Chapter Text
You find that out of all the people to work out with in the Wayne Manor gymnasium, the one you actually feel most at ease with is Dick. Perhaps it’s his easygoing demeanor, or the fact that he doesn’t hover, holding you to a rigorous regimen the way others might.
Instead, he chooses to gravitate near, a celestial body that rotates in similar orbit but never in a claustrophobic manner, intersecting only at opportune moments to check in before retreating away to other matters at hand. You enjoy it because he’s a presence, but not overly present.
And sometimes, it can be a marvel to watch him, especially when he takes to the mats, demonstrating the hard-earned work of years worth of training. While you huff out jagged breath as you slam your barbells to the ground, sweat streaming down your temples, breath is stolen yet again as you watch him take flight. You watch as he tumbles, flips, seems to defy gravity in a manner almost superhuman, muscles pushed to the physical limit with each twist and curl.
When he lands on the ground, it defies the barbarity that seems to stymie your feet to the floor with each plodding step. There’s something beyond him as his feet touch the ground, arms spanned out to grant him bearings as he returns from the air.
And then he turns his head to you as your shoulders catch up, fighting for oxygen with your past exertion. When he smiles, he’s not some daredevil —just Dick again.
“You know,” he states, not even breathing hard, “It’s not so hard to do a double backflip.”
His hands splay out to frame his midriff. “It’s all in the flex of the hips.”
You shake your head dubiously, swiping your palm against the wet span of your forehead. “You say that, but I also didn’t have ‘the flying’ tacked in front of my name for the first decade of my life.”
Said Flying Grayson appears unabashed at your jape. “Don’t need a moniker to be an acrobat.”
“Yeah, but it does give you some street cred.” You argue his point, the syllables catching up to verbal legibility. “If anything gets tacked on in front of my last name, it’ll be something less graceful.”
“Like what?” He asks, putting a hand to his hip. This displays the curl of a bicep that enabled him to stand vertically upon it for a protracted, impressive minute.
You think, searching for the ceiling for a proper response as you search for breath. “Like ‘the adequate fighter’ or ‘the defense-heavy.’ You know, something that really describes my attributes.”
Dick smiles. “Why not just go for the obvious one?”
You tuck a damp lock of hair behind your ear. “Like what?”
He pretends to be lost in thought. “Like ‘the beautiful.’”
You summon enough energy to relegate him with a disbelieving smirk. “Might believe you if I wasn't dripping sweat, Grayson.”
He’s undeterred by this, adjusting the collar to his compression shirt, which illustrates an impressive set of framed muscles. “I’ll make sure to bring it up later, then—just to really get the point across.”
“Ha ha.” You dryly reply without any real heft to it. “I’ll make sure to remind you.”
“Please do.” Is his glib response. “ And you know, acrobatics aren’t that hard. I could teach you.”
You’re not immediately wary, but you certainly pause, palming the back of your neck to send a cautious rub up and down the column of it. He patiently waits for you to organize your thoughts.
“I don’t know—”—you begin, keeping your eyes askance from him—“—It’s one thing to know how to fight. But—being agile and graceful and…flexible are two different things.”
“Please.” He rolls his eyes as though you’ve said something ridiculous. “You speak to the master of all three.”
As if to demonstrate, he makes a sweeping gesture to a figure that you spend a tad too long lingering on the, uh, formidability of.
You recover with humbling alacrity. “Getting kind of big for your britches, aren’t you?”
“Well, if anyone’s going to teach you, then it’d be me, wouldn’t it?” He challenges you, because it’s clear that if any will have that honor afforded them, it will only be him.
“I guess so.” You reply haltingly, because it never hurts to have more skills in your arsenal—but intimidating doesn’t even begin to encapsulate your feelings regarding this offer.
“So what do you think?” He asks, because if there’s one thing that encapsulates Dick Grayson, it’s consistency. “I could teach you tomorrow, if you wanted—I’m free then.”
“I mean, if you wouldn’t mind—”—you watch as Dick’s face considerably brightens before the wall of impending responsibilities crashes down—“—Wait. I can’t.”
His face drops, so you wheel your follow-up statement as quick as you can. “I have a…prior commitment. Could you do the day after?”
It’s clear that this is an alternative that works with him, from the way the smile is quick to return to his face—but far be it from him to not twist the knife.
“I mean, I guess I could.” He cocks up an eyebrow at your inconsistent schedule, prompting you to roll your eyes to the ceiling. “But you’d really have to find a way to make it up to me.”
“I promise I’ll come up with something good.” You reply, clasping your hands together as if in prayer. His eyes dare a little too long at the way your fingers interlace with each other, finally taking a slow, deep breath—effort delayed finally catching up with him, it seems.
He maintains level with your eyes as he says, “I’ll hold you to that.”
Gotham from the skyscrapers is a different view altogether. It’s one thing to walk on the bottom floor with the rabble, part of the rat race that expects you to be a willing cog in the machine. But up here, elevated above all else, it’s calming, freeing—an equanimity that separation from the masses grants you.
You look down to the minute people with their all-encompassing problems and feel like you can finally get a hold on it—if but for a moment. Even if it’s fleeting, it’s a feeling you happily chase, until you descend back to the depths with present company.
Present company feels like now is a good time to interrupt the carefully crafted ennui.
“Is there anything better than patrol on a Friday night?” Jason asks dryly, crossing his arms over his chest, that helmet implacable to any real inclination you might discern from him.
Body language offers little in the way of translating whatever he might actually mean. But in your endured times together on the rooftops, you’ve become something of a skilled linguist.
“It’s not so bad when it’s in good company.” You reply, because it’s true. You watch as a car casts its thin beams of light through the darkness and descends down a shadowy street.
“Am I good company, sweetheart?” He asks. You lean down the great height of the building to the mobile specks you protect below.
“You’re certainly not bad company, that’s for sure.” You smile, granting him only the most momentary of upwards glances. He makes a noise that means little without verbal follow-up.
“What makes me good, though?” He asks, and it’s clear he’s taking the piss because there’s little else to do while you survey for trouble. But you don’t mind; you already have a prepared response.
“Your stellar sense of humor.” You let your teeth show with this smile you proffer his way.
“Here I thought it was my stunning good looks.” He returns in a monotone; you hear the shift of movement besides you and finally turn away from the distant world, back to him.
“Hey—I thought I was the eye candy in this duo.” You crack back at him.
He’s quite candid in his reply. “Eye candy means you don’t have anything else going for you.”
“Oh, what else do I have going for me?” You ask, because part of you is amused, and part of you is preparing for the inevitable insult to be levied your way.
“I’d tell you but then we might be here all night.” He provides to you, rather helpfully. You don’t need the mask to see the shit-eating grin on his face.
“Right, Jason.” You nod knowingly, obsequiously. “Right.”
“You wanna do some sparring after patrol tomorrow?” He asks abruptly, changing tacks—much like the tidal wave he moves as during combat, so he is during conversation. You’ve learned to keep up with the figurative punches.
“Is sparring a code word for breaking skulls open on the pavement violently and with great prejudice?” You ask hopefully, resting a casual hand on your hip.
“Depends.” He retorts simply. “How much prejudice you planning on rolling up with tomorrow?”
“Depends.” You echo him because you can. “How bad do they deserve it?”
“Whatever they’ve got coming,” he says, tone brooking no room for disagreement, “They’ve earned it judiciously.”
You start your assertion rather confidently. “You know, I think I could get behind that—wait.”
He cocks his head at you as the proverbial train grinds to a halt.
“I can’t.” You admit sheepishly, avoiding the broiling gaze you know he’s subjecting you to.
“Something come up?” Jason is not one for subtlety—his casual is someone else’s commanding. Commanding, specifically, an answer from you.
“Oh—”—he’s your friend, but you still can’t help but flounder a little under the intensity—“—I just already made plans for tomorrow—after patrol.”
“After I just made you the skull-crushing offer of a lifetime?” You think if he’s making jokes, you might just get away with it, so you venture forward.
“Maybe.” You grimace good-naturedly at him. “Does that mean my skull is up on the chopping block?”
He’s statuesque in posture as he replies, “I like it more intact than chopped.”
You frown bemusedly. “Should I take that as a compliment?”
“You can take it however you want—as long as you make it up to me two days from now.” He returns, and as he turns to regard you with those whited-out lenses, you know he’ll be charging you with interest.
“I think I can make that happen.” You smile back.
“You’re doing great.” Dick says from above you, holding your ankles against his calloused palms, “Just breathe.”
“Easy—for you to say,” you strain with labored breath, tilting your head to reckon your eyes with the upside-down view. Your fingers clench against the ground, the only thing keeping you suspended in the air—other than he. “You’re not the one—upside-down.”
“You can keep your legs pointed, but I’m holding you.” He reassures you calmly, squeezing his fingers a tick to let you know that he’s your anchor in these troubled waters. “Keep the air flowing.”
“You’re making it harder.” You enunciate through your teeth, affixing your gaze through the gap of his legs, legs which are so close to your face, connected to a body that is so intimately close to you, connected to hands that are holding you so vulnerably—
“Harder how?” He asks, and you know he must be teasing now, but you can’t summon the strength in your suspended state to look and confirm this. His hands seem to grow hotter on your bare skin.
“Your hands—”—you grit out, and at this those fingers seem to curl even further around your ankles, the rough pads of his fingers scraping along, torturous in their purchase.
“My hands?” He repeats you, and you know he’s definitely mocking you now, from the way he chuffs a laugh and the air ghosts over your legs and—
“Help—”—You screw your eyes shut, a great warmth slinking under your skin that isn’t from overextension—“—Help me down.”
For all his vaunted teasing, he’s quick to obey, and guides you through a slow descent to the ground that ensures his hands search up the length of your body. Never inappropriately, but enough that the touch of his palms brand you even after their release—you are laid parallel to him on the mats. He grins down at you as you heave for air.
“You did great.” He promises you, even though you feel like ‘passable’ is a compliment you would accept with glowing pride.
“Does being an acrobat mean you’re also a terrible liar?” You ask wearily from where you lie, feeling your skin already tacking to the vinyl underneath you.
“No, but it does mean I’m a great cheerleader.” He offers you a beaming grin to emphasize his assertion.
“And it makes your hands heat seeking missiles for my pressure points?” You shoot back, noting the way his smile grows sly.
“Didn’t know all it took was some hands on your thighs to make you go to pieces.” He’s coy in his delivery, but you know bait when you see it.
“It is when they’re holding me upside-down.” You defend yourself, trying not to think of how his hands did feel on your thighs. Trying not to think of how confusingly funny you felt as they held you safe, secure.
“Careful—don’t let Joker find out.” Dick chuckles at the newfound chink in your armor. You have the wherewithal to laugh, waving a dismissive hand in his direction.
“Please—if it was Bruce, then it might make a difference.” You brush this away.
“Maybe so. But I’m going to hold onto that information for later.” He wiggles his eyebrows with enduring menace.
“Yeah, yeah.” You turn your head to the side, working out a crick.
“So—you wanna try again tomorrow?” He asks, and there’s no mistaking the eagerness in his voice. No mistaking, as you turn to him, the delight in his eyes at the prospect of reuniting with you here again.
No mistaking, you think, the guilt tremoring through you, as you open your mouth to agree, and then stop.
“Let me guess,” he asks gently, “Prior commitment?”
“I can’t help it if I’m popular.” You say, trying to sort out the bewilderment you feel at letting him down. To your lasting relief, he puts a hand over yours that leaves a ghost of sensation on you, long after he pulls it away.
“Sure, sure—we’ll figure something out.” He says, and it sounds like he means it.
“Nothing like a hearty burger breakfast after some major head trauma.” Jason announces as you enjoy your reward for a raucous night on the town.
You chew musingly, mulling over the flavor, as you admire the murky night sky. You’ve both found perch made amongst the gargoyles for this grand day out. Something about this almost feels like more than two friends eating breakfast together on a rooftop—but you can’t summon the word to describe what that would be.
“Does it count as breakfast if it’s still dark out?” You ask, thinking back to the early night, er, morning hour.
“You’ve been on this team this long and you don’t know that breakfast is a state of being instead of a time constraint?” He asks around a mouthful of ground beef. He still manages to make it sound menacing, somehow.
You hold up a hand beseeching forgiveness. “Sorry—I forgot I was dining with the resident philosopher of the team.”
“That’s why you keep asking to go on patrol with me, right? My cutting intellect?” He asks, dipping a fry from his takeout box in a pool of ketchup. You wonder if the splotch on his sleeve is from a rather exuberant dip, or if it’s blood from earlier.
“Among other things.” You say, feeling like it’s finally your turn to offer someone an ambiguous response. Especially as he returns to this topic of conversation he is so insistent on having out with you. For emphasis, you take a great bite of your food to allot you more time to muster defenses.
“What other things?” Jason presses, because it might work with someone else—but not him, who, with no protection of the mask to guise his face, bores his eyes into you.
“Like the fact that you paid for the food.” You offer gleefully, both of you knowing this is unsatisfactory.
“Can’t be the only thing.” He says, his tone surprisingly level. Why on earth is your heart beating so fast? “What else?”
“And that mean right hook you gave that guy in the stripes.” You supply, pointing at his arm for emphasis. It rests impressively even when not slamming hapless interlopers against brick walls.
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” There’s nothing but a glint in his eye to let you know he’s pleased at this. “Anything else I should know about?”
“Not unless you want to find out how strong my sense of humor is.” You return in a deadpan.
“Sarcasm makes the world go round, sweetheart.” He says, leaning back against the concrete alcove, looking rather fitting next to winged, garish gargoyle. “I can’t help it if you’re lucky enough to patrol with a man of culture.”
“Yeah—funny how that works out for me.” You grin as you look back to the city below. This is tolerable to holding gazes with those green eyes that seem to know you, know everything about you, know your very complicated thoughts pinballing around your head—
“So you want to do it again tomorrow?” He asks lowly, and it would be casual were it anyone other than he who asks it, trying to pinpoint you to commitment right now.
“I would—”—you hope being apologetic grants you his good graces. His eyes are constant upon you.
“But?” And the way he asks spurs your heart again. You feel now is as good a time to return your burger back to the takeout box, which creaks under the assumption of its weight.
“But I’m busy tomorrow after work.” You finish your statement.
“What’s more important than time with me?” He asks, and his gaze is reproachful but his voice is sarcastic again, which lets you know you tread safe waters. You lean back against the curb of the rooftop, the breeze ghosting through your hair.
“The fact I have other people I don’t want to disappoint.” You reply back blithely.
“And if you disappoint me?” Finally, a crack of a smile dawns on his face. “How’re you going to make it up to me?”
“Guess I’ll pay next time.” You smile.
“Yeah, guess you will, sweetheart.” You don’t notice how he doesn’t specify what exactly you’ll pay for. But you’re too busy looking back down at the city to know how his eyes roam over you.
You’re making breakfast with Tim about a week later, at a reasonable time, in the kitchen, with an audience that bears witness to your struggles. Tim’s taken point on the pancakes, which are looking more like charcoal effigies. You’ve settled upon making that protein-hearty breakfast of incompetent champions, scrambled eggs.
Dick has turned his chair sideways, juggling the fruit Alfred’s taken care to place in a crystalline bowl in the centre of the grand table. Jason leans back in his own chair, staring off into the horizon that is far more interesting than being present in the moment.
Either way, the two of them are far less interesting to either of you, who are more focused on making nutrition fit for human consumption.
Tim passes you the stainless steel whisk, which you accept as you grip the bowl of yolks ready for demolition. As you begin your stirring, you can’t stop the wince—and you can’t contain the gasp of pain making clear visual across your face.
“You okay?” Tim asks, both of you unaware that there are two sets of eyes drawn like homing signals to the noise, ready to go and on full alert.
“Yeah—”—You glare into the half-whisked bowl, frustrated at your body’s inability to cooperate—“—Just been doing a lot of extra work lately.”
“Oh, the acrobatic practice?” Tim asks knowingly, to which you nod in affirmation. Behind you, Jason stiffens ever-so-slightly, his shoulders broadening out as something suddenly clicks into place.
“And the extra patrol shifts too.” You add on. Dick pauses, palming an orange and apple mid-air, hand suspended as he pauses for a long instant.
“I can whisk the eggs if you want.” Tim offers out his own limbs as sacrifice. “Give your arms a rest.”
“If I can’t whisk eggs, what am I, really?” You chuckle at his proposal.
“Maybe you’re just putting energy on the wrong muscle sets.” Jason says casually from the table as you return back to your task. You don’t see the way his eyes sweep across the table to his brother that sits before him.
“Or maybe they’re just investing time into the wrong activities.” Dick serenely replies, locking his stare to the opponent within his midsts, in the comfort of his home.
“It’s just eggs,” you laugh, finishing up your work to a tolerable, acceptable mix. “I think I’ll survive.”
Tim spends a great while staring over his shoulder, before glancing back to you, oblivious to all as you pour your work into the pan. The noise is a great, crackling sizzle as things reach a nascent white-hot heat.
All Tim can do is watch as you hum a little tuneless song under your breath, unaware of the two that seem to be making silent, marked claims of territory upon you.
“Maybe it’s more than just the eggs,” Tim shrugs as he feels a headache wreathing around his temples. “But who knows—I could be wrong.”
Chapter Text
You and Dick have reunited in the gymnasium, but not for the purpose of acrobatics. Instead, the two of you have opted for that tried and true activity of beating each others’ brains out in the grand pursuit of ‘practice.’
“You seem distracted.” Dick advises as he lopes his arm down, the rod of the baton he’s chosen for combat today giving him an extra foot of implacable distance. You dodge, wheeling away from the brunt of the blow as it whips through the air, menacingly audible as it slices down.
“Could it be the two batons swinging for my face?” You shoot back—you haven’t quite mastered the art of banter-to-banter combat the way that he has, so your voice stutters occasionally, catches. He wants you to respond though, to rise to the provocation. So you do, sending your own staff swiping upwards at him—he evades, you pursue.
“Not that—something else.” He returns causally, as though he’s not crouching in the span of an instant, avoiding your horizontal blow that would certainly decimate—if it made purchase. You chuff through your teeth at the lack of contact your weapon makes, and advance forwards.
“Is this a diversionary—tactic?” You ask, rocking back on your heels as he alternates a blow with each of his hands that hurtle through the open air. You shift your weight, remembering the importance of flexibility as you avoid each would-be hit. Maddeningly, there’s a smile on his face, even though he’s failed to injure.
“Only diversionary if you let it distract you.” He counters, and presses into your cramped space, barring you from the use of the staff—you have to rely on the full flesh of your forearm to accept the brunt of the baton as it smacks into you.
Your arm is staticky with pain, the nerves haywire, but you have enough presence of mind to push into him, making him go on the momentary retreat. The scowl on your face deepens as he seems to only appear more pleased with his handiwork.
“I’ll make sure to tune you out then.” You huff, and push one of the blunt ends of the staff towards him, encouraging him to withdraw even further. You push and he obliges, for the time, your entry into his territory.
“And miss out on the privilege of my voice?” He sleekly inquires—he makes a fluid roll of the neck that prevents the jabs of the staff from connecting with his face. You have to bite back the hiss of frustration as you miss him.
“Is it a privilege if it’s taunting me?” You manage to use words that aren’t of the one-syllable type, avoiding the follow-up strike that’s meant to make you stumble to the mats. But you’re a glutton for punishment, so you stand your ground.
“It’s always a privilege—”—His smile is ambiguous, handsome and infuriating at once—“—Whether you like it or not.”
You don’t realize until he’s drawn forward, his leg snaking in between your wide stance, that this was a distraction. It’s too quick, the way that your center of gravity is upended, the canting tilt of the room lurching sideways. You fall forward, temporarily losing your grip on the staff, barely cognizant of how it clatters woodenly to the floor.
But your own journey to the ground is interrupted by a pair of strong, firm hands that grab either side of you. You turn up to see Dick’s blue eyes beaming down at you, and you think your breath might be catching in your ribs for reasons other than exhaustion.
But something’s wrong—or at least, you don’t have enough time to think that this was deliberate—and Dick topples backwards, taking you with him. You barely have any time to react, save a winded oof that echoes the one he makes as he accepts the greater heft of the impact.
“God—sorry—are you okay?” You splutter, feeling a great heat consume you that is certainly not inspired by the stress of sparring. To your greater surprise, he chuckles, the noise trembling through you, his eyes sly and bright.
“Well, I’ve had worse endings to fights, I’ll tell you that,” He returns cheekily, and squeezes your arms encouragingly—it appears that he did not relinquish his hold on you this entire time. This is where it begins to sink in for you that you’re still on top of him, your body molded against the shape of his.
“God—”—you repeat, feeling as though he must be able to feel the heat that is practically radiating off of you. But this only makes him laugh again, entertained by your suffering. You palm the firm muscle of his chest as you try to resurface back to a standing position, unable to look him in the eye.
“I didn’t mean to make us both fall—”—you apologize, but he props himself up on an elbow as he helps you up to a sitting position, flush on his lap. You won’t ogle the flex of his bicep, nor the way his tank top collar slings low over his chest, nor acknowledge the way it feels so good to sit on his lap, you won’t, you won’t, you won’t—
“‘S okay,” He grins as he levels a gaze over your shoulder, “I’m not complaining. Need something, Jason?”
You don’t know why you feel guilty, why you feel caught—after all, this isn’t the first time that you’ve sparred with Dick. Hell, you’ve probably exchanged the same amount of bruises and blows with Jason, if not more. But there’s an odd, special brand of shame that awashes you as you turn, still seated upon Dick, to see the lone figure standing in the doorway. His eyes seem almost glacial as he appraises the scene displayed before him, as neither you or Dick makes inclination to move.
“No—I think I got what I needed.” Jason asserts, and with an imperious sense of gravity—and more questions inspired than answered within you—he leaves the two of you alone.
You run into Jason a few days later in the living room, as Dick and Tim and Damian crowd around the TV to kill a few more brain cells. It’s only sheer coincidence that you run into Jason on the way in, as it seems that he’s on the way out—but from the way that he moves to intercept your trek into the belly of the beast, it seems oddly perfect timing. When he says your name, you brighten at his approach, unaware of the sharp pairs of eyes that become invested audience to your conversation.
“Hi, stranger,” You smile up at Jason, pausing in your journey, “Good seeing you again.”
“You left something in my room last night,” Jason says, which is a perfectly normal statement to say between friends. You were in his room for a few minutes as you stopped by to talk about patrol and have passing conversation. So why does it make something clench hot and sticky around your ribs, send a shock of adrenaline through your temples, make your breath hitch tight in your throat?
Why does it make you hyper-sensitive to the way that one, who seems to broaden his shoulders and grow perfectly still as he sits on the couch, might react?
It’s a wonder you can speak, though your voice might be a tad more pitched than usual. “Oh, I did? What is it?”
He produces a book that you realize was tucked under the muscle of his arm, almost as if he was certain that he’d cross paths with you today. You admire the familiar cover of the book as he informs you, “Your copy of Deathbird Stories.”
You run your eyes over Ellison’s name blockily emblazoned at the bottom of the page, before casting bemused glance up to him. “Isn’t this technically your copy though?”
“It’s not my copy again until you finish it.” He replies gruffly, waiting for you to take it, which you do. It didn’t seem to feel quite this heavy last night as you settle it into your hands.
“I think you have a funny idea on how property works.” You joke, feeling comfortable enough to rely on humor, at ease enough to let a corner of your mouth turn up. Almost as if you can ignore the way that your audience seems to be turning more marked attention to you both rather than the TV.
“That’s because I can appreciate the idea of seeing something through.” Jason is stolid in his response, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Isn’t a book meant to be enjoyed, though?” You tease. “Not just to be eaten through as quickly as possible?”
If your choice of wording seems to make two different people in the room catch a rather hungry gleam in their eyes, you’re not aware of it at all. Especially not as Jason lets out a low scoff at your criticism.
“Sure—but you can’t really savor something until you see how it ends, can you?” He asks, and his voice reaches a gravelly nadir. Perhaps it's the rough note couched within it, the implications that you can’t seem to reckon with right now, that leave you at a loss for words.
Dick’s voice is a merciful yet unwanted intrusion that sails easily through the taut conversation. “You just talking about books there, Jason?”
If Jason is angry at the interruption, his shoulders squaring as he turns to regard his older brother, he’s a master at concealing it. “You heard about life imitating art, Grayson?”
It appears that the comparison, for the moment, is lost on the both of you.
The concrete grates under your palms, under the pads of your fingers, your knuckles seizing and trembling against the unyielding ground, but you stay afloat. Your eyes are focusing upon the minute fractures that snake through the rooftop, as though this will better allow you to pretend like another set of eyes is not carefully assessing your form, your legs suspended en pointe in the air.
“Your form looks good.” Dick’s voice is rallying, for once devoid of the glib sarcasm so often present. “You’re standing on your hands with the best of them.”
You don’t dare move your eyes from the way that your forefinger twitches over a mote of rubble, even though you can feel the weight of Dick’s eyes bearing down upon you. Even though knowing he watches you in this manner summons feelings you can’t parse through.
“Just—breathe, right?” You strain out the question.
“Something like that.” There’s that touch of good-natured humor again. “Let me see you do it a little more and I’ll give you tips.”
Rolling your eyes feels like something that’ll ruin the careful equanimity you’ve built up, so you resist it. “You mean, you’ll stare and make fun of how goofy I look upside-down?”
The scrape of feet on concrete signal that he’s nearing close to you, his voice flippant once more. “Yeah, something like that. How’d you guess?”
“Intuition—”—You grunt, feeling your back teeth grind against each other. Now seems like as good a time as any to levy your next statement into the court—if you can talk about this with him upside-down, then anything’s possible.
“Just like how I know,” You dare out into the comfortable silence, “Something’s up between you and Jason.”
“Oh, you noticed?” His voice is distinctly casual—you know that he’s putting up an act for your benefit.
“Can’t work with a family of detectives and not be able to tell.” You clench your hand, eyeing the next few feet of concrete ahead of you. Maybe you can venture to take a walk on the handsy side tonight.
When Dick doesn’t respond, you make the wise decision to continue. “So what’s up?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” Dick returns back. You wish that you could see his face, make distinction of what nuance he’s hiding from you; his voice is too layered with ambiguity now. “Has he said anything to you?”
“No, and neither have you.” Your hand inches across the cement, and you ignore the wincing pain as you force yourself across the surface. “So are you going to tell me?”
Dick takes a long while as you make your first successful hand-step into the unknown, leaving you taking deep, focused breaths through your nose as you prepare yourself for the next one. When he finally speaks, his voice is light, but sincere.
”Jason and I have a…common goal in mind.” You wait, but there’s nothing more elaborated with his follow-up, “But I don’t know who’s going to get there first.”
You tsk in amusement. “Don’t eldest brothers get first dibs on that kind of thing?”
He makes a humming laugh under his breath, as though there’s something that you don’t quite understand—not that he’ll do you the courtesy of explaining, though. “You’d think that’s how it’d work in an ideal world. But Jason’s a fighter.”
“Yeah, so I noticed.” You gripe back good-naturedly, inching your hand across the pavement. Almost there—you’re so close.
“Yeah—”—Dick agrees, and you feel, even though you can’t see it, that he’s settling a long, incendiary gaze upon you. “But good thing so am I.”
“Means more headaches for me, right?” you ask in a monotone, and at least he’s in good enough spirits to finally laugh. But you still can’t help but feel like you’re not quite in on the joke yet.
“You have no idea.” He says, the grin laden heavily in his voice.
“How’d you get these cuts?” Jason asks you that night, as he finds you in the kitchen with a small nurse’s office worth of medical supplies. You and Dick have parted ways for the night, he to his room, and you in search of some first aid—you didn’t even know that Jason was in the house tonight.
“Patrol tonight—”—You purse your lips as you dry your disinfected, sterilized hands—“—With Dick.”
There’s an insinuation, of course, that part of the reason why your arms are scratched and bruised, is because of Dick. And it makes you feel traitorous to rope him into that implication, especially to Jason of all people. And you can’t understand why.
Jason rounds the corner of the kitchen’s island, towards you. “He partners up with you and lets you get all scuffed up like that?”
He palms one of the boxes, thumb working open the lid, eyes slow as they linger on your arms. When they finally drape up to meet yours, you feel like you can hear the great thrum of your heart in your ears.
“Don’t we all get some in the thrill of battle?” You shrug, trying to downplay the remorse you feel in even mentioning Dick at all. Knowing his intention, you hold out your right arm to him as his fingers curl around your forearm. His hand is practically burning.
“Not with me.” He says, fishing out a bandage. “Aren’t I good to you?”
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to ignore the way your throat seems clotted when he rubs a thumb down the soft underside of your arm. “Making yourself my meat shield isn’t necessarily a good thing.”
“Maybe you should consider that it’s my choice to be your meat shield.” His voice is quiet but the delivery is blunt. He rips open the bandage one-handed, angling it over a deep cut on your wrist. “Because I want to do it.”
“Sounds like you might just be a glutton for punishment.” You return, setting your teeth as he presses his fingers firmly over the bandage, the pain staunched for the time being.
“Yeah—”—Jason says, tossing the crumpled covering of the bandage to the island, where it slowly resists gravity and begins to unfold—“—Especially when it comes to getting your attention.”
You pause, motionless, though he remains mobile, searching for another bandage to tear through. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means one thing, sweetheart—my brother’s a good man.” Jason says, and he doesn’t even look when he precisely applies this covering down on another cut. His eyes seem insistent to remain trained upon you, where he roots you to the spot.
“But he’s a flighty man, with his head in the clouds.” Jason continues as you remain speechless. “He doesn’t look out for what he should be keeping an eye—or hands—on.”
The hand that holds you contracts fractionally, reminding you of his presence. Reminding you of something that it seems you’ve been stolidly ignoring when it was right in front of you.
“And you are?” You state when you find words. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“You need someone who has your back.” He contends smoothly, all-too-clear who he’s nominating for the job. “Someone who’s a dog that doesn’t know when to quit.”
“Yeah, a real shark.” You say, squinting at him, thinking of the one before you who has eagerly smelled blood in the water.
“You get the idea.” Finally, he smiles, though it doesn’t seem quite friendly. He slides his hand down your forearm, releasing you, though the brand of his touch seems imprinted on your skin.
“Let me know if you need a follow-up.” He informs you as he turns to leave through the direction he came. You can’t tell if he’s referring to your injury, or the shot he’s fired into the air without any indication where it’s going to land.
“So what do I do?” You ask, sitting across from Barbara. The atmosphere of the coffee shop that surrounds you seemed a welcome distraction to your troubles at first. But the cloying smells, the friendly, inane chatter, the bright fluorescent lights are headily overwhelming to your senses, exacerbating the turmoil roiling within you.
Barbara takes a long sip, holding you in suspense as her eyes search the ceiling for counsel beyond you. She sets her cup on the table and sighs.
“Well, sounds like you need to make a choice.” She informs you simply, impartiality reigning supreme on her face as she carefully studies yours. You’re certain nothing but worried panic can be gleaned from you, as the weight of her advice sinks in.
“You think so?” You ask, your voice no more than a mumbled whisper as something within you plummets.
“I didn’t say you needed to choose one of them.” Barbara holds up a cautionary hand. “But do you really think they’re going to share?”
You take a long while to admit out loud. “No.”
Barbara nods at the conclusion you’ve both reached. “So take your time thinking about it. But you’re going to have to make a choice, sooner or later.”
“Easier said than done.” You slump back into your seat, and she reaches across the length of the table to offer a rallying squeeze over your hand. You have enough wherewithal to smile weakly back at her.
“Besides,” Barbara smirks over the rim of her mug, “I get the feeling no matter what, you’ll be happy with your decision.”
Even with the impending sense of doom encroaching over you, something in you feels like you’ll eventually be able to agree with the sentiment.
Notes:
Hope you enjoy! There will be two separate endings that I’ll upload eventually, but for now—if you enjoyed, feel free to leave a kudos or comment. :)
I’ll catch you in the next one!