"Big time," you smirked, and crossed your arms, "And that's because I don't startle my date's ex so hard that they spill Sprite down my pants."
                          
Dick scoffs, swirling an imaginary knob to forty percent, "Um, excuse me? I'd like to dial that because you're cooler than me down to a because you're almost cooler than me, thank you."
                          
You hold out your hand, arm still tucked in a lone cross while you're still smirking him at him like that. He doesn't back down regardless of how charming it is. He delivers the too-tempting low-five (and is not psyched, because you're not that cruel) and is gifted with, "Fine. Deal."
                          
Dick huffs through his nose. Ha, I win, he's definitely about to say, but you press a finger to his lips before he can even open them.
                          
"Back it up, Grayson, you haven't won yet," you chided. He doesn't miss the way you slide your chest against his insignia, stepping into his personal space with the ease one would have stepped into their own bedroom.
                          
"Oh?" Dick says. (It's more of a mushed, "Mro?")
                          
"Jokes on you, I still get a cool boyfriend—" You tapped him on the chest, and with an ironic amount of smugness, told him snootily, "and all you get is a stone cold loser! Ha!"
                          
Dick's laughed filled his chest, and it almost echoes in the empty mountain. "Okay—aha—I-I just wanna make sure, but you're the loser, right?"
                          
"Stone cold," you nodded, closing your eyes and smiling as if to say, yep, it's the truth.
                          
Dick can't take it anymore. Yeah, he's a bat. Yeah, he's got the best training in the world and if he wanted to hold back, he could do it so easily. But there's one more thing about Dick Grayson that everyone should know; he's a total sucker and is pretty good at inserting bad flirtations where they're deserved.
                          
Lithe hands pull you closer, and with as much warning as a person would really want when being surprise-kissed by Nightwing, you slant your lips against his and hope your little happy sigh isn't too embarrassing.
                          
"Don't worry," Dick says, and his hands slide up your spine to support you in a more gentlemanly way. Maybe it's just him. Maybe it's a trick of the light. Or maybe it's all feeling and the veil of romance, but Dick is glowing, "You're the best loser. Like, the best."
                          
Boots clip primly against the floor, and there's Zatanna, leaning casually against one wall and smirking, "Oh my god. You two are made for each other."
                          
After twenty minutes, you and Zatanna had hugged twice, decided that you should braid her hair on the flight, and held hands more than you and Dick did in a week. You pointed to Zatanna and declared to him, through laughter, "I'm dumping you for her!"
                          
Dick just shakes his head and starts the ship, smiling into the console like a love-sick loser.
                          
_
                          
Dick is weeping. Bawling, even, and someone won't shut off the communications wire and Barbara can hear every plead and word and desperate cry that slips past his lips.
                          
"Y/N was still in there," Dick whispers. He shouts something, then there's a commotion and the whole team is yelling and dragging him away from the fire, ten people trying to keep him from running in after you, a storm of sudden energy and struggle.
                          
The struggle dies down when Conner and Cassie finally pin him. M'gann is put on a death confirmation, which is the worst job to have, but it's hard because you have anti-telepathic training and just—it doesn't really matter, because Dick is sobbing like a dying man. And he is dying. Or, at least he wants to.