I'm not 100 percent happy with this, but if I sat on this any longer, I was going to go insane.

He doesn't notice it at first. He's too happy. He's back. For good, now. Damian's alive, and talking to him. Jason and Tim are mad at him for a little while, but they both start talking to him soon enough, too. Cass gives him smiles and hugs, and she lets him kiss her cheek every occasionally. So, yeah. He's too caught up in his family to notice what's happening at first.

It starts with swallowing Tylenol, of all things.

He swallows it down, but just as he does, he chokes on both the pill and the water. He's coughing up water, but he ends up reflexively swallowing the pill in order to breathe, and he spends the next fifteen minutes staring at the puddle of water from the dropped water bottle next to him on the kitchen floor.

Alfred finds him like that.

"My goodness! Master Richard, are you alright?"

Dick startles and blinks up at the butler. "Huh?"

"I asked if you were alright," Alfred says, crouching down next to him. He puts a hand on Dick's shoulder, face creasing in concern. "Do you need to lie down for a bit? There's still some time before lunch is served."

"No, no." Dick shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet, wondering when exactly he'd sat down. "I'm fine, I think. I just got lost in thought."

Alfred doesn't quite believe him, that's obvious enough, but he doesn't call Dick out on it, so there's something. "If you insist, Master Richard. Perhaps you could hand me a towel, then. To clean up this water?"

"Sure, Alfie," Dick says. He hands him the towel, and neither of them speak of it again.

Dick isn't sure how to bring it up, anyways, even if he really wanted to.

Dick's on patrol when the next freak out hits, which is just his luck. He's with Cass, though, and that ends up saving his ass.

A thug grabs him from behind, and for once in his life, Dick freezes, lets the guy get his arms around his neck, cut off his air supply. Cass manages to take him down while he's distracted with trying to suffocate Dick.

Dick pants, massaging his neck with a wince. He turns to Cass, and manages enough of a smile to say, "Thanks for saving me back there."

Cass lays a gentle hand on his arm, tilting her head. "Are you alright?"

They both know what she means, but Dick only answers the obvious question, ignoring the hidden one. "It'll be a nasty bruise, but I think I'm okay."

Cass lets it go, and they continue patrol.

It starts happening randomly, although it's usually something physical. He's lucky that anything too obvious has really only happened around Alfred and Cass, but Tim's giving him suspicious looks when he thinks Dick isn't looking, so Dick knows he's not fooling everybody.

The happiness is definitely wearing off like some kind of drug. If that means he's going to hit the withdrawal period, he's not ready. He's already feeling the effects, barely sleeping anymore. His dreams get vivid, and they're always about one thing.

His death and the moments leading up to it.

But other than that, he's mostly able to hide it.

Until he isn't.

Dick wakes up choking on panic. He can't move. Someone's curled up on top of him, snoring softly, and he can't move. Can't move, can't breathe, can't think. He needs to get free.

No, no. That's not quite right. He can breathe fine, he can wiggle his fingers and his toes, and if he really tried, he could probably push the person on top of him away, but he's trapped in his own terror, and knowing that he can move is not the same thing as actually doing it. There's a disconnect somewhere, the rational part of his brain realizes. There's a part of him that's stuck somewhere else, in a time where he can't move, where he can't get free. In a time where he's going to die, where he does die.

"T-Tim," he gasps out when he brokenly remembers last night. Fear toxin. Tim got hit with Scarecrow's fear toxin, and he'd curled up against Dick's side when they'd gone to bed, and now he's basically spread out over his chest, pinning Dick's torso and left arm to the bed.

For once in his life, Dick curses the fact that he'd been a caring big brother last night, even if he doesn't regret it, because once Tim is asleep, there's really no waking him up unless the city is being blown up. And even then, there's a chance that might not wake the guy up.

It probably has everything to do with Tim's sleeping habits—or lack thereof.

Off, the part of Dick's brain still trapped in that bomb orders. Get it off. NOW.

"Tim," Dick all but sobs, his free arm twitching—a good sign, but the panic is threatening to overwhelm him now, and it's not enough. "Tim, please. W-Wake up. You have to wake up."

Miraculously, Tim seems to hear him. He blinks blearily up at Dick, not even seeming to notice that he's octopus'd all over his big brother. "Dick? Wha'sit?" he murmurs, and he sounds grumpy.

But Dick has about zero time for that. He chokes, and silent tears are streaming down his cheeks. Tim's awake, but Dick's throat has closed off and he can't do anything more than weakly sob, his free arm twitching again.

Tim notices Dick's distress, and it's obvious that he's wide awake now. He pulls away from Dick, sitting up only to lean over his face, his fingers ghosting over Dick's cheek.

The moment Tim's up, Dick pushes Tim's hands away with his new freedom of motion and curls over on his side. He can move. He's okay. He's not about to die anymore. He's not going to get Bruce killed. He's not strapped to a bomb. Everything's okay.

Dick sobs anyways. Tim looks horrified and very, very lost.

"Dick?"

When it becomes clear that Dick isn't going to answer, Tim puts a light hand on his shoulder, just letting it linger there—maybe as support, or maybe Tim can't think of anything else to do. This is probably so confusing for him, seeing his big brother freak out over absolutely nothing in the middle of the night, especially right after a dose of fear toxin, antidote or not.

They sit there for a long while, and eventually, Dick's crying tapers off. He doesn't move from his curled-up position, though. He can't. Not when flipping onto his back invites that trapped feeling back, not when something can press down on him again.

He's being ridiculous, he knows, but he also knows that if this were anyone else, he would tell them about how not ridiculous it is to feel like this, and he's not so blind that he can dismiss these feelings as unimportant. It's trauma, something he's unfortunately very familiar with. And the way he's been spectacularly not dealing with it probably has everything to do with his major freak out, the signs had been there, after all. He'd just been ignoring them.

"Do you need me to leave?" Tim asks, finally breaking the silence. He sounds upsets, and Dick hates that it was him that made Tim sound like that. "Or do you want me to get Damian?"

That's something else he hates, and that is most definitely Dick's fault. Even if he'd probably never make a different choice, Dick still hates how he'd undermined Tim's feelings by making Damian Robin the way he did. By forcing Tim out of the costume, and pushing Damian in.

Tim has always been insecure, and Dick choosing Damian did absolutely nothing to help in that regard. And it's in moments like these that Dick realizes the effects of that decision still linger.

Their family is so messed up.

Tim's still waiting on an answer, but it's taking Dick a long time to find his voice. He wants to say don't leave me, but he also he wants both his baby brothers in his arms. At the same time, he wants to kick Tim out and tell him, don't look at me like this, if only to spare Tim from the gory details of what's happening to him.

But Tim's probably the one who knows gory details better than anyone else, so hiding it from him is useless. Damian's sleeping, and waking him up for this wouldn't be pretty. By the time Tim could wrangle Damian into Dick's bed, Dick would probably be somewhat okay anyway.

So Dick sits up slowly, Tim's hand falling away from his shoulder. He clears his throat and says in a hoarse voice, "Please stay. Please."

Tim just sighs, but he looks a lot less inclined to leave now. Good.

"I'll stay," Tim says.

Neither of them sleep again that night, which is a shame, because that had been winding up to be the best sleep both of them had gotten all week.

Dick skips patrol the next night.

He probably shouldn't, but he's running on an average of three hours asleep over the past five days, and lots and lots of coffee. He wonders if this is what Tim usually feels like. Like death warmed over. If it is then Dick is definitely going to be designing some new ways to trick Tim into sleeping more, because it royally sucks.

Still, just because he's skipping patrol doesn't mean he's not going to be down in the Cave doing what he can without actually going out. He probably wouldn't be able to sleep even if he wanted to, and he figures being productive might make him feel a little better.

(It doesn't, but whatever. It was worth a shot.)

He's still typing on the computer when Red Robin comes roaring in on his motorcycle. One glance at the clock tells him that, wow, it's almost four in the morning. Another hour and Batman and Robin are probably going to be home, too.

He has something important at ten, he remembers a few hours too late. He can't recall what it is, but it's six hours from now. Another night of no sleep, and this time he can't even blame it on irrational panic.

Tim strips off the cowl and cape, and fixes Dick with a hard look as soon as he's close enough. Dick grimaces slightly, but doesn't do much more than finish typing a few lines in his case files, saving his work, and ejecting his flash drive.

"I thought you were going to sleep," Tim says, coming up from behind the chair.

"I'm going right now, Timmy," is Dick's answer, a small smile on his face, and he is. He gets up from the chair, stretches, and makes his way towards the stairs. "Had to finish something first."

Tim sighs, and it sounds more long-suffering than it did last night. And really, did Tim know how much of a hypocrite he sounded like right now? Because if their positions were switched, Tim would still be at the computer drinking some mixture of red bull and coffee, and he wouldn't sleep until he crashed right around 11 am.

At least Dick's going to sleep, despite how much he really doesn't want to.

"Right," says Tim, snorting, but he leaves it. Everyone leaves it.

Dick's body aches for sleep, wants it so bad, and he hesitates at the door, watching Tim head to the showers. What if he wakes up in a panic again, but this time he's utterly alone? Without Tim to move off him, what's to bring him out of it? Sleeping alone terrifies him, but sleeping with someone else also terrifies him. It's pretty much a lose-lose situation, and he needs to at least pick one of them.

He chooses to go it alone tonight. He goes upstairs.

He doesn't know if it was Timmy sprawled on top of him that set it off, but that was the first time he's majorly panicked—like that, at least. He'd had to repress his emotions once he was deep undercover. Now that he's back here, now that things are relatively okay again, Dick realizes that things are starting to settle. His mind wanders to the incident more and more, and he's not dealing with it enough to move past it. No wonder he's waking up like that now, Dick thinks with some fascinated sort of horror.

He's repressed it for far too long, and it's spilling through the cracks.

Yeah. He'll go it alone for now, if only to keep the others out of the loop for as long as possible.

Somehow, he sleeps through the night. And the next night. And the next. Until a week passes without a single incident, and Tim's stopped giving him those looks.

That is, until someone shakes him awake in the middle of a very vivid dream, calling his name.

Dick splutters, pushing wildly at the hands gripping his shoulders, but the hands don't let go. If anything, they tighten, and Dick's back there, strapped to that bomb, trapped. No way out. He stills. He stops breathing. He can't breathe. He's going to die.

The echo of his name is still ringing in his ears, and in Dick's half-awake, half-panicked state, he realizes that there's a face floating above him, staring down at him in blatant concern, but Dick can't connect face to name. Just. He looks so achingly familiar, in a way that stops Dick's heart better than any damn pill could.

It clicks after a minute, and Dick's lungs are burning when he takes a shuddering gasp to whisper, "Jason."

He's crying again after that, chest heaving, and still, Jason doesn't let him go. Tim's hovering behind him, that same insecure but worried look on his face from the last time Dick woke up freaking out.

"What the fuck," Jason says, but it's lacking any sort of ire. He just looks kind of sad and—and scared. Jason Todd is looking at Dick like he's never seen him before, and Dick's big brother instincts are going crazy with the need to get away from the people who are supposed to be looking up to him.

He needs to get away before they see how broken he is.

But he can't make himself do it. He just clings to the hands that he'd been trying to push away moments before, like Jason's a lifeline, and he can't seem to stop crying.

"What's wrong with you?" Jason demands, and Tim winces from over Jason's shoulder. When Dick doesn't answer—can't answer, can't breathe—Jason looks over at Tim, his jaw twitching. "Go get Bruce."

Tim hesitates, looking so much like he did when he first became Robin. "I don't think-"

"Go. Bruce is probably the only one who knows what the hell is wrong with him."

Tim doesn't question him after that. He leaves, and Jason turns back to Dick. Without Tim here, he looks somewhat softer, even though that half-angry, half-concerned expression hasn't left his face. Maybe Dick's just imagining it, or something like that. Jason hasn't been anything but angry in a long time.

"Jason," Dick sobs out again, and it feels like the only thing he can seem to push past his lips at this point, because it doesn't make sense. Jason's never showed up in these dreams before, and Dick hadn't expected him to be in the manor in the middle of the night. Awake or asleep, it's not adding up, and it's upsetting Dick a lot more than he had thought was even possible.

He's still holding onto Jason's arms while Jason immobilizes his shoulders, and Dick is glad that he doesn't feel like he's being pinned anymore. Jason turned into a lifeline somehow when he wasn't looking, and now Dick can't imagine letting go.

"Yeah, it's me, Dickiebird," Jason says, the expression the same, but the voice gentler. "You need to tell me what happened. Fear toxin? Were you drugged?"

Dick's lips quiver, but he can't manage anything more than a sob. Finally he just shakes his head. How to explain to your little brother that, no, you aren't drugged up with fear toxin, you're just really messed up in the head.

"Then what?"

Dick shakes his head again. He doesn't know. He doesn't know how to explain the crippling fear of being in his own head, of experiencing the sensation of being strapped to a bomb and Luthor stopping his heart again and again. It's been months, but if this gets any worse, Dick won't be able to handle it.

He already can't handle it.

Jason growls, but somehow restrains himself. "Dick, I need to know. I'm trying to help you, shithead."

Bruce and Tim burst through the door, then, and Dick lets out another sob at Bruce's appearance, something in his chest loosening, until he's letting Jason go and reaching for Bruce.

That's it, isn't it? Bruce had been there when it had happened. He'd been there to save Dick, and promised he wouldn't leave him, even in the face of dying with his son. He'd been there when Luthor had forced the pill down his throat, and he'd been there when Dick had woken from death. He'd been right in Dick's reach, in the way that no way else had been.

And he's here now.

Bruce reaches the bed, and Jason silently steps back, watching with a gaze that looks somewhat like relief, but also like jealousy.

Dick barely registers it. Bruce, instead of letting Dick reach out to him, ducks under Dick's arms and sits on the bed behind him, pulling Dick practically into his lap and cradling him against his chest as he leans against the headboard. Dick is entirely too old for this, but for once he can't care less. He's wailing into Bruce's shirt now, his sobs coming with so much force now.

"Shh," Bruce hushes him. Dick winds his fingers into the fabric of Bruce's shirt and holds on with a death grip. "It's alright. You're okay."

But he's not. He's most definitely not okay. He hasn't been in a long time, and he doesn't know if he ever will be. Bruce is holding him like the world is about to end—again—and Dick can't handle his own mind right now. Nothing is okay.

"What the hell's wrong with him?" Jason asks after a while, once Dick's crying starts to taper off. His face is still buried in Bruce's chest, his fingers in Bruce's shirt, and he doesn't plan on letting go anytime soon.

Dick feels it when Bruce looks up at Jason, and he sounds tired. "I don't know," he says. "I just- I don't know."

No one speaks for a few more minutes, and Dick's tears finally completely stop, and he's just slumped exhaustedly in the cradle of Bruce's arms, feeling more like a little kid again than he has in a long time.

Bruce used to do this back when he'd first started out as Robin, Dick remembers. Before Jason, before Bruce had closed himself off almost completely, it was somewhat easier to go to Bruce for nightmares. And whenever he'd had one, he'd crawl into Bruce's bed, tears in his eyes, and Bruce would just hold him until he fell asleep again.

But that hasn't happened in a long time. This is the first time since Jason died that Bruce has comforted Dick from a nightmare like this, and it's just so sad. How did this family get so messed up? What's wrong with them?

What's wrong with him?

"Dick?" Bruce calls softly. Dick makes an acknowledging noise in the back of his throat. "Dick, I need you to look at me." Dick moves his head slightly to peer up blearily at him. "Did something happen tonight?"

Dick shakes his head almost automatically. "'M not drugged," Dick slurs. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, as tired as the rest of him is.

"He said no fear toxin and no drugs," Jason supplies, uncharacteristically subdued.

"What is this?" a new voice demands from the doorway. Damian, his brain says, and dammit. He doesn't need another one of his brothers—especially not this one—seeing him like this. He's too broken, and if Dick's broken, what does that mean for Damian?

"Damian-" Bruce tries to head off the inevitable explosion, because this does not look good, no matter what way you spin it.

"What happened to Grayson?" Damian growls. "Todd, if you-"

"I didn't touch a hair on his perfect little head, brat," Jason snorts.

"Then what happened?" Damian asks, sounding stricken and upset—well, probably only to Dick, who has learned to read that kid inside and out—and Dick struggles to sit up, to pull away from Bruce's arms enough to appear stronger and less exhausted than he feels. For Damian's sake, at least. And maybe a little bit for his own.

Bruce doesn't let him go, but he does help him sit up some more, until Dick's back is resting against his chest and his head is leaning against Bruce's cheek. A little uncomfortable, but Dick already feels a bit more in control of himself.

"'M okay," Dick says, and four pairs of disbelieving eyes round on him. Dick winces. Probably not the best thing to say given the circumstances, but he doesn't know what else he's supposed to say. He may not be the most emotionally constipated person in this house, but he's also not great at admitting when he needs help.

"Yeah, I don't think so," Jason says. "That was a major freak out you had there, Dick."

"It's…I'm dealing with it," Dick defends. And then he wonders. Because, why exactly is Jason here at—3 in the morning? Did Dick miss something? But it's probably not the best idea to bring that up right now.

"Right," Jason says, trying for sarcastic, but it falls just short. "You looked like you had everything perfectly handled."

His family is gathered around him, Dick reminds himself, and they don't know what's wrong with him. Dick, well, he knows a little. He knows he's not right in the head. He knows he's dealing with trauma. And he knows that this isn't just going to go away because they have a heart to heart.

But he also doesn't know how to explain to his family that this doesn't matter. That it can't matter. Not when Jason's issues are more pressing, when Damian's still dealing with coming back from the dead, and Tim is still dealing with a shit storm from all sides—home, work, cases, Titans, his own head.

And Bruce. Bruce doesn't handle trauma well anyways. How is he going to handle the fact that this is happening because Dick couldn't deal with it sooner? Because he was on an undercover mission that Bruce sent him on.

There's really no way to explain it. So he knows, but he also really, really doesn't.

"Dick?" Tim says, and he looks hesitant and confident at the same time, in the way only Tim can. "Dick, this isn't something you can pretend didn't happen."

"I'm not trying to," Dick sighs, and he's so tired. "It's just…."

Just what?

Everything's too complicated, and he just wants to go back to sleep.

"Then what is it?" Tim asks, stepping around Jason. "What aren't you telling us?"

Everything, his mind supplies at the same time his instincts snarl, nothing. What's even happening to him that his own brain is stuck fighting against itself. If that isn't messed up, Dick doesn't know what is.

"Dick," Bruce chimes in, voice still soft and gentle in a way it hasn't been in years. It makes Dick want to cry again. "We're just trying to help you."

"I don't know if you can," Dick whispers, admission burning his lips. "I don't know if anyone can."

Jason's sitting down on the bed in front of him now. "Why not?"

"I-It's- I'm just-" This is harder than it should be. Dick's trembling now, and all eyes are still on him, analyzing him, trying to figure him out. "It just keeps replaying in mind. I can't stop it," Dick finally sobs. "I can't stop him."

Bruce tenses behind him, and he seems to understand even if the other three just look confused. Damian's practically shut down at this point, just watching with wide eyes as the man who had took him in, made him Robin, collapsed in on himself. Jason and Tim look only marginally better.

"Dick-"

"I woke up," Dick tells Bruce, and now that the words have started, they aren't going to stop, "and it was like I was there. I couldn't move, I could barely breathe. And then I just didn't."

Bruce heaves a heavy sigh. "I know it's hard. I know it's not easy, but we can help you through this."

Dick's eyes are burning. "I'm not stupid," he says. "I know I can't do this by myself. But I don't think there's anything anyone can do. Not you. Not me. Not anybody."

The trauma has caught up to him, and his brain has decided it's safe enough to freak out now, because it wasn't before. He knows this isn't just going to go away, that it's going to get so much worse before it can get better. He doesn't want his family to go through that with him.

"Whatever's happening, it's not like it's impossible to deal with," Jason says. "I'm not one to talk, but when you've got people willing, maybe you should take a helping hand."

Tim looks unsure, though. He looks like he wants to offer a shoulder to cry on, but at the same, he looks ready to bolt. So does Damian, and it's really only Jason and Bruce who seem ready and willing to handle this. To handle him.

Which is amazing, because usually it's like pulling teeth to get Jason and Bruce to agree on anything.

Dick's bites his lip, and the words that were coming before grind to a halt. He doesn't want this. He wants his family together, but he wants them together and happy. Not looking at him like they're about to lose one of their own once again. He doesn't want that. He's never wanted that, even if it pulls everyone in the same direction.

It doesn't help that he doesn't know how to explain what he's dealing with.

Fortunately, Bruce takes over for him. "It's okay to not be okay, Dick," Bruce says, like all of them haven't grappled with asking for help. "Trauma can pull even Batman to his knees. You know that."

Jason looks like he's been slapped. Tim's face is pinched, like all his worries have just come true. Damian looks startled still, and he's pale. His mouth is slack, and he's staring at Dick like Dick's a stranger. It's probably the worst reaction Dick could have hoped for.

"You never show it," Dick tells him, his hand tightening in Bruce's shirt, and he wonders if he'll ever stop crying. "I can't handle this. I can't sleep. It's everywhere. No matter what I do, it's like I'm back there, and I can barely function!"

The last time Bruce cried—actually cried—had been when Damian died. And then they'd buried Damian, and then Bruce—Batman—became a stonewall no one could get through. But he never wavered. Not like Dick is doing right now. He never let any of them know that he was hurting, even when they knew he was, and Dick's doing a shit job of hiding his feelings.

None of them will ever look at him the same. Not after this.

"Dick," Tim says, and his face is still pinched. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, but it's like he can't think of anything to say to Dick's admission.

Jason's head whips towards Tim. "You said it was bad. You didn't say it was this bad."

"I didn't know it was that bad."

"How did you not know he wasn't sleeping?!"

"You are not blaming this on me, Jason," Tim pushes back, his expression morphing into something angry and almost scared, much like the one Jason had before when he was holding Dick down. "It's not my fault I didn't notice!"

Because Dick was hiding it. And now Jason's angry at Tim for Dick's mistake of not telling anyone, and that's just so wrong.

"Is it from…from Spyral?" Damian asks, seemingly regaining control over his expression. He still looks really pale, but he's maintaining a calm that Tim and Jason have completely given up on. "I know you did some difficult things while undercover, Grayson."

Dick swallows against the lump in his throat. "No, it's. It's from…before. Before any of that."

"While I was dead." It isn't a question.

"Yes."

Bruce heaves a sigh. "It's late," he says, like that means anything at all with their line of work. "We can talk about this in the morning."

Jason looks like he wants to argue, and actually, so does Tim, which is very strange, but also completely expected. When Tim obsessed over something, he won't put it down, but Dick hadn't thought that Tim would obsess over him.

Tim's suspicious glances from weeks and weeks ago come back to him, and Dick thinks that maybe he should have seen this coming. Maybe it's not just Jason mad at Tim for not noticing. Maybe Tim's mad at himself.

Weirdly enough, it's Damian that nods stiffly, without even a fight, and comes around the other side of the bed as Bruce lays Dick back down on the pillows.

"Damian?" Dick asks as the kid crawls underneath the covers with him, before Dick has a chance to fight Bruce on leaving him alone after a dream like that. Getting Damian to sleep in the same room as Dick is sometimes super hard. Dick had fought tooth and nail to get him to sleep in the same bed with him one time while Dick dosed with fear toxin, and that's the only time Dick remembers this ever happening, and never of his own volition. "Are you sleeping here tonight?"

"Obviously," Damian tuts, and then coolly adds, "If you are in need of assistance, it's more strategic if one of us are in the immediate vicinity. And as the most capable, of course it would be me."

Dick's lips quirk, even if his voice isn't quite steady as he says, "Of course."

Damian scowls, but he says nothing further, just presses his shoulder against Dick's. It's more comforting than not, actually, the slight space between them, and Dick finds himself relaxing into the bed, eyes drooping.

"Well, I'm officially out of here, then," Jason says, and he's scowling, too. "If anybody tries to stop me, I will shoot you. All of you."

He won't, but nobody tries to stop him as he walks out the door. Bruce just follows his path out with sad, guilty eyes. But Jason leaves, and Tim follows after him, murmuring something that Dick doesn't quite catch.

And then it's just Bruce, standing awkwardly near the bed.

"Don't leave," Dick says, suddenly picturing Bruce walking out that door, too, and the irrational fear seizes him once again. Tears are gathering in his eyes once more. "Please, please, don't leave, Bruce."

Bruce nods, grabbing Dick's desk chair and dragging it over next to the bed. "I won't," he promises.

And Dick believes him.

The morning brings a headache, and Dick wakes up crying again. This time from pain. The migraine is severe, and Dick's rushing from bed to bathroom at a bright and early 6 am, barely making it in time to throw up in the toilet.

When he finally looks up, Damian's standing in the doorway of the bathroom looking conflicted.

"Grayson?"

"The liquid Tylenol," Dick gasps out, leaning his sweaty forehead against the cool porcelain. He makes grabby motions with his hand. Damian doesn't question him. He just pulls out the kit from underneath the sink and hands him the liquid pain killers. Dick swigs it, and hands it back with a small, "Thanks, Dami."

Damian nods stiffly. "I will go inform Pennyworth that you will not be down for breakfast."

Dick lets him go, lets him escape, before he slides down to press his head against the tiled floor. It feels good, and Dick lets his eyes slip closed for a second. When he slides them back open, Tim's dropping to the ground in front of him, eyes wide with panic, and Dick can't make sense of that in his head. What happened to Damian?

"Dick," Tim breathes. "Dick, are you okay?"

"'M alright, Timmy," Dick says, pushing himself up from the floor. "Got a headache."

"Did you take anything?"

"Tylenol."

"How bad is the pain?"

Dick winces, cradling his head in his hands. "Pretty bad," he whispers thickly.

Tim looks overly worried. He helps Dick to his feet and together they stumble out of the bathroom and back to Dick's big, comfortable bed. Dick almost feels like crying. Except, well, he's cried far too much in the last few weeks—past few hours—to start again.

He just wants to get horizontal again.

"Where's Damian?" Dick asks once he's settled back underneath the covers. "He was here…before."

This time it's Tim's turn to wince. "He found you passed out on the bathroom floor, so he went to get Bruce. He just happened to run into me before then."

Dick's forehead crinkles. "Run into you? It's like six in the morning, Tim."

"Ah, yeah. I haven't actually gone to bed yet."

"Tim." Dick somehow manages to sound stern enough for Tim to look somewhat apologetic, even with a raging migraine, so Dick counts that as a win for Team Grayson.

"To be fair, I was on my way to my bedroom."

"Somehow I don't believe you."

"I was."

Dick's eyes are drooping by now, and his headache is killing him. He needs to close his eyes. He needs to stop talking. Tim needs to stop talking. But, at the same time, he really doesn't want to. After last night, Dick's relishing this interaction with his little brother. Tim had seen him break down last night, but he's not looking at Dick like he's broken.

Tim seems to realize that Dick is flagging, though, and takes the preemptive action of sliding underneath the blankets, right where Damian had been sleeping the night before. He also doesn't cuddle up to Dick like he usually would, and Dick finds this half relieving and half disappointing.

Dick's dozing by the time Bruce comes in—where did he go? He said he wouldn't leave. He said he'd stay—and there are soft murmurs between Damian, Bruce, and Tim that Dick can't pay attention to.

And then he's asleep.

"I thought you faked your death?" Tim asks, his eyes wide and uncomprehending.

They're sitting in the den, Tim perched in an armchair, dangerously close to falling out, and Dick's about ready to get out of his own spot on the couch where Cass is cuddling up to him to push him back into the chair. But he's too safe to move. If he leaves Cass's comfort now, he won't make it. He'll dissolve. He'll come undone.

Dick doesn't want that to happen, so he just moves his gaze to the floor, swallowing past the lump in his throat. Looking at his family surrounding him, even Stephanie and Jason are here, isn't something he can do. He can't face them head on.

He feels like such a coward.

"I did," Dick answers, even though the answer kills him. His headache's gone, but the hurt in his heart more than makes up for it.

"Dick," Bruce reprimands from the other side of the room. Like that will stop Dick from telling the truth. Because he did fake his death. He had been alive, and pretended to be dead for months, away from his family all that time, waiting to come home. That had been Dick faking his death, and no matter what, Dick couldn't excuse him on a technicality.

Stephanie huffs an exasperated breath. "I'm not following. What are we even talking about?"

Damian scoffs from his position near Dick's legs. He's wrapped up in a blanket on the floor, mere inches from Dick, and Dick aches to pull his little brother into his arms, right next to Cass. "Keep up, Brown," Dami says. "We're talking about the incident with the Crime Syndicate. Where they claimed to have killed Nightwing."

"Right, right," Steph waves him off. "I got that. But I thought we were over that whole thing. They unmasked him, tried to kill him, Bruce and Dick made it seem like they had killed him in order to send him under cover. Why are we calling it into question? Aren't those the facts?"

"What I want to know," Jason pipes up, still standing in the entryway with his arms crossed over his chest, "is why Dick has so much trauma from one incident. They torture you Bigbird?"

Jason's looking kind of murderous right now, and Dick wonders whether it's because he doesn't like that someone had potentially tortured Dick or because Dick is so messed up in the head from it when he's been through worse.

Dick's not sure he ever really wants to know.

"Dick?" Cass says, almost goes to lay a gentle hand on his chest, just above his heart, but there must be something to Dick's body language that she reads, because she aborts the motion before it can trigger some sort of panic attack. Instead, she shifts and brings her hand up to cup his cheek, pulling his gaze from Jason to her. "Breathe," she reminds him.

And he does. He hadn't even noticed the dark spots appearing at the edge of his vision.

"Thank you," Dick whispers, and Cass smiles. She says nothing more, so Dick turns to Tim as soon as he gets ahold of his breathing. He repeats his answer from before. "I did. Fake my death. And I also didn't."

Tim looks haunted and spacey, his mind running a thousand times faster than the rest of theirs. He knows something's up. He's picked up on something that nobody but Bruce, Dick, and Lex Luthor have knowledge of. Tim's too smart for his own good, because he's pieced together what Dick had said the night before and fits it to what Dick's saying now and then adds what he knows about what happened that night, and he says—

"So you died."

—like it's not going to stop he world from spinning.

Tim's words leave a silence ringing throughout the room, and Dick doesn't have to look at the others to know that they're gaping at him in shock. The words are out in the air, all that's left is for Dick to admit it.

So Dick says, "Yes."

Jason and Damian and Stephanie are both yelling immediately—at Dick, at Bruce, at Tim, at each other. It's chaos, and Dick can't help but wince. The sudden cacophony is almost deafening, and Dick finds himself leaning more into Cass as a means of escape.

"QUIET!" Bruce yells, and the three go silent. Jason's tense, Stephanie's baffled, and Damian's angry, and Bruce. Bruce looks about ready to don the cape and cowl and order them to stand down, like the cape and cowl even matter (they do, but only with Bruce). "That's enough. Let Dick explain."

"How about you explain?!" Jason yells, his arms falling to his sides, his hands balling into fists. "As I recall, faking Dick's death was your idea!"

"I needed to get someone into Spyral," Bruce tells him, his voice deceptively calm. "Dick's death was the in we needed."

"So you used him," Jason spits. He turns his glare to Dick. "And you let him use you."

Dick has nothing to say to that. He can't tell Jason that Damian was dead and he'd just been unmasked, and he'd been strapped to a bomb for hours only to find out that the only way out was to die. He had been emotionally unstable and he couldn't find it in him to disobey Bruce that time.

And then Spyral happened, and he'd been hundreds of feet too deep to come back out then. Undercover and no way out except to finish the mission. He'd held back the trauma and he'd finished the mission. And then he came home.

Yeah, he'd let Bruce use him. He couldn't have said no.

"How?" Tim asks, his eyes still trained on Dick.

Dick licks his lips, that lump in his throat growing. "I was strapped to a bomb," Dick says. "I wasn't able to move. And it was connected to my heartbeat. The only way to stop the bomb was to…to stop my heart."

"You sacrificed yourself?" Damian asks, still looking angry and—and betrayed. "You killed yourself in order to stop the bomb?"

"Not exactly."

"Lex Luthor was with us," Bruce says, his voice grave. Dick can't help it. He puts a hand over his mouth. He can't breathe. He feels like he's going to be sick. Like the lump in his throat is the pill Luthor shoved down his throat, and it hurts. He's going to die and Bruce is going to have to watch as Luthor saves the world and kills his son. "He forced Dick to swallow a pill to stop his heart. We got him out of the machine and then Luthor revived him with a shot of adrenaline to the heart."

"He killed me," Dick chokes.

Tim looks resigned, Cass is blank, Bruce is grave, Damian's angry, Stephanie's angry, Jason's angry, and one peek to where Alfred has been standing behind them this whole time, not saying a word, reveals that Alfred is angry, too.

Dick wishes he can be angry. He just feels raw and hurt. There's not enough room for anger, so he lets Cass hold him while the rawness and the hurt wash themselves out in his tears, his family surrounding him, not moving.

But they're all here this time, and that's more than Dick could have asked for last time.

Things don't get much better, but they don't get much worse.

And then Tim dies, and Dick can't help but think that the universe is really out to get him.

Their family is so messed up, but that didn't mean he wanted to lose it. Not again.

Okayyyyy folks. This one has been sitting in my wip folder for almost two months now and I finally finished it. Sorry it's infinitely sad. I'm usually all about the happy endings but for some reason I couldn't with this one. Also, I ended it with Tim dying in the reboot even though I absolutely hate the fact Tim's dead in the reboot.

(Where's that nice happy[ish] time between Batman and Robin #12 and Batman Inc. #7? At least all of the Batkids were still alive.)

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