follow up to dick having his arm taken away, i used this resource down below for how his emotions would be since i dont have personal experience with having anything amputated and i didn't wanna make it purely depressing because losing a limb isn't the be all and end all - this'll be a series of oneshots across the books so this is sad rn but we'll have fun times dw

This is the website i used to make sure i was kinda accurate in the portrayl

https://www.physio-pedia.com/Emotional_and_Psychological_Reactions_to_Amputation 

Also I fucking adore Damian calling Dick Baba so I might be using that more 

When Dick lost his arm, he tried not to show that it was affecting him. He knew that with some new training with a new arm, he'd be able to go back to work and he'd be able to do everything he could before but it was still a part of himself that would be gone. He had no idea if he'd be able to be as good as he had been before, or what new problems it would give him, hell he didn't even know just how long it would be before he could actually get back out there. All from a fire. He knew he shouldn't downplay it like that but he couldn't help it. Out of all the villains he'd been up against and all the torture he'd been through, all it took was a simple fire. He was almost desperate for it to be something more. He'd lost his arm to something simple and avoidable from a fire which felt slightly anti-climatic and somehow so undeserving. Not that he'd had any plans to lose his arm before waking up with it gone but still. There was something uneasy about how such a routine job just took a part of him like that. 

Something that made it worse was the looks he got from his friends and family. He knew they cared deeply about him and if he told them to stop, they would but he couldn't help but hate the way they looked at him. He'd seen it before after particularly bad injuries or times when his mind wasn't completely there. They'd look at him with what he assumed to be their version of empathy but it always came across as pity. They'd stare at him like he was some broken thing that needed fixing. Yes he didn't have an arm but he could do things without it and he'd be able to work too. He'd adapt to it as he adapted to everything in his life that didn't go his way. It was just that when they looked at him like that, he'd question himself more. They'd make him wonder if he could handle this. If he could be Nightwing after losing his arm. If the constant shocks of pain would ever go away. It was why he sort of dreaded going home. 

At the hospital, the nurses wouldn't give him that look because he was lucky in their eyes. He should've died in that fire by their books. What they saw was a lucky guy who could've lost a lot more and they'd seen a lot worse too. He bet they had some real horror stories from working in Gotham. So he didn't dread seeing them. They allowed him to joke around without getting those pity looks on their faces because they understood that's just how some people coped with big changes. They didn't get guilty for not being able to save his arms or for not getting there faster because they recognised they did everything they could. They did what could be done. Maybe at the end of the day, they'd go home and think they could've done better but it wasn't shown on their faces. It could be that they didn't have to work on their own family members and they didn't know him but still, he appreciated their indifference. 

Home would be a different story. They'd help him change the bandages with that look on their face and they'd try not to look at the stump but everyone would catch their eyes on it and then give a silent apology for doing so. He got it. He had no fucking arm now. He didn't need their apologies for staring because even he caught himself just staring at where his arm used to be. That arm held memories for him, every scar on it telling a story and now he could forget those stories because the physical remnant of it wasn't there to remind him. He got why people stared and he got why people were sad but he didn't need to see it all the time. Of course, he didn't tell his family and friends that because he couldn't tell them to hide their own feelings. Everyone he knew already had issues with that so he should be thankful that he could so openly read their emotions in their expressions but he wasn't. He couldn't make himself see the bright side of it. 

For the most part, Dick held strong. He continued to joke with his family despite the flash of guilt that appeared on their faces and he purposefully only allowed Alfred to change bandages. Alfred was his saving grace since his years of patching them all up had left him like the nurses. He knew he should be recovering so he tried his best to stay out of the gym but he couldn't help but bend the rules if it meant he'd get back out on the field faster. He had to practice with one arm in case something ever happened with his new robotic one. Plus it kept his mind busy. He'd been getting phantom pains since he woke up without an arm, always feeling like his arm was burning despite it not being there. In the beginning, he feared the burning sensation was the onset of infection but he was healing nicely and the pain wasn't at the site of the amputation but somewhere beneath it. 

Being at home presented some new challenges other than looks from his family. His home had mirrors. It made sense they would have mirrors but he really wished they had fewer. His bedroom alone had one long mirror and a large mirror in the bathroom too. He'd moved the long mirror out of the room after the second day but he couldn't do anything about the one in the bathroom. He'd walk past it in the morning and catch himself in the reflection. For the most part, his burns had attacked his shoulder and torso but some of them had snaked their way up his neck and went just shy of his cheekbone. He'd been facing away from his burning arm so it saved most of his face. Still, seeing the angry marks staring back at him, paired with the network of them on his side and shoulder as well as not having an arm was just too much in the morning. He'd taketooo squeezing his eyes shut when he walked past and would face away from it when he brushed his teeth. If anyone noticed his aversion to his reflection then they didn't say anything about it.

Something that frustrated him was how slow things went. Everything was slow. The learning curve that he no longer had that arm was the slowest. He found himself reaching out for things with it only to be confused when he couldn't grasp something and then realise why. Typing one-handed had always been a skill he'd honed because his other hand was usually busy with a mug of coffee to keep him going but now that he had to do it one-handed, he noticed that he wasn't as fast as he thought he was. It didn't take a significant amount more time to type out sentences but he noticed that it did take longer. Something as little as not being able to turn off the tap whilst filling a glass would send him into a terrible mood for the rest of the day. 

On those days he'd keep to himself which wasn't all that hard considering both Tim and Bruce were obsessed with making his new arm and Damian had thrown himself into protecting Bludhaven whilst he was down for the count. Jason visited from time to time and it was nice to be around someone who didn't mince their words about the situation, he called other people to keep them updated and share gossip. He preferred not being face-to-face with people nowadays. He couldn't hear the pity in their voices quite as well and when he couldn't handle that, he'd settle for texting them on the various group chats that had been set up. Everyone was being so supportive that he almost felt guilty for getting hung up on how they watched him but then he reasoned that if Jason got to blow up at anyone after being reanimated for a few months, he could avoid a few people to make himself comfortable.

They were at dinner one night when Dick finally snapped in front of them. For the most part, he'd been eating food that didn't require cutting. He hadn't actually thought about the lack of cutting he'd had to do recently either. It was on this night that they were served steak and potatoes. Well, it was a cauliflower steak for Damian. None of it had been cut up and when Dick was presented with his uncut steak there was a small silence as they all stared at his plate. A strange anxiety built up in his chest as he stared down at his meal as though it was a bomb he'd have to defuse.

"It's fine, I got it," Dick stated on instinct. He could cut his own food. He was an adult who could cut his own food. Yet he got pitiful looks from everyone around him and it set in. He couldn't cut his own food. He stared down at his lap, remembering how that morning he'd struggled to get his sweatpants on. He'd previously picked out jeans but he couldn't button them or pull up his fly. Something as simple as brushing his teeth had been affected. Something just broke at that moment. "I can't do it," he muttered. "I can't cut it."

"I should've cut this in the kitchen, I'm sorry," Alfred apologised but taking away the plate didn't do anything to stop Dick from tearing up. It was so small but it hit him so hard. The arm they were working on was still in development and he knew that one day he'd be able to do it again but right now he couldn't. He couldn't do something he did every day with no issue. He couldn't do something his mum and dad taught him when he was a child. It wasn't fair. 

Suddenly, he was back in the building again.

A scream ripped out of him as he went tumbling through and landed on the ground below. He was sprawled out for just a moment but it was a moment long enough that more flooring from above could break off and slam down on his left arm, pinning it beneath the rubble. Another scream was torn out of him but he doubted anyone heard. He was the only one in the building. The rubble was boiling from the fire and he felt it burn his skin and suit into some sort of congealed mess due to it being pressed down with such pressure. Sobs of agony greeted him as he tried desperately to pull his arm away and somehow move it from under the debris. There was no use to it because whichever way he moved, it wouldn't move. He was trapped. His mind was swimming from the pain and heat, dots beginning to appear in his vision along with tears.

He could feel it all again. He could feel his skin begin to bubble from the heat. He could feel the way his arm was broken, numb in the worst type of way. Panic consumed him as he remembered how it felt to be stuck there at the mercy of the universe desperately hoping someone would come to save him. All he wanted to do was to help but now he was pinned under burning rubble. He couldn't breathe. The black smoke was invading his lungs and he couldn't breathe.

Something touches him. It's warm but not burning and there's some comfort in it as he wrapped it around his hand. Yet he's still seeing the fire. He was watching it take bites out of the structure and cause more rubble to fall down around him. Over the roar of the fire, he can hear a voice. It's soft and distant but definitely doesn't belong there. He tilted his head towards the noise to figure out where it was coming from but he couldn't see its owner through the flames. Was someone there to help him? Could someone else be trapped there?

"Just take a deep breath. You can do it."

He wanted to laugh at the voice because how the fuck can he breathe in when there was so much smoke and fire? The warmth that had curled around his hand now tugged on him and pressed his palm against something that moved up and down. He let out a whimper, scared of what exactly he was touching but he found some familiarity with it. Through the smoke and the smell of his burning flesh, he could recognise a cologne. He knew it. He could remember the bottle of it. He distantly remembered someone throwing it on his bed. His mind went back to where his hand was placed. It felt like a shirt. A t-shirt. So he must be feeling someone's chest. He found himself mirroring the way it expanded and fell.

"There you go, Goldie. You've got it." 

Goldie. Jason. Slowly his brother came into view surrounded by destruction but it didn't make sense. The lighting on his face didn't make sense. There was a flicker of something more. Of a table. People were getting up from chairs but now they were gone.

"Jason!"

"I'm here, I've got ya."

"What's happening?"

"You're having a flashback. You're just gonna close your eyes and you're gonna keep copying my breathing. You're not there anymore."

"O-okay." 

He did as he was told and screwed his eyes up so he didn't have to see the fire anymore. If Jason was telling him he had a flashback then he trusted him. He was going to be okay if he just kept copying the breathing. He could do that. 

When Dick opened his eyes again, there was no fire. It was just the dining room. He could see Jason now without the background of a blaze and he could also spot his siblings standing from their places at the table but not moving closer. They must've thought that it was better not to crowd him. He took another deep breath before taking his hand away from Jason's chest and tried not to think about how desperately he wanted to maintain the contact. It didn't matter how many times he got hurt, his siblings would never remember how much he valued contact and fuck did he need a hug more so now than ever before. He wondered if they were too scared to hug him. If they were dreading only feeling one arm tighten around them or being that close to the coarse scarred skin from the burns. 

"Back with us?" Jason asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm back," he replied. He'd had flashbacks before so he was, unfortunately, familiar with the cold wash of fear now running off but it still hit him hard no matter how many times he went through it. His brain was fuzzy from his odd breathing and he knew if he attempted to stand without support, his legs would turn to jelly and he'd collapse. "Sorry." Dick wasn't sure why he said sorry. Everyone had flashbacks, it was part of the job and it wasn't unexpected for something as big as losing an arm to bring them on but still, he felt ashamed. He was their big brother, the one who held it all together, the one who made jokes through his recovery. It didn't feel right for him to be knocked off his feet like that by something so little. 

"Don't say sorry," Bruce told him. "Let's get you somewhere more comfortable. You look about ready to pass out."

"I'm mostly all right now. Get it? Mostly? Because no left arm?"

"Grayson," Damian pressed with an unamused expression.

"I have no left arm," Dick stated suddenly following it up with a slightly hysterical laugh. He didn't know why but he felt like he just had to say it out in the open. "Fuck, I have no left arm Dami. It's gone." The younger sighed softly and rounded the table before giving the first hug Dick had in months. It just made him sob as hard as he could into Damian's shoulder even if that's the last thing he wanted to do. 

"It's okay Baba."

"Are you trying to make me cry harder?" he muttered. 

"No that would be counterproductive to the comforting I'm attempting to give you." It happened slowly but the others began walking over to him and wrapping their arms around him too and the only thing he could do was cry. He hadn't realised just how much he needed to cry.

Eventually, he cried himself out until his eyes were red and puffy and his throat was sore. They stepped away, Alfred fetching a damp washcloth and gently wiping his cheeks with it. It reminded both of them of when Dick was just a boy and first came to the manor. He was rightfully weepy but cleaning his face always brought him some comfort and made him feel better. 

"Thanks, Alfie," he croaked, sniffling a little. 

"No need sir." There was a moment of quiet and he got the awful feeling he was going to have to reckon with the consequences of crying like that.

"All that over a bit of steak," he commented. Maybe he could play it off as just that.

"It wasn't just about the steak though, was it?" Jason asked. "You had a flashback and then cried for like forty minutes."

"Forty-five. Twenty of which we spent hugging," Tim answered. "But he does have a point."

"I know we haven't been the most open to talk to but if you need something then you need to tell us, chum," Bruce added. "We're not as good...at this...as you." Now how could he turn down an offer like that when his father was admitting he wasn't good at something?

"Okay fine I'll- yeah this is just fine I mean I have no fucking arm this can't be any worse. It's just I have been feeling that you- oh my God why is this suddenly hard when I'm the most emotionally communicative of the group? What does that say about us?" 

"Not great things," Steph admitted. "Look, we don't have to start right now. I don't think your voice can handle it." Yeah, she had a point. "Why don't we go watch a movie? Order something round and precut?"

"You just want to order pizza," Cass deadpanned. 

"I remember the groupchat reaction being very positive to the idea."

"Until you had to figure out who'd ask Alfred," Tim reminded her.