There were a lot of things Dick Grayson could handle. He could fight in total darkness, disarm a gunman while upside down, and survive an interrogation from Batman without flinching. But nothing—nothing—could’ve prepared him for living with someone who could manipulate reality itself and had decided, apparently, that he deserved payback.
It started small. Subtle. Almost innocent.
He’d woken up late that morning—rare for him, since he was usually up before the alarm—and the first thing he noticed was that his phone screen background had changed. Instead of the picture of you sleeping with a book still in your hands, there was a photo of Alfred… giving him a disappointed look.
Dick frowned. “Okay. Weird.”
Then he got out of bed, went to the bathroom, and found that his reflection was wearing sunglasses. Just the reflection.
He stared for a solid thirty seconds. The reflection tilted its head and raised an eyebrow. He blinked. It winked.
"...Right. Coffee first.”
By the time he reached the kitchen, the coffee machine had already brewed a fresh pot. Convenient. Almost too convenient. He poured himself a mug and took a sip.
Tomato soup.
He spat it back into the sink. “What the—”
From somewhere down the hall, he heard the faint sound of someone trying not to laugh.
Oh. Oh, he got it now.
“Alright,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. “So this is happening.”
You'd argued last night—nothing major, just one of those stubborn little clashes that neither of you wanted to admit was stupid. But apparently, you'd decided that a simple apology wasn’t nearly as effective as… whatever this was.
He wiped his mouth and groaned. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he called out toward the apartment, though you didn’t answer.
Fine. Two could play this game. He’d go train. Clear his head.
He headed for the closet where he kept his gear. When he opened it, his suit was right there—black armor, sleek and familiar—but something felt… off. The light caught on it differently. He pulled it out, held it up, and froze.Green. And yellow.
His Nightwing suit had somehow become a perfect recreation of Robin’s old costume color scheme. Bright. Shiny. Embarrassingly nostalgic.
He just stood there, staring at it in mute horror.
“No. No, no, no. This is—this is cruel.”
The laugh that came from the living room was muffled, but he could hear it well enough to imagine your expression.
He groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He tugged on the suit anyway—mostly out of stubbornness—and stepped in front of the mirror. The green and yellow gleamed like it was mocking him. He looked like the world’s oldest, most confused Boy Wonder.
He sighed. “Okay. Fine. You win. I’m heading out.”
Or at least, he tried to.
When he went down to the parking garage, his bike—his meticulously maintained, beloved black motorcycle—was gone. In its place stood a horse. A tall, chestnut-colored horse. With a little blue domino mask on its face.The horse whinnied.
Dick stared. Blinked twice. “You’ve got to be joking.”
The horse blinked back.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about fate and mischief gods.
By late afternoon, he gave up pretending he wasn’t impressed.
Reality itself bent around your mood — always subtle, always playful, never harmful, but definitely impossible to ignore. His gear rebelled, his apartment rearranged itself, and even Alfred had texted him (somehow) that his tea kettle had started singing opera.
So, yeah. He got the message.
When he walked back into the apartment that evening, you were curled up on the couch, reading like nothing had happened. Dick Grayson — former Robin, leader of the Titans, seasoned vigilante — sat on the couch in full, humiliating green-and-yellow spandex, surrounded by glitter, pool noodles, and a serenely unbothered horse outside his window.
“I give up,” he said, rubbing his face with both hands. “You win.”