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Summary
He wraps himself tighter in the gray wool blanket, begging for feeling to come back to his numb fingers, to his apathetic head. He supposes that he should be grateful that he feels nothing right now. The alternative would hurt too much, like a dagger to the heart, but it’s a poisoned blade, and he knows that as soon as he lets it in, it’s going to consume him.
What consumes him now is the cold. It spreads from the tips of his ears to his toes. He distantly registers that it’s summer, that the air outside is ripe with a humidity that threatens to boil him alive. Maybe it will boil him alive, reduce him down to nothing but red hot blistered skin and cooked flesh.
Or
The one in which Dick Grayson puts on the performance of a lifetime