Chapter Text
There's someone following him.
Has been for a while now.
Years, actually.
But that's not important.
What’s important is that he’s on the brink of collapsing from exhaustion, blood loss, and— if the pounding in his skull is any indication— some kind of mild traumatic brain injury. Again.
Every step is unstable. His vision blurs around the edges, and his body screams in pain when he moves too fast. Everything is too loud and too muffled at the same time. Sirens wail somewhere in the distance— too far to help, too close to ignore. Like they’re inside his head. They probably are. His ears ring. The world shifts, just a little, and he staggers sideways before catching himself on a rusted fire escape.
He sucks in a breath.
It’s getting harder and harder to breathe. Painful, even. The wound in his side doesn't help either.
“Get off the roof, dumbass,” says a voice that hasn't existed in that pitch in over a decade. High, cracked with youth and attitude. “You’re bleeding out like an amateur.”
He snorts— because what else is he supposed to do?— and immediately regrets it when pain flares up his side. “Fuck off. I’m bleeding out like a professional.”
“Yeah, a dumb professional,” the kid snipes back, voice sharper this time. Like he’s worried. Concerned. “You’re gonna pass out and fall. That’d be a stupid way to die, even for you.”
“Probably,” he agrees, leaning heavier against the metal railing. His glove comes away red when he presses it to his side. The wound is bleeding through his makeshift bandages. Not good. Definitely not good.
The kid sighs— loud, exaggerated, theatrical in the way only a teenager like him could manage. “You need to go back to the BatCave. Or better yet, a hospital.”
“And you need to leave me alone,” he says, voice hoarse, resisting the urge to look at him. “Also, I don't know if you notice but we’re in fucking Blüdhaven.”
“Damn, how hard did you hit your head?” If he could imagine it hard enough without every inch of his body hurting, the kid would be poking him in the forehead. “Did you somehow develop amnesia? Because we’re in Gotham. Remember?”
Dick freezes. Just for a second. And glances over at the buildings surrounding them— him. Not because he believes it, but because… he wants to. Because maybe if they’re in Gotham, he can just blame Bruce for all this.
The cityscape is wrong. Familiar, but wrong.
Bright neon signs that lit up the streets were gone, replaced by poorly maintained signs and dim streetlights. A coffee shop stands where a boarded-up warehouse belongs. The air itself is different— suffocating and cursed, something Dick can't seem to get away from no matter how hard he tries.
He's in Gotham.
“I told ya!” The kid crows, smug and satisfied— like this is a game, like Dick isn't actively bleeding out and most probably dying. “You really don't trust me enough.”
Dick doesn't answer.
He doesn't know how.
Because this isn’t right. He hasn't been in Gotham for— weeks? Months? He doesn't even remember coming here. Doesn't remember when the world stopped smelling like rot and piss and fish guts, and started stinking like old money and smoke and ghosts.
It’s the ghosts that bothers him most.
“Helloooooo? Earth to Dickie?” The kid waves a hand in his face. He’s closer now. Too close. Dick had to look away to make sure he didn't look at him. “Seriously. You need help. You look like shit.”
“Yeah, I wonder why,” Dick grunts, finally letting go of the railing, forcing his legs to straighten, to hold him upright without any help.
The kid— his kid— makes a noise that’s all irritation and concern tangled together. “You’re gonna fall. I’m not catching you if you do.”
“You can’t, remember?” Dick waves a hand, gesturing blindly at where the kid was probably standing. “You’re not even real.”
The twerp huffs. Dick didn't need to look at him to know he's crossing his arms and pouting like the kid he actually is. “Then more the reason to get help, you imbecile!”
He sounded like Damian. Dick wanted to laugh.
But he can’t. Not when everything fucking hurts.
Dick breathes in. The city air bites cold and wrong down his throat. “I’m not going back to the Cave.”
“You don't have to,” the kid says, almost urgently. Almost a plea. “But if you don't go somewhere or call someone, you’re gonna die out here.”
“I’ve died in worse places.”
The kid’s voice drops, quiet and clipped. “Yeah. I remember.” He sighs softly. “C’mon, Dickie. I’m trying to help you here— you could call Babs! Or even Wally!”
Dick’s breath catches.
The kid tilts his head, expression softening. Knowing. “He still calls, you know. You just never pick up.”
“I can’t.” His voice breaks. “If I do—”
“You’ll break.”
Dick doesn't respond.
Doesn’t need to.
His knees give out instead.
And for a second— just a split second— he thinks the kid might catch him.
But no. He hits concrete instead. Cold and uncaring.
The kid crouches beside him, his eyes concerned, hands hovering over his wound like he’s trying to stop the bleeding, like it did something. It doesn't.
Dick never saw him like this before. Usually taunting and annoying— never caring.
Not like this.
His breathing is getting laboured, shallow and ragged.
He coughs, blood spilling from his lips. The cold concrete pressing into his cheek did nothing to soothe the pain— not to his head, not to his body, not to his heart.
Suddenly, another voice cuts through the quiet— familiar, low and mocking.
“Look at the both of you,” it sneers, cutting through the haze like a knife. “All broken and pathetic. Crying out for help like a damn child.”
Ah. It’s the one he knows.
The one he got used to.
The shadow that haunts him ever since Jason’s death.
Dick’s eyes flutter open— when did they close?— just enough to see him. It. Not the kid crouched beside him, but the other one. The shadow. The ghost that haunts him.
His kid stiffens, bristling like a cornered animal. “Shut up. If you're not here to help, go away!”
The shadow didn't flinch.
Doesn't move.
Just stands there— arms crossed, bloodied and bruised, face twisted into something ugly and cruel and so achingly familiar it makes Dick want to vomit.
“I am helping,” it says, circling like a vulture, like a predator ready to pounce. “Helping him remember how he failed everyone— the family, Wally, us.”
“Shut up,” the kid growls, fists clenching by his side. “None of it was his fault! You and I both know it. He doesn't need you. He needs—”
“What? You?” It cackles, the sound of it— like nails on a chalkboard— making Dick’s head hurt even more. “You're nothing but a hallucination of what we were, of what he wishes he could've saved.”
Dick tries to move— to push himself up, to crawl away, to do anything but lie there and bleed while figments of his mind argue over his dying body.
He fails.
The world spins when he lifts his head. His body feels heavy. Distant. Detached. Like it’s trying to give up before his brain can catch up. His heartbeat is a dull, dragging thud in his ears. Blood loss. He’s losing too much, too fast. He should be panicking, maybe. But all he feels is… tired.
So, so tired.
The kid sees it too.
The way Dick’s body sags against the ground, like a marionette with its strings cut. The way his lips start to go pale, blood drying in the corners. The light in his eyes— what little was left— starts to fade.
And for the first time, the kid looks scared.
Not annoyed. Not angry. Scared. Terrified.
“Don’t you dare,” he snaps, grabbing at Dick’s shoulder. His hands pass through, of course— they always do— but it doesn't stop him from trying. “Don’t you dare give up on me, Dickie! Not now— not like this.”
The shadow grins. Lurking just behind them, not touching, but there. Always there.
“Oh, let him,” it murmurs, almost fond. “It’s about time, don't you think? He’s tired. Let him rest.”
“Jay,” he slurs. A blink. A jolt of pain. No—
Not Jason. The kid. Not him. Not anymore.
He exhales a shuddering breath, eyes fluttering shut again.
“Dick!” The kid’s voice cracks again, panicking. Dick imagines him trying to shake him awake. “You can’t go to sleep, okay? Stay with me. Someone’s coming. Someone has to come— please!”
But Dick doesn't hear him.
He’s already somewhere else. Somewhere warmer. Somewhere quiet.
A memory, maybe.
A rooftop.
A laugh.
His fingers tangled in red hair, a kiss against his jaw, promises whispered in the dark.
Maybe that’s real.
Or maybe that’s a lie, too.
Doesn't matter.
Everything fades anyway.
And the last thing Dick sees— before the dark takes him completely— is Robin’s terrified face.
And the shadow, still smiling.
He wakes up to silence.
Well, not really.
The soft hum of medical machines pulses in the background. A steady beep. The faint sound of the aircon humming. Somewhere far off, the distant whine of a door sliding open, a murmur of voices— too muffled to make out. But in comparison to the chaos he remembers— sirens, blood, that fucking hallucinations— this feels like silence.
He doesn't open his eyes.
There’s a strange weightlessness in his limbs. The kind that only comes after blood loss and sedation. He registers the ache in his ribs, the tightness in his side, the crisp feel of bandages wrapped around too many parts of his body to count.
So he’s alive.
Unfortunately.
Dick doesn't move. Doesn't twitch. Just breathing— slow, shallow inhales— and wondering if anyone had been sitting by his bedside. He doesn't know where he is or who found him. But he’s not that much interested.
Then, the air shifted. The door hisses open.
There's someone there.
A familiar presence. One he’s known for years. Solid. Steady. Immovable in the way mountains were— and just as quiet, sometimes.
Clark Kent.
Of course it’s Clark.
Because if anyone was going to find him half-dead in the dark, it would be Superman. And if anyone would sit there without speaking, without asking, just waiting for him to be ready— it’d be Clark.
Dick’s eyes remain closed.
Even when the chair scrapes gently against the floor, or when he hears the soft rustle of a cape as someone settles beside him. He doesn't move, doesn't breathe deeper. Just lies there, motionless, letting the silence stretch.
Dick wonders if he’s alone— or someone else was with him.
But he could only sense Clark’s presence.
He doesn't know how to feel about that.
Clark doesn't say anything at first.
Maybe he knows Dick’s awake. Maybe not. Maybe it doesn't matter.
“...You flatlined on the way here,” Clark says eventually. Dick could hear how his voice trembled slightly. “I thought— I thought I was too late.”
You should've let me die, he wants to yell.
But he doesn't. Can't, anyways. His throat is dry. And there's something bitter and sticky lodged behind his ribs that made speaking feel impossible.
“I didn't tell Bruce,” Clark continued quietly like a confession. “Or anyone else in the family. I wasn't sure you’d want them to know.”
Another pause.
“But I called Wally.”
That lands harder than anything else.
A flicker— more like a tremble— runs through Dick’s fingers, almost involuntary. He doesn't think it's noticeable, but he knows Clark catches it. He always does.
“He’s coming,” Clark assures— but it’s not assuring to Dick. “He dropped everything the second I told him. Said—” A short laugh, strained. “Said he should've known. That he should've been checking in more.”
Dick squeezes his eyes tighter.
There it is. The guilt.
Hot and suffocating, worse than the blood in his lungs, worse than the cold.
Wally shouldn't be coming.
No one should be coming.
Not after Spyral. Not after forcing to lie to everyone. Not after making them grief for someone who was never dead. Not after letting them think he wanted this.
Not after the way he left Wally.
“You shouldn't have,” he rasps out eventually, voice hoarse from disuse. Called Wally? Save him? Dick doesn't know what he’s trying to say either. Maybe it's both.
Definitely both.
“You’re right. I shouldn't have,” Clark murmurs softly, and then something nudges at Dick’s lips. A straw. Dick takes a sip. Hasn't realise how thirsty he was until water hit his throat. Still doesn't open his eyes. Just letting it happen.
“But he would've known either way,” Clark continues shortly. “You were in a coma for a week, Dick. He would've noticed you were missing.”
Dick doesn't answer. His throat is too dry even after the water and his chest too tight, and he doesn't know what hurts worse— the truth in Clark’s words, or how gently he says them.
“He loves you,” Clark adds after a moment. “That never changed.”
Dick huffs out something like a laugh, but it was more bitter, more broken to be able to call it one as his chest tightened painfully.
His eyes sting when he opens them, the bright light blinding him slightly. He blinks away the dark spots in his vision, slow and sluggish.
In the corner of his eye, he sees a familiar boy standing in the doorway, looking worried.
Oh.
It’s the kid.
He’s back.
“Dickie, you’re okay!” The kid breathes, relief flooding his voice as he nears the bed. “You scared the hell out of me. I-I wasn't sure you’d make it…”
Dick doesn't respond. Can't, anyway, without looking insane.
Clark’s still there.
And the kid isn't real.
He reaches out, fingers passing through the sterile sheets, unable to touch but desperate to connect. “But thank God for Uncle Clark, huh?”
“Dick?” Clark’s voice pulls him out of his unstable mind, gentle but steady, grounding him back to the room. The kid fades away with a flicker. “Are you okay?”
His gaze flickers to meet Clark’s— furrowed brows, concerned eyes, hand halfway raised like he isn't sure if he’s allowed to touch.
“I’m fine,” he manages to croak out, eyes fluttering shut. Not to sleep— just to… avoid looking at Clark. “Just tired.”
He hears Clark humming softly and suddenly a hand is in his hair, fingers combing gently through the strands like he’s trying to smooth down something unruly. Maybe the mess of Dick’s hair. Maybe the mess inside his head.
Dick doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away— doesn't have the energy to. But more than that… it feels good. Feels safe. Like being eleven again and waking up from a nightmare in the Kent’s guest bedroom, and Clark was there with hot cocoa and a steady hand on his back.
He leans into Clark’s hand.
It’s the first affection he’d ever received since he returned from Spyral.
Second, if he counted Jason’s fist.
“Do Damian and Alfred know?” He asks, after a moment of silence— voice like gravel, like guilt— before he can talk himself out of it.
He doesn't ask about the rest. The two of them are the only ones who still care anyway.
“They don't,” Clark replies softly, fingers never stopping. “All they know is that you’re with me. I wasn't sure if you wanted them to know.”
Dick nods without a reply.
There’s not much to say.
Then, the door hisses open.
He doesn't open his eyes.
Doesn't look.
Didn't really need to, really.
Or maybe he just didn't want to.
There’s a sudden shift in the air— electric and alive in a way only one person ever brought with them. The soft hum of machines is drowned out just a second by the sound of a breath being punched out of someone’s lungs.
Then—
“Dick.”
Wally.
His voice is cracked and breathless, like he didn't have superspeed and ran here. Wherever here is. The Watchtower, most definitely.
Clark’s hand pulls away from his hair.
He almost yells at him to not to.
Almost.
Yet Dick doesn't move. Still doesn't open his eyes.
Didn't want to, really.
Wally’s footsteps are too fast, too uneven. They skid to a stop beside the bed, and then there's warmth— heat radiating from him like it always does. Like sunshine at the edge of winter.
“God,” Wally whispers, and Dick hates the sound of it. Like he’s looking at something broken. “You're alive— you're alive.”
Dick finally forces his eyes open again.
Wally’s there.
And it is him. Not a hallucination. Not another cruel trick of his bruised mind. His hair’s a mess, wind-tossed and sweat-damp. He's wearing a hoodie— one that belongs to Dick— over his suit like he forgot they’re in a League base and not in a normal hospital.
His eyes are wide and red-rimmed. And still, somehow, impossibly soft.
Dick swallows. It hurts.
Clark, silent until now, stands.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” he says gently, and Dick wants to thank him, but the words won't come. The door hisses softly behind him as he leaves.
Wally doesn't move right away.
Just stares.
Like if he blinked, Dick might disappear again.
His breath comes shaky— too fast, too shallow. He looks like he wants to say a hundred different things at once but doesn't know where to start. Dick knows the feeling all too well.
Eventually, Wally sits— basically dropping himself not on the chair Clark was occupying but on the edge of the bed, close enough for their thighs to brush. He’s still staring. Still silent.
“I almost lost you,” Wally breathes out, almost in disbelief. “Clark told me your heart stopped— I didn't know what to think— I didn't want to think.”
His voice breaks on the last word, and Dick feels it like a punch to his chest. Or maybe that's his bruised ribs. Maybe both.
Technically, it wasn't the first time his heart stopped, Dick wants to say.
He doesn't.
Because Bruce didn't want anyone else to know what happened with the Crime Syndicate. Or during the whole, torturous year Dick was forced to go through in Spyral.
So Dick says nothing. Just breathes.
Inhale. Exhale. Slow. Shallow. Controlled. The only thing he can control, right now.
He could feel his fingers twitching against the sheets, as if it was trying to reach out to Wally— to hold him, to hug him, to kiss him.
But he doesn't.
His fingers stay curled, shaking faintly against the sheets like it hurts to not be able to touch Wally.
Wally notices it.
Of course he does.
From the way his gaze flickers down to Dick’s hand, then back to his face— he obviously knew what Dick wanted, what he needed.
Then Wally shifts.
His hand moves— slow and careful, like he’s afraid he’ll break Dick if he touches him too quickly. And then his fingers brush against Dick’s, warm and steady and heartbreakingly gentle.
Dick almost flinches from it.
Not because it hurts— though everything does, really— but because it felt too much. Too kind. Too forgiving.
Wally laces their fingers anyway.
“Don’t scare me like that again,” Wally whispers, raising Dick’s hand to his lips. He presses a kiss to Dick’s faintly bruised knuckles— featherlight, reverent, trembling a little.
“I mean it,” Wally continues, voice rough with something like grief. “You don’t get to do this to me, okay? I— I can’t—”
The redhead cuts himself off and Dick could see him biting the inside of his cheek like he always does when he’s trying not to cry. Dick knows that look too well. Knows that pain, the kind that curls behind Wally’s eyes and cracks through his voice.
Dick swallows hard. It hurts. God, everything hurts. But he squeezes Wally’s hand back. Weak. Barely there. But it’s enough.
It's something.
“...Didn't mean to,” Dick breathes, hoarse and raw.
And he finds himself meaning it.
Wally lets out a shaky laugh— half relief, half disbelief— like he can’t decide whether to hold on tighter or let go before he completely unravels.
He then leans forward, pausing inches away from Dick’s face— close enough that Dick can feel the warmth of his breath, the faint tremor in it.
For a moment, neither of them moves. Wally’s eyes flicker down to his lips, then back up again, searching, asking without words.
Dick doesn't have the strength to nod or words, but maybe he doesn't need to— because the way he stays there, not pulling away, is enough of an answer for Wally.
Wally closes the distance slowly, like he’s afraid Dick might shatter if he moves too fast. The kiss is barely there at first— soft, tentative, almost unsure. Just the press of lips against lips, featherlight and aching with restraint.
Dick’s eyes slip shut.
He knew he misses Wally, but didn't realise how much.
When Wally pulls back, he wants to protest, to chase after his lips— anything to get Wally close again, to feel him again like it was their first.
But his body is still too heavy, too weak, and all he can do is let the yearning settle deep in his chest.
Wally doesn't go far. He stays close, their foreheads pressing against each other's, his thumb brushing gently along Dick’s cheekbone as if he’s memorising the feel of him.
“Rest,” Wally whispers, sounding more like a plea than an order.
And for once, Dick listens.
When Dick wakes up, it's to the sound of Wally’s heartbeat.
And to the voices.
He can't really tell if it's in his head or if it's coming from their living room.
Part of him wants to investigate. To check if he’s still insane or if someone actually broke into their apartment. He’s not really in the condition to be fighting anyone— he still isn’t fully recovered— but he's been through worse.
He shifts slowly in bed, body screaming in protest, breath catching when the dull ache turns sharp in his ribs. Wally's arm tightens around his waist, as if he knew what Dick is trying to do.
But he remains asleep, face pressed into Dick’s hair, breaths slow and steady.
The voices don't stop.
Dick freezes, listening harder now—
“—told you we should’ve gone to the safehouse.” That’s Jason. Definitely Jason.
“It’s closer and you know it,” Tim’s voice counters, clipped, impatient. “If you really want to drive all the way back to Gotham while being injured, be my guest.”
Dick’s brows furrow.
Jason and Tim. In his apartment.
Not that he usually minds— but the last time they talked, he got a fist to the face.
He misses them.
They don't.
Not after Spyral.
So it's either a dream or the head trauma’s made him hallucinate his estranged brothers. And sure, he’s hallucinated Jason before— he takes a peek at the kid who is currently standing in the corner of his room looking annoyed— but never a grown up Jason Todd or a Tim Drake.
He swallows. The ache in his ribs is still there, sharp enough to remind him that he’s awake.
The floorboards creak.
Yeah. Awake.
Dick pushes himself up despite Wally’s arm, grimacing through the pain. His legs feel like they’re made out of wet sand, but he manages to get his feet on the floor.
A week out of the Watchtower medbay and he’s already playing detective in his own home.
By the time he’s halfway to the door, he’s already regretting it. His vision tilts, edges greying, and he has to brace a hand against the wall until the wave passes. Wally would kill him for this— if Jason didn't get to him first.
The voices in the living room are clearer now.
Definitely real.
“...doesn't matter if it’s closer,” Jason is saying, his voice low but with that familiar bite. “We could've gone anywhere else. Hell, we could've gone to my place. Or fuck it, a hospital. Anywhere but—”
“You know, if you didn't get fucking shot in the shoulder, we would've been avoiding this exact situation,” Tim cuts in, tone sharper than Dick remembers.
Jason scoffs, the sound edged with disbelief. “Oh, I’m sorry— next time I’ll let the guy shoot you in the fucking head and let you die. My bad.”
Dick could practically hear the eye roll from Tim.
So they’re here to use Dick’s medkit.
But what are they doing all the way out in Blüdhaven?
“Whatever. Let's get this over with and we can leave before Dick returns from patrol.”
“We don't even know if he’s on fucking patrol. You know how that dickhead is. Never letting anyone know where he goes.”
That is definitely a jab.
Dick takes another step toward the doorway, slow and deliberate, ignoring the stab of pain because the last thing he needs is to collapse in front of them.
His hand manages to find the frame in the dark, steadying himself as he leans out just enough to see them— Jason standing stiff and scowling near the couch, Tim in front of him with tweezers, focused on pulling something from Jason’s shoulder, both without their respective helmet and mask.
A bullet, most definitely.
And they both looked older than the last time he saw them up close— which was only 6 months ago.
He doesn't know how to feel about that.
“You know,” Dick says, voice rough from sleep but clear enough to carry across the room, “You could've just called instead of breaking in.”
Jason’s head snaps toward him immediately, eyes narrowing, but not in surprise— more like suspicion confirmed.
Of what, Dick doesn't know.
Tim, on the other hand, freezes mid-movement, shoulders locking up before he slowly turns to look at him.
Neither says anything.
The silence is loud.
It’s Jason who finally speaks after he exchanges a brief glance with Tim, muscles twitching like he’s being held at gun point to talk to Dick. “...You look like shit.”
Dick forces a half-smile. “And you’re not supposed to be here.”
There’s a beat of silence— too long, too heavy— before Tim’s gaze flicks down, scanning him in a way that feels more clinical than brotherly, and says, “What happened to you?”
He gives a nonchalant shrug, forcing down a wince when it jolts his still-bruised ribs. “Patrol gone wrong.”
And says nothing else.
Didn't mention that his injuries were critical. Didn't mention that he died for almost a minute.
It isn't worth mentioning, anyway.
Tim’s eyes narrow, voice sharp. “You don't look like you’ve just been patched up. And it looks too professional.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dick murmurs, voice tight, trying to sound as casual as he could muster. “It’s nothing you need to fuss over.”
Tim’s gaze lingers, unreadable and sharp before letting out a huff. “Fine. Whatever you say. We won't be able to tell the difference between your truth and lie anyway.”
That hurts.
Jason snorts unkindly but doesn't interrupt. Instead, he crosses his arms and studies him like a bruised animal.
Dick shifts on his feet, the pain in his head flaring, but he stays put.
He glances at the kid— no, Jason— no, the kid standing behind Jason, sticking out his tongue at him.
Jason doesn't see him of course.
No one does.
“Right, because I’m the only one in this family who lies,” Dick mumbles to himself before sighing, turning back around to his room. “Make sure to clean up after yourselves.”
“Really? That’s it?” Jason sneers behind him. “No ‘I’m sorry for being the worst fucking brother ever and making all of you grieve a body that was never dead?’ Or ‘Sorry I had to disappear to play martyr without telling anyone?’”
Dick pauses in the doorway, jaw tightening. He doesn't turn around.
“If I could tell you, I would,” he says, voice quiet. The kid appears in front of him, looking between Dick and his brothers. “Hell, you probably wouldn't even believe me if I told you.”
Jason’s laugh is humourless, bitter. “Don’t bother with excuses, Goldie. If you don’t give a shit about us, just fucking say it.”
That made him turn slowly.
Dick’s lips part, but whatever he wanted to say, needed to say, died in his throat. A headache is forming now, pounding hot and ugly behind his eyes.
The kid now stands next to him bristles, small shoulders stiffening as if Jason’s words were aimed at him too. “Don’t talk to him like that,” the boy snaps, glaring straight at Jason— who, of course, doesn't hear him. “He cares more than you ever will, you jerk!”
Dick swallows hard. His ribs ache, his pulse feels unsteady, and the room tilts just enough to make his vision swim. He grips the doorframe to stay upright. “Jason,” he warns softly, but his voice has no bite.
He also doesn't know which one he’s referring to.
“Don’t ‘Jason’ me,” Jason shoots back— right, he’s the real one— taking a step closer. “Just because you’re Bruce’s favourite golden son doesn't give you the fucking right to fake your death to play spy.”
Tim stays quiet, but his eyes are sharp, as if tracking every flicker of Dick’s expression. He doesn't move to stop Jason. Maybe he wants to hear the answer too.
The kid tugs on Dick’s arm— his fingers pass through as it always did— expression pleading now. “Don’t let them talk to you like that. Tell them. Tell them what happened. Tell them you almost—”
Dick lets out a breath, more a shudder than a sigh, and drags a hand over his face. “You really think I did this for fun?” His voice is rough now, not angry— just frayed and exhausted.
Jason scoffs. “Maybe.”
The kid stamps his foot. “Say it!” His voice cracks, face twisting with frustration. “Say you DIED!”
Dick flinched hard, sharper than he meant to. The motion sends a shock of pain through his chest, ribs screaming, and the doorframe creaks under his white-knuckled grip. Jason’s eyes narrow instantly, catching the reaction but misreading it.
Like always.
“Oh, what? Did I hit a nerve?” Jason sneers. “Good. You deserve it.”
“Jason.” Tim doesn't look at Jason anymore— his shoulders are tight, his voice low but edged. Even while he works on the wound, Dick can feel the shift in focus. “Back off. He’s not—”
“Not what?” Jason snaps, turning on him. “Not guilty? Not responsible? Spare me the fucking lecture, Timmy. You didn't have to bury him.”
Dick almost flinched again at that.
But the wave of dizziness hit harder this time. His vision blurred, colours bleeding into each other at the edges. The kid is still yelling at Jason, still trying to defend him, but the words are muffled now, distant, like they’re underwater.
“Don’t you dare let him talk to you like that!” The boy shouts. “You DIED for this! You DIED twice and—”
“Stop,” Dick whispers, his voice thin and hoarse.
He doesn't know who he’s telling to stop.
Jason?
The kid?
Himself?
He takes a step back toward his room and his knees almost give out.
Jason notices. They both do. His brows furrow in something dangerously close to worry— but he masks it fast, biting out, “Oh, what now? Can’t handle the truth, Goldie?”
“Jason, enough,” Tim says sharply, Jason’s half-treated wound momentarily forgotten. “Now isn't the time. Can’t you see he’s—”
He doesn't finish.
Because Dick sways. Hard.
The kid’s eyes go wide. “No, no, no—”
The doorframe rips out of his grip as his body tilts, ribs screaming, head splitting like glass under a hammer—
—and then there’s a gust of wind, and suddenly strong arms are catching him before the floor can.
“Whoa, hey, I’ve got you— easy, Dick, easy.” Wally’s voice is close, steady, but there's an undercurrent panic there. He lowers Dick carefully to the floor, one arm around his back, the other supporting his head. “You should be resting— I told you not to get up, Dick.”
“What the fuck?” Jason— he thinks— says sharply, his voice farther away than it should be.
Someone else says something. He didn't know who.
The kid again, maybe?
“Tell us the truth!”
“Tell them the truth!”
Someone’s yelling.
Someone’s crying.
He didn't know who’s real and who’s not.
“I’m fine, Walls,” Dick slurs, though everything hurts. A small, pained whimper escapes him as Wally adjusts his hold around him.
“Bullshit,” Wally shoots back. “I don't think almost faceplanting the floor is fine, Dick.”
Then, he’s being lifted up without effort, voices following him as he goes.
Again, he doesn't know whose.
Dick slumps into Wally without a fight, too far gone to argue, face buried into the crook of his neck.
His eyes slip shut.
The voices woke him up.
Again.
He doesn't want to wake up.
He just wants to sleep.
Forever, if he’s lucky.
No one really needs him now.
He isn't the same Dick Grayson before Spyral anyway.
That person he was before had been beaten the shit out of him. First by Bruce. Then by Spyral. He came back different. Distant. Hiding too many secrets— well, more than usual.
He opens his eyes slowly.
Even if he didn't really want to.
Dick stares up at the ceiling, listening to the muffled voices. He thinks it belongs to Wally and Jason. He doesn't hear Tim at all. Probably just observing and interfering when—
“Dick?”
Oh. Nevermind then.
He shuts his eyes briefly. Maybe if he pretends hard enough, he’ll go away.
“Dick,” Tim says again, closer this time, like he’s leaning over him. “I know you’re awake.”
Of course he does. Tim always knows.
Dick huffs out a sigh and forces his eyes open again. He slowly turns his gaze to Tim, vision blurring before it focuses on Tim’s pinched face.
“Dickie, you're okay!” Comes a familiar voice that doesn't belong to Tim.
He looks away again, glancing at the closed door. “Are they fighting?”
Tim hesitates before answering. “Not yet. Jason’s yelling at Wally… who is yelling at him to stop yelling at him.”
Unable to help himself, Dick let out a snort despite the pain. “Typical.”
He shifts in bed, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side. Ha. He’d actually been stabbed two weeks ago. How poetic. Tim’s hand presses down lightly on his shoulder in warning.
“Don't try to move,” Tim advises, his tone gentle but sharp. “I’m serious. Or else I’m snitching to Wally.”
“Listen to him,” the kid adds.
For someone who is just a figment of his mind, he sure is bossy.
Dick hums faintly, amused, eyes closing shut again. He’s tired. He feels tired. Also just to avoid looking at Tim… or the kiddo.
“How long was I out?” He asks instead.
“Long enough for them to start arguing,” Tim’s voice answers with a sigh. “They’ve been going at it since you collapsed. Which is… three hours ago.”
Dick only nods, silent.
Doesn't really say anything else.
Doesn't really know what to say.
“You could always start with how Lex killed you. Or maybe about how you nearly died in a desert or how you flatlined recently,” the kid’s voice pointed out dryly. “Or… you can tell him about Bruce.”
Dick’s eyebrow twitched.
Yeah, he’s got nothing to say.
“You’re hiding something,” Tim says after a long silence.
Dick snorts, his eyes still closed. “When am I not?”
“Dick—”
“Tim, listen,” Dick cuts in, eyes opening to look at his brother sharply. “I mean what I said to Jason. If I could—”
“You would. I know,” Tim finishes, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. “But is it so big of a secret that you're hiding it from us— your family? We didn't even know what happened during your time in Spyral—”
Dick’s headache flares.
“C’mon, Dickie, tell him! Tell them!”
“—but you came back… different,” Tim admits quietly, like he didn't want to admit it to himself. “You’ve been distant. Closed off. You’re barely around and we all miss you, Dick. I miss you, even if I’m still mad at you.”
Dick exhales slowly, the sound quiet in the room, almost swallowed by the muffled chaos of Jason and Wally arguing somewhere down the hall.
“If I tell you to drop it, will you?”
Tim doesn't answer right away— but Dick already knew he wouldn't. He never did.
“...No,” Tim says finally, meeting Dick’s gaze without flinching. “You don’t get to disappear on us for a year, come back, pretend everything is fine and then expect me to just let it go. That’s not how it works.”
“He’s right you know,” the kid says unhelpfully. Why won’t he just shut up? Why is he always here?
Dick’s lip twitch.
“Tim…” Dick starts, but the warning in his voice doesn't carry much weight. He’s too tired. He’s been too tired for months. Maybe years. “Some things are better left alone.”
“Not when they’re eating you alive.” Tim’s voice drops, softer now, no less firm. “We’re not blind, you know. Jason won’t admit it but he worries. Damian keeps asking why you don't come by anymore. Even Babs—”
“Stop.” Dick’s voice comes out sharper than he means, and Tim flinches. Just barely, but enough for Dick to notice it and feel bad. He scrubs a hand over his face, exhaling hard. “The truth hurts worse than you think. And I’m not gonna put that on you.”
How was he supposed to tell Tim— to tell every one of his siblings— that their own (adopted) father had been the one forcing Dick to take the job by beating him up? Forcing him to stay dead. Forcing him to complete the mission without anyone’s help. Forcing him to suck it up when all he wanted to do was to go home to his family.
The very same father who took them all in and loved them in his own way? The very same father who believed they could be more? The very same father who held the family together and caused them to crumble when he was presumed dead?
“Put it on me,” Tim says stubbornly. He never backs off. Probably never will until he gets what he wants. Dick hates it sometimes. “Whatever it is, I can handle it. I’m not a kid anymore, Dick.”
He’s right.
Tim isn't the same kid that Dick met a few years ago.
He’s eighteen now.
…But isn't it an older sibling’s job to make sure that their younger siblings never have to carry that kind of weight?
Dick swallows hard, throat tight. He should say something— anything— but his brain won't cooperate. He blames it on the concussion.
“Well isn't this cute?” The kid— no— the shadow drawls, its gaze locked on Tim. “A mini-family reunion.”
Ignore it. For the sake of his sanity.
“And don't tell me I wouldn't understand,” Tim adds quietly. “Because I do. I know what it’s like to keep secrets so bad they rot you from the inside. So either you tell me, or I start digging myself.”
Dick sits up at that, sudden and alert. “Don’t.”
He watches Tim freeze at that, body tensing slightly.
“Timmy,” the shadow sings from the foot of the bed, unbeknownst to Tim, grinning widely. “Ask him who hit the hardest. Was it Spyral… or Daddy?”
“Shut up!” The kid hisses, hands raised like he’s trying to punch it. “Why are you even here!”
“Everyone will know eventually, Dick. This entire family is made of detectives,” Tim argues back. “Tell us or we’ll find out for ourselves.”
He can't tell them. They can’t know. They’ll lose their father again. They need him. They need Bruce.
If they find out, Bruce will too. He’ll put the blame on Dick. Will do anything to cover it all up again.
Jason and Wally’s yells seem to get louder outside the room.
He flinches slightly at that.
Dick squeezes his eyes shut and presses the heel of his palms into them, trying to block all of them out, breath turning shallow.
It’s too much.
Too loud.
Too overwhelming.
He just wants everyone to shut up.
Wants everyone to go away.
His chest feels tight, lungs burning with each, gasping breath. The voices— Tim, Jason, Wally, the hallucinations— echoed inside his skull.
He wants to run.
To vanish.
He can’t.
He was pinned by the weight of everything, his body shaking, stomach twisting, heart pounding loudly in his ears.
Stop. Stop stop stop.
“—ick, breathe—”
Who's talking?
Could've been Wally.
Tim. Or perhaps even Jason.
Maybe it was the kid?
Who knows anymore.
“—sy, sweetheart—”
“In… out—”
“—need to breathe—”
“How pathetic. Little Robin's falling apart.”
No air. No air no air no air.
Why won't they let him breathe?
Hands on him.
No. No touching. Don’t—
His skin crawls, every nerve lit up like a live wire, and he jerks away before he even knows he’s moving. A sound tears from his throat— something between a growl and a plea. Hands are everywhere, too heavy and too hot, pinning him down, smothering him.
Get off.
Get off get off get off—
“—hey, hey, it’s me—”
The voice is soft, familiar, trying to soothe, but it doesn't matter. He should recognise it. He doesn't. He can't hear the words over the blood rushing in his ears. The walls are too close. The room’s too small.
Can’t breathe.
Can’t think.
His heartbeat slams against his ribs like it's trying to escape. He claws at his chest as if he can rip it open, as if somehow he’ll find the missing air if he just digs deep enough.
The floor tilts. No— his body’s tilting. Falling? Floating? He can’t tell.
Move. He has to move. Get out, get away, now.
“Dick— stop, you’re hurting yourself—”
A different voice, sharper this time, but it blurs together with the rest. Everything's a jumble: orders, pleas, reassurances. He wants to obey. He wants them to shut up. Both. Neither.
Someone catches his wrist— firm, grounding—
No, no, let go!
He wrenches against the grip, panic spiking hotter, sharper, until his vision sparks white at the edges.
He doesn't want to go. Please, please please. Don’t take him away from his family—
“Look at me!” Another voice barks, cutting through the noise for half a second.
He doesn't want to. He shakes his head, desperately trying to get away.
He can’t. No. No no no no—
“Breathe, Dick!”
He tries, sucks in a breath too fast, chokes on it, coughs until it hurts. His throat burns, his chest is a vice. Nothing’s working.
The world tilts again. Someone’s hauling him upright, murmuring something steady.
A hand at the back of his neck— not holding him down, not trapping him, not forcing him to stay dead, not Bruce. Just there. Guiding.
“Like this. In… good. Out… good. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
The words filter through in fragments. His lungs seize, then stutter. Another breath. Then another. His vision clears just enough to see Wally’s wide eyes, Tim hovering close, Jason tensed stance, shoulder now bandaged.
And suddenly Dick feels— empty. Boneless. Wrung out.
Like he’s been hollowed from the inside.
His breath rattles as it finally evens out, each inhale shaky but there. The voices soften, the pressure lifts, but his heart hasn't gotten the memo. It still hammers on, desperate to outrun something that isn’t there anymore.
His head tips forward, hair sticking damp to his forehead. Someone says his name again— gentle this time, almost tentative.
He can’t answer. He just lets himself lean into the nearest shoulder because it’s easier than holding himself up.
Dick’s body trembles, little spasms running down his arms and legs as if the panic is still crawling under his skin. Every nerve ending feels raw, like he’s been electrocuted from the inside out. He wants to curl up into nothing, disappear into the bed, but his muscles are weak, unresponsive.
“That’s it. You're okay, baby. Just breathe.”
He does, hesitantly. A shuddering inhale, a shaky exhale. Then another. And another. The rhythm is clumsy at first, uneven, but it starts to ground him.
Finally, after what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, his chest eases. The tightness loosens just a fraction. The voices fade a little more. The hallucinations— both of them— have receded to a shadowy corner.
Then, Dick leans away just enough to put some space between himself and Wally, though his body still trembles. He forces his mind to not dissociate, tries to gather the remnants of dignity left after the panic, and fixes his brothers a tired, sharp glare.
“The past is the past,” Dick rasps, voice cracking slightly. He hates it. “Whatever happened already happened. Even if I tell you, even if you do find out, there's nothing you can do. Not anymore. It’ll just hurt you too.”
Jason’s jaw works, like he’s about to snap back, but Dick’s faster, stopping him with a trembling, raised hand.
“You don’t need to drag it all up again. I lived through it, you didn't. So leave it buried.” He drags in another breath, this one jagged enough to hurt his bruised ribs, and scrubs at his face with the heel of his palm. His hand comes away damp— sweat, not tears, he tells himself. Definitely not tears.
Tim opens his mouth, that sharp analytic look on his face like he’s already assembling puzzle pieces. Dick beats him to it with a low, humourless laugh.
“But hey,” he coughs, throat raw, “if you do figure it out somehow… if you're stubborn enough to dig it all up anyway… let me know what you think.” His smile is thin, fake, and more than a little bitter— mostly at himself. “Would be fun to hear the reviews.”
He didn't bother to wait for their reply.
His head and chest aches from talking this much. He tips his head back against the headboard, hand grasping Wally’s, letting his eyes slide half-shut, posture screaming conversation over.
If he’s lucky, they’ll take the hint.
If he’s not… well, they’re Bats.
They never take the hint.