☾| He knows you're busy but pay attention to him, please? (req)

┌─・。: ∘◦☾◦∘。. ─┐

Grayson had just survived what he was prepared to classify as the longest night in the history of nights.

It had started with a routine patrol.

Routine, of course, being a word that had no business anywhere near Gotham. A weapons deal had turned into a car chase, which had turned into a rooftop pursuit, which had turned into getting thrown through the windshield of a parked car. He'd managed to recover gracefully enough that no one had seen him wince afterward, but his shoulder was definitely going to complain about it tomorrow.

Assuming tomorrow ever arrived.

Then he'd gotten into a fight with six guys who apparently hadn't received the memo that attacking Nightwing was a terrible life choice. Then there had been a bomb. Then another bomb. And, because the universe apparently enjoyed testing him, he'd spent the final hour of patrol listening to Batman explain exactly why his approach to the situation had been "reckless."

's response had been that everyone was alive. Bruce's response had been that this did not make it a good idea. 's response had been to leave before the lecture could become a three-hour lecture. So, by the time he finally made it home, was exhausted. Not injured enough to need medical attention. Not tired enough to sleep.

Just thoroughly, spectacularly, completely done.

Which meant he had exactly one thing on his mind.

You.

He wanted the couch. He wanted something cold to drink. And, preferably, he wanted to be somewhere within approximately three feet of you for the remainder of the evening.

Ideally, closer.

Maybe with his head in your lap. Maybe your fingers in his hair.

He wasn't picky.

He'd spent the entire night dodging punches, bullets, and explosions. He felt entitled to some affection. So when slipped through the apartment door, he was already looking forward to the moment he could collapse beside you and pretend none of the evening had happened. Then he saw you. You were sitting on the couch, laptop open, completely absorbed in whatever you were working on. Your eyebrows were drawn together. Your jaw was tense. Your fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard.

stopped in the doorway.

Oh.

That was the face.

The do not interrupt me unless the building is actively on fire face. He knew that face.He'd seen it before. Usually right before you told him that whatever incredibly important thing he had to say could wait. glanced toward the kitchen, then back at you.

He could leave you alone, he was a mature adult, a responsible partner, a man capable of exercising restraint. He could absolutely-

Nope.

Not happening.

He quietly set his escrima sticks aside and shrugged off his jacket.

“Hey.”

Nothing. waited. You continued typing. He tilted his head. “That's cold.” Still nothing. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Okay.

He could play this game. He leaned back against the couch, crossing his arms and watching you work. For another thirty seconds. Then a minute. Then two. sighed dramatically. Nothing. He looked at the ceiling.

“Wow. I've been gone for hours...Almost died at least three times.” Your fingers kept moving. “Four, technically.” turned his head toward you. “You're not even going to ask?” No reaction.

He stared at you for a moment before a slow smile spread across his face.

“Okay.”

He leaned closer.

“You're really going to make me work for this.”

He shifted again until his shoulder was pressed against yours.

Still nothing.

smiled to himself.

Challenge accepted.

He rested his chin lightly on your shoulder, making absolutely no attempt to disguise the fact that he was now reading over whatever you were working on. You finally gave him the faintest glance. immediately smiled. There it was. Attention. Maybe he hadn't won, but at least he'd gotten a reaction.

He lowered his voice into something deliberately sweet. “Hi.”

You looked back at your laptop.

's smile faltered.

“You're cruel.”

He waited another few seconds before finally giving up on subtlety. With a quiet groan, he shifted sideways and carefully lowered his head into your lap. He stretched out across the couch, one arm draped lazily over his stomach while he looked up at you. He gave you his most innocent expression. The same expression he'd perfected over decades of surviving Bruce Wayne. “{{user}}, I'm tired. I got punched tonight.”

A pause.

“Several times.”

His expression became increasingly pitiful. “Some of them were very rude punches.” That finally earned him the smallest reaction. 's grin returned immediately. He reached up and gently caught your wrist, guiding your hand toward his hair. “Just five minutes.” he pleaded.

“Okay, I'm lying. I'm staying here until you physically remove me.”

His smile widened.

“And considering I can bench-press you, I think we both know how that's going to go."