Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dick stood alone in the tiny, rundown apartment, the walls smeared with grime and the dim light flickering overhead. Blood coated his hands, splattered across his suit, and dripped onto the cracked linoleum floor.

But the blood wasn't his.

His breath came in ragged gasps as he stared at the knife clutched in his trembling hand, its blade slick with crimson. The sound of it clattering to the floor echoed in the silence, a harsh reminder of the violence that had just taken place.

He took a hesitant step toward the mangled corpse sprawled in the center of the room. The body was a grotesque sight, stabbed repeatedly, the flesh torn and mutilated beyond recognition. The eyes were gouged out, leaving behind hollow, bloody voids. The skull was split open, the insides spilling out like the rotting insides of a decayed jack-o'-lantern. Shards of broken bone jutted out at odd angles, resembling the cruel thorns of a twisted rose bush.

Dick's stomach churned, bile rising in his throat. He dropped to his knees beside the lifeless form, unable to tear his gaze away from the horror he had wrought. The room spun, his vision blurring as the reality of what he had done crashed over him. He doubled over, retching violently, his body convulsing with the force of his revulsion.

What had he become?

The answer lay in the blood-soaked remains before him. The sorcerer, a man who had trapped Dick in a hellish time loop, now lay dead at his feet. For nearly a year, Dick had been caught in this endless cycle, reliving the same Wednesday over and over again.

Three hundred loops.

Three hundred days of waking up to the same nightmare, knowing that no matter what he did, it would all end the same way.

With the death of the Batman.

Dick had watched Bruce die , each death more excruciating than the last. Some days, it wasn't just Bruce. Ninety of those loops had claimed the lives of everyone Dick loved, forcing him to witness their deaths over and over again, helpless to stop it. 

He had sought out Constantine, desperate for a way to break the curse without resorting to the unthinkable. But every attempt had failed. The sorcerer was too powerful, the loop too entrenched in dark magic. And eventually, after countless failed attempts, something inside Dick had shattered.

On the three-hundredth day, he had suited up with a grim determination, tracking the sorcerer down before the sun had even risen. There was no hesitation, no second thoughts. As soon as he had the opportunity, he struck, his rage blinding him to everything else. The sorcerer hadn't even seen it coming.

Rules, morals—none of it had mattered anymore. He had been willing to do whatever it took to end the nightmare, to free himself from the endless torment. And now, as the sorcerer's blood pooled around him, seeping into the cracks of the floor, it was over.

But as Dick knelt there, surrounded by the evidence of his own darkness, he couldn't shake the hollow feeling in his chest. He had done the unthinkable, broken the one rule he had sworn never to cross.

And the worst part?

He didn't feel relief.

Only emptiness.

Mindlessly he reached out, fingers brushing against the cold, lifeless skin of the sorcerer's hand. The blood on his own hands was starting to dry, becoming sticky and uncomfortable, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were consumed by the echoes of the past year—every loop, every failure, every brutal death he had been forced to witness.

His mind replayed the images on a relentless loop, like a broken film reel. Bruce’s lifeless eyes staring up at him, Tim’s body crumpled on the floor, Damian’s small frame lying in a pool of blood, Jason's choked gasps. Each scene was a fresh wound on his psyche, each memory a reminder of his impotence in the face of this curse.

And now, it was over.

But the price of that freedom was a stain on his soul that he knew would never wash away.

He didn't know how he made it back to the cave. The journey was a blur, his mind still trapped in the labyrinth of memories from the past year. The constant, suffocating repetition of waking up on the same couch, at the same time, day after day, had ingrained itself into his psyche. The mere thought of returning to his apartment filled him with a deep, irrational dread—he couldn’t face that place again, not after all he had been through.

Instead, he had somehow ended up here, in the Batcave, the familiar darkness of its cavernous expanse wrapping around him like a shroud. But even here, in this place that had always felt like a second home, there was no comfort to be found.

The cave was empty.

Bruce wasn't here. Neither was Alfred. Nor Tim, Damian, or anyone else. The silence was oppressive, weighing down on him, amplifying the hollow emptiness that had taken root in his chest. As much as he needed to see them, to hear their voices, to be reassured that this was real—that he was finally free—he couldn’t bring himself to seek them out.

He wasn't ready to face them. Not yet.

He felt like a criminal, washing away the blood, the cold water from the shower ran over his hands, swirling red down the drain. Dick scrubbed at his skin with a fervor that bordered on desperation, but no matter how much he washed, the bloodstains clung to him, seeping into the creases of his fingers, embedding themselves into his very being. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they would never come off, that they had become a permanent part of him.

His reflection in the mirror above the sink was almost unrecognizable. Dark circles framed his eyes, his face gaunt and hollow, the weight of the past year etched into every line and shadow. The man staring back at him looked haunted, broken—like he had been hollowed out and left with nothing but the shell of who he used to be.

For the first time in his life, Dick felt like a complete stranger to himself.

He dressed himself in one of Bruce's sweats, the fabric hanging loosely on his frame. 

He then cleaned the blade. 

Constantine had given it to him, saying it was the only thing that could pierce his skin. He thought he would never use it, he tried, he really tried not to use it. 

But he did, eighty-seven times he did, stopping long after he took his last breath. 

He cleaned it, he's going to have to return it, not tonight though.

He cleaned his suit next, methodically scrubbing away the blood and grime as if it could somehow cleanse his soul along with it. The movements were mechanical, driven more by habit than intention. Each stroke of the cloth over the Kevlar was a ritual, a desperate attempt to restore some semblance of order to a world that had been shattered beyond repair.

The suit, once a symbol of hope and justice, now felt like a relic of a life that no longer belonged to him. As he scrubbed at the stains, he couldn’t help but notice how the black fabric seemed to absorb the blood, the crimson disappearing into the darkness as though it had always been a part of it. He wondered if that was how it was with him, too—if the darkness had always been there, just waiting for the right moment to emerge.

He had just finished when he heard the car pull up into the cave. It startled him but his body was too exhausted to react and he stayed slumped in the chair, watching Bruce emerge from the Batmobile, his tall figure silhouetted against the headlights. Bruce's movements were deliberate, methodical, as he exited the car and approached the center of the cave. He hadn’t noticed Dick yet, his focus elsewhere—likely on whatever mission had consumed his night.

But when Bruce finally looked up, his eyes caught Dick’s figure slumped in the chair, and the change in his expression was almost imperceptible—almost.

“Dick?” Bruce’s voice was calm, but there was an underlying note of concern that Dick knew all too well. It was the same tone Bruce used when he sensed something was off but didn’t want to push too hard, not yet.

Dick didn’t respond right away. He was too drained, too numb, to even summon the energy to speak. Instead, he just stared at Bruce, feeling the weight of his presence in the cave, a stark contrast to the oppressive loneliness that had gripped him earlier.

Bruce stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as they took in Dick’s disheveled appearance, the too-loose sweatpants, the haunted look in his eyes. It was clear something was wrong, but Bruce was patient. He knew better than to force anything.

“What happened?” Bruce finally asked, his voice low and steady, as if he were speaking to a wounded animal that might bolt at any moment, taking off the cowl and cape.

Dick opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. How could he possibly explain everything? The time loop, the endless deaths, the horror of it all. And then, the final act... 

He would never look at him the same again, would never trust him again.

It took him awhile after what he did to Joker and that death didn't stick...

His thoughts seemed to jump start his emotions and he began choking, crying, sobbing, wrapping his limbs around Bruce. His legs circled around his father's waist, his arms wrapped tightly around Bruce’s shoulders, clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had crumbled into chaos. The sobs tore through him, each one more violent than the last, as he buried his face in Bruce’s neck, desperate for the comfort he hadn’t realized he was seeking.

Bruce, startled by the intensity of Dick’s breakdown, didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around him, holding him close. His large hand cradled the back of Dick’s head, fingers threading gently through his hair, a grounding touch meant to soothe. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to shush him or offer empty reassurances. Instead, he just held him, letting him cry, letting him pour out the fear, the guilt, the overwhelming grief that had been building up for so long.

It went on for far too long but eventually Dick was near the land of unconscious, he would've been asleep if Bruce didn't start patting him for injuries and there were many. 

A broken rib from colliding into a wall at one point. Burns from torture, fingernails ripped out, but it was nothing compared to the psychological scarring that man had done. 

Not only was he knowledgeable in magic but he was also was a telepath, looked through his memories, his fears, 

His failures... 

He touched him... 

Dick's entire body shuddered with the memory. The bile rose again, hot and acidic, but he swallowed it down, forcing the feeling back which startled Bruce who tilted his head back, looking for a concussion probably. 

With the way his head was pounding, he probably had one. 

“Dick,” Bruce finally said, his voice barely above a whisper as he continued to cradle him, “we need to get you to the med bay.”

Dick, his body utterly spent, didn’t resist. He felt Bruce’s strong arms lift him, carrying him as if he weighed nothing. Normally, Dick would have protested, insisted that he could walk on his own, but now, he didn’t have the strength to argue. He allowed himself to be taken care of, feeling a numb sort of detachment as Bruce moved him through the familiar, shadowed corridors of the Batcave.

When they reached the med bay, Bruce laid Dick down on the examination table with the utmost care, as if he might break if handled too roughly. Bruce worked methodically as he started to treat Dick’s wounds. He cleaned the burns, bandaged the rib, and carefully wrapped the tips of Dick’s fingers where the nails had been ripped away. His hands were steady, but there was a tension in his movements, a barely restrained fury that simmered beneath the surface. 

"What happened? I haven't seen you in two months," 

To Bruce it was two months, having been off world with the Titans before any of this happened. 

To Dick, he had just saw him yesterday, he died just yesterday... 

Dick shook his head, making his head pound but he didn't stop, didn't care, didn't answer Bruce's question. 

Bruce softnened apologetically, "I'm sorry, you can tell me when you're ready," He said, brushing his hair back. 

He moved back from the cot, expecting Dick to get up but he was too exhausted for that. For the first time in years he raised his arms towards Bruce. 

He is Twenty-five, way to old for this but he needs to be held, to be comforted. 

Come to think of it, no one comforts him anymore. A multitude of things happened that lead to that but he never realized just how much he missed it until now. There was something primal, almost childlike, in the way he reached out, seeking the warmth and security that only Bruce, only his dad could provide. 

Bruce grunted, gripping his underarms and effortlessly lifting him from the examination table and pulling him into a tight embrace. For a moment, neither of them moved. Bruce simply held him, his strong, steady presence a stark contrast to the trembling man in his arms. Dick clung to him, his fingers digging into Bruce’s shirt, the fabric bunched up in his fists.

His Dad made his way upstairs, brushing the wet curls from Dick's forehead as they ascended. Bruce’s steps were slow, careful, as if trying not to disturb the fragile peace that had settled over them. The manor was quiet, the only sounds the faint creaking of the old wooden stairs and the soft rustle of clothing.

Bruce’s grip was firm, grounding, a silent assurance that no matter what had happened, he was here now, and he wasn’t going anywhere. They passed through the dimly lit hallways of Wayne Manor, the shadows dancing along the walls like silent specters. But for once, those shadows didn’t feel as menacing. With Bruce’s solid presence next to him, they were just shadows—nothing more, nothing less.

Bruce pushed open the door to Dick’s old room, the hinges groaning softly in protest. The room was just as Dick had left it all those years ago, a time capsule of his teenage years. Posters of circus acrobats and martial artists adorned the walls, alongside old photographs of the Flying Graysons and mementos from his days as Robin. The bed, still neatly made, was a stark reminder of the life he had once lived—a life that felt like a distant memory now.

"No," Dick shook his head. He needed Bruce to stay.

"Your room," He mumbled. 

Bruce hesitated for a brief moment, his gaze softening as he looked at Dick. The request, so quietly uttered, carried with it the weight of all that had transpired, all that Dick had endured. Without a word, Bruce turned and carried him toward his own bedroom.

The hallway seemed endless, each step echoing with the silent understanding between father and son. When they finally reached Bruce's room, Bruce nudged the door open with his foot. The room was as it had always been—dark, imposing, yet somehow comforting in its familiarity.

Bruce gently laid Dick down on the large bed, carefully placing him on the right side, the spot that had always been reserved for him during those rare nights when nightmares had driven Dick to seek out the comfort of his mentor. 

Bruce settled back against the pillows, his arm wrapping around Dick’s shoulders, pulling him in close. Dick’s head rested against Bruce’s chest, and he could feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart, making him cry because he was alive, so many times he tried to find that sound, pumping his chest as his body grew colder. 

For a while, they lay there in silence, the weight of the past year hanging heavily between them. Dick’s sobs had subsided, replaced by the occasional hiccup as he slowly began to calm down. Bruce didn’t say anything, didn’t press him for answers or try to piece together what had happened, well for now because this is Bruce he is going to as Dick has named it, "interrogate with care," but that was a future problem. 

For now he just closed his eyes, trying to sleep, it has been a year since he's actually done that. 

But as Bruce cradled him, rubbed his back, soothed him so gently he wanted to scream. 

The weight of the guilt pressed down on Dick like a leaden blanket, suffocating, relentless. Bruce's comforting touch, the warmth of his embrace, only intensified the sense of unworthiness gnawing at him. He had crossed a line, committed an act so dark, so irreversible, that he felt tainted beyond redemption. The word echoed in his mind, a brutal reminder of the blood on his hands—murderer.

As Bruce’s steady heartbeat thrummed beneath his ear, Dick’s thoughts spiraled. Every act of violence, every moment of rage, flashed before his eyes in stark, unforgiving clarity. The memory of the sorcerer's lifeless body, mutilated beyond recognition, was burned into his mind. The image clung to him like a specter, haunting every breath, every thought.

He deserved it, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. But that voice was drowned out by the louder, more insistent one—the voice that reminded him of who he was supposed to be. The voice that echoed with Bruce's teachings, with the lessons ingrained in him since his childhood. No matter how justified the act, he had taken a life. He had let his anger, his desperation, consume him to the point where he couldn’t see any other way out.

And now, wrapped in the comfort of Bruce’s arms, he felt like a fraud. A murderer wearing the guise of a hero.

The tears started again, silently this time, slipping down his cheeks as he fought to keep his breathing steady, to keep from breaking down all over again. He didn’t want Bruce to see him like this, to see just how far he had fallen. But there was no hiding it—not from Bruce, who knew him better than anyone.

"You're safe now," Bruce’s voice was a low rumble, almost a whisper, as his hand continued to rub soothing circles on Dick’s back. But the words didn’t reach him. They bounced off the wall of self-loathing that had built up around his heart, unable to penetrate the fortress of guilt and despair that held him captive.

But even as he tried to push Bruce’s comfort away, a part of him clung to it desperately. He needed this, needed to feel like he was still worth saving, even if he didn’t believe it himself. Bruce had always been his anchor, his guiding star in the darkest of times, and now, more than ever, he needed that steady presence to keep him from completely losing himself to the darkness.

Still, the fear lingered. What if Bruce knew? What if he saw the blood on his hands, the darkness that had taken root in his soul? Would he still hold him close, still offer him comfort?

The thought of losing Bruce’s love, his trust, was almost too much to bear.

"Rest, Dick," Bruce urged gently, his voice a soothing balm against the raw edges of Dick’s nerves. "

But how could he rest? How could he close his eyes, knowing what he had done? The images would come back—the blood, the screams, the endless loop of death and failure. Sleep was no refuge; it was just another layer of the nightmare.

Yet, his body betrayed him. Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, weighed him down, pulling him toward the darkness of unconsciousness. The steady rhythm of Bruce’s heartbeat, the warmth of his embrace, lulled him into a state of drowsy vulnerability.

He fought it, fought the pull of sleep, the pull of comfort. But it was a losing battle. His body, battered and bruised, his mind, frayed and shattered, could only resist for so long. 

In Bruce’s arms, Dick finally let the darkness claim him, his mind drifting into a troubled sleep as the shadows of the past year began to blur at the edges.

And the guilt of what he had done swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

Dick woke up with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. The familiar emptiness of the bed beside him was a cruel reminder of the solitude that had haunted him for nearly a year. He had grown used to waking up alone, but today felt different. He bolted upright, his breath coming in ragged gasps, convinced that this time, finally, something had changed.

His mind raced as the events of the previous night flooded back to him. He had been so sure, so utterly certain, that he had done it, that he had saved them all. But now, as the silence pressed in around him, doubt crept into his thoughts like a venomous serpent. Had it all been for nothing? Had he crossed the line he swore never to cross, stained his hands with blood, only to find that nothing had changed?

A cold shiver ran down his spine as the horrifying possibility gripped him. "No, no, no, no," he muttered, his voice trembling with desperation. He could feel the panic rising within him, threatening to consume him whole. He couldn’t have failed—not after everything he had sacrificed.

"Bruce!" he called out, his voice hoarse and desperate, echoing through the empty room. But the only answer was the oppressive stillness that surrounded him, leaving him alone with the crushing weight of uncertainty. 

He swore that he saw him last night, felt his arms around him, but did he still somehow fail? 

He looked at the clock next to the bed or was it next to his couch? That hideous orange thing that he woke up on night after night, just thinking about made him want to puke. 

But the clock, the time... 

12:00 

All of a sudden he was back in his apartment, after his failed...No he couldn't have failed, he couldn't have... 

"Bruce!" he screamed, the sharp pain from his broken rib stabbing through his side, causing him to double over in a fit of coughing. But he forced himself to call out again, the desperation in his voice now tinged with a raw, agonizing fear.

"Dad! Bruce!"

His cries echoed through the emptiness, unanswered. Dick’s mind was a blur of chaotic thoughts and suffocating fear. The echoes of his own voice still rang in his ears, overlapping with the relentless mantra pounding through his brain—he failed, he failed, he failed. The panic threatened to consume him, his vision blurring as the reality of his solitude bore down on him like a ton of bricks.

But then, cutting through the haze like a beacon of light, he heard it. A voice—a familiar, grounding voice.

“Dick.”

He whipped his head around, barely able to register the pain shooting through his side. His eyes locked onto the figure standing in the doorway. Bruce. There he was, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon, his face etched with concern.

Bruce was alive.

For a moment, Dick couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He just stared at Bruce, taking in every detail as if afraid he might vanish if he blinked. The broad shoulders, the unmistakable stance, the way his eyes flickered with a mixture of worry and something softer—something that made Dick’s chest ache even more.

“Where… Where were you?” Dick’s voice came out in a broken whisper, a desperate plea for answers, for reassurance. The terror that had gripped him moments ago still lingered at the edges of his consciousness, but seeing Bruce there, solid and real, brought him a sliver of hope. 

"Down the hall chum," He said and the moment he came in reach Dick threw himself onto him. The pain in his side flared up, sharp and relentless, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was that Bruce was here, alive and real, not just a figment of his fractured mind.

"Dick be careful, your rib," he urged, his tone firm but soft, the way he always spoke when he was more worried than he let on.

But Dick barely registered the warning. The pain in his side was a distant echo compared to the overwhelming relief flooding through him. Bruce was here. He was real. He was alive. After everything Dick had been through, after all the nightmares and doubt, he finally had something solid to hold onto.

“I don’t care,” Dick mumbled against Bruce’s shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. 

Placing a hand under his bottom, Bruce picked him up, careful not to jostle Dick’s injured rib, and began to carry him out of the room and judging by the cool air, into the cave. 

"Your bandages need changing," He said. As Bruce carried him down the winding stairway into the Batcave, Dick kept his face buried in Bruce’s shoulder, drawing in the familiar scent of leather and something uniquely Bruce. It was real—this was real. The line between nightmares and reality had blurred so many times before, but not this time. Bruce was alive, meaning everyone else is alive and that was the only truth that mattered.

Bruce tried to set him down on the cot but that meant letting go of Bruce and he didn't want to do that. 

"Dick," Bruce sighed, making Dick's heart sink because he knows that he is being an inconvenience, he has a list ton of injuries that need to be checked but he can't let go, not for a second, not until he's sure that Bruce is really here.

"Alfred!" Bruce called, his voice echoing through the cavernous space of the Batcave.

Within moments, Alfred appeared from the shadows, his expression a mixture of concern and composure. He took in the sight of Dick clinging to Bruce with a look of quiet empathy. “Master Dick,” Alfred said softly, moving closer. “What happened?”

"He's injured," Bruce answered for him, and normally, Dick would have been annoyed, but now, he was just grateful that he didn’t have to speak. The weight of what he had done, what he had seen, was too much to bear, and the words felt like lead in his throat.

"His bandages need to be changed, but he won't let go of me," Bruce explained, sitting down with Dick in his lap.

Dick knew he was too old for this—twenty-five and still clinging to Bruce like he was a child again. But in this moment, all that mattered was the safety and comfort that Bruce’s presence provided. The warmth of Bruce’s body against his own, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the armor he always seemed to wear, both physically and emotionally, was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"What on earth happened?" Alfred murmured, his gaze flicking between Bruce and Dick, his tone soft but probing.

Dick felt the weight of their eyes on him, the unspoken questions lingering in the air. He had to give them something—anything but the truth, though. If they knew about the blood on his hands, what he had discovered he was capable of...

"Uh... I was separated from the Titans during our mission," Dick began, his voice shaky, the lie slipping out before he could stop it. "I got captured, and they wanted information out of me, but I managed to get away and… and we kicked their asses—"

"Language, Master Dick," Alfred interjected, his tone mild but disapproving.

"Sorry, Alf," Dick replied sheepishly, trying to muster a smile, but it felt hollow.

"But yeah..." Dick’s voice trailed off, the lie hanging in the air, flimsy and unconvincing. It was the worst cover story he could have come up with—vague and delivered with all the conviction of a drowning man grasping at straws. He could feel Bruce’s gaze boring into him, could sense the intensity of his scrutiny. That was worse than Bruce pressing him for details. The silence was suffocating.

Alfred didn't believe him really either but thankfully was silent about it as he tended to his wounds. 

"You look exhausted Master Dick," He said patting his knee. 

"But before you retire upstairs I suggest that you should eat. Master Damian is having a sleepover with the Kents and I simply made too large of a breakfast or brunch I should say," 

Dick managed a weak smile, the warmth of the moment providing a brief respite from his turmoil. “Thanks, Alfred. Brunch sounds good,” he said, trying to muster a smile for Alfred’s sake. “But only if you made those blueberry pancakes Damian always raves about.”

Alfred’s lips twitched into a small smile. “Indeed I did, Master Dick. And there’s plenty more where that came from.”

Dick nodded again, grateful for the small distraction. As Alfred finished dressing his wounds, Dick tried to focus on the mundane comfort that brunch would bring. Maybe sitting down to a meal, something as simple as pancakes, could help him regain some sense of normalcy. But as much as he tried to push the dark thoughts away, they lingered at the edges of his mind like a persistent shadow.

“Come on,” Bruce said, his voice low and steady, as if he could sense the turmoil churning inside Dick. He stood, gently helping Dick to his feet. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

Dick leaned heavily on Bruce as they made their way up to the manor’s kitchen. The journey was short, but every step felt like an effort. His body was exhausted, battered from both physical wounds and the weight of his secrets. But having Bruce by his side, feeling the solid warmth of his presence, made it bearable.

When they reached the kitchen, the sight of the breakfast spread laid out on the table almost made Dick smile for real. There were stacks of pancakes, crispy bacon, fresh fruit, and even a pot of Alfred’s signature tea. The smell of the food was comforting, and for a moment, the heavy burden on his shoulders felt a little lighter.

Alfred, ever the perfect butler, poured a cup of tea and handed it to Dick. “Do sit, Master Dick. You need to regain your strength.”

Dick eased himself into a chair, careful not to aggravate his injuries. Bruce sat beside him, his gaze never straying far from Dick, as if he were ready to catch him if he faltered. And Alfred handed him a fork and a knife... 

A knife...

He shouldn't be panicking, the weapon he actually used, the dagger is still in the cave, hidden away from prying eyes. 

But the memories it triggered were too close, too raw, and they came rushing back with a force that left him breathless.

Dick’s grip tightened on the knife, his knuckles turning white. He could feel Bruce’s eyes on him, could sense the concern radiating off him. He had to get it together, had to push the panic down before it swallowed him whole. But the harder he tried, the more difficult it became.

“Dick?” Bruce’s voice was soft, but it cut through the fog of his panic like a lifeline. “You okay?”

Dick swallowed hard, forcing himself to nod. But he smelled blood, felt blood, saw blood everywhere. On the walls, in his nails... 

All over the body. 

"Dick!"

 Dick blinked rapidly, the room spinning as he struggled to make sense of where he was. The kitchen’s warmth, the smell of pancakes, and the familiar presence of Bruce and Alfred felt surreal, distant. It was as if the ground had been pulled out from under him, leaving him disoriented and unsteady.

“Dick, look at me,” Bruce’s voice was firm, pulling him back to the present. He realized he was lying on the cold floor, Bruce kneeling beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other gently cupping the side of his face. The concern in Bruce’s eyes was unmistakable, and it only made the guilt gnawing at Dick’s insides more intense.

Alfred was beside them in an instant, his expression one of calm efficiency, though Dick could see the worry beneath the surface. “Deep breaths, Master Dick,” Alfred instructed, his tone gentle but commanding.

Dick tried to obey, sucking in air as best as he could, though his chest felt tight, constricted by the memories he couldn’t seem to shake. The blood wasn’t real. He knew that. It wasn’t on the walls, or on his hands. But his mind insisted otherwise, replaying the moment over and over again like a broken record.

"Dick, what happened? Are there any injuries we don't know about?" Bruce asked. 

Dick closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "No...No I'm just really tired," He said. 

"You collapsed," Bruce said, "that isn't fine. 

"I know," He said, "But really B, I'm just tired," 

They both studied him for a long moment, the weight of their gazes making Dick feel even more vulnerable. He could sense their doubts, the unspoken concern that lingered in the air. He knew he wasn’t convincing either of them, but he didn’t have the strength to delve into the truth, not now. Not ever.

Bruce finally sighed, his expression softening as he seemed to reach a decision. “Alright,” he said quietly, though it was clear he wasn’t entirely convinced. “But we’re going to keep an eye on you. If anything changes, if you feel worse… you need to tell us.”

Alfred nodded in agreement, his usual calm demeanor unwavering. “Indeed, Master Dick." 

  Dick managed a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, both of you. I’ll be fine, really.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince them or himself.

"Master Dick, I believe that it would be best for you to have breakfast in bed." 

Alfred said, his tone gentle but firm. "You need to rest, and I can bring the food up to you."

Dick started to protest but realized that Alfred was right. It was a practical suggestion, and perhaps resting in a more comfortable setting would help him feel less overwhelmed. “Alright, that sounds good,” he said, his voice faint.

Bruce scooped him up, carrying him back to his room. 

When they reached Dick’s room, Bruce gently set him down on the bed, arranging the pillows behind him for support. Alfred was right behind them, setting down the tray with the breakfast spread on the bedside table. The smell of the blueberry pancakes filled the room, a stark contrast to the dark thoughts that still lingered at the edge of Dick’s consciousness.

“Thank you,” Dick murmured, glancing between Bruce and Alfred, his voice barely above a whisper. The guilt and fear were still there, but the overwhelming kindness in their eyes made it just a little easier to bear. 

But it was all gone when the tray was set in his lap... 

The knife was still there 

And he still saw blood. 

_~~_

John Constantine jolted awake at the sharp, insistent knock on the motel door, his senses struggling to catch up with reality after the debauched bender that had left him in a near-comatose state. His head pounded in time with his racing heart, each throb a painful reminder of the hours spent drowning himself in cheap whiskey and self-loathing. His mouth was dry, like it was filled with cotton, and every muscle in his body protested as he pushed himself up, groaning. The world outside could bloody well wait—whatever nightmare had followed him here could wait, too.

The knock came again, more forceful this time, as if the person on the other side of the door could sense his reluctance. John rolled off the bed, his boots hitting the threadbare carpet with a heavy thud. He shuffled towards the door, his movements sluggish and unsteady, not bothering to check who was outside. In his line of work, it was usually a toss-up—either someone needed his help, or someone wanted him dead. And in this moment, he wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t prefer the latter.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming!" he growled, irritation lacing his voice as he yanked the door open.

Standing in the doorway was the last person John expected to see—Dick Grayson. The kid looked like he had dragged himself straight out of hell. His skin was pale, almost sickly, and his usually bright eyes were shadowed by dark, hollow circles. There was a haunted look about him, the kind that only comes from surviving something that leaves scars too deep for the skin to show.

For a brief, disorienting moment, John thought he might still be trapped in some alcohol-fueled hallucination, a cruel trick of his subconscious after too much whiskey and too little sleep. But the biting cold wind that rushed into the room as the door swung open was all too real, and so was the look of sheer desperation on the young man’s face.

Without a word, Dick handed him a dagger—an ornate, deadly thing, etched with symbols that spoke of dark magic and blood. John’s heart sank at the sight. He knew this weapon all too well; it was a tool for breaking blood curses, the kind that could only be undone by killing the one who cast them. John liked to call it the "Blood Curse Caster Killer," an aptly grim nickname for a tool of death.

"Shit," John muttered under his breath. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He had never given this dagger to the kid—at least, he didn’t remember doing so. But he did remember waking up once to find his window ajar and the distinct feeling that something important had been taken. The pieces clicked into place with a sickening certainty.

"Christ, Grayson,” John said, rubbing his temples as if trying to massage away the headache that was fast becoming the least of his problems. “What in the bloody hell are you doing here with that?”

Dick’s eyes were empty, his voice barely above a whisper, shaky with the weight of something that had broken him. "It was a time loop. You gave it to me multiple times, but I refused to use it—until now."

John nodded slowly, the gravity of the situation sinking in. "Until now," he echoed, the words heavy on his tongue.

Dick swallowed hard, his expression one of resigned exhaustion. "I’m just returning it. I know you don’t remember, but... thank you for your help."

John’s brow furrowed as he took the dagger from Dick’s hand, his eyes narrowing as he studied the young man’s face, searching for any sign of the person he once knew. But all he saw was someone who had been pushed to his very limits and then some.

He sighed and opened the door wider, the frigid morning air rushing past him. “Come in, kid.”

Dick shook his head, already backing away. “Really, I’m fine. I just—”

"Killed someone for the first time, and now you’re drowning in guilt thanks to Daddy-Bat’s moral compass,” John interrupted, his tone blunt but not without a hint of concern. 

Dick flinched at the harsh truth in John’s words, but before he could protest, John stepped aside, his voice firm. "Get your arse in here before I drag you in myself."

Reluctantly, Dick stepped into the room, the warmth inside a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. John shut the door behind him, sealing off the outside world, and gestured to the worn armchair near the small, cluttered table.

“Sit down,” John ordered, the authority in his voice leaving no room for argument. “You look like you’ve been through hell and back.”

Dick collapsed into the chair, his posture defeated, his gaze darting around the small, dingy room as if searching for something to anchor himself to. “I didn’t come here for a chat,” he said quietly, his voice brittle. “I came to return the dagger and thank you.”

Ignoring his words, John poured two glasses of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing as his unsteady hand guided it into the glasses. He slid one across the table to Dick and took a seat on the edge of the bed, his own glass already halfway to his lips. He took a long drink, the burn of the alcohol a welcome distraction from the mess unraveling before him. He watched as Dick stared at the glass in his hand, not drinking, just holding it like it was something foreign.

"Talk, mate," John urged, his voice rough but laced with a rare softness. "I know you’re not going to tell the Bats about this, not if you can help it."

Dick took a hesitant sip of the whiskey, grimacing as the harsh liquid hit his tongue. "This is terrible," he muttered, setting the glass down.

John chuckled, a low, humorless sound. “Not exactly the finest Scotch, is it? But it’ll do the trick. Now stop dodging the issue and spill it. What happened?”

Dick’s face tightened, his hands trembling as he placed the glass on the table, unable to bring himself to meet John’s gaze. "I was trapped in a time loop for three hundred days. On the last day, he tortured me, and I... I killed him. Brutally. I shouldn’t have been that brutal."

John’s expression softened, understanding dawning in his eyes. “You were in a bloody nightmare, mate,” he said, his tone gentler now. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he tried to catch Dick’s haunted gaze. "Three hundred days of torture, of reliving the same hell over and over... it changes a person. Anyone in your shoes would’ve snapped. And when you finally found a way out, of course it was brutal. It had to be."

Dick shook his head, his voice breaking. "You weren’t there. I... I became everything I’ve fought against. He was begging for me to stop, and I couldn’t. I didn’t. He became unrecognizable—a bloody pile of flesh. I dismembered him, and even then, he begged, but I couldn’t stop. Didn’t stop. I just wanted him to suffer. Needed him to suffer. What kind of person wishes for that?"

"A person who’s been pushed past their breaking point," John said softly, the usual sharpness in his voice replaced by something closer to sympathy. He took another drink, his eyes locked on Dick’s trembling form. "You’re not a monster, Dick. You’re human. A human who was tortured, broken, and driven to the edge. And when you’re that far gone, all the rules, all the lines... they don’t mean a damn thing."

Dick’s hands gripped the armrests of the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. His eyes were fixed on the floor, his voice hollow and lost. "But I wanted him to suffer, John. I wanted to hurt him as much as he hurt me. How do I live with that? How do I go back to who I was?"

John set his glass down, leaning forward with an intensity that cut through the haze of alcohol and fatigue clouding his mind. "You don’t go back, mate. You can’t. What you went through... it’s changed you. There’s no undoing that. But that doesn’t mean you’re lost. It doesn’t mean you’re beyond redemption. It means you’ve seen the darkness inside yourself, the part of you that could do what needed to be done, and that’s a part of you now. But it’s not all of you."

Dick didn’t respond, his hands still trembling as he drained his glass and poured himself another. John could tell that his words hadn’t quite reached the kid, that there was too much weighing on him—too much guilt, too much fear, too many shadows that wouldn’t let go.

And then there was Bruce—always Bruce. John could already see how this was going to play out, how the Bat’s rigid sense of morality would only deepen Dick’s guilt.

And that hard-ass is bound to screw this up, John thought grimly, watching as Dick sank further into himself, lost in the darkness that had taken hold. The kid was slipping away, and there was nothing John could do to pull him back.

That was the kid's father's job. Bruce was the only one who could.

But the question was, would he?

Chapter Text

Dick stood at the threshold of Wayne Manor, breathless from his mad dash across Gotham. He hadn’t stopped to grab his coat or even think about the pain still lingering in his leg—he’d just needed to get out. Out of his apartment, away from the oppressive memories of those endless, suffocating loops. The couch in his living room felt like a constant reminder of his failure, the place where he woke up again and again, trapped in the nightmare of reliving that hellish day. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He needed to be somewhere, anywhere, that didn’t carry the weight of that reality.

The manor stood tall and silent, its looming façade somehow both intimidating and reassuring. Dick paused at the door, his hand hovering uncertainly over the ornate knocker. A dozen thoughts raced through his mind—he could go to Titan’s Tower instead, retreat into the camaraderie of his friends, bury himself in missions and banter until he couldn’t feel the ache anymore. But the Tower felt too far, too impersonal tonight. He needed something else, something that only Bruce could provide, though the thought twisted his stomach with guilt.

He knocked before he could talk himself out of it, the sound echoing through the stillness of the night. For a second, Dick considered turning back, slipping away into the shadows before Bruce answered. But then the door creaked open, and there was Bruce, looking like he had just gotten out of bed, robe wrapped loosely around his broad frame, slippers on his feet. The sight stopped Dick cold. Bruce was never not busy, never took time for himself. Seeing him like this, disheveled and bleary-eyed, only deepened the pit of guilt in Dick’s chest. He shouldn’t have come. He was bothering Bruce, dragging him into his mess when Bruce deserved some semblance of peace, even if only for a night.

“Dick?” Bruce’s voice was soft, edged with concern that cut straight through Dick’s resolve. There was no judgement in it, no impatience—just a simple question, one that opened the floodgates of everything Dick had been trying so hard to keep locked away.

Dick swallowed hard, his throat tight as he tried to force down the swell of emotions threatening to break free. He had rehearsed so many things to say on the drive over, but now, face to face with Bruce, every excuse felt flimsy, every explanation sounded hollow. What could he possibly say that would make sense of the turmoil raging inside him? How could he put into words the fear and exhaustion that had driven him here, the relentless cycle of guilt and self-doubt?

Bruce stepped back, opening the door wider in a gesture that spoke louder than any words could. He wasn’t asking questions or demanding explanations. He was just there, solid and steady, the unwavering presence that had anchored Dick through so many storms before. It was a quiet invitation, a promise that Dick didn’t have to face this alone, even if he couldn’t articulate why he was here.

Dick hesitated, his feet rooted to the ground as he wrestled with the urge to retreat. But the pull of Bruce’s silent offer was stronger, and after a moment that felt like an eternity, he stepped inside. The familiar warmth of the manor washed over him, the quiet hum of the old house a comforting backdrop that made his shoulders sag with a relief he hadn’t realized he was holding back.

As Bruce closed the door behind them, his keen eyes caught the slight hitch in Dick’s gait, the way he shifted his weight off his injured leg. “You’re limping,” Bruce noted, his voice low and thoughtful, tinged with that ever-present undercurrent of concern. “I told you to take it easy. You shouldn’t have left yesterday. It was too soon.”

Dick just shrugged, downplaying the throbbing pain in his ankle as he sat on the couch. It was just a sprain—he’d had worse. But as he glanced at his hands, he couldn’t ignore the tremor that had settled in his fingers, an echo of the blood that had once stained them, still so vivid in his mind. Even now, days later, he could still feel it—the warm, sticky weight of it, mingled with the sickening crunch of breaking bones, the dull squelch of flesh giving way under the relentless rhythm of his knife.

It was almost impossible to believe that his hands, had been swift, stabs one after another, cries of pain being ignored because he remembers Damian, his tiny youngest brother, crying out more than fifty times and there was nothing he could do.

Well there was, it's just that he refused to do it.

He should've stopped, a stab to the neck would've been more than enough to kill him but at the moment it hadn't been, not when he still remembered Damian's haunted eyes, Tim's last breath, Jason asking him to sing to him as he died. Not when Bruce chose to save him,

And then after doing all of that, he looked through his memories, his fears, his failures...

And subjected Dick to them once again...

He remembers the way he was too close, the way he kissed him and Dick didn't want that twisted, mocking parody of intimacy. He only touched him because he knew how Dick would react to it, not because of any sense of lust or desire, but because he knew it would break Dick further, shatter whatever fragments of control he was still desperately clinging to. It was power, plain and simple—a cruel, calculated act meant to strip away Dick’s defenses, to leave him raw and vulnerable in a way that no physical wound ever could. And it worked, he can still feel it...

Maybe that's why after stabbing him more times than Dick could count, Dick cut off his fingers, one by one, slowly and deliberately. Each severed digit felt like a promise that he would never touch him again. Dick had stabbed his eyes out first, hoping to erase the memory of that twisted gaze forever. It was fury, vengeance, and the desperate need to reclaim something of himself that had been stripped away. Every violent act felt like a declaration: he would not be a victim anymore, he would not allow that man's cruelty to define him. Yet, even as Dick carved his revenge, each movement was tinged with a sickening sense of loss—loss of innocence, of restraint, of the lines he had sworn never to cross.

But he had crossed them, and now he was left grappling with the pieces. Dick’s breaths were ragged, his chest heaving as he fought to steady himself in the face of those overwhelming memories. The reality of what he’d done, of the monster he’d become in those moments, clung to him like a shroud, suffocating and cold.

His knee was bouncing with nervous energy, his sprained ankle throbbing with the movement.

"Dick, what is going on?"

Dick breathed, he had to pull himself together. Bruce couldn't know, no one could know of what had happened that night, what he had sacrificed to save them.

But it was hard—so hard to pull himself together when everything felt like it was unraveling at the seams. He looked up at Bruce, and the words he’d been desperately trying to hold back threatened to spill out anyway. His mind screamed at him to say something, anything that would deflect Bruce’s concern, but the weight of what he was hiding pressed down like a vice.

“Nothing,” Dick finally muttered, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly, his brow furrowing as he studied Dick with the kind of scrutiny that could strip away every layer of pretense. It was unnerving, the way Bruce could look at him and see right through every lie, every attempt to bury his pain beneath a facade of nonchalance.

“Dick,” Bruce said quietly, but firmly.

Dick’s jaw clenched, his knee bouncing faster now as he clenched his fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. The pressure was building again, that unbearable need to confess, to unload the horror of what he’d done and feel the relief of someone else carrying that burden, if only for a moment. But the shame was too great, the fear that Bruce would look at him differently—see him not as the son he’d raised, but as someone who’d crossed a line so far beyond redemption that even Bruce’s steadfast love couldn’t bridge it.

“I’m fine, Bruce,” Dick insisted, forcing his voice to steady, even as his chest tightened with the effort. “I just… I needed to get out of the apartment. It’s nothing serious.”

Bruce didn’t look convinced. He took a step closer, his presence both comforting and stifling, as if Dick was caught between wanting to collapse into his arms and needing to run as far away as possible. “You’re limping, you look exhausted, and you’re clearly upset. This isn’t nothing. Talk to me, Dick.”

A flash of anger surged through Dick, hot and blinding, driven by the frustration of being seen so clearly when all he wanted was to hide. “I said I’m fine!” he snapped, his voice rising more than he intended. The words echoed off the walls, harsh and jagged in the quiet of the manor.

"I'm sorry," Dick said, his voice cracking as the anger faded just as quickly as it had flared. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration mingling with regret. He hated this—hated the way his emotions swung wildly, hated that he was taking it out on Bruce, who was only trying to help. The apology hung heavy between them, and Dick could feel the weight of it pressing down, making it even harder to breathe.

"I just missed you," Dick sighed.

"And every time I...I hate being alone because of...of what happened to me,"

"The torture?" Bruce asked, remembering the lie that he told him yesterday.

Dick nodded "Yeah,"

"Chum," Bruce sat on the couch next to him, and there it was, the hugs, the way he rubbed his back, pet his hair, all comfort that he didn't deserve, probably wouldn't receive if Bruce knew of what he had done, what he was capable of.

Bruce's movements were soft as he gently removed his shoe to wrap his ankle, checking his ribs and cuts before settling them on the couch, covering him in the soft blanket that sat on the couch.

The TV was low and dim, like the night light he used to own and Bruce held him gently, patting his back as he was held against his chest.

After all these years, he still fit in Bruce's lap, and that realization brought a strange mix of comfort and sorrow. There was a time when being held like this was enough to chase away the nightmares, to make him feel safe and loved. But now, it felt like a mockery of the person he’d become, the person he was trying so hard not to be.

Dick’s thoughts churned, the memory of that night clawing at him, refusing to be buried. Every detail was etched into his mind—the way his hands had trembled, the way his heart had pounded with a mix of fear and resolve. He’d done what he had to do, what no one else could, and it had saved them. But the cost…

He could still feel it, a dark stain on his soul that no amount of comforting would wash away. Bruce’s steady breathing, the warmth of his embrace, all of it was a stark contrast to the cold, violent reality Dick had faced. He didn’t deserve this. Not after what he’d done.

But he couldn't let go, couldn't turn away the comfort of his dad because despite everything, nothing, nothing was more painful than holding his father's cold, lifeless body.

Chapter Text

Bruce winced as a sharp, searing pain flared in his lower back, like a hot iron pressed deep into his spine. It was an all-too-familiar sensation, one he'd learned to endure ever since Bane had shattered his back all those years ago. Most days, it lingered as a dull, throbbing ache that he could push to the background, easily ignored in the heat of action. But tonight, with the weight of his eldest son sprawled across his lap, still and unmoving, the pain returned with a vengeance. It always does when he is still for too long.

He shifted, careful not to wake Dick, the smallest adjustment to ease the worst of the discomfort. It wasn’t enough to truly help, but Bruce refused to move more. Not now. Not when his son, finally, was asleep.

Dick had drifted off almost as soon as he’d settled against Bruce, his body relaxing in a way that Bruce hadn’t seen in years. His face, normally taut with stress and exhaustion, had softened in sleep, the deep lines of worry smoothed away. Drool dampened the corner of Dick’s mouth, pooling against Bruce’s shirt, but Bruce didn’t care. He’d have endured far worse than a little discomfort to see his son so peaceful, even for just a moment.

Bruce’s fingers gently combed through Dick’s thick, dark hair, the movement instinctual, comforting. It had been years since Dick had let himself be held like this—years since he’d needed it. After all, Nightwing was independent, strong, more than capable of standing on his own. But tonight, it was as though time had rewound itself, and Bruce was cradling his child again—his twenty-five-year-old son still fitting perfectly into the space beside him, as if no time had passed.

Bruce studied Dick’s sleeping face, and his heart ached with bittersweet nostalgia. Dick had long outgrown the boyish roundness in his cheeks, but in sleep, the faint softness remained, echoing the child Bruce had raised. The angles of his jaw and the maturity in his features were hard-won, evidence of the battles Dick had fought and the burdens he’d carried. But even beneath the layers of heroism and resilience, Bruce could still see traces of the boy who had once burst into Wayne Manor with unshakable hope and laughter.

It had been two months since Bruce had last seen him—two months too long. And now that Dick was back in Gotham, there was no denying that something was wrong. Deeply wrong. The injuries were telling—bruises hidden under clothes, stiff movements disguised by practiced smiles—but the story Dick had offered didn’t line up. A Titans mission? No, Bruce didn’t believe that. Not for a second.

Bruce had seen the way the Titans coddled him,  Dick is the youngest of the group despite his leadership role. They were protective, sometimes overly so. There was no way they would have let him leave their care in the condition he was in. And if they had known what was happening, if Dick had been honest with them, they would never have allowed him to set foot in Gotham until he had recovered.

But hours later there he was, sitting in the manor’s kitchen, moving about like nothing had happened. The next morning, Dick was his usual, chipper self—or at least, he was trying to be. His smile was bright, his voice light and cheery, but it never quite reached his eyes. The stiffness in his movements was impossible to miss, each bend and stretch sending a subtle wince across his face. He played it off, bustling around the kitchen like old times, pouring coffee, but Bruce saw through it all.

“Morning, B!” Dick’s voice was just a little too enthusiastic. He turned with that familiar grin, but the shadow behind his eyes was unmistakable.

“Morning,” Bruce replied, his eyes narrowing. He was already studying his son—cataloging every tell, every forced gesture. “Sleep well?”

“Like a rock,” Dick answered, too quickly. His hand trembled slightly as he handed Bruce a mug of coffee, but the practiced ease with which he did it told Bruce this wasn’t the first time he was putting on this act.

Bruce took a sip, his mind already running through possible approaches. He didn’t want to push, but something needed to give.

“Was there a reason you didn’t patrol last night? Is it your back again? Did you tell Alfred? Leslie prescribed you something stronger last time, didn’t she? You’re probably immune to every painkiller on the market now… Must suck. I can’t imagine not being able to take Aleve.Though to be fair, Aleve never worked for me—”

Bruce blinked as Dick’s words tumbled out in a frantic, chaotic stream, too fast to follow. This was the tell. The deflection. He remembered it all too well—the way Dick always tried to talk his way around concern, to distract him, to push him off the scent.

It was the same energy Bruce had seen so many times before. Years ago, after a patrol gone wrong—Bruce had fallen from a roof and, with a broken wrist, couldn’t pull himself up immediately. Sheer will had saved him, but Dick had been there, wide-eyed and terrified. The next day, his son had been just like this—overflowing with forced energy, talking too fast, too happy. But Bruce had known. Dick had cried when he left for work, begged not to go to school, his anxiety bubbling over until he was sobbing so hard the school would call Bruce, saying that they couldn't calm him down.

When Alfred picked him up, Dick would wait by the door for Bruce to come back. Nothing could coax him from the hallway until Bruce finally walked through that door. Then he would rush into Bruce's arms, trembling and sobbing. 

Eventually his son was diagnosed with separation anxiety and that bad night reminded him of his parent's tragedy. It took months but eventually therapy and Bruce's reassurance, Dick believed that He was coming back, that he would see him again. 

Now watching Dick who was now twenty five doing almost the exact same thing sent a sense of deja vu through Bruce. 

His child then sat on his lap, it was playful, but again it's been years since he's been this close to him. 

"Dick," He sighed. 

Dick laughed, a sound that was too high, too strained. “What?” he asked, his smile bright but hollow, his eyes darting away from Bruce’s gaze. “I’m just messing around, Bruce. Can’t a guy hang out with his dad? I haven’t seen you in like two months.”

There was a teasing lilt to his voice, but it was forced, and Bruce could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he was leaning into Bruce like he needed to convince himself that he was really there. Dick’s arms tightened around his neck in a hug, his head resting against Bruce’s shoulder, and for a moment, Bruce allowed himself to believe that maybe it really was just a harmless gesture, just his son being playful.

But then he felt it—Dick’s body was trembling, a fine, almost imperceptible shaking that sent a chill down Bruce’s spine.

“Dick?” Bruce’s voice was sharper now, concern threading through it.

There was no response. Dick’s face was buried in his shoulder, and his breathing had changed, becoming shallow and rapid, almost like he was struggling for air. Alarm bells rang in Bruce’s mind as he pulled back slightly, lifting a hand to cup the side of Dick’s face, gently tilting his head up.

What he saw made his heart clench. Dick’s eyes were wide and unfocused, glazed over with a distant, vacant look that sent Bruce’s mind racing back to a time he’d thought they’d left behind. It was like watching him retreat into himself, slipping into some dark, unreachable place where Bruce couldn’t follow.

“Dick,” Bruce said again, his voice firm but gentle, trying to anchor him. “Hey, look at me.”

For a long, agonizing moment, Dick didn’t react, didn’t even seem to hear him. And then, slowly, his eyes flicked up to meet Bruce’s, blinking as if he were waking from a deep sleep. There was recognition there, but also a terrible confusion, as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was, or how he’d ended up here.

And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the mask was back. Dick’s expression cleared, and he gave Bruce a smile—a bright, cheerful smile that didn’t reach his eyes, a mask of forced normalcy.

“Sorry, daydreaming,” he said with a shrug, starting to stand up as if nothing had happened. “Must be more tired than I thought.”

Bruce was on his feet before Dick could take another step, his hand wrapping gently but firmly around his son’s arm. “Dick, wait.”

The smile faltered, just for a second, but then Dick plastered it back on, too bright, too wide. “I’m fine, Bruce, really. Just got a little lost in thought.”

Bruce shook his head, his eyes searching Dick’s face, looking for any sign of what was really going on. “No, you’re not. You’re shaking.”

Dick looked down at his hands as if he hadn’t noticed, then shrugged again, an attempt at casualness that fell flat. “It’s cold in here,” he said, his voice light, almost dismissive.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. “Dick—”

“Really, it’s nothing. My blood sugar is probably just low. I’ll grab something to eat and I’ll be fine.” He pulled his arm gently from Bruce’s grip, stepping back with that same too-bright smile.

Bruce had left it at that but Dick's behavior didn't go unnoticed. 

Later Damian was home and normally when Damian is the only sibling here Dick doesn't really spend time with Bruce, they don't really spend any time one on one anymore. 

But Bruce found himself huddled in the living room with his eldest and youngest to watch a movie. It wasn't a bad thing, not at all but it was unusual. Bruce couldn’t remember the last time Dick had been so insistent on sticking around for something as simple as a movie night, especially without prompting. Normally, he’d was off doing his own thing or spending time with his siblings or Alfred. He and Dick don't spend time outside of the capes, together anymore. There’d been no (recent) arguments, no friction—it was just how things had shifted over the years as Dick became his own person, independent and self-sufficient.

But he was just so anxious. 

When Bruce moved slightly, got up at any time, Dick would tense, his eyes darting up with a sharp, almost panicked look, before quickly glancing away, pretending to focus on the screen again. It was subtle, the way he tracked Bruce’s movements, but to someone who knew him as well as Bruce did, it was glaringly obvious. Every time Bruce shifted or stood, Dick would freeze, his body going rigid, his gaze flickering with an emotion that looked too close to fear.

Bruce tested it once, standing up under the pretense of getting more popcorn from the kitchen. As he stepped away, he felt Dick’s eyes on his back, heard the slight intake of breath. And then, just as Bruce reached the doorway, Dick spoke up, his voice forcedly casual.

“Hey, where are you going?” 

The words were light, almost nonchalant, but there was an edge to them, a tightness that Bruce didn’t miss. He turned around slowly, taking in the way Dick’s hands were clenched in his lap, his knuckles white, the way his shoulders were drawn tight, as if bracing for something.

“Just getting more popcorn,” Bruce said softly. “Do you need anything?”

Dick blinked, his expression faltering for a split second before he plastered on a too-bright smile. “No, I’m good. Just… don’t take too long, okay? Damian’s going to hog all the snacks if you do.”

Damian rolled his eyes from where he was curled up at the other end of the couch. “Please, Grayson, I have no intention of touching your overly buttered popcorn. It’s a wonder you’re not sick.”

“Hey, don’t knock it if you've been eating like half the bowl,” Dick quipped, his voice lacking its usual spark. He glanced back at Bruce, his smile wavering. “But seriously, don’t be to long, might miss important plot,”

“I won’t,” Bruce promised, his heart twisting at the unspoken plea in his son’s eyes. He lingered for a moment longer, studying Dick’s face, but when he saw the tension only growing, he nodded and turned away, heading to the kitchen. 

There was no doubt in his mind that this was seperation anxiety. 

The memory of Dick’s trembling body, his wide, unfocused eyes, haunted him. It had been a long time since Bruce had seen his son so vulnerable, so shaken. And the worst part was that he didn’t know what had triggered it. Had it been the torture? The Titans mission? Something else entirely? 

Bruce took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He knew he couldn’t push too hard, couldn’t corner Dick and demand answers. That would only drive him further away, make him retreat deeper into himself. But he couldn’t just ignore it, either. He couldn’t stand by and watch his son suffer in silence, pretending everything was fine when it so clearly wasn’t.

He filled a glass of water, then grabbed a couple of granola bars from the pantry, something he knew Dick would nibble on to appease him. Taking his time, Bruce tried to think of what to say, how to approach this without making Dick feel cornered or judged. He knew his son, knew that Dick would downplay his own pain to keep Bruce from worrying, to keep from being a burden.

When Bruce finally returned to the living room, he saw Dick and Damian sitting in tense silence. Damian was focused on the screen, but his posture was tight, his brow furrowed in that concerned way he rarely showed. Dick, on the other hand, was staring at the television, his eyes glassy,

“Here,” he said softly, moving slowly so as not to startle them. He placed the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, then handed the glass of water and the granola bars to Dick.

Dick blinked, as if coming back to himself, and turned his head to look at Bruce. He tried to smile, but it was a weak, strained thing, his lips barely lifting. “Thanks, B,” he said, his voice too light, too casual. It was the kind of tone he used when he was trying to deflect, to keep anyone from looking too closely.

Bruce’s heart ached as he watched Dick tear open one of the bars and take a tiny, mechanical bite. It was clear he wasn’t hungry, wasn’t really aware of what he was doing, just going through the motions to keep Bruce from worrying. Dick’s gaze slid back to the screen, his expression shutting down again, and Bruce felt a surge of helplessness. He hated this, hated seeing his son like this, and not knowing how to fix it.

After a few moments of tense silence, Bruce sank down onto the couch beside Dick, his movements slow and deliberate. He wasn’t sure how close he should get or how much space to give him, but the paternal instinct to offer comfort overrode everything else. Dick seemed to hesitate at first, his entire body coiled tight with a tension that Bruce could feel radiating off of him. His son’s posture was rigid, as if he were bracing himself against something, a silent battle being waged within his own mind.

Bruce’s heart twisted at the sight of it—at the vulnerability Dick was working so hard to hide. He hadn’t seen his son like this in years, not since Dick was much younger, when the nightmares would shake him awake in the middle of the night, and he’d seek out Bruce’s presence for comfort, without ever admitting it aloud. But those days were long gone now, buried beneath the layers of time, independence, and unspoken distance that had grown between them.

But then, almost reluctantly, Dick shifted. Slowly, cautiously, as if testing the waters, he leaned over, resting his head against Bruce’s lap in a way that felt achingly familiar. It was a gesture from another time—a time when things had been simpler, when Bruce’s presence alone had been enough to soothe whatever troubles weighed on his young ward’s mind. The familiarity of it hit Bruce hard, making his heart clench with a rush of emotion he hadn’t expected. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed this—the quiet moments where no words were needed, just the simple comfort of being close.

Without thinking, Bruce rested his hand gently on the back of Dick’s head, his fingers threading through his son’s dark hair in a soothing rhythm. It was an old habit, one born out of countless nights spent reassuring Dick after long patrols or difficult missions. Bruce’s touch was careful, unhurried, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile peace they had found.

Dick’s body was trembling, faintly at first, but enough for Bruce to notice. His son had always been strong, both physically and emotionally, rarely allowing anyone to see him in moments of weakness. But Bruce could feel the barely suppressed tension that ran through him now, the way his muscles seemed to quiver beneath the surface, as if he were holding himself together by sheer force of will. His breathing was shallow and uneven, a sharp contrast to the calm façade he usually projected.

They sat there like that for a while, the movie continuing to play in the background, though Bruce wasn’t paying attention to it anymore. His focus was entirely on Dick, on the subtle changes in his breathing and the way his body seemed to tremble more with each passing minute.

At first, Bruce thought it might be a panic attack, the kind that often crept up on Dick during stressful times. He had seen it before—the wide, unfocused eyes, the way he seemed to retreat into himself as if the world around him had suddenly become too overwhelming. Bruce paused the movie, the sound cutting off abruptly, plunging them into a heavy silence.

Bruce gently turned Dick’s face toward him, his fingers brushing over his cheek, trying to ground him in the present moment. But the sight that greeted him sent a wave of alarm crashing over him—Dick’s eyes were glazed, unfocused, his breathing shallow and erratic. His chest heaved with every labored breath, but it was his pulse that truly frightened Bruce. He could see it now, the rapid flutter beneath Dick’s skin, his heart visibly pounding as if it were fighting to escape.

This wasn’t a panic attack. Bruce had seen panic attacks before. This is definitely not one.

Dick’s heart was hammering so violently in his chest that Bruce could feel it through the fabric of his shirt, each rapid thud like a drumbeat warning of impending danger. His breath was quick and shallow, but there was something off, something about the way his chest barely seemed to expand, as if the air was trapped inside him, unable to escape. His son’s skin had grown pale, almost translucent, his lips tinged with a faint blue, and the tremors running through his body had only grown more pronounced.

Bruce’s mind raced, every part of him screaming to act, but his training told him to stay calm, to focus. He placed a hand on Dick’s chest, feeling the rapid, uneven beats that rattled against his palm. His heart was moving far too fast, dangerously fast, the erratic rhythm almost irregular, as though it might fail at any moment.

"Dick," Bruce said again, his voice steady but strained. He needed to keep him conscious, to keep him grounded. "Can you hear me? Look at me, son."

But Dick’s eyes were glassy, unfocused, as if he was somewhere far away, lost in a place where Bruce couldn't reach him. His body tensed, a faint groan escaping his lips as he struggled to draw in another breath.

“Dammit,” Bruce cursed under his breath, the sharp sting of helplessness settling deep in his chest. He knew he couldn’t wait any longer.

Swiftly, he shifted Dick so he was lying flat on the couch, trying to make it easier for him to breathe. But the change in position didn’t help. In fact, it seemed to worsen things. Dick’s breathing became more erratic, each breath now coming in short, uneven gasps, his body trembling as he loss conscious.

Damian must have got Alfred because the butler was kneeling beside him in an instant.

"His heart rate is dangerously high." Bruce said, tapping Dick's cheek, waking him up.

"Come on Dick, stay with me,"

Alfred's brow furrowed,

Dick, can you tell me how you’re feeling right now?”

Dick’s face scrunched in concentration, his breathing still uneven. “I-I… it’s hard to breathe,” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. “Feels like… like there’s something pressing down on me. My left arm is numb,"

Alfred looked horrified, taking his cellphone from his pocket.

"I'm calling an ambulance," he said, his voice steady but urgent as he dialed.

"It sounds like he's having a heart attack,"

Stress cardiomyopathy. That was the diagnosis.

Dick’s heart rate had skyrocketed to 200 beats per minute, went into cardiac arrest in the back of the ambulance. The long stroll beat coming from the monitor will haunt him forever. It was three hundred seconds--five minutes.

The slowest, longest five minutes of his life before they brought him back.

He should have never let his guard down. The signs had been there—his son had been jittery, skittish, ever since he came back to Gotham. Something had happened during those weeks away, something serious. And it couldn’t just be a Titans mission.

This went deeper.

Dick was traumatized—so deeply shaken by whatever he had endured that his body had hit a breaking point, the stress manifesting in a way Bruce had never seen before. His son’s heart had nearly given out. The thought of it sent a wave of helplessness crashing over him.

And worst of all, Bruce couldn’t fix it.

He had no idea what was going on with his eldest. He hadn’t for a long time. That realization hit him hard, and for the first time, it dawned on him: he never truly knew.

With Jason, there was always a sense of what he was up to, even if he kept things vague. Tim worked closely with him in the office, his routine practically mirrored Bruce’s. Damian was under his roof, his life much more open to Bruce’s eyes, same for Duke. Cass called almost every two days.But Dick…

They barely talked anymore. His eldest was always busy, always running missions that took him away from Gotham. And when he did return, it was never for long. Their interactions had grown brief, limited to business. It had been months since they had a real conversation—months that Dick had likely been carrying this weight alone. And now, his son had nearly collapsed under the strain.

Something had happened in those last two months, Bruce was sure of it. But he has been stressed for probably longer than that, way before that. This probably was just the straw that broke the camel's back.

His son was asleep when he finally saw him, his heart monitor, it was beeping steadily but still a bit high for his liking. It was probably due to his restlessness. Even in sleep he seemed unsettled. His son tossed and turned, little cries escaping his lips. He was having a nightmare, his sleep even being stressful.

"I just informed everyone of the situation ," Alfred announced quietly as Damian stood beside him.

"Something's wrong, something that he isn't telling me," Bruce sighed, gently rubbing his son's shoulder, attempting to soothe his restlessness.

"I knew something was wrong the night he came home, and this morning he seemed so anxious, and I think the separation anxiety has sort of resurfaced," Bruce continued, his voice low and weary.

"Something triggered it. I know he was tortured, that much is clear, but it's something more. Something happened before then—before those two months. There has to be a ton of stress built up over time for it to get to this point." His words trailed off.

Alfred remained silent, the weight of Bruce's realization hanging between them. There was no simple answer, no quick fix. Whatever it was that Dick had been hiding had finally caught up with him, but until he was ready to open up, they could only guess.

Bruce exhaled sharply, feeling the burden of his own helplessness. "I just... I should’ve noticed sooner. I should’ve been there."

Alfred placed a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, his voice calm but firm. "You are here now, Master Bruce, and that is what matters most. When he is ready, he will tell you. In the meantime, all you can do is be patient."

Bruce nodded, though patience had never been his strong suit. His hand tightened slightly on Dick’s shoulder. He has to know what is going on because his son cannot keep going like this.

But he can't force the answers out of his son. If Dick doesn't want him to know something, he makes sure that Bruce doesn't know. Most secrets Dick has kept were found out through Bruce, "snooping", but that most of the time did more harm than good, even though Bruce's intentions were not malicious.

So he just has to wait.

And there wasn't a definite of if Dick would tell him,

Only a possibility,

A very, very slim possibility.

_~~_

Dick couldn’t still the tremor in his hands as he cradled Damian, drawing the boy closer to his chest, desperate to ground himself in the warmth and steady rhythm of his brother’s breathing. The bowl of popcorn between them was mostly ignored now, its buttery scent a stark contrast to the sour taste of dread sitting heavy in Dick’s throat. Damian was warm, alive, and content, absently munching on popcorn as if nothing was wrong, but Dick’s stomach twisted too tightly to even consider eating.

He stared at the television, the images blurring into a nonsensical smear of colors as his mind drifted back to that damned time loop. Damian had been excited to go to the art museum—a rare moment of pure joy, untainted by the shadows that always seemed to cling to their lives. But that joy had been shattered by an explosion that had ripped through the quiet halls, turning a place of beauty into a nightmare.

It wasn’t the first time. 

He could still see it clearly in his mind, as if it was happening again: Damian glancing back at him, eyes wide with confusion as the bomber moved closer, their bodies nearly touching. Everything slowed. His pulse had thundered in his ears, drowning out all sound but the deafening roar of the blast as it tore through the room, sending glass and debris raining down around them.

Again and again, he had clawed through the rubble, hands raw and bleeding as he dug for his brother. And every time, he found him—broken, bloody, choking on the blood filling his lungs. 

Damian’s arm had been crushed beneath a slab of concrete, bent at a grotesque angle, but somehow, the boy had still managed to move it, trembling fingers reaching for Dick’s face. 

“Dick… it hurts… Am I going to die? I don’t want to die, Dick, please…” 

The memory of Damian’s voice in that moment was a knife in his gut, twisting deeper with every breath. He could still hear the terror, the desperation in his little brother’s words as if they were etched into his very soul. Each syllable echoed in his mind, a haunting refrain he couldn’t escape, no matter how hard he tried.

Over and over, he’d tried to save him, whispering the same lies to comfort him. 

“You’re not going to die.” 

He had whispered it so many times, his voice hoarse and broken, even as he knew it wasn’t true. The bomb had already done its damage. It didn’t matter how many times he said the words—Damian would always die. 

Still, Dick held him close every time, cradling the boy’s small, broken body against his chest as if his embrace could somehow shield him from the inevitable. But no amount of holding him could stop what was coming. The life always drained from Damian’s eyes, leaving them dull and unseeing, and Dick had been forced to watch it happen, powerless to do anything but hold on until the last breath faded.

Even after his little brother’s chest stopped rising and falling, even after the coldness set in, Dick had tried—desperately—to bring him back. His hands pressed against Damian’s ribs, forcing air into his lifeless lungs, knowing in the back of his mind that it was too late. Tiny bones cracked under the pressure, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Tears blurred his vision, his voice a broken plea as he begged his brother to breathe, to fight, to come back to him.

“Come on, Damian, breathe,” he had whispered, his voice shredded by exhaustion and grief. He had said those words too many times, felt the sting of loss too acutely. Each time he lost Damian, it felt like the first time—the pain never dulled, never grew easier to bear. 

But it always ended the same. Silence. And then, the reset. Another loop. Another death.

In the present, Damian stirred in his arms, his soft breath puffing against Dick’s chest, pulling him out of the memory’s suffocating grip. His heart was still hammering in his chest, and the tremors in his hands had only gotten worse. He clenched them into fists, burying them in the fabric of Damian’s hoodie, desperate to hide the shaking from his brother. 

“You’re acting weird,” Damian muttered, his voice laced with mild irritation as he glanced up at Dick. His frown was more curious than accusatory, but it still made Dick’s heart clench.

Forcing a smile that felt too tight on his face, Dick shrugged, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. “Just tired,” he lied, the weight of the truth too heavy to share. 

It wasn’t just tiredness. It was the memory of Damian’s blood on his hands, the coldness of his body, the helplessness of watching him die over and over. The images swam in his mind, replaying relentlessly, even as Damian sat there, alive and safe in his arms. 

Bruce had joined them now, sitting beside him, his presence a quiet comfort. But it did little to chase away the haunting images that lingered in the corners of Dick’s mind. He could still feel the coldness of Damian’s skin, the stickiness of blood clinging to his fingers, the sight of those wide, terrified eyes staring up at him as life slipped away.

Maybe it was foreshadowing. Maybe he had saved them. 

But why did it feel like he was a murderer? Why did he feel like he failed them?

Why, why, why?

The question reverberated in his mind like the peal of thunder before a storm. Then, suddenly, it struck him—sharp and fast like a bolt of lightning, searing through his chest. 

The pain hit him hard, radiating outwards in hot, stabbing waves. His arm went numb, his breath caught in his throat, his vision darkened at the edges. For a fleeting moment, he thought it was a panic attack. 

But this was worse.

The pain in his chest was more than just the familiar grip of anxiety—it was something deeper, sharper, more vicious. It cut through him like a blade, stealing the air from his lungs, and before he could even cry out, his world tilted, and everything went black.

He dreams, it's always the same.

The blood comes first.

Thick, warm, and suffocating, it drips down his hands, splatters across his face, pools beneath his feet. His knuckles are raw and bleeding, but it isn’t his blood. No, this belongs to someone else.

There’s a sick satisfaction curling in his gut as he raises his fist again. His body moves almost on its own, mechanical in its precision as blow after blow lands with a sickening thud. The sound of bone cracking beneath his knuckles is visceral, loud in his ears, but it doesn’t stop him. He swings harder, faster, with more fury than he ever thought he had.

And then, the pleas start.

They always do.

The voice is faint at first, muffled by the blood rushing in his ears, but soon it grows louder. Desperate. Pitiful. The broken sobs reach him like a distant echo, but they don’t matter. Not yet. Not while the anger still burns so brightly, so fiercely inside him.

He can feel the warm spray of blood on his cheek, sliding down his skin, sticking to his hair. It’s everywhere, staining his clothes, his hands, his soul.

But in the moment… he likes it.

The violence is intoxicating, a release he craves. Every hit sends a surge of twisted pleasure through him, a sick rush of adrenaline that drowns out the horror of what he’s doing.

He wants to hear the suffering. He wants the man beneath him to feel every ounce of pain, every crushing blow, every ounce of his fury. He wants him to beg.

And he does.

"Please," the voice rasps, wet and broken, barely more than a whisper between gasping breaths. "Please, stop."

But Dick doesn’t stop. He can’t. He’s gone too far now, and there’s no turning back. The sobs grow weaker, the blood flows thicker, but all he feels is that violent satisfaction, that dark, consuming urge to finish what he started.

Somewhere deep inside him, the real Dick Grayson is screaming for it to end, for the nightmare to stop. He’s horrified, repulsed by the twisted version of himself that revels in the violence. But that part of him is buried beneath the rage, too deep to surface.

And then, it ends—abruptly, violently. The world around him doesn’t fade away gently. It’s ripped apart, jagged and harsh, leaving behind nothing but the hollow echo of his own ragged breaths and the eerie quiet that follows the chaos.

But then there’s this sound, faint at first, something distant, but persistent. A rhythmic beeping that cuts through the haze, steady and constant, unlike the frantic pounding of his heart. At first, it’s just background noise, but slowly it grows louder, dragging him away from sleep induced flashback.

It speeds up a fraction as he sits up, and reality crashes back into him like a wave of cold water. The rhythmic beeping from the heart monitor spikes as his body jerks upright, chest heaving. His hands instinctively reach for his face, wiping at phantom blood that isn’t there, but the sticky, metallic sensation lingers on his skin. His breath comes in shallow, panicked gasps, the line between the dream and reality still blurred.

But it takes a moment for his mind to catch up. The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic is the first clue. His fingers dig into the thin sheets of the med bay cot, grounding himself in the cold touch of the fabric. His pulse thunders in his ears, the remnants of adrenaline still rushing through his veins as if his body hasn’t quite realized the nightmare is over.

"Dick,"

A voice cuts through the fog, grounding him further. It’s low, familiar, and filled with concern. "Dick," the voice repeats, a little more urgently now.

Bruce.

Dick blinks hard, the room finally coming into focus. The cold med bay, the stark white lights overhead, the quiet hum of machines around him—it all crashes into his senses at once. His chest heaves with the effort of breathing, and he forces himself to focus on the one constant in the chaos: Bruce standing beside him, his hand resting firmly on Dick’s shoulder.

For a moment, all Dick can do is stare. He’s still halfway trapped in the nightmare, still seeing flashes of blood, of broken bodies, of his own hands dripping with violence. His fists tremble, clenched tight around the sheets beneath him, but the warmth of Bruce’s hand keeps him tethered to the present.

“Dick,” Bruce says again, his tone softening. "Breathe."

It takes a few seconds for the command to register, but when it does, Dick sucks in a sharp breath, his chest aching with the effort. He can feel his heart still racing, the tightness in his throat refusing to let go, but he forces the air into his lungs, steadying himself. The beeping of the heart monitor begins to slow, falling back into a more regular rhythm.

“Good,” Bruce murmurs, his grip on Dick’s shoulder tightening briefly, as if to reassure him that he’s really here, really awake.

Dick swallows hard, his throat dry, the taste of copper still lingering on his tongue, even though he knows there’s no blood.

"What...What happened?"

Bruce sighed, his heart heavy with the weight of the question. He looked down at Dick, whose face was pale and strained, his eyes still haunted by whatever horrors the nightmare had dredged up. It was as if the trauma of the time loop had left him trapped in its vicious cycle, even now.

"Stress cardiomyopathy. Your heart couldn’t handle the strain anymore. We almost lost you, Dick."

The words hung in the air, cold and blunt.

Shit.

'Well I can't give him an half-assed excuse,' Dick thought.

He honestly wasn't surprised by this, three hundred days in a time loop, was tortured, killed the person responsible which he still couldn't fully reconcile with, which all happened just three days ago...

Dick shifted uncomfortably, the weight of Bruce’s words settling over him. Almost lost him.

He should have been more scared by that, should have felt the gravity of the situation hit him harder, but he was just... numb. There was a dull ache in his chest, both physical and emotional, but it was easier to focus on the physical pain. Easier to think about his heart beating too fast than to acknowledge the mess inside his head.

“I—" Dick started, but the words died in his throat. He didn’t know how to explain it. How could he tell Bruce about the loop, about his family dying over and over?

How could he tell them that he killed someone?

And it wasn't like Jason, a couple of bullets, he stabbed him repeatedly, dismembered him...

The memory hit Dick like a punch to the gut. The sorcerer's face, twisted in agony as Dick drove the blade into him again and again. He couldn’t stop. In that moment, he had wanted to feel something—anything—after the months of torture and loss. He had wanted to end the loop, to end the pain, and the only way was to kill him.

But it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t swift. It was brutal. Ugly.

And now, the blood was on his hands. Not metaphorically, not in a way he could justify, but in a way that made him sick to his stomach.

"I've just been really busy," He whispered softly.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly at Dick’s deflection. “Busy?” His tone was calm but edged with disbelief. “Dick, don’t try to downplay this,"

Dick felt a wave of irritation rise in his chest. Why did Bruce always have to pry? Couldn’t he just accept that Dick didn’t want to talk about it? Not now. Maybe not ever. “I’m fine,”

"Going into cardiac arrest in the back of an ambulance isn't fine," Bruce interrupted, his voice stern but filled with worry.

"You almost died today! And the Doctors are asking me if you have recent stress, or trauma and I don’t know," Bruce continued, his voice rough but controlled. "And I didn’t have an answer for them."

Dick's fists clenched at his sides, his pulse quickening again, but this time from frustration. He hated how Bruce always had to dig, always had to make things harder than they needed to be.

“I told you, I've been having missions back to back, I just got busy," He was close to yelling now, his heart monitor began beeping faster, signaling his rising agitation.

Bruce’s face remained calm, but his eyes flicked to the monitor briefly before returning to Dick’s.

"We shouldn't have this conversation right now," His father sighed.

He said something else after, a whole three sentences, but all Dick could focus on was that he was leaving.

Maybe it was because he had been alone for so long, watched him die for months but he didn't want, he didn't want this.

"B please. Dad come back, I'm sorry,"

The words were panicked, rushed as he reached for him and he didn't know he was crying until Bruce wiped the tears from his face.

He crossed the distance between them in an instant, kneeling by Dick’s bedside and gently pulling him into a tight embrace. The monitor continued its frantic beeping, but Bruce focused on the weight of his son in his arms, the tremors running through him, and the tears dampening his shirt.

“It’s okay,” Bruce murmured, his voice softer than Dick had ever heard it. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

Dick clung to him as if Bruce was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality, his body shaking with silent sobs. The weight of everything—his guilt, his pain, his trauma—finally broke through, and he couldn’t stop it anymore. He buried his face in Bruce’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut as though it might make everything go away.

He still smelled blood, still felt it too.

But he didn't feel his father's cold, lifeless body, because Bruce was alive. He was here, holding him, solid and real.

“You’re going to be okay,” Bruce whispered, his voice steady and sure, even though Dick didn’t fully believe it himself. But Dick needed to hear it.

Or maybe he just needed to hear Bruce's voice.

Chapter Text

Bruce couldn’t tear his eyes away from the heart monitor, his gaze locked onto the steady, rhythmic beeping that filled the room. It was both a lifeline and a cruel reminder of just how close he had come to losing his son. Each beep echoed in his chest, resonating with the hollow ache that had settled there since the ambulance ride. It was a sound he couldn’t afford to stop hearing, but one that still sent chills down his spine. The thought of what could have happened if that sound had never returned... It was unbearable.

The paramedics had burst into the house like a storm, their voices sharp and urgent as they surrounded Dick’s still form. Bruce had been there, kneeling beside him, cradling his son’s head in his lap, unable to process how everything had gone wrong so fast. Dick’s heart had still been beating then, too fast, frantic, like a bird trapped in a cage, but it had been there—an erratic pulse of life that Bruce had clung to.

As they rushed him into the ambulance, Bruce had followed, his mind racing, his pulse thundering in his ears. The heart monitor in the back of the ambulance had picked up Dick’s rapid heartbeat, and with every frantic beep, Bruce’s own heart seemed to match it. The monitor’s rhythm became the only thing Bruce could focus on—the one thread tethering him to the moment. Every time the numbers spiked, his chest tightened, his breath catching in his throat. He barely noticed the paramedics working around him, their hands moving swiftly over Dick’s body, adjusting equipment, barking out medical jargon that Bruce didn’t want to understand. All he could do was watch the screen as the heart rate climbed higher and higher, the beeping becoming more erratic, more desperate, mirroring the panic rising in his own chest.

And then it happened—the moment that would haunt Bruce for the rest of his life.

The flatline.

The sharp, continuous tone tore through the enclosed space, a brutal, unrelenting sound that made Bruce’s blood run cold. He froze, his entire body going rigid as his gaze locked onto the monitor. The jagged peaks of Dick’s heartbeat were gone, replaced by a single, flat, lifeless line. It was as though the world had stopped spinning, time itself frozen in that agonizing moment. Bruce could feel the ground shifting beneath his feet, his world tilting on its axis as the reality of what was happening hit him with full force.

Dick’s heart had stopped.

The paramedics sprang into action, their movements frantic, but to Bruce, everything felt distant, muffled, like he was underwater. Their voices rose, urgent commands and medical terms flying through the air, but all Bruce could hear was that tone—the flat, merciless sound that signaled the unthinkable. His son was dying—no—his son was dead.

For three hundred, excruciating seconds, Dick was gone.

Five minutes that stretched into an eternity as Bruce sat there, powerless, his heart shattering inside his chest. He had never felt so helpless in his life, not even in the darkest moments of his own battles. He was used to being in control, to finding solutions, to saving lives. But here, in the back of an ambulance, he was just a father watching his son slip away, and there was nothing he could do.

The paramedics were shouting, the frantic urgency in their voices snapping Bruce back to the present, but it all sounded like it was underwater—muted, distant. They were working on Dick, their hands moving quickly, efficiently, but it all felt so disconnected, like he was seeing it through a fog.

CPR. They’d started CPR.

He had performed CPR himself multiple times over the years, but watching it done on his son was a different kind of horror. Each press of the paramedic’s hands against Dick’s chest felt like a physical blow to Bruce’s heart. The rhythm of the compressions, though methodical and practiced, resonated with a terrifying finality. The look of concentration on the paramedic’s face—the set of his jaw, the sweat trickling down his brow—was a cruel reminder of how precarious this moment was.

Bruce had been in countless situations where he had to fight to save lives, where every second counted. But those moments had been under his control, where his decisions had meant the difference between life and death. Here, though, he was just a spectator, a father helplessly watching as the medical team fought against the clock.

“Come on, kid,” one of the paramedics muttered under his breath, his voice strained with desperation. He was leaning over Dick, his hands pressed firmly on the young man’s chest, pushing rhythmically, trying to coax life back into a body that had already slipped too far.

And all he could do was watch…

One minute, then another—time stretching into a cruel infinity. Every second felt like a knife twisting deeper into Bruce's chest. He knew the statistics, knew the grim reality of what five minutes without a heartbeat could mean. Brain cells began to die after just four to six minutes without oxygen. And yet, here he was, teetering on the edge of hope and despair, unwilling to acknowledge what those numbers could mean for his son.

His son.

It had always been a possibility, hadn’t it? He had prepared for the worst outcomes countless times. But this was different. This was Dick, not a faceless victim or an anonymous life he could compartmentalize. This was his *family*, the one he had sworn to protect above all else. And now, all Bruce could do was watch as the paramedics fought to pull him back from the brink.

The paramedic leading the effort barked out more instructions, his hands never pausing in their relentless rhythm over Dick’s chest. "Ninety seconds in," he called out, beads of sweat rolling down his temples.

Bruce's hands were shaking, his nails biting into his palms as he squeezed his fists tight. He couldn’t bear it—the waiting, the helplessness. He had been through wars, fought gods, stared into the abyss countless times, but none of it compared to this moment.

"One minute fifty," the paramedic muttered again. The team hadn't slowed for even a second.

Each press against Dick’s chest was precise, measured, determined. Bruce's mind screamed that it wasn’t enough. That Dick needed more, that they needed to act faster—better—but there was nothing more to be done. They were already giving everything, and the cold reality of that truth nearly suffocated Bruce.

At two minutes, a defibrillator was prepped, the paddles charged. Bruce's breath hitched, the electrical hum filling the air like a prelude to hope or finality.

“Clear!” The paramedic's voice cut through the tension, and Bruce flinched as the shock was delivered.

Dick's body jolted, his chest lifting off the stretcher momentarily before falling limp again. Bruce’s heart seized, his eyes glued to the monitor. Nothing but a flat line.

The paramedics continued with their relentless CPR. “He’s got time,” one muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. “We’ve got time.”

Time.

But it was a lie, wasn’t it? Time was slipping away, and with each second that passed, Dick’s chance of survival slipped further with it.

Three minutes.

Dick, please…

Bruce couldn’t form the words aloud. He couldn’t beg, couldn’t plead—it wasn’t who he was. But inside, the silence was deafening. He was praying, to anyone, to anything, that this wasn’t the end.

Another shock.

Another jolt.

The flatline continued.

Four minutes.

Bruce’s pulse raced, thundering in his ears as panic began to take root. He couldn’t lose him—not like this, not after everything they had survived together. Every instinct screamed at him to take control, to do something, but there was nothing he could do except wait and hope.

“Come on!” the paramedic growled, his own frustration leaking through the professional mask he wore. “Come on!”

Five minutes.

The paramedics’ movements grew more frantic, the urgency of the situation palpable in the confined space. Bruce’s breath came in short, sharp bursts, his chest tight with a suffocating mixture of fear and helplessness. His eyes burned from the strain of holding back tears he refused to let fall. He couldn’t fall apart now. Not when Dick needed him.

The lead paramedic barked out another command. Bruce didn’t hear it. His focus was entirely on Dick’s lifeless body, his pale skin, the way his chest remained still, unmoving beneath the paramedic's hands.

Another jolt.

Bruce flinched as Dick’s body lifted off the stretcher again, the defibrillator trying to jump-start a heart that refused to cooperate. The heart monitor let out a sharp, angry beep, still refusing to offer any hope.

The seconds stretched, and Bruce’s world narrowed to just that flat, unforgiving line on the monitor. The sound of it—sharp, persistent, final—was like a knife twisting in his chest.

“Come on, come on,” the paramedic muttered under his breath, the desperation creeping into his voice now. He glanced briefly at Bruce, their eyes meeting for just a fraction of a second.

There was nothing there. No reassurance. No promise that this would end any other way than in tragedy.

And that was when it hit Bruce—the full weight of what was happening. The unthinkable was becoming real. Dick, his son, his first boy, might not come back. He might be gone. For good.

His knees threatened to buckle, but he locked them in place, refusing to give in to the weakness threatening to overtake him. He had to be strong. He had to. For Dick.

For three hundred seconds, Bruce had clung to hope, clung to the idea that as long as the paramedics kept working, as long as the shocks kept coming, there was still a chance. But now, with the flatline still droning in the background, that hope was slipping away like water through his fingers.

“Five minutes,” the paramedic said, his voice low, resigned. His hands stilled over Dick’s chest for a brief, terrible moment, and Bruce felt his heart plummet.

He had seen this before—too many times, in too many situations. He knew what it meant when the medical team started to slow down, when their hands hesitated, when their voices quieted. It meant they were giving up. It meant they were ready to call it.

No. Nononono

Dick is not going to die. He will register CPR himself if he has to, losing him is not an option.

"Charge it again," Bruce's voice was low, but the authority behind it was undeniable.

"Mr. Wayne, we gave him epinephrine. We've shocked him multiple times. I'm sorry, but... there's nothing more we can do.

The paramedic's voice wavered, the words hanging heavily in the air like a final, crushing blow. Bruce’s eyes bore into him, unwilling to accept the reality settling in. It has been five minutes, meaning that brain death was a very real possibility. Each second that passed without oxygen increased the chances that the boy Bruce raised, the boy who had grown into a man before his eyes, would never be the same—if he came back at all. But Bruce couldn’t process that. He couldn’t accept it. Not yet.

"Please," He was near crying now.

"Just one more time,"

They pitied him, starting compressions again, muttered something about a last-ditch effort, the tone clipped and professional, but Bruce barely registered the words. He felt detached, as if the world around him had shrunk to a narrow tunnel where only Dick mattered.

The defibrillator charged, the sharp whine building, and Bruce’s heart stuttered along with it.

"Clear!" The word sliced through the tension, and Bruce watched as Dick’s body jerked once more beneath the electric surge.

The monitor stayed flat.

For a few agonizing seconds, nothing changed. The room felt like it was closing in, the silence suffocating. Bruce’s grip tightened on the edge of the stretcher, his knuckles white with the force of it.

Then, a flicker

A flicker. Then another.

The beeps were weak, fragile, but they were there. His heart was beating on its own.

He couldn't follow his son when they arrived at the hospital, forced to stay in the waiting room. He always thinks of the worse case scenario. He doesn't know why, but his mind drifts to all the worst possibilities, as if preparing for the blow would make it easier when it comes. It never does.

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles are white. Five minutes without a heartbeat. The beeps had returned, but that didn’t mean Dick would. There was still so much uncertainty, so many things that could go wrong. Bruce isn’t used to this—sitting on the sidelines, helpless.

He stared at the closed door, willing it to open, willing someone to tell him something—anything. His gut churned with the suffocating silence, the agonizing wait for news, for some confirmation that his son was still fighting, that he wasn’t alone in this sterile, too-bright hospital.

Finally, the door creaked open. Bruce shot to his feet, every muscle tensing in anticipation. The doctor, a woman in her early forties with a calm, practiced expression, stepped into the room. For a split second, Bruce couldn’t read her face—was it good news? Was it bad? The uncertainty twisted in his chest like a blade.

She took a breath and smiled—a small, controlled smile, but it was there. “Mr. Wayne,” she said gently, “he’s stable.”

The words hit Bruce like a wave, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. His throat tightened, the tension of the last few hours suddenly crashing down on him all at once. “Stable?” he repeated, barely recognizing his own voice. It was hoarse, raw from hours of silent worry.

The doctor nodded. “Yes. He’s stable, and we’re optimistic about his recovery.”

Bruce’s legs nearly gave out beneath him. He sank back into the chair, his head falling into his hands. Relief washed over him, overwhelming and almost unbearable. He wasn’t a religious man—he had never believed in miracles or divine intervention—but in that moment, he silently thanked whatever force had seen fit to spare his son.

"Stress cardiomyopathy. Very severe stress cardiomyopathy the doctor continued, her voice now more clinical, yet still compassionate. "It’s a condition where extreme emotional or physical stress can cause the heart muscle to weaken abruptly. In Dick’s case, the stress was so overwhelming that it triggered his heart to stop functioning properly and well stop," She said.

"I am mainly worried about the effects of the prolonged cardiac arrest. It took five minutes to resuscitate him," she continued, her voice soft but steady, as if careful not to overload Bruce with the weight of her words. "Five minutes where his heart wasn’t beating. That’s a significant amount of time for the brain to go without oxygen, and we don’t know what kind of damage may have occurred during that period." She noted.

"Because of the prolonged cardiac arrest, we'll monitor him closely for any signs of damage. Thankfully, he shows no immediate signs of neurological impairment, but we need to be cautious. We’ll conduct further tests to assess everything comprehensively."

“Tests,” Bruce echoed, his throat tightening. The thought of Dick undergoing more medical evaluations made his heart race again. “What kind of tests?”

“Mostly imaging studies—an echocardiogram to evaluate the heart’s function and possibly an MRI to rule out any damage to the brain,” she explained, leading him to the room before coming to a halt.

"As I said before, this was brought on due to very extreme stress. Do you happen to know what might have triggered it?” she asked, her expression a mixture of curiosity and concern.

Bruce hated the way that he froze, got slightly defensive because he didn't know. He had no idea.

"He was out of town for a while." He sighed.

"He's an acrobat, he competes,"

'Among other things...'

She nodded, taking notes on her clipboard. “That kind of physical strain, combined with emotional pressures, can certainly contribute to heart issues like this. Competitive acrobatics can be demanding, both physically and mentally. But I think it could be an anxiety disorder. He could've had multiple panic attacks, elevating his heart rate and causing the stress cardiomyopathy, we'll have to ask Dick himself. Understanding what he’s been dealing with will help us create a tailored treatment plan for him moving forward.”

She said, opening the door to Dick's room and gesturing for Bruce to follow her inside. The soft beep of the monitors filled the air, creating a rhythmic backdrop to the sterile environment. Bruce's heart raced as he stepped in, the sight of Dick lying unconscious on the bed sending a wave of fear through him.

The doctor paused, glancing at Bruce with a mix of sympathy and professionalism. “You can sit with him for a while. It might help when he regains consciousness,” she advised, her tone gentle yet firm.

Bruce nodded, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”

She nodded, looking at the heart monitor and adjusting a few settings before stepping back, giving Bruce some space.

He sat with him for hours, Alfred and Damian had visited him, asking questions that Bruce barely had answers to. They stayed awhile and eventually did take their leave.

Dick had woken up a little after that, it was as if he was having a nightmare, jolting upward.

Bruce had calmed him but he shouldn't have he really shouldn't have but he had asked—demanded, really—an explanation, anything to help him understand why his son had collapsed, why his heart had stopped beating. But all Dick had offered him was a vague, almost dismissive response.

“I was just busy.”

Busy.

That was it. That was all he had said.

Bruce’s hands clenched into fists at the memory, his jaw tightening with the effort of holding back the frustration, the fear, the helplessness. Just busy? Busy was a mild inconvenience, not something that caused your heart to stop beating, not something that made your father go into a panic as he watched paramedics shock you back to life.

The words echoed in Bruce’s mind, taunting him, stoking the fire of his anger. How could Dick say that? How could he shrug off something so monumental, so terrifying, as if it were nothing? Did he not realize the weight of what had happened? Did he not understand how close he had come to never waking up?

Bruce wanted to grab him by the shoulders, shake him, make him see—make him feel—the gravity of it all. He wanted to scream, to demand answers, to demand that Dick stop being so damn reckless with his own life and just tell him what is going on so that he could help him. But more than anything, he wanted to wrap his son in his arms, hold him close, and never let him go. He wanted to protect him from the world, from the things that were breaking him down inside—whatever they were.

But he couldn’t do that if Dick wouldn’t let him in. He couldn’t protect him from the demons he refused to acknowledge, the trauma he was burying deep inside.

Bruce let out a shaky breath, his eyes fixed on the steady rise and fall of Dick’s chest. 

He wanted... 

He wanted to yell, to cry, to...to...

To help, he wanted to help his son. 

_~~_

Dick came to for what felt like the fifth time, gasping softly as his lungs struggled to pull in deep, grounding breaths. His chest felt heavy, not just from the lingering ache of exhaustion but from the relentless pounding of his heart, a heart that had recently betrayed him. He blinked rapidly, trying to chase away the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to him like a shroud. The disorienting fog of sleep clung to his mind, making it hard to separate the real from the imagined, leaving him teetering on the edge of panic.

Sleep had been his enemy long before the cardiac arrest. He'd been avoiding it for days, pushing himself to the brink in an effort to outrun the nightmares that chased him when his defenses were down. But now, it was a losing battle. The drugs they’d given him to stabilize his heart and manage the pain made it impossible to resist, dragging him into unconsciousness whether he wanted it or not. And after going into cardiac arrest, his body was utterly depleted, a shell of the strength he was used to.

The doctors had already been in and out several times, performing checks, asking the same routine questions: "What's your name? Your age? Do you know where you are?" They were monitoring his cognitive function, making sure his brain hadn’t been deprived of oxygen for too long during the arrest. He’d answered them all automatically, though everything felt distant, as if the words were leaving his mouth on their own accord, without his conscious input.

Then there had been the MRI. He vaguely remembered the sterile hum of the machine as they slid him into the tight confines of the tube, the cold table beneath him a stark contrast to the sweat gathering at the back of his neck. He was supposed to stay awake for it, but sleep had claimed him again before they even got halfway through. He hadn’t even felt the transfer back to his room, the transition between the MRI machine and the safety of his hospital bed lost in the blurry haze of medication and fatigue.

Now, he was awake again—or at least, semi-awake. The cool touch of electrodes being pressed back onto his chest made him shiver involuntarily. The sensation, sharp and sudden, broke through the layers of grogginess clouding his mind. He blinked sluggishly, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the hospital room, where shadows lurked in the corners and the ever-present beeping of the heart monitor pulsed in the background.

His mind felt heavy, weighted down by the fog of exhaustion, but the steady rhythm of the heart monitor was comforting in a strange way. It reminded him that his heart was still beating, still working, despite everything that had happened.

A nurse was by his bedside, her hands deftly checking the wires and leads that connected him to the various machines. She was focused, her face illuminated by the soft, artificial glow of the monitors, while just beyond her, Bruce stood like a statue, hovering a few feet away, watching silently.

"You're back with us," the nurse said, her voice soft and soothing. She gave him a small, reassuring smile as she adjusted one of the leads. "Just reattaching everything. You dozed off for a bit."

Dick nodded weakly, but even that small movement felt like an effort. His eyelids were already drooping again, the pull of sleep more relentless than before. He could feel it tugging at him, an overwhelming tide that threatened to drag him under. He didn’t want to sleep. He couldn’t sleep. The nightmares were waiting for him, lurking just behind his closed eyes. Every time he slipped back into unconsciousness, they were there, dark and twisted fragments of the past, playing over and over again like a broken record.

The worst part was that he couldn’t tell if the nightmares were worse than staying awake. At least in his sleep, the memories were distorted, warped by his subconscious. When he was awake, they were sharp and vivid, gnawing at his mind, the exhaustion amplifying every doubt, every regret, until they consumed him.

He forced his eyes open again, though they were heavy with the weight of everything he’d been trying to avoid. His fingers twitched against the bed sheets, a small, involuntary movement as he tried to fight the pull of sleep, to hold on for just a few minutes longer. But his body was rebelling against him. It had been for days, pushed past its limits by his refusal to rest, by the cardiac arrest, by the medications now coursing through his veins.

His breathing hitched as his chest tightened, the effort to stay awake almost painful. Each breath felt like it took more effort than the last, his lungs struggling to expand against the tightness that gripped him.

Bruce noticed. He always noticed. He stepped closer, his shadow falling across the bed as he looked down at Dick with that same mix of concern and frustration that had been etched on his face since the incident.

He doesn't deserve to be alive, to be taken care of, not after what he had done. But he's cold, freezing, shivering beneath the thin hospital sheet that barely covered his bare chest, the electrodes cool against his skin. He still sees everything, everything in his sleep but Bruce--Dad makes it better. The nightmares don't go away but they are better when Bruce is holding him, he is warm when Bruce is holding him.

"Tati," He breathes, Romanian always slips when he is as exhausted as this.

He reaches for Bruce, like he did years ago when he fell in Gotham's docks when he was a child. He was cold and tired and just wanted Bruce to hold him.

„Îmi este frig” (I'm cold), Dick murmured, his voice barely audible as he shivered under the thin hospital sheet.

Just as he did earlier, Bruce held him, cradeling him against his chest, gently pulling the thin blanket up to cover him better. "Te-am prins" (I've got you), Bruce whispered, his deep voice grounding Dick in the present. The room felt less oppressive with Bruce's presence so near, and even the constant beep of the heart monitor seemed to fade into the background.

Dick’s breaths were still shaky, his chest rising and falling unevenly as he leaned into Bruce’s solid frame. "Tati..." he whispered again, the word slipping out unconsciously as he clutched at Bruce's shirt, just as he had done so many times as a child when the world seemed too big, too dark. His fingers trembled, but Bruce’s grip around him was strong, unwavering.

„Nu pleca...” (Don’t leave…), Dick mumbled, barely awake, fighting the pull of sleep with all he had left. The nightmares were waiting, but with Bruce, they weren’t as terrifying. „Te rog...” (Please...)

Bruce tightened his embrace, resting his chin gently on top of Dick’s head. "Nu plec nicăieri" (I’m not going anywhere), he promised quietly, his voice filled with the deep, protective love that had defined their relationship from the start. "Odihnește-te" (Rest), he murmured, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on Dick’s back.

Dick’s tense muscles began to relax as he succumbed to the exhaustion, the last of his defenses crumbling in the face of Bruce’s unwavering presence. His eyelids fluttered shut, though his hand still clung tightly to Bruce.

It was comforting, but not enough to keep the nightmares at bay.

He woke up, way more alert than the last couple of hours, finding that Jason has just arrived. 

His younger brother was limping, holding his side, something that Dick has seen in the last months time loop. 

Jason has a concussion, broken rib, and sprained ankle, injuries that every time led to his downfall because he couldn't properly defend himself. 

He died to a gunshot wound or a stab wound sometimes both, asking Dick to sing to him as he died. 

Jason doesn't fear death, his worst fear is dying alone and was content to have his brother at his side. 

"What was that dumb song you used to play in the car when I was younger?" He asked one loop, Dick comming Barbara to send help. His hands were stained with his brother's blood, putting pressure on the wound that just wouldn't stop bleeding. 

"I played a lot of songs Jason," He had said, just trying to keep him talking.

His brother then hummed the tune, his voice barely above a whisper but it was clear enough for Dick to recognize.

Dick’s breath hitched as the song clicked in his memory. “Take on me,” he said softly, his voice almost lost in the sound of the wind. “You always hated that one.” 

Jason smiled, his eyes already distant, the pain and exhaustion overtaking him. 

"I actually didn't," Jason murmured, his smile weak but genuine. "I just... pretended to hate it. Thought it made me look cooler." His words were slow, each one coming out with effort as his body continued to weaken. "But... it's a good song, you have good taste Dick."

Dick forced a smile despite the pain gnawing at him. "Could've fooled me, Jay. You whined every time it came on."

Jason’s laugh came out as a soft wheeze, his breath catching painfully in his chest. “Yeah, well... I was a brat.”

Dick swallowed hard, the metallic taste of fear and grief bitter on his tongue. "You’re still a brat," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady, but it cracked at the end. His hands pressed harder against the wound in Jason’s abdomen, but the blood wouldn’t stop. It never stopped.

Jason’s eyes fluttered shut, his breathing shallow and unsteady. Dick could see the struggle in him, the fight to hold on just a little longer. Jason wasn’t afraid to die. But he wasn’t ready either. He never was.

“Sing it, Dick,” Jason whispered, his voice barely a breath. “Sing it one last time.”

"Jason, you are not going to die Bruce--" 

"Please?" 

Dick’s throat tightened at the plea. He could see it in Jason's eyes—there wasn’t much time left. It was the same look he’d seen in every loop, the same quiet acceptance of his fate. Jason wasn’t afraid of dying, but he wanted to go out with someone by his side, with his brother there. And every time, no matter how hard Dick fought against it, it ended the same way.

He wanted to argue, to promise Jason that this time would be different. That help was coming, that he wouldn’t let him die here, bleeding out in his arms. But the words caught in his throat, stuck behind the overwhelming weight of helplessness.

Jason’s hand, slick with his own blood, weakly gripped Dick’s wrist. His eyes were half-closed, but there was a small, knowing smile on his lips. He knew. He always knew.

"Please," Jason whispered again, his voice so soft, so fragile, it almost broke Dick right there.

Dick nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. He leaned in closer, holding Jason’s gaze as he began to sing, his voice barely above a whisper at first.

"We're walking away, I don't know what I'm to say..." 

Jason’s eyes were half-lidded, his breath coming in shallow bursts, but the smallest of smiles tugged at the corners of his lips. He held onto the song like it was keeping him tethered to this world, even as it slipped further from his grasp.

Dick's hands trembled, the blood beneath his fingers warm and sticky, but he kept singing. "Take on me, take me on..." His voice cracked, and a tear slipped free, falling unnoticed onto Jason's chest.

Jason’s grip on his wrist tightened ever so slightly, his body tensing as the pain crested, but he never let go. He just listened, his eyes barely open, his breath coming in shallow, broken gasps.

“I’ll be gone…” Dick continued, his voice shaking as he sang the last words, “… in a day or two.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Dick’s heart pounded in his chest, his ears ringing as he waited—prayed—for a response, any sign that Jason was still with him.

But Jason's grip loosened, his hand falling limp against Dick's arm. His chest rose once more in a labored breath, then stilled.

“No…” Dick choked out, shaking his head as if refusing to accept the inevitable. "Jason, no. No, no, no—"

He pressed harder against the wound, his hands slick with blood, his tears falling unchecked as he whispered Jason's name over and over again, desperate to pull him back. Desperate to change the outcome.

But the cycle had repeated itself, just like all the other times because he refused to cross that line, go against his morals... 

"Dick?" Jason said, bringing him back to the present, the heart monitor a welcome from the rainy, slick parking lot. 

Jason limped over to the bed. 

"Jason," Dick exhaled, the name slipping out like a lifeline. He blinked, trying to shake off the haunting image of Jason bleeding out in his arms, trying to focus on the reality in front of him. "You're... here."

Jason's brow furrowed in confusion, wincing slightly as he shifted his weight off his injured ankle. "Yeah, I’m here. Of course I'm here! You almost died-- technically you were dead for five minutes! Dick I know you wanted to be added to the "Dead Robin" GroupMe but that’s a little extreme, don’t you think?” Jason’s voice was laced with that familiar sarcasm, but Dick could see the underlying concern in his brother’s eyes.

Bruce winced, he never liked it when Jason joked about death but the remark was forgotten as he looked his second eldest over. 
 
Dick was starting to feel bad for Bruce, one of his kids had a "stress heart attack," and the other just walked in looking like he went through a meat grinder on the way here. 

"Jason," He said rubbing his face. Their poor father had had it for today, muttering to himself. 

"Alfred will check me out later," He said sitting beside Bruce, his eyes never leaving his brother. 

"So, do you guys know what caused golden boy's heart to just stop?" 

"Stress cardiomyopathy," Bruce said flatly, though his tone held a hint of exasperation. “His heart rate was elevated at first but it kept rising until it eventually stopped," 

Jason turned to the heart monitor before looking at Dick. 

"What has gotten you so stressed out?" 

Dick’s heart raced as he absorbed Jason’s words, the remnants of the nightmarish loops still clinging to him like a shadow. The familiar weight of dread settled back into his chest. “Just the usual, you know,” he replied, trying to keep his tone light, even as memories of blood and pain flickered behind his eyes.

"I really don't know, Dick what happened?" Jason asked more seriously. 

Bruce, who has been waiting explanation since Dick had woken up stared daggers into him. 

He can't, he can't tell them the truth, but a lie wouldn't work either. 

So he stays silent, picking at the blanket, closing his eyes as they question him. It's rude to ignore them but he's too wrapped up in the memories, too burdened by the weight of what he’s seen, what he has done. 

Dick shuddered. 

They can never, never know what he has done.

Chapter Text

Jason had told Roy. Of course he had. Dick had expected as much, because Jason trusted Roy in ways he didn’t trust many people. Their bond wasn’t just close—it ran deep, woven through with shared experiences. Jason didn’t share his burdens with just anyone, but Roy? Roy was the exception. They didn’t keep secrets from each other, not when it really mattered.

But Dick knew something else about Roy—about how things worked when Roy was involved. Telling Roy something, no matter how personal or private, didn’t end with Roy. Roy had a heart as big as his mouth, and while he didn’t blab with bad intentions, secrets rarely stayed secrets when Roy was concerned.

Because if you told Roy, you might as well be telling the whole goddamn team. The Titans...and Arrows.

And that was how Dick ended up with the Titans at his bedside, hovering like a concerned swarm.

The second-worst thing in the world—after his father’s overprotectiveness—was the Titans’ overprotectiveness.

Dick didn’t have older siblings, but he was pretty sure this was exactly what it felt like. And it didn’t help that he was the youngest among them—always had been. Even back then, when they were all just starting out, the team had rallied around him as if he were made of glass, and despite everything he’d been through, that dynamic hadn’t changed much.

They were fiercely protective, whether he liked it or not. And to be fair, Dick didn’t exactly have the best track record when it came to taking care of himself. He’d run himself ragged more times than he could count, pushed his body and mind to the breaking point, and they had been there to pick up the pieces.

To his friends, it had only been five days since they’d last seen him. Just five days. And in those five days, nothing about him had seemed off. There had been no signs of stress, no hints that something was wrong.

But that was because there wasn't anything wrong then.

They didn’t know about the time loop. The three hundred agonizing days he’d spent trapped in a never-ending nightmare, reliving the same horrors over and over again. He wasn’t about to tell them either. How could he? How could he explain the psychological toll it had taken, the suffocating fear, the helplessness of watching the people he loved die in front of him, only to wake up and do it all over again?

To them, he was hiding something—something that must’ve been festering for a while. After all, stress was the only explanation for why his heart had stopped, why he had flatlined for those five terrifying minutes. And now, the entire team was here, surrounding him like he might break apart at any moment.

He was pretty sure this was exactly how his brothers felt, smothering them with his need to protect. Now Dick was getting a taste of his own medicine. It was unnerving, to say the least.

Roy stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, his face hard with anger and fear. Dick could read him like a book: Roy wasn’t just worried; he was pissed. Pissed that something had gotten this bad, pissed that Dick hadn’t told him, hadn’t given him a chance to help before things spiraled out of control. And when Roy got pissed, he didn’t let things go. He’d dig until he got to the truth, no matter how much Dick tried to deflect.

Next to him, Lilith sat in a chair, her sharp eyes fixed on Dick like she could peel away every layer of his defenses. And maybe she could. She hadn’t said a word, but her silence felt more dangerous than anything else. Lilith wasn’t the type to force things before they were ready, but Dick could feel her patience wearing thin. She was waiting for him to crack, giving him space to come clean.

Donna and Kori stood near the door, their presence formidable. Donna’s arms were crossed over her chest, her posture both protective and tense. She wasn’t here for small talk; she was here to get answers. Donna had always been the warrior, and right now, she was preparing for battle—the emotional kind. She didn’t need powers to see through him, didn’t need psychic abilities to know something was wrong, and she wouldn’t wait forever for him to explain himself.

Koriand’r, on the other hand, radiated warmth and concern. Her glowing green eyes were filled with love, but her worry was palpable, thick in the air. She didn’t push, but her silent presence was almost harder to bear than Donna’s directness. Kori had always been the one who wanted to believe in the best of him, and right now, that belief was crumbling under the weight of his silence.

At the foot of the bed, Garth and Wally hovered, each holding their concern in vastly different ways.

Garth was still, his dark eyes assessing, his presence a quiet strength. He wouldn’t rush into a confrontation; he never did. Garth was the steady one, always there in the background, offering support without the need for words. But Dick knew that if Garth spoke, it would carry weight. When he did finally break his silence, it would be calm, sure, and utterly demanding of the truth.

Wally, by contrast, was barely containing his energy. His arms were crossed, his feet shifting with restless agitation. Usually, Wally was the one who could make any situation lighter, the one who would crack a joke or find a way to inject some levity into the moment. But not now. His face was clouded with worry, his sharp gaze searching Dick’s for answers. Wally had been his best friend for as long as either of them could remember, and the weight of his concern cut deep. It was more than just worry—it was hurt, the pain of not being trusted with something this big.

Rachel stood quietly in the corner, her hood pulled low over her face. She hadn’t said anything, hadn’t even looked at him directly, but Dick knew she was there, a silent presence weighing his every emotion. She could feel it, every bit of the darkness he was holding back, and she would know more than anyone how close he was to breaking under it.

And then, standing in the doorway, was Vic. He wasn’t part of the team anymore, not like he used to be, but he was still there, still worried, still part of this family in a way that Dick didn’t deserve.

Because little did they know, they weren’t standing around a friend—they were standing around a killer.

“Dick,” Donna said, her voice soft but insistent, “what happened?”

Wally’s agitation spilled over as he leaned in. “You flatlined. For five minutes. Five minutes! You don’t just come back from that and pretend like everything’s fine.”

Their concern was a weight on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t. How could they, when the person lying in this hospital bed wasn’t their Dick Grayson anymore?

He had killed. He had crossed lines. And now, no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t come back from it.

Forcing a smile that felt brittle and wrong, he croaked, “I’m fine. I just… I overdid it. You know how it goes.”

Lilith’s eyes narrowed. She wasn’t buying it. None of them were, but Lilith especially, with her psychic edge, knew he was lying. She didn’t say anything, though—just continued to watch him, waiting for him to break.

Roy let out a frustrated sigh, shaking his head. “You flatlined, Dick. You don’t just ‘overdo it’ and end up like that. We’re not stupid.”

“I know,” Dick sighed, feeling the weight of their eyes on him. He was going to have to keep this vague. He had to. "I thought I could handle it..."

Handle what?" Garth questioned

"Everything?" Dick huffed.

"And everything entails?..." Vic questioned.

Dick clenched his jaw, searching for a response that wouldn’t reveal too much. “It’s just... the job. You know how it is.”

But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel the air in the room shift. His vague answer wasn’t going to cut it, not with this crowd. They’d been through too much together, seen too many sides of him to be fooled by his usual evasions.

Roy stepped forward, his voice sharp and unyielding. “Don’t give us that, Dick. Something is going on, something has to be for you to be stressed out to the point of flatlining,” Roy finished, his voice hardening with frustration. “This isn't just burnout, man. You’ve handled the job for years, and you never pushed it this far before.”

"You have to let us help you," Vic sighed.

"Everyone is worried, Bruce is worried. He's even asking us for answers, Dick," Donna added, her voice gentle but insistent. "You know how rare that is."

Dick winced, Bruce had been there when he flatlined. The weight of that knowledge pressed down on him harder than anything else.

"I didn’t mean for it to get this bad," he muttered, his voice ragged, barely above a whisper. His mind replayed the sounds, the wet crunch of the knife slicing through flesh, the gurgled breath of a man choking on his own blood. His pulse pounded in his ears, the beat of his heart mocking him with its relentless rhythm. “I thought I could handle it.”

"Handle what?" Roy’s voice cut through, but it felt distant, warped by the rising panic thrumming through Dick’s veins. "You keep saying that, but you’re not telling us anything. What exactly is it you’ve been dealing with that’s pushed you this far? We need specifics, man."

Specifics. They wanted details. They wanted him to paint the picture of the blood, the screams, the raw terror that had gripped him when he realized what he had done. But how could he tell them? How could he make them understand that in the darkness of that time loop, something inside him had snapped? That he wasn’t the person they thought he was anymore? Not a hero. Not their leader. Not the same person they had trusted for so long. How could he admit that he had embraced the violence, had welcomed the killing—had enjoyed it?

How could he tell them about the smile that had twisted his face as he dismembered a man with cold, methodical precision?

So, he did what he had done over and over this past week—he lied.

He had a history of anxiety. His friends knew that, so he leaned into it, letting the familiar narrative slide from his lips, rehearsed and calculated. It wasn’t a complete lie; the anxiety was real enough. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

"I've been... I’ve been struggling with anxiety," Dick said, forcing his voice to remain steady even as his heart jackhammered in his chest. Inside, his thoughts spiraled, the darkness creeping closer. "It’s been worse than usual lately. With everything going on—Gotham, the Titans, Blüdhaven, the day jobs... I just let it build up without dealing with it."

He glanced at Roy, saw the tension ease in his friend’s posture, though his eyes still gleamed with suspicion. Roy wasn’t going to drop this easily, but Dick needed to stick to the script. The lie had to be believable, had to be simple enough that they wouldn’t pry deeper.

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” Dick continued, his voice dipping as though weighed down by exhaustion. “And not sleeping… it messes with everything. Physically, emotionally, I just wasn’t keeping up. I thought I could handle it, push through, but I hit my limit.”

Kori’s hand tightened on his arm, her warmth like a knife to his gut. “You should have told us,” she said, her voice soft but thick with concern. “We would have helped you.”

"I know," Dick forced himself to respond, though the words tasted like ash. He didn’t deserve their sympathy. He didn’t deserve their worry. He had let the darkness consume him. "I didn’t want to burden anyone. I thought it would pass."

"But it didn’t," Garth said quietly, his words cutting to the truth Dick couldn’t face. "It got worse, didn’t it?"

Dick nodded, allowing just enough of the truth to slip through to make the lie believable. "Yeah. It got worse." He paused, swallowing hard, his throat tightening. "I’ve been having attacks. Bad ones."

There was a moment of silence, the weight of his confession hanging over them. He could feel the shift in the room, the concern deepening, the suspicion easing. It was working. The lie was taking root. They were buying it.

"Anxiety attacks?" Roy asked, stepping closer, his voice softening but still edged with worry. "How bad are we talking, Dick?"

Dick’s stomach churned as the guilt gnawed at him. "Pretty bad," he muttered, his hands shaking as he forced himself to keep up the act. "There were a couple of times… I felt like I couldn’t breathe."  He didn’t look at them. He couldn’t. If he met their eyes, they might see the truth, might see the monster lurking beneath the surface. "I thought it was just stress. That I could work through it like everything else."

"Why didn’t you say something sooner?" Wally’s voice was quiet, almost pleading. "We’ve always got your back, man."

"I know," Dick replied, barely holding it together. "I didn’t want to worry anyone. I thought I could handle it myself."

"Clearly you couldn’t," Rachel said sharply, her eyes narrowing, catching the flicker of deceit in his words. She knew he was lying. Both she and Lilith knew. But they stayed silent, their expressions taut with frustration.

"You’ve always been the one holding us together," Vic added, his voice steady but filled with concern. "But even you need support sometimes. There’s no shame in admitting that."

Dick’s insides twisted painfully as Vic squeezed his shoulder. He hated himself for lying to them, for dragging them into his web of deceit. But what choice did he have? If they knew the truth—if they knew what he’d done—they would never look at him the same way again. They would never trust him. 

"Rachel’s right," Vic continued, his voice carrying a weight of concern. "You’ve been running yourself ragged, and now it’s catching up with you. We can’t let you keep going like this."

"I don’t want to," Dick murmured, his voice low. He glanced at Rachel and Lilith, knowing they could sense more than anyone else in the room.

Garth sighed, "We'll talk more about this later, you need rest and this conversation has been anything but stress free for you," He said.

They didn't leave though, Wally came back with snacks from the vending machine, Roy channel surfed on the small television, muttering something about connecting a Roku to it. Vic sat in the chair next to him, Kori and Donna on the other side. Rachel and Lilith looked a bit pissed but they didn't question him further as they settled into the room, a quiet camaraderie enveloping them. The atmosphere shifted slightly, a sense of unity replacing the tension that had hung in the air moments earlier.

"That's it, I'm connecting a Roku. Why do they have like five news channels..."

Roy's voice drowned out by the pounding of his heart that seemed to be hammering against his rib cage.

"...A Man was found stabbed to death tonight. The man of the name Eleus Cineth was found stabbed to death in his apartment this afternoon, his body discovered by a neighbor who reported a strange smell coming from the unit. Authorities are investigating the scene, and..."

Dick heard the heart monitor spike, not that he wouldn't mind going into cardiac arrest. He wanted to die right there, but instead, he felt the room closing in around him. The monitor's beeping quickened, matching the chaotic rhythm of his thoughts.

He saw the blood, he heard the gasps,

And he didn't stop,

He didn't stop, he couldn't stop stabbing him,

"Dick?"

The voice broke through the cacophony in his mind, but it felt distant, like it was coming from underwater. Dick’s heart raced, pounding against his ribcage as if trying to escape. He was drowning in the horror of the memory, the visceral recollection of the scene that played out in a cruel loop.

“Dick?” Kori’s voice again, more urgent this time, cutting through the fog. “Look at me.”

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t shake the images—blood pooling, the frantic gasps of disbelief, the way life had slipped away, leaving behind nothing but horror. “I didn’t stop,” he gasped, his voice trembling. “I couldn’t stop.”

“Stop what?” Roy pressed, stepping closer, his tone shifting from concern to a fierce insistence. “Dick--"

Dick took a deep breath, he had to keep it together, they couldn't know...

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm fine,"

"You’re shaking like a leaf, and your heart’s about to jump out of your chest--"

"Roy" Garth, interjected, his voice calm but firm. “Let him breathe."

Dick focused on Garth’s face, grounding himself in the concern etched there. He clenched his fists at his sides, trying to suppress the tremors that rattled through him. “I’m really okay,” he insisted, forcing a smile that felt strained.

They didn't say anything, they all knew that he is far from fine.

Roy hooked up the Roku, putting on Bambi, the images of the forest supposed to calm him.

It didn't.

All Dick saw was the blood on his hands, all he heard was the man choking on his own blood, his own laughter because Dick enjoyed the violent act of killing him.

And his mind constantly telling him who he is now.

'Murderer,'

Chapter Text

Dick had always kept his mental walls high, a fortress of secrets carefully constructed over the years. Raven, for the longest time, hadn’t thought much of it. Everyone had their scars, buried deep beneath the surface, and everyone had learned to cope in their own way. She was no stranger to those defenses, to the walls people built to keep themselves safe, to keep others at a distance. After all, she had built plenty of her own.

But tonight felt different.

Standing across the room, her arms crossed tightly against her chest, Raven couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. It wasn’t just the tension in the air—though that was palpable, thick enough to suffocate. No, this was something darker, something she couldn’t put her finger on. Something that gnawed at the edges of her senses, warning her that whatever was going on with Dick was far worse than anyone else seemed to realize.

For a moment, she hesitated, watching him from where she stood. His eyes fixed on the television where the soft, innocent animation of Bambi played. To anyone else, it would have looked like he was zoning out, lost in the quiet comfort of the movie. But Raven could sense the storm brewing beneath the surface.

Tentatively, she reached out with her empathic senses, probing the space around him, careful not to intrude too deeply. She didn’t want to pry, didn’t want to overstep. But the second she brushed against his mind, she hit an impenetrable barrier—a wall so thick, so tightly woven, it was impossible to see through. This wasn’t new for Dick. He was always guarded, always careful to keep his thoughts and emotions to himself. Normally, Raven would’ve backed off, respecting his boundaries.

But tonight… tonight that wall felt desperate.

It trembled under the weight of something Raven couldn’t quite understand, a frantic energy pulsating from it, as though Dick was fighting to hold it all together. And the more she pressed, the more she realized how fragile it really was, like a dam on the verge of collapsing under too much pressure.

Her brow furrowed, her fingers curling into her sleeves as she pulled back slightly. The air around him was suffocating, thick with tension. His aura, which was usually calm and steady—always so meticulously maintained—flickered violently, like jagged shards of glass tearing through the fabric of his energy. It wasn’t just stress. It wasn’t just anxiety. It was something deeper, something festering within him that none of the others seemed to notice.

Roy had believed his lie, let himself be placated by the simple explanation that Dick was dealing with anxiety. Garth and Wally had accepted it, too. They believed what Dick told them because it was easier, because it made sense. Anxiety wasn’t unusual, especially with everything they all went through on a daily basis. But Raven could feel what they couldn’t. She could sense the darkness that gnawed at the edges of Dick’s mind, clawing for control.

It was sharp, terrifying. She could almost taste it on her tongue, a bitter tang of regret and blood that made her stomach churn.

Her eyes narrowed as she watched the way his fingers dug into the bedsheets, white-knuckled and trembling, even as he tried to act like everything was fine. She could feel the effort it took for him to hold it all together, the way his breath hitched with every passing second, the way his heart hammered in his chest like a caged animal trying to break free.

This wasn’t anxiety. It was something far, far worse.

“Dick,” Raven said quietly, her voice low as she tried to cut through the growing fog around him. But he didn’t respond. His gaze remained fixed on the television, though it was clear his mind was elsewhere, trapped in a place Raven couldn’t reach.

She took a step closer, concentrating, pushing just a little harder against his mental defenses. But even though the walls were trembling, they were strong. 

Normally, the more exhausted a person became, the weaker their defenses would be. Most people, when they reached the level of exhaustion Dick was clearly at, couldn’t keep their mental barriers intact. But with Dick, it was the opposite. The more tired he got, the stronger his walls became, as if his subconscious was reinforcing them out of sheer desperation.

Next to her, Lilith stood silently, her arms crossed as she watched with concern. Raven didn’t need to ask—she knew Lilith could feel it, too. The roiling storm of emotions coming off Dick wasn’t just overwhelming. It was dark, tangled, and twisted together in a way that made Raven’s skin crawl. Fear. Guilt. Regret. And something else, something far more sinister that sent a chill down her spine.

Enjoyment.

The last emotion slithered through the others, a thin, poisonous thread weaving through the guilt and fear. It contaminated everything, tainting the edges of his mind like a disease spreading through his thoughts. That was what chilled Raven the most. The enjoyment, the satisfaction. It didn’t fit. It didn’t belong, and yet there it was, a festering darkness that clung to Dick’s psyche like a parasite.

She tried again, this time more carefully, stretching her empathic senses toward him. She didn’t want to push too hard, didn’t want to risk breaking through his defenses, but she needed to know what was happening. The second she made contact, she felt it—a deliberate shove, strong and forceful, pushing her out of his mind.

Dick’s walls bristled with defense, his subconscious practically screaming for her to stay away.

“Rachel,” Lilith’s voice broke the silence, low and strained.

Raven glanced at her, seeing the same fear mirrored in her friend’s eyes. They both knew what was at stake here. Whatever Dick was hiding, it wasn’t just about anxiety or exhaustion. It was something far worse, something he was fighting to keep hidden, even from them. And that was what terrified Raven the most. Dick wasn’t just shutting them out—he was actively pushing them away, doing everything in his power to protect whatever it was lurking beneath the surface.

They could break down those walls easily, could force their way into his mind and uncover whatever darkness he was hiding. But that could hurt Dick, especially now that he is recovering from cardiac arrest, and lose their friend's trust.

“Dick,” Victor sighed, the sound breaking into her thoughts. Vic's voice was tinged with both exasperation and affection, as he found their leader slowly dozing off, the straw from the juice box Wally had given him still in his mouth.

“Dick, you’re gonna choke.”

He reached over to gently pull the straw from Dick’s lips, shaking his head as he did. It was hard not to smile at the sight—Nightwing, the ever-vigilant, ever-capable leader of the Titans, reduced to a state of utter exhaustion, clutching a juice box like a child.

Dick stirred slightly at the touch, his eyes fluttering open for the briefest moment, still groggy.

“I was drinking that,” Dick mumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion as his eyes fluttered open for a brief moment. His hand made a lazy, half-hearted swipe at the juice box, but it was clear he wasn’t fully awake.

Victor chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Yeah, and you were about five seconds away from drowning yourself with it.”

"Hnngh," Dick whined incoherently.

Roy turned down the volume on the TV, casting a glance at Dick’s slumped form. “You sound like you’re about to pass out, man. Just give in.”

Dick huffed, his voice thick with fatigue. “I’m not tired,” he slurred, even as his eyelids drooped, his head lolling slightly as he leaned into Kori’s shoulder.

“You’re exhausted,” Kori whispered, holding him gently as his breathing slowed, his body sagging against hers.

Raven watched as the fight drained out of him. The tension in the room seemed to ease ever so slightly, the chaotic energy around him muted by the weight of his exhaustion. But even in sleep, his mental walls remained firmly in place, thick and impenetrable, as though his subconscious had no intention of letting them fall.

Donna brushed his bangs back with a soft smile, her fingers lingering for a moment before Bruce entered the room.

Bruce had clearly showered and changed since they last saw him--having went home for a while because Jason was injured--but the exhaustion was still there, lurking in his eyes. His stoic mask remained in place, but it faltered when he saw Dick. The tiniest flicker of emotion passed over his face as he moved closer, his gaze softening at the sight of his son finally resting.

He paused for a moment, looking at the heart monitor—almost in disbelief. It was a miracle that Dick was still alive, that there was no lasting damage after flatlining for five minutes. Bruce leaned down, pressing a kiss to Dick’s forehead, his lips lingering a second longer than usual, as though silently thanking whatever force had kept his son alive.

“Do you want to hold him?” Kori offered, her voice gentle. “I can move.”

Bruce hesitated, his gaze flicking between Kori and Dick before nodding. They carefully traded places, and Raven could feel the love and fear radiating from Bruce as he settled his son against him. The heart monitor beeped steadily, a small reassurance against the turmoil Raven knew still churned beneath the surface.

“Did he tell you guys anything?” Bruce asked softly, his voice not that of Batman, but of a concerned father, desperate for answers.

Roy sighed, turning off the TV. “He said it’s anxiety… that he’s been having attacks for a while, and it’s getting worse.”

Bruce nodded, his fingers threading through Dick’s hair. “He had one before his heart stopped. The doctors think it might be an anxiety disorder. Too many attacks too close together, triggered the stress on his heart.”

Raven clenched her fists, the frustration bubbling up inside her. This wasn’t just anxiety. She knew it wasn’t. Whatever darkness was lurking in Dick’s mind, it was far far, worse than what  he is willing to admit.

But there is no other explanation to give them right now.

   _~~_

Bruce stirred at the faint creak of his bedroom door opening, his senses immediately alert even in the stillness of the night. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was; the soft, almost hesitant footsteps were familiar. It was Dick. Again.

Since his return from the hospital, Dick had developed an unspoken routine. Every night, at some point between midnight and the early hours of the morning, his son would find his way into Bruce’s room. Sometimes it was just a quiet presence in the doorway, other times, Dick would sit on the edge of the bed or lean against the wall, as if being near Bruce was the only thing keeping him grounded. The separation anxiety had resurfaced with a vengeance, more intense than before, as if the events leading up to his collapse had pulled some long-buried fear to the surface.

Bruce shifted slightly in bed, his eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the curtains. He could make out Dick’s silhouette—slightly hunched, standing just inside the doorway as though he wasn’t sure if he should intrude. His son had always been self-sufficient, fiercely independent, but this… this was different. Since the cardiac arrest, since the hospital, Dick had clung to him in a way that made Bruce’s chest tighten with both concern and heartbreak.

"Dick," Bruce called softly, his voice low and reassuring, inviting him in without any questions or expectations. He didn’t want to push. He knew better than to ask too much, to pry. The last thing Dick needed right now was more pressure.

Dick didn’t respond at first, but after a moment, he crossed the room slowly, his footsteps heavy with exhaustion. Bruce could see the fatigue etched into every line of his face, the dark circles under his eyes that hadn’t faded since he’d come home. Dick was recovering physically—his heart was stable, and the doctors had assured Bruce that with rest, his strength would return. But the exhaustion, the weight of whatever haunted him, lingered, an ever-present shadow.

The doctors had been clear—Dick would need to see a therapist, possibly a psychiatrist, once he was fully recovered. The anxiety that had been building for months had manifested in a way none of them had anticipated, and it was clear now that it wasn’t just something that could be pushed aside or ignored. There had been too many panic attacks, too close together. The stress had been more than Dick’s body could handle, and Bruce knew it had nearly cost him his life. They couldn’t let it get to that point again.

But that was only part of the issue.

Sure Dick had some anxiety that had been building for months but something else had to happen to trigger this.

Dick arrived at the manor with a broken rib, scrapes and bruises that no one knows where he got them from except Dick himself and he refuses to tell him.

"Dick," Bruce said again, softer now, watching as his son finally came to a halt beside the bed, standing there for a moment as though unsure of what to do next. He didn’t have to say it. Bruce could tell—a nightmare, or perhaps another panic attack, had clawed its way into Dick’s sleep. And now, here he was, unable to find peace even in the safety of his own home.

Without waiting for Dick to speak, Bruce shifted in the bed, pulling back the covers slightly in silent invitation. Dick hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering with a trace of uncertainty, as if he didn’t want to burden Bruce with whatever storm was raging inside him. But Bruce saw through it—saw the vulnerability, the quiet desperation for some kind of anchor.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Dick moved, but instead of the slow, deliberate approach Bruce had anticipated, his son nearly collapsed into the bed, almost tackling him with the force of his movement. It wasn’t just exhaustion—it was desperation. The moment Dick’s body hit the mattress, he buried his face into Bruce’s chest, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, as though the effort of holding everything in had finally broken him. He wasn't crying but it seemed like he was trying very hard not to.

"Dick, do you want to talk about it?"

His son shook his head, "No, sorry...I just needed to see you,"

Bruce exhaled softly, wrapping his arm around Dick's trembling form, pulling him closer in a silent acknowledgment of the weight his son was carrying. He didn’t press further, knowing that right now, Dick wasn’t ready to open up about what had happened. The tension in Dick’s body spoke of something deeper than the typical exhaustion or frustration that came with being a vigilante—this was fear, raw and unyielding.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Bruce murmured, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of concern he felt inside. "You’re always welcome here. I’m not going anywhere."

Dick didn’t respond, but Bruce felt him exhale shakily against his chest, his hands gripping the fabric of Bruce’s shirt as though he feared letting go. The broken rib, the unexplained bruises—they were all pieces of a puzzle that Bruce was trying to put together, but Dick was keeping the final piece hidden, guarding it fiercely. Bruce could feel the weight of it in the way Dick clung to him now.

As the minutes passed in silence, Bruce’s thoughts raced. What could have happened? Something more than a mission gone wrong, more than a fight that didn’t end in their favor. Dick had been hiding this, pushing through the pain both physical and emotional until it had culminated in his collapse. And now, even as Bruce held him, his son was locked away in a place where Bruce couldn’t reach.

"I’m here," Bruce whispered, his voice soft but resolute. "Whenever you're ready to talk about it, I’m here."

Dick nodded against him, but Bruce wasn’t sure if it was in acknowledgment or just a reflexive motion. He could feel the exhaustion radiating off his son, and soon enough, Dick’s breathing began to even out, the tension slowly easing as sleep took over. But even then, Bruce could feel the undercurrent of unease, the way Dick’s body still clung to him even in unconsciousness, as if some part of him was still fighting to stay grounded.

Bruce’s mind raced as he stared at the ceiling, holding his son close. Whatever had happened, whatever had caused Dick to spiral so far down into this pit of anxiety and fear, Bruce would find out. He wouldn’t let Dick carry this burden alone. He couldn’t bear to see his son like this—so broken, so lost. And yet, Bruce knew that, as much as he wanted to fix it, he would have to wait for Dick to come to him...

Or investigate ( or snoop as Stephanie called it)

But tonight, for now, though, he held his son tighter, letting the silence fill the space between them, hoping that, in this moment, Dick could feel just a fraction of the safety he so desperately sought.

_~~_

Dick was trying so hard to pull it together, trying to act like nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

For days, the nightmares had plagued him—vivid, merciless reminders of the endless loop that had trapped him. It was a cycle of loss and violence, a brutal, unrelenting reel that refused to fade even now that it was over. Freedom hadn’t meant peace; instead, it had brought the crushing weight of everything he’d endured and, worse, everything he’d done.

Bruce didn’t know. No one knew, and no one could. And Dick wasn’t ready to tell them. Maybe he never would be.

Despite saving everyone, despite breaking the loop, he couldn’t shake the hollow ache left behind. The weight of what he had done—the choice he had made—clung to him like a second skin. He had killed someone to end it. He told himself there had been no other way, that it was the only path to freedom, but that didn’t change the truth.

He had crossed a line.

The sorcerer had been evil, undeniably so. The kind of villain who thrived on suffering, who had reveled in the torment of the loop. Killing him had been necessary. That was what Dick repeated to himself in the sleepless hours of the night, over and over, like a mantra meant to soothe the guilt burning inside him. But it didn’t help. The act had been necessary, yes. Justifiable, even. But none of that erased the fact that Dick Grayson—the boy who had promised himself he would never become like the man who killed his parents—had taken a life.

Killing wasn’t supposed to be part of the job. Killing wasn’t supposed to be part of him.

But now, it was. And no amount of reasoning, no flood of justifications, could change that.

Tim had shown up not long after Dick was discharged from the hospital. Of course he had. There wasn’t a chance in hell Tim would stay away after hearing that his brother had flatlined. The news had reached him in the middle of an investigation, and according to Bruce, Tim had dropped everything—abandoning leads, reports, and responsibilities—to rush back.

Dick stirred faintly at the sound of voices drifting through the room. Tim’s voice, low and urgent, murmured in the doorway, and Bruce’s deeper, steadier tones replied. Dick stayed where he was, curled against Bruce’s chest, letting the rhythmic rise and fall of his father’s breathing anchor him.

“I just… I don’t get it,” Tim said, his voice carrying a thread of frustration beneath the concern. “How does something like this happen? One minute, everything’s fine, and the next, he’s flatlining.”

“Stress cardiomyopathy,” Bruce answered, his voice quieter, as though trying not to wake him. “The doctors said it can happen after extreme stress. Dick’s been pushing himself too hard, and this time, his body couldn’t handle it.”

Tim went silent, but Dick didn’t need to see him to know that his brother’s sharp gaze was fixed on him, dissecting the situation with the precision of a surgeon. Tim’s eyes always saw too much. Dick could almost feel them peeling back the layers of armor he had thrown up, exposing everything he wanted to keep buried.

The guilt coiled tighter in Dick’s chest. He knew he had brought this on himself. He had pushed too hard, ignored the signs, refused to let anyone in. But how could he share the truth? How could he tell Tim—or Bruce, or anyone—what he’d done?

“I just don’t understand why he wouldn’t say anything,” Tim muttered finally, his frustration breaking through again. “He never tells us when he’s struggling.”

The words struck something deep inside Dick, and before he could stop himself, he opened his eyes. His gaze locked with Tim’s, the pale blue-grey of his brother’s eyes sharp and piercing, almost accusing.

Those same eyes had stared up at him, empty and lifeless, more times than he could count during the loop. Broken neck, crushed chest, bleeding out—every iteration brought a new horror. He had held Tim’s cold, limp body in his arms more times than he dared to remember.

Tim was so cold. He never knew how long his brother had been lying there, how much he had suffered. Had he cried out for help? Had he known what was coming? Had he been scared?

“Dick.”

Tim’s voice snapped him back to the present, and Dick flinched as his brother’s hand settled on his arm. It was warm, so warm, alive and solid in a way that made the phantom memory of those cold, lifeless moments all the more haunting. He couldn’t help but glance at Tim’s wrist, where the faint thrum of a pulse beat beneath the skin.

A pulse. Something he had once searched for in desperation, even knowing he wouldn’t find it.

“How are you feeling?” Tim asked softly, his concern etched into every syllable.

Dick swallowed hard, forcing the memories back into the shadows. “I’m fine,” he said, the lie slipping out before he could stop it. His voice was hoarse, unconvincing even to his own ears.

Tim frowned,

"I mean," Dick sighed, "Better, um just tired mostly, my chest hurts because of the broken ribs," The EMTs had broken two of them when they'd perform CPR.

Tim sat at the edge of the bed and at the same time Bruce picked him up and shifted Dick slightly, cradling him as though he were still a child. The motion was slow, deliberate, as if Bruce was worried even the smallest movement might cause him pain.

Bruce has been holding him, carrying him since he was brought home.

Bruce used to act like that when he was a kid. His first ever injury in the field was a broken arm but Bruce had treated it like the end of the world. Dick could still remember the way Bruce had gently cradled him, his hands trembling slightly as he’d inspected the injury, the dark cowl doing nothing to mask the sheer panic in his eyes. Bruce had scooped him up then, much like he was doing now, holding him close as if proximity alone could shield him from harm.

For those next few weeks it was like he didn't have legs because he was always perched on Bruce's hip. The man refused to let Dick walk for long periods of time, even though he only broke his arm, his legs were perfectly fine.

He did the same thing when he got home from the hospital this week, as soon as he opened the car door Bruce scooped him up into his arms, even though Dick was way too old for that at his age of twenty-five.

And he didn't have the heart to tell Bruce that, because the man looked terrified.

Now, curled against Bruce’s chest, he found himself unable to argue with that either. Despite the awkwardness of being held so protectively as an adult, there was something grounding about it. Bruce’s heartbeat was steady, a reassuring rhythm against his ear, and the warmth of his father’s arms made it easier—if only slightly—to push away the memories clawing at the edges of his mind.

It was silent for a little while, Bruce just cradling him, trembling as well but no one called him out on it, because everyone understood that this was how Bruce expressed his own fear, his own helplessness was by coddling them.

Jason came down the hallway sometime later. He limped, just like when he was at that diner, just like when he shakely hobbled towards him in that parking lot and shielded Dick from getting, shot of stabbed and in some loops, both.

"Aren't you supposed to be in bed?" Bruce asked, and Dick knew a switch went off in his head.

Bruce was going to herd them all in like a mama bird at this point.

"Come here,"

Yep, just as he suspected,

Jason huffed, rolling his eyes but not resisting as Bruce reached out with one arm, seamlessly pulling Jason closer. With a grunt of effort, Bruce adjusted so that now Jason was also tucked against his side, leaning against Bruce's shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re worse than Alfred,” Jason muttered, though there wasn’t any real heat behind his words. His limp had grown more pronounced, the painkillers likely wearing off, and it didn’t take much for him to surrender to the gesture.

Damian came back, Alfred had asked the boy to get some sleep after staying up all night and watching him. He had scared Damian too that day, the poor child didn't deserve that.

"How is Grayson?"

Bruce didn’t move an inch, but his voice softened as he replied, “He’s resting.”

The words were simple, but the way Bruce held onto Dick as if letting go might shatter him told a much deeper story. His hand rested gently on the back of Dick’s head, fingers threading absently through his hair like he used to when Dick was just a kid.

Damian hesitated in the doorway, his small frame tense, torn between his usual stoic front and the worry flickering in his eyes. It wasn’t hard to see—he was still just a eleven-year-old boy, trying to process seeing his older brother so vulnerable.

Dick lifted his head slightly, his voice hoarse but steady enough. “Hey, Dami.”

Damian stepped closer, his movements almost reluctant, as though afraid that getting too close might make things worse. He stopped at Bruce’s knee, his gaze fixed on the blanket draped over Dick. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You’re not,” Dick assured him, offering a small smile. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could manage. “Come here, kiddo.”

Bruce shifted slightly, making room without letting go of Dick. Damian didn’t need much encouragement; after a moment’s pause, he climbed onto the bed nestling himself close to Bruce, even he noticed the fear that Bruce was holding.

Dick wasn't a parent, probably doesn't really understand the gravity of what Bruce experienced but watching your son flatline in the back of an ambulance wasn't something anyone could recover from easily. Bruce had always been a fortress of strength, unyielding in the face of danger, but this was different. This wasn’t a criminal to apprehend or a case—it was his child slipping away in a moment where his skills, his intellect, his power, all meant nothing.

The fear in Bruce’s hold was palpable, radiating from the way his arm tightened around Dick just slightly, as though he could protect him now in ways he hadn’t been able to before.

Damian curled closer, his head resting lightly against Bruce’s other shoulder. His small hands fidgeted with the fabric of the blanket covering Dick, his expression a mix of unease and determination, like he was trying to will himself into being strong enough to fix this.

“You scared us, Grayson,” Damian muttered, his voice quieter than usual.

Dick managed a weak chuckle, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t mean to, Dami."

Dick’s smile faded, and he reached out, placing a hand gently on Damian’s arm. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I really am.”

Damian nodded stiffly, the tension in his posture easing just a fraction as he allowed himself to lean more into Bruce’s side.

Jason shifted slightly where he was pressed against Bruce, wincing as his leg protested the movement. Bruce’s arm instinctively adjusted to steady him, the gesture so natural that it was almost easy to forget how rare it was for Jason to accept any kind of comfort, let alone seek it out.

Bruce remained silent, his steady presence anchoring them all. His gaze drifted over each of his sons—Dick curled against him, Jason leaning into his side, and Damian tucked securely at his knee and Tim on the other—and his lips pressed into a thin line. Whatever storm of emotions churned within him, he kept it tightly controlled, but his actions spoke louder than any words. The way his hand was settled at his wrist, just above his pulse was telling.

Bruce wasn’t just holding Dick for comfort; he was grounding himself, checking over and over that his son’s pulse was steady, that the faint, rhythmic thrum beneath his fingertips meant Dick was here, alive, and safe.

It was a habit he couldn’t seem to break since the ambulance ride—his fear manifesting in the quiet, repetitive reassurance that everything was okay now, even if his heart hadn’t quite caught up to the reality.

“Bruce,” Dick murmured, his voice soft but carrying just enough weight to draw his father’s attention. “I’m okay. I promise.”

The words were meant to comfort, but they only made Bruce tighten his hold, his jaw working as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. He didn’t say anything, just shifted slightly so he could press a kiss to the top of Dick’s head, an uncharacteristically tender gesture that spoke volumes.

Dick closed his eyes at the contact, letting himself lean into the moment. He wasn’t okay—not really—but for now, he could pretend.

He had to.

Chapter Text

Bruce's frown deepened, his tie hanging loosely around his neck as he stepped further into the room. The emptiness gnawed at him. He’d expected some resistance—Dick Grayson wasn’t exactly famous for staying still—but this wasn’t just defiance. Something about the rumpled covers and the hollow quiet of the house set him on edge.

His son was supposed to be resting. Seven weeks minimum, the doctor had said. She’d strongly recommended ten, emphasizing that pushing through the pain or rushing recovery could lead to long-term complications. But patience had never been Dick’s strong suit, especially when he felt like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

Bruce exhaled sharply through his nose, his mind already assessing the possibilities. Of course, Dick couldn't sit still for long, especially not with Alfred gone to pick Damian up from school and Jason and Tim out until dinner tonight. The house had been quieter than usual today, leaving too much space for Dick to think—and far too many opportunities for him to slip away unnoticed.

“Dammit,” Bruce muttered under his breath, his hand instinctively moving to his earpiece. He hesitated, though, deciding against calling Alfred or the others just yet. If Dick had pushed himself too far—or worse, injured himself further—Bruce didn’t want to waste time explaining the situation.

He turned and moved briskly down the hallway, his footsteps soft but purposeful against the polished floor. The house was vast, its cavernous spaces capable of swallowing sound, but Bruce’s senses were attuned to the faintest disturbances.

The library was empty, the sitting room untouched. He paused in the kitchen, scanning for any sign that Dick had passed through, but everything was in its place. Bruce’s jaw tightened. If Dick had made his way to the cave…

The thought quickened his pace as he crossed the main hall and descended the staircase toward the entrance to the Batcave. He stopped abruptly at the top of the steps, his hand gripping the banister. The lights below were on, and a faint rustling sound reached his ears, too faint to be the usual flutter of bats.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, his expression darkening as he descended the last few steps into the Batcave. The ambient hum of the computers and the occasional drip of water from the cavern ceiling were the only sounds filling the space.

Dick sat slouched in the chair, his posture betraying his exhaustion even as his gaze remained fixed on the gruesome crime scene photos splayed across the screen. His skin still looked far too pale, almost translucent under the harsh LED glow. Shadows smudged beneath his eyes, bruises of restless nights and unrelenting strain. The oversized hoodie he wore—likely thrown on in haste—hung loosely on his frame, a reminder of how much weight he’d lost after everything his body had been through. Bruce’s jaw tightened further at the sight. He shouldn’t be here.

“Dick.” His voice was calm but carried the unmistakable edge of warning.

There was no immediate reaction, as if Dick hadn’t even heard him. The faint click of the mouse echoed in the cavern as Dick absently scrolled through a series of autopsy photos. His expression was blank—too blank—his eyes glassy and distant, like he was somewhere else entirely.

Bruce’s frown deepened. He crossed the distance in two purposeful strides. “Dick.”

That got his attention. Dick blinked sharply, snapping back to the present, though his movements were sluggish. He turned his head just slightly, his face shadowed and tired. His hands hovered uncertainly over the keyboard, as though he couldn’t decide whether to minimize the screen or feign indifference. The hesitation told Bruce everything he needed to know.

“I thought you were supposed to be resting,” Bruce said, his tone hardening, though there was an undercurrent of concern he couldn’t hide.

Dick straightened just slightly in the chair, though the effort seemed to take more out of him than he’d admit. “I was resting,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, the words rushed. He gestured weakly to the monitor as if that explained everything. “I just… I needed something to do.”

“To do?” Bruce repeated sharply, his brow furrowing. He took a closer look at the file open on the screen—a murder investigation Gordon had passed along earlier in the week. The details were brutal: crime scene photos drenched in blood, chilling autopsy reports with cold, clinical descriptions of violence that had been inflicted on the victim. This wasn’t just something to do—this was the worst thing Dick could be looking at right now.

“Dick, this is not the kind of distraction you need,” Bruce said firmly, his voice lowering. “Especially after everything that happened.”

“I’m fine.” The words were immediate, too quick to be convincing. Dick leaned forward slightly, his fingers gripping the edge of the desk as if bracing himself. "... It's nothing that I haven't seen before,"

"You shouldn't be doing anything stressful. This would stress me out and I haven't gone through cardiac arrest,"

Dick’s grip on the desk tightened, his shoulders stiffening. “I’m fine, Bruce.” His voice had a sharper edge now, a tone of defiance that was all too familiar. “I’m not fragile. I can handle it.”

Bruce’s expression darkened further, frustration mixing with concern. “You don’t have to prove anything, Dick. Not to me. You’re exhausted—physically and emotionally. This—” he gestured toward the screen “—this isn’t helping. You need to heal.”

Dick’s lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening as if to stave off the words that were threatening to spill. “I’m not a kid anymore, Bruce. I don’t need you hovering over me.”

"Well clearly you do because you’re not taking care of yourself,” Bruce shot back, his voice rising just enough to betray his frustration.

"You died! For five minutes you died. For a moment the EMTs gave up on trying to review you because as you know five minutes without a heartbeat makes brain death a possibility. A very, very real possibility.

But I couldn't loose you, I begged with the EMTs to try one last time and they did. And I watched you, Dick—watched you come back, watched you breathe again. I sat in the waiting room for hours, praying that I made the right choice because impairment was a possibility, that you could have woken up and been a shell of yourself, that I might have lost you forever. That maybe, even if your body came back, the you I knew, the son I raised, might never be the same." Bruce paused.

"So yes I'm hovering, I can't help it."

Dick's hand dropped to his side, fingers curling into a fist as the weight of Bruce's words settled heavily on him.

"I'm sorry B,"

Bruce’s face softened slightly at the apology, but there was still a tremor in his voice as he responded. “You don’t have to apologize, Dick. You don’t owe me that. But I do need you to take care of yourself.”

Dick swallowed hard, his throat tight, and for a moment he sat there, fighting against the rising emotions threatening to overtake him. He hadn’t expected this conversation to unravel like this, hadn't expected to feel this vulnerable in front of Bruce and vice-versa.

"We are going to talk...Later. Your teammates have given me some insight about what you have been dealing with and I...We should talk about what to do to help you. You don't need anymore stressful conversations for today so later,"

Dick's movements were slow and mechanical as he stood, his shoulders sagging under a weight that seemed too heavy for him to carry. He didn’t meet Bruce’s gaze as he reached out to shut off the computer, the screen fading to black as though it symbolized his own dwindling energy.

Bruce followed closely behind as Dick trudged toward the stairs, his steps unsteady and lethargic. His face was a mask of exhaustion, a blank, empty look that made Bruce’s chest tighten. Burnout didn’t even seem like a strong enough word to describe it. Dick looked… hollow, like he’d given so much of himself that there was nothing left.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Dick paused, his hand gripping the banister as if to steady himself. He didn’t move for a moment, just stood there staring ahead, his breathing shallow and uneven. Bruce hesitated, not wanting to push him but unwilling to leave him like this.

“Come on,” Bruce said softly, placing a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Dick didn’t protest, which was its own red flag. He just nodded faintly and took another step, though it was clear he was moving on autopilot. Bruce stayed close, his hand never leaving Dick’s shoulder, guiding him toward his room with a steady but gentle presence.

When they reached the doorway, Dick stopped again, swaying slightly as if he couldn’t decide whether to go in or not.

"Can you stay?"


It wasn’t a demand, not even a request with conviction. It was quiet, almost fragile, like Dick was afraid of the answer. And as Bruce looked at him now—standing in the doorway with his shoulders slumped and his face pale—it felt like he was staring into the past.

Deja vu.

Bruce could still remember those early days when Dick would sit curled on the edge of his bed, waiting for Bruce to come back from patrol. The way his bright blue eyes would fill with tears if Bruce hesitated too long, the way he’d clutch at Bruce’s sleeve like his world might shatter if he let go.

“Please, Bruce,” he’d whispered back then, small and broken in the aftermath of losing everything. And no matter how bone-deep Bruce’s exhaustion was, no matter how much he’d wanted to retreat to his own bed, he had always stayed. Because how could he say no to that?  

But he also remembered the panic attacks when Bruce left the room for too long. The nights Dick would cling to his side, trembling with a fear that neither of them fully understood at the time. Bruce had tried to handle it on his own, to be everything Dick needed, but he hadn’t been enough. Alfred had eventually intervened, insisting with quiet determination that they needed help from someone trained to handle the kind of trauma Dick was dealing with.

Bruce hadn’t wanted to admit it. Admitting it felt like failure, like he was letting Dick down when his son needed him most. But in the end, he had made the call. He’d brought in a specialist, and though it had been a grueling process, it had worked. Slowly, painfully, Dick had started to heal.

But now…

Now, it felt like they were back at the beginning, except this time, Bruce couldn’t make the decision for him. Dick wasn’t a scared, grieving nine-year-old anymore. He was a grown man, strong and capable and deeply independent. He had choices now—choices that were his alone to make. And that terrified Bruce.  

Because he knew Dick. He knew how much his son struggled to take care of himself, how much easier it was for him to deflect, to hide behind his smiles and jokes, to bury his pain so deeply that even Bruce couldn’t reach it. Dick’s emotional maturity allowed him to care for others in ways that were nothing short of remarkable, but when it came to himself?

He was his own worst enemy.

“Yeah,” Bruce said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “Of course I’ll stay.”

Dick blinked, his expression flickering with something unreadable—relief, maybe, or gratitude, or just exhaustion. He nodded once, stepping into the room as if the words had finally given him permission to go into the room.

Bruce followed, sitting on the edge of the bed as Dick sank into it. He stayed close but didn’t crowd him, giving Dick the space to settle while still making it clear that he wasn’t going anywhere.

As Dick lay back, pulling the blankets over himself with slow, heavy movements, Bruce reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. It was a small gesture, but one that carried more weight than words could.

Dick pulled at his arm, wanting Bruce to sit closer, and Bruce complied without hesitation. He shifted to sit fully on the bed, leaning back against the headboard as Dick curled toward him, resting his head against Bruce’s side. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room was quiet save for the soft sound of Dick’s uneven breathing.

"B, do you regret...You love me right?"

Bruce paused, why is his son questioning that? Was it the exhaustion speaking? Or was there something deeper behind the question?
Does he not know how much he means to him?

"Of course," Bruce answered almost immediately.

“I don’t… I don’t feel like I deserve it,” Dick murmured, barely audible, the words coming out in a broken whisper and it sounded so guilty.

"Dick where is this coming from?"

Dick didn't answer, just shrugged as he burrowed himself against his side.

"Dick?"

Still no answer just a million and one questions.

_~~_

Dick really shouldn’t be out here.

The chill of Gotham’s night air seeped through his Nightwing suit, cutting to the bone in a way that wasn’t entirely physical. It was sharp and biting, but not enough to clear the fog clouding his mind or the sluggish ache that radiated through his entire body. His breaths felt shallow and labored, each one dragging heavily through his lungs and stirring the relentless churning in his stomach. The faint chemical tang of cleaning supplies clung to him, acrid and suffocating, a sterile scent that mocked him with its presence—a cloying reminder of where he’d been and what he’d done.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t even be upright. But here he was, perched on the edge of a rooftop, staring blankly at the sprawling chaos of Gotham below with eyes too tired to focus. The city lights bled together into a hazy blur, and the rhythmic hum of distant traffic felt oddly muted, as though the world had dimmed itself to mirror the numbness inside him.

The familiar weight of his escrima sticks rested against his sides, but even they felt wrong tonight. Out of place. Alien. They felt like tools that belonged to someone else—a Nightwing from another time, one who was confident, strong, steady. Not like this broken, trembling shadow of himself. His hands twitched involuntarily, a faint tremor running through them that he couldn’t suppress. The muscle memory was still there, sure. He could draw the sticks, swing them, fight. But his reflexes felt dulled, his movements sluggish, as if he were trying to move through water. He was drowning in exhaustion, but something heavier pressed down on him, pulling him under: guilt.

Dick shifted slightly, testing the limits of his battered body, and pain immediately flared in protest. His ribs screamed at him, a sharp, stabbing agony that stole his breath and forced a low hiss from between his teeth. He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready for any of this.

But he didn’t have a choice.

Bruce had the case file now. Of course he did. Gordon had handed it to him directly, oblivious to the fact that the murder he was reporting didn’t belong to some nameless criminal lurking in the shadows of Gotham. No, it belonged to Dick. The blood was on his hands, and Bruce—being Bruce—was already pulling at threads. He always did. It wouldn’t matter how careful Dick had been; Bruce would find something. He always found something.

That’s why Dick had to go back.

The apartment loomed in his mind like a ghost he couldn’t exorcise, its memory vivid and relentless. The blood-splattered walls, the floor stained a deep, damning red, the yellow police tape slashed across the scene like some twisted, mocking banner.

Dick squeezed his eyes shut, willing the image to fade, but it refused. The memory of that night played on an endless loop, as vivid and raw as if he were standing there again. The blood was so bright, so red, stark against the pale walls. He could still feel it, hot and sticky, spraying across his face, his hands. His knees buckled under the weight of it all, and he braced himself against the rooftop ledge, swallowing hard as nausea clawed its way up his throat.

“Focus,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking under the strain. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms in a desperate bid to ground himself. His heart was racing, too fast, erratic, threatening to spiral out of control. “Get in, get out. Don’t think. Just don’t think.”

But thinking was all he could do.

When he finally stepped into the apartment, it felt like walking into a tomb. The air inside was stagnant, thick with the lingering stench of death and decay. It hit him like a physical blow, almost enough to make him stagger. The room itself felt oppressive, the walls closing in on him, the space warping and twisting as though it, too, remembered the horrors it had witnessed.

The faint light filtering in through the windows caught on the yellow police tape still stretched across the living room, its garish color cutting through the shadows like a barrier he had no right to cross. But he crossed it anyway. Every step felt heavier than the last, his body screaming at him to stop, to turn back. But he couldn’t.

This was where it had happened. Where he had happened—prodding, digging, tearing into Dick’s mind and ripping him apart piece by piece. The monster had known exactly where to press, what wounds to reopen, what vulnerabilities to exploit. He’d unearthed everything Dick had tried to bury, dragged it into the light, and left it raw and bleeding.

Sex.

The word alone made Dick’s stomach twist violently. A Name he tried not to think about surfaced unbidden: Tarantula. A Name that had turned something meant to be safe, something meant to be intimate, into a weapon. Their shadows lingered in the darkest corners of his mind, whispering reminders of what she had stolen from him. Control. Autonomy. Safety.

And now, here, in this place, in this room where he had sworn never to let it happen again—he had failed. He was touched again.

“Focus, focusfocusfocus,” he muttered under his breath, the words spilling out in a frantic whisper as he forced himself to move. His hands were trembling as he searched, his body moving on autopilot, driven by the singular need to erase any trace of what had happened.

And that’s when he found it.

The hidden room.

It was concealed behind a false wall, expertly camouflaged. Cameras lined the space, their unblinking lenses staring back at him like a hundred accusing eyes. The sight of them made his breath hitch, his chest tightening painfully.

Not just cameras. Feeds. Feeds of Gotham. Feeds of houses, streets, people. Feeds of this house.

Dick’s hands shook violently as he forced himself to act. He didn’t watch. He couldn’t watch. He skimmed the dates, his eyes darting across the timestamps in a frantic blur until he found it. The tape. The tape. The one that captured everything that had happened that night.

He grabbed it and ran.

At first, he didn’t even know where he was going. He just needed to get out, needed to put as much distance between himself and that room as possible. His feet carried him blindly through the dark streets, the familiar outline of his apartment eventually coming into view.

The moment he stepped inside, the memories hit him again with brutal clarity. The couch. The kitchen island. The glass coffee table Bruce had bought for him. Everything was frozen in time, exactly as it had been when he woke up time and time again after each loop.

Dick stumbled into the center of the room and threw the tape to the floor, staring at it like it was a live grenade. He needed to destroy it. He should destroy it. But he couldn’t.

His hands hovered over the tape, his fingers twitching. Touching it felt like holding a live wire, the weight of everything it represented pressing down on him like a physical force.

He sank to the floor, his chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths. The walls seemed to close in around him, the silence of the room deafening. And the tape sat there, taunting him, daring him to make a decision.

But all he could do was sit there, paralyzed, as the memories and the guilt consumed him

The manor was a blur of shadow and light as Dick finally made it back. Sneaking out had been easy, muscle memory guiding him through the motions. Sneaking back in wasn’t much harder, though his legs felt like lead, and every breath sent a sharp lance of pain through his chest. He didn’t know how he managed to mount his bike, let alone drive it through Gotham’s streets, his mind hazy with exhaustion and the memory of bloodstained walls.

A part of him had wanted to stay at his apartment, too spent to even lift his head from where he’d collapsed on the floor. The thought had lingered, whispering temptations of solitude and stillness. But solitude wasn’t what he needed. Not anymore. Not after waking up alone on that couch night after night, haunted by visions of bloodied faces and lifeless bodies, the echoes of his failures chasing him into every corner of his mind.

He’d spent almost a year drowning in that isolation, spiraling deeper with every waking moment that brought nothing but silence. He couldn’t do it again. He wouldn’t. Not when he could come here. Not when he could look at them—Bruce, Jason, Tim, Damian—and see the rise and fall of their chests, the breath of life in their features. Proof that they were still here. Still alive.

The cave came into view as he rounded the final bend, the familiar hum of its hidden entrance opening a faint balm against his frayed nerves. He parked the bike clumsily, barely able to keep himself upright as he swung his leg over and staggered toward the stairs. He didn’t care about the sound of boots echoing against the stone, didn’t bother to mask his approach.

By the time he reached the base of the steps, Bruce was already there, standing tall and imposing at the landing. His arms were crossed, his face a storm of fury and concern, the kind of look that always made Dick feel fifteen again, caught sneaking in after curfew. Beside him stood Alfred, his expression unreadable save for the faintest twitch of disapproval at the corner of his mouth.

But none of it mattered.

Because they were alive.

Dick swayed where he stood, his body betraying him with every uneven breath. His chest heaved, each inhale scraping against his ribs like broken glass. The pain was a distant thing, dulled by exhaustion, but it was there—deep in his bones, threaded through his muscles, a weight dragging him down. His heartbeat pounded in his skull, a relentless, thudding roar that drowned out everything else.

But Bruce was there. A presence as immovable as bedrock. And Alfred stood just behind him, composed as ever, the kind of steady that had carried them through every storm before this.

The silence between them was thick, oppressive. Then—

“Would you like to explain where you’ve been?”

Bruce’s voice sliced through the air, precise and controlled, but sharp enough to cut. It wasn’t just anger. It was something colder, something edged with the kind of worry Bruce never let himself acknowledge. The kind that slipped through in the way his hands curled into fists, the way his breath was just a fraction too measured, the way he looked at Dick—like he was bracing himself for whatever was about to come out of his mouth.

Dick tried to answer. He really did.

His lips parted, but no words came. His throat clenched, raw and tight, and his tongue felt thick, heavy, foreign in his own mouth. The effort of speech—of forming a single, coherent thought—was too much. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t—

His knees buckled.

It happened so fast he barely had time to register the way his vision tilted—the floor rising up to meet him, the distant awareness that his limbs weren’t responding fast enough—

Then hands. Bruce’s hands. Firm, steady, catching him before he could collapse entirely.

The grip on his shoulders was unrelenting, familiar in its strength. Dick’s world rocked, equilibrium shattered, and for a long, breathless second, he just stood there—half-suspended in Bruce’s grasp, his body uncooperative, his mind sluggish and fogged.

He needed to say something.

Lie.

“…Patrol.”

The word fell from his lips like dead weight, barely more than a whisper. He couldn’t meet Bruce’s eyes, so he looked down instead—down at the floor, at the scuffed soles of his boots, at anything but the man holding him upright.

The silence stretched, thick as a noose.

Then—

“Why?”

Bruce’s voice was deceptively quiet, the kind of quiet that meant danger.

“You’re not fully recovered.” The words were slow, deliberate, stripped down to something cold. Measured. “We talked about this. Tonight. And not only did you go out in this condition, you ripped out your tracker and left your comm behind.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose, steady and sharp, but there was something restrained about it—something controlled, like he was holding himself back.

“Richard.”

Dick flinched.

“I have been patient,” Bruce continued, voice low and unyielding. “But you are hiding something. Something you don’t want me to know.” His grip tightened, just slightly. “And that would be fine—except that same secret put you in a hospital bed.”

A heartbeat of silence. Then Bruce’s hands shifted, his grip becoming something more insistent, more directive.

Dick didn’t resist. He couldn’t. His body barely responded as Bruce guided him forward, ushering him toward the chair by the Batcomputer with movements that were both firm and frighteningly gentle.

It was the gentleness that made him feel sick.

Bruce eased him down, lowering him with an almost deliberate care, and something inside Dick twisted—tight and sharp, curling in on itself like an open wound.

Then—

“Talk.”

The command cracked through the air like a gunshot.

Dick’s heart slammed against his ribs, his body locking up with the force of it. The chair beneath him felt unreal, the walls of the Batcave too close. His hands trembled where they rested on his thighs. His skin tingled—not numbness, not pain, just wrong.

He couldn’t catch his breath.

The air was too thin.

Bruce said something—his name, maybe—but it came from far away, distorted like sound through water.

His vision wavered. The cave warped around him, twisting at the edges. The weight in his chest grew heavier, heavier, suffocating—

“I…”

His lips trembled. The word barely made it out.

He swallowed, throat constricting. He had to speak. Had to say something. But the words in his head felt disjointed, broken, slipping through his grasp before he could shape them into anything real.

The walls closed in. His body swayed.

Bruce moved forward, his stance shifting—ready to catch him if he fell.

The words tore out of him before he could stop them.

“I was in a time loop.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Bruce’s face changed. A flicker of disbelief, something cold and distant, something that might have been denial if it weren’t for the raw, unguarded horror lurking just beneath the surface.

But Dick barely saw it.

The world lurched.

His stomach twisted, nausea climbing his throat. His vision fractured—the lights above bleeding into a blinding smear of color, the edges of his world tunneling inward. He barely registered the moment his body tipped forward, his muscles giving out completely—

Bruce caught him.

“A time loop?” Bruce’s voice was sharp, too sharp, fraying at the edges.

Alfred’s voice was steadier, but just as urgent. “Master Dick. Breathe. Slowly. In through your nose—”

But the darkness surged forward before he could hear anything else.

And then—

Nothing.

Chapter Text

Dick woke up to the comforting sensation of fingers combing through his hair, the rhythmic motion soothing and familiar. For a moment, he stayed still, feigning sleep, his body heavy and weak but cocooned in warmth. The hand in his hair belonged to Bruce—he could tell by the precise, almost absentminded way his fingers moved, as if his mind were elsewhere while his touch remained gentle.  

He peeked through barely opened eyelids, scanning the room. He was in his old bedroom at the manor, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting a golden hue over the walls. His siblings were scattered around the room.  

Jason sat in a chair by the window, arms crossed, his expression a mix of irritation and concern as he tapped his fingers against his arm. Tim was perched on the edge of the bed, hunched over a tablet, his furrowed brow illuminated by its blue light. Damian was seated on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, his sharp eyes flicking toward Dick every so often as if watching for signs of movement. Even Stephanie, Duke and Cass were there, leaning against the far wall, speaking in hushed tones.  

Dick’s chest tightened. They were all here. All alive. The memories of blood, bodies, and endless repetitions of their deaths slammed into him like a freight train. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe slowly, evenly.  

And then he remembered.  

The time loop.  

And the fact that, in his exhaustion, he’d let it slip to Bruce.  

Panic surged through him, adrenaline flooding his veins despite his lingering fatigue. His heart rate spiked, and he felt Bruce’s hand pause in his hair, the slight shift of his posture alerting him that his father had noticed.  

“You’re awake,” Bruce said quietly, his tone calm but watchful.  

Dick froze, trying to keep his breathing steady. His mind raced, searching for an excuse, a way to downplay what he’d said earlier. He couldn’t tell them everything. He couldn’t tell Bruce—tell anyone—that he’d killed the sorcerer.  

Not only would Bruce never look at him the same way, but it would also mean reliving it. The weight of that moment, the cold finality of his actions, the way the sorcerer’s eyes had widened in shock before they dulled... No. He couldn’t go there.  

But he could explain the time-loop, could say that Constantine took care of it. That part wasn’t entirely a lie—Constantine had been involved, he had given him the dagger to break the curse. 

Dick snuggled further into Bruce’s lap, his cheek pressing against the familiar fabric of his father’s shirt. The warmth and steady rhythm of Bruce’s breathing grounded him, even as his mind spun with half-formed explanations and fragmented memories of the loop.

He needed time to think, to gather his thoughts before Bruce or anyone else could press him for details. For now, feigned grogginess would buy him a little more breathing room.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Grayson,” Jason said from the chair, his voice laced with impatience but softened by concern. “We all saw you flinch. You’re awake.”

Dick groaned theatrically, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “Could’ve let me sleep a little longer,” he muttered, his voice scratchy.

"And my ribs hurt," 

'Please let me go back to sleep,'

"I rewrapped them," Bruce said and Dick grunted closing his eyes as he tried to relax. 

"Is he seriously going back to sleep?" Jason exclaimed, clearly wanting an explanation. Judging by the fact they are all here, Bruce must have told him about the time-loop.

"He's recovering from cardiac arrest still," Bruce replied, making Jason shut his trap. 

Dick groaned softly, cracking one eye open to glare at the group. "You guys… are so loud," he mumbled.

The tension in the room shifted, the sharp edges dulling slightly as everyone turned back to him. Jason rolled his eyes, but there was relief in his expression.

"Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty," he said dryly.

"Don’t call me that," Dick grumbled, sinking further into Bruce’s lap. "You’re giving me a headache."

"That’s rich, considering the headache you’ve given all of us," Jason shot back, but his tone was lighter now.

"I'll tell you guys... everything," 'When I get my story straight that is.' 

Bruce hummed, a soft, low sound that seemed to vibrate in Dick’s chest. The kind of hum that spoke volumes without saying a word, reassuring and steady. Bruce’s hand never faltered as it continued its gentle combing through Dick’s hair, the rhythmic motion calming the racing thoughts inside his son’s head.

"Can I ask how long were you in the loop?"

Dick shuddered. "Three hundred days,"

The room fell silent.

Jason shifted in his chair, his arms uncrossing as his gaze fixed on Dick, a mixture of disbelief and unease flickering across his face. Tim froze, his fingers hovering over the tablet, the blue light casting sharp shadows over his furrowed brow. Damian’s posture stiffened, his knees lowering slightly from where they’d been tucked against his chest, sharp eyes now wide and searching. Even Stephanie and Cass stopped their quiet murmuring, their attention snapping to Dick with identical looks of concern.

Bruce’s hand stilled in Dick’s hair, though it remained resting gently against his scalp. His other arm tightened fractionally around Dick’s shoulders, drawing him closer. “Three hundred days,” Bruce repeated softly, his voice calm but strained.

Dick nodded, his throat tightening. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if blocking out the sight of their faces would somehow make this easier to explain. “Three hundred days of trying to save you. Of waking up and reliving everything.” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “Every time I thought I’d figured it out, something changed. It just… never worked. I even tried--

Dick stood on the rooftop of his apartment building, the cold wind whipping through his hair. Gotham stretched out beneath him, its familiar lights glimmering like distant stars, oblivious to the torment of the man standing above it all. His chest ached—not from physical wounds, though his body bore plenty—but from the suffocating weight of despair that had settled there after countless failed attempts.

Two hundred days. Two hundred resets.

Each day had begun the same way: waking on his couch, the dim morning light filtering through the curtains, and the haunting knowledge that no matter what he did, the day would end in failure. His family would die, and the loop would reset.

He gripped the edge of the rooftop, his fingers curling around the cold, damp concrete. He had tried everything. Every strategy, every contingency, every plea for help. Nothing worked.

And so he found himself here, standing above the city he loved, looking down at the street far below. His breaths came fast and shallow, his heart pounding against his ribs as his mind raced.

Maybe this was the way out.

Maybe the loop would end if he…

He squeezed his eyes shut, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white. This wasn’t something he wanted to do. It wasn’t a decision born of weakness but of exhaustion—an all-consuming, bone-deep exhaustion that made him feel like a ghost in his own body.

If this didn’t work, he reasoned, at least it wouldn’t matter. The loop would reset, and he’d wake up on his couch like he always did. No harm, no foul.

Taking a shuddering breath, Dick stepped forward.

The wind roared in his ears as he fell. It all went so fast until...

It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.

Dick couldn’t move. The world around him blurred as pain radiated from his shattered body, sharp and searing. He could feel the blood pooling beneath his head, warm and sticky as it soaked into his hair and skin.

His chest heaved with shallow breaths, each one a struggle, as agony wracked his body. His legs—the pain there was unbearable, a fiery, throbbing ache that made him certain they were broken. His back felt worse, a cold, numbing sensation spreading through him, making him feel heavy and immobile.

The lights of Gotham glimmered above him, distant and indifferent, as if mocking his desperation. Somewhere in the distance, he thought he could hear the faint wail of sirens, but it was hard to focus on anything beyond the overwhelming pain.

This wasn’t peace.

It was torment.

Tears blurred his vision as his mind raced. This had to be it. This had to be the way out. There was no way the loop could drag him back from this.

Right?

He coughed, a wet, choking sound that sent a fresh wave of pain shooting through his chest. Blood filled his mouth, thick and metallic, as his body trembled weakly against the cold pavement.

Please, he begged silently, his thoughts slipping into incoherence. Please let it stop. I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.

His vision dimmed, the world around him fading into a void of darkness and cold. For a brief moment, he thought he felt a flicker of relief, as if the weight of the loop was finally lifting.

And then—

The dull ache in his back returned.

The scratchy fabric of the throw blanket tangled around his legs.

The faint smell of stale coffee lingering in the air.

His eyes snapped open, and he found himself staring at the familiar cracks in the ceiling of his apartment.

Again.

“No,” he croaked, his voice breaking as his hands shot up to clutch his face. His chest heaved with a choked sob, his mind reeling. “No, no, no, no!”

His body shook as he sat up, the familiar surroundings of his apartment mocking him with their unchanging normalcy. The clock on the wall ticked softly, the morning light filtering through the curtains exactly as it had for two hundred days.

He was back.

Again.

Dick doubled over, his hands clutching his hair as his mind spiraled. He had felt it—he had felt the life draining from his body, the pain, the finality. It had been real. And yet…

He screamed, the sound raw and guttural, echoing through the empty apartment.

Why couldn’t it stop? Why wouldn’t it let him go?

For the first time since the loop began, Dick felt something crack deep inside him. A fragile thread of hope, the stubborn resolve that had kept him fighting, finally snapped.

And yet, when the sun rose the next morning, he got up.

Because he always did.

Back in the present, Dick’s voice trembled as he continued, staring down at his hands like they belonged to someone else. “I tried...I died. I killed myself... multiple times."

The horror in the room was palpable, a suffocating weight that pressed down on everyone.

Jason’s lips parted, but no words came out. He leaned forward slightly, his hands gripping the edges of his chair as if grounding himself. His expression was raw, a mixture of shock and anger—not at Dick, but at the idea that his brother had suffered so much, so silently.

Tim's tablet slipped from his hands, clattering to the floor, but he didn’t move to pick it up. He stared at Dick, his usually sharp mind unable to process what he’d just heard.

Damian’s small frame trembled, though he tried to mask it behind a tightened jaw and clenched fists. His wide eyes darted between Dick and Bruce, searching for reassurance that this wasn’t real, that his older brother hadn’t endured something so incomprehensible.

Stephanie covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes glistening, while Cassandra placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, though her own face was taut with grief.

Bruce’s hand slid from Dick’s hair to cup the back of his neck, his thumb brushing against the soft curls there in an instinctive gesture of comfort. His other arm pulled Dick firmly against his chest, his voice low but filled with barely contained anguish. “Dick…”

“I thought it would stop,” Dick continued, his voice cracking as tears spilled down his cheeks. “Every time, I thought… maybe this would be the time. Maybe if I wasn’t there, the loop would break, and you’d all be safe.” He looked up then, meeting Bruce’s eyes, his own filled with guilt and pain. “But it never stopped. I just kept waking up. Over and over and over.”

Jason shot to his feet, his movements abrupt. “You—” His voice broke, and he turned away, pacing to the far side of the room. He ran a hand through his hair, his shoulders heaving with barely restrained emotion. “You died multiple times?!"

"Yes, not just me. You did too Jay, you all did." Dick sniffed, wiping his face.

"Constantine and I figured it out eventually." Dick didn't go into detail about that. About the fact that Constantine merely given him the weapon to kill the monster.

"The sorrecer who did this was a telepath and a magic user. Years ago on a mission with the Titans his brother died when we tried to apprehend him. He was trying to get back at me by making me see you die over and over again." He broke off with a sob and Bruce held him close to his chest, rubbing his back like he used to do years ago.

"And that's why you are so stressed out, the stress cardiomyopathy happened because you are still processing all of this God Dick,"

Bruce comforted him, held him as he sobbed into his chest, Damian scrambled on the bed, all his siblings did actually, hugging him as he screamed.

But he didn't deserve it...Not at all, not after what he did. 

_~~_

The next morning dawned gray and overcast, the Gotham skyline veiled by a thin mist. Bruce glanced out the window of his home office, his jaw set as he tapped absently on the keyboard. Work emails and reports blurred together, his attention drifting back to the night before, to Dick’s trembling voice, and the way his eldest son had clung to him as if letting go would mean losing everything.

He glanced down, Dick was curled up in his lap, fast asleep. His breathing was steady now, though his fingers still clutched the fabric of Bruce’s shirt. It was a sight that mirrored years long past, back when an eleven-year-old Dick had shadowed him through the manor when his seperation anxiety was at a high.

Bruce sighed softly, his hand resting on Dick's back. His son refused to leave his side, definitely his separation anxiety resurfacing, not that he blamed him in the least.

The sound of a soft knock interrupted the stillness. Alfred stepped into the room, a tray balanced in his hands. "I thought you might appreciate a fresh pot of coffee, Master Bruce," he said quietly, his gaze flickering briefly to Dick. Concern softened the lines of his face.

"Thanks, Alfred," Bruce said, taking the cup with one hand while his other remained securely around Dick. He lowered his voice. "He's exhausted. Barely slept last night."

"As would be expected, given the circumstances." Alfred set the tray down on the desk, his tone gentle but resolute. "Perhaps you might consider postponing your work for the day. Your presence seems to bring him some degree of comfort."

Bruce nodded slowly, his fingers tracing idle patterns against Dick’s back. He had already cleared his schedule, choosing to work from home for the foreseeable future. For now, there was nothing more important than his family.

Dick stirred slightly, his head shifting against Bruce's chest. A soft murmur escaped his lips, too faint to make out. Bruce leaned down, brushing the curls from his forehead. "It's okay," he murmured. "You're safe. Just rest."

The boy—no, man, Bruce corrected himself, though the distinction felt thin—settled again, his breathing evening out.



Alfred lingered for a moment, his sharp eyes taking in every detail with the practiced ease of someone who had spent decades tending to this family’s wounds—physical and emotional alike. "Would you care for breakfast, Master Bruce? Or perhaps something light for Master Dick when he wakes?"

Bruce considered it. "Maybe something simple," he said. "Toast, eggs—he hasn’t been eating much."

"Understood." Alfred gave a small nod before turning toward the door. He paused just before exiting, glancing back with a knowing look. "And might I suggest, sir, that you follow your own advice and eat as well? You’re not much use to Master Dick if you collapse from neglecting your own needs."

Bruce almost smiled. "Point taken, Alfred. Thank you."

The minutes ticked by in a peaceful quiet. The faint hum of the city outside served as a backdrop to Dick’s soft, even breathing. Bruce picked up his phone with his free hand, typing out a brief message to Lucius Fox to ensure any pressing matters at Wayne Enterprises were handled without his involvement for the day. He had no intention of leaving Dick’s side—not today, and not for as long as his son needed him.

Dick stirred again, his fingers loosening their grip on Bruce’s shirt as he blinked up groggily. For a moment, he looked disoriented, his brow furrowing as if trying to piece together where he was. Then his eyes focused on Bruce, and the tension drained from his face.

"Morning," Dick mumbled, his voice hoarse with sleep.

"Morning," Bruce said, his voice gentle. "How are you feeling?"

Dick hesitated, his expression guarded. "Tired," he admitted finally. "But... better, I guess."

Bruce brushed a hand over his son’s hair, smoothing it down as he had when Dick was a boy.

"You didn’t have to stay up all night with me," Dick murmured. "I’m fine now."

Bruce’s lips quirked into a wry smile. "You’ve said that before. Usually when you’re anything but fine."

That earned him a small, breathy chuckle from Dick. "Guess I’m predictable, huh?"

"More like stubborn," Bruce teased gently.

Dick smiled, not making a move to get up and Bruce cradled him tighter in response.

"I... You don't have to stay with me you know? I'll be fine--"

"Dick, four days ago you were dead in an ambulance because of stress. And then tell me that you died and saw us die for nearly a year. Do you really think I’m going to leave you alone right now?"

Dick huffed, burying himself in his chest in response. "Yes?" He said with a smile.

Bruce’s chest tightened, but he tried to suppress the reaction, knowing it was all too familiar. The half-joking deflection, the reluctance to admit the depth of his pain, it was something Dick had always done.

Dick closed his eyes, cardiac arrest alone would make anyone exhausted, add the other stuff and of course he's sleeping majority of the day.

For a long moment, they just sat there, the world outside still veiled in fog, with nothing but the sound of their breathing filling the room. Bruce let the silence stretch on, giving Dick the space to rest, to heal, without pressing him for more than he could give.

It wasn’t much, but it was everything Dick needed. And that was all that mattered.

Eventually, Alfred returned with breakfast—a simple spread of toast and eggs, just as Bruce had requested. The smell of food drifted through the air, coaxing Dick’s stomach into responding, though he remained curled up against Bruce, not quite ready to move. Bruce glanced down at his son, still vulnerable in his sleep, and hesitated for a moment before gently nudging him.

"Dick," he murmured softly, his voice careful not to jar him awake too abruptly. "Alfred brought breakfast. You should eat something."

Dick shifted slightly, his eyes cracking open once more. He blinked slowly, then looked at the tray on the desk. His stomach gave a faint protest, but he made no move to get up. Instead, he let out a quiet sigh and pulled himself closer to Bruce.

"I’m not really hungry," he mumbled, going back to sleep.

"Oh no you don't," Bruce said, his tone soft but firm. "Eat than sleep,"

"No,"

Bruce’s voice softened, but his resolve remained firm. "Yes," he said, coaxing the word with a gentle insistence. "You need to eat, Dick. Just a little, and then you can sleep."

Dick mumbled something incoherent, his face scrunching in mild irritation as he fought the urge to wake up fully. Bruce sighed, lifting the fork with a small portion of the toast and eggs to his lips.

"Come on," Bruce urged, bending down just slightly so he was eye level with Dick, his voice low and soothing.

Dick raised an eyebrow, "You're feeding me?"

"You can do it yourself if you want to, but I know sitting up is a bit hard because of your ribs,"

Dick shot him a tired look before trying to sit up on his own but he hissed in pain as he did so. He got up and staggered to the chair beside Bruce and placed the tray in his lap.

He picked at his food more than he ate it, only taking two or three bites as he fought to stay awake, Alfred had given him some pain meds for his ribs and the effects were starting to take hold.

Dick stood up, eyes closed as he took a deep breath.

"Do you want to go back to bed?" Bruce asked,

Dick stretched. "You're staying here right? Because if you are..."

Bruce understood. Dick’s separation anxiety dictated where he wanted to be, where he felt safe. And right now, that was wherever Bruce was.

When Bruce didn’t answer fast enough, Dick made the decision for him. With a tired huff, he climbed back into Bruce’s lap, curling against him once more.

Bruce exhaled, both exasperated and fond. "You know, there’s a perfectly good bed upstairs."

"M’good here," Dick mumbled, already half-asleep again.

"And besides everyone is still asleep in my bedroom, it took a whole lot of effort to escape that cuddle pile without waking anyone,"

Bruce let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "You escaped just to end up here?"


Dick hummed, the sound barely more than a breath against Bruce’s shirt. "I know it's dumb, I know it's over but I...I need to feel you, to hear your breaths. You were so cold Bruce, in my arms, so was Jason, Tim, and Damian and...That was honestly more painful than my death ever was."

His arms tightened around Dick, one hand pressing against the back of his head, anchoring him. “We’re here,” he murmured. “We’re warm. Alive. Right here, Dick.”

Dick made a small, almost imperceptible sound, his breath hitching as he burrowed deeper into Bruce’s chest. He wasn’t crying, but Bruce could feel the slight tremor in his frame, the way his hands clenched the fabric of his shirt like he was still afraid Bruce might slip away.

Bruce swallowed hard. He wanted to say something, anything that would make this easier for him. But what could he say? That it was over? That it wasn’t real? It had been real for Dick. Real enough that even now, he couldn’t let go of the phantom sensation of his family’s bodies growing cold in his arms.

So Bruce didn’t try to explain it away. He didn’t try to reason with the trauma. He just held him.

"I was in so much pain when I... when I jumped. Some of the loops I...You were there, you were trying to reason with me to not..." Dick’s voice trailed off, his breath hitching as he swallowed thickly. He shifted slightly, burying his face deeper into Bruce’s shirt as if the fabric alone could shield him from the weight of what he was trying to say. Bruce felt the tremor in his son’s body, small but unmistakable, and it struck him deeper than any words could.  

“You held me as I choked on my blood. You were trying to save me, you looked so helpless...I--How the loop worked was that one of us had to die and eventually I couldn't see you guys suffer anymore so I took that choice away from you. I made sure it was always me. Every time."  

Bruce inhaled sharply, the words hitting like a blow to the chest. The thought of Dick reliving his own death, of making that choice again and again just to spare them, twisted something deep inside him.  

His grip tightened, his hand cradling the back of Dick’s head. "You never should have had to make that choice," Bruce said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not even once. Let alone over and over."  

Dick let out a shaky breath, a humorless huff of a laugh. "Yeah, well... guess I got good at it." His voice was rough, raw with exhaustion and something darker. "But that last time? I thought—" He hesitated, swallowing hard. "I thought maybe it was over for real. That I was finally done."  

Bruce shut his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to stay steady, to focus on what Dick needed from him instead of the rage simmering just beneath his skin—rage at the sorcerer who had trapped him, at himself for not being there sooner, at the universe for forcing his son to endure this hell.  

"I'm sorry Dick. I am so sorry,"

Dick didn’t say anything for a long time. His breathing was slow but uneven, like he was still bracing himself against a nightmare that refused to let go.

 "Everything feels... off. I know I'm here, I know you're here, but I can’t shake the feeling that this is just another loop. That any second now, I'm going to wake up and it'll start all over again."  

Bruce's chest ached at the confession. He had seen this before—victims of prolonged trauma struggling to trust reality, to believe in their own survival. And Dick, for all his resilience, was no exception.  

"You’re not in the loop anymore," Bruce said firmly, one hand rubbing slow, grounding circles against Dick’s back. "This is real. And I’m not going anywhere."  

Dick let out another breath, this one shuddering slightly. "I know," he murmured, though his tone made it clear that knowing and believing were two different things.  

Bruce exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss to the top of Dick’s head. Dick went back to sleep, his body going slack against Bruce’s chest, as if the weight of exhaustion had finally won out.

Bruce didn’t move. He didn’t dare.

Instead, he sat there, holding his son close, letting the rhythmic rise and fall of Dick’s breathing become his own anchor. The weight of what had been said—of what had been endured—settled heavily in his chest, but there was nothing he could do to change what Dick has been through, the recovery for this is going to be challenging and all Bruce can do is be here while Dick heals.

But despite knowing that fact, Bruce still felt so powerless.

Chapter Text

The world blurred around him as he flipped through the air, twisting with effortless precision. For the first time in what felt like months, Dick felt like himself again (Somewhat). The movement was second nature, muscle memory kicking in as he soared, hands finding the bar of the trapeze with ease before swinging forward into another somersault.

This is what he knew. What he needed.

His heart still ached—not just from the actual cardiac arrest, but from everything that came before and after it. The endless cycle of watching the people he loved die, the helplessness of it all. The way he still woke up in cold sweats, his chest tight, struggling to breathe, wondering if he was still trapped in that hellish loop.

So, yeah. He needed this.

His feet landed softly on the mat below, but the moment they touched down, he stumbled, dropping to one knee as he panted. Dick pressed a trembling hand to his chest, willing his heartbeat to slow, but it was hammering against his ribs like a caged animal. His breaths came in short, uneven gasps, and a cold sweat broke out along his skin.

Damn it. He overdid it.

He fell fully to his side, pressing his forehead against the cool mat as he tried to steady his breathing. His chest was tight, his pulse a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He could hear it in his ears, feel it pounding in his fingertips.

Too much. He knew it was too much, but he hadn’t cared. The silence in his mind, the clarity that only came with movement—it was the only thing that made him feel normal. Even if only for a moment.

But now, reality was crashing down. Hard.

His vision blurred at the edges as his body trembled, exhaustion sinking its claws into him. He clenched his jaw and tried to push himself up, but his limbs felt uncoordinated, sluggish.

Then—footsteps. Heavy. Measured.

Dick squeezed his eyes shut. 'Shit.'

"—What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Bruce's voice cut through the cave like a gunshot. Cold. Sharp.

Dick cracked one eye open to see him standing at the edge of the mats, arms crossed, face unreadable. The only tell was the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched just a fraction tighter.

Dick swallowed hard and forced a weak grin. "Hey, B." His voice came out breathless. "Didn’t hear you come in."

Bruce didn't move, didn't blink. "You're not supposed to be training."

Dick exhaled through his nose, tilting his head back against the mat. "I'm fine. Just needed to clear my head—"

Bruce was already moving.

Dick barely had time to react before Bruce crouched beside him, gloved fingers pressing against his wrist. His grip was firm, unyielding, as he counted the rapid beats under his fingertips.

Bruce’s frown deepened. "Your heart rate is spiking dangerously high.”

Dick tried to tug his arm back, but Bruce didn’t let go. "It's—" He had to stop and swallow against the dizziness. "I'm fine—"

Before he could finish, the world tilted.

"You are supposed to be in bed," Bruce said pulling down the cowl. "It's four a.m."

Dick sighed, sitting up. "I know I..."

I woke up screaming again and you weren't there... Every time I close my eyes I see your lifeless ones staring back at me.

Bruce seemed to understand, even with the lack of words. "You had a nightmare,"

Dick shrugged, "I always have nightmares,"

He coughed, his throat dry and his chest still tight from the exertion. He ignored the way his body trembled, the way his limbs felt like lead. The last thing he needed was Bruce hovering.

But Bruce wasn’t moving away. If anything, he was watching him even closer now.

"You collapsed," Bruce stated, his voice quieter now, but still edged with something sharp. "You pushed yourself too far."

Dick scoffed weakly. "Yeah, well. Not my first time."

Bruce's jaw tensed. He exhaled slowly through his nose, the way he always did when he was trying not to snap. "That’s not something to be proud of."

Dick leaned back against the mat, tipping his head toward the ceiling. The cold air of the cave did nothing to cool the heat on his skin.

"I needed to move," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Bruce was silent.

"I—I couldn't just lie there anymore," Dick continued, voice hoarse. "Every time I close my eyes, it's like I’m back there. Like I’m *stuck* in it. And I know it's over, I know that, but—"

His breath hitched, and he hated how raw it sounded.

Bruce knelt down beside him, pulling him into a hug, resting his son's head on his shoulder. "It's okay, breathe. You're okay,"

Dick let out a shaky breath. He wanted to believe that. Really, he did.

But his heart was still racing. His hands still felt numb, still felt like they had blood on them.

Bruce seemed to realize it because a moment later, he pressed two fingers against Dick’s pulse again. The muscle in his jaw ticked. "Your heart is still in tachycardia. What you did was reckless. What if you collapsed? No one in the house is awake at this hour to help you."

Dick opened his mouth to respond, but his words caught in his throat as his chest tightened again, his heartbeat pulsing too fast under Bruce's fingers. He exhaled sharply through his nose and leaned back against the mat, closing his eyes for a moment to focus on the overwhelming pressure in his chest.

“I didn’t…” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t think. I just keep thinking about.." 'Your deaths, What I have done...'

"Dick I...I can't imagine what you are going through..." He trailed off, closing his mouth.

Dick knew what he was going to say. They had talked about it earlier, therapy, talking to someone.

But Dick can't do that.

What is he supposed to say? how the hell would a therapist respond to,

"I killed someone, stabbed them more than eighty times, and I think I enjoyed it and I'm not sure if it was the magic that brought that out of my fucked up head of just me. Oh and did I mention that the dagger was blood magic?"

Yeah, no.

Dick felt Bruce grip his underarms and pick him up, just as Bruce did when he was a kid.

This used to fix everything, just his Dad holding him, just the solid, steady presence of Bruce lifting him from the ground, Bruce was going to carry him but Dick planted his feet on the ground, standing.

"I need a shower,"

Bruce didn’t argue. He just nodded, stepping back to give Dick space.

"Alright," he said, voice even. "I'll stay down here just in case,"

Dick didn't have the energy to push back. The thought of warm water washing away the sweat and exhaustion was the only thing keeping him upright. He turned and made his way toward the bathroom, his legs unsteady beneath him. Bruce didn’t follow, but Dick could *feel* his eyes on him the entire way.

When he finally stepped inside and closed the door as he caught his reflection in the mirror.

He looked wrecked. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes, his complexion pale, his lips slightly parted as he tried to catch his breath. His hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead.

He swallowed and turned away.

The water was hot, almost scalding, but he welcomed the burn. It grounded him, kept him from spiraling too far into his thoughts. He braced his hands against the tile, head bowed as the steam curled around him.

He could still feel it. The phantom sensation of the dagger in his hands, the way it slid through flesh like it belonged there. The way his pulse had thrummed in exhilaration, in something far darker than fear.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Not now," he muttered to himself. "Not now."

He focused on the water, the steady sound of it hitting the porcelain, the way it dripped from his fingertips. One breath in. One breath out.

He needs to get over this, it was self defense wasn't it?

Dick pressed his forehead against the cool tile, exhaling sharply through his nose. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. It was self-defense. It had to be. He didn’t have a choice.

So why did it feel like a lie?

Why did he remember the way his heart had pounded—not with fear, but with something else? Something raw. Something dark.

Why did it feel like, for one terrible moment, he'd wanted it?

His stomach twisted, bile rising in his throat.

No. That wasn’t him. That was the magic. The dagger. The situation.

He’d been desperate. Cornered. It was a fight for his life.

Wasn’t it?

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to take another breath. The steam curled around him, suffocating in its heat.

Constantine told him that this wasn't his fault. That he wasn’t a killer.

But Constantine hadn’t been there. He hadn’t felt what Dick felt in that moment.

The sheer, intoxicating power of it.

Dick's breath hitched. He turned, letting the water rush over his face, hoping it would wash away the sick feeling in his chest.

It didn’t.

Because deep down, he knew the truth.

He didn’t just kill.

A part of him had liked it.

 _~~_

Dick knew that the Titans would be at the manor eventually, it's not like he wasn't expecting. Wasn’t even dreading it—not exactly. But he was dreading what came next. The explanation. The questions. The sheer effort it would take to navigate around the truth without letting everything slip out.

Because he couldn’t tell them everything.

That was the ultimate challenge.

Raven and Lilith. Empaths. Telepaths. And worse—people who knew him. Knew his tells, knew his avoidance tactics. Knew when he was lying, when he was holding something back. And they were already on to him.

Dick didn’t have the energy to keep everything locked up tight.

But he had to.

Donna arrived first.

She didn’t knock, didn’t make a big entrance—just was. Like she had always been. She sat at the foot of the bed, comfortably tucked in, which meant she had been there for a while. Probably before he’d even woken up.

Dick shifted, stretching the soreness from his limbs as he rubbed a tired hand over his face—

And froze.

There was something tight woven into his hair, small braids threading through the strands. He groaned.

"Really?" His voice was still heavy with sleep as his fingers worked to undo them.

Donna smirked, resting her chin in her palm. "Consider it a tax for making us all worry. Besides, you were out. It was either this or marker doodles on your face."

Dick sighed, shaking his head. He should be annoyed. He used to be annoyed when she did this as a kid.

He still was, honestly.

But there was something about it—something childish and familiar and normal.

And that was dangerous.

Because it wasn’t normal.

The moment was gone as quickly as it had come, the teasing light in Donna’s eyes fading into something softer. Something careful.

"How are you feeling?"

A simple question. The easiest one in the world.

And yet—

Dick exhaled, letting his head tip back against the pillow. There were too many words that fit. Too many ways to answer.

He settled for the simplest.

"Exhausted."

Donna nodded, like she had expected that. "I figured. I’m just early, though. You can go back to sleep until the others swing by."

Dick gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "I don’t think sleep is something that can fix this." He finished unraveling the last braid and let his fingers card through his hair. "And I… I’ll tell you when everyone gets here."

Donna didn’t argue. Didn’t push. She just reached out, tucking the blanket around him like she used to when they were younger, when exhaustion had been from late-night stakeouts and training, not—

Not this.

"This has something to do with your hospital visit, doesn’t it?" she asked, voice careful. "The cardiac arrest. The stress cardiomyopathy."

Dick let out a slow breath. "Yep." He popped the ‘p’ with forced lightness.

Donna’s brows furrowed. "Dick—"

"I know." He pressed his palms over his face for a moment, dragging them down, like that would somehow wipe away the weight of everything. "I just—there’s a lot, Donna. More than I know how to explain. But you guys should know. No more vague responses."

A knock at the door cut off whatever she had been about to say.

That was it. No more delays.

"Come in," Dick called, bracing himself.

The door creaked open, and the rest of the Titans stepped inside.

Wally first, because of course Wally was first, moving with an unusual quiet. Kory followed, eyes glowing faintly with worry. Garth and Roy trailed behind, while Lilith and Raven lingered at the back, their gazes already cutting through him.

Dick forced himself to sit up, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Hey, guys."

Wally stopped in his tracks, arms crossing. "Hey?" He stared at Dick, incredulous. "That’s it? You literally died for a few minutes, then disappeared for a week and a half—no call, no text, nothing—and the first thing you say is hey? Like you dying is just a regular Tuesday?"

"...Well, it did happen on a Tuesday."

Wally exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "That’s not the—I’m done. I’m actually done."

Roy shook his head. "You look better than you did in the hospital, at least. Less pale. Still kinda clammy, though."

Dick sleepily swatted at him, missing by a mile. "Great. I’ll add ‘clammy’ to my list of winning attributes."

Before Roy could fire back, the door swung open again, and a familiar voice rang out—

"Wally is here before me? That’s a first."

Wally sputtered. "I have a reasonable excuse—"

"Every time?" Victor raised an eyebrow.

"Yes."

Victor just shook his head and dropped into a chair beside Dick’s bed.

"How are you?" he asked. "Last time we saw you, you nearly drowned yourself with a juice box."

Dick cracked an eye open. "I don’t remember that."

"Oh, you wouldn’t," Victor smirked. "You were high as hell on pain meds."

Dick hummed.

Yeah. They were all here.

No more dodging it.

Okay. You can do this.

Dick sat up further, and immediately regretted it when a sharp ache shot through his ribs. His afternoon training session had been a mistake. A big one.

He sighed, rubbing his face. "Okay, uh, look... I wasn’t completely honest with you guys last week when I told you about my stress levels."

Roy scoffed. "It was vague as hell."

"Yeah, well, vague is my brand." He rolled his shoulders, biting back another wince. Not fast enough. Kory’s eyes narrowed, and Raven tilted her head like she was already picking through his emotions.

Dick exhaled. "Fine. Yeah. I was vague because—because the real reason sounds insane."

Wally scoffed. "Dick. Buddy. You run around in a domino mask and fight crime with a guy dressed like a bat. We live in insane."

"Yeah, dude," Victor chimed in. "You’re in a room with an alien princess, an empath who can literally soul-punch people, and a guy who defies physics with arrows."

No escape.

Dick hesitated, glancing at Raven and Lilith. Their expressions were steady, expectant.

He sighed.

"Okay. So... Do you guys remember—it was years ago, but—the two sorcerers we fought?"

The room was quiet for a moment as they sifted through old memories.

"Two sorcerers?" Roy frowned. "We've fought a lot of sorcerers, man. You’re gonna have to be more specific."

"They were brothers," Dick clarified, fingers twitching against his knee. "We ran into them when we were younger. They were trying to open a portal to hell. They were telepaths."

Kory's brows furrowed. "I remember this. Didn’t they both get burned alive?"

Dick clenched his jaw. He had been fifteen. It had rattled him more than he liked to admit. He had spent two weeks back at the manor after, just trying to clear his head.

"Apparently, one survived," he said. "And blamed me for what happened. He waited for the right moment. And when he found it, he—" Dick let out a short, humorless laugh. "He trapped me in a blood magic time loop."

The silence was deafening.

"What." Wally’s voice was flat, incredulous.

The weight of his own words pressed against him like a lead weight, making it hard to breathe.

"Three hundred days."

The number felt unreal, even as he said it.

"Every day, I woke up and watched Bruce, Tim, Jason, and Damian die. Over and over. And I couldn't stop it..."

His voice wavered, his hands running over his face as if he could scrub away the memories. His fingers trembled against his skin, his breaths uneven. The images were still there—burned into the back of his eyelids, carved into the marrow of his bones.

The sound of their screams. The look in their eyes. The blood.

His own voice, hoarse and broken, begging for it to stop.

"Unless I... I died. Multiple times. But it didn't end the loop."

Silence crashed down around them, thick and suffocating.

Garth’s face was pale, his hands clenched at his sides. "You're not saying that you..." His voice caught in his throat. "Dick—"

Dick exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. He could still feel it.

The jump.

The moment of weightlessness before the impact.

The cold steel of a blade against his wrist.

The pressure of a telepath pressing into his skull until everything just stopped.

A shudder ran down his spine, his hands clenching into fists. "Yes..."

The air shifted immediately.

Like the room itself had been sucked dry, leaving only a vacuum of horror in its wake.

Kory’s hands curled into fists at her sides, glowing faintly with barely restrained emotion. "You died?" she repeated, her voice sharp, disbelieving—on the edge of rage. "Over and over?"

Dick tried to shrug like it didn’t matter. Like his entire body wasn’t vibrating with the effort of holding himself together. "Yeah," he forced out. "It was the only way to... I couldn’t keep seeing them die. It was better me than them. Any of them."

Silence.

He could feel the way they were looking at him.

Like he was something fragile. Something broken.

Something they didn’t understand.

Raven’s gaze was unreadable, dark and knowing. "Dick," she said, quiet but heavy, the weight of it pressing into his skull like she was already inside his head, already seeing.

"You killed yourse—"

The words cut off, like she couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Wally’s breath hitched sharply, his whole body going rigid. "You actually—" His voice was shaking, tangled with something raw—fear, devastation, something deep and cracked that made Dick’s chest tighten. "Dude. What the hell—"

Roy let out a sharp, unsteady breath. "I’m gonna be real with you, Dick? I think I’m gonna throw up."

Dick swallowed hard.

He expected anger. He expected disbelief. Maybe even guilt—because that’s just the kind of people they were. They would always wonder if they could’ve stopped this. If they could’ve saved him.

But what he hadn’t expected—

What he wasn’t prepared for—

Was how much this hurt.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just his pain anymore.

It was theirs, too.

And he hated that.

The silence dragged, pressing against his ribs like a weight he couldn’t shake.

Kory was still glowing faintly, her breathing ragged and uneven. Wally’s fingers dug into his arms, white-knuckled, like he was trying to hold himself together. Roy was pacing, hands running through his hair, his expression twisted into something helpless.

But Lilith and Raven—

They were the worst.

They weren’t looking at him with shock.

Or anger.

They were feeling it.

The jagged edges of his emotions. The grief still wedged inside him like broken glass. The weight of every single death pressing into his bones like a scar that would never fade.

They knew.

And worse—

They understood.

They felt the things he couldn’t say.

Dick clenched his fists, forcing himself to not think about it.

Not think about the things he hadn’t said.

Not think about what he had done.

But then—

"How did you end the loop?"

Vic’s voice cut through the silence, steady and even, but beneath it, there was something else. Something that made Dick’s stomach twist.

His mouth opened.

A lie—he needed a lie.

But then—

The memory crashed over him like a tidal wave.

His vision swam. The walls blurred at the edges. His breath caught in his throat, sharp and panicked, as phantom sensations dragged him under.

The dagger.

The weight of it in his hand.

The way it felt when it sank into flesh.

The crunch of bone beneath his blows.

Blood .

Everywhere.

On his hands. His arms. His face.

Dripping from the ceiling. Pooling on the floor.

Soaking into his uniform like ink.

The sorcerer’s screams rang in his ears—hoarse, ragged, pleading.

And he—

He had kept going.

Because the only way to end the loop, as Constantine had told him, over and over again—

Was to kill him.

And Dick hadn’t just killed him.

He had torn him apart, tortured him like he did to Bruce, to Jason, Tim, Damian.

The dagger had sung in his hands, a dark and hungry thing, whispering in his ears—

"Make him suffer. Make him bleed. Let him know what it means to be helpless."

And he had listened.

Dick gasped, his chest tightening, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

His fingers twitched, like they could still feel the dagger’s hilt.

Like the weight of it had carved itself into his bones.

The memory blurred—

And suddenly—

He wasn’t alone in it.

A second presence slipped into the nightmare.

Cold. Foreign. Pressing against his mind like an intruder in his own head.

Raven.

Dick barely had time to react before she saw.

Saw everything.

The body. The blood. The carnage.

The darkness inside him, curling tight around his ribs like a living thing.

Her breath hitched.

And suddenly—

She was there.

Standing in the middle of the slaughter, eyes wide and horrified, blood soaking her shoes.

The air between them hummed with something unnatural. Something wrong.

"Dick."

Her voice was barely a whisper. Almost drowned beneath the echoes of dying screams.

His stomach twisted violently.

No, nononono—

She didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just felt it.

Felt him.

And saw it.

The cold, ruthless thing he had become in that moment.

The way the dagger had fit in his hand, like it had always belonged there.

And then—

The nightmare shattered.

Dick’s body jerked, a sharp inhale tearing from his throat as he was ripped back into the present.

The manor.

Warm light.

The stunned, horrified faces of his friends.

Raven and Lilith were staring at him.

Wide-eyed. Shaken.

Horrified.

His breath hitched. His pulse was still racing, still pounding with phantom adrenaline, still steeped in blood that wasn’t there anymore—

"Dick, breathe—"

His head snapped up.

Donna’s hands were cupping his face, her touch firm, grounding.

"Look at me."

His chest heaved, lungs straining for air, and—ohgodohgodohgod--They saw, they saw--

Dick retched, his ribs flaring at the movement as Vic grabbed trash bin and

The moment the trash bin was thrust in front of him, Dick lurched forward, gagging violently. His stomach twisted, his entire body trembling as he dry-heaved. But there was nothing inside him to expel—just choking gasps and the phantom taste of iron coating his tongue. His hands gripped the edges of the bin so tightly his knuckles went white, his breath coming in short, jagged bursts. The air felt suffocating, thick, like it was pressing in from all sides.

Lilith stood frozen, her eyes wide and horrified, unable to look away from the unraveling scene. Rachel, visibly shaken but not shocked, turned away from him, her face tight with something unreadable.

Dick sat up, the effort nearly too much, swaying on the edge of collapse.

"You saw." His voice came out barely above a whisper.

Raven closed her eyes, her brow furrowed in quiet understanding. “Yes. But I knew, from the moment you said it was a curse cast with blood magic.”

Roy, unable to contain his agitation, stood abruptly, his voice rising. "Okay, what the hell is going on here? What did you see?!"

His eyes widened as he looked at Dick, voice trembling with disbelief. "And oh my God, his eyes—"

Dick’s heart stopped, and he turned his gaze toward the mirror across the room. His eyes were glowing red.

His breath hitched as he stared at the unnatural crimson glow reflecting back at him, the color stark and otherworldly against his pale face.

What the hell is happening?

“Keep your voice down,” Vic said, his tone sharp as he moved to close the ajar door.

The other bats were back in the cave, at least the ones who’d stayed behind. Tim and Jason had left earlier that morning.

Roy shook his head in disbelief, his voice tight with panic. “His eyes are glowing red... this is some fucking demonic shit. Raven, what the hell is going on?!”

Raven remained calm, her expression unreadable, but her voice was steady.

“When a curse is cast with blood magic, it’s not just the magic that holds it together. It’s the power of the blood—the essence of life. The blood is tied to the soul of the caster. To break the curse, the one who’s cursed has to destroy the one who cast it.”

Dick’s chest tightened at her words, and his grip on the trash bin tightened further, until his knuckles were ghostly white.

The memories, the images he had tried to bury, came crashing back in full force. The twisted, suffocating feeling of the dagger in his hand, the cold metal as it sunk into flesh, the blood—so much blood, too much blood. The stench was still there, lingering in the back of his throat, slick on his skin.

And the screams—the screams had never really stopped. They echoed in his mind now, louder than ever.

“Oh my fucking God,” Roy muttered, his voice a mix of horror and disbelief as he stared at Dick, clearly not knowing how to process what was happening. Dick looked down, he couldn't look at them, couldn't look at their faces of disgust.

Raven spoke again, her voice heavy with regret.

“To do it, you need the Sanguis Vindex,” she said, the name of the dagger coming out like a curse on her tongue. “The Blood Reaver. It’s a blood magic artifact, and it’s the only way to destroy the curse. But it’s not just a weapon—it feeds off of the rage, the pain. It corrupts the one who uses it, and it’s—”

She hesitated, looking at Dick with an unspoken understanding.

“It taints you.”

Dick could feel the cold edge of the dagger in his hand again, that suffocating, overpowering rage that had poured into him with every swing, every stab, until it felt like it was all he was.

He could feel the pull of it, the hunger for violence that had overtaken him. And now, staring into his glowing red eyes in the mirror, he wondered if the dagger’s magic had been feeding on more than just his blood.

Had it infected his mind too?

"He used it," Raven continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "And it... it’s feeding off of his rage and pain. He’s experiencing the side effects.”

Dick nodded, Constantine had told him this, he was just too out of it that night to remember everything.

She glanced at Dick, her gaze filled with quiet sympathy.

“It will fade in time--Months, years even. It's like the Lazarus Pit in a way, with the lingering rage."

Dick closed his eyes, his chest tightening as he let the words tumble out. His voice was raw, barely a whisper, but the weight of them felt heavier than anything he’d said before.

"I didn't have a choice..."

His words were hollow, like they were coming from a place too deep for him to reach.

He didn’t dare look up, couldn’t meet their eyes. They probably saw a monster, a shadow of who he used to be, someone twisted and broken by his own actions.

His fingers tightened around the edges of the trash bin again, but the tremor in his hands betrayed him.

The image of the blood, the pain, the screams—it all flashed in his mind in a chaotic swirl. His body still remembered the feeling of the dagger in his grip, the way it had driven him into a frenzy, into the dark place he had fought so hard to avoid.

"I kept trying to find another way," he continued, his voice thick with the weight of regret.

"But... I couldn't keep watching them die. I couldn't keep dying."

He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath.

His stomach churned again, the memory of every moment he'd spent trapped in that curse, the guilt that never stopped gnawing at him.

There was no way out, no way to escape what he had been forced to do.

"That is fucked up. That is unbelievably fucked up," Garth said, now pacing.

"And I know you did not tell Bruce."

"No," Dick said.

"Because he... I... He wouldn't look at me the same. You guys are not going to look at me the same—"

"Dick," Donna adjusted him in her lap, her voice gentler than he deserved. "You are not the monster you think you are."

Dick let out a sharp, shaky breath, his head tilting forward. He wanted to believe her—God, he wanted to—but the memories clung to him like chains, dragging him down into the abyss he had barely escaped.

"You don't know that," he whispered.

Donna’s grip on his arm tightened. "I do."

The others were silent, but he could feel their eyes on him—watching, waiting, judging. Maybe not in the way he feared, but it didn’t matter.

He had already sentenced himself.

"You didn’t choose this," Vic said quietly. "You were forced into it."

"That doesn’t change what I did," Dick murmured. His fingers twitched against the fabric of his pants, as if they could still feel the weight of the dagger.

"It doesn’t change the blood on my hands."

"This isn't your fault," Donna insisted.  "You had to save your family. You tried to find another way, but you couldn’t. Because there was no other way.”

Dick swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wanted to argue, wanted to say that there had to be another way—that he should have found one, that he should have been better, stronger.

But Donna wasn’t finished.

“You think Bruce wouldn’t have done the same if it was you?” she asked, her voice quiet but unwavering.

Dick flinched. His gut twisted at the thought of Bruce holding that dagger, of him being forced into the same choice.

He didn’t have to wonder what Bruce would have done. He already knew.

Bruce would have done whatever it took. Just like Dick had.

Or he would have found a way, because that is just how strongly he feels about his morals, (right?)

He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling sharply.

Roy crossed his arms, his jaw tight.

“Look, man. You can sit here and keep punishing yourself for this, or you can accept that we get it. That we’re not going anywhere. That none of us think you’re some kind of monster.

You are a good person who was forced and tortured to do this.

Three hundred days... Dick.

Three hundred days of dying over and over again. Three hundred days of being hunted, of watching the people you love suffer. You didn’t just wake up one day and choose to do this. You had to. And that’s the difference.”

Wally and Garth nodded as they sat on the bed.

“Dick, you were faced with an impossible choice, and I... I can't speak for all of us, but I would have done the same thing," Wally said, his voice quiet but unwavering.

"I wouldn’t have wanted to. I would have fought it every step of the way. But if it was the only way to save the people I love?

I don’t know if I could have done it as long as you did.

Three hundred days, man. Three hundred deaths.

And you still tried to find another way for almost a year before that. That says everything.”

They held him, and Lilith even eased him into a dreamless sleep.

But despite the reassurances, despite all of the understanding, he still felt like he needed his father's validation.

Still needed to tell him what he had done.

But he didn’t want to—because Bruce, he would be disappointed, no beyond that. The violence was from the dagger, but that rage, that sickening satisfaction came from him, long before blood was on his hands.

He wouldn't simply accept it.

No, no he wouldn't.

He has the case file, the autopsy--He knows almost exactly what he did, he just doesn't know that it was him.

But he stabbed a man 87 times ...

He dismembered him...

And so much...so much worse.

Maybe he would blame some of it on the dagger, the magic influence that had twisted his mind, that had fed on his darkest impulses. But Bruce was nothing if not meticulous.

He would look beyond the magic. Beyond the weapon.

He would see him.

That this was all him.

And Dick wasn’t sure that he could survive that.

_~~_

The rage side effect was annoying.

Like, utterly exhausting.

It wasn't just the anger—it was the sheer, suffocating weight of it. The way it coiled in his chest, burning hot, never easing. It was relentless, simmering beneath his skin, making everything feel *oo much.

And the worst part? He had nowhere to put it.

He couldn't train. He couldn't run. He couldn't even spar. Hell, he couldn't move without someone shooting him a warning glare or reminding him, in that gentle but firm tone, that he was on strict bed rest for at least two more weeks.

So all that energy, all that pent-up frustration, just stayed inside him, pressing against his ribs, coiling tighter and tighter like a spring ready to snap.

He couldn't even breathe without wanting to punch something.

And the eye thing...

That was the cherry on top of this bullshit curse.

It didn’t glow constantly—oh no, that would be too easy. Instead, it flared up at the worst possible moments. When the memories crept in, sharp and suffocating. When the rage surged too high, too fast, before he could shove it back down.

So he really had to keep his emotions in check because how can he possibly explain that without revealing everything?

But keeping his emotions in check was a joke.

Because everything pissed him off.

Like when Jason was bantering, being playfully annoying —and normally, Dick could handle it. Would handle it.

But right now? Right now, it grated on him like nails on a chalkboard.

Jason had barely been talking for a minute, cracking some dumb joke about how at least now Dick had an excuse to sit on his ass for once, when Dick felt it—his patience snapping like a frayed wire.

"Are you just going to keep talking?"

It felt cold, like ice. Honestly it didn't really sound like him. The words came out before he could stop them, cutting through the air with an edge that wasn’t usually there.

Jason paused, blinking in surprise. “Uh… yeah? That’s usually how conversations work, Dickhead.”

"Sorry, sorry I--"

"You're tired, my bad," Jason cut in quickly, his usual teasing lilt dulling just slightly. He held up his hands in mock surrender, but there was a flicker of something else in his expression—something guarded. "Didn’t mean to bug you, man. I’ll let you get your beauty sleep."

He turned away before Dick could say anything else, making a beeline for the door.

Dick exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. Damn it.

He hadn’t meant to snap. He hadn’t meant for his voice to come out like that. But it was like the words bypassed his brain entirely, slicing through the moment before he could stop them.

Later that day he chose to go down in the cave, no trapeze or any acrobatics this time, he learned his lesson from yesterday but he needed to work off the negative energy, the punching bag was perfect for that.

Dick’s breath tore from his lungs in ragged, uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession as if his body was trying—and failing—to regulate itself. Heat curled around his skin, sweat clinging to the fabric of his shirt, but he barely registered the dampness. His focus had tunneled to the aching burn in his knuckles, the dull, pulsing sting that should have anchored him. Should have pulled him back.

But it didn’t.

Nothing did.

The punching bag swung violently under the force of his relentless assault, the chain above it groaning in protest. Back and forth, back and forth—the rhythmic motion should have been calming, but it only fueled the storm brewing inside him. Every impact sent a jolt up his arms, reverberating through his bones, but the anger remained—festering, pulsing beneath his ribs like a living thing, like molten lava trying to break free.

His muscles burned, screaming for relief, but he refused to stop.

He couldn’t stop.

And then—he felt it.

The shift.

It started as a whisper, a slow crawl at the base of his skull, like something curling its fingers around his mind. Not just rage—something more. Something deeper. Something ancient and wrong.

The magic.

His vision blurred at the edges, colors distorting, darkening. A haze of crimson seeped into his sight, like blood blooming in water, spreading outward in slow, creeping tendrils. Heat flared behind his eyes, pressure mounting, pushing, demanding. He could feel it now—the glow. That unnatural, searing light radiating from his irises, betraying everything.

Just like that night.

The memory crashed into him, jagged and unforgiving. The overwhelming fury, the way the magic had slithered through his veins, amplifying every raw, unfiltered emotion. It hadn’t controlled him. No, that would have been easier. Instead, it had enhanced him, stripped away hesitation, sharpened his intent until there had been no room for doubt, for mercy.

He hadn’t just wanted to hurt someone.

He had intended to.

And now—standing here, heart pounding, breath shaking, body thrumming with power—he was teetering on that edge again.

A final snarl tore from his throat, low and guttural, as he threw his last punch.

The impact was thunderous.

The heavy bag didn’t just jerk—it ripped free from its chains, snapping metal links as if they were paper. The force sent it soaring across the cave in a blur of motion before it slammed into the far wall with a deafening boom. The cave trembled upon impact, loose dust and debris shaking free from the ceiling, cascading in soft, ghostly plumes.

Silence.

Dick stood rigid, fists clenched so tight his nails threatened to break skin. His breath came in sharp, erratic bursts, his entire frame still thrumming with barely restrained energy. He was trembling. Not just from exertion, but from the raw force of the rage still coursing through his veins, a tidal wave that refused to recede.

Then, slowly—finally—it began to fade.

His vision flickered, the red haze receding. The unnatural heat behind his eyes dimmed. His pulse slowed, the magic curling back into the depths of his mind, retreating like a beast slinking into the shadows.

And then—

“Uh…”

The voice was hesitant, tinged with disbelief.

Dick turned, his still-burning gaze landing on the entrance of the cave.

Tim stood frozen in place, his wide eyes flicking between the dented cave wall and the scattered remains of the punching bag. His mouth was slightly open, as if his brain was still catching up with what he had just witnessed.

He hadn’t moved.

He hadn’t even blinked.

“So,” Tim finally managed, voice carefully measured, yet still laced with wary amusement. “Dinner’s ready.”

A beat of silence.

Then, slower this time, more cautious—he stepped into the cave, gaze flickering between Dick and the now-crumpled heavy bag lying on the ground like roadkill. His posture was careful, measured—like he was approaching a volatile animal. Which, honestly? Fair.

Dick forced himself to breathe, unclenching his fists with effort. His hands still trembled slightly, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The heat in his chest was simmering down, but the weight of Tim’s stare made it all the more suffocating.

"Uh, are you alright--Dumb question uh, well your hand is bleeding because you didn't tape up, I could patch you up before you head upstairs,"

Dick exhaled sharply, barely glancing at his knuckles. His skin was split in a few places, raw and red, thin trails of blood winding down his fingers. He flexed his hands experimentally. The sting barely registered. He hated to admit that he was already getting a bit irked by his brother hovering like a concerned medic. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the offer—he knew Tim meant well—but right now, the last thing he wanted was to be handled.

“I’m fine,” Dick muttered, rubbing the back of his hand against his sweat-damp forehead, smearing a bit of blood in the process. His body still felt too hot, like he was simmering just beneath a boil, the embers of his earlier rage refusing to fully die out.

Tim arched a brow, unimpressed. “Yeah, sure. That’s definitely what fine looks like.” He shifted his weight, crossing his arms. “You’re still shaking.”

Dick scowled and curled his fingers into his palms, willing the slight tremor to stop. He didn’t need a mirror to know his eyes had dimmed back to blue, but the feeling—that creeping, unnatural hum beneath his skin—hadn’t left. It had lingered.

Tim sighed, running a hand through his hair before jerking his thumb toward the med kit sitting on the workbench. “Look, you can brood all you want after I patch you up. Come on, sit,"

Dick exhaled slowly through his nose. Arguing was pointless. Tim wasn’t going to let it go, and honestly? Maybe he shouldn’t.

“Fine,” he relented, unclenching his fists and sitting down heavily on the bench.

Tim grabbed the med kit and knelt in front of him, snapping on a pair of gloves before reaching for antiseptic wipes. His touch was so warm, not the cold corpse that Dick held for months, his blue-grey eyes open, not lifeless like how he was when Dick had found him but bright, focused, and sharp with concern. The contrast hit like a punch to the gut.

Dick swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He forced himself to stay still as Tim worked, watching the younger man’s hands move with clinical precision—wiping away the blood, dabbing at the raw skin with antiseptic. The sting barely registered. Pain was easy. Pain was manageable. But the memories? The ghosts clawing at the edges of his mind?

Not so much.

Tim hesitated before wrapping the bandage, his fingers hovering just over Dick’s knuckles. “You with me?”

Dick blinked, realizing too late that he’d gone still, his gaze fixed on nothing. He exhaled sharply and forced a smirk. “Yeah. Just enjoying the bedside manner.”

Tim smiled, but it was small, fleeting, barely touching his eyes. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” he muttered, finally securing the bandage. “I don’t do house calls.”

Dick huffed a quiet laugh, though it came out more tired than amused. He flexed his fingers against the wrap, testing the tightness.

“You should be asleep,” Tim said, tone edging into exasperation. “But then again, staying still was never your strong suit. Oh, and you’re having dinner in bed. I already brought the tray up, because you are on B. E. D. R. E. S. T.”

Tim dragged the last part out in slow motion, like he was spelling it out for a particularly stubborn child.

Dick groaned. “Tim—”

“You are lucky I didn’t tell Alfred,” Tim interrupted, standing and jerking his head toward the stairs. “March.”

Dick bit back another protest, but just as he stood, a flicker of something red bled into the edges of his vision—small, brief, almost imperceptible.

Almost.

The Bats noticed everything.

Tim didn’t say a word, but his sharp gaze caught the shift. His expression didn’t change, didn’t crack, but Dick could feel the gears turning in his head, even as he shook it off and started leading him upstairs.

By the time they reached Dick’s room, Jason and Damian were already there, sitting on his bed in the middle of what appeared to be a rare, surprisingly civil conversation.

That peace shattered the second they saw him.

Jason’s posture shifted, his relaxed sprawl against the headboard sharpening into something more attentive. Damian, already rigid by default, went even stiffer, his sharp green eyes narrowing like he was bracing for a fight.

"Where the hell were you?” Jason demanded, voice edged with frustration. “It wasn’t enough for you to disappear yesterday? And you’re not supposed to be doing anything strenuous—”

“It was light exercise,” Dick tried.

"He was punching the hell out of the bag downstairs,” Tim cut in flatly. “Knuckles bleeding. And he punched it off the chain."

Dick barely resisted the urge to glare. Tim, you snitch.

Jason’s eyebrows shot up. "How the hell did you even punch the bag off the chain?"

Jason exhaled sharply, shaking his head before jabbing a finger toward the bed. “Lay the fuck down. Right now. Light exercise my ass.”

Dick’s jaw clenched as Jason pointed sharply at the bed, his tone leaving no room for argument. The frustration simmering beneath Dick’s skin flared hot, and he had to fight to keep his expression neutral, to keep the growing ember of irritation from sparking into something more volatile.

His body was too tense, his senses too sharp. Every sound, every shift in movement felt like an itch he couldn’t scratch. The weight of Jason’s stare, the stiffness in Damian’s posture, the quiet sound of Tim adjusting the tray—it all pressed down on him like a vice.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to move before his temper got the better of him. Without a word, he sat down heavily on the bed, then leaned back against the pillows, his fingers twitching at his sides. His skin prickled, the restraint only making his frustration worse.

Tim set the tray in his lap, but Dick barely looked at it, too focused on keeping himself in check. He could feel the heat in his eyes threatening to rise, feel the unnatural energy clawing beneath his skin. The urge to snap, to tell them to back off, was right there, pressing against his teeth.

Instead, he swallowed it down.

The room was too quiet, but the tension in the air spoke volumes. He knew they were watching him, knew that any second longer of this silence would only raise more questions.

So he forced himself to move, picking up the fork with steady hands. He didn’t feel hungry, didn’t feel normal, but at least if he was eating, they’d think he was fine.

Even though he's was very, very, very, very much so far away from that.

Chapter Text

Something is wrong with his son.

Bruce has spent years learning how to read Dick—how to understand him in ways words never could. And right now, every instinct in his body is telling him something is off.

There’s a lot to unpack—too much, really. The time-loop, the repeated trauma of watching the people he loves die over and over again, his own death, the physical toll of cardiac arrest, the psychological toll of surviving it. Dick has been through hell.

But Bruce has seen him go through hell before.

And normally, Dick feels it. It wears him down, makes him quiet, reserved. After something traumatic, he pulls inward, not completely shutting them out, but shrinking just enough to let them know he’s hurting. He seeks comfort in his family, lets them hold him close, lets them be there. He always has.

That’s still happening—kind of.

But there’s something different about it this time.

Instead of just looking for closeness, Dick lingers. Hovers like he’s waiting for something. There’s an edge to the way he carries himself now, a tightness in his shoulders that never fully releases. It’s not just exhaustion, not just stress. It’s something darker.

And the worst part?

He’s angry.

Not the usual anger—the sharp frustration that comes when one of them does something reckless, the heated words that burn out as quickly as they ignite. No, this is volatile. Simmering beneath his skin, threatening to boil over at the slightest provocation.

Bruce sees it in the way his hands twitch into fists when someone so much as breathes wrong. The way his jaw stays locked, his fingers curled so tight they go white. The way his responses have lost that easy warmth, that effortless charm —replaced instead by something clipped, something sharp, something cold.

It all comes to a head in the Cave.

Bruce and Tim have been working a brutal murder case in Blüdhaven—one Dick had started but suddenly dropped, which is not like him. Normally, he sees things through. Normally, he doesn’t walk away. But this time? Nothing. No explanation, no follow-up. Just silence.

The case is going nowhere. No leads, no pattern, nothing but dead ends. So Tim, ever persistent, decides to ask.

He turns in his chair, looking toward the training mats where Dick is wrapping his hands—tight, too tight, his movements rigid.

Tim hesitates, just for a second, then calls out, “Hey, Dick, what did you find on that Blüdhaven case?”

Dick doesn’t look up. “Nothing useful.”

Tim frowns. “You were on it for two weeks. You must have found something.”

Dick exhales sharply through his nose, tugging his wraps even tighter. “If I did, don’t you think I would’ve closed it?”

Bruce’s eyes narrow.

That was off.

Tim, to his credit, doesn’t back down. “Okay… but maybe you had a theory? Something that didn’t pan out but could still be relevant?”

Dick scoffs. “No.”

Not even looking at him.

That’s off, too.

Because Dick—no matter how tired, no matter how pissed—always gives people his attention. Always listens. That’s not something Bruce taught him; not Alfred did either. Something the Graysons did.

"It’s polite to listen to people, even if you don’t like what they’re saying,” an eight-year-old Dick had told him once, hanging upside down from Bruce’s shoulders, utterly serious. “You have to actively listen.”

Even as a teenager, when his anger burned hotter, when he yelled at Bruce, when they fought and fought and fought, he never completely ignore someone, Dick didn't do silent treatment.

But now?

Now, he doesn’t even spare Tim a glance.

Tim’s frown deepens, fingers tapping against the desk as he studies Dick carefully. He’s not stupid—he knows something’s wrong, knows Dick’s been off ever since the time-loop, ever since everything.

But this?

This is something else.

Tim pushes anyway.

“Come on, man,” he says, keeping his voice light, almost cajoling. “I know you found something. Even if it didn’t lead anywhere, it’s better than what we’ve got right now—which is nothing.”

Dick’s fingers tighten where they’re curled around his wrist wraps. He exhales, sharp and slow, before finally looking up—barely. Just a flicker of eye contact before his gaze slides away again.

“I told you,” he says, tone clipped, controlled, too controlled. “I found nothing. Let it go.”

Tim doesn’t let it go.

Because Dick is lying.

And the thing about Dick is—he’s good at lying when he needs to be. But only when it matters. Only when it’s important. This? This isn’t a well-constructed cover, not some carefully measured evasion. This is sloppy.

Tim leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “Okay,” he says, slow, deliberate. “Then why’d you drop it?”

Dick’s jaw tightens. “What?”

“The case,” Tim clarifies. “You were on it for a bit, down here for hours, working on it in bed. Then, out of nowhere, you just—stop. No explanation. No handoff. Just done. That’s not like you.”

Dick’s nostrils flare slightly as he takes another deep breath, pushing to his feet. “Maybe,” he says, voice dangerously even, “It's none of your business,"

"Dick I'm just asking--"

"I don't owe you an explanation,"

The words cut through the Cave like a blade.

Tim blinks, his mouth half-open, clearly taken aback by the sheer force behind them. Dick’s voice isn’t raised, but it’s sharp, laced with something dangerous. Something that makes Tim hesitate, makes Bruce tense.

Tim recovers quickly, but Bruce can see the flicker of unease cross his face. Still, he presses forward. “You don’t owe me an explanation,” he agrees carefully. “But you dropped a case. You—you—of all people. And now you’re getting defensive about it.”

Dick lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Right. And you think that’s a crime?”

Tim’s eyes narrow. “No. But it’s weird. And you know it.”

Then Dick ignores him, punching the training dummy so hard that the impact echoes through the Cave.

The force sends the dummy staggering back, teetering on its base. His knuckles are taut, his breathing harsh, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for a fight as he continues.

Again Dick doesn't ignore people, he gets the last word sure, he walks away but he doesn't ignore people.

Bruce chose to intervene, moving the training dummy out of his way.

"Dick we just want to know why--"

“You’re reading too much into it,”

"Dick--"

"Bruce take a fucking hint, I have nothing to contribute to this case. Quit fucking asking me!"

Tim stepped forward, "Dick--"

"Shut the hell up Tim," He said, slamming his fist into the back wall, the impact ringing through the Cave like a gunshot.

Tim stopped in his tracks.

Bruce’s breath slowed, his heartbeat steady, controlled. He didn’t move, didn’t react. He just watched.

Dick was trembling. His shoulders rose and fell with each harsh breath, his hands still clenched into fists, his entire body coiled, like a spring wound too tight—one wrong move, and it would snap.

He wasn’t just angry.

He was barely holding himself together.

For a long, heavy moment, none of them spoke.

Then, finally—Dick exhaled sharply through his nose, unclenched his fists, and stepped back from the wall. “I’m done,” he muttered, turning on his heel.

Bruce didn’t stop him.

Tim didn’t either.

They just stood there as Dick stormed out of the Cave, his footsteps echoing in the silence, his presence lingering even after he was gone.

Tim let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, rubbing his temples. “Okay,” he muttered. “That was not normal.”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Because it could be a response to the trauma, it could be that Dick has gone through something traumatic and is spiraling.

But something told Bruce that there was something else there.

_~~_

Dick’s eyes stung, sharp and hot, and for a moment he wasn’t even sure if it was from exhaustion or something deeper—something far more corrosive. The weariness was there, of course. Bone-deep. The kind of fatigue that wrapped around his spine and made it feel like it might snap if he took one more step. But beneath it, inside it, was something else. Something clawing and choking and screaming to be let out.

The second he left the Cave, the manor’s cooler air hit him like a slap. It smelled like polish and quiet and memory. Familiar. Safe. And suddenly unbearable. His footsteps echoed softly on the marble, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant feeling—and that was the last thing he could afford right now.

How dare they? The thought burst into his head, uninvited and venomous. How dare they treat this like it’s a normal case? Like this murderer deserves closure, like he’s just another file to mark as solved?

He had to bite his tongue not to scream. I died for them, his mind hissed. Over and over and over. I saved them. I bled for them. And now they’re down there talking about justice for the man who murdered them, who made me watch them die again and again like it was some kind of game—

He stumbled to a stop in the hallway, lungs burning, heart hammering against his ribs. His chest felt too tight, like he was trapped in a body that no longer fit. His fingers curled against the wallpapered wall, anchoring himself as the rage twisted into something uglier.

No, he thought, trying to pull himself back. No, stop. What are you even thinking? They didn’t know. Of course they didn’t. How could they?

They didn’t remember the loops. They didn’t remember the resets, the blood, the fire, the screaming, the way their bodies broke and fell apart in his arms—how many times he had to make the impossible choice just to keep going, just to try again. They didn’t know what it meant to wake up in the same moment with their blood still fresh on his hands, and choose to go back anyway.

And they couldn’t know. Because if they ever did—

Dick’s breathing hitched. He squeezed his eyes shut as his vision blurred. Not from tears. Not yet. But from the pressure building in his skull, behind his eyes, like a dam threatening to crack

He pressed a palm flat against the wall, bracing himself, willing his body not to collapse under the weight of it all. His skin felt too thin. His bones too brittle. Like any second now he’d start unraveling from the inside out. His breathing came in shallow gasps.

He couldn’t tell if he was angry at them for not knowing… or angry at himself for not telling them.

Maybe, deep down, some twisted part of him wanted them to know. Wanted to rip open the truth and force them to see the cost. To scream until something cracked, to shatter something just to make it real.

Because down in the Cave, they were trying to solve the murder of the man who had murdered them.

Dick let out a breathless, bitter laugh.

God, he thought.' It’s honestly kind of hilarious is you think about it,'

He pressed his hand harder into the wall, like he could pin himself to the present moment, stop the spiraling before it swallowed him whole.

Almost.

His forehead touched the wall, the chill of it seeping through his skin like a balm and a punishment both. The wallpaper was smooth and slightly worn beneath his brow, a quiet testament to the years that had passed inside this house. He leaned into it—not just physically, but with the full weight of everything he had been holding back. As if by pressing his body to the surface, he could hold himself together a little longer. As if the cold could keep him from burning up.

A breath hitched in his chest, almost a laugh, but not quite. It curdled before it could form, dissolving into a silence so thick it felt like suffocating through cotton—soft, smothering, and inescapable. He stayed frozen, suspended in the hush of the hallway like an insect trapped in amber.


He wanted to scream. Wanted to tear down the bannister and storm into the room and shout at them tell them everything.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Instead, he stayed hidden in the shadows of the hallway—motionless, breath shallow, body pressed to the wall like he could disappear into it. Like maybe if he didn’t move, he wouldn’t shatter. Because that’s what it felt like—every piece of him trembling, holding tight to the seams. And if he so much as blinked wrong, the mask would fall apart. And what lay underneath wouldn’t survive the air.

His jaw tightened. He bit down hard, muscle twitching.

He couldn’t tell them the truth.

He wouldn’t be the grenade in the room, not now. Not after they’d finally stopped bleeding. Not after the wounds had started to close, fragile and pink and new. He wouldn’t destroy the illusion they had finally built—that they were okay now. Safe. Together. Whole.

Because he remembered. He remembered every death. Every reset. Every moment they didn’t come back. Not once. Not twice. Dozens of times. A hundred, maybe. Time snapping and rewinding like a curse. And every time he’d fought to fix it. Every time he clawed his way back alone. Each loop left its mark—not just memories, but damage. Lessons carved into his soul like tally marks on prison walls. Scars so deep they didn’t bleed anymore. They just existed. Silent. Hidden.


“Master Richard.”

The voice was soft, laced with gentle concern.

He flinched—barely, but enough. He hadn’t heard anyone approach. Hadn’t noticed the footsteps on the carpet. Hadn’t realized Alfred was there until his name hung in the air.

Dick tore himself from the wall too fast, staggering slightly. He straightened as if caught doing something shameful, heat flooding his face in a wave of guilt and self-loathing.

“I’m fine,” he said immediately. Automatically. His voice was raw, stretched thin and trembling at the edges like paper left out in the rain.

Alfred studied him in that way only Alfred could—eyes that saw far too much, kindness tempered with an unwavering firmness.

“You’re standing in the hallway in the dark,” he said at last, “pressing yourself into the wallpaper like a particularly dramatic fresco.”

The breath Dick let out was closer to a choke than a laugh. A strangled, bitter sound.

“Guess I missed my calling,” he muttered.

Alfred didn’t smile. He only extended a hand—calm, steady, unwavering. “Come, child.”

Dick’s throat tightened. He stared at the hand like it was something unfamiliar, like the act of accepting comfort had become foreign in his bones. He hesitated. Just for a moment. Then, carefully, he placed his hand in Alfred’s.

They walked together in silence.

No rush. No pressure. Just presence.

Alfred didn’t lead so much as walk beside him, step for step, like he understood that even a breeze might break Dick open right now.

When they reached the door to his room, Dick stopped. His hand hovered near the knob but didn’t touch it. He stared at it like it might bite him.

It looked normal. Safe, even.

It felt like a coffin.

But Alfred opened the door for him, the hinges whispering quietly in the stillness. He stepped in, flipped on a low light that painted the room in soft amber, and said simply, “I’ve made tea. And your bed is warm. You’ll feel better after rest.”

Dick stood in the doorway like his feet had sunk in concrete.

“Sleep doesn’t help,” he whispered. “Not with this. Not when I still dream about… everything.”

Alfred turned to face him fully, his silhouette framed in the soft light.

“No,” he said quietly. “Perhaps it doesn’t.”

He crossed to the bed, sat down, and then—wordlessly—opened his arms.

It was a gesture Dick hadn’t seen in years. Not since he was little. Not since the nights when nightmares had stolen the ground from under his feet and Alfred had been the only constant in a world that had shattered. He remembered how it used to feel—small arms, steady heartbeats, warmth that said *you’re not alone.*

Dick stood frozen.

Then, like approaching a fragile wild animal, he moved to the bed and sat gingerly beside him. Not leaning in yet. Not touching. Just there.

Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed anymore.

But Alfred didn’t drop his arms. Didn’t speak. Just waited.

Patient.

Safe.

So, slowly—so slowly—Dick leaned into him, body stiff at first, muscles braced. He curled inward, like he was still shielding something cracked and jagged inside. His head found Alfred’s shoulder. His arms curled to his chest. He didn’t let go, not completely. But he let himself be held.

And Alfred did what he’d always done—wrapped his arms around him, steady and strong. Not too tight. Just enough.

It was the same--No

It was entirely different.

Because now Dick was older. Bigger. Weathered by things no child should know, no man should carry. He’d lost far more than circus lights and parents to gravity. But Alfred’s embrace hadn’t changed.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?” Alfred asked, his voice no louder than a breath, a gentle murmur threaded into the quiet—so soft it barely stirred the air, and yet it anchored Dick all the same.

Dick’s throat worked. His lips parted once, twice, but no sound came. Then, finally, he gave the smallest shake of his head.

“I don’t know how I…” He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond the floor. “I snapped at Tim.”

Just four words...

But his voice cracked under the weight of them. Crushed by guilt. Bent under a shame so heavy it pulled his shoulders down and made him curl in tighter, like he could collapse into himself and disappear. Like even saying that much was dangerous. Like naming it made it real.

The shame was palpable. Thick in the air between them. As if those words had dragged a storm behind them—dark and cold and full of knives.

And Alfred, without judgment, without pause, simply tightened his arms around him.

Dick wished—ached—for the ability to go on. To just open his mouth and speak like it was easy. Like the words wouldn’t break him apart on the way out. He wanted, desperately, to make sense of it all, to explain the things he barely understood himself. To be simple. To be normal. For his problems to be the kind that fit neatly into words and cups of tea and patient reassurances.

But they weren’t.

And deep down, they never had been.

Even as a child, he'd held pieces of himself back. Little secrets tucked away like loose threads he didn’t want anyone to pull. Things he thought would hurt less if he carried them alone. A scraped knee he lied about. A bully at school he never named. Dreams of the fall that stole his parents, which he woke from in tears and swore never happened.

But those secrets? They were laughable now.

Child’s play.

What was a bruised ego or a cruel word compared to this?

Compared to blood on his hands.

Compared to a body at his feet and a dagger in his palm.

Compared to the heat of magic crawling beneath his skin like fire that never burned out. The weight of a curse that had chosen him—claimed him—and never let go. The way his eyes lit up when his temper frayed, the unnatural crimson glow that scared even him. The way rage had become so easy. So familiar.

“I killed someone,” he wanted to say. “I killed someone, and I didn’t have a choice, and I still feel them when I close my eyes.”

“I’m not the same anymore.”

“There’s something wrong with me.”

But the words wouldn’t come. His mouth wouldn’t let them.

So he just sat there, curled into Alfred’s shoulder, hoping—praying—that this was enough. That Alfred’s arms could hold him steady when nothing inside him felt real. That maybe, just maybe, he could stay like this long enough to forget the way his hands had trembled afterward. The way the blood had shimmered strangely in the moonlight. The way he couldn’t stop seeing red—even now.

Even with his eyes closed.

Especially then.

_~~_

Bruce woke up to two red eyes—glowing, bleeding orbs hovering inches from his face, drilling into his soul like they could see every sin he'd ever committed.

Normally, he wasn’t even asleep at this hour. His body didn’t allow for it—not really. But Crane’s latest version of the fear toxin had left him wrecked. Exhausted. Disoriented. Sleep came too fast now, and dreams clung to the edges of his thoughts like rot.

And normally, even in the deepest corners of exhaustion, he could tell what was real.

This time? God only knew.

He flinched.

That alone was rare enough to make him sit up with startling force, the sheets tangling at his waist. His fingers flew to the switch on the nightstand, hovering—ready to flood the room with light and dispel whatever horror was crouching over him.

“B?”

Just an hallucination. 

Just his son. 

Dick stumbled forward as if he couldn't hold himself up anymore, pressing his forehead to Bruce’s shoulder. It was bruised earlier—tender, aching—but Bruce didn’t move. He couldn’t. The weight of his son leaning into him, broken and shaking, mattered more than the pain.

His heart still racing, Bruce didn’t know why he whispered the next word. Maybe it was a reflex. Maybe it was all he had.

“Nightmare?”

It was a stupid question. Pointless. Dick had nightmares every night now, after what he’d endured. He either worked through them by hammering the training room into submission or wandered up from the depths of the manor like a ghost and found Bruce, needing to be seen. Needing to be held.

Dick didn’t answer. His breath came in jagged stutters. His fists trembled at his sides. Eyes clamped shut. Like if he opened them, he’d be back there again—wherever there was this time.

“I’m here,” Bruce said softly. Carefully. His hand rose, hesitated in the air above Dick’s back before landing on his shoulder.

Dick let out a sharp, broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Bruce asked. 

Dick shook his head, eyes still not open. 

"We can talk just...not that please not that...I'm...how was work? Patrol?" 

Bruce blinked, caught off guard by the question. Of all the things Dick could have said, that was not on the list.

Still, he didn’t question it. Just adjusted, like he always did when someone he loved was spiraling and needed the world to feel normal, even if it wasn’t.

"Crane had a new strain of fear gas, I got hit--" 

"I'm sorry," Dick said immediately pulling away. "I wouldn't have come in here if I knew you were recovering, I--" 

Bruce reached out before Dick could fully retreat, steadying him with a firm hand on his arm—not restraining, just grounding.

“Stop,” he said gently. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Dick froze under his touch, shoulders tense, like a single breath might snap him in half.

“You didn’t know. And even if you did,” Bruce added, softer now, “you’re allowed to come find me. Always.”

Dick didn’t answer, not right away. His throat bobbed with the effort it took to swallow whatever protest had clawed its way to his lips. But he didn’t pull away again.

Bruce let the silence stretch, let it breathe.

"I'm alright, and Damian was able to apprehend him and Tim made an antidote, no need to worry." 

“Of course they did,” he murmured. 

"And I'm... I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier it's just that...I really don't have anything to help you guys with that case, I'm in the same boat as you are...not an excuse and I'm sorry," 

Bruce paused, his arms tightening just slightly around the younger man. He could feel the tension vibrating beneath Dick’s skin—like a live wire, humming low, ready to snap.

He was lying.

Bruce knew it. He’d spent too many years watching his son work cases with a dedication that bordered on obsession. There was no way Dick had spent all those hours on that investigation and come up empty-handed. Not unless he had deliberately chosen to withhold something. And yet, here he was—head bowed, voice thick with guilt and apology, sorrowful not just for the anger he’d lashed out with, but for failing them, somehow.

It was a lie.

One born of protection, maybe. Or shame. But still a lie.

And Bruce… let it go.

For now.

“It’s alright, Dick. You’ve been through—”

“That isn’t an excuse.”

The interruption came fast. Too fast.

And the voice—was wrong.

Bruce blinked, startled by the sound. It had come from Dick’s mouth, but it wasn’t his. It was deeper—gravelly, guttural, like something primal had forced its way up from beneath his ribs and borrowed his throat. The cadence was Dick’s, but the weight of it was all wrong. Unnatural. Tainted with something Bruce couldn’t name.

It scraped along his nerves like claws across metal.

Bruce’s thoughts stuttered. For a heartbeat, everything inside him coiled tight. Fear toxin, he tried to tell himself. Lingering hallucinations. Auditory distortion. He knew the effects—had memorized the literature, lived through enough dosages to recognize how the toxin clung to the mind, twisting everything it touched into something fractured and unfamiliar.

But then Dick moved.

Not away. Not toward him either. He just… stiffened. His muscles went taut under Bruce’s hands, like piano wire stretched too far. And suddenly Bruce felt it—heat. Radiating off him like an open flame. His skin was burning, too hot, unnatural.

“B?”

The voice was softer now. Familiar again. But Bruce’s brain struggled to keep up. He shook his head, blinking hard like he could force clarity back into his senses. His heart was pounding—wild and erratic—the same way it had been when he first jolted awake. 

“I’m fine,” he lied, because that’s what they did. When the words weren’t ready—when the truth was too tangled to say out loud—they lied. For each other. For peace. “I thought I heard…”

But what was he supposed to say? You sounded like something else. Like your voice was wearing a mask, Like you weren’t you for a moment.

Dick’s gaze dropped.

“I didn’t mean to sound harsh,” he said softly. His jaw was set, his voice small. “I just—I hate that I still lose control like that. I hate who I am when I let it happen. I don’t want to be that guy. The one who lashes out and regrets it after.”

“You’re not,” Bruce said, just as quietly. But the words felt like smoke in his mouth.

Because even now, Dick’s body radiated heat. His skin felt like it was boiling from the inside. Not normal. Not right.

And when Bruce said those words, he felt the flinch. Not visible. Not loud. But he felt it all the same—like a jolt under his hand, a tremor through a cracked foundation.

The heat wasn’t subsiding. If anything, it was worsening. Bruce’s fingers grazed the edge of Dick’s temple and came away damp. A fine sheen of sweat had formed, clinging to his hairline despite the cool air wafting from the vents overhead. His breaths were too shallow, too quick.

“Do you feel sick?” Bruce asked instead, his voice gentler now.

Dick opened his mouth. Closed it. Then frowned—really frowned—like the question confused him.

Bruce tugged at the collar of Dick’s sweatshirt, peeling the damp fabric up and over his head. The heat that came off him was worse without the barrier—like pressing a hand to a stovetop still cooling after a burn.

“You’ve got a fever,” Bruce said, already certain.

“Maybe,” Dick muttered, but the word was distant. Dismissive. As if agreeing just made it easier to stop thinking about it.

Bruce didn’t wait. He tossed the sweatshirt aside and pressed the back of his hand to Dick’s forehead.

Too hot. Far too hot. Like something was boiling beneath the skin.

Dick didn’t lean away. But he didn’t lean in, either. He just sat there, unmoving, like he couldn’t feel the difference anymore. His eyes weren’t focused. His breaths came slow and shallow. His gaze was distant, like he wasn’t entirely present in the room.

“That’s not maybe,” Bruce said, his tone low but firm. “You’re burning up.”

He stood, his limbs aching with residual pain—Crane’s damn toxin still working its way out—but he didn’t let it stop him. He pulled Dick gently to his feet.

“Where are we going?” Dick asked, voice faint.

“The bathroom. Going to check your temperature.”

Dick didn’t resist. Not really. But his steps were sluggish, uneven. Bruce kept a hand at his back, guiding him forward. The heat that rolled off his son made the hallway feel like a furnace tunnel.

Bruce flipped the bathroom light on. The glare stabbed at his eyes, but it was Dick who recoiled—his hand snapping up to shield his face at the brightness.

Bruce grabbed the thermometer, held it out wordlessly. Dick blinked at it for a second too long before he leaned in.

Beep.

102.8.

 Not the worst he’d seen...

“I’ll get you ibuprofen,” Bruce said, already turning. “And an ice pack.”

Dick nodded once. Silently. His face was pale and flushed all at once, his lips pressed into a thin line as sweat beaded along his brow. He moved like someone trying to stay conscious out of sheer spite.

Bruce returned with pills and water, placing them in Dick’s waiting hands. He took them without protest. Then, wordlessly, Bruce guided him back to the bed, helped him down, covered him in a light sheet, and nestled the ice pack into the crook of his arm where the heat felt strongest.

Dick curled in slowly, tiredly.

“Can you stay?” he whispered, already halfway to sleep. “Just for a bit?”

Bruce didn’t hesitate this time.

“More than a bit,” he answered, sinking down beside him.

Dick’s hand reached blindly until it found Bruce’s arm and tugged it around himself. The shift was instant. His body stilled. His breathing slowed.

Bruce watched.

Fifteen minutes passed.

Then he checked again.

98.6.

His brows drew together sharply. That was impossible.

Ibuprofen worked, yes—but not that fast. Not without chills, not without visible signs of sweating through the fever. And yet, here Dick lay—calm, dry, cool to the touch. Like a fever had never touched him at all.

No trembling. No flushing. No weakness.

Just stillness.

Like a switch had been thrown.

Bruce stared at him, chest tightening.

This wasn’t right.

It wasn’t natural.

This wasn’t just a fever, or stress, or a moment of instability. This was something else. The time-loop. The case Dick had dropped cold. The rage, the way he shifted from one emotion to the next like he was slipping between masks.

A glitch.

Bruce’s mind was already spinning through possibilities—possession, parasitic entity, residual magic, some unknown psychic contamination. He felt the itch in his spine that came before every storm.

He wanted to take Dick to the cave. Hook him to the scanners. Run every test he could. Maybe even call Zatanna.

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay still. To wait.

Maybe it was the toxin still messing with his head. Maybe it was exhaustion turning every shadow into a threat, maybe he's judgement and perception is off and he's just reading the thermometer wrong. Maybe...

No something is off, and Bruce is going to figure out exactly what that is.

_~~_

Dick honestly didn’t want to leave—not yet. Not when this was the best he’d felt in weeks. Maybe months.

There was something grounding about being home. Not just in Gotham, but here. Under this roof. Among them. The weight of Bruce’s arm around his shoulders last night had done more to steady him than any meditation trick or sleep aid.

The quiet comfort of holding his brothers during a movie, of letting Cass braid one stubborn strand of hair just to keep him occupied—it all felt like safety. Like stability.

But he couldn’t stay.

Not like this.

Not when he was a ticking time bomb.

The side effects were worsening. His irritability, already volatile, now swung into bursts of rage he couldn’t always anticipate. Sometimes it came with heat—intense, all-consuming, as if his body wanted to burn from the inside out. Other times, the magic sparked behind his eyes like a solar flare, warping his vision, distorting his voice.


And if he stayed much longer, someone was going to see it.

Bruce already had.

Of course he had. Because Bruce was Bruce.

So now, this morning, as Dick stirred his cereal and pretended to be calm and human and whole, Bruce watched him from across the table like a predator clocking the pulse in its prey.

Dick could feel it. The weight of his father’s gaze. Heavy. Calculating. Silent.

He didn’t mind—not really. He’d grown up under scrutiny. Bruce’s brand of quiet intensity was practically ambient noise in this house.

But this was different.

It wasn’t paternal concern or even the detective squint he wore when someone brought him cold coffee.

This was clinical. Layered. He was assessing patterns.

Dick kept his eyes on his bowl, spoon clinking lightly as it circled through the milk. He wasn’t eating so much as moving things around—trying to make the act of *being okay* look convincing.

“You’re quiet this morning,” Bruce said at last.

Dick shrugged. “Didn’t sleep well.”

Which wasn’t entirely a lie. He’d spent half the night shifting under Bruce’s arm, torn between sleep and a humming pressure in his chest that wouldn’t dissipate. Like something was waiting inside him, just beneath the surface.

“Headache?”

“No,” Dick said, too quickly.

Bruce didn’t push. He just nodded once and leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee, eyes never leaving Dick’s face.

The silence stretched.

Dick hated it. Hated how it gave his thoughts room to echo. How it made him feel *exposed*.

He glanced up—just once—and their eyes met.

Bruce didn’t flinch.

“You cooled off fast last night,” he said evenly.

Dick froze.

“It happens sometimes,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “Maybe my fever wasn’t as high as it felt.”

“It was 102.8,” Bruce said, like it had been carved into stone.

Dick didn’t respond.

Bruce’s expression didn’t change. But there was a *stillness* to him now, the kind that came before a reveal. Like a magician waiting to pull the curtain back on a trick he’d already solved.

“You felt like a furnace,” Bruce said slowly. “Then within fifteen minutes, you were colder than me. Do you remember how fast that ice pack melted?”

Dick did. It had steamed like it’d been dropped on pavement in July.

“I chalked it up to exhaustion,” Bruce continued. “But it’s not sitting right.”

Dick forced a tight smile. “You’re overthinking again.”

“Am I?”

His voice was calm. Too calm. That meant he already had a theory—and he was giving Dick a chance to lie.

And he has no choice but to lie.

Dick dropped his spoon into the bowl with a clink.

“Look, I’m fine,” he said, way too quickly. “I probably just had a flare-up or whatever. Stress probably.”

Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

He just watched.

The kind of watching that wasn’t passive. The kind that stripped layers, peeled back muscle and memory and motive. The kind that made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

Dick hated that he flinched.

Bruce saw it. Of course he did.

“You’re lying,” Bruce said, voice low, even. Not angry. Not yet.

Dick swallowed, the back of his throat dry. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

There wasn’t even judgment in it. Just a quiet certainty that made the denial crumble in Dick’s mouth before he could even try again.

Bruce stood then, slowly, setting his mug down with a soft clink that still managed to echo louder than it should have.

He rounded the table, each step deliberate, and stopped a few feet in front of Dick—close enough to close the distance, not close enough to threaten. That too, was calculated.

“You’re off, which I understand because of the time-loop, but you are clearly lying about the case. Yesterday, maybe it was the toxin that was messing with me but... your mood has been wrong for days," Bruce continued, voice just above a whisper, like volume might crack the fragile space between them. "You’re volatile. Unsteady. Not just emotionally—physiologically. Your heart rate irregular. I’ve seen you under pressure, in pain, hallucinating, grieving—I know what normal looks like for you, even at your worst.”

How dare he?! He acts like he's entitled to an explanation—No. Breathe.

Dick snapped his eyes shut. For a minute, he felt the heat—the flash of red that curled at the edge of his vision like a solar flare preparing to burst. His heartbeat thundered like a war drum—fast, erratic, pounding against his ribs as if trying to escape the cage of his chest.

How dare he? The thought flashed again—sharp, involuntary, not his voice. Or maybe it was. Twisted. Amplified. Like something deep inside him had decided it was done being caged.

"I'm not lying about the case," Dick said as calmly as possible—and that took every atom in his body to do so.

"And maybe it was the toxin that made you... made you think that the fever was more than a low-grade one. And as for my mood... I've been in a time loop for almost a year, have seen you die over and over again—of course I've been off,” he finished, voice catching on the edge of something too sharp to be grief and too hot to be anger. “What the hell do you expect, Bruce? That I walk out of that like nothing happened?”

Bruce didn’t answer right away.

Just closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around him, one of them faintly on the side of his neck, checking his pulse.
(He has been doing that from time to time because of the ambulance ride weeks ago.)

"... You're... you're right. I'm sorry," he said.

Dick leaned into the hold, hating himself that he lied, hating himself for the fact that he couldn't tell the truth even now.

Because if he did—if he let it out, all of it—it wouldn’t stop.

The rage, the fear, the burning thing inside him would spill over, and Bruce might see what Dick saw in the mirror.

Not just damage. Not just change.

But wrongness. A Murderer.

So instead, he let Bruce hold him.

Let the steady press of fingers against his pulse—still too fast, too erratic—remind him he was real. That he was here That he wasn’t alone in some looping hell where time reset and grief recycled like a nightmare with no off switch.

Bruce didn’t speak. Just breathed slowly, deeply. The kind of rhythm you fall into when you’re trying to calm someone without saying you are.

It helped.

Not enough.

But a little.

_~~_ 

Wally didn’t know exactly what Dick was trying to do, but it was clear he wasn’t succeeding. His friend slammed the ceramic bowl onto the floor with a harsh crack.

Wally knew it wasn’t just about getting a recipe wrong. Dick wasn’t a horrible cook, but he wasn’t a good one either. Mistakes happened when he was in the kitchen.

But this was different.

Dick had arrived in Jump six hours ago and he was off...And not like any of them could blame him.

Dick hadn’t told them everything. Of course he hadn’t.

But they knew enough.

He’d been trapped in a time loop for three hundred days.

Lived through the same horrors on repeat.

Died.

Watched his family die.

Over and over.

And somehow—somehow—he got out but it was against everything he stood for and Dick was tainted by magic.

Which meant the sorcerer responsible wasn’t just dead—he was obliterated.

Wally didn’t need to see a body to know that. Rachel and Lilith’s reactions were just enough.

Now, Dick was here—in Jump—supposedly “taking time off” from Gotham after dropping the case of one of Bludhaven’s brutalist homicides.

And the only reason he even took up that case was to keep Bruce and Tim—his family—from digging too close to the edge of what really happened.

To obscure the timeline, redirect the evidence, let the trail run cold until the murder file gathered dust in some back room at the GCPD.

Which, all things considered?

Was actually kind of brilliant.

Horrifying.

Painful.

Desperate.

But brilliant.

And again, that went against everything Dick stood for.

He looked down at what looked like half-cooked, burnt curry, then back up at Wally.

His eyes were red.

His irises were glowing, demonic red.

It was a side affect from the magic, it only flared up when he was angry...

To bad the other side effects were easy irritability and anger and Dick already has a buttload of trauma as is. 

It takes months, years even for these side effects to wear off if at all and Dick needs to be able to control his anger better. 

Which is hard if the wound is still fresh and you're always angry.

The glowing red faded as Dick blinked, but the tension in the room stayed, thick and suffocating.

"Sorry," he muttered, low and gravel-edged. His voice cracked on the word, the apology brittle and hollow.

Wally crossed his arms, leaning back against the kitchen counter. "You should be, that was my bowl," 

The look Dick shot him was halfway between exhausted and murderous.

“It had The Flash logo on it,” Wally added, deadpan. “Limited edition. Iris gave it to me. You probably just cursed me with bad luck.”

“It was chipped,” Dick said through gritted teeth.

“It was vintage,” Wally corrected.

"I'll replace it, they have a bunch on eBay," 

Wally scoffed. “You think I’m letting you buy me a fake replacement? Nah, man. That bowl had character. History. It survived three moves, one alien invasion, and the great Titans Kitchen Fire.”

Roy piped up from the living room. “That fire was your fault, by the way.”

“Semantics,” Wally said, waving him off. “Point is—Dick, you can’t just throw around my childhood mementos like you’re on a bad cooking show from hell.”

Dick let out a breath, not quite a laugh. "Alright, I'll fix it. You'll be surprised at how many bowls and mugs are broken at the manor, this will be simple," 

Wally raised both eyebrows. “Oh, I know. I’ve seen Alfred’s superglue drawer. The man could start an Etsy shop.”

“That drawer is sacred,” Dick said, managing a small smile. “And it’s mostly just for Bruce’s weird porcelain eagle collection.”

“Wait—that’s why half of them look like they’ve been Frankensteined back together?” Vic asked, poking his head in from the hallway. “I thought that was some abstract design thing.”

“Nope,” Dick said. “Just years of me, Damian, Jason, and Tim breaking them during… let’s call them ‘unstructured sparring sessions. Those have been broken multiple times though. Your bowl will look brand new by the time I'm done," 

Wally narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. “You better not pull a kintsugi job on it, man. I don’t want my bowl coming back all poetic and gold-veined like it’s been through a divorce and found enlightenment.”

“You say that like it wouldn’t be an upgrade,” Rachel said dryly from the doorway, cradling her mug. “Might even give it a personality. It already survived a fire.”

“Exactly,” Wally said, gesturing emphatically. “That bowl had lore.”

Dick snorted, and this time it was almost a real laugh. It caught in his throat, but he didn’t push it down. “Fine. No emotional pottery metaphors. Just glue, grit, and whatever spell Alfred uses to make Bruce’s eagle statues stand upright after being decapitated for the fifth time.”

“Please tell me you’re not joking about that,” Donna said as she walked in, raising an eyebrow.

“Dead serious. Jason once shattered one during a Nerf fight. Alfred had it reassembled before Bruce got home and somehow made it stronger. I’m pretty sure it’s bulletproof now.”

“That tracks,” Vic said. “Alfred’s a better engineer than half the guys I worked with at STAR Labs.”

Roy, from the couch: “Wait, so the eagle is bulletproof, but none of us get to be?”

“Speak for yourself,” Donna muttered with a grin.

Dick rolled his eyes and set the mop aside, glancing at the mess of burnt curry he still had to scrape off the floor. “Alright, alright—bowl resurrection tomorrow, Wally. For now, I’ve got to clean this up before it becomes sentient.”

“You’re lucky we didn’t call the police," Wally muttered, wrinkling his nose as he peered at the disaster zone on the floor. “That curry is illegal in at least four dimensions, no wonder it ticked you off." 

Dick gave him a tired smile as he began to clean up, he looked so tired, so drained, so Wally went and did it in under two milliseconds. 

Dick blinked, then looked down at the now-spotless floor, sponge still in hand, curry carnage erased like it never happened.

“…Did you just—?”

“Yep,” Wally said, already back at the counter, sipping his soda like he hadn’t just solved a kitchen apocalypse. “Figured you could use a win. Or, you know, a moment where everything wasn’t covered in existential stew.”

Dick opened his mouth, closed it again. His shoulders sagged—not in defeat, but in reluctant gratitude. Like the armor cracked just enough for some air to get in.

“Thanks,” he said finally. It came out flat, but Wally didn’t need fanfare.

“Anytime, man.” Wally leaned back, then added, “Though next time, maybe don’t summon your inner demon while making dinner. Bad for morale.”

Dick gave a weak chuckle, but it was real this time.

He still looked like hell. Still carried three hundred days of horror in the set of his jaw, the tension behind his eyes. And the worst part? Everyone knew this wasn’t over. Not even close.

But right now, in this kitchen—with the sarcasm, the banter, the smell of overcooked spices still lingering—he wasn’t spiraling alone.

And that mattered more than most people realized. Because healing doesn’t happen in silence. It happens in the mess. In the cracks. In the people who refuse to let you fall through them.

Even if you did just vaporize their favorite bowl.

Chapter Text

Constantine swears to God—maybe even a few old gods—someone is bloody doxxing him.



Because first Grayson, and now fucking Bruce Wayne.

And not with a GPS, not with a PI, not even with the kind of low-level demons that trade information for a sniff of sulphur. No—this is next-level. Constantine hops between arcane sanctuaries like a chess piece avoiding checkmate: folding space in grimy motel mirrors, slipping through ley lines like silk through stained hands, and rewriting his magical signature every two days. And still, the bastard shows up.

There’s only two explanations: either the man has a satellite powered by black-site sorcery, or Oracle is on a caffeine binge with too much time and not enough respect for privacy.

He’s two glasses deep into a bottle of something old, potent, and very much unlabeled—thick with the taste of burnt sage, molasses, and regret. The kind of drink that feels like it’s scraping barnacles off your soul. The only light in the room is the flickering hue of a half-dead lamp and the ghost of a candle that went out two sigils ago. The flat in Star city is more hexed than habitable, a place that even vermin won’t call home. Perfect for staying lost.

Until the door creaks open like a confessional booth in a haunted church.

No knock. No voice. No invitation.

Just that chill—cold, sharp, and arrogant—slipping in like secondhand smoke under the doorframe. The air changes instantly. Denser. Heavier. Not magic—predatory gravity. The kind that makes prey go still.

The lights flicker. Not from the grid—Constantine would’ve felt that. No, this flicker’s spiritual. The kind of pulse that makes ancient wards twitch. 

Constantine doesn’t look up. Doesn’t need to.

“Y’know,” he says, voice dry enough to start a drought, “if I were the paranoid type, I’d say you’re stalking me.”

“You're not hard to find,” comes the reply—low, rough, and carved out of concrete.

The door closes behind him with a click that sounds like the end of a sentence. Or a sentence being passed.


He finally turns, and—of course—there he is. Bruce. Standing in the doorway like judgment personified. Arms crossed. Cape caught in some invisible breeze that refuses to follow the laws of physics. The cowl covers the face, but it doesn’t have to. Constantine can feel the disapproval coming off him like radiation.

He leans against the counter with a slouch that screams irreverence. One hand reaches lazily for the bottle, the other stays near the pack of cigarettes.

“What brings Gotham’s favorite cryptid to the armpit of Star? Lose your favorite rooftop to Catwoman?”

Bruce doesn’t bite. Doesn’t blink. Just takes one slow, deliberate step forward. The floor groans like it’s in pain.

“Dick,” he says.

Constantine raises an eyebrow. “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific, sunshine. That’s a noun, not a sentence.”

Bruce doesn’t flinch. “He told me about the time loop. Said he went to you for help.”

Well, bloody hell.

There goes the rest of his night.

Constantine’s smirk stutters. Not gone. Just paused—like a cigarette held an inch too long. Behind the smirk, the machinery starts grinding. What had Dick said? How much? Did he keep the messier bits buried? Or was Bruce standing here because he already knows and just wants the confirmation carved out of Constantine’s own throat?

 'You owe me brandy for this, Grayson.'

Out loud, he says, “Yeah. He came to me.”

Bruce takes another step. “And?”

“And I helped him,” Constantine says slowly, drawing the words out like incantation. “That’s what I do. Someone’s drowning in arcane filth, they call me. I dive in, I pull ’em out. Sometimes they live. Sometimes they don’t. But they always owe me a drink.”

Bruce’s jaw flexes once. “He said you helped him defeat the sorcerer. He was vague. I want details.”

Of course you do.

Constantine runs a hand through his hair, the kind of gesture that says this is going to get worse before it gets better. He pours another drink, this one slower. Not from thirst. It’s just something to do. Something human. He doesn’t offers Bruce a glass.

“He’s different since the loop,” Bruce says.

“Well, no shit, Bruce,” Constantine snaps. “You think time-loop trauma comes with a tidy exit survey? He spent how many weeks—months?—watching everything die over and over again?”

Bruce’s eyes narrow behind the cowl. Constantine almost grins. Poking the Bat is risky, but it’s also the only way to get him to show his seams.

But Bruce doesn't rise to the bait. He never does, not when it matters. He just locks down tighter.

“No,” Bruce says, voice like steel gone cold. “This isn’t just trauma. He’s changed. His temper is unpredictable. He’s colder. Withdrawn. Some nights, his body temperature burns hot—sweating like he’s on fire before cooling down in minutes,"

Constantine breathes out smoke. The silence says it all.

Yeah. He knows what it is.


Exposure symptoms. Residue. Echoes of blood magic.

And not just a brush-by either. Dick’s showing systemic markers. Deep changes. Soul-deep. Meaning the kid didn’t just dodge a blood spell—he became part of it. Intertwined. 

Constantine doesn't speak right away. Just smokes. Watches the ash curl and drop.

Bruce’s voice sharpens. “You know something.”

“Yeah,” Constantine mutters. 'I know everything, actually.'



He doesn’t say that out loud,

Because he can’t tell Bruce. Once Bruce connects the dots, once he realizes the curse was done by blood magic, then he would know almost immediately what Dick had done. 

That’s lesson one in Blood Magic 101: to sever a blood-bound spell, the caster must die.


Constantine downs the rest of his drink. Doesn’t meet Bruce’s eyes.

'God, the kid got me lying to Batman, correction attempting to lie to Batman.' 

Constantine clears his throat, stalling for time the way only a seasoned bullshitter can. He sets the glass down with unnecessary care and gives Bruce a sideways look—half-bored, half-irritated, all deflection.

"Nightwing informed me that he was stuck in the loop for three hundred days, what took so long? How did you stop it?" 

Constantine doesn’t flinch. Not outwardly. But inside, some part of him wants to mutter a prayer in Enochian and disappear into a crack in the floorboards. Because he knows what Bruce is asking. Knows what he's really asking. Why did it take that long? Why didn’t you fix it faster? What the hell happened in there?

So Constantine does what he’s always done best: lies.
But like all his best lies, it starts with a kernel of truth.

He exhales, slow and heavy, cigarette burning down between his fingers like a fuse.
“We didn’t even know it was a loop, at first,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “Not properly. The bastard who cast it didn’t exactly leave a user manual.”

He grabs the bottle again. Doesn’t pour. Just holds it. Lets the silence stretch.
“First few cycles were all static and screaming. Time collapsing, reforming—no pattern. It wasn’t like Groundhog Day, mate. More like Event Horizon.”

Bruce says nothing. But Constantine can feel the weight of his stare. Expectant. Measuring.

“We had to work it out backwards. Every time it reset, he remembered more—I didn’t. Not at first. I was outside the loop most of the time, but the spillover? Ugly. Pieces of the loop bled into me when he brought me in. Time’s a funny thing when it’s been rewound that many times.”

Another drag. Another second bought.

“And the sorcerer—he wasn’t just casting a loop. He was feeding off it. Every cycle made him stronger. A parasitic feedback loop. You don’t just kill something like that. You’ve got to starve it.”

Bruce tilts his head a fraction. “Starve it how?”

Constantine shrugs, playing it off like it’s all academic. “Disrupt the energy pattern. Break the repetition. Turn the loop against itself. Took a few hundred days of trial and error. Dick had to find the right moment, the right emotional angle—everything had to align perfectly. One misstep, and it all reset.”

He lets that sit. It’s plausible. Vague enough to sound like mysticism, complicated enough to discourage follow-ups, and filled with just enough truth to keep the Bat from biting too hard.

But still—Bruce. He’s not just a detective. He’s the detective. Constantine can feel him sorting through the words like a codebreaker. Looking for cracks.

“And the symptoms?” Bruce asks. “The heat. The cold. The... changes.”

Constantine grimaces. “Residual magic. Lingering metaphysical feedback. Think of it like magical radiation. The longer you're in the loop, the more of it gets into your bones. Most of it’ll burn off. Eventually." 'Or never' 

That part’s not entirely false either. The problem is, in Dick’s case, it’s bond. Bloodbound, anchored to something Constantine really doesn’t want Bruce identifying.

He puts the bottle down, finally looks Bruce in the eye.

“He’ll stabilize. But he’s got to stay grounded. Familiar surroundings. People he trusts. Time’ll do the rest.”

Bruce stares at him for a long moment. Still. Silent. A storm held behind a mask.

Then he asks, quiet, deadly:
“You’re sure that’s all it is?”

And Constantine, lying bastard that he is, doesn’t even blink.

“Yeah,” he says smoothly. “That’s all.”

The lie sits on his tongue like lead. But it doesn’t falter.

Constantine doesn’t relax. Not for a second. He’s danced with too many devils to think the Bat is one to just walk away satisfied. But for now—for now—he’s bought himself space.

Time.

A few more inches of breathing room before Bruce inevitably circles back and tears the truth out like a rot from the bone.

He flicks the ash into a sigil-etched dish on the counter and says, casual as hell, “If he starts speaking Latin in his sleep or levitating things with his temper, then you call me. Until then? Let the kid breathe. Time loops are bastards." 

Bruce lingers a moment longer. Then, with a brush of his cape and a slow pivot, he turns toward the door.

He stops in the frame. Doesn’t look back.

“If I find out you’re holding something back,” he says, voice low, “we’ll have another conversation.”

Constantine smiles with just enough teeth to be dangerous.

“Oh, I’d count on it, mate.”

The door shuts. The Gotham chill slips out with him.

Constantine slumps back against the counter like someone cut a wire. He stares into the smoke curling off the cigarette and mutters to himself.

“God help me, I just fed Batman a pile of mystic horseshit and he bought it...I think,"

He exhales long and low, and reaches for the bottle.

“Next round’s on you, Grayson. And it better be 
top shelf.”

_~~_ 

Bruce stands in front of the Batcomputer, still and silent as a gargoyle. The glow of twenty monitors flickers across his cowl. Alfred walks past, pauses, eyes him.

Bruce doesn't look away from the screen.

"Constantine tried to feed me some mystic horseshit," he says flatly, "and he thinks I bought it."

He reaches for a keyboard, typing with surgical precision.

Alfred blinks. 

Bruce pauses. A beat.

Then:
“He’s too confident. It’s suspicious. I don’t like it.”

Another beat.

"And a lot of things don't add up," 

"Every answer was vague. Too vague. He gave me just enough to chew on, hoping I wouldn’t notice the empty space around it. And the timeline? Doesn’t add up. Dick told me he spent nearly a year stuck in a loop. Constantine made it sound like it was just a long weekend."

He pauses. Narrowing his eyes.

“And that’s what bugs me the most,” Bruce muttered, his voice low but tightly wound. “John Constantine doesn’t downplay danger. Ever. If there’s a burning match in a locked room, he’ll tell you the whole building’s about to explode. He dramatizes everything—turns every haunted house into a hellmouth just to keep you twitchy and paranoid.”

He paused, exhaling sharply through his nose, frustration rippling beneath the calm exterior.

“So when someone like him starts minimizing a threat?” Bruce shook his head. “Downplaying it, brushing it off like a footnote instead of the headline? He's lying”

Alfred watched him carefully, eyes steady, hands clasped behind his back in that practiced stillness he’d honed over decades. “And what precisely do you suspect is being hidden?”

Bruce didn’t answer immediately, taking a thoughtful pause.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, the words falling out like they hurt. “And that’s what scares me. I don’t know.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “But I know Constantine. And I know when he’s lying. He’s definitely covering for Dick—protecting him. He doesn’t want me to dig. Doesn’t want me to ask the right questions.”

Alfred offered gently, “Perhaps Master Dick isn’t under magical influence. Perhaps what he’s experiencing is nothing more than trauma. The aftermath of surviving something no person—let alone someone so young—should have endured.”

Bruce shook his head almost instantly. “He is traumatized. That’s not even a question. His sleep’s a mess—erratic REM cycles, sudden shifts into wakefulness with adrenaline spikes. I’ve been tracking it all. His heart rate fluctuates wildly, particularly at night. PTSD, sure. But that’s not the part that doesn’t make sense.”

He stepped closer to the screen, pulling up a new file—Dick’s mri scan from weeks ago.

“It’s the stress cardiomyopathy,” Bruce said, voice low, clipped. He stood in front of the Batcomputer, barely illuminated by the soft glow of the monitors. His shoulders were tense beneath the armor, rigid as if bracing against a memory that still threatened to knock him over. “That’s part of it. One of the reasons.”

Alfred, quiet as ever, stood at a respectful distance—close enough to hear, far enough to give him space. Bruce rarely said when he was upset. He showed it—in the taut lines of his mouth, the way he kept his hands balled into fists or curled too tightly around his own wrists.

“Earlier this month,” Bruce continued, swallowing once, “he collapsed.”

He said it like he still didn’t believe it had happened.

The words echoed in the cave, soft but cutting. Bruce’s eyes flicked to the monitor briefly before he turned away, unable to look at it.

“In the ambulance, he flatlined.”
His voice lowered further.
“Five minutes. Forty-seven seconds.”

Alfred’s brow creased, subtle but sharp with concern.

“I wasn’t aware it was that long…”

Bruce nodded once, slow and deliberate.

“Five minutes and forty-seven seconds,” he repeated, jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. “I counted every one. I was in the ambulance. I was there...I remember that I stopped counting after five minutes or tried to...They were going to stop. The lead medic told me they’d done all they could. They were going to call it.”

His hand lifted, shaking slightly as he reached up and yanked the cowl from his head. He threw it down on the console beside him. It hit with a loud, flat clunk, the sound ringing in the silence.

“I begged them,” Bruce said, voice harsh and thin now. “Begged them to keep trying. I didn’t care what they had to do. Defibrillate him again. Try epinephrine. Chest compressions. Anything. Just do something.”

He didn’t speak for a long beat. The silence sat between them like a third presence—loud in its stillness.

“And then he came back,” Bruce said finally. His tone shifted—softer, stunned. “He woke up in the hospital hours later. No confusion. No slurred speech. No signs of cognitive trauma. The scans were clean. His EEG, his bloodwork, his vitals—everything. Just extreme fatigue. He slept, mostly. Slept for days. But after that?”

He looked up at Alfred, eyes distant, almost dazed.

“He was fine.”

There was no joy in his voice. Only disbelief.

“I’m grateful, Alfred,” he said, quieter now. The words came with effort, like pulling teeth. “I’m more grateful than I can ever explain. But it wasn’t right. It isn’t right. He was gone for nearly six minutes. Brain death begins after three. Even if they managed to get oxygen circulating early, there should’ve been something. Even mild hypoxia."

He turned away again, pressing his palms into the edge of the console, head bowed as if the memory was too heavy to carry upright.

“But there was nothing. No damage. No deficit. No trace of what happened.”

Alfred’s gaze was steady on him. “And that unsettles you.”

“Yes,” Bruce said flatly. “Because I don’t believe in miracles. Not in our world. Not when there’s magic involved. And especially not when John Constantine is skulking around like a con artist trying to sell you a demon-haunted clunker with a waxed hood and fake paperwork.”

Alfred’s mouth twitched—just slightly—but the weight of the moment stopped it from becoming a smile. Bruce was spiraling, and they both knew it.

“This,” Bruce muttered, gesturing at the screen. “It reminds me of Jason.”

The name dropped into the space like a stone in still water. Alfred’s back stiffened slightly. They both remembered.

“It was almost exactly a year ago,” Bruce said. “Jason was on a solo op. Got exposed to a nerve agent—fast-acting. He didn’t even have time to radio for help. Collapsed within minutes. Heart stopped. He flatlined.”

His voice grew hoarse, the memory raw. “For seven minutes.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, like that number still haunted him. When he opened them again, he was looking straight at Alfred.

“You were there. You and Leslie. You both told me to stop.”
His voice broke slightly, then steadied again. “Said there was nothing more we could do. But I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—listen. I kept going. Chest compressions. Emergency adrenaline. Everything.”

He inhaled slowly.

“And when he came back, I was scared. Not just relieved—scared. Terrified I’d brought him back wrong. That the damage would be permanent.”

Alfred’s voice was softer now. “But there was no damage,”

Bruce nodded.

“Because of the Lazarus Pit. That’s the difference. Jason isn’t… baseline anymore. He’s changed. His healing is unnatural. His body regenerates. He recovers from injuries faster than any baseline human could. 
He took a small step forward, the shadows gathering at his heels.

“So when we restarted his heart, the Pit did the rest. It corrected whatever damage was done.”

He turned fully now, locking eyes with Alfred. His voice was low, deliberate.

“Dick doesn’t have that. No Lazarus Pit. No alien biology. No healing factor. He’s just human.”

Then—quieter still—
“Or he was.”

The silence following that sentence was worse than anything Bruce had said. Heavy. Dense.

He picked up the coffee from Alfred’s tray but didn’t drink. Just held it, warming his hands against the ceramic like the act might ground him.

“Something changed, Alfred. Something occult."

He set the mug down, untouched.

“I don’t think it’s possession. Not exactly. There’s no evidence of that. But there’s something.”

He looked back at the monitor. His voice dropped.

Alfred’s voice came out in a hush.
“You think the thing that helped them escape… never left.”

Bruce nodded once, slow and solemn.

“Two nights ago, Dick had a nightmare. He came into my room.”
He hesitated. “He looked like he used to when he was little. Scared. Shaking. I put a hand on his forehead and he was burning up. I took his temperature—102.8.”

He paused, brow furrowed.
“That was the same night Crane hit me with that new strain. My memory’s hazy. But I remember that number.”

He rubbed his forehead, then dropped his hand.

“Fifteen minutes later, the fever was gone. Like it had never happened. No chills. No clamminess. No dehydration. No sweat on the sheets. He was just… asleep. Like it never happened at all.”

Bruce’s was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that came after disaster. The kind that felt like cold steel pressed against the back of your neck.

“Maybe I could have chalked it up to stress. A coincidence. Once. Maybe even twice. But it’s not just that. The anomalies are adding up. His vitals are flawless. His blood panels are textbook. But his behavior—”

“Isn’t,” Alfred finished softly.

Bruce didn’t confirm. He didn’t have to.

“He’s angry,” Bruce said. “All the time. Snaps at everything. And that’s not unheard of after trauma. But this… this is different. It’s sharper. More volatile. There’s no patience in him anymore.”

He began pacing again, slow and deliberate.

“He dropped a case he’d been working on for two weeks. Just abandoned it. Said he couldn’t find anything. That it was a dead end. But Dick doesn’t do that. If he hits a wall, he asks for help. Calls Barbara. Sends Tim a file. Loops me in.”

He stopped in front of Alfred.

“This time? Nothing. No handoff. No summary. Just... deletion. Like it never existed.”

Alfred frowned, troubled. “Do you think he’s trying to protect us from something?”

Bruce shook his head slowly.

“I think he’s trying to hide something. From us. From himself. And that case? It’s just the tip of it. Tim’s chasing the threads now. He’ll tell me what he finds. But I’m calling Zatanna tomorrow. If there’s something in him—something supernatural—I want her to see it. But I doubt I can convince Dick to come to the manor, so I'll just tell her the symptoms and use some of the cave's footage." 

He exhaled. His voice dropped to something almost bitter.

“Dick’s with the Titans right now, he didn't tell me why though."

Alfred looked at him steadily.
“He’s distancing himself.”

Bruce looked up—and his eyes were sharp now. Cold and sure.

“No,” he said.
“He’s distancing us from the truth.”

_~~_ 

The dream came in fragments, but the pain was whole.

A flicker of flame.
A scream not his own.
Blood—not just spilled, but boiled.
A voice chanting in reverse. A curse unraveling like a thread yanked from the seams of reality.
And in the center of it all: him—a version of himself he barely recognized, hands glowing, eyes ablaze, standing over what used to be a man.

Not a man anymore. Not after what Dick did to him.


He woke up choking on it.

His body snapped upright in bed, soaked in sweat, gasping. His hands—shaking. His breath—wild. And his eyes—

Red. Glowing. Crackling.

The room around him was dim, lights flickering. The air buzzed, thick with residual energy. The kind of pressure that made walls creak and glass hum.


Ohgodohgohgod 

He needed...

He needs Bruce,

He needs his dad! 

Why did he even leave in the first place?! Sure he would have been suspicious but... 

No leaving was the right choice...

But Goddamit he wants his Dad.

Dick dragged in a breath like it might help. It didn’t.

His phone was on the nightstand. Just there. Inches away.

He could call. He should call.

He could hear that voice and say nothing and still have everything he needed.

But his fingers didn’t move.

Because if he called, he’d never stop talking.

And if he talked, Bruce would know.

And if Bruce knew…

Then all of it—what Dick did, what he became—Bruce would only see a monster. 

So instead, he pressed his forehead to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut as he heard the door click open. 

Roy, one sock, flannel pajamas, bathrobe, and bedhead in all its ginger chaos, came rushing to his side like the room was on fire.

Which, honestly, was a fair assumption.

“Jesus, Rob,” Roy muttered, already kneeling beside the bed, voice rough with sleep and worry. 

Dick didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His breath was still shuddering in and out in broken hiccups, and his eyes—he could feel them glowing. Still flaring hot behind his eyelids like molten coals.

Roy didn’t seem to care.

He just sat on the edge of the bed, hands hovering for a moment before gently resting on Dick’s shoulders. His touch was firm, grounding.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Dick shook his head.

Roy didn’t push. He never did when it really mattered.
He just sat beside the bed, steady and quiet, letting Dick’s ragged breathing fill the silence. The air in the room felt too thick—too full of things unsaid.
Instead, Roy leaned in closer, voice dropping low and even, like a lifeline tossed across stormwater.
“It’s not real, okay? Whatever you saw—it’s not real anymore." Roy amended. "You’re here. You’re safe.”

But Dick couldn’t believe that.
Not yet.
Not when his body still remembered the fire under his skin, the weightless horror of dying and waking and looping and dying again. Not when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking and his lungs were still trying to remember how to work.
Not when he felt like a ghost haunting his own body.

Then came another voice—firmer, older, no-nonsense:
“Move.”

Donna.
Barefoot, hair tousled, face carved with sleep and fierce worry, she stepped into the room like a thunderclap wrapped in maternal wrath. Her tank top was rumpled pajama pants, but her eyes—sharp—were wide awake.

Roy shifted just in time for Donna Troy to cross the floor and kneel by Dick’s side. She didn’t ask. Didn’t speak. She just wrapped both arms around him and pulled him close like she used to do after nightmares when they were teens. 
And just like then, she held him.

That was all it took.

Dick shattered.

He choked on a sob, sharp and ugly, the sound tearing its way out of his chest before he could stop it. His fingers fisted in her shirt, white-knuckled. Magic flared hot under his skin—too bright, too loud—sending a heatwave through the air that shimmered like asphalt in summer. Donna didn’t flinch. She just tucked his head under her chin, heartbeat steady against his ear.

“Breathe,” she whispered. “You’re okay. We’ve got you.”

Footsteps pounded down the hall.

Victor was the first to appear, his face tight, scanning the room automatically. He wasn’t really part of the Titans anymore—Justice League, Watchtower comms, —but he was still here, had stayed because of Dick.

In his hands was a glass of water. Behind him hovered Rachel, eyes glowing faintly violet, dark energy already spilling into the room like smoke, wrapping around the panic like weighted arms.

Then came Garth, and Kori, and Wally, and Lilith—drawn like gravity toward the pain in the room.

That’s when Dick started crying harder.

He’d woken them all.
Every single one.


He buried his face in Donna’s shoulder, trying to muffle the sound, to stop it, to apologize, but all that came were broken gasps and ugly breaths and this sick, burning feeling like he didn’t deserve to be held like this.

“Shhh, it’s alright, Rob,” Roy murmured from somewhere close, voice warm and calm like a campfire.

But nothing felt alright.
Dick felt too young and too old all at once—like the circus boy, the child soldier, the grieving brother, and the haunted man were all fighting for space under the same skin. It was too much.

His body trembled, heat radiating from him like a furnace. His eyes glowed crimson, light flickering and strobing across the room like a warning beacon. His magic—wild and reactive—was crackling now, rising with his heart rate.

Victor crouched near the end of the bed, voice clinical but kind. “He’s hyperventilating. Magic’s responding to the spike in adrenaline. We need to get him somewhere cooler—less stimulus.”

“I’m fine,” Dick croaked. His first words since waking. “Just… a nightmare. I’ll get over it.”

No one called him on the lie.
They didn’t have to.

Victor’s look—steady, gentle, skeptical—said enough.

And then Donna moved.

Without a word, she slid her arms beneath him, cradling his knees and shoulders like he weighed no more than he had at fourteen. Dick didn’t resist. He just collapsed into her—arms clinging tight, face hidden in her collarbone. He smelled the laundry soap on her shirt, the lavender shampoo she always used, and for a second, he felt like a teenager again. A scared kid, held safe.

“Let’s get out of this oven of a room,” she murmured.

Roy flicked the light off behind them, and together they moved like a quiet procession—guardians around a fallen king. The Tower was still, humming faintly with nighttime energy. It was 3:12 a.m., and no one cared.

They passed through the halls like shadows, wordless, each footstep a comfort. Garth brushed a hand against his shoulder as they turned the corner. Lilith walked ahead, her soft psychic presence calming the air. Rachel floated behind them like a silent sentinel, magic dancing in her wake. Victor led with the quiet confidence of a man who had already scanned the room they were heading toward.

The common room was dim, warm from residual lighting, and familiar. It smelled like popcorn and old carpet and years of shared memories. Donna settled on the couch with Dick still curled in her arms. He didn’t let go.

“Movie?” Wally asked quietly, halfway to the shelf. “Comfort or chaos?”

“Comfort,” Kori said instantly, tugging the soft knit blanket from the back of the couch and draping it around Donna and Dick.

“Disney it is,” Roy said, already tapping the remote. “And I swear to god if you guys cry during Lilo & Stitch again—”

“You cried first,” Lilith muttered, lying flat beside Garth.

“I had allergies.”

“You sobbed.”

Rachel didn’t say anything. Just lifted her hand, and the TV flicked on with a soft pulse of light. She curled into the armchair nearest the couch, shadows rippling softly behind her like wings.

Victor placed the water on the table and sat down nearby, posture loose but alert. “Whenever you want it, Dick.”

But Dick didn’t reach for the glass.

He just stayed there—knees pulled close, body tucked under the blanket, head still tucked into Donna’s chest. His eyes remained open but distant, burning red fading… flickering…
And the red was gone.

Blue.

His eyes were blue again.

Wally sat on the floor at his feet. Kori settled behind the couch, her fingers weaving gently through his tangled hair. Garth passed out snacks without a word, careful not to disturb the hush. Roy sat beside Donna now, his arm draped behind her, not quite touching, just close. Ready.

Dick’s voice cracked in the quiet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Donna kissed the top of his head. “Stop that,” she said, voice firm. “You don’t apologize for needing us.”

“You’d do it for any of us,” Wally added gently. “You have done it. You always do. Now let us take care of our baby brother," 

Dick huffed—half-snort, half-sob. “Most of you are like… one, two, three years older than me. Rachel’s got me beat by five months.”

“Five months and three days,” Rachel corrected calmly from the armchair, her eyes still on the screen. “Not that I’m keeping track.”

That actually made Dick huff a little laugh. It was shaky, worn around the edges, but real. He didn’t lift his head, didn’t shift from Donna’s hold, but the sound alone cracked the tension in the room like light through fog.

Dick exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him like the release of something long-held and brittle—half exhaustion, half gratitude, all tangled in the fragile quiet of three a.m. It wasn’t dramatic or loud, just a small, human sound that spoke volumes. 

He slumped deeper into Donna’s embrace, the blanket slipping farther over his shoulders, weight and warmth pressing in gently, grounding him. The tremors in his limbs had faded now, leaving behind a lingering soreness in his chest, like the echo of a storm. His skin was cooler too, the fevered glow and red shimmer of raw magic finally dimming to something soft and still. No more sparks at his fingertips. No more wild heat in his breath. Just the thud of his heart, slowing bit by bit.

“I don’t deserve you guys,” he murmured, barely louder than a breath, his voice frayed around the edges. “It’s been hard. I’ve been… difficult. And a very emotionally unstable asshole.”

There was a beat of silence before Roy chimed in, deadpan: “Well, you were once an emotionally repressed asshole.”

A light smack landed on his shoulder—Donna’s doing. Around the room, there was a collective groan.

“Roy,” Lilith hissed, her tone more exasperated than scolding.

Roy raised both hands in exaggerated surrender, smirking but not pushing. “What? I’m just saying he’s evolved. That’s growth.”


A small, strangled laugh escaped from Dick, the sound muffled against Donna’s shoulder. It was rough, broken, but real—cutting through the heavy air like sunlight. The others heard it, and something loosened across the room. Shoulders unclenched. Breaths were let out. The kind of unspoken, collective exhale.

Donna leaned her cheek against the top of Dick’s head, her voice low and steady. “In all seriousness though, we see you, Rob. Not just the mission. You. The stubborn, scared, messy, human parts, too. And we’re not going anywhere.”

From the floor, Wally lifted a hand in a lazy half-salute. “And hey, even if you keep being an asshole, at least you’ve got a whole support squad lined up to knock some sense into you. Group rate and everything.”

That earned another round of chuckles, quieter this time, but genuine. The warmth threaded through the room again—not the heat of crisis, but the low, steady kind that came from safety. From home.

Dick shifted slightly in Donna’s arms, just enough to lift his head. His eyes were still rimmed with exhaustion, red still lingering faintly around the irises, but the blue had returned—clear and real and his. He looked around the room at all of them and let out a breath that trembled just a little less than the one before.

“Thanks,” he rasped, voice rough with fatigue but thick with sincerity. “For not giving up on me. For staying. Even when I start glowing like a nightlight from hell.”

A few more laughs followed, softer now, mingling with the sound of the movie still playing in the background and the occasional rustle of a blanket or whisper of movement. No one pulled away. No one left.

And Dick, for the first time in what felt like days, weeks, maybe longer, let go.

And he was so, so tired.

Lilith watched him from the floor, her legs crossed, her back pressed against the couch where Garth had already begun to nod off. She didn’t speak right away, just observed—her gaze soft but focused, not intruding, just present. Her powers didn’t need flashy gestures or spoken words to work; her empathy had always been quieter than that. Deeper.

She could feel it in him—the heavy swirl of grief and fear and guilt that still clung like smoke. Quieter now, but not gone. Just buried beneath the weight of the blanket and the safety of Donna’s arms. Still buzzing faintly behind his ribcage like the ghost of a scream.

So, she moved gently.

Lilith got up and stepped closer, kneeling beside the couch with slow, measured movements, like approaching a wounded animal. She reached out, one hand resting lightly on Dick’s knee—not forcing, just offering.

“Can I help?” she asked, her voice hushed, shaped to fit the hush of the room.

Dick blinked slowly at her, the effort of lifting his head again too much, so he just gave the smallest nod. Barely a twitch. This wasn't the first time that she has aided him with sleep, making his rest dreamless when nightmare were just unbearable.  

Lilith offered a quiet, understanding smile, one that didn’t ask for more than he could give. She didn’t need words to know how deep the exhaustion ran, or how many nights he’d fought sleep out of fear of what waited behind his eyes. She had seen it before—in glimpses of twisted memory, in flinches he didn’t think anyone noticed, in the way he sometimes stared too long at nothing at all.

She shifted closer and placed her hand gently against his temple, her thumb brushing just behind his ear. Not invasive. Not demanding. Just enough to touch the edges of his mind—where the raw places were, where fear still curled like ash in the corners. Her power reached out like a balm: cool, calm, and utterly quiet. It didn’t erase his pain—couldn’t—but it wrapped around it, softened it, and offered his mind the first true silence it had known in weeks.

A tension he hadn’t even known he was still holding bled out of him in a shuddering exhale. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing his cheeks.

Lilith’s presence deepened the quiet around him, like pulling a heavy curtain between his thoughts and the waking world. She coaxed his consciousness gently toward stillness, smoothing the sharp edges of memory and worry, damping the static that kept his nerves frayed and raw. This wasn’t a command—he could wake if he wanted—but it was *safe* now. His nightmares wouldn’t touch him here. Not tonight.

Donna felt it too, the way Dick’s weight finally went slack against her. Not in fear, not in guarded tension—but in trust. He wasn’t just resting now. He was sleeping.

Real sleep.

His breath had slowed, long and even. The kind of sleep the body begged for, but the soul often refused.

Lilith slowly withdrew her hand and sat back on her heels, careful not to disturb the stillness now blanketing the room. Donna adjusted slightly, shifting to cradle him more securely, her fingers threading through his hair in slow, rhythmic motions.

“He’s out,” Lilith whispered, voice just barely audible.

“Thank God,” Donna murmured.

They all stayed quiet for a beat longer, as if afraid to break the spell. Even Roy kept his usual snark in check, glancing at Dick’s sleeping form and then away, blinking a little too much.

Wally tugged a nearby throw pillow under his head and mumbled, “We should all crash here. It’s way too late to go anywhere.”

No one disagreed.

Blankets were pulled tighter. The volume on the movie dipped lower. The world outside that room could wait.

For now, they were just… here. Together. Watching over one of their own.

And Dick, curled safe and still between 
them, finally—finally—slept.

_~~_ 

Rachel jolted awake, her forehead slamming into something solid. Pain bloomed instantly.

She winced, hissing softly and cradling her head in her hands.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, voice rough from sleep.

Above her, Vic stirred, blinking slowly down at her from where he sat on the couch. One of his metal knees was the unfortunate culprit. His expression was somewhere between confused and concerned, one eyebrow raised.

“You good?” he asked, voice low but steady.

“Fine,” she said too quickly. Her tone was thin, brittle—like glass right before it shatters. She didn’t meet his eyes.

The common area had gone dim in the time she’d been out. The soft flicker of the TV screen had long since shifted into the idle movement of a screensaver: abstract shapes drifting lazily in pastel tones across a black background. Gentle light danced on the walls, just enough to illuminate the scene like a dream.

Kori lay sprawled on the carpet, her vibrant hair a curtain over her face. She was snoring softly, curled toward Wally, who had managed to wrap himself in a blanket halfway through the night, the edge of it tossed lazily over his head.

Garth had rolled onto his side, hugging a throw pillow to his chest. Lilith had slumped down lower against the base of the couch, her body twisted at an odd angle, one arm stretched out across the floor.

Donna hadn’t moved.

And nestled close against her, Dick lay still, blanketed and breathing in slow, rhythmic exhales. The blanket rose and fell over his back with each one—calm. Measured. Peaceful in a way that seemed almost sacred.

Rachel could feel it. That fragile peace. Like a soap bubble—real but weightless, shimmering faintly with something that might vanish if touched. She didn’t dare look too long.

With a deep, silent sigh, she pushed herself up from the floor. Her limbs protested the movement, stiff with sleep and something older—something rooted in her bones. The fatigue she carried wasn’t just physical. It was grief. Fear. The echo of too many sleepless nights with thoughts loud enough to shake the walls of her mind.

Vic watched her as she moved toward the kitchen, but said nothing. He was like that—solid, steady, offering his presence like a quiet lighthouse. No judgment. No pressure.

Rachel padded on bare feet across the cool floor, mindful not to wake the others. The soft hum of the refrigerator became the loudest thing in the room. She opened it slowly, letting the pale blue light wash over her. It was too cold. She didn’t mind.

She reached for a water bottle on the door shelf, unscrewed the cap with a soft click, and drank. The water was cold, clean. It helped clear her throat but did nothing for the ache in her chest.

She stood there, motionless, bathed in refrigerator light, staring at nothing. The weight in her chest was rising. Like something pressing against the inside of her ribs—too big, too much.

She wanted to cry.
She wanted to scream—the images of her friend’s, her brother-in-all-but-blood’s, mind still in her head. She had seen mostly everything that day when they were at the manor. Dick finding his brothers. Bruce dead. Him looking down from the tallest building in Gotham—the first time to end it all without breaking his code, the other times to relieve himself from seeing his family die.

And the final day.

When Dick was tortured. Fingernails ripped out. The way he collided into a wall and...

That monster touched him. Raped him—because it used its telepathic abilities to learn that Dick was afraid of this happening again. Which meant this had happened before.

And with that thing's guard was down, he got an opening. Punched the monster in the face and used that dagger—the magic tainting him—as he dismembered, as he cut through flesh so angrily, so desperately trying to ensure that it was over.

And after that? Dick still couldn't catch a damn break.

He had side effects... or more so, a symbiotic relationship with the lingering magic. His reflexes were a bit faster. Possibly he was a bit stronger. He definitely had a healing factor. (You can’t be clinically dead for five minutes or more without there being some damage.) And there was no guarantee that it would fade.

Honestly, she didn’t see that happening. He was exposed to that kind of magic for almost a year.

A shift of movement behind her startled her—but it was just Vic. He’d joined her at the fridge, now leaning against the opposite counter, arms folded. His eyes were soft but sharp, taking in everything.

Rachel didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

The silence stretched.

Finally, she broke it.
“The others will be up in a few. It’s around six now.”

Victor shook his head.
“Doubt it. I honestly see them sleeping in till about ten-ish. Dick definitely past noon. The kid hasn’t slept this good in weeks—well, probably months to him.”

Rachel managed a small smile at that. It didn’t reach her eyes, but it was something.
“Good,” she said, voice still hushed. “He deserves to sleep.”

Vic nodded, but didn’t speak right away. He was letting her set the pace. Always did. It was something she appreciated more than she could say.

She leaned her shoulder against the fridge, gripping the water bottle loosely now.

“Really, Vic, I’m fine.”

“That’s what Lilith said last night too,” he replied. “And don’t think we haven’t noticed that the two of you have been getting just as much sleep as Rob—which is, like, an hour every three days.”

She stayed silent for a moment, biting her lip.

“Look,” Victor paused, looking away from her for a second. “You and Lilith are the only ones who have seen exactly what he’s done. The thought of Dick killing anyone—even in the act of self-defense—is just enough to shatter us. You both saw it. You don’t have to pretend to be okay.”

Rachel swallowed hard, throat tightening. Her fingers gripped the bottle tighter, knuckles paling.

“I saw more than that,” she whispered.
“So much more... what drove him to do it in the end. Vic, it was awful.”

Victor didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, rooted like bedrock—solid, unshaken, letting her speak without interruption.

Rachel looked down at the floor, blinking hard. Her voice cracked as she kept going.

“It was already eating him alive. Everything—losing Bruce, thinking the boys were dead, the helplessness, the failure he felt. That thing didn’t just torture him, Vic. It studied him. Dug around in his mind like it was a map, just to find the one thing that would break him fastest.”

She paused, blinking back fresh tears.

“And it found that. Found the fear he buried so deep he didn’t even tell Bruce about it. Because it had already happened once. And it happened again.”

Victor’s voice was barely a whisper.
“What happened, Rae?”

“It isn’t my place to tell... I can’t,” she sighed.

“It’s affecting me,” Rachel said, barely above a breath. Her fingers tightened around the water bottle until the plastic creaked softly. “Of course it is. I basically put myself in his shoes. His perspective. I lived it with him.”

Her eyes were still on the floor, but her voice shook now—like it was cracking open from the inside out.

“But that doesn’t make what he experienced mine. Maybe talking about it would help in a way,” she murmured, her voice fraying like fabric worn too thin, “but it also feels… wrong. Like I’d be peeling open wounds that aren’t mine to touch. Like I’d be betraying him, somehow.”

Victor gave a quiet nod, stepping away from the counter and gently taking the water bottle from her trembling fingers. He set it down on the counter, then pulled her into a hug without a word.

Rachel stiffened at first, then slowly, slowly melted into it—shoulders trembling as the tears finally came.

She honestly hated crying. It felt like a waste of time—like bleeding for no reason when the damage was already done. It didn’t fix anything. Didn’t undo the pain.

And yet…She couldn’t stop.

Chapter Text

The first thing Dick became aware of was the quiet.

Not the kind of silence that came with emptiness, but the soft, warm kind. The hush that blanketed the Tower at dusk, when the sun filtered orange through the windows and the air was still. Somewhere distant, the waves lapped against the island shore in a steady rhythm. Faint. Gentle.

The second thing he noticed was Lilith’s presence.

She sat in a nearby armchair, a blanket draped around her shoulders like a cape, legs tucked beneath her as she quietly flipped through a book. Her psychic signature was calm—grounded. She always carried that feeling, like a stone in a river. Solid. Unshaken.

He shifted slightly, the blanket over his chest slipping down his shoulder.

Immediately, Lilith looked up. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice a note of familiarity in the quiet.

Dick blinked at her, groggy. “...What time is it?”

“Almost five.”

His eyes widened slightly. “In the morning?”

“Evening.”

That took a second to compute. He hadn’t meant to sleep that long. It had felt like ten minutes. Maybe.
His body ached less, though—muscles less coiled, breath easier. That small, constant tightness in his chest had loosened just enough to feel strange without it.

“You slept hard,” Lilith added, gently closing her book. “Like… honest-to-god, dead-to-the-world sleep. We didn’t wake you.”

“We?”

“The others were here. Everyone camped out last night.”

He didn’t respond to that right away. He sat up slowly, stretching, letting the blanket fall into his lap. His shirt clung faintly with sweat. Head fuzzy. Stomach hollow.

“Where are the others?” he finally asked.

“Out on a call,” Lilith said, reaching for a thermos and handing it to him.
“Doctor Light showed up again near the bridge. It was wise that I stayed behind. I was keeping you from dreaming. Oh and Garth's here too." 

“All night, Lilith—?”

“You needed real rest. Not the kind where you wake up more tired than when you started. I could feel it—the nightmares trying to creep in. So I kept them out.”

He blinked, lips parting slightly as the words sank in. “You didn’t have to do that. That means you got little to no sleep—”

“Dick, I haven’t been sleeping. Can’t sleep. It was really nothing.”

Dick bit his lip. Lilith didn’t really get nightmares.
Well… they all did, at one point or another—but Lilith, a bit less.

God.

Oh God, it was because of him.

His memories. When he had projected them.

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

Lilith didn’t answer right away. Her eyes dropped to the blanket still gathered in her lap, fingers absently fidgeting with the fringe.

“Lilith.”

She looked up slowly, and there was no use pretending in front of him. Her expression was soft, but honest. Tired. No masks.

“I didn’t mean to,” Dick said, voice rough. “When I projected—when it happened—I didn’t even know I was doing it. I didn’t know you saw that much.”

“I know,” she said gently. “And I didn’t mean to see it all. But once it started, I couldn’t pull back. You were practically screaming it, Dick. Every piece of it. Your body was still here, but your mind was stuck—trapped in that moment like it was happening again.”

He closed his eyes. Shame twisted in his gut like something alive.

“I didn’t want anyone to know what happened,” he murmured. “Not like that.”

“I know that too,” she said, her voice quiet and unwavering. “But it doesn’t change that I do. That I felt it. And I’m not sorry I stayed.”

Dick turned away.

His voice was rough. Hollow.

“What exactly did you see?”

Lilith exhaled slowly, the sound soft but heavy.

“I saw... enough,” she said carefully. “More than I ever wanted to. More than anyone should have to.”

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t move. Just stared down at his hands in his lap, like maybe if he focused hard enough, he could will them into being someone else's.

Someone cleaner.

Lilith continued, her voice steady even as her fingers gripped the blanket tighter.

“I saw what that thing did to you. I saw how it broke you down—how it knew exactly where to cut. Not just physically. Psychically. It tore into you with precision.”

She hesitated, and when she spoke again, her voice dropped lower.

“ I saw what he made you relive. The memories he forced up to the surface just to twist them, use them. I saw the moment you snapped. When you killed him.”

Dick flinched like she'd slapped him. He turned his face further from her, but it didn’t matter.

The shame had already bled through the room like smoke under a door.

Lilith didn’t stop.

“I saw the rage. The pain. The terror. But more than that—I saw why. Why it happened. Why you couldn’t stop.”

A beat of silence.

"You saw--" 

"Dick I saw everything that happened that night, Rae saw a bit more--But I felt everything including the guilt that you feel," 

Then she added, softer this time, “You were already bleeding before you ever laid hands on him, Dick. That wasn’t murder.”

“No,” Dick croaked, shaking his head. “No, I could’ve—should’ve—stopped. That wasn’t who I’m supposed to be. I’ve never—never—taken a life. Not even when I had every reason.”

“You had more than reason,” Lilith said. “You had nothing left. He made sure of that.”

Dick’s shoulders hunched forward. He scrubbed a hand over his face like he wanted to wipe himself out of existence. The guilt radiated off him in waves.

“I remember it,” he whispered. “I remember his blood. How it felt on my hands. Hot. Alive. Like it wanted to stay there.”

Lilith stood.

She crossed the short distance between them, and instead of reaching for his hand, she knelt in front of him. Eye to eye.

“You were backed into a corner. Blood magic only breaks when the caster is dead.” Her voice didn’t waver.
“That wasn’t a fight you walked into, Dick. That was an execution chamber. And he made sure you knew it.”

Dick’s breath hitched.

“You didn’t kill him for vengeance. You killed him because he left you no choice.”

“But I still did it,” Dick said angrily, because why don’t they understand?

He’s a monster.

In the end, there was no escaping killing him—but the dismembering? The stabbing he did eighty-seven times?

“I still crossed the line!” His eyes flashed red, burning.

“I didn’t just stop him,” Dick rasped. “I destroyed him. Tore him apart. I didn’t just cross the line—I ran over it. Laughing.”

He gritted his teeth, his whole body shaking now.

“Eighty-seven times. That’s how many times I stabbed him. I counted. And I couldn’t stop.”

Lilith didn’t flinch.

She stayed still. Grounded. A steady point in the storm.

“I wanted to,” he said. “Somewhere in my head, I was screaming to stop. But my hands—”
He looked down at them again, like they might still be stained.
“They wouldn’t listen. I don’t even remember making the choice. It was just... happening. Over and over.”

“Because he broke you first,” Lilith said firmly. “He dismantled your mind, your identity, your control. You weren’t you in that moment. You were what he shaped you into. That wasn’t you crossing the line. That was you trying to claw your way out of the pit he threw you in.”

“I felt relief,” Dick whispered, like it hurt to admit. “When he stopped moving. I felt relief. What kind of person feels that?”

“A person who was being tortured,” she said immediately. “A person who had no escape, no rescue, and no hope left except survival.”

Dick shook his head. “No. No, I can’t just excuse this like it was out of my hands. That’s how monsters are made, Lilith. That’s how people like him justify it.”

“You are not him.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do!” she snapped, the psychic pressure in the room cracking for a moment before she steadied herself. Garth now entered to room, having heard the elevated voices but Lilith continued as if he wasn't there, maybe she didn't notice him at all.

Her voice came softer now, but still full of that rare fire Lilith only showed when she was fighting for something that mattered.

“Because I was there, Dick. I felt what you felt. And it wasn’t evil. It wasn’t hate. It was agony.”

Dick stared at her. Breathing ragged.

“You didn’t kill because you wanted power. You didn’t kill because it gave you satisfaction. You killed because it was the only way to survive what he did to you.”

“But that doesn’t bring him back,” Dick said bitterly. “It doesn’t unmake what I did.”

“No,” Lilith agreed. “But it also doesn’t make you what you’re afraid you are.”

“It’s all over the news! Bruce has a file on it—it’s classified as murder! I covered my tracks purposely to make the case go cold... I should’ve turned myself in—”

Garth cut him off, “Dick, you do not belong in prison. It was self-defense.”

“Garth—”

“I saw it, Dick. Me and Rae—we felt it.” Lilith added.

Lilith’s voice was firmer now, layered with quiet authority, her eyes locked on his. “We know what it was. That man didn’t die in a fair fight. He didn’t even die in battle. He dragged you into his mind, stripped you bare, and forced you to relive every trauma you ever endured until you snapped. And even then, he kept going.”

She paused, her voice gentling.

“You didn’t hide what you did because you were guilty. You hid it because you were ashamed. Because you think pain only matters when it’s borne in silence.
But Dick—shame isn’t proof of guilt. It’s a scar. And you are covered in them.”

Dick let out a soft, broken sound. He dropped his face into his hands—and this time, he didn’t try to hide the shake in his shoulders.

“I felt your horror,” Lilith whispered. “Your revulsion. Even after it was over—when the chains were gone, the spell broken—your first thought wasn’t victory. It was fear. You were terrified of what you’d done. Of what it meant.”

She reached out then. Not pushing, not prying—just resting her hand lightly on his knee.

“Do you really think that’s how monsters feel, Dick?”

He didn’t answer.

But the silence was heavy with tremors.

Her voice softened again, barely more than breath.

“I’m not asking you to forget. Or even to forgive yourself. I’m just asking you to stop believing the worst about yourself. Because that man made sure to break every mirror you ever had. And you’ve been looking at the shards ever since, thinking they show the truth.”

Dick slowly looked up at her.

Red-rimmed eyes, lashes wet.

But underneath the pain—beneath the guilt and horror and grief—there was something else. Something small. Something flickering.

A question.

What if she’s right?

But he didn’t believe it.

Not yet.

And his body made that clear—his grief, sadness, and anger refused to leave. The war still raged behind his ribs.

His eyes still glowed crimson.

There was still this rage, not at Garth or Lilith no, never them but at himself. 

Garth watched him for a long, quiet moment, his expression carved in concern and something deeper—recognition. Then he glanced at Lilith, who gave a small nod, silent understanding passing between them.

“Okay,” Garth said gently, stepping forward. “That’s enough penance for one afternoon.”

Dick blinked up at him, confused. His face was blotched with tears, his hands still trembling slightly where they rested in his lap. He looked wrecked—body hunched in on itself like he was bracing for another blow that never came.

Garth crouched in front of him. 
“You need to take a shower,” Garth said, voice low but firm.

Dick gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Really, Garth? Now’s the time?”

“Yes,” Garth said, with the patience of someone who’d waited too long already. “Right now. Because your body is screaming for you to do something—anything—to feel grounded again. And this?” He gestured lightly to the sofa, the hunched shoulders, the broken posture. “This isn’t working.”

Dick opened his mouth to argue, but Garth beat him to it.

“You can’t wash away what happened. No one’s asking you to. But  you haven’t eaten. You haven’t slept right in days. Take care of yourself”



Lilith stood then, silent as a shadow, and walked to the bathroom. They heard the quiet turn of the faucet, the sound of water hitting tile. When she came back, her gaze was steady, unyielding in its gentleness.

“It’ll help,” she said. “Not everything. Not forever. But maybe just enough to get you through the next hour.”

Dick stared between them, hollow-eyed and torn. He wanted to argue. Wanted to tell them he didn’t deserve hot water. Comfort. Care. Not after what he’d done.

But no words came.


He stood slowly, like every joint hurt. His movements were sluggish, bones soaked in molasses, guilt dragging him down like gravity turned cruel. He paused at the threshold of the bathroom, hand on the frame like it might hold him up.

Then he went in. Closed the door behind him. Turned the water on.

Eventually, the red would fade from Dick’s eyes.

But not yet.

First, he had to let it burn.

_~~_ 

The mission had been a nightmare stitched together from blood, smoke, and screams.

A smuggling ring in Blüdhaven—standard enough, at first. But the Suicide goddamn Squad showed up and that got annoying. Not impossible but annoying.

Tim took a knife between the ribs. Jason thought he might’ve cracked more than one. They barely made it out, staggering through the alleyways like survivors of something much worse than a fight.



By the time they reached the edge of the city, adrenaline had burned off, and they were left with nothing but pain and a cold, clinging sense of wrongness. There was only one place they knew they'd be safe enough to breathe for a minute.

Dick’s Blüdhaven safehouse.

Tim didn't even ask Dick. Normally they do, but Dick always says yes, especially when he is out of town like he is now. So Tim just punched in the code and stumbled inside, already cradling his injured arm. The lights came on with a low hum—too sterile, too bright—and for a moment, both of them froze in the doorway. The air smelled of mint and something fainter beneath it—something cold and clinical. Like steel washed too clean. Like blood that had been bleached away.

“God,” Tim muttered, limping in and kicking the door shut behind him. “Why does this place always smell like grief and mouthwash?”

Jason stepped in behind him, slower, breathing a little too hard. “Because Dick’s the kind of guy who sterilizes trauma and leaves it mint-flavored.” He grimaced, clutching his side as he moved toward the couch. “Christ. Remind me again why the Suicide Squad needed to show up?”

“Because Waller’s a control freak with a God complex,” Tim grunted, making a beeline for the kitchen cabinet. “And apparently the smugglers were sitting on some kind of alien-tech magical hybrid that definitely didn’t look that complicated in the file.”

“‘Low risk retrieval,’” Jason quoted sarcastically, lowering himself onto the couch like an old man. “Remember when we thought that meant actual low risk? Not getting stabbed by a guy with twelve tongues and half a brain?”

“You got off easy,” Tim said, peeling back his jacket to reveal the deep gash along his ribs. “Deadshot tried to ventilate my lung.”

“You made fun of his aim. What did you expect?”

“I expected to be right,” Tim muttered, hissing as he unzipped his suit.

They fell into a familiar rhythm—patching each other up with the unspoken understanding of brothers who’d seen too many wars and were still too young to be this tired. The first aid kits, perfectly arranged in labeled drawers, made it easier. Of course Dick would stock everything from sutures to painkillers to artisanal gauze.

“Man's got more Neosporin than a field hospital,” Jason said, taping up Tim’s shoulder.

“And more movies than Blockbuster in ‘99,” Tim replied with a smirk.

It was true. Dick hated streaming services—he claimed ads pulled you out of the experience, even with premium accounts. Every one of his safehouses had the same setup: old DVD racks, a few collector’s edition Blu-rays, and—because he was a dinosaur at heart—a working VCR and a box of VHS tapes.

Normally, the crate sat next to the TV. But Tim had already flipped through those, and most were classics they’d watched a dozen times on long stakeouts. Die Hard. Training Tapes. The Last Unicorn. (Don’t ask.)

So, when Jason sprawled on the couch with an ice pack under his shirt and Tim got bored of channel-surfing through static, they started poking around. Out of pure boredom and painkillers.

The crate wasn’t near the entertainment center.

It was under the bed.

“Seriously?” Jason muttered, dragging it out. “Did he hide these?”

“Maybe they’re embarrassing,” Tim offered, flipping open the lid. “Like opera recordings. Or his musical phase.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Dick had a musical phase?”

“Don’t make me pull up his old YouTube,” Tim warned.

They rummaged through the tapes—some were labeled with faded Sharpie: CHASE CAM 03. UNARMED DRILLS. DISNEY: DO NOT MOCK ME. They snorted, passed the time.

And then—Tim’s hand brushed something tucked behind the crate, between it and the wall.

It was a VHS. Unlabeled.

No dust.

No stickers.

Not even a title written in pen.
“…Weird,” Tim said, frowning. “Why would he hide an unlabeled one behind the box?”

"Adult film?" 

Tim narrowed his eyes, "This is Dick we are talking about,"

Jason grinned, despite the bruise blooming across his jaw. “Hey, even Boy Wonder has needs.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and he catalogues them alphabetically. If this was porn, it’d be in a ziplock with color-coded tabs.”

Jason barked a laugh that turned into a grimace. “Ow—okay, maybe don’t make me laugh. Pretty sure my ribs are knitting themselves back together with spite.”

Tim held the tape up again, turning it over in his hands. It wasn’t heavy, but there was something about it—something… still. The kind of silence you feel in your chest. Like breath held too long.

He looked at the VCR. Then at Jason.

“…Only one way to find out,” he said.

Jason leaned back on the couch, boots propped on the edge of the coffee table. “This is how horror movies start.”

“We already live in one.”

“Fair point.”

The tape slid into the machine with a slow, mechanical whir. The screen flickered—static, then black. And then—

A hallway. Narrow. Distorted. The edges of the frame warped, like the camera lens was swelling and retracting in slow, pulsing breaths. The walls were stained and sagging, warped with water damage. Light flickered above, more like an electric seizure than illumination.

No sound. Just that dead, weightless hum of old tape.

Jason straightened. “Is this…?”

Tim’s voice was low. “The apartment. The case I'm currently working on," 

And the rest...the rest was awful. 

The footage cut.

Now they were inside.

The camera shook—just slightly. As if the person holding it couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t stop trembling. The frame caught glimpses of blood, smeared like handprints along the wall. Scratches in the paint. Deep. Violent. Desperate.

Then it found him.

Dick.

He was chained to the floor. His arms yanked above his head, wrists raw and slick with blood. His fingers were broken—angled the wrong way, knuckles purple and split. Some nails were missing entirely. Others hung loose, torn up from the quick.

He managed to get free, only for the sorcerer, who's face is plastered all over the news for being a victim, was clearly very much the villain as well as a telepath or just used magic to slam Dick into different walls, 

Then the opposite wall.

Then the ceiling.

Then the floor.

Over and over.

And as if it couldn't get any worse... 

That monster touched him, raped him. There was no sound, and that only made it more horrifying, Jason was just about to rip the tape out until Dick got free, holding a dagger that glowed red in his hands, and his eyes were that same color. 

It was brutal.
God, it was brutal.

Eighty-seven stab wounds.

The tape showed them all.

Each plunge of the dagger was deliberate. Mechanical. Exorcistic.

The sorcerer tried to crawl away—arm dragging behind him, mouth opening to scream. But no sound came. Not even from him. Just that blank, dead hum.

Eyes gouged out.

A flick of the blade—two bright splashes of black-red on the wall. The camera shook with it.

Left hand—gone.
Severed at the wrist.

Right hand—worse.
Each finger twisted free, one after another. Not hacked. Removed.

Jason looked away. Covered his mouth. He was no stranger to death, to brutality—but this wasn’t punishment. It wasn’t justice.

It was rage.

Rage written in blood, in meat, in the geometry of pain.

It was overkill.
And yet it felt… earned.

The tape stuttered one final time, the camera lens flickering with red static as the blood pooled thick and dark beneath the mangled body.

And then—

It was quiet again.

Dick dropped the dagger.

It clattered to the floor, its glow fading immediately—as if it had been feeding off him.

He fell to his knees.
Shaking. Shuddering. Covered in gore.

His eyes—still glowing—were wide, vacant.
Not triumphant. Not even relieved.

Just lost.

Like he didn’t know who he was anymore.
Like something had been ripped out of him—and something else had been shoved in its place.

The tape rolled on a few seconds longer. The static creeping back. The screen beginning to buzz with black veins of distortion.

Jason stood up, staggering slightly.

Tim didn’t move.

The existence of this tape solved four things. 

1. Murder case is solved (yay?) 

2. Why Dick left Gotham. 

3. Why Dick dropped the case. 

4. Why the case went cold. (This is footage from a camera in the apartment, meaning Dick returned to the scene and also meaning that he tampered with evidence) 

Jason looked down. His hand hovered near the VCR eject button.

And that’s when they noticed it.

The tape.

It was glowing.

Faintly—just a rim of red light around the edge of the cassette slot. Like the heat bleed from cooling coals. But it was there.

And worse… it was getting brighter.

“Okay, nope,” Jason muttered, backing away. “This is some Necronomicon bullshit. We’re not playing with cursed media tonight.”

Tim’s voice came out too quietly. “It’s reacting. To what?”

“I don’t care what,” Jason snapped. “We need help. Real help.”

Tim’s eyes flicked to him, wide and haunted. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Jason nodded once.

“Constantine.”