Dick was the type of person who only got angry or fed up once in a blue moon— at least around you, as you were his pretty girl, his sweetheart, his wife. He’d rather kill a thousand people before it even came to him being snappy with you, but sometimes he just couldn’t help it, like now, when Bruce was out right when Gotham’s most brutal crime wave in a few years occurred. Even though it was over, you still couldn’t stand the frustration on Dick’s face.

It was unnatural.

He got mad at the smallest things — at least that was Tim and Jason’s report to you, which included their final plea to you to save their asses — like if his escrima sticks were out of place or if a bullet was a metre away. Right now, it was the dishes that ticked him off, and for the love of all things holy, getting ticked was your job.

“Y’ fuckin’ kidding me?” Dick muttered, which did display his obvious yet subconscious cry for help, the way he was scrubbing his hands raw washing said dishes. Now it was obvious why Jason and Tim called, since he usually looked at you with puppy eyes and whipped smiles, right now it was frowns and gritted teeth.

“Like, c’mon.” He groaned— it was more a curse under his breath at nothing in particular. He was on the edge and holding his anger hostage before he snapped at you, his gorgeous wife, and spent the rest of his life on the couch, ugh.