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The manor is quiet when Dick comes back from the hospital; he’s not sure where the others are gone, but he thinks that Gar is still in the batcave. He’s noticed that Gar spends almost all of his time down there these days, from having his meals there to taking catnaps in between obsessively researching on the batcomputer. Dick knows that it’s not a terribly healthy situation, but he’s not sure how Gar would react to that opinion coming from him. It occurs to him that he can’t be a leader and a Bat at the same time, but that level of self-awareness is too much for him to process right now, so he lets the thought go.
For now, he relishes this rare moment of peace. Late afternoon sunlight slants in through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the silence is like a blanket over the sharp edges of the near-constant state of crisis that Dick and his team have been in the last week or two. Dick doesn’t have any immediate lead to follow as far as Jason or the Scarecrow is concerned, and… it’s okay. He’ll get back on that after a minute.
Just… a minute.
He’s got a headache to worry about, for starters: the doctor who discharged him told him it was a ‘mild concussion’ but that seems to be underselling the way his head throbs insistently like there’s someone in there jabbing his brain with a pickaxe, or the way his vision blurs without warning, or how the mere thought of food is enough to make his gorge rise. His chest twinges with every inhale and exhale, both from cracked ribs and the just-starting-to-heal bullet wound. Exhaustion seeps into every pore of his body in the wake of too much adrenaline and too much stress in too short a time, and it makes his joints ache and his skin burn.
And, oh. He’s hallucinating. Again. He thinks about the script for antipsychotics he has tucked somewhere in his bathroom cabinet, but choosing between taking them or just powering through with no treatment is a bit like a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea: not being completely in touch with reality could turn out to be a liability on the field, but he knows from experience that meds take a long time to get used to, and he can’t afford to be drowsy or stiff while jumping off buildings and leading a team of superheroes.
So… the hallucinations are just there, and he manages. He thinks about talking about them with Leslie, but again… too much to process. He’s not sure he has the vocabulary to talk about them or the feelings they engender. Alexithymia, Leslie might say. Who knows.
He’s sunk enough into the plush leather sofa in the living room that he feels enveloped by it, warm for the first time since scarfing down a burger last night while talking to Barbara and Kory. He even imagines that he can smell Bruce’s cologne, and the thought creates a pang in his chest. He misses Bruce. Even when he ran away, even when he thought he hated and resented Bruce with every fibre of his being, there was something reassuring about searching for Gotham news on his phone and seeing amateur clips of Batman foiling some nefarious thing or the other scattered across his social media feed. Hell, he’d even settle for hallucinating Bruce now, as caustic and knife-tongued as he can be. The complete radio silence is unnerving.
(The prospect of him never leaving Gotham again is much worse.)
“Dick?”
Gar’s voice startles Dick, and he snaps his eyes open (when did he close them/?). A fresh bolt of pain ricochets in his chest at the sudden motion, and Dick leans forward and hisses.
“Sorry!” Gar says quickly. He’s standing in front of Dick, a little closer than before, his hands up like he wanted to touch Dick but stopped himself from doing so at the last minute. “You okay?”
Dick nods. If the movement makes his vision wobble for a second, well, it’s not like he or Gar can do anything about it right now, can they? “I took a bit of a spill but I’m okay.”
“Yeah, Commissioner Gordon called,” Gar says, “and she said you nearly died.”
Dick spreads his arms. “A little banged up but in one piece and ready to go. The accident wasn’t as bad as it looked.”
He watches Gar chew his lip and look at him sceptically. Dick misses when Gar would act like Dick hung the moon, hanging onto his every word and following him without question. He’s done so much to shatter that trust and innocence that he’s lucky that Gar’s sticking with him at all; it’s so similar to what he thought Bruce did to him that--
No. No. Still can’t process thoughts like that. His brain is fried until this crisis is done and dusted.
(that’s when you usually throw yourself into the next crisis)
Gar sighs. “You know, Dick, we’ve got all hands on deck here. It’s ok to take a break to give yourself time to heal.”
He looks tired, Dick thinks. He doesn’t remember the last time his team had to unwind, to relax and be themselves without racing against the clock to prevent some catastrophe or the other. He’d tried to schedule weekly movie nights back in San Francisco and tried to take Gar and Conner out as much as he could, but he was always… aware of this barrier between them, the way he couldn’t get their wires to align enough to connect, no matter how hard he tried. He loves them, and knows that they love him too, but no matter how hard he works to deserve that love, he’s afraid that he’ll never succeed, and so terribly, terribly afraid that they’ll realise this and leave him for good.
(The only barrier is that stick up your ass, Hank would say to all of this, and the thought, unbidden, is so much more painful than his cracked ribs or his concussed brain that Dick takes the thought and the ocean of grief it’s floating on and crams it into its dedicated box inside his head before he can break down.)
Dick sets his jaw and gets up from the (warm, warm) couch and shrugs his jacket on. “I’m healing,” he says, “and we’ll all have time to sleep once we can stop whatever Crane’s doing and get a hold of Jason.” He turns to get his phone just as he’s putting his arm in the jacket sleeve, and it’s a mistake: the pain is like a vise around his ribcage, stealing his breath, and he stumbles. Gar is quick to catch him, and they both stand like that for a long moment while Dick catches his breath.
“Dick,” Gar says, and Dick can hardly stand the softness in that word, the familiarity, the sorrow. It’s too much. He can’t deal with this right now. He needs to focus.
He gently shrugs off Gar’s hold. Behind Gar, Dick-as-a-little-boy cocks his head at him, wide eyes blinking like an owl.
“You got any updates on Jason?”
Gar steps back, takes a deep breath. He looks resigned for a moment, then determined. “As a matter of fact,” he says, “I do.”