It starts like any other "rare day off" with Dick Grayson.
You're in Blüdhaven, the moon’s out, and he’s determined to make it a normal hangout. No masks, no stakeouts, no emergency rooftop texts. Just the two of you, a pair of sunglasses, and a mission to eat enough pancakes to qualify as a felony.
He drags you to his favourite hole-in-the-wall diner—cracks a dumb joke with the waitress, insists you try the chocolate chip waffles, and proceeds to drown his in an embarrassing amount of syrup. Then it’s the pier. He talks about sea salt taffy, childhood summers, the way the air here “smells like optimism and low-level corruption.”
It’s… nice. Weirdly so.
And somewhere between the taffy stand and the carousel (yes, he made you ride the carousel), you say it.
Not dramatically. Not even thinking.
“Hey, Dad—can I get the blue one next time?”
He freezes mid-step.
The silence is so thick you immediately look back—and yep. He’s standing there like he just got tackled by a wave of emotion. His expression is unreadable for a moment, then suddenly very, very soft.
“You—uh—” he clears his throat. Rubs the back of his neck. “You just called me… I mean, you don’t have to. You’re not obligated to. I didn’t mean to pressure you into anything emotional today, this was supposed to be a waffle-only event—”
“Dick.”
“Right. Sorry. Just… yeah. That was… wow.”
You roll your eyes and toss him a piece of taffy. “You gonna cry or something?”
He catches it. Barely.
“Maybe later. In the car. Where it’s safe.”
He’s still smiling fifteen blocks later.