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Dick kept his posture relaxed as Red Hood walked up to him on the roof, deliberately approaching well within Dick’s field of vision. Jason’s jacket looked a little rumpled, but the rest of his uniform seemed in good shape, helmet unscuffed.
“Bat’s on his way to Arkham with Crane now. The Replacement’s making the call so they’re ready to receive him,” Jason reported. “Where’s your head at, Big Bird?”
Dick was always torn between affection and mild indignance whenever Jason took on gentler nicknames out of consideration for his well being. He should just be glad, content with the confirmation that Jason cared. Yet some part of him still coiled tight like a spring at the ‘coddling’.
“Doing okay,” he said, monitoring his every breath, making sure his brain stayed oxygenated, that he stayed as calm as he could.
Still, he couldn’t quell his heart hammering like a mallet against his ribcage, reverberating all the way up to his neck where his pulse responded in a matching erratic beat. Dick’s eyes flicked to movement over Jason’s shoulder, but found nothing except an immobile AC unit and a satellite dish, not a bulky figure and big round head.
Dick must have moved more than his eyes because Jason glanced behind himself, then back at Dick.
“There’s nothing,” Jason said tonelessly behind the modulation of his helmet. “You gonna head in for the night?”
That was a kindness, Dick knew, Jason’s trying to dispel any uncertainty casually so as not to draw much attention to it, as if it was no big deal. Dick still couldn’t help but bristle. His temper was getting shorter as the night dragged on.
“Yeah. Might as well. It’ll be quiet for the rest of the night anyway.” No one with half a brain dared causing trouble so soon after a rogue attack. None of them, especially Jonathan Crane, liked to share a news page.
“Alright, head straight home then, will ya?”
Dick rolled his eyes under his mask as he shoved down his irritation. “Yes, Mother.”
Jason huffed, a burst of static from his voice modulator. Dick began mentally working out where he’d left his bike so he wouldn’t be grappling all the way across the bridge to Midtown, but Jason didn’t make a move to leave. He stood there, hovering and torso leaning a bit towards Dick, one gloved hand partially raised and fingers twitching. Trigger finger, his mind supplied, before he scolded himself. That was the lingering fear gas in his bloodstream talking.
“Did you–” Jason started, stopped, started again, “If you wanted, y’know, company, I’m sure the replacement or demon brat would love to spend a night on your couch.”
Dick let his mouth tick up in a half-smile. “Thanks for the offer, Hood, but I’ll be good. You should get back to your own place yourself. Don’t stay out too late.”
Jason’s left foot skidded further out on the asphalt, and he brought the other one in, unintentionally taking a half-step away. “That’s not– I wasn’t talking about me. Whatever. Bye, Dickwing.”
“Night, Jaybird,” Dick called after the quickly retreating Red Hood.
A not-small part of him wanted to draw Jason back, to tell him to sleep on his couch so he’d know he was safe. Another part shut down the idea because none of the family was better at keeping secret safehouses than Jason, and staying at Dick’s probably had a higher risk of danger. He’d be safe. It was the same as any other night. It was just the heightened epinephrine and cortisol and the traces of psychoactive formula making him so paranoid.
He ignored his prickling neck as he fetched his bike and only gave into the urge to check for tails when he was two minutes from pulling up to his apartment in Midtown. He stashed the bike two buildings over in the alley, shoving cardboard and an old painter’s dropsheet over it before taking silent strides over to his building’s fire escape and climbing.
The roof access door where Dick stored a duffle bag with a pair of sweatpants and hoodie in it was closed and locked. The metal scrap that he always tucked against the strikeplate before closing the door to prevent locking was lying on the asphalt. Someone might’ve tampered with it, might’ve seen Nightwing enter through here before and decided to use this to ambush him.
He didn’t dare to even breathe as he listened for another person nearby.
No, be reasonable. He couldn’t trust his instincts right now. His instincts were buried under paranoia and the desire to crawl into a tight hole beneath the city and not come out until this feeling passed.
He’d put the metal scrap in place that evening, hadn’t he? He tried to pull on the memory, but there was a near identical one for every night of the last week.
It was fine. There was no one ambushing him. He’d just take extra care of putting it in next time.
He pivoted back to the fire escape and climbed down to be level with the top floor windows. His apartment window wasn’t aligned with the fire escape (a fire hazard, really, but it was Gotham and half these windows probably didn’t open), but still faced the back alley, so he swung his legs over the squeaking railings, double checked any near windows to make sure no one was peeking through, and started to shuffle along the protruding trim of the building, his torso plastered to the brick and hands clutching at any holds he could get.
With one last neck-straining look around, he fiddled his window open and slipped in. His apartment was quiet. Normal. Nothing out of place. He still checked every room, cupboard, and possible hiding spot before stripping and stashing his suit, pulling on sweatpants, and going to bed. He wouldn’t risk the noise cancellation of a shower right now, and it was probably best for him to sleep the rest of this off at this point. He’d make up for the lack of snack in the morning.
Dick stood frozen in his living room, which seemed a bit more empty than when he had left it earlier that evening. The window was still open, but he didn’t move. He thought he’d closed it. He listened. He was just being paranoid. This always happened.
Except– There was someone in his apartment. His instincts must be right on this occasion. He couldn’t shake it, he just knew.
A bulky figure stepped around from the hallway into the living room. Dick’s body seized, hands and feet numb.
“Desmond–” he choked, staring at the man who had tormented him for months on end. “How– You're– You're not real.” Dick had felt his warm blood and bits of his brain splatter over his cheek. Roland Desmond, Blockbuster, was dead, and Dick had been an accomplice in his murder.
Except he was standing in Dick’s living room, face passive but whole, unspeaking, unmoving. It wasn’t real.
“Oh, he's very real, Richard.”
Another body, lither, smoother, deadlier, stepped out into the light the open window provided from streetlamps reflected off brick.
“Talia–?” Dick reached for his empty escrima clip, hand glancing nothing, because he was in his apartment, in civilian clothes, sweatpants and sleep shirt.
He took a staggering step back, and Roland one forward. Roland's eyes flashed green. Green like– like–
“No. You–” His tongue refused to meet the roof of his mouth to form the word. He looked at Talia’s smug grin. It didn't look right on her face, like it belonged to someone else, like she had stolen someone's face. “Why would you–?”
“I need my boys for something. So I needed you out of the way for a while.”
“You're– You stay away from my brothers,” Dick growled out.
Where were they now? He’d sent Jason back to his apartment. Dick had almost invited him back with him, had almost let him walk into this trap. But Jason wouldn’t go down without a fight, and right now Dick couldn’t even move with Roland’s towering frame hovering in Dick’s home again, about to take everything Dick loved and cherished again.
Damian would be back with Bruce and Alfred, who wouldn’t let Talia take Damian with ill intentions. Was she after Tim too? Was Ra’s also behind this? Where was Tim? Dick needed to find out, but no, he couldn’t let Talia get that information from him either. He couldn’t let Talia leave.
“I think you should be more worried about me,” Roland responded in a low, threatening rumble as he stepped forward again, a manic grin on his face. That wasn't his either. It kind of looked like the Joker’s. “We're–I'm right here,” his voice distorted for a half moment in a second low timbre, an echo of something familiar. Maybe he was stealing people's voices along with their mouths.
His large meaty hands gripped onto Dick's biceps as he was suddenly no more than a foot in front of him, teleportation or super speed or maybe Dick was losing time again, but Roland’s grin was stretching wide and eyes glowing like Lazarus, a sicker green than kryptonite.
“Don't–” He swallowed, steeling himself. “I'm not afraid of you. You already did your worst.” Blüdhaven was now gone anyway.
That grin was nothing like the loathing expressions the man had always directed Dick’s way. “Oh, Grayson.” He chuckled. “No, I haven't.”
And Dick could sense hands, could almost hear the echo of Catalina's words, could practically feel the way her lips molded the syllables against the sweaty skin of his neck. But it was Roland’s hands on him, and Dick’s stomach was threatening to tear up his throat as he thrashed to get away, forearms flailing wide even as his biceps were held tight against his ribs, an attempt to merge his skin together in a prison of his own flesh and bone, and Roland pushed and pushed and pushed him down. His back hit bed as couch cushions recast as mattress sheets, the living room warping into the closed off cell of his bedroom.
This couldn't– He couldn't– This couldn't be real. Roland didn't– He wanted to ruin Dick's life. He couldn't get any pleasure from this. Unless– unless–
“Stop– please. I'm sorry I'm sorry. I told you I'm sorry. I didn't mean to– I didn't kill her, your mom– oh fuck. I killed you, I'm sorry–”
Roland sent a glance above Dick's head, and Dick strained to look behind him and see the rooftop entrance door that Roland's body must be on the other side of.
Except somehow, he knew if he opened that door, he wouldn't find the man above him. He'd find Donna, twenty-two and two torn holes in her chest, Jason, fifteen and missing half his face, Joey with his father’s sword staining his white shirt red, Lilith with her head lolling from her snapped vertebrae, Damian with a gaping cavern in his stomach, half of Blüdhaven in a mass grave piled high in the deepest pit of the stairwell.
“Come on. This was how you celebrated, right? My corpse wasn't even cool yet from that bullet your girlfriend put in me.”
“No, no I didn't want that. She- I didn't. I let her, oh god. We killed you.”
“Dick,” he said, voice and cadence wrong, echoing like the sound bounced off fun house mirrors even though only void city and rainless storm clouds surrounded them, and it was so wrong to hear Roland Desmond call him that.
“Don’t– don't call me that.”
“Why not? What's wrong, querido?” A low voice, not quite Roland's, turned high.
“No, I'm not– we're not–”
And there was another body now, another pair of hands, smaller this time, but no less deadly. “Calm down, we've got you. You're safe.” Words drowned by hushing, familiar and sickening and a lifetime away. “Quiet, mi amor, I'll take care of you.”
He couldn't tell where Roland ended and Catalina began.
“Hey, Dickie, you're okay.”
And another familiar face flashed over his vision, forced his eyes up, hope bubbling up in his chest until it changed again and then it was black that he saw—black sclera and white rings for irises. Miriam's raven ponytail, splitting over her shoulders to drape down either side of her neck, tickled his cheeks. Her face imitated the youth she had worn from when Dick had been twenty-one and so much more naïve. Her brows were creased in worry, mouth curved in a frown.
“What would make you feel better?” she asked.
Her hold was gentle, nothing like Blockbuster’s. Dick still didn't move.
“She always made you happy, didn't she?”
It was Kori above him then, with Miriam's same tugged down lips. It was Kori from when they had been teens but also Kori when they had briefly passed each other by on the Watchtower last July– It was Babs. Looking just as he had last seen her but with legs that held her above Dick now, who was still pinned down half-naked, still unable to move, because Babs’ orders were absolute.
“You'll just let any girl kiss you now?” Babs spat in his face, mouth twisted with lemon-soured vitriol. “Why the hell have you still been sticking so close to her? She tried to kill me, and you’re letting her climb all over you!”
“No,” he wanted to say, but a frog was in his throat. Was it Zatanna or Klarion playing a trick on him at the worst of times?
“I can't do this anymore, Dick.” She was hurt. So so hurt. Dick had done that. He'd hurt her in just the same way he'd hurt Kori.
“It's not real, Dick,” Kori said in someone else's voice, bright green eyes boring into his soul from above him.
“I know,” he mumbled, maybe yelled. That night had been a mirage.
Mirage’s eyes were filled with pity as she held down his wrists. He felt so exposed in nothing but his sweatpants, unsure of when he’d lost his shirt. “I love you,” she said. “You’ll love me too. You have to.” It wasn't something Miriam had ever said, but Dick didn't have any time to dwell because she was pushing down on his arms harder and Dick was fighting properly now, trying to twist out of her grip.
“If you know, then get up,” Miriam demanded in a low and gruff voice that was not her own. Whose was she stealing now?
“You have me,” he said. He meant to say ‘You're stopping me; let me up; I want to get up, I do, it's you who's stopping me.’
“Yes, I've got you, querido.”
“Stop– Off, off,” he begged.
“You're hurting yourself, Dick. Stop!”
“You're only hurting yourself, baby. Stop fighting,” Catalina-Miriam snapped, and “You're safe, I promise,” Jason said.
Jason.
“No,” Dick sobbed. “Nuh ‘im.” He failed to draw his words together, like his mouth refused to open all the way, but he swore it was open wide with his desire to wail. “Pl’se.”
“I told you I loved you. I'm just trying to show you,” Jason's mouth said in Miriam's voice. He hardly remembered what it sounded like.
Jason's hands were big like Roland's as they held him down, Lazarus green eyes peering over Dick in a way Jason never would. Dick fought in earnest, because Miriam would not defile Dick's brother like this. She wouldn't ruin this relationship too.
“No, no–”
“Stop– C’mon, Dick. Snap out of it. Wake up!”
Dick gasped for air like he'd only just breached the surface of an ocean. He writhed in the grip that held seemingly tighter to each of his sore wrists, forcing his hands up as Jason-not-Jason struggled to push his limbs back down. “Dick, hey, settle–”
“Stop, please, not him. Don't make it him–”
“What? It's–”
“God, please, don't do this.”
“Dick, it's okay. You're okay.” Tim’s voice cut through his babbled begging, and fuck, not him too. Not his brothers. Not his little brothers. “It was a dream. You're in your apartment in Gotham, Pearl Drive. It's just us with you, Tim and Jason.”
Dick's eyes snapped over, and there was Tim, standing and still in his Red Robin outfit, mask gone and winged cape askew.
“Tim–” Dick gasped out, air in his lungs suddenly so below sufficient.
“Yeah, Dickie. Just us.”
Dick whipped his head back forward at the sound of Jason's voice. Also still in his suit and sans helmet and mask, Dick could see his face. His face, no stolen mouths or expressions or voices, all his own scars and blue eyes with only traces of green.
“Jason,” Dick breathed out.
His wrists were freed, and Dick could sit up properly as Jason scooted back a little too quickly from where he was perched on the edge of the bed.
“Yeah, sorry for restraining you,” Jason said, voice tight. “You were scratching at yourself.”
Dick looked down at his arms, trying to think past the roar of his heartbeat in his ears. He hadn’t broken skin, but angry red marks marred his bare forearms and biceps, even his abdomen.
He was in his bed. How had he gotten there? The roof… never had Blockbuster on it. Dick had gone through the window where–
He launched further up, eyes flicking from Tim and Jason to around the bedroom.
“No one’s in your apartment besides us, I promise,” Tim said softly.
Except Tim wouldn’t be looking for someone of Talia’s level of skill, or she could be going after Damian right now–
“Deep breaths, Dickie. You’re working yourself up.”
Dick focused on Jason, tried to find the pattern of his rising chest to match it to his own. He felt cold, but he was shirtless and the comforter was scrunched up in his lap. There was no window open because he’d closed it. There was no confrontation in his living room because he’d gone straight to bed.
Talia wasn’t in Gotham, Roland Desmond was dead, and it was just Tim and Jason in his apartment.
“Right, you’re right. I’m okay,” Dick said, a little breathless.
Tim and Jason’s mouths both tugged down in matching frowns, something Dick would normally tease them over.
“You’ll be okay,” Tim somewhat agreed. “I’ll get you some water.”
Dick nodded his thanks as his brother disappeared from the bedroom. His arms were starting to sting. He prodded at them gently, rubbed a hand down the goosebumps, and sighed.
He looked up when he felt Jason’s gaze burning into him as steadily as the red marks. Jason’s expression was carefully controlled to hide anything beyond neutral assessment.
Dick raised his eyebrows, as if to ask if he passed inspection.
Without a change in posture or expression, though Dick knew he must have been uncomfortable, Jason asked, “Who were you talking to?”
The sound of the fridge opening and closing as Tim grabbed the pitcher of filtered water confirmed that Tim could easily listen in on the conversation too.
Dick shrugged, wondering if Jason was referencing when Dick had just woken up, or if Dick had talked in his sleep. “Lots of people. You know how it is.”
“Sure, I do. But I also know self bodily harm is usually only a symptom of people who don’t have as high of a tolerance as we do.”
He politely didn’t look at Dick’s arms, but Dick couldn’t help trying to cover them and his abdomen anyway, slightly curling in on himself. “It’s fine. No actual damage done.”
“‘Cause we were here.”
Dick sighed, only exhaustion remaining where he expected irritation. “It’s whatever, Jason.”
The fridge opened and closed again.
“Who’s Rollan?” Jason asked.
Dick’s eyes drooped closed, muscles begging for him to fall back into his mattress and tug his blanket over his head.
“Probably Roland Desmond.”
Dick’s eyes flew open to look at Tim entering with a glass of water. “How–”
Tim shrugged, handing Dick the glass. “He had a ton of power in Blüdhaven until his death, not exactly a subtle figure. And–” He paused, looking away and drawing in on himself fractionally, the way he did when he was uncomfortable or embarrassed. “You looked kinda– um, like you weren’t doing well at all after his murder, so I read your reports. When you eventually filed them at least.”
“Oh.” Dick took a sip of the cold water, a shock to his tight throat. He could feel it travel all the way down to his empty stomach. Those reports included only the events leading up to Roland’s death, not anything after.
Tim looked up, and Dick looked away. “He did you a lot of harm, Dick.”
Dick leaned back against his headboard, bare shoulder blades digging uncomfortably into the wood. He could feel the ghost of Jason’s large hands gripping his arms and encircling his wrists, large like– He clutched the water glass tighter and took another sip.
“So you dreamed that you killed the guy?” Jason asked bluntly.
Every muscle in Dick’s body seized up as Tim hissed out a “Jason.”
How much had Dick unknowingly said?
“What?” Jason threw up a hand, offended. “I’m not gonna judge him for it. It was just a dream–” His eyes met Dick’s, and only then did Dick remember to get a hold on his features. Jason raised an eyebrow then lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Okay, real talk. If you did kill a guy, I’d be really offended if you didn’t come to me for help hiding the body. For future reference.”
Tim covered his face with his hands and groaned. “Shut up.”
“I’m just trying to lighten the mood!”
“You are not helping.”
“I’d just like to be alone for a bit,” Dick interrupted, “if that’s alright.”
Tim dropped his arms, looking as if something weighed on his mind, but simply nodded. “Yeah, of course. Mind if I crash on your couch?”
Dick shrugged, knowing it was the wrong reaction even before Tim’s frown deepened. Dick was usually elated to have Tim stay over. Right now, all he could think about was how grateful he was that Roland had kept his revenge killing plot within Blüdhaven, and what he would give to know what Talia was up to right now.
Tim slipped out of the bedroom, and Jason stood to leave, but then lingered.
Dick waited for Jason to speak first, taking another sip of the water and depositing the glass on the side table.
“What was I doing?” Jason asked quietly.
“What?”
“In your dream.”
Dick’s pulse picked up. “What are you on about?”
“I know you saw me when you woke up. You were aware and you looked right at me, but you kept fucking–” Jason’s expression twisted, something hurt crossing his features. “–begging,” he gritted out.
Dick had to keep his neck craned to look up at Jason. He wished Jason was still sitting down. “No, Jay, it’s not–”
“It was Tim’s voice that made you snap out of it, so what the hell was I doing to make you that terrified?” Jason’s fists tightened and released in uneven intervals, knuckles whitening with each squeeze.
Despite the water, Dick’s mouth was dry. He couldn’t tell him, not the truth—what had been about to happen had he not woken up. Jason wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t get that it wasn’t him Dick was so scared of, the one who still haunted him in every interaction on the worst days. He’d blame Dick, hate him, for thinking Jason could ever possibly do that. He’d leave, and Dick would lose his little brother all over again. “You weren’t doing anything, I promise–”
“Don’t lie to me right now.”
“God damnit, it wasn’t you, Jason.”
“But you thought it was.”
“No, ugh. It’s not what you think– Can you just sit down?”
“No, fuck this shit. I don’t need to hear another fucking thing.”
Dick’s throat tightened until talking felt impossible, but Jason was going to leave and Dick would lose him again and it’d be his fault this time. “Jason, please,” he begged.
Jason froze, back half-turned to Dick. And Dick realized how similar he must have sounded to a few minutes ago. Begging.
He forced his voice to something more neutral, not entirely succeeding. “I wasn’t afraid of you, so sit down. Please, don’t leave.”
Jason flexed his fists at his sides, and then stiffly, took a step back and sat on the edge of the bed again. It sunk slightly under his weight, gravity drawing Dick’s legs closer to rest against Jason’s back.
Dick reached for his hand, but Jason pulled it away. Dick sighed. He wished he had the water glass to squeeze again. Instead, he dug his fingers into his comforter.
Everything in him protested talking about this with his younger brother, but Dick forced his tongue to say, “It was Mirage, Miriam.” The irrational part of his brain still pumping unnatural amounts of neurochemicals expected the woman to appear at the chanting of her name.
Jason stared at him for a moment, no comprehension making itself known on his face. “Am I s’posed to know who that is?”
“I– Well, honestly, I thought Roy would have said something about it to you. I don’t think it’s ever been treated as a secret.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. What’s she got to do with this?”
Dick tried not to let his relief show that Jason didn’t know, and that maybe he could get away without sharing some particular details. He stared at his hands tangled in the sheets.
“She and I don’t get on.” I hate her, and I hate her hating me for it, and I hate her for apologizing, and I hate myself for pretending to forgive her and for still being afraid of her. “She’s also a shapeshifter. I think my subconscious heard you and tried to justify your voice being there. That’s all. It wasn’t you I was talking to, and you didn’t do anything.”
He could feel Jason’s stare boring into him. “You ‘don’t get on,’” he repeated blandly.
Dick shrugged. “More or less.” She had apologized. She was still on the Titans’ roster. Nightwing avoided her like the plague. Dick Grayson still had nightmares about her.
“What was she doing as she pretended to be me?”
“Oh my god, it doesn’t matter. It wasn’t actually you.”
“Then is what she was doing based on truth?”
“What?” Dick looked up finally.
Jason’s eyes were sharp and cold. He spoke low enough that Tim surely wouldn’t have been able hear him. “Whatever she was doing, that had you terrified to begging,” he said, hands fisted tight in the blanket, “was it because she’s done it before?”
Dick couldn’t help his eyes widening as he realized the direction Jason was going.
Jason clocked the reaction. “And Roy would know if I asked him?”
“No–”
“Something she's done made her a candidate for your nightmares. You said it wasn’t exactly a secret, but you’re not painting a pretty picture here, Dickie.”
Dick pushed himself up, breath coming a little too fast. “Hold on, you’re jumping to conclusions. It wasn’t–” He fumbled. ‘Get away without sharing the details,’ like hell. “It was just a nightmare. The imagination can be worse than reality. You know that.”
“And our fears are usually based on some truth. You’re not the type for irrational fears, Dick.” The sudden lack of nickname squeezed Dick’s chest, and he knew he had to shift gears.
“God, just–” He let his head fall into his hands as he took a deep breath. With his vision cut off, his drugged brain provided the image of Jason suddenly lunging at him. He even expected to feel the forceful grip of those hands again. “This isn’t the time for this,” he whispered, just loud enough for Jason to hear, then drew himself up and ran a hand through his tangled hair. “Can’t even think straight past this stupid toxin.”
When he looked over, Jason’s expression had taken on some guilt, like Dick had expected.
“She held me down and spit vitriol in my face,” Dick said, pushing all of his exhaustion into his voice to sell the resignation. “It wasn’t just her. It’s… kinda whoever thinks I’ve wronged them somehow. And I just–” He faked a cringe. It wasn’t hard. “I didn’t want to know what you’d say, all the ways you could hate me.”
He didn’t look at Jason, kept his hands clutched in the comforter. He knew he succeeded in selling the story when Jason slumped, weight sinking further into the mattress.
“Oh,” Jason said.
Dick swallowed, let himself play with a loose thread in the blanket as his hair fell to shield his eyes. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I know you don’t, well, ah…”
Jason sighed. “Yeah, whatever, Big Bird. Sorry for pushing.” He braced his hands on his knees and stood. He took a step, paused, then said. “Thanks for telling me, and I–” He scratched his neck. “I wouldn’t be here if I hated you.”
Dick looked up so Jason could see his smile. “I know. Thanks, Jay.”
Jason left with a slight embarrassed blush to ears, and Dick slouched back into the headboard. He had entirely expected for Jason to see through his lie and start yelling again or storm out. Maybe that thought was still based in fear toxin. Though the false explanation had probably only worked because he put the focus onto Jason to get him feeling uncomfortably vulnerable and appealed to his guilt. If Dick had kept the focus on himself, Jason probably wouldn’t have bought it at all.
Tim and Jason were speaking quietly outside the bedroom, nothing more than indistinguishable murmurs, so Dick lied down on his back and stared at the open door, trying to empty his mind.
Soon enough, the window opened. Dick's heart rate picked up, but Jason and Tim still talked casually. The sound a of grapple gun shot off, and Dick clutched his blanket tighter. A few seconds of silence passed before the window closed again. It was just Jason leaving, he reminded himself.
A figure appeared in the doorway—Tim, resting his hand on the frame and wearing a pensive expression.
“Help yourself to something in the dresser,” Dick said.
Tim nodded. “Thanks.” He grabbed a pair of drawstring pants and a t-shirt, then lingered at the doorway once again. “Would you like this closed?”
“No, that's alright. It can stay open.”
He'd hear better if someone came in, if something happened to Tim.
Tim nodded again, still looking at Dick as if some unasked question sat heavily on his tongue. “Goodnight, Dick.”
“Night, Timmy. Thanks for crashing here.”
“‘Course.”
The bathroom door opened and closed, and Dick went back to staring at the doorway. A car horn sounded outside, then some passing by diesel truck, engine loud and obnoxious. The flush of his toilet, the running of his tap. Finally the bathroom door opened again, the light switching off, a throw blanket rustling, then silence.
Time crawled by.
Still, Dick did not tear his eyes from the door.
Whenever his eyelids drooped enough for his lashes to shroud his vision, it seemed like a large figure stood peering through the doorway. Each time, Dick would open his eyes wide again, stare hard into the darkness, and see nothing. The process repeated over and over again. Until eventually, when his eyelids slid low and the figure loomed in waiting, instead of chasing it off with the threat of being seen, Dick let his eyes fall shut.
He expected the figure to advance at once, for rough hands to grab at his biceps, practically felt the calluses as he imagined it. He expected his fingers to be pried from his blanket, wrists pinned back to the pillow, and he kept his pleading silent so as not to reach Tim through the open door.
He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, and when imagination turned to dream.