Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Since carving out a space for himself in Blüdhaven, Dick has made sure he’s been established as a feared vigilante in his own right—on par with the Big Bat of Gotham. Now, he’s more focused on smaller things: finding the neighborhoods that need patrolling the most, learning which cops he can trust, and scouting the perfect post-mission food joint.

In Gotham, he was partial to Mo’s—a restaurant in Old Gotham that had been through hell but stayed standing. He knows that Jason—now in the mantle of Robin—favors the chili dog cart that roams the city. Bruce has always just gone home to Alfred (cause he’s a party pooper).

Dick thinks his hunt is finally coming to an end as he sits down in a booth at Jive Joint for the third time in two weeks and isn’t attacked. Good, he considers. He gets a slice of pie that night and tips the waitress extra.

(Dick didn’t particularly want to use the money he saved up from when he lived with Bruce, but he reasoned it was reparations for allowing him to be a child vigilante. And for his emotional stuntedness.)

The Jive Joint was a small place that had been established in the late ’60s by Mandy Doyle, who, despite pushing 70, still wore the flowy pants, skirts, dresses, and crop tops she had rocked in the ‘70s. (And, boy, did she rock them. Dick has seen the pictures on the walls—Mandy was a stone fox.) You could see everything but the kitchen from the dining room. Booths line the walls, and tables and chairs fill the space in between. There’s a counter space with about five barstools with mismatched flower patterns. Behind the counter is a small window that can fit maybe three plates—four if they’re small.

There are never more than four people in the diner when Dick arrives sometime past 2 in the morning. There’s one waitress and sometimes a cook. If the cook is out, all you get is pie, milkshakes, or cold fries.

Dick loves it.

The waitress, clad in a pair of bell bottoms and a cropped halter top, roller skates away with his order when he comes for the tenth night that month. (The roller skates, Dick has found out, are not part of the uniform. She, Julie, chooses to wear them to work every night. She said she was building up her endurance for a derby or something.) He got lucky tonight—Ralphie, the cook, needs some extra hours and is willing to stay for the overnight shift. Dick treats himself to a burger, fries, and a milkshake that he’ll probably yack up if he gets punched on the way home.

The chime of the door alerts Dick to someone coming in—if it could be called a chime. It’s really just a little speaker that plays the first five seconds of “Cecilia” by Simon & Garfunkel.

Danny strolls in (right on time, a little part of Dick notes that he quickly shoves away) and moseys over to his normal corner booth, where he has a view of absolutely everything in the restaurant, including using the TV’s reflection to see the windows on the same wall he sits on.

That’s what caught Dick’s attention when he first saw him.

Now, as an experienced vigilante, Dick is used to scouting out the best positions in buildings to view everything. It minimizes the opportunity for a surprise attack. Dick’s seen it a million times—galas with Bruce, tea with Alfred, even during lunches with Wally. All heroes and vigilantes tend to sit in the spot with the best vantage point.

So it was really interesting to see a nurse—not even a year out of school—act like a war veteran. Dick sees it every time, the hyperaware glint in Danny’s eye, even as they droop under the weight of a 16-hour shift.

Danny—whose name Dick learned off his hospital name tag when he forgot to take it off, not from extensive background checking of everyone who caught his eye; he’s not Bruce—was around the same age as him. He had just exited nursing school and was aiming for pediatric nursing, despite the fact that he often accepted night shifts in the ER at RABE Memorial Hospital because he knew it helped the female nurses feel safe. His size alone tends to dissuade any untoward or unruly behavior, and if it doesn’t, Danny also functions great as security.

Once again, Dick would like to reiterate that he is not Bruce. He found this out when Julie asked him why on Earth he worked so many shifts. (Dick watched Julie put an extra cherry on his milkshake that night.)

As Danny fumbles his way into his usual booth, knees knocking the table awkwardly as he scoots it back, Dick thinks—and not for the first time—that he is built like a brick shit house. He thinks the nurse could give Bruce a run for his money in a fight. At least 6'4" and armed with muscles a bodybuilder would envy, Danny is the exact opposite of what you’d expect from a man of his build and size. He has a mean RBF, but from what Dick has witnessed, Danny is the epitome of a gentle giant.

Every night he’s there, Dick watches Danny duck through the doorway, hunch his shoulders when speaking, and telegraph every one of his movements so the average civilian could see them coming from a mile away. It kind of breaks Dick’s heart, just a bit, to see Danny act like he’s apologizing for his presence in scrubs that have puppies all over them and stickers with motivational words like “you can do it!” stuck to his cheeks. (Those mean that he worked a pediatric shift earlier, but Dick would know anyway. Danny’s smile is always a little brighter when he works in peds.)

Dick catches his eye one night and waves, smiling as Danny waves back with a confused tilt of his head.

One night, Dick is going to go sit with him.

But tonight is not that night.

Chapter Text

Dick nearly does a spit take as he sees Danny enter the diner. He freezes for a second, blinking to make sure he isn’t hallucinating. Nope—Danny is, in fact, dressed like a Dollar Tree version of Superman. Under his coat is a red shirt with a large, messy ‘S’ scribbled on it, filled in with lines of black that spill outside the outline. His blue scrub pants have the crudely drawn old underwear design, complete with detailing on the belt. On his forehead, drawn in squiggly Sharpie, is the classic hair curl Dick knows Clark used to be famous for.

Unlike Dick, Julie is making no attempt to stifle her laughter.

Danny grins tiredly, takes off his coat, and spins around, revealing a small cape made of scrub cloth that’s been colored red. Julie doubles over in laughter.

Despite the exhaustion that Dick can sense rolling off Danny in waves so strong he feels it, the man keeps a smile on his face. His shoulders sag ever so slightly, and he rubs at his eyes before letting his hand drop, fingers twitching like he’s resisting the urge to press at his temples. But still, he smiles.

“The kids decided I’m Superman,” Danny shrugs as he puts his coat back on. "I think it’s because I keep lifting them onto exam tables, but they say it’s ‘because I’m so nice.’ Honestly, their puppy dog eyes are my kryptonite.”

That is so sweet, Dick thinks.

Julie seems to share his opinion, voicing, “You’re so sweet, Danny. Especially to those kids.”

A crack shows in Danny’s mask as he struggles to keep up his smile. “Well, they don’t have a lot in the pediatrics ward.”

“What type of pie do you want?” Julie asks, visibly blinking away tears.

“Oh, I wasn’t going to have—”

“I said, what kinda pie you want!” Julie reiterates, clicking her pen.

Danny looks cowed. “Apple, please.”

Julie skates away with the order, and Dick seizes this moment to slide into the booth opposite Danny.

Dick knows Danny has been watching him out of the corner of his eye the entire time, but Danny only looks up when Dick is across from him.

“I didn’t know I’ve been eating at the same place as Superman!” Dick teases, grinning and slouching back against the booth to let Danny know it’s all in good fun.

Danny rolls his eyes, but a soft smile tugs at his lips. “Haha. Haven’t heard that one from the people in the elevator at the hospital, the guy in the cafeteria, or my bus driver.”

"Alright, fine, weak material, I admit," he concedes with a small chuckle.

Danny seems tired but settled, comfortable in his usual corner booth. He always chats easily with Julie, his posture loose in a way that suggests familiarity. This place is his refuge, much like it’s becoming Dick’s. And as he watches Danny laugh—real and unguarded—Dick finds himself thinking that it’s a good look on him.

Danny shakes his head, a strand of slicked-back hair falling into his face. “I had such high hopes. I’ve heard all sorts of praise about the quips you Gotham and Blüdhaven vigilantes make.”

Dick holds up his hands. “I formally apologize on behalf of all Gotham vigilantes. We can be funny; my humor just seems to have forsaken me tonight.”

Julie skates over and slides a massive slice of apple pie between Danny and Dick—probably a third of an entire pie. The scent of warm apples and cinnamon wafts up between them, the buttery crust flaking slightly at the edges. She discreetly winks at Dick as she glides away.

“Guess you’ll have to come back and redeem yourself sometime, huh, Nightwing?” Danny glances down at the pie, picking up his fork to dig into it. The smile on his face is shy, hesitant.

“As soon as I can,” Dick drums his fingers on the table, taking a leap into the deep end. “When’s your next shift?”

Danny’s eyes widen, clearly not expecting that. “Uh, Saturday night.”

“Same time as usual?”

Danny narrows his eyes teasingly. “My, my, Mr. Nightwing. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were watching me.”

Dick laughs, throwing his head back. “We frequent the same diner most days of the week.” He gestures to the empty tables around them. “It’s not very difficult to notice someone in a crowd like this.”

Danny shakes his head with a chuckle. “Okay, that’s fair. I’ve noticed you come in a few times too.”

Dick gasps, slapping a hand over his heart. “Lil’ ole me? Why, Danny, I am swooning!”

Danny covers his mouth and turns away, his shoulders shaking as his blue eyes gleam with mirth. Dick is really starting to like that laugh.

There’s something about it that feels different. Danny’s shoulders tremble with it, his fingers absently tapping against the table as if grounding himself in the moment. The quiet little noise that escapes him is genuine, unfiltered, and for a second, Dick wonders how often Danny gets to laugh like this. The way his shoulders tremble, the quiet little noise that escapes him—Danny doesn’t hide his exhaustion, but he hides the weight of it behind that smile. And Dick finds himself wanting to see more of that smile. More of Danny’s real smile.

Danny shifts in his seat, and for a moment, he lets his guard down. His fingers absently brush over the edge of his coffee cup, and with all his training, Dick catches it—the brief, almost imperceptible hesitation before Danny forces that smile back into place. It’s small, but Dick notices. He doesn’t say anything, but something shifts in the air between them.

“You really are something else, Danny,” Dick says, his voice quieter now, not teasing, but sincere.

Danny shrugs, the smile returning, but softer this time. “The kids remind me of… well, me. Back when I could still laugh like that.”

Dick’s heart skips. There’s a vulnerability there that’s buried under layers of exhaustion and jokes. 

“Guess I’ll have to come back for that redemption,” Dick says, with a little more sincerity than he planned. Teach you how to laugh like a kid again , he doesn’t say.

“Yeah, when you’re not swooning,” Danny teases, but there’s something warm in his eyes.

Dick watches as Danny digs into his pie, that shy smile never leaving his face. It’s a little crooked, a little unsure, but to Dick, it’s as warm as the midday sun.

𓅛

The next time Dick sees Danny he’s out of uniform, dressed casually for a "sibling bonding time" outing with his new little brother, Jason. Dick had mentioned this place on patrol once, talking about how much he loved it, and Jason had practically begged to come along, eager to see for himself what had Dick so enthralled. Whether it was curiosity, admiration, or just wanting an excuse to drag his brother somewhere, Jason wouldn’t say. So here they are—during the day—where Dick realizes, to his surprise, that the place isn’t much busier than it is at night.

The door chimes. A familiar silhouette steps inside, so unmistakable that Dick does a double take. For a second, he thinks he's imagining things, that it’s actually nighttime, and he’s Nightwing on patrol. But then two people follow in after Danny, shoving and jostling him with a familiarity that makes it clear they’re close.

Dick watches, smiling at the easy interaction. Danny stands taller, more confident between them. It’s a good look on him.

“Dan!”

Mandy, the owner, calls out before hurrying out from behind the counter.

“Ms. Doyle,” Danny greets with a grin, opening his arms just in time for the older woman to pounce on him in a warm embrace.

“Dan?” The gothic woman at Danny’s side asks, her gaze heavy and questioning.

Danny shrinks under her scrutiny—something about it looks wrong , Dick thinks.

“Ms. Doyle won’t call me anything else,” Danny mutters.

Ms. Doyle elbows him. “Ha! Only because he won’t quit callin’ me ‘Ms. Doyle,’” she says, mimicking his voice in a high-pitched tone. “This boy knows exactly what to say to keep me from callin’ him anything but Dan.”

Danny shakes his head with a fond smile, like this is an argument they’ve had more times than he can count. Mandy smirks at him. “You know, if you weren’t so polite, I might actually call you by your real name.”

“That’s a trap, and I’m not falling for it,” Danny deadpans.

“Smart boy,” Mandy says approvingly, shooting him a playful glare before swatting at his arm. “Go sit down in your usual spot. I’ll bring some pie over for your friends.”

“Oh, that’s really not necessary—” all three of them start at the same time before pausing, glancing at each other, then collectively blushing.

Midwesterners , Dick thinks, amused.

The gothic woman groans, covering her face. “We sound like a sitcom. Next thing you know, we’ll start finishing each other’s—”

“Sandwiches?” the guy next to her chimes in.

“I was gonna say ‘sentences,’ but now I’m just disappointed.”

Danny sighs, shaking his head. “See what I deal with?”

Mandy cackles. “I’ll be right there, Dan!”

Dick only snaps out of his thoughts when fingers snap in front of his face.

“You’re staring,” Jason smirks.

“No, I’m observing,” Dick corrects.

“Right. Because ‘observing’ makes you look like you’re about to write poetry about someone.”

“I don’t—” Dick starts, then narrows his eyes. “Wait, how do you know I used to write poetry?”

Jason gasps dramatically. “Oh my god. You actually did?” 

Dick'd been too caught up watching Danny, trying to reconcile the quiet, uncertain man he’d known with the one standing before him now—strong, steady, and surrounded by people who clearly cared for him—to pay much attention to his little brother. Jason looks far too smug for someone who isn’t currently standing next to Daddy Bat.

“He’s a little too much like Bruce for my taste—”

Dick lunges across the table.

Chapter Text

Dick groans as he stumbles onto a rooftop, his muscles burning and the shards of glass embedded in his back shifting with every movement. He grits his teeth, reaching for his grappling hook. The guy he fought was way stronger than expected—strong enough to hurl him through a reinforced window—but it was the one-story drop afterward that really did him in, driving the broken glass deep into his skin.

He’s man enough to admit he can’t handle this one alone. But he doesn’t want to bother Babs, and there’s no way in hell he’s going to the Manor.

Luckily, RABE Memorial Hospital is only a mile away. And if he’s really lucky, Danny will be on shift.

The ER is a mess—way busier than it should be for a quiet patrol night. Whatever catastrophe happened, Dick must have missed it. But the chaos works in his favor. It’s easy to slip through the crowd, even dressed like a vigilante, and duck into an empty trauma room. Now, all he has to do is wait for some unsuspecting doctor to walk in.

“Bring him over here!”

Dick knows that voice. Even through the adrenaline haze, it makes him smile.

Danny.

And, oh—look at that—it’s his room.

Danny steps inside, takes one look at him, and glares like he’s contemplating homicide. “Someone forgot to mark this room occupied,” he says flatly. Then, before the paramedics outside can argue, he adds, “Next one over is open. Head in, someone will be with you in a minute.”

Dick hears the shuffle of movement, the door to the next room opening and shutting. Then, silence.

He swings his legs off the bed, grinning as Danny turns back to him with a look of pure exasperation. “Hey!”

Danny shuts the door and folds his arms. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Dick winces as he stands, turning around to reveal his shredded back. He tries not to look too smug about it—though, in hindsight, presenting himself like a particularly disastrous art project might not have been the best move.

“Ugh,” Danny huffs, rubbing his face before straightening. “Fine. Do you want me to get a doctor, or do you want me to patch you up myself?”

Dick perks up. “You can do it?”

“Nurses don’t, traditionally,” Danny mutters, already rifling through supplies. “But I figure the fewer people who know you’re here, the better.”

He’s not wrong.

Dick nods. “You! I mean—you’re right. So, yeah, you do it.” Then, with a smirk, he adds, “How do you want me?”

Danny levels him with a deadpan glare, so unimpressed that Dick suddenly feels like a massive inconvenience. “Sit down and shut up.” 

Feeling just a little like an inconvenience, Dick wisely obeys. He’s been through this before, after all. No need to make it harder on Danny.

Behind him, Danny lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You really went through it, huh?”

Dick hisses when cold saline touches his wounds. “You should see the other guy.”

“I’d rather see your vaccination records,” Danny grumbles, reaching for tweezers. “When was your last tetanus shot?”

As Danny starts pulling out the shards, Dick grits his teeth and cracks jokes to distract himself. When Danny removes a particularly nasty piece, he mutters, “You keep twitching, and I’ll make sure you stay still the hard way.”

Dick thanks every god he can that he’s not a masochist—because that sentence, under different circumstances, might have done something to him.

(Silk instead of gauze. Rope instead of medical tape. Danny above him, pressing him down, voice laced with something softer, something just as commanding— I told you to hold still. )

Instead, he fires back, “What, no lollipop if I’m good?”

“You want a sticker?”

Dick tilts his head, pretending to consider. “What kind?”

Danny snorts.

As Danny works, Dick keeps talking—cracking jokes, gritting his teeth, anything to distract himself. But Danny’s movements are practiced, methodical, the kind of efficiency Dick recognizes in people who’ve done this before. More than just training—this is experience. The way Danny angles the tweezers, pulling shards out with minimal damage, the way his hands remain steady even as exhaustion drags at his shoulders… It's familiar. Too familiar.

One particularly smooth extraction catches Dick off guard. Barely any extra damage, minimal pain—technique straight out of field medicine.

“You’ve done this before,” Dick observes.

Danny doesn’t look up. “Once or twice.”

“But you’re not a doctor. Or a trauma surgeon. You’re way too comfortable with this.”

Danny yanks a stitch a little harder than necessary.

Dick grunts but grins. 

“Are you complaining?”

“No,” he hums. “Just curious.”

The next stitch is definitely a warning.

Danny finishes in silence, tossing bloody gloves into a biohazard bin before shoving a tube of antibiotic cream at Dick. “You know, for a nurse, you don’t have much of a bedside manner.”

“And you don’t act like you’re gonna follow medical advice,” Danny retorts, tossing his bloody gloves in the bin.

“Touché.”

Danny glances at the clock. “It’s packed tonight. I have to get back. You can find your own way out, right?”

Dick gives him a thumbs-up. Danny nods and strides to the door.

“What about my sticker?” Dick calls after him.

Rising on Danny’s face is a small, almost imperceptible smirk before he walks out, just enough for Dick to wonder if he imagined it.

Chapter Text

The next time Dick sees Danny, it’s not at the diner.

It’s in his apartment.

(Yes, Dick looked up where he lives. No, it’s not that creepy… right?)

It’s stupidly early in the morning—too early for Danny to still be working a shift, so Dick’s pretty sure he’s home. It’s probably reckless to drag himself all the way here without a guarantee that someone will be around to stitch him up, but given how much blood he’s lost, he wouldn’t have made it to a hospital anyway.

It’s not that any one injury is severe. It’s just that there are a lot of them.

Dick fucked up. Got himself captured by traffickers after freeing the people they were keeping. Turns out, they aren’t all that forgiving when you take away their income.

Small knife wounds. So many small knife wounds.

If he ever does another underwear calendar for charity, these scars are going to be a nightmare to cover. 

(Unbidden, he pictures Danny smoothing concealer over each tiny mark, pressing soft kisses to every one as he works his way down Dick’s body.)

Dick shakes the thought away, already too dizzy from blood loss to be getting distracted.

He doesn’t so much knock on Danny’s door as collapse against it.

From the other side, he hears a muffled thump , followed by a groggy, “What the fuck—?” and a particularly loud, “ Fuck! ”

Despite himself, a weak smile tugs at Dick’s lips.

The door yanks open, and—oh. He did not think this through.

Dick topples forward, right into Danny’s arms.

Danny is solid. Warm. His grip is firm but gentle, strong enough to hold Dick up without effort. If Dick weren’t bleeding all over him, he might take a second to enjoy it.

He cracks a grin, throwing on his best smolder despite the blood loss. “Hi.”

Danny blinks sleepily down at him. Then his eyes sharpen, scanning Dick’s injuries. “For fuck’s sake.”

“You do house calls, doc?” Dick slurs.

Huh. He might be in worse shape than he thought.

Danny doesn’t bother answering. He just picks Dick up like he weighs nothing, carrying him inside with the kind of effortless strength that really shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.

That’s really hot.

“Do you have a fever?” Danny asks.

Dick blinks up at him, confused, and—oh, he’s on the couch now.

“You said you feel hot.”

Dick thinks, No, I said you feel hot, but when he tries to shake his head, it comes out more like a wobble.

Dick barely registers that he’s been put down. “No,” he grunts. 

Danny gives him a flat look before disappearing for a moment. When he comes back, he’s hauling an oversized first aid kit—one that’s probably as big, if not bigger, than the one in the BatCave. Dick watches as Danny’s face hardens with focus, the exhaustion from sleep replaced with sharp efficiency.

“What happened?”

“Traffickers,” Dick murmurs, watching Danny’s face as he works—he hadn’t been able to see him last time. “Huuummmannnn,” he sings lazily.

Danny’s hands freeze for a fraction of a second. A shadow crosses his face before he schools it into something calm and clinical. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Dick frowns, trying to think. “…Oh! No, no. ‘m okay,” he tries to smile but his eyelids are getting heavier. “They just beat me up.”

“And cut you up.”

“That too.”

Danny leans in, pupils flicking rapidly across Dick’s face before he lifts a hand and tilts Dick’s chin. “Look at me,” he orders.

Dick blinks sluggishly at him. “I am looking at you.”

Danny’s eyes narrow. He checks the dilation of Dick’s pupils, then presses two fingers to the side of his throat. His frown deepens as he counts beats under his breath.

“You’re going into mild shock,” he mutters. “Your pulse is too fast, your skin’s too pale. You’ve lost more blood than I thought.”

“Well, that sucks,” Dick offers helpfully.

Danny exhales sharply through his nose, his hands steady despite the frustrated set of his mouth. “Yeah, Nightwing, it really does.”

He gets to work fast, moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who’s done this before. A sterile pad wipes over each wound with numbing precision, Danny’s expression carved from stone. Dick grits his teeth when the first stitch goes in, but he keeps watching Danny’s movements.

Danny moves with practiced efficiency, hands steady as he stitches Dick back together. And maybe it’s the blood loss, or the exhaustion, or just the simple fact that he wants to, but Dick watches him and thinks: I like this. I like him being the one to take care of me.

The realization hits harder than it should.

“You’re lucky you made it here,” Danny mutters, tying off another stitch. “You’re bleeding more than I’m comfortable with, and I don’t exactly keep spare blood on hand.”

“But you have all this?” Dick gestures weakly at the first aid kit.

Danny smirks, sharp and mischievous. “You’re lucky I have no qualms about stealing medical supplies from my job. Otherwise, you’d be getting stitches with dental floss.”

It takes a while—long enough that Dick is barely keeping his eyes open by the time Danny finishes packing away the supplies.

“You staying the night?” Danny asks, pushing himself up.

Dick hesitates.

The idea of staying lingers in his chest, warm and unfamiliar. He trusts Danny—completely—but something about it feels… too much.

“No,” he rasps, grimacing as he forces himself upright. “I’m gonna head out.”

Danny just nods, wordless, and disappears into the other room. Dick braces against the table, scanning for the best exit. No fire escape here—it’s probably at another window in the apartment. He tugs the window up. 

“Wait,” Danny calls.

Dick turns, watching as Danny steps forward, holding out a hoodie.

“Here. It’ll keep you covered enough to get where you need to go.”

Dick’s heart does something stupid as he takes it, tugging it on with a grunt. It’s big. Really big. And warm. He has to resist the urge to bury his face in the collar just to see if it smells like Danny.

“Thanks,” he says, softer than before.

Danny huffs. “I won’t say ‘anytime’ because that gives you an open invitation to disrupt my sleep.” His lips quirk slightly. “But you’re welcome. Take care of yourself, Nightwing.”

Dick grins, stepping up onto the windowsill. “I will.”

He fires his grapple and lets it carry him up into the night.

(And thank every god it hooks onto the roof. Because missing that shot would’ve been really embarrassing.)

As he lands, the hoodie shifts around his shoulders, still warm from Danny’s hands. He should go home. Get some rest.

Instead, he presses a hand to his chest, right where the fabric meets his skin. Just for a second. Then he shakes it off and disappears into the night.

Chapter Text

Dick is excited the next time he swings by the diner. It’s been two weeks since he last saw Danny at his apartment—time for his fix.

(Why on Earth was he thinking like that? Like Danny is a drug and he’s an addict?)

(Because it’s true.)

He even arrives earlier than usual, intent on beating Danny there, ordering his usual, and paying before the nurse arrives after his shift—a small thank-you for patching him up. But when he steps inside, Danny is already at their usual table.

Danny always gets here after Dick. Normally, that means Dick has already ordered, greeting him with a smirk and some half-teasing comment about his terrible eating habits. But tonight, Danny is the one already seated, staring into a cup of coffee, his fingers trembling slightly around the ceramic like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

The Cookie Monster scrubs tell Dick he worked with the kids today, but that’s where the usual lightheartedness ends.

As Dick gets closer, more details come into focus. Danny’s eye bags are deeper than before, dark enough to resemble bruises. Creases of worry linger between his brows, despite his otherwise blank expression. His blue eyes, usually alert and warm, look dull—empty.

Danny always looks tired, but this is different. It’s a bone-deep, worn-down kind of exhaustion. The kind that makes a person feel hollow.

Dick never wants to see that expression on his face again. It doesn’t fit him. It shouldn’t be there.

(And yet, it’s there. And it hurts.)

Sliding into his seat across from him, Dick raises an eyebrow. “You look like hell.”

Danny doesn’t even glance up. “Hell and I are well acquainted.”

Dick watches as Danny lifts the cup to his lips, noticing the barely perceptible tremor in his fingers. He’s seen that kind of exhaustion before—on cops after a brutal shift, on medics after mass casualty events, on other heroes when they just couldn’t save someone. It’s the kind that lingers—depreciating, sharp, and painful.

“Long shift?”

A vague noise is all he gets in response—not quite an answer, but not a denial either.

Eventually, Danny exhales, leaning back against the booth with closed eyes. “It doesn’t stop,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “No matter how much you do, there’s always more. People keep coming in, bleeding, hurting… and you do what you can, but—”

He stops, blinking slowly, like he’s just now remembering where he is.

Dick stays quiet, observing. Danny doesn’t usually talk like this. He keeps things locked up, letting them slip only through dry humor and sarcastic quips. This… this is different.

“Tough night?” Dick asks, keeping his tone light but not happy.

Danny lets out a breath that might be a laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Tough life.”

Dick’s head tilts slightly, studying him. “Yeah?”

Danny blinks, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He looks away, focusing on some distant point beyond the window. “Forget it,” he mutters.

Dick doesn’t push. Not yet. Not tonight. Instead, he leans back, resting an arm over the back of the booth. “You know, usually I’m the one showing up looking like death warmed over,” he muses. “Feels a little weird, honestly. I might have to start patching you up instead.”

Danny snorts, shaking his head. “Good luck with that.”

Grinning, Dick stands and moves to the other side of the booth. Danny slides over without protest, letting Dick sit beside him. “Oh, come on. I’ve got experience handling stubborn, self-sacrificing idiots,” he nudges Danny’s shoulder. “You’d be a challenge, but I think I could take you.”

Danny rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. Instead, he takes another sip of coffee. The silence stretches between them again, but this time, it’s different. Not tense. Not uncomfortable. Just… unspoken understanding.

Finally, Danny looks at him. His eyes are softer now, exhaustion stripping away some of the usual guardedness. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

Dick nods. He gets it.

Danny shifts, resting his head against Dick’s shoulder. Without hesitation, Dick lifts his arm, tucking Danny in close, his hand settling gently on Danny’s head. He adjusts slightly, making sure Danny is comfortable, his fingers threading lightly through dark hair in a slow, absent motion.

For now, that’s enough.

Chapter Text

Dick stumbles down Danny’s fire escape, determined to find the window that’s connected to it. He doesn’t really need the ( his ) nurse’s help with any of his injuries—the worst he has is some broken ribs, so he shouldn’t even be making unnecessary trips—he just feels like he needs to see Danny. 

The last time they were together, the night at the diner when Danny broke down, it felt like—like something has shifted between them. Like they were closer or something. 

Either way, Dick is attached. 

He gets to the right floor, double checks, and knocks on the window with a cheeky grin even as his ribs ache something awful.

The curtains draw back and Danny stands there—messy haired, tired, wiping sleep from his eyes, and more beautiful than ever. Dick waves cheerily. Danny scowls but his eyes crinkle like they do when he’s amused. 

Danny slides open the window, stepping back and allowing Dick inside before shutting it and drawing the curtains (space themed, Dick notes) closed again. Dick sways a little but he is exhausted, so he doesn’t pay too much attention to it. 

“Should I get my kit?”

Dick waves him off, ignoring how the motion almost took him off his feet. He’s just tired. “Nah, just some broken ribs tonight. Wanted to stop by.” 

“What, you don’t have an ice pack at home?” Danny jokes. 

Dick blinks. 

Blinks again. 

“I’m sorry, huh?” He asks, having completely missed what that meant. 

He’s more tired than he thought he was. 

Danny purses his lips, brows knitting together as he gives Dick a once-over. He steps closer, eyes narrowing, like he’s recalculating something.

“Just some broken ribs?” His voice is flat, but there’s an edge of doubt beneath it. Dick hums in affirmation. “Mind if I take a look?” 

Dick shrugs, wincing as the motion tugs around his ribs. Sitting down for a moment does sound good, he considered. 

“Sure,” Dick says, turning to head to the door. 

He tilts his head in confusion as Danny holds his shoulders and guides him to his bed—unmade, probably still warm from when Danny laid there before Dick woke him up, sheets with little alien heads all over them. 

“Woah,” Dick objects but makes no move to escape Danny’s hold as he pushes him to sit on the bed. “Take me to dinner first, Danny.” 

Danny smiles but it feels wrong . Dick doesn’t know why. It’s just… it doesn’t look like Danny is happy. 

Of course he’s not happy. Dick’s an idiot for waking him up just because he wanted to see him.

(He’s too clingy.) 

He tries to stand up, saying, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—” 

Danny shushes him. “It’s fine. Can you lay down?” 

Dick lulls his head to look at the pillow near him—Danny’s pillow. “Here?” 

There’s that… that bad smile again. Dick doesn’t like it. 

“Yeah, Wing, right here.” 

Dick does as he’s told. 

He would never turn Danny down. 

Danny leans over him and he smiles goofily as he sees his face. Despite the worry in his eyes that he is clearly trying to keep off his face (though he’s not doing a very good job of it, haha, Danny’s a bad actor), Dick thinks he’s so pretty. 

He brings a hand up and paws at the hair hanging down from Danny’s face. 

“Pretty…” he slurs. 

“Nightwing,” Danny says, getting his attention. “You stay right here, I’m going to be right back. Don’t move. Can you do that for me?” 

“Could do anything f’r you, Danny,” Dick tells him, tracing the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. 

Dick has learned invaluable information from this visit: Danny really likes space. 

“Nightwing? Nightwing?” 

Oh! He’s back!

And he’s calling him Nightwing. Eugh. 

He doesn’t want to be Nightwing to Danny. 

“Dick,” he says. 

Danny pauses. “Pardon?”

“M’name,” Dick elaborates. “Dick.” 

Danny sighs and Dick’s chest feels cold. Is Danny cutting his suit? That’s weird, he only does that when Dick’s too hurt to take it off. 

Danny cuts it down his arms. “That is a choice.” 

“‘m Romaaaannniiiiii,” Dick explains, wincing when Danny puts his hand against his abdomen. “Parents di’n’t know it was a bad word. That really hurts, can you stop that, please?” 

The hands on his abdomen pause, a nice chill seeping into Dick’s injury. Mhmm, Danny’s like an ice pack. 

“I’m sorry, Dick, but you have internal bleeding.” 

“That’s good,” Dick says, not seeing the concern. “S’where the blood is ‘sposed to be.” 

“No, Dickie,” oh he likes that, it makes him feel fuzzy, “It’s really, really bad. I’m tempted to take you to the hospital.” 

Dick shoots up, shouting at the pain it elicits. He allows Danny to push his shoulders back down to the mattress, but protests, “No hospitals! B can’ know. He can’.” 

Danny hesitates, eyes flickering to the phone on his nightstand. 

Dick reaches up, ignoring the pain because he’s really good at that, and bops Danny’s nose. 

“No.” 

Danny sags. “Dick, please, I don’t think I can—” 

“No,” Dick begs. “Please, Danny. No hospital.” 

Danny clenches his jaw. “Fine, fine.” He moves out of Dick’s line of sight and drags over the nightstand, probably rifling through his apocalypse-worthy first aid kit. “This is gonna hurt, if you don’t pass out.” 

Dick lets himself relax. Bruce won’t find out. 

“Thank you,” he manages to get out, feeling a little queasy at the sight of the large needle Danny pulled out. “Trus’ you, Danny.” 

Dick exhales, his body sinking into the mattress. The room tilts, his limbs growing heavier. He barely registers the sting of the needle pressing into his skin, just the distant chill of Danny’s hand against his arm.

His eyelids flutter. Danny is saying something—his voice low, careful—but the words slip past him, lost to the pull of unconsciousness.

The last thing he feels is Danny’s fingers smoothing over his forehead.

Then, nothing.

───────────────────

Dick wakes up with a foggy head, cracking open his sleep-crusted eyes. He’s warm, comfortable—but a little stiff. He stretches instinctively, only to feel a tug.

His gaze drops sluggishly to his arm.

An IV.

Shit.

Panic flares in his chest. Is he in a hospital? He glances around, mind still sluggish, until the surroundings register. Space-themed bedroom. IV bag hanging off a coat rack.

Not a hospital.

His eyes trail lower, taking in the apocalypse-grade first aid kit still open on the floor. A trash can sits beside it, filled to the brim with used medical supplies. At least five empty blood bags poke out of the top.

Fuck.

Okay, Dick, think. What happened last night?

Patrol. Broken ribs. Danny.

Right. He thought about stopping by Danny’s—which he apparently did.

His hand moves to his ribs, fingers ghosting over tight bandages packed with ice. The top half of his suit is gone, cut away. He looks up again, eyes settling on a familiar hunched-over form in a dining room chair. Even as out of it as he is right now, Dick would recognize those shoulders anywhere.

His throat aches, thirst scratching at the back of his mouth. He wants answers. He moves his leg to tap against Danny’s head, but before he even makes contact, Danny jolts awake, instantly alert.

“Dick?” Danny’s voice is rough with sleep before his expression shutters. “Shit—sorry. Nightwing.”

Fuck, Dick’s heart stops. 

Danny stands, grabbing something from the first aid kit. It’s the small pulse oximeter Alfred always uses to check their vitals.

“You were really insistent last night that I call you ‘Dick,’” Danny mentions. because some sort of panic must have shown on Dick’s face, flipping the device open.

Dick hums, offering his finger without argument. “What happened?”

Danny stills. “How much do you remember?”

Dick closes his eyes, sifting through the haze. “I remember thinking about coming to see you.”

Danny nods, lips pressing together. “Yeah, that tracks.” He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You showed up here, mentioned broken ribs, but you were swaying, clammy, barely coherent. Broken ribs are a big red flag for internal injuries—punctured lungs,” Danny levels him with a pointed look, “internal bleeding.”

Dick sucks his teeth. “I take it, I had the latter.”

“Yeah,” Danny confirms. “You refused the hospital. And despite my better judgment, I decided I could probably treat you here.” A sardonic, almost hysterical laugh escapes him as he drags a hand down his face. “I should’ve taken you in anyway, but I promised. And apparently, I keep my promises in life-or-death situations.”

Dick swallows thickly. “I’m sorry.”

Danny lifts his head, and the glare he levels at Dick is worse than anything Alfred has ever managed.

“Three fucking pints, Dick.” His voice is sharp, brittle. “You lost three pints of blood. Two is when people go into shock. Four means death.”

The weight of it settles like a stone in Dick’s chest.

“You’re damn lucky I decided to test your blood after last time and swiped some bags. If I hadn’t, you’d be dead .”

Dick blinks. “You took my blood?”

Danny shoots him an incredulous look. “ That’s what you’re focusing on? I didn’t use it to figure out your identity—still don’t know it, by the way, because your mask is on and all I have is a nickname you practically begged me to use.”

Dick winces. “That’s not really—”

“No. Nope. Nuh-uh.” Danny cuts him off, voice firm. “I’m still talking. Dick—Nightwing—whatever the hell you want me to call you, you could have died. You almost died. And if I were just a regular nurse, you would have.”

Silence stretches between them. Shame bubbles in Dick’s gut.

Danny exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “If you ever come to me again with an injury like that, I will take you to the hospital. I don’t give a shit what you want—I can’t do that again.” His voice wavers. “I’ll strip your suit off myself if I have to, but if you want my help, that’s the deal. I decide what’s hospital-worthy.”

Dick nods, throat tight. “Yeah. That’s… fair. Whatever you think is best.”

Danny sags slightly, exhaustion bleeding through the anger. “Most of the internal bleeding seems to have been resolved with fluids and transfusions, but I need to keep an eye on you for at least 24 hours. Maybe longer.”

Dick nods. He studies Danny—the droop of his shoulders, the way his eyes struggle to stay open.

“Did you sleep at all?”

Danny shrugs. “Maybe an hour, total. Had to keep an eye on you.”

Guilt settles like lead in Dick’s stomach. He should’ve let Danny take him to the damn hospital.

“You should sleep,” he says softly.

Danny shakes his head, pushing himself upright. “Now that you’re awake, I need to clean up. Think you’re okay to move so I can change the sheets?”

Right. If he’d gone into shock, he probably sweat right through the mattress.

“I dunno, doc. You tell me,” Dick jokes weakly. It doesn’t land. He clears his throat. “I feel okay. Not dizzy. Just a little shaky.”

Danny nods, then wordlessly moves to help Dick up, shifting him into the chair. Dick watches in silence as he strips the bed, replacing the sheets with a simple black set. (He makes a mental note to get Danny new alien sheets as an apology. Not that it could ever be enough for what the nurse has done for him.)

Once the bed is made, Danny steps back, hands on his hips.

“Are you up for a shower, or do you want me to give you a sponge bath?”

Dick chokes. Holy humiliation, Batman.

Danny lifts a brow. “I’m a nurse. I’ve done thousands of sponge baths. It’s no problem.”

“Shower,” Dick blurts, face burning. “I can rinse off.”

Danny nods and helps him to the attached bathroom. Dick bites back a groan when Danny kneels to help remove his suit, mortified beyond belief. Thankfully, the nurse says nothing about the jockstrap he wears.

When Danny motions toward it, Dick frantically shakes his head. Danny snorts, handing him a neon green towel.

“I’ll be right outside. If you feel like you’re straining, call me. ” His eyes sharpen. “I mean it, Dick.”

Dick grimaces at the thought. “Got it.”

Danny gives him one last warning glance before stepping out, leaving the door cracked.

───────────────────

Dick only manages to wash where his arms can reach without bending too much—so, basically just his upper body. Still, the warm water helps.

A few minutes after the shower turns off, Danny knocks before stepping in, handing over a bundle of clothes.

“Smallest things I could find.”

“Thanks,” Dick says, taking them. Danny turns around, and Dick rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’ll call if I need help.”

Danny glances over his shoulder, expression approving. It makes Dick feel weirdly warm.

The sweatpants are only a little baggy—probably from Danny’s high school days if the CASPER HIGH lettering is anything to go by. The sweatshirt, however, is ridiculously oversized, and Dick lets himself sink into it for a moment before stepping out.

Danny helps him back to bed, where a pitcher of water and some crackers wait.

“I’m sleeping,” Danny warns, already exhausted. “I can crash here or on the couch.”

Dick thinks he’d die if he kicked Danny out of his own bed.

“Here’s fine,” he says, patting the empty side of the king-sized mattress.

Danny studies him for a long moment before sighing and climbing in, pulling up the blankets.

“Let me know if you need anything,” he murmurs.

Dick watches him settle, warmth blooming in his chest.

He really doesn’t deserve Danny.

Chapter Text

“So he’s avoiding you,” Sam sums up as Danny finishes his rambling about Nightwing— Dick , his mind corrects automatically, and his heart flutters faster than it’s near death rhythm should be able to—and how he hasn’t seen him in over a month. 

Even Julie was concerned.

Danny huffs, leaning back against his headboard, hugging the ghost plush Ellie got him for one of his Death Days. “I think so. I mean, he’s not dead—I’ve seen him prancing around rooftops.” 

He feels a little bitter about the whole thing. 

“Isn’t this a good thing though?” Tucker chimes in on the three-way video call. “I mean, I know how attached to him you are, Danny, but he is kind of, like, government adjacent.” 

At Danny’s frown—and Sam’s sharp side-eye—Tucker raises his hands. “Look, I’m just saying that you’re already a walking Feds-magnet, dude. Dating Batboy might not be your best stealth move.”

“Vigilantism is illegal, Tucker,” Sam says, tired. 

Danny snorts, “Yeah, and that makes him the opposite of the government. That’s like—anarchy!” 

“It’s important to me that you know that,” Sam continues, dry. “Especially because the three of us were vigilantes.” 

“He works with Batman, doesn’t he?” Tucker defends. “The Justice League works with the government!” 

“The Justice League cooperates with the United Nations,” Sam corrects primly. “And Nightwing isn’t officially a member—just affiliated with their subsidiaries. So he’s in a sort of legal grey area.” 

“We’re getting off topic,” Danny cuts in, sure this is about to spiral into a long, confusing legal conversation. “Back to me.” 

Tucker and Sam shoot him fond smiles. 

“Is he ghosting me?” He asks bluntly.

Tucker snorts. 

Sam offers more constructive feedback, “Are you assuming the worst, or just, I don’t know, not communicating?” 

Danny glares at her through the screen. “I’ve tried reaching out. I prepay for pie for him at the diner. Julie says that he hasn’t shown up in weeks.” 

Sam sighs. “Danny, maybe he’s just… giving you space?”

“Why would I need space?” Danny deadpans. 

Then—

The memory flashes—phasing his hand through Dick’s chest, resetting the break before it could do more damage. The cold sweat. The moment he felt Dick slipping.

“Okay. Fine. Maybe I freaked out a little,” Danny mutters, hugging the ghost plush tighter. “But I’m the one who saw him half-dead on my bed and didn’t run!”

“Yeah, but he thinks you’re a civilian,” Tucker points out. “That kind of thing would probably drive away any sane person.” 

“But Danny is not sane,” Sam snarks. 

Danny flips her off without any heat behind the gesture.

“Look,” Tucker says, leaning closer to the screen, “if you’re spiraling, just talk to him. Ghosting doesn’t make sense if he’s still flying around Blüdhaven. There’s probably something going on.”

Danny hesitates. “...You think so?”

“Yeah,” Sam says with a roll of her eyes. “Maybe Batman grounded him.” 

Tucker glares at Sam quickly before turning his attention back to Danny. “If this is an actual thing—and not just weird vigilante guilt—you owe it to yourself to find out.” 

“What if it is just vigilante guilt? I mean, what do I do then?” 

Sam has a nail file out now, casually refining the sharp points at the end of her fingers. “Well, do you think he deserves to feel guilty?” 

“No,” Danny immediately defends him and then deflates when his best friends give him a look. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know! It was really shitty what he did, but… he promised not to put me in that situation again and honestly? I believe him.” 

“So,” Tucker says slowly, “the problem isn’t him ghosting you.”

Danny’s eyes narrow. “Pretty sure that’s exactly the problem, Tuck.”

“No, dude, listen,” Tucker insists, pressing his hands together like he’s about to lead prayer.

Danny braces himself. He feels like he’s about to be therapized. 

“The problem is that you miss him and don’t know if you’re allowed to.”

Danny opens his mouth to argue—then stops. Closes it again. “...Okay, rude.”

“But accurate,” Sam adds with a shrug. “And you know Jazz would agree.” 

Tucker nods smugly.

Danny flops back against the headboard and drags the plush over his face. “Why is it always me ? Why can’t I just have one uncomplicated crush on someone who isn’t—like—a semi-feral vigilante with abandonment issues and abs you could do laundry on?”

(It is a sacred fact that few know: Val has washboard abs.)

Tucker raises a brow. “You’re literally half-ghost. You died. You are the complication.”

“I’m barely the complication this time!”

Sam snorts.

There’s a pause. A heavy, but not uncomfortable silence.

Then Sam says, voice casual, “So are you gonna wait for him to come back, or actually do something?”

Danny peeks out from behind the plush. “Like what? Show up on his rooftop with a boom box?”

Tucker perks up. “Oh, do you want me to hack Bludhaven’s traffic cams? We can find out his patrol routes.”

Sam gives Tucker a look. “Or—and hear me out—Danny can just ask him to talk.”

Danny groans again. “What if he doesn’t want to? What if he jumps off a roof to avoid me?”

Sam’s voice is gentler this time. “Then that’s what he’ll do. But right now, you’re just sitting in your room cuddling a stuffed animal—”

“ — stuffed ghost!” 

“—and spiraling. You’re not helping yourself by doing nothing .”

“She’s right,” Tucker adds. “Worst case, he tells you he can’t handle it, and you go cry on the rooftop with some pie like a sad little ghost boy. Best case? He explains, you kiss, you make up, and I win the betting pool.”

“I am a sad little ghost boy,” Danny mutters, fervently ignoring that last part.

Sam smirks. “And if he doesn’t want to talk about his emotions, haunt his emotionally repressed ass.”

That gets a laugh out of him. A small one, but real.

He sits up a little straighter, setting the plush aside. 

“Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll try.”

“Good,” Sam says, setting down her nail file. “Text him.”

“I don’t have his number!”

“Then leave a note at the diner,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Or literally just stand on a rooftop until he finds you. I know you know where he patrols, stalker.”

Danny flushes. “That’s not stalking. It’s... informed loitering.”

“Sure it is, voyeur,” Tucker grins. “You got this, dude.”

Danny flips him off and takes a deep breath.

He still doesn’t know what he’s going to say when he sees Dick again. But maybe—maybe it’ll all work out. 

And if he gets to yell a little while he's at it?

Even better. 

(He couldn’t exactly yell at Dick when he was recovering from blood loss. That’d just be bad manners.)