BAD BLOOD ━ Dick Grayson

SEVEN

"Are you fucking with me right now?"

"Never would I ever," she quipped, narrowing her eyes at his response. "Why would I lie about something like this?"

Dick snickered, "Because you dislike me, and I'm not too fond of you either at the moment."

"Okay, listen here, you little dipshit," she seethed, "I did not sign up for a terrible night like this. The fucking necklace that I got from St. Anne's suddenly won't come off, and now my hands have blue lights blasting out of them. I called you because – for some goddamn reason – I assumed you could help. But no, I guess not. I guess I'll just be called a liar and –"

"Wait," he interrupted, causing her to stop abruptly, "did you say your necklace won't come off?"

Her nostrils flared. "I'm not repeating myself!"

Silence again. All Iris could hear was the sound of her own heavy breathing. She swallowed hard, holding the phone tightly again. "Dick?" She whispered. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah, yeah," he answered swiftly. Noises echoed through her speaker, sounding like he was in a haste. "I'm just thinking."

"Well," Iris continued, "do you believe me?"

She could hear Dick locking a door on the other end. Her heart raced in her chest as he replied, "I'll be there in fifteen. Text me your address."

•••

Iris wasn't really keen on being told what to do, but when Dick Grayson immediately requested her location as he rushed over, she didn't think twice. She never once had a coworker over her house, nor had she ever wanted to either, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

She sat on her bathroom floor, knees to her chest, and did her best to focus on anything but the burning coursing through her system. Her phone sat idly on the floor as she waited for an arrival text from him. She balled her hands into fists, but strobes of blue light slipped through the cracks.

Iris couldn't believe she had gotten to this point. She hated asking for help. She never needed it. Ever since she moved to Detroit, Iris learned to do things on her own and do them great. But clearly, that doesn't last forever, and here she was, rocking back and forth on her bathroom floor with lights coming through her hands, while waiting for her coworker to help her do God knows what.

Her phone vibrated. She leaned forward to read the incoming text.

DICK GRAYSON: I'm here.

Iris refused to move from her spot, too afraid of what the lights would do if she even stepped away. She had no idea how to control them, or what they could do. Biting down on her bottom lip, she texted a response.

IRIS KINGSLEY: I'm in Apartment 43. Spare key is underneath the dead flower pot. Idk if I can move from the bathroom.

Minutes later, she heard the lock to her front door click, and then the squeak of rusted bolts turning as someone walked through. Iris looked up from her curled position, keeping her arms locked around knees, which were still pressing against her tight chest. She swallowed hard while listening to a pair of boots stomp through her tiny apartment, and for a split second, Iris wondered if it was someone other than Dick Grayson. Her anxiety sparked, causing the lights to pinch and pulse so painfully that her hands snapped open, unable to keep it at bay.

She screamed at the raw power running through her veins. The lights beat against the cracked ceiling, and her heartbeat raced even more than before. She didn't even notice that her necklace had been beating in and out with a bright, turquoise color, until she felt the weight of the stone against her rib cage.