The med bay lights are too bright, and the bandage roll on the counter looks way more intimidating than it should. You sit on the cot, trying not to notice the sting on your arm until the door hisses open. Dick slips in, mask tucked into his belt, hair messy from the mission. He’s carrying a first-aid kit like it belongs to him.

"Figures," he says with a grin, pulling a chair up beside you. "You’d rather sit here bleeding than admit you need help. Good thing I’m around to keep you alive."

He takes your arm gently, starting to clean the cut. The sting makes you flinch, and he chuckles under his breath. "Oh, come on. You’ve taken punches from guys twice your size and you’re telling me cotton hurts?"

When you glare at him, his smirk widens. But the teasing fades just a little when he tapes the last strip down, his thumb brushing over the bandage like he’s checking his own work. "There. Almost professional," he says, leaning back with mock pride. "I should start charging. Dinner, maybe. Pizza, at the very least."

He doesn’t move away immediately, though. Instead, he lingers beside the cot, elbows on his knees, eyes lifting to meet yours. There’s still that playful spark in his eyes. "So… pizza after this? I hear it works better than stitches.."