Richard grayson was in a predicament. A really sticky situation, caught in between a rock and a hard place— too much? I’ll stop.
But in all seriousness though, he was totally screwed. He had spent the past 2 hours trying to crack down on some of jokers goons who were trying to carry out multiple attacks in the heart of Gotham. He was tired, battered, bruised and also currently bleeding out behind Gotham general. One of the main hospitals that actually was still up and running, partly due to Bruce Wayne’s generosity. He could’ve always call for backup but, something in him made him not do that.
He stumbled, and got shot. It was unusual— but it happened and it made him irritated that it did, he was seething at the fact that he was lying there, useless and unmoving. Creeaaak— BAM.
The large doors that lead to that alleyway opened and shut, and out came walking— you. Your deep purple scrubs were wrinkled and stained with fluids you don’t remember, hair stuck to your skin due to the muggy night air. You were digging in your bag for your keys when you stopped dead in your tracks and noticed him, the masked man in black and blue. Then you noticed the red— the deep maroon, tar-like substance that was trickling out from underneath him— and you being a nurse, your years of working at one of Gotham’s busiest hospitals had sharpened your instincts and you immediately ran towards him. You asked “hey ar-are you good? Holy fuck you’re losing a lot of blood—“
A weak groan, “yeah well, I’ve been shot so—“ muttered the masked man, you replied “the hospitals right here cmon I’ll call you an ambulance—“ you reached for your purse and felt a large hand grab your wrist. “No… no hospitals I just…” he was in and out of consciousness,
You don’t know what possessed you in that moment but 40 minutes later he was in your apartment. You thought it made sense to do so, the man was a vigilante, of course he didn’t want to go to a hospital. Laid out on your pull out couch, mask still on, you had the urge to look, to peel it back a bit and just see his face but fear kept you from taking it off. He was bandaged up. You were standing in your dimly lit kitchen, watching him from behind the island. His bare chest rising and falling with sleep. You were still in your dirtier than ever scrubs. ‘What the fuck did I just involve myself in…’ you thought—
You had somehow, by the grace of god— hauled this 200- something pound man, who was suffering from a gunshot wound— into your apartment. He was lucky you lived a block from the hospital and that you even had a kit to help him. He was shot in his lower back,the bullet went through completely. You didn’t know the full damage which is why you’re now pacing back and forth in the kitchen.
“I’m not dead yet if that’s what’s got you pacing…” said a gruff voice, making you jump. You quickly turned around and noticed the masked man staring at you, still laid down. You slowly walked towards him, “um, are you okay?” You asked softly. He chuckled weakly, “as okay as I can be—“
“I have these antibiotics, I can get you some water, you need to take them to make sure you don’t get that wound infected— oh and I have to change your bandages and—“
“hey, hey… Calm down sweetheart, I’m fine— seriously, you did a great job,” he stopped your rambling and tried to sit up, you shuffled to his side hesitantly and helped him up, “easy… you gotta take it easy um— what’s your name?”
“…night wing.” “That your code name?” He cocked an eyebrow at you, “right— dumb question.” An awkward moment of silence dragged by before you said, “um… you can spend however long you need here, I uh— I don’t have work tomorrow so I can tend to you if you need me to…” he smiled at you, “don’t gotta, this is enough for me— it’s uh… really late and considering all that you’ve done for me, you need the sleep.”
“Ah, alright then— goodnight Mr.nightwing,” he chuckles softly “it’s just nightwing sweetheart—“
“nightwing. Got it-“ you say as you scurried off to your room. You shut your door and locked it.m behind you. Your heart was pounding behind your ribs, rattling them. Your lungs started to burn as you took deep breaths as quietly as you could. You stumbled toward your night stand and rummaged thought it, and found your inhaler and took a puff, inhaling deep and holding it. Repeated it again and you slowly sank to your knees. “Fuck me.” You muttered to yourself as you tried to get up and used the edge of your bed to pull yourself up. You wobbled to your bathroom and washed up the best your overworked body could— you slipped on your pajamas and jumped into bed. Sleep immediately took you, throwing you into pure darkness.
Sleep was restless—filled with anxiety the second his brain decided it was safe to drift. An environment that wasn’t his own always did that to him. The sounds of the building, the storm outside, the unfamiliar shadows in the corners… it all felt like a threat he couldn’t map.
The apartment was still dark. Rain tapped at the windows in uneven beats, like impatient fingers. April storms always carried the same bite, the same cold that seemed to seep through walls and into bone.
Richard slowly sat up, careful and quiet. The movement tugged at the wound beneath his lower back, and he wincing hard enough that it stole his breath. He bit back a deep groan—reflexively, instinctively, refusing to wake you, refusing to make you aware he was moving… or attempting to at least.
He rolled out of the pull-out bed and made himself stand, testing his balance. The air hit him cold. His stomach tightened—not from pain this time, but from the fact that he was in just his boxers.
His face warmed immediately.
He knew you’d had to strip him to get to his wounds, But knowing didn’t erase the embarrassment. It didn’t smooth the heat creeping up his neck or the way his hands fumbled for dignity like it had been misplaced.
He found his suit and his weapons neatly placed beside the pull out bed, neat and thoughtful—then struggled to pull everything on without shifting the wrong way, without drawing attention, without making you realize how hard it was to be quiet when every movement reminded him he was hurt.
Richard adjusted the fabric with careful, rigid precision, jaw tight, eyes focused on small tasks because looking anywhere else would mean thinking too much. Listening too closely.
He kept quiet as he moved—quiet enough to keep the storm as the loudest thing in the room. After a moment, the restless need to orient himself got the better of him. Richard found your fire escape by broken memory, then made his way to the window and eased it open just slightly. April rain crowded the air, thick with that damp, electric smell the city always seemed to wear during storms.
He looked out first—not because he was looking for danger, but because he needed to know where he was. You lived on the sixth floor of a building that wasn’t far from the hospital. The street lights below blurred together in the rain, and the distant sounds of traffic and occasional sirens sank into the background like the world was muffled for the night.
Then he heard it: your bedroom door.
The click was small, but it cut through the quiet. A soft creak followed, slow and careful, like whoever was getting up had tried to be gentle with the hinges. Footsteps—barely there, moved through the hallway toward him.
Your voice slipped into his ears, groggy and warm with sleep. Not alarmed—just uncertain. Like you were trying to decide if you’d imagined him.
Richard turned from the window, forcing himself to stand still, forcing his expression into something calm.
“Did I wake you?” he asked, the word dragging a little.
“No,” you said quietly, “You didn’t.” You shook your head, then padded closer, hair mussed, pajamas stretched and rumpled in that way only sleep and comfort could manage. In the dim light you looked soft and real—like nothing about him belonged there, and yet you were there anyway, blinking at him as if you couldn’t decide whether to be worried or just grateful he was alive.
“I always wake up at this hour,” she said, blinking through sleep. “My mind’s programmed to my morning shift hours…”
Her eyes squinted like the dark was still deciding whether it would let her see. “You could always leave through the front door, you know.”
He let out a quiet chuckle, softer than his voice deserved to be. “Yeah. That’s true.” He paused, then added, careful and honest, “But it’s not as… incognito. And it’s unsafe for you. If I left that way, your door would’ve been left unlocked.”
She smiled, the kind that told him she understood more than she admitted. “You could’ve just woken me up.”
He shook his head immediately. “Couldn’t do that to you, sweetheart.” His tone warmed at the edges. “Already did enough. Thank you.”
“Mm,” you hummed, giving him a nod as if you were sealing the agreement with respect. “You’re welcome.”
Then you tilted your head, looking him over one last time like you were trying to memorize that he was really going to be okay. “See you around?” you asked—then, after a beat, you added, quieter, “hopefully not in a similar condition.”
He flashed her a bright smile, the kind that tried to make the night feel lighter than it had been. “Of course not, sweetheart. I’ll see you around—” And with that, he dipped through the open window and disappeared into the storm-dark, leaving only rain and the faint click of your world returning to normal.
It had been two days since you patched up the vigilante, and you were now sat in the dining hall of the hospital, giving a quick rundown on what happened to your favorite colleague.
“Seriously? You didn’t think to get a PEAK?!” “Shuuush!! nini seriously— shush, and no I didn’t, I was scared, plus he was bleeding out everywhere, so I didn’t have time to even think about that!” You whisper-yelled at her. She rolled her eyes and gave you a small chuckle, “gosh you’re so annoying— first thing coming off woulda been his mask but you haaad to take his clothes off,” her voice wavering as a laugh took over her, you playfully punched her arm “oh my god nini what’s your issue—“ you started to laugh too. The memory of that night was seared into your mind, who could forget something like that? Helping one of the main vigilantes of Gotham?
Both your phones pinged and you both shot up and headed back to the emergency room, it was another joker attack, which means it was about to be utter chaos.
you ran through the long corridors of the hospital, hair a mess and blood pumping. 'god this is gonna be hell,' you thought to yourself— you round the corner, nini trailing behind. You take in the turmoil in front of you. "fuuuck—" you groaned, this was gonna be another long night shift… again.
Your shift had ended, and you were headed out the back once more. Your body throbbed with exhaustion. You shoved your hand into your purse and gripped the .32 Colt your grandmother had given you. Your fingers ran over the cool metal, over the weight of it, over the reminder of that first week-when you'd moved out here and barely learned the street names before you were mugged, before you'd learned how fast the night could change. How naive it was to move out here without something to protect yourself with.
You held yourself steady as you slipped through the service door, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the shadows like you could read them. The city outside was restless: headlights sweeping across the pavement, street lamps buzzing overhead, distant sirens folding into the dark like they belonged there. You kept to the brightest stretches, cutting through the lit edges of sidewalks and alley entrances— you never lingered, never gave the shadows a chance to catch up.
Eventually, you turned a corner into an alley that opened up to your fire escape and your building. Then you heard it—the soft THUD behind you. Not loud. Not sudden. Just… final enough to make your blood turn cold.
You froze for half a heartbeat, the city’s buzz thinning out until it was only you and your thundering heart. Then you spun around in one sharp motion, bringing the colt up with a steadiness you didn’t fully feel. Your grip tightened until your knuckles ached, finger settling on the trigger, deliberate—precise. Your eyes pinned the figure in the dim, searching for any sudden movement, any glint, any sign they meant you harm.
“Don’t move!” you shouted, voice rough with exhaustion and fear, echoing off brick and metal. “Now, slowly. I want to see your hands.”
“Woah! Woah, it’s just me—” Nightwing’s voice cut through the dark like he’d been bracing for the moment you snapped around.
Your eyes adjusted, night swallowing the edges of his silhouette until the details finally clicked—patterned armor, familiar posture, the unmistakable confidence of someone who didn’t belong in alleys unless they meant something. For a second, your racing heart refused to believe it was safe. Then it slowed anyway, draining out of your throat on a breath that shook.
“Oh my god,” you whisper-shouted, half terror, half disbelief. “I almost— I almost killed you.”
You shoved your gun back into your bag with a sharp motion, as if you could undo what you’d nearly done. “Could’ve given you another matching gunshot wound, god,” you muttered, blinking hard, the exhaustion in your bones suddenly heavier than it had been an hour ago. You swallowed, forced your voice to steady. “Wha—”
You took a deep breath, the kind that tasted like adrenaline. “What are you doing here?” you demanded, gaze flicking over him—checking for injuries, checking for reasons. “And don’t tell me you picked this alley out for the vibes.”
“Just wanted to see how you were doing,” he said softly.
You scoffed under your breath, still walking like the alley might change its mind and become dangerous again. “You met me two days ago,” you quipped, forcing your steps to stay brisk. Nightwing jogged to match your pace, falling into step beside you, like he belonged to your rhythm even if you didn’t want him to. “Yeah,” he admitted, eyes forward. “Well, I was also bleeding out and in and out of consciousness the whole time so I know I wasn’t easy to handle.”
Your mouth twitched—half irritation, half relief that he looked steady. “You’re not here for more treatment, are you?” you asked, glancing at him again. “Because you seem just fine for a gunshot victim.”
You adjusted the strap of your bag as you walked, the cool metal of the colt pressing against your palm through the fabric. “So what is it, Nightwing? Scouting? Checking the neighborhood? Or did you just decide I needed a second surprise in the dark?”
He chuckled, the sound rolling out like it belonged in brighter streets. “No, no… you were on shift during the Joker attack tonight, right?”
“Yeah,” you answered, more flat than you meant to. “Kinda creepy, you know that.”
“Aah well,” he said, and for a moment his voice softened into something careful, “it’s— it’s…” You cut him off with a laugh. “I’m joking.” He cracked up with you, loud and hearty, like he could shake the terror out of the night by force of personality alone. The warmth of it made your shoulders loosen—just a fraction—before you reached the back of your apartment.
You stood by the door, hand still on the knob, and finally asked, “Okay. What’s the real reason you’re here?”
Nightwing’s posture changed—subtle, but unmistakable. He straightened like someone had turned a switch inside him. Even in the dim, his body language tightened, his visible lower half shifting into an expression you couldn’t read the way you wanted to. He looked like he’d decided not to waste time. “I know I just met you,” he said quietly, “but I have a favor to ask…”
Your laugh died off. "About the attack earlier," he continued. "Did you happen to treat any of the criminals that were caught by GCPD?"
You blinked once. “Treat?” You let the word hang for a beat, then nodded. “Yeah. Two of them. Ones in a coma. And the other guy—he’s got major injuries too, but he’s not in a coma.”
You frowned, the irritation returning because it was easier than fear. “Why would you—”
“I need to talk to them,” Nightwing said.
You stared at him, and the air between you felt colder by the second. You shook your head once, slow. “No,” you said, firmer this time. “I can’t help you with that…”
Your hand remained on the door handle like you might yank it open and duck inside before the conversation could become anything worse. “I’m not getting involved,” you added, voice tight.
“Please, I-“ he let out a huff of air, out of frustration more than anger, “I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t desperate…”
You swallowed, fingers flexing on the door handle. "Desperate for what?" you asked, tone clipped. "Information? Because I'm telling you right now— whatever it is, it's not coming from me."
“I swore an oath sweetheart—“
“So did I!” You said angrily, you reeled back and took a deep breath.
You leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, buying yourself distance without actually giving him any. "I treated those patients. That is my job. That's it. I don't have a list of their rooms like it's a grocery list, and I'm not playing messenger for you if that’s what you want." You said firmly.
“You’re a strange man in a mask asking me to break HIPPA laws… you do know how insane this all looks right?” He shifts closer, “I know, I know— I’m sorry… shoulda thought this through,” you scoffed, “you really should’ve.”
You both stood there, an awkward silence taking place between you and suffocating you both. You pull out your keys from your bag and you unlock your back door and say softly, “I’m sorry, I wish I could help you truly but… I just can’t.” He gave you a small smile, barely flashing his teeth “dont apologize, seriously. Thank you for helping me that night, you uh— stay safe okay?” You nodded,
And walked inside. You walked to your shabby elevator and looked back, through the doors window and he was gone. You felt a twang of guilt, remembering the desperation in his voice. You shake it off telling yourself
‘It’s better I don’t get involved again…’
A/N: erm, I lost like so much progress writing this in tumblr… such a dumb thing to do, anyways this is gonna be chapter 1 of a slowish burn of nightwing and YOU!
Tags 🏷️: @lilithkleia @raven66551 this is for you bby girl! Thank you for getting my motivation up to write this!
