[AN: I own nothing.]
By the time Terry makes it to Max's window he's so tired he can barely see straight. The effort it takes to raise his aching arms almost wipes him out before he can even open the window.
Needless to say, it's been a long night.
All he wants to do is crash, but first he needs a little TLC from his Oracle because his ribs are killing him (he's hoping that none of them are broken), his left shoulder is definitely dislocated and he has so many little cuts and bruises that he's already 98 percent sure that his mother won't believe that he hasn't been in a fight (and he hasn't; technically, he's been in four).
He finally gets the window open and falls in, half expecting his entrance to wake her. It doesn't because the bathroom door is closed and the shower is running which means he just has to sit and wait and bleed. The thought of it exhausts him and he makes it to the edge of Max's bed just as his legs give out. Lying back gingerly, he shuts his eyes and daydreams about crawling into bed by the wall which, by unspoken agreement, is his side because he always sleeps on his right side and he likes to be as close to her and her jasmine body wash as possible. He hears the water turn off and wills Max to take her time because even though he feels like he's dying (for the third time this month) he loves how soft her skin is after she showers and refuses to rush whatever magical process is occurring behind that door, even in theory.
He's beginning to feel lightheaded when he finally hears the door swinging open and Max's gasp at the sight of him. It briefly occurs to him that he should sit up so she'll know that he's not dead but before he can she's over him, checking his pulse and his breathing and telling him to just knock on the damn door next time.
"I was hoping you'd come out naked," Terry says with a soft chuckle and she smiles grimly as she pulls off his mask. He smiles once it's gone and asks her if she's always been an angel. She mutters something about blood loss and he knows she's wrong but doesn't argue because she doesn't know that he realized a little while ago that he loves her and that he'd think she was an angel even if she didn't spend half of her nights stitching and patching him up (although it definitely doesn't hurt the matter).
After what feels like an eternity of poking and prodding and painful relocations, he's on his side of the bed in the pair of sweatpants he always leaves at her place and her legs are on her side, but the rest of her is on his with his arm securely around her waist and her (delicate, healing) hand on his chest. He has just enough time to marvel at how perfectly she fits into him before he conks out, at first dreaming of darkness and cowards and fear but then of that perfect moment just before dawn when the night is darkest and his jasmine scented angel is pressed against him, unknowingly fighting off all of his demons and reminding him that love and hope and beauty still exist and serve as his light at the end of the tunnel. She reminds him that Batman cannot exist alone (no matter how vehemently Bruce denies needing anyone) and that she's always there when he needs her with her silky soft skin that is uniquely Max and that, at first contact, tells him he's home.