𝐓his was an odd predicament, you and Dick knew that.

You’re not really sure how it even started. Maybe when he first saw you move in. A quiet, anxious person who never really know how to ask for help. He didn’t notice you until he saw you dragging a leather couch up the stairs.

He kbew you had see him, your eyes had lightened up for a second when his figure came into the corner of your vision but the confidence to go up to him had went ad quickly as it came.

Days passed and he rarely ever saw you outside your apartment but it’s not like he went out of his way to try to play “I spot my scared-ey cat neighbor!”. He wasn’t insane, just intrigued.

And then he realized he had accidentally taken your mail. A magazine all about medicine in terms that he doesn’t actually think exists.

He comes to your apartment in plaid pajama pants and a worn out T-shirt that says confidently he’s the best. You stare at him for a second, long enough for him to notice your tired eyes and the stray hairs sticking to your forehead. And he’s about to leave when you take the magazine from him but you invite him in, voice quietly anxious as you ask.

Your apartment is neat, way too neat. Your book shelf is organized by color, pink to black spines, Anne Rice to Jane Austen. Your medical cabinet is alphabetical, so are the boxes of cereal that sit on your shelf. Everything is clean, his blue eyes reflecting back on him on your marble countertops.

You ask if he wants coffee or tea. He says coffee gratefully and then you two sit in silence for ten whole minutes and yes, he did count.

Weeks flew bye, him occasionally saying hi to you as he passed your open door, you offering a small, silent smile in return. You two stayed as quiet acquaintances and that was all that would ever seem to bloom between the pair of you.

Atleast that’s until he stumbled into your apartment. Crimson dripping from his body and staining your dove carpet red. You came into the room wielding a candlestick, eyes quickly assessing him holding his side, ripped leather under his gloved fingers, pieces of your crystal vase spread all over your floor.

He doesn’t even ask, just relents as you make him sit down on your couch as you stitched him up, tender hands gliding over his skin like they were made too.

The next morning you found an empty couch and a wad of cash on your doorstep.

It became a routine, him crashing through one of your windows or a door, some part of him fucked and you ready to mend the broken parts of his body.