically he buckles a little.

It takes him a moment to understand and beating back a smile, he graciously accepts, theatrically pressing a hand on his heart like he's honored to receive the gift. He plays it like he's some shy, swooning, maiden, fluttering his eyelashes so obnoxiously that she lets out a cackle.

"Th-thanks Steph, it's what I've always wanted...!" Voice coming out garbled as he failed to suppress his laughter.

Chest heaving from the force of his restraint, he doubles over. He tries valiantly to smother the sound with his hand, he knows he looks crazy, but this is too good. Stomach cramping up from the hilarity of it all, he almost cries.

The cycle starts over another few times because Steph looks so proud of herself for the inside joke.

*

The lady taking orders looks like she could cheerfully murder them but he's really just too amused by Stephanie who's muttering under her breath that "Some things aren't meant to be fried."

The offending menu item in question is deep fried Oreos and she looks alternately fascinated and horrified by the batter covered discs.

Now, he doesn't like them either but he convinces her to try them anyway, mostly because he thinks it'll be hilarious.

"It's a new experience, come on" he lets his expression radiate innocence, channeling Clark's particular brand of boy scout.

She lifts it up to her mouth, looking at it speculatively, before taking a bite. Her face twists immediately as the full effect of it overwhelms her taste buds.

"Ugh these are disgusting, why did you do this to me?!" She whines before stealing a sip from his lemonade because her water couldn't get rid of the greasy aftertaste.

He just cheekily sticks out his tongue at her.

*

He redeems himself at a different game and the glow of that lasts until he asks "Which one?" Pointing at the goldfish in knotted plastic baggies.

"Raincheck?" She says a bit regretfully but certain in a way that tells him she won't budge.

There's a story there that she doesn't want to talk about going by her guilty flush and he manages to finagle it out of her by offering up a childhood story of his own.

The small mystery bags they end up with aren't as appealing to him but she swings hers back and forth like they're better than the goldfish.

*

The Twisto-nator is hands down the only thing he hates about Haly's. Yellow seats printed with bolts of green lightning, rails painted fire engine red, it was the big kid ride he wanted to cut his teeth on when he finally met the height and age requirement.

His stomach disagreed with the spinning and rocking motions violently and he was fortunate that the urge to vomit hadn't hit while he was in the air. He'd spent so long hunched over a trash can that his mother wondered if he'd gotten food poisoning instead. It was a hell of a way to spend his sixth birthday.

He'd tried to overcome it over the years on his sporadic visits to the circus but he always had the same clawing sense of nausea when he got strapped into a seat. It was like a shadow that couldn't be exorcized and for someone who could plummet off buildings without fear it was the source of some humiliation.

It's also one of the few rides that Stephanie insists on.

They'd taken a turn on the Ferris wheel, she'd rejected the carousel with a haunted expression and he hadn't wanted to pry, the rollercoaster was a fun detour. There were a few others, some even tougher than this one, and one Batman themed cart ride that left both of them snickering.

In a last ditch effort he says "You're wearing a dress, isn't this ride going to be inconvenient for you?"

Stephanie just bounces on the balls of her feet and says "Ye of little faith. Check it out, this is the only thing better than pockets in a skirt."

She gestures for him to look down and her hand hikes up the hem of her dress, he's caught so off guard that his heart ramps dangerously close into stroke territory.

Steph doesn't pull it up far, just enough that he can see an inch or two of the built-in shorts underneath, the hint of a zippered pocket.

'So that's why she hadn't bothered with a purse' he thinks as his eyes slide down the smooth skin of her legs without his permission.

There's a faint scar at the bend of her knee that he wants to brush his thumb over. The skin looks soft and he wonders how many years it took to fade to that silvery pink.

The skirt goes back to flirting with the tops of her thighs as it falls back into place and he dismisses the thought as some kind of momentary madness.

*

Zitka is the next stop of the night. In her tassels and carmine headdress from the show, she cut an impressive figure, but because the massive elephant always behaved more like a puppy than the 6-7 ton diva that she truly was, she was less imposing than she could be.

Still, it was good to see her again and running a hand down her leathery gray hide he leaned in for a hug, the elephant's massive trunk curling around him gently.

Feeling playful he commands Zitka to pick up Stephanie who's standing a few feet away. He anticipates at the very least a yelp but all Stephanie does is vibrate with excitement like all her childhood dreams are coming true.

Her hands are flying, patting the elephant anywhere she can reach as she's lifted off her feet. It's devastatingly adorable and he doesn't deny the urge to snap a picture on his phone.

She doesn't even notice that he does it, too busy surveying the tent from the center of the ring as she was placed on Zitka's back.

*

On their way out, Old Man Haly finds some time away to greet them and as they say their goodbyes he tells them to stay for the staff meal.

Communicating with his eyes, he asks if she's okay with dinner. His grandfather-figure just looks so disappointed that he hadn't been able to steal more than a few minutes to speak with him.

Steph smiles and shoos him away, already making herself comfortable on a wood bench.

"I'll be fine." She waves, and when he and Old Man Haly return roughly fifteen minutes later she's surrounded by some of the other older cast members he knows and some younger additions he's never met.

Maggie has made her way over and sits next to her while Maksim stands off to the side eating and occasionally chiming in. It's a lively conversation and it looks like she may be as popular with them as she is with Zitka who hadn't wanted to relinquish the blonde.

He'd spent nearly ten minutes with Zitka playing keep away and had to resort to bribery. Steph was no help at all and just clung to the saddle while laughing hysterically at him.

They're scraping the last of their food off their plates when one of his childhood friends walks up.

"Dick Grayson, coming back to roost."

"Raya," he said, "long time, no see. This is Steph." He pulled her close to him, ignoring the sharp burst of pain when she pinched his side.

He traced out an SOS against her back.

"You're here with someone?" His childhood friend said with some surprise.

"She deserved a day out and I wanted to give it to her."

"Lucky girl." Raya peered at him, twirling a loop of red hair around a finger as she moved her feet.

"Lucky guy."' He corrected as he threw a glance at the blonde to his right, honesty bleeding into his voice.

Something about that made the perpetually moonstruck shine go out of Raya's eyes. He'd never known how to put her crush to rest, the hope she radiated whenever he visited Haly's was a bit much for him to handle but whatever it was that ended it is something he's glad for.

Her attention shifted to Steph and they sound gracious enough as they exchange pleasantries. Banal things at first, the weather, the news, but their smiles grow a little more genuine as they discover that they like the same soul destroying reality TV show. The one that Steph sometimes forced him to sit through while they waited on whatever she cooked.

And wasn't that just like Steph?

He was very aware that he tossed her into an awkward situation, but she did what she did best, found common ground and planted seeds.

Steph's arm tightens around his as she leans into his side, slim fingers tangling with his as they bring him back into the conversation.

Her hand isn't delicate, he can feel calluses that rival his own, but it is small. Chipped nails are painted in stripes that alternate between a pastel shade of lavender and a purple that matches the color of the kevlar panels that run down the side of her Batgirl suit.

Amazing, that these same hands knocked out three muggers during last week's patrol.

A little cooler in tone towards him the redhead chit-chatted idly with them before making her excuses and walking off. "Don't be a stranger." she said in the least suggestive way she had in a long time.

Raymond, from a few yards behind her, inclines his head in the friendliest interaction they'd had in years and it confuses him.

The second that Raya disappears from sight Steph steps out of the circle of his arms.

At some point he'd wrapped himself around her, he realized blankly.

A curious gleam is in her eyes as she stares up at him. "Is she the reason you have a thing for redheads?"

The blonde sent him a teasing look, teeth biting into her lip like she was trying to stop herself from saying something else that he wouldn't like.

"What? No."

The words come out more vehemently than he means for them to.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"I'm not a lady, but I am very pretty." He jokes to send them in a different direction.

There was no way he was ever going to admit that Raya was his first crush. And he'd been seven, he didn't exactly go to public school and she was one of the few other people in the circus that was anywhere near his age besides Raymond.

Steph tries to compel the truth from him the rest of the night but he has just enough resistance to not cave.

*

"So that's what was in these." Steph holds a sheet of temporary tattoos closer to her eyes for a better look as they sit in his car, the remains of their mystery bags lying on the floor near her feet. "I've always wanted to get one but I haven't taken the plunge yet. Have you ever wanted to get a tattoo?"

"I actually have a few. They're on my shoulder." He's quiet as he offers the information up, it felt alien to reference them since they were half a secret. He's sure his family has seen them but he'd never explained the meanings behind them.

"You? Tattoos? I wouldn't have pegged you as the type." She cocked her head at him, long hair cascading off her shoulder.

"I wasn't, I…" he wasn't certain he wanted to continue "got one after Jason died. And then he came back so I thought it was only fair to have some dedicated to Tim, Cass, and Damian."

It felt like the crack she'd made when she brought him the foods of his childhood widened. The sensation wasn't painful but he felt one cut away from bleeding.

Picking up one of the sheets that was on her lap he said "You can try one of these to test out whether a tattoo is for you."

She seems to understand why he changes the subject and says "Choose for me."

He flips through the pages, flowers, bolts of lightning, puppies and kittens, and planets, but always comes back to a vibrant yellow sun that reminds him of a compass.

"Is this one okay?"

"Yeah, I like it." she studies the piece he'd torn off before nodding her head "Put it on me now?"

"Let me grab a few things." He reached past her to open up his glove box for some napkins before bringing one to the mouth of a water bottle he hadn't finished.

"On my wrist, I think that's where I would actually put a tattoo."

"Here?" He asked softly.

Steph considers the placement before saying "Move it up a little more."

"Give it 30 seconds" He slid it up to her pulse point and applied the wet napkin to the backing of the tattoo. When he peels it off he blows on the damp skin, these things could mess up very easily when they weren't dry.

"Can I choose for you?"

How much damage could she do, he thinks before giving her the affirmative.

"Does it have to be manly, a car, or fire based at all?"

Her words spark a laugh from him "I'm perfectly fine with whatever" he emphasized the word "and wherever you choose to put this."

"Is that a challenge?" She quirks a brow at him.

"If you can embarrass me, I'll wear it the entire shift that I work tomorrow."

The decisive way she tears a piece off the sheet in her hands makes him regret his words.

"Do I at least get to know what you're marking me with?"

She showed him a small blue butterfly. It wasn't nearly as bad as she could've made things, she could've mocked up a penis with the I and O's on one of the sheets dedicated to initials, but he wouldn't be the one to give her that option.

"What do I get if I win?" He smirked, sure he had it in the bag.

"You won't."

He startles when her hand cups the back of his neck, urging his head down so close to hers that he could draw the curve of her lips from memory.

She presses the tattoo to his cheek like a kiss and the cool sensation of her breath ghosting over his skin makes his pulse race.

"You're blushing!" She grinned at him "I'm pretty sure I just won. Guess you're wearing this to work tomorrow!"

The tattoo isn't the biggest problem here.

Chapter Text

Murdering butterflies by concentrating on the actual boyfriend that she has is the best way to go about this, right?

Asking herself this while at dinner with Kayden is a stupid time for this question to pop up.

Kayden pulls out a chair for her at some high end contemporary pizza place that doesn't hold a candle to Di Contini's crowded and cozy atmosphere. The low lighting and loud dance music grate on her ears and trying to determine where the speakers are so she can turn away from them is a bust.

It's uncharitable since she hasn't had any dishes yet but she thinks Orvecchio's believes in distracting people with the background so they can get away with sub-par food. She's just not a big fan of places that make her think she's in a club when she's not but she knows why he opted for it.

She knows because he's said "Five star rated on Yelp" six or seven times already.

Leaving furrows on the smooth finish of the table is a real possibility if he doesn't shut up about that.

Pasting on a smile she asks how he's been. A polite question you ask people you haven't seen in a while. Think years, weeks, months, not someone you date.

The fact that she doesn't know the more intimate details that fill his day, and vice versa, a tiny epiphany lights up the outermost corners of her brain, might be why they've lasted. It brings her just short of depression but it does make her more determined to make it a good night.

How did this go again? They'd seen each other… Oh. The last time they'd seen each other was nearly three weeks ago.

Questions, she needs to ask questions, she drums her hands on the table. Smiling at him is a start.

She doesn't ask herself why it's so tough to spin things up but the small show of interest is enough and soon he's chatting away, regaling her with stories of his labs and the morgue.

They're interesting enough for her to give him her full focus and she puts bits and pieces away into the far recesses of her mind. Important things, like, prepare yourself for the smell and make sure you don't have a latex allergy. One of his classmates somehow hadn't known he was sensitive and his hands had swelled in his gloves so badly they looked straight out of a cartoon. Since most condoms are made out of latex his classmate is lucky he found out using gloves.

Kayden, plodding along, even tries to quip, after complaining about cadavers, "The only body I want to touch is your body" and it's ridiculous and smooth and it prompts a more genuine smile to come to her lips. There's some charm rattling around in there and rediscovering it is breaking news.

He says he wants tonight to be a getaway for her, which is uncomplicatedly sweet and for a spell it's as though they're in a bubble.

Except bubbles are fragile and they lose form easily.

The way he rattles out their order before she can take a look at the menu breaks what he built. It reminds her too much of her ex-boyfriend Dean. He always did things like that, like he was so worldly at his nineteen to her fifteen and his opinion was the be-all and end-all of things.

A black smocked waiter with an excessively chipper attitude that is obviously designed for sole purpose of tips, which she can respect having been a waitress before she'd scored her position at her current job, spirits away the list of specials at Kayden's behest and controlling the arrangement of her face becomes a challenge.

"Do I take too long to order when we go out or something?" She's aiming for joking but her tone edges more into 'There is a wrong answer, watch whatever you say next.'

He doesn't know her enough to realize it, she notes as mulls over the expression on his face. How can something as disappointing as that also be a relief?

She fiddles with her necklace, the chain biting into her skin.

"I just know what you like."

The twitch to her eye at that can't be suppressed and the calming breath she has to take, he's lucky they're in public. People making her choices for her is probably her number one pet peeve. It's a scale of one to Bruce and the bell dings loud and clear.

'Well, buddy if you knew what I liked you wouldn't have ordered anchovies on our pizza' she thinks as her fingers begin a rhythm on their table. The music is so loud that she doubts he'll register the aggressive beat.

She could pick them off but the taste would no doubt linger. One or two anchovies were great mashed into a Caesar dressing, blended into Alfredo if you wanted to be traditional. On pizza?

They eat in relative silence and while the food, which is supposed to be the highlight of the evening, isn't totally awful, she chews on each bite like she's a cow chewing cud. Bread disintegrates in her mouth because she's not sure if she can stop herself from saying something too blunt.

The anchovies, she will admit, were properly balanced so the rating at least wasn't completely unjustified.

She sweeps her eyes over the large dining room, the place crammed in as many tables as they could, until she's at least halfway done with her plate before pushing it off to the side. Wasting food is a crime but, for once, she has no appetite.

It's like she's trying to eat her mother's frankenfood bastardization of a chicken and broccoli casserole.

Flagging the server as soon as Kayden finishes she tries to go dutch, wallet in hand because the place is overpriced and she knows Kayden is as cheap as she is. It was what they originally bonded over, cafeteria food was terrible at GCC and their tuition obviously went straight to upkeep, but he snatches her card off the tray and slides it over to her.

*

Out of the noise and low beat that had started to cause a headache they have a much better time. She's not impressed by how the scene at the restaurant went down but there's a small kiosk selling churros and they're already in line.

Carbs made things better on principle. Carbs fried and dipped in cinnamon and sugar, well, they were that food you reached for when you wanted to taste happiness.

"Hey," he pauses, voice ringing with uncertainty, as they walk away after stuffing the vendor's tip jar "I'm sorry for being so pushy in the restaurant. I was trying to be cool there."

And well, well, well, he'd noticed her irritation after all.

The apology makes her goggle for a moment but that's definitely more like the Kayden she knows. Not soft spoken exactly, but shyer than someone would expect from someone like him. His shoulders shrink in on themselves and for such a bulky guy he seems small, he disappears under the aggressive color of his red leather jacket.

He's never worn anything so flashy before.

It's a belated realization, an arrow that finally hits its target. This was him trying, in his own way, and all night, in the back of her mind she'd been making unfair comparisons.

The plaintive look he sends her reminds her so much of Dick at his most earnest that when the guilt for the thought hits, cinnamon sugar gritty on her fingers, she hauls him in for a kiss.

*

Skipping out on plans with Kara is normal. Not great, but normal. Kara's had boyfriends, her friend understands that there are times that something has to give. There are only so many hours in a day. Canceling on Dick for the first time? Now that feels like a series of small kicks to the head that throw off her equilibrium.

One, when did he carve out a regular place in her schedule? She can't remember how movie night became a thing. Was it an organic evolution, the end result of winding down after patrol?

Vague memories of shuffling into the family room at the manor come to mind but she's not sure who initiated it.

Two, how had he weaseled into being a close friend? And they were undeniably close if he was able to bribe her with food successfully. Cookie, tacos, a Chinese food place with takeout that she would happily throw the meager contents of her wallet at.

She hated charity and she had hated having guys especially pay for her in general ever since Jimmy O'Connell thought that buying her fries and a shake would get him to first base.

Three, the pang of disappointment at canceling shouldn't be hitting her as hard as it is.

The last might be because she very much did want to watch Velocipastor, no one else would enjoy the amount of cringe and corny dialogue but him.

Dick didn't shush her while they watched movies; they're very much the loud people in the theater who won't shut up, or at least they would be if the venue wasn't always her place or the manor or his. They pour movie theater butter (Dick finding what she'd called crack in a bottle was something she had to continually give him credit for) over their popcorn in a way that makes clogged arteries a promise.

Still, the third realization has her wary because liking to spend time with a friend is great but spending that much time with a guy friend over a boyfriend is asking for trouble and invites unwanted commentary.

Dick can blame Kara for that one because the other blonde had started getting this irritatingly nosy look on her face and had brought up a hypothetical "friend" who was in a relationship but had an "growing emotional bond" with another friend of the opposite gender, the last time they'd had lunch.

Like she wouldn't have caught on.

Triumphantly, she'd told Kara that "the intense emotional bond she was obviously referencing was not that deep."

Seriously, she'd shoved Dick off her couch last week for the cardinal sin of hating on her love of the last Halloween film. She would totally be nicer to someone she was dating.

She was nicer to the someone she'd been dating.

Conversations with Kayden remained conspicuously free of the relentless mocking and occasional sharp elbow that sometimes flavored her interactions with Dick. She wasn't a saint but he hadn't ever had to deal with anything other than the subtler shows of her temper.

And the butterflies were a one-time fluke and hadn't happened since.

Patting the other girl on the cheek and assuring her that she would always get to be the one who had the honor of holding her hair back when she was puking her guts out, courtesy of tequila, earned her a side-eye.

"Fine, maybe I'm being sensitive." Her blonde friend threw up her hands, ultimately deciding to let it go.

"Yes, you are. Eat your rabbit food." She remembered quipping as Kara let out an offended huff, unconcerned with her insinuations.

It was a good thing they had eaten in the restaurant, a plastic fork would not have held up.

*

She and Dick are debating the pros and cons of something brainless when she breaks the news a second time. Pulling off their gear after a patrol should be enough of a distraction, it's worked before, and she thinks he won't question her, but he does with a hand to her arm and a hangdog expression that inspires more guilt than necessary, it's like she's said fairies don't exist.

(Nevermind that they sort of do and they're blue assholes who warp time and space for their own benefit with a cat draped over their shoulders like a vicious, living, fur scarf.)

The mild dismay on his face, grin falling as he asks why they aren't marathoning the list of B-rated horror comedies they came up with has her mumbling something about exams at which point he relents.

Why, someone would ask, does she reference her exams instead of the guy she'd been dating the last few months?

Great question.

Kayden isn't exactly a secret, she's mentioned him before, she's taken calls with Dick in the background for chrissakes.

Thinking about it makes her brain hurt so she labels it a spur of the moment mistake, a hiccup.

"It can't be helped." Dick says as he hangs up his belt and shoots her another smile, companionable as they walk out together, arm slung over her shoulder in a half hug before he pushes her towards her car with his fingertips.

She'd been meaning to thank him. Ever since he gifted her the audio version of her textbook her grades had been on an upwards trend.

'Definitely can't do that now.' She thinks, resisting the urge to look at him in case he would be able to pick up on the falsehood.

*

When Dick calls the week after she canceled she's prepping for a test so intently that the letters swim across her eyes like living things, so when she tells him she should study, this time she's being truthful.

She keeps confusing elements for one another and Biochem is a core class and it's not one where her audio book can help her. Going the old fashioned route with flashcards and rote memorization is the only thing that works.

Her resolve to say no is there, the cement is drying, but like he can see her he says something designed to make her crumble.

"Self-care is important too."

That simple phrase is the straw that breaks the camel's back.

Being direct isn't something that comes naturally to Dick, he dances around things, he goes at things from the side, makes U-Turns and veers away from conflict only to circle his way around. He lets people come to him, so that single sentence is like a declaration.

If he's that worried, maybe she should take a break. It's a strange time to realize it but she explicitly trusts his judgment off the field too.

"Well if there's gonna be free funnel cake…"

*

Dick is a deceptively transparent person. At first glance you wouldn't think he had any secrets, he walks through the world sure of his footsteps.

Getting to see him like this, in his natural habitat, is like putting water from a lake under a microscope. Changing the scenery is like changing the magnification and while his face is the same, frustratingly flawless, a smile flashed at her like a fishing lure, she sees microexpressions in a way she didn't before.

He brightens when they see an old man named Maksim, the man tips his newsboy cap at them and waves them in before telling Dick that he'll find him later.

One step through the gate and Dick's pace picks up like he wants to be everywhere at once.

Does the circus amplify his emotions or does she just know him better now?

*

"I've always kinda wanted to get those done but I'm also paranoid. Like, am I messing with powers that should not be-"

"Steph, you're not going to be playing with a Ouija Board. C'mon." Dick huffed as he crowded up behind her, solid as a wall against her smaller frame.

Leaning into him like a kid about to throw a tantrum is part of the joke but the way his hands curve around her shoulders, like she should be treated gently, makes her feel safe and supported in a way that she marvels at before recommitting herself to the bit with murmurs of "Constantine is a walking warning that things exist though. I probably won't survive, I'm not a brunette, you definitely won't-"

Per horror movies, she wasn't final girl material, she was the slutty blonde who died in the beginning of the film. She wasn't exactly a cheerleader in highschool but she did love her miniskirts.

Dick would be second to last to go because he had 'Big Damn Hero' stamped on his forehead. In that genre that meant tripping at the finish line and she almost tells him as much when his fingers poke into her ribs.

Fingertips attack a ticklish spot ruthlessly once he identifies it and she can't help but fall back halfway through an attempt to get away, gasping in laughter. By some miracle her head lands in the crook of his neck instead of uppercutting his jaw.

"You might as well do it, we're already here." He teases, voice warm and low in her ear. The vibration of his vocal chords passes through the skin of his throat to her cheek and sends a full body shiver through her.

'Focus on his audacity, not the smell of his aftershave.' she tells herself as she rocks up onto her feet. His hands move with her until she takes a more resolute step away and spins on her heel. Hair hitting him in her rush to create some distance.

It's right there that the fortune teller, or rather the jangling of her clothes, interrupts them.

*

The fortune teller is an older woman with sun etched skin and a bold, oxblood lipstick that made her teeth almost glow. If she stood back further she'd be a great Cheshire Cat, that smile floating in the darkness.

This lady is intimidating and the languid grace that she uses as she stalks in a circle around her reminds her of a leopard. Those sable eyes aren't devoid of warmth but they are openly evaluative under sharply rounded brows that make her think of silent film stars.

Refusing to let herself fidget she straightens up under that gaze. Fidgeting would be giving her ammunition and she refused to put herself on defense when shots hadn't been fired.

Thankfully some tension breaks as formal introductions are made. Maggie feels like such a misnomer for the person in front of her right up until she finds out that it's a contraction for the name Magdolna, which, she elaborates, is a Hungarian variant of Magdalene.

"I don't seem the type for such a name do I?"

Staring at the rune carved chicken bones pushed off to the side of the table they sat at, a cluster of crystals strung on copper wire, and the mish mash of different tokens from decidedly disparate religions, Buddhist, Egyptian, Greek, and even Norse, she answered "Not exactly."

She offers the next bit tentatively "But my name means crown and I'm not exactly royalty." and ugh no, she's rambling, this woman didn't need to know what she learned when she was supposed to be listening to a lecture on ethics, "Poverty is my superpower, my wallet cries when I open it. Think" she traced a circular shape in the air "Crackers and cans of tuna instead of caviar and" she stumbled over the word and it came out as a question "crostini."

The measuring look turns into something more amused and she swears she can see the resemblance between her and Dick in the curve of her smile.

And really, it took her embarrassing herself to break the ice?

She gives in and fidgets like she's younger than she is, her toe going in circles that wane and wax like moon cycles. Bashful was not a word people associated with her, but here she was.

Why did she feel so nervous?

"Before I read your fortune, may I know how you know our boy?"

'Our boy.'

This lady really knows Dick. The spark in her eyes is the same one he gets when he's warming up to a subject.

It's exciting to meet someone who knew Dick as a kid. Bruce isn't talkative, Tim, when they were together at least, had him on a pedestal, Damian still had him on one, despite disparaging his way of doing things, and Red Hood wasn't on her speed dial, she held onto her grudges and beating the shit out of Tim hadn't endeared him to her. She tried to reserve her judgment but the two renditions of the man either sung his praises, Bambi and the girls, or labeled him a loose cannon, Bruce. She'd put a tiny bit more stock into what Bruce said because Tim for whatever reason was off puttingly forgiving for someone whose blood was used to paint the
message "Jason Todd was here."

"Going on seven years now." It wasn't classified information so it felt safe enough to give.

"Seven years and I've never heard of you."

There's a note of displeasure there but it doesn't appear to be directed towards her.

The urge to speak on Dick's behalf crystallizes and she says "We haven't gotten close until now. We knew each other through someone else."

Bringing up Tim is a whole lot of baggage that she doesn't like getting into and he's the only civilian justification for knowing Dick. The optics would be a little odd, hanging out with your ex's brother would raise flags so the less detail the better.

"Do you work with the police then? You seem young." The sound of a spoon clanking against the sides of a teacup rang out into the air.

"Uh, no." She makes up on the fly "We got closer while doing community service together."

In a manner of speaking, patrol qualifies as community service. Hands-on, occasionally violent, community service. She wasn't exactly handing out lollipops every day but that was an okay trade off if a kid didn't get caught up in a fight.

"How long have you known Dick?"

"Since the day he ruined his mother's body forever."

It's such a brutal rejoinder that she chokes out a laugh. She wasn't expecting that kind of humor.

A pleased expression crosses the other woman's face before she continues "You might say since he was in the womb, if you would like me to be delicate."

"Indelicate is my wheelhouse, I live without a filter since I can't afford that either."

Tossing a piece of chocolate into her mouth before proffering some towards her, Maggie gestured to the chair opposite of her. "Sit, we should make ourselves comfortable and make him sweat at all the terrible things that I know and will share with you. I may even show you baby photos."

"Story for story?" The Pollyanna case comes immediately to mind and she can't stop the devious smile from coming onto her face or the way she visibly perks up.

The cackle the woman makes as she appraises her is the best stamp of approval, like she's found a kindred spirit.

Dick should be afraid.

"I might have to like you."

So begins a rapidfire trade that reminds her of mahjong. They trade pieces like they're trying to one up the other and it's an all around gloriously funny breakdown of Dick's quirks and personality.

The woman unfurls further and some of the mystery drops away as she shows her pictures of a tiny Dick Grayson cuddled in his father's shirt. Blue eyes peek out from over the collar and everything in her goes to mush.

Cooing like a dove over the sight is not in her plans but it's criminally cute and a hand finds its way to her chest like she's been shot.

She has to ask Dick if he has a strawberry shaped birthmark on his ass now, she just has to. He'll know why, Maggie is too practiced at telling the story for him to not immediately place it.

Apparently Mr. Haly, the ringmaster, or Old Man Haly as Maggie said, had convinced three year old Dick Grayson that he was a bird and he'd streaked past everyone in the circus in nothing but bubbles.

"Haly was lucky that Dick didn't catch a cold, Marya might have murdered him otherwise. His meals for weeks were cold, even soup ended up tepid. She made every person who did laundry promise not to do his and the image of him complaining like a spurned mother-in-law about chapped hands may never leave me."

She offers up the Pollyanna case, which makes the woman snort and mutter that Dick was always stubborn but the accidental proposition Dick made to her when he started bringing her food makes the woman laugh more. Though only after a penetrating stare that makes her wonder what set her off.

"He feeds you?" Maggie said with an emotion in her eyes that she can't decipher.

"Well, he tries and I occasionally let him. I'm usually the one who ends up cooking, I know his kitchen better than him. Think of all the things you would use in a kitchen, but with stickers on them." She says the punchline in a hushed whisper like it's a secret "He's lived there for over five years."

The way the woman roars with laughter when she illustrates how Dick only had salt and pepper for seasoning before she dragged him bodily to the store has Maggie patting her on the hand.

"Good that he has you to take care of him." The praise falls over her like a blanket warm from the dryer even as she denies it, Dick survived long before she ever stumbled into his life.

Further anecdotes on the state of Dick's kitchen prompt stories of his mother, who apparently also could not cook, at least not when she first arrived at Haly's. The way Dick described her made her sound like a natural so it's a shock to hear otherwise.

"Marya could have burnt water and she ruined more than a few pots when starting out. Ion was very patient to endure the charred remains of what she produced. Dick is fortunate to have experienced her cooking after she learned, she used to carve away potatoes into nothing."

Maggie's voice is so achingly fond as she says it, like her friend is just around the corner and about to protest the depiction.

His parents' memories are alive and well here.

*

"Does he still bite his cheek before he tells a lie?" Maggie asks when the subject of habits comes up.

A tell?

She's going to have to test that out.

Had it become something else over the years? Like clenching his jaw?

*

"Dick gets away with so much and we let him because when he stares at you with those eyes it's impossible to say no!" A sigh filters out of her even though she can't help the upturn of the corner of her lip.

"If it comforts you, he often got his way as a child here too. Sui, the seamstress of the circus, made robin wings for three years straight. As I remember it, he was very particular, the colors had to be an exact match." Her fingers flew across the air like she was touching the feathers.

"For Halloween?"

"No, costumes are an everyday thing here. You know" Maggie said thoughtfully "To most the difference between Tiffany blue and aquamarine is negligible, not so for Dick even as a toddler. Sui cursed, rather inventively as I recall it, the person who suggested a visit to the library. She ventured into voodoo. He'd latched onto a book about birds and his parents had to pay for it because he kept squirreling it away whenever they tried to return it by post." She let out a big chortle. "The librarian must've been quite the character to have sent the circus six notices across six different cities "

*

"You are one of two people that I know from his other life, he has never brought anyone home before."

She calls the circus home for Dick and she has to agree. He's so at ease. It's not like he's stiff in Bludhaven or Gotham but his steps are so steady here, his laugh freer.

It's a minute before she realizes that Maggie said she was one of two people.

Who was the other?

Turning curious eyes on the woman she asks "Who else do you know?"

"I correspond with the man called Alfred, I was the person to help him acclimate Dick when he went to live with that billionaire playboy." She patted the box of treats in front of her "They are a weakness for Dick. Alfred has kept me apprised of many things that have happened in Gotham since then. I had mercy on his soul as Dick, when displeased, is a terror."

The fact that the woman talks about Dick like he's still a toddler is hilarious and she can barely hold back her snickers.

"Does Dick know you and Alfred talk?"

It's fascinating to hear because these two parts of his life seem as though they're separated by oceans.

"No, but it was the only way I would have let the guardianship take place. I would have settled in Gotham if not for that point of contact. Or stolen him."

Iron in her voice, Maggie sounds formidable and she believes her wholeheartedly. The woman says that last sentence so matter of factly that Doc Thompkins and her lectures on the importance of sanitization come to mind. Doc Thompkins was fanatical about it, a holdover from her days in Doctors without Borders.

*

They skip over Palmistry and the woman admits that she doesn't believe in it anyways.

"Telling people the trajectory of their life or even about love using the lines on their hands is foolish. I can do much more just by observing."

Intrigued by the claim she asks Maggie to tell her what she can get off of her. She doesn't expect much but the amount of information the woman is able to get with just one cursory glance is staggering.

Maggie takes her hand and says "From the calluses on your palms you are no stranger to physical labor, the calluses on your knuckles suggest that you do some variation of martial arts or boxing. Your figure tends towards lean muscle and" She hums as she scans over her again "you carry yourself with an awareness of your body that most women do not have unless they are athletes or have given birth."

That last part shakes her with its accuracy and the other woman raises her brow at her silence.

"Most people see me and peg me as being more delicate than I am. My mouth is what usually makes them forget that first impression. Go on." she lets a more deliberate humor infect her words.

Her teenage pregnancy is not up for story time.

"Your primary objective, while you surely take inspiration from the 50's and 60's with this outfit,-"

It was as though Maggie had access to her socials. She watched a lot of reruns as a kid, they didn't have access to cable, so her appreciation of the styles stuck. The winged cat-liner and five minute blowout is a nod to a specific icon she still loved.

"when purchasing clothing is comfort and utility. I take this mostly from the peek I saw of the shorts under your skirt-"

She found herself nodding to that. Being prepared and comfy was a thing for her. Nothing was worse than accidentally flashing someone when you were trying to defend yourself.

She lived in Gotham, after all.

"when the two of you were canoodling-"

Hold up.

The way she said it, was that supposed to mean flirting?

'Course correction' the words flash in front of her eyes. "Oh no, no, no, no, no.' She didn't need to use that many No's but they can't stop running out. 'We were not canoodling." The rejection comes out so emphatically that she loses her breath on the unfamiliarity of the last word.

Dick and her weren't, the words croak out of her mouth. "I was being a brat and giving him a hard time."

How did the woman weaponize a slow blink?

She was innocent, damn it!

The GCPD could stand to take lessons, suspects would trip all over themselves in front of her. They would practically sign their confessions themselves.

"Sorry, you can continue." A sheepish smile found her lips because she did interrupt.

Segueing smoothly into another sentence the woman stated "The trim along the top of your dress matches the lighter stripes on your nails, which are chipped. You must be partial to the color purple because you do not strike me as the type to care to match your garments to your nails and you favor your right hand but gesture with your left. Ambidextrous?"

She'd sprained her wrist and dislocated her thumb about a month into her time as Spoiler. She hadn't known how to throw a punch properly and the swelling persisted but, hey, she still had class and had to make do. Writing with her left hand had been a disaster and she flunked a math quiz because she couldn't read her notes.

She hadn't cared about math class per se but that teacher, Mr. Lowenstein, liked to post the lowest grade that dragged down the class average on the board. The decision to master that hand was natural after that.

Evidently, she'd been giving the wrong person credit for Dick's detective skills because he got them from Maggie, hands down.

*

Tarot is underwhelming in comparison to being Sherlocked by Maggie until she explains what she's seeing. The cards of the deck are a beautiful mix of gold and silver gilded Art Nouveau and each illustration is a small work of art.

Maggie's hands shuffle and flip the cards like a dealer at a casino, which makes sense because this is her livelihood.

"For you I will do a five card reading." The woman says as if she's granting a favor, the bangles on her wrist clanging against the table.

"Full disclosure, I don't really know how this works."

"Which is why I am here, to divine the messages meant for you."

Unlike Palmistry Maggie actually seems to believe in Tarot and since she's met Constantine once or twice she won't discount any higher powers.

"Do I" a laugh escapes from her, "give you my hands for this one?"

"No, but we should decide what spread you want to do. A spread determines the order or what questions will be answered. We can do readings for the future, your career, for love, or relationships."

"Relationships."

She could use some guidance, things with Kayden were, she couldn't describe it but they didn't feel right. But she didn't want to give up either, of the biggest ghosts left by her relationship with Tim, the worst was the thought that she didn't try enough. She couldn't discount that their issues weren't on her and she had a history of her own that her current boyfriend had no idea existed.

"Take five cards." Maggie fanned the deck out in front of her.

"A Reversed Three of Swords, an interesting start to the reading but a positive one. This card represents healing and letting go of old hurts. People see swords and assume negative outcomes but in a reversed state, see how they point away from the pierced heart, they allow a heart to mend. The clouds, while dark, are clearing, which symbolizes hope and renewal."

Maggie set it off to the side and she found herself studying the card. Healing and letting go of old hurts makes it sound like therapy is in her future. She didn't think she was holding onto too much but was it a sign to speak to Dinah?

"The Sun. You have something to celebrate on the horizon and you are entering a period of passion and positivity. Keep in mind that the sun burns as much as it casts light but what problems are revealed mean growth and a pathway to joy if you are true to yourself."

Passion sounds nice, the second half sounds less promising. She'd like at least one part of her life to be simple.

"Two of Cups" Maggie announced with a small smile "suggests that you will reach a new level of communion with the person in your life. You are learning new things from each other and will be rewarded if you embrace the unique vulnerability of being known."

"Six of Wands, there is untapped potential in your life, you should take the time to understand what you want as rushing may cause friction. Do not allow dark thoughts and doubts to ruin the good of what you have."

"The Hierophant, this is unusual to draw in this sort of reading" she mused, fingers tracing over the edges of the card "There will be a ritual or event that will completely transform the relationship. Something of great meaning."

It's more optimistic than she would've expected for her relationship with Kayden, she can't stop the confused furrow of her brows from settling on her face.

They've just started chatting about other things again when Dick barges in like ants are biting at his ankles.

The spectacle is enough for her and Maggie to look at each other like they have a hive mind.

"I don't think we called for you, did we?" Her voice goes sing song and she looks at Maggie mischievously, willing her to follow her lead.

"The sheer gall of him." Maggie's drawl is lazy and drawn out as they both stare at him as though he's intruding.

The bemused look on Dick's face as he takes the two of them in, with their box of chocolate and beverages, makes her want to push a little, just to see what he would do, but he beats her to the punch.

"Well, this lowly peasant would like to beg for an audience anyways." He goes for comedy and bows with the same boyish and playful expression he made when they were in his kitchen, the same theatrics as when he threw himself over the counter, called her a kitchen witch, and asked her to teach him how to not slice off a finger.

The only difference is the courtly brush of his lips to her hand.

The piece of chocolate in her other hand plops onto the table as she tries to tamp down on her embarrassment at the contact.

Shouldn't he let go now?

*

While Dick catches up with Maggie she's approached by the burly old man from the gate, Maksim, who apologizes for not introducing himself properly earlier. The man holds his plaid cap over his chest in a display of old world manners that charms her. He's a large man but so personable that she instantly feels comfortable around him.

Maksim, is a sieve and he's eager to provide as many stories as he can cram into the time they talk. He's also so genuinely interested in her as a person that she finds herself volunteering her own childhood stories even though the goal was to net more about Dick.

They get there eventually, but not before she learns that he was in the Navy and that when he came home he found that the farm life wasn't for him. He left Iowa following after a showgirl, things didn't work out, but he made nice with her entire chorus line and one of them had a brother who he had shared a smoke with outside the cabaret.

"That's how things worked in those days, sharing a drink or a smoke was how you made a friend." He shrugged, "Charlie and I ended up going on a double date and while the dame and I didn't get on I did meet Haly. First time I ever got stopped in the street, the man yelled about my biceps being the size of melons."

Of the stories that spill from him she learns that Dick always wanted brothers and sisters, so much so that he once followed a couple and their four kids, all dark haired like him, around the circus and they ordered extra food when his voice popped up from behind them.

The family ended up laughing about it and ruffled his hair and his parents, Marya and Ion, when they heard it from Fred, Fred used to run concessions and retired about eight years ago to Florida, Maksim wrinkled his nose like he couldn't understand why, muttering something about sink holes and West Nile, they praised him on his ability to blend in.

"Marya and Ion, were the kind of folks to indulge Dick. We were all lucky that he turned out spoiled sweet instead of just spoiled."

All the story does is make her think about the odds of him ending up with exactly that many brothers and sisters, a private smile on her lips.

*

Is naming the bat she won Dick, 'Bruce', too easy of a dig? Yes. But it fit so perfectly, there was no way anyone who knew what the man did at night could resist. Even if the only other person brave enough to make the joke, probably with a colorful array of cuss words, was Red Hood.

The plush was all lurky and beady eyed and if she hadn't thought that corner looked suspiciously dark, she would've missed it.

It had Bruce's skills.

Was that not the definition of kismet?

Dick's face when she shoved it at him before he could refuse was priceless. The wide 'O' of his lips as he understood what she said might live in her memory as the single best joke she'd ever made and the way he keels over laughing, more than once, is an olympic achievement.

If anything, the fact that he carried around a prize courtesy of her had ignited his competitiveness and made him even more energetic. They bypass darts because it would be like taking candy from a baby but there is a game that makes her think of it as a way less alcoholic version of beer pong.

His Hudson days must've been eventful because he wins as handily as she did. He tries to explain it to her, something about Wind Factors that he picked up from Wally and when the vendor asks them which fish they want Dick gets excited, that dimple making another appearance.

"Nemo?" He brought a guppy of a goldfish that had a fin smaller than the other to her attention.

It's such an obvious one that she has to turn to him and say "Really?"

"Gulliver?"

This fish is noticeably bigger than any other candidate in the row of baggies. It looks hulked out, like it ate its spinach, but she still shakes her head.

He keeps pointing out fish and naming them and she hates to burst his bubble.

"Which one?" Dick flung his hand at the row of them.

"Raincheck?

"Steph," he says, "they're so low maintenance."

"Me and pets? Hard no."

He stops and examines the guilty expression she knows is on her face and takes a step closer.

"It can't be worse than eight year old me letting our magician, Martin's, pet rabbit out so it could play outside. I really thought Garver would enjoy the sunshine and the open air." His eyes met hers "He was such a sweet ball of fluff and went limp whenever someone picked him up. Real favorite at the petting zoo on his off time. A hawk carried him off right in front of me. He didn't even try to kick." he admitted with a wince.

And yikes, that might be more horrifying than hers. The end result was for sure bloodier.

Tit for Tat, she decides before starting her own sordid tale. "It was an accident, I'll have you know I was still under three feet tall,"

Dick lets out a short chuckle and taps the top of her head as if he was saying she was still short.

"and clueless on how to clean a tank. I got fish from Mal and Clarissa for my birthday, Mal and Clarissa are my version of Alfred." She did an intro on the two people who made sure she had mostly steady meals growing up.

"Clorox was what my mom used in the kitchen and bathroom so I assumed that was what I had to use. Those poor fish lasted less than a week and I still feel bad about it more than fifteen years later. It wasn't like I poured a gallon in it but uh, a single capful was bad enough" she cringed at the memory.

To his credit, Dick doesn't laugh at that part, he just nudges her shoulder and they smile helplessly at each other in the way you do with someone else who understands how embarrassing childhood can be.

"We're keeping these stories a secret right?"

"No one else gets to know." He promises her.

*

"We've gone on the Ferris Wheel, the rollercoaster, how about the carousel?" He gestured to the line winding around the attraction.

People posted stuff like this, the carousel at Haly's was a beautifully restored 1930's relic painted in shades of carmine, ivory, and gold. Something out of a little girl's daydreams, the lovingly detailed life-sized horses, with their hair carved so finely it appeared to float in the air, pranced to a jaunty, cheerful beat.

And she still didn't want to ride it.

The summer she turned eight she rode one that was decidedly less pretty, but she'd loved fairytales the way every girl at her age did back then, so to her it was magical even if it languished in the dead part of the mall.

It was weeks until school started and in hindsight, riding one all day every day while her mom worked a shift at the mattress outlet, one that wasn't even in the same building but instead was across the street, was bad parenting.

But what could have been done? Her mom couldn't afford a babysitter back then, could barely afford bus fare before she got herself together enough to get her GED and the last time she'd been left alone at home she'd melted all the tops of their tupperware in an attempt to bake cookies in the microwave since the stove was off limits.

They'd been lucky enough that the operator, a chain-smoker with a rasp that a rockstar would envy, "didn't give a shit" as long as she wasn't loud.

Anyone else would've called CPS.

So she sat on the only bench on the ride, ate her sandwich, peanut butter and jelly, or bologna, whatever was cheapest that week, and was ignored by jealous kids who didn't want to speak to the girl who never had to get off. It was a good thing that the music was so loud, she could pretend she didn't hear them asking their parents why she was allowed to keep playing.

She wasn't playing, she just didn't have anywhere to go. If her mom hadn't blown up at Mal and Clarissa earlier in the year over something she would've spent time in the shop with Mal but that took another three months before reconciliation. Though the man and his wife still treated her the same in the hallways before her mother pushed her inside their apartment.

The mall got rid of it during a renovation when she was sixteen but just the sight of a carousel, immaculate or in disrepair, made her feel desperately lonely.

They made her feel cold, even in summer, she rubbed at her arms staring at the looming structure.

"Maybe not that ride."

Dick doesn't ask why she goes quiet, his palm just spans, gentle and steady as always, on her lower back. His touch banishes the memory and it's like it was never there at all.

*

"This" Dick proclaims, blue eyes doubtful "is a baby ride. Would we even fit?"

They're standing in front of a themed cart ride, styled after Batman and Gotham. It would make sense if it was brought in for Halloween but in the middle of summer it's incredibly out of place.

"You're an acrobat, you're flexible, you can contort yourself. We have to, look at it" she pointed at the colorful map of what the attraction was supposed to lead them through.

"Oh I'm looking, and I'm a little horrified. The heads are disproportionate and you know I hate puppets."

He'd had a bad encounter with the Ventriloquist, he'd admitted it over a beer as they watched a movie. He swore that the villain's doll, Scarface, had moved after they knocked him out of his hands.

Of course, this was after a team up with JLA Dark so paranoia may have been a factor in his dislike.

"I know, but they're the best part, this is just a hint of the bizarre behind the curtain. They've got miniatures!"

The 'of us' goes unsaid but he gets the idea from the snickering coming from his direction.

"Do you want to go?" He runs a hand through his hair, bemused and staring down at her like he was taking one for the team.

Her "Yes" speeds out like a bullet and she's not ashamed at all, the weirdness of the ride is the entire drawing factor.

They aren't in line all that long when a woman tells them to move forward. The operator isn't much older than them and monotonously goes over safety and liability for the group they're mixed in with and they get ushered into the low lighting of the makeshift set.

Stumbling forward she crashes into Dick's back and he pulls her in front of him to keep her from getting jostled around.

"You ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." She says in a hushed voice as they move off to the side.

"Please take a seat in the available carts, maximum of two riders per cart." Blares from speakers hidden in the corners of the structure.

The wagons on the track are small; they aren't exactly the typical crowd and there's no way they'll be able to sit side by side. She measures the length of the seats with her eyes.

She would suggest that they ride separately but everyone else has already bundled into all of the available ones save the one closest to her.

"Let's go, we aren't going to fit." She whispers, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt.

"Whoa, wait up." he spun her back into his chest "We'll fit."

"I don't have the ability to turn into water, we aren't the Wonder Twins so-"

"Trust me" he dragged her after him and hopped into the repurposed crate, gesturing to the open space between his legs.

"Is that allowed?" The music of the ride starts playing louder to signify the start of the loop.

"Well, there's no one here to say no…" he grinned at her enticingly.

Appealing to the rule breaker in her, not a bad play.

The wood creaks a little ominously as she clambers up and in and Dick's arms wrap around her like a shroud. It's almost like they're in Maggie's tent before she interrupted them.

Pulse thundering in her ears, the telltale heat of a flush emerged in spite of the fans running throughout the space. His chin falls into her shoulder and she resists the urge to squeak, fingers tightening against the rail.

What the hell is wrong with her?

"Sorry, it's a tight squeeze." He tucks himself even closer, the line of his body sending a bolt of electricity across each inch of exposed skin.

Is she going to be able to pay attention to the ride at all?

By the end of it there are faint memories of laughter but she finds that singling out anything about the attraction itself is difficult to do.

*

"Why didn't you tell me you'd get sick on the Twisto-nator?"

She wouldn't have insisted so much on going if she knew he was going to end up like this. She should've known from the second he tried to use her dress as an excuse to opt out.

The look Dick sends her from his seated position in front of her, face pale from nausea, is miserable, and this time it's her palm that finds its way to his back in sympathy.

He still seems dizzy, his body swaying like a stalk of grass, when his arms wrap around her middle as another wave of vertigo attacks. The sudden weight of his head pillowed against her stomach is unexpected but she doesn't hate it.

"I guess it's better to hug me than a trash can." The words are dry as they come out of her mouth. They aren't the nicest but she has to counteract the way she's all but babying him, carding her fingers through his hair in slow, soothing motions.

Dick's hair is silky soft and she distantly wonders what conditioner he uses, whatever it is, her hair could use some of it, half a bottle's worth going by the state of the blonde tendril that fell into her line of sight as she bowed her head over him.

It doesn't escape her that this is an intimate position but at the same time it feels like they're on her couch and they're trading thoughts. It feels pure and uncomplicated, like this is an extension of their friendship. This much contact is nothing compared to the rest of the day.

The next part is conversational "Acting macho is a stupid I hadn't expected from you of all people. Also, aren't you supposed to be used to death defying stunts?"

"Hiding it was kind of the point and you looked like you really wanted to go." He shot a weak smile at her, finally able to hold himself up without clutching at her like she was his anchor point.

She sighed and brought the straw of her Sprite to his lips "It's not ginger ale but it should help."

His eyes as he peers up at her are so grateful that she averts her gaze.

"Seriously," she said, her voice going softer and softer as she rolled her thumb over the hard knot of tension in his shoulders "don't do that."

*

Zitka is the most glorious creature that she's ever seen and Zitka also has Dick over a barrel. Clutching tight to the saddle atop the elephant they lumber around the ring avoiding multiple attempts by Dick to retrieve her.

Her chest rattles like she's knocked something loose with the force of her laughter because for such a slow creature Zitka sidesteps the acrobat so well. If Dick weren't wearing jeans he would have had a better chance vaulting up her side.

"Steph, a little help here?" He shouts from below them.

"I don't speak elephant and you've known her longer." She brought a hand up to her cheek in mock innocence as they zig zagged away.

He seems to grumble to himself for a second and then ducks out of the tent, returning with a small crate of fruit.

"Zitka" he cajoles, sweet as sugar "I have cantaloupe."

Her ride huffs, because obviously a single cantaloupe can't persuade her. Nor should it.

"Power play, Zitka" she encourages the elephant's willfulness."So cheap," she directs towards him because she can't help herself "that's not enough for our compliance is it?" Leaning down to pat Zitka's neck she sends a cheeky smile his way.

He doesn't grace her with a response and holds up a watermelon before jogging over and setting it at their feet.

Zitka has to understand her words, even if there's only a miniscule chance, because Zitka still doesn't make a move, to her endless amusement.

"Don't get too comfortable up there" Dick sends her a flat look.

Dick's carrying over the entire crate now and the elephant stirs underneath her, bending down so the saddle is just about level with the platform she used to mount.

She can't even call it betrayal, this is obviously a big win.

He lifts her off Zitka like she hasn't jumped off buildings before, the moment of complete weightlessness at odds with the sudden gravity between them. Breath stalling in her lungs as his eyes swallow her whole.

And then the moment is gone and they're walking out and she's gloating about Zitka liking her better.

*

"Now who is this lovely lady?" An older gentleman with a nimbus of white curls and a smile that makes him seem more alive than people half his age, stops them as they head towards the entrance of the carnival.

She's seen his face on more than one flyer and she opens with "I'm Stephanie, you must be Mr. Haly" and reaches out with a firm handshake. Mal always said that a good handshake could make or break a relationship, Clarissa said it was a smile, so she always did both.

The man looks astonished by the strength in it but he views her with curiosity rather than affront.

"Charmed to make your acquaintance. Any friend of Dick's is a friend of, well," his laugh is loud and infectious "all of us. Have you enjoyed your day?"

"I enjoyed it too much, I learned a lot about Dick from Maggie."

"Maggie and I have known Dick a very long time so I can imagine the stories. You must stay for the staff meal. Enjoy our hospitality for a while longer."

Dick's eyes ask her for permission and honestly, she's puzzled that he's leaving it up to her but it's considerate and even though she's flagging she gives the okay.

"We'll take you up on that." A broad grin finds its way to her face.

He'd given her his entire day, she could give him this.

"You sure?"

"Go, catch up for a while. I'll be fine" she waves him off and beelines to the bench a few steps away.

She isn't sitting alone for long as Maggie makes her way over, Maksim soon after. The two joining her seems to signal that she can be approached and she meets three or four more people in quick succession that she hadn't been introduced to while walking the grounds

A duo of acrobrats, Palmer and Ricardo, a lion tamer, Inara, with a braid so thick and long it could moor a boat, and one or two more who give a brief hello before leaving. There's also a man with brown hair who seems about Dick's age surveying from a few yards away, but when she asks the crowd keeping her company a few more questions about him they say "That's just Raymond" in a cacophony that ranged from distaste to reluctantly fond.

Ricardo, the acrobat still in his navy unitard, explained "He's probably curious because Dick brought you here and he wants to know if-" Clamming up when his partner elbowed him.

"Oh come on, Palmer, everyone knows Ray has a thing for-"

"Still not for you to say."

"She's gonna find out anyway since she's gonna be around. Ray's not even good at hiding it."

God, she loved gossip, she sat back and watched the two argue back and forth.

People around here were so funny and refreshingly open, it was like attending a huge family reunion. The two didn't know Dick beyond mentions from other troupe members and sightings from afar but they clearly embraced anyone who was even peripherally related to him. Dick had more people and places to go than he knew.

The thought of that makes her smile as Maksim pushes a cup into her hand.

*

Dumping the remains of their plates in the garbage a gorgeous redhead walks up and consciously, she can't tell, ignores her, bottle green eyes trained like lasers on the man next to her.

"Dick Grayson, coming back to roost." The other woman says with a seductive lilt to her words.

She has to hand it to the woman, the purr in her voice would make any other man melt into a puddle of goo.

Eyes sliding over she sees that Dick looks like he's mildly uncomfortable,

"Raya, long time, no see. This is Steph." Dick pulls her into him like she's some kind of talisman and would stop this…fox from eating his liver.

She pinches him because she can already see the situation for what it is. The redhead obviously has feelings for Dick that he doesn't return. She almost wants to shake him and tell him to man-up and the SOS he traces along the sensitive curve of her back only makes the urge stronger.

"You're here with someone?"

"She deserved a day out and I wanted to give it to her."

Sweet, but she's still thinking of making an exit and abandoning him for Maggie, who at least lets her introduce herself.

"Lucky girl." The woman twirls a hair around her finger and subtly angles herself so one leg extends in front of her, bringing the eye upwards.

Classic. And classy. There's an urge to take notes kindling in the background.

"Lucky guy."

He had to say it that way, didn't he? She blew out a breath and bit her lip.

She's such a sucker. The boy scout routine that had her trying the fried Oreo was one thing but the no-holds-barred sincerity? How was she supposed to say no?

It was two freaking words and she decides she's not going to protest the next time he brings her takeout, she'll even insist on dessert.

'I'll help him. This time.' She thinks, as the childhood friend she didn't know about, finally addresses her.

It's a whole song and dance, and Raya? Social Judo master. But she's got thick skin and maybe she doesn't have Dick's shamelessness but she does have experience with the, objectively, more snide piranhas that populate the upper east side of Gotham.

Honestly, she's enjoying the volley they have going and if she weren't cast as Dick's better half, and she would definitely be the better half, she would want to be friends with her. Raya has a sly sense of humor and has top tier taste in reality TV. She just knew someone else had to agree that Shannara on ELI was misunderstood.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Raya give the two of them a speculative look and decides that upping the skinship is a priority. She guesses she's not displaying enough jealousy or doing the girl equivalent of marking her territory.

Cuddling closer to Dick is child's play, he'd placed the whole of his body around her at some point in the exchange, like he was an octopus. It wasn't a bad way to put the other woman off their scent.

Lacing their fingers together however, is intimate.

That's the point at which things become a little blurry for her. Lacing your fingers together was for people who talked about a future, a singular future that two people shared. People who knew your vices but sang your praises.

It was for lovers.

Raya sucks back a short breath when she spies their interlocked hands and she almost feels bad but the complicated emotions starting to swirl in her gut are more pressing.

The woman in front of them braves another couple of minutes of small talk before heading off in measured steps across the lawn. And good for her. Grace was almost impossible to find when you were rejected, and while this was a relatively gentle rejection, even those could sting.

"Is she the reason you have a thing for redheads?" She really is curious, her question just also takes the attention away from how much she needs some distance.

Dick is so busy denying what she can tell is the truth, joking around to send them along a different tangent, and really, he needs new tricks, that she only has to look at him and cock her head for him to fall all over himself.

*

"So that's what was in these." She held the sheet of temporary tattoos closer to her eyes, some were large and colorful and others were delicate with thin line work. "I've always wanted to get one but I haven't taken the plunge yet. Have you ever wanted to get a tattoo?" She leaned back into the leather seat of his car.

"I actually have a few. They're on my shoulder."

The admission makes her do a double take, she never thought of him as a 'My body is a temple' kind of person but the thought of him with them was equally strange. "You?" she says "Tattoos? I wouldn't have pegged you as the type."

"I wasn't, I…got one after Jason died. And then he came back so I thought it was only fair to have some dedicated to Tim, Cass, and Damian."

His confession is filled with unsaid words but the fact is, the tattoos are tokens of remembrance that he can carry with him. It's sentimental for a person whose apartment is devoid of any personality and it twists her image of him on its head again.

In that empty apartment of his, are there other things that he keeps to remember his parents? Bruce? Alfred?

Picking up one of the sheets on her lap with the tips of his fingers he says "You can try one of these to test out whether a tattoo is for you."

Taking it for the plea to pivot that it is, she says "Choose for me."

The sheafs of tattoos are filtered through his fingers at least twice before he makes his choice.

"Is this one okay?" His voice is stained with a trace of vulnerability.

It's a small sun and it reminds her of Maggie's reading from earlier in the day. "Yeah, I like it." She'd said good things would be coming to her, maybe it was the universe's way of doubling down. "Put it on me now?"

"Let me grab a few things." He wet a napkin he pulled from his glove compartment with water.

She thought about where to have it placed. Her bicep? No, her dress was off the shoulder and the straps would rub it right off.

"On my wrist, I think that's where I would actually put a tattoo."

"Here?" He asks as he taps his finger a little more than halfway between the bend of her elbow and wrist.

Humming as she looks at it she says "Move it up a little more." She liked the idea of something more discrete.

"Give it 30 seconds" He slides his thumb up to the pulse point at the very top just under her palm and seeing her nod, presses the dampened tattoo to her skin.

When he removes it he lifts her wrist to his mouth and it sends her brain back to that moment in Maggie's tent where he refused to let go of her hand after kissing it. His breath brings the impression of his lips back to life and it's like each puff of air is that point of contact, again, and again, and again.

"Can I choose for you?" The words she says are abrupt and she hates the weakness of them, the stutter of her heart.

Dick gives a soft "Sure" and she starts sifting through the choices.

"Does it have to be manly, a car, or fire based at all?"

The shimmer of something at the edge of her vision makes her pause.

God, she can't believe she even remembers this, nail tracing the shape of the shape of the creature that caught her eye.

A few months back Damian pulled her into watching a documentary with him, she didn't normally pick them up but she had to occasionally concede to get Damian to go along with their 'cultural analysis' sessions. It was a choice between the life and habits of the Morpho Butterfly or a deep dive into the ethics of raising chicken for commercial consumption.

Ruining chicken wasn't in the cards for her so they spent an hour listening to the dulcet tones of some actor who championed nature when he wasn't starring in some action film that Kara would obsess over.

The intensity of the color of their wings is an exact match to the blue of Dick's eyes and the butterfly on the sheet that her eyes strayed to is the same.

"I'm perfectly fine with whatever" he emphasized the word "and wherever you choose to put this."

"Is that a challenge?" Her reply is mild, with more in common with amusement than agitation because she's already set on the delicate lines that form the butterfly she wants to use.

"If you can embarrass me, I'll wear it the entire shift that I work tomorrow."

It's a loser's bet because he's shameless but she tears the butterfly off the sheet quickly to make it seem like what she's pawning off on him is heinous.

The regretful look on his face is enough to make her laugh but she tries to keep a straight face.

"Do I at least get to know what you're marking me with?"

She's a little disappointed, she wants to enjoy the dread she inspired a bit more but she agrees and cups the tattoo in her palm to show him. The tattoo is too tiny for her to hold with her fingers without covering the entire image and the smirk that flies onto his face as he registers the unassuming piece incenses her.

"What do I get if I win?" Smugness practically drips from his tone.

It's a provocation that he uses so often with her that her next movements, she'll say to herself later in the night as she lies in bed, are entirely his fault.

"You won't."

She surprises herself when she places her hand on the back of his neck to bring him down to her, he's so tall that she has to meet him part way. There's something a little dangerous about the moment, about the half lidded look in his eyes, but they've been playing chicken for the last couple of minutes, absorbed in making the other react so it feels like the intensity can be attributed to their competitiveness.

Eyes still on his, hand shifting to his jaw, she blows a thin stream of air onto the damp tattoo she'd pressed high on his cheekbone, delighted as his face goes red.

She's never made him look like this before and, giddy, she exclaims "You're blushing! I'm pretty sure I just won."

Her hand falls from the curve of his jaw to the lapel of his shirt, absentmindedly straightening the collar "Guess you're wearing this to work tomorrow!"

Maggie and Gannon are going to have a field day with this one. She's going to ask him to send her pictures while on patrol so he can't just say he did and wash it off before heading in. Hell, she has Maggie's number, maybe she should shoot her a text so she knows what to expect.

She uses that thought to distract her from the twin flush she can feel burning on the apples of her cheeks.

Retreating, she says a quick goodbye and all but leapfrogs herself out of his car, tossing it over her shoulder so he can't see his effect on her.

*

The next morning the usual volley of texts with Dick is as easy-going as ever, like the shadow of him hadn't randomly started interrupting her.

Small thoughts like, 'He would like the scent of that candle' from the shop she visited last Wednesday, or, 'he would laugh at her for yelling at her TV', start to edge into her consciousness with a regularity that rivals Kara's.

'It's natural. it's Dick Grayson', she reasons to herself like he's some kind of affliction, like the common cold, or some inexplicable phenomenon like virga, rain that evaporates before it touches the ground.

Her cereal grows soggy and she puts it down the disposal, turning only to power off her tv.

Work needs to be her priority, she has no time for this.

Nothing is happening here.

Chapter Text

"What the hell is that?" Gannon guffawed at him as he plodded his way into the station, the man straightening up from where he'd been leaning over a stack of colorful paper clips that he'd twisted and linked into cubes.

His partner hated paperwork as much as he did and he was always messing with the office supplies, especially when he couldn't stand filling out any more forms. Sergeant Kim had threatened him with early morning shifts for a month straight but it apparently wasn't a strong enough deterrent.

"I lost a bet." He let out a sigh as he set his thermos down. He'd known this was coming since he'd woken up this morning. Stephanie had ‘helpfully’ texted him a reminder that he was supposed to wear the butterfly on his cheek his entire shift.

While attempting to shave without smudging or wetting the skin was painfully annoying, the butterfly remained intact. From a certain point of view the task had made it easier to push the fraying threads of his unraveling mental state into the background, though there was no way that he could fully put the sharp and unexpected pang of want that he'd felt lancing through him as they stared at each other in his car out of his mind.

His reaction had haunted him for hours before he was able to rationalize it. Without the maddening beat of his pulse pounding in his own ears, he conceded that it was because she was close to him. He spent at least one of his days off with her a week and patrolled with her most nights.

It was just proximity.

Nothing would come of it, she had a boyfriend and it would pass.

And it wasn't like he'd never found friends attractive before, Zatanna and M'gann coming to the forefront of his mind. Solid friendships with both of them. Kori and Babs he could use as case studies because they made his stance far more compelling. His friendships with both had fractured due the failures of their respective relationships. Kori and he had mended fences for the most part but he and Babs had been stuck at the same sharp turn for a few years.

Stephanie was, he flexed his hand as he shifted his pen, as much his best friend as Wally.

A pensive frown flew over his face.

Jeopardizing that?

'I can hold out against this, this itch', he hyped himself up as he settled back into the padded cushion of his seat, trying to relax the tension that gathered in his upper back.

An image of her lips, stained something more kiss bitten by her chapstick, flashed into his mind. He tried to dislodge the thought and though the perfect curve vanished, the phantom heat of her hand on his neck remained. The recollection of how the more natural scent of her body wash or perfume, away from the crowds, had wrapped him in a heady mix of honeysuckle and something floral that made the air heavy like the promise of rain before a storm, like he'd hiked the incline of a cliff and it was a little harder to breathe, stoked the quiet embers in that smoldered in his consciousness.

Why was it that every time he replayed the memory a new detail popped up?

A torrent of frustration filled him and he crumpled a note that was derailed by his thoughts, words he didn't mean to write ruining the message.

He was the problem, he needed to stop thinking about this.

It was with a rough swallow that he took a sip of the pitch black coffee in his thermos, the cloying bitterness better than anything else at driving thoughts of her from his mind. He didn't typically buy or brew coffee; he'd just found some in his cupboards from the last time Wally dropped in. Since he hadn't gotten anywhere near as much sleep as he wanted he used the machine that usually sat untouched on his kitchen counter.

Realistically, the only difference was that he now knew that he found her attractive, which, in retrospect, explained his magpie-like obsession with her hair. The birds were drawn to bright and shiny things and he wasn't all that different. He'd adored red, yellow was also a primary color.

She was…special.

The connotations of the word spun in his mind before he assigned a caveat.

She was, just, he added the word like it blunted the meaning of what he confessed to himself, the first person in a long time to be so close to him. She was a series of firsts, the first to get him to talk about his parents, the first to make him his childhood foods, the only person he'd ever taken to Haly's.

Using the word ‘only’ is as charged a choice as the word first.

He flipped open his phone to stare at the impulsive shot he'd taken of Stephanie and Zitka. How the light of the tent and Zitka were afterthoughts, lost in the background with the zoom function pushed to the limit in favor of her face.

He hadn't done that on purpose.

Running a hand through his hair he leaned back.

"That's cute." The voice of one Amy Rohrback cooed.

Seat clanking as he fell forward, he swiveled in his chair to see the smirking brunette detective raise her eyebrows. Weakness in front of Amy was like bleeding in front of a shark.

"Steph-" Amy started up again.

When did those two get so chummy?

"told me to tell you that she expects at least three pictures between now and the end of the day, rookie. She also says to read your messages because she wants to know if you're still on for a movie Friday after work at your place."

Amy leaned against the side of his desk "How come we've never been over to your place for movie night? I could spare a night to make fun of your taste in films."

"Yeah" Gannon chimed in "We'd take a bullet for you and you can't even host or grab us a beverage?"

"Oh, come on, I grabbed you a drink last week."

"From the vending machine!" Gannon exclaimed. "And I invited you to the barbecue at my place awhile back and you told me you had to go solve a riddle!"

"That's more original than washing his hair." And, adding more oil to the fire Amy's voice dipped playfully "Also, you only got a soda? He grabbed me a frappuccino from that cafe down the street. Did you know they shave chocolate over the whipped cream?" rubbing it in Gannon's face with a grin she reserved for messing with him. Although, going from the betrayed look on Gannon's face and the dropped jaw as the man snapped his head back to face him, this was still messing with him.

“See if I ever bring you coffee again” he spoke under his breath to the smirking brunette.

"Grayson, you're up in interrogation room 3 today, we need your soft skills." An absentminded Detective Turpin called from his corner of the station.

Turpin wasn't someone he would usually expect to rescue him. At least he was getting out of talking about his temporary tattoo.

The relieved sigh that made its way out of him is completely involuntary. 'Sweet escape' He thought as he pushed his seat back and beat a fast clip past holding, hoping to bypass the detective’s eyes before his right cheek was seen.

Ultimately it's the squeak of his shoes that betrays him.

"What the fuck are you wearing? I said we needed your soft skills, not that we needed you to be soft." The infamously gruff man spat as he tossed the case file he was reviewing on his desk with a big plop, a whole litany of curses leaving his mouth like he'd tapped a fire hydrant. He was obviously not going to be on Turpin's Christmas List any time soon, a grimace split his face.

The older man was so loud that other officers started to look over, spied the bright blue butterfly on his cheek, and started snickering. Whatever else Turpin said was lost in the resulting wave of unwanted commentary.

"Hey Grayson, you know someone I could hire for my daughter's sixth birthday party?" Officer Bromley brayed from his spot on the bench where he was adjusting his shoelaces.

Decent cop, still an asshole.

"It's a temporary tattoo, not a face painting." He can't keep the exasperated expression from his face.

"Some people just don't know their shit." A more sympathetic voice rang out from a desk next to him.

Officer Keller was one of the voices of reason in the precinct and the dark skinned man was known for his efficiency. People called him when they wanted to get things done and if Keller had gone into business or law like his family wanted he would've been a ‘Closer’.

He'd actually been about to thank the guy for not ribbing him when he registered the wobbly set of his mouth. Disillusionment overtaking him he places the man a step above Bromley, though, to his credit the other man inclines his head in regret.

By the time he makes it to the interrogation room, he's been jeered at by another two coworkers, Sergeant Kim took one look at him, clicked his tongue and turned away, and Cathy from the front desk, at two whole decades his senior, is giving him heart eyes and asking him if he's good with children, no doubt concocting her own Harlequin in her head about why he was pretending the butterfly on his cheek was a birthmark.

He shot a grudging look to his phone even though he knew Stephanie couldn't see or appreciate the depths of the humiliation he was enduring to keep his promise. Sending a photo of himself scowling to her and he had three replies back arrive instantaneously, which was shocking because right about now she was usually juggling six coffees.

'Looks good.'

'The tattoo I mean.'

The last is just a picture of her beaming at him with one finger held up and he wants to be annoyed but it's just so like her to do something like that.

'I won't forget to send you the other two pictures. Shouldn't you be getting some coffee?'

'We got a new intern', an emoji of clapping hands filled his screen.

'I have escaped the hell that is the third closest desk to Schuster's office and first in his line of sight. I'd feel terrible for the guy but he uses Mad Men, season one, as his template for office interaction. He stops by the secretary pool like there aren't a million things to do and he calls me Joan while looking at my boobs. If someone is going to call me Joan it should be because I'm that damn good at my job.'

'Let him suffer. You should add your coffee order to the count. Maybe it'll teach him that he's below you in the hierarchy and that you're his superior.’

‘You're the full time employee, not him.’ he adds in tandem.

Schuster knew to not hassle her too much, now conscious of the weight of the Waynes behind her, but the newbie seemed like he could be a harassment suit waiting to happen.

'You're so right, he can totally handle one more cup. I mean he acts like an octopus.’

Octopus? Had this asshole tried to touch her? The unpleasant anger gathering in his gut has the beveled surface of his phone cutting into his hand.

"Are you going in or what?" Officer Tamura, prompted.

"Yeah, one minute." Pocketing his phone, he made a note to reply later, mood effectively darkened by her description.

The suspect, Dante Vreeland, a grizzled man in his fifties with a gold foiled cigar in his hands despite the 'No Smoking' sign on the wall, took one look at him, laughed, and said "Fine, I'll talk to this guy." The rougher part of a Southern accent emerged as he reclined.

Vreeland probably thought he was an easy target with his standard blues and the deceptively young face made softer by the tattoo on his cheek.

He could use that.

Harnessing the ego wafting off of the man to get him to contradict what he said under oath is something he enjoys maybe a bit too much. The razor sharp grin he sees in the reflection of the observation window is something he doesn't often see. It wouldn't be out of place on Tim in the Wayne boardroom, arguing over acquisitions.

The one good thing about it all is the look he gets from the other officers as he closes the door. Yes, they think the butterfly is silly, but he also managed to crack the son of a bitch that'd been screwing with the entire station for the last month.

While he was wearing it.

Some respect was due and he basked in the shocked looks of Bromley and a few others.

'It was all about how you spun it.', he walked back to his desk feeling satisfied.

*

The knock at his door makes him spring for the cash he usually kept on hand for tips and he isn't paying attention when he opens the door, distracted by the happy whoop sounding from somewhere behind him.

"Dick, paying us for our presence? I'm touched that you recognize our comedic talent, I just knew I had the star power of Queen B." The man assigned as his partner trilled out.

Gannon? And behind him, Amy who was grinning like the statement was so perfect she didn't need to add onto it.

What the- Why were they here?

The smile that drops from his lips and the twitch that replaces it, he knows, is a drastic change. "You aren't Blue Pagoda's delivery man, Vinh, and you aren't Jehovah's Witness so I could shut the door without feeling guilty at all."

"Grayson, we bought snacks for movie night." For once Amy is smoothing over things and not taking the mickey. "I brought Skittles, the tropical kind, Sour Patch Kids, and Razzles, which were a bitch to find. Steph has always wanted to try them."

He hadn't, so the scale tips ever so slightly in the duo's favor.

Gannon, taking his cues from Amy, holds up his own tribute, and how is he supposed to say no to Di Contini's? He can't remember ever mentioning it to the two but he had brought some slices to work before.

Steph, he's not sure how she managed to get behind him without making a sound, snatches the bag out of Amy's hands and makes the decision for him, ripping open the Razzles like a stray dog, packaging torn by her teeth.

Plucking a small piece of plastic from the corner of her lip, an incredulous expression on his face, makes her send him an apologetic glance “Sorry, I'm starving. And my hands were slippery.”

“I guess the rules of hospitality are in play now,” he arches a brow at the other two who are laughing at them, “come in." He gives the twosome a small tour while Steph trots off to pull out some extra plates and leads them back to the living room in short order.

“Make yourselves comfortable.” he sends up into the air, not that either of the two are listening. Amy and Gannon are already poking around and Amy is sliding a finger along his mantlepiece like a mother-in-law looking for dust.

Boxes of Chinese food and pizza crowd the low top of his coffee table and settling into her corner, Steph is just starting to get comfortable, knees tucked under her chin as she fiddles with his remote and TV settings.

The beep of his dryer sounds off from behind a door and ducking into the closet that doubled as his laundry room he pulls out a fluffy white mass that does its best to dwarf his face before he tosses it on the petite blonde who already has her hands in a “gimme” motion like a kid.

A muffled thank you from Steph trickles out and as he gathers the excess, draping the blanket more carefully around her shoulders when she complains, he forgets about the other interlopers set on invading his couch. At least, he does until Amy chokes on her coke, the brunette pinning him with a look that embarrasses him.

"What?" He says defensively to the disbelieving stares of his work friends. "Steph gets cold and I get hot when I turn up the thermostat too much. It's a compromise."

It's a perfectly reasonable solution.

Gannon made a soundless whipping gesture from his position behind the only other blonde in the room, and while Steph asks if Amy is okay, he mouths a 'Screw you' to the other man before going back to considering seating.

With the two extra guests it'll be a tight fit.

Steph makes her way out from under the blanket with a “Forgot the popcorn”, bouncing over to his kitchen and separating the wealth of it into two containers.

Amy wasn't a complete health nut, he'd seen her finish whole pies by herself, she was proud of being able to finish a whole pie by herself, but the sheer amount of butter Steph pours into their portion makes her gape. Gannon is too busy to notice, checking his phone as he sits on the arm of the couch, but listening to her and Steph banter is hilarious.

Gannon mutters something that he can't entirely make out and waves him off to type something into his phone so he returns to watching the two women, chuckling as Steph obstinately squeezes more of their ‘liquid crack' into their bowl at the detective's horrified screech.

"Is it okay if I just curl in closer to you?" He asks when she comes back into orbit.

"Totally fine, it'll basically be like when we're at my place." She flashes him a curious smile, probably wondering why he's asking.

Patterned from that initial movie together, if Steph hosted, he knew he would end up with his legs over her lap because her couch was a two seater and at his place they usually ended up thigh to thigh since they could never resist commenting on what they were watching anyways.

Cuddled up under his arm, cold toes warming themselves under the heat of his thigh, she chatters away after previewing, with a drum roll, the movie of the night, Velocipastor.

They aren't more than five frames in when it becomes apparent that the current arrangement doesn't work.

"I can sit on the floor." Gannon offers in a genuine attempt to be helpful, the blonde man tilting his head at them like an overgrown puppy.

The edge of annoyance at the pair barging in fades away though he maintains his plan to hassle them at work for it. He and Steph are talking with their eyes, exchanging a series of raised eyebrows and microexpressions after standing up and neither of them like the thought of making the man sit on the floor. There weren't any rugs or pillows to cushion the hardwood floor and while Gannon wasn't invited he wasn't entirely without mercy.

Grouping her and Amy together is a decent play to open up more space, but, selfishly, he doesn't want to surrender the sound of her voice in his ear. He tells Amy it's because he doesn't want to keep having to pass their bowl of popcorn across the couch.

"Cart ride?" Steph suggests first, uncertainty gleaned from the way the words trail off.

Placing her reference takes a minute but it's a good plan; he ran his tongue along the bottom of his teeth. With her in between his legs there would be enough space for all of them and they've done this before. Taking action, he rearranges his body to fully occupy the deep set seat of the corner of his couch and gestures for her to clamber over.

Stepping over his knee, her hair feathers over his face, and like a curtain has been drawn, fills his senses with the memory of his mother at the makeshift vanity she always set up in their tent. It was simple, an antique mirror propped against a wall or a crate, scarf draped over a corner, one for every season or holiday or mood, spritzes of her perfume leaving split-second rainbows in the air.

'The base of her scent, underneath the honeysuckle, it's jasmine.' The realization is such a small thing but it makes him smile just a little. His mother loved the sweet, green, smell of the pale flowers. She insisted that the more subtle scent was more interesting than the rose.

Just how had he not realized how intimate this was while they were in the cart ride? Was this why she was so hesitant to present the option?

'Pretend you're hugging a pillow' he thought, trying not to get caught up in how comfortable he was holding her or how the added warmth from her body was something that he found himself not minding at all. The hum of her voice as she crammed more popcorn than should be possible into her mouth and the small strip of skin revealed when he gathered her loose golden hair in his fingers and pushed it over the round of a shoulder because a flush had found its way to her nape.

This was a trap that he agreed to.

He spends half the movie laughing a beat too late.

*

“It's a two for one special,” Amy sends them a disturbed look, “I came here to judge Dick's taste in films but you're okay with this?”

The screen pans to Father Doug saying "I believe in a higher power, but no amount of prayer will save... YOUR LIVES!”

It's the most uniquely painful moment he's seen in a movie in awhile.

“What the fuck, is that ninja checking his watch?!” Gannon says from his seat on the other side of her, invested in what's running across the screen.

“Velocipastor was my pick.”

Steph's sheepish look has him hiding his grin with a hand before he playfully says “Your heinous tastes have been inflicted on innocent bystanders, you can't hide behind your height” the scoffing sound she makes converts the existent grin into a smile, “or the cute.”

“Shut up, you” she tries to twist around more fully to elbow him “love it.”

Bracketed by his arm she has extreme difficulty moving and the vulnerable, breathy whine of his name has that unfamiliar want threatening to flare up in a second blow to his self control.

“Having a hard time?” The taunt is colored more by his mounting frustration with himself than her and he goes a step further rather than relenting and deescalating. Her squeak and the wild thrashing that occurs when his fingers ruthlessly attack that ticklish spot on her side makes something around his left lung and third rib throb.

“You ass.”

There's a palpable irritation to the words that has his hands retreating. It's been awhile since he truly annoyed her and he'd forgotten how she looked while frowning at him.

“Sorry,” the word is more for his wayward thoughts, “I just don't want to go to the ER because you use your elbow like a shank.”

That excuse should hold.

“We have great health insurance so he can afford it. He could even afford a new kidney” Amy says cheerfully, jolting them out of the bubble they entered.

“Peace is overrated.” Gannon puts his two cents in when he's finally able to take his eyes off the TV, ever the Gabby Hayes to Amy's rendition of John Wayne.

For someone who was pegged as a musclehead Gannon quoted Ghandi and Buddhist scripture regularly and he was known as the guy who went out of his way to talk perps down.

The look he sends them could peel paint but nothing short of losing consciousness ever really stopped the two. He'd taken a few weeks leave about three years ago and came back to the two practically living in each other's pockets. They didn't wear friendship bracelets but it was a near thing.

“Violent retribution,” Steph says, sensing their support, mock glares at him and brandishes her elbow like a rifle “sometimes is the answer.”

She reminds him so strongly of Jason pre-death and resurrection that the next bit just flows out naturally, it's like a younger Jay is staring out from under those blue eyes of hers.

Was a preoccupation with payback a thing for anyone who lived in the boroughs of Crime Alley and the Bowery?

“Am I going to go twinsies with Tim?”

A shocked snort forces itself out of her when he blandly references his brother's missing spleen. It's usually not a laughing matter but the subject is relative. Dark humor was how he tended to relate with Jason and, come to think of it, the two were sometimes strikingly similar.

‘Missed opportunity for a picture.’ he muses, savoring the gobsmacked look on her face.

“Dick! I can't believe-”

He smiles beatifically and covers her mouth. “We're missing the movie, let's rewind a bit.”

Steph nudges him as if to tell him that she wouldn't have given up the game and the subsequent return to safer, shallower, waters has them both relaxing as they go back to to watching Father Doug slaughter ninjas.

*

Amy and Gannon are intolerable after Steph leaves.

*

Walking by the front desk of Stephanie's law firm less than a week later, Marissa spares a quick smile and waves him in with no more than a finger pointing to the right hallway leading into the wilderness of their back office. She knows who he's here to see and she's busy telling a client that their lawyer isn't there for the day because the lawyer in question is shaking his expensive toupee at her, signaling for her to decline a meeting, so he doesn't do more than smile.

The easy exchange makes him speculate if he's become too common of fixture, if dropping by to grab lunch with Steph is a habit he should tamp down on.

Marissa doesn't print out a visitor’s badge anymore.

Staring through glass walls and over gray partitions he spies the blonde. He knows her by the shade of her hair even with her back turned.

“I come bearing Gyros from Pita Party and I have permission to steal you away.”

The smile that she gives him as she turns before she says “I'm 99% sure that you didn't get permission from Schuster“ leaves him feeling impish.

“But if I show up” he cuts in, “and let him speak to me, he will.”

“You don't work here and you can still pull rank.” She tsked with a wry shake of her head.

He sends her what he hopes is a charming enough smile. “Nice flowers.” The sight of the red roses in her arms is striking, not what he would've chosen but not bad. Steph was someone who, while bold and bright and unapologetic, someone who wore her jeans and her cutoffs like a uniform, liked soft things, things that could be unexpectedly delicate. “Are they yours?”

“Kayden dropped by.” she waves them like she didn't know what to do with them. “It was a” she repeats his adjective like she can't find another one to use, “nice gesture.”

Practicality rules her so food would've been a better choice and he delivered on that front. He tries not to let it go to his head but his spine is straighter than it was a moment ago.

“I mentioned the new intern, Mr. Wharton-”

“Is that actually his last name?” They don't matter to him but he wouldn't be surprised if there was a suffix like ‘the third’ or ‘the fourth’ involved like Schuster.

The only reason he asks is to gauge how far to go, the guy can't be too important if the bosses are ordering him to get coffee.

Ties to the business school?

“Nope, but he mentions having gone there so many times that it got stuck in my head. I don't care about him enough to learn his last name, just like he doesn't care to stare northwards of my rack to my face. Kayden wanted to size him up but he couldn't stick around to see the guy.”

It's basically his reason for stopping by but Steph doesn't need to know that.

“Are we eating in your car again?”

“Actually, no, I thought this time we'd sit down like civilized adults.”

“Civilized adults?” She looks at the bag in his hands. “Gyros aren't exactly eaten with forks and knives and I'm fresh out of antique silverware.”

“Sitting down at a table is better for my back.”

"You're too young for, wait, what happened to your back?” Tender hands pat and prod their way down his spine, skipping down the vertebrae like she's performing scales on a piano. The careful, methodical, exploration of her fingertips over his body is a profound lesson in endurance that tests his ability to hold his breath.

“I backed into something a little sharp at work.”

He would like the record to reflect that his words are not a lie, he hit the corner of a desk to avoid projectile vomit from a walking drunk and disorderly charge. It had left a neat little bruise to the right of the small of his back but he was otherwise fine even if he milked it for all it was worth with Gannon who believed it was worse than it was.

The memory of his partner fetching him his files and plying him with a pillow was a welcome change to trailing after him to sooth the tempers of the people he sometimes pissed off in his doggedness to get to the truth.

“Sharp as in a needle or glass? I hope you went to the hospital, tetanus is a thing.”

He can see how the worst case scenario moves through her mind and she starts monologuing about complications.

“Give me a moment to grab my bag-”

“A desk.” He says, defeated by the open concern on her face, “It was a desk.”

She cocks her head and snickers at him. “A desk?”

“I'm bruised and I brought you food.” He sends her a doe eyed look like she's being cruel to him and she folds, flicking him in the chest.

“For such a tough guy… Alright, come this way.” She tugs him down the corridor on the left side of her cubicle and through an open doorway.

In comparison to the sleek chrome and glass of the rest of the office, to call the break room shabby is generous. The sole microwave looks right out of the 80s and sits on a paint speckled Formica counter and the padded exteriors of the rust orange chairs are cracking from age.

Sending Steph a dubious look that she handily dismisses, she stretches her neck, places the bouquet in the crook of her arm on the table and ferrets out her food.

Foil crinkling as she takes a bite, pausing to let out a groan of pleasure, she says, responding to his unspoken question “Why do you think I never argue when we sit in your car? I usually eat at my desk to avoid this place.”

“Isn't this one of the more well known law firms in the city? How can they be so-”

She pinched her finger like she was pulling a zipper down to get him to quit talking so loudly.

“Yup. Can't function without us, can't be bothered to fully staff our department, and can't be bothered to renovate somewhere the top brass doesn't regularly commune.”

The station was always underfunded but as poor as they were they had a working coffee machine. How long had that post-it note saying ‘Out of Service’ been on the outdated percolator for it to go gray with dust?

Post-it notes were yellow.

“So, about that new intern? I didn't catch a glimpse of him when I came in.”

“Ugh, he'll find me, probably before lunch ends. He always does.”

And speak of the devil, a young dark haired man in a somewhat pricier suit than was expected of most interns peeked in, eyes lighting up upon seeing the blonde.

“Joan,” the guy drawled to Steph's visceral distaste “I've got a problem for you.”

For being an intern in a law office, he should know that having someone work off the clock is illegal. It's a strike against his intelligence.

“Not my name. Can you not see that I'm off the clock?”

“You're supposed to train me, so train me.”

“Go to Marissa.” She tried to shoo him off like he was a fly.

“Marissa is dealing with Donovan and you're the smaller half of the brains around here.”

He's actually entertained because the man is trying to flirt. Badly. Steph doesn't register it because status doesn't matter to her at all but he can see the way the guy is leaning to show off what he thinks is the best angle of his face, the way he's trying to show off the Harvard class ring.

Minutes tick by and the more the two end up arguing the more powerful the undercurrent of annoyance thrumming through him grows.

Was this guy intentionally ignoring him? And who was he to talk down to her?

“Go to Marissa.” She says for the upteenth time, like a chant.

The other guy rolls his eyes, strolls up, and goes to grab her wrist and that's when he makes himself known, blocking the man by lacing his fingers with Steph's.

“I’m talking-”

He doesn't care enough to let the jackass finish and says “I'm Richard Grayson-Wayne.”

Protectiveness made him imposing rather than the princely figure the paparazzi painted him as and he’s viciously pleased to see how shaken the marginally shorter man is. Getting up to take the hand of the now frozen intern is like pouring salt into the wound and using his name like this is very much a pissing contest.

Part of why he likes living in Bludhaven is the fact that Wayne Enterprises isn't stamped on the plaques of half the buildings downtown but flaunting that he's one seems forgivable in this case. Like Schuster, the person in front of him needed to learn that Stephanie was off limits, he hadn't missed how her boss had squared off against her the first time he dropped by.

Inspired by the rich color that caught his eye, he picks up the roses that she hadn't known what to do with earlier.

“Go put these in some water, would you?”

Phrasing it like an order has the guy jumping to attention and the smile he bestows is just a tinge malicious.

Stephanie stares dumbfoundedly after the guy scurrying off like fire was licking at his heels, takes another gargantuan bite of her gyro and says “Now that was a power play." A pointed glance leaves him squirming. Fighting her battles is something he's leery of, Steph would say that she wasn't any kind of damsel and he'd like to stay on the good side of someone who didn't regret sending someone to a fertility specialist. The Riddler's goon had to have gone to one, that had been a full force punch to the family jewels and he wasn't all that eager to become a eunuch. His discomfort satisfies her pride before she lightens up "Is it me or does this taste better?”

Blue eyes dance as they catch on his and just like that she consumes his attention again.

“Agali Agali is always great. I really want to take you there sometime, the place has character and it's the closest to Greece you can get without hopping on a plane. The Baklava is the one thing I didn't bring, you have to have it fresh”

“Because it has to be flaky like a croissant” she steals the words right out of his mouth. “How'd you find out about the place?”

“You encounter all kinds of people on the beat and sometimes you arrest someone in the middle of a meal. I can't remember exactly when, just that it was still cold outside. Gannon and I were following a suspect and the man met up with a few shady acquaintances that had rap sheets as long as your hair. It didn't evolve into a shootout but it was a few thousand dollars worth of damage and one grill had to have its grate replaced. Plates get expensive if you break enough of them.”

“Do they hate you more or less because of it and do you always make small talk with the people you cuff?”

“Most of them don't think of it as their last free meal so the grudge doesn't grow legs there. And if they have something interesting to say, sure. Better if they give me something I can use as testimony.” He sips at his water and leans back “What are your plans this Saturday?”

“I have a standing commitment.”

“Don't feel bad. It's on me, I forgot,” He shook his head, “it's the third Saturday of the month. You've got a date with Kayden, right?”

Somehow, it costs him to use the man's name, he prefers to leave him as a nebulous idea rather than have a clear picture of who he is.

Shouldn't he want to know more about this other person she carves time out for?

"Uh, no.” She worries her lip between her teeth. ”So, do you remember how I said that I was doing community service by hanging out with you when we went to that bar after Di Contini's?"

She looks shy, an emotion he rarely sees on her, and the faintest hint of a girlish sweetness on her face makes it impossible for him to look away. He marks the moment and he can tell from how she refuses to look into his eyes and drums her nails on the table that this is important to her. The habit only manifested when she was anxious or stressed or annoyed and now he knows she does it when she feels vulnerable.

"I don't work with the elderly but I do volunteer at St. Swithin's and play with the kids. I've been doing it for about four years now.”

He's not sure why it's a delicate topic but he starts telling her about his own volunteer work at the rec center in downtown Bludhaven and how he teaches gymnastics there twice a month. Stories of how the kids call him uncool but still keep coming to his classes make her laugh and he indulges in the sound.

She barters with her own tales of Swithin's quirky cast and how the staff is like a second family. To hear her speak of them is like discovering a secret level in a videogame that you hadn't known existed or realizing that you mistranslated a word in a book where nuance was the key to understanding the text's message.

"Would you want to come?" She draws nonsensical shapes on the table as she proffers the invitation. "Swithin's is holding a charity event and we could always use more volunteers. Or if you just want to stop by..."

"I'll go." he immediately adds going to St. Swithin's to his schedule.

“You know you don't have to, right?”

“I know, but I want to.” He lays his hands over hers to halt her retreat.

“Swithin’s matters to you, right?”

She nods slowly, speechless as their palms meet.

“Then it matters to me.”

Chapter Text

“Wally, what are you doing here?”

His friend hadn't made any indications that he would be visiting during their last call but it was also just like him to show up out of the blue.

Less, since he'd gotten married, but he'd known that Linda would have a hard time training him out of that one. It was, after all, a habit that had been over fifteen years in the making.

“I decided to visit my best friend in the entire world because I have big news.” Wally beamed and set down a spread of tacos. “I thought I'd tell you over some food. You're still doing that Taco Tuesday thing, right?”

Huh. So it was a thing with him, he'd just never noticed till lunch with Steph.

Looking over the fragrant assortment he noted the lack of a label on anything.

Genuine.

Likely from a place that didn't franchise and knowing Wally it was authentic, if only because he could speed over to Mexico in a matter of seconds.

God, sometimes he really loved his best friend.

He's bringing a taco to his mouth, when a stray thought derails him. “Did you use your spare key or pick the lock?”

The guilty look on Wally's face tells him everything.

He needed to find someone else who would keep one for him because he knew what the answer would be. Idly, he wondered where it had ended up.

In the ocean?

A desert?

“I picked the lock” Wally offered, like his only other alternative wasn't breaking down his door,

Maybe he shouldn't have taught him how to tumble the gears. It wasn't expensive to replace a key though he really had to draw a line at the guy at the kiosk knowing his name.

"But more importantly, I and Linda are expecting!” The redhead is on cloud nine and looks like he could float away any minute now.

“Expecting what? You're not giving me a lot to go off of.” He knows exactly what his friend is implying and a smile inches across his face.

“Where did those mad detective skills go?”

His teasing goes over the genius's head completely. Wally was in Mensa but, as Clark would say, he could miss the broad side of a barn.

“We're expecting a baby.”

The man is excitedly showing him a creased sonogram saying that the baby and him have the same feet, but no matter how he holds it, he can't make heads or tails of what his friend is talking about. Chances are, what he thinks is a foot is the baby's-

He should stop devoting any more brain power to this.

Wally chatters on and on about the things he and Linda will have to do once the baby arrives and it feels a tad bittersweet.

Looking around as if he hadn't been lounging inside the apartment for the last two hours, Wally states “Dick, your place is looking downright homey.” He picks up a candle and reads the label, “Clean Linen?”, sniffs at it and says, “I like this girl.”

Acting the part of a detective, his best friend sped over to his fridge before he could formulate a response.

“You have actual groceries, not just takeout.” Listing out the first thing that caught his eye he says, “Shishito peppers, whaddya you make with those?”

“What is the Spanish Inquisition for 100 points?”

“It's what you get for not telling me you started dating someone. Dick, c'mon, this is great news!”

His friend's eyes are wide and guileless. This wasn't him making fun or giving him trouble, this was Wally being happy for him.

Wally had been urging him for months to go out with someone, he'd offered to set him up with one of Linda's friend's and his wife, from the background of that protracted call, said she'd vet his choices because Wally had accidentally masterminded a brutal double date with a woman five years older than him last year.

If an age difference had bothered him he wouldn't have taken his shot with Babs, but the pleasant start was ruined when he and the beautiful dark haired woman realized that they shared a common thread outside of the two.

Bruce.

Sometimes the older man dated younger women as part of his Brucie Wayne persona and Laure, as the newest ingenue of the Gotham City Ballet, had caught his eye when Dick was still in highschool.

Combing through his memory, he had actually met her while he was studying for a calculus test his senior year of high school. It was a bizarre reminder that his Father/Older Brother figure was only eleven years older than him and the overlap in the dating pool was strange to think about.

“So, you're legal now.” She'd joked as the humor of it dawned on her.

“And you can legally drink.”

Her birthday hadn't quite hit and she had said something about getting sparkling water instead of champagne to Bruce as they left for their reservation.

Linda had looked like she was going to smother Wally in his sleep and Wally had his mouth stretched out in that horrified way you saw in slow motion recaps where an emcee couldn't believe that a football player fumbled that badly.

By mutual agreement he and Laure treated the rest of the night like an outing for friends instead of a date. He remembered thinking it was a shame because she was pleasant company. He wouldn't have minded a repeat save for that one awkward snag.

After that there was nothing.

The only women he had regular contact with these days were Steph, Babs and Amy, both purely for work or joint cases, and Bridget Clancy, his apartment manager. Of the four, the third was married, the second was an ex, and the first, was dating someone.

He had exactly one prospect.

Jason had dropped by once, some case about a trafficker with connections to Redhorn, took one look at him and Bridget, and told him “Don't shit where you eat”, asked him “Do you always learn shit the hard way?”, and called him a “fucking idiot.”

So, no, he had no news.

“I'm not dating anyone, I'm just an adult and adults buy groceries.”

It makes him sound more functional than he is.

He's mostly just checking items off the lists that Steph sends him because she doesn't trust him to find the right ingredients on his own.

Steph was teaching him how to cook as an extension to their movie nights. Her budget couldn't take that much stress and while she relented on the Takeout Rule some of the time, she still didn't want him to always pay for her.

“They do, but you usually eat out. Most people don't collect and laminate takeout menus.” Wally started rifling through the drawers of the kitchen. “I see that The Book isn't in its place of honor.” He pointed to the left of the stove where the large binder had always resided.

He'd moved it to the wayside after Steph took one look at it when he forgot to put it away. She saw how it was sorted by type and alphabet and laughed so hard that her stomach cramped up.

Layering his words with a nonplussed look, he denies the unsaid allegation.

“But, the candle” Wally argues and shakes the tin because it's the last leg he can stand on.

“It's not exactly Tahitian Vanilla or Dancing through Raindrops.”

The latter is a joke, he doesn't think there's a candle scent with that name, but he can't resist the urge to poke at his friend. Wally now tended to base everything he knew about women off his wife and Linda was far from normal. When the two moved in together Wally assumed that everything she did was just what women did in general.

Walking into the former bachelor pad was like walking into a photoshoot for ‘Better Homes and Gardens’, Linda was decidedly not a card carrying member of the WASP contingent but she ran a tight ship. She even managed to get Wally to appear on time for events, barring natural disasters or crimes only he could cover.

“Plus, there was a gift card involved and it had to be spent. ”

It was Steph's gift card from some raffle at work and she said she'd bought it as part of a two for one sale but the redhead didn't need to know that.

As for The Book, he needed space if he was actually going to use his cutting board, didn't he?

“I'm on a self improvement kick.”

*

‘I’m parked outside the front of your building.’ He types in and sends off.

For a Saturday, finding parking was easy. From his vantage point she should be able to pinpoint him right away because he's not parked across the street like usual. He can actually see past the glass doors of her complex to straight to the elevators.

‘Heading down now’ his phone beeps with her reply and he goes back to playing Bejeweled just to kill some time.

Periodically checking to see if she's on her way, his third glance bears fruit. Steph is dwarfed and practically disappears under a clutch of reused bags and boxes. He can only tell it's her from the orange and white lanyard coiled around her wrist. She had a keychain with an obnoxious, oversized, flamingo that Kara bought her on a trip to Vegas.

It said ‘Single and ready to Flamingle’ in rhinestone studded lettering that couldn't be missed. Kara had bedazzled it for her a few years ago and it had survived the stomach of her purse and the maw of her washing machine like it was as invulnerable as the Kryptonian, which, she claimed, made it deserve a place of honor. She used to have it on the dash of her car but after the last break-in she thought it was better to play it safe.

He didn't think anyone would steal something so gaudy but she was sentimental like that. She kept the fortunes from the fortune cookies they got from Blue Pagoda folded up in a glass jar she'd labeled ‘Prophecies’. She'd caught him staring at it when they watched a movie at her place and he'd teased her over how dramatic the word was.

Not long after that, on some random visit to the restaurant when they opted to dine in, he'd crumpled up his fortune, ready to let it nest with the scraps on his plate. She'd snatched it out of his hands so fast that he'd commented that she would've made a decent magician.

Straightening it on the edge of the table, she'd read, “Good things are coming your way”, which was spectacularly generic but made her perk up, eyes sparkling as she told him not to toss it away. “Your word of the day is ‘Soup’ which is useful for ordering in situ when you visit Cass” she reasoned, as if that would convince him to invite clutter into his life.

“I already speak Cantonese and Mandarin, and Hong Kong isn't exactly rural China. You've seen my apartment, am I the type to keep stuff like this?” His head was cradled lazily in his hand as he leaned forward to peer at her.

“Let me start a jar for you, I'll keep it at my place.” She'd wheedled, waving the strip of paper in the air like a flag.

“What's the point? I don't believe in this sort of stuff.”

Tarot was one thing, he'd inherited that from Maggie. Even Constantine occasionally consulted the cards, he'd seen it during the odd case with JLA Dark. Call it a hunch but, somehow, he hadn't thought that a printing press in some faraway factory would be able to tap into the ether of the world.

“You don't like the word ‘Prophecies’ so I'll label it ‘The Universe Says’” She had ignored him, already making plans.

He'd felt so poleaxed that the only answer was to laugh and ever since, he dutifully handed them off to her. Ceremonially of course, because these were obviously going to become family heirlooms. Steph would grin and tuck them into her wallet and occasionally give him updates on how his jar was doing like he didn't see it filling up on the counter of her kitchen.

At present, the way she cautiously points her toe as she approaches the stairs tells him she's using her foot like a blind man uses his cane and he swoops in to take boxes off the top so she can at least see where she's going.

If she'd have let him, he would've taken more off her hands, but that was Steph for you. She hated asking for help, having to take repeat trips, and she always wanted to take the most direct route. Sometimes you had to pray for forgiveness rather than ask for permission but this was a battle he wouldn't stake anything on.

Frazzled, she haphazardly places her cargo in his trunk and he knows with certainty that something is rattling her. She liked to make a game out of the most ordinary things and normally she'd have packed everything like she was playing Tetris.

“Next time, call me for help. How did you manage to push any elevator buttons like this?”

“With the help of kind strangers?”

Unfortunately for her, the joking tone she uses to try to deflect isn't enough for him to let it go this time. It's something straight out of his playbook and he doesn't enjoy the intrusive thoughts of what would have happened if she slipped.

Foot bouncing up and down with enough force for her to move the car, he ponders if she's downed a few shots of espresso or that disgustingly sugary energy drink in the black and gold tin cans she always kept a couple of in her fridge.

“Helping you carry something is a very small request.”

“I handled it fine.”

And there it was, he wasn't doubting her competency but the way her jaw flexes tells him he's walking on a tightrope. Feeling his eyes narrow in thought, he weighs whether he can still push.

“A very small request.“ Repeating himself with an emphasis on the word ‘small' has a reluctant smile catching on the line and bobbing to the surface of her face.

Tentatively, he lets his face flood with what she labeled weaponized sincerity. “I know that you're capable but you can ask me for help. I'll repeat it ad nauseum if I need to.”

The scale tips, always in her favor.

“Call me, for anything.”

Looking directly at the blonde while he says that last sentence is too much so he turns his head back to traffic. It's cowardly but he uses his rearview mirror to track her expression which goes from touched to something too complicated to understand.

“Sorry,” she sighs eventually, “I just didn't get enough sleep.”

The poor excuse doesn't hold water and she doesn't acknowledge what he said but pushing any more than that won't do anything. He lets her drift for a time and a pothole of all things brings her back to him, the harsh jolt of his wheels over one large patch the road crew that they passed, not even five minutes before, hadn't gotten to yet, propels her to speak.

“You're going to meet a lot of people today but make sure you greet the orphanage director, Mrs. Francovich, properly, she's a stickler for manners and” she trails off thoughtfully, twisting in her seat against the belt, "her and Alfred would probably get along.” Snapping her fingers she says “Treat her like Alfred and you should be fine.”

Was this what the tension was all about?

The look on her face, like she'd had some huge epiphany that would help him solve world hunger is impossibly endearing.

“Steph, calm down, I'm just volunteering.” He says reassuringly at the anxious expression she sports. The car rolls to a halt, stoplight shifting from green to red. “I'm sure we can do some introductions when I get there.”

He wasn't exactly meeting her mother again.

And on the subject of her mother, did every friend meet that much scrutiny?

The woman was unnaturally skilled at making someone feel unwelcome without actually saying anything. A room, arctic, without ever treading north.

Banishing the specter of her, he looks at Steph again. Nails clicking in that now familiar, restless, rhythm, he feels his hand slip from the round of the wheel to calm her.

In the sliver of time it takes him to realize what he's doing, he decides that making the motions to adjust and tighten his grip on the wheel is the most realistic way to disguise the aborted movement. Physical contact was something he was starting to feel like he should watch.

Memories of rust orange chairs and a scratched wooden table had his heartrate speeding up.

This was innocent but looking her in the eye while holding her hands was something he shouldn't repeat.

“Spoken like a man who hasn't had to wrangle nearly twenty kids for story time.”

The side eye she gives him has a chuckle popping out, but, how hard could it be? “There is no way that some kids can be worse than the perps I have to cuff every day. At the very least there won't be any streaking or vomiting.”

“Ha! Shows what you know.” Her grin grows the tiniest bit malevolent “I should unleash them on you and leave you alone. I know just the three to take care of you.”

“Try it.” He eggs her on, his smile becoming more overt. “The Grayson effect works on kids too.”

What's left unsaid is how it occasionally works on her but she cottons onto it anyways.

“So you are aware of it!” Face contorting, she looks like she wants to punch him again, her hand is already curling into a fist, thumb tucked safely inside, before she breaks out into a grin. “Dick Grayson, using his powers for personal gain.”

“You should use whatever you have to your advantage.” He says it loftily in an imitation of Damian which coaxes pearly teeth to peek out and create indentations in the flesh of her lower lip.

“I should've known from the first time you carried me off for lunch.”

“Carried you off? I think you mean when I rescued you. I remember escorting you around the corner like a gentleman.” He raises a brow at her as she stares at him.

“You snared me like I was a rabbit in a trap.” Her hands fluttered as if to to punctuate the words. “And Schuster is annoying but not that bad. Anyways, changing the subject,”

She must've known she wouldn't win and the defiance on her face makes him want to tease her more, make wisps of silky hair slip from the neat ponytail she'd pulled it into.

“I guess you don't need me to brief you.”

“I think I can manage.” He turns and drives into the lot of their destination, parking in reverse to make it simpler to move out on the commute home. The Bowery isn't actually all that far from their destination but just in case he notes down the cross streets, saves it into his GPS.

Grabbing the supplies from the trunk that Steph packed, he follows her up to a stately gray stone building. Twin spires puncture the skyline, not unlike the W on the Wayne Enterprises building about 20 minutes further uptown. The exterior doesn't look all that different from most places in Old Town but it maintains an austere elegance lent by the gothic architecture and gargoyles that define the neighborhood.

He'd ended up at a yellow shuttered house for boys a ways outside of the city limits in the week it took for Bruce to complete guardianship paperwork. The interest in his parent’s tragedy and the public spectacle Bruce's plan to take him in made would have been too disruptive for any of the orphanages in the area and they would've had a wave of paparazzi spilling off the sidewalk and into the street.

Bounding in front of him, having put down her boxes, Stephanie hoists the cast iron knocker and lets it smash into the hardwood, the sound like a crack of thunder.

“Stephanie Brown, you know how to use a door handle. It's never closed on weekends.” A tired voice rings out from behind the door, hinges creaking as it swings open. The speaker is a brunette man his age who glowers at her like a wet cat whilst stepping back and ushering them in.

“Peter, we had to make an entrance. We dressed up for this.”

“You're wearing a tank top and shorts. Classy.”

The two start a short conversation and he takes the opportunity to trespass past them, surveying the hall with curious eyes. Swithin's is a riot of color and behind the solid oak and decorative iron scrollwork, the heaviness gives way to an arch festively plied with children's papercrafts. Planets and stars hang on twine in all kinds of hues, fluttering with the breezes created by the packs of children who run by.

A large group of volunteers to their left looks downright accustomed to the chaos, like sitting in the eye of a storm is a piece of cake. Blandly sipping their beverages, even the toddler running amok without his shirt or pants while someone on duty chases after the screeching figure, fails to bring any of them into action.

Steph pokes at his ribs “And you thought there wouldn't be any streaking.”

“Fine, I might”, he hedges, “have been wrong about the streaking but I'm sure the rest of the day will go smoothly. I'm optimistic, I'm well rested.”

“They're going to eat you alive.”

“And you're going to let them?”

“I would point them towards you and grab popcorn. You heard me earlier.”

The pretty smile on her lips isn't tainted by the evil glint in her irises at all and it's really very unfair of her.

Evil should have the decency to look evil.

A hipcheck sends him veering off course and he has to run to catch back up to her and slinging a friendly arm over her shoulder brings the combined weight of a dozen or so eyes down on him. The pressure registers like a full body sunburn, prickles like the bristles of a hairbrush against the sensitive skin of a tender scalp.

‘Was she talking about the kids or the other adults?’

He hadn't felt this out of place since his first foray into formal schooling at Gotham Academy. That first day he'd been a tumbleweed in a Western, which still might've been a step up from being mocked or bullied, even if he hadn't thought it at the time.

What had he done to earn this kind of reception?

Stephanie just rolls her eyes and says “Hi guys, this is my friend Dick.”

And just like that, a spindly old woman in a aquamarine afghan sweeps him into a strong hug.

Her name is Claudia but she demands that he refer to her as Cloudy because it reminds her of when she wasn't a candidate for the Crone of the Maiden and Mother triptych.

The words, “fresh and youthful and my tits couldn't be worn around my ears like mufflers” make him choke on his own saliva, and from the wave of amusement that fans out across the room, that's just who she is.

Cloudy treats the two of them like they're a matched set of dolls and clearing the misunderstanding is futile because she goes off on a tangent about recidivism and “poor Waylon Jones who deserves a vat of hot soup and proper pants” after seeing the newest cover story of the local paper. The boy she'd known had been kind and shy and he'd never met anyone that had known the man when he was young.

Following introductions are much friendlier, though mostly limited to the leadership heading the volunteer program. Besides Peter, and he's surprised the man is as involved as he is, given his curtness and how he ignores the goings on in favor of the Gotham Gazette’s comic section, there's a woman around his age named Annamarie, whose arms are covered with bangles she carved and hand painted herself.

The boxes they carried in were for a project of hers. Blocks of Balsa wood for an amateur woodworking class she'd planned for the teenagers.

“They can be trusted with sharp objects” Annamarie exclaims at a towheaded man called Felix who retorts that “needles and knives are not the same thing.”

The man should look out of place, he's in a suit on a Saturday, but he's so confident in the charcoal and navy that he looks striking instead. Commenting on the neatness of the stitching, which is the only thing he can think to do, earns an approving glance.

Felix had designed, patterned, and sewn every panel.

He, on the other hand, has to admit that he knows nothing about clothing. He'd frequently been told that he was bad at pairing his outfits which was why he'd discovered the foolproof formula that was using a white shirt or button up with jeans or slacks. The simpler his choices were, the better they were received.

Masika, a bronze skinned beauty with an intricate, white inked snake slithering up her bicep, has a loose arm around Charles, an affable man who wouldn't look out of place in a biker bar. Charles, or Chuck, to the people he liked, baked the exquisitely frosted cupcakes that looked like real flowers. The cakes would easily be the crown jewel of any bakery on the upper east side but he jokes that he couldn't, in good conscience, charge more than a couple bucks.

They spend a few minutes in conversation about his plans to open up a bakery in the newly revitalized parts of the Bowery, specifically an open space on Graham St, which was Grammercy’s less expensive cousin, while Steph speaks to Masika about the patissier and demolition expert's upcoming wedding.

A curly haired guy named Jamie, two or so years younger than Steph, reminds him of Wally and Gannon because he comes across equally motor mouthed with no filter and a love of pastries. The college student, going by the Gotham U sweatshirt, had sped in and filled his mug halfway only to top it with enough whipped cream to simulate Mount Kilimanjaro.

Steph attempts to grab the mug from the man and says “You've got to watch your blood sugar!” To which his response is to take a handful of sprinkles that was set aside for the kids and empty it over the white expanse and smile charmingly.

Gulping it down, the guy goes cross-eyed, and with all the obnoxiousness of a younger sibling says “I'm watching my sugar, see?”

The groan that leaves Steph is long suffering and she must see how much he enjoys it because she sticks her tongue out at him. He can't muster any sympathy, she'd snickered at him too many times when Damian pointed out flaws in his arguments or made fun of his tastes.

On the whole, they're people he can see himself liking and even if they weren't he approves of how animated and adoring they are of the blonde besides him. The comfortable way she interacts with the group feels like she's sitting with cousins and uncles and aunts. She'd said that they were like a second family but there's no question of these people being some facsimile of one, they are one. This place is her Haly's and knowing it compels him to pay more attention to the whirlwind of voices and opinions and people he doesn't know.

They have stories that he doesn't.

“Alright, Steph, you and pretty boy” He wasn't sure why but the Peter guy who opened the door for them already had it out for him “have group nine, which is about a quarter of the six year olds, for the day.”

From the ring on his finger it isn't jealousy that drives the animosity so is it just what the man is like?

“His name is Dick, Pete. Weren't you paying attention?”

Steph is giving the other man a look like she's warning him off something and the other man is unable to compute for a minute before settling down and addressing him directly for the first time.

“Your name is” Peter pauses, “Dick?”

‘I can already hear the dick jokes he thinks as his smile struggles to lift his cheeks.

“Yeah, that's me” but to his surprise he just nods at him and he does a double take when an embarrassed expression flies over Peter's face. It's not apologetic per se but he does seem to have been caught off guard.

“Can I call you Pete?” He allows a playful note to steal its way into his voice. If Steph gave him a nickname he was most likely a decent person, he trusted her judgment.

“Don't push your luck.” The man takes a leisurely sip of coffee, taking it for the white flag that it is. “I hope you two can brainstorm because the original volunteer didn't ask us to provide anything extra to help out. Use what you can to teach them about filtration or volume. There have to be more than two brain cells between the two of you to figure out some sciencey stuff to go over.”

“Be nice.” Cloudy reprimands the man.

“I was being nice.”

“We want to con him into, I mean, convince him to return and provide-” Jamie reworks his sentence.

“Free labor?” a young Vietnamese woman with a wolf cut that he hadn't been introduced to gives her two cents as she snags a cookie.

“You're stealing my punchlines.”

“Then don't make them so obvious” she doesn't bother to look up from her phone.

Like a lot of the volunteers the two had aged out of the system and managed to land on their feet, they were just the most recent ‘graduates’, so to speak. Volunteering at Swithin's was a natural way for them to give back and support the place that nurtured them though it does make him think about why Steph started volunteering.

Discounting the idea that she just wants to help is foolish, her joint project with Doc Thompkins is a point in favor of it, but he doesn't think that that's really the reason.

Volunteering to teach gymnastics at the rec center in downtown Bludhaven was something he did after Jason died. Was her reason also personal? Was he projecting? Or was it the product of a high school program that lasted past graduation?

Watching her bend to hug a young boy with curls, a dimpled smile, and a plastic bucket of broken chalk, is adorable in a way that creates a fierce ache. The gentleness is a contradiction to what it inspires, it's like his chest had seized so suddenly that the muscles tore. The syrupy sweetness of them is something that lingers on his tongue, his teeth.

It eats through him.

“How have you been, dearest?” A matron with a gold brooch, a cluster of bees flying over honeycomb made of topazes and citrines, approaches and lays a hand on Steph’s arm.

He pins her as the orphanage director because for all the showiness of the accessory glinting on her cardigan she manages to blend in with the background. Steph's assessment that Alfred and the woman would get along is accurate. They possess similarly unassuming presences that show up precisely when needed.

Peter passes off a sheaf of paperwork to the woman without so much as a word or looking away from the person he's conversing with.

Chair scraping against the floor as he gets up to introduce himself properly, he finds himself adrift as the lady of the moment leads Steph off to the side to talk more privately.

The crowd takes advantage of it and they converge on him like a plague of locusts. They don't seem intent on stripping the meat from his bones but the bald curiosity and barrage of queries is a lot to process.

The girl who interrupted Jamie earlier sets a steaming mug in front of him. Notes of malt and a floral woodiness drift into the air. “It's tea, you seem like a tea guy.”

Eyes flicking to her cup he notices that she's also drinking it, so this was more about convenience than hospitality, but, well, he does like tea, so he smiles. As far as openers go this is a few points shy of polite, but still nice.

“Anyways, you've been abandoned to our nonexistent mercies, I'm Tal, by the way.” Not letting him speak she launches into the next bit with "Question time, how long have you known Steph?”

There's a flash of hilarity, it's silly, but the fact that she's asking him to spill the tea while they're drinking tea; Steph would call him lame but laugh.

Should he say seven years or reference the last few months? He's not sure so he goes with the most technical answer. “About seven years.”

“So you predate us. Weird how your name never came up.” Her eyes go wide as she looks at Peter who shrugs and goes back to picking at a scone.

She was looking for something more salacious than the truth and it entertains more than it bothers him.

“I guess you could say that but we didn't get close till recently. I'm not surprised that I never came up before.”

A trace of wistfulness leaks out and he wishes he did get to know Steph earlier, he could have used her humor and unique point of view when he and Kori's wedding had been called off. Wally had just gotten married a few months prior to the debacle and he hadn't wanted to bring his friend down with his problems.

“So how does number one of the Wayne contingent know her? Aren't you older than her?”

That was interesting, at least one of them knew his face. He'd thought that since he lived in Bludhaven and hadn't been mobbed by the paparazzi in Gotham anytime recently that unless he gave his full name he wouldn't be known on sight. It'd been awhile since he played with the Richie Wayne persona, not since he became a cop.

“She was a friend of my brother's, they went to the same high school.”

As for the older part, he wasn't that much older, six years wasn't that much. He didn't have any premature grays and-

‘That's a useless train of thought’, he chides himself.

More importantly, had Tim been here as himself or was he introduced as Alvin Draper? They'd been dating when she started coming to Swithin's.

Had Tim been here at all?

He should probably keep it vague.

Distracting them with the story of how Steph outclassed him at carnival games has them roaring with laughter and he can't muster up any embarrassment because they start contributing their own anecdotes.

*

“The first time she ever came here we had her take a shift with the babies. It's a great shift until one starts crying. If you don't calm them down quickly enough you have a choir.” Felix is unconcerned at the image he conjures and his spoon clanks against the sides of his cup.

“It's how we weed out people who can't handle the amount of crazy that exists here.” Jamie pipes up, honest to a fault, as he helps himself to a plate of eggs. “A stress test, because nothing gets your blood pumping like tears and frustration. How you treat people when you're almost outta your mind says a lot about who you are.”

“Plus, if you aren't gonna be around consistently then you shouldn't be around at all. No need to go seeding abandonment issues, we can't afford a round the clock psychologist.” Tal brings his attention back to her and it's like he's on a merry-go-round, head on a swivel from the amount of people contributing to the discourse.

He can understand her argument, at least to some extent, even if it was only through the opinion of Jason, who had hated the revolving door of women that Bruce bought in to sell his clueless playboy billionaire schtick. Him? He'd been fond of the few of them who lasted more than a few dates while growing up. Bruce had at least never brought anyone with a nasty temper home but for Jason it wasn't so easy to accept.

Being in the circus meant that sometimes hello and goodbye was said in the span of a few hours and Jason had always longed for stability even if he never owned up to it. It was why he couldn't leave his brother's lone wolf act alone and purposely dropped by the other man's known safehouses. He knew where all of them were but thought it was wiser to give the illusion that he didn't.

“So how did she do?”

The four grimaced before Jamie took over. “She panicked because Joy, who was itty bitty back then, had colic and cried about halfway through her run with them. Looking back on it, she was lucky none of the others woke up and joined in to create the nightmare scenario. Agatha, one of the staff members around here, you haven't met her yet,” he scanned the room as if he wanted to point the woman out “found her rocking Joy and sobbing like her heart had been ripped out. Not sure why she didn't call for help and toughed it out as long as she did. We were honestly surprised to see her again.”

“She got a lot better after that, she came back bright and bushy tailed, a passel of pacifiers in hand and asked everyone for tips on how to soothe babies. She even brought a printout of what not to do and a book on childcare from the library.”

Peter sounds uncharacteristically affectionate as he reminisces and he can recognize the tone since he talks about his own brothers and sister that way.

“Now that I know her, I know that research isn't her thing.”

Relating to him is effortless given that context. That thoughtfulness had been how he and Steph became close.

Mrs. Han, an elderly Korean woman lingering on the edges while she straightened up the table plies him with a plate of Japchae, glass noodles tossed with julienned red and yellow bell peppers, spinach that had miraculously kept the vibrant green color it had when fresh, and shiitake mushrooms.

“Eat, you'll need your strength.”

It's the first thing she's said to him besides her name and he wonders if he's heading into a battlefield but, as a rule, a person should never say no to food. When handed the plate, he takes a bite and the rhapsody of how it's better than any Korean restaurant he's ever been to is entirely genuine.

Multiple hands and tongs leave afterimages over his plate and the end result is more than he can finish. His mouth is as full of food as it is full of compliments and questions that keep others talking even when he's preoccupied.

“He's good.” He hears a voice whisper to another person and he cranes his head to wink at the speakers. Tal and Jamie snort at him before sending him twin grins and starting to speak.

“Should we tell him about the time all of the adult staff got food poisoning and Steph had to commandeer dinner the first month she volunteered?” The young woman muses, fork scraping against the ceramic of her plate.

“She got a crash course in catering. I remember it because we were eating stew for days.” Jamie groaned, “I still can't eat beef stew.”

Beef stew? That was the first dish she ever taught him how to make. No wonder she'd been so practiced at it, he'd had to rush to keep up with her.

“She could've asked us teenagers for help but marshaling anyone over the age of thirteen is like drafting people for war. I would've just put in my headphones or pretended to sleep.” Tal says shamelessly.

“What about the time she fell asleep around the four year olds and they gave her a haircut with their child safety scissors?”

“Hah, they all had a haircut by the time she woke up. She should be grateful that Hannah decided that hers was too nice to cut all the way off.”

“Shoulder length wasn't a bad look on her.”

“The short bangs were.”

There's a collective chuckle around the room at that part and he hopes they have pictures they're willing to show him.

“Okay, imagine this-”

“If we're sharing stories we can't leave out the weird speech she gave to the grads last summer about us all being special snowflakes. In the middle of summer.”

“I have a video of that.”

“She's going to kill you.” Jamie says with the relish of someone who enjoys a bit of schadenfreude.

“I'm counting on you to find my body.”

These two might be his favorite people here.

*

“Stephanie!” A tiny voice trills out.

“Here they come.” The blonde says before turning around with such a happy little smile that he can't help but have an instant appreciation for whoever makes her look like that.

A trio of kids, maybe the trio she mentioned in his car, is heading towards them, though one of the three sprints ahead like she's a guided missile and launches herself into Steph's waiting arms like she knew Steph would never let her fall.

“This,” She plants her feet and takes a moment to spin the kid around before tapping the nose of the small girl, “is Joy.”

Joy is a lot like her name, or she is until she looks at him and shrinks into his friend, hiding her face in her neck. The shade of her hair is such an uncanny match to Steph's that he wouldn't have known there was anyone else there if the rest of her body didn't give her away.

“Dick is a friend of mine, can we say hi?” Steph prompts like she's coaxing a kitten out from under the couch.

He wants to label the girl as shy but she was leading the other two as they came up and she was loud and enthusiastic till she saw he existed. She could be one of those kids who was only open with a few chosen friends but being quiet and contained is clearly not normal for her if he takes the wary eyes of the two that came with her into account

To take some pressure off things he speaks to Steph first.

Maybe an oblique reference, a gambit to see if he can get the girl to chime in, will be enough to open the door?

“Weird, she called you Stephanie. I almost forgot that was your name. Stephanie,” he mouths like he's tasting the word, “Steph. Stephanie.” He shakes his head exaggeratedly, “It doesn't sound right to me.”

The girl squirms in his friend's arms whenever he says her name, and eventually gets herself set down. Pink sneakers slip on the floor causing her to clutch onto Steph like a limpet before she can get her bearings and march over to him.

“It’s ‘cause Stephanie sounds better to sing!” Hopping up and down, the pixie takes the bait, positive energy bursting out and flooding the room again. “Everything's better when you sing.”

It reminds him of the circus, how Steph's shoes kicked up dust as she skipped in front of him and a smile finds its way to his face.

“Why's that?” He asks, expecting Joy to say something about books, fairy tales, or movies. He has a response for any of the three.

She chooses all of them.

The girl goes on to babble about a million things at once without any transitions to connect anything properly. It's as cute as it is confusing and he can't add anything to the conversation, much to Steph’s merriment. And his cluelessness must show more plainly than he means for it to because another of the pint sized pack speaks.

“It's a ‘Joy’ thing, you don't question it.’ The green eyed girl in a striped dress, Hannah, that Steph had introduced him to as soon as she put the other girl down, says in a matter of fact way that tells him she's the brains of the operation.

The brunette reminds him of Babs; crisp intonation and annunciation of syllables.

“I know people like that too. My best friend Wally does a lot of stuff that's easier to accept than to think about. Like eating pizza with a knife and fork when we go to a restaurant even though he eats it just fine with his hands at home.”

The terribly serious nod he receives makes him want to laugh but he holds it in. Finding out if she's prickly isn't on the agenda and Babs hadn't liked being laughed at unless she was trying to be funny. He has a feeling that Hannah's the same way.

Addressing the lone boy in the group, Carlos, he says “I think I saw you earlier, you came by and hugged Steph, you were carrying a bucket of chalk?”

A betrayed gasp erupts from Joy and her mouth drops open. “No fair, you knew Stephanie was here and you didn't tell me?”

Carlos turns a poisonous glare on him for getting him in trouble, the green of his eyes striking against the dark tan of his skin.

Who did that remind him of?

Two out of three.

He's lucky this isn't a pass or fail course.

“You were gonna see her today anyways.” Carlos’ mop of dark curls shakes as he tries to fend off Joy's accusatory look.

“I could have seen her longer though” Joy whines at him because her fit of temper doesn't do anything but irritate him.

“I didn't do anything wrong.” He doubles down “And I got the chalk bucket for you! Who was it that wanted to draw on the sidewalk?”

"He was doing you a favor.” Hannah chides Joy who stops doing an imitation of a puffer fish at the reminder.

He surreptitiously glances over to see if Steph will intervene but she looks completely unworried. “Sure you don't want to break that up?”

“They'll be fine, they'll make up in a few minutes. Joy is bad at holding grudges and Carlos is easily bribed.”

“Easily bribed?”

“Suggestable when faced with candy.” She amends with a sly smile.

*

Steph was right.

The soulful, watery, eyes of the kids staring up at him are bad for his health. Hannah is tugging at the hem of his shirt, Joy is trying to barter with masterpieces made of crayon, he's sure it's a cat but getting it wrong might curtail her dreams of being an artist, and Carlos? The short boy with his hands in his pockets is pretending that he doesn't want to play another round but can't stop the jut of his lip from revealing his inner thoughts.

Steph, unreservedly, cackles at how easily he folds under the combined charms of the trio while their other agemates cheer. Her chest is heaving and she's sliding down to the floor like her legs can't keep her up.

This was their fourteenth round of hide and seek and adults had penalties if they got caught, he'd had about a dozen cardiac arrests thinking they'd lost a kid and-

She's collapsed on her side and is slapping her palm on the floor. Tears shimmer on the edges of her eyelashes and her lips are trembling with the effort she makes to stop, but like someone had taken a drill to a dam, her integrity is broken.

“Steph!”

“You said you could handle them, they have nothing on the perps you cuff, right?”

He would be annoyed if he wasn't so affected by her mirth. As it is, a smile lifts the corner of his mouth in spite of the muscles working to flatten it.

And wasn't that a provocative thought?

She'd had no presence in his life just a couple months back.

“It's my turn to be It!” Carlos blurts out, red and white shoes squeaking as he jumps up and down. He'd won the mini Rock-Paper-Scissors tournament the kids dreamed up to keep things fair and they scattered like a flurry of snow, like someone had set a cat amongst the pigeons, when he started counting.

Scrambling up, Steph beelines for the archway leading into the library and upon seeing him behind her hisses “Go find your own hiding place.”

Equally adamant he says “If I go down, we go down together.”

The lisp in the seeker’s voice sounds from just beyond the entrance and Steph tries to cover a giggle as he sends a wary look backwards. He can see the plan to abandon him in her eyes so he lunges for her hand, cuffing them together.

“Oh no, you are not leaving me.” He pitched his voice low as he pulled her into his orbit.

“Okay, fine, fine, fine, c'mon.” She doesn't bother with shaking off his hand and suddenly they're scampering towards the shelves, steps echoing in the relative silence of the room, recoiling off the high ceilings and the unyielding stone.

“Here?” He complains as they come to a stop between two bookshelves. This is as good as standing out in the open, they're sitting ducks and the penalties the kids came up with for the adults if they got caught were either creative or exhausting.

He'd gone up and down three flights of stairs for each and every one of them because Carlos challenged his vanity. He'd known that he would never be the most muscular of the family, he was an acrobat, a gymnast who tended towards lean muscle with a build that valued flexibility, but being called scrawny by a six year old wasn't great to hear.

Piggyback rides for fourteen six year olds who used his hair like reins was a Herculean effort, not because they were heavy but because when they reared back the anxiety that his hands would slip and they would meet the landing of the first floor would spike.

The second time he got caught he had to endure the gaggle of girls painting his face with the contents of Steph's and another volunteer’s purse. She'd very helpfully told the girls that she didn't have enough in her bag and that she had to give them choices so they went on a hunt for another person who would let them use their makeup on him.

The other volunteer they'd roped into the madness was someone who appreciated color and he'd ended up with one eye in peacock blue and the other in a bottle green with spidery clumps of mascara coating his lashes. His cheeks had been alternating shades of raspberry and a frosty ballerina pink and one girl decided that adding freckles with the liquid eyeliner that they'd found was “Super cute.”

The shutter of Steph's camera as it all went down danced an Irish Jig on his pride but she seemed so happy about her shots that he knew he would forgive her. He even started posing and curtsying to the girls’ shared delight. One had closed his hand around a plastic teacup and told him to pretend he was drinking tea with the Queen of England, or their resident royalty, Princess Stephanie, who gracefully accepted the toy scepter and tiara.

Joy had pulled her hair out of that severe ponytail like he'd been longing to do since she hopped into his car and the others had wrapped her in obnoxiously floral curtains that had him cringing and laughing at the same time. They were as tacky as any Hawaiian shirt he'd ever seen and they almost, he'd said as she pinched the material and lifted it up to study it, made things even between them.

And why was everything waterproof these days? It was hellish trying to get it all removed. The first attempt left him looking like a raccoon and one of the even younger kids who came in the bathroom while he was failing to wash it all off had cried. He'd spent five minutes comforting him before he could return to scrubbing the residue away. Eventually he gave up and walked out with half of it still on his face.

Steph took pity on him and asked around for makeup wipes, he hadn't realized that there were special ways to remove makeup, and spent a few minutes wiping it off for him as he sat on a child sized stool because his eyes had started to sting.

Making it even for the boys involved a domino mask made out of construction paper and rubber bands. He had to play Robin for the next round, which was more challenging than it should have been because the mask kept obscuring his line of vision, but did put him in a fantastic mood. The only fly in the ointment was when he asked them who the coolest Robin was.

It was, unanimously, the Robin with a sword.

The explosive laugh from Steph when they heard that sparked a dirty look from him.

“What? The world is for the young. Feel like pinching my cheeks yet, old timer?”

Scoffing, he stepped in close and a displeased “Mphh-mrrmph” flew out of her as he followed through on the suggestion.

“Did you think I wouldn't do it?” Her cheek had been as bouncy as the whites of a hardboiled egg and he had to fight to keep his thumb and index from slipping off.

Rubbing her cheek, she had pouted at him and it hadn't been manly, Jason would revoke his man card, he'd wanted to coo at her the way people did at newborns even though it would only have given credence to the teasing.

Turning back to the boys they were confronted by a pile of paper shuriken, and sharing a look with Steph, it spawned a joint agreement to never tell Damian. The popularity would absolutely have gone to his head and the last thing they needed was to encourage his love of pointy objects. Damian would have turned the lot of them into his minions and they'd have harangued everyone like the flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz.

The third penalty involved a mystery concoction that he wasn't allowed to know the contents of. White chunks of something that might have been cottage cheese littered the bottom and pushed up against the glass as the violently orange color changed into a lemon custard yellow at the top.

Steph, he contemplates, hasn't been caught even once and he's beyond tempted to pick her up and walk them straight into the middle of the room so she can at least suffer with him. He was the new kid on the block to them and they'd actually made finding him a priority. If they were older and not so cherubic he'd call it hazing.

“This is the best that you can do? How did you not get caught?”

“Shhh” she shushes, peeking from side to side like a meerkat before shoving him into a cramped alcove hidden by the reliable bulk of the bookshelf.

A small cry escapes as his back hits the stone but the shock doesn't last more than a moment before she's wedging herself in with him, her hands a warm, albeit ineffectual, barrier on his chest.

“A little warning would have been nice.” He opines and stares down at the crown of her head accusingly.

“You should feel sorrier for me.” She raises her face towards him, nose tinged red from where she banged into his collarbone.

He opens his mouth to reply but the words die in his throat.

It's like a still from a movie.

The sun filters through the stacks and into their quiet pocket of the universe. A bar of pale gold light streams across her eyes, and framed by it, magnified by it, they refract. Like unprocessed diamonds, they glitter wildly under the right conditions and then go cloudy and dreamy like seaglass.

They aren't, a strange kind of wonder invades him, winds its way around empty chambers and maps its way along his lifeline, a simple blue.

They've never been a simple blue.

An urge to put a name to the exact color pricks him, the thorns and barbed wire, the dangerous why of why that was important, nothing against that single-minded desire.

Slate and steel are too cold.

The shade of the sky is off by a single degree.

Azure, too vivid, and navy, too dark and muted.

Palms crop up against the soft curve of her ribs because her tank had ridden up in that mad rush to conceal themselves. The exposed skin is like satin sliding over his hands and he's never given so much attention to the sensitivity of his fingertips.

Does she know that watching that shaky breath tumble from the unblemished column of her throat and out into the atmosphere is all he can do to stop himself from stalling on her lips?

Her signature honeysuckle and jasmine is absent and he misses it enough that the words, “You aren't wearing your normal perfume”, creep out without his consent.

Static builds and a nervous chuckle trickles out.

“Some of the kids have allergies and I…”

The slow tilt of his head is something he doesn't catch until giggles erupt from the hall and the children sound the alarm saying that they've caught someone.

Lungs burning, he bites his cheek and says “Guess we can stop hiding now.” The timbre of his voice is an octave lower and the slightest bit raspy, crushed under the weight of a moment that hadn't happened.

How they don't register the little girl peeking in at them until she speaks is a mystery.

“You showed him our spot!” Joy alters the gravity, drawing Steph's attention like a lightning rod, tiny foot tapping like a metronome.

He's never been so glad to get interrupted.

The silvery sound of a bell tolls overhead and extricating herself from him hurriedly, Steph, not all that dissimilar to a spooked horse, mutters something about lunch and speeds through the archway of the library, leaving him and Joy blinking owlishly at each other.

“Is she running away from you?” Joy asks with the vicious bluntness of the young and innocent. But then something incredible seems to dawn on her, blue eyes wide and excited. “It’s twelve and she's running away from you, like Cinderella!”

Cinderella ran away at midnight, though, Steph’s long blonde hair and penchant for a fast exit is right on target, he muses.

“Does that mean you're her prince? I heard Tal say you were a Prince when she and Jamie were sneaking cookies from the kitchen earlier. I was hiding behind the door because no one ever looks behind the door. I'm going to tell on them if they don't give me some later. At least three, one for me, and Hannah, and Carlos.”

At least she was still thinking of others, he fought off the urge to laugh.

“People call my-”

What should he call Bruce?

Best to go with the technical answer again.

“adoptive father the Prince of Gotham but I don't know if that would make me a prince.”

It's a pithy title that the press bandied around because in Gotham the Wayne name was as good as gold. And because there were members of actual royalty that had less money than Bruce.

There was only one Op Ed that used it in less than glowing terms, then again, the title was ‘Top Ten People who could stand around and make millions’.

An expose disguised as a silly, gossip columnist’s piece on the who's who of the rich and famous? How that article got past its editors was something of a miracle, a “manmade miracle, as Vicky Vale had said over a cocktail at a gala.

Lex Luthor’s monopoly over insulin production ended the week after.

The pixie interrogating him absorbs that before chirping, “It counts.”

Asking his own question he says, “Don't you think Steph-”

“Stephanie!” She corrected him.

“Stephanie”, he sends her a quelling look that she only grins sunnily at, knowing that she's getting away with it, “can rescue herself? I think she's pretty amazing, she's saved my bacon a couple of times. ”

“Bacon is hard to cook.” Joy wrinkles her face, the figurative language flying over her head. “And she can! Um, but, that doesn't mean that a girl doesn't want to get swept off her feet.”

She recites that second part with so much sass that he knows she's copying someone else.

Probably Cloudy.

For some reason he doesn't think the woman ever censors herself. If she censored herself she wouldn't have brought up her breasts the first time he ever met her.

“I guess it could be the case but I think Stephanie is the kind to do the sweeping instead. She's not the type of girl to sit still and look pretty.”

“Are you saying she's not-”

The girl looks like she wants to kick him in the shin so he hurriedly says “Steph is very pretty.”

Appeasing a six year old is not how he'd pictured his day but the quick response works because the momentum of her foot stops before it gets more than a few inches off the ground.

“It's Stephanie-”

“Because it's better to sing.” He completes her sentence to the girl's satisfaction.

There's a lapse in the conversation as she pulls him around another corner.

“I can see why you like her so much. She's the best. The best at making bread, and making people laugh. I don't know anyone else who makes me laugh as much. And,” he's pensive as he says the next part, “she gets me to remember things I haven't thought about in a long time. Even the things that I thought would hurt aren't so painful.”

Thoughts of his parents and the warmth a simple bowl of soup conferred have his lips curling in a smile. “It's a superpower of hers.”

Thrilled, though he's not sure why she's so excited by him complimenting someone else, Joy leaps closer, landing in a plie to the front of him before putting her hands on her hips.

“She's also the best at giving hugs. She's warm and she squeezes you, but not too tight, and she always smells really good, or she did till we all found out Carlos has allergies”, she states with a huff.

“Is she? I've never gotten a hug from her.”

Unless being sick at the carnival counted. But that was more him holding onto her while grappling with vertigo and nausea. He tried to block that memory out because it was embarrassing.

He was a superhero who got sick on a kiddie ride.

But it wasn't all awful. The feeling of her hands running through his hair, he hadn't known that something like that could feel so nice.

“Then I guess it's okay that she showed you our hiding spot. You're really bad at hiding.” she says, glossing over the fact that the group had made it their mission to seek him out every time.

They take another turn down the labyrinthine hallway.

“Are you rich?”

He wasn't. He didn't typically touch his trust fund because it was hard to think of it as his and his salary was enough for him to live off of anyways.

And fine, he didn't have to worry about rent, but he'd bought his apartment outright for security reasons. Bruce had made a compelling argument for it that he hadn't managed to defeat. And his athletic scholarships had covered the bulk of his schooling so he was doing okay there too.

‘Boy, I'm really not winning any arguments with myself today’, he thought as he settled on an answer.

Something bland then.

“I'm comfortable.”

“So you mean yes. People who say that are always super rich.” She taps her chin, once again making him think of his partner. “Are you nice?”

“I like to think I am.” He smiles at her, charmed by the frankness of her questions.

“Peter says rich guys are, it's a bad word but you can't tell on me,” she whispers it quickly like it's scandalous, “assholes. But you're nice, so I guess that's not right. You're okay.”

She says ‘Okay’ in the same grudging way Steph does when she can't find her way out of an argument or when she grudgingly accepts something he says. The Deja Vu is starting to give him double vision.

Was it bad that he wanted to put her in his pocket and take her home?

Adoption wasn't the worst habit he could've inherited from Bruce.

*

Lunch is a frantic rush to piece together how they're going to teach the six year olds. Why summer has to be educational is something that he can't understand but he does end up loving the Internet more.

He also meets a few more volunteers, one of them an older gentleman in suspenders named George. George regales him with stories of a much younger Steph which is a pleasure he would have indulged in if they had more time. The man had known her since she was in elementary school and Steph at that age was already quite the character.

“So this is a story I heard secondhand.”

Which is interesting because Crystal Brown doesn't strike him as the type to be close to her neighbors, past or present.

Steph alternates between white, red, and pink like it's Valentine's Day. She already knows what story is coming and dreads it. Smiling at her only makes her cover her face with both hands.

Has he found a match for his ‘Robins fly South’ story?

“In first grade Stephie's classroom had a boa constrictor as the class pet.” George laughs, the full-bodied sound draws attention from the other people at the table. “That's Gotham for you. Anyways, she had it in her head that Bella, and of all things to name a snake, ‘Beautiful’ isn't what I would’a chosen, needed some time outside of her tank.”

“I think I have a picture” The man slips a billfold out of his pocket and hands the promised shot over. “This is her at age eight so she's a little older than she is in the story. She's a bit of a mascot for a few of us older folks in the area so we all have stuff like this lying around.”

Pigtails caught midswing, because one foot was already ahead of her, Stephanie is twisting back. She has a hand on her hip like she's impatient and she wants the cameraman to hurry up already.

A logo for the Gotham City Zoo on the cuff of her sleeve and the brown paper lunch bag clutched in her other hand, give him some context for the occasion.

She looks so characteristically cheerful in the photo that he marvels at how that aspect of her has apparently never changed.

“She noticed that the creature kept arching up towards the grate that covered the whole set up. Now, if her regular teacher was there, there wouldn'ta been any problem but that day they just had to have a sub.” George shook his head.

“The lady was one of those ‘there for the paycheck' types and decided to take a nap. The kids in the class had to dismiss themselves for recess and Stephie just thought it was so damn unfair that Bella didn't get to have fun too.”

“Her regular teacher had rules against handling the snake without supervision but Stephie thought, ‘Mrs. Koji isn't here so the rules don't apply’. She had a very flexible interpretation of the law.”

His laugh is for more than the other man knows, Steph still has a flexible interpretation of the law, and sliding an eye over to the mortified woman next to him, he doubles over.

“The scream I'm told, was bloodcurdling, spine tingling. The lady woke up, noticed it was gone, and found that snake wrapped around three kids’ shoulders like a scarf. Bella was a gentle giant so they weren't in any danger but, uh, they put a padlock on that cage after that.”

*

They're setting up the station for the experiments with help from Hannah, Joy, and Carlos, when Steph shouts “Ah, no, Joy, don't run-” and the sloshing sound of water fills the air.

Steph’s eyes are wide as she tries to ward off something behind him and suddenly liquid is soaking his head and dripping down his shirt.

Crying sounds erupt behind him and turning around he sees her soothing Joy who has a bleeding scrape on her knee.

Hannah is already pulling out a first aid kit and Carlos is covering the floor in paper dowels and as she's being tended to, the cause of his predicament starts apologizing.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to! I just wanted to help.”

Joy’s blue eyes are shiny and the sight of her cradled in the older blonde’s arms is jarring and maybe it's the panicked look on Steph's face but it hits him differently than it did this morning.

They look like they could be sisters.

Or, it's a crazy thought but he can't get it out of his head, mother and daughter.

Bruce's case file, what had it said?

“Don't worry about it, kiddo. I needed to cool down anyways.” He joins the two of them, realizing belatedly that he's created puddles all over the floor. “Got any towels or spare shirts here, Steph?

“Yeah, one sec, we should have some leftover volunteer shirts from the charity run.” She jogs to a cabinet along the back wall of the room and pulls out a ragged cardboard box. Holding up a blue shirt with white lettering after rifling through the contents she says “We don't have any men's sizes anymore but there's a women's medium.”

It'll be tight on him but still better than what he's currently wearing. He just has to wear it long enough for his shirt to dry.

“Hand it over.” The wind chill is exacerbated by the liquid saturating his shirt and goosebumps raise along his arms. He feels like a plucked chicken, the AC is fantastic at Swithin's, even in the height of summer. “Actually, hand two over, I can use the second as a makeshift towel if that's okay.”

The sensation of a dry shirt, even though it pulls across his shoulders a little awkwardly, is welcome, and he's glad that it's long enough to not look like a crop top

“So how are we setting things up?”

Steph must be in deep thought because she doesn't get back to him for nearly a minute, which is fine, because his mind is occupied too.

*

The demonstration portion for the concepts they were trying to teach went well enough, it was letting the kids follow through that had him on tenterhooks. All the glass just made him wonder if they should have a dustpan and broom on hand the way that the first aid kit was.

Trusting kids with glass was stressful.

He's in the middle of rinsing the vases and glasses they used in the experiments while Steph takes entertaining the group elsewhere when the Jersey in George's voice rings out.

“You know, when you first stopped in we thought you were that boy she was dating a few years ago. Tim or somethin’. It's why you didn't get much recognition from Peter. He was pissed when he heard the boy had broken Stephie’s heart but none of us had ever met him personally, we just knew enough to know he had dark hair and was blue eyed so when she said you were an old friend we just assumed.”

His hands came to a stop as he turned to the person idling in the doorway.

There was a lot to take in there, for one, hadn't Tim and Steph had a friendly breakup? He knew they still occasionally worked cases together and he would know if, no, he wouldn't have, Tim didn't confide in him like he used to and Steph was professional enough to work with anyone, even him when he put his foot in his mouth back in the early days of their team up.

Were the two even friends anymore?

He hadn't seen them in a picture together for a long time.

“Stephie has a type” the old man chortled, looking him up and down as he dragged a stool over. “My knees can't take so much standing, I had a replacement a few years back and now the other one's getting to me. Back to the subject, are you kids going steady?”

“You've got it all wrong. Me and Steph are completely platonic.”

It was a line fuzzier in his head than he wanted it to be, but they were.

“She brought you round here, so you must be important to her.”

He'd known that much already and he couldn't do that to-

“You got decent odds.”

The man's words give life to something he wants to put under lock and key.

What he was experiencing wasn't the pressure of a silent apartment or phone, she'd filled those up.

Maybe that was the problem.

He just needs to go on a date, he thinks, he needs to be open to more people.

He should ask Bridget out. She'd been hinting that she'd like to grab dinner sometime. He'd held off on asking the apartment manager and then there was Steph and patrol. And then there was movie night, cooking lessons, lunches and late dinners.

Bridget was a more appealing alternative to downloading a dating app and he dismisses the nagging feeling the fledgling drain on his time already provokes.

“I’m not looking, and she's not looking, she's dating someone else” the last part is a late reminder to himself, “We're both not looking at each other.”

“This generation never knows what it wants. Mal would be disappointed. A man should have chutzpah. Your girl is with the wrong guy? You give it your best shot. Shoot for the moon and even if you miss, you'll land among the stars. Not that I'm givin’ you a pep talk. If you can't be sure about her then you don't deserve her.”

Being lumped in with the young like he's a teenager is funny given the potshots about his age today and he'll just selectively ignore the second half.

Searching for a neutral subject he asks, “Who's Mal?”

“You haven't met Mal?” George is stumped by that and scratches his head “Mal’s the closest thing she's got to a grandpa. Me? I'm okay with bein’ an uncle, there's still some color in my hair. Salt n’ Pepper like George Clooney”, he waggles his eyebrows.

“Did I get it wrong?” The man murmurs quietly to himself, as if not knowing this Mal character made everything between Steph and him mean less.

“Dick, we've got the okay to go for the day anytime after four” Steph calls out and walks in before slowing down to look between the two of them. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, Stephie you're not, I was just invitin’ him to play chess with me and Mal. The old man isn't givin’ me enough of a challenge anymore. I need some fresh meat.”

“You and Mal are the same age” she laughs, “and Mal is exactly who you go to for fresh meat.” her gaze switches over to him and she explains, seeing how lost he is at the latter part of her sentence, that “Mal's a butcher by trade, he and his wife took care of me a lot as a kid. George runs the deli next to him.”

“Is he who you buy your meat from when we cook together?” The neat brown packaging and twine that always wrapped their cuts came to mind and put the mild unhappiness caused by George's insinuation to rest. People typically didn't get that from mainstream grocery stores, where most things were shrink wrapped or vacuum sealed.

“Yeah,” she nods her head at him, “he is. You don't get fresher than right from the farm. He was all about local producers before the trend hit mainstream.” There's a proud look on her face that communicates how much the unknown man means to her. “He could've franchised but he's always been content with his little slice of Gotham’s pie.”

George asks casually “You up for a game with us geezers?”

There's only one answer for it. He looks at how satisfied George is, knowing his interest in Mal has been piqued. He has about as much agency as his hands did in that alcove.

None.

“Name the date and time.”

“The corner of Graham st on Sunday, 2 o'clock.”

*

“Okay everybody, you know the drill. Naptime!” Steph claps her hands.

He might be the only one that doesn't know how this has to go so he flanks her side in support. He's handled kids at work and at his teaching sessions but he's never had to put any of them to sleep.

Thinking about it, he's never had to spend more than two or three hours with a kid, Tim and Damian excluded, since his youngest brothers hadn't had the most normal upbringings. One had the Art of War read to him as a bedtime story, and the other was neglected so much that his nightly excursions from Bristol all the way to Crime Alley went unnoticed. Cass, on her end, had a very distinct lack of a childhood so things that would have any other kid doing cartwheels only aroused some curiosity. And Jason wasn't all that far off from him age wise and would've resented any coddling. He'd always hated anything that suggested he couldn't take care of himself.

Sounds of dismay from their charges fill the air, but, as if they know arguing is useless, they all pull out pillows and blankets and begin tromping about, trying to find a suitable spot to lay down. They disperse like dandelion seeds, floating from one corner to another, though, there is the odd kid who's trying to emulate a mushroom’s ability to grow anywhere.

Hannah, the sensible little thing that she is, is already spinning herself into a cocoon and laying claim to a cushy window seat. It's a smart choice, given that they're a limited commodity, and on the other end of the spectrum is Joy who is determined to now be the exact opposite of her name.

“I don't want to go to sleep” she says petulantly, which, for someone who, less than fifteen minutes ago was happily twirling around like the world was full of rainbows and unicorns, is a radical turnabout.

He turns to Steph to talk strategy but she's already transported herself over to the girl who's moments from stamping her feet.

“Alright, sweetpea,”

A nickname.

Those two had a special bond. Hannah and Carlos garnered much of the same treatment but he could see it in the careful way she braided the girl's hair when she complained about it getting in the way, the tone of her voice as she called her name.

“-normally you're okay with naptime, what's going on?” His partner levels the six year old with a concerned expression, brow furrowing.

“I'm just big now, I don't need to sleep.”

Drooping like a daisy in the rain and swaying on her feet, she isn't all that convincing.

The two start whispering and when they finish, the blonde sidles over and says, out of the corner of her mouth, “Play along.”

With a subtle nod of his head to tell her he understands, he watches her gather the children around her like she's the Pied Piper, chaos subsiding under the power of her voice.

“Today, for nap time, I've decided that we're all going to have a buddy, so partner up with a friend and we're going to count sheep till we pass out.”

“How come we gotta sleep together today? We never had to do that before.” TJ, a boy in overalls with a red cap asks, big brown eyes curious rather than combative.

‘I've been having some nightmares and I just really want a friend next to me. I think it'd make me not feel as scared. You see, I was being chased down a hallway by some green, slimy, goopy monster that had teeth like needles, and I hate needles-”

She adds so many details that the kids start to either lose interest, laugh, or look sad for her. Truth be told, he's impressed by her ad libbing, which has spiraled into something of a bedtime story. It's an out of place thought but Steph would be good at undercover work. He'd originally thought that her personality wouldn't allow for it but she reads the undercurrents of a room well.

All the attention that had been focused on Joy has transferred to her and none of the kids make the connection that it's Joy who's been having nightmares.

And while these are just children, he has to admire her resolve to take the bullet for the little one. He knows for a fact that this can be a tough crowd, the kids are Gothamite to their bones. They had to have Steph vet him before they even considered talking to him.

“Anyways, we're gonna do that and if you want more than one buddy you can create a pod. Like whales!”

His eyes follow her line of sight to Carlos who noticeably brightens up and jogs over to Hannah, who has relinquished her window seat because it was too small for her and Joy.

How did she always know what to do?

He's not sure he would've caught onto the boy's upset. He might've taken the time to ask Joy why she was acting the way she was, but Carlos?

The rest of the room rearranges itself, bunches of two, and three, and four, blooming. As the adults in the room they are automatically the least cool people there. He and Steph are left holding their mats in the middle of it all like they're the last picks in gym class.

Steph looks so disappointed that Joy decided to group up with Hannah and Carlos that he can't stop himself from asking a question.

“I know it's not the company, because I'm fantastic, so why is ‘Why me’ written all over your face?”

“It is the company. And I hate to break it to you”, she teases lightheartedly, but not everyone's a fan.”

“Au contraire. Who invited who over, first?”

“And now you haunt my sofa every Friday. How does the saying go? ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’?

He tosses her another pillow as they roll out their mats. The kids might be okay without any extra padding but he and Steph won't be.

“Familiarity breeds content.”

“Please tell me you're getting that wrong on purpose.”

He sends her the wide toothy grin that he only ever uses to make her cringe. “It's like when you go to the store and you pick the brand name cereal over the store brand.”

“You're the worst.”

“And I'm still your favorite person.”

“You're a person who feeds me, that's all I'll admit to.”

“Well, you're my favorite person then.” The blink-and-you'll-miss-it smile that flickers across her face in response might be the highlight of his day. “And what are you, a cat?”

“It would explain why Damian likes me so much more than you.”

“He does not.” Probably. He'd been especially pushy lately and the teenager had been so annoyed at being chased out of the manor to spend time with the Titans that a batarang had buried itself a half inch into the wood of the door he'd stood next to.

“Animals rank above people for him and you know it.” She lies on her back as they listen to the kids count sheep, eyes on the ceiling.

It's not a claim he can refute. Damian was never so at peace as when Ace and Alfred the cat were by his side. When Bat Cow died it had been like a freak storm, although it cleared almost as soon as it happened.

“I've been watching you.”

She fixes her eyes on him and he can tell she wants to make a joke from the quiver of her lips.

“Not in a wear your skin kind of way” he wards off her patent desire to mess with him. “You're good with them.”

“It's just experience.”

“Give yourself more credit. Some people, teachers, social workers, are around kids all day and don't have your way with them. The way you put 100% effort into everything you do here is amazing. The way you are with the kids, your instincts.”

Her face tilts further in his direction, tendrils of hair pooling over her cheek and onto her mat like molten metal.

“You would've been a good mom.”

Saying this when she has no way of running, not without having to navigate the minefield of sleeping kids around them, is less than fair. He won't deny it. But saying the words also makes the tips of his ears burn the way his hands had when he sliced the crimson bird's eye chilis that she'd sworn would take their meal last week to the next level.

It has to equal out.

The smile she gives him is tremulous, wobbly at the corners and there's no telling if it's a positive or negative reaction but he borrows her optimism.

“We've got to at least pretend that we're also going to nap. Lead by example and all that.” She closes her eyes and whispers.

The hour ends and they dissolve into games and activities again.

*

Introductions to the director of the orphanage never manage to happen but he does take a calendar of the summer events planned for the institution on their way back to her place.

*

He snags a piece of Mongolian beef from the open container in her hand with his chopsticks, “I heard about a haircut that involves you passed out on the foam floor in the arts and crafts room, a group of four year olds, and safety scissors.”

“They showed you pictures, didn't they?” Steph groans and buries her face in her hands like she couldn't stand the thought of him seeing her like that.

“They did one better, they sent them to me.” He grins, pouring her some water before grabbing one of kitschy mugs from the cupboard to the right of her sink. She always had the most outlandish choices to choose from and today he's got a science beaker with measurements etched up the sides.

“Freaking Jamie”, she grumbles before leaning over his shoulder to look at his screen.

It wasn't as bad as she seemed to think, it wasn't as flattering as her current look, sure, but it wasn't all that terrible.

He'd liked how her eyes were brought front and center.

“I almost forgot how bad that look was. I looked like a Barbie Doll whose owner watched ‘Extreme Makeovers’ and just discovered scissors.”

“To be fair, between the hours of 1pm and 4pm that day, they had exclusive access so you kind of were their life sized Barbie. was also told that there was a tub of glue mixed with neon green paint. From what I heard, it was a narrow escape for you.”

Steph gives him a look that says ‘You have no idea’ as she nibbles on a spring roll.

“Kid logic. They thought since glue made things stick, and paint made things colorful, it would work on my hair.” She runs a hand through it like she's reassuring herself that it's still there. “I can laugh about it now but I really don't have the bone structure for a shaved head.”

“Now about that speech you made…” he trails off, a mischievous slant to his lips.

“They showed you that too?!”

“Blame it on Tal. So what on earth made you think calling the grads special snowflakes in the middle of a summer drought was a great idea? We had heat warnings that year”, he can't stop snickering as he nudges her companionably.

“It was a great analogy.” She says stubbornly.

His dubious expression elicits a wince from Steph because she was doubling down on what was obviously a lie.

“It was like watching someone dig their own grave for fifteen minutes” his voice is drier than the Sahara.

“Hey,” she whines and slaps his arm “I didn't even know I was speaking till, like, ten minutes before."

“You did fine ad libbing earlier with the kids.”

"Teenagers are scary!” She pouts at him before brightening up as the opening screen of their movie dawns.

*

“Fess up, what is it?” She prompts as the film reaches the halfway point, the conflict on the screen pausing as she hits a button on the remote. “You've been acting like ants are biting at your ankles and I would love to not have you staring at me like I'm a science experiment.” Her face scrunched up in a grimace but she also seemed curious. "What else did you hear from the others?"

She was probably assuming that he wanted to tease her more and on any other day he would. Not with her mercilessness, but he would. And there were so many that he'd been able to garner from everyone at St. Swithin's.

There was just this…one question taking up all the bandwidth in his head, percolating in the back of his mind.

The safe thing would have been to leave it alone.

They didn't talk about things like this. They talked about happy things, things that annoyed them, they laughed. They didn't touch on the painful events that they knew happened to each other.

This was greed, he was being greedy.

Knowing it doesn't stop him from continuing.

“You’re protective of Joy” is a crutch of statement that allows him to have one foot in and out of the door.

The pivot is unexpected and he can read confusion in her lopsided smile.

“Any reason you're asking about her in particular?”

“I just noticed how close you were.”

“I try to watch out for her. She's been adopted twice before.” Steph pops a pot sticker into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “Maybe it's because I've taken care of her since she was a baby but when the couples returned her like she was a stray or a shoe that didn't fit, it got to me. Most placements with Swithin's go well, but not hers.”

That rings true.

The condensation on her glass of water leaves a ring on his coffee table but he doesn't go looking for a coaster.

“She's got hair like yours.”

“Straight?”

She cocks her head at him, but he knows she's not as clueless as she's trying to portray herself as.

It's a warning.

“Blonde.”

“Blonde is rare but not that rare, you're acting like we're an endangered species.”

There's a falsity to her laugh that he can pick out because he's spent so many nights listening to it and she's clenching her jaw so hard that he starts worrying that she'll break a tooth.

Why is this so important to him?

Is it worth the way she's looking at him right now?

It wasn't any of his business but…absurdly, he wanted it to be.

He runs his hand through his hair in frustration because the answer is on the tip of his tongue.

“Her eyes are blue.”

“Are we just listing features? You have blue eyes, how'd you get yours?” She stares at him, her body language closing off even as she smiles. “You're making this feel like a screwy version of Little Red Riding Hood, like, are you going to ask about my teeth next?”

“I might.” He jokes to let some steam out of the pot but it only makes her scowl at him.

Gathering up his nerve, shoulders straightening he says “I just noticed a pattern. She skips when she's too excited for words with the same little point of her foot on the down beat, she talks like you, even if what she talks about is princesses and fairy tales-”

Steph swallows hard and pushes his legs off her lap before she asks him with a stony look on her face. “What are you trying to ask here, Dick? Because I'm pretty sure that it's none of your business.”

“You invited me there and you thought I wouldn't have any questions? You don't even hide it well.”

“I brought you there as a volunteer, I didn't offer my life up for dissection. And what would I even need to hide?”

She's still on the couch but he can feel her rearing away from him. Couch cushions shift with the change in the equilibrium and the posture of her body goes rigid like they're strangers on a plane and she doesn't want their elbows to touch.

He licks his lips and his heart thuds like it's somewhere near his ears instead of rooted in his ribcage. She could tell him to leave and he wouldn't stop her, but the thought that she might, wounds him.

Wasn't he trustworthy to her?

*

“Is Joy your daughter?”

*

“Take your fucking orange chicken and get out!”

The words swirl in his mind and keep him from sleeping. The look on her face was hostile but what he hated the most was the pain she tried to mask.

Steph shouting and shoving him out the door isn't how he wanted the evening to end.

Why did he always have to be so clumsy with her when it mattered?

*

Alfred had engraved certain social mores into his head. For example, not speaking ill of the dead, calling before you pay a visit to someone's home, and keeping your appointments.

Keeping an appointment was basic manners and even though he hadn't had any sleep, spent the night on pins and needles because of his blowout with the blonde in his life, he finds himself on the of Graham.

The agreement with George was verbalized without ever exchanging numbers so he wouldn't have known what to dial to cancel and while reaching out to Stephanie would have been reasonable, she probably had the man's number, she was likely to avoid his calls for a while.

Letting himself think of that as being finite helps him with the leaden weight in the pit of his stomach.

All leaned up against the brick facade of his shop entrance with a foldable chess case under one arm, Mal is and isn't what he thought the older man would be like. While the hair on his head is a white so pure, so pale that it takes on the colors of the light through the canopy of leaves above them, he's also broad shouldered and strong in spite of his advanced years. The man comes across as formidable, like he'd been a prize fighter in his youth and even time couldn't take that away from him. People who maintained that kind of muscle either worked out religiously or had a labor intensive job.

He can't tell if it's a strategy or not but George is twenty minutes late and Mal is happy enough to let him wriggle like a worm on a hook. Outside of a gruff, one word greeting, the New York native only asks him where George is and they stand in silence.

What was it that George said?

Chutzpah.

He starts by asking about the man's pride and joy, Caparelli's. While they were waiting the man had discovered a smudge on his window and walked in to grab Windex and a rag. Given the man's care for the appearance of his store it had to be a promising subject to use to break the ice, and it is.

The place leans into what he would call retro and the man would call classic, decor, and between the polished checkered floors and the well maintained, manual steel slicers along the back wall, the man is a traditionalist. Food and family were his tenets, as seen from the pictures all along the back wall.

There's a framed portrait of the man and Steph at her high school graduation in the very center of them all. A place of honor for the blonde who is very much the apple of his eye. There are pictures of her at what seems to be every age since they met, from missing teeth at six and eight, to thirteen, all coltish legs and arms, and seventeen with a radiant smile in a candid that's a little blurry.

Fifteen is the only year not immortalized on the wall, but then, fifteen was the year she was pregnant and he doesn't feel like it would be right to ask why.

He's never seen so many photos of a baby Stephanie. The walls of her apartment only showcased a few photos of her as a teenager and a couple of her as an infant. Her mother, she'd explained one day when he'd asked if she had a photo album for him to flip through, hadn't been the type to do a yearly family photo or the ‘Baby's firsts’ stuff other people did.

Seeing all of this makes him fiercely appreciative of the other man even when he's not sure where he stands with her at the moment.

‘Stephanie Brown, Eight years old, Coney Island’ is written in the margins of one photo that catches his eye. A gentle sandy haired woman in a puffed coat has an arm around a younger version of his friend. Holding cotton candy in one hand and a hotdog with all the fixings in the other, Steph looks carefree in a way he wishes he saw more.

“We, that is, me and my wife Clarissa celebrated her birthday late that year, fall instead of summer, we got into it with her mother a few months before.”

Mal coughs into his fist and steps away to wash his hands at the sink before asking “You ever been to Coney Island?”

“No.”

“Well, it's an experience everyone should have at least once. Nothing like an amusement park or a carnival to bring the kid out in you.”

Did the man not know who he was?

“Something about that funny to you?” The man bristles.

“I grew up in the circus, so I know what you mean.”

“Colorful crowd.”

The two words make him stare at the other man a little sharply.

He really hopes that Mal’s not one of those people who are prejudiced against circus folk. There had been plenty of people who'd talked about Bruce having adopted him as the man saving him from a life as someone who ought to be swept into a dustpan.

Those kinds of people were the worst, he found it an offense of the highest order that they enjoyed the food and services provided, but, also, would never associate themselves with them.

“Come off it, I grew up in New York, takes a village to raise a child and if you grew up poor the bullshit about race, or gender, or where you came from didn't matter. And I know who you are. I just wanted to see if you remembered your roots.”

It's the first time the man has smiled at him since he arrived and it feels good to have the respect of someone so important to his friend.

The conversation eventually fades to other more mundane topics and one soliloquy about meat and whether he knew the grades. That alone takes up a solid ten minutes and the man shows him his walk-in-freezer and the room he used to dry age his beef with pride bursting from every pore.

As Mal speaks about bringing in the carcasses of the cows he orders himself, he takes a look at the pulley system. The task sounded unnecessarily difficult to his ears. It could probably be optimized without changing too much of the existing footprint but would the man let him?

“I can hoist a quarter of a cow onto these hooks with ease. You must weigh 175 or 180 pounds from the look of you, it's more or less the same.”

On one hand, he's impressed by how accurate the estimate is, but on the other, a shovel talk?

Muscles bulge from beneath the older man's argyle sweater vest and the boastful claims of stocking his shop alone, save for the two “peanut brained boys who were there to man the registers and play games on their phones” become something believable.

His phone very carefully remains in his pocket while they're waiting for George.

By the time George arrives, they've reached a kind of understanding and though chess is a veneer for why he accepted the invitation, he, George, and Mal do play a few games at the park that's a five minute walk south.

He wins once, and it's not that he loses on purpose.

After a while the gathering devolves into the two bickering about their scores and lecturing him about being more proactive, which he only lets it stand because he learns so much more about Steph in between their arguments.

Some are things she would be embarrassed about; when she was in fifth grade she'd apparently found a condom on the playground but when she told Mal about it, since she was missing a front tooth after knocking out an older boy who called her a gutter rat the month before, it came out as ‘condiments’ instead.

Mal kept asking Steph if they ate lunch outside a lot and why the school didn't have any trash cans, not understanding why she got so mad that she cried. Once she realized that Mal hadn't been teasing her, Steph literally spelled it all out for him on a piece of paper.

The principal swore to have monitors do a look-see before school and any recesses after spending an hour in the office with him.

When they call it a day, alcohol gets involved and the three end up in the cramped back room of Mal’s shop sitting around a fold-up table with a case of beer and a few bottles of red wine because, the two swore on Mother Mary that red wine had some antioxidant that was great for the body.

Telling them that the effect gets canceled out after more than a glass is not an option and he soon finds out that the bear of a man is a deeply sentimental, weepy drunk. George is more of a happy drunk, which keeps them from circling the drain, and the stories grow more complex.

“You know, the first time Clarissa and I ever officially met Stephie, she was taking a ruler to two sheets of printer paper because she and her mom didn't have two pennies to rub together. She was six at the time and wore these overalls with stars all over them. She must've loved them because we'd never seen her in anything else even though they were so big on her that she had to have rolled the legs up three or four times.

“Anyways, I remember it clearly because,” the man rubbed his chin, “when I asked her why she was cutting that paper into so many pieces, she said it gave her more to draw on. She was so proud of herself for working that out on her head. Imagine that, something that comes in packs of hundreds was treated like treasure. She was sitting in the hallway of our building for eight hours with that little nubbin of a pencil and by the time it hit six we tempted her into our place with cookies. No one could resist Clarissa's cookies, she won contests for those.”

It doesn't sound like the street smart woman he knows the blonde is, but time could change a lot of things.

Even a day could.

“Ah, you're wondering how a kid who grew up in this neighborhood went into a stranger’s home willingly. We don't know why she decided to trust us either but we had her eating dinner with us as often as we could.” A faraway look enters Mal’s eyes as his finger circles the rim of his glass.

“Stephie makes the best of things and I hope someday that someone will just give her the best of themselves from the get go. She deserves that much.”

Mal doesn't go into specifics but it's clear that he doesn't like Crystal Brown.

George doesn't say much on that subject either, he just says “It's hard to forgive someone who hurts someone you love.”

He even gets an answer to the question that he didn't dare to ask back in the shop.

“You probably saw, from all the pictures, that her fifteenth birthday was missing.

Fifteen was a hard year, we lost Clarissa to some freak construction accident and it shames me to remember that I left her alone. The thing about grief is that it's like a wave, and you get swept away by it.

By the time I came back from sea she had taken up with some older boy and it felt like I was too late. She didn't want to listen to a word I said and no amount of dinner invitations brought her around.”

Mal sighs, as if the regret still felt fresh. Another cork gets popped open and the man fumbles, a bit of the deep garnet liquid splashing onto his shirt.

“She turned out well anyways and she came back.” George slaps his friend on the shoulder. “She's got her whole life ahead of her and trippin’ and gettin’ up is something to admire. She's got chutzpah.”

“Chutzpah.” The butcher raises a glass and drinks. “I just wish I could've been there for her. Watching her walk past the store that year was hard.”

Mal puts his glass of wine down and looks him dead in the eye, “You listen to me, it's not enough just to be there if she'll let you, you have to be there even when she doesn't want you to be.”

He takes it to heart like he's taking a vow. It's why he ends up at her door about ten minutes to midnight, bone tired from fighting with himself.

The light in her hallway had been burnt out as long as he can remember and the only brightness supplied came from the naked bulb above her head.

She's wearing an oversized T-shirt that slips off one shoulder and mismatched socks printed with cartoon dogs playing cards and dancing avocados.

He would never wear two different kinds of socks, he folded, paired, and had a drawer dedicated to them to prevent that from happening.

So why did such a stupid thing make him want to smile so much?

Long golden hair shines like platinum and he remembers how, under a street lamp, he had marveled at how she could look at the world the way she did.

Now he marvels at how much she's changed the way he does.

For once he leans into his instincts.

He doesn't redirect his hands from reaching out for her like he did yesterday morning and the night before. He doesn't let the fear of what it does to him stop him. And he doesn't move away or pretend to do anything other than what he's doing.

She's lifted half off her feet with the strength of his embrace. The honeysuckle and jasmine that he'd missed at the orphanage envelops him as he buries his face into the cornsilk of her hair.

“What are you doing here?” Her hands push at his chest with enough force that her nails bite into him, “You obviously don't think much of me if you think I could use Joy as a replacement goldfish.”

Hurt drips from her words and makes him curse at himself.

Urgency prompts a rambling prologue.

“I should've called first, Alfred would be disappointed, but I didn't want to wait for this to blow over. You see, I think too much. Sometimes, when I'm trying to find the right thing to say, I miss the moment and-"

Breathing has never felt more like grace. It gives him the split second he needs to gather his courage.

“last night, when you told me to leave, I should've stayed. Nothing you could've said would've made me think less of you.

If the way I look at you has changed, it's because I see you now. I see you and I wish I hadn't wasted so much time getting in my own way. It sounds crazy and I'm pretty sure I am massively screwing up because I can be...such an idiot in front of you. Just, you were always worth knowing and I'm sorry that it took this long for me to, to go out and say it.”

There's a part of him that agonizes over it, that thinks it's too long winded, too sappy, too sentimental. Too...true. But the alcohol lives up to it's epithet; liquid courage, and when he pulls back to look at her seriously, there's this glow in her eyes, like banked coals finding their second wind.

She's quiet as she takes inventory of him before she makes one decisive nod.

“It's about time I got that apology-” Her voice sounds tough but her body sinks into his when he hauls her back in, "Even if you're cheating by tacking it onto the other things you did wrong.”

Steph's head curls infinitesimally closer and he welcomes the contact. The weight of the stone in his stomach disappears just as the weight of her cheek settles against the crook of his neck.

Both could be called burdens but he knows which one he would rather bear.

“You're not driving tonight.” She orders, voice muffled by the collar of his shirt before she takes his hand and all but drags him into her apartment.

He wasn't planning to, he was mostly sober, but, he thought, when you were this tired, it could look like you were drunker than you were. He'd read somewhere that an extreme lack of sleep affected a person as much as drinking alcohol and he was running on fumes when they had started.

He'd have called a cab, he should've called one, but he doesn't so she leads him past a pair of frost green eyes and into a room that he's seen but never spent time in before.

Hers.

The clock on the dresser reads 12:00am and in that muted darkness he asks himself what they're turning into.

*

Sounds of the city, shoes on pavement, the bells on a bike, and the shrill whistle of a crossing guard.

Sunlight passes through clouded glass and he rolls onto his side.

She's tangled in her sheets, and he wonders if it's the sign of a restless sleeper or if she always steals all the blankets.

A foot festooned with dancing avocados nudges his shin.

Lashes flutter, she mumbles his name, and, eye to eye, for what seems like an age, Cass’s flower language phase comes in handy for the first time in years.

They're a Forget-Me-Not blue.

The pretty flush that his observation brings to her face spans from her neck to her ears; a butterfly wreaks havoc in some tropical country.

Miles from his own bed, he couldn't be more at home.

Freight trains would have hit him more gently.

*

He wanted her.

The thought spread like oil, like ink on his hands, threatening to set the world on fire because it wasn't content with leaving the occasional burn.

*

He calls Bridget instead.

Chapter Text

“Are you okay? Do you need anti-itch cream? I think I have some in my purse”, Marissa’s dark hair slides over her shoulder as she twists and retrieves a small white tube from her bag. “Think fast!”

“Woah. Okay, uh.” Her fingers fumble and close around the offering, bending the aluminum out of shape.

Thanking Mal internally for the literal hours of catch that honed her reflexes, her heart slows down and she decisively moves her smoothie somewhere less vulnerable. The other woman had all the throwing ability of a toddler and it definitely would've knocked over the smoothie she allowed herself to indulge in since her cereal had turned into a soggy mess.

It would've been a waste of eight bucks, and, more than that, nothing at work was more frustrating than a sticky keyboard. IT never replaced anything quickly enough and you had to send in a ticket that usually took about two weeks to process even if nothing was broken.

Faulty equipment was the worst and the amount of typos would mean she would have to comb through everything she touched, twice. Nothing was more mind numbingly boring than editing.

“Just put it on the bite and it should start working in a few minutes.”

“What do you mean? Why would I need anti-itch cream?”

“You keep touching the underside of your left wrist.” Marissa gives her a ‘Duh’ look like she's not the brightest crayon in the box.

Like, what did Marissa know about her body that she didn't? Last she checked Marissa wasn't the one training to be a nurse.

Humoring her, her eyes drop down to the wrist in question and-

Oh.

The little sun Dick had chosen as her tattoo winks up at her even though it doesn't have a face on it. She bites her tongue to stop herself from letting out a frustrated groan.

Scolding her subconscious isn't going to do anything for her but hadn't she told herself she had no time for this?

She cycles through a list of acceptable excuses before she settles on ‘This isn't about Dick, this is because it's a novelty. It's like when someone gets a new sweater and it's so fluffy and soft that you start petting the fabric without even knowing that you were.’

A pure addiction to tactile feedback.

Nevermind that the tattoo is unobtrusive and the edges feel no different than the surrounding skin.

Despite herself, the crown of her head tilts as she examines the mark more closely.

Larger than a quarter, maybe even a dollar coin, the rendering is somewhat bigger than it had looked in the palm of Dick's hand. For something that would live on her body until she washed it away, she can't believe that she hadn't given it much notice before. She'd been too focused on his part of the bet and it's late for her to realize it, but the tattoo he'd branded her with isn't exactly the plain yellow she'd thought it was in the shadowy confines of his car.

Catching the light when she shifts her wrist and lifts it to eye level, the sun is pale, shimmery, almost wet looking, shade of gold that would almost fade into her skin if it weren't for the fact that it was edged in a dark ochre.

Departing from the use of black softens the symbol’s clean geometric lines. It's beautiful and she wonders if there's a tattoo artist out there that could capture it as it is with no deviation.

Idle fingers unconsciously trace the shape of it.

The alternating lengths of the points look like something she'd seen on an old map. Not the ones you'd get at a gas station but something fancier, something from a history book.

There's a name for it but looking it up is too much effort for something so impermanent, isn't it?

A frown tugs at her mouth and she decides against pulling out her phone with more passion than merited.

Marissa pulls her out of her fugue when she says, “Getting mosquito bites sucks, doesn't it? My family had a barbecue yesterday and they ate me alive.”

Mosquito bite?

It's definitely as annoying as one, a conflicted laugh bubbles out. Like a paper cut, now that she knows it's there it keeps pulling her attention away.

Marissa's face scrunches, obviously bewildered by her response. She can't blame her, it's not the right response to someone who's trying to commiserate.

Not doing any better than an, “Uh yeah, they do, but I'm good”, she does her best to sink further into her seat even though she has nowhere left to go.

‘Please don't ask any more questions’

“Okay,” Marissa's clear contralto draws out the word, obviously weirded out as she relents, hand held out to take the tube back, “but stop touching it. Touching only makes the problem worse.”

She isn't wrong about that part.

What she told herself before she got to work begins to feel like a lie.

*
Schuster doesn't mean to but the crude reminder that she needs to phone Tabitha Cabbot for information on her medical records, a car accident had left the poor lady with two broken legs and a fractured collarbone, constitutes as a timely rescue.

Calling him her hero is beyond her but giving her something that helps someone in need instead of the usual corporate case gives her something appealing to chew on and she stops playing whack a mole with her thoughts whenever the Dick crosses her mind.

The firm didn't take on this kind of case normally but this one in particular had been due to the city not maintenancing the traffic lights on Park Row as regularly as they should have. Gotham City Council had prioritized the cleanup of the Diamond District and retail core after a rogue attack, which would have been fine had they closed the intersection of the accident per protocol, but someone made the call to put it to a later date because it would have interfered with midday traffic.

A crew had even broken away to cordon it off once someone on the bureaucratic end realized that it opened them up to liability. The kind of liability that was worse than the complaints that temporary closure would have had flying in, the kind that danced to the tune of a few million.

But in law and life, intent never trumped what happened and what happened was that the crew got stuck in traffic.

Gotham was no French Riviera, too gritty, too much litter, but it was close enough in the light of day. Gothic and Art Deco architecture dominated like there were only two ways to live and made for a pretty picture. But if there was one thing about the city that someone should know, it was that you should never turn your back.

Any minor inconvenience was tempting fate. Natives of the city were told in their cradles to always have an eye to the side and they passed this along to their neighbors and anyone else who would listen.

Murphy's law.

One minute the boulevard could be something picturesque, something out of a movie, and the next it could be bullets and broken glass.

Cabbot, however, was a tourist. She had been cruising when the stoplight malfunctioned and caused another car to T-bone her.

Following up leads means a whole host of things need to be done, they have to pull phone records, event reports, witness reports, paperwork for deposition, and for two blessed hours, Schuster gives her naught but a fleeting glance.

Having learned from the best, Tim, she still gave her ex credit where credit was due, she didn't so much learn from Bruce than she was upbraided every night for her inexperience for as long as their partnership lasted, she proves her ability to sleuth.

Her ability to put a picture together is exactly how she went from temp to part-time and it's also why she's given relative privacy even if Schuster nags her like some Victorian school marm.

The only issue is that she burns through the agenda for the day like brush fires through the hills of California and at some point impulsively texts Dick again because her phone hadn't received any snapshots.

It's innocent, reminding him about their bet, primarily because their default is to tease and lord things over the other, and the continued back and forth actually further assures her of her innocence because nothing is flirty or out of the ordinary for a second time.

*

‘Should I really be bringing Amy into this?’, she wonders as she pins a note on the cheap gray partition of her cubicle. The urge to spin aimlessly in it like a kid invades her and her chair creaks ominously.

Does she want the pictures of Dick with that butterfly tattoo enough to bring in reinforcements?

Blackmail material is a good reason.

Amy can police, oh god, Dick is infecting her if she's making this cheesy of a joke to herself, him. On the other, siccing the detective on him is fair from fair. The brunette has an almost older sister-like/boss effect on Dick and he's almost as helpless around her as Damian can be around him.

She'd witnessed it at the bar and anything that can even slightly outwardly affect him, means a lot. Taking advantage of that is kind of, ‘Like using your resources?’, the devil on her shoulder pipes up.

Damian would approve the mercenary line of thought, she snorts to herself.

Pen stalling on the last stroke of an ‘F’; pleading the fifth starts to seem workable.

“So, Dick and I have a bet going, the important thing is, he lost and I need some help…”

*

Dick's first candid is terrible from a quality perspective but he fills up her screen the way he fills up a room and the urge to smile is irrepressible. Blurry, with him squinting as though he's looking into the windows of a shop like some hawkish health inspector who wants to send her into shutdown, she can't rip her eyes away.

Genetics, she thought, with a puff of air that drew eyes from her fellow worker bees, could be so unfair.

He was infinitely more mysterious the last time that she came to this conclusion but now she knows him. Knows him enough to finish his sentences, knows his go-to orders at more than one restaurant, that he has an old video game console he hasn't used in years lodged up on a shelf in his coat closet, because during his time with the Titans they played it on their off time, just one more thing to add to her hunch that he is sentimental even if his apartment is in dire need of a decorator, and the shine still hasn't worn off.

In the middle of copying affidavits and slipping them into the review pile for upcoming hearings, her phone chimes again with a message from Amy who has apparently decided to officially join in on the fun.

The brunette’s picture of Dick was stolen while he was leaning against a desk in the pen. He's holding a clipboard in one hand, coffee in the other, and a stack of files is bracketed under his arm because it's just like him to take on way too much at once.

A frosted doughnut with rainbow sprinkles, of course it'd be rainbow sprinkles, she muffles the sound of her amusement with an empty hand, is clamped between his teeth and the butterfly stamped on his cheekbone makes him look like he's wearing a quality Halloween costume. One of the flaps of his collar is standing up messily, the tip folded like a paper plane, and the shot is so skillfully done that she swears he's posing for them instead of looking skeptically at his partner in the morning light.

‘You only have to send me one more pic before the end of shift’, she shares the picture Amy sent her with him.

‘Roping in Amy is mean. Also, when the hell did she take this picture???’

‘You were talking to Gannon. Gotta work on that peripheral awareness, Rookie’

‘We are nowhere near the holidays and don't go picking up bad habits from Amy. I haven't been a rookie in five years’

‘I don't know, I kinda like the way it rolls off the tongue’, she ducked into the fax room and sent a pic of herself sticking her tongue out.

‘Steph…’

Imagining the exasperated look on his face is too much fun and she taunts him with an equally serious, devoid of any emoji or memes, ‘Dick…’

Changing the subject she messages, ‘I thought you were trying to avoid the cop with a donut stereotype?’

‘I’m weak. The cafe down the street started selling doughnuts’, he sent her a pic of the precinct and there are tons of other cops milling around with a doughnut in hand. ‘See? I'm not the only shameful one here’

Something feels odd about it.

What were the chances of everyone loving rainbow sprinkles?

Sprinkles were cute but they made eating way less enjoyable. They left her feeling like she was biting into miniaturized bits of that chalky sugar stick they always included with packets of Fun Dip.

She's willing to bet that most people feel the same.

‘You bought doughnuts for the entire station, didn’t you?’

He leaves her on read and she knows she's right.

The high doesn't die out for nearly an hour and by the time her phone chimes again, closer to the end of her shift, she realizes that Gannon must've heard and is contributing to the grand cause.

Now, Gannon doesn't text so much as he sends a gif of the scene in The Wizard of Oz where they pull the curtain and reveal a man with smoke and mirrors.

In this shot, Dick is reclining in their cop car and there's a cap sitting low over his forehead as a makeshift visor. The sun has reached the highest point in the sky, glare creating a flat white spot in one corner, and she can't imagine that he would ever sleep on the job so she knows that they have to be on break.

The gif doesn't quite fit the narrative but she sends Gannon a long line of gold stars anyways.

Like, what is he even trying to say with this one?

She nixes sharing it with Dick because she has this notion that he might actually make her delete this one and she…hates the thought of losing it.

His blues look as comfortable on him as his suit but that's not why she likes it so much. More than the other photos, this one has a sense of intimacy, feels like she's peeking into something private.

Dick looks like he's at peace with the world. Like he doesn't routinely work a double shift between his daytime and nighttime heroics, work at a pace that makes him look intimidating and then unwind and laugh with her like he's a kid.

When would she ever have the chance to see him sleep again? And really, she tells herself, he should be taking his pictures himself. It's a weak argument and would collapse under even the most cursory bit of scrutiny but she makes it.

Time slips aways and she's finishing up a loose end as a favor for Alan, the rare junior associate she can stand because he asks for help and never asks her to get him coffee. In the middle of telling the man what she managed to track down for his case, her phone sounds, this time with a message from Dick.

‘About to get off. Last one.’

He's in his civvies, plain cotton shirt, the type you would get in multiples, value pack a la Hanes, a pair of jeans, and is, what, five feet from the exit of the station? The glass frame of the sliding doors is behind him, just people walking about their day, nothing special to see there, but the almost smug smile on his pretty face pings her radar.

There's a glint in his eyes that she's seen before, but when?

Fingertips tap to the rhythm of the song filtering through the office, for once not because of her anxiety or because she's bottling things up, and it comes to her in a flurry of disjointed memories.

She's swept up in the brightness of his kitchen when he flung himself over his island and said "Teach me, oh, magical kitchen witch, how to not slice off my fingers”, arms thrown out with a dramatic flare she hadn't ever witnessed for herself. When he pushed her to try deep fried Oreos at the circus with that weaponized sincerity that she just knew he stole off the Kents, a dimple she surrendered to like he was holding an automatic.

The smell of smoke and the dark amber light of the bar when he asked her to show him some tips that first night after pizza. How he watched it dawn on her that none of his ‘lucky shots’ were because of luck at all, a grin bubbling up like the coke she cut her whisky with as she shoved at his chest.

Full bellied laughter had drowned out all the other noise in the bar and the image of him leaning on his cue to keep himself upright is a definitive moment as much as when she brought him food that first time.

It was weird, the kinds of moments that made you realize that someone could be something to you. At the time she hadn't felt them for what they were; seismic shifts took time to settle.

Nothing seems out of place in the picture, she straightens a tower of papers that had been stacked so messily it looked more like someone had been playing Jenga on the extra desk in the office.

The butterfly is prominent, and the terms were that he sent her three pieces of evidence during shift that he kept his promise. She showed him mercy by letting Amy's shot count and with this addition it should feel complete, but it doesn't.

Reaching back for her phone, shuffling back through her messages to the first offering, she enlarges the thumbnail, and caught between a laugh and a scoff, she stares at the shot.

An extreme closeup and the only part that even suggests he's at work is the gleam of his badge. His badge isn't even fully visible, just a few millimeters of the upper edge of it.

She'd clearly been too distracted by the fishbowl view to not have made the connection before.

Dick was totally trying to get around her getting any clear pictures of him in the uniform with the tattoo. The candid from Amy is spilled milk and he doesn't know about Gannon's, but the rest?

‘Cheater! You didn't meet the terms at all. One, in the first shot I can barely see your badge because of your huge head and in this one you aren't even in your uniform!’, she reused a gif of her throwing something at him.

‘Shift doesn't end till I walk outside those doors, policy is for badges to not be captured, and I don't remember you saying that I had to be in uniform’, a winky face follows the tail end of his message.

That little…

Unwillingly, she feels some amusement rise to the surface. Had he learned nothing? If she learned anything from Damian outside of words with too many syllables, it was the art of revenge.

She narrows her eyes at her phone before sending, ‘Not letting you off, you owe me a favor, buddy’

‘It's in spirit of it-’, his text reads, ‘but fine. You should probably be more careful about your wording’

In the spirit of it? She can just imagine him shrugging with an annoyingly charming grin on his face.

Favors are a scary thing to owe and worse than any named punishment but he's probably laughing off her demand.

‘You feel confident enough to give me pointers? You're definitely gonna regret that.’

‘Will I?’

‘I'll come for you when you least expect it’, she sends a gif of a ninja popping out of the ceiling because it reminds her of the stab-happy gremlin that they have in common.

“I'm prepared for those”

His reply doesn't warrant as much laughter as it does but she laughs till her stomach cramps, she laughs until Marissa looks over her shoulder, sighs, and mumbles something about needing coffee.

*

“We missed it last time, so, dun-da-da-dum”, she plays percussionist, the thump of her hands on his island echoing in the room. “We are watching Velocipastor. It's going to be so bad that it circles back into being good and it might just make you cry.”

The teasers had been so ridiculous that they had her in hysterics about ten seconds in.

“You know, whenever you say that something’ll make me cry it's never for the normal reasons.” His eyes are trained on hers, crooked smile sparking her own.

Dick always made it so easy to smile around him.

“Of all the reasons to cry, finding something funny or cringeworthy isn't so bad.” She steps in close, shoulder ruffling the sleeve of his shirt but not quite touching him in her bid to pull a packet of popcorn from the pantry. “I thought we established that normal isn't a word that fits either of us. You grew up in the circus and got adopted by a billionaire who, I'm guessing, never went to therapy because he dresses like a bat. You dress up like a bird, and I obviously have issues because I've dressed up as both.”

“True”, he laughs, “our lives would feature way fewer restraints, leather, or chafing.”

Should she?

It's such low hanging fruit.

Historically, following this impulse always backfires, but will he squirm the way he did when he accidentally propositioned her all those months ago when they were still becoming friends? Flustered and embarrassed Dick is a flavor of cute that a man in his mid to late twenties shouldn't be.

“You're making it sound like a sex thing. Indecent.” She injects a bit of mock shock into her voice, leaning into what she remembers of Sister Agnes from Sunday school during that bizarre period in her life where her mother found religion for all of three weeks.

She sneaks a peak at his face from the side as she keeps her hands busy. Plates and utensils start populating his island in preparation for takeout, the metal tinkling as it meets ceramic.

“Out of context, yeah”, an easy laugh floats into the air. “And sex thing? Use the acronym, there's no way you don't know it if your mind is taking it in this direction. Not shaming you though.”

A cheeky smirk and that damnable dimple make an appearance on his face, taunt landing a blow to her pride.

Of course this much wouldn't throw him. He dated a sex goddess for years. She didn't know Kori personally, but damn.

No backing down now.

She rolls her shoulders, tendons stretching like she's about to take a deep dive. Dick doesn't need to know that her first exposure to the term was that one ridiculous book that got made into an equally ridiculous R-rated movie.

And maybe a little out of spite and a little just because he said it like a challenge, she raises her brows and says, “BDSM. B., Bondage, D., Discipline, S., Sadism, M., Masochism.”

“Good job”, his voice swings, all cheery like an elementary school teacher's does when they want to pat a kid on the head for being cute.

This jackass, did he really have to clap?

His fingers hook into the belt loops of his jeans as he looks at her directly, blue eyes expectant, a grin like he was winning a game on his face

He wanted a reaction? She wouldn't give him one.

A breezy, “It's not my kink”, passes her lips. She peers at him “Being spanked isn't my idea of a good time. Not shaming you though”, she makes the words extra sweet, mimicking the last part of his own response and making him laugh.

It's not hard to have an honest conversation about sex. Doing her clinical hours with Doc Thompkins means she's seen as many strange and heard as many stupid reasons a vegetable is stuck up someone's ass as any ER. She's sent patients to Gotham General’s ER herself when things went south and interventional surgery was needed. Purely as a byproduct she completely understands why warning labels on even the most simple things exist and which vegetables are the most phallic.

The microwave dings and she's already got hands on their popcorn, carefully lifting the hot bag by the edge of a corner when he speaks again.

“I wouldn't be on the receiving end, if I were, hypothetically, into any of that, but a little pain isn't so bad”, Dick says casually like he's talking about the weather.

Is he…?

Wide eyed, the beat of her heart drowns out the sound of the TV show they had playing in the background. Her grip loosens and the inflated package goes hurtling towards the counter and she has a premonition of oil stains on her shirt and a dustpan.

His dark hair tickles her neck, the wisps of them like the silky ends of an expensive paintbrush, and she follows the long line of his arm up to his face.

“That was close”, he breathes out. His hand had snaked over to save their popcorn in the knick of time, a few kernels falling and speckling the floor anyways.

She should feel relieved but all of her focus is on how tall he is.

Her priorities are so off.

‘Stupid brain’, she laments as she attempts to shore herself up. Dick is literally just keeping her company like always. ‘Five more seconds and this starts being more awkward than I can recover from. Say something, anything’

“Sex shouldn't be painful and if it is you should go to a specialist for proper care or buy lubricant.”

The words come out stilted and she freezes.

‘Ugh’, she cringes internally, she sounds like a teaching video from one of her classes. It would've been fine if she was able to inject them with any attitude, any sass, but no.

And why didn't she just say lube like everyone else?

Dick purses his mouth but the tremble to his lips gives away how entertained he is by her awkwardity and the infuriating thing is, she started this because she wanted to see him on the back foot.

This is probably karma.

The apples of her cheeks are burning as badly as they did when she tried Proactiv at thirteen. Her acne had been awful but the allergic reaction was worse. She'd freaked out about whether she'd given herself a chemical burn and she'd swelled up so badly around her eyes that she looked like a Telescope goldfish.

She wasn't some innocent virgin who made a chastity vow. Girls night conversations with Kara were raunchier than this, even lunchtime conversation with Marissa when they were sitting at their desks was spicier than this.

Thankfully Dick takes pity on her, “Contrasts make life interesting. Blue and yellow, green and red.”

What?

The first half makes a certain amount of sense but the second part?

And just like that, she's back in the game.

It wouldn't be like her to give up an opportunity, would it?

“That explains your fashion choices,” she sends him a playful smirk before saying, hand moving in a flourish that she lifted off him, “Discowing.”

He sweeps a hand through his hair sheepishly at the quip, faint surprise radiating from his face. “You've seen the suit?”

“Blame it on Damian, I sat through a two hour treatise, yes, I know what the word means,” Dick raises his hands up as if to say he wasn't doubting her and she continues, mollified by the gesture, “last week on why protective wear is important just because I made an offhand comment about upgrading my suit.

He went over everyone's costumes. Every single one with an obsessive attention to detail, including yours. Actually, especially yours. He called you the Progenitor.”

The moment Damian shared the shot of Dick in his Disco era suit she'd fallen over laughing, and it wasn't the dainty, hide your laughter behind your hand, chuckle under your breath, kind. She'd wheezed so hard that she'd reached whistle tone.

Damian had been looking at the suit tactically and hadn't understood why she was laughing so much. He actually made the laughter worse because he didn't stop eviscerating the design, comically serious the whole way through.

“The colors, the cut, the overly deep vee of the neckline and the dramatic popped collar. Of all the time periods you could've chosen, why'd you choose the 70’s?”

It was still better than the scaly hot pants and pixie boots from his first appearances but not by much. Alfred had to have been the one who put his foot down and demanded that the suit be more functional. The butler was absolutely the voice of reason in that house.

“It was a phase, I was never going to be the goth kid”, he shrugs like it doesn't cost him anything to admit.

She has to agree with him. Maybe at first, when she only got to see cold, distant, uber professional Dick, she could've seen it, but now? With his corny jokes and puns? And the collection of shirts in his guest closet that he'd been forbidden to wear?

“And the music was cool, don't tell me you don't like the Bee Gees or Abba.”

The snicker she'd been holding back bursts out. “Dialing back here, because we are so off track”, she feels comfortable enough to return to the original argument, “bolstering your claim with color theory doesn't work. Pain and sex is just not a winning combination.”

“I said a little pain wasn't so bad but let me reframe it, I can make it work.”

“Can you really?”

Her dubious expression must spur him on because he gets more energetic, animated.

“It's like when you've been training a long time and it hurts, your muscles are sore, and your calluses are bleeding but the moment you perfect that move there's this rush that makes it all feels worth it.”

“You're basically describing Runner's High.”

“Then what about this? Life is the coexistence of all opposite values. Joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain, up and down, hot and cold, here and there, light and darkness, birth and death. All experience is by contrast, and one would be meaningless without the other.”

“Hmmm” It's not technically untrue, just not usually applied to sex.

He wins this one. By the skin of his teeth but he wins.

Time to pivot.

“That was very philosophical of you.” The ice machine rumbles like something is caught in the works and she watches water stream into her glass before taking a sip and looking at him.

While he was monologuing the redness had faded away and she stopped looking like an overcooked shrimp, no longer in danger of scalding her hands on her own face.

“What can I say, I'm an evolved man.” Dick throws his arms out and strikes a silly pose. Balancing on one foot he does a fair imitation of ‘The Thinker’ but he can't keep up the pretense for more than a minute before he caves, a bronze statue coming alive. “Deepak Chopra. I took a philosophy class my senior year of college.”

“Feel free to correct me but I wouldn't’ve thought you'd go for a philosophy course.” The image of Dick in fake glasses and a turtleneck is somehow hilarious to her.

“I was late for registration and, hey, I can be deep.”

“Says the guy who had to quote some other dude to win our argument.”

“So you're admitting that I won then”, he smiles suddenly, all his pearly whites on display.

Dick could power a Times Square billboard with that kind of wattage. Freaking genetics, she thinks to herself. And so much for not saying shit, her brain is obviously on the fritz.

The doorbell rings and he waves her off, calling a truce, when suddenly a familiar blonde and brunette crowd the doorway.

The brief flare of dismay that tugs her lip down when Amy and Gannon intrude is something she summarily decides to ignore, but, what were you supposed to do when someone dropped by with something they grabbed specifically for you? Turn them away?

Dick looks like he's ready to shut the door on them but maybe it's a good thing they're here. They might keep her veering into hazardous territory again.

Limiters on her behavior.

Why she might need them is something she packs away for later and so she takes the choice out of Dick's hands and deliberately makes a production of ripping the bag open with her teeth.

She successfully diverts his attention enough for Alfred's upbringing to come into play and gives a quick side hug to the two before divesting them of their offerings.

Honestly, they chose well, Dick would've given in eventually. Di Contini’s pizza is like manna to him and if she also has to try not to salivate like she's been stuck in the wilderness, that's her secret.

He steals them away for a short tour while she sets up and they settle into the lively group dynamic they had at the bar. She wouldn't mind a repeat.

With notice.

Changing a plan without mention was something that bothered Dick. He got all twitchy and short tempered when someone on his team deviated. She should know, she did it on a semi regular basis. Not out of a desire to genuinely upset him but because their judgment calls sometimes differed.

*

Amy and Gannon are being ridiculous. Goggling at her like knowing where his plates are located is scandalous had been funny at first but their antics are starting to weigh on her.

Wouldn't it have been way stranger for her not to know since she was teaching him to cook?

Dick had to have mentioned it at some point to Gannon. He always tried to keep the conversation going when they were on patrol, something about it making the day go faster and this'd been a weekly to biweekly tradition for months now.

She grabs supplies for the coffee table absentmindedly as she mulls over the situation, hand resting on a stack of mismatched napkins.

Had he really not said anything?

But then, she hadn't exactly been forthcoming about how much time they actually spent together with anyone else, even Kara, not since she posed the hypothetical ‘friend’ scenario, had she?

Is she another secret he's keeping?

Is he one of hers?

*

“Need some help?” Amy asks, right as she's preparing to hop onto the kitchen counter.

Dick's kitchen is all open shelving instead of cabinets but the place was for sure built for people that were way taller than her. Normally Dick took care of grabbing things but she didn't think to ask him to tag along.

“If you could just grab those two metal mixing bowls, that would be a huge help.”

Splitting the popped kernels between the bowls the other woman starts making small talk. She doesn't trust it at all but she likes the detective enough to let her go fishing for information.

Obfuscation is like Vigilante 101, she can handle one lady. She even has a home field advantage.

“That's a nice blanket, where'd you get it?”

Not what she thought Amy would start with but it's still, ironically, like pinning the tail on the donkey because, well, the blanket had been from Dick.

He'd been standing near his hallway closet, the one his washer and dryer were hidden in, and she'd thought that he was just pulling out some laundry.

It'd been a Wednesday, he always had a load in while they watched or cooked anything so she hadn't thought anything of it. Dick made the most of his time and it was one of the most admirable, and, on occasion, annoying things about him.

Most of the time she found it endearing, her life was always up in the air, if it wasn't one thing then it was another, so being able to bask in the steadiness, the reliability of him, was relaxing in a way she couldn't pin down.

She wasn't great at receiving things from people, she preferred to give, but he'd been so matter of fact when he presented it to her that it slid past her defenses like they didn't exist. Actually, that wasn't the best way to describe it, he'd thrown it at her like it was a hot potato and she lost the game because she caught it.

The smell of the fabric softener had been gentle, some brand she couldn't place but instinctively knew he got from Alfred, and the fleece had felt like the plush undercoat of a rabbit.

“This is going to live here, but it's yours”, he'd said before walking off to do something, already preoccupied with whatever else.

A gift that felt like a hug. Who could resist?

She'd honestly thought he wouldn't be able to top getting her a blanket just because she got cold but one offhand comment about blankets fresh from the dryer being the ultimate comfort later and he got into the habit of popping it in before a movie.

He was always doing things like that. Thoughtful stuff that could go to a girl's head. A natural consideration for her that put most other guys to shame.

The taller woman looks at her expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Dick grabbed it for me.”

Amy's mouth is open and she knows whatever is
coming out is going to complicate things in the same way a bum knee knows when a storm is coming, so she distracts her with the clarified bottle of butter that she and Dick coat their popcorn with.

The steady stream that she stirs into Dick's and her bowl is a lot even by their standards. She normally puts a ton on top but now she knows it's going to pool at the bottom a bit. Given that there's pizza and Chinese food, she doubts they would've finished it off anyways so she figures that if she has to buy a replacement to escape commentary, so be it.

“You guys aren't worried about heart disease, are you?”

There's a certain kind of fascination, horrified fascination, on the tall brunette's face that she can't get enough of. Amy flinches and grimaces and then tries so hard not to judge that her smile looks, improbably, like a wave.

What facial muscles did you have to work to get that kind of shape?

She's so amused that the last few shakes of the bottle before she hands it off to the woman are largely performative. And every jerk of the

“Nope, I live in Gotham and Dick's a cop, statistically unlikely for us to keel over because of some butter.”

“Some butter?” Amy can't stop herself from snorting.

“Do you want me to put some on for you?” She cocks her head at the woman innocently.

“I think we're good”, the brunette blanches, hastily grabbing hers and Gannon's bowl before they head back to the couch.

*

Side eye from Amy puts her off her rhythm again when Dick and her settle on the couch together a second time because the first arrangement didn't work.

She's wrapped up in her blanket, why he always keeps his AC in the low 60’s is beyond her, but cuddling in between his arms and legs like a beloved doll is new. They've sat thigh to thigh before, she's had his legs in her lap, but she's never been pressed so close to him for such a long period.

At the circus, crowded up in the cart it had felt foreign and nerve-wracking, but now? It's a bizarre thing to think but she feels like those anxious dogs who end up wearing a vest that stopped them from shaking. It's just an instant infusion of comfort, immediate like someone flipped a switch in a dark room.

What were they called?

‘Thunder jackets!’ She bangs her fist in a eureka moment against her thigh and Dick looks down at her curiously before she shakes her head, wordlessly telling him to ignore her.

Maybe the difference is that they have company.

There's a reason they're doing this. They didn't choose this, they just don't want a guest to sit on the floor. They can't shame Alfred.

*

Not everyone has such a unique taste in movies and she'll probably have to adjust if the two join them again, she cracks a smile at Gannon's disbelieving expression and Amy's borderline traumatized one.

Dick cottons onto her sheepishness, grin hidden poorly by a hand as he teases her. “Your heinous tastes have been inflicted on innocent bystanders, you can't hide behind your height”, always with the cracks about her height, “or the cute.”

What was she? A prized poodle?

“Shut up, you”, this position really isn't doing her any favors, she struggles against the iron band of his arms, “love it.”

Okay, maybe this is a Chinese finger trap type of situation, she blows out a gust of air in a queer mix of amusement and frustration. Maybe if she just-

“Dick.”

“Having a hard time?” His voice is smoother, more even than usual so it makes her suspicious and before she can ask why, his hands are diving for her ribs, for that ticklish spot he accidentally discovered at the circus and she's shrieking. Her stomach aches with the laughter he forces from her.

Definitely doing something spicy for the next cooking session, she runs through a few prospective dishes in her head. Something with lots of peppers, more than he can stand, enough that he would down multiple glasses of water after a single bite, red as a tomato.

Thai food. It's gotta be Thai. He'll underestimate the power of the bird's eye chilis and if she plays her cards right he'll try to eat one whole just to prove he can handle spice. She'll happily watch him suffer and, yeah, she's not going to tell him that milk is better than water for soothing the burn.

A more genuine laugh, not prompted by him, sneaks out.

His fingers skate along her sides and she starts discovering new ticklish spots as he unearths them. Dick's not listening and the convulsions are edging into almost painful cramps.

‘Damn it!’ she thinks, her breath punches out of her like someone pierced a pressure valve. “Stop…!”, she thrashes against him and nearly headbutts him, voice lowering in growing annoyance. “Stop.”

Why isn't he listening?

Her heart speeds up like a bullet train. She can't be restrained like this it's too much like-

Memories of being dragged into a van, of being strapped to a table, blinding pain, the paralyzing fear of what might happen next and the slow, maddening drip of water on the concrete of an abandoned building shadow her.

It's as though she's puppeteering herself and her mastery of her body is limited to her hands.

Her nails pinching his skin seems to snap him out of whatever was affecting him and she can't stop herself from glaring at him.

“You ass”, the words are vehement and he jolts as if she whipped him.

She turns to look at his face and he looks contrite, those earnest eyes are asking if she's okay, and she's ready to give him hell but the sound of a mouth snapping shut makes her eyes sweep to their guests and she has to dismiss the idea.

Whether it's that he catches the direction of her thoughts or that he's trying to calm things down, Dick says, “Sorry, I just don't want to go to the ER because you use your elbow like a shank.”

His arms fall from their fixed position into a loose hug and his fingers twine with hers, a quick squeeze given in apology.

He still seems a bit off but he means what he's saying so she lets things go.

“My elbows aren't that bony”, she mutters under her breath.

She's so helpless with him sometimes, a sigh slithers out as she leans back into his chest in tacit acceptance.

He couldn't have known. She'll probably have to break it down for him at some point, way in the future, because the less she thought about that period of her life, the better off she was.

Amy seems to know that something triggered her, and the woman sends her a questioning look. “We have great health insurance so he can afford it. He could even afford a new kidney.”

She knew she liked the other woman for a reason.

“Peace is overrated” Gannon says airily, slice of pizza threatening to slip from his hand and onto his

“Violent retribution,” she says, bolstered by the two, “sometimes is the answer.”

“Am I going to go twinsies with Tim?”

Gannon and Amy don't get the reference but Tim's missing spleen isn't public info.

“Dick! I can't believe-”

A lot of the night is like that, doublespeak and omission.

*

“Marissa, today sucks.” She whined. “You know I roll with the punches, but what the hell.” She threw up her hands with all the energy of a limp noodle.

The dark haired woman is too amused to do more than offer a sympathetic ear judging from how her fingers don't stop tapping away at her keyboard.

“Okay, I'll bite. What's up?”

“From the moment I rolled out of bed, it's been like everything shifted five degrees to the right and I've, like, been bumping into shit all day because I didn't get the memo. I left my apartment wearing two different pairs of shoes, and on my budget a building with a doorman to thoughtfully point that out for me is not in the cards.”

“Girl, you're being dramatic, but when did you find out?” An errant hand gestures for her to continue before going right back to the keyboard.

“I found out when my foot stalled on the brakes.”
Marissa's dark eyes swung back to her, eyebrows arched in concern.

“My car’s fine. I was trying to gun my engine in hopes that I'd make that last stoplight”, she made a scrunched up face, “The one that takes forever for the light to change.”

“God, I hate that stoplight. It wants me to be late to work every single day.”

“Right? It's like it's got a grudge, all possessed or something.” That's a thought, calling on Constantine would be too much but it's an idea. “Anyways, as soon as I parked I was digging through my trunk like a miner during the gold rush and my reward was these.”

“Those are way too high to be all that comfy”, Marissa says as she leans back to look at the sky high stilettos adorning her feet. “That's like five inches, no platform.” Doing a double take she says in a hushed tone, “Red undersides? Are those?”

”They were a gift.”

Designer, they may be, but that couldn't matter less to her. It was probably a good thing her dreams of being a ballerina as a kid petered off. Being En Pointe would probably hurt more than these, she didn't have the high arches for them.

“They're gorgeous and your legs look amazing.”

“They are”, she allows and then adds, just a touch pleased, she was allowed a tiny bit of vanity, “And yeah, they do. But it's not much of a consolation prize. The first time I wore them they gave me blisters the size of grapes. I’ve been meaning to donate them but I keep waffling back and forth because they were a present.”

Cass didn't know much about fashion so she went with the personal shopper's suggestion for a ‘classic gift’. Which was only classic if you were rich as hell but she forgave Cass for it immediately because expecting her to know that dropping a ton of cash on someone, even someone as close to her as she was, was a lot. As it was, her friend read her body language and distress warped the usually placid expression on her face which then led to a late night ice cream run.

“If we had the same shoe size I'd ask you to donate them to me. Isn't it tradition to suffer for beauty?

“It's hard to be thankful when every step feels like I'm balancing on the edge of a knife. The only way I could find free parking was to park somewhere along Hardy.”

By the time she got into the office she was limping like a lame horse and her consolation was that Schuster approved of the shoes, enough that he said they looked far more appropriate for the office than the sensible flats she favored or the kitten heels when management wanted to make an impression on a client in a high tax bracket.

Some people had unique talents, Schuster's was redefining the word jackass.

Zero to sixty within seconds of walking in.

He had a record better than most NASCAR drivers, he went full throttle every day like it was always the Grand Prix.

“Promising myself that I'll wear sneakers for the next month is the only thing that's keeping me from putting my two weeks in.”

Is it an exceptionally petty revenge? Sure, but it's one she can get away with. No one knows the file system as well as her and she will happily lord that over him.

“Feel better?”

“A tiny bit.” There was always something cathartic about letting everything out at once and she makes a note to herself to bring Marissa a danish one of these days.

Maybe when Charlie opened up his bakery on Graham. Anything he made was bound to be better than the chain bakeries in the area.

“I've got a question for you”, Marissa says with an innocent tone but the expectation of a gossip session is clear as day. “What had you so distracted that you put on two different pairs of shoes?”

The woman asks it like she knows the answer and last night comes back in a highlight reel that makes her head spin.

“Gonna answer me anytime soon?”

Marissa can buy her own danishes.

She doesn't know what to say to that question without painting herself red so she gives a short non reply in the form of her own question, flees, and volunteers to do the most tedious paperwork and tasks for the day.

The repetitive lull helps her while away the hours and it may mean she's camping in front of the printer because Schuster keeps smearing food all over his files like the world's most overgrown toddler, Gerber baby cheeks without any of the charm, but it does net her a measure of peace.

There's a small cardboard box of files that still need to be sorted on the adjacent table and she's contemplating making her way over when Marissa sings out, "Hey Steph, someone's asking for you up front”, in that characteristic way she'd taken to doing since Dick had started to turn up like a stray.

Teasing be damned, she cranes her head towards where she thinks the sound originates. The low purr of the printer grinds to a halt and her hands stop thumbing through the fourth complete copy of the Henderson file.

Was it Dick?

She wouldn't put it past him to just show up and she can't quite halt the smile that's starting to curl up on her lips, all automatic like the thought of him cheers her up.

Ugh, who was she kidding? It does cheer her up.

Forcefully routing the course the day, the specter of Dick eases the sudden tightness of her shoulders the way a drink or two does.

The people who make her feel like that, could make her completely relax could be counted on less than one hand. Kara, Cass, Damian, and Mal who wasn't so much a friend as he was the sole reliable parental, grandparental, was that a thing?, figure in her life. Tim used to be on that list but-

She stares down at the fingers she’d been unconsciously counting, wiggles her fingers like she can't believe she has five of them, before a private smile finds its way to her face.

Dick didn't know it but he got an upgrade and she was back to having a full roster.

Some article on the Internet that she'd picked up during break had claimed that, per science, five was the maximum number of close friends a person could have at one time. Now, she wasn't sure if it was true, she reserved her judgment because she'd encountered plenty of crazy and impossible things, but that was one more person she can count on.

She's absolutely never going to tell him; cross her heart, hope to die, stick a needle in her eye. He’d get an inch and go halfway around the world with it. He had the resources and worse, the creativity.

In one of his tamer stories, Linda, his best friend Wally's wife, she'd never met the woman but the descriptor of beloved (tiny) dictator, but they never said that to her because she had a kick like a pro soccer player, the expression on Dick's face and the way his hand went to his shin like he was remembering an ache, asked him, prior to the wedding, to calm Wally down the day before instead of throwing some crazy bachelor party.

His face had been full of an easy affection as he recounted the story. She'd been lounging at his island, supervising his knife work because the week before he'd managed to learn through experience, a small laugh burbles out of her at the remembrance of it, that holding a knife like a batarang was a Bad Idea.

“That's when I knew Linda was perfect for Wally”, he'd tossed her a small smile, “Wally needed someone who could make him slow down. It's corny but she makes him, uh, stop and smell the roses. Focus on other things in life. Everyone needs someone like that.”

The last sentence had made him bashful as he looked back at her and he almost cut his finger again at which point she insisted on teaching him to use the bear claw method.

Back to the point, as earnest as the request was, he had a lot of fun with it. Dick took the opportunity to employ activities like putting together a 1000 piece puzzle, she could never have the patience for that, no abilities allowed which for the speedster was torture, hot yoga, and pottery, which, he snickered with a positively gleeful, boyish look as he said it, the redheaded man had hated but still did because “a promise is a promise.”

Dick reenacted Ghost with Wally as a joke in a sort of pre-wedding shoot that the man had no idea was happening. Apparently he'd gotten a friend of theirs in the league to secretly take pictures while they were out as a sort of gag. When the wedding video was played at the reception every person who attended nearly died of laughter. He'd even been gracious enough to show her a picture and the “What the fuck” expression on the redhead’s face while Dick stood behind him was priceless.

The story made her want to meet Wally in person. Since she handled street level crime she'd never gone up to Watchtower like most of the other Bats. So all she really had were anecdotes from Dick and distant mentions from Kara, who, while not close to the redhead, treated him like their resident jokester.

“Give me a second to send these files off to Schuster before he docks me for not doing it within sixty seconds of asking. He doesn't have enough hair left for him to be pulling out more because of me.”

The stifled laughter that follows the not entirely untrue statement makes her snicker under her breath. Marissa, for all that she seemed so prim and proper in front of the boss, could be wildly emotive when he wasn't in front of her. Her first few weeks in office she seriously thought the other woman hated her, but that was how it was. To deal with people here you had to be the iron maiden.

Turning the corner to see a brunette instead of a black haired man has her next step faltering as the rest of her tries to catch up. “Kayden, hi, what-”, the pause she makes as she says it makes the taller man shrink. Was she that scary?, “are you doing here?”

The words come out uncertain and she tries to make up for it by pasting a smile on her lips. It's not like she's unhappy per se, he's just never visited her at work before so it strikes her as strange.

Marissa is trying to snoop, eyes meeting hers from over the edge of the adjacent counter and she feels abruptly grateful that they aren't close enough for the Latina to hear them.

“I just came by to drop off some flowers for you.” He pulls a bouquet of a dozen long stemmed roses from behind his back.

He has to have splurged because they're gorgeous and in no way limp like flowers from the grocery store could be. They even had a fancy ribbon with what she assumes is the florist's logo on there.

God, it was shitty of her to think of how much he spent, eighty or so bucks, and not feel grateful, wasn't it?

The urge to drag a hand over her face is so strong that she can almost feel the weight of her hand over her eyes but she manages to fake another smile instead.

Just…

The last time she'd gotten flowers from a guy they were from Tim.

It hadn't been an anniversary or a birthday but he'd promised to come up for air and make time for her and it was the first time in nearly a month that she'd gotten to see him outside of patrol. When he brought it up she'd been so freaking happy that she'd spent the day walking on air. Kara had teased her because her voice had been high and squeaky like she'd been sipping at helium as she helped her get ready.

Tim made the plans for some restaurant, La Couteau, that had been all bay windows and glass and champagne. When she'd arrived she'd felt so out of her depth because it had been glitzier than she was comfortable with.

The menu hadn't had prices, which had set off the alarms in her head and even the dim, romantic lighting couldn't distract her from that. Everything had been polished and beautiful but it was offset by the sheer variety of forks and spoons with specific uses. And the most damning thing about the night was that she'd splurged on her outfit, a cute black number that criss-crossed up her back, because she'd cared about being seen as sophisticated even though black wasn't even in her top ten favorite colors, and the dress still didn't measure up to the substantial fabric of the white linen tablecloth draped over their table.

Mortified, and trying in vain to disguise the fraying edge of where she'd pulled at her dress too hard, she'd swept her hair out of the chignon she'd somehow managed to follow a tutorial to achieve. She sat there, confronted by the fact that those probably cost more than her dress was devastating.

He'd been late, some breakthrough had materialized and time just got away from him again. She'd sat there for what seemed like a lifetime, trying to puzzle out why the napkins needed rings around them. Shivering because La Couteau kept itself cold, AC on high blast, and she'd foregone the jacket to showcase the back of her dress

And it pisses her off now, but back then she hadn't even been all that mad, she'd forgiven the fact that he'd left her sitting in the restaurant for nearly 40 minutes without a message, stuffed into pantyhose that she hadn't worn since Clarissa’s funeral.

The nylon had been so uncomfortable that they'd left red tracts in the pattern of the lace on her thighs but they did what they needed to.

Vanish the new scar at the bend of her knee that
was still healing up.

Just another hazard of unsanctioned heroism that she typically didn't mind.

The idea of fitting into Tim's world was impossible and she wasn't a refrigerator in a fancy kitchen. No amount of smoothing off her edges would help. She just wasn't built for it. Brainwashing herself by chanting that if she fit flush into the patterns of Tim's world it'd be more natural for him to take her into consideration was stupid.

Caving and telling herself that giving her a bunch of pretty white flowers that looked like hearts made it fine was the most pathetic kind of lie.

Cass had been learning flower language at the time and the desperation to hold on to Tom's relationship made her delude herself into thinking the flowers she received were meant to be something romantic.

When she managed to track down what it was named there was this one moment of silence where she heard nothing but the buzz of her faulty bedroom light.

Who gave their girlfriend a flower known as The Bleeding Heart?

Tim probably hadn't even known. He'd probably thought they were pretty and not as generic as other choices he could've made.

Knowing that hadn't made her feel better about it.
She remembered lying in bed like the life had been sucked out of her, head heavy as a cinderblock, exactly like when she got mono as a freshman in highschool. Two inches off a pillow was too much for her to lift and she had been sure that her brain had petrified inside her skull.

Sometimes she thinks that that was the end of them rather than the stonewalling that started a couple weeks later.

Angling herself so Marissa could only see her back she sees Kayden lean in for a kiss.

“Um, yeah, let's maybe nix PDA at my workplace. But thank you so much for the flowers, they're so pretty”, she pulls them into her arms like a makeshift barrier.

Good thing these are thornless.

To his credit Kayden doesn't do much more than step back and smile sheepishly as he says, “See you for our date next week?”

‘Thank god someone in my life is giving me an easy time today’ she thinks, smile becoming a smidge more genuine as she tilts her head up at him. He never pushed her and on days like this she really appreciated that.

Of course admiring that side of him also makes her feel guilty for not being more, what was the right word, affectionate? Touchy? Cuddly?

“Yeah, it'll be fun. Sure you don't want to tell me what you've got planned out?”

“Nah, I'm going to keep it a surprise.” His watch beeped and he gave her an apologetic look. “I gotta go, next delivery has to arrive in the next 20 minutes. Talk later?”

“Yeah, I've gotta get back in too, I'm not on lunch yet.” Her next sentence is a choice, “I'll call you later.”
*
“I come bearing Gyros from Pita Party and I have permission to steal you away.”

Dick was here?

Why did he drop by without telling her?

“I'm 99% sure that you didn't get permission from Schuster.”

It's hasn't been more than a few minutes since Kayden left and she thinks that the two must've brushed past each other like ships in the night.

“But if I show up” he interrupts with a look that wouldn't have been out of place on the Eternal Boy himself on his face, “and let him speak to me, he will.”

He wasn't wrong, Grayson charm and Wayne money, even though he was surprisingly sparing with using that stupidly big trust fund, “Only for emergencies and expensive suits”, he'd said, for the galas and balls and charity events that he had to occasionally attend to uphold the Wayne name, went a long way.

“You don't work here and you can still pull rank.”
She'd be more upset if it didn't sometimes work in her favor.

“Nice flowers.” He examines them before asking the obvious question, “Are they yours?”

Talking about Kayden with Dick always makes her feel so damn weird so she shakes the bouquet to expend the excess energy. “Kayden dropped by. “It was a”, sweet?, not entirely, given the memory it dredged up, “nice gesture.”

To be perfectly honest, the food in his hands is way more appealing. She would never tell him this but his taste in takeout was immaculate and sometimes she regretted the takeout rule. Not enough to repeal the edict but enough to mourn just a bit.

Teaching Dick to cook is fun though, the second time she'd asked Dick to show her what he could do.

Pan to a bunch of tiny bowls and containers that he poured each ingredient into individually.

“Mise en Place” he'd said, looking so proud that she'd thought the buttons of his shirt might pop.

She hadn't been able to bring herself to say more than, “That's so many dishes, Dick.”

She was very much a one pot recipe girl, the fewer dishes the better but the way he deflated when the horrified words rushed out of her mouth made her backtrack.

“But you do you. It's uh, very organized.”

He'd looked so proud that she'd mentally prepared herself to help him chip away at the mountain of odds and ends because she had a feeling that he was slow. He cleaned meticulously, she had never seen a speck of dust on any surface of his apartment, that quality in a guy meant he was either a serial killer or a unicorn.

She was getting off topic.

“I mentioned the new intern, Mr. Wharton-”, she attempts to explain what she suspects is the reason Kayden came by.

“Is that actually his last name?” Dick says with an inquisitive look like that last name meant something. She usually saw that expression when he was collecting information for a case.

‘Seriously?’, she thinks and wants to shake her head at him. The intern was someone she could handle, even if unleashing Dick on him was beyond tempting.

What kind of revenge would he plot?

In nerd speak, it was a good thing Dick used his powers for the light side of the force. And random thought, but she totally had to get Damian to watch the sci-fi saga with her on one of the weekends he got to wind down at home. Remedial lessons could only help him with the other teenagers in Titans.

Maybe the three of them, her, Dick, and Damian could watch them together?

How had they never watched anything together before? Pop culture education was a thing with Damian before movies became hers and Dick's thing.

It was probably because the movies and shows were more purposeful when it came to Damian while what she and Dick picked out was just whatever seemed funniest or most ridiculous.

She had space in her life for both of them and it wouldn't be so bad for those rituals to intersect.

“Nope, but he mentions having gone there so many times that it got stuck in my head. I don't care about him enough to learn his last name, just like he doesn't care to stare northwards of my rack to my face.”

Wharton acted like she couldn't see him when he did it to her and every other woman in the office.

Dick's eyes go sub-zero, downright murderous, at the revelation.

Funny how she only finds it comforting.

“Kayden wanted to size him up but he couldn't stick around to see the guy.”

Had Kayden said it explicitly? No, but she could read between the lines.

“Are we eating in your car again?”

“Actually, no, I thought this time we'd sit down like civilized adults.”

“Civilized adults? Gyros aren't exactly eaten with forks and knives and I'm fresh out of antique silverware.”

“Sitting down at a table is better for my back.”

"You're too young for, wait, what happened to your back?”

If he's trying to derail her thought process, it's working. Looks like her nursing courses are already paying off.

Training has her fingers exploring the dips of his back, seeking any tender spots along his spine but he's holding himself like he's made of stone and she can't see if she's brushed over anything tender.

What was it with guys and being stoic when they were in pain?

She blows a piece of hair out of her face before resuming her actions.

“I backed into something a little sharp at work.”

“Sharp as in a needle or glass? I hope you went to the hospital, tetanus is a thing. Amputation and gangrene are not pretty and even you can't love that shade of green”, he let out a quiet, offended, sound at the dig but he would get no passes from her, “and way beyond my pay grade. Give me a moment to grab my bag-”

“A desk.”

She shouldn't laugh, she can feel her cheeks puff up.

No, no, no.

“It was a desk.” He says it in the same way a kid confesses to something embarrassing. Grudgingly.

“A desk?” An acrobat who could fly through the air and perform feats nearly impossible even for Olympic athletes, defeated by a stationary object. She can already feel the smirk forming on her lips and she's preparing to rib him when he speaks again.

“I'm bruised and I brought you food.” Dark hair falls into his face and he pouts at her, all boyish and, damn it, his flavor of cute is such a hack; her heart hiccups involuntarily.

Trying to cover up the moment of weakness she grumbles, “For such a tough guy… Alright, come this way”, and leads him past the rows of cubicles with coworkers who are too interested in him being here.
Which is fair, they didn't have a lot of non-work related visitors, but couldn't they at least pretend to work?

Pulling out a chair in the break room, she feels a piece of the orange vinyl crack. Like she's touching shale or unfinished drywall, it leaves traces of gritty powder on her hands and she has to brush it off on her skirt.

Management seriously needed to overhaul this space. She'd believe it if someone told her that the room hadn't been remodeled in decades.

Dick takes in the room, zeroing in on the dated furniture and where the floor is pulling up, a loose flap of laminate revealing a gouge in the floor from where someone dropped the last working coffee maker leaving them with some dust trap from the 70’s.

Twisting his lips he levels a look at her, but well, he was the one who wanted to eat indoors so she ignores him in favor of stretching, putting down her bouquet, and grabbing one of the foil wrapped Gyros.

The moan that leaves her is hedonistic, even for her. Roasted beef and lamb and creamy tzatziki dance across her tongue. Dill and the tang of the yogurt in the sauce lightening the richness.

Forgiven. He's forgiven for trapping them here.

“Why do you think I never argue when we sit in your car? I usually eat at my desk to avoid this place.”

“Isn't this one of the more well known law firms in the city? How can they be so-”

Miming for him to lower the volume she says, “Yup. Can't function without us, can't be bothered to fully staff our department, and can't be bothered to renovate somewhere the top brass doesn't regularly commune.”

“So, about that new intern? I didn't catch a glimpse of him when I came in.”

Ah, so that's what it is. Wharton doesn't warrant so much attention so she figures that Dick is curious. Knowing the man, there's a distinct likelihood they'll see him and the thought makes her complain, “Ugh, he'll find me, probably before lunch ends. He always does.”

“Joan,”

And here he is.

The infinitely less likable dark haired man that disturbs her working hours walks in and she has to remind herself to breathe. In and out, a la anger management or Buddhism.

‘Buddhist levels of calm. Meditation. Zen gardens with the sand and rakes and the squiggles left by dragging them through them.’, she thinks as he reaches their sight line.

“I've got a problem for you.”

A smug smirk makes her want to claw at his eyes. It probably wasn't even important, his issues rarely were.

“Not my name. Can you not see that I'm off the clock?”

If she wouldn't get dinged she would've reamed him out way less politely. There are a lot of four letter words and she knows which ones she’d choose.

“You're supposed to train me, so train me.”

The sudden diligence is unbelievable given that she saw him on his phone for more than half an hour this morning. She didn't mean to look at his screen but who spent that long looking for hair gel.
Dick is looking between the two of them, all amused like their food isn't getting cold.

“Go to Marissa.” She sent a silent apology to the other woman for foisting him off on her.

“Marissa is dealing with Donovan and you're the smaller half of the brains around here.”

Arguing back and forth like this is the last thing she wants to do during lunch. Persistence is only a virtue if the other person appreciates the effort and she so does not appreciate this.

“Go to Marissa.” The words are low in an attempt to communicate how serious she is but like always they go in one ear and out the other.

Obedience school isn't a thing for humans but it should be. Like, how did someone who acted so much like a dog, like the most yappy, snaggle toothed Chihuahua, even get into the firm?

Blood pressure starting to cause a headache, temples pulsing to the beat of a war drum, the tension recedes as familiar fingers twine with hers. Comfort and the herbaceous mint and eucalyptus aftershave that Dick always used are a welcome invasion as he moves to her rear to intercept.

“I’m talking-” The jerk doesn't stop his attempt to go for her wrist even though his eyes dart for the minutest of moments to the taller man in her orbit that's hovering like a bodyguard.

Wharton doesn't know how lucky he is that Dick stopped him from touching her because she's reached the end of her rope in regards to dealing with him.

In a cage match between the two of them she'd for sure be the more vicious one. Brawler she might be, she's never been afraid to throw dirt or bite, she's never lacked brains.

Patience wasn't a strong suit but Sydney in HR liked her, older people always did, like, how was being the most basic kind of polite always so worthy of praise, and she wouldn't back down if it came to filing a sexual harassment claim. Evidence, witnesses, and character attestations. She had all of those. Sure she'd have to go back to getting the coffee but it would be so worth it to push Wharton off a metaphorical, literal was unfortunately not an option, cliff.

Dick's hand, in the smoothest transition that she's ever seen, goes from gripping the other man's wrist to giving the other man a strong handshake that has his forearm flexing enough that the tendons become prominent.

Forearms are a strange thing to find sexy but the way his rolled up shirtsleeves strain is-

‘Focus, Steph’, she tells herself as she tries to assess things more objectively.

“I'm Richard Grayson-Wayne’, Dick says with an unfamiliar expression on his face. Arrogance and an implied dominance in his voice as much as his grip.

Full name. Huh. Her fingers draw mindless shapes into the table as she processes that.

Dick didn't usually trot out the Wayne part of his name. He never hid it, not like Tim did with his Alfred Draper alias. Plus, Google was a thing and in Gotham he was already a bit of a celebrity solely because he'd been the first of the bat brood on the scene. He usually left his intros with ‘Dick’ and no mention of his surname.

Normally she would take umbrage at someone fighting her battles for her but this is interesting. Like where is he going with this?

“Go put these in some water, would you?”

Applauding would be in poor taste but she relishes the sight of Wharton running like a squealing pig out of the slaughterhouse. Appreciative as she is, she decides it'd be out of character if she didn't give Dick some trouble so saying, “Now that was a power play” with a flat expression until he gets fidgety makes her struggle not to laugh. Taking pity on him she takes a bite of her gyro and like a Queen bestowing mercy says, "Is it me or does this taste better?”

Their eyes meet and she knows he can read the amusement in them and he relaxes with a chuckle as he sits back down.

He regales her with the story of how he found out about the place he brought her takeout from and the fact that he mentions the shootout not being so bad but with the end result thousands of dollars of damage the statement, “Plates get expensive if you break enough of them”, at her disbelieving look because how many dishes did you break to get to that.

In a brief lull, segueing from his story, he sips on some water and asks, “What are your plans this Saturday?”

She's dipping her Greek fries in Tzatziki as she answers, “I have a standing commitment.”

Summer charity events at Swithin's before the start of the school year were hectic without people to mind the kids while the staff collected donations for the annual fall auction. There was never enough manpower at Swithin's in general but she did her best to help out once a month, more if her schedule allowed for it.

“Don't feel bad. It's on me, I forgot,” He shook his head, “it's the third Saturday of the month. You've got a date with Kayden, right?”

He'd noticed that in all the time they've spent together they've never hung out on the third Saturday of the month?

Dick's assumption is partially wrong but a volatile mix of sweetness and disbelief, like kindling and accelerant, catches fire and she has to suppress the shock that unhinges her jaw so much that the joint clicks.

"Uh, no”, she searches through her vocabulary knowing why finding the right words, telling him, feels so charged.

Swithins is personal, like, personal in the way that Dick told her about his parents, personal. Maybe she won't go spilling exactly why but she feels it, trepidation in her chest, tongue dry like she's stuffed her mouth full of cotton.

“So, do you remember how I said that I was doing community service by hanging out with you when we went to that bar after Di Contini's?

Dick's leans forward, absorbing what she's saying with a genuinely interested look on his face and she slides from the edge of her seat into the cushioned back, a hiss of air escaping cracks in the upholstery as her weight settles.

“I don't work with the elderly but I do volunteer at St. Swithin's and play with the kids. I've been doing it for about four years now.”

“That's amazing. You know, I do volunteer work in the rec center in Downtown Bludhaven. I teach gymnastics.”

“You do?”

“I do. Even if some of them complain about me cramping their style when I tell them to stop flirting. I handle the teenagers and someone else handles the tumbling courses that the younger kids take.

They complain but they keep coming so I must be doing something right, even if they say I'm kind of lame.”

It's probably his jokes, and, God, or whatever other cosmic entities are out there help her, she finds them cute even if she is his most frequent victim.

“There's this one kid, Kseniya, no training, just natural talent, that could make it as a gymnast.”

He goes on about how quick the girl caught on and then they're trading stories. The time flies by and a glance at her watch tells her that she's gone on way too long telling him about the time nearly twenty tubs of peanut butter disappeared only for a massive amount of bird feeder balls to show up on the trees in the orphanage courtyard.

"Would you want to come?" Denying the pathological need to move her hands and distract herself is impossible and she starts picking at a loose stitch on the hem of her skirt. "Swithin's is holding a charity event and we could always use more volunteers. Or if you just want to stop by..."

"I'll go."

“You know you don't have to, right?”

“I know, but I want to. Swithin’s matters to you, right?”

His hands cup hers and her systems go haywire, the odd tingle starting at her fingertips, gamboling in around her chest and passing to scrunch the toes of her feet. All the unruly tendrils of thought that she'd ironed down springing back like curls that met the rain.

Finding words has never been harder, she's not a poet, or a writer, or a journalist, but she'd always thought she was good with the art of the comeback, the ability to deflect. The tiny circles his thumb draws around the joint of her wrist call that into question and she feels like she's underwater until he says his next sentence.

“Then it matters to me.”

*

Marissa sends her a shit eating grin when she comes back from lunch. It makes her want to shove her paperwork off on the other woman to keep her too busy to bother her.

The dark haired woman had a talent for poking at things she shouldn't, though, she should probably be glad that the energy was directed more towards everyone's romances rather than who happened to be playing dress up and flying off into the night.

“Dick got flowers delivered to you. Roses. Red Roses." Her dark eyebrows waggle like something alive, "Just friends, my ass.”

The strangled groan she emits only makes the other woman radiate smugness.

How did Kayden become some random courier?

Chapter Text

*

Why had she invited Dick?

When Kara picks her up for the first Girl's Night they'd both been able to commit to in weeks, she finds that even four hours away in Kara's micro studio in Metropolis, her mind is consumed by the question.

On some level she's aware of what's happening on screen. It was Kara's choice so there are, of course, lots of explosions, though this one is at least a Buddy-Cop kind of film. But she only registers it in that vague way someone experiences the world when they've had a few too many shots of tequila.

Head resting on her knees, eyes vacant as she stares ahead at the screen, the rose patterned quilt that Mrs. Kent made for Kara tenting over her shoulders like a turtle's shell, she does a good imitation of the undead.

The AC sputters wetly and Kara's fork scrapes against one of the thrifted plates that she'd gifted her for her housewarming.

She'd grabbed it for two bucks off a vendor at a swap meet. It'd been a commemorative wedding plate and the bride and groom had obviously been ahead of their time because instead of two people's faces smushed on a plate, they'd opted for a matched pair of sharks wearing a veil and top hat.

“Don't do slang. It's like watching a nun make out. It's uncomfortable”, the short haired officer on screen quips and makes a pained face at her brunette partner.

A quip like that would've normally had her in stitches and Kara stares at her oddly when the expected cackling doesn't threaten to annoy the neighbors.

The noncommittal sounds she makes to mask her inattention whenever the other blonde’s voice dips and dovetails are an automatic response but lack appropriate followup.

They do, however, make the Kryptonian sit up straighter and cock her head with a humming noise of her own.

Kara's next words take on the musical cadence of a nursery rhyme. “So, I'm marrying Grundy”, Kara tests her inattention, squinting when she doesn't get a reaction, “we're getting married on Wednesday. He gets sick on a Thursday and gets worse on Friday and on Saturday he's gonna die and I'll be a widow with one of those flashy netted hats crying over his grave till he wakes up again on Monday.”

Kara finally gives up and nudges her, snapping her out of her reverie and the blanket falls off and sparks goosebumps all along her arms.

Why did so many people she knew keep it so cold in their places?

“You know, you'd enjoy it more if you actually paid attention to what's going on.” Eyes searching hers, hair falling out of her messy top bun, the taller girl puts down her plate of pie, cherry filling having left a small red smear on the corner of her lips that she licks up distractedly. “What's got you down in the doldrums?”

Old world colloquialisms were the one thing her friend picked up from the Kent's outside of the penchant for all kinds of pie and their moral compass.

Every time an outdated idiom came out of her friend's mouth, she wanted to smile, and this time is no exception.

She masks the action by moving her body up and stretching her legs.

Kara could be very sensitive about not fitting in. The Kent's had already been late-in-life adoptive parents to Clark and by the time Kara came around they hadn't had too much interest in pop culture and updating their lexicons.

Smallville was, it was right in the name, small.

So while Kara had the best possible examples of humanity in her vicinity for that entire first year of her time on Earth, sometimes she slipped into the turns of phrase she'd picked up from the couple.

Learning a new language had already been a lot for her and she'd been more martial than scholarly minded on Krypton.

Contrary to what Kara thought, the quirk really drove home the Midwestern, small town girl vibes. She personally found it charming, and most people who met Kara did. Going out in public with her friend made her believe that some people were just destined to win raffles, receive free things on the regular, and float through life with perfect hair.

No one would believe that the honey sweet blonde from Kansas was an alien.

Sheltered, sure, Mormanish in her niceness, yes, but alien? No.

The words are a bigger wakeup call than the nudging and she wonders why Kara is asking her if she's okay. She'd just been-

Huh.

“It's nothing bad really, just thinking about something surprising that happened the other day. But it's going out of my head right now. Let me just rewind the last”, the progress bar for the movie on screen is a quarter of the way to the end, “twenty minutes…”

“What is it? Work? Your mom? I skipped my way through an improvised version of the Solomon Grundy nursery rhyme-”

She blinks because that doesn't sound familiar at all.

“and still didn't manage to get a rise out of you.” Kara scratches her cheek as she says the next part, “Is it Kayden?”

Her friend's face is screwed up in that ‘How do I say this?’ expression she has when she's trying not to sound like an intergalactic foreign exchange student.

Kara looks like she's trying to solve a puzzle, the blonde wants to say something else, and that's when she knows.

Kara is trying to avoid using Dick's name.

The last time Kara had brought him up she'd gotten defensive and the stony silence between them had been strange given that they normally got along like a house on fire.

By mutual agreement, they'd since refrained from broaching him as a subject but not before she got in a few hits of her own about Mon El. In the end it had become a sort of equivalent exchange for her keeping her thoughts on Kara's relationship to herself.

Last of the species as a reason to be together isn't something she can swallow.

Kara deserves better.

A complicated emotion swims through her as she reviews her options.

She knows what it is now. Why she'd invited him.

Dick had gone from close friend to inner circle when she wasn't looking. Again.

The orphanage was lightyears beyond talking about her period and her relationship with her mother. And talking about it would mean putting a point towards Kara's ridiculous idea of what she and Dick are.

It's ridiculous.

She's not that kind of person.

“Do over?” She asks plaintively, playing with the fringe on a throw pillow as she looks at the other blonde. “Please?”

Kara's cheeks puff out like she wants to push again but she relents for the night and tosses the remote to her when she asks for it.

They change the movie when she realizes she doesn't know how the film got from Point A to Point B, and because she doesn't want to make Kara rewatch most of the original movie.

In the effort to smooth things over she convinces Kara that she does actually want to watch the newest Fjord film. A white lie, she can't stand the director’s work, but it makes her best friend happy and that's a good enough reason for anything.

And after Kara flies her back home and sets her on the roof of her building, she spends some time looking out over the city. Takes in the lights blinking on and off around the block, the sound of sirens and late night traffic.

Maybe she should try her hand at meditating?

The worn out fabric lawn chair she'd dragged up and patched with scotch tape is still in fair condition from her last repair job and she bundles up her Gotham Knights hoodie as a makeshift pillow to support her neck. It creaks ominously when she sprawls out onto it but holds.

Meditation is a new thing on her list and it'll probably go the way of self affirmations to herself as she stands in front of the mirror, but just for tonight she closes her eyes.

Focuses on the breeze that combs through her hair.

*

The sky overhead is free of the clouds that conspire for two thirds of the year to keep everyone ghost pale in Gotham, sun shining with a gentle warmth that makes her want to nap.

When are things going to pick up? She thinks impatiently as she and Kayden walk along the paths of the park.

For someone who'd asked her to make some time to be with him they aren't doing all that much.

The day could be described as oppressively open.

And how an open schedule could feel so uncomfortable is entirely Dick's fault. She'd clearly gotten way too used to Dick plotting everything out, and her, as often as she can get away with it, playing King Kong to his carefully constructed city.

Dick had said once that she shouldn't take so much joy in thwarting him but at that point they'd been experiencing a thaw in their frosty relationship so she'd cheekily said that her always following his lead was a pipe dream.

She'd told him that she wouldn't know how many iterations of disappointed ‘Why did you/How could you’ expressions he had if she did, laughing when he groaned and flopped back onto the long metal bench near the table they used for gear maintenance in the cave.

A couple running alongside each other laps around her and Kayden for a second time and she marvels at the brisk pace they keep. The two are, she gives them a onceover, yuppies who are obviously from out of town going by the real diamond studs, she'd acquired a sense for it after all the Wayne galas she'd spent lurking by the buffet table, hanging off the woman's earlobes.

Kayden obviously thinks that she thinks the two are cute, and fine, the couple's sweatshirts are somehow coming across as sweet instead of sappy but she's mostly wondering if the woman's ears hurt. Those earrings have to be more than a carat each. And the obnoxiously bright high tops on the guys feet-

The Bowery was nice in the daytime but she hoped they weren't sticking around overnight. Saving people was a hero thing but they seemed like the type to ask for a selfie post rescue and she didn't want to deal with that today.

The day she'd found out that there were tourists who came to Gotham solely to get mugged or saved by the resident vigilantes is something she wishes she didn't know.

She needs to refocus.

Reframe it all.

Her eyes fly to her boyfriend.

In true summer fashion, Kayden is wearing cargo shorts, a band T-shirt, “Go Gophers” he'd said and tried to teach her his old high school pregame anthem and he's also wearing, and, she has to stop herself from laughing because even though they look like regular tennis shoes at first glance, they're, well, Crocs.

She hadn't realized she had a convert in her hands.

“I did a rotation in Podiatry and Dr. Vo made an impression. It's like stepping on clouds.” Kayden explains, stopping to stick his foot out when he follows her eyes. “People can laugh at me, you can laugh at me, I'll take it, but I'm still on my feet after an eighteen hour shift. Last MA standing, actually. And I get my choice of shift next week so that's one more rung on the ladder for my plan post medical school.”

If there was one thing about Kayden he could stand to do a little less, it was mention life post medical school. She was sure he was just trying to materialize success? Actualize success? Believing in it is beyond her, but she figures positivity can't hurt.

It was like Catholics lighting a candle or Buddhists putting a food offering in front of a shrine.

Tossing a penny into a well.

Harmless.

It's not fun to listen to. Not when she feels so up in the air about her future. She guesses she won't feel settled till she's actually passed her exams and gets her nursing license but she can hardly rain on his parade.

She's fighting the urge to sigh when she pinpoints the wide, Cheshire cat, kind of smile on his face. He looks just a hair too pleased to be happy about having comfy shoes.

A small laugh leaves her when she understands and she raises a brow at him. “Sucking up to your future boss?”

“If I make a good showing now, it increases my odds of getting hired later. And not everyone has a heart condition or needs surgery and, get this, Dr. Vo actually gets to have some semblance of a personal life. She took a three week vacation last month and didn't get one call from the hospital.”

She whistles. For a doctor that's an eternity.

“So you're gonna fondle feet for a living?”

“Someone’s gotta do it and Podiatry is the least intensive discipline. And I'm not about to touch them barehanded, that's what gloves were invented for.”

The sound of his laugh makes her feel like smiling, so she does, and for a moment it's comfortable again.

How long had it been since they talked so freely?

She's not sure what makes her speak again but she does.

He deserves to hear it from someone other than himself.

“You're gonna be a great doctor.”

“And you won't make too bad of a nurse.”

It was almost like before they started dating and Kayden started having all these expectations that she just…couldn't follow through on. Dates deferred for bruises that concealer couldn't cover convincingly enough, patrol, Arkham breakouts, some because being with him left her feeling-

She wasn't trying to be a bad girlfriend on purpose.

The sad bent her thoughts take makes the smile on her face drop a fraction but she pulls herself back together.

“Okay, officially calling a truce, and I'm not admitting to anything, but it is a good alternative to Plastics.”

“That was out of the running about a month in. It's not all Botox injections. Watching someone drink soda through a straw and not feel it dribble out of the side of their mouth put me off it. Wielding a scalpel over someone like that? I'll pass. Anyways, what've you been up to?”

“Stressing over the NCLEX. What else do I do but completely angst over washing my hands in the most correct way?”

She pulls a tube out of her purse and rubs some hand balm on her knuckles. Her hands are ridiculously dry because she does actually practice.

Losing points on the easiest part of the skill demonstration portion of the exam would be embarrassing.

“You know what you should do to decompress? Go hiking with me.”

“Can't believe I never thought of that. Physical labor on your day off with no payoff is super attractive.”

“Hiking is great for your health”, is a familiar refrain and leaves Kayden's mouth as she stretches his arms up. “Being out in nature helps me get my head on straight.”

He looks so relaxed that she thinks maybe she should take him up on the offer for once. Even the inarguably citified nature of Robinson park, where a honk was more likely to come from a car than a herd of geese, seems to make him happy.

She could use more of that in her life.

Kayden idles a few steps ahead, pretending the whistle of a crossing guard is birdsong. His ability to tune out the traffic just past the copse of elm trees is impressive.

Did she even know anyone so happy to just be?

An image of Dick in her apartment when her electricity went out and they played Monopoly at a speed run the Wednesday before, because the candle was burning way too quickly, comes to mind.

They'd had rolling blackouts in the city that entire day and called patrol short because people weren't interested in being out when at any moment they could be plunged into darkness.

A wise choice in Gotham.

You couldn't avoid the trouble that you couldn't see.

In their civvies, about to put on the customary movie, his choice that time, because she'd chosen the last two and told him she wouldn't let him stockpile enough turns for a marathon of the Sci Fi saga he loved that she still didn't know if she liked.

She just couldn't get on board, even though it wasn't the main point of the plotline. Or she thought it wasn't, they hadn't watched past the second movie yet. She'd actually wanted to tease him about the age gap between the leads because it was totally Dick and Babs’ doomed relationship in HD, even if the expy for Dick was a bit too broody to be a perfect superimposition.

Still she'd left it alone, even though it circled like a fly around a drain and her hand itched to smack it. She would have argued the hell out of that argument but it wasn't a battle she should pick. They'd never talked about their exes to each other given that Babs and Tim were connections they both shared.

Even she knew not to press the big, shiny, red button.

They'd been sitting down on her lumpy loveseat when the lights went and had to use their phones as flashlights. Bumping into each other a few times as they dug around in the cupboards in her tiny kitchen for candles.

“I'm pretty sure I have candles on the top shelf of that cupboard. Can you grab it for me?” She'd asked because she would've had to jump on the yellowing white Formica counter to reach destination.

“Got it”, he'd maneuvered around her, recoiling as he groped around and found purchase on something. Recoiling like a cat when he brought it down from the cabinet.

“What is this? A failed science experiment?” Dick's eyes had been wide as he poked at it, finding no give. The blob-like mass had wicks sprouting from random positions that stuck out like spindly little arms and under the light of their phones the muted pink looked vaguely flesh toned.

“Dead Man's candle.”

Dick swore, fumbled, and nearly dropped his phone, pinning her with a resentful look once he'd registered her hysterical laughter.

“Steph, what the hell? That's a real thing”, he'd muttered something about JLA Dark under his breath, wiping his hands on his jeans.

She'd forgotten that he had more experience with the occult and took pity on him.

“It’s just a regular candle, or”, she'd laughed again, that time a tad sheepishly, “a lot of candles that sort of melted together.”

He'd given her a questioning look and she told him about the ill advised attempt at celebrating her birthday with Kara a few years back.

She hadn't wanted to put candles in her cake because she didn't love the idea of eating droplets of wax, wax always made its way down into the cake in her experience, but Kara had been disappointed that it wouldn't be a match to the stereotypical birthday cake sequence that she'd seen on some teen drama.

On Krypton they hadn't celebrated birthdays. They celebrated historical figures and events but birthdays were a display of sentiment that they found distasteful which was definitely on brand for a society of scientist/warrior hybrids.

While emotion was acknowledged it had no bearing on any decisions and the more Kara explained it to her, the more she thought their society tried to stamp it out. ‘Duty’ was a word Kara used a lot back then.

Thank god, she'd lightened up.

It would always be a weird thing to wrap her head around.

Every Super she'd ever met had the personality of a golden retriever, as did Kara, once the culture shock wore off. And it was funny, but when she met one of Clark's kids, she thought he'd been deaged.

The kid had the same do-gooder temperament.

One Jon Kent, so named after his grandfather, had managed to befriend Damian and had his father's All American Boy smile.

The full size candles, the type you'd put on a candlestick, had been a compromise because they were more practical and Kara had still been getting the hang of using her powers for things that required fine control.

She'd thought it'd be easier instead of risking a scorched cake and Kara already had trouble keeping doors on their hinges. Although, it did bring her and Jonathan Kent closer, in a sort of Dad and Daughter way because Clark’s dad was very much into home maintenance and had the heart of a DIYer.

The older man, from what she heard from Kara was one of the sweetest souls ever.

When she'd told him that she hadn't wanted her Black Forest Cake extra crispy, it'd already been baked, thank you very much, he'd leaned in close and flicked her forehead. Told her that burning a hole through her floor was what she should've worried about more.

Which was fair.

He'd been around for Clark's kids’ toddler years.

And from there the conversation devolved into a war of opinion when she told him that the only thing worse than wax on your cake was sprinkles.

“How do you not like sprinkles?” He'd stared at her disbelievingly as he leaned against the kitchen counter. “They come in a rainbow of colors and shapes. There are some shaped like dinosaurs, and, you're a girl”, she'd scoffed at him for that, “they have ones shaped like pearls and diamonds and stuff. Edible glitter.”

“Okay, I feel compelled to correct you here, but if I liked sprinkles, dinosaur sprinkles would be cooler than pearls and gems. I'd be too afraid of chipping a tooth because for all I know, you Richie Richs’”, the exasperation on his face that she'd lumped him in with them would be cherished, “might actually top a few cupcakes with actual ones as a party favor or secret surprise.”

Dick looked like he couldn't argue with the last part, intuition telling her that at least one of the parties he'd gone to over the years had done the equivalent in a completely un-ironic way.

If she'd done it, it would've been because she was annoyed at how much food waste went on. She'd worked in catering before she landed her part time job at the law firm and feeding into their greed to make them actually eat food would have appealed to her sense of justice.

She hadn't been super into Lit, some of the so called classics put her to sleep, but people who threw Gatsby parties missed the point of the book. She wouldn't blame people for liking the aesthetic of the Roaring Twenties, flapper dresses were cool, and forever barred to her because nothing could tamp down her boobs, but the irony of the rich celebrating a book that criticized excess made her want to facepalm.

“They're a physical manifestation of joy, pure nostalgia, and people eat with their eyes.”

“Uh, pretty sure they do that with their mouths.”

“You know what I mean”, he'd shot her an amused if slightly irritated look.

Dramatically, she raised a hand to her forehead like she was going to faint. “I should've expected this from the guy who bought only rainbow sprinkle donuts for his own station. You were totally trying to convert people. And hide your shame. Because you know”, she pointed at him.

“Know what?”

“That sprinkles are gross, like, what do they even taste like?” She'd looked at him like he was blaspheming.

“Steph, sprinkles are made out of sugar, they just taste sweet.”

“Nothing”, she'd ignored him and continued, “They taste like nothing and they get stuck in your teeth and if they taste like nothing they taste”, she'd stuck him with the gravest look she could muster, “like food coloring. Gram for gram I bet you that they're more food coloring and binding agents than sugar.”

And, it'd been totally hypocritical given that one of her favorite kinds of junk food was a particularly bright red, but she referenced Red Dye 40 and the whole host of suspected ills it was potentially linked to.

He'd poked the holes in her argument there because he was too smart to let that one slide, it was practically a free shot, and she'd known as soon as it came out of her mouth that it was a mistake, that she'd have to concede, but she counted it as a win because he didn't have the energy to argue the main point anymore.

Victory by default.

Dick then proceeded to chuck a snack pack of those very same bright red chips that he knew she loved, at her when he rummaged through her cupboards because he couldn't let the hypocrisy completely slide.

“Mmm, Red Dye 40, your favorite”, he'd said instead of the actual name, a playful grin on his face.

She, of course, stuck him with an insolent look and defiantly tore them open. Teeth again because it'd made him raise his eyebrows the last time she'd done it. She went so far as upending the snack bag into her mouth like a snake would swallow an egg.

Her fingers had been stained red and she sucked the seasoning off like she'd eaten a four course meal.

After that it was poking around for things to do and eventually digging up the Monopoly board game she'd won in a Christmas raffle when she was twelve, still pristine in its plastic sleeve. Her mom had never ended up playing it with her and at twelve she hadn't wanted to act like a baby, even if it had felt like getting a Golden Ticket.

Mal and Clarissa probably would've played with her but she'd known he was partial to cards or chess, and Clarissa was baking cookies for the homeless shelter in the area, she gave out tins every year up till she passed, and so, it sat in her room collecting dust.

She'd actually forgotten about it.

So there she was, sitting with Dick in the low light of a chimera of a candle, finally, at twenty-two, playing Monopoly for the first time.

She lost terribly, real world experience with a budget didn't really translate to the board game all that well. She'd been too conservative with her spending and because of it ended up paying rent repeatedly because Dick managed to buy out half the board, but she hadn't cared because they were having too much fun chucking dice at each other. Lying through her teeth only for him to call her on it every time she tried to manipulate the numbers so she didn't land on his property.

She's still stuck in the memory, a wisp of a smile on her face, when Kayden taps her shoulder and brings her back into the present.

She's not sure when he turned back to her and jumps at the action.

“Where'd you go?” His eyebrows are arched and she can tell he's making more effort than usual to interact.

“Sorry, I was remembering something funny.”

“What was it?”

She purses her lips thoughtfully. “You'd kind of have to be there to get it.”

Kayden sends her a mildly curious look but she pivots with a question of her own.

“Okay, where are we headed? Because I'm hoping it's to get food.”

“Do we ever not eat food together?” Kayden quirks his mouth goodnaturedly at her as he slows to match her stride.

She can think of at least nine NSFW situations where the goal wasn't to eat but putting that out there is a hell no when there's a mom with a quartet of impressionable kiddos following her like ducklings to her left and an actual nun a few steps behind them on their right.

She'll scandalize him some other time.

“How about hotdogs?” She says, eyeing a cart down the way. The owner has a line going so there's no way it's bad. Bad food in Gotham didn't survive long unless it was cheap and open late into the early hours of the morning.

A hotdog always tasted better in summer and the more she thinks about what they might get, the happier she feels.

Chili Cheese Dogs were the epitome of trashy.

They're her favorite.

“Cheap, delicious, all the food groups in one package.” She dangles the idea in front of him knowing that normally cheap would be a major draw.

He doesn't bite.

“You don't want to go to a sit down restaurant. A cafe?” Kayden seems, for the first time today, openly dissatisfied. There's a wrinkle in his brow and his eyes seem darker than usual.

Why is he being like this?

Kayden has even less disposable income than she does. He'd been on a shoestring budget as long as she'd known him since he helped his mom with bills and his brother's private school tuition. It was something she respected about him and why she tried to do hard to cut costs on any dates they had.

“I’m craving hotdogs so really, this is you giving me exactly what I want.”

If she puts it that way, it should help.

Her words make Kayden visibly relax and he goes back to joking. “I'm not sure ketchup counts as a vegetable when it's processed as much as it is but I'll throw in the towel and say we're making a healthy choice today.”

She waves off his surrender and thinks to herself that he’ll catch up. Pumping her fist, she starts speed walking, narrowly avoiding a skater who suddenly stopped to adjust the velcro in their boot.

They talk while they wait in line, work, cramming for the NCLEX, the cute promposal that's happening in the background, but there's not a single mention of bruises or the frankly awesome way she uppercutted the villain of the week, and she wonders.

What would he have said if he knew?

Kayden tries to order for her and she would have let him if he got it right, but he doesn't, so, before the vendor can follow through, she has to cut in and tell him what she really wants.

She does it lightheartedly and refers to Sal’s, the vendor's, a mustached 80’s aficionado in a pastel striped shirt and sideburns that belong on Abe Lincoln, Chili Cheese Dogs as manna from heaven

Sal's toothy smile and the flash of a silver topped molar tell her she's made his day.

“It's my favorite too”, the vendor says as she pulls out a ten dollar bill.

Her change goes straight into the top jar and she salutes the man before moving off to the side to wait for her boyfriend

The heat coming through the container makes the cardboard steam, and juggling the carton, a skip in her step, they wander off to find a bench.

Oozy, gooey, smothered in diced onion, chili, sour cream, and cheddar cheese, she doesn't care if she has to use a fork as long as it ends up in her stomach.

*

She plays ‘What Would So and So Do’ as the paths of the park start losing any visual interest. There are few people in this section for a reason. It's past the season for tulips to bloom and it's nowhere near the colorful, dense profusion, you would see in April or May.

They'd floated down this way on his say-so and she hadn't wanted to be the one to pop the bubble again but evidently she shouldn't have worried at all. The rows are bald but Kayden doesn't seem to see them at all.

Is it enough? For him? That she's here?

She goes back to the game before she can ask herself anything else.

Kara is too easy of a challenge. She'd want to play frisbee, even if she had to hide her powers, and then, all of a sudden they'd end up playing with other strangers who would, predictably, be drawn to the bubbly blonde.

Cass and her would people watch from the rock overhang in the southeast corner of the park. The one that jutted out and gave a vantage point of the entire park.

It used to be some statue in honor of a Gotham Founder but got damaged to an unrecognizable extent during Bruce's first few years as the Big Bad Bat. City council just never got around to fixing or replacing it, the way they neglected most things south of the Diamond District. And with all the collateral damage that plagued Gotham in general they had cared even less when the founder turned out to have literal skeletons in their closet

So there they would be, possibly eating ice cream, possibly with a bag of snacks between them as they shared observations. Cass, in that sparsely worded way of hers, and her in a long, rambling set of suppositions like she was writing a telenovela.

Damian would have been in a suit, the weirdo, unhappy as his leather loafers sunk into the soft, loamy, soil. He would have complained about the dubious hygienic practices of community spaces and described the public restrooms as medieval cesspools. Though she does believe that he would have enjoyed the contemporaneous performances of the buskers playing violin near the Lion's Head fountain in the middle of the park.

The gremlin wouldn't have admitted it, no, but he would have said something about them being passable. Which was high praise for someone who enjoyed music as much as he did, even if he did prefer, almost exclusively, classical pieces.

None of the other Bats besides her would think it, outside of Dick, who always believed the best of Damian, but the boy was born to be an artist or musician or both. Not a tool for violence or retribution or even justice.

She'd seen it in the way he touched the keys of a piano, the way he held a piece of graphite in his hands.

Babs is the one that stumps her.

It isn't that she thinks Babs would hate the park but she's also not sure what she would do there.

The paths of the park were fairly well maintained so the biggest issues would be finding parking or the initial transportation to get her there.

But once they arrived?

They might talk, they might not. It would depend on Babs' mood. Babs was never dull, she was too smart, too quick with an answer, but she also wasn't the person she'd seen gleefully leaping off buildings when she was younger either.

If she thinks about it deeply, the only places she's seen Babs spend any consecutive hours in for the last couple of years is the Clock Tower, which was as much the home base for Oracle operations as it was an actual home, and the library.

Maybe she can change that?

When she leaves that trail of thought for later review, the image of what Dick would have done comes to her, as clear as the day is turning out to be.

Dick would have been weighed down by a wicker basket, real silverware clanking inside because Alfred would insist on it. The silverware would've been just for fruit because they'd be eating sandwiches that they didn't make themselves because Dick, despite the lessons, was still someone who veered towards convenience.

He would have tried to balance a blanket and an umbrella they didn't even need, the basket hitched on his side, and she would have to wrench one of his burdens out of his hands because of his misplaced chivalry.

They'd sit underneath a copse of trees rendering the umbrella moot but he'd argue contingencies and-

A hand slithers into hers and she stiffens before letting it clasp hers and staring up at the brunette man flanking her.

She abandons the narrative.

It feels wrong to fantasize, ‘think’, her mind alters the fabric of the sentence, about Dick, ‘about anyone', while Kayden is holding her hand.

Ink would blot and bleed through to the next page with strength she puts to the corrections.

Kayden's hands are big, proportionate to his brawny frame. He flips their palms and laces his fingers into hers and they're so…smooth. Lacking any calluses along the joints of his fingers or the friction burns she's come to expect on a man's knuckles.

When they loop their way back to the fountain she catches some suspicious movements from a short bulky guy with a military cut and a spider tattoo on his right hand.

Who goes to the park dressed up in, she spies a second sleeve underneath his button up, thermal wear?

Mr. Freeze’s goon? The Penguin’s?

Brushing her hair back to widen her range of vision, she surveys the man out of the corner of her eyes. She hadn't heard anything from Babs about anything major going down.

Is he waiting for someone?

Where has she seen him before?

She nearly nudges and signals for Kayden to watch the man before stopping herself.

Kayden isn't Dick.

*

“Hey babe, so, about next Saturday? Do you have anything planned? I want to take you out again and I've got a surprise in mind.” Kayden says as they stroll back towards parking.

She has to say no, she'd made plans already, but good girlfriends are supposed to want to spend as much time with their boyfriends as possible, aren't they?

Feet stalling, her stomach rocks uncomfortably.

Anymore of this and she'll get an ulcer.

Her car door swings open, Kayden has decided to go the romantic route and play Prince Charming.

The stronger than usual light brings out the rosiness of his complexion and a touch of gold to his brown hair. A tendril of hair falls across his brow and for such a brawny guy, he looks sweet and unassuming.

She should love him.

He's solid and dependable and doesn't get mad at her when she disappears on him. Kayden is going to be a doctor and most people would see her as punching above her weight class.

But being seen as a dark horse doesn't bother her, it's her own feelings that do.

She cares about him but it's not love. Not love in the way she's known it. ‘Not yet’, she tries to placate herself.

The words are heavy, they constrict her breathing like she's wearing a tie knotted too tight, and she wonders again, how it is that Dick noticed she always blocked the third Saturday of the month but Kayden never has in the eight months they've been dating and the year they've known each other?

She scolds herself because it feels like she's trying to look for a way to excuse herself.

“I'm busy that day, Sunday the next day, I'm all yours.” She buckles her seatbelt and looks ahead at the road wondering if he'll ask her what she's doing that day and what she should say if he does.

She should obviously tell the truth.

Something twists in her gut and-

What is wrong with her? She asks herself again.

She and Dick are just volunteering together; her hands flex in the air like she's squeezing a stress ball before she puts up the visor in front of her.

“That's fine with me”, Kayden glances over and smiles again, something small but genuine as he buckles himself in. “What should we do next?”

They end up at his apartment and she seeks out his kiss because she doesn't know what else to say.

Moving has always been easier than staying still.

*

The morning of D-Day is, contained in a word, her thinking ‘Fuck’ in as many hues as there are in a rainbow.

If she were honest, this had started the night before when she laid in bed unable to sleep, and again in the morning when Dick texted her that he was in front of her building and she realized she had stuff to bring down.

Finding her keys is the one thing that goes right.

Dick had overheard her searching for her keys, cursing all the way one too many times, and when she wasn't looking, put a hook next to her front door and plucked her keys right out of her hands and told her “This is where your keys go” like he was explaining something to a toddler who was still mastering object permanence.

The only reason she didn't get mad at him for it was because it was a Command Hook.

No actual holes in the wall.

Not that they were ever going to get their deposit back anyways. She'd accidentally left divots on the floor of her room, courtesy of her old alarm clock.

She almost trips down the steps, weighed down by a myriad of bags and boxes and snaps at him when he jogs up to rescue her. Immediately feeling bad because it's not his fault she's nervous.

It's not his fault she feels like she's flaying herself open.

She's the one who invited him.

She did.

She wants him there and she wants him to leave.

Dick bears it with grace, even comforts her in the car on the way over. Tells her that he's there for her. For anything.

Actually, what he says is, “Call me, for anything”, which her stupid brain fixates on for the remainder of the car ride while he goes back to traffic like he didn't just throw a hot potato her way.

She tells herself she'll take him up on it but only as a joke. She'll call him at 3 am to talk about how nice the non-existent sunrise is.

Alfred's famous hot chocolate has nothing on the comfort it inspires and she only works through it because the next thing on her brain’s agenda is how she can help him make a good impression.

Her fingers, doing their best to drill their way into his dash, are numb by the time she starts mocking up a game plan for Mrs. Francovich.

If she'd thought about it rationally she would've relaxed more but she had never been all that rational when it came to people she cared about or the causes that she took up.

*

When they arrive at the ornately carved doors of the gothic building, she pulls back the heavy metal knocker and summons Peter, self proclaimed lord and protector of St. Swithin's, even though she knows it's open.

She does it on purpose because even though Peter is dour she's hoping Dick will appreciate how low key the brunette man is.

Peter's gruffness is comforting in a way and feeling like she knew someone, or at least knew how they would react, had made it easier for her way back when she was finding her footing as a volunteer.

She's hoping Dick feels the same.

Dealing with Peter had been a cakewalk in comparison to bonding with Damian, who, at that point, was still half feral and infinitely more willing to openly insult you.

Swithin's is still a riot of color from the last fundraiser, paper crafts hanging merrily from the archway leading into the common area. A toddler is running around like clothing is optional and the usual group of regular volunteers is still getting their caffeine fix at the long table offsetting the kitchen.

Relaxing into the fabric of it all, she teases Dick about his optimism and promises him she'll leave him to the sharks.

The sound of children laughing and running in the background belongs on a Happy Days track and she can see how the atmosphere affects Dick. How he visibly brightens up. The orphanage is loud and vibrant, and, the thought makes her laugh to herself, pretty similar to a circus at the moment.

Maybe he already feels at home, she thinks as she watches him raise a hand to touch a star dangling from the archway, smiling at the glitter on his fingertips.

The thought crash lands when the leadership group does an impression of Pod People.

From the movie, not the aliens she actually knows.

Was using the term Pod People racist? Specist?

Peter is clearly still reserving his judgment about Dick, she'd expected that, though she does note that he's a little more prickly than usual. A tightness around his eyes when he looks at Dick.

It doesn't take much for her to realize why and he lets up when she pointedly reminds him that her guest is named Dick, not Tim.

He'd obviously taken one look at Dick with the dark hair and blue eyes, heard “old friend”, and translated that into ‘The Ex’.

She'd been very emotional when she and Tim had broken it off.

Annamarie, the resident artist, is too busy arguing with Felix to form an opinion, already raring to start her newest passion project. And to be honest, even though she brought the Balsa wood to Annamarie for carving, she agrees with Felix about safety and makes a note to herself to tell Mrs. Francovich that whatever class Annamarie is holding should have extra supervision.

It's all pretty standard when Dick introduces himself.

He compliments Felix on his suits once the latter finally realizes he'll get nowhere with Annamarie, the two never did, Masika is inclined to like anyone who doesn't call her an exotic beauty, and Chuck, laid-back as he is, is just glad the new guy isn't ragging on him for being a baker.

Tal and Jamie do the usual comedy duo act they can't help but fall into and draw her into a conversation and things settle, with the addition of Dick who demonstrates his ability to adapt to the personalities around him like a chameleon.

Cloudy, for her part, is as loose with her tongue as always. The old woman always did like shock and awe tactics and it was a lot more fun to have other people experience her brand of candidness.

That bit about using her tits as mufflers?

Classic.

The first time she'd met the old woman in her vibrant, it was always knitwear in jewel tones and big patterns because she had never fallen out of love with the 70’s, the woman asked her which one was hers and she'd almost frog marched right out before realizing Cloudy was talking about what group she was assigned to and not what kid was hers.

It was true, what they said about your life flashing before your eyes right before you died. To this day she's convinced it was a mini stroke. The sudden vertigo had downed her and she'd pretended that she tripped over her own feet.

She was lectured about situational awareness a lot when she was around the old woman.

The rest?

Dick has everyone over the age of fifty cooing over him like he's a favored grandson who's come home from college or from out of state for the holidays.

It's galling (It makes her bite her lip to hide a smile).

They treat his coming like Christmas in freaking July.

Mrs. Han plies him with food and it sets off a chain reaction but he packs it all away leaving all of the older ladies, whose idea of competition is to see how much of their dish is left at the end of the day, satisfied that he's sampled everything.

Smart that he only eats whatever is placed on his plate instead of going for seconds himself. It's safer that way. The war of the Nonnas, Ammas, Abuelas, and Grammys is more than any one can handle. The food rivalry is easily the most violent one at Swithin's. Being in the kitchen with them during a cold war was to listen to knives sounding off like guns when they met the butcher's clock.

Mrs. Han definitely wins this battle.

First blood, or bite, in this case.

The director, Mrs. Francovich, fabulous in full Bee themed regalia, a dark ochre yellow skirt suit and honeycomb brooch with bees that stuck out on wires as if flying around, spirits her away with a light hand to the shoulder.

She doesn't want to leave Dick alone, more because she's sure it'll come back to bite her rather than that he'll feel alone at this point, but allows herself to be led to the side.

“Stephanie, how have you been, dear?” The woman's accent is more pronounced than usual as she interrupts her thoughts.

“Oh, you know how it is. Always working…” It's a back and forth that makes her think of the weather and that in itself is odd.

Francovich isn't someone who minces words. Reminds her of a Leslie with genteel

True to form, the woman gets to the point.

“I'll be brief, do we need to employ the use of Non-disclosure agreements for all the staff in light of Mr. Grayson-Wayne’s presence?”

It takes her by surprise. For the first time outside of when he visits her at work and Schuster's ass kissing she thinks about the logistics of his civilian identity.

It's laughable.

One visit and they're at the point of considering that all the staff needs to sign legal documents?

Does Dick deal with this in Bludhaven at the station?

Ultimately she says no, he doesn't need it, and moves to tell her about Annamarie’s woodworking class.

If there's something that needs extra attention, it's that.

*

Introducing Dick to the trio goes interestingly.

Joy is shy at first, hides herself in her hair when she picks her up, but Dick is good at pulling the small girl out of her shell. The way Joy corrects him when he's purposely getting things wrong is terminally cute.

The grin on Dick's face…

Butterflies threaten to send her skyward and she could've sworn they all died an ignoble death the last time she stamped them out.

How does she keep missing them?

“My ovaries are exploding and I got those taken out in 1982”, Cloudy mutters in her ear like she's seventeen instead of in her 70’s. The older woman pats her on the shoulder as she swans out of the room and all she can do is gape.

God, she hadn't even known the woman had been in the rec room with them, too mesmerized by the sight in front of her.

Dick's face is just so animated and Joy is responding to his enthusiasm and attempts to understand by growing more and more spirited.

Joy had the tendency to ramble and jump from subject to subject like her brain was playing hopscotch or Chinese checkers and even she had trouble understanding Joy when she got that excited.

Dick?

He just runs with it. He contributes where he can and listens, rapt attention on the places where Joy isn't sure of a word or doesn't know how to say something, effortlessly supporting and filling in the blanks.

Joy bubbles with enthusiasm, blonde hair swinging as she talks princesses and fairytales and she's comfortable enough for her to shed the heavy deference towards authority figures that had popped up after she was adopted and sent back last year after less than a month.

She's so damn glad she invited Dick here today, just for this.

The next exchange he has is far less positive because Carlos, her favorite curly haired menace, minion, and mastermind, how many times had they teamed up against Jamie for eating the last egg roll on the rare occasions the orphanage was able to afford a special meal? Seems to have raised a vendetta against Dick.

The flag is red and It doesn't matter that Dick outed him to Joy by accident, he'll have a go at Dick until he thinks he's avenged himself.

Is it terrible that she sort of looks forward to what Carlos will think up?

‘Dick can handle it’, she tells herself so she doesn't feel so compelled to warn him.

Hannah, on her part, is neutral. She'll make her own determination in Dick when she has “Evidentiary Support for her Hypothesis.” Big words from a six year old in a starched pinafore and a missing canine, but when that particular six year old devours books at a rate that screams prodigious, even if she does insist on going to school with Joy and Carlos instead of skipping grades, it does take on an air of truth.

Dick is currently answering something that Hannah asks to test his intelligence and he must have given an answer that pleased her because she gives him a whole sentence.

A question, indicating further words are to be exchanged.

She whistles at the feat.

He has no idea that he's winning the tiny brunette over by taking her questions seriously and she almost feels like she should pat him on the back.

Hannah didn't suffer fools and she'd only escaped the brunette’s brutal evaluations by virtue of knowing her before any of her teeth all came in.

*

“Feel like helping me win Carlos over?” Dick asks as they plod back down the long hallway to the play room to play a second round of Hide and Seek.

“I gave you a hint last time.”

“You told me to bribe him with candy”

“And it's a method that works. He gains something or demands satisfaction in other ways. You don't want to experience ‘Other Ways’”

Dick laughs. “You're making him sound like some great mastermind.”

“No, that's Hannah. The Prince-”

“Machiavelli?” Dick fills in, following her thoughts quizzically.

“Machiavelli”, she confirms, “has nothing on her.”

“Hannah? Really? Sweet, quiet, kid about yay high”, he gestures to a spot just above her elbow.

“Carlos is her favorite person outside of Joy and she'll help him. You better get to it before she gets involved because the last time she got involved she figured out that she could stain someone bright red with Kool aid. It lasted for a full week and she told the person that their outsides finally reflected their insides.”

Dick raises his eyebrows disbelievingly and she can tell he's trying to imagine the scenario.

She'll have to show him the secret photos Tal and Jamie snapped of the incident later.

“The woman had a weird way of rolling her hair and they looked a lot like horns. We called her the Devil's Mistress behind her back. We're still not sure how Hannah got it to last so long but it couldn't have happened to a more deserving person. Like, who tells a kid they're never gonna amount to-” She cuts herself off, feeling herself getting angry. “The person was a staff member who Director Francovich had to take on. Nepotism hire, the woman was related to someone higher in the food chain.”

“Consider me duly warned but I'll get him to like me the old fashioned way, no shortcuts. You can't build something strong on a bad foundation.”

“He'll make you bleed first.”

“Wouldn't be the first time a kid tried to stick me with the pointy end of a knife”, Dick looks cheeky despite the subject matter, “At least this one won't be literal.”

There's only one person who comes to mind when it comes to things like this and she sounds out her words slowly.

“Damian tried to legit stab you? How come I've never heard this story?”

“He didn't try, he succeeded.”

“He did?” The words are colored by shock.

Damian thinks the world of Dick and it's hard for her to mock up in her head. There's no one else he takes more seriously than Dick, other than Bruce, and, frankly, he could stand to listen to Bruce a bit less. Damian was dogmatic to the point of breaking his neck to keep his chin up and Bruce didn't understand that.

“It wasn't too long after he first arrived. I didn't wanna rock the boat so I kept it hush hush. It wasn't deep.”

She has a feeling Dick's understating how bad it was, Damian had impeccable aim and a working understanding of the vulnerabilities of the human body.

“And you never told Bruce”, she says, more statement than question, a soft awe in her eyes as she looks at him.

This had to be part of why Damian trusted him implicitly and it puts the relationship in a different light.

Tim had, understandably, never quite recovered from the violent introduction and his relationship with Damian was still somewhat rocky all these years later. That Dick gave Damian the benefit of the doubt and worked so hard to give him some semblance of childhood despite his own experience is something amazing.

Not a lot of people could put aside their own traumatic experiences to help someone who actually hurt them, and she can't help but reach out and put a hand on his arm.

She just needs to touch him, she doesn't know why, but she does.

“Bruce already had issues connecting to Damian and I wasn't going to add to that. He needed someone.” Dick's hair falls across his eyes and his eyes dart to the floor, unable to keep up the air of nonchalance.

“Why are you telling me?”

Dick pauses as if he has to think about the reason and stops walking. His eyes are serious but not severe. “You see him the way I do. I might not have known how close you were before but once I knew he had someone other than me”, he looked lost for words, “It helped.”

He breaks their connection and gestures for them to continue onwards.

“Come on, we gotta get back before they get any more bright ideas”, he nudges her, hand placed on the small of her back as he pushes her through the archway and heads off a kid who'd placed a chair up against one of the shelves holding glue.

The noise of rowdy kids and the change in lighting don't do enough to distract her from her thoughts.

*

They should've limited the spaces that the kids were allowed to hide in because it's starting to feel like an endless search.

Putting herself into their shoes to suss out where they're sheltering is helpful but only goes so far and she's been in the communal kitchen for less than ten seconds when she gets interrupted.

Tal has dyed the underlayer of her hair a sleek, silvery, lavender color, she hadn't noticed earlier, but before she can compliment her the other girl speaks.

“So, is he gonna be a regular around here?” Tal asks from her stool where she's eating cookies right off the cooling rack.

‘He’ is an obvious reference to Dick, the only new face around here. Inquiries on him seem to be coming from every quarter like Dick isn't the guy who watches stupid movies with her, the guy who choked on popcorn and spewed kernels on her coffee table the first time they'd hung out.

“I'm in the middle of a game”, she complains as she checks the walk-in pantry of the kitchen, crouches to look under the long island. “Unless you're helping me find one of the munchkins you've got nothing to bargain with.”

“But enquiring minds would like to know”, Jamie leans over the stainless steel counter when she startles, “Think of it as helping me with my journalism skills.”

Of course he was here.

The two were always in lockstep and if it wasn't so obviously platonic people would assume they were dating. They couldn't exactly pass as twins, Jamie was so obviously Puerto Rican to Tal’s Vietnamese, but the sibling vibes were there.

“You've got, like, three years to go and you haven't declared a major.”

“But I'm thinking about it”, he throws his arms out, “Don't you wanna help me not piss away my scholarship. They'll only pay for undergrad.”

“Help me out here. You believe in privacy”, she turns an imploring eye on the younger woman who's dunking another cookie into a glass of milk. Tal gives no indication that she heard her at all so she says her name louder. “I would love some support here.”

Tal levels her with an unapologetic look. “I began this line of questioning, so no. And he's a Wayne. I didn't even know you ran with that circle and you've technically known him longer than us, share with the class.”

Leaving him alone with them earlier this morning had clearly bitten her in the ass, just like she'd thought it would. She wants to roll her eyes because the Wayne part is honestly the least interesting part of him.

“Yeah, that's so sus”, Jamie gives his two cents, looking like he's having fun with the whole situation. His shirt has crumbs all over the Green Lantern symbol and she makes a note to herself to get him something related to the hero for his upcoming birthday even if he is contributing to the third degree. “How come you've never mentioned him?”

“I didn't know him back then, it was more like acquaintances, and not even the type who would wave at each other in passing. Also, the record should reflect that I don't run with that crowd. This isn't a poor little rich girl situation. I just happen to know some people who have some money.”

“Some money? His dad, like, owns the city, but sure, he's just someone with money.”

Narrowing her eyes before giving up on making Tal drop the subject she shoots back with, “If I had money, would I willingly suffer Schuster's toddler tendencies?” She raises her brows in earnest.

Complaining about their bosses was a common refrain when they were catching up. Nothing bonded you quite like shared misery.

“She does reuse her takeout containers”, Jamie thinks out loud. “I'm pretty sure I’ve seen her wash disposable aluminum trays before.”

He's technically helping her but she can see a teasing glint in his eyes.

“I've seen her straight up wash tear off aluminum foil too”, Tal starts looking more convinced and the two share a look, hive mind at work.

“Getting more than one use out of something is basic economics.”

“Relax, being that frugal is a virtue.”

Jamie is nodding in the background, "Teach me your ways, oh wise one”, he says.

She surprises herself when she recognizes his reference to the Space Opera Dick likes. Maybe Dick's quest isn't so hopeless, it's apparently very quotable.

Mollified, she grabs her own cookie, breaks off a piece, and pops it into her mouth. “Dick’s not going to be a regular. We needed extra help so I asked, end of story.”

Taking special care to control her expression, any contrary movement would be like blood in the water, she fixes her eyes on the two who have moved next to each other to double their attack power.

“Fine, keep it to yourself”, Tal huffs after a small detente, “Did you know Joy was in here and blackmailed us into letting her walk off with half a dozen cookies?”

“How did she- Why did you? You got blackmailed by a six year old?”

“Jamie is weak”, Tal tilts her thumb at her partner in crime, Jamie, whose mouth has dropped open.

“Hey!”

*

‘I'm not eavesdropping’, she rationalizes to herself as she picks up a few toys too slowly for her to make any headway.

She's just…in the general area and can't help but overhear them.

They're taking another small break in between rounds of hide and seek and the Rec Room had started to look cluttered as kids pulled out toys and drawing supplies.

Carlos is antagonizing Dick, all three feet and some change of him, and Dick is totally letting it get to himself because his hands are gesturing wildly as he tries to sway Carlos to his point of view.

Carlos isn't having it and his curls bounce with his declaration.“The Robin with a sword is way cooler than the first one. He's got like, ninja moves, and an awesome costume. And he makes his hits hurt.”

That's slightly worrying. But it's at least pointed towards villains?

“But what about the original Robin?” Dick is waving his hands. “He's cool. Without him there would be no other Robins.”

“The original Robin's old and tired and he probably complains about his back like my teacher”, Carlos fires back, hands deftly folding paper shuriken, holding the creases up to his eye to examine the edges.

She wonders when Carlos learned. Maybe during the papercraft event that the entrance still bears signs of?

Carlos had always been good with his hands and she just knew he'd grow up to be an engineer or architect. He liked knowing how things worked, liked working with his hands. Once you understood that about him you had a much easier time getting closer to him.

“He's my age! I'm pretty sure.” Dick tries to defend himself only for Carlos to shoot him down further.

“And you're super old, so I'm right. You're so weird. You're like, one of those guys that still live in their mother's basement, aren't you?” Carlos says, scrutinizing Dick carefully as he cranes his head up from his project to peer at him.

The six year old's mop of dark curls has fallen away from his eyes and she can see the vivid green of them glint with mischief. How Carlos knows about fanboys, she doesn't know, but what she does know is that she's enjoying this.

Her snickers draw Dick's eyes to hers and he sends her an indignant look.

She'd tried to be quiet but evidently he heard her. His eyes scream that he's being attacked on two fronts and she knows what she should do. She should nip this in the bud.

She should stop Carlos from bullying Dick anymore.

She doubles over and her stomach aches from the hilarity of it all, the sound loud and so strong she feels it strain her sides.

“Betrayal. Et tu Brutus?” Dick calls out to her and turns back to Carlos. “I'm not old”, he says semi seriously before saying, “Old people can't do”, he's racking his head for something suitably impressive, “backflips.”

Carlos crosses his arms and that stubborn tilt of his mouth gives her flashbacks to his refusal to get a haircut a few months ago. The boy stole all the scissors, even the kiddie safety scissors, and refused to give them back till they promised not to or let him do it himself.

He hadn't done too bad for doing his own hair.

“Prove it. Right now”, Carlos says as if he's sure Dick won't.

Dick is studying the short boy but comes to a decision fairly quickly, something resolute to the way he straightens his spine.

‘Is he really?’ She tilts her head.

“I'll do it. Clear away and I'll show you.” There's pageantry in the way he smiles and a twinkle to his eyes as the rest of the boys, drawn by Carlos rallying cry, start gathering around the edges of the two's corner of the room.

Of course Dick is.

There's a crowd and he loves an audience.

She hides her face because her smile would encourage Dick too much.

“Drum roll, guys. I gotta get into the mood”, he calls for participation, voice thrown the way actor's do in a live play. “Proving once and for all that I am not old and defending the honor of the first Robin, I will do not one, but three”, the boys ooh and ah, she's not so much awed by him than she is amused because three? He's such an overachiever, “backhand flips.”

Dick makes a show of stretching and shows off his flexibility even in rigid denim and flies.

He flies through the air in movements that match the quicksilver flash of a coin flipped through Two Face’s fingers. He's a trick of the light and his hands and feet don't seem to touch the floor until the very end when he bows.

Flourishes, so many flourishes, as he poses.

Fanfare from the boys explodes and they chatter excitedly but Dick just walks right back to Carlos, who is valiantly trying to stop himself from widening his eyes and exclaiming over the feat.

Carlos tries to play it casual and it's adorable. Like a baby porcupine trying to decide if they need to flare their quills.

The laugh she can't help but let out at the sight draws Dick's eyes to hers yet again, the reaction another point in favor of Bat sonar theory for the others in the team.

She'd been even quieter this time, hadn't she?

“What's so funny?” Joy's blue eyes beam up at her, jumping in that familiar way that she knew meant the girl wanted to be picked up.

“Boys are weird” is the simplest way to put it and the sage nod Jenny makes is another reason to laugh.

*

Saying ‘I told you so’ would be juvenile, wouldn't it?

She absolves herself of the sin because she did give warning.

Dick brought this on himself. Actually, he brought this down on both of them, she scrubs a hand through her hair and has to redo her ponytail.

Seriously, penalties?

Penalties for being found while playing Hide and Seek?

They're adults and have a hard enough time finding places to squirrel away already.

He walked right into Carlos' trap.

*

When Dick loses the next round of Hide and Seek, she doesn't feel bad that he ends up with Carlos perched on his broad shoulders. Carlos pointing onwards like he's leading a cavalry charge up the stairs.

It'd originally only been him ponying up one flight of stairs for every boy in the group, but having caught onto Dick's vanity Carlos got him to extend it to four flights.

Dick isn't breathing heavily but he's only on his third kid so any visible strain won't happen till later. She doesn't doubt that he has the stamina but it must work his muscles the same way those deceptively simple Ballerina stretches do.

People always thought ballerinas were delicate because of their slim, willowy, frames, but their bodies were, in reality, all lean muscle from hours of making the same movements with pinpoint precision.

Watching each subsequent kid make themselves at home on his shoulders, she suddenly has a very clear idea of how Dick and Damian ended up bonding and amusement quirks the corner of her mouth.

By the end of the day, she'll place the bets now, the boys’ favorite Robin will remain Damian.

Dick wouldn't have been able to change that even if he had been able to tell him he was the original Boy Dressed as a Traffic Light. But he will have managed to win them over and they, Carlos, he was the only one who would openly do it, probably won't call him old anymore.

It depends on whether he earns another black mark.

Carlos won't be a member of the fan club anytime soon, he wasn't the type to be won over in a day, but from her position she does hear the third member of her favorite trio admit that Dick being able to do a backflip is “Kind of cool” to TJ, one of the other boys.

Under his breath, but it counts.

Carlos' green eyes widen when he realizes that she's heard him but relaxes when she holds a finger to her lips, letting her ruffle his curls affectionately for all of a second before he shoves it off.

*

“I get to be the princess today?”

She never gets to be the princess.

She's been the witch casting dastardly curses on unsuspecting townsfolk and passing royalty, the lady knight rescuing the prince because he's awful with a sword (they don't marry in the end because he's already married to his partner of ten years. Peter's face had been sour at even pretending otherwise), the trusty traveling companion of a young demigod, but not a princess.

Why are they insisting so much?

Joy and Hannah are pushing the plastic tiara towards her insistently and the other girls are repurposing an old curtain with an obnoxious pattern and draping around her waist like a skirt.

It was her turn to suffer and the girls had chosen dress up which is hardly on par with the physical labor of hauling kids up and down the stairs.

To her surprise it's Hannah that speaks.

“It's logical”, the girl says, as if the two words explain everything.

Is it too much to ask her to explain?

None of it makes any sense to her even if she does crouch down to let Joy pull the elastic holding her hair up away.

*

This is precious.

The penalty for losing this round of Hide and Seek was letting the girls do the makeup of either her or Dick and they went and chose Dick. Personally, she's choosing to think they chose Dick because he needs the extra help, but who is she kidding?

“You're so pretty. I love that color on you”, she teases watching Hannah, Joy, and the other girls deliberate over the perfect shades of blue and green and pink for his complexion.

“Thanks”, Dick says dryly from where he's sitting on a step stool so the gaggle of girls can reach his face, “I'm really glad they got to use another palette because there really weren't enough choices before.”

Maybe going around and asking volunteers so the kids weren't limited to her basic palette was too mean?

She doesn't let the thought get her down. He can't be too upset, the corners of his mouth are twitching as though they want to curl up.

One of the girls is trying to line his lips with a lip pencil and gets frustrated enough to make him promise not to move. The others join her in protest and he caves so fast that she's surprised the ceiling hasn't fallen all around their ears.

“I wanted to make sure you had your makeover moment”, she moves closer to inspect the girls’ handiwork. She's honestly surprised that they know what lip pencil is, she hadn't known about them till she was twelve.

Dick looks like he wants to reply, his eyes narrow but he's trying so hard not to move his mouth at the moment and she finds his determination to keep his promise ridiculously endearing.

Should she rescue him?

He'd been enduring for a while now.

Palming her phone, she starts to take pictures. “Work it, the camera loves you daaahling”, she winks and tries to adopt a stuffy accent like she's the biggest cliche of a fashion photographer she can think of. Dick blinks before a delighted look lights up his eyes and he realizes what she's doing.

“Hey girls”, he addresses the pack of them, “are we finished? I think I've got a photo shoot to attend.”

“I guess…” Joy pouts, she'd been the most enthusiastic about the whole thing and was twirling the paintbrush they improvised with since they didn't have actual makeup brushes like a baton.

Hannah caps the lipstick in her small hands before turning to her blonde best friend seriously. “I don't think we can make him prettier than this, Joy. We did the best we could with what we had.”

In the background Dick is playing at being offended and she wants to just freeze this moment.

*

She's returning the palettes to their respective owners when Dick comes back looking like a cross between a half drowned cat and racoon, the blue and green eyeshadow smeared everywhere. He looks like he has two black eyes in various stages of healing and his cheeks are still in those disparate shades of pink despite his scrubbing.

He obviously hadn't been able to get much makeup off in the ten or so minutes he'd spent in the bathroom.

Containing the laughter that wants to burst out is a full time job. She should've checked if the products were waterproof.

Poor guy.

“Need some help there?”

“Please. I made a kid cry when they looked at my face so I'm clearly not winning any beauty contests”, Dick winces. “I'd rather not make anyone else cry.”

She lets out a quick breath, making a kid cry had definitely made Dick feel bad.

Crying probably wasn't something he was all that used to inspiring but she still decides to tease him about his tabloid reputation.

“I thought you were heartbreaker playboy-Richie Grayson. A trail of broken hearts wherever you go.”

“Ugh”, he groans, “I don't even know why they say that. I'm a serial monogamist.”

“I know, it's like they don't even know you.”

He sketches a smile at her through squinted eyes, catching the sincerity.

She keeps talking to lighten things again.

“They don't know what a dork you are over a”, it's more a taunt than real opinion, “mid tier Space Opera, or that, even though you say you don't, you do, on some level enjoy paperwork because you smile when you write out a successful case report. You're so boring.”

Dick makes a face at her.

“And you willingly spend this much time with me anyways. Admit it, you block off, at minimum, your Wednesdays just for me.”

There's nothing she can say to that one because it's true, even if she's never explicitly stated it, so she deflects. “Give me a sec, I think one of the volunteers has makeup wipes.”

He's still standing where she left him when she comes back, the girls had wandered off to the other side of the room where a mini tournament sprang up. Boys versus girls from the stances of the group.

For once Carlos, Hannah, and Joy aren't on the same side.

“You'll have to guide me over to a chair because my eyes can't stop watering. I'll be lucky if I don't trip over something.”

“Don't worry, I'll protect you from yourself. You're the fair maiden in this scenario”, she jokes as she gently pushes him onto the kiddie stool the girls had relegated him to when they were beautifying him. Watching his face wrinkle as he keeps having to lower himself further is too much for her and she starts snickering.

Dick blows a breath out, “You couldn't give me a normal chair?”

“You're kind of tall for me to reach up that far. I don't wanna strain my shoulders”, she shrugs before realizing he can't see it and smirking because of that same reason. There was a normal chair about three to four feet on their right but the girls got their time with him in the chair, it was only right that she did too.

“It’s ‘cause you're short.”

She scowls. She hated it when people pointed that out. They always seemed to think short meant helpless. “You know, I could just not help you.”

“Ah, no, please help”, a wisp of a smile comes to life on his face and she relaxes. “You're not short. You're fun sized.”

Scoffing, she smacks his shoulder and he laughs.

She's two steps away and about to tell him to deal with it himself when his fingers catch her by the belt loop of her jeans and tug her close.

How Dick does this with his eyes closed is beyond her. There's situational awareness, which is reasonable given their nighttime exploits, and then there's sonar.

Was a giant bat their Patron Saint or something?

She starts to seriously consider that the Bat part of the Bat clan is more literal than she thought. It's nicer than thinking she doesn't belong there because she doesn't have black hair or that her backstory isn't tragic enough.

Much closer this time around, Dick has spread his legs and ushered her in between them. He slips his fingers out of the loop and fans his hand out over her hip, steadying in the physical sense, less so for her mental stability.

Wasn't this too close?

Her heart rate builds before she forcibly calms it down, thinking of the fate they narrowly escaped.

They'd just been trying to avoid suffering through the disgusting penalty that losing had landed them with.

Chunky bits in a concoction the color of milk, there had to be some kind of dairy.

There had better be some kind of dairy for it to look like that.

The kids had been gracious and allowed them to choose between two evils but she's not sure the kids have even dumped the glasses out yet.

Her memory might be faulty but she's sure that Carlos convinced the other kids not to, confident they could wrangle one more game of Hide and Seek out of them.

“Seriously, please?” He tilts his head up in her direction trying to rush her along. Even with a face full of ruined makeup, those startlingly blue eyes shut, he's pretty.

‘A bad paint job can't disguise the bones of a nice car, the same clearly applies here’, she thinks as she clicks her tongue thoughtlessly.

The tabloids weren't right about the playboy part but they were definitely right about the allure.

Using the word had seemed like a stretch back when they hadn't gotten along. She'd laughed at the article in the Gotham Gazette that she'd flipped through while waiting in the checkout line before cramming it back on the stand, thinking that a trust fund must be as blinding as any smile.

Her breath rushes out in a quick huff. “Hold still. I only grabbed two makeup wipes so we've gotta make the best of them. If I drop it you've just gotta make do with a towel and dish soap.”

“Okay, I get it. I get it. Just please get this stuff off of me”, Dick begs, “It's way trickier to deal with than any of the stage makeup we used at the circus.”

“That'd be the waterproof feature”, she says before she catches the tail end of his words. "You used makeup at the circus as a kid?”

“Well, yeah. Without it, from far away, our faces would just look like blobs. The flashy costumes are used for the same reason.”

She wants to ask him more but she can feel the wetness of the makeup wipes starting to fade.

Dick waits expectantly but still furrows his brow as the cool touch of a sheet meets his skin.

Slowly buffing it along his jaw and up his cheek, the last remnants of a scarlet blush fade away, the color bright on bleached cotton.

Her free hand turns his face with a soft press of her fingers to his jaw so she can banish the blue ringing his right eye. She's much gentler on the sensitive area and works to remove the eyeshadow and mascara from his lid and lashes in feather light strokes, repeating the process with the green pigment decorating his other side.

The makeup saturated wipes are already balled up and she's ready to turn and to shoot them into the wastebasket a few feet away when she spots a tiny fleck close to the water line in the very corner of his left eye.

It's dark and at first she mistakes it for some mascara, rubs at it a few extra times only to be left puzzled when it doesn't come off.

Dick's face flinches under the renewed force before smoothing when she remembers she needs to be more careful. Her thumb stops sweeping over the spot when she registers how close their faces are.

It's a mole.

“Done”, her voice is faint as she pulls her hands back and his hand falls off her hip.

Would she have ever noticed if they hadn't come to Swithin's today?

Her tongue is numb against the roof of her mouth. She tucks her hair behind her ear but she's really drawing a curtain.

*

Carlos's voice makes her careless and she dives into the alcove, a sharp twinge of pain exploding as the cartilage of her nose hits something bony. It's not awful enough for her to worry if something is broken but it is enough for her to know it'll be red for a bit.

“A little warning would have been nice.” Dick says from somewhere above her.

Dick's voice is mild but she knows how unimpressed he is from the way the last part carries, and honestly, she's peeved by the low grade accusation.

“You should feel sorrier for me.”

After all, if he hadn't insisted on following her they wouldn't even be in this situation. She nearly says as much, tilting her head up to glare at him when his eyes clash against hers.

The last thought is like static and every signal in her brain, every channel, is attuned to him. Like a warning by the national weather service all she can register is the word ‘Danger’ because this is a mudslide and she isn't rooted deeply enough to not get swept away.

When did she start picking out that they weren't just blue? That they were…a butterfly blue? A butterfly inducing blue?

His hands at the bend of her waist, fingertips skating the bare skin of her ribs, leave her breathless and every time she gets her bearings, a necessary exhale brings her right back into his palms and she's reduced to a giant beating heart.

Why had she worn a tank top today?

The weather, she remembers, when a ray light streams right into her eyes.

She should've just let herself get caught, even if the thought of downing the concoction the kids had mixed up for her makes her stomach rebel.

Makes her shiver.

Or is she shivering because his eyes are growing deeper and more vibrant at the same time, the power behind them interfering with her ability to think with a level head?

Dick's eyes are unwavering and being the sole focus of his attention makes her feel like she's in distinct danger of following a third drink instinct even though she hasn't had a drop of alcohol.

More dangerous is the thought that this is starting to become a pattern.

This time she's not worried about her measuring his hands against his. This time her bandwidth is being eaten up by the fact that they're so enmeshed that his belt buckle will leave an imprint on the skin of her abdomen.

Her chief worry is his muscled thigh between hers and keeping herself upright because if she goes weak in the knees, he'll be the only thing holding her up.

She has a boyfriend.

His name is-

His name is…

Dick asks her a question and she answers on autopilot.

“Some of the kids have allergies and I…”

Light arcs over the blade of Dick's cheekbone and her breath hitches, the curve cutting her enough to make her bleed like a watercolor.

She moved her head, she knows she did

The rest of the world intrudes and the sound of Carlos crowing about finding someone brings her back to herself.

“Guess we can stop hiding now”, Dick says, hand tightening around her hip.

He doesn't know what he's doing to her, she thinks, lungs stuttering.

It's reflexive like when someone can't help but start when they're surprised by a loud noise. And the gravel in his voice has to be because he's trying too hard to be quiet.

*

She's in the middle of pouring water into plastic cups to supplement snack time when she notices that Joy and Dick are missing from the crowd of kids gathered around her.

Craning her neck she spies the two off to the side looking at a-

Is that a pinecone?

Joy is proffering a pinecone from the inner courtyard to Dick excitedly. She's probably asking him what he knows about them and Dick takes it from her carefully and starts pointing out details she can't hear from the distance she's at.

He's crouched down to Joy's level and is matching her enthusiasm like she's brought him treasure again.

It makes her remember herself at that age, showing Mal a rock she picked up from the park while she was waiting for her mom to get home from her shift.

They'd been learning about geology in school at the time and the pure white of it had her convinced it didn't belong in Gotham. Her healthy imagination and sense of drama had her concocting all kinds of stories, the rough face of the stone sparkling in the light as she turned it over in her hands over and over.

Mal, humoring her, asked her if she wanted to turn it into the police and she clutched it to her chest as if shocked by the suggestion. “Finders Keepers', her volume rocketed, her seriousness with a stamped foot and a nod so vehement that it was a wonder she didn't get whiplash.

He had roared with laughter at her antics and mentioned something about taking her to the beach someday with a metal detector, which derailed things because he then had to explain what a metal detector was.

Asking why the sky was blue was his breaking point. “I'm a butcher, not a scientist”, Mal had scratched his cheek before backtracking, realizing that saying that to a kid would be like telling them to ignore anything they weren't interested in in school.

Now, she recognizes how nervous he'd been, eyes trained on the ceiling before he found the equilibrium to flick them back down to hers. Back then?

God, he'd seemed so old and wise to her six year old self. Mal’s hair had been more salt than pepper so she equated him to the wizards in every fantasy movie or book she'd ever seen.

“Shouldn't stop me from learning.” His voice had been gruff, embarrassed as he threw ice cream into the equation. “I've got Butterscotch Pecan and Butterscotch Pecan”

That day had been the start of her love of Butterscotch Pecan, which she would freely admit was kind of an old people’s type of flavor. The only flavor more in that category was Rum Raisin but even as an adult with way more adventurous tastes she couldn't find it in her to abide raisins in her ice cream.

Clarissa, her heart spasms in her chest, it sometimes hurt to think of the older woman who'd been such a treasured part of her childhood, had taken one look at them perched on the landing, her husband's legs folded under him awkwardly, criss cross applesauce because baby Steph had taken what her teacher said about good kids very seriously, did a u-turn, and came out with a bag of chocolate chips and her own bowl of chocolate spiked soft serve.

“Chocolate goes with everything”, the woman had said when a younger her had blanched, “Think you can be brave?” Clarissa shook the bag, lips curved in a cheeky smile.

She was never one to back down from a challenge and accidentally dumped half the bag in her bowl.

When she couldn't finish it the sandy haired woman tugged it out of her hands and said she proved her wrong, not one mention of wasting food, which had soothed the sudden anxiousness that sprouted up because she was always supposed to finish her food.

The memory is a sweet ache.

Before, when they'd invited her to their apartment for cookies, she'd simply thought they were being nice. There were plenty of people who were nice to kids. And they weren't the creepy type her mom warned her away from like Mr. Hannigan from the building across the street. She could tell. It was just that usually the niceness faded once you showed some personality.

To be honest, she'd been on her very best behavior that first time. Pleases and thank you’s and taking care to wash under her fingernails when she washed her hands because the couch in their apartment was spotless and a creamy ivory color she was afraid to get anything on.

It'd been a particularly clear memory for her because there weren't a lot of people who had the patience to spend so much time with a kid whose favorite word was ‘why’.

That's when the designation in her head ratcheted from Nice to Kind. So her relationship with the couple really started over a very normal piece of white granite and not over cookies and drawing pictures in the hallway like Mal always thought.

Dick making the same kind of memory with Joy makes her smile just a bit wider, a wave of warmth overtaking her before she gets back to the rest of the group.

He wouldn't have the same relationship with Joy that she'd had with Mal and Clarissa, that was a big commitment, but creating a bright memory for her is already something meaningful.

Her chest twangs, it twinges like he'd drawn his hand over her heartstrings.

The heart really isn't supposed to take this much action, she thinks, helplessly.

A small hand tugs at her wrist and she nearly drops the pitcher before resuming her task.

“Alright, we've got water, and more water. Which vintage would you like today?”

*

Lunch passes quickly aside and when they meet back up to work out what they're going to do for the mini science experiments they fall into the easy rhythm that had started to epitomize their partnership.

It helps to have a goal and she dismisses the temporary insanity of earlier while they set up.

The lesson goes well enough and that there's only one incident, and that it only involves one glass object breaking after the rest have filed out of the makeshift lab, is great.

Less great is the small heart attack when Joy trips with the beaker in hand and it splinters into a thousand pieces.

Fussing over the small blonde she frantically searches for any glass, sighing in relief when she sees that Joy only got a scrape.

It's not even a bad one, more from the roughness of the floor than anything else and barely bleeds.

Hannah, bless her, has gotten the first aid kit out for her and after sealing a bandaid over Joy's wound she looks towards Dick and freezes. Hypnotized by the water sluicing down the hard planes of his chest and over the ripples of his abs though the now translucent material of his shirt.

Water sliding off the tips of his hair like he'd just gotten out of the shower.

She can't, physically, seem to yank her eyes away. If she could, they would be on strings in her hands, which is gruesome, but the most sure way that they wouldn't be doing what they are right now.

All bugged out like a wolf in a cartoon.

‘This is why wet T-shirt contests are a thing’, she thinks, heat crawling up the back of her neck.

Deciding that silence is an infinitely better choice than speaking, her mouth shuts.

If she tries to speak she might honestly squeak instead.

Rooting through the box of extra volunteer shirts gives her a minute to herself but she finds, when Dick pulls on the shirt she tosses to him, that she's no better off. The blue shirt clings with all the tenacity of saran wrap to the muscled leanness of his frame.

Worse is the unjustified sense of disappointment that tugs at her stomach.

His tattoos.

She didn't get to see those aforementioned tattoos of his.

The thought, when she catches its tail, is all kinds of trouble because he doesn't owe her anything, much less the opportunity to examine the broadness of his shoulders like a woman at a fish market.

She exhales, exhausted by her own thoughts.

Maybe it's a good thing that she's seeing Kayden tomorrow. She's obviously losing her mind and any attractive guy in her vicinity has to fear for their virtue.

“Your knee okay, sweetpea?” She turns back to Joy who has recovered from her crying. The tears must've been more from embarrassment than pain from how composed Joy is now.

“Uh-mmm”, Joy sticks her leg out in front of her as if she has to see it to know, “It's okay. It'd be better with some chocolate cookies.”

Joy says the second part so hopefully and normally she'd give in but Tal and Jamie snitched and she can't reward-

She resists the urge to swear.

Joy’s eyes are all shiny and wide and she looks like she's a kitten in the rain.

This is such a con.

It's also working. She can feel her resolve just crumbling away.

She catches Dick's eyes with her own and silently begs for backup but Dick shrugs because he's, for the moment, more popular than her with the trio.

Damn him.

*

A minor incident happens but she covers for Joy by putting herself on the stand when nap time comes around.

It doesn't bother her. It's a good thing for kids to know that it's okay to have things you're afraid of as an adult and she's been told that being able to face your feelings head on is emotional maturity.

She's not quite there yet so it's more ‘Do as I say, not as I do.’

There's some mild disappointment because Joy doesn't want to snuggle up to her like usual but that's normal. Joy's not a baby anymore, so she busies herself with directing the kids towards the cabinets for blankets and pillows.

A boy named Parker, newer to Swithin's than the rest, is sprawled belly down over a desk with his blanket already hanging off his foot. The trio group up along the side of the window seat since they can't all fit on it, and, as the minutes go by, the room crests with a wave of sighs and even breaths.

Sleep doesn't come so easy for them so they banter instead. Quietly, so they don't wake the sleeping children around them. All jokes until he tells her that she's his favorite person.

She doubts it, but Favorite Person is a title she'll happily claim for as long as he lets her.

And then he starts up with the praise. Says things that no one has ever said to her and she can't decide if he's being brave or stupid. As someone who's seen her dossier he has to know on some level that kids are a delicate subject. But nothing he says is in any way bad.

And that's the problem.

There's no gap to how the words can be interpreted. Dick describes her like he admires her when she's just doing what every other person he's met today does.

Face hot, ears red as bell peppers, she tries to joke, but he continues.

Dick just won't take the outs she gives him, and she gives him more than one, and then when she actively tries to downplay what she does…

Amazing, he says she's amazing.

Her breathing is a thready, weak thing, pulse racing like a horse around a track.

Naptime is supposed to be the most relaxing part of the day but she can feel his presence like it's hovering overhead. She feels it like the excitement of atoms when magnets come into alignment, the pull leaving her parallel to his body.

“You would have been a good mom”, he says. Not like it's a compliment, but a statement.

It's a simple declaration and that simplicity is what does it for her. He didn't need to reach out with his hands. She'd felt his words like he'd reached somewhere inside her and could've twisted, could've done some damage, but instead tried to set a bone.

And out of all the things he's done today this is the worst (sweetest).

A trace of bitterness, like the fruit she'd bitten into had fallen just short of ripening before being picked, floods her mouth. He can only say this because he doesn't know why she first came to Swithin's.

There's no living up to the hype.

She closes her eyes and lets her face go slack with a peace she doesn't feel.

*

The door of Dick's car makes a tinny metallic sound that has her worrying that she'd shut it too hard. Taking a second, eyes flitting over as she bends down like she has a rock in her shoe, she checks for damage before straightening up.

Property damage in pursuit of a criminal wasn't a great look but collateral damage was something you sort of expected as a hero. Property damage because she can't handle herself in a non combative situation?

Sending his car for repairs would be worse than her first attempt at a kiss with Danny O'Shea in seventh grade when she accidentally headbutted him and nearly broke his nose. The boys at school avoided her until she grew boobs in her freshman year of high school.

“Let me find some parking, I'll be up in a minute”

“Alright”, she nods. “Should I order?”

‘Yeah, it might take me a while. It's a weekend and free parking will be harder to find.”

The statement makes her smile and she's considering wiping a tear from her eye like she's a proud parent when a bright green booklet catches her eye.

‘That's the-’, she thinks with a momentary flash of surprise, ‘That's the Swithin's activity calendar.’

“Steph?”

“Orders received, I'll phone Blue Pagoda”, she stammers as she takes the fact in. She'd been so careful to manage her expectations the entire day, been careful not to ask about the future because there wasn't supposed to be one.

It was a one and done, wasn't it?

“Sounds good.” Dick interrupts her thoughts. “I've been wanting orange chicken the last couple of days.”

She types his order into her phone absentmindedly and turns to walk away, a sudden burst of excess energy filling her body. It's more than she can stand and she wonders if she can get away with walking at a clip. Eating up the gray stone steps two at a time.

She overthinks until the quieter air of her building falls over her, hands a short, jerky, blur as she waves at him through the glass, because of course he's a gentleman and waits till she gets in before prowling for parking.

Riding up the elevator, key slotting into her door, she asks her heart to stop with the high strung, rabbity, beat it adopted in Dick's car.

It's an exercise in futility that lasts a solid ten minutes and stops just before Dick knocks at the door.

Any longer than that and she might've called 911 for cardiac distress. Numbness and tingling typically meant you were either having a stroke, suffered from poor blood circulation, or were hypothermic, and, well, she couldn't be.

Summer in Gotham meant the concrete of the city was so warm that lizards splayed themselves out on an overhang pass like the sea lions on the rocks and docks of Coast City.

It's not long before the delivery man drops by and soon they're in the throes of their usual dinner and movie combo.

They're halfway through the film when she decides that she can't stand the way he's fidgeting anymore. His legs are stretched out on her lap, and she's starting to feel like a boat in choppy water.

“Fess up, what is it?” She points the remote towards the TV to pause their movie. “You've been acting like ants are biting at your ankles and I would love to not have you staring at me like I'm a science experiment. What else did you hear from the others?”

Ugh, she hadn't even left Dick, Tal, and Jamie together alone that long and Dick still got a recap of her greatest hits, Swithin's Edition.

Using the term ‘Special Snowflake’ to describe the new grads would always be dark history for her. And Jamie, because Tal was all about plausible deniability, had already shown him video evidence of her speech, so what else could they have possibly spilled that was more embarrassing than that?

Keeping her eyes on his is all she can do to stop herself from suffocating herself with a throw pillow.

“You’re protective of Joy.”

She'd expected more questions about Swithin's, maybe about another story he'd heard, so she can't stop her face from contorting in confusion.

Why Joy?

Why, only Joy?

Her eyes scan him suspiciously even though she tries to come across more unconcerned.

“Any reason you're asking about her in particular?”

“I just noticed how close you were.”

“I try to watch out for her. She's been adopted twice before.” The juices of a pot sticker burst in her mouth. “Maybe it's because I've taken care of her since she was a baby but when the couples returned her like she was a stray or a shoe that didn't fit, it got to me. Most placements with Swithin's go well, but not hers.”

Dick pauses infinitesimally before setting down his chopsticks.

“She's got hair like yours.”

“Straight?” She tries to make a joke.

Why is he being so-

“Blonde”, his reply cuts her thoughts short.

“Blonde is rare but not that rare, you're acting like we're an endangered species.”

Dick runs a hand through his hair like he'd frustrated with her sidestep.

She hopes she frustrates him right into dropping the subject.

“Her eyes are blue.”

“Are we just listing features? You have blue eyes, how'd you get yours?” She tries hard to not stiffen but she can't help hunching. “You're making this feel like a screwy version of Little Red Riding Hood, like, are you going to ask about my teeth next?”

“I might.”

The joke is one he makes solely to placate her and she finds herself resenting him for it.

Does he think he can get away with it all if he just smiles at her?

“I just noticed a pattern. She skips when she's too excited for words with the same little point of her foot on the down beat, she talks like you, even if what she talks about is princesses and fairy tales-”

He's not saying anything she hasn't already noticed over the years but he wields the words like a weapon he could discharge into the ceiling, careless, when he should've locked them away. Like the chamber is empty and he isn't playing gunslinger.

“What are you trying to ask here, Dick? Because I'm pretty sure that it's none of your business.”

She pushes his legs off her lap, stiff like death is settling in.

“You invited me there and you thought I wouldn't have any questions? You don't even hide it well.”

His voice rises and dips, sticks her with a disbelieving look.

Hide?

“I brought you there as a volunteer, I didn't offer my life up for dissection. And what would I even need to hide?”

“Is Joy your daughter?”

*

She's not sure how it blew up so fast, only that one minute she was asking him why he was being so squirmy, and the next, her ears are roaring like she's standing on the tarmac of an airfield.

“What are you? A debt collector? Do I owe you something? Did I sign away my right to privacy?” She asks, fury kindling in her chest.

“I’m not trying to make you mad, I'm just curious.”

“Curious? So, let me get this straight“, a laugh comes out but she's never been more joyless, “My life is fair game for entertainment?”

“You're putting words in my mouth.”

“No, I’m taking your words at face value. Of all the reasons you could've used”, she almost barks the next words at him, “Curious isn't good enough.”

Dick places his takeout on the ledge but his chopsticks are still in his hand like he thinks this will just blow over but it won't. He takes another step back as if to create some breathing room but she follows, anger burning like he'd lit a match.

Anger burns through her like he'd lit a match in a sawdust factory.

Even though her voice remains relatively even she knows she's shaking. And Dick, he's just shrugging like he's being chastised for something minor, when what he's really doing is digging his fingers into a wound that's never really stopped bleeding.

He's not welcome here and she doesn't even-

She snatches up the carton he put down feeling like a stranger to herself.

She doesn't even want his take out in her apartment and suddenly the carton is crumpling in her hands, sticky orange sauce coating her fingers.

When he's gone the anger flickers out and she's confronted by the worst part of it all.

She's afraid.

She's afraid and she feels sad and she feels seen.

*

'Commitments', she reminds herself in the morning when she layers concealer under her eyes. By the time she's done she looks like she's never had a sleepless night.

*

An escape room.

Kayden chose an escape room for their date.

He'd planned things out, you couldn't get into ‘Capers Incorporated’ without a hefty fee and more than a week's notice because the spots filled up so fast.

If she were more present she would love it all. The colors, the kitschy puns, and stupid names for the characters in the storyline.

Their guide is animated as she goes over the rules, voice clear even though the mic in her hands has seen better days.

There's a sign that says ‘Right or Left to Certain Death’ in letters that drip down into the archway in a fluorescent green that makes her think of what she's heard of the Lazarus Pits.

Kayden is excited, it's not something he's ever mentioned so she knows he picked this with her in mind. The least she can do is smile, so she smiles until muscle memory clocks in.

When they make their way into the first stage she wants to laugh, though it would've been grim if she'd allowed it to leave her lips.

Did the setup really have to be modeled after the Riddler's last rampage? The one where Dick answered everything like he was reading off an answer sheet?

How is it that, in the most chaotic place, filled with shrieking, red light poured over everything like a candy glaze, she can't escape thinking about him?

It's infuriating.

She channels him like a medium.

Kayden promises he'll choose a harder room next time.

*

Nightly routines like showering and scrubbing her makeup off her face so she doesn't look like a raccoon take precedence when she gets back.

Absentminded, she smooths out the body of her tube of toothpaste. Twice even, like it'll fix the crooked bent of her thoughts. Screws the cap on properly instead of forgetting and leaving it free to get knocked off her sink when she's getting ready in the losing game she plays every morning.

She folds her towel and hangs it on the rack.

Her faded, blue striped beach towels, which, for whatever reason cost so much less than a bath sheet, get thrown over the desk chair in her room only to find a home on the floor.

Why does this all feel so… She doesn't know what it is.

She stares at the matched corners of her towel and past the door of the bathroom to the hook in the hall he'd installed to hold her keys, sent off kilter from the order that's infiltrated her life.

She can't even have this?

She wipes angrily at the watery veil over the mirror on the back of the bathroom door with her hand, roughly enough that the frame trembles.

Droplets of water fall in a downpour and pool around her feet.

*

She didn't normally watch the shows her mom did. Her mom's shows were usually a lot darker than her tastes ran, true crime and things like 24 Hours, which were interesting if morbid, but for once, indulging in that feels right.

It's vague but she feels as though indulging in the murkiness of unsolved murders can distract her from thinking that her cup is half empty or about her date with Kayden or the fight with-

She focused back on the screen, the dull voice of the host beginning to disseminate details of the case.

A knock sounds at the door as the screen pans to a murder weapon and at first she thinks it's a mistake, probably a drunk neighbor or a pizza delivery man.

What else could someone order this late? Either why she ignores the sound but the knocks keep coming so she slides off the couch, ready to scold a drunk or point a deliveryman in the right direction. And when she opens the door it's Dick and she's swept up into a hug like she weighs as much as a feather.

His skin is dewy and there's a redness on his eyes that she sometimes sees in her own when she drinks more than she should. His hair is ruffled and a few strands stick to his forehead like he'd been running.

“What are you doing here?” God, why is he here? It would be easier to say goodbye if he didn't do everything she wants when right when she's about to make her peace. “You obviously don't think much of me if you think I could use Joy as a replacement goldfish.”

“I should've called first, Alfred would be disappointed-”

He's babbling anxiously and she can't get a word in.

“but I didn't want to wait for this to blow over. You see, I think too much. Sometimes, when I'm trying to find the right thing to say, I miss the moment and last night, when you told me to leave, I should've stayed. Nothing you could've said would've made me think less of you.”

His arms loosen and her feet touch the ground again, the folds of her shirt smooth out as she gains some space back.

“If the way I look at you has changed, it's because I see you now. I see you and I wish I hadn't wasted so much time getting in my own way.”

Does he even know how that sounds?

A lump grows in her throat.

“It sounds crazy and I'm pretty sure I am massively screwing up because I can be...such an idiot in front of you. Just, you were always worth knowing and I'm sorry that it took this long for me to…to go out and say it.”

“It's about time I got that apology-”, she's trying to emulate a stone but she feels more like ice in the summer sun and melts into his hands. He has to know because he holds her closer and she hides the next words in his shirt, more token resistance than something with teeth. "Even if you're cheating by tacking it onto the other things you did wrong.”

The smell of wine wafts off him and she wonders if she would taste it on his lips.

It's a heavy thought.

A dangerous thought.

Would they slope over hers like-

Nails leave broken crescents on her palms before smoothing over the soft cotton of his shirt. And she feels abruptly that she's failing an open book test.

“You're not driving tonight.”

She doesn't give him, or herself, a choice as she drags him inside. Her mother's eyes aren't much more than a glimmer in the dark but she feels them like they're industrial headlights, like she's under the gaze of a prison warden and they're sneaking across the lawn. They hold questions that she's more than content to leave alone and she knows she'll pay when she shuts the door behind Dick tomorrow but for now they pass unharassed.

She's keenly aware of every breath she takes, every creak in the floorboards because the building hasn't seen a real remodel since the early 1940’s.

The sound of her door closing feels like something final is happening and her push becomes more of a tentative urging of her fingertips. At some point she laps him and her shins bump into the edge of her bed. He must have misjudged the distance in the dark because the heat of him, even if he doesn't quite touch her, can be felt from head to toe. His breath fans over the nape of her neck like his head is angled down.

Heart-rate vacillating between this uncertainty that makes her body feel like jelly and nervousness she manages to ask, “Right or left?”

“Left”, he says with another softness to his voice that's different from how it is when they're sitting on the couch together. Velvet rather than the tenor when he's lighthearted or the near baritone he adopts when he's serious.

It's a sensory experience, and she does a full body shiver before she clambers over her bed to the side closest to the window and burrows into her comforter before lying on her back.

A pause punctuates the moment before she hears the rustle of his clothing, the dull click of his belt and the shuffle of his shoes. She doesn't look, not that she'd see much in the low lighting.

There's something intimate about releasing yourself from the trappings of the day in front of someone else.

Undressing in the cave doesn't feel this way.

A new mattress is a must because she's acutely aware of how unforgiving this one is. It's an old fashioned box spring long past the replacement date with a coil just below the surface of where she lies that's out of formation. It forces her on her side in her quest to give him more space on the full bed.

Her mattress dips under his weight and cloaked in the darkness it feels safe to talk about what made her throw him out of her apartment. She goes back and forth on it like she's walking the plank.

Death by stabbing or potentially shark infested water? Is bringing it up going to keep things from blistering and going gangrenous?

Entering the medical field is obviously giving her a healthy mindset, she thinks to herself.

And it's the wrong time to think this, but her professor really did a top notch job at picking their visual aids for the class.

“What are the consequences of inaction?” Her professor said as they explained the morphology behind necrosis.

Two hours ago she'd been in Kayden's bed, so how is it that it's Dick that she's sleeping with tonight?

Her fingers stroke at her arm as if to self soothe.

“She's not.” The words are quiet because she doesn't know if she has the strength to say them in anything more than a whisper tone.

“What?”

“You know", she tries not to get defensive, “Joy. She's not my daughter.”

“She's not?”

“Joy's birthday doesn't match up and my daughter was adopted, a closed adoption, right after birth. If she's like me, it's because nurture won out over nature.”

She has to know so she asks even if the words feel like thorns in her throat. “Why didn't you look at my file? I know Bruce keeps one. He's too paranoid not to and it would've been easy for you to figure out without ever asking me.”

“I don't know, it felt wrong to open that back up. I only saw it once, back when you were Robin. I skimmed over it and made the mistake of thinking I knew everything about you.”

There's a queer pain at that, confirming that at the beginning he dismissed her like so many other people. Counselors, other kids, even some people who used to pat her head as a child when she roamed the neighborhood.

Fifteen had been a year of feeling attacked from every corner.

She didn't stop going to school when she was pregnant so she walked the halls every day knowing that people were talking about her. People said teenagers were brutal but she actually preferred them to the teachers, the adults who started to look right through her like they knew she wouldn't make it.

Worse were the ones who overcompensated and tried to give her special treatment because they pitied her.

Even kindness left bruises.

“I didn't want to make the same mistake.” Sheets shift as he faces her, the street lamp from outside bringing his face into shadowy relief. The intensity of the blue in his eyes, dormant, dark, like still water.

A seriousness he rarely adopts outside of a mission makes the outer rims of his irises glow like the heart of flame. “You said something about me thinking that you were using Joy as a replacement goldfish, what'd you mean by that?”

Dick is as gentle as he can be but she can feel the weight of his question like he has a foot on her chest and something on her face must stop him from reaching out because he freezes.

“Steph?” He says carefully,

“I was, I don't know, projecting?” She feels weak as she starts speaking again.

This was a part of her she'd never told anyone else, too ashamed of the implications.

“During that last bad encounter with Black Mask, when I was being tortured and waiting for the next step in his plan to crack me open and scoop every secret right out of my head like soft serve, I just kept thinking about my baby. Up till then it was easy to lose myself in the big bad of the week and patrol or school and Tim. I kept thinking of how I didn't know how she was or who she was with, if she was happy, if”, her voice breaks, “she was loved. And it was selfish but I kept thinking of how she didn't know me.”

“Swithin's?”

He doesn't need to say more for her to know that he's asking how the orphanage fits into the story.

Inglorious beginnings for something that feels so vital to her.

“I said it was for school when I volunteered but it wasn't. I was looking for anything to fill the hole inside me and”, she halts, “Tim knew, I never said it, but he knew. He said what I was doing was beyond unhealthy, pot meet fucking kettle. I kind of went off on him for it but-”

“Steph… You don't have to explain to me.” Dick's eyes search out hers and there's this tentativeness there that she doesn't know what to do with but she's halfway down the path and she never turns back.

“I know, I'm just”, she pauses, “sensitive about it. Guys don't really react well when they see the big knotted scar bisecting my stomach.” The next words are halting and shaky, “But it's also the only thing I have of her. I didn't…shop around for baby booties or onesies.” Dick makes a face and in the low light she can't decipher his expression, can only chart the furrow to his brow.

Is this too much for him?

It's almost too much for her.

“Wouldn't have had the money”, she tries to joke to lighten the moment.

“Steph…”

Continuing is a feat of strength she didn't know she had in her. “This-”, her hand smooths over the fabric over her abdomen, “is the only reminder I have that I did have a daughter.” That's not quite right and she shakes her head before correcting herself with a stiff upper lip, “That I do”, she rolls on her back to look at the single glow in the dark star on her ceiling that she kept forgetting to take down before rolling onto her side to meet his eyes again. “You know, I didn't even look at her when she was born, but I still feel like I lost a limb.”

His hand finds hers in the darkness but she doesn't allow herself to take any comfort from it and it slips away when she adjusts her body.

"Maybe at first I did look at Joy like she was a replacement for my daughter, it was the hair, Mom let it slip once that my daughter had my hair", her voice chokes up. "I stopped doing it early on, stopped when Joy was able to call me by name, something about her being able to say my name just, just drove it home that she wasn't mine, but it doesn't change that I used to dream that she was."

A deprecating laugh leaves her and her eyes water.

“Now you really do know me better than anyone else", she says, defeated by it all, like she's lifted the false bottom off a box and instead of treasure she'd pulled out a red ledger.

These are ugly things she doesn't like to revisit and even the closest of her friends have never heard her talk about this period of her life in any detail. She'd convinced them that the book wasn't worth reading.

SparkNotes instead of the full novel.

He's the first to hear it, and she wonders if this will be some kind of reverse alchemy. If she'll survive the shift from gold into lead.

The comforter rustles and she waits for him to say something.

Anything.

Dick reaches back out and weaves his fingers into hers like she never pulled away before. Grooves fitted to hers like they're pieces of a puzzle.

The warmth of his hand starts to burn, but it's the burn of when you've been outside too long and you've just come in from the cold.

Something about her reaction makes her feel curiously naked, like she could take off every piece of clothing and she'd never be as exposed as she is in this moment.

*

Daylight spills through the window, fractured sunlight casting itself over her face. She can feel the unevenness in the cool shadows cast by the Bosnian flag flapping in the wind that Mr. Savić from next door flew every morning on his half of the fire escape. Hear the city wake up and trickle onto the streets, smell coffee percolating in the kitchen.

Sometimes when she wakes up in the morning she stares at the ceiling. Stares until that dreamy state fades and her legs grow restless. Today she stares at Dick's face, the way his lashes fan over the tops of his cheeks. So close his cologne has crossed over onto her pillow.

His arms aren't around her but she feels the ghost of him on her skin, has the phantom sensation of a hand braided into hers. An afterimage of the night before.

Her fingers buzz with the desire to reach out and resurrect the moment.

She wills herself back to sleep but doesn't move any further away.

*

Dick, first thing in the morning, seems to share her lack of a filter. She isn't entirely awake when he says it but he says something about Forget-me-nots and her eyes and she blushes reflexively.

If she were less rooted in reality she would say he looks dazed by what he sees but that can't possibly be what it is.

‘He's probably still sleepy. It was an observation’, she tells herself the moment before her phone alarm goes off and they're both launched out of that fugue state.

“I should, uh, go. I'm still on shift today, gotta beat the morning traffic.”

There's a blush high on his cheekbones that she likes entirely too much so she takes the easy way out.

“Rush hour should be starting soon.”

She's not chasing him off.

She's not.

Her fingers toy with a loose string coming off her comforter.

“I could make you some coffee before you go?”

‘What am I trying to prove to myself?’ She mouths to herself as her sheets rustle and he moves to throw his legs over the edge of her bed.

His white shirt is impossibly wrinkled and he tries valiantly to straighten it out but without a steam iron he's not going to get anywhere.

The traditional iron they have might actually leave scorch marks so she dismisses the idea of offering to help.

“It's fine”, he seems to realize the futility of it all, “I'll just go through a drive through. I'm pretty sure I have a spare shirt in the trunk of my car.” Dark hair falls over his face as he lowers his eyes, fumbling with the fabric of his jeans before he gives a not so quiet “Aha!”

There's a tentative smile on his face but it's strong enough that his dimple makes an appearance. The one that always makes her feel like the victim of guerrilla warfare.

That dimple only makes its way out when he's incandescently happy. When she's made an idiot of herself, or he has, he never seems to care which. It finds a home on his face when they're parked on his couch and they can't stop laughing because their movie is taking a sharp turn into painfully stupid.

Sneaks into moments where she's unguarded enough to-

“Almost forgot,” his fist slides out of his pocket and unfurls, “I, uh, didn't throw it away. Another one for the jar.”

Her eyes widen.

Dick kept it.

He didn't believe in fortunes, but he kept it.

Her face doesn't know what to do with itself and the microexpressions blow by like leaves in the wind. Like she's a tree and it's fall and it's natural to lose herself. The scrap of paper sits so innocently in the center of his hand and he offers it like it's a white flag.

She reels from the recoil when he places it in her palm and sees smoke.

*

Getting back to business as usual is difficult, even if the drift was all of a day, all of twenty-four hours.

It’s strange, like there are more moves in the dance even though the things they do are the same.

They do lunch, they do late night movies, they keep their cooking lessons.

Their fingers touch and her breath hushes.

She parries with the two syllables of a name she used to avoid using in front of him. Misses his legs in her lap like it's not a choice she made when she bought a new sofa. Shoots for the sky; a work-life balance, and spends more time with the man who doesn't keep her up at night.

Shuffles thoughts of tattoos, and belt loops, and a calloused hand to the back of her mind.

Shuffles plans and feels closer to Dick than anyone else in spite of it all.

*

She really should have seen it coming.

And it shouldn't feel like a consequence but it does.

Dick is gorgeous.

Her name is Bridget.