#they made a deal once a long time ago and refused to let alfred die

[emacrow]

Alfred was about to go on his annual grocery shopping excepted... he didn't count on bringing a baby in a basket home. Pt 1

It was that time again for alfred to get some much needed groceries replenishment as he has noticed a great shrinkage in the food pantry..

Going to his annual favorite grocery store that had his favorite teas, exotic spices and blueberries cheese cake that was to die for.

Collecting 3 carts full of ingredients, food and snacks with the new assistance workers help of a nice young ladies with blue flaming like hair and orange hair.

He was done with his groceries shopping in less then 3 hours and had his groceries helped back in his personal car by the two young workers.

He make sure to tip them extra generously, the young lady with the orange hair look up to him with a almost misty light blue eyes as she cling to the money to her chest.

"Thank you.." She whispered quietly but he heard it well enough as he nods getting in his car and driving back to Wayne Manor. Unaware of a extra basket added in the backseat with other groceries bags.

Once he arrived around 6am in the morning , he picked each groceries bags and brought to the kitchen along side help of sleep deprived Tim who was only here to get his Death wish Coffee espresso that he just ran out yesterday.

He was now just organizing everything in the correct place until there was only the last thing left was in a brown basket..

Tim had just escaped with his freshly brew cup of death coffee.

That was when Alfred heard a distant noise... coming from the basket.

A coo.. that he haven't heard in decades.

A little baby coo.

Alfred walk softly towards the basket as he peek in a bit forward to see a tiny little fluffy of blue baby cap with a small baby suckling onto a galaxy theme pacifier, tiny yet bright blue eyes and a scatter of freckles.

Along with a letter addressed to him as grandfather Pennyworth. Signed by his great great great granddaughter.

New post

[pomegranates-and-blood]

In another life

My Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader, Ivar/Awful Life Choices

Summary: Ragnarök has come for all of them, the Seer’s words to Ivar prove right, and he wonders on what the world ending truly means when he has already lost it all.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Mentions of death, descriptions of violence and death, major character death, angst (or my best attempt at it anyways, but this ain’t a happy story), and my terrible writing.

A/N: So, the world ending, right? Charming thing to write about. I just really like the idea of reincarnation and yeah, here goes. The quote is by cynthiago, you can find it here.

In this universe, the Heathen Army conquered Northumbria and Mercia and it kept raiding for longer than in the show. In this universe, no Freydis. Björn was made King of Kattegat by undirectly, as a result of helping Lagertha defeating Ivar, who took to the Silk Roads with the Reader chracter , and found the Rus and thus, shitshow.

Not long ago he was just like this, sitting before his chariot, covered in blood, and facing an army that hesitated at the sight of him.

But this time, this time is different.

There’s no Viking army to support him, there’s no Ubbe or Hvitserk to fight beside him, there’s no…there’s no victory.

There’s no chariot at his back, only splintered wood.

He remembers the Wise One’s words, so many years ago when he told Ivar of his Fate: your chariot lies as broken as your legs, a snake has settled in your skull, your eyes betray you.

He hears laughter, or at least it sounds like it in his head. The cackles that left his lips as Christians died before him, the mocking giggle of that Rus as he forced his hand, the warm laugh you breathed by his ear as you promised to marry him.

A cruel twist of Fate, or maybe just his arrogance playing against him, but he realizes now none of it happened in the order the Seer spoke it.

“There has to be more to it than…this, don’t you think?” You ask, eyes on the horizon before you. Ivar moves closer, pressing a kiss on your bare shoulder and silently demanding your attention returns to him.

It doesn’t, and it irks him more than he should let it by now.

But, he gathers, a part of him will always want you, want your attention, your touch, your eyes meeting his. He can’t imagine a day he won’t want to have you in his arms, just like he refuses to imagine the day he can’t.

You agreed to marry him once a deal with Alfred is struck and the war can pause, he reminds himself of that with a familiar warmth spreading through his chest. You’ll be his wife, only his.

The memory of your warm laugh as you embraced him and whispered your promises to be bound to him before the Gods and your families -or what was left of them- makes him want to have you all to himself, to feel nothing but you for hours on end.

But, because you asked a question, and because even the slightest of rejections, even one born out of genuine curiosity for an answer, Ivar knows will make him lash out; he replies,

“All that’s left that isn’t ours is Wessex, love.”

You shake your head, “I mean…more than these years we have here. More than this life.”

“Valhalla?”

“Maybe,” You muse, and your eyes return to the horizon. “Maybe there’s more to life than this. Maybe…maybe we get to live again.”

“Like those Eastern men say? We…return?” Ivar questions, the beginning of a mocking smile teasing at his lips before he bites it back, aware of the seriousness in your expression.

You were always one to question everything and nothing. Why an axe curves that way, why Freyja favors cats, why Vikings must be bound to these lands.

Why the world is so big and life so short.

You and Björn have that in common, he guesses. Though you don’t have the thirst for discovery his brother does, instead you just look for…transcendence.

“Maybe we’ll meet in another life.” You seal your promise, your hope, with a kiss against his lips, and smile.

His eyes stay trained on your inviting lips even as he argues, “But you know where we go when we die.”

“Valhalla, Ragnarök, it all may mean something else,” You whisper back, “Things are not as literal as you think they are, Ivar.”

“What does Ragnarök mean to you then?”

“The end of the world,” You reply without hesitation, a slight waver in your voice, “But the world ends every day for someone different.”

It is only then he realizes your eyes are not on the horizon, but on the trails of smoke left by the burning pyres of those lost in the fight.

Ivar can still remember your warmth. You were so…alive, so warm and free and so alike fire.

He spent most of his younger years breathing life to that fire, making you clench your hands into fists and get that adorable little frown with well-placed taunts and jabs.

Gods, you even felt like fire under his fingertips when he touched you, he can still remember how your touch scalded and soothed away years of pain and anger and loss. You kissed him and it felt like the cold that made the bones in his legs ache never existed, you touched him and it felt as if he’d never again know what it was like to be alone.

You’d promise love against his skin in fervent kisses that left their mark even after so many years, and for every time he’d tell you how being loved by you felt like the best kind of wildfire, you’d tell him being loved by him felt like the soothing embrace of ice over a burn, like a relief after a lifetime with bare feet on burning coal.

And he wishes he had believed you.

For so long he thought his eyes to deceive him when it came to you, when it came to the proof of your love and your loyalty. For so long, he wasted so much time fearing you’d leave him, betray him.

Now you haunt him.

Your eyes are big and filled with tears as you look at him, but he refuses to give away his own weakness, instead gritting his teeth and looking at you with nothing but fury and poison.

“If I don’t kill you, you’ll…”

“I’ll kill you, and I’ll make it painful.” Ivar promises, voice hoarse not because you threaten his life with your sword - the sword he gifted you, back in a time when you were cruel enough to pretend to love him- at his throat, but because he knows only one of you will leave this room alive.

You shake your head, and your head drops, your back curves with a sob that still tugs at a pathetic and stupid part of his heart.

“You’ll kill us all,” You whisper, and though your voice trembles, the grip on the sword grows tighter, more certain, “You’ll be the end of our world, if I don’t stop you.”

“Then stop me.” He dares, and Gods, he wants your eyes back on his. It is the end, and he realizes what you meant when you said the world ends many times for many people.

“Don’t make me do this.” You beg, but he doesn’t think you’re talking to him. Maybe Fate, maybe the Gods, he doesn’t know.

“You’re not strong enough to kill me.” Ivar offers, more softly than he should. But it is true, and you both know it. And when your gaze -finally- returns to his, he sees it written in the tears that stream down your cheeks, in the helpless and furious shine of your eyes.

“But I am strong enough to defend my people.” You state, resolute, and though you lower your sword with a shaky breath, Ivar still feels the threat of sharp steel at his throat, but for completely different reasons.

Cold grips at his heart, fear and dread.

“You will not leave me.” He states, voice as certain as it has ever been, and yet it still tastes of desperation, still feels like the lie a madman tells himself.

“I know your ways of war, my love. If anyone, I am the only weapon our people have in fighting against you and these Rus.”

“I will not let you betray me!” He yells, but you don’t react, you only step closer.

The sword makes a clanking noise as you drop it that rattles inside his head.

Your eyes fill with tears, or maybe his do, he doesn’t know anymore.

Your smile is sad, but it still speaks of days spent with you safe in his arms, of nights when your voice by his ear was the one thing that kept him from breaking, of a life that he thought you’d be able to have.

His eyes flutter shut when your hand lifts to his face, dainty and delicate fingers tracing the newest of scars. He curses his weakness, and he forces his eyes to open and meet yours, if only because it may be the last time he can.

Your lips breathe a kiss over his.

“Only death would stop me.”

And with five words and one movement of his hand, his world ends.

Ivar watches as the warriors make way for one of their own. A leader, maybe.

He extends his arms at his sides, even if his ribs keep him from breathing, even if his arms shake, even if he doesn’t see on one eye from the blood that pours from the deep cut on his head. He taunts him, dares him to attack like he did so long ago in a city they have long since lost.

The warrior swirls a sword in his hand, and drops the shield he was holding, eyes set on Ivar. Ivar knows he won’t win.

You did always say he realized his mistakes too late.

You were the only one he ever admitted to any regret, so when the devastating realization of what the war he had brought to his homeland meant for his people and the Gods themselves dawned on him, he had no one to talk to but the wind.

It has been like that for a long time. He doesn’t remember any more how long it has been since…since.

Maybe it is better this way, that no one is there to know how many regrets he carries with him to wherever the Gods will take him. Maybe it is better they think of Sigurd’s death as the cold act of a man that can love nothing, and not the rash action that cost him something he didn’t know he held dear. Maybe it is better they think the war he brought with the Rus at his back is the ruthless planning of a man that would burn it all for a throne, and not the stupid mistake of a king with no kingdom and too much arrogance to see when he was walking into a trap.

Maybe it is better they think your death was the certain and inevitable action of a monster that can’t love anything more than his own ambitions, and not the act of desperation and fear that cost him everything.

The man in front of him steps closer, without fear, without hesitation.

He lost someone. Ivar knows that glint in his eyes. The man wants revenge.

He wouldn’t be the only one. For all the Rus and their games took from him, for all the Saxons and their God have cost him, why should he have allowed any of them to have anything to call their own? No, they deserved to suffer, to feel what it is like to have the world end with a whimper, to know what happens to those who take what is his.

He doesn’t feel any shame -even though he knows you would, you would blink big and sad eyes his way and whisper about mercy and softness and goodness, as if any of those saved you-, and he didn’t feel any then, when he ordered his men to kill the children, to take the wives and hang them for them all to see along the edges of the battlefield; when he led raids and had them burn the villages to ash; when he laughed and laughed until all that was left was raw throat and hoarse sobs as they lost it all, just like he did.

He manages to hook the curved edge of the axe behind the man’s knee, and brings him down to his level, moving quickly and attempting to ignore the pain of broken legs, of cut and bruised body, as he settles over him, letting the axe find a home in the man’s eye.

A scream, pained and guttural, and the man strikes back, trying to move him back but unable to do so.

Ivar feels the piercing and sudden sting of the blade that goes through him, like his did so long ago, to too many people that were undeserving of that fate. But it is with a smile he greets his Fate, his death.

He kills that man, and drops beside him as if their Gods, their wars, stopped mattering, and made them equal. There are no kings, no commanders, no Vikings and no Christians. Only two dead men in a rundown city, and an army that watches in silence.

With gasping and broken breaths, he looks with blind eyes up at the sky, and he knows he will die today.

Your chariot lies as broken as your legs, a snake has settled in your skull, your eyes betray you.

The Seer was right, he always was. Ragnarök came for them all, their world as they know it will end. And the end isn’t far, both for the golden age of the Vikings and for Ivar.

His eyes always betrayed him; he has learned that. Seeing shadows and betrayals where there was none, seeing tricks and lies where there was only truth. For a long time holding on to the certainty that it hadn’t been his fault, he believed it meant seeing love and loyalty in your eyes when you were only playing with him. He knows now, has known for a while, it meant seeing in the smile you pressed against his lips the life he wanted you both to build, and not the strain of a woman pulled between her love for him and her love for her people.

Ivar believed for so long the snake that settled in his skull was you, with your soft touches and your warmth and your love; he was blinded with his own hate and fury, so certain in this self-fulfilling prophecy of his that you could never love him, that it was all a trick. Gods, you were right beside him telling him not to trust Oleg, not to turn his back on his -your- people, and he didn’t listen. The snake that settled in his skull cost him all he had left, the one he had loved above anyone else. He made sure to make him suffer before he died, he would fight this endless and already-lost war for a thousand years for a chance to make Oleg pay for it again.

But, at the end, it wasn’t Oleg’s knife piercing your heart, was it?

His body shakes, and he cannot stop it, he cannot control his breathing and Gods, he is dying.

He looks up at the sky, the sky that remained the same when you died in his arms with love on your lips and regret in your eyes, the sky that remains the same now as the last of the battles for life as they know it is lost.

And Ivar thinks -hopes, he hopes like he hasn’t hoped for anything in such a long time- that maybe you were right after all. Ragnarök isn’t darkness and chaos for them all, for the world ends each day a different way for everyone. The Gods know his world ended on a cold night years ago, and has ended again every day since.

Maybe Valhalla is nothing but another chance to live again.

He murmurs your name with a ragged breath that leaves his lungs at last, and pleads that if the Gods hear him, they will let him see you again. In another life.

____

So, I hope you liked it! I would really love to hear your thoughts on this, it has been boinking around in my head for a while, the idea of reincarnation and of the Seer’s prophecy about Ivar.

Anyhow, this is thought out to be the first part of a two (or more, but still short) series, where I dip my toe on the modern/soulmate!au. It can, of course, end here, because I tried writing it to be a standalone if moderns are not your thing.

If you guys are interested, I can write the next part(s), tho it could take a lil while cause I have a lot of stuff to do writing-wise, atm.

Thank you so much, I love you all! <3

[danny-chase]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Titans (Comics), Nightwing - Fandom Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Donna Troy & Dick Grayson Characters: Donna Troy, Dick Grayson, Roy Harper (mentioned), Garth (mentioned), Joey Wilson (mentioned) Additional Tags: non-graphic injury, Stitches, Donna and Dick are plutonic soulmates, Dick is emotionally repressed, mention of vomiting, Bruce is a good dad, POV Donna Troy, childhood best friends to adult best friends, Whipped Cream, a little fluff at the end, Teen Titans as Family, technically they're adults though, no beta we die like DONNA SORRY HONEY, Dick Grayson is Bad at Feelings, Donna Troy is slightly better at feelings Summary:

The one where Dick gives Donna stitches as she reflects on how he's changed throughout the years.

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“Donna, sweetheart, I love you, now hold still.” Dick carefully positioned her forearm on an examination table. A deep gash left blood steadily trickling down, squeezing out through his iron grasp. He wiped down the area with disinfectant, smiling at her fondly and projecting the perfect image of calm.

 Donna marveled for a moment. He was a well-oiled machine, moving with explicit confidence and practiced precision. She could easily believe him to be a paramedic, or even a doctor, if she didn’t know he’d dropped out of college. She remained stony face as he injected the local anesthetic, acutely aware of his eyes flicking from the gash to her face. Despite the painful stinging radiating through her arm, she was proud to say she didn’t flinch.

She was tired of hurting her best friend. She was the one who wasn’t careful enough, hadn’t dodged in time. But none of that ever mattered to Dick, perhaps it wasn’t fair, but if she flinched, he’d feel even worse.

 She still remembered the look on his face the first time he gave Roy stitches.

 There’d been tears welling in his eyes, his brow furrowed in determination and his skin lacking any color; he’d bit his lip so hard it bled. The instant he was finished, he raced out of the room, faster than she’d ever seen. Garth had followed, only to have the bathroom door slammed in his face; Dick had sobbed and vomited until he was left dry heaving.

 And here he stood, expressionless before her. “Can you feel it?” He gently pressed a finger near the wound. <em>Can you?</em> She wondered, trying to read past the blank haze in his eyes. “Donna?” He asked more firmly, voice even and unrevealing.

 “Nope.” She popped the p and kept the tone light, watching as suspicion flashed behind his eyes. He knew she wouldn’t complain, even if she could feel her arm. “Dick, I really can’t feel it, I promise.”

 Dick’s eyes always reminded her of a hawk. He inspected her face, and finding it clear from deceit, he turned his eyes to the wound, flicking on a bright lamp, and began wordlessly cleaning it.

 That first time, Dick hadn’t come out of the bathroom for hours and when he finally opened the door, he announced he was quitting the team. He was back the next day with a medical textbook, refusing to do anything until he finished memorizing it. They had to call Bruce in the middle of their sleepover because he wouldn’t sleep.

 He’d been grounded from Robin; they hadn’t seen him for a week. She’d been angry at the time, but now she realized Bruce was probably just trying to give him a break. The day he came back the book was memorized, and he had a little fake pad to practice stitching on. Bruce bought him his own surgical tools and gave him extra lessons. He had a small, jagged scar where he’d let Dick give him his first set of sutures.

 Dick was thirteen when he’d frantically given Roy stitches (later she realized he only knew how from watching Alfred), fourteen the first time he’d practice on Bruce, and sixteen by the time he began doing it apathetically. He did a lot of things seemingly apathetic these days, but if she was careful, she could spot the crinkle at the corner of his eyes, or the downward twitch of his lip.

 Slowly, Dick’s tweezers found and picked out the last metal shard. He was twenty-two now, and as he was readying their x-ray machine, the equipment was purchased by Victor’s father and not his own. The Titan’s Tower had been destroyed several times over, but by some miracle of engineering, the medical bay’s equipment always survived. He wrapped the wound, and draped lead over her, hesitating briefly before speaking.

 “I’ll be back in a second, it won’t take long.” He promised. She nodded; not like she was going anywhere. They’d done this before; Dick always doubled checked. But she couldn’t recall a single time he’d found something more.

 One time, he’d skipped the double check, and she’d heard Roy yelling at 3am, having been woken up when Dick’s worry got too intense to wait. But Roy had given in, the x-ray done a few minutes later. Sometimes, it was just easier to give into Dick’s paranoid behavior. One of these days, she liked to joke, they’d just put lead in their sheets or MRI equipment in the walls.

 Dick strode back in, evidently pleased with the results, and they began their silent tradition. Well almost silent; he turned on some ambient music, the same kind he listened to when studying. She let her mind wander, and his fingers never wavered as he removed the bandage and began the first stitch.

 She closed her eyes, thinking about times when things were simpler. When they went on picnics in the park and played frisbee together, how Dick would braid her hair and paint her nails before dates with Roy, had laughed loud, cried hard, and loved freely. He was the same as before but could flip on a dime and shut away who he used to be. She found herself missing the little boy who cried after giving stitches.  

 “Done.” She opened her eyes to an apologetic smile. He began wrapping the wound once again. “Lay off it for a while.” It was an order and a request, sometime long ago the distinction had faded away. She rolled her eyes to finish the routine.

 Her arm stung, but the weight in her chest was heavier and more distracting than the steady throb of pain. She wasn’t thirteen anymore, and neither was Dick, but she could pretend for the rest of the night that they were young and invincible (despite having physical evidence contradicting her).  

 So, she grabbed his hand tight and before he realized what was happening, began dragging him across the room.

 “Donna, I have work tomorrow.” He protested. Well, that would be easy enough to deal with.

 “Call in sick.” She suggested, not slackening her grip, lest Dick escape and fly off somewhere far away.

 “I’m out of sick days.” He stumbled along, doing his best to protest without causing harm. “And I have to patrol tonight.” Donna laughed, but not unkindly.

 “Let the city watch itself. Take a day without pay. Honey, you’re rich.” She suggested.

 “Doooonnnnnaaaaaaaaaa.” He groaned, as they made it into the hall. “I have a life, I can’t just…”

 “Drop everything to spend time with me?” She asked sweetly. “Sweetie, you have before. What makes tonight any different.” Dick opened his mouth and closed it. She steered them into the kitchen, finally releasing him. “We’re going to make hot fudge sundaes, and watch Scooby Doo, and fall asleep on the couch talking about boys.” Dick wrinkled his nose.

 “You hate Scooby Doo, and only <em>you</em> talk about boys.” She gave him an unimpressed look. She saw the way he used to look at Joey. “Donna, I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s great but I-”

 “Need to take time to take care of yourself?” She asked incredulously. “Wow, me too.” She held up her arm. “What a coincidence, less talking, more cartoons.” Dick stared at her. She counted the seconds as she stared back.

 He sighed, breaking first. She’d won this battle, though she had no idea where she stood in the war.

 “I’m going to lose my job.” He muttered. A bonus in her eyes, it would do him good to sleep more than three hours a night. She rummaged around for ingredients in the fridge.

 “Cry me a river.” An empty demand, he never would, not anymore.

 “Why are you so mean to me?” He pouted. She grabbed a can of whip cream and pointed it at him threateningly.

 “Because you have terrible bedside manners.” He stuck out his tongue and stole the can, dangling it over her face as she laughed and opened her mouth. He accidentally squirted some up her nose, but she didn’t mind.

 And as he pulled out the bowls, they fell into familiar conversation; the space gained through the years seeming to slip away as she was reacquainted with the man who gives her stitches.

[sassyshoulderangel319]

Fictober18 Day 8 “I know you do.”

Fandom/Character(s): DC Comics, BatFam - Dick Grayson/Nightwing

“I know you do,” I said, brushing some of Dick’s bangs out of his eyes. “And I love you too. But you have to promise me you’re going to be careful.”

He snorted. “It’s me, remember? Leap first, look for the net second.”

“There is no net out there.”

He beamed. “I know! That’s what makes it so exciting!”

I scoffed. “You’re such an adrenaline junkie.”

“Am not! No adrenaline---only justice!” Dick exclaimed in a really bad impression of Batman.

It worked though. I started laughing, wrapping my arms around his neck and shoulders and burying my face in his chest. “I’m going to miss you,” I said. His arms reached up and held me close.

“I’ll miss you too. More than anything. But it’s only for a couple months. Then I’ll be back, okay?”

“Promise me you’ll be careful.” I pulled back from our hug to look him in the face.

He met my eyes, contemplating me with a tilted head. His eyes were piercing blue and stabbed me right in the soul. After a moment, he gave me the softest, gentlest smile. “I swear,” he said quietly. His fingers threaded into my hair. “I promise.” He pulled me back to his chest and just held me as tight as he could. I could feel his nose in my hair. “I’ll be back before you know it. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Your optimism is something I’ve always admired. But a little more realism wouldn’t be amiss here. Every time one of us leaves we can’t guarantee we’re going to come home.”

“I believe that’s why I promised that I’d be careful,” he said. “It’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna be so busy keeping Blüdhaven safe on your own that you won’t even notice I’m gone. I’ll be back before you know it. Everything will be just fine.”

“I’m gonna believe you,” I said. “Because I can’t bear to imagine the other options.”

He kissed my forehead. “Don’t worry. I’m coming home. No way you can get rid of me that easy.”

“I love you,” I mumbled into his chest.

“I know you do. I love you too.”

“Tim, what---what are you doing in Blüdhaven?” I asked.

The boy’s eyes were red and puffy. His nose was pink. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his coat and he was shaking. He refused to look me in the eye, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on my belt.

“Tim? What’s wrong?” I pressed, putting my hand on his shoulder and pulling him into the apartment. I shut the door and gave him a hug. “What’s goin’ on, kiddo?” Didn’t matter that Tim grew taller than me years ago---he would always be kiddo. Damian too. “Is it Steph?”

“No. No it---it’s Dick,” Tim whispered as though he didn’t trust himself to use his voice.

I felt my body go rigid. “What about Dick?”

Silence.

“Tim?!”

Tim sniffed. “There... there was a bomb... He... he tried to evacuate the building. Kept going back in to get others out. He...”

“No. Tim. However that story ends... no.”

Tim shook his head. “He didn’t make it.”

I could feel my knees turning to jelly. I wobbled a bit and had to let go of Tim’s hug to sit down. “No, I... I... he... he promised,” I breathed, barely able to put my thoughts into words. My voice broke on the last word.

Tim sat next to me and held me close. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But he... he died a true hero. The roof collapsed before the bomb went off. The building was on fire. He pushed a woman out of the way. Saved her life. But he... he was too close.” He gave me a squeeze. “He loved you more than anything. Every time he contacted us he made sure to ask how you were. I have a backlog of all the times he told us to tell you he loved you. I... I brought them with me.” He pulled several folded papers out of the pocket of his coat.

Tears fell, unbidden, down my face. I pulled my knees up onto the sofa and started to cry. He couldn’t be gone. Not really. There must have been some mistake...!

Tim seemed to read my thoughts. “There wasn’t any mistake, Mrs. G. I’m sorry.”

My breath hitched in my throat. No. NO! It couldn’t be real! He wasn’t gone! He couldn’t be! Dick was too... too strong. Too tough. Too smart. Too skilled. He must have done something---

“Mrs. Grayson?” Tim asked. We’d been friends for years but after I married his older brother it was always Mrs. G or Mrs. Grayson with him.

“Hmm?”

“Whenever you’re ready, Alfred’s offered to help plan a... the... a funeral...”

I sniffed and wiped my running nose. “Thanks Tim.”

“Are you nuts?!” Dick demanded, ducking under a roundhouse kick. “She thinks I’m dead! I can’t just leave her like that! What happens when she finds out it was all a lie, huh? She’ll raze the city!”

“It’ll be me she’s mad at. Not you,” Bruce said. “You need to do this.”

“No! I’ve already done it once! I faked my death to join Spyral and I am not going to do that to her!” Dick spat, blocking a haymaker and dealing a kick to the side.

“Tim doesn’t even know. He already went to Blüdhaven to tell her before I could say anything. She thinks you’re dead!”

“I DON’T CARE!” Dick roared. “I AM NOT LETTING HER BELIEVE I’M GONE FOR THAT LONG! I did this for you once. Find someone else to do it!” He moved to storm off somewhere else.

“Richard!” Batman snapped. “This isn’t just something you can ignore---”

He was cut off by a kick to the gut. “I became Nightwing because I was sick of following your orders, Batman,” he snarled, calling his adoptive father by Batman to disconnect emotionally from the man in front of him---who he’d die for under any other circumstances. “And now again. I’m going home to my wife and I don’t care what you say!”

Bruised and bandaged, he left the Batcave.

“You doin’ okay, Mrs. G?” Jason asked. Was the stove on? Why was the stove on?

I sat listlessly at the kitchen counter, staring blankly ahead. “Uh-huh,” I replied automatically.

“No you’re not,” Jason said, pressing something warm into my hand. A mug.

I looked down.

Hot chocolate.

“No. I’m not,” I admitted. I looked up to meet my brother-in-law’s gaze. Jason’s eyes were a different shade of blue from Dick’s. Dick’s were lighter, nearing turquoise, and piercing. Jason’s were darker with gunmetal in them. “I love him.”

“I know. We all know. You two were the most sickly-in-love couple I’d ever seen.”

“Mm,” I grunted.

Jason sat next to me at the counter. “You miss him.” It wasn’t a question.

“More than anything,” I said.

He took a sip of his drink. I couldn’t tell if it was tea or hot chocolate. “I’m sorry. I know how much you two loved each other. Honestly, no matter how much I complained about it, I really was... grateful to see that relationships can work out and be... happy.”

“Thanks Jay,” I said, taking a half-hearted sip of my hot chocolate.

Jason made the best hot chocolate in the entire family. It was divinely delicious. But I was so downtrodden that I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy it.

He set his hand on my knee. “Hey. Let me know if there’s... anything I can do for you, okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Thanks Jay.”

He grinned. “‘Course.”

I got up from the kitchen counter and went over to the sofa, setting the mug down on the coffee table. I had several photo albums sprawled out. Looking for pictures for... for the funeral...

I sniffed and wiped my nose.

Ding-dong!

I glanced up. “Would you get that, Jay? Tell them I’m not taking visitors at the moment,” I said. “Unless it’s Alfred.”

“Sure thing.” He got up and went to the door. I looked back down at my album. So many memories. There was the trip to Central City we took to see Wally. The amusement park. The aquarium when we had just started dating. There he was on a trapeze, flying above a circus crowd like he was more at home in the air than on the ground.

Creak!

I really needed to get that door fixed...

CRASH!

Jason’s mug dropped, shattering upon hitting the floor.

I looked up in alarm---

And then dropped the photo album.

“Dick!” I shrieked, launching myself over the back of the sofa, over the patch of broken ceramic, and into his arms.

“Ow, sweetheart! Mind the wounds!”

“Oh crap. Sorry.” I let him go, but cradled his face in my hands.

We picked our way back into the apartment while Jason swept up the mess and mopped whatever drink he’d been having. Once the door was shut, I started crying again. “Dick you’re... you’re alive!”

“Yeah,” he replied, looking injured and exhausted. “Little worse for wear but alive.”

I held his face again, barely believing my own eyes. “What happened?”

He smiled at me, gently brushing some of my hair out of my face. “I looked for the net first,” he said.

“I love you,” I said.

“I know you do. I love you too.”