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Dick was used to the feeling of loneliness.
It had haunted him, even among company, since the deaths of his parents. It was always there, lingering just out of sight, waiting to consume him as soon as he stepped away from other people. And he was used to it, and to the grief that always came with it.
He considered it a talent that he could still find some joy in life despite them gnawing on his guts and trying to claw their way through his chest.
His time with the Titans was the least lonely he’d ever felt ― sitting by Raven’s side as the others got up to nonsense, gaming with BB, tinkering with Cy, and trying to teach Kori about Earth, and about humans… There was never a dull moment, and he felt more at home with the four of them than he’d ever felt with Bruce. More at home with the four of them than he felt afterwards for a long time.
After the Titans, after Jason’s adoption, the loneliness had festered. The grief that he thought he’d shaken years ago came back with a vengeance.
Seeing another wearing his family’s colors, being called by his name, made him miss his mother and father more than he had words to describe in any of the languages he knew.
It had abated again, a little, after he had to come and assist Tim in learning to be Robin.
A little, again, when he was with Damian.
… It crushed him when Damian died.
The loneliness felt like weights around his ankles, around his wrists, on his shoulders. The grief, so intense, threatened to shatter him to pieces. And it didn’t abate until after he’d come back from Spyral, until after he had Damian again, until after he and Damian became partners again even though Bruce didn’t want them to.
… But all he could feel, all he could think, most nights after they came home, most mornings when he woke up, was that Damian would not stay with him for long. He had the opportunity to be with his Father. One day he would realize he had liked it better in the Manor, or that he missed his Father, or that he missed antagonizing Tim and Steph on a daily basis. One day he would grow to resent Dick’s mother-henning, or decide as he had back at the beginning that Dick’s love and devotion were pointless and he didn’t need them.
And as much as being left alone again would hurt, especially when his relationship with Bruce was all but gone and his relationship with everyone else was doing about as well, it wasn’t as if he would blame Damian for leaving. He couldn’t offer what Bruce could offer. He wasn’t Batman, he wasn’t a steadfast and silent protector. He was loud and obnoxious and he offered unconditional, bone-deep love, and sometimes that… Wasn’t what Damian wanted.
And he understood.
Because he had a hard time accepting unconditional love, himself, after living so long knowing Bruce’s affection for him changed like the tides. Knowing that to get praise from Bruce, get love from Bruce, he had to do so much more than just going above and beyond. He had to surpass every possible expectation, even if he only managed to do so by a hair.
And the League had been worse, and he knew that, but the idea was that same ― Damian couldn’t accept just being given love for the longest time, and Dick wouldn’t be surprised if it was too difficult to keep trying after all they’d been through.
He would let him leave, if he wanted to leave.
It kept him up at night, though, to think about it. To think about losing Damian again, except this time by Damian’s own volition. To think about walking into the Penthouse, and seeing it empty of all of Damian’s possessions, except this time even his room would stand empty instead of containing all of the things Dick couldn’t bear to throw away. To think about calling out for Damian from the kitchen only to remember he wasn’t there.
And this time he wasn’t dead, but he still wouldn’t come if Dick called.
It tore him to pieces, and if he was honest? It terrified him.
And sometimes he thought that maybe it would be better if he didn’t love him so much… But Dick didn’t know how else to love someone. He couldn’t accept unconditional affection easily, couldn’t understand why anyone would love him with their whole heart, but he didn’t know any other way to love. He gave his all or he gave nothing.
He had always been an all-or-nothing kind of person.
All or nothing, ride or die.
And even if there were definitely people out there who loved him just as intensely as he loved them, he was always terrified of being left alone.
He knew that.
It burned him, but he knew it.
“Richard,” Damian said, and his nose was scrunched as if he smelled something unpleasant, “It has… Occurred to me… You know my favorite food. I do not know yours. This seems… Unbalanced.”
“I know a lot of your favorite things,” Dick chuckled, seeing the stiff and awkward phrasing for what it was instantly ― Damian was asking what his favorite food was. He just couldn’t let himself ask directly, so he had to point it out as if it was a problem that he didn’t know. “And you don’t know a whole lot of mine.”
“Precisely my point.” The boy sniffed, indignant, but it was all for show and Dick was pretty sure they both knew that. “Are you not the one who insists on balance and transparency?”
He chuckled again, to Damian’s clear annoyance, but decided he ought to answer before Damian got so annoyed he gave up on it. “I have a few favorite foods. I have a hard time picking just one that I love, you know?” At Damian’s unimpressed blink, he couldn’t help laughing once more. “But if I had to pick, probably my mom’s goulash and xaritsa. Or, well, her recipes for goulash and xaritsa.”
Damian blinked. “... I have heard of goulash. What is xaritsa?”
Dick blinked in return, for a moment unsure how exactly Damian didn’t know what xaritsa was given his otherwise extensive knowledge, only to recall there was a simpler name for it in English and that not everyone called it the same thing his parents had, because not everyone was half-Romani like he was.
It was funny ― he didn’t think about that very much.
“Fried cornbread,” He explained, once he’d come to that realization, “Just another name for… Fried cornbread.”
And sure, there was probably a difference between “fried cornbread” and “xaritsa”, but he guessed it probably didn’t matter as long as it got the point across to Damian.
And Damian hummed in response, and there was no further discussion on it for now.
Dick always had an awful time dealing with Crane’s fear toxins.
The worst part, he thought, was being self-aware of what was happening. Of knowing he had been dosed with fear toxin, of knowing nothing he was seeing or hearing or feeling was real, but not being able to stop himself from freaking out.
The blends that focused on memories more than fears were the worst.
Because in the past, he’d had to deal with reliving his parents’ deaths. Then he’d had to deal with imagining what Jason’s must have been like.
Now, he had to relive Damian’s.
And it was just a little bit wrong, just a little off from the true memory, but it wasn’t as if it mattered. It shook him to the core anyway. It tore his heart out anyway.
He struggled not to cry out, not to scream for Damian, because Damian was here with him. He knew he was. He was here and he was alive, and if all else had gone according to plan he was fine and breathing filtered air already. He forced himself to sit still, and it was about all he could manage.
And in went the sword. Down went Damian.
He felt tears in his eyes and he wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and run to Damian and help him but he couldn’t. It wasn’t real.
“Richard?” Damian’s voice, separate from the hacking coughs of the memory-Damian, unclear and warbly, “Richard, can you hear me?”
“Damian,” He whispered, unable to stop himself. His voice was unsteady, echoing out into a high pitched ringing in his ears.
And Damian cursed harshly.
Hands he hadn’t felt landing on his shoulders left, and he barely avoided begging Damian to come back. To not leave him alone.
“Oracle. We need someone for immediate pick up. Nightwing is down. He was hit with the toxin before he could reach his rebreather.”
He didn’t hear Barb’s response. All he heard were the memory-hallucination-Damian’s coughs and wheezes.
All at once Damian was on his feet again, no longer bleeding even though he was soaked in his own blood.
“His reactions thus far imply I must remain nearby him until he has recovered. Crane has already been neutralized.”
Again, he didn’t hear Barb’s response.
Damian was no longer on the floor. He was standing on―
On a tightrope.
Instinctively, Dick sucked in a breath and closed his eyes, flinching away from the sight. But of course that did nothing to stop it. No matter where he looked he saw it and he could barely hold back the way he wanted to burst into tears and beg for it to stop. He sucked in another ragged breath and was forced to watch his son die just like his parents had.
Somehow, it was worse than watching him bleed.
Maybe because it was two very raw wounds intersecting.
Maybe because seeing him bleed was something he was prepared for, but this was so far out of the range of possibility with Damian that he’d never thought to be ready for it to happen. Even in a hallucination.
He choked, and wondered when his face had gotten so wet.
“Richard,” Came Damian’s voice again, “... Hold on, will you? Todd will be here soon.”
It took everything he had, but he managed to nod stiffly. Managed to focus well enough past the vision before his eyes to say, “Okay.”
But the mention of Jason sparked something in his brain, in the toxin.
As much as he hated to admit it, it was a relief to relive what he thought Jason’s death was like instead of seeing Damian fall from the tightrope, from the trapeze. It was awful and Jason was younger, but Dick was prepared to see someone beaten almost to death before his eyes. It was when Damian was suddenly also there that he could no longer handle it.
And he felt awful.
Even if he knew the only reason Damian appearing was too much was because he could handle one person he loved dying in front of him, but not two. Not two.
His breath hitched.
There was a hand on his shoulder.
“Todd is here.” Damian’s voice uttered, “He is going to pick you up.”
He fought back the tears and the hitching breaths and forced himself to go as still and silent as he could. Like an off-switch. No more crying. No more. Not now.
An arm wound around his stomach, something firm pressed against his shoulder, and he had to fight to continue staying still and silent. So close to a hug. So close.
“Work with me here,” Grunted Jason after a brief moment of trying to lift him, “You’re heavy, dipshit.”
And, yeah, he figured he’d be harder to lift when he was stiff as a board.
He focused and got his feet under him the best he could, helping Jason lift him. And then he was tossed over the younger man’s shoulders like a sack of potatoes, so he knew at least part of that had been Jason making sure he was coherent. It was always easier to deal with somebody under the influence of toxins if they were coherent enough to respond.
Dick guessed he must have gotten a fairly low dose.
He’d loosened his grip on himself to stand, and it took effort to close himself back off. To not start sobbing right then and there.
It wasn’t that there was any shame in it ― in crying. It was just that he couldn’t bare to cry for Jason and Damian when they were both right here with him.
… Damian was still with him, right?
He couldn’t look, because all he could see was Jason shooting Damian. Damian stabbing Jason. The two of them fighting and it was a wonder the sounds of pain weren’t enough to completely drown out anything else. He found himself laying on something and the real Jason hissed at him to stay there, so he did.
Jason joined Damian on the tightrope.
Dick couldn’t handle that.
Wherever he was laying, he let himself curl in on himself. Shielded his head with his arms, his chest with his legs, and sobbed. It was the only thing that relieved even a little of the fear, the terror as he watched them, unable to look away. Unable to see anything else whether his eyes were open or closed. The only thing that relieved some of the pain of his heart twisting and trying to beat right out of his chest.
He heard Jason curse, “You good back there?”
Now.
He would normally restrain himself and try to say he was fine. Or even just kindly request to be taken back to the Cave. But he was at his limit and he wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to be able to avoid screaming at the fake Jason and Damian to please just get down, please God don’t fall.
“Just― Just get me back to the Cave.” He managed to grit out. Then, to try and soften it, “Please.”
And he guessed it must have had some kind of effect, because nothing else was said and he was left alone with his thoughts.
With his hallucinations.
And as much as he couldn’t let himself freak out too badly with Damian and Jason around, he couldn’t bear the thought that they weren’t there anymore, because he couldn’t hear them. Was he too harsh? Did they leave because he was too harsh? Did they leave him here? He wouldn’t blame them if they just left him here but he wanted them to come back.
Please don’t leave, please, please don’t make me stay here by myself please, please, please...
A hand on his shoulder.
“Richard?”
“I’m sorry,” He choked, instantly, “I’m sorry, please don’t leave. Please don’t leave me. Please, I’m sorry, just don’t leave me here alone please―”
“Jesus.” Uttered Jason, and Dick didn’t have the energy to decipher his tone. He just clung to the fact that they were here at all.
“We are not leaving you alone, Richard.” Damian assured him, “We are at the Cave. You just need to let Todd help you up to the infirmary so Pennyworth can see to the antidote.”
And that―
That he could handle, even if he could still only see Jason dying.
Or, well ― his vision wavered, a little, as he tried to uncurl. Jason wrapped an arm around him and he sort of saw him for half a second before all he saw was death.
“I’m sorry,” He said, again, quieter. Less frantic. He wasn’t sure yet what he was apologizing for.
“For what?”
And wasn’t that the million dollar question?
What was he sorry for? For being harsh? For freaking out? For being a terrible older brother when Jason had needed him? But, really, he knew the answer.
He watched a crowbar swing again and he knew, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I should have been there. I― I didn’t want anything to do with Bruce but I should have been there.”
Jason’s grip tightened, so he knew he understood what he’d meant.
If Jason responded, he didn’t hear it.
But he didn’t think he did.
… Respond, that was.
He was pretty sure Jason didn’t have anything to say to that. He was pretty sure Jason thought he was an idiot and a jerk.
It twinged, but it always did, and he had learned to live with it.
He found himself lying down again.
“Hold still.” Came Damian’s voice.
Which was easier said than done, of course, but he managed even as he felt the prick of a needle. Just a little longer now, then.
Just a few more times of having to watch his brothers die together or kill each other.
He choked his way through it. He knew when the antidote started kicking in because with each blink his vision wavered. Cleared a little more. A little more. Until there was Damian, sitting by his side still suited up but bereft of his domino. A ways away there was Jason, not looking their way at all, and it stung, but it always did, and he had learned to live with it.
Damian’s face brought an ache ― the look of deep set worry, of a fear he couldn’t say, didn’t dare put into words, and the hint of redness in his eyes that implied he’d been fighting tears for a while. Seeing him scared, worried, was awful. But that he was here, that he’d not only put up with that display but had steadfastly stayed at his side through it, did wonders for Dick’s poor, exhausted mind.
“Damian?” He tried, voice cracking a little, when his vision had been clear for a moment and neither of them had spoken.
“... I take it you are no longer hallucinating, Richard?”
“Not as far as I’m aware.” He paused to cough, “Sorry about that.”
The look of quiet incomprehension on Damian’s face was familiar enough he almost didn’t question it. But, then, he realized Damian had pulled that look in response to him apologizing for breaking down in front of him, and part of him thought, wait, hang on. That’s not how that works.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Damian finally said, “You cannot fully control how you behave when you are under the influence of those awful things.” He paused, and quieter he added, “And I could not ask you to. I do not know what you saw, but I know if you reacted so strongly it must have been serious.”
He stared at him a second before something like relief flooded his chest. And then the realization that Damian clearly cared, had clearly reached a point where he was comfortable showing it, slammed into him, and he could only crack a smile. Damian, after a second, returned it.
“Now.” Said Damian, after a moment, “I have something that I must go do. You will be alright alone, yes?”
“Yeah. Go for it, kiddo.”
He had to wonder what it was he needed to do, though.
When he was finally released into the Manor for the night, he headed almost straight to his old room and collapsed into the blankets. It had been a long night, even without the Crane-induced hallucination fest. He needed sleep. He would have to apologize to Damian in the morning for not coming to say goodnight to him personally…
But before he fell asleep, there was a soft knock on his door.
He lifted up, calling, “It’s unlocked.”
And in strode Damian, carefully balancing a couple of dishes on one of his arms as he nudged the door closed behind him. The smell was… Strong, but familiar. Comforting.
“Here,” Damian said, just a little bit stiffly, cheeks red and eyes strafing away, “I know it is not the same as what your mother would have made, but you… Seemed as if you needed it.”
He placed the dishes on the bedside table, and Dick’s heart squeezed at the realization Damian had cooked for him.
He’d remembered his favorite food.
He’d remembered, and he’d made it for him because he thought he needed it.
Like Dick always did for him when he’d had a particularly rough time.
He pulled Damian into the bed with him to hug him, and Damian allowed it, curling against his side.
“Thanks, baby bat.”
Damian’s face flushed further, but he said, “Of course.”
And, yeah. It wasn’t quite like his mom’s goulash and xaritsa… But the effort was there, and so was all the same amount of love. And he appreciated it. And by the time that he’d finished eating, Damian had fallen asleep against his side, and Dick couldn’t be bothered to wake him up to send him off to his own room. Instead, he sat the dishes aside back on the bedside table, knowing Alfred would likely come to grab them soon, and curled up with Damian’s head resting against his chest.
Dick was used to the feeling of loneliness.
But for once, it didn’t feel like it was haunting him quite so closely.