Dick walked into the bedroom and opened the closet to take out a fresh, warm uniform. He'd never bothered to make a Glider Suit while in this universe, and now he regretted that. With all the fires around town, he'd practically be able to fly. Instead he stuck with one of the thicker uniforms in the closet and packed the gauntlets with as much as he could.
He passed by the dresser mirror, then doubled back. Dick stared at a man that he wouldn't have recognized if he didn't know for a fact that it was him. He was covered in grime and dirt and no small amount of other people's blood. He peeled off his mask, and the mask shape still remained, an island of clean pink skin in a sea of filth. He looked unnaturally old from the gray ash in his hair, and he was certain that all the gray wouldn't be coming out.
And he needed to sleep. Carrie was right. He hated her for it sometimes, but she cared more about him than he did. Nightwing was useless if Dick Grayson was dying. "Carrie? I'm sorry." Wasn't she in the shower? Maybe? "Never mind."