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Wally awoke to the sound of running water. Craning his neck, the bedside alarm revealed that it was two-thirty in the morning. As of late, deep sleep, it seemed, created a game of evading him. He shifted, kicking the sheets from his legs.
Dick, unbeknownst to everyone but Wally, had recently started sleeping on the roof of Titan’s tower. He’d developed some kind of empathy claustrophobia after Jason’s death. That or spending over a decade surrounded by the suffocating walls of the Bat Cave finally caught up to him.
Hearing sounds outside his room at night wasn’t alarming or unusual. Heroes of all shapes, sizes, and powers tended to go through the occasional - frequent - bouts of insomnia. The water running in the community bathrooms at half past two in the morning was definitely cause for mild concern considering they all had their own bathroom in their dorms. Honestly he would have turned over and gone back to sleep if the water had stopped, but it didn’t.
Okay, weigh the pros and cons. If it was Raven she wouldn’t want help. Plus it could just be nothing. M'gann and Kori could both need and want help but was Wally really the one for the job? Someone could have just left the water on, and it’s not like Bruce couldn’t afford the water bill. It could be something, though. Someone could have passed out or be having a panic attack. What if Dick was spiraling again? He’s been having a hard time of it lately.
Listening closer, attempting to channel his inner detective his best friend insisted was inside everyone, Wally could hear odd breaks in the water stream. It didn’t sound like the shower, to concentrate, it must be the sink. Someone was washing their hands for the last six or seven minutes.
He thought of Dick, again. Of the odd ways he would cope with trauma.
Wally found his legs carrying him out of his room and into the hallway without finishing their brain consultation. His heels made soft thuds on fancy heated floors as the door to the boys' bathroom grew closer. The light was on, the door open just enough for Wally to see Dick hunched over the sink.
"Hey, Rob?" he questioned, the door hinges creaking as it slowly swung open. The water in the sink was soapy but clear, swirling down the drain.
Wally couldn’t see his face, only his bare back. Was he sleeping on a roof in December in San Francisco in just a pair of sweatpants? Dick always looks like he has a healthy tan because of his natural skin tone. Unfortunately, that only made the scars on his skin stand out like cracked ceramic. His hands were bright red as if the water was boiling.
"Hey, man? Everything alright?" Wally tried, again met with silence. He took a couple of calculated steps forward. “Dickie?’
Carefully, he reached out to place a hand on Dick’s bare shoulder. Every fiber of his being knew it was a terrible idea. A no good, very bad, absolutely horrible idea. The kind of idea Gar would have and immediately after voicing it everyone would hear Vic’s gears whorling in equal parts disbelief and concern. He did it anyway, because of course he did.
Over the sound of rushing water and whirling machinery, Wally heard more than felt, his back slamming against the thick concrete wall, a forearm digging into his neck. Despite the strength and control of the attack, Dick's hands were shaking.
"Rob, you gotta calm down," he said, his stern but calm tone barely masking his fear. "It’s me. It’s Wally.” The pressure on his neck wasn’t enough to hinder breathing, just enough to keep him in place. The water coating Dick’s hand and forearm was shockingly cold on Wally’s throat and started seeping into the collar of his Green Lantern pajama shirt.
The smart emotion, the logical emotion, associated with being pinned to the wall by a Bat was probably fear. Wally could only find it in himself to be concerned. Okay, okay, concerned and slightly aroused. But mostly concerned. Definitely mostly concerned considering Rob’s current state of affairs.
“You’re in San Francisco. We’re in San Francisco,” he implored.
Dick pushed Wally harder against the wall, his arm now nearly cutting off Wally’s airway.
"Dickie," Wally continued. "You're safe, bro. It's okay."
He repeated the same phrase, this time in Romani. His brain was starting to cloud, so his accent was atrocious. If that didn’t get through to him, Wally was out of ideas. Obviously, Dick was having some kind of trauma response Whether that be a flashback, a dream, or a PTSD induced fugue state, it didn’t really matter, all Wally could realistically do was try to calm him and keep him from hurting himself.
Although he could easily get out of Dick’s hold, the risk of hurting his best friend wasn’t worth it. And, in this nightmarish situation full of unpredictability, Wally was immovably confident in one thing. The universal constant. Dick Grayson wouldn’t hurt him, trauma response or not. He may be uncomfortable, hardly able to breathe, but for Wally West there was nowhere safer than with Dick.
He repeated the platitudes in Romani again, or at least he thought he did. The brain fog was increasing by the second and he wouldn’t be surprised if all that came out was incomprehensible mumblings. So he waited.
The first sign of change came when the pressure on Wally's neck lessened. He resisted the urge to take large, gulping breaths, instead opting for more controlled but similarly desperate inhales.
"Rob?" Wally questioned, testing the waters. Seconds passed. Eventually, the arm was removed completely, though Dick’s eyes were still glazed.
Like a donut, his intrusive thoughts ever so helpfully offered. Ooo, donuts .
With the situation slightly less pressing - no pun intended - Wally allowed a small part of his brain to unfocus on Dick and refocus on their surroundings. The sink was still running, the resulting steam had fogged up the mirror entirely and gave the small room an odd sort of haze.
The change happened all at once.
"I'm - oh gods," Dick’s whole body was trembling, sinking to the floor. "Did I - I'm so-"
Wally felt bile rise in his throat, his stomach in knots. He blinked rapidly, knowing that if he freaked out, Dick would activate his very own superpower - all consuming and completely misplaced guilt. But, nothing he'd ever fought had prepared him for the sight of his best friend crying.
Dick was the most emotionally intelligent out of all the Bat, in Wally’s wholly unbiased and perfectly informed opinion, but that wasn’t saying much. He’d held Dick through many breakdowns and countless hardships, but he’d never seen him cry before. Every time it appeared Dick might be a little choked up or in a state where he might just let go, even for just a minute, Wally was met with the stoic Bat mask of toxic masculinity and emotional constipation. Dickie would cry - didn’t cry - he’d shut down.
Not today.
"Are you - did I -" His breath was coming out in short bursts. "I can't - I'm so -"
The speedster swallowed the lump in his throat, and, telegraphing his movements, leaned over and finally turned off the sink. The ensuing silence made Dick’s hiccupping breaths seem louder. Wally lowered himself to the ground. He desperately wanted to grab one of Dick’s shaking hands, both to try and calm his friend and for the entirely selfish purpose of reassuring himself. He gave in to the temptation, or tried to, Dick shuffled back until he hit the under-the-sink cabinets.
“Don’t - I - You,” he was borderline hyperventilating.
Wally knew exactly where this was going. The same place it always went. It’s a good thing Wally had ample experience nipping it in the bud. “You didn’t hurt me, Robbie.”
He reached out for Dick’s hand, again, unwilling, in this very specific set of circumstances to take no for an answer. Wally knew his best friend, and physical contact is what he needed at the moment, but he was deliberately denying himself the comfort out of a misguided sense of punishment.
Again, Wally found the benefits of being a Dick Grayson veteran invaluable. “It’s not your fault. Can I hold your hand? It’ll make me feel better.”
It was a bit manipulative but he wasn’t lying. Holding Dick’s hand would make him feel better.
"I couldn't - It - It wouldn't," Dick stuttered.
"What wouldn't? Take a breath, Rob. Here, copy me," Wally took several slow, deep breaths, trying to guide him through whatever was happening. He watched as Dick tried to mimic him, but couldn’t quite grasp it.
"I couldn't - It wouldn't - off."
“Buddy, let’s get you breathing right first, then we’ll talk about it,” he explained. “In for four out for four. Can we try that?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. “In two, three, four. Hold. Out two, three, four.”
They repeated the process. Wally didn’t lose track of time because he wasn’t keeping it, but it must have been a dozen run throughs. After the thirteenth or maybe fourteenth time, Dick’s hands stopped shaking. Wally felt the weight on his chest lessen, just a little.
“It wouldn’t come off, Walls,” Dick siad, finally able to complete a sentence.
It wasn’t hard to figure out that Dick was referring to his hands, the ones that he was obsessively and almost brutally washing when Wally found him. They weren’t wet anymore, but they were still an angry shade of pink.
Burned , Wally thought. Dick’s burned his hands in the bathroom sink . He loosened his hold on Dick’s hand.
"What? What wouldn’t come off, Robbie? There's nothing on your hands," he stated, grabbing the younger man’s less red wrists to show him. "There's nothing there. Your hands are clean."
"I thought they were - I thought," realization replaces the glaze over his eyes. Dick laughed. Not one of the bright laughs that brought life back into the once desolate Wayne Manor, or the conspiratorial giggles he shared with Wally at the dawning of a particularly genius prank, nor the dread causing cackle that singled to criminals around that Robin was a bit too close for comfort.
No, this laugh lacked humor. It was the kind of laugh produced when thinking about the many layer ironies of the world or the inevitable heat death of the universe. A dreadful, deprecating kind of laugh. “I’ve really lost it now, Walls. My brain couldn’t even come up with a less cliche metaphor.”
"What're you trying to say? What's going on?" Wally still hadn’t let go of Dick’s wrists, confusion occupying the space around him that was once full of steam from the sink.
"Don't you see? My hands, there was never anything on my hands. There wasn't anything there," Dick started laughing again, this time more in line with hysteria than anything else.
"What's -" Wally stopped. It reminded him of something one of Dinah told him once. Sometimes unconscious thoughts and trauma can manifest as visions and dreams. Dick was washing his hands because he thought they were dirty. Okay. He processed this information for a few seconds before forming a new question.
"What did you think was on your hands, Dickie? What were you trying to scrub off?" Laughter bubbled from the young man, manic laughter, tears still dancing down his face. "I thought they," he paused, dissolving into a fit of hysteric giggles. "I thought my hands," Dick clarified, wiping a tear from his cheek, "were covered in blood. I thought my hands were covered in blood.
"It wasn't mine. Of course, it wasn't mine. It's never mine. How selfish," he rambled.
His fears confirmed, Wally proceeded with caution, as though the path ahead of him was glass. "Dickie," he waited for him to meet his eyes and the hysterics to slow, "have you been sleeping?"
“I mean it, Walls. I really thought they were just dripping with the stuff. Thought I got it all over the hallway and the sink. It wouldn’t go away, it just kept coming. Wasn’t mine though. Wasn’t my blood. It could be, though. It could be.”
"Dickie,” he repeated, “have you been sleeping.”
“Coated with it, KF. I mean it was everywhere. My shirt, the counter, the walls, everything I touched, blood.”
“Dick.”
"Think and sticky and everywhere. Wouldn't come off either. Like glitter, Walls. Fucking everywhere."
Silence blanketed after he finished. Wally let it sit. Dick's mouth opened slightly to continue, but no words escaped, his eyes cloudy with confusion. "What kind of question - I mean, of course, I've been sleeping."
"When was the last time you slept?" Wally thought about calling Alfred, but the potential implications of leaving Dick alone in this state killed the idea in its infancy.
"Last night," he insisted, "Monday night. I’m fine. I’m okay. I just had a bit of a moment, that’s all."
"It's Saturday morning," Wally breathed, mostly to himself. "Dick, you need to talk to someone. It doesn't have to be me but talk to someone, please. Sleeping on roofs, hallucinating, that’s not normal even by our fucked up standards.
"I can't - it doesn't - they don't understand," Dick responded.
"Maybe -"
"You don't either."
Rob just stared at him. Wally wanted to be offended, wanted to provide a strong ethos and well supported counterpoint like the essay he had to write for his mandatory college writing classes. But, Rob just stared at him.
Dick was not okay, and he wasn’t communicating and Wally was seconds away from freaking out. And, honestly, Wally wasn’t very good at this. He didn’t have any siblings and his only real exposure to emotionally healthy individuals was Uncle Barry and Aunt Iris and that’s a stretch. No one who dresses in rainbow outfits to punch people in the face is mentally sound. That included himself.
Wally was lightyears ahead of Dick, sure, but it was a sliding scale. He didn’t really know what to do, so he sat there, just existing with him. Maybe he could interjet an anecdote about his experiences with dissociation and hallucinations, maybe that would make a difference but Dick already knew all of that anyway. Besides, it could make it worse. Einstein, Wally did not want to make it worse. So they sar until Dick was ready to start talking again.
"I thought I was going to die. For years, from my first year as Robin until I was kicked out, I went out with Bruce every night thinking I was going to die. And I was okay with that." He inhaled a shaky breath, the only trace of his earlier state. "Never thought I would live very long anyway. Went from a poor circus kid to a foreign brown orphan boy in the most dangerous city in America. I wasn’t meant to survive.
“Then Jason died,” he paused, looking for something or at something that Wally couldn’t see. “I missed his phone call and I missed his funeral.”
Wally already knew all of this. Wally knew that Dick knows that Wally knows, so Wally kept his mouth shut letting Dick say what he needed to say. Wally couldn’t count the number of times Dick silently but actively listened to him rant or scream or break without complaint or comment. Because he’d done it so many times, not because Wally can’t count very high. The very least he could do was return the favor.
“It was supposed to be me. I knew it. I knew Bruce was going to get someone killed one day. I knew it. I thought it would be me. I was okay with it being me
"Rob, you can't really believe that," Wally reasoned, but the vigilante continued.
"Then people started dying. My parents, you, Jason. Gods, Jason. He trusted me, the first person he let in in years, maybe ever, and look where it got him. Buried under some fucked up fucking building bleeding to death. Same thing’s gonna happen to all of you. You're either gonna hate me, in the end, or you're gonna die."
“I’m not going anywhere,” Wally said. Even as the words left his mouth, he knew he couldn’t promise them. Not in their line of work. Not with their history.
“It already happened. It already happened, Wally. You died,” Dick was sobbing now. Shallow, heaving shakes racked his body. He finally looked up and met Wally’s eyes. Wally hated - loved - Dick’s eyes. Every emotion not evident on his face, every feeling he repressed shined in his eyes. In that moment they were wide and red. Wally got the feeling that Dick was seeing him for the first time since he entered the bathroom.
“Sometimes I’m not sure if you’re real,” he whispered. Like it was a secret, something that he needed to keep hidden, locked in a box, buried in the backyard, under the shed. The crying had stopped as abruptly as it arrived, replaced by something unidentifiable, ethereal.
Wally inhaled, sharply. Dick didn’t seem to notice. He never talked about the five years Wally was away . Dick and Wally had worked through the trauma of Dick losing his parents together, of Rudy and his drunken predilections, the fucking clusterfuck that was Mirage, and recently Dick had started talking more about Jason’s death, but Wally knew next to nothing about those five years. All the information he had came from Barbara and Kori and that was just bits and pieces.
“After you died,” Dick tried, While Wally’s mind was speeding away from him, Dick must have gathered his thoughts. “I would see you everywhere. At the store, in the Watchtower, in my apartment. B eventually had me committed. They put me on some drugs and kept me for a couple of months.”
He wasn’t looking Wally in the eye anymore, instead staring holes into his burned hands. “And then there you were. Five years later and just fine. And my first thought was shit I forgot my meds this morning .” He laughed that same humorless chuckle from earlier. “Sometimes I’m not sure if you’re real,” he echoed.
They needed to get Dick’s hands treated and wrapped to avoid festering, so he reached over to the cabinet Dick was leaning on to grab the first aid kit he knew they stored there. Rob didn’t react, just let him.
It was presumptuous of Wally to assume this was only about Jason, maybe a little wishful, too. Or maybe Dick was deflecting. Does it really matter, though?
“I’m not going anywhere,” Wally parroted.
This time Dick flinched, and something explosive flashed in his eyes before dying just as quickly. “You can’t say that. You of all people can’t say that.”
Wally didn’t have a response to that, He really didn’t. Anything he said would be an excuse, a lie. Unless…
“We could quit. You and me. No more heroing, no more Justice League. Just Wally and Dick. Dick and Wally,” he was smiling slightly by the end, Rob didn’t appear to share his sentiments.
“I’m stuck here, Wally. I’m gonna be doin’ this shit forever. I used to think it was gonna kill me quick. A gun, a sword, an explosion,” he chuckled, “hell, a fall.”
Wally didn’t find it funny. Dick didn’t either.
“But I was kidding myself. Of course it won’t kill me quick. It’s gonna kill me slow, take small parts and big chunks until there’s nothing left.”