Chapter Text
The hum of Dick’s laptop filled the quiet of his apartment. The blinds were drawn, casting soft gray light across the room, and the faint aroma of coffee—long gone cold—lingered on the table beside him. His chair creaked as he shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He wasn’t cold, not really. Just... bracing.
The League was working back at The Watchtower—he knew that. Clark had mentioned this morning that they were trying to reestablish contact with Ielnath’s planet, hoping to get answers or maybe—best case—a reversal. Dick hadn’t asked for updates. Not right now.
Right now, he was here. Staring at the Zoom waiting screen.
Your therapist will join shortly.
Donna was in the guest room. The door was shut, but he knew she was in there—her presence like a silent weight of reassurance. Or supervision. Babysitting. The constant stream of visitors—Wally with his terrible movies, Tim bringing takeout, Roy dropping by under the excuse of “borrowing coffee”—had been... appreciated. Even if they wouldn’t admit why they were there, and he wouldn’t call them on it. Now, though, it was just him.
And a stranger on a screen. The window flickered. A face appeared—middle-aged, kind eyes framed by thick glasses. Her voice was calm, practiced. “Hi, Richard? I’m Dr. Mercer. Good to meet you.”
“Dick,” he corrected automatically. His voice sounded rougher than he expected.
“Dick, then.” She smiled. “Thanks for making time today.”
He shrugged. “Figured it was worth a shot.”
They started with small talk—where he was from (“Here and there.”), what brought him to her (“Long story.”), and the usual intake questions. Her tone was gentle but professional, steering through the basics. He kept his answers clipped but polite.
Donna’s footsteps creaked faintly in the other room, then stilled.
For a few minutes, they exchanged small talk—discussing the weather, the appeal of certain coffee brands, and how Zoom lag made everything feel more awkward. Dick appreciated that she didn’t push right away, letting the conversation settle like sediment in water.
Then her expression shifted, gentle but purposeful. "So... I understand you’ve experienced some significant loss."
Dick’s fingers tightened around the edge of a pillow resting on his lap. He hadn’t realized he’d grabbed it. "Yeah," he said, keeping it short.
Dr. Mercer nodded, her voice careful. "When people carry that kind of weight, it manifests in all kinds of ways—guilt, grief, anger. And from what you described in your intake form... there's been exposure to violence and high-risk environments?"
"Yeah."
She paused, studying him—not intrusively, but with that practiced therapist’s gaze. "You were a first responder? Military?"
Dick blinked. That wasn’t unexpected; the cover was easy. "Something like that."
"That kind of work... it changes you. High stress, constant vigilance, loss of colleagues." She let the words linger. "Sometimes people who've served carry a lot of responsibility for things that were out of their control."
He gave a half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. If only you knew.
"I hear you," he said. "But sometimes things... were in my control. Or should’ve been."
Dr. Mercer inclined her head. "Can you tell me about one of those times?"
His breath caught. Not because he didn’t have options—but because there were too many. Faces swam up in his mind—Jason, Blüdhaven, people he couldn’t even name. His gaze drifted toward the window, city lights glittering beyond the glass.
"I don’t know where to start," he admitted.
"Then let's pick someone," she suggested gently. "Someone whose loss feels close right now. Not necessarily the biggest... just the loudest."
Donna, one room away, felt pretty close by right now. Dick exhaled slowly, “Okay. A few years ago-”
Dick sat on the couch, his hands restless in his lap. He could hear Donna moving around in the other room, and he could feel the tension in his chest growing tighter. He wasn’t ready for this conversation, but it felt like the moment was slipping away—he needed to talk to her, and he had to do it now. Before he lost the courage, before the words got stuck in his throat again.
When Donna finally emerged from the bedroom, he could tell she was just as nervous about the session as he was. Her casual step toward him, her smile so familiar—it only made everything more difficult.
"How did it go?" Donna asked, sitting beside him on the couch, her voice light. She shifted slightly, a quiet attempt to make him feel comfortable.
He couldn’t wait for her to make the first move this time. He couldn’t wait any longer.
"Donna," Dick said, his voice urgent and sharper than usual. "I need to talk to you about something. It’s… important."
He swallowed hard. She didn’t immediately speak, her face growing concerned. She was waiting for him to go on. And he needed to, because if he didn’t, he would never be able to make himself talk about it.
He didn’t give her a chance to speak, couldn’t bear it. "I saw you," he blurted out. His chest tightened as he spoke the words. "I saw you, Donna. In the restaurant."
The air in the room shifted. Donna froze for a second, her brows furrowing, but she didn’t interrupt him. He could feel her gaze on him, her eyes soft and wide, waiting for him to continue. And he did, even though it hurt more than anything.
"I saw your body," he repeated, his voice growing quieter, but the weight of it not lessening. "It haunts me, Donna. Sometimes I close my eyes, and it's like I’m right back there. That day you died- seeing you, lifeless on the ground. You died saving my life.”
He couldn’t help it—the words were tumbling out faster now, faster than he could catch them. His heart pounded in his chest as he continued, feeling the shame claw at him, wrapping around his throat. "I’ve blamed myself for it, for years. I should’ve done something. I should’ve been faster. I—"
"No," Donna’s voice was quiet but firm, and her hand reached out to gently touch his arm. "It wasn’t your fault, Dick."
He didn’t believe her. He couldn’t. Not yet.
He shook his head, trying to steady himself, his voice cracking as he spoke again. "I feel like... like you died because of me. Like I killed you. If I had just been better- I never should've put you in that position. I’ve lived with that for so long, and it’s eating me alive."
His breath hitched, and his chest constricted with the weight of his guilt. Every part of him wanted to say something else, to make it make sense, but there was nothing that would fix it. Nothing that would bring Donna back.
"I was standing there, just watching you. I couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything. And I keep seeing it. Over and over. Your blood… the way it soaked into the dirt. God, you should've just let it happen. Let me…. You never should have had to do that.”
Dick’s voice trailed off. His eyes were brimming with unshed tears, but he couldn’t bring himself to let them fall. Not yet. Not while she was sitting beside him, watching him crumble.
Donna stayed silent for a moment, her presence steady beside him. But then, without a word, she scooted closer to him on the couch. She reached out, pulling him toward her, and he went, collapsing into her arms, his body shaking slightly.
"Dick," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t kill me.."
Her words didn’t quite reach him at first, but as she held him closer, he let himself melt into her embrace. He needed this. Needed her.
"I made that choice," Donna continued, her voice soothing, gentle. "I made that choice to save you. It was the best choice I could’ve made. I would do it again, a million times over. Because you’re worth it. And I’m glad I made that choice, Dick. I’m glad you’re still here."
Dick’s tears finally fell then, silent and hot, rolling down his cheeks as he buried his face in her shoulder. He could feel Donna’s hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles as she whispered soft reassurances into his ear.
"I love you," Dick whispered through the sobs, his voice strained. "I love you so much. You're my best friend. I never figured out how to keep going without you."
Donna’s hold on him tightened, and she kissed the top of his head gently. "You don’t have to, Dick. I’m here- okay? I’m here and I’m not leaving.”
Dick shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his fingers tapping nervously against the armrest. He had gotten used to this—being here, sitting in front of his laptop, talking about things that were too complicated to process all at once. But today, it felt harder.
He swallowed, trying to find the right words, but they kept slipping away, like they always did when he tried to talk about this. He wanted to make sense of the way he felt, but nothing seemed to come out right. “I… I don’t know, I guess,” he began, his voice rough. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit. “It’s like, uh... sometimes it feels like I should be doing more, or… I don’t know. Fixing things that I can’t fix.”
Dr. Mercer’s eyes were calm, patient, as she gave him the space to continue, but Dick could feel the pressure in his chest.
“Like when I couldn’t do enough,” he continued, trying to push the words out, his mind racing. “When people died because I couldn’t get a grip on what was happening. I wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, strong enough. People got hurt and—” His voice trailed off, frustration building in his chest.
Dr. Mercer nodded, understanding more than he’d said out loud. “It sounds like you’re blaming yourself for things that were out of your control,” she said softly.
Dick felt his jaw tighten. “I don’t know, I feel like… I don’t know if I ever do enough, you know? Like there’s always something I miss. And that makes it my fault. That makes it all my fault.”
Dr. Mercer’s gaze was gentle, but her words cut through his turmoil. “It’s easy to take on that kind of responsibility, especially when we feel helpless. You think if you could have controlled it, you could have saved them. But when everything’s spiraling, when there’s nothing you can do, it’s not on you. That’s what guilt does—it convinces you you’re the cause of things you had no power over.”
Dick stared at the floor, the words sinking in but still feeling far away, distant. “But it feels like I should’ve done something. If I had done something different, would things have turned out better? What if I didn’t try hard enough? What if I didn’t push myself far enough?”
Dr. Mercer’s voice softened. “That’s a very common reaction. It’s easy to think that we could have changed things if we had just been better. But that doesn’t mean it’s true. It doesn’t mean it’s your fault that things went the way they did. You can’t blame yourself for what was outside of your control.”
He clenched his fists in his lap, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t know. It’s hard to get past it. I’ve been in situations where I couldn’t... control anything. And people died. I couldn’t stop it, and now they’re gone because of that.”
Dr. Mercer paused, giving him a moment to settle his thoughts before she continued. “But you didn’t give up, Dick. Even in those moments, you still fought. You still did what you could with what you had. That’s not failure. That’s resilience. What you did was focus on what you could control, and in those moments, that’s enough.”
He rubbed his eyes, feeling the weight of everything she was saying, but it still didn’t quite make sense. “I guess... maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t stop it. I was supposed to keep them safe.”
Dr. Mercer leaned forward, her voice gentle but insistent. “You did everything you could, Dick. Even in the face of things you couldn’t control, you kept going. You made decisions in those moments that saved lives, and that’s what matters. The good that you did, not the things you couldn’t prevent. The key here isn’t in focusing on what you didn’t do, or what went wrong. It’s about focusing on what you did do. You didn’t give up. You didn’t walk away. You did everything you could in those moments, and that’s what matters.””
Dick stared at his hands, trying to process what she was saying. Part of him wanted to believe it, wanted to let go of the guilt that had been gnawing at him for so long. But it was hard. The past was always so loud in his mind, reminding him of every time he couldn’t stop the worst from happening.
He took a deep breath, his chest tight, but it was a little easier to breathe now. Maybe, just maybe, she was right. He couldn’t change the past, and no amount of beating himself up would bring those people back. But he had done everything he could. He had fought for them, even when it seemed impossible.
After a long moment, he met Dr. Mercer’s eyes. “I did try,” he said quietly, as if saying it out loud for the first time. “I tried everything I could.”
Dick stood in the shower, his eyes closed, feeling the warm water running over him, washing away the lingering tension in his muscles. It was comforting, soothing—the kind of moment that made everything feel a little less heavy. The bubbles from his shampoo coated his hair, and he massaged it in absentmindedly, letting his mind drift. He followed the familiar motions, the rhythm of his daily routine, trying to forget the rest of the world for a few minutes.
Stephanie always insisted on double-shampooing—something about getting a better lather, a cleaner scalp. He’d never questioned it, and it had become second nature. He worked the shampoo through his hair again, the scent filling the air, the heat of the water surrounding him. The world outside the shower didn’t exist right now. It was just him and the quiet.
And then, without warning, she was there.
His eyes snapped open, and his heart skipped a beat. The woman stood in front of him, just feet away. She was out of place, an intrusion in the safe warmth of the water. The shock of seeing her—of realizing that somehow, impossibly, she had appeared here—sent a chill through him, despite the heat of the shower.
She was bruised. Her face was pale, her clothes torn, soaked in something dark. As Dick blinked, trying to make sense of it, he saw the blood—dripping, slowly, from between her legs. It mixed with the water, swirling around her feet in a dark, sickly spiral, pooling toward the drain.
Her eyes locked with his, desperate. She didn't seem angry, not really. She was lost. Broken. She didn’t speak, not at first. She only stared, fear and grief written on her face. Then, when she finally spoke, her voice was strained, frantic. She was speaking in Arabic.
"Where is my baby? Where is my baby?" Her voice broke on the words.
His breath hitched in his chest. He knew who this was- the diplomat's wife. They’d- him, Helena, and Midnighter- kidnapped her all for that goddamned heart. She died because of it. Because of them.
"Where is my baby?" she repeated, her voice quivering with panic.
Dick swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his chest tight. The blood was pooling at her feet, the shower water running red with it, mixing in the drain. His own skin crawled, and he could feel the nausea rising. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't. Not now. Not when she was asking him, pleading with him for something he couldn’t give her.
The weight of the guilt, the responsibility, hit him all over again, like it had when he had been standing in that desert, surrounded by the wreckage of the plane, the dead body of the mother, and the infant that he had promised to save.
He couldn’t look away from her. He knew he had to do something, anything, to help her, to give her the peace she needed.
His heart ached for her, for what had happened, for what she never got to see. His voice cracked when he spoke. "I’m sorry," he said, his voice hoarse. "I’m sorry you never got to raise her." He took a shaky breath, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. "But I did everything I could. I saved her. Your daughter is alive. She’s alive, and she’s safe."
He could see her eyes searching his face, trying to find some answer in him, some truth that would make sense of everything. She blinked, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, almost imperceptibly, she began to fade. Her body flickered, growing translucent, the outlines of her form becoming less and less distinct. The blood that had stained her clothes, the blood that had soaked into the floor, seemed to dissolve into the water with her. The last remnants of her vanished down the drain, as though she had never existed.
Dick stood still, his heart racing, staring at the empty space where she had been. His skin felt clammy, the heat of the water no longer comforting but oppressive. He could still hear her voice echoing in his mind, the desperation, the need to know where her baby was.
He shuddered, the weight of it all pressing on him. He knew that the woman, the diplomat’s wife, was gone now, but the lingering image of her—the blood, the pain, the grief—would stay with him for a long time.
Dick blinked and noticed his fingers. They were wrinkled from the long time spent in the water, pruned from the heat, but the rest of him felt cold. He couldn’t be in here anymore. He had to leave. He couldn’t stay in the shower, not with what had just happened, not with the feeling of it all still lingering around him.
He shut the water off, the sudden silence in the room almost deafening. He reached for the towel, the fabric rough against his skin as he dried himself quickly. His movements were automatic, too fast, like he was trying to shake off the memory of what had just happened.
He pulled on a pair of briefs, still feeling unsettled, and then turned his attention to the shower. Even though the blood was gone, the memory of it remained, and he couldn't just leave it like this. He needed to clean it. To scrub it away.
He grabbed bleach and a rag from under his sink. There wasn’t anything there- nothing he could clean but he sprayed the cleaner liberally over the surface anyways. The scent of bleach was sharp in the air. Mechanically he scrubbed every inch as hard as he could.
Dr. Mercer had always been straightforward with him, a bit too much sometimes. But today, there was something in her voice that felt different—gentler, more careful.
She spoke again, her tone deliberate. "Dick, you often talk about being haunted by those you've lost. And I get it, the guilt, the weight. But I want to ask you something. What would happen if you stopped looking at it that way? If instead of seeing yourself as haunted, you tried framing it differently?"
Dick raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint, ironic smile. Haunted. That was one way to put it. And in a way, Dr. Mercer was right. He was haunted. But she had no idea how true that was. Every shadow, every corner of the city, even the empty spaces in his apartment—they were all filled with ghosts of the past. The faces of those he couldn’t save. The ones he couldn’t protect.
He swallowed down the bitterness that rose in his throat, forcing himself to focus.
"Framing, huh?" he said, trying to keep his voice neutral, like he wasn't inwardly rolling his eyes at the idea. Changing your mindset. He didn’t have much faith in that, but he was here, wasn’t he? "What do you mean by that?"
Dr. Mercer leaned forward slightly, her hands folded on the desk in front of her. "I mean," she continued softly, "instead of focusing only on the loss, try to remember the good. The things you shared with those people. The good in the relationships you had, not just the fact that they’re gone. If you focus on what can never be mended, you only fixate on that. It traps you."
Remember the good times. The things you shared. How could he do that? The good times felt so far away now. How could he focus on that when all he could see were the empty spaces, the memories of the ones who had died?
He snorted softly to himself, the cynical part of him fighting to come out. The good times. Like that would ever make up for the mistakes, the moments where he had failed, where they had slipped away from him. It all felt like empty words. People had died because of him.
Was there anything good about that? He couldn’t see it.
But there was a part of him, buried deep down, that wanted to try. That wanted to believe, if only for a moment, that there was more to his past with them than the painful end. He’d let his guilt eat away at him for years, suffocating any good memory he tried to hold onto. Maybe Dr. Mercer was right. Maybe it was time to try something else.
Dr. Mercer was still looking at him, waiting for him to say something. "I know it’s not easy," she said, her voice gentle. "But those people—you loved them. They loved you too. Wouldn’t it be better to focus on the love, on the moments of joy and connection? You can carry those with you, instead of just carrying the grief."
Dick let out a breath, the smallest laugh escaping from his lips. He barely heard it, but the sound of it surprised him. "Yeah, I guess. Easier said than done, though, right?"
Dr. Mercer nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Of course. It takes time, and it’s not always going to be easy. But remember, you get to decide how you carry those relationships with you. You can choose to remember the warmth, the good times. It doesn’t mean you forget the pain. But you can choose what holds more weight."
The den at Wayne Manor was unusually lively for a Sunday afternoon. Dick had decided to stop by for a visit, and despite his usual reserve, he found himself surprisingly at ease.
Dick and Damian were sprawled out across the couch, while Jason sat in an armchair near the window, looking like he was there under duress. Dick could practically hear Jason’s internal monologue— I didn’t want to come here. I didn’t want to be here. But somehow, here I am, surrounded by people I can’t escape. It was classic Jason, but Dick couldn’t help but grin. Jason had caved immediately when he’d been asked, which, honestly, was more of a win for Dick than anything else.
Cass and Tim were standing in front of the large TV screen, in the middle of an intense game of Just Dance. Cass, as usual, was effortlessly in control of her dance moves, her focus sharp, while Tim, trying to follow along, was struggling to keep up.
Tim, his brow furrowed in concentration, did a half-spin to the left, flailing a little. “Wait—was that even right?” he muttered, glancing down at his feet as if hoping they’d magically sync up with the game.
Damian, sitting beside Dick on the couch, didn’t even glance at Tim’s moves. “Your foot placement is wrong. Again.” His tone was like that of a disappointed teacher. “You should be more precise. You’re overcompensating. It’s pathetic.”
Dick snorted into his drink, barely able to suppress a laugh at how deadpan Damian’s critique was. He shot a quick, amused glance at Jason. “Well, that’s harsh,” he commented, but Jason was too busy scowling at the ceiling to care.
Tim gritted his teeth, clearly determined to prove Damian wrong. “I am precise,” he muttered under his breath. “I just need a few more—"
Stephanie, who was leaning against the doorway, piped up, interrupting Tim’s muttering. She spoke louder than Damian’s critiques, practically shouting across the room to drown him out. “No, Tim, you're doing great!” she reassured him, giving a thumbs-up. “Don’t listen to Damian. He just thinks he's better than everyone. You’re a dancing king in the making!”
Damian narrowed his eyes at her. “Brown, you are an idiot,” he shot back. “Your encouragement only weakens his resolve. He’s already messing up—no amount of cheering will fix that.”
Tim winced slightly, but he didn’t let Damian get the better of him. “I can hear you, you know,” Tim grumbled, taking a breath before steeling himself. His character on the screen did a dramatic spin, and Tim tried to follow suit, but he tripped slightly, his arm flailing out awkwardly.
Cass, still dancing with ease, shot him a smile. “You’re getting closer,” she said encouragingly.
Jason, on the other hand, was doing everything in his power to pretend he wasn’t watching. His arms were crossed, and his gaze was firmly set on the ceiling. But Dick could tell he was silently rooting for Tim, even if Jason would rather die than admit it.
“You know,” Dick said, leaning back into the couch as he nudged Damian with his shoulder, “some people think this is fun.”
Damian shot him a sideways glance. “I don’t care if they think it’s fun. I’m trying to offer valuable criticism. Drake should be grateful for it.”
“Yeah, but not everyone wants to hear it from you,” Dick teased, nudging him again with his elbow, making Damian roll his eyes in exasperation.
Tim, in the middle of another complicated move, paused for a moment and turned to Damian. “I’ll have you know,” he said dryly, “I can’t actually focus on your critiques when you sound like a robot from the '90s. You gotta mix it up a little.”
Damian scoffed. “I don’t need to ‘mix it up.’ You need to keep up.” He glanced back at the TV and made a disgusted noise. “I told you to stop flailing your arms like that. It’s entirely unnecessary.”
Stephanie leaned in toward Tim again, her voice slightly more conspiratorial. “You’re doing awesome, Tim. Just pretend Damian’s not even here. Seriously, he’s only trying to distract you so he can look better.”
Tim laughed, the tension easing from his shoulders as he smiled over at Stephanie. “I’m going to pretend all of you are distracting me,” he said. “And if I mess up, I’m blaming all of you.”
The temperature dropped so suddenly that everyone stopped mid-movement, the music playing from the game losing its liveliness as the atmosphere shifted. Cass faltered, Tim stopped mid-spin, and Stephanie’s laughter died in her throat. They were all looking around, waiting for something—anything—to explain the strange change.
It came in the form of a man standing in the middle of the room.
A man dressed in a blue and green circus costume. His form flickered, like old TV static, the edges of him warping in and out. For a moment, no one moved. No one said a word. They’d all heard the stories—heard about the other ghosts Dick had encountered. They weren’t kind. They weren’t warm. They were terrifying, twisted, haunting.
This, however, didn’t feel terrifying.
Dick swallowed, his heart racing. He had to focus. He had to remember the good. This wasn’t some malevolent force. He recognized the face immediately. Even with the odd static-like flickers distorting the image, Dick knew who it was. It was his father, John Grayson, standing there in front of them, smiling. The warm smile that always seemed to bring comfort, the one that made Dick feel like everything was going to be okay—like nothing could hurt him, not really.
“Dad?” Dick breathed out, almost too quietly for anyone to hear.
John Grayson’s form stabilized for a moment, and he held out an apple. Dick’s breath caught. He remembered that apple. Before every show, the only thing they were allowed to eat was an apple. A crisp, clean apple. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep them going until the performance was done. The memory came rushing back so quickly, almost overwhelming him. It was so familiar—so full of warmth.
And then, like a whisper from his childhood, his father spoke.
“Remember, Dick,” John’s voice echoed softly, “a full stomach makes an empty head. You’ve got to keep your wits about you, son.”
Dick’s heart skipped a beat, and before he could stop himself, the words left his mouth: “Thanks, Dad.”
The weight of those words hit him all at once, and for the briefest of moments, he felt like that eight-year-old kid again—like his father had never left. That small but powerful gesture, hearing those words again, was a lifeline he hadn’t known he needed until this very moment.
John smiled one last time, his expression full of pride and love, before his form began to flicker again, becoming less and less solid with each passing second. And just like that, he was gone.
Silence hung in the air for a beat, the only sound the faint, slightly off-key pop song still playing from the Just Dance game.
Jason, blinking away his shock, made a wry face. “Well, I guess therapy’s really working, huh?”
Damian, in some form of loyalty to Dick, threw a pillow at him
Dick shifted in his seat, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve as Dr. Mercer’s words hit him.
“I’ve noticed something in our sessions,” she started gently. “You often talk about the mistakes you’ve made, about not being enough. Have you ever thought about the voice in your head—the one that keeps telling you you're to blame for things you couldn’t control?”
Dick swallowed, eyes darting away. “That voice, huh?” he chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess you could say it’s… kind of always been there.”
Dr. Mercer raised an eyebrow, watching him closely. “It’s always there, right? Always telling you that you could’ve done more, that you’re somehow responsible when things go wrong. But that’s not the truth, Dick. That’s the critical inner voice. The voice that’s built out of fear and guilt, but not reality.”
Dick scoffed, shaking his head with a half-hearted smile. “Yeah, well, that voice doesn’t really care about reality. It’s got its own agenda.”
Dr. Mercer smiled but remained firm. “But you don’t have to listen to it. It’s not who you are. That inner critic—it's often louder in times of pain and regret. But it’s important to recognize that this voice, as powerful as it seems, doesn’t reflect the truth. It doesn’t tell you what’s real. It tells you lies to keep you stuck in a cycle of guilt and shame.”
Dick’s throat tightened. “I don’t know how to stop it,” he said quietly. “It feels like I deserve it.”
“Guilt isn’t the same as responsibility,” Dr. Mercer replied. “You can care for the people you’ve lost without blaming yourself for things you couldn’t control.”
Dick let out a short, uncomfortable laugh. “I mean, that’s kind of hard to just shut off, right? It’s been there since I was a kid. Feels like part of me at this point.”
She nodded thoughtfully, her voice still calm. “I get that. It’s not easy to ignore. But just because it’s always been there doesn’t mean you need to keep listening to it. Guilt doesn’t make you a better person, and it doesn’t change the past.”
Blüdhaven at night always had a certain weight to it—a mix of neon lights, distant sirens, and the kind of damp chill that seeped through Kevlar. Nightwing moved along the rooftop edge, boots soundless against the concrete as he scanned the streets below. Usual suspects: a drunk stumbling out of a bar, a pair of teens tagging a boarded-up storefront, and a flickering streetlamp that cast long, shifting shadows.
Then—movement. Not below. Beside him.
Dick’s body tensed, hand darting to his escrima sticks, but he paused when the shadow took shape. Tall, lean, familiar. Curly blonde hair catching the faint city glow. A suit that screamed it was worn in the 80s.
Joey.
Dick’s breath caught. His heart twisted in a strange knot—half grief, half warmth. Joey raised a hand in greeting, his expression calm. No words, just that quiet presence he always carried. Dick blinked, momentarily thrown. Joey had been gone for years. And yet…
No flickering. No eerie cold like with the others. This wasn’t some malevolent ghost clawing at his mind. This was just Joey.
“Guess you’re tagging along,” Dick murmured. His voice sounded rougher than he expected. Joey smiled—small, reassuring—and fell into step beside him.
They moved like muscle memory had never faded. Down the fire escape, across an alley. A mugger lunged at a pedestrian on 5th and Turner—Dick dropped in first, disarming the guy with a twist and a kick. Joey slipped behind, grabbing the mugger’s arm and flipping him into a pile of trash bags without missing a beat.
Like old times. Like the Titans, back when things were simpler. Or at least... when they thought they were.
Dick glanced sideways. Joey gave him a thumbs-up.
“Show-off,” Dick muttered, lips quirking despite himself.
They patrolled in silence after that. Not awkward—just easy. Comfortable. Two blocks over, a car alarm blared. Dick and Joey turned towards it in sync, landing just in time to catch a pair of would-be thieves prying at the door. A quick fight. Clean. Joey moved with that same fluid grace—precise, effective.
Afterward, perched on a rooftop overlooking the waterfront, Dick let himself breathe. The city stretched out in front of them, lights shimmering on dark waves. His heart still ached—grief was funny like that. A constant presence, dull until it wasn’t.
“You know,” Dick said quietly, “this... I missed this.” His throat tightened. “Missed you.”
Joey glanced at him, eyes soft. No pity. Just understanding.
Dick swallowed. “I... keep thinking about how you—” He stopped, shook his head. No. Tonight wasn’t about that. Tonight was about this—about the rooftop breeze, the city hum, the way Joey’s shoulder bumped his just like it used to.
Fondness won out over sorrow.
Joey looked down at him, that calm, gentle expression never wavering. His lips curved into a warm smile—one Dick remembered from late-night missions, post-battle breakfasts, quiet Titan Tower mornings. No blame. No sorrow. Just... Joey.
And then—like a ripple through still water—his form flickered.
Dick sat up, instinctively reaching out, but his hand met empty air. Joey’s smile lingered a moment longer before his outline shimmered, static-like, and then—
Gone.
The rooftop was empty.
Dick exhaled, a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His heart ached—but not in the way it usually did. The grief was there, sure. It always would be. But tonight... it felt softer. Less like a wound. More like a memory he could carry without it breaking him.
He stood, glancing once more at the spot where Joey had been.
“See you around, buddy,” he murmured.
The city buzzed on below, indifferent as ever. But as Dick vaulted off the roof, swinging into the Blüdhaven night, the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter.
Dr. Mercer offered him a small smile. Her notepad rested on the table beside her—closed. Today wasn’t about jotting things down. “So,” she began, her tone warm but measured, “this is our last scheduled session.”
Dick gave a half-smile, glancing at the ceiling like that would make processing this easier. “Yeah.” Dick let out a breath, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Kind of hard to believe. Feels like just yesterday I was trying to figure out how to sit without looking uncomfortable.”
Dr. Mercer laughed lightly. “I remember. You’ve come a long way since then.” Her expression softened.” She folded her hands in her lap. “You’ve done a lot of work, Dick. I hope you recognize that.”
He shrugged, though there was less deflection in it than there might’ve been weeks ago. “I guess.”
She chuckled softly. “Progress isn’t always something you feel right away. And it’s rarely a straight line. There will be good days, setbacks... times when things feel easier, and times when it doesn’t.”
Dick nodded, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah, I’ve—” He paused, then huffed a laugh. “I’ve noticed.”
“That’s exactly what I was hoping for,” Dr. Mercer said, her voice warm. “This was never about fixing you—you were never broken. The goal was to help you find tools to navigate your life, to understand yourself in a way that gives you choices instead of just reactions.”
He swallowed, throat tight. “Not that I’m going to win any awards for perfect coping or anything, but... I can breathe through the hard parts now.”
“I know.” Her voice softened. “But healing isn’t about becoming perfect or erasing what you’ve been through. It’s about learning how to carry it differently.” She let that sit for a beat before continuing, “My hope is that I’ve given you some tools you’ll bring with you—ways to handle those heavy days. To challenge that critical inner voice. To let yourself feel what you need to without getting lost in it.”
Dick was quiet for a moment, absorbing that. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be... good at this,” he admitted.
“It’s not about being good at it,” she said gently. “It’s about practicing. And you have.”
A long silence stretched between them—but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Finally, Dick exhaled slowly. “...Thanks,” he said. Simple. Honest.
Dr. Mercer smiled. “You did the work. I just walked with you for a little while.”
Dick hovered over the trackpad as the session wound down. "Guess this is it, huh?"
“For now,” Dr. Mercer replied with a soft smile. “And if you ever want to check back in, my virtual door’s always open.”
Dick nodded. “Good to know.”
He hesitated, glancing off to the side. Then, quieter but sincere, he added, “Really... thanks, Dr. Mercer.”
“You’re welcome, Dick,” she said gently. “Take care of yourself.”
“You too.”
He clicked to end the call. The screen went dark, leaving him alone in the stillness of his apartment. For a long moment, he just sat there. No rush to move, no immediate urge to fill the silence. The quiet wasn’t suffocating—it was... peaceful. A rare thing.
His gaze drifted to the window, city lights blinking in the distance. He let himself breathe. Not fixed. But also not broken.
His phone buzzed, breaking the calm. Dick glanced at the screen: Clark calling.
He answered. “Hey.”
Clark’s voice came through, steady but purposeful. “We’ve made contact with the planet. You need to come to The Watchtower.”
Dick stood, grabbing his jacket. “Yeah,” he said, something steady settling in his chest. “Yeah. Okay.”
Dick arrived at the Watchtower and made his way toward the central briefing room. Zatanna was the only person at the meeting table, looking towards the holo-screen where Clark and Bruce were in the middle of a conversation with Ielnath.
Ielnath was on the screen, her form shifting faintly, her usual air of confidence tempered by the uncertainty of the situation. She’d always been a bit of an enigma, but she’d never looked quite this... uneasy.
"So, Ielnath," Clark’s voice broke the silence, warm but probing, "we’ve been through quite a lot recently. We need to understand what happened between you and Dick."
Ielnath hesitated, her gaze flicking briefly to the side as if weighing her words. "It’s complicated," she finally said. "There are many things to explain... but, I assure you, I never meant harm."
Bruce was less patient, his tone still calm but firm. "What exactly did you do to him? And why?"
Before she could answer, the door to the room slid open, and Dick stepped in. The moment his figure appeared in the doorway, Ielnath’s eyes found him instantly. Her tense posture relaxed, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. The energy in the room shifted, and Ielnath seemed to soften, her unease evaporating.
"Dick," she greeted, her voice holding an unexpected warmth. "I didn’t know you’d be here."
Dick gave her a small grin and walked closer to the screen, nodding in greeting. "I’m full of surprises," he said lightly, his usual charm slipping into the conversation effortlessly. "How’s married life treating you?"
Ielnath chuckled softly, her expression softening further as she leaned back slightly, looking a little more at ease. "It’s been... different," she said, her voice thoughtful. "I’m getting used to it, though. It’s strange, adjusting to someone else’s habits, learning the little things about them. But he’s a patient man. I think I’m lucky."
"Yeah? What’s the hardest part?" Dick asked, intrigued.
She smiled, a faint, almost mischievous glint in her eye. "He’s always humming. All the time. I never realized how much noise could be so constant. But I’ve learned to appreciate it, I suppose." She paused, and her smile grew a bit wider. "Though I may have thrown a pillow at him the other night when I couldn’t sleep because of it."
Before Dick could say anything more, Zatanna’s voice broke through, her tone unusually pointed. “Alright, enough with the small talk. Seriously—what exactly did you do to him?” She sounded far more direct than she usually did, her magic flaring just slightly as she stared at Ielnath on the screen, suspicion still clear in her eyes.
Ielnath stiffened again, her expression returning to that more guarded place. She glanced at Dick briefly, then back at Zatanna. “I told you,” she said, her voice steady but with a hint of frustration, “It wasn’t what it seemed. I never meant him harm. I just... didn’t know how to stop myself.”
Zatanna’s eyebrows shot up. “You didn’t know how to stop yourself ?” Her voice held both confusion and incredulity. "You didn’t think this might, I don’t know, mess with his head ? Dragging him into—what?—ghosts?"
Bruce leaned in, his voice calm but firm. “What do you mean by that exactly? What were you sharing with him?”
Ielnath’s eyes softened slightly, her expression shifting as she spoke, as if trying to convey something very personal. “To me, it’s... a spiritual thing,” she began, her voice quieter now. “The dead don’t control how they come back. It’s their manifestation that depends on how we choose to see them. They can’t hurt you if you don’t deserve to be hurt.” She paused for a moment, her gaze distant. “They are just... echoes of what was left behind. Grief, guilt, love. Whatever feelings we held onto after they died.”
Ielnath continued, her voice calm but firm. “For me, it’s a matter of love. The way I see my dead—my loved ones—so they come back with that love. They are never harmful, because love cannot hurt. But..." she looked at Dick now, her gaze softening, "What he saw was different. The dead he felt were born from what he felt about them. His guilt. His shame. What he thought he deserved."
Zatanna’s face tightened, but it was Bruce who spoke next. “So, you’re saying he was... bringing them back like that himself?”
Ielnath nodded slowly. “Yes. The dead return as reflections of us—our emotions, our intentions. If you carry guilt, grief, or shame, they come back shaped by that. But if you view them through love and acceptance, they don’t come to you as monsters.” She glanced at Dick again, her eyes understanding, almost apologetic. “Dick’s dead came back the way he saw them. His guilt, his regrets... they manifested as he perceived them—because that was the relationship he had with them. It wasn’t something I created.”
The room went silent. Dick’s stomach twisted.
Zatanna’s voice broke the silence, her tone a mix of disbelief and concern. “But that still doesn’t explain how what you did registered as dark magic. Magic around the dead always registers that way.”
Ielnath tilted her head, as if considering Zatanna’s words, before speaking in a measured tone. “Many believe any magic involving the dead is dark. It’s... the view of the majority. But it’s limited. It’s all about perspective. You see something dark because you’re afraid of it. I see the dead as part of the cycle, as part of life. You see them as a threat. I see them as a continuation.” Her voice softened. “The dead are just... echoes. How we perceive them is what shapes the experience.”
Clark spoke up then. “So, if the magic itself isn’t inherently dark, what about the others? The rest of the team? They felt sick. What caused that?”
Ielnath blinked, the faintest hint of confusion crossing her face. “It’s possible... something you ate, perhaps. My species doesn’t experience illness the way yours does—our bodies are made of solid gold, so we’re immune to most things.” She glanced toward the others. “Maybe our food didn’t sit right with you. Our biology doesn’t quite align.”
He glanced at Ielnath, his expression thoughtful. “I didn’t eat what you provided,” he said quietly, “I ate what the League brought.” He looked back at the others, who were all still processing Ielnath’s words.
Bruce cut in, his voice sharp and purposeful. "Alright, we’ve got all that. But how do we close this connection? How do we make sure it’s over?"
Ielnath didn’t hesitate, her golden eyes meeting his with a calmness that suggested this wasn’t the first time she’d been asked. "It’s actually very simple," she said, her tone steady. "It’s usually a punishment for my kind to have this connection stripped away from us. But for those who wish to end it willingly, it’s a straightforward process. I’ll send a convoy to perform the ceremony. It’s... the most respectful way I know."
"I’ll accept your offer," Dick said quietly, his voice steady. "Thank you, Ielnath. I didn’t understand it at first, but I know you didn’t mean any harm."
Ielnath’s expression softened, and she nodded. "I never wanted to cause you pain, Dick. I’m truly sorry."
The others stood quietly, a mixture of skepticism and relief among them. Zatanna was still crossing her arms, Bruce’s brow furrowed in thought, and Clark looked like he was trying to figure out how to wrap up the situation. It was clear that, while they appreciated the offer, they weren’t completely convinced by everything that had transpired.
Dick didn’t look at them, his focus entirely on Ielnath as he spoke. "Let’s just get this done. I’m ready."
"Understood," Ielnath replied, her voice firm but gentle. "I’ll arrange for the convoy immediately." She paused before adding, "Again, I’m sorry for everything, Dick."
With that, the call began to wind down. The screen flickered, and the connection was severed, leaving only the soft hum of the Watchtower around them.
Dick let out a sharp breath. He was ready for this to be done. He was exhausted—tired of self-reflection, tired of growth.
Bruce’s voice broke through the quiet. “You okay, Dick?”
Dick glanced at him, the exhaustion still clear in his eyes but with a weight lifting from his chest. For the first time, he didn’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice steady. “I’m good.”
And for once, he meant it.