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Published:
2025-05-24
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1/1
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How does the bagel feel, Richard Grayson?

Summary:

CW for mentions of past canonical rape + sexual assault (Catalina Flores a.k.a Tarantula)

...

Dick slips into a dissociative state after it rains, and Bruce and the batfamily try to give him a bit of support.

...

'And he didn’t want to think about it today. It was inevitable, something he knew he was going to mull over the moment the first drop hit his head. That sticky sort of rain was worse than the cold, penetrating downpour that had him pinned to that roof all that time ago.'

Notes:

Again, CW for mentions of past rape + sexual assault. Nothing is explicitly described, but my suggestion is that if you are unsure on whether or not to read this, please do not. Take care of yourselves!

Note: this portrays a very idealistic version of the batfamily, in which they are all able to stay in the same room without the purpose being vigilante work. In essence, a semi-functioning family. Although, I will say that no one really besides Dick Grayson is heavily described or that involved in the storyline. I've done this part so I can focus on his dissociative headspace, and part because I don't want to risk writing the other characters incorrectly. This isn't centered around action or gritty interfamilial politics, so just pause any thoughts of 'x character could never tolerate y character' because for this fic, the mood is simple and the Wayne Manor is full.

Enjoy <3

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Dick peeled his soaked suit down to his waist, occupying himself with patching up a shallow cut over his ribs whilst the rest of his family were debriefing a few metres away from him.

“Need any help with that?” Tim had interrupted Bruce in the middle of a sentence, breaking everyone’s focus from the mission for a moment. It caused a shift in all of them to slowly change out of their suits as well - Jason shrugged off his heavy, squelching boots whilst Steph pushed wet strands of hair off her face.

“Nah, I’m fine. Go back to what you guys were doing.”

 

They all shrugged him off, but that’s what he wanted anyways. He wiped the cut clean with a disinfectant, passing the bottle over to Damian, who sustained a little nick over his brow.

 

Slapping on some gauze and wrapping himself up with a roll of bandages, he gave the rest of them a small wave as he sauntered towards the elevator that went to the house. Alfred was not going to be pleased with the wet footprints he was about to leave all over freshly cleaned carpeting.

In the corner of his eye, he caught his family’s busy expressions, already a few of them were reviewing cowl footage and planning their next outing. He would usually stay during these debriefs, even if he didn’t feel up to them. But, luckily there were enough people in the cave for his presence not to be sorely missed.

He slipped into his old bedroom, taking his time to shrug the rest of his Nightwing suit off and pat himself dry. Like a ritual, he checked his back with a mirror and the soles of his feet for anything amiss - finding no secret injuries. Perfect.

Putting on some sweatpants, he laid down into his bed. He had opted out of wearing a top - the bandages giving him enough warmth and comfort. Even though it had been raining, it wasn’t icy weather… more like a monsoon drizzle, humid in a way that made him feel gross.

And he didn’t want to think about it today. It was inevitable, something he knew he was going to mull over the moment the first drop hit his head. That sticky sort of rain was worse than the cold, penetrating downpour that had him pinned to that roof all that time ago. It was worse because after she was done with him, that initially cold water on his body was warm from friction - sweat and rain mixed into this disgusting heat that played across his skin in some sort of paradoxical way.

When it had happened, he had felt so far away, dreaming, almost. Yet afterwards, recalling bits and pieces of that moment brought about intense sensations, as if his body had felt everything that first time - her nails that gouged into his chest (not deep enough to leave scars, making him question why he still felt them), her hair stroking his cheek, the weight on his hips that left him feeling dizzy.

Dick hadn’t realised he was holding his breath this whole time. He let it out, eyes widening when out came a shaky exhale. Weird.

He needed to reassess his state, because usually if his breathing was out of control, so was his mind. All he was feeling right now, though, was slow and sluggish. His thoughts weren’t pleasant, obviously, but he wasn’t feeling panicked.

Did he come in contact with a drug? Maybe the goon who slashed him had coated his knife with something.

He honed in on his breathing again, wondering why he felt so detached from his own lungs, like he was listening to the swell of someone else’s breath instead.

Shallow. Slow. He wanted to do some breathing exercises, but his head was foggy and counting proved difficult when he wasn’t exactly sure on the duration of a second anymore.

Shit, he needed to get up. Maybe go down to the cave, swab and test his wound, shower, then re-wrap. A blood test, too, maybe?

His eyes rolled over to the door, willing his body to get up and make his way downstairs. Except… he didn’t. Or couldn’t?

His limbs felt heavy, or actually he didn’t really feel them. He didn’t feel it either when he managed to raise his hands in front of his face, staring at them with confusion. Why couldn’t he control them?

His arms remained hovered by his face for a bit. If only one of his hands would grab the edge of the bed and he could swing himself up.

Ah but no, his arms flopped back down besides him.

Maybe the phone on his bedside table would be useful, maybe he could ask someone to help him up. Fuck, he didn’t want anyone to worry over him though. They all needed their sleep.

He stared up at the ceiling for a while, then before he knew how or why, he was staring at a bloodied swab pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

Cave… in the Batcave. He turned to find no one there.

Bagging the swab, his trembling fingers pressed at his now-exposed cut (that he didn’t remember unwrapping) and waited for it to start scabbing over again. He didn’t bother wrapping it back up as he made his way to a microwave looking machine that would hopefully find something from the sample he placed inside. He knew if this was a poisoning, he needed to be running a full lab but he really couldn’t muster up the energy for that, or basic hand-eye coordination.

The machine would take a while, so he decided to shower off the shakiness. He went into the nearby stall, finding the last person’s mess still in there - mud prints and a single-use domino mask half hanging out the bin. It was fine, at least it served as a reminder as to where he was.

Home, not- not some shitty motel with Catalina joining him in the shower. Not giving him a moment to himself. Her hands washing his back as he faced the tiled wall, trying to ignore the scratchiness of her nails and how they inch further down, sliding forwards to wrap him into a low-waisted hug. Chin pressing into his neck from behind, breath hitting his neck.

The water turned cold, and he snapped back into reality for a moment - ok warm showers are a bad idea right now. Good thing whoever was here last exhausted most of the hot water.

 

He lathered his hands with soap and scrubbed himself, feeling it weird how one part of him was staring at a familiar tiled wall whilst another part of him was staring at himself from behind - like how she would have seen him.

He wasn’t sure how it was even possible for his own consciousness to project itself behind him. He didn’t want to think about it when a few possible answers lingered, fuzzy, at the back of his mind.

After an unidentifiable amount of time later, with some splotchy memories of getting dressed back into his sweats and putting on a spare black t-shirt lying around, he sat down.

The Batcomputer password - he couldn’t remember it. That sucked, considering the data from the machine could only be accessed from here.

Dick sat there for a while, the time displayed in front of him shifting from some time at five a.m to four hours later in a period of time that felt like minutes. He felt a hand press down on his right shoulder, which he would have usually jolted at.

Instead, his body refused to move. There was a muffled noise in his ears, but he didn’t so much as blink to it. Then an arm reached past his left ear and towards the keyboard.

Oh, that’s what the password was.

Whoever was typing at the keyboard by his lap (he wasn’t sure if it was someone else or his arms doing their own thing at this point) had opened up a notification all the way back from five a.m. It was a heavy metal panel and a few other things, all negative.

So, no poison.

Mind control was the next logical choice.

The chair he was sitting on swivelled, and his vision spun to Bruce. That explained why those typing hands looked bigger and hairier. He was in his pyjamas, which didn’t really make sense because he was pretty sure it was 9 a.m and Bruce Wayne was meant to be at work.

Bruce was mouthing something, and Dick really didn’t get why he couldn’t just speak the words instead of waiting for Dick to lipread. He opened his own mouth to share his thoughts, however the air simply sat on his tongue for a minute and he clicked his jaw close when he realised he really couldn’t formulate a single word.

Bruce mouthed something again, then before Dick knew, he was being helped up to a standing position.

His knees weren’t unstable, he could tell by the way he could actually walk. But, he couldn’t really feel them. It was like he was gliding - zero air resistance, kinda like zero gravity because he couldn’t discern the top and bottom halves of himself right now.

Bruce’s arm was wrapped around his shoulders, and just a little bit of that tactile contact fizzed through to his nerves. If he had to compare it with something, it was like when he got his wisdom teeth taken out and whilst he couldn’t feel his mouth swallowing water, he realised he’d been spilling some from the coldness he felt accrue on the neck of his shirt.

“Hey! You said no cave or work!”

Dick’s eyes flashed over to the familiar figure of Steph for a moment, and behind her were several of his siblings settled by the breakfast bar and adjacent couch. Impromptu rest day?

“No cave or work, I promise. I was just trying to find Dick, seeing as he wasn’t made aware of today’s rules.”

“Oh, makes sense.” She went back to scrolling on her phone whilst spooning breakfast into her mouth.

Another voice spoke up.
“He okay?”

Dick felt himself settle down on the couch. People were in his peripheral, and he was catching a few words at a time.

He drew his knees up and settled his chin into them, noticing the smell of Alfred’s attested brand of fabric softener.

“-needs a break-”

“-tox screen-”

“-looks out of it-”

“-should run labs-”

He recognised that last voice. Opening his mouth from where it was pressed against his knees, he let out the first word he could muster up in a muffled groan.

“...Thirsty.”

Tim came over to him with a glass, and he took a few moments to coordinate his hands. He only took a few sips, before handing the cup back.

Tim had an unreadable expression on his face. Or maybe it was just unreadable to Dick because of the flimsy mental state he was in.

Cass came soon after, trying to get him to sign something.

Dick did try a few times, if he was remembering correctly. After a while, he felt another wave of tiredness wash over him and he wrapped his arms around his propped up legs and buried his head back into his sweatpants.

It seemed like that wasn’t an option, as he felt a hand gently tug his arms from their hold. Unfair, considering this was apparently declared to be a rest day.

His legs were guided down as something got pushed into his lap; Bruce had given him a plate with half a bagel and some jam.

The man was crouched in front of him, handing the bagel into Dick’s fingers.

“Do you know what you’re holding, chum?”

Dick opened his mouth, voice coming out quiet, “Bagel.”

“And how does it feel?”

Weird question…

“...Smooth.”

“Good. What else?”

“Dry,” he licked his lips for a moment, finding the strength in his voice to be returning, “and soft.”

Bruce shifted for a moment, “You know that you’re ok, right? In the manor with us.”

Dick blinked.

He watched as Bruce’s calloused thumb pressed down on his numb face, swiping small and light and coming away with a dampness.

“I’m crying.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Oh.”

He pressed his face into his knees again, putting the plate in his lap to the side beforehand. His shoulders untensed from a guarded position he didn’t know he was holding this whole time. His knees started feeling damp, and a weight pressed into the couch, to his left.

“You’re ok, chum.”

A hand settled itself on top of his head, stirring up his hair slowly. It was different to how Cat would rake her fingers through his hair, through him. It was different.

“I’m ok?”

“You’re ok.”

Notes:

No big reveals, because not every situation warrants immediate interrogation. It's ok to comfort symptoms before the root of the issue is addressed.

Hope I made it into someone's comfort fic list. I admit, not that clear a comfort element here. You have to picture what's actually happening in the room, because Dick is only really processing bits and pieces.