Chapter Text
It’s been a bad night.
The kind of night that has him jittery and strung out and half-crazed in a way that only roof-diving ever really helps.
It’s the type of night that makes him wish his stupid brain would just stop thinking for a little while, when he most wishes everything would stop for even a second to just breathe, let him have just that little bit of time to calm himself and stop being dramatic and acting like he has it any worse than anyone else in this family.
They all have nightmares, it comes with the business.
But it’s a bad night and Dick is a pathetic little man who can’t help but get lost in himself when he doesn’t have something guiding him, grounding him.
So he stays out on patrol for a longer time than he should. Sits on the roofs of buildings and free falls and flies, and maybe he’s a little compromised. Maybe being out and about isn’t a good idea. But Dick has been dealing with bad nights, worse nights, ‘okay’ nights, and ‘I’m going to scream and explode from the inside out’ nights since he was little.
He’s learned by now that while patrolling doesn’t really help all the time, it leaves him feeling useful, needed.
It’s something at least.
And it may not be the healthiest coping mechanism, but at least he’s helping others. Even, and especially, when he can’t help himself.
He patrols, flying across Gotham’s rooftops until he feels close to passing out from exhaustion. All because sometimes hiding away brings just as much anxiety as being around people on these nights. The tightly coiled panic, guilt, and worry leaving him slipping underwater no matter which option he chooses. The one where he chooses to be selfish, or the one where he pretends he’s well-rested and runs himself into the ground.
It might not be the healthiest way to go about it and he knows it, somewhere in the very back of his scattered and damaged mind, but he was raised by an emotionally crippled man who chose to run around in a bat costume as his coping mechanism instead of dealing with everything normally. So really, Dick thinks he’s actually doing pretty well for himself in comparison.
He hasn’t died yet at least, so he has to be doing something right.
(Dyingdyingdyingdying, a pill, and a bomb and a heartbeat that stops and restarts in minutes. Death? No death? It’s not quite so clear anymore.)
So maybe he’s a little bit scattered and frantic at times. Whenever he catches a flash of red or orange, or when he thinks he smells gunpowder, or catches the scent of freshly fallen rain or feels the rain pouring down on him and gets lost somewhere that isn't in the here and now. And it’s possible he’s being a bit harsher on those he runs into tonight than he normally would be, but Oracle hasn’t commented on it yet and no one else is patrolling tonight—barring Red Hood, but he’s on the other side of town—so he’s fine. He has it handled, he’s doing perfectly fine.
He really is. Honest.
He's doing just great, or at the very least he’s doing a fantastic job of pushing everything else aside. Until, of course, he comes across a woman who’s crowding a teenager against a wall with wandering hands. And maybe he would ignore it, give them privacy. He doesn't like getting involved with horny people on the streets, not unless he sees something shady going on.
But the thing is it does look shady. The woman looks old enough to be the kid's mother and he looks so scared. Dazed and trembling, as if he’s been dropped into Gotham harbor during the winter. And, barely visible in the night lighting, the woman’s hands are holding a syringe to the teen's arm.
And Nightwing moves before he can think, terror and anger bursting through his veins.
He drops down into the alley with them, grin painted onto his face and teeth so close to grinding together, “Hey guys! I hope I’m not interrupting anything here, just wanted to ask if either of you have any suggestions for a side hobby? Because I’ve been meaning to get one but, well, you look like you could use one more than me, lady.”
The woman is conventionally beautiful, brown hair that’s dark enough to look black in the dim lighting, tan skin and dark brown eyes and pretty lips painted scarlet. But her face twists into an angry snarl that she can’t stop and it ruins any thought that she’s as sweet or beautiful as she looks.
Her pretty brown eyes are so wrong, shining with anger and malice so sharp it bleeds him dry of breath. And there’s lust there, so bright it burns, and it makes him want to be sick. She’s dangerous and maybe deadly. And it’s familiar in a way that makes his heart stop and tear itself open with a thousand different weapons.
But the teenager is still there, a boy who can’t be older than sixteen, and his arm is held fast in the woman’s hands, bleeding slightly where her nails are digging in and holding him still for the needle held in her manicured hand.
A needle that's ready to push something that’s deadly in a way that doesn’t kill the body but the heart and the mind, (because with the way the woman’s eyes rake across Dick and the way her eyes roamed over the kid before he interfered, it isn’t hard to guess what she was planning on doing. All it takes to make someone pliant is a sedative and a strong enough conviction to ignore the no that a person utters with a frantic mind and a too slow, unresponsive body), into the teen’s bloodstream.
And Dick can see the slight glaze in the kid’s eyes that suggests a concussion and the short, sharp breathing that suggests a panic attack and he needs to get the kid out of here now.
So he does what he does best and he smiles, wide and bright, and makes her focus on him. Because if she’s focusing on him then she’s not paying attention to the kid.
And the woman looks at him, clad in black and red that’s skin tight and a smile wide enough to fall into. And she goes from angry to catlike, (he hates associating something so very Selina Kyle with this vile woman,) giving him that same slow, up and down look that makes his skin crawl and his heart stutter.
He hates that she thinks that she’ll be able to get her way out of this by flirting with him.
“Why! If it isn’t Nightwing himself!” She smiles wide and fake, “What a pleasure, I was just giving my son his medicine, he forgot to take it you see, and I didn’t want something bad to happen to him.” She smirks at him, “Once I finish up though, you are more than welcome to be my hobby for tonight.”
Her teeth are barred in an approximation of a smile, sharp and predatory and vicious.
He grins back, fake and fragile and half-way to desperate to just get her away from the kid, “No thanks lady, the offer is nice and all, but I really think you should step away from the kid.”
She doesn’t, predictably, and he subdues her and asks Oracle to call it in while he comforts the kid.
The whole interaction leaves him feeling wrong, even after she’s picked up by the police. Leaves him with the need to crawl out of his skin, like a rash spreading over his mind; itching, burning, and clawing at him until he wants to scream.
He doesn’t though.
He breathes in deep and carries on with patrol, listening to Oracle’s voice in his ear like it’s the only thing keeping him moving.
(It is.)
He finishes late, stumbles into the cave, like a child tripping over their feet when walking for the first time.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, Alfred stares at him disapprovingly, but the old butler stays quiet even as he tends to Dick’s injured shoulder, (only dislocated but Alfred always seems to be able to tell when he’s trying to hide an injury), Bruce is asleep for once.
Good, that’s—that’s good.
Even though it's been months since he got back from his venture through time—and fuck Dick still needs to apologize to Tim, he needs to tell him how sorry he is. (He’s put it off for so long, never knowing the right words other than the pleading, begging, babbling sorry that seems to be the only thing he ever says to any of his baby brothers anymore. Pathetic)—Bruce has been high-strung, still distant and unsure of how to fit himself back into the lives of his kids. It hadn't gotten any better in the time Dick had been gone and it's a little worrying.
Maybe if he just tried talking to them. Something, anything other than act like they mean nothing to him. But that has never been Batman's—or Bruce Wayne's—way.
Some rest would do the older man good, or at least Dick hopes it will.
The good thing about getting in at 4 in the morning is that no one really expects you to fall asleep, which is wonderful for him because he honestly doesn’t think he can despite how tired he is.
It’s okay though, he’s done this before, he’s kept himself held together after a hard patrol before, hell he’s held himself together through worse and with less.
He’s fine.
He’s always fine.
Still, hitting the gym won’t hurt.
He changes out of his Nightwing costume, slipping into loose-fitting clothes because he doesn’t think he can handle anything really pressing down on his skin at this point. The itchy, wrong feeling is still too close to the surface of his skin for him to be comfortable in form-fitting clothes.
He breathes, deep and steady and calm.
As he exhales, he feels a little bit of the anxious flighty feeling settle in his chest. Dick shuts off the light and makes his way up to the Manor and to the gym. A run should help him settle more, get rid of the detached, flighty feeling.
(Poisonous, his mind whispers, the woman’s gaze on him again, predatory and cruel. Poisonous, it whispers, as it reminds him of all the ways he’s failed his little brothers, of all the ways he’s failed, Bruce.
Poisonous, his mind whispers, as another voice speaks to him, ‘shhh querido’. And the rain falls down around him.)
Really he wants to do a routine, go flying, but Alfred had told him, very firmly, ‘No flying until the arm was better healed’, which means another week or two at least.
So running it was.
He’s only on the treadmill for maybe an hour before Damian comes to get him.
The little bird narrows his eyes at him and scoffs, “Pennyworth requests your presence at breakfast.”
And Dick grins as he gets off the treadmill, “Awwww you sure you don’t just wanna eat breakfast with me Dami?”
Damian flushes, turning around and calling out over his shoulder, “Come, Richard! Pennyworth must not be kept waiting!” walking back out the way he entered, though much quicker than before.
Dick smiles to himself as he follows him out. He stops by his room and changes into another pair of loose-fitting clothing before heading down the stairs, stomach grumbling as he smells Alfred’s cooking.
When he gets to the table, Damian is in the middle of eating a pancake and Bruce is drinking coffee while reading the newspaper, no one else is in the Manor today other than them, but Dick still grins at the scene.
He plops himself down in the chair across from Damian with a bright “Morning!” and puts some food on his own plate, digging in.
After he finishes his first waffle he looks up at Dami and asks, “So how’s school going?”
His little brother wrinkles his nose, “Acceptable enough, though it remains just as annoying to attend as before.”
He laughs, “That’s great Dami!” and he thinks he sees Bruce smile just a little.
It’s nice.
It’s good.
Soon they’ll go about their days but for now, they’re here and it’s good.
(He can’t make himself finish anything other than that one waffle though, can’t manage to eat anything else with the nausea that rolls around his stomach. Instead, he spends the rest of breakfast speaking animatedly with his hands and sipping on some water.
They don’t notice it.
He doesn’t know why he’s disappointed)
He goes through the week in a pattern that he has long grown familiar with. It's the pattern he follows after something brings up the bad things, the same pattern he followed after Mirage, the same pattern he followed after Tarant—Blockbuster, after Blockbuster.
The same pattern he followed after he ‘died’.
(Didn’t he though? He was dead for only a minute, but it was real enough for him. He died, his heart stopped, he stopped breathing, he died hediedhedied.
But so have his brothers and they never threw fits over people talking about their deaths, Jason notwithstanding (and even that was more about the Joker still being alive after everything he's done). Dick's fine, he is, he didn’t even stay dead for very long.
Only a minute. Just a minute.)
Breathe, smile, train, patrol, repeat.
Do not sleep for too long, don’t let the nightmares creep in, and if they do then be quiet, stay silent.
Breathe.
(shhh mi amor, quiet querido.)
Smile.
(You should’ve known she wasn’t me! I know how you move, how you breathe.)
Train.
(You didn’t even really die! You let us think you were dead and all for a mission. You really are Just. Like. Him)
Patrol.
(I’m never. going. to. stop.)
Repeat.
It keeps him stable, it keeps him alive.
(It keeps him safe, it leaves him drowning. He’s glad they can’t tell, he wants them to notice.
God he’s a mess.)
And it works, kind of.
He’s okay, he’s not freaking out over things so much. He is getting some sleep.
(He pointedly doesn’t think of the memories that slipped in last night, when he was too tired to keep going. The feeling of rain on his skin, the horror upon realizing it wasn’t Kori. Feeling like a pathetic thing because it was years and years ago, he's almost 29 and he still can't get over himself and the knowledge writhes under his skin and in the back of his head like a parasite, sinking its teeth in and draining all the life out of him.)
And soon this horrible feeling will go away and he’ll be okay again.
(It was so fucking long ago why does he still think about it during these moments, when every memory he has that isn't amazing suddenly becomes the new entertainment, all because he has a new one for the collection.)
Or at the very least, he'll be okay until another one of the bad nights, until something sets him off again, and he slips into this familiar pattern of being okay and smiling.
(Pushing trauma away doesn't help they say, it all just collects interest in the corner of your mind and every time a new deposit is added you get a little reminder of every other time you felt useless or weak or dirty or wrong or terrified and eventually it will all break.)
He’s so tired of smiling.
(Nothing is working anymore, his old methods of getting through this no longer help, leave him feeling worse and more drained and remembering more about the last few times he had to go through these steps than he likes.
It terrifies him. Without these methods to cope then what does he have other than his useless little mind and body and the memories that come with it?)
He runs into Jason on a bad night, for him or for Jay he isn’t sure. But if he was being honest with himself, neither of them have been having a good night.
Mostly because no one in his family has ever properly taken care of their mental health, a side effect from hanging around Bruce. Shit mental health and bad brain days are paired with the habit of making it worse for themselves through their own actions, it's not pretty.
And, though usually the best adjusted of them all, Dick Grayson is no exception, and he slips out into the city that night for patrol.
He hadn’t meant to run into Jason, he just hadn’t been able to calm himself at all that day no matter what he did and decided another long patrol was needed. But one of the cases he was closing seemed to have popped up onto Jason’s radar as well, because here he was. His little brother clad in his Red Hood gear, standing before him with his body tense and angry, fingers clenched tight on his gun’s handle.
Jason still hasn’t forgiven him for faking his death.
(Was it fake? Real? He doesn’t know anymore, all he knows is the feeling of a pill shoved into his throat and being unable to breathe. Slipping under, falling into the blackness.)
He wants to say something before the other inevitably leaves and the chance to speak slips away again.
He tries, but the words won't leave his throat, so he stays there, smile plastered on his face as he watches Jason and waits for his little brother to do something, say something.
Eventually, Jason growls, cursing and turning away.
Nightwing almost lurches forward then, finally speaking, “Hood—”
But Jason cuts him off, spinning back around with a strangled hiss.
“Stop.”
Dick tenses as the younger snarls at him, vicious and angry enough that he can hear it even with the voice modulator in Jay’s helmet, “Would you stop fucking smiling all the goddamn time! You fucking asshole. You don’t get to run around as if everything is fine and dandy. This whole ‘I’ll smile and everything will be forgiven’ thing you’re pulling? Yeah, it’s not gonna fucking work. Not on me, not on Pretender, hell the only people it will work on are Daddy dearest and the Demon Spawn.”
Dick flinches, feeling as if someone had punched him in the stomach and stolen the breath from his lungs.
He holds his hands up placatingly and fights against the itch under his skin and the nausea that floods through him, “Hood that isn’t—I don’t—I’m not—”
“Save it Nightwing.” Jason huffs, “I don’t need to deal with this right now, I really don't. Just go fuck off and play big brother with the little Demon.”
Dick tries to answer, but he barely opens his mouth before he hears Oracle speaking through the comms, “Nightwing, Red Hood, you need to head over to the Docks, Red Robin needs some help with a bust and you guys have the closest ETA.”
Jason growls, low and agitated as he retreats beneath the Red Hood persona and responds to Oracle, “What’s the baby bird gotten himself into now?”
Oracle's mechanical voice gives no hint of emotion as she responds, “RR was breaking up a trafficking scheme by himself and didn’t account for the fact that he was running on fumes, again.”
Dick sighs, it was a familiar pattern with Tim unfortunately, while normally he was rather observant and knew when (objectively) he needed help on a case, he tended to forget about things like sleep, food, and self-care when consumed by a case. Dick and Bruce did the same thing to an extent, but Tim tended to research and go in completely on his own, only asking for help on big busts, which this obviously hadn’t been considered.
His family is a fucking mess, and yes Dick is self-aware enough to acknowledge he’s being a hypocrite but still, is it too much to ask for them to have some semblance of self-care?
He narrows his eyes as he listens to Oracle’s instructions, grabbing his grapple and swinging over the quiet—but never sleeping, not completely, Gotham is rarely ever asleep—city. He makes his way to the docks, eyes trained on Jason’s—Red Hood’s—larger form in front of him.
It’s always Jason he messes up with the most. Jason and Tim, the two of his brothers that he wronged the most with his inability to word his thoughts correctly, articulate his emotions in the right way.
And Bruce—well, best not think about that for now.
After all, he has a little brother to help take care of right now and another who he has to try and explain things to better, word things differently.
They land atop a building, crouching in the alcove and listening as they get all the information on the situation they can. They can hear the sounds of a fight from where they rest, the noises obvious though not as loud as they could be, no gunshots, but both Nightwing and Red Hood know better than to assume that that means Red Robin is safe.
Nightwing tries for a grin, “Well at least we know he’s alive.”
Jason scoffs and the comm link picks it up now, Red Hood’s comm having linked up to Nightwing’s comm frequency despite the other man’s refusal to speak to him on the way over.
Oracle’s voice trickles in, “Red’s comm isn’t hooked up, or online, anymore. His comm got smashed a few minutes ago, but before that he let me know that he had gotten the victims out of the way of the traffickers there, but was unable to get them out before being overwhelmed, there aren’t any cameras or anything in the warehouse itself but from what RR told me I can give you an outline of who’s in there and what’s going on.”
Jason’s face isn’t visible behind his Red Hood helmet but the head tilt and the way his hands wander down towards his guns is enough of a warning for his next actions.
Red Hood leans forward onto the balls of his feet, “Thanks O but I’m more of a shoot first ask questions later kinda guy and, well, Babybird is already in there so what good would it do to wait around?”
And in through the window he goes.
Nightwing sighs, and responds with a quick “Sorry O”, before following his brother into the fray.
Red Hood smashes into the warehouse, guns blazing and filled with bitter rage. It shows in the way he takes out his opponents, more force packed within his punches than is necessary. The way he shoots not only to incapacitate but to hurt, bullets to kneecaps and shoulders and looking every bit the crime lord that he had established himself as. Nightwing slips in behind him, agile and graceful in a way he hasn’t lost in all the years since his parents taught him how to fly instead of fall.
He clenches his teeth, that’s a dangerous train of thought to be caught up in during the middle of a fight, and it almost costs him in the form of a punch to the ribs, but he ducks out of the way of the blow in time.
He wrinkles his nose as he continues his fluid takedown of the goons, raising his voice to be heard over the fighting, “Really Double R? You went into this without backup?”
He can hear Hood’s snort of laughter as he makes his way through his own group of thugs and it’s an improvement from earlier despite the current situation.
Red Robin throws him a quick, but very put out, look before ducking to avoid a blow and aiming a sweeping kick at the surrounding criminals' legs. He scowls as he avoids a hit from what looks to be a baton but could easily be a pipe, “Fuck off Nightwing I had it handled!”
He pauses as he takes a hit to the side and grunts from pain before pulling something, oh, a taser (vaguely—and somewhere in the parts of his memory not all screwy from the amalgamation of missions, spying, trauma, grief and all the other complicated feelings, thoughts, and the inability to do anything that made up all that he was—Dick think he recalls watching Tim work on it, during a quiet, peaceful night—though there aren’t a lot of those anymore—but that could just be wishful thinking and this might be an entirely different taser than the one he had watched his little brother fiddle with), and tasering the guy, continuing indifferently “Well, mostly at least.”
Hood scoffs, “Sure ya did baby bird, sure ya did, that’s why O had to call us in.”
Red Robin kicks a particularly irritating man in the balls and glares at Jason as best as he can while fighting, “Up yours Hood, you act like O hasn’t called us onto one of yours because you fucked up or didn’t anticipate correctly.”
The response is, predictably, Hood flipping the younger the finger, and for Nightwing's own sanity he raises his voice once again to be heard over their bickering, “Oh come on guys—”
Unfortunately neither Hood nor Red seemed to be in the mood to talk to him, or listen to him—not that either of them had done a lot of either action since Dick had returned from Spyral—because instead of turning to him during the brief lull in fighting, they turned towards the remaining grouping of people and dove headfirst into another round of fighting.
He barely stops himself from biting his lip, a bad habit for a crime fighter, and moves to join them when Oracle sounds off in his ear.
“Hey N?”
He almost wants to sigh in relief, “Yeah O?”
The mechanical voice continues on, “Double R directed the victims away but it would probably be best if you could get them out if you can, are you free to do so?”
“Yeah, Hood and RR have it covered, do you know where they are?”
There’s a huff over the link that translates to more of a crackle in the earpiece and Nightwing hisses at the unexpected noise.
“Sorry,” comes the quick apology, “I still don’t have eyes in there but before his comm went offline Red Robin was in the warehouse in one of the back rooms.”
Nightwing takes another quick look at the fight and watches as both his baby brothers overpower or defeat their various opponents, the fight will be over soon and he won’t be missed from this part of the operation.
“Lead the way my dear Oracle, we have some people to save.”
If he focuses hard enough, imagines just the right amount, slips away into his own head just enough, he thinks he might be able to hear Babs in the mechanized laugh that rings across the line for less than a second, more of a snort than actual laughter.
He misses her, even when she’s right in front of him he misses her, and she isn't even dead, no, just forever out of reach because of his own fuck-ups and mistakes.
His fault, and yet he still misses her.
He pulls himself out of the muddied place that is his head and allows Oracle to lead him to the last room Red Robin had been in before the fight began. The room is, predictably, locked and Nightwing is careful as he enters, inside he finds terrified and half-starved men, women, girls, and boys, teenagers and young adults and kids alike. No more than around 30 people in total, but none of them above the age of 40.
Most of the older ones are shaking and weak, some of them look to be drugged and none of them look well enough for a fight, but the older ones who are still able to stand place themselves in front of the younger children and those who are unable to move, defiant despite how beat down they are, still so scared and yet so determined to do something.
And Nightwing raises his hands, placating and careful, and when they recognize him, eyes no less wary and fierce, he begins to move forward slowly, speaking in a soft, calm tone.
“Hi there, I’m not here to hurt you guys, I’m gonna help you get out okay? My friend was here earlier, Red Robin? He and another friend of mine are taking care of the people who did this to you.” He swallows, breathes, continues despite the panic that sits in his chest, unwanted and unneeded and yet still there. Maybe the lack of sleep wasn’t as great of an idea as he had thought.
(A few of the young adults are men, dazed and confused and drugged, and he isn’t quite sure why this ring trafficks, but his guess is good enough, and the confusion present in their eyes is familiar enough, that it makes it hard to breathe, rain on his face or are those tears? and petrichor in the air, floral perfume and a weight on top of him.)
(Poisonous-no-stop-please, I just want it to Stop.)
He moves without really seeing or processing, just listening as the victims talk amongst themselves while he helps them get out of their bindings or helps them to stand. Listens without really hearing as the older of them comfort the children and teens, listens to them comfort themselves and their peers as he leads them to the door and out the back. Adrift in the hold of his mind as he focuses on his job, focuses on helping and trying not to feel the touch on his skin that he usually craves, the human contact he needs to keep from going crazy by himself now leaving him floating and not all there.
He tries not to hear how much each of them sounds like himself on some of the bad nights.
He finishes his job, gets them out, helps them and he leaves almost immediately afterward, not bothering to wait for either of his brothers.
He won’t let himself fall apart in front of them, not when there was nothing to fall apart over.
He shouldn’t have left them, he knows that, somewhere in the back of his head he knows that. He knows they’ll be curious or concerned or annoyed, but he couldn’t stay there, not with how he was. Shaking and dizzy, drifting and not all there, numb and cold with petrichor and perfume assaulting his senses, phantom touches ghosting over his body.
He still hasn’t stopped shaking.
He’s in his room at the Manor, standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom and staring at the bottle on the counter.
It’s only ibuprofen, just ibuprofen.
It’s not some unknown thing, nothing that’ll hurt him, just a standard painkiller to help with all the aches and pains. Alfred had asked him to remember to take it and he’s been trying to. He knows there’s nothing malicious about a tiny pill that will help with the pain.
And yet—.
And yet every time he takes one of the pills out of the bottle and goes to swallow it, he remembers a different pill. Forced down his throat for the good of everyone, choking him and leaving him gasping for air he couldn’t reach, swallowing around it until it finally went down and the hand over his mouth and nose went away, letting him breathe even as his heart stopped.
And he can never bring himself to take the ibuprofen.
It’s stupid, all the different reactions he’s been having lately shouldn’t be happening. The most frustrating thing about it is that there’s no reason either. He’s fine, he’s safe enough, and all of the things he keeps remembering happened so long ago now that they shouldn’t still be capable of doing this to him.
But they do and it makes him want to scream or cry.
Someone knocks at his bedroom door, and he shakes himself, picking the bottle of ibuprofen up and shoving it in the cabinet, maybe later then. He walks to the door unsteadily, leaning against it when he reaches it, resting his forehead against the wood of the door as he attempts to steady himself, mentally and physically.
“Who is it?” There’s silence for a second before he hears the soothing tone of Alfred’s voice.
“Just me Master Dick, it’s time for dinner if you would please make yourself known at the table.”
Despite everything Dick finds himself smiling just the tiniest bit at Alfred's words, he can practically feel the raised eyebrow through the door and it makes him think of when he was smaller and being stared down after doing something bad.
“Yeah Alfie, I’ll be down in a second.”
“Hurry along if you don’t mind, the food might get cold.” The reproach in his voice makes it clear that Alfred has both noticed and disapproves of his eating habits lately. Dick snorts as he listens to Alfred’s measured, and nearly silent, footsteps walk down the hall.
He stays where he is for a few seconds more, bringing his hands up to his face and pressing his palms against his eyes. And he stands there, silent and leaning against the door as he tried to calm himself and think of ways to get through the dinner. While it's unlikely all of his siblings will be there, Dick was worried his disappearing act would make Tim and Jason cautious, or think something was wrong with him.
(He doesn’t know anymore if something is wrong with him or not, he’s lost and he hates it and he can’t stop it, can’t stop anything happening to him. He just wants to be okay again.)
Was he ever really okay? The child vigilante (soldier?) who never learned how to help himself, always helping others instead.
He breathes in, deep, and holds it until he’s lightheaded, releasing the breath and steadying himself. He opens the door and tries not to feel like he’s walking to his execution.
It doesn’t really help.
By the time he makes it to the dining room he’s questioning his decision to come down at all but—well, no one disobeys Alfred. And he would’ve had to come down eventually anyway.
Not to mention it would’ve made the detectives in the house suspicious. Such is the peril of being around the Greatest Detective in the World (though Tim was rapidly closing in on and even surpassing Bruce for that title,) and his fellow vigilantes, all of whom were raised by said detective. Even the smallest things can tip them off.
He’s greeted by the sight of Bruce, Damian, and Tim at the table. The tension between them not as strong as it could be, but still visible in the way Tim stared blankly at Bruce and intently at Damian. Even in the way Damian couldn’t seem to decide if he was angry or not and just settled for ‘Vaguely irritated’. It was both amusing and worrying.
Tim doesn’t actually come to these dinners much anymore, Dick is fully convinced he doesn’t eat without someone actively reminding him to, and when he does it’s tense for one reason or another. Different from the rare times Jason comes to the Manor but tense all the same.
(Though both of them do still go to the Cave somewhat regularly for one reason or another—or at least Tim does. Jason is once again a rarer sight—and it’s an open secret that the two of them have rooms in the Manor they have unrestricted access to whenever they want. They make use of the rooms more often than they properly visit, but it’s enough for Alfred. Dick, and even Damian to see them every once in a while, even if Bruce still wants more from them.)
He flashes a grin around the table as he slides into his seat, and Tim is already throwing him a suspicious look but really, after bailing like that the only thing he can do is try and act normal enough to throw his little brother off.
It shouldn’t be too hard, after all, he’s been doing this for years now.
(Sometimes he wonders when being happy became so difficult to feel. When did he let this fog cloud his life and drag him down?
Maybe the first time he realized no matter what he did, he would never be able to save everyone? Was it the first time he realized that he was starting to need vigilantism in a dangerous way, growing to be the exact thing he never wanted to be? Becoming Batman. Or maybe it was when Bruce fired him and gave away his mother's name for him? The feeling of betrayal and loneliness that seemed to eat him from the inside out.
He's always been a social little creature, needing others more than they need him. Clinging and needy and pathetic.
Maybe it was always hidden under the surface and just waiting for the moment everything became too much, sweeping in and leaving him in a daze. This seems the most likely answer, while also being the one he dreads.
He’s always been a bit of a fuck-up, hasn’t he? He just forgot how much of one he was because he was young and still so unconditionally happy.
He’s gotten so tired now, so old, and he’s not even 40, hell he’s still barely 30.)
It’s an old song and dance he knows well, even when he slips he keeps going, hiding the hesitance and missteps with fancy footwork and distracting movements. Words twisting and spilling from his lips in a continuous stream of lie, lie, lie, loud, flashy, distract, don’t look at me, lie, lie, lie.
(He doesn’t know it, but for as good as he is at faking it, sometimes he doesn’t disguise the look in his eyes well enough, forgetful of the fact that his eyes have always been the most open of all of his family. And sharp-eyed Tim has already grown suspicious.)
He picks at his meal between words and hand movements, and by the time dinner is over he only eats about a quarter of it, the rest of it spread out over his plate.
Alfred raises a single eyebrow at the sight and Dick rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.
“Sorry Alfie, wasn’t all that hungry.”
I’m never all that hungry anymore, he doesn’t say. And Alfred sighs, letting him leave. Dick can already tell that he is going to be on the high end of Alfred’s attempts to get all of them to eat more. With this, he might even be above Tim on the ‘Force more food into them list’, which is honestly slightly scary to think about.
He really needs to get this under control, and soon.
He doesn’t plan on sleeping that night, too on edge and too worried the past will creep into his dreams and rip him apart.
So he boots up his laptop and passes the time on the internet instead.
It’s safer than sleeping, and not loud enough to warrant someone checking on him.
Once it’s a bit earlier he’ll go to the gym and run himself through a ground routine on the gymnastics mats, but for now, he settles in and wards off sleep the best he can.
In the morning, after running through some of his routines on the mats, he goes out. He doesn’t have a particular destination in mind, he just needs to get out of the manor and away from Bruce’s judgment and Tim’s suspicious glances. He debates bringing Damian out with him, maybe to get ice cream or something, but dismisses that thought.
His youngest brother is sometimes too observant, and the way Dick’s been acting is different from the way Damian is used to. And for someone who has lived his life alongside vigilantes and assassins, Damian picks up on patterns in behaviour quickly.
Dick made sure Damian only ever saw so much of what he felt, letting his little brother lean on him instead of showing him how unstable of a perch Dick could be. Because of this, Damian would be more prone to grow confused and scared if Dick wasn’t able to keep the act up.
So he leaves the Manor by himself.
And really, he should’ve expected it, but somehow when he gets a follower about 10 minutes into his random walk he still manages to be surprised when Jason slides up next to him.
He blows out a breath, half exasperated and half resigned. “Hey there Jay.”
Jason snorts, glances down at him from the corner of his eye, “‘sup Goldie, you wanna tell me why you ditched Tim and I?”
Dick forces himself to keep walking, to not stutter or stop either his gait or his breathing, and keep his body relaxed. Jason has always preferred to cut through the bullshit, strike true at the heart of it all. Sometimes it's a good thing, but times like this he wishes his brother would allow him an out.
Instead, he shrugs, “You guys had a handle on it, and after I helped the victims there wasn’t much left to do. Patrol ended and I went back to the manor.”
Jason scoffs, shooting him a glare, “Really asshole that’s what you’re going for? That bullshit explanation ain’t gonna cut it. You’re the one who’s always tryna get us workin’ together and shit.”
Dick clenches his jaw, gritting out his words, “Well it’s what happened, so I don’t know what you want me to do.”
“What I want is for you to quit fuckin’ lyin’. It ain’t fuckin’ workin’ and it’s obvious you’re bullshitin’ us.” Jason snarls back, his crime alley accent growing thicker the more agitated he gets, and he grabs onto Dick’s wrist and pulls him behind him, through an alleyway.
Dick steadies himself on his feet, letting himself be tugged along, but not without protest.
“Jay what the fuck, let me go.” Jason doesn’t respond, but his shoulders tense as he leads him towards an apartment building.
“Jay seriously what’s going on?” Jason finally turns around, raising an eyebrow at Dick and looking at him like he’s being stupid.
“Are ya seriously about ta discuss this shit out here?” Dick pauses, okay yeah that’s fair but Jay could’ve at least warned him.
By the time they make it to what must be one of Jason’s safehouses, Dick is annoyed and slightly (read: very) anxious.
Also a bit bitter over the fact his little brother is taller than him, but that’s neither here nor there.
He’s weighing his chances of slipping away and honestly debating whether or not he would be able to completely avoid Jason for a long time afterward, just until his little brother forgets to be curious. Though knowing Jason it isn’t likely to work, and for all Dick can hope, it would be in his best interests to try and bullshit his way through the approaching conversation.
(Remember you’re safe, remember you’re okay. Don’t think about last night, don’t think about anything. Focus, stay focused. Breathe, smile, don’t tense, don’t fidget. You’re okay, you’re okay.)
It’ll be fine.
Jay finally gives him his wrist back now that they’re inside the safehouse, and Dick rolls it out a bit as he moves to the singular couch in the little apartment. He flops down on top of the (honestly a little uncomfortable) couch as Jason glares at him.
Dick rolls his eyes, “What? You’re the one who dragged me here.”
Jason crosses his arms across his chest, scoffing, “Yeah, ‘cause you’re a fuckin’ liah. You’re gonna brush it off shove it under the rug an’ you’re nevah gonna gimme a straight answer.”
Dick winces inwardly, Jason usually does his best to hide his childhood accent and right now the alley accent is even more prominent than it was before. It’s a big indicator that Dick's managed to either piss him off or irritate him thoroughly.
Though it’s a toss-up whether Jason is worried about him or mad at him. His disappearing act last night would’ve irritated Jay and caused Tim to get suspicious, but while Dick knows he has to soothe Tim’s concerns so he won’t grow any more suspicious and concerned than he already is, with Jay he doesn’t know whether he has to do damage control because Jason is angry or try and show the other that he’s okay.
It was always Jay who he had the hardest time being a good older brother to, at first too angry and bitter, then too stuck in the past and buried in his own regrets.
He grins up at Jason, it’s bright and distracting and a lie painted across his face. He leans back and sprawls across the couch, laughing.
“Oh come on Jay. I’m fine, and I told you, patrol ended and we had already finished. What else was there to do?” He rolls his eyes, and Jay looks furious as Dick continues, “Honestly, everyone gets mad when I stay out too late, but when I turn in on time you act like it’s the end of the world.”
Jason breathes in heavily, jaw clenched and fingers curled into his palm, it looks like his nails are cutting into his hand and Dick bites at the inside of his lip to stop himself from pointing it out.
After a moment Jason relaxes again, running a hand through his hair, “Turning in on time ain’t the problem and ya know it. It’s the fact you always try and check-in before you do. You din’t this time and Baby Bird got worried, Babs too ‘til she double-checked your location.”
And he’s going to regret this later, letting his mouth run without checking himself, because this is the most civil Jason has been with him since before he went undercover with Spyral, but when Jason is mad he doesn’t focus on his worry, at least not until he’s calmed down a bit.
He’s eerily like Bruce in that way.
When Bruce is mad, he doesn’t pay attention to anything important outside of vigilantism.
It’s both a relief and thoroughly disappointing. But Dick’s learned to use it to his advantage at least. And he does so now with Jason. Because for all he loves his brother, he can’t let him get worried, and the best way to keep Jay from being worried is to make him angry. And more importantly, Dick feels boxed in, cornered and trapped and he wants to get out of this position now, he smiles, baring his teeth with angry, panicked eyes.
“As touching as your worry for me is Jay it isn’t necessary, it’s not like I ran off to get myself killed, that was your fuck up.”
It’s silent for all of a second before Jason bursts forward, lifting Dick up off the couch and socking him in the face.
Dick wishes he felt something other than sorrowful and small.
Jason is breathing heavily, eyes almost glowing green and oh so distant. And Dick wants to break down and apologize and tell him he didn’t mean it, that he was just trying to draw this reaction out so he could hide away like the fucking coward he is.
But he can’t and he doesn’t.
Jay lets him go, shaking from a mixture of anger, horror, and maybe just a bit of disgust, and steps back. Swallowing a few times before he pushes words out of his throat.
“What the fuck Dick. Where the fuck do you get off on sayin’ that.” Dick stays silent, expression stony.
Jason laughs and it’s a broken sound, “Oh my god ya really just brought that up to fuck with me? Holy shit you’re actually fucking worse than Bruce. At least I know to expect it from ’im. You?” He breaks off, lip curling as his tone bitters, “You go around preaching love and acceptance and teamwork, but in the end, you do the same. exact. fucking. things. he does ‘cept you take the time to stab me in the back while you’re at it.”
Dick doesn’t respond, even though his throat feels like it’s closing in on himself and there’s an itching behind his eyes that he knows is going to turn into tears. His cheek throbs where Jason punched him and his heart feels like it’s being torn out of him.
There’s nothing he can say.
Jason scoffs, ragged and half sobbing through his laughter, bitter as it is.
“Just get the fuck out Dick, and don’ try an’ talk to me again unless ya wan’ a fuckin’ bullet to the knee.”
Dick sways in place for a second, as Jason slowly pulls himself behind every shield he has, glaring coldly at him. Dick walks silently out the door and shuts it behind him.
He tries to ignore the sobbing he hears behind it as he leaves.
He isn’t successful. And part of him cries alongside Jay, even as he shuts down and slips out of his body and into the numb part of his head.
He wants to scream, but he stays achingly silent. He won’t drag anyone down with him, but if he needs to hurt them to keep them (himself) safe then really he’s just proving how much of a coward he really is isn’t he?
He ducks his head and hikes his shoulders up, and slips into the city.
Sometimes it feels like it’s eating him alive and spitting him out broken and bitter and twisted.
But it’s just him, a needy, pathetic little creature destroying those around him as he runs away from everything, desperate and broken and not worth anything
But Jay won’t pay attention to him now, will probably actively avoid him. Mission accomplished.
(The victory tastes like broken glass and burning flames making its way down his throat. He feels sick, but what more could he expect? He’s poisonous and it shows in the way he destroys everything he touches.)
He doesn’t look back.
(But he does force himself to keep walking, and he sits in a park alone until the sun begins to set. Then he walks home and locks himself in his room. He doesn’t cry until he’s sitting in the shower on the ground, water burning hot and skin an angry red.
He doesn’t stop crying for a long, long time.)
It’s fine, he’s fine.
Nothing’s wrong.
He falls asleep after patrol, sometime after 3 am. It’s not a conscious decision. One minute he’s staring at the ceiling in the dark and the next he’s slipping under.
He’s terrified, it’s raining and cold but all he can register is the bang of the gun and the sound Desmond’s body made as it hit the ground. He can’t breathe. He failed Bruce, he let someone kill because he was a selfish child who just wanted it all to stop. And he’s choking and sobbing, kneeling on the rooftop in the rain and cold and all he can think is ‘I’m so sorry, I’m poison, I’m so fucking sorry.’
And then there are hands on him, pushing him down as the floral perfume mixes with the petrichor and makes him gag, a sickeningly sweet voice is whispering to him and he can’t move, he can only force out a “No, stop. Don’t touch me…..I’m—I’m poisonous, don’t touch me.”
And she laughs, murmuring in his ear, “Hush querido, mi tresor. Let me help you, shhh amor.”*
And her voice is joined by another voice, laughing at him, “It wasn’t Kori you were with, it was me.”
Then there’s Kori, Kori who deserved so much better than him, Who still managed to be loving and sweet to him even after everything, even after he spent so long betraying her with his own blindness, “You obviously love her so go to her instead! Just leave.”
And Dick is frozen, crying and shaking and doesn’t want any of this he doesn’t.
But all he can hear are the voices calling him a slut and a whore, whispering nauseating words to him in a mockery of a lover’s sweet nothings, and taunting him with knowledge of his own unknowing unfaithfulness. The iron smell of blood mixes with the petrichor and perfume and the sound of falling rain and laughter and he can’t breathe as his stomach twists and he—.
He jerks awake, sweating, gasping, and gagging, stomach turning and he stumbles on unsteady feet to the bathroom. He collapses onto the ground, heaving into the toilet as the tears roll down his face. Body shaking from the action and head aching, he tries to steady himself and his breathing. He’s dizzy and trembling, sweat drying on his skin and his clothes sticking to him. Nothing is coming up and yet he still heaves, eyes burning and tongue tasting bile that never comes.
He spits the taste out of his mouth as best he can and sucks in a breath, fighting down the nausea and doing his best to calm his erratic heartbeat. In fits and starts his breathing evens out, heart slowing it’s frantic rhythm, and he comes out of his panic and revulsion feeling worse than before. Headache pounding against his skull and throat dry and burning, he feels unsteady, shaky, and he hates it. But it’s just a little panic attack, he can get through this by himself, hell at this point it’s basically a job requirement to be able to get through this on your own.
His mouth tastes disgusting and his skin feels like it’s being smothered. It’s a suffocating feeling, the way his clothing sticks and clings to his skin too similar to memories he doesn’t want to dwell on and it makes him squirm, a pathetic little noise building up in his throat and sounding much too close to a sob or a whine for his comfort. He stands, grips the counter's edge to keep himself upright and looks in the mirror.
He looks horrible. His face pale and exhausted, eyes puffy and red-rimmed with bags under his eyes that only seem to be getting darker the longer he stares at them. The bruise on his cheek stands out under the clinical lighting of the bathroom, dark and ugly and the slightest bit swollen.
He’s a fucking mess even when he’s working so goddamn hard to be fine. He’s fine, nothing’s wrong and the little things that have thrown him off can be shaken off like they were before.
"I'm fine."
(In the grand scheme of things maybe he is, after all, this panic is minor compared to some of the nights he wakes, sobbing and trembling, lost in himself for hours and so terrified he could puke—has puked—relived things over and over as he fought to keep himself grounded.)
It’s a mantra he repeats to himself, whispering over and over, until he can accept it and move on like all the other times. If you say you’re fine often enough, and with enough conviction, then you are.
But he still feels so wrong, like there’s something on his skin that marks him as dirty, unclean and unforgivable. Skin tainted and the wrongness seeping under and into his bones.
He turns the water to the shower on.
He doesn’t bother paying attention to the temperature of the water, shucking his suddenly too constricting clothes off and onto the floor. He steps into the shower, feeling vulnerable and exposed. As if someone could sneak up on him at any second, and he despises it, but then the water hits him and he sucks in a breath.
The water burns, a little too close to scalding to be safe, and he stands under the spray for a second. The burning of the water the only thing that lets him close his eyes and know he isn’t standing in the rain.
He lets the water run down his body, it’s too hot and the steam is beginning to overtake the room, but it helps get rid of the lingering touches on his body. The uncleanliness slowly, (so fucking slowly) sliding off of him. He grabs the body wash and a washcloth and he scrubs himself down.
He scrubs at his body until it’s painful, skin raw and irritated, red from both the searing water and his own desperate need to rid himself of the poison that lurks inside of him, of the wrongness that still clings to him even after he scrubs away all of the sweat and grime.
And here, alone in the shower, he sinks to the ground and shudders.
It’s the second time in the day (does it count as the same day? With his fucked up schedule it does even if it conventionally shouldn’t,) that he finds himself in this position. And in this Schrodinger knowledge of the time and the feeling of isolation, he allows himself to acknowledge what he knows as his truth.
I’m not okay, but I have to be, so I’m fine and nothing is wrong even when it is.
Because if he isn’t okay then he doesn’t know what to do, he has to be okay, there isn’t anything else he can be.
So for the second time that day, but not for the first or even the last time, he falls apart on the floor of his shower, choking on tears as searing water drums against his red and irritated skin.
Then he stands, shakily, and washes his hair. The movements are methodical and he lets himself drift into a sort of daze, the repetitive motions calming. Once he rinses off the last of the conditioner he shuts the water off, slipping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around himself.
He goes through the motions of brushing his teeth and taking care of himself, and once that’s taken care of he slips through the door and towards his dresser, yanking out a loose t-shirt and some similarly loose-fitting pyjama bottoms. He pulled the shirt on and slid into the pants, he wasn’t really planning on doing anything today so why not dress comfy?
He looks at the bed for a bit, debating whether he should even try and go back to sleep while biting at his lip for a few minutes. He caught himself doing it and scrunched his nose up in irritation as he released the chewed up flesh from his teeth. (One of these days he was gonna forget again and he was going to bite straight through it. It had almost happened a number of times throughout the years.) He sighed, both annoyed at himself and a bit angry.
He won't be getting any more sleep tonight, (this morning, honestly he kind of didn’t want to check the time. Ignorance is bliss and all those Schrodinger thought theories,) and laying down in bed right now wouldn’t help him in the slightest.
He grabs his laptop and curls up on the beanbag in the corner of his room, (easily defensible, in view of both of the doors and the window. As safe as it could be in th—no, no that was wrong, it was safe here, he was in the Manor, he was safe.)
He’ll go to the gym in a little bit, take a run on the treadmill and do some floor work. It wasn’t flying but it was a lot better than being forced to stay still. He was still patrolling (against Alfred’s better wishes) but he wasn’t allowed to do as much as he normally did, even though after so long in the business he could push the pain back to where it was more irritating than debilitating.
Not that it mattered to Alfred, who was insistent that Dick at least waits the prescribed (and heavily shortened in comparison to the needed twelve weeks Alfred had wanted,) two weeks before going back to full movement. And just because he was right didn’t mean Dick liked it.
He opens the laptop, opening the box of Schrodinger’s time along with it. It was 4:15.
The fact he had slept for maybe an hour at most was both hilarious in a gallows humour sort of way and explained the exhaustion he still felt. But whatever. He’d worked on less sleep for longer times before. Many times actually, it was part of his routine in the aftermath of things that shook him up, avoid sleep and avoid the dreams.
If Tim knew about it he would be calling him a hypocrite and siccing Alfred on him.
As if Alfred didn’t already know, the man just hadn’t chosen to interfere yet except by making sure Dick only had access to non-caffeinated tea instead of coffee.
He frowns at his browser’s homepage as he thought about Tim, Alfred had cut him off of coffee as well and yet, his little brother still somehow managed to consistently drink coffee and his horrid stash of energy drinks like it was the blood in his veins, (at this point it probably was). Dick was fairly sure Tim had a hidden coffee maker, but he has yet to find it and at this point, it’s getting ridiculous.
(Worrying about his brothers was so much easier than worrying about himself. Worrying about anyone was so much easier, and so much better, then worrying about himself.)
He sighs, shutting the computer and placing it to the side, curling up into a ball on the bean bag and placing his hands on his head. His fingers grabbed at the wet strands of his hair tightly, and it was only then that he realized just how tense he still was. He stifled a curse and hid his eyes in the little fortress his knees made, releasing his hair and wrapping his arms tightly around himself.
It was ridiculous at this point, how many times did he have to repeat the same bullshit to himself to finally relax and be okay again? This shit wasn’t new so why was it fucking him up so badly now?
Sure it had been bad immediately after the events had happened, but not to this degree, it had been easier then.
So why was it so difficult now?
It was frustrating and terrifying and made him want to scream and cry at the same time.
He drew a breath in, steady and methodical. Keeping his breathing even despite the way his throat was bubbling with something that was either a sob or hysterical laughter.
He uncurled, jaw clenched and hands curling and uncurling over and over again. Fuck it, he needed to use the gym for a while. Otherwise, he might actually go crazy.
(Or crazier really.)
Now he just had to not wake anyone up, or at least refrain from alerting them of his presence.
He pads noiselessly through the Manor, making his way to the gym. He’d need to take a shower again after he finished but it would be fine, besides showering more than once in a day with their lifestyles wasn’t anything new. They got covered in grime all the time, and long showers were nice.
(He used to love staying in the shower for long amounts of time, content and lazy in the warm water as it rained down around him at just the right pressure.
He didn’t anymore. The shower of water around him too similar to rain. Even the searing hot showers he took now, with his frantic and slightly obsessive scrubbing, could only last 10 or so minutes before he started to drift away from the present.
He resented it. He hated that people could take things he loved and turn them into things he couldn’t stand.
It made him feel even more broken than ever. Permanently ripped apart with no hope of piecing himself back together.
He still hasn’t managed to avoid a panic attack on a rainy night yet, still hasn’t been able to smell the air after it rains without also smelling the perfume she wore and the blood she spilled (he spilled).)
The sun rises slowly over Gotham as Dick runs through warmups and stretches.
He doesn’t watch it, doesn’t dare taint the beauty of the sunrise with his corrupting influence.
Can’t bare to start associating the sunrise with bad nights.
He needs to keep some of his optimism real. He needs to know things aren’t as bad as he chooses to see them.
So sunrises are treats for the good days.
(He hasn’t been able to let himself enjoy the sunrise in a long time.)