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Dick has finally crashed. After Spyral, everything has gone to shit. It’s not like he could tell his brothers what he did on his mission, even if that means they’ll still avoid him. Which is fair, Dick left them first. Even if it was all to protect them, he still chose to leave. It’s his fault, and he has to live with it.
Dick lounges on his beaten-up couch, his apartment has gotten a lot more messy. Dishes weren’t washed, laundry wasn’t put away, and there’s food on the table. He hasn’t got the energy to put it away. Dusty corners, abysmal food, greasy hair. He shouldn’t be wallowing like this; he’s already selfish enough as it is.
Just… clean up.
He groans. He should. Eat, sleep, shower. Not slowly wasting away on this sad couch. And dying of starvation would be embarrassing. But Dick just doesn’t feel like moving. He just wants the world to pause, if only a second.
Pause and let him breathe.
Pause to forget the loneliness.
Pause to feel safe again.
Pause to forget the desert–
Dick’s breathing hitches, no don’t think about that.
Pause to feel the pill. Stuffed down his throat. Bruce standing over him.
His mind swirls with thoughts like You-Failed-Worthless-Slut–
Stop!
Then silence.
But the silence had voices.
Dick slowly opened his eyes, when had he closed them? Eyes blur for just a moment. The voices became loud, frantic, yet soft. Almost like they were worried.
Who was worried?
Another blink.
It wasn't the usual voices that told Dick all the mess-ups he made all the time, but they were… comforting him?
A pale blue luminescent blob occupied just in his peripheral vision. It’s vaguely human-shaped, but more like a cartoon-y human-shaped.
“Aww, poor baby, he needs to sleep!” The hallucination - the Blue blob with hair echoed as if their voice can not be grounded with time.
Baby?
“Not yet! Look at him! He's dirty! He needs a nice hot shower first!” This time, another ghostly shape came into vision, and they shot up from behind the couch, waving their hands wildly. This one has ear piercings in both ears.
Are they talking to me?
“And he hasn't even eaten yet! I can't believe them! If no one helps him, I'm going to break in and make him food myself!” A third luminescent huffs into frame. This one has a low ponytail.
“We can't touch anything, remember?” A bored, exasperated voice mutters. This one is wearing a hoodie of sorts.
Too many noises happening at once, and so many conversations. Dick is tired, exhausted, listless, befuddled, and now, a little ticked. Couldn’t his brain manifest his thoughts quieter?
…
Maybe he should give in to this insanity and name the floaty lil' guys his brain hallucinated into existence.
“Not if you don't try hard enough.” Three snaps back at four. They turned(?) around, stalking to the kitchen.
Clatters of pots and pans sounded through the apartment. Some fell through them, and some were successfully grasped.
Soft phantom touches cradle his head. Dick wants to shake it off, to curl in on himself. His mind keeps shifting to That-Roof-That-Night. He needs to get out-out-out.
Then, it was gone. Almost as if they could hear his thoughts and moved away.
“My baby is cold and hungry! Tired too, someone, make him his bed!” One exclaims and orders above him, so they were the ones holding Dick.
….And they didn’t address it. He felt relieved, but it also confused him. They know, he can tell, somehow.
“On it.” Four nods, they flew into his room, and he could hear sheets shuffling in the dark room.
I thought they couldn’t touch anything? Or have I upgraded to advanced hallucinations?
So many questions filled his mind, yet he couldn’t even get one out before Two spoke over him.
“I can't believe the others are just going to shun him out.” Two snarls, Dick can see them leaning against the back of the couch. They don’t look in his direction, but at Three, who stood in front of his kitchen space.
Wait, what are they talking about?
“He faked his death! Of course it's something to be mad about.” Three threw their arms up in exasperation.
Oh, that. Can his brain maybe not bring that up?
“The others do it all the time! It's unfair that our baby here is suffering from poor writing decisions!”
“That's right! Our baby deserves everything nice.” One’s voice chimes from above, he’s starting to like her voice. It… reminds him of her.
My little Robin
Her voice and One’s voice overlapped each other.
Dick felt tears prickle, his vision now swarmed with blurry shapes and blobs, and the tears sat but never fell. He shouldn’t cry, it was years ago. It would be too selfish to want that again, he doesn’t deserve it. He couldn’t– not after–, not after–!
A hand patted his head again, but this time it didn’t feel icky-slimey-wrong. This time, it feels like her.
Her nice-soothing-safe.
Humming interrupts his train of thought, this song–!
The tears fell, slowly, soon freely.
One’s song, she’s singing mami’s song! A little voice sounding like the child-self he keeps safe and locked under layers of carefully crafted masks.
All cracking at once.
How could One know when he forgot?
For a moment, all he could do was relax as One sang her lullaby. He tunes in and out from the conversation continuing around him.
“Damian isn't mad.” Four commented from his bedroom. The shuffling paused for a moment before resuming.
“Damian isn't here, now is he?” Three deadpanned.
“Fuck Bruce. His Character wasn't supposed to hurt his own son!” Two complained aggressively overtop of him.
A sudden beep took everyone by surprise. Dick stiffened with a jolt. The fire alarm just went off. Could hallucinations do that?
“Watch the stove! Are you trying to ruin this already run-down apartment?!” Two screeches. Ouch, that was a little loud. It left his ears ringing.
“Ah! My bad...” Three awkwardly shuts off the alarm, watching the stove as if it would grow legs and run away.
The shuffling from his bedroom stopped. Four floated slowly out of the room, carrying his current bedsheets and some clothes to the washer. “Bruce is doing better in Wayne's family adventure.” She comments.
“Yeah, but that's not canon.” Three spat, stirring the pot of something… soup?
“Really? Bruh.” Two sticks out his tongue? And pouts.
All in all, this whole interaction makes Dick feel like he’s semi-lucid. Even if he wants to say something, it’s like his throat doesn’t allow it. And if he wants to sit up? His body is too tired to move. He can’t get a better look to assess things just from his angle on the couch.
One returned to pat his head, she started singing a song he's never heard of, but it was nice.
“They really fucked up my baby this time.” One whispers.
“Yeah, and we are going to complain.” Four comments from his bedroom again.
“Fuck yes.” Two agreed.
“I made Russian Borscht~!” Three announced, he picked up the pot with oven mitts? Setting it on the table.
“Looks delicious!” One finally leaves his side to check out the pot.
Nooo, come back!
At the same time, Four emerges from the bedroom, “I made his bed with new clean sheets and plenty of fluffy blankets and pillows.” She states, drifting closer to the point of interest.
“Mmm! Nicely done!” One approves of Four with a thumbs up.
Two came out of the bathroom– wait, when did he leave, he hovered over to Dick’s head.
“Well, I was thinking of letting him shower, but our boy looks like he's about to pass out any moment so, I just soaked a towel with hot water so we can help wipe his sweat off”. Two prepared to start just then.
One glides back to the couch, and she sets a hand on Two’s shoulder, “Hey, if it helps, it helps!”
Four is turning her head back and forth between the pot and the towel, “I think he should eat something first.”
And then, Dick was brought to the table. How was he brought to the table? He was just at the couch and now he’s upright sitting on the chair with his wispy friends settling around him.
Dick is confused. They were looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to do something.
Four pointed down, he looks. A bowl sat in front of him, it looked to be the soup Three was cooking. The soup was tomato red, with diced potatoes, carrots, beef, and some veggies. A spoon was already placed inside.
Is this edible? Usually, his hallucinations don’t make him food.
Then again, usually his hallucinations aren’t nice at all.
Which is why, Dick was going to ignore all the logic of what is impossibly happening right now and just listen to his stomach. It growled just at the sight of food.
He’ll question everything in the morning.
Dick takes a spoonful of the soup and stuffs it into his mouth, it bursts into flavor. As if his world has been devoid of color until this moment.
He looked up for a moment, the blue wisps all but smiled back, breaking out in a cheer, a small celebration. Just because he took one bite.
It was unique, almost as delicious as Alfred's, and it had a certain tang to it that reminded him of something from the circus. And finally, it had something, nothing, and everything. Like a piece of the universe was in the soup for him to swallow. It was comforting. And for the first time since he came back, he finished his food.
One was wiping off his sweat as he was eating.
“He finished it! Oh my god, he ate all of it!” Two exclaims, laughing like someone just gifted him the lottery.
“It was good wasn't it? I knew it!” One praises, she’s smiling from ear to ear.
“Nightwing likes my cooking… Oh my god– Dick Grayson likes my cooking!!” Three pumps up in triumph, he was so happy, he flipped and looped around.
“I’m glad. Congrats.” Four softens into a smile, calm and firm. She’s not much of a talker, unlike the other three, but her words, her voice. It felt like an anchor.
Of course, the hallucination ghosts knew Dick was Nightwing. His mind is so weird.
“I'll wash the dishes!” Two took the bowl and hurried over to the sink, eager to help.
“I'm going to store the rest of the Borscht in the fridge.” Four dug through Dick’s empty cabinets, fishing out a couple of empty tupperware.
“I'll help him get ready for bed!” One chirps.
The spirits went off to do their own things. Dick was getting manhandled to the bathroom by One, who he was the most comfortable with. She changed him into his pajamas, wiped him down with a warm wet towel, and helped him brush his teeth when he’s too tired to.
He felt bad, but was also too tired to protest.
There was another thing.
Only four ghosts manifested, but there were a lot more. He could only hear the voice, never a ghost to attach it to.
As he spaced out, he could hear them clearer. They opted to stay as voices and whispered comforts to Dick. Things like;
“You're going to be okay, you'll get through this, we will be with you no matter what.” A soft soothing voice assures.
“Baby, you deserve everything, you are the best, we love you.” Another one promises.
“I've been with you since you were Robin, you were my childhood hero, you gave me hope, you gave me something to love.” This one adores.
It was sweet, nice, and warm. Dick doesn’t know where they come from, or why. It makes him feel as if the path he carved, had been worth it.
But, there were also separate voices that swore vengeance. The second set of voices that even Dick doesn't know if he should be listening to or not. If he should feel good by the fierce protection or try to shut them up because Bruce loves him.
He's his dad.
You can’t deny that.
“Yeah, the one that beat you up. Forced you to a suicide mission, with no backup plan, no out, no one who knows.”
No, it was the only way, this was the only option, he was the best for this mission.
“Batman? Not having a contingency plan? Doesn't that say something?”
Bruce believed in me, he had full faith in me to complete the mission.
“So? Bruce got amnesia, and he didn't have a backup for that?”
He’s..
“Batman? Who's thought of everything?”
No, you don’t understand–!
“You did nothing wrong. It was Batman, Bruce who hurt you. Some protector he is, I thought he was against abusers–”
“SHUT UP!” Dick screams, voice cracks and all. Hoping his own voice could draw the ones swarming inside. They don’t get it, they don’t understand! Bruce isn’t–!
“Hey guys, knock it off. Our baby is tired right now.” One’s voice shot through like a bullet. Allowing Dick to breathe, just for a moment.
“We hear you, but you really aren't helping Dickie, ya know?” Two scowls, glaring at a random wall to his left, just that wall?
“You’re all kinda making it worse with all the negative talk.” Four asserts, her voice heavier than her usual, softspoken-like. It threw Dick for a loop.
“We understand your feelings, we feel them too. We want the best for Dick, so let us handle this for now, okay?” Three glares around, eyeing different walls, all around them. “Trust us.” He affirms.
The voices fell silent. Pouty, like they got scolded. By his wisps? Dick doesn't know what's happening, what's been happening, but he's glad his head is quiet now.
The wisps moved him to the bed. Four prepared. Dick is too tired to question reality so he just lets it happen. They closed the lights, but they illuminated the space a little, becoming little night lights.
“Good night my little baby.” One kissed him goodnight like how his mami used to.
“Good night lil’ goober.” Three slipped beside him for a hug, cradling him. He feels safe.
“Night, little knight.” Four pet his head, the constant movement, the warmth from all around him, draws him closer to sleep.
“Sleep tight, hero.” Two squeezed his hand firmly, his touch and presence there.
Then, Dick’s eyes flutter shut.
It was the best sleep Dick ever had since his return. Since the mission. Since… since he was taken in by Bruce. Since the incident. Since before.
Relaxed and content, he drifts off in comfort and bliss.
The next morning, Dick woke up with a bounce.
He feels refreshed, energetic, and awake.
When was the last time he felt like he could breathe comfortably?
He changes out of his pajamas, humming through his morning routine. He can’t quite remember the name of this song, or where he’s heard it, just that it gave him comfort.
Dick was about to make breakfast when he realized he hadn’t gotten new groceries in two weeks and droops.
Hopefully, he has some edible leftovers in the fridge.
When he opens the door to his fridge, he freezes.
“What the…?”
There were four filled containers of orange mystery soup, and a sticky note on one.
“You better eat well!”
…This… isn’t Alfred’s.
These were HIS containers– who?!
WHO WAS IN HIS APARTMENT?!