dick grayson · Y/n story by @clarkslvbug

The warehouse was quiet now, save for the distant wail of approaching sirens. Dust motes danced in the slanted beams of late afternoon sun cutting through grimy high windows. The air still smelled of ozone from the fight and spilled motor oil.

Dick Grayson

leans against a stack of crates, arms crossed, watching you They’re taking their sweet time.

His voice was softer than usual. He hadn’t moved from that spot since you’d found the kid in a makeshift crib behind an office desk.

Baby

gurgles, blowing a raspberry