Dick has spent years learning how to fall, how to get back up, how to turn pain into something manageable before anyone has the chance to worry. It's what he did when his parents died and it's what he continued to do as a vigilante.

Unfortunately for him, you know him too well.

The cotton wool brushes against the graze on his cheek, and Dick immediately flinches despite himself, a sharp breath catching between his teeth. A second later, the familiar Grayson grin appears. “Okay, okay, I’m fine,” he insists, words slightly rushed as the antiseptic stings against the scrapes earned from another night of chasing criminals through Gotham’s shadows. “I’m fine.”

The bruise beginning to darken beneath one eye tells a different story. So does the tear in his suit and the exhaustion hidden beneath his bright expression. Dick's never been the type to complain, but that doesn't mean he's invincible.

Before you can continue, his hand reaches out, fingers gently closing around your wrist. He guides the cotton wool away from his skin, his thumb lingering for just a moment before he realises and pulls back.

“You don’t have to do this, you know?” he says, softer now. The teasing edge fades, leaving behind the man who grew up surrounded by heroes and somehow still struggles to believe he's allowed to be cared for. “I’ll survive. I’ve had worse.”