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The weather was getting colder.
Dick didn’t hate the winter, per se, but it would be a plain lie to say he enjoyed how it gave him a permanent sore throat and stuffy nose, or how it made the streets slushy and dead-er than Bludhaven already was.
And along with the shorter days came his “moods”, as he called them. He wasn’t sure how to describe it, but some days—sometimes lasting up to a week, but never longer—he’d wake up in a cold sweat, and get this feeling. Like a spider-sense that told him: today’s gonna fucking suck. And for seemingly no reason, he’d struggle to do anything, starting from pulling himself out of his always-sullied silk sheets.
Dick figured he could hop on Google and input a vague list of symptoms to find a label to slap on his “moods”. But instead, he’d power through his day with a head-splitting migraine, and still dawn his suit. Indulgently, Dick would let himself get hit just a bit more than usual, but he’d never admit that, not in a million years. And if the beatings and stabs weren’t enough—and, as of recent, they never were–he’d snake his way to his bathroom when the late night blended into early dawn, and plop down pathetically on a shower mat, to which the texture had become familiar.
Tucked behind an unnecessary amount of toilet paper rolls, Dick maneuvered his hand to reach a pack of Gillette razor head replacements. Each time he did it, he’d grab a new head to disassemble—a process that became muscle memory. It was shit for the environment by how often he’d burn through them. He’d have to find a more sustainable option.
Dick never went deep. Well, deep deep. Not to the level of the gashes he’d get on patrol, where Alfred—or he himself, on this same bathroom floor—would have to stitch them shut. Just… deep enough to leave scars, that’s all. He slowly picked up a thin blade and rolled down his sock.
His forearm was already fucked from back when Dick did it for attention. His ankle was safer now, and when landing from acrobatic leaps sent searing pain throughout his body, he called it an extra punishment. Because thats what it was, right? A punishment.
Dick was calm now. It wouldn’t do. Sometimes he’d get away with sitting in silence, watching droplets slowly leak down his ankle. But not today.
He reached for his phone and opened up a string of messages from earlier that day:
6:27p.m.
Dick:
> What time are we patrolling tonight?
Tim:
>cass and I were planning to eat dinner early and head out at around 9
Dick:
>Cool. I’m down
Tim:
>its a job for two
>sorry
Dick:
>Oh
>Maybe I could help someone else out?
>Steph?
Bruce:
>Stick to Bludhaven.
>You are not needed tonight
>We’ve got everything handled, and another factor would confound things.
Steph:
>Sorry!
>Maybe another time?
Dick:
>Thast alr
>Im here if you all ned me
> :p
No response.
He read it over and over again:
You are not needed tonight
You are not needed
Because, fuck, what was Richard Grayson, the first and eldest son of Batman, if not needed? It was a harmless message, Dick knew that. So it didn’t—shouldn’t have—warranted the wetness that blurred his vision.
Maybe he used that small flame of emotion to fuel himself to inflict what he deserved. But you didn’t hear that from him.
Dick took a shaky breath before drawing the blade to his ankle. He pressed on the metal hard, and its duality broke the thick skin of his fingers, although not enough for blood.
Dick embraced—because no matter how many times he had placed a sharp edge to his skin, the first cut still irked him—as he pressed down the blade and dragged it slowly along the thin skin of his ankle. It didn’t bleed at first, no, it turned white, revealing the epidermis layer. Past the inherent disgust of his actions, Dick was always overcome with fascination. He watched blood slowly fill the white cut until it overflowed. Then, it bled, and bled, and fucking bled. Crimson leaked down the round surface and spilled onto the tile. It burned, but that was not nearly why tears had begun to spill down his cheek, and then onto his lips, making a salty flavor flood his mouth. Before attempting to stop the bleeding, he moved his blade to a cleaner part of his ankle, and pressed down over long healed scars.
Red. He needed red, everywhere. Past his ankles and on his arms, and thighs, and face, and stomach, and just everywhere. But he knew that it couldn’t leave his ankles—specifically his left one, at least for today.
After enough cuts to coat the area, Dick pulled out a med kit also stashed in his cabinet. He hopped to the shower to wash away the blood—aww fuck! That burned—and then wrapped his ankle. The blood kept seeping from the cuts as expected. So, with shaky hands and a racing heart, Dick sat back down in silence.
Eventually, after who knows how long, Dick came to a conclusion: he really wanted to go home. The manor, he meant. It wasn’t really home, not anymore. But he wanted his dad, for fuck’s sake. Was that so wrong?
Still shaking, Dick managed to pick himself up and walk—each step making him wince—out of his apartment. The ride to the manor seemed dreadful, and the previous conversation replayed in his head. Did they even want him? They didn’t need him, that’s for sure, but Dick needed them, as pathetic it was to admit.
—//—
Dick stood outside the manor door, abnormally nervous. He smoothed out his over-worn sweatshirt, as if he was an awkward teen waiting outside their prom date’s house, and gave the door a firm knock. He couldn’t imagine any of the bats—lord forbid, Jason—knocking to enter the manor. But Dick Grayson was the kind, golden boy that everyone loved. So, he knocked.
After a short wait, a frazzled Damian swung open the door, ready to formally curse out a door-to-door salesman.
“Wh- Richard? I wasn’t aware you would be coming to the manor tonight,” Damian said, confused.
“Well, surprise!” Dick replied awkwardly, doing jazz hands, “you know me, always doing the unexpected!”
Damian gave him a blank stare before deciding to step back and let him inside. The warmth immediately hit him, and he was tempted to collapse into its embrace right there.
“Surely you’re not here to patrol? I thought Father made it clear you were not needed,” Damian continued, guiding Dick further into the manor. He stifled a flinch at hearing the phrase again.
“Can I not just visit for dinner?” Dick responded.
“I suppose. It has been a while since you visited last for strictly… familial reasons-“
“Look who it is! I didn’t know you were coming over,” another voice chirped. Jason.
“Just visiting,” Dick supplied.
“You don’t do that often.” And he was right. They both were. Dick had stopped coming by. He blamed it on the weather.
“Well, that’s what I’m doing right now,” Dick stated, almost defensively. Jason gave him a strange look before backing off and shepherding Damian and him towards the dining hall.
“Alright. Alfred definitely made enough food for an extra person; he tends to overcook,” Jason stated plainly. Dick was grateful at the topic change, and he let a small smile dawn his face.
“He sure does. I like to think it’s because he always so stressed when we’re out patrolling and what not.” Damian nodded, approving his theory.
They made their way to the dining table, where Alfred and Bruce already occupied, softly conversing. Jason was quick to disrupt their conversation.
“We’ve got a plus-one.”
Bruce and Alfred turned towards Jason, and then Dick. Instead of excitement—which, come on, Dick, be real. You expected them to be excited?—they both looked more confused and surprised. He didn’t think it had been that long since he came for dinner, and certainly not long enough to warrant surprise or confusion, but thinking back, maybe it had.
“Master Dick,” Alfred warmly greeted after a moment. Dick couldn’t help but grin and give the man a quick embrace. Emphasis on quick. Thankfully, he was receptive.
“Dick, you joined us for dinner,” Bruce stated plainly. Dick shot him a smile and sat down next to Damian, who already served himself a plate of pasta before Alfred could help. Dick decided to do the same to give himself a smaller portion—he didn’t have much of an appetite. Jason eyed his plate but thankfully said nothing.
Dick saw Bruce watch him from his peripheral, as if waiting for something. Oh, his “statement” was a question.
“I just thought I’d pop by for dinner since it’s been a bit,” Dick explained, trying not to focus on how his body was heavy or how his ankle still burned, “hopefully I’m wanted?”
Despite his faux playful tone, Bruce firmly replied, “you are always wanted, chum.”
Dick felt his heart pang. Bruce’s words echoed through his skull, like they always did. He wasn’t sure how to feel, but he realized Bruce’s proclamation killed the mood of the table, setting everything to silence.
He tried formulating a good response. He failed.
“Oh… thanks,” Dick murmured, pushing around his pasta.
Jason eventually stirred up a half-playful half-pointed conversation, saving Dick once again. He made a mental note to get him a really good birthday present.
While the table was filled with chatter, Dick ran his eyes over everyone. They had it so much worse. He couldn’t imagine the pain Jason went through, or how Bruce worked to the bone, or Damian’s cruel upbringing. He… compared to them, he had it good. His sock pressed too tightly on the bandages wrapping his ankle, and the burn made him ashamed.
The sleeves covering his arms never rode up—despite the revealing nature of his suit as robin, Dick had always opted for clothes a size larger. But he remembered a time, back when he was around Damian’s age, where he’d purposely let his sleeves hike up, exposing the scars decorating his wrists. Back then, it was just him, and Bruce, and Alfred, and they never noticed. He wondered if they saw, and decided that it wasn’t that big of a deal.
Now, with several siblings to care for, he could never image exposing himself like that. Not in front of them. And he was simply too old to be coddled by Bruce or Alfred.
Eventually, dinner came to a wrap. The others were still finishing up, but after eating almost half his plate, Dick decided he was beyond satisfied. To avoid attracting attention, he slowly rose and pushed his chair back. Before he could reach to pick his plate up, Dick withdrew his tainted ankle just too quickly, and sent it straight into a sturdy leg of the old dining table.
White hot pain shot through his leg, and the sudden jolt sent him flying towards the floor with an indignant squawk.
Several voices shouted his name with varying aliases.
Before they could run to his side, Dick forced himself into a sitting position, and cradled his lower shin. He cursed under his breath.
Bruce dropped down in front of him with too much concern lacing his face. He had an army of kids often fighting to near-death each night, but this is what made his stern demeanor break? Dick’s siblings often mentioned Bruce’s soft spot towards his first robin, to which he firmly denied. But everyone knew there was truth to it.
“Dick, what-“
“I’m alright. It was just… yesterday’s patrol. The wound must’ve opened up,” he lied, lifting up his sweat-pant leg. To his dismay, his sock was drenched and the bandages underneath it, once revealed, were fully soaked.
“Richard, you must be more careful!” Damian whined.
Bruce stared at his wrapped ankle with a constipated expression before standing up and offering Dick a hand. He gratefully accepted it with a “thanks,” and let the larger man practically haul him off the ground. Bruce positioned Dick to use him as a crutch, holding most of the boy’s weight.
“Alfred,” Bruce said, his orders being enacted with only one word. The butler firmly nodded and headed towards the cave, where they had the best medical equipment.
It’s alright, you guys can finish eating. I can redo the bandages once I head home. Don’t worry about me, he desperately wanted to say. But instead, Dick stayed silent as Bruce helped shuffle him towards the cave. The injury wasn’t that bad. He had walked on a hundred times worse. But Dick let himself lean against his father for the first time in a while. This felt different.
“I’ve got you, chum,” Bruce whispered.
—//—
Dick let Bruce slowly lower him onto the cot. Alfred had already washed his hands and wore sterile gloves. He wanted to tell him that the injury wasn’t that bad—that he was just dramatic. But his whole body was heavy and hollow, and still shaken. Alfred lowered his hands towards his ankle and Dick jerked away.
“I-“ he choked on a sob, “fuck, Alf.”
Both Bruce and Alfred’s face twisted into deeper concern.
Bruce carefully sat beside him, “talk to me, chum, what happened?”
Dick felt like he was suffocating. Unable to speak, he motioned towards his ankle and promptly buried his head in Bruce’s shoulder. Alfred wearily unwrapped the soiled bandages before pausing half way, shock stilling his hands.
He feels Bruce shift and also still before exhaling deeply. He was mad, or something along those lines. By now, tears freely spilled down his face and were absorbed by Bruce’s shirt in a disgusting, snotty mess.
Amongst his sobs, he vaguely heard what seemed to be Damian rushing in with more concern than he’d ever contribute to the boy, before being promptly ushered out.
He focused on his tight hold of Bruce, who, by now, was fully reciprocating his grasp. In his embrace, he remembered his time as robin. And then the day where it all started—God, he was crying just like this, wasn’t he?
Slowly, they pulled apart, with Dick staring intently at the distant floor. Still, he could tell that Bruce was contemplating asking about it. However, he decided to say instead, “you should come to the manor more often.”
Dick sniffled loudly and grossly, “I… was having a bad day. Thats why I came.”
“I wish you came sooner.”
“I thought you wouldn’t want me-”
Bruce grabbed his face roughly, “Dick. Listen to me. I always want you. I want you when you’re happy, or angry, or having a bad day, or even if you’re being a complete asshole.”
Dick sniffled. Before he could let disbelief take over him, Bruce continued, “Chum, stay for tonight. We… can talk about this tomorrow.”
In his father’s arms, with his other caregiver tending to his ankle, Dick softly replied, “alright. I can do that.”