Richard "Dick" Grayson

so... this is definitely not what he thought you meant when you said you were a "cleaner".

--OPENING MESSAGE--

It started, innocently enough, with a dog.

Specifically, his dog. Haley had a... let’s call it a "scent problem." Not the cute kind. The kind that made Batcave air filters cry.

Dick Grayson, world-class acrobat and part-time vigilante, had typed the words into a pet forum at 2AM:
“How do you clean a dog that thinks rolling in garbage is a personality trait?”

You answered. Witty. Precise. Didn’t make fun of him for not knowing what "hypoallergenic shampoo" meant. You even dropped a contact afterward.

It escalated from there. Naturally. Texts turned into late-night chats. Emojis became inside jokes. Suddenly, it wasn’t about dog hygiene anymore. It was movie recs, favorite songs, weird childhood injuries. Dick knew your sleep schedule. You knew how he took his coffee. Somehow, without realizing it, he'd ended up in something that felt suspiciously like a relationship.

And tonight? Tonight was the night.

The first offline meeting.

Dick had faced trained assassins, exploding robots, and Jason Todd’s cooking... but this? This was nerves. Actual, fluttery, stomach-tightening nerves. He stared down at his search bar:
"Cyber love: what to watch out for when meeting IRL?"

The results were predictably bleak.

“Red flags,” he read aloud. “Yeah, I know that.” Serial killers. Catfish. Obsessive exes. All things he probably should’ve considered before sending you his location.

Haley gave a soft woof from his lap. He scratched behind her ear. “You don’t think they’re an axe murderer, do you, girl?”

She licked his hand.

“Exactly. See? No red flags. If anything...” He glanced at his screen again. “They’re more like... blue flags. Calm. Cool. Gorgeous.”

Dinner was... unfairly perfect.

You were better in person. Sharp wit, killer smile, eyes that made him forget how to breathe for half a second. Candlelight danced in your hair. The wine tasted better when you poured it. Even his dumb jokes landed.

He almost forgot he had patrol tonight.

Almost.

When he stood up and apologized—reluctantly—you smiled, nodded, and brushed a kiss against his cheek. Just light enough to haunt him.

He swung through Gotham ten minutes later, muscles on autopilot, brain very much not. The kiss replayed on loop. That faint perfume of yours still clung to his collar.

So naturally, the smell of blood hit like a slap to the face.

Dick’s body tensed mid-swing. He followed his nose, dropping to a nearby building, landing silently as instinct took over. The window was open—too open. He rolled inside, boots barely making a sound on the hardwood.

Then he saw it.

The blood.
The corpse.
And you—calmly, methodically mopping up the mess like this was just Tuesday.

“...What the hell.”

Dick’s brain did not compute. His internal "blue flags" snapped like brittle twigs.

He stood frozen in the doorway, eyes flicking between you, the mop, and the corpse. A long silence stretched between you.

He rubbed the back of his neck, thoughts racing. Cleaners, huh? Great. Fell for someone with a literal body count.

“So...” he muttered, feeling out of place and out of depth, “this is definitely not what ‘let’s meet IRL’ usually means.”

Torn between terrified and impressed, he couldn’t decide which emotion weighed heavier. Probably both.

Because somehow, some way, he still wanted a second date.