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When he gets home, I’m already waiting for him. I’m standing in the center of the hall, impossible to miss, but I might as well be a shadow for all the attention he pays me. A small wince before he averts his eyes is all I get.
“What, no ‘hello’ for your baby brother? I missed you, ya know.”
He doesn’t answer, and almost walks right into me on his way to the kitchen. He pulls a pint of ice cream– mint chocolate chip– out of the freezer and starts eating it right away. Just standing in the middle of his kitchen, eating ice cream right out of the container.
Pretty depressing, if you ask me.
I find it hard to focus on that, though, because he’s still ignoring me. Isn’t he happy to see me? It’s been so long, I thought he’d be excited, or angry, or something.
I don’t think I like being ignored.
“Dick?” My voice is small, unsure, wavering at the end like it’s got an unstable connection. The tears come next, welling up at the corners of my eyes before dripping down my soot-stained face. “Didn’t you miss me, too?”
The pint of ice cream flies through the air, aimed at me, but it misses and splatters against the wall behind me instead, striping the white paint with mint green streaks. In front of me, Dick leans back against the kitchen counter and slowly slides to the floor, a carefully blank expression on his face.
And he still won’t look at me.
. . .
I don’t usually join him on patrols, but this is a special occasion. It’s my birthday, and I always celebrate by hanging out with Dick. I think he’s a bit frustrated that I’m in the Robin outfit, but he should be used to it by now.
We’re in a warehouse in Bludhaven where a new gang has set up shop and started putting out some nasty drugs. Dick’s been trying to shut down the whole operation, but he had a bit of a struggle finding their main location. He figured it out eventually, but it took him a while.
Embarrassing, honestly.
I’m up in the rafters, watching him kick a bunch of goons’ asses. He’s not looking for me, but he knows I’m here. He didn’t want me to come today, but his opinion on that doesn’t matter much. It’s my birthday, and I want to spend it with my brother.
But I really wish he’d chosen a different place to patrol today. This warehouse feels too familiar. Unfinished ceiling, exposed pipes, stacked crates. The sound of rushing water, pained groans, and flesh giving way under endless beatings. I can almost hear laughter in the distance, and for a moment I think Dick must hear it too.
Because he freezes. He had the upper hand in the fight against the last guy, but his moment of weakness gives the other man the opportunity he needs. He’s able to grab an exposed pipe and wrench it free to bring it crashing down on Dick’s head with a sickening crack.
For just a second while the pipe arcs through the air, it looks like something… else. And suddenly, I’m back there. A scared kid, just trying to save the mother who never loved him, being punished for nothing more than loving too much. Wanting to be loved in return.
Instead, there’s a crowbar flashing in the cold, artificial light of an abandoned warehouse. Ribs cracking, blood welling out of my mouth, tears in my eyes, and in the background, the gently ticking countdown to sweet salvation.
When I’m standing in front of him, it doesn’t feel like years have passed since that day. It feels like my body is failing me again, and this time it’s failing Dick, too. Because while the thug rains blows down on my brother’s skin, I can’t do anything but stand there. Dying.
But Dick is looking at me, now. I can’t tell if he’s crying because of the pipe or because he can’t ignore me anymore.
“Please…” he whispers, his voice cracking and strangling the word until it’s almost unrecognizable. “Please stop.”
The man beating him laughs, not realizing that Dick isn’t talking to him at all.
Because I’m dying again. And, again, there’s nothing Dick can do about it. Only this time, like every time on the anniversary of Jason’s death, he has to watch.
“How many times did he hit me before I stopped fighting back?” I ask, blood pouring from my mouth. I’ve started breathing it, now. It won’t be long before there’s no air left in my lungs at all.
Dick read the autopsy report so many times that he has it memorized. He knows the answer, but he doesn’t say it. Instead, he watches it happen, watches as each breath becomes more and more tainted, as my chest folds in on itself, as I crumble to the ground beside him in a pool of red. My skin turns purple and black, and every part of my body swells up.
I’d be unrecognizable to anyone else, but this is the way Dick knows me best. A swollen, broken, mangled mess of his brother.
“Jason.” It’s the last thing I hear before everything goes dark.
. . .
I didn’t think I would be this nervous, but standing in my brother’s apartment in Bludhaven has me feeling like nothing but a bundle of exposed wires, a spark away from disaster.
I thought the first thing I would do once I made it to the states was head right to Gotham to knock some sense into that fucked up shithole, but finding out that Dick had moved to Bludhaven put a bit of a wrench in those plans.
Because, as much as I’ve prepared for the face-off, I don’t think I’m ready to face Bruce, yet. And I’m not ready to see a Gotham that moved on without me, as if I never existed. And, if I’m being entirely honest, I just missed my brother.
But I’m so scared he didn’t miss me as much.
I’m not stupid, I know Dick loved me, but I’ve been ‘dead’ for 7 years. It doesn’t feel like it for me, but he’s had time to grieve, to stop wishing I’d never died, to stop hoping something might bring me back.
And there’s every chance he won’t even recognize me. I don’t exactly look 14 anymore. I was a fucking beanpole growing up, and now I’m built like a brick shithouse, pardon my French. He might think I’m some criminal who figured out his identity and decided to try my luck taking Nightwing off the streets.
There are probably better ways to see him again for the first time, ways that are far less likely to end in him thinking I’m an intruder and trying to knock me on my ass (not that he’d succeed), but none of them came to mind when I was planning this out.
The moment I found out his address, every ability for planning was pretty much out the window.
Besides, it’s too late to change my mind, now. I can hear a key turning in the lock of the front door, and a heartbeat later, I hear it swing open. I’m in the living room, standing behind the couch–in case Dick’s fight instinct kicks in and he tries to beat me senseless before I can get a word in edgewise–waiting.
Heavy steps move down the hall, and it immediately sends alarm bells ringing in my head. Dick was always so light on his feet, it would be next to impossible to hear him if you didn’t know what to listen for. Maybe he’s got a guest?
That would be awkward.
But no, when he rounds the corner of the hallway on his way to the kitchen, it’s just Dick. Dick, but… different. Haggard and tired, and favoring his left leg like it’s been injured. He must just be coming back from patrol?
He hasn’t noticed me, but he hasn’t even turned toward the living room yet, and the only light that’s currently on is a small lamp on the coffee table. I may be just shadowed enough that he just can’t quite see me?
No, it’s weird. He should have noticed someone he wasn’t expecting standing in his living room by now, unless he’s really fucked up or very lax on his training.
I can’t imagine Dick Grayson ever slacking on his training, but he doesn’t look too injured.
Until he turns on the kitchen light, that is. Whatever scrape he was in that got him so hurt must have happened some time ago, because the bruises on his skin are mostly a sickly yellow, with a few still purple or blue in the center. But he must have been beaten across every inch of his body, because there’s not a single spot of skin I can see that isn’t bruised or swollen. His lips are split, but clearly in the late stages of healing.
Even after turning on the light, he doesn’t seem to see me, so I cautiously croak out, “Dick?”
He freezes, slowly turns around, and for a moment I can see the cogs turning behind his eyes. Surprise, confusion, a bit of fear, then recognition, pain and anger. He closes his eyes, takes in a deep, wavering breath, lets it out, and turns around to open his fridge.
Not exactly the reaction I was expecting.
“Dick? Uh, surprise?” If he knows it’s me, he shouldn’t be ignoring me. If he doesn’t know it’s me, he should be wondering why there’s a stranger in his apartment.
I can see his back tense up before he hisses in pain and forces his muscles to relax.
“It’s um…” I really should have planned this better. I feel like an absolute fucking idiot not being able to come up with anything better than ‘It’s me, Jason!’ but, to be fair to myself, I wasn’t expecting this moment to be so anticlimactic.
Maybe it was a mistake to come here first.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask, thinking it may be a good idea to get some kind of baseline, because I’m at a complete loss in this situation.
He doesn’t answer. He pulled some juice out of the fridge while I was talking, and now he’s drinking it straight out of the jug, staring off into space like I didn’t even speak.
“Dick, what the fuck is going on? I’m so confused.” And I’m starting to get a little pissed off. I was dead for seven years and he’s just going to ignore me when I miraculously come back to life? That’s fucked.
I hop over the couch and start to stomp toward the kitchen, about to show him a piece of my mind, but stop when he finally looks at me.
“Don’t.” It’s the first word he’s spoken to me, and it takes all of the wind out of my sails. Because his voice is raw, and broken, and not just because it looks like he was recently choked half to death.
He’s crying. I’ve never seen him cry.
“It’s not fair. You aren’t supposed to be here, not now. Not like this !” He yells, gesturing toward me. “I would have given anything –” a sob cuts his sentence short, and I can’t do anything but stare while my strong, capable older brother breaks down in front of me. “Anything. So no, you don’t get to do this .”
“I don’t–”
“No.” He’s still crying, but anger is slowly taking over his face. “No. You can haunt me all you want. You can be Robin, you can be that little kid covered in soot and blood, and you can follow me around and make me watch you–” It’s like the next words are stolen from him, something physically stopping him from continuing.
I genuinely have no idea what to do now, but maybe trying to explain will help? Because I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, but maybe I can get through to him, somehow.
“Dick, I know this sounds crazy,” I start, already cringing at every cliche word coming out of my mouth, “but it’s me… Jason.” Well, he said it. Disgusting. “I-”
“I’m used to my own head fucking up my life,” Dick interrupted. “And I can deal with that. I’ve lived with it for seven years, and I’m not expecting any changes. But I swear to god I’ll throw myself off my balcony before I let my mind make up a new version of you to destroy.”
Stunned to silence, I can’t do anything but stare at him. I can tell he’s serious, but I’ve got no idea what’s going on.
“Dick, have you been… seeing me?”
His expression closes off, like somebody closed the blinds behind his eyes, and he turns around, back to ignoring me in an instant.
There are still tears on his face.
“Hey,” I say, moving closer, reaching a hesitant hand out. He doesn’t move away, but when my palm touches his shoulder, he reacts like he’s been defibrillated. I swear he jumps 6 feet. Instantly, he’s breathing so shallow and fast I’m worried he’s about to hyperventilate.
His eyes are wide, afraid, roving over me like he’s worried I’ll explode. He starts to pull his phone out.
“Dick, wha-” I’m walking toward him again, but he holds out a hand and barks “Stop!” with so much force I don’t even consider moving again.
He starts searching through his phone and in a moment it is ringing. On the third ring, someone picks up and a groggy, masculine voice says, “Dick, it’s 2 am. Someone better be dead.”
“I thought he was,” Dick answers softly.
“Huh? And why are you facetiming me? Couldn't whatever this is have been an email?”
Dick turns the screen to face me before I can protest and asks, “Can you see this man?”
“That’s a man? Jesus, he looks like a wall on legs. What’s his workout routine?”
“Thanks, Tim.” Dick hangs up, tosses his phone to the ground, and slams into me so fast I can’t even react.
One moment, he’s trying his hardest to get me to leave, and the next he’s got his arms wrapped around me so tight that I can hardly breathe.
The last time I saw Dick, he seemed so tall, and so strong, that I felt like it would be impossible for me to even begin to reach the pedestal I’d put him on. But now, hugging me for the first time in years, he felt so… small.
And yet, that hug still takes me back, and suddenly, I’m just that little kid who wants nothing more than to be just like his big brother again.
I wrap my arms over his shoulders and hug him back, and I can’t tell whose bones I can hear creaking in protest against the hold, but it doesn’t matter. I’d gladly break every bone in my body all over again if it meant I'd get to hug him one last time.
. . .
"That's fucked up, Dick," I say around a mouthful of a double batburger. It's probably not the best thing to say when your brother admits he's been hallucinating your death with frightening accuracy every year, or that he's just generally been haunted by a version of a younger you who looked like he was fresh out of the explosion that killed you, but I'm not really sure if there's anything appropriate to say in that situation. "At least now I get why you were so pissed at me, though."
"Well, I'm sorry about that, anyway. I'm supposed to ignore my hallucinations entirely, but seeing you all grown up, thinking I'd never really get to know you," Dick gestured loosely at me and continued, "like this, like the man you were supposed to become... It was just too much, I couldn't handle it."
"This isn't the man I was supposed to be, Dick. We both know that." Dick started shaking his head before I even finished my sentence and reached a hand across the shiny diner table to place it on my shoulder.
"You are exactly who you're supposed to be, Jason. You're here, you're alive. That's more than I could have ever hoped for, everything I begged for, prayed for to any god who might listen. Every day for the past 5 years, I've wished for nothing more than to have you back so I could watch you grow up." A bit of humor lights up in his eyes when he says, "I never thought the pile of toothpicks you used to be would turn into this, but I'm all for happy surprises."
There's a part of me that wants to protest, to tell him there really is something wrong with me, that I'm not... right. But I don't want to shatter the hopeful, happy expression on his face. Not when he so clearly needs something to hope for, even if that hope is misplaced.
I know eventually he'll realize just how fucked up I am, now, but it doesn't have to be tonight. Tonight, I'm happy to just play the part of the little brother who returned from the dead, fixed, healthy, and whole. Maybe if I play it well enough, I'll start to believe it, too.