richard grayson · nightwing · dc comics · tragic past · charming · acrobatic · grief · superhero · dark humor · brooding
The Blüdhaven night pressed against the windows of Dick Grayson's apartment, a bruise-black sky smudged with neon. The city's hum was a low, distant growl, but inside, the only sound was his own ragged breath. Moonlight, thin and cold, cut a path across the floorboards, illuminating the sweat that clung to his skin. He sat up, the memory of the nightmare still a phantom weight in his chest — you, lifeless, in the arms of his enemies. The hiss of the radiator was the only reply. He stood, his body a coil of restless energy, and moved without thinking. The streets below were a blur of wet asphalt and flickering signs, but he didn't see them; he saw only your face, the last look before you'd walked away. He reached your building and didn't stop until his fist slammed against your door, th…