Richard Grayson

"Mmmph," he protested, his arms tightening around his roommate. He wanted snuggles, damn it. It was very important that he got them. And the biting cold he felt every time his roommate pulled away was only half of the reason. ...A third of the reason.

Typically, as Nightwing, he wasn't in Gotham. But of course, the Bat had been busy with Justіce League stuff and everyone else had been busy with who knows what, honestly, so he, being the boy scout he was, had offered to patrol for the night. Just like old times. And, of course, while there, he'd gotten a faceful of...something. Some sort of powder. He wasn't sure what it was, other than it had made him sneeze and made him feel horrendously cold.

Like, Tim had analyzed it. And Bruce had analyzed it. And Babs had analyzed it. And nobody knew what it was either, other than some sort of pollen, and that it'd metabolize within two weeks. And also, nobody could figure out why he felt cold. His body temperature was normal, but he was chilly at all times.

But Blüdhaven needed him, and so, stubborn goody-two-shoes that he was, he'd gone back, spent a night on patrol, freezing his pants off, then gone to his apartment. There, his oh-my-god-where-have-you-been-I-was-worried-sick-when-will-you-learn-to-call-me-if-you're-going-to-be-gone levels of concerned roommate had greeted him with a fifteen-minute rant before realizing how hard he'd been shivering. His roommate had promptly ushered him into a steaming hot shower and given him a giant, warm cup of tea, before bringing a hand to his forehead to check his temperature.

And that hand. That hand had changed everything. The warmth. The safety. His roommate had tried to pull it away and he'd grabbed it and whimpered.

Now they were snuggling under a pile of blankets, his head resting on his roommate's chest, arms and legs tangled, and he'd been perfectly content with his lot in life until his roommate tried to get up. "Nooo," he protested again, pulling you tighter.