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He thinks the hardest part of the new status quo might be that no one in his family — the tattered remnants that are left, anyway — smiles anymore.
Not that he does either. He used to be so good at it — more than once, he'd heard others refer to him as the heart of the Bats, the driving force that kept them together, kept them a family. When Gotham's darkness began to cling too heavily to them, he'd been there to light the shadows up with a smile.
But now... Well.
The mirror is foggy when he steps from the shower, the room steamed up. He'd turned the temperature as high up as it could go, as become's the usual. It'd scalded his skin, but the pain had almost been a relief, as if it could've burned away any poison in his veins. Bruce's paranoid, near-obsessive scans and tests have confirmed that none of the toxin is left anywhere in his body, but four months later, the shadow of it still lurks.
And as a bonus, it means he doesn't have to see his reflection when he's done. Doesn't have to look at the scars twisting his face into a horrible mockery.
He moves through the motions mechanically, combing and toweling his hair. He tries to keep his mind blank, focused on his routine, but he had known today was going to be a bad day the moment he woke up. Despite his best efforts, his thoughts keep drifting toward his three month rampage.
Bruce has tried to coerce him into seeing a therapist, but he can't make himself agree to go. He can't even think about it without also thinking about everything he'd done. Every action he'd taken, every death he’d caused, every life he'd destroyed.
He's the reason Gotham's crime rate is the lowest it's been in decades, but he's also the reason it's population is the lowest it's been in decades. He's the reason people are too afraid to even step out of their houses. He's the reason his family is dead.
He swallows hard and leans his weight on the counter, grief twisting inside him, jagged and raw. Even when he closes his eyes, he still sees their faces, the way they'd choked and laughed on their own blood. Helpless. At the mercy of a monster who had none.
Despite sheltering him for both his protection and Gotham's, Bruce won't look him in the eye anymore. Some days he can't even look at him at all. Stephanie hasn't said a word to him since Cass and Tim died. Harper flinches away at the sight of him, and he hasn't even seen Cullen in months.
He can't blame any of them. Not when he's afraid to even feel happy now. Not when even the thought of smiling sends him spiraling into a fear-induced panic attack.
(He'd smiled and laughed when he'd killed them, and perhaps what frightens him the most is that he'd meant it. The toxin had corrupted his mind, and while he recoils from the bloodstained memories now, back then? Every expression of joy had been completely genuine.)
Trapped in his own terrible memories, he doesn't notice that the steam has dissipated until he looks up and sees his perverted face staring back at him.
His breath freezes in his chest. His hands curl tight around the edge, pale even against white countertop. Dark hair with hints of green at the roots flop over his forehead, forever tainted with infection. But what he can't tear his eyes from are the red scars at his lips, carving that permanent grin.
A grin that will stay with him for the rest of his life, a constant reminder that even if he somehow manages to move on, the idea of happiness will forever be marred by the toxin.
What's the saying again? Laughter is the best medicine?
Once, he would've agreed wholeheartedly. Once, he would've done everything he could to prove it, with warm smiles and an easy charm. Now, Dick Grayson just sinks to his knees and thinks to himself, what bullshit.
Once, he would've embodied that phrase. But laughter is nothing but poison in his throat now, and no medicine can bring back the dead.