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The Gotham rain hammered against the windowpane, a relentless rhythm mirroring the turmoil in Dick Grayson's mind. He tossed and turned, the damp chill seeping into his bones despite the thick comforter. Sleep, as it often did these days, was a battlefield.
He drifted, finally, into a hazy dreamscape. He found himself in a familiar alleyway, the kind that reeked of stale pizza and forgotten potential. But something was off. The alley was bathed in an ethereal, almost comforting, moonlight. He was talking to someone, a figure shrouded in a heavy, dark cloak. He couldn't make out their features, only the faintest glint of green eyes in the shadow of the hood.
"…and then Alfred on my back about patrol routes again," Dick was saying, the words tumbling out as naturally as if he were recounting a particularly frustrating case to Alfred. "Said I was being reckless, taking too many risks. Can you believe it? Me, reckless?" He chuckled, a weary sound.
The cloaked figure was silent for a moment. Then, a voice, low and gravelly, rumbled from beneath the hood. "He worries. It is his… nature."
Dick frowned. The voice was oddly familiar, yet he couldn't quite place it. "Yeah, well, worrying is also my nature, strangely enough. Especially lately. It's just… everything feels… off. Like something's really wrong, I just can't put my finger on it."
He continued to ramble, recounting the usual humdrum of his double life – the endless paperwork at the Blüdhaven PD, the late-night stakeouts, the constant feeling of being stretched too thin. He spoke of the new case he was working on, a series of bizarre disappearances plaguing Gotham's underworld. He spoke of his frustrations with Bruce, his concerns for everyone at home, his general weariness with the city's endless cycle of violence.
The cloaked figure listened patiently, offering only the occasional, cryptic comment. There was a strange empathy emanating from them, a sense of understanding that cut through Dick's usual defenses. He felt oddly comfortable, unburdened even, speaking his mind to this mysterious stranger.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Dick ran out of steam. He stood there in the moonlit alley, the silence hanging heavier than the Gotham rain.
The figure stirred, the cloak rustling like dried leaves. And then, the words, the words that sent a shiver down Dick's spine.
"It wasn't your fault."
Dick’s breath hitched. His heart pounded against his ribs. “What… what wasn’t my fault?”
The figure remained silent for a long moment. The glint of green eyes intensified, piercing the darkness. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, the figure repeated, "It wasn't your fault, Grayson."
The alley began to dissolve, the ethereal moonlight fading into a swirling vortex of darkness. Dick reached out, desperate to grasp at the figure, to demand answers. But his hand passed through empty air.
He woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed. The rain still lashed against the window, but the chill was different now, a coldness that came from within. He was bathed in sweat, his heart still hammering in his chest.
"It wasn't your fault…"
The words echoed in his mind, a haunting refrain that refused to be silenced. What hadn't been his fault? What was this overwhelming sense of guilt that gripped him whenever he tried to unravel the dream's meaning?
He got out of bed, restless and disturbed. He wandered through his apartment, the familiar surroundings offering no comfort. He stopped in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection. He looked tired, aged beyond his years. The lines etched around his eyes spoke of sleepless nights and unspoken burdens.
He ran a hand through his messy hair, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of unease. He needed to clear his head. He needed to do something, anything, to distract himself from the disturbing dream.
He decided to visit Wayne Manor tomorrow. Maybe seeing everyone would calm him down.
Once the sun was up, Grayson decided to take a walk first. As he was walking, he decided to call Damian.
Grayson walked around the streets of Gotham.He held his phone to his ear, a familiar warmth spreading through him as he listened to Damian’s clipped, precise voice.
"Grayson," Damian said, his tone a carefully constructed blend of annoyance and affection. "Are you certain you won't simply burst into flames if you attempt to use public transportation? Father would have my head if something were to happen to you."
Dick chuckled. "Relax, Demon Brat. I can handle the Gotham subway. Besides, it's a good way to stay in touch with the… less fortunate."
"A noble, yet ultimately futile, endeavor," Damian retorted. "The masses are beyond redemption. Focus on your own safety."
They bantered back and forth for a while, discussing everything from Damian's latest training regimen to the absurdity of a new reality TV show. Dick felt a sense of normalcy settle over him, a feeling that had been increasingly rare in recent months.
"Alright, alright," Dick said, glancing at his watch. "I should probably let you get back to whatever world-saving activity you're currently engaged in. I'll swing by the Manor today. I would like to see you all.Sound good?"
"Acceptable," Damian conceded. "Try not to be late, Grayson. My schedule is rather… demanding."
Dick laughed. "Wouldn't dream of it. See you then, kiddo."
He ended the call, a smile playing on his lips. He shoved his phone into his pocket and continued his walk, the city seeming a little less grim, a little less lonely.
He was the rock of the family, after all. The voice of reason, the emotional support. He held them together. So why did it feel like he was walking through quicksand lately? Why did everyone else seemed so… distant? Maybe that's the reason he's having this strange dream.
He pushed the thought away. He'd talk to everyone, get them out of their funk. He'd make things right.
He arrived to an atmosphere that felt wrong. He paused in the foyer. The air was thick with a heavy, unspoken grief. Everyone looked at him, a brief flicker of something unreadable in their eyes, and then quickly looked away, returning to whatever they were doing.
Dick frowned.
Was this some kind of joke? He hadn't done anything wrong, had he? He was fine.
Tim was locked in his room, as usual, presumably glued to his computer screen. He only emerged for patrol, a silent, haunted figure.
Jason was hovering near Alfred, his usual swagger replaced with an unsettling vulnerability. It was… weird. Jason usually tried to act like he was too good for anything or anyone.
Cass and Stephanie were sprawled on the couch, watching a movie. He recognized it instantly – one of Damian's beloved, ridiculously obscure samurai films. His brow furrowed. Oh, he would be mad mad when he finds out they were touching his precious collection.
And Bruce?
Bruce hadn't been home in months. No one mentioned it. Nobody questioned it. That was the weirdest part of all. Usually, at least one person would try to know where the Bat was.
Dick felt a growing unease creep into his chest. This wasn't right. This wasn't normal.
He decided to go straight to the source. He'd talk to Damian again.
He walked down the familiar hallway and knocked on Damian's door. "Damian? You in there? It's me."
A moment of silence, then, "Enter."
Dick opened the door and stepped inside. Damian was sitting at his desk, meticulously sharpening a katana. He didn't look up.
"Grayson," he said, his voice as sharp as the blade he held. "You're late."
"Sorry," Dick said, shaking off the strange atmosphere. "Got held up. What're you working on?"
He walked further into the room, noticing the familiar clutter of Damian's belongings – the stacks of books, the anatomical models, the various weapons scattered around. It was comforting, in a way.
They talked for a while, about everything and nothing. Damian complained about the quality of the training dummies, Dick teased him about his obsession with manga, and they debated the merits of different fighting styles.
As he talked, Dick couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
He felt like he was forgetting something important, something crucial. It was a nagging, persistent feeling, like a phantom itch he couldn't scratch.
Finally, he stood up. "Alright, kiddo. I should probably head out. I'll see you around, okay?"
Damian nodded, still focused on his katana. "Farewell, Grayson."
Dick left the room, the unsettling feeling clinging to him like a shroud. He glanced back at the others, still going through the motions of their days.
Tim's door was still firmly closed.
Jason was still glued to Alfred's side.
Cass and Stephanie were still watching Damian's movies.
He mumbled a goodbye and left the Manor, the faces of his family swirling in his mind. That damn dream.Something was terribly wrong.
No. Everything is wrong.
The next day, the same atmosphere hung heavy in the air. Tim was still locked away, Jason was still shadowing Alfred, and Cass and Stephanie were still watching movies on the couch.
Dick tried again. He desperately wanted to shatter the suffocating atmosphere, to drag his family back from whatever abyss they were teetering on. He approached Cass and Stephanie, forcing a cheerful tone that felt horribly fake even to his own ears.
"Hey, guys. What are you watching?" He perched on the armrest, trying to inject some normalcy into the scene. "Anything good?"
Stephanie didn't even glance at him. Her eyes remained fixed on the screen, where a plucky heroine was navigating a chaotic meet-cute. Cass mumbled something unintelligible, her grip tightening on the half-empty popcorn bowl.
Dick cleared his throat. "So… anyone up for patrol tonight? Gotham's been getting a little antsy lately."
Silence. The heroine on screen tripped, sending a cascade of flowers flying. The laugh track roared.
He tried again, this time directing his words at Cass. "Hey, Cass, maybe we could work on some new sparring techniques? I've been meaning to show you that counter I picked up in Blüdhaven."
Cass finally turned her head, her dark eyes meeting his. But there was nothing there, no spark of recognition, no flicker of the fierce warrior he knew. Just a vast, empty hollowness that chilled him to the bone. She blinked slowly and then returned her gaze to the screen.
Defeated, Dick retreated from the screening room, the artificial laughter echoing mockingly behind him. He found Alfred polishing the silver in the dining room, the rhythmic clinking the only sound breaking the silence.
"Alfred," Dick said, trying to keep his voice light, even though his chest felt tight with anxiety. "What's going on? Everyone's acting so… weird lately."
Alfred paused, carefully placing the silver candlestick back on the polished mahogany table. He turned to Dick, his expression etched with a deep, sorrowful understanding. He managed a sad smile, a ghost of his usual warm, comforting grin, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Good morning, Master Dick."
"Alfred," Dick repeated, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. "Please. You're the only one who seems remotely normal. What's happening? Is it Scarecrow? Poison Ivy? Did someone use a mind-control gas? Just tell me what I missed!"
Alfred sighed, a deep, weary sound that spoke volumes. "They are dealing with things in their own way, Master Dick. Time, hopefully, will heal all wounds."
Dick frowned. "Dealing with what? What wounds? And why won't anyone talk to me?" He ran a hand through his hair, frustration building. “Where is Bruce?” Grayson asked.
Alfred’s hand stilled, his gaze drifting to the grandfather clock ticking steadily in the corner of the room. “You know how Master Bruce is… dealing with this kind of things.” He paused, then added softly, "He is... preoccupied."
"Preoccupied with what?" Dick pressed, his unease growing with each evasive answer. "Is he on a case? Did something happen at Wayne Enterprises? Just give me something, Alfred! I feel like I'm walking through a nightmare."
Alfred looked at him with an unreadable expression. "Master Dick, perhaps it would be best if you spoke with Master Bruce directly."
"I would," Dick retorted, exasperated. "If I could find him! He's been MIA since… since I don't know!
Months! And no one will tell me where he is or what's going on!"
He hesitated, then reached behind him and took a small, neatly wrapped box from the counter. He handed it to Dick.
"I thought you might like this," he said softly.
Dick took the box, his brow furrowed. He unwrapped it carefully and lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a collection of manga – specifically, Damian's other manga collection, the one he kept hidden away from everyone else.
He just couldn't understand why was he giving him Damian's stuff. It was his most prized collection. Why would Damian give it away?
"Alfred," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "Why are you giving me Damian's things?"
Alfred's eyes filled with tears. He reached out and gently touched Dick's arm. "He wanted you to have them, Master Dick. And I think it's time I give it to you.."
Dick felt a surge of panic rise within him. He looked around the room, his gaze darting from face to face. Everyone was watching him, their expressions a mixture of pity and grief.
"What's going on?" he repeated, his voice rising. "What's happening? Where's Damian?"
The silence was deafening.
He felt a familiar tug, a phantom echo of a voice whispering in his ear: "It wasn't your fault."
He turned and ran, back down the hallway, back to Damian's room. He burst through the door, his heart pounding in his chest.
The room was empty.
Not just empty of people, but… empty. Stripped bare. The desk was clear, the shelves were bare, the weapons were gone.
The room felt cold, lifeless.
Dick staggered back, his hand flying to his mouth. He stared at the empty room, his mind racing, trying to grasp something, anything.
Then, it hit him.
A wave of agonizing grief washed over him, so intense it nearly knocked him to his knees.
He remembered.
He remembered the explosion, the desperate struggle, the agonizing scream. He remembered holding Damian in his arms as he died, the life draining from his young body.
Damian was dead.His little brother, his partner, his friend... was gone.
He had been dead for months.
Dick sank to the floor, tears streaming down his face. He clutched his head in his hands, trying to block out the memories, the pain.
He had forgotten. He, the rock of the family, the one who held them together, had forgotten that his little brother was dead.
The weight of his grief, compounded by the guilt of forgetting, was unbearable. He had failed them all. He had failed Damian.
Alfred was still there, standing by the mahogany table, his face etched with worry. As Dick approached, Alfred reached out, his hand hovering hesitantly before gently resting on Dick's shoulder.
"Master Dick," he said softly, his voice filled with compassion. "I am so sorry."
Dick flinched at the words, the sympathy a sharp sting against his raw emotions. He pulled away, unable to bear the weight of Alfred's understanding.
"Why?" he choked out, his voice hoarse. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"
Alfred sighed, a sound heavy with sorrow. "It was your mind protecting itself, Master Dick. The trauma was too great. As for why we didn't tell you... we hoped that the memory would return naturally, in time. We feared forcing it upon you would only cause more pain."
"Pain?" Dick laughed, a hollow, broken sound. "You think this is less painful? Living in some twisted, fabricated reality where Damian is still alive? This is worse, Alfred. This is so much worse."
" Forgive us, Master Dick.." Alfred decided that Grayson needed some time alone, so he left the room.
Suddenly, amidst the swirling chaos of his grief and despair, he saw Damian standing in front of him. He was just as Dick remembered him, a miniature gargoyle with a perpetually disapproving frown, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest.
"Tt," Damian said, his voice a low murmur. "Are you quite finished wallowing in self-pity, Grayson? It is unbecoming."
Dick stared at him, his mind reeling. Was this another hallucination? A figment of his grief-stricken imagination? Or was it something more?
"Damian?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Damian rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Unless you are in the habit of conversing with imaginary companions who happen to resemble me."
"But... you're dead," Dick stammered, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
"A minor inconvenience," Damian replied dismissively. "Besides, you are the one who is experiencing the delusion, not I."
Dick's brow furrowed in confusion. "Delusion? What do you mean?"
"You have been suppressing the memory of my demise," Damian explained, his tone surprisingly understanding. "It is a coping mechanism, albeit a rather crude one. But it has created a… rift, of sorts. You are seeing what you wish to see, not what is."
"So... you're not really here?" Dick asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"I am here," Damian insisted. "In your mind. A construct. A fragment of memory. But I am here."
Dick reached out, his hand trembling, and tentatively touched Damian's arm. His fingers brushed against… nothing. He closed his eyes, tears welling up again.
"Why?" he asked, his voice choked with emotion. "Why am I seeing you? Why am I remembering now?"
"Because you are ready," Damian said softly. "You have mourned, in your own way. You have suppressed the pain for long enough. It is time to face it, to accept it, and to move on."
"But... I don't want to move on," Dick protested, the words raw with anguish. "I don't want to forget you."
"You will never forget me, Grayson," Damian said, a hint of warmth entering his voice. "I am a part of you. But you cannot allow my death to consume you. You have a family to protect, a world to save. You must honour my memory by living your life to the fullest."
Damian took a step closer, his gaze locking with Dick's. "It wasn't your fault. And for what it is worth, Grayson," he added, a rare smile gracing his lips, "I am proud of you. You were a good brother."
With that last sentence, Damian disappeared.
Forever.
Dick sobbed, the dam finally breaking. He wept for Damian, for himself, for the lost time, for the burden he had been carrying alone. He wept until he was empty, exhausted, and raw.
The room was silent, still empty, but it no longer felt cold. A sliver of warmth, a tiny ember of hope, flickered in Dick's chest. He took a deep breath, the air heavy with the scent of dust and grief, and slowly pushed himself to his feet.
He knew that the pain would never truly go away. Damian's absence would always be a void in their lives, a missing piece of the puzzle. But he also knew that he couldn't let it cripple him. He had a responsibility to the others, to Bruce, to the city, to himself.