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Dick can see it. Even from here, even from fifty miles away, he can see it. And that's all he can do from fifty miles away: see and nothing else.
It's Blüd. He doesn't know immediately, but the sudden buzzing of his phone - 911 alerts that they never turned off after he left the force - confirms it: Blüdhaven was just decimated by a nuclear explosion.
Dick doesn't think much beyond that. He was already on his way back from New York. The only difference is the weight on the throttle. His bike moves fast, but the drive drags on. By the time he's finally made it within a few exits of Blüd, he's the only person on the highway inbound, staring at bumper-to-bumper traffic on the other side. People are evacuating, even if it's probably too late for many of them. Nuclear bombs aren't known for their mercy days, weeks, even years later.
But still. That's Nightwing’s city, and someone just blew it sky-high. He needs to check. He has to help the people who survived.
Immediately after Dick takes the exit, he has to swerve out of the way. People are so desperate to get out that they’ve started driving on both sides of the street. He yanks hard on the handle, skidding off the road and falling sideways off the bike. He slams into a guardrail and spends a very long minute blinking away stars. Then he remembers why he's here, forces himself upright, and takes a few experimental steps. When he doesn't collapse, he speeds up, heading into the city.
It doesn't look much like a city anymore. Bridges have collapsed, and the buildings range from “damaged but structurally sound” to “dust.” Police have barricaded the exits, trying to contain the radiation as much as they’re trying to keep people out.
Dick doesn't care. They're overwhelmed and don't notice the little black-and-blue figure that easily hops the barricade and runs deeper into the city.
---
The air is heavy with smoke, terror, and a heaping helping of radiation. The WayneTech mask Dick is sporting is helpful, sure, and capable of filtering most common lung irritants, of course, but it’s not HAZMAT-approved. It was primarily designed for Scarecrow’s fear toxin and some of the milder forms of Joker venom, not radiated air. There’s only so much it can do.
Dick holds back what coughs he can. He’s not alone out here, and-
“Help… God, please… Help…”
Dick is off and running, navigating the building’s treacherous stairs. He knows it’s inadvisable to run up a staircase that is actively crumbling under his feet, but it’s also inadvisable to run through a city that was just blown up with a nuclear bomb. General safety advice doesn’t mean much. Dick will die saving everyone he can. He has to. He doesn’t care what happens to him, so long as he can save them.
(He doesn’t deserve to live any more than these people do. In fact, maybe he deserves it less. At least these people are innocent. At least these people haven’t-)
“I’m coming!” Dick promises. “Keep talking to me!”
“I’m… I’m here… Please don’t let me… I need to…”
Dick finds the young man trapped under a fridge and the wall of rubble on top of that. He’s got one arm shielding the small figure beside him, but one arm just isn’t enough protection.
“Save my brother,” the man begs. “Please, he’s just a kid. He’s only four-”
But the skin of the boy’s neck feels like a piece of raw meat. There’s no puff of air under his nose.
“If I lift the fridge, can you crawl out?”
“My brother,” the man insists. “You have to help him first.”
This isn’t the first time Dick has been caught up in a situation like this. It’s not even the second or third. But just like the first and second and third, et cetera, he prays it will be the last time. “What’s your name?”
“Miguel.”
“I can’t help your brother, Miguel. But there’s still time to save you.”
Miguel shakes his head, though the movement is limited by the odd angle he’s twisted at. “No, no, no, you need to save him!”
But Dick can’t save him. It’s the reason he’s here, and yet, he can do nothing for the boy. “If I lift the fridge, can you pull yourself and your brother out?”
And Miguel seems spurred by any opportunity to do the impossible. (His brother can’t be saved, and Dick tries not to think about how maybe if he’d been a bit faster… if he hadn’t lost time checking dead people for pulses in Melville…)
At the man’s nod, Dick rips a long pipe out of the disintegrating wall and wedges it between the fridge and the floor. Then he pushes down, levering the fridge up just enough for Miguel to worm free, limp brother in his arms.
The sight makes Dick ill.
“Can you walk? We need to get out of here.”
Miguel can walk. He can run, actually. He’s very fast, faster than even Dick, though adrenaline may play a part in that. That, and that overwhelming protective older brother reflex. (Dick relates so well that his stomach churns at the thought of Tim being that still… at the memory of a cold grave with Jason’s name on it.)
They make it to the decon area outside the cathedral, but when Dick turns to go back into the city, an officer stops him. “Hey! You can’t go back in there!”
But Dick doesn’t listen, and the officer has enough sense not to run after him.
---
Dick counts five thousand dead (give or take, because it’s trickier to estimate dead bodies spread out in a city than you’d imagine) before he finds his fourth survivor. That fact would be depressing (is depressing, but Dick can’t think about that right now) if not for the relief that he feels every time he finds someone alive. And after relief is pressure, because that’s further confirmation that he’s needed here. That there are others out there desperately begging for help.
But one step at a time.
“Nightwing? You’re hurt.”
Dick shakes his head. “I’m okay. I need you to get in the backseat and cover your face, okay?”
The woman does (girl does; she was either driving illegally or got her license yesterday) as she’s told, and Dick slams one of his sticks through the passenger seat window, sending glass flying. Then he leans forward, arms extended. “Let me pull you out, okay? The edges of the window are sharp.”
The girl hugs his neck when he pulls her out, chest heaving. Hot tears fall onto the back of his neck. “Oh my god,” she breathes. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
“Let’s get you out of here,” Dick says, already moving back towards the cathedral. It’s a long walk, but there’s no other option.
And then Dick is ripped from the ground and dragged a thousand feet into the air. He holds the girl tighter. She’s started screaming, and god, she sounds just like his mom did when-
“You shouldn’t be here, son.” Superman’s tone might be called stern by some. Dick, however, was raised by the man whose softest, most reassuring voice held all the disappointment of a toddler with a plate of vegetables in his face. Superman sounds sympathetic by comparison.
Dick would argue that this is exactly where he should be - where he belongs, where he deserves to be - but the girl is still there, still screaming. “Hey, hey, hey,” he says quickly. “Superman has us, okay? He won’t drop us.”
By the time he’s finished reassuring her, they’ve arrived at decon. He leaves the girl with HAZMAT, and then Superman yoinks him from the ground again.
“Hey!” he shouts, trying to turn to see Clark’s face. “Let me go! I’m not done here!”
“I know you want to help,” Clark says gently, “but it’s just not safe. You’ll die in there.”
“Put me down.”
They reach the ground again, and Dick spins to look at Clark. The Kryptonian isn’t playing around today, but neither is Dick.
“Me and the others are handling it,” Clark promises, arms folded. “We can handle the radiation. You can’t. You’ll die, son.” He zips back into the air and then out of sight.
“Duly noted,” Dick mutters, sidestepping HAZMAT once more and returning to the burning city.
---
As horrible as it is to acknowledge, Dick has lost count of the dead. It’s getting hard to think, chest heavy and head filled with helium. He’s lost count of the survivors too, come to think of it. He’s up to… eight? Nine? Twenty-seven?
He doesn’t know. He can’t bother to care. For every person he’s pulled out, there could be a hundred more people still in need of saving. (He knows there isn’t, but he can’t think like that. Even one innocent person is enough to keep going.)
And there she is. The innocent person passed out on the floor, a phone cracked on the tile beside her open hand. And it’s an innocent person he recognizes.
“Sophia?”
Dick crouches down and places his fingers under Sophia’s jaw. He met her undercover, working for the mob (long story), and she’d always been a sweet kid. Maybe a little too naive, maybe a little too interested in Dick’s love life, but sweet nonetheless.
And Dick will be damned if he lets this girl die. When he feels the thud, thud, thud of a slow pulse, he takes off his respirator and secures it to Sophia’s face. Then he tosses her over his shoulder and shoots a grapple out the window. He spots movement in an apartment on his way to the HAZMAT station, and he quickly realizes which apartment it is.
“Amy,” he breathes, panic rising in his throat. The thought of his old BPD partner, his only ally in a police force full of dirty cops and crooked bureaucrats, slowly dying of radiation poisoning makes him feel nauseous.
“Hold on a minute, Soph,” Dick says apologetically, diverting his path to Amy’s apartment. He lands on her fire escape and peers through the window, heart slowing a touch when he sees the woman sitting with her children and the man packing up a duffle bag.
Instantly, Amy notices Dick’s presence and sprints to the window, throwing it open and urging him inside before slamming it shut again.
“Amy,” Dick breathes, relief filling every cell of his body. “You’re alive.”
Jim, Amy’s husband, helps Dick ease Sophia onto the bed, and he double checks that she’s still breathing.
“Oh, thank god you’re alright!” Amy exclaims, a hand cupping the back of his neck as if to confirm that he’s really, truly there and not some radiation-derived hallucination. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you for months, and there’s so much to tell you!”
God, Dick hadn’t realized how much he missed Amy. How much he missed having a friend in Blüd. Someone he could just talk to and not worry about breaking his cover. It kills him that he has to cut her off.
“And I want to hear everything,” Dick promises, “but now’s not the time.”
Dick steps back to look at both Jim and Amy. “I need your help. Can you take Sophia to-?”
“Of course,” Jim says, like it’s not even a question. Like he actually has such high regard for Dick that he wouldn’t mind doing him a favor. Which is bizarre, because Dick doesn’t deserve that regard. Not from anyone. Not after what he did.
“Thank you,” Dick replies, voice drenched in sincerity. He slides the window open and steps out onto the ledge. “I owe you. I owe you… so much.” He whispers the last words, not sure how to make it up to them. He’s not sure he ever will be, and the guilt eats at him for that.
“Wait!” Amy calls. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve got to go back into Midtown. Check for more survivors.” A thought floats in his head, and he can’t rid himself of it, so he simply gets it over with and says it aloud. “Maybe Rand-”
“Rand Westbrook?” Amy growls, venom dripping from her tone. Even with his back to her, Dick can see the absolute outrage and vehemence in her eyes. “You’re risking your life to save Rand Westbrook??”
“Who’s-” Jim starts.
“He was Blockbuster’s lawyer and eventual financial heir,” Amy explains. “He’s a crook and a lowlife and a toady, and there’s absolutely no reason for anyone to save him unless they’re-” She goes quiet, and Dick glances back. He sees the fear and recognition in her eyes. She shakes her head and grabs his arm.
“Dick, please,” Amy begs. “Don’t. We can work this out, but don’t do this.”
Dick swallows hard and looks away. He can’t stand the look on her face. The pity. The fear. The way she’s putting so much effort into trying to save him. She shouldn’t waste her time. He doesn’t deserve her concern.
“I have to,” Dick says simply, diving out the window and grappling back towards Midtown.
Dick’s knees are weak as he dashes across rooftops and leaps to cling to the side of Midtown Business Park. His arms are shaky as he climbs the windows of the skyscraper. His ears ring, and his brain spins like his skull is a dryer when the floor above him explodes in green smoke.
Once the smoke has died down, Dick drags himself up and through the broken window. He’s up on his feet and searching the building for survivors when his heart starts going crazy, thudding against his ribs, and his lungs just can’t get enough air.
But like everything else, Dick ignores them, clearing the floor and taking the stairs up to the next floor.
Amy was right. Rand Westbrook doesn’t deserve to be saved. But Dick learned the hard way that that isn’t a choice for him to make. (He can still see Blockbuster jerk backwards. Can still smell the coppery blood on his lilac suit. Can still see him fall off the building and hear him smash into the ground below.) He hopes he can save Rand. He hopes that Rand believes someone is coming to help him. Dick should never have let his convictions waver like that. He has to do for Rand what he failed to do for-
An explosion takes out the next floor and turns the stairs to toothpicks. Dick is knocked backwards, off his feet, and onto the shaky ground. Wood and bricks and debris follow suit, crushing his arms, his legs, his body.
As the world fades, Dick sees a dark shadowy figure. One that he’s known since childhood.
“Batman,” Dick croaks. “I’m… sorry…”
Batman crouches beside him, frowns, and everything goes black.
---
“-need to decon you both first-”
“-103.2, sir-”
“-will have to debride the burns-”
“-showing signs of ARS-”
“-twenty-eight hours of exposure-”
The room is hazy and hot. Dick’s eyes spin in his head trying to make sense of the lights. The walls speak to him, voices low and sinister.
“-need to lay down, sir. You’re ill.”
“Calm down, Dick. You’re-”
He should be in Blüdhaven. He should be helping those people. Those people that he-
BANG. Blockbuster falls.
“Don’t-” Tarantula does anyway.
BOOM. Blüdhaven bleeds green.
“All my fault. ‘s’all my fault.”
The gun goes off. The word is caught in Dick’s throat. (“Stop,” he should say. “Stop,” he wishes he said. “Stop,” he hadn’t said.)
“-severely dehydrated. I’m doing all I can, but-”
Something cold and metal smacks Dick in the forehead. He can’t pay attention to it, because now he’s hunched over and coughing on phlegm.
Bile?
Oh. No, that’s red. Bile isn’t red. What’s red?
… the spot on Blockbuster’s suit. The spot where Tarantula shot him. The spot that Dick failed to prevent.
“It’s okay, lad. You’re alright.”
The voice sounds like Alfred, or maybe it’s just another British butler. Dick’s never met another British butler, but they have to exist somewhere, right?
… Britain, most likely.
“Master Bruce, I strongly recommend you come see the boy before-”
The boy? Oh, no. The boy. Miguel’s little brother. The four-year-old in the Superman t-shirt.
Superman… Superman is keeping Dick from helping. He thinks it matters if Dick dies. He doesn’t know what Dick did. He doesn’t know what-
“-hang on just a little longer, chum.”
There’s a sweeping, brushing sensation over Dick’s knuckles. It feels nice. Unlike his head and his stomach and his everything else.
“-can’t lose you too. Not after… I can’t lose you.”
Lost? Dick isn’t lost. He knows Blüdhaven well. It’s a little harder to navigate with most of the buildings leveled, but he’s still familiar with its roads. And he has to be, because he needs to save those people. At all costs.
“-isn’t responding to the antipyretics-”
It hurts. Everything hurts. He feels awful. But it’s not an entirely bad feeling, because this feels right. It’s just. He deserves this. He deserves to suffer after he killed Blockbuster. After he broke Batman’s cardinal rule.
He deserves this.
---
When Dick pries his eyes open, he’s okay. He’s a little tired, a little achey, and his skin burns like he’d gone swimming in a volcano and then rinsed off in an acid bath, but overall, he feels okay.
“Alfred?” he rasps, throat dry and head pulsing.
Dick is helped sitting up, a glass of water is shoved in his face, and he makes a concerted effort not to chug the whole thing in one go.
“How do you feel?”
Dick blinks a few times. “Fine,” he says.
“The truth, Master Dick.”
“Honest, Alfie,” Dick insists, a bit shocked himself. “I mean, my face hurts a little, and my skin burns, but other than that-”
“The latent phase, then,” Alfred announces, checking the heart monitor for any abnormality in Dick’s vitals.
“What?”
“Radiation poisoning,” Alfred explains. “You’ve survived the first phase. The latent stage comes after, a span with no symptoms. I assure you, they will come back, so if you know what’s good for you, you will get back in that bed right now.” His voice sharpens near the end, eyes never straying from the vitals monitor.
“I can't,” Dick says earnestly, searching fruitlessly for his shoes. “I have to go back.”
“You most certainly do not,” Alfred insists, pointing a stern, commanding finger at the cot. “In fact, you cannot and you will not.”
“Alfred,” Dick sighs, fixing sad puppy-dog eyes on the back of the butler's head. “Please. It's my city. They need me.”
“They have no use of you if you're dead.”
“I’m not going to die. I feel fine. I’ll come back before the latent stage ends.”
“If you return to the city,” Alfred huffs, shooting a sharp glare Dick’s direction, “you could develop another form of radiation sickness. One that kills in minutes, not days. Master Bruce already risked his life digging you out of the rubble the first time; do not put him in danger again.”
Dick frowns, and he sits on the cot, a sudden weakness passing through him. He can't tell if it's from the news or from the fact that he’s been bedridden and delirious for an undetermined amount of time. “He… what? He was in Blüd?” Dick had assumed his vision of Batman in the business park was just a pre-death hallucination.
“Yes. He left the Cave immediately after Superman informed him of your continued, ill-advised presence in the city. To quote directly, he said, ‘Golly, he won't listen to me. It's just plain not safe.’”
“Dammit, Clark,” Dick mumbles, because he should have known something like this would happen.
“Richard John Grayson!” Alfred’s voice darkens with ire, eyes boring straight through Dick’s skull. Dick is far too old to be scolded, but he can't suppress the flinch. Alfred hasn't used his middle name since he was fourteen. “It was because of Superman that you are alive to complain about him. You will not disrespect the man who saved your life.”
The worst part is, Dick isn't sorry at all. He's pissed. He was supposed to stay in Blüdhaven. He was supposed to die making up for what he’d done. How can he reach atonement if he's selfishly lying in bed eating Alfred’s cooking? How could his life possibly be worth more than the innocents still trapped in Blüd? They did nothing wrong, and Dick killed someone. The logic is airtight.
But Alfred is exasperated, and Dick doesn't deserve to have someone waste their time trying to convince him that saving his life is a worthwhile endeavor. That saving his life is an action that deserves gratitude.
It isn't. It doesn't. Dick knows this. Alfred is just in denial. Trying to make him feel better.
“Yeah,” Dick agrees, though he couldn't agree less, ducking his head, ears turning red. “Sorry. That was wrong.”
“It's alright, dear boy.” Alfred's voice softens, and Dick watches his shiny black dress shoes as they pace around the cot and stop in front of him. Then the butler stoops and taps Dick on the head. “Look at me, please.”
Begrudgingly, Dick looks up. Alfred's face is worn, eyes shiny. He’s never looked so old before. “Are you alright, Dick? Did something happen?”
Dick swallows hard. “Yeah. Blüdhaven got nuked.” He fakes a breathy laugh. “Put a damper on my day, y’know?”
Alfred squints, eyebrows knit. “Perhaps before that, Dick?” He keeps using Dick’s name all by its lonesome. As a kid, he wanted Alfred to just call him Dick, but after two decades of “Master Dick,” anything else sounds bizarre. Dangerous.
“No,” he lies. “No. I’m fine.”
If Alfred dislikes this answer, he doesn't say. Instead, he brushes the hair from Dick’s forehead and runs a temporal thermometer over it. It beeps, Alfred looks at the number, and something in his eyes breaks just a bit more.
“Fever?” Dick asks. He feels fine. Tired, but absolutely fine.
Alfred stands up suddenly. “No,” he replies. “Perfectly normal.” And then he paces out of the med bay, and Dick falls asleep trying to decide whether to leave or stay.
---
“Ey, Nightwing!”
Normally, Dick wouldn't let HAZMAT stop him, but they're not shouting with disapproval this time. They're shouting with an ellipsis. They have information, not deterrence.
“Ma’am,” Dick greets smoothly, releasing his grapple, flipping through the air and around a traffic light post, and rolling to the ground. “How can I help?”
“Ain’t no reason to go back in there,” the HAZMAT officer assures him. Her words sound a thousand miles away with the mask on. “Supes did a final fly-by an hour ago. Dead are all accounted for.”
The words make Dick’s stomach twist. He coughs on the sour taste of his saliva. “Oh,” he chokes out.
“The officer tips her head, features muddied through the plexiglass visor of her suit. “Y'shouldn't be out here without protection,” she warns.
“I know,” Dick sighs, his own words airy through his respirator. “I’m fine.”
“Wanna see the medics?” she offers, gesturing to Dick’s face. “Burns look pretty bad.”
But Dick shakes his head. “I saw someone for them. Thanks for…” Bile rolls across his tongue. “... letting me know.”
And Dick leaves. To where, it doesn't matter much. He's alone; that's what counts. And then, in rapid succession, he screams, punches a brick wall, breaks two metacarpals, calls Barbara, hangs up before Barbara can answer, vomits, calls Barbara again, hangs up again, kicks the same wall, lets Barbara’s return call go to voicemail, punches the wall again, breaks another metacarpal, stares longingly off the roof at the great, dark expanse below him, stands on one foot, lets a call from Tim go to voicemail, steps away from the edge, and calls Blüdhaven’s Red Cross office.
---
“Where’ve you been, Dickie?” Ethan slaps him on the back - hard - and angers the burns between his shoulder blades.
Dick hisses and gives Ethan a half-hearted shove. “Careful, man.”
“Ah, sorry.” Ethan scratches the back of his head, cheeks and neck flushed. “Just haven't seen you around, s’all. S’been months. Alice was pretty worried.”
“Alice is always worried.” Dick shakes his head, sorting through donation boxes of food. He places canned food on the table and passes dried goods off to Ethan.
“Oh, trust me. You haven't seen anything. She about lost her mind when you went MIA.”
“I didn't go MIA,” Dick huffs, tossing a bag of rice at him. “I was shot. It made the news.”
“You didn't text or call for months after that. You didn't schedule to volunteer.”
Dick knows exactly what he's talking about. He went offline for a while. Got fired from the force. Then… Blockbuster and… and Tarantula… Then he was shot (again, different occasion) by a Gotham cop and nearly bled out. After that, he developed a nasty infection and spent weeks in the manor recovering. And then… Jason.
God, what happened to Jason? Dick never got a chance to ask. Somehow, with all the shit going on in his life, his dead brother resurrecting was low on his priority list.
“It's been a lot,” Dick says honestly. “I'm sorry. I should've called, but life has just been… a lot.”
Ethan’s hand finds Dick’s shoulder, but his touch is feather-light this time. “Hey, it's okay, dude. I’m just glad you're not dead. From the gunshot or… y’know.”
Dick pats him once on the hand and then passes him a few boxes of spaghetti. “Yeah. Glad you didn't blow up either.”
A moment of silence lapses, filled only with the clanking of canned goods and the rustling of grocery bags. “So where were you?” Ethan finally says. “When the bomb went off, I mean?”
“New York,” Dick replies, conveniently leaving out the part where he worked undercover for the mafia, breaking skulls and snapping spines with a pair of crutches. “Looking for a place to start over, y’know? But…” He shrugs and sighs. “I could see the explosion from there. And no matter where I go, Blüdhaven is my home. My responsibility. I couldn't just ignore it.”
“And you wanted to help, so you decided to get back into volunteering.” It's not a question. “Fair enough. I’d say it took you too long to realize that you need us just as much as we need you, but you figured it out in the end.”
“I need to help,” Dick agrees. He straightens, crumples the empty grocery bag in his hand, and shoots Ethan an impish grin. “Even if that means I have to put up with you.”
“Do not make me start throwing things. I have Campbells, Grayson.”
Dick makes no promises.
---
“-just returning your call… again. What kind of fight did you have with Bruce, and why are you taking it out on us? Call me.”
BEEP.
“Dude, Alfred is kinda freaking out. And you know he doesn't do that. Wherever you are, you’d better call him. Otherwise, Bruce might… I dunno, man. I’m sure you're pissed at him or something, but for Alfred’s sake, just give us some sign of life.”
BEEP.
“Dick, come home. The latent stage of the radiation sickness is going to end in-”
BA-DEEP.
“Message deleted. End messages.”
Dick shoves his phone in his pocket and slips back inside the gymnasium. He's immediately inundated with requests and questions. That's fine with him, though, because he prefers to have things to do. Ways to help.
“Where’s the medics? You gotta help my boy-”
“Deep breaths. Just follow me, okay?”
“I can’t find her. I can’t find her!”
“What’s her name? What does she look like? We’ll send a team out to find her.”
“Excuse me, young man. Is there any way out of this city? Please. We can’t stay here.”
“Of course. I’ll be right with-” Dick stops suddenly, closing his eyes to better identify the far-off, maybe-real honk of a horn, but no discernible sound follows. The crowds are still plenty loud, even at 11 PM, and it's hard to hear much of anything.
Curiosity piqued, Dick asks Ethan to help the couple get bus tickets and then slips out the door and into the parking lot. A red pickup truck is idling at the edge of the sidewalk, and a small, elderly woman limps around the truck, one hand on her cane and one on the truck's chassis. Her skin is marred with burns, and she coughs like her lungs are thirty seconds away from collapsing.
“Alice?” Dick breaks into a jog, closing the distance between them and offering his arm.
The woman smiles wanly and takes hold of Dick’s forearm. “You came back?”
“As soon as I got the news.”
Alice nods. “We were worried, but I never doubted you.”
The lie is so blatant that even Alice raises an eyebrow at that, not convinced by her own words. She runs her tongue over her teeth, smacks her lips, and shrugs.
“Are you okay? You look…”
“Well-done?” Alice laughs, though it sounds odd coming from her. Her normal laugh is airy and unrestrained, like bubbles floating up and into the wide blue sky. This laugh is throaty and muffled. Like a toad crawled down her windpipe and then heard the funniest knock-knock joke in the world. “I was in Melville when the bomb went off.”
Melville. Just south of ground zero. Where Dick’s apartment is… or was.
“I was very lucky,” Alice continues. “I got sick - horribly sick - but I got better. Being that close to everything, I should've died.”
“I… I’m glad you're okay. That's terrifying.”
Alice points at his own burns. “And you? You said you weren't in the city for the explosion.”
Dick rubs the back of his neck. “I went in after. To help someone.”
Alice shoots him a lethal side-eye, eyebrows in the stratosphere. “You're an idiot,” she deduces. “Noble as hell, but maybe there's not a lot going on up there.” She tries to tap Dick’s forehead, but she's too short to reach. Dick obliges her and stoops slightly, letting her poke him a couple times. “But I guess that's why everyone likes you. A heart of gold, the cheekbones of a god, and three total brain cells.”
Dick just flashes a winning Flying Graysons smile. If only she knew.
“Well.” Alice straightens up, expression sobering. “Enough talk. Since you're here, mind taking the bags from the truck for me?”
“Of course.”
The older woman moves towards the gym doors, intent on walking on her own. She’s shaky, but when Dick tries to help her, she bats him away. “I told you to get the bags. So get the bags.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dick murmurs, stepping back and moving to the truck. He slowly lowers the tailgate, watching Alice until she’s safely made it inside. Then he actually pays attention to the task at hand and pulls two black garbage bags from the bed. They’re not especially heavy, but it’s tricky to tell what’s inside. They’re-
Wait. Where’d they go? And… where did the truck go?
Ow. Shit. What’s-?
The pavement meets his face. Or maybe it’s the other way around? It’s so dark out here. It’s just so hard to tell.
Tell… Dick should tell someone. He should tell someone about… What’s the problem again? What’s wrong, and why does he need to tell someone about it?
… well, maybe it wasn’t all that important. He’ll tell someone in the morning. Right now, he’ll just get some sleep.
The pavement is soft. The air is still. Everything is fine.
(Except Blockbuster is dead. And Dick is to blame.)
Another problem for tomorrow. It’s time to sleep.
---
“Dick? You’re scaring the shit outta me. Open your eyes, Dickie.”
The voice is familiar, but not so familiar that Dick knows who it belongs to. He doesn’t really have any intention of obeying the voice, but then pain erupts in his chest, and he needs to get away, get away, get away-
“Dick! Hey, man, what happened?”
Dick blinks furiously. The young man kneeling beside him is hazy.
“I…” He’s not sure what happened. In fact-
“Where are we?” Dick rasps, eyes sluggishly searching the dark, incomprehensible environment before him.
“Outside the gym.”
Gym. Gym? Had Dick been training someone? Or… no, he’s not a personal trainer anymore. That was… That was years ago. So maybe he’d just finished his own sets for the day? Or hadn’t he started yet?
Dick pats his arms and sides, noticing the t-shirt and jeans. Jeans aren’t really conducive to an effective workout, so maybe he was going to change in the locker room? But his hair is wet, so maybe he got a shower after his workout, and he decided to take a nap in the parking lot before heading home?
Yes. This strikes Dick as the most likely series of events. He runs a clumsy hand through his hair, frowning at how greasy it still feels. “Did I forget shampoo?” he muses aloud.
The man beside him becomes a bit clearer, the confusion evident on his face. “What are you talking about?”
Dick is very tired. He doesn’t have time for this guy’s inability to use context clues. “Shampoo. Duh.”
“I know that, idiot,” the man snaps, gently smacking Dick’s arm. The voice is all wrong, but maybe this is Jason. He’s certainly acting like Jason.
“Did I pass out?” Dick asks, because it’s occurring to him that he shouldn’t be lying on the pavement, even if he was taking a post-gym nap.
“Yeah. Looks like you hit your head,” Jason confirms, tone edging on panicked. Which is weird, because Jason definitely shouldn’t be panicked. He doesn’t deserve to be stressed out over Dick.
Oh god. Dick is putting more innocent people through unnecessary pain. That’s… He can’t let that happen.
Dick shoves away from Jason, trying to roll over and onto his feet, but all he does is land on his back and knock the air from his lungs.
“Whoa!” Jason puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder, gentle but firm. “Stay put. Alice is grabbing the medics.”
Dick blinks. “Alice…?”
“Yeah. You know Alice.”
“Oh. Alfred. Right.”
“No…?” Jason’s grip tightens on Dick’s arm. “You're starting to scare me, buddy.”
Dick hums, trying to make out Jason's face better. It doesn't look quite right, framed by shaggy red hair and dusted with freckles. His scars are missing, skin as smooth as the day he became Robin.
“Wait,” Dick realizes. “You're not Jason.”
The air is hot. Suffocating. The little pebbles on the pavement spear him like tiny blades of fire. He’s exhausted, his head aches, and he still doesn't know who's crouched beside him.
“Can you tell me your name?”
“Blockbuster is dead,” he remembers.
“Dick, stay with us, alright?”
“Mff.”
“I don't know. He told me he wasn't in the city when the bomb dropped.”
“No, no, he went in after. To save someone.”
“I’m dead,” Dick reasons.
“You're not dead. Stay right here, okay? Keep talking.”
“It's my fault. It's all my fault.”
“He's drifting.”
“Dick, pay attention to me.”
“Sorry, B. I failed.”
And the darkness swallows him. As he deserves.
---
“Richard? Sweetheart?” Mom reaches down, her legs hooked over the trapeze bar. She's wearing one of her practice leotards - one that isn't part of their costume but one she feels most comfortable in. Dick can still feel its soft sleeves around him, pulling him in for a warm hug.
“Dickie?” Dad. He’s wearing a Robin uniform and hangs from a second trapeze bar. He reaches out with one gloved hand. “Can you hear me, son?” He doesn't sound like his dad - at least, not from what Dick remembers - but the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles is so unmistakably him.
“Mom,” Dick chokes out, tears rolling down his face. “Dad.”
The glove changes color, from green to starch-white. The face behind the hand is different too. Older and yet… still very young. So much younger than Alfred should be. His hair still has some color to it. “I really must insist you come down from that chandelier.”
“Wh-?” Dick doesn't want to come down. He's safe up here, high above his worries. He’s safe in the sky with his parents. “No, please, Alfie.”
“He’ll be okay, right?” The new voice is young too. Younger, even. It's Kid Flash, the bright yellow of the mask shielding the worry in his eyes. Dick still knows it's there. He's known Wally for ages.
“Robin?” Wonder Girl laughs, draping her arms across Aqualad and Speedy’s shoulders. “Of course he will be.”
The Titans are all so little. They’re babies. They have no idea what's in store or-
“Are you sure?” Starfire hovers a distance away, face oddly free of emotion.
Other Titans smile and nod. Beast Boy and Cyborg. Troia and Tempest and the Flash.
“If there's anything Nightwing can't do,” Arsenal says, “it’d have to be ‘lie still.’”
“You…” Dick tries to sit up, but his muscles don't listen. “You shouldn't waste your time on me. You should be helping…” He's drawing a blank. What mission were they on? Who had they been helping? “... helping… somebody.”
But Barbara smiles and squeezes his hand gently. “I don't care about that. I just want you to rest.”
Then Barbara lets go and tears flood her eyes. “You hurt me, Dick.”
Blockbuster knocks her to the side. “You didn't stop her,” he growls. “You killed me!”
Tarantula smiles. Dick’s skin crawls, and his stomach flips. He pukes and he pukes and he pukes. It goes on for years.
Then blood and fire rise from the ground, swirling around him until he’s waist-deep and struggling against the current. The sky blooms green. A dark shadow eclipses him. The Batman watches with disdain.
“You're not fit to wear the mask. You can't do this anymore,” the Bat intones.
“No, really,” Dick insists, voice edging on desperation. “It's okay. I’m okay. You still believe that, right, Batman? You still believe in-
“-me?”
“You?” Dick can barely make out Alfred’s face past the blinding med bay lights. He's holding a tray. His mustache is gray again. “Yes, you're still you, Master Dick. At least as far as I can tell. And I do feel fairly certain I would notice were it otherwise.”
Dick squints. His head is pounding like a four-year-old’s toy drumset. Every inch of him aches, and it feels like poison is burning a hole in his stomach. “... Al-fred?”
“And I am still me as well, dear boy,” Alfred replies, the warmth of his smile still not enough to banish the bone-deep freeze of the Cave. “How very observant of you to notice.”
He’s making fun of Dick. Or… Dick is pretty sure that's what's happening. But then again, Dick admittedly has no clue why he's here or what's going on.
“He's awake, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, seemingly to no one at all. But then the comm in his ear crackles, and Dick can hear the reply if he listens hard enough.
“On my way.”
Wait. Dick remembers something. Blüdhaven. Chemo. His city burning and his people dying and-
“I- I need to-” Dick gasps, struggling to sit up. His arms keep shaking. “I should-”
“I would advise some degree of haste,” Alfred continues. “Our patient already seems to be entertaining fantasies of escape.”
“He's in no shape to go anywhere,” the comm mumbles.
“Oh, believe me, sir…” Alfred places one pointer finger on Dick’s sternum and pushes him back down onto the cot. “We're both well aware of that.”
Alfred turns and sets the tray down on the counter, sorting through medications. “I suspect a lesser man than I would have long since wearied of threatening you with imminent death as a means of keeping you alive.”
Dick sighs, dropping his head on the pillow. He's really going to have to lay here when the people of Blüd are still injured and starving and homeless. They're innocent. Their lives are worth more than Dick’s. Why can no one seem to understand that?
… well, Dick never did tell anyone what he did. So they probably can't understand his reasoning.
“I killed him, Alfred,” Dick admits, closing his eyes and turning away so he doesn't have to see the betrayal in the butler's eyes.
“I beg your pardon?” He sounds bewildered, but maybe now he’ll understand.
“Blockbuster. I was there when Tarantula shot him. I could have-”
“-saved him?” a gravelly voice booms from directly behind the cot. Dick’s eyes fly open, and he shrinks a little as he sees the Dark Knight towering over him. Just like in his nightmare. “Then why didn't you?”
Dick tries to keep his cool. Bruce is playing up the Batman intimidation factor, and Dick isn't supposed to be susceptible to that. He's supposed to be unshakable. And anyway, if he tells Bruce now, maybe then he’ll see why Dick went into the blast zone. Maybe he’ll stop trying so damn hard to keep Dick safe. Maybe he’ll finally treat Dick the way he deserves to be treated.
“I didn't-” His voice cracks. So much for the Unshakable Dick Grayson. “I didn't want to.” He sighs and leans back, staring at his hands. They're still covered in scratches and burns. “In that one second, he was everything that was wrong with the world. Everything I hated. I wanted him dead, Bruce. And I’ve never wanted anyone dead before or-”
“Are you still not ready to discuss this honestly?” Bruce paces past the cot and towards the stairs to the manor, cape trailing behind like smoke.
Alfred is nowhere to be seen, and Dick takes advantage of this fact. With the strength he has left, he pushes himself up and swings his legs over the edge of the cot. He means to run after Bruce, but his vision darkens and spins before one foot has even touched the ground. “Wh- What? Wait! What are you talking about?” He wracks his brain. “I mean, I guess it's true that where Joker and Zucco are concerned, I-”
“I’m talking about you,” Bruce hisses, stalking back to poke Dick in the chest with one angry finger. “You've been trying to kill yourself for the past six months.”
Dick’s stomach drops to his feet. Bruce has got it all wrong. He may deserve to live less than innocents for what he's done, but he's not suicidal. “No, I- Bruce, it's not like that.”
Bruce's hand shoots out faster than Dick can track and grabs his chin, forcing him to make eye contact. “You know how I feel about killing, and you know why. And you know the difference between shooting a bullet and failing to step in front of one.” He lets go, but he's almost scarier now that Dick can see how tense his shoulders are and how aggressive his stance is. “You lost sight of the value of Desmond Roland’s life. If you need me to forgive you for that, I probably can. But it won't mean anything until you forgive yourself. And you have no right to expect me to excuse you for losing sight of the value of yours.”
Dick can only sit and watch as Bruce disappears from the med bay, cape rippling dangerously behind him.
He can't do this. He… He's not worth this. He’s not worthy of this job or this care or this lecture, and for some ridiculous reason unbeknownst to Dick, Bruce refuses to see it that way. Everyone refuses to see it that way.
Dick has to leave. He can't deal with this. His head is spinning and the lights are blinding and all he can hear is the crack of gunfire and the low, manipulative tone of Tarantula’s voice.
Dick pushes himself off of the cot and immediately blacks out.
---
“-you left him alone? In his state?”
“I don't know, Alfred! I trust him to have my back in a fight, but I can't trust him to be by himself for fifteen seconds?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
The world ebbs and flows, slowly coming into and out of focus. Mostly, all Dick finds is pain, heat, and dizziness. Sometimes, however, he picks up bits of conversation. A hand on his arm. A familiar face.
“-seemed… I dunno… angrier to you?”
“The injuries Batman has inflicted on criminals have worsened, if that's what you mean.”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
Once or twice, Dick actually manages to catch something. A full minute of awareness. A rare moment out of this hazy purgatory.
“-relax, dear boy. You’re safe.”
Dick looks around the room, recognizing nothing but the familiar worry lines of the elderly man beside him. “Alfie,” he murmurs. “Y’okay?”
Alfred smiles sadly. “Of course. I’m always okay.”
“... hurts a lot, Al.”
And a hand brushes his forehead, fingers gentle and soothing. “I’m sorry. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Please don’t… don’t leave.”
“Of course not.”
There’s shifting. Someone else comes into focus.
“Timmy?”
“I’m here, Dick. I’m-” His voice chokes off, and he disappears from sight.
“Timmy??”
“He’s okay, Master Dick. We’re all okay.”
But they’re not all okay. “I killed Blockbuster.”
“I know, my boy. You told me many times.”
And then things become blurry and distant again. He’s hot. He’s cold. The room goes quiet, and then it’s roaring with three sounds, over and over and over again.
BANG.
“Don’t touch me-”
“Quiet, mi amor.”
BANG.
“Don’t touch me-”
“Quiet, mi amor.”
BANG.
“Don't touch me.”
“Quiet, mi amor.”
Over and over and over again, for an eternity.
---
“I’m sorry, Dick.”
The fog has cleared a bit. It still feels like someone ripped Dick’s organs out and threw them in a garbage disposal, and he can’t really force his voice to work, but at least he can see what’s going on around him.
He’s flat on his back, staring up at the stalactites and the occasional bat. There’s a soft, barely-there beeping on his left. He can feel the slightest pressure on the inside of both of his elbows. IVs. He shivers against ice packs behind his neck and under his arms.
“I… I should’ve been less… aggressive the last time we talked.”
Dick hums and curls in on himself, clutching the thin sheet to his body. It’s so cold.
“I was just so… angry. You’ve been through a lot recently, and realizing how bad you were hurting… bad enough to want to end it… I don’t know. I just… I can’t lose you too.”
A new machine starts beeping. Hands flick a switch. Remove a bag from the IV pole and replace it with a new one.
“And with Tim losing his dad, it’s just been… chaotic. He looks up to you, and I guess I hoped that you could help me hold him together while he adjusts. I didn’t think you’d still be torn up about… about whatever this is.”
Something smooth and cold runs across Dick’s forehead. There’s a beep. Shuffling. Someone sighs.
“Alfred said you’ve been talking in your sleep. Nightmares or something. He said you’ve been talking about Catalina a lot. It sounds like she… She really hurt you, didn’t she?”
The name makes Dick shiver again. There’s another sigh. Warmth comes from the sky, and hands tuck a blanket up to his chin. It’s a relief, and Dick grabs the hands, hanging on for as long as they’ll allow. The hands grip back.
“I don’t know what she did. I mean, I can guess, but only you really know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I wish I could fix it.”
The hands don’t let go. Neither does Dick. He falls asleep to a familiar voice and soft reassurances.
“I love you, Dick. Please don’t leave us. Please get better.”
---
Dick wakes up more times than he bothers to count. He doesn’t really talk when he does. He just watches. It hurts too much to talk. To think. He just savors the level of numbness that only painkillers and mindless silence can provide.
This is fine, though. Because Dick is fine. He’s okay. No, really. He’s okay.
“So you claim,” Alfred says, running the temporal thermometer across Dick’s forehead. “You’re vomiting five times a day instead of seven, so while I hesitate to say you’re okay, I would say you’re improving.”
Dick hadn’t realized he’d spoken at all.
“Occasionally, you have,” Alfred continues, proving that Dick’s perception is not to be trusted. “Though I admit, you’re far quieter than I’m used to. Not much to say?”
Dick gives a noncommittal hum. There are things to say. Dick just… he can’t bother to say them. He’s dying. What’s the point?
“You were dying,” Alfred corrects. “You have a long recovery ahead of you, but nothing I’m unprepared to help you through.”
“What-” Dick’s voice is raspy. “What happened?”
Alfred straps a blood pressure cuff to Dick’s arm, holds up one finger in the universal request for silence, and inflates the cuff. Dick watches Alfred’s expression, but the man is a brick wall when he wants to be.
The cuff deflates slowly and then all at once. Fshhhhhhh.
“You recklessly ignored my instructions to remain in the Cave,” Alfred explains, tugging the stethoscope from his ears. “And then you ignored all further attempts at communication. Four days later, someone from a relief center in Blüdhaven called Master Bruce from your phone. Apparently, you spiked a deadly fever and collapsed trying to bring supplies to the displaced.”
That sounds right, but that doesn’t mean it’s not embarrassing as hell.
“Alfie, I-”
“I don’t need your sorry excuses.” Alfred rips off the blood pressure cuff and wipes it down with Clorox. “You’ll punish yourself more than enough once you have your wits about you.”
“I had to help,” Dick argues.
“You and the rest of this god-forsaken family,” Alfred sighs, shaking his head. “I hope you know how beside themselves everyone has been with worry.”
“Shouldn't,” Dick mumbles. “Don't… deserve it.”
Alfred closes the drawer of the med cart with a bit too much force. He takes a heavy pause before glaring at Dick. “Continue speaking about yourself this way, and I’ll withhold pain medication for the remainder of your stay.”
“But I killed-”
“Blockbuster, yes. You’ve mentioned it many times. Truthfully, the notion is debatable at best.”
“... what?”
Alfred draws up medication into a syringe. “From the sounds of it, Miss Flores would have shot him, whether you tried to stop her or not.”
Dick shifts awkwardly. “Coulda jumped in front of the bullet.”
“Respectfully, sir? Even if she had shot you, she would have killed Mr. Desmond while you were bleeding out.”
“You just don't get it.”
“I’m not subscribing to your self-defeating narrative, you mean,” Alfred corrects. He wipes down the IV port in Dick’s arm and twists the syringe onto it, slowly pushing the medication into the IV. “You're a selfless man, Master Dick. The thought of wishing anyone dead disturbs you, but you had a moment of uncertainty when facing the man that was out to destroy your life. That's not evil or morally weak. That's being human.”
The air gets fuzzier, Cave gets warmer. Dick huddles under the blanket. “You're just saying that.”
Alfred removes the empty syringe and drops it in the trash. “You’ve known me for nearly two decades. When have I ever ‘just said’ things?”
He hasn't. He doesn't. “Yeah. I don'... believe you though.”
“I’m sure you don't,” Alfred replies, removing his gloves and patting Dick on the ankle. “But I have hope that you will, some day.”
“... that was a sedative… wasn’ it…?”
“How very astute, Master Dick,” Alfred hums pleasantly. “Rest, my boy. We’ll talk later.”
Dick is already a million miles away.
---
Things start to make more sense once the fever ticks its way below 103. Dick remembers where he is (the Cave), who he is (a murderer), and what’s going on (he was stupid and let a little radiation take him out).
Tim spends more time in the med bay, though he doesn’t say much. Dick vaguely recalls something about Tim… Bruce mentioned something about his dad? But he doesn’t know exactly what happened. All he knows is that Tim will play silent games of chess and double solitaire with him and is happy to simply keep Dick company, but he’s absolutely awful at conversation. (He’s always been a little awful at conversation, but never this severely.) Whatever happened with his dad… It can’t have been good. Dick doesn’t dare ask.
Bruce doesn’t visit. Not once. Sometimes, Dick thinks he might be sitting with him when he wakes up, but every time he opens his eyes, Bruce is nowhere to be seen.
Leslie, however, visits more and more frequently, almost like Dick is getting sicker rather than healthier. Which Dick is pretty certain isn’t the case. But she’s there despite this, talking a lot about self-worth and survivor’s guilt and PTSD. Dick suspects Alfred put her up to this.
“I’m fine,” Dick tells her every time.
“So you say,” she always replies.
One day, Dick wakes up, and he thinks Alfred is beside him. Then he realizes and nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Bruce?”
Bruce looks up from his book, throwing a marker on his page. “Dick.”
“Haven’t… uh… Haven’t seen you in a while,” Dick remarks, because he’s been doing more and more things outside of the med bay - walks and meals with Tim and whatever healing garbage he’s prescribed - and he hasn’t spotted Bruce once. Like he’s hiding from him.
Bruce shrugs. “It’s… been a busy month.”
“Yeah.” Dick looks away. The last time they talked, Bruce accused him of being suicidal. And… well, it bothered Dick a lot. Maybe because it was a little true. Maybe not. But the fact remains that they didn’t end their last conversation on a good note.
“Dick, I… I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. You talked in your sleep a lot after we found you at the relief center. It was…” Bruce folds his hands and gives Dick a cautious look. “You don’t have to talk about it. I just want to check in.”
“You want to check in? After ignoring me for a month?”
“I was… worried… you’d leave if you saw me. I know you’re angry, and I didn’t… I didn’t want you to leave again.” The words are hushed and barely-there, pulled from his teeth like those caramels that fuse to your molars and never come free.
Dick runs a finger over the burns on his arm, nearly all scars now. “I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“But you-!” Bruce is suddenly shouting, jumping to his feet and starting to do Batman Intimidation Tactic #47: Eclipse The Perp In Your Shadow. But then he reins himself in, taking a deep breath and slowly sitting down again. “I heard you, Dick. This is… bothering you. Deeply.”
Dick looks up, eyes suddenly watering like a leaky faucet holding back a flood. “I can’t talk about this with you, Bruce. I…” He tries to breathe and keep himself from saying something he’ll regret but ultimately fails. “I’m barely keeping it together. I can’t put this on you.”
“Dick.” Bruce pulls his chair closer and lays a hand on Dick’s arm. As a shock to both parties, Dick doesn’t pull away. “I know I’m harsh. I’m not always as supportive or understanding as I should be. And my delivery is horrible. But… I won’t judge you on this one. No matter what you say, I’ll be supportive. I need you to believe me.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t burden you like this. It’s… It’s not even a real problem.”
“It’s not? Is that why you can’t even look at me? Is that why you told Alfred you wish you’d died in the explosion?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Now, we both know that’s not true.”
Dick grips his sheets tightly, struggling to maintain any sort of eye contact. “Yeah, okay. It bothers me. But I’m just… overreacting.”
“Overreacting about what?”
“After… After Blockbuster, I had a panic attack. I couldn’t… I couldn’t breathe or move or-”
Bruce’s grip tightens around Dick’s wrist. “Easy. You’re not there. You’re here, in the Cave. With me.”
Using Bruce’s hold as an anchor, Dick takes a long, slow breath. Then he nods and stares at his feet. “And Cat… I don’t know. I don’t want to say she forced herself on me, but I don’t know how else to…”
“You don’t have to,” Bruce assures him. “I get what you’re saying.”
Dick shrugs awkwardly, rolls his neck, and looks off to the side, shame on his cheeks and guilt on his shoulders. “I… I felt so gross. I’d just killed someone, and a minute later, I’m with the woman who pulled the trigger. And I just wanted to be alone, and I didn’t want it, and I told her to stop, and she just… I don’t know what was wrong with me. I didn’t stop her.”
“You were having a panic attack,” Bruce reminds him. “You couldn’t stop her. What she did was wrong, and that’s on her. I know you blame yourself. I know you do. But these are her actions, not yours.”
The words are so sudden - something he’s been aching to hear without realizing it - that he doesn’t notice the tears streaming down his face. He doesn’t feel the pain of his burns when he nearly falls out of bed trying to bear-hug Bruce. He doesn’t even notice the fever anymore.
“I’m sorry, Bruce,” Dick sobs. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to- I didn’t want to-”
“It’s okay,” Bruce whispers in his hair. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
It doesn’t solve the problem, this conversation. It doesn’t stop the nightmares. It doesn’t make Dick forget that night or Blockbuster or the Chemo attack. He still wakes up in cold sweats. He still tenses every time he smells her perfume. (Lavender is a very popular scent, unfortunately.)
But telling Bruce tears down his walls. He feels like the language barrier between them has withered away. He’s more willing to talk to Bruce, and Bruce is more likely to listen.
Yes, he’s still hurting. No, things aren’t fixed. But he’s not beyond saving. And when he forgets, his family will be there to remind him.