Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

         Grief is not a feeling,

But a neighbourhood.

        This is where I come from

         Everyone I love still lives there.

-Brenna Twohy

It takes Dick almost 24 hours to realize he’s not the only one who can see them. 

After three days of helping the JLA on a mission, Dick is more than ready to crash as soon as he gets home. 

He locks the door behind him without thinking, the motion so automatic it barely registers. 

He pauses. Glances at the window.

Dick almost laughs, but it’s not really funny. It’s happened before—unwelcome visitors crawling through his window, slipping in like they own the place. The fourth floor doesn’t make it impossible; it just makes it less likely

Still, he walks over to the window, checking its closed and locking it with practiced ease. He stands there for a moment, staring out at the city below, bathed in the harsh, colorful glow of neon billboards that never seem to stop. The streets stretch out beneath him, a maze of lights, noise, and constant motion.

He should be down there.

But tonight?

The ache in his knee pulls at him with every step, a deep, nagging reminder. It’s not the sharp, jolting pain of fresh injury—just a dull, persistent throb that lingers, radiating from his knee. He doesn’t have to think about it to know it’s there. His body knows its own weaknesses by heart. Without even realizing, he’s rubbing the spot, fingers gently pressing against the fabric of the brace, trying to ease the discomfort.

He doesn’t even consciously register the ache anymore. It’s just part of the routine, like breathing. He’s used to it—he’s learned to push through it.

Tomorrow , he thinks, I’ll be back out there. He’ll patrol longer to make up for tonight, he promises himself. The guilt creeps up, but he smothers it with the thought he’ll make up for it then. 

Plus, it’ll be morning in just an hour or so- and with that comes a whole new set of responsibilities for his day job.

Guess I'll have to trust the cops to do their job tonight.

The thought isn’t reassuring. But it’s true. He needs to sleep, and that’s more of a requirement than a choice at this point.

He turns back into the apartment, the brilliant neon glow of the city still filtering in, turning the room into a dim, ethereal light. He saves a fortune on electricity and rent thanks to the massive glowing stripper billboard right next to his window but sometimes it's more than a little obnoxious. 

With a sigh, he walks over to the blackout curtains and pulls them shut, blocking out the city. The room darkens, although the hum of the billboards lingers. 

Dick moves toward the small hidden compartment in his apartment where he stashes his Nightwing suit. It’s a quick, practiced motion—he tucks the suit away, making sure it’s hidden from view. It’s always a quiet moment of finality, like shedding a second skin.

He walks over to his desk and plugs his Blackberry into the charger. The device is practically ancient by superhero standards, but it’s reliable, and has survived many a fall off the Bludhaven rooftops.

Dick scrolls through a few messages, his thumb flicking across the trackball, before glancing at the time. He’ll respond to the important now- ignore the rest for when he’s had some sleep.  

He scrolls past a dozen or so group chats—more than he can keep track of, really. Most of them are muted.

He replies back to Clark that he’d made it home safe. Clark only got away with helicopter parenting a margin more than Bruce did. There’s a message from Tim- a meme, probably a joke about something Dick won’t even remotely understand- he swipes past it, knowing it’s not worth trying to decode. Briefly he considers actually responding to Roy’s unasked-for advice on how to "fix his sleep schedule" but settles with a ‘k’ before he closes out of his texts. 

Finally, Dick lets the phone rest on the charger, its glow lighting up the darkened room.

He walks over to his bed, sinks into it, and pulls a blanket over himself.

The city hums outside. The billboards flicker their electric light. And for the first time tonight, Dick lets himself breathe.

Sleep wins. It always does.

Or- it should. 

He’s half-asleep when he hears it. The quiet clatter of a cabinet closing. The soft clink of a mug against the countertop. 

Dick sighs, barely lifting his head. “Tim, if you brought your laundry over again, I swear—” He scrubs a hand over his face, voice still thick with sleep. “Smartest kid I know, and you still manage to turn all your whites pink.”

No answer.

Typical.

Some people text before showing up. Some people knock. Tim? He materializes. Laundry basket in hand, always with some flimsy excuse about how his washing machine is too complicated, or how Alfred’s “got enough on his plate.” Dick knows the truth, though. Tim just wants to hang out. And if it takes ruining another batch of socks to do it, so be it.

“Please tell me you didn’t shrink all your clothes again ,” Dick mutters, voice muffled against his pillow. “Remember last time?”

Tim had spent an entire month trying to pretend ankle-baring was a fashion choice before he finally caved and asked Alfred for new pants.

Still no response. 

That’s when the first prickle of unease creeps up his spine.

That’s weird.

Tim’s a quippy little guy. If he were here, he’d have already shot back—probably something about how showing off his ankles was a deliberate choice, like he was trying to make a fashion statement or claiming it made it easier to fight. Maybe he’d joke that the air circulation was a tactical advantage, or throw in some absurd excuse for why he can’t possibly wear pants that fit properly.

But there’s nothing.

And suddenly, he’s wide awake.

Something’s wrong.

Dick sits up slowly, his body protesting. The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

He swallows the weird, creeping feeling in his throat and stands, stretching as he makes his way toward the kitchen. It’s probably nothing. Maybe the air conditioner kicked on weird. Maybe—

The air is wrong.

It’s colder in here. Not the normal kind of cold, not the "left a window open" kind of chill. It feels— off . Stagnant. The type of cold that settles deep in your bones, that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Dick stops in the doorway.

The kitchen is empty.

Nothing’s moved. The cabinets are shut. His mug is still in the sink, exactly where he left it. No sign of Tim. No sign of anyone .

His pulse kicks up—just a little, just enough that he feels it.

The air conditioning. Maybe it’s busted again. That’s all. Probably.

But he doesn’t move.

For a long moment, he just stands there, listening.

There’s nothing.

And yet, his body doesn’t believe it.

With a slow exhale, Dick rubs a hand down his face. He’s exhausted. He’s probably imagining things. It happens. He needs sleep. That’s all.

Dick exhales slowly, pressing a hand to his face. Okay. Alright. Not creepy at all.

He’s exhausted. That’s all. Post-mission adrenaline crash, lack of sleep—his brain is misfiring, filling in gaps with things that aren’t there. Auditory hallucinations aren’t exactly unheard of in their line of work.

“Cool, love that for me,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

He turns and heads back to the couch.

Shaking his head, he turns and heads back to the couch. He doesn’t check over his shoulder.

Because there’s nothing there.

Because there was never anything there.

Right?

Dick wakes up with a groan, the remnants of the night still clinging to him like a fog. He tries to push the feeling down, doesn’t want to think about the strange, unsettling things that had happened last night. It was probably just exhaustion, his brain misfiring from lack of sleep. He rubs a hand over his face, blinks a few times, and forces himself out of bed. Half asleep he rinses off and gets ready for work. 

The breakfast routine is automatic—smoothie, protein bar, the same calorie-dense combo he has every morning. His body craves sleep more than food, but he knows better than to skip it entirely. He gets it down as quickly as possible, the thick, almost chalky texture of the smoothie sliding down his throat without much thought.

His apartment’s still too quiet, but he doesn’t let it bother him. He can’t afford to. There’s work to be done. He pulls on his jacket, grabs his bag, and heads out the door.

The city feels different when he’s out of the mask. It’s not like he’s forgotten the darkness that always simmers under the surface—it’s just more distant, like a shadow in the corner of his vision. The streets are full of life this time of morning—people hurrying to work, grabbing coffee, absorbed in their own little worlds. Some of them wave at him as he passes, a friendly acknowledgment, and he waves back without missing a beat. He’s just a guy on a bike, someone who’s barely a blip in their day.

By the time he arrives at the office, he’s almost forgotten what happened. He parks his cycle, takes a deep breath, and heads in. The building is sterile and unremarkable, but it feels like his corner of peace. Dick Grayson, social worker. He knows how to do this. He can be this guy with ease.

Inside, Angela, his boss, is waiting by the desk. She looks at him, tight-lipped and holding back something—maybe concern, maybe impatience. She doesn’t give him much of a greeting before dropping the bomb.

“You’ve got a visitor,” she says, her tone clipped. “One of your kids is in trouble. He’s waiting in the office for you.”

Dick nods, feeling that familiar weight settle in his chest. He’s been doing this long enough to know that the waiting kid is never good news. He pulls open the door and steps inside, expecting to see a familiar face.

But it’s not one of his kids.

It’s Lance Bruner.

He blinks.

It can't be.

Lance Bruner died over a decade ago—killed in a place he had no business being, a death that had always gnawed at Dick’s memory. The last thing he ever expected was to see Lance sitting there, bruised and broken, wearing the torn remains of an old Robin suit. It doesn’t fit him right—too big in places, too small in others, the fabric worn and ripped in all the wrong spots. Blood stains mar the costume, dark and deep, soaking into the threads. It’s fresh, still wet, like the boy never left the scene of his death.

And yet, there’s something disturbingly alive about him. The skin of Lance’s face is ashen, tight over the bone, and as Dick’s eyes move over it, he realizes with a jolt that the skin’s not just pale—it’s rotting. The flesh along his cheeks is slack and pulled away, exposing the yellowed teeth that sink through the decayed skin, a grotesque mockery of a smile. His lips are almost gone, pulled back in an unnatural grimace of rage, like something worse than death is still holding him in place.

His eyes are wide—unblinking—and hollow, empty but furious, and they bore straight into Dick’s chest.

Lance opens his mouth, and the stench of blood and decay rolls off him in a wave. Dick’s breath catches in his throat, but the words come anyway.

“You let me die, Grayson,” Lance snarls, the words guttural, thick with the blood still clinging to his teeth. It drips down his chin, streaking into the rags of his suit, the blood mixing with what’s left of his decaying skin. “You let me die in your place.”

His mouth opens, but the words are caught in his throat, thick as the dread pooling in his chest.

Lance stays, staring, angry, hungry for something Dick can’t even name

Dick’s head spins. He feels an old, familiar guilt creeping through him. A blame he hasn’t felt in decades settling on his shoulders like it never left. 

Lance was the first person to die in Dick’s suit. First Robin to die in Bruce’s arms. 

And then, in the blink of an eye, the kid’s face changes. The blood is gone, the vacant eyes replaced by the familiar look of one of his cases—a troubled kid with a past too dark for his age. Dick’s brain processes the shift, a cold wave of relief washing over him, but it’s only momentary.

It was all just a blur—exhaustion, confusion, maybe even a little too much stress from the mission last night. The ghost of Lance Bruner had been replaced by reality.

His mind can’t keep up, and he just stares at the kid, struggling to make sense of what’s happening. This isn’t the first time his mind has played this trick on him. But it’s the meanest way it's happened. 

He swallows. He cannot focus on this. He has more important things to worry about. “Alright, kiddo,” Dick says, his voice tight. “What’s going on?”

The boy looks at him with wide eyes, like he doesn’t even know what to say. He wears the same traumatized expression that most the kids who pass through here do. 

Dick just stands there for a second, blinking, his exhaustion threatening to catch up to him. He breathes deeply, reminding himself that this isn’t Lance . This is just another kid who needs help—someone who still needs him. He sits down. Gets to work. 

The day drags on, and every minute feels like it’s weighed down with an invisible pressure. Dick moves through his work mechanically, checking on his cases, handling paperwork, making sure nothing slips through the cracks. But even as he does it, the constant hum of the office and the soft buzz of conversations feel distant, like he’s underwater.

His coworkers can tell something is off.

Marie is an older, no nonsense type of woman. She’s got this vibe to her that makes Dick think of Alfred. The “I have a secret past and was probably a spy before you knew me” vibe. She’s standing by the coffee machine, sipping her mug of tea, when Dick passes by.

He knows he’s been moping around the office. He knows he’s not at his best. He should be able to hide whatever funk he’s in better than this. 

“Hey, Grayson,” she calls out, her voice soft but firm. “You sure you’re alright? You don’t look like you’re feeling better.”

Dick blinks, snapping out of the haze, his eyes catching hers. Marie’s tone is full of concern, but there’s something else there too—a hint of judgment, maybe, or just disappointment. 

“Yeah, just a little under the weather still,” he says, brushing it off with a quick, easy smile. He feels the lie slip from his mouth so easily he doesn’t even hesitate. It’s just a little sick, that’s all.

The words taste bitter in his mouth, but he doesn’t let it show. He’s gotten good at pretending. He’s done it enough times in the past that the mask is seamless.

“Maybe you should take it easy,” Marie presses, her eyes narrowing a bit. “You’ve been out sick for the past week. Don’t push yourself too hard if you’re not feeling better yet. You need rest, Grayson. Everyone does.”

He gives her a look, just a brief, polite smile that’s calculated to end the conversation. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “I can’t miss another day. You know how it is.” The words come out easily—too easily. A little too practiced. But it’s the truth, in a way. He needs the paycheck. He needs to keep up appearances. He can’t afford to fall behind. Not with everything he’s already juggling.

“Alright, but don’t make me come over there with a thermometer,” she says, half-joking, half-serious. She watches him for another beat, like she’s waiting for him to crack, but then nods. “Just—take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will,” he says, quickly walking away before she can say anything else. He doesn’t stop to think about it, just moves on to the next task, the next distraction. The sooner he can push the conversation away, the sooner he can get back to the routine. Focus. Work. Just keep moving.

But even as he gets back into the swing of things, a quiet voice inside his head nags at him. What if she’s right?

What if he is pushing himself too hard? Maybe a good night's sleep and some TLC is all he needs to stop… whatever this is from happening. 

But he pushes the thought away. He doesn’t have time for that kind of thinking right now. He’s fine. Just a little sick. Nothing more.

As he moves through the office, his coworkers continue to glance at him with those knowing looks, but no one presses further. They all know better than to dig too deep. They’ve all got their own worries and they trust him to take care of his. 

Dick does his best to ignore the strange weight of their stares. He focuses on his work—on the kids he’s helping, on the paperwork that needs to be filed, on the endless list of things that need to get done. But in the back of his mind, he knows that something’s off.

It’s not just the nagging feeling from last night. It’s his own exhaustion creeping in, the tightness in his chest, the way everything seems a little harder than it should be. It’s like he’s been carrying this weight for too long, and now it’s starting to show.

He can’t afford to acknowledge it. He can’t.

The afternoon drags on, and just when Dick starts to feel like he’s finally getting a grip, his phone buzzes on his desk. It’s a message from Donna—reminding him about their dinner plans.

Donna. 

Reading her message is like a switch flipping in his brain. Yes. Donna will make this better . He doesn’t need to overthink it—he just needs to be with her. That’s all. The thought of sinking into a booth with her, ready to eat his weight in wings and forget about everything else, makes him feel less heavy, even if just a little bit.

He types a quick reply, not bothering to dwell on the anxiety that’s still simmering just beneath the surface. Yeah, I’ll be there. Can’t wait.

He puts the phone down, taking a deep breath, and leans back in his chair. He’s already picturing the night ahead—the noise of the restaurant, Donna laughing at something stupid he’ll say, the familiar ease between them that always makes everything feel lighter.

He doesn’t have to think about anything else for a while. He can ignore whatever is happening to him, just for a bit.

Dick finishes his paperwork as fast as he can, his brain half focusing on what he’s actually doing while the other half fighting to hold onto the fragments of normality he can grasp. By the time he’s done, the clock is ticking. He gathers his things, leaving the office and the stress of whatever had happened behind. 

The sports bar is just a few blocks away, and he makes the walk there quickly. When he steps inside, the heavy thrum of country music fills the air, the chatter of patrons bouncing off the walls. The smell of wings and fried food hangs in the air, and for the first time today, he feels like he can breathe.

He puts their name in, tapping his foot to the beat of the music, still trying to shake the heaviness of the day. It’s loud in here—just the kind of place he’s been craving. 

And then, through the door, he sees her—Donna.

She steps out of the cab, a quick wave of her hand catching his eye as she heads toward him, the familiar sparkle in her eyes already making him feel lighter.

Dick steps forward as Donna reaches him, and without hesitation, he pulls her into a tight hug. It’s instinctive, the way he folds into her embrace, feeling the weight of her arms wrap around him like she’s shielding him from the chaos of everything outside. They’re the same height, but he always finds himself ducking into it a little, letting her chin rest on his shoulder. 

The hostess greets them with a friendly smile, looking between them as she checks her seating chart. She hesitates for a moment, then asks with a tilt of her head, “Are you two twins?”

Before Dick can even process the question, Donna bursts into a laugh, her voice light and warm. “Yes, we are,” she says without missing a beat, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Can’t you tell?”

Dick chuckles, shaking his head. “Identical,” he replies, giving Donna a playful nudge. 

The hostess leads them to their usual booth, and Donna immediately gestures for Dick to slide in first, letting him take the spot with the perfect view of the entire room. He doesn’t hesitate, of course. It's automatic by now, and no one has ever questioned it. He sits with his back to the wall, facing the exits and the door. It’s the most comfortable position for him, the one where he can see everything around him without looking like he’s on high alert.

Donna slides into the seat across from him, flashing a grin that tells Dick she’s well aware of the subtle but deliberate move. She’s used to it, knows it’s just how he operates.

“So, how was your trip? I know Wally came home from it with some sort of bug.” she says casually as she settles in. It sounds like a simple business trip to anyone who might overhear. But Dick knows she’s not pushing. It’s easier this way. A galaxy away or across the city—it’s just another kind of travel.

“Same old,” Dick says with a shrug, trying to keep his tone light. “Long, but I survived. I’m good. How about you?” He shifts the focus, letting his mind settle into the easy rhythm of their conversation.

Donna just grins, shaking her head as she looks at him. “Same old too,” she replies.

"How’s the gallery opening going?" He asks. 

Donna leans back in her chair, smiling softly. "You know, I’ve got a few shots of Kori in this collection. She was all over the city, just glowing in the sun, so we got some stunning images for the collection.”

Dick nods "Maybe I should stop by—see what you’ve got up."

Before Donna can respond, the waiter comes over to take their order and drop off some waters. Neither of them need to look at the menu. They’ve gotten together here so many times the waiters almost know their order by heart. Bottomless wings, almost too spicy. 

The waiter writes down their orders with a knowing smile, nods, and walks away to put it in. Donna leans forward again, looking at Dick with a raised eyebrow. “So, Roy’s thinking about having everyone over this weekend to hang out,” 

Dick snorts, "Oh, I don’t know about that. The last time Roy said that, I was up until three in the morning building Lian’s presents for Christmas. I’ll pass on that kind of hang out. "

Donna laughs, shaking her head. "Oh, come on. That was a one-time thing. Roy promises this will just be a party for Garth’s birthday. No surprise last-minute present assembly involved." 

Dick raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Uh-huh. I’ll believe that when I’m not stuck assembling a Barbie house after being promised a casual night." He takes a sip of his drink, his tone still laced with skepticism.

Donna shrugs, "You’re impossible. He really just wants everyone together. Garth’s birthday is important to him. Just come for a few hours, hang out with the crew. I’ll make sure Roy doesn’t rope you into building any toys this time."

Dick laughs at her attempt to reassure him but doesn’t quite believe her. "If you say so," 

"Trust me," Donna says, her smile softening into something more sincere, "it’ll be fun. Just like old times."

It feels totally normal as they’re chatting, when Dick suddenly feels a sharp prickling sensation at the back of his neck. He doesn't know why, but something in the air shifts. Like a cold gust of wind he can’t feel, but his skin reacts to it anyway. His gaze shifts over Donna’s shoulder, and there, standing directly behind her, is— Donna .

But not the Donna in front of him. This one is different. Her body is rigid, unmoving, the ghostly version of her hovering just a few inches behind the real Donna. Her costume is torn, battle-worn—her chest stained with blood. It’s not the kind of bleeding that comes from a scrape or a bruise, but something deeper. The wound sits over her heart, the fabric of her costume soaked through. There’s an awful hole there, jagged and gaping, like she’s been shot, a wound Dick can’t stop staring at.

And her face. Her face is twisted in agony—her mouth open as though she's trying to scream, but no sound comes. The terror in her eyes is suffocating. But more than that... there’s something in her stare. It’s a look of hate, of blame.

Dick feels frozen, his breath stuck in his throat, as if his body forgot how to function. His stomach lurches, but he can’t look away. He feels his heart beat harder, faster, the weight of what he's seeing pushing him deeper into panic. It’s her. It’s Donna. But it’s also not.

Donna, the real one sitting across from him, continues talking, oblivious to the figure behind her. She’s recounting some story about Gar’s last birthday, her voice steady and easy, but Dick can’t hear a word. His mind is locked on the phantom behind her, watching as she stares at him with those hateful eyes. The accusation in them is clear, even without words.

You let me die, Grayson. You let me die for you.

Dick doesn’t need her to speak for him to understand the message. He’s heard it before, in the whispered conversations, in the silence between his friends, in the press of his own guilt. She died to save him, to protect him—and he lived.

He lived while she was gone. And now, it’s her standing here, eyes burning into him like they know it’s his fault.

A bitter wave of nausea rises in his throat. The room spins, the weight of everything pressing down on his chest. He wants to reach out, to touch her, to say something—anything—to make it stop, to make her go away, but he can’t.

His mind floods with images—her dying in his arms, her blood staining his hands. He’d failed her. He couldn’t save her.

And the worst part? He knew. He knew people blamed him for it, but no one ever said it to his face. Not outright. But he’d heard it in their eyes, felt it in their silence.

A long, sickening moment stretches on, the air in the room thick with the weight of what he’s feeling and what he knows. But just as suddenly as she appeared, the ghost of Donna is gone. One blink, and she’s not there anymore.

Donna—real Donna—turns to look behind her, confused. “What?” she asks, her brow furrowing. She sees nothing. “What’s wrong?”

Dick blinks, shaking his head, trying to rid himself of the vision. The real Donna is still here, and she's safe, smiling at him, completely unaware of the moment he just experienced. He takes a breath, trying to steady himself.

“I—I’m fine,” he says, though his voice feels shaky, unconvincing even to himself. He forces a smile, but it’s tight, uncertain. The feeling of her absence, of the ghost of Donna’s pain, still hangs heavy on him.

Donna’s smile falters slightly when she catches the shift in Dick’s expression. It’s subtle at first, but she knows him too well. The easygoing banter fades around them, and she watches his eyes lose their focus for a split second, the weight of something he’s trying to ignore pressing down on him.

She doesn’t need him to say a word. "We can go," she says, voice soft but firm, as she pushes her chair back. "If you’re not feeling it, we can leave. I’m not going to make you stay."

Dick tries to shake it off, but the words sound hollow even to him. "No, I’m fine," he says, his smile too thin to be convincing. He doesn't want to worry her, but the image of that bleeding, silent version of Donna lingers. "I want to stay. Just... let’s finish up."

Donna doesn’t say anything back, but she’s already reaching out, flagging down the nearest waiter. "Cancel our table, please. We’re leaving." She pulls some cash from her wallet and sets it on the table, then meets Dick’s eyes for a moment before he can protest.

"I—" He opens his mouth, but the words die before they can escape. He’s too tired to argue, and he knows, deep down, he doesn’t have the strength to push back. "I’m fine," he mutters again, but it doesn’t sound convincing even to him.

Donna knows. She always does. And without saying another word, she stands and makes her way to the door, Dick following her quietly. They walk out into the cool night air, and Dick finds himself mechanically following her to his bike, the city lights blurring in the background. The hum of his bike’s engine feels distant, like he's watching himself go through the motions. He doesn’t remember the ride home—not really. It’s like he’s on autopilot, his thoughts lost in a haze that’s too heavy to shake off.

By the time they get to his apartment, he feels like he’s been walking through a fog for hours. Donna’s already standing in front of his door, watching him with that knowing look, her brow furrowed in concern.

"Are you sure you’re okay?" she asks, even though she knows the answer. She always knows when he’s not being honest, but it’s the way they’ve always been. He can’t fool her, not even with his best attempts at pretending everything’s fine.

Dick shakes his head, but his body feels like it’s moving too slow, his mind too muddled to make sense of anything. "I’m just tired," he says, but it’s more to convince himself than her. His hand shakes slightly as he tries to unlock the door, the key slipping in his fingers.

I’m just tired, he thinks, his mind drifting. His thoughts feel heavy, and he can’t seem to push them away. The door finally clicks open, and Donna steps in behind him, her presence grounding him as much as it can.

"You need sleep," she says, her voice soft but insistent. She walks him to the bedroom, her hands guiding him gently, not letting him collapse too quickly. She doesn’t need him to admit anything—she’s been through enough with him to know when he’s barely holding it together.

Dick sits on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the floor, trying to collect himself. Mechanically he tugs of his shoes and she softly pushes him to lay down. Donna pulls the covers up around him with a tenderness he doesn’t deserve, tucking him in like she’s done a thousand times before.

She leans down and kisses his forehead, her lips soft against his skin. "Get some rest," she murmurs, brushing a lock of hair away from his face. "I’ll lock up when I go."

Dick doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to. Her presence, the softness of her touch, the care she always shows him—it’s enough. It’s always enough.

Dick’s eyelids flutter open to the dim light creeping in from the curtains. His head is pounding, a dull, persistent throb that seems to pulse in time with the ticking of the clock on his bedside table. He doesn’t know how much time has passed since he fell into bed—just a few hours, maybe? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s awake. And he’s not okay.

He shifts, groaning as his stiff muscles protest the movement. The bed is too warm, too inviting, but the weight of the city calls to him like a siren's song, pulling him out from under the covers. He rubs his face with the heel of his hand, trying to clear the haze in his mind. Donna was right—he needs sleep. But the city needs him more.

It’s a familiar rhythm: wake up, slip into the suit, hit the streets, save the day. He drags himself out of bed with a grunt, his legs heavy like lead. The exhaustion is still clinging to him, thick as fog, but it’s a dull ache now. The kind that fades into the background once he’s in motion.

He pulls his Nightwing suit from the corner of his room, the fabric cool against his skin as he slides into it. The tight fit is a welcome sensation, a reminder of who he is and what he does. It doesn’t take long to lace up his boots and adjust the utility belt. Everything in its place, as it should be. The gear feels natural to him, almost like second skin. The weight of the escrima sticks at his back gives him a sense of balance.

He swings open the window with practiced ease, the cool night air rushing in like a wave. The streets below are alive, even at this late hour. He stands at the edge for a moment, looking down at the city, a familiar landscape of concrete and steel that’s as much a part of him as his heartbeat. His muscles tense, ready to move.

The air is sharp as he pushes off from the ledge into a freefall. The rush of it sends a sharp rush of adrenaline through his veins, waking him up in a way nothing else can. The cool wind hits his skin, a jolt that feels like an ice bath—everything else fades as the night sharpens his senses. He waits, as long as possible, before he catches himself. 

He swings through the sky, the cityscape a blur beneath him. His hands grip the grapple with an ease that comes from years of practice, and his body moves with the fluidity of muscle memory. There’s no thinking involved, just the steady pulse of his movements, the rhythm of the night. He doesn’t need to think.

The rooftop edges blur beneath his feet as he jumps from building to building, fluid and fast. It’s all instinct now. Everything about this is ingrained in him, in his bones, in his blood. It’s like dancing, only faster, sharper, and with more stakes. 

The rhythm becomes his focus, the steady cadence of his breathing, the wind whipping through his hair, the thrum of his heartbeat as he checks his surroundings. Every sound, every shadow—he’s attuned to it. He moves through the night like it’s a part of him. Every leap, every turn, is automatic. It’s the rhythm of the city, the pulse of Blüdhaven that he’s been chasing since the first time he ever put on this suit.

He makes a mental note of the streets he passes, the familiar alleyways where trouble tends to bubble up, and the places where he’s saved people before. He lets the rhythm pull him forward, his body moving without question. He stops a few petty crimes along the way, a couple of muggings, a robbery at a convenience store. He doesn’t have to think, just act. The bad guys don’t stand a chance.

But then— there's a shift.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His instincts scream that something is wrong, though he can’t pinpoint exactly why. He doesn’t even have to look to know something’s there. Something feels off.

His eyes move to the adjacent rooftop. Two figures. He blinks, disoriented, his mind slow to process what he’s seeing.

For a moment, he feels like he’s falling back in time.

It’s them. His parents. The Flying Graysons.

They stand perfectly still, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. Their costumes are bright, vibrant, exactly like the ones they wore during their last performance. The ones they wore when they died.

His pulse quickens, a rush of panic and disbelief surging through his chest. He feels his breath catch, his hands tightening on the edge of the building. He knows— he knows —this can’t be real. He’s seen this before, lived through it over and over in his nightmares. But right now, the world seems to tilt, and for a moment, he’s lost in the illusion.

He stares, rooted to the spot, his mind spiraling.

The music. The carnival march. He can hear it, faint, echoing in the distance. The faint roar of a crowd, cheering, clapping. The buzz of excitement fills his senses. His heart pounds with the sound of applause, the air thick with anticipation.

His parents bow to the crowd. Dick can’t move, can’t breathe. The scene is too real—too much like the night he lost them. The night that changed everything.

“ The Flying Graysons! ”

The announcer’s voice is louder now, booming across the imaginary circus grounds, echoing in his mind.

But when his parents stand up, something changes. The fluidity of their movements, the grace of the acrobatics—they’re gone. Their faces— their faces are different.

The smile that had once filled their eyes is gone, replaced by something twisted. Their eyes are hollow, their mouths slack, gaping open. The blood has soaked into their costumes, staining the fabric. The vibrancy, the brightness of the suits, it’s all wrong now. The costumes are ripped, shredded—like they’ve been dragged across gravel.

The most horrifying part, though, is their bodies. The once-beautiful forms of the Graysons, the athletes, the artists, the performers—now broken and distorted. Fractured bones stick out of their limbs. The skin that once looked so smooth, so healthy, now seems stretched, torn. They look like they’re rotting.

Dick knows what he’s seeing. He remembers the reports—the twisted, contorted bodies, the bloodied remains, the violent snap of bones that still echoes in his ears. He knows what they looked like when they died. He memorized every detail, every small crack in the reports that he swore he could never forget.

This… This isn’t what he wanted to remember. He didn’t want to see them like this.

But he’s staring at them— no, he’s trapped in this moment, frozen by the overwhelming wave of grief and guilt. The feeling is suffocating, a knot in his chest that tightens with every second.

It isn’t real. He knows that.

But it feels too real.

His parents stand there, lifeless and broken, staring at him with eyes that seem to accuse him.

For a moment, Dick thinks his legs might give out. He wants to run, to escape, to leave the nightmare behind. His chest tightens. He forces himself to move. He can’t let this hallucination, this nightmare, win. He can’t—he just can’t.

He steps forward, his body working on instinct. His legs move before his brain can fully comprehend it, his heart racing in his chest. He runs toward them, his breath shallow, his mind fogged with the swirling chaos of what’s happening around him.

But then they leap.

Without warning, both of them leap off the edge of the rooftop, soaring into the night as if an invisible trapeze has just appeared before them. The image is almost poetic, too graceful to be real. They fall, plummeting through the air toward some invisible target below.

No.

Dick’s heart skips a beat. The memory of their fall is too vivid. The image of their bodies crashing to the ground, broken and bloody. He can’t look away, but he has to. He can’t—

He doesn’t think.

He runs faster, his boots pounding the rooftop. He has to stop them. He has to.

But by the time he reaches the edge of the building, the fall is already over. He looks down, his eyes drawn to the ground below.

And there they are.

His parents.

Their bodies lie crumpled on the pavement, twisted and broken. It’s almost peaceful in its grotesque stillness. The world seems to freeze. Time stretches as he stares down, his stomach churning with nausea. He can’t breathe. He can’t—

His father shifts.

No.

Dick’s breath catches in his throat as his father’s body moves. Just slightly. A subtle shift, like he’s waking from a deep sleep. And then— his father winks at him.

It’s too much. The world tilts violently, and Dick feels his stomach lurch. The panic surges up in him like a tidal wave. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything except—

He turns, stumbling away from the edge. He feels the bile rise in his throat, thick and hot, and before he can stop it, he throws up. The sound is violent, raw, the sickness rising from deep within him. It burns in his throat, the taste of acid flooding his mouth.

His knees hit the ground, and he almost collapses, trying to steady himself as the world spins. His hands grip the brick of the building for support, his body shaking violently.

The panic, the fear—it’s all consuming. He can’t escape it. It’s everywhere.

He feels sick. He feels disgusted. He stumbled back to look. 

Dick stares down at the spot where his parents’ bodies had been just a moment ago, his breath shallow and ragged. The blood, the twisted limbs, the mangled remains—they’re all gone. There’s nothing left. No sign of the nightmare he just witnessed. It’s like it was never there.

His heart races, his chest tight with panic. His legs are shaky, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He stands there, frozen, looking down at the empty street below. Nothing but silence. Not even the faintest trace of what just happened. He can feel the fog creeping into his mind, the sense of something wrong—too wrong—too much for him to process.

It’s not real.

It couldn’t be.

Dick shakes his head, trying to clear the dizziness, but it only makes the world spin faster.

Dick doesn’t trust himself to make sense of anything right now. Not the illusion of his parents, not the fear gnawing at his insides. Not the way his mind is spiraling out of control. He doesn’t even trust his body to hold him steady, to keep him from falling apart.

Carefully, he moves back toward the edge of the rooftop. He doesn't want to stay out here for another second.

He climbs down, slower than usual, every motion more deliberate, more cautious. His muscles feel tense, like a coiled spring, every movement too sharp, too jagged. His hands are slick with sweat, his heart still hammering in his chest.

When his feet finally hit the ground, he takes a deep breath, steadying himself. He forces his legs to move, heading for his apartment.

The city streets seem distorted in the haze of his thoughts. The buildings loom overhead, towering like shadows, blocking out the sky. His mind is filled with static, buzzing and flickering. His legs are leaden, each step heavy and unsteady.

And then, he stops.

A figure is standing at the end of the alley, just standing there. Dick’s heart skips a beat. For a split second, he thinks it’s them. His parents. But when his vision clears, he realizes it’s just some random civilian.

A shaky laugh escapes him, but it’s hollow. Why am I doing this?

He’s not okay. He’s not okay. He can’t be.

Dick forces himself to keep moving, but he can feel the tremors in his hands, the way his breath still comes too fast. His chest is tight. 

He’s had hallucinations before— the hallucinations of Jason —but this was different.

Jason’s hallucinations had been like a twisted joke. He remembers those moments—the way Jason’s voice had taunted him, laughing in that deadpan way he had. His arms crossed, smirk stretching across his face. You’re losing it, Grayson, Jason had said. Losing it more than usual, huh? It had hurt, sure. It had been awful, but it wasn’t this .

Jason had never felt real.

Even if it stung, even if it was painful, Jason’s presence hadn’t felt like this. Jason’s ghost was still just a figment, a memory. A memory Dick could deal with.

But this? This felt like a punch to the gut. This wasn’t a memory. This wasn’t a lingering pain. This was... a visceral presence. Something that made his stomach turn and his head swim. Something that felt alive in the worst possible way.

His mind flashes to that moment—the wink from his father as he lay on the ground. The unmistakable way his father had looked at him, like he was there. Like he was still alive. That’s the moment that’s echoing through Dick’s brain, reverberating like a sickening drumbeat.

Dick stumbles through the window of his apartment, his hands shaking as he flicks on the lights, the buzzing sound of the fluorescent lamps overhead adding to the dissonance in his mind. He shuts it behind him with a quick motion. 

His heart is still racing, still pumping adrenaline through his veins, and every step he takes feels like something is trying to drag him under. 

He doesn’t trust his mind. He can’t.

His breath hitches in his chest. He’s drowning. It’s not real. He’s screaming at himself. It’s not real. You’ve been through worse. You’ve seen worse.

But something in him can’t ignore it. Something in him refuses to believe that his mind could be playing tricks on him so cruelly, so violently. He needs to know.

His eyes dart around the apartment, searching for something, anything. His gaze lands on the bathroom. The cabinet. His heartbeat accelerates again as he hurries toward it, hands fumbling at the drawers before he grabs the first thing he needs—the needle.

Dick’s movements are frantic as he sets everything out on the counter. The needle, the alcohol swabs, the small vials. He can’t even bring himself to care about the precision right now. He needs to know. He needs proof that he isn’t losing his grip on reality.

He draws blood, wincing slightly at the sharp sting, but it’s nothing compared to the pounding anxiety crashing through his chest. His hands are steady as he fills the vial, quickly capping it before slipping it into his gas chromatography-mass spectrometry analyzer—a model he’s managed to get his hands on that’s fast, faster than the rest. It can process the results in minutes, deliver answers when he needs them most.

He presses the button, leans back, and watches the small screen, the seconds feeling like an eternity as the machine whirs to life. Dick’s breath hitches again, watching the data stream across the screen. Come on...

The results appear. Small traces of different toxins but nothing unusual. Nothing that should cause this kind of paranoia. Nothing that could explain what just happened. The dizziness. The hallucinations. The panic.

Nothing.

His pulse falters as he stares at the readout, the anxiety creeping back up his spine like a slow, creeping dread. This doesn’t make sense. He’s done this test before. He knows how to analyze this data, knows what to expect. He’s tested himself for toxins, for hallucinogens - he’s done this before . This isn’t a chemical imbalance. This is something else.

His vision is starting to blur again. The walls seem to close in around him, and for a moment, he feels as though he’s suffocating. 

He leans against the bathroom sink, eyes closed, trying to steady himself. Trying to ground himself, but the ground is slipping out from under him. He’s drowning in it, gasping for breath.

No. No, it’s not real. They’re not real. They can’t be.

But the question eats at him. The doubt gnaws away at the edges of his mind. The feeling of his father’s wink, the sight of them falling—he can still see it, vivid, like a bruise under his eyelids. 

Dick’s grip tightens on the edge of the counter, trying to hold onto something, anything, that can pull him out of this fog.

Then, his phone rings.

With a shaky hand, he answers the call.

“Dick,” Clark’s voice comes through the line, steady and calm, but there’s a hint of worry that Dick can’t ignore. “Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for the past hour. We need you at the Watchtower. It’s urgent.”

Urgent.

Dick’s mind races, and for a brief moment, he feels the spinning in his skull intensify. It takes him a second to find his voice. “Yeah... I was on patrol. Sorry.” His words feel hollow, disconnected. The words don’t sound like his own.

There's a slight pause on the other end of the line, then Clark spoke again, softer this time. “We’ve got some discrepancies from the mission debrief. We need you back here to go over them.”

Dick's stomach twists. He has no idea what Clark is talking about, brain too tangled to process anything at the moment. But there was one thing that stuck with him— I need to be there . He had to. Even if his head felt like it was going to implode, even if everything inside him screamed to turn back. He couldn’t stay here.

“Yeah, I’m on my way,” he mutters. His is mechanical as he hangs up the phone, the vibrations from the call still echoing in his bones.

The phone call barely registers before Dick was suddenly kneeling over the toilet, emptying the contents of his stomach. His entire body shakes, cold sweat clinging to the back of his neck as he retches. The bile burns his throat, but the nausea doesn’t go away, not entirely. His fingers clench against the porcelain, nails digging in as if grounding himself there would stop his head from spinning.

Breathe. He needs to breathe.

The air feels thick, pressing down on him like a weight he can’t shake. But after a few long moments, he forces himself upright. His reflection in the mirror is awful—pale, dark circles under his eyes, a faint tremor in his jaw. He turns the faucet on, splashes cold water over his face before grabbing his toothbrush and mechanically scrubbing away the acid taste in his mouth.

Just keep moving.

He spits, rinses, and pulls his gloves back on, flexing his fingers as he slips back into routine. Routine is safe. Routine is solid. He can rely on it, even if his mind feels like it is slipping through his fingers. He grabs his jacket, locks up the window behind him, and steps out into the night.

The journey to the Zeta Tube is a blur. The city feels off, like it’s shifted just slightly to the left, and every shadow stretches too long under the streetlights. He keeps his gaze fixed ahead, not daring to glance at the rooftops, not willing to risk seeing them again. He has to make it to the Watchtower. That was all that mattered.

He reaches the Zeta Tube and forces his fingers to steady as he inputs the coordinates. The machine hums to life, and then, in a blink, he was somewhere else.

The Watchtower.

And the second he steps off of the platform, the temperature drops.

His breath hitches.

No. No, not here. Not now.

The air around him feels different— wrong. The same wrongness that had settled in his apartment, the same bone-deep chill that crept under his skin just before—

It hasn’t started yet. Not fully. But he knows.

The space between hallucinations was shrinking. The edges of the world around him had that strange, warped feeling again, like something- someone- was waiting.

He swallows hard, pushing past the static at the back of his mind, and forcing his feet forward. If he let himself hesitate, even for a second, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to move again.

The hallway to the meeting room stretches ahead, far too long, far too empty. He can hear his own footsteps echoing around him, uneven, slightly off-beat.

He squares his shoulders, pushing through the doors—

And everyone was there.

The entire Justice League.

Zatanna.

The others from the mission—Wally, Roy, Tim.

All of them.

Dick’s stomach twists, nausea threatening to resurface. His muscles lock up for half a second, his breath catching before he forces himself to move forward.

He can feel it.

That weight. That presence. The way the air buzzed just at the edges of his senses.

It wasn’t here yet. But it was coming.

And he just had to hope he could pretend it wasn’t.

Batman’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade, sharp and unwavering.

“We were reviewing the reports,” he says, eyes scanning the room as he spoke, “and discovered that there was an undetected encounter with a dark magic user during the mission. The energy signature was faint, but it was there. We believe it may have been a passive effect rather than a direct attack, but several members have reported lingering symptoms—headaches, nausea, dizziness. Likely side effects of exposure to corrupted magic.” His gaze flickers to Zatanna, who gives a small nod of confirmation.

Dick barely registers the words-his skin is crawling. His muscles lock, and for the first time since he arrived, he realizes just how badly he needs to sit down. He takes a slow, deliberate step toward an open chair—

And then—

There it was.

That sickening pull in the air. The shift in temperature, the weight in the room that makes his bones feel like lead.

The apparition was here.

Dick clenches his jaw and forces himself to ignore it. If he acknowledged it, it would make it worse. He just had to sit down, listen to the briefing, pretend it wasn’t happening.

Then—

“What the fuck is that?”

The voice came from somewhere to his left—one of the younger heroes, maybe Conner or Kyle. Dick wasn’t sure, because the second those words hit the air, his stomach drops.

He turns, pulse hammering in his ears.

People weren’t looking at him.

They were looking behind him.

No. No, that wasn’t—

Superman’s brow furrows. “Are we all seeing this?”

There were murmurs, shifting chairs, and a few people stood up.

Dick’s breath caught in his throat.

“Wait.” His voice felt distant, hoarse. “You—you guys can see it ?”

The second the words left Dick’s mouth, the room exploded into noise.

“What the hell is that?” someone demands, voice sharp with unease.

“Is that a—?”

“That’s a clown —”

“Why is it just standing there ?”

The air feels electric, humming with an energy that makes Dick’s skin crawl. He hasn’t turned around yet. He knows something is behind him—he can feel it, that sick, cold sensation seeping into his bones. But he still hasn’t looked.

Instead, he keeps his eyes on the League, on the people in front of him. They were reacting to something. Which meant—this wasn’t just his imagination. It wasn’t his brain playing tricks on him.

For the first time since this started, Dick feels something almost like relief.

“Okay,” he says slowly, voice still hoarse, “so you can see it.”

That only makes everyone freak out more.

“Has this been happening?” Superman asks, stepping forward slightly. His gaze flickers from Dick to whatever was behind him. “Is this—has this been following you?”

Dick exhales sharply through his nose, finally turning his head.

Yep. It was a clown.

Not a Joker kind of clown, thank God. It isn’t the grotesque, sharp-edged nightmare fuel that the Bat-Family has come to expect. But that almost makes it worse.

This thing—this thing —is just standing there, head tilted, watching them. It has the classic oversized shoes, the painted-on smile, the bright, almost gaudy circus colors. It isn’t trying to look terrifying. It isn’t a horror movie monster. It’s just...a clown.

And yet.

It was wrong.

Its eyes were sunken. The paint on its face was cracking, smudged in a way that made its expression off —like its mouth was smiling, but its face wasn’t. Its clothes were slightly damp, as if it had been caught in the rain, but its skin was completely dry. It didn’t move, didn’t sway, didn’t even breathe.

It was watching.

Waiting.

“Uh.” Roy’s arms are crossed, brows furrowed, looking deeply uncomfortable. “Dick. Buddy. Pal. What the actual fuck is happening?”

Dick doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at the clown.

The clown stares back.

“I thought I was the only one who could see them,” Dick admits finally, rubbing a hand over his face. “I wasn’t gonna say anything, because—y’know, sometimes this happens—but this has been new levels of weird.”

“This is usual for you?” Conner looks absolutely bewildered.

“No,” Dick says quickly, then hesitates. “I mean. Not usually. But it’s not— never happened.”

A beat of silence.

Everyone stares at him.

Roy blinked, slow. “Excuse me?”

“Okay, context, ” Dick says, holding up a hand. “It was the ’90s—”

“Oh my God.”

“ What does that mean?! ”

“Does this happen to you a lot?! ”

Dick huffs. “No, not—okay, listen. I’ve had hallucinations before, but not like this. These are weird they-”

Someone cut him off.

“What do you mean, weird ?”

Dick’s stomach twisted.

Because right then —the air shifted again .

That cold, sinking feeling doubles, turned razor-sharp. The clown, which had been standing eerily still, twitches. Its head snapping to the side, and suddenly—

It was on fire.

Flames erupt from its skin like it had been doused in gasoline. The colors of its costume melt, fabric shriveling and curling away as heat engulfed its body. Its skin bubbling. Patches of hair burning away in clumps. Its painted-on smile cracks apart, lips blistering, eyes turning hollow as its flesh peeled away from the bone.

And the worst part?

It didn’t move.

Didn’t scream.

Didn’t react.

It just stood there , burning, flesh turning black as the fire ate it alive.

The moment the fire exploded outward , the League broke.

The flames surging toward them, licking at the walls and floor, stretching and twisting like grasping hands. The room plunges into chaos.

“ Contain it! ” Batman’s voice cuts through the panic, but even he sounds uncertain, like he was assessing something he didn’t quite understand.

Zatanna’s hands snap into movement, fingers twisting through sigils as she shouts incantations in perfect Latin. The magic flares —and then dies before it can reach the fire. It fizzles out like a candle in the wind, snuffing into nothing.

“ It’s not working! ” She bites out.

Superman was already moving, eyes burning bright with heat vision—but he hesitates . His gaze flickering, uncertain, as if even he can’t get a read on this thing.

“This isn’t—” Diana starts, stepping forward cautiously.

“An illusion?” Clark finishes, voice taut.

Zatanna’s lips press into a thin line. “I don’t know.”

And through it all, the Clown just stood there , smiling.

Grinning.

The cracking skin of his lips peel back further, splitting wide, revealing teeth blackened from soot and rot. His face was warping, flesh melting in uneven streaks, drooping down his jaw like wax. His clown makeup was smeared, faded, burned into his skin.

His eyes —

They weren’t human anymore.

Just black pits, hollow and searing , like he’d seen something past death itself.

And still, he was smiling .

And then it spoke.

“You did this.”

Dick felt nauseous.

The voice was wrong.

It wasn’t the high, reedy tone of a clown. It wasn’t distorted, it wasn't inhuman. It was something else—something familiar. Like a voice buried deep in Dick’s nightmares, something he had forgotten but never truly let go of.

“They all burned,” the clown says. Its mouth barely moving, but its eyes —those hollow, burning eyes—stared straight at Dick. “They burned because of you.”

His blood turns to ice.

Because suddenly, something clicked.

The clown.

The burning .

The way it spoke to him.

The way it knew him.

His stomach dropped .

“Oh, shit ,” Dick whispered.

That wasn’t just any clown.

He knew this one.

He knew that face , even warped by the fire. He knew the costume , the color scheme, the sagging ruffles around its wrists.

That was—

That was Jimmy .

Jimmy the Clown.

His chest went tight. His vision swam for a second, everything doubling, distorting, but he forced himself to stay standing. To breathe .

The League was talking . He could hear them moving, hear people stepping back, their voices urgent, but it was all distant . The sound was muffled, buried beneath the weight in his skull, the way his heart pounded like a drum against his ribs.

They all burned.

A flash of memory.

A circus tent, flames licking at the edges. The acrid scent of smoke, the way it filled his lungs, made his eyes water.

The screaming.

The way the fire crackled as the beams above snapped , as fabric collapsed , as people ran —

No.

Dick clenches his fists. He forces himself to breathe.

“That’s not real,” he says, voice steady despite the way his chest was aching. “That’s not real.”

The clown didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

“Are you sure?”

The flames flare, surging higher, brighter, the heat so intense that it made the air waver like a mirage.

And then—

The clown took a step forward.

Dick moves too.

He doesn’t think—just reacts, stepping back so fast that his heel hit the chair behind him. It scrapes loudly against the floor.

The League was immediately on alert.

Zatanna’s expression twisted.

“That’s—” she stopped, eyes darting to Dick. “That’s not a normal apparition.”

“No shit , Zee!”

“Okay, what the hell is going on?” Roy demandes, pointing at the burning clown. “Why is it talking to you ? Why does it act like it knows you?”

Dick shakes his head. “I don’t—” He swallows, trying to focus, trying to think. “I don’t know. ”

The clown tilts its head, fire licking at its ruined skin.

“We all burned,” it says again, softer now. “We burned because of you. ”

Dick’s stomach turns. His fingers twitching at his sides, hands curling into fists before he forces them to relax .

This wasn’t real.

The weight in his chest was unbearable.

“I thought I was just hallucinating,” he says again, voice barely above a whisper.

A heavy silence.

Then—

“ What the fuck do you mean, you thought you were just hallucinating? ” Roy demands.

Dick flinches, but before he could answer—

Jimmy moves.

His head snaps toward the League, his grin stretching impossibly wide.

And then—

He screams.

It's an inhuman,  piercing wail that makes the lights flicker, makes the air pulse with something thick and suffocating.

The fire explodes, bursting outward—

And then Jimmy leapt.

Straight for Dick.

Dick didn’t have time to react.

He barely had time to breathe.

For one horrific second, Jimmy was on him, clawing at him, face inches away—

And then—

Nothing.

Gone.

The flames vanished.

The heat, the light, the noise— gone , snuffed out like it had never been there.

Dick was left standing in the center of the room, shaking, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gulps. The League was frozen around him, expressions ranging from horror to pure disbelief.

Roy was still swearing under his breath.

Zatanna’s face was ashen.

Diana and Clark exchanged a look—serious, unreadable.

“…The fuck was that?” Hal finally managed.

The room erupts.

The chaos is immediate, voices overlapping in a mess of disbelief and tension.

“What the hell was that?” Hal demands, rubbing his face like that’ll help erase the last five minutes from existence.

“That thing leapt at him,” Tim snaps, eyes sharp with something between fear and anger. “That wasn’t just some random ghost, that was—Jesus, what was that?”

Zatanna’s already moving, pacing, her hands twitching at her sides like she wants to cast something but doesn’t know what.

“We all saw it,” Diana says, her tone clipped, focused. “This wasn’t an illusion. It wasn’t a hallucination.”

“Well, thank God for that,” Dick mutters, voice hoarse. “Because I was really starting to question my sanity.”

That stops them all for a second.

Superman is staring at him, blue eyes filled with that heavy, almost suffocating concern that makes Dick want to look away. Clark has that way of tilting his head, of fixing his gaze on you like he can see through you, and Dick knows if he meets that stare for too long, he’s going to crack.

Before he can say anything, Roy breaks the silence. “Okay, but was it just clowns?”

Dick turns, squinting at him. “…What?”

“I mean, it was a clown,” Roy points out, waving a hand vaguely at the now-empty space where Jimmy had been. “So, like. Are you being haunted exclusively by circus rejects, or—?”

Dick stares.

Roy stares back.

Then Wally, dead serious, nods. “That’s actually a valid question.”

Dick presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Oh my God .”

“So that’s a no?” Hal asks, like this is some kind of debriefing.

Dick drops his hands, exhaling sharply. “No, it’s not just clowns .”

“Oh, good, ” Oliver mutters, voice thick with sarcasm.

“I don’t think that’s better ,” Tim snaps, arms crossed so tight against his chest it looks painful.

“No, it’s worse ,” Zatanna says, voice tight with barely controlled unease. Her eyes flicker with something like realization, something deeply unsettling. “It means this isn’t just a one-off .”

“Yeah, no shit ,” Roy mutters.

Batman finally speaks. “Who else have you seen?”

Dick’s throat tightens. He hesitates.

He can feel them waiting. Watching.

The words drag out of him, reluctant. “…My parents.”

The silence that follows is deafening .

The shift in tension is immediate, heavy in a different way now.

No one speaks.

No one even breathes .

The Watchtower’s systems hum faintly in the background, the soft buzz of technology the only sound filling the void between them.

It’s unbearable.

Dick forces himself to keep his expression blank, to keep his voice even. He doesn’t mention Donna .

Still, the room is  buzzing with tension, the kind that crackles in the air like static electricity. Every hero present—League, Titans, everyone—has their eyes locked on Dick, as if trying to solve him, like he’s some kind of equation they just realized doesn’t add up.

Batman hasn’t said a word since asking about what else Dick had seen, but his silence is almost worse than anything he could say. His arms are crossed, posture stiff, but his fingers keep twitching slightly—small, controlled movements, but they don’t go unnoticed by Dick. It’s the only tell Bruce has left, the kind that means he’s barely holding himself back from demanding answers.

Finally, it’s Diana who speaks. “Dick,” she says, slow and measured, like she’s trying not to sound too alarmed, but definitely is. “Were you seriously not going to mention any of this?”

Dick shifts on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. “… I was hoping to make it through this meeting without seeing anything.”

That earns him an immediate wave of incredulous noises from the room.

“Oh my God ,” Roy groans.

“You hoped ?” Tim repeats, like he’s personally offended. “That was the plan ?”

“That’s not a plan,” Oliver deadpans. “That’s denial.”

“An optimistic plan,” Dick mutters, mostly to himself.

“ Grayson ,” Dinah starts, voice sharp in the way only she can manage.

“I know ,” Dick says quickly, holding up a hand before she can yell at him. “In my defense, I didn’t actually expect the ghosts—or whatever they are —to show up mid-meeting in front of the entire Justice League.”

“That’s your defense ?” Wally yells.

Bruce exhales through his nose. That very specific kind of slow, controlled exhale that means he is two seconds away from grabbing Dick by the collar and shaking him.

“You thought what ?” Bruce says, low and even, but there’s something dangerous underneath it. “That if you ignored it long enough, it would go away?”

“Yes,” Dick says, immediately. “I was very committed to that idea.”

Bruce’s mouth presses into a thin line.

Clark drags a hand down his face, clearly debating whether or not to start scolding him.

Roy looks like she’s considering throwing him into a wall.

Zatanna shakes her head in disbelief. “Dick, magic doesn’t work like that .”

“I know that,” Dick says, exasperated. “I just—I don’t know, I figured maybe if I gave it a few days, it would stop.”

“Because that’s how hauntings work,” Hal says dryly.

“That’s how some hauntings work,” Constantine, who Dick has just now noticed, mutters, lighting a cigarette, despite being very much inside a closed space. “Sometimes you just gotta ride it out, let the bastard ghosts burn themselves out.”

“Okay, but sometimes they kill people,” Tim shoots back, voice high-pitched.

Constantine shrugs. “Yeah, well. You win some, you lose some.”

Tim looks like he’s about to start yelling.

“Wait, wait, wait —” That’s Barry, staring at Dick like he just committed a war crime. “Back up. You planned to sit through this entire meeting, while knowing something might show up, without telling anyone ?”

Dick throws his hands in the air. “I didn’t want to derail the meeting!”

“Oh, great priorities , Grayson,” Roy snaps. “That’s totally normal behavior. Noticing ghosts stalking you and just deciding, ‘Eh, I’ll wait until someone else brings it up.’”

“You don’t know,” Oliver says grimly, “maybe he was just waiting for the right PowerPoint slide to explain his terrifying new ghost problem.”

“Shut up ,” Dick groans, dragging his hands down his face.

“I don’t understand,” Diana says, arms crossed. “How long has this been going on?”

Dick hesitates.

The room is silent, expectant.

“… Since the mission,” he admits, reluctantly.

“ Since the mission ?” Clark repeats, staring at him like he’s lost his mind .

“And you said nothing?” Diana’s voice is clipped, sharper now.

Dick shrugs, shifting uncomfortably. “Like I said, I thought I was just tired —”

“ No one hallucinates their dead parents because they’re tired,” Wally interrupts, voice climbing.

“ I don’t know that! ” Dick argues, throwing his arms up. “We all have weird exhaustion symptoms! You get super speed vertigo , Roy’s hands shake , Tim blacks out in vents —”

“Okay, that was one time ,” Tim interjects.

“Three times,” Dick corrects.

Tim glares.

“I was hoping it was a one-time thing ,” Dick continues, looking around. “And then a few hours later, it happened again, but I figured—okay, maybe I was really sleep-deprived—”

“Oh my God ,” Wally mutters, pacing.

“And then the third time, I thought, okay, maybe I got dosed —”

“How many qualifiers do you have for hallucinating ghosts?” Barry demands.

“At this point ? Too many,” Dick mutters, rubbing his temples.

“That’s not a good answer,” Hal says, unimpressed.

Bruce, who has been silent for most of this conversation, finally exhales again, and Dick braces himself.

“You ran a toxin scan ,” Bruce states, voice level.

Dick nods. “Yeah.”

“And you were clean.”

“Well. Baseline.”

“ Baseline ,” Bruce repeats flatly.

“Baseline?” That’s Wally, his voice pitched in disbelief.

There’s a pause.

Then, from Hal—“There’s a baseline level of poison in your system?”

Dick shifts uncomfortably. “I mean… at this point, it’s like fluoride in our water, right?”

There’s another beat of silence.

Then the entire room erupts .

“That is not how fluoride works!” Tim nearly shrieks, looking personally offended.

“Why do you say things like that?” Roy demands, throwing his hands in the air. “Like it’s normal ?”

Clark, looking painfully concerned, says, “Dick.” Just Dick . Like that’s supposed to mean something. Like the sheer weight of his name in Clark’s voice is supposed to fix him.

Bruce, meanwhile, just closes his eyes, his expression unreadable, but Dick swears he sees his grip tighten into a fist.

“You cannot just say stuff like that casually,” Hal says, staring at him like he’s disintegrating before their eyes.

“I dunno, sounds like he’s got a point,” Oliver muses. “I mean, at the rate we get hit with toxins, poisons, gases, serums—”

“That is not the takeaway here!” Diana snaps, visibly exasperated.

“Right,” Dick cuts in, raising a hand. “So, back to the whole ‘ I’m being haunted’ thing?”

“You don’t know it’s a haunting,” Zatanna corrects, though her voice is less certain now. “It could be something else.”

“It could be psychological,” J’onn suggests gently. “Extreme exhaustion can sometimes manifest hallucinations, particularly under stress.”

“See? That’s what I thought,” Dick says, pointing at him. “Except for the part where you guys also saw it .”

That shuts everyone up again.

Bruce is still staring at him. 

Dick doesn’t squirm under his gaze—he’s had years of practice—but it’s a near thing.

Bruce stares at him for a long moment before finally, in that slow, precise way he does when he’s barely keeping his temper in check, he says:

“You’ve hallucinated dead people since the mission and still thought this wasn’t worth reporting?”

“… It sounds bad when you put it like that.”

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.

“This is worse than Gotham,” Diana mutters, sounding almost impressed by how incredibly bad this is.

“Dick, seriously, what the fuck? ” Roy repeats, louder this time.

“I was handling it ,” Dick insists.

Tim gestures violently at the spot where the burning ghost clown had just been standing. “Yeah, clearly!”

Dick exhales, tilting his head back. “Okay, but silver lining —”

“There is no silver lining here,” Clark says, eyes wide.

Dick holds up a hand. “Actually, there is .”

Roy gestures at him, still fuming. “Oh, please , enlighten us.”

Dick gestures around the room. “ You guys saw it too .”

Silence.

“… What?” Dinah asks, narrowing her eyes.

Dick crosses his arms, nodding to himself. “See, up until five minutes ago , I was pretty sure I was having a full-scale breakdown . But now? You all saw that thing too .”

There’s another beat of silence as that realization settles over the room.

And then—

“Oh, my God ,” Wally mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s relieved .”

“I am ,” Dick admits. “Because I wasn’t gonna say anything until I was sure it wasn’t just me.”

“Again—” Diana sighs, pressing her fingers to her temple. “That is not how hauntings work.”

Dick shrugs. “It’s how head injuries work.”

“You don’t have a head injury ,” Tim snaps.

“Exactly,” Dick says, clapping his hands together. “And now we know that for sure.”

Clark looks like he just aged five years .

Zatanna sighs. “We need to figure out what’s causing this.”

Dick nods. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”

“You were not ,” Wally accuses.

“Well, I am now ,” Dick says brightly.

The entire League stares at him.

Bruce finally exhales, voice low and steady.

“We’re getting to the bottom of this,” he says, with zero room for argument.

Dick doesn’t argue.

Because, yeah.

Now, they have to.

.