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Here is the scene: Dick in a swivel chair, hands and feet bound, a white handkerchief shoved into his mouth as far as it will go. He always did have a pretty mouth. Even now, with his lips flushed red and slick with saliva, he’s still so freaking Vogue. If only Jason could kiss him.
But he can’t.
And not just because he’s stuck in the same predicament as Golden Boy.
Here is the backstory: Cinderella has been looking for her prince. Except in this case, “looking for her prince” is better translated as “murdering rich young men by way of stiletto.” Which like, deserved , but of course B wants Cinderella brought to justice, et cetera. And so, billionaire supermodel Richard Grayson became Prince Charming. The ruse was going well, until it wasn’t.
Across the room, Dick is staring at him. His hair’s a terrible mess, and it’s never looked better. Everyday Dick Grayson finds a new way to be the most perfect human who’s ever lived. And the worst part is, he’d never believe it.
Exhibit A: that look. Jason knows that look. It’s the same look that appears whenever any of them are bruised or broken. I could have done better. This is my fault. As if Dick is to blame for the bruises on Jason’s arm or the gunshot wound in his thigh.
Oh right. He’s been shot. That was what, one, two hours ago? Strange—it was a bitch at first but hardly hurts anymore. Maybe he’s grown used to pain. Or maybe he’s lost himself in Dick’s beautiful face.
Same thing, really.
Here is the conflict: Jason loves Dick. And if Dick knew, he’d feel guilty for not loving Jason back.
Jason opens his mouth to speak when someone shoves the back of his chair, sending him spinning across the tile floor. The suddenness has him reeling more than the motion, forcing his lungs into his mouth and sending his heartbeat into overtime.
“Not so tough now, are you?” someone laughs. Another voice joins in, deep and guttural.
Blinking, Jason takes in his surroundings. A dimly-lit space, possibly an old conference room. Dusty tiles, broken tables, plants that are dead or dying. Nothing to conceivably use as a weapon.
“Jesus,” says the first voice. “He’s bleedin’ all over the floor.”
“That’s what happens when you shoot someone,” replies Grunt #2.
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Nothing. M’just saying.”
A suited man steps into view, crossing to where Dick lays limply over his chair. With a large hand, he sends the chair spinning.
Dick’s head rolls back, exposing the bronze skin of his throat. His Adam’s apple vibrates as he lets out a long, delirious moan. All part of the act, just like his tight slacks and the silk shirt unbuttoned to his sternum. Richard Grayson is a trust fund baby. Richard Grayson is hot shit.
Jason stares. In another, brighter universe, their shoulders are touching and their hands are intertwined as they lie together, gazing at the stars.
Grunt #1 shoves him again. Or was it Grunt #2? But then again they’re basically interchangeable. Six feet, two hundred pounds, as many brain cells as eyebrows: sometimes two, but usually one.
“Whatcha looking at?” Grunt #1 asks him.
Jason doesn’t say anything. No use wasting energy on these losers when it’s already leaking out of him.
Grunt #1 kneels to his level and presses his fingers into the wound on Jason’s thigh. A heavy pain shoots up through his leg and into his gut. Jason grits his teeth but doesn’t move.
It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t hurt.
“Stop it,” says Grunt #2. “She doesn’t like it when you play with them.”
“I’m just gettin’ my bullet back.” The fingers press deeper, and Jason’s fingers curl into the arms of the chair, and please oh please don’t let Dick be watching—
Something metallic clatters over the floor. Jason lets out a shaky breath as his body slumps forward. Pain radiates from the wound in time with his heartbeat.
“Slippery piece of shit,” mutters Grunt #1. He picks up the bullet and holds it to the light. A drop of blood falls from the metal. “Think this will go for a couple hundred on Ebay?”
Grunt #2 huffs. “Pick up your shit and let’s go. It’s only twenty minutes ‘til midnight. You know how she is.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Grunt #1 salutes Jason. “You’re lucky,” he says. “I’ve never gotten to watch.”
And then they’re gone.
Ten seconds pass. Twenty.
Jason pulls at his bindings. No use—the harder he pulls, the harder the knots tighten. Someone must have been an Eagle Scout.
Dick watches him fight with the ropes. There’s that look again. That sad, regretful look that says more than his beautiful mouth ever could. I should have protected you better.
Jason wishes he could hold him. He pictures himself touching his forehead to Dick’s, absorbing all the guilt that shouldn’t belong to him in the first place.
“It’s fine,” he says to Dick, a statement so pathetic it has him cringing beneath his helmet. “All part of the plan.”
Dick frowns: I don’t believe you.
“Let them think they’ve got the upper hand, then pow! Goodnight.”
How to describe the noise Dick makes? Like a hum, but depressed. It’s the sound of guilt on a dry tongue. Ghmm.
“Stop,” Jason mutters, staring at the hole in his leg. Oozing, oozing. “It’s not your fault.”
Dick’s expression doesn’t change. Stubborn as a steel rod, that one. How Jason aches to run his hands through Dick’s hair until he melts.
Instead, he says: “I’ve had worse, anyway.”
Wrong move. Now Dick’s likely thinking about Jason’s death again, like a teenager in space could have stopped a madman with a crowbar thousands and thousands of miles below. And sure, there was a time when Jason tried to hate Dick for being the survivor, the Golden Boy, all the perfect things he never was. But it felt wrong even then. If dying’s taught Jason anything, it’s that his feelings for Dick are inevitable, buried so deep not even the Pit could change them.
And that’s where they’ll stay. For now. Forever.
Across the room, Dick’s expression changes. A new look crosses his face, and it means something, it has to. But in the dim basement light his skin is glowing like embers and sparkling beneath the thin sheen of sweat, and his jaw goes on for miles, and planets implode with each breath he takes.
What’s more captivating? The rope around Jason’s arms, or those crystal-blue eyes? But then again it doesn’t matter. Either way, he’s trapped.
Click, click, click go the nails on his helmet.
Nails on his helmet?
Jason stiffens, spine shooting straight. Another glance at Dick and okay, now he sees the warning in his eyes. Behind you, Dick is saying. Or rather, was saying. Now his expression is something entirely different: What’s wrong with you?
Shit. He needs to get his head out of his heart, ASAP.
A voice coos in his ear. “Welcome back, sweetheart.”
Ah, Cinderella. Real name: Cynthia Deranleu. She slips into the light, all eight pounds of her. Like a toothpick in a designer ballgown. Her volto mask is white porcelain with blank, golden features.
“I didn’t realize I’d gone somewhere,” Jason replies.
She laughs. Giggles, really. A light, pleasant sound that fits right in with her white-blonde curls and airy demeanor. It’s easy to see how she’d reel in straight guys like a mid-tier conservative podcast.
“So tongue-in-cheek,” she says. “I like that in a guy.”
“Thanks.”
A flash of silver, and there’s a knife at his throat. Cinderella holds it against his throat, pressing just enough for him to feel the sharpness of the blade.
What is Dick thinking, watching this? Is he concerned for Jason’s safety? No—that’s a silly question. Of course he is. The wide pools of his irises, the wrinkle in his brow. But still…there are moments of make-believe, when Jason pretends that Dick’s concern is more than platonic, more than a result of his selfless nature and god-damn goodness . Maybe there’s something else inside his worried expression, something dangerously close to love. A fantasy, of course: Jason’s the bloody sheep of the family, the fuckup on ice so thin he can hear it cracking. And Dick is… He’s just so…
“You were following us,” a woman says.
Oh right. Cinderella, knife, etc. He really needs to get his act together.
“Someone’s been killing rich assholes,” Jason says, nodding at Dick. “So that rich asshole hired me to protect him. It’s not personal.”
“I don’t believe you,” Cinderella replies.
“That’s not my problem.”
She hums. “And they say chivalry is dead.”
“Not as dead as Warren Graham and Lawrence Jeffries.”
“Oh, so you’ve done your research! Very good.” Cinderella holds the knife in the air like a hand mirror, studying her reflection in the blade. “Such a shame they had to die. Well, not really. But it’s a fun thing to say, isn’t it? Such a shame… ”
Jason sighs. She’s right, but like hell is he going to give any satisfaction to the latest villain-of-the-week. “Look,” he begins. “Just let me and my client go, and no one has to get hurt.”
“You make quite an offer, Mr. Hood,” she says with a laugh. “See? I do my research too.”
“So you know what I’ll do if you’re the reason I don’t get paid.”
Tsking softly, Cinderella slowly saunters over to Dick. She draws a hand through his hair, catching dark strands in her manicured nails. Jason follows every move, envy so strong in his gut it’s a miracle he doesn’t vomit green. If only that were his hand, if only those were his fingers.
Beneath her touch, Dick puts on a puppy’s expression. It’s the kind of look that belongs to Richard Grayson: Gotham’s Most Eligible Bachelor. Nightwing? What’s that? He’s just your run-of-the-mill supermodel billionaire.
He makes a resigned, pitiful sound. “ Mmm ummm. ”
“Shh shh, sweetheart,” Cinderella coos, twirling a dark lock around her forefinger. “It will all be over soon.”
“Mmmm! ”
Dick’s fear sounds so real Jason’s heart skips a beat. Awful images flash through his brain—a throat carved open, empty eyes, hot blood between his fingers—and before he can stop himself his jaw is clenched tight and he’s pulling at the bindings around his wrist. “Don’t you dare,” he growls. “I’m warning you—”
“Warning me?” She lets out a mocking laugh. “Don’t you see you’re playing into their system? This is what he wants. The poor die so the rich can live. You’re so preoccupied with your job that you don’t realize you’re bleeding out all over the floor.”
“Do you really think a bullet will stop me?”
Cinderella shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s find out, shall we?”
A flick, and the knife is back. She holds it against Dick’s throat, the silver stark against his tanned skin. A single ruby of blood forms where the blade presses into the flesh. Dick flinches as another ruby blooms over his skin and rolls down the column of his throat.
Their eyes meet.
He can take it. They both know he can. Dick, who has been to hell and back a thousand times, who has been through the garbage disposal of life and come out fighting and loving even harder. What’s a knife to his throat? He’s had worse before breakfast.
And yet.
Jason snarls, pulling his body toward them with such force the ropes burn his wrists. The sheer panic in him cuts into his sight until the only thing he sees is the knife, the blood.
“Don’t touch him!” he hisses. His voice is so wet the helmet can barely pick it up and the words are garbled, barely coherent. “I swear to god, if you hurt him…”
Cinderella blinks. It’s unclear from her expression whether she’s startled or amused. Maybe both? Not that Jason cares—the only thing that matters, the only thing that has ever mattered, is Dick. He fights with the bindings, kicking and scratching in the hope that something, anything will come loose.
But nothing does.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jason realizes: this is the real difference between us. Dick would sacrifice anything to save the world, while Jason would sacrifice the world to save Dick.
Another reason why they’d never work.
Jason slumps over, breathing hard.
Cinderella’s staring. She’s not the only one—Dick is too, the real Dick. The Richard Grayson façade has vanished, and all that’s left is a look of surprise and confusion, as if he can’t quite figure out what he’s looking at. Jason doesn’t blame him. He has no idea what he is, either.
“Well, gee. That was a bit much, wasn’t it?” Cinderella says with a laugh. She pulls the knife away from Dick and waves it around like a wand. “We both know this isn’t my MO.”
“Screw you,” Jason breathes.
“How much is he paying you to be his yappy little pup? Or,” she begins, tapping a slender finger against her lips, “is it not about the pay at all?”
Fuck. Jason casts a quick look at Dick, grateful for the helmet to hide his burning face.
“What is it? Loyalty? Fear? Do tell,” Cinderella demands. She pulls up a chair and sits next to Jason, leaning in so close he can smell her floral perfume. “Excuse the enthusiasm. I don’t usually get the chance to learn about these nepo babies before I shove my heel in their eye sockets.”
Dick winces. “ Mmm! ”
“Oh, shut it.”
“Hurt me all you want,” Jason says. “I’m not telling you shit.”
“Alright, I’ll guess. Let’s see… I can’t picture a vigilante like you fearing something like that ,” Cinderella laughs, nodding at Dick. “So it’s not fear. Loyalty, perhaps? No—you don’t seem the type. But love …”
Heat spreads across Jason’s face. Don’t look at him, he reminds himself, but that doesn’t stop his eyes from flickering to Dick’s plump lips, the harsh light sparkling in his eyes like Christmas lights.
There was that one time, long ago. Jason was fourteen and barely fit in the Robin suit, watching Dick as he swung from the highest heights of the Batcave. It was like a switch was flipped in his head. One second Dick was Dick and the next he was Dick , the most beautiful and magnificent thing Jason had ever seen, could ever imagine seeing. The brightness in his smile, the way the muscles in his forearms clenched and unclenched as he flew through the sky—and then their eyes met, and Jason blushed, because oh that smile . Like the world was a snow globe containing nothing but the two of them, dancing around each other before they fell back to earth.
Earth to Jason, Dick said to him. What’s got you so spaced out?
You look real dumb in that suit , Jason replied.
Jerk. Let’s go see what Al made for lunch.
Jason remembers that moment, looking at Dick. Not that he’d ever forgotten. You don’t forget the moment you realize you will never be good enough for the person you love.
Cinderella claps her hands together. “Oh, it is love,” she says with a laugh. “The knight is in love with his prince. How very fairy tale.”
“Auditioning to be the Joker’s sidekick?” Jason asks, measuring his words carefully. “Because as much as I hate to break it to you, he’s not actually funny.”
“I can’t blame you for loving him, even if he is a filthy billionaire.” She kicks the floor, sending herself spinning toward a wide-eyed Dick. He struggles against his bindings as she reaches out to caress his cheek. “Who could resist a face like this?”
Dick pulls away from her and makes a gagging noise. He shoots a look at Jason, and thank god it’s such a normal look: the slight nod of his head toward his back. Subtly, he twists just enough to reveal something in his left hand. Silver and blue glint in the light.
Jason’s breath catches. Of course Dick hid a wing ding in his suit. He’s perfect, always, in the frustratingly selfless way that makes his perfection impossible to hate.
Distract her, Dick seems to say.
“It must have hurt, watching us dance cheek to cheek, breathing the same air,” Cinderella says. She pushes a dark lock of hair behind Dick’s ear. “If it makes you feel any better, it didn’t mean anything. The whole time I was thinking about which shoe I’m going to use on him.”
Jason licks his lips. “Let me guess. A glass slipper?”
“Men are so afraid of vulnerability, aren’t they?” she asks, reaching for him. Before he has a chance to react, her hands are around his helmet, prodding and poking and—
Click. Hiss.
She lifts the helmet carefully over his head and places it on her lap before reaching behind her head and removing her own mask. Her face is more playful than Jason imagined, wide-eyed with an upturned nose. “There. Now there’s no more need for secrets,” she says with a laugh.
“Are you done?” Jason asks.
“I still have a few minutes before midnight. Maybe I’ll play Fairy Godmother for a change.” A flick of her hand, and she pulls the handkerchief from Dick’s mouth. “Why don’t you tell him you love him, Richard? Make his wish come true.”
His mouth free, Dick doubles over, gasping for air. There’s a millisecond where he’s fully Nightwing, his fists clenched and biceps straining against the ropes. But then Nightwing disappears and Richard Grayson’s terrified look washes over his eyes.
“Please,” Richard stammers. “Don’t do this. I’ll pay—”
“Tell. Him. You love him.”
Jason’s face goes hot. The thought of Dick saying those words… No. It would hurt, is what it would do. Might as well throw him down and shatter him into a million pieces.
The ropes around Dick’s chest have started to sag. He’s almost free.
Jason swallows. “What’s the plan here?” he demands. “You keep us roleplaying until midnight and then kill us both?”
“What can I say? Girls just want to have fun.” She laughs. “ Now, Richard.”
Dick swallows as he blinks at Jason. There’s a…look on his face. Far away and intense at the same time. It almost seems real.
“I love you,” he says.
Just then, for a second, they’re somewhere else entirely. It’s just the two of them overlooking the Gotham skyline, legs dangling off the edge of a fire escape. No costumes, no villains, no pressure. Their hands are intertwined and Dick’s head is on his shoulder. I love you.
And then it all comes back.
Cinderella claps her hands together. “Bravo! That was beautiful. One would think you almost meant it.”
Dick stares at Jason. He’s still wearing that expression—Guilt? Discomfort? Embarrassment? Despite everything, Jason finds himself searching for the right word until, at last, one jumps to the forefront of his mind:
Honesty .
“You…” Jason’s tongue goes dry. He opens his mouth to speak but the words won’t come, they are lost in the tornado of possibilities inside his head. He keeps thinking about all the Greek words for love: philia, storge, agape, eros. Dick meant it , but which one did he mean? The way he said it, it felt like—but no, that can’t be right—
Dick’s eyes are rippling pools of water. Jason wishes he could dive in them, drown in them, merge their minds into one so he won’t have any questions anymore. The mission, the ropes, the pain in his leg—none of it matters. He just wants to know.
“Ho-ly,” Cinderella breathes. Her gray eyes twinkle with delight as she scoots her chair in between them, grinning impishly. “This is something, isn’t it? You two—the chemistry—and you never…? Incredible. And tragic. Finding out your love is requited right as you are about to die!” She throws a hand over her forehead in a show of histrionics.
“Tragic,” Dick echoes.
“At least you have—” Cinderella pulls a pocket watch from the folds of her gown. “—three minutes to be in love with each other. That’s more than many people ever get under the cruel hand of capitalism.”
“Three minutes,” Jason says quietly. “Right.”
She draws a finger across her throat and makes a hissing sound. “Then it’s the shoe for him, and oh, I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have my guys shoot you again. Gus never misses tw—”
She doesn’t have a chance to finish. A dark blur knocks her from the chair and pins her to the ground.
Dick.
He pins her easily, slamming her wrists into the ground—once, twice—until the knife falls from her grip. Cinderella is a hurricane of fabric and glitter, kicking and swearing. Her face is so red and tight she seems as though she might explode, and for a second Jason truly believes it, but then she lets out an annoyed sigh and her whole body goes still.
“It’s polite to take a girl out to dinner first, you know,” she says.
“I prefer long walks on the beach,” Dick replies dryly.
“I must say,” Cinderella begins, as Dick binds her hands, “you really had me invested in your little love story. It was a nice change from the screaming, you know? Oh god no, not my eye, aaah! ”
Dick pulls the ropes tight and sits back. “Need a hand?” he asks Jason.
What just happened? Jason blinks, his brain still flip-flopping in his skull. “Yeah?”
A couple quick cuts, and the ropes fall to the floor. Relief rolls through Jason’s shoulders, warm and tingling.
“Your leg,” Dick says, dropping to a knee. He presses gently around the wound, pulling back when Jason winces. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll manage.”
Across the room, Cinderella lets out an exaggerated groan. “Good lord, just kiss already.”
Jason flinches as though he’s been hit, his whole face going hot. He squeezes his eyes shut and pretends it’s from the pain, but the truth is, he doesn’t want to look at Dick. Can’t look at Dick.
“You’re a good actor,” he says, forcing himself to laugh.
Dick pauses. “Actor.”
“Yeah.” Another laugh. “Fooled her. Almost fooled me too.”
“I wasn’t acting.”
Jason’s head snaps up. Their faces are closer than he realized, mere inches apart. Dick’s face is flushed with color. A crown of sweat glistens around his hairline.
Neither of them move. Jason bleeds into Dick’s hands as his heart climbs his throat with every beat. Over and over, he tries to convince himself that Dick meant it like a brother, a comrade, that this thing between them is a misunderstanding and nothing more. This isn’t supposed to happen.
But it is.
Jason leans forward, grabs Dick by the collar, and kisses him.
Soft, warm lips. Exquisite lips. His heart hammers in his chest, rushing through his ears. Dick’s hands are at his collar, his arms, threading through his hair. Everywhere, really. And Jason kisses him harder, memorizing the fine texture of Dick’s lips, the swirling pattern of his fingerprints.
Someone, somewhere, is laughing. But Jason can’t bring himself to care. Dick, he thinks. Dick is kissing me. Dick Grayson.
Here is how it ends: Jason in a swivel chair, breathless and alive, unable to recall who he was before this moment.
And then he sees the lonely stiletto.
“Shit!” he says, jumping to his feet. His leg buckles and he falls to the floor.
“Jason!”
“She’s gone.”
“What? Shit. Shit!”
For some reason, Jason starts to laugh. It bubbles up inside his throat and falls from his lips. “It’s midnight,” he cackles, pointing at the shoe.
Dick stares. Then he’s laughing too, doubled over from the force of it. “It’s not funny,” he forces out, but doesn’t stop.
“God,” Jason breathes, sitting up against a broken table. “She did that on purpose.”
Catching his breath, Dick sits next to Jason, close enough for their thighs to touch. “Maybe. Or maybe she really was rooting for us.”
Jason takes Dick’s face in his hands, and kisses him a second time.
Yes , he thinks, as his world explodes in a shower of stars. I like that story.