୨୧| He's trying to help you recover (req)

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Grayson had felt powerless before.

He knew the feeling intimately, the sickening weight of it settling somewhere beneath his ribs, the helplessness that came when a mission went wrong because he hadn't been fast enough, when someone got hurt because he'd miscalculated a risk he should have seen coming. He knew what it was like to lose people because he'd gotten in too deep, because he'd convinced himself that if he just pushed a little harder, moved a little faster, he could somehow keep the worst from happening.

He'd spent years learning how to live with that feeling. As Robin, as Nightwing, as the man who'd spent most of his life throwing himself between danger and everyone he cared about. He'd learned how to take a hit, get back up, and laugh through a broken rib while reassuring everyone else that he was fine.

But knowing how to survive helplessness didn't make it any easier to endure.

Not when it was you.

{{user}}.

The person would have willingly thrown himself into the path of a thousand bullets to protect was hurting, and for once, there wasn't a criminal he could chase down or a fight he could win to make things right. There wasn't a clever maneuver, a perfectly timed quip, or a reckless leap of faith that could undo what had happened.

Slade Wilson had gotten his hands on you.

And knew Slade well enough to understand that the man never did anything without a purpose. Every move was calculated. Every strike was deliberate. If Slade had left you with injuries that made even the simplest movements painful, couldn't help wondering whether that had been part of the point. Slade knew exactly where to strike to cause the most damage, physically and otherwise.

Whatever he'd done to you had left wounds couldn't simply patch up and promise would heal.

Mostly because you wouldn't tell him what had happened.

didn't blame you for that. Not really. He understood that some experiences were too painful to put into words, that sometimes talking about something made it feel real all over again. Still, not knowing was eating him alive. His mind kept circling back to that day, replaying every detail he could remember, wondering what Slade had said to you, what he'd done when no one was there to stop him, whether you'd called for help or been too hurt to manage it.

Slade had taken things from you that had once watched you do without a second thought. Your ability to move freely. Your confidence in your own strength. Your independence. Even something as simple as making yourself a meal had become a task that required careful planning, assistance, and patience.

hated seeing it.

Not because he thought you were any less capable, and certainly not because he thought you were weak. He knew better than anyone that strength wasn't always about how hard you could hit or how quickly you could get back on your feet.

But he knew what it felt like to have your body betray you. He remembered injuries that had forced him off his feet, the frustration of needing help with things he'd normally do without thinking, the humiliation of losing his balance when he was convinced he could manage on his own.

He could only imagine how much worse it felt for you.

So did the only thing he could.

He stayed.

He stayed when you woke up in pain. He stayed when you snapped at him for hovering. He stayed when you insisted you could manage on your own, even when he could see how much it cost you to get from one room to another. He stayed when you didn't want to talk, when you didn't want company, when all you seemed to want was for the entire world to leave you alone.

He made sure you never had to wonder whether someone would be there when you needed them.

The others noticed almost immediately. Barbara, Bruce, and the rest of the family quietly rearranged patrol schedules, taking the nights would normally spend swinging across Bludhaven's rooftops. Nobody made a big deal out of it, and suspected Bruce had something to do with the arrangement.

He decided not to ask.

You mattered more.

So used every extra evening he was given. He helped you move around the house when your legs wouldn't cooperate. He steadied you when you stumbled, keeping his grip gentle and his expression deliberately casual. He brought you food when standing for too long became exhausting, and he learned when to offer a hand and when you needed him to look the other way so you could struggle through something without feeling watched.

The recovery was slow. Painfully slow.

Some days were better than others. Some days, you managed more than expected, and he'd catch the smallest flicker of pride in your expression before you quickly buried it. He never made a big deal out of those moments, though the urge to celebrate every little victory was almost unbearable.

Other days, you could barely make it across the room before your legs gave out beneath you. And every time they did, saw it: the flash of defeat, the fury, the humiliation. The sheer, burning anger you seemed to direct toward yourself whenever your body refused to do what you wanted it to. Over the past few weeks, you'd built walls around yourself so high that wasn't sure there was a door anymore. You answered questions with one-word responses. You smiled when people checked on you, but the smile never quite reached your eyes. Whenever someone tried to ask about what Slade had done, you changed the subject. Whenever lingered too long, you found a reason to leave the room.

So he'd given you space.

He'd tried to respect the boundaries you'd built, even when every instinct in him wanted to reach through them and find out what was hurting you so badly. He knew you weren't a problem he could solve if he just found the right angle.

But watching you suffer in silence while he sat right beside you, unable to reach you, was a different kind of fear entirely.

Tonight had been another difficult evening.

Twenty-two steps.

That was all you'd managed.

Twenty-two steps from one side of the room to the other, with hovering close enough to catch you if you fell but far enough away that you could pretend you were doing it on your own. He'd kept his hands at his sides, resisting the urge to reach for you every time your balance wavered.

When you'd finally made it to the couch, you'd lowered yourself onto the cushions and plastered that same familiar smile onto your face.

You'd told him you were fine.

had smiled back.

He hadn't believed you for a second.

Now, the two of you sat together in silence.

You stared blankly at the coffee table, your hands resting motionless in your lap. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the house around you. sat beside you, one arm draped along the back of the couch, trying not to make his concern feel like another weight you had to carry.

Eventually, he turned his head toward you.

"Hey."

His voice was gentle, carrying none of the easy bravado he wore on patrol.

"You did good today."

You didn't look up.

glanced toward the space you'd crossed, then back at you, trying for a small, encouraging smile.

"Twenty-two steps. That's almost double what you managed last week." He paused. "And before you tell me that's not much, I'm going to remind you that I once spent an entire afternoon trying to convince Batman that a sprained ankle didn't count as an injury."

He gave a quiet, self-deprecating laugh.

"Didn't work. He grounded me for three days. Three. I was a grown man in a cape, and somehow I was still getting grounded."

He waited for a reaction. A twitch of your lips. An eye roll. Anything.

When nothing came, his smile faded.

"Okay. Bad story. I'll workshop it."

The words were light, but the worry beneath them was impossible to hide.

leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. For a moment, he stared at his hands, gathering the courage to say something he'd been trying to find the right way to express for weeks.

"I know you don't want to talk about what happened with Slade."

He glanced at you, careful not to demand your attention.

"And I'm not asking you to. You don't owe me the details just because I'm worried about you."