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Assistant: Title: The Robin and His Wren
        Author: Tateylee Tateylee 
        Chapter: 19/22 
        Summary: Wren thought leaving Gotham would be the hardest thing she’d ever do. Two years later, she’s back—older, a little steadier, and totally out of sync with the city she used to call home. Dick Grayson hasn’t changed… and somehow, he’s changed completely. He’s sharper now, weighed down by secrets, but still the same boy who used to trade Cheez-Its and sketchbook pages at recess.They grew up together between rooftops and whispered promises, but time—and trauma—pulled them apart. Now Wren’s trying to figure out who she is without her parents, and Dick’s still pretending he doesn’t need help until he’s bleeding on a fire escape at 2AM.There’s a new Robin. A second chance. And a lot of things they never said out loud.Because they’ve always spoken best in code—through doodles, bruises, and borrowed movies. And maybe, this time, that’s enough to find their way back.
        Contents: Chapter 19: Notes Across Rooftops
    

    


      
        
          It is 4:51 am and I just cracked a Dr. Pepper, lets get this train rollin.I'm tired of my little birdies being sad.
            
            (See the end of the chapter for  more notes.)
            
      
  

  
  
    
    
  September 2021 – 18 y/o 

  -----
 It’s Tuesday again. The semester is starting to pick up, and the literature class I thought would be a breeze is turning out to be more difficult than expected.My apartment is dark and warm when I get home. I throw my bag onto the counter and go to open the windows, hoping the breeze might help with my essay... or at least the headache forming behind my eyes.And there he is.A shadow in black and blue, sitting against the chimney of the building across the street.Crouched low, half-hidden behind the bricks. Still as stone. Watching.I step out onto the fire escape, letting the cold metal settle beneath me. It creaks under my weight, a familiar, lived-in sound. A reminder of times I thought were long lost. I pull my knees up to my chest and let the silence stretch between us.No words. No movement. Just the hum of Gotham below and the unspoken fact that he hadn’t left.He doesn’t vanish when I see him. Doesn’t dart into the shadows.He stays.I don’t know what that means yet. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.My sketchbook is already in my lap. I hadn’t even realized I’d brought it out.I don’t draw right away.I just sit.Let the wind tug at my hair. Let my heartbeat slow from the aggravation of class. Let the silence hang between us like a truce.I can feel him watching. Not in a bad way, just there. Ever-present. Like gravity.Eventually, I flip to a clean page.I don’t think. I just sketch. My hand moves the way it always has—steadily, like something remembered.Not from memory. Not from feeling. From here. From now.A rooftop. A fire escape. A silhouette across the gap. I don’t give him a face. I don’t need to. He’s already there.The pencil moves slowly. Lines soft. Unshaped.I glance up once.Still there.He doesn’t try to get closer. He doesn’t disappear.He just stays.It’s not a conversation.But it’s not nothing.----- By the time I go back inside, the sky is fully dark. Streetlights blur through the windows like stars flipped upside down.It’s dark enough that he’s bled into the shadows—but I know he’s still there.I can feel it.I pull the sketch from the pad and return the rest to my bag.But when I return to the window—no more than a minute later—something’s there.Folded paper, resting carefully on the sill. Waiting for me to notice. Small. Plain. Quiet.No name.But I don’t need one.Five words, handwritten in the center:
  Still here. If you are.
My hand trembled once. Then it stills.I don’t cry. I don’t even sit down right away.I just take the sketch and flip it over.On the back, I write:
  Same time next week?
I tape it to the outside of the window. No flourish. No signature. Just that.Then I step away.----- The next morning, the drawing is gone.I didn’t see him take it.Didn’t hear a sound.But the tape still curls on the glass.----- When I look out next Thursday, He’s already waiting.The air’s warm in that late-summer way — heavy, but not humid, still holding onto the heat of the day, with only the faintest promise of fall in the breeze.Wren’s already at the window before she really notices. Sketchbook in hand. Bare feet on the fire escape, the metal hot against the skin.Across the street, he’s there again.Same place, same shadowed spot near the chimney. But this time, he’s not just watching.He lifts a hand — a small wave, almost unsure — and something in her chest pulls tight and quiet.She sits with her legs tucked under her, sketchbook balanced against her knees. And she waves back, something soft and nervous.The drawing this week? Birds. They’ve always been birds.A robin and a wren on the same wire, feathers brushing. No space between them. Not here.When the drawing is finished, she flips the page and hesitates just a moment before writing:
  “If you aren’t Robin,then am I still Wren?”
She reads it twice, then folds the page cleanly and tapes it up with the remnants left from last week.She doesn’t sign it. Doesn’t label it. Doesn’t have to. He just knows.She doesn’t check to see if he’s watching.She just leaves it there and goes inside.----- A week later, he returns.The sky’s deeper tonight. That kind of dusky blue that smudges out the edges of the city, makes it feel farther away.She doesn’t spot him right away, but she knows he’s there — can feel it in the way the air stills, like the space between them is holding its breath.There’s something on the windowsill.Neatly folded. Waiting.She opens the window with care this time, like any sudden movement might break whatever fragile thread they’ve started to weave.The paper is the same size as hers, creased once down the middle. No name. No sign. Just his handwriting:
  There will always be a new Robin.But there will only be one Wren.
She stares at the words until they blur.Until she has to blink them back into place.He’s still across the street. Still watching.But he doesn’t wave this time. He just stays there, steady and quiet, like he’s waiting for her to decide what comes next.She goes onto the fire escape and sits leaning against the building, letting the warmth of the evening press gently against her skin. Sketchbook held against her lap.And then, slowly, her pencil finds the page.This time, she draws a memory.She draws the boardwalk.Not the obvious parts — not the Ferris wheel or the arcade or the food stalls.She draws the space beneath it.Wood slats above, sand below, sunlight breaking through in soft, golden stripes.
  They’d gone with Bruce and Alfred that weekend, some kind of quiet retreat after a long, tense summer Wren hadn’t been allowed to ask questions about.

  She remembers how they slipped away after dinner, racing down the beach barefoot with the wind at their backs and the kind of laughter that didn’t need a reason.

  Dick had been the one to crawl under first, daring her with a grin.“You’re not scared of sand crabs, are you?”

  She hadn’t been — until he said it like that.

  They’d stayed under there for nearly an hour. Just sitting. Talking. Letting the ocean hum in the distance while they made shapes out of shadows on the beams above them.

  He showed her how to whistle with her fingers that night. She never quite got the hang of it, but he made her laugh so hard she snorted, and he looked at her like it was the best sound he’d ever heard.

  That was the first time she told him her middle name.And the first time he swore he’d never tell.

  Just a moment.No masks. No secrets.
She finishes the sketch with the faintest suggestion of light catching the side of his face, and two shadowy figures under the slats — legs stretched out in opposite directions, backs just barely touching.It’s the kind of memory no one else would recognize.But he will.-----                            The following week, there’s no note.Just a drawing.She finds it before she even sits down — already waiting on the sill, perfectly centered. The edges of the page curl faintly in the breeze.She unfolds it carefully.A charm bracelet.Drawn in graphite. Nothing stylized or abstract — just soft, deliberate detail.Frayed cord. Loose threading.The bird charm at the center is worn smooth at the edges, its wing barely defined anymore. Like it’s been touched too many times.No words on the back.No name.But she knows it’s his.She stares at it longer than she means to.Her fingers drift to her collarbone without thinking, and there it is — her necklace, a different bird, a different meaning, same fading outline. Still cool against her skin. Still hers.Still his, too.She opens her sketchbook that night without hesitation.The necklace is easy to draw. She’s traced it with her eyes a hundred times — from math class daydreams to worried nights waiting for a call back.She includes the kink in the chain where it once snagged on her coat zipper. Draws the charm just how it looks now — dulled, soft-edged, imperfect.On the back, she writes only:
  Still mine?
She tapes it to the glass.No hesitation. No waiting. Just… yes.The next day, it’s gone.And the day after that, a new slip of paper appears.A sketch this time of a rooftop she doesn’t recognize at first.Wide, flat, with an old rusted water tower tucked in one corner. There’s a ladder drawn next to it. A loose coil of rope. A break in the railing.It takes her a second.Then she knows.It’s the roof above the old transit museum. Still abandoned. Still accessible if you know where to look.There’s no time written down. No directions.Just the image.An invitation.She runs her fingers across the edge of the page. The graphite smudges faintly under her touch.And then she pulls her sketchbook into her lap and begins to draw again.
  
  

    
      
        
        
          Hello gentle reader, I am crying in the club rn, the Dr. Pepper is gone.'
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