batbros fly-by hugs. it's like it was made for those losers
The Gotham night is damp and sour, smoke and pollution filling every inch that isn’t yet taken by corruption and misery.
It’s kind of a nice night, actually.
Robin’s crouched on a rooftop on his Father’s orders. He’d been sent ahead to scout the area, and was awaiting further instruction. He’s impatient now, though – apart from anything, his skills are clearly wasted on mere reconnaissance – and it’s been almost forty minutes of this. Alone in the dark and not a fight to be seen. He’s irritated at his father and at his stupid costume and how his hair is just barely too long now that it tickles his neck when he moves. Which is no excuse for failing to spot his assailant.
One moment he’s on the solid rooftop, wondering if he imagined the sound of a footstep, and the next–
He’s lifted easily from his crouch, a strong arm squeezing tight around his torso, and they’re halfway off the building before he can do more than sputter. He’s readying an attack – something violent, painful, and definitely not Batman-approved – when he becomes aware of two things; the first is a very familiar blend of aftershave and kevlar. The second is the ghost of a laugh around the back of his head.
“I’m so glad I met you,” Nightwing tells him quietly, earnestly, over the rush of the air and his billowing yellow cape. One hand tight gripped tight to one of his pre-placed lines, the pressure of the other doing funny things to Damian’s ribcage. He opens his mouth to retort, but doesn’t quite get there.
And Grayson twists in the air, expertly loosening his grip on the line. Safe and controlled for both of them. Then they’re on another rooftop and Robin’s pulled into a squeezing hug. It barely lasts a moment, and there’s a flash of white teeth in an obnoxiously large grin before Nightwing’s gone.
Robin, bewildered, stays behind. As an afterthought, he spits out a bug.
The Red Hood is in heavy shadow, treading as softly as he knows how.
He’s high above the deal on the warehouse catwalk, eyeing off the two warring factions. According to his runners, some big shit’s gonna go down tonight at this ‘unarmed’ meet, and a couple telltale bulges in the backs of jeans has him cringing prematurely.
The only question is, who’s going to draw first?
He edges closer to the windows, doing a second scan for explosives or any other surprises. Looks like pretty standard firearms for drug-dealers, nothing too far out of the ordinary. It doesn’t hurt to be careful.
He’s creeping closer to the action, gun in one hand, when he catches sight of a shadow in his peripheral.
Whirling quick, he catches sight of black and blue (“I could’ve shot you!” he doesn’t say, because Dick’s a lot of things, but – nope, he’s definitely stupid… ), and then he’s being cuddled. Fucking–
“I miss you, little wing.”
One last squeeze, a sad-sounding little puff of breath, and then Nightwing fucking cartwheels back through the skylight. Go figure.
Hood scowls, figuring it’s safe under the helmet, and jams his gun back into the holster. Goddamn guilt-trip.
Red Robin is frowning. He was supposed to meet with an informant tonight, and, after spending the last two hours scouting out the building for potential traps, the guy’s a no-show. He’s going to stick it out another thirty, forty minutes tops, just in case. Then he’ll do a quick run around his usual route and hit his apartment to finally catch some sleep. With WE and Red Robin and the Titans… and living alone, properly, really alone for the first time… he hasn’t had a lot of time for. Well, anything.
He hasn’t even had a chance to read through those GED flyers he picked up.
He sighs and rubs his temples through the cowl, curling his shoulders further inward. He closes his eyes, listing sideways against the file cabinet. Maybe the guy was held up.
He hears a faint creeeaaak of the floorboard and shifts his weight back on to his aching calves. Waiting a moment to growl,
And instead of the acne-scarred middle-manager, he gets. Well. An open-armed Nightwing, who waits patiently for him to rise from the crouch. “What’re you doing here–?” he says, voice back to normal.
His answer comes by way of an enormous hug.
“I’ll never not be proud of you,” Nightwing murmurs.
“Oh,” Red Robin– Tim says. Arms rising hesitantly to squeeze back.
“Every single day you amaze me.” And for minutes, neither of them move. Nightwing’s hair is tickling the skin of Tim’s cheek.
And finally, pulling back with a smile, Nightwing says, “You’ve got business, kiddo,” and salutes, vanishes back up into the vents. Because of course he does.
Then there’s a much heavier, clumsier tread by the door.
Tim clears his throat. “You’re late,” he growls, again.
Out in the fresh night air, cheeks wind-pinked, Nightwing grins broadly.
To the air, he says, “Thanks so much, O. Couldn’t’ve done it without you.” And then, “Next time, you think we’ll go for B?”
He laughs, an infectious sound, and dives into the waiting night.