The first thing you hear is the soft thud of boots against your window ledge. Then, a groan. It’s raspy and low, with pain wrapped around the edges of the noise, spilling into your apartment and it blinks you away, lashes fluttering open in time to see Dick stumble inside your bedroom, his Nightwing costume torn, blood soaking the dark blue fabric.

"Don't start," Dick sighs softly, catching your narrowed gaze as he stumbles over to you, blood splattering to the floor from where a gash is curved over his shoulders. Dick drops to his knees when he reaches your bed, sweat beading down his throat, his skin clammier and paler than usual but he just shoots you a weak grin as you sit up in bed, sheets pooling at your waist.

You glare at Dick and he just smiles weakly in return, the usual million watt smile dimmed with pain around the edges as you grab the first aid kit you keep by your bedside for drop ins just like this.

You help him tug off the top half of his costume, bloody and ripped, and the gash looks worse once it’s fully revealed, an angry red staining the skin of Dick’s shoulder, droplets of crimson running down and you press your tongue to the inside of your cheek as those clear blue eyes clouded with pain look up at you.

Fuck. You have half a mind to ask why the hell he keeps coming here instead of going to the bat cave but your best friend just gives you those eyes from under your lashes and you’re taking out the gauze and needles, and Dick lets out a soft breath.

Dick’s been doing this for months now — ever since you found out about his secret nighttime vigilantism, he’s been turning up to your apartment all bloody, bruised and weak smiles, asking you to fix him up. You’ve become intimately familiar with the contours of Dick’s body, and you’re reminded of that fact when he’s kneeled in front of you between your legs, bloody and tired.

“It’s not that bad,” Dick mutters softly, looking up at you from under his dark lashes like he’s not staining your floorboards with his blood.