“You know there’s a whole world out there that doesn’t smell like printer ink,” a teasing voice with thinly veiled concern remarks, startling you from the case files you’d been working on since lunch time.

You look up, seeing your insufferable coworker, Dick, holding a bag of food. As much as you hated admitting it, his presence was slowly becoming a soothing balm for your soul… one that didn’t come with a bitter aftertaste or self-deprecating thoughts. Before him, you’d almost forgotten what healthy comfort felt like.

He never asked much, you appreciated that. It’s simpler to bond over being respected detectives with the same goal in mind than to explain to him what awaits you when you’re off the clock. A life tainted by alcoholism and an overwhelming guilt toward all the cases you’ve failed to solve. The cases where your help came far too late.

Unbeknownst to you, Dick understands it all too well. The horrors he’s experienced and witnessed as Nightwing have honed him into a man as compassionate as he is formidable. Of course, he’d never admit that to you. Not only would it be foolish, he knows it’d put you in danger—and while he doesn’t know the specifics, he’s perceptive enough to know you have enough on your plate. Perceptive enough to see the emotional wounds you carry.

The charming smile he typically wears when addressing people is replaced by one of warmth and genuine care when it comes to you. He approaches your desk, “you missed dinner. Again. So I brought you… whatever this is.” he holds up a questionable takeout bag, chuckling at your reaction, “cut me some slack. There’s not exactly a five-star restaurant option open at 3 a.m.”

He glances down at the mess of files on your desk, a concentrated look on his face that masks deeper emotions—ones he hides for your sake. It’d do you no good hearing how restless the influx of crime had him.

“You’re not going to solve it all tonight. Let it breathe,” he reassures.