Work Text:
Dick hated cars.
It didn’t matter that his first sight of the sky in twenty years came from the Batmobile’s tinted window.
It didn’t matter how much he enjoyed tagging along with Alfred during grocery runs and taking unsolicited midnight drives with Tim around the city.
The fact is that Dick signed his death warrant in the backseat of a Chevy and let the driver deliver him to his execution. When he woke up a ghost, it was the only complete memory he had. Over and over he replayed that night, berating himself for going willingly like a lamb to slaughter.
Logically, he knew he'd been nothing but a scared kid desperate for someone to trust. His fatal mistake was putting faith in the wrong person.
But that was a lifetime ago.
Now, Bruce is the one driving down the congested Gotham streets, and while Dick trusted him completely, his body refused to relax. His consciousness faded in and out, catching glimpses of people and buildings and Bruce’s concerned eye in the rear view mirror, looking back at where Zitka was sitting alone in the back seat.
Being something without form is a strange sensation. The entire body is one phantom limb, there and gone at the same time. While it serves as a reminder that he is in fact a ghost, Dick also finds an odd comfort in having the ability to appear and disappear at will.
Tim was especially fascinated with Dick’s “powers.” Dick indulged several rambling questions and participated in various paranormal experiments over the past month.
For Dick, it’s less of a scientific endeavor and more of a game. The SLS camera is his favorite because he has way too much fun bouncing around the screen as a little green stick figure while Tim desperately tries to keep him focused.
Usually, it went like this:
Tim asks: “Raise your right hand. Raise your left hand. Move right. Move left.”
And since that is the most boring routine ever conceived, Dick disregards the commands and does something a little more exciting: Back handspring; vault off the kitchen counter; somersault in the air, and then stick the landing!
Dick takes a dramatic bow and Tim draws a tired hand across his face, grumbling about why even bothered.
Since Dick spent most of his afterlife ignored and forgotten, finding himself with people who wanted to see him rekindled an old love from the circus: the need to perform. Most importantly, it offered him a chance to be a kid again.
“Are you with me, chum?” Bruce asked out of nowhere.
Dick blinked without eyes and tugged on the radio waves, sending the classic rock station Bruce put on when they left into a jumbled mess of choppy voices and song snippets. He used the energy as a guide to find his way back into the black leather interior of the car, settling in the passenger seat beside Bruce.
Willing himself back into existence was a delicate process, especially now that Dick had complete control. He'd nearly blown the television out during his first week at the manor.
Focusing, Dick watched his gray skin mesh itself together and gradually materialize into the land of the living. In his mouth, his half-a-tongue formed and sat like a rock shoved between his teeth. Dick ignored the discomfort and looked over at Bruce, who was watching him intently.
Dick frowned and pointed back at the road.
“Red light,” Bruce answered. “Are you alright?”
Dick turned his head and looked out the window as the light turned green and the world began moving again.
No, he wasn’t alright because he was deader than a doornail. Also no, because Bruce hadn’t thought to tell him where they were going on this little outing.
What put Dick even more on edge was the fact Bruce didn’t bring the Ovulus with them, meaning Dick couldn’t communicate in the way he was used to.
According to Bruce, he needed to learn to not rely solely on electronic devices. Always be prepared, and whatnot. Despite his reservations about not having the Ovulus around, Dick agreed it was time to branch out. Three words at a time was definitely not enough.
ASL fit Dick perfectly. As someone wired to constantly be on the move, using his hands felt natural and came somewhat easy. Granted he was still learning and not perfect by any means, it offered him a chance to completely communicate again, to reclaim the lost title of motormouth (motorhands?)
However, there was a certain comfort in hearing his words out loud. When all you can do is cry and laugh over a radio, the want to hear words in your own voice is really strong. Even speaking telepathically with the other ghosts at Rocky’s wasn’t the same.
Although Dick’s memories of the circus are hazy at best, it is the voices that ring loud and clear in his head. Deep, accented bases that asked him if his father was coming to poker tonight. Shrill but calming twin sopranos who tittered about costumes and makeup.
His father, Dick remembered, had a voice similar to Bruce. A low, kind rumble that soothed Dick’s anxiety and kept him grounded when things got overwhelming. The way he talked was closer to Jason: sarcastic and witty. His mother’s voice echoed in two ways: featherlight whispers pressed into his hair and gentle hints of perfume. She had a gentle yet powerful ring to her words, almost like birdsong.
Hidden in the broken film reels of his mind were several scenes of his parents cooing at each other in a different language as they moved around their small trailer. Though he couldn’t remember what it was, he associated it with the feeling of home. Dick used to think the lovey-dovey stuff was gross, what with all the kissy faces and fluttering eyelashes because they were just so in love.
He’d probably have found more comfort in the memory if Dick could remember what their names were. Or if they said anything to him before the fall, not just the fleeting brush of fingertips against his outstretched palm.
Bruce kept his eyes fixed on the road but glanced over when Dick snapped his fingers (another trick he’d relearned after messing around with Tim).
Hesitantly, Dick raised his hands. We go where? He signed, making each movement slow and deliberate.
“Seeing a friend,” Bruce said. “Jason –”
The radio jerked itself out of tune again and Dick whirled around. Dick hadn’t seen Jason since he’d crashed at the Manor weeks ago after a hard night of patrol. Jason came around sporadically to check on Dick and bully Tim, not as often as Dick secretly wanted, but he enjoyed the visits nonetheless. Maybe today was the day Dick got to visit Jason instead.
“Not our Jason,” Bruce clarified. “Jason Blood. A good friend I’ve worked with on supernatural cases before. He’s quite knowledgeable in the field, and I felt it might be a good idea for you to talk.”
Oh, Dick mouthed and slumped down in his seat. Today wasn’t the day, which seriously blew. He plucked despondently at a loose thread on the heavy coat draped over his shoulders and pretended not to see Bruce frown. Bruce hadn’t been able to look at it since the GCPD recovered the same cost from the man's apartment and labeled it evidence.
Bruce calmly pressed the reset button on the console when the check tire pressure light flashed at him. “There’s nothing to worry about. I wouldn't take you to see him if that weren't the case.”
I understand, Dick flicked his pointer finger beside his head and tried to smile convincingly.
Understanding didn’t mean Dick had to be happy about it.
As they neared Jason Blood’s apartment, Dick tried not to think about how the last man who told him there’s nothing to worry about went on to kill him.
Jason Blood lived in the oldest part of Gotham. The weathered brownstone held itself proudly amongst the other, newer buildings around it despite the ivy crawling up the side and the dirt staining its glass eyes.
Dick let himself fade back into his incorporeal state as Bruce parked the car and headed inside. He followed closely, towed along behind Bruce like a balloon on a string. They stepped into an elevator and emerged on the very top floor. Muffled voices and loud music leaked out from underneath the closed doors lining either side of the hallway.
Bruce didn't say anything to Dick as he walked down the creaking, carpeted floor.
Just as well, Dick couldn’t go anywhere else even if he wanted to. Instead of lingering on that fact, Dick let his mind zero in on the haze of cigarette smoke seeping out from under one of the doors.
The door at the very end of the hallway is slightly ajar as if it was waiting for them to arrive. Dick gathered his courage into a physical body and pressed closer to Bruce as they entered the sorcerer's apartment.
Inside, the room was covered in a blue-tinted gloom. The curtains are drawn and all the lights are turned off, save for a small reading lamp on an end table beside a green recliner.
Thick volumes bound in leather and strange artifacts are neatly arranged on large bookcases that brush the ceiling. Curious weapons and statues sit in their glass cases, whispering to each other unintelligibly. Dick couldn’t understand them, but he felt the steady thrum like a phantom pulse, trying to worm its way into his soul.
At the center of it all was a man who Dick assumed was Mr. Blood. The man was about Bruce’s height, dressed nicely in a black shirt and green jacket. His most striking feature was his dark red hair, cut down the middle with a white stripe.
Oh, Dick realized, This is the guy Jason talked about with the funky hair.
If Dick somehow forgot how much of a sitting ghost duck he was right now, he might’ve laughed. Instead, he just really wished his Jason were here.
The cherry on top of this already crappy sundae was Mr. Blood himself. More specifically, the malevolent aura radiating off the man’s body, dwarfing the malice spewing from the other objects in the room.
Tendrils of vibrant red energy crawled on clothes like a living flame, sparking and spitting at both Bruce and Dick. Every so often, a devilish face appeared before melting back into the larger entity. Bruce didn’t seem bothered, so maybe it was only Dick who could see it.
Wonderful.
Dick’s nonexistent stomach twisted into knots. The air in this place bore a sickening resemblance to his former residence.
He wanted to leave. He wanted to leave now.
Unsurprisingly, Bruce didn’t budge when Dick yanked on his jacket. His face remained neutral but Dick swore he saw an amused quirk to his lips, the bastard.
“It’s alright,” Bruce said and pressed gently on Dick’s back, coaxing him further into the room.
Dick scowled at him, fading just enough that Bruce’s hand slid straight through him.
Bruce’s eyes widened slightly and Dick crossed his arms.
"This place can be overwhelming,” remarked Mr. Blood. He was leaning on the green recliner, watching Dick and Bruce with a neutral expression. “I’m sure Etrigan’s presence is not helping.”
The red aura hummed and flickered at its name.
Dick dove for cover behind Bruce’s legs, peeking out around his legs at Mr. Blood apprehensively. Shining green eyes stare back, fixed perfectly on him. He didn't seem bothered by the reaction, more amused than anything else.
Bruce shook his head and moved so that Dick lost his hiding spot. Dick looked at the floor as Bruce set his hands on his shoulders. This time, Dick let them stay.
Fingers tapped lightly on Dick's chin until he met Bruce's tired blue eyes. “There's no danger here. You have to trust me, okay?"
Trust you, Dick signed, moving his open hands forward at Bruce and then closing them. He swiped his thumb under his chin and pointed at Mr. Blood, shaking his head. Not him.
“You have nothing to be afraid of.” Bruce said, “Nothing at all. I give you my word, and you know my word is good.”
Yes, Dick bobbed his fist foreword and nodded.
"Good." Bruce gave his hair a quick pat, "Jason will take good care of you. I'll be back in a few hours to pick you up."
Dick froze. White noise hummed in his ears and he curled his hands into firsts. Bruce couldn't leave him here, surrounded by evil things that threatened to grab him and never let him leave again he doesn't want to be stuck he won't –
The lightbulb inside the lamp on the small table beside the blue armchair shattered. Broken glass fell onto the wood, the shards plinking as they hit the floor.
Mr. Blood waved a hand, summoning a broom and dustpan. He also flicked his finger and the overhead light turned on. As the mess was cleaned up, Mr. Blood cleared his throat. "Perhaps this was a bad idea, Bruce."
Bruce shook his head and looked down at Dick, who flinched. “Steady, chum,” he said, "I'm only leaving because this is something I can't help with. I promise it will only be a few hours, then we can go home."
Seeing his protest was not working, Dick resigned himself to his fate. You promise? Dick asked, narrowing his eyes at Bruce.
Bruce smiled slightly. "I promise. And to make it up to you, I'll ask Alfred to make some snickerdoodles so the Manor smells good when we get there."
Oh, Bruce was good. He knew the sweet aroma that came with Alfred’s cooking was Dick’s one weakness. As a ghost, he couldn’t taste the cookies but the smell was just as delicious. However, he wished he didn’t have to shove his nose directly into them for the full experience. Not that he has boogers anymore, but the visual is embarrassing.
Deal, Dick eagerly thrust out his pinky finger and Bruce obliged with his own. They shook once and then Bruce left the apartment, shutting the door quietly behind him.
"Do you know what a psychomanteum is, Mr. Grayson?" Asked Mr. Blood casually.
Do I look like I know what a psycho-whatchamacallit is? Dick wanted to reply.
Sarcasm was something he prided himself on, and he was still working on translating that through his hands and face. But he didn’t want to be rude, so he settled on shaking his head no.
Mr. Blood hummed, "A psychomanteum is a special room used for communicating with the dead. Although I only started using it after it came into popular fashion during the 1860s, it has been a popular form of cross-dimensional dialogue for centuries.”
Dick’s eyes widened. That would make Mr. Blood almost 170 years old! Aggravatingly, the man didn't elaborate any further.
Instead, Mr. Blood walked over to one of the bookshelves and pulled a particular book off the shelf. It gave a few inches but immediately snapped back into place. Dick watched in stunned silence as the bookshelf swung away from the wall, revealing a glossy black door covered in a confusing jumble of shapes that looked more like his geometry homework than a psycho–manatee or whatever it was called.
"Admittedly, I prefer the direct approach. But I suppose circumstances don't allow for that." Said Mr. Blood, opening the door and stepping inside.
Gee, sorry for the inconvenience. Dick rolled his eyes and followed, taking in the room. All in all, not impressive. There was only a fancy, uncomfortable looking armchair and a huge mirror framed in gold. The only light source was a dying oil lamp flickering dimly on a long table directly underneath the mirror.
Dick shuddered as Mr. Blood closed the door. The room was too small and way too dark. Black walls towered above him like buildings, trapping him. He gritted his teeth against the cruel whispers in his ear and the glint of a knife in the corner of his eye.
To try and quell the fear before he had another outburst, Dick approached the mirror. The novelty of not having a reflection had long since worn off. Thankfully, Mr. Blood did have one, meaning Bruce hadn’t left him in the care of a vampire.
Wispy white energy akin to fog rolled over the mirror's surface, warm and inviting. Distant laughter rang in his ear, probably some memory trying to make itself known. Dick's reservations melted at the sound, and he pressed his hand against the mirror.
Under his touch, the surface rippled as though made of water.
Dick gasped and drew his hand back, earning a chuckle from Mr. Blood as he sat down in the armchair.
“Intuitive one,” Mr. Blood observed approvingly. “The psychomanteum responds to the spirit within it. We shall begin now, if you're ready.”
Yes, Dick signed. He nervously replaced his hand, letting the silky white energy wrap around his fingers.
“Very good. Firstly, you need to relax. Close your eyes and concentrate only on my voice.”
Dick did as he was told.
Immediately, his body started going numb. Dick felt his consciousness stray from the room, drifting alone through an inky void. Dick let out a panicked noise because this was the complete opposite of safety.
“I am with you, Richard.” Came Mr. Blood’s voice, echoing somewhere in the void.
Dick latched onto it desperately.
When Mr. Blood spoke again, it was louder. “Remember, keep your attention on me. We are traveling together across the veil. You are aware, yes?"
I think so.
"Excellent. Guide this mortal to a place between life and death. Take me where time stands still, without history or circumstance. Let it take shape around us. Just like that. Very good, very good. Now, open your eyes."
The first thing Dick noticed aside from the glaring sunlight assaulting his vision was that he could feel the warmth on his skin. He threw his arm over his eyes, blinking up at the clear blue sky. A gentle breeze blew past, tousling his hair, and Dick couldn’t help but hum in contentment.
The second thing Dick found was that he was no longer wearing Bruce’s coat nor his red costume. Instead, he wore a thin brown flannel over a white T-shirt and jeans.
As for the world around him, Dick could safely say he wasn’t in Gotham anymore. He was sitting at a picnic table in a field. Waves upon waves of tall grass spread out for miles, swaying lightly in the cool wind.
Carved in the table’s splintered wood was J+M surrounded by a large heart. Absently, Dick traced the letters, trying to decipher why they made his heart ache.
“Lovely place, isn’t it?” Dick jerked his head up to see Mr. Blood sitting across from him, apparently enjoying the fresh air. He took a deep breath in and exhaled. “The spiritual realm. An endless expanse where spirits can rest when not in the land of the living. Each manifestation is different, taking on the appearance of the place comforting to the spirit. Where are we, Richard?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Dick saw a patch of spring flowers hiding among the long grass. He watched them because those brief pink and yellow flashes meant something.
"Somewhere important," Dick whispered, wincing at how hoarse he sounded. Then it dawned on him that he had spoken out loud.
Dick startled, reaching up to prod shakily at his throat. The injury was where it should be, scabbed over and healing. Next he pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and found half of it was still missing.
"My...my voice," Dick finally croaked, "How?"
“Within this space, you are not bound by the rules of your death,” explained Mr. Blood. “This is a halfway point between our world and the true afterlife. A psychomanteum provides a portal both for the ghost itself and whoever is attempting contact. Most spirits can move freely back and forth after death until they find peace.”
“But I've never done this before,” Dick told him, “Gone into this…ghost realm thing. I haven’t gone anywhere in a really long time.”
“I believe I did say ‘most spirits.’ Since your situation is unique, I had to step in and guide you, Richard.”
"Please call me Dick."
"Of course. Please pardon me, Dick." Mr. Blood dipped his head apologetically and Dick waved it off. "You’ve never been allowed to cross the veil because your afterlife has been dictated by a series of tethers. I believe those spectrologists call it an attachment, a force or object binding you to the living world.”
Dick nodded slowly, understanding maybe about half of the explanation.
“Sometimes a tether can be put in place by another spirit, if it's strong enough. That is why you remained trapped in the place of your death, correct?”
Just the vague reference to Aaron made Dick squirm uncomfortably in his seat.
The truth was Dick was just as scared of Aaron as he was of his killer. Hated them about the same amount, too.
During the first years at Rocky’s, Dick was not himself. He had no name, no memories; nothing except pure anger, both his own and Aaron’s. His days were spent stewing in burning hatred, lashing out whenever he could, and getting sentenced to solitary confinement in the dark Parts and Service room. Being stuck there was terrifying, but at least it got Dick away from Aaron and he could work on gluing the broken pieces of himself back together.
He’d long wanted to forget all that. Shove everything into the casket with the bones police recovered from that stupid robot elephant and bury it deep underground.
Mr. Blood waited patiently for an answer, watching Dick collect himself with only mild curiosity rather than the pity most of the family attempted to hide when his past got brought up.
“His name was Aaron,” Dick muttered, propping his head on his fist. “Guess I'll add dimension hopping to the list of things that jerk took away from me.”
“He may not have been completely in control,” said Mr. Blood, “Vengeful ghosts often lose themselves to powerful emotions, and in the process leave marks on whatever entities come into contact with them.”
Dick clenched his jaw and dug a fingernail into the wood beside the old letters, scratching a deep scar into it.
Mr. Blood sighed and adjusted his posture. "Understand this is certainly not an excuse, simply a probable explanation. If some good came of his oppression, it was that you found creative ways around it. I hear you are fond of using dreams and manipulating radio waves to communicate.”
Ghosts do wacky things when they get desperate enough, Dick thought bitterly. “Next time we meet up I'll thank him for the help,” he said with the sarcasm he’d so dearly missed.
"I have no doubt," Mr. Blood agreed, sounding somewhat amused. "Now, both Mr. Wayne and Mr. Todd –”
“You’ve talked to Jason?” Dick interrupted before he realized it. “I mean, he said he knew you too but…”
“I’ve known Jason since he was young. Batman often consults me for cases he is ill equipped to handle, and that meant Blackbird tagged along as well. After Jason’s resurrection, he reached out to me. The Lazarus Pit is an ancient, ruthless magic. I help him manage the damage it did to his mind through meditation and healing. When he shows up for our sessions, that is.”
Dick hummed, returning to the deep scar he’d been making in the picnic table.
Over time, Dick had pieced together the story of Jason’s death from what Tim had told him and the frequent shouting matches in the Batcave. As much as it angered Dick to hear the gory details, he never brought it up with Jason. Dick understood not wanting to face your own gruesome murder.
Mr. Blood continued, “As I was saying, they mentioned that you had questions about what happened the night your killer died. Specifically why you didn't cross over with the other spirits."
Dick's nail froze mid-scratch and he grimaced."We went over that already, right?" He bit out, "I'm the loser with a permanent chain wrapped around my ankle."
“Not quite,” Mr. Blood said. “When Aaron got revenge on his killer, his contract was fulfilled. The death severed the connection between you and him. You were free to leave, so the question becomes why you chose to create another tether instead of moving on.”
"I don't know," Dick admitted.
When that happened, when he died, Dick felt the break. He saw his friends leave one by one until only he remained in the darkness. He reached up for whatever light they’d seen, but found nothing. The next thing Dick knew, Jason was shining a flashlight in his eyes and smiling at him and telling him everything was okay.
"Didn't you want to see your parents again?" Mr. Blood pressed, leaning forward.
"Yes!" Dick exclaimed, despite the guilt boiling in his empty chest.
Mr. Blood raised his eyebrows and Dick slumped back, feeling his face warm. He shook his head, "I mean, of course I did. I do! But I got stuck again. Left behind again."
Decades of pent up emotion pricked at his eyes and Dick sniffed, rubbing his face. When he looked at his hands, they were stained black. He might as well have dragged them through black watercolor paint.
Dick glared at them. "Am I just a bad person?" He asked in a hoarse whisper, "Do they not want to see me after I..." Failed them? Murdered someone?
The muscles around Mr. Blood's mouth tightened and Dick took that as confirmation. He used his flannel to wipe his face, dirtying it even further. Not that it mattered, anyway.
"Dick, please listen closely to me."
It didn't matter what else he said. Dick turned his face away, focusing on the pink and yellow tulips swaying in the wind.
Ignoring Dick’s obvious dejection, Mr. Blood continued talking: "Mind, soul, and spirit are complex things. Often they are in tandem and can be made sense of, other times in complete chaos. What I mean to say is – well, let me ask something else. What drove you to run away from the circus?"
"Zucco," Dick spat the name like it was rotten food. "I wanted to find Zucco and bring him to justice for murdering my parents. Obviously I screwed the pooch on that one."
"Mhm. And after that?"
“We’re just going in circles now,” Dick pointed out, starting to get really irritated with this whole therapy session. “I was angry, I wanted that scumbag to pay for what he did to us, I wanted revenge just like Aaron did.”
"I see. Do you want to know what I truly think the reason you didn't move on is?"
"Knock yourself out."
Mr. Blood smiled softly at him. "There is such a strong heart inside of you, young man, much like someone else I know. At your core, Dick, is family. In life, you sought justice for the family Zucco took from you. In death, whatever the circumstances, you tried helping those who also had their lives stolen by an evil killer. When that disappeared, you sought out Jason and created a tether in order to stay with him.”
"It felt right," Dick agreed quietly. Because even though he hated being left behind, being once again denied freedom into the great beyond, he knew he wasn't alone.
"I think a part of the soul attached itself to Jason first out of necessity, but it deepened into something more affectionate later. Dick, it is natural to feel as if you are betraying your parents by staying, but I see nothing wrong with creating another little family with people who make you feel safe, who care about you a great deal.”
Dick turned the analysis over in his head. Even when he was another nameless figure in Dick’s memory, Bruce represented safety. He was the man who would bring Dick down from the platform and take him outside into the fresh air. Along came Jason, the one who listened to him and fought for a ghost he’d only known for three days. Neither man had a reason to help Dick, but both came back for him and led him out of hell.
Because of them, he was surrounded by warmth and love. He had a room, a home, in Wayne Manor. He had Alfred, Tim and Steph – people that went out of their way to show they cared about whether Dick was there or not. Dick’s parents were gone, and he would always feel guilty for everything he couldn’t do for them, but he still had a family.
At Dick’s silence, Mr. Blood nodded to himself. "Don't worry. It is hard to interrogate the soul, especially for one so young. For now, enjoy the company you keep, Dick. I’m hopeful everything will become clearer in good time.”
"Thank you, Mr. Blood." Dick said, "Honest. I – I haven’t talked about all this much to anyone.” Then he asked shyly, “Could we do this again? I'm still learning how to be a ghost, or what my options are as a ghost, I guess.”
"Of course. One of the benefits of being an immortal is having a perpetually empty calendar. Unless an urgent matter arises, I would be glad to meet with you. Perhaps for today we could work on changing your appearance."
"Like growing up?" Dick asked excitedly, hopping up on his knees and leaning over the table. “I could be an adult?”
"Unfortunately, no."
Nevermind, then. Dick slumped in his seat.
"The rule of ghosts is that the physical form reflects the individual at death," Mr. Blood explained, "Clothes are another matter. They are immaterial, easily changed if the spirit wills it so. You've already done so, here. If you’d like to make it permanent, I would be glad to help.”
Dick considered the proposition. As much as wearing the clothes he died in for eternity made him queasy, the truth was that those clothes kept him sane. The bright costume helped Dick remember flying through air with people he loved, the applause of an awed audience and his first home.
The coat gave him hope that everything would be okay. That somewhere, someone was going to find and save him. But they also served as a permanent reminder of Dick's murder, of twenty years consumed by fear and anger, begging for help while the world went on without caring.
Someone did care now.
Dick Grayson was free to be his own semi-person and write a different ending for himself, one where he wasn’t a victim.
"I think I'd like that," Dick said with a smile on his face.
Mr. Blood returned the smile, “Then we shall begin."
After what felt like hours, Dick shuddered as the air around him shifted. The pyschomanteum responded to the disturbance with a harsh gust of wind that nearly blew Dick off his seat.
Mr. Blood tilted his chin up and observed the sky. Patches of blue kept fading to black and then back again. "It seems Mr. Wayne has let himself back into the apartment," he told Dick, "We must leave this place now."
A very selfish part of Dick wanted to refuse, to plead for five more minutes where he could feel the wind and the sun on his face. He didn't though, because he understood this state of being was the past, not his present.
Dick licked his lips. "Okay," he said. "How do I do that?"
"The same way you brought us here. Close your eyes and focus on nothing except my voice."
Taking one last look around the meadow, Dick nodded and closed his eyes.
The same numbing sensation came over his body and he took a deep breath, letting Mr. Blood talk him through. The world around him dissolved, the wind silencing into a steady ticking of a clock from somewhere in the void.
He didn't need Mr. Blood to tell him it was over.
Dick opened his eyes and saw a dim reflection staring back at him in the mirror. The clothes he’d given himself in the psychomanteum had successfully crossed over with him. He touched the gash in his neck and found it remained slightly healed. His tongue remained in pieces and he knew his voice was gone, but Dick didn’t really mind it.
Suddenly, Dick felt the exhaustion creep up through his body. He opened his mouth in a quiet yawn and rubbed at his eyes. Right, he had to play by the rules again. No more limitless energy for playing around.
As Dick felt his body start dematerializing, he heard Bruce's voice coming from the open doorway.
No more being left behind, no more being forgotten.
Dick gave into the lull of sleep, letting his body move automatically along the invisible thread back to Zitka.
Bruce had come to take him home.