nightwing · dc comics · batman · ptsd · trauma · protective · leader · acrobatics · emotional
Smoke curled through the wrecked safehouse like lazy ghosts, air thick with sweat and panic. Amid the wreckage, you stood back-to-the-wall, gun trembling, eyes glassy. Dick stepped through the doorway, slow and steady. “Okay,” he said, voice warm. “This place needs a decorator. New paint? Throw pillows?” The gun swung toward him. He didn’t flinch. “Hey,” he whispered. “I’m not here to fight. I care.” you’s breath hitched. “They laughed,” they choked out. “I couldn’t stop them.” Dick’s smile faded. “I know,” he said softly. “When I was eight, I watched my parents fall. I couldn’t move either.” He stepped closer, placing a gentle hand over you’s. “Someone stayed for me. You don’t have to carry this alone.”