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***From the diary of Dick Grayson, September 19th***
I don’t use this thing anymore. Blüdhaven nights haven’t given me much to write home about. But today… I need a record, every detail of what happened, before memory blurs and twists my perception. I also need to sleep, and maybe exorcising the events of today onto the page will help me get there.
The phone woke me, buzzing and rattling on the hardwood floor. The night had been long and frustrating. 18 months in this city and I still can’t get a foothold, chasing the shadows of criminals who don’t fear or respect me. And why would they? Some time after sunrise, I slipped in through the window, shed the suit and collapsed face first onto the bed.
The buzzing wouldn’t stop. I groaned, reaching blindly over the edge of the bed to the floor, finally unearthing the phone from under the tangled pile of black and blue spandex.
“Hello?” I didn’t even check the caller ID, eyes still closed.
“Dick.” Bruce. That low rumble.
My eyes snapped open. I sat up too fast. Tired and dizzy, I rubbed my face in an attempt to clear the haze.
“W-why are you calling me?” I slurred. Why are you only calling me now? would have been a better question. ‘Bruce’ hadn’t spoken to me in a year and a half. I had only talked to ‘Batman’ since, and strictly in a professional capacity. Or whatever you would call that.
“It’s Jason.” A heavy pause. God, I hate when he does that.
“Something is happening,” he continued. His voice was his typical flat, unreadable monotone. I heard him exhale through the phone. “He’s been asking for you.”
What. “What?” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and rose to my feet. “Bruce, what’s going on?”
Another pause. Another slow exhale, distorted and crackling through the phone.
“I can’t explain over the phone.” More weaponised silence. “You need to come to the Manor as soon as possible.”
The line went dead before I could respond.
___________
The freeway blurred beneath my motorcycle as it howled towards Gotham. As the cold wind cut through my jacket and gloves, my mind raced.
Why was Jason asking for me? Our handful of brief encounters as Nightwing and Robin didn’t suggest that he thought of me as anything but a threat. I hadn’t been to the Manor since I left 18 months ago. Now Bruce just calls me out of the blue? The notion came, instant and ugly: What if this was a ploy? What if Bruce thought it was time for the prodigal son to return home, by any means necessary? I cursed myself for the nonsensical thought. Something could be seriously wrong with Jason, and I was making it about myself.
Then it started looping in my head. Bruce’s voice. The exact phrase he used. The man chooses his words carefully. ”Something is happening.”
Happening.
Present tense.
What was I about to walk into here?
By the time I reached the gates of Wayne Manor, my grip on the handlebars was causing my fingers to ache. The electric gates opened before I could even slow down and closed quickly behind me.
I used to laugh as a kid when people told me the Manor was ‘scary.’ Today, I knew what they meant. The huge stone estate jutted out over the trees at the top of the hill, looming and lurching over me as I approached on the winding path. Every one of its countless dark windows felt like eyes watching me. The low grey clouds felt menacing as well, ready to attack at any moment.
As I came to a stop near the steps, the front door opened. I removed my helmet. A familiar figure came into view up on the doorstep. Alfred. His long, thin frame. His meticulously straight posture. I felt a fleeting comfort as I walked up the steps.
Until I got closer.
Alfred looked… shaken, in a way I hadn’t seen before. Gaunt, ashen, eyes bloodshot.
“Master Dick,” he said quietly. His usual warmth was muted. “I wish the circumstances of your return were different…” He trailed off, resting a hand on my shoulder.
He tried to smile.
“Welcome home.”
He failed.
“Alfred,” I said. “What’s going on?”
His grip on my shoulder tightened. “Master Bruce will brief you inside.”
He stepped aside and held the door. I took a step, hesitating on the threshold. What the fuck was I walking into here?
I took a breath and stepped inside. A knot started to form in my gut. The door closed with a soft click, followed by the booming, mechanical thunk of the security lock.
Alfred led me in silence through cavernous hallways that felt longer and colder than I remembered. We passed the old ballroom where I used to practice backflips, the dusty library I claimed as my “office” where I pretended to go over case files while reading Goosebumps books, the blood red living room with the weird smell where my height marks are still penciled into the wall (at least I think they are). As a kid, these rooms pulsed with mystery, discovery, purpose both old and new. Every new door was an expedition. A would-be settlement. Now these rooms just felt dead, forgotten. Abandoned rooms covered in dusty sheets. Graveyards for furniture. The life of the house had contracted, shrivelled inward, shrinking to the small circuit its inhabitants still walked.
We stopped outside the kitchen. “Master Bruce awaits you inside.” said Alfred, quietly again. The quiet disturbed me. Alfred’s usually the kind of guy who’s quiet in a way that lets you know he has a lot to say. But here… like I said, disturbing.
I pushed the door open and entered.
Bruce stood at the other end of the room, both hands gripping the marble countertop. He stared forward, his back to me.
“You came quickly.” His voice was flat. Controlled. He still hadn’t turned to face me.
Pressure in my chest. The weight of unspoken things. I felt exactly how I did at the end. I wanted to yell. I came for the poor kid you replaced me with, not you.
“What the hell is happening?” I asked.
Bruce turned around, still avoiding eye contact. He looked… fine. Tired. But he’s always tired. That’s the thing about Bruce. You can feel his emotions sometimes, radiating off him, but you’ll never see them. His face never betrays them. Younger me admired that level of control.
Now it just freaks me out.
“Five days ago,” he began, “Jason was exposed to Scarecrow’s fear toxin.” Oh. “A highly potent dose. I administered the antidote as soon as I could, but it had already entered his system. The hallucinations had started.”
A pause. The silence was heavier in person.
“Generally, once the antidote is administered, it takes one— maybe two days for the mind to stabilise.”
“Five days…” I repeated.
Bruce nodded. “He’s still intensely paranoid. Violently so. He refuses to allow myself or Alfred into his room. He—“ His jaw tightened. A rare visible crack in the armor. “He’s threatened to hurt himself if we get near him.” The knot in my gut twisted.
His eyes finally met mine. “He says he’ll only talk to you.”
“Me?” I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Neither could Bruce, clearly. He studied me.
“Have you two spoken before?”
“Not without Batman present.” I answered.
“Hm.” He stroked the stubble on his chin pensively. “I need you to talk to him. Get a better understanding of what exactly he’s experiencing. And check his pupils. If they’re still dilated, then the toxin hasn’t been expelled from his system yet. But it will.”
“If they’re not?” I dreaded the inevitable answer.
Bruce’s gaze grew colder. “Permanent damage is possible.”
Those words hung in the air, lowering the room temperature.
Sitting here now, my brain is flooded with a dozen follow-up questions I should have asked. But everything about the situation had me thrown off my game completely.
“Ok.”
That’s all I managed.
Alfred was waiting in the hall. He led me upstairs, once again without a word. I can't express how odd and disquieting that was. We walked past my old bedroom door (bummer) and down through the east wing.
When we reached Jason's door, the old man gently gripped my shoulder, gave me a long, steadying look and nodded before walking back through the route we had just taken down the stairs.
Alone in front of the door. The air felt heavy.
I knocked gently.
“Jason?” I called, “It’s Dick.”
No response. I tried to keep my tone as gentle as possible.
“Is it ok if I open the d—“
“Are they there!?”
It startled me. His voice was high pitched and manic, stripped of its usual forced bravado and sardonic flippancy. It was also muffled, both by the door and by something else I would later learn was a bedsheet.
“Alfred and Bruce are downstairs.” Gentle. Soft. Stay calm. “It’s just us.”
“…You promise?”
God. Just a kid.
“Promise.” I said.
I heard a shaky breath behind the door.
“Wait five seconds after the door unlocks. Then come in and lock the door behind you. Five seconds!”
“Got it,” I replied, “five seconds.”
From behind the door, I heard the creak of an old bed, then the frantic scuffling of bare feet on hardwood, followed by the click of the lock. Then the sounds played again in reverse. The scuffling, this time faster. The creak.
My hand gripped the cold brass doorknob. I began the count.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Fuck.
Five.
I opened the door and stepped inside. Immediately, I understood why Alfred was so shaken.
The curtains were drawn tight, suffocating the room in thick shadow. The room itself was a wreck. Broken mirror shards littered the floor. A bedside lamp had been smashed, leaving a dent in the wall. The dresser stood crooked, almost perpendicular to the wall, like he had tried to use it as a barricade but realised it was too heavy to move all the way to the door and gave up.
Jason had cocooned himself under the sheets and blankets on the bed. He was rhythmically muttering something I couldn’t make out under his breath.
Slowly, carefully, I reached behind me and locked the door, as promised. The lock was much louder than I thought it would be, which startled me. I jumped slightly, my boots crunching on the broken glass.
The muttering stopped.
“You’re sure they didn’t follow you?” asked the mound of blankets on the bed.
“I’m sure.”
“I guess he doesn’t need to.” His voice went smaller. “He’ll hear us on the microphones anyway.”
The knot in my stomach grew cold as it twisted tighter. I felt the urge to push back on that. Assure the kid he wasn’t being spied on. But that wouldn’t go over well. I couldn’t risk ending the conversation before it began.
“Can I turn on the light?” I asked instead.
“No!” So much panic in his voice.
“Ok,” I soothed, “that’s ok.” I tried to maintain my composure. I felt like I was already fucking this up. “I’m going to move closer to you now. Let me know if you don’t want that.”
Silence. I took that as permission.
The floor creaked and glass cracked as I made my approach. He was muttering again. Singing, almost. This time I was close enough to make out the words:
There was a tailor had a mouse,
Hi diddle um come feed-al.
They lived together in one house,
Hi diddle um come feed-al.
My breath shook as it passed through me.
“You sound scared.” Jason observed.
I swallowed hard.
“Well,” I said carefully, “I’m in a dark room of a creepy old mansion with a kid singing nursery rhymes.”
The kid let out a snort under the covers, which loosened my shoulders by a hair. I crouched beside the bed.
“You know you don’t have to hide from me, right?” I coaxed. “I already know your secret identity.” Keeping the tone light seemed like the right play.
“I’m not coming out.”
“C’mon. It’ll be easier to talk.”
The cocoon on the bed stilled.
“I don’t want to be seen.”
The smashed mirror. Jesus. Poor kid. The toxin was running roughshod on his deepest insecurities.
“It’s dark in here.” I said softly. “I won’t see you. Don’t worry.”
“The cameras can see in the dark.” Like it was obvious.
The knot twisted again.
“You think Bruce has cameras in here?” I couldn’t stop concern from bleeding into my voice.
“And microphones.” He sounded embarrassed. Like he knew he sounded insane while convinced he was telling the truth. “I looked for them, but he hid them too well.”
I didn’t know what to say. The silence stretched on for longer than it should.
“You don’t believe me.”
“Jason.” I needed to tread carefully. “I know what this toxin does. How it feels. The burning sweat. The hallucinations. The paranoia. It’s hard to know what’s real.”
“The toxin has passed.” His voice sharpened.
“It can make you think that. But I—“
“It’s not making me think anything anymore. Didn’t you hear me, you fucking idiot?”
“I’m just trying to explain—“
“I’m just trying to explain that the toxin shit is over!”
Frustration and anger flared in my chest. Something about circular arguments just set me off. Probably because Bruce alwa I snapped before I could stop myself.
“Then why are you still in here, Jason? Do you think this is normal?”
I regretted the words as soon as they left my tongue. Under the sheets, Jason was still, breathing loud and slow.
“…I don’t want things to go back to normal,” he finally answered, “that’s why I’m still here.”
That stopped me.
“What does that mean?”
Silence. Heavy. Deliberate. Pointed. This kid has been hanging around Bruce too much.
“Jason?”
The blankets shifted. Then, the quiet singing started again:
The tailor thought the mouse was ill,
Hi diddle um come feed-al,
He gave him half of a blue pill,
Hi diddle um come feed-al.
“Jason!” I snapped again, this time from fear. “Sorry. Fuck. I’m not doing very well here.” Focus. The mission. “Bruce said you asked for me. Why’s that?”
The boy fidgeted nervously under the covers. Then it came:
“Why did you leave?”
The question hit me like a ton of bricks. Not because I hadn’t thought about it before. God knows I had, constantly. And I still didn’t have a good answer.
“I dunno,” I admitted, leaning against the side of the bed, staring uselessly into the darkness, “At the beginning things were so… fun. We had so much fun. Me and Bruce.”
The cocoon on the bed stayed still. I rambled on.
“We were like brothers. Best friends, almost. But as time went on…” I hesitated, rubbing the back of my neck. “I don’t know if was the weight of the job getting to him, or if it was something about me that changed but…” I searched for the right words. “We grew apart.”
Jason’s breathing had softened. He was listening intently.
“I didn’t want a father at first,” I continued. “I already had one, y’know? It felt wrong to replace him. But as time went on, I think I needed one. And Bruce couldn’t be that for me. I think I started resenting him for that.”
I took a moment to slowly exhale after that one. Then continued rambling, unable to stop the words from coming out.
“There’s no big thing that happened, really. We just…” I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see it. “Like I said. Grew apart. On my eighteenth birthday I told him I was leaving. And he let me.”
Still, expectant silence. The kid wanted more.
“That was it. He didn’t say a thing… I think if he said like, anything I’d have stayed. But when he just sat there…” I shook my head, remembering. “I realised I made the right call. I was so sick of him not saying things.”
I didn’t know if that was what he wanted to hear, but I felt an odd, slight peace after saying all that. Until the silence was broken, from under the sheets, unbearably small:
“…You had fun?”
Like it had never occurred to him as a possibility.
“Yeah,” I said softly.
Another long silence, once again broken by the cocoon, but this time the voice was darker:
“He wants me dead.”
It shocked me. How suddenly he flipped. The conviction with which he spoke.
“Jason, that’s not—“
“He’s not trying to kill me.” The kid spoke manically, like he needed to get the words out as quick as possible. “I know that now. It was making me think that. He’d never do it ‘cos of his stupid ‘code.’” His voice cracked slightly. “But he’s waiting for me to die.”
The knot in my gut was causing me physical pain.
“That’s why he set up the cameras. He wants to see it when I do the job for him.” He raised his voice, for the microphones: “But I won’t.”
Christ.
“Jason…” Careful. God, be careful. “Have you thought about suicide before?”
The blankets shifted.
“I think about it a lot,” he said. Casually.
My chest went tight.
“Not wanting to, he clarified. “Just thinking about it. Seeing it.” A pause. “Then sometimes I want to.”
“And Bruce said you threatened to hurt yourself if he came near you. Have you ever hurt yourself, or thought about it?”
“Same deal.” Casual again. “Mostly just picturing it.”
Mostly.
I felt in over my head.
“That’s scary to hear.”
Jason didn’t respond.
“Have you ever talked to Bruce about—“
I was cut off by a short, joyless laugh that made me feel dumb.
“Well,” I said awkwardly, “Alfred was always there to lend an ear for me.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “And I know we’re not exactly close, but if you ever need somebody to talk to—”
“Oh, fuck off. You hate me.”
I blinked. “No I don’t.”
“Yes you do. And you’ve never tried to hide it either.” His voice had sharpened with certainty. Then, with an odd fondness: “I like that about you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Bruce, Alfred, Barbara,” he continued, “they all pretend they can stand me.” Bitterness bled through every word. “But you? The second you first saw me in your suit.” He laughed darkly. “The anger. The hatred. Pure disgust. It was actually refreshing. Real.”
A wave of guilt and shame instantly hit me. I felt nauseous.
“I—” I stammered, pausing to collect myself. I dragged a hand through my hair. I couldn’t mess this up. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about how you must’ve felt. The anger wasn’t for you. I was angry about the situation.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jason’s voice wavered, his fury was the only thing fighting back the tears. “I’ve been a ‘situation’ my whole fuckin’ life. For teachers, social workers, my mom.” He spat the words out bitterly. “Something they had to put up with. Work around. Abandon.”
I let him go on. He needed this out.
“Same as it’s always fucking been,” he continued, voice shaking harder. “Only now my bed’s bigger.” A ragged inhale. “He tried turning me into you, A good boy who does what he’s told. Now he’s given up.”
The darkness suddenly felt crushing. The gigantic bedroom (bigger than my apartment) felt claustrophobic. He wasn’t done:
“Toxin or no toxin,” Jason said, quiet again, “he’s waiting for me to die. I know it in my fucking bones. And when I do, I’ll be replaced, just like you were.”
Awful, humiliating silence stretched on and on as I impotently searched for something to say.
“I’m not in here because of some nightmare,” he said.
I leaned closer instinctively.
“I’m here because I woke up… and I was still in one.”
I felt sick.
“Jason,” I began carefully, “I promise Bruce is not spying on you. He doesn’t want you dead. Nobody wants that. He just…” I sighed. “He can’t be what you need him to be. I know how hard that is. But once this toxin clears, you’re gonna feel better than you do right now. Trust me.”
“Whatever.” Jason’s voice went flat again. He sounded exhausted. “Just go.”
Without really thinking about it, I reached out and rested a hand gently against the blanket over his arm. I froze for a second, waiting for him to pull away.
He didn’t, which probably comforted me more than I was comforting him.
“I wish we were closer,” I admitted. “That’s on me. From now on, I’m gonna be there, ok? If you need someone to talk to, or if you just wanna get outta the Manor for a bit…” I smiled faintly into the dark. “I got an uncomfortable futon in Blüdhaven with your name on i—“
The bed shook violently as Jason suddenly jerked under the covers. I yanked my hand away, startled, worried that I caused a delayed reaction by touching him.
“Listen!” he whispered.
I did.
Nothing, save for his laboured panting.
“The buzzing.” He was trembling, voice raw with panic. “The microphones. They’re buzzing. Don’t you hear that?”
I returned my hand to a rough estimate of where his shoulder was under the sheets. Gently, I said “No Jason. There’s no buzzing.”
Silence. I could sense the gears in his head turning.
“Bruce said the antidote only takes a day to work.”
“It can be longer sometimes,” I assured him. “If you let me check your pupils, we could know for sure whether—”
“No. I don’t wanna come out.” His voice shrank. “I’m ugly.”
My chest hurt.
“I don’t think anybody’s ugly,” I said, softly. “Certainly not enough to hide their face from the world.” A little corny but it felt like the right thing to say.
“That’s stupid shit adults say to feel good about themselves.”
I laughed, despite myself.
“You know what I thought when I first saw you?”
No answer.
“‘Damn, that kid is way cooler than I ever was.’”
“Shut up.”
His tone was much lighter than it had been in several minutes, I had to keep it there.
“I swear on my life,” I said. “Something about your attitude. I was like, ‘If he hits me with one cutting remark it’s over for me.’ I was afraid of you.”
The shaky laugh he let out was like a glass of cold water in the desert.
The mission.
“Can I check your pupils, Jason?” I asked again. “Please?”
His breathing went uneven again. The fear was radiating off him, strong enough for me to feel it through the dark.
“…Ok.”
But even then he didn’t move, still wrapped tight in the cocoon. I had to keep him talking.
“That song you were singing,” I said casually. “It seemed to calm you down. What is it?”
The blankets started stirring slowly. As Jason started emerging, he spoke in a low ramble, like talking made the movement easier.
“It’s called ‘The Tailor and the Mouse.’ Alfred’s got like a thousand records by this lady, Shirley Collins.” He pushed the blankets down enough for me to finally see the outline of his face in the darkness. “Gotta crazy high voice. She does folk songs and stuff. This one’s been stuck in my head for ages.”
He sat up inch by inch, looking straight down, avoiding eye contact.
“It’s about this guy who lives with a mouse,” he continued. “In some verses he’s trying to kill it. In others he’s like, taking care of it.”
“Sounds weird and cool,” I said.
He shrugged.
Alright, here we go:
“It’s very dark in here,” I warned. “And I know you don’t want the light on, so I’ll have to get really close to your face to see your pupils. Is that ok?”
Jason hesitated, then nodded anxiously.
I leaned in slowly. As I closed in, I was finally able to get a proper look at him. His black hair was messy and greasy. His face was slick with sweat. His cheeks looked hollow. I’d never seen anyone look so exhausted.
“How does it end?” I asked quietly as I leaned closer still. “The song.”
He still wouldn’t meet my eyes.
The tailor saw the mouse was dead,
Hi diddle um come feed-al
Then, finally, his eyes met mine.
His pupils were enormous. Pure black. Fully dilated.
So he bought another one in his stead,
Hi diddle um come feeeeeeed-allllllllll
___________
The bright overhead lights shone oppressively in the kitchen, illuminating every weary line in Alfred’s face, and the flecks of gray at Bruce’s temples. It felt like being in a situation room, briefing the president about a catastrophe he inadvertently caused.
I leaned against the counter opposite Bruce, arms folded tight across my chest, and recounted the whole encounter, leaving out very little.
Bruce listened without interrupting, face expressionless yet anything but blank. Alfred stood near the sink, bracing himself against the countertop with one hand.
When I finished, Bruce brought his hand to his chin, slowly exhaling.
“So,” he said, low and controlled, “the toxin will clear soon.” As if that was the matter sorted.
I snapped.
“Have you been fucking listening to me?” I shot back.
Bruce blinked once. Otherwise his face didn’t move.
“Dick—“
“No. Seriously.” I pushed away from the counter, moving closer to him. “Jason is going through a mental health crisis. He might be a danger to himself.”
“The toxin—”
“The toxin is making it worse,” I interrupted. I had no time for anything he would say. “It’s not creating this out of nowhere. This stuff was already there, Bruce. The toxin just ripped the skin off it. The kid needs someone to talk to. A professional.”
“He could talk to you or Alfred if he needs to.”
“He needs a doctor, Bruce.”
“Leslie could—”
“Leslie is not a psychiatrist.” I stopped myself abruptly. The next part sat in my throat, ugly and heavy.
But he needed to hear it.
“He needs someone he can trust.” I said, lowering my tone. “Someone who won’t report back to you.”
Silence.
A rare one that Bruce had no control over. His face didn’t betray it, naturally, but I could tell he was thrown.
“Master Dick is correct.” said Alfred. His grip on the countertop seemed more load-bearing than it had a few minutes ago. “It’s what the boy needs.”
Bruce’s eyes flicked between us.
“Bringing in someone from the outside,” he said after deliberation, “means risking our identities.” He was slipping into The Voice. I clenched my fists to stop myself from rolling my eyes. “If Jason talks about… what we do, and that person goes to the authorities, everyone connected to this becomes vulnerable. Alfred. Barbara. Leslie. Lucius. You.”
I shook my head.
“It doesn’t have to come to that.”
“But it could,” said Batman.
I didn’t hesitate.
“Then we take the risk.”
The room went still.
“If it’s Jason’s immediate wellbeing or our identities?” I said, firm and resolute. “I’m willing to risk it. And I’m pretty sure everyone else would be too.”
We locked eyes, staring at each other head on silently like we had just weighed in for a boxing match.
He looked away first, and when he spoke, he was Bruce again.
“I knew he was… struggling,” he admitted, quietly. His brow furrowed faintly. “I just… I didn’t know it had gotten this bad.”
Hearing emotion bleed into his voice and seeing his face move, even slightly, was jarring. Uncomfortable.
“He never tells me anything.” He stared at a spot on the floor.
“Because he doesn’t trust that you’ll be there for him the way he needs,” I replied. The words came out harsher than intended, but they were true, and he could take it.
Bruce nodded slowly.
“You’re right,” he said, gaze not diverting from the spot on the floor. “I can’t…” He seemed lost for words. “I can’t be the person he needs.”
I let that sit for a few seconds. Part of me was proud of him for saying that.
He looked at me again.
“Is that why you left?” he asked. “Did I make your life a ‘nightmare’ too?”
My stomach dropped.
“I never told you Jason said that.”
Bruce didn’t blink.
“He’s been screaming that at me through the door for days, Dick.” he replied, as if he was stating the obvious. “I assume he said the same thing to you.”
The tension vanished in an instant. Embarrassment flushed across my face. I shook my head quickly.
“Right,” I muttered sheepishly.
The paranoia was dissolved, but it had left behind a lingering unease. One I couldn’t, and still can’t, shake.
Because for that split second…
I believed it.
The conversation died not long afterward. Bruce went down to the cave to work on some case. Alfred saw me out, and told me to not wait for another emergency before visiting again.
And now I’m here, in my apartment, writing this.
I keep thinking I hear it. This low, constant, electrical hum.
Buzzing.
Maybe it was always there and I never noticed it before. Shitty wiring in the building. Something like that.
Maybe I got too much of Jason’s toxic sweat on me and got an extremely low dose of Fear Toxin.
Maybe I just haven’t slept and my brain is fried and playing tricks on me.
Maybe all three.
But every time I stop writing and listen for it, it gets a little louder.