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If there's anything worse than knowing what happened, it was not knowing how their little brother was doing.
It had been two hours since the simulation ceased, and the Gotham vigilantes' first update came four hours ago, when the Martian first wen haywire, twisting the simulation into something it shouldn't be. Batman first reported that the girl was floating, before reporting that Artemis's pulse had gone from steady to faltering. From there, things only got worse, with nobody able to wake from the simulation.
Nightwing was able to get to the cave, and after harsh questioning of his father, was able to find out that the simulation was an exercise to deal with failure. While the details were unknown of exactly what the youngest edition of the team would be going through, it was very clear that it would be something that would stick with them forever, even if it was something as simple as a torture or a kidnapping.
So then, in the Batcave, Red Hood, Blackbird, Spoiler, Batgirl, Orphan, and Alfred had to wait to see if their youngest would wake. It was a horrible process. Barbara and Tim trained for the two hours, exhausting their bodies so that their heavy limps would weigh down their minds enough that they need not to think. It was easier to ignore the blinding possibilities than to think about the state Dick might return in, if at all.
Alfred was baking upstairs with the help of Jason, who was furiously kneading at the dough. He remembers his own exercises for failure, when he'd be pit up against Superman until he got so frustrated that he'd try to break apart the skin of his knuckles using a brick wall. This time, though, the ante had to be upped, as the stakes are often higher nowadays. Jason tried not to think about what Dick was seeing with those hopeful, beaming, vivacious blue eyes. He tried not to think that the color won't be as vibrant when the kid returned.
Orphan was working a case, Stephanie over her shoulder and braiding her own and Cass's hair. Strands of red hair was occasionally plucked when a stray, dark thought came to the purple-clad hero's mind. Barbara either didn't mind or didn't notice. She was cursing herself for letting Bruce of all people pick out the exercise. She, and the rest of the family, should've grilled him more harshly when he said it would be 'disturbing'.
And after the first update, Batman's voice rang through the cave, alerting the masses to crowd around the computer. It was an audio, and in the distance was a yelling that could easily be recognized as the clone, Superboy. "The team is out of the simulation," said Batman, gruffly and with a foreign strain to his voice. The family sighed with relief.
Tim hunched over the keyboard, pressing down the com button, one hand tightly splayed out on the desktop of the Batcomputer. His shoulders were tense, a veritable wall of stiff. "How are they doing?"
Batman took a moment to reply, sighing deeply. "The Team will need some time to recover. Have Agent A prepare Dick's bed and a batch of cookies, if he will."
Steph and Cass shared a look, their eyes narrowing. It's not that the cookies are a sacred reward, but they're special in their own way. For instance, if everyone makes it through patrol without injuries or if a three-day long breakout is finally contained without the family falling apart. Of course, there's a jar of those chocolate-chip wonders at each bedside of a long-term injury, but for something like this?
It's not unknown that mental health hasn't always been the most prioritized in this line of business. Truly, the awareness came with Tim and then Jason, really being put into place with Dick. But still, such an executive decision? So concise? Batman said he's with Robin, and yet there's only a chilling silence in the background now.
Barbara shoves Tim out of the way with the side of her hip, replacing his finger on the button with hers. "Batman, what happened?" Then, in the background, there's the sound of glass shattering.
Batman waits a moment, as if contemplating if he should tell them now, but he sighs over the com, clearing his throat. "I'll explain later. We'll be there in fifteen. Batman out." Barbara slowly retracted her hand. She clasped her hands together, arms resting on either armrest, chin propped up on her knuckles. She closed her eyes, and started thinking of all the ways Bruce screwed up.
She pushes away from the computer, and she sees that the entire family is crowded around. She shakes her head, waving her hand. "No, no, this won't do. We're not going to crowd the poor kid, for Pete's sake." She snaps her fingers at Tim and Cass. "You two, keep training. You," she points at Jason, "let's go upstairs and work on a case in the living room."
Jason shakes his head. "I'm staying."
"Jaso—"
"I'm staying."
"Fine."
Alfred was already gone upstairs, making sure that Master Dick's bedroom had the fluffiest pillows and heaviest weighted comforters that there were. Additionally, he had the solvent prepared for the domino mask and a box of tissues in the corner of the room. The towels were already there for a calming hot shower and the cookies were nearly done, a plate ready to become a platter across from the oven.
A few minutes later, the cave entrance opened, and Batman rode in first on the bike, all alone. Behind him came Nightwing and Robin, with Robin not clutching Nightwing nearly as tightly for normal. Per usual, Damian can't breathe or his ribs are teetering on the verge of breaking. Now, though, Robin is hovering an inch or two of space between them, distancing himself.
He stumbled over to the med bay and applied the solvent, and when Batman tried to reach out, calling Dick's name, Dick fled upstairs, breaking into a run when he got out of the cave. Dick locked himself in his room, refusing to talk to anyone, refusing to undo the lock, even refusing to eat Alfred's cookies, his appetite gone like the life from his eyes.
When Bruce had explained the simulation, it took Cass's arms around her little brother's waist to hold back Jason from ferally attacking Bruce. Damian began to yell in chorus with Tim, while the girls glared, Stephanie spewing many, many choice words and admittedly creative insults. Finally, the family dispersed, and Bruce stayed in the cave.
The first to try and coax Dick out of his room was Jason, promising video games and hugs. Jason doesn't like hugs, well, he likes them but he's often not comfortable with them. Dick, though, he adores hugs. Used to give morning hugs to everyone when their schedules were looser. Still jumps into their arms whenever he can. But he didn't come out.
Next was Stephanie, talking loudly to him while she painted her nails. She and Dick have gotten their nails done together a few times. His favorite color to see on his nails is blue, of which the family teases the blue-tinted Nightwing about to no end. She even mentioned that she was snacking on the third to last of Alfred's cookies. But he didn't come out.
Alfred said an apology and recounted his reprimand to Bruce, but Dick didn't come out. Tim looked at the door but moved on — he couldn't do anything. He doesn't know how to comfort a thirteen-year-old who just saw his entire family die, just witnessed the deaths of his world for the second time in a mere five years. Dick still has nightmares from the reality, and now he has to go through this? No wonder the boy isn't coming out.
When Bruce came, he didn't know what to say, sitting there for a good hour. His back was slumped against the door, his mouth opening and closing with each rotation of the gears in his head. He couldn't find the right words. He doesn't think there are the right words. He knows he failed his son, traumatized him for the second time in his short life. He wasn't supposed to do that.
He wasn't supposed to cause more trauma. When he rescued Dick from the Juvenile Detention Center, and he lost hours of sleep holding the boy whilst he wailed for his parents, wailed at the memory flashing through his mind on a horrible loop, when he showered and turned his skin red like the blood he thought was there, when he was helping Dick to smile once more, he promised he'd be a father, that he'd be a caretaker, a protector. He was only ever meaning to help the boy.
But he hurt him. He hurt him so badly, so deeply, bringing up trauma and embedding fresh trauma. He can't imagine what's going through the boy's mind. He doesn't want to. But he does, because he deserves it. And when Dick starts sobbing, openly sobbing and muffling his tears and his cries into his pillow, Bruce listens, head tilted back, lips pursed and tears brimming at his own eyes.
Damian won't let this go on for any longer.
It has been approximately two days since Richard returned, and since then, he has yet to leave his bed. While Damian knows and respects the boy's issues, and the fact that he's been crying himself silly to sleep each night, it cannot go on any further. The tiny acrobat has not eaten properly in a few days, living off the tap water from his bathroom sink and the stash of sugary candy below his bed, and even then, Damian doesn't think he's been eating.
So now he's outside of Richard's window, having scaled the side of the manor to get to his spot. He can see that the blackout curtains have not been drawn, allowing him to see Richard on the floor, reading with his back pressed to the headboard, his back pressed to the Flying Grayson's poster that watches over him each night. His legs are stretched out, his hammock swaying from side to side. His bed is partially made, the covers and sheets thrown over each other, and the rest of the room is in it's usual chaos, although his parents' remaining possessions are sprawled out across the bed, completely neat and wrinkle-free.
Damian sighs, and he knocks on the window. To his credit, the boy doesn't startle, although his eyes flit to the older man for a half of a split of a second. But he pretends he doesn't hear the second knock, and Damian shakes his head, rolling his eyes. He picks the lock and hops in through the window, turning around to pull the window down, and when he turns around, Richard is sitting on the top of his bookcase, continuing to read.
"Impressive," quips the older vigilante. His hands are behind his back, joined together. He tilts his head up, striding forth to begin inspecting the room. He leisurely places foot in front of foot, taking his time to admire the photos on the dresser or the calendar brightly marked with differently colored permanent markers that sit on the bulletin board. His board is chaos, as is representing the boy that made it.
"You made it up there in three seconds. My compliments, Grayson." Richard doesn't reply, instead turning the page and continuing to ignore his eldest brother. Damian tuts his tongue. "Ignoring me? Even more impressive. Although your silent treatments are well-known, you stubborn acrobat." Richard still doesn't reply, though he slides his foot off the side of the book case, letting it hang and propping the other knee up. "How long are you going to keep ignoring me?"
"Until you leave," comes the smooth response. Damian looks up. Richard stares right back.
"And if I stay?"
"Your prerogative."
"And if I don't?"
"I'll be whelmed."
"And if, let's say, grab that loosely hanging foot, throw you off of the bookcase and drag you by the scruff of your neck down to the kitchen? What then?"
"You won't." There's not a moment of hesitation. Richard doesn't look up from his book. This would be the time a coy smile graces his lips, a knowing one, but the boy's face is blank, his posture stilled and his fingers pause in between turning a page. His hanging food stops swinging.
Damian nods. "I won't."
Wordlessly, he lowers to the ground, grabbing a book and sitting cross-legged, in the space between the bed and the bookcase, back pressed against the wooden panels of the queen sized bed. He sits, and he can spot out of the corner of his eye as Richard eyes him, almost warily, watching as Damian opens the book at the start. It's The Secret Garden, a story he originally read a translation of in Arabic, but of course some of the prose was changed.
He opens the book, leaning back against the wood, and he make sure the family doesn't disturb him. The sun shines through the window, as it is mid-day, and onto the paper. He shifts until he is comfortable, and he begins to read.
The first hour passes and Damian is rereading the book for the first time. Richard is sparing him glances, and his foot is beginning to sway a little faster. The older has not said a single word, nor has he looked at the boy, but he does keep the spot next to him open, and he doesn't train, making sure that his stance is open, open for embrace.
The second hour passes and Richard turns, squinting his eyes down at Damian. His foot has been curled into his slightly trembling body. The fatigue and starvation is getting to him, but his eyes look more tired, the blinks owlish and slower.
"You're still here," he notes, not quite asking but not observing, either.
Without looking up from his book, as Mary Lennox is quite the intriguing character, Damian hums an affirmation. "That I am."
"You don't need to be."
"I want to."
Another hour passes.
"You're still here."
"Indeed."
"But work?"
"It's Saturday."
"Oh."
A half hour passes.
"Don't you need to use the bathroom?"
"Don't you?"
"Touché."
Hours pass and the sun has retreated to dusk. Each time Richard speaks, there's another tremble. Maybe it's in his hands, the way the book begins to slip through calloused fingers. It's in his feet, the feet he has to tuck under himself as he thanks the universe for such a high ceiling. It's in his chest, shuttering and shuddering his breaths into stammers. It's in his head, pounding and ringing as he realizes all the time he's been losing.
But Dick can't move. He can't move because he's seeing it all happen. One of the worst parts was the way he watched Bruce die. The way he saw Damian and Stephanie and Cass get disintegrated and Jason, too. It's the way that he didn't react, didn't shed a tear, and now he's thinking it's because he can't feel anymore.
It took him so long to smile after his parents died. He had to learn how to survive in a world he didn't know existed because he thought it was all light until he was pushed and plunged into the darkness. And it got really dark. It got so dark and he felt so much that, soon, he felt nothing at all. He felt so much that it was the screams of a crowd all blending into white noise even though he should've heard every individual shriek. All he wanted to do was to smile again, to laugh again.
He felt himself die. He needed to carry on and he failed and so, when he died, it was a relief. And he thought he was going to be with his family because he realized something — he can't do it. He can't go on without them. He can't handle losing all of them, not even one of them. He can't handle replaying as Jason turned around, with not even a blink to make peace before he died. And he did die. And Dick saw it. He saw it all.
He can't handle seeing the news camera pan over a broken Wayne Manor, knowing that he lived there, that he was able to find another home. He built a home from shambles and to see it so literal? He could've died. He wanted to wail when he saw that Tim was taken out or when Barbara's feed cut off. He missed her voice and the last thing he heard was a gut-wrenching scream that keeps replaying in his mind, over and over and over and over and over again.
He can't handle replaying the moment when Damian had turned to him, nodding before he went off, nodding before he died because Damian died. Never again would he pick Dick up or catch him when the younger boy throws himself at the older, just because he knows he'll be caught. Because he knows Damian will be there. But he wasn't. There were no affectionate nicknames or playful insults or concerned hands flying from injury to injury.
Dick remembers one time he was swinging from the chandelier and it fell. He was new here and he was under all that glass, bleeding profusely from his knee. And Damian found him. Now, up until that point, he hadn't acknowledged Dick in the way he normally does. But he held Dick's hand, cradled his head in his lap until the others could help, and he caressed Dick's hair, holding him as he cried for his mami and tati, staying with him as the glass was removed and as Dick was sobbing because it hurt. The next morning, when he woke up, he was asleep against Damian's chest, and he couldn't get up because of the arms holding him tight. He didn't mind, and went back to sleep. They were still together when he woke up a second time.
But they got separated. And Damian wasn't there. And they were all dead, Bruce, Cass, Tim, everyone was dead, dead, dead and it sucked and Alfred was and Titus and they were falling and there was disintegration and lasers and shambles and woodchips and blood, blood, bloodfallingfallingfalling—
Dick chucks the book across the bookcase. It slams into the wood and splinters it and Damian startles below. The older boy says something but Dick sobs, a whine tearing out of his throat and he chokes on it. He scales down the bookcase and before Damian can react, he throws himself at his older brother. He buries his face into Damian's chest and he begins to sob, to wail, choking and sputtering on each hitched and croaked breath, sobbing violently and shaking even more.
His arms clutch and clasp around his stomach. He presses his hands against a broad, muscled back, fisting the shirt and savoring the feeling of the familiar cloth in the holds of his hands. He opens his mouth and screams into Damian's chest, shrieking as torrents of tears invade his eyes and he can't stop crying. The arms press into his back, pressing him into Damian's chest further, petting his hair and Dick weeps even louder, even harder.
"I'm here," Damian soothes, petting Dick's hair, cupping his head and holding him close. He tucks his own knees up, holding the boy even closer. Dick sobs, holding Damian even tighter, gasping and wailing at the gentle, tender kiss pressed to his forehead. The shudders are taken into Damian's body as he holds them, rocks them, holding Dick and pressing his face into a larger shoulder, hugging him and kissing his forehead and his bangs, never letting go once.
If the rest of the family has pictures the next morning of when Damian had moved them to the hammock, asleep, his chin held up by a head of black hair, Dick on top of Damian, one burly arm stretched across the acrobat's back, chest pressed to chest as they had been lulled to sleep by the gentle swaying of the hammock, no one says a thing. They looked peaceful, cocooned and holding each other, safe as can be.
Who would want to ruin that?