Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

   Dick woke up in the dark.

   This… was not too alarming. He woke up in the dark more often than the light. Still. This was really quite dark.

   He slowly shifted, cataloging his injuries. Mildly twisted ankle, a few broken ribs, some insane bruising along his shoulders… and a chipped tooth. Hn. He’d just gotten the last one fixed. Maybe it was time to invest in a helmet.

   Memories began trickling back. He’d been on a stakeout, hadn’t he? Dick was Nightwing still; he could feel the fabric of his suit & the domino over his eyes. Someone had jumped him, obviously. Nightwing must have been outmatched. He was never that easy to sneak up on.

   Carefully, wincing with each too-loud breath, the vigilante rolled to his feet, all weight on his good leg. Nothing seemed lethal, and his spine was intact, which was good. He was pretty banged up, though. Had he fought back? His mind was a blur. He didn’t even know what they wanted, much less where he was.

   Some slow exploration revealed almost nothing. The floor of the small room was unnaturally smooth, and so, he found, were the walls. He couldn’t see anything, not even a sliver of light, but there was a thin outline of a door on a wall, only distinguishable by touch. It was so tightly sealed that it might as well not have been there. There wasn’t even a doorknob.

   Once his exploration of the room was finished, Nightwing took stock of his communication. His comlink was gone, and all of the tech embedded into his suit was dead. He wondered if the tracker was still working. Maybe. Probably. Hopefully.

   After almost half an hour of assessing his captivity, Nightwing slumped against a wall with a sigh. Red Hood had known where he was, as had Oracle. All he had to do was wait.

************

   After waking up for the fifth time, Nightwing began to worry.

   There was no way to tell how much time was passing. No one had opened the door. It was so quiet that Nightwing’s breath echoed against the corners.

   Nightwing curled up for warmth, tucking his chin on his knees, and began to sing. “Blackbird” had always been a favorite of his, and it helped to fill the death-like silence.

   Still… At least he wasn’t being tortured.

************

   Nightwing startled when he heard a clack. He strained his eyes for light, but nothing had changed, and silence had fallen once more.

   He edged a hand out. A loaf of bread rested on the floor near the door. He took it with steady hands, wishing he could tell if it was poisoned.

   They hadn’t asked him for anything yet. Surely they were only taking their time. They needed him alive if they’d gone to all this trouble.

   Nightwing ate the bread.

************

   Nightwing woke up crying. He couldn’t tell how long it had been, but he realized as soon as his eyes opened that he’d lost count of his rests.

   Time was truly gone from him now, and his breaths were only getting louder.

   He kept singing.

************

   Food only appeared when Dick wasn’t ready for it. He never caught the door opening until it was too late. It infuriated him.

   The bread was almost always stale, but Dick ate every crumb, because the empty feeling in his stomach never truly went away. This wasn’t a single meal a day. He probably wasn’t even eating one meal for every forty-eight hours.

   But then again, time wasn’t cooperating with him right now.

************

   Dick talked at the ceiling in every language he knew, saying simple things like “What do you want?” “Why am I here?” and “I give up.”

   He hated that phrase. He wasn’t giving up. He didn’t want to give up. He didn’t even know what they were trying to accomplish by keeping him here.

   Every silence that answered his words left a bitter taste in his mouth, and Dick wished his thoughts wouldn’t be so loud.

************

   The food stopped coming. Dick wondered if it was something he’d done.

************

   There was one canteen. It had been half full when Dick realized that there would be no more food.

   It was a quarter full now.

************

   Everything hurt so much. No position was comfortable. Dick could barely sleep without waking up to a ringing silence in his ears.

   His throat got too dry from singing & talking. Dick had to preserve the water. He stopped singing.

   The silence swallowed him like a fog.

************

   Dick was hungry. He was SO hungry. It had been a long time. He didn’t think he’d last, and at this point, the thought was a comforting one. Maybe the terrible silence would finally stop.

   He rocked himself. Side to side, heel to toe, one slow loop. It hurt, but the pain kept him grounded, because at least he could still feel something.

   Dick knew it would spend energy he didn’t have.

   He kept rocking.

************

   Dick ran out of energy. He ran out of water. He ran out of hope.

   He stared at the dark of the ceiling, wishing he had his escrima sticks. If he shocked himself a bit, he might not feel so numb. Maybe, given the highest setting, he would even die. He wasn’t strong right now, not after days of no food or water. It couldn’t be that hard to die.

   Stubbornly, his body kept living. Miserably, Dick closed his eyes to wait.

************

   There was light.

   There was light and movement and noise.

   Dick shoved himself into a corner, crying, begging with breath he didn’t have.

   Make it stop. Please. I’m so sorry. Make it stop.

   The voices didn’t make sense. Someone roared loudly, and Dick jerked, a desperate sob wrenched from his ribcage. The voices stopped.

   Something touched him. Dick tried to move away, shaking, gagging for breath.

   A familiar prick in his arm. An apologetic murmur. Then everything sank away into wonderfully empty darkness.

Chapter Text

   Dick woke up slowly, his consciousness moving like a snail. The pain from his aching touch-deprived body was dulled, which meant painkillers. Right?

   He felt something pressing down on his body, covering him. Fabric. It felt so rough; so foreign. The soft surface beneath was nice, but Dick feared that he would sink right through it.

   Someone was talking. Dick was flooded with both relief & pain, because someone was talking but it was too loud.

   A near-silent whimper left his throat. The voices hushed, and a gentle hand rested on his forehead.

   Dick instantly cringed, his skin crawling with discomfort. The hand retreated.

   “I told you,” someone whispered. “Pretend he’s a newborn kitten, Bruce; it’s not that hard. Sense-starvation is a bitch.”

   Dick tried opening his eyes. Thankfully, it was dark, but this wasn’t the same sealed darkness from before. By the light under the bedroom door & the faint moonshine from the window, he could see almost perfectly.

   A large shadow bent closer by the side of the bed, hard face lined with concern. “Chum.”

   Dick suddenly needed the blankets off right now. He struggled weakly, frantic but sluggish. A second pair of hands joined his effort, then a third, and the blankets were gone.

   Dick sat up, pulling his knees close. Free.

   “Easy,” someone whispered. “Just keep breathing.”

   Dick rubbed his eyes, taking deliberately slow breaths. He’d been in so many scary situations over the years that he’d lost track of the Top Ten, but this… This was something else. This was wrong. Dick felt like a stranger in his own skin, craving a hug, but knowing instinctively how much it would hurt. He was safe, but still stranded, isolated by his own physical trauma.

   He forced himself to breathe.

   “You are in your bedroom in Wayne manor,” Bruce whispered calmly. “You were abducted by some of Scarecrow’s old henchmen, though we believe they were working independently. They ambushed you on your stakeout. They then stashed you in an underground bunker just outside of Gotham, and issued no demands. We found evidence suggesting that after four weeks, they got cold feet. We found you at the end of week five.”

   Dick kept his eyes shut as he processed the given information. It took a minute, but no one seemed to be in a rush. He was fine. He was safe. He was out. Right?

   “We never stopped looking for you, Dickiebird,” someone else whispered. Only one person in the world used that nickname.

   Dick pried his eyes open, staring longingly at his little brother’s shadowed face. Jason’s eyes glowed in the dark on a good day. Now, though, they were truly neon green.

   Dick had never found more comfort in those angry eyes than now.

   “I’m sorry,” he tried to say. He gagged on the words, and his heart-rate doubled down.

   “Hey.” Jason held Dick’s gaze, glaring. “Deep breaths Dickhead. In… out… in… Just like that. Good.”

   “Chum,” Bruce whispered softly, a measure of compassion in the toneless words. “You don’t have to speak. You’ve had almost all of your senses taken away from you for more than a month. You’ve lost twenty pounds. You haven’t eaten in days. This reaction is normal.”

   Dick looked down, shaking his head frantically. He forced his trembling hands to sign, “WANT speak. NEED. Can’t.”

   “It’s okay,” Jason whispered insistently. “Dick, it’s a trauma response; it won’t last. None of this will.”

   Dick met his brother’s eyes, blinking away tears, and signed shakily, “HATE quiet. Can’t, I can’t.” A hesitating beat. Then, “Scared.”

   Jason huffed in irritation, but as he sat on the edge of the bed, his body-language registered as concern-gentle-kind. “You won’t have to be in the quiet any more, Big Bird, alright? You’re safe here; you can listen to whatever you want. I’ll talk to you all night if it’ll help.”

   Dick lost his battle against the tears, and his vision blurred. A foggy hand reached for his face before pausing.

   Dick didn’t care about touch-deprivation enough to resist. He leaned his head into the offered hand, forcing himself to push through the uncomfortable crawling sensation until it slowly faded away. He could feel it now; a warm palm cradling his cheek; a calloused thumb brushing away his tears.

   It was almost more contact than Dick could bear, but it was what he craved, and it was enough.

   It had to be.

Chapter Text

   Dick woke up with a lunge, arms outstretched towards walls that wouldn’t budge.

   His hands met empty air. Not a second later, someone’s fingers laced through his, sending sensitive nerve-pain & relief flaring through his arm.

   Dick grasped the thin hand desperately with both of his, heaving for air. “Don’t… Don’t let go.”

   “Okay,” a young voice whispered, matching his volume. The hand squeezed his. “I won’t. Take deep breaths, Dick. You’re safe now.”

   Dick struggled to comply, torn between focusing on the single point of human contact & his own breathing. His heart-rate slowly climbed back down, and he blinked at the darkness until a shadowed face formed. Guilt lurched through his heart. “Tim.”

   “Yeah.” The hand twitched, as if to loosen. “It’s just me. Do you want someone else?”

   “No,” Dick gasped hurriedly, pulling Tim closer before he could think better of it. The younger boy lost balance, tumbling against his side, and Dick shrank back in horror because it hurt so much.

   “Whoa.” Tim sat back up, instantly putting at least a foot between them. Dick felt a physical loss at the lack of contact even while his stomach turned in disgust, because he was Dick Grayson; he loved hugs; if he couldn’t touch people for reassurance then how---

   Tim barely got the trash-can positioned in time.

   Dick emptied what little was in his stomach before sitting back with a groan, curling his knees up to his chest. “What is wrong with me?”

   “It’s too much,” the younger boy whispered, tense with anxiety. “It’s too much, Dick, I am so sorry. Let me go, I’ll get---”

   “No,” Dick whimpered aloud, the sound vibrating in his head. He tried to continue speaking, but the use of his actual voice must have been too much, because the words refused to leave his throat.

   “Okay… okay.” Tim slowly sat back in his seat, hands raised in a calming gesture. “I won’t go anywhere.”

   Dick rested his forehead against his knees for a moment, struggling to get ahold of himself. He signed shakily with one hand, “I’m fine. NEED to be.”

   “Bullshit,” was the whispered answer.

   Tim, Dick wanted to whine; oh gosh, what was wrong with him? He couldn’t do this, not when he couldn’t even handle a hug, not if he---

   “Dick,” Tim said firmly, finally using a low tone instead of a whisper. “Take ten deep breaths for me. Then we’ll talk.”

   The older man slowly obeyed. Panic receded to the back of his mind, ever present, but under control.

   “It’s like being starved of food,” Tim said softly, using the lowest tone possible. “You can’t eat normally at first. You have to take it slow; little bits at a time.”

   “I know,” Dick signed miserably.

   Tim made a noise of sympathy. He knew Dick thrived off of tactile comfort & communication. Everyone knew.

   That didn’t make this any easier.

   Dick slowly reached one hand out, hoping, praying that he could handle it. He hadn’t been so disgusted with himself since Tarantula. He would drown if left adrift.

   Hesitant fingers closed in his, minute trembles almost lost in the stronger shaking of Dick’s larger hand.

   Dick pushed through the slight flare of skin-crawling discomfort before breathing a sigh of relief. He squeezed tighter, focusing on the callouses of his brother’s fingers and the poking bone of his knuckles and the cold temperature of his palm that was slowly fading away.

   The hand squeezed back.

************

   The next time Dick woke up, he stared at the ceiling for almost ten minutes before realizing that he was not, in fact, still imprisoned.

   He shifted a bit, grateful for the soft fabric of the blankets his family had supplied him with. It was almost early morning, evidenced by the faint light peeking past a half-opened curtain. Had he slept through another whole day, or just a few hours of the night?

   The figure sitting by his bed was smaller than Tim, and Dick’s heart warmed. The boy stiffened when he noticed Dick’s consciousness, then looked around at the window, hopping to his feet immediately.

   Dick hurriedly signed “Don’t.” He could handle it for now. It was almost surreal to see faint pink sky instead of darkness.

   Damian sat back down, saying nothing beyond a click of his tongue. He kept his eyes trained on Dick’s face, searching carefully for any important non-verbal cues.

   Dick reached a hand out, and Damian hesitated only a moment before acquiescing. His hand was much smaller than Dick’s, remnants of baby-fat still hovering around the edges of his palm. He was almost twelve, though, so Dick probably shouldn’t call it that.

   The fingers were calloused, but warm. Dick closed his eyes, taking every comfort he could in rubbing his thumb over his brother’s small palm.

   Damian allowed this.

************

   Cass was there later in the morning. Dick could feel her tracing gentle barely-there patterns against his calf.

   His leg twitched, and the hand withdrew. Dick made puppy-eyes at the almost-darkness until the hand returned, pressing a little firmer as it traced swirls into the blanket.

   Dick looked back up at the ceiling, forcing himself to stay calm until the touch registered as soothing instead of uncomfortable.

   He fell asleep to an approving pat on his leg.

************

   Dick had been back for three days before he didn’t feel like passing out five minutes after waking up. Alfred kept him supplied with a steady stream of healthy foods, figuring out which textures, flavors, and temperatures Dick liked best before you could say “starvation”.

   When the vigilante finally felt strong enough to move, he moved. Despite the room being kept in relative darkness, the first thing Dick did upon waking every morning was to tumble around the floor. As uncomfortable as it was to be touch-deprived, moving on his own didn’t really bother him. And it was helping.

   Jason called him “an ADHD-induced sugar-spiked ape”, but after missing one of Dick’s cartwheels by about two inches, he shooed his older brother to the upstairs gymnasium.

   Dick hadn’t trained here in forever, but his equipment was suspiciously well-kept, and the ropes on his trapeze setup bore signs of recent maintenance. Jason, of course, didn’t comment.

   “Not in the dark,” he groused quietly when Dick went for the higher equipment.

   Dick shot him a scowl that probably wasn’t seen, then settled with an unending sequence of gymnastics flips around the edges of the room. He allowed himself to get inventive, moving from one movement to the next in whatever pattern came easiest to his body’s flow.

   Jason watched with his arms crossed like a suspicious bodyguard. Dick would have been insulted if he didn’t understand. Jason knew Dick could handle himself; he’d practically grown up on his hands instead of his feet. It was the impression left by five weeks of agonizing worry that kept the younger man present.

   Dick pretended not to notice his brother’s scrutiny.

   Thankfully, Jason didn’t comment when Dick collapsed, breathless, after only ten minutes of intense exertion. He did offer a knowing smirk, though. Psh.

   Dick resolved to reacquaint himself with full light, because he was getting back on that trapeze as soon as humanly possible.

************

   Even though he could barely stand physical touch, Dick was never left alone. Someone was always reading in the corner or typing on a laptop with low-light settings when he woke. It was immensely comforting to quietly exist in the same room as another human being. A sound-machine was always playing ocean or traffic sounds, and never rain. It was peaceful.

   As much as he wanted to, Dick was afraid to reopen his senses, overwhelmed with self-hatred every time something was too loud or bright. Yet… everyone seemed to know exactly what to do. Every morning the curtains were open a little more for a little longer. Every night the brightness of the lamps was turned higher. Every meal was a bit bigger than the last, and every time they talked to him, their voices were murmurs, soft & easy; never the awful whispers Dick had quickly come to hate.

   He still couldn’t speak most of the time. It was easiest around Tim, probably because speech had always been their primary method of communication. Still… It never lasted long before his mind forced him back into silence.

   When Dick unhappily signed some of his self-deprecation to Cass, she & Jason joined him in silent solidarity, refusing to talk aloud to the rest of the family in or out of Dick’s presence. Dick found it hilarious. Bruce found it irritating. Alfred only smiled.

   Unfortunately, family support aside, Dick still had nightmares every night. Sometimes they weren’t even relevant to what he was going through, but they came. They always came.

   His family quickly figured out that hand-holding was a safe bet, and Dick began to wake up with fingers laced in his every time. As bad as he felt about being such a burden, he was grateful. They really cared, and were truly trying.

   His palm was almost never empty.

   Due to Tim’s annoyingly superb observation skills, they also found that Jason’s abnormally-glowing eyes was the fastest way to calm Dick down from a nightmare. Jason definitely lost sleep taking extra shifts after that, but Dick couldn’t make him go away, and he much preferred those glowing eyes staring at him with soft concern instead of anger, so he quickly dropped it.

   Dick had all the support he could possibly need. He was kept warm, safe, and calm, and he was never alone.

   But…

   Everything was still so hard.

************

   Dick woke up screaming on his eighth night back. He hadn’t made any noise louder than a whimper at night. Not until now.

   He instantly tumbled off of the bed, frantically trying to get away from himself, because he couldn’t feel anything and his body was cold with death and everyone had left and---

   Warmth. Gentle… concerned… kind warmth.

   Dick leaned his face into the hands that held it, sobbing. He couldn’t hear anything beyond his pounding heartbeat, nor feel beyond the hands, but it was something. It was enough. (It had to be enough.)

   Another forehead rested against his, and a rough voice with a gentle tone washed over his ears. Dick didn’t understand, but the words were of little consequence. He could hear. That was enough.

   When his tears finally slowed, the forehead pulled back, and glowing green eyes stared steadily from the dark. “You with me, Dickhead?”

   “Yes,” Dick murmured apologetically.

   Jason raised an eyebrow, and he responded in Romani. “You are scared.”

   Dick considered that. He realized that he’d spoken in Romani first. Naturally, his brother assumed that Dick was either scared or hallucinating. His first language was… precious. He rarely used it.

   “It feels right,” Dick finally murmured. He had no further explanation. This language allowed him to speak.

   Jason hummed softly, thumbing away the last of Dick’s tears. “Does this hurt?”

   “No,” Dick breathed dazedly, leaning into the touch as far as he could before closing his eyes. His face was desensitized, too, it seemed. He knew Jason wasn’t a touchy person, but it was a relief to feel something that didn’t cause pain.

   Jason, contrary to expectations, continued gently holding Dick’s face. He stroked under one eye with his thumb, even after the tears were gone. It felt so nice.

   “You will heal,” Jason finally said. His tone was… different. Vulnerable. It cracked near the end. “You will heal, Wing. I swear it.”

   Dick allowed himself to believe.

Chapter Text

   Jason was not, by nature, a patient person. If something could be done, he did it as soon as possible. End of story. If something couldn’t be done… he left it alone.

   But Dick was hurting. Jason had refused to accompany him on the stakeout, so whatever had happened afterward was Jason’s fault. Ergo, he had to fix it. Therefore, he had to be patient for something that couldn’t be “fixed”.

   There was progress. It… was slow.

   Everyone had assumed that Dick would be pushing his boundaries as soon as possible. They were ready to have to shove Dick off for his own good; force him distant; make him go slow instead of tackling them with his patented octopus-hugs.

   That… didn’t happen.

   And Jason was so mad.

   “Hey,” he greeted quietly as he entered the library. The lights weren’t turned up all the way, but they were close. Dick’s sight was making more progress than any other sense.

   The older man looked up from his book with a tired smile. He was so quiet now. It was fundamentally wrong; the muted movements went against everything about Dick Grayson. He was a ghost of his former self.

   Tim was curled up in the armchair nearby, sleeping. It was the perfect rainy day for it.

   Dick went back to his book. Jason, annoyed, plucked it out of his hands. “What’s got your brain so occupied that you’re holding this upside-down?”

   Dick blinked up at him, surprised. He slowly signed, “What? Practice read upside-down.”

   Jason tossed the book back with a scowl. “Whatever.”

   Dick gave Jason a curious look. His hands were still. Chastened.

   Jason turned towards the fireplace, fuming at himself. Gentle. He had to be gentle. Newborn fucking kitten, right?

   A light pressure rested on his shoulder. Jason forced himself not to react. Dick was initiating touch. That was pretty important, right?

   The hand squeezed lightly. Jason followed the invitation, turning to look into his brother’s shiny blue eyes. Distraught. They were distraught. Shit.

   “I’m sorry,” Jason breathed immediately. He stayed still. Dick’s hand was on him, and he would sooner cut his arm off than dislodge that hand. “I’m… frustrated.”

   Dick’s eyebrows shot up.

   Jason scowled at him. “Wow, Jay’s using his words. Huge fucking shocker.”

   Dick puffed out something that might have been a laugh, cocking his head invitingly.

   Jason looked away, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I just… I can do anything I want to fix a problem. The law doesn’t apply to a dead man. Punch. Stalk. Kill. I’d ram through a brick wall in one go if it would fix something.”

   Dick huffed again. I’m sure you would hung unspoken in the air between them.

   Jason closed his eyes. He would not be emotional here. Dick didn’t deserve that. “I can stubborn my way through pretty much anything. But I can’t… I can’t do that here. I can’t fix this.”

   Dick was still for a moment. The silence wasn’t as uncomfortable as it could have been.

   Jason almost jumped when he felt something tap his shoulder. A book was in the place of where Dick’s hand had been. A hardcover copy of Narnia, it looked like.

   “CAN help,” Dick signed gently, his eyes shining with fragile hope. “Read?”

   Jason took the book with a trembling hand. “Aren’t you too old for these, Dickhead?”

   “NEVER old magic,” Dick signed confidently, settling on the couch with achingly familiar ease.

   Jason plopped down next to him, careful not to touch, and opened to the first chapter. It took a moment for him to start reading aloud, but after the first step, it was easy. Low. Smooth.

   This he could do.

   After about three pages, Dick’s head rested against his shoulder. Tension bled out of his limbs as he listened.

   Jason continued reading without pause, his throat thick. Yeah. They’d be okay.

************

   Damian’s right shoulder twitched when he heard voices, the only indication of his distraction. It wasn’t enough for his father to pick up on, and the sparing session continued with no falter in their steps. A dangerous dance if they’d had blades. Instead, Damian was landing blows with a wooden stick that might, at best, leave bruises.

   His father was more easily distracted by the arriving boys. Damian disarmed him with a complicated sequence he’d perfected yesterday, then planted his stick, satisfied.

   Father bent to retrieve his weapon with a rare smile. “Excellent use of speed, Damian. Go get cleaned up; Alfred will have lunch ready upstairs.”

   Damian bowed respectfully, then trotted off of the mat to put his gear away. He chanced another glance at the foot of the stairs, where Drake was grabbing some of his scattered tech & Grayson was waiting a few steps up. Both were conversing in a language that Damian did not understand.

   He took a moment to observe their body-language, as Cain had been teaching him. Drake was mildly distracted as he focused on multiple tasks at once. It was clear they were not staying long, most likely because Grayson, still recovering, was not comfortable in the large echoing cave. The man’s shoulders were stiff, which belied a mental tension instead of a physical one. He shifted his weight lightly from side to side. A self-soothing tactic, or too much energy? Both?

   Sufficiently informed of the atmosphere, Damian walked towards them with a comfortable scowl. “What are you speaking? I can barely understand the words, and I know fifteen languages.”

   “There are over seven-thousand languages on Earth,” Drake muttered absently, his English a bit accented.

   Grayson offered a sheepish smile, raising his hands. Damian turned careful attention to his brother as he signed, mildly surprised. “Your first language? I knew you were of Romani decent. I had not considered that English was not what you grew up speaking.”

   Grayson made the sign for “both” right as Drake asked a question in Romani. Grayson responded easily, his voice a bit hoarse, but his words smooth. Clearly this language, so closely tied to his parents, was allowing him to speak aloud more than English was.

   “Hey, bat-brat,” a new voice greeted cheerfully, and a hand ruffled Damian’s hair with the specific intent of mussing it.

   Damian dodged away, glowering. No violence or loud noises in the presence of Grayson. No violence or loud noises in the presence of Grayson. No violence or loud noises. Grayson. “Todd.”

   “Hey,” the man said, much softer, to their oldest brother. He clasped Grayson’s hand as a form of greeting, then didn’t let go. He simply stood there, hands casually held between them as Drake finished speaking. Then Jason took a turn, his pronunciation unpracticed, but his words quick enough for conversation.

   Damian crossed his arms, frustrated. “Does everyone know this language except for me?”

   “Yes,” Todd replied easily while Drake muttered, “A little.” Grayson only gave an apologetic smile, raising his free hand to communicate.

   “Don’t bother apologizing.” Damian turned away with a determined scowl. “If this language is what makes you comfortable, I will learn it myself. I can not believe Mother’s training did not include basic Romani. A horrible oversight.”

   Todd made a suspicious choking sound behind him as he left.

************

   Dick didn’t play favorites. He loved each of his siblings in different ways. Cass knew that. Yet… there was something about her presence that made things… easier… for her oldest brother.

   She wasn’t sure what it was. Perhaps she wasn’t as much as the boys. She was quiet and unassuming and purposeful in all she did. She saw everything, but acted on very little. Perhaps there was some security in that.

   Dick quite enjoyed holding hands now. Jason gladly participated. He wasn’t a touchy person, but the idea of helping his older brother was enough to make him comfortable with prolonged physical affection.

   Tim tolerated this with less enthusiasm, determined to help, but insecure in his actions. The set of his shoulders always said My hands are bad to hold; I am too unlovable; I am too distant. Dick didn’t read this, of course. He derived more comfort from Tim’s contact than Tim realized.

   Damian… barely tolerated this at all. He was a bristly, prickly, grumpy boy on the outside. The tiny openings in his body-language gave Cass insight to his true worry. It was this anxiety that caused him to allow Dick to ruffle his hair or pat his head every five minutes. The boy even held Dick’s hand at night when Dick slept. Despite Damian’s elusiveness, everyone knew how much he truly cared.

   It was Cass’s quiet scrutiny that allowed her to see what most people missed. Dick was improving much faster by Week Three, but he was… different. Fundamentally, subtly, intricately different. He still loved touch and noise and movement, but too much of it caused his mind to crack, and his heart to hurt.

   This fragility caused Dick to see himself as less-than. Cass flicked him on the shoulder whenever he began to spiral. Dick almost always laughed.

   He coped well. He always had. He knew how.

   But… sometimes…

   it wasn’t enough.

   Damian looked up at the doorway of the kitchen, frowning. “Grayson.”

   Cass, the first to notice Dick’s presence, was also the first to notice his panic. He had clearly come to join them for dinner. Here, however, was light. Noise. Everyone in one place, everyone talking. The TV was still on in another room, and one of Damian’s friends was visiting.

   Dick clenched his fists, his eyes darting from one thing to another. He forced a smile. He was trying. Breathing. Calming. Everyone had quieted, and Jason held out an inviting hand.

   Then the doorbell rang. Titus began to bark. Dick jerked backwards, ran into the wall, and froze as silent tears crawled down his face.

   Alfred hurried for the door. Everyone else surged to their feet, and Cass wanted to scream at them for being too loud too much too fast, but it was too late. Dick was gone.

   “Stay!!!” she said fiercely, planting herself in the doorway before anyone could get through. She narrowed her eyes. “S t a y.”

   “Cass,” Jason muttered pleadingly.

   “Come,” she told him, gesturing. “YOU,” she pointed at the rest of the room. “stay. We will return.”

   Thankfully, her family listened. Jason followed at Cass’s side, only a half-step behind her, and obeyed her every gesture.

   It struck Cass that power was a matter of confidence. Any one of her family-members would follow her as long as she had any.

   Dick, as expected, was hiding in a corner of Cass’s bedroom. No one ever entered here without express permission. It was the perfect hiding-place.

   She cooed softly as she entered, keeping the light off. Her steps were soft, her movements smooth. Jason followed with less grace, but no less silence. He knew how this worked.

   Cass knelt in front of Dick, keeping at least a foot between them. He sat with his back to the wall & his knees pulled close, hands pressing tightly against his skull. He rocked as much as his position would allow; a grounding comfort. Silent tears streamed down his partially-hidden face.

   Cass placed her hands on her knees, waiting. Jason copied her. Cass could almost taste his distress. A glance confirmed that his eyes glowed. Good.

   It took almost five minutes for their older brother to regain control of his breathing. He slowly looked up. Cass couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness, but she could see the outline of his frame. Tense. Scared. Overwhelmed.

   “Little brother,” she said fondly, keeping her voice low.

   Dick’s curled frame eased. “Not little,” he whispered in Romani.

   “Yes,” Jason muttered in the same language. His voice was rough. Burdened. “Little.”

   Dick’s head swung towards Jason, and there it stayed. Jay barely blinked as he stared back.

   Dick sighed shakily. “I am weak.”

   “You are HURT,” Cass whispered softly. “Different.”

   “What do you need?” Jason muttered insistently. Pleading. Desperate.

   Dick was quiet for a long time. Processing. Breathing.

   Cass gently slid her hand into his, timing it perfectly. Dick squeezed with fond desperation, then shifted. Slow.

   Jason sat very still as Dick rested his head in Jason’s lap. Their older brother slowly relaxed against the floor, staring absently at the glowing green eyes above him. He offered Cass his other hand, so she happily settled next to her brothers to rub circles into Dick’s palms.

   Jason waited for a long moment before daring to thread his fingers through Dick’s hair. The older boy hummed, closing his eyes. Overwhelmed… but coping.

   He had caring siblings to ground him.

************

   Bruce looked up from his tablet to a very gentle knock on his bedroom door. He wasn’t supposed to be up this late, according to Alfred, so he hid the tablet before muttering, “Yes?”

   The door opened a crack, and silence followed.

   Bruce sat straighter, softening his tone. “Dick?”

   Something dipped the edge of the bed, and a shaking limb touched his leg.

   Bruce gently took his son’s hand. “Nightmare?”

   Dick said nothing, but that was okay. They’d worked together for years. They knew how to interpret each others’ silences.

   Bruce flipped his blanket up in a silent invitation. Dick carefully lowered himself down, all tension. Bruce was patient, and the boy slowly relaxed of his own accord. When he was comfortable, he wriggled a little closer, and Bruce gently combed a hand through his bed-head. It was… nostalgic. Memories of a scared little boy snuggling into this bed overlapped with the present.

   When had his first child grown up?

   Dick puffed out a sigh, pressing his forehead to Bruce’s shoulder. He didn’t tuck close like he normally would, but he allowed Bruce to rub circles into his back, smoothing away the tension that had gathered there.

   An insistent finger tapped Bruce’s throat.

   The man considered for a moment before murmuring, “Is the silence… too much?”

   Dick’s head pressed harder into his shoulder. Bruce closed his eyes before beginning to sing. “Blackbird” had always been a favorite of Dick’s.

   Bruce hadn’t sung in quite a while, but his rusty voice did the trick. It wasn’t terribly long before Dick relaxed, lulled by the tones vibrating gently through his head.

   Bruce sang until his son was well into sleep. He sang until his own eyes drooped shut.

   There were no more nightmares that night.

************

   Jason sagged into the couch with a sigh. He was tired. It had been a long month of missions and joint-operations and stakeouts, and he’d barely had time to do his laundry, much less relax. Now that things were slowing down, everyone was convening, by silent agreement, to the manor.

   Tim curled up in his chair with the remote, silently picking the movie. Cass perched next to him, sipping from her third juice-box, and Damian sprawled on the floor with his dog. It had been a busy month for everyone, really. Especially after incorporating Nightwing back into the field.

   Jason felt someone sink into the couch on his left, and he automatically raised his arm to make room. A familiar weight rested on his thigh, and a puff of breath escaped the older vigilante as he relaxed.

   It had been three months, and the worse effects of Dick’s captivity were finally wearing off. He had gone back to speaking, and was more physically active than ever, if possible.

   Still… Not everything had healed. Dick startled at too-sudden noises, which prompted Batman to assign him a partner every time he went on patrol. He needed extra physical affection, as evidenced by his passing hugs and hair-ruffles and, most importantly, hand-holding. He sometimes didn’t even realize he was doing it, and Jason got strange looks in public crowds when Dick phased out, allowing Jay to lead him by the hand like a child.

   Jason didn’t complain. No one did. They might have, a long time ago, but they knew now what they stood to lose. They understood Dick better, perhaps, than he understood himself.

   Jason only wished he had taken the time to notice the little things before circumstances forced him to.

   Tim, having finally selected a movie, plopped down on their couch. Dick squirmed back to make room, hugging Tim against his chest. The younger vigilante allowed himself to be spooned as casually as breathing. Dick’s needs had made them all more comfortable with affection. Maybe that was a good thing.

   Cass curled up behind Dick’s legs, cocooned so thoroughly in a blanket that Jason was reminded of an overweight-cat picture that she had sent him last week. Damian crawled up on Jason’s other side with a familiar scowl, but his small hand settled in Dick’s hair, stroking in a rhythmic motion that he’d learned from observation.

   Jason leaned his head back, closing his eyes. This was normal now. Dick usually went to Jason first, always ready to be received with a crushing hug, no matter how grumpy Jason was. When Dick settled by his side, everyone else usually followed suit, flocking to Dick until Jason was trapped by a group of grooming, preening, chirping birds.

   Strangely, he didn’t mind too much.

   Dick settled when he was pinned in, and a heavy sigh escaped him as the movie began. Jason, having been replaced as hair-petter for the night, rested a hand on the side of Dick’s neck instead. The pulse under his fingertips was steady. Dick trusted Jason. He trusted all of them.

   Dick Grayson would never be the same. But they could deal with that. They were Bats, after all.