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Dick hadn't moved from the bed in hours.
It was like his own little island, the room around him an unrelenting dark ocean, the house beyond stretching further into the unknown. He could hear muffled noises from outside, the walls creaking, voices fleeting, the manor never quiet. Dick might have been able to make out some of it, pinpoint who was nearby, but it felt like he was being held underwater despite his sanctuary in his blankets. His ears were ringing. His head felt heavy. Like he was sinking.
There was a glint of silver still in his hand, clutched in a trembling fist he hadn't yet brought himself to unfurl. The blackout curtains are pulled tight over the window, the only light in the room the soft golden glow from the tiny lamp on the bedside table.
Everything feels empty. His room is cold.
There was a stinging in his hand from where the small blade was digging into his palm, the edge sinking deeper and deeper into vulnerable skin as Dick clutched it like something precious, frozen with his hands in his lap.
He's stupid. This is stupid.
It wasn't supposed to be like this anymore. He was supposed to be done with the hiding, with strained smiles and long baggy clothes in the heat. Done with the fear of getting caught, the pain, the shame of having to be watched like a hawk.
The disappointment in their eyes. The anger and disgust. He was supposed to be done.
Obviously not. He was so close to being right back where he started, teetering on the edge, and there wasn't even a reason for it.
Dick couldn't describe it out loud if someone bothered to ask. The pressure building up, the days turning gray, the feeling of sinking to the bottom of the ocean, weightless and forgotten. Unimportant.
Everything was too much. Laughter still echoed in his ear, teasing that should have been light and welcoming suddenly cruel and mocking to his ears only. His chest hurt, his eyes were burning, and Dick's free hand stopped swiping furiously at his soaked cheeks to run frantic fingers through his hair, letting it fall into watering eyes.
He'd always been too sensitive. Always so desperate to do good when he never was. He couldn't even make it through a routine family dinner.
He didn't know how to feel about the fact that no one had noticed a thing. He didn't have the right to be hurt, not when he was the one hiding it in the first place.
Dick couldn't catch his breath anymore, not properly, each inhale coming out a hiccuping gasp, caught in his throat, leaving him dizzy and breathless.
He'll feel better when he's done. He knows that. He's had enough experience with this to know exactly how it'll go, to anticipate the whirlwind of emotions in his head and that empty gray feeling still settled in his chest like a rock finally dissipating to make room for the rush of pain.
But part of him still is still clinging to life, to normalcy rapidly slipping out of his fingers, screaming at him to open his hands and walk away from this, to go back downstairs and distract himself or just turn over and sleep.
He didn't want this. He didn't want it.
Because it was supposed to be over. They'd stopped having to worry, obsess over him, watch him like a child near sharp objects. They'd stopped asking to check the counter on his phone that he'd refused to open in weeks.
But they'd never stopped giving him that worried, haunted look. He hates that they don't trust him. He hates that they're right not to.
He didn't want this. He wanted to be okay. More than anything he just wanted to drop the blade in his hand and go back to normal. He wanted to be normal.
But it isn't up to him anymore. He needs it, he needs it and he can't-
"Dick?"
Dick jumped, the world rushing back to him in a blur of sound and color as he blinked through the tears, shame and panic pooling in his gut when the figure standing at the foot of his bed came into focus.
Bruce's brow furrowed, mouth curved into a sharp frown as he took a step closer to where Dick was curled up on the edge of his own bed, soaked hands trembling in front of him.
"Hey," Bruce said softly, crouching down to be eye level before Dick can even muster a response. "Hey, what's wrong?"
Dick just shook his head, though he knew that wouldn’t cut it, and squeezed his hands into tighter fists. He could feel the blood seeping through the fingers in one hand, the other coated in cold sweat.
"You're bleeding," Bruce said suddenly, voice sharp with worry, and Dick can pinpoint the exact second Batman's eyes fall on the glint of silver in his grip. "Oh, Chum." He pauses, and Dick braces himself for whatever comes next. "Dick, your poor hand."
And that was enough to break him, Bruce's voice unwaveringly soft, his hands steady and warm as they just barely graze Dick's knuckles.
He curled forward with a pathetic cry of anguish, not even bothering to check if Bruce had closed the door behind him before dissolving into sobs, loud and unraveled in a way he would be embarrassed about if he still had the energy to care.
Bruce's arms found Dick's shoulders, carefully pulling his eldest son forward and holding him against his chest. Tight enough to feel secure, grounding, and loose enough to avoid feeling like a trap.
Bruce's hugs had been like that since he was a little kid. Something perfectly in the middle, always enough to bring Dick back from the edge.
"I'm sorry," he choked out, hiccuping on his own sobs, his voice hoarse and raw. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm s- so sorry!"
"It's alright," Bruce said, barely even giving Dick a chance to get his apologies out. "You know it's alright, Chum. I'm not angry, I'm here to help."
"I- I didn't," Dick managed, even as his skin tore further when he tightened his grip. "I didn't want to, I... I was trying not to."
"I know," Bruce said, pulling back slightly to give Dick a once over, piercing gaze unrelenting. Like he needed to double check, confirm for himself that Dick hadn't gone through with it. Dick couldn't blame him. "You did good. You're doing good."
Dick shook his head, empty words and false praise only making him feel sick. "I'm not."
"You are," Bruce insisted, and Dick only cried harder at the thought of arguing. He just wanted everything to stop. Bruce's gaze dropped to his hands, and Dick ducked his head, gaze glued to his lap. "Can I see that?"
He didn't have to see Bruce's face to know what he was referring to. Dick nodded, loosening his grip as much as he could, hand still stiff and shaky.
Bruce's hands covered his own with ease, carefully prying his bloody fingers open to slip the blade out of his hold, squeezing Dick's wrist when he hissed in pain.
Bruce was only gone for a moment, no doubt rushing to move the blade as far away from Dick as he possibly could, and he couldn't find it in himself to lift his head to see where he went. It didn't matter anyway.
Bruce lowered himself back onto the bed, just a few inches from where Dick was still curled up, refusing to meet his eyes. He felt stupid, the guilt washing everything away, tears refusing to slow.
"You could have knocked." Like he had any right to be defensive.
"I did," Bruce said carefully, and the guilt only intensified. "I... heard you crying. You weren't responding."
"I'm sorry," Dick said again, well aware Bruce would only brush it off. "I said I was going to bed, I thought..."
"Cass wanted me to check on you," Bruce admitted, and Dick blinked up at him in surprise. "She said you were acting off and I... I should have noticed. I'm sorry. I've been worried about you for a few days now, I should have said something."
Dick swallowed against the brand new lump in his throat, wrapping shaky arms around himself and dropping his gaze back down. He didn't know what he was supposed to say to that. He thought it might have been easier to manage when he thought no one cared to notice.
It was easiest when no one knew at all.
"I'm sorry."
"It's alright." Bruce hesitated, always out of his element when it came to situations like this, no matter how many times he's found himself here. "Did... something happen?"
Dick shook his head, cradling his injured hand, watching with morbid fascination as the dark blood dribbled from the tiny cuts along his palm.
He jumped when Bruce's hands were suddenly back on his own, but didn't make a move to pull away when Batman carefully wrapped them in the sleeve of his discarded jacket, slow and delicate like he was handling priceless glass.
"Nothing happened," Dick said after a moment, barely a whisper, grimacing at the pain in his hand. "It's just... everything just been a lot lately. It's stupid but it's... everything's too much and I can't, I- B, I can't-"
He cut himself off with his own sob, vision blurring all over again as his face burned. He hunched his shoulders, prepared for Bruce to snap at him to pull himself together, to get over this and get back to work.
But he didn't. He never had, and he never would.
Dick fell into his embrace immediately when Bruce's arms were back around him, pulling him against his chest once again, placing a gentle kiss to Dick's hair.
"You're okay," he soothed, and Dick practically melted against him, soaking his shirt through in seconds. "You don't have to talk right now, you're alright."
"I'm sorry," Dick gasped, holding onto Bruce's shirt like a lifeline, his voice muffled. He was supposed to be better. He’d promised Bruce he’d be better. Why wasn’t he better? "Please- please don't leave. Please, just don't go."
"Never." Bruce just held him tighter, cradling his son against his chest in the quiet glow of the bedside lamp. "I'm right here with you, Chum. It's okay. It's going to be okay, I promise. This just takes time."
Dick just nodded against him, the tiny island suddenly big enough for two, the world reduced to nothing but his own echoing sobs and Bruce's voice.
"It gets better," Bruce said. "Trust me, Dick. It gets better."
Dick held on as tight as he dared, ignoring the flare of pain in his hastily bandaged hand. For now, all he could do was bury his face in Bruce's chest and wish he could believe him.
Right now, there was nothing else he could do but hope.