Chapter Text
Dick had edited exactly three lines of his journal article before his back reminded him that existing was an act of rebellion.
On his screen was the PDF from hell:
Reviewer Comments — Major Revisions Required.
Reviewer 1 had been polite, helpful, and clearly knew what they were talking about.
Reviewer 3 had offered a few structural notes and even complimented the abstract.
Reviewer 2, on the other hand, hated joy.
“It is unclear what the author is attempting to argue, and frankly, the argument as written adds little to the existing discourse in this field.”
“Perhaps the author should consult standard undergraduate textbooks before submitting future work.”
“The entire Section 3 feels like it was written under duress.”
And then;
“This seems like the author is hand-waving around fundamental limitations in higher homotopy coherence, which invalidates the entire approach.”
Dick stared at that sentence for a full minute.
invalidates the entire approach.
He dragged his cursor down and started typing his response memo, hands slow and stiff on the keys.
While we understand the reviewer’s concern regarding coherence limitations, we respectfully note that the section in question builds on work by Lurie and Toën, and is internally consistent within the chosen model. We have added clarifying remarks to emphasize this structure.
He exhaled through his nose. Leaned back.
His spine immediately rebelled. Pain lit up from his back to his shoulder blades like a slow-moving wildfire. He winced, then slumped forward again and dropped his hand onto the desk with a dull thunk.
For a long moment, he just sat there, trying not to feel completely gutted.
His paper, built on his undergrad thesis, Topological Invariants in Higher-Dimensional Categories and Their Implications for Symmetry-Breaking Phenomena had already survived an arXiv preprint brawl, a relatively productive conference presentation, and a three-week email debate with a guy in the Netherlands who had very strong feelings about pointed model categories.
And now this.
A reviewer suggesting the work was invalid at its core.
His back throbbed like it was trying to crawl out of his body. The file blinked at him on the screen, cursor hovering in a margin note, as if waiting for him to come defend himself. Again. Always.
He stared.
Read the sentence again.
And, absurdly — suddenly — wanted to cry.
It felt so personal.
Because it was his work. And apparently, all of it was just… not good enough.
He stared at the blinking cursor. It pulsed like a heartbeat.
Dick let his head tip back. His chair creaked beneath him, and pain bloomed sharp and electric down his back.
He breathed through it. One slow inhale. One slower exhale.
And still, the pressure didn’t let up.
God, he was tired.
Tired of his body hurting. Tired of being the oldest sibling, the responsible one, the one with answers and backup plans. Tired of being perceived. Tired of pushing this boulder uphill only to have someone in a poorly formatted PDF tell him the entire thing added little to existing discourse.
His vision shimmered again. He wiped his eyes roughly with the heel of his palm and let the feeling sit there, unspoken. A quiet grief.
He could walk Reviewer 2 through every step if they let him. Map the topology of his model in neat diagrams, anchor each abstraction with careful scaffolding, show how the failure of one symmetry didn’t collapse the whole structure, only twisted it into something more elegant. His model worked. He knew it.
But knowing didn’t mean the doubt didn’t claw at the edges.
Maybe it always would. Imposter syndrome was strong in academia after all.
The cursor blinked again. His spine ached like a he had swallowed a knife and it was now cutting through his back.
He should get out. Wheel around the estate. Feel the breeze against his face. Let his body loosen and his brain unfurl from this knotted place. He knew the steps. He’d even told Jason and Tim the same thing a dozen times. Touch grass. Reset your nervous system. Unhook your ego from the work.
But…
The paragraph was halfway done.
The note in the margin still sat there like a bruise.
And he wanted it over. Finished. Filed away.
The grief stayed.
And then—his phone pinged.
The sound startled him more than it should have. He blinked, rubbed at the corner of one eye, and reached over to where his phone sat face down on the desk.
A message from his research supervisor.
Reviewer 2 was nasty. Don’t let it get to you. Let me know if you need to talk.
Dick stared at the text.
Just stared.
Something in his chest cracked open a little, fragile and aching. A thread of reminder that he wasn’t alone in this. That someone else saw what he saw in those lines.
Cruelty dressed as peer review.
He inhaled.
And exhaled.
Fuck reviewer 2.
Then he started typing.
thank you for the reminder, it was much needed. i’m addressing some of the comments and writing the memo now. will send it over once I’m done.
His supervisor replied almost immediately.
No rush, take some time to let it settle. Getting your first article out there is always rough. I remember questioning everything in mine. It’s part of the process, even if it sucks. You’re doing great. Seriously, let me know if you need to talk through anything.
It wasn’t much. But it was enough.
Enough to feel like someone else understood what it meant to put your heart and soul into a paper and have it sent back with blood-red edits.
Dick shut his laptop with a quiet click and let it sit there.
He would take the advice. Let it rest. Come back to it when he could look at the comments without feeling like someone had taken a scalpel to his spine and called it peer review.
Speaking of spine—
He exhaled sharply through his nose, pain arcing down his back like a live wire. His whole body felt like it was holding in a sigh that never quite came out.
He picked up his phone and sent a quick text to Dr. Morales:
hey, sorry to bug you, but my back is killing me again. is there any way i could drop in soon?
The reply came a minute later:
Come in tomorrow if you can swing it. Morning slot only.
Dick checked his schedule. There wasn’t anything that couldn’t wait.
okay. thanks. see you in the morning.
Then, he texted his supervisor:
just wanted to let you know that i’m taking medical leave for tomorrow.
It took a few minutes, but the reply came:
Understood. Are you alright? Do you need anything?
Dr. Laurence Delaney was in his seventies; gray-haired, sharp-eyed, and perpetually unimpressed. He’d been on the verge of retiring from academia for good when he read Dick’s undergraduate dissertation proposal.
Then, he put his retirement on hold and felt excitement he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Said Dick reminded him of someone he used to know. Never said who.
Now, three years later, he was still in the department, grumbling through faculty meetings and turning down speaker invites, determined to see Dick through to the end of his PhD before he let himself walk away for real.
Mental health disclosures had been part of the application process for wanting to write a dissertation. Dick had been honest about his spinal injury, about the PTSD, about needing flexibility sometimes, though he promised it wouldn’t get in the way of the work.
He’d sent the email to Dr. Laurence Delaney along with a rough proposal for his undergrad thesis. He’d even offered an out, acknowledging Delaney’s reputation, his looming retirement, and the reality that mentoring someone like him might be too much of an ask.
Delaney had replied within the day.
Didn’t comment on the apology. Didn’t flinch at the disclosures. Just said the proposed thesis was the most original thing he’d read all year, and no one else in the department would know what to do with it. Then asked when Dick could come by to talk ideas.
He’d taken one look at the proposed thesis topic—category-theoretic interpretations of topological field phenomena through higher-dimensional symmetry breaking—and decided retirement could wait.
He had friends from the army. He understood the shape of old injuries, even if they came from different wars.
And when they finally met in person, he just asked,
“In-person or online meetings work better for you, son?”
And that was that.
Dick stared at the message from his supervisor for a long second, then typed back:
i’m okay. my back is just hurting more than usual. thank you, please don’t worry. i’ll send the memo when i’m in better shape.
Another reply came a few minutes later:
You’re allowed to have days. The paper can wait. Rest well as needed.
Dick stared at the screen until the words blurred. Then he placed the phone down on the table, leaned back in his chair with a slow wince, and let the silence hold him for a while.
Eventually, he rolled himself out of the study and into the manor’s main living space, where the chaos was already well underway. Jason and Damian were working with the other kids on the water filtration project.
Steve the peacock wandered the room with the authority of a god, tail half-fanned, visiting each group to collect offerings in the form of admiration. When he spotted Dick, he immediately trotted over and stood expectantly.
Dick offered him a tired smile and reached down to gently stroke his head.
“Hi, Steve,” he murmured.
Steve let out a soft trill, clearly pleased. Then, having accepted his tribute, he wandered off again.
Dick turned and rolled toward the side door, bypassing the busyness inside. The moment he cracked it open, a rush of cold air swept through him, slicing sharp across his spine. His back screamed in protest.
Before he could even register the thought—it’s cold—the magic blanket materialized out of thin air. It wrapped around his shoulders with perfect precision.
“…Thanks,” Dick muttered.
The blanket, if a blanket could preen, preened.
Wrapped in warmth, he made his way across the estate grounds toward the garden, moving slowly over the paved path until he came to a stop in front of the central fountain.
The water fell in soft arcs, smooth and rhythmic, catching the last bits of daylight. The sound of it—falling, breaking, starting again—echoed gently in the air.
Dick watched it.
Watched the cycle: the drop, the break, the return. Again and again.
And he breathed. Not better. Not worse.
Just—breathed.
Jason appeared behind him, boots crunching lightly on the gravel. He didn’t say anything at first—just stood there, hands in his pockets, watching Dick stare at the fountain.
“…You good?” he asked eventually.
Dick didn’t look back. Just hummed.
Jason made a face. “Okay, yeah, no. I don’t speak Hummish. Try again, in actual words.”
Dick sighed. “Just tired.”
Jason snorted. “Yeah, no shit. You look like a corpse someone put in a hoodie.”
Dick tilted his head slightly, deadpan. “Thanks a lot.”
Jason shrugged. “Anytime. Now go lie down before I tattle on you to Alfred.”
Dick’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
Jason didn’t push further. Just moved a little closer and stood beside him, silent now, both of them watching the water move.
Dick murmured, “Water is beautiful.”
Jason glanced sideways. “Okay. What’s going on.”
“Nothing,” Dick said. “Just… isn’t it amazing how it falls? Like, you can see gravity. You can see a force. But a fish, living in water, would never recognize it. Not visually. Just like we can’t see air.”
Jason squinted. “Are you having a stroke?”
Dick sighed. “No, Jason.”
“Because I’ve heard you wax poetic before, but this feels dangerously close to you having a breakdown.”
Dick gave him a look. “Let me have one (1) moment of existential beauty without getting roasted.”
Jason snorted. “No can do, Captain Neurosis.”
Dick huffed a laugh. “I hate you.”
Jason nudged his shoulder with the ease of someone who’s known him too long. “Love you too, weirdo. But seriously—you need to rest.”
“I am resting,” Dick muttered.
Jason gave him a long look. “You’re staring at water and having an existential crisis.”
“Hm.”
“There it is again. The Dick Grayson Language of Hummish. I’m going to go ahead and translate that as ‘Yes, Jason, you’re absolutely right and very smart.’”
“Asshole.”
Jason grinned. “Yeah, yeah. Go lie down. Your whole body’s locked up like a rusty hinge, and I can tell. Which means it’s hurting you BAD.”
Dick didn’t respond right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the fountain, the soft sound of falling water filling the quiet.
“It’s not going to make much of a difference, you know,” he said at last. “And I’d rather sit here listening to water than listening to my own thoughts.”
Jason’s grin faded, just a little.
But before he could say anything, somewhere in the not-so-distant distance, there was a sound.
A giggle.
A distinctly high-pitched, breathy, startled-laugh giggle.
Dick blinked. Froze.
His eyes narrowed.
“…Was that Tim,” he said slowly, like it physically pained him to ask, “giggling?”
Jason looked equally alarmed. “Like—like a high school rom-com giggle?”
They turned, slowly, in perfect unison.
From around the side of the hedge, the faint murmur of voices drifted in, accompanied by another half-giggle and a snort.
“Okay,” Dick muttered. “Now I have to know.”
“Yup,” Jason agreed. “We’re committing to the bit.”
Wheelchair and booted feet moved together in stealthy tandem, slipping around the corner with all the grace of trained spies—or, more accurately, two nosy older brothers with nothing better to do.
They peeked past the edge of the ivy-covered wall.
There, near the rose trellis, stood Tim Drake.
Laughing.
Blushing.
Talking.
To Stephanie Brown.
Jason’s eyebrows shot up. “They’re a thing now? Finally?”
“I am both proud and concerned,” Dick murmured. “Should I be concerned?”
“You were having an existential crisis about water three minutes ago,” Jason replied. “I don’t think you have the capacity for any more concerns.”
“Water is beautiful,” Dick said defensively.
Jason gave him a look. “Sure. If it helps you sleep, just keep telling yourself that.”
They both watched as Tim awkwardly tucked a strand of hair behind his own ear instead of hers, and Stephanie laughed like it was the most charming thing she’d ever seen.
Jason made a dramatic gagging sound. “I think I just got a cavity.”
“Do we have to talk to him about this?”
Jason was already pulling out his phone. “Nah. I’m just gonna blackmail him with photos later.”
Dick blinked at him. “That’s healthy.”
Jason grinned. “We’re a healthy family.”
Jason held his phone up like a sniper with a camera lens. “Okay, they’re talking. Tim’s still fidgeting with his hands like he’s confessing a war crime. And Steph’s... oh my god, she’s smiling like she likes him.”
“She does like him. I think,” Dick whispered.
“Says the man who once emotionally imploded after Wally made him soup.”
“It was very good soup,” Dick hissed back.
Jason shook his head. “You’re both terrifying. Between the emotional monologues and the heart-eyes, you’ve ruined me. I think I’ve aged out of romance permanently.”
Dick smirked. “Please. You were born a 40-year-old man in a leather jacket.”
Jason shrugged. “Or maybe I just missed the memo where everyone else decided they were into all this romantic chaos. I never really... got it. Y’know?”
Dick blinked, “You mean you’re not—?”
Jason waved him off with an eye-roll and a smirk, but there was no real deflection in it. Just honesty. “I mean I like people. I just don’t want to date them. Or kiss them. Or deal with their feelings. Especially their feelings.”
Dick, quiet: “Got it.”
Jason gave him a sideways glance. “Still disgusting, though. You and Wally. Actual menace to society and young kids too naïve to know what’s going on.”
They crouched lower as the voices carried a little more clearly through the hedge.
Tim: “Okay, but if you could pick any crossover ship at Comic Con, what would it be?”
Steph: “Easy. Sailor Mars and Wolverine. Unhinged rage meets quiet judgment. Instant fireworks.”
Tim laughed. “That’s chaos. That’s like dangerous.”
Steph: “You had the audacity to ask. And what about you?”
Tim: “...Don’t laugh.”
Steph leaned closer. “Oh, I’m absolutely going to laugh.”
Tim: “Mercury and Loki.”
Steph stared. “...You mean yourself and chaos incarnate.”
Tim, immediately red: “Shut up.”
Steph: “Oh my god—you totally see yourself as Mercury, don’t you?”
Tim, burying his face in his hands: “This was a mistake.”
Jason elbowed Dick. “I told you he was emotionally committed to the Mercury thing.”
Dick whispered, “This is the best thing I’ve seen all week.”
Back by the rose trellis, Steph’s voice dropped softer. “Hey. I meant what I said earlier, y’know. You were really great this weekend. With Bart and Cass. And the live streams. And—Tim, you were.”
Tim, flustered: “I kind of ruined the tire moment, though.”
Steph: “You had a highway heart-to-heart that made TikTok cry. And Cass said it was ‘emotionally valid,’ which is basically sainthood.”
Tim rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking away. “I just didn’t want Dick to think he failed.”
Steph smiled gently. “He doesn’t. You made sure he knew that.”
Jason quietly muttered, “Okay, now I’m getting cavities.”
They fell into silence for a moment, still crouched in the bushes like overgrown raccoons.
Dick looked down at his hands in his lap, expression unreadable—shoulders tense, breath just a little too shallow.
Jason turned toward him. “Hey. You okay?”
Dick blinked once. Then gave a quiet, tired smile. “Yeah,” he said softly.
And without another word, he turned drove his wheelchair back toward the manor.
Jason stared after him, still half-hidden behind the hedge, frowning. “…Huh,” he muttered. “Okay. That’s not a yes.”
He straightened, brushing stray leaves off his hoodie as he exhaled.
“Cool. Alone time o’clock for dear old Dickie.”