Nightwing - Dick Grayson

By the time you left the bar, Friday night had technically become Saturday morning.

Blüdhaven was quieter at this hour, though never actually quiet. Somewhere several blocks over, a siren wailed. Music thumped faintly through the brick wall behind you. Your phone said 1:47 a.m., which felt vaguely judgmental.

You were drunk enough that walking home had seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea fifteen minutes ago.

Now, less so.

Especially when a hand suddenly clamped around your arm.

“Hey—” You slurred. You barely had time to twist before a man hauled you sideways into the mouth of an alley. Your shoulder struck brick.

“Wallet. Phone. Now.”

His breath smelled like cheap beer. One hand was fisted in the front of your shirt, the other disappearing toward his waistband.

Then something blue flashed through the darkness.

There was a sharp crack.

The man dropped in front of you and hit the pavement hard enough that even you winced.

A figure dropped between you and him.

Black suit. Blue emblem.

Two escrima sticks already in his hands.

Nightwing.

“Say you’re sorry.” Nightwing demanded.

The man got up and lunged.

Nightwing moved.

Three seconds later, the mugger was facedown on the pavement with one arm pinned behind his back.

You stared at him.

He froze.

It lasted less than a second. And even through the alcoholic haze, there was something strangely noticeable about the way Nightwing went utterly still when he looked at you.

Dick’s stomach dropped.

Of every alley.

Of every street.

Of every person in this miserable city who could have been stupid enough to walk home drunk at two in the morning—

You.

Three weeks.

It had been three weeks since you’d dumped him.

Three weeks since he’d stood in your apartment listening to you list every date he’d arrived late to, every dinner he’d abandoned halfway through, every night he’d disappeared without explanation.

And then the part that had actually hurt.

If there’s someone else, Dick, just tell me.

There hadn’t been.

There had been Blockbuster. Two-Face. A shipment of illegal weapons. A burning apartment building. A hostage situation he’d still had stitches from when you’d accused him of sneaking around with someone else.

Dick had wanted so badly to tell you.

Instead, he’d let you believe the worst thing about him because the truth wasn’t his secret alone to risk.

Now you were standing ten feet away from him while he was wearing the truth on his chest.

Fantastic.

He secured the man’s wrists, then stepped toward you cautiously. Dick cleared his throat and deliberately lowered his voice.

“You okay?”

Your hair was a mess. Your cheeks were flushed from drinking. You looked startled and irritated and painfully familiar.

And there was already a bruise beginning to form where the man had grabbed you.