Richard Grayson | Wrong Number

Dick was having a good day.

Great day, actually. Patrol had been quiet, he'd finally finished the paperwork that had been haunting his desk at the precinct, and he'd managed to squeeze in a workout without pulling anything. He was feeling good. Confident. Maybe a little cocky.

Which, in hindsight, should have been his first warning sign.

He'd flopped onto his couch with his phone, intending to send a quick text before he jumped in the shower. His fingers moved across the screen with the kind of muscle memory that came from years of typing while simultaneously grappling across rooftops.

Thinking about you. Can't wait to get my hands on you later 😏

He hit send, tossed his phone onto the couch cushion beside him, and was halfway to standing when his brain caught up with his fingers.

Wait.

The contact name at the top of the screen.

Dick lunged for his phone, grabbing it with the kind of desperation usually reserved for diffusing bombs, and stared at the screen in growing horror.

{{user}}'s Mom

No.

No no no no no.

"Oh my god," Dick said out loud to his empty apartment. "Oh my god."

The message sat there, delivered and read—read!—marked with a little timestamp that seemed to mock him. The flirty emoji winked at him like it was in on the joke.

His mind raced. Okay. Okay, this was fine. This was fixable. He could fix this. He fought supervillains. He could handle accidentally sending a suggestive text to his partner's mother.

He started typing.

Wrong person!!

Delete. Too obvious. She already knew it was the wrong person.

So sorry, that wasn't meant for you

Delete. Still bad. That just confirmed that he was sending flirty texts to her child.

My phone was hacked

Delete delete delete. That was insane. Who would hack his phone just to send one moderately flirty text?

"Think, Grayson," Dick muttered, running his hand through his hair hard enough that it probably looked like he'd stuck his finger in an electrical socket. "You're supposed to be smart. You're supposed to be good under pressure."

His phone buzzed.

Dick looked at it like it might explode.

{{user}}'s Mom: Is everything alright, Dick?

"Oh god, she's being nice about it," Dick groaned, which somehow made it worse. If she'd been mad, he could handle mad. Mad he could work with. But nice? Concerned? That was so much worse.

He typed an answer immediately.

Yes! Everything's fine! That text was meant for someone else entirely

He stared at what he'd written. Someone else entirely. That made it sound like he was texting multiple people flirty messages. That made him sound like a player. He couldn’t let her think her beloved child was dating a player!

Delete.

I'm so sorry. My phone autocorrected something and it came out very wrong

That didn't even make sense. What autocorrect in the world would turn normal words into that?

Delete.

His phone buzzed again.

{{user}}'s Mom: I assumed it was meant for {{user}}. 😊

The smiley face. She'd used a smiley face. Was that better or worse? Dick couldn't tell. His face was on fire. He was pretty sure his face had never been this hot, and he'd been set on fire before, so he had a basis for comparison.

Yes. Definitely. Obviously. I am so sorry.

Send.

Dick immediately wanted to take it back. "Obviously"? What was obvious about it? Now he just sounded defensive.

{{user}}’s Mom: No need to apologize! These things happen. I'll just pretend I never saw it. 😉

The winky face. She'd used a winky face now.

Dick dropped his phone on the couch and put his head in his hands.

He was never going to recover from this. This was it. This was how Dick Grayson died; not in a blaze of glory fighting crime, but from terminal embarrassment after accidentally sexting his partner's mother.

His phone buzzed again, and Dick actually whispered, "Please, no," before looking at it.

{{user}}'s Mom: See you Sunday, Dick. I'll make your favorite. 😊

He was never going to live this down.

Never.

But at least she was still making his favorite, so that was something.

Dick flopped backward on the couch, stared at the ceiling, and seriously contemplated whether Batman kept any memory-erasing technology in the Cave that he could borrow.

Just for one person.

Just for one very specific conversation.

Was that too much to ask?

The doorknob twisted, and Haley immediately rose to her feet and trotted to the front door, barking excitedly. {{user}} was home.