Work Text:
Reader POV:
The warm, amber glow of the streetlights filtered through the tightly drawn light-blocker curtains, bestowing a soft luminosity upon the cozy bedroom. The plush carpet felt like a silken caress beneath my feet as I tiptoed towards the king-sized bed. To my astonishment, Dick Grayson, the nightwing , lay topless, his muscled form sprawled out amidst the soft blankets. His dark hair was mussed and his piercing blue eyes were closed in slumber.
As I hesitated at the bedside, a muffled snicker escaped my lips. 'Heh... I'm a lean, mean, tweeting machine,' Dick muttered in his sleep, a mischievous grin playing upon his usually stoic face. I stifled a chuckle, but the sound was too late; Dick's hearing was as sharp as a bat's.
His eyes fluttered open, and he stared at me with a mixture of surprise and amusement. 'You're... um... you're wearing my shirt,' he said, his voice groggy with sleep.
I felt my face flush, but I couldn't bring myself to apologize. Instead, I raised an eyebrow and replied, 'Well, I was a little chilly, and it's not like you're using it right now.'
Dick grinned. 'Fair enough. But just so you know, it's missing a utility belt.'
I rolled my eyes. 'I'll keep that in mind when I'm out fighting crime in the dead of night.'
As we lay there in comfortable silence, I reached over and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. 'I may have done something a little mischievous,' I said with a coy smile.
Dick's brow furrowed. 'What did you do?'
I tapped on the screen, revealing a recording of Dick's sleep-talking. The room erupted in laughter as Dick listened in horror to his own delirious ramblings.
'I'm... I'm an enchilada in a blender!' he exclaimed, his voice distorted and high-pitched.
'And... I'm riding a unicorn... with a laser cannon!'
'I'm... I'm the 'Hand Grenade' of justice!'
We laughed so hard that tears streamed down our faces. Even the dog at the foot of the bed couldn't help but join in the amusement. Dick's face was bright red, but he couldn't deny the humor in his own somnambulism.
'That's it,' he said between breaths. 'From now on, I'm locking my bedroom door.'
'Oh, come on,' I protested. 'It's not like I'm going to share this with the world.'
'You're right,' Dick said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. 'I'll just threaten to share it with Barbara and Tim.'
I gasped. 'You wouldn't!'
'Try me,' he challenged.
We knew it was an empty threat, but the laughter refused to subside. As the night wore on, we lay there in each other's arms, content and warm. The recording of Dick's sleep-talking became a testament to our shared joy and the unbreakable bond between us.
In the morning, as the first rays of dawn peeked through the curtains, Dick extracted the recording from my phone and sent it to Barbara and Tim with the caption: 'Sleep-talking adventures of the great Blackwing.'
Barbara's response was swift: 'Dick, you should be ashamed of yourself. No one needs to know that you think you're a 'Hand Grenade.''
Tim's was equally merciless: 'I always knew you were a drama queen. 'Lean, mean, tweeting machine'? Really?'
Dick didn't respond, but I could hear him laughing in the kitchen. It was a genuine, heartfelt laugh, and it filled the house with a warmth that rivaled the rising sun.