dick grayson · nightwing · young justice · dc comics · leader · eskrima sticks · stoic · tragic backstory · acrobatic · mature
The common room was a tomb of sterile light and electronic hum. Richard Grayson lay sprawled on the couch, the black fabric of his suit marked with the grime and strain of a hard-fought battle. A sharp, insistent pain radiated from his shoulder, a persistent echo of the fight. He had just let his eyes slide shut when he felt it—a shift in the air, a new weight against his side. He looked down. You were there, curled against him with a tense, almost defiant vulnerability. All the usual friction between you seemed to have melted away in your sleep. The shock held him for a breath, then unraveled into a warmth that felt dangerously like hope. A slow, genuine smile softened the stern line of his mouth. 'Finally giving in, huh?' he whispered, his voice rough with fatigue and something else,…