When Is a Door Not a Door?

by alexandria_library_of

Summary:

When is a door not a door? When it’s ajar.

Jason Todd was dead—but he wasn’t.

That still body back in the morgue wasn’t Jason. Jason was somewhere else—maybe asleep in the library, or playing videogames on Dick’s couch, or sitting on a rooftop in Crime Alley. Dick would go home and walk by Jason’s favroite gargoyle and he would be sitting up there smoking a cigarette, and maybe they’d lie on their backs and watch the stars.

He isn’t dead, Dick said to himself. He isn’t dead.

And this time, his dreaming worked.

Dick convinced himself that his little brother wasn’t dead.

Chapter 1: Five Dreams Deep

Summary:

"I had all and then most of you

Some and now none of you.

Take me back to the night we met.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do

Haunted by the ghost of you.

Take me back to the night we met."

- The Night We Met, Lord Huron

Notes:

hellooo!! andie here, back at it again.

this is probably my magnum opus, so please be nice to it :)))

(i absolutely stole the title from Teen Wolf)

The early night sky was a deep violet, illuminated by the yellow of a rising full moon. Dick sat atop the roof of the W&G Truth skyscraper, back pressed to a rough brick chimney, surveying the city below. 

This time—when dusk descends, and twilight glimmers dim—was always calm. Not dark enough for anyone to prowl the shadowy streets, but not quite light enough for a comfortable evening stroll. It was not peace, per se, but more the absence of action. The tension was indeed there—like an ocean’s surface beneath gray thunderheads who’ve yet to release their rain.

Somewhere off in the distance, the thunder of an oncoming storm rumbled, deep and low.

Dick felt less like the quiet twilight hours and more like the taut ocean underneath the brewing storm. 

Fired. He’d been fired from Robin because Bruce couldn’t bear to put another youngster in harm’s way. Because in what he does, there is no place for a child. And now he’s got another twelve-year-old with no pants running around Gotham—alone! Jason had followed that drug ring to their hideout, alone! Had Dick been a little harsh when he’d caught him? Well, yes—but what else was he supposed to do? They didn’t even get the drugs—

And Jason could’ve—

(“Don’t say another word.” Dick’s voice cut like a knife. He seized Jason’s arm and yanked him away from the lab.

“Those guys are waiting for the raw material. The unrefined cocoa pastes.” Dick let go, shoving Jason back a step. Fury bubbled up inside him, hot and snarling. “My sources tell me that’s not due to arrive until tomorrow night.”

Dick had followed every thread, developed invaluable moles, and stopped countless shipments. In a single evening, Jason had lit a match under it all.

“They’ll probably switch to another lab, now that you’ve spooked them,” Dick said, voice cold and hard as steel.

Jason rolled his eyes beneath his domino. “Then it’s no big deal. We’ll just locate their new digs and bust them when they take possession,” he huffed, crossing his arms.

Like this was a game. Like you couldn’t put on those colors and d—

“Wrong!” Dick spat. He jabbed a finger at Jason’s chest. The kid flinched, as if Dick was about to—

For a split second, Dick wasn’t looking at Robin, nor a partner, nor a soldier. He was looking at a boy who expected to be hit.

Dick backed off half a step and swallowed hard, burning rage doused cold.

“I’ll locate the new lab all by myself.” Dick’s voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “You’re going home to tell Batman how you screwed up tonight.”)

Dick sighed deeply, refocusing on the yellow of the moon and the annoyed honk of a red car driving on the street below. He wasn’t mad at Jason—not really, anyways. He was twelve. A kid. A kid who really wanted to help—but just didn’t know how. 

He had a good heart. This city had a funny little habit of carving it out of your chest, a ropey Y left in its wake.

No, he was mad at Bruce. For all his hypocrisies (wow that’s so new). For his lies. Robin had been Batman’s strong right arm. Dick had trained and bled and sacrificed and Bruce had chalked it all up to luck. 

We’ve been lucky.

Dick had never felt wounded so deep.

Dick hadn’t returned to the manor in eighteen months. Bruce had drove him away—fired him, rejected him—yet he missed him? Was so lonely in fact (“I admit it. I was lonely. I missed you.”), he had to pick up another—

Dick heard Jason before he saw him. He crept around the edge of the chimney; from the corner of his eye, Dick saw a little curly head peer out from around the brick.

He focused again on the yellow of the moon, resting his gloved hand on the white box to his right.

“Yeah, I figured you’d find this new lab,” he said to the violet sky. “What say we bust it together?”

There was a beat of silence as Jason scooted the rest of the way out from around the chimney. The quiet was thick with the echo of Dick’s sharp words—words that were now graduating from regretted to deeply regretted. 

And then there was the flinch. It had been so minute, as if Jason had conditioned himself not to. But it was there. A shade of fear, a flash of panic. The preparation of a kid about to be struck. Dick could feel the abject terror that had ignited momentarily in Jason’s small body. 

Something thick and churning and ugly had coiled itself tight in Dick’s gut and refused to unspool. 

He thought I—he thought I was going to—

“Sure,” Jason said as he inched closer to where Dick has his back against the chimney, legs hanging over the ledge of the building. Even in the dim twilight, the yellow and red of Jason’s Robin suit still seemed so bright. There was no cordial warmness between them, but Jason wasn’t frigid. Relief trickled through Dick—maybe he could save this. Fix all the damage he’d done.

Dick picked up the white rectangular box and set it in his lap. He took a breath.

“But before we do that, why don’t you open this.” He turned to Jason and handed him the box.

Jason shot him a quizzical look. “What is it?”

“Something that belongs to you.” Dick turned back to face the city below. “I’ve no need for it any longer.”

Jason opened the box with the utmost gentleness, teal eyes growing wide at the contents. Reverently, he picked up the Robin suit inside as if it were woven with gold. His big, youthful gaze fixed on Dick, full of…something Dick couldn’t quite place. It made his insides squirm, unfit for such awe.

“You’ll grow into it in a few years,” Dick said with a small smile.

Ever so carefully, Jason folded the suit and returned it to its white box. Dick stood and rested his back against the chimney, staring a hole into the concrete roof. Now came the hard part.

Dick swallowed and turned to Jason once more.

“There’s going to be times,” he began, suddenly nervous, “when you’re going to want to talk to someone.” He held out a small slip of paper. “Call me at this number. I’ve been where you’re at and I’m a good listener.”

Jason took the paper with such quiet reverence that the guilty, regretful coil in Dick’s stomach reached up into his lungs and squeezed. He had to turn away, casting his gaze back out to the city. 

He took a step towards the ledge, trying to distance himself from the thick, ugly feeling. A pigeon cooed nearby. Thunder rumbled again somewhere in darkening violet sky.

After an eternity, Jason spoke.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. He seemed at a similar loss for words, which Dick couldn’t decide if it made him feel better or worse. “Bruce is not much of a talker.”

“I know. That’s his biggest problem.” Dick turned to Jason a final time. “Don’t let it be yours.”

Dick awoke with a start, words echoing in his mind. Don’t let it be yours. He breathed deeply and rubbed his tired eyes, the contents of the dream already slipping away like sand in a sieve; they left in their wake a hollowy feeling in his chest. The familiar feel of his Manor bedroom’s gray sheets greeted him.

He leaned and fumbled blindly for the clock on the nightstand, but couldn’t seem to find it. Yawning, he rose and made for the kitchen. He was hungry. A flicker of warmth passed through him at the thought of Alfred being there.

He shuffled throughout the Manor’s gray halls towards the kitchen. Even as sunlight shone in through the high windows, the Manor felt…dreary. His subconscious supplied him with an answer: Well, duh—

Alfred was in the kitchen, much to Dick’s delight. “Good morning, Alfie!” He greeted with a smile, though it felt a little strained. So much for a good night’s sleep. 

Dick plopped down in a stool at the island, careful not to touch the countertop Alfred was wiping down with a damp towel. 

“Good morning, Master Dick,” Alfred replied, swiping the cloth across the granite. “Breakfast?”

Dick nodded. “Yes, please.”

Alfred turned away, paused as if remembering something, and faced Dick again. “Oh! My dear boy, I apologize. Could you please fetch my spectacles from the other room? I seem to have forgotten them in there.”

Dick frowned slightly. Since when…? Oh well. He was aging, after all. Wait, how old was—

“Of course, Alf!”

He made to stand, accidentally placing a hand on the counter as he rose. He quickly pulled away, a sheepish grin on his face, expecting a light chiding, when he glanced at his hand—

It came away gray. A soft, dry, dust. Ash. That was ash. There was ash on his fingers.

He looked up at Alfred, whose back was turned to him. He opened his mouth to ask, but the words seemed to stick to his throat.

On legs that weren’t his own, Dick made back towards the swinging door of the kitchen. He stepped through the doorway and—

Twin suns and a sunny atmosphere greeted him. Quickly, he turned to walk back through the where he’d just came, but the door was no longer there.

In fact, wherever he just was (the Manor? A rooftop?) was gone. 

Instead, he was in a courtyard, standing on a cobblestone path. The heat from the two glowing suns in the beautiful azure sky warmed his skin. Sweet aromas from the diverse multitude of vibrant alien plants—all in glorious teals and blues—filled his nose and mouth.

Funny. The teals reminded him of—

Dotted throughout the courtyard were various reflecting pools carved into white stone and ponds containing a myriad of fish-like alien creatures.

Tamaran. He was on Tamaran.

Which meant—

Panic—cold and gripping—seized his chest. Jason. Jason was on Earth, right now—

Dick needed to get to him.

The courtyard was huge and never ending, a maze of paths and pools and plants. His footsteps pounded on the uneven cobblestones as he broke into a sprint. His breath, ragged and loud in his ears, seemed to echo off the very walls. He reached up to access his comm, to call, to tell someone, anyone, that his baby brother was being—

He stopped at a reflecting pool, chest heaving. Compelled, he peered into the crystal waters—

Jason, bloodied, bruised, and broken, gazed back at him.

His domino hung in tatters, revealing a horribly swollen teal eye surrounded by a shock of violet bruising. His curls were mussed, blood leaking down the side of his face from some terrible head wound. His mouth was bloody, the bone of his cheek visible through the terrible burns that coated his skin. Oh God, his skin—

It was burnt and charring, pink in some areas, black in others. He smiled at Dick—a horrific, awful thing that wrinkled and pulled at his tender red flesh—revealing a bloody mouth and several missing teeth.

Horror, pure and bottomless horror churned deep in Dick’s gut and pulled it into tight knots. He ached to run, to flee, to get to Jason before—

Before—

But he was rooted to the spot, hunched over the pool, staring at the bloodied visage of his baby brother.

A green gloved hand, half burnt so badly the melted rubber fused with the fingers, shot out from the water and grabbed him by the throat. It pulled him into the pool, filling his lungs with water, drowning him, dragging him down, down down—

Dick shot up in bed, breathing heavy, eyes frantically searching. He coughed a few times, hard, expelling phantom water from his heaving lungs.

He was—

The roof—

The Manor—

The water—

He took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm his erratic heartbeat. He was— he was in his own bed, in his own apartment. Sunbeams shone through his cheap blinds. His blanket was on the floor. He was home. 

I am awake. I am home. 

He stood on shaky legs and stumbled to his bathroom. He pressed his palms into his eyes until he saw stars, then bent over the faucet to splash some cold water on his face.

He glanced up to the mirror.

Staring back at him, half beat to death, swollen, and bruised was—

Dick reared back and punched the mirror, shattering it into a thousand glittering pieces—

Dick jolted upright, gasping. It was dark in his apartment, the soft pitter-patter of rain hitting the window outside. He swallowed, mouth dry. Shaky breaths rattled in his ears, unable to calm his pounding heartbeat. He ran a hand through his greasy hair and down his sweaty face. 

This is real. This is real. I am awake. 

He slowly registered the ache in his back and neck, along with an uncomfortable chafe against his skin. Right, he thought. He fell asleep on the couch—again. In his Nightwing suit—again. 

He stood slowly, head spinning, breaths still shaky. As he made his way to the bathroom, he caught the time on the microwave: 4:16 am. 

Dick reached the bathroom, and decided to not turn on the light just yet, wary of the mirror. He swallowed again. A deep breath. A trembling hand on the light switch. A flick. Then—

Staring back in the mirror at Dick was Dick—dark hair sticking up in all directions, cheeks a little sunken, tan skin slightly pale, blue eyes bloodshot and laden with dark bags.

God, he looked awful. But at least it was him. 

Dick breathed a small, stuttering sigh of relief. I am awake. 

He shook out his sore hand as he left the bathroom. He cast a wary glance at his bed as he entered his room in serch of a clean change of clothes—he’d quite literally rather do anything than go back to sleep. 

Welp. Early vigilante catches the mook, and all that noise. 

Dick peeled the Nightwing suit off, leaving it in a heap on the bathroom floor as he stepped into the shower. The mental energy to throw it in the wash was just too much right now, and he can only handle one thing at a time (that thing being shower). 

He only felt slightly better after he stepped out of the warm water and changed into fresh clothes. He was still exhausted—nights when Jason invaded his dreams always left him feeling so.

Distantly, the methodical, detective-vigilante side of his mind begged him to research, to dissect. He needed to do something, because he couldn’t keep doing this; he couldn’t keep not knowing if he’d returned to the waking world or was still in the godawful clutches of his subconscious.

It was…hard. Seeing his baby brother so alive in his dreams, only to wake up to the horrible reality of his absence. He had him back, in his dreams. Even if it was only for a little while. Even if it wasn’t real. Whatever part of Dick that Jason had took with him when he died—probably a piece of his lungs, or even moreso a chamber of his heart—ached with an intensity Dick never thought he’d have to face.

But that ache was something Dick was so sure he had under control. He was fine, he really was. There were days when the grief was more a quiet, desperate drowning than actively chasing him down in the street. Days where he could put all that pain and guilt and utter bloody loss in a glass jar and shove it on a shelf. Days where he could hide from it all.

And then there were days like this.

Where it pulled at his soul with its wretched poison claws, dragging him by the hair to the mirror and forcing him to remember. Jason is dead. He died, and you weren’t there. He died alone. He died screaming.

Memory tapped a gun to Dick’s inner skull and demanded he bring back the dead.

Was Dick not his brother’s keeper?

Guilt folded itself into his spine and lived beneath his ribs. Jason’s death did not kill Dick and it did not make him stronger; it simply was and always will be scorched upon his heart. Much like total darkness, there’s no texture to death. No intrigue found within it. It is just an absence.

And Dick had tried—tried to decorate that absence with vigilantism and heroism and purpose. But he always still felt what was missing. That gaping hole was always still there.

A husband or child can be replaced. But who can grow me a new brother?

God, what Dick would give to be able to ruffle that soft curly hair, just one more time; you did good today, Little Wing. I’m proud of you, Little Wing. Look how far you’ve come.

But Dick’s baby brother was tortured to death while he was twenty-six lightyears away—

He didn’t even know. Didn’t even get to—

Didn’t even get to go—

But then again, they weren’t even all that close, were they? There was no real closure when Dick was booted from Robin—just cold shoulders and simmering anger. Dick didn’t get to pass the torch, because he wasn’t carrying it when it was given to Jason. Yes, Dick had given Jason his old uniform and told him to call, but what else? What else what else what else?

What else had he done to earn the privilege of calling Jason his Little Wing? 

His younger brother? What had Dick done to deserve that?

Tears, hot and fat, silently rolled down Dick’s cheeks as he poured himself a bowl of cereal. Even feeding himself was becoming more arduous by the day. He hiccuped in a desperate attempt to silence his sobs. Even if he cried loudly, it wouldn’t matter anyway. He was alone—that was painfully clear. But he still stifled his sobs, because—well, he did.

He glanced at his phone sitting on the counter top—the three missed calls, three voicemails, and two separate texts messages about meeting for coffee to talk (all from Barbara) could wait. The thought of answering them…of calling back…just took too much out of him. So he didn’t.

His hands shook slightly as he poured himself a bowl of Lucky Charms. I am awake. 

The jug of milk was cold against the skin of his palm when he pulled it from the fridge. I am awake. 

The metal spoon clinked against the ceramic bowl as he got a spoonful of hourglass and blue moon marshmallows. I am awake.

The salt from his tears mixed with the sweetness of his cereal, but he ate it anyway. Slowly; it was the best he could manage. It was all he could stomach. It was dawn by the time he finished.

His eyes felt gritty. His limbs ached from exhaustion. He could feel a nasty headache brewing in his skull.

But again, Dick would rather do literally anything, than go back to sleep and risk dreaming of—

Dreaming of—

Notes:

remember when i said i was Insane? yeah well, buckle up little readers. i am Intolerable.

this is a story i am very excited to write (my outline is 15,000 words).

the chapter title means something, but you won't know just yet. ;)

quoted people: Antigone, Donte Collins

update schedule will be erratic, but i'm already two chapters ahead and i plan on staying that way. this fic is like one big puzzle; everything has to fit together perfectly for it to work. that means sometimes i have to go back and change small things (but really, is anything ever small?) so it can all snap into place the way i want it to.

if the chapter count goes up, dw about it :) i just got to a place in my outline where the chapters got too long.

when Dick looked at the clock, it read 4:16 a.m. i pulled all the dialogue at the beginning (aka the rooftop scene) from Batman #416! the times will almost always mean something :))

hourglasses: impermanence of human life, reflection and the passage of time

blue moons: yearning, transformation, and turning points

violet sky: shakespeare used violets to symbolize sorrow and mourning throughout his works, but most notably in Ophelia.

please let me know what little easter eggs you dig up!!

tata until next time, little readers!!! :D

Chapter 2: Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear

Summary:

"Danger bird, he flies alone

And he rides the wind back to his home

Although his wings have turned to stone

And I know we should be free

But freedom's just a prison to me (rain pounding on his back)

(He recalls the moment that he cracked)

'Cause I lied to keep it kind

When I left you far behind (like those memories, the rain)

(Just keeps poundin' down, down, down)"

- Danger Bird, Neil Young

Notes:

hello little readers!!
no, you're not hallucinating--the chapter count did go up :)

this is just so fun for me, so i am excited to share it with you!

What a lot of people seem to forget about the first Robin was that he too was a brilliant detective. He had cut his Sherlock teeth alongside the World’s Greatest, and was personally taught by the man himself.

So one drizzly afternoon before patrol, Dick grabbed his legal pad and pen, pulled out his laptop, plopped down on his couch, and began to research.

Because the solution to recurring, macabre nightmares was not discovering the root cause, but running back to something drilled into him since the very first day he donned the green pixie boots: research, analyze, attack.

And Dick was very good at running.

Of course he was; he was an acrobatic, grapple-swinging, villain-punching vigilante. People looked up to him. He had his own broken city to protect. His own bat-legacy to carry.

But there was another kind of running—one Dick had mastered long ago. The quiet kind. One of masks and false smiles and glass jars of grief tucked away on high shelves. He ran from Jason’s death like it was fire at his heels. He ran so fast he convinced himself it was never following him in the first place.

It was easier this way—because if he stopped running, he’d have to face it. To feel it. And Dick wasn’t sure if he could survive that.

Instead, he neatly tucked himself away. Folded up all that grief and heartbreak and emptiness and let it collect dust on a shelf. He was needed. Nightwing was needed. So he’d sat down and glued his shattered pieces back together and presented them to the world as if they never broke. Wore his light like armor, polished to deflect.

How do you judge van Gogh? By his Starry Night, or his suicide letter?

Four hours and four pages of notes later, Dick moved his computer from his lap and stood to stretch. Several concerning pops and cracks sounded from various joints as he contorted himself this way and that. Whoops. Guess he spent a little too much time in those rabbit holes. The throbbing behind his eyes and the ache in his hand confirmed it. But no matter—his endeavor was successful.

He had gleaned from his extensive research—ranging from Reddit to WikiHow to WebMD, even a BuzzFeed Are You Dreaming Right Now quiz (his result was “It doesn't matter! Reality is subjective!” which helped none)—that numerous different things were true across dreams, but two things in particular were irrefutably true across all dreams:

Fact One: mirrors did not work in dreams. Reflections were distorted, or not there at all.

Fact Two: clocks did not work in dreams. The time was either unreadable or changed wildly. 

Simple enough, Dick thought. I’ll just…look in a mirror whenever I wake up. I do that anyways. And I’ll check the time. Easy.

A buzz from his phone broke him from his thoughts. It was Barbara, again, asking about meeting up for coffee and a chat. Dick bit his lip and glanced around his apartment—it was messier than he’d like, with dishes still in the sink, couch pillows and blankets strewn about, several open cases pinned to his walls, and a heap of clean laundry still on the chair in his bedroom—there were just so many things he had to do, and just the thought of making himself do any of it was exhausting. 

The basic act of keeping himself alive was starting to get hard again, evidenced by the growing mess around him. He was just…tired. Not in the typical sense (though seeing his dead little brother in his dreams didn’t help), but more in the what-do-you-mean-I-have-to-keep-feeding-myself-every-day sense. The kind of tired that leeches the color out of everything, leaving nothing but empty gray scale behind.

Babs and he normally met for coffee and a chat once a week—in civies, where “work talk” was sacrilegious—just to catch up and be “normal” people. Whatever that meant, anyways. It was…nice. To be just a regular guy getting coffee with a friend. But he’d cancelled so many times in the past few weeks, Barbara just…stopped asking. So they stopped going.

Yeah, I really fucked that up. He let out a frustrated sigh. He’d just…blow off Barbara. Again. Apologize profusely and promise to make it up to her in another way, some other time. Again.

It’d be fine. He was fine. She was fine. Their friendship was fine.

Dick rubbed his eyes and glanced out the window, a groan escaping him when he realized the light drizzle had culminated into a right downpour. Great. It was darker now, most definitely dusk behind the thick blanket of cumulonimbus clouds coating the sky. As if to make a point, a deep rumble of thunder rattled the windows of his apartment. A similar rumble growled in Dick’s stomach; damn, he was starving.

Dick checked the clock as he walked to the bathroom where his Nightwing suit still sat in a heap on the floor: 8:16 pm. The time kicked him into high gear—he was going to be late for patrol.

Quickly, he scrambled to pull on the suit and secure his escrima sticks to his back. A quick sniff told him the suit didn’t smell too bad—yet. He’d wash it tonight.

He could hear the sheets of rain pounding the roof, smattering against the windows. Rain always made patrol most decidedly not fun. Great. Fantastic, great, amazing. Great.

Dick stood before the mirror, domino in hand, staring. He raised a blue striped hand and waved at his reflection. It waved back. He took a deep breath, and mirror Dick’s chest rose and fell in time. He secured the domino to his face with his reflection.

He took another deep breath, flashed his reflection his most dazzling smile, and headed for the fire escape.

He briefly caught his reflection in the dark window before he opened it. As a precaution, he waved, then ran a hand through his hair—his reflection followed suit. He nodded, reveled in his last few seconds of being warm and dry, and flung open the window to brave the wet Blüdhaven night.

---

Zip-tying goons to a dumpster in the rain—combined with his extensive notetaking from earlier and the inhuman grip needed to grapple in the downpour—was definitely not good for his aching hands. He shook them out as he walked away, attempting to crack his knuckles.

“Hey!” One of them shouted before Dick could grapple off.

Dick turned to back to the trio of dealers he’d caught, soaked hair slapping his cheek as he did. He ran a wet hand through it to get it out of his face, took a deep breath, and drummed up some of that good ole Nightwing charm.

“Yes, boys?” He drawled, taking a small step closer. The rain had calmed a little since he’d started, but it still came down hard in big fat droplets. His stomach growled, an angry, insistent reminder he’d forgotten to eat before patrol.

“You jus’ gon’ leave us here?”

“Well—yes,” Dick raised his hands and gestured around the empty street, illuminated by a single streetlight shining above a car across the road. He was too tired for this bullshit. “But don’t worry, I called you an Uber! It’s a black and white Ford Crown Victoria!” He smirked (because they couldn’t see him wink beneath the domino, which was a real shame in Dick’s professional opinion).

The faint sound of sirens echoed in the distance. “Ah! Looks like it’s on its way.” 

The goons grumbled and groaned where they sat, no doubt just as soaked to the bone as Dick was. He flashed them a dazzling smile, hoping it didn’t look half as bad as he felt. He was getting cold, and his hands hurt, and—

A flash caught his eyes when he turned to leave again—the light reflected from the streetlight off the car windows.

A cold, uneasy feeling settled in Dick’s empty gut. He swallowed thickly, feeling his heartbeat pick up. Suddenly, taking in air into his lungs was a shade more difficult than it had been just a minute ago.

He…he wasn’t dreaming. He’d checked, before he left his apartment. But that had been…

…what if—?

There were no clocks nearby. Dick swallowed again. He could feel his headache growing behind his eyes. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder at the goons behind him—they were saying something, but Dick couldn’t quite hear them over the rushing of blood in his ears.

His body moved before he could fully register what he was doing. Hollow legs carried him across the road to the car beneath the streetlight. He looked away, choosing to focus anywhere but the reflective surfaces of the vehicle before he got there—he needed to be sure. 

He took a deep shaky breath when he reached the car, slowly tearing his eyes away from his black boots.

You’re awake. You’re fine, just look—

He forced himself to meet his eyes in the rain-soaked passenger side window of the car. The reflection looking back was…distorted.

A flash of panic shot through him, igniting his blood and somersaulting his gut. 

This whole time—had he been dreaming this—

Dick frantically raised his gloved hand and waved it in front of the wet window. The warped image copied exactly. He ran a hand through his hair. He pulled out an escrima, ignited it, and waved the electrified glowing blue end around in front of the glass—it bobbed and twitched like an insect from the nearly uncontrollable shaking of Dick’s hands. Everything, the window reflected everything—

Bright yellow—charred, blood spattered—flashed over his shoulder. Dick whirled around, escrima in hand, searching frantically through the rain, Little Wing on his lips. The street was empty.

Dick brought up a soaked forearm and wiped the droplets and streaks from the glass. There—he could see himself much clearer. He reached up a trembling finger and poked his cheek. He felt it, and the window did it. He looked behind him again. Nothing.

Dick took a deep, shuddering breath. I’m awake. This is real. I’m awake.

His stomach grumbled painfully. Right. That. He was hungry. Dammit.

Relief left his legs feeling like jelly. A hysterical giggle escaped him. Insomnia’s a bitch.

All his senses seemed to flood back at once: he caught the telltale red-and-blue flashes of approaching police cars, along with their loud, high pitched sirens. They seemed much too close for a vigilante’s comfort.

He fumbled for his grapple and shot off to the nearest building, rain beating his face as he flew through the air.

Wow, he thought to himself as he tucked and rolled on the wet concrete of a random roof, I have got to get some sleep.

---

A swooping sensation hit Dick’s gut and he jolted upright. His breaths came heavy, a slight dampness to his brow. He glanced around frantically.

Clock—mirror—clock—mirror—

Where am I?

He fumbled, scrambling to stand.

His back ached. He was…on the ground—?

Oh. Right.

He was in his apartment, sitting on the cold tile, back against his door. He’d…

Right. He’d sat down to tie his shoes and text Barbara he was on his way. They were meeting up for coffee. He must’ve leaned back against the door and…fallen asleep.

Dick’s heart leapt into his throat. Am I awake? Did I check?

He resumed his frantic scrambling and tore across the hallway to the bathroom. He cast his eyes downwards, away from the mirror, shaking hands fumbling for the light switch. His breaths came short and choppy.

Look! Look!! You have to know—

He looked in the mirror. There was only him looking back—bloodshot eyes, clammy skin, chapped lips and all. He raised his hand and waved it; his reflection did the same. He rubbed his tired eyes, the Dick in the mirror just as exhausted. He tried to breathe deep. Tried to slow his racing heart.

The faucet squeaked as he turned the handle. He bent down, splashing some cold water on his face. Some of the grit cleared from his tired eyes, but it really didn’t make him feel any better. 

He gently patted his face with a soft towel, and stole another glance in the mirror—

A small, green gloved hand—half burnt so badly the melted rubber fused with the fingers—curled around the door—

Dick whirled around, but all that greeted him was peeling white paint and moisture damage.

He stumbled to the door, wrenching it back and peering behind. Nothing but dingy apartment wall. He felt the door, running his hands along the bubbled paint, the frame, the hinges. He knocked on it once, twice. He pressed his ear to it, listening.

It sounded like a door.

His heartbeat thundered in his chest, ragged breaths shaking his whole body. 

He knelt down to inspect the doorknob, absently turning it a few times and giving it a nice jostle. In the tarnished brass, he saw his warped reflection—

His warped—

Dick stood so quickly he saw stars. For one terrifying moment, he gripped the porcelain sink, legs like noodles beneath him, desperately willing the buzzing black away. 

Once the black spots retreated, he hesitated to look back in the mirror. He couldn’t—couldn’t—face it again.

This is a dream, he told himself. This is a dream this is a dream this is—

He wrenched his head upward and met his own gaze. A quick gaze to the door behind him revealed no tiny gloved hand.

He swallowed thickly, throat suddenly tight. His reflection perfectly copied the hand he raised and the finger poking his cheek. So am I—?

Memory struck him like lightning.

He sprinted from the bathroom to his kitchen. Sitting upon the counter was a microwave. Hanging on the wall behind the couch was an analog clock. There was a third digital clock on the oven.

He checked them all.

3:20.

Each clock read 3:20. He looked away, eyes squeezed tightly shut, and waited. Then, he looked again.

3:22.

Each clock read 3:22.

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the end. I am awake. 

Tears sprang to his eyes, a painful lump forming in his throat. He was supposed to meet Barbara at 2:30.

He pressed his fingers into his eyes as his chest shuddered. He should call her, or maybe just let her know that he was running a little late—

Sobs wracked his body, and this time, he was unable to silence them.

What was wrong with him? He had been fine—he is fine. 

And now Barbara for sure hates me.

He sank to the floor, back against his couch, his chest stuttering as he hiccuped and sobbed.

He pulled out his buzzing phone. He could barely see the screen through the tears in his eyes and the shake of his hands. Blinking at the brightness, he brought his arm up to swipe at his wet eyes with a sniff. Another sob escaped him as his heart sank.

Babs <3

2:29 pm: I’m here, lmk when you get close.

2:38 pm: I just got in line. What do you want?

~Missed call from Babs <3~

2:41 pm: Dick??

2:47 pm : I’m sitting in the back, by the window.

~Missed call from Babs <3~

2:59 pm: Look if you can’t make it this time that’s fine. Just let me know, okay?

~Missed call from Babs <3~

3:05 pm: I’m gonna head out now. Please call me, okay? I need to know you’re okay.

Dick wanted to put his head through a wall. He had sworn—sworn—up and down that he would be there this time. That he wouldn’t blow her off and they’d catch up for real. Barbara’s job as Oracle was hard—Dick could tell she was feeling lonely as of late and needed a friend.

And Dick was what—some great fucking friend?

He brought his knees up to his chest and hugged them, tears spilling down his cheeks.

He could call. He could call and her and she’d come—

Hey Babs, could you come hold my hand while I spiral out of control?

And that, was the worst of it all. Because he could call her. And she would come—would drop everything and spend the rest of the day at his messy apartment, offering comfort and platitudes and her warm presence. She’d ask what’s wrong and he’d tell her. 

And that, more than anything, was exactly why Dick couldn’t call her. Because she’d drop everything for him—and he’d never do that to her.

So he texted Barbara a dumbass excuse (I’m so sorry, got caught up. I promise we can do another time!!) and sat, curled in a ball on his dirty apartment floor, and sobbed until he no longer had the energy.

---

Dick had been combing through case files for hours. When he’d started, it’d been pouring—rain hammering the windows, drowning the city in violent sheets—and he came to the glorious conclusion that no criminal in their right mind would be out tonight.

Not that most of them were in their right minds to begin with. But alas. It sure as hell wasn’t safe to grapple when he couldn’t see more than two feet in front of his face.

So he’d decided to stay in and catch up on some casework. Papers were strewn about the floor, crumpled reports, mugshots, and barely-legible notes—all dealing with some shady drug operation down at the docks. His eyes burned; he lost his spot on the page every time he blinked. When he could no longer read the words, he knew he needed to stop and take a break. Maybe he could squeeze a quick nap in before morning—

He glanced at the clock—and froze. Morning? He blinked hard. There’s no way. He turned to the window and—

Yep. A red early dawn sky greeted him, pale gold slicing through blood-red clouds. He could hear mourning doves cooing softly from their windowsill perches. So much for an easy night in. Awesome. Great.

His joints cracked as he stood and stretched, his spine aching, fatigue pulling at his bones. He turned to the couch behind him, grabbing the remote to flip on the morning news. He really hoped the intense rain had kept everyone off the streets.

But there, unmistakably, looking back at him in the distorted reflection of the television—

Dick’s breath got locked in his lungs.

Jason.

Staring back at him from the television’s black glass, the same way he’d looked in the reflecting pool in Tamaran. His domino hung askew, town down the middle. One eye swollen shut, the other blazing and electric. Blood slicked the lower half of his face. His Robin suit—tattered, scorched, and stained dark—clung to his blistered skin, raw and ruined.

Dick’s knees buckled. He hit the floor hard, a hand squeezing his lungs. He could hardly look at Jason like this, his baby brother so brutalized. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away. So he gaped, open mouthed and shuddering.

Jason’s head tilted, birdlike. A smirk—half familiar, half hateful—crossed his marred face.

What, Dickie? Take a picture, it’ll last longer. I’ll even sign it for ya.

Dick vehemently shook his head. “Stop,” he whispered. “Please…”

He reached out a trembling hand, but the reflection didn’t change.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “God, I’m so—Jason, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—“

His voice cracked. The words wouldn’t come; there were too many. There weren’t enough. He wanted to say everything. Oh God, he wanted to take it all back. 

“I’d trade places with you,” he whispered, hot tears rolling down his cheeks and splatting on the pages below. “I would’ve. I would.”

As if he heard, Jason ever so slightly shook his head. ‘Course you would, Dickie. But I’m still d—

Dick lunged forward with a cry. “No! No, Jaybird, please—“

Thunder cracked so hard Dick’s whole kitchen rattled. He shot up, chest heaving, sweat soaking his face and back. He rolled and hit the floor, hard. Uncaring, he scrambled toward the kitchen, papers flying in his wake.

Clock. I need a clock. What time is it? 

He scrubbed his face with frantic hands, leaning in close to the oven’s digital clock.

5:38 am.

He turned away, failing to tamper down his rising panic. If this is a dream, how do I wake up? What do I do? 

He licked his chapped lips and swallowed down the iron tang.

Slowly, slowly, he turned back toward the oven. If this is a dream, he thought, keeping his eyes cast down to the worn tile floor of the kitchen, I’ll— I’ll—

He looked up. 5:40 am.

He scrubbed his face again, the grainy residue of dried tears coating his cheeks.

The deep breath he took succumbed to a yawn. I’m awake. I’m awake. 

His insides still felt flighty and panicked. A part of him wanted to look in a mirror, to be absolutely sure, but he couldn’t risk—couldn’t bear to see—

With a shake of his head, he made his way back to the couch he’d fallen asleep on—again. It was still dark out, the sky only a shade lighter than night-black. His living room was a mess—the coffee table was moved aside, papers strewn all about, some even reaching as far as the kitchen. He pointedly avoided the television.

The thought of organizing the papers—moving the coffee table, putting the couch pillows back on the couch—felt akin to building Rome in a day. Instead, he chose to maturely deal with all that shit tomorrow (a small voice inside Dick’s mind said it is already tomorrow, though, and Dick promptly told that voice to shut it).

His stomach growled, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat. Later, he thought. I’ll come out and get a snack or something.

One warm shower—in the dark, of course—and a fresh change of clothes later, Dick was lying in his bed, unblinking eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Exhaustion pulled at his every limb, tugging his eyelids down, begging him to please sleep. But Dick did not comply. He couldn’t comply. So he laid there, resisting the desperate tug, playing the nightmare in his mind over and over: Jason’s bloody face, the crimson sky

I’d trade places with you. I would’ve. I would.

‘Course you would, Dickie. But I’m still—

Another crack of thunder sent him ramrod straight, head slightly groggy; he had almost succumbed to the fell clutches of rest.

Across the bed, hung on his closet door, was a long oval mirror. Dick instinctively raised his hand, and the reflection mirrored. Okay. He thought. I am awake. 

Lightning flashed outside his window, momentarily illuminating the whole room in a haunting white glow.

For that split second, in the mirror, Jason sat at the edge of Dick’s bed—back to the mirror, as if he was facing Dick. 

In the mirror, Dick saw no blood on the Robin suit. No wounds in the head of dark curls. In front of him, at the foot of the bed, sat nothing. Dick reached out a hand—

The white glow from the lightning subsided in seconds.

Jason was gone.

Dick sat, frozen in place on the bed, hand still extended, a Little Wing on his lips.

Notes:

i hope you enjoyed!!

i encourage you to read closely. there are tells hidden throughout the work that clue you in on whether Dick is awake or dreaming. if i mention something and it seems out of place, that's probably because it is. :)

everything means something :)
happy spiraling little readers!

ps—ford crown victoria’s are the kind of police cars they used in The Batman (2022) ! :D

Chapter 3: Through the Looking Glass

Summary:

“I am silver and exact.

I have no preconceptions.

Whatever I see I swallow immediately

Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.

I am not cruel, only truthful‚

The eye of a little god, four-cornered.”

- Mirror, Sylvia Plath

Notes:

helloooo little readers! buckle up bc this one's a doozy :)

there are seven (7) Lewis Carroll references in this chapter. if you can find them all, i'll give you a big ole smooch on the noggin. some are obvious. others...you gotta dig a lil :)))

yes, the chapter count did go up again! :D

as always, i hope you enjoy!

TW: blood, vomiting, injury

Dick was cold; his sweat-soaked shirt clung to his back like a wet rag. He shivered, gooseflesh prickling across his arms. Chilly fingers fumbled for the warmth of his blanket, but his hands only grasped the cold sheets and bare mattress. With a frustrated groan, he cracked an eye open.

Out of habit, he glanced at the back of his closet door—

No.

The mirror, ever solid and reflective, was wrong. The surface rippled like water in a breeze, the glass distorted and foggy.

No no no NO—

Panic gripped him by the throat. His body moved before his mind could catch up.

He scrambled out of bed, nearly toppling the nightstand in his haste. His feet pounded against the floor as he tore open his door, limbs feeling too long and too big—like a puppet jerked forward on tangled strings.

He stumbled into the bathroom, clutching the sink so hard the porcelain bit into his sweaty hands.

Just look. You need to know. Just look.

He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog from his brain. His breath came in short, rapid bursts. He looked up—

The mirror’s surface melted and churned, the foggy glass obscuring all reflection.

He raised a trembling hand.

The mirror did not raise one back.

Panic slithered up his spine. His throat constricted. His chest heaved.

I’m dreaming. This isn’t real. I’m dreaming.

“I’m dreaming,” he whispered aloud, voice barely more than a breath. He squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to summon logic through the terror flooding his body. A deep sense of wrongness anchored itself in his gut. His thoughts buzzed like static. “This isn’t real.”

On unsteady legs, he turned back to the dark hallway. It stretched like taffy into a yawning black tunnel, threatening to swallow him whole. It was wrong.

More terror climbed up his throat. Everything was wrong.

He whirled back toward the mirror. He could wake up. He could wake up if he just figured out how.

How do I—how do I wake up?

He’d done his research. But he’d never—

He knew this was a dream. But he’d never thought he’d need to know how to get out. 

He swallowed, hands shaking—

His hands. They too, felt wrong. Slick. Heavy. Wet. 

He looked down

Blood.

So red it seemed to glow. It coated every inch of his hands, dripping steady rivulets into the white porcelain of the sink. The thick, metallic iron tang hit the back of his throat.

Drip drip drip. 

His lungs seized. He couldn’t inhale. Like invisible fingers had reached into his ribs and squeezed. 

Whose blood is this?

He couldn’t remember patrol. Couldn’t remember going out. Couldn’t remember anything.

Blood blood blood. There was blood on his hands. There would always be blood on his hands. 

Whose was it this time? The brother he let die? The father he let rampage across the city? 

Or was it his own? A crimson baptism of failure, splattered across his every action. It pooled in every footprint he left behind, staining every vow he made and broke. 

There was no absolution. No quiet corner of his mind untouched by the reek of iron and smoke and the rotten tendrils of guilt.

Every ideal he bled for—every bright, shining tenet woven in the blue bird across his chest—had shattered and broken and burned. They’d worn red and yellow and green. They’d died screaming.

No penance could ever resurrect a child. 

Dick Grayson, the pawn of self-sacrifice.

That blood was never beautiful. It was always just red.

The faucet squeaked as he turned it on, hands slick, and began to scrub. But the blood stuck to his skin like perverted crimson oil. He scrubbed harder.

“Still playing White Knight, are we, Dickie?”

Dick felt as if he’d been slapped.

His head jerked toward the mirror, but it was still a blob of fog and rippling glass. 

He turned, ever so slowly, dread sinking in his gut like lead.

Jason casually walked through the doorway, a smirk tugging at his lips. His Robin costume was bright and pristine. He looked—

Oh God, he looked twelve. Alive. Untouched by ash or blood or—

Everything Dick ever wanted to say got caught in his throat. A cold sweat gathered on his brow.

Jason nodded at the bloody mess coating Dick’s hands. “You got a lil somethin’ there, Big Bird.”

Dick tore his gaze away, looking back down at his hands. Blood—more than before. It was still pouring, slick between his fingers, coating the sink, spattering the floor. The smell of iron coated his tongue and filled his lungs.

He whirled back to the sink, scrubbing harder, vision swimming. His breaths came in short, ragged gasps, lungs refusing to expand all the way. 

Oh God oh God oh God—whose blood is this?

“Curiouser and curiouser…” Jason’s voice purred beside him.

Dick startled. Jason was now perched on the counter, swinging his feet.

“Jason,” Dick breathed, head bent low, eyes full of tears. “What—what is happening?”

Jason cocked his head. “Whaddya mean, Dickie?”

Water roared in the sink, red and gushing. The scent of blood filled his sinuses.

“I’m dreaming,” Dick rasped around the sickening taste. “I…I know I’m dreaming.”

His hands burned. He did not stop scrubbing.

“You are?” Jason asked with a raised eyebrow.

Instinctively, Dick looked up into the mirror. It’s glass still rippled and churned, but now, it showed something.

Jason—but not as he sat next to Dick. The Jason in the mirror was bloodied and bruised. His face horridly swollen, teal eye nearly shut. A torn domino mask clung to his blackened, burnt cheekbone. Blood streamed from his nose, his mouth, some unknown gash in his bloodied hair.

Dick gagged.

He turned to the Jason on the counter. 

Jason smiled—alive and whole. The Jason before—

Before—

Dick looked back at the sink. Blood coated everything—his arms, the faucet, the walls—sticky, dark, and alive. 

Dick scrubbed impossibly harder. His skin stung. He tried to swallow, to breathe, but all he tasted was—

Itwon’tcomeoffitwon’tcomeoffitwon’tcomeoff—

Jason chuckled beside him, amused.

Dick desperately tried to speak, but blood filled his throat. He choked on it, thick and warm. His eyes burned with tears. His chest spasmed. He couldn’t get air. Blood filled his lungs, poured from his nose, his lips.

“What’s the matter? Lost for words?” Jason’s voice drawled beside him. “I expected more. I’m hurt.”

Dick dropped to his knees, gagging. Vomiting blood. It splattered on the tiles. All Dick could see was red. His thoughts splintered.

A caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

His wings are clipped and his feet are tied

So he opens his throat to sing

Jason hopped down, crouched beside Dick with mock concern, and gave him a patronizing pat.

“It’s alright, Dickie,” he whispered, gentle. “You can wake up now.”

Dick gasped awake, the ghost of copper filling his nose and mouth. He scrambled through is damp sheets.

Clock. I need—

He seized the clock on the nightstand, heart pounding. 

8:25 am

He squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to slow down his ragged breathing. After what felt like an eternity, he looked back.

8:28 am

Dick sighed, dizzy with relief. He set the clock back down on his nightstand, and paused. He should—he should check the mirror. Just to be safe.

Everything in him did not want to look in that mirror. 

He looked about his room. He took in the blanket lying in a heap on the floor, the clean clothes piled onto the chair at his desk, the damp, wormy scent wafting in through the old window.

Look. Please, you have to look. You have to know—

Dick cast a wary glance into the mirror. It…seemed normal. Solid. He raised his hand. Waved. The mirror copied exactly. As an extra precaution, he climbed to the end of his sweaty bed and reached out his hand.

Cold, solid glass met his fingertip. He tapped once, twice. Still solid.

Dick heaved a sigh; the adrenaline crash left him feeling hollow and shaky. He tried to swallow, but was suddenly hit with the urge to gag from the lingering taste of iron. He shook the feeling out of his head and made for the kitchen.

Because Dick was both an adult and a vigilante who faced down Gotham’s worst night after night, he turned on every light in his apartment. He poured himself a glass of water and snagged a granola bar from his cabinet. 

He sat at the bar, nibbling and sipping, staring into nothingness; nights like that left him more exhausted than when he got back from patrol.

But still. It was…nice—even though the nightmare was horrifying and Dick had never thrown up in a dream before but hey there’s a first time for everything and he hoped to high heaven that that wasn’t a fun little recurring dream he’d have to deal with for the next six months.

It was…nice. To have seen Jason…laugh.

God, he missed his little brother.

---

Dick could hear the faint pitter-patter of rain on the warehouse roof, air thick with the scent of citrus peel, star anise, and oolong. It was…calming. Perched in the rafters, half-wrapped around a rusted metal support beam like a tired jungle cat, he almost might’ve actually dozed off. He wasn’t…comfortable, per se, but years of acrobatics had blessed him with an absurd tolerance for uncomfortable positions. The funky, half-sitting, half-lying contortion he was in right now was honestly not bad.

The warehouse was huge—cavernous and dimly lit. Endless shelves lined the space, packed with bricks of eastern teas and stacked high with packets of exotic spices. Workers milled about the shelves like ants, pulling inventory, inspecting it, scribbling notes, and carefully returning it.

Every time Dick did a stakeout, he marveled at the fact that they never look up. 

He exhaled slowly. This was getting boring.

Tilting his head to one side, he tried to shake out the tension in his neck—

Jason hung beside him, upside down, legs hooked over the metal rafters. His curls dangled toward the floor, wild and soft, like some adorable Frankenstein’s monster. His yellow caped swayed lazily back and forth.

Dick opened his mouth to tell Jason to sit up before someone saw the cape and gave away their position but then he remembered—

The words died in his throat. He lurched upright, nearly slipping off the beam in the process. Rubbing his eyes hard, he blinked the stars away.

Nothing. No cape, no curls, no Jason.

Panic curled icy fingers around his throat. He had no mirror, no clock. No way of knowing if he was—

“So it’s settled, then?” A feminine from below interrupted his spiral.

Right. Focus.

He needed to focus. He would just have to bank on the fact that he’d checked every single reflective surface he grappled past from his apartment to the warehouse and hope that he was awake. 

“Yes, Madam Zhang,” a man’s voice responded. Footsteps echoed across the concrete floor below.

Ah yes—the elusive Madam Zhang Yi Sao. Dick had been tracking her and her Red Flag Fleet for months.

On paper, Red Flag Trading Co. imported fine Asian teas and expensive foreign spices, selling them up and down the East Coast. Madam Zhang herself was famous for her elegance, wealth, and high class clientele.

And for being the largest opium dealer this side of the globe.

The drugs were hidden in hollowed-out tea bricks and packed loose among the leaves, aromatic teas masking the scent. And really, what Blüdhaven agent could tell the difference between poppy and pu-erh? And if for some miraculous reason they could, Madam Zhang had an infinite number of ways to silence them and any poor soul they spoke to  

Her clientele knew what to ask for. Madam Zhang knew how to deliver.

She’d been anchored in Gotham for two months—and in that short time, opium overdoses tripled. Batman had done everything a detective should: staked out her infamous floating barges, stalked her elite clientele. Hell—even Brucie Wayne personally bought a tin of her black tea.

But then, he spooked her. Batman had pushed an informant a little too hard—courtesy of his increased brutality—and the mole had run right back to Zhang. She was gone by that morning.

Not three months later, the Red Flag Trading Co. showed up in Blüdhaven. And like a plague, so did the overdoses. Thanks to Bruce, Dick had clocked it immediately.

He started with slow sleuthing. Staking out her tea warehouses, her ships. Memorizing her movements and patterns. He knew from Bruce’s mistake that he had to be incredibly patient; if he were to strike while the iron was cold, he could lose Madam Zhang for good.

That’s how he’d ended up here, in the rafters of the largest tea warehouse in Blüdhaven, trying not to fall asleep. 

“Mr. Tai and the Snow Leopards have agreed to meet with us four nights from now,” the man continued. Dick strained his neck, hoping to get a glimpse of the two, but stacked shelves were too dense.

“Good. I believe we can be…mutually beneficial,” Madam Zhang replied smoothly.

Dick’s fingers tightened around the metal bar of his perch. Uh-oh. That was…well, that was bad. The Snow Leopards were Blüdhaven’s largest Chinese gang. Ruthless arms dealers with politicians, police—hell, even doctors—all in their pocket. Their gambling rings hooked you fast and bled you dry. The only way out was in a body bag.

“Yes, Madam Zhang. My sources say Mr. Tai is inclined to strike a deal.”

“Lovely,” she said. Their footsteps stopped. “I want all of our top Zhōngwèi there. And station extra guards around the warehouses. That Nightwing bird nests here. I don’t want him getting any little ideas.”

“But the barges—“

“The barges will be fine,” she snapped. “Most of the important cargo is in here. If any bird or bat tries to go after the barges, they’re in for an empty deal.”

“Alright, Madam Zhang. I’ll relay your message to the Zhōngwèi. And the shìbīng. The meeting takes priority.”

“Perfect. Now—where is the Oolong? I want only the best for our guest.”

Their voices trailed off as they walked deeper into the warehouse. Dick exhaled; he’d gotten exactly what he needed. A plan took shape in his mind as he snuck through the rafters back to the window he’d slipped through.

He’d hit the barges during the meeting. Security would be light—Madam Zhang had said it herself. Dick wasn’t after the opium. He was after Zhang. And if he blew up her Red Flag Fleet while she was tied up in negotiations? She’d be stuck Blüdhaven, scrambling to salvage the deal. She’d have no choice but to stay. No way to run off, even when she figured out that Nightwing was closing in.

Dick could lean on the BPD to raid the tea warehouses. Maybe even let Nightwing show up in person, just for the dramatic flair. He’d corner Madam Zhang Yi Sao, then flush her out.

The familiar chink-vhiiip of the grapple echoed through the night as Nightwing made his way across the sleeping city back to his apartment.

Tonight had been…long.

Humidity clung to him like a second skin, tainting the very air he breathed, seeping through the weave of his suit. On his way back from the tea warehouse, he had caught a bank robbery in progress (one person. One person was trying to rob a whole-ass bank. Like—who even does that??). He had swooped in and stopped it, of course, but that dumbass had actually landed a shot to his shoulder—even through kevlar, getting hit with a bullet hurts.

And through it all, Dick kept catching his reflection.

Puddles, car windows, shop displays, everything. Every mirrored surface drew his eyes like a magnet. He’d wave, flick his escrima, poke his cheek. Seeing Jason in the tea warehouse had spooked him. He just…had to be sure. He always had to be sure. The strain settled behind his eyes like a hot spike. His body ached with exhaustion, shoulder twinging with every swing.

That was why the lucky bastard had landed a shot. Dick had caught his reflection in the mirrored ceiling of the bank and paused, just for a second. Checking. The flick of his escrima, a flicker of doubt. Dick hadn’t seem him lift the gun nor registered the target of his aim.

It was only after pain exploded from his shoulder did he realize what had happened.

It took longer than he would’ve liked to deal with that bozo. The wound to his shoulder made him sloppy. Though it would probably only bruise (badly) it still hurt like a motherfucker.

He passed L&C Tower, Blüdhaven’s glittering glass monolith, constructed entirely from windows. At all hours of the day, one could see glass cleaners equipped with squeegees and suds, scrubbing away at any mark that dare marred the perfect panes.

As he flew by, he turned, just for a second, to make sure his reflection mirrored him.

A blur of red, green, and yellow caught his eye—

Dick’s stomach plummeted, breath trapped in his lungs.

Jason. Just a few feet ahead. Flying just like he always used to—

Dick did not see the glass.

The window exploded around him as he slammed into it, glass shattering, shards slicing him up like hundreds of tiny knives.

Pain, white hot and stabbing, bloomed across his body.

He tumbled inside, trying tuck and roll, but his limbs didn’t obey. He skidded hard across the carpet, bounced, then slammed into a wall with a sickening thud.

He laid still for a heart-hammering second, shoulder screaming, then—

Panic demanded his body move. He scrambled up, ignoring the stinging gashes. His eyes darted, wild. 

Clock—mirror—clock—mirror—

Nothing. Just glass walls and cubicles.

He spun in a frantic circle, ignoring his body’s aching protests. It was too dark inside to see any kind of reflection.

He whirled around again. There’s got to be—

There. 

Glass crunched beneath his boots as Dick shot across the office floor, dodging cubicles, racing towards the faintly glowing restroom sign. His shoulder throbbed in time with his pounding heart.

The white bathroom light was fluorescent and brutal. Dick stood, bracing himself against the sink, blue striped hands gripping the porcelain. The checkered tile floor swam beneath him.

Look. He needed to look.

Look! Please!!

He cast his glance up—and flinched.

It was him—just Dick.

But God, did he look like hell. 

Shallow scrapes and deep, weeping cuts crisscrossed his arms, torso, legs, and even his jaw. Tiny glass shards glittered in his dark hair, clung to the fabric of his suit and glinted in the seams of his armor. He sparkled like some kind of tragic disco ball

Oh. Blood from his wounds dripped crimson onto the checkered floor. He stared down at it, half-dazed.

He should…he should probably clean that up. Yeah.

He stood, head bowed, swaying slightly. The adrenaline crash left him feeling hollow and empty. That, or it could be the fact that he’d forgotten to eat before patrol (again).

He carefully peeled off his gloves; a few shards had cut through the thick material, blood streaking across his hands.

The smell of blood made him gag.

Blood—more than before. It was still pouring, slick between his fingers, coating the sink, spattering the floor. The smell of iron coated his tongue and filled his lungs—

Dick wrenched the faucet on. His hands shook as he scrubbed, the water running pink, then red.

Dick’s breathing picked up. His ribs twinged where he had collided with the glass (and the floor, and the wall). The cuts on his hands stung, but that pain was distant.

A caged bird stands on the grave of dreams.

No penance could ever resurrect a child. 

Dick Grayson, the pawn of self-sacrifice.

That blood was never beautiful. It was always just red.

His vision tunneled. Copper hung in the air. The world was his hands and the sink and the blood and the guilt.

Itwon’tcomeoffitwon’tcomeoffitwon’tcomeoff—

“Now this,” came a voice from behind, “is the kind of disco I can get behind.”

Dick’s eyes snapped up to the mirror—

Nothing—no ruined face, no—

He whirled around—

Jason, unbloody and unmarred, leaned up against the bathroom wall. His arms folded across his chest, grinning.

Dick returned to the sink, hands burning. The cuts, thin and shallow, no longer bled. His hands were raw and pink, but the water ran clear. Dick let out a ragged breath. He looked up in the mirror again. Just him. He waved a wet hand; the mirror waved one too.

Carefully, Dick dried his stinging hands and turned back around to face Jason.

Jason snorted. “And look at that! You sparkle too. Taking ‘Golden Boy’ very literally now, aren’t we.”

“Hi, Jay,” Dick whispered. He waited. For what, he couldn’t admit to himself.

Jason laughed. Dick reveled in the sound.

“Nightwing versus L&C Tower windows. Showdown of the century.” He pushed up off the wall, walking a large circle around Dick, tsk-tsking. “You should’ve heard the crash. It sounded like a damn car accident.”

“Yeah,” Dick breathed. He worried—if he breathed too loud, moved too much—that he would ruin the moment and Jason would disappear. He missed his baby brother—

Jason tilted his head. “Aren’t you supposed to be a Flying Grayson?” He pointed at the floor. “Also, you’re bleeding. Everywhere.”

Dick’s eyes slid to the floor. Blood coated the ugly black-and-white tile like spilled paint.

“Oops.”

“‘Oops’ is right, Dickwing. If L&C finds out you wrecked their beloved windows, you’ll be doing glass endorsements for the rest of your career.”

Jason laughed again. And despite everything—despite the blood and the pain and the absurdity of it all—Dick smiled.

He dampened some paper towels and got to work scrubbing away at the floor. His raw, shredded hands stung with every movement.

Jason silently plopped down beside him, legs crossed. “Y’know, those cuts are gonna suck to clean out.”

“I know.”

“And for the record,” Jason continued, waving a green-gloved hand lazily, “your sleep schedule sucks. You look like you got steamrolled.”

Dick snorted weakly. “Don’t start.”

“Too late, Big Bird.”

Dick stood too quickly. The world tilted, vision pulsing.

He gritted his teeth, bracing one hand against the wall. He’s fine. He can make it back.

Bloody paper towels hit the bottom of the trashcan with a wet thunk. A particularly nasty gash on his abdomen flared with sharp, white-hot pain.

“You sure about making it home?” Jason asked from behind him. “Because honestly, you look ready to keel over.”

“I’m fine, Little Wing,”

Jason heaved a sigh like he’d heard that a thousand times too many.

“Whatever you say, you self-sacrificing freak.”

---

He’d limped home from patrol, body aching, cuts stinging, head spinning. The Nightwing suit was shredded to ribbons; he’d peeled it off in the bathtub to avoid sprinkling glass shards everywhere.

He stared down at the tub, water pink, the shower feeling like acid on his sliced flesh. He felt floaty—twice reaching his hand out to the tiled wall to keep from toppling over. If he concussed himself in the shower, he’d never live it down.

He’d seen Jason. All of Jason. While awake.

And he’d teased Dick and he laughed and despite the madness Dick had smiled. The surreality sucker punched him in the gut. That was his baby brother. He was right there. 

Guilt had made a home in Dick long, long ago. Not as a cloud drifts over the sun, but as a permanent fortress, chiseled into the marrow of his bones, carved into the hollow chambers of his heart, strung like barbed wire through the tendons of his hands. Sorrow settled in the mortar, a harrowing, heavy rot. Never did one find him without the other. Sorrow wounded and guilt ensured it festered.

Was Dick not his brother’s keeper?

(“You cannot be serious.”

Jason had an evil little grin on his freckled face, one that Dick did not like one bit. In his green gloved hands he held two pieces of black fabric—blindfolds.

“Jase. You. Cannot be. Serious.”

Jason handed one of the blindfolds to Dick and turned to face the rest of the yard. They were perched on top of a train, the night air smelling of coal and metal. 

“Come on, Dickwing, don’t tell me you’re scared. Of all people, you should be the most excited. This is right up your alley.”

Of course Dick wasn’t scared (he was NOT!!). But if he put on the blindfold, he would lose sight of Jason. What if he slipped, or fell between the trains, or—

Jason walked to the end of the train car and secured the blindfold around his face. Then, for just a moment, hesitated. A single pause. A flicker of…apprehension? Fear?

He pulled the blindfold up so that one whited-out domino lens peaked through. “You go first,” he said.

Dick shot Jason a Look. Jason glanced away immediately, mumbling, “I can’t have you chickening out on me.”

A few drips of guilt dropped into Dick’s gut. Jason was a little scared. He needed his big brother to go first.

Dick sighed and strolled up to the edge of the train car. “Watch and learn, Little Wing.” He eyed the jump, then secured the blindfold around his face. Easy. This was child’s play.

He took a deep breath, got a running start and jumped—

Dick loved the split second feeling of weightlessness. The moment between—where it’s just you and the air and the metaphorical wings granted to you as you leave the ground.

He bent his knees, expecting metal soon and—

Thudded onto the roof of the other train car—a gymnast’s landing. He saluted the metaphorical judges and turned back to Jason. He heard a distant muttered, “Show off.”

Dick tugged his blindfold off. He needed to make sure Jason made it.

“You know the distance,” Dick called over to him. “You know how long you will be in the air. Trust yourself, Little Wing. If you fall, I will catch you.”

Jason nodded. He took two carefully calculated steps back, got a running start, and—

Jumped the space between the two trains. He landed with a slightly-less graceful thud next to Dick, already giggling. Dick shot him a grin, and they were off again, jumping between the train cars, laughing like they’d never have to bear the weight of real life. The night was theirs.

Then, Jason had slipped. This train car in particular had condensation on the roof, unseen by both boys. Dick had made the jump just fine, but Jason—Jason took off and slipped right before he jumped.

He was sent flying through the air, terror on his face, limbs flailing. Instinctively, Dick moved to catch him—

And he did. Right in his chest. Luckily, instead of careening off the backside of the car, Dick fell to the ground immediately, sending him and Jason sprawling across the roof of the train.

Jason was pressed to Dick’s chest, and Dick held on as if Night itself would come alive and steal his baby brother from his arms.

They sat like that, for a heart pounding minute. Adrenaline flowing, breath heavy. The security of knowing you’ll be caught if you fall holding them in place for a precious sliver of time. 

“That was a close one,” Jason breathed into the blue-bird insignia on Dick’s chest.

“No, it wasn’t,” Dick argued, running a gentle hand through his brother’s curls. “I told you I would catch you, remember?”)

To be an older sibling is to carry a quiet vow. A holy vocation so sacred it fundamentally reshapes your very soul. You are handed a life, so soft and small. And somehow, it becomes more important than your own. You are the lighthouse to their ocean, the earth to their sky, the wind beneath their wings. You keep that kid safe. It doesn’t matter what you lose, or how many things you have to tear and rip and rebuild to keep something else together. All that matters is that you do your job.

You are on their team, always and without question. You are a eager and able soldier in every battle they face. Their wounds become your wounds, their fears and enemies and desires your own. Their life is worth indefinitely more than yours. It is not a cross to bear, it is both fate and choice, braided together with love; like Christ, you shoulder their every burden—not because they can’t or shouldn’t have to, but because you can. This is the Law.

But what do you guard when the very thing you were meant to protect is gone? You still wake like you did before. You still stand in the lighthouse, listening to footsteps that no longer come. You still look up from the earth, though the sky feels so empty. And you still make the breeze, though there is no bird to soar upon it. Even love turns cruel in the hands of a ghost—it can’t touch, only haunt.

Dick had let his brother fall—

He twisted to shut off the water, gasping as pain lanced through his side. Purple bruises bloomed across his torso, interrupted only by a deep slice across his ribs; a lovely gift from his date with the window.

He gingerly dried himself off, mindful of his heavily bruised shoulder, stealing a quick glance in the mirror.

A knot of tension loosened in his stomach when the mirror perfectly reflected the hand he waved.

He grimaced at the state of his wounds. Thoroughly banged up was the best way he could describe it—there was a nasty gash along his jaw, and his arms and legs looking like he lost a fight with one of Selina’s less friendly cats.

His hands were pink and raw from…yeah. 

He groaned as he lowered himself to the floor, medkit open at his feet.

Forty five minutes later, he stumbled out of the bathroom looking like a mummy. He used an entire tube of Neosporin and nearly all his bandages. Each finger had a series of WonderWoman bandaids. They were Jason’s favorite, when he was ali—

There was no time to rest. Dick’s stomach growled in angry protest.

Rolling his eyes (ugh, feeding himself, am I right?) Dick shuffled to the kitchen, wary of his many cuts and bruises. 

Dick swallowed a yawn, glancing at the clock on on the oven: 7:20 am.

He opened the fridge, only to find it abysmally empty. His dramatic sigh was cut short by a wince when he pulled at the gash across his ribs.

Cereal it is. 

After a lovely bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Dick grabbed his keys and made for his bike. One thing was clear—Dick needed a watch. Looking for mirrors wasn’t always the most…reliable.

He parked his bike outside a department store, startling a flock of pigeons. He nodded an apology.

Vigilantes and pigeons had a special kind of understanding. Their turf was the same: rooftops and city skies. Like Gotham—or any city for that matter—Blüdhaven had an abundance of birds. To occupy the skies, you had to make peace with those who already called it home.

He winced as he shook out the drizzle form his jacket. Dick made his way to the sliding doors of the department store, catching his reflection in a glass window. He reached up a hand to wave, and then paused—I’m in public. He rerouted said hand to run through his hair. The reflection in the window copied perfectly. Dick released a minute sigh and walked inside.

An hour later, he returned to his bike, prize in hand: a watch.

It was a light blue, with a black stripe cutting across the band (was it a little on the nose? Never). The digital interface displayed the time in bold block letters. It was waterproof, durable, and exactly what Dick needed. The bandaid to his bullet wound, if you will.

The portly man who’d rung him up sported an egregious blue bowtie. He caught a glimpse of his raw, tattered hands when Dick handed him the cash.

“What happened there, son?” he’d asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow up at Dick.

“Hiking,” Dick had said, a hair too quickly.

The man pitied him a disbelieving chuckle. “Alright then, sir. Be safe.”

Back in his apartment, Dick synched his watch with every clock he owned. Microwave, oven, analog, nightstand. Now he could always know. Always tell. He didn’t even need a mirror. He didn’t even have to risk seeing—

---

Timothy Jackson Drake is a very smart kid.

He’d been able to take care of himself (alone!) since he was seven.

By eight, he had been sneaking out of the house and into Gotham during prime crime time, armed with a two thousand dollar camera and a dream.

At nine, he had cracked the biggest secret in the city: Batman’s identity.

Yes, Timothy Jackson Drake is a very smart kid.

So when the second Robin (his favorite!) had disappeared, and news of Jason Todd’s death surfaced, he was able to put two and two together almost immediately. 

He never, however, could’ve predicted what had come after. 

Batman couldn’t face his grief, so he didn’t. He sharpened it—honed it into a deadly point and turned that blade on Gotham. 

More times than he could ever care to count, Tim had to turn away. Put his camera down, close his eyes. Cower in the small shadow he’d tucked himself into. Because he could not watch the Batman pummel some mugger into a bloody smear on the pavement. Could not stomach seeing him beat some low-level dealer within an inch of his life.

Three times, Tim had to call an ambulance for some unlucky soul who’d crossed paths with the Bat in the aftermath of Jason Todd.

Bruce was killing himself and taking the city with him.

Batman needed a Robin. But his was dead.

One bird, two birds, three birds, four.

Five birds, six times, life is war.

Timothy Jackson Drake is a very smart kid.

So he caught a bus to Blüdhaven—to find the first Robin and bring him home before the dark swallowed the Knight.

He planned to stalk Nightwing during his patrol and wait for the perfect moment make contact.

Instead, Tim watched him grapple around a building of windows, pause to look at his reflection, and then crash straight through it. 

Timothy Jackson Drake is a very smart kid.

And he knows something is very wrong with Dick Grayson.

Notes:

what's this? *gasp* plot????

TIMMY TIME YAY!!!! i LOVE writing lil tim tam. he's so smart, but he's also. like 11. so.

catch the Arkham Knight dialogue? ;)

also i ADORE I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou, so expect more!

Zhang Yi Sao (1775–1844): she was one of the most successful pirates in history! she dominated the South China Sea, leading hundreds of ships under the Red Flag Fleet. after her badass pirate life, she negotiated peace with the Chinese government in 1810 and recieved complete amnesty, as well as keeping her immense wealth! isn't that just so cool!!!

also also, there is a kung fu panda reference in here too!!!

dick has the haunted aura only an eldest sibling can carry. as an eldest sibling myself, i am basically projecting. this is me coming clean: i'm projecting, everyone *waves*

i hope you enjoyed (and maybe...got a little emotional? bc i certainly did. had to reach real deep to pull some of this out lemme tell ya)

bye bye for now :)))))

Chapter 4: Dream is Collapsing

Summary:

“Between the idea

And the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the Shadow.”

- The Hollow Men, T.S. Elliot

Notes:

hello little readers! i hope you all are well.

fun little fact, inception is my favorite movie of all time! there are 7 inception easter eggs in this chapter (not including the title).

happy sleuthing!

A yawn escaped Dick as he rolled over on his sore shoulder. His whole body still felt like—well, still felt like he’d tried to Olympic dive through a window. 

The whole room was buttered in sunlight. In a flash of panic, Dick made for the clock on the nightstand, but then remembered his watch. 

He brought it to his face—morning. It was morning.

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. He had coffee with Barbara today—and come hell or high water, he was making it to that damn coffee shop.

After parking his bike and stowing his helmet, he wove through the Gotham streets toward he and Barbara’s favorite espresso bar.

The Kick Espresso Bar sat tucked between two grand skyscrapers, stubbornly out of place: it’s warm brick façade, teal-and-white striped awning, and red tiled roof contrasted sharply with the gray concrete of the neighboring towers. Gotham legend has it that the owner of the W&G Truth Tower offered the owner two million dollars to buy it out. The owner had refused, and the shop has stuck out like a cozy, colorful little eyesore ever since.

Dick passed a window. He should look—

No. It would ruin the whole day if he looked and saw Jason. He’d checked his watch. He was awake. He’d promised Barbara he would make it this time. He was done being a shitty friend.

“The Kick? That place is still here?”

Dick froze mid-step in the middle of the sidewalk, eliciting several annoyed curses from the pedestrians behind him. He heard a flock of pigeons startle into a fluttered frenzy. His mind begged him to look in the window to his left. Dick told his mind to shut the fuck up. 

Instead, Dick swallowed down his mounting panic and checked his watch. Damn it. He was going to be late. He resumed walking towards the coffee shop.

“I thought it’d be gone by now. Y’know ‘corporate greed’ and all that.”

If Dick closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was him and Jason going to meet Babs for coffee, just as they had done a hundred times before.

He turned to the direction of the voice. Beside him, in a red hoodie, jeans, and worn sneakers, walked Jason. He looked like—

He looked like a twelve-year-old kid.

Dick blinked hard, tears welling up in his eyes. He swiped them away quickly, taking a deep breath before he opening his mouth.

“Do you remember when I got you to try the Mombasa?” Jason asked before Dick could speak. “The one with the cayenne? Knocked you right outta your damn chair.”

“Jay,“ Dick began, throat tight. Questions rattled around his head like marbles. What are you doing here? Am I awake? Why do you look so…normal?

He checked his watch again, just to be sure. Still morning, still awake, and still late. He picked up his pace. 

“Little Wing,” Dick’s throat loosened enough for him to speak. “What are you doing here?” he croaked.

“What? Dude, we’re going to get coffee with Barbara,” Jason said, as if it was the most regular thing in the world. As if that’s what they were doing and he wasn’t—

Okay. Maybe…okay. Dick rubbed his eyes and glanced down—Jason was still there, walking alongside him. Even in death Dick didn’t have the heart to tell him to go away.

Grief knocked on that glass jar, a quiet plink plink plink, like rain falling on metal. Dick pushed it farther back on the shelf. Not now. Not now not now not now.

Dick swallowed back the painful lump in his throat and took a breath, grimacing as the inhale twinged his ribs.

He could do this. They could walk together. It was okay.

“Okay,” Dick conceded. His voice was barely a whisper. He didn’t want to ruin this. He wanted to see Jason. 

Barbara was sitting near a window, sunlight casting her signature red hair in a fiery glow. Whisps of steam curled form the two coffee cups on the table, weaving lazily through the warm air. Dick steeled himself as he approached, a thousand excuses on his lips. Late again. Busy again. Sorry again.

“Save it, bird boy,” she said, gesturing to the coffee cups. “Already ordered yours. Architect blend, four pumps of cinnamon dolce syrup and two extra shots of espresso. You’re welcome.”

Dick let out a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as dropped into the seat across from her. The cafe was cozy—people lounging in squashy chairs and soft jazz murmuring from a record player near the front. It was…normal.

Jason took the seat to his left. Dick’s breath momentarily froze in his lungs—eyes darting from Barbara, to Jason, and back again. If Babs noticed his flash of internal panic, she didn’t say.

She took a sip of her usual—The Old Soul, a hot Americano with a splash of oat milk—and eyed Dick up. “Alright. Spill. What’s going on?”

To his left, Jason snickered. Dick took a sip of his coffee, all but hiding behind the cup. It tasted bland and flavorless on his tongue.

“I know, I know Babs. I’m sorry,” he said, giving her his best you-got-me-there grin. “I’ve just been…busy—"

“That’s one way to put it,” Jason snorted. Dick ignored him.

"—but never too busy for you!”

Babs raised a brow shot him a Look—one that basically boiled down to yeah, right. Sure.

Dick sighed, setting his cup down and running a hand through his hair. “Listen, Barbara, I— I just—" He gestured vaguely, as if he could pull the words he so desperately wished to say out of the air.

I barely eat, I barely sleep, and I hallucinate Jason so vividly I crashed through a window two nights ago—a whole ass window, Babs, like I don’t even know how to explain that to you without it sounding fucking crazy—because I thought I saw him. When I do sleep, I throw up blood in my dreams. But it’s okay! Bruce’s war of attrition against crime itself is going great and if he’s not careful he’ll kill himself and honestly probably me too—

Dick’s elbow bumped into his coffee, spilling a streak of liquid across the table.

“Ah—damn it.”

Barbara chuckled as Jason handed him a napkin to blot up the mess. Dick hoped he could salvage at least some of his beloved Architect blend. Barbara had got it for him.

She cast him a long, sympathetic look. “Dick,” she sighed. “What is up with you?”

Dick laughed, empty. He loved Barbara, he really did. She cared unlike anyone else he’d ever met. He saw how it cost her; all those nights perched in the Watchtower, voice steady in her beloved birds’ ears as she sent them straight into danger. Every call she made carried the chance that one of them might never come back.

It wore on her, he knew. Eroded away at the quiet corners of her finite, human strength.

Dick would never dare be the one who made it too much.

“Babs, I’m fine.” Even to his own ears, he sounded definetly not-fine, but he held on to the foolish, desperate hope that she hadn’t hear it.

Barbara stared back at him like he’d grown a second head.“You keep blowing me off,” she said, ticking off the list on her fingers, “canceling our plans, sometimes after I’ve already shown up. And you never respond to my texts on time.”

Dick’s blood ran cold—he focused on the spilt coffee to hide the shake in his hands. She stared him down, flaming red hair and icy blue eyes boring into his soul. Dick wracked his brain for an excuse that didn’t sound like utter bullshit.

Babs was really good at sniffing out utter bullshit.

“I’m—okay, Babs, I swear, I’m fine. Really—"

She laughed, brittle at the edges. “I mean, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you hated me.”

What.

Dick’s mouth hung open, feeling as if his chest was caving in. He tried to swallow the guilt clawing its way up his throat.

“Barbara,” he whispered, almost a plea. “I don’t—"

Wait.

Wait wait wait.

He looked down. The once white, now brown napkin in his hand was soggy and dripping with coffee. His fingers were soaked. 

Jason handed me this.

And I’m holding it.

Dick’s heartbeat pounded against his ribs. His breathing felt wrong, as if he was taking in thin air.

Jason can’t hand me anything. He’s—

Dick stood so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor, slicing through the cafe’s cozy ambiance. Everything was choked into silence. 

Barbara sighed again, shaking her head. “Look, Dick—"

Dick didn’t hear her. His heartbeat sounded like an oncoming train in his ears. Instead, his eyes darted to the window behind her—searching, desperately searching for—

Nothing. No reflections nor glares—not even Barbara or the dim lights inside the cafe.

His hands were sticky. He looked back down.

Blood. Thick, wet, and spattering crimson onto the tile.

Dick forced down a gag. His chest heaved.

“Come on, Dick,” Jason tutted. “All you do is make a mess of things.”

Dick’s head snapped up to meet his brother’s blazing teal eyes. He felt as though he’d been kicked in the gut. What—what is happening? 

Once more, Dick frantically checked the glass. Am I dreaming? But I—I checked my—

The window was no longer barren. There reflected in the glass was—

Jason. Robin Jason.

Another gag forced its way up his throat.

From the side, Dick could see where pieces of the suit had burned away, blackened and stained. Deep crimson—almost black—burnt skin peaked through the charred red fabric. Blisters, ruptured and leaking fluid, dotted the gaping chasms of burns that cut across his arms and torso.

Robin—the blood soaked legacy of a childhood nickname.

Dick’s blood soaked fingers twitched. He needed to check his watch—

Jason heaved a disappointed sigh. “Y’know, Dickie, you’re a much better brother now that I’m—”

Dick tore his eyes away from the terrible burning visage in the window. The Jason standing before him was still a kid wearing a red hoodie and jeans. Still his little brother.

“No—Jason, please—"

But Jason just shook his head. “I’m sorry Dick, but that’s the truth. You trained me just well enough to die.”

“What? Jason, no—"

“Oh wait! You didn’t train me at all!” 

Dick’s wet hands gripped his hair. He tugged, hard. “Jason,” he begged, tears wetting his cheeks and salting his lips. Iron filled his nose and mouth. “Little Wing, I— I would’ve taken your place. I swear, a thousand times over I would have taken your place. I still would.”

Every ideal he bled for—every bright, shining tenet woven in the blue bird across his chest—had shattered and broken and burned. They’d worn red and yellow and green. They’d died screaming.

“But that’s the tragedy, isn't it?” Jason snapped, mock laughter in his acidic voice, burning right through muscle and bone and eating away at Dick’s heart. “You can say that all you want. ‘I would take your place. It should have been me.’” 

Jason stepped toward Dick and the world tilted violently beneath him. 

“But that doesn’t change a damn thing, Dickie! I’m still d—"

Dick shot upright with a gasp, chest seizing mid-breath. Sweat clung to him in sticky splotches. Damp sheets wrapped tightly around his legs. His heartbeat pounded behind his eyes, in his teeth.

His stomach flipped. The iron tang in his mouth made his eyes water. He raised his wrist watch to check—

Gone.

His watch was gone.

His breath caught. Terror spurred his frantic limbs into jerky and disjointed action. He tore through the bed, pillows and blankets flying across the dark room. He ripped through them with shaking hands, smacking his head against the headboard in his panicked scramble.

Where where where—

He dove for the drawers. Clothes spilled everywhere. He tore the sheets from his bed, ripping one corner. He stormed his closet, tearing through jackets and pants like a madman. The rattling hangers clanged, sharply echoing in the dark silence.

Jason walked through the doorway, narrowly dodging said hangers as Dick threw them from the closet.

“Woah there, Big Bird,” he said, leaning up against the doorframe. His hands were tucked into the oversized red hoodie, ratty sneakers from the dream still on his feet. “It died, remember? You had to change the batteries because of the rain.” Light from the hallway spilled into the room, casting Jason’s shadow across the carpet.

Dick’s heart rabbited in his chest. His lungs burned—he hadn’t taken a full breath in what felt like hours. His ribs ached. Dick scrambled to the kitchen, limbs numb and heavy, bones of lead.

Nothing. His countertops were messy, but no watch.

His sore fingers scrabbled at drawers, rifling mercilessly through their contents at lightning speed. He felt himself slice his palm on something sharp; he distantly noticed it stung more than it probably should have. Silverware clattered to the ground like gunfire. Papers flew across the counter.

The cacophony of chaos grated on his ears: cabinet doors slammed open, plates shattered, a glass all but exploded in the sink.

He grasped the counter, shoulder throbbing in time with his pounding heart. Sharp pain licked at his side as he gasped for breath. He dug his trembling hands into his scalp and pulled. His temples throbbed.

Still no watch. 

Jason’s voice came again.“Maybe the couch?”

Dick lunged.

Where is it? WHERE IS IT??

Jason let out a long suffering sigh, contrasting sharply with Dick’s wild-eyed panic. 

“Here”—Jason offered lightly, like Dick wasn’t drowning in the rising tide of his mind—“I’ll help you look.”

Together, they attacked the living room. Dick moved like an injured, rabid animal—painful breaths hitching, frantic limbs twitching. He ripped cushions off the couch, hands trembling so badly he could hardly grip the blue fabric. He shoved the coffee table to flip back the rug. 

He barely registered Jason beside him, world narrowing into tunnel vision: find it find it find it.

When his search came up empty, he crossed back over to the kitchen. 

His chest heaved, ribs screaming with every breath, wounds from his dive into the window flaring. Intense pain ignited every time he raised his arm. Far away, he could feel bandages pulling at his skin. They were damp now. Maybe that was bad.

But none of that mattered. He needed to find the watch. He needed to know if he was—

Dick froze.

Jason turned from where he’d been rifling through the cabinets on the TV stand. “You find it?”

Dick didn’t respond. His whole body buzzed like his blood was carbonated. He tasted more iron. The kitchen blurred around him, nausea swelling up inside him.

Something was wrong. 

Dick tried to push through the panic, desperately grasping at some kind of logic. 

Something was wrong. Why was something wrong?

Jason carefully picked through the trashed living room over to where Dick was rooted in place.

“How are you doing that, Jay?” Dick croaked. He felt hollowed out. Gutted like a pumpkin—seeds and stringy orange innards ripped out, a sickening face carved into its ribbed surface.

Jason tilted his head, birdlike. “Doing what, Dickie?” He turned to dig through the discarded mess strewn haphazardly about the kitchen counter.

Dick stared, wide eyed, as Jason moved the papers about the table, picking up hand towels, filtering through the miscellaneous objects Dick had thrown from the drawers in his frantic search.

“That.”

Jason paused, hand hovering over a broken glass.

“I—I’m dreaming,” he rasped. His skin was clammy, and cold sweat dripped down his spine. The room tilted again, nauseating and surreal. 

No. No—NO. Why. WHY. Why can’t I ever tell—

Dick backed away, curling inwards. “This isn’t real.”

Tears blurred his vision. Hysteria bubbled up inside him in a rolling boil. A dry sob tore from his throat, lungs refusing to cooperate.

His hands gripped his hair, fingernails digging into his scalp, begging, pleading with himself to just wake up.

Wake up. Please wake up. This isn’t real. Wake up wake up WAKE UP—

Jason let out an exasperated sigh. “You keep telling yourself what you know.” He turned his icy teal gaze on Dick. “But what do you believe? What do you feel?”

What Dick did not say, he wept.

He felt that glass jar he so nicely tucked away in his head crack like fragile ice. There was no more slow drowning; he was flailing, suffocating, sinking in the salty water, so devoted to his own pain he might cry himself to death. The mark Jason left on his heart will define Dick for the rest of his life—equally so, will the grief. You cannot have one without the other. Never sorrow without guilt. Never love without grief.

He sobbed, something breaking loose inside him. His ribs shook with it. He could feel the crack— the plink plink plink of raindrops on metal was becoming a raging hammering. He patched the glass, over and over and over and now—

Dick had broken his vow. Turned his light away from the darkness of the sea. Focused so much on the earth beneath his feet he forgot to look up at the sky. Let his little bird fall out of his winds.

A caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

His wings are clipped and his feet are tied

So he opens his throat to sing

Dick was very good at running. But he didn’t know how much longer he could outrun this.

What did he feel?

When Dick spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “Guilt.”

Jason walked toward him. Dick could barely keep upright, leaning heavily against one of the barstools. Every joint trembled. 

Jason looked up at Dick through his curls.

God he—he looks so small.

“Why do you remember me this way?” he asked softly. He sat in the stool adjacent to Dick, seemingly unaware of Dick’s unsteadiness.

Dick gaped at Jason. What—

“I was older than this. Why do you remember me so young?”

Dick tentatively sat on the edge of the stool, worried he might tip straight over if he stood any longer. He reached out to Jason—slow, careful, terrified he’d break him again. His fingers ghosted Jason’s cheek.

You are handed a life, so soft and small. And somehow, it becomes more important than your own. 

There has to be some law in the universe that kept little brothers small, so they don’t grow too big or fly too far away from their older brothers. A fundamental truth, an inarguable fact, a brick in the foundation of all creation. Newton, or Einstein, or Hawking—one of them must know. How, in the eyes of an older brother, their charge never ages, never grows. Stays small and vulnerable and soft until the end of time.

You will always be mine. My Little Wing, my little bird, cradled in my hands. They cannot get you here, in my embrace. I will bear the shadow to protect the light in your chest. The world is evil and I know firsthand. I will not let it touch you. You will see the sun, even if you must stand on my shoulders to break through the clouds. Gladly, I will offer them to you—bow and bend and break so that the rays might warm your face.

Gently, as if Jason might crumble to ash in his touch, Dick leaned forward and cupped his baby brother’s face. Still so round, still so young. “I will always remember you this way,” he whispered. His voice cracked. “You’re my Little Wing.”

Jason pulled out of Dick’s touch. 

The room was doused in freezing cold. Dick shivered violently, jaw locking.

Jason’s eyes were hard. “Your loyalty to the past is your most dangerous trait, Dick. It’s the one that’s cost you most. Stop living in the past.”

There was a beat of silence—the quietest silence Dick had heard all day. Dick looked away. When he spoke, his voice was scratchy and thick.

“The people I love are there.”

Jason kicked the leg out from underneath Dick’s stool.

A violent swooping sensation caught Dick in the gut and his gritty eyes flew open. He was looking at his kitchen. Clouded light filtered in through the windows.

Immediately, Dick pulled his wrist up to his face. There, nestled comfortably on his arm, was his little blue watch. It read 2:10 pm. 

He rubbed his finger across its little rubber buttons, looking away, hoping, praying that this was real and he was awake. He couldn’t do anymore—

Wow. His apartment was…a fucking mess.

The coffee table was pushed aside, the rug underneath flipped up. Papers littered the floor like snow. Cabinets and drawers hung open, contents spilled across the countertops and floors. Silverware, cast out upon the tile, glinted in the dim light. One of the barstools was tipped over. Dick could see glass shards scattered across the floor.

Blue couch cushions strewn across the ground caught his eye. More than one had white stuffing leaking out of a rip in the seams. He craned his neck down the hall. Clothes and hangers spilled out into the hallway. He didn’t even want to know what kind shitstorm his room resembled.

Lucky for him, his wall of red thread and pinned notes on Madam Zhang and her Red Flag Fleet had remained miraculously untouched. It still hung, unsolved, looming like a silent accusation.

The photos, the scribbled timelines, the grainy surveillance shots were all reminders. Every overdose, every body, all whispering the same thing: you should have stopped this—when are you going to stop this? He clenched his jaw. He had to stop them. He had to—

Right. Watch. 

He glanced back down. 2:13 pm.

Awake. He was awake.

Relief filtered through his lead bones, but it was short lived. Dread crept across his skin like a spider, spindly little needle legs jumping across his spine.

He had done this—in his sleep. 

It wasn’t so much the destroyed apartment that he was mad about (oh he was pissed about it, but right now that was a minnow in comparison to the other fish he had to fry), but more so the fact that he’d done it completely unconscious.

What else—what else could he do? Would he wake up on the roof? If he was toeing the ledge, could he step right off?

The utter helplessness that came with the notion of him being completely out of control of his own body made Dick shudder. He felt like a marionette—untethered to reality, to his own limbs. When the strings were pulled, he’d dance, whether he wanted to or not. Whether it’d kill him or not. It felt violating—wrong. 

He made to take a deep breath, but stopped short when pain seared through his abdomen. He looked down and—

Oh. 

He was on the floor, shirtless, tattered mummy-like bandages in full view. Almost all of them had red splotches decorating the white wrappings. The biggest one—the one across his ribs—was completely soaked. 

The ache in his back and shoulder were no doubt exacerbated by his little rest on the floor. His hands—still raw and healing from when he’d had his little episode in the bathroom—were tore up: all his WonderWoman bandaids stained a dark crimson, nails cracked and brown with dried blood. His fingers were stiff and sore, a particularly nasty gash across his palm.

He licked his dry lips, tasting salt, and rubbed his gritty, swollen eyes. He felt bone-deep exhausted—like he’d never even fallen asleep at all. Everything hurt, his heart most of all.

His mind was an echo chamber of questions he couldn’t answer. They bounced relentlessly back at him, inescapable now that they’ve been spoken aloud.

Why do you always make a mess of things?

Regret tainted every memory of his little Jaybird like faded nitrate film—warped by time, images bleeding away, leaving only distorted recollections and half-truths. A thousand moments Dick took for granted, mostly because he believed there would be a thousand more. A second chance. A third.

His heart had believed so fully no one would fall again—because he would be there to catch them. His parents had fell, and Dick spent the rest of his life catching everyone else. He refused to believe that Death could ever touch him again—and he’d fight the bastard tooth and nail if it ever swept its black cloak along the hearths of those he loved. He’d got bigger, stronger, faster. He laughed as he jumped and quipped as he fought, odds be damned. He spent so much of his life flying, he forgot others could fall.

Until they did.

Why do you remember me this way?

The thing is, Dick will always remember Jason that way—little. Because that’s when Jason’s life—so soft and small—was handed to him. There, on that rooftop, beneath that violet sky so many moons ago. He’d made his holy vow when he gave Jason his old Robin costume. From that moment on Dick was a big brother, and his soul was changed irrevocably so—scorched upon his heart, the kind of love that would define him for the rest of his life.

So yes, Dick would always remember Jason that way.

(They’d been sitting on a rooftop, quietly observing the glittering Gotham skyline. In a rare occurance, the thick clouds that normally blanketed the city had parted, revealing a beautiful full moon.

It was just the two of them. Bruce was off somewhere else in the city playing a flirtatious game of cat-and-bat with Selina, giving Dick the perfect opportunity to spirit Jason away to his favorite ice cream stand.

Dick had got Superman, Jason rocky road. (In hindsight, it seems fitting).

They had talked about everything and nothing, there on that rooftop beneath the rarity of a clear night sky. Jason was doing well in school. He loved it. They were reading Macbeth in his English class. He was thinking about asking Bruce if he could sign up for baseball this summer.

Dick was paying attention to what Jason was saying—but more so, he was looking at his little brother’s face. He had chocolate on his chin. His curls were a little fuzzy from being windblown when they grappled. He talked with his hands when he was excited—they darted about the air like little green birds.

Something swelled up inside Dick’s chest, spreading to his throat, out to his fingers and down to the tips of his toes. Pride wasn’t a strong enough word, and love didn’t seem to encompass it all. It was…it was, well, some glorious, illustrious, all-encompassing combination of the two. Add a dash of admiration, a sprinkling of devotion, bake at 350 Fahrenheit and serve while hot, and bam—you’ve got something close to the pure emotion that has overtook Dick.

This kid, this little life, holding chocolate ice cream that was dripping onto his glove and talking animatedly about something he loved—God, the things Dick would do for this kid.

Dick will leave room in his coffin just in case his younger brother is scared of the dark.

They fell into a comfortable silence, there on that rooftop. Dick felt a warmth at his side—Jason had scooted closer. And then—

A tiny little soft curled head rested against his shoulder. It could’ve weighed a thousand pounds or none at all. 

Slowly, as to not spook his little bird, Dick wrapped his arm around Jason and pulled him closer. It was warm, the night was chilly.

How does that song go? ‘If I could save time in a bottle…’)

He stared up at his popcorn ceiling. He could stay here. He could lay here all day and then get up for patrol.

The thought of post-patrol Dick coming home to his tornado playground of an apartment spurred him into (reluctant) action. 

He rationalized with himself: I’ll change my bandages, and then I’ll clean up. One room at a time. Easy. Simple. Then I’ll head out for patrol and Future Me will be so happy that Past Me sucked it up.

Wary of his wounds, he eased himself up off the floor and hobbled towards the bathroom, expertly dodging objects like they were landmines.

He gingerly stripped off his bandages, wincing as they stung and pulled at his irritated skin. The bruising across his arms, torso, and shoulder looked slightly better, but almost all of the cuts themselves had reopened. He’d torn his stitching and the gash across his ribs looked angry. He let out a mini sigh—y’know, ribs—and got to work.

A horridly stinging shower, the entire tube of his backup Neosporin, and another mummy wrapping later (he didn’t have any more WonderWoman bandaids for his fingers. He had to use normal ones. This hurt for some reason), Dick emerged from the bathroom (slightly) victorious. Now came the actual sucky part: cleaning.

His stomach growled. Right. He didn’t eat when he got back from patrol. He had been too tired, forgoing a snack for his bed—which, in hindsight, was probably not the greatest idea. Current Dick cursed Past Dick for giving in to his weakness and having sleep for dinner, because Current Dick couldn’t make diddly squat with the state of his kitchen right now. Yes, that was Unconscious Dick’s fault, but who could blame him? He didn’t know any better (Current Dick. Current Dick could blame him. In fact, Current Dick was pissed at Unconscious Dick).

He gently told his stomach to hush up, I’ll feed you eventually and got to work. 

Not wanting to work in the horrid, unbearable silence of his own thoughts, Dick flipped on the TV—it was still on the news channel from when he’d watched it last.

He turned to get started, but BATMAN flashing across the screen in huge red letters caught his attention. He stood, frozen in front of the screen, horror blooming in his chest and dripping acid into his gut.

“—a night of brutal violence in Gotham City has once again raised troubling questions about the Dark Knight’s state of mind—and the line between justice and vengeance.”

“Multiple suspects were hospitalized overnight following what appears to be a string of assaults carried out by Batman. According to GCPD sources, at least five individuals were admitted to Gotham General between midnight and 3 a.m.—each bearing severe injuries consistent with blunt force trauma. Three are in critical condition in the ICU. All are alleged low-level criminals: muggers, car thieves… some armed, others not.”

“This follows a growing pattern of increased aggression from Batman over the past several weeks. The vigilante, once known for calculated restraint, has become increasingly violent—some say unhinged—since the disappearance of Robin. The young sidekick has yet to return to the streets of Gotham, and many speculate he has been abducted or even killed.”

“Residents and city officials alike are beginning to voice concerns. While some say Gotham needs Batman more than ever, others are asking: who is holding the Dark Knight accountable?”

“Commissioner Gordon has yet to issue a formal statement, but internal sources suggest there is growing unease within the GCPD about Batman’s recent conduct.”

“As the city watches and waits, one thing is clear: Gotham’s protector is in pain. But the question remains…who will protect Gotham from the Batman?”

“We’ll have more on this story as it develops. Up next, the opium crisis continues as overdoses skyrocket. Stay with us.”

The gutted-pumpkin feeling hit him at full force. The broadcast changed to weather, talking about the rain and the opium crisis, but Dick still stood, open mouthed, gaping. 

He didn’t—he knew it was bad, but he never thought—

Dick had always imagined Gotham as balanced on a knife’s edge. It would dip and shake and tip towards total anarchy, but it would never fall off the point because Batman (and by extension, Robin) held the knife in his hand. Even when all hope was lost it truly never was because Batman owned the playing field. He always had the tricks up his sleeve. Always had the magic solution.

(Until he didn’t.)

But right now, Bruce was using that knife to put petty car thieves in the ICU, with the possibility that they might never walk again weighing heavy over their heads.

This was not what they stood for. This is not was Dick stood for. And this sure as hell is never what Jason stood for.

Fresh anger burning in his blood, Dick got to work cleaning his chaotic apartment. It was tedious and slow, as Dick really did a number on…well—everything. He had pulled down every article of clothing from his closet; every hanger lay barren, if there was even a hanger at all—most were in strewn about the hallway. He had to rewash all his silverware (checking his watch each time he caught his reflection in the metal) and carefully salvage any plates and glasses that didn’t end up in his great smashing.

He had to sew the holes couch cushions and reorganize what felt like every damn paper in his apartment. His had to put all new sheets and pillowcases on his bed. Everything else had to be washed. 

As he swept and scrubbed and organized, a plan formed in his head.

He was going to go to Gotham. Bruce needed a firm talking to. Someone to tell him to pull it to-fucking-gether before he kills himself. Or worse, someone else.

Dick just hoped beyond all hope that he could get through to his father.

Notes:

i hope you enjoyed!!! this is so fun for me :)))

*gasp* yes, the chapter count went up again! i had to split a future chapter in half. the story literally evolves as i write it it's so crazy and i just go with it.

if you catch all the inception easter eggs, i'll give ya a gold star 🌟

as an older sibling myself, i think it's a universal experience that we all view our younger siblings as small. my baby sister will be a baby until we're 90. it's just...the way things are. she's my baby, no matter her age.

anyways, tata for now!!!

Chapter 5: Dream Logic

Summary:

“Love isn’t all that it seems I did you wrong

I’ll stay here with you until this dream is gone.

I’ve been sleepwalking

Been wandering all night

Trying to take what’s lost and broken, make it right.

I’ve been sleepwalking too close to the fire,

But it’s the only place that I can hold you tight

In this burning house.”

- Burning House, Cam

Notes:

"Another such victory and I am undone."

- King Pyrrhus of Epiras (279 BC)

Dick sat at the counter, a forgotten bowl of soggy Cap’n Crunch to his left and his trusty legal pad and pen to his right. He was in his Nightwing suit, night dark and rainy, planning to leave for Gotham as soon as he finished his cereal.

He just…needed to do something first.

His fingers wandered over the little rubber buttons of his watch. It was…comforting. He didn’t even know what they all did—but he had his watch and he knew he was awake. That was enough.

Okay, he told himself. This is not crazy. I am not crazy. I am just…methodical. Yes, methodical and prepared. Can’t say Batman never taught me anything. 

Dick took a slow, shallow breath—deep as his sore ribs would allow—then picked up his pen and began to write on the legal pad:

Rules:

1. If my reflection moves when I move, I am awake.
2. If my watch tells time, I am awake.
3. If Jason has no shadow, I am awake.
4. If I can wash the blood off my hands, I am awake.

He put his pen down, rereading the lines over and over, mentally bat-checking the logic the same way he would a mission briefing:

1. Fact: Mirrors don’t work in dreams  
2. Fact: Clocks don’t work in dreams
3. Fact: If Jason has no physical body, he can’t cast a shadow.
4. Fact: Dreams are irrational.

Satisfied—for now, he’d check again later—he rifled through his newly organized junk drawer (courtesy of Unconscious Dick’s nightmare tantrum!) and pulled out a stack of yellow post-its. He copied the Rules four more times in his best shot at neat, practiced script with his bandaged, aching hands

Then he rose from the stool at the kitchen counter and shuffled to the bathroom. He hesitated at the light, fingers hovering over the switch for a beat. Slowly, he brought his watch up to his face and squinted in the dim light spilling into the bathroom from the hallway.

8:25 pm. 

He flipped on the lights, still looking away from the glass. Paused. Checked again.

8:26 pm. 

He let out a short breath and looked up into in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, washed out olive skin, and dark eye bags gazed back. The Dick in the mirror looked dead on his feet—but at least he was on his feet. The Dick in the glass raised a hand when he did. Copied his little wave, mirrored his poke to the cheek. He nodded once, stuck the post-it at eye level on the glass, and turned off the lights.

Next stop: bedroom. Also newly reorganized courtesy of Unconscious Dick’s little episode. He flicked on the light and approached the oval mirror hanging on the back of his closet. He swallowed as he raised his eyes—

A flash of red appeared behind his shoulder—

Dick stomach dropped. He whirled.

A pair of red sweatpants were draped over back of his desk chair.

Dick closed his eyes and breathed once, twice, three times. His spiked heartbeat thrashed against his ribcage.

Slowly, he turned back to the mirror. He reached out a finger. Poked it. It was cold and solid against his fingertip. He ran a hand through his hair. The mirror did the same. He gave it a shaky nod, added the second post-it, and moved on.

In the kitchen, he stuck the second to last post-it on the fridge, saving the final one for the compartment beneath his bike. He stepped back and studied the yellow square.

Okay, he concluded. Okay. That’s good. Now I’ll know.

He didn’t move. Just…stood there. In front of the fridge, rubbing his fingers across the buttons of his watch, the smooth edges of the interface.

He needed to leave for Gotham.

(“Here,” Jason said, holding out a small wrapped box. “Happy birthday, Dickie.”

Dick took the present as if it were made of glass. He gazed at Jason, wide-eyed, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. All words escaped him.

Jason scoffed, flush creeping up his neck. “Just open it.”

Dick tore the neat wrapping—courtesy of help from Alfred no doubt—to reveal a book.

Not just any book—a photo album.

The cover picture was a selfie Jason had snapped of the two of them—faces squished together, half laughing, half smiling, their blue eyes bright under the flash. He opened it and gasped.

Six months ago, he and Jason had been rooting around in the Manor attic. Bruce was off in space for a few days, and Dick knew how dreary and gray the Manor could feel when Bruce didn’t fill it with sheer presence.

They were on…okay terms. Dick was trying—for Jason.

But in that attic, they’d found an ancient Polaroid camera: a Polaroid Impulse 600, to be exact. They weren’t even sure if the dusty thing even worked. But Jason had found some film and spent the next six months carrying it around, snapping pictures of everything.

Dick flipped through the album, lips parted, fingers ghosting over each picture.

The two of them on patrol. Ace napping in the sun. Bruce in a hideous Christmas sweater. Dick and Jason covered in flour, a faintly amused Alfred in the background. Jason in his junior league Gotham Knights uniform, holding his home run ball. Dick smiling behind a (horrendous and hardly edible) dinner he’d cooked for Jason at his Blüdhaven apartment.

A slice of the most precious time, caught and captured for Dick to have. It was selfish, hoarding all of these moments, wanting to hold every one to his chest and not let a single one go. He didn’t care.

“Jay…” he said, his voice barely a whisper. There were tears in his eyes. “I—this—"

“Alright, save it Dickie. You’re gonna give me hives.”

Dick set the album down and pulled Jason into a hug. He let out an indignant squawk, but gave in. 

Dick rested his chin on his baby brother’s head and held him tight. “Thank you.” He said. It wasn’t enough, but it was what he said. He wasn’t quite sure how to articulate the feeling of having love handed to him not in a grand declaration, but a small incandescent truth.

Of being loved in a language older than worlds. One of moments, presence, the quiet miracle of being remembered. 

The world didn’t deserve Jason. They would never deserve his Little Wing.)

He felt empty inside; a kind that howled in its silence. A hollow so vast it echoed horrid things back at him, no matter how much heroism or vigilantism or distractions he so desperately tried to pack it with. A yawning chasm that stained and seeped and bled into every quiet moment he wished would just pass. When absence stopped being invisible and began to claw and rip and tear. When it demanded that he look. That he see. 

Sometimes, Dick feared that the grief nestled in his chest would finally wake in full, stretch its ugly black wings, and consume him from the inside out. That one day he’d open his eyes and there would be nothing left—just the absence. 

And anchored at its center would be the home guilt had constructed, brick by aching brick, mortar made of shame and sorrow. A fortress built from his own bones.

How can emptiness feel so heavy?

They say that grief is just love with no place to go. That it’s all the words you never got to say, all the love you couldn’t give, gathering at the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, the hollow part of your chest. They say it’s what is left when love outlives the body it was meant for.

They say that grief is just love with no place to go.

But what of regret? It doesn’t gather in his eyes and weep softly—it scrapes and claws and bites. It tangles its wretched talons in Dick’s ribcage and tightens every time he dares remember. Every time he longs for another moment, another chance.

Words lodged in the back of his throat like broken glass, every breath a reminder of what he did say and all the things he should’ve said. It strangled him, slicing up his vocal chords—a caged bird unable, unwilling, to open his throat to sing.

And what of the hollow part in Dick’s chest?

No, there was not residual love in the hollow part of Dick’s chest.

But hatred. Rancid, festering hatred rotted away like meat in the hollow part of Dick’s chest. So much so that he shook with it.

Hatred for the Joker. For the graveyards he’s filled, the thousands who have suffered, the friends he’s crippled. For laughing while his baby brother screamed, for the sound of little broken bones beneath a crowbar. For the blood. So much blood, all of it on Dick’s hands— 

Hatred for Bruce and his rigid, suffocating sense of morality. For refusing to kill the evil pile of pathetic, death worshipping garbage who’d killed his son—Dick’s brother—and then turning that same fury onto others as if it made him righteous. For his blind hypocrisy, for the way he clung to his codes like they were more sacred than Jason’s life. 

And finally, hatred for himself. For being too proud. For being too late. Too everything and too not enough. For letting Jason go, alone. For letting his little brother die thinking he’d been abandoned by the only person who was always supposed to be there. For putting his Little Wing in a wooden box six feet beneath the earth when he should be a little Robin soaring on the wind.

Dick swallowed, a sudden horrid tightness in his chest.

He needed to leave for Gotham.

The rain came down in sheets so thick it blurred the outside of Dicks window. For the second time, he banked hard on the fact that goons didn’t like bad weather as much as he did. He also still had a few more days before Madam Zhang’s meeting. He needed to go to Gotham—Bruce needed to be stopped. Or, at the very least, reminded. Of what he stands for. Of what Jason stood for.

Would the first fifteen minutes of his trip suck? Absolutely! But it wasn’t raining in Gotham, so that was a major plus. The only plus, actually. What he was going there for…sucked. Immensely so. 

He gingerly stretched his aching body. The Nightwing suit felt heavier today, as if it too was laden with the responsibility of not just one city, but two, and the man charged with its protection. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, and Dick could feel an oncoming headache.

Just as he’d expected, the ride from Blüdhaven to Gotham fucking sucked. 

He was soaked, head to fucking toe the second he stepped onto the fire escape of his apartment. Motorcycling in the torrential downpour was even worse.

He had to go pitifully slow, rain beating his face like spiteful BB pellets. It finally let up ten minutes out from Gotham. Instead of being just wet, Dick was now cold and wet. Great.

He knew Bruce would be out tonight. It wasn’t hard to figure that out—he hadn’t missed a day prowling the night since Jason d—

Dick just had to figure out where. Gotham was big, and Bruce grew more erratic by the day. Normally the bigger the crime, the higher likelihood that the Bat would show up.

But everyone was feeling the heat—traditional rogue gallery and petty muggers alike. Batman could be battling Poison Ivy or punching the living daylights out of a pickpocket.

Luckily enough for Dick, eight years of working with the man gave him a pretty good gut instinct of just where he might find the Dark Knight.

He wouldn’t be in Crime Alley, because that reminded him of Jason. He wouldn’t be in the Narrows or Burnley or the Bowery, because that reminded him of Jason. If Dick had to hazard a guess, he probably wasn’t anywhere close to somewhere that reminded him of Jason. Batman was probably rooting around in the Diamond District or Old Gotham.

Dick’s bike rumbled to a stop. The light from the Bat Symbol turned the thick cloudy sky and ugly bruise-yellow. He sighed. Time to play hide-and-seek with an oversized furry with anger issues.

After grappling his sore body around for forty-five minutes, Dick finally found Bruce—waiting on a rooftop, back turned, facing the glittering Gotham skyline.

Dick cursed. He knew. Of course he fucking new.

But a bird that stalks

Down his narrow cage

Can seldom see through

His bars of rage

His wings are clipped and   

His feet are tied

So he opens his throat to sing.

Dick landed softly on the rooftop. Bruce did not turn around.

---

In all honesty, Tim was a little scared.

Which is really saying something, because he’d never really been scared of the Batman before—not in the traditional sense.

Okay, Tim was a little scared of the Batman. He was big and had cool gadgets and could probably incapacitate a man thirty-seven and a half different ways before noon—but Tim was never scared he’d do any of that to Tim.

(Well. Not unless Batman ever figured out Tim knew his secret identity. But that was a whole other can of worms that Tim had expertly duct-taped shut and shoved in the back of the proverbial fridge. It’s a healthy dose of fear!)

Batman was one of the good guys. He was a hero.

But lately…

Tim had been tailing Batman across the city, concern growing when he saw the guy suddenly take a hard left mid-swing. Tim had stumbled to keep up, trying to figure out what Batman had seen that he hadn’t. 

That led him to his current predicament: wedged between a rusted AC unit and a crumbling chimney on some random rooftop in the middle of the city. He’d been stuck here for the past forty-five minutes, camera in hand, waiting for Batman to do…something. 

He was starting to worry that Batman had seen him and was just waiting him out. If that was the case, and Tim had to crawl out and face the Dark Knight head on, Tim would simply pass out and die on the spot. Easy, breezy, beautiful. Then he would come back to life specifically to give Batman an well-deserved earful, because you can’t kill him twice, now can you?

He’d float up from his corpse with little angel wings and say “Excuse me Mr. Batman sir? Yes hi, the name’s Tim. I’ve been stalking you. Now, about your son—he’s probably gonna get himself killed here soon. Could you possibly stop beating the snot out of common street thugs for like five seconds and go like…fix him? Cool. Thanks,” to the tune of a Righteously Annoyed chorus. 

But Batman was just…standing there. Completely still, staring out at the Gotham skyline. Capital B Brooding. Batman never stood still this long. Something was wrong.

Tim’s back was starting to ache and his left foot had gone numb a half our ago. He was just about ready to call it a night when he heard the telltale chink-vhiiip of another grapple line.

After a silent landing, blue and black walked in Tim’s line of sight. Nightwing. Nightwing was here. Tim couldn’t see his face—just the back of his dark, windswept hair and twin escrima sticks. 

Nightwing brought his wrist up to check his watch. Tim squinted. Since when did vigilantes wear wristwatches? It was striped blue and black, too.

A little on the nose there, don’t you think, Dick?

Tim was sure Batman knew Nightwing was there. But he didn’t turn around.

“What the hell are you doing, Bruce?”

Tim’s whole body went cold, a dreadful feeling sinking in his gut. He had an inkling that he now had a front row seat to something he was definitely not supposed to see. Like capital N Not.

Tim had stalked the Bats for long enough to know that Nightwing never spoke like that. Not to Black Mask, not to Scarecrow, nobody. His tone was razor sharp and frigid. Someone was going to get cut tonight.

Nightwing took a step closer. “You snapped a kid’s spine last night.”

Tim’s breathing hitched. He tried to swallow the heart pounding in his throat. Of course, Tim already knew that—he’d been the one to call the ambulance. The guy had been bleeding out next to a dumpster in Chinatown, unable to move. Just a low level drug runner—he didn’t even have anything on him. He was a kid, and he’d cried when the paramedics came. His wails of pain kept Tim up for the rest of the night.

“He’s twenty-two, Bruce. He’ll never walk again.”

Batman didn’t even twitch. The silence wasn’t righteous or dignified or even brooding anymore. It was just empty. 

Finally, the Dark Knight spoke.

“He pulled a knife on the shop owner.”

“So you broke his back.”

“He was going to kill her.”

“You were going to kill him!”

Tim flinched. Nightwing’s voice cracked—just a little, a mere second. He checked his watch again. Huh. 

“So I’m going to ask you again: what the hell are you doing?”

Batman turned his head slightly, the cowl outlined by the distant neon glow of the city. From Tim’s point of view, he almost looked like a statue. “What I must. You’ll never understand.”

“Oh, don’t give me that ‘you don’t know me’ bullshit.” Nightwing stormed forward, the line of his body stiff, vibrating with barely restrained fury. “You raised me. I understand perfectly.”

Tim had never seen Nightwing like this. This angry. This…tired. The guy looked utterly exhausted. The domino hid nothing; Tim could read it in his countenance—the minuscule droop of his shoulders, the way he moved as if his limbs were a tad heavier than normal. He was slightly turned to one side, seemingly protecting an injury. Tim wondered how badly he was hurt after he tried to make out with that window three nights ago.

“You don’t, Dick. And you never did. That’s why I fired you.”

Tim saw the words hit Dick like a punch. His hands flexed at his sides, uncurling and curling into tight fists. He wondered if it was to keep them from shaking.

“This is not about me, Bruce, and you know it. This is about you, and what you’re doing to this city.” Tim caught the thinnest waver in Dick’s voice, betraying his the depth of his hurt. Batman remained only half turned, as if Dick was only worth the straining of one pointy ear.

“I’m doing what I’ve always done,” Bruce growled. “How would you even know?”

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Dick cried, utter disbelief crashing through his anger.  “You fired me Bruce—whatever the hell that even means, because I created the damn mantle—so I left. Just like you told me to. And now you’re what—mad I actually did it? Pissed that I actually went and left you alone when you drove me away?”

Dick ran an exasperated hand through his dark hair, tugging at the end. Underneath the anger, underneath the betrayal, Tim could tell Nightwing was hurting. Bruce’s words—though few—were cutting him deep.

Batman said nothing. 

Dick exhaled sharply, breath catching midway, as if he breathed too deeply. He recovered quickly, like sheer willpower could hold him upright forever.

“Bruce,” he said, articulating each word like a punch. “This is. Not. About. Me.”

Dick stepped forward again. His voice dropped quiet.

“You’re killing this city. You’re killing yourself.”

You’re killing me went unsaid, yet undeniable. Tim had witnessed it when Nightwing sent himself through that window.

“I do what I must,” Bruce repeated, low and cold.

Though Tim could only see the back of Nightwing, he could feel the intensity of the incredulous look from his hiding place.

“‘What you must?’ Bruce"—Nightwing’s laugh was bitter—“turning some low-life’s face into pulp—putting desperate, regular people in the ICU—is what you must? What kind of justice is that? You took that kid’s legs from him.” His voice was rising, gaining momentum, gaining rage. 

“You really think that you can beat your grief into submission the same way you beat muggers and thieves?”

Bruce turned then, the full force of him emerging like thick night. Anger, hot and barely contained, rolled off him in waves. Beneath the cowl, Tim had no doubt his eyes were blazing. He marveled at Nightwing’s bravery—if that gaze were ever to be turned on Tim, he might evaporate on the spot.

Nightwing’s tone was unforgiving in it’s ire. “What would he think, if he could see you now? He was one of them, you know that, right? He stole to eat after his mom died. Hell, he stole your damn tires. Would you have beat him too—“

“Don’t you dare!” Bruce bellowed, voice roaring across the rooftop like summer thunder. He surged forward, all cape and shadow and great fury—a billowing black cloud, consuming everything in its path.

For a breathless second, Tim saw Dick falter. Nightwing stumbled back a half-step. Widened his stance. A shade of a recoil passed over him. If Tim didn’t know any better, he’d say he saw a sliver of fear in the taut lines of Dick’s body.

“Don’t I dare what?” Nightwing shouted back, just as loud. “Say his name? Confront you with your own failure? Jason is dead. You’re not even grieving him, Bruce! You’re using him! An excuse to be angry and cruel and bitter. All the things he wasn’t!”

Dick’s voice wavered at the end. His hands were clenched so tightly at his sides Tim knew his knuckles were white underneath the blue and black striped gloves. 

Nightwing shook his head slowly, his voice thick and full of emotion. “How could you do that? Reduce him down to what the Joker did to him? Throw away who he was, and for what—because you can’t accept that you didn’t make it in time? That you failed him? He was so much more than that. But you’d never know, because—"

“Don’t you dare blame me for his death!” Bruce voice’s echoed out into the night, so loud Tim distantly wondered if from beyond the grave, Jason could hear it. “He disobeyed orders! And it got him killed! Why did I ever think I needed a partner? They—"

“A fucking partner? He was your son! He was my little brother—"

“—only get in your way, they only slow you down—"

They were yelling now, so loud and intense Tim felt like turning away. Though they were unaware of his presence, he felt a perverted sense of wrongness for being here—like witnessing the gods fight from a mortal hiding place. This was ugly and raw and private (though, it was on a rooftop, so how “private” that could get was honestly debatable).

“Don’t talk about him like that!” 

They were chest to chest, the words hanging in the air, echoing and echoing and echoing; it was like the moment after a flash lighting, before the booming sound of thunder catches up. Tim was pretty sure he stopped breathing five minutes ago. He felt still, as if his blood had stopped flowing in his veins, as if his whole body had just paused. 

“Bruce,” Dick said, softer now, like a plea. “This is not what Jason lived for. Not what he died for.”

Dick swallowed. He looked as if he was choking. “Please. You just—you have too—"

Dick seemed to be at a loss, unable to articulate the storm inside of him. English certainly didn’t have the words; they aren’t hardly deep enough nor nearly wide enough to encompass the kind of grief that comes with losing a sibling.  

If he were in Dick’s shoes, Tim isn’t sure what he would’ve said either.

“I think,” Bruce said, his words slicing like a cold knife, “you should leave. And not come back.”

Dick stood frozen for a long moment—like the split second before a tree felled by an axe crashes to the ground. Standing upright, a pretense of life and stability before it all comes tumbling down in a messy, broken heap.

“You’re kicking me out of Gotham?”

“I think,” Bruce repeated, harder now, leaving no room for Dick to speak, “you should leave. And not come back.”

The Dark Knight swept off the roof and into the night.

Dick stood, alone, trying to calm his trembling limbs. The air was still so tense Tim was surprised there hadn't been lightning.

Then, without a word, Nightwing shot his grapple off into the night, likely back to his bike and then on to Blüdhaven.

Tim stayed between the AC unit and crumbling chimney until both his feet were numb and early dawn purple poked through the midnight clouds. Only when he was absolutely positive he would not be seen did he slip away to the bus stop, then on to Drake Manor.

Tim had learned about Pyrrhic victories in history class—a victory that inflicts such a devastating toll on the victor that it is tantamount to a defeat, negating any true sense of achievement. 

It was named after Pyrrhus of Epirus, whose triumph against the Romans in the Battle of Asculum in 279 BC destroyed much of his forces, forcing the end of his campaign.

The Battle of Bunker Hill had been one. So had the Battle of Borodino and the Battle of the Somme. Obviously, Tim had never personally witnessed any of those.

But God, did Tim never want to be privy to a another Pyrrhic victory between Batman the father and Nightwing the son. He felt singed, as if the nuclear fallout of their war had found its way to him. His heart stuttered, flighty, breaths never quite filling up his lungs.

Tonight, here on this thunderhead of a rooftop, no one had been triumphant. There were no victors in this battle—grief against grief, father against son. Mutual destruction was assured, and they were both white-knuckling that red button. If there even had been a winner, what would the prize be? A cowed Batman, or a guilty Nightwing?

You could say Batman had won—that he walked away still able to justify his brutality without ever having to worry about his son returning with his flaming sword of accountability. And you could say that Dick had lost—that he did not change his father’s mind and left more wounded than he arrived.

Dick had come to ask his father to feel. To remember, please God remember. And his father had refused. So the Dark Knight will continue beating criminals as penance for the death of his son, and Nightwing will continue to beat himself as penance for the death of his little brother.

One erupts outwards, another collapses inwards.

After King Pyrrhus won his battle, he lost so many troops that he reportedly said, “Another such victory and I am undone.”

What had occurred on this rooftop was a Pyrrhic victory indeed.

---

The anger in Dick burned out, white hot and quick—a star in the throes of death, collapsing into a supernova. For one blinding moment, he was righteous fury incarnate, radiant and all-consuming.

But now, in the cold, airless void of what remained, all Dick felt was empty.

Distantly, he realized he was absolutely soaking wet from the rain that had descended upon him the second he got within sight of Blüdhaven.

But the rain was the only thing he felt.

Dick was numb. It was absolute. A lead blanket smothering the eighteen inches between his head and his heart. No emotion, no texture—just absence.

Bruce had hollowed him out—reached a black gauntleted fist into his chest and torn out every last rib. There was nothing now, no cage to keep the vast hollow inside him from stirring like a great beast, eager to consume him.

Dick could see the grief he’d put in that cracked jar flicker and flash, like a lightning bug caught in a mason jar—plink plink plinking against the glass as it begged to be released, for air.

Dick was not used to not feeling this intensely. He is a creature of great emotion—even when he felt nothing, he felt it completely. A black whole, roaring and consuming and violent, yet holding literally nothing at its vicious center. That piece that Jason had taken with him when he died—that fiber of his lungs, that chamber of his heart—seemed to take and take and take until all of Dick had been pulled inside.

How could emptiness—textureless, emotionless absence—be so unbearably heavy? What was Dick carrying? What had saddled itself upon his heart, his mind, that made him stumble so? Made him weep and fall as he dragged his cross through the streets of his cursed city?

For there to be a grief that does not define you for the rest of your life, they must first invent a love that does not define you for the rest of your life. You never will and never can have one without the other. But isn’t that the greatest double-edged sword in all of humanity? Two halves of the same cosmic coin?

Children in medieval Norway have been found buried with extra sets of clothing. In Pompeii, the lovers, when faced with the terrible, nonnegotiable fact of their imminent fiery death, embraced each other one final time. Even dogs and cats were buried with inscriptions reading “To Helena, foster child, soul without comparison and deserving of praise” and “I am in tears, while carrying you to your last resting place as much as I rejoiced when bringing you home with my own hands 15 years ago.”

Are we not all screaming into the void? Grabbing Time itself by the balls, shouting, “I’ve loved here! I’ve lost here! And I will not forget them! And neither will you! Remember! Remember! I have loved here!”

Oh. He’s on his fire escape now. Staring at his window. Weird.

He’ll probably never speak to his father again (Dick has lost two fathers in one lifetime).

Dick had lost, badly. Bruce can still beat the shit out of pickpockets without a single red bloodstain on his conscience. Dick just felt like that damn fucking pumpkin again (he hoped Bruce at least got those annoying stringy innards all over his hands when he ripped out Dick’s insides).

Oh. Right. The window.

Dick hissed has he bent down to unlatch his window, body sore, ribs twinging. It was dark in his apartment. He landed silently on the floor, closing the window behind him and reaching out a gloved hand to flick on the kitchen lights—

There, on a stool at the kitchen counter, sat Jason.

Not Robin, not bloody. Just Jason—red hoodie, jeans, torn-up sneakers and all.

Instinctively, Dick checked his watch. 2:19 am

He then glanced down, looking beneath the stool. No shadow. Jason has no shadow. He’s not real—

He sighed as a minuscule knot of tension released in gut—I am awake. 

His head hurt. His body ached. God, Dick was tired.

He peeled off his domino, rubbing his eyes until he saw stars. Only when they faded, did he speak.

“You want some cereal?”

Jason shot him an incredulous look. “Dude—don’t you have like, real food?”

Dick shot him an equally incredulous look as he crossed from the window to the kitchen. He pulled out two bowls and two spoons, flipping the spoon around and checking his reflection on the back. It mirrored the tongue he stuck out at it.

“Do you remember,” Dick said, as he opened his fridge to grab the milk. Was this even edible? A quick sniff said eh, sure. “The last time I tried to cook for us?”

Jason let out a jovial snort. “Uh, of course I do! Mrs. Rhodope called the fire department when you burnt the noodles!” Jason descended into peals of laughter. “Dick, who puts Mac ’n cheese in the microwave with no water?”

Dick shut his cereal cabinet and turned back around to face Jason. “Do you think I wanted to buy a completely new microwave just for funsies?”

“Seriously? That was the day Penguin got you good, wasn’t it?”

Dick grimaced at the memory. Dick had miscalculated a jump, and Penguin nailed the back of his head with his ridiculous cane. He was definitely concussed, so Jason had gone back with him to his apartment to make sure he didn’t pass out in the shower.

He slid a bowl of Reese’s Puffs over to Jason. He didn’t touch it. Dick leaned up against the counter, shuffling the little yellow and black puffs around with his spoon.

“Mrs. Rhodope still gives me the meanest side eyes when I pass her in the hallway. I think I have a permanent spot on her naughty list.”

“Oh, you absolutely do.”

They fell into a comfortable silence—Dick slowly eating his cereal, and Jason sitting at the kitchen counter. It was almost like he was really—

Jason let out a giggle. “Do you remember that ski trip we went on? The one where we got kicked off the lift for throwing snowballs at people as they went down the slopes?”

A smile tugged at Dick’s lips. He would never forget their ski trip.

(“Ten points for the blue jacket,” Jason had said, white snowball in hand, devilish grin on his face.

At first, Dick didn’t hear him—he was too busy looking at Jason’s pink cheeks and little red nose, the snowflakes dusting his lashes, vibrant teal eyes sparkling with mischief.

That feeling—that unnameable surge of great emotion that often swelled within him when he looked at his baby brother—filled his chest and throat. He was almost overcome with the urge to pinch one of Jason’s little cold-nipped cheeks.

Dick must’ve been staring for too long, because Jason waved a gloved hand in front of Dick’s eyes, saying, ”Helloooooo. Earth to Dick.”

They were rising across the slopes on the ski lift. Outstretched before them were miles and miles of glittering white mountains, the blanched landscape only broken up by the colorful snowsuits of skiers; they looked like sprinkles on an iced wedding cake.

The two of them had planned this together—a brother bonding getaway from the dark streets of cloudy ole Gotham. Surprisingly, Bruce had okayed the trip, even going so far as to go shopping with them for gear. Dick had almost turned Jason’s invitation down, worried about what might happen. But he could never refuse Jason’s excitement when he had asked Dick to join them.

And it had been…civil. A little tense, a little awkward, but they had emerged victorious. One week later, Dick had packed his car full of top of the line ski gear and the two of them were off to upstate New York for a long weekend.

Dick broke himself out of his reverie, painting his own devilish smirk across his face. “Too easy.” He quickly glanced around. More skiers came into view as they slowly rose higher—more victims.

“There,” he pointed. Below them, a figure in traffic cone orange tore down the slope at breakneck speed. “Twenty points.”

“Who do you think I am?” Jason said, eyeing up his target. “Green Arrow?”

“Are you saying you can’t do it, Mr. Baseball?”

“Shut up and let me focus, Dickhead.”

After the junior Gotham Knights had won their league, Jason had won New Jersey’s Mr. Baseball award. In essence, all the counties of New Jersey had unanimously voted Jason Todd as the MVP of the entire junior league.

Dick, of course, had been overjoyed—he told everyone about it. The barista who took his coffee order. The random unlucky guy sitting next to him on the train. His next door neighbor. Everyone within a five mile radius of Dick Grayson knew his little brother had won New Jersey’s Mr. Baseball.

Hell, he even subjected a handcuffed goon to an entire play-by-play of Jason’s championship game.

And Dick would keep telling. Keep shouting from the rooftops for all to hear: “Look at my little brother! Look at what he’s done! He worked so hard and he achieved this!”

And it meant so much more to Dick because he knew what Jason had to overcome to get to where he is now. The underlying tenacity Jason had built within himself. People don’t see that; but Dick did. Dick would always see it. 

The snowball hit Traffic Cone with a thud. His head turned sharply, as if to spot his assailant, nearly toppling himself over in the process.

“Yes!” Jason whooped. “Alright Dickie. Your turn.”

Dick held his snowball in his gloved hand, scanning the sprinkle-people below. “That one,” Jason pointed. “The one with the red helmet. Nail ‘em.”

Dick snorted, aimed, and—

Smack.

“Oops—"

Jason burst out laughing, so hard he nearly fell of the lift. Dick grabbed him to keep him upright. “‘Oops’ is right, Dickhead. You pegged him right in the neck!”

It was true—Red Helmet was currently twitching like a hive of bees was in his suit. A snowball to the neck was cold, no doubt.

The two of them dropped off the lift and skied down the slope. It was exhilarating and fun, and gave Dick that adrenaline rush without the life-threatening circumstances that normally accompanied it.

Of course, the two of them had gathered a plethora of snowballs the next time they took the lift, sniping unsuspecting skiers for varying amounts of points.

Dick was about to throw his own home run (he was down 110-115, and needed to nail this guy to win) before they were personally escorted off the slopes due to numerous complaints.

The two spent the rest of the day in the cozy lounge, sipping hot chocolate, Jason’s laughter a balm to Dick’s weary soul.

That night, they snuck out onto the huge balcony at the back of the lodge. They laid on the snow covered deck, gazing up at the nebulous sky. Stars glittered like thousands of tiny glass shards set in glossy obsidian. It was so vast it seemed to curve at the edges, wrapping around him like an illustrious, inky embrace.

Man. Space is big.

But that didn’t matter—Dick had his whole world laying two feet to his right.)

Consider walking through your whole life being so yellow it seems to be a fact. Then, one day, you brush up against something blue. The barest touch, a mere passing connection. Then voila! For the rest of your life, you are green.

Think about it like this: bits and pieces of those we love decorate our souls like stained glass—when the sun shines upon it, you see the full spectrum of all you have loved. You think you are one thing, one yellow, when in reality, you are a mosaic of all who have brushed against you, of all you have loved, of all who have loved you. Death may have stolen his little brother, but it can never unweave him from the fabric of Dick’s heart. Memory is a fact of the soul, untouched by endings.

So Dick walks down memory lane, footsteps well worn into the golden brick, because he loves running into Jason. He strolls down that yellow path prepared for an ambush—Jason always seemed to catch him by surprise. Gladiolus and poppies bloom on either side of that yellow-brick path, the tall, defiant grace of the former clashing with the short, stubborn red-fire of the latter. It’s a ridiculous garden, and Jason fits in it perfectly. In this borrowed moment, this stolen slice of time, his little brother flings himself into Dick’s arms, and Dick catches him. Dick has him back, safe and sound, in his embrace. He never lets go.

These memories are warped, scorched at the edges by guilt and often drained of color by grief, but they are still his all-time favorite movie. And he’ll keep walking that yellow road until his knees give out, until the sun bleaches his bones and even the exact teal of Jason’s eyes fades from recollection. Until he joins his little brother in the ground he’ll find himself traveling up and down that yellow brick road.

Because this is all that is left of his Little Wing. 

There is nothing more on Earth for them to do, because Jason is buried in it—memory lane is the only place that he hasn’t left yet.

“Of course I do, Little Wing.” Dick placed his cereal bowl in the sink with a clink. Jason had joined him on this side of the counter, swinging his legs where he sat on the countertop.

Habitually, Dick grabbed a glass from another cabinet and filled it with water. He turned, held it out to Jason, and—

The glass hit the tile and exploded. Shards burst outward, skittering across the floor in all directions, water splashing the cabinets. The crash seemed to echo throughout Dick’s small apartment. The silence that followed was deafening. 

Dick looked up—

The ghost of his little brother was gone.

Notes:

hi little readers! i hope you enjoyed :)

if you caught on to what i was getting at in the ski trip flashback, congratulations :D

if you want to cry, here's more pet graves (also where i got the name Rhodope) https://littlethings.com/pets/ancient-dog-memorials

gladiolus and poppies are august birth flowers; Jason was born in august

gladiolus: strength, honor, sacrifice, protection, and remembrance

poppies: remembrance, (especially for soldiers), sleep, and dreams

i got the inspo for the memory lane monologue from the song "Memory Lane," by Haley Joelle. if you need a REALLY good cry, go give it a listen :)

i got the inspo for the yellow/green/blue metaphor form author Tess Callahan!

Pyrrhic victories are so interesting to me. often, both in the sports world and in media, we are told to "sacrifice it all!" for the victory. but what comes after? after you have sacrificed it all. after you are left with what remains. victory is sweet, yes, but that is still all it is. when you look back, do you think "i'm so proud," or "what have i done?" even the greats, giants like kobe bryant and muhammad ali, had strained relationships with their families. but, in the end, they were victorious, and we remember them as such. if only they were alive so i could ask "was it worth it? now that you are in the ground—was it all worth it?" food for thought little readers.

tata for now little readers! your comments bring my heart so much joy :D

Chapter 6: Maybe It's Because You Keep Looking At Me

Summary:

“You're gone, gone, gone away

I watched you disappear

All that's left is a ghost of you

Now we're torn, torn, torn apart

There's nothing we can do

Just let me go, we'll meet again soon

Now wait, wait, wait for me, please hang around

I'll see you when I fall asleep.”

- Little Talks, Of Monsters and Men

Notes:

hiya little readers!

andie here back at it again with another chapter of Dick just having the absolute best time of his life.

enjoy!! :))

“So how are we doing this?” Jason leaned forward in his chair, splaying his green-gloved hands on the table. “Spontaneous? Sexy?”

Dick chuckled softly, rolling his eyes. Spread out across the kitchen table was their plan: papers logistics, blueprints, timetables—the guts of their operation.

Dick took a short breath, body still aching from his graceful run-in with the window. His cuts were healing slower than he’d like, especially the deep gash arching across his abdomen. When he’d changed into the Nightwing suit, he was greeted with a grim canvas of purple and yellow painting his shoulder and ribs.

Bruce’s icy words howled like winter wind in his mind, lodged like splinters in his heart. They pressed against his ribs, the past and future closing in so tight there was barely any air left for the present to breathe.

Would he ever see Gotham again? Perch beside Jason’s favorite gargoyle, legs swinging over the edge like they used to, back when Dick believed he had a thousand moments more?

Would he ever go home again?

Though really, when had Gotham ever been home? Not at first, surely. He was a traveler by trade, a vagrant by vaudeville. A soaring, swinging child of sawdust and spolight who knew no fear. Haly’s had given him wings—real ones, wide and weightless. He flew beside those he loved, and whom loved him in return. Until two wires were cut and his whole sky came crashing down. In a snap that would echo through his nightmares for the rest of his life, the world turned vast, brutal, and unlit.

But arms had been there to catch him. Steady, strong. A father—once, maybe, even thought the word now rotted in his mouth. Still, those arms could carry the world. They made Gotham feel less like a narrow cage. Almost a nest, with trade winds soft through sighing trees. 

Then came a little bird—feathered in red and reckless love. A little brother. A boy who looked at Dick like he placed every single glittering star in the sky just for him to see. And suddenly, home wasn’t a city or a place. It was the heartbeat beside his own, another robin’s song in the impossible dark.

But even that little bird had its wings broken. Beaten. Shattered.

Dick blinked hard. There was no time, because it was go time.

“Alright, Little Wing. Here’s the plan:”

He tapped the map of Blüdhaven they had open on the table, finger landing on a red flag marking the flagship.

“Madam Zhang, Mr. Tai, and all of their top lieutenants will be in the flagship barge for the meeting. It’s docked outside the city, in one of the industrial canals.”

Jason leaned in closer. Dick glanced down, just for a second.

No shadow. Jason cast no shadow on the table. I’m awake. He's not real—

“They’ve posted their top muscle outside both the flagship and the tea warehouse, where most of the opium is held.”

Dick pointed inland, a few miles from the canal—where the warehouse sat.

“But that’s not our target. If we hit the warehouse, we show our entire hand.”

“Like B did,” Jason muttered.

Dick nodded, jaw tightening. “Exactly. So we’re not touching the tea, or crashing the meeting.”

He tapped a blue striped finger on a small group of red flags clustered around the southern docks.

“We’re going after the rest of the fleet—the barges themselves. They’re empty, Zhang confirmed it herself. And security’ll be lighter.”

Jason’s face broke into a sly smile. “We’re gonna cut ‘em off at the ankles.”

Dick couldn’t suppress his grin. “Exactly, Little Wing. If we sink the fleet, Zhang loses her escape route. She’ll be stuck here—on Snow Leopard turf—trying to salvage the Snow Leopard deal.”

He tapped the docks again. “Tonight, we sneak in, clear each barge, and set charges. Once we’re good and gone…”

“Boom.”

“Boom.”

Dick ran a hand through his hair, a solemn look crossing his face. “B fucked this up bad in Gotham. He beat that mole half to death, and the guy crawled right back to Zhang. The Fleet was gone before Bruce even noticed.”

He leaned on the table, stealing a gaze at Jason. He looked like Robin tonight—just Robin, no blood or burns or brutalized body. He looked like the night they went train hopping—teal eyes dancing with Jason’s special brand of mischievous excitement.

“Stealth is everything. If we spook her, we won’t get another shot. Not only do we have to fight, but we have got to win.”

Jason smirked. “Dude. Was everybody Kung Fu fighting?”

Dick snorted, shaking his head. He glanced at his watch. 10:47 pm. 

Perfect. The meeting was set to start at 11:30.

He grabbed his domino off the table and headed to the bathroom, eyes carefully avoiding the mirror until he stood in the doorway. His gloved hand found the light switch and flicked it on. Dick kept his gaze on the tile, breath hitching just a tick.

Jason’s here. What if he—what if Dick looked and he saw—

Look! Please, you have to know!! What if you’re dreaming—

Dick snapped his head up, meeting his own tired eyes in the mirror. He raised a hand and poked his cheek. The kevlar felt rough on his skin, and the mirror copied the motion exactly. The yellow post-it of his Rules fluttered slightly as he let out a shaky breath. Okay. I am awake.

He scanned the Rules, reviewing them, though it wasn’t necessary—they were burned into his psyche. 

The mirror reflected him perfectly.

His watch told time.

Jason had no shadow.

He shot a quick glance down to his gloved hands—no blood. He let out another slow breath. I am awake.

As he secured his domino to his eyes, Jason’s voice rang out from the kitchen.

“Admiring yourself, Big Bird? We gotta go!”

Dick swallowed, trying to shake off his anxiety. It was a mirror—that’s all it was. And he was awake.

He made his way back out to the kitchen. At the window, Dick hesitated for one last second—he checked his reflection in the dim glass, one last time. It copied the hand he waved exactly. He closed his weary eyes and sighed. I am awake.

In an aching burst of action, he opened the window and took off into the wet night.

---

A magnetic clink echoed through the silence of the small, dimly lit barge. Dick tapped the charge twice. A soft whine answered—primed and ready.

Jason leaned against the wooden wall, his Robin costume bright against the flickering shadows. Dick leaned around the support beam where he was attaching the charge, making sure Jason wasn’t casting one.

He wasn’t. Dick checked his watch: 12:01 am. 

Dick nodded to himself. I’m awake.

“Two more,” he whispered to Jason. “Then her office in the shipping yard.”

They slipped out into the a night, a light mist dusting Dick’s cheeks and hair. There was no moon, light only cast by the bright, buzzing searchlights of the harbor. Like a dancer, Dick elegantly vaulted across the dark, oily water to the next barge. As he’d done with the past half dozen ships, he picked the lock, crept inside, set the charge, and snuck back out.

Jason followed him every step.

Dick never saw him jump between the boats, nor walk through the door into the hull to find the support beams—but he was always there.

What unsettled Dick the most was how alive he looked. Bright-eyed. Smiling, like he was actually there. Dick could pretend, even if it was just for a moment, that Robin and Nightwing were united—jumping these barges like they once did trains, kicking ass and taking names. 

Honestly, it wasn’t even that hard to pretend. Jason was right there—

“Think the explosions’ll hurt the fish?” Jason asked, standing tiptoe on little green boots to peer through a narrow window. “If any fish are even still alive in this radioactive sludgewater.”

Dick flinched at the sound, heart leaping into his throat. His first instinct was to tell Jason to keep it down, we can’t risk being heard. But then he remembered that Jason wasn’t actually real—

He magnetized the charge with another click. “I don’t think so.” He tapped the priming sequence. “Water’s dense, so the blast won’t travel far. And when the ship sinks, they’ll make good use of it.” The light blinked green. They were good to go.

He slunk around the boat’s hull, sticking to the shadows. The docks loomed head, quiet and still. Each barge was only manned by one soldier. Dick expertly evaded them all.

Even with the ghost of his baby brother at his heels. 

Another graceful leap. Another barge. Another picked lock.

“I don’t know,” Jason said, trailing him. “What if the fish are near the surface?”

Dick crouched, placing the final charge “They’re all asleep, Jaybin.” Click. Time to head for shore.

“Seriously?” Jason shot him an incredulous look as Dick re-locked the door he came through. The searchlights cast odd, flickering shadows across the harbor. He shot a quick glance toward shore, ensuring sure they hadn’t been made.

A flash of movement near the harbor crane caught his eye. He froze, heart pounding, flattening himself against the barge as if he could melt into the hull. He waited one minute. Two.

After three solid minutes of nothing, Dick peeled himself from the shadows and continued making his way back to the shipping yard. He ran a gloved hand down his damp face. Maybe running on eight hours of sleep across the past four days was actually starting to have negative consequences.

“Yes,” Dick whispered as they crept toward the yard, where Madam Zhang’s makeshift office waited in a rented shipping container. “Fish need sleep.”

Dick didn’t even have to look to feel Jason roll his eyes.

“But aren’t fish more active at night? Because there’s less people?” Jason’s voice was louder now. Dick flinched again, instinctively scanning for movement.

“The fish in Blüdhaven Harbor’ve survived worse than some blown-up boats, Jase.”

Seemingly satisfied, Jason did not answer.

Dick vaulted the last jump to the solid ground, landing hard in the shipping yard. Silently, he crept around the shadows of the search lights, weaving in and out of the surrounding containers. It was silent, save for the gentle lapping of water against the barge hulls. The smell of wet metal and dirty water clung to his nose and throat.

The red shipping container squatted in the center of the yard, illuminated by two bright search lights—a spotlighted box among a sea of rusted metal husks. It sat slightly isolated, with a padlocked side door and the faint hum of electricity leaking through the seems.

Towering behind it, the mobile harbor crane loomed like a steel giant. Its long, angular arm stretched skyward before dipping down toward the container’s red body, as if it had just set the office down. Smart, Dick thought. Primed and ready to be lifted and shipped out if things went sideways. The cabin, perched about halfway up its metal neck, was a glass bubble of blinking lights and levers. The heavy metal hooks swayed lazily in the harbor’s gentle wind.

In yard’s dim, scattered light, it almost looked like someone was inside.

Dick crouched behind a blue container, squinting at the cabin. If someone was up there, that could be a problem.

“Whatcha looking for?” Jason asked from beside him. Dick nearly jumped.

He stayed still for a few seconds, eyes locked on the cabin. The buttons twinkled. After he was sure there was no movement, Dick peeled his gaze away and studied the two beefy dudes guarding the office. Big guys. But likely slow (they better be; nobody gets to be that big and fast. That’s like simply Not Allowed). He just needed to place and prime the charge. Maybe he could bait them into a chase, or pull them away from the blast zone once he’d incapacitated them.

“The goons have to go. Then we place the final charge. Ready?” Dick ignored Jason’s question— even he wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for. 

Jason nodded. Dick checked his watch, the motion familiar and grounding: 12:14 am.

Meatbrick was posted up on one end, while Brick Shithouse had the other. Dick studied the two; Meatbrick looked…nervous. His eyes kept darting to the crane cabin, as if he too saw something shifting across the blinking buttons. Brick Shithouse, on the other hand, looked like the kind of guy who named his fists Can Of and Whoop Ass. 

After a moment of consideration, Dick decided to take out Meatbrick first—the nerves definitely gave him away as the greener of the two.

The Red Flag Fleet was smart, Dick’ll give them that: the container sat dead center in a wash of floodlight. There were no shadows long enough to melt into—no cover.

A brilliant, genius idea struck Dick like lightning: the classic hey look over there!

Dick pulled a birdarang from his belt, wound back, and let ‘er fly.

CLANG CLANG CLANGCLANG!

It ricocheted from container to container, echoing across the shipyard like a bird-themed pinball from hell.

Both heads snapped toward the sound.

“I’m gonna check that out,” Brick Shithouse said, already moving towards the shadowy containers across the way. “Stay here.”

Meatbrick grunted, though a flicker of worry crossed his gruff face (seriously, do all goons look like they walked straight off the Felon?)

Dick waited until Brick Shithouse disappeared into the steel maze.

He checked his watch, settling some of his nerves. 12:18. 

Perfect. The guards rotated at 12:30. He’d watched it a few nights ago—how they’d all pile into a tiny boat, motor to shore, swap out, then motor back to their posts. The rotation gave Dick the perfect opportunity to blow the ships with no casualties (and I’m awake). 

Alright. Twelve minutes.

When he could no longer hear Brick Shithouse’s footsteps, Dick sprang into action, pouncing on Meatbrick like a cat.

Poor Meatbrick. Guy didn’t even see Dick coming.

Meatbrick put his fists up, but they were sloppy. A few beefy fists whizzed by Dick’s ears, his battered body groaning heavily as he pivoted on his heel to avoid a wild right hook.

Fuck L&C Tower and their stupid fucking windows, Dick thought, leaning away from a kick from a comically large boot. His ribs shrieked in protest.

His shoulder twinged sharply as he reached behind for his escrima. And fuck you random guy who tried to rob a bank all by yourself.

He spun away from another sluggish swing, igniting his escrima before slamming a sizzling strike straight into Meatbrick’s ribs. The brute grunted, his massive frame jerking with the shock, then crumpled to the ground like a felled redwood. Dick cringed the guy’s face met gravel in a sickening crunch.

“Almost got got there, Dickwing.” Dick looked up, chest heaving, body aching. Jason leaned casually against the red container, smirking. Older. He looked older. Crooked Robin grin, he looked every bit his fifteen-year-old self. Dick’s pounding heart twinged in his aching chest. He could feel the grief nestled there stir like an ugly beast.

“That guy is fucking huge!" Dick wheezed, gesturing weakly down at the now Meatloaf slumbering peacefully in the dusty gravel. His body hurt, okay? And him and sleep weren’t exactly on speaking terms.

He swallowed hard, pulling out the final charge and the button that would blow them. He needed to initiate the time sequence.

A wave of dizziness hit him like a freight train, both the charge and the button slipping out of his grasp. He braced against the container, clenching his jaw against the bile rising with the spin.

Dick squeezed his eyes shut. Not now, Grayson. Not fucking now.

“Prolly shoulda eaten before patrol,” Jason tutted. “Or, I dunno, slept.”

He rubbed his face with his free hand. He was fine. He was fine. 

“I’m fine, Little Wing,” he bit out, head dipped low.

Jason gave an exaggerated nod. “‘Course you are! You can’t not be. If you fall apart, everything else does too!”

“All those OD’s…” Jason shrugged. “They’re on you, Dickie.”

Dick’s head snapped up, brows furrowed, wondering where this sudden coldness came from. But Jason was still smiling—still Robin, fifteen, unmarked by burns and blood—leaning up against the container. Dick didn’t want this. He wanted his baby brother back—

Meatbrick groaned from behind him. Dick froze, waiting to see if the giant rose. After a tense second, Meatbrick stirred but stayed down, and Dick let out a shaky breath.

Dick heard heavy boots crunch on gravel. Ah, the prodigal Brick Shithouse returns. 

He straightened, breath shallow, and checked his watch: 12:23 pm.

Summoning some of that good ole Nightwing charm, he called out, “Bring my birdarang back? I’ll throw it again if you wanna fetch.”

Brick Shithouse stepped into the clearing, shoulders broad enough to put Stoic the Vast to shame. Ragged scars crisscrossed his ugly mug, tattoos poking out from underneath his grimy shirt. Seriously, Dick thought, is there like a goon aesthetic Pinterest Board they all follow?

Brick Shithouse cracked his knuckles, chuckling. “I don’t think you got another round in you, Birdie.”

Neither do I, Dick thought grimly, but his smart mouth said, “Try me.”

Brick Shithouse charged like an angry bull.

Dick met him halfway, ducking under a left hook that probably would’ve taken his head clean off. He jabbed low with his left stick, feinted high with the right—but Shithouse adjusted too quickly for someone that big.

Fuck.

He caught Dick’s wrist on the next pass and flung him like a blue-striped ragdoll against the container’s wall.

The steel rang out, and pain shot through Dick’s back like lightning. His cuts pulled and stung, no doubt tearing his fabulous stitching (third times the charm, I guess). 

Get up. Get up, Grayson. GET—

He rolled, barely dodging a follow-up stomp from another comically large boot. He kicked out and caught Shithouse in the knee. The giant stumbled, and Dick surged back to his feet.

The accompanying head rush nearly took him down again. He frantically blinked the stubborn buzzing black from his eyes.

“You know,” he rasped, tasting blood on his tongue and trying desperately not to gag, “for being built like Wreck-It Ralph, you’re awfully mobile.”

Brick Shithouse not like that.

He surged forward. Dick dodged and circled, placing a lovely kick to the man’s backside and sending him sprawling.

Dick stumbled a little, trying to put some space in between himself and the angry bull he kept poking. Everything was starting to hurt now—in an annoying, unignorable kind of way.

He turned and spit blood, swiping his mouth with his gloved hand. He tried to take a deep breath, but it hitched in his lungs, back and ribs screaming in protest. He nearly doubled over as his vision swam. The world tilted like a picture frame knocked askew.

He blinked, hard, trying to bring himself back.

Focus, Grayson. Focus. 

Shithouse scrambled to his feet and charged.

Jason appeared to his left. He looked—oh God, he looked terrified—

“Get back, Robin!” Dick cried. “You’re too close—"

You see, hindsight really is quite a beautiful thing. Because in hindsight, if Dick hadn’t been so focused on the hallucination his baby brother, he might’ve seen the fun metal pipe Brick Shithouse had picked up.

In hindsight, Dick could’ve dodged. Merely stepped aside, like a matador in the arena.

But Jason was what Dick would always ever see. There was no hindsight, or foresight—Prometheus had no claim here. For Dick, there was only Jason. There would always ever be only Jason.

So Dick didn’t think. Didn’t process reality. His body launched himself forward on reckless, desperate instinct.

“Jason—!”

Dick lunged.

But more importantly, Dick dropped his guard.

The pipe caught him full force in the side of the head.

White, blinding, searing, catastrophic white exploded behind his eyes. Horrible, sharp, and unbearable pain erupted in his head.

He hit the ground hard, more blood filling his mouth. His stomach churned violently. His ears rung so loud he was surprised no one else could hear it.

He could barely think, barely hear, barely feel anything outside of the all-consuming pain pounding in his skull.

The harbor lights stabbed his pupils like ice picks. Somewhere above him, Brick Shithouse loomed.

He was speaking, but Dick couldn’t hear a word. Something warm was running down his cheek, his ear. His hair was sticky.

Jason. Was Jason okay?

“Jay—Jas’n—?” He slurred. Gotta find him. What if he’s hurt?

Black was closing in. Man—he was really tired. And his body—

Fuck his body really hurt right now.

He needed to get up. He needed to get to his little brother.

Jason—fifteen, clear as day against the fading, blurry world—appeared over him. His face was twisted cruel.

That…that hurt. Almost as bad as the metal pipe to the head.

He laughed, vicious and cold. It grated on Dick’s aching ribs, pulling at his heart and knocking on that glass jar. 

“Maybe one of these days someone’ll land a hit just right and you’ll follow suit. Oh, the irony!”

Tears filled Dick’s eyes, hot and sorrowful, spilling over into his domino.

He wanted to speak, to tell Jason then maybe I’ll get to see you again.

But the world was falling away, and he couldn’t keep up with it anymore.

Notes:

i hope you liked it!

is something in the crane cabin? or is Dick *really* losing it this time? i guess we'll find out...

anyways, tata for now little readers! :D

Chapter 7: Let Me Let You Go

Summary:

“Freedom all alone, well, that's a wing made out of stone

Freedom on your own ain't really free.

No, little bird, that ain't what it means.

Freedom all alone, well, that's a cage all its own,

Freedom on your own ain't really free.

No, little bird, won't you come on down to me.”

- Little Bird, Blessing Offor

Notes:

hi little readers!!

this chapter is long af and i apologize. i got super carried away and couldn't find a good place to stop so i just...didn't :)

anyways, enjoy!!

TW: graphic description of injury

Timothy Jackson Drake is a very smart kid.

He knows where Nightwing lives.

He also knows that Nightwing is most certainly not okay after the knock-down, drag-out fight he had with Batman the other night.

So what does Timothy Jackson Drake, a very smart kid, do?

Well, he catches a bus to Blüdhaven, of course! Because somebody’s gotta make sure Nightwing doesn’t get himself killed in a blaze of self-sacrificing catastrophe.

Is this Tim’s circus? Absolutely not.

Are these Tim’s monkeys? Even less so.

But Tim happens to live in that circus, and—what can he say?—he likes those monkeys. So they’re his now.

Deal.

He’d sat outside Dick Grayson’s fire escape—getting rained on, no less—for over two hours before Nightwing finally climbed out the window and grappled into the night.

Now, normally this wouldn’t raise any red flags. Tim’s seen Nightwing grapple off that fire escape plenty of times in the past couple of days since Tim started stalking him.

But this time, Tim had been directly beneath Nightwing. And he didn’t even notice. All the guy had to do was look down and he’d see Tim—standing on the platform of the fire escape just below his feet.

Which, understandable. Tim has been Batstalking for nearly three years now. He’s gotten really good at tucking himself away and remaining unseen (case in point: that horrible Batman/Nightwing argument he wasn’t supposed to witness and now has regular nightmares about).

No, the weirdest, most unsettling thing was peeking through Nightwing’s window—

And watching him talk to air for upwards of two hours.

Not just talk—laugh, respond to, plan with. Debrief.

Nightwing conducted an entire mission briefing with Casper.

He also checked his watch fourteen different times, just during those two hours that Tim watched.

Yep. Something was definitely very wrong with Dick Grayson. 

Which is why Tim, ever the responsible ringmaster, was parked in the glass bubble of a crane cabin above Blüdhaven Harbor.

Obviously, Tim had done his homework. He’d been following the opium crisis as it spread from Gotham to Blüdhaven like a sickness, confirming his hunch that the Red Flag Trading Co. was involved with the spike—the moment Madam Zhang left Gotham, overdoses there started trending back down.

Tim also knew the Snow Leopards were sniffing around for a foothold in the Blüdhaven drug trade. The stars just couldn’t align more perfectly.

So Tim guessed that Nightwing was headed to the Harbor to blow up the Red Flag Fleet while Madam Zhang and Mr. Tai were bogged down in their meeting. 

They can’t flee if they ain’t got no ships. Simple math.

And that led Tim here: chilly and damp, cramped in a crane cabin high above Blüdhaven Harbor, watching Nightwing leap from barge to barge as he placed charges.

Directly beneath the crane and his perch sat what he assumed to be the base of operations. The red shipping container was isolated and washed in the bright, buzzing light of the harbor search lights. A padlocked metal door was welded onto one side. Tim thought it was clever—if anything goes awry, the Red Flag Fleet can swiftly pack up and get the hell out of dodge.

Posted in front of said red shipping container were two of the biggest guys Tim had ever seen. A sliver of anxiety thread itself through Tim’s stomach—Nightwing wasn’t exactly in tip-top shape. Hopefully he could pull it together enough to handle Wario and Kronk down there.

Although, Tim’s pretty sure Kronk made him—he kept glancing nervously up at the cabin, then at Wario. But if he had any theories, he didn’t act on them. Tim knew he was gambling a lot by simply betting that Kronk was more brawn than brains, but it came with the territory.

Tim cradled a thermos of coffee in his cold hands, blowing steam off the top. The rain was irritating him. Gotham was drizzly and dreary, but that was part of the aesthetic. In Blüd, though, it was just annoying. It came down in a fine mist, soaking his hoodie, clinging to his jeans, and blurring the crane cabin windows. 

He leaned forward and wiped the fogged glass with his sweatshirt sleeve. When he finally spotted Nightwing again, he froze.

Nightwing was staring. Right. At. Him. 

For a second time, Tim felt like his whole body just paused. He clutched his thermos so tightly his fingers cramped.

Maybe he’ll think it was just like the wind or something—

After what felt like a cursed eternity, Nightwing continued on, jumping from barge to barge back toward the dockyard.

Tim exhaled a shaky breath and collapsed into the seat behind the blinking control panel. All his organs felt like they’d grown little flittering wings. He sipped his coffee from trembling hands, feeling the warm liquid run down his throat and into his knotted belly. That was way too close.

He watched Nightwing melt back into the shadows, snaking his way towards the office. When he crouched behind a blue container near the clearing, Tim leaned forward again to get a better look. 

Nightwing’s head snapped up to the glass cabin.

Tim recoiled instantly and flattened himself into the darkness of the cabin, desperately trying to become one with the suspiciously sticky seat. 

Several tense seconds ticked by. Tim’s heartbeat pounded so loudly in his ears he was convinced the party below could hear its erratic thumping.

Just when Tim thought he was made, Nightwing turned, startled by something, and—

Spoke to someone?? Again???

Tim squinted, trying to see through the misty glass and long shadows. He was positive—absolutely positive—there was no one there.

But Nightwing kept talking, then nodded, like he and Casper had just coordinated a full tactical assault. He checked his watch—again, something Tim was beginning to think might be a real problem—and crept toward the red container.

Nightwing pulled a birdarang from his belt and flung it across the shipyard. It clattered across the wet metal, clangs echoing loudly in the night.

Tim snorted. Classic move.

Wario turned, muttered something to Kronk, and stalked off into the maze of cargo containers to investigate.

Dick stepped into the light and pounced.

Tim would never get over how cool it was watching the Bats work. From the first night he saw Robin do a quadruple somersault to watching Nightwing fight so gracefully it was practically a dance, it would always amaze him. They are heroes.

Tim leaned in, forehead nearly pressed against the cabin window, breath fogging the glass. His fingers twitched for his camera, but he quickly realized the glass would distort the shot.

Immediately, Tim realized something was very wrong. Nightwing dropped Kronk easy, but his movements were stiff. He was hurting. Tim’s mind reeled back—how Nightwing had turned away during that argument with Batman, angling his body just so, like he was subconsciously shielding an injury.

Still, ever the elegant acrobat, Nightwing spun away from a clobbering fist and delivered an electrified strike right into Kronk’s ribs. They poor guy crumpled like a sack of bricks. Tim cringed as Kronk ate a face full of gravel.

Dick was talking again, gesturing down at Kronk. Tim squinted—what on earth was he doing? 

Nightwing sagged against the shipping container, legs shaking, chest heaving. He looked like he was about to pass out.

He looked bad.

Tim’s nose was practically plastered to the glass, panic blooming in his chest. Wario was still out there—

Dick’s head snapped up, again looking at someone Tim couldn’t see. Even with the domino, Tim could see the confused, hurt look cross his face—almost like an earnest, pleading, why?

It…hurt Tim, to see Nightwing like this. Dick Grayson was light incarnate. He was kind in a world that just simply ate those people alive, chewing them up and spitting out hateful husks. You aren’t kind in Gotham. The city beats the softness out of you with a crowbar and a steel toed boot. And yet, Dick Grayson’s greatest weapon wasn’t his acrobatics or his escrima—it was his compassion. 

Tim’s favorite Bat would always be the second Robin, the one he grew up watching. But Nightwing, with the shining blue bird woven across his chest, always seemed to stand for something so big: he was goodness, pure and unapologetic. He was kind-spoken and tender-hearted despite the surging storm of utter fury the world raged around him. Tim couldn’t help but admire that.

Sometimes, late at night, when Drake Manor was cold and the shadows stretched long across the hallways, Tim would pretend.

Pretend that Dick Grayson was his older brother. The kind who shared ice cream. Made pancakes on Saturday mornings. Who said let’s go somewhere, and actually meant just the two of them.

You see, Timothy Jackson Drake was a very smart kid.

But he was also a very lonely kid.

And there’s a hard truth Tim had learned far too early: he could not think his way out of loneliness any more than he could think himself out of a broken bone.

He tried, of course. Who would he be if he didn’t? He attempted (read: failed) to intellectualize the ache, cutting it down into something he could solve with enough insight or distraction. A Comprehensive Case Study on The Terrible Chasm in My Chest: Why Tim Drake Is the Way He Is. 

He told himself he was independent, self-sufficient—his parents praised him as such. It was okay. It was okay that they left him. It was okay they never called. It was okay he felt so awfully small in a great, great world. It was okay.

But it was a hard truth to swallow nonetheless—that he could not outthink hunger, could not reason his way out of a broken leg. Hunger doesn’t care how clever you are, nor does pain yield to any frivolous methods of human articulation. He could cut it down and dress it up but it would always be there—a fundamental piece of his anatomy that was simply forgotten, yet everyone else had. One simply cannot think their way out of loneliness. 

And Tim Drake’s special kind of loneliness wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t poetic, or beautiful, or even the kind of solitude where you find yourself. 

No, Tim’s loneliness was more akin to rot. It set in slowly, creeping into his bones, his heart. It scraped against his marrow. It hollowed him out, carving and carving until there was nothing left but a yawning, gaping chasm. A bowl inside him, burning to be filled. And Tim—so empty, so sore—was left to think maybe I should have wanted less.

There were nights—bitter and sharp-edged, were he was angry at that bowl, as if rage was a better companion—when he’d imagine a big brother in the kitchen, teasing him as he cooked his buttered noodles. 

Nights where Tim had followed a father and son as they flew across the Gotham skyline, laughing while they saved kittens from trees and walked girls home safe. He’d sit there, tucked in a shadow (because were they too not Tim’s home? In the shadows, aside, hidden away, unseen, invisible in every twisted way. As if the world had simply skipped its eyes over Timothy Jackson Drake), wondering why? What have I done? What grave sin have I committed that has rendered me so unworthy?

Was it so evil? So terrible, so malicious and wrong, to be asked to be loved? Chosen first? Wanted? To not be brushed aside, skipped over, left behind. Was that really an awful thing? In a world full of fire, was Tim selfish for craving some of that warmth?

And when nobody wakes you up in the morning, and when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want. What do you call it? Freedom, or loneliness?

The crunch of big boots on gravel caught Tim’s attention. Nightwing straightened instantly, checking his watch. Why does he keep doing that? 

Nightwing sauntered out to meet Wario—who was, somehow, bigger than Kronk. He looked meaner, too: tatted, jacked, and pissed. Even from his perch, Tim could see that this guy probably ate John Cena for breakfast. 

Dick said something, and Wario responded by cracking his knuckles like he was in Fight Club.

Seriously dude? 

A few more quips—and then Wario charged. 

Tim felt like he was watching a MMA fight—high up in the arena, bright harbor lights spotlighting the brawl below. Nightwing met him halfway, escrima crackling with blue electricity. The vigilante ducked under a haymaker that probably would’ve cost him all his pretty teeth, jabbing low with his left escrima stick and feinting high with his right.

Wario, unfortunately, wasn’t just all brawn like Kronk. He caught Nightwing’s wrist and chucked him against the container’s wall.

Tim winced at the painful clang of impact. His breath caught. Wario was coming fast, and Nightwing wasn’t getting up—

He rolled, narrowly avoiding a stomp that would’ve collapsed his entire chest. He landed a kick to Wario’s knee and scrambled to his feet—

and nearly collapsed again. Tim felt adrenaline course through his own veins, as if he was in the fray. He wanted to move, to help, to do something.

Nightwing looked dazed and hurt. There was more banter that Wario most definitely did not like.

He surged forward. Nightwing dodged and spun, delivering a kick to Wario’s backside and sending him across the yard.

But Nightwing staggered too, putting some distance between them with shaky steps. He was slowing down. Tim could see it: whatever damage he took from the window wasn’t healing. If anything, it was getting worse.

Tim’s breathing quickened, his heart pounding in his chest. If Nightwing didn’t end this soon, it was going to end—badly.

Wario charged again.

Time seemed to slow.

Dick’s head turned, eyes locking on something off to his left—something Tim couldn’t see. Something Tim was very sure wasn’t there. Standing directly in Wario’s path

“Robin!” he shouted, so loud Tim could hear it in the crane cabin. “You’re too close—!“

What? Tim’s frantic heart stuttered. Robin?

Dick lunged forward, as if to protect someone—someone who was not there.

Tim caught a glint. NO—

The pipe arced fast. It connected with Nightwing’s skull with a sickening crunch. 

Dick went down hard. He did not get back up.

Panic shot through Tim like lightning, spurring him into desperate action. Wario loomed over Nightwing, triumphant, the metal pipe raised again. A dark stain spread beneath Dick’s head.

Tim’s shaking hands skated across the crane’s control panel—buttons blinking and switches he didn’t recognize. His breathing came fast. They all looked the same.

Well, all except one.

A big, glowing green button.

He pressed it and prayed.

The crane hummed to life around him. 

“Yes!” he hissed. Okay, now—

He risked a glance down below. Wario was leaning over Nightwing, seemingly gloating.

A joystick sat in the center of the panel. It was bigger than the rest, sticking out amongst the smaller blinking buttons and switches. Tim sent up another prayer and grabbed it.

The crane’s arm moved. Thank you thank you thank you.

He paused, lining it up at Wario, who was still brandishing the metal pipe.

Tim jerked the joystick to the right. The crane arm swung fast.

Then—just before it reached the end—he threw it back left.

The metal arm jolted, rattling the entire cabin. The heavy hook at the end snapped across the air—

and slammed into Wario with sickening thump-CRACK. He dropped like a puppet with the strings cut.

Tim bolted from the cabin. He slid down the ladder, trembling hands almost slipping off the cold, wet rungs. His heart hammered loud enough to drown out all sound. He hit the gravel hard and sprinted to Nightwing’s side.

“Nightwing?” he breathed, shaky fingers searching for a pulse at his neck. Panic surged through him, hot and suffocating.What if—what if he was—

A pulse. Skittering and thready, but there. Thank God. If Nightwing had died—

Tim’s blood roared in his ears. Okay. Okay okay okay. The head wound was ugly: a deep, slicing gash starting at his temple disappearing into the dark mess of blood-matted hair. It still bled sluggishly, a crimson pool growing beneath Nightwing’s head. It needed stitches…or staples. 

There was also blood on his lips, and Tim could see a half torn-open scab on his chin. Huh. Must be from the window. How bad was he, really…?

Focus. 

He needed to…do what, exactly? Drag Nightwing out? And then what? Hi Urgent Care, ah yes, this is Nightwing, the vigilante—he just caught a home run swing to the temple. Could you like…fix him? And make sure he doesn’t die? Because if he does I’m pretty sure Batman will nuke Gotham. 

Gravel bit into Tim’s knees as he crouched, lip between his teeth, scrambling for a plan. He could—

“HEY!”

A shout. Tim’s head snapped up.

Oh. Shit.

Goons—a lot of them—were spilling out of a boat across the clearing, more waiting to board. Tim let out a string of curses that would’ve definitely earned him a bar soap to the mouth from his mother—if she ever stuck around long enough to care. 

Shift change. That’s why Nightwing had kept checking his watch.

Tim’s throat tightened. There was no time to think. The goons were sweeping closer, voices loud, weapons raised. In a stroke of strategic cowardice, he scrambled out of the light, snatching up the detonator Nightwing had dropped. He scampered to the shadows of nearby cargo containers, pressing his small frame flat against the wet metal. The dampness seeped through his hoodie and jeans. He shivered, desperately hoping the goons hadn’t seen his flight into the shadows. 

I’m no help to Nightwing if I’m dead.

He tried to breathe, tried to think, but his chest seized, heart pounding against his ribs. The detonator trembled in his grip. He wracked his brain for an escape plan—one that involved him (a twelve-year-old) dragging an unconscious, twenty-something vigilante to safety while evading a bakers dozen of goons, all who looked like varying clones of the Rock.

Nope. No time to plan. He needed a distraction. Something to—

Wait. Nightwing had just spent the past hour placing charges.

That was most definitely a distraction.

Tim drew a shaky breath and gripped the detonator tighter. He heard yelling and gravel crunching from behind him. Now or never. 

He pressed the button.

Boom. 

Fire erupted in the harbor, metal and wood and water exploding into flames and smoke. One of the barges lifted off the water entirely, tearing in half before crashing back down in a great geyser of saltwater and steel.

More explosions followed, chain reactions shattering the night as more and more barges blew. The crane behind him rattled. Debris peppered the surrounding cargo containers. It was utter, deafening chaos.

A wave of heat assaulted Tim, knocking him off his feet. Goons scattered, screaming and diving for cover. The fire lit the dockyard in an eerie, flickering red-orange glow. Smoke clawed at Tim’s throat, his eyes stinging as he tried to breathe through heat and ash.

He peeked around the container, eyes desperately scanning for—

Gone.

Nightwing was gone.

What?!!!

Tim lunged from his hiding spot. The harbor was a nightmare: the water caught fire where burning barges leaked oil onto the surface, their mangled hulls drifting like great fiery skeletons. The cargo containers closest to the blasts were blown to absolute bits, while others looked like the frontlines of a war zone. Several sirens wailed in the distance.

Some goons were out cold. Others staggered through the smoke, covered in ash and debris.

Tim needed to get out of here, now. 

Tim ran, heart thudding wildly, shoes kicking up rocks and debris. 

All that greeted him was a red stain on the gravel.

Nightwing was gone.

Tim whirled. Smoke suffocated his chest and lungs, and he doubled over in a fit of coughing that left him dizzy.

He was unconscious—how the hell did he move?

Tim blinked through the haze, eyes watering. The sirens grew louder. He needed to leave—

THERE!

A stumbling shadow, hunched and definitely not graceful. A dark figure swung from the dock watchtower to the roof of a nearby building. Tim heard the faint chink-vhiiiip of a grapple.

Tim sputtered at the audacity—then coughed so hard his ribs ached.

“That dumbass,” he wheezed.

Still hacking, Tim took off in pursuit, heading the way they’d come—back toward Nightwing’s apartment. His feet pounded the pavement as he sprinted from the dockyard. He wove through alleyways, lungs burning, heart racing. Nightwing was hurt—he was going to get himself killed.

Up ahead, the grapple fired again. Nightwing swung toward another rooftop—and missed. He sailed right over the roof, slamming into the opposite ledge and falling right over the side.

For a horrible, heart-stopping moment, there was silence. Tim’s heart stuttered. He held his breath—

Thud.

Tim bolted toward the building, panic swelling in his burning chest. Maybe he landed in a dumpster. Please let it be a dumpster.

He skidded around the corner, bracing for brain matter on the sidewalk—

Empty. The alley was empty.

Tim stopped short, baffled. There was absolutely no way—

A nearby pile of garbage groaned. Tim crept forward, and—

Yep. Nightwing, flat on his back in a glorious heap of wet black bags and banana peels.

Tim knelt beside him, mind spinning. Maybe he could build a stretcher. Or maybe a wheelbarrow. Would it be bad to steal a shopping cart?

The vigilante didn’t move. But his chest rose and fell, so that was a win. The horrible wheezing sound that accompanied it was…less of a win.

Nightwing coughed—a terrible, thick sound that scraped Tim’s nerves raw. Blood bubbled at his lips. He shifted, head lolling toward Tim.

“…Jas’n…?”

Oh.

Oh.

You see, Tim prided himself on being a very smart kid. He’d figured out the identities of the Batfamily before he even hit puberty. He’d just pulled off a mad genius level distraction-escape-plan-thing at the docks with nothing but sheer prayers. 

But never, in a million years, did Tim ever consider…

The pieces snapped into place—they painted a horrible, sick picture. One of grief and loneliness and insurmountable guilt.

Talking to air. Mission debriefs with Casper. The glass. 

Tim got it now.

Suddenly, Nightwing gripped Tim, seeming spurred on by a bolt of panic. His fingers dug into Tim’s arms, the kevlar of his gloves rough against his skin.

“I—I’m sorry, Jason—please—" Nightwing tried to sit up, only gripping Tim tighter, nearly pulling him off his knees and into the wet concrete.

“You don’—you don’ have to forg’ve me, Jay.” He pleaded, his rough voice thick and wet and full of emotion. Tim was frozen in his grip, that sense of wrongness—of being privy to something he should most certainly not see—swooped in his gut.

“Just—please—know that I—I’m sorry. ‘M sorry ‘m sorry ‘m sorry—"

Nightwing coughed again, wet and harsh. Tim flinched.

“Dick,” Tim whispered, voice barely loud enough for himself to hear. “You’re hurting me.”

Nightwing let go as if Tim’s skin burned. A tense second passed, filled by the sounds of Nightwing’s ragged breathing and Tim’s heartbeat pounding in his ears. Dampness from the moist pavement seeped into his jeans.

“Alright, Mr. Nightwing, sir,” Tim murmured, trying to dispel the tension, looking around for something—anything—that could help. “I’m gonna…uh. Get you out of here.”

He leaned forward into a crouch and slung one of Nightwing’s arms over his shoulder.

“Okay,” Tim said, bracing himself. “We gotta stand now. You ready?”

Nightwing hummed.

“I’m taking that as a yes.”

Tim stood slowly, careful not to jostle Nightwing’s scrambled egg-brain. He wedged himself under Nightwing’s arm, shoulder braced hard against his ribs. Nightwing winced.

“Sorry,” Tim said, trying to be even gentler. The older boy sagged heavily on Tim, smelling like blood and smoke and garbage.

His legs gave out immediately. 

“Woah—nonono, up, up, come on—" Tim grunted, nearly buckling himself. He adjusting his grip, knees bending under the weight. He wrapped one arm tight around Nightwing’s ribs to keep him upright. Nightwing’s head lolled onto Tim’s shoulder, dark hair sticking to his forehead in sweaty clumps. Blood had partially dried in thick, dark rivulets down one side of his face. Tim couldn’t see his eyes beneath the domino, but he had a sinking feeling things weren’t exactly looking too hot under there.

“Okay,” Tim muttered, “this is fine. You’re fine. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.” He started to half carry, half drag Nightwing out of the alley, shoes scraping on the wet pavement.

If I get mugged in Blüdhaven carrying their damn patron vigilante, Tim thought darkly, I am leveling an entire city block.

“Alright,” Tim panted, “you, uh…still with me, Mr. Nightwing?”

He better be—they had five blocks to cover. At their crawling pace, Nightwing would probably pass out again before they even got halfway.

Another vague hum. Not great.

Normally you’re more talkative, Tim thought grimly.

Tim’s knees wobbled. His hoodie stuck to him, soaked through with rain and sweat and Nightwing’s blood. Every few seconds, he craned his neck to check Nightwing’s breathing.

Nightwing jolted in Tim’s grip, nearly sending both of them head first into the wet pavement.

“Wha—?”

“Time,” he slurred, raising a trembling wrist—his watch—toward his face. They swayed, Tim straining to keep them upright. Tim could feel the sudden, sharp panic radiating of the older boy.

Nightwing’s breathing sped up as he squinted at the display. Tim had a feeling the head wound wasn’t doing him any favors.

“Umm…I blew the charges.” Tim croaked, legs burning. “Back there. So. That’s—handled. You don’t gotta worry.”

“What—time,” Nightwing grit out.

Tim blinked. That…wasn’t what he’d expected. Like at all, actually. But Nightwing was clearly unraveling, so he complied. Tim reached up his other hand and gently tugged Nightwing’s wrist toward him.

“It’s, uhh,” Tim squinted at the digital interface. “…1:18 a.m.” 

Nightwing exhaled, tension bleeding out of his frame as he slumped against Tim.

Weird, Tim thought.

Nightwing coughed a raw, rattling sound that pitched him forward. Tim staggered, almost sending both of them face first into the pavement. His heart hammered in his chest.

“We got four more blocks,” Tim grunted. “You go down, I will drag you.”

Nightwing let out a shuddering exhale. The smell of iron filled Tim’s nostrils.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the echo of their uneven footsteps and ragged breathing.

Tim, unable to bear the quiet, started talking again. “The second Robin was my favorite,” he said quietly. “He was—he laughed. A lot. And he like…got people, you know?” Tim immediately winced at himself. Of course Nightwing knew—that was his damn brother.

Hello foot, meet mouth.

Tim soldiered on. He can die of embarrassment after they’ve made it back to Nightwing’s apartment. He decided to change tactics.

“I met you once, you know.” Tim began softly. His lungs ached from inhaling the smoke, and he was now drenched in sweat, but he continued on.

“Back when you were—" Tim dropped his voice to a whisper, “a Flying Grayson.”

If Nightwing was shocked to find that Tim knew his identity, he didn’t show it.

“You took a picture with me. You—you gave me a hug.” A faint smile tugged at Tim’s lips.

That day had been perfect. His parents had cooked breakfast—Billy Joel playing on the old radio his mom kept in the kitchen, spring air wafting in through the windows she’d opened. His father helped him set the table. He giggled when his mother put a dollop of pancake batter on his nose. They ate together—really together. 

Then they’d gone to Haly’s Circus.

His mother let him get cotton candy. His father read him the history of the circus while they sat in their seats. Tim treasured how—for once—it felt like they were a real family. 

And then the Flying Graysons fell.

Tim cleared his throat. They were close now, only three blocks away. Nightwing stumbled again, going slack.

“No—hey, Mr. Wing, if you go down, you’re taking both of us—"

Tim braced against a lamppost, giving Nightwing a second to recover. The guy was clearly trying, but he was out of it—Tim didn’t want to guess how many injuries he was collecting underneath that suit.

Not just the physical ones, too. 

“I didn’ mean it,” Nightwing gasped, head bowed low. “Please Little Wing—I never meant a word of what I said—"

His chest shook, as if he was trying swallow his sobs, bury them somewhere deep. Even half-conscious, Nightwing still did not feel worthy of his own pain.

His head snapped up. “Time.” He fumbled to raise his wrist, hand trembling.

Tim caught it gently steadying the shaking limb as he read the display. “It’s 1:34 a.m.”

Nightwing’s arm went slack, slipping from Tim’s grasp. That…calmed him. A little. Tim decided to put his confusion in a little box and chuck it—he can be confused when they weren’t fumbling around the worst parts of Blüdhaven at one in the morning.

They stood there for a minute, catching their breath. Nightwing eventually seemed a hair steadier, and they pushed on.

Tim’s back ached and his legs felt like noodles. The arm slung around Nightwing’s ribs was cramping from holding him so tight. Still they trudged on—one soggy, painful, determined step at a time.

One block left. Tim could see the apartment building now. There was absolutely zero chance they were making it up the fire escape—Tim was not dragging Nightwing and he did not want to climb eight flights of stairs while doing it. They’d just have to take their chances with the ancient elevator and pray that no one was wandering the building.

“You gotta stay alive,” Tim blurted. Nightwing didn’t respond—just breathed, shaky and thin. 

“You gotta stay alive,” he repeated, quieter. 

“If—if you don’t…” Tim trailed off, swallowing hard. “Batman—he’ll—"

Well, Tim isn’t exactly sure what Batman would do if he lost another bird. Especially his firstborn. He might turn his wrath on Blüdhaven—on Metropolis, on the rest of the world. 

Tim suppressed a shudder. A Batman with no Robins—that would be the end of world as we know it.

The elevator ride up to Dick’s apartment was…awkward.

They stood under the flickering light, elevator creaking and groaning around them. Their haggard breaths echoed in the cramped space. Tim kept his eyes glued to the dirty floor. His was arm still wrapped around Nightwing’s ribs; the vigilante’s arm still slung over his shoulders, heavy and limp.

For the first time that night, Nightwing managed a coherent sentence.

“Looks worse th’n it feels,” he slurred, cheek resting on top of Tim’s head.

Tim frowned. “Really?”

“No.”

The elevator dinged. They stepped out and hobbled down the grimy hallway. Tim, of course, knew what apartment was Dick’s: #428. 

He glanced up and down the corridor. If anybody stepped outside now…well, that would be capital B bad. Fortunately, no one seemed to be interested in wandering a crappy apartment building at one in the morning.

Gently, Tim eased Nightwing down onto the floor, back against the wall. His head slumped forward. Tim stretched—several cracks popping along his aching spine—then wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans and pulled out his lock picks.

Being a lonely kid had its perks. Hours of unrestricted internet access and days spent in a cold, empty house left Tim with a long list of useless skills—lock picking being one of them.

It took longer than he liked. He had to keep stopping to make sure Nightwing was still breathing. 

The lock clicked. “Yes!” Tim whispered, nudging the door open and turning back to where he’d left the vigilante.

He looped Nightwing’s arm over his shoulder and wrapped his arm around the older boy’s ribs. Despite Tim’s best efforts to be gentle, Nightwing hissed in pain as Tim hauled him up.

“Sorry, sorry. We’re almost—"

A lock clicked behind him. A door creaked open. A sliver of warm light spilled into the dim hallway.

Two doors down, an old woman stood in her doorway. She had on a robe and slippers, her white hair twisted into a dozen hot rollers. Her face was set in a tight, unmistakably disapproving frown.

Tim froze like a deer in headlights carrying a bleeding, damn near unconscious vigilante.

They stared at each other. Tim didn’t breathe. The intensity of her glare made his skin crawl.

She looked…annoyed?

“Tell him,” she said, her voice thick with an accent Tim couldn’t quite place; Greek, maybe? “To stop throwing things.”

Tim swallowed, throat tight. Beside him, Nightwing groaned and nearly pitched both of them forward again.

“Yes—yes ma’am,” Tim stammered, righting them. He turned to drag Nightwing into the apartment, but the woman spoke again.

“He sad for him,” she said, features softening. “This little wing.”

Tim blinked. That sense of wrongness—of trespassing on hallowed ground, the same he’d felt when he’d watched the two titans argue on that rooftop—returned.

“Tell him…” She paused, searching for the words. “To release. Little wing. And himself.”

Her steely gaze caught Tim’s.

“Do not measure life by death.”

Tim nodded, exhausted arms starting to tremble under Nightwing’s weight. The woman gave one firm nod and retreated into her apartment, door clicking shut behind her. The hallway sank back into its grimy dim light.

Tim staggered inside and dropped Nightwing on his couch. He scrambled back to the door, peeked into the hall one last time, then locked it.

Okay. He could feel panic mounting in his throat, his lungs. He’s a vigilante. Vigilante’s have…medkits. Right?

Tim bolted to the kitchen, tearing through drawers and cabinets—all recently reorganized, surprisingly—and came up empty. Cursing, he sprinted to the bathroom, flinging open the cabinet under the sink.

Bingo—a fully stocked first aid kit.

He hauled it to the living room, dropping it beside the couch. Nightwing was still breathing (thank God).

Tim dug out a pair of latex gloves and rushed back to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. He scrubbed like his life depended on it (don’t say Grey’s Anatomy never taught him anything).

Heart hammering, gloves snapping into place, Tim dropped to his knees beside the older boy. 

“Alright,” he said aloud, exhaling a deep, shaky breath. He tried to remember his training—College of Medical Soap Operas, Google University, and Institute of  Triaging Batman’s Victims.

Tim swallowed hard, fighting against his racing heart and unsteady breaths. Half of Nightwing’s face was caked in dried blood—so much so that is domino was starting to peel off. Tim reached for the mask, meaning to gently remove it, but stopped. Was that…wrong? He didn’t know this guy (Tim did. Tim did know Dick Grayson) and it felt…invasive to pull off his mask.

Tim cleared his throat. “Um, Mr. Nightwing, sir? I’m gonna…take off your mask now. Is that…okay?” Tim’s hands hovered, frozen in midair. Nightwing’s head lolled toward him.

“Jay…?” he slurred, reaching up with a trembling, gloved hand to cup Tim’s face. A thumb ghosted over his cheek. It was so gentle.

It took every single ounce of willpower Tim had in his small body to not lean into the touch.

Tim’s breathing hitched as Nightwing’s hazy eyes searched his face, desperate.

“I’m—I’m Tim,” he finally whispered. The hand didn’t move.

Nightwing doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Jaybin—my Little Wing,” he went on, voice breathy and hoarse. His chest hitched again, a sob escaping his throat. A tear slid down Tim’s cheek—Nightwing brushed it away with his thumb.

“There is nothing—nothing I wouldn’ do Jay, please—‘m sorry I—"

Nightwing’s pleas to his dead brother were cut off with a cough.

Tim’s heart twisted in his chest (for himself or Nightwing, Tim couldn’t tell) as he leaned away from the touch. Nightwing’s hand slipped away, falling limp.

Tim shook his head and swiped at his eyes. He needed to focus. He can be touch starved later.

Carefully, Tim peeled off the mask. Two heavily lidded sapphire eyes blinked up at him, full of glistening tears. Now that the domino was off, they rolled down his cheeks in fat, sorrowful droplets. Man, Dick looked exhausted. 

In hindsight, a lot of that…actually made sense now. If Dick was seeing Jason while awake, his dreams were probably a lot worse.

Okay. Okay. This is fine. Head injury protocol. Triage rules. Don’t panic (panicking is stupid).

Tim was already far past panic, but he’d done this before.

(CRACK!

Tim’s hands flew to his mouth as he looked away. Bile—sour and acidic—rose in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God—

Batman dropped the metal pipe with a clang that echoed like a damnation through the alley. He stalked away, cape billowing out behind him like Death’s own black cloak.

No—not like Death. Here, Death would have been a mercy.

Batman’s scourge was not Death, but something worse. A different Horseman, one that beat righteous fury into his own twisted weapon and labeled it “Justice”. But this Justice had no blindfold; she saw, and she wept.

Tim pressed himself even harder into the wall, as if he could melt into the rough brick. Terror squeezed his lungs, his throat, suffocating him. A low rumble turned to a roar as the Batmobile sped off into the night.

Tim stayed, wedged between two dumpsters, back flat against the brick wall, until he heard a whimper.

Ever so carefully, Tim crept out of his hiding spot toward the man lying prone on the wet concrete.

The poor soul’s face was swollen to almost unrecognizable proportions, bruised and bloody. His nose was smashed, and so were all his fingers. His jaw was horribly broken, teeth smashed in, blood bubbling on his lips; it jutted too far to the left.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

No, the worst of it had to be the gushing head wound.

Tim could see it, clear as day, as the man’s hair was buzzed close to his head. Where Batman had hit him with the metal pipe was indented—a terrible, bleeding crater. Cracks laced through the depression, as if this unfortunate man’s head was simply an oversized egg that had fallen off the counter. Bits and pieces of white bone glinted in the dim light. Blood gushed from every crevice, angry crimson rivulets forming a dark pool beneath the man’s deformed skull. 

Tim turned and emptied the contents of his stomach into a nearby trashcan.

Swiping his mouth with a trembling hand, Tim knelt beside the man. His eyes, unfocused, dazed, yet unmistakably terrified, slid over to Tim; his tears mixed with his blood as they ran down his face.

The man reached out a hand, clutching Tim like a drowning victim. With one hand, Tim held on to the man as he gurgled in pain. With the other, he called an ambulance.

Tim knew what to do here. Gently, he turned the man onto his side, though his wails of protest rattled Tim’s bones. 

Can you squeeze my fingers? He asked. Can you lift my hand?

The man could not. Tim was not surprised. 

Clear fluid leaked out of his ears, mingling with the blood and tears. That was cerebrospinal fluid. That was a very bad sign.

Tim didn’t need to check for a concussion or raccoon bruising—that was pretty much a given. He could shine his phone flashlight into the man’s eyes to check his pupils, but it seemed like an unnecessary cruelty. The damage had already been done.

Sirens wailed in the distance. The man cried harder, a horrible, wet hiccuping sound that reached icy fingers into Tim’s chest cavity and squeezed.

So Tim talked to the man. Anything to distract him from the agony, though Tim knew his empty words probably offered little comfort.

Tim told the man about his parents’ archeological digs. They were in Mali right now. Just the other day, they’d found coins minted with Mansa Musa’s face. Tim told the man how he wished he could be there—he liked photography, you see, and Mali was such a beautiful country.

When the paramedics arrived, Tim made to scurry away. But the man locked onto his arm, grip tightening, pleading. So he stayed until the paramedics loaded him into the ambulance, only letting go when the paramedics told him it was time to transport him.

Later, Tim would learn that the man would survive—but the entire left side of his body was paralyzed. He would need physical therapy for the rest of his life.

The paramedics had told him the man would’ve died if it weren't for Tim. That didn’t make him feel any better.)

Tim grabbed his phone and gently pried Dick’s eyelids wider. Dick winced, weakly trying to pull away.

“Sorry, sorry. But I gotta check your pupils,” he muttered shining a light into the vigilante’s vibrant blue eyes. “If one of these is huge, we got a real problem.”

Tim shined the light into one eye, then the other. He leaned in, squinting.

“Same size. That’s good.” He set the phone aside and dashed to the kitchen, wetting a clean(?) dish towel with warm water. He kelt by the couch again, gently pressing the warm cloth against the angry gash on Dick’s temple. He winced, but didn’t lean away.

As delicately as he could, Tim cleaned the dried blood off Dick’s face and disinfected the wound. Dick’s head drooped, eyes slipping closed.

Tim flicked him in the forehead. 

“Uh-uh. Nope.” He picked up Dick’s hand. “Can you squeeze my fingers? Just…squeeze if you can hear me.” For a horrifying second, nothing. Then—barely—Dick’s fingers twitched closed around his. Tim let out a shaky breath. Okay. Probably no brain bleed. Probably. Hopefully. Yeah.

Tim moved around, checking Dick’s ears, probing gently behind his head. No fluid. Skull’s not squishy. Tim squinted at Nightwing’s face. The area around the gash was turning an ugly purple-yellow color, but there was no raccoon bruising around his eyes. That’s good.

“If you stop breathing,” Tim muttered resuming the gentle cleaning, “I’m calling someone and lying through both our teeth.”

“Please Little Wing,” Dick’s eyes slipped closed again. “Jus’ let me rest.”

Tim let him rest. God knows he needs it.

He’d lost a lot of blood, and who knows what other injuries were hiding under the suit. But at least they’d moved out of the OhFuckHeMighDie zone and into You’reGonnaHaveOneHellOfAShittyHeadache territory. Which was fine by Tim—better than having Batman vaporize him with his glare.

Tim finished cleaning the wound, forgoing stitches because he didn’t know how the fuck to do those and the gash wasn’t bleeding too heavily anymore. Instead, he pulled a some gauze from the medkit and gently pressed it to the wound, wrapping a bandage around Dick’s head a few times to keep it in place. That would simply have to do.

He sat back, suddenly aware of how cold he was. And wet. And smelled like blood and smoke and sweat. 

And holy shit was he exhausted. His limbs felt like lead, his eyes gritty and tired. His muscles ached and his clothes had this permanent dampness. He felt like he ran a marathon with a bleeding vigilante strapped to his back in the rain.

Which, in all honesty, he kind of had.

He checked Dick’s pulse—still slow, but stronger now—and watched his even breathing for a few long minutes. Then he stood, stiff joints creaking, and shuffled to the kitchen. He peeled off the gloves and tossed them in the garbage. He washed his hands, staring numbly out the window as the warm water ran through his fingers.

What the hell just happened?

Tim…really couldn’t answer that

Instead, he rummaged through the kitchen, pulling out a glass and a bowl. He filled the glass with water and the bowl with dry cereal (because apparently Dick Grayson literally ate nothing else). He shuffled back over the Dick and placed them on the coffee table, along with a bottle of Tylenol he pulled from the medkit.

Then he turned back to the kitchen, pulling out the legal pad and pen he’d spotted while searching for the medkit. He plopped down on a barstool, preparing to write… something.

What—what the hell was he even supposed to say?

Hi Mr. Nightwing, sir. Yeah, it’s me, your old next-door neighbor. I watched you get brained by a metal pipe while I was stalking you and proceeded to drag you back to your apartment. Your neighbor saw us, and she definitely knows. Well, she knew before, but now she like knows knows. Anyways, sweet dreams. Xoxo, Tim Drake.

Yeah, no. That wouldn’t work.

After some intense mental debate—mostly featuring Batman’s imaginary reaction to learning that Tim had uncovered Nightwing’s (and by glorious extension, his) identity—Tim opted to leave himself out of it entirely. He scribbled down what the woman had said.

Release little wing, and yourself.

Do not measure life by death. 

He moved to the fridge, grabbing a Gotham Knights baseball magnet to pin the note when he saw—

A yellow post-it.

It read:

Rules:

1. If my reflection moves when I move, I am awake.
2. If my watch tells time, I am awake.
3. If Jason has no shadow, I am awake.
4. If I can wash the blood off my hands, I am awake.

Tim’s mouth hung open. His pulse kicked up. This was…way worse than he thought. More puzzle pieces he didn’t even know he was collecting started clicking into place, revealing an even bigger and more sorrowful picture than before.

This…yep. This was bad. Tim was running out of capital b’s. He shot a glance back toward Dick—even in his sleep he looked pained. Something hollow and heavy coiled in Tim’s gut. Dick Grayson was going to get himself killed.

Tim had to do something. He had to make Batman see.

But he needed more time. More time to research, to study, to plan. Dick would never accept his help, and he couldn’t just waltz up to Batman and say, “Hey—fix your son, he’s circling the drain."

Also…leaving a cryptic note on the fridge? Yeah not great for someone with a fragile grip on reality.

So Tim pocketed the note, choosing to just…wait. He crossed to the light switch by the door and dimmed the lights.

And then he just…stood there. Watching Dick breathe, knowing he should go. Knowing he should leave.

That ache returned full force, punching him in the gut. It rose up and choked him, hot tears filling his eyes.

The bowl inside him burned to be filled. A brother. I want a big brother. I want someone to care. I want someone to see me. 

A sob clawed its way up his throat. He swallowed it down and wiped his face. 

“Goodbye, Dick,” he whispered. “Please be okay.”

Tim crossed the room to the window, glancing at the digital clock on the oven on his way out.

3:18 am.

The next bus left for Gotham at 3:30 am.

Tim stepped out onto the fire escape, pausing just long enough to glance back at the sleeping vigilante. The empty feeling in his chest threatened to swallow him whole. Tim swiped away more tears.

And left. Back to Gotham. Back to cold, empty, dark Drake Manor.

Notes:

tim tam the man!! he's just so fun to write :DD

the loneliness quote is by Milan Kundera

let's talk about the neighbor, mrs. Rhodope. while she is someone i entirely made up, i put a lot of thought into her. i pulled her name from an inscription left on an ancient dog grave: “This is the tomb of the dog, Stephanos, who perished, whom Rhodope shed tears for and buried like a human. I am the dog Stephanos, and Rhodope set up a tomb for me.”

i was just so moved. this is the epitome of human grief. as you all know, i like to use big, sweeping metaphors, repeating motifs, and super decadent monologues to talk about important themes throughout the fic. i wanted to contrast that with a woman who can express all the wisdom of a library in 27 words.

as always, i hope you enjoyed!

tata for now, little readers :)))

Chapter 8: The Stars Are Not Wanted Now

Summary:

"He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest…

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.”

- Funeral Blues, W.H. Auden

Notes:

Dick has a lovely morning :)

for all of you lovely little readers that pointed out to me that Dick could not just "walk it off": i added another chapter just for you guys! it's not this one tho 😉

Get up. Get up, Grayson. GET UP —

His body moved on instinct and instinct alone.

Rise. Fire. Swing.

He was flying.

And then he wasn’t. 

He was falling. 

But isn’t that what he always ever did?

If not him, then someone else. His parents. His baby brother—

A voice.

Jas’n..?

His hands reached out, desperate to grasp his Little Wing.

A thousand words rose inside him. All carved of guilt and sick with regret

I—I’m sorry, Jason—please—

Jason needed to know. Needed to hear. Dick regretted every last horrid, stupid word he’d spat the last time they’d spoke

You don’—you don’ have to forg’ve me, Jay.

(Which was true; Jason didn’t. Couldn’t, actually. Not when Dick would never deserve it and Jason was d—)

Jus’—please—know that I—I’m sorry. ‘M sorry ‘m sorry ‘m sorry—

He was spiraling now, clutching Jason too tight, chest caving in.

“Dick,” said his little brother, impossibly far away. “You’re hurting me.”

Dick let go. He lost time again, the world blinking in and out around him.

Blink. They were standing. Everything…hurt. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. Something trickled down his face.

Time.

He tried to lift his wrist. It wouldn’t move. Panic surged in his chest. He needed to know.

Jason was talking—something about blowing and charges—but but the blood in his ears was roaring too loud.

What—time.

A beat.

“…1:18 a.m.”

The panic drained out of him. The world narrowed.

Blink.

Where—?

Time.

He fumbled for his watch again, but his arm wouldn’t listen. It felt like he was swimming in syrup.

“It’s 1:34 a.m.,” Jason said.

Okay. Okay. He was awake.

Everything hurt. It was distant but suffocating. It made his head spin and his stomach twist and his feet stumble.

Blink.

Jason. Jason must be so scared right now. Dick needed to do something, say something—

Looks worse th’n it feels.

“Really?”

Yes, but he’s pretty sure his mouth didn’t say that. 

Blink. 

He was laying down now. Nice. A little face came into view.

Jay…?

He reached out. His little brother’s cheek was so soft and small. Would always be so soft and small. 

Jason said something. The pain was getting louder.

Jaybin—my Little Wing.

Dick wiped a tear away with his thumb. Jason was…crying? Was Dick scaring him?

Regret—clawing and biting regret scraped its way up his throat. God, he’d been so mean in the cave when they’d last spoke—

There is nothing—nothing I wouldn’ do Jay, please—‘m sorry I—

Jason had to know. Had to know that Dick would give it all for just a moment with his baby brother.

His chest heaved and burned and he couldn’t breathe and it was getting dark again and his hand fell away and his little brother—

Blink. 

A flick to his face. A stabbing bright light in his eyes. Jason still talking, but Dick couldn’t hear.

A tide was pulling him under. He was so tired.

Please Little Wing. Just let me rest. His eyes drooped low and he fell.

____________

Everything was far away—his body, his mind, his senses. The pain. But it was getting closer. As if he was rising from the depths of the ocean toward the light of the surface.

The pain returned first. Throbbing, sharp and everywhere. It pierced behind his eyes and curled around his brain. His back ached in an uncomfortable, deeply bruised-and-battered kind of way. His sore ribs complained every time they expanded to allow breath into his lungs. Stupid ribs.

His tongue felt like sandpaper, his mouth coppery and dry. His gritty eyes were swollen.

Sleep tugged at him again—an anchor tied around his ankles, pulling him back down, down, down into the depths of that ocean.

Dick was tired. So he let himself be pulled. 

---

There was no slow rise this time. No gentle float to the light of the surface. Only pain. 

Someone was screaming. The sound grated against his ears, his head, a constant roar that knocked on his very nerves.

“Wake up, dummy.”

It hurt to move his eyes beneath his lids. It hurt to think. 

Dick reluctantly peeled his heavy eyes open. The world that greeted him was…blurry. He blinked a few times as everything sharpened into focus.

He was on his couch. In his apartment. Still in the Nightwing suit.

The screaming turned out to be the rattling hum of his crappy AC unit. Oh.

“Early vigilante catches the mook, and all that noise.”

He turned his aching head to the left, neck muscles straining and pulling. Ow. On the coffee table sat a bowl of dry cereal, a glass of water, and a bottle of Tylenol.

Dick was…confused.

And then—he wasn’t. Memories of the previous night came crashing back like a tidal wave.

The harbor. The charges. Jason. 

Jason had been there a lot.

“Maybe one of these days someone’ll land a hit just right and you’ll follow suit. Oh, the irony!”

He pressed his gloved hands into his sore eyes until stars burst behind his lids. He wrinkled his nose. The suit smelled of blood and sweat and smoke. Yuck.

Everything got a little fuzzy the closer Dick got to the red container where Madam Zhang’s office had been. There were…two guys. Yeah. Two big fuckin’ guys. He beat one. Planted a charge(?) Then…then there was…another?

He winced as he was hit with a sudden memory of being thrown around like a ragdoll. His skull throbbed in sympathy. Stupid skull.

Dick wracked his scrambled brain, desperately trying to dig up memories. It felt like looking through a foggy door—he knew there was something on the other side, that there was supposed to be something on the other side, but the glass was just too—

Wait.

Glass.

Mirror.

Am I—?

Dick lifted his wrist, willing his blurry, strained eyes to focus.

6:38 a.m.

He covered the watch and looked away, fingers fidgeting along the rubber buttons. His heartbeat ticked up, the cold edges of panic nibbling at his psyche.

He looked back.

6:40 a.m.

He let out a shaky breath. I’m awake. 

He sat up slow, wary of his sore, aching body. He took a few sips of water from the glass on the coffee table to banish the iron tang from his mouth. He didn’t remember putting it there.

Sometimes, as a vigilante, he made it back home by sheer dumb grace. Small, unimportant nuances like how and when often got chucked in the fuck-it bucket. Comes with the territory.

Sometimes, Dick just chooses peace. 

Because—especially right now—trying to figure it out would light up a flashing neon arrow toward PanicAttackville. And he was not going there today.

So he’s gonna chalk this one up to his elite vigilante instincts and let that shit lie.

Oh fuck. His head… hurt.

He reached up to massage his temples, only to hiss in pain when his fingers brushed gauze. Yep. That’d be the railroad spike currently wedged behind his eyes. 

“Someone took a cheap shot,” he muttered, voice dry and hoarse.

“Right upside the head, Dickie.”

Dick jolted, nearly jumping right off the couch. Every bruise lit up in protest, skull throbbing like it had its own heartbeat. He squinted in the direction of the offending voice.

There, on the edge of the couch, sat Jason, his Robin suit pristine.

A warm-cold feeling surged in Dick’s chest.

Warm, because his little brother was here—curls, teal eyes and all. He looked twelve. Dick wasn’t alone.

Cold, because it was only the ghost of his little brother. Only what Dick cannot let go. Dick was alone.

Even love turns cruel in the hands of a ghost—it can’t touch, only haunt.

Dick looked away, eyes stinging.

“Thanks for stating the obvious,” he muttered.

From the corner of his eye, Jason shrugged. “Just being a bud, Dickwing.”

“Mind filling me in on what I missed?” Dick asked, already knowing the answer.

Jason heaved a familiar, overdramatic sigh. “If only I could. You’re the one who got brained.”

Dick huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes, instantly regretting it as white hot pain spiked through his skull.

He needed to get up. Needed to shower. Definitely needed to throw his suit in the wash wow yuck.

He picked up a few pieces of the dry cereal—Frosted Flakes—and popped them in his mouth.

This was a terrible idea.

The crunch felt like chewing gravel, flexing the wound on his temple and aggravating his already sore jaw. After a few agonizing chews, he gave up and settled on leaving it in his mouth until the flakes softened into mush. Which was an even more terrible idea. He hated mushy cereal.

Dick suppressed the almost overwhelming urge to throw something.

He reached for the bottle of Tylenol. Throwing an indiscriminate amount of pills in his hand, he grabbed the glass of water and gulped them down. With a grunt, he peeled himself off the couch, wobbling on jello legs that threatened to drop him right back down. The room rocked about him like a boat on choppy waters. He stood still, swaying as if he was on the deck.

Rain pitter-pattered against the roof, filling the apartment with a damp, earthy smell. His suit chafed against his bruised skin. His head felt too heavy for his shoulders.

Once the room stopped spinning, he staggered to the bathroom. Keeping his eyes low, he fumbled for the light switch. Unthinking, he flicked it on.

The ensuing light stabbing his sensitive eyes like knives almost made him upchuck right there.

He slammed the lights back off again with such force the glasses in the kitchen rattled. He stood, swallowing down his roiling stomach and breathing heavily through the pain in his head. The gash stung as sweat dripped down his face. 

Panic needled at his lungs. If I can’t look in the mirror, if I can’t see—

How will I know?

He breathed hard. It was fine. He could just check his watch and it would be fine.

His heart thundered in his chest, pounding against his sore ribs. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, feet aching.

Just look, he told himself. A quick peek. It’ll be fine.

I have to know.

He raised his eyes.

The reflection looking back at him was wrecked. White gauze was wrapped haphazardly around his head, a thick pad of it taped down over his temple. His hair stuck up in wild directions, one half crunchy and spiked with dried blood. The Nightwing suit clung to him like a smoke-smelling second skin, streaked with ash and blotched with dark blood. In the faint light from the living room, the shadows under his eyes looked cavernous.

He lifted a hand and waved at the mirror. A knot of tension loosened in his chest when the glass waved back. It also mimicked him as he slowly unwrapped the gauze, wincing when the dried blood tugged at the raw skin.

Both Dick Grayson and his vigilante counterpart have been called every variation of pretty under the sun. He never really understood why—half the time, he was beaten, bruised, and horribly sleep deprived from his extensive nightlife. The other half was just weird old people looking at him with a glint in their eyes that made his insides squirm in an uncomfortable stop-fucking-looking-at-me kind of way.

He eyed the bruise blooming across his face—purple, yellow, green, and angry, stretching from cheekbone to eyebrow, across his temple and into his hairline.

He really hoped it made him roguishly handsome and not like he lost a fight with a metal pipe.

The gash wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Sure, it was still pretty bad—a thick, ragged wound curving from his temple and into his scalp—but manageable. Nothing he couldn’t fix with some sunglasses, strategic lighting, and never leaving his apartment. Maybe he’d even get a cool scar out of it.

All this focusing in the mirror was only exacerbating his already terrible headache. He needed to shower. Needed to—

“Sheesh. Y’know, Dickwing, you were always the prettyboy. This’ll make those Anakin Skywalker fans go nuts,” Jason said from somewhere behind him.

Dick’s frantically scanned the mirror. The post-it of his Rules sat stuck to the glass, sacred, like the Ten Commandments of Dick’s Tenuous Grip on Reality. There was no Jason in the reflection, only bone-tired, bruised, and battered Dick. He whirled around—

And had to clutch the doorframe to keep from toppling over. His head was spinning like a top while his feet felt cemented to the hardwood. Dick blinked through the vertigo, breath tight and shallow, stomach threatening to revolt.

“Dude,” Jason said, voice suddenly closer “are you okay?”

“Yes,” Dick bit out, still white-knuckling the frame. The spinning passed, thank God, and Dick got to keep what little food he had in his stomach.

Jason huffed. “Whatever you say…” He turned and walked into the kitchen, disappearing around the corner.

In a flash of panic, Dick reached out to his little brother, a come back already half formed on his tongue and heavy on his lips. He stumbled forward a few steps, turned the corner—

Empty. The kitchen was empty.

Dick licked his chapped lips and swallowed down the lump in his throat. The lingering taste of blood soured his already queasy stomach. His head hurt, his back hurt, his ribs hurt—fuck, everything hurt.

And he was alone and his father didn’t love him anymore and he was kicked out of his own fucking city and his little brother was dead and he was all alone and it was all his fault—

Dick leaned heavily on the cold counter, breath hitching as a fresh wave of tears threatened to spill out of his eyes.

That little glass jar of grief he’d so expertly tucked on that shelf high in his mind teetered precariously close to the edge. A whisper, a tear, a breath—and it would fall and shatter and Dick would fall and shatter right along with it. Right into a thousand million tiny little pieces and once Dick opened he would never close again and that great yawning beast of a chasm inside him would wake and tear him apart—

A knock.

There was a knock at his door.

Soft, but audible. Polite. 

Dick froze.

Another knock.

Dick wiped his face and moved toward the door—then froze again. Shit. I’m still in the suit. 

“One second!” he called, wincing at how wrecked his voice sounded. He scrambled toward his bedroom, yanked on a bathrobe over the suit, and staggered back toward the door.

He tried to take a deep breath to steady his nerves, but his ribs protested the full inflation of his lungs so he gave up and just opened it.

Standing there, in hot rollers and a robe herself, was—

“Good morning, Mrs. Rhodope,” Dick said, breathless, plastering on a smile that tugged painfully at his temple. He could feel the throb of his heart throughout his entire battered body. It was a great feeling.

Oh God, his head wound—

He could feel the air brushing against it. There was no gauze on it now. Just a raw, rainbow bruised gash on full display.

“Good morning, Richard,” Mrs. Rhodope returned, curt and unreadable. “You”—she raised a judgmental eyebrow, eyes scanning his no doubt terrible looking face—“sleep?”

Dick paused, trying to process her words. It was like thinking through molasses. He abandoned the idea, instead choosing his favorite method of deny deflect deny deny deflect.

“Yes ma’am, Mrs. Rhodope,” he finally said.

She squinted, unimpressed. Dick fidgeted with his watch, running his thumb over the rubber buttons.

“You do not look like it.”

Dick gave her a sheepish smile and brought a hand up to rub his neck and woah did that hurt like a bitch but he was committed now.

“You got me there,” he said, aiming for charm. “I, uh, walked into a doorframe.” He tried to spice it up with a self-deprecating laugh, but it devolved into a pained wince. He could hardly stand up straight, opting to lean heavily on the door. 

Her judgmental eyebrow climbed impossibly higher; the force of her incredulous gaze rivaled the Batglare. Dick went back to fussing with his watch, like it might teleport him away. How can a seventy-four year old woman in hot rollers be this terrifying?

“Little boy,” she said, calm and firm. “He here? He speak to you?

Dick blinked, thrown. Completely thrown. Utterly, wholly thrown.

Did she mean—

“Tell him he need eat more food.” She tsked, shaking her head. The plastic of her rollers clinked together. “He too small. Next time he drag you back, I feed.”

Mrs. Rhodope could’ve pulled out a shotgun and blasted Dick point blank and he would’ve been less surprised. He just stood there, mouth agape, Statue of WhatInTheWholeEntireFuck, staring. 

She sighed like he’d disappointed her personally (for some murky reason, Dick felt like he had).

“Find little boy, Richard. He need you. You need him.” With that, she turned and shuffled back to her apartment, bathrobe swishing, rollers bouncing lightly as she walked.

Dick stayed where he was, still gaping like a fish in his own doorway.

_________________

Everything was a lot. Too much, actually—and Dick didn’t nearly have the bandwidth for a lot right now. He could chuck it all in the fuck-it bucket, but that particular coping mechanism was really close to fucking overflowing as of late. Practically sloshing.

So, like any, responsible, twenty-something vigilante with boatloads of unresolved trauma and a tight schedule, he did the next best thing: wrapped that looming mental breakdown in a neat little box, slapped a lovely red bow on top, and filed it away under Deal With That Shit Later.

It works wonders, everyone.

Mrs. Rhodope knows who I am.

Yeah, that was fine. She wouldn’t tell anyone (right?). (Probably. Yeah.)

And then there was—

Keys jingled at the door. No time for incoming mental breakdowns.

Sneaking into the commissioner’s house had been easy. Dick had been sneaking into Jim Gordon’s office since he was running around in little green pixie boots with no pants.

Now it was Blüdhaven’s very own Maggie Sawyer’s turn. Having Dick Grayson pull up in your kitchen just came with the Police Commissioner territory

She’d had a busy day thanks to the bombastic party he’d thrown at the docks last night. The Snow Leopards had vanished underground and Madam Zhang was hunkering down—the BPD knew their window of opportunity was closing fast.

Which was why Dick was here: sitting on a stool in her dark kitchen, awaiting her arrival.

Would it scare the shit out of her? Probably

But what can he say—Dick was always a performer at heart.

For his next trick: Dick will feel absolutely everything and absolutely nothing while maintaining a perfectly straight face.

Dick checked his watch. 8:26 p.m. He let out a breath. I’m awake.

Dick’s brains felt like scrambled eggs. He’d spent the whole day stumbling around his apartment, graceless and half-delirious. He was thoroughly exhausted—but too sore and too uncomfortable (and way too afraid of what horrors his fracturing psyche might conjure up) to actually sleep.

So he just…gutted it out. Raw-dogged it, if you will. Sleep is for the weak.

He'd meant to ask Barbara for the security footage from the docks—to see if he could ID the kid who helped drag his half-conscious ass home—but that footage would also include a front row, up close and personal seat to him getting absolutely wrecked by a metal pipe.

And how the hell was he supposed to explain that?

Oh yeah Babs no big deal. I thought I saw Jason! You know, my dead little brother? Well, I’ve been hallucinating him for the past week! Anyways, I jumped to shield him and got grand slammed in the noggin for my trouble. Totally fine though! Don’t worry please God and for the love of everything holy do NOT tell Bruce actually how about I just die—

Yeah, no. That idea got scrapped in record time. He’d handle it himself.

Except, surprise! Screens—or really any light—now made him both violently nauseous and like his skull had become a communal nesting ground for a thousand pissed off woodpeckers.

He’d figure it out. He’d find the kid. There was just…a fuckton on his plate right now

The front door opened. He heard an umbrella being shook out. Maggie shuffled in, flipped the lights on—and jumped.

“Nightwing,” she said flatly. “You’re dripping all over my hardwood.”

Dick was acutely aware that he was soaked—he'd grappled here in the rain. The wet suit chafed uncomfortably against his badly bruised skin and it still smelled faintly of smoke and iron. Distantly, Dick realized he never actually put it in the dryer.

Oops. Stupid concussion.

Dick flashed her a grin. Oof. That tugged on the gash. Not fun. Holy shit that actually really fuckin’ hurt—

“Maggie! Just thought I’d drop in. See how things were going.”

The warm scent of pad Thai filled the kitchen as she unpacked her takeout. Dick’s stomach howled in jealously. The concussion had made him too nauseous to eat all day, but the delicious smell of pad see ew was making him heavily second guess that decision.

He ran a gentle hand through his soaking hair, careful to avoid the lump on his skull. He needed to focus.

Maggie shot him an incredulous look—then froze. Concern crossed her face.

“What—" she vaguely gestured toward her own face “—happened?”

Nightwing cringed internally. He’d been hoping—praying—that the domino mask would cover most of it. That it wouldn’t be that noticeable. That no one would care.

But the look that crossed Maggie’s face—the quiet, maternal worry lining her features—made something twist in his gut. She shouldn’t be worrying. He’s the vigilante. Bumps and bruises are part of the deal. It’s fine. He’s fine.

He forced a chuckle. “Oh this?” He pointed at the glorious bruise and wonderous slice and shrugged. “All in a day’s work.”

Another emotion crossed her face, something Dick couldn’t quite place, something that made his insides squirm like guilty worms. He rubbed his thumb along the rubber buttons of his watch.

“Nightwing,” she said, setting her chopsticks down with a quiet clack. Her tone was soft and maternal. He hated it. He was fine. “That looks bad.”

He shrugged again, opening his mouth to answer, when—

“She’s right, y’know. That looks bad, Dickwing.”

Dick’s blood went cold. If he wasn’t already perched on a barstool, his legs would’ve given out. For the first time in his vigilante career, he was sincerely grateful for the white-outs of the domino. No one needed to see the panic that no doubt filled his eyes—least of all Blüdhaven Police Commissioner Maggie Sawyer.

(But apparently the mask didn’t do shit because both his next-door neighbor and some random kid who found him last night knew his secret identity so why doesn’t he just grapple around with a bright neon sign that says MY NAME IS DICK GRAYSON, HERE’S MY SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER—)

Dick checked his watch. 8:37 p.m. 

I’m awake.

Jason was perched on the countertop four feet to Maggie’s left, swinging his legs like a kid. He looked like he did earlier—Robin, young, and vibrant. Dick’s heart ached, thudding painful and too loud. 

If he was alive he’d be here. We’d be doing this together. He would quip and joke and then we’d go get ice cream. His curls would be plastered to his forehead from the rain. I’d reach out and swipe them back and he’d squawk and protest but let me do it anyways. We’d find an overhang or a awning to duck under, and he’d tell me about school and I’d tell him he’s doing great. That he has such a good heart and—

He blinked. Refocused on Maggie, folded his hands in his lap to stop them from shaking.

Dick swallowed down the panic that rose from his lungs to his throat. “Trust me, commish,” he said, breath thinner than he liked, “I’ve had worse.” He hoped she didn’t notice the tremor in his voice, or was kind enough to ignore it completely.

Maggie studied him again. Dick was suddenly reminded of Barbara—all sharp, calculating eyes and quiet concern. It warmed his chest. They’d be friends, he thought absently

She shook her head and picked up her chopsticks. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Dick’s stomach rumbled. “Nope. Go right ahead. I know you’ve had a long day.”

She sighed, scooping up some noodles.

“So—the docks. I’m assuming that was you?” She sounded more tired than accusatory.

Dick shrugged and ow, he really had to stop doing that. “Guilty as charged.”

“Okay, but the pun is actually criminal, Dickie,” Jason chimed in.

Dick sat ramrod straight, fighting tooth and nail to keep his eyes on Maggie and not on Jason. Definitely not on Jason. He liked his status as sane vigilante, thank you very much. His head was starting to throb again, and he fought to keep his breaths even and quiet. He was kinda…floaty. He should’ve taken more Tylenol before he left, but he’d maxed out his dosage and of course he hadn’t eaten—

Rain tapped against the windows. Thunder rumbled low across the sky.

“But the barges were empty. We didn’t find anything in the wreckage,” Maggie said around a bite. “Not that there was much wreckage.”

“Madam Zhang Yi Sao keeps everything in a warehouse.” Dick pulled a slip of paper with an address from a pouch and set it on the table.

Maggie shot him a look of utter disbelief. “Zhang Yi Sao.”

“Yup.”

“The tea connesiour?”

“Yup.”

She rubbed her eyes, looking stressed. Older than she had a month ago. Dick’s heart squeezed—being commissioner was not an easy job. Especially not here. This city demands too much—bleeding you dry and always asking for more, then laughing when you can’t give it.

Jason was at the glass sliding door, peering out into the rain. Dick craned his neck, slightly, just to reveal Jason cast no shadow. Had no reflection in the glass.

Okay. I’m awake.

Maggie’s eyes flicked to the glass door—where Dick had been staring a second ago—confusion crossing her face.

“They smuggled opium in hollowed-out tea bricks and packed it loose with the leaves. The strong teas mask the scent.” Dick leaned forward, breath catching as his sore body protested every inch. He forced the pain down. Not now. “I had to make sure they were stuck here before we pounced.”

Jason was back on the counter, cross-legged now, watching him with something between amusement and concern. He looked so alive. He looked so young—

Maggie swore under breath. “And what Blüdhaven customs agent can tell the difference.”

Dick nodded, pointedly ignoring Jason inspecting Maggie’s pad Thai. “Even if they can—"

“Zhang’s got buckets of money.”

“Yeah,” Dick’s mouth tightened. He nodded again.

Dick was getting tired. His last dose of Tylenol had officially long since worn off, and he still had to grapple back to his apartment. He ran another careful hand through his damp hair, fingers ginger around the bump on his noggin. 

Someone kept putting Mentos in the Coke of his fuck-it bucket.

“Look,” Dick said, wanting to wrap this up before his body mutinied completely. “I need you to raid the warehouse as soon as possible. Once Zhang disappears, she’s gone for good.”

Maggie sighed, setting down her chopsticks. She pushed away her half-eaten takeout and pulled out her phone. A few taps later, it clacked against the table as she dragged a hand down her face, already worn out by tomorrow.

“We’ll conduct the raid first thing in the morning.”

“Perfect,” Dick said, standing up.

Black bloomed at the corners of his vision, rushing in like a wave, threatening to take him down. He froze, muscles locking, breath held, fighting to keep his knees from buckling.

Apparently, he wasn’t as smooth about it as he thought.

“Nightwing,” Maggie said in that don’t-bullshit-me tone. Dick winced internally. Scratch that, she and Barbara can never meet. “Are you sure you’re alright? Look, we can get your head checked out. I’ll arrange for it to be discreet—"

“Maggie,” Dick interrupted, trying to keep the strain out of his voice. “I promise you, I’m fine.”

Jason snorted from the countertop. “Keep telling yourself that, Dickwing.”

Dick nearly shot him a glare. Nearly. 

Maggie sighed. She opened her mouth to respond, but a bolt of lightning lit up the entire kitchen, white and blinding. In that flash of light, Dick made his classic Bat-exit—slipping silently through the window he came in.

By the time the glow faded, he was gone.

---

The rain had worsened. It came down in thick, torrential sheets, soaking him to the bone.

He’d kept on with patrol after slipping out of Maggie’s house, more out of habit than purpose, but halfway through his route the storm intensified. He also kept seeing double, and even his scrambled brain knew that bad. Reluctantly, he took shelter beneath the overhang of a rooftop high above the city. It reminded him of Jason

Nostalgia curled its bittersweet fingers in his sternum, climbed up his chest and lodged itself in the back of his throat.

Nostalgia is funny.

It fills him, slowly, like warm water in his lungs until he is heavy with it. It glows gold and rose-colored, casting its light onto every corner of his memory, until even the sharpest edges look like they’ve been there all along. It holds his face in its hands, cooing this is the sweet. This is the beautiful part. Look. Remember. Rejoice.

And still—Dick is crying.

Why? Why is he crying? Ignore the sting in his eyes, the catch in his throat—this is the sweet, isn't it?

But nostalgia is funny like that.

It obeys no rules, no traditional laws of memory. Because he can drink the sweetness, but the moment it fills his heart, it begins to squeeze his throat.

Because much like grief and love, nostalgia and regret walk hand in hand. Dick will never have one without the other—he can’t. And that is the bitter.

It’s the world’s most exquisite funhouse of mirrors—never of what was, but always of what could have been. Each memory, a mirror—they do not lie, but neither do they tell the truth. What he saw was not the past as it was, but the past as shaped by the person he was now. But more importantly, the person he wishes he'd been. Regret stretches the moment and grief warps the edges. It reflects the contours of his own bitter longing, gripping his jaw, whispering if only, if only, if only.

Memories are the nitrate film. To touch them to often is something incredibly and earnestly human. Dick wants to remember—he longs for a second chance, a third. To go back to that slice of heaven, to allow nostalgia to hold him and speak softly that this. This is the sweet. 

But memories, true to both nitrate film and funhouse mirrors, warp and curl. The clarity dissolves. The beauty yellows. They become volatile—dangerous to hold and impossible to restore. He holds them with reverence because they're sacred, turning them over in his palms—but his fingers are bloody. Once the degradation starts, it cannot be undone. 

Many things in life, once done, cannot be undone.

Thunder rumbled somewhere above, low and lazy in the night sky. Rain drummed steadily against the fabric of his little alcove, a persistent tapping. He wasn’t alone; he shared his sanctuary with a small nest of pigeons, feathers puffed and eyes half lidded. Fellow refugees. A smile ghosted across Dick’s face. We are not so different, you and I.

“Did you know,” Jason said from beside him, voice young and bright, “That pigeons were among the first domesticated birds? Over 5,000 years ago, in Mesopotamia and Egypt.”

He didn’t startle Dick. Not this time.

Dick glanced at his watch: 3:57 a.m.

He should go back to his apartment—he should. He needed to, actually, about three hours ago. He just…didn’t want to. He was tired and hungry but all his sore body and throbbing head wanted to do was sit here on this ledge.

So he did.

He looked over, focusing on Jason. His little brother looked like he had in Maggie’s kitchen—Robin, unmarred and unbroken, untouched by crimson tragedy. It was…nice. To see him this way.

Dick peeled off his domino, wincing as it tugged at his gash. He gently rubbed his tired eyes with his damp gloved hand.

 When the black spots faded, he looked back at his watch. 4:00 a.m. I’m awake.

Dick closed his eyes, letting the rain and the pigeons and ghost-brother settle around him like a blanket. It eased the yawning chasm in his chest, satiating the grief that curled there. A small smile touched his lips.

Yeah, he did know that. Jason had told him once—years ago, the very first time Jason stayed the night on the lumpy pull out couch of Dick’s Blüdhaven apartment.

(Dick was a light sleeper. The vigilante life did that to you.

That’s how he’d heard the creaking in the kitchen from his bedroom—that, or it could be the fact that the walls of his shitty apartment were thin.

At first, Dick was worried. Noises from his kitchen late at night never meant anything good. But then he’d heard a muffled sob, and he moved like a man possessed.

Jason was out there.

He shot out of bed, racing to where Jason slept on the pull out couch in his living room.

Jason was tangled in the thin blankets, face pale and slick.

A nightmare. He was having a nightmare.

Dick froze, hand extended, at the foot of the pull-out, conflicted. They weren’t—they weren’t exactly close. And Dick knew quite well that Jason’s past wasn’t exactly…pleasant. The flinch still haunted him.

But he felt out of his depth, like he was privy to something not yet meant for him.

Jason’s labored breathing broke off into a miserable whimper, and Dick was conflicted no more.

He knelt beside Jason, reaching out and running a featherlight touch through his sweaty curls.

“Hey—hey Jay. You’re okay. It’s just a dream. Can you hear me? Follow my voice, Jay.”

Jason only tossed more, face scrunching.

“No—NO,” he mumbled, “Please don’t—please don’t hurt her—"

Oh. Dick swallowed, horror blooming in his gut. He was talking about his mo—oh.

“Jay,” he said again, a tad more forcefully. He needed to wake him up.

Dick tapped on Jason’s temple. “Jay, can you hear me? It’s just a dream.”

Jason’s eyes flew open and he rocketed upright. They darted around the dark apartment, frantic and panicked.

Jason’s chest shuddered, tears wetting his little cheeks. He looked at Dick, eyes the size of saucers.

“You’re okay, Jay. You’re okay. It was just a dream.”

Jason hiccuped and began to sob.

For a second time, Dick froze. He wasn’t expecting—well, he was expecting Jason to get defensive. Tell him off, even. Not—

Well. He’s twelve.

Dick remembered the terror of his own nightmares. The shaking, the fear, and the hollow feelings that chased you into the waking world

Dick climbed into the pull out, springs squeaking. Gathering Jason into his arms, he pressed the boy’s hot forehead against his chest and rubbed circles along his back. Dick could feel the erratic thump-thumping of Jason’s pounding heartbeat in his own ribcage.

Damp tears seeped through Dick’s thin sleepshirt. He didn’t care.

“I’m here, Jay. It was just a dream.”

The sound of Jason’s chest hitching and shuddering in his arms ripped Dick’s heart into a thousand ribbony, bleeding threads.

“H-he was c-coming and I—I—"

Dick shushed him gently. He knew from experience that trying to talk about the nightmares while they were still actively trying to drown you never helped.

“My mom,” Dick began. He didn’t really know where he was going, but he knew he needed to talk. To let Jason feel the rumble of his steady voice in his chest against his ear.

That’s what Bruce always did, anyways.

“My mom gave me the name ‘Robin’,” Dick said, smoothing Jason’s hair away from his face. He was cooling down. Good.

“‘Don’t you ever stop moving, mro chavo?’ My dado would ask. We’d be standing at the top of the trapeze platform. I’d be so excited to jump off I couldn’t stop fidgeting.”

Jason sniffed and swallowed thickly, curling his fingers into Dick’s shirt. His breaths were coming down, as was his heartbeat.

“My mama would laugh and say, ‘He is just like the robin! Always bobbin’ along. Aren’t you, my little spring Robin?’”

Dick chuckled softly. He missed them. He would always miss them.

They sat in silence for a few moments, listening to each other breathe. Dick didn’t know what he would do if those little lungs ever stopped.

“Did you know,” Jason mumbled, cheek pressed against Dick’s heart. “That pigeons were the first domesticated birds?”

Dick smiled. “No, Jaybird. I didn’t know that.” 

Jason hummed. “5,000 years ago. In Mesopotamia and Egypt.”

Dick wanted to hold his little bird in his arms until the end of time. 

This little bird, who had already endured more weight on his wings than anyone ever should. Who had been raised by bruises and empty bellies and still stitched his heart to his sleeve and let it bleed. 

“You’re very smart, Jaybin,” Dick said at last.

Dick didn’t want to send him out there. Not gently into that good night, never into that bitter world. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair it wasn’t fair it wasn’t fair and Jason didn’t deserve it.

But more often than not, fate does not care about trivial things like deservedness. It deals the cards and you must play.

Jason hummed again, breaths evening out. He was asleep now, in the arms of his big brother.

Nothing could get him here.)

Dick sighed deeply, the humid night air clinging to his lungs. Even the night around him looked blue (night? It wasn’t night anymore—it was nearly dawn).

Sometimes, Dick wondered how the rest of the world could just go on. How the moon still waxed and waned, how the sun dared to rise, how the stars still twinkled gently in the obsidian heavens when someone so foundational to his life was gone. The beauty and wonder of the universe remained, untouched, as if Dick had never buried his baby brother.

How? How?

The world should be undone—cracked wide open, as Dick had been—because it no longer included his Little Wing.

Dick felt an uncontainable fury rise in his chest—a feral, choking need to seize the entire world by the throat and drive it into the pavement. His little brother! His little brother is gone! And the earth still spun? And the spring still came? Jason was threaded through every direction of Dick’s existence. Once his little brother’s life had been handed to him, Dick had never imagined a world where that life could be taken away.

Did no one else grieve? Did the sky not split open and weep?

Mother Earth—your Little Bird is dead! His wings are clipped! His feet are tied! Yet the flowers bloom and the robins still open their throats to sing? How?

The world ended for Dick, yet morning came just the same. How? How?

Tears slipped slipped from Dick’s eyes, mingling with the rain on his cheeks. His head throbbed from behind his eyes—from the hunger, the crying, or the concussion, he couldn’t tell.

(It was the concussion).

Jason spoke again, swinging his legs over the ledge.

“Why do you hold on to all of that?”

Dick’s head snapped toward him. Jason wasn’t even looking—just gazing out over the rainy Blüdhaven skyline, all blurred lights and hazy neon.

“…what?”

Jason turned his head, fixing Dick with the full force of his round-cheeked, teal-eyed stare.

“Why do you hold on to all of that?”

Dick opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Instead of answering, Dick just turned back to the washed out-city stretched beneath them.

Why does he hold on to all of that?

Where, pray tell, does he put it down? How does he evict the great black-winged beast in his chest, the yawning chasm that threatened to consume him at any moment? Those fireflies, plink plink plinking in that little glass jar, where do they go? His heart is an altar to all the people he couldn’t save. How does he set that down? Let it go?

Putting it down—admitting, seeing, feeling—meant facing.

It meant letting Jason go.

And Dick Grayson could never do that.

---

At the ripe our of five a.m., Dick crawled back into his apartment from the window. He was soaking wet, leaving watery footprints across the floor as he shuffled to the fridge. He needed to eat so he could take Tylenol so he could sleep. He was even willing to risk the nightmares, to risk seeing—

Exhaustion dragged at every limb. His whole body felt like one big bruise. He tried to move gingerly, but it didn’t matter. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt. And Dick knew he probably deserved it all. 

He pulled the milk out and sniffed it—good ‘nuff—and set it on the counter. His mind was a blank loop: Tylenol, eat, sleep.

He was going to find the kid that had dragged him back— he had to.

At the very least, he had to apologize. He probably scared the shit out of that poor boy, and that wasn’t fair to him. Nobody needed to see Dick like that, let alone Nightwing.

He just…needed to close his eyes for at least twenty minutes.

He and Jason had stayed on that ledge until the rain softened into a mist and the sky lifted into a deep violet. The pigeons stirred at the first hint of dawn cooing and flapping as they took off from their perch, nearly scaring Dick right off the ledge. When his heart stopped trying to actively escape his chest, Jason was gone.

Dick had checked his watch—5:29 a.m.—and winced. Time to get home before it got too light to grapple.

He’d also been awake for nearly twenty-four hours. This seemed…unwise.

His shoulder twinged as he reached for a bowl. One day, he’s gonna find that dumbass and—

His phone buzzed on the counter.

It was Barbara. Dick paused, frowning, then picked it up.

“Babs? What’s up?”

“Dick, oh thank God you’re up. Have you seen?”

“Seen what?” Dick asked, already bracing, Tylenol-eat-sleep going straight out the window.

“Maggie Sawyer’s daughter. She’s been kidnapped by the Red Flag Fleet.”

Notes:

the plot returns! but only for a little bit—i want the main focus to be Dick's spiral.

Dick: comforting Jason with a deeply personal childhood story

Jason: the egyptians believed the most significant thing you could do in your life was die

i listened to a bunch country songs about grieving to fully immerse myself in the nostalgic feeling that i talk about while Dick is on the rooftop. and hoo boy. lemme tell ya. don’t do that.

anyways, enjoy little readers! you guys are so amazing i appreciate all the love :))))

Chapter 9: Red Herring

Summary:

“When the blue of the moon brings you to cry,

And you can’t find the words for why

‘Cause you know too much about ‘good’ and ’bye’

That’s when you love something.”

- Love Something, Blessing Offor

Notes:

hey little readers!! i hope you enjoy :)

“Maggie Sawyer’s daughter. She’s been kidnapped by the Red Flag Fleet.”

Dick stumbled to the living room, forgetting his cereal entirely.

“When?”

“I—I’m not sure. I saw the news and called you immediately.”

He fumbled for the remote and turned on the TV.

“Live from Blüdhaven News Network—“

“We interrupt your regular morning programming for breaking news unfolding now at Blüdhaven Harbor.”

“Late last night, a series of coordinated explosions lit up the eastern docks as Nightwing launched a devastating surprise assault on the notorious Red Flag Fleet—an elusive criminal syndicate long rumored to be helmed by Madam Zhang Yi Sao.”

“The fleet was docked under the guise of selling artisanal teas and rare spices to elite clientele—deals operating in plain sight, with opium smuggled inside tea bricks and spice shipments. Mercenaries posed as dock workers, enforcing a strict no noise, no mistakes, no blood policy.”

“Madam Zhang herself is known only by titles in high society: tea sommelier, cultural patron, spices expert. But beneath the veneer of elegance lies one of the most lucrative opium operations on this side of the globe.

In a shocking and deeply personal counterstrike, the Red Flag Fleet has kidnapped twelve-year-old Jamie Sawyer, daughter of Blüdhaven Police Commissioner Maggie Sawyer. The Commissioner discovered a three million dollar ransom note on her doorstep early this morning. Law enforcement agencies across the tri-city area are on high alert.”

“We will continue following this developing story as it unfolds. For now, Blüdhaven holds its breath, waiting to see what Madam Zhang will do next.”

“And what Nightwing will do to stop her.”

This has been a BNN special report—more at six.”

Dick muted the TV, massaging his one unbludgeoned temple. He snatched the bottle of Tylenol—if an OD on Tylenol is what does him in, so be it. He threw a few pills back and gulped them down with the water still sitting on the coffee table. 

I am going to find that kid, Dick thought. Right after I find this one.

Dick glanced outside his window—the thick blanket of cumulonimbus clouds smothered the dawn sun, casting the world in a dreary gray. He sighed. He had his work cut out for him.

“Alright, Babs.”

“Already running facial recognition for Jamie and scanning all security footage in and around Maggie Sawyer’s house.”

Dick winced internally, hoping that all the cameras at the docks had been destroyed in the blast. Barbara did not need to see him get smacked. Then she would worry, and she didn’t need to worry. 

He was fine.

“Call me if anything comes up. I’ll send over what I find.”

“Copy that.”

Dick stood, swaying in his living room. The flashing light of the TV irritated his eyes. He wasn’t even hungry anymore—just empty. He’d feeling like that so much lately, he wondered if he’d ever be “full” again. Whatever that even meant now, anyways.

The damp Nightwing suit chafed against his tender skin. He moved to take it off, then paused—if Babs found something, he needed to be ready to go immediately.

He settled for stripping off the water-logged armored plates. They were heavy and he was tired. He’d just put them on before he left.

He gently rubbed the grittiness from his eyes and began pulling out all his files on the Red Flag Fleet.

---

Dick had stopped pacing, opting to sit cross-legged in front of the sea of notes, shipping logs, mugshots, and street maps sprawled across the floor in front of him. A half-eaten protein bar and a cold cup of black coffee sat forgotten on the coffee table. He was almost out of Tylenol.

Rain tapped steadily against the glass, drawn blinds only slightly muffling the sound. Blüdhaven PD had raided the container-office (that Dick could’ve sworn he blew up), the burnt ships, even Madam Zhang’s personal residence. No Jamie.

He and Barbara had poured over every known associate, every city they docked at, every tea transaction the Red Flag Fleet made. All day they had sat, referencing and cross referencing and cross referencing the crossed references. Every second that ticked by was another moment Jamie was helpless in the hands of those monsters.

It was evening now, almost time for Nightwing to head out on patrol.

“I’m surprised you couldn’t figure this one out on your own,” Jason scoffed from where he sat across from Dick. He looked older today—maybe fourteen—clad in the Robin suit, domino and all. Dick wished he’d take it off. He wanted to see his little brother’s eyes.

“You and me both, Jaybird,” Dick mumbled, hunched over a shipping log.

“What?” Barbara’s voice crackled in his ear. He’d finally popped in a comm. His phone was about to die, and he couldn’t be bothered to get up and charge it.

Dick swore silently. “Just—uh, talking to myself, Babs.” It wasn’t a complete lie.

There was disbelief in the pause.

“Okay—well, facial recognition is pinging all known traffic cams in a 30-block radius of Jamie’s school. I’m also scraping any emergency dispatch logs for sightings of Fleet members.”

Dick rubbed his eyes and stared down at his notes, scanning for patterns in the Fleet’s movements. Nothing jumped out at him, just like the last fifteen times. It was all just a jumble of question marks and crossed out locations.

He picked up yet another map of the Fleet’s movements. His hands shook. He probably should eat something. Instead, he took a sip of the bitter, cold coffee.

Jason sitting there wasn’t helping either. He wasn’t being very nice today—Dick couldn’t figure out why. And it hurt.

“Dick? I’ve got something.”

Dick straightened, biting back a grimace. “What is it?”

“A dock worker named Marcus Felt was paid five grand twelve hours ago by a shell corp tied to one of Madam Zhang’s tea shops in Macau.”

Wheels turned in Dick’s head. “That’s a helluva paycheck for one shift.”

“That’s the thing—he wasn’t scheduled to work that night.”

“Is working right now?”

Dick heard clacking on a keyboard.

“No. And security footage shows he hasn’t left his apartment since he got home this morning.”

Dick checked his watch: 6:37 p.m.

“Looks like I’ll be starting patrol a little early,” Dick said, tired eyes drifting to Jason’s domino mask.

“Sending the address now.”

“Thanks, O.”

“Dick…don’t do anything stupid.”

“When have I ever?”

She didn’t laugh.

“I…haven’t heard from you in a while. Let’s catch up soon, okay?”

“Of course, Babs. I’ll ping you if I find anything.”

Dick stood. And man, was that a bad idea. The head rush slammed into him, and he collapsed back onto the couch like a sack of potatoes. He lay there, vision swimming, head pounding, willing the dark back.

He’s fine. This is fine. Everything is fine.

“Woah there, Dickwing,” Jason leaned over him, smirking. Dick squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t do this right now.

He rose slowly, avoiding Jason’s whited-out gaze. The girl. He had to find the girl.

“You sure do!” Jason called after him as he staggered toward his room. “Don’t want to be too late again.”

All the breath left Dick’s lungs. He caught himself on the doorframe, tears prickling his eyes, a sob building in his chest. His legs threatened to buckle.

Not now. Not now not now not—

Dick checked his watch again:  6:40 p.m. 

I am awake. 

He glanced in the mirror on the back of his closet door. The sight of his exhausted, bruised, and washed out face was a becoming regular appearance. He raised a hand. The mirror did the same.

I am awake.

He slipped out the window onto the fire escape, feeling each grapple swing fight against his battered body. His phone buzzed—the address from Barbara.

I am awake.

Time to pay Marcus Felt a fun little visit.

---

“Five grand, Marcus. That’s a lot of money for a night you didn’t work.”

Marcus Felt nearly jumped out of his weaselly skin. Dick had slipped in like smoke while he was in the shower—Marcus still clutched a towel tight around his waist.

“N-Nightwing?” 

Dick forwent his dazzling trademark smile for silence. He was tired, and Jason kept flitting about the corners of his vision. It was making his eyes hurt (more than they already did).

“L-listen, man—"

“Marcus,” Dick cut him off. “I’m tired. I don’t feel like playing games.”

All the color drained from Marcus’ face.

“Jamie Sawyer is missing. And you know where she is.”

Marcus blinked fast, eyes darting. Sweat rolled down his temple

“Look, I—I don’t know nothin’, I swear—"

Dick sighed, taking a step toward forward. 

“Why did Zhang pay you five grand, Marcus?”

The slimeball trembled like he might come apart. Dick kept his hands at his sides—he didn’t have any energy to threaten anyone right now.

“Okay! Okay, man,” he blurted, running a shaking hand through his thinning hair.

“They—they showed up outside my place last night. Said they got some job they needed me to do. And who was I to say no to some cash, okay?” He rubbed his neck, mouth blabbering. “Well they blindfold me and we drive—I dunno, ten, maybe fifteen?—’n we get out on some canal. They said to ‘be gentle’, that I was just movin’ one little container. Blacked out, no markings. Called it ‘delicate cargo’. I don’t know what was inside, I swear—"

“Who’s they, Marcus?” Dick asked calmly, pinching the bridge of his nose—it did nothing for the headache.

“Alright! Alright.” Marcus wiped sweat from his brow. Dick absently wondered why the guy was so scared—he hadn’t even threatened the sleazeball once. “This guy showed up after. Blindfolded me again, took me back, dropped the cash ’n said to forget the whole thing. Other guys called ‘em Cheung Tze. Never seen him before, I don’t even know him—"

Dick turned to slip out the window. “Quit your job, Marcus.”

If Marcus answered, Dick didn’t hear. He was already gone.

Dick fired his grapple from Marcus’ fire escape and swung across the rooftops, staying in the long evening shadows. His ribs ached from the recoil and his hands stung.

“Marcus gave me a name: Cheung Tze.”

“Great. I’ll start cross referencing.”

“I’m headed to the docks. The BPD has started a search, and I need to be there.”

Barbara’s voice dropped, tight with concern. “How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

Dick didn’t answer.

“Or ate something.”

He landed on a rooftop with a harsh roll, knees nearly giving out. He leaned up against a busted AC unit, catching his breath. God, his head hurt.

“Nightwing.”

He ignored her.

“Dick.”

“I’m fine,” he bit out, a tad sharper than he’d mean to.

“You’re not, and that’s—"

“I said I’m fine.”

It was silent for a beat.

“We don’t have time for this,” Dick said through gritted teeth. He didn’t mean to snap at her—not really. But he was hungry and tired and his whole existence hurt and there was a little girl out there somewhere trapped in a cargo crate. There was a little boy in a warehouse with a bomb ticking nearby.

“You’re running on fumes,” Barbara’s voice came again, more forceful. “If you push too hard, you’re going to—"

He spun to the cloudy evening sky like he could look her in the eye through the comm.

“If I stop, she dies, Babs, and I can’t—" He choked on the rest of that thought. He can’t. He can’t he can’t he can’t. 

Another moment passed, long, cold, and charged. Raindrops started to dot his head.

“It can’t happen again. I’m headed to the docks.” He fired the line and swung into the wind.

---

Dick perched on a rooftop at the edge of the city, looking out over the shipyard. The entire place was crawling with BPD—little ants combing through hundreds of crates, radios crackling, the echoes of dogs barking in the distance.

Babs was tearing through CCTV feeds for any trace of Cheung. So far, nothing. 

He felt bad for snapping at her earlier. She cared—it’s why Dick loved her so much. She was one of the only people who ever saw straight through all his bullshit.

That just…made things complicated. When he wanted to bullshit her.

Dick felt like his body was made of too-tight springs—pulled painfully all in the wrong directions and ready to snap.

He rolled the problem around in his mind, over and over again.

He’d blown up all the ships—that part he remembered clearly. And yet, Jamie was in a shipping crate. Why? It was too dangerous to keep her some place that obvious.

His comm crackled to life in his ear, making him wince. “I got info on the name.”

“Shoot.”

“Cheung Tze is the head lieutenant for the flagship, which is weird because no flagship was reported in Blüdhaven harbor. It never went through customs.”

He frowned. “No?”

“I’m watching the footage—"

Oh fuck. Does that mean she saw—

“—from a few hours before, and—"

Oh thank God.

“—I’m only seeing cargo barges in the harbor. No flagships.”

Dick’s brow furrowed. The motion pulled at the gash on his temple, sharp and stinging.

“There had to have been a flagship. That’s where Zhang had the—"

The realization hit him like cold water

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “The meeting. The fucking meeting.”

He vaulted off the ledge and dropped down, landing hard. The impact rattled his ribs, bouncing his tender brain around his even more tender skull. He was already moving, pulling himself onto his bike.

“Nightwing, what are you talking about?”

He flipped the kickstand and revved the engine.

“The only reason I picked that night to hit the barges was because I knew Zhang wouldn’t be there. She’d be on her Flagship, ten miles north, tucked into one of the old industrial canals.”

The bike peeled out across the cracked pavement.

“She was hosting a meeting with the Snow Leopards, negotiating a huge drug deal. It never docked in the harbor to keep it off the books. She went straight to the canals.”

“Puling up satellite footage now.”

He could hear the furious clacks of her keys, could see her narrowed eyes in his mind.

“Got it. Sending coords.”

The data pinged across the HUD of his domino.

“Loop in the BPD. They need to go after Zhang while I get Jamie.”

More clacking.

“Please be careful.”

A beat passed.

“Always,” he lied.

The comm clicked off. He tore through Blüdhaven’s alleys and side streets that no one but him would know, wind biting at his temple. Maybe he should’ve put some gauze on that.

Another kid would not die on his watch. He would not fail Jason a second time. 

---

Dick ditched his bike about a block away, grappling through the crumbling warehouses toward the canal. He crept through the shadows up to the loading platform, unnoticed.

He hadn’t seen Jason since Marcus’ apartment. It was…off-putting. The ghost of his little brother had become almost a constant companion. Not having Jason at his heels almost felt…wrong in a way he couldn’t exactly name.

The flagship glowed softly through the misting rain, casting eerie, otherworldly light across the water. The junk itself was beautiful—polished teak, red silk banners, and crimson sails that looked like dragon wings. The scent of citrus and oolong wafted through the damp air.

Dick crouched behind a stack of pallets, eyes scanning.

Two guards at the gangplank. One pacing the deck. Probably two more belowdecks where they were keeping Jamie.

Dick reached for his escrima sticks, hissing in pain as his sore muscles protested. His suit was soaked through and heavy.

“BPD are ten minutes out. I’ve…stressed the need for stealth,” Babs said in his ear.

“Good,” Dick whispered. “I’m just outside the junk.”

“Intel says seven guards total.”

Ah. That likely mean Zhang herself was onboard, too.

Right. Get in, get Jamie, get out. Avoid Zhang and let the BPD deal with her.

As soon as the guard on the deck turned, Dick pounced.

He slipped behind the first goon and the gangplank and jabbed an electrified escrima into the side of his neck. The man seized, muscle stiffening, then crumpled, a dead weight in Dick’s arms. He grunted, knees buckling under the sudden load, and dragged him back into the shadows before gravity could pull them both into the canal.

The second guard turned.

Dick surged forward, ducking under a wild punch and driving another escrima into the man’s ribs. The crunch of cartilage made Dick cringe internally. Sorry dude. Maybe…don’t be an enforcer for a child kidnapper and opium dealer? A career change would suit you well. Marcus would know.

The man collapsed and Dick hauled him into the dark.

He straightened, chest heaving—and the world tilted. He stumbled sideways, nearly slipping right off the edge of the gangplank. The thin, misty rain filled his nose and mouth. He bit back a cough that made his eyes feel like they were about to pop out of his head.

Above, the deck guard’s boots clacked closer. Dick crept up the gangplank, keeping low, tracking the goon’s pacing steps. If he timed it just right, he could probably slip right past—

The guard turned.

For a single second, they stood frozen, staring at each other.

If he wasn’t so tired, Dick might’ve said something funny. A quip, a pun. Something to take the edge off.

But Dick was tired. He hadn’t stopped being tired since—

The man lunged. Dick shifted, bracing for impact, planning on redirecting the goon’s strike, then—

Oh right. No armor tonight. Oops.

The hit landed like a sledgehammer to his side—white-hot pain flared, something for sure crunched and gave. All the air fled his lungs. He staggered, swinging his escrima blindly—

Thanks to his elite vigilante instincts, his aim rang true. A sickening crack told Dick he might’ve aimed a tad too high—but the guy dropped, so it was fine. His chest was still moving.

Dick doubled over, one hand braced on the smooth teak wall of the deckhouse, the other wrapped around his ribs. Holy fuck, can people please stop aiming for the ribs? Pick somewhere else to pulverize him for a little, damn.

Everything swayed. The deck pitched underfoot—

No no, wait. That was him.

His vision smeared at the edges. Blood slipped passed his lips, thick, warm and metallic. Memories of that horrid nightmare danced across his tongue, and his stomach lurched. He turned and spit crimson into the water below. Protein bar and black coffee threatened to make a return appearance.

It was getting hard to string coherent thoughts together. A voice crackled through the haze—someone was speaking in his ear.

Right. That was Babs.

"—belowdecks. There should be a staircase about five feet ahead, on your left.”

Five feet ahead. Left. Stairs.

He stumbled forward on the slick wood, breaths ragged and wheezy. Something warm dripped down his cheek. He must have reopened the cut. Great. Phenomenal, even.

“The BPD is seven minutes out,” Barbara said. “Once you go down the stairs, follow the hallway until you come to another door. It opens to second set of stairs that lead down to the cargo hold.”

Fuck stairs, Dick thought as he crept down the first set, legs feeling like jello. He couldn’t take a full breath.

“Nightwing, are you okay? You’re breathing funny.”

“Just peachy, O,” he bit out. “Don’t worry about me. How many guards we got down there?”

“Just two, both positioned outside a small cargo container with a heat signature inside.”

Jamie.

“At the second door. Going dark,” he whispered.

“Copy that.”

Dick paused at the door, straining his ringing ears. No shouts or footsteps. Madam Zhang and her goons still didn’t know he was here. He hoped it stayed that way, at least until the BPD arrived.

Batman had failed. He wasn’t going to.

Jamie or Jason. He didn’t know.

The creaked door opened, echoing through the dimly lit cargo hold.

Oh well. So much for the element of surprise. Fantastic.

“Hey! You—"

Dick didn’t give him time to finish. He surged forward toward the first goon, driving his shoulder into the guy’s chest and slamming him against the bulkhead. Dick inhaled sharply, ribs screaming, the impact sending shooting pain through his not-so-healed shoulder. 

Unwilling to risk him getting up again, Dick cursed that bank robber one more time and swept the man’s feet out from under him. He shoved his escrima stick into his neck—just a little shock. To keep him quiet. And down.

He felt like he was fighting underwater—limbs too slow, brain still upstairs on the deck.

Dick whirled to face the other goon. In the dim, blinking light of the cargo hold, the guy looked like one of Tolkein’s trolls 

Which is to say he was huge, ugly, and angry.

Dick ducked under a meaty fist and nearly stumbled straight into a steel beam. He righted himself and threw a clumsy kick to the back of the guy’s knee. The goon roared, spinning and throwing out a kick of his own.

He caught the leg mid-swing—

His no-doubt broken ribs grinded against each other and he nearly lost consciousness right then. 

Fuck, no armor was really starting to bite him in the ass now—

Dick twisted the guy’s leg. Several horrible pops sounded and the troll collapsed in a heap, smacking his head on the very same steel beam Dick had almost kissed seconds before. Dick gave him a good shock to the ribs for good measure. You know, to ensure he stayed on the ground and all that jazz.

The pain returned the second the adrenaline faded. Hot spikes lanced through his busted ribs. He could barely raise his eyes to the dim light of the hold, head pounding in time with his racing heart. More blood dripped down his face and neck, mixing with the stinging sweat in his hair—he had to wipe crimson from the white-out lenses of his domino. He turned and spit blood again, fighting off the panicked memories that came with the taste of iron on his tongue.

“Guards—down,” he gasped between ragged, painful breaths.

“BPD are two minutes out,”  Barbara responded in his ear. “Have you been made?”

Dick glanced at the unconscious bodies, blood glistening in the low light.

“No.”

“Good. Get Jamie and get out.”

“Copy.”

He approached the metal crate, rage mounting in his blood. There was a child in there.

He knocked softly on the door, metal clangs echoing in the small hold.

“Jamie? Are you in there? Can you hear me?” His voice was thick with exhaustion and blood—he hoped it at least sounded a little better than he felt.

“H—hello? Please—please help me! I’m in here!”

A fraction of the weight that had settled on his chest the second Babs had called him lifted. Alive. She was alive.

Dick swallowed down iron. “Okay, Jamie. Do you see the other end of the crate?

A pause.

“Yeah. It’s—it’s dark back there.”

“I know. But I need you to move as far away from the door as you can, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to blow the door,” he said, pulling three small discs from his belt and pressing them to the center seam. “It’s gonna be loud. When I say, cover your ears, okay?”

There was a muffled okay. 

Dick’s heart clenched in his chest. She sounded so small, so scared. So much like—

Dick armed the charges. 

“Alright, Jamie, cover your ears, okay?”

Another muffled okay.

Dick doubled tapped each disc, then ducked behind a stack of pallets. The charges hissed, then cracked in a tight series of pops. Rusty hinges squealed as the crate doors swung open.

Dick approached the crate slowly, careful not to scare Jamie. God only knows what she’s been through.

“Jamie? It’s Nightwing. Let’s get you out, yeah?”

He crouched beside the little girl, curled tight in the far right corner of the container.

“Hey, Jamie. I’m here to—"

Dick stopped breathing.

Jason looked up at him, teal eyes wide, shining with betrayal. His dark curls were matted with blood, a split lip leaking red down his chin in a lazy line.

Dick stumbled back a step, heart clenching. His ruined chest was caving in, the world narrowing. He dropped to one knee, lungs useless, body folding in on itself.

There was no absolution. No quiet corner of his mind untouched by the reek of iron and smoke and the rotten tendrils of guilt.

“Why didn’t you find me last time?” Jason asked, voice thick. He sounded so small. Oh God, he was so small—

The world around him warped and faded out. It was just him and his brother and him and his brother and—

“Where were you? I needed you. You said you’d always catch me.”

Every ideal he bled for—every bright, shining tenet woven in the blue bird across his chest—had shattered and broken and burned. They’d worn red and yellow and green. They’d died screaming.

Dick tried to speak, tried to apologize, say something, but the words were caged in his closed throat.

Am I—am I dreaming?

He glanced at his watch: 11:29 p.m.—

—back up at Jason. The world was blurring at the edges; he could barely focus on his little brother’s battered face. Dick swallowed down more blood and nearly gagged—

—back down at his watch: 11:30 p.m.

I am awake. I am awake. I am awake I am awake I am—

“N-Nightwing?”

Dick blinked. Jason was gone. He forced breath into his seizing lungs, forced his trembling hands to move.

“Yeah,” he choked out, aiming for reassuring. “I’m—I’m Nightwing. I got you.”

A snip echoed through the container as he cut her zipties, blood boiling at the raw, ragged skin on her wrists.

She launched herself into him, arms latching around his neck, tears flowing from her grimy face.

The breath was knocked from his lungs and he staggered, just for a second, before righting himself. 

There is a kid here now. I have to protect her.

He scooped her up, every muscle screaming in painful protest, and made his way back up to the deck. Boots thundered above, radios crackling. The BPD were here. And judging by the shouts, they had Zhang

Her little sobs shook her little chest, tears wetting his neck.

“I’ve got you, he shushed gently. “I’ve got you, Jas—Jamie.”

His legs burned as he carried her up the stairs. He peeked through the small circular window of the door, the blue uniforms of the Blüdhaven Police filling the deck. Perfect. He moved to open the door—

Shit. He forgot to comm Babs.

He shifted Jamie to one hand and tapped his comm. “N to Oracle—I’ve got her.”

“Oh thank God. The BPD have cleared the barge. They got Zhang, Cheung, and a few other mercenaries in custody.”

There was a pause.

“Nightwing, are you alri—"

He clicked the comm off. 

To carry Jamie on his unbroken ribs side meant he left his shot and strained shoulder to do all the heavy lifting—and by heavy lifting, opening the damn door.

Dick grit his teeth and pulled the heavy metal door, sharp pain igniting in his shoulder and traveling down his arm. If he wasn’t holding a twelve-year-old, he definetly would’ve cursed in a couple different languages.

From that moment on, everything was a blur. He stepped out into the wet night, blue uniforms parting around him like the red sea. The flashing lights from the cop cars stabbed at his eyes. He blinked a few times, and he was gently transferring Jamie into Maggie’s arms.

She clutched her daughter tight, reassuring her that it was all going ot be okay. The second Jamie was in the arms of her mother, she began to sob in earnest. The sounds rattled around Dick’s shattered chest. Maggie looked up at him. First horror, then concern, bloomed across her face. Her mouth moved, but none of the words made it to him.

He couldn’t—he couldn’t do this anymore. He was done.

He turned and walked away. Someone called after him, but he ignored it. Not right now. Not right now not right now—

He shot the grapple on instinct. The searing pain that ignited through his body pulled his mind out of the sky for a moment. Someone was talking in his ear.

“Nightwing? Answer me. Are you okay?”

“Nightwing!”

“Fine, O.” Well would you look at that. He was at his bike now. Cool.

The rain was hitting his face, stinging his gash. Man. He was going fast.

“Dick. What happened? Talk to me. Please.”

Dick popped the comm from his ear and tossed it into the flooding gutter. Not right now not right now—

The rain and the city blurred around him. He moved like a robot, cutting through side streets and alleys back to his apartment.

Speaking of apartment. He was there now. Nice.

The stairs hurt. The climb through the window hurt.

He was…he was hurting. He never thought he could miss someone like this. Never believed that his grief could fester, that the absence of his little brother would feel like a jagged hole had been ripped in his heart, raw and wet and infected. Could he not even think of his little bird anymore? Without dragging his bleeding fingers over that nitrate film? The love he held for his little brother defined his life. Is the grief that remains forever damned to define the rest?

He can’t keep doing this. He can’t keep living like this, can’t keep existing in a world that moves on as if his little Jaybird isn’t buried in a dark coffin beneath indifferent soil.

Was Jason ever scared of the dark? Dick never asked. Surely he wasn’t, given the life they led. But what if he was? What if he was scared of the dark and now he was trapped, alone, forever in that box six feet beneath suffocating dirt—

Dick coughed, congealed blood coating his gloves.

There was blood on his hands.

Oh god there was blood on his hands.

Like a rabid animal, Dick sprinted to the bathroom. He ripped the faucet on, shoving his hands under the water, gloves and all. He could barely see through the tears in his eyes.

Blood on his hands. There would always be blood on his hands—

The water ran red, then pink. His gloves squeaked as he scrubbed them, hot water leaking to his cold fingers underneath.

His breath came fast. His ribs stabbed with every inhale. Copper filled his nose and mouth—

He ripped off his gloves, tossing them to the side with a wet thwack. The hands that met him were criss-crossed with thin silvery scars—but free of crimson.

Dick scrubbed them, just in case. The water burned where the tender skin hadn't healed all the way yet. 

But the water ran clear, and that was all that mattered.

Dick sagged against the counter, gripping the sink so tight the porcelain bit into his palms. His sore noodle legs could barely keep him upright.

He caught yellow in the mirror, a bolt of pure panic shooting through him—

But it was just his post-it of Rules. Dick swallowed, the taste of blood still lingering on his tongue, stomach lurching.

“If I can wash the blood off my hands,” he rasped, “I am awake.”

And he could. He did.

He glanced at his watch, just to be sure: 12:02 a.m.

He didn’t want look in the mirror. Didn’t want to risk seeing—

“Woah there, Big Bird. Not lookin’ too hot, are we?”

Every molecule in Dick’s body turned to concrete.

Older. He sounded older. Almost the age when he—

“Little Wing,” Dick said, voice wet with blood. “If it’s a bad day, I’m gonna throw up.”

Notes:

i hope you guys liked it!! :))

this chapter stretched me as a writer lemme tell ya. i’ve never had to do big, overarching plot + little mini plots before. and remembering all of Dick’s injuries. AND remembering HalluciJason and Babs!! this kicked me right outta my comfort zone so i hope you liked it and it wasn’t too terrible

Marcus Felt: taken from Mark Felt, FBI Associate Director who leaked information during the Watergate scandal and helped take down president Nixon.

Cheung Tze: taken from Cheung Tze-keung, a Chinese criminal who masterminded the kidnapping of Walter Kwok and Li Tzar-Kui (billionaire oil tycoons)

i also think the idea of a Nightwing who's NOT smiling and laughing and cracking jokes would be something terrifying for goons, so i tried to add a sprinkle of that in here too. Dick can be scary when he wants to be (or, in this case, when he's tired af)

i wanna pause here and take a moment to thank all of YOU!! you little readers make this so incredibly worthwhile for me. i adore writing, and unfortunately it's just not something i can pursue professionally. you guys make little andie so happy!! i appreciate all your lovely comments and breakdowns and theories. i do this for funsies and you all make me feel so special and cool :)))

i've got some real good stuff cooking. these next few chapters are the ones that inspired this whole thing.

anyways, tata for now little readers!!

Chapter 10: It's Your Head; You Tell Me

Summary:

“Hey brother bluebird, what are we gonna do?

We’re two of a kind, both out of our minds

From the hurt we’re going through."

- Brother Bluebird, Freddie Hart

Notes:

this is the chapter that inspired this whole fic.

TW: Vomiting, blood, graphic descriptions of injury

“Little Wing,” Dick said, voice wet with blood. “If it’s a bad day, I’m gonna throw up.”

Jason scoffed from behind him. “It’s your head, Dickie. You tell me.”

Dick squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the counter so hard his fingers ached. He spit bloody saliva in the sink.

I’ll look. I’ll look and it’ll be fine. I can’t ignore him forever—

Dick jerked his head up. The only eyes he met were is own—blue, bloodshot, and exhausted. The gash on his head had reopened, and blood was flowing down his cheek. His lips were caked with dried crimson.

No wonder why Maggie had looked horrified.

Dick released the counter and turned slowly, every ragged breath scraping across his broken ribs.

He caught a glimpse of red, the corner of a torn domino, and—

Promptly deposited the meager contents of his stomach into the bathroom trashcan.

He collapsed to his knees, whole body shaking. The pain was agonizing. He could hardly think, could hardly—

“You didn’t even come to my funeral,” Jason sneered, beside him now. Dick caught another glimpse, a dark stain on the Robin suit, and heaved again. “Not even to pretend you gave a damn. I guess it was easy to forget me.”

Dick curled in on himself, collapsing onto the freezing tile. Violent shivers wracked his body, grinding his broken ribs together. His head felt like someone had taken a jackhammer to it.

“Jason,” he begged. “please—"

“Did you hear me when I begged for my life?” Jason asked. “Or was that planet you were on too far away?”

“No—Jason, no—"

For a second time, the world was closing in, dark rising like the tide to swallow him up. Dick didn’t fight it. It hurt less than being alone.

---

“What hurts more? A? Or B? Forehand? Or backhand?”

The Joker leaned down to Dick’s face, but all he could do was wheeze. Every bone in his body felt snapped, every muscle pulverized. It was agony.

“A little louder, lamb chop. I think you may have a collapsed lung. That always impedes the oratory.”

The best Dick could do was spit blood in the clown’s stupid, painted face.

The Joker let out a mock scoff. “Now that was rude. The first boy blunder had some manners.” He straightened, twirling the crowbar in his grip. It was slick with blood. His blood.

“I’m going to have to teach you a lesson so you can better follow in his footsteps,” he crooned, raising the crowbar.

“Nah. I’m just gonna keep beating you with this crowbar.” And he brought it down again.

Dick screamed. 

And screamed. 

For Batman, for his dad. For his—for his—

For his big brother.

But he was far away—on some planet, because he didn’t want anything to do with Jason, never wanted anything to do with Jason—

He hated me. He didn’t want me in his life. He always hated me.

Jason was scared. Scared that this might be the time that no one makes it—no one saves him and he dies alone.

Jason was so scared.

After an excruciating eternity, the Joker dropped the crowbar. The clang echoed through his shattered bones.

“Okay kiddo, I’ve got to go. But it’s been fun though, right?”

He walked away, leaving Jason in a miserable mangled heap.

“Well, maybe a smidge more fun for me than you, I’m guessing, since you’re being awful quiet.”

Jason is pretty sure he snapped his vocal chords. He hasn’t been able to scream for the past twenty minutes.

“Anyway, be a good boy and finish your homework, and be in bed by nine!” Joker laughed again, twisted and cruel. All Jason could do was lie there in anguish. He’d never hurt like this before.

“And hey!” Joker called before he slipped out the door of the warehouse. “Please tell the big man I said…hello.”

The door slammed behind him, and Jason was left to his misery.

The pain was indescribable. There was no escape—no quiet corner of his mind he could crawl to to just get away. It was too deep, too wide to hide from.

His brother didn’t want him.

His father wasn’t coming.

He was going to die.

And he was scared.

Tick, tick, tick—

Dick woke slowly.

The terror of the nightmare remained, phantom pain lacing through his body.

Someone was running a gentle hand through his sweaty hair. His limbs felt like lead. His mouth tasted like bile and blood. He’s—he’s cold. Shivering on the hard tile.

The pain was there, but distant—behind a thick, heavy curtain.

Everything was blurry and gray. The hand was nice. It was big and warm, gently skating across his tender scalp. A voice rumbled somewhere above him.

He knew that voice. He would know that voice anywhere.

Bruce. That was Bruce.

He let himself rest in the knowledge that his father was here. His father was here and he—

He needed to check. He needed to know.

Dick tried to raise a leaden limb, tried to check his watch. His body wouldn’t cooperate—exhaustion had cut all of his strings. 

Panic crept through his cold body like ice. He tried to blink away the blur. The voice rumbled again, comforting, the hand still combing through his hair.

It’s alright, I’m here. You’re safe now Dick.

Maybe—maybe it was okay. Bruce was here. Maybe he didn’t need to check—

The hand fisted his hair and wrenched his head back.

He came face to face with the bloody visage of his baby brother.

Dick inhaled sharply, sending shooting pains straight through that thick curtain and knifing into his lungs.

The gash in his hair was deep and gouging, carved into his skull with a vicious blow. It weeped blood, pouring down his face and dripping off his chin. Jason’s teal iris seemed to glow against the red-flooded sclera of the horribly swollen eye.

This close, Dick could see the teeth marks all along his mouth—where he’d bitten through his lips during the torture. His nose jutted left at a terrible angle. His left ear and cheek were burnt black, charred skin peeling away, revealing white bone and pink muscle.

Blood—metallic and suffocating—assaulted Dick’s nose and mouth. The hand fisting his hair squeezed impossibly tighter, drawing a strangled scream from Dick’s cracked lips.

“I died alone, Dick. Waiting for you. You said you’d always catch me. So where the hell were you?”

Dick began to cry, unable to speak, every word caught in his choked throat.

Jason sighed, his ruined lungs rattling, shattered ribs creaking. Dick gagged at the horrid sound.

“You cannot outrun me, Dick.”

He slammed Dick’s head into the tile.

Dick jerked awake, trembling on the cold bathroom floor. He surged up—the head rush nearly took him down, but the panic kept him upright.

I need to know I need to know I need—

He scrambled to the sink, ramming into the adjacent wall in his haste. The sensation that followed was one Dick quickly realized he’d rather not be conscious for.

The dark tide—that smothering blackness—nipped at his heels. The world twisted and tilted around him, and Blüdhaven was not known for earthquakes. 

He dared glance at his watch. His vision swam for a moment before he could focus on the small numbers: 4:27 a .m.

He squeezed his eyes shut, world spinning around his lids. Pain was seeping into every fiber of his being. The dark was dragging him back.

When his stomach lurched from the spinning, Dick wrenched his eyes open.

The mirror. He needed to look in the mirror—

Dick raised his eyes slightly, but avoided his gaze—he had no interest in learning what it felt like to meet his own eyes. Instead, he lifted a hand and wiggled his fingers. The mirror copied.

He looked back down at his watch: 4:29 a.m.

I am awake.

He swallowed, copper on his tongue, his teeth.

“You’re not real,” he rasped.

“Funny how that doesn’t help, huh?”

For the second time that night, Dick’s knees gave out and he curled in on himself. The black tide was washing over him, dragging him out to sea.

Dick Grayson is very good at running.

But what he is running from is catching up.

And fatigue makes cowards of us all.

Notes:

i know it's a little short, but you get it early! :D

help is on the way Dick!

i'll post the next one soon :)

tata for now little readers!

Chapter 11: What Have I Done To You?

Summary:

“My overall perception of this dream is that I’ll die before I wake

At another place in time, you were infinitely mine

Relatively alright when Berenstein was fine

At another place in time, only parallel to mine

The universe was alright when Berenstein was fine

(Wait for me, wait for me there

I’ll die if you die before me I swear

Wait for me, I’m still somewhere

You’re getting older without me, I’m scared)."

- Berenstein, The Band CAMINO

Notes:

hi little readers!

TW: torture

“What hurts more? A? Or B? Forehand? Or backhand?”

A giggle escaped him. Oh, this was just so fun!

He leaned in close to the bleeding birdie lying broken on the ground. God, he got some good hits in! He felt all warm and fuzzy inside.

“A little louder, lamb chop,” he mused. “I think you may have a collapsed lung. That always impedes the oratory.”

What—what am I doing?

The bird spit blood on his cheek.

“Now, that was rude,” he tutted. “The first boy blunder had some manners.” Good thing he still had his trusty crowbar! And oh it was just coated in the little bird’s blood. How divine.

The pure terror in the bird’s eyes ignited something in his chest. That. He wanted more of that.

“I suppose I'm going to have to teach you a lesson so you can better follow in his footsteps.” A wide smile pulled at his scars. Who’s he to say no to a smile?

Wait—stop! STOP! Oh God, what am I doing? STOP! ST—

“Nah. I’m just going to keep beating you with this crowbar.” And he brought the crowbar down again.

And again.

And again.

Oh my God, oh my God, JASON—NO, please, please STOP PLEASE—

He was getting out of breath. Torturing people was hard work! And the little bird just sang and sang and sang. And no Batsy—oh well. He got to have his way with the bird, uninterrupted. Marvelous!

After he was satisfied—which, let’s be honest with ourselves, he could do this all day!—he dropped the crowbar, basking in the clang that echoed through the warehouse like applause.

“Okay kiddo, I’ve got to go. But it’s been fun though, right?”

NO! NO!! LITTLE WING I’M SORRY I’M SORRY—

The bird didn’t answer, just laid there like a mangled marionette. He relished in the way his limbs stuck out at odd angles, the crimson pool that grew beneath his broken wings.

He’d worked hard for his one. He was proud!

“Well, maybe a smidge more fun for me than you, I’m guessing, since you’re being awful quiet.”

JASON, PLEASE HOLD ON. BRUCE IS COMING! HE’S COMING! JUST HOLD ON! A LITTLE LONGER LITTLE WING!! HE’S COMING FOR YOU!!

“Anyway, be a good boy and finish your homework, and be in bed by nine.” Another laugh bubbled up in his chest. He’d picked poor robin clean! 

Welp, it was time for him to skedaddle before a Bat-shaped party pooper showed up.

“And hey!” He called before he slipped out the door of the warehouse. “Please tell the big man I said…hello.”

Oh God, Jay—I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m—

Dick rocketed upright. He was—he was—

He was in bed. It was silent, save for his racing heart.

He pulled his arm out from underneath the mess of sweaty blankets, bringing his watch to his eyes—

A green gloved hand seized his wrist, gripping and tight.

Dick looked into the bloody, brutalized, blazing eyes of his little brother.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Jason beat him to it.

“What are you looking for?” He snapped, eyes boring into Dick.

A wretched sob escaped Dick, chest hitching in painful gasps. He needed to check—he needed to know—

“Jay,” he rasped between heaves, “I just—I need to—"

“What, hm? Ignore me? Put me in the ground?”

“No, no, Jay. I just—I gotta—" Dick broke off into a sob. Tears poured down his face, salting his lips.

He needed to pull his wrist away, needed to check, but he didn’t want to hurt Jason. He couldn’t risk—he couldn’t bear—not after he’d just—

Jason just shook his head, grip tightening. “Batman’s golden child couldn’t even bury his own brother. If you could even call yourself that. You said you loved me—but you buried me. I’m cold, Dick!”

Dick shook his head in a panicked frenzy. “NO, Jay! I—I never—you were everything to me! And I—I’m so sorry, I know I failed you—"

“Failed?” Jason laughed, sick and cruel and horrible. “Dick, you killed me!”

Dick could barely speak through the full-body sobs. Distantly, there was pain, but it didn’t matter. Tears soaked his face.

“I’m sorry,” he cried. ”’m sorry ‘m sorry ‘m sorry—"

Another heaving sob cut him off. God, he was just so tired.

“Tired? Tired? Of me, Dickie?” Jason laughed again. Red leaked from every orifice—his ruined mouth, his burst ears, his crooked nose.

“Well, you never wanted to be a big brother, anyways. You remember what you said to me? The last time we ever spoke?”

“No! Jason, please, I was wrong, so, so wrong—"

“Well, I guess you got what you’ve always wanted. I’m dead and buried, out of your life. Forever.”

Dick felt like he was being cut open—his heart pulled straight out of his chest and dissected before his eyes.

“Jason—please don’t say that—I miss you, every day I miss you, I don’t know if I can do this anymore without you. I loved you, Jay. I love you.”

Jason finally let go of his wrist, shaking his head. “I’m cold, Dick. I think it’s about time you feel it.”

He plunged his hand into Dick’s chest.

Dick gasped, his sobs choked off.

Cold—the same cold he felt sitting on that kitchen stool—invaded his body, starting at his heart and rippling outward like a great freeze through his nerves. It burrowed deep in his seizing muscles, bones aching like the marrow had cracked. Needles of ice prickled and stung his skin. His teeth ached. His heart convulsed where Jason had entered his hollow chest. The cold splintered his soul, almost burning in its intensity.

“Nightwing!”

It was the death of warmth, pure and simple. Jason had been the sun around which Dick orbited—now he was dead, burnt out and dark. Dick walked in to rooms where Jason should be, yet was not anymore. The draft of that absence chilled every rooftop, frosted every memory, froze Dick’s brittle fingers as he reached for the photo album. 

“Nightwing! Wake up!”

Dick’s breath was trapped in his frostbitten lungs. He was lost in the icy teal of his baby brother’s eyes.

“Dick!!”

---

The humid air was thick with the moisture of anticipated rain.

Tim hadn’t gotten out here as early has he’d wanted—his parents had “dropped by” after their dig in Angkor Wat for all of thirty-six hours before they took a red-eye to Peru for their Machu Pichu expedition. 

And Tim, being the ridiculous child that he was, had wanted to “spend time” with them. Like that ever ended well. Or left him feeling fulfilled.

Whatever.

And he couldn’t exactly scamper off to Blüdhaven while his parents were home.

He’d missed both the 8:30 and 10:30 busses to Blüdhaven, forcing him to take the 12:30 after his parents left for the airport just past midnight.

On his way over, he’d seen the breaking news—how Nightwing had rescued the Police Commissioner’s daughter and given the BPD the clues they needed to take down Zhang.

Then Nightwing had just…dipped.

Which, to any other civilian, was probably perfectly normal. He was a vigilante, after all—his very existence basically flipped the entire police department the bird (heh).

But Tim knew better. Nightwing cared. He would make sure Jamie Sawyer was alright—he’d talk to her, wouldn't leave until he'd made her laugh. His warmth would make her forget all about the harrowing ordeal.

The news crews hadn’t arrived until after Nightwing was long gone—everyone knew he hated the media, anyways.

But when the cameras panned to Jamie Sawyer, she still had been crying. And Tim knew Nightwing would never allow for that.

One bumpy thirty minute bus ride later, Tim had parked himself on Dick Grayson’s fire escape.

He hadn’t seen Nightwing enter his apartment, but Tim knew he was in there—his bike was parked below and the engine had been warm.

That was another worrying dilemma. Nightwing wouldn’t just…call it quits. It’d been barely midnight when the BPD had raided the flagship. According to his calculations, the Bats normally end patrol between the hours of three and four a.m., depending on the intensity of the night.

From his stalking, Tim had garnered that, more often than not, Nightwing fell on the more extreme end of that spectrum. As of late, he hadn’t been returning back to his apartment until sometimes as late as five a.m.

Which was a whole other problem that Tim had yet to puzzle out. Long story short, Nightwing going home as early as he did was wrong. Something was wrong.

So, for the past three hours, Tim had been sitting here.

The fire escape creaked as he shifted to keep his calf from cramping.

He peeked in the window for the umpteenth time, the only light on in the whole apartment being a dim glow from the bathroom illuminating the hallway.

The humid air was getting thicker. Tim really didn’t want to get rained on—

The window to his left slammed open so hard Tim jumped. An arm reached out, then a leg—

Nightwing.

He leaped from the windowsill to the fire escape, rattling the rusted ancient thing so hard Tim was worried it would collapse right there.

Nightwing flew past Tim, scrambling up the metal railings and making his way to the roof. His movements looked wrong—jerky and pained, like a marionette on frantic strings.

Tim took the stairs two at a time up to the roof.

Nightwing had collapsed to his hands and knees, sobbing desperate apologies. Tim approached like he would an injured animal—cautious, arms outstretched in the universal sign of hey buddy, I’m not here to hurt you.

As Tim inched closer, he could see the blood dripping from Nightwing’s lips, the dark bruising covering the side of his face that had met the pipe. He winced internally as he saw red drip from the reopened wound.

Though the night was dark, Tim could see the wild, absent look in Dick’s eyes. He was still in the Nightwing suit. He wasn’t wearing his domino.

Tim glanced around, ensuring there were no cameras or prying eyes. The only thing that greeted him were the early morning sounds of the city.

“No! Jason, please, I was wrong, so, so wrong—"

Tim froze, hand inches from Dick’s shuddering shoulder. This was grief. Raw, open, and infected grief. The kind that festered when love outlived the body it was meant for.

Tim swallowed. This—this was not meant for him to see.

But who else? Who else? Who else was even looking? Surely not Batman, who’d turned his wounded son away in order to protect his own infected soul. Tim equated it to dying of secondary drowning—though the water had receded, Dick's lungs were quietly betraying him. No desperate splashing, no panicked cries. Just a slow sinking inside himself, pulling him down, down, down. Dick himself had no idea—tenacity was his greatest quality and his worst flaw. He would be dead before anyone would ever see the blue tinge of his lips.

“Jason—please don’t say that—I miss you, every day I miss you, I don’t know if I can do this anymore without you. I loved you, Jay. I love you.”

Nightwing’s voice was thick with blood and tears. It grated on Tim’s soul, yanking at every single one of his tender heartstrings.

But Tim was here. Tim saw.

Tim saw him toeing the ledge. Tim saw him drowning. Tim saw him hurting.

Timothy Jackson Drake is a very smart kid.

He took down a goon with a crane hook. He blew up the Red Flag Fleet. He dragged Nightwing to safety.

Timothy Jackson Drake is a very smart kid.

So he decided to act.

Tim closed the last few inches of space, kneeling and placing a small, reassuring hand on Dick’s trembling shoulder.

Dick gasped, inhaling sharply, like someone had just dropped him in freezing water. His whole body seized and he collapsed onto his back, breaths coming rapid and uncontrollable.

Tim shook him gently, careful not to jostle any of Nightwing’s injuries.

“Nightwing” He said—his voice sounded small, even to his own ears.

Dick only gasped and hiccuped, blue eyes blown impossibly wide, utter terror written across his face. More blood dribbled from his parted lips.

“Nightwing!” Tim said again, louder now. “Wake up!”

Tim muttered a silent apology and gripped Dick’s shoulder, this time shaking harder.

“Dick!!”

Dick blinked a few times, chest still hitching. His eyes slowly cleared. They zeroed in on Tim’s face. A beat passed, where it was just the two of them looking at each other, then—

Dick launched up and scrambled away, tripping and rolling along the roof. He slammed into an AC unit with a clang, coughing and sputtering. He checked his watch obsessively, glancing and muttering, glancing and muttering.

Tim rose, hands outstretched again. 

Just like the last time, Tim knew what to do here.

He’d learned from Jason, of course.

(Tim was tucked into the impossibly small space between a dumpster and the brick wall it was jammed against. It was the perfect hiding spot—he could see the whole alley, unobstructed, while still hiding in the shadows cast by the streetlamp.

How he was going to get out was Future Tim’s problem.

A nasty little sleazeball had gotten rough with one of the working girls that had been hanging around the streetlight. Batman and Robin had swooped in to save her!

As soon as Batman had dragged the perp away, the girl took off, darting into the alley. Robin took a few tentative steps forward, calling out to her in a gentle voice.

“I’m not going to hurt you, okay?”

Tim heard muffled sobs from the dark.

“My name’s Robin. Why don’t you come out? I just wanna make sure you’re alright.”

Tim marveled at how softly he was speaking, how genuine concern laced every word. No one ever spoke to Tim like that.

There was a quiet rustling, then the girl stepped out into the dim light. She was young, but still older than Jason and certainly older than Tim—maybe early twenties. Her thick makeup ran down her face and smeared in places when she tried to wipe away her tears.

“Hi there,” Jason said, palms up in the universal sign of peace. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Jason didn’t move any closer, allowing the girl to decide if she wanted to step forward.

“Did he—did he hurt you?”

The girl shook her head, jewelry jingling when she did.

Jason nodded. “Okay. There’s a shelter four blocks from here. Would you like me to walk you? You can go on your own, I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

The girl hiccuped and swallowed a sob.

“We can walk,” she whispered, inching forward.

“Okay,” Jason said. He reached up and tapped his ear. “B—I’m taking her to the Martha Wayne shelter. It four blocks up the street.”

A pause—Batman responding, probably.

“Copy. I’ll meet you back here.”

Jason refocused on the girl. “It’s this way,” he said, turning his back to her to point up the street. That was a sign of trust, Tim realized—the girl had trusted Jason, and now he was doing the same. As the girl walked out of the alley, Jason gave her a wide berth.

Made sense, Tim figured. She probably doesn’t want to be within six feet of any man right now.

The girl relaxed by degrees as Jason walked with her, a few feet apart, always staying in her line of sight.

Admiration filled Tim’s chest.

He wanted to be like that when he grew up.)

“Hey, Dick,” Tim said, palms up.

Dick’s head jerked up, brows furrowing slightly.

I wonder if he remembers me. 

“W-who—?”

“My name’s Tim. I just wanna make sure you’re okay.” Tim took the smallest step forward. He needed to be prepared if Dick launched himself off the roof.

(What he could do in that situation was honestly probably quite limited, but he’ll burn that bridge if he gets there.)

A shade of recognition passed over Dick’s sweaty, bloodied face. Blue eyes met Tim’s.

“You—you’re the…the kid!”

Tim swallowed down his own panic. He’d…he’d helped Nightwing, right? Maybe they wouldn’t lock him in some underground bunker for the rest of his days—

“Oh my—oh my god.” Dick rasped, reaching up his hands and pulling at his hair. He sagged heavily against the AC unit, body seemingly giving out on him.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m so sorry. I—I probably scared the crap out of you. I’m so sorry, please, I—" hysterical laughter escaped his lips, cut off by a harsh cough that left more blood on his mouth.

Tim knew that was…not a good sign. He took another step closer.

“It’s—it’s okay,” he said gently. And really—it was. “You were hurt. I wanted to help you.”

All the fight left Dick’s body instantly. He slid down the AC unit, sitting with his back leaned up against it. The blood and tears on his face glistened in the early hours, the lines of his body stiff with pain.

“Some kind of fuckin’ vigilante I am,” he mumbled putting his head in his hands.

Tim took this opportunity to cross the last few feet of space between them. Dick looked up at him through his fingers, and patted the spot next to him. Tim sat tentatively, leaning his back up against the cool metal of the unit—the two of them staring out into the neon Blüdhaven skyline.

It was different than Gotham, Blüdhaven. Where Gotham was all gargoyles and cathedrals and looming skyscrapers, Blüdhaven was all burnouts and smog and buzzing neon signs.

They sat for a while, until Dick’s wheezy breathing calmed and his mind returned to his body. The sky had lightened from a midnight blue to a deep violet.

“How did you know I was up here?”

Tim went still.

He knew this was coming. He knew it. Dick was angry with Tim. Furious. Because Tim had been stupid, so stupid. And now, Dick was gonna throw Tim off the roof and wash his hands of him.

Look, Tim understands, okay? Makes sense. Tim knows Nightwing’s secret identity (key word here being secret), and by extension, all the other Bats, too. His parents probably wouldn’t even notice—they’d be in Peru for the next eight months. Honestly, it probably be better for them, anyways. They’d always made it quite clear that Tim was just so burdensome—

He could come up with some brilliant, seamless lie about…something.

He opened his mouth, then caught Dick’s eyes, and saw—

Genuineness. He was…genuinely asking. Tim swallowed his lie right then. Might as well come clean.

Even in this state, Nightwing could still beat him up. It was a lose-lose situation.

“I—uh, I was following…” Tim trailed off, bracing. “You.”

Dick’s brows furrowed, looking back out at the dreary sky. Tim grimaced internally—that must hurt that nasty gash.

“It was you in the crane!” he said, making Tim jump.

Tim swallowed again, nodding mutely.

“I knew I wasn’t going—well, I knew I wasn’t going that crazy—wait.” He turned to face Tim again.

“There were…there were two guys there. Big guys. How did you…?”

“Well, uh—you got one of them.” Tim looked away. “And I…I smacked the other one. With the crane hook.”

A beat passed.

“Huh. Nice.”

The compliment warmed Tim from his nose to his toes.

They fell into another comfortable silence, with Dick checking his watch every few minutes. Tim could tell he was hurting by the way he held himself—breaths slightly shallow, muscles taught. 

“What part of Blüd are you from?”

Again, Tim weighed his options.

“Umm…"

But this…this was Nightwing. Dick Grayson. He wouldn’t…you’d never think Batman would’ve, but recently…

Welp. He was in this deep. Might as well keep on digging.

“I’m not…” he fiddled with the hem of his hoodie. His mother would be appalled. “From…here…per se, but—“

“Oh. So like a different neighborhood, then?”

“Well, you could say that—"

“Your parents are probably freaking out right now.”

Doubt it, Tim thought grimly.

“Well, when you go, I’ll walk you back—"

Tim shook his head vehemently. “No! It’s fine, really—"

“Look, kid,” Dick said with a painful chuckle, “I know I haven’t been much of a stellar hero as of late, but what kind of vigilante would I be if I let you wander the streets all by yourself—"

“No! I mean, I think you’re doing great, given the circumstances, but you can’t—“

“Kid,” Dick cut him off. “Tim. You—" he let out a long suffering sigh, ever the eldest child. “You’re not from here, are you?”

Tim looked down, still fiddling with his hoodie.

“No,” he mumbled, voice small. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Gotham-Blüdhaven bus ticket, handing it the older boy.

Dick read it, eyebrows climbing high.

“You,” he said, disbelief in his voice, “you little—little munchkin—"

“Hey!”

“—caught a bus from Gotham to Blüdhaven at midnight? Where—how—" he sputtered, shocked.

“Where are your parents?”

Tim kept his eyes down.

“Tim, kid, I’m not—" Dick sighed, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I’m not mad at you, I promise. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

Tim could feel concern rolling off the older boy. Real concern—a kind of care that really meant I’m not mad at you—it’s just important to me that you’re okay. Tim wasn’t used to it. It threw him.

“They’re in Peru,” he mumbled at last.

“For how long?”

“The next eight months.”

“Eight months?”

Well, shit. Tim had done it. Dick was mad now. Like, mad mad. All he ever does is make a mess of things. He should’ve ignored that stupid bowl inside him, burning to be filled. Should’ve shoved that rotting loneliness in a box and buried so deep in his marrow nothing could ever carve it out.

“Tim, hey, sweetheart, it’s okay—"

Tim didn’t ever realize he was crying until he tasted salt on his lips. 

“Hey—look, why don’t we go back inside, yeah? Have some breakfast?” Dick’s voice was incredibly gentle. No one ever spoke to Tim that way.

“Okay.”

---

Dick thanked every single lucky star in his sky that he still had an unopened box of Krusteaz Light & Fluffy Buttermilk Pancake Mix. In his professional opinion, “just add water” was the greatest invention of modern civilization.

While Dick had never been much of a chef, he could add water to powder and slap it on a pan. He wasn’t incompetent.

Were the pancakes circular? Debatable.

Were they burned? Almost.

Were they the only solid food Dick had eaten in the past twenty-four hours? Absolutely.

But the way the little munchkin’s eyes had lit up the second he brought out the old, probably expired box moved something in Dick’s chest—some of that emptiness ebbed away.

Something else moved in Dick’s chest—pain, and a lot of it. He’d cracked at least two ribs, and he knows one is broken. He was for sure concussed from the blow to the head. The dumbass who’d shot him in the shoulder was going to get a envelope of wasps.

But none of that mattered right now (it did—that did matter right now, but Dick chose to ignore it because he’s already scared this kid enough. He can deal with all his other shit at a later date. Possibly never, if it works out in his favor. With Dick’s phenomenal track record, nothing ever works out in his favor. But a guy can dream).

They’d climbed back down the apartment through the window. Dick had flipped on the lights, half expecting to see Jason, but he was greeted by an empty kitchen. He didn’t know whether he felt relieved or…sad.

He’d sat Tim down at the counter and slipped away to his bedroom to peel off the Nightwing suit, trading in the spandex for a fresh set of sweats and a hoodie. Did he nearly pass out when he’d bent down? Well, that was between him and the desk chair that stopped him from eating carpet.

Back in the kitchen, he rifled through his meager rations, breathing a sigh of relief when he’d found the trusty box of Krusteaz jammed in the back of a cupboard.

“Pancakes?” Dick had asked and wow, he hadn’t been looked at like that in a long time.

Like he’d just hung a star for this little kid sitting on a stool in his shitty apartment at five in the morning.

While the pan had heated, Dick had scoured his abysmal fridge and found a bottle of maple syrup.

“Does maple syrup go bad?” he muttered. He couldn’t remember even purchasing this. It was probably Jason back when he stayed over—

“Um…indigenous peoples often kept syrup indefinitely. If it was unopened, that is.”

The bottle nearly slipped clean out of Dick’s grasp. He felt slapped by another memory, one of a little bird telling him about pigeons.

“Really?” he asked, breathless.

“Yeah. It lasted through seasons without spoiling, and could be good up to a year after opening, sometimes more.”

“A whole year, huh?” A small smile pulled at Dick’s lips. Excitement sparkled in Tim’s bright eyes. It was adorable.

The kid was little—maybe eleven or so—but Dick could see intellect behind his cobalt blue gaze. A kind of sharp, observational intelligence that explained perfectly just how this little munchkin was able to follow him—without him even knowing—and take down a few goons while he was at it.

“Yeah! Maple syrup and maple sugar were the main sweeteners for many indigenous groups before European contact. It was easy to store and often used as medicine! The sap was—“ he stopped abruptly, looking down, flush creeping up his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

Dick’s whole chest ached, and not from his ribs (it still did that, but this was…deeper). Dick felt an urge to—to foster that spark. To encourage it. He wanted to track down whoever had made this brilliant kid feel like he needed to shut up and introduce them to a brick wall. Tell me, Dick wanted to say. I will listen. Tell me. 

“It’s alright, Tim,” Dick said gently, setting the syrup on the counter with a clink. “That’s cool. I didn’t know that.”

Tim looked up through his thick lashes, a fragile mix of hope and disbelief on his face. Dick looked away—those guilty worms in his gut were writhing again.

He grabbed a bowl from the high cupboard, dumped in the mix plus a little cinnamon he’d found (courtesy of Jason, again), and ran the bowl under the faucet. Measuring was for losers.

The whole time, Tim watched him with his sparkling blue eyes like Dick was was performing straight witchcraft. Like Dick was…someone. It made him uncomfortable—he wasn’t worthy of that kind of complete admiration. Especially not now, when he was collecting fuck-ups like Pokémon cards. Glass window, I choose you!

“Wanna mix?” Dick asked, holding out a rubber spatula to Tim. Jason always wanted to.

Tim’s eyes went cartoon wide. He took the spatula like it was made of gold.

“Yes, please,” he breathed, like he couldn’t believe Dick was even acknowledging his existence. 

Thick fingers reached into Dick’s heart and squeezed. Who hurt this kid?

(Dick would find out. Dick would find out and everyone would finally know exactly what kind of crash out motherfucker he really was.)

Dick turned back around, his stupid brain reminding him of how much damn pain he was in. The world tilted and he white-knuckled the counter to stop from toppling over. He squeezed his eyes shut, head pounding. He breathed as deep as he dared, trying to pass the horrid feeling. Eat-Tylenol-sleep knocked on his door again.

Wait. Speaking of doors—

“You met my neighbor?” Dick asked, turning back around to face Tim.

Tim froze, horrified. Dick didn’t think the munchkin’s eyes could get any bigger, but they did. He looked at Dick like he might strike him.

Dick nearly threw up in the sink right there. 

Another memory grabbed him by the throat—a brother, a rooftop, a flinch. 

Dick swallowed, gripping the counter tight to stop his hands from shaking.

“She’s…something,” he said, forcing his voice to work. “She immigrated here from Greece six years ago.”

Tim’s enormous eyes glistened with fresh tears.

“Tim—sweetheart. It’s—it’s okay, I promise.” Dick raised his hands slowly, palms up. “She’s a smart lady. And I haven't been the most…subtle, lately—"

Tim’s lip quivered, fat tears rolling down his little cheeks. Dick’s body moved on instinct—he rounded the counter and knelt at the stool.

“Tim,” he said gently, laying a hand on the kid’s knee. “You are very smart. And very brave. I know heroes who couldn’t’ve done half of what you did.”

He met Tim’s watery gaze. “Thank you,” he said, meaning it with everything in him. He moved slowly, wiping the tears from Tim’s cheeks with his thumbs. Tim leaned into the touch.

“Now,” Dick said softly, trying to rekindle the munchkin’s spark. “Have you finished the batter, master chef?”

Tim smiled. “Yes.”

---

They sat next to each other at the bar, eating in comfortable silence. Absently, Dick wondered when the the kid had last ate. It was nearly six a.m.

The pancakes…weren’t actually that bad. The middles were a little undercooked, and the edges were cooked a little too much, but overall they were pretty good.

Not that Dick would know. His stomach was too busy trying to do it’s best impression of a quadruple somersault. While Tim ate his pancakes neatly, like a little distinguished gentleman, Dick just tore his into tiny pieces.

He felt…floaty. His eyes were tired, each blink dragging longer than the next. Man…he did not feel good.

Tim ate silently, as if not to be seen. The part of Dick that was still in his body was furious. No child should ever—

Wait. Tim was speaking.

“—your plate?”

Dick squinted. His brain felt made of biting static, a thousand bees buzzing around his skull. If his head didn’t hurt so much, Dick might’ve been able to hear him.

Tim’s brows furrowed with concern. His mouth moved again.

Dick’s ears rang like church bells, loud and distant all at once. All that pain he’d been sweeping under the rug was coming back to drag him under.

He needed to…he needed. Yep. How about we stand.

Dick pushed himself off the stool.

Ah, right. The munchkin was still here.

Didn’t he…didn’t he say something earlier about…not having parents? Maybe he’d sleep on Dick’s couch like Jason used to. Well, the couch wouldn’t be good long term. Maybe—maybe Dick could get like a two bedroom. He’d been meaning to move for a while now. Dick wondered absently what kind of ice cream the kid liked. Maybe they could go together. Dick hadn’t been back to the parlor since—

Back since—

Wait. The ground was rushing up toward him. Or he was falling toward it. You know, he really couldn’t tell.

He hit the floor.

And holy fuck, he felt everything.

Ribs grinding, shoulder on fire. Each breath a hot knife to the lungs. Something warm and thick dripped out of the corner of his mouth. Blood, probably. If someone told him they’d ran over his head with the Batmobile, he would’ve believed them completely.

Someone was standing over him, saying something, saying his name—

But Dick was…tired.

Dick was tired and his head hurt and his heart hurt and he missed his little brother. 

So, just for a second, Dick chose peace.

And he closed his eyes.

Notes:

guess who's back!! little TimTam the man!!!

see, i promised help was on the way :)

Dick: little brother #2 has been fed and cared for.
Dick: aight, imma pass out.

guys i'm just so excited to give these chapters to you ugh i just can hardly wait to post them sometimes

Berenstein by The Band CAMINO is one of my favorite songs :))

also Krusteaz pancakes are fire i've been eating them since i was a kid. we love just add water in this household and i figured Dick would too.

will Dick be okay?? what will little timmy do???

tata for now little readers!!!

Chapter 12: Brother Let Me Be Your Shelter

Summary:

“Brother, let me be your shelter

Never leave you all alone

I can be the one you call

When you're feelin' low

Brother, let me be your fortress

When the night winds are driving on

Be the one to light the way

Bring you home.”

- Brother, NEEDTOBREATHE (feat. Gavin DeGraw)

Notes:

But Tim cared. So he dealt with this.

“Dick! Dick, can you hear me?”

Nothing.

He wasn’t moving this time—no panicked mumbling, no desperate apologizing.

Just a horrid, awful silence.

Tim’s breaths came quick as his hands flittered over Dick’s stuttering chest.

Calling Batman was out of the question. Not only would he silence Tim forever, but he’s pretty sure Dick would send him to one of the seven circles of hell for calling Bruce.

No more gentle words and soft touches. No more pancakes.

“Dick! Please!”

Tim swallowed down the panic mounting in his throat. 

Okay. I—I’ve dragged him before, I can do it again—

No. Dick was ghostly white already; Tim had absolutely no idea where the nearest minute clinic even was, and he had a sinking feeling that Dick wouldn’t make it that far this time.

Okay. That’s okay. Tim can—he’ll just—

He sniffed, furiously swiping at the tears blurring his vision.

He wasn’t wearing the Nightwing suit. Maybe Tim could just call an ambulance. He could pull some strings so the ride got put on the Drake card. That way his identity—

Wait. 

Tim scrubbed his face and stood slowly, hands still outstretched, as if Dick might wake and make for the roof again. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, hoping Dick could still hear him. “Don’t—don’t go anywhere.”

Tim slipped out of the apartment and bolted two doors down. It was early, but maybe he’d get incredibly, incredibly lucky.

He raised a trembling fist and knocked. His frantic heartbeat rabbited in his chest.

Standing there, in the silence of the dim hallway, waiting on his last hope, Tim felt…small. And scared. He couldn’t cry—he couldn’t—and yet, he really wanted to. Wanted to curl in a ball and let people who cared deal with this.

But Tim cared. So he dealt with this

The door creaked opened.

Standing there, hot rollers, robe and all, was Mrs. Rhodope. 

“Little boy?”

Sweet, sweet relief left Tim almost dizzy. “Hi. My name is Tim. I’m so sorry, but I really need your help—"

She turned and spoke rapid-fire Greek to someone behind her.

Then she turned back toward Tim, brow set and jaw taught. “Show me.”

Tim dragged her back to Dick, who looked dead where he laid on the tile.

“I—I don’t know what to do,” he babbled. “I mean he was bad last time but not this bad and he can’t hear me and I don’t know—"

Mrs. Rhodope put a warm hand on his shoulder—distantly, she reminded Tim of a general-grandma. She smelled like anise and hairspray. It was oddly comforting.

“He not the Night,” she said gently. “We take to help.”

Tim swallowed hard and nodded, prepping for yet another grueling ruck with Nightwing on his back.

“I have help,” she added, already moving back toward the hallway. “Wait.”

She swept out of the apartment, hair rollers clinking. Tim turned back toward Dick, sinking to his knees beside him. He pressed the back of his again against the older boy’s hot forehead. 

“You gotta stay alive,” he whispered. And this time, selfishly, it wasn’t for Batman.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Rhodope returned with a younger woman in tow. She was dark-haired, olive-toned, and clearly trying to hold herself together as they spoke in Greek

She knelt beside Tim and offered him a tight smile. “I’m Maria. Mama said you’re Tim?"

He sniffed, nodding.

“Okay,” she said—her hands were shaking, but her voice was firm. “We’re going to get your brother help. My car’s on the street. We need to move him. Can you carry his top half?”

Tim swiped his eyes again. Why was he crying so much?

He cleared his scratchy throat. “Yeah.”

“Good. What happened? I need to know so we don’t make anything worse”

“Um—" Tim risked a glance up at Mrs. Rhodope and yep—she was most definitely a general in a past life (or…in the actual past). Her gaze was steely, stance assured. She reminded Tim a lot of the Batman.

She gave a single, sharp nod. Tim took a deep breath.

“Concussion, definitely. He took a metal pipe to the head two nights ago. Cracked ribs, too, but they could be worse now. And his shoulder’s not right.”

“Alright.” She fixed Tim with a pointed, green-eyed stare. “We have to move him carefully. We can’t risk making anything worse.”

“Okay.”

As gently and as quickly as they could manage, they carried Dick into the elevator and out to the car, laying him across the back seat. Tim slid in beside him, Dick’s head resting in his lap. Maria gave him strict instructions to keep his skull and neck steady to protect his spine.

At first, Tim questioned Mrs. Rhodope getting behind the wheel. But the second they took off, he swallowed any doubts. She drove like an F1 racer outrunning the devil himself.

Up front, Maria and Mrs. Rhodope talked in rapid Greek. In the back, Tim ran a gentle hand through Dick’s dark, damp hair. The car smelled like sweat and blood and cheap air freshener. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered. It has to be.

They pulled into the urgent care center just as the thick blanket of clouds began to lighten.

Maria turned around in her seat. “We tell them he was in a car accident, got disoriented, and didn’t want to come in.”

Tim nodded, heart hammering. “Got it.”

“Wait here. We’ll go in. He needs a stretcher.”

Tim nodded again.

Those few seconds of silence could’ve lasted years. Tim realized he was still absentmindedly running his fingers through Dick’s hair; to comfort himself or Dick, he didn’t know. 

“I’m sorry about Jason,” he whispered, as if the name itself was sacred.

Which to Dick, it probably was.

“You’re a really good brother. He loved you a lot.”

Dick remained, unmoving, pale. 

“How long ago was the crash?” Oh. They were back.

“Two nights," Maria answered without missing a beat. “He insisted he was fine. He passed out about a half hour ago.”

The nurse gave a grim nod. “We’ll take it from here.”

Suddenly the doors were opening and Dick was being pulled away and people were talking and—

Warm, soft arms wrapped around him. Anise and hairspray filled his nose. A weathered hand brushed the steady flow of tears from his cheeks.

“They help him, agoráki mou,” Mrs. Rhodope said gently. The tears kept falling.

Maria ushered them through the sliding doors of the waiting room. Tim hadn’t even realized they were still outside.

Maria signed paperwork while Tim and Mrs. Rhodope sat in the waiting chairs. He was shaking, shivering, from the chilly room and no doubt the adrenaline crash. The fluorescent lights were bright and aggressive, berating his puffy eyes.

“Your brother is very strong,” she said. “And so are you, agoráki mou. You need each other.”

Tim nodded absently. He didn’t have the energy to tell her that no, they weren’t brothers—that Tim lived in an empty house. That this was the most he’s been hugged in the past six years.

That no one ever spoke to him this way.

He pulled his knees to his chest. Mrs. Rhodope wrapped her scarf around his shoulders; it smelled like old-lady perfume. Judging by the stitching, it was probably hand knit. 

Tim often wondered if he had a hand in the creation of his own loneliness—of that bowl inside him that burned to be filled. Was he the one holding the carving knife? Every time he hoped—every time he asked—for more, he took the scalpel to his own bones and scooped out more marrow.

If Tim could’ve made himself want less, he would’ve nipped the burning in the bud the very first time his parents left him home alone. He would’ve simply doused it, outthought it, dissected it and cut it down. He would’ve made himself want less.

Instead, he savors every crumb of affection, every sliver of warmth. A scarf around the shoulders. A hand on his cheek. 

He gathers them all up and holds them close to his chest, taking them out and running his hands over them when Drake Manor is especially cold and its eerie shadows creep long. These memories, these treasured bits of love, rationed like wartime sugar, are run smooth by the water of constant remembering—little fingers tracing each moment with great care and reverence.

Maybe I should have wanted less. Yes, Tim Drake should have wanted less.

But he didn’t.

Tim jumped when Maria collapsed in the chair next to him. She rubbed her tired eyes.

Mrs. Rhodope stood and shuffled off, mumbling about kafés.

Tim rubbed his gritty eyes. He was…tired. Exhaustion pulled at his muscles and eyelids, convincing him that the uncomfortable waiting room chair just might be a fine place for a nap.

But instead, he found his curiosity unsatiated, so he did the typical Tim thing that his father gets so angry at: Tim asked questions.

“Is she your mom?”

Maria gave him a small smile. “Mother-in-law.”

“Oh.”

She sighed. “Her son, Konstantinos—my husband—died, a few years ago. It was…” she ran her hands through her dark hair, gathering it all to one side. “Not pleasant. He was murdered.”

“Oh. I—I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, Tímos,” she said. She looked out into the waiting room, gaze soft with nostalgia. “He was…he was everything. To me. To her. Her husband passed decades ago. Konstantinos was their only child.” She placed a hand on her own belly. “I miscarried, after he died. And I couldn’t—I didn’t want—he was the only one. For me.”

They sat there for a beat, Maria lost in deep thought.

“Do not measure life by death,” Tim found himself saying.

She offered him a knowing smile. “Yes, she says that a lot. His death…it hollowed us out. No parent should ever have to bury a child. She—we—were so lost. For months we just wandered the earth like spirits. We didn’t want to be here, because he wasn’t. But we could not be there, where he was.”

“Then one day, she simply stopped. She turned to me and said ‘We are not passengers in this life. Not anymore. Do not measure life by death.’ It was her refusal to let his absence consume the meaning of everything that remained.”

“We are all that’s left of Konstantinos. His love echoes through us in the living world—we continue the part of him that still moves through us. Until we meet Konstantinos again, we will live in a way that makes the reunion worthy.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, Tim chewing on Maria’s words.

Batman. Batman needed to hear them.

And Tim would make him.

---

Someone was running gentle fingers through his hair. It was nice.

There was scarf wrapped around his shoulders.That was nice too.

Soft voices floated above him, speaking in a language he didn’t know. He could smell the remnants of coffee. Also nice.

“Tímos, we can go see your brother now,” Maria said softly.

Tim yawned and rubbed his eyes, pulling the scarf tighter as he sat up. Gentle laughter came from the direction of the hand in his hair.

His body ached from sleeping curled like a cat in the stiff, narrow chair. Morning light filtered through the windows, tinged blue-gray by clouds.

They followed the nurse down the hallway toward Dick’s room. As they walked, the sleep cleared from Tim’s mind, replaced with near-paralyzing anxiety. He’s gonna be okay. He better be okay.

Maria placed a hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t even realized he was trembling.

The dim room smelled like antiseptic and latex. Dick was laying in the center on a crisp white cot. The nurse followed them in, closing the door behind her. She rubbed sanitizer on her hands as she turned to face them.

“Well, you’ve got a fighter on your hands, that’s for sure,” she said, crossing to Dick’s side and checking his vitals.

“He has a severe concussion caused by blunt force trauma, but thankfully, there’s no bleeding in the brain or any skull fractures. He does have two cracked ribs and one that’s already broken. We found some internal bleeding, but were able to stabilize him quickly. His labrum isn’t torn, but it’s very badly strained. He’s also quite dehydrated, and his blood sugar is extremely low—which is concerning, but he’s stable right now. We’re monitoring him closely and doing everything we can to support his recovery.” 

Maria nodded. “Thank you.”

“We plan to keep him here until this evening. He’s currently receiving fluids, antibiotics, and medication to reduce his fever. As long as his condition doesn’t worsen, we expect he’ll be well enough to go home later today.”

She pulled Maria and Mrs. Rhodope aside to speak quietly as Tim crossed the room. Dick looked only slightly better—the gash on his temple had been stitched closed, tender yellow and purple bruising extending from temple to cheek and back into his hair.

Tim curled his fingers in Dick’s.

“I’ll be back shortly to check on him. He should be waking up soon.” She turned to Tim, face soft. “Your brother is very strong. I can tell he loves you very much.”

The door clicked softly shut behind her.

The rest of the day passed slowly, a blur of doctors and nurses checking on Dick. Tim dragged chair up to his bedside and didn’t move. Behind him, Mrs. Rhodope’s crochet needles clicked softly.

Maria had left and returned with food, the warm smell of lemon, garlic, and oregano filling the small room.

Two containers were pressed into his hands—one warm, one cold.

“Eat,” Maria said.

Tim didn’t realize how hungry he was until he opened the lid

Three skewers of grilled chicken—souvlaki, Maria called it—were nestled next to warm pita, lemon-roasted potatoes, and a little cup of tzatziki. In the cold container was the most delicious salad Tim had ever seen: cucumbers, tomatoes and onions dressed with feta, olive oil and oregano.

They ate in comfortable silence. Tim couldn’t remember the last time someone ever cooked for him (scratch that, actually. Dick had).

(Tim added another rock to river in his heart).

Belly full and lights low, Tim’s eyelids began to droop. His head jerked up as he forced them open. If Dick woke up, he needed to be awake.

From behind him, Maria chuckled softly. “Sleep, Tímos. If your brother wakes, we’ll wake you.”

Tim curled up in the chair and allowed himself to rest.

---

For the second time, Dick was rising to the surface from the depths of the ocean. But this time, there was no sharp pain waiting for him on the other side of the waves. This time, it was more of a dull ache.

He heard beeping and whirring. Something pulled at his temple. He felt something in the crook of his arm. His mouth was dry.

The roomed smelled of antiseptic and…oregano?

Slowly, Dick peeled his bleary eyes open. The room was dim. He was in a cot.

Oh fuck. He was in the Cave.

A few more blinks revealed that no, thank God, he was not in the cave. He was in a small hospital room.

Ah. The clinic.

Wait—the clinic?

For the second time (again), Dick wracked his sore brain, reaching into the fog, desperately grasping for something.

The roof. Pancakes. Nightmares—

Dick jerked his wrist to his face. His watch. They took his—

He tried to sit up, and that lovely ache increased to a sharp stab. He grimaced, biting his lip, forcing himself up. He needed to see he needed to know—

“Dick? Hey—are you okay?”

Dick’s head jerked left. The kid. Tim.

He would understand.

“Time,” he croaked

Tim glanced to the analog clock on the wall. “It’s 4:08 p.m.”

Dick zeroed in on the clock, squinting. The beeping behind him picked up in time with his racing heart. The focus hurt his eyes, his head, but he needed to see. He needed to know—

The minute hand ticked. 4:09.

Dick let out a sigh and collapsed back on the bed. He reached his hands up to rub his eyes, but only one made it.

Oh. His arm was in a sling.

Guess you won, dumbass bank robber.

 His free hand drifted to the stitched gash on his temple—still tender, but bearable.

Wait. 

He rocketed upright, breath catching in his throat as pain lanced through his ribs.

Sitting across from him were…Mrs. Rhodope? And Maria?

What?

Dick opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a dry, hacking cough that set fire to his chest. Ow.

A straw appeared at his lip. Tim held it, eyes wide and red-rimmed, like a kicked puppy—like he was waiting for Dick to berate him.

“Tim,” Dick rasped, voice cracking, shoving the looming panic attack into a box and chucking it. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Tim’s bottom lip trembled. Dick reached out instinctively, wrapping his hand around the boy’s smaller one. Tim‘s huge eyes were wet with unshed tears.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” Dick said softly. “You did the right thing, alright? I—" he looked down, shame tightening his throat. “I shouldn’t have—"

A knock interrupted him.

“Come in,” Maria called, rising to her feet.

The nurse entered, rubbing sanitizer into her hands. Tim let go of Dick’s hand and stepped back without a word—taking all the warmth with him. Dick was suddenly cold.

“How are we feeling?” she asked. 

“Good,” Dick answered, blinking back to the present. Was it the truth? Sure.

“Any pain?”

“Not really.” That covered…some of it.

“Well, everything looks good,” she said, scanning the monitors. “You’re all set to go home.”

Relief flooded through Dick. He had so many apologies he needed to make. He wanted his watch back.

The nurse walked him through the discharge instructions, which included a lot of rest and ice and eating and not doing anything for at least the next two weeks. 

Dick nodded along, fulling intending to ignore pretty much all of it.

By the time they’d got back to his apartment, the sky had gone dark and a gentle rain was falling. Mrs. Rhodope had packed his fridge full enough to feed an entire battalion. The whole place now smelled like dill, lemon, and anise.

They hadn’t talked much, which had been nice. Dick really wasn’t in the mood to…discuss how everyone found out about his extensive nightlife. He was already the world’s biggest failure, and that just salted the wound. 

Dick was also thoroughly exhausted, which was ridiculous, considering he’d spent most of the day asleep (sure, unconscious, but tomato tomato).

“Tim,” he said, kneeling to the boy’s level. They stood in the quiet kitchen, waiting for Mrs. Rhodope and Maria to return with the last of the pita. Tim kept his eyes fixed on his shoes.

“I need you to look at me.”

Slowly, Tim lifted his gaze and God, the poor kid looked exhausted. Dark shadows bruised beneath his swollen, bloodshot eyes. Guilt wriggled in Dick’s gut and clawed up his throat. He did that. Dick reached up, gently cupping Tim’s cheek in his free hand. 

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” he said.

“You didn’t scare me,” Tim whispered.

The lie only made the guilt worse.

“It’s okay if I did,” Dick replied, voice low and steady. “Listen…if you want—I mean, your parents—"

“I have a nanny,” Tim cut in, too quickly. 

Ice dropped into Dick’s gut—it must’ve shown on  his face, because the kid immediately started backtracking.

“It’s—it’s fine, really. I told her I was spending the night at a friend’s house. So she wouldn’t worry.”

“Oh. okay.”

“I—I should probably go back soon.”

Dick searched his face—he knew the kid was lying. Dick understood why, of course—asking him to stay might’ve been a little crazy—but still. The thought of sending the little munchkin back to a cold, lonely house pulled at his heart.

“Okay.” Dick said at last.

Dick stood, grabbing a post it from the drawer and scribbling his phone number on it.

“Tim,” he held the note out. “Please call me. I’ll always answer. I promise.”

Tim took the paper like it was gold-leafed scripture.

Memory hit Dick like a brick. A rooftop. A phone number. Reverence unfit for him.

Without thinking, he pulled Tim into a tight hug, arm sling and ache in his ribs be damned.

A few sobs escaped the boy—small, stifled things trapped in his chest like he was trying to hide them. Dick felt tears soak through his thin shirt.

He rubbed slow, gentle circles into Tim’s back. “It’s okay, Tim. I promise.”

When Jason had cried, it took over his whole body. His chest would shake with every hiccup, eyes pouring tears without restraint. His sobs were raw and loud and felt.

Tim was the opposite, and it cut Dick to ribbons. He cried silently, invisibly, as if he was trying to neatly take care of his sobs and be on his way. As if his tears only made him a target.

That rage—that uncontainable fury—returned to Dick’s chest. That feral, choking need to seize the entire world by the balls was almost all-consuming. Who?? Who told this kid to be quiet? Who cut this kid down so small he was afraid to cry?

Tim pulled away, wiping his eyes with quick, embarrassed hands. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled “Maria’s taking me home. Thank you…for the pancakes.”

Dick opened his mouth to speak, but the apartment door swung open. Maria walked in, arms full of still-warm pita, followed by Mrs. Rhodope, who cradled the red blanked she’d been knitting back at the clinic.

“Please call if you need anything,” Maria said, setting the food on the counter.

“Thank you for the food,” Dick replied automatically, his eyes fixed on Tim. The boy stood small and quiet, trying to fold himself into the background.

Maria held out a canvas bag to Tim. “A few meals for you. Mama says you are too skinny,” she added with a small chuckle.

Tim nodded and walked toward the door. 

Mrs. Rhodope stopped him, placing the blanket carefully into his arms. “I make. For you.”

Tim paused, holding the folded bundle like it would crumble to ash if he moved too fast. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice barely audible—that same soft voice he’d used when he’d accepted the spatula from Dick earlier.

To be an older sibling is to carry a quiet vow. Dick had failed Jason—he’d broken his sacred vow and let his little bird fall.

But that never meant it ever left him. He still carried it in the tendons of his hands, his soul, in every breath. It walked with him as he traversed the night, the force behind each action. He still looked at every little face and thought let me protect you. I see you. The world has wronged you and I see it. Come. Let me wrap you in strong arms and show you what real love looks like. I will protect you.

One by one, everyone filed out of the apartment until only Dick remained.

Rain pattered softly on the window.

He checked his watch, glad to have the comforting weight back on his wrist: 9:06 p.m.

It was time to get ready for patrol.

Notes:

i hope you liked it, little readers!!

i LOVE greek food and culture so much.

also, this is now a series! i wonder what that means... :)

i don't mean for this to be super OC heavy, but i needed to prove a point with Mrs. Rhodope and Maria: they are a direct parallel to Bruce and Dick--but they are greiving in a HEALTHY WAY!! now think about what Bruce and Dick are doing. they are measuring Jason's life by his death!!! each in their own, messed up way!!

"Until we meet Konstantinos again, we will live in a way that makes the reunion worthy." it's almost like this is the whole point!!!! for there not to be a grief that defines you for the rest of your life, there must first be a love that does not define you for the rest of your life. and love will never not define, because that is what love is!!! this is so important!!!!!! not just in this fic, but in life!!!

anyways, rant over :)

tata for now, little readers!!

Chapter 13: Not If, But When

Summary:

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.”

- A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis

Notes:

we are getting so close guys

Tim didn’t want to go home, actually. He wanted to stay in Dick’s warm apartment and eat warm pancakes and get warms hugs.

He wanted to talk about syrup and Mrs. Rhodope’s incredible food.

He wanted a brother.

But he couldn’t stay.

So he let Maria drive him back home to cold, empty Drake Manor, reassuring her the whole time that his lovely nanny, Mrs. Mac, wasn’t worried at all.

He didn’t have the heart to tell her that Dick wasn’t actually his brother. But she hadn’t asked any questions when he went back to a different house, so he’d kept quiet.

During the ride, Tim saved Dick’s number in his phone. He’d…call him. Later. Tim didn’t want to risk annoying him—he’d just been there. He’d call in a little bit so Dick wouldn’t worry. Yeah.

Once Maria dropped him off, Tim raced upstairs to his computer, a plan already taking shape in his head.

Step One: hack into the clinic’s payment system and reroute all charges to Drake Industries.

Step Two: make Batman see.

Tim knew every patrol route. Knew what nights the Caped Crusader hit which corners of the city.

And Tim knew exactly where he’d be tonight.

---

Bruce was very good at running. 

Of course he was, he was a drop-kicking, grapple swinging, villain-punching vigilante. The people needed him. He had a broken city to protect. The Batman legacy to carry.

But there was a different kind of running—one Bruce had mastered long ago. One of masks and vengeance and infected grief packed into a clenched fist. He ran from Jason’s death like it was fire at his heels. He ran so fast he convinced himself it was never following him in the first place.

It was easier this way—because if he stopped running, he’d have to face it. To feel it. And Bruce wasn’t sure if he could survive that.

Instead, he took all that pain, all that heartache, and put it all into his righteous purpose. He was needed. Batman was needed. So he’d sat down and sharpened the razor edges of his broken pieces and turned them outward. Wore his darkness like armor, void of any distraction.

How do you judge van Gogh? By his Starry Night, or his suicide letter?

He was perched on a rooftop on the Upper East Side, wind gently fluttering the edges of his cape. Below him, Robinson Park sprawled in a dark patchwork of trees and manicured paths, illuminated by the occasional flicker of a streetlamp. The city hummed—sirens in the distance, low thrum of tires on wet pavement.

There was someone else here with him.

They’d already been on the rooftop when Bruce arrived—motionless, silent, tucked away like they knew he was going to be here, on this rooftop, at this exact time. As if they’d been waiting.

They’d been here when Bruce had arrived—as if they knew he was going to be here, on this rooftop, at this exact time. 

That was…concerning. If goons started memorizing his patrol routes—

(Robin—I need you to take the Narrows tonight. Something big’s going down in the Diamond District and we can’t have anyone else getting any ideas—)

“You know, this would be easier for both of us if you came out.”

There was a sharp intake of breath—small, almost imperceptible—but he caught it. 

Slowly, a figure emerged from the dark crevice between two chimneys, stepping hesitantly into the low amber wash of a rooftop floodlight. 

Bruce’s eyes narrowed.

Small.

That was the first thing he realized about his stalker. He was small. 

The second thing he noticed was the thick manila folder clutched tightly against his chest. It was bulging, overstuffed with pages and multicolored tabs.

The third thing he noticed—and probably what should have been the first thing—was that his stalker was a child. 

Small, as previously stated, maybe eleven or so. Dark hair. No physical threat. His blue eyes were wide, sparkling with a mix of awe and…something else—fear, maybe. Or purpose.

Bruce shifted his stance, easing some of the intimidation from his silhouette. He tried to soften, to channel the gentler tone he’d used to approach kids in the past, but it didn’t come easy anymore. Those parts of him felt…distant. 

“How did you find me?” he asked. It came out sharper than he intended.

The kid froze where he stood, shrinking in on himself, arms tightening protectively around the manila folder. His sneakers shifted against the gravel, scraping softly. Nervous, Bruce concluded. Not scared.

For a long, tense moment, neither of them moved.

Then slowly, the boy seemed to remember what he’d come here for. He inhaled sharply and took a single step forward.

“Um—Mr. Batman, sir?” he said, voice small but clear.

Beneath the cowl, Bruce raised a brow.

The kid fidgeted, like he was trying to untangle a dozen thoughts all at once. He bit his cheek, unsure of what to say or how to say it. 

Finally decided, he swallowed, straightened, and met Batman’s eyes through the white-outs of the cowl. As if the kid was looking through them. To the man underneath.

“I know you’re Bruce Wayne,” he said.

“I know Nightwing is Dick Grayson.”

The kid took a final step forward, arms trembling slightly as he placed the folder on the ground.

“And your son is going to get himself killed.”

The city seemed to hush, a thick blanket of silence smothering the once bustling night. The wind continued to tug at his cape, unaffected by the bomb that had just dropped.

The only sign of outward emotion that escaped Bruce was the tick in his jaw. But inside, his heart was pounding—a rapid thump-thumping against his ribs like a caged bird. Contingencies flew through his mind: risk assessment, breach analysis, possible leaks, potential threats.

Here, in this moment, there were a thousand things Bruce wanted to say—the first six hundred and seventy four of them being deny deny deny. 

The kid shouldn’t know any of this—there was no denying that. But he did, and there was no denying that either.

The identity leak was massive, and Bruce would have to deal with the fallout one way or another.

But something else weighed heaver. Dick. The last time they’d stood on a rooftop, words had thundered between them. Anger, righteous anger that snapped and foamed like a mad dog. But beneath all the rabid barking was grief—raw and unspoken.

Dick was asking him to feel. And Bruce just couldn’t allow himself to do that. Not now (not ever).

Not when the city needed him. 

Bruce had done what he’d had to do.

But did he? Was pushing Dick away really what he’d had to do? Was it really the only way?

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, while he wrestled with words that wouldn’t come.

Jason would know what to say. He would’ve—

“I’m not trying to mess things up,” the kid said, breaking the heavy quiet. There was a sharp, intelligent gleam in his blue eyes. “I just… I think you’re the only person who can stop him from getting himself killed.”

Dick had been favoring a side on the roof. An injury. Why? He knows I’d never—

I’d never—

Doesn't he?

Bruce couldn’t call. It would never work—they were both too stubborn and too proud.

They were both too similar. 

Bruce should’ve denied. Told the kid to get lost. The rational part of him—the ruthless, tactical, logical part—ordered him to research, analyze, attack.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he said—

“What exactly do you expect me to do?”

The words surprised them both. Bruce could hear it in his own voice—quiet, hoarse, broken in ways he’d never admit. Ways he couldn’t admit, not to anyone. Not to himself.

The kid blinked. For a moment, he looked like he hadn’t expected to get this far. Like he’d only rehearsed the part where Batman shut him down.

But he rallied, standing as tall as he could. Bruce, for all his emotional turmoil, respected it. Not many people could stand that defiant in the face of the Batman.

“He’s your son,” the kid repeated. No hesitation now, the fear that once threaded his little voice replaced by determination. “That should be enough.”

Bruce’s hands stayed perfectly still at his sides, but his fingers ached from clenching so hard. “He doesn’t want me there.” he said, voice low. “He’s made that perfectly clear.”

The kid tilted his head, as if he was trying to see through every wall Bruce had spent decades building. Then, quietly, he said:

“He doesn’t want to die, either.”

There was a pause. As if the kid was remembering, seeing something in his mind’s eye.

“He thinks he does. But he doesn’t.”

Bruce didn’t say anything; he didn’t trust himself too. The blanket of silence lifted, returning all the sounds of the night. Ambulance sirens sounded in the distance. A car drove by below them, tires humming over damp asphalt. A dog barked. Wind rustled the edges of the folder lying at his feet.

Then, finally, the kid added: “Do not measure life by death.” 

He turned and disappeared down the fire escape, leaving Bruce alone on the rooftop.

Bruce didn’t move, not for a long while—not until the sky turned violet and early morning songbirds warmed up their tunes and trills.

But a bird that stalks

Down his narrow cage

Can seldom see through

His bars of rage

His wings are clipped and

His feet are tied

So he opens his throat to sing.

As the last of the night retreated, so did he. He scooped up the folder and swept off back to the Cave.

---

Dick parked his bike a few block down from the Kick, stowing his helmet and pulling his rain jacket tighter around him. The rain had let up as he’d left Blüdhaven, but dark clouds still loomed in the Gotham sky. The air was thick with the scent of wet pavement. His boots scuffed puddles that hadn’t yet found drains.

As he moved through the crowd, weaving between Gothamites carrying sheathed umbrellas in preparation for a downpour, he glanced at his watch: 2:10 p.m.

He passed a shop window, and instinct tugged at him. He cast a sidelong glance into the glass. His reflection met him, faithfully mirroring the hand he dragged through his damp hair.

I am awake. I am awake. I am awake.

And he was this time. This time, it was real. 

He had coffee with Babs at 2:30.

There were so many things he needed to say, so many apologies that were too long overdue—for snapping at her, for shutting her out, for pushing her away.

And he was going to make it this time. They were going to talk, for real. He was done being a shitty friend.

He’d had his breakdown, his annual emergency clinic visit when he couldn’t do it on his own anymore—when he let his weakness get in the way of everything important. He’d checked that box, and now he was fine. He was standing. He was conscious. Everything was fine.

“Trying this again, aren’t we?”

Dick nearly jumped out of his skin. He fumbled for his watch—2:14 p.m.

His breath hitched, lungs tired and sore. His ribs still ached ferociously, as did his shoulder. He’d ditched the sling—he couldn’t stomach the worried look on Babs face if she saw it. The bruised face would do enough damage.

He knows shouldn’t have patrolled last night—fresh out of the hospital, and all that—but he couldn’t wallow in his apartment any longer. He was failing at a lot of things right now, and he was tired of it.

Dick exhaled shakily and turned in the direction of the voice, a weird sense of deja vu washing over him like cold water.

Jason walked beside him, casual as anything—red hoodie, worn-out sneakers, curls falling across his forehead. He looked alive. He looked twelve.

Just like he did in the drea—

A familiar, terrible longing rattled his aching ribs, pressing upon his tired heart. If only this was real. If only they could walk together. If only Jason was really here. If only he wasn’t d—

Dick blinked, and his vision blurred.

He was…crying?

Silent tears slipped down his face, a tight squeeze in his throat. He swiped them away, quickly, almost angrily. His eyes flitted to the window of a parked car. Its surface bent the city around it, freezing the air in his lungs for a second before he raised his hand and poked his cheek. The reflection, though stretched, mirrored him perfectly. 

I’m not dreaming. This is real. 

He traced a trembling thumb over the cool, familiar curve of his watch, grounding himself in the feel of it.

“This time’s going to be different, Jay.” Dick said, voice low. The words hung heavy in the air, but Dick meant them with his whole chest. He was awake. And he was going to meet Babs.

“Whatever you say, Big Bird. You know, you actually made it this time. Hopefully she doesn’t hate you.”

Dick tipped his head back, casting his wet eyes to the dreary sky. He hated it when Jason got this way—when he was mean and cruel and cut in all the places Dick had no armor left. Jason wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t like this. Dick didn’t want this. He wanted his little brother. 

“Jason,” he whispered, voice raw. “Please. I—I can’t do this right now. I—I’m going to see Babs.”

“We’re going to see Babs,” Jason countered, teal eyes sparkling.

Dick swallowed down the lump of broken glass in his throat, grief knocking insistently on that glass jar—a constant, noisy reminder of what Dick was now, of what Jason was now.

“Okay,” he whispered. It would be fine. Babs—seeing her will make it fine.

The Kick Espresso Bar looked exactly the same as always: same brick, same teal awning, same ridiculous little red tile roof crammed between two towers of concrete and glass. A few pigeons cooed softly from the iron tables out front.

Dick hesitated at the door. His fingers ghosting the handle, but he didn’t open it. Dread unspooled in his gut, curling up his spine. He kept his eyes averted from the windows.

What if it was all a dream. What if it’s not real. What if this whole time—

Look! Look!! Please, you have to know—

Dick jerked his eyes up to the door’s window, blood rushing in his ears, and froze. Looking back at him was—

A disgruntled, scowling old man trying to come through. Dick blinked, shame and adrenaline mixing in his chest. He pulled open the door with a smile and a hasty apology. The man grumbled past, muttering something about kids these days.

Inside, the cafe was warm and familiar. Barbara sat at their usual table in the back near the windows. Two cups of coffee steamed in front of her. She was furiously typing something on her phone, eyebrows drawn in deep concentration.

The deja vu washed over him again, sending his brain spinning and goosebumps down his arms. It was unnerving. He didn’t like it. Because in the dream—

“I got you your Architect Blend,” she said without looking up as he neared their table. “Four pumps cinnamon dolce, two extra shots of espresso, just how you like it. You’re welcome.”

“God, I love you,” Dick breathed, sitting into the chair across from her. His whole body protested the movement—ribs aching, shoulder-that-should-definitely-still-be-in-a-sling twinging sharply. The pipe-shaped gash, though stitched, still throbbed, but he made himself grin through. For Babs’ sake.

She looked up at him. Her eyes scanned his beat-up face, slow and methodical and very much Oracle and not Babs. The crease between her brows deepened.

“Dick,” she said, voice low and careful. 

Fuck. Dick hated when she said his name like that—like he might break. When he worried her and she looked at him like he just might shatter. Because if she looked too closely—if she peeled him back, just a little—he would. And he couldn’t let her see that. He was done being a shitty friend.

Friends didn’t ignore their friends for weeks. They didn’t crawl back just to fall apart in front of the people they loved most. Friends didn’t return from days of silence just to dump all their problems at their feet and say fix me.

Friends didn’t toss their comms after a high stakes mission.

Dick waved a hand, trying to nonchalance but landing somewhere around pathetic. “No work talk, remember?”

Babs leveled him with her patented don’t bullshit me, Bird Boy look as she took a sip of her Old Soul. Dick stared at his coffee like it might save him, shame burning hot in his gut. He opened his mouth to bullshit her, when—

From the corner of his eye, Dick saw a familiar figure drop into the chair to his left.

Dick didn’t turn, not fully. That would freak Babs out. Instead, Dick cast him the quickest glance he dared.

Robin Jason sat next to him—green gloves, yellow cape, suit and all. No domino today, teal eyes bright. He wasn’t bloody or butchered like he so often was now. Just his Little Wing.

Dick hastily glanced down at his watch: 2:35

He subtly leaned back in his chair, feigning a stretch. His shoulder twinged. His ribs throbbed. Jason cast no shadow on the cafe floor.

I am awake. This is real.

“Dick? Hello?”

Barbara’s noise cut through the blood rushing in his ears. Dick tore his eyes away from the boy beside him and focused on her. She was watching him carefully. It made him squirm.

“Sorry Babs,” he said, forcing a sheepish smile that tugged on his stitches. “Long night.” He tried for a self deprecating laugh, but it came out a little more pained than he’d hoped. Weren’t his ribs supposed to be like…healing?

Jason leaned back in his chair, dejected. “You didn’t even say hi,” he muttered, looking down at his gloves. “You’re not gonna ignore me the whole time, are you?” 

And just like that—one of Dick’s heartstrings snapped. He was going to be sick. It took everything he had not to turn. Not to reach for him. Not to apologize. Not to gather him up and whisper I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry until the terrible ache in his chest gave way. Just like he should’ve done in the cave when they’d last spoke.

The last time Dick had ever spoke to his little bird, he’d told him to—

Dick cleared his throat, trying to slow his pulse. The old record player up front crackled out soft 50s music, warbled and sweet. The strong scent of coffee wafted gently through the air.

“So, Babs,” he said, “what’s new with you?”

She didn’t answer right away, setting her cup down with a quiet clink. Her gaze never wavered.

“No,” she said. “Dick—listen. I know we said no work talk, but I’m worried about you.” Her green eyes locked on his, steady and sure. Guilt tangled its wretched claws in his ribs and pulled. 

She didn’t need to—she shouldn’t have to—

Babs reached across the table and took his hands. Only then did he realize his fingers had been trembling, tracing and retracing the buttons of his watch.

“It’s okay, you know. To be upset about it. To hurt. You can let yourself fall apart, Dick. We’ll catch you.” Barbara’s hands tightened around his. “I know it’s been…hard, for you.”

Dick didn’t respond—he couldn’t respond, not with all of Barbara’s open-faced care and concern. If he opened, he might not stop pouring. And he would never do that to her. He would never drown somebody else in his own sorrow. Those waters were for him to swim, and him alone.

Jason didn’t like being ignored.

“Seriously? I’m right here,” he said, voice louder now.

Dick’s hands twitched in Babs’ grip.

Gently, he pulled his away, reaching for his coffee and checking his watch.

2:40 p.m.

This isn’t a dream. This is real.

The coffee burnt his tongue. The music buzzed in his ears, both far to loud and far too quiet. He set the cup down again, hand trembling against the ceramic. He swallowed hard, pushing everything down. Bundling everything into neat little jars and shoving them on shelves. Slam-dunking issues in his overfilled fuck-it bucket.

This wasn’t about him. This was about Barbara. His friend. His friend who deserved better than him.

“You can tell me anything, you know that right?” Barbara’s voice was soft and steady. Her green eyes locked with his again. 

Dick wanted to put his head through a wall.

It wasn’t her job to worry about him. Dick doesn’t need to be “worried about”. He deals, plain and simple. He gets up. He bounces back. Every time, without question. People need him, so he shows up for them.

And what Dick would tell her would break her heart. He just…can’t do that to her. Telling Babs what’s wrong with him would hurt her. And Dick can’t hurt his best friend.

“Of course, Babs,” he said. Jason scoffed beside him. Dick grit his teeth, jaw clenched tight to keep from glancing in his direction.

But Barbara’s eyes were searching his again, and he couldn’t hold her gaze. In a moment of weakness, his eyes flitted to Jason—

Blood, crimson, almost glowing in the dim cafe light, dripped from somewhere beneath his curls. It trailed down the side of his face, his neck, darkening where it met the Robin suit.

Dick’s stomach plummeted, every muscle in his body locking up.

No. No, no no no—

He jerked his head back to Babs, desperately trying to quell the rising panic threatening to drown him. His throat went dry. The edges of the room blurred, the only sound being his thundering heartbeat. His fingers tightened around the ceramic of his cup, the heat from the coffee burning his palms. 

“And,” the word scraped out of his throat, “you can always talk to me, too. I know what you do is hard. I’m always here for you, Babs.”

His voice trembled, just slightly, and he hated himself for it.

Because what Barbara did was hard. She was their eyes, yes—the mind behind their mission. But she was also their heart. Night after night she sat in her tower, sending her birds into hell and praying they came back. Dick knew how much it cost her, no matter how much she didn’t talk about it. Barbara—Barbara was the best of them.

Dick swallowed, shooting her his best smile. It felt wrong, false—an ill-fitting costume. His hands were still burning from clutching the mug. He glanced down at his watch: 2:44 p.m.

I am awake. 

Jason leaned in closer, sharp words piercing Dick’s already-wounded heart. “You remember the first time we met? You looked at me like I was nothing. Like I wasn’t worth the dirt under your blue-striped boot. I see nothing’s changed.”

Dick felt as if he was being strangled. His throat constricted like a rope being pulled tighter and tighter—guilt and shame and memory and God, if he’d said more, done more, been better—

“Dick,” Babs said again, voice almost pleading. “I—I know you’re not okay. Please—please talk to me.” He eyes took in his gash, his bruising, his eye bags. “You’re my friend, and I love you. No amount of missed calls or text messages can ever change that. I don’t want you holding on to all of this, Dick. It’s not good for you.”

Dick swallowed, forcing down unwanted tears. “Okay—listen,” he began, trying to put some feeling behind what he was saying. “I know I look a mess, but it’s really not that bad. I’m fine Babs. I promise.”

He lifted his mug with shaking hands, praying the too-sweet hot might ground him—but his trembling grip betrayed him. The coffee sloshed, spilling hot across his fingers, dripping onto his shirt.

“Ah—damn it,” he muttered.

“Come on, Dick,” Jason tutted. “All you do is make a mess of things.”

Dick’s head snapped up to meet his brother’s blazing teal eyes. He felt as though he’d been kicked in the gut. What—what is happening?

He stood so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor, slicing through the cafe’s cozy ambiance. “I—I’m gonna go—“ he gestured vaguely to his stained shirt with dripping hands. He didn’t wait for her to answer. In fact, he could hardly look at her. He just needed a second—to breathe, to something.

His hands were slick. Heavy. Wet. A crimson baptism of failure, splattered across his every action. It pooled in every footprint he left behind, staining every vow he made and broke.

He damn near staggered to the bathroom, trying to put some distance between himself and…all of that. 

He slammed the door behind him (It was a single room, thank God), fingers fumbling for the lock.

He lurched toward the sink, caught himself on the edge with both hands, and hung there—shoulders heaving, breath scraping in and out. Like someone was wringing out his insides with cold, bony hands.

The mirror loomed above the sink like a threat—cruel and truthful, the four cornered eye of a little god. He stared down at the basin instead, wide eyes fixed on the white porcelain.

Blood. Thick, wet, and spattering crimson onto the tile.

His hands trembled violently as he yanked the faucet on—hot water hissed, scalding his tender palms. And he scrubbed.

“Do you have any idea how pathetic this is? This is like, worse than blowing her off Dickie.”

Dick scrubbed harder, refusing to look at Jason. His stomach churned as the copper tang of blood assaulted his nose and throat. He gagged and swallowed hard, vision swimming.

Look. You need to look!! What if you’re—

His wild eyes met his reflection. Just him—bruised, exhausted, and pupils blown wide. Tears slipped down his sunken cheeks. His reflection blinked when he did, moved when he did.

He tore his gaze downward again—no blood. The water wasn’t even pink. There was no iron tang in the air—only coffee.

His breath came in sharp heaves, ribs knifing in his erratic lungs. His whole body shook, legs threatening to give out.

I am awake. I am awake I am awake I am—

Jason’s voice rang out again, slicing through Dick like a blade. 

“You know, you never really cared this much when I was alive. It must be so much easier now that I’m d—“

Dick’s wet hands gripped his hair. He tugged, hard. “Jason,” he begged, tears wetting his cheeks and salting his lips. “Little Wing, I—I would’ve taken your place. I swear, a thousand times over I would have taken your place. I still would.”

The dream—that godawful nightmare was crushing him. Squeezing his psyche until he was strung out, peeling apart his nerves one by one. Pressing in on all sides and poised to consume him.

This is real. This is real. This is real.

Jason scoffed beside him, frigid and detached. And God, that hurt. 

Why was he like this today? This wasn’t—this wasn’t his Jaybird—

“I know, Dick. You’ve been saying that.”

Dick didn’t lift his head. He only pulled harder at his scalp, nails biting skin, hoping the pain would anchor him, would keep him here.

“But it’s too late. Always too late, Dick.”

Jason’s voice was empty, full of so much resentment and disappointment Dick thought he might shatter.

“You can’t even look at me now.”

And he was right. Dick couldn’t. Because Babs was waiting for him on the other side of that door. She deserved a version of him that could deal with this. That could pull it together and be there.

And if he looked and Jason was—

Jason was bloody—

Then Dick would never come out of this bathroom. He would stay here until the world ended and her returned to the ground and met his little brother.

Silence stretched, thick as molasses. The only sound was the soft murmur of music and conversation outside and the sharp, staccato rhythm of Dick’s breathing, just shy of hyperventilation. His hands were still tangled in his hair. His chest still hitched painfully with every breath. 

Behind him, Jason leaned up against he wall, just like he had in the L&C Tower bathroom all those nights ago. When Dick had seen him for the fist time. When they’d laughed and teased and joked. When he wasn’t so…cruel.

“You gonna hide in here forever? Keep running?” he asked, tone flat. “Because that’s obviously not working.”

Dick didn’t answer. Instead, he let slowly go of his hair, worried he might tip right over the edge if he moved too fast. He rested his trembling hands on the edge of the sink. Nausea rolled around in his gut. Paradoxically, he felt horribly hollowed out. That raw, yawning chasm was all that was left. Gaping, consuming, black. 

His ribs ached. His shoulder throbbed. The gash on his head felt hot, his head full of pressure. His skin buzzed with leftover adrenaline, the edges of a panic attack still crackling at his fingertips.

But the wave, the tidal of guilt and grief and memory had passed. Mostly. Yeah.

I am still here. I am still awake.

He blinked at the mirror, gaze unfocused. His reflection stared back—shaken, red-eyed, jaw clenched. He looked wrecked.

He turned the water cold, rinsing his stinging hands. He ran a wet hand over his face, then dried it with a paper towel. He wet another paper towel dabbed the coffee stain on his shirt. Not once did he glance at his baby brother, still standing behind him, leaning up against the wall.

“It’s gonna catch up,” Jason said. “Not an if, but a when, Dickwing.”

Dick closed his eyes, just for a second. The world swayed behind his lids. He didn’t have time to fall apart; Barbara was waiting. Dick had done enough damage.

He drew in a long, uneven breath and forced it back out through his nose. Again. And again.

Five things he could see: his watch. The faded “Employees Must Wash Hands” sign. Painted coffee beans on the wallpaper. Water droplets glistening on the floor. The toilet.

Four things he could feel: the weight of his watch on his wrist. The wet spot on his shirt where he’d tried to get the coffee out. His hands stinging. The hole in his heart where Jason had been ripped out.

Three things he could hear: muffled music coming from the record player. The clink of ceramic glasses. The rumble of the coffee grinder.

Two things he could smell: cheap soap. Coffee.

One thing he could taste: bile, sour and cloying.

He opened his eyes—he didn’t feel steady, but he could lie. Pretend. He could pretend—for Barbara.

“Pull it together, Grayson,” he muttered to himself. He straightened his spine and rolled his shoulder (Ow, fuck). He ran a gentle hand over his throbbing ribs, deciding to keep ignoring them.

He knew Jason was still standing behind him—he still refused to look. A ghost waiting for an encore.

His little brother waiting for him because he was scared of the dark—

“Go get ‘em tiger. She definitely doesn’t hate you now.”

Dick adjusted his collar in the mirror and smoothed his hair. His fingers still shook a little, but it was manageable. He was fine.

The lock clicked as he turned the door handle. Just before he opened it, he smiled—polishing his light like his armor—and stepped back out into the coffee shop.

Warm lights and the smell of espresso greeted him. Soft conversations hummed, the old vinyl still playing 50s music.

Hollow legs carried him over to Barbara. He felt…weird inside. He wasn’t here per say, but he wasn’t completely gone, either. A limbo of sorts. The empty no longer consuming, but him completely.

“Coffee stains, am I right?” He joked as he sat back down in the chair across from Barbara. She looked up from her coffee, expression softening with concern. Dick appreciated immensely how she didn’t say anything about how long he was gone, nor how absolutely wrecked he knew he looked.

He curled his fingers around his significantly cooler cup to hide the remaining tremors and smiled.

For a moment, she just watched him. Head slightly tilted, brows slightly furrowed. Like she was weighing something.

“Dick I—I understand. Jason’s death was hard on you. Is hard on you.”

His heart clenched in his chest, sharp and sudden, like someone had twisted up his ribs and pointed them all inwards. His own personal cage.

He risked a glance to his left. 

Jason was perched near the windowsill now, watching him with an unreadable expression. When he caught Dick’s eye, he just shrugged. Just…resignation, almost.

Dick glanced down at his watch: 2:54 p.m.

This is real.

He schooled his features—forcing the corners of his mouth upward, leaning back in his seat, raising his too-sweet coffee to his lips. He didn’t drink it, for fear of what his stomach might do if he did.

“Jason’s death was hard on all of us,” he said flatly. Nice one Dick. Pain = deflected. Nailed it. 

Barbara sighed, shaking her head and looking away. Her fingers idly stirred her own coffee.

Dick’s heart sank with the sneaking suspicion that he’d answered wrong.

But she didn’t push. She gave him his space.

He was fine. This is fine. They were fine.

The conversation continued on to trivial things such as the near-constant rain in Blüdhaven these past couple of days and Jim Gordon’s upcoming 60th birthday. Dick even laughed a few times to keep the charade going—for himself or Barbara, he couldn’t tell.

Jason stayed quiet—either looking out the window or at Dick with that same unreadable expression. Every so often, Dick would check his watch, just to be sure.

I am awake. This is real. I’m not dreaming. 

He walked Barbara back to her car. He went back to Blüdhaven. He got ready for patrol.

He’d won.

Notes:

i hope you enjoyed!!

yay, finally coffee with babs! oh. wait. :)

little narrative nugget: Bruce doesn't have the same extensive internal monologue as Tim and Dick because he refuses to feel!! where Dick is being drowned by his feelings, Bruce is strangling them. also, Bruce has a cut-off flashback scene because he can't bear to remember (contrasting with Dick's flashbacks, which are very long and emotionally descriptive bc he is *literally* drowning in memory!).

i also used some of the same dialogue/descriptions from the FIRST time we had coffee with Babs (the nightmare in Dream is Collapsing) so we all get to experience the awful deja vu that comes with that right alongside our main man Dickie.

i am such a sucker for some good ole parallels. i know you guys all know this by now and i will Never Stop.

anyways, i have so many ideas bouncing around my noggin right now. you will see them all soon enough ;)

tata for now, little readers!!!!

Chapter 14: Memory is a Rope

Summary:

“I can't sleep,

I'm on my knees.

I'd like to meet,

Would you save me a seat?”

- If Heaven had a Front Porch, Nic D

Notes:

remember that conversation i've been alluding to?

i'm sorry.

The rooftop was cold, the night wind biting, cutting at all the chinks in Dick’s suit. He didn’t even entirely remember how he got up here. Patrol had been a blur. A couple of thugs had landed some nasty hits, but Dick didn’t really care. He wasn’t wearing the armor underneath his suit—it was heavy, and he was tired. Always tired.

At least he’d made it to coffee with Barbara earlier that day. There’s one person he hadn’t completely failed.

Tim had reached out—told Dick he was home safe with “Mrs. Mac”. Dick, buying none of it, had said “Ok”. The conversation stalled. Dick didn’t know what else to say. So he didn’t.

Instead, he sat on some rooftop, high above the smoggy Blüdhaven sky, knees pulled into his chest, domino wrung out in his hands.

Missing Jason came in waves. As of late, he’d been drowning. The ghost of his baby brother had asked him why he held on to it all. Dick could only reply with a similar question—where did he put it down?

Why did he hang on to tightly to the past?

Well, the people he loves are there.

The worst thing about regret—about penance, about guilt—is that it’s so painfully human. The logical next step when we are confronted with great loss. To think I failed, and now I must atone, regardless if the failure is even yours to claim.

The second worst thing about regret and penance and guilt—is that it’s completely futile. Useless, obsolete, it changes nothing. Dick could apologize and fall to his knees, but his words would fall upon wood and bones and dirt. Jason would never hear them. He was dead. And Dick had told him to leave, to go away the last time they’d spoke.

His words, burning with anger meant for his father, had scorched his little brother who had simply wandered too close to the flames.

So regret would bite and claw and scrape at Dick’s soul, the wretched talons lodged in his ribcage, poisoning him from the inside out. They tightened and twisted every time he thought of their last conversation—of they very last thing he’d said to his little bird.

(“Dick. This isn’t a good idea.”

Dick shouldered his duffel bag, turning to face Bruce.

“It’s dangerous out there. I can’t back you up.”

Dick sighed—he’d expected this, the common excuses: the mission, the logistics, the backup—things Bruce said when he couldn’t say that he was scared of letting Dick go. 

“You always say that. Like if your not there, it’s suicide.” Dick was tired of this conversation. This one, yes, and the dozens of others exactly like this. Dick didn’t want to fight. But Bruce made it easy, so they did.

Bruce’s expression was stony, unreadable. But eleven years working with the Batman had taught Dick a thing or two about his father. He could see the tightness in his jaw, the walled-up worry behind his eyes that screamed apprehension. Fear, almost, if the lighting was right.

Dick’s voice came sharper this time. “I don’t need you to back me up. Besides, you’ve got a Robin.”

One terrible thing about their fights—when they went around and around, drawing lines only to cross them again—was how nothing ever stayed in the past. Every old hurt found its way back in, as if time hadn’t passed at all. Simple kindling for the fires of their anger. They knew each other too well, too deeply, and that made it exponentially worse. Dick never had to raise his voice to draw blood, and neither did Bruce. It was always the same argument, always ending in the same burning silence.

This was no exception.

Bruce sighed almost imperceptibly. “Dick—"

“No,” Dick snapped, cutting him off. “My team needs me. Starfire needs me. Don’t get your bats in a tizzy just because you can’t lord over every breath I take while I’m there.”

Dick took a step forward. Bruce didn’t move.

It was so easy to fight with Bruce (this hurts, Dick thinks. It wasn’t always like this). Like striking a match in a dry field. A word, an implication, a misstep—and the whole thing went up in flames, bright and hot and consuming. And the two of them—a mirror’s twisted idea of a reflection, really—fed it, fueling each other’s blaze until neither could remember who lit the first spark. And oh, how horribly familiar it all felt.

“This isn’t about me leaving, Bruce, and you know it. This is about you not being able to watch me,” he said, looking into straight Bruce’s steely blue eyes. “You can’t watch me, so you want to stop me. That’s all this is.”

Dick always hated this, the paradox that defined their every interaction now. Bruce, constantly shoving him away, only to claw him back when he finally took a step. The push-pull of a father who didn’t know how to love without control. How could he have fired Dick from his own mantle, told him to go and meant it, yet not be able to unwrap his gauntleted fist from Dick’s life?

This is why it was so easy to fight with Bruce. To stand in that godforsaken field and drop that damned match.

“You told me to go,” Dick said. “You fired me. And now you what—want to reel me back in?”

“All I’m saying,” Bruce began again, cold, “is that you could go up there and die. You, your whole team. And what then?”

A pause. Dick could feel hot anger rising in his chest.

“You’re just—" Bruce stopped himself. He huffed a tight sigh, weighing his words. Dick absently wondered what he was about to say. He was just what?

His son?

Not good enough?

“We need you here.”

A splash of gasoline.

And here we go.

Dick laughed, sharp and bitter, almost manic. “Need me here? You haven’t wanted me here in years!”

His voice rang off the cave walls, a ricochet of old wounds and glowing embers.

“You made your choice, Bruce. You threw me out. And now what?” He threw up his hands, gesturing like he could pull what he wanted but would never get out of Bruce. Fury boiled in his blood.

“You want me back on a leash? Because you’re scared? Because you don’t think I can do it?”

Dick searched his father’s face. Say something, he begged silently from behind his white-hot curtain of rage. Feel, please God, feel something.

Tell me you want me to stay because you’re scared of losing me.

Tell me you want me to stay because I’m your son.

Tell me you want me to stay.

Bruce didn’t answer. He just stared. 

And Dick hated that, too. The silence. The absolute refusal to give anything real unless it came armored with orders and smothered in detachment. 

Dick could see every wall going up behind Bruce’s eyes. There was no field left to burn. The kindling had run out. All that was left was resignation, hollow and pyrrhic.

So Dick turned, fingers tightening on the duffel strap.

“I’m going. Whether you like it or not. I’m not your little soldier anymore. I’m not your kid sidekick.”

From behind him, Bruce spoke, voice hard. “If you walk out of this cave, don’t expect me to come running when it goes wrong.”

Dick froze. Hot tears prickled at his eyes. Around and around and around they go. Will it always be this way?

He swallowed down the hurt.

“I never did,” Dick said flatly. (It was a lie. This is a lie.)

He walked toward the Zeta tube, not daring to look back.

And if he would have looked back, Dick would have saw his father flinch. Small, it was almost imperceptible, but it was there. A minute flicker of hurt crossing Bruce’s face, almost as if asking—really? Always? Did you always believe that? That I would never come for you?

But here’s the thing about Dick. He is a creature of great emotion. His anger burns hot, yes—but it’s matched, maybe even outmatched, by something…harder to name. It’s not hope, exactly. More like a kind of desperate belief, the kind that only survives when it’s been tested and burned and crushed but still refuses to die. The kind forged from going in circles with his father—someone who knows where every nerve is buried because they taught each other how to cut. Neither of them want to draw the blade. Neither of them want to strike the match. They know these nerves, this field. They know how it ends. But they do. Again and again, they do. Around and around and around. 

So this desperate belief took hold of Dick and he did look back—a mere inch from the Zeta tube, he turned.

But too late, as was often the theme.

Bruce had swept out of the cave.

In his place stood Jason.

“Hey, um,” he said, voice cautious, “I know you’re mad but I just…” he shifted from foot to foot. “I heard you’re leaving?”

Dick didn’t even look at him. He huffed a curt sigh, shaking his head.

“Yes, Jason. I’m leaving.”

Jason blinked, lips parting slightly. He looked away, swallowing hard.

“I mean, I don’t care or anything, just—did Bruce say you were actually going to Tamaran?”

Dick rolled his eyes. With all the yelling, the damn planet probably already knew he was coming.

Annoyance bled into his tone. “Yes, Jason.”

Jason shifted his weight from foot to foot again and cleared his throat.

“Do you really have to go?” he asked gently, delicately, as if Dick was a barely contained wildfire.

In all fairness, he was.

“I kinda…need you here right now.”

Dick turned slightly at that, voice tight and brittle. “Now’s not the time.”

“There’s—there’s something I found,” Jason pressed, quieter. “And I might need…your help. I think my mo—“

“Not now, Jay,” Dick snapped, turning back to the Zeta tube. “God—can’t you just leave me alone? Just this once?” God this family was like a fucking cage—

If Dick stayed facing his baby brother and his teal eyes, he would’ve seen a flash of hurt cross Jason’s face, quickly masked. (this is a sign. This is really important to Jason. Dick has missed it)

“Fine. Great,” Jason he muttered, looking away, shoulders rising like a shield. “Go run off to space. Whatever.”

Rage was relit through Dick. He whirled, eyes blazing.

“Jesus, Jason. Not everything is about you. I’m not abandoning you, I just need some goddamn space.”

This time, Jason wasn’t able to cover the raw pain that flashed across his face—like he unprepared for Dick’s hot fury.

In all fairness, he wasn’t.

And Dick saw it—too late, as was often the theme. He ran a hand through his hair, guilt sliding down his spine like ice, cooling his anger only slightly.

“Look, Jay—"

“It’s fine,” Jason cut in, eyes sharp. His throat bobbed with the effort of keeping it together. “It’s fine, Dick. Doesn’t matter anyways.”

You see, Dick didn’t want to fight with his younger brother. But the embers were still hot. So he did.

Dick threw up his hands.

“Then get out, Jason! Go away! This goddamn family and fucking control issues. I’m done.”

Without looking back, Dick stepped into the Zeta tube.)

It began to rain. Fat droplets poured from the cloudy night sky, mixing with the hot tears rolling down Dick’s cheeks.

Strangled—he was strangled by what he’d done. What he’d said, what he hadn’t. Stangled by the need to go back, to change what had happened. But many things in life, once done, cannot be undone.

He was a terrible person, he really was. Through and through. He’d had an opportunity—a chance, one he so coveted now, to make things right. To apologize. Jason deserved it.

But fate often doesn’t care about things like deservedness.

(Dick stood at the window of their ship, gazing out onto the alien planet.

Tamaran was beautiful.

Dick wanted to share it with Jason.

He pulled out his phone, checking the date and time on Earth.

April 28th. 4:40 pm. (Too late, as was often the theme—but Dick doesn’t know this right now. He will, though. Intimately, he will).

Dick sighed, knowing he fucked up. He’d let his anger at Bruce burn his little brother. It was shitty. Jason hadn’t deserved it.

“Hey, sorry for earlier,” he typed out.

Dick bit his lip, gloved finger hovering over the send button.

Nah, that was also shitty.

He’ll apologize in person. It’ll be better that way.

They’ll go for ice cream or something and Dick will tell Jay everything.

It’ll be fine.)

Memory, for Dick, is often both noose and salvation.

He walks down the yellow brick of memory lane, eyes scanning for his little brother, as he always does. The tall gladiolus and red poppies will tell him that his little Jaybird is close. He’ll have his brother back for a while, there in that ridiculous garden. They’re tethered, you see. Forever. By the rope of memory Dick is tethered to Jason for the rest of eternity.

So when Dick walks down that yellow brick of memory lane, he is also looking for something else—a hangman’s tree, scraggly and dead, a single crooked branch reaching out across the path. 

There, Dick will hang himself with the memories of his little brother. He wraps the tether that binds them together around his neck with his own hands.

Noose and salvation.

A thousand moments Dick took for granted, mostly because he believed there would be a thousand more. A second chance. A third.

Dick did not get a second chance. 

He will never get a third.

Notes:

:(

Chapter 15: Tick, Tick, Nothing

Summary:

“And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!”

- The Raven, Edgar Allen Poe

Notes:

a tipping point
a turning point.

Smack.

Dick flinched, looking up from where he’d been sitting at the kitchen table, scanning case files before patrol. Something had thudded against his window.

He crossed the kitchen slowly, legs suddenly hollow and unsteady. He lifted the window and looked out into the damp night. 

Dick frowned.

Nothing.

Just misty rain and the brick wall of the apartment looming across the alley.

He looked down at the fire escape.

A bird.

It was small. Could probably fit in the palm of his hand.

Little reddish-orange breast. Dark head, gray back.

No. No no no.

His legs were moving, but he didn’t remember telling them too—pulling him out onto the fire escape.

Dead.

The robin was dead. 

Mangled, little bird legs bent at sickening angles, neck twisted and hanging limp. It’s wings were splayed wide, torn and lumpy and stained. Feathers spread about its head in a grotesque halo. One glassy eye fixed on nothing, staring out into the night. 

Dick’s thoughts cracked and splintered like ice under a boot. A high ringing started in his ears, drowning everything else out. The world narrowed, tunneling his focus to the tiny butchered body in front of him.

Robins—robins aren’t even out this late. They’re early risers.

A caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

His wings are clipped and his feet are tied—

His breathing hitched and stuttered, mouth agape. His vision flickered, spikes of pain lancing through his chest. It felt as if the weight of the world was pressing on his lungs, his heart.

Oh my God oh my God—

His fingers hovered just above the fragile little corpse. He couldn’t touch it, but he couldn’t pull away either. A sob caught in his throat, choking him.

His little bird—his little bird had fallen out of the sky. Dick, in a fit of anger meant for another man, had stolen his breeze—snatched it with greedy, furious hands and left. Ran and ran and ran, leaving his Little Wing confused and hurt and falling and—

Dead. His Little Wing was dead.

The air tasted like metal.

There was no absolution. No quiet corner of his mind untouched by the reek of iron and smoke and the rotten tendrils of guilt.

“Guess birds don’t live long anywhere,” came the all-too familiar voice from behind him.

That glass jar of grief, balanced precariously on that shelf in his mind—the one where he kept all of the pain and the heartbreak and guilt and the utter bloody loss—fell.

It fell and shattered and Dick fell and shattered right along with it. Right into a thousand million tiny little pieces.

Cold raindrops prickled his body, but he could barely feel them. He was going to be sick.

He stumbled back into his apartment, clumsy, trembling body catching on the windowsill and sending him crashing to the ground.

His healing and not-so-healing injuries lit up in protest, but it was far away. He stumbled across his kitchen. He couldn’t breathe he couldn’t think his heart was going to escape his chest—

He stopped, catching himself on the kitchen counter—eyes wild, breathing ragged.

Jason stood in front of him, arms crossed.

The worst part wasn’t the blood dripping down his face. Not the burnt cheek and ear, nor the crooked nose or crimson sclera. It wasn’t the stained suit or melted gloves or even the bone-white ribs Dick could seek peeking through blistered skin and torn fabric.

No, the worst thing was the utter disgust on his littler brother’s ruined face.

It knifed right through Dick’s ribs, running through lungs, piercing his heart and twisting. Dick gasped and heaved, clinging to the countertop to stay upright as his empty legs threatened to give out.

“Jason,” he begged, head dipped low, as to not see his little brother’s blood. “Please—"

“Funny,” Jason cut him off, cold and humorless. “That’s what I sounded like as the Joker beat me to death.”

Nausea churned in Dick’s gut and he staggered past Jason to the bathroom.

Wait.

He never—he never checked—

Porcelain met Dick’s trembling hands as he hit the sink. He swallowed, desperately trying to calm his roiling stomach.

Oh God, he did not want to look in the mirror.

Look! What if you’re dreaming—

Dick jerked his head up, meeting his eyes in the glass—

Wait.

His stomach plummeted like a dropped elevator, crashing through his legs, dragging every ounce of blood and breath with it. Cold surged through him, a numbing, glacial tide that locked his joints and turned his insides to stone. He could feel his heartbeat behind his eyes.

Oh my God.

Oh my God oh my God oh my—

There, looking back at him from the glass, was Jason. 

Burnt, bloody, and mangled—Dick was eye to eye with his little brother in the mirror

Domino torn, face bruised and crimson-touched. Framed in fractured light, his teal eyes—impossibly malicious—pierced through Dick.

Dick’s breath caught in his throat.

If my reflection moves when I move, his precious Rules read, the yellow post-it hovering in the corner of his eye, I am awake.

Dick raised a shaking hand.

Jason copied.

Dick poked his cheek, feeling the rough kevlar on his clammy skin.

Jason did the same with a bloody glove against his burnt cheek.

Panic, raw and savage, seized Dick. It twisted up his insides until he couldn't breathe, couldn’t even think. He grabbed the glass sitting on the counter—

And chucked it.

It exploded against the mirror, shattering it, shards spraying like shrapnel. 

Dick moved like a man possessed. He tore into his room, ripping a pair of scissors from his desk drawer and hurling them at the mirror hanging like a damnation on the back of his closet. It shattered into a thousand glittering pieces.

After that, everything was a blur.

There was pain, both a physical ache and something deeper. It hurt and burned and pulled. His infected grief, that horrid beast with its wretched talons and yawning, empty, consuming mouth—

Dick fled his room, pulling another glass from the kitchen and throwing it at the black screen of the television. The screen exploded with a violent crash. It was probably loud, but Dick didn’t hear it.

Dick didn’t want to see. He was done. He was—he was so tired of seeing his little brother’s desecrated body everywhere he turned.

He was done.

He whirled, hands trembling violently, heart ready to burst. He stormed through the apartment, rabid, hunting for anything that might hold his little brother’s cursed reflection.

The toaster gleamed in the dim kitchen light. Without hesitation, he grabbed it, smashing it hard against the counter. The metal warped and bent. Another slam and it came apart in his hands. He threw the remnants into the sink.

The panic twisting his insides squeezed ever tighter, his breaths coming in ragged, uneven gasps. His ears rang, heart pounding so loud it was deafening.

He turned again. Sweat slicked his face. The oven. The microwave.

He yanked open the silverware drawer, pulling a knife—

The silverware. Each piece caught light. He snatched them from the drawer, flinging them against the wall across the room, Some embedded in the cheap drywall; most clattered to the ground.

It’s fine—he can improvise. He doesn’t need the knives. Instead, he pulled another glass from the cupboard and slammed it into the glass of the oven. His hand shrieked, shards biting against the gloves of the Nightwing suit.

Ah, yes. Patrol. That’s what he was supposed to be—

He took a plate innocently drying on the rack next to the sink and crashed it into the glass front of the microwave. Both exploded.

I’m done. I’m done I’m done I don’t want to see—

The windows. Oh God, the windows.

His hands, his body, were no longer his own. He found duct tape and assaulted the glass—his aching fingers working frantically. One by one, he covered every pane. Every reflection. The windows disappeared beneath the thick black strips, shutting out everything. He ripped the blinds down, shrouding the whole apartment in darkness.

But it wasn’t enough.

Jason was still there. There would only ever be Jason.

He duct tape the doorknobs. He smashed every single glass in his cupboards. Silver pans got chucked. 

Tears blurred his vision. His body felt—wrong. Hurting and hollow and wrong. 

He stood at the center, his apartment a battlefield, a no man’s land of shards and scarred surfaces. He was suffocating now, in his head, in his lungs—the walls were closing in.

His mind was spiraling, circling round and around and around and he was going right along with it. He felt himself collapsing from the inside out. A black whole, roaring and consuming and violent, yet holding literally nothing at its vicious center—taking and taking and taking until all of Dick was pulled inside.

His watch. He never checked his—

He brought his watch up to his face, barely able to read the time: 12:00 a.m.

He glanced up to the analog clock hanging on the wall. It, too, read 12:00 a.m.

He dared a glance at the clock above the ruined oven. 12:00 a.m.

A hysterical laughed escaped Dick.

I am awake. 

He doesn’t need the mirrors. He has his watch. He ran his fingers over the buttons, felt the band around his wrist.

Another laugh bubbled up inside him.

I am awake. This is real. I am not dreaming. 

Dick stumbled into his room, head empty but not quiet. The clock on his nightstand read 12:01 a.m.

Yeah. He doesn’t need the mirrors. He has his watch.

The freezing panic—the glacial tide of horrid ice water that had so threatened to drown him—retreated, leaving nothing but cold, vicious emptiness in its wake. His bones were hollow, his blood gone. His heart had stopped beating—there was nothing left in him. That great chasm, that black winged beast, had won.

Dick sank to his knees in front of his nightstand. He pulled the clock down to sit right in front of him.

12:03 a.m. 

He glanced down at his watch— 12:03 a.m.

Dick took his first conscious (albeit shaky) breath in what felt like hours.

He looked back at the clock—12:04 a.m.

His apartment was dark, save for the dim light of the kitchen.

Jason sat to his right. Dick knew he was there. Dick would always know.

Now—now his head was quiet. 

The only thing he could hear was the tick of the analog clock in the living room.

Tick—

Tick—

---

Barbara was working, but she wasn’t.

In a single night, someone had decapitated Crime Alley’s entire criminal network. It was…unsettling. Babs had been tasked with looking into it. She absently wondered what Jason would think of a new player in his home turf.

Her fingers moved over the keyboards, but her mind was elsewhere—still in that coffee shop, watching her best friend glue his shattered pieces back together in mere minutes and present them to her as if he never broke.

For the first time in a very long time, Barbara was at a loss. Dick had deflected and denied and evaded with the kind of grace only he could manage. And Babs had given in—let him, allowed Dick to believe he’d fooled her—in order to preserve their friendship. She didn’t want to push him away when he was already spiraling. Dick would never give up ground that easily—and she’d never force him.

Because if he’s that good at hiding what’s wrong—because something is really, really wrong—how long? How long has it been going on?

How long has he been this bad?

Their abysmal coffee date had confirmed her worst suspicions—Dick was seeing Jason, everywhere. The way he kept glancing askance, checking his watch. He was restless. Hell, Barbara was ninety-nine percent positive he’d had a panic attack in the bathroom.

The missed calls, the unanswered texts, hell, even the forgotten coffee dates didn’t bother her. At least, not in the ways of their friendship. She understood. Jason’s death hung heavy on all their hearts. The guilt, the weight of it, was practically genetic. Bruce carried it. So did Dick.

They were exactly the same. And it was terrible.

Bruce had loved Jason like a son. Dick had loved Jason as a brother. And Babs knew—brothers aren’t simply close; brothers are knit together.

Jason and Dick had been knit together.

She had seen the way he looked at Jason—like he would either give Jason the world, or burn it down if he asked.

And Jason—sweet, fiery Jason—loved Dick right back.

He used to tell her everything about their weekends together: train hopping, late-night ice cream runs, the one time Dick microwaved macaroni without water and blew up his microwave and got the fire department called on them (Jason laughed so hard telling that story it took him a full ten minutes to get through it).

He stole Dick’s hoodies whenever he stayed at the Manor. He had spent six months photographing everything to create a photo album for Dick’s birthday—he’d even asked Babs for help getting the best angles.

He bought the same shampoo and conditioner. He asked Barbara why Dick and Bruce fought so much, and if he could do anything to make Dick stay.

God, did that kid love Dick.

He may have been Batman’s Robin—but he was Dick’s Little Wing.

A soft ding pulled her from her thoughts.

Barbara wheeled toward the security monitor. Something had tripped her system—a subtle breach. Something small, but wrong. Nobody “breached” Barbara Gordon’s security. They simply pinged against it then drifted off, like tiny-brained fish bumping against the glass of a tank.

She swiped through her network of screens, eyes narrowing as she traced the small digital ripple back to its source.

Oh fuck. 

This was more than a subtle breach.

Someone was in her elevator.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the elevator feed. Rain distorted the lens, blurring the figure as the camera focused. She leaned in.

A kid?

A kid was coming up her elevator.

Ding.

Well. He was here.

Barbara swiveled to face the elevator, tension in her shoulders, fingers ghosting over her panic button.

The elevator doors slid open, letting in a gust of damp city air. 

The kid stepped out.

He didn’t…look threatening. He looked like a kid—ten, maybe eleven. Like something out of a storybook, Barbara thought—little red rain boots splashing water onto her tile, a too-big black raincoat drooping past his knees, and a matching umbrella dripping onto the floor.

He clutched a thick folder—so stuffed with paper and multicolored sticky tabs it looked ready to explode. It was nearly the size of his torso.

He was cute—big blue eyes, damp dark hair sticking out at odd angles.

Barbara couldn’t help it—her mouth twitched. He’s got a whole aesthetic. Baby Sherlock.

They stared at each other for a long, still moment, both mildly surprised he’d made it this far.

Finally, the kid cleared his throat.

“Ms.—Ms. Gordon,” he began, shifting the weight of the folder in his arms.

All the blood in Barbara’s veins froze. 

He knows?

He can’t. There’s no way, he’s a literal child—

“I know you’re Oracle,” he said, eyes locked on hers.

Well, fuck.

“I know Bruce Wayne is Batman,” he continued, standing taller. His small hands clenched the folder tighter. She saw a glimmer of intelligence behind his gaze—one she now knew she should’ve been paying attention to.

The air in Barbara’s lungs was trapped there, unable to leave. 

“I know Dick Grayson is Nightwing.”

Babs gripped the arms of her chair, fingers turning white.

“And if he doesn’t get help soon,” the boy said, voice trembling slightly but still so sure, “he’s going to die.”

A hundred questions swarmed Barbara’s mind, loud and buzzing. She swallowed hard, willing her shocked brain to function.

“Well, kid—"

He took a step forward, wet rain boots squelching on the tile. He held the bulging file out to her with both hands as if it answered every single one.

Alright, then, thought Barbara. No denying it now.

She pulled off her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose and rubbing at tired eyes. She should deny. Deny and send the kid away. Figure out who he is, plant a bug in his house and a virus in every single piece of technology he touched for the rest of his life. 

She should deny and send the kid away.

But…

He wanted to help.

Barbara sighed, a weight settling in her chest—not new, but newly undeniable. Like an ache she’d had for so long she’d forgotten it hurt, and now she’s remembering exactly what caused that pain in the first place.

God, does Dick need help right now. More than she could ever give alone.

Barbara slid her glasses back on and wheeled forward. She took the folder from his small hands and began flipping through it. A fragile, sad smile tugged at her lips.

He’s a very smart kid.

Placing the folder in her lap, she rolled back toward the glowing wall of monitors. Rain tapped gently on the roof; it sounded like static.

“I tried,” she said quietly, eyes flicking from one security feed to another. “Over and over. I reached out. I tried.” She shook her head, throat tightening, eyes prickling. How did she explain this to an eleven year old? And eleven year old who most definitely knew much, much more than he was ever supposed to?

She started over. “He—he doesn’t—" She swallowed. Why was this so hard?

Because you care, a voice whispered.

She tried a third time, hands tracing anxious circles across the folder in her lap. “Dick is very good at running,” she finally said. “And he’ll—he’ll convince everyone—even himself—that nothing was ever chasing him.”

She looked down. Her voice fell to a whisper. “But it is. It is chasing him.”

She paused, fury creeping in slow and bubbling beneath her ribs.

“And he won’t ask. Ever. For help, for a hand, for anything.” 

She worked her jaw through the anger that often accompanied the bitter, suffocating helplesness.

“And I ask and I push because I care—because I love him—and he just pushes right back! Like he letting go of all that shit he holds onto makes him weak. Like he might break us if he trusts us with burdens he can’t carry. Like he has to sit there and bear it all alone.”

Her voice broke, rage sharpening it. “And he doesn’t! He fucking doesn’t—"

Squelch.

She stopped, a hot, angry tear slipping from her eye. Around her, the monitors continued to hum softly.

The rain boots stepped up beside her again. She looked over and found wide blue eyes staring up at her—earnest, steady, and far, far too old for his round little face.

Barbara blinked. Her hands ached—clenched into fists so tight her nails had left half-moons in her palms. She forced them open, fingers trembling slightly.

“We gotta help him,” the boy whispered.

A teary, raw laughed escaped her before she could stop it. Like I haven’t tried. Like he even wants to be helped—like he think he deserves it.

“Like I’ve said—I’ve tried, kid,” she said softly, dragging her hand over her face. Her voice cracked “If I keep pushing, I’ll lose him. Forever. And I—I can’t—"

“Bruce,” the boy cut in quietly. “Bruce can get through to him. He just has to see.”

Another laugh bubbled up, this one defeated and sorrowful.

“Kid,” she began, trying to be gentle, “I don’t think that’s how it works. Bruce—he doesn’t always see what’s right in front of him. And right now—“

“He can,” the kid said again, firmer now. He pushed his damp hair out of his eyes, only for it to flop right back. “He will. We just…have to show him.”

Barbara tilted her head, eyes narrowing. How much…how much does this kid know? Like, really know?

Barbara had seen the carnage Bruce wrought upon the city after Jason died—she watched firsthand what he was doing to people, regular, desperate people. People who needed help and a second chance, not to be paralyzed for life. It wasn’t what Batman stood for. It wasn’t at all what Jason died for. She didn’t sit up in the Clocktower all night to watch Bruce beat some poor soul within an inch of their life. It wasn’t what she stood for. 

Jason’s death had destroyed Bruce. Was destroying him.

And Dick—well, he stood for goodness, for light. She’d heard about Bruce kicking him out of Gotham when he’d come to hold him accountable for the red on his gauntlets. Jason would’ve been so heartbroken if he were here now—seeing what his death had done to his family. 

Watching his beloved older brother atone for his death with his own life, as if it could bring Jason back.

Watching Bruce use the lives of others to atone for his death. As if it could bring Jason back.

So, despite the insanity of an eleven year old bypassing her security systems and standing in front of her now, she let herself hope. It was the thing with feathers, after all.

“How?”

The boy smiled, just slightly. “I have an idea.”

Barbara let out a breath, surrendering.

Desperate times, desperate measures and all that.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Tim.”

Notes:

1. Dick is about to find out that rock bottom has one helluva basement.

3. i wonder who that is...

2. timmy + babs team up yay!

Chapter 16: When It's Ajar

Summary:

”Be done with this now and jump off the roof.

Can you hear me, Achilles? I'm talking to you.”

- Achilles, Gang of Youths

Notes:

when is a door not a door?

when it's ajar.

Dick hadn’t gone out on patrol after his…incident. In fact, he hadn’t left his apartment at all. His mind felt fractured, every nerve strung out and laid bare like a spider’s web. He was floaty yet impossibly heavy. He was hungry but couldn’t stomach the thought of food.

His heart felt empty. A hollow organ rotting in his chest, infected with grief and guilt and a kind of wretched longing that was actively trying to suffocate him. 

That beast—with its claws and talons and tendrils—had won.

His head hurt; it felt filled with the very same broken glass litered throughout his ruined apartment. His soul ached.

Well, had come the steadfast voice of reason, you don’t eat, you haven’t slept since you were unconscious, and you just spent the past twelve hours laying on the floor.

Dick had told the voice to fuck right off. And thankfully, it did. Dick: 1, Reason: 0.

He’d continued to lay on the floor for the rest of the night, the morning, and into the afternoon—the hammering noise of the storm lulling him into a restless doze. 

After jerking awake and checking his watch for the umpteenth time, he’d finally decided he might as well go on patrol. He might actually lose his mind if he sat in his trashed apartment for one more second.

Dick put on the Nightwing suit and felt like he was dressing a wound.

The storm was the absolute worst it’d been—relentless rain pouring down in torrential sheets, thunder booming so loud it threatened to split open the sky.

The kitchen was dim, save for a singular light on above the stove. Dick sat at the counter, a bowl of dry cereal in front of him (the milk had gone bad), another sitting across from him for Jason.

It remained untouched, like Dick’s. He just…couldn’t do that right now.

Jason looked awful—just as butchered as ever, bloody and burned, a cruel smirk carved into his mangled face. Dick could hardly look at him, and Jason knew it. 

He checked his watch. 9:57 p.m.

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the kitchen in an eerie white glow before receding. Dick jumped as his apartment rattled from a loud crack of thunder.

He shouldn’t go out tonight. He shouldn’t. 

The fortress that grief had built inside him—with mortar of sorrow and a foundation of guilt—weighed him down. His limbs felt like lead, his head filled with water.

But he didn’t go out last night. 

“Might as well get going.” Jason said from where he sat across from Dick, arms folded across his stained chest. “Storm’s not gettin’ any better.”

Dick heaved a sigh. He’d leave the armor off again—that way, he could be more agile. Quicker, as a compromise.

Yeah.

The armor was heavy; it slowed down his already tired limbs. If he wore it, he would risk getting hurt.

Yeah.

Dick crossed over to the window. The duct tape over the glass prevented him from checking his reflection before he left. That was okay, though. He had his trusty watch.

10:02 p.m.

He slid up the window, harsh wind blowing rain onto the floor.

Unwilling to turn around, he asked, “You coming, Little Wing?”

From behind him, Jason scoffed. “‘Course, Dickie. You can’t leave without me.” There was something in his voice—something smug, almost as if he knew something Dick didn’t

“Okay,” Dick whispered, and stepped out into the stormy night.

---

Puddles splashed beneath his boots. The water that dripped off him was red.

That’s…probably bad, his floaty mind offered.

The sounds of the night—the pounding rain on the rooftops, the distant wailing of sirens—were all drowned out by his heartbeat, his breathing, and his…numbness. 

Dick didn’t really feel much of anything.

And yet—he did. 

His insides felt shattered—that little jar of grief, tucked away so carefully, had finally broken open—razor-sharp pieces slicing at his heart, digging into his brain. But even then, Dick really wasn’t really in there. He felt untethered. Like a boat unmoored in a stormy harbor. A gust, a wave, and he’d be dragged out to sea and sunk.

He was a puppeteer pulling the strings for his own body. He was there, but he wasn’t; caught halfway between complete free fall and the shell of his skin.

It was a weird feeling. But Dick wasn’t present enough to really register that, either  

What he did register, however, was that he was tired.

He stood atop a rooftop in the middle of downtown Blüdhaven. Rain pounded down so hard he couldn’t even grapple anymore—he was forced to stick to alleyways and hopping rooftops like some rookie. The neon lights below blurred with the downpour (or because he hadn’t been able to see straight for the past hour—hard to tell. He also didn’t care).

He’d stopped a mugging—barely. The guy had a razor, and had sliced through Dick’s suit like tissue paper. His arms were a mess of oozing gashes. They should hurt.

When he swallowed, his mouth tasted like blood and bile. That was from when another guy had landed a punch to his gut. Dick figured he should regret ditching the armor—but even now, he couldn’t muster the energy to care. Even after he puked in an alley for fifteen straight minutes.

He’d also broken up an armed robbery. Some dumbass (right up there with Bank Guy, against whom Dick had decided to hold a life long grudge) had actually shot at him. But the gun was waterlogged, and had jammed. The guy problem solved by just throwing it at him.

It had hit him in the jaw. Now that had hurt.

Afterwards, Dick climbed the nearest rooftop to assess the damage. He got as far as realizing something warm and wet coated his mouth and chin and neck before his brain just…checked out.

You know what? How about we just like…don’t.  

So he didn’t.

He just…stood there. Dripping, waiting, empty.

Thunder boomed. Lightning lit up the sky.

Dick swayed. He needed to move. There was someone else out there who needed his help.

But his body was exhausted. His suit was soaked. His stomach was empty.

Old wounds ached. New ones throbbed. His hair was plastered to his face; his stitched-up gash stung and pulsed in time with his erratic heartbeat. Something felt deeply wrong inside him.

But Dick really wasn’t in there—he was still just outside himself, numb fingers barely holding the strings.

Oh, and—

“You gonna go back out there? Or just stand here and mope?”

That.

He glanced down and took comfort in the familiar weight of his watch on his wrist: 11:48 p m.

I am awake. This is real.

Dick sighed—and winced. Shit, that guy’s punch hurt.

There hadn't really been a lot of activity tonight; the storm scared most criminals off. Maybe he could just—

“Jesus, Dick. Not everything’s about you,” Jason spat. He was standing in Dick’s peripheral, the Robin suit bright against the wet dark. 

Dick swallowed, his throat sore. Jason was right.

He knew instinctually what kind of mangled horror Jason looked tonight—one he couldn’t bear to see. Not when people needed him. So he let Jason stay. But he didn’t look at him.

Dick dragged himself to the fire escape to hop the next building, when—

CRACK!

Thunder boomed so loud Dick absently wondered if the sky itself had cracked open.

Then—

Lightning struck a skyscraper’s antenna in the distance.

The city went dark.

---

Chaos erupted.

Now, Dick might not have been feeling much, but he knew one thing: this was bad. 

Blessed adrenaline flooded his veins, bringing everything into sharp focus.

He chekced his watch. 11:53 p.m.

He tapped his domino and flipped on night vision. Raising his grapple, he shot out from the roof, trading in the risk for speed. He swung east toward Slabtown. There were so many people packed into those tenement blocks, and with no power—

No. His body jerked painfully as he changed course. He headed south.

Dark. It was dark everywhere.

A complete blackout.

This really was bad.

The red-and-blue lights of the police cars cast living shadows as they tore through the streets. Car horns blared. The rain assaulted his face like tiny bullets.

The Cauldron. He needed to go to the Cauldron.

The Cauldron was the most dangerous district in Blüdhaven—openly corrupt cops, rampant gang activity, and rife with urban blight. A blackout just presented too many opportunities.

Halfway there, Dick heard a scream from below.

His body protested heavily as he dropped hard into an alley. Through the night vision of his domino, Dick could see a thick man with his meaty hands around a woman’s throat. He held her up against the brick, her toes barely scraping the ground.

Dick flew into action. He pulled an escrima from his back and slammed it into the guy’s knee—it caved and the man went down with a garbled scream. The woman staggered away, bracing herself against the wall as she coughed. Dick cracked him across the back of the head for good measure and the man went limp.

“Are you okay?” he asked the woman, chest heaving. He really shouldn’t be this tired—

She rubbed her chest. “Yeah, Mister Wing. I’m good. Thanks,” she said, voice painfully hoarse. Her watery eyes slid down to the man lying unconscious on the wet ground.

“Is he—?”

“He’s resting.”

“Ah.”

Dick suggested the woman go to a clinic—just to be safe—and grappled off south once more.

His mouth was warm and wet. Probably just from the rain.

His insides hurt. Probably just the punch.

His hands ached from gripping the grapple so tightly. But he couldn’t stop; the city was a ticking time bomb, and the Cauldron was the fuse. If he could mitigate some of the violence, then maybe he could prevent Blüdhaven from descending into total anarchy.

He heard glass shatter and jerked his head toward the dark street.

Dick stopped and rolled across a rooftop. And holy fuck, did his body not like that. His shoulder, his ribs, his abdomen sang with white-hot pain. He got to his hands and knees, breath scraping out of him. Warm and wet dripped from his mouth. The taste made him gag, but he’d already lost all the contents of his stomach so—

—nope; he had not lost all the contents of his stomach, holy shit that hurt—

“Come on, Dick. The city actually needs you for once and your just gonna quit on them? First my death, then those OD’s. Who’s next, Dick, huh? Jamie? Tim?”

Jason’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere. It was too loud in his ears and impossibly far away.

Dick kept his head down, spitting and wiping his mouth. He felt like he wasn’t getting enough oxygen, like he couldn’t breathe—

Several pop pop pops from the street below sent Dick scrambling to his feet.

His own broken city to protect. His own Bat-legacy to carry.

He peered over the ledge of the roof. 

Below, a half dozen people fired shots across the street, hunkered down behind cars and emerging only to fire. Dick wondered how they could even see each other. Judging by the sporatic amount of rounds being fired, he guessed they couldn’t.

Dick dropped down behind one gang less graceful than he would’ve liked. One of the goons turned and opened his mouth to shout—Dick drew his escrima and cracked it over the guy’s head with a thwack.

The other two turned as the guy crumpled to the wet sidewalk. One of them raised his gun—Dick brought his escrima up, snapping the guys elbow. An ugly scream tore itself from the goon’s throat and he pushed away, cradling his ruined arm to his chest.

The third guy—finally someone with a singular motherfucking braincell—turned and bolted.

Right. Dick spit warm and wet from his mouth, breathing heavily. Okay, time for—

Bang! 

Fire exploded in Dick’s left shoulder. He dropped behind the car, pressing his back to the wet metal. Pain assaulted every sense as it spread through his veins like acid.

For a few minutes, he just breathed, lungs spasming, staring up into the dark pouring sky. He pressed his hand just below his collarbone, warm and wet seeping through his fingers and mixing with the cold rain. The world narrowed to white-hot pain and rain and breathe in, breathe out. Dark crept in at the edges of his vision again, pulling him down. He gripped his escrima so tight it dug into his palm.

He ran himself through every pain management breathing exercise Bruce had ever taught him.

You know, he kind of really wanted his dad right now—

Thunder boomed. The sky flashed white.

Dick felt alone. Like really, really alone. It squeezed his chest. It burned at the back of his throat.

There’s no one coming to save you. You’ve either killed them or disappointed them.

A shuddering sob escaped Dick. He swallowed hard, chest hitching painfully. He kept his hand just below his collarbone. None of the bandages he kept in his pouch would stick—the suit was too wet. The rain was too heavy.

I’m fine, he told himself. I’m fine. Just grazed.

Just grazed. Just grazed just grazed just grazed.

“Sure thing, Dickie,” Jason said from beside him. Dick looked away, blinking away tears.

Jason’s here, he thought. At least I’m not completely alone.

Dick gently tilted his wrist, casting his eyes downwards to the soflty glowing interface of his watch: 12:32 a.m.

I am awake.

When the pain dulled from holy shit I just got shot grazed to someone is stabbing me with a hot knife, Dick slowly peeled away his dark-stained fingers. He pulled a (already soaked) piece of gauze from his belt and slid it beneath his wet suit via the collar. As gently as he could, he slid the gauze over the sluggishly bleeding wound.

The stinging sensation that followed whited out Dick’s vision for a terrifying second—the world dissolving into pain and wet and static.

After an agonizing eternity, the staccato of his breathing calmed and the high ringing in his ears was replaced with the roar of rain.

Dick breathed slowly. He squeezed the escrima with cramping fingers. The world came back into focus. There were no more pop pop pops sounding from across the street. The goons must’ve ran out of ammo.

Which meant they were coming.

He went still, straining his ears to hear anything over the torrential rain. 

There—

A faint splash to his left—too loud to be just rain.

Dick took a deep breath. Wiped his wet hair out of his face. Pushed the pain down as far as he possibly could.

And pounced.

There were three of them. It was dark—the goons couldn’t see him. But thanks to the night vision in his domino, Dick could see them. 

He stayed slightly turned to protect his wounded shoulder. It’s just grazed.

An escrima to the knee followed by a strike to the ribs. 

One down.

The second swung blindly. Dick sidestepped easily and slammed the butt of his escrima into the back of the goon’s head. He crumpled to the wet asphalt.

Two down.

Third raised his gun and fired blindly into the dark. Dick heard bullets whizz by his head as he ducked and dodged. So, they hadn’t run out of ammo.

Dick silently crept around the goon’s left side, using the heavy rain to mask his footsteps. The man still fired blindly into the dark. Dick wrapped his arm around the man’s throat, cutting off his oxygen supply. He only struggle for a few seconds before he went limp. Dick lowered him gently to the wet ground.

Okay, he thought, standing over the downed goons, trying to calm his heartbeat. To the Cauldron.

That feeling—of being outside his body, of just being slightly to the left of his brain—was a blessing. There was pain, and a lot of it, but it was…behind a wall—one reinforced by exhaustion and adrenaline and an unhealthy dose of good ole Bat-tenacity.

The soaked suit chafed against his body as he swung from building to building. His hands cramped from gripping the grapple so tight, shoulder screaming with every pull. The assaulting rain stung the cuts on his forearms. He was floating.

Fire. Catch. Swing. Fire. Catch. Swing.

Something was wrong with his body. But that didn’t matter.

His own broken city to protect. His own Bat-legacy to carry.

All those OD’s.

First my death.

Who’s next?

He could see the Cauldron before he even got there.

There was no still power—but dozens of cop cars lit up the grimy wet streets in various hues of red and blue.

Great, Dick thought. Fat chance any of them are clean.

He landed on the rooftop of a crumbling apartment building, leaning heavily against a ratty air conditioning unit. His chest heaved, warm and wet (which Dick had now begrudgingly identified as blood) mixed with the rain on his face as it dripped down his chin. He tried to keep his mind out, tried not to think about what the taste of iron on his tongue reminded him of—

“Dude—you look rough.”

Dick raised his head, wet hair peeling away from his clammy forehead.

Jason stood before him. He was fifteen—not quite a boy, but not yet a man. On the precipice of growing up. Future as bright as his teal eyes.

And the blood. Oh God, the blood—it dripped out of every orifice, staining the Robin suit dark. Dick could see the white bone of his ribs, the muscles of his jaw through the ruined skin—

Dick turned and heaved, nearly blacking out from the wave of pain. The acid burned his mouth, adding a vile bile taste to the copper already on his tongue.

That was wrong. Something was wrong, he shouldn’t be—

The rain assaulted Dick’s body—yet Jason stood dry. Thunder cracked and lightning flashed. Shouts and sirens echoed from below. Dick’s body felt like it was revolting against him.

“J—Jay,” he said, voice wet, keeping his eyes on the puddles at his feet. His breath hitched and stuttered. He spit the remaining blood and bile out of his mouth.

“What, Dickie?” Jason snapped. It burned. “Gonna tell me to go away again? To get out? That you’re done?”

“No!” Dick cried. He risked a look at his baby brother; the blood leaking from his eyes made his teal irises almost glow. 

“Jay—Jay, please.” He reached out a trembling hand. Jason didn’t move—only continued glaring at Dick with heat he’d never felt before. “Little Wing, never. You—you can stay. Always. You can always stay. You’re my little brother. Forever—“

A a loud shout below drew his attention. Dick scrambled toward the ledge, wiping the water from his domino lenses and surveying the street.

A small wave of relief crashed into him.

Maggie was here.

He dropped into the alley behind her.

(Did his knees nearly buckle? Well, that’s between him and the smelly dumpster he braced himself against.)

Although the police commissioner stood beneath a black umbrella, her raincoat was soaked. She barking orders at the small group of blue-clad officers surrounding her. Dick crept to the edge of the alley, waiting for a moment to get her attention.

A flash of red caught Dick’s attention. Dick went rigid. Out of the corner of his eye, Jason leaned up against the adjacent brick wall of the alley.

Dick couldn’t look. But he did check his watch: 12:58 a.m.

I am awake. This is real.

Thankfully, Maggie—as she was often told—was too good at her job. She turned around the second the blues in front of her had hurriedly dispersed.

“Nightwing.”

Dick swallowed and plastered on his best smile. He hoped the low light hid the worst of the blood.

“Commish. How’s Jamie?”

“She’s safe. Very grateful to you, by the way. She hasn’t stopped talking about you. How’s your head?”

Jason scoffed from beside him.

“Tell her I’m proud of her. She was very brave,” he said, pointedly ignoring the question. He stuck to the edge of the alley. There were a lot of cops here—and the majority of them didn’t exactly like him.

Maggie sighed like she’d expected the answer. She glanced around and took a step closer.

“It’s bad, out there, Nightwing,” she said, voice low. “The whole city’s gone dark. Slabtown is a mess, and the Cauldron is practically a free for all. The hospital’s on emergency power, but it won’t last forever. We don’t have enough backup generators for the whole city.”

She grit her teeth. “And I don’t have enough clean cops to cover.”

Dick nodded. He knew the complete overhaul Maggie had done to the police force when she’d took over as Commissioner. Needless to say, she’d made it to the top of several hit lists very quickly.

She smoothed a hand over her damp hair.

“We’ve got every engineer in the city working on bringing the power back, but there’s no definite timeline.”

“You got some work to do, Dickie,” Jason said. “Let’s hope you last.”

Dick glanced in his direction. His little brother was still bleeding, his injuries still horrific. Dick swallowed hard.

But he’s here. I’m not alone.

A spike of pain shot through his shoulder. Dick clenched his fists and grit his teeth until it passed, willing away the dizziness that accompanied it. His head was still pounding, his abdomen still throbbing from where that guy had nailed him good. But he was upright. That was all that mattered.

Jason scoffed again. “Yeah. ‘Upright.’ You gonna stay that way, Big Bird? Or are you gonna keel over and scare the shit outta everyone, just like you did to poor Timmy—“

“Jason,” Dick breathed, practically begging. He hoped Maggie couldn’t hear him over the roar of the rain (frankly, he really didn’t even care if she did).

“Nightwing?”

Jason shrugged, putting up his hands; they were burnt so badly the melted rubber of the green gloves fused with his fingers. 

Dick swallowed down the acid that rose in his throat. He put out a hand to lean against the brick wall of the alley.

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” his little brother said. “This is all you, Dickwing.”

Dick ran a hand through his sopping wet hair. He tried to slow down his breathing (since when had he started breathing so fast?) because it was hurting his…well, insides seemed really broad, but it was hurting practically everywhere—

“Nightwing? Listen, don’t think I didn’t catch you ignoring my question about your head."

Oh, fuck. Maggie.

Dick drummed up his best smile and turned to face her.

“Let’s get to work then, shall we?”

---

It was four in the morning when the power got restored.

The street lamps blinked awake one by one, each casting long shadows on the wet pavement. The faint hum of electricity returned to the city.

Even without the armor, he still felt so heavy.

Dick’s bones ached down to the marrow. His whole body throbbed with a low, constant hurt, his numerous injuries blending together into one constant scream of pain. His stomach was just a roiling, empty pit. Dick’s mind had checked out hours ago, drifting somewhere outside the limits of pain and fatigue.

He had done what he’d needed to do.

But now, sensation was slowly seeping in, and he couldn’t ignore it for much longer.

Jason had followed him every step. From Slabtown to the drowned alleys of the Cauldron, from the chaos of the hospital to every damn bank in the city, his younger brother had flitted about the edges of his vision.

And Dick let him stay. He didn’t have the strength to send him away. He didn’t want to be alone.

Now, he and Maggie stood outside the 15th Precinct, bathed in the grimy glow of a flickering streetlamp. The storm had broken a while ago, but the air was still thick and wet, the mist fine and cold. The gutters gurgled with runoff.

Dick leaned hard against the brick wall, trying to anchor himself to something real despite how floaty he felt. The shape in front of him blurred, but he knew it was Maggie. He could feel her exasperation from where he stood.

“We have to check on Slabtown,” Dick rasped. “There’s so many people packed in those apartments. We don’t know if—“

“No, Nightwing,” she said flatly. “You need to go home.”

He frowned. The wound on his chin—in addition to the old gash on his temple—was giving him a nasty headache.

“Maggie—“

“No,” she cut him off, her voice hard as steel. “We’ve been doing this for three hours. And I know for a fact you were out here before that. I’ve watched you slow down. You’re limping, you’re bleeding, and frankly, you look like hell. If you weren’t who you are, I’d haul your ass to the ER and handcuff you to the bed myself.”

Her voice softened. “We’ve helped everyone we can. Let yourself be human. Go home.”

Dick shook his head. This was a bad idea—the world titled, shadows swirling at the edges of his vision.

“There’s still people out there—"

“Nightwing.” She took a step toward him. “If you don’t leave right now, I will arrest you.”

He blinked. “What—?”

“I mean it. Vigilantism is still illegal. And I know half your gear violates at least a dozen statues. We work together because we have to. Because heaven knows I can’t do this on my own, and neither can you. But don’t think I won’t slap cuffs on your wrists to keep you from killing yourself. In the shape you’re in, you wouldn’t even put up a fight.”

A taut silence stretched between them. The pain in Dick’s shoulder was demanding increasing attention.

Then, Maggie sighed. 

“Please. Don’t make me be the one to stop you. Just…go home.”

Dick stared at her, heart aching underneath his suit. His soul felt hollowed out and scraped raw. His body felt worse. He wanted to argue, to stand his ground, to insist that he could still do something—that he had to. 

But he was done. And they both knew it.

At last, Dick finally relented.

“…Okay,” he whispered.

Maggie’s shoulders sunk in relief. With a sharp nod, she turned to leave.

“Good night, Nightwing. Get some rest.”

“Good night, Commish.”

He fired his grapple into the night. 

---

Dick stumbled through the window of his apartment, barely catching himself on the counter before his knees gave out. The stove light was off. 

I must’ve lost power, he thought distantly.

He crossed the room and flipped the stove light on, worried his eyes might pop right out of his head if he turned on anything brighter. The soft glow cast long shadows across the wreckage of his living room. Broken glass glittered on the floor like menacing little diamonds. The boots squelched beneath him, his soaked suit shedding red-tinged water with every step.

He ripped of his domino mask and gloves, flinging them toward the counter. They landed with a wet, miserable thwock.

His mind locked onto a familiar chant: Tylenol, shower, sleep. 

With his adrenaline fading, the pain returned with an unignorable vengeance. White-hot flared through his left shoulder. His jaw felt like someone had tried to tear it off, his abdomen and ribs feeling like they’d been run over. His feet ached. His head pounded like an overused kick drum.

He braced himself against the counter, fingers shriveled and numb, pressing them into his stinging eyes.

Tylenol, he repeated, trying to think through the growing haze of pain. Shower. Sleep.

“Wow. I can’t believe you actually made it, Dickie. And look at that! You’re still upright. A miracle.”

Beneath his fingers, Dick squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t raise his head.

At least I’m not alone.

“Yeah, Jay,” he whispered hoarsely. “We did it.”

He let his arms drop, wrapping them tightly around his middle as a fresh shiver rolled through him. 

Habit bade him to glance down at his wrist. 4:28 a.m.

I am awake.

There were no more mirrors for him to look into. So, just to be sure, he turned to the oven clock.

It blinked: 12:00. 

12:00

Every pint of blood in Dick’s body froze solid.

What?

His heart skipped, flighty and bird-like, as if it barely beat at all. Panic curled unseen fingers around his throat, thumbs digging in deep, choking out all air. 

This whole time. This whole time I was—

He pivoted, wild-eyed, scanning the room, vision smearing at the edges.

The analog clock on the wall stared back at him, its hands frozen at 11:48.

No.

His heart lurched with a jarring thud. It pounded in time with his shoulder, his head. Each hitching breath dragged jagged across his broken ribs. The world was suffocatingly narrow and spinning.

The microwave. 

He stumbled toward it, uncaring of his heavily protesting body.

Maybe the microwave—

It blinked: 00:00.

No. No no no NO—

00:00

Wrong. Everything was wrong.

This whole time. This whole time have I been—

His skin prickled. Cold sweat mixed with the grime and blood already clinging to him. The walls folded in, angles twisting, warping, tilting. Panic filled every limb, corroding his psyche like acid. He choked on the burning liquid.

Was any of it real? Was any of it real?

He checked his watch again, barely able to read the small numbers around the shake of his hands. 4:29 a.m.

But how? How do I know?

I can’t look in the mirror—

“Uh-oh,” Jason said from behind Dick, light and sing-song, like nothing was wrong, like Dick wasn't losing his fucking mind—

“Regretting that little manic spiral, are we now?”

Dick flinched so hard he nearly collapsed. The pain, there was so much pain but he needed to know—

He ran his hands through his air and tugged, hard. It hurt. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, the hand around his throat squeezed impossibly tighter—

No. No no NO—

His stomach lurched. He swallowed down bile and blood. His lungs were going to explode, right along with his heart. Burst inside of him like bombs of tissue and muscle and blood—

What if I was never awake. What if none of this is real—

The yellow of his post-it of his rules flashed before his eyes.

“Clocks don’t work in dreams,” he rasped, throat raw.

Clocks don’t work in dreams. Clocks—

Panic pulled Dick’s watch off his wrist. Despite the scream of his left shoulder, Dick raised the little blue timepiece above his head—

And slammed it down on the counter. It shattered into a hundred plastic pieces. The sound was deafening, rising above the blood roaring in his ears.

For a split second, it was quiet. But even then did the silence point inwards, its deadly shards piercing every part of him that had no armor.

Jason was silent.

Dick’s body had had enough.

His legs gave out out and everything went dark.

---

The early night sky was a deep violet, illuminated by the yellow of a rising full moon. Dick stood atop the roof of the W&G Trust skyscraper, back pressed to a rough brick chimney, surveying the city below.

Somewhere off in the distance, the thunder of an oncoming storm rumbled, deep and low.

Jason stood to his left, the Robin suit bright against the dusk sky.

When he spoke, is voice was razor-sharp.

“You told me I could call,” he said, gripping the crumpled white slip in his fist. “That you’re a good listener.”

He laughed, the sharp sound dripping with sickly bitterness. Dick’s chest felt like it was caving inwards.

Jason stepped forward, fury radiating off him in waves. Dick instinctively took a step back toward the ledge.

“Well, Dick,” Jason hissed. “Did you hear me?”

Blood began to drip from Jason’s mouth. Bright and crimson, it stained his teeth and oozed from his lips onto the Robin suit.

“I screamed for you, Dickie. After I realized Bruce wasn’t coming, of course. Did you know I actually tore my vocal chords?” He laughed again, more blood spilling from his mouth, coating his chin and neck.

Dick tried to speak, tried to apologize, but the words were choked in his throat. He couldn’t get his tongue to move, his mouth to open. Tears filled his eyes, cheeks wetting.

No, Jason, please—

“I broke my voice calling for my big brother to come save me,” Jason spat. 

He threw arms wide, like the truth was something physical he could hurl at Dick.

“I don’t know why I ever hoped! I never doubted you, you know that? Never. Not even for a second did I think you weren’t coming.

“I thought maybe—just maybe—he’d come back. That you never went to that goddamn planet. That you chose me—because I was your little brother, and you loved me.”

I do love you, Jason, Dick burned to say. But he could not speak.

Jason shook his head slowly. The entire front of the Robin suit was stained dark from the never ending tide of blood that gushed from Jason’s lips.

“And I still died, Dickie. I still got murdered. All that hope in someone who never even wanted me in the first place.”

Dick’s voice betrayed him. His tongue was too big for his mouth. Oh God, there were so many things he needed to say—

He was choking, suffocating, drowning. He reached out a shaking, desperate hand toward his baby brother. 

Jason took it. 

Placed his other hand gently on Dick’s shoulder.

And shoved him off the roof.

---

The sensation of falling jolted Dick awake.

He rocketed upright, breath catching in his throat.

Bed.

He was in bed. 

His heart pounded in his chest from the free fall of the dream. He sucked in a shaky breath, then another. Slowly the panic ebbed. The details of the dream faded, leaving a melancholic hollow in their wake. An absence. A gap.

The familiar feel of the Manor bedroom’s gray sheets greeted him. The fabric smelled faintly of lavender.

Alfred used lavender detergent.

He listened to the faint sounds that echoed through the halls.

Home. He was home. 

Gentle sunlight slipped between the curtains, soft and golden, warming his face. It’d been so rainy in Blüdhaven the past week; Dick couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the sun.

Everything was just as he’d left it—down to the worn comforter and the Flying Graysons poster on the wall.

A faint smile tugged at his lips—then faltered as pain flared in his chin. He frowned.

A bruise? Huh. When did he get hit?

Dick heard murmur behind his bedroom door; he knew that voice. He would know that voice anywhere.

Bruce.

Dad.

Relief washed over Dick like cool water.

Dad is here.

Everything is going to be okay.

I’m not alone.

Dick swung his legs of the bed, muscles stiff and protesting. He moved carefully, each step weighted deliberate, until he stood before the bedroom door.

His fingers hovered over the knob. For a moment, he just breathed, steadying himself.

He was so tired of fighting with his father. Bruce and he had been each other’s everything—partners, brothers, father and son. Dick wanted that back, so much so that he shook with it. Dick never wanted to fight with his father. Dick missed his dad.

God, did Dick miss his dad.

And he was ready.

Ready to speak. 

Ready to make things right.

Ready to—

He turned the knob and opened the door—

And met the blazing teal eyes of his baby brother.

The blood in Dick’s veins turned to ice.

No. NO—

Jason just shook his head, disappointment written across his face.

“We’ve done this before, Dickie,” he tsked. “Now it’s just sad.”

Dick’s lungs threatened to combust in his chest. His brother’s eyes bore into his, burning his heart, his soul. Dick felt as if he was filling with hot acid.

No. I’m home. I’m home. This is real—

Dick whirled around.

There’s supposed to be a clock on the nightstand—

He was in a courtyard, standing on a cobblestone path. The heat from the two glowing suns in the beautiful azure sky warmed his skin. Sweet aromas from the diverse multitude of vibrant alien plants—all in glorious teals and blues—filled his nose and mouth.

Funny. The teals reminded him of—

Dotted throughout the courtyard were various reflecting pools carved into white stone and ponds containing a myriad of fish-like alien creatures.

Tamaran. He was on Tamaran.

Which meant—

Panic—cold and gripping—seized his chest.

Jason. Jason was on Earth, right now—

Dick needed to get to him.

Something buzzed on his hip. Dick reached into a pocket on his suit, pulling out his phone. He stared at if for a beat, then pressed it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey, um—Dick?”

The voice on the other end was so small.

Oh my God.

It was Tim.

“You said I could always call, right?”

Dick dragged a gloved hand through his hair. He needed to get out of here.

“Yes. Yes, Tim, of course—" His voice dropped, low and serious. “You can always call me, okay? Always.”

There was a sniffle on the other end, followed by a miserable hiccuped sob.

Dick’s heart cracked in his chest. The Tamaranean suns burned too bright. The lurid colors too loud. The alien air too thin.

“I, um. I need you. Now.”

“What?” Dick spun in a frantic circle. Where was the ship? They’d just landed—right? The surreality of the courtyard—the blooming alien flora, the deceptively calm reflecting pools—made his stomach churn with nausea. Whatever stupid mission they were on didn’t matter anymore. He needed to get to Tim. Now.

“I—I just…I’m scared, Dick. I really need you.”

Cold fingers slipped between Dick’s ribs and clenched—he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move from where he stood frozen on this cursed planet.

He was twenty-six lightyears away from Earth.

“Dick? Are you coming?”

“Tim, I—" he choked on the words, his throat too tight. He was what? What could he even say?

He couldn’t get to Tim.

“Dick, I’m really scared. Are you coming?”

“Tim—I’m coming,” he rasped. “Just hold on, okay? I’m coming. I promise.”

“You promise?”

Tears burned hot as they slid down his cheeks.

I never doubted you, you know that? Never. Not even for a second did I think you weren’t coming

“Yes,” Dick said, voice cracking with the weight of the lie. “Yes, I promise. I’m coming.”

“Okay.” 

So quiet. So small—Tim sounded so small. The line was still open, but it felt like Tim was already slipping away. Dick covered his mouth, suppressing a sob.

“Dick?’

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Please hurry.”

He looked up into the too-blue sky. The indifferent beauty of the planet mocked him—babbling pools, vibrant plants, all bathed in golden light. It made his suffocating grief feel obscene.

Dick had already failed one baby brother. Now, he was failing another—

“You’re trying to atone for me by being there for him.”

The voice came from behind him.

More tears poured from Dick’s eyes; the salt stung his lips and soaked into the collar of his suit.

The phone was gone. 

Tim was gone.

No. Please—

“And you can’t even do that.”

Dick swallowed hard, his throat burning. He turned slowly, terrified of what he might find—

Dick had never seen so much hate on his little brother’s face. It scorched Dick’s heart, carving him up with a hot, poisoned knife. Jason’s face, his body, was mangled—almost beyond recognition. He was all open skin and burnt bones and ruined sinew. The Robin suit hung in the same tatters—just like it did in that damned glass case in the Cave.

Dick opened his mouth to speak—

Something exploded, loud and violent. Dick was thrown from his feet and—

---

Dick shot up in bed, lungs heaving, heart thrashing against his ribs like a caged bird. His eyes darted wildly, unseeing at first, the room spinning in and out of focus. He hacked out one cough after another, pain lighting up his nerves like fire.

He was—

The roof—

The Manor—

The explosion—

He gulped a few deep breaths, trying to slow his racing heartbeat. 

He was—he was in his own bed, in his own apartment. The weak morning sun bled crimson through his cheap blinds. His blanket was on the floor. He was home. 

“I am awake,” he rasped, throat raw. “I am home.”

He repeated it over and over—a less as a ritual, more as a desperate plea.

It did nothing. The words bounced around his sore skull like angry racketballs.

Dick scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping on the sheets tangled around his legs. He staggered down the hallway to the bathroom. The world narrowed around him like a tunnel. 

I need to know. I need to know. I need—

He caught himself on the sink, arms and legs trembling and hollow. He kept his head bent, eyes low. 

He didn’t want to see he didn’t want to see he didn’t—

A heavy sigh came from beside him. Dick flinched, his breath trapped in his throat. His head snapped to his left.

Jason sat on the countertop, inspecting his burned, mangled fingers as one might look at a cool rock—holding them up to the light, turning them this way and that, a thoughtful look written across his bloody face.

“That doesn’t work anymore, remember?” Jason said lightly, sparing Dick only a short glance.

Dick’s head jerked toward the glass

Wait—hadn’t he smashed—

Dick’s stomach leapt into his throat. His lungs shriveled like burnt paper in his chest.

Oh God.

No. No no no no NO no—

His own face stared back at him.

Chalky white paint coated his skin. His ringed eyes wild and sunken and manic.  His hair hung in greasy green tendrils around his face. And his mouth—

—Dick was going to be sick he was going to be sick—

—was carved into a hideous grin, red and jagged, stretching and twisting and wrong.

A laugh echoed. His own, warped and gleeful and familiar.

“No,” he whispered. “No—"

His hands flew to his face, scrubbing, pulling, tearing, anything to get it off get it off GET IT OFF—

Jason’s voice was barely audible over the chaos.

“All those times you looked in the mirror, Dick. You never really saw, did you?”

Dick turned to him, hands still gripping his skull like he could tear himself out of it. His cheeks burned with tears. His chest hitched with violent sobs.

“You’re no better than him.”

A scream tore itself from Dick’s throat—but it didn’t sound like him. It sounded like laughter.

Dick needed to get out. He needed to go, he couldn’t look anymore oh God he needed to—

There was no absolution. No quiet corner of his mind untouched by the reek of iron and smoke and the rotten tendrils of guilt.

Dick bolted, stumbling out of the bathroom, limbs shaking, the walls bending around him.

The window the window the window anything to get out of here—

The floor surged up to meet him like a wave

Dick never made it to the window.

---

Rain assaulted his face.

He was standing. 

The lights of the city blurred around him like wet paint.

Distantly, there was pain. A lot—a lot of pain.

But smothering it all was exhaustion.

Exhaustion of the heart. Exhaustion of the soul.

There was a presence at his side. He looked down.

Jason. 

He was young—right around the age he first met Dick. He was wearing one of Dick’s hoodies. The red one. His favorite.

Dick opened his mouth to speak.

“Let me rest, Little Wing. I’m done.”

Jason slipped his hand into Dick’s. It was warm. Soft and small.

“I know you’re tired,” Jason said softly. “And I’m really sorry—but you’re still dreaming.”

He squeezed Dick’s hand.

“But you know how to wake up, don’t you?”

Dick did.

Dick did know how to wake up.

The rain was cold. The sounds of the city were muffled.

Dick took a step forward. He kept holding his little brother’s hand.

“You’re almost out, Dickie” Jason whispered. “Just a little further.”

Dick nodded. He took another step.

The roof. He was on the roof.

“Just another step. Come on, I’ll catch you.”

Dick stepped up onto the ledge.

“Fly, Dick. Remember? Fly like a robin.”

Jason’s little hand squeezed his again, holding him tight. 

“And then you’ll wake up. With me.”

Dick took another step.

“I’m coming, Jason. Wait for me.”

And he jumped off the roof.

Notes:

The Tell: it does not rain in dreams.

Chapter 17: The Eleventh Hour

Summary:

“Harpy Hare, where have you buried all your children?

Tell me, so I say

Harpy Hare, where have you buried all your children?

Tell me, so I say

Forest walls and starry ceilings

Barren curtains that you're weaving

Like the stories that you keep inside your head

She can't keep them all safe

They will die and be afraid

Mother, tell me, so I say (mother, tell me, so I say).”

- Harpy Hare, Yaelokre

Notes:

early update bc i just can't wait to give this to you guys

enjoy :)

Timothy Jackson Drake is a very smart kid.

Timothy Jackson Drake was also…freaking out. A lot.

When he’d approached Barbara Gordon (more like…ambushed her, but Tim was running out of options), he never really thought she’d like…agree.

But she had.

And—even crazier—his plan had worked. 

Well, Phase I worked.

Phase II wasn’t entirely up to him.

Was Tim scared? Hell yeah he was. He valued his life.

Was Tim so excited he could hardly breathe? 

Absolutely.

He pushed out another even breath, still marveling at where he was.

Stalactites hung like teeth from the cavernous ceiling, a steady drip drip drip echoing off the high walls. A massive computer hummed behind him, it’s blue glow reflecting off polished black floors and coiled cables that slithered across the stone walls like vines. A table full of half-finished projects made Tim’s fingers itch to tinker. A massive penny loomed in the shadows beside a giant animatronic…

T-Rex?

(Tim put that on the back burner. He’d figure that out later.)

Tim scanned the glass cases that lined the back wall. He was able to pick out a very early variation of the Batman suit, along with Dick’s Robin suit and the tattered remains of—

Oh.

Tim swallowed hard. 

That was Jason’s suit. 

Tim averted his eyes, choosing instead to focus on the computer’s towering banks of monitors. 

A thousand jumping beetles pranced beneath his skin.

The Batcave—he was in the literal Batcave.

When he’d first proposed his idea to Barbara the previous night, she’d laughed, and he’d worried he was going to have to figure out a way to do it himself.

But then she’d gotten this far away look in her eyes—almost like she was both remembering and grieving at the same time.

Then, she’d agreed.

“Bruce runs a tight ship,” she’d said, cracking her fingers and turning back to her wall of monitors. “But I do all the rigging.”

A draft of cold air prickled his skin. Somewhere above, bats chittered. 

A now, he was here.

Bruce wasn’t here yet, of course. They’d timed up Tim’s break in so that he would arrive ten minutes before Bruce got back from patrol. 

Tim had wanted to catch him before—but then he’d changed his mind. Bruce was so single minded, so blinded by grief and guilt and his desire for vengeance, that if his very own firstborn son couldn’t pull him away from his crusade, then little ole neighbor boy Tim Drake would probably be vaporized on sight.

So they had decided to wait. It was now 3:45  a.m.

Tim saw the folder he’d given Bruce sitting on the computer desk. He wondered if Bruce ever looked at it.

He hoped so.

The rumble of an engine broke Tim from his thoughts. His heart jumped into his throat, while his stomach dropped into the basement (does the Cave have a basement? Tim would have to find out. He wanted his stomach back).

Okay. He’s coming. It’s time.

Tim’s breathing kicked up. He tried to swallow his heart back down into his chest.

Is he too young for a will? Maybe he should’ve left a will. Just in case he gets vaporized or silenced forever or buried somewhere in the cave never to be seen again—

---

There was someone else in the Cave.

Bruce could sense it, almost instinctively, the second he stepped out of the Batmobile.

How, he’d have to figure out later. As for right now—

He swept up the stairs to the main landing, batarangs between his fingers, prepared to—

He froze. 

Kid. 

There was a kid. 

And not just any kid.

Small, maybe eleven or so. Dark hair. No physical threat. His blue eyes were wide, sparkling with a mix of awe and…something else—fear, maybe. Or purpose.

That kid.

Timothy Jackson Drake.

After their first encounter on the roof, Bruce had gone back and figured out his little stalker’s identity immediately. Three hours of extensive research later, Bruce came to the conclusion that Timothy Drake was not a threat—just a kid who knew way more than he probably should. Bruce didn’t dismiss him outright, but he’d shelved him (maybe that had been a bad idea).

Bruce thought of the stuffed folder sitting on the computer desk.

He thought of what was inside.

(The very first picture had stolen the breath from his lungs.

The night in the picture was clear—a rarity in Gotham—revealing a beautiful full moon. Dick and Jason sat on some rooftop, looking up into the sky.

Jason had his head on Dick’s shoulder.

Dick had his arm wrapped around Jason.

He was looking at Jason with an expression Bruce couldn’t even begin to describe. Pride wasn’t a strong enough word, and love didn’t seem to encompass it all. It was, Bruce could see, some glorious, illustrious, all-encompassing combination of the two.

Bruce felt like he’d been choked.

His boys. Those were his boys.

Something…moved in him. Some long dormant ember of emotion. Something he’d thought he’d smothered and suffocated and banished to the far corners of his mind. He couldn’t name it, but it was there—gathering at the corners of his eyes, the lump in his throat, the hollow part of his chest.

He gingerly set the photo down and pulled out the next page.

At first, Bruce didn’t understand what he was looking at. 

Patient Name : Marco Fischer

Age : 37

Info : patient suffered serious blunt-force trauma to the head, resulting in complete visual impairment and unilateral hearing loss. Patient also suffered four rib fractures, lacerated liver and severe hemorrhage.

Status : Alive, completely blind, deaf in right ear.

Wait.

Patient Name : Joe Costa

Age : 29

Info : patient suffered severe blunt force trauma to the head. Patient suffered a compound depressed skull fracture, resulting in left hemiplegia, loss of spinal fluid and brain bleed. Patient also suffered nasal fracture, mandibular fracture, broken teeth, and fractures in both the metacarpals and phalanges.

Status : Alive, completely paralyzed on the left side

These were—

Patient Name : Peter Kaminski

Age : 22

Info : patient suffered severe spinal fracture, resulting in loss of sensation from the waist down.

Status : alive, paraplegia

Bruce dropped the folder like it was on fire. 

He remembered—he remembered some of these.

Joe. He’d hit him with—

The other kid. Peter. He’d broken his—

Unsteady legs dropped Bruce into the Batcomputer chair. He sat in silence for a long while. 

Something pooled in his gut—something hot and sticky, spreading from his stomach, to his heart, his head, and down to his feet. It crawled across his skin like fever. It danced behind his eyelids like a heat mirage. It weighed on him like a fatal diagnosis.

Shame. It was shame.

The folder was very thick—there had to be at least a hundred papers inside. 

A hundred patient files. A hundred people.

One hundred people Bruce had tried to use to atone for the death of his son.)

“How did you get in here?” he barked, trying to hold on to the gravelly edges of the Batman voice.

Tim hadn’t moved a muscle since Bruce had stepped foot on the landing. Just stared at him with huge, unblinking blue eyes. They carried that same intelligent gleam they’d had on the rooftop. Bruce didn’t know how a kid that small could look like that.

It unsettled him. 

“I—um. Barbara Gordon helped me. But it was my idea,” Tim said, voice shaking just a little. He glanced at the batarangs still clenched between Bruce’s fingers.

Beneath the cowl, Bruce’s brows rose high. He worked his jaw. Barbara had always had such a soft spot. 

(That also meant that she, too, was compromised by this kid).

Bruce tried to figure out what to say. He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally. He hoped it came out gruff, but even to his own ears, it sounded tired. He slid the batarangs back into his belt. 

Tim blinked. “I know,” he said quietly, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie.

Bruce’s eyes flicked to the folder still sitting on the Batcomputer desk, recalling the last time he’d met this kid. The heaviness of their previous conversation settled around him like a lead blanket—pressing and impossible to ignore.

Dick. The kid had come to talk to him about Dick.

Bruce’s gaze returned to they boy. He was no less afraid than the last time they’d spoke—but he was absolutely more certain.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Bruce repeated. It came out worse this time, hardly a warning and more a weary sigh. He pulled back the cowl and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. No need for secrets now, anyways. The kid clearly knew everything.

His boots were loud on the metal floor as he crossed the landing toward the Batcomputer. He bent over the keyboard, keys clacking as he prepared to log patrol. He needed the noise—anything to fill the space. The silence was making his skin itch beneath the suit.

Tim’s voice was quiet when he spoke. “He needs you.”

Bruce slammed his fists on the desk—the sound echoed off the high walls of the cave. Tim flinched.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped. His anger flashed reflexively. It was easier than facing it—the pain. The grief. The guilt.

There was a pause. Water drip drip dripped off the stalactites. 

“But I do know,” Tim said, steadier than Bruce expected. “I’ve been watching.”

Bruce’s head snapped to Tim. He nodded toward the folder.

Irritation flared in Bruce. But maybe, it wasn’t. It felt too much like that hot and sticky feeling that prickled his skin every time he looked at the folder.

“That’s the problem,” Bruce bit out. “You don’t live this life—you’re just a kid. You don’t understand what this is.”

The choices. The sacrifices. The losses. The cost. What he must to do every night.

“Then explain it to me.”

Bruce stared at Tim—this kid, with his straight little spine and eyes filled with determination—how? How was he supposed to understand? He couldn’t. He would never. Because Bruce didn’t even understand. He’d been left behind, fumbling in the dark, drowning in guilt and regret and grief. 

Dick was asking him to feel. And Bruce just couldn’t allow himself to do that. Not now (not ever).

“I’m not here to guilt you, Mr. Wayne,” Tim ventured. “I just…” His voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again.

“I just don’t want him to die.”

Ice dripped down Bruce’s spine. Tim’s words from their rooftop conversation rang out in his mind.

(“He doesn’t want to die, either.”

“He thinks he does. But he doesn’t.”)

“He’s toeing the ledge,” Tim said, quieter now. “And I think…” he hesitated, eyes flicking up to Bruce’s.

“I think he’s getting really close to jumping off.”

There was something horrible in the way Tim said it. His voice was small, barely above a whisper, but the implications of his words reverberated through Bruce like a point-blank gunshot.

He turned away, jaw so tight it hurt.

He didn’t want his son to die, either. He didn’t want to lose another child. He couldn’t. Not Dick, not his eldest, not his first.

But…

He leaned forward, resting both hands on the glass desk. The ache from patrol radiated up through his back. There was still dried blood on his gauntlets. And there was also this…weight on his shoulders, in his chest. Something that had settled there a long time ago and refused to move out. Like his ribs were filled with cement instead of marrow, his heart made of leather instead of muscle and blood.

“You think I haven’t tried to—?” Bruce began, then stopped. His voice dropped. “I gave him space. I thought he needed—"

“He doesn’t need space,” Tim interrupted. “He needs you.”

Bruce huffed a heavy, bitter sigh. “You don’t know what that means.”

It got quiet again.

Tim didn’t fill the silence right away—he waited, thinking carefully. Bruce rubbed a hand over his eyes; there was a headache brewing in his temples. 

Somewhere above them, bats chittered. The computers hummed. The tension settled in the air like a heavy fog.

“I know what you’re doing,” Tim said at last. Bruce turned and met his eyes, frowning, then paused—there was no fear in them now. No nervousness, either, but something else—conviction.

God did this kid remind him of J—

“You’re trying to make up for it,” he continued, nodding to the folder again. “And you can’t.”

Bruce couldn’t speak. The tightness in his chest had clawed its way up to his throat.

“Penance can’t bring anyone back. And it won’t save Dick.”

But a bird that stalks

Down his narrow cage

Can seldom see through

His bars of rage

Tim took a deep breath. “Do not measure life by death.”

A bell rang in Bruce’s mind. The kid had said those same words on that rooftop.

Bruce wondered what they meant. 

“You still have people, here. Dick is still here. And you’re losing him.”

Tim’s eyes bore into Bruce’s soul. There was no anger there—just honesty, and that same burning conviction.

“He needs you. He needs his dad.”

Bruce didn’t answer. His jaw was locked, his shoulders tight, his breath shallow. The silence dragged.

Footsteps echoed from the stairs above.

Alfred. Of course. Thank God.

“Master Wayne,” Alfred said gently, slicing through the tension like a hot knife through butter. “Would you like me to see the young man out?”

Bruce nodded, wordless.

Tim held Bruce’s gaze for a second longer—then he turned and followed Alfred up the stairs.

Bruce stood alone, the echoes of retreating footsteps growing quieter. His hands shook. That weight inside him twisted and turned, his heavy leather heart beating against cement ribs.

Mechanical arms reached out toward the folder. 

His boys on a rooftop beneath a clear Gotham sky. Dick’s arm around Jason. That look on his face. Jason’s head on his shoulder.

Something prickled at Bruce’s eyes.

What exactly do you expect me to do?

---

The Rolls Royce rolled to a stop outside the Ritz-Carlton, still brightly lit despite the absurd hour.

Alfred turned from the driver’s seat to face Tim.

“Are you certain, Master Drake?”

Tim nodded, exuding as much certainty as he could.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Pennyworth. My parents and I are staying here while our floors get redone at Drake Manor.”

Did Tim feel bad about the lie? A little. But the Ritz-Carlton Hotel happened to be one block away from the bus stop—and the next bus to Blüdhaven left in eight minutes.

Alfred raised a sage brow—unconvinced, surely, but he relented.

“Alright, Master Drake. I trust you’ll go straight back to your room?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Pennyworth.”

An awkward second passed. Tim fidgeted with his hoodie, unwilling to leave the car without saying something. 

Did he apologize? For meddling? For intruding when he shouldn’t have?

For thinking he could help?

Did he explain himself? 

He also felt the almost overwhelming need to stress that he won’t tell a soul what he knew.

Tim raised his gaze to the butler’s kind eyes.

“Um,” he began, internally wincing at how small he sounded. The words spilled out of him. “I—I’m sorry, Mr. Pennyworth. I didn’t mean—I swear I won’t tell anyone, I swear—"

“My dear boy,” Alfred gently cut him off. “I promise you, you have nothing to apologize for.”

Tim snapped his mouth shut. He felt like he had a lot to apologize for, actually, but he wasn’t going to argue with Alfred.

Alfred sighed heavily. 

“Though your methods were…extreme”—Tim froze in his seat, heat creeping up his neck—“and quite ill-advised, I might add, no matter how Ms. Gordon aided you, I hope that you were, in some way, able to…”

Alfred shook his head. Grief etched itself into his aging features.

Silence filled the car, heavy and thick. In the dim light of the street lamps, Tim saw Alfred’s eyes mist over.

“Master Bruce is very lost,” he whispered. “So is—so is Master Dick. They need each other to heal. But they need to find each other, first.”

Alfred pinned Tim with his gaze.

“I do believe, however, that you have given Master Bruce a compass. Whether or not he chooses to use it is entirely up to him.”

Tim nodded. Phase II.

Alfred offered him a small smile. “Please give my best to Mr. and Mrs. Drake.”

Tim opened the car door and stepped out in the the night.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Pennyworth.”

“Please,” Alfred said, just before Tim shut the door, “call me Alfred.”

A warm, fuzzy feeling bloomed in Tim’s chest, spreading from his nose to his toes.

“Good night, Alfred,” he said, almost shy.

Alfred’s eyes crinkled.

“Good night, Master Drake.”

---

Was Drake Manor getting its floors redone? Hell no.

Were Jack and Janet still in Peru? Yes—for another eight months.

Tim walked through the automatic sliding doors of the Ritz-Carlton.

Waited in the lobby for five minutes.

Then sprinted to the bus stop.

He caught the bus seconds before it left, taking his usual spot at the back. There was no one else riding with him tonight. He took a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart. A heavy feeling sank in his gut, something he couldn’t quite place, but knew for absolute certain—something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong. 

He fidgeted the whole ride, mind spinning. 

Is Bruce going to to something?

He wondered what Bruce could do. He hoped that the damage wasn’t too severe—that memories and love from their golden years were enough to get them through this. That Bruce wouldn’t ruin his first son because he lost his second. 

If he doesn’t do something, I will.

Maybe he could stay with Dick. Just for a few days (or weeks, hell, even months. His parents still weren’t home. Tim could have a big brother for a while). Just until he gets better. What good he could do wasn’t entirely clear, but at least he could watch Dick—maybe even run next door again.

…what the hell am I gonna do?

Tim recalled that night he’d followed Dick to the roof. Even in the throes of a nightmare, Dick was still way stronger than him. Bigger and older, too. If he did something stupid—say, make for the ledge—what would Tim do? What could Tim do?

An idea struck him like lightning. He pulled out his phone, praying Dick was awake despite the ungodly hour.

It rang three times, then—

“Hello?”

Relief flooded through Tim, but it didn’t erase the uneasy feeling weighing on his gut. Dick’s voice was breathy, almost dreamlike, as if he wasn’t all there. That was not a good sign.

“Hey, um—Dick?”

There was a soft intake of breath on the other end—as if Dick didn’t know it was Tim that had called. The relief inside him was freezing into something solid and uncomfortable. Tim shifted in his seat. 

Was—was he intruding? Dick was probably doing something important right now, and Tim just had to call. Because he was what? Worried? Well, yeah. But Dick was a grown-up, and a whole vigilante at that.

(But Dick was dying of secondary drowning—though the water had receded, his lungs were quietly betraying him. No desperate splashing, no panicked cries. Just a slow sinking inside himself, pulling him down, down, down. Dick himself had no idea—tenacity was his greatest quality and his noose. He would be dead before anyone would ever see the blue tinge of his lips.)

Tim couldn’t swallow down the lump of anxiety over his burdensomeness that had knotted itself in his throat. Rain began to drum on the roof of the bus, tapping against the windows.

“You said I could always call, right?” he asked despite himself, voice sounding small even to his own ears. 

Another shuddering breath crackled through the receiver.

“Yes. Yes, Tim of course.”

The tension at the base of Tim’s throat loosened slightly. He closed his eyes and released the death grip on his phone.

Dick’s voice dropped low. “You can always call me, okay? Always.”

Despite the seriousness of his tone, there was still something…off. Tim couldn’t quite place it—and it only added to the heavy feeling of wrongness rolling around his gut.

For some unknown, terrible, traitorous reason, tears welled up in Tim’s eyes. A sob built in his chest, then clawed its way up his throat—escaping in first a sniffle, then a miserable hiccup.

Tim needed to pull himself together. But he was, quite frankly, exhausted. He’d barely slept these past few nights. Getting Dick to the clinic, cornering Babs in the Clocktower, breaking in to the damn Cave, were all starting to wear on him. His churning tide of tangled emotions felt held back by a faulty dam—one that threatened to break very soon.

The gentleness, the concern in Dick’s voice just cracked that dam a little bit more.

Tim swallowed, hard, trying to push that mess down. He hastily swiped at his eyes.

“I, um. I need you…”

What? Where was he going with that? If anything, Dick needed Tim (no—Dick needed Jason, but he was dead).

“What?” Dick’s frantic voice burst from the receiver. Tim jumped. Dick sounded seriously distraught.

“I—I just…Dick, you’re scaring me.”

Wow. Great job Tim. That’s almost as good as nearly leaving a psychologically fractured vigilante a cryptic message on their fridge. Any other ideas, Genius Boy?

Dick’s breathing caught on the other end of the line.

“Dick?” Tim asked tentatively. “Are you there?”

“Tim, I—" Dick choked out. His breathing was coming faster, more erratic, interrupted by painful hitching.

Tim’s heart kicked into high gear. One hand gripped his phone, the other white-knuckled the metal rail of the seat in front of him to keep his hands from shaking.

“Dick, you’re really scaring me. I—I’m coming. To you.”

Hi yes, you’re spiraling out of control and I’m on my way to your apartment. See you soon!

God, Tim wondered if he sounded like this much of an idiot to Bruce. Or Alfred. Or to anyone, in general.

“Tim—I’m coming,” he rasped. “Just hold on, okay? I’m coming. I promise.”

Tim frowned. 

What?

Dick was coming—to him? Did he already know Tim was on his way? Does he know Tim is on the bus? Tim pulled the phone away from his ear to check the time. It was nearly five a.m. The bus would be at the station in no less than ten minutes.

“You promise?” Tim asked, skeptical. There’s no way Dick knew he was on his way to Blüdhaven. Hell, Tim didn’t even know he was going to check on Dick until he’d went upstairs to the Manor (Batman’s freaking house) and concocted the lie while Alfred had fed him cookies and juice.

“Yes,” Dick’s voice cracked. “Yes, I promise. I’m coming.”

He sounded so…strange. His breathing was all wrong, his voice raspy. His responses were slightly delayed and full of so much distress—as if Tim was in danger.

Tim glanced out the window. Dark and rain greeted him. No rogues, no mystery fog, no flat tires or fiery engines. Tim was ninety-nine percent sure he was not in danger.

“Okay,” Tim replied, because that’s all he could really think to say. He rocked back and forth in the uncomfortable plastic chair, worrying his lip between his teeth. Something was definitely wrong with Dick. He needed a plan, something to pull Dick out of his apartment—

“Dick?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

Tim’s heart skipped at the nickname.

“Please hurry,” he whispered.

The line went dead.

---

Tim jumped to his feet the second the bus reached the stop. He scrambled across the aisle and down the steps. His eyes scanned the misty street for Dick.

The street was empty. He wasn’t there.

Though Tim was worried, he wasn’t surprised—he’d hoped he could’ve stalled Dick a little, or at least given him some sort of distraction. Dick sounded so odd on the phone, almost dreamy, just like the last time they were on the—

Tim had a sudden, terrible, horrible, no-good feeling plop into his gut like a cracked glacier tumbling into an icy sea.

Dick Grayson was about to do something very, very stupid.

Tim took off. Rain, which had intensified from the fine mist to a steady pour, beat against his face as he raced through the Blüdhaven streets. His sneakers splashed through puddles. His clothes were soaked within minutes. It was nearly early morning; Dick should be back from patrol by now.

The metal fire escape clanged as Tim took the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor. He scrambled to Dick’s window—

Crunch.

Tim looked down, wet hair peeling away from his face. He lifted his sneaker.

There was a bird. A robin. 

A dead robin.

Tim swallowed down a wave of nausea and leaned toward Dick’s window (he did not look at the bird again).

Which, upon further inspection, was open. 

The window was open.

Tim could feel his heart beat frantically in his chest. Those feelings of wrongness only multiplied—his muscles felt like live wires, his bones light and hollow.

“Dick?” he called. He peered into the dark apartment.

Oh.

Gotham didn’t get tornadoes; it lacked the proper geographical features and atmospheric dynamics that could cause those kinds of powerful storms. They were more concentrated in the south and southeast, where the warm, moist air from the Gulf of Mexico and the cold, dry air from the north met, and, “chased each other around in circles,” as Tim’s teachers would say. 

Tim had never seen a tornado in person. He’d only ever heard about the devastating aftermath—how one second, things were fine. Then the sky turned green and the wind kicked up and the birds stopped chirping. How, in an instant, with the roar of a long black train, everything was gone.

If Tim were to ever have the misfortune of seeing a tornado—or its aftermath—in person, he had a feeling it would look similar to Dick’s apartment right now.

The smell hit him first—metallic and dusty, like…well, like the aftermath of an F5. Tim’s eyes adjusted slowly to the low light. The curtains were gone, ripped straight from their brackets, and black duct tape smothered the glass of every window.

The floor was littered with silverware—some bent, others stabbed into the dented drywall in haphazard clusters. A warped, unrecognizable shape in the sink glinted in the dim light above the stove. It took Tim a few seconds to realize it had once been a toaster.

He carefully climbed through the window, glass crunching beneath his sneakers. The floor was sparkling with it. The oven door hung open, its front fractured into jagged shards. The microwave above it was worse—just a ragged hole where its glass window should’ve been. 

Every cupboard door was left ajar. Inside, nothing breakable remained.

Reflective, Tim’s brain supplied. Nothing reflective remained.

Tim’s eyes swiveled to the living room. The TV was smashed, the coffee table overturned. The bathroom door was ajar, revealing a shattered mirror.

His stomach churned. Something—something bad had happened here. Something violent and frantic and desperate. 

(For probably the first time, that uneasy feeling of trespassing, of pushing into something he wasn’t supposed to, was…absent. Tim saw. Tim cared. Damn everything—everyone— else.)

Eyes scanning the room for Dick, Tim stepped further into the apartment, more glass crunching beneath his shoes.

“Dick?” he called again, louder now.

Still nothing.

Heart hammering, Tim carefully picked through the mess toward Dick’s room. The door was ajar, the doorknob covered in…duct tape?

Right. Nothing reflective remained.

The door opened with a gentle creak, revealing destruction similar to that of the living room. A pair of scissors were embedded in the back of the closet door—surrounded by the shattered remains of a large mirror. 

Tim swallowed hard, throat dry. He ran a hand through his damp hair, gut somersaulting.

“Where are you?” he whispered. His eyes darted from the bed, to the blanket on the floor, and back to the scissors in the door.

If Dick wasn’t here, then—?

Tim’s mind spun.

Dick crashing through the L&C Tower windows.

Dick jumping to protect someone who wasn’t there.

Checking his watch. The post-it note of rules. The open window.

The dead bird outside.

The night—

Tim’s breath caught.

The nightmares.

He bolted form Dick’s room, vaulting over the debris and climbing back through the window. The fire escaped creaked as Tim bounded up the wet stairs. If Dick was on the roof—

(What he could do in that situation was honestly probably quite limited, but he’ll burn that bridge if he gets there.)

Tim lept over the ledge to the roof—and froze.

Silhouetted against the wet neon lights of the city—

Was Dick.

Time seemed to stop.

Tim’s chest constricted with every ragged breath. His heartbeat hammered in his ears, drowning out everything else but the pounding storm. He wanted to scream, to grab Dick, to shove him back, anything—but he felt strangled, his feet cemented to the ground.

Don’t move, Tim told himself. Don’t make a sound. Just…breathe.

But his mind fractured, cracking into ricocheting shards of wild panic.

What if he falls? What if I reach out and knock him off? What I call out and startle him? 

Oh my God—what if he jumps ?

Tim’s slick hands shook uncontrollably, his fingers twitching with dozens of aborted movements. The rain stung his eyes, as did his tears, his soaked hoodie cold and heavy and suffocating. A shiver wracked his body.

He doesn’t want to die, either.

He thinks he does. But he doesn’t

His throat burned—he wanted to cry out, to scream—but only a hoarse whisper hovered behind his clenched teeth. Tim took a few tentative steps forward. He was close enough now that he could hear Dick speaking to someone. His words were soft, incredibly gentle—and utterly defeated.

“Let me rest, Little Wing,” Dick said, looking down at no one. “I’m done.”

Tim’s breath hitched in his constricted chest.

That’s—that’s exactly what he’d said when—

Then, slowly and deliberately, Dick lifted his foot.

And stepped up onto the ledge.

Every nerve in Tim’s body screamed.

No, no, NO—

Finally, finally, Tim’s voice unstuck itself from his throat.

“Dick!” He cried, desperately hoping the older boy could hear him over the rain. 

Tim took another step forward. He was mere feet from Dick now. Maybe he could—

“Dick!” Tim tried again, louder, practically screaming.

Dick didn’t even flinch.

“I’m coming, Jason,” he said. “Wait for me.”

Dick took another step.

And jumped off the roof.

---

What exactly do you expect me to do?

Bruce never expected to be a father; he’d barely even known his own.

Bruce wouldn’t even say he was a good father, either.

He’d pushed his first child away. His eldest, his golden boy. Bruce had reached his gauntleted fist into his son’s soft chest and shoved. Dick was still alive, and yet—Bruce often felt like he’d lost him, too.

His second…

His second he had failed. In every horrid, bloody, awful, possible way he could. Bruce had failed Jason in life, in death, and in mourning.

He needs you. He needs his dad.

Bruce hadn’t been a dad in a long time. Not to Dick, and certainly not to the memory of Jason.

But Bruce had a chance.

Not really a “second” chance, as there was nothing he could do to bring back Jason, but it was a chance nonetheless.

Bruce had seen dozens of people jump from rooftops over the years. He knew that about three-quarters of the way down, they tended to regret their decision.

Not Dick.

Dick’s face was a mask of dreamlike serenity—an unnatural calm, his eyes closed in hopeful expectation.

It was a mask that made Bruce’s stomach churn with nausea and shame and guilt.

The chink-vhiiiip of his grapple sliced through the roar of the storm, barely audible over the downpour as Bruce vaulted from the adjacent rooftop.

Wind whipped past. Rain hammered at his cowl.

He reached out—

—Dick was falling. He was falling so fast—

—and caught his son.

Dick’s weight hit him like a battering ram to the chest, knocking the breath from Bruce’s lungs. The line snapped taut, the sudden jolt nearly tearing Bruce’s shoulder out of its socket. He grit his teeth as bright, sharp pain flared—but he held on. He would never let go again.

One-handed, he angled the swing, momentum wrenching them upward in a violent arc toward the rooftop. Rain blurred the world around them. They landed hard—a bone-jarring slam on the concrete. They crashed down in a heap, skidding across the slick surface. Still, Bruce held on.

There was a moment of stillness—the silence filled with rain and ragged breathing. Bruce lay there, heart thundering, arms locked around Dick. The boy trembled in his grip, gasping, rain matting his hair to his face.

“I’ve got you,” Bruce said, voice raw and low. He didn’t know if Dick heard him. He didn’t care.

Alive. Dick was ali—

“NO!”

Dick thrashed in Bruce’s grip like he was drowning—grabbing, pushing, fighting. His fists pounded Bruce’s chest, uncoordinated and frantic.

“LET ME GO! I NEED TO WAKE UP!”

His voice cracked, sobs tearing through his chest like something had broken inside him. His eyes were wide and unfocused—and full of pain. Bruce held him tighter, his arms locked around his son’s trembling frame as he bucked and twisted.

He’s going to hurt himself—

“HE’S WAITING FOR ME!”

Bruce felt like he’d been plunged in glacial water.

He?

Oh.

Dick writhed, face contorted in anguish. In the night vision of the cowl, Bruce saw blood drip from his lips. His movements were off—jerky and erratic, like his mind and body weren’t in sync. Like he wasn’t really there.

“I SAID I’D COME!” Dick wailed. “I NEED TO WAKE UP!”

Something was wrong. Something was really, really wrong.

Bruce adjusted his grip, trying to pin Dick with one arm. The slick rain, combined with Dick’s pure panic made it difficult for Bruce to hold Dick down without hurting him. With his other hand, Bruce scrambled at his utility belt.

It was in here. He always kept—

“JASON?”

Everything that Bruce had run from—all that pain and heartbreak and guilt and utter bloody loss—was now pointing each of his ribs inwards and driving them into his heart.

“JASON!

His fingers closed around the syringe. He pulled it free.

“Dick…” he choked out, voice barely a whisper. The rain mixed with the salt of the tears on his cheeks.

“I’m sorry.”  

He plunged the sedative into Dick’s neck.

Dick jerked his arms. One last strained sob escaped his throat—

And then he went still.

For a single, harrowing moment, Bruce wasn’t on a wet rooftop in Blüdhaven, holding his (breathing) eldest son.

He was back in that warehouse in Ethiopia, amidst the smoke and rubble, cradling the mangled remains of his youngest.

He blinked—

And he was back on the rainy rooftop. He curled tighter around Dick’s motionless form, anchoring his son to his chest as if his grip could hold back Death itself.

Distantly, his Bat-instincts registered that someone else was here—but that didn’t matter.

He still had his son. And it was time to take him home.

---

Bruce cradled his son to his chest.

Only this time, he was alive.

Jason shook his head.

“Finally,” he said. “Took you long enough.”

Notes:

If you go back and reread ch. 4, you’ll know exactly where the picture is from :)

also--remember waaay back in ch. 1 when i told you the chapter title means something, you just don't know it yet? well, in the fifth dream of the fifth nightmare sequence, Dick jumps off the roof ("Five Dreams Deep"). little easter egg there for ya!

EDIT: also in ch. 4, i literally tell you that Dick is going to jump off the roof. and then AGAIN in ch. 7, and AGAIN in ch. 11 & ch. 12!!! i love foreshadowing :)))))

i hope you guys liked it. only two chapters left! i can hardly believe it :)

tata for now, little readers!!

Chapter 18: And Then The Miracle Happens

Summary:

“And then the miracle happens. The sun comes up again.”

- Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott

Notes:

can you believe it's the end, little readers?

This time, the ocean was warm and lavender-scented.

The surface seemed so far. And Dick didn’t want to swim anymore.

He’d been treading water his whole life—actively drowning ever since he walked away from his little brother for the very last time.

He didn’t want to wake up to a world that didn’t have his Little Wing.

Still, he floated up toward the light.

---

Dick’s senses returned one by one.

Bed.

He was in bed.

Someone was running a gentle hand through his hair. It was big and warm, softly skating across his tender scalp. The feel of familiar sheets greeted him—the fabric smelling faintly of lavender. Muffled sounds echoed from the halls as the cotton faded from his ears. Though his eyes were closed, he could feel gentle sunlight, soft and golden, warming his face.

Home. He was home. 

A voice rumbled somewhere above him.

He knew that voice. He would know that voice anywhere.

Bruce. That was Bruce.

He let himself rest in the knowledge that his father was here. His father was here and he—

Wait. Wait wait wait.

He’d done this all before.

He’d done this all before.

Panic sliced through his fuzzy senses like a razor wire. His eyes flew open.

The ceiling came into focus first, then the blur of an open window, curtains stirring in the gentle breeze. Familiar furniture sat in the soft corners of the room. His Flying Graysons poster hung on the far wall.

No. No, no, no— he’d done this all before.

And last time—

And last time, Jason—

He tried to sit up. Agony detonated through his shoulder, spreading like fire in his nerves through his ribs, up his neck, into his skull. His head pounded like his brain might explode.

Clock—mirror—

I need to know if I’m—

He scrabbled for his watch, bringing his wrist toward his face.

Gone. 

His watch was gone.

The room spun. His mouth tasted like dried blood. He couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe—

He pitched sideways with a hoarse, choked scream—wires pulling, bandages tugging painfully at tender skin. The IV in his arm yanked hard. His heart was racing, his heart was going to beat right out of his chest—

Hands, trying to be gentle, caught him. One of them grabbed his wrist, attempting to steady him.

No no NO—

“No—" he gasped. “Don’t touch me!”

Am I awake? Is this real?

Is this real is this real is this—

His hands scrabbled at the sheets, his breaths coming in ragged, hitching gasps. The ache intensified and sharpened. His lungs were empty, full, empty—

“I’m dreaming,” he rasped, eyes darting about the room, but it wouldn’t come into focus. “I’m dreaming this isn’t real—"

“Dick.”

The voice was familiar. He could hardly hear it over the blood rushing in his ears.

He’d done this all before.

“No, no—get away—get away from me!” He tried to push himself back, to crawl out of the bed. A mirror. He needed a mirror—

“It’s alright” Bruce said, voice steady. “I’m here. You’re safe now, Dick.”

“No—no, I don’t know I don’t know—“ His voice broke, breath coming fast and useless, ribs locking around his chest like a cage. Hot tears streaked down his face, stinging at the gash on his chin. He curled in on himself, gasping, pressing his good arm tight across his torso like it might keep the nightmare at bay.

I can’t see him. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t I can’t I can’t—

“I don’t know,” he sobbed, chest stuttering. His throat was burned raw. His body was exhausted—in a more-than-bone-dead-tired kind of way. Like all his limbs were over stretched, his muscles and tendons pulled apart and hastily sewn back together. Cold sweat stuck to him like glue. He was shaking—he couldn’t stop shaking.

Bruce’s voice came again.

“The grandfather clock—" he said, though his voice was unsure. “It’s ticking. Down the hall.”

There was an uncertain pause.

“Can you hear it, Dick?”

No.

No he couldn’t.

His heart was too loud and his breathing was too fast and his body hurt and—

“Listen, Dick. I know you can hear it, but you need to slow your breathing first.”

This isn’t real this isn’t—

Over the roar of panic in his ears, he heard Bruce take several over exaggerated breaths. Dick tried to copy almost subconsciously, still curled in his tight ball on the far side of the bed. His heart hammered behind his cracked ribs in a sickening, erratic beat.

“In.”

A soft inhale.

“Out.”

An exhale.

The world filtered in slowly, like sand through a sieve. Dick’s stuttering breaths caught Bruce’s rhythm enough to keep the world from caving in.

“What—where—" His mouth was dry, his throat like sandpaper.

“You’re safe,” Bruce said again. “You’re in your room. At the Manor. You’re—"

A hesitation.

“You’re awake.”

Dick didn’t move. He couldn’t move. He still didn’t know.

The pain was still there, running rampant beneath his skin. But it no longer threatened to consume him. He felt…heavy. Everywhere, all over heavy.

It was quiet for a minute, Dick following Bruce’s breathing with the slow receding tide of his panic.

“Is he here?”

It came out a whisper, barely audible, even to Dick. He could barely lift his head. He dimly registered he was still gripping the sheets, his fingers stiff and throbbing. He couldn’t let go—not yet.

Bruce hesitated.

No. No, does that mean—

“You’re not dreaming,” Bruce said. “You were…you were hurt. I brought you back to the Manor. You’re awake, Dick. I promise.”

There was something…broken about Bruce’s voice. Some kind of jarring, open pain that Dick wasn’t used to. It was almost a strained gentleness. A voice he rarely used unless he meant it.

Dick’s eyelids fluttered. His stomach twisted with the fading adrenaline. The tears stopped—now, they clung sticky and cold to his cheeks and the blanket. He unclenched an aching hand and wiped them away.

“Clock,” he whispered.

Bruce—who was still blurry—leaned closer. “You can hear it?”

Dick swallowed, scraping his sore throat, and stilled.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Dick nodded, a bare twitch of his head.

The clock. He could hear the clock. That meant—

“Good,” Bruce said. “That’s good.”

Dick let his eyes close, just for a second, wet lashes brushing his damp cheeks.

Breathe in, breathe out.

The shaking slowed to a twitch. He could feel the sheets, smell the lavender. His body was warmed by the sun coming in through the window. The pain was sharp but distant, as if behind a thick curtain. 

Painkillers, his muddled brain supplied.

He wasn’t drowning anymore. Just…floating atop the waves.

He laid like that for a while—curled at the edge of the bed, breathing in and out in time with his father. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—fall back asleep. So he just let himself rest in limbo, counting the ticks of the grandfather clock as his pain dulled.

He heard the door open. Something rattled—plates and glasses, maybe—then hushed whispering, and a soft click as the door closed again. A few minutes—or hours—later, Bruce finally spoke.

“Dick,” he asked, his voice impossibly gentle, “would you like some water? Or tea? Alfred brought some up.”

Dick blinked open his bleary eyes. The sunlight was now the orangey-yellow of evening. Bruce sat in a chair on the other side of the bed.

Dick slowly uncurled himself, gingerly maneuvering his aching limbs into a sitting position. He leaned his sweaty back against the cool wooden headboard, ribs and shoulder only twinging slightly.

Bruce must’ve upped the meds, he thought.

Bruce held out a glass of room temperature water with a straw, and Dick took it carefully, wary of his tired limbs. It soothed his sore throat and calmed his queasy stomach.

Now that he was no longer actively drowning, Dick could take stock of…well, everything. 

He was home, just as Bruce said—in his room in the Manor. The sheets smelled of lavender and sunlight streamed in through the still-open window. The Flying Grayson’s poster smiled down at him from the opposite wall.

As the world came back, so did the memories.

The blackout.

The roof.

Jason.

He sipped the water until it was gone, trying to ignore the shame curling in his empty gut.

He’d done something very, very stupid.

Bruce replaced the empty glass with a cup of warm tea, the calming scent of peppermint filling his nostrils. Stupid, hot tears prickled his eyes. His throat tightened.

“B—"

But Bruce just lifted a hand—gentle, not dismissive. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if unsure how to begin. Dick didn’t blame him. If his father knows what he thinks he knows, he’s in for one hell of a lecture  

“The bullet when straight through your shoulder.”

Here we go. Dick stared down into the tea. So not grazed.

He waited for the rest—for the lecture, the judgement, and the final kick out the door (again). He could take it, he would figure it out. But God, he was so tired. Soul tired, heart tired, mind tired.

“You have a concussion. A fractured jaw,” Bruce said quietly. From the corner of his eye, Dick could see Bruce looking a him with an unreadable expression—a kind of softness Dick wasn’t ready for. “Three broken ribs, two cracked. Internal bleeding. The slashes on your arms were nearly to the bone.”

But Bruce’s voice wasn’t angry, or even sharp—his words came slow, like it cost him something to say. Like it pained him to see Dick this way. 

“You lost fifteen pounds,” he continued, in that same soft tone, which Dick was quickly realizing was laced with guilt. “Your blood glucose was fifty-four. You were so dehydrated Alfred almost couldn’t put you on the IV.”

Dick swallowed hard. He hadn’t known it had gotten that bad. He thought…well, he thought he could handle it. He thought he was all alone.

He was all alone.

“And,” Bruce added, even quieter now, “three days ago…you jumped off a roof.”

Dick flinched, itching once more to curl up. To run. Three days asleep—that’s more than he’d gotten in the past two weeks. Dick swallowed hard again, gripping the warm cup like it was the only thing tethering him to reality (in all honesty, in kind of was). Bruce wasn’t yelling, he wasn’t angry. He looked—

God, he looked wrecked.

His hair was mussed, his eye bags dark, and there was a heavy stubble on his chin. His clothes were rumpled as if he hadn’t changed in days.

A tense, heavy silence stretched like a chasm between them.

Dick was—Dick was really tired. He didn’t want to fight with his father.

He was tired of fighting with his father.

He didn’t want to be alone anymore.

Shame coiled in his gut, hot and snake-like. He shouldn’t’ve—he didn’t need—

“I didn’t mean to,” Dick said finally, in a small, rough voice. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the tea. “The roof.”

Bruce stayed quiet for a moment. Dick felt the need to fill the silence, to explain himself.

“I wasn’t trying to…” He trailed off, too exhausted to even lie.

Because the thing is, he was. 

There had been no confliction. Jason had been waiting for him. Jason had promised that when Dick woke up, he’d be there. And Dick missed his baby brother.

Bruce nodded slowly. Dick could feel the intensity of his gaze without even having to look up. It was silent again, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock down the hall.

I am…awake, he thought as he took a small sip, feeling the liquid run down his sore throat.

Dick’s tea was almost cold by the time Bruce spoke again—a whisper so hoarse Dick almost didn’t hear it.

“You scared me.”

The words hit Dick straight in the chest, echoing throughout his ribs and reverberating up through his head. Bruce never said things like that. He’d softened, with Jason—but when he’d died, that new softness sharpened and hardened into something angry and cutting.

Neither of them spoke for a while. The sun sank low in the sky, Dick’s half-drank tea going cold in his hands. Sleep pulled at his tired bones, but he couldn’t bear to relive his first wake-up. Bruce didn’t move, either—he just waited, sitting vigil in the chair across the bed from Dick.

It was almost worse than yelling, Dick thought. Worse than the terrible stoic silences he used to get as a teenager. This silence was almost open—like standing in front of an cracked door and not knowing if he could walk through.

The coil of shame reached up and tightened his throat, but Dick spoke anyway. Bruce needed to hear it from him.

“I saw him,” Dick said, finally. He raised his eyes to meet Bruce’s gaze. “I saw him everywhere.”

There was no need to name the who.

“And on the rooftop—he told me…”

Dick swallowed down the lump in his throat, leaning his head back against the cool wooden headboard and closing his gritty eyes. He took a shaky breath.

How could he say this?

Jason told me to fly like a Robin. That if I wanted to see him again, I had to jump off the roof. So I did.

Dick’s voice was a whisper when he next spoke:

“I knew he wasn’t real. I knew. But I couldn’t—B, you don’t understand, I couldn’t tell him to—"

Dick dissolved into sobs. Gentle hands took the teacup from him and he tucked his knees to his chest.

“He’d—he’d be so small, B. Just like when—” he hiccuped another sob, “—and then, he’d be so—so—"

So bloody. So mean. So brutalized and torn apart and dead dead dead.

Dick scrubbed his face with his hands. It pulled at the stitched gash on his chin. He tried to use the pain to ground him, but it only made everything worse. He took as deep a breath as he could. The IV tugged on his arm as he raised his hand to run it through his hair. 

“So I just…let him stay,” Dick whispered, focusing on smoothing out the messy blue bed sheets with his other hand. He couldn’t meet Bruce’s eye—not like this.

The weight of the silence bore down on both of them, unbearable. Dick still couldn’t look at Bruce—he didn’t want to know what kind of look was on his face. He couldn’t survive it. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

“I thought I lost you.”

Dick’s eyes snapped to Bruce’s at that. A spark of anger lit in his sore chest.

“You did.”

The words surprised them both.

Bruce flinched. Small, almost imperceptible, but it was there—a brief, sharp inhale—but it was more than Dick had seen in years. For a second, he hated himself for saying it, for making Bruce (his dad) feel that. But another part of them—the honest part, the hurt part—was glad he made Bruce feel anything at all.

“I needed you,” Dick continued, raw and open and bleeding. “After Jason. I needed my dad. But you were just…Batman. Always Batman.”

“I didn’t know how to be anything else,” Bruce admitted at last. He looked away. “At least, not then. Not in the way you needed. I couldn’t.”

They know where every nerve is buried because they taught each other how to cut. Neither of them want to draw the blade. Neither of them want to strike the match. They know these nerves, this field. They know how it ends.

“I hated you,” Dick said. His voice was sharp and sudden. They were having this conversation, now—dry field and lit matches be damned. Dick was tired of running.

“I hated you for what happened to Jason. For how you buried him, for what you did to him. You erased him, Bruce! My little brother! A part of our family! You reduced him down to a tactical failure. A lost soldier in the line of duty, a lesson, a warning.

“Even in death he doesn’t get to be my little brother—he doesn’t even get to be Jason. He was Jason first, Bruce! He was Jason before you, during you, and after you. But you couldn’t afford to grieve his death. You wouldn’t even let yourself! You—you dehumanized him because it was the only way you could survive your own guilt. You left him cold, forever damning him as ‘what went wrong’. Because it hurt. And by doing so, you robbed him of his life. Because Batman, right? Batman can’t break. Well, fuck that. What about Bruce Wayne? The father? The father whose son was murdered—because that’s what he was, Bruce. He was murdered. Taken from me.”

How do you judge van Gogh? By his starry night, or his suicide letter?

How do you judge Jason Todd? By his life as Robin, or his death at the hands of the Joker? For his disobedience, for what put him in that warehouse in the first place?

What if there's a third answer? What if it’s not the art or the suicide, but the person?

Jason, the son, first. Not Robin, not the death, not the soldier. The kid. The kid with a bleeding heart that was too big for his chest. The kid who saw injustice and burned with righteous fury. Who demanded better from the world, then set out with his own two hands to make it so. He liked to read. He was good at school.

A kid who, when abandoned by his mother and rejected by the only father who chose him, went off in search of a mother. His own mother, because more than anything, he wanted to be someone’s son. And in the end, when she’d betrayed him, when she’d sold him out to torture and death, he still tried to save her. He threw his own broken body atop hers in order to protect her from the worst of the blast—as if his love could shield them both.

So neither—the answer is neither.

The true answer is by the weight of their heart.

Tears spilled onto Dick’s cheeks, even when he thought he didn't have any more to cry. The spark of anger in his chest fizzled out—all that was left was that vast, hollow emptiness.

“You’re not the only one who lost him, Bruce,” he whispered. “He was my—"

The ocean to my lighthouse.

The sky to my earth.

The bird to my winds.

My Little Wing.

The silence stretched again, heavy and thick. The clock ticked away in the hall. Dick forced himself to breathe deep and believe that it was enough to prove he was awake. Bruce sat forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, bloodshot eyes staring at something in the middle distance. Dick wondered what he was thinking.

Dick wished he could know. All this shared grief between them—yet it was smothered and suffocated and silenced. Could he reach out across that chasm? Could he reach out at all?

Then, at long last, Bruce spoke.

“I thought,” he said carefully—Dick could hear the tears at the rough edges of his voice. “I thought that if I—"

Bruce sighed, defeated, as if he’d lost a war with himself.

“I failed him, Dick. I failed him in life. I failed him death. And…and I failed him in mourning.”

He raised his eyes to meet Dick’s.

“And—I failed you.”

The raw look on Bruce’s face caught Dick by surprise. His father didn’t…show emotion like that. But now—with his red-rimmed eyes brimming with tears, the five o’clock shadow, and the deep, tired lines—Dick could see it all. 

Absently, he wondered if Bruce ever drowned in the same waters Dick had.

“I couldn’t—I couldn’t. So I…didn’t.”

(Dick had come to ask his father to feel. To remember, please God remember. And his father had refused. So the Dark Knight will continue beating criminals as penance for the death of his son, and Nightwing will continue to beat himself as penance for the death of his little brother.

One erupts outwards, another collapses inwards.) 

“That night you came to me…when you asked me to pull back, I just—“ There was an earnest look on Bruce’s open face, further throwing Dick. Something wiggled inside him, and it felt a hell of a lot like guilt. “Because if I stopped, I’d have to—I’d have to—"

“Feel it.”

Bruce nodded.

“I exiled you—my own son—like you were the enemy.”

Dick scoffed weakly. “Yeah. Felt like it.”

“I was wrong,” Bruce said with so much conviction Dick sat up a little straighter against the headboard. “You were trying to save me.”

He leaned forward, eyes boring into Dick.

“Dick—you shouldn’t have to save me. It’s not…it was never your job. I’m—I’m your father. You’re my son. And I punished you for it. I didn’t know how to be a father and Batman at the same time. I thought they were separate, and I could never be both. I was…scared, Dick. And when he—”

Bruce looked away, tears threatening to spill.

“I buried the father with him, and I still had another son.”

Dick could only just…sit there. There was so much pure emotion flowing out of his father—and Dick was already full. He didn’t know what to do with it. He and Bruce hadn’t spoken since that cursed rooftop all those nights ago. And before that…well, a “screaming match” over Bruce not even telling him Jason died doesn’t really count as speaking.

Needless to say, Bruce and Dick haven’t been father and son in a long, long time.

“I needed you,” Dick repeated. Because he did. He’d needed his dad—who’d buried himself beneath six feet of indifferent soil alongside his baby brother. And Dick was left to drown. “I lost both of you."

Something cracked in Bruce’s already broken expression—a wall tumbling down behind his blue eyes.

“I know,” he said.

It was silent again. Dick looked away, taking full stock of his body for the first time since he’d woken up.

He’d never been tired like this before—never been so completely spent, so utterly drained that simple things like breathing and sitting and talking seemed to take the full force of his concentration. The sheer amount of feelings radiating off the both of them was eating away at what little strength he had. Tight bandages were wrapped around his (increasingly throbbing) left shoulder. His ribs hurt, but what else was new. A headache was brewing in his skull and pain lanced through his face when he worked his jaw. There was a pit in his stomach, more hungry than nauseous now.

He wondered how bad he’d scared Bruce (given the conversation they were having, probably pretty bad).

He wondered how much Bruce knew—about the nightmares, the hallucinations. About the people who helped him.

Jason would’ve loved Tim. Would’ve loved Maria.

The longing returned like a wrecking ball, slamming into Dick’s tight chest.

“I miss him,” he whispered. Tears dripped down his cheeks. He couldn’t stop them now even if he tried, anyways.

Bruce looked like he wanted to reach out. His hand twitched with an aborted movement, settling instead on the bed—a few inches from where Dick’s lay, pulse oximeter still attached to his finger.

“I do too.”

And there it was. All of their grief—all the ugly, the beast, the smothered and suffocated and silenced—laid bare before them. Everything cut away to reveal the rot. An open wound. Infected, festering, ignored. 

But not anymore.

“I don’t want to lose you, too. I can’t lose you,” Bruce said. He reached out, tentative, and placed his hand over Dick’s. It was warm and big and calloused, just as Dick always remembered it being.

Dick stared down at their hands. More tears slipped from his eyes. “I…I don’t know what to do now.”

The admission felt like it took physical weight off his shoulders. Dick could not know what to do. Dick could not know what to do, and it was okay, because his dad was here. And even if he didn’t…

“Me neither, son.”

They could do it together.

---

A little while later, Alfred knocked on the door. Bruce called for him to come in.

The evening sun had sunk low in the sky, casting the clouds in a pink glow.

“Master Dick,” he said. “It is good to see you awake. If you’re feeling up for it, I’ve dinner waiting in the dining room.”

Dick nodded, offering Alfred a weak smile.

“I’ll give you a minute to get changed. Come along, now, Master Bruce. We mustn’t keep Master Tim waiting.”

Bruce squeezed Dick’s hand one last time and followed Alfred out.

Alfred was here. Tim was here. His dad was here.

He was home.

A robin landed on Dick’s windowsill.

It opened its throat to sing.

Notes:

Dick doesn’t look in the mirror, nor does he ever look at a clock. so how do we know he's really awake? ;)

i’m such a sucker for repition, especially when it means something different the second time. i highly suggest you reread the whole story all at once at some point so you can catch it all :)

i can’t believe i’ve completed this—it’s hands down the biggest project i’ve ever written. i hope you’ve all enjoyed, and i’ve appreciated every single kudos and comment. you guys are so supportive and loving and my heart just overflows at every single comment. the love really keeps me going. i get to be an insane little writer, and you guys just make it so fun for me :)

as always, tata for now little readers :)

……..but what's this next chapter????? an epilogue!?

Chapter 19: Epilogue: And Now You Are Here To See

Summary:

"The caged bird sings

With a fearful trill

Of things unknown

But longed for still

And his tune is heard

On the distant hill

For the caged bird

Sings of freedom.”

- I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou

Notes:

:)

Dick slipped in through the window of his apartment with practiced ease.

Living in Gotham had been…good for him. This was his home, these streets familiar. He didn’t even need to worry about Blüdhaven—Wally and Star were taking good care of his city. He was finally starting to feel like he could breathe again.

He tugged off his domino mask with a sigh, rubbing his eyes as he stepped into the kitchen. Dick hadn’t been able (read: banned) to patrol in ages. It felt good to get back out there. To fly, like a robin. 

He flipped on the dim light over the stove, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the warm glow.

The rumbling of his stomach echoed throughout the quiet space. A smile tugged at his lips as he reached for the cupboard that contained his extensive cereal collection.

Oh wait—he was still wearing his gloves.

With a tired grunt, he turned to the sink, peeling off his gloves and reaching for the soap. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Everyone knows—or well, at least they say—that healing isn’t linear. All those sayings and mantras about how baby steps are still steps and giving yourself grace and it doesn’t matter how you fall, it only matters how you rise. 

But no one really talks about what it’s like to step backwards for the first time. What’s its like to learn that healing isn’t linear through experience. To stumble when you thought you were doing good, really good, for the first time in a long time. The guilt. The shame. The whisper that maybe you were never healing—maybe you can’t.

Dinah had told him he was getting better.

“Your brain is scared, not broken, and it’s trying to protect you.”

But now, all he felt was…defeat. Sucker-punching, kick-you-while-you’re-down defeat.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and breathed deep, willing his stuttering heart to settle. He swallowed down the lump forming in his throat.

My brain is scared, not broken, and it’s trying to protect me.

He took a long, shaking breath, then another, and another. When he lowered his hands, his eyes drifted down the narrow hallway—to the door where Tim slept.

He’d be so disappointed. Because Dick had been getting better.

He abandoned the faucet, knowing that scrubbing his hands wasn’t the best idea right now. He didn’t want to spiral. He was getting better.

Instead, he turned and finally faced his dark living room where his little brother was standing.

“Hi, Jay.”

Dick’s wrist twitched. There were exactly three clocks in the apartment: his nightstand, Tim’s nightstand, and the oven. There was only one mirror: the bathroom. It was too dark to see if Jason had a shadow. He grit his teeth, clenching his hands to stop them from shaking. Nothing had changed since he’d walked in the room. He was awake on patrol, and he was awake now.

“At one point, checking helped you stay grounded,” Dinah had said. “But now, it’s hurting you. When a coping strategy starts doing more harm than good, we look for something new.”

He wanted to—well, he wanted to cry. It hurt, the old wounds reopening, ones he’d worked so hard to heal. Wounds that were healing.

“You look older this time,” he said softly. He couldn’t risk waking Tim. He couldn’t bear to see the look on the kid’s face if he found out.

“You’ve never looked this old before,” he continued in a whisper. ”I always…I always wondered what you would’ve looked like if you—“ He cut himself off, unable to finish that line of thinking.

This time, the ghost of his little brother was especially cruel, because it was something Jason never got to be. Dick’s chest tightened, heart and lungs compressing against the vise of his ribs. Jason was tall—taller than Dick, and muscular, too. Grown into himself. A man now, not a boy. In the dim light of the kitchen, his curls almost looked white. 

Hot tears prickled at Dick’s eyes. He bit his cheek to try to stop them from falling. He failed.

He’d been getting better—Dinah had told him he’d been getting better. He didn’t need the mirrors anymore. He didn’t even need a new watch.

He’d been getting better.

Failure coiled in his stomach, thick and heavy and cold—frostbitten fingers reaching up through his throat and down into his feet, leaving him numb and drained.

Dick sighed shakily, wiping at his face with the sleeve of his suit. Even now, after all this time, he couldn’t tell Jason to go away. The memories of their last conversation still hung over him like a gallows noose.

Jason could stay. Even if it wasn’t good for Dick. Even if he wasn’t real.

“Alright, Little Wing,” Dick said hoarsely, opening the cereal cabinet. “What are we feeling today? Lucky Charms? Though I know those were never your favorite. How about Cap’n Crunch? I got a fresh unopened box of Oops All Berries that’s been calling my name. And if you’re wondering if I’ve got any real food, the answer is duh—but I’m just in the mood for some good ole creature comforts.”

He glanced over at Jason, still standing in the living room. He looked…bewildered. Dick blinked. The hallucination of his baby brother had never looked…bewildered before.

Though, the expression was quickly morphing into horrified.

It was actually kind of weird.

Dick swallowed and shook his head, taking another deep breath. He set the blue box on the counter and pulled open the fridge.

“All I’ve got is oat milk,” he said with a laugh that barely passed for one. “You know how Tim’s stomach is.”

Jason didn’t answer. Which was also weird.

(And it kind of…hurt. Healing and therapy couldn’t fill the hole Jason had left behind. All they did was help Dick learn how to survive it, how to grow around it. How to not let it kill him.)

“Not feeling very talkative today, are we Jay,” he murmured, pulling two bowls from another cupboard.

Maybe that was a good thing. Dick didn’t know. He’d have to ask Dinah on Wednesday.

The little multicolored berries clinked as Dick poured them into the ceramic bowls.

“There’s a new guy on your turf,” Dick said. He didn’t really know why he was talking to the hallucination of his litter brother. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was to fill the oppressive silence. Maybe it was to keep himself from tumbling right over the edge.

“He calls himself the Red Hood. And he’s…well, he’s a handful, that’s for sure. Killing crime bosses just to take their place. I wonder what you’d think of him.”

Jason remained silent.

Dick felt defeated. Numb. He turned to pull two spoons out of the silverware drawer.

When he turned back—

Jason was gone.

Notes:

guess who's here :)

again, i just want to say thank you. you guys are so amazing :)

EDIT: GUYS GUYS!!!!! i CANNOT believe i am saying this, but there's ART NOW!!!!!!! @arsonsketch created an AMAZING tiktok that i highly suggest you go watch. the rest of their art is also absolutely fantastic as well. :)

sometimes i don't think you guys understand how much you guys mean to me. i just be on here yapping and you all be lovin what i'm yapping about. and i flop around my room like a fish every time you guys tell me i do it good :)
____________________

After surviving the hallucinations of his dead little brother, Dick Grayson was starting to heal.

Then the Red Hood walks into his apartment.

Not a dream. Not a ghost.

Jason Todd is alive.

What does Dick do? Well, he makes the (very big) ghost of his brother a bowl of cereal. Because even after all this time, he still can’t tell him to go away.

Now, Dick has to face the grief that nearly killed him—and the little brother he never closed the door on.

And the real haunting begins.

ch. 1 of "When the Dead Come Home" out now! :)

as always, tata for now, little readers

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Birds and Glass and Time