Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everything changed so fast. And by ‘everything’ he meant ‘nothing’ and by ‘so fast’ he meant ‘at all’.

Things must have been moving in the background, but Jason was more a shoot to incapacitate, ask questions after kinda guy. A foreground kinda guy. And things were pretty quiet on the front lines. 

Hours passed, then days, then a week. And in a stunning display of naivety–or perhaps hope–Jason allowed the relative silence to lull him into a sense of security. Well, that’s not quite it. Jason never had the stability necessary to warrant security, but the quiet gave way to a sort of calmness that maybe he found a little too comfortable.

It let him forget, as selfish as he felt when he resurfaced, for just a moment, that here was a war on. That he was a soldier again. 

He knew what he was signing up for. A long, tough, battle. Late nights and early mornings. Phone ringer on at all times. But getting a call from Damian, as close to begging as the kid was capable, demanding his presence at the Penthouse, shattered any fragile illusions he inadvertently constructed. 

“I am…unable to handle the situation alone,” Damian revealed. 

Jason wasn’t the most proficient in understanding and interpreting Damian, but he could recognize a thinly veiled call for help. He had his jacket on and keys in hand before he even formed a response. “Fifteen minutes,” he assured, as the deadbolt clicked behind him. 

With no context, his brain supplied a barrage of worst-case scenarios. Crumbling foundations and blood, head injuries and memory loss. Disaster scenarios and anarchy. And it wasn’t lost on Jason that Damian was the one calling. Not Dick. The logical part of his brain, rusty from disuse, whispered among his swirling anxieties, reminding him that, in the event that someone needed immediate medical attention, Jason –hopefully –wouldn’t be Damian’s first call. And Barabra would contact him if the world was ending. Probably…

So, everything was most likely, almost, just about fine. 

Except nothing ever went to plan and everything always, inevitably went wrong. They were trained on contingencies, all of them. They’re plans had plans with plans. And yet they were constantly encountering unknowns, situations they were ill-prepared for. Once, maybe twice, in his albeit limited recollection could Jason pinpoint a specific moment in time where he knew what he was doing, 

A million preparations, billion predictions, serving only to add anxiety to situations that already needed a Xanax, because rarely did they come to pass and scarcely how they thought it.

And thanks to that, Jason could conjure up every grim possibility imaginable. And thanks to that, he knew it could be a hell of a lot worse.

But he would know if there was another apocalypse. There would be signs. Probably…

So, everything was most likely, almost, just about fine. 

He blew through some lights and went over the speed limit anyway. 

Tim greeted him at the door, Jason’s hand still raised to knock. Tim was a bit bedraggled in his usual fashion, with a half-drunk cup of coffee in hand, Cookie Monster pajama pants and Ninja Turtle graphic tee hanging loosely on his frame.  “Oh, thank fuck.” He turned towards the apartment shouting “Jason’s here!” 

A few vaguely joyous responses from deeper in the penthouse caused a wave of surprise to wash over Jason. It wasn’t–he wasn’t–people weren’t often happy to see him. Well, okay, it was one relieved greeting from Barbara and an acknowledging “Todd” from Damian that sounded almost grateful. To others it might have seemed dismissive, but Jason could tell. He understood them, his family.

And sure, part of that excitement was probably because he was here to fix some sort of problem, but something about their tones, something about Tim’s smile made it seem like they really wanted him here. Not a foreign feeling, but rare. 

The juxtaposition made him feel sick, reminded him of his mistakes. Because there was a time when he feared going home. When a monster lurked just beyond the threshold of his front door pretending to be justified, searching for anything to vindicate himself. And the excuse always came, unwashed dishes, clothes on the floor, a door shut just a little too loud, because it wasn’t really necessary and it wasn’t really an excuse. Because what came next would’ve regardless. A one-part tragedy. No beginning, no middle, no end. 

But Jason survived. Just barely, and it killed him in the process. And through a set of unprecedented circumstances, he became the monster prowling behind the door, exploiting the imbalance of power and preying on a child. Using a bullshit excuse to validate his actions. To hide the fact that he did it because he could.

And the results of both still haunt his actions. The way his jaw clenches at sudden movements. The way he hesitates to touch any of his siblings. The way he bites back a grin at their reactions in favor of feigned nonchalance. 

And the others– his family –forgave him. Something he never quite managed to do for his own monster. Broken bones and threats of death, misplaced blame and scathing accusations, intimidation and a duffle bag of severed heads, and they forgave him.

But that didn’t make him innocent. That didn’t absolve him. 

Because he hadn’t forgiven himself. But he was working on it. He was getting there. He was…

He took half a second to gather himself. The voice in his head, the one insisting he was Willis sounded suspiciously like Willis. It always did. 

He wasn’t quite ready to let the idea go, part of him still believed it, part of him had yet to prove it wrong but he could tell it to shut the fuck up. He was working on it. He was getting there. 

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked as Tim was ushering him inside.

“We tried everything. I swear. Cereal, Supernatural marathon–just the good seasons–Damian even pretended to be hurt. Nothing. We’re out of ideas.”

Jason gently, hesitantly put his hands on Tim’s shoulders to slow him down.

It was a wonder they even allowed him near them, let alone touch them. But Tim didn’t jerk away like Jason half expected him to. He didn’t try and make himself smaller like Jason used to and he didn’t tense up in anticipation.

Another breath, another moment to gather himself. Now’s not the time. There’s shit going on. Jason needed to be here, needed to be present . 

 “Ideas for what? What’s going on?” he repeated.

Barbara appeared in the hallway expression exasperated. Her hair, typically pristine, was a bit disheveled, like she’d done it in a rush and her jaw was clenched with hastily disguised tension. “Great question. We have no idea.”

“Okay?” They must be desperate if Barbara was here. Concern was once again taking over. Jason’s laid eyes on two out of seven. Not a great head count. “Why am I here?” he tried instead. “Where’s Dick?”

“That’s why we called you,” Tim revealed.

What?

“You lost Dick?” 

Oh, this was bad. They needed a plan. They’re plan needed a plan. If Barbara couldn’t track him–and she’s here so she couldn’t track him–then they needed to call in backup and start a grid search from his last known location. Contacting Clark should be their first move. He’ll be able to isolate Dick’s heartbeat if he’s somewhere lead-free. They have plenty of things belonging to Dick, so a tracking spell isn't out of the question. Raven would do it for free and so would Zantanna. And if they aren’t available, then Jason’s pretty sure Constantine owes Dick a favor. If he’s being honest, he’s pretty sure everyone in the community owes Dick at least one favor. 

Dick was a lot of things, but he’d never leave the kids. Not on purpose. Not by choice. Especially with everything going on. If they couldn’t reach Dick he was either dead, or someone didn’t want him found. Both options were shit. Fuck–he needed to slow down.

He needed more information. Time, last known, clothing. Where was he going? What was he doing? Why was he there? Do they have a ransom note? Why can’t they track him? Where are–

“Woah, woah, I can see you spiraling.” Tim said, pulling Jason from his thoughts. “We didn’t lose Dick.”

“Then where is he? Actually, where is everyone?”

 Tim looked at Barbara, indecisive. “We sent Duke to school.”

Jason closed his eyes for a second and took a breath. One more person accounted for, at least. Slow enough to emphasize his point, but not so slow as to be patronizing, he said, “In the simplest, most direct terms possible, what’s going on?”

Tim frowned. “Dick’s in his office.”

“Dick has an office?”

“Yeah, and we can’t get him to come out.”

Jason huffed out a laugh. “You guys called me over acting all ominous and shit with some kind of emergency and it’s because Dick’s staying in his office? Really?”

He left out the part where he thought the fucking world was ending. Somehow, it came across anyway.

“He didn’t come out for breakfast,” Tim explained.

“What?”

Tim looked at Jason like he was finally getting it. “He went in there last night after dinner and he hasn’t come out since. Didn’t wake up the others, didn’t make breakfast, didn’t patrol last night. I don’t think he slept. And whenever we ask, he says he’ll be out in a bit.”

Okay, okay, okay, he could handle this. “Okay, Duke’s at school, you’re here, Dick’s in his office, where are Damian, Steph, and Cass?”

Barbara gave him a soft, knowing smile. He ignored the way it made him feel like he’d revealed something, like she could see right through him. “Steph had a 2:00 o’clock class. Cass went with. We figured the less people here the more likely he is to come out. Or at the very least, we’re less likely to overwhelm him.”

“And Damian?”

“Is sitting in his room coming up with wild conspiracy theories and pretending he isn’t scared shitless.” Barbara finished. “Before that he was standing outside the office door. Refused to eat, refused to go to school.”

Yeah, that tracks.

“And I’m here because?”

They were staring at him like it was obvious. Like maybe they thought he was asking because he just wanted to hear them say it. Phishing for compliments, begging for significance, impetrating for attribution. 

Which is something he might have done, if he knew the answer. As much as being needed, being wanted , caused his brain to short circuit and his heart to swell, as much as it made him feel human , he wasn’t sure what this had to do with him. 

Tim’s voice was tinged with suspicion when he said, “It’s plan C.”

“What?”

“It’s plan C,” Tim repeated, slower as if the only reason Jason could possibly be confused was because he didn’t hear him. 

“Ahhhhh, plan C. I get it,” Jason replied sarcastically. 

The creak of hardwood under wheels signaled Barbara’s escape into the kitchen. The open concept layout allowed him to see her taking a scrap of paper out from under a magnet on the fridge, but it was just far enough away that he couldn’t make out what was scribbled on it. 

She handed it to him. “Plan C. In case of emergency,” Barbara recited as Jason read it. “Plan A, analyze the situation and contact Dick. Plan B, breathe. If Dick is unavailable or incapacitated, take a breath. You’re smart and capable. Odds are, you know how to handle the situation if you take a second to think. Plan C, call Jason.”

No notes, no reassurances, just ‘call Jason’. As if that was explanation enough. 

“Is this–when did he write this?” 

Tim, still frowning like he didn’t quite believe him, revealed, “I’m pretty sure it’s been up since we moved in.”

“Okay.”

Okay , no pressure. It sort of put a lot of things into perspective and it tilted his whole world on its axis. It made him think about everything. Things that have happened and things that will never happen. Happiness and apathy. The way things are and the way things should be. The way things were and the way things ought to have been. Importance and obsolescence.

But mostly–but mostly it forced a dizzying moment of introspection. It brought a version of himself to the surface that Jason hadn’t bothered to consult in a long time. The version of himself with depth. The Jason Todd that wanted family and brotherhood and friendship. The Jason Todd that wanted to mean something to someone. Anyone.

That was a train of thought of another time.

“Alright,” confidence was key. He needed to seem in control, like he knew what he’s doing even if he was floundering on the inside. Except that wasn’t true, was it? Sure, they were relying on him. Sure, they expected him to make the right decision, expected him to have a plan, to fix everything. Sure, the pressure was on, but it also wasn’t. 

Because they expected a lot from him but not really. Really, they just wanted him to do his best, needed him to do his best. And that–that was the one thing he could always do. The one thing he could always give no matter how little he had. 

So, he masked the distress in his voice a little less and stopped trying to control the tension in his shoulders. “Babs, take Damian out. Doesn’t matter why. Tell him you’re doin’ somethin’ to help. I don’t care, just get him out of here. You, too, Timmy. Run interference, keep everyone out.”

Jason doubted that anyone would push if he asked them to give him a few hours, but Tim was fidgeting like he needed a task, and Jason didn’t have the wherewithal to deal with a bored Tim. Bored Tim drained the bank accounts of corporate climate change deniers and crooked politicians. Bored Tim took on tyrannical governments and started independent hacktivist groups. Which, to be fair, Jason usually backed one hundred percent. But priorities. 

And it spoke to the severity of the situation that neither of them asked questions. After that, there wasn’t much left for Jason to do, but wait for them to leave. 

He had a plan. Or something resembling a plan. Or something that could resemble a plan if refined a little bit and maybe added on to and perhaps constructed to mimic a plan. Okay, he had an idea. Or something resembling an idea. 

Barbara left with Damian in tow. Whatever she told him must’ve been good because his grim expression transformed into determination, with an assuredness to his step and a serious set to his jaw. She gave Jason a glance of acknowledgement and a short but genuine ‘goodbye’ that really meant ‘good luck’. Tim was close behind them, making Jason promise to text with any major developments or in the unlikely–Tim’s words, not his–event of failure. 

And Jason–Jason watched the door shut and security engage behind them. Walking toward the office door felt like trudging through molasses and gliding through air at the same time. And Jason felt so much. Important and irrelevant. Capable and incompetent. Present and untethered. 

So, Jason did what he did best: went in guns blazing. 

Except sometimes ‘guns’ were words and sometimes ‘blazing’ was gentle and delicate.

So, he knocked on the office door. “Hey, Dickie. It’s Jason,” he announced, pressing his back against the intricately carved and varnished wood and sliding down to sit, legs crossed. “I’m gonna be out here. Whenever you’re ready to talk.”

Nearly a decade of training under some of the greatest in the world and ‘master strategist’ Jason Todd could only think of one approach that had even the slightest chance of success: patience. 

He couldn’t hear anything from the other side of the door, but he didn’t doubt that Dick was there, that he was listening. He could feel it. “Kids called me. They’re worried ‘bout’cha. But you knew that. Just like I know that whatever yer workin’ on in there’s gotta be important. So, I’m not gonna try’n drag you out, but I’m gonna be here when you’re ready to talk. Sent everyone else out. It’s just you’n me, Dick. However long you need.”

That wasn’t necessarily true. They would all find their way back by dinner time at the latest. But it was true enough for the moment. Sorta like when someone promises forever but they only really have right now. Because sometimes forever means the same thing as right now and sometimes “however long you need” is the same as “however long I can give you”. 

It was uncharted territory and a common occurrence. He was comfortable in a way that made him uneasy. Confident in a way that betrayed his inexperience 

So, he said, “I love you, Dickie,” to the empty air in front of him and settled in for a potentially long wait.

And even that statement, so short, so confident, so inherently true, rattled around in his brain like an echo. Because that voice, the one that sounded so much like Willis, that always did, never failed to remind him of inner thought. The ones he buried deep in a box labeled ‘fragile handle with care’ . The one he never opened. 

‘Are you capable of love? Do you know what that is?’ it questioned. ‘Or are you just afraid of being alone?’

It was horseshit. Jason knew that, in the part of his brain that was healing, Jason knew that. He could recognize a cognitive distortion when he thought one–some of the time–and he could go through the list of ‘challenge’ questions.

‘How do I know this thought is accurate?’

‘Am I making assumptions?’

‘Am I overgeneralizing?’

But identifying them was just the first step and he hadn’t quite made it through the others yet. Maybe one day he’d get to the point where he didn’t have these thoughts at all, but probably not.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then an hour and a half.

Jason leaned his head against the wood, shutting his eyes. Not sleeping, not meditating, existing.

He didn’t allow himself to relax, not entirely. But it was peaceful, in an eye of the storm kind of way. 

Until the door swung open behind him. Jason tilted backward an inch before years of carefully maintained core strength kicked in and he righted himself.

“I figured it out,” Dick blurted. 

Jason shifted to stand, taking in Dick’s appearance as he went. His clothes were rumpled, eyes wide and a little manic. His movements were almost twitchy, but he had a relieved grin on his face. “I figured it out, Jay.”

Jason offered a small smile. “Figured what out?”

Dick was shifting from foot to foot like he was excited about something. Or maybe hyped up on caffeine. Or hadn’t slept in nearly two days. 

Jason would bet the house it was a dangerous concoction of all three. He let himself be dragged into the office by Dick’s hand on his shoulder. Dick, who was nearly half a foot shorter than him, had to reach up to even get his hand on Jason’s shoulder. It made something inside Jason sad. 

No, not sad. Something else. Sentimental, a little melancholic. Despite the fact that Jason’s been taller and bulkier than Dick since his resurrection, it struck Jason as a sign of change. Evidence of the passage of time. 

“Look,” Dick insisted. “I figured it out.”

Papers crumpled under his feet even as he attempted to step over them and others were littered across every available surface.

Dick paid them no mind, all his attention on the bulletin board that took up the majority of the right wall. “See! It’s gonna work. I– oh my God –it’s gonna work.”

Jason soothed his features, unclenching his hands and relaxing his shoulder. Dick didn’t need his concern right now, he needed compassion and understanding. 

The compassion came easily, understanding, however, had yet to arrive. The more Jason examined the room, the harder it became to tamper his concern. Tim and Babs said Dick had been cooped up in there since last night, but the disarray implied many late, sleepless nights and even earlier mornings. 

The board was a collage of printed documents and hastily written notes. Dick was staring at it like it was his baby, his salvation. 

Jason couldn’t make heads or tails of it. 

The mug collection on top of the filing cabinets lining the wall opposite the desk was incomplete if the various others dotting the area, were any indication. An old coffee maker sat next to an even older electric tea kettle on the bookshelf in the corner already brewing a fresh pot. 

A blue binder lay splayed open in the middle of the desk, covering the computer keyboard, but Jason couldn’t make out its contents. 

He must have been quiet for too long because Dick was watching him expectantly. “Don’t you see? I figured it out.”

Jason had just enough foresight to recognize that another incredulous ‘Figured what out?’ wouldn’t go over as well as the first one. Whatever Dick’s big revelation was, Jason was supposed to have gotten with the program by now. 

He was mentally banging his head against the wall. ‘Sorry I missed the last train out to Crazy Town,’ didn’t seem any better. Jason needed a tactical approach. “Alright, walk me through it,” he said.

Dick strode toward the left side of the board gesturing broadly. “Okay, so–wait, hold on a second.”

Jason, barely holding it fucking together, watched helplessly as Dick walked across the room, snatched up on of the mug, filled it with black coffee, and sipped it with a relieved sigh. “Okay so,” he restarted once he was back at the bulletin board. “I’ve got a temporary job lined up with Gotham P.D. That’ll bring in about five thousand a month before taxes. But that's not gonna be enough to cover bills and lawyer fees. Not to mention, Duke and Damian are paid through the end of the academic year at Gotham Academy but after that, I gotta scrounge up the money for that, too. But if I take the night job at Gemma’s five nights a week, I can still–”

Dick cut off mid-sentence, gazing absently at the cluttered wall. One second, two seconds, six,

“–do online classes with Arizona, transition the credits I already have and get a bachelor's in accounting by the end of the year. Then I can get certified as a CPA.”

He didn’t even fucking notice. Which could only mean one thing. “Dick,” Jason interrupted, “Have you been takin’ your meds?”

Dick tilted his head slightly, eyebrows furrowed together. “Yeah, of course. Tuesday: seizure medication, two thousand of vitamin D, and my Zoloft,” he dutifully recited. 

Except– “Dick, it’s Thursday,”

“Yeah, sure. Anyway, the salary for CPAs varies, but with my connections, I should be able to secure some high-profile clients pretty quickly. Alfred agreed to put help with a downpayment on a four-bedroom condo in the city. With a decent mortgage rate, I should be able to swing it. Don’t you see, Jason? I figured it out. I’ve got the budget worked out here.”

Jason winced at the sound of paper being torn from under a pushpin. Dick passed him the incomprehensible jumble of number and dollar signs. It made sense to Dick and Jason had no doubts that it was accurate–Dick’s math was never wrong–but Jason wasn’t a numbers guy. And while this was important, Jason had other priorities. 

“Dick, I’m serious. I lost you there for like ten seconds. You’re having seizures again. If you're worried about money. I’ll cover whatever you can’t,” He was exaggerating a little, but Dick needed some dramatics to consider any concern for his well-being.

“I can’t take your money, Jason.” 

A dozen snide remarks were ready on the tip of his tongue in a fraction of a second. Dick must have read the shift in emotion on Jason’s face or in his body language because he was defending his words before Jason could rattle any of his offenses. 

“It’s not like that,” Dick said. “The court and Bruce’s lawyers are gonna go through my finances with a fine-tooth comb. I can’t have random or shady income streams. Not until this is all over. Even if we cleaned the money, it’s not worth the risk. Not right now.”

Okay, fine. Jason could– begrudgingly –admit that Dick had a point. But Jason had a point, too. And not about the money. Repeating his concerns about Dick’s medication earned him a dramatic huff. 

“Alright, alright,” Dick conceded, halfway across the room before the words were out of his mouth. 

Jason, not quite fast enough to stop him, witnessed in abject horror as Dick opened the top drawer of the varnished wood desk, pulled out a bottle, uncapped it, and took a swing. 

“There, happy?”

Jason took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his mouth. Escalating the situation was the last thing he wanted to do, but holy fucking shit . “I–you–no. No, I’m not fucking happy. What’s wrong with you? I’ve seen crime scene photos of my own fucking dead body and that might’ve been the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

Dick frowned at him. “That’s not funny.”

I am calm. 

I am centered.

I am so fucking mad at him right now.

“No, no,” Jason corrected, not-so-gently guiding Dick to sit in the ergonomic office chair. “What’s not funny is you taking your meds like it’s a fucking shot. What’s not fucking funny is you treating yourself as something expendable. Those kids need you. I need you. I get it. Okay, I get it. We gotta figure out how to make this work, but this, ” he gestured openly to the room around them. “This is not the way.”

Dick’s jaw clenched, his left hand formed a fist before loosening as he exhaled. “Don’t do that,” Dick warned, looking Jason dead in the eyes. “You don’t get to do that.”

Jason’s thrown for second, because Dick was angry. It’s been so long since he’s seen that emotion on Dick’s face, in his body language and in his tone, that Jason almost forgot Dick was capable of it. Suddenly, his previous manic state was replaced with a sharp sort of serious intensity. 

Jason’s own anger evaporated between one breath and the next. He sighed, reaching up and rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes then dragging them down his face. “Dick I–” he started, but he wasn’t sure what to say. An apology? What for? A declaration of concern? He tried that already. Admitting that he was completely and utterly lost? That he had no idea what he’d said to piss Dick off? 

Dick saved him the trouble. “I can’t do this again, Jason.”

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? What is ‘this’?

Or maybe Dick hadn’t saved him the trouble at all. “I don’t understand. I–” he swallowed, inhaling slowly. “This isn’t sustainable, Dick. And I don’t know how to help you. You can’t–”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about, Jason. This ,” Dick emphasized. “It’s the second goddamn time I’ve uprooted and rearrange my whole fucking life to unfuck Bruce’s bullshit and it’s the second goddamn time you’ve come in and told me I’m doing it all fucking wrong.”

‘Dick,” Jason protested, “that’s not what–”

“Not what’s happening?” he interrupted, drawing his knees up to his chest, feet resting on the seat of the chair. “That’s exactly what’s happening. Wha’do they say about lightning striking twice? Well, here I am.” And just like Jason’s, Dick’s anger seemed to evaporate in seconds, like he couldn’t hold on to it, like it slipped through his fingers. 

Dick looked so small with his arms around his calves and an image of the imposing figure Jason represented looming over him flashed through Jason’s mind. He was dragging a chair from the corner and lowering himself into it before his brain finished processing the thought.

But the mania was gone and so was the rage. Meeting Dick’s eyes, his brother was just tired. The kind of tired that comes with tearing yourself down but by bit and rearranging the pieces into a passable impression of identity and personhood. Jason would know. 

“I want to–” Jason tried. The silence, usually comfortable between them, felt suffocating in the presence of all that they hadn’t said and all that they could say. The weight of potential conversation. Because they had to talk about it whether they wanted to or not. 

“It would’ve killed you,” Dick admitted. “Being Batman. It would’ve killed you.”

It wasn’t the shift in topic it appeared to be, because really that’s what they’d been talking about the whole time. Jason was out of his depth. The entire situation was out of his fucking depth. Were there scripts for this kind of thing? Was he supposed to know what to say? Was he supposed to know when to say it?

He opted for his tried-and-true tactic, the one phrase that never failed him, “How can I help?”

But Dick ignored him. Were Jason less versed in interpreting Dick’s language and behavior, he might’ve been offended but Jason knew he needed to listen. 

“I never wanted to be Batman.”

The revelation hit Jason like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath out of him. That didn’t make any sense. Dick fought so hard to be Batman, altered his fighting style and shifted his syntax to fit the role near perfectly. Like he was born to do it, like he’d worked his entire life for that moment. And he didn’t even want it?

But that wasn’t the whole story, was it? It clashed with everything else Jason knew about Dick.

“I’m not–I don’t have the same sentiments as Bruce. I don’t feel some kind of warped obligation to Gotham. I don’t feel anything towards Gotham.”

That was more compatible with the Dick Grayson Jason remembered. The one that distanced himself from Gotham, from Bruce. The Dick Grayson that tried to help the world, not just the city. 

Dick wouldn’t meet his eyes anymore, staring at the wall of pinned papers and graphs. “But if I didn’t do it someone else would’ve. And I might not have been you, you weren’t in the best headspace at the time, but it might’ve been you. And it would’ve killed you,” Dick repeated. “Any progress you’d made. Any friendship you’d formed, Batman destroys those things. It takes everything you have until all that’s left is Batman, all that’s left is the mission.”

Jason huffed out a breath, unable to hide his frustration. “You don’t know that. Okay? You’re right, I was off my rocker, but–”

“I watched it happen to Bruce. It was slow at first, leeching. But the longer he wore that cowl, the more it took from him. ‘Til there was nothing left,” Dick’s eyes had a sort of far away haze as he continued. “He used to smile, ya know. A real smile. And he used to be funny .” His expression was a battle between a fond grin and unbearable grief. “Not on purpose, but that just made it funnier. I remember we used to–”

Dick seemed to come back to the present mid-sentence. The sorrow won. “I don’t even know who he is anymore.” He glanced up at Jason, grave, bereaved. “And it would’ve happened to you. Or Tim. Or Cass. Or some other poor idiot who tried to fill the void he left. What was I supposed to do? Let it happen to someone else? Let it happen to you ?”

Jason was still trying to reconcile the Dick he knows with the Batman Dick was. He’d never put any real thought into it before. Dick was right. Of course, Dick was right, they were talking about Dick, but Jason’s memories of then were almost as hazy as his pre-death ones, tinted by green anger. 

He remembered fighting and shouting, planning and reconnaissance, hiding and crying. He remembered being so so angry. At Bruce. At Tim. At Dick. But mostly at Batman. But he had been making progress. By then, he’d switched to rubber bullets, he stopped attacking the Bats–mostly–and he was going to dinner with Alfred regularly even if wasn’t talking to the others outside of masks. 

Or maybe he wasn’t. Sometimes recollections blended together into a mishmash or flashing scenes and clipped lines of dialogue. Sometimes Jason couldn’t separate what really happened from what his fractured mind made up. 

How was Dick when he was Batman? Was he happy? Cursed with hindsight, Jason saw an underweight, overworked shell of a man, but that couldn’t be right. They would’ve noticed. They would’ve noticed if it was that bad. Dick worked his whole life to someday become Batman. That’s why he was the best. That’s why–

“Fuck, Jason I was so mad at you,” then, quieter, “I was so scared I’ve forgiven you. I promise, I have,” Dick swore.

Jason could tell by the earnestness in his eyes, desperate to be believed, that he meant it, but he already knew that. And Dick knew that Jason knew that. Which meant he was prefacing something, something painful, something he needed Jason to know he had already forgiven him for.

“But,” Dick continued, “that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. And I’m not–I’m not saying this to make you feel bad. I’m bringing it up because it’s important for you to understand that I’ve done this before. I spent over a decade distancing myself from Bruce, from Batman. Creating an identity separate from him, something all my own.”

‘And then you took that from me, and you killed people with it,’ Jason’s brain supplied. 

Dick didn’t say it. He’d never say that, but Jason heard it anyway. 

“And I’ve lost it before. More than once. This, ” Dick glanced around the room as if seeing it for the first time and the thousandth time all at once, “is how I deal. This is how I survive. I have to have a plan, an outlook. There has to be an end goal and a means to get there or this is going to kill me. I get it, okay. I get it. It looks like a mess to you. It looks like desperation, like a manic episode. Because it is. I am desperate. I am manic. But this is my life. My life . Boiled down to papers and numbers and spreadsheets. That’s the only way I make it out of this. Alright? 

“I wanna live. Holy fuck I want to live ! But I don’t get that choice anymore. Don’t you understand that? DIck Grayson doesn’t exist anymore. He finally fucking won. He destroyed me. I destroyed me. I’ve hacked myself into dozens of little bloody chunks and pinned them to a bulletin board. Because I don’t get to live anymore. But it’s fine–”

Because Jason was fine and Dick was fine and everything was fine, and they’d be fine together. Except Dick wasn’t fine and Jason wasn’t fine and Dick knew that and Jason knew that and it was fine. Except it wasn’t fine. And that was fine.

A deep, shuddering breath briefly fractured Dick’s declamation. “It’s fine. Because I figured it out. I know I’m not gonna live through this, okay. I’ve accepted that. I’m gonna sell my soul to some corporate accounting job, toiling away while life force seeps through my fingers and into the documents I’m drawing up to help rich fucks commit legal tax evasion. All so I can make sure Damian and Duke can go to school.  And even after they graduate it never fucking ends. I’ve gotta worry about college funds and weddings and financing our night jobs because I’ll be fucking damned if any of you ever have to ask Bruce for anything ever again. 

“This is my whole life now. This family is my whole life now. I’m okay with that. And I’ve accepted that I don’t make it out of this in one piece. That Dick Grayson isn’t going to live anymore. But this way,” he pointed again at the wall of papers, “maybe I’ll survive. Maybe there’ll be something left of me in these papers to piece back together. And maybe there won’t be. I’ve accepted that. There is no other way. Not with the time we have, with the resources we have.”

Closing his eyes, Jason deliberately unclenched his hands and jaw, systematically relaxing each segment of his body with a heavy exhale. 

This wasn’t–he could just let–

‘That’s no way to live,’ he thought. Then half a second later it dawned on him, ‘ That’s the point,’ 

Memories played like movies in his mind. Memories of the sporadic good times from his pre-teen years. The weeks, sometimes months, when Willis had a job and Catherine was clean. When the three of them, Jason who didn’t know any better and his parents who did, would reinforce each other's delusions, insisting that things were good, that they were normal, that it would last. 

Jason would set the table and help Catherine cook. Willis would come home, a plastic grocery bag with pints of ice cream from the dollar store down the street swinging slowly at his side. And they’d smile and play house and Jason would almost– almost –forget his half-healed bruise and the slight guant of his cheeks.

The next several seconds passed like sticky, oozing molasses. Jason felt stuck in it, every thought struggling against viscous resistance. Finally, like separating Legos, he forced his mouth open and pushed a response out. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Dick asked, questioning gaze wandering from his hands to Jason’s face. 

“Okay,” Jason confirmed. “How can I help?”

From his front row seat, Jason’s had an enviable view of Dick’s collapse. Like a crumbling skyscraper, bit by bit, brick by brick until whoosh , the whole thing comes down in one motion. Except the culmination never came. At the last second, at every last second, every time, through unimaginable will and unrivaled stubbornness, Dick managed to force the fallen pieces back into place until a facade, too perfect, too shiny, formed to mask the deterioration. 

It’s as if a switch was flipped, the clock on the wall ticked once and Dick of a second ago was gone, replaced with something a bit too polished, a bit too okay. Jason’s reminded of that day on the beach. With the sand and the water and the baby that wasn’t real but existed nonetheless. Of the instant shift from absent to present at Tim’s approach. 

It hurt more than he was willing to admit. Jason was on the inside or at the very least he wasn’t outside. Not like the others. He refused to reevaluate this assumption. Dick was a great actor, no, Dick was an impeccable actor, damn near flawless. And Jason wasn’t in, if wasn’t part of the show, then he was just an observer, a captive member of Dick Grayson’s audience. 

But the other implication, the one Jason refused to acknowledge, refused to entertain, kept blaring like an alarm in his mind. If Jason wasn’t in, then no one was. If Jason wasn’t in, then Dick was all alone.

“How long did you say I’ve been in here?” Dick asked, like the past few hours hadn’t happened. “I missed breakfast, didn’t I? That’s why they called you. Did Dami and Duke get to school?”

Isolation kills. Jason knew that, first hand, second hand, third, fourth, fifth hand. If this life taught him anything, if there really were a lesson in death–and Jason would know–it was that isolation kills.

And Dick was dying. In a hundred little lonely pieces on the wall.

Chapter Text

Dick returned from his third meeting with his lawyer frowning. Barbara didn’t ask questions. She couldn’t. Dick was careful what he told the rest of them, maintaining distance between them and the case. Barbara knew it wasn’t a matter of trust, but it stung anyway. 

Everyone else was out going about their daily business, and Barbara, with nothing better to do, stopped by to pack up. For a family of rich kids, they didn’t have a lot. Damian and Duke had about ten boxes between them, Cass and Tim another seven or eight. It wasn’t everything, of course. A lot of the Penthouse contents belonged to Bruce and they weren’t leaving for another week, so all the essentials were still out and in use. 

These days, Barbara didn’t lift a lot of boxes, but packing the contents of his dresser into a plastic storage tub gave her back that feeling of usefulness she’d been chasing since she lost use of her legs, if only a little. Being Oracle helped, but behind the scenes and hands on gave different but equally important kinds of satisfaction. Barbara found herself needing both. Idle hands and all that.

She ran through her latest conversation with Dick in her head as the last two drawers emptied. They’d argued again. It seemed all they could do the last five years was argue. Even when Dick was dead she was still thinking through imaginary arguments. Sometimes because she was so angry at him for dying, for leaving. And sometimes because it made it feel, for just a second, like he was still there. Maybe if she got riled up enough, said something absurd enough, he’d appear to correct her. 

Lately, it was the same topic: Clark and Diana. She kept insisting that he should tell them–tell them everything –but he maintained that it was a bad idea, or that it was bad timing or some other half-assed excuse, never bothering to explain why it was a bad idea or why the timing was bad or why his half-assed, obviously bullshit, excuse was valid. 

So, she kept bringing it up, and he kept deflecting. Back and forth, the world’s lamest game of tennis.

Sighing, she made a decision. One more shot, she’d give it one more shot. Wheeling on the carpet wasn’t the easiest, but Barbara kept up her upper body strength. And Dick did a lot to make the Penthouse as accessible as possible. Ripping out the carpet to save her a little bit of arm strain was unreasonable. She told him so herself.

She wasn’t going to ask about the case and Dick wouldn’t tell her. They got bits and pieces here and there. His lawyer’s worried about Dick’s public image. His lawyer needed more evidence to work with. The last update Barbara got–she was fairly certain it was for her ears only and maybe Jason’s–was that Dick’s lawyer wanted Damian to testify. 

Dick shot the idea down immediately, refusing to even ask Damian if he’d be willing. The lawyer argued that he may not have to testify but they should prepare like he may. Dick said Damian and Duke would never see the inside of the court room. No negotiation, no maybe.

Barbara had mixed feelings about the decision. If it could help them win, then Dick should at least consider it. But she knew Dick. Maybe not as well as she once thought she did, but she knew Dick. If this went south, he’d take the kids and run. That’s what they were trying to avoid. Clark and Diana could help with that, or, if worse comes to worst, protect them from a vengeful Batman. 

But just like with the lawyer, Dick was having none of it. And Barbara was going to find out why. 

She found Dick in the kitchen prepping something for dinner. A memory of their conversation a few weeks prior brought a smile to her face. 

“How did Alfred have time to do anything? I feel like I cook a meal, wash dishes, cook another, wash dishes, cook again, wash dishes. He washed clothes and linens and cleaned and kept up with all of our bullshit.”

Dick either didn’t hear her approach, or was waiting for her to speak. He scraped a heap of chopped carrots off the cutting board and into what she assumed was a soup. It wasn’t exactly what most people call soup weather, but soup was a comfort meal for most of them, something Alfred used to make when they were sick or hurt or just sad.

Finally, Dick said, “I’m not gonna do it,” sensing what Barbara was there for.

“I just–I think you should tell them. It’s your choice. Of course it’s your choice,” she insisted. “But I think you should tell them. Not because they deserve to know, but because you deserve for them to know.”

The word hung between them like unrung laundry on a line, heavy and limp. 

The rapid thudding of skilled knife-work paused just long enough to indicate that Dick heard her. 

She was shorter than nearly everyone now, constantly craning her neck to meet the eyes of people who stood a little bit too close. And she’s shorter than him, always had been not counting those glorious two years in their youth before he hit a growth spurt, but from her vantage point on the opposite side of the kitchen island, she can see the pained expression flicker across his face. 

The pungent smell of chopped onion wafted through the air around them making Barbara’s eyes sting. Dick, as unaffected by the vegetable as he is by most things these days, lifted the thick wooden cutting board,  turned around to the stove, and scraped the contents into the large stainless steel pot simmering there. 

“How’s that gonna help?” Dick asked, still facing away from Barbara’s pleading gaze. 

She gripped her handrims tightly, quelling the outrage that threatened to rise from her chest. It wasn’t that she thought Dick was fragile–or maybe she did. But this wasn’t that. They were just– they , that’s a pretty heavy accusation. Were they a united front on this? Did they all see what she saw? 

No, it wasn’t about Dick being fragile, but they –upon further thought, this was a group effort–were being careful with him, perhaps not gentle, certainly not pitiful, but something softer than they used to, something kinder.

Guilt and shame eat at her from the inside out at the thought of it. Like the sharp pains of neglected hunger it emanates from her stomach and through her body. She can’t move without thinking about it, can’t blink, can’t talk, can’t breathe without it creeping up and taking over. 

Because–she had to steady herself with a deep inhale, expanding her chest and raising her shoulders then releasing slowly, her torso deflating and stretched muscles settling back into place.

Why was it that they were only now treating softly, kindly? 

When did the man in front of her transition from the boy performing stunts in the nearly empty school hallway just after the late bell rang–someone she comforted through the loss of his parents and texted with until the early hours of morning so he could practice his english–into paragon, a pillar of perfection, someone who didn’t need help or comfort ot kindness? 

“And that’s the kicker, isn’t it Barbara,” her thoughts mocked. “That’s the same boy who used to scale your fire escape and sneak you cookies when you were grounded. That’s the same boy who used to tell you the most vibrant and vivid tales about the circus. That’s him, right there. He never became a paragon or a pillar or however the hell you want to describe it. He wasn’t imperfect one day and flawless the next. But you treated him like he was, didn't you? 

How could she have forgotten that?

Even now, she was warring with her mind. Insisting on using ‘ we’ . We treated him like shit. We took advantage of his compassion and forgiveness. We fucked up. Barbara knew it minimized her part in the whole thing, made it easier to swallow the guilt. But she also knew that there was no ‘we’ . Not in this context. Just her and the consequences of her own actions. 

Barbara closed her eyes tight against the onslaught of hindsight flooding her mind. It had been haunting her a while, causing her eyes to tear up just enough to wet her eyelashes but never enough for actual tears to fall. She always shoved the thoughts in a box before it could get that far. 

And it–the guilt, the shame, the introspection–it made her feel like a monster.

At least this time she could blame it on onions. 

So, Barbara gripped her handrims and she didn’t burst out in harsh critiques or scoff dismissively. She was trying something new. No, that’s not true. She was trying something old . Something she would’ve tried with her best friend, with the boy who would perform stunts in the nearly empty school hallway just after the late bell rang. Something she would’ve given to that boy, something she gave to him . Compassion, curiosity, kindness. 

“You don’t think they’ll believe you?” Barbara questioned. She had a hard time accepting that. Nightwing was one of the most trusted members of the community, but more than that Diana and Clark had immense respect for Dick Grayson. 

Dick had moved on to chopping carrots by then, ingredients from some kind of soup of stew. Barbara could cook to fend off starvation but not much beyond that, but Dick took to cooking as he did most other skills, with a single minded fervor that almost guaranteed success or the most disastrous of failure.

“I know they will,” Dick admitted, scraping the next round of chopped vegetables in the pot. “That’s the problem.”

“I don’t follow,” Barbara admitted. Not one to accept help, his refusal didn’t surprise her. But she couldn’t quite figure out, “Why’s that a problem?”

“I’d do more harm than good is all,” Dick hedged, not looking up from his cutting board. 

“What’s that supposed to mean, Dick?” Barbara was taking special care to not let her frustration turn to anger. She closed her eyes briefly, imagining young Dick in front of her. What would she say to him? “They could help.”
 

Dick huffed out a sigh, more tired than exasperated. “Say I tell them. Say they believe me. We hand over all our proof and he goes to trial and he’s sentenced and he’s out of the League. Someone’s gotta take his spot. And who do you think that’s gonna be? Diana? Clark? Sure, they’re more than capable, but someone’s gotta catch them up, teach them all the codes, all the secrets, all the plans and backup plans and back up back up plans. The diplomacy policies and inter-planetary treaties and the fact that Hal and Barry are permanently banned from Sweden. Who’s gonna make sure they don’t send Constantine and Victor on missions together after what happened in Bishkek? Not that anyone can tell John to do anything he doesn’t want to.”

Bishkek? What happened in Bishkek? 

“Because the only other person who knows everything– almost everything –is me. And as you can see,” Dick gestured vaguely to his surroundings, “I’m a little busy. Actually, I'm a lotta busy.”

“You could be less busy if you let people help, Dick.” 

Dick dumped some seasonings into the soup. A couple of fine powders and something dark green and dried. “You gotta measure with your heart with soup,” he explained, tipping over and tapping a few shakes of something else.

“Dick.” Barbara wheeled around the kitchen table until she was next to him by the stove. 

“I know. I am letting people help, Babs. You are here, right now, helping me pack.”

Grabbing his empty hand in both of hers, Barbara drew his attention away from the food and held his gaze for a second. “I’m worried about you, Boy Wonder.”

Dick closed his eyes, shoulders sagging with a small sigh. “I know.” Something flickered across his face before being replaced by his usual serious but happy facade. “But I know what I’m doing Babs. Trust me. I have it all worked out. At first it was a bit of a mess, but Jason and I talked it out and I really think we're gonna be okay.”

And despite everything, everything she knew and didn’t know, everything that happened and didn’t happen, everything they were and everything they weren’t, Barbara did trust him. More than anyone in the world. More than anyone in the universe. 

She tried to tell him that. With her words and her actions. Because this was the same boy who once called her an elephant and really, truly meant it as a compliment. The same boy who loaded his iPod with Britney Spears songs after Barbara dropped hers in the bay so she had something to listen to when she was sad. 

How could she have forgotten that?

“This isn’t—” Dick started before pausing a second to really think about his words. “I know this isn’t gonna to make you feel better,” he admitted, “but this is what I’m used to, Babs.”

He was right. That didn’t make her feel better. “I know.”

Dick just shook his head softly. “I don’t think you do.”

“No, I do know,” Barbara asserted, though she wasn’t sure exactly what she was insisting she knew. She was clinging to–to something . Desperately holding on against a torrent of other somethings . A small, heavy emotion as if she’d drop to the ground if it was placed in her hand. It compressed her spine and put pressure behind her eyes. 

Something like nostalgia and regret.

Something like guilt and fondness.

Something like late night laughter and bitterness.

She pushed through it, shoving everything aside until she could see out of her own eyes again, until she was in control of her breathing and could feel the warmth of Dick’s hands clasped in hers. What felt like hours of battle against a raging typhoon of emotion must have been a fraction of a second of real time. Suddenly, Barbara was so very tired.

“I do know,” she repeated. “But don’t have to do it alone. You have us. You have me .”

Gently pulling his hand from hers, Dick turned to stir the soup. But Barbara recognized it for what it was: an excuse to hide his face. 

“I gotta talk to Jason. I think I freaked him out,” he mumbled to the pot, their conversation apparently over.

Barbara tried to meet his gaze, eyes imploring. “You scared all of us, Dick.”

He whirled back toward her so fast she nearly flinched back. What she saw wasn’t the soft, pained sadness she thought he was trying to hide but sharp, jagged anger. “You don’t get to do that.”

She was gripping the plastic handrims and pushing herself back before the thought even processed, putting a couple feet of distance between them. Not out of fear–she could never fear Dick–but as a reflexive reaction to the start of what would almost inevitably tumble into an argument. 

“Do what?” she challenged, though she squashed the confrontational tone the words demanded in favor of sounding honestly confused.

“That thing you do,” Dick rather unhelpfully elaborated. “You’re always–” he cut off abruptly, reconsidering his words.

But Barbara never saw a bear she didn’t want to poke. “Always what?”

Dick closed his eyes in what Barbara assumed was an attempt at gathering his thoughts and wrangling his emotions. It didn’t work. “That!” He winced at his volume, but didn’t apologize. “This,” he insisted, emphasizing it like that would clue Barbara in. 

The all seeing eye, the great and powerful Oracle, Barbara was not accustomed to being left in the dark. Though recent events revealed that she knew a lot less than she led herself to believe. 

It was getting increasingly difficult not to give in to the annoyance bubbling just under the surface of her thoughts. I’m trying to help. Can’t he see I’m trying to help?

He covered the pot on the stove and shoved his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, facing her. “You always do this,” he said, no longer angry. 

Anger was always a slippery emotion for Dick, quick to arrive and even quicker to leave. Now, he was back to being tired. Tired and wary. It hurt to see it directed at her. 

How often did she have to snap at him for him to be wary of her reactions? How much had she ignored that he now thought his words didn’t matter to her? 

Walking around the kitchen island, Dick made his way to the dining room table. Barbara wheeled around  to the open edge, the spot they left without a chair, just for her. 

They were about eye level now, but Dick wasn’t looking her in the eyes anymore. His left hand was tapping a rhythm on the table. It took her a second, but eventually she recognized it as the Star Wars theme. He probably didn’t even know he was doing it.

Oddly, it was kind of grounding for her, providing something to focus on instead of the elephant in the room. Elephant in the room. Dick used to giggle at that idiom every time he heard it. He would laugh at others: raining cats and dogs, losing your marbles, when pigs fly. But none made him crack up quite as much as the elephant in the room. When did he stop? Why didn’t I notice?

When Dick finally did speak, Barbara found herself desperately missing the elephant. 

“I can’t keep doing this, Barbara.” 

He never called her Barbara. It was always Babs or BG or some variation of a nickname or epithet. Especially not when it was just the two of them. She flinched before she could stop herself. 

The situation was eerily familiar. The two of them, sitting at a table. Facing each other but looking anywhere else because both of them knew what was coming. Both of them knew it was the end. 

Except their roles were reversed this time. Barbara, confused and itching for answers, for an explanation, and Dick, holding all the cards. It wasn’t an exact mirror,  because they weren’t together, not like they used to be. And Dick didn’t display any of the righteous indignation Barbara remembered feeling when she was on the other side of…whatever the hell this was. 

Dick just exhausted. When was the last time she’d seen him so tired?

“I know you don’t do it on purpose–well, actually, I don’t know that.” A pensive expression settled on his face, then something between sad and resigned. “I choose to believe you don’t do it on purpose,” he amended, “But you still do it.”

He was dancing around what he wanted to say, though she couldn’t tell if it was for his benefit or hers. 

Out of all the virtues, patience was the one Barbara had the least claim over, but she fought for it now, to hold on to it, to embrace it. Bossy Barbara wouldn’t get her anywhere no matter how badly she wanted to push. 

Dick moved so his elbows were on the table, forehead resting on the palms of his hand. “You show up–” he cut himself off, rubbing his palms over his eyes and down his face. “You show up like this and you say shit– stuff , you stay stuff like ‘we’re in this together’ and that I’m not alone, and that you’ll be here and you’ll help. And I believe, because I want to believe you. And I cling onto those words, your promise, every time. And every time, I end up alone.”

Barbara shook her head, speaking before the action even registered. “This isn’t–I don’t–”

“You do.”

“When have I ever–”

His head shot up to look at her. And, fuck, she wanted him to be angry. This would be so much easier if he was angry. She wouldn’t feel so hollow if he was angry. But he wasn’t.

“Don’t make me do that,” he begged. “Don’t make this harder on me.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, but she knew it was a lie. And by the look on his face, he did, too.

Dick let out a sigh through his nose, slow and deliberate. “Okay.”

One word. One word and Barbara felt like she’d well and truly broken his heart. A splintered friendship, a fractured relationship, a shattered engagement but she always felt like they could–that they would come back from it, that they would recover. 

She didn’t feel that now. 

“When Bruce died–” Dick started.

All at once, Barbara was swallowed with regret. “No, no,” she backpedaled. “Wait, I’m sorry. I–”

Her pleading, like his, fell on unforgiving ears. “You did this.”

God, please, please just be angry. I know what to do with anger. I can counter anger. I can’t do this. Whatever this is. It hurts. Please.

“You asked for this,” he reminded. And maybe he had a right to be a little vindictive, but he wasn’t. From what Barbara could tell, he was just tired. Always tired. “When Bruce died, I was so…I dunno. Numb? Lonely? It was just–I dunno. Tim was gone. Cass was in Hong Kong. Steph was around–and I’m grateful for that, don’t get me wrong–but she was grieving. Not like the rest of us. Jason was…lost. And Damian–I couldn’t lean on Damian. He’s a kid and he just lost his dad and I didn’t even really know him yet. None of us did.”

“I was raising a kid I barely knew. Who thought I was less than nothing. I was trying to track down Tim and make it to board meetings and Justice League briefings and I was Batman and Dick Grayson and a mentor and a brother and a father and a leader and a friend. I was chasing Jason all around the city trying to get through to him and keeping tabs of Cass in Hong Kong and going over budget after budget after budget. I was working with Steph and training Damian and making sure the Titans were still running. It was everything and it was happening all the time. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t grieve. 

“And there you were,” Dick said, softer than before, a quality to his voice Barbara refused to acknowledge, “Offering to help in any way I needed and saying exactly what I needed to hear. Like–”

A monster.

“A port in my storm. Like a savior,” then he was shaking his head, as if disagreeing with himself. “Sorry, that was really dramatic and I know assuming that was unfair to you.”

A monster, she felt like a huge, hulking creature with sharp teeth and beady eyes. “That’s not–”

“It was,” he insisted, somehow knowing exactly what she was going to say. “It was. But that doesn’t change the fact that for just a second–” he paused, struggling to get the words out. “For just a second, I didn’t feel so alone. And then you left.”

Every bone in Barbara’s body demanded she defend herself, come up with an excuse, do anything except sit there and take it, but the excuses never came, Maybe that was for the best. 

Dick used to do that when they were kids. He’d throw excuses at her, why he looked so tired, where that bruise came from, why he hadn’t texted her back. She remembered absorbing them, taking them like punches. It made her feel small, being lied to. Even when she was finally in on the Big Secret, the weight of the not quite lies , didn’t leave her. Then he fired back justifications for those, too. 

‘I wanted to tell you. I swear I wanted to tell you. I just couldn’t.’

‘Couldn’t or wouldn’t?’ she shot back.

Looking back, she was being childish. Maybe she never stopped. 

So, she let Dick continue. Like it was something she was giving him, like it was a gift. She felt disgusting. 

Suddenly the clock on the wall was the most interesting feature in the world. She watched it tick: once, twice, three times. Constant, consistent, permanent. Clocks are funny like that, never stopping, a physical representation of the passage of time. Each tick one less second. One less second she has to apologize. One less second she has to live. One less second the world will turn. One less second. 

Barbara wasted a couple more staring at the hand going round: one, twice, three times. Dick might still be talking, she’s not really sure. She can’t hear anything beyond the tick, tick, tick . Was time really moving that slow? Or was it fast? Has it been hours? Minutes? The hum of electricity through the building intensified until the only noise was the tick and hum and the lub-dub of her heartbeat in her ears. And then you left.

Oh fuck. She’s having a panic attack. Right? No. Was Dick still talking? She should be listening. This was important. She knows that. But she can’t–it’s– tick, tick, tick . 

Fuck. Dick wasn’t talking. Or maybe he was. No, wait. No one was talking. Just the ticking and the humming and the beating. Great fucking job, Barbara. You’ve once again made everything about you. She needed to collect herself. This was getting ridiculous. Was Dick still there? She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the clock. Tick, tick, tick. She was running out of time. And then you left.

Her breathing was fine. Maybe she wasn’t having a panic attack. Did her chest hurt? Yes. No? No. Her vision was clear. She had an impeccable view of the ornate face and vintage brass pendulum swinging back and forth. Back and forth– tick, tick, tick. 

When her ears finally tuned back in and her eyes slowly lowered from the wall, Dick didn’t look concerned like she thought he would. He wasn’t waving his hands in front of her face or kneeled down beside her chair trying to get her attention. In fact, he looked like nothing happened at all.

How long had she been zoned out? Was it really just a second? 

Dick continued as if nothing happened. Maybe nothing did. 

“I know you have your own life, but I needed you. You said you’d be there and then you weren’t. When Bruce kicked me out. When Jason died. When Haley’s burn and my apartment building went down. You call or you show up and you say that you're here and to lean on you and you’ll help but by the time I turn to ask, you’re gone. You’re always gone. And I love you, but I can’t do that again.”

It hurt, in ways she couldn’t–or maybe wouldn’t–describe. It hurt. This was the same boy who stood beside her in her worst moments, during her darkest days. And he was asking her to leave because he didn’t believe she could do the same for him. Because she didn’t do the same for him.

“I don’t–” she tried, but she wasn’t sure what to say. Not an excuse, she didn’t have any. Not an apology, it wouldn’t change anything. Not a promise to change, obviously she couldn’t keep those. 

The only thing she could realistically give him was her absence. Her hands felt like lead, too heavy to move, leaving her rooted to the spot. She couldn’t leave. Not now. He needed her now. “I don't want you to be alone,” she said. 

Dick eyebrows furrowed together, his mouth slightly agape. “What? I–Babs, I’m not asking you to leave.”

“What?”

He looked alarmed for a second before saying, “I don’t want you to go. I just–I can’t rely on you the way you and I both want. You always end up gone and I always end up hurt. But that–that doesn’t mean I don’t want you around and in my life. I want to talk to you. I want your help. I want my best friend.” He was rambling now, and by the look on his face and the abrupt way he stopped talking. 

He slowed down a bit, being more deliberate with his words. “I just can’t keep doing what we’ve been doing. Whatever that is. I’m not asking you to change and I’m not asking you to leave, I’m just telling you that my expectations of you have–I dunno…shifted.”

There was a hole in her chest. Cavernous and gaping. “Dick–”

“It’s okay,” he assured, offering her a feeble but genuine smile.

“It’s not,” she said. “It’s not okay. I–I don’t know how to make this better. I don’t want you to be alone even if the people with you aren’t me.”

Dick was shaking his head again. “ Barbara, Babs, I’m not alone and I have you. I know I have you. It’s just in a different way. You and Jason, I think you’ve somehow got this idea that I’m isolated and closed off, but I’m not. I’m just letting people in on different parts. Jason knows this and you know that and I told Tim this and confided in Steph that. I’m not alone. I’m not lonely, I’m just–I dunno, diversifying.”

Barbara hadn’t considered that. Dick had always been an all in person. 

“Hold that thought,” he said. Barbara didn’t know what to say anyway. “I gotta go check on the soup.”

She stared at his back as he walked to the stove. He turned to look at her when she didn’t respond, still stirring the food with his right hand.

“I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but I’m okay. Really, I’m okay. I’m just as busy. I’m just as stressed. I’m just as tired, but I’m not nearly as alone anymore. And that’s better. It’s not perfect, but it’s better.”