Work Text:
Summer always carried a kind of buzzing heat in Gotham. It wasn’t the nice beach-town kind, but the sticky kind that clung to the sidewalks and made everything smell like warm concrete and car exhaust. Still, it felt better this year. You had your first real summer job, and that counted for something.
The Italian ice shop —Mister Misto’s— sat wedged between a dry cleaner and a boarded-up storefront. The sign flickered whenever the wind hit the wires right. Inside, the place was bright, crowded with posters of rainbow ices, and loud with kids asking for flavors you were still trying to learn. Your apron was too big, the scoops were heavier than you expected, and the first hour of your first shift had you sweating like you’d run laps.
But there was something steadying about having a job. About earning your own money rather than letting your family scrape to cover everything. You felt independent, even proud.
You had a practiced rhythm: greet the customer, smile, fill the cup without spilling, move fast so the line didn’t snake out the door. Work first, panic later. You could do that —work was something you understood.
The bell over the door rang every sixty seconds. The place smelled like cherry syrup and lemon peel. Your hands were sticky, your arms ached, and you kept brushing hair out of your face with your shoulder because you didn’t want syrup in it.
Still...you liked it. It felt like something you’d earned.
☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀
Across the city, Dick Grayson had his own plans for the summer, and he was far too pleased with himself about them.
He’d found the job listing taped to your binder earlier last week. He’d glanced at it, thought Huh. Italian ice, and then —because he was Dick— decided that spending the whole summer working by your side sounded like the best idea he’d ever had.
He didn’t need the money. Bruce made sure he was taken care of. But he did need something else —time with you. Normal time. Time where he wasn’t sneaking in through windows after patrol or falling asleep during movie nights. He wanted to see you laugh during the day. He wanted to walk you home covered in melted ice and sugar instead of bruises and crime-scene dust.
So he applied. Cheerfully. Secretly. And he waited for the right moment to reveal it.
☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀
It came on your fourth shift.
You were wiping down the counter when the door chimed again. You didn’t look up at first —just another customer. But then you heard a too-familiar whistle, casual and smug.
You froze.
You looked up.
No. He didn’t.
Dick stood there in a brand-new Mister Misto’s apron, tied badly around his waist. He lifted a hand in a lazy little wave, eyes bright and a little nervous.
“Surprise..” He said.
Your stomach dropped. “Dick. Why are you wearing that apron?”
He stepped closer, leaning on the counter like he owned the place. “Because I’m working here. With you. Obviously.”
You stared at him, torn between confusion, affection, and the sharp awareness that Dick tended to bring chaos wherever he went. “You —applied? Here?”
He grinned. “Wanted to see your face. Totally worth it.”
Your boss shouted from the back, “New kid! Break’s over! Learn the flavors!”
Dick winced. “Guess that’s me.”
You covered your face with your hands. “This is going to be a disaster.”
“Probably….” He said, voice warm. “But we’ll be disasters together.”
☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀
He wasn’t wrong.
Dick was good at a lot of things—acrobatics, detective work, making you laugh. Italian ice was not one of them.
He mixed up flavors constantly, giving kids mango when they wanted lime. He dropped cups. He jammed the scoop into the wrong tub more times than you could count. But in between the mistakes, he flashed you little looks —soft and sheepish— and you couldn’t stay annoyed.
He flirted openly. Too openly.
You’d be reaching for a stack of cups, and he’d grab them first, handing them over with a grin. “Your royal cups, my lady.”
“Stop.”
“You like it.”
You did. That was the problem.
He bumped shoulders with you whenever he passed behind you. He leaned too close when reading the register. When you tried to explain the flavor rotation, he nodded seriously for about five seconds before nudging your arm.
“You’re cute when you’re focused….” He murmured.
Your face heated. You swatted him with a towel. “Pay attention.”
He tried. Sort of. And in the small moments —the ones where he actually concentrated— you saw the part of him that wasn’t trying to impress you. The part that wanted to be good at this because you were good at it.
It meant something, even if he kept dropping cups.
☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀
The rush hit on a Saturday afternoon.
The line stretched out the door. Someone spilled rainbow ice near the counter, and you nearly slipped twice trying to clean it. Kids shouted orders. Parents apologized for them. The register jammed. A tub of lemon ice froze solid and wouldn’t scoop.
You and Dick scrambled, shouting flavor names back and forth like it was a coded operation.
“Cherry-lime for the kid in the blue shirt!”
“Where’s the blue shirt kid?”
“Dick, that’s purple!”
“It looks kind of blue!”
You laughed even while trying to keep up. You were exhausted. He was sweating through his apron. But you covered each other’s mistakes without thinking. If he mixed an order, you fixed it. When you fumbled a stack of cups, he caught them midair with a flourish that made the kids gasp.
A girl giggled as he handed her a cone. “Are you two dating?”
Dick answered instantly. “Yep.”
You choked. “Dick!”
He beamed. “What? She asked.”
By the time the rush finally thinned, you felt like you’d run a marathon. Your legs shook from standing. Your throat was dry from shouting orders. The shop finally quieted, the hum of the freezers the only sound.
You leaned on the counter, breathing hard. Dick slid beside you, equally winded.
“We survived…” He said.
“Barely.”
“Teamwork.” He bumped your shoulder gently.
☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀☉☀
Your boss let you take a break, so you and Dick stepped outside to the small bench near the alley where the smell of lemon peel hung in the air.
Dick brought a cup of watermelon Italian ice to share. He offered you the spoon first, holding the cup steady.
You took a small bite. Cold. Sweet. Perfect.
“Good?” He asked.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He looked tired but happy. The kind of happy he didn’t get from patrol or missions. This was normal life. Summer. You beside him, not in danger, not waiting for him to return from the city’s shadows.
He nudged your knee with his. “Told you us working together was a good idea.”
“You just wanted to stare at me all day.”
“Can you blame me?”
You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t move away when he shifted closer. The heat of the day pressed around you, but he felt warm in a different way —steady, familiar.
He reached for your hand with an easy confidence, fingers brushing yours. “Hey….”
You looked up.
And he kissed you.
Quick, light, playful —the same way he teased you, and he leaned back, smiling like he’d gotten away with something.
You blinked. “You can’t just do that at work.”
“Oh…” He said, leaning in again, voice low, “I definitely can.”
You shoved his shoulder, though you were smiling. “Stop.”
He laughed. “You’re smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He stole another kiss. Slower this time. Sweeter.
You didn’t push him away.
The summer heat settled around you both. Somewhere inside the shop, someone dropped a scoop. Outside, the sun hit the sidewalk in bright streaks. One of his thumbs brushed your hand, slow and gentle, and he rested his forehead against yours.
“So…” He whispered, “....think the rest of the summer will be this fun?”
You squeezed his hand, feeling the leftover ice melt down the cup.
“Probably a mess….” You said.
He grinned. “Perfect.”
And for once, you let yourself enjoy the chaos he brought. Summer wouldn’t be quiet—not with him. But it would be yours.
And that was better.