richard grayson is not a jealous man.

tall, attractive, a total babe. he knows what he is, what he wants, what he has. dick grayson lacks for very little. dick grayson doesn’t have a jealous bone in his body. that’s what he tells himself, at least. what could he possibly have to be jealous about?

dick once told you he doesn’t get jealous because he knows you’re his.

it doesn’t matter if every single person in the room looks at you with wide eyes and hanging jaws. he knows you don’t want them - he sees it in the way you lean back, eyes searching for him in the crowd. dick knows you’re his, knows that he’s the one to take you home, lie next to you, kiss you. besides, he could kick everybody’s ass. he considers it a mercy that his attention is redirected to other crimes.

speaking of mercies, he thinks, as his eyes drift to your sleeping form. you’re slumped against the window in the passenger seat, breath misting the glass ever so slightly. it’s warm outside, but the ac is blasting, courtesy of your boyfriend.

dick finds it hard to concentrate on the road sometimes, when he’s with you. it’s absurd - bruce wayne’s eldest, batman’s first robin, nightwing himself… melts at the sight of you. his eyes flit to you, and he stifles a laugh. you’re so deep in sleep, you haven’t even realised that your mouth is hanging wide open. if he didn’t know you, he’d think you were dead, honestly - corpselike, and so still, even with the gentle swerves of the car.

smiling gently, he pushes your head back till it rests on the seat, breathing deeply, eyes back on the road. it’s bad. he’s down bad. anyone can see it, but dick knows it. he can’t imagine life without you, not anymore. life before you doesn’t exist in his mind - you’ve always been there, right? a you-shaped hole in all his memories, a space created only to be filled by you. the thought of either of you separating never crosses his mind, and he won’t let it, either.

oh, dick grayson is not a jealous man. he can’t allow himself to be.

it’s almost dark when you finally reach gotham, the final embers of the sun fading into near blue. the car pulls into the driveway, and you wake to your boyfriend’s gentle voice in your ear.

“hey, sleepyhead,” he whispers, smiling tenderly at you. as you open your eyes, you think you might melt on the spot. his dark hair is tousled, unstyled. you like it like this, without the gel, fluffy and soft. absentmindedly, you reach a hand to ruffle through it. dick’s eyes flutter shut for a moment.