#i think about the flying graysons with alarming frequency

[everyones-least-favorite-bard]

as misery loves orphans

[goldkirk]

Latchkey, a Tim Drake fic

Chapter 3: shades of life are echoing through my open ears

[ ao3 link ]

He’s eating Froot Loops out of one of the biggest bowls in the kitchen. His head is currently propped up on his hand like it’s the only thing keeping him from face planting into the milk (it is), and The Partridge Family is playing on his iPad when suddenly there’s a knock echoing down the hallway to the kitchen. 

Tim lifts his head just enough to turn and blink slowly in the direction of the front doors. 

It’s. It’s a Sunday, his brain thinks, helpfully. No post on Sundays . (Thank you, Harry Potter? Tim is officially absolutely not awake enough for this. )

Then a knock comes again, followed by an insistent ring of the incredibly loud doorbell, god, why in the world do they have the slider turned up that high, there’s not even anyone here to hear it. Or anyone to ring it in the first place besides delivery drivers. And whoever is there right now, apparently. 

Tim drops his spoon and sprints for the front entrance, fearing the worst. His head is spinning with all the scenes he’s ever seen or read, filled with military superiors and police officers and all kinds of bad news knocking on front doors unexpectedly, and he’s bracing himself for the blow. Tim skids across the landing and flings the door open with his pajamas and his bedhead and all 5 feet of him tense and ready, and there’s Jason Todd and Dick Grayson on his front porch, relaxed and cheerful like they own the world. 

Tim stares. His mouth is still half-open in preparation to choke out Hello, officer, can I help you?

And maybe he’s a little crazy, or maybe his permanent sleep debt is just hitting him harder than usual, because his first instinct is to almost ask out loud “Why didn’t you just come in a window?” 

Tim quickly snaps his mouth shut with a click. 

“Hey Timmers.” Jason grins and shoves his red beanie up his forehead a little higher. “We were hoping you’d be home! Dick wanted a chance to see you before he goes back to Bludhaven tonight.”

“Hi, Tim! It’s awesome to finally meet you in the flesh. I’ve been hearing so much about you.”

And this is Dick Grayson , of the Flying Graysons, original Robin, Tim’s biggest childhood hero, good-hearted police officer, current Nightwing, and he’s just turned the full light of his thousand-lumen smile on Tim. Is this what standing in front of an angel feels like? Tim wonders distantly, and then he’s being crushed in an enormous hug. 

He freezes. He seems to be doing that a lot this past week. Tim’s mind is racing, trying to think of the last time he’s been hugged. Maybe a couple trips ago? His Krav Maga tutor gave him one of those bro side-hugs after Tim landed a hard move the other week, that counts, right? 

But this isn’t a bro hug, it’s not a hair ruffle like from Bruce, or a hand on the shoulder the way Jason has begun doing to Tim with an...alarming frequency, now that he thinks about it. (Tim puts a mental pin in that one to come back to later.) But this? This is a full on hug . This is Tim being suffocated by a koala twice his size. This is arms-all-the-way-around, pressed into someone’s chest, held tight like he’s a tree Dick’s clinging to to avoid falling off a cliff hug . Tim doesn’t do hugs like this. He’s—what is he supposed to…

Tim’s arms slowly come up after a few seconds, stuttering once to pause halfway there. Then he’s wrapping his hands around Dick’s back, too, and returning the hug, figuring it’s the nice thing to do when you’re being gifted with something this rare and big and vulnerable. 

He feels Dick relax just a bit, melting to pull Tim in, a little impossibly, even further. It feels nice, Tim thinks. Dick’s a good hugger; he was back when Tim was a tiny kid at the circus, too. Tim remembers that. By all accounts, this moment should be incredibly weird, but somehow because it’s Dick it’s just...not. 

(Tim, face strategically smashed into Dick’s pecs, misses the triumphant grin and responding thumbs up between Jason and Dick.)

“Uh,” Tim says, a little dazed. Dick had finally let go and given Tim room to step back, although not before a parting hair duffle. Tim wonders, between Bruce and Dick, who picked it up from who. “Do you want to come in?” 

“Sure,” Dick says happily, and steps lightly past Tim on his way into the foyer. Jason follows close behind. 

Tim steps inside, pulling the door shut behind him til the creaky lock latches shut—he’s going to have to replace that soon, before his parents get back, it’s swollen and shrunk in weather changes too many times to be silent ever again, and his dad hates that in a door. 

“Brush your hair and get dressed,” Jason says, all business. “And grab a warm coat. Make it snappy.” 

“What,” says Tim. Because, what? 

“Clothes, hair, coat, let’s go ,” Jason claps at him for emphasis, then makes a shooing motion. 

“I’m. But. Jason, I just woke up ,” Tim grumbles, rubbing one eye. “I haven’t finished breakfast.”

Dick has drifted into the kitchen already, apparently, because he chooses this moment to chip in, “Froot Loops!!! My kind of man. Tim, good taste.” 

“Thanks,” Tim replies. This morning is already so weird he’s going to not even question it. “You can have some if you want?” he offers. There’s a delighted noise from the direction of the kitchen, and the sound of cabinets being opened as Dick apparently goes hunting for a bowl. Tim sighs. 

“Furthest tall cabinet on the left, second shelf up,” he calls, and then turns back to Jason. “Why do I have to get dressed, exactly?”

“You’re coming over.” 

“Am I,” says Tim. 

“Yes,” Jason says firmly. “It’s Sunday and we’re gonna watch kid’s cartoons and hang out and you’re going to meet Dick and eat Alfred’s amazing brunch if I have to drag you there like a sack of potatoes.” 

And that’s just. “Why,” Tim questions, feeling a little desperate and a lot confused. 

Jason grabs him by both shoulders and stares Tim right in the eye. “Because you’re my friend, and it is killing me inside to think about you in this empty fucking house all the time, and I need someone to be another target for Dick’s unending attention, and also you’re too skinny and Alfred thinks you need both company and fattening up. And no one argues with Alfred.” Jason says this as if that’s just that , and somehow, inexplicably, it is. Tim’s feet are already finding themselves on the stairs, and Jason’s watching with satisfaction from the rug. 

Tim gets dressed. 

  Dick and Jason shove Tim through the doorway to the kitchen and promptly flee the scene, shouting something about getting the lounge ready and being back for brunch. For being Bats, they’re kind of terrible at low-key scheming in normal life. But Tim’s head is still spinning from how weird this morning has been so far. He’s bound to find out soon anyway. And if they’re going to leave him alone for a bit in a warm napping location, then they’re not allowed to be mad at Tim for taking advantage of it. 

Well. Nearly alone, anyway. 

Bruce takes one look at Tim from across the surprisingly small table and slides his own mug of coffee across without a word. 

Tim stares at it for a moment. He may not be a Bat, but he sure keeps the same hours as one, and between nights, running BatWatch, and regular old school, the words sleep and Tim haven’t been allies for a long, long time. He’s tired. He’s confused. He’s craving a familiar comfort that comes from holding a warm drink close, even if he still can’t manage to like the actual taste of coffee. No matter what’s going on, Tim realized early on in life that holding a hot tea, cocoa, or coffee seems to make any situation feel more familiar and safe. 

The mug is tempting him. He can smell the rich undertones already, so Bruce must spring for the good quality stuff (no real surprise there). Except...he’s just Tim. He’s the neighbor kid, who knows more than he should, and isn’t even sure why he’s here at this point. Especially since none of them know Tim knows anything. And they’re somehow still having him around anyway. He’s not sure he should accept anything from the Wayne household at this point, until he has a better idea of where he stands.

But Batman just offered him his own coffee. In his own house. And Tim really is tired. Bruce is already up and making himself another mug, not expecting the first one to slide back across the table any time soon. Tim’s shoulders drop, just a little. 

He takes the mug.

The first sip is just as jarring as every other coffee drink he’s ever tried. But he persists. And to Tim’s delight, the taste quickly turns from just plain bitter to bitter that’s worth it for the rich undertones. Like the difference between flavorless mild salsa you can’t stand, and really flavorful hot salsa that you would have expected to be too strong, but is actually fantastic because of the taste. 

“What is this,” Tim blurts out. Bruce glances up from whatever report he’s reading on the iPad screen. 

“Hm?”

“The coffee ,” Tim says patiently. He’s clutching the mug now, holding it close to his face in between gulps. “What kind of coffee is this?”

“Oh, that,” says Bruce. “It’s just something I stock up on when I’m over in Kansas. There’s a little coffee shop outside Lawrence that has some great imports with a lot of flavor. This is their house blend.”

Little coffee shop, sure. He knows Bruce is being purposely vague so as not to mention Smallville or anything that can tie him to it, but Tim is certain that’s what Bruce is alluding to. 

“Hmm. It’s great,” he tells Bruce. “Thank you.”

“You looked like you needed it.” The corners of Bruce’s mouth turn up just so. 

Tim finds himself smiling back. 

  When Tim makes it back to his house that evening, he’s somehow carrying a backpack that he didn’t own ten hours earlier, and it’s filled with hand warmers, socks, three containers of Alfred’s cooking, which is just. The Best , it really is, and also there’s a panic button bracelet, which is hilarious to Tim. He’s been running around for years on his own. And now all of a sudden, Jason Todd decided to singlehandedly become Tim’s parent in the span of a week. He even tried to talk with Tim about getting more sleep, and wasn’t that rich coming from a secret teenage vigilante. Tim had refused to explain the laughter that tore out of him over that one.

And at the very bottom of the bag, nestled in what turns out to be a fleece blanket with a sweeping landscape photo printed on it, is one bag of coffee grounds, and a post-it note that says only, “Use it wisely.”

Tim wonders how much Batman knows already. He wonders at how he can’t muster up the usual stress to care as much as he did a few days ago.

After a moment, he wraps himself up in the blanket like it’s a cape, and heads upstairs to start putting on his disguise for the night. It’s not the best quality fleece he owns, but somehow? Somehow it feels warmer than anything his parents have ordered over the years. Tim is firmly attributing it to said blanket having been tucked in near the still-warm food containers. But he still smiles when he catches his reflection in a hallway mirror.

  A few hours later, Tim swipes the lip balm over his lips for the third time that night, mentally cursing winter as a conceptual whole. He’s been careful to always carry at least one tin of lip balm with him every night he went out, ever since the disastrous first time he went out on a cold night and learned that you could get windburn on your lips and it wasn’t fun . Tim was in pain for a day and a half every time he spoke or ate. He hasn’t made that mistake again. 

He wonders if Batman and the others do the same, or if they’ve figured out some kind of high tech way to keep their skin and lips from getting dried out and chapped all winter. And the masks! How do the Robins not constantly have domino-shaped patches of acne, especially in the summer? 

Not for the first time in recent days, Tim desperately wishes he had enough guts to just come clean and fess up to the Waynes that he knew. At least then he could ask the million and one questions like this that he’d thought of over the years. Or, he could so long as they didn’t decide to throw him in Blackgate or some kind of Bat-cell where he couldn’t spill their secrets, anyway. 

Batman didn’t seem like the type to do that to someone without serious cause, but, well. He was more protective of his partners’ ( family’s ) safety than of anything else in the world. That much was evident to anyone with eyes and two brain cells left to rub together. Batman would do just about anything his partners. Tim’s pretty sure Batman would rip the universe apart if that’s what it took to save one of his kids that was being threatened. Even the Justice League members probably only would warrant the tri-state area, or maybe a small country.  

And a lot of adults didn’t seem like the type to do something until suddenly they did. Tim has learned that one the hard way too a few times. 

So definitely no telling. 

Tim sighs, and scrambles his way back down the drain pipe he’d shimmied up earlier. This night has been a bust, mostly. Gotham is as quiet as it ever gets. The few incidents Batman and Robin had dealt with, Tim was mostly at poor angles to try to catch. At least he’d gotten a nice shot of Nightwing backflipping off a low gargoyle to kick one of Falcone’s guys off of a moving pickup truck. That one was sweet . 

A few minutes and run-down streets later, Tim finally ducks out of the shadows near an alley and sprints across the empty street to the bridge. With practiced grace, he follows a familiar path up the metal bars of the bridge beams until he reaches his preferred viewing spot, nestled in an eyebar junction. 

He weaves a loop of bungee cord around a couple of the rods, and then clips the MacGyvered end with the carabiner to the climbing harness under his long coat. Tim may be many things, risk-taking, precocious, a wild child, call him what you will. But unprepared is not one of them. He takes risks, sure, but he’s not going to up his chances of injury or death while running around Gotham just out of laziness. 

Anyway, if Tim’s memory is correct (and it usually is), on nights when Nightwing is in town, the Bats tend to loop through this part of the Narrows towards the end of their night out. From Tim’s vantage point, he’s got a mostly-unobstructed view of several street entrances, plus the main road that travels parallel to the waterfront. Whichever way they come from, Tim’s likely going to spot them from here. 

After fifteen minutes or so, Tim hears the tell-tale rumbling of an engine. It could just be a random citizen, or a criminal up to no good, but they’re past the hours when most of the nighttime crime happens. This is the few-hour stretch before dawn where even criminals have mostly packed it in. Everybody’s got to sleep sometime.

So Tim waits patiently, camera held near his heart. The rumbling is getting louder, and that’s definitely the Batmobile. Tim should know. But there’s also something else, something higher pitched—if Tim could just hear it a little more clearly, he might be able to make out—

The Batmobile swings around a corner, chassis shifting heavily to one side, and Robin is whizzing along behind it, screaming with...glee, apparently. What the hell , Tim thinks, and he’s already snapping photos, camera viewfinder millimeters away from his eye. 

Snap . Robin’s face, mask crinkled and hair flying in the wind. Snap . The Batmobile gleaming in the streetlights and reflection off the water’s surface, tinted a faint purple-blue on the black chrome. Snap. A tight zoom on Robin in his painfully 90s-colored roller skates (maybe an old pair of Dick’s, Tim thinks, if this was premeditated and not spurred by boredom and the sight of a giveaway pile on the sidewalk), head tossed back in laughter, partially reflected in a puddle just inches away from his feet. 

Thank god for high speed shutters in modern cameras. Tim has so much fun with them. 

Snap . Oh no. Oh shit—the Batmobile takes another streetcorner a little too sharply, snap , Robin is yanked and loses his grip on the rope trailing from the bumper, and snap —there goes Robin, flying on smooth ball bearings, straight into a heaping pile of trash bags. Tim winces. He quickly unhooks himself, slides down the bridge like Tarzan in the jungle. He ducks behind crates to creep closer.

The Batmobile has slammed to a stop, and Nightwing’s head pops up over the top of the car, peering in the direction of the garbage. Two gauntleted hands suddenly shoot up from the pile, enthusiastic thumbs-ups, which Tim definitely gets a still and video of. This is going to be the Gotham gif of the month, Tim thinks with glee. Nightwing starts laughing, then, and scrambles over the roof of the Batmobile to go help Robin up. Tim gets a couple pictures of them embracing, and Nightwing brushing stray trash off of an animated Robin as he gestures wildly and wobbles a bit on the skates, and then a slight movement captures Tim’s eye.

He swings the camera over in time to get Batman in the frame, having just dropped down from wherever he came from this time. The boys are just turning, twin smiles still firmly on their faces. Even from where Tim is hidden, Batman’s shoulders seem to slump, and he crosses his arms, body language screaming I’m surrounded by children . Which, he technically is? But whose fault is that . 

Tim packs away his camera as Batman clearly begins scolding his wayward proteges, too far away for Tim to hear. This was already the latter part of their night shift, and there’s no way Batman is patrolling any longer after his kids demonstrated that they’ve mentally clocked out for the night. If the vigilantes are packing it in, it’s definitely time for Tim to head home too.

  The next morning, Tim finds comments on his latest post and pictures flooding his inbox. People love seeing the family dynamic between Batman, Nightwing, and Robin, apparently, who could have guessed. “Agent A” even comments on this one, which is a rare delight. Tim can count on one hand the number of times that Agent A, Oracle, or the Bats themselves have interacted with his work in any way, and it’s still a thrill. His comment is a simple “Thank you.” (Tim wouldn’t be surprised if one of his photos ends up taped in the Batcave somewhere by Alfred as a part of their weird family memory wall that he likes to imagine exists down there.)

Tim’s never felt prouder.

  His good mood lasts through two mugs of Bruce’s coffee, a slew of comment moderation during lunch while struggling to keep Jason’s prying hands off of Tim’s laptop, and a short walk to the park to take some practice candids of people walking their dogs.

Then his phone rings, something it never does , and Tim’s heart sinks. It’s his dad’s number, of course. 

He can’t help but wonder what bad news they’re going to have for him this time about their trip schedule, and hits answer call already resigned to whatever the situation is. At least in a few hours he’ll be back out on the streets, focusing on other kids’ problems like he does every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday before the Bats start their patrol. If he’s got to be lonely and left behind with a high-limit credit card to cover expenses that never gets checked on —and believe him, Tim knows, he spent six very strange months racking up increasingly ridiculous charges on that thing and not a peep came from his parental units over in Guatemala—then his parents don’t get to be mad if he budgets in extra food and clothing money for Gotham’s street kids. The rich are supposed to be philanthropic, right? Kind to the less fortunate and all that. Follow the great Bruce Wayne’s lead. 

After all, thinks Tim, he’s been watching from afar, learning from the best.

[iatethepomegranate]

DickTiger Week Day 6: Love Letter

I’m so tired help

Masterlist (including AO3 links)

Title: Scrapbook

Rating: Teen

Length: 2.3k

Summary: Dick and Tiger leave each other letters whenever they're apart.

Notes: Spoilers for the end of the Grayson comic.

Scrapbook

Neither Dick nor Tiger could remember who left the first letter, but it soon became a habit. Whenever one would be absent for a time, they would leave a note. They both left them for each other when on separate missions and Tiger would leave them when he rose early to pray.

Dick started collecting them, though he hadn't told Tiger. After Spyral, they were all Dick had to remember him by while Tiger took over the organisation and flew across the world on missions that required his personal touch.

This stretched on for months. Dick returned to Gotham, to Nightwing, to his family. But early every morning, no matter how tired he was, he would jolt awake as if expecting Tiger to be there, getting out of bed to pray.

He wasn't there, and now Dick couldn't sleep. One morning, exhausted and fed up, Dick found the file he kept Tiger's notes in. He'd managed to snag it while leaving his quarters at Spyral after the fight was over, having left it behind when the pair of them went on the run. They had left each other short notes on the backs of wrappers while going against Spyral, but most of those had ended up stashed in Tiger's vest pouches.

Dick laid the notes he did have out on the floor and began to sort them into chronological order, relieved that Tiger had dated every single one. Maybe he knew Dick wanted to keep them, even if fraternisation had technically been against the rules.

The first one Dick could find, though he was fairly certain there had been a few before, was dated for a mission Tiger undertook while Dick was recovering from a broken rib.

Do not break anything else while I am gone.

Tiger hadn't signed that one. That came later. He had still been too awkward about their relationship at this time, closer to frenemies-with-benefits than romance.

Go back to sleep. I will return soon.

Written the first time they had spent the whole night together, and Tiger briefly left to pray in the early hours of the morning.

Dick separated the morning prayer notes from the mission notes, and soon his bedroom floor was covered with papers. A physical representation of their time together.

Then he found another of the go back to sleep notes, a few months after the first. The one that made things all too real.

Prayer. Go back to sleep. I love you.

It was the first time Tiger had said those words in any form, and he didn't return to bed that morning. Dick had given him a few hours of space before sliding a note beneath his bedroom door for him to find later. Dick didn't have that one, but it had been short and simple and easy to remember:

I love you, too.

Dick missed him. Terribly.

He sorted the notes in an exhausted daze, and then ate three bowls of cereal. That ate up the time until stores began to open, so Dick threw on some clothes and headed down the street fuelled by coffee and loneliness.

He needed a scrapbook. Now.

Tiger had finally carved out some time to leave Spyral. He did not trust his agents to survive without him for long, but they had improved in the months since he had taken over. Long enough that he could visit Gotham for a few days.

Batman and his associates changed their communicator frequencies often, so Dick had not bothered to give him that. Instead, he gave a piece of advice: watch the batsignal.

So Tiger settled on a building close to the GCPD, but not close enough to raise alarm, and watched through binoculars every time the signal hit the sky. Batman arrived on the roof with Robin, a grumpy young teenager whose legs were growing faster than the rest of him. Nightwing joined them moments later. Perfect.

He tracked Nightwing's progress as he separated from the pair, flying south through the use of his grapnel launcher. Tiger followed, close enough that Nightwing would notice him, but not so close that he would be alarmed.

Nightwing landed on the roof of an apartment complex, leaning against the fire escape railing. Tiger dropped beside him.

“I thought it was you,” Nightwing replied. “Already radioed the fam. I'm free for the night.”

“Did you tell them why?”

“I told them I had a last-minute meeting with the new head of Spyral.” Nightwing started down the fire escape, beckoning Tiger to follow. “Pretty sure Red Robin has me figured out, but he won't say anything.”

They climbed down a set of stairs and Nightwing pressed a short code into a keypad on the nearest windowsill. There was a soft click, and he slid the window open.

By the time Tiger joined him in what appeared to be the bedroom, Dick had switched on the bedside lamp and discarded his mask, gloves and boots. He reached past Tiger to shut the window and remained close, turning his back.

“Unzip me?”

“Do you always get help undressing?” Tiger asked, dragging the zipper down from Dick's neck to his waist, letting himself stroke the exposed skin with the backs of his fingers.

Dick stepped out of his uniform and tossed it aside, standing in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts that Tiger couldn't believe had actually fit under his uniform. “No. But you were right there.” He slid Tiger's backpack off his shoulders and tossed it on the bed. “You hungry? I've got some leftover noodles in the fridge with our names on them.”

“Are you going to put clothes on?”

“Wasn't planning to.” Dick led Tiger out of the bedroom and sat him on the couch. “I'll be back in a minute.”

Dick's living room was only a few feet long, housing a couch, television and a coffee table buried under piles of... everything.

On top of the pile sat a photo album or scrapbook. The title read: Love Letters. Tiger knew Dick had taken his file of letters home with him, but if he had really put in the effort to preserve them like this...

Tiger picked up the book and brought it into the kitchen. “Is this what I think it is?”

Dick turned away from the microwave, eyes widening as he took in what was in Tiger's hands. “Uh, probably? Open it.”

Tiger set the book on the tiny card table and pulled back the cover. The front page held the title again, surrounded by pictures of various birds.

“Damian was going through a bird phase with his art,” Dick explained, staring into the microwave. “He only complained a tiny bit when I asked him to draw me something. Whatever he wanted. Spot the robin.”

A small robin red-breast was perched in the bottom-right corner. “Does he know what this is for?”

“No. He probably just assumed I was making a dorky gift for Barbara or something. I thought asking him to draw a tiger would be too much.”

Tiger turned the page, and came face-to-face with the first letter Dick had kept: Do not break anything else while I am gone. It was the most affectionate thing Tiger could manage when their relationship was new. A badly-drawn broken bone occupied a spot of honour beside it.

“Did you draw this?”

Dick looked over his shoulder and snorted. “Yep. Can you tell?”

“Sadly, yes.”

Dick shrugged. “I tried.” The microwave beeped and he pulled out a bowl of noodles. “Here. Take all this into the living room. I'll be there in a minute.” He shoved a second bowl into the microwave and turned it on. “Go on.”

Tiger sat on the couch and balanced the scrapbook on the one bare section of the coffee table. He barely touched his noodles, staring at his handwriting telling the story of their relationship... of Tiger becoming more comfortable with the concept of a relationship at all.

Prayer. Go back to sleep. I love you.

Tiger remembered being embarrassed as he wrote it, of avoiding Dick all day afterwards. He still had Dick's response, tucked into his backpack with all the other notes he had kept. He left his noodles balanced carefully on the couch and hurried back to the bedroom, where he dug a book of his own out of the bag.

Dick was on the couch with his own noodles when Tiger returned. “Ooh, what's that?”

“Why did you put my notes in a scrapbook?” Tiger asked.

“Couldn't sleep one morning,” Dick replied. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” He rested the book on Dick's bare legs. “I did not draw anything. Sorry.”

Dick patted the couch. “Don't be sorry. You saw how bad my art was.”

Tiger sat back down and ate several mouthfuls of noodles while Dick paged through the book. Dick was always fun to watch, but especially now as his smile grew bigger and bigger with every letter he reread.

“Remember this one?” Dick asked, tapping one that just read: I love you too.

Tiger nodded, his throat suddenly too tight for speech. He had found it in his room the evening he spent the whole day avoiding Dick. For some reason, he had not expected Dick to say it back.

“I still love you, by the way,” Dick said.

“I love you too.” The words came more easily now than ever.

Dick kept flipping through the book. “Aw, you kept our candy wrapper notes. I'd hoped you hadn't lost them.” He smoothed down the wrinkled corner of one Tiger had written: I love you but please stop singing. Dick had written one in response: Please don't make me choose between the two greatest loves of my life.

Tiger's response to that had been short and to the point: You disgust me. He had meant it in jest, obviously.

“Being on the run was exhausting,” Dick said, “but I had a great time with you.”

“I feel the same.”

“Glad you didn't kill Helena and ruin everything?”

Tiger rolled his eyes, but still said yes. He had not wanted to kill her, but that had been the only option at the time.

“And look! We're together again.” Dick nudged him. “We should keep up the notes, you know. I like looking back on them.”

Tiger liked that, too.

Then they kissed, and he never wanted to leave again.

Their relationship continued in fits and starts and stolen moments for the next few years, until one day Tiger passed Dick an envelope after they'd spent their first night together in months... again.

“What's this?”

“Open it.” Tiger grabbed a fistful of the bedsheets to fight the nerves, relieved that Dick was focused on the envelope rather than him.

Dick pulled Tiger's note out, and a pair of rings fell onto the sheets. “No way.” He opened the letter so quickly that he almost tore it.

“Read it aloud?” Tiger requested.

Dick was already grinning wider than Tiger had ever seen. “Sure, babe. Dear, Richard. I apologise for the formality, but it seemed appropriate. We have spent so much of our time apart and it has given me time to think about our relationship. I have grown tired of seeing you once every few weeks at best. I want to see you every day. I want to wake up to your sleeping face, even when you drool on the pillow and talk in your sleep. I want to eat breakfast with you and watch your eyes slowly wake as the caffeine hits your system. I want to hear your praise your family whenever they achieve their goals, and I want to watch you reach your own. I want to spent the rest of my life with...” Dick trailed off, blinking rapidly towards the ceiling.

Tiger had spent so much time agonising over what to write that knew the letter by heart, so he kept talking, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I love you more than anything else in the world—and I really wish you were still reading this because I am embarrassing myself.”

“Shut up,” Dick said thickly. “Keep going.”

“I cannot do both at once.”

Dick elbowed him. “Fine. I'll do it. Richard Grayson, will you marry me?” He dropped the letter. “Of course I will, Tiger.” Then he leaned over and threw a second envelope into Tiger's lap. “Great minds think alike, huh? Shame I hadn't finished writing the letter, damn you.”

Tiger shook out a second pair of rings, and they laughed together.

Dick finished his letter and proposed to Tiger the following afternoon. Those letters became their wedding vows.

They reread their love letter scrapbooks every anniversary, and Tiger pretended he wasn't crying each time. Dick never teased him for it.

Years later, they still wrote little notes for each other and pasted them into a new, shared scrapbook. From the mundane to the just plain strange—from gone out to get milk to sorry babe had to rescue seventeen cats from the same tree—every note had its own little position of honour.

Every time they fought, every time they missed each other, they could look back on those notes and remember why they were sharing a life together. Even though they bought each other plenty of gifts over the years, from new plates to the world's ugliest shirt to an orange kitten they called Tony, nothing could ever compare to the gift they had given each other right at the beginning.

Neither Dick nor Tiger could remember who had written the first note, but that person had been a genius.