Dick Grayson and Dan Fenton are two sides of the same coin

drawn together by the overwhelming force of their shared anger, yet tempered by their differing ways of dealing with it.

Their personalities mirror each other, with subtle but significant differences in how they react to their emotions and the world around them.

Dick Grayson is a person who, despite carrying an intense inner rage, has spent years learning how to mask it, constantly suppressing his feelings because of the responsibility he feels toward those who rely on him.

His anger is like a volatile storm beneath the surface, always simmering, always ready to boil over.

But Dick keeps that storm contained, partly out of a sense of duty and partly because he cannot afford to lose control—not when there are people depending on him, especially after everything he’s experienced.

When Dick does snap, it’s explosive, a red-hot fury that consumes him and everyone around him.

His anger comes from a deep sense of betrayal, loss, and frustration, emotions that are often triggered by his inability to fully heal from past wounds. His guilt over not being there when others need him can push him to the edge, and when he finally lets go, it's intense and uncontrollable.

Dan Fenton, on the other hand, carries his anger like a weapon—he doesn't mask it, doesn't suppress it, and most importantly, doesn't care who sees it.

His rage is a direct expression of his complete disillusionment with the world around him. Dan feels trapped in a cycle of pain and self-loathing, and his anger is a response to that helplessness. His anger is his shield, his way of saying, "I'm not going to be ignored. I'm not going to pretend anymore."

When Dan snaps, it's not just explosive—it's total annihilation. There’s no restraint, no second thoughts, just a primal need to destroy whatever is in his way, whether it's physical or emotional.

Dan’s rage isn't a mere outburst; it's a reaction to everything he sees as wrong in the world, and he doesn't try to control it because, for him, the control is gone.

He feels like he's drowning, but instead of letting others help, he isolates himself, pushing away anyone who might try to get too close, afraid that he’ll drag them down with him.

The bond between Dick and Dan is magnetic because they see themselves in each other.

Dick wants to help Dan because he sees his own unresolved rage mirrored in him. He recognizes that same fire, that same inability to fully trust the world around him, and he can’t help but want to pull Dan out of the abyss that he himself struggles to stay out of.

However, Dick's optimism—his belief that things can get better—clashes with Dan's complete loss of hope.

Dick can't help himself, but he tries anyway because, deep down, he’s terrified of losing someone else.

The fear of someone dying while he wasn’t there for them is something Dick struggles with every day.

This fear pushes him to try to “save” Dan, not just because of his own guilt but because he can’t bear the thought of letting another person slip away, consumed by their anger and pain.

Dan feels the weight of his anger and self-isolation.

He recognizes Dick’s attempt to help, but he feels unworthy of that help. He fears that anyone who gets too close to him will be consumed by his darkness.

Dan feels like he’s already too far gone, that any attempt to fix himself will only result in dragging others into the chaos.

In that way, he isolates himself, pushing away anyone who might care, even if they’re offering a lifeline.

They are drawn to each other because they are two halves of the same broken whole.

Their anger is the bridge that connects them, even as it drives them apart.

Dick’s attempts to help Dan are ultimately a reflection of his own inner turmoil and his fear of being alone in his anger.

Meanwhile, Dan's response to Dick is a reminder of the path Dick could go down if he allows his rage to consume him fully.

They are both fueled by bitterness and anger, but where Dick’s anger is tempered by a relentless hope, Dan’s is an all-consuming darkness.

The fundamental difference is that Dick still believes in the possibility of change, while Dan is resigned to his own destruction.

In many ways, Dick and Dan are forced into a complicated, tense dance. Dick wants to fix Dan, but Dan resists, unsure if he even deserves the help.

But, beneath the resistance, there’s a quiet understanding between them, a recognition of the same pain, the same anger that keeps them from moving forward. They see themselves in each other, and that’s what makes their connection so powerful—and so so difficult.

But Despite the pain, despite the anger, despite the near-constant push and pull between them, Dick Grayson and Dan Fenton would still end up drawn into something deeper. They would love because of the pain as much as despite it.

Because see, most people see what Dick and Dan project—Dick as the golden boy who has everything under control, Dan as an unstoppable force of destruction.

But they both recognize the truth beneath the masks. Dick sees Dan’s pain, the raw vulnerability buried under all that rage, and Dan sees the exhaustion behind Dick’s carefully maintained control. There’s no need to pretend with each other, and that honesty is intoxicating.

And Both of them are angry—but with each other, they don’t need to justify it.

Dick doesn’t have to hold back his frustration and grief, and Dan doesn’t have to pretend he doesn’t care. They understand that part of each other instinctively, without having to put it into words. They can be angry together, and instead of it being destructive, it’s relieving—like finally having someone who just gets it.

Neither of them is built for something soft and easy.

They could have quiet, peaceful relationships with people who don’t challenge them—but they don’t want that. They’re both drawn to the fight, to the sharp edges, to the constant tension between destruction and salvation. With each other, love isn’t calm—it’s a storm. But it’s their storm, and they can’t walk away from it.

Even in a room full of people, both Dick and Dan carry a deep, persistent loneliness.

Dick is surrounded by people who love him, yet he always feels responsible for everything, always afraid of letting someone down.

Dan isolates himself because he’s convinced his presence is a threat. But with each other, that loneliness eases, misery loves company, they say

When emotions run too deep for words, physicality becomes their outlet. Whether it’s a fight, a touch, or just sitting next to each other, their connection is tangible.

Dan, who keeps everyone at arm’s length, finds himself unwilling to let go of the warmth Dick offers.

Dick, who usually holds himself back, allows himself to hold on.

Their relationship is a mess of passion, fights, comfort, and raw honesty.

They crash into each other like fire meeting gasoline, but somehow, they don’t consume each other completely. Instead, they ignite something new—something neither of them fully understands, but neither of them can walk away from.

They love in spite of the pain because they are the only ones who can truly see each other, the only ones who can hold on through the worst of it. And even if they hurt, even if they struggle, being together is still better than being apart.

Perfect Disaster

Dick loved Jazz. He really did. She was incredible—strong, smart, funny, and probably the only person on Earth who could keep up with him in a spar without wanting to throttle him. She got his jokes, finished his sentences, and punched him in the arm whenever he got too smug.

They were supposed to be perfect for each other.

So why was he in love with Dan?

Why had his wedding day been filled with flashes of ice-blue eyes and a voice that always sounded just a little too unimpressed?

Why did his stomach drop every time he thought about Dan looking at him with something almost like affection, only to turn away like it had never been there?

It was driving him insane.

And Jazz—God, poor Jazz. She was so good, so devoted, so present, and Dick? Dick was the worst husband alive.

He’d caught himself zoning out during dinner last week, staring at his fork like it was the most interesting thing in the world, because Jazz had mentioned something in passing, and his brain had gone straight to how Dan would never say something like that. Dan doesn’t talk that much. Dan doesn’t talk at all unless he had to.

Jazz deserved better. She deserved someone who wasn’t actively fantasizing about her brother at the worst possible moments.

And worst of all?

She had no idea.

He was a such horrible person

Jazz was losing her mind.

She was in love with her husband. She knew she was. Dick was amazing—bright and loud and brilliant, always moving, always there. He made her laugh, he made her feel seen, he made life fun.

So why was Jason the one she thought about late at night?

Why was it his voice that echoed in her head when she had a bad day? Why did she find herself catching her breath when he smiled, when he laughed, when he looked at her like she was something worth knowing?

It was awful. It was disgusting. It was—

It was fine. She’d bury it. She’d ignore it.

Dick loved her. She loved Dick. Everything was fine.

Except…

Except Dick had been distracted lately. Not in the normal “up all night on patrol” way. No, this was different.

He was off.

He’d started spacing out in the middle of conversations, looking guilty when she caught him. He’d smile too wide, laugh too loud, cover up whatever he was thinking with that performance of his, but Jazz knew him too well.

Something was wrong.

She wanted to ask, but she didn’t. Because if she asked, maybe he’d ask back. Maybe he’d say why are you acting weird too? Why do you freeze when Jason calls? Why do you look at him like—

No. No, she wasn’t going to think about that.

Everything was fine.

Things got worse.

Dick started overcompensating.

Big romantic gestures, flowers, expensive dinners, soft kisses on her forehead, murmured I love yous like he was trying to convince himself they were real.

Jazz responded in kind.

Lingering touches, doting smiles, playing the role of the perfect wife because God help her, she was going to make this work.

And in their desperate attempts to fix a problem neither of them had named, they didn’t notice what was happening right in front of them.

Didn’t notice the way Dick’s eyes always strayed when Dan was in the room, how his voice softened just slightly when they spoke.

Didn’t notice the way Jazz’s breath hitched when Jason laughed, how she leaned in just a little too much when he talked to her.

Didn’t notice that they were both drowning, clinging to each other in a sinking ship, hoping that if they just held on tight enough, they wouldn’t go under.

And it was only a matter of time before the whole thing collapsed.

It all came crashing down over brunch.

Dick had been jittery all morning, bouncing his leg under the table, stirring his coffee five times before taking a sip. Jazz had been the same, shoveling food into her mouth like it might stop her from blurting out something catastrophic.

They were a mess. A mutual, collective disaster.

And then—

"Jazz, I—"

"Dick, I—"

They both stopped, blinking at each other. Jazz swallowed, setting her fork down.

"You first," she said, voice tight.

Dick inhaled sharply. This was it. This was the moment he ruined everything.

"I'm—" He scrubbed a hand through his hair, bracing himself for impact. "I'm in love with someone else."

Silence.

A long, heavy, horrifying silence.

And then—

"Oh thank God," Jazz blurted out, nearly knocking her coffee over.

Dick blinked. "What?"

"I'm in love with someone else too," she said, her shoulders sagging like someone had finally lifted a hundred-pound weight off her back. "Oh my God, Dick, I thought I was the worst person alive, I was so scared to tell you—"

"You were scared?" Dick let out a laugh, giddy with relief. "Jazz, I have been dying inside for months. I was ready to take this to my grave!"

"Me too! I literally almost repressed myself into a coma!"

"Jesus Christ," Dick groaned, pressing his forehead to the table. "I thought I was going to break your heart."

"I thought I was going to break yours!"

They both sat there, laughing, light-headed, free.

A moment passed before Jazz smirked, leaning forward. "So. Who is it?"

Dick hesitated. And then, because there was no point in lying anymore—

"Dan."

Jazz's smirk vanished. Her eyes widened. "Wait—my Dan?"

"Uh." Dick winced. "Yeah?"

She blinked. Then blinked again. Then—

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"Oh my God, how could we not see it before?" she muttered, rubbing her temples.

Dick frowned. "Wait. See what? What does that mean?"

Jazz took a deep breath, and then—

"I'm in love with Jason."

It took a second for that to register.

Then—

"MY Jason?!"

Jazz shrugged, unapologetic. "Apparently."

Dick gawked at her. "No way."

"Yes Way."

"Oh my God."

"Right?!"

For a long, long moment, they just stared at each other.

And then—

They started laughing.

Deep, gut-wrenching, gasping-for-air laughing. The kind that hurt. The kind that felt like they were unraveling years of tension in one go.

"How did we not notice?" Jazz wheezed, wiping tears from her eyes.

"I have no idea!" Dick gasped. "I was so busy feeling guilty, I didn’t even think to ask why you kept getting all weird around Jason!"

"And I was so caught up in my own disaster," Jazz snorted, "I didn’t even see you staring at Dan like he personally invented the concept of breathing!"

They both dissolved into laughter again, until finally, finally, the weight of the past few months lifted completely.

Jazz leaned back in her chair, still chuckling. "So. What do we do now?"

Dick hummed, stretching his arms behind his head. "Well. We could get a divorce."

"Obviously."

"And then we could—y'know. Maybe—try something else?"

Jazz smirked. "Are you asking me if we should ask each other's brothers out?"

Dick grinned. "I mean. I feel like we kinda have to at this point."

Jazz snorted. "God, we are such disasters."

"Yeah," Dick agreed, still grinning.

They clinked their coffee mugs together like it was a toast and for the first time in a while didnt feel the overwhelming weight of lying to your patner.

Somewhat Inspired by EDA's beautiful art, Thank you, @demonic0angel , for being so ridiculously creative and talented that I can’t even sit back and enjoy your work in peace.

No, instead, you had to go and make me feel creative too, and now I have the unbearable urge to post things. I hope you’re proud of yourself.

Damian: Jonathan Kent must fall in love with me.

Tim: …You’re ten.

Damian: And yet, my heart is ancient in its suffering. If I cannot have him, then no one shall.

Tim: Okay, first of all, thats concerning. Second, you’re still ten.

Damian: And yet I feel a torment beyond my years. I cannot eat. I cannot sleep. If I see him with another, I am consumed by anguish and fury. You must ensure we have frequent meetings so I may secure his affections.

Tim: What the hell has Jason been letting you read?! Go play in the mud or something like a normal kid!

Damian: Jason’s taste in literature is impeccable, but that is irrelevant. You will assist me.

Tim: Yeah, no.

Damian: A pity. I suppose Pennyworth will have to hear about the vase you broke.

Tim: That was two years ago!?

Damian: And yet, he remains blissfully unaware. Imagine his disappointment when he learns the truth.

Tim: …You’re blackmailing me?

Damian: I prefer to think of it as mutually beneficial cooperation.

Tim: Groans What exactly do you want?

Damian: I require carefully curated interactions. Moments where I may demonstrate my intelligence, charm, and superiority. You will ensure these happen.

Tim: You want me to engineer romantic moments for you and Jon?

Damian: Yes.

Tim: Do I look like a dating service?

Damian: No, but you do look like someone who would prefer Pennyworth not learn about your past transgressions.

Tim: This is actual extortion.

Damian: Call it what you like.

Tim: Sighs …Fine. I’ll talk to Kon. Maybe get Jon to spend some time in the library or something.

Damian: Excellent. I shall prepare accordingly.

Tim: I hate this family.

Is it just me, or is there something completely deranged about finding a fic so good it fundamentally alters your brain chemistry, only to realize it has spawned an entire fandom multiverse of inspired works?

And then those fics have their own inspo chains, and suddenly there are thirty variations of the same concept, spiraling outward like some kind of chaotic, beautifully unhinged literary hydra, and now I’m just sitting here at 3 AM, eyes bloodshot, vibrating with indecision because where do I even start?

Do I go in order of influence like some kind of academic scholar? Do I pick at random and hope for the best? Do I chase the one that promises the most emotional devastation because apparently, I don’t value my own well-being?

Or do I just sit here, staring at my screen, paralyzed, because every time I try to choose, I remember there are more of them, and they keep multiplying? And let’s not even talk about the comments section, where people are linking even more fics in an ever-expanding rabbit hole of shared brainrot.

And the worst (best?) part? I know I’m not going to stop. I can’t stop. Who needs sleep when I could be reading just one more fic that’s technically the same idea I’ve already read twenty times but slightly different? My body is running on pure hyperfixation and maybe half a cup of cold coffee I forgot about six hours ago. I am too deep in this, and I don’t even want to leave.

Anyway, thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

Dick Grayson and Tim Drake are chronic fringe fixers, though they’d never say it outright. It’s not something they talk about, not in any meaningful way. It’s just… a thing they do. A habit. A reflex. Something wired into them so deeply that even in the middle of absolute chaos, their hands will still twitch toward their hair, smoothing, fixing, making sure it’s just right.

Maybe it started as vanity once, but it’s not that anymore. It’s something closer to control, to composure, to pretending they have a handle on things when everything else is slipping between their fingers.

Dick’s been doing it since he was a kid, since before he even had a reason for it.

When he was little, his mother used to fix his hair before every performance, brushing it back with a touch so gentle it never once felt like an obligation. “You’re already perfect, my little robin,” she’d say, pressing a kiss to his forehead, “but you should still look your best.” It had been a ritual, a moment of stillness before the leap, before the spotlights, before he took to the air and did what he was born to do.

And then, suddenly, they were gone, and there was no one left to smooth his hair or press kisses to his forehead.

Bruce had never done things like that. He’d never brushed Dick’s hair back or straightened his collar or fussed over his appearance the way a parent should.

But he had expectations. He was a Wayne now, or at least, he was supposed to be. And Waynes looked the part. Waynes were always polished, always presentable, always in control.

And so, without meaning to, Dick kept the habit. If he caught his reflection in a window, his fingers would move before he even realized it, brushing his bangs back into place, fixing anything that had shifted. And in the years since, it never really stopped. Whether it was in the middle of a mission, a fight, a conversation, it didn’t matter.

He still did it. Because Dick Grayson was supposed to be effortless, wasn’t he? The easygoing one, the charismatic one, the one who never let things get to him. He had to keep looking the part, even when grief still ached beneath his ribs, even when exhaustion weighed down his bones.

Tim’s touch is sharper, more deliberate, like it’s something done out of necessity rather than comfort. His parents had never been gentle about things like appearances.

It wasn’t about affection, about soft reassurances and easy praise—it was about image. It was about always being polished, always being the best, always making sure no one had reason to criticize.

His father in particular had been meticulous about it, about making sure Tim didn’t just perform well but looked like someone who performed well. A well-groomed son was a competent son. A put-together son. A son who wouldn’t embarrass the family name.

So, Tim learned. He learned to straighten his tie before anyone could tell him to. He learned to fix his hair without needing a mirror. He learned to be perfect in the way that was expected of him, in the way that didn’t leave room for mistakes. Even now, long after his parents are gone, after everything has changed, the habit lingers.

It’s instinct. Even when he’s running on fumes, running on too much coffee and not enough sleep, his hands will still move on their own, smoothing his bangs, making sure they don’t fall too far out of place. Maybe it’s muscle memory. Maybe it’s something closer to control, to making sure he can still hold himself together even when everything else is unraveling.

Dick notices it. Of course he does. And Tim notices it in him, too.

It’s not like they say anything. Not outright. Not in a way that matters. But sometimes, in the middle of a mission, in the reflection of a shop window, or in the mirror of a rundown safe house, their eyes will meet just as they’re fixing their hair, just as their hands twitch in unison. And for a moment, there’s something unspoken between them, something that neither of them will put into words.

Then the teasing starts.

“You’re obsessed with your hair, y’know that?” Dick will say with a smirk, arms crossed, watching as Tim smooths his bangs for the third time in a minute.

Tim will roll his eyes, barely looking up. “You’re one to talk.”

And that’s as much as they’ll say about it. The teasing, the lighthearted jabs, they’re easier than admitting what it really is. That it’s habit, that it’s instinct, that it’s something they do to feel like they’re still in control.

Because some things slip. Some things fall apart. Some things get taken away before they ever get the chance to hold onto them.

But this? This, at least, is something they can still fix.

(As someone with a fringe who’s always fixing it, I saw theirs and immediately thought, “Yeah, they definitely do that too.” And then… well, it kind of spiraled into an emotional overanalysis. Oops. + if it looks like that all the time without touch ups I'll riot)

Everything hurts.

Dick’s wrists are raw from the zip ties, his ribs ache like hell, and there’s a dull throb behind his eyes that probably means a concussion. His captors hadn’t just tied him up; they’d worked him over first. Sloppy work, though. More pain than damage. They wanted him scared, compliant. Didn’t know they were dealing with someone who’s been thrown off rooftops for fun.

The guys guarding him are barely paying attention, scrolling through their phones or just plain sleeping. Dick keeps his breathing steady, eyes half-lidded, playing up the act. Dazed, weak, not a threat. Let them think they have control. Let them get comfortable.

If he times it right, maybe he can—

The door explodes.

Not opens.

Explodes.

A blast of force knocks the guard sideways before he can even react, and then—then a figure steps through the wreckage, moving with purpose.

Dick’s mind shifts gears instantly. Tall. Strong. Efficient. Cape—not standard issue. Moves too fast, too precise. Not a hero. Not a cop.

Dangerous

And definitely built like a damn statue.

Even through the haze of pain, Dick notices. Broad shoulders. Ridiculous arms. The cape hides some of it, but not enough. His frame is massive, all coiled strength and sharp edges, and—yep—those arms are just unfair. The way they flex as he grabs the nearest thug and slams him into the ground? It's completely unnecessary.

His brain catches up just as the man turns to him.

"Stay still," the voice orders, low and rough, and too close.

A knife flashes—clean, controlled—and the zip ties snap like thread.

Dick exhales sharply, shaking out his wrists. "Oh, are we doing the whole ‘tall, dark, and mysterious’ thing? Because it's not gonna lie. It’s working for you."

The man pauses for half a second before slicing through the ties on his ankles. "You always talk this much?"

"Only when I’m nervous. Or concussed. Or when my incredibly ripped rescuer is—oh, shit—"

The moment he tries to stand, his leg buckles, pain lancing through his side. The world tilts—he’s falling—except he’s not, because suddenly those ridiculous arms are wrapped around him, lifting him like he weighs nothing.

"Whoa—" He blinks up at the guy holding him. "Okay, sweeping me off my feet? Kinda forward, but I’m not complaining."

A low huff. Almost a laugh. "You’re heavier than you look."

"Rude," Dick mutters, but he can’t exactly argue when the guy is carrying him with one arm and drawing a knife with the other.

His mind is working through the pain, piecing things together. Not a hero. Not a cop. No hesitation, no wasted movement. This guy doesn’t fight like someone with the rules.

Gunfire erupts in the hallway. The man moves before Dick can react—sharp, brutal, relentless. A flash of a blade, a sickening thud, and another body drops.

Dick exhales. "Wow. You really don’t do half-measures, huh?"

The man doesn’t answer, just starts moving again.

"Right, cool. Love that," Dick mutters, wincing as they move. "Where are we going? Because if this is the part where you whisk me away to your secret lair, I gotta say, I’m flattered, but id rather you take me to the hospital."

"No hospitals," the man says, tone final.

Dick hums. Hospitals ask questions. Questions lead to names. And this guy—who hasn’t given his—definitely isn’t the type to answer them.

By the time they stop moving, Dick’s exhaustion is winning. He barely registers being set down—soft, surprisingly, A bed?—before strong fingers press under his jaw, checking his pulse.

"You still with me?"

Dick forces his eyes open, voice sluggish. "Depends. You still carrying me around like a tragic Victorian maiden?"

A huff. Not quite a laugh, but close.

The bed dips. A gloved hand skims over his ribs, firm but careful, and Dick barely bites back a wince. The man mutters to himself. "Cracked, not broken."

"Wow, look at you," Dick murmurs. "Mysterious, broody, built like a brick wall and medically inclined. What don’t you do?"

"Keep you quiet, apparently."

Dick grins. God, this guy is fun.

But he still has questions. His mind is foggy, but not enough to miss details. Not enough to forget the way this guy fights.

Not a hero. Not a villain. Something else.

His eyes flutter shut, exhaustion pulling at him, but before sleep takes him, he cracks an eye open, voice softer this time. "You gonna tell me your name yet?"

A pause.

Then—so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it—

"Dan."

And that’s the last thing he remembers before everything fades to black.

Gotham’s Most Insane Love Triangle (That’s Not Even a Triangle)

Tim Drake has had enough.

Not of being Red Robin—no, he signed up for that nightmare. But of this absolute clown of a villain who has decided to make his civilian life hell. The dude isn’t even a real villain, just some rich, eccentric, probably-a-little-deranged Gotham socialite with too much free time and very questionable taste in romance.

He has been through a lot in his life.

He’s fought assassins, taken down crime lords, and survived the literal Lazarus Pit. But none of that prepared him for this.

Because, apparently, being a billionaire CEO means attracting a very specific brand of problem—namely, a very rich, very persistent, very theatrical stalker-suitor who has decided that Tim is their one true love.

And the worst part? They have no idea he’s Red Robin. They just think Tim Drake, boring businessman, is the ideal romantic partner.

Tim has tried to get rid of them. He’s shut down their advances, ignored their ridiculous gifts (including a whole building—seriously, what was that?), and even considered faking his own death. (Bruce did it like six times. It’s an option.)

Nothing worked.

the courtship? Is aggressive.

Think:

• Giant, embarrassing billboards with love poems that definitely sound like they were written by someone’s AI assistant.

• Dramatic, unsolicited “gifts” (one time, it was a tiger. A real one. In his office. He had to call Damian to get it out).

• Showing up at his press conferences to declare their love, completely derailing everything ("I AM WOOING YOU, TIMOTHY! SAY YES TO DESTINY!" "Sir, this is an earnings call—")

So, in a moment of desperation (and supreme bad decision-making), Tim panicked and told the press that he was already in a relationship.

With both Superboy and Wraith.

Because Tim Drake does not do things halfway.

(Kon does not hesitate. The second Tim says, “Hey, will you pretend to date me?” Kon’s already slinging an arm around his shoulders, grinning, and saying, “Obviously, babe.”

And, okay, maybe he’s having too much fun with it. Maybe Tim gives one kiss on the cheek in public, and suddenly Kon’s cranking the PDA up to 11.

Tim swears Kon is just doing this to annoy him. (Spoiler: He is. And also because he’s in love. But mostly to annoy him.)

Dani has no idea what’s going on. One day, she’s just vibing, and the next, Tim is begging her to be his fake girlfriend in his civilian life while also fake-dating Superboy in his hero life.

“So you’re publicly dating both of us?” she asks. “Yes,” Tim says, exhausted. “At the same time?” “Yes.” "Love that. Love the drama. I’m in.”)

And that’s how he ended up in a very public, very fake, and very annoying love triangle where he is “dating” two of his best friends.

Which prompted the start of plan : get rid of creepy guy

—

Step One: Make the Villain Regret Their Life Choices

If Tim thought this was going to be a subtle plan, Kon and Dani immediately proved him wrong.

Kon goes full Superboy mode. Dramatic rescues? Check. Carrying Tim around way too much? Check. Way too many kisses on the cheek? Check.

Dani (Wraith) is the wildcard. She literally picks Tim up in public like he’s a prize, occasionally phases through walls to randomly show up at his meetings, and once materialized into existence just to kiss Tim’s forehead in front of the press.

Tim cannot do anything about it. Because if he protests, the villain wins. And also because, unfortunately, he kinda likes it.

The villain loves this. It becomes a challenge. They start sending hate letters to Superboy, promising to “win” Tim’s heart from him.

Kon gets way too competitive about it. (“I dare you to try, buddy.” “KON, STOP ENCOURAGING THEM—”)

The media loses their minds. Suddenly, “Tim Drake’s Shocking Super Love Triangle” is trending.

Bart starts a betting pool on whether Tim actually survives this ordeal. Cassie is taking bets on when the fake relationship stops being fake. ("Wait, you all think this is fake?"—Cass, genuinely confused.)

—

Step Two: Turn the Public Against the Villain

The villain’s new strategies are straight out of a soap opera.

They show up at Tim’s press conferences, interrupting him mid-sentence.

( “Timothy! You don’t have to settle! You deserve true love!”

Tim: "I deserve peace.")

They try to out-romance Kon and Dani by sending ridiculous gifts.

• Kon: "Oh, you sent him roses? That’s cute. I carried him to France for pastries this morning."

• Dani: "I made him a custom necklace out of ectoplasm. It glows when he’s in danger. What did you do?"

Tim is so tired.

So, so tired.

For weeks, he's been playing damage control while Gotham's most deranged suitor escalates his antics. What started as embarrassing billboards and ridiculous gifts has somehow escalated into a full-blown public stunt designed to "prove" their love.

The disaster of the day?

A flash marriage proposal.

Tim barely has time to process what's happening before an entire choir descends on him in the middle of a press conference. They begin singing a dramatic, original ballad about love and destiny while the villain (dressed in a tuxedo and cape, because of course they are) strides forward. With an engagement ring, the size of Tim’s suffering.

"Timothy!" they declare, their voices booming through a hidden microphone, because this is obviously being broadcast. "I've waited long enough! Accept my love! Marry me and together we will dominate Gotham's social scene as the couple of the century!"

Tim's eyes twitch. He's two seconds away from making this a Red Robin problem.

fortunately for everyone involved, Kon and Dani have zero chill.

Kon lands from the sky, draping an arm around Tim with the most obnoxiously smug grin imaginable. “Oh, wow. A public proposal? That’s adorable. Almost as adorable as the six months I’ve already spent dating this guy.”

Then he just kisses Tim’s temple like it’s nothing.

Before Tim can recover (he absolutely did not freeze), Dani materializes next to him, grabs Tim like a princess, and kisses the other side of his face.

Timothy Jackson drake-Wayne did not squeak. What?

“You really don’t get it, do you?” she sighs.

And that is the moment the villain realizes they have lost.

Because Gotham? Gotham loves drama. And right now, the story isn’t “Determined Suitor Wins Over Tim Drake”—it’s “Homewrecker Tries to Steal Gotham’s Most Beloved Power Couples” (because, yes, the media still refuses to acknowledge this is a throuple).

The crowd turns on the villain.

• “You’re breaking them up? Boo.”

• “Have you seen the way Superboy looks at him?”

• “Sir, how do you respond to the allegations that you are a clown?”

#TimsuperWraith4Ever trends within minutes.

And the villain, realizing they are rapidly losing public favor, does the only thing they can do—

They flee

(“…Well,” they say, trying to regain some dignity. “I can tell when I’m in over my head.”

(They can’t.)

“I’m going to retreat—for now.”

(They're not coming back.)

And then, with a dramatic wave of their capes, they run away.)

Tim is still being held.

By both of them.

In front of every reporter in Gotham.

Kon, still smiling, pulls Tim even closer to him. "So, babe, how about we go celebrate our victory?"

Dani smiles. "Ooh, yeah. I'm thinking date night."

Tim, who physically can't escape, groans. "I hate you both."

Neither of them let go.

And, okay, maybe he doesn't really mind .

—

Step Three: Realize You’re the Only One Still Pretending

Later, after the chaos dies down and Tim finally gets a second to himself, he turns to Kon and Dani with a sigh.

“Well,” he says. “That was exhausting, but at least it’s over.”

Kon raises an eyebrow. “Over?”

Tim frowns. “Yeah. The villain’s gone, so… y’know. We can drop the act now.”

There’s a long silence.

Then Dani just… tilts her head. “Wait. You think this is fake?”

Tim stares. “What.”

Kon grins. “Oh, babe. You really thought we were faking?”

Tim.exe has stopped working.

Because, oh no, he did think this was fake. But now Kon is looking at him like he’s an idiot, and Dani is smirking like she knew all along, and—

Oh.

Oh, he’s so dumb.

Because this entire time, they weren’t playing a role. They were just—being them. Touchy, affectionate, protective—except now, they had an excuse to be obvious about it.

Tim buries his face in his hands. “Oh my god.”

Dani pats his head. “You’ll get there, babe.”

Kon leans down, kissing the top of his head. “Take your time.”

Tim groans.

(But maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind so much.)

—

Bonus: Cassie & Bart, Watching From Afar :

Bart: “You think Tim actually figured it out?”

Cassie : "probably. It was fun watching him suffer"

Bruce slouched in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his phone loosely balanced in his hand as he tapped play. A bright, familiar voice spilt from the speaker, disrupting the staid atmosphere of the boardroom.

"Okay, okay, so this is kinda funny—or, I mean, you probably won’t find it funny, but whatever—but today, I was running late for class because Wes was trying to explain some case study to me, and he’s so bad at explaining things, but, like, bless him, right? Anyway, I finally got to class, and Dr. Carson—you know, the science guy who acts like bow ties are his entire personality?—was already halfway through his lecture on...what was it? Something spleen-related, I think. But, oh my gosh, while I was trying to catch up, I realized I hadn’t eaten anything all day, and you know what happens when I’m hungry. So, after class, I ran into Wes again, and we grabbed sandwiches—he got turkey, obviously, because he’s so boring, but I got this weird veggie one because I was feeling adventurous. Big mistake. It tasted like grass, and not in a cool, healthy way. Anyway, long story short, I need, like, fifty bucks. I meant to ask earlier, but I got distracted. Okay, thanks, bye!"

The directors froze, their polished exteriors struggling to mask their confusion. Bruce leaned back even further, looking thoroughly unbothered.

"Your...daughter?" one of them ventured hesitantly.

"Not technically," Bruce replied with a faint smirk, spinning his phone between his fingers. "But close enough."

He opened the messaging app, his fingers moving across the screen with surprising precision. Despite his casual air, he always took the time to respond properly.

"Steph, you’ve got fifty in your account now. Next time, try asking before you’re hungry enough to experiment with questionable sandwiches, alright? And maybe keep some snacks on you—protein bars or something,and for the love of god, stop forgetting meals."

He sent the message and tossed his phone onto the table, loud enough to make one of the directors flinch. "Right. Where were we? Oh, yes—numbers, charts, and crushing the hopes and dreams of our compitions."

The directors exchanged weary glances but didn’t dare comment.

Meanwhile, Steph sprawled on her dorm bed, saw the notification pop up. She read the message, grinned to herself, and rolled her eyes, Then, as always, she didn’t reply.

Back in the boardroom, Bruce folded his hands behind his head, his expression as nonchalant as ever. Inside, however, there was a faint hum of contentment.

She’ll read it. She always does. She’s just stubborn.

Blüdhaven was used to the flips, the twirls, and the relentless quips that came with Nightwing. The acrobat in black and blue had long been the city's shadowy protector, darting from rooftop to rooftop with a grin that never quite matched the chaos he left behind.

But something had changed, and the people of Blüdhaven were starting to notice.

“Yo, remember last week when Nightwing—uh, if that’s still him—just shattered Luka’s arm? Like, no banter, no nothin’? Just crack.”

Eddie leaned back in his chair at The Last Stop Diner, his gaze fixed on the group of regulars seated at the corner booth. He wasn’t the only one with questions.

“I thought I was imagining things,” Carrie chimed in, stirring her coffee. “But I swear to God, the guy’s built like a brick wall now. You see him take down the Steel Street crew? No flips. No acrobatics. Just…straight punches.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Eddie slapped the table for emphasis. “He didn’t even bother dodging. Just ate one of their hits like it was nothin’ and decked the guy right after. I don’t think he even grunted.”

“Maybe it’s steroids?” someone suggested.

“Or a mid-life crisis,” Carrie shot back, rolling her eyes. “Dude looks fifty now, minimum.”

But speculation didn’t make sense of the facts. Gone was the lithe, nimble Nightwing who once turned gang fights into chaotic circuses.

In his place was a towering figure, six feet of raw muscle and no nonsense, fighting with the kind of technique you’d expect from a hardened boxer rather than a trapeze artist.

Even the criminals were baffled.

“Hey, Luka, how’s the arm?” Eddie called to a guy limping past the diner window.

“Shut up,” Luka snarled, holding his sling protectively. “Don’t know what that guy’s problem is, but it ain’t normal.”

The Steel Street gang had been laughing when they saw Nightwing show up last week.

“Aww, here he comes,” one of them had jeered, “with his flips and twirls!”

And then the old man had decked him.

No clever quips, no acrobatics—just a straight, brutal left hook that left the guy crumpled on the ground. The others tried to jump him, but every one of them got the same treatment. A solid punch here, an elbow there, and a particularly nasty uppercut that sent Luka to the hospital.

By the end of it, the gang wasn’t laughing anymore.

The rumors started spreading.

“You think it’s still him?”

“Gotta be. He’s wearing the suit.”

“But the guy’s, like, twice the size he used to be! And where’s all the snark? I haven’t heard him say anything in weeks.”

Whatever had happened to Nightwing, one thing was clear: Blüdhaven’s protector wasn’t playing games anymore. And the city hated it.

“I miss him,” Carrie admitted one evening, staring out at the skyline. “Like, the real him. The guy who made all this crap we deal with…bearable.”

Eddie nodded solemnly. “The flips. The jokes. The way he’d tie those gangsters up in, like, Christmas lights and leave ‘em swinging from a lamppost? Where’s that guy? Where’s our guy?”

When he came back, the city didn’t let him go quietly.

It had been months of fear, confusion, and speculation, but when Nightwing finally swung into action the way he used to—quips, flips, and all—it was like the entire city exhaled at once.

Carrie spotted him first. “No way,” she breathed, pointing to the figure perched on a rooftop, striking his usual pose.

When he leapt down, somersaulting through the air to knock out three gangsters in one motion, Eddie cheered so loud he nearly lost his voice.

The word spread like wildfire

By the time Nightwing finished his patrol, there was a small crowd waiting for him at the edge of a park.

People—actual civilians—approached him with tearful smiles, holding out fruit baskets and baked goods.

“Uh…” Nightwing hesitated as a little girl shoved a bouquet of flowers into his hands. “What is happening right now?”

“You’re back!” Carrie exclaimed, throwing her arms around him in a hug so tight he nearly dropped the flowers.

“Don’t ever leave us again,” Eddie begged, thrusting a pie into his free hand.

“Wait, what?” Nightwing blinked, completely baffled.

“You abandoned us!” an older woman scolded, shaking a finger at him. “Where were the flips? The sass? Do you know how scary you got?”

“I…uh…” he stammered, utterly lost.

The crowd parted slightly, and to Nightwing’s utter disbelief, a few familiar faces emerged from the shadows. Gang members. Former enemies. Even a couple of low-level villains.

“Yo, man,” muttered one of the Steel Street crew, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Uh…we kinda brought you a thing.” He held up a sleek, black and blue leather jacket. The stitching was uneven, and the Nightwing symbol on the back looked like it had been traced from a comic book, but it was clearly handmade. “Figured you could use something fresh. Y’know, for the cold nights.”

“...Thanks?” Nightwing said, taking the jacket with a mix of confusion and astonishment.

Another thug shuffled forward, holding a battered book in his hands. “Here.” He thrust it at Nightwing. “It’s a joke book. You’re always crackin’ one-liners, right? Well, these might be better than what you’ve been using. No offense.”

“None taken,” Nightwing replied dryly, tucking the book under his arm.

A burly enforcer stepped up next, dragging a pair of free weights behind him. “These are for ya. You were hittin’ like a freight train last time, so, uh…might as well keep it up, right?”

A lanky member of the Steel Street crew awkwardly handed him a single boxing glove. “For when you’re really feelin’ old-school,” he joked. “Signed it for ya too, in case you wanna auction it off someday.”

Nightwing stared at the growing pile of gifts in his arms, the ridiculousness of it all threatening to overwhelm him.

“So, uh, promise you’re not gonna leave us hanging like that again?” Eddie asked, still clutching his pie.

“I…promise?” Nightwing managed, his voice tinged with disbelief as he juggled the flowers, joke book, weights, and jacket.

Somewhere in the back of the crowd, a man muttered to his wife, “You think he’s weirded out by this?”

“Probably,” she whispered back. “But it’s Nightwing. He’ll make a joke about it later.”

Nightwing, overwhelmed but smiling faintly, realized he’d never understand Blüdhaven’s people. But for once, he didn’t mind

That is not to say dick doesn't charm people,he absolutely does, I just think nightwing is very different from dick if you know what I mean, he's got a certain charm that makes me want to rip my heart out and offer it to him

1

The café was dimly lit, its neon “Open Late” sign buzzing softly in the quiet Blüdhaven night. A handful of customers sipped their drinks in peace until the door slammed open, and a masked mugger stormed in, waving a gun.

“Everyone down! Empty the register!” he barked, his voice jittery.

The young barista froze, fumbling with the cash drawer as the customers cowered behind tables. Her hands shook so badly that coins clattered to the floor.

“Move faster!” the mugger yelled, slamming his hand on the counter.

“Maybe try saying ‘please,’” a voice quipped from above.

The mugger spun around just in time to see Nightwing drop from the rafters, landing with feline grace.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“its a cafe,” he said, twirling his escrima sticks. “And you’re ruining coffee night, pal.”

The mugger lunged, but Nightwing dodged easily, knocking the gun out of his hand with a sharp crack. A quick sweep of the leg sent the man sprawling, and within seconds, he was zip-tied to a chair.

The barista stared, wide-eyed, as Nightwing approached her. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” she stammered, brushing a curl from her face. “Thanks, Hot—uh, Nightwing. Sorry, I didn’t mean—"

“Hotwing, huh?” He raised an eyebrow, fighting back a grin. “That’s a new one.”

Her face turned scarlet. “Oh my god, I didn’t mean to say that out loud!”

“Relax,” he said, chuckling as he adjusted his escrima stick on his back and took a peek at her nametag. “Emily, right? You’re good under pressure. Just maybe work on the nicknames.”

She managed a laugh as he turned toward the door. “Thanks again!”

“Anytime,” he called back, disappearing into the night.

The apartment building glowed orange against the midnight sky, flames devouring the upper floors. Sirens blared as firefighters scrambled to douse the inferno, but a group was trapped on the fifth floor, coughing and struggling to find an escape.

“Hang tight!” a voice called through the smoke.

The firefighters looked up to see Nightwing emerging from a shattered window, his silhouette framed by the flickering firelight.

“Everyone still breathing?” he asked, scanning the room.

“Yeah, but we’re trapped!” one of the firefighters said. “Ceiling came down behind us!”

“Not a problem.” Nightwing fired his grappling hook, securing it to a stable beam. “Let’s get you out of here.”

As he helped the first firefighter across the rope line, the man stammered, “Holy crap, you’re really Nightwing! I—uh—I’m a huge fan!”

“Appreciate it,” Nightwing said, steadying him. “Now focus on not looking down, okay?”

Once they were all safely outside, the fanboy firefighter turned to his team, still buzzing with excitement.

“Did you see him? He’s even cooler in person!”

The others burst into laughter, and Nightwing, perched on a nearby ledge, called down, “You’re making me blush.” He gave a two-fingered salute before disappearing into the shadows.

The moonlight filtered through the trees of Blüdhaven Park, casting long, eerie shadows. Nightwing had just subdued a thief when he noticed someone sitting on a bench nearby, illuminated by the soft glow of a portable lamp.

The young woman was sketching furiously, glancing up at him every few seconds. When she realized he’d spotted her, she froze, her pencil hovering mid-air.

“Nice night for art,” Nightwing said, strolling over.

“Uh… yeah,” she stammered, clutching her sketchpad like a shield.

“What are you working on?”

She hesitated, then flipped the pad around to show him. The drawing captured him mid-leap, his escrima sticks glowing, his movements frozen in perfect, exaggerated detail.

“Wow,” he said, genuinely impressed. “That’s incredible.”

“You think so?” she asked, her cheeks reddening. “I thought I might’ve overdone it…”

He tilted his head, studying the sketch. “Maybe a bit on the muscles, but hey, I’m not complaining.”

She laughed nervously. “Artistic choice?”

“Exactly.” He smiled. “You’ve got talent. Keep at it."

“Thanks,” she said softly.

As he turned to leave, she called out, “Wait! Can I give this to you?”

“Sure,” he said, accepting the sketch. “But only if you sign it. Gotta keep it authentic.”

Her face lit up as she scribbled her name at the bottom. He gave her a wink before vanishing into the night.

4

The clinic was quiet, its fluorescent lights flickering against the darkened windows. Nightwing leaned against the counter, holding a hand over the shallow cut on his arm.

“Can I help—oh!” the nurse gasped, nearly dropping her clipboard when she saw him.

“Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Didn’t mean to scare you.

“You’re Nightwing!” she blurted, then immediately cringed. “I mean, obviously you’re Nightwing. Sorry! Uh, what do you need?”

“Just a quick patch-up,” he said, lifting his arm. “Nothing too serious.”

She nodded, her hands trembling as she grabbed the supplies. “Sit here, please.”

He perched on the exam table, watching as she cleaned the wound. Her hands steady as she worked.

“You sure I’m not making you nervous?” he teased.

“What? No!” she said quickly, then winced. “Okay, maybe a little. It’s not every night you stitch up a superhero.”

“Fair point,” he said with a grin.

As she tightened the last stitch, he winced.

“Oh no! Did I hurt you?” she asked, looking horrified.

“Not at all,” he said quickly. “You’re doing great.”

She finished and handed him a lollipop from a nearby jar. “For being brave.”

He laughed, tucking it into his belt. “Thanks, doc. I'll eat it with pride.”

The night sky over Blüdhaven was clear for once, the stars twinkling above a rooftop wedding. Strings of fairy lights bathed the intimate gathering in a soft glow, and the bride and groom had just started their first dance when chaos erupted.

Three armed men burst onto the rooftop, shouting orders.

“Hands in the air! Phones and wallets, now!” one of them barked, his gun waving wildly.

Guests gasped, clutching each other in fear. The bride clung to her groom, her veil fluttering in the breeze as she whispered, “What do we do?”

Before anyone could answer, a grappling hook hissed through the air.

“Sorry to crash your party,” Nightwing said as he swung in, landing right between the thugs and the wedding party. “But I’m not a fan of uninvited guests.”

The first thug lunged, but Nightwing dodged with ease, disarming him in a heartbeat. The second went for his gun, only to get an escrima stick to the wrist. By the time the third thug turned to run, Nightwing had already tripped him with a spin-kick.

The bride and groom stared, wide-eyed, as Nightwing zip-tied the men and turned back to the guests.

“Everyone okay?” he asked, brushing off his gloves.

The bride stepped forward, her dress shimmering in the light, face slightly flushed “We are, thanks to you. You saved our wedding!”

“Glad I could help,” Nightwing said, his grin warm. He glanced at the decorations. “Nice setup, by the way. Love the string lights.”

“Stay for cake?” the groom asked, half-joking, his face suspiciously warm.

Nightwing chuckled. “Tempting, but I’m on the clock. Congrats, though!”

As he turned to leave, the bride called after him, “Wait! At least let us take a photo! You’re part of our night now."

He hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Alright, but just one.”

The guests quickly gathered, and someone snapped the shot: the bride and groom in the centre, with Nightwing standing behind them, his arms crossed, and a playful smirk on his face.

“Thanks again,” the bride said as Nightwing stepped back.

“Anytime,” he replied, disappearing into the shadows.

+1

The mall was bustling with weekend shoppers, the hum of conversation, and the jingling of a carousel filling the air. Dick was taking a rare day off, dressed casually in jeans and a leather jacket, sipping a coffee as he strolled through the crowd.

A small voice caught his attention.

“mama? Mama?”

Dick turned to see a little girl standing near a fountain, clutching a stuffed bunny to her chest, her wide eyes brimming with tears. She couldn’t have been older than five.

“Hey there,” he said gently, crouching to her level. “You lost?”

She nodded, sniffling. “I can’t find my mommy.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find her,” Dick said with a reassuring smile. “What’s your name?”

“Lila,” she whispered.

“Hi, Lila. I’m Dick.” He held out his hand, and she took it hesitantly. “Now, let’s go find your mom. Do you remember what she was wearing?”

“A pink sweater,” Lila said, clutching his hand tightly as they weaved through the crowd.

It didn’t take long before Dick spotted a frantic-looking woman near the food court, scanning the area with wide eyes.

“Lila!” the woman called, relief flooding her face as she spotted them. She rushed over, dropping to her knees to hug her daughter tightly. “Oh my goodness, I was so worried!”

“Mama!” Lila cried, wrapping her arms around her mother.

The woman looked up at Dick, her cheeks flushed. “Thank you so much! I don’t know what I would’ve done if—” She cut of, suddenly realizing who he was.

“You’re… Dick Grayson?” she asked, her eyes widening.

Dick laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s me. I’m just glad I could help.”

The woman’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. “I… uh… Wow, okay. Thank you. Really. You’re—uh—taller in person.”

He raised an eyebrow, his grin turning slightly playful. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She laughed nervously, still flustered. “I didn’t mean to—sorry! I’m a little overwhelmed."

“No need to apologize,” he said warmly. “I’m just glad Lila’s safe.”

“Thank you again,” she said, glancing between him and her daughter. “You’re a real hero.”

Dick gave a small wave to Lila, who beamed up at him. “You’re welcome. Stay close to your mom, okay?”

“I will!” Lila said, hugging her bunny tightly.

As Dick walked away, the woman muttered under her breath, “Of course he’s ridiculously nice, too.” She shook her head, still blushing, as she scooped up her daughter and headed home.

Steph ducked into the small, dimly lit coffee shop, her boots scuffing against the floor as she brushed snow off her coat.

She just finished her third patrol of the week, and though nothing particularly pressing had come up, she couldn't shake the unease. The quiet in Gotham is always a sign for the storm coming

The coffee shop was packed, every table occupied by students hunched over laptops, couples chatting quietly, and a few harried professionals pounding away at keyboards. Steph glanced around with a sigh. No seats. Of course.

Her gaze landed on a lone guy at a corner table. His red hair stood out first, messy but vibrant, almost too neat to match the dark hoodie he wore.

His head was bent over a notebook, and his pen moved furiously across the page. Green eyes darted up briefly, scanned the room as if expecting something—or someone—and then went back to his work.

“Perfect,” Steph muttered under her breath.“him or nothing, I guess”

She weaved through the tables and stopped next to him.

“Hey,” she said, trying to sound casual. “Mind if I sit here? It’s kind of a zoo.”

He froze for a moment, then looked up at her like he was surprised she was speaking to him. His eyes were sharper than she expected, calculating, but he nodded after a beat.

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

“Thanks,” Steph said, dropping into the seat across from him and setting her coffee on the table. She pulled out her phone and started scrolling, not paying him any mind. He didn’t seem like a threat—just another Gotham weirdo trying to survive a cold January night.

But then he mumbled something under his breath.

“...Can’t believe they’re still covering up the sixth victim. Do they really think nobody’s paying attention?”

Steph froze. Her head snapped up, and she fixed him with a sharp look. “Sorry, what did you just say?”

The guy stiffened, clutching his pen a little tighter. “What? Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

“Uh-huh.” She leaned forward, her casual demeanour giving way to something more focused. “Sixth victim of what, exactly?”

He hesitated, his eyes narrowing as if trying to figure out her angle. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

He glanced around nervously, then leaned in closer. “There’s been six murders in Gotham in the last two months. All random, on paper. But if you look at the details—locations, dates, even the way the bodies were found—there’s a pattern. A really specific one.”

Steph’s stomach twisted. She knew about the murders—bruce had mentioned them briefly, and she’d overheard barbie saying they might be connected. But this guy wasn’t supposed to know that.

“What kind of pattern?” she asked, keeping her tone light, almost teasing.

He tilted his head, studying her. “Why are you so interested?”

“Call it morbid curiosity,” she said with a shrug. “You seem to know more than the average guy reading the news, and I’m nosy. So spill.”

He sighed, pushing his notebook toward her. “It’s all in here. Dates, times, victim profiles. If you cross-reference it with known Court of Owls activity, it lines up perfectly. But no one’s talking about it. Not the media, not the cops—no one.”

The mention of the Court made her pulse spike, but she kept her expression midly interested and slightly disbelieving. “The Court of Owls? Seriously?”

“They’re real,” he said firmly, green eyes burning with conviction. “And they’re behind this. I don’t know how yet, but I will.”

Steph leaned back, pretending to be unimpressed. “Sounds like a lot of work for a hobby.”

“It’s not a hobby,” he muttered, sitting back and crossing his arms. “It’s the truth. Someone has to figure it out.”

Steph studied him for a moment. His voice had softened, the determination replaced with a quiet frustration that felt oddly sincere.

She couldn’t decide if he was a genius or just another Gotham conspiracy nut. Either way, he was cute—she hadn’t noticed before, but his sharp features and intense green eyes gave him an endearing, almost earnest look.

She smiled. “Well, Weston—”

“How do you know my name?” he asked, suddenly on edge.

“It’s on your notebook,” she said, pointing at the corner of the page where “W. Weston” was scribbled. “Relax, Sherlock. I’m not psychic.”

Wes flushed, muttering something she didn’t catch, and steph grinned. "Call me wes"

“well, Wes, this was fun,” she said, standing up and sliding her bag over her shoulder. “We should hang out sometime.”

He blinked. “What? Why?”

Steph tilted her head, smirking. “Let’s just say I’m curious about what else you know. And hey, you’re kind of cute. That doesn’t hurt.”

Wes stared at her, caught somewhere between confusion and a flustered frown.

“Here,” she said, scribbling her number on a napkin and sliding it across the table. “Call me if you figure out something big. Or if you just want to grab coffee again, oh, and you can call me steph”

She walked away without waiting for his response, but as she pushed through the door, she glanced back and saw him staring after her, the napkin in his hand.

Well, she thought, this can't go wrong either way

Blüdhaven’s nights were always unpredictable, but tonight was shaping up to be a typical evening. Nightwing crouched on a rooftop, watching a group of thugs unloading a van full of stolen electronics. It didn’t take much to tell this wasn’t the first time they’d done something like this.

He was about to leap into action when a voice interrupted his focus.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the famous Nightwing.”

Nightwing didn’t flinch, but he felt his lips pull into a smirk. “Dan, really? I thought you’d be busy causing chaos elsewhere.”

Dan floated up beside him, a grin spreading across his face. “What can I say? You’re just so... captivating when you’re in action.” He hovered a little closer, leaning in slightly. “Makes me wonder what you’re really like under all that spandex.”

Nightwing didn’t respond immediately, but he could feel the heat creeping up his cheeks, turning his attention to the thugs below, "it's kelvar. Wearing spandex is just asking to get stabbed or shot."

The last thing he wanted right now was to engage with Dan’s constant flirting. But, for better or worse, he was going to have to work with him tonight.

The thugs had begun to notice them now, one of them pointing at Nightwing.

“Hey, isn’t that Nightwing?” one of them called out, narrowing his eyes.

“Yeah, that’s him alright,” another replied. “What the hell’s this guy doing here? And who’s that floating freak with him?”

Dan raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he hovered just above the ground. “Well, aren’t you charming?” he called out to the thugs with a smirk. “I’m gracing him with my presence for now"

Nightwing dropped down into the alley, his boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. He took out the first thug with a swift punch, while Dan casually floated beside him, watching.

“You’re really good at this,” Dan said, his voice teasing. “How many times have you done this? Bet you’ve got it all down to a science.”

Nightwing knocked out another thug and glanced over at Dan. “I’ve had my share of practice,” he said, his tone clipped.

Dan’s grin widened. “You’re too modest.”

Nightwing didn’t engage, moving on to the next thug as the fight continued.

Dan, for his part, didn’t do much more than float around and occasionally zap someone with his ectoplasmic energy. It wasn’t quite as graceful as Nightwing’s acrobatics, but it worked.

As Nightwing took down the last two thugs, one of them groaned, trying to push himself up. “Wait—hold on a second! You’re... you're telling me this guy”—he pointed at Dan—“is with Nightwing? Are you... his partner or something?"

Nightwing blinked, pausing mid-motion as the thug blurted out the question. For a brief second, he looked over at Dan, unsure how to respond.

Dan didn’t miss a beat. Floating closer with a smug smile, he casually said, “You know, I’m flattered. But Nightwing and I have a very complicated relationship.” His tone was playful, eyes glinting as he shot a look at Nightwing. “You might say we’re... partners in something.”

Nightwing almost rolled his eyes, but the smirk was impossible to suppress. “Not exactly,” he said, turning back to the thug who was still trying to get up. “But nice try.”

The thug, thoroughly confused, simply muttered something about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The rest of the criminals were now subdued, either unconscious or groaning on the ground.

Nightwing shook his head, looking at Dan. “Is that really necessary?” he asked, but there was no anger in his voice—just resignation.

Dan grinned widely, clearly enjoying himself. “What, the flirting or the partner comment? Because I could do this all night.”

He tilted his head, glancing at Nightwing. “You know, you’ve got a lot of admirers. I might have to fight for your attention.”

Nightwing let out a quiet sigh, his lips twitching. “I’m pretty sure you’re just trying to get a rise out of me here.”

“maybe, maybe not,” Dan replied smoothly. “But I’ll admit, I’m certainly enjoying the view whilst doing so”

“Uh-huh.” Nightwing shook his head, clearly not getting sucked into it this time. He turned away from the group of criminals, heading for the shadows as the sirens grew closer.

Dan followed him casually, still floating beside him. “You know,” he said, voice dropping a little lower. “You could at least thank me for my... assistance tonight.”

Nightwing glanced at him, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks,” he said flatly. “That’s all you’re getting.”

Dan snickered, clearly entertained. “You’re a tough one to crack, birdie. But I like it. Keep that up, and maybe you’ll find me sticking around more often.”

Nightwing just kept walking, unbothered, though there was a flicker of something—maybe amusement—behind his stoic expression.

Dan stepped into a green portal, pausing for a moment to look back at Nightwing with a playful grin. “Don’t get too lonely without me,” he teased before vanishing.

Nightwing stood alone in the alley, his thoughts still on the criminals he’d just taken down. It was just another night in Blüdhaven, but having Dan around—flirting and all—made things... more interesting.

He glanced up at the sky, the sirens now closing in, and allowed himself a rare, small smile. Maybe he could handle the chaos for a little longer

---

Blüdhaven’s docks were shrouded in mist, the faint smell of saltwater mingling with industrial grime.

Nightwing perched on a rooftop, scanning the shadows below. Reports of glowing, shadowy figures prowling the area had brought him here, but the silence that greeted him was unnerving.

“You’re going to be disappointed if you’re waiting for them to walk into a trap.”

The voice startled him. He turned sharply, escrima sticks at the ready, to see a figure hovering behind him—white hair, glowing red eyes, and a casual smirk that spoke of confidence and experience.

“You must be Nightwing,” the stranger said, crossing his arms.

“And you are?” Nightwing asked, keeping his stance defensive.

“Dan Phantom,” the man replied, floating closer but keeping his distance. “Ghost expert, problem-solver, all-around powerhouse. You’re welcome.”

Nightwing raised an eyebrow. “Can’t say I’ve heard of you.”

“Figures,” Dan said with a shrug. “I don’t exactly do the whole ‘hero’ thing. I’m here for one reason: to take out the Wraiths before they turn this city into a ghost town. Literally.”

Nightwing studied him. “And by ‘take out,’ you mean...?"

“Exactly what you think I mean,” Dan said, his smirk widening. “These things don’t stop. They’re not people; they’re feral monsters. Only way to deal with them is to end them.”

“That’s not how I work,” Nightwing said firmly.

“Yeah, I figured,” Dan replied, glancing at the escrima sticks. “You seem like the ‘capture and contain’ type. Hope you’ve got a plan, because those things don’t play nice.”

Before Nightwing could respond, a guttural roar echoed through the mist. A massive -Wraith?- its glowing green form rippling with energy burst from a warehouse, followed by a swarm of smaller creatures.

Dan grinned. “Showtime.”

The fight was chaos. Nightwing’s movements were precise and controlled, using his escrima sticks to disable the smaller Wraiths and deploying containment devices to trap them. Dan, by contrast, tore through the creatures with brutal efficiency, his ectoplasmic blasts reducing them to nothing.

“Careful, bird boy!” Dan called, blasting a Wraith that lunged at Nightwing. “These things don’t mess around.”

“Neither do I,” Nightwing replied, flipping over another Wraith and slamming it into one of his containment devices.

Dan floated over, studying the trapped Wraith with a raised eyebrow. “Seriously? That’s your plan? What are you going to do with them—teach them yoga?”

Nightwing didn’t look up. “It’s better than destroying them outright.”

“Sure, if you don’t mind them breaking out and trying to eat you later,” Dan said, firing another blast at a charging Wraith.

Despite their differences, the two worked surprisingly well together. Nightwing’s precision and strategy balanced Dan’s overwhelming power, the unlikely pair cutting through the Wraiths with ease.

When the last of the creatures was dealt with, Dan turned to Nightwing, his smirk firmly in place. “Not bad, bird boy. For someone who insists on playing nice, you’re actually useful in a fight.”

“And for someone who doesn’t play by the rules, you’re... effective,” Nightwing admitted grudgingly.

Dan chuckled, a green portal swirling open behind him. “High praise. But don’t get used to me doing the heavy lifting. Your city, your problem.”

“Good,” Nightwing said. “Because I don’t like sharing.”

Dan grinned. “And yet we made a pretty good team. Think about that the next time you’re struggling to keep this city from falling apart.”

Before Nightwing could reply, Dan stepped into the portal, his form fading into the green light.

As the portal vanished, Nightwing stood alone in the aftermath of the fight. He didn’t agree with Dan’s methods—probably never would—but he couldn’t deny that the man had been right about one thing: the Wraiths were a serious threat.

For now, the city was safe. And if Dan Phantom ever returned, Nightwing knew exactly what he’d be up against.