AN: Wanted to try something new, but, eh :(

xxOxx

A third explosion goes off. Everything sounds like it is underwater, but the deep timbre of Bruce's voice rips through the warble and you try to move towards it, holding your midsection as you go. Nothing feels broken, but that landing had hurt.

Thick smoke smothers the air, making you feel suffocated. Visibility is close to none, and yet the sharp purple of Joker's suit jacket stands out. He laughs, sounding more demented than usual through the hum in your ears.

You reach for your communicator to make another attempt at reaching Bruce, but a sharp pain explodes across your temple, making the world dip dangerously in and out of focus. You fall to your hands and knees, fighting dizziness.

Get up, get up now.

"Bats is pretty good at hide-and-seek, wouldn't you say?" Joker pauses, giving you time to retort. You don't. "A little too good, if you ask me, so how about we improvise! Let's see which one of us can find him first?"

No. Get to your feet. Tell him no. "Pass."

"Oh come on, Birdy, don't tell me the big man himself is rubbing off on you. You look just dreadful with a scowl on your face."

You grimace. There are so many things he could have hidden up his sleeve. Carve you up with a knife or release some of that awful venom of his. Ugh, to die laughing like that... Asphyxiation just seems like such a terrible way to go-

No, stop that. Stop rubbing at your throat. It won't come to that.

"Can't help it when you're around," you say.

"I suppose I'm a bit of an acquired taste."

There's an opening for you to quip, but when you breathe in to take it, something suddenly distracts you. Through the smog and char, you smell something else. Something soft and sweet.

And, well, that doesn't seem right.

"Heads up, Bird Brain!"

To your left, Harley bleeds into view, trusty mallet in hand. She wastes no time swinging at your head, but you are faster. You cartwheel out of reach, trying to create distance. You need to find Bruce. It's been a while since you've heard him through the radio and the seeds of worry are starting to blossom.

You reach for your grapple. Getting above all of this ash and rubble will give you a better understanding of your surroundings. Down here, you can't even tell which direction you're facing.

But Harley is quick to catch up and comes at you swinging. The mallet lands right in your gut – and wow you're going to feel that tomorrow – and sends you back to the ground. She giggles and lifts the weapon up high.

Then, you smell it again. Subtle and flowery. Like Springtime.

Huh. Since when does Harley wear perfume?

You manage to catch the neck of the over-sized hammer when she brings it down, and against her high-pitched demands, you yank it from her grasp. You roll away with it before she can catch you, then chuck it into the air before flinging an exploding disc towards it. It embeds itself into the head and explodes in mid-air.

As wooden chunks rain down around you, and as Harley squeals in displeasure, Joker's voice slips in.

"How unsporting…" he drawls. "Whelp! This was fun and all, but Batsy doesn't seem to be showing up to play with us. Wonder where that sack of gloom ran off to… It's a shame we missed him. But oh, I know! How about we leave him a message?"

You don't know how, but you are suddenly back on the ground and in an incredible amount of pain. The purple of Joker's suit jacket hurts your eyes and Harley's perfume in your nose. When did they get so close?

What's going on? Do something.

Joker grasps the nape of your neck and oh, you just know he's capable of so many terrible, terrible things right now. It scares you today, and it shouldn't, but it does.

He squeezes tightly. Your breath hitches. The sharp intake smells and tastes like sugar.

If you focus and find your footing, you know you can take them, but you don't move. Can't.

The flutter of a cape seems to scare them off. The pressure on the back of your neck disappears and there is the repetitive sound of flesh hitting flesh in the background, and possibly the crack of bone.

He's here.

Minutes pass. Harley's perfume is still in your head, but you are certain the clowned couple has been taken care of when a dark shadow smothers you and large, strong hands grope at you with extreme gentleness. They slide over you. Check you over. They scoop you up and cradle you like you're nine, and you let them.

xxOxx

In the cave, you peel off your costume and fantasize about a shower. Your skin and hair are covered with ash and you smell like dirt. Bruce is asking you questions about your time apart, to which your answers are as hazy as your memory – which is alarming in itself, since usually your recollection is spot-on.

Mostly, all you remember is a lot of fog and the smell of a luscious garden. Bruce seems wary of this lapse in memory but is polite enough not to push the matter for now. It's late and you have a charity ball in the morning.

Ugh.

Alfred makes his entrance and does his usual check-up on you and Bruce, and announces that, aches and pains aside, you'll both be fine.

"Do I have to go?" you bemoan, knowing it's useless. Charity balls always leave you feeling so... fake.

"You already know the answer to that, Dick. And besides," he says, some semblance of a smirk teasing the side of his mouth. "You clean up nice."

"Quite dashing, I must say," Alfred pipes in.

Despite your sudden fatigue, you smile at that.

The following half hour is lost to you but you know you had that shower and that Bruce led you up to your room, and although you are thirteen and don't require tucking in, that's exactly what Bruce does, and you'd be a liar if you said you didn't like it.

Bruce folds the blankets around you the same way your father did. On really rare nights, when you cause him enough stress and worry, and when he thinks you're too out of it to notice, he even brushes your hair back and touches his lips to your forehead. Much like your mother did.

Tonight, as it turns out, is not one of those nights.

xxOxx

Cynthia Tanner, the daughter of one of Bruce's apparently-important associates, wants to dance with you when the first slow song starts. It will look bad if you don't, so you take her proffered hand. She's your age, with wavy blonde hair and the face of a porcelain doll. Bruce does nothing to defend you from the social obligation; in fact, he seems to take a little enjoyment out of the whole thing.

Jerk.

You take the lead with Cynthia and make well-practiced small talk. The song you are dancing to is about half over when her voice starts to sound a little funny. It drifts. It melts. Blends. It makes your heart pound and your head hurt. It turns everything to noise.

You need some air. Go. Step outside for a minute.

But where her hands rest on your shoulders, Cynthia squeezes. It hurts. Something is very, very wrong here.

Her eyes are glowing, her suddenly ruby red lips stretching across her entire face. When she laughs, it is demonic and not the kind of sound you would ever expect a porcelain doll to make.

Is Joker crashing the party? Did she get hit with venom? Everything seemed normal up until now. Boring and normal.

You need to warn Bruce now. You need to warn everyone.

But Cynthia growls as if she knows and detests what you're thinking. You recoil, shoving her away, hard, because survival instincts are kicking in and Cynthia Tanner should not be a threat but she is. She is and you need to get away.

She falls back and hits the ground, where she shatters into a million glass shards. Sweat drenches you; how on earth are you going to explain this to Bruce and Mr. Tanner? How are you going to tell them that you broke Cynthia?

Shakily, you step back. Slip on something wet. As you fall back, you wonder if you, too, will shatter, but instead you slip right through the floor and continue falling.

You hurdle though muddied skies and towards the lights of your dear old Gotham City below, her streets like neon teeth waiting to devour you. It dawns on you, now of all times, that this shouldn't be real. Even the highest tower in Gotham is miles beneath you. You have enough sense to know that this can't be happening but the wind puts a sting to your skin and you can feel your heart pounding, and it's real enough.

There is no utility belt to rely on. No toys. Nothing to save your skin. And unless Batman learns real fast how to fly for real, he won't be saving you. You're going to splatter.

This is so unfair.

A cluster of clouds gobbles you up temporarily and when you pierce through the bottom, you are no longer over Gotham, but hurdling towards the Big Top. It's colorful and beautiful, just like you remember. It brings joy that lasts a bittersweet second, and then, you see them.

Two figures clad in familiar colors and even though they are falling, they are still graceful. You panic; you know they'll die again if they hit the ground from this height, at this speed. You shriek at them, slapping your hands over your mouth when the voice you hear is that of an eight-year-old you.

When the three of you rip through the roof of the tent, you are blinded by a white light. You feel no pain.

When the world comes back into focus, you are in your eight-year-old body and on your knees between the mangled bodies of your mother and father. The anguished scream you try to release comes out as a choked sob instead. You cry hot, fat tears until the ground beneath you turns to mud and your knees start to sink.

Whatever you do, don't look at them. Their dead, haunted eyes will keep you up at night. Look somewhere else, anywhere else. Look at the stands. You remember this part, right? Right now, somewhere in the crowd, Bruce Wayne is rushing to your rescue.

But Bruce is not there. No one is. The stands are completely empty. The silence is so loud, it's deafening.

But who will help them?

"Diiiick."

It is the voice of a man, strong and deep. You want to say it is your father, but you know he's dead. You saw his neck break.

"Dickie, get up."

Maybe you can save him still. Maybe you can–

"Dick!"

And oh, what a relief. Bruce is finally here, face hovering over your own, his brows knitted together the same way they were when you first met. This is it. This is where Bruce makes it all go away. Please.

Your heart is aching. Dread weighs down on your stomach and you don't know if you can stand.

Behind Bruce, a sea of people murmur and stare. Oh sure, now the audience returns. What's wrong with them? Can't they see your parents need an ambulance? For God's sake, call someone!

The warmth of a hand presses firmly against your cheek, a calloused thumb stroking just under your eye, which feels hot and wet. The fond gesture is what pulls you the rest of the way back.

You're at the ball. You're thirteen. Cynthia Tanner is several feet to your left, clutching at her father's arm with tears in her eyes. She looks afraid of you.

Oh, this looks bad, you realize. You can't be doing this here. Things like this are difficult to explain to other people.

"…Bruce?"

The shake in your voice disturbs you.

"Look at me, chum," he commands quietly, and you listen. You always listen. His voice is a beacon, calling you back to sanity. Thank God.

Bruce helps you to your feet, hands on your shoulders. He says something convincing to the onlookers and then hurriedly guides you out of the room.

At least it gets you out of the charity ball.

xxOxx

Bruce, of course, makes you tell him everything. He decides he'll tell the party-goers that you suffered a stress-induced panic attack, if anyone asks, and you know they will. Awesome.

You know a nightmare when you see one, and it seems only natural that Scarecrow would be to blame, though you don't know where you would have received the toxin. You sit on the examination table and swing your feet, rubbing at your arm where Bruce took a sample of your blood moments ago. Feels like forever before he comes back, looking boggled as he confesses that your blood seems void of anything resembling Scarecrow's work. Not even a trace.

He decides to give you a dosage of the antidote, regardless, as a precautionary measure.

Bruce's expression is grim and troubled, even after the antidote is administered. He tells you to go to bed as he stations himself in front of the computer in what will no doubt be a long night of research. Not wanting to be the cause of another sleepless night for the man (and hey, maybe you can get another tuck in), you try to argue his decision, but he tells you to go to bed again, this time in a tone that sounds very, very final.

Seems like tonight won't be one of those nights, either.

So you trudge upstairs, unsure when it is exactly that you fell asleep or when you woke up, or if you even slept at all. Any hope that the antidote did the trick is gone when Alfred serves you a plate of worms for breakfast and calls you Robin. It concerns you because if it isn't Scarecrow's toxin, maybe you're just finally starting to crack.

xxOxx

The uneven bars might be your favorite.

Bruce has a plan for everything, including other plans. There's a strategy for every kind of opponent and an unspoken pattern between the two of you when working together. The uneven bars allow you to abandon that part of the job. They let you move on a whim and adapt your body to shapes around you instead of looking ahead and configuring.

No thinking. No planning. Just moving. All you have to do is move, and muscle memory takes care of the rest.

But there are just times where you use the bars as an outlet.

Today, you push yourself. Go until you can't breathe. Until your arms want to fall off. You're mind is anything but clear, and it makes you sloppy. But you push until sweat goes in your eyes and up your nose and you can taste it when you lick your lips.

Maybe you can sweat the crazy out. By the end of the day, whatever it is you've got left swarming around in your system should be puddled on the floor. Get it out and get your head back in the game.

There have been times where you see Bruce running simulators and losing himself in training. When you were younger it was hard to watch because Batman turned into a creature that even you struggled to approach, and the lack of understanding startled you.

But you understand it now.

xxOxx

Superboy nudges your arm with his elbow. Ow.

"Any day now," he scowls.

Wally, to your aid, senses that you haven't been paying attention and quickly covers for you. "Yeah, Rob," he says, lifting your computer-wielding arm in front of you. "Make with the hacking."

"Oh. Right," you nod. Get to work. Don't tell them how every shadow moves and every wall shifts. No one else seems to notice it. When you made mention of it earlier, Superboy chuckled and asked you if you were afraid. That didn't sit well, so you didn't bring it up again. But it hasn't stopped, and it's distracting.

The codes are easy enough to hack into and the door blocking your path hisses open. You pull up a hologram of the building's blueprints.

"Control room is straight ahead. I'll head there and take out the security."

No one argues. Kaldur quickly partners the team up in pairs. You're with M'gann.

Splitting from the rest of the group, you both dart down the hall and towards the control room as soon as the mental link is set up. Through the door is a wall of glowing computer screens and a vast board of controls. You connect your computer to the main console via USB cord and start typing at breakneck speed. M'gann glances curiously over your shoulder.

Robin, her voice echoes in your head. I have a bad feeling.

Almost in, you assure.

But-

You both jump with a siren goes off, flooding the room with a flashing, red light. M'gann grasps at your shoulders and tries to pull you back towards the door, but there is still work to be done, and if you're quick, you can still get it all finished and stop the alarm.

Rob! Rob, what happened!? Wally's voice panics.

A decoy, I'm pretty sure. Trying to deactivate it now.

And you try, but the screen of your hologram flickers and bends. You dip your head into your hand to rub at your eyes – maybe you're sleep deprived? – and when you come up, the walls are morphing again. No, shrinking. Closing in. If you don't get out soon, you'll be crushed.

The forced distortion of the room causes everything to clutter and break, including the technology. Somewhere in the mess, wires spark and a fire is lit. It grows at impressive speed.

Time to go. Grab M'gann now and get out.

You turn to the door, only to find it missing. It was your only exit.

Guys! We have a problem!

No one answers.

Guys?

You twist around to collect M'gann, but find her on the ground, already overcome with the fire's intensity. You fish out your rebreather and strap it to her face, then cover your own with your cape. M'gann mumbles in your arms, and you shake her.

"Miss M!"

A coughing fit hits you and you bury your head in the girl's hair to get away from the smoke.

"Robin."

Something in your chest tightens. That isn't M'gann's voice, but it's a voice you know. It's one you could never forget.

You lift your head. Feel your heart strain. The sweet, sweet sound of your name comes from your mother's bleeding lips. Even with her teeth stained pink, her smile is glorious. You don't know how she got here, but you'll save her this time.

"My little Robin."

And oh God, it sounds so soft and loving and very much alive.

You lean in close to hear her better. It isn't that you can't understand her. You just missed her voice. So, so much.

She reaches out, slender fingers tracing the R patched over your heart. She seems to know who you are and what you've become, and it tears you apart to see her smile fall into a frown. It dawns on you that this might not be what she wanted for you.

"Robin," she says sadly, shaking her head. "Robin."

You pull her to your chest and squeeze her tightly. It'll be okay. Once you explain everything, once you introduce her to Bruce, everything will make sense, and she'll understand. She has to.

"Robin!"

Why is she shouting? You're right here.

"Robin!"

Your eyes snap open (were they closed?) and you find that you are not cradling anyone to your chest. M'gann is cradling you.

"You're awake!" she says tearfully.

"Miss M, inside voice," you grimace, pointing to your head.

"We're disconnected," she explains worriedly, helping you to your feet. The room is amazingly in-tact. The computers are still humming on the wall, codes only half-hacked. No alarm is sounding, and it would seem there never was one. "Robin, what happened?"

Good question. "We're disconnected?"

M'gann chews on her lower lip. "Your mind went haywire. Your thoughts weren't making any sense. There was just so much noise, I... I had to cut the link."

Oh.

It takes a few minutes to convince M'gann that you're fine, though you're sure she doesn't fully believe you. The mental link is restored and questions are avoided, but while the chaos in your head is subdued for now, it does nothing to distract you from the fact that there is definitely something else inside of you.

The worst of it is, you realize, the anticipation of these illusions are getting just as bad as the illusions themselves; sometimes you can't tell when they start and when they end, and it's starting to put you in a constant state of fear.

xxOxx

Scarecrow is in his cell, and he thinks the situation is funny. He knows the Bat won't kill him, and he can't be locked away because he already is, so he laughs and laughs and the chills that you get are almost painful.

"Which one of you got it?" he coos devilishly, his eyes darting between Bruce and yourself. Keep a brave face; it would be really, really bad if one of your little nightmares kicked in right now. "Tell me, how is it treating you?"

Wait. Okay. This is a good thing.

You approach the cell. "So you're admitting that you have something to do with it."

Scarecrow falters for a fraction of a second, but neither you nor Bruce miss it. He hardly has a moment to blink before Bruce reaches through the bars and gathers the Arkham jumpsuit in his fists.

"What makes it different?" Bruce grinds from under the cowl. "This one isn't like others."

"Oh, you noticed! It hits you at random, doesn't it? Pulls you in deep. Strokes your hair softly and then grasps you by the roots," he replies darkly. He looks at you. Looks at you like he knows. "The fear is the same, Batman. What is different is the intensity. The sensation. Fear is meant to be experienced by all of the senses."

Batman's eyes turn to slits. He speaks through his teeth. "How is it administered?"

"Oh. You mean you haven't figured it out yet."

So smug. He isn't going to reveal anything.

Batman doesn't need things like fear toxin to strike terror in other people's hearts. Although he won't be spilling everything he knows, the fear slowly slipping into Scarecrow's expression as Batman snarls does nothing to pacify you, because you know deep down that he is not as scared as you are.

xxOxx

Night comes, and you stand outside of your room, debating with yourself. It used to be safe in there.

You clutch at the hem of your pajama bottoms and bite your lip. What if you fall asleep, have a nightmare and don't wake up? What if you're having one right now?

"Dick?"

Bruce's voice sure sounds real. He comes over to you and glances into your room, trying to understand your hesitation.

"Bruce, I…" Whoa. Swallow. You don't even sound like yourself. Try again. "I'd understand if you said no, but…"

This is ridiculous. It's not like you haven't slept in Bruce's bed before.

But that's different. You've never crawled into Bruce's bed before the nightmares. Only after.

Maybe he can keep them away, though. Prevent them from happening. Maybe he can save you if it still comes for you. You know you're getting older. You know the media would love to cover a story about Bruce Wayne and his ward going to bed together, but they just don't understand. Only Bruce understands.

Bruce's face twists in sympathy. "Let's go, chum," he says gently. He makes the decision for you when he starts steering you away from your room and towards his own.

You bury yourself under the covers once you're situated there, and wonder if Bruce will touch lips to your forehead like your mother this time.

After a few minutes you realize that tonight is, once again, not one of those nights.

The sound of Bruce's even breathing keeps you focused. As long as you concentrate on that sound, you'll be okay. Just focus.

Thwump!

The sound comes from the window. You go rigid, holding your breath and waiting for it to happen again but all you hear is Bruce's breath. Slowly, you poke your head out from the covers and look towards the window. The morning sun streams in, lighting the room.

What? How is it morning already?

On the lower right panel of the large bedroom window, a small splotch of red stains the glass. Blood?

"Bruce," you whisper harshly, shaking his arm. "Bruce, I think someone's outside. Bruce."

But the man doesn't budge. Not even a twitch.

You go. You race down the hall, ride the banister to the main floor and slip outside in order to find the culprit, and you do. It rests battered and bleeding at your feet. A bird. A robin.

It makes no sense for panic to grip you – birds fly into windows every day – but it does, and you gather the poor creature in your hands and hold it to your chest. It's feathers are matted, one wing bent backwards. It feels like you yourself are bleeding out. It feels like you are suddenly holding yourself in your hands. And you know it's useless, you know it's already too far gone, but you hurry back inside the house like you can still save it.

You scream Bruce's name when you came back inside.

"Dick, why are you shouting?" Bruce's voice comes from the stairwell, his brows drawn low like they do when he has a headache. "What is that you're holding? Dick?"

You hold the dead bird out to him, wanting him to do something amazing and make everything better, but Bruce looks down at the bloodied handful in disgust.

"Dick, what do you think you're doing bringing that thing into the house?"

He's kidding. He's kidding, right? There have been plenty of other, much bloodier things through this house before. You suck on your lower lip, still holding your arms out to him. Can't Bruce see what this means to you?

"Please, Bruce."

He hesitates, but then takes the burden from you. You think he's going to fix everything. But he goes into the kitchen, steps on the foot petal of the trashcan, and dumps the bird inside.

Your heart stops.

"NO!" you shriek, diving for the bin and ripping the lid open. It may be beyond saving, but it at least deserves better than this. Your voice cracks. "Bruce!"

"Dick!" he rushes to your side to pry you away from the trash bin, but you fight and flail, throwing him off-balance. You both topple into the counter, where your sleeve catches the handle of the knife drawer, tugging it open as you fall.

"Dickie!"

There's a pain on your left wrist; Bruce is clutching it, white knuckled. Sweat trickles down the side of his face as he gazes at you, wide-eyed and stricken, and you realize it's happened again. You're seated on the floor and Bruce is crouched next to you. Behind him, the window filters in moonlight, not daylight. The knife drawer is pulled from its slot, sprinkling the floor with an assortment of blades.

"I'm in… the kitchen?"

"Oh, Dickie…" Bruce moans miserably, turning your left hand over. Its slick and wet with blood that gushes from a slice along the palm. Your stomach feels like you've just swallowed a bunch of rocks when you understand that there was never any bird, and every drop of blood is from you.

xxOxx

Bruce spends the entire next day holed up in the cave. He doesn't tell you what he's doing down there, but he doesn't have to. He wants to formulate an antidote for you as badly as you want to take one. It obviously isn't getting better on its own and the antidote that worked in the past was doing nothing now. You've missed out on the last two missions with Young Justice because Bruce doesn't want to risk another incident happening in a time and place where it could endanger you and those around you. Scarecrow isn't talking, which makes it hard for Bruce to concoct a proper corrective. On top of that, neither of you are sleeping well. Even Alfred seems to have a few more lines on his face than usual, though he hides it well.

"Master Dick, you've hardly touched your milk and cookies."

"Oh, sorry Alfred," you say, reaching for the largest cookie you can see. You break off a piece to dip in your milk before putting it in your mouth. "I got distracted."

"…Very understandable, young sir, all things considered," Alfred concedes kindly. He stands obediently beside you and rests a hand on your shoulder. "I am certain that Master Bruce is doing everything in his power to procure a solution."

"I know," you say, and you do know. It's just never taken him so long before. There's guilt there, bubbling under your skin, for what you are doing to Bruce and Alfred. You know it technically is not your fault, but it feels that way.

xxOxx

Your father taught you many things. Politeness. Sympathy. He showed you how to tumble and how to care for the elephants.

Bruce is the one who showed you how to fish. It was during your first summer at the manor; you sat at the water's edge and listened to Bruce tell stories about his own childhood, something that doesn't happen so much anymore.

So when Bruce suggests renting a boat and taking a weekend fishing trip in an unspoken attempt to distract the both of you, the good memories of that first summer return and you say yes. He reveals he has something brewing in the cave that could help you, but it isn't ready yet.

For now, you sit on the bow, legs dangling over the edge of the boat. Clouds keep you from baking in the sun. The smell of open water is so much better than the stuffy air of the city.

When you were still with the circus, sometimes you were lucky enough to travel along the coast and you could run along the beach and throw rocks and collect shells. Your mother always liked the way waves rolled onto the shore. She said it sounded like the water was gently hushing the sand, like mothers do to their children when they cry.

"You got something."

Like it does in most instances, Bruce's voice brings your mind back into the present. Your fishing rod is wriggling with a catch, so you take hold and start to reel it in. You do so quickly, and soon you see silver scales just under the surface of the water. It's a biggie.

But just as soon as you see it, it writhes free from the hook and disappears, and takes your bait with it.

"That is not even right," you deadpan.

"Let's try that again," Bruce chuckles as he reaches into the bucket of minnows. "Whoop. All gone. I have another bucket below deck," he informs, handing you his fishing pole, which still has a bobber in the water. "Watch my line for me."

As he disappears to fetch more bait, you listen to water lap against the side of the boat and close your eyes against the gentle salt-scented breeze. It's relaxing at first, but then the fishy smells rolls in. You crinkle your nose and try to ignore it, but it seems to get worse.

What the heck?

You open your eyes, immediately wishing you hadn't.

Because Batman stands there, and next to him is the judge, bags over their heads and fall-away floors under their feet. It is the only thing separating them from a watery grave.

Two-Face is standing next to the lever, giving you an impatient stare as he flips his coin.

You know you shouldn't play into his game. That was your mistake last time and the result was disastrous.

But Two-Face seems like he's already been waiting a long while and snatches the coin out of the air, slapping the result onto the back of his hand. He laughs as the platforms drop the bodies of Batman and the judge into the water.

Deep inside, you know this isn't real. But another, more profound part of your brain has difficulties making the distinction. Because, as illogical as it may be, what if it is real? What if Bruce really is sinking and needing rescued? The panic is there, the racing of your heart is no joke, and that's all it takes.

It's too much to bear. This is happening. You fling off your cape and dive in, losing Two-Face's laughter when water rushes past your ears. You can save both of them if you try. You can. No one has to die.

You push yourself to swim down as fast as you are able, and deeper than you thought you ever could.

The darkness of the water's depths crawl out towards you like spilled ink. It disorients and distracts you long enough to sneak around your waist and drag you down. You struggle and fight but it only squeezes you tighter.

You scream. It fills your mouth with water. It floods your throat when you try to gasp, sloshes into your insides and puts a terrible pain in your chest. No, no, no, if you die now, everyone dies!

It's difficult to say, but you think you black out for a second. When you come to, you realize that the shadows trying to kill you are actually Bruce's arms trying to save you. You realize that you are underwater and dying and all you can do is stop struggling so Bruce can break the surface faster.

Sweet, sweet air hits you suddenly, and you want to gulp it all in but you choke instead. Bruce treads the water with you in tow, easily rolling you onto the back platform of the boat where you hack up everything you can.

"Easy, Dick. Easy," he coaches with a shake in his voice. He runs a hand down your spine. "Jesus Christ," he tacks on heavily, more to himself than to you, though you share the sentiment.

This is getting too extreme. You can't help reacting to the things you see.

The next few minutes are long. You spit up everything you can before focusing on your breathing. Bruce hoists himself onto the platform with you, where he picks you up and brings you on deck with him. He sits you in the captain's chair and pushes sopping hair away from your eyes. "Hey," he says. "Hey."

A blanket drapes over you. Scratchy but warm. You tug it close and meet Bruce's eyes. "Hi."

He doesn't ask you what happened because he isn't stupid.

"How do you feel?"

"Like I nearly killed myself."

The stress marring Bruce's face is insufferable because, well, you caused that.

He makes his way to the anchor and starts hauling it up. "Let's get you back to shore," he says softly.

Fishing trips over.

xxOxx

Although he has every reason keep you benched, you make sure he knows how unhappy you are about the decision. Batman gets to go out without Robin, Young Justice has to operate without their hacker, and you get to roam about the mansion, bored.

Perhaps it is a good thing that the boating trip got cut short. According to Bruce, Joker and Harley are showing their faces on the East side of Gotham, and something like that can't wait.

You have to wait for your cure, however. Bruce admits that something key is missing and that he hasn't found it yet. Until he does, no cure for you.

Speaking of Bruce, it's gotten pretty late and he should actually be back soon.

In his absence, Alfred keeps a close eye on you, which is actually somewhat comforting, since earlier you saw Bruce slip the older gentleman a pair of handcuffs should he have to chain you down to keep you from hurting yourself, and you actually prefer that he do this, especially after your latest episode. Last thing you need to do is go jumping out of windows or running into traffic. Of course, Alfred was mortified at the very notion of it, but understood the importance of the contingency.

At least things can't get much worse. No worse than plunging into the ocean and nearly drowning, anyway.

"Master Dick, might I suggest distracting yourself with something?"

"Yeah," you exhale. "Like what?"

"Young sir," Alfred's voice is kind and patient. "Need I remind you that we are in the library?"

Oh. "…Oh."

The disclosure comes to a surprise to you and makes you realize just how tired you are lately. Nightmares while you sleep are one thing, but now that you are getting them during your waking hours as well, you are exhausted. You could try to grab a book to read. Hopefully your eyes will focus.

You scan the shelves for something complex. Something that requires the reader to think. Maybe if you keep your mind busy it won't have time to trick you.

The doorbell startles you. You look to Alfred almost pleadingly. "Alfred," you call carefully. "Doorbell, right?" It really happened? You're not just hearing things? This is still real?

"I hear it, sir," he responds dutifully, setting aside his duster to tend to the door.

"But it's really late," you manage to say before he rounds the corner completely. "Like, really late."

Alfred considers this, but keeps his voice neutral. "Indeed it is, sir."

You listen to his strides. Concentrating on present sounds hasn't seemed to work in the past, but you don't know what else to do to keep your grip on reality. You try to put a face to the deep voice at the door, interrupted moments later by an alarming thud.

Rushing to the front, you skid to a halt when you see Alfred slumped on the floor, face down. Behind him stands a man brandishing a gun.

Uh oh.

He sees you and grins.

Okay. Think. Alfred said he heard the door when you did, so that really happened, which means this guy is really here. But what if the part with the doorbell wasn't real?

"He isn't dead," the man says, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. He nudges Alfred with his foot, causing the man to groan. "But he will be if you don't cooperate and come with me."

"Pretty ballsy, walking right up to the main entrance," you admit, taking a step back. Of course, past the initial security around the perimeter, the most inconspicuous way to avoid security on the Manor itself is to be welcomed inside. Not bad.

A gunshot sounds off, and the wall next to you gets embedded with a bullet.

Nightmare or not, it isn't worth risking a bullet to the brain, so you dash around the corner, reaching for the phone in your pocket. Bruce is on speed dial. Call it. Call it and don't stop running.

You retreat back into the library. If you are quick enough, maybe you can slip into the secret passage before the intruder catches up. Run to the back. Find the right book spine. Get out of sight.

But the books look… different. Shuffled. Unfamiliar. The shelves reach higher than you ever remember them reaching, practically wedged against the tall ceilings.

Bruce's voice sounds from the phone, so you clutch it tightly like a lifeline.

Words are knocked out of you, however, when you are tackled to the ground. The phone skids across the floor and out of reach. Crap!

"Calling the cops?" a dark hiss heats the cavern of your ear. You struggle and buck, trying to throw the heavier weight off of you before you are crushed. He chuckles into the back of your hair and reaches for your wrists. It provides you with the opportunity to twist around and throw your legs out, striking the man right in the chest.

He rolls off of you but has the mind to snatch your ankle as you try to scramble to your feet. You stretch out for the phone but the house stretches, putting it further from your reach.

"No, no, no, no," you chant. The man yanks you to your feet, gripping at your arms tightly. You hiss; his fingernails feel more like needles, puncturing the skin. It all makes sense when you crane your neck to look back at your attacker.

Two small orbs glow in seemingly empty eye sockets and skin that looks like a beat burlap sack stretches into what you assume is supposed to be a smile.

Scarecrow.

How he got here, what he wanted and what he planned to do with you are all a mystery, but you try even harder to recoil. It only makes the grip on you tighten, and just when you think it can't get any worse, your right arm is wrenched back. Ripped clean out of its socket.

Oh God. Oh my God.

The scream that follows hardly sounds like your own. Blood spills down your side and you are crying so hard it is difficult to see. It's gone, your arm is gone and you'll never fly again.

You lose all feeling in your legs and fall to the floor at the devastating realization. Scarecrow is standing over you, wishing you sweet dreams. You try to hide your face with your remaining hand, but that seems to be missing too. You are useless now, and bleeding out, staining Alfred's nice floors and-

Hands grapple at you, forcing you to your knees, and you are screaming, overcome with an incredible sense of helplessness when you can't push anyone away.

"Wake up."

No. Don't open your eyes. Don't look at the horrible wad of hay that did this to you. A scratchy, straw hand guides your head up, but you keep your eyes pinched shut.

"Wake up."

"No!"

"Dick." Dick? Why is Scarecrow calling you by your name like that? Unless… "Please wake up, kiddo."

You force them open, even though it stings. Alfred is in the entryway, holding a wet cloth to the back of his head. On the floor, a man dressed in black is hogtied, unconscious.

Oh God. That means this one was real! It really happened!

You gaze up at Bruce, blubbering.

"B-Bruce," you sob. "My arms… He… he took them! I don't have any arms! What do I do!?"

He seems startled at this declaration. You want nothing more than to reach out, hold him and be held, but you can't do that. You can never do that again.

"Ohh, no, baby," Bruce soothes. It's been years since he's called you that. Years. You must be really bad. He comes forward as if to hug you, but he reaches around you instead. He shouldn't be doing that. You're going to get blood all over his clothes. "Just let me get this off of you…"

He pulls back with a bundle of twine in his hands.

"Bruce?"

"Listen to me. I promise you, you're in one piece," he says slowly. "Your arms were just bound behind you-"

Instantly you try to bring your hands around front, but gasp as a pain shoots through both limbs.

Wincing, Bruce continues. "…And dislocated." He takes your hand and wriggles your fingers for you. "But see? Look. Everything's here."

Let it sink in.

You can still fly. Alfred's floors will be fine. You're safe.

"And not only that," he adds. "But we're ending this tonight. I figured it out, Dickie."

And oh, how you want him to hurry up and just put your arms back in place already so you can jump forward and hug him harder than you've ever hugged anyone before. The longest nightmare of your entire life may finally being coming to an end and maybe, just maybe, tonight will be one of those nights.

xxOxx

In front of you is a vile, pinched between Bruce's thumb and forefinger. He swirls it around. Wants you to get a good look.

"He gave them immunity," he explains. "Something in their bloodstream to keep them from being affected."

"So…" you grip the edge of the table you're sitting on. "Joker and Harley are the ones who infected me?"

Bruce nods.

Makes sense. The nightmares didn't start until your most recent rendezvous with the clowned couple. When did it happen, though? You don't remember being injected with anything at any point.

"I know what you're thinking," Bruce says. Of course he does. "You inhaled it."

He waits, hoping you will slide the pieces into place on your own. And you do.

"Harley's perfume," you groan, scrubbing your palms over your tired face. You should have known from the start. How infuriating. You peek through your fingers up at Bruce. "What about you?"

"I put on my rebreather as soon as I sensed something peculiar. It got the gears turning."

Rebreather. How can you be so stupid? As soon as you picked up on Harley's new scent, you should have thought of that. It's amazing to you how there doesn't seem to be a hint of disappointment on Bruce's face.

"…And everyone else that came across it?"

Bruce frowns at this. "I had a few words with Commissioner Gordon. He's going to get the word out, and people who have been infected will hopefully seek help or be brought in. It sounds tedious, I know, but for now it's something. I trust Jim to come up with a more effective procedure, given enough time."

"Wow. So… it's over?" you ask hopefully. It almost seems too good to be true, but you'll take it. Bruce can just extract what he needs from the vile of blood and create a proper antidote in just a couple of hours. Maybe even immunity.

There is a new-found confidence in Bruce's eyes that makes you feel the safest you've felt in a long while. He holds up the vile once more. You both memorize it.

He says, "With this, yes. It's a sure thing."

xxOxx

Day terrors. That's what the city dubs the toxin and its effects. You find that the name hardly does the actual infliction justice. And while you're glad the success of Bruce's updated antidote was able to be reproduced in bulk for the city (not to mention a hefty supply is now stocked in the cave for potential future use), you feel uneasy. You know it expelled the toxin from your body but you find yourself still questioning the things around you. Waiting for solid objects to mutate and for shadows to stretch out and grab you. A couple of times, you relay the day's events back to Bruce in order to have them confirmed. He's more than willing to oblige.

It's too bad nothing can be done for your regular nightmares, but you've been dealing with those for years. Still, you're tired, and can't remember the last time you felt even remotely rested.

It's a chilly day outside, so you make a dent in the couch and lounge in front of the fireplace, tucked under a blanket and the gentle gaze of Bruce's parents in a portrait hung over the mantel. Bruce has the facial structure of his father, and his strong chin for sure. His mother's eyes.

You close your eyes to the crackle of the fire, more confident than yesterday that you'll be in the same, quiet place if you dare to open them.

"Dick? Are you in here?"

"Over here," you peel them open, and yes, you are still on the couch in front of the fire.

Bruce rounds the couch to look down at you. He looks worried.

"I couldn't find you."

You roll onto your side, tired, and don't hide the smirk that pulls at your lips. "It's a big house, Bruce."

He hums, letting the remark slide as he moves the blankets up to your chin. The way his mouth is set, you can tell he is trying to figure out how to say something. He decides not to, though, but he doesn't have to.

Instead he brushes your bangs back and leans in.

Tonight is one of those nights. It is the last thing to cross your mind before you close your eyes for good. And dream.