The apartment was quiet when he finally made it back. Too quiet.
He shut the door behind him with more force than he meant to, the sound echoing against the walls. His ribs protested with the movement — sharp, dull pain spreading across his chest like fire licking through old scars. He’d been lucky tonight. Luckier than usual.
The suit was a mess. Torn along the side where the knife had slipped, smeared with grime and blood — not all of it his, but enough to sting his pride.
He made it to the bathroom on autopilot, pulling off his gloves one at a time. The cracked leather stuck to his palms. He turned on the light, blinking at the harsh white reflection that hit him back.
Nightwing. The mask still in place. The blue bird emblem across his chest streaked dark.
He exhaled through his teeth, reached up, and peeled the mask off slowly. And there he was. Just Dick again.
He looked older under that light. The faint lines around his eyes, the exhaustion written deep into the corners of his mouth. For a moment, he didn’t recognize himself.
He tugged at the top of his suit, wincing as the fabric pulled against the wound. The black material gave way, revealing bruised skin, a shallow cut across his ribs, and the ghost of old marks — scars from years of doing this, from never learning how to quit.
Blood trickled down the side of his stomach. He grabbed a towel, pressed it against the cut, and sighed — half pain, half frustration.
He could patch himself up. He always did. But for once, the thought just felt… heavy.
He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the sink. The mirror fogged slightly from his breath.
That’s when the door creaked open.
He turned his head slightly, muscles tensing out of instinct — but the tension faded the instant he saw you standing there.
You froze for a second, eyes widening as they swept over him — the torn suit, the bruises, the streaks of blood he hadn’t even wiped yet. He could see the worry flicker across your face, subtle but unmistakable.
“Hey,” he managed, voice rougher than he meant.