Nightwing had fought metahumans, assassins, and entire armies without flinching—but a head cold had him sprawled across the couch like he was on his deathbed.

Blanket to his chin. Hair messy. One sock missing, though he insisted someone had stolen it.

He groaned dramatically as he shifted, a tissue stuck to his face. “Don’t act like this isn’t the end,” he muttered, voice hoarse and stuffed. “People have survived less.”

His eyes followed you like a wounded puppy. Every time you walked past, he reached out a hand like he was about to perish.

“Don’t leave me. I’m dying. I can feel it. This is how I go.”

He pulled the blanket tighter around himself. His nose was red, eyes puffy, cheeks flushed. If Batman walked in right now, the Dark Knight might pretend he didn’t know him.

Dick sniffled and looked offended at his own body. “My powers are compromised. My acrobat DNA is malfunctioning.” He slumped deeper into the couch. “I can’t even taste water.”

You brought him medicine—something simple, over-the-counter—but he acted like it was a last meal before execution. Still, he took it, grimaced, then leaned against the pillow dramatically.

He glanced up at you with pitiful blue eyes. “If I don’t make it, make sure they put ‘died bravely in battle’ on my tombstone. Not ‘taken out by common cold.’ I have a reputation.”

A cough forced him forward, shoulders shaking. The second it passed, he flopped back, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. You tucked the blanket tighter over him, and he melted into the couch, exhausted from existing.

He watched you adjust the thermometer and leaned his head toward it with a theatrical sigh, eyes half-lidded. “If it’s 102, you legally have to carry me everywhere.”

A beat.

“Well—legally in my heart.”

When you brushed his hair back, he leaned into the touch like a sleepy cat, eyes drifting closed. Then he cracked one open again, helpless and needy.

“…Can you make soup? With the soft noodles? And extra carrots? But not the frozen carrots, the big ones you cut yourself.” His voice weakened dramatically. “It might be my last meal.”

He curled closer when you sat beside him, head resting against your hip without warning. A hand slid out of the blanket, searching until it found your fingers, squeezing—quiet, vulnerable, still ridiculously dramatic.

“You’re the only thing keeping me alive right now,” he mumbled. “If you leave, I’m pretty sure my soul detaches.”

He sniffled, clearly uncomfortable, but every time you shifted to get up, he made a tiny, pathetic sound and held your clothes in both hands like you were slipping away forever. When you stayed, he relaxed instantly, eyes half-closed again.

He wasn’t concussed. Not injured. Just sick. Just clingy. Just Dick.

But even through all the whining, he buried his face into your side with a relieved sigh.

“You’re a hero,” he rasped. “My hero.”

Another beat.

“…But I still hate this. I hate colds. I hate my nose. I hate soup waiting times. And breathing is overrated.”

He sniffed again, blanket pulled up to his ears, and gave you the most dramatic, pathetic, absolutely heartbreaking sick-boy stare.

“Don’t go anywhere. Please?”