Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s been a bad night.

The kind of night that has him jittery and strung out and half-crazed in a way that only roof-diving ever really helps.

It’s the type of night that makes him wish his stupid brain would just stop thinking for a little while, when he most wishes everything would stop for even a second to just breathe, let him have just that little bit of time to calm himself and stop being dramatic and acting like he has it any worse than anyone else in this family.

They all have nightmares, it comes with the business.

But it’s a bad night and Dick is a pathetic little man who can’t help but get lost in himself when he doesn’t have something guiding him, grounding him.

So he stays out on patrol for a longer time than he should. Sits on the roofs of buildings and free falls and flies, and maybe he’s a little compromised. Maybe being out and about isn’t a good idea. But Dick has been dealing with bad nights, worse nights, ‘okay’ nights, and ‘I’m going to scream and explode from the inside out’ nights since he was little.

He’s learned by now that while patrolling doesn’t really help all the time, it leaves him feeling useful, needed.

It’s something at least.

And it may not be the healthiest coping mechanism, but at least he’s helping others. Even, and especially, when he can’t help himself.

He patrols, flying across Gotham’s rooftops until he feels close to passing out from exhaustion. All because sometimes hiding away brings just as much anxiety as being around people on these nights. The tightly coiled panic, guilt, and worry leaving him slipping underwater no matter which option he chooses. The one where he chooses to be selfish, or the one where he pretends he’s well-rested and runs himself into the ground.

It might not be the healthiest way to go about it and he knows it, somewhere in the very back of his scattered and damaged mind, but he was raised by an emotionally crippled man who chose to run around in a bat costume as his coping mechanism instead of dealing with everything normally. So really, Dick thinks he’s actually doing pretty well for himself in comparison.

He hasn’t died yet at least, so he has to be doing something right.

(Dyingdyingdyingdying, a pill, and a bomb and a heartbeat that stops and restarts in minutes. Death? No death? It’s not quite so clear anymore.)

So maybe he’s a little bit scattered and frantic at times. Whenever he catches a flash of red or orange, or when he thinks he smells gunpowder, or catches the scent of freshly fallen rain or feels the rain pouring down on him and gets lost somewhere that isn't in the here and now. And it’s possible he’s being a bit harsher on those he runs into tonight than he normally would be, but Oracle hasn’t commented on it yet and no one else is patrolling tonight—barring Red Hood, but he’s on the other side of town—so he’s fine. He has it handled, he’s doing perfectly fine.

He really is. Honest.

He's doing just great, or at the very least he’s doing a fantastic job of pushing everything else aside. Until, of course, he comes across a woman who’s crowding a teenager against a wall with wandering hands. And maybe he would ignore it, give them privacy. He doesn't like getting involved with horny people on the streets, not unless he sees something shady going on.

But the thing is it does look shady. The woman looks old enough to be the kid's mother and he looks so scared. Dazed and trembling, as if he’s been dropped into Gotham harbor during the winter. And, barely visible in the night lighting, the woman’s hands are holding a syringe to the teen's arm.

And Nightwing moves before he can think, terror and anger bursting through his veins.

He drops down into the alley with them, grin painted onto his face and teeth so close to grinding together, “Hey guys! I hope I’m not interrupting anything here, just wanted to ask if either of you have any suggestions for a side hobby? Because I’ve been meaning to get one but, well, you look like you could use one more than me, lady.”

The woman is conventionally beautiful, brown hair that’s dark enough to look black in the dim lighting, tan skin and dark brown eyes and pretty lips painted scarlet. But her face twists into an angry snarl that she can’t stop and it ruins any thought that she’s as sweet or beautiful as she looks.

Her pretty brown eyes are so wrong, shining with anger and malice so sharp it bleeds him dry of breath. And there’s lust there, so bright it burns, and it makes him want to be sick. She’s dangerous and maybe deadly. And it’s familiar in a way that makes his heart stop and tear itself open with a thousand different weapons.

But the teenager is still there, a boy who can’t be older than sixteen, and his arm is held fast in the woman’s hands, bleeding slightly where her nails are digging in and holding him still for the needle held in her manicured hand.

A needle that's ready to push something that’s deadly in a way that doesn’t kill the body but the heart and the mind, (because with the way the woman’s eyes rake across Dick and the way her eyes roamed over the kid before he interfered, it isn’t hard to guess what she was planning on doing. All it takes to make someone pliant is a sedative and a strong enough conviction to ignore the no that a person utters with a frantic mind and a too slow, unresponsive body), into the teen’s bloodstream.

And Dick can see the slight glaze in the kid’s eyes that suggests a concussion and the short, sharp breathing that suggests a panic attack and he needs to get the kid out of here now.

So he does what he does best and he smiles, wide and bright, and makes her focus on him. Because if she’s focusing on him then she’s not paying attention to the kid.

And the woman looks at him, clad in black and red that’s skin tight and a smile wide enough to fall into. And she goes from angry to catlike, (he hates associating something so very Selina Kyle with this vile woman,) giving him that same slow, up and down look that makes his skin crawl and his heart stutter.

He hates that she thinks that she’ll be able to get her way out of this by flirting with him.

“Why! If it isn’t Nightwing himself!” She smiles wide and fake, “What a pleasure, I was just giving my son his medicine, he forgot to take it you see, and I didn’t want something bad to happen to him.” She smirks at him, “Once I finish up though, you are more than welcome to be my hobby for tonight.”

Her teeth are barred in an approximation of a smile, sharp and predatory and vicious.

He grins back, fake and fragile and half-way to desperate to just get her away from the kid, “No thanks lady, the offer is nice and all, but I really think you should step away from the kid.”

She doesn’t, predictably, and he subdues her and asks Oracle to call it in while he comforts the kid.

The whole interaction leaves him feeling wrong, even after she’s picked up by the police. Leaves him with the need to crawl out of his skin, like a rash spreading over his mind; itching, burning, and clawing at him until he wants to scream.

He doesn’t though.

He breathes in deep and carries on with patrol, listening to Oracle’s voice in his ear like it’s the only thing keeping him moving.

(It is.)

He finishes late, stumbles into the cave, like a child tripping over their feet when walking for the first time.

It doesn’t go unnoticed, Alfred stares at him disapprovingly, but the old butler stays quiet even as he tends to Dick’s injured shoulder, (only dislocated but Alfred always seems to be able to tell when he’s trying to hide an injury), Bruce is asleep for once.

Good, that’s—that’s good.

Even though it's been months since he got back from his venture through time—and fuck Dick still needs to apologize to Tim, he needs to tell him how sorry he is. (He’s put it off for so long, never knowing the right words other than the pleading, begging, babbling sorry that seems to be the only thing he ever says to any of his baby brothers anymore. Pathetic)—Bruce has been high-strung, still distant and unsure of how to fit himself back into the lives of his kids. It hadn't gotten any better in the time Dick had been gone and it's a little worrying.

Maybe if he just tried talking to them. Something, anything other than act like they mean nothing to him. But that has never been Batman's—or Bruce Wayne's—way.

Some rest would do the older man good, or at least Dick hopes it will.

The good thing about getting in at 4 in the morning is that no one really expects you to fall asleep, which is wonderful for him because he honestly doesn’t think he can despite how tired he is.

It’s okay though, he’s done this before, he’s kept himself held together after a hard patrol before, hell he’s held himself together through worse and with less.

He’s fine.

He’s always fine.

Still, hitting the gym won’t hurt.

He changes out of his Nightwing costume, slipping into loose-fitting clothes because he doesn’t think he can handle anything really pressing down on his skin at this point. The itchy, wrong feeling is still too close to the surface of his skin for him to be comfortable in form-fitting clothes.

He breathes, deep and steady and calm.

As he exhales, he feels a little bit of the anxious flighty feeling settle in his chest. Dick shuts off the light and makes his way up to the Manor and to the gym. A run should help him settle more, get rid of the detached, flighty feeling.

(Poisonous, his mind whispers, the woman’s gaze on him again, predatory and cruel. Poisonous, it whispers, as it reminds him of all the ways he’s failed his little brothers, of all the ways he’s failed, Bruce.

Poisonous, his mind whispers, as another voice speaks to him, ‘shhh querido’. And the rain falls down around him.)

Really he wants to do a routine, go flying, but Alfred had told him, very firmly, ‘No flying until the arm was better healed’, which means another week or two at least.

So running it was.

He’s only on the treadmill for maybe an hour before Damian comes to get him.

The little bird narrows his eyes at him and scoffs, “Pennyworth requests your presence at breakfast.”

And Dick grins as he gets off the treadmill, “Awwww you sure you don’t just wanna eat breakfast with me Dami?”

Damian flushes, turning around and calling out over his shoulder, “Come, Richard! Pennyworth must not be kept waiting!” walking back out the way he entered, though much quicker than before.

Dick smiles to himself as he follows him out. He stops by his room and changes into another pair of loose-fitting clothing before heading down the stairs, stomach grumbling as he smells Alfred’s cooking.

When he gets to the table, Damian is in the middle of eating a pancake and Bruce is drinking coffee while reading the newspaper, no one else is in the Manor today other than them, but Dick still grins at the scene.

He plops himself down in the chair across from Damian with a bright “Morning!” and puts some food on his own plate, digging in.

After he finishes his first waffle he looks up at Dami and asks, “So how’s school going?”

His little brother wrinkles his nose, “Acceptable enough, though it remains just as annoying to attend as before.”

He laughs, “That’s great Dami!” and he thinks he sees Bruce smile just a little.

It’s nice.

It’s good.

Soon they’ll go about their days but for now, they’re here and it’s good.

(He can’t make himself finish anything other than that one waffle though, can’t manage to eat anything else with the nausea that rolls around his stomach. Instead, he spends the rest of breakfast speaking animatedly with his hands and sipping on some water.

They don’t notice it.

He doesn’t know why he’s disappointed)

He goes through the week in a pattern that he has long grown familiar with. It's the pattern he follows after something brings up the bad things, the same pattern he followed after Mirage, the same pattern he followed after Tarant—Blockbuster, after Blockbuster.

The same pattern he followed after he ‘died’.

(Didn’t he though? He was dead for only a minute, but it was real enough for him. He died, his heart stopped, he stopped breathing, he died hediedhedied.

But so have his brothers and they never threw fits over people talking about their deaths, Jason notwithstanding (and even that was more about the Joker still being alive after everything he's done). Dick's fine, he is, he didn’t even stay dead for very long.

Only a minute. Just a minute.)

Breathe, smile, train, patrol, repeat.

Do not sleep for too long, don’t let the nightmares creep in, and if they do then be quiet, stay silent.

Breathe.

(shhh mi amor, quiet querido.)

Smile.

(You should’ve known she wasn’t me! I know how you move, how you breathe.)

Train.

(You didn’t even really die! You let us think you were dead and all for a mission. You really are Just. Like. Him)

Patrol.

(I’m never. going. to. stop.)

Repeat.

It keeps him stable, it keeps him alive.

(It keeps him safe, it leaves him drowning. He’s glad they can’t tell, he wants them to notice.

God he’s a mess.)

And it works, kind of.

He’s okay, he’s not freaking out over things so much. He is getting some sleep.

(He pointedly doesn’t think of the memories that slipped in last night, when he was too tired to keep going. The feeling of rain on his skin, the horror upon realizing it wasn’t Kori. Feeling like a pathetic thing because it was years and years ago, he's almost 29 and he still can't get over himself and the knowledge writhes under his skin and in the back of his head like a parasite, sinking its teeth in and draining all the life out of him.)

And soon this horrible feeling will go away and he’ll be okay again.

(It was so fucking long ago why does he still think about it during these moments, when every memory he has that isn't amazing suddenly becomes the new entertainment, all because he has a new one for the collection.)

Or at the very least, he'll be okay until another one of the bad nights, until something sets him off again, and he slips into this familiar pattern of being okay and smiling.

(Pushing trauma away doesn't help they say, it all just collects interest in the corner of your mind and every time a new deposit is added you get a little reminder of every other time you felt useless or weak or dirty or wrong or terrified and eventually it will all break.)

He’s so tired of smiling.

(Nothing is working anymore, his old methods of getting through this no longer help, leave him feeling worse and more drained and remembering more about the last few times he had to go through these steps than he likes.

It terrifies him. Without these methods to cope then what does he have other than his useless little mind and body and the memories that come with it?)

He runs into Jason on a bad night, for him or for Jay he isn’t sure. But if he was being honest with himself, neither of them have been having a good night.

Mostly because no one in his family has ever properly taken care of their mental health, a side effect from hanging around Bruce. Shit mental health and bad brain days are paired with the habit of making it worse for themselves through their own actions, it's not pretty.

And, though usually the best adjusted of them all, Dick Grayson is no exception, and he slips out into the city that night for patrol.

He hadn’t meant to run into Jason, he just hadn’t been able to calm himself at all that day no matter what he did and decided another long patrol was needed. But one of the cases he was closing seemed to have popped up onto Jason’s radar as well, because here he was. His little brother clad in his Red Hood gear, standing before him with his body tense and angry, fingers clenched tight on his gun’s handle.

Jason still hasn’t forgiven him for faking his death.

(Was it fake? Real? He doesn’t know anymore, all he knows is the feeling of a pill shoved into his throat and being unable to breathe. Slipping under, falling into the blackness.)

He wants to say something before the other inevitably leaves and the chance to speak slips away again.

He tries, but the words won't leave his throat, so he stays there, smile plastered on his face as he watches Jason and waits for his little brother to do something, say something.

Eventually, Jason growls, cursing and turning away.

Nightwing almost lurches forward then, finally speaking, “Hood—”

But Jason cuts him off, spinning back around with a strangled hiss.

“Stop.”

Dick tenses as the younger snarls at him, vicious and angry enough that he can hear it even with the voice modulator in Jay’s helmet, “Would you stop fucking smiling all the goddamn time! You fucking asshole. You don’t get to run around as if everything is fine and dandy. This whole ‘I’ll smile and everything will be forgiven’ thing you’re pulling? Yeah, it’s not gonna fucking work. Not on me, not on Pretender, hell the only people it will work on are Daddy dearest and the Demon Spawn.”

Dick flinches, feeling as if someone had punched him in the stomach and stolen the breath from his lungs.

He holds his hands up placatingly and fights against the itch under his skin and the nausea that floods through him, “Hood that isn’t—I don’t—I’m not—”

“Save it Nightwing.” Jason huffs, “I don’t need to deal with this right now, I really don't. Just go fuck off and play big brother with the little Demon.”

Dick tries to answer, but he barely opens his mouth before he hears Oracle speaking through the comms, “Nightwing, Red Hood, you need to head over to the Docks, Red Robin needs some help with a bust and you guys have the closest ETA.”

Jason growls, low and agitated as he retreats beneath the Red Hood persona and responds to Oracle, “What’s the baby bird gotten himself into now?”

Oracle's mechanical voice gives no hint of emotion as she responds, “RR was breaking up a trafficking scheme by himself and didn’t account for the fact that he was running on fumes, again.”

Dick sighs, it was a familiar pattern with Tim unfortunately, while normally he was rather observant and knew when (objectively) he needed help on a case, he tended to forget about things like sleep, food, and self-care when consumed by a case. Dick and Bruce did the same thing to an extent, but Tim tended to research and go in completely on his own, only asking for help on big busts, which this obviously hadn’t been considered.

His family is a fucking mess, and yes Dick is self-aware enough to acknowledge he’s being a hypocrite but still, is it too much to ask for them to have some semblance of self-care?

He narrows his eyes as he listens to Oracle’s instructions, grabbing his grapple and swinging over the quiet—but never sleeping, not completely, Gotham is rarely ever asleep—city. He makes his way to the docks, eyes trained on Jason’s—Red Hood’s—larger form in front of him.

It’s always Jason he messes up with the most. Jason and Tim, the two of his brothers that he wronged the most with his inability to word his thoughts correctly, articulate his emotions in the right way.

And Bruce—well, best not think about that for now.

After all, he has a little brother to help take care of right now and another who he has to try and explain things to better, word things differently.

They land atop a building, crouching in the alcove and listening as they get all the information on the situation they can. They can hear the sounds of a fight from where they rest, the noises obvious though not as loud as they could be, no gunshots, but both Nightwing and Red Hood know better than to assume that that means Red Robin is safe.

Nightwing tries for a grin, “Well at least we know he’s alive.”

Jason scoffs and the comm link picks it up now, Red Hood’s comm having linked up to Nightwing’s comm frequency despite the other man’s refusal to speak to him on the way over.

Oracle’s voice trickles in, “Red’s comm isn’t hooked up, or online, anymore. His comm got smashed a few minutes ago, but before that he let me know that he had gotten the victims out of the way of the traffickers there, but was unable to get them out before being overwhelmed, there aren’t any cameras or anything in the warehouse itself but from what RR told me I can give you an outline of who’s in there and what’s going on.”

Jason’s face isn’t visible behind his Red Hood helmet but the head tilt and the way his hands wander down towards his guns is enough of a warning for his next actions.

Red Hood leans forward onto the balls of his feet, “Thanks O but I’m more of a shoot first ask questions later kinda guy and, well, Babybird is already in there so what good would it do to wait around?”

And in through the window he goes.

Nightwing sighs, and responds with a quick “Sorry O”, before following his brother into the fray.

Red Hood smashes into the warehouse, guns blazing and filled with bitter rage. It shows in the way he takes out his opponents, more force packed within his punches than is necessary. The way he shoots not only to incapacitate but to hurt, bullets to kneecaps and shoulders and looking every bit the crime lord that he had established himself as. Nightwing slips in behind him, agile and graceful in a way he hasn’t lost in all the years since his parents taught him how to fly instead of fall.

He clenches his teeth, that’s a dangerous train of thought to be caught up in during the middle of a fight, and it almost costs him in the form of a punch to the ribs, but he ducks out of the way of the blow in time.

He wrinkles his nose as he continues his fluid takedown of the goons, raising his voice to be heard over the fighting, “Really Double R? You went into this without backup?”

He can hear Hood’s snort of laughter as he makes his way through his own group of thugs and it’s an improvement from earlier despite the current situation.

Red Robin throws him a quick, but very put out, look before ducking to avoid a blow and aiming a sweeping kick at the surrounding criminals' legs. He scowls as he avoids a hit from what looks to be a baton but could easily be a pipe, “Fuck off Nightwing I had it handled!”

He pauses as he takes a hit to the side and grunts from pain before pulling something, oh, a taser (vaguely—and somewhere in the parts of his memory not all screwy from the amalgamation of missions, spying, trauma, grief and all the other complicated feelings, thoughts, and the inability to do anything that made up all that he was—Dick think he recalls watching Tim work on it, during a quiet, peaceful night—though there aren’t a lot of those anymore—but that could just be wishful thinking and this might be an entirely different taser than the one he had watched his little brother fiddle with), and tasering the guy, continuing indifferently “Well, mostly at least.”

Hood scoffs, “Sure ya did baby bird, sure ya did, that’s why O had to call us in.”

Red Robin kicks a particularly irritating man in the balls and glares at Jason as best as he can while fighting, “Up yours Hood, you act like O hasn’t called us onto one of yours because you fucked up or didn’t anticipate correctly.”

The response is, predictably, Hood flipping the younger the finger, and for Nightwing's own sanity he raises his voice once again to be heard over their bickering, “Oh come on guys—”

Unfortunately neither Hood nor Red seemed to be in the mood to talk to him, or listen to him—not that either of them had done a lot of either action since Dick had returned from Spyral—because instead of turning to him during the brief lull in fighting, they turned towards the remaining grouping of people and dove headfirst into another round of fighting.

He barely stops himself from biting his lip, a bad habit for a crime fighter, and moves to join them when Oracle sounds off in his ear.

“Hey N?”

He almost wants to sigh in relief, “Yeah O?”

The mechanical voice continues on, “Double R directed the victims away but it would probably be best if you could get them out if you can, are you free to do so?”

“Yeah, Hood and RR have it covered, do you know where they are?”

There’s a huff over the link that translates to more of a crackle in the earpiece and Nightwing hisses at the unexpected noise.

“Sorry,” comes the quick apology, “I still don’t have eyes in there but before his comm went offline Red Robin was in the warehouse in one of the back rooms.”

Nightwing takes another quick look at the fight and watches as both his baby brothers overpower or defeat their various opponents, the fight will be over soon and he won’t be missed from this part of the operation.

“Lead the way my dear Oracle, we have some people to save.”

If he focuses hard enough, imagines just the right amount, slips away into his own head just enough, he thinks he might be able to hear Babs in the mechanized laugh that rings across the line for less than a second, more of a snort than actual laughter.

He misses her, even when she’s right in front of him he misses her, and she isn't even dead, no, just forever out of reach because of his own fuck-ups and mistakes.

His fault, and yet he still misses her.

He pulls himself out of the muddied place that is his head and allows Oracle to lead him to the last room Red Robin had been in before the fight began. The room is, predictably, locked and Nightwing is careful as he enters, inside he finds terrified and half-starved men, women, girls, and boys, teenagers and young adults and kids alike. No more than around 30 people in total, but none of them above the age of 40.

Most of the older ones are shaking and weak, some of them look to be drugged and none of them look well enough for a fight, but the older ones who are still able to stand place themselves in front of the younger children and those who are unable to move, defiant despite how beat down they are, still so scared and yet so determined to do something.

And Nightwing raises his hands, placating and careful, and when they recognize him, eyes no less wary and fierce, he begins to move forward slowly, speaking in a soft, calm tone.

“Hi there, I’m not here to hurt you guys, I’m gonna help you get out okay? My friend was here earlier, Red Robin? He and another friend of mine are taking care of the people who did this to you.” He swallows, breathes, continues despite the panic that sits in his chest, unwanted and unneeded and yet still there. Maybe the lack of sleep wasn’t as great of an idea as he had thought.

(A few of the young adults are men, dazed and confused and drugged, and he isn’t quite sure why this ring trafficks, but his guess is good enough, and the confusion present in their eyes is familiar enough, that it makes it hard to breathe, rain on his face or are those tears? and petrichor in the air, floral perfume and a weight on top of him.)

(Poisonous-no-stop-please, I just want it to Stop.)

He moves without really seeing or processing, just listening as the victims talk amongst themselves while he helps them get out of their bindings or helps them to stand. Listens without really hearing as the older of them comfort the children and teens, listens to them comfort themselves and their peers as he leads them to the door and out the back. Adrift in the hold of his mind as he focuses on his job, focuses on helping and trying not to feel the touch on his skin that he usually craves, the human contact he needs to keep from going crazy by himself now leaving him floating and not all there.

He tries not to hear how much each of them sounds like himself on some of the bad nights.

He finishes his job, gets them out, helps them and he leaves almost immediately afterward, not bothering to wait for either of his brothers.

He won’t let himself fall apart in front of them, not when there was nothing to fall apart over.

He shouldn’t have left them, he knows that, somewhere in the back of his head he knows that. He knows they’ll be curious or concerned or annoyed, but he couldn’t stay there, not with how he was. Shaking and dizzy, drifting and not all there, numb and cold with petrichor and perfume assaulting his senses, phantom touches ghosting over his body.

He still hasn’t stopped shaking.

He’s in his room at the Manor, standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom and staring at the bottle on the counter.

It’s only ibuprofen, just ibuprofen.

It’s not some unknown thing, nothing that’ll hurt him, just a standard painkiller to help with all the aches and pains. Alfred had asked him to remember to take it and he’s been trying to. He knows there’s nothing malicious about a tiny pill that will help with the pain.

And yet—.

And yet every time he takes one of the pills out of the bottle and goes to swallow it, he remembers a different pill. Forced down his throat for the good of everyone, choking him and leaving him gasping for air he couldn’t reach, swallowing around it until it finally went down and the hand over his mouth and nose went away, letting him breathe even as his heart stopped.

And he can never bring himself to take the ibuprofen.

It’s stupid, all the different reactions he’s been having lately shouldn’t be happening. The most frustrating thing about it is that there’s no reason either. He’s fine, he’s safe enough, and all of the things he keeps remembering happened so long ago now that they shouldn’t still be capable of doing this to him.

But they do and it makes him want to scream or cry.

Someone knocks at his bedroom door, and he shakes himself, picking the bottle of ibuprofen up and shoving it in the cabinet, maybe later then. He walks to the door unsteadily, leaning against it when he reaches it, resting his forehead against the wood of the door as he attempts to steady himself, mentally and physically.

“Who is it?” There’s silence for a second before he hears the soothing tone of Alfred’s voice.

“Just me Master Dick, it’s time for dinner if you would please make yourself known at the table.”

Despite everything Dick finds himself smiling just the tiniest bit at Alfred's words, he can practically feel the raised eyebrow through the door and it makes him think of when he was smaller and being stared down after doing something bad.

“Yeah Alfie, I’ll be down in a second.”

“Hurry along if you don’t mind, the food might get cold.” The reproach in his voice makes it clear that Alfred has both noticed and disapproves of his eating habits lately. Dick snorts as he listens to Alfred’s measured, and nearly silent, footsteps walk down the hall.

He stays where he is for a few seconds more, bringing his hands up to his face and pressing his palms against his eyes. And he stands there, silent and leaning against the door as he tried to calm himself and think of ways to get through the dinner. While it's unlikely all of his siblings will be there, Dick was worried his disappearing act would make Tim and Jason cautious, or think something was wrong with him.

(He doesn’t know anymore if something is wrong with him or not, he’s lost and he hates it and he can’t stop it, can’t stop anything happening to him. He just wants to be okay again.)

Was he ever really okay? The child vigilante (soldier?) who never learned how to help himself, always helping others instead.

He breathes in, deep, and holds it until he’s lightheaded, releasing the breath and steadying himself. He opens the door and tries not to feel like he’s walking to his execution.

It doesn’t really help.

By the time he makes it to the dining room he’s questioning his decision to come down at all but—well, no one disobeys Alfred. And he would’ve had to come down eventually anyway.

Not to mention it would’ve made the detectives in the house suspicious. Such is the peril of being around the Greatest Detective in the World (though Tim was rapidly closing in on and even surpassing Bruce for that title,) and his fellow vigilantes, all of whom were raised by said detective. Even the smallest things can tip them off.

He’s greeted by the sight of Bruce, Damian, and Tim at the table. The tension between them not as strong as it could be, but still visible in the way Tim stared blankly at Bruce and intently at Damian. Even in the way Damian couldn’t seem to decide if he was angry or not and just settled for ‘Vaguely irritated’. It was both amusing and worrying.

Tim doesn’t actually come to these dinners much anymore, Dick is fully convinced he doesn’t eat without someone actively reminding him to, and when he does it’s tense for one reason or another. Different from the rare times Jason comes to the Manor but tense all the same.

(Though both of them do still go to the Cave somewhat regularly for one reason or another—or at least Tim does. Jason is once again a rarer sight—and it’s an open secret that the two of them have rooms in the Manor they have unrestricted access to whenever they want. They make use of the rooms more often than they properly visit, but it’s enough for Alfred. Dick, and even Damian to see them every once in a while, even if Bruce still wants more from them.)

He flashes a grin around the table as he slides into his seat, and Tim is already throwing him a suspicious look but really, after bailing like that the only thing he can do is try and act normal enough to throw his little brother off.

It shouldn’t be too hard, after all, he’s been doing this for years now.

(Sometimes he wonders when being happy became so difficult to feel. When did he let this fog cloud his life and drag him down?

Maybe the first time he realized no matter what he did, he would never be able to save everyone? Was it the first time he realized that he was starting to need vigilantism in a dangerous way, growing to be the exact thing he never wanted to be? Becoming Batman. Or maybe it was when Bruce fired him and gave away his mother's name for him? The feeling of betrayal and loneliness that seemed to eat him from the inside out.

He's always been a social little creature, needing others more than they need him. Clinging and needy and pathetic.

Maybe it was always hidden under the surface and just waiting for the moment everything became too much, sweeping in and leaving him in a daze. This seems the most likely answer, while also being the one he dreads.

He’s always been a bit of a fuck-up, hasn’t he? He just forgot how much of one he was because he was young and still so unconditionally happy.

He’s gotten so tired now, so old, and he’s not even 40, hell he’s still barely 30.)

It’s an old song and dance he knows well, even when he slips he keeps going, hiding the hesitance and missteps with fancy footwork and distracting movements. Words twisting and spilling from his lips in a continuous stream of lie, lie, lie, loud, flashy, distract, don’t look at me, lie, lie, lie.

(He doesn’t know it, but for as good as he is at faking it, sometimes he doesn’t disguise the look in his eyes well enough, forgetful of the fact that his eyes have always been the most open of all of his family. And sharp-eyed Tim has already grown suspicious.)

He picks at his meal between words and hand movements, and by the time dinner is over he only eats about a quarter of it, the rest of it spread out over his plate.

Alfred raises a single eyebrow at the sight and Dick rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Sorry Alfie, wasn’t all that hungry.”

I’m never all that hungry anymore, he doesn’t say. And Alfred sighs, letting him leave. Dick can already tell that he is going to be on the high end of Alfred’s attempts to get all of them to eat more. With this, he might even be above Tim on the ‘Force more food into them list’, which is honestly slightly scary to think about.

He really needs to get this under control, and soon.

He doesn’t plan on sleeping that night, too on edge and too worried the past will creep into his dreams and rip him apart.

So he boots up his laptop and passes the time on the internet instead.

It’s safer than sleeping, and not loud enough to warrant someone checking on him.

Once it’s a bit earlier he’ll go to the gym and run himself through a ground routine on the gymnastics mats, but for now, he settles in and wards off sleep the best he can.

In the morning, after running through some of his routines on the mats, he goes out. He doesn’t have a particular destination in mind, he just needs to get out of the manor and away from Bruce’s judgment and Tim’s suspicious glances. He debates bringing Damian out with him, maybe to get ice cream or something, but dismisses that thought.

His youngest brother is sometimes too observant, and the way Dick’s been acting is different from the way Damian is used to. And for someone who has lived his life alongside vigilantes and assassins, Damian picks up on patterns in behaviour quickly.

Dick made sure Damian only ever saw so much of what he felt, letting his little brother lean on him instead of showing him how unstable of a perch Dick could be. Because of this, Damian would be more prone to grow confused and scared if Dick wasn’t able to keep the act up.

So he leaves the Manor by himself.

And really, he should’ve expected it, but somehow when he gets a follower about 10 minutes into his random walk he still manages to be surprised when Jason slides up next to him.

He blows out a breath, half exasperated and half resigned. “Hey there Jay.”

Jason snorts, glances down at him from the corner of his eye, “‘sup Goldie, you wanna tell me why you ditched Tim and I?”

Dick forces himself to keep walking, to not stutter or stop either his gait or his breathing, and keep his body relaxed. Jason has always preferred to cut through the bullshit, strike true at the heart of it all. Sometimes it's a good thing, but times like this he wishes his brother would allow him an out.

Instead, he shrugs, “You guys had a handle on it, and after I helped the victims there wasn’t much left to do. Patrol ended and I went back to the manor.”

Jason scoffs, shooting him a glare, “Really asshole that’s what you’re going for? That bullshit explanation ain’t gonna cut it. You’re the one who’s always tryna get us workin’ together and shit.”

Dick clenches his jaw, gritting out his words, “Well it’s what happened, so I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“What I want is for you to quit fuckin’ lyin’. It ain’t fuckin’ workin’ and it’s obvious you’re bullshitin’ us.” Jason snarls back, his crime alley accent growing thicker the more agitated he gets, and he grabs onto Dick’s wrist and pulls him behind him, through an alleyway.

Dick steadies himself on his feet, letting himself be tugged along, but not without protest.

“Jay what the fuck, let me go.” Jason doesn’t respond, but his shoulders tense as he leads him towards an apartment building.

“Jay seriously what’s going on?” Jason finally turns around, raising an eyebrow at Dick and looking at him like he’s being stupid.

“Are ya seriously about ta discuss this shit out here?” Dick pauses, okay yeah that’s fair but Jay could’ve at least warned him.

By the time they make it to what must be one of Jason’s safehouses, Dick is annoyed and slightly (read: very) anxious.

Also a bit bitter over the fact his little brother is taller than him, but that’s neither here nor there.

He’s weighing his chances of slipping away and honestly debating whether or not he would be able to completely avoid Jason for a long time afterward, just until his little brother forgets to be curious. Though knowing Jason it isn’t likely to work, and for all Dick can hope, it would be in his best interests to try and bullshit his way through the approaching conversation.

(Remember you’re safe, remember you’re okay. Don’t think about last night, don’t think about anything. Focus, stay focused. Breathe, smile, don’t tense, don’t fidget. You’re okay, you’re okay.)

It’ll be fine.

Jay finally gives him his wrist back now that they’re inside the safehouse, and Dick rolls it out a bit as he moves to the singular couch in the little apartment. He flops down on top of the (honestly a little uncomfortable) couch as Jason glares at him.

Dick rolls his eyes, “What? You’re the one who dragged me here.”

Jason crosses his arms across his chest, scoffing, “Yeah, ‘cause you’re a fuckin’ liah. You’re gonna brush it off shove it under the rug an’ you’re nevah gonna gimme a straight answer.”

Dick winces inwardly, Jason usually does his best to hide his childhood accent and right now the alley accent is even more prominent than it was before. It’s a big indicator that Dick's managed to either piss him off or irritate him thoroughly.

Though it’s a toss-up whether Jason is worried about him or mad at him. His disappearing act last night would’ve irritated Jay and caused Tim to get suspicious, but while Dick knows he has to soothe Tim’s concerns so he won’t grow any more suspicious and concerned than he already is, with Jay he doesn’t know whether he has to do damage control because Jason is angry or try and show the other that he’s okay.

It was always Jay who he had the hardest time being a good older brother to, at first too angry and bitter, then too stuck in the past and buried in his own regrets.

He grins up at Jason, it’s bright and distracting and a lie painted across his face. He leans back and sprawls across the couch, laughing.

“Oh come on Jay. I’m fine, and I told you, patrol ended and we had already finished. What else was there to do?” He rolls his eyes, and Jay looks furious as Dick continues, “Honestly, everyone gets mad when I stay out too late, but when I turn in on time you act like it’s the end of the world.”

Jason breathes in heavily, jaw clenched and fingers curled into his palm, it looks like his nails are cutting into his hand and Dick bites at the inside of his lip to stop himself from pointing it out.

After a moment Jason relaxes again, running a hand through his hair, “Turning in on time ain’t the problem and ya know it. It’s the fact you always try and check-in before you do. You din’t this time and Baby Bird got worried, Babs too ‘til she double-checked your location.”

And he’s going to regret this later, letting his mouth run without checking himself, because this is the most civil Jason has been with him since before he went undercover with Spyral, but when Jason is mad he doesn’t focus on his worry, at least not until he’s calmed down a bit.

He’s eerily like Bruce in that way.

When Bruce is mad, he doesn’t pay attention to anything important outside of vigilantism.

It’s both a relief and thoroughly disappointing. But Dick’s learned to use it to his advantage at least. And he does so now with Jason. Because for all he loves his brother, he can’t let him get worried, and the best way to keep Jay from being worried is to make him angry. And more importantly, Dick feels boxed in, cornered and trapped and he wants to get out of this position now, he smiles, baring his teeth with angry, panicked eyes.

“As touching as your worry for me is Jay it isn’t necessary, it’s not like I ran off to get myself killed, that was your fuck up.”

It’s silent for all of a second before Jason bursts forward, lifting Dick up off the couch and socking him in the face.

Dick wishes he felt something other than sorrowful and small.

Jason is breathing heavily, eyes almost glowing green and oh so distant. And Dick wants to break down and apologize and tell him he didn’t mean it, that he was just trying to draw this reaction out so he could hide away like the fucking coward he is.

But he can’t and he doesn’t.

Jay lets him go, shaking from a mixture of anger, horror, and maybe just a bit of disgust, and steps back. Swallowing a few times before he pushes words out of his throat.

“What the fuck Dick. Where the fuck do you get off on sayin’ that.” Dick stays silent, expression stony.

Jason laughs and it’s a broken sound, “Oh my god ya really just brought that up to fuck with me? Holy shit you’re actually fucking worse than Bruce. At least I know to expect it from ’im. You?” He breaks off, lip curling as his tone bitters, “You go around preaching love and acceptance and teamwork, but in the end, you do the same. exact. fucking. things. he does ‘cept you take the time to stab me in the back while you’re at it.”

Dick doesn’t respond, even though his throat feels like it’s closing in on himself and there’s an itching behind his eyes that he knows is going to turn into tears. His cheek throbs where Jason punched him and his heart feels like it’s being torn out of him.

There’s nothing he can say.

Jason scoffs, ragged and half sobbing through his laughter, bitter as it is.

“Just get the fuck out Dick, and don’ try an’ talk to me again unless ya wan’ a fuckin’ bullet to the knee.”

Dick sways in place for a second, as Jason slowly pulls himself behind every shield he has, glaring coldly at him. Dick walks silently out the door and shuts it behind him.

He tries to ignore the sobbing he hears behind it as he leaves.

He isn’t successful. And part of him cries alongside Jay, even as he shuts down and slips out of his body and into the numb part of his head.

He wants to scream, but he stays achingly silent. He won’t drag anyone down with him, but if he needs to hurt them to keep them (himself) safe then really he’s just proving how much of a coward he really is isn’t he?

He ducks his head and hikes his shoulders up, and slips into the city.

Sometimes it feels like it’s eating him alive and spitting him out broken and bitter and twisted.

But it’s just him, a needy, pathetic little creature destroying those around him as he runs away from everything, desperate and broken and not worth anything

But Jay won’t pay attention to him now, will probably actively avoid him. Mission accomplished.

(The victory tastes like broken glass and burning flames making its way down his throat. He feels sick, but what more could he expect? He’s poisonous and it shows in the way he destroys everything he touches.)

He doesn’t look back.

(But he does force himself to keep walking, and he sits in a park alone until the sun begins to set. Then he walks home and locks himself in his room. He doesn’t cry until he’s sitting in the shower on the ground, water burning hot and skin an angry red.

He doesn’t stop crying for a long, long time.)

It’s fine, he’s fine.

Nothing’s wrong.

He falls asleep after patrol, sometime after 3 am. It’s not a conscious decision. One minute he’s staring at the ceiling in the dark and the next he’s slipping under.

He’s terrified, it’s raining and cold but all he can register is the bang of the gun and the sound Desmond’s body made as it hit the ground. He can’t breathe. He failed Bruce, he let someone kill because he was a selfish child who just wanted it all to stop. And he’s choking and sobbing, kneeling on the rooftop in the rain and cold and all he can think is ‘I’m so sorry, I’m poison, I’m so fucking sorry.’

And then there are hands on him, pushing him down as the floral perfume mixes with the petrichor and makes him gag, a sickeningly sweet voice is whispering to him and he can’t move, he can only force out a “No, stop. Don’t touch me…..I’m—I’m poisonous, don’t touch me.”

And she laughs, murmuring in his ear, “Hush querido, mi tresor. Let me help you, shhh amor.”*

And her voice is joined by another voice, laughing at him, “It wasn’t Kori you were with, it was me.”

Then there’s Kori, Kori who deserved so much better than him, Who still managed to be loving and sweet to him even after everything, even after he spent so long betraying her with his own blindness, “You obviously love her so go to her instead! Just leave.”

And Dick is frozen, crying and shaking and doesn’t want any of this he doesn’t.

But all he can hear are the voices calling him a slut and a whore, whispering nauseating words to him in a mockery of a lover’s sweet nothings, and taunting him with knowledge of his own unknowing unfaithfulness. The iron smell of blood mixes with the petrichor and perfume and the sound of falling rain and laughter and he can’t breathe as his stomach twists and he—.

He jerks awake, sweating, gasping, and gagging, stomach turning and he stumbles on unsteady feet to the bathroom. He collapses onto the ground, heaving into the toilet as the tears roll down his face. Body shaking from the action and head aching, he tries to steady himself and his breathing. He’s dizzy and trembling, sweat drying on his skin and his clothes sticking to him. Nothing is coming up and yet he still heaves, eyes burning and tongue tasting bile that never comes.

He spits the taste out of his mouth as best he can and sucks in a breath, fighting down the nausea and doing his best to calm his erratic heartbeat. In fits and starts his breathing evens out, heart slowing it’s frantic rhythm, and he comes out of his panic and revulsion feeling worse than before. Headache pounding against his skull and throat dry and burning, he feels unsteady, shaky, and he hates it. But it’s just a little panic attack, he can get through this by himself, hell at this point it’s basically a job requirement to be able to get through this on your own.

His mouth tastes disgusting and his skin feels like it’s being smothered. It’s a suffocating feeling, the way his clothing sticks and clings to his skin too similar to memories he doesn’t want to dwell on and it makes him squirm, a pathetic little noise building up in his throat and sounding much too close to a sob or a whine for his comfort. He stands, grips the counter's edge to keep himself upright and looks in the mirror.

He looks horrible. His face pale and exhausted, eyes puffy and red-rimmed with bags under his eyes that only seem to be getting darker the longer he stares at them. The bruise on his cheek stands out under the clinical lighting of the bathroom, dark and ugly and the slightest bit swollen.

He’s a fucking mess even when he’s working so goddamn hard to be fine. He’s fine, nothing’s wrong and the little things that have thrown him off can be shaken off like they were before.

"I'm fine."

(In the grand scheme of things maybe he is, after all, this panic is minor compared to some of the nights he wakes, sobbing and trembling, lost in himself for hours and so terrified he could puke—has puked—relived things over and over as he fought to keep himself grounded.)

It’s a mantra he repeats to himself, whispering over and over, until he can accept it and move on like all the other times. If you say you’re fine often enough, and with enough conviction, then you are.

But he still feels so wrong, like there’s something on his skin that marks him as dirty, unclean and unforgivable. Skin tainted and the wrongness seeping under and into his bones.

He turns the water to the shower on.

He doesn’t bother paying attention to the temperature of the water, shucking his suddenly too constricting clothes off and onto the floor. He steps into the shower, feeling vulnerable and exposed. As if someone could sneak up on him at any second, and he despises it, but then the water hits him and he sucks in a breath.

The water burns, a little too close to scalding to be safe, and he stands under the spray for a second. The burning of the water the only thing that lets him close his eyes and know he isn’t standing in the rain.

He lets the water run down his body, it’s too hot and the steam is beginning to overtake the room, but it helps get rid of the lingering touches on his body. The uncleanliness slowly, (so fucking slowly) sliding off of him. He grabs the body wash and a washcloth and he scrubs himself down.

He scrubs at his body until it’s painful, skin raw and irritated, red from both the searing water and his own desperate need to rid himself of the poison that lurks inside of him, of the wrongness that still clings to him even after he scrubs away all of the sweat and grime.

And here, alone in the shower, he sinks to the ground and shudders.

It’s the second time in the day (does it count as the same day? With his fucked up schedule it does even if it conventionally shouldn’t,) that he finds himself in this position. And in this Schrodinger knowledge of the time and the feeling of isolation, he allows himself to acknowledge what he knows as his truth.

I’m not okay, but I have to be, so I’m fine and nothing is wrong even when it is.

Because if he isn’t okay then he doesn’t know what to do, he has to be okay, there isn’t anything else he can be.

So for the second time that day, but not for the first or even the last time, he falls apart on the floor of his shower, choking on tears as searing water drums against his red and irritated skin.

Then he stands, shakily, and washes his hair. The movements are methodical and he lets himself drift into a sort of daze, the repetitive motions calming. Once he rinses off the last of the conditioner he shuts the water off, slipping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around himself.

He goes through the motions of brushing his teeth and taking care of himself, and once that’s taken care of he slips through the door and towards his dresser, yanking out a loose t-shirt and some similarly loose-fitting pyjama bottoms. He pulled the shirt on and slid into the pants, he wasn’t really planning on doing anything today so why not dress comfy?

He looks at the bed for a bit, debating whether he should even try and go back to sleep while biting at his lip for a few minutes. He caught himself doing it and scrunched his nose up in irritation as he released the chewed up flesh from his teeth. (One of these days he was gonna forget again and he was going to bite straight through it. It had almost happened a number of times throughout the years.) He sighed, both annoyed at himself and a bit angry.

He won't be getting any more sleep tonight, (this morning, honestly he kind of didn’t want to check the time. Ignorance is bliss and all those Schrodinger thought theories,) and laying down in bed right now wouldn’t help him in the slightest.

He grabs his laptop and curls up on the beanbag in the corner of his room, (easily defensible, in view of both of the doors and the window. As safe as it could be in th—no, no that was wrong, it was safe here, he was in the Manor, he was safe.)

He’ll go to the gym in a little bit, take a run on the treadmill and do some floor work. It wasn’t flying but it was a lot better than being forced to stay still. He was still patrolling (against Alfred’s better wishes) but he wasn’t allowed to do as much as he normally did, even though after so long in the business he could push the pain back to where it was more irritating than debilitating.

Not that it mattered to Alfred, who was insistent that Dick at least waits the prescribed (and heavily shortened in comparison to the needed twelve weeks Alfred had wanted,) two weeks before going back to full movement. And just because he was right didn’t mean Dick liked it.

He opens the laptop, opening the box of Schrodinger’s time along with it. It was 4:15.

The fact he had slept for maybe an hour at most was both hilarious in a gallows humour sort of way and explained the exhaustion he still felt. But whatever. He’d worked on less sleep for longer times before. Many times actually, it was part of his routine in the aftermath of things that shook him up, avoid sleep and avoid the dreams.

If Tim knew about it he would be calling him a hypocrite and siccing Alfred on him.

As if Alfred didn’t already know, the man just hadn’t chosen to interfere yet except by making sure Dick only had access to non-caffeinated tea instead of coffee.

He frowns at his browser’s homepage as he thought about Tim, Alfred had cut him off of coffee as well and yet, his little brother still somehow managed to consistently drink coffee and his horrid stash of energy drinks like it was the blood in his veins, (at this point it probably was). Dick was fairly sure Tim had a hidden coffee maker, but he has yet to find it and at this point, it’s getting ridiculous.

(Worrying about his brothers was so much easier than worrying about himself. Worrying about anyone was so much easier, and so much better, then worrying about himself.)

He sighs, shutting the computer and placing it to the side, curling up into a ball on the bean bag and placing his hands on his head. His fingers grabbed at the wet strands of his hair tightly, and it was only then that he realized just how tense he still was. He stifled a curse and hid his eyes in the little fortress his knees made, releasing his hair and wrapping his arms tightly around himself.

It was ridiculous at this point, how many times did he have to repeat the same bullshit to himself to finally relax and be okay again? This shit wasn’t new so why was it fucking him up so badly now?

Sure it had been bad immediately after the events had happened, but not to this degree, it had been easier then.

So why was it so difficult now?

It was frustrating and terrifying and made him want to scream and cry at the same time.

He drew a breath in, steady and methodical. Keeping his breathing even despite the way his throat was bubbling with something that was either a sob or hysterical laughter.

He uncurled, jaw clenched and hands curling and uncurling over and over again. Fuck it, he needed to use the gym for a while. Otherwise, he might actually go crazy.

(Or crazier really.)

Now he just had to not wake anyone up, or at least refrain from alerting them of his presence.

He pads noiselessly through the Manor, making his way to the gym. He’d need to take a shower again after he finished but it would be fine, besides showering more than once in a day with their lifestyles wasn’t anything new. They got covered in grime all the time, and long showers were nice.

(He used to love staying in the shower for long amounts of time, content and lazy in the warm water as it rained down around him at just the right pressure.

He didn’t anymore. The shower of water around him too similar to rain. Even the searing hot showers he took now, with his frantic and slightly obsessive scrubbing, could only last 10 or so minutes before he started to drift away from the present.

He resented it. He hated that people could take things he loved and turn them into things he couldn’t stand.

It made him feel even more broken than ever. Permanently ripped apart with no hope of piecing himself back together.

He still hasn’t managed to avoid a panic attack on a rainy night yet, still hasn’t been able to smell the air after it rains without also smelling the perfume she wore and the blood she spilled (he spilled).)

The sun rises slowly over Gotham as Dick runs through warmups and stretches.

He doesn’t watch it, doesn’t dare taint the beauty of the sunrise with his corrupting influence.

Can’t bare to start associating the sunrise with bad nights.

He needs to keep some of his optimism real. He needs to know things aren’t as bad as he chooses to see them.

So sunrises are treats for the good days.

(He hasn’t been able to let himself enjoy the sunrise in a long time.)

Chapter Text

In the days following his verbal attack of Jason, it’s almost as if he flipped some sort of switch inside of himself labeled, ‘Annoy Bruce Wayne by Breathing’, because he can’t do anything without Bruce being there, critiquing him. And to make thing’s worse he seems to be incapable of speaking to Bruce without shoving his entire fucking leg in his mouth.

(Bruce is worried, and he worries in overbearing ways and Dick has never been able to deal with not being allowed to fly.)

And to take the fucking cake, Dick is pretty sure it’s because Damian is still closer to Dick than he is to Bruce. Bruce who even after all this time is still too awkward and unsure with his children.

(For all Bruce loves his children, expressing it has always been difficult. It used to be easier, but after too many close calls, too many fights, too many misunderstandings and well meaning decisions gone wrong, it’s harder. And he stumbles and drops the ball no matter how hard he tries. There is a disconnect between his children and him and it’s something all of them feel. And he watches the easy way Dick interacts with Damian and some ugly thing awakens in his chest and makes him bitter in a way he hates feeling towards his eldest.)

It all comes to a head when Bruce tells them they’ll (Dick, Tim, and Damian, as well as Bruce himself,) all be attending the next Gala for some reason or other.

There isn’t a clear reason for it to explode now, but it does regardless. And the tension that’s been building begins it’s countdown when Damian asks, annoyed because despite everything he’s still a child and no child really enjoys these gala’s.

“I still fail to see why it is required I attend. I could be doing much better things with my time, patrolling with Richard or taking care of my animals to ensure they remain in perfect health,” His youngest brother sniffs in disdain, “All would be much more useful than attending these frivolous things. I went to enough of them while you were,” Dami pauses, pursing his lips, “gone and Richard promised to show me how to do one of the more complex maneuvers on the bars.”

And Dick knows Bruce doesn’t like these galas anymore then they do, but the way that Damian still hasn’t seemed to stop operating as if Dick was Batman and Damian was his Robin, the routine still so ingrained in him, must hit somewhere in Bruce.

(Seeing the way that his son has grown used to living without him will always hurt, but this is one of his children he can still keep and not lose or drift away from like his other kids and he hates the jealousy that rears it’s head in this moment as he watches how Damian and Dick interact.)

And Bruce’s expression goes stony as he replies, “We go because it’s expected and as your father, Damian, you shouldn’t question my decisions like this, don't whine or I will take you off of patrol.”

Dick chokes, and Damian’s expression is wide-eyed and hurt for all of two seconds before it’s carefully shuttered away. In it’s place is the same look Damian used to wear constantly when he first came to the Manor.

Dick clenches his jaw, staring at Bruce as he speaks to Damian, “Hey Dami, could you go and train for a little bit? I’ll be there in a sec to spar with you.”

Damian nods and walks away, the epitome of professionalism.

Dick hates it.

“What the fuck, Bruce” He snarls, angry for his little brother, his Robin, who has been so terrified of disappointing his father for so long.

Bruce stares at him impassively and it makes Dick want to punch him, make him act like a human being instead of a detached robot. Wants the man to act like a father instead of a commander.

(Once upon a time Bruce was so close to being a father. Dick hasn’t seen that Bruce in years. Hasn’t seen that Bruce in his entirety since the Dent incident when Dick was still Robin.)

Bruce answers in that infuriating tone of his, the one that always made him bristle under the weight of it, “You aren’t acting as Batman anymore Dick, he isn’t your Robin anymore, and when he acts like a child, I shall explain things to him as if he was one.”

Dick looks at him, bewildered and pissed, “What does that have anything to do with this? How is that even remotely related? Just because you’re feeling insecure doesn’t mean you can take it out on us! You don’t get to do that Bruce. And furthermore, He is a fucking child. And if you only use that as a convenient excuse when you want it to fit then fuck you.”

('He is a child who has experienced death due to his mother's actions so let him be childlike for as long as he can be for the love of everything please,' is what he wants to say, wants to scream, to make Bruce understand.)

Dick is seething, tired and confused, and so fucking angry. And he puts all of that into his words as he spits them out, vitriol on his tongue and tar sinking in his stomach, “You don’t get to make Dami feel like absolute shit just because you don’t try to get to know him. You brought up Batman and Robin? Well, guess what Bruce! The reason we worked was because I took the time to be there for him and to listen. You just carry him around as a convenient tool in your belt without ever really getting to know the person. You’re still so fucking hung up on everything else that you don’t take the time to know him. And apparently not even his death could change that for you.”

He inhales, running a hand through his hair, expression turning weary in the face of Bruce’s unchanging expression, all of his energy dried up from the rant.

“I'm glad you brought him back, I'm fucking ecstatic, but that doesn't make up for the fact you still don't quite know him. God Bruce, you were doing so well. What happened?”

Bruce was silent, and Dick could feel the weary exhaustion spreading to every bone in his body, seeping in like a cancer and settling into his very marrow.

Finally, Bruce speaks, tone cold and maybe a little hurt, but mostly just angry and righteous, “You’re not to patrol with Robin for the next week.”

With that said Bruce sweeps out, obviously not wanting to deal with anything else Dick had to say.

Dick punches a wall.

(He takes Damian out for ice cream and, to let him have some of his pride, pretends not to see the lost expression on his Robin’s face when he informs him of Bruce’s punishment. He hugs him though. Because Dami is still so young and so lost and he doesn’t deserve to be placed in the middle of this shitshow.)

But he’s fine.

He wants to scream and rage and hide behind his anger like Jay does, act as if Bruce’s actions don’t cut into him sharper than any knife. More painful than any beating or torture for the simple fact that this is Bruce and no matter how angry he is, Dick can never stop forcing himself to try and meet Bruce’s expectations.

He grits his teeth and walks away like his heart isn’t being torn open like it's nothing more than a toy.

It’s okay. His heart isn’t being crushed, it isn’t. And he isn’t dying inside.

(But he is. Just a little.)

Two days into the week-long ban from patrol with Robin and a day away from the gala, and Bruce is still pissed, which means Batman isn’t paying attention to him, off wrapping himself up in his righteous anger and vigilantism while pretending that Bruce isn’t throwing a fit because he can’t pull himself together enough to talk to his own fucking son.

Dick is doing his level best to stay out of Bruce’s way, not wanting to risk pulling Damian into the middle of any more fights and honestly too tired to go back to the tense atmosphere and fights from when Jason was still Robin.

So he’s injured and crashing at one of the safehouses, the ones that are available to all of Batman’s brood, (because it’s the closest one and actually making his way to one of his personal safehouses is too much of a hassle,) patching himself up when the window opens and Tim slips in.

Dick looks up quickly at the sound, verifying he’s safe before continuing with his first aid, leaving Tim to do whatever he needs and get out.

But Tim doesn’t move, and after finishing up Dick sighs and narrows his gaze at his little brother.

“What is it, Tim?” Tim shifts, and for a second it makes Dick nostalgic, remembering when Tim was smaller and younger and not as blank and robotic but full of joy and life.

(It’s still there if you dig deep enough, if you place Tim somewhere safe, surrounded by those he can feel at ease with. Dick wishes it would come out a bit more, he misses it. Misses the bright smile and the photo’s, he hasn’t seen Tim take out a camera for something unrelated to casework and surveillance in a long time.)

Tim purses his lips for a little longer before sighing and moving towards him, footsteps silent and face not giving anything away beyond mild irritation.

“Why aren’t you getting stitched up at the Manor? Bruce is going to get upset if you don’t make it to the gala tomorrow.”

Dick grins, wry and twisted, “Nah, he’s still pissed at me, and when Bats is pissed, he doesn’t pay as much attention to anything outside of the night work.”

Tim freezes in the middle of the room, brow furrowing, “You’ve mentioned something like that before, back when I first started living at the manor.”

Dick just shrugs helplessly, “It’s been that way as long as I can remember, it’s just how he is. He focuses on his work because he feels righteous in his anger or decisions and that’s that, until then civvie life doesn’t really exist.”

Tim hums, contemplatively, “Does anyone else do that?”

Dick shrugs, “Yeah, Jason mostly, though it’s just a bit altered in the fact that he uses the anger to cope with how he feels or whatever the words bring up and stays away, pulls away really, either from actual anger or to refrain from hurting someone innocent.”

Tim stays still at that and Dick turns to face his little brother completely, narrowing his eyes, “Why’d you wanna know?”

Tim shrugs, “Just curious, I’ve never actually noticed that before.”

Dick isn’t quite sure he trusts that response but there isn’t exactly much he can do about it. So he shrugs, “I guess it’s just mostly been directed at me, and the rest of you never really made him angry to the point he got like this.”

Tim nods slowly, the way he does when he’s putting something together.

Suddenly Dick feels like he really shouldn’t have answered the question.

(He shouldn't be talking like this, he's too out of it to really think about what he's saying, to act, and it's gonna mess everything up but it's too late now.)

So he does the only thing he can do, he distracts.

“So why’d you drop in? Just for me?”

Tim shrugs, “I left some stuff here last time I camped out, came to grab it.”

Dick honestly isn’t sure whether or not Tim’s lying and at the point, he doesn’t think he’s capable of processing much more of anything.

(He hasn’t slept more than 45 minutes or so in the past 2 days, he’s hanging onto lucidity by a thin rope and it’s close to snapping.

Snapping and falling and the sickening crack of bodies and heads hitting the ground.

Probably not the best analogy.)

He sighs and waves a hand to the room, “Mkay, just make sure to get some sleep.”

Tim gives him a look and Dick rolls his eyes, “C’mon Tim, at least try?”

Tim rolls his eyes and reminds Dick that he is indeed still a snarky teen, “I will, Mister ‘I have bags under my eyes and probably haven’t slept in three days but I’m very aggressively fine.’ no need to worry your head off.”

Dick frowns, most definitely not pouting, “No need to be rude Timmy.”

Tim gives him a once over and raises an eyebrow, and Dick tries not to shift in discomfort, mumbling out a single, “Hypocrite”.

Tim, ever the mature adult, sticks his tongue out, maintaining the deadpan expression and it should not be as compatible an expression as he manages to make it look.

Dick narrows his eyes in affront and throws the pillows on the couch at him. Tim smirks and dodges them, taking advantage of the fact that Dick isn’t willing to risk tearing anything (again) to get back to the window. Slipping out of it with the elated smirk still on his face.

(If Dick was a little more aware and lucid, not working off of a combined 3 hours in the past week, than he would have noticed that, while the smirk was real, Tim’s eyes held worry and knowledge. As it is Dick barely makes it onto the couch before he blacks out.)

He jolts awake with panicked gasps. The memory of his parents' bodies and the feeling of choking on a tiny pill and trying his hardest to just breathe while Luthor went on and on about the good of everyone at the front of his mind. Lungs gasping as he inhales, shuddering and gulping taking in the air he remembered being kept from him. The memory mixing with the one of him screaming and screaming, crying for his parents to just get back up.

He coughs, his throat sore, and is suddenly very grateful he changed into a set of pajamas, or something close to them. He doesn’t know if waking up with his suit on would’ve caused a freakout or if it would’ve been fine. Doesn’t want to know.

(Doesn’t want a repeat of falling asleep and waking with a blanket on top of him, light and yet feeling like it was pressing down on him like a weight, breath catching and throat holding a scream that only slips out as a whine, high and distressed. His body is shaking as he tries to move and can’t, as he falls away into the past until he isn’t safe anymore but strapped to a bomb using his heartbeat as a signal.

He’s made sure not to sleep with anything on top of him since then, no matter how cold it gets or how light the blanket. It’s not worth it)

He scrubs his hands over his face, huffing and lying back down. He’s exhausted to the point he willing wants to go back to sleep, but he’s also indecisive, because he wants to avoid the nightmares more than he wants the sleep.

He groans, turning to bury his face against the couch’s back, he hates his stupid brain.

(He justs wants it to stop, wants the terror and fear and self-hatred to stop. The disgust that clings to him no matter how many times he scrubs himself raw, the poison he can’t wash out.

And he kind of wants to cry because he isn’t there, not anywhere his nightmares like to take him. Not strapped down to the bomb, not with Mirage, not on that fucking rooftop. But it keeps going and it never stops and he hates this and he just wants it to stop.

Because Desmond died on the rooftop that night but nothing fucking stopped, and Dick hates himself for that more than he can put into words. Because a man was dead, Dick killed him and all he can think about is that it didn’t all end that night like (she said it would) he thought it would.

Why won’t it stop?)

He breathes, counts, tries to clear his head.

1

(The look on Kori’s face)

2

(The way Mirage laughed at him)

3

(“Dick you slut”, “Which one was better?”)

4

(The look on Babs face when Cata—Taran—she showed up and interrupted their date)

5

(The building explosion, the fire, Haly’s, his neighbors)

6

(“It’ll never stop”)

7

(“Get out of the way Nightwing, step aside and I can end it”)

8

(The gunshot)

9

(The rain and the rooftop and hands all over him, touching and taking what didn’t belong to her. What wasn’t hers to take.)

10

(The bomb, being strapped down, being beaten before then, being stripped of his mask. The pill being shoved into his throat and all his airways being covered. The pain in his chest as his heart stops.)

Breathe

He breathes in and out, sitting up.

(Jason’s death, Wally, Donna's death, Damian’s death.)

He gets up off the couch, stretches as much as he can without aggravating anything too bad and makes his way to the kitchen.

He debates for a second before sighing and grabbing the coffee pot and starting to make some coffee. At this point what did it matter he was flooding his system with caffeine? He wasn’t going to get any more sleep anyways.

He never does.

(Why is he such a contradiction, he’s fine right? But he doesn’t feel fine and he’s being worn away like a rock in the ocean.)

He still isn’t on good terms with Bruce the next day, and he’s sporting a couple of visible bruises on top of that, so he decides not to go to the gala.

Bruce will probably say something about Dick being ‘a bit under the weather’ and that would be the end of that. It was the one purely good thing out of the entire thing, Dick had always hated galas. More so as he got older and people started noticing how nice he had grown into his pretty looks.

The downsides were; Damian and Tim were at the gala and probably miserable (and if there was one thing he was good for at these gala’s it was finding ways to have fun with them), he wasn’t allowed to patrol with Damian for the remainder of the week, and Bruce was taking his own insecurities out on Dick instead of working through them, and by proxy, taking them out on Damian and Tim.

The only other good thing is that the Greatest Detective was unable to see just how fucked up Dick was right now, wasn’t able to be disappointed any more than he already was.

No, the secrets and the hurts were his, and his alone. No one else's.

(No one else would take from him what he didn’t give them.

No one else would force him to be so fucking shattered because they beat him down and spilled acid inside of him and laughed as he burned from the inside out with his own self-hatred and helplessness.

That was his.

His hurts, his pain, and his nightmares that were ugly and horrid and made him want to curl up somewhere safe and never come out again, but they were his to know. His to tell. It’s the furthest thing from healthy and it’s eating him up from the inside out but he needs this little bit of control and denial.)

He sips his tea, sitting at the table and going over a case he was working on.

He almost doesn’t hear the window open.

He stiffens, an instinctive action, the bats would be the only ones to come here and disable all the traps to the window but none of them really have any reason for coming.

Tim and Damian are at the gala, Cass is in Hong Kong, Stephanie was staying in tonight because of an injury, Babs was also at the gala and not really able to slip in through the window, and Jason was—.

And Jason was slipping in through the window.

Jason who he had pissed off because he was a loathsome human being, brother, and vigilante all at once, fucking up everything he touches.

Dick very carefully does not choke on his tea, he does, however, stare for a second or two before pulling himself together.

By then Jason’s already plopped himself down on the couch and started talking, “So we are going to talk. Because Timbo told me he came to talk to you about the shit you pulled and instead learned something interesting. Three guesses what it was and if you use more than one I get a Harley.”

Dick tries to think, and with the knowledge of why Tim had dropped by last night it was a lot easier to piece it together. Because last night he had mentioned Bruce’s tendency to forget when angry enough, and when asked if anyone else did he had responded with—oh shit.

He swallows, paling as he realizes what this conversation was going to be about.

He doesn’t look directly at Jason as he answers either. Can’t stand looking in the green-blue eyes of his brother after the last time he had seen him, driven him to the point where his shattered control over the Pit Rage slipped and made his eyes glow Lazarus Green.

“You and Bruce both forget if you’re angry enough, different reasons and ways and with very different methods but, for a while at least, you both forget about anything outside of a goal.”

Jason gives him a sardonic grin, wide and mocking as he clapped his hands together, “Ding Ding Ding! The Idiot gets a prize!”

Dick sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off the incoming headache.

“What do you want Jason, I thought you didn’t want to see me after the bullshit I pulled.”

Jason’s mocking grin fades and is replaced by a frown, “Yeah, see, you acknowledge it was a fucked up thing to do yet you said it, and then later it turns out you’ve noticed when I’m angry I focus entirely on the case or whatever to clear my head.” Here Jason snorts, standing and walking to the table where Dick has gone still, “You got spooked by me calling you out and you lashed out where it would hurt the most and serve you best, right?”

And the thing about Dick Grayson is that no matter how well he can lie—and he can lie well enough to fool the Greatest Detective—his body language and eyes, which have always been the most open of all of them, still give him away sometimes.

And this time it isn’t his eyes, which are dull and not as lively as usual, but his body language. He unconsciously curves towards the cup of tea he holds even as he keeps something close enough to eye contact to be called it. And that’s more than enough confirmation for Jason.

Dick sets the cup down, scrubbing at his face and sighing, “What do you want me to say Jase? That I became the one thing I never wanted to be? That I used the knowledge I had to hurt you so you would leave me alone? What the fuck do you want from me Jay? Haven’t you been burned by me enough to know I’m not good for you? Any of you?” His voice is cracking by the time he finishes talking and he takes another sip of tea, ignoring the itching, watery feeling building up in his eyes.

(He doesn’t get to cry about this, not in front of Jason, not when Dick himself was the reason for all this.)

Jason is silent, no snark or nasty remarks to be heard, and when Dick finally looks back up at him, his shoulders are tense and his eyes narrowed, calculating.

When his little brother does finally respond, it isn’t an answer, just asks the same question he had asked Dick before, “Why’d you ditch Tim and I?”

And Dick—.

Dick doesn’t like letting his brothers know when he’s hurting in this bone aching kind of way, dangerous for all that it's not always visible. When he’s like this, he’ll usually demand hugs and do his best to keep them from falling apart while taking breaks to fly on the trapeze. But right now? Right now he’s dealing with so much and it’s been happening for so long, an explosive build-up that hurts to keep inside all the time.

So he lets out a little bit of pressure from the powder keg that is his mind, he has no plans on telling anyone but this little bit of reprieve will also get Jason and the kids off of his back, so he sighs, “It wasn’t a big deal Jason it just—it wasn’t a good night and I didn’t want to be compromised in the field.”

Jason looks at him, searchingly before scoffing, mask going up, “Whatever Dickhead, whatever it takes to help you sleep at night.” He moves to the window, pausing and turning back to face Dick with a glare, “I still haven’t forgiven you asshat.”

Dick shrugs, smiling wryly, “Didn’t expect you to.”

Jason responds with a wry grin as he slips out the window, everything he wanted to say now said.

Jason has never been big on emotional talks.

The grin falls off his face as the window closes, and he sits on the couch, shoulders hunching, feeling like the biggest liar on the planet.

Two days after Jason’s visit, Dick has managed to not only move from the community safe house to his own safe house but also to avoid both Jason and Bruce, for the most part. Only really talking to Damian, Barabara, and occasionally Tim and Stephanie.

When he’s talking to them without fighting or tension, he can almost trick himself into thinking he’s been having good days. Pretend they aren’t really bad days and then shove everything away so he won’t have to deal with it. Won’t have to fall apart any more than he already has.

It’s worse today, if his life currently has been a steady stream of bad day, then this is the type of bad day that leaves him a mess and open to stupidity.

He knows this because it’s happened before, because he’s only ever learned to cope a few ways and most of them aren’t very healthy. Crime-fighting included.

Today he wakes up from the rooftop, only the rooftop, but it’s not just her, it’s also Mirage and every person to ever look at him and touch him just because they thought he was pretty, because they didn’t think he was human, just a pretty thing to enjoy.

(There is a reason he hates galas and being recognized on the street.)

And today he can’t stand the thought of another human being’s touch. And for him, who is tactile by nature and forever demanding hugs of his brothers.

Well.

To say it’s unusual is an enormous understatement.

But even thinking about it made him feel like there were spiders crawling over him and up his spine and fuck no, nononono that wasn’t a good analogy, don’t think about spiders. Nothing happened, there aren’t any spiders here, none here to kill the people he lets them kill, none here to run fingers along his sides and down his body, and he can’t think, he can’t breathe, it feels like it’s all been choked out of him along with everything that made him Nightwing. The rain hasn’t stopped and it’s pouring down onto the both of them and he’s soaked through to the bone and shivering, he’s trembling and he just can’t stop trembling and she just keeps going and going and going, and she doesn’t stop.

“Don’t touch me.” he murmurs, “No, don’t.”

Don’t touch me don’ttouchme don’ttouchme stopstopstop.

Stop

‘Breathe, just breathe.’

‘Breathe and steady yourself, ground yourself. Safe, you’re safe, in the safe house, you’re in the safehouse, it’s fine.’

He goes like that for a while, just breathing and repeating the words to himself over and over again. Once he’s calmed himself back down and come back to himself a bit, he checks the time. He curses under his breath as he gets ready to leave the house.

He was supposed to pick up Cass from the airport in an hour. Alfred had called and explained that he was busy and had asked if Dick could ‘please go pick up’ Cass from the airport and he had agreed because, well, you don’t say no to Alfred.

Though it was also because he still had to apologize to her for everything (and Alfred was no doubt trying to help the two of them make up with each other), which was stressful enough. But he also had to worry about hiding the fact he was very much not okay from his little sister who’s first language was literally body language.

He was so very fucked.

Airports make him both annoyed and cautious, and he isn’t crazy about them in general. Cass however, doesn’t seem to mind them in the slightest.

When he picks her up she’s walking as silently as ever but with a bit of a bounce in her step and a grin on her face, a grin that doesn’t lessen in the slightest when she sees him.

It makes him feel both relieved and guilty.

He smiles back at her, and speaking, warm and happy, “Hey, Cass, glad you’re visiting.”

She nods, “Very glad, missed all of you.”

Dick watches as she reads him, head tilting and brows furrowing and it reminds him of why he’d been putting off his apology for so long.

He moves to put her suitcase in the car and Cass hums. Sliding into the passenger's seat instead of ‘stealing’ the driver's spot like usual.

That means a discussion, giving him the driver's seat so that he can't leave the car in the middle of the conversation. Not like he would get far anyways, Cass would catch him before then. He may be fast and agile, but she was trained to be able to catch even the best-trained targets.

Also, he has no doubts that she can still beat him in a fight, so discussion it is.

He sighs, anxious and worried but resigned to his fate.

He closes the trunk and makes his way to the driver's seat of the black BMW, slipping into the car and shutting the door.

He gets them out of the airport and onto the road with idle chatter and a few questions about how Cass had been liking her time in Hong Kong, before going silent as he tries to find the right words.

He starts hesitantly, “Hey Cass, I—I am sorry about how I treated you before, it wasn’t right of me. Even—Even with the situation I should’ve been more helpful to you than damning. What you needed was a family and support, not a judge and jury. And then when Bruce was gone—” He trails off, shifting, “The point is I’m sorry that it took me so long to apologize, and I promise to do better by you. Be a better person and family member”

Cass stays silent and he can feel her gaze on him as he drives. They hit a red light and, finally, she places one of her hands on his arm—her touch doesn’t burn, doesn’t leave him gasping for air and revolted with himself, a prisoner in his own skin and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s calmed down a bit from earlier or because this is Cass who so rarely uses spoken word for conversations but body language—and he turns to meet her eyes.

She grins at him, and says simply, “Brother.”

He gasps, hands shaking as his eyes water and the overflow of emotions threatened to spill out.

He wants absolution so badly, and this forgiveness was both like a balm on his wounds and a fire burning hot against his skin to his mind. Reminding him that he didn’t deserve forgiveness, not for this and not for anything else. He wanted them all to give him absolution so desperately and yet he needed them to condemn and hate him as much as he hated himself. He was a contradiction. Needing their love and closeness and trying his best to keep them close even as he tried to do everything to keep them away.

He was ruining them, he was destroying them and himself. The things he’d said to Jason, half an unconscious decision to let the words fall from his lips and half a pointed strike meant to sever any rope keeping him close. Those were words said to drive his little brother away, and he knew it, and yet Dick still wanted nothing more than to apologize and seek some form of exculpation.

Forgiveness he didn’t deserve.

And here Cass gave him that little bit of forgiveness, called him Brother, as if he didn’t abandon her when she needed him, didn’t leave her floundering for air and drowning in her mistakes.

Why couldn’t he ever just feel stable? The contradictions of his mind and his actions left him trembling even as the light turned green and he drove, Cass’s hand on his arm a steadying presence. They didn’t speak for a minute or two as Cass let him pull himself together.

Soon though she spoke, “Food please, we need to speak.”

Dick cleared his throat before speaking, “Yeah, okay, what do you wanna eat?”

Cass shrugs, moving her hand to her lap, “Not sure, you pick.”

Dick scrunches up his nose as he thinks, “Uhm, could you check if there are places nearby? I don’t remember if anything has closed since I was last in the area.”

His sister nods, pulling out a phone from her jean pocket and typing away.

After a bit of debating on Dick’s part, they pull into a Subway parking lot. Though when they get out of the car they don’t immediately go to the doors, pausing for a minute at the front of the car as Cass leans her head against his shoulder for a little bit, and Dick closes his eyes for a second, letting the tension drain away for a precious second of peace.

They order their food, Cass gets a BLT while Dick gets the Chicken Teriyaki with pickles and without tomatoes. They both get barbeque chips and Dick gets Fanta while Cass fills her cup up with Sprite. They decide to eat—more like Cass begins walking and Dick follows her—outside on an empty bench nearby instead of in the shop. And they sit unbothered by anyone for a while. No one is really out and about, though Dick doesn't know if that's because it's a weekday or because it’s just not a busy part of town.

When they get about halfway through their food Cass looks at him with that look in her eyes that tells him she’s reading him.

She’s frowning to herself, brows furrowed and face serious.

She speaks haltingly, trying to find the right words for what she’s saying, “You are very—sad? But deeper than that, very very sad and very scared. Very lonely even now. You are saying ‘scared, hiding, sad, lonely, please love me, loud, fake.’” She pauses, biting her lip and Dick feels like he can’t breathe, feeling vulnerable and exposed, like a specimen under a microscope that’s having everything about it being discovered and shown around.

Cass opens her mouth and pauses again, before saying, “When you smiled, it was kind of—happy? Relief? Relieved—but mostly it was flashy, lying. An act.”

She gazes at him sadly, and Dick feels like his heart was being squeezed out of his chest, like someone has looked into his soul and read it out loud and he chokes on a breath as she continues.

“You are very loud, but not the right kind. You are flashy and big and distracting, but hiding. You don’t have to—to perform for us, we would stay for you anyway.” And he shakes, trembles, tries to stitch himself back together through sheer will alone and fails. He falls apart right there, gasping in air through his desperate sobs as the pressure builds and breaks and Cass tells him what he wants so desperately to believe is true.

Cass holds him as he tries and fails to steady his breathing. Grounds him as he tries to pull himself together. His sobs taper off soon and he sinks into Cass’s embrace. Breathing slowly steadying and he feels a little better for it.

He pulls away slowly, scrubbing at his eyes and looking away from Cass and her too knowing eyes.

His voice is hoarse as he speaks, “Thanks, Cass.”

His sister smiles at him, soft and loving, “No problem, Big Brother.”

His responding smile is lighter and happier and more genuine than it’s been in, maybe, years.

It feels like a victory.

(It feels a little bit like hope.)

It’s not a solution, not a long-lasting fix it. But it makes something inside of him click together just a little bit better, smooths out a hurt he didn’t realize was stabbing at him. He doesn’t usually fall apart like that, not so completely, and his cheeks flush warm with embarrassment, but it feels just the slightest bit cathartic.

(It feels like a kiss on the cheek and an admonishing voice after falling off the bars when he wasn’t supposed to be on them, it feels like a hug and a song all at once. It feels like a bedtime story.)

He smiles a little bit at her, “Let’s get you to the Manor, yeah?” She hums happily, patting his arm.

“Yes.”

Chapter Text

He drops Cass off at the Manor after they finish their food. And, not only is he able to stomach all of his food, he’s also able to keep it down, Something that’s been difficult lately. It’s an improvement from before, maybe a step forward.

Though he feels better from his meltdown with Cass, (and remembering how he acted still made his cheeks feel warm, embarrassed him,) he doesn’t feel up to staying at the Manor. He barely manages to escape staying, and only because Alfred was busy getting Bruce and Damian to stop arguing through passive-aggressive comments that were some-what audible from the door.

Cass gives him a look as he leaves but doesn’t push for him to stay, which Dick is glad for. He isn’t ready to talk to Bruce yet, probably wouldn’t be for the next decade.

No, he isn’t being dramatic. Well, maybe a little bit. But the meaning, the intention behind it is still the same.

He heads to his apartment, tired and drained, but also lighter than he’s felt in a long time. It’s a feeling that helps pierce through the fog and exhaustion (both mental and physical), pushing through the background sadness he’s been carrying with him since he was a child that’s just grown and grown over the years.

He feels both the most like Robin (“My little Robin”) and the most like Dick Grayson than he’s felt since he was little, young and full of energy. When he flew with his parents in front of crowds around the world. When everything was still at least partly a joke, when smiling and getting Bruce to laugh was easier.

(Dick used to count the times he could make Bruce laugh in a day. His record was 27 and it was one of the best days of his life. He doesn’t bother much with counting anymore, there isn’t much point in counting something that doesn’t happen. He hasn’t heard Bruce laugh in months, years. So the count every day starts at zero, stays at zero, and reminds Dick of everything he used to be, could be, and failed to be.

He very firmly tries not to think of the symbolism and psychoanalysis that spawns from the fact he does the same thing with Damian. Counting the laughs, the smiles.

He doesn’t always succeed, but he’s always been great at denial.)

It hurts a bit, knowing that somewhere along the way he lost bits and pieces of himself. That he grew up into someone that his younger self might not like very much. But he’s learned to accept that, to move on.

Or he’s lying to himself again, but he’s already done too much thinking about his own mental state and acknowledging his problems today, and crying all over Cass left him not wanting to do anymore for a little while.

So he opens the door to his apartment and gives a quick check to make sure he’s safe before collapsing on his couch. Grunting a bit as he feels his still-healing injuries pull and throb he settles in, closing his eyes and sighing.

After a second or two he pulls himself back up and narrows his eyes at his messy apartment. This is the apartment he’d alternated living at when he wasn’t at the Manor and he hadn’t noticed before, but it was more of a disaster than usual.

Dick Grayson was by no means an organized person, and his rooms and apartments reflected that. But in a controlled way, slightly messy but still mostly presentable.

This? This was something else entirely. And now that he thinks about it, his room at the Manor was in a similar state.

It was unsettling he hadn’t noticed it before. Or, more accurately, he had noticed but never truly processed.

But now he had, and he despised cleaning and perfectly clean rooms with a passion, but this mess was something that needed to be cleaned up. Now that it had been processed and acknowledged, it was going to bug him. Another mark in the “Ways Dick Grayson is a failure” column of his brain.

So he stands, eyes narrowed at the mess around him. He starts by collecting all the dirty clothes into a hamper and shoving them in the laundry room, he’ll run a load in a little bit but for now, he had other things to do.

He gets a trash bag out and goes around the apartment, picking up the trash and shoving it into the bag, it’s mostly just wrappers and things like that, and he leaves the bag in the kitchen.

Next, are the dirty dishes. Most of them are cups he’s left around the apartment, but there are a few plates and such with partially eaten food on them. He brings them to the kitchen, wrinkling his nose at the smell and throwing the food away. He piles the dishes in the sink and throws a look at the fridge.

He could go through the fridge now or after he does the counters, but it would probably make a bit more sense to do the fridge first.

He pauses, humming a little bit in thought, now would probably be a good time to start a load of laundry before he forgot about it. He makes his way out of the kitchen and through the little living room into the rarely used laundry room and loads up as much as he can fit in there.

He begins filling up the needed detergent and softener before pausing and glaring at the washer, recalling something he had heard said once, (by who he didn’t remember,) about not filling up the washer all the way.

He huffs, pulling some of the clothes out until the washer was only half full and then putting the cleaners in. He was probably supposed to sort the laundry, but he was already cleaning the apartment and if he sorted the laundry he was going to forget to do the kitchen. You win some you lose some, he was taking what he could get out of all this.

He starts the machine up with a sigh, ruffling his hair. Gripping and releasing the strands for a second or two as he steadied himself.

He's barely started and already he was more than ready to quit.

But he needs the place to be at least some base form of acceptable, so he continued on.

He tackles the fridge, throwing out most of the contents and giving the shelves a wipe down. Once he put everything back he sat down at the table for a little bit. Drinking water and giving his still-healing body a break before continuing.

He did the dishes next, cleaning and drying the rather large amount of cups and plates considering how little he’d been actually eating. Granted most of it was cups, but at least it meant he’d been trying?

He wrinkles his nose, choosing to avoid that train of thought and finish with his task. When he's finished, his hands were starting to prune and smelled of dish soap, his sink was empty, and his cabinets actually had dishes in them.

He does a quick wash and rinse off the sink and then his counters, and was about to sweep up when his phone rang. It wasn’t his burner, or the one for bat things, just his civilian one and he honestly considered ignoring it. But ultimately sighed and picked up.

“Hey, who’s this?”

There was a snort on the other line before someone snarked at him, “There is caller i.d for a reason Dick.”

He sighed jokingly, suppressing the tiny grin despite the fact she couldn’t see him, “Hi Steph, how’ve you been.”

The responding laughter was nice, though a little strained (which really didn’t bode well for this conversation), “I’ve been fine Dickie, Cass suggested to Alfred we have a family dinner tomorrow and we’ve been inviting people over. We’re like, 75 percent sure Cass convinced Jason over somehow but we don’t know how or with what, Tim is betting it has something to do with Alfred though.”

Dick laughs despite the knot that curls in his stomach, “Yeah, that sounds about right, the Cass and Alfred combo works wonders.”

Steph laughs again, “Yeah, you gonna come over?”

Dick bites his lip before he can stop himself and very consciously does not curse, the fact that habit has been coming back recently after he spent years breaking it is both concerning and slightly (very) dangerous to his lips.

He sighs, setting aside the broom and sitting at the table, he rubs a hand over his eyes as he answers, “I don’t know, Bruce and I still aren't on the best of terms right now.”

Steph answers, quick and sharp, “Well then, it’s awesome that he has to leave the country for something regarding WE tomorrow isn’t it?” and Dick is reminded that this is the girl who became Spoiler to foil all of her father’s plans right under his nose when she was still a teenager.

He does smile this time, and she can’t see it but he hopes she knows how much he appreciates the call, “Well then, I don’t have an excuse huh? Wouldn’t do to disappoint Alfred or Cass.”

“Nope!” She responds, bright and bubbly, “Tim was going to try and sneak some work in but Alfred heard him and hid all of his electronics. He tried asking me for my phone but I am not a stupid woman, you don’t fuck with Alfred.”

Dick laughs, wheezing as she continues on, still bright and cheerful “I’m like 99 percent sure the reason Tim hasn’t asked me again is that he is a coward and not because he’s given up though, and watching Alfred give him disapproving looks is both entertaining and slightly terrifying.”

He snorts, dissolving into a laughing mess, and Steph joins him. It’s one of the few honestly wonderful and tension-free (mostly) interactions he’s ever had with her and part of him regrets while another is just glad she can still laugh like this after everything.

When they’ve both calmed down a bit he clears his throat, “I’ll stop by for dinner tomorrow, and Steph? Thanks.”

“No problemo Dickie.”

He rolls his eyes, pressing his phone against his ear with his shoulder as he starts making himself some tea, “So how’ve you been Steph? I haven’t really checked in on you in a while.”

“Eh, I’ve been so and so, mostly just irritated at some troubles over the night job, other than that I've been pretty good.”

Dick hums, “That’s good, you get help?”

“Yeah, Timbuktu helped me out and then I forced him to sleep so it was a win-win.” Dick snorted.

“Sounds like it, I’m glad. I do have to go soon, I’m cleaning up my apartment right now and if I don’t finish it now, I never will ya know?”

Steph laughs, “Yeah I get what you mean, see you tomorrow Dick, take care of yourself.”

He smiles again, responding with a fond “You too Steph.” before hanging up.

He sips his tea as he scrolls through his apps, and once he’s finished, turns the phone off and sets it down.

He sets the tea mug in the sink and refills his water before picking the broom back to work and surveying the room with a sigh.

Time to finish cleaning.

He finishes cleaning up and wants to collapse into bed forever.

Alas, not only are his clothes not finished (though he had finished washing two loads of them, he was now only waiting on the last one to finish going through the dryer), he still isn’t confident he’ll be able to sleep without nightmares. Medication is out of the question considering his night job and he has patrol anyways, so at this point Dick thinks the universe wants him to avoid sleep as much as he wants to simultaneously avoid it and also sleep for a decade.

He waits for the dryer to finish and folds the rest of his clothes, shoving them into the dresser in his bedroom. His apartment is clean now, maybe not to stunning levels, but it no longer looks horrible and he feels better for it. More stable and grounded. He closes his eyes for a second and just, breathes.

This is, of course, when there’s a knock at the door.

Dick narrows his eyes at the door and blinks in shock when Jason’s voice calls out, “Goldie if you don’t open the fucking door I’m picking the lock.”

Dick rolls his eyes, “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming you ass.” And when he unlocks and opens the door, he can almost pretend he wasn’t a complete asshole to his little brother just because he was getting upset and feeling cornered.

(His bullshit doesn’t give him the right to hurt others, doesn’t give him any excuses when he brings up topics he knows can trigger and hurt his family. He’s a mess and sometimes he still doesn’t think anything happened, doesn’t think anything but, ‘I cheated on Kori, I had sex with Tarantula, I didn’t die, only lied, I failed’.

And other times he thinks that with how much he hated it all maybe it really was rape, wasn’t his fault, wasn’t a complete lie.

He can never say rape without biting his tongue though. The word is still too hard to speak aloud, still only ‘I didn’t consent, it was forced, it was non-consensual.’

Sometimes he clings to the lies as if they’re the only thing keeping him safe instead of the festering wound they really are, destructive in their denial but the only thing he can accept.

And sometimes he can’t think at all without feeling nauseous and seconds away from a breakdown. He’s figuring it out still. And it’s fumbling and difficult, but he can’t let himself do what he normally does, has already done, and lash out with the intention to hurt just because he doesn’t know what to do or think or feel about himself.

He did that enough in the weeks after Tarantula, after he was fired from Robin, after Jason died, after Bruce disappeared. And at some point he needs to find himself again, the smiling little boy who was sometimes angry, sometimes sad, but still able to find the good, to be happy.

It’s been too long since he’s been that boy and he misses it like a limb or an organ is missed and needed.)

Jason stands in the doorway, dressed in civvies along with his leather jacket and smiles at Dick in a way that’s more a barring of teeth than a grin. Which, fair enough, because Dick was kind of a dick the last two times they talked, though less so the last time and a lot more so the first.

But for the life of him, Dick can’t figure out why Jason’s even here.

(This is because he is both tired and a dumbass, because why else would Jason be here but to figure something out?)

Jason waltzes in and looks around, raising an eyebrow, “Damn, you actually cleaned up, huh?”

And Dick narrows his eyes at that, because the last time they spoke they were in the ‘community’ safehouse, and before that at Jason’s, so how does he know what his place looked like?

Jason sees this and rolls his eyes, “Relax Dickhead, you’re just not known for being the most organized of people.”

Dick smiles as he flops onto the couch, “Maybe not but I am a delight.” Jason just scoffs and sprawls on the sofa.

Dick sobers a bit, and studies his brother, furrowing his eyes and asking him, “Why’re you here Jay?”

And it’s reminiscent of the last time they spoke, except the look Jay gets is infinitely more dangerous because of how knowing it is.

Jay leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and smiles, shark-like and deadly, “Well, after our last two wonderfully enlightening chats I was going to leave you the fuck alone because you are an asshole and I was about five seconds away from shooting you.”

Dick raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth but Jason cuts him off, glaring and pointing at him, “No, nope, shut the fuck up, not done.”

Dick raises his hands in surrender and shuts his mouth. Jason stands up, claps his hands together once, and continues, pacing back and forth as he speaks, “Now, unfortunately, I was persuaded through a mixture of one of the only tolerable people in this fucking shitty-ass family—the wonderful Cass—and Alfred—who is Alfred—to come to the fucking dinner tomorrow. And because of this, I need to not want to shoot you or risk getting disappointed looks from Alf, which is not tolerable in this instance.” Jason pauses, turns towards Dick and points at him, “So I need to figure out why you suddenly decided to live up to your name and you are going to tell me.”

Dick blinks at him, and Jason narrows his eyes, waiting, before sighing.

“Yeah, figured.” And Jason stares at him with something uncomfortably close to understanding and for all Dick is starting to be the slightest bit better, it makes him want to cover his ears and hideaway. He doesn’t want Jason to understand any of it, none of it. Jason’s already been through so much and he doesn’t want Jason to feel like he does, doesn’t want Jason to know.

(And in the back of his head is the whisper of, ‘Jason wouldn’t be fucked up by it though, because it was nothing and you’re overreacting, always overexaggerating.’

He tries to ignore it.)

Jason looks at him like he’s analyzing one of his books, like he’s written by Jane Austen or Chaucer or any other author Jason used to sit curled up reading all the time. (Something he learned from Babs and that he saw himself some of the few times he visited the Manor itself, when the tension and anger between Bruce and himself wasn’t as bad as other days.) And Jason’s always been uncomfortably good at analyzing things, at reading things and people.

Jason, with his too knowing teal eyes, anger and hurt shining under his mask of indifference, looks at him and even though Dick knows his little brother can’t possibly know—not really at least, not when Dick hasn’t said anything, hasn’t let too much slip—it still feels like being with Cass, like somehow Dick is screaming out all of his secrets for the world to know.

(He’s always been too open with his eyes, too loud with his body language. Even when blank and shuttered his eyes and body can still speak volumes. Especially to his family, detectives and vigilantes that they are.)

His little brother furrows his brow and narrows his eyes, “Ya know what I think? I think that you’ve been hiding something for a while, something to do with why you turned in early and left Timmers and me behind. Something’s up there and when I asked about it you do what you always do when you’re angry or something big happens.”

Dick swallows thickly as he fights to keep his breathing even and Jason catches the movement, picking up speed as he finishes his theory.

“You lashed out and went for the metaphorical jugular. And you used the resulting anger to your advantage with the whole going forgotten thing. Right? Course I am, otherwise you wouldn’t look like you died for real instead of the lie it was.”

And Dick doesn’t mean to, he tries to keep his body relaxed and loose, but to have that shoved in his face so soon after being so thoroughly analyzed is too much, and he flinches. Not a full-body one, just the tensing of his muscles and the movement of his face for the briefest second.

But Jason was trained by both Bruce and the League of Assassins.

He sees the flinch.

For a second there’s silence as Jason’s face pales, eyes widening as he chokes on the weight of what the flinch means. Forces out a stuttered, “N—no.” And stands, wild-eyed and gripping his hair tight, knuckles white as his breathing picks up the slightest.

“No way. Fuck. Fuck.”

Dick sits still, so fucking still, jaw clenched and back straight, muscles tense and breath caught in his throat. It takes him a minute or so to really notice the black spots in his vision, to process that he hasn’t been breathing. His hearing is muffled, the sound of Jason’s frantic cursing a background noise to the rushing in his ears.

Damn, and just when he was starting to pull himself together too.

He shakes himself and tries to slip away from the all-consuming numbness that holds him captive. It works a little bit, and he feels a little more real. Real enough at least, to notice that Jason has stopped swearing and is just looking at him with something unreadable in his eyes.

Dick forces himself to meet his little brother’s eyes, to not look away like he so desperately wants to.

Jason’s eyes are flicking around, searching Dick’s face as if that will tell him that what he just figured out was another lie.

(Spoiler alert, it doesn’t, it just makes the guilt in Jason’s chest tighten it’s hold as all the times he had mocked Dick about his ‘death’ are replayed in his head. He feels like shit, it doesn’t excuse the fact Dick brought up Jason’s death, but it does give Jason some insight, some understanding over why he snapped. Even if Jason doesn’t actually know why he snapped on that particular night.

Jason’s tongue darts out, wets his lips as if it will make the words clustering in his vocal box exit his lungs. All it does is make him more aware that he has no idea what to say.)

Jason clears his throat, body tense and defensive as he crosses his arms in front of his chest. Dick tastes blood, and thinks distantly, ‘Knew not being able to kick that habit would come around and kick me in the ass someday,’ as he lets his chewed up and bleeding lip fall away from his teeth.

“You died? That wasn’t part of the lie?”

Dick shakes his head, croaks out, “No, that was real. It was real.” His voice cracks, breaks, and he snaps his mouth shut, looking away. He stands from the couch, rubbing the back of his neck in a half-sheepish and very much deflective manner, he tries to force a smile but it falls flat and he gives up.

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose as if it might help him reverse the last 10 minutes (had it been 10 minutes? He couldn’t tell, time had slipped away from him again. He didn’t really remember what time it had been before either now that he tried to think of it), it doesn’t but a man can dream.

He moves to the kitchen, overly aware of Jason behind him, and turns the coffee maker on, pulling out two mugs. He isn’t looking forward to this, had been hoping his family would continue to remain ignorant.

Dick has never been that lucky though, so he turns to his brother, his Little Wing, and he sighs again as if maybe the exhales would erase the past and everything else, “What do you want me to say Jay? I died for a minute? Maybe 3? Do you want me to go on about it when it was nothing compared to your death? To Damian’s?” Jason looks stricken for a second, heartbroken and lost and a kid again (god they're all still kids), before the walls come up and hide away his reactions to a place only Jason himself and maybe Cass can find them.

Dick doesn’t know if it’s for his sake or Jason’s but it’s there. Jason who uses anger to mask his emotions, who when truly angered is consumed by the laser focus needed to complete his goals.

Jason who is gazing at him through half-lidded eyes and a purposefully lazy facade, as if the more he acts like he doesn’t care the more it will be true. For all that Jason could be a complete bastard, he wasn’t without empathy, without care.

(It was the empathy that led him to his harsher style of vigilantism even after they got him to stop killing. Empathy and a remembrance of what it feels like when no one comes to save you, because Jason felt too much for the victims and grew so overpoweringly angry and righteous in his methods of justice. Because Jason knows all too well what it feels like when no one helps you, knows what it feels like to claw yourself out of shitty circumstances and into something wonderful only to have everything go to shit.)

(Jason Todd knows what it feels like to constantly sabotage any possibilities of happiness in fear of being hurt.)

His little brother wets his lips, hands stuttering into movement in an action Dick recognizes as an aborted move to pick at his fingernails. Arms and hands jerking as Jason catches the response just a second too late.

It’s an old habit, just like Dick’s lip-biting, a nervous-anxious-frightened habit neither of them had been able to shake no matter how hard they tried, like Tim’s picking of his lips and Steph’s biting of her nails and picking of her cuticles. All of them have one, even Cass with her rhythmic clenching and unclenching of her hands.

But Jason is a master of pretending he’s feeling angry versus any other emotion, positive or negative, and he grunts as Dick hands him one of the coffee mugs.

Dick sits at the table while Jason leans against the counter, drinking their coffee despite the late hour.

Eventually, Jason speaks, “So you died, and you let us rag on you for it over and over again without saying a goddamn word.”

Dick shrugs, gazes into his coffee mug with resigned and tired eyes, “I guess? By that point I’d been wanting to come back for so long, and been dead but not dead for so long, it felt like a limbo. I died but not for long and I came back only a few minutes later, but the minutes I was dead still managed to seep in. And all the moments leading up to it? They didn’t haunt me during the mission, but now? After?”

Dick shrugs again, not willing to continue even while the words sat on his tongue.

Bats are not known for their ability to engage in actual healthy human behaviour like talking about their feelings or trauma. The fact they’ve done this well without starting another life-threatening fight is honestly impressive. Gold stars for both of them, truly the epitome of progress.

Jason inclines his head in understanding, even as he narrows his eyes in thought. “So why didn’t you ever tell us to fuck off?”

Dick taps the fingers of one of his hands against the table, cradling the warm drink with his other.

“Didn’t seem to matter, you guys were basically right. A minute or two isn’t a lot of time to be dead, so you guys weren’t exactly wrong, you just didn’t have all of the info.” Jason shakes his head, gripping his own mug tight in barely concealed anger.

“Fuck you Dickhead, it matters, dead is dead, no matter how long. Fuck Goldie, was the mission even your decision?”

Dick looks at him, dull and tired, “It was my choice.”

Jason scoffs, “Yeah but it wasn’t your decision was it? Bruce just told you what your options were and you chose to go because the other option was feeling guilty for the rest of your life because of your stupid fucking guilt-complex. And Bruce knew it.”

Dick smiles, not correcting Jason’s assumption, it’s not right exactly, but it’s better for him to think that then to know what actually happened. He tries not to be obvious in his avoidance, plastering a shit-easting grin onto his face, “Awww Jay I didn’t know you cared so much.” And Dick isn’t faking it, not fully, but Jason still snarls at him.

Dick deflates a bit, “Jay seriously, it isn’t his fault, he was just thinking about what was best for the most people.”

Jason slams his mug down onto the counter, and Dick winces but Jason doesn’t pay attention to that, “He’s always so fucking noble and shit, telling us to give up everything for the good of everyone, well guess what Dick! He’s also supposed to care about us, not just as tools but as humans, as fucking kids.”

Dick stands, trying to make Jason see how Dick himself saw it, “He does! Jay he does, but sometimes the mission is more important. And he let me choose. He didn’t guilt me into it, he let me choose.”

But Jason just snarls, “It’s always a fucking choice with him, isn’t it. And even when you can’t be within 10 feet of him without fighting you still do whatever he wants.”

“Jase that isn’t—”

“Shut the fuck up Dick.”

He does, closing his mouth, he’s still standing and this is one of the moments he really registers just how tall Jason has gotten.

Jason swallows, thick and half choking as he ducks his head to hide his eyes. And Dick feels compelled to let him know, “Really Jason, I’m fine.”

And Jason laughs, broken and bitter, “No you aren’t you fucking asshole.” And for some reason, it feels like the abandoning of hope. As if Jay was holding onto something as desperately as Dick clung to his smiles and now it’s gone and he doesn’t know what to do.

Dick moves to do something, anything to make it better, but Jay just moves away, silent and still until eventually he just raises his head, and heads to the door, sneering out in a tone like fine glass, “Thanks for the coffee, Dickhead, see you tomorrow.”

Dick doesn’t stop him, just listens to the door shut and the lock click as Jason picks it shut, and sits back down. Lets his head fall into his hands.

(When he falls asleep that night he—predictably after the discussion with Jason—dreams of dying. Of being beaten, unmasked and strapped to a bomb. Choking on the lack of air in his lungs and swallowing spastically around a pill. When he wakes up, jolting awake like he jolted back to life, it’s only been about an hour. He breathes and tries again, and this time when he slips off into sleep its strange and leaves him feeling weird even while he doesn’t recall the dream. But he still feels a lot more rested than he’s felt in weeks. Doesn’t stop the nightmares from ruining it towards the end and waking him again after only another 4 hours of sleep. But once again, progress, kind of.

Progress over what though? He’s fine.)

He wakes the next morning and just lies in bed for a while, not really wanting to get up, but also wanting to do something productive. He settles for laying in bed and scrolling through the internet instead.

His phone begins ringing and he groans, burying his head into his pillow and tossing it to the side.

He ignores it, lets it ring out and covers his head with his pillow. Once his burner starts ringing he groans again, sitting up and reaching for it.

“Yes?”

“We need you over here for a bust, we have to finish this up before dinner tonight.”

Dick sighs and speaks, put out and rolling his eyes, “Yes. Steph.”

She was way too upbeat and bubbly for this, snorting as she responded, “Great! See ya, bitch.”

He sighs, long-suffering, “Later, Steph.”

He lets the burner drop from his hand and next to his main phone onto the bed. Yanking himself from his bed, he grabs the phones and moves them out of the way, setting them on the dresser. He ruffles his hair, stands and stretches. His back cracks and he collapses on the bed again with a grunt, newly drowsy. He wrinkles his nose as he sits up once again, making his way to the bathroom. He splashes water into his face, toweling it dry and grabbing his toothbrush.

After he gets himself somewhat presentable and changed he turns the coffee maker on and sinks down into his couch, kind of wishing he had moved his bean bag from the manor here with him.

But there isn't much he can do about that, so he texts Babs for info on the bust instead (and very pointedly does not think of the last time he was called to help with a bust, the thing that had set off Tim and Jason's suspicion and worry beyond a passing concern and into the digging and discovery).

The bust is on a group Steph has been hunting down for a while, she had planned a bust a little after she first caught wind of them and got information on a shipment of drugs, but then had to drop it because of what she had overheard while waiting on them. A little research from Oracle and they learned a lot more than they thought they would.

The group turned out to be far bigger than Steph had first thought. Even Babs was a little surprised at just how big the group was compared to the business they ran. It had taken a little bit to get all the information and planning together and done. But now they were ready and had a solid plan and back up.

Bruce had already left a little earlier in the morning and neither Steph or Babs thought it necessary to call him in. Which was a small mercy.

Red Hood, Black Bat, Red Robin, Nightwing, Batgirl, and Robin should be enough to handle this bust even with the unexpected size of the group.

The group went by the name of Red Scythe and primarily, (to the eyes of a bystander at least) worked as drug dealers and weapon smugglers. However, while digging Babs found they also worked in the Metahuman business.

The Metahuman trafficking business that is.

They kidnapped and sold off meta's for their powers to the highest bidder and used that to take in most of their cash, the drugs and weapons worked to both hide their more undesirable business and to bring in more cash.

It was a disgusting business and left Dick with a sour taste in his mouth as he read through the digital file.

Their main goal was to destroy the group's meta trafficking ring. The drugs and weapons, while important, were secondary to the human beings.

From what Steph and Babs had found, there were 5 main people in charge of operations.

Alice Montgomery oversaw the drugs business, she was 46, 5'3, single, and absolutely ruthless. She looked plain, but was suspected among the underground of having an involvement with multiple disappearances and unsolved murders.

Trevor Garrick oversaw the weapons business. He stood at 6'4 and regularly dyed his hair a variety of different colors. He was 34 and, while not as under the radar as Alice, still more discreet with his crimes than the others. The police suspected him in the disappearance of a rival gang member but lacked enough evidence to convict him. The police also suspected he was involved in some way with the shoot and bounce of two questionable men who were later found to belong to a gang that had been trying to sink their hooks into the drug business. He and Alice were known to collaborate with each other but that was about the only teamwork that existed among the main 5.

The other three worked the meta business and while they appeared to cooperate with each other, their collaboration and work with each other was barely passable and only worked because of the weapons and drug businesses hiding them.

This was a very useful piece of information Steph had gone undercover to get, and it had helped put together the data on the last 3 men.

Michael 'Mickey' Rosales, 6'2, brown-haired and, while smart, arrogant and difficult for people to stand. He was 38, with a smile like oil and the way the group found the Meta's. Girlfriend reported him for both assault and gang activity but nothing came of it.

Charles 'Charlie' Sullivan, 5'6, brown-haired and bulky, 41 and with 3 arrests for harassment, assault, and possession. Wrestled in high school and college before starting underground street fighting. Rarely lost but also not the brightest and easy to irritate according to Steph's sidenotes. Probably one of the ways they subdued the people they grabbed. A quick blitz would leave the victim unable to fight back, even if they were a Meta.

Dick stands, stretching out as he makes his way to the kitchen from the little dining room. He hums as he grabs the coffee from the machine, it's not hot but it is still warm and that's enough for him. He downs it quickly, sticking the mug back under the machine and making another cup of coffee.

Alfred may disapprove, but Dick wants to be awake when they move forward with the bust, and if he doesn't want to risk Alfred's disappointment then he also needs to stay awake for the dinner.

And for some reason, despite the fact he managed more sleep last night than he's been able to get in days, Dick still feels fatigued. As if he's been drained of energy and left to drift through a heaviness that drags him down.

He blames Jason. Jason and his bringing things up that Dick never wanted others to know meant that Dick had had to talk about something he did not want to discuss. But it's happened now and all Dick can do is feel bitter as he takes the finished coffee with him to the living room, and resolve to spray paint Jason's Red Hood helmet something atrocious sometime soon.

He grins to himself as he blows on his coffee a bit, settling back onto the couch, and he reads through the last of the profiles.

The final man apart of the 5 overseers is Julian Morgan. Julian is 47 and a bastard, known for letting others take the fall for his failures, his hair is salt and peppered and he stands at 5'7, no real talent other than swindling people out of their money, but when auctioning people off? The man makes sure he gets the money he wants and it's the reason he's part of the 5 at all. He has multiple charges against him that were either dropped or dismissed from lack of solid evidence. There are also multiple people who have been killed under questionable circumstances after confronting him over one thing or another, and the police are itching for a reason to arrest him. He's married, though his wife is usually vacationing, and the two have no children to speak of.

Once Dick finishes looking through the summaries for the heads of the operation he takes a look at the more in-depth files and knowledge that Babs had assembled, pulling information from every corner of the internet that she could reach to give them the rundown of the gang.

Tonight is apparently the only night that all three divisions have a deal (or in the trafficking circle’s case, auction) going on on the same day. The plan is to hit the three at around the same time and get more information on the operations in general.

It was mostly all planned out and Steph only really needed their help due to the size of the operation and the close together times of the meetings. Dick is slightly ashamed with how grateful he is for the distraction, it keeps him from worrying about how the dinner will go.

Because if Jason figured him out, then Tim may already know, and Dick isn’t sure he can face his little brother just yet.

He sets the tablet to the side, finished with the info briefing, and takes a second to decide what to do today. He needs to get a job, just to have some way to earn money so he isn’t living off of Bruce and he also probably needs to go shopping, he’s running low on some supplies and after the cleaning, his fridge was painfully empty and he was going to need sustenance soon.

Actually, speaking of needing food, Dick narrows his eyes at the clock. It’s 10 now and he should probably eat something soon. He hasn’t been eating enough and it shows, plus he’s trying to make a conscious effort to be better so that he stops feeling horrible all the time.

(It’s not quite working, but it’s still something he can actively do to help with the bad days, and it’s moderately healthier than his other version of working through things. Which works until too much builds up and he’s left grasping for some sort of anchor. Some sort of indication that he’s real and here that doesn’t help him along with his self-destruction.)

He makes a quick shopping list, resolving himself to keep an eye out for job openings while he’s out. It’ll help him get some semblance of normal back. Having a stable job that keeps him from driving himself crazy over his own uselessness, that gives him a feeling of autonomy and freedom that lets his mind settle a bit.

Dick leaves his apartment, locking the door behind himself and waving hello to his neighbors. He takes the stairs down and makes his way out into the Gotham morning. It’s a surprisingly okay day for Gotham, a bright day though it isn’t warm, at least not yet.

Dick walks along the sidewalk to the nearby store, enjoying both the little bit of activity and being out and about as if he was a functional human being and not a complete mess. He passes by a few smaller and family-run shops on the 3 block walk to the store and debates stopping by a few of them. Finally caving at a little shop that sells food and coffee that’s about a block away from the store and both smells delicious and looks cozy. Like a much better and family-run version of Starbucks.

It’s nice and when he steps in it leaves him feeling calmer than even his attempts to be stable and calm have left him feeling in years.

He adores it already and makes a note of it, ensures that he’ll remember to drop by and hang out even if he ends up not loving the coffee.

There’s a young woman at the counter, looking tired but content as she chats with a customer, and she looks up as he walks up to the non-existent line.

She smiles, happy and bright, “Hello there! What’ll you be getting today sir?”

Dick grins back, “Well, I’ve never been here before, what’s the thing you like most?”

She drums her fingers against the counter, “Our peppermint mocha is really good. And it's actually minty if you like that. It’s one of my favourites. And if you want food the tuna sandwich and the turkey wrap are pretty great.”

Dick hums in thought, “Well, the peppermint mocha sounds wonderful and I’ll take a turkey wrap with that as well.”

“Sure thing! That gonna be all for you hun?”

Dick nods smiling sheepishly, “Gotta try and keep in shape.” She snorts, giving him a pointed up and down look.

“Honey you most definitely do not need to worry about your figure.” Dick laughs along with her, feeling only minorly discomforted by it, but unsure if it was meant to be flirting or not.

And how rude and self-absorbed is he to tell someone that he doesn’t want to date them because they spoke to him and he couldn’t tell if it was honestly a joke or actual interest?

He breathes, the pad of his thumb pressing hard against the side of his index finger in an attempt to help ground himself without hurting himself. He only realizes a second later that he’s already dug his nails into his palm on the other hand.

Well, A for effort?

Dick gives a small smile, “Why thank you miss, I appreciate you buttering my ego.”

She laughs, “Well, as nice as you are and as easy on the eyes I’m afraid I still have to ask for your money.”

Dick snorts as he pays for the coffee and food, “Oh woe is me, you’ve seen through my attempts.”

She smiles at him and he finally finds her nametag, it's on her arm strangely enough, and proclaims that she’s named Anita. She notices him looking at it and flushes, “Oh whoops, sorry about that, I just got on shift and was half asleep when I stuck it on.”

Dick waves it off, “No worries, I just didn’t want to keep referring to you as ‘the girl’, ‘the young woman’ or ‘she’ in my head.”

She inclines her head towards him as she starts bustling her way around the area, making his coffee, “That’s fair enough, what about you mister handsome, can I get a name?”

Dick gives her a wry grin, “Richard Grayson, but I prefer Dick.” Anita’s movements stutter for only a second before she turns to him, eyebrows raised and gazing at him intently.

“Huh”, she says finally, “I knew you looked familiar. Any reason you chose that unfortunate nickname?”

Dick shrugged, “It’s just what people always called me when I was little and it stuck. Well, more like they called me Dickie and then it got shortened to Dick.” He laughs, and she smiles at him.

“I get what you mean. I’ve known my girlfriend since we were kids and she gave me my nickname and, outside of jobs and some classes, it’s all I'm ever called. It just worked really well and stuck.”

Dick nods enthusiastically as she grabs a turkey wrap for him, “Exactly!”

She smiles at him and hands him his drink and wrap with a cheerful, “Here ya go hun!”

And he grins, “Thanks! Have a good day!”

She nods, “You too dude.” And Dick moves away from the counter to sit down.

He stays there for a while, sitting at the table and finishing his food and drink. It’s delicious and he is definitely coming back to check this place out later. Good atmosphere and delicious, it’s wonderful.

He finishes up his food, which also incidentally equals his breakfast, and stands to leave.

He walks to the door, waving goodbye on the way out to Anita, who smiles and waves back before taking someone else's order.

He smiles a little to himself.

It’s a good start to the day, mostly, and he lets himself enjoy it as he walks to the store.

Now he just has to hope he hasn’t completely jinxed himself.

__________

He gets back home and he feels normal, nothing sets him off, nothing leaves him trying to remember where he is. He has all of his groceries, he isn’t a mess and he’s hoping to everything that this lasts. Because this is good and he feels normal, not just fine or okay.

It feels like the calm before the storm, it probably is, but for now Dick lets himself settle and enjoy it. Feeling normal is something he doesn’t get to do, not really, and even while he has a bust planned later and a dinner after that with all of his vigilante family, it feels relaxing.

Kind of like a hug, something warm and comforting making its home in his bones and keeping him safe. It’s childish, but it’s there and soothing to his battered heart and mind. So he gives in a little, lets it wrap him up, warm and safe and maybe even loved, let’s himself pretend it’s his mother’s hugs from when he was still a child. Young and small and innocent. Let’s himself pretend it’s his father’s smile or Bruce’s quite, ‘You did good chum.’

(He hasn’t heard those words in a long time, even longer still since he felt his mother’s arms around him or witnessed his father smile.)

He smiles to himself as he watches kids play soccer in the street outside, their laughter echoing through the street and his apartment, the birds making themselves known with chirps outside his window.

He grabs the food and starts putting it away, filling his fridge and pantry for the first time in weeks and letting himself feel proud of it.

It’s ridiculous and more than a little pitiful, but it’s been so long since Dick has felt this accomplished, even if he didn’t do much more than clean up and buy groceries.

(God he’s pathetic.)

He finishes putting the groceries away and changes into workout clothes. He hums under his breath as he goes, some random song he heard on the radio in the coffee shop and liked. It’s nice and he looks it up and adds it to his jogging playlist.

With that all done he heads out again, locking the door behind him and putting his earbuds in.

He jogs around the city streets for a while and it’s peaceful, or as peaceful as it can be in Gotham.

He ends up stopping to talk a little bit with a few people, and he doesn’t feel like crawling out of his skin when someone flirts at him, only a little uncomfortable as he laughs and explains that he isn’t looking to see anyone currently. The woman takes it well, laughing and giving him a kind smile as she apologizes, and it’s nice to be listened to when he explains that, to not be asked why a ‘good looking guy like him’ isn’t looking for someone to fuck or date.

It’s during the exchange with her that he can feel the memories tickling at the back of his head, but he does his best to shove them away, to remind himself of where he is and who he’s speaking to. It doesn’t turn into a full-fledged panic, nor a flashback and he makes it through. Breathing slightly faster than usual but still calm, and still in the here and now.

He spends a little while just going about his day after that, gets home and takes a quick shower, (resolutely doesn’t think about the feeling of rain as it falls onto him, doesn’t think of the blood it still doesn’t manage to wash away, the body on top of him, it’s fine, it’s in the past, not happening now, he’s okay,) shutting the water off and toweling himself dry, he gets dressed and looks through his own stored information to pass the time and make sure nothing else was coming up.

It’s a little while later that his comm beeps, and he slips it on as he starts putting everything else away.

“Hey. We heading to the meet point now?”

Tim answers, sounding dead inside, “Yeah, O has us all linked up already too.”

There's a noise as O’s mechanized voice filters through, “Did you have any doubts?”

Dick grins, “About you? Never.”

Steph snorts and Jason groans at the mock flirting while Damian scoffs.

Cass giggles and Damian lets out a strangled noise, “We do not need to encourage their behaviour Black Bat!”

Cass giggles again and says simply, “Funny.” And Steph bursts into laughter.

Tim groans, mumbling under his breath, “Not enough caffeine to deal with this, not enough anything to deal with this.”

Jason wheezes for a second before responding, “You said it well little Red, you said it well. But you underestimate my levels of done with this conversation, just because it’s true doesn’t mean I can't try to forget about it with copious amounts of alcohol.”

An affronted noise slips out from Tim’s end of the line, but he doesn’t speak anymore, only grumbling. Dick's assumption, which is likely correct, is Tim is now planning revenge on the other for the nickname. It’s both adorable and worrying.

Dick might have to ask to collab with him, the vision of a spray-painted Helmet and other various pranks lifting his spirits.

Dick interjects with a “Hey!” that slips out before he can stop it, and—slipping into the Nightwing suit as he responds—he continues, “C'mon Hood, all I did was acknowledge the deity of information as all-powerful and knowing.”

Babs huffs, Oracles modulations making it sound strange, “Exactly, and you all better remember it if you want your phones and computers to work. And no Double R you would not be able to hack around me.”

Tim chokes and Dick, Steph and Cass laugh while Damian speaks, “Ahh yes, proper order is restored at last.”

Jason snorts, “Holy shit demon brat, that sounds like you plotted an assassination.” There’s a pause as Damian stays silent.

Time lets out a strangled, “Wait, what, I thought we were past the serious assassinations now.”

Damian scoffs, “Don’t be silly, I was just going to request that Penny-One ensures you all be banned from the manor.”

Alfred tsks, “Now, young Master Robin, there shall be none of that.”

“Hah!” Jason crows, “Thanks Agent A.”

“No problem Master Hood. I do wish for tonight's dinner to go smoothly.”

The subtle threat is heard loud and clear and in a moment of solidarity all of them reply.

“Yes, Penny-One.”

“Splendid, now get along with your bust.”

“We’ll do that now, thanks, Agent A.” Steph answers, and the rest of them respond with affirmations to the statement.

Nightwing takes to the Gotham rooftops and grapples, swings, runs, and flies to meet up with the rest of them, and it helps clear away whatever lingering wrongness the day hadn’t already taken care of.

He drops down onto the roof and though Red Robin and Batgirl are already there, the rest of his siblings—Red Hood, Robin, and Black Bat—follow after him.

Batgirl gives them all a smile before she speaks, “Thanks for coming my vigilante gals and pals.” she stands in front of them all, expression going serious under her domino, “So the plan is for Hood and ‘Wing to hit the weapons deal while Red and I hit the drug deal. Robin, you and Black Bat are hitting the auction and, if everything doesn’t go to complete and absolute hell, then at least one of our groups will finish in time to give you back up.”

Robin nods, back straight, “The plan sounds acceptable.”

Hood snorts, “Yeah whatever, sounds good, now let’s get going. I’m fucking starving and Agent A’s cooking is calling my name.” Hood speaks lightheartedly, by the tense shoulders and the way his hands rest near his guns, (filled with rubber bullets,) is indication enough on how he feels about the gang.

The decision to keep Jason away from the Meta auction is a smart one, though for as angry as he is, Nightwing doesn’t think that he will go out of his way to kill, just to hurt. And, in all honesty, Dick can’t begrudge him that.

They all want this to end now, none of them like the thought of a Meta auction, not only because these were human beings, but also because those civilians could easily be any of their own Meta friends.

It’s unsettling, and Dick fights the horror over the thought of Wally or Donna in the victim's places down. He needs to remain focused for this.

They split up, Oracle and Penny-One manning the comms and each of them focused on their task, determined not to fuck this up.

Hood and he make their way to the weapons bust, tense and with so many things between them that the air whispers of it—all the things done wrong and the hurts thrown and shared, the blood both of them have bled for this city threatens to drown them and the unsaid truths that are eating Dick alive add to that, to the wariness Jason pretends isn’t present in every inch of his body. The things done to and by Jason that Dick was never able to properly comprehend, and everything that comes with the name Robin in the vigilante sense, the burdens that lay between them, the arguments and fights they have never really spoken of beyond in passing with bitter tones—but they are Bats and speaking has never been easy for them.

So they don’t. Dick pulls himself together and lets himself be Nightwing, lets himself push past his hurts and pains and sorrows and focus on the mission.

Mission first, always the mission first.

Red Hood and Nightwing wait for the meeting to happen, watching as Trevor arrives first, with the weapons and his men, and waiting for the buyers to arrive.

The buyers filter in as Hood and he sit, watching and waiting.

Finally, the doors shut and the dealings begin.

Nightwing slips from the perch they rest at, dropping to the ground with the grace of an acrobat and quickly and quietly dropping as many men as he can using nerve strikes.

He only downs about five, the ones in the very back, before someone catches on and tries fighting him. He knocks them out and Hood joins him in fighting as guns start being drawn and the entire warehouse devolves into fighting and gunfire.

Hood takes out people with his rubber bullet filled guns, hitting places that make sure the men hurt, and Nightwing punches, flips, and kicks his way through the sea of people.

At some point, Nightwing is hit by a bullet and he hisses even as he punches someone trying to sneak up on him in the jaw. He prods the wound with a hand to assess it, the bullet didn’t go through but it hit with a hell of a lot more force than was okay. He would have a major bruise on his side for a while, but such was the sacrifices made when going for agility instead of protection, the kevlar would’ve reduced bruising but made him slower. And for all he was cursed out by his family for his choice, he stood by it.

Hood shoots someone in the chest and Dick raises an eyebrow, rubber bullets might be safer but they were still dangerous in close range. Still, Jason hasn’t done anything lately to earn Dick’s suspicion and distrust and after all the shit he’s pulled on Little Wing lately? He’ll trust Jason for the most part. He’ll only step in when it looks like Jason’s losing control.

Jason deserves that much at least, that modicum of trust for all they’ve asked him to trust them.

He doesn’t know quite how long it’s been, but eventually, they knock out most of the men present. The weapons and Trevor are on their way out the door though and Nightwing curses from where he’s zip tying the unconscious gang members.

“Hood, go, I’ll catch up to you.”

Hood moves as he answers, “Already on it Goldie.”

Dick watches him leave before he calls in the weapons bust, he leaves all of the gang members tied up and restrained before following after. It should keep them until GCPD got there, and hopefully by then they could get Trevor and the weapons as well.

“Hey O, could you tell me where Hood is?”

Oracle responds quickly, “About two blocks ahead of you to the left.”

“Thanks, O.”

And Nightwing is off once again, flying through the night.

He finds Hood in a standoff with Trevor and slips behind the weapons dealer silent and dangerous, delivering a quick blow to the back of the man’s head. He turns to face Nightwing, in all his lithe and dangerous glory, slightly dazed but unwilling to be caught. The increasingly desperate man takes a swing at Nightwing that the vigilante blocks with ease, returning it with his own punch, this one aimed at the man’s kidney. Trevor grunts in pain and tries to grab hold of Nightwing’s throat, most likely to try and choke him out, but Nightwing slips out of his grasp and grabs the man’s arms in a firm hold, twisting him around and to his knees. Trevor doesn’t go down easily but Nightwing delivers a swift kick to the back of the man’s knees and he crashes to the ground with a wince.

Nightwing grabs another set of zip cuffs from his pocket and restrains the man’s arms where he holds them behind his back. The man’s shoulder might be in pain for a while but Nightwing didn’t dislocate it so he sees no harm in yanking him up by his restrained arms.

He smiles at the man, sharp-edged and playful, “You chose a bad night to try a weapons deal, mister. And a bad gang to be part of. I mean really? Getting involved with trafficking? I thought you were smart.”

Trevor keeps up an aloof expression, though his jaw clenches, and Nightwing sends a look over to Hood accompanied by a few discreet hand gestures. Hood doesn’t react outwardly, and the hood he wears, (helmet, actually, but whatever. He’ll question his little brother’s fashion choices later,) covers his face so Nightwing can’t see it, but by the grunt he receives over the comm his brother clearly understands what he’s said.

Hood finishes securing the weapons and the few other man that Trevor left the warehouse deal with, and walks over to them. His steps are measured and menacing and Trevor twitches a bit.

“I have to say, I agree with ‘Wingster here, you and the Alice girl seemed to be the smartest of your bunch and yet you’re acting pretty damn stupid here. You’re tall and yet you didn’t use that to your advantage whatsoever, and a blatant neck grab? I mean come on man, normally I wouldn’t be giving you tips but that was just pathetic.” Hood circles around him, they need to know where the rest of the weapons are being held and for all that Hood is pointing out what Trevor did wrong here, the man was smart enough to keep under the radar of the police.

The man glares, blue hair falling into his eyes, still slightly dazed but coherent.

Nightwing sighs, they need to get going soon and it doesn’t seem like the man is willing to talk, Hood realizes it as well and he shrugs at him in a sort of hopeless gesture.

Nightwing makes an abortive motion and pulls out the communicator, making another call to alert the GCPD of the additional men and the weapons and they leave after knocking Trevor out, no more knowledgeable about the trafficking situation then they were before.

Still, they go to provide back up as quick as they can.

Hood’s voice was gruff as he alerted Oracle, “On our way O.”

They moved with the kind of determination and speed reserved for emergencies, neither really willing to admit the fear this mission managed to plant in their hearts. Born from imagining their friends in similar positions as the captives and from sending only two of their own, no matter how badass—or how reluctant Jason still was to claim the family as part of his own—said two could be.

They made their way quickly across the city’s rooftops, and tried not to listen to their own vicious worries.

Dick wasn’t sure either of them succeeded much.

They arrive at the warehouse, (why is it always warehouses? Warehouses and old homes and rooftops and apartment buildings, nowhere is really completely safe is it?) and Nightwing alerts both Black Bat and Robin of their position over the comms. He gets a grunt from Robin followed by a short description of the current situation while Black Bat only hums.

Robin tells them that, while the two former assassins had been able to get most of the victims away and out of the suppressor cuffs, they hadn’t been able to help all of them before they had to deal with the gang members.

The meta’s the two had freed were helping get the other’s free, but it was obvious that some help was needed. The auction hadn’t been a one on one meeting, it had been multiple gangs coming to meet with the three men from the Red Scythe.

This was vaguely problematic. The good news is that Black Bat was a terrifying force of nature and extremely kickass, she was slipping through her opponents and downing them with ease. Robin was having a slightly harder time than Black Bat but still taking people out and avoiding injuries.

When Hood and Nightwing entered they stayed in the rafters, watching and coordinating.

Nightwing narrowed his eyes at the scene, murmuring into the comms, “Hood, we’re going to help the victims and then you can provide backup for Black Bat and Robin while I get them out. Sound good?”

Hood shifts slightly, body tense and angry and making up for the fact the helmet covers his face, “Yeah, sounds good.”

The tone is, almost distracted, and the response is without the usual banter and quips Hood usually delivers.

It’s startling how used to things you get and how much you miss them when they aren’t there anymore. Nightwing clicks his teeth together once, then twice, biting down on nothing and letting the noise help him sort his thoughts still a bad habit, but a tad better than slipping back into old habits and biting his lip like he seemed to be doing with more frequency these days.

(Then again, stress, anxiety, panic, terror, all seemed like a likely enough trigger for the old habit to come back. Damn, it’d taken him forever to kick it as well. Now he had to restart from scratch.)

Hood’s response is worrying, but Nightwing doesn’t know what to do about it, can’t do anything about it even until the night is over, so he nods and gives the signal.

The two of them drop down from the rafters, a flurry of motion as their siblings continue to fight and dodge their opponents.

They hurry, getting the restraints off of everyone and helping people up and out as fast as they can to minimize potential casualties in the event someone tries to do something drastic. One of the children bites his lip after he’s released and he whispers to Nightwing, “I can heal, I can help.”

Nightwing helps him stand and murmurs back, “How does the healing work, does it take energy from you?”

The boy shakes his head, leaning against the blue-clad vigilante's side for a second before drawing a shuddering breath and helping another victim stand, “It usually just speeds things along, takes a little energy from both me and the person I’m healing. I won’t use it on anyone who can’t spare the energy but I can help. I want to help,” The boy turns determined eyes towards Nightwing and for a second the man can see his siblings in this hollowed out and weary child, “The others helped me best they could, kept me and the other kids safe, it’s only right I help them.”

And in the face of this infinitely strong and determined child, Nightwing stares, half in awe and nods, letting the kid heal who he chooses with the stipulation that first they get out of the warehouse. The kid almost lights up, before donning a solemn expression and nodding, moving to help others out of the building as Hood and Nightwing finish releasing everyone.

With that done Hood double checks on the victims one last time before he jumps into the fray with Robin and Black Bat, striking and defending with tense posture and honed anger.

Nightwing leaves them to it, navigating his way through the warehouse to go over everything and see if they missed anything or anyone. He moves quickly, going through everything thoroughly as he listens to his siblings on the comms, he doesn’t find anything in the first few little rooms, but finally he comes across a couple more metas, a little boy and a teenager who looks both terrified out of his mind and determined to protect the child. Both kids are cuffed with suppressors and the teen looks as if he’s barely standing able to stay lucid, the child on the other hand is fully aware and trembling, Nightwing enters the room slowly, trying not to startle them.

“Hey guys, do you know who I am?” He receives a tentative nod from the little boy, but the teen doesn’t let up with his bleary glare. Nighting enters the room slowly, hands raised placatingly and voice low and comforting.

“I’m here to help you guys get out okay? I have some friends who are making sure that the men and women who hurt you don’t get to anymore but we have to get you out now so the gangs can’t try and use you guys to get out.” It’s best to get straight to the point with Gotham kids and even if the two aren’t from Gotham, in this situation the teen probably won’t stand for being coddled.

He finally gets close enough to the teen to touch him so he reaches out to undo the restraints.

The boy flinches, body going taut, and from behind him the little boy whines, high and distressed.

Nightwing withdraws his hands quickly, backing up a bit as the kid breathes, harsh and terrified, eyes wide.

“Hey, it’s okay, breathe. I need to get the restraints off, can you tell me when it’s okay to touch you?”

The teen gives a jerky nod, jaw clenched and body tensed.

After a few more seconds the teen nods his head again, calmer, and lets Nightwing get the restraints off of him. The minute he’s released the kid turns unsteadily to the little boy and speaks comfortingly despite the slur to his words, calming the kid down until Nightwing gets him out of his restraints.

Once the restraints drop the kid attaches himself to the elder boys side and the older kid does his best to stay steady despite the fact he was obviously drugged.

Nightwing studies them, reaching out a steady arm, “You need to let me help you out of here, I’ll only help steady you and get you guys out okay? Promise.”

The younger boy looks up at him with dark eyes and tightens his grip on the teenager. The teen for his part does his best to focus his own brown eyes onto Nightwing, weighing his options before nodding once and taking the offered support.

With the two kids in tow Nightwing moves as quickly as he can. They make it out of the warehouse and to where the other Meta’s are and Nightwing drops the two off with them, double-checking that everyone is okay.

Turning to one of the adults, Nightwing keeps his question short, needing to ensure everyone was found and got out, “Do you know if anyone else was in the warehouse?”

The woman bites her lip, fingers twitching by her side for a few seconds before she answers, “I think that this is everyone still here. There are a few people who were sold off at different times, and I think they had been hoping to grab some more people next week or so? I don’t know for sure.”

He nods his head, “Thank you.”

The woman nods almost absentmindedly, possibly dissociating, “Just so glad we’re out of there.”

Nightwing pauses, aborting the step he had been about to take to leave, he hesitantly grabs her hand, moving cautiously, and gives it a single firm squeeze.

She squeezes back, shaking, and Nightwing guides her to sit down as she cries, the sounds of fighting dying down in the warehouse as his siblings finish up.

Dick sits with the woman, and when a few of the teens and children drift towards them—trembling violently and all but collapsing into each other— he sings an old lullaby, one he hasn’t heard since he was eight and his mother was still alive, in a soft voice that falters and stumbles over his tongue as he shapes the words and sings through a lump that builds in his throat.

(Warm, living, eyes gazing at him as she holds him in her arms, safe and loved and content.

Somewhere not so far in the future after this memory a line snaps, bodies snap and crack and break against the unforgiving Gotham ground, and a child screams, full of horror and terror and bone-deep heartbreak and loss.

But for now, Dick sings his mother’s lullaby to frightened children and frightened adults and lets the warm memory provide comfort to these terrified and traumatized human beings.)

His eyes burn, growing warm and his head begins to throb, a dull background ache that has nothing to do with one single thing but rather everything at once.

He sits like that for a while after he hears his siblings sound off on the comms, and just continues singing.

Oracle doesn’t call him for a comm check, probably having already heard him and knowing he was okay by checking the cameras.

He appreciates it, it gives him time to soothe the victims enough to try and get them more help.

One of the kids curls into his side hesitantly at first, and then after a second clings fiercely, wrapping her arms around his stomach and holding on tight, body shuddering as she listens to him sing with teary eyes.

She hasn’t cried, and she holds herself like Jay used to when he was little, full of a need to prove himself and an anger that was used to hide the emotions he didn’t want to acknowledge.

It hurts to see.

She hasn’t cried, but she holds onto him as if his song is the only thing keeping her here and something in his chest echoes with pain.

Gotham has never been known for being kind to it’s citizens.

(Gotham will chew you up and spit you out a shell of the person you might’ve been, it will take and take and take and keep taking until you drop. But somehow they all still love this beautiful horrible city.

That might be the biggest tragedy, the greatest irony. Loving it no matter how much it hurts them, loving it and protecting it even as it destroys them over and over again.)

They head back to the cave, all of them, after everything is done, the victims safe and the criminals in police custody.

They debrief, tired and sore, going over the mission somberly.

These cases are always the ones that leave everyone collecting themselves afterward, shaken despite their experience and steeped in the darkness of human choices and the horrible, beloved city they protect.

None of them were too badly injured, and while they hadn’t been able to take down the entire thing like all of them wanted to, they had taken out a good amount of their business and were now aware of the gangs operations and threat level.

All in all, it’s a good night, they suffered no terrible blows, they were able to help the victims of the meta trafficking, get weapons and drugs off the streets and out of potential buyers hands, and none of them were hurt.

They change out of costume and trickle up into the manor, drawn by the delicious smells of Alfred’s cooking and the interesting mix of dread and hesitant excitement about eating dinner together.

Though that may just be Dick. Cass and Steph look happy, and Tim even looks more relaxed than Dick has seen him in a long while. The younger boy is walking beside Steph and Cass, speaking quietly, but with his lips drawn up into a small grin. Jason is nowhere to be seen, the first to leave the cave, and Damian walks beside Dick. The boy’s back is straight and his steps measured, but he doesn’t stand the careful distance away from Dick that he might’ve once, instead Damian walks close to him and says nothing when Dick puts an arm around his shoulders.

The action causes the boy to wrinkle his nose in distaste, an expression that Dick finds adorable (though he refrains from voicing that opinion, if only to keep his youngest brother from staging a coup against him).

Dick smiles, weary and happy and sad and joyful all at once.

(Dick Grayson is a fountain of contradictions, knowing and oblivious, kind and cruel, terrified and apathetic, victim and doubter. Dick Grayson, Richard Grayson, Robin, lólodúianchír, Nightwing. People built around lies and truths and smiles and sorrow, tears and laughter and contradiction upon contradiction, memories, and facts, thoughts and opinions.

One wonders, whether they really knew Dick or if they only knew a mask, a lie.)

Damian rolls his eyes, but doesn’t shove the arm off, so Dick is counting it as a win. Cass looks back at them with a soft smile and kind eyes and Dick grins at her.

(The truth is a little bit of both, a person changes based on who they are with, who they are surrounded by, who they love and hate and who loves and hates them. And Dick Grayson is a person who is both a truth and a lie, like any other human being. Multi-layered, given depth, a human being with a mind and a soul and a heart.

So really, the question being asked is whether Dick Grayson is human.)

(The answer, of course, is yes. Dick Grayson is so painful, brilliantly, beautifully, horribly human. He is not a god, he is not perfect, and he is not the golden standard, rather he is a man. And men can be both foolish and wise. Humans are Strong and Fragile, contradictions.)

Cass turns and looks forward just in time to get a clear look at the dining room as Tim opens the door.

Dick gazes at the table with an awed expression (and in the back of his mind he is resigned to the possibility that if he has a bad enough nightmare or flashback, or even gets too overwhelmed, the food will go to waste and make it’s home in the toilet, but Dick is willing to risk it for this).

When he finds his voice he speaks, looking over the table full of food, “Alf really went all out for this family dinner thing.”

Jason snorts from where he sits, plate empty and waiting, “Alf is Alf, did you expect anything less?”

Dick smiles as Tim and Steph laugh, “You have a point there. Woe is the person to doubt Alfred.”

Cass nods, a smile tickling her lips, she turns to Damian and faux-whispers, “Alfred better than both of us, thankful for him.”

Damian huffs and nods as he takes his seat, “Pennyworth would be a worthy opponent. Though I am—glad I do not need to battle him. He is necessary and appurtenant to the household.”

Steph chokes on a laugh, Tim grinning behind his cup of water. Jason doesn’t bother to hide his smirk and Dick struggles not to burst into laughter.

A voice speaks from behind them all, and they all hear the wry tone it takes, “I am glad for the positive assessment, Master Damian.”

Dick laughs as he sits down, Damian slinking into his seat with the slightest stain of red across his cheeks. Dick catches the beginnings of a smirk on the old man’s face and feels his own lips twitch upwards in response. Cass catches his eye, and she smiles at his reaction.

Steph sits across from him, next to Cass, and looks as if she’s trying her best to smother her laughter. She drinks her water to stop her giggles and only manages to make it worse by choking on the water.

Dick sighs, fond and exasperated while Jason laughs, loud and full. Tim bites his lip as he moves her water cup away from her and Cass sighs as Steph regains her breath.

Damian raises a single eyebrow and Steph begins to laugh while still half choking.

Tim buries his face into his hands and mutters something Dick can’t hear over Steph’s laughter, but he’s smiling still and doesn’t move from his seat. Steph slowly regains her breath again, red-faced and wheezing and Alfred sighs. His tone fond and weary, like one who has dealt with children for years and long grown used to it, probably because he has.

Once they settle down they begin to serve themselves, and it’s nice. There aren’t too many silences or hurtful things said, just a few here and there as they awkwardly start out. It’s civil, and it’s fun, and just getting to sit and talk is nice. They don’t talk about too many important things, because important things have the potential to ruin the still-fragile peace they keep, and no one really wants that to happen, not even Jason, who was another of the ones who firmly protested against the idea in the first place.

Dick talks, he talks and he smiles and he speaks, with both mouth and hands, in between bites of food. He talks about inconsequential things and he tries to question his siblings on how they’re doing without seeming like he’s babying them.

He remembers how it feels to be smothered under the weight of those who mean well and fail to see your worth.

But he is also an older brother and his little brothers and sisters are all so independent that sometimes he slips.

It’s Tim he slips with this time, putting a few bites of mashed potatoes on his pate as he asks if Tim needs any help on his cases, if he has backup ready if he needs it.

And it’s probably because of the recent bust, not the one from tonight but the one Jason and Dick were called in to help him, but Tim stiffens, takes it as a sign Dick is doubting his ability.

And he isn’t, he really isn’t, Dick knows how wonderful Tim is, doesn’t doubt his ability for a second, he just worries.

So he backtracks, sets his fork down and raises his hands placatingly, “Tim, I’m not saying I doubt you, okay? I know you’re brilliant, I’m just asking that you’re being safe as well. I don’t want anything happening to you because you’re too exhausted to keep yourself safe.”

Tim’s jaw is clenched, eyes on Dick and the table is tensenow, as the girls and Damian eat their food, glancing up every so often.

Jason is silent.

Tim licks his lips, hands fidgeting as he looks away, “Yeah, I know, sorry, just—” He waves his hand, gesturing to Dick.

He nods, bowing his head and picking at his food, “Yeah, I get it Tim.”

They continue eating, back to the awkward silence from before and Dick fiddles with his food until Jason groans, utensils clattering against his plate.

"Jesus Christ, you're all fucking infuriating, I hope you know that."

Dick frowned, "Jay—”

"No,” Jason cuts in, tone annoyed and clipped, “You hold it right there Dickhead, this got awkward as all fuck and I really don’t want to have to waste Alfred’s god-given food just because the tension is choking me to death.”

Tim raises a single eyebrow at the declaration, “Don’t act so put out Jason, half the time you're the reason there’s tension.”

Cass frowns, and Steph sighs, “C’mon you two, do you guys really gotta get into a measuring contest right now?”

Dick chokes on a laugh and Tim goes red, sinking down into his seat and buries his face into his hands once more, and Cass reaches behind Steph to pat Tim consolidating on the back.

Damian frowns, eyebrows furrowing as Jason splutters.

The whole exchange is half hilarious and half exhausting and just a bit tragic but it helps ease a little bit of the tension that hung over them all, and Dick couldn’t be more thankful to Steph in that moment.

Of course, there is a consequence to that and it’s present in the way Cass turns to face him, curious and still a bit concerned from when he dropped her off at the house.

She tilts her head to the side, just the slightest and blinks at him as if she isn’t causing his anxiety to rear its head, “You doing well?”

And that’s, well, that’s kind of complicated. He’s doing better than he was the day he picked Cass up from the airport but, in the grand scheme of things he still felt like he was half dead or dying far more often than he didn’t.

And that wasn’t really good but it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary by this point either and did he really want to bother his little siblings with his problems when some of them still didn’t fully trust him after he came back from being legally dead?

The table is silent for far too long, Dick still hasn’t answered the question and it’s weird and out of the ordinary and he isn’t prepared for an interrogation right now (or ever) but what can he even answer with that won’t be suspicious?

Cass is frowning at him and he can see Tim and Damian glancing at him from their plates curious and cautious in the way their upbringing and Bruce have taught them.

He swallows the tiny bite of chicken in his mouth and grins, “You guys know me, I’ve been okay. Just a bit of a disagreement with Bruce, you know, the usual.”

Jason and Steph are both studying him in ways he knows can be dangerous, the side effects of being raised in Gotham. And now it’s time to tread cautiously, because yes he has fights with Bruce, arguments and miscommunications and feelings hurt on both sides, all the time. But it’s been a while, since Jason came along and before Tim became Robin, that they so clearly fought.

It’s weird really, how Jason seems to forget that when he was around Bruce and Dick were always at each other's throats, and not really even because of Jason. (Though the fact that Bruce gave away Dick’s name, his mother’s name for him, will never not hurt. That Bruce took it as if it was his to take, gave it away as if it was his to give, as if Dick had no say.)

But not many of the others have ever seen just how bad it can get, and with Jason forgetting that not all of their fights were over him, Dick is left trying not to explain that there’s something in Bruce and his relationship that’s broken, something that stopped fitting together and just started hurting the both of them.

(Sometimes, on the darkest days, Dick will think of Bruce and think ‘Maybe he just can’t love me anymore.’

Those days are almost as bad as the days he remembers a child’s inability to tell the difference, the way rain falling doesn’t wash the blood and poison from his body.)

(Sometimes Bruce Wayne looks at his children, all of them so brilliant and shining so brightly, needing so much he can’t give to them and thinks, “I don’t know how to love you without hurting you.’)

Damian shifts uncomfortably, aware that he’s the reason for this most recent falling out and Dick forces himself to put a bite of food in his mouth instead of wrapping Damian up in a hug like he so wants to do.

Dick swallows the food and grins, rolling his eyes, “Oh c’mon guys, it’s fine.”

Jason snorts disbelievingly and Dick does his best not to shift under Cass’s scrutinizing look. He does well enough, but Cass reads body language better than anyone, it’s her first language after all, and she frowns again.

Dick would’ve said something to reassure her, to get her to stop studying him, but by this point, Steph has grown tired of the tension and decided to take matters into her own hands.

And, because Stephanie Brown is a complete mad man who fears no god nor disappointed Alfred as much as she should, ‘taking things into her own hands’ means throwing mashed potatoes into Dick’s face.

There’s silence for all of a second before his Jason bursts out laughing, joining Steph in her joyful hysterics, his guffawing mixing with her cackling shrieks as Damian exacts revenge on Dick’s behalf with a well-aimed spoonful of cranberry sauce.

Dick wipes off some of the mashed potatoes as Damian ducks Steph’s returning volley of sour cream, evading Jason’s throw of melted (and room temperature) cheese shreds.

At some point, Tim gets pulled in, somewhere in between Steph using him as a shield against Jason’s own throw of sour cream and Damian’s direct attack on the other boy with gravy (cooled down). By this point the only one of them not involved is Cass and she’s smiling at them all and giggling under her breath, (and by the way Dick sees her eyeing the table he predicts she’ll be joining them very soon) the rest of them are all frantically ducking flying food and condiments and throwing with increasingly horrible accuracy as they all dissolve into laughter.

By the time Cass joins in, with an attack on all of them at once, everyone has pulled themselves together enough to have accurate aim and moderately decent reaction times once more.

Dick cackles as he avoids two separate attacks from different angles and raises a hand full of pie just as they all hear the throat being cleared behind him. Jason, Tim and Cass have already dropped the food they were holding and thrown themselves back into their seats, not that their actions hide the fact they were part of the food fight.

All of them are covered with some edible substance, Dick and Jason have the worst of it while Cass is the best off, only a few streaks of food in her hair and smeared across her hands, which is unfair considering that once she joined she was the one attacking all of them indiscriminately and the most accurately.

The open expression of horror present on Tim’s face is contrasted by the deer-in-headlights look Damian sports and if Dick wasn’t sure he was now facing certain death he would be laughing his ass off. As it is he turns around slowly, facing Alfred and his raised eyebrow and disappointed expression.

A glob of unidentifiable food plops onto the floor from off of his body and the noise is loud in the completely wrecked dining room.

Steph smiles at Alfred, covered in food and waving at the old man, “Hey Alfie!”

Alfred’s eyebrow somehow raises even more which shouldn’t be humanly possible, but then again this is Alfred, and Steph rubs at her head sheepishly.

“The boys were being dumb so I had to give them a little bit of—uh, a distraction? No one’s dead!”

Alfred’s lip twitches just slightly, so small it’s nearly incomprehensible, but Dick sees it even as Alfred throws a disdainful look around the food-covered room.

“Be that as it may Miss Stephanie, I must ask all who participated in this...food fight, to clean up this mess so I may wash the carpet and chairs.”

They all avoid his gaze, even Steph and Cass, as they answer with an affirmative.

As soon as Alfred leaves the room Damian and Jason turn to glare at Steph, she smirks at them, completely unashamed. And Damian tuts, turning sharply away.

Jason narrows his eyes, bringing two of his fingers up to his eye level and making the universal sign for ‘I’m watching you’. “I have your number you little sneak, you better watch out.”

Steph grins at him as she brushes stir fry from her hair, “You may have my number asshole but I have the power of Cass and Leslie on my side!”

Tim chokes as he gapes at Stephanie, “Oh my god you didn’t, Oh my god you didn’t.”

Jason’s narrowed eyes bounce between the two for a second before he nods slowly, “Fine, you win this round blondie. But as the instigator, you get to do the laundry, without Alfred’s help.”

Steph’s face sours, nose wrinkling in distaste as she collects the plates and utensils into a pile, “Fine, but that means we all have to do something like this more often.”

Jason snorts, “What, more food fights?”

Dick sighs as Damian mutters under his breath, “Fatgirl is crazy as well, no surprise there.”

Steph rolls her eyes, “Haha guys very funny, you know what I meant.”

“Actually!” Jason answers, smiling, wide and bright and fake, “I have no fucking clue, please enlighten us. Really, I await your answer with bated breath.”

Steph grits her teeth, “I meant us all hanging out without killing each other, because when we all stop being dipshits it’s actually really nice. And you know that’s what I meant, stop being difficult.”

Jason grins, harsh and unkind, “Blondie, I was born to be the bane of the existence of every living thing.”

Steph rolls her eyes, scrubbing at the table, scooping the now unappetizing food into the empty bowls and plates, shoving the utensils at Tim, “Go put those in the kitchen then Tim and, I don’t know, get like a couple of rags and a few bottles of cleaner.”

Tim rolls his eyes, “I do know how to clean Steph.”

“I never said you didn’t dumbass, I was just telling you what to do so you would stop staring at Jason and me awkwardly.”

Tim blushes, glaring furiously at Steph as she cackles, and gathers the utensils up as he retreats from the room.

Jason watches him go, eyebrows raised and he turns to face Stephanie with an amused expression, “Blondie I think you might just be my soulmate.”

Steph sniggers, “Oh love of mine, I have waited so long for this day.”

Dick groans when Jason smiles, happy and delighted, feeling exasperated but glad to see the smile that comes out far too little.

Damian is washing one specific part of the table with a napkin, has been for the last two or so minutes, and by the furious scrubbing and pursed lips that curl up every once in awhile, Damian also finds Jason and Steph’s strange banter hilarious and is furious about it.

Cass stands next to Dick, giggling softly at all of their antics and Dick slowly reaches a hand for her side.

Cass slides away in the blink of an eye, dodging his food covered-sticky hands as she smiles, she stands apart from him, wagging a finger at him once, then again, “Bad, no foody hands.”

Dick pouts, “Fine, guess I’ll just have to clean up then.”

Cass smiles and watches as Tim enters the room once more, armed with rags and cleaners distributing them before he joins in on the cleaning, the family is having a nice time, and things don’t feel so out of whack right now, something in the world slotting into place if only for these few minutes. It’s not a fix-all for any of them, all of them hurting in some way or other, but it soothes a little bit of the hurt.

It’s nice, even when Dick catches himself just before he flinches away from Steph at one point during it all, when one of her hands accidentally drags up his arm. He rinses off quickly in the bathroom of his room at the manor and says his goodbyes.

When he gets home that night he holds the warm smiles and laughter close to his heart and it gives him the same feeling the little cafe did.

It’s worth it, he decides, changing out of his clothes and stepping into the shower to rinse off again. Everything was worth it to have these little moments with his siblings.

Chapter Text

He wakes the next morning before the sun rises, tired and still a bit drained despite the distraction his siblings had provided the night before, which is frustrating but something he can handle. He rubs away the crust from his eyes and absentmindedly makes the bed, going through the motions to settle himself. Pulling the sheets and comforter back onto the bed from where he pushed them off before falling asleep and tucking them in.

Dick picks the clothes up off the floor and tosses them into the laundry bin, heading towards the kitchen. There’s a creak in the living room and Dick tenses, lightning his footsteps and moving silently back towards his room to grab a taser or one of his escrima sticks.

Once he grabs the taser he carefully makes his way to the living room, listening closely for any more noises. All he hears is the coffee maker starting up and he narrows his eyes, there are few people who can enter the apartment without setting the alarms off and of those people, not all of them enemies, most do not consider coffee a major priority.

Usually, it’s secondary.

With that in mind, he enters the room a lot less cautiously than he normally would, steps still near-silent and taser still held ready, but not as filled with dread.

Too much dread in the morning isn’t healthy, at least according to Leslie and Wally.

When he enters the living room he’s greeted with the view of Tim drinking coffee at the counter and gazing dead-eyed at the wall.

Dick rolls his eyes, setting the taser within arms reach but mostly secure in the knowledge he won’t be attacked anytime soon.

“First cup?” He asks, laughing when he’s only met with narrowed eyes. Tim gives him a once over before he dismisses him in favour of the coffee maker, waiting impatiently for his mug to be filled.

Dick sets about making toast as he waits for Tim to drink his second cup, grabbing the plate out of the cabinet and putting the toast into the toaster, by the time the toast pops and Dick spreads butter and jelly on top of it, Tim’s second mug has finished and Tim is working on finishing all of the caffeine it holds. Dick sets the plate in front of Tim, and the automatic way the younger picks up the toast and nibbles on it between gulps of coffee is comical.

After he finishes the coffee Tim seems to wake up, blinking dumbfoundedly at the half-finished piece of toast in his hand, as Dick places an empty mug under the Keurig.

Once he processes that it is indeed food in his hand, he continues eating it after he murmurs a tired greeting.

Dick chuckles, “Glad you’re awake and coherent Timmy, what brings you to my humble abode?”

Tim wrinkles his nose, “Steph.”

Dick raises an eyebrow, “I need a bit more than that buddy, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Tim shrugs, “Steph said I was doing too much work because I was trying to catch up with everything I fell behind on last night and she rehid everything with Alfred’s help.”

“Ahh, I see, so you came over here to use my electronics.”

Tim hikes his shoulders up defensively, “No, well, not really.”

Dick raises an eyebrow, amused, “You sure about that?”

Tim straightens up, reaching for Dick’s coffee mug, “Positive, I was just swinging by to talk a bit.”

Dread pools in his stomach as he remembers the day before the gala, remembers how Jason said Tim had originally dropped by that night to talk about the fight with Jason before being sidetracked.

Dick sends a mental apology to Wally and Leslie, it looks like his stress levels aren't going to be going down anytime soon.

“Oh really?” He questions, nonchalant as he drags his mug closer to himself and away from Tim’s grabbing, coffee stealing hands, “About what?”

Tim gives in, admitting defeat when the coffee almosts spills and makes his way back to the coffee maker with his empty mug, “Not a lot, just a few things I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Dick very consciously does not tense, Tim is facing away from him, facing the coffee maker as his coffee pours and faintly Dick feels tiny pin-pricks of pain on his hands.

He laughs hollowly, slowly uncurling his hands, watching as the tiny crescents in his palms well up with tiny drops of red, “That doesn’t really answer my question, Tim.”

Tim shrugs, “You want a cup?”

“Yeah, sure.”

It’s nothing, he’s freaking out over nothing, Tim could want to talk about a case. And even if that isn’t what’s going on, there’s no reason for him to be freaking out this much.

It’s just a little talking, nothing big. There’s nothing wrong with that, nothing that should cause this reaction.

Tim passes him the cup as he sits down, cradling his own cup against his chest.

Dick grins a little, chuckling at the picture the younger makes, “That’s your fourth cup Timmy, you really gotta cut back on the caffeine.”

Tim gives him a blank look with a single raised eyebrow that has nothing on Alfred’s.

“This drink is the only reason I still walk the mortal realm, now shut up and drink your coffee.”

Dick raises his hands placatingly, “Okay, okay, just make sure you don’t drop from a caffeine overdose, or from the lack of sleep.”

Tim huffs and drinks his coffee, and Dick hums as he drinks his coffee quietly.

Tim is eyeing the tablet Dick left out on the table with interest and there is a 60% chance that Tim is going to ignore all of Alfred and Steph’s advice and jump into work as quickly as he can, but Dick clears his throat.

Tim gives him an innocent face, one that might be convincing but hasn’t actually worked since the time Dick believed Tim about how much caffeine he had consumed because he pulled that exact face and was made to face Alfred’s wrath when the teen completely crashed during dinner after spending five hours a frantic mess. It hadn’t been a pretty sight.

You’d think that by now Tim would have learned to curb his caffeine addiction so it wouldn’t get that bad.

And yet Dick is watching Tim as he finishes his fourth cup of the day at 5:41 in the morning.

There’s something slightly surreal about this entire situation, then again, with their family surreal is par for the course.

Tim sets his cup down suddenly, his teasing expression gone and replaced by his serious, removed expression. The one he wears most often when researching or watching people interact.

Dick fidgets with his cuticles, already going half-mad as Tim just sits there and studies him. Staying still has never really been enjoyable for him and Dick honestly doubts it ever will be, but with anxiety thrumming under his skin and stress near overtaking his brain, staying still just doesn’t seem physically possible.

Finally, when Dick is certain that the tension is going to burn him alive from the inside out, Tim speaks.

“Something’s going on with you,” He starts, voice quiet and lips pursed, “Skipping out on Jason and me during patrol and a bust, blowing up like you did with Jason, the carelessness, the decreased food intake. You’re acting like Bruce when he’s trying to punish himself.” Tim throws one of his hands into the air, gesturing vaguely around the apartment, “And I know for a fact that you let this place get to a really gross low before you cleaned it up.”

Tim’s gaining momentum now, trying to spit out all of his observations at once to prevent Dick from cutting him off, “And even that’s weird! You cleaned the place up but you’ve been keeping it clean as if you aren’t really living here. You shut up most if not all of your personal stuff and made it seem as if no one was actually living here.” Tim gestures around at the apartment and Dick fights the urge to duck his head and turn away from his little brother’s sharp blue eyes.

And maybe he did let it get bad in the apartment, he acknowledges that, but the cleaning? He just finally had the energy and presence of mind to clean up, that’s all, and the displayed items made the rooms look messy. That’s all it was.

And it’s different, Tim has it all wrong. He might not be in the best headspace right now, but he isn’t punishing himself. He isn’t acting like Bruce, at least, not to the extent that Tim thinks he is.

He knows he wasn’t at fault, sometimes, and he knows that’s it’s just a trauma reaction, that it’s a natural reaction to things that weren’t his fault.

It’s just so, so hard to remember that sometimes.

He shrugs, taking a sip from the quickly cooling coffee in his hands, “I don’t know what to tell you, Tim, you’ve got it wrong. I’m not, punishing myself. And just because I picked up a few unfortunate habits from Bruce doesn’t mean something is wrong with me,” He gestures a hand to Tim, “You’ve picked up your fair share of bad habits from the big guy, and you were older than me when you became Robin.”

Tim frowns the slightest bit, making a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Dick rolls his eyes, “Tim, stop, it’s not a big deal, there’s nothing wrong with me.” He grins softly, reaching across the table to grip Tim's shoulder gently, reassuringly.

Tim looks disbelieving, and Dick snorts, “C’mon Timmy, you’re starting to sound like a conspiracy theorist, I’m going to have to rat you out to Leslie and Alfred if you don’t get some sleep and cut down on the caffeine.”

Tim narrows his eyes, jaw clenching and for a second Dick thinks he’ll keep questioning him, keep battering against his walls until he collapses, but the look melts away and fades into Tim’s CEO business face and Dick sighs.

He sets his near-empty cup onto the table and rubs his hands over his face, “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about? Or maybe we could hang out a bit? There’s a really nice little cafe a few blocks down.”

Tim considers the offer for a moment, biting his lip as he runs his fingers around the rim of his mug, he hums, “That was it really, and I’ll take a raincheck on that, I have some stuff I have to do, another time though.”

Dick nods, watching as Tim puts his dishes into the sink, “Right, another time, nice seeing you Tim, have a good day.”

Tim smiles at him absentmindedly, “Yeah, thanks, you too Dick, take care of yourself.”

With that said and done, Tim slips out through the window, leaving Dick alone once more.

He sighs wearily, looking away from the window, and downs the rest of his mug, standing up and setting it into the sink now that it’s finished.

Turning on the water he wets Tim’s plate and quickly scrubs it clean. He rinses it and sets it on the drying rack, cleaning the cups next and leaving them to dry. He sets the drying rag aside, leaning heavily against the sink, feeling fatigue crawl into the marrow of his bones and weigh his body and limbs down like bricks.

God, he’s so fucking tired.

Dick wants to sleep, the conversation with Tim has drained him so entirely that he almost heads straight back to bed. To make matters worse, the whole exchange happened way too early for him to really do anything productive with the rest of the day.

He tries not to dwell on his miserableness, the feeling of his own uselessness, knowing from experience that wallowing makes everything worse. Getting lost in himself warps his mindset, making everything darker and taxing, thoughts growing more and more negative until even opening his eyes is too much for him to do. Leaving him so low on energy and motivation that not even the thought of patrol or his friends and family can drag him out of bed.

Dick wants nothing more than to sleep, to wallow, to curl up in a ball and hide away from the world.

Instead, he forces himself to get ready for the day, he brushes his teeth and drags a brush half-assedly through his hair.

He isn’t hungry, and he shouldn’t skip breakfast, but the thought of eating makes him so nauseated that he gives up before he even really tries. He makes himself another coffee instead and tries to remember what he was going to do today.

He should probably start job hunting, if nothing else it’ll help him feel less useless and parasitic, which would be good for his mental health even if not so great for his time management.

(He chooses not to remember that the last real job he had was in Blud, working as a police officer. That isn’t good for him right now, a dangerous memory. He also chooses not to recall the last technical job he held, when Bruce was dead and he had to hold everything together.

Spyral, he will forever maintain, does not count as a quantifiable job, it more closely resembled his nightwork than an actual job.

Not that he likes remembering that either.)

So, job hunting it is, maybe, if he can ever bring himself to move from his position on the couch.

It’s a far more difficult task than it should be.

He’s kind of bitter about it, annoyed at himself and a little bit annoyed at Tim for ruining his mood so early in the morning, and so soon after he was in a good mood too.

He lays sprawled out on the couch, mourning the happy mood the food fight left him in, and trying to convince himself to get up and grab his computer.

It takes him a while, and by the time he has enough energy to force himself up and off the couch the sun has already risen. He grabs his laptop off the table, unplugging it, and stumbles back to the couch, flopping down onto it, feeling drained from the simple task.

It’s irritating, and it leaves him frustrated and angry and mortifyingly, he feels his eyes burning and his vision is starting to blur in the telltale sign of tears. His breath stutters and he feels an overwhelming urge to just hit something to make the aching hole in his chest go away.

He curls up in a ball, holding the laptop tightly against his chest, wrapping it up tightly in his arms and pretending for a second he’s hugging someone, anyone, just to feel a little less destructive. He stays like that for a while, until he feels the urge to hit or throw something abate a little bit. His eyes are still watery and his throat is uncomfortably tight, but he doesn’t feel as close to frustrated tears as he was before, which is progress.

He goes through breathing exercises for a little while longer after, just until his breathing is back to a somewhat steady rhythm, and then he slowly uncurls from his position. He doesn’t know what time it is, is kind of scared to check, but the whole reason he made himself get up was to get onto the computer and he doesn’t want to throw that all away.

He heaves himself up into a sitting position, opening the laptop and beginning an internet search for job openings in his area. After about an hour of searching, he finds a few, but he doesn’t trust some of them for very clear reasons, (overly obvious plots by some of the Rogues and the newer gangs, “Person willing to face a human male dressed in costume”, “Guard for fragile chemicals, needs martial arts training” and the like) and others he knows won’t help him in any way, (jobs that leave him alone to fall into himself or ones that have too large a likelihood to trigger him in some way shape or form, [he gets enough of that from being Nightwing]) and by the time an hour passes he feels more exhausted than he did when he started.

He sighs and shuts the computer lid, aggravated and anxious and feeling like he’s crawling out of his own skin. He stands, cracking his back and stretching out the kinks in his body, fighting the urge to curl back up in the face of the sudden drowsiness the stretch brings. He needs to go on his run and despite his need to be productive in the job hunting department, he knows he’ll only grow more agitated.

Taking a break will be the best thing to do, and it’ll get him out and into the sun, or as much sun as there can be on a regular gloomy Gotham day.

He heads to his room, changing into some running clothes and grabbing his phone off the nightstand, unplugging it from the charger and grabbing his earbuds, he drinks a glass of cold water before he leaves his apartment and then starts his run.

He runs about a mile and a half before he slows to a jog, finishing up the last half mile and then stopping at the park for a breather. He stretches, catches his breath and lays in the grass for a while, his music playing in his ears as he watches the partly-cloudy Gotham sky.

It’s a cool day, a slight breeze blowing through the city. It’s Gotham air, and it reeks of metal and gasoline, mixing with the smell of salt from the bay in a way that was so intrinsically Gotham.

He stands, finally, and checks his phone. He has a message from Babs telling him that she sent some files to his tablet about a case he asked for and one from Cass asking to meet up with him sometime before she returns to Hong Kong.

He sends a thank you message to Babs and receives a text a few seconds later.

‘No problem D, take care of yourself. We’ll have to meet up for dinner or something sometime though, been a while since we got a chance to really hang out.’

He huffs under his breath, a smile pulling at his lips as he responds.

‘I always take care of myself Babs, dw about it. We should definitely meet up sometime, it’s been too long since we got to be best friends without our work getting in the way. And the lovely lady deserves to be rewarded for all her hard work.’

He responds to Cass’ message while he waits for Babs to text him back.

‘That would be wonderful Cass, do you have anything in mind?’

He taps his fingers against the back of the phone as he waits for responses and tries not to analyze the girls’ messages nor his own responses to them.

But he can’t help but be nervous, Babs and Cass can sometimes read him better than he can understand himself and he’s slightly terrified about it. Because if either of them want to talk to him like Tim did this morning, so soon after said discussion?

Dick didn’t quite know if he would be able to handle it. It was just too much thinking about everything he really didn’t want to think about, too much anxiety and fear to bury and ignore.

Too much, too soon.

(Except it wasn’t really soon, was it? Considering for some of the things he’s shoved away it’s been years?

So why does it feel like everything just happened? Why does everything feel like it happened a few days ago instead of the few years it’s been for most of it? Why is he being so pathetic about things that aren’t really that big of a deal?)

He tries to be optimistic about it, realistically optimistic, but optimistic all the same. The two could be reaching out to him because they genuinely want to spend time with him and not just because they want to interrogate him out of some misplaced sense of worry.

Babs responds just as he’s about to start heading back.

‘It’s been a while since we got to be much of anything without work, and I’m sorry for that, though I do refuse to apologize for taking the time to establish myself as something more than just my injury. But I miss hanging out with you and just being Dick and Barbara.”

‘Don’t apologize, that’s on both of us, and I would never ask you to apologize for trying to establish yourself as a person, and I would never expect one. Maybe sometime this week? Gotham willing?’

‘Yeah, that sounds wonderful D.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me, I haven’t even done anything.’

When the next message comes through, Dick laughs, right in the middle of the park.

‘:P charmer’

He types out his response quickly.

‘<3 always’

He grins and starts jogging back to his apartment, feeling far better than when he left it.

When he gets back to the apartment he gets himself another glass of water, refilling it when he finishes it and reading Cass’ response.

‘Anywhere, park is nice, museum or dancing good too.’

He figures they could probably hang out at the park easily, but that going to a museum of some kind and then ending the day going out dancing or to see a dance recital would be nice. He texts the idea to Cass and receives a string of smiley faces in response. He laughs a little, and promises to look into a good museum and dance place or show for them to go to.

That all finished he goes through the files Babs sent through for him on his tablet and sorts the info she got for him as well as the info he already had, with all of it combined he’s able to close the case, well as closed as it can be before Dick goes out tonight to catch the guy, and he sends another quick thank you to Babs.

His cell rings, and this time he looks at the caller i.d before answering it, chuckling, “Hey Steph.”

“Hey, Dick! Wanna completely decimate Jason in Monopoly with me?” He can faintly hear what sounds like Jason protesting Steph’s words and she giggles, shushing him away from her phone’s mic.

He snorts, “I’m always up for completely decimating people in Monopoly.”

“Great! Get over here now, the asshole is trying to convince me he should be the banker and I refuse to let him handle anyone’s finances after the last time.”

Faintly, Dick hears Jason call out, “That wasn’t even me! That was the brat! He stole the bank, the entire bank!”

Steph snorts, calling back, “You act like I've never caught you cheating!”

Dick chuckles, “Steph you cheat in Monopoly as much as Jason does if not more.”

Steph huffs dismissively, “It’s Monopoly, everybody cheats, now get your butt over here and help me take the big bad Hood for all he’s worth.”

Dick laughs and Steph giggles, when they’ve both calmed down a bit, Dick responds, “Yeah, yeah. I’m going, just give me a minute to shower and change, I just got back from a run.”

She hums, “Right, okay hurry though or I’ll eat your portion of breakfast food and steal your favourite game piece.”

He rolls his eyes, mouth curled up into a smile, “Yes ma’am, your apartment?”

“Yeah, see ya in a bit!”

His grin softens, “See ya soon Steph, and tell Jason that complaining about the bank stealing is hypocritical of someone who stole most of the houses.”

Steph cackles as she hangs up and Dick chuckles, running a hand through slightly sweat-damped hair and grimacing. He grabs a change of clothes and a towel and locks the bathroom door, shucking his running clothes and turning the shower on to cold water, doing a quick rinse down and then shampooing his hair, the rain shower water feels thunderous and Dick feels as his heart begins to beat faster than it should, jackrabbiting as he rushes through the washing of his hair and body. He shuts the water off as soon as he can and towels dry, pulling on his pants and throwing his shirt over his head. He runs a hand through his hair, putting deodorant on and picking up his clothes, throwing them in the bin and throwing on a pair of socks and tennis shoes.

He grabs his key and locks up as he leaves, heading towards Stephanie’s apartment. The streets are busier now, full of people commuting to work and going about their daily business. It’s peaceful in it’s own chaotic Gotham way and helps keep Dick from losing himself in his head.

He hums to himself as he walks, making his way to the bus stop since a man jumping from rooftop to rooftop, especially a Wayne kid jumping from rooftop to rooftop, would attract unneeded attention.

It’s rather unfortunate, Dick’s always preferred that method of travel to buses and the like, it’s just more fun, more freeing than being trapped in an enclosed space.

He’s twitchy on the bus, despite his best efforts to keep from fidgeting, and he sighs in relief when he finally gets off, walking the rest of the way to Steph’s apartment feeling better.

Steph answers the door after his first knock and grins in greeting.

“Hello, my fine friend! Who is ready to destroy some lives and ruin some relationships!”

Dick laughs, answering with a simple “Hey Steph,” and she breaks out into a grin, flicking him on the arm before letting him in.

Jason is cooking, making pancakes as they enter and he looks up, narrowing his eyes at Dick. He watches him for a second before he nods at the two of them and returns back to the food, finishing up a batch of pancakes and starting to split the moderately sized stack onto three plates. There’s butter and syrup out, with blueberries, strawberries, and bananas next to them and Steph whoops as she’s handed her plate, far too energetic compared to how she usually is this time of the morning.

He thanks Jason a bit awkwardly, and the other shrugs, acting nonchalant even as he eyes Dick warily.

They’ve never really managed to sink into a balance, every time they almost do, something always comes up that throws everything out of whack again. And his relationship with Jason has always been rocky and violatile, explosive and fragile, which doesn’t really help either of them.

Steph smile is a bit tense as she sits, and she claps her hands together, smile growing into a threatening grin as she addresses the two of them, “Listen, the two of you are going to be civil and not do any of that stupid passive-aggressive shit here, okay? We are all going to have fun whether you like it or not.”

Dick snorts and Jason wrinkles his nose, sitting down with his own plate of pancakes. Dick grins, wryly and raises his fork in his little brother's direction, “Forced sibling fun time.”

Jason groans, burying his face in his hands, “That was probably one of the stupidest things I have ever heard you say Dickhead, and I’ve heard you say a lot of stupid shit.”

Steph rolls her eyes, “I doubt that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever said, and he is correct, this is forced sibling fun time which means that I call going first as the brilliant originator of this wonderful idea.”

Dick looks at her, eyebrow raised and a bemused expression, “I really don’t think that's how it works”, drawing the I out he glances to Jason for some support. Jason provides none of said support, looking between the two of them in something resembling amusement.

When he catches Dick looking at him he raises his hands in surrender, “Don’t look at me, Blondie might be insane, but she’s pretty fucking cool and I owe her for helping me with something.”

Dick chews on a strawberry, looking between the two in confusion, curious but unwilling to break the always fragile peace.

He shrugs, “We still have to at least pretend we’re playing by the rules you know.”

Steph hums thoughtfully, standing and making her way to the living room, setting up the board on the unused coffee table, “You have a point, all right, we roll to figure out the order we go in, but I chose my game piece first.”

Jason nods, “Yeah, that sounds good,” he smiles sharply, looking to Dick, “You ready to be bankrupt Dickhead?”

Dick grins, shark-like, “In your dreams, Jay.”

“Hey! Idiots! Pick out your pieces before I pick ‘em for you.” Steph calls, giving them a challenging once over, eyebrows raised and eyes dancing, “And boys? I’m pretty sure you’re both going to be bankrupt by the end of this.”

Jason smirks, playful, “Oh you’re fucking on Blondie.”

Dick huffs, “Please, you might be amazing Steph, but I am the reigning champ of Monopoly, gimme the car and roll the dice.”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you over your blatant lie, the one true champ of Monopoly will forever be Barbara and in the case she’s absent from a game, it’s Tim. Sorry Dick, but last I checked you regularly get your ass beat when you play Monopoly.” She sticks her tongue out, darting around the table to avoid his answering swat to her head.

Dick rolls his eyes as he seats, grabbing the car piece and placing it on the board, “Yeah, yeah, whatever, and people say I’m the five-year-old.”

Jason sniggers, picking out the hat and placing it down beside his piece, “That’s because you are, Steph is the slightly more mature ten-year-old.”

Dick pouts, as the two laugh, “Oh shut up. Steph, roll the die already.”

She waves her hand at him and does so, grinning when they reveal a combined total of 9.

After Jason and Dick roll, (Jason gets a 5 and Dick gets a 7) they start to play.

It goes well, and for all Monopoly ‘ruins relationships’, things aren’t any worse than they were last night or the night before. There’s a bit of tension still, sitting just under the surface in the form of all their issues and problems, but it’s nice.

Dick relaxes, not as upset or unstable as he was after the talk with Tim.

It was a good idea, coming here, despite his earlier anxieties.

Sometime later, after Dick obtains Boardwalk and Steph sticks a hotel on all the reds, Jason glares at the board.

He’s just set down a house on the last of his light blue properties and he’s bouncing his leg to the point the table is shaking as well.

Steph side-eyes him, concern etching itself across her face, Dick picks at his cuticles, debating whether bringing it up would hurt Jason or help him.

Finally, Dick clears his throat, “You good Jay?” Steph sends him a calculating look and turns back to the board, rolling the die and moving her piece.

Jason glares at him, clenching his jaw and squaring his shoulders and Dick holds his breath. But all Jason does is slump back down, all of the breath and fight leaving him in one go. He runs a hand through his hair and over his face, sighing.

“I was talking to Kori last night, after I got home, and I don’t know whether to be pissed at you or not.”

Dick freezes and barely manages to suppress a scream. What the fuck was up with things getting brought up just when he starts to not feel like shit? Why was it that every time he started to feel better something pops up to blow everything to smithereens?

He doesn’t say anything for a second, taking the die from where Steph left them and rolling, keeping his head down and on the board.

“Oh? What about?” He can see Steph out of the corner of his eye looking between the two of them with a frown, confused.

Jason grinds his teeth together, “You cheated on her?”

He forces himself to keep breathing normally, phantom words ringing in his ears, “Yeah, I thought you knew that already though?”

Jason makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, “Don’t say it like it’s something okay to do you piece of—” He cuts himself off, breathes harshly and clenches his jaw, “Yes, I knew, except no one ever explained it to me. All anyone ever said was that you cheated on her with some weird chick. Except that entire thing was always kind of weird as fuck, you slept with her cause she looked like Kori?” Dick shifts, rubbing the back of his neck.

Steph is watching him with narrowed eyes, “I think I remember hearing someone talk about that? I don’t really know, it happened a while before I came along.”

Dick sighs, feeling more exhausted by the second, “What’s there to know? I made a mistake and we broke up. That’s it, that's all there is to it.”

Jason stands, agitated, and paces, running his hands through his hair, “Obviously not considering Mirage looks nothing like Kori, how would you mistake them for each other? The whole thing is sketchy, Kori said you didn't know you cheated. What is that all about?”

Dick brings his hand up to his face, rubbing at his eyes and trying to fight the nausea down.

"Clearly you've read up on it Jay, you've read the files, that's all there is to it. It was my mistake, I didn't pay attention and fucked up and that's all you need to know."

Jason stares at him, disbelieving, and when he speaks next, it’s quiet, considering, "See, I was pissed at first, and you acting like it didn’t matter made me wanna punch you because Kori sounded really fucking upset about it. But—” Jason pauses, watching him and Dick feels frozen, see-through.

Jason narrows his eyes, switching tracks, “Either you cheated or you didn't, which is it? Because I know what this sounds like Dickie, and it's not you cheating on Kori, not when you weren’t aware it wasn’t Kori."

He wants to scream and cry until his voice gives out and his lungs give in, or until Jason stops looking at him like that. He wants to hit something. Get rid of this tired, sick feeling in his chest, lash out until his knuckles are bloody and the horrid thing in his chest goes away.

He grits his teeth, head pounding, and tries to get his words in order, his tongue feels heavy and he doesn’t feel completely attached to his body. He’s trying to focus on Jason and Steph instead of the laughter and jeers in the back of his head, focus on the living room instead of the sick feeling in his chest after realizing how he’d betrayed Kori, and it isn’t working.

He tastes iron on his tongue, and he realizes hazily, that he bit into the side of his cheek, and that the stinging in his hands is from clenching them tight enough that his fingernails dug in and caused another set of bloodied crescents.

He clears his throat, swallowing thickly, “I cheated on her, that’s what happened, don’t make it into something it isn’t. I made a mistake, couldn’t tell my girlfriend and someone who amounted to a practical stranger apart and while Kori was gone we had sex and when Kori came back Mirage told everyone what happened and Kori and I broke up.”

He laughs, bitter and sharp, and sucks in a ragged breath, “We broke up, it’s over, it was years ago. Now drop it, it was consensual, I said yes and all that jazz and I’ll forever be sorry for hurting her but enough people have chewed me out for it okay? So shut up and play the fucking board game.”

He glares, desperate and angry and terrified, just wanting to move on and not talk about it. Steph is staring at him, pale and wide-eyed and Jason looks furious, jaw clenched, knuckles white and eyes more green than blue.

Steph reaches out a hesitant hand, and Dick sits rigidly as she grips his hand.

He thinks he might be shaking.

Jason breathes deeply, clenching and unclenching his hands. It’s quiet for a second, as Dick tries to find his footing and Steph holds his sweating, shaky hand in her stable one. She’s moved past her shock and into righteous anger and Dick isn’t sure he has the energy to deal with that.

Jason curses and sits onto the couch heavily.

He runs a hand over his face, pushing his hair back and folding his hands over his mouth, “Dick, that’s not your fault, it doesn’t matter that you said yes. You said yes, to your girlfriend, to Kori. That isn’t cheating. Fuck Dick, that’s rape.”

Dick stands, ripping his hand out of Steph’s and hissing, “Shut up,” He ruffles his hair, hands gripping at the strands and pulling them tightly, when he speaks next his voice is hard, “It wasn’t. It wasn’t. Stop treating it like it was. I’m over it, I’m past it, I acknowledge it was my fault just stop.”

Steph is blurry in his vision, his eyes growing wet with tears, burning, and his head is pounding, but she raises placating hands, voice even, “Hey, breathe, just breathe. We aren’t trying to start shit okay? This isn’t us having a go at you or blaming you for shit that wasn’t your fault, but you need to breathe, calm down.”

He’s trying, god he’s trying, but his lungs aren’t working right and it hurts and his head is pounding and all he can hear are the taunts and jeers and the first time people found out he slept with Mirage instead of Kori. All the insults and accusations over something that made him sick to think about. He breathes through it though, in-out-in-out.

Hydrogen, Lithium, Sodium, Potassium—

His breathing is shaky and his eyes are still watery, but he’s not as far gone as before and he’s still standing—swaying really, but it’s better than ending up on the ground.

“I’m fine,” he breathes out, “I’m fine, it’s nothing.”

Jason’s face is carefully neutral as he stands up off the couch walks over, and Dick suppresses the urge to grab him into a hug and bawl over him like a child, and he feels the mountains of guilt well up.

Jason guides him over to the counter and sits beside him, and Steph reappears with three cups of tea—mint, his favourite—and hands them out. Dick takes his with trembling hands and he hates his body and his brain for doing this, he hates Jason for bringing it up in the first place and Steph for being so infuriating calm and careful when usually she’s not. He hates that there was nothing that should’ve sent him spiraling into this state and yet here he is. All because someone was asking what happened, telling him it’s not his fault.

He doesn’t know what to do with that, he’s accepted the blame for what happened, he’s accepted the ridicule and shame and anger and it’s been years, and acceptance and absolution is the thing that sets him off.

Jason speaks, shaking with anger and voice hard, “It’s not nothing, it’s not your fault, and it sucks that it happened to you and I’m so fucking sorry no one told you this before, that the failed Robins had to be the ones to talk to you about this.” Jason sighs voice softening, like it would if he was talking to a victim, “But Dick, this was years ago, and you’ve been carrying it around all of that time without telling anyone or working through it or any of that healthy shit and you aren’t okay.” Dick swallows, inhaling sharply as he avoids Jason’s eyes and Steph nudges him softly over as she sits.

“I know that none of us really, healthily at least, deal with anything. And like, we’re all fucked up because of it and other factors, but most of the time we are aware of it. We know it’s a thing and we deal with it.” She sighs, making a vague hand gesture that encompassed Dick’s general area, “This? This is none of that. This is denial and not being able to move on because you haven’t even accepted it happened to you, and I’m sure there’s some type of mental condition that can describe it better if you talked to Leslie or Dinah about it.” She pauses, sighing, and he fidgets, feeling trapped between the two of them as Jason pretends to fiddle with his phone, too much and too heavy talk at a time when he still isn’t completely comfortable with the family for him to contribute much more for now.

He wants to say something, but all the words have dried up in his throat and he just feels small. Young and scared, and a little like the boy who watched his parents fall and die doing one of the things they loved the most.

Steph frowns, picking at her cuticles, “What you did, are doing, is denying and pushing it away because of some reason or multiple reasons, I don’t know, but there’s something and you’re letting it fuck around with your head, and it sits there with you letting it build and build and build the longer it goes unaddressed.”

He wrinkles his nose briefly, leg bouncing and hands twisting and picking at his skin, Jason stops his hand. He doesn’t grab the wrist though, instead, he grabs so that he’s holding the palm of his hand, and it’s a small thing that has him confused. And he realizes that Jason’s trying to avoid triggering him by gripping his wrist because Dick still hasn’t said anything much about what happened, and they aren’t asking either, not interrogating him over the events, just trying to drill it into his head that what happened wasn’t his fault.

Logically he knows they’re right, that the word isn’t ‘cheating’ but ‘rape’, but it hurts to think about and saying it happened to him, or that that’s what it was, makes his throat close up and his mouth run dry. And for all that he was taught to operate on intel and logic, trauma—and that is what this is, he recognizes that—has a weird way of making your brain work, rarely to your benefit.

And he could say all of that, he could dump everything onto them, but he needs to know something because it doesn’t make sense, “Why do you guys care now of all times? Nothing’s changed in the past year. It’s been years and I’m over it.”

Steph shakes her head, firm in a way she only is for things that are important, “That doesn’t matter.” Dick chews at the bitten skin on his cheek, avoiding her eyes and staring at the wall, Steph makes a frustrated noise, “Dick, listen to me, it doesn’t matter how long ago it was. It happened to you and that’s stuck with you now, you can’t change that and I’m sorry, all you can do is try and cope with it.”

He takes a sip from his tea, not sure whether the ball of emotion that sits coiled in his chest is anger or frustration or horror or humiliation. It sits there, under a cover of notavictim, notbroken didn’thappennottome, don’ttalkaboutit, that leaves him in a merry-go-round of emotion, it makes him feel justified in his anger at the way they’re babying him. He’s pinballing between crying and panic attacks and thankfulness and anger and nothing makes any sense.

He grits his teeth as he sets the cup down harder than he should, and his voice is half frantic and half furious, “Don’t talk to me like I don’t understand, I get it, it happened to me, I’ve talked people through what could have been if I hadn't been there and the aftermath of when I wasn’t and I know what trauma is, what that looks like and does and it’s not me.” This was not what he wanted to talk about, to think about, because if this was really—if it was. Then—then the night on the rooftop.

He sucks in another breath, trying to keep himself steady, he’s not sure it works, “I’m not a victim, I’m not someone who was used because there was no one to save me,” His breath feels restricted, and his voice is sharp but trembling and it makes the ball of anger well up within him, “I just—that’s not—it’s not how it went! That wasn’t how it worked, it was my fuck up and it messed me up for a little bit, yes, but it—it wasn’t—it couldn’t have been—I was never—.”

He breaks off, gasping for breath, trying to put his thoughts into words and failing, tongue leaden and mouth filled with cotton.

Distantly he thinks he can feel someone’s hands on his arms and fingers running through his hair, but his eyes are completely blurred and they might be telling him to breathe or calm down but he isn’t sure because his hearing is fuzzy and stuck in the past.

He’s collapsing in on himself, the wall he’s tried to keep between himself and his memories is crashing down and all he can do is weather the fallout of it.

Hydrogen, Lithium, Sodium, Potassium, distantly he hears frantic, raspy murmuring and a deeper voice speaking in measured tones, urging someone to breathe and to stop tearing at their hair, he thinks they’re talking to him. His hands are stiff and achy and there are pricks and pins of pain in his head, so it's probably him they’re talking to, but he doesn’t know when he did that. Isn’t sure when his hands found their way into his hair and started to pull and tear and hurt. But it sends sparks of pain that make him aware of how labored his breathing still is.

Manganese, Tech—Technetium, Rhenium, Bohrium,

Even then, it takes a little while before he realizes that it’s his voice he’s hearing that’s so panicky, and it takes him about that same amount of time to place the deep voice with Jason who is trying to calm him down from a decade’s worth of words, thoughts, and beliefs crashing down around him.

He can feel his mouth moving a little too slow, words slurring together, and at some point, someone—Stephanie, based on the voice—begins to name the elements with him, and slowly breathing comes easier.

He’s a mess, and his head is pounding as if someone took Harely’s mallet to his skull multiple times, his eyes are irritated and raw, and his scalp hurts from his tearing.

He feels drained and disgusting, and there’s a giant knot of emotions sitting inside his chest right now that’s so unbearably tight and tangled up that he feels like he’s choking on them, but he feels so empty at the same time and it’s too much and too confusing and his processing is absolutely shot.

He lists to the side, collapsing onto someone’s shoulder, and feels his limbs give out. Right now he’s so unbearably exhausted that getting up from the ground—he isn’t quite sure how he got here, can’t recall, faintly he thinks he remembers it happening but he doesn’t know for sure—seems like a monumental task. He’s tired and miserable and humiliated and he just wants this to be over.

A cup is pressed into his hands and he opens his eyes—and when did he close them? He can’t remember—to see Jason sit down heavily onto the chair across from him.

“That,” he begins, gesturing towards Dick, “was a trauma response.”

And Dick wants to argue, but he’s too tired and he can’t work up the energy to deny the, now, very obvious.

Instead, he avoids looking at either Stephanie or Jason, staring intently at the table.

Jason sighs, “C’mon big bird, look at me,” He doesn’t want to, what he wants to do is disappear, fade away and make the ugly things stop. It’s childish and stupid but at this point, he doesn’t care, he just wants everything to stop hurting so much.

“Dick.”

Slowly, he raises his head, still refusing to look Jason in the eyes, and Jason sighs, “You’re the one who’s always trying to get us to talk about shit Dickie, so take your own fucking advice.” He runs a hand through his hair, “You need to talk to someone Dick. And if that doesn’t help you then you find something else that helps, but this shit that you’re doin’ ain’t healthy, and it’s fucking with your head. You do what Bruce does and Bruce is all kinds of fucked up, everyone is fucked up here. It’s like a requirement of being Robin, ‘Kids with trauma and/or sad backstories that wish to fight for justice wanted, black hair preferred, will compromise.’”

Dick bites his tongue, not wanting to fight right now, not again, and not when Jason looks so tense and uncomfortable—whether with the subject or with having to be the one trying to calm down and help Dick he isn’t sure—and especially not when Dick is still trying to keep himself where he is instead of floating away.

Besides, he can’t deny that Jason has a point.

Steph snorts and her shoulder shakes, moving Dick up and down, “I’m the exception aren’t I, what a fucking call out.”

Jason gives her a shit-eating grin, still looking stiff and rigid, but now that he’s seen Jason like this, Dick realizes just how tense Jason was while they were playing Monopoly, even before the topic of Kori and Dick and Mirage was brought up.

If he was capable of feeling anything else today, he knows that would’ve made him sad, would’ve made him feel stupid to miss.

But as it stands, all he feels is tired.

He’s been using that word far too often recently.

(He says recently as if he hasn’t been feeling strung out and tired like this for years.)

And Jason or Steph must notice, or they might just be able to tell that he won’t talk about it anymore today, because Jason moves to the kitchen and starts cooking dinner and Steph starts to reset the Monopoly board.

It’s almost like they’re trying to redo the night, rewind time until they get to the beginning of the day again. Like maybe if they try hard enough, they can all pretend that the entire conversation never happened.

That might just be wishful thinking on his part though.

Jason is uncomfortable and unsure and it shows, in the curt responses and snarky remarks that border the line between harsh and funny.

Jason handles emotions by retreating into anger and being productive, and right now the other is retreating into his go-to defense mechanism because no matter how prepared Jason thought he was when bringing the topic up, he didn’t prepare himself enough.

Dick doesn’t want this to go downhill, doesn’t want to be the reason Jason withdraws when he has just started growing closer with the family again. He tries to find something to say that's not inflammatory or dangerous for any of them.

It's not an easy thing to do, not with all of the issues that lie between the three of them. Their family isn't a stable one, most times it isn't even really a happy one. And that is easy to see sometimes, in the cracks that show through.

He turns to Steph, "Have you and Cass hung out any? Besides the dinner and bust, I mean?"

Steph hums, re-sorting the Monopoly money into piles after their last game—which Jason was the winner of—speaking absentmindedly, "We got to train a little bit but we haven't solidly hung out yet. We planned to go somewhere tomorrow or the day after, Gotham willing, but other than that we've just been texting occasionally."

Dick nods distantly, chancing a glance at Jason. Jason is reading, turning the pages every once and a while with methodical movements.

He responds to Steph a bit belatedly, realizing a little too late that he's started falling into the silence, losing himself in his head, "That's great! It's nice to have Cass around, we were planning to go see a museum and a dance performance, or something like that, soon." He chuckles a bit, "She's having me do some training with her soon and—"

He hesitates a little, though he isn't sure why, and shifts in his seat a bit, "I apologized, when I picked her up, I mean, for the whole—" He cuts himself off with a wave of his hand, not sure how to word it, "The whole thing."

Jason startles the slightest bit, and he looks up towards Dick, Steph's eyes cutting up to him from the property cards. And, for some reason, the two sets of eyes on him feel judging, condemning.

It makes something in him curl up and want to hide away, so he clears his throat, head jutting up, and meets their gazes as best he can.

"I am known to apologize occasionally you know."

He says it with the intent to chastise them, but it comes out a bit harsher, more defense, than that and the two of them exchange looks before they return to their tasks.

They still aren’t talking.

He thinks the silence might drive him insane.

The game had gone fine, dinner was delicious, (Jason might not yet be to Alfred-levels of cooking but he was pretty fucking close) and while they had been playing Monopoly they had been having fun.

So much fun in fact that it was to the point where it was almost like the Talk—which Dick was regulating to capitals instead of actually thinking about what they had discussed, because he couldn't afford to process it right now, it would have to wait until he was anywhere but here—had never happened.

But sometimes he would find them watching him, not in overly obvious ways of course—Bruce had taught them better than that—but watching him all the same, and every time he would find himself feeling like a specimen being studied, or a glass object that needed to be handled with gloves.

(Feeling like a victim)

And he hated it, but those moments happened few and far between, and, for the most part, he just enjoyed his time spent with the members of the family he didn't get to see like this as much, happy and engaging with him in ways that weren't fights (at least in Jason's case) and without the mantle of Robin choking them all (which was true for both Stephanie and Jason).

The joy and outrage and all those other warm and fuzzy and slightly murderous feelings that came from playing Monopoly with both people you were family with and who also cheated like there was no tomorrow were refreshing. And, much like early that morning, after his conversation with Tim went bad and Steph called him, Dick found himself relaxing.

But now the game was finished and the discussions and banter had slowed to a halt, and with the next game still being set up and neither Steph or Jason talking—which in and of itself was slightly out of character for both of them and made Dick the slightest bit anxious—he could feel himself growing antsy. A buzz under his skin that begged for release.

He was drifting, half still with his body and half gone, still not completely over the panic, the feeling of notrealnotrealnotreal still scratching at the back of his mind.

He fiddles with his hands, fingers pinching and prodding at his palms and arms. Twisting and drumming and tapping and scratching. He watches, humming a song he doesn't know the name of but that’s upbeat and annoying in a way that helps pull him from the unfeeling of not being inside his body.

Jason scrunches his nose up in a way that brought back memories of a tiny kid who was so full of energy and excitement and a need to be loved, and Dick smiles softly before a frown makes its way onto his face.

He only got to see it a few times before Jason died.

Jason is regret and guilt and a reflection of all the ways Dick failed as a brother, the first time, angry and distant and cold in ways he shouldn't have been. And sometimes Dick thinks that Jason knows it.

Guilt can be an ugly thing. Dick tries not to keep it with him, because that's what Bruce does and all that does is rip him to shreds inside and cause him to make questionable decisions that just drive walls and wedges in between himself and those who love him and Dick doesn't want that.

But Dick learned from Bruce in too many ways, and this was one of them.

He's drawn back to himself when he hears Steph speak, "Dick you're going to peel your skin off if you keep doing that."

He scrunches his nose up, flopping onto his back dramatically and whining, "But Steph I'm bored."

Jason snorts and looks up from his book, raising an eyebrow at him and deadpanning, "Tragic, whatever shall we do. The great Dick Grayson is bored."

Dick pouts, while Stephanie laughs rolling over onto his stomach and pillowing his face with his arms.

"You guys are mean."

Jason smirks at him, "Truly, a tragedy"

Steph giggles, "Oh, indeed. It's only the most tragic of tales, Dick Grayson has to wait for the measly blonde to finish sorting the cards."

Dick sits up, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation, "It's not my fault you're taking just about the longest time you could possibly take to finish setting this thing up."

Steph sticks her tongue out at him and Jason chuckles from his seat as he sets his book down, "Blondie you are, truly, the epitome of maturity."

Steph throws Jason a glare and makes a sign with her hand that is not meant for polite company.

Jason laughs and Steph rolls her eyes, dramatically setting the cards in her hand down, making a grand gesture with her arm soon after, "Behold! I have finished the setup you impatient asshole, and you may both begin getting your asses kicked by me."

Dick whoops, glad to be filling the room with noise again, and finally having a way to get rid of the anxiety still present within him in a semi-constructive way again.

(He isn't sure if the anxiety is better or worse than the bone-deep exhaustion, he's trying not to think about it.

Like most things in his life, he isn't really succeeding.)

They take turns once more to roll the die and Dick is glad to see that he gets to go first this time around. He's determined to beat Jay and Steph this game.

(Spoiler alert, he doesn't. Steph, true to her word, kicks both Jason and his asses so deep into bankruptcy it's almost embarrassing.)

Chapter Text

It's been a couple of days since the disastrous conversation with Tim, the Monopoly day and the accidental Talk, and Dick is finding himself on somewhat stable ground once more. He isn't perfect, in fact, he barely feels okay most of the time, but it's still better than it was.

Sometimes.

Most of the time.

He's not really sure, to be completely honest, he thinks he should be feeling better, feels like since he isn't completely breaking down then he should feel leagues better. Especially now that he's been given absolution, even if only by two people, but—.

But he doesn't, not really.

He's not really always there, is the problem. And when you don't have a body, just a useless sack of flesh and nerves and muscles and bone, then you can't really tell when you feel okay, or better, or horrible.

Because there isn't any feeling, no emotions either really, the only ones able to peek through being anger and self-loathing and disgust. And those aren't productive at all.

He tries shaking it off, really he does, he goes on runs, he goes swimming, takes showers, eats, trains. Anything he can think of to shake the numb empty feeling, the disconnect he has with his own body.

And the feeling comes and goes, not always a constant but never truly gone. It's hard to describe and hurts his head to think about, truthfully he doesn't want to anyway, because there isn't any way he can think of to explain it or understand it except that it just is.

He just is, and it's a strange half-existence for a little while, patrolling and training and jogging and looking for jobs when he has a chance in his downtime, which isn't all that often considering how many extra things he's attempting to take on.

He breathes out, not knowing exactly what to do with himself. There’s a buzzing under his skin and he finds it hard to care whether he goes out today or not. There isn’t really a point and all he’d be doing is going through some stupid motions to get through the day. He feels like he's stuck, moving through molasses and forced to just watch as his body does things.

He stares ahead chest aching and empty. For some reason a fact pops up in his head, a memory from when he was researching psychology.

Up to 75% of people experience at least one depersonalization/derealization episode in their lives, but only 2% have chronic episodes.

He remembers it used to fascinate him, the idea that so many people could feel like they weren’t in their body, but 2% of people felt like it consistently. 2% of people had useless sacks of bone and nerves more often than they had bodies and awareness.

It’s a stupid little fact, a stupid little recollection, but it’s what he remembers, laying in bed with his feelings numbed and his skin stiff and plasticky.

He has to get up.

He needs to meet up with Cass to train today, they hadn't actually decided where they were training yet, so he has to do that, but other than that he finds that he's actually somewhat excited about it. He fights against the numbness and the wall between himself and his emotions, it doesn’t work. The excitement is still dulled and half there. He sighs and hopes that it wears off soon.

He gets up and, after getting ready to go for the day and finishing his morning jog, heads out of the apartment and goes to the little cafe that's about a block or so from the store. He likes it and doesn't feel like making food today so it's nice, especially since he's been meaning to come back to it sometime. What better time to do so than today?

It's busier than it was the last time it was here, but not by much. The same woman from last time is here as well, she looks a little more awake this time. He smiles as he walks up to the counter, the soft background music a nice calming little thing.

She seems to recognize him, because she smiles widely, "Hey! Glad to see you back again Stranger."

"Hi there miss," he smiles, "I just couldn't resist the sweet smell of coffee and food while I was walking past."

(No need to tell her that despite his okayish day making food still sometimes seemed like too big a task, that's not something everyone needed to know. No one needs to know how useless he can be.)

She laughs, folding her arms over her stomach loosely, "Well, that is most certainly a good thing in my book."

He nods, speaking as he looks at the menu, "I imagine it would be, and the atmosphere is really enjoyable, I liked it a lot the last time I was here too, the fact it feels the same even when a bit busier is a nice plus."

She nods in understanding, "Yeah the atmosphere is definitely a giant plus when it comes to working the morning shift.”

He laughs along with her feeling vaugely out of it, “I would imagine so, especially in Gotham.”

She snorts, “Oh most certainly, Gotham is always crazy, I’m just glad I have morning shift and not the night shift.”

Dick laughs a bit, "Yeah, Gotham at night is not wonderful."

She sighs, rubbing at her forehead, "God do we all know it. It gets annoying at times, we have an opening and so everyone is always trying to avoid the late afternoon shift and the graveyard shift."

He leans against the counter, using his hands to hold him up, "Oh wow, that's kind of funny because I've actually been looking for a job." He smiles self-deprecatingly at her, "And of course, because it's Gotham, offers aren't exactly the most enticing."

She snorts, "God do I know. Looking for a job sucked in the beginning, you have to sift through dozens and dozens of the weirdest and shitiest jobs and most obvious villain or gang plots."

He nods, yawning and bringing a hand up to cover his mouth, he checks the time and runs a hand through his hair, "Damn I need to get going." He smiles up at her, "Sorry to cut the conversation short, and to carry it out that long when you're working, but I need to run so could I please have the large iced mocha with 2 shots of espresso?"

She grins, "Don't worry about it! You were the only one waiting anyways, and it was nice talking to you. Is that going to be all for you?"

Dick hums indecisively, "I should probably eat huh, um could I also get the croissant please?"

"Sure! That's going to be $7.28 please."

He passes her a 10 and she gives him his change. He’s turning to leave when suddenly she calls him back, "Hold on, Dick you said last time right?" He nods and she continues on, "Great, are you still looking for that job? Because you could probably apply here and do an interview sometime."

Dick grins brightly at her, "Yeah, I'm still looking, that sounds awesome, I'll definitely try that. Is there a good time to come in for the interview?"

She gets out a pen and a notebook, "Here, come in around 5 pm on Tuesday and that should work!" She tears the paper out and hands it to him.

He takes it, grinning, "Thank you, Anita."

She grins, "It's no problem, I hope to see you again soon!"

“You too Anita, Have a good day.”

“You as well Dick.”

He waits a bit for his food and when it’s all ready to go, he grabs it and leaves. He waves to Anita as he leaves and she waves back, turning back to her customer as they give their order.

It’s nice out today.

__________

Cass texts him a few minutes after he leaves the cafe, telling him to meet her at his apartment for the training session.

If he were anyone else, and if Cass was anyone else, that would be concerning. As it is, he's grown used to people dropping into his apartment uninvited. But that doesn't mean he isn't still cautious, if he lets his guard down too much after entering his apartment, if he ensures he's secure or not, then it could be the difference between dying again for real this time or living.

He unlocks the door, disabling his security and listening as best he can. Predictably he doesn't hear anything. But that isn't always a reliable tell if someone is present or not, mostly because some people are trained to not make a sound.

So he stays on edge, ready to fight if need be, but his alarms were all still in place and he's pretty secure in the knowledge of his safety.

When he enters the kitchen he's mostly relaxed, and he finds Cass sitting on the counter, swinging her feet back and forth as she waits for him. She looks up at him as he enters the room, blinking wide eyes at him and smiling softly.

He grins, body language relaxing, opening up and projecting love and care as best as he can, “Hey Cass.”

Cass angles her body towards him as she hops off the counter silently. She smiles with her eyes and projects as many positive emotions as she can in her movements and actions.

Dick can't read body language half as well as she can, but he can see how happy she is to see him.

He finishes off his coffee and throws the plastic cup away, "Is it not a speaking day?"

Cass wrinkles her nose, shaking her head. She's learned to speak English since she came into their lives, but some days she gets frustrated trying to find words to describe what she knows and will revert back to her first language of body language and not speak vocally. She knows that not all of them will always understand her, and that's frustrating for her, but when those moments happen she uses sign language to get the words across.

Today, it seems, is one of those days.

He smiles at her, moving his uncooperating limbs and making is body project and kindess and reassurance, "Don't worry about it, words are difficult sometimes. You eat today?"

She hums, nodding and gesturing to the kitchen sink, where, now that he's looking, Dick can see a rinsed off plate resting.

He nods, "Good, you wanna start then?"

Cass grins, nodding, pausing for a second and reaching out to pat Dick lightly on the arm.

She scrunches her nose up and signs, 'You're weird today, sorry for that, sparring help? We can wait.'

Dick links hands with Cass and swings their arms back and forth, "It's fine Cass, we can spar still. It'll do me some good to be distracted, just a bit stuck in my head is all."

Cass nods, content for now, and walks towards the door, dragging him along behind her.

Dick startles, "Where are we going?"

Cass pauses, turning towards him, and wrinkles her nose, moving her hands in front of her chest and signing, 'Didn't think of that.'

Dick laughs, "We've been planning this for like a week Cass." She rolls her eyes at him, making a shooing gesture with her hand.

'Excited, forgot about the actual needing space part.'

Dick laughs, shaking his head in exasperation, "Cass, I love you."

She beams putting her hand up, palm facing out, with all but the middle and ring fingers up.

'I love you'.

She watches him for a second tilting her head slightly, eyebrows furrowing as she takes in his body language.

'Okay to hug?' she asks, opening her arms after.

He nods and just about falls into her arms. She stands sturdy, despite the height and weight difference she doesn't even sway, wrapping her arms around him. He's only about five inches taller than her, but he still has to bend down to bury his head into her shoulder.

He wraps his arms around her shoulders, and feels her arms squeeze around his middle comfortingly, letting the hug settle something in him that's always a little bit broken, a bit needy.

He sighs, humming in contentment.

"Thanks, Cass."

She hums, patting his head gently.

Slowly she pulls away, looking up at him and tilting her head slightly in question.

'Train now? Manor?'

Dick hesitates, but nods. It's easy to access and it provides a good spot for working out, training, and sparring without any uncomfortable questions for the family.

And there's room there, unlike Dick's little apartment.

Cass watches him, eyes tracking his movements with concern, and added to the complete breakdown he had when he picked her up from the airport Dick understands why she would be worried about him. He just doesn't want her to be. She has bigger problems to deal with than Dick and his drama, and he's had a handle on them all for years now, the breakdowns with Cass, Jason, and Steph notwithstanding.

But for the most part he's doing, not well, but something close to it, maybe.

He's fooling no one, least of all himself, but he doesn't want to dwell on that for now, wants to focus on the good before he drives himself mad with the bad.

Alfred greets them at the door and Cass smiles, brightly, from behind Dick and his sheepish grin.

Alfred still isn't the happiest with any of them, but he smiles the slightest bit, just the faintest twitch of his lip as he sees the two of them, but a smile all the same.

Dick waves a little awkwardly, “Hey Alfie, sorry again about the living room.”

Alfred ushers them both into the Manor, tutting, “Nonsense, you cleaned up after yourselves after all, and I don’t doubt it helped you all get along a bit better, yes?” He sends them both a severe look, raised eyebrow and all, and Dick and Cass both nod, “Then so long as nothing like it happens again, I can forgive a bit of fun.”

He gives them one of those secret smiles and winks, like he would do when he would catch Dick on the trapeze when he was grounded and Bruce was gone. Going through the soothing motions until he would realize Alfred was there and scramble down. But Alfred would only ever give him that look—and that secret little smile he rarely managed to catch the explanation of—which was followed by cookies and tea and, when Dick questioned whether Alfred would tell Bruce about it or not, Alfred’s response was, “There’s nothing to tell Master Bruce about now is there?”

It’s a nice memory, and it makes Dick wonder what Alfred sees when he looks at them all, both individually and together.

Alfred questions their health and well being as they make their way into the main rooms and makes sure to add, wryly, “I do trust you both ate today.”

Cass huffs, amused, and nods, while Dick rolls his eyes exasperatedly and sighs, “Yes Alfred, I promise.”

Alfred leaves soon after, not before asking what they want for tea of course, but once that's all sorted he leaves them to their own devices.

Cass is practically, for her at least, buzzing as they reach the sparring mats in the cave. She's excited and Dick understands that completely, he's excited too. This is her way of having him welcome her back, not counting the mortifying sob fest the actual welcome back was, and it's great. Not to mention that it helps keep them in shape fighting against people with differing styles. Spend too much time fighting against a certain group of people and your skills with fighting against others with a different skill type could grow depleted.

For example, Dick is already well aware that Cass will wipe the floor with him, she's had far more training of a far more advanced kind and a far more rigorous training schedule. She was born and raised to be the 'perfect weapon', and he was born and raised an acrobat. That’s just the facts.

There are differences in how they fight, how they're built, how they react to certain moves.

If Cass gets hit, on the rare times this is the case (considering she can usually read the attacker's body language well enough to know where they'll hit next), she delivers quickly timed and well thought out responses to bring her opponent down. When Dick gets hit, he dances out of reach and strikes spastically.

When it comes down to it, it's their styles really. Cass is all ballet; regimented, sure, sharp, and planned. She has more taekwondo and muay thai in her fighting style than any others. Dick is more the flowing ease of jazz and swing, the embellishments of freestyle and the tricks of the circus that are still buried deep into his blood. He's has learned various martial arts and blends it all together to create his own fighting style.

They fall into sparring stances as soon as they reach the mat. And the air is filled with the buzzing excitement they both have. Cass bounces lightly on the balls of her feet patiently waiting. The playful air of the spar letting them smile as both of them wait for the other to strike first.

Finally, Cass strikes, giving no warning before she lands a hit to his side, Dick grunts as he, barely, manages to avoid her and Cass flits away before he can land a retaliating hit. Her eyes are smiling as she raises an eyebrow and holds up a finger.

Dick huffs, conceding the first 'blood' drawn so to say, is by Cass.

She falls back into a ready stance quickly afterward bouncing between feet as she readies herself to move and Dick readjusts his center of balance as he aims a sweeping kick at her legs. She jumps over his leg and lands on the balls of her feet, poised and cat-like on the ground. Striking out with a hit that Dick spins away from.

He retaliates with a feint to her side and sticks his leg between hers, hooking around her foot and yanking his foot towards himself, tripping her. He stands back up quickly after. Cass goes down, rolling and getting back up as fast as she can. There’s a second though, where she remains disoriented.

He uses that second for all it's worth though, aiming a strike at her pressure point and a punch to her stomach. She catches the strike and, just as she regains her balance enough to either strike out or dodge away, his punch lands on her stomach with a thud and she grunts in pain.

She wrinkles her nose, annoyed. She moves quickly, hands gripping his arm and tightening. She spins, smooth and quick. She flips him over her shoulder. He’s airborne one second, and then, just as suddenly—.

His back hits the mat with a thud. The air leaves his lungs. He’s disoriented and from one second to the next there’s fingers on his neck, and then two hands wrapped firmly around his throat.

Cass has climbed onto his stomach, pinning him. She grins and it’s eerily similar to Steph or Jason—whoever she picked it up from first—wide and please.

Shit-eating and self-satisfied.

It’s here where he tenses, the weight on his stomach and hips bringing back less than pleasant memories, but he shakes it off and rolls his eyes as he taps out, conceding defeat.

It’s fine.

Cass climbs off of him, giving him a concerned look, but he just smiles and tries to shake it off the best he can, ignoring the creeping feeling in his chest of wrongwrongbadstoppleasepoison and dusting himself off.

He looks over at Cass, “Again?”

She looks him over in consideration, trying to see if something's wrong. He keeps his body open and relaxed and she finally nods in assent.

He throws her a grin as he drops into a ready stance, "Wonderful, a chance to earn back my dignity by beating you for once."

She gives him an unimpressed look and he laughs, "Oh come on Cass! Let me have my delusions of grandeur."

She continues to level him with her ‘Alfred’ stare of disapproval and/or doubt, but her eyes are smiling and she huffs lightly, amused.

He gives her a wide grin and she uses that opening to her advantage. She lunges forward too quickly for him to catch before she lands a hit, so he dodges as best and as quick as he can instead. She sweeps her leg out and he backflips over it, avoiding the trip and landing away from her. She sits in a crouch, eyes watching, and waiting for his next move. He moves cautiously, watching her. He strikes out, aiming a punch to her kidney. The hit is blocked, bouncing off Cass's forearm and he spins away and around, kicking her side.

She grunts, releasing a flurry of punches that has him scrambling to block them in time. He's one of the faster vigilantes, not including the speedsters, but Cass's speed rivals his own and she's at 100 percent right now while he's still kind of exhausted and not in the best headspace.

The end result is predictable, she knocks him backward and tackles him to the ground, waiting for him to either tap out or fight back. She sits, perched on top of his hips once more and he sucks in a breath.

He knows, logically, that he's in the cave. Underground and having a friendly spar with his sister. That Blüd has long since been destroyed. That the cave is damp and dark and below Gotham and not a rooftop high above Bludhaven.

But there's someone warm and heavy on his hips, keeping him still and he can't.

He can smell the blood, staining his soul, and the petrichor in the air. He can feel the rain falling against his skin, wet and cold. His head feels foggy, and he doesn't feel completely connected to his body anymore. He tries to remember that the body he's in, made up of muscles and bones and nerves, is his and real. But everything is melding together. He can feel the mat against his back, and that isn't the hard roof that scratched his back up while Cat—Tarantula, when she—when he let her fuck him in the rain in Blüd.

It helps a little.

He opens his eyes—not entirely sure when they closed—and tries to focus. It's hard, his eyes keep drifting around and he can't quite focus, someone is shaking his shoulders and touching his face and arms and he feels bile crawling up his throat.

There are hands all over him, touching and touching and they don't stop and he can't fucking breathe, god why won't fucking it stop he doesn't want this (he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t, he swears he doesn’t, pleasepleaseplease), he can feel her lipstick all over him, staining him just as much as Desmond's blood stains his conscious. He's dirty and poisonous. His chest burns and he can feel her hips moving against his, hear her pants and moans and he chokes on a cry.

He sucks in a breath, ragged and heaving—distantly, he realizes that he’d been holding his breath—and then there’s movement that he can somewhat make out, but his eyesight is blurred and his gasps echo.

It didn't—isn't?—shouldn't echo, not in the rain, not with the sound of raindrops falling and the sounds of sex crescendoing over it all. He tries to focus on that, to let the sounds of his own frantic breaths drown out the words whispered in his ear.

“Shhh amor, so good querido."*

Breathe, breathe, pleasepleaseplease stop thinking, stop thinking, stopthinking.

"Tú eres mi tesoro”**

(Not her’s, not her’s not her’s.)

“We’re safe baby”

He inhales sharply, sucking in jagged breaths and he thinks he might be shivering but he can’t really tell because everything is shaky and distorted still.

He doesn't feel real.

His body is tingling like it's all fallen asleep, the world moves strangely, and he feels lightheaded, dizzy and he can taste bile in his mouth and smell perfume in the air.

It makes him nauseous and he chokes on his own spit. The hands have gone away he’s pretty sure but he can still feel the fingers dragging across his skin. He digs his fingers into his knees and it’s only then that he realizes that, at some point, he curled up into a ball. He knows someone else was here early, but it’s hard to separate reality from his memories and all he can recall is black hair and worried eyes.

Something falls.

Bang.

Blockbuster hits the ground, dead, the back of his head blasted out by the bullet that entered his skull, and all he can think is, ‘Oh god what is Bruce going to say? I failed him, I failed her.’

He wants to cry, or maybe he already is crying, but there’s a tightening in his throat, it feels a little like someone ripped something vital out of him and left him to bleed out.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers, voice wrecked and barely there, he’s not sure who he’s apologizing to—Bruce? For the million ways he failed him? Catalina for no being able to help her in the ways that she needed? For not being enough? Barbara for being too much and not enough and not supporting her efforts to do what hse needed to get back up after the Joker? His siblings? All of which he’s managed to fail consistently?—but he repeats it, over and over, and over, until the words slur together, near incomprehensible and painful.

Still, he says it. Again and again, his hands ache, and his head ring. He’s coming back to himself slowly, enough at least to realize he’s in the cave. But his body still doesn’t feel real, and there’s an ache in his chest that he can’t seem to get rid of, it beats with an almost tangible pain and he counts, trying to regulate his panicked, laboured breathing.

He uncurls slowly, unsteady, breath hitching.

He’s being dramatic. The world isn’t ending, nothing’s wrong, everything’s okay. He just needs to breathe and to stop stop remembering. As long as he focuses on the five senses that his body has because it isn’t a useless pile of meat laying on the ground. Except he is and all he feels is the water on his cheeks, and he can’t which of them are rain and which of them are tears, but he can smell the gunpowder and the metallic scent of blood mixing with petrichor and the faint floral scent that accompanies red lips (lipstick) and red hands (blood, is it real? Or just in his head? He can’t remember anymore) and it all tries to mix back together in the muddied mess he calls a brain.

He breathes, deep, in and out, and tries not to hyperventilate.

He’s babbling, he realizes, suddenly and with a bolt of terror in the back of his head, he’s not completely sure what he’s saying but he can feel the vibrations in his throat—proof he’s real, he has a body—and he might be talking to himself or to a million other people he just needs to explain himself to.

He wraps his arms around his body, almost like he’s holding himself together, trying to keep himself from falling. He tightens his grip and doesn’t realize until hands try and stop him that he’s scratching skin off. His skin feels like plastic or putty, fake and synthetic and not him (this isn’t happening to him, please no he doesn’t want it he doesn’t want to be a victim and broken and poisonous please stop just stop he wants it to be over he didn’t want to kill Blockbuster except that he did and he’s bad and poison and a failure, oh god please make it stop).

He presses his hands against the ground, hard, and can feel the softness of the mat, different than a concrete rooftop in the rain. He pushes himself up, dizzy and lightheaded, and he almost retches. He’s exhausted and spent and terrified and untwisting realities is so hard, he tears at his hair, almost screams, he sobs instead.

He can feel hands trying to touch him and he chokes on a cry that has no right coming from him. He’s a monster and he deserves it and he can deal with it alone, he just needs to breathe. He tugs at his hair harder and he feels someone take his aching, curled fingers, off of his head. He flinches from the touch, and they pause momentarily, but they don’t stop.

Once they finish uncurling his fingers from his hair they press something into his hands, careful and gentle. The opposite of what he deserves but everything he craves and Dick knows he’s a failure of a human, a horrible person, but he doesn’t wanna feel like this and he wants everything to be okay.

He inhales shakily, still choking on sobs despite his best efforts to stifle his crying.

He holds onto the thing given to him tightly, gripping it like a lifeline. He squeezes it, clenching and unclenching his hands around it. It feels soft and moldable and it helps him get his thoughts straight. It helps him focus on it, the way it feels in his tingling, half-numb fingers. It’s a kind of half awareness, a disconnect from the feeling but a growing awareness. He clutches it against his chest, hugs it tight.

His breathing evens out, slowly, and his surroundings grow clearer. He can hear the fluttering of bat wings and feel the cool air of the cave, the cool humidity and the echoing drips of water. His skin is damp with sweat and he smells horrible, but it isn’t the scent of sex or blood. His head is pounding and there’s strands of hair clinging to his sticky skin, he’s so tired. His throat hurts and his eyes are irritated, he’s nauseous and dizzy and still drifting away from his own head.

His body still feels like it’s asleep, not real, just meat on a bunch of bones, covering blood and muscle and nerves that aren’t really connected to his brain, just existing without listening to anything Dick has to say.

Suddenly there’s soft touches to his hair, someone running their hands through it gently, lovingly.

And it’s such a tender thing that he shakes, throat closing up with emotions too strong and too much and his eyes grow warm and his vision fills with tears again.

He breathes shakily, bringing his head up from where he had, at some point when he was trapped within himself, buried it into his knees.

The stuffed toy is still wrapped up protectively in his arms.

He looks around himself, disoriented but the memory of where he is slowly filters back into his head, slotting back into place as his brain reboots. The cave slowly comes into view as his other senses connect back into the right time.

The mat is still under him, soft where the concrete roof was rough and hard, and he doesn't feel the rain falling anymore, the only water he feels is drying on his cheeks or already sticky and gross from his spar with—he hesitates for a second, closing his eyes and trying to remember—Cass, right, he was sparring with Cass before this happened.

The hand in his hair hasn't stopped it's soothing routine, he's pretty sure it's Cass, but he's too tired to double-check.

The Cave is silent—because yes, he is sure now that he's in the cave, not on a rooftop in 'Haven or anywhere else. His brain has finally managed to untangle the different memories, different realities—other than the sound of his slowly steadying breath and Cass' calm and steady inhale-hold-exhale-hold, inhale-hold-exhale-hold that he's pretty sure she's doing solely for him.

He keeps running his hands over the soft stuffed animal in his hands, it's distracting and it helps to steady him. He’s pretty sure it’s a lion, which reminds him of the lion stuffed animal he bought Cass at the carnival and gave to her years ago.

When he's come back to himself a little bit more, to the point that he doesn't feel like he's drifting away from the cave and his brain is a bit more anchored inside his head, he clears his throat.

He opens his mouth and tries to speak, but for the first few attempts nothing comes out except for a hitch in his breathing. Every time that happens he exhales, sharply, through his nose, and then he clears his throat and tries again.

Cass doesn't speak or sign, letting him work through it, but she does move to be more in his line of vision, and something still stiff in his shoulders relaxes the slightest bit.

He hadn't even realized he was still tensed up.

He shuts his mouth and bites at his bottom lip, leaning into the soft and platonic touch. Cass' face is guarded when he looks up at her and he's too tired to try reading it. He closes his eyes and sighs, finally finding his tongue.

"Sorry," he croaks out, voice quiet and wrecked. He opens his eyes to see Cass give him a look he can't read and he almost starts crying again.

She looks so mad and he doesn't know how to apologize, how to tell her he's sorry for messing this up, for doing this to her, for making her take care of him when he's only just recently apologized to her for letting her face her demons alone.

She doesn't speak, just runs her thumb over the center of his forehead soothingly.

Dick closes his eyes again, pressing the lion closer to his chest. He feels like he's a kid again, and that's tragic in ways he doesn't want to think about right now.

(Vigilantism does not allow any room for children to be children.)

He tastes blood on his tongue, and that's when he realizes that he's been biting down on his lip again. He's bitten it open without really realizing it and he doesn't know whether to laugh or start crying again.

He brings the lion up to his face instead, continues to play with the soft fur and pet it in a way reminiscent of the way Cass is petting his hair to calm him the same way his mother used to when things were simple and easier. He focuses on the lion as he messes with it’s tail and fur— well-worn and well-loved as it is—allowing it to continue to distract him, this time from Cass.

He avoids her eyes because he doesn't know if he can handle her being angry with him, not so soon after she's finally forgiven him, not when things are somewhat okay for once.

He furrows his brow as he studies the lion, and he realizes that this might very well be the lion he bought Cass at the carnival and not just one that resembles it.

It warms something in him, the thought that Cass treasures this, or at least did treasure it enough to travel with it.

He had bought it for her when they went to a carnival, on a quiet day when they were still just getting comfortable with each other. She still hadn't learned English and was rudimentary in ASL but Dick had seen the way she seemed to droop and had staged an intervention. They had gone out for the day, and it was one of the first times he remembers hearing her laugh.

It's one of his favorite memories involving her. The proof that she loved the lion, that she still looked back on that day fondly enough that she had the lion close enough nearby to give to him despite having been in Hong Kong?

He latches onto Cass, hugging her around the middle and burying his face into her stomach.

"Thank you." He whispers, voice not any better than before, still just as wrecked and tiny.

She shifts slightly, and he feels her press a kiss onto his head. Resting her head on his and hugging him close.

He closes his eyes and just breathes.

(He dreads the questions that will come later, doesn't want to answer them, doesn't want to have to face her when she questions him. Doesn't want her to know. But for now, he buries his face into his little sister's stomach and hides from it all, safe and warm. For now, he can pretend that everything's okay.)

(He almost believes himself.)

Chapter Text

Later, when Dick is no longer so far gone inside his own head, his memories and terror and anxiety slipping back under the sheet that covers his heart, tucking themselves away. Slipping back under his skin and into his blood, lying in wait for the next freakout, the next trigger, the next panic attack. Waiting for the next sobbing, screaming, crying breakdown that builds and crescendos and breaks under all the weight that he can’t hold up upon his shoulders, all the weight that he’ll continue holding because it’s his job and his responsibility.

Later—when the bird with broken wings and damaged voice has tucked itself away into his heart, small and easily hidden—he uncurls from Cass’s hold.

She frowns, clearly not wanting to stop comforting him, and tightens her hold for a second. Her hug feels warm and reassuring and Dick almost melts back into it, but she lets him get up and dust himself off.

He rubs at his face, dried tear tracks and snot making his face feel crusty and disgusting. He tries to smile at her, reassure her, but he feels it fall flat. Weak and hollow, and Cass of all people is able to see that.

He sighs, wraps his arms around his stomach, as if they can keep all of his emotions in if he folds them against himself tight enough.

"Sorry Cass, it's just been a bit of a week, I guess last night I just lost it a little. Probably a sign I need to get some sleep." He laughs, fake, empty, and goes for a sheepish smile instead of a reassuring one.

She looks at him as if she's watching something tragic. And it hits him deep, strikes hard and sharp, digging into his heart.

He doesn't want to be a tragedy, and he doesn't want to talk about it. And Cass is probably one of the best and also one of the worst people this could have happened in front of.

The best because talking still isn't something she's the best at doing, or at least it's not something she emphasizes, she likes being able to read how people move. It's easier, it's what she knows.

But she's also one of the most observant people he's ever met, maybe the most observant—and he was raised by Batman—because of that same reason. And she will have read so much from his breakdown, so much he doesn’t want to think about, want anyone to know or see.

She can see so many things he doesn't say aloud and that's terrifying, she's curious and she's worried and it all just spells disaster. And no matter what Steph or what Jason says about talking and telling someone all of his darkest secrets, he doesn't want to.

He doesn't want to lay out everything that makes him up, every bad thing that's shaped who he is, to some stranger. He doesn't want to relive it or talk about it like it's the most important thing in his life, as if not talking about it makes it fake, means it didn't happen.

It happened, he knows it did, he was there, he knows what happened to him, has dealt with every nightmare and panic attack and breakdown over stupid insignificant things that bring him back to the rooftop or the night with Kori-who-was-really-Mirage. And he might not be ready to call it by it’s name, not be ready to accept that it happened to him but he won't lay out every horrid detail for someone else’s entertainment, so that they can tell him when he's ready to do something, to feel something.

(He's already decided that, the day at the manor that he couldn’t even swallow down an ibuprofen, that he won't let anyone take away his choices again, at least not if he can help it, not with this. Not with his words and thoughts and feelings, not again.)

He won’t make himself vulnerable so that people can belittle him and tell him that he wanted it, that he enjoyed it, that he’s a slut and a whore so what should he expect?

Because he doesn’t know if he can take any more of that, and they don’t even really know everything, they only know parts of it all, and those parts are enough for him to be called so many names and reduced to his ass or how good he is in bed amongst the world.

So Cass looks at him as if he’s something tragic and he feels something in him freeze.

Anger bubbles up in his chest and he bites his tongue. Cass doesn't deserve his anger, not for doing nothing wrong, not for helping him despite how horrible he was to her.

He breathes in, deep, and ruffles his hair, trying to avoid watching the look on Cass' face and fight back the anger that sits in his chest, acidic and poisonous and deadly.

He can smell the gunpowder.

"Cass, please, I'm fine. I'm sorry for freaking you out," She looks like she's about to interrupt so he speeds up, holding a hand up for her to wait, "Seriously Cass it's fine, I just haven't been getting much sleep and trying to do too much too soon ya know?" He shrugs, sheepish and a bit more convincing than before.

He rubs at the back of his neck, chuckles a little, "I just need to get a bit more sleep is all."

She shakes her head, jaw set, and expression firm. She raises her hands and begins signing, furious and frantic.

'Not true, stop lying. Not what happened. You don't have to tell me what happened, but do not lie. You are getting help?'

He almost collapses with relief, he's not naive enough to think she won't try and help him later, but she's letting him not talk about it, not think about it.

And he sighs, rubs his hands over his face and looks up to the ceiling of the cave, as if maybe if he tries hard enough he'll find all the answers he needs there.

"I'm okay, yeah, I'm not doing the best right now Cass, but I'll be fine." She still looks disbelieving so he looks at her while he speaks, fidgeting with the lion as he does.

"Really Cass I am, it happened a while ago and I'm over it, have been for years, sometimes I just forget."

She frowns, and he looks down at the lion, with it's love-worn fur.

She seems hesitant, something she so rarely truly let's show during conversations, and raises her hands to sign, confusion clear on her face.

'Forget what?'

He avoids her gaze, very firmly not remembering a night spent on a rooftop and dying inside under the rain and a girl who wanted so desperately to be a hero.

"Where I am."

She looks at him, eyes understanding, though she doesn't know exactly what he's remembering or where he goes.

There are days when Cass goes down to the cave to train and doesn't stop for hours, shaking and terrified and afraid to rest, to stop training for even a second.

Those are the days she'll sometimes get a distant look on her face when she looks at you, as if she isn't really seeing you.

So she looks at him, and listens to him, and understands. She doesn't ask any more from him, no demands of answers or justifications, just leans in to give him a hug, taking longer than usual to wrap her arms around him—giving him time to pull away if need be—and wraps him up once more in her embrace.

It's what he needs, right then. Not to unload all of his problems and issues, but to have someone be there for him without needing the story, the horrid details that paint themselves vividly across his mind at night and in some of his waking hours.

She pulls out of the hug and holds him by the shoulders lightly, looking over his face for a second. She purses her lips and leads him to the staircase to the Manor. He follows behind her, not sure what she's doing, but trusting her.

It's the least he can do.

She wrinkles her nose when they reach the Manor's main level, turning her head side to side in the hallway. She chooses one way and heads towards the kitchen.

They find Alfred there and it's only when Alfred gives him a once over and immediately purses his lips and begins fussing that he remembers how awful he must look.

Cass signs something to Alfred just out of Dick's line of sight. Whatever it is makes Alfred smile fondly and pat her head, she beams at him and turns back to Dick, grabbing onto his hand again lightly, tugging him along behind her once more.

She leads them to a living room, cozy, with a sofa, pillows, blankets, and a t.v.

She turns to him, making a 'Ta-da!' gesture that has him cracking a grin.

She rolls her eyes and points to the couch.

He raises an eyebrow and she narrows her eyes, he tilts his head and angles his body hallway to the couch and half towards her.

She shifts her weight to one foot and nods her head towards the couch, letting her posture relax into something comfortable and at ease.

He sighs, conceding and flops onto the couch.

She giggles a little, under her breath, and taps him on the nose, tossing him some blankets and a pillow before disappearing.

He debates the blankets for a second. But he isn't willing to risk something else unpleasant being brought up tonight and decides against them, laying down and placing the pillow under his head.

When Cass comes back she finds him curled up on the couch, blankets thrown to the other side of the couch and pillow resting under his head. His eyes are closed and he drifts in and out of wakefulness. She knocks her foot into the coffee table, making noise to let him know where she is.

He groans, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, he's exhausted and sleep right now sounds amazing.

He looks up at Cass and exhales in surprise, a smile growing on his face.

She's holding hot cocoa and popcorn and she looks incredibly pleased with herself. He reaches a hand out and she hands him a mug that he takes carefully, bringing his knees up to his chest and curling against the armrest of the couch. She gestures to his side in question, tilting her head and he runs his tongue over his lip, where he bit it open, as he tries to assess himself.

He scrunches his nose up before hesitantly nodding and she brightens, climbing onto the couch beside him and curling into his side.

She gestures one more time, this time to the television, in question and when he shakes his head nods, pulling out her phone,

She scrolls through it for a few seconds before leaning it towards him to see a playlist of instrumental music, he nods and she plays it, lowering the volume.

They sit like that, sipping at their cocoa and snacking on popcorn until they both drift off.

(Alfred finds them like this, and his eyes are sad as he looks at these children who are hurting in ways he doesn’t always know how to help. But he is relieved that they, at least, have not forgotten how to love and let others in.

He’s not sure what he would do if they did ever forget how to do that.

He grabs one of the blankets set aside on the other end of the couch and almost drapes it over the two of them, but Miss Cassandra's eyes slip half open and she shakes her head when she sees. He sighs, feeling his age as he sets it down and takes care of their mugs instead.

Cass brings her hand, pressed flat, up to her chin, palm facing in and brings it down to her other hand, both palms facing the sky.

‘Thank you’.

He wants to tell her that they never need to thank him for loving them like his children, his grandchildren, for caring about them.

But he nods instead, smiling at her as she closes her eyes and drifts back to sleep.)

When Dick next comes to, it’s to the feeling of warmth surrounding him. He shifts, latching on to the warm body next to him and pulling them into a hug. He keeps his eyes firmly closed, and when the person (who he assumes is Cass) pets at his hair, hugging him gently, he sighs.

He drifts off again, feeling exhausted and weighed down by something buried bone-deep inside him.

He doesn’t dream, not really. Or at least, no dreams that he remembers. He thinks maybe he started to, with the way the rain and words and choking realizations blend together and sit just at the edge of his memory. But he doesn’t remember the terror creeping in on him, the horror and fear and aching sickness and nausea.

What he does remember is Cass’s soft voice as she hums to him.

It's a soft, gentle melody and as he drifts it weaves its way into his head and soothes something in him. Some wound he didn't know had been inflamed.

It reminds him of the last routine he saw her perform, and it might be the same piece she danced to, but remembering the piece makes him remember their plans and, though excited to spend time with her, the realization that he was meant to do that today (is it even still today? Has he lost time because of sleeping or because of his freakout?) and he ruined it just like he ruins everything, inevitably, nothing close to him is ever safe sets his face aglow with shame and agitation.

He tries not to linger on it, tries to let it go, but it irritates him. He shouldn’t be losing time with his family and his life because his brain is fucked up and won’t stop. He shouldn’t be feeling like this.

He breathes in, deep, sits up and hugs Cass to his chest tightly for another second before he nudges her.

She hums and moves over, letting him settle against the back of the couch a bit more comfortably. He stretches, back cracking, and yawns, curling back up afterward.

Cass is silent still, and though he has his eyes buried into his knees the weight of her gaze burns into him. He groans, uncurling and sitting up once more, rubbing at his eyes and face, wincing and hissing briefly when one of his fingers catches on his bitten open lip and irritates it.

Cass touches his shoulder, and when he doesn't look at her, taps at his cheek with a huff.

He winces, not from the tap, but from the sudden rush of guilt over his own asshole move of taking away her, current, form of communication by refusing to look at her. He looks at her and signs his apology, she sighs and taps his nose in forgiveness.

Now that he's paying attention to her she begins signing, 'Better?'

He fights not to bite his lip, rubbing at his arms instead. He scrunches his nose and signs back a quick, 'Little bit, don't worry, fine.'

She frowns, leaning forward to flick his cheek gently, retreating and raising her hands once more, 'Not good to lie, stop it.'

He groans and buries his face in his hands.

Clearing his throat he raises his head, "Cass, I'm good, I'm over it now."

His voice is hoarse, from either the sobbing or disuse, and Cass doesn't look reassured in any way or form.

Lying to Cass is always difficult when she can see you.

She purses her lips in a way she probably picked up from Alfred and narrows her eyes, signing, 'Hugs mandatory, give now.'

He huffs, smiling and giving her another hug.

"Satisfied?"

She wrinkles her nose, making a so-and-so gesture with her hand and speaking for the first time in a while, "Meh."

Dick laughs softly, "Never change Cass."

She grins at him, looking extremely self-satisfied and amused, "Won't!"

Dick stands up from the couch and reaches out a hand, Cass grabs it and stands with the fluid grace of a dancer.

Cass tidies up the pillows and Dick stands a bit awkwardly, unsure what to do. Cass turns to him and latches onto his hand, swinging their linked arms back and forth, Dick raises an eyebrow at her.

"Picked it up from Steph?"

Cass nods decisively, and Dick huffs, swinging in time with her. Cass lets a hand drift up to her hair and play with it, eyes narrowed as she continues the repetitive motions. He thinks she might be trying to figure out what to do.

He really just wants to go back to his apartment and fall into bed and not leave it for as long as it takes for the dark thing eating away at his chest to go away.

But Cass looks excited to be spending time with him, even if she is still giving him worried side-eyes.

He sighs, thinking over what they could do, "Do you want to go to the park?"

She brightens, nodding her head happily, and he smiles—small but real—and finds himself grateful that he didn't tell her he couldn't spend time with her today.

They split up, heading to their separate rooms in the Manor, changing out of their clothes from last night and into new ones. They meet back up in the kitchen and Alfred sets a plate of food in front of both of them, setting mugs next to the plates.

"Tea, Master Dick, and breakfast that should be eaten," Alfred tells him when he picks his mug up, and Dick rolls his eyes with a small smile.

"Yeah, yeah, I get the message, Alfie."

Alfred doesn't respond but there’s a twinkle in his eye that shines bright with mirth as he hums in satisfaction.

Cass giggles at him as she sips at her tea and digs into her own plate of food.

Damian joins them as their in the middle of eating their food. His hair is wet, probably from a shower, and he stands stiffly as he enters the room.

Dick frowns, turning towards him, "Dami? You okay?"

Cass frowns as she watches the youngest, her eyes narrow darting all over his body, searching for answers.

Damian nods, "I'm fine, I've simply returned from my morning training."

Which, while slightly concerning for the 12-year-old to be up at fuck o'clock in the morning training intensively, it's not completely out of the ordinary.

What is out of the ordinary is the way that Damian doesn't quite look Dick in the eyes while he speaks, the way he shifts uncomfortably without going to sit down. It's setting off the warning bells in Dick's head and he stands, half reaching to his little brother.

"Damian are you—."

"Perfectly fine, Grayson." Damian cuts him off, sharp and quick, standing straighter and lifting his head. He still isn't looking Dick in the face, much less the eye and he's standing so straight and still now that it sends a pang through Dick's heart.

He clears his throat, sitting back down, "Well then, how about you eat some breakfast before you get ready for the day. Do you have school today?"

Damian wrinkles his nose up in a petulant expression but does what is asked of him without protest. Alfred makes his way in with Damian's breakfast and the kids take a quick glance at each other, unsure even after all these years, just how Alfred knew that Damian had sat down for food.

(What they don't realize is that Alfred has learned parts of their routines over the years, of caring for them.

He's learned how they hurt themselves and done his best to stop them from continuing to do so in all the ways he knows how. When Dick went back to not eating right Alfred remembered every other time it had happened and just how bad he got.

He's tried to cut it off this time, to make sure he’s eating and not letting himself fade away.

He hasn't been successful, but at least the child is doing a modicum better than before, even if it’s not much, it’s something. Lord knows the boy needs it after last night. And Alfred is worried about that, about how far gone his eldest grandson was.

He is scared of what happened to the boy that a spider is the most terrifying thing he’s encountered in his entire vigilante career.

The girl may no longer be a problem, but the man is cautious.

Alfred Pennyworth, after all, was not always a butler.

He knows what war looks like reflected in a man's eyes.)

Damian sits stiffly still as he speaks, "Thank you Pennyworth."

He begins eating his food with the same stiff, cautious silence as before, not greeting Dick or even Cass, ignoring them and the questions.

Except that isn't quite right, because Dick has seen his little brother his Robin like this before; when someone is crying and he has to console them gently, when Titus was sick, and when Bruce first came back.

It's not a purposeful stiffness, not out of anger or annoyance.

Damian is unsure, unsure and lost and trying to make sense of something, it's a rearranging of his world view.

Dick straightens as soon as he makes the connection, sees Cass look at him searchingly from the corner of his eye, and he knows that she knows what's going on with Damian but for some reason, she's having him handle it.

He sets his utensils down, speaks evenly and without any worry or angry colouring his tone (he hopes, he doesn't want Damian to get defensive, to think that Dick is mad at him or doting), "Did something happen?"

Damian purses his lips, moving a bite of food around his plate with his fork.

"I'm fine, Grayson."

Cass is frowning and Dick searches Damian's face for any clue on what's going on.

"Okay buddy, then what's up?"

Damian shrugs, sticking the abused bit of food into his mouth, Dick recognizes the tactic of avoiding conversations and raises an eyebrow. Damian sticks his head up challengingly.

He still isn't looking Dick in the eye.

Dick is growing worried now, he can't think of any time Damian could've gotten hurt, nothing that happened that could’ve made him like this.

“Dami?”

Damian looks down, avoiding Dick and Cass’s gaze, he shifts in his seat, fork pushing another piece of food around the plate.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Dick frowns, watching Damian carefully, "Nightmares?"

Damian shakes his head firmly, "While a reasonable assumption for many in this house, that is not correct Grayson."

Cass reaches towards Dick and rests a hand on his arm, gesturing between Damian and Dick. Dick frowns even more and Damian shifts, agitated.

It dawns on him slowly, but he sees the way Damian is looking between him and Cass, careful and worried.

He doesn't remember much of last night after Cass pinned him and before they claimed the couch for themselves, (he does remember the lion though, he remembers that just as clearly as he remembers the panic, and the overwhelming terror that seemed to consume him after he was pinned down,) but the way Damian is looking at Cass—.

It's almost like Damian had come downstairs during Dick's freak out, like he'd seen Dick lose it.

He freezes at the realization. He never wanted Damian to see him like that and now—.

Now he had, now he'd seen just how weak Dick was.

He swallows against the panic building in his chest, and when he speaks he almost sounds calm.

"Damian, when did you come down to train?" Damian very firmly doesn't look at him and something in Dick's stomach drops.

Damian shifts and twirls his fork, "I have to meet with Jon and the others soon Grayson, I'm afraid I must cut this conversation short."

Dick glances between Damian's face and his plate, "You haven't even finished your food, it'll have to wait a little bit."

Damian stiffens and Dick almost drops the topic, but he can't because if Damian does know about what happened last night then—.

Well, then Dick needs to know how to do damage control, how to reassure his youngest brother that he's okay now, that Damian doesn't have to worry about him anymore.

Damian opens his mouth as if to speak, before closing it and making a face at his food as he switches between not looking at Dick and fiddling with his fork.

He can already feel the headache building again.

He swallows once, to fight against the still present nausea, and suppresses the urge to squeeze the bridge of his nose with his thumb and fore-finger, it wouldn't do any good.

When he next speaks, his voice pleading, "Dami, please you have to work with me here buddy."

Damian purses his lips, squaring his shoulders, "I arrived to train during the session between yourself and Cain."

Dick closes his eyes, breathes in once against the wave of fear and guilt.

Fuck.

He opens his eyes, "I'm sorry you had to see that Dami."

Damian's head snaps up and his littlest brother meets his eyes, wide-eyed and searching, eyes darting over Dick's face and posture.

Dick fights the urge to tense up and finds himself reaching for his tea. He drinks quietly and calmly despite the hummingbird crescendo of his heartbeat, it helps keep him from regurgitating all of the food he ate, Alfred would be disappointed if Dick wasn’t able to keep the food down.

Damian makes a noise, a word choked off before it could leave his throat.

Damian exhales, harsh, through his nose and speaks, clipped and agitated (unsure and scared), "Grayson if you have any—injuries," Damian sticks his chin forward, "then you must seek help, that is what you taught me."

Dick almost laughs, feels something close to hysteria creeping into his chest.

He smiles instead, reassuring (he hopes) and very much not lying through his teeth, “I’m okay Dami, I just didn’t account for some stuff before sparring with Cass.”

Damian frowns, frustrated and searching Dick’s face.

Cass’s fingers tighten around her fork briefly, and Dick watches as she purposefully relaxes them.

Neither of them are listening to him.

Or, perhaps more accurately, neither of them believe him.

He suppresses the growing urge to scream into the open air or a pillow or something and get rid of the frustration and the anger and the horrible, aching, fear that weighed on his chest.

He doesn’t, but it’s a near thing.

He sends the two of them a pleading, exhausted look, “Guys, I’m glad you love me but this is a bit ridiculous it’s all taken care of, it won’t happen again.”

Damian nods his head stiffly, finishing his last bite of food and moving to leave as quickly as he can.

He stops at the door, doesn’t turn to look back at them as he speaks, standing stiff and agitated, “Your lying is atrocious at times Grayson.” Damian leaves then, and Cass gives him a look that burns into him. It’s a look filled with such knowing behind it that he can’t stand it.

He avoids her gaze and stands from the table to leave.

The last thing he hears as he leaves the room is Cass’ soft, disappointed sigh.

He leaves the Manor quietly.

Not saying goodbye to anyone leaves a sour taste in his mouth, but there's too many questions and interrogations and accusations for him to stay.

He doesn't flee Gotham, though it's a near thing. There's an itch under his skin that's been building and growing more intense every second, a fire burning underneath his skin that's different from the poisonous sickening feeling. It's the need to run and fly and get away. It itches at him, and he wants to let his feet take him wherever they want, wants to fly and move and leave.

He doesn't.

What he does do is wander.

He walks, no real end destination in mind, and lets his feet take him wherever. It helps a little, gets rid of the need to leave at least.

He walks for maybe an hour or two before he heads back, intent on going to the park with Cass like he said he would.

He just needed some quiet, some space to breathe without the dread overwhelming him, without the fear, memories, and questions being thrown at him from all sides.

The Manor is quiet when he gets back.

He sighs, walking through the hallways and feeling half like a ghost.

(All a ghost really is is a trace of something that once was. He's more ghost than person some days. It scares him, that is, when he isn't so deep in his constant downward spiral that he can’t tell what’s memory and what’s real, doesn’t feel any of the energy he used to be full of.)

"Master Dick, a pleasure to see you back here."

Dick winces, turning to face Alfred. He fights down the urge to be defensive, to protest that he did nothing wrong. Alfred isn't being vicious or petty, not now at least, Dick just—just needs to calm down a bit more.

He feels like all he's been doing lately is attacking and attacking over and over again without reason, without anyone doing anything but express the slightest bit of concern over him.

It's probably—most definitely, actually—hypocritical. And Dick knows that he keeps freaking out and lashing out with no good reason, that he keeps accidentally and purposefully hurting people who haven't earned it. And it hurts and makes him so mad, so frustrated and so upset and he wants to scream.

But he doesn't think he has the energy for another heart-to-heart any time soon.

So he smiles at Alfred, and waves, sheepish and pained.

"Hey, Alfie."

Alfred watches in the concerned way he has, forehead wrinkling as he watches you and the corners of his lips pulling down slightly, and Dick tries to breathe.

He doesn't want Alfred to see how bad he's gotten. How agitated and angry and terrible he's been. He's Alfred, so Dick doesn't doubt he has some idea of how Dick's been acting around the others but if there was a list of people he never wanted to know about some of the things he's let happen to him, Alfred would be high up on that list.

Just under Bruce.

Dick sighs exasperatedly, "Oh come on Alfred, not you too, I'm fine."

Alfred raises an eyebrow, "That is not what it looked like last night young sir, nor does it match up with any of your behaviors as of late."

Dick suppresses a wince, "Alfred really—"

"Sometimes," Alfred interjects softly, "it feels like you've forgotten just who of you all has been my charge the longest."

Dick does wince then, Alfred has taken care of Bruce since the man was young and he'd long been able to read past the bullshit the other man spewed, he wasn't about to be fooled by Dick's pitiful attempt.

Alfred, very suddenly, looks every bit his age and more. Weary and tired, it makes something in Dick's chest ache.

"Come, Master Dick, Miss Cassandra is taking her worry out on the punching bags."

Dick follows, letting himself be lead and trying to push past the anger and fear still clouding his judgment.

He doesn't know how successful he is, but he's trying.

Alfred leads him to Cass, she's training recklessly and it's what makes Dick aware that maybe he shouldn't have left her alone after he freaked out, not when she was still worried.

He steps forward hesitantly and pauses, chewing at his already bitten through lips. Alfred pushes him forward gently before disappearing and Dick wants to leave, wants to get out and pretend that he was never here. Hide from another set of his seemingly endless list of mistakes.

But Cass has already seen him.

She's huffing slightly from exertion, red-faced and eyes slightly irritated almost like she'd been crying she's sweaty and frazzled looking in a way that she rarely is and when she sees him it's like someone's removed every muscle in her body. She goes from tensed and on a wire’s edge, to boneless and so heartbreakingly relieved.

Dick feels awful.

"Hey, Cass, sorry for leaving I just—" He pauses, tries to find a good way to word it, "I just needed some air ya know?"

Cass purses her lips, eyes running over him worriedly, "Did not tell me before leaving if you would come back. Thought you were leaving longer."

Dick exhales harshly, feels the guilt gnawing away at his insides.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that, do you still want to go to the park with me?"

Cass watches him warily before nodding, "I forgive you, park would be nice. You buy me ice cream and treats though."

Dick sighs, feeling something in him lighten just the tiniest bit as he walks into the training room.

A part of him wants to offer a spar before they get ready to go to the park. But another part of him, the part that never escaped the taunts and jeers and utter humiliation, the part of him that never left the rooftop or the rain, balks at the idea. It's frustrating and he despises it but there isn't really anything he can do about it. At least not at the moment.

Besides, until Cass is certain he's 100% okay she won't really train with him, not fully, she'll be worried and holding back and trying to see what’s wrong.

He smiles softly at Cass as she puts everything she was using away, "Yeah I can buy you your sweets. It'll be the perfect excuse to get me some of that stuff to."

She turns to him, beaming and ready to leave the room to shower and change. He gestures to the door, "Lead the way, my lovely sister."

Cass' lips curl upwards and she flicks his forehead gently as she passes him.

She goes to her room to change out of her training clothes and Dick takes the time to try and think whether he should find Damian and talk to the younger boy for a little bit.

He’s not sure whether it’s a good thing or not that Cass comes back downstairs before he reaches a decision. He grins up at her, deciding to figure out what to do about that problem later.

"Looking lovely Cass, going to stun all the other park-goers are you? You’re gonna steal my title as the prettiest and then where will I be?" Dick pouts exasperatedly, holding a hand over his heart in a state of woe before Cass laughs. He smirks at her and she rolls her eyes motioning for him to catch her. She jumps off the steps into his arms. He gives a little grunt as he catches her, steadying himself and balancing her in his arms.

She grins up at him, tapping his nose and slipping out of his hold easily. He laughs and follows her to the door.

They walk to the park, it's nice, even among the hustle and bustle of Gotham's streets. The two of them are silent for differing reasons, though Dick is mostly still trying to keep himself from dwelling on things long in the past, trying to get rid of the lingering remnants of his anger and defensiveness from earlier this morning, the bits that his solo walk hadn't already cleared away at least.

It doesn't take long for them to get to the park, and Cass grins when she sees that the swingset is empty. She breaks into a sprint and jumps onto the swing, keeping her balance as she slides into a sitting position. She smiles at him and starts to swing.

Dick laughs as he catches up to her, dropping into the swing next to hers, "Bet I can go higher than you."

She narrows her eyes, turning to look at him as she swings past him, "Bet."

They swing for a while, going higher and higher and Dick laughs as he reaches his highest point yet and leaps off of the swing. Cass groans as he lands in a tuck and roll, leaping up onto the balls of his feet with a cackle.

He smirks back at her and she pouts and leaps off of her own swing, not quite reaching the height that Dick had managed.

She glares and points a finger at him in mock anger, "Cheat."

Dick puts a hand over his chest, pouting, "Did not! I'm just wonderful like that."

She wrinkles her nose, and makes a very rude hand gesture.

"Cass!"

She giggles, eyes twinkling mischievously as she signs, 'No one will ever believe you.'

Dick splutters and Cass runs laughing as she sprints to the child's play structure.

Dick chases after her, and they start up a game of tag that spans the entirety of the park. They go at it for a while, dodging and ducking and tackling each other as they tag each other and then try to get as far away as they can. Soon they end up leaving the borders of the park and taking the game into the actual streets of Gotham.

They duck through the people and the cars and sprint through alley's and less used roads indiscriminately as they try to avoid being tagged. Dick ends up chasing Cass up the fire escape of a building, tagging her in the middle and then leaping to another building and doing a flip down to the ground. Someone is recording them and he throws a million-dollar smile at them as he bows and takes off, Cass hot on his tail.

They rush throughout the story and Dick feels sweaty and gross and is 100% certain that tomorrow there will be a million and one different articles about this and a whole scandal all cooked up, but he's having fun.

Besides, when in doubt, blame the hyperactivity and acrobatics on the fact that he is still, through and through, a circus kid.

(And no matter how often they tried to tell him when he was growing up, it is not a bad thing. Not when it is one of the few pieces of his parents he has left anymore.)

Somewhere between the third establishment they accidentally disrupt and the millionth teenager that cheers them on they've made it into the part of the city where Dick's apartment is and he pauses on the sidewalk that is the least busy.

"Truce!" Cass pauses, narrow-eyed, sweaty, and grinning more than a child with a candy bar.

She raises a single eyebrow and Dick holds his hands up placatingly, "C'mon Cas," he pouts, looking at her imploringly, the civilians around them watch in bemusement before continuing on with their daily lives, "Let's get something to eat! I'm starving over here, and that is not conducive to my continued existence you know."

She hums in contemplation before agreeing, and Dick sighs in relief as he walks over to her, "Awesome, I know a great little cafe type place, it's close to my apartment too so we can watch a movie or something afterward."

She doesn't sign or say anything but her body is relaxed and open and Dick feels a thrum of delight make it's way through his chest at the sight.

It still doesn't make up for all he's done wrong to Cass, but it's something.

(And it's an apology too, for this morning.

By the way she grips his hand as they walk, at a much slower pace now, he thinks she understands.)

When they get to the shop Anita isn’t there, her shift probably ending hours ago, but the teenager that greets them is sweet as they take their orders. (Dick getting the caramel mocha and Cass getting a green matcha latte.)

Cass hums in consideration, tapping on the counter in question. The teen, who’s name tag says is called Alex, looks to Cass in half-concealed alarm.

“Yes, miss? Is there anything else you want?”

“No, want to know what you prefer. Don’t want to be rude.”

Alex looks confused for a second and Dick smiles at them, “I think what my sister means is that she doesn’t want to misgender you.”

“Oh!” Alex’s eyes are wide and they smile brightly, “That’s really decent of you, thanks, just use they/them for me it’s what I’m most comfortable with.”

Cass nods, serious and satisfied, and Dick shoots them a thumbs up and another grin.

The two siblings claim a couch and curl up with each other, Cass sighs in contentment as she leans against Dick’s shoulder, “Can see why you like it. Very nice.”

Dicks hums in agreement, “Yeah, glad I found it.”

“Mhm, should come here more often.”

Dick grins down at her, “We definitely should.”

Cass shifts and Dick wrinkles his nose, settling in against the couch as she goes to investigate a little table in the corner. She comes back looking pleased and holding a game board box with RISK on the side.

Dick snorts, almost spilling his mocha as he sits up.

“You are so on Cass.”

Cass doesn’t respond, eyes twinkling and expression smug.

She sets up the board on a table and smiles at him innocently.

Dick is suddenly a little bit afraid.

Cass’s smile grows as she places her first piece onto a country. Dick very suddenly recalls the last time he played a strategy game with Cass.

He sighs heavily, pouting and grumbling, “Cheater.”

Cass throws a piece at him, “You just suck.”

He pouts even more as they finish with the pregame stuff.

Time to be completely defeated, hopefully he puts up a good enough fight to maybe win.

Hopefully.

Cass laughs at him and Dick rolls his eyes and smiles at her.

(The game opens with Cass taking 3 of his countries and he laughs when she fails to get the 4th one and pouts. He kind of never wants this feeling to end.)

Chapter Text

Dick Grayson is many things, one thing he isn’t though is stupid.

He’s well aware that his siblings are acting strange. It’s been a day since the mess that was the sparring session with Cass that caused Damian to be mad at him and storm off from dinner.

Damian’s been avoiding him ever since and Cass has been reluctant to let Dick out of her sight. He gets home after a solo patrol and finds her passed out on the couch, a frown on her face.

He sighs and grabs a blanket to throw over her. She stirs briefly, tensing up, and Dick murmurs softly to her to soothe her back to sleep. Slowly she untenses and slips back into sleep. He yawns, rubbing at his eyes. He blearily makes his way to his bedroom, stripping out of the Nightwing suit and throwing on some comfy clothes.

He falls into bed with a grunt and curls up, eyes slowly slipping closed. It’s late, so late that it’s early in the morning, the time of early morning where the business people of Gotham are beginning to head to work,

He shouldn’t have been out that long, he knows that, he really shouldn’t have been out at all given the state he went out in, (tired and drowsy, mean, defensive, angry, nothing good really,) but he did and there’s nothing to be done about it.

Tim had actually still been up by the time Dick had stopped feeling so horribly frustrated, somewhere around 2 and 3am. Dick only knows because Tim had checked in with him from the cave and over the comms. The younger had been about to head to bed for once, when he’d seen that Nightwing was still on patrol, he’d asked whether there was something planned for tonight that Nightwing had to be out and about at a dead hour and Dick had practically been able to feel the judgement when he’d responded in the negative.

Hours later, Dick huffs and turns over and onto his other side, still a little bit upset with Tim’s hypocrisy.

He can’t sleep, too wired despite the exhaustion that’s prevading his body, too wrapped up in thoughts and deliberations and patterns that he’s been noticing.

And he doesn't want to think about all the ways his siblings are handling him strangely, it's not something they normally do. What he wants to do is sleep.

Yet here he is, lying in bed and thinking.

The thing with his siblings is that, even when things get really bad, they don't treat him like they are now. Jason doesn't avoid him completely or handle him with a painful sort of understanding and loss that makes him want to rip out his hair and tear at his skin. But that's what he's doing.

He can handle Jason being mad. He can handle him being annoyed and curt, he can even handle the avoidance. That isn't the problem. The problem comes when his little brother looks at him when he thinks Dick isn't paying attention and just has this horrible look of knowing and hesitance that eats away at Dick's heart and reveals that horrible understanding Jason holds within him. That look is for when Jay is consoling victims, helping them and speaking to them and making them feel less alone in the world.

Dick hasn't and will never deserve that look.

He's so confused, his head is throbbing and he wants to ignore all of the hints and details and memories but he can't.

Damian is still upset with him and worried for him in a way that the kid still just isn't able to respond well too yet, Tim is worrying and prying and trying to figure everything out and upset with him and with everything he doesn't know and can't fix and feeling useless. Steph is currently alternating between treating him like normal and being so worried that she overwhelms him.

He hates it. He's half tempted to go off-grid just to get them off of his back, but he doesn't want to risk the wrath of everyone when he gets back.

Or when they inevitably find him.

He's just so tired. He wants a break. He wants everything to just stop.

It doesn't, predictably, but at this time of day that's okay, no one is expecting anything of him. There is no one watching him, critiquing him, no one he has to be an example for. No one he has to be perfect for.

It's just him and his pathetic little soul and ugly, damaged heart.

Just him and everything he never wants to think about again.

He doesn't want to dream, but he's so fucking tired and he wants to sleep, so he doesn't fight against the siren's pull that has his eyes drifting shut, and he doesn't yank himself out of bed and on a run.

He lets himself slip under and does his best not to feel like there are eyes burning into him and hands running over his body.

(It’s so much harder than he wishes it was.)

He isn’t sure what he dreams about, it slips away from him and tucks itself into a tiny corner of his brain. But when he wakes up he’s crying, choking on a sadness that nearly overwhelms him, an ache in his chest that’s painful and longing.

His sobs are silent, but in the quiet of the room they sound like thunder and gunshots.

(Some nights, back when he was little, his sobs sounded like the snap of ropes and the screams of the crowd. Those are the nights Bruce would hold him tight and whisper to him, “Shhh chum, I’m right here sweetheart. I’m right here. You’re safe with me. You will always be safe with me here.” And Dick’s sobs would taper off with every word that fell from Bruce’s mouth.

He used to hug Bruce so tight that it would hurt his muscles. Like he was terrified Bruce would disappear at any moment.

Bruce would just press a soft kiss to his forehead and tell him stories of anything he could think of. And Dick would fall back asleep listening to his steady voice, wrapped up in warmth and reassured of Bruce’s safety.

He misses that more than he can say.)

The sun is beginning to peek through the windows, casting a soft light into the room, and when he checks the time it’s only about an hour after he thinks he fell asleep. He still feels the bone-deep exhaustion from before, taking root on the edges of his brain and waiting for the moment he lets his guard down.

He buries his head into his hands, sighing, and starles slightly when he hears movement in the hallway.

He freezes. Conscious of the fact that Cass was asleep on the couch when he came in but wary all the same.

Cass pokes her head in and he relaxes as she points into the room in general and then to him, tilting her head in question.

He shakes his head, smiling wryly, in spite of the terrible sadness that still clings to him, causing his throat to close up and eyes to water no matter how hard he rubs at them.

He takes a measured breath, the cadence of his lungs slowly returning back to normal speed.

"I'm okay Cass," He croaks out, voice ugly and hoarse, he clears his throat, "What's up?"

Her lips press together neatly, eyes narrowing at him, and Dick bites back a groan.

She huffs, nostrils flaring, she signs to him and it takes him a second to realize, brain playing catch up.

"Sorry Cass, could you repeat that?"

She pauses mid-word and nods, signing again, 'Tea made, I made peanut butter jelly sandwich and oatmeal.'

He tries for another smile, feeling exhausted. It falls flat, but he honestly doesn't have the energy to care too much about it right now, "Thanks, Cass."

He drags himself out of bed, and it's a process that takes a long time compared to his normal up, out and about method. But it's like all of his energy has been drained out of his body and all that’s left behind is this dead battery that’s trying to do the work of a hundred, high powered, batteries. He wants nothing more than to fall back into bed and just never leave it.

Leaving the room is just as hard and he doesn't change before doing so, not trusting that he will have the energy or desire to do so without just flopping himself back onto the bed.

Cass gives him a concerned look that he almost isn't aware enough to catch, but he catches it and almost has to fight down the frustration and anger that fills his chest.

But it drains away on it's own, leaving him feeling half horrifyingly numb and empty and half feeling so longing for no reason at all. He makes it to the couch before he collapses, folding himself up to take as little room as possible. He wants to feel something other than the confusing war between empty and longing, but there's nothing else there.

His eyes feel heavy, and his body feels leaden. He startles when he feels something nudging him, and he shakes his head, focusing his vision. He finds Cass nudging him gently with a mug of tea and a little plate with a sandwich, there's a bowl set on the coffee table that's filled with oatmeal.

"Thanks, Cass," He murmurs, stomach protesting the sight and smell of food.

He isn't hungry right now.

He drinks the tea though, partly because he's thirsty and the warmth is nice, and partly because it puts off having to try and stomach the food.

He's not quite sure what to do with himself, not with how intently Cass is watching him.

She still hasn't answered his question.

He takes another sip and tries not to fidget, "So what'd you need Cass?"

She shrugs, “Hanging out with everyone before I leave in a week.”

Dick nods absentmindedly, blowing on the tea.

She sits next to him on the couch, laying down on his lap and blinking up at him.

She pokes his arm and points to the food, "Eat."

He fights the urge to wrinkle his nose and instead nods, grabbing the oatmeal and spoon.

He nudges her lightly with his arms and she pouts as she sits up, "Don't make that face, you're the one who wanted me to eat."

She sticks her tongue out, "Rude."

He rolls his eyes, moving the spoon around the bowl as a wave of nausea hits him. He bites down on his tongue and forces himself to pick up a spoonful of oatmeal, shoving it into his mouth.

He almost gags despite how hard he’s trying not to. And it’s not because it tastes horrid, but the texture and smell mixed with the taste is too much for him right now.

Cass frowns at him and taps his shoulder, “Okay?”

He smiles, more of a grimace really, and nods, “Yeah, just a bit nauseous.”

She furrows her brow, “Sure?”

He hums, nodding as he forces another bite into his mouth, it’s a small spoonful, not even a mouthful, but it still goes down feeling like sludge.

He takes a long sip of tea, and makes a face, Cass narrows her eyes and he sets the cup and bowl down, raising his hands placatingly, “I appreciate the thought Cass, really, and I swear I’m okay, my stomach just isn’t agreeing with it for some reason.”

She frowns at him and he tries to switch away from the topic, “So, have you hung out with Steph since the family dinner?”

She gets a strange look on her face, Dick can’t decipher it but he can’t even summon the energy to be worried today.

She taps her fingers against her legs, “We talked after, she called, I called, we spoke of things.”

The wording is strange and somewhere under the mind-numbing emptiness he knows he should be worrying about it, especially if it was Steph talking to Cass, but all he does is nod absentmindedly.

“What’re you planning to do today?” He hopes she doesn’t want to hang out today, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to make himself leave the house like this. And if he does get out of the house he’s a little frightened about what’ll happen.

She shrugs, “Go see Jay, Tim, Steph.”

He nods, “Have a good time with that then, thanks for dropping by and making me food.”

She purses her lips, and Dick can’t shake the feeling that he’s disappointed her in some way.

Though it’s not all that surprising, he’s always been a disappointment.

(Useless, needy, pathetic, wretched little creature. Dirty and wrong and unworthy.)

She seems reluctant to go, even with the opening he gives her, so he sends her a small smile, she hesitates till and he shoos her, “Go on, I’ll be okay Cass.”

She huffs, eyebrows furrowed, and nods, pressing a kiss to his head as she stands and slipping out of the window.

He gazes fondly after her retreating back, none of his family (him included) seem to be particularly fond of doors.

He shuts the window and throws the sandwich away, puts the oatmeal in the fridge and curls up on the couch again.

The apartment is quiet other than the sounds of a Gotham morning that can be heard from beyond the closed window.

He closes his eyes and feels as if he’s drowning in everything and nothing.

(Liar, Cass thinks sadly, slipping out into the Gotham morning.)

He goes to bed after Cass leaves, feeling exhausted.

And he wakes to a clattering sound followed by muffled cursing. He feels like he’s underwater, half aware and not quite connected. The synapses in his brain are firing off just a second too slow and he forgets, for a second, just where he is.

(He can’t do that, he doesn’t know what’s wrong.

Or, more accurately, he knows what's happening he just isn't processing it. He’s falling and slipping down into a spiral of emptiness and terror and uselessness. But it’s never any easier, never any better, and he tries to forget about it, to pretend it doesn’t happen.

Which in turn, means he’s never quite prepared when it happens, never able to help himself as much as he needs when it does either.)

He tries to get out of bed, to sit up or call out or do something. But doing any of those things takes energy that he doesn’t have in him right now. Keeping his eyes open feels like too much already.

All he really wants to do right now is close his eyes again and let the rest of the world continue on.

There may be someone in his apartment, but if they really wanted to kill him, than they would’ve already.

(And would it really be such a bad thing if they did?)

There are footsteps, near silent, and Dick holds his breath.

His eyes had slipped close at some point, he’s not sure when, he’s lost track of time and of himself.

(Breathing feels like too much effort.)

Someone slips into his room, quiet and cautious.

“Dick?” It’s Steph, she sounds scared, and Dick releases the breath he’s holding.

He doesn’t want to see her right now, he doesn’t want her here right now.

But she is, and there isn’t really anything he can do about it. He tries to sit up, but all he really manages to do is curl up into a tighter ball.

He doesn’t know if he falls asleep again or if he loses time, but in the next second Steph is gently gripping his shoulders and helping him to sit up, “Dick are you hurt?”

He shakes his head, shrugging off her grip and holding his own weight up despite his overwhelming desire to just slump back down.

“ ‘m fine St’ph.” His tongue feels heavy and his mouth feels like it’s full of cotton and he can’t see Steph because of how dark it is but she sounds worried and he doesn’t want to deal with worry right now.

“Dick, please, open your eyes.”

Oh, that would explain the darkness.

He blinks them open slowly and is met with Steph’s frightened expression. He frowns, and tries to calm her down.

“Steph? It’skay, just—just tired.” She’s staring at him wide-eyed and Dick gets the feeling he’s missing something.

“Dick, I’ve been trying to get you up for an hour.”

He blinks, "Oh, oh." and Steph laughs, close to hysterical.

"Yeah, oh."

He frowns, a little bit more aware and with it, "Sorry Steph, guess I was tired."

She watches him carefully and Dick fights the urge to avoid her eyes. She speaks slowly, choosing her words carefully.

"I got worried after you didn't answer my calls. Babs said you were still at your apartment, and that you were probably just sleeping or resting, but—"

She purses her lips, wetting them and frowning again, "I wasn't sure, and I wanted to know for certain."

Dick shifts, "Sorry, for worrying you. I just needed a bit of sleep."

Steph looks at him for a second, "Yeah, I could tell, I would wake you up and then you would go right back to sleep. Are you feeling okay?"

Dick very carefully doesn't move while she inspects him, "I'm okay, just overdid it and then crashed I guess."

Steph nods absentmindedly as she stands up, Dick frowns, and he hesitates before he gets up, putting all his effort into keeping himself standing.

It's more work than one would think.

Steph fidgets, "Uhhh, sorry, you know, for waking you up."

He shakes his head, "It's fine, I was gonna have to get up soon anyway."

She bites her lip, "Yeah, but still, sorry. And for the whole mess from when I invited you over. I don't think I reacted in the best way. I was freaked and that isn't really an excuse but in that situation, Jay was a lot better than me and I kinda just let him take point because of that and—" She's rambling, tripping over her own tongue and Dick places a hand on her shoulder, in part to steady her and in part to steady himself.

She freezes, unsure and lost and Dick sometimes hates being the oldest. Anything that shakes his siblings up too much, that they can't or don't know how to handle should be his responsibility. Shouldn’t be on them, should be on him.

And yet here he is, the cause of their uncertainty and fear.

His problems are too big and too heavy for them to deal with on top of their own.

(He is and always will be a selfish creature. He wishes that they would take some of it away from him, or maybe just stop looking up to him like he's the perfect wonderful Robin. Because he isn't and he hates the reputations they give him and that he can never seem to get away from.

Sometimes he thinks that what they’re seeing is someone who doesn’t exist, and other times he knows it. Just as much as he knows that the sky is blue, but grey in Gotham. That Bruce tries but sometimes not hard enough, that more of his friends and family have died than lived and kept living, and that he is a horrid man who wants so much more, so much better than what he deserves.)

"It's okay, Steph."

Steph just looks at him like her heart is breaking, and something inside him rankles, "No it's not."

She leaves it at that, fingers wrapping loosely around his upper arm.

That's the moment he realizes that he's swaying, still unsteady.

She gives him a smile, fake and plasticky, "So, you gonna come with me to eat, or?" She trails off, her eyebrow raising in question.

Dick very carefully doesn't avoid her eyes when he answers, "Not hungry, ate with Cass a little bit ago."

Steph stills, looking at him in masked horror, "Dick, it's been 2 days since Cass last came over, she went to help Tim with something."

He blinks, "Oh."

He doesn't remember much if any of it really, just the little flashes of consciousness that were always clouded by the empty unattached feeling. He thinks he kind of remembers moving from the couch to the bed. Maybe opening the door to answer someone's question once. It's all blurry.

"Yes oh! Dick, what the fuck." Steph's voice raises, slightly hysterical. She stands, drags him up with her and out of his bedroom.

There are a few things knocked over in the hallway and living room, though how much is from Dick's move from the couch to his bedroom and how much is from the crash that woke him up is uncertain.

He swallows past the knot in his throat that has absolutely no right being there, and tries not to look like the lost time affects him, judging by burning behind his eyes, he isn't doing too good of a job.

It's stupid, he doesn't even know why he's about to cry, not when he doesn't actually feel anything.

Steph's glare bores into him as she sits him down. She mutters under her breath about stupid Bats and horrible self-care and if he wasn't still so far away right now he would tell her that she really has no feet to stand on in that. She's almost as bad as the rest of them, only slightly better.

He's not sure she would appreciate it all that much. The thought of her reaction if he told her makes frantic laughter bubble up in his throat, and he's not quite sure why. There isn't really anything funny about it, and yet the laughter still spills out.

Steph gazes at him in unconcealed worry and he laughs harder, gasping for air as the cackling morphs into sobs.

It's ugly and horrible and Steph is now a blurry figure in his vision but her babbling has reached beyond frantic levels now and he chokes out the word, "Sorry" as if that makes any of this any better.

He doesn't know how long he goes on like that, but when he comes back to himself, more exhausted than he was before, he avoids looking at Steph.

It's tense and awkward, silent in the apartment even as the outside world trickles in through the city sounds.

Steph clears her throat, voice high and hands waving around frantically, "What happened! Dick please, I don't know how to help you, not when you don't let us. What was that!"

" 'm f'ne."

She chokes in outrage, "That doesn't look fine!"

He doesn't respond to that and she breathes in heavily, exhaling and pacing even as she curses herself, "That wasn't a good idea, sorry, need to be calmer, that was not calm. You're just freaking me out Dick, and you won't let anyone help you which is the stupidest most Bat-like response to anything and I hate it!"

He shifts and tries to stand but she pushes him back down into the seat, "No, you seem determined to make us all watch everything and let you ride it out without saying a word about it and we don't want to anymore."

He stares at her blankly, and she groans in frustration, "Dick just—"

"I think you should leave now Steph, thank you for checking up on me."

She freezes, and watches him with wide eyes before she smooths her face back over and narrows her eyes.

"I'm not leaving, what I'm gonna do is go let you calm down so you think a little more rationally, and then I’m coming back and we," She gestures between the two of them, "are going to have a talk, non-negotiable. Because this is ridiculous, frustrating, and detrimental to your health."

His voice hardens, and he glares at her, "No. Get out Steph."

She gives him such a sad look—not angry like she normally would be after being dismissed like that—that he chokes on it. The overwhelming frustration and sadness seeping into his bones and past the numbness.

She gives him one last look before she leaves him like that, and he finds himself wishing he’d never woken up in the first place.

He curls up into a ball and tries to breathe through the feeling of fitting back into his body, hoping viciously that Steph never comes back.

Maybe he would feel guilty about it later, (he knows he’ll feel guilty later,) but for now he breathes and tries to keep from drowning within himself as he comes slowly back into full awareness.

He decides to get out of the apartment the minute standing doesn’t seem like such an enormous task.

It takes a while, but eventually he forces himself up. He’s still in the clothes he wore when Cass was last over and he hasn’t showered since before then either. He stinks, hair greasy and wild and limbs nowhere near as graceful as they usually are. He takes off the dirty clothes and yanks a baggy long-sleeved shirt over his head. He ends up falling over as he gets the sweatpants on and he lays there for a second, contemplating just curling up in the closet and staying there till he dies from too much carbon dioxide and not enough oxygen.

He forces himself up though, eventually, and leaves his apartment before Stephanie gets back.

He doesn’t wanna talk to her right now, or really see her at all.

So he makes his escape, beginning the walk to the Manor. Bruce should hopefully still be gone and if he’s lucky then—.

He freezes in the middle of the sidewalk, suddenly hyper aware of the fact that he doesn’t know anything that happened over the last two days.

He’s stuck now. Caught between two choices with neither being all that appealing. He can choose to run the risk of running into Bruce, something that probably won’t end well, or he can choose to go back to his apartment and sit through a conversation with Steph that will be nothing but horrible and infuriating.

Or, he can take a third option.

He walks, heading in a direction that is neither towards the Manor nor back to his apartment.

Instead, he starts walking to the little cafe.

He guesses he should be glad it hasn't gotten to Tuesday yet, still only Sunday. So he still has time despite his loss of two days.

It doesn't take him too long to get there considering how horrible he feels, but then again he doesn't really remember the entire walk either, so he's half-sure he's been spacing out again.

He smiles the best he can at Alex and the other gives him a bright smile, "Afternoon!"

Dick stills, frowning, "Afternoon? Already?

Alex bites their lip and watches him with unconcealed concern, "Yeah, it's like 1:15."

He blinks, feeling off-balanced, "Oh."

Alex frowns, "You okay?"

Dick tries for another smile, more successful than he had been with Steph and Cass at least, and nods, "Yeah, just a bit out of it, is all."

Alex nods, "Yeah I get what you mean. And I swear I'm not meaning to sound rude, but are you ordering or gonna sit and use the wifi? Because the password was changed and it'll be easier for me to tell you now." They rub the back of their neck, sheepish and Dick manages a small, genuine, smile.

"Thanks, Alex. I'll be okay though. Just a peppermint mocha please, with whipped cream."

Alex hums, "Okay, that'll be ready in a few minutes."

"Thanks."

Dick waves gently and moves to make himself comfortable in one of the seats. He curls up, balling his hands in the sleeves of his shirt. True to their word, Alex finishes his drink quickly and Dick settles back into the seat with his hot drink, comfortable and hidden away for a little while.

He doesn't feel completely real yet, not connected to the nerves in his body or the things happening to him, but he's getting there. Being curled up and comfy and not stressing out, or being forced to confront things he doesn't want to, is nice.

The drowning feeling is going away.

“Well, if it isn’t a stranger.”

Dick looks towards the voice, hands still holding the mug tightly, “Hey Anita.”

She smiles at him, plopping herself down into the seat across from his.

She has a laptop under her arm and goes about setting it up while she talks to him.

“Always nice to see you here hun, how’s your day been?”

He shrugs, “Just been one of those days ya know? I’m tired as all fuck.” He laughs and she smiles at him, but she watches him in concern.

“Yeah, I get you,” She raises an eyebrow, gesturing towards him, “though I’m not sure why you came to a cafe if you haven’t been getting sleep.”

He shrugs again, nonchalantly, “Who knows what’s going on in my head anymore, I certainly don’t”

She snorts, “What a fucking mood.”

Anita hums as she logs into her computer, and Dick watches her work as he sips at his coffee.

She glances up, eyebrow raising, “Should I be concerned?”

“Hmm?”

She smirks, rolling her eyes, “I didn’t know I could make Mister Dick Grayson speechless.”

Dick huffs, “Oh shut up, I’m tired as fuck, let me be spacey.”

She raises her hands in surrender, “Fine, fine. Guess I have to get back to my boring old schoolwork.”

Dick sighs, curling into a different position, just as comfy as the last one.

“What classes?”

She wrinkles her nose as she types, “Mmm, this one is for my child psychology course and then I have some maths and an essay in history that I have to do,” she pauses, frowning, “and actually, I might have an essay in English too.”

She blinks, whipping out her phone and looking something up, “Well shit, I do indeed have an English essay due tomorrow. Guess I’ll die”

Dick snickers, “Wow am I glad I’m done with school, any idea what you’re gonna major in? Or are you just going with the flow?”

“Not really sure yet, but I’m leaning towards either Psychology or Criminal Justice.”

Dick hums, “Both are really interesting fields of study.” Anita smiles at him nodding eagerly despite the bags under her eyes.

“I know! Like, if I go the criminal justice route there’s so much to learn, not to mention needing to learn about so many different things. And with psychology it’s all just fascinating learning how the brain works and how to help or read behaviours.”

Dick uncurls a little, “Yeah I get what you mean, helping someone in the aftermath.”

She nods, “Exactly!”

He stands, plopping onto the couch she’s sitting on and curling up beside her, “So what’s the assignment for the Child Psych course?”

She shifts to get comfortable while still letting him look at her computer, “Well we have to do an essay about one aspect of a child’s psychology and how trauma can affect them, then we have a few scenario questions we need to answer.” She switches tabs from the blank (but titled) google doc to another doc with questions on it, and points to them. “See?”

He hums, nodding, “Yeah I got it, do you want any help or like a sounding board?”

She bites her lip, “A little bit of both would be amazing, but I don’t wanna take up too much of your time.”

He waves her off, “Don’t worry about it, I don’t have anything else to do anyways, I’d be happy to help.”

Anita beams at him, “That’s great! Thanks so much Dick!”

"No problem, what were you thinking of doing for the Psych essay?"

"Well,” She opened a few tabs on her computer as she spoke, “I was thinking of maybe covering the effects of a neglectful or unhealthy relationship between adults and children, instead of focusing on other aspects."

Dick turns to face her more as she works through her thoughts.

"How so?" he prompts her.

"Well, you remember all of the controversies when Robin first showed up? And all of the continued controversy over a child vigilante?"

"Yeah, people weren't happy about it."

She nods, "Exactly, and there are a shit ton of good reasons for that, not just worries about the kid's capabilities either. Robin's proved that they’re able to do a lot of things, but that doesn't really mean they should be doing them."

Dick bites his tongue, knowing that she's right even though it's a bitter pill to swallow, at least it is when he applies it to himself. He knows for a fact that he’s said something similar to Damian and Tim before.

Things are harder to come to terms with when they apply to you.

Anita switches to one of her many open research tabs and points something out for him to read, "You see right here?"

Dick looked at it carefully, reading through the article, "It's a lot of the stuff that we already kind of know right? Childhood trauma can affect how the brain develops."

Anita nods, "Yes, that is the basics of this article, but this is just one of the supporting facts, what you want to pay attention to is the fact that Robin showed up with Batman as a child, in the eight-to-tenish range, and that child had to go up against villains like the Joker and Scarecrow. Setting aside the fact that the antidotes to their respective gases and toxins still either hadn't been made or just hadn’t been perfected, and the ensuing side effects on a growing child's biology and health all that could have, the situations Robin was put into were high stress and frankly insane. And Batman was known to always try and keep Robin safe. But the way they grew up would definitely have affected how they developed." She paused, “Well, more than growing up in Gotham would already have affected them.”

Dick nods, "Yeah I can understand that, is that what you’re gonna be focussing on? It definitely works, but would the focus on the health impacts of the toxins and gas work? That’s more biological things.."

Anita frowns, "I get what you mean, but I think it’ll be okay because of the side effects the gases and toxins have, they affect the brain and development just the same as the rest of the trauma.”

Dick, tilts his head in concession, “You make a good point, are those going to be the main points?”

Anita fiddles with her fingernails, “I don’t know for sure, I want to go more in depth with it but the essay is supposed to be only a few paragraphs long, not pages.”

"Then it's probably best to choose those to focus on, just because those are the more obvious and easy to get through in the span of a few paragraphs. Maybe, later on, you can do an essay or presentation on the rest of the stuff you wanted to put into this essay?"

Anita nodded along, eyebrows furrowed as Dick spoke, "That'll probably work well. And it'll stop me from shoving a bunch of complex stuff in willy nilly without explaining it. Focusing on the early days and the effects the toxins and gasses could have will work well enough."

Dick nods, "Exactly, and if you really feel like it, you can write the entire essay about everything like you want to and then cut it down into what you can actually turn in."

Anita smiles at him, "Thank you so much! That'll work great."

"No problem, anything else you needed a sounding board for?"

She nods, switching to a completely different window, "Yeah, she wanted us to write an essay covering the common theme between books that are remembered for a long time after they're published and the author dies."

Dick runs his thumb over his fingers, "Well—" Anita's phone starts going off and she curses under her breath, moving to turn it off.

She sends an apologetic smile towards him, "Sorry to cut this short, my shift starts now, but thank you so much for all of your help."

Dick waves it off, "It's really no problem."

"Still, thanks."

Dick smiles, standing up and popping his back, "You're welcome, see you around Anita."

She packs her stuff up, waving goodbye, "Later stranger."

"Bye!" He calls, and he walks out of the shop feeling a lot less weighed down compared to this morning.

But the feeling of it still creeps around the edges of his mind, not truly going away. It's okay though, that he can deal with for now, he's done it before.

He still doesn't want to go to the Manor though, not when he doesn't have all the info, and he definitely doesn't want to head back to his apartment where he could run into Steph. Especially not after his disappearing act on her.

Actually now that he thought about it, why hadn't Babs told anyone where he was? Surely if Steph wanted to find him she would've asked Babs where he was.

So why hasn't anyone come to get him?

He might be overthinking it, maybe no one ever asked Babs where he was.

Unlikely, but at the moment stressing over that isn't exactly the best idea, not when he's stressing out over the other things.

He debates it, deciding whether or not talking to Barbara right now is a good idea.

In the end, he decides against it, like the coward he is.

Instead, he chooses to try and wrap up some of his cases. He already has most of the information, he just has to try and locate one or two people and see what they're up to, check up on the info so he doesn’t get ambushed or walk in without the right info. The plans he intends to bust are relatively small, and they wouldn't be happening for at least another week, but scoping everything out and confirming the facts never hurts to do.

He brings his phone out and uses his backdoor to his tablet to check the info, quickly going through everything before leaving through the backdoor and protecting everything again, making the backdoor too difficult to access unless you were a better hacker than Dick himself.

And Dick might not be the best hacker of the kids anymore, but he's no slouch either.

He shuts his phone off, prepped now, and heads to one of the nearby safehouses. His pace is easy and confident, it's a simple little bit of recon to ensure he doesn't stumble into something huge.

Which means he's gonna need a change of clothes.

The problem with being the adopted son of the richest man in Gotham is that you end up being very well known. This is extremely problematic for information gathering.

The solution of course, is too disguise yourself using not only actual disguises, but subtle tricks with the human brain. Sometimes the simplest change of feature or clothing coupled by alcohol can change how you see someone, and accents? Those confuse everything up even more.

It’s not foolproof, but that’s what the disguise part is for.

He takes a quick shower, cleaning his hair thoroughly as he tries to decide how to approach this particular bar.

He grabs an outfit that is only the slightest bit revealing, neckline just a bit too low and jeans fit snugly against his legs. It’s a cute outfit, the top is a nice colour of dark green and the jeans are a dark blue, nothing about the outfit is overly revealing or uncomfortable, and usually he has no problem wearing stuff like it.

He just feels a bit—off.

He shakes the feeling away, opting not to focus on it and instead to go about styling his hair.

He ends up just letting it do whatever it wants, curling as it dries and settling in a messy look that he figures works for this whole thing.

The next step is contacts, he has a pair of brown ones that he uses for these outings, a colour that’s far more usual than the bright blue of his actual eyes. It’s always a bit of a shock to see brown where there is usually blue, but that just helps him all the more. He foregoes most makeup, choosing to cover up the visible scars with foundation and setting it, choosing not to do any contouring.

Makeup is incredibly useful when disguising yourself, but for this outing, he doesn’t really want to stand out much. So this is all he really needs to do, he doesn’t look so unbelievable different or eye-catching that he’ll be noticed or have people looking at him for too long, which lessens his chances considerably for being discovered by quite a lot.

The sun is still up for now, but it’s low enough in the sky that he deems it okay to start heading to the bar.

The bar he’s headed to is one that a lot of the suspects in the case he’s working right now frequent, and if he can learn anything else before he actually moves to take them down it would be incredibly helpful.

The bar itself is slightly shady, but it’s Gotham so that in and of itself isn’t overtly unusual. He walks in to see the bar slowly filling up, it’s not rowdy at the moment and he can actually see two of the men he’s watching for in the corner near the bar. Neither of them quite drunk but well on their way there and talking to each other. He takes a seat close to them at the bar and nods politely to the bartender.

He smiles, “Hey there, could I get a finger of whiskey?”

The man nods, "Whiskey preferences?"

Dick shrugs, "Whatever's cheapest."

The bartender snorts, raising an eyebrow and Dick laughs, "I may be drinking my sorrows away, but I am not made of money, let me tell you."

The other man shrugs, " 's long 's you can pay for the drinks I don' give a fuck."

Dick snorts, "Fair enough."

With that, he's left alone, he listens to the men for as long as they're at the bar, relieved to find that his information is all correct and up to date. He finishes off the whiskey he's been nursing the past half hour, a refill of his initial finger, and pays. He starts to walk out of the bar when someone taps his shoulder, he tenses and turns around to find a woman batting her eyes at him.

"Heya handsome, you busy?"

And Dick has never been known for flings or for meaningless sex without a relationship, (at least not when he had control over the situation). He’s done it a couple of times, but it’s never been something he enjoyed.

He needs love to ever think of making love to anyone, he can’t do just sex, not really. The few times he has had never ended well.

But with the thought of hands on him, running up his body and not listening to him say stop, and tainting physical contact for him. Taking away his greatest sense, one of his most loved senses. He doesn't quite seem to think correctly.

What he should say is 'yes' and 'sorry' and ‘no I won't have sex with you' , what he would normally say is all of that.

What he does say is, "No."

He's not sure if he hates himself more for that or for his own hypocrisy, hating everyone for thinking he's a slut when he so clearly is.

Because no matter what he says, no matter how he justifies it, 'using sex and his body to reclaim it', it all falls apart if he acknowledges the creeping feeling of panic thats closing in on him, the way he feels as he heads to her apartment with her.

It's in the stiffness of his body, the gentle pushing of his hands on her so that she can't get on top of him like she wants to. It's in the way that she falls asleep after it all and he goes into the bathroom and retches with the door closed.

It's not something to try and help himself move on so much as a punishment, his penance for letting people ruin things he enjoys. At least that's what he thinks as he stumbles out of the apartment, stomach burning with loathing and throat sore.

(He thinks he might hate himself even more than before, he hadn’t even realized that was possible.)

He makes his way back to the safehouse in a daze, stumbles into the bathroom and takes the contacts out with shaking hands.

It takes a lot more time than usual.

He sheds his clothes, skin still smelling of sex and it’s not like he hasn’t had sex since Tara—Cata—her, he has, it’s just that those usually lead to reactions similar to this one. A little less intense, but still dreadfully similar.

It’s not pleasant and he hates it and when he steps in the shower he tries not to think about Mirage or the rooftop or the time he spent with Tarantula in the aftermath of Blockbuster, before he was called back to Gotham.

He very firmly doesn’t think about how close he came to marrying her while he was too drunk to think. He tries very hard not to remember why two fingers of whiskey is usually his limit for drinking if he drinks at all.

God it’s been years why is this all still such a fucking big deal, why won’t he just fucking get over it.

It’s been almost a decade, why are none of these problems fixed.

He doesn't know and it's infuriating and horrible and there's a part of his chest that burns and burns and might destroy him from the inside out if things keep going like they are for very much longer.

He steps under the water, not really feeling anything but the sweat that still feels stuck against his skin, his skin feels plastic and rubbery—not his—and wrong and distantly burning. He can't smell anything but the smell of sex and perfume and he gags, resting his forehead against the wall of a second as he swallows against the bile creeping up his throat.

He cleans himself off, going through the motions mechanically, distant and almost there. It's only when he steps out of the shower that he realizes that at some point he must've scratched at his arms because they're bleeding. This is also when he realizes that the shower was up to a high temperature and his skin is bright red and raw.

He sits on the lid of the toilet, boxers the only thing on and just kind of stares down at the stinging scratches on his reddened skin.

His eyes are burning and his vision is blurry. And for some reason, he's crying but he can't pin down any one reason for it.

There's no one to blame for this but himself because he knows that he's never done flings or one night stands and that the few times he has had them have never gone well, he knows this.

He knows that Mirage and Tarantula (and society as a whole with their looks, and objectification, and blame, and feelings of ownership over him, as if he was a pretty thing instead of a person,) took something from him, tore something inside of him apart in a way that he'll never really be able to get back.

And he knows that no matter how much he wishes his family would be there for him when he needs it, that would require them knowing and for all he wants their support he doesn't because he can't stand the thought of them knowing. Has gone out of his way to avoid telling them, to avoid talking about it all.

He doesn't really know what he wants anymore, other than for everything to have never happened to him. For him never to have to choke on the words victim and rape and Tarantula, as if saying it means it's true when it happened and he lived it and it was real.

He steps out of the bathroom later, not quite sure how much time has passed. Time has been tricky lately, and he's been out of touch with it for a while.

He's dressed in the first clothes he grabbed, a baggy t-shirt that goes down nearly to his thighs and is possibly Jason's or Bruces, he's wearing pajama shorts over his boxers. The shorts he knows are his because they're just his flavour of ridiculous with dark blue with crescent moons all over. And though they fit him because of the tie, they're large and feel comfortable.

When he steps out of the bathroom he almost doesn't notice, but the place is cleaned up. Even though he knows that he knocked a thing or two over getting into the shower.

So there's someone else here. He doesn't know who it is, but stepping from the hallway into the living room makes it clear.

Dick blinks, half because he didn't expect Tim there and half because he still hasn't completely pulled himself back together.

"Uhh," he starts intelligently, "Hey Tim."

Tim levels him an unimpressed look, cataloging his state and Dick fights the urge to be defensive and to tell the younger to just go away and leave him alone.

"Steph called me."

Dick closes his eyes, opening them just as quickly, but the damage is already done. Any attempt to brush it off won't be accepted now and both of them know it.

He sighs, sinking down into the couch opposite the chair Tim is sitting in, "What did she say?"

"She wanted to know if I knew where you were, said she was about this close to trying Babs if you didn't come back and let her talk with you. I told her that I would try and talk to you instead."

Dick rubs his hands over his face and Tim asks almost hesitantly, "What's going on with you Dick?"

Dick shrugs it off as best he can, "I'm just a bit under the weather is all, getting over a cold."

Tim stares at him in clear disbelief, not buying it at all, and he seems to struggle with something for a minute or two, sucking at his bottom lip and worrying the edge of his shirt in clear tells that he's usually better at controlling.

"It's not just that though," Tim begins slowly, "It's—" he's trying to word it right but all it does is make Dick feel more antsy and anxious, "Dick you've been acting weirdly for a long time now and you've gotten like this a few times before over the years but—but never quite like this."

Dick bites his lip, hard and does his best not to say anything or twitch or move or even breathe, but Tim is frustrated and piecing things together and this conversation is so similar to their last one that Dick wants to cry and tell his little brother to just leave it alone. Let it go and let it die and be unremembered except in Dick's own nightmares.

But it's Tim so of course he can't let it go, and there’s little Dick can say that would convince him to anyways.

Tim moves his hands away from his abused shirt edge and gestures instead at Dick, “There’s something going on with you, everyone’s already established that, but there are so many different and contradicting signs and I don’t understand, Cass was upset about something that she wouldn’t tell me because she wasn’t sure how exactly to refer to it other than bad and panic and Damian was worried about you in that stupid way of his and threatened me into figuring out what happend to make you scared enough that you froze and screamed during training,” Dick winces at the reminder, vision blurring as he finally releases the air in his lungs and breathes normally, “That’s not even mentioning how Jason and Steph are being right now! Or everything I’ve been seeing!”

Tim shifts, uncertain and wary and scared and Dick tries to keep his voice and breathing steady even as his heartbeat jumps at a rabbit’s pace, “Calm down Tim, okay?”

Tim shakes his head, “You aren’t getting it Dick! We’re all worried for you, but you’re a dumbass who doesn’t seem to care about yourself and you’re giving off so many different signs that it’s terrifying because you haven’t told us shit about anything. Jason was talking to me after he talked to you and he mentioned that he’d fucked up a little bit and then clammed up and wouldn’t tell me anything. I hacked through Bruce’s shit and found the video Dick, that’s how I had to find out you actually fucking died. And I should’ve done that so long ago yeah but you didn’t tell us anything.”

Dick tries to find words but all he can come up with it, “There wasn’t any point, it was such a short time that it didn’t—”

Tim freezes, face grim and when he speaks his voice is hard, “If you say that it didn’t matter, I will punch you.”

Dick wisely shuts his mouth and Tim presses his thumb and index finger against the bridge of his nose, hard, “Holy fucking shit Dick, you’re so, fuck, I don’t even know.”

Dick speaks, strained, “No cussing Timmy, it’s bad.”

Tim just gives him a look.

It’s silent for a moment and Dick shifts uncomfortably under the weight of it.

Tim fiddles with his fingers as he speaks again, “Dick, there are things that you’ve been doing that, along with some of the things the others have said, makes me think—Dick has something ever happened where someone tried to—” He pauses and bites at his lip before continuing, “Tried to take advantage of you?” Tim looks so uncomfortable, and his eyes are half distant in a way that makes a chill go down Dick’s spine.

He clears his throat, which has suddenly gone tight and tries to swallow past his dry mouth.

“Why do you ask that Tim? Nothing’s happened that no one doesn’t know.”

(Liar, Liar pants on fire. You didn’t wanna be with Tarantula, no one knows that.)

Tim rakes his eyes across Dick’s face searching for—something.

“Jason and Steph let something slip on accident, they didn’t know I was on the comms when they were talking and—” nononononono, Dick’s breath hitches as Tim speaks, “—Dick did Mirage rape you?”

Dick is very careful not to tense, not to twitch or cry or scream, but he can’t help the trembling in his limbs or the burning of his eyes, “It was a while ago, and I cheated on Kori, everyone knows that.”

Tim is staring at him as if he’s watching something horrific unfold before his eyes.

Dick’s skin itches.

Tim shakes his head minutely, “Dick no that’s, if the story I’m remembering is true then that means that she—”

“I know what she did.” Dick snarls, chest heaving and eyes burning, he breathes for a second, trying to calm himself, “And that’s not what’s been wrong with me. I told you, I was sick.”

“It’s not just the thing with Mirage though is it? Bruce came back and suddenly you could be Nightwing again, and there’s been no major threats to the world, nothing of that sort of thing since then so you finally have time to decompress, and everything you didn’t let catch up to you before is catching up to you now. Dying, Damian dying, thinking Bruce died, going undercover, Mirage. Dick you’re not letting yourself really process it all, you’re pushing it away and doing what Bruce does and that method doesn’t work for you.”

Dick closes his eyes, “Tim, I’m fine, it was just a rough week. Maybe you’re right, but Mirage was so long ago it’s irrelevant and most of my experiences weren’t anywhere near as traumatic as some of the stuff you had to do because I refused to believe you.”

Tim freezes, looking at Dick consideringly before clearing his throat. “I met this girl, Promise, thought she was a vigilante driven by vengeance. I helped her get out of a bit of trouble. Turns out she was the one who shot Viktor Mikalek and was apart of a huge mess, she ended up kidnapping me and holding me under Paris, in the tunnels and basically handed me over to who she said was her sister.” Tim snorts, “You know how much Ra’s wants an heir? Well, Promise’s sister, another Daughter of Acheron, was Ra’s Al Ghul’s half-sister. And she told me that I was to give her a child, so that Ra’s could have an heir.” Tim laughs bitterly, “She was starting to undress me when Cass saved me, and I got away but all I could think was that this was exactly how we got Damian. And I know that nothing really happened but sometimes I’ll think about what could have happened if they hadn’t gotten there and—”

He trails off, lets the story hang, and Tim doesn’t do this, is normally content to never talk about this kind of stuff ever, to push it down and away and for him to bring it up in a conversation right now—.

Dick sighs, heart reaching near speedster levels as he tries to find the words to tell this story a second time almost as many weeks.

He doesn’t look at Tim as he speaks, only seeing him out of his peripheral vision, “Back when I was on the Titan’s and dating Kori still, there was this girl called name Miriam Delgado, she went by Mirage. She could create illusions.” He lets that information sink in, and he can already see the understanding dawn on Tim, “Kori and I ended up having sex at some point, and the next morning I found out that Kori had been missing the entire time. Mirage told everyone what happened, laughed about the fact she slept with me and I wasn’t able to differentiate between her and Kori. And Kori called me a cheater, so did everyone else and, well, that’s not the only thing I got called.”

He’s breathing carefully, in four and out four and hoping to everything that he doesn’t lose himself right now. He very carefully doesn’t look towards Tim as he speaks, not wanting to see the reaction. But Jason and Steph knew about this, really it was only a matter of time before Tim found out, and it’s a little bit easier to talk about.

He bites his lip, clarifying to Tim, who looks like he’s swallowed about 10 different lemons, “It wasn’t Kori’s fault, she had other extenuating issues and factors going on and I should have been able to tell them apart. I don’t blame her it just,” he pauses, tries to find the right word, “it wasn’t a good time for me.”

"Dick," Tim chokes out, voice strained, "That—that isn't your fault, you were what, seventeen? You wouldn't have been suspicious of your girlfriend maybe not being your girlfriend. It's just not something that anyone would check."

Dick shakes his head, "Bruce—"

"You aren't Bruce!" Tim throws his hands up, "And that's a good thing. I love Bruce don't get me wrong, but it's not good to be like him, we all are in some way shape or form, I acknowledge that, but that doesn't mean it's a good thing. I'm glad you aren't Bruce and even if Bruce doesn't trust anyone that much that doesn't mean that you need to be like that."

Dick swallows his reply, and Tim searches his face before he retreats back to his couch, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat, "None of that was your fault, blaming yourself for it isn't right. And the fact you've had to hear that it was your fault and something you intended to do so often is wrong on so many levels and your team shouldn't have blamed or shamed you for it. That's on them, they fucked up and were horrible people, that wasn't on you. And I'm sorry we only started to figure this out now, after so long."

Dick feels like he's choking, he hates these conversations and yet some part of him craves them because he wants so desperately to stop feeling like this, and he can never seem to decide between allowing himself peace or to continue to punish himself.

Dick moves to Tim's couch and hugs him tightly, wrapping the other up in his arms and burying his face into Tim's hoodie.

"Thanks, Tim. And, listen to me for a sec?"

"Okay, what’s up?"

"What happened to you, almost happened, I mean, could’ve happened, that wasn't any more your fault then you say Mirage was mine okay? You didn't deserve it, it wasn't okay, it shouldn't have happened and I'm sorry it did and that I wasn't there for you. You aren’t a terrible person either."

Tim doesn't cry, but his body tenses and his breath hitches and they stay curled up like that for a while later, even after the hug is less of a hug and more of a cuddle.

Dick is reluctant to break the peace but he needs to know about Steph and what to expect when he sees her next, “Did Steph tell you what she wanted me for?”

Tim shrugged, “Just that she needed to talk to you, refused to tell me about what.”

Dick winced, "Great."

Tim shifted, "Is it really that bad?" His voice sounds so small, and Dick is suddenly violently reminded of the little boy who came to him and begged him to go back to being Robin.

Dick tries to explain it in a way that doesn't sound horrid, "I just don't want to talk to her about it, and I've already told her about it when she and Jason saw me have a bit of a freakout. I don't want to talk about it anymore. It's stupid and it was years ago and I'm over it."

Tim is silent for a second or two, "It doesn't really sound like you are though."

And Dick isn't quite sure whether he should cry or scream so instead he just squeezes Tim tighter, hiding his face away and trying not to breakdown.

His voice is ragged when he speaks next, "It's nothing, It's been so fucking long that it doesn't matter anymore."

Tim doesn't say much of anything after that, but he does draw on Dick's back with his finger, it's only two letters, N-O, and then Tim hugs him, understanding that Dick still can't really accept that, no matter what happened when he spoke with Steph and Jason.

It's not a linear road he's taking, and it's hard and this confusing back and forth hurts, but he's getting there maybe, or at least trying to get there, and that's the most important thing.

So Dick curls up and forgets about everything else for a second.

It's nice like that, though it ends too quickly, and Tim taps him, "c'mon Dick, up."

He doesn't really want to get up, but he does. "You going somewhere?"

Tim shakes his head, "No, but I doubt you've eaten, and you need to before Alfred gives up being discreet and forces you to eat."

Dick winces, "Oh."

Tim rolls his eyes, "Yeah, oh. You haven't been eating and it's noticeable."

Dick sighs, running a hand through his hair and over his face. "Oops?"

Tim watches him for a second, before turning and heading to the kitchen, “That’s not just ‘oops’ Dick. It might be hypocritical of me, but you didn’t forget to eat so much as choose that it wasn’t something you wanted to do.”

Dick follows behind him, "It's not that I didn't want to, I just haven't been all that hungry."

"That still isn't good."

Dick huffs, the slightest bit annoyed, "I know that Tim. But what do you want me to do?"

Tim gives him a deadpan stare, "Take care of yourself, that's what everyone wants you to do."

Dick shifts, tapping his fingers against his arms with increasing pressure.

"Maybe you should take care of yourself too then Tim."

Tim rolls his eyes, waving his hand, "Yeah, yeah. I get it."

Dick purses his lips, deciding to start that argument later, when he has more ground to stand on.

Tim is silent as he makes something for them both to eat, but the silence isn't awkward, at least not on Tim's side. No, Tim is silent in the way that means he's thinking something over.

Dick tries not to feel like he's being cornered.

It's when Tim's finishing the sandwiches that he freezes, back going rigid and hands freezing. Dick hears Tim take a deep breath before he asks, still not looking at Dick, "When you and Jason talked, after I came over and asked you about the anger thing with Bruce, did you guys talk about the whole dying and going undercover thing?"

Dick shrugs, trying for nonchalant, "A little, yeah. Why?"

Tim curses under his breath, "That's why he wouldn't talk to me."

Dick runs his tongue over the broken skin of his lip, hissing slightly and fiddling with his cuticles.

Tim turns towards him, eyes narrowed in thought, "So Jason and I know about you actually dying and I know about Mirage and that's all?"

Dick shrugs, "Well, Jason and Steph know about Mirage now too. I mean it wasn't like it was something anyone had to know."

Tim runs a hand through his hair, "Dick, that means you haven't talked to anyone about them until now and it's been years. That isn't healthy."

Dick grits his teeth, “I’ve had this conversation before, okay? With you just a few minutes ago, with Jason and Steph when they figured it out. You guys can yell at me all you want about being stupid and not talking to anyone but it’s not as big of a deal as you’re making it. Let it go.”

Tim looks at him in disbelief, "Dick, you keep saying that but you're shaking."

Dick exhales shakily, bringing his arms around his stomach and squeezing them tight against himself.

"I just—" he trails off, squeezing his arms tight, fingers digging into the skin, "I just haven't been getting enough sleep is all."

It's not a lie, but it isn't quite the truth either.

Tim frowns, eyes searching and Dick bites the inside of his cheek.

"You know what happened to you, I know you do Dick. Denying it won't make it go away—"

"I know!" He snarls out, voice thick, "I fucking know Tim, so would you drop it. Yes I died, yes Mirage raped me, yes everyone blamed me for it. Everyone called me a slut and a whore, and I had to listen to it all and apologize for it even though I felt like someone had ripped me open and let me bleed out. I still apologized for it and I still have to deal with people rubbing it in my face and calling me names behind my back. I know Tim. But I'm over it and it doesn't fucking matter anymore."

He breathes heavily when he's finished, fingers white on his arms and heart beating humming-bird fast and the itching, burning feeling of tears in his eyes has started.

Tim is staring at him, white-faced and horrified and Dick wants to keep yelling and screaming, anything so that he won't start crying those treacherous tears.

Dick forces his voice steady and calm even as his chest tries to swallow him whole and his body trembles with some strange mixture of anger and hatred and fear and pain, "Maybe you should leave Tim. It was nice talking to you, but this conversation is over. Have a good day."

And Tim moves towards him, but Dick is faster, making his way to the bedroom and closing the door behind him before Tim can get a single word out.

The last thing he sees of Tim is the frustration and despair etched into his eyes and body language.

And despite all the emotions he could be feeling at this moment, Dick doesn't feel viciously satisfied or angry or anything really.

He just feels tired.

Chapter Text

He ends up having a slight breakdown.

He's not sure whether it's because Tim knows now and is starting to piece things together, all of his siblings are beginning to piece things together that he doesn't want them to, or if it's because he's had to confront so many things in the last few weeks, stuck in a see-saw of acceptance and denial and Tim has blown through it all.

Tim who shouldn't have had to go through what he did, shouldn't have come far too close to losing a piece of himself because of Ra's al Ghul's want for an heir. Tim shouldn't have had to go through it all alone.

And Dick shouldn't have yelled at him, shouldn't have gotten angry when Tim was just trying to help. Dick knows, sort of, how Tim works, and he knows that he was probably the only person Tim had told about the incident.

He was the only one who knew about it, that wasn't part of the group who had saved Tim, and he'd forced Tim out of the safehouse, knowing that their conversation had probably brought up painful memories for the younger.

He leaves a text message for Tim, a simple apology and an offer to talk whenever the other needs it.

It's not enough, it's nowhere near enough.

But it's all he can do before he finds himself on the ground, crying.

He's choking on sobs and his own tears and he wants to scream that Tim and Jason and Steph are wrong, that it's nothing, that Cass and her concern and Damian and his insecure worry are seeing things that aren't there. He wants to dig his way so far into denial that he can't find his way out again. Wants to let it cover him like a blanket or a shield because he hates saying that anything has happened to him, that he's a victim. He yells and screams and shouts that he understands and he knows and he accepts, what was done to him. But the words make him choke, make a piece of him rear it's ugly head and make him want to cry and never stop.

Denial isn't healthy or safe but it's better some days, most days, than remembering and knowing he let these horrible things happen to him, let himself become a victim.

They say that acceptance is the first step to healing, but if that's the case, then Dick is so far behind in healing, and has been for so long, that the mountain of issues he's accumulated is far too big for him to handle. Too much to sort through and heal from all at once like his siblings have been trying to force him to do with the few things they’ve learned.

He isn't sure how long he lays on the messy floor of the bedroom crying, but it goes on for a while.

The crying isn't the therapeutic kind, not the kind that feels good to get out and horrid when held in. No this is the draining type of sobs that come from too many different things weighing on his shoulders and a worldview being flipped on it's head.

He calms down in pieces, tears slowly coming to a stop. His breath comes in choked inhales and ragged exhales, and they take far too long to slip into any semblance of a calm cadence, but they get there eventually. His eyes are swollen and irritated and his throat feels tight and sore, there isn't much he can do for that so he just kind of lays on the floor for a bit, staring at the ceiling until it blurs and morphs.

He pulls himself up on unsteady feet, stumbling into the bed and curling up into a ball. He dozes off like that, too tired and too wrung out to think of much of anything.

He doesn't remember what he dreams about, just knows he wakes up when there is still no sun to light up the sky and if he were a little more awake or poetic, he might call it an irony of the somberest and most heartbreaking type.

It takes him a second to realize that it's Tuesday.

He has a job interview today, he'd almost forgotten about it, he's glad he didn't though. Having a job will keep him from feeling like a leech, allow his lizard brain to see that he's being independent and capable of doing something useful. And getting out by doing stuff that doesn't relate in one way or another to Bat stuff or hero stuff might help. Something stable in a life full of instability.

It's a small thing, this job, but it's important to him right now. And the chances of him finding a friend in Anita is high. They're already at 'Acquaintances who talk about things and help with homework’. And, similar to the job thing, having a friend, a good friend not involved with Bat stuff or hero stuff might help him and his mental state a little.

Keep him from losing himself.

He gets dressed slowly, mind still hazy. He doesn't dress quite as comfy as he might've, choosing a baggy t-shirt and leggings instead of the sweatpants he wants to put on. He runs a hand through his hair and calls it done as soon as it settles in a way that looks somewhat tamed. He still has a little while until he has to head to the cafe.

Tim's words burn in the back of his head. He sighs, opening the door to make something for breakfast, and freezes when he sees the sandwich in the fridge, uneaten and wrapped up.

A vicious stab of guilt hits him then, and he resolves to properly apologize to Tim whenever he sees him next.

He takes the sandwich out, it wouldn't keep for much longer, even in the fridge, and eats it.

He feels like the worst person in the world. And maybe it's a bit of an exaggeration, but it hasn't been top far off the mark these past two weeks.

He feels like every time he tries to fix something, patching it up and sewing over it, something else comes undone in a hundred different places.

Even he's only full of so much hope, so much optimism, and sometimes the hits are harder to recover from.

He hopes that this doesn't fall apart on him, he's not sure he'd be able to handle it and everything else as well. He needs this to work right now.

He still hasn't been to see Steph but that's okay, he can still do that before the day is over, maybe. And then he needs to patrol tonight, it's been too long since Nightwing last patrolled and not only is he getting antsy, any longer might warrant Batman coming to check on him. And that is a conversation, (or not-conversation considering how often Bruce actually makes conversations one-sided,) that Dick doesn't think he can handle right now either.

His life right now is just landmine after landmine, one bomb after another.

He goes digging through the cabinets for tea, finding a box of green matcha tea. He grabs a mug and lets it steep for a little as he eats his sandwich. The tea is good and he settles in for a bit to drink it, reviewing his case files for the bust later in the week carefully.

Once the tea is finished he rinses the mug out and starts the Keurig, making himself a cup of coffee as he goes to finish getting ready. He slips into some tennis shoes and washes his face, eyes not as puffy or irritated as last night, and if you didn't know what to look for you would never be able to tell he had cried his eyes out last night.

He avoids looking himself in the eye.

Brushing his teeth is an automatic decision and it's only when he's halfway finished that he remembers the coffee. He sighs but continues anyway.

A little coffee after brushing his teeth won’t be horrible.

Once he's all ready to go he makes his way back to the kitchen, grabbing his coffee and sipping at it.

Once he finishes his coffee he heads to the cafe, allowing himself to be cautiously optimistic and hoping for the best.

The interview itself isn't very long, and the person interviewing him is nice. He does end up getting the job after a little while, which is nice, and his shift will switch between the early graveyard hours and in the afternoon. It's a nice system, two weeks on one shift and then all the employees switch to their second shift.

He's glad for it, and he thanks them for their time, leaving the shop feeling a lot happier than when he entered.

It's as he's leaving that he runs into Steph.

He doesn't know who told her, Cass or Babs, but she's waiting for him across the street and for all he wants to just avoid her.

He needs to talk to her.

He's been avoiding it, but there's only so long he can continue to do that.

He sighs as she waves at him, she looks vaguely sheepish, but her stance reads righteous. Walking over feels kind of like a death sentence.

Steph shifts, "Hey, Dick."

"Hey, Steph."

She starts walking and Dick falls into step with her, trying not to feel like he's being torn open and examined every time she looks at him.

They don't talk for a while, just walking down the street and it makes Dick feel like crawling out of his skin. She just keeps watching him like he's a bomb about to explode and all it does is make him feel like he actually is one.

He shifts, "Where are we going?"

Steph glances at him quickly, "My place. Tim said he talked to you."

Dick shrugged, "Yeah, he dropped by last night."

"Awesome, so we have to talk and you know that."

Dick bites the inside of his cheek, "Can this wait till we get to your place?"

Steph knocks shoulders with him, "Yeah. Just, don't leave until I'm done okay? You can't keep shutting the conversations down like you are. You have to actually talk about it."

(I don’t want to, he thinks, Speaking can heal yes but sometimes I don’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to give everyone the details, doesn’t want people to look at him like he’s some broken thing, some Frankenstein creation coming back from everything that’s happened to him.)

Dick sighs, “Yeah, okay. How've you been by the way?”

Stephanie shrugs, “I’m okay, I’ve actually been learning a new piece on the piano, and it’s been going well so that’s good."

The air between them is full of awkward tension, worry, and disquiet. It makes his skin itch and feel like ants are crawling just under his skin.

Steph's apartment requires them to take the bus and the ride there leaves plenty enough time for Dick to psych himself out. Steph is a force of a person and there's only so much of that Dick can handle in regards to the multiple things she's trying to approach with it.

He just has to figure out how to explain that to her.

And how to force himself to tell her that instead of ignoring it.

He doesn't want to do this, hasn't wanted to at all and the longer it takes to get to Steph's apartment, the more anxious he gets.

They finally reach their stop and Dick doesn't think it's ever taken this long to get to Steph's place before. He's agitated and his defenses are raised and it's a horrible way to start a conversation. He can tell he's close to the edge of an explosion or another breakdown and it isn't good. He tries to breathe, to calm down, to not let his anger get the better of him.

He doesn't want to keep exploding and then feeling guilty afterward, he should be capable of keeping his temper and not resort to viciously lashing out at any and everyone who speaks to him in the wrong tone whenever he gets like this.

He's supposed to be better than that.

(He knows he is a disappointment, that doesn't change how much it hurts to be reminded of the fact. But he is well aware of his failings, numerous as they are, and he's working to fix them, has been working the last two decades to fix them.

He has yet to succeed.

That says more about him than Bruce's teaching. And he knows that he’s a letdown and annoyance, knows he's fucked up so many times and will only continue fucking up.

But he is trying so fucking hard to be good, to be better.

It is so fucking hard to try and be perfect. So hard to try and be the closest thing you can to perfect, reach as far as you can, do as much as you are able, and still fall so fucking short of the line. It hurts to be a disappointment even while you try and be everything everyone expects of you and more.

He hates everyone thinking he’s perfect and can do no wrong, he hates having to be perfect and he hates his own desperate fucking need to be more than perfect.)

Stepping into Steph’s apartment feels a little like walking into a courtroom without a defense attorney or any legal knowledge.

It isn’t a pleasant feeling.

Steph sees how uncomfortable he is though, and she seems to take it upon herself to make him more comfortable right before she completely tears down every single wall and defense he has.

He sits on the couch, and she stands a little ways away from him, hands flitting around her while she speaks, “Do you want anything to drink?”

He shrugs, “If you still have coffee that’ll be fine.”

Steph bites her lip, and her brow furrows as she examines him, “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

Dick rolls his eyes, “You know that isn’t true, you’re the one who woke me up after I passed out for like a day.”

She flicks her hand away from her body, “Still, I don’t wanna give you any caffeine, actually wait. Didn’t Alf ban you from coffee.”

Dick freezes, “There is a strong possibility that that is in fact something that happened.”

She snorts, “So yeah you are definitely not getting coffee. I’ll get you some tea instead. Non-caffeinated. I mean really, who do you think I am, someone who’s gonna help you go against a direct Alfred order?”

Dick huffs and smiles a little, amused and almost forgetting the reason his stomach feels like the inside of a snowglobe. Why he feels like crawling out of his skin.

Steph sits down across from him, placing a mug of tea down in front of him as she does. She watches him for a moment, almost hesitant.

She doesn't begin the conversation like he thought she would. Diving right into the problem and ripping him from piece to piece, forcing him headfirst into everything he doesn’t want to ever think about again. Nor does she begin it how she began the last one.

Instead, she looks at him and asks him, "How many conversations have you had, conversations like the one we're about to have I mean, this month."

Dick hides his pause with a shrug, "Too many, why?"

Steph bites her lip, "Because Babs brought up a wonderful point when I talked to her," Dick freezes and Steph raises her hands in a soothing gesture, "I didn't say anything about you, I made it sound like some kid I was helping around the Alley."

Dick doesn't know how to feel about that, but he jerks his head with an accepting nod and Steph continues on.

She breathes steadily as she gets back onto her train of thought, "Anyway, Babs explained to me that we've been asking you to turn your world, and how you've seen it for so long, all on it's head for a few different things; you dying, Mirage, and your spiraling and denial of it all.” Dick grits his teeth and forces his tongue to be still, pressing it viciously against the roof of his mouth.

He wants to protest it but there’s no point, not with Steph, not right now.

And Dick doesn’t know what point she’s trying to make but she keeps speaking, voice steady in a way that makes him want to shatter something against a wall, destroy something, (make it look on the outside how he feels on the inside).

“We've been expecting you to just get through the conversation and accept our opinions but it doesn't work like that. And I think all of us know that logically, but it's harder to put it into action with you."

She winces, looking apologetic and Dick wants to yell at her, wants to snarl and yell and claw his way out of this deadly conversation. But he feels as if the words have left his body. Throat and tongue and lips uncooperative as his brain tries to put everything together.

Steph is anxious, body stiff and fingers flitting around each other, she’s uncomfortable, but she pushes on, forcing words through lips and out into the world as if the explanation will actually change anything.

"The gist of what she explained to me was that, basically, you've been through some stuff and because of that you've seen the world a certain way for so long that us coming in once and destroying that world view is shock-inducing and terrifying enough, but doing it multiple times one right after the other like we've been doing to you? It's really, really bad."

(He doesn’t care about the explanation right now, and the uncomfortable tension sits heavy between the two of them. It gets heavier the longer Steph speaks, the longer she misses her point in a way that’s unlike her.)

(In a very quiet part of his mind, Dick thinks that maybe she’s having her world turned on it’s head too, after all it’s not every day you figure out just how monumentally screwed up the oldest and thus, the one in charge, is after all. Not everyday you learn that not even your harshest judgments and thoughts of them were gentler than the truth.)

Steph looks at him, and it’s with a pleading expression, tone gentle even as her words hit hard against everything he is, knife-like and cutting deep. “But, Dick, even with all that said, you still have to work through everything. Not all at once, not even quickly, but if you don’t allow yourself to work through these things, to help yourself heal, then you’ll be stuck in this never-ending cycle of loneliness and pain. And trust me when I say that it fucking sucks. It’s the worst thing in the world. And getting out of it? It’s something you need to do before you self-destruct.”

The urge to make a joke out of this, to brush it off and say, ‘Sorry, wrong person to tell this too.’ is strong. It needles at him insistently, urging him to say it and get her and the others to leave him alone.

It’s too late to do that now though, he’s already been caught too far within their worry for that to work anymore.

(He wants to be ‘better’, he wants to not feel like this all the fucking time. But the thought of it is just as terrifying as it is intoxicating. He’s grown so used to feeling like he does that he forgets sometimes that life isn’t supposed to feel this way.)

Dick grits his teeth, "Steph, did it ever occur to you that maybe, maybe I already know this. That I don't want to talk about it, for a reason?"

Steph looks like she has something to say and Dick shakes his head, "Don't, Steph, sometimes I don't handle things well, but all of us do that. I'm not special."

Steph shakes her head furiously, "That's not the point! That isn't the point I'm trying to get across and you know it."

Dick shifts, curling tighter into himself, pressing himself against the corner of the couch.

"So what Steph! Sometimes, most times actually, I don't wanna talk about it! I don't wanna even think about it most of the time, because the nightmares are so much worse and so much more vivid and inescapable when I've relived it all through telling people. Sometimes it feels like my heart is just breaking over and over again and other days I'm just so fucking tired. And I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to be the victim."

Steph is looking at him, pity and horror painted across her face and that isn't what he wants. He doesn't want her pity or for her to be afraid or upset, he just wants everything to be dropped, just wants everyone to forget so he can go back to pretending like nothing ever happened.

"Stop looking at me like that, Steph. Just stop it." Her face goes carefully blank, but she bites at her lip and Dick doesn't know what to do. He's never really wanted anyone to know, never wanted anyone to see, but at the same time, he needed them to understand that he wasn't okay, that something was wrong. And now that they have he doesn't know what to do. He's terrified and he wants this conversation to be over.

He doesn't want to talk about any of the things that happened to him, doesn't want to keep reliving the things that happened years ago.

Steph's jaw twitches and she watches him carefully, "Dick you don't—you don't need to be alright all the time, you know that right?"

Dick flicks his eyes away, silent, and Steph inhales sharply.

"Okay, so first of all, it's okay if you aren't alright, or perfect, but you can't just sit in denial and let yourself keep repeating the same cycle of self-harm over and over again."

"It's not—"

She cuts him off harshly, "It is. You're hurting yourself over and over again. It's not okay Dick."

He feels bitter, frustrated and angry, and he clenches the mug tighter in his hands, vitriol spilling out of his mouth without warning, "Well it's not like anyone is giving me a chance to do anything else are they?"

Steph clenches her fists, trying to be calm and everything she thinks he needs right now so he'll speak with her, but growing angry and defensive.

There are open wounds and landmines littered everywhere within this family. And they are all well aware of them in the worst possible ways.

She brings her arms up, crossing them in front of her chest, and the hurt is clear in her voice, "Spyral, Dick. From what Tim and Jason have been talking about I'm guessing you didn't fake your death," he bites down on the inside of his cheek and very pointedly doesn't curl into himself, "but that just means that you could've asked us to help you. You didn't have to do that alone! And you could've at least told us."

He unclenches his jaw, and speaks, trying his hardest not to let his voice shake. He almost manages it, “I wanted to. God Steph, you have no idea how much I wanted to.”

"Then why didn't you?"

There's a raw pain in her voice and Dick swallows thickly.

"I wasn't allowed to, I'm sorry Steph but Bruce was adamant that—"

She stands abruptly, "Adamant that what? That you go undercover? That you take on this giant fucking mission after dying and having your identity revealed after being beaten on live television? After Damian died?"

And that's so horribly unfair and correct, it's infuriating. The pit in his stomach is growing deeper and deeper the more she speaks, and some frustrated, ugly, emotion is ripping away at his insides because what she's so sure didn't happen is exactly what happened and he wants to yell or scream because it's all so messed up.

He puts his mug down, clenching his fists tight enough that his nails have started digging into his skin again.

"Yes."

She startles, and Dick almost does as well, he hadn't meant to say that. Hadn't meant to start that whole other conversation, because no matter how much Bruce may have failed Stephanie, there are still some expectations that she keeps, some tiny shreds of faith that she allows herself to hold for him.

"What do you mean yes? Dick, what the fuck are you talking about?" Her eyes are wide and her face pale, and Dick wants to tell her to sit down before she falls down.

He shrugs, not looking at her, he pinches and twists at a bit of skin on the side of his wrist, "I mean yes, you just described what happened."

She chokes, "Dick that's—" her voice is strangled and she's gesturing frantically, "That's so fucked up, oh shit that's—I mean, I knew that Bruce knew because Jason mentioned him but I thought he, I don't know, figured it out? Holy shit."

Dick shifts uncomfortably and fights the urge to just get up and leave.

Steph clears her throat, picking at her cuticles and fingernails, "How—How the fuck did he even get you to agree? That—it doesn't sound like you wanted to do it anyway so how did he get you to do it, I mean I doubt you would've just accepted it right away but I just, I don’t understand."

Dick tries not to sound bitter when he answers her, “We fought, I was tired, I didn’t want to have to deal with all the fallout. You know I’m more inclined to run away than to stay. Bruce said some shit, I said some shit, he won.”

Steph shakes her head in disbelief but Dick cuts her off before she can say anything, "No Steph, don't, that's all it was, now drop it."

She watched him for a second before nodding, "Sure, okay, whatever. No talking about this, I get it." She sighs, runs a hand over her face. She pulls her hair up into a ponytail, standing and moving to the other room.

It’s a spontaneous action, one completely unconnected from before. Something random and unexpected.

"You wanna hear the piece I'm working on?" She calls over her shoulder.

He's a little thrown by the abrupt change of topic but he nods, standing and stretching his back out, "Sure."

She sits at the piano, and Dick settles onto a chair nearby.

She begins the song slowly, the notes ringing nostalgic and longing, it's not a very long piece, or maybe it is and it's only a small part of it. But it keeps the slow tempo and leaves a part of Dick aching with something he doesn't know how to describe.

When Steph finishes the piece, she pauses for a minute, just sitting at the piano. She furrows her brow and speaks, thumb tapping soundlessly against a key, "You ever think about finding something you wanna do and just doing it? Just for fun? Like, you have your acrobatics but," She shrugs, "I don't know, I just feel like you need something that's not connected to the life ya know?"

Her hands move then, thumb pressing down against the key and hands starting to dance across the piano once again. It's a different song this time. something angrier and harsher, and Steph plays it like she's ripping something out of herself and laying it down for everyone to see, it's mesmerizing to watch and enrapturing listen to.

Stephanie tells stories with her music, she vents and screams and laughs and cries with her playing and Dick can feel all of that as she presses the piano keys.

He doesn't know why she wants him to hear these pieces, isn't sure what she wants with him now that it's clear he won’t be very forthcoming.

The end of the piece comes abruptly and Dick feels off-center, wrong-footed and uncertain.

Steph stands up and rolls her wrists bouncing up to the balls of her feet. She’s growing more and more uncertain the longer he goes without saying anything so Dick shakes himself out of it, clapping and smiling at her.

“That was brilliant Steph, you sounded amazing.”

She blushes, beaming at him, “Thanks! There’s a few parts of it I need to clean up but I figured you needed to hear it.”

He frowns, fingers tapping against his legs, “Why?”

She shrugs, “Don’t know, just felt right for you to listen to it.”

He isn’t quite sure what to make of that.

They decide to set up a chess game, well, it started out as chess at least. But at some point in the game the two of them had started making faces at each other and growing increasingly more dramatic as the game got more boring, this lead to the addition of checker pieces to the board and then the inclusion of dice to determine how many turns or moves you could have.

It goes downhill very quickly, but only in the best of ways, they end up renegotiating the rules 3 different times and replaying it twice. It’s on the second rematch that Dick decides to try and talk.

He owes her that much he thinks, an attempt to speak to her when she wants to help him.

Just—just not about Bruce and all the ways both of them have messed up, and definitely not Mirage.

Spyral, though? Well Dick isn’t the only one to ‘die’ and leave Gotham, just one death was for Steph’s health and one death was for a mission.

(And Bruce didn’t think about the fact that Dick wouldn’t be in his right mind, but that hurts too much to think about sometimes. The fact that Bruce was so twisted up inside he missed something he usually is so careful about when he sends them undercover or on missions. Dick isn’t sure whether he blames Bruce for that or himself.)

“How did you deal with it?” He asks her, and she looks at him confused, not sure what he’s talking about.

He frowns, moving a checker piece king over to capture Steph’s knight, “With coming back to Gotham I mean, after your faked death.” He pauses, hesitantly, and forces the next words out, “And how—uh—how did you make things right with Tim? And with Babs and Cass?”

She flicks the table as she thinks, and her eyes go distant, “This is about the whole trying to find your balance and stuff like that after coming back from a death you only partially went through yeah?” He nods and Steph sighs.

“It’s—It’s not,” she breaks off, expression pained as she swallows, “It’s not something that’s easy to do, you know that. It’s difficult and it hurts and most of the time you end up wondering if coming back was the right thing to do at all. If living was the right thing to do.”

She bites her lip, eyebrows furrowing as she thinks something over in her head. "Coming back, it—it hurts everyone. And it doesn't really matter if you mean to or not, but you end up messing with people's emotions, with their heads."

Her voice gains a rough quality and Dick kind of just wants to hug her and make everything not hurt anymore because his head is throbbing and his eyes are burning again and he needs to stop fucking crying so much.

She speaks with a rasp in her voice, whether from too much talking or from sadness he isn't sure, "Because they mourn you, they bury you and they cry for you and they get mad for you and at you and at themselves for the millions of little things they couldn't do to help you or to be there for you, and then you come back."

She swallows thickly, and Dick feels a knot in his throat as he listens to her, As she speaks her voice is quiet, "You come back and they find out that they mourned you for nothing, they lost time with you when you were still alive and they blamed themselves for so many things, ruined themselves because of guilt and anger and sadness, and you were alive that whole time."

Steph’s fingernails are pressed hard against her skin, knuckles white and he almost reaches over to release her arms from her hands, but the tense way she’s sitting speaks of how bad an idea that would be.

“I didn’t want to disappear, I didn’t want to die, and I especially didn’t want to fuck Tim up any more than he was at the time. He needed people around him to stop dying and then I come back to Gotham alive and fine and that messed with his head. He keeps losing people and then getting some of them back right after he finishes mourning them and accepting hell never see them again, won’t ever have them back. But I needed that time.”

She glances to him now and there’s an almost heartbroken look in her eyes, “Sometimes I think that he just—keeps waiting for the people who haven’t come back yet, keeps waiting for them to come back to him alive, and it’s tearing him apart.”

Dick winces, and Steph rubs at her eyes, “None of us have ever done completely right by him, just like he’s never done completely right by some of us. It’s just how you bats work. And it isn’t okay, but it’s what happens.”

Dick snorts, a self-deprecating smile on his face, “You say that like you aren’t a bat just the same as the rest of us.”

She shrugs, smiling the slightest before she grows serious once more. “Tim—we’ve all messed up with him, and his parents never helped. And when people leave him, he’s used to that because he thinks he just isn’t good enough to make them stay, I think. Maybe I’m completely wrong but—”

She pauses, moving her checker piece in a way that takes two of his, “Tim can’t live through losing any more people, especially when it turns out that they never died, he’ll find some way to believe that it’s all his fault for not being enough for them. I love him, but I made that worse when I was announced dead and then came back.”

He moves a pawn another space closer to being switched out and she grimaces rubbing at her arms, “That’s without considering how rocky our friendship was at the time as well.”

Steph sighs then, looking up at him, “But the difference Dick, is that when you left—died—for the purposes of this conversation it’s all the same. Before that, you took Robin.” Dick winces and she continues on resolutely.

(Faintly he thinks that he’s never had a conversation quite this long with her before. Not about anything that mattered like this does.)

She licks her lips, voice certain, steady. “And he knows, we all know, logically that the little brat needed Robin.” She snorts, “It’s the same way we’ve all needed Robin, but that doesn’t mean that you getting rid of him didn’t hurt.” Dick harshly shoves down the reminder of being replaced, of not being good enough for Bruce, for the name his mother gave him. His leaving of Robin has grown less painful over the years, but at the time it was something sharp and deadly.

He hadn’t thought through how it would feel for Tim. Hadn’t thought that maybe Tim wouldn’t understand. He’d gone in thinking Tim would know that he was still needed.

He’d forgotten how Tim had grown up. Forgotten that Tim was still a teenager, forgotten that for all his intelligence and all his steady support, Tim has never been half as settled in his role in the family as he pretends to be. And most of all he’s frustrated and angry because he didn’t take Robin away, that was never the intention that wasn’t what happened.

Steph gazes at him with something almost accusing but infinitely softer colouring her expression, “You keep trying to make amends and you’re asking me how I did it, but when I left it wasn’t the same, what worked for me won’t work for you because I didn’t take Robin from him before my death, not really, he gave me Robin for a little while and when I died he got it back.” She snorts, “That messed him up in a whole different way.”

Dick clenches his jaw, hissing through his teeth, “But I never took Robin from him Steph! That isn’t what happened. He wasn’t someone who was a junior partner, he was my equal, he had grown beyond Robin.”

Steph huffs, “I know that, but that isn’t how he took it, and that isn’t your fault but it made everything harder. On both of you.”

Dick bites back a frustrated groan, “I’m trying so goddamn hard to keep us all from falling apart and I hate everything being my fault. I want things to be better, but it seems like for that to happen I have to apologize about things that I didn’t do.”

Steph sighs, looking frustrated “I know, and it’s not fair or right and you shouldn’t have to. Just, try and talk to them, figure something out, because right now everything is still out of place and it’s just gonna keep getting worse and worse the longer it takes you guys to figure it out.”

Dick rubs at his face harshly and Steph speaks, softer than before, “It’s not entirely your fault Dick, but they keep getting their world turned upside down and they don’t know what to do,” she snorts bitterly, “I don’t even fucking know what to do. Just be there for them and let them know you won’t willingly disappear again.” She shrugs, “when I came back it took a while, and it’s going to take a while for you, maybe longer.”

Dick presses his palms to his eyes, “I keep thinking I’m doing okay but I don’t know.”

She sighs, “Just, whatever you do, don’t pull a Bruce? Okay?”

He purses his lips, the reminder of his father's inability to properly deal with these types of situations painful even now, especially now.

He nods curtly, “Yeah,” he tries to plaster on a plastic smile, “Wouldn’t want to turn into the bat now would I?”

Steph bites her lip and Dick hopes to whatever is out there that the thoughts running through her head don’t include, ‘Sometimes I think you already have.’

(Dick Grayson has never wanted to be Batman, never wanted to slip into the skin of the Dark Knight. Never wanted to lose himself to the mission, to the mantle. Dick Grayson rarely gets what he wants in cases like these.)

Steph smiles, somewhat forced and says, “Yeah.”

Dick doesn’t think she said anything she wanted to say and everything about that terrifies him.

Steph sighs, runs a hand over her face and fiddles with her cuticles, “Tim was one of the hardest to make things right with, and not right as in ‘he works with you well and will be whatever you need’, he does that anyways. But the trust—” She cuts herself off, licks at her lips, brow furrowing as she rolls the words around her mouth to find the right ones.

She takes a deep breath, posture stiff, “The trust is the hardest thing to earn back. Tim and I aren’t the same as we were before. Even now, he still hasn’t quite forgotten that I left. I don’t blame him for it. But I think that, once you lose his trust, he never gives you all of it again. And I don't know what the right answer is, or if there even is one. I’m just telling you what I’ve seen. What I’ve learned.”

She’s closed off and Dick feels like they’re steadily reaching the end of how willing she is to discuss this today.

(Dick Grayson is not the only one who wakes from too little sleep gasping for air and tears building in burning eyes. He is not the only one with regrets written into his bones.)

He shifts in his seat uncomfortably and reaches across the board to take her queen and steal her checkered knight combo. Despite the fact that he asked her the question in the first place, he’s also ready to end this conversation as soon as he can.

He hadn’t expected Steph to shed so much light on the situation with Tim, mostly because he hadn’t quite realized the extent of his situation with Tim until now. The entire situation was amplified by grief and exhaustion and worry and so many other things that it had spiraled. Dick was trying so hard to help a grieving child who never got to know his father beyond the stories he was told to overcome his past and be a better person.

Dick had known how bad Tim could get when grief clouded his mind, but he hadn’t thought that maybe that same grief had warped Tim’s view on what Dick was doing.

A stupid mistake, but one Dick had made none the less.

The promotion from Robin to being a vigilante of Tim’s choosing wasn’t Dick trying to get rid of Tim or choosing Damian over Tim, it was Dick doing his best to help everyone he could and failing miserably.

There’s something so upsetting about that, something that burns deep inside of him, and Dick wants nothing more than to yell and rage against everyone for expecting so much of him and yet placing all of the blame on him.

Instead, he watches Steph make a move and changes the subject.

Now the two of them just circle each other restlessly, metaphorically at least, continuing their ridiculous game and making little quips to each other.

They continue on like that, simple and easy, until Steph picks the conversation back up again, out of the blue as she steals his knight. “I don’t know how to help you with Babs, she comes to terms with things in her own time. All you can really do is be there when she calls for you and try and show her that you’re sorry for not telling her.”

It’s not what he was expecting to hear, and he almost sends his king tumbling over because of his unsteady fingers. He inhales calmly, releasing a measured breath and taking one of her checker pieces, very firmly not thinking about people dying all around him and Barbara leaving him alone.

“That makes sense, it’s what I’ve been doing,” he winces then, “well, mostly at least.”

Steph sighed, “I’m pretty sure she’s still a little pissed about the whole thing, but mostly I think she’s frustrated and a bit hurt. When you guys are on comms it’s mostly normal, but when was the last time you actually spoke with her face-to-face about something?”

Dick thought back and—he honestly didn’t know.

He’d spoken with her concerning cases and stuff like that, comms, files, texts. But, the last time he’d actually seen and spoken to her in person was—a really long fucking time ago. They’d never met up like they had wanted to and just hadn’t had the time to re-schedule a hangout.

He resolved to text Babs and let her know that he could take her up on her previous offer to hang out whenever she was good with. Be it tomorrow or next month.

Steph nods silently at his reaction, “Yeah, figured.”

He wrinkles his nose, “Yeah, you’ve made your point, I’ve been kind of a shitty friend to her.”

Steph hums, her pawn taking a checker piece, “A bit, but you’ve been trying and that’s just as important to her.”

He can hear the unspoken, ‘even after everything.’ that follows the end of the sentence. Knows that it’s there even if Steph doesn’t look like she’s thinking it, doesn’t look like she’s choking on the tension lying thick between them.

Or maybe that really is just him, reading the wrong things in her tone, taking the wrong things from this conversation.

It's easier, at times, to just read how others are moving then what they're saying. He's no Cass, but he's an acrobat, the first nine years of his life were spent with physical contact and clear communication, because not having that could've been disastrous. That's what makes sense to him, touching and talking, tone and actions.

(Learning how to speak with Bruce had been difficult at first, and he feels like every time he sees the man he has to relearn how to.)

But all Steph is doing is shifting nervously, and as much as he can hear that she isn't mad at him, for some reason it feels like it's warping, like he's hearing her the wrong way and it's confusing in a way that makes something in him that's frustrated and angry want to scream.

He bites his tongue and tries to breathe past the knot of angryfrustratedupset, it doesn't really help, but there isn't much he can do right now bar spar with someone or throw and break something.

It's the way he was taught to deal with this stuff.

He gives Steph a tight, self-deprecating smile, and she scrapes the side of her bitten down thumbnail against her lips as she narrows her eyes at him.

"You want something to eat?"

The question throws him, he blinks at her but she doesn't offer anything more than a raised eyebrow.

He shakes himself out of his mental fog and shrugs, "Sure."

She smiles, "Great, I'll get something, you cheat and I'm painting your apartment yellow."

He snorts as she leaves the room, helpless laughter bubbling up at her threat mixed with her smile.

The best part is, he knows she'll actually do it.

He smirks, pocketing one of her pieces and nudging another one over a little to compensate for the space.

When she comes back, bringing with her soup and sandwiches, she surveys the board with a careful eye.

She spots the missing piece and narrows her eyes, "Oh it's on you shithead."

He gives her a bright smile in response and she takes his knight.

She smiles at him sweetly and he sighs, "Worth it."

She cackles and he takes a bite of his sandwich as she makes her move.

He's getting somewhere at least, now he just has to not fuck it up too horribly.

Chapter Text

Surprisingly nothing goes wrong in the following days, the gang break up went okay, no bombs were set off within the family (literally or figuratively, you never could tell with them), and he didn't have any major breakdowns in front of anyone. So really everything was going so much better than he could have hoped.

He made sure not to tempt fate though, he was cautious with it, he didn't want this peace to break and send him spiraling into a pit with a long fall and no way out. He'd had more than enough breakdowns and tantrums within the past month to last a lifetime.

He starts his job, and that helps give him something calming to focus on, it's nice working at the little shop. It's a nice cooldown and distraction all at once.

And, though it makes him feel awful to think, it gets him away from his family. It's horrible of him, but no matter how much he loves them and wants to be there for them and spend time with them, he just can't. Not lately, not with how suspicious they're being, the amount of digging they're doing.

Not with how many times he's let himself break down in front of them.

It's stupid, but it's upsetting, the fact that he hasn't been able to keep it together for his family.

There isn't much he can do about it now though.

He just has to keep on pushing through.

He hasn't been going to the manor lately, half because of Bruce and half because of himself. He can admit to himself that sometimes he's unreasonable and angry and lashing out at anyone and everyone including, and sometimes especially, Bruce. He knows that it's what's been the main driving point behind a few of their fights.

But it wasn't this time, he knows that. He doesn't know what it was this time that made Bruce so angry, but he knows that going to the Manor isn't a good idea right now, not when it would mean Bruce either waiting for an apology from him or being unsure how to give one himself.

Dick just isn’t prepared for that, not yet.

He feels bad about it, upset that he hasn’t been able to see Alfred or Damian lately, not outside of patrol and Nightwing stuff.

On the bright side, Batman’s punishment of no patrol with Robin had ended the previous week, so he’s at least been getting that time to try and ease the blow of not visiting.

He’s laying in bed right now, just kind of staring up at the ceiling and trying to fall asleep. It’s the early in the morning type of late, and he has to leave soon for his shift.

It’s not so much that nightmares are keeping him up, or even that he’s afraid to sleep. There’s just this thrum underneath his skin, buzzing in his blood and leaving him energetic and exhausted all at once. It’s like running off of no sleep in four days and twenty cups of coffee in a three hour time period and the building frustration makes him want to scream or to break something.

He needs the trapeze.

Right now what he needs most is to clear his head so that he can sleep, and the best thing to clear his head has been, and probably always will be, being on the trapeze. Being in the air and going through the familiar, wonderful motions, painful and reassuring.

(The trapeze is in his blood and it’s present in his need for flight and the way his heart sings when he flips. He feels it in the way his mind calms when he goes through the motions of a routine or just hangs on the parallel bars. It’s something he’s known since he could walk. Maybe not the routines themselves, but the stretches and the knowledge from watching his parents perform their shows has always been there. Always comforting to him because acrobatics is so intrinsically tied to the memory of his mother smiling at him and the way his father’s grip around his arms felt, steady and always there.

He’s losing the memory of his mother’s eyes, of his father’s face. Finds himself needing to find pictures of them to remember the way they looked, has already lost his memory of how his mother’s perfume smelled, what his father liked to eat. Always on the edge of his memory, like he does know the answer but can never, will never, remember.)

It calms him, it will probably always calm him.

Not even the Fall—which did deserve the capitalization when he thought about it, it was something that changed his life drastically—had been able to smother the acrobat in him, to make him fear the trapeze or the thrill of flight.

He’s been stuck in a funk. Diving downwards in a spiral that’s been pulling at him for months. He needs to stop it, to figure out how to keep his head above the water, needs to find a way to move on from everything that’s haunting him.

He bites at the insides of his cheeks and pushes himself up with his elbows, sitting on top of his bed for a second.

It’s been years since he lost his parents, he’s lived longer without them then he did with them, and he has moved on for the most part. He’s learned to live without them but sometimes he realizes just how much he still misses them, will always miss them, and it never fails to feel like a knife to the heart.

He misses them, and he misses Bruce right now, even though he isn’t dead (anymore). He misses being little and knowing that, even though Batman terrified criminals and so many others, Bruce would always be safe. He misses being able to slip into Bruce’s office or his room no matter how late or early it was and knowing that Bruce would be there to comfort him or distract him from whatever nightmare or fear that was gnawing at him.

He purses his lips and clenches his hands, pushing himself up and out of bed.

His phone catches his eye, sitting on his otherwise bare bedside dresser unassumingly, and for a second Dick wants nothing more than to call Bruce. To apologize and scream and cry and try to understand why things were so bad between them and why nothing ever seemed to stay right with them. He wanted to call him and apologize and he wanted to call him and yell every obscenity he could think of and recount every failure Bruce had ever made with him right back to him.

But mostly Dick just wanted to figure out how to get back in synch with him. Because they used to be better, when they were both a lot younger than they are now. They used to be on similar pages, it was easier to talk to each other, to work through things. But Dick grew up, and Bruce retreated into himself, smarting from an invisible hurt that Dick didn’t know how to heal without giving up his own need to figure out who he could be without Bruce overshadowing him.

And Bruce’s fear let him make rash decisions, lead him to firing Dick, and throwing him out and a million other similar things earlier on that they eventually stopped working, stopped meshing the way they used to.

Dick was too angry, he knew that. He always has been, probably always will be. He isn’t proud of it. But it only helped further alienate him and Bruce. Dick growing up and Bruce helicoptering and them fighting until one of them snapped, both knowing what buttons to press. Dick had hit them more often, and Bruce had always tried just shutting him down, until Dick hit him hard enough that he would snap back.

That hasn’t changed much, they still fight like that. But Dick’s anger and Jason’s death and all the resulting things had knocked them so off track that they had never really gotten back on that same wavelength they had been on before.

Jason’s death had left Bruce hurting in a way that Dick didn’t know how to help, didn’t know how to heal. So they hadn’t talked about it, and it had been left to fester between them like everything else until bringing it up felt like unearthing too many things. Digging up too many half-buried hatchets and stupid decisions on both their parts.

It feels wrong, even when he knows that it’s the option that has always at least somewhat worked for the two of them.

He should try. He knows that, but he just can't bring himself to.

So he stares at the phone and debates it, and he feels stupid. Standing in the middle of the room staring at a phone, debating whether to call the man who raised him most of his life or not so they could work things out.

It is stupid. But that doesn’t change the fact that he turns away from the dresser, and the phone, and walks to the living room instead.

He can always swing by the Manor later, fix things then.

It’s a bit of an excuse, but there’s no one to call him on it here except for himself so who fucking cares.

He swipes a mug off of a shelf and starts the tea kettle, throwing a tea bag into the mug as he waits for the water to boil. In the meantime, he grabs a couple of apples and a few handfuls of grapes out of the fridge and washes them.

Fruit salad as breakfast is good, even if it does only have 2 fruits. And making it gives him some time to think things over. He already knows that he probably isn’t going to the Manor to use the trapeze there, not if he still isn’t ready to talk to Bruce. But there is a gym a bus ride, or jog, away that has the equipment he needs for some gymnastics and acrobatics.

It won’t quite be the trapeze routine he most often turns to when he needs calming, or to think, but it will definitely be a good enough way to help him. It’s worked before.

He slices an apple and tosses it into the waiting basket of cut-up fruits. He rinses them again before going to look for some oranges in his fridge, he comes up empty but he does have some lettuce that will go good with the two fruits.

He breaks a couple of pieces off and washes them, cutting them up and tossing them into the waiting bowl. He puts all of his stuff away, the kettle goes off, the whistle growing louder and grating and he huffs as he shuts the stove off.

He abandons the salad and pours the water into his mug, letting the tea steep as he mixes up the salad.

Dick hums to himself, mind still running and skin still buzzing. But being productive has always helped him to not feel horrible. He’s figured out what he’s gonna do today, and it mainly involved going to the gym and working through all the twisted emotions, starting patrol at 10 tonight and then clocking in for his shift at 4 with a little bit of a break in between to freshen up and eat.

It’s a solid plan and he feels a little more relaxed.

His phone rings and he huffs, washing and drying his hands.

“Hey, it’s Grayson.”

“Hey, Dick!”

He freezes for a half-second, which is too long for the person on the other side of the line.

“Dick?”

He swallows, “Hey Walls, sorry, I was distracted. How’s it going?”

There’s a hum over the line, and a type of hesitance that clings to Wally’s tone, “Don’t worry about it Dick, I’ve been good, just wanted to say hi and check in on you. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, it has been hasn’t it? Sorry about that it’s just all been a bit crazy you know?”

Wally’s silent for less than a second, but that’s a long time for a speedster, and it’s telling of how the mess that the entire ‘powers killing you, and then forgetting you exist’, and the other messes of the universe have weighed on him, on everyone.

“Yeah I get it Dick, don't worry about it dude. You aren’t the only one who kinda fell out of contact after all the crazy shit, we all did.”

Dick runs his thumb harshly against his bitten down fingernails, the sharp pain startling him briefly. He sighs, “Yeah, we kinda fell apart didn’t we?”

Wally inhales sharply, “Yeah. We did, just a little.”

The awkward and unsure tension stretched between them, the background noises of Gotham outside his apartment and Wally’s breathing that the phone barely picks up are the only things that pass between them for a minute.

Dick clears his throat, “How’ve you been?”

“Eh, I’ve been okay, not the greatest, but it could be worse you know?”

Dick swallows thickly, “Yeah, I get that.”

They’re running out of things to talk about, and that didn’t use to happen before, it shouldn’t be happening now either. But at some point the 5 of them had gone from slotting together easily to some strange amalgamation of memories and friendship and awkwardness and hatred and longing that led to them falling into standard prompts just so they could speak to each other.

It’s always jarring, no matter how long he’s had to get used to it.

Wally speaks quickly, something he’s always done, mind running faster than people can comprehend and mouth rushing to keep up with it.

“How’ve you been Dick? Because even though it’s been a little bit since we talked as just Wally West and Dick Grayson you’veseemedkindaoffandIdon’tknowhowtohelpbutifIcanhelpjustletmeknowand—”

“Walls, too quick dude. Just slow down a little bit.”

There’s a seconds worth of silence before Wally speaks again, sheepish and apologetic, “Sorry, just, you seem kinda off? And I’m a little worried for you dude.”

Dick closes his eyes, exhaling harshly, “I’m fine Walls, seriously, just a little stressed I guess. But you know how I am.”

Wally’s voice is measured, careful as he speaks, “Yeah, I do know Dick, which is why I’m worried. Whatever this is, it isn’t just stress. I know how you are when you’re stressed, and yeah maybe there’s a bit of overlap, but this is more like after we would come back from a—” He hesitates, and Dick clenches his jaw, “This is more like how you acted after we came back from a Zugzwang mission, or when you had nightmares about things. And that’s different.”

Dick breathes out shakily.

Because despite everything, despite them falling out of rhythm with each other, somehow Wally is still finding the cracks in his mask, finding ways to slip through.

At least they haven’t fallen so far out of rhythm that Wally’s forgotten how Dick can be, how he reacts to things, how he crumbles under expectations.

Dick isn’t quite sure if he would be able to handle it if Wally forgot that Dick couldn’t handle everything like he so desperately pretended he could.

The original Titans had different ways of breaking down, had different things they needed comfort after facing.

Once upon a time, the five of them were at ease with each other, tuned into how things could affect each other and no matter what drama popped up, they were willing to help each other stand back up.

Things change though, and maybe they could fix things between them, but not now, not yet. They had all screwed up in some way, shape, or form, and things like that didn’t heal so easily.

But Dick could try and talk to them again.

(Most importantly Dick could try apologizing to Roy, he could try not self-destructing and taking everyone with him in the fallout.

He could try actually being a good friend.)

And, because he is wonderful at asking for help and working through things, he boxes all of that up into a tiny corner of his brain and smacks a gigantic ‘DO NOT TOUCH’ sign onto it.

It’s become his standard reaction to issues like this. He is truly the epitome of healthy coping mechanisms.

“Sorry Walls, I just, I don’t even fucking know. It was a little crazy that’s all. I’m okay now though, promise, I was just going through a bit of a rough patch ya know?”

There’s a bite in Wally’s tone, “No I don’t know Dick, because I’m asking you and you’re deflecting me.”

Dick clenches the hand not holding the phone tightly, nails slotting into the still healing scrapes from the last time, frustration and defensive rage boiling in his chest.

“Well I’m sorry.” He hisses out, “I wasn’t aware that this was an interrogation.”

Dick can practically feel the raised eyebrow even over the line and he seethes.

Wally’s tone is even, “It isn’t, I was just concerned—.”

“I don’t need you to be!”

Dick grinds his teeth together, breathing in and out. He pushes away the rush of anger and irritation.

“Sorry Walls, but I don’t need you worrying your head off about me when I’m fine. Leave the helicopter parenting to Bruce.”

Wally hummed, “Okay, whatever you say dude. But you have a tendency to—.” he cuts himself off. Sighing, he switches tracks, "I saw your game of tag with Cass a few days back. Looked pretty cool.”

Dick snorts, hands unclenching and shoulders relaxing just the slightest. “Oh jeez, I forgot about that, haven’t really checked the gossip pages in a while. What did our lovely news outlets have to say about that?”

Wally laughs, sounding the slightest bit strained, “They were torn between calling you two menaces and thinking you guys were the best thing in the world.”

Dick smirks to himself, “That sounds about right.”

Wally chuckles, “Yeah, Gotham is crazy man, but news vultures are the same as always.” He pauses for a second, before carefully adding, “Don’t tell Linda I said that….or Aunt I.”

Dick huffs, smiling, “Oh, they’ll be hearing about it. Don’t forget Clark and Lois man.”

Wally splutters, “Oh come on man.” Dick sits down on the couch, curling into the side of it as he listens to Wally complain, “I forget just how many of the people we know are news people.”

Dick rolls his eyes, “It isn’t that many dude. Only, like, 4.”

“Still!”

“That sounds a lot like a Wally West problem and not like a Dick Grayson, thank you very much.”

“No sympathy for the suffering.” Wally tisked, “Downright cold-blooded Mr. Grayson.”

"Oh shut up Walls."

Wally laughs and for a second Dick can almost pretend that they never grew up past 15, never got too bitter or sad or even more fucked up than they were before.

But the background tension that seems to always lie between the older Titans rears its head. And Dick is left trying to figure out how to interact with someone who used to be one of his best friends.

The line isn't quiet, after all Wally has never done well with tension, but the easiness of the conversation isn't there.

It makes something in him ache.

Dick laughs at something Wally says, not really paying attention, and sucks in a breath.

"How's Central been?"

Wally hums, "Not really busy. Same old stuff mostly. Has Gotham been busy?"

"Not anymore than is usual for Gotham. There were a couple of busts but those were the biggest things. Most of the big bands are locked up right now."

Wally sighs, "That's good. You been sleeping?"

Dick sighs, burying himself deeper into the couch, "Yeah. Too much honestly."

"You sure?" Wally's voice sounds strained, unsure.

"Yeah, I ended up sleeping through most of the day recently."

Wally huffs in amusement and maybe a bit of relief, "Well you deserve it. You push yourself too much."

Dick bites his lip.

They say their goodbyes and Dick tries not to feel like he’s talking to a stranger.

Sometimes, in his dreams, Blüdhaven is still burning. The green-tinged explosives of Chemo raining down on the city as people die. And sometimes, he watches as his childhood home burns down around him all over again.

Haly’s goes down in flames, and the smoke chokes him, children and adults lie dead on the ground and Dick can’t move.

He can never move in these types of dreams.

He can only watch as everything around him is destroyed, innocents injured and killed for the crime of being associated with Dick Grayson.

No matter how loudly he shouts and pleads and begs for it to stop, it never does.

And Blockbuster or Slade Wilson or his parents or any number of people he’s disappointed in his life will look at him and laugh, tell him that this will never end because he kills everything he touches. He’s poison, an infection, and it’s his fault.

Always his fault.

He hates these dreams with a burning passion, wakes from them wanting to run. Wanting to flee, to move, to help. It’s an automatic reaction. Half of it is wanderlust filling his blood and half desperation to go someplace that doesn’t know him as dangerous, someplace he hasn’t infected yet.

Tonight is no different really.

He falls asleep after patrol, feeling as if he will never be able to figure out how to properly live his life. He doesn’t really remember anything before the nightmare, maybe he dreamt, or maybe he didn’t, but all he’s aware of is the flames from the fires around him and the choking presence of Blockbuster, hovering over his life and interactions.

He feels like he’s moving through molasses, too slow to get away or to help. Only getting slower until eventually, he can’t move at all.

His voice won’t work, and he chokes on the words he wants to say, the apologies he wants to give and the pleas he wants to scream. The desperation for Desmond to leave everyone alone, to not punish innocents for Dick’s sins is useless, and Desmond only smirks at him the more he tries to scream.

The flames lick at his skin, and he can only watch in horror as his childhood home burns down, killing people he knows and cares about, and innocents who only wanted to experience the wonder of the circus.

He wants to sob, can feel the burn of tears building in his eyes, or maybe his eyes are watering from the smoke he’s slowly choking to death on.

Maybe in the waking world Dick is able to save some of them, and maybe in the waking world Zitka comes to his rescue.

But here, Dick is useless, and Zitka is dying.

Firefly laughs and Dick wheezes desperately.

Desmond walks through the smoke and flames unharmed, “This will never stop Grayson, you brought this upon them, upon yourself.”

And suddenly Dick is staring down the end of a loaded gun.

Desmond smiles, “A quick death is too merciful for a poison like you, Grayson. Enjoy.”

And Dick’s vision fades, until the last thing he sees is the ashes of Haly’s and the bloodied, broken corpses of his parents, sneering down at him.

He awakes with a choked scream, biting down hard on his lip.

His hands are shaking.

He sucks in a breath and shoves himself out of bed, grabbing for his phone and earbuds blindly.

He flees his apartment, and starts a run just as the sun is beginning to rise.

He doesn’t know how long he runs for, but he finds himself near Crime Alley when he finally stops, heaving for breath.

He pushes a hand through his sweaty hair and is suddenly glad he hadn’t had the presence of mind to grab his wallet.

He knows himself well enough to know that if he had, he would’ve been halfway out of state by now.

Dick closes his eyes to steady himself, feeling eyes on his back.

He pauses his music, taking his earbuds out and speaking to the seemingly empty street.

“Hi.”

There’s a huff behind him and Jason slides out of the shadows.

“You didn’t even know it was me Dickhead, I could’ve been some punk about to rob you.”

Dick snorts, “Please, no one would rob me when I clearly have nothing on me.”

Jason shrugs, “Your phone would sell for some good cash.”

He rolls his eyes, “Thank you for that input Jay.”

“No problem, my wisdom is free. Unless you happen to need more of it. Then I want info as payment.”

Dick sighs, “What’s up Jay?”

Jason shrugs, “I don’t know, you tell me.”

A stab of frustration rushes through Dick, and he breathes in and out in a controlled manner.

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Huh, okay then. How about you and I go have a sit down.”

Dick narrows his eyes, and Jason continues on under his breath, “When I’m the most emotionally stable out of us something is wrong.”

“Fuck you asshole, I heard that.”

Jason smirks, shrugging nonchalantly, “Good, maybe it’ll make you come to your senses.”

Dick breathes in, “Okay, yeah sure. Sorry.”

He gestures to Jason, “Lead the way.”

“Mk, but we’re heading to your place Dick, you ain’t getting my safehouse info. Sorry, not sorry.”

Dick rolls his eyes again, “Whatever Jay, let’s go, it’s a whiles away from here.”

Jason side-eyes him, “And you ran all the way from there to here?”

He shrugs, not looking at Jason, “Yeah, not like we don’t do stuff harder than that on the daily.”

“Uh-huh.” Jason says, raising an eyebrow

“You can’t say anything about that Jay, you’re just as bad as, if not worse, than me.”

Jason goes silent. Expression suddenly stony and closed off and Dick mentally curses himself for overstepping.

He rakes a hand through his hair, “Sorry Jay, let’s—let’s just get going.”

“Sure, whatever Dickhead.”

Jason is really testing his fraying temper. Dick tries not to feel like a bomb about to go off.

He’s not really sure how successful he is.

(From the cautious way Jason watches him, he doesn’t think he was successful at all.)

When they finally make it back to Dick’s apartment, they find Cass waiting in the living room.

She stands as soon as they open the door, and Dick frowns at the distressed way she’s holding herself.

Jason frowns slightly, “Hey there Cass, what’s up?”

She huffs, gesturing angrily.

Dick sends Jason a confused look and he rolls his eyes, “You go get some food or something Dick, you look one light breeze away from collapsing.”

Dick frowns, “You sure?”

“Yeah, I got this.”

He bites at the inside of his lip, not wanting to leave them but his vision has blackspots around the edges and he needs some type of nourishment after that run.

“Okay.”

He makes his way into the kitchen, attempting to see what’s happening using his peripheral, but Cass is facing away from him and Jason has moved so that he’s hidden from Dick’s range of sight.

Dick tries not to assume the worst. But it’s hard not to when he has no idea what’s going on.

He knows something is going on, nothing good has ever happened when Cass had on an expression like the one she has now. It was terrifying in the way the unknown is.

Something you never quite know, always on the edges of your awareness but never revealed.

He almost doesn't want to know what they're talking about, but there's a curiosity in him that has only grown since he was a child. The need for knowledge.

Cass is signing frantically, looking for all the world like if she doesn't get the words out into the world fast enough she'll choke on them.

She's trembling.

Maybe from rage, maybe from fear. Dick isn't sure.

He can't catch all the signs, only one or two, and so he gets a disjointed sentence that doesn’t make any sense. The kind of thing you get when you try eavesdropping on people's conversations from two rooms away when the people you're listening to are whispering.

Needless to say, it isn't helpful to him.

Whatever it is makes Jason pause. And Cass half snarls as she continues to viciously sign.

Jason sucks in a breath, stance defensive as he moves his arms.

Dick grits his teeth, grabbing a mug down from the cabinet. There was no way that Cass could have known Dick was bringing Jason back to his apartment, at least not without Barbara.

So either Cass had been waiting here to talk to Dick. Or she'd wanted to talk to Jason and had asked Babs where he was headed.

Dick honestly isn't sure which is worse. Not with how upset Cass is.

Both Cass and Jason are coiled tightly, rigid and defensive and it continues on for a tense five or so minutes of silent gesture and angry noises.

Finally, it comes to a stop. And Jason lets loose a long list of expletives, frustrated and angry. And Dick very cautiously hands over glasses of water, sending a glare over to Jason when he goes for the (empty) alcohol cupboard.

"There hasn't been anything in there in months Jay."

Jason groans, flopping down onto the couch, and Cass purses her lips as she watches them.

Dick feels, oddly, like he's being given a test with no obvious correct answers and failing miserably.

Cass hums softly in between sips of water, "Thanks Dick. How are you?"

He shrugs, avoiding Jason's eyes, and Jason himself, "Okay. You?"

Jason snorts and Dick keeps himself from saying something he knows he'll regret later.

It's a lot harder than it should be.

"You lie a lot."

Cass's voice is disapproving, and she keeps frowning at him like maybe if she does it for long enough something will happen.

He isn't sure what she wants from him.

He isn't sure what she's so worked up over, what's caused Jason to look as upset as he does.

He frowns, "Cass? What's going—"

She shakes her head violently, cutting him off, "No, listen, we are here. Speak when you need to."

He nods slowly, arms raised placatingly, "Yeah, I know Cass. What's—"

"No," She interrupts, voice firm, "You always say that. But you don't ever talk. I didn't push, because when your mind hurts talking is hard. But," she huffs in desperation, gesturing towards him, "you make yourself worse, ignore limits."

Dick flinches at the reminder, and he feels wrongfooted, off-balance at the reminder of the spar with Cass.

She hadn't sparred with him since then, hadn't suggested it or talked about it at all.

He didn't think it was such a big deal, but there's a dangerous kind of anger lurking in her eyes now, and it scares him a little.

She purses her lips, and Dick hates the amount of tension in the air right now. He resists the urge to leave. To just up and flee the situation. He doesn't, but it's hard not to when he feels cornered, when he feels like an outsider in his own apartment.

(And maybe part of the reason he always feels like he has to leave, why he has to go so often is some childish desire to be wanted and welcomed.

And when he doesn't get that, can't feel that, then he tries to make his own safe place. Give people space away from him and give himself somewhere where he has a place, where he can stay.

A circus brat with abandonment issues, attachment issues, the need to be needed. Whatever you want to call it. There has always been a part of him that hurts, over one thing or another. And maybe the thing that can hurt the worst is that he doesn't have a place where he can stay, where he will be welcomed.

He treads carefully everywhere he rests, and the roots he wants to grow never seem to make it past the door.

It's a sad way to live.)

Jason curses under his breath, "Cass, you need to calm down a bit okay?"

Cass releases a breath of air and nods stiffly, "Sorry."

She moves into the kitchen and Jason sits on the couch and Dick feels as if he was caught in a whirlwind, left with no idea what's going on.

It’s one motion, one action, one thought, and one emotion after the other, no respite between them.

It’s overwhelming.

Dick sips at his water to give himself something to do, realizing, belatedly, that he’d been told to get himself food, not water.

He bites at his lip as his stomach suddenly growls, Jason lifts his head up towards him, raising an eyebrow.

“I thought you went and got food, Golden Boy?”

Dick contains a wince, shrugging, “Slipped my mind.”

Jason glares at him, there’s no real heat behind it though, more begrudging concern than anything.

“You gotta eat, asshole.”

Dick rolled his eyes, “I’m well aware of how the human body works Jason.”

“You sure about that?”

Dick snorts. “Yes, I’m sure, Jay. I’m just not having a great day today.”

“You haven’t had a great day in a while then.” Jason replies, not looking at him.

Dick isn’t sure how to respond to that, and is grateful when Cass finally comes back out of the kitchen.

She has three plates, each with a simple ham and cheese sandwich on them. Jason grabs his from her and she sets one of them down in front of Dick, taking her own with her.

She points at the sandwich, “Eat.”

Dick smiles, “Thanks Cass.”

She hums, nodding a little to herself. The way she looks at him though, is far from reassuring.

It makes him anxious.

Jason finishes his sandwich and stands, grabbing the dirty dishes on his way to the kitchen.

At some point during the weeks, the cleanliness of Dick's apartment had decreased. Not quite as bad as it had been. But not anywhere as clean as it had been after his burst of cleaning.

And it's steady decline, now that he thinks about it, had probably been noticeable to those coming and going. He winces, but his apartment is rarely ever clean when people are over, it's normal.

The only thing about it that isn't normal would probably be—

Jason wrinkles his nose, "Damn. It's dark as fuck in here"

—how dark it is.

Dick rolls his eyes and yawns, "Curtains are closed. Open 'em. It'll be a lot lighter." He flops onto the couch, curling up and relaxing.

Jason groans and stands, making his way over to the windows and yanking the curtains open. Cass huffs in amusement and Dick wrinkles his nose at the sudden increase of light.

He swears it wasn't that bright out when he was running, or when he walked back here with Jason.

The sudden brightness is disorienting for a second and Jason snorts at the way Dick curls tighter into himself.

"Shut up asshole," Dick mumbles, shoving his face into the couch, "that's too bright."

Jason chuckles, "Oh suck it up Dickie, a little light won't kill ya."

Dick uncurls, throwing Jay a look.

"Oh shut it you big baby."

Cass smiles a little at their interaction, and it's nice to see her in a better mood after the terrifying sight that was before them not even ten minutes ago.

Jason stops suddenly, brow furrowing, and Dick looks over to where Jay's gaze was stuck on.

It's the calendar near the door, put there specifically so Dick will remember everything he has to do. Which is weird, because there isn't really anything that could cause Jason to react like that.

Jason moves closer to it, and is silent for a minute as he reads through it.

"New job?" He questions, sounding only marginally disbelieving.

Which is a lot better than outright laughing at him so Dick appreciates it.

"Yeah," He says, sitting up and bringing his legs up into a criss-cross applesauce position. "It's a little thing to keep me occupied with something that isn't crime-fighting."

He shrugs, meeting Jason's eyes, "I like it is all. Why?"

Jason shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, blowing out a breath, "No reason, just a little surprised is all."

Dick frowns, shoulders rising to his ears.

"Why?" He asks, defensively.

Jason shrugs nonchalantly, "Just didn't expect to see you being willing to do so much work at such odd hours when it could conflict with your night activities."

Dick huffs, holding up a finger, "First off, don't refer to them as night activities like I'm doing something scandalous."

Jason snorts. And Dick simply rolls his eyes, holding up a second finger, "Secondly, it's a nice, non-stressful job most of the time and the hours are usually times I'm already up and need to unwind after a patrol or something like that and doing nothing anyways."

Cass hums, "I think it's nice. Good for you."

Dick smiles just the slightest, "Yeah, it's been really good so far."

"Good. You scared me."

Dick feels a stab of self-loathing rush through him at that, "Sorry Cass—"

She shakes her head, interrupting him with a sharp, "No. Don't apologize."

Dick swallows the rest of his apology down and tries to ignore the feeling of anxiety making itself known in the back of his head.

Cass gives him a look over and she tilts her head, "You haven't been well. That was scary, you didn't take care of yourself that was scary. Scary because I was worried about you and you weren't worried, or caring, about yourself."

Dick bites his lip, shooting a glance over to Jason, who was watching them with an indecipherable expression that made Dick want to groan in frustration.

Was it so hard to be emotionally open every once in a while?

"I'm allowed to worry," Cass continues, words stilted every so often, cadence just slightly off in a way that was so very Cass.

Dick nods, for lack of anything else to say, "Yeah."

Cass nods, almost to herself, "Yes, I'm allowed to worry for you. Won't overwhelm you, not fun, but reminding you is important."

Dick takes a deep breath, feeling, for some insane reason, choked up.

He isn't sure why, there isn't a single reason to be, but he is.

He tugs at the hem of his shirt with his hands. Despite having almost an entire conversation with Cass, he still isn't quite sure what point she's trying to get across, what she's doing other than telling him things he already knew.

In light of choosing whether he wants to pursue a potentially dangerous line of topic and move on with the night, he chooses to instead watch Jason out of the corner of his vision and reply to Cass as she continues to lean back in her chair and study him.

“Thanks Cass, Reminding me of what though?”

She looks at him, serious and entreating and answers, “You are loved, you are wanted, I am here for you.”

Dick squirms, heart pounding in his chest. He swallows thickly. “Thanks Cass.”

Jason looks uncomfortable, shifting awkwardly in his seat and scanning the room instead of looking at them.

He doesn't say anything though. Just lets himself be uncomfortable and silent.

It rubs Dick the wrong way. And he wishes that he could do something to help, but Jason rarely accepts comfort from him, has built walls up too tall for Dick to reach out. And sneaking in has, so far, only been minorly successful.

Bashing them all down would probably be easier, he thinks to himself, watching the way Cass leans against Jason, and how some of the tension in his body seems to leave.

But it's a crude way to try and help someone, sometimes a harmful one, and Dick knows that being thrown into things might occasionally help, but is harmful more times than not.

So he lets Cass take care of it, trusting her to know, more than him, what to do in this situation.

Dick clears his throat, "Uh, right, why are the two of you here again?"

He still doesn't know why Jason is here, why he walked all the way here with Dick and then chose to stay here, it's strange and he isn't used to it. The other question, of why Cass is here, is even more terrifying, but maybe he’s just being overdramatic, she might've been kind of mad earlier, but she seems okay now.

Maybe it had nothing to do with him.

He's hoping it had nothing to do with him. Because if it did and she was that worked up? Something was up.

It's a slightly terrifying thought. And he does his best to ignore it.

Cass shrugs, "Concerned."

And while it was believable in a way, Dick really didn't think that that was the reason she was here, at least not the entire reason.

Jason shifts, nose wrinkling, looking out of place and wrong-footed, "Making sure you got your crazy ass home okay, you looked half-insane earlier."

Dick smiles ruefully, "Thank you so much for that contribution of my lack of sanity Jay, really, just what I needed."

Jason shrugs, "It's the truth man."

Dick chokes on a laugh, "Oh come on."

Cass giggles, and something in Dick's chest loosens an almost minuscule amount.

Dick picks at the already slightly frayed hem of his shirt, watching the two of them. Cass is curled into the chair, watching him, and Jason still sits down as if he's an outsider waiting to be kicked out.

Dick frowns a little as he realizes that Jason actually is waiting for the moment he's kicked out. Shoulders half-raised in a defensive way.

With the record Dick's had of kicking people out lately he doesn't exactly blame him, but it still hurts a part of Dick to see.

He clears his throat, trying to break the tension still hovering over them.

It doesn't really work how he plans it to.

Cass looks over at him with the look in her eyes, the one she gets when she's examining every tiny piece of you, reading all she can from how you move and how you breathe.

Dick does his best not to get defensive when he sees it, not to lash out.

It's just Cass understanding things through her preferred method of speech, there's no reason for him to get pissy or scared.

But rational things aren't always easy to listen to.

He tries to listen anyways. He takes a few slow, deep breaths and ignores it.

It helps, makes it so he doesn't feel like a bomb about to go off.

He smiles at Cass, "What's up?"

She narrows her eyes before abruptly relaxing and shrugging.

He doesn't believe that for a second, but there isn't really anything he can say about it. So he doesn't, just raises an eyebrow at her.

Jason snorts, and Dick gives him a similar look.

Jay throws him a smirk and settles in a little more comfortably, still tense but not as horribly out of place as he was a minute ago.

"So Dickie, you gonna explain why you were all the way over in Crime Alley?"

Dick wrinkles his nose, he hums, running a hand through his hair, "I don't actually know. Just wanted to clear my head, ended up in Crime Alley."

Jason gives him a blank look, "You ended up in Crime Alley because of that? And that isn't, I don't know, mildly concerning?"

Dick rolls his eyes, "It isn't that big of a deal."

Jason huffs, "Okay, sure, whatever you say Goldie."

Cass throws Jason a harsh look, and Jay purses his lips, looking upset.

Dick can't tell if they think he can't see them, or if they just don't care if he does see them or not.

Either way, it's strange. And if it doesn't have anything to do with their discussion earlier he's going to give up mint tea for the rest of his life.

It should be said that he's very confident that he'll be able to keep drinking mint tea.

He twists, so that he's lying across the couch instead of sitting on it, and flops a hand over his forehead, "So cruel," he sighs, playing it up, "You wound me in the deepest parts of my heart, how will I ever recover?"

Cass giggles softly and Jason snorts, "Oh you'll live. Get up, you drama queen."

Dick shakes his head, "No I fear I shan't ever be able to move on. For how can I live without my pride? My heart? My love?"

Jason groans, "Oh quit it, I can't even tell what you're trying to replicate you're messing it up so badly."

Dick pouts, sitting up, "You're no fun Jay, I'm a fantastic actor I'll have you know."

Jason snorts, "Yeah, a fantastic actor who should never be allowed to touch classical literature or productions."

The mildly offended look is hard to keep up when he’s about to burst into laughter.

He bites his lips, fighting against his growing smile and ultimately failing.

He turns to Cass, "Wally was sad we didn't include him in our game of tag. Think we should let him join next time?"

She wrinkles her nose, shaking her head firmly, "No, roof tag for us. He can get his own thing."

Dick huffs in amusement, "You're right, I'll just have to break it to him gently."

Jason rolls his eyes, "The fact you guys pulled that and didn't get in trouble is baffling to me."

Dick shrugs, "It's the eccentric childhood, you can blame it for everything."

Jason nods, conceding the point, but leans forward and points towards him, "But then you have to fight off the inherent racism and classism."

Dick groans, and Cass nods solemnly.

"The moral of this, that I'm hearing at least," Jason continues, "Is eat the rich."

Cass tilts her head in thought before nodding and Dick groans again in defeat, burying his face into the couch.

He sits up and looks at the two of them, "You do realize that Bruce is rich right?"

Jason stares him in the eyes and says, deadpan, "An easy access feast."

It startles a laugh out of Dick and he can't help himself, through his laughter he asks him, "You—You do realize that—" He snorts and takes a deep breath, "You count among the rich Jason."

Jason raises an eyebrow, "Do I though? Does a deadman count amongst the rich fools?"

Cass giggles at both Jason's triumphant look and what Dick imagines is his own exasperated expression.

She makes her way over to Dick's couch and sits down next to him.

He pouts, glaring at her, "You were supposed to be on my side, Cass."

She smiles, leaning against him and Jason huffs, ducking his head in a way that he did a lot when he was little and hiding a grin.

Dick feels as if he's going to burst with all the happiness bubbling up inside of him.

It's all entirely ridiculous and they're all pushing aside issues and feelings they might need to talk about, but it's an interaction untainted by stress and anger and fear and insecurities and that’s what he focuses on instead.

It's positive and it feels Dick with a kind of warmth that pushes against the thoughts on the outskirts of his mind.

He basks in the feeling of fitting somewhere, of being complete.

Jason stands up, "I'm gonna take a piss, don't burn the place down."

Dick smiles, chuckling, "It's my apartment, Jason, that should be my line."

"And yet I'm the one saying it."

He leaves and Cass sighs, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

She frowns, biting her lip as she puts words together, "Sorry for earlier, was gonna talk to you, but that isn't a good idea now. Not when I'm mad, and not when you're trying to get better."

Dick doesn't choke, but he startles the faintest bit. He doesn't know why he does, he knew that she had been about to tell him something he wouldn't want to hear that she knew about, had been hoping for something different, but he knew that she would snoop and try to figure things out.

Really, he would be amazed if none of his siblings had attempted some snooping by now, he's been a fucking mess, no matter how well he tries to hide it.

But he's a little scared to know just who knows what, who's figured what part of everything out and is waiting to spring it on him.

It makes him anxious, makes him feel like he can't breathe, like he's slowly suffocating.

It isn't a nice feeling.

Instead of worrying or thinking about it, he really doesn't want to think about it, he waves her off, smiling softly, "Don't worry about it. Thanks, but really, I wasn't upset about anything. And don't worry about me, I'm fine. I've got everything handled."

She sends him a disbelieving look and he sticks his tongue out at her like the mature adult he is.

She retaliates by tickling his sides and he squirms away, throwing a pillow at her.

The pillow hits her and falls to the ground with a thump and Dick flips away purely for the dramatics.

She looks slowly from the pillow on the ground back up to him and when they lock eyes she grins.

A thrill of fear goes down his spine and then he's getting a pillow lobbed at his face.

Cass giggles at him and Dick throws a blanket up into the air as a distraction while he dives for another pillow. Cass grabs the blanket and balls it up, throwing it at him.

Dick deflects using his pillow only to be hit in the face with a pillow.

He ducks behind the wall, "Where'd you even get that?"

She giggles.

He swears he only had like 2 pillows out here.

Suddenly he hears a thump and then—

"What the fuck?"

He peeks into the room, Jason is staring at Cass with a baffled look on his face and Cass has him wrapped within the blanket from before.

Dick snorts and starts laughing even as Jason grumbles under his breath and tries to unwrap himself.

Cass looks like she's one step away from preening and it just sends Dick further into his laughter every time he looks at her.

It feels nice to laugh so much and have it be real.

It makes him feel more real, more wanted.

(He needs to talk to Bruce and he needs to discuss everything with his siblings and the old Titans and he has about a million other things he needs to think about or do, but all of those are things he can think about later, worry and freak out about when he isn't with anyone else. He's figuring things out it's just—a slow-going process that takes maybe a little too much time sometimes.

Yeah.)

When he was little his Daj* and Dat** used to tell him bedtime stories.

Sometimes they would read him stories from books, sometimes they would create their own fantastical ones that Dick could add to whenever he wanted with whatever he wanted.

And, sometimes, they would tell him ones that were pulled from their memories, retellings of stories their parents told them.

It was a mishmash of cultures and teachings all rolled into one and it never failed to enthrall him.

He used to wait up for the stories, refusing to sleep until he heard one. And without fail at least one of his parents would hold him and whisper them to him until he fell asleep.

Thinking back on that Dick can't help but hate the fact that he never really let them know just how much he appreciated that. It was such a small thing that meant so much to him, a small thing that was so big to him and that they never failed to do, even at their most tired or stressed.

There were three books of fairytales in their trailer that they kept no matter where they went. They were never sold, or given to used bookshops. They stayed by Dick’s bedside, always.

They were burned, destroyed along with the rest of his parent’s things, by the circus like they had requested in the event of their death and it had happened all while Dick was locked away. 

( Juvie had been bad, the shock that going from being loved and cared for and wanted by his parents and the circus to being reviled and worth less than trash to Gotham’s CPS and people had given him had left him scrambling for days to keep his sanity.

Sometimes the nightmares of that time will creep up on him, remind him from out of the blue of those weeks he spent in juvie so sure he would die before he ever had a chance of getting out.

He doesn’t like to remember the time before Bruce took him in.)

There’s a part of him that half-wishes he could have kept just one of them despite his papá's lessons, had even that little piece of his childhood still with him. He knows why though, and he agrees with it.

(Gotham has enough ghosts as it is.)

The stories he loved the best were the ones where people found lost family members or someone to love, where someone tried their best to help or to succeed.

There was one his father liked to tell, after they had read through Dick's book of fairy tales, it was a story he said his mother used to tell him when he was little, telling him to be kind to others and not to be selfish, and that one day he'll find someone to love him. That forgiveness was an important part of life.

He remembers the first time he had heard it, being so tiny and sitting in his Dat's lap, curled up under a blanket and listening to the soothing cadence of his voice.

"Once upon a time, there lived an old man and an old woman. Who were very cross with each other."

Dick had frowned, looking up to his father's face, "Why were they angry?"

His father had smiled gently, "Hush čhavo****, I have to finish telling the story for you to find out."

He'd settled in, curling up against his father’s chest once more.

"Now, each had their own house, the old man had one all made out of salt, and the old woman had one completely made out of wax. One day, the woman needed salt—”

"But why?"

"Because, you little rascal, she needed it to cook some delicious polenta. You see, you have to cook it in salted water."

"Oh!"

His father chuckled, "Yes oh, now hush for real this time, mon petit trublion*****."

" 'mkay!"

"Now, she had sent her child over to the man's house to ask for some salt. But when the child ran up to the man to ask, the man chased him away, telling him, 'Go away for I won't give you any salt.'

The next day the woman again needed salt, so she told her child to go and ask the old man for some once more.

And once more the man turned the child away, screaming, 'Go away, I will give you no salt!' And the woman went a second day without the polenta.

On the third day, the woman sent her child to ask the old man one final time for salt.

The child was once again sent away without any salt, and the old man repeated his words from before, 'Go away, I will give you no salt!'

Now the woman was upset, for her request had been rejected in a rude manner three different times.

So she went outside and prayed for a giant rainstorm to come and melt away the man's house. Later that day, a rainstorm rolled in and the falling rain melted away the man's house of salt."

Dick had frowned, upset at this turn of events, "But now he doesn't have anywhere to sleep! He shouldn't be homeless just because he was rude."

His Dat hummed, rubbing his back, "Well, when people are upset they can make bad decisions without thinking about them."

Dick frowned and his father patted his back soothingly, "Let me finish okay?"

He nodded eagerly, enjoying the story even as it confused him.

"Well, now the old man was without a house, and he went to the old woman and pleaded with her, asking, 'Please, let me sleep inside your house, just in the corner by the door.'

But the old woman was still quite upset with the old man and she turned him away, chasing him with her cane.

And the old man remained outside for the night.

In the morning he again went to the woman and asked her, 'Please, woman, let me sleep inside your house, just in the corner by the door.'

And the old woman turned him away once again, chasing him with her cane.

So the man spent a second night outside.

On the third day, the man came to her once more, asking, 'Please, woman, let me sleep inside your house, just in the corner by the door.'

And the woman was still quite upset with him, but she also felt sorry for him, so she let him in.”

Dick smiled, "She let him in!"

His father chuckled, "Yes she did Dickie, her heart had softened just the slightest bit by then."

"Good." Dick tried to say, fighting back a yawn and failing, and his father pressed a kiss to his hair, laughing.

"Let me finish telling you the story čhavo, before you fall asleep on me."

Dick hummed in agreement, resting his head against his dad's chest and listening to his soothing voice and steady heartbeat.

"Well, now the old man had a place to sleep, but the spot in the corner by the door left him cold and he pleaded with her once more.

'Please woman, let me sleep at your feet, for I am cold in the corner by myself.'

And though the woman had softened towards him, she was still upset and she refused him. And the man remained in his spot in the corner.

The next day he went to her again, pleading, 'Please woman, let me sleep at your feet, for I am cold in the corner by myself.'

And the woman, still upset, rejected him once more. So the man returned to his spot in the corner.

The third day he came to her and begged once more, 'Please woman, let me sleep at your feet, for I am cold in the corner by myself.'

And though the woman was still upset, she felt sorry for him, so she let him sleep at her feet.

But he continued to grow cold and was still not pleased, so he asked of her, 'Please woman, let me sleep under the covers with you.'

The woman refused, still upset with him, and he slept at her feet again that night.

The next day he asked of her again, 'Please woman, let me sleep under the covers with you.' And again she refused, upset with him.

The old man slept at her feet again, growing cold.

On the third day, he approached her and pleaded with her once more, 'Please woman, let me sleep under the covers with you.'

And for the third time she refused him, but this time her patience was stretched thin and she chased him out of the house.

The old man, now upset and alone outside, began to pray. He prayed for a great heat that would melt the woman's house.

Later that day, the sun blazed down harshly on the area, and the heatwave melted the woman's house.

So now, the both of them were without a home to sleep in and find shelter. And they met as neighbors, setting aside their anger and working together. At first, they lived together with the woman's child in a tent that they set up in a meadow near the town.

Later though, they ventured into the woods, deciding to build a home together, building their new place together, one piece of wood at a time.

And they were content."

Dick rubbed at tired eyes, yawning, "I'm glad they became friends, they just needed to stop being uhh—"

"Petty?" His dad asked.

"Yeah, petty, they just needed to be nice to each other."

His dad hummed and Dick yawned again.

"It's a good story Dickie, it teaches you things."

Dick nodded, tired and his dad kept rubbing his back soothingly, "I need you to remember something, okay Dickie?"

"Mhm." He nodded, blinking open his eyes, stubbornly.

His father pressed his forehead against Dick's and spoke softly, "Forgiveness is important Dick, and you need to remember people deserve your forgiveness and a chance to make things right. But also remember that you should never sacrifice all the pieces of yourself to someone who will throw it away without a thought. Okay?"

Dick nodded, and Dat smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead and hugging Dick against his chest.

"Forgiveness can be difficult Dick, but do your best to give it, because people make mistakes and they will do their best to make up for them, and sometimes they just need someone to tell them their attempts are noticed."

"Okay Dat, I'll try."

"Good, I love you little robin, never doubt that."

Dick sighed sleepily, murmuring, "L've you too Dat"

And he fell asleep to arms wrapped around him comfortingly and the image of a nice little house in the woods overtaking his dreams.

It's one of his more vivid memories of the stories they told him and he isn't sure why, but he treasures it all the same.

Following the advice that his father had given him that day was something that he still struggled with.

Sometimes giving forgiveness too freely and sometimes having to remind himself to give people the forgiveness they need.

It varies everyday, and he tries to be better at it, to make his father proud of him and to keep his promise, but he’s an extreme person. He bounces between giving too much and not giving enough and it’s tricky, keeping it in balance. It’s one of the things he’s just never learned to do despite spending so much of his life trying to.

All of which is basically a long-winded explanation as to why he’s sitting on his bed staring at Bruce’s number pulled up on his phone.

They need to talk, Dick knows they do, but it never feels like a good time, he’s always anxious and scared and just doesn’t want to deal with all the fallout that talk will cause.

So he's stuck in a kind of limbo where he wants to reach out and talk to Bruce, but he can't bring himself to actually make the call, or start the conversation.

He calls Babs instead.

"Dick?"

He smiles even though she can't see him, "Hey Barbara, you remember our plan to hang out?"

She snorts, "Of course I do, been a while since we planned it."

Dick winces, "Yeah, there weren't a whole lot of good opportunities, but I'm free today if you wanna go somewhere?"

Her voice softens, "Sounds like a plan, tomorrow? Drop by my place and I'll set everything up."

He gives a quick glance to his calendar, but it's Babs, she's probably already checked his calendar, "Yeah tomorrow works well, but a surprise? Really?"

"Yup, and you are going to like it, promise."

Dick smiles, "If you choose it I'm sure I'll find it interesting."

"Flatterer." She admonishes him, joy tinging her words.

He laughs, "You know it."

She chuckles, sighing, "I'm glad you called Dick, how've you been doing?"

He hums, "I've been okay, nothings been crazy lately, just the normal levels of busy. I started a new job."

Babs snorts, "I know, how're you liking it?"

Dick brings a knee up to his chest, "I really like it, it's a nice job, and it's calming, something that isn't crime fighting ya know?"

"Yeah. I get it. I'm happy for you Dick."

He swallows, "Thanks Babs, that means a lot. How've you been doing?"

"Oh I've been doing well, the Birds have been doing great lately and I cracked one of the cases Cass had on standby."

"Truly a goddess among women you are Barbara Gordon."

She laughs, "Oh hush your mouth, Dick Grayson."

He smiles to himself, "Yes Barabra."

She sighs, "I have to get going D, but I'm glad you called, I'll see you tomorrow okay? Don't forget either."

"Bye Babs, I won't, promise. See you tomorrow."

He hangs up, throwing the phone aside on the bed and laying down.

He feels he was productive, sure he avoided the Bruce situation entirely, but he's working on mending things with Barbara, so really, he thinks he's doing fine. And actually, he has the daytime schedule for work this week, so he has to get going soon.

He heaves himself up and out of bed and grabs a change of clothes. He's kind of nasty right now, fell asleep after patrol instead of taking a shower, so he has to do that now.

He showers fairly quickly, ignoring the faint sense of unease that clings to him the entire time. He cleans up, brushes his teeth, gets ready to face the day presentably and chooses to focus on the stuff he's able to do right now instead of the things he's having difficulty doing.

It maybe isn't an amazing way to do things, but it's far healthier than some of the other ways he could have, and has, dealt with things before.

Really, he's batting a hundred right now in terms of the mental health stuff.

Well, maybe more like 75, but that's neither here nor there. The point is that he's doing a lot better at the moment and he's really, really hoping that this feeling lasts.

He's pretty sure it will, after all, like he told Babs, his new job was great, and it was calming.

Maybe not for some of his co-workers, but for Dick at least? It was the best thing ever.

And it made him happy. He had something to do and a way to continue supporting himself and keep his mind off of things. It was great all around.

Which is also why he's definitely knocking on wood because there is no way he's going to jinx this job.

He gets to the shop in a little under ten minutes.

Alex is working behind the register when he gets in and Dick waves to them, “Hey Alex, how’re you this morning?”

They smile and wave back, “I’m okay, thanks Dick. How about you?”

Dick shrugs, “I’ve been feeling pretty good, and I’ll be even better once I start my shift.”

Alex laughs, "I think you might be one of the few people I know who get genuinely excited for work to start."

He shrugs, "It's a good job and I enjoy it. And if I have a good attitude coming in then the day automatically has to be at least a little bit good right?"

Alex tilts their head in thought, "Huh, that's a good way to look at it I guess. I never thought of it like that before."

Dick nods absentmindedly, "It doesn't always work, but it does sort of affect how I look at things. And sometimes, when I have a really shitty day, that outlook is something I desperately need."

Alex smiles, "You're kind of strange Grayson, but I'm glad you work here."

Dick huffs, "Thanks, Alex."

"No problem man."

Alex keeps working the register, and Dick makes the coffees he was taught to make his last shifts, while Alex teaches him to make the ones he hasn't been taught to make yet.

It's a strange way of teaching him how to do the job, having him make watch how to make the coffees and then making them himself the next time around, but Dick supposes that in Gotham, to be successful, your employee's needed to know how to put up with bullshit and get through anything, and that's easier when they're friendly with each other.

He snorts to himself and Alex sends him a questioning look, he smiles at them and mock whispers, "I figured out why the training process is weird."

They raise an eyebrow, "Oh?"

Dick nods solemnly, "Yup, it's forced company bonding time. It makes us like and get to know each other so that we don't get eaten up by Gotham citizens, police, and villains."

Alex tilts their head in concession, "Makes sense. I mean, there has to be an easier way to get you to learn other than just throwing you in right at the beginning and telling you to get the recipes from us. Granted I've never actually worked at another coffee shop, so this could just be the usual procedure."

Dick shrugs, "I don't know, maybe, but it just seems a little strange to me, I mean what if I mess up horribly on a coffee?"

Alex frowns, “Huh, you’re right that is a bit weird.”

They wrinkle their nose, “Thanks a lot Grayson, now I’m gonna be thinking about this for the rest of the day.”

He chuckles, “You’re welcome.”

They roll their eyes, shooing him away to make the next order.

He laughs, and begins the almost soothing motions of the order.

It's calming, and he enjoys it, even if it might seem a little strange for him to be working here.

The only downside he's noticed so far has been the occasional stares from the more alert and busybody Gotham residents, of which there usually aren't an overwhelming number of.

After all, it is Gotham, everyone knows that it's better to mind your own business.

The disadvantage of being the adopted son of Bruce Wayne, people recognize him easily here. He was raised a performer though, and he's long grown used to the feeling of eyes on him.

The main reason he's worried, is that it might bring negative attention to the shop. And he doesn't want that, the dilemma is that he also doesn't want to give up this job.

The solution? He isn't quite sure, but it's something he has to give some thought to later.

He finishes the order, a chai tea latte, and calls out the order name. He hands it over to the teenager with a smile and she thanks him with a yawn and a sheepish grin.

His shift goes smoothly and Alex grins at him halfway through, "Switch out?"

He shrugs, "Sure. You getting too stiff from standing there?"

They snort, "Please, I've been making coffee too, but you need some more register work."

"Or you just don't wanna work register anymore this shift."

They smile innocently and Dick wrinkles his nose, "But Alex, imagine the emotional toll of standing still."

"I don't have to imagine it, I just lived it, come on, you must make some sacrifices for the good of your friend."

Dick makes a face, "The fact you used my own tactics against me is upsetting, but as the newbie, I will accept it."

They snort, "Why thank you."

"No problem!" Dick smiles, just as Bruce Wayne walks through the door.

Well, he thinks to himself, shit.

Chapter Text

Bruce walks in through the door of the shop as if it's the most natural thing in the world, not as Brucie, or at least, he doesn't keep the Brucie persona up for long.

He walks up to the counter with all the awkwardness of someone not entirely sure what they're doing there.

Dick thinks it's the most he's seen of Bruce that's been free of either Batman or Brucie in a while.

It's both a relief and utterly terrifying.

Dick smiles brightly, even as his stomach twists.

"Hey, what can I do for you?"

Bruce shifts uncomfortably, "Could I please get a large hazelnut coffee?"

"Sure, is that all?"

Bruce purses his lips, "After your shift is over, can we talk?"

Dick bites his tongue, looking Bruce over.

He's not unkempt, but he isn't quite as put together as he usually is and the dark circles under his eyes are a little more defined than they usually are. His posture betrays nothing, but his hands are twitching athis sides, as if he wants to reach out to Dick and it’s taking everything in him to hold back.

He sighs deeply, "Yeah, give me like an hour and I can take a break."

Bruce nods, "Okay, thank you, Dick."

He pays for his coffee, tipping so heavily that Dick has to resist the urge to yell at him and throw the card back at him.

He sets his jaw, knowing that Bruce doesn’t actually mean anything by it.

(Maybe)

It just smarts when it seems like Bruce doesn’t think he can take care of himself.

Dick gives the room a quick look-over, and he thanks everything he can think of that the shop is mostly empty right now.

There are one or two college-aged students on their computers, likely doing homework or something else, and they both have some form of headphones or earbuds on, listening to something. They aren't his main concern, the biggest people he's worried about are the two teenage girls glancing up from their table to look between both Bruce and himself.

One of them whispers something and the other frowns, hitting her companion lightly on the arm and standing up.

Dick tenses, but the girl just leads the other out by the hand, shaking her head and whispering softly.

The other girl's face dawns with understanding and she gives one last look between Bruce and Dick before she nods, biting her lip and leaving, looking admonished.

Dick whispers a soft thank you to the girl that he knows she won't hear.

That's one problem off of his list today. Bless Gotham citizens general common sense of not being Vikki Vale.

Now he just has to hope that the fact he works here doesn't become public knowledge outside of this neighborhood. Based on the appropriately ashamed face and the way the second girl told the first one off, he doesn’t think it will.

But one can never be too sure.

Alex shoots him a worried look, and mouths to him, concerned, 'Need help?'

Dick shakes his head, "It's fine Alex, thanks."

They nod, looking troubled.

Dick smiles and watches Bruce as he continues with his shift.

Bruce doesn't really do much, he seems to focus mostly on his phone, but Dick sees the way his eyes will occasionally flick around the room and watch everyone in it.

He takes a steadying breath and hopes to whatever is out there that this conversation goes well.

He doesn't think he can handle it if it doesn't. Not right now.

He walks over to Alex, and smiles apologetically, "I'm gonna take my break now if that's okay? I’ve got to sort out whatever needs to be sorted out and then I'll be back right after."

Alex bites their lip, "Yeah, okay, I hope it goes well, Dick."

Dick laughs, voice strained, and mutters, "You and me both Alex, you and me both."

Dick makes his way over to Bruce's table and Bruce doesn't react until Dick's settled into the seat across from him.

Dick feels wound taught, as if he's about to explode, and Bruce seems on edge. B studies him, silent, and Dick wishes he would say something because right now it just feels like he's being weighed and judged on his worthiness.

He imagines that it feels a little bit how all the dead in the old Egyptian myths feel, all lined up and waiting for their judgement, finally standing before Anubis and having their hearts weighed only to be found lacking, knowing exactly what it was that made them bad, that made them unworthy.

Dick takes measured breathes, pretending that it’s natural and not something he has to force himself to keep up, acts as if his mind isn’t running faster than even a speedsters as he tries to figure out what to do, what to say, tries to figure everything he can out in the limited time he has to do so.

He tries to remember how he fucked up this time, what he did that was bad enough to warrant a visit from Bruce when they were still fighting.

(If there is one thing in the world he hates with a passion, it's fighting with Bruce, it isn't the thing he hates the most but it's pretty fucking close.)

Bruce clears his throat, "How have you been?"

And it shocks Dick enough that he forgets to breathe, because Bruce doesn't reach out first, it's not something he does.

Bruce doesn't start things off by asking you how your day's been (anymore at least, there was a time he used to at least make attempts at it), he waits for someone else to initiate a conversation first and tries to get what he has to say across in as few words as possible. The more emotionally necessary the conversation is, the less likely he is to have it with you.

He recovers, swallowing thickly, "I've been okay," he goes for a smile, and he can't tell whether it falls short or not, but he hopes that it doesn't, "How about you Bruce?"

Bruce shrugs, lips pursed and Dick feels like he's going to choke on the tension between them.

Dick picks at his cuticles under the table where Bruce can't see, as Bruce hums in thought.

It shouldn't be a thought inducing question, but for some reason, Bruce takes his sweet time answering it. And Dick knows it's because he's studying the rest of the cafe, studying Dick. A hundred other tiny things that have long since become habit for him.

Practice makes habit and all that.

It's one of those frustrating things about Bruce that has always made Dick anxious, no matter what.

Because when Bruce takes so long to answer a question Dick has no idea what will happen next, what words will come out of his mouth.

And it's not like he asked Bruce a particularly dangerous question. It was a simple greeting.

Maybe Dick has been a little high-strung if this is how he's feeling right now, from a mere pause in the conversation.

Bruce finally answers after what seems like a lifetime, but which Dick knows, realistically, could only have been a minute or two.

"I've been...well. You should come around the Manor sometime, Damian misses having you around the house."

Dick bites his tongue, seething inside, low blow Bruce. It almost slips out and it takes a second for him to calm down again.

It's irrational, because it’s the closest thing to an olive branch that Bruce will feel comfortable offering him right now and Dick knows that, but all he really wants to do right now is walk out.

It wouldn't fix anything though, wouldn't help anything at all, in fact it would probably make things worse, and might make him lose his job if he makes a scene.

Talks with Bruce somehow always turn into a big scene.

It was one of the worst things, and also why Dick wasn't sure why Bruce had come to talk to him in public.

Maybe he was hoping that being in public meant that Dick wouldn't be able to yell at him or get worked up.

As if that would help, all it meant was that they couldn't talk about nearly everything and that the inevitable blow-up would be somewhere the public could witness and record it.

All in all, it was a bad idea and he was lost on Bruce's reasoning.

He smiles, wide and strained, and tries to act as if nothing is wrong, "Yeah, I'll definitely drop by the Manor soon, I've missed you guys. How has Dami been?'

Bruce raises an eyebrow, "Damian has been.....fine. He's been moody though, and quicker to lose his temper than he usually is."

Which is...pretty bad. Damian is a kid after all and his temper is already on a short fuse.

He loves the kid though, and considering their last fight, the fact Bruce brought him up at all is strange.

"That doesn't sound good, he okay?"

Bruce nods, "He's just been a bit upset."

The ‘with me’ goes unsaid, and Dick bites his cheek, they both know it's true, and Dick doesn't actually want to start a fight right now, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

"Hopefully it gets better, how's everyone else been?"

Bruce shrugs a shoulder, responding in an even tone, "The usual."

Which means, roughly, that Jason and Bruce are in the awkward 'I'm not sure what to do with you or how to fix things so I'm just gonna avoid you and hope the problem goes away' phase.

Tim is still alternating between obsessively trying to be of use and withdrawing so far away the only thing connecting him to them is the adoption papers.

Steph is still not completely at ease with Bruce and sometimes gets so sad and distant before whiplashing back to friendly and full of energy and happy.

Cass is rarely home, even now she's heading back to Hong Kong soon, and when she is home, it's like she's bust fixing everyone else's problems and putting herself second.

Damian is insecure and upset and angry and still figuring things out and trying to keep some form of stability in his life. Fighting to get Bruce to be proud of him.

It's all just a mess.

Dick sighs, "Well, I'm glad everyone is doing okay at least."

He runs a hand through his hair, he and Bruce have never been the small talk kind of people.

"Is there any reason you came by my work to talk to me, Bruce? This isn't normally your thing."

Bruce sips at the last dregs of his coffee, humming, "Someone told me I needed to make more of an effort."

So Alfred used his passive-aggressiveness on Bruce or either Cass or Babs had gotten really mad with him. (He’s betting on Babs and Alfred)

Either way, Bruce had taken the hint and was trying.

Dick fought back a groan, "Okay, well, I appreciate it, Bruce. Honestly, but maybe we should talk later? When my shift ends? Or just later tonight. And then we can talk a bit more about....well, about a lot of stuff."

Bruce grunts, expression slightly constipated, "Yes that would work well.”

He stands, picking up his empty cup and napkins and throwing them in the trash behind him, "Goodbye Dick. I'll see you later."

He passes by Dick and pauses, before ruffling Dick’s hair only a little awkwardly and then leaving.

It’s been awhile since he last did that.

Did let his head fall into his hands and he groans, utterly terrified and confused.

There's a noise across from him as someone sits down in the chair Bruce just left, and Dick glances up to see Alex looking at him in concern.

"You okay?"

Dick huffs, sitting up, "Yeah I'm fine, just some family stuff."

Alex bite's their lip, "Alright, if you say so, but I'm here to talk if you ever need."

Dick smiles, standing up "Thanks Alex, it means a lot. But I should probably get back to work."

"Yeah."

Dick was hoping that he would be able to keep all of his bullshit away from his job, but somehow he's already brought it in.

He sighs, pushes all the worries and frustrations away, smiles, and gets back to work.

When his shift is over he finds himself wishing it was longer. Which isn't surprising, but the next shift of workers come to get their work done and Alex and he clock out. Before they leave Alex gives him their number.

They smile, "Feel free to call me whenever you need to talk or vent, or even just spam me with random facts if you just need a break or something, I know that it helps me calm down to just talk about random things, and you seem like you need a break."

He hugs them, thanks them, and heads to his apartment, figuring that Bruce has made himself comfortable there already.

He isn't wrong.

Though that fact doesn't make him happy.

He opens the door and the minute he walks into the living room, he's greeted with the sight of Bruce surveying the room with a carefully neutral gaze and a slight furrow to his brow which means he sees something he doesn't like.

But Dick really doesn't have the mental capacity to care right now.

" 'Sup Bruce."

Bruce turns to look at him and gives him a nod, "Dick."

And it's silent after that.

Dick purses his lips, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, watching as Bruce avoids looking directly at him.

After another couple of minutes, Dick clears his throat and raises an eyebrow, "Really Bruce? That's it? You wanted to have a talk, which means you have to do some talking, not wait for me to carry the entire fucking conversation like you usually do."

Bruce huffs softly, "Right." he takes a breath and sits down on the couch.

He still hasn't actually looked Dick in the eyes and it's starting to piss him off.

Dick pushes himself off of the wall, and leaves the room getting two cups of water from the kitchen.

He sets one in front of Bruce and settles into the chair.

Bruce picks it up, "Thank you, Dick."

Dick hums, annoyed and a little scared and kind of just wanting to be hugged until everything is better again.

"So you gonna talk now? Cause there's a laundry list of things we could discuss about ways you've pissed me off or ways I've fucked up. Choose your favourite and go."

Bruce closes his eyes, rubbing at his forehead like he's fighting off a headache and Dick resists the urge to lash out with, 'you think you're having a rough time? I can't tell whether you love me or hate me, I spend most of my time trying to help everyone else and the rest of it hating myself and I want someone to hold me and tell me everything will be alright but every time things seem to be looking up something comes along and ruins it and I end up one panic attack away from a complete mental breakdown for another time that month.'

But that would be communicating, and actually talking about the issues they need to, and as everyone knows, you don't do that with Bruce or expect it from Bruce.

Instead, he goes the safe route, "If you aren't going to talk there is a door Bruce. Don't worry, when I swing by the Manor to talk to Dami I'll tell Alfred or Babs or whoever told you to come that you did well and actually managed to talk about the dreaded 'e' word."

Bruce straightens, jaw clenched and curses, "Shit, Dick stop that wasn’t—” He rubs at his face, “Sorry, I—sorry. That's what," he trails off, lips pursing, "That's what I was trying to tell you."

Dick doesn't choke, but his eyes start watering like the traitors they are and Dick very carefully doesn't look at Bruce, and instead into the light, blinking until the tears recede.

"That was unexpected."

Bruce buries his head in his hands, "I know."

Dick swallows, "Is there a reason for it or was it just a general I screwed up and a lot of people are mad at me about it apology?"

Bruce snorted, pulling his head up to look at Dick, "I haven't been...the best. And it's been pointed out to me by many people that I needed to reevaluate my thought process and the actions I've taken."

It feels like time's frozen. Like if Dick so much as moves a muscle wrong the entire thing will fall apart and end up just being some elaborate dream.

He swallows thickly, and breathes in slowly and steadily, as if that will help him speak to Bruce.

"Oh?" Is all he manages to choke out. And Bruce nods jerkily.

Dick grips his glass tightly, steadying himself, "Is that all you can handle emotionally for the day or do you want to maybe explain? Or something?"

Bruce shifts, just the slightest, and folds his hands together, elbows on his knees and leaning forward.

"I had a plan," He starts, voice casual, "on how to talk to you and how to get through this conversation. I think it was a rather good one too. But the minute I sat down to talk to you it felt as if every failure I've ever made just—flooded back to me."

Dick tenses, and curls in on himself, Bruce's words hit deep and he kind of wishes he hadn't agreed to this.

Bruce frowns. "No, Dick, stop. I—" He rubs his face, "I didn't mean it like that."

Unsurprisingly, the words do nothing to make Dick feel less like shit. Dick watches as Bruce's jaw clenches and unclenches in frustration.

At least Bruce is trying to put the right words together, instead of throwing them out without a care as to how they'll affect him.

It's somewhat of an improvement from most of their other attempts at discussion already.

"What I meant," Bruce starts slowly, carefully, "Is that I can't help but remember all the ways I've failed you sometimes, and it compromises me. And I make bad decisions. And I'm sorry you have to suffer for that. Because of that."

It almost sounds like an apology for everything. For every argument and harsh word and doubt and fight. It also sounds like an excuse for every bad decision Bruce has made, and will probably continue to make.

Dick doesn't know how to respond to that.

He clears his throat and tries for a smile, "It's—well it's not fine, but I appreciate it. Wasn't expecting that though, I have to admit. The apology, I mean. But it's not—"

He breaks off, pursing his lips, and taking a breath, "It's not an excuse. I get that you have a lot of regrets but, Bruce, if you use those regrets to justify your actions every time you fuck up, it loses it's meaning."

Bruce looks uncomfortable and out of his depth and Dick feels shitty for a second, before he reminds himself that he didn't force Bruce to do anything that he didn't want to. That he wasn't the one who wanted to talk, and if Bruce didn't want to talk, he shouldn't have come into Dick's workplace and requested they do so.

It helps him regroup a bit. Which is good, because talking to Bruce, even if it is one of the very rare times he chooses to use his extremely limited emotional intelligence, can be a bit like talking to a wall that is also an armed bomb.

Bruce nods solemnly, "I know, I hadn't—" he trails off, watching him with soft eyes, "I hadn't intended to try and excuse myself, I know I have issues Dick, and I shouldn't take those things out on you or the others, but—"

"There isn't a but in that sentence Bruce," Dick cuts in, with his shoulders rising and a defensive knot in his chest that begs him to get his point across, "This isn't a topic that needs a 'but', don't take your problems out on people, we all know that. We're all working on that, no one deserves to have that shit thrown at them because they were the closest when you decided to blow up."

Bruce's expression goes stony, and his posture curls inwards, "I wasn't trying to excuse it Dick, just explain it."

And Dick understands that, he really does, but the fact is that if Bruce isn't realizing how red flag-like his words are right now, then he doesn't know what to do.

The fact that Bruce is having a hard time seeing why Dick doesn't want to listen to his explanation, the fact he can't see how his previous actions might seem if they weren't vigilantes, is worrying.

It's not something that Dick thought Bruce would ever have to be told, ever lose sight of.

Batman, after all, is good with little children.

It's his children he has problems with.

He wishes that he was a lot more mentally stable than he is right now, because it would make this conversation a whole lot easier on the both of them.

As it is, Dick is trying his best to figure out how to speak to Bruce without leading himself straight into a meltdown.

Dick takes a steadying breath and starts, slowly, "You do see how I might not want to hear your explanation right? Especially when I'm still upset with you?"

Bruce sighs in resignation, "I understand it, I just don't like it."

Dick shrugs, "That's valid, I guess."

There's a pause where they both try and figure out what to say, what to talk about, what to ask about, so that they can get answers while still keeping the somewhat fragile peace.

Dick chews at his lip, watching Bruce with warring emotions as the elder looks around the room.

He needs answers, and since he's going to be going to the Manor to properly spend time with Damian soon, he needs to know sooner rather than later.

"Why'd you get so pissed before, about the gala and Dami and I?"

He feels a little bit like he's ten again, trying to peck away at Bruce and figure things out.

Bruce is silent, gaze steady and closed off.

Dick feels like he’s shrinking, curling in on himself and hoping to anything he can that Bruce doesn’t blow up or get angry because he honestly doesn’t think he’ll be able to get through that today.

Bruce just watches him and just when Dick is about to say something to break the horrid silence, Bruce sighs, posture going lax and tired.

"I shouldn't have gotten angry about that."

Dick resists the urge to snap at Bruce when he's so clearly trying, instead he picks at the skin surrounding his nails and tearing off his cuticles.

Bruce's eyes zero in on the action, and in what might qualify as a petty act of defiance (given the fact that Bruce hated it when Dick picked at his skin and tore or bit his cuticles off) Dick ignores it and continues as he starts to speak.

"That doesn't really answer my question B."

Bruce runs a hand through his hair, "No it doesn't." He sighs, expression going a little bit constipated as Dick waits for an answer.

Bruce takes a deep breath and places his arms on his lap, leaning back and folding his hands together.