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Dick’s baby brother was dead.
And that was all he could think about.
It clung to him like a second skin, suffocating and unyielding. The words echoed in his head, over and over, a relentless drumbeat that shattered every attempt to think of anything else. Jason was gone. Jason was gone. Gone in the way that left you hollow and raw, bleeding out in places no one could see.
The weight of it pressed down on his chest, constricting his lungs until breathing felt impossible
The walls of the cave felt too close, the air thick and stale. Somewhere nearby, the computer hummed softly, oblivious to the gaping wound that had torn through their family. Bruce was standing by the console, his back rigid, face a cold, impenetrable mask. Alfred hovered near the medbay, his usual composure strained at the edges.
And Dick?
Dick was drowning.
His chest heaved as he tried to breathe through the suffocating weight pressing down on him. The room swam in front of his eyes, and for a moment, he thought he might pass out. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t fall apart—not here, not now.
Except Jason was dead.
And it was his fault.
The thought sliced through him, sharp and unforgiving. He should have been there. He should have called Jason back, should have checked in more, should have done something. Maybe then Jason wouldn’t have been alone. Maybe then he wouldn’t have faced the Joker by himself. Maybe then—
“Master Dick,” Alfred’s voice cut through the fog, gentle but firm. “You need to sit down.”
“I’m fine,” Dick lied, the words scraping against his throat.
“You most certainly are not.” Alfred’s eyes softened, but there was a resolve beneath them that brooked no argument. “Please, sit.”
Dick wanted to argue, to push back and insist he was fine. But his legs betrayed him, trembling beneath his weight. He collapsed onto the nearest chair, his head dropping into his hands. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, and he clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.
“I should have been there,” he whispered. The confession tasted bitter on his tongue. “I should have—”
“Don’t.” Alfred’s voice was gentle but firm. “Do not carry the burden of what-ifs. It will only destroy you.”
Destroy him? Dick was already in pieces.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but it was a mistake. Images flashed behind his eyelids—Jason’s cocky grin, the way his eyes sparkled with mischief, the stubborn tilt of his chin when he refused to back down. And then, unbidden, the image shifted. Blood. Bruises. Jason’s body broken and lifeless.
A choked sound escaped Dick’s throat, and he pressed his fist against his mouth to keep from screaming.
“I promised him I’d always have his back,” Dick said hoarsely. “I promised him.”
Alfred knelt in front of him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “You loved him, Master Dick. And he knew that. Hold onto that, if nothing else.”
Love. The word twisted in Dick’s chest like a knife. Love hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t saved Jason.
A sudden movement drew Dick’s attention. Bruce was still standing by the computer, his face a mask of stone. But Dick knew better. He knew the man beneath the cowl—the one who would rather die than show weakness. And right now, Bruce was shattering in silence.
Dick’s stomach twisted with a toxic blend of anger and sorrow. Bruce hadn’t said a word since he’d called Dick earlier. Not one. No acknowledgment, no grief, no rage—nothing.
“How can you just stand there?” Dick’s voice was raw, trembling with barely restrained fury. “Jason’s dead, and you’re acting like—like it’s just another mission gone wrong.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.
“Say something,” Dick demanded, rising to his feet. “Anything.”
Silence.
Dick’s fists clenched at his sides. “He was your son, Bruce! He looked up to you! And now he’s gone, and you—” His voice broke. “You don’t even care.”
Bruce’s shoulders tensed, but still, he said nothing.
The rage that had been simmering beneath Dick’s skin boiled over. “You’re a coward,” he spat. “You don’t feel anything, do you? You never have.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and damning.
Bruce turned slowly, his eyes dark with something that looked almost like pain. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t do this.”
Dick laughed bitterly. “Do what? Hold you accountable for once? You always act like you’re the only one who can carry the weight of this city. But guess what, Bruce? You’re not. And maybe if you’d let someone in—if you’d let Jason in—he wouldn’t be dead.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Dick regretted them. But it was too late.
Bruce flinched, just barely, but it was enough.
“I—” Dick’s voice faltered. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did,” Bruce said quietly.
The raw truth of it hung between them, jagged and unyielding. Dick’s chest heaved, and he felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
“I can’t do this,” he whispered. “I can’t—”
And then he was moving, shoving past Bruce and Alfred, his legs carrying him out of the cave, out of the Manor. The cold night air hit him like a slap, but it wasn’t enough to clear the chaos in his head.
The city stretched out before him, a labyrinth of lights and shadows. He didn’t know where he was going—he just needed to get away. Away from the suffocating silence of the cave, away from Bruce’s stoic indifference, away from the crushing weight of his guilt.
His Little Wing was dead.
And Dick was still breathing.
He didn’t know how to live with
He hadn’t planned on getting drunk.
It just sort of happened.
One drink turned into two. Two turned into four. After that, he lost count.
The bottle of whiskey sat empty on the floor of his apartment, discarded like the mess he’d made of himself. The apartment was dark, save for the dim yellow light bleeding through the window from the streetlamps below. His head swam, heavy and disoriented, but that was good. The numbing haze dulled the jagged edges of his thoughts—the ones that had been slicing him open for days.
Jason was still dead.
No amount of alcohol could drown that out.
His laugh was bitter as he stumbled to his feet, swaying dangerously. He caught himself on the edge of the couch, breath hitching in his throat. The room tilted, and for a second, he thought he might fall. But he didn’t.
Of course, he didn’t.
He was Dick Grayson. He always caught himself—always performed the perfect save.
But what was the point of that now?
The silence pressed in around him, suffocating and absolute. His head throbbed, his mouth tasted like ash, and his chest felt like it was caving in. He needed air.
The elevator ride to the roof was a blur. He barely remembered the cold press of the button or the way the doors slid shut behind him. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the mechanical hum.
And then he was there.
The wind bit at his face as he stepped onto the roof. The city stretched out beneath him—lights flickering like distant stars, cars weaving through the streets like blood through veins.
It was beautiful. And it was empty.
Dick’s legs carried him to the edge before he could think better of it. His heart raced, pounding against his ribs as he stared down at the dizzying drop below.
If he just tipped a little further over the ledge, he could join them.
Jason.
His parents.
The last of the Flying Graysons dead by a fall.
Oh, wasn’t that ironic?
He closed his eyes, the wind whipping through his hair. His breath came in shallow gasps, and for a moment, he imagined what it would feel like—to let go. To fall one last time.
Would it hurt? Or would it be like flying?
His chest tightened, and a strangled sound escaped his throat. He was so tired. God, he was so tired of pretending he was okay. Of carrying the weight of everyone else’s grief while his own crushed him from the inside out.
“Dick!”
The voice cut through the fog in his head, sharp and urgent.
He flinched, his eyes snapping open. The world tilted dangerously as he swayed on the edge, and for a heart-stopping second, he thought he might actually fall.
But then there were hands on him—strong, steady hands yanking him back from the brink.
“Jesus, Dick!” Wally’s voice was breathless, filled with panic and relief. “What the hell are you doing?”
Dick stumbled as Wally pulled him away from the ledge. His legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the cold concrete, shaking violently.
“I—” His voice broke. “I wasn’t—”
“You weren’t what? Gonna jump?” Wally’s voice was raw, his face pale beneath the flickering rooftop lights. “Don’t lie to me, man. I saw you.”
Dick looked away, shame clawing at his throat.
Wally sank down next to him, his breath coming in harsh gasps. “Bruce called me,” he admitted after a moment. “He said he was worried about you. Said you haven’t answered your phone for three days.”
Of course, Bruce had said something.
Dick laughed bitterly. “Guess he cares now, huh?”
Wally’s jaw tightened. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Dick’s voice was hoarse. “State the obvious?”
“You’re not the only one who’s hurting.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Dick’s vision blurred, and he pressed his hands against his face, trying to hold himself together.
“I can’t do it, Wally,” he whispered. “I can’t—” His breath hitched. “Jason’s dead, and I can’t—”
“I know.” Wally’s voice was thick with emotion. “God, I know, man. But this? This isn’t the way.”
Dick’s shoulders shook as the dam broke. Sobs wracked his body, raw and unrelenting. All the grief, guilt, and rage he’d been holding in came spilling out, and Wally was there, steady and unflinching.
“I was supposed to protect him,” Dick choked out. “He was my baby brother, and I let him die.”
“Dick, no,” Wally said fiercely. “You didn’t let anything happen. That wasn’t your fault.”
“I should have been there.”
“You can’t carry this alone,” Wally said, his voice cracking. “You hear me? You’re not alone. I’m here. Bruce is here—even if he sucks at showing it.” He gripped Dick’s shoulders tightly. “We need you, man. I need you.”
The words cut through the fog of despair, grounding Dick in a way he hadn’t felt in days.
Wally’s voice softened. “Jason wouldn’t want this.”
Dick squeezed his eyes shut. “I just miss him,” he whispered.
“I know,” Wally said quietly. “We all do.”
Silence settled between them, broken only by Dick’s ragged breathing.
Eventually, Wally spoke again. “Come on, man. Let’s get you inside.”
Dick didn’t have the strength to argue. He let Wally help him to his feet, his body trembling from the cold and exhaustion.
As they made their way back toward the elevator, Dick glanced over his shoulder at the ledge. The wind howled, but it no longer beckoned him.
Maybe it never would again.
And maybe, just maybe, that was okay.
The apartment was cold when they got back. Dick stumbled through the door, Wally keeping a firm hand on his elbow to steady him. The bitter chill of the rooftop clung to his skin, but it wasn’t just that. Grief had sunk into his bones, and no amount of warmth could drive it out.
Wally guided him to the couch, easing him down gently. "Stay put," he said softly, though his voice carried an unshakable authority. "I’m getting some stuff."
Dick barely registered the sound of Wally moving through the apartment—the tap of footsteps, the clink of a glass being set on the counter. His head throbbed, and his body felt heavy, weighed down by alcohol and anguish.
A moment later, Wally crouched in front of him, a glass of water in one hand and some ibuprofen in the other. "Here. Drink this."
Dick stared at the offering, his throat dry and raw. "Why are you doing this?" he rasped.
Wally’s eyes softened. "Because I care about you, dumbass. Now take the pills."
Too tired to argue, Dick did as he was told, grimacing as the water hit his empty stomach. Wally watched him like a hawk, making sure he swallowed everything.
“Alright,” Wally said, setting the glass aside. “Now we’re gonna get you cleaned up.”
Dick blinked, confused. “What?”
“You smell like a brewery and look like you got hit by a truck. Come on.” Wally tugged him to his feet, ignoring Dick’s half-hearted protests.
“I can do it myself,” Dick muttered, though even he didn’t sound convincing.
“Yeah, sure,” Wally said dryly. “Except you can barely stand right now.”
Dick wanted to argue, but his legs wobbled as Wally led him down the hall to the bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered to life, illuminating the haggard reflection in the mirror.
And it was a cruel thing to see.
He barely recognized himself. Dark circles framed his bloodshot eyes, and stubble shadowed his jaw, his hair a tangled mess. A faint cut traced his cheekbone, crusted with dried blood. His lip was split, though he couldn’t remember how that had happened.
Wally sighed, his expression softening. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”
He turned on the shower, adjusting the water until steam filled the room. Dick stared at the swirling mist, his chest tightening with an ache he couldn’t name.
“You gotta get in, man,” Wally prompted gently.
Dick hesitated, the thought of standing under the water feeling like too much. Everything felt like too much.
Wally seemed to sense his hesitation. “Hey, I’ll stay right here, okay? Just get in. One step at a time.”
Nodding numbly, Dick stripped off his sweat-stained clothes and stepped under the spray. The water was scalding, but he welcomed the sting. It felt like penance—like maybe it could wash away the guilt clinging to his skin.
He stood there, unmoving, as the water poured over him. His breath hitched, and before he could stop it, a sob tore from his throat.
Wally didn’t say anything. He just stayed on the other side of the shower curtain, his presence steady and grounding.
“You’re okay,” Wally said softly. “I got you.”
The words cracked something open inside Dick. The sobs came harder, wracking his body until he couldn’t tell where the water ended and his tears began.
By the time the tears subsided, Dick was trembling, his legs weak. Wally must have heard the change in his breathing because he spoke up again.
“You good to get out?”
Dick swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
The shower shut off, and Wally handed him a towel without a word. Dick dried off clumsily, his hands shaking, before wrapping the towel around his waist.
“Sit,” Wally instructed, gesturing to the closed toilet lid.
Dick obeyed, too drained to protest. Wally grabbed a first-aid kit from under the sink and knelt in front of him.
“You didn’t even notice this, did you?” Wally murmured, tilting Dick’s chin to inspect the cut on his cheek.
“No,” Dick admitted quietly.
Wally cleaned the wound with gentle efficiency, his brow furrowed in concentration. “You’re lucky it’s not deeper.”
Dick flinched as the antiseptic stung, but he didn’t complain. He barely registered the pain anymore.
“There,” Wally said, applying a bandage. “Good as new—well, mostly.”
Dick managed a weak laugh. “Thanks, Doc.”
“Anytime.”
Wally helped him to his feet and guided him back into the bedroom. Dick’s bed was unmade, the sheets tangled and wrinkled. A heavy weight settled in Dick’s chest at the sight. He hadn’t slept there since Jason’s death, instead passing out on the couch or not at all.
Wally dug through Dick’s dresser and pulled out a clean pair of sweatpants and a soft, worn T-shirt. “Put these on,” he said, tossing them onto the bed.
Dick stared at the clothes for a long moment before nodding. His movements were slow, but he managed to change without assistance. The fresh clothes felt foreign against his skin, but at least they weren’t soaked in sweat and whiskey.
“Teeth,” Wally reminded him, pointing toward the bathroom.
Dick sighed but complied, brushing his teeth with a mechanical precision. Wally waited in the doorway, arms crossed, as if making sure he didn’t skip any steps.
When Dick was finally back in the bedroom, Wally pulled back the covers. “Bedtime.”
Dick hesitated. The thought of lying in that bed, alone with his thoughts, made his stomach twist.
“Wally—”
“I’m staying,” Wally cut him off, his tone gentle but firm. “You’re not gonna be alone tonight.”
Dick’s throat tightened. He didn’t have the strength to argue. He climbed into bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. The sheets smelled clean, like detergent and faint traces of familiarity.
Wally pulled up a chair beside the bed, his expression resolute. “I’ll be right here, okay?”
Dick nodded, his voice catching. “Thanks.”
Silence settled over the room, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside. Dick’s eyes burned with exhaustion, but sleep felt elusive.
“I miss him,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“I know,” Wally said softly. “I miss him too.”
Dick’s chest ached, the weight of Jason’s absence pressing down on him. But for the first time in days, it didn’t feel unbearable.
Wally was there, solid and unwavering, anchoring him to the present.
Dick’s eyelids grew heavy, and despite the chaos in his mind, sleep finally claimed him.
The dream was vivid, achingly familiar.
They were on the slopes of a ski resort high in the mountains. A vacation Dick had taken Jason on, after begging Bruce for months that he was perfectly capable of caring for a fourteen-year-old for a weekend. The air was crisp and cold, filled with the sound of laughter and the swish of skis cutting through snow. The sun gleamed off the pristine white landscape, casting everything in a golden glow.
Jason was there, bundled up in a bright red ski jacket that was a size too big. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, and his grin was wide and contagious.
"Come on, Dick!" Jason called, waving his arms wildly. "You're so slow!"
Dick laughed, the sound warm and free in a way it hadn’t been for a long time. "Slow? I was waiting for you, short stack."
Jason scoffed. "Yeah, right. Bet I can beat you to the bottom!"
"You’re on, Little Wing."
Jason's grin turned mischievous. "Loser has to carry the other one’s skis back to the lodge."
"Deal."
Jason took off like a rocket, carving a path down the slope with reckless abandon. Dick followed, his heart pounding—not from fear, but from the sheer joy of the moment. The wind whipped through his hair, and the world blurred into a rush of white and blue.
Jason whooped loudly, his voice echoing across the mountains. Dick couldn’t help but smile.
By the time they reached the bottom, Jason was triumphant, throwing his arms in the air. "I win!"
Dick skidded to a stop beside him, laughing. "Fine, you win. But only because I let you."
"Yeah, sure," Jason teased, his eyes sparkling.
They stood there for a moment, catching their breath. The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the snow.
Jason's expression softened. "Thanks for taking me here, Dick."
Dick's chest tightened. "Anytime, Jay."
Jason nudged him with his shoulder. "You’re the best, you know that?"
Dick swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. "I miss you, Jay."
Jason's smile faltered for a second, but then he nodded, his voice steady. "I know. But I’m always with you, big brother. Always."
The dream began to blur, the colours fading into a soft haze.
Jason’s voice was the last thing Dick heard, gentle and sure.
"Keep flying, Dickie.“
Dick’s baby brother was dead. Nothing would ever change that.
But maybe—just maybe—he could keep flying for his Little Wing.