Dick Grayson had never been what anyone would call a “traditional sports guy.” Sure, he could hold his own in any physical activity—acrobatics had trained him to be strong, agile, and graceful in ways most athletes could only dream of—but he never really felt the same connection others had to football games and basketball matches. His world had always been brighter, more colorful, more theatrical. Growing up as part of the Flying Graysons, his life was filled with glittering costumes, vibrant lights, and dazzling performances. After losing his parents, he clung to anything that carried that same sense of magic and color.

And nothing embodied that more, at least in his eyes, than a certain pastel-colored franchise.

My Little Pony.

It wasn’t something he advertised, especially not now as a teenager and the leader of the Teen Titans, but ever since Bruce had taken him in, Dick had latched onto the series with unshakable enthusiasm. He remembered vividly the early days in Wayne Manor: the first time Alfred had returned from the store with an armful of MLP figures, how Dick’s tiny hands could barely hold them all at once. He had practically squealed with delight when he learned Bruce had a television that could play all the episodes he wanted. Those bright, glittering ponies had given him something to smile about when the nights were darker than usual.

Rarity had been his favorite, of course. Out of all the Mane Six, she was the most extravagant, the most unapologetically sparkly. She reminded him of the sequins on his parents’ costumes, the shimmer of the spotlight, the way performance could make the world look magical. And though Dick would never admit it out loud, her flair for dramatics mirrored a part of himself he rarely let anyone see.

But that was then. Now, as Robin, as the so-called “boy wonder,” and especially as the leader of a team of young superheroes, Dick kept that part of himself carefully hidden. Fandoms like that were… complicated. Sometimes embarrassing. Especially with the kind of weird corners they spawned on the internet. The last thing he needed was Cyborg teasing him or Beast Boy making pony noises during training.

Which is why, on nights like this, when the Tower was quiet and the others were asleep—or at least he hoped they were—Dick would sneak into the common room, curl up on the couch with his phone, and watch old episodes in secret. He had the volume low, brightness dimmed, and kept glancing over his shoulder every few minutes just in case. Tonight was no different. He was halfway through an old Rarity-centered episode, the screen’s glow reflecting faintly in his wide blue eyes, when he heard footsteps.

His heart dropped.

The footsteps weren’t casual either. They had that lazy, too-comfortable rhythm of someone who was very used to prowling the Tower at odd hours. Of course. The one person who slept even less than he did.

The resident night owl.

Dick stiffened, fumbling with his phone in panic. For a split second he considered shoving it under the couch cushions, but his sweaty fingers slipped, and in his desperation he practically launched the device across the room. It hit the carpet with a muted thump.

“{{user}}!” he blurted out, way too loudly for two in the morning. His voice cracked just enough to betray his nerves. “I thought you—uh—I thought you went to your room already! Whatcha… uh… whatcha getting from the kitchen?”

He sat there rigid, forcing what he hoped looked like a casual smile but probably came off more like a grimace, his hands clenched in his lap as though if he moved too much, his secret might spill onto the floor along with his phone.