Calling the family and telling them what had happened was one of the hardest things Dick had ever had to do.

Surprisingly, the hardest one wasn't Damian, it was Tim. 

"It's okay, it's okay, I don't blame you," he had kept saying, when Dick tried to apologize. "I understand, I get it."

Dick's breath had caught at the way Tim emphasized the words — surely Tim hadn't...had he? Had Dick not noticed?

"I've been there too," Tim admitted, confirming Dick's fears. "After all the stuff with my parents dying, and Bruce dying, and losing Robin, and then nobody believing me that Bruce was alive, and then all of my friends dying…I almost tried too. I get it, I don't blame you." He had taken a deep breath. "I know it fucking sucks, but I'm really glad you're alive, Dick. I know that doesn't make you feel better, but I am."

Dick had started crying again. "Thanks, Tim," he'd said, wiping fruitlessly at his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you've been here too and I didn't see it."

"I think we're even now," Tim said wryly. "Let's keep it that way, okay?"

The rest of the calls had by no means been easy, but they went more smoothly and with fewer tears from Dick after that. 

He had been bracing himself for anger from at least some of them, but there was none — they were all upset, to be sure, but not at him.

He was also thankful that none of them had pushed for more information than he gave. Dick wasn't really ready to talk about it more than just the very, very basics, and he was sure they were all concerned and curious, but he appreciated their restraint in not asking any questions.

Really, they had all been incredibly understanding about the whole situation, and he was so grateful for that.

After he'd hung up from the last call, though, he was left alone in the very, very boring hospital since it was now after visiting hours.

The very boring and yet very overbearing hospital, he thought, his eyes wandering again to the figure perched in the chair near the door.

Dick had to try very hard not to glare at the nurse assigned to him every time he looked in that direction. Really, the nurse had been nothing but nice, and had mostly been quiet and unobtrusive, but it was annoying not to have any privacy.

Once the staff had discovered he was awake, and done a small assessment, he had been informed that he would have to be on 'one-on-one', which apparently meant there must be a nurse watching him at all times because he was ‘high risk'.

Dick took that to mean that was their nice way of saying ‘you tried to kill yourself, so now you get no privacy so you can’t try again’. Seriously, he wasn’t even allowed to close the door all the way when he went to the bathroom. 

The bathroom was a whole process anyway, because he had to get the go-ahead to take off the blood oxygen monitor, and unplug the IVs from the wall. Luckily the heart monitor transmitted remotely, but it still had a heavy battery pack that usually sat in his lap, which he had to hold, otherwise the weight of it would pull the wires off of his chest.

And then maneuvering the IV stands over the high threshold into the bathroom (really, who had thought that design up?) was a whole other process. And only then could he go about figuring out how to arrange everything in the cramped room so he could actually do his business, while also trying to arrange himself so he could get a bit of privacy from the nurse. Not that the nurse actively looked, but it was still uncomfortable and vulnerable.

Oh yes, and after two minutes unplugged from the wall, the IV pumps started to beep loudly and shrilly pretty much right in his ear. Usually while he was attempting to wash his hands without both hurting himself further, and fucking up the tape. Unfortunately, one of the IVs on each arm was right in the side of his wrist, so pretty much any time he moved his hands at all, they started bleeding again, and the tape was far from waterproof so it was constantly coming off. 

The other IVs were right in the bends of his elbows, so he tried to keep his arms extended as much as possible so they didn't stab him, but that was difficult when he usually ended up having to make a quick grab for the heart monitor battery pack when it slipped off of the sloped edge of the sink where he had to set it to wash his hands. At least he didn't have to worry about the tape coming off as much with those ones, though.

So yeah, Dick tried to avoid the bathroom as much as possible.

Speaking of hospital annoyances, he wasn’t allowed to take a shower either, because they didn’t want to take the IVs or heart monitor off. Although that one he probably would skip out on anyway, if they didn't allow him to close the door. He really couldn't deal with a stranger potentially seeing him naked, even if they were a nurse and not really looking. He did his best not to think about how he got cleaned up and put into a hospital gown in the first place, because every time he thought about a nurse undressing his unconscious body he started to hyperventilate.

He did really want a shower, though. It had been a few days now, and his attempts at washing up in the sink were not quite the same. What he wanted the most, though, was freedom from literally being tethered to all of these things. He wanted out with the uncomfortable IVs; he wanted gone with the heart monitor, which itched around the stickers and was generally an unwieldy nuisance; and he wanted off with the awkward bandages, which they insisted on keeping over his forearms until the cuts fully healed so he couldn't pick at them. Oh, and privacy. He also really wanted some fucking privacy.

Unfortunately, though, for the near future that was looking to be an impossibility.

◇◇◇

It took eleven days — eleven days full of constant blood draws and horribly unwieldy bathroom breaks and mind-numbing boredom, and Jason and Bruce taking turns keeping him company with awkward conversation — until Dick's blood was finally pronounced clean enough of toxins that he could be transferred to a mental facility.

Bruce had arranged for him to go to a discreet hospital in Connecticut that apparently dealt with a lot of famous people. Thankfully, it also brought him a lot closer to home.

He supposed it was nice enough there so far, or as nice as a mental hospital could be, but it certainly had its drawbacks.

If Dick had thought the one-on-one watch at the first hospital was stifling, that was nothing compared to Silver Hill. Here it was called being 'on status', but it was the same idea.

He desperately wanted to take a shower now that all the needles and wires were off of him, but he was going to have to be on status for the first two days here at least, and there was no way in hell he was going to shower with somebody watching him through the open door and the clear shower curtain. Absolutely none. 

One of the nurses went around every fifteen minutes to check and make sure everyone was present, accounted for, and not trying to harm themselves with what little there was to even attempt to do so with, and whatever nurse was doing rounds could potentially catch him in the shower, but he thought maybe he could deal with someone just glancing in like that, as long as they weren't sticking around and watching. Logically, he knew even the nurse watching him on status probably wouldn't be looking directly at him, but he still just didn't think he could handle it.

The intake had been bad enough when they'd had to do a body check to take note of any injuries, scars, or tattoos, and he'd had to let a nurse see him in just his underwear. The nurse had said he'd just needed a quick glance, but then he'd had to apologize and ask to see again because Dick had so many scars. It was possible Dick had momentarily lost control and started crying, and the nurse had just asked him to tell him where the rest of the scars were.

Another change from the last hospital was that he wasn't allowed to have utensils to eat here. He'd been allowed them at the other hospital, but here, since he was on status, all he got was this weird foldable cardboard spoon thing which was more hassle than it was worth. He just ate with his hands.

The one thing he was thankful for was that being on status meant he got to sit at one of the tables in the hallway and wait for one of the nurses to bring a food tray out to him, instead of having to go into the crush of the tiny cafeteria and wait in line. It wasn't really worth the lack of privacy, though.

Thankfully, he had one of the few single rooms, so he didn't have to deal with a roommate, but since he was on status, he wasn't allowed to shut his door, which sucked because it could get pretty damn loud and overwhelming sometimes. He also wasn't allowed to shut the bathroom door (which already had a significant gap between the top of the doorframe and the top of the door so it could be easily looked over). Usually the nurse watching him sat in a chair in his doorway, but when he went to the bathroom, they came into the room and stood outside the bathroom door with a hand between the door and the doorframe. It fucking sucked.

The other patients seemed alright, but nobody had really interacted with him so far, so it was hard to really tell. All in all, he didn't mind the other patients ignoring him — it would be nice to just fly under the radar for once, and he honestly didn't really want to complicate his life by making friends in here. He had his family and Jason, and hopefully some of them would be visiting later. 

He'd gotten to the hospital the evening before, after visiting hours, and he'd been especially bored without even his phone to entertain him when nobody was around anymore, since it had been confiscated upon check-in.

He'd also had his first therapy session that morning. There had not only been the doctor he was assigned to in the room with him, but also his social worker and two med students, all of whom he had been informed would be in attendance every time.

The session had gone… Well, it had gone, in any case. Dick was afraid that maybe he had been too brutally honest, but how was he meant to get help if he didn't tell the truth?

"If you want me to really be honest," he had told the doctor, "I'm still upset it didn't work. I'm pissed and bitter that I'm still alive, and I feel stupid for not even being able to kill myself right. I should've just gotten a gun; that would've been much more effective. But I didn't want to do that to Bruce — my dad. I know how he feels about guns, after his parents...they were fatally shot in front of him, and I didn't want him to have to know a gun took another person away from him. And the easiest place to get a gun would be to take one of Jay's — my partner's — and I didn't want to do that to him either. To have to know that I killed myself with his own weapon. I know he'd feel responsible. Plus, he would've noticed it was missing and gone after me, and I didn't want him to be able to stop me."

"It sounds like you've thought about this in a lot of detail," Dr. Reed had calmly observed.

"Obviously. Killing yourself isn't really a spur-of-the-moment type thing — not if you want to make sure it works."

"You don't feel any sort of relief somewhere in there that it didn't work?"

Dick had scoffed. "No. The only relief I feel is that at least everybody didn't have to deal with my death, but on a personal level, thinking selfishly, no. I'm not happy at all that it didn't work. And I would do it again if I thought I could get away with it." His voice had turned bitter. "But I fucking can't. Because I'm in here. And even if I wasn't, everybody would be fucking watching me to make sure I couldn't."

"Doesn't any part of you want to stick around for the future? Just to see if it gets better? To spend more time with your loved ones?"

"I want to be selfish." Dick had said flatly. "I just want to be selfish for once in my fucking life. I love them all so much, I do, and I don't want them to suffer — I know how awful it is to lose loved ones — but god I don't want to fucking be here. I don't want to be in my head. Sometimes I don't know if I can even take another second." He'd put his face in his hands. "Everything is just so fucking awful all the time. And even the 'positives', my family and Jay, they're negatives as well because I can't stop hurting them and pushing them away, and that makes me feel even shittier. Everything is awful, and everything hurts all the fucking time, and my life is falling — has fallen — apart. 

"At least if I was dead, they would be able to deal with the hurt all at once. Like this, they have to deal with me hurting them more every day and pushing them away. And I know they can see how dead inside I am, and I know that hurts them too. I just want it to be over. It would hurt them, but they would get through it, they have each other to lean on. And Jay, I know it would be harder for him and he wouldn't want to lean on any of them, but he has Roy. That was what decided it for me."

"Who is Roy?" Dr. Reed had asked.

"An old friend and an ex of mine, and probably Jay's best friend."

"Alright, and how did he decide things for you?"

Dick had chewed on his thumbnail. "Jay invited him over to our place, and I just...saw how well they're able to support each other and I just knew that if I left they would be okay because they would have each other to help them get through it. And...if it happened to turn into something more, then at least I wouldn't have to worry about Jay being lonely."

"You wanted to set them up together?"

Dick had shrugged, his voice dropping to an almost-whisper. "Yeah. If I can't be there… I just want him to be as happy as he can be. And I think he genuinely could be happy after a bit, once I was just a memory. Maybe even happier than he is now, without me constantly dragging him down and pushing him away."

Dr. Reed had made a small mark on his clipboard. "I see."

And that had been the end of the session. Dick still didn't know just what to make of it and what the doctor thought of him.

"Richard, you have some visitors." A nurse stopped in his doorway to tell him and the nurse currently watching him.

Dick looked up from the (honestly pretty dry) book that Bruce had brought him at the last hospital, and got up quickly. Yes. People, finally.

Dick left his room, with the nurse assigned to him getting up from her chair and following after, and he was surprised to see, not Bruce and Jason as he had expected, but Alfred, Tim, and Harper Row waiting at the end of the hall near the ward door.

"Wow, hi Harper," he waved at her as he approached. "You didn't have to come visit me in here."

He tentatively hugged her, and she held on tightly.

"Hey Dick; I wanted to. I didn't know about everything that happened — I've been so busy with the shop and I haven't really been online, but when Steph told me she was coming to visit you and caught me up on everything, I wanted to come check in on you too."

"Oh, well thank you," he said, pulling back and trying not to cringe at the fact that now she knew his shame too. She was family though, once a bat always a bat, so it only made sense that she would find out sooner or later. "Stephanie's here?"

"Yeah, she and the others are downstairs. Only three visitors per person are allowed up at once," Tim spoke up, holding his arms out for a hug of his own. His eyes flicked briefly down to the new scars on Dick's arms and Dick pretended not to notice.

"The others?" Dick asked, embracing him.

"Yeah, everybody wanted to see you. Well everyone except Dami — he wanted to, but you have to be eighteen or older to visit on the ward and he's pissed about not being allowed up."

"Wow," Dick repeated. He hadn't really expected all of them to come visit him. "Is Jay around?"

Tim shook his head. "I think he said he was gonna come this evening once we were all gone."

Dick nodded. "That sounds about right. Hey Alfred," he said, turning toward him and pulling him into a hug too.

Alfred moved the container he was holding out to the side so Dick wouldn't crush it, patting Dick's back with the other hand.

"Did you bring me cookies?" he asked hopefully, looking at the container.

"Oatmeal chocolate chip," Alfred confirmed, and Dick's grin widened. Of course Alfred had brought his favorite.

"You're the best."

The three of them talked to Dick for about half an hour before leaving to let some of the others come up.

"Sorry, Steph is blowing up my phone," Tim said. "They're getting impatient."

"It's alright," Dick laughed, "I'll talk to you guys later."

Stephanie, Cass, and Duke came up next, and then Bruce, Selina, and Kate, and by the time they were all gone, Dick was feeling all peopled out. It was nice to see them all and to have people to talk to, but so many at once was a little overwhelming.

He was curled up in one of the armchairs in the day room eating his afternoon snack by himself (well, technically with the nurse shadowing him, but he was ignoring him) and looking vaguely in the direction of the TV, which was turned to some random wedding show, when one of the other patients hesitantly approached him.

"Uh, there's a call for you on the phone next to the lunch room," they said, not looking at him, and then quickly scampered away.

Huh. That was kind of weird, but Dick guessed they must be shy.

He made his way to the phone — his nurse dutifully following behind — and sat down in the hard plastic chair in front of it, before picking up the receiver, which was hanging by the cord.

"Hello?"

"Hey sunshine, just wanted to call before I visited. I know the whole family was there today and I just wanted to check in and see if you still want me to come or if you're feeling kind of done for the day."

That was thoughtful of him. Dick was struck once again by how lucky he was to have Jason in his life. Even if he insisted on calling him increasingly ridiculous pet names. 

Sunshine was actually kind of cute, though — not that Dick would ever admit that.

"Thanks, Jay. I don't know that I'm up for any more conversation, but I enjoy your company. Maybe we could just sit on the couch and read? Also...is there any chance you could bring some of my clothes for me? And maybe something science fiction from our bookshelf? Bruce's books kind of suck."

Jason snorted. "Sure thing, honeypie."

"Jay," he whined.

"What, you don't like honeypie?"

"No."

"What's wrong with honeypie?" Jason muttered to himself. "Princess?"

"I'm a twenty eight year old man, Jay. No."

"Hey, anybody can be a princess," Jason defended.

Dick shook his head, trying to suppress a smile. "Never in a million years."

"Well somebody's just not in a very receptive mood today."

Dick huffed out a small laugh. "You're lucky I let sunshine slide. Oh, and please make sure nothing has any drawstrings or laces or anything on it, or they won't let me have it."

"Okay. I'll be there around dinner time...snuggle muffin?"

Dick laughed again. Oh that was truly heinous — surely even Jason couldn't be serious about that.

"Never again. See you then."

Jason's voice turned serious. "I love you, Dickiebird."

"Love you too, Little Wing," he said softly.

Dick was relieved to get out of the hospital scrubs they'd given him upon check-in when Jason arrived with several changes of clothes, and he settled onto the couch with Jason, already a hundred times more comfortable in his own clothes. 

Hopefully he'd be off status tomorrow and finally able to take a shower.

◇◇◇

Thankfully he did get his long-awaited shower the next day. After talking to his doctor, he was finally released from being on status, and the first thing he did was go to his room and close the door. The immediate relief from just being able to do that one little thing was intense.

The shower turned out to be as much of a let-down as it was a relief. It was motion sensor activated like the sink, and it shut off every thirty seconds seemingly no matter what Dick did. Apparently they were very invested in making sure drowning was an impossibility.

All the same, he was glad to finally be actually clean after it for the first time in two fucking weeks. 

There was a knock on the door just as he finished getting dressed and started towelling off his hair, and he opened it to see another patient.

Her eyes widened when she saw him, and Dick wondered to himself exactly what she had been expecting when she'd knocked on the door, if not for him to appear. Okay, that was kind of mean — they were in a mental hospital, she probably had anxiety issues.

She quickly redirected her eyes to the floor. "Th— er. Phone. End of the hall. For you." She pointed toward the phone near the nurse's station.

"Thanks." 

She ran off toward the day room, and Dick tossed his towel onto his desk and headed to the phone.

It turned out to be the first of several calls from various friends and fellow vigilantes, including one from Garth, who had apparently, like Harper, just heard about everything that happened, since he had been in Atlantis.

Most of Dick's day ended up being spent on the phone with various people, until Jason visited around dinner time again.

◇◇◇

Dick was in the day room, curled in one of the actually nice cushy chairs, absentmindedly running his fingers over the ladder of scars on his forearm and waiting for the afternoon group to start. 

He'd found himself touching the scars a lot since they'd finally taken the bandages off at the first hospital. They were raised and pale, standing out starkly against his skin, and he had been told that they were too deep for scar cream to have any hope of fading them much. Dick couldn't really find it in himself to care, though. There was something soothing about stroking over the long series of smooth bumps, even if they were a permanent reminder of his failure, and even if he would surely now have a lifetime of questions about them once he got back into the outside world. For now, though, he didn't need to worry about that — he could just sit and run his fingers over them and feel grounded in the moment.

"Hey," the young woman who had just sat in the chair next to him said.

"Hey," he said, not looking up from where he was staring at a tile on the floor a few feet away. He was pretty sure she was the first patient to talk to him other than people telling him he had a phone call, but he didn't really have the energy for small talk with a stranger right now.

"You looked like you could use some company. Noticed you haven't really been interacting with anybody since you got here."

Dick shrugged.

"I mean, you seem nice, I think people want to be friends with you. You're just a little bit intimidating is all and nobody really knows how to approach you."

That got his attention and he looked over at her. "Intimidating? How am I intimidating?" Usually he was known for being friendly, maybe even overly so. He knew he hadn't really been trying here, but still, he didn't think he qualified as intimidating. Then again, all the people telling him he had a phone call had been pretty skittish.

Her face slowly flushed when he met her eyes, and she looked away, down at the arm of her chair. "You're just, uh, like. Really pretty. Like supermodel gorgeous. And it, uh, feels like you're out of everybody's league, like, uh, even just to talk to."

Her voice wasn't even the slightest bit similar, but her words still snagged at his memory.

So pretty for me, baby. Gorgeous...

He could hear it clear as day, Jason — not Jason — murmuring the words to him.

And then all at once like a slap in the face, he wasn't just hearing it, he could taste the warm, Blüdhaven night air and the panic crawling its way up his throat; could smell the wrong, wrong tang of sweat and unfamiliar, cloying aftershave; could feel the adrenalin coursing through his veins, and the horrid hands, on his body, on his face. 

Dick felt a tear slip down his cheek, quickly followed by two more. He tried to force himself to say thank you — it was a compliment after all — but the words wouldn't come out through the panic building in him.

It was disorienting the way he felt simultaneously overwhelmed with how intensely he felt just as if he was back there when it was happening, but how he could also tell he was in the hospital, could see and feel it, and that he was supposed to be talking to someone, supposed to be thanking them for calling him pretty.

"Hey are you okay?"

He barely heard her through all the sensory input in his head.

Perfect. Stunning...

The tears started coming faster. 

"I'm sorry," he finally managed to choke out as the tears started really pouring. "I gotta go."

He practically fled the day room, his socks sliding against the floor even with the grips on the bottoms of them.

I want you...

He shut himself in his room with the lights off and curled up on his bed, arms wrapped securely around himself, thumb running over and over and over the scars on the inside of his wrist.

You're so gorgeous, look at you babydoll…

The door opened, letting the bright lights and noise from the corridor in.

"Richard? Are you okay? Sabrina said you didn't look like you were doing too well."

All Dick could get out was a choked sob.

"Dr. Reed wants to see you now, do you think you can talk to him?"

Dick just wanted to be left alone, but he knew it wasn't really a choice. If he wanted to get out of this place anytime soon, he had to cooperate and go where he was expected.

He got to his feet, swiping ineffectively at his face, unable to stop the flood of silent tears, and grabbed his heaviest jacket, wrapping it around himself. There couldn't be hands on him if the jacket was in the way — it didn't matter what it felt like, there were no hands.

Dick followed along behind the nurse to Dr. Reed's office and managed to sit himself down on the couch, though he could hardly see through his tears. He immediately brought his knees up to his chest and hugged his legs tightly.

The social worker reached over and closed the door.

"Would you like to talk about why you're crying, Richard?" Dr. Reed finally asked, after maybe five minutes of silence.

Dick wiped at his face again and attempted to take a deep breath. "I— I'm. I'm so tired of being pretty," he finally got out. "It hurts. It just makes people forget that I'm human. Makes them think they can do whatever they want just because they like the way I look." 

He took another deep, shuddering breath, trying to ignore the scribbling of the two med students in the corner on their clipboards.

"And I just don't want people to look at me anymore, I don't want them to have thoughts about me, I don't want to exist in their minds. None of it. And I'm sick of having to pretend it's a compliment when it's really just an excuse to use me. I don't want to have a face or a body or anything, I don't want to exist to other people. I don't want to exist at all."

"And what do you think has brought these thoughts about?" Dr. Reed asked.

"Everything. Everything. My entire fucking life I have had to deal with eyes on me. At the circus that's how it was supposed to be; I'm a fucking performer, I never saw an issue with it. But then Bruce took me in and I had to learn that it doesn't fucking matter if I'm in the ring or just going about my life, there are going to be eyes and they are always going to be watching, admiring, fantasizing," he spit the word. "And I don't get any say in it."

He ran an agitated hand through his hair, not realizing that in his anger he had stopped crying. "Do you know how many times I had to hear rumors that Bruce was fucking me? When I was eight?! Or worse, the ones saying that they couldn't blame him because I was so pretty. Or the ones wondering if he would share, like just because I was a child meant I couldn't hear what they were fucking saying!"

He gave a bitter laugh. "And it's not like they waited very long to start touching me too! I don't even know how many fucking times I've been groped anymore." He unconsciously slid his hands up the opposite sleeves of his jacket, and began to scratch at the backs of his forearms as he talked, staring distantly at the wall beside the doctor's head, his voice lowering. "So many hands, so many fucking hands have been on me. And that's not even counting the— the—" He swallowed hard, giving up on trying to say the word. "I'm never gonna be clean. I can't be anymore, not when I'm so used."

"Fuck," he whispered, half to himself, digging his nails in deeper against his arms, "how am I still such a stupid fucking slut? God, maybe once, but who lets that happen four fucking times and doesn't fucking learn? How am I still such a goddamn idiot?"

He clenched his eyes shut tightly, hissing in a deep breath and tilting his head back so his face was turned to the ceiling, his nails raking over his arms harshly before returning to his earlier train of thought.

"Sometimes I don't even think god — if there even is one — could count how many people have touched me. It's always happening. Always. And the more people do it, the more people think it's okay. They take the lead from the last person and go on ahead, because it's not as if it matters how I fucking feel about it." His voice was bitingly bitter at the end.

"I still remember my first week at school in Gotham, I was having lunch with some new friends, and when I got up from the table, one of them slapped my fucking ass! And do you know what he said? 'Sorry, I couldn't help it'. Sorry I couldn't help it! We were eight! Where did he fucking learn that?!" Dick's voice had risen in volume again, and it was full of righteous fury. "And it only fucking got worse the older I got! Not only my peers, but adults! The older I got, the less subtle they got, and by the time I was sixteen, they didn't bother to even act ashamed! For not even just groping me, but straight up kissing me on the mouth! I'm sick of it! I'm sick of it! I don't want to be fucking percieved anymore!"

"I'm sorry to hear that, that all sounds very difficult," Dr. Reed said.

"Difficult is a fucking understatement. It's exhausting and impossible and violating, and it never gets better no matter what I do, it only gets worse. Always worse. It doesn't matter what I wear or how I act; worse, worse, worse. And if I get upset about it, then I look like an asshole because 'it's a compliment' and I 'shouldn't be surprised anymore'. Well fuck that, I have the right to expect that I should be able to go about my daily fucking life without getting harrassed or assaulted! Why am I not allowed to go anywhere or do anything without getting hit on or leered at or worse?"

Dick's shoulders slumped. "I don't— fuck, I don't even know who I'm angry at. Sometimes it's all of them for doing it, but then I know it's also my fault for being such a fucking whore and letting it happen. I just don't wanna be pretty anymore; I don't know how else to make it stop."

His voice lowered further still, his anger completely abandoning him and the tears starting to prick at his eyes again. "You know that's what he said, too, when he was doing it. The— the most recent one. He just kept telling me how fucking pretty I was. Made me look at him so he could see my eyes. And he just kept saying it, telling me how perfect I was." His voice sounded weak and pathetic even to his own ears, and he dropped his face into his hands. "I'm just so done, I'm so done with it all. I don't wanna be perceived."

"That's understandable," Dr. Reed said. "You've clearly been through quite a bit."

"I don't even feel human anymore. How can I be?" he mumbled. "Nobody sees me as human, nobody treats me as human. I'm just a fucking toy." His tears started in earnest again. "And I don't wanna be," he sobbed out. "I don't wanna be. I don't wanna exist."

"You don't think your family sees you as human? Or your partner? Or your friends?"

"No," he said vehemently through his tears, looking up. "They see me as a ticking time bomb that the slightest move could set off. I don't know why they still bother with me — they all clearly don't know how to act around me."

"Well they must bother for a reason. You don't think they love you?"

"I know they love me," Dick said, wrapping his arms back around his legs and squeezing his knees to his chest. "It's just that I think they let that blind them to the fact that I'm just dragging them all down. And I never know when they're gonna finally realize that and quit fucking trying."

"Do you want them to quit trying?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I don't want them dragged down by me, and I also hate feeling like one day they'll wake up and realize, so I just want the waiting to be over already. But I don't really want them to. I love them, and I need them, but that's such a selfish reason to keep them stuck with my dead weight."

"I see. You don't think there's any chance they don't see you as dead weight? That maybe they want to help you?"

Dick scoffed. "They're all too damn smart not to eventually see the reality of the situation."

"Hm," Dr. Reed hummed, noncommittally. "Well I believe that's all our time for the day."

Dick noticed that in the coming days, none of the other patients tried to approach him again.

◇◇◇

Jason wouldn't admit it, but when he needed cheering up, he liked to watch Batwatcher best clips compilation videos. And he sure as hell needed cheering up lately. 

Right now what he needed distraction from was The Man's trial, which had been yesterday. 

There was, of course, an article in the Gotham Gazette about the trial and sentencing. Thankfully, the video was not mentioned, and the article managed to not sound like it was on The Man's side like the article on the video had.

The Man had, of course, been convicted — just as Jason knew Bruce would make sure of — and he had been sentenced to fifteen years: unfortunately the maximum sentence for the situation. Jason didn't think that was nearly long enough, but Jason had connections in the prisons and he could definitely get him quietly...dealt with by another prisoner just before he was up for parole. Best to let him suffer through the imprisonment as long as possible before ending his sorry life. He'd have to make sure he was very careful and cleaned up after himself, though, because Bruce would surely investigate, but Jason thought he could do it. No way would that fucker be walking free under his watch.

There had also been a bit of an internet frenzy about a post on the Batwatcher subreddit where the recording of That Night had originally been posted. It was, or proclaimed to be, by one of the jurors in the trial. Thankfully, they were much more respectful and discreet with how much information they shared than the poster of the video had been.

Sᴏ. I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪғ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴏsᴛ ᴛʜɪs, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴅᴇᴏ ᴡᴀs ᴏʀɪɢɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴘᴏsᴛᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴇʟsᴇ ɪᴛ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ɢᴏ.

I ᴡᴀs ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴊᴜʀᴏʀs ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ ʀᴀᴘᴇ ᴄᴀsᴇ ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ. Oʙᴠɪᴏᴜsʟʏ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴀ ʙᴜʀɴᴇʀ ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ғᴏʀ ᴀɴᴏɴʏᴍɪᴛʏ.

Bᴀsɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴀɴ ᴀᴜᴅɪᴏ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅɪɴɢ ᴏғ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴀs ᴇᴠɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ. Aᴘᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴛs ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴇᴀʀᴘɪᴇᴄᴇs ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴛᴇᴄʜ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅᴇᴅ ɪᴛ.

I'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ᴛᴇʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ I ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ, ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʜᴏɴᴇsᴛʟʏ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴀʟʟ ᴊᴜsᴛ sᴏ ғᴜᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴀɴᴅ I ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴡɪsʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏɴ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ. I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ɪᴛ. Lɪᴋᴇ ɪғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏʀɪɢɪɴᴀʟ ᴠɪᴅᴇᴏ/ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅɪɴɢ ᴡᴀs ᴅɪsᴛᴜʀʙɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ sᴀᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴜᴘsᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ, ᴛʜɪs ᴡᴀs ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴘʟᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇs ᴡᴏʀsᴇ. Aʟsᴏ, ɪғ I ᴡᴀs Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ, I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ I'ᴅ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ɪᴛ, ᴏʀ ᴀᴛ ʟᴇᴀsᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ɴᴇᴄᴇssᴀʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴᴠɪᴄᴛ ʜɪᴍ. I ᴅᴏ ғᴇᴇʟ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴇʟʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ sᴀʏ ᴀ ғᴇᴡ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ, ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ.

Fɪʀsᴛ ᴏғ ᴀʟʟ, Dᴀᴠɪᴇs (ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇғᴇɴᴅᴀɴᴛ, ɪғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ sᴏᴍᴇʜᴏᴡ) ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴏᴜɢʜᴛ sᴏᴍᴇ sᴏʀᴛ ᴏғ sᴘᴇʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀɴᴅ sᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴇxᴀᴄᴛʟʏ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ Rᴇᴅ Hᴏᴏᴅ, ᴡʜᴏ ɪs ᴀᴘᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴅᴀᴛɪɴɢ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ (I ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜɪs, ʙᴜᴛ ᴀᴘᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴊᴜʀᴏʀs ᴅɪᴅ. I ᴍᴇᴀɴ I'ᴍ ᴀ Gᴏᴛʜᴀᴍɪᴛᴇ sᴏ ᴏʙᴠɪᴏᴜsʟʏ I ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴠɪɢɪʟᴀɴᴛᴇ sʜɪᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠᴇʟʏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴜᴘ ᴏʀ Bᴀᴛᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ). Aᴘᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴛʜɪs ᴡᴀs ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ sᴘᴇᴄᴜʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠɪᴅᴇᴏ, ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴇᴀʜ, ɪᴛ's ᴛʀᴜᴇ, ʜᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ʜɪs ʙᴏʏғʀɪᴇɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ Dᴀᴠɪᴇs ʙʟᴀᴛᴀɴᴛʟʏ ᴀᴅᴍɪᴛᴛᴇᴅ ɪᴛ (ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪs ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ғᴜᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴘʟᴀɴ/ᴍᴏᴛɪᴠᴀᴛɪᴏɴ) ɪɴ ᴀ sᴜᴘᴘʟᴇᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅɪɴɢ sᴜʙᴍɪᴛᴛᴇᴅ ᴏғ Bᴀᴛᴍᴀɴ ɪɴᴛᴇʀʀᴏɢᴀᴛɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴀғᴛᴇʀ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴋᴇ ᴜᴘ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏsᴘɪᴛᴀʟ.

Iᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴏɴʟʏ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴀs "ᴄɪʀᴄᴜᴍsᴛᴀɴᴄɪᴀʟ" ᴇᴠɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ...ᴜʜ, ʏᴇᴀʜ, ɪᴛ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀʙsᴏʟᴜᴛᴇʟʏ ᴢᴇʀᴏ ʀᴇᴀsᴏɴs ᴛᴏ ᴅɪsʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏғ ɪᴛ/ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏғ ɪᴛ ᴜᴘ. Hᴇ sᴏᴜɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ᴘʀᴏᴜᴅ ᴏғ ʜɪs ᴘʟᴀɴ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ, ᴀɴᴅ sᴀɪᴅ sᴏᴍᴇ...ғᴜᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟ ɴᴇᴇᴅʟɪɴɢ sʜɪᴛ ᴛᴏ Bᴀᴛᴍᴀɴ. Lɪᴋᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʟʟ ɪs ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀɴ ғᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀʟ. Yᴇᴀʜ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs SOME ᴀʟᴀʀᴍɪsᴛ ᴡᴇɪʀᴅᴏs ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀ ʙɪɢ ᴛᴏ-ᴅᴏ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ Bᴀᴛᴍᴀɴ ᴛᴀᴋᴇs ᴏɴ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ Rᴏʙɪɴ/Bᴀᴛɢɪʀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴀ ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴛ ᴘᴇᴅᴏ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʙʜ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴅᴇғ ᴡᴏʀsᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ғɪʀsᴛ ᴏɴᴇ (ᴡʜɪᴄʜ, ʟʙʀ, ᴡᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪs Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ, ɴᴏ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴛ's ᴀ ᴍʏsᴛᴇʀʏ), ʙᴜᴛ Dᴀᴠɪᴇs ᴡᴇɴᴛ IN ᴏɴ ɪᴛ, ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀs ʜᴇʟʟ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏᴏ. Aɴᴅ ʏᴇᴀʜʜʜ I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ɴᴇᴄᴇssᴀʀɪʟʏ AGREE ᴛʜᴀᴛ CHILDREN sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ FIGHTING CRIMINALS, ʙᴜᴛ I sᴇᴇ ʟɪᴛᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ ɴᴏ ʀᴇᴀsᴏɴ ᴛᴏ sᴜsᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏғ ʜɪᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴄʟᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴘɪssᴇᴅ ᴀs ғᴜᴄᴋ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴇ ʟɪᴛᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ ᴀᴅᴏᴘᴛs ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀs ᴍᴏʀᴇ ғᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴋɪᴅs ᴛʜᴀɴ BRUCE WAYNE (ᴏʀ...ᴡᴇʟʟ, ɪᴅᴋ. Mᴀʏʙᴇ ɴᴏᴛ THAT ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ. Aʀᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴᴇs ᴏʀ ɴᴏᴛ? (*ᴄᴏᴜɢʜ* Nᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀssʜᴏʟᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ's ᴡʜʏ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ғɪɢʜᴛ ᴄʀɪᴍᴇ). Sᴛɪʟʟ ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ᴀ ғᴀɪʀ ᴀᴍᴏᴜɴᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ. Sᴏᴍᴇʙᴏᴅʏ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴛʜ), ᴏʀ ᴀᴛ ʟᴇᴀsᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋs ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀs ʜɪs ᴋɪᴅs, ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʜᴇ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ ʜɪs sᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴏʟᴅ Dᴀᴠɪᴇs ᴛᴏ sᴛᴀʏ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ғʀᴏᴍ ʜɪs ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ.

Aɴʏᴡᴀʏ, Dᴀᴠɪᴇs' ᴅɪᴀʙᴏʟɪᴄᴀʟ ᴘʟᴀɴ ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ғɪʀsᴛ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅɪɴɢ ɪᴛ sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴄᴏɴsᴇɴsᴜᴀʟ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴡᴀs ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ʙᴀᴅ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ (ᴜɴғᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴀᴛᴇʟʏ, WE ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴀʟsᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ACTUAL Rᴇᴅ Hᴏᴏᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ, ᴜʜ, ʏᴇᴀʜ. Iᴛ ᴡᴀs...ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ғᴜɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇ. Hᴇ sʜᴏᴛ ᴀ ғᴇᴡ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴏɴᴇsᴛʟʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀsɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴅ ᴘᴀʀᴛ). Iᴛ ϙᴜɪᴄᴋʟʏ ᴅᴇᴠᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ᴡʜᴇɴ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ ɢᴏᴛ ғʀᴇᴀᴋᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏᴠᴇʀ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀsᴋᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴏᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ. Hᴏɴᴇsᴛʟʏ, ʜɪᴍ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ʜɪs ʙᴏʏғʀɪᴇɴᴅ ᴡᴀs ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ ғᴜᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴘᴀʀᴛ, ᴊᴜsᴛ sᴛʀᴀɪɢʜᴛ ᴜᴘ ᴇᴠɪʟ. Lɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ's ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ғᴏʀ ɪᴛ. Hᴇ sᴏᴜɴᴅᴇᴅ sᴏ ʙᴇᴛʀᴀʏᴇᴅ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴀᴡғᴜʟ. 

Sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ, ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ғᴜᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ's ᴇᴀʀᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ sᴏᴍᴇʜᴏᴡ sᴏ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʙᴀᴛs, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ʜᴇᴀʀ ʜɪᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡᴀs ᴡʀᴏɴɢ. Aᴘᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ ʙᴜᴛᴛᴏɴ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴘʀᴇssᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ Dᴀᴠɪᴇs ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʜɪᴍ ʜᴇ...ғᴏʀɢᴀᴠᴇ ʜɪᴍ ғᴏʀ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇss ɪᴛ. Bᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʜᴇ'ᴅ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴅɪsᴀʙʟᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇ'ᴅ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴇᴅ. I ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ sᴛʀᴀɴɢʟᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍʏ ʙᴀʀᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅs ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ʜɪs ᴇʏᴇs. Lɪᴋᴇ I sᴡᴇᴀʀ I ʜᴀᴅ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏғ OH sᴏ THIS ɪs ᴡʜᴀᴛ's ғɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴅᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ, I'ᴠᴇ ғɪɴᴀʟʟʏ sᴜᴄᴄᴜᴍʙᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ Gᴏᴛʜᴀᴍ Cʀᴀᴢʏ.

Lɪᴛᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ I ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴡᴀʏ I ᴋᴇᴘᴛ ᴍʏ ᴄᴏᴏʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀsᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴊᴜsᴛ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ғᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ʀᴏᴏᴍ sᴇᴠᴇʀᴀʟ ᴛɪᴍᴇs ᴡᴀs ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴍʏsᴇʟғ ᴛʜᴀᴛ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ʙᴇᴀᴛᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʟᴏᴠɪɴɢ FUCK ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏғ ʜɪᴍ. Aɴᴅ ᴡᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏʀʏ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟs ᴏғ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛᴏᴏ, ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅs ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇғᴇɴsᴇ. Hᴏɴᴇsᴛʟʏ...ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏғ sᴄᴀʀʏ. Tʜᴇʏ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ ғᴇᴇʟ ʙᴀᴅ ғᴏʀ ʜɪᴍ, ʙᴜᴛ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ ɪs ᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴇʀʀɪғʏɪɴɢ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀғᴜᴄᴋᴇᴛ. I'ᴍ...ʏᴇᴀʜ, I'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ɢᴇᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀʟʟ ᴏғ ɪᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡʀᴇᴀᴋᴇᴅ sᴏᴍᴇ ɪɴsᴀɴᴇ ғᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴅᴀᴍᴀɢᴇ ᴀɴᴅ Dᴀᴠɪᴇs ɪs ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴀ ғᴜʟʟ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀʏ. A ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴘᴏʀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏɴᴇs ɪɴ ʜɪs ʜᴀɴᴅs ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴇssᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴊᴜsᴛ...ᴅᴜsᴛ, ғᴏʀ sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇʀs. Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ ᴋᴇᴇᴘs ʜɪs ᴘʀᴏᴍɪsᴇs, I ɢᴜᴇss! Dᴀᴠɪᴇs ᴅᴇғɪɴɪᴛᴇʟʏ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ.

Tʜɪʀᴅ, ᴀs I ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏғ ʀᴇғᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇᴅ ᴇᴀʀʟɪᴇʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ Rᴇᴅ Hᴏᴏᴅ, I ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ғɪʀsᴛ ɪɴᴛʀᴏᴅᴜᴄɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅɪɴɢ, ʙᴜᴛ sɪɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʟʟ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪɴɢ ᴇᴀʀᴘɪᴇᴄᴇs, ᴀʟʟ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴛs ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʟɪsᴛᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ɪᴛ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴɪɴɢ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇ. Aɴᴅ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴇʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴅᴇsᴘᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀs ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ Bʟᴜᴅʜᴀᴠᴇɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏᴡ ᴜᴘsᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴀᴛ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ. Sᴏᴍᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ᴍᴀᴅᴇ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴊᴜʀᴏʀs ᴄʀʏ, sᴇʀɪᴏᴜsʟʏ. I ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇ ʜᴏᴡ ᴀʟʟ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴛs ᴍᴜsᴛ ʙᴇ ғᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ, I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴀɴ ᴅᴇᴀʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ. I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴏᴡ Rᴇᴅ Hᴏᴏᴅ ɪs ᴅᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ. I ᴍᴇᴀɴ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴅɪᴅ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ʜɪs ʙᴏʏғʀɪᴇɴᴅ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʀᴀᴘᴇᴅ, ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs HIM ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ɪᴛ.

Mᴀɴ, ʜᴏᴡ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴇᴠᴇɴ sᴜᴘᴘᴏsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ ғᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ? Hᴏᴡ ᴅᴏᴇs ᴀ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴsʜɪᴘ sᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ? Fᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴇᴠɪʟ, ᴊᴜsᴛ ʀᴏʙʙɪɴɢ sᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ. Tʜᴀᴛ's sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ʜᴇ's ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ғᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ғᴏʀᴇsᴇᴇᴀʙʟᴇ ғᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ, ᴀs ʟᴏɴɢ ᴀs ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴀssᴏᴄɪᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴛs, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴊᴜsᴛ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ?? Dᴇᴀʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ? Hᴏᴡ ɪs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪɴ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴀʏ ғᴀɪʀ? Aɴᴅ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀᴍɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ Rᴇᴅ Hᴏᴏᴅ ɪs ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴄʟᴏsᴇsᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʜᴜɢᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏғ ʜɪs sᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ ɴᴇᴛᴡᴏʀᴋ, ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴡ ʜᴏᴡ ɪs ʜᴇ sᴜᴘᴘᴏsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇᴀʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ᴍᴀᴊᴏʀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏғ ʜɪs sᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ ɴᴇᴛᴡᴏʀᴋ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ sᴏᴜʀᴄᴇ ᴏғ ʜɪs ғᴇᴀʀ? Eᴠɪʟ!!!

I ᴇsᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴏᴡ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ ɪs ᴅᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴛ, ᴀʟᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ I'ᴍ sᴜʀᴇ ʙᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴍᴀ ᴡᴀs ᴀᴛ ʟᴇᴀsᴛ sᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴀᴛʜᴀʀᴛɪᴄ.

Aɴᴅ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅ, ɪғ I ᴡᴀsɴ'ᴛ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴇᴀʀʟɪᴇʀ, I 100% ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʙʟᴀᴍᴇ ʜɪᴍ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ I ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙʟᴀᴍᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪғ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴋɪʟʟᴇᴅ Dᴀᴠɪᴇs. I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴀɴʏ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴊᴜʀᴏʀs ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ. I ᴋɴᴏᴡ I ᴋᴇᴇᴘ sᴀʏɪɴɢ ɪᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴊᴜsᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ғᴜᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ.

Nᴏᴡ ᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ ɪᴍᴘᴏʀᴛᴀɴᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢ: I ᴋᴇᴇᴘ sᴇᴇɪɴɢ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴏɴʟɪɴᴇ sᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍ-ʙʟᴀᴍᴇʏ sʜɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀsᴋɪɴɢ ᴡʜʏ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ғɪɢʜᴛ ʜɪᴍ ᴏғғ ᴏʀ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴅ I ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ sᴀʏ Sʜᴜᴛ Tʜᴀᴛ Sʜɪᴛ Uᴘ. Fɪʀsᴛ ᴏғ ᴀʟʟ, ʜᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ʜɪs ʙᴏʏғʀɪᴇɴᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʀʏ ʜᴜʀᴛɪɴɢ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ. Iᴛ's ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴇᴀsʏ ᴛᴏ ʜᴜʀᴛ ᴀ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪғ ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ʜᴜʀᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ. Sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅʟʏ, ɪᴛ's Rᴇᴅ Hᴏᴏᴅ. Hᴇ's ᴀ ʙɪɢ ғᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ɢᴜʏ, ɴᴏ ᴅᴏᴜʙᴛ ᴘʜʏsɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ sᴛʀᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ. Aɴᴅ ᴛʜɪʀᴅʟʏ, HE HAS GUNS. WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK NIGHTWING'S GOING TO BE ABLE TO DO IN CLOSE QUARTERS WHEN THE GUY COULD SHOOT HIM IN A SECOND. Hᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ʜɪᴍ ᴄᴏʀɴᴇʀᴇᴅ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀs ɴᴏ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ғᴏʀ ʜɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ғɪɢʜᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏᴅɢᴇ ᴀ ʙᴜʟʟᴇᴛ. I ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜɪs ғᴏʀ ᴀ FACT, ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ Dᴀᴠɪᴇs sᴀɪᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴄʜɪʟʟɪɴɢ, ᴅɪsᴛᴜʀʙɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪɴɢs I'ᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅ ʜɪᴍ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ WOULD sʜᴏᴏᴛ ʜɪᴍ ɪғ ʜᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀɴʏ ɪᴅᴇᴀs. Mᴀᴅᴇ ᴍʏ ғᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ʜᴀɪʀ sᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴ ᴇɴᴅ. Iᴛ ᴡᴀs, ɢᴏᴅ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ʜɪs ғᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ TONE ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀsᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏғ ɪᴛ. Iᴛ ᴋᴇᴘᴛ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴀʟʟ...I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡ, ʟɪᴋᴇ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀs sᴡᴇᴇᴛ ᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴏʀ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ, ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀʟʟ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ᴀɴᴅ sʜɪᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴇ sᴀɪᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀsᴛ sʜɪᴛ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs sɪᴄᴋ. I ɢᴇɴᴜɪɴᴇʟʏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪғ I'ᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴅᴇsᴘɪsᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ʙᴇɪɴɢ sᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ.

Iᴛ's ɴᴏᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴅᴏ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ, ᴏʙᴠɪᴏᴜsʟʏ ʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴜʏ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴏᴘ. Bᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴀᴛ, ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪғ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅɴ'ᴛ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ's sᴛɪʟʟ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴀ ғᴜᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ sᴀʏ! Wʜᴏ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ғᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴊᴜᴅɢᴇ ʜᴏᴡ sᴏᴍᴇʙᴏᴅʏ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛs ɪɴ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀsᴛ sɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʟɪғᴇ?? Iᴛ's ғᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴛᴇʀʀɪғʏɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏʙᴏᴅʏ ɪs ᴘʀᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ "ғɪɢʜᴛ"; ɪᴛ's ғɪɢʜᴛ, ғʟɪɢʜᴛ, ᴏʀ ғʀᴇᴇᴢᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴅɪғғᴇʀᴇɴᴛ! Sᴏ I'ᴍ ᴊᴜsᴛ sɪᴄᴋ ᴏғ sᴇᴇɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ sʜɪᴛ. Kɴᴏᴄᴋ ɪᴛ ᴏғғ. Iғ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ I ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ sᴀʏɪɴɢ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ.

Sᴏ ʏᴇᴀʜ, I ɢᴜᴇss ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴀʟʟ I ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ sᴀʏ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ. I ʜᴏɴᴇsᴛʟʏ ᴡɪsʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴊᴜᴅɢᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ'ᴠᴇ ɢɪᴠᴇɴ ʜɪᴍ ʟɪғᴇ ɪɴ ᴘʀɪsᴏɴ, ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ 15 ʏᴇᴀʀs ɪs ᴊᴜsᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ, ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɢᴜʏ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʙᴇ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ɪɴᴛᴏ sᴏᴄɪᴇᴛʏ.

I ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ Nɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ ʜᴀsɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇᴇɴ sᴇᴇɴ ᴏᴜᴛ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴜᴘʟᴇ ᴏғ ᴡᴇᴇᴋs, ᴀɴᴅ I ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇᴠᴇʀ ʜᴇ ɪs, ʜᴇ's ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ᴏᴋᴀʏ. Tʜᴀᴛ's ᴀʟʟ I ɢᴜᴇss.

Jason shook his head to clear it, trying to push the trial and the post and the whole situation completely out of his mind.

He squeezed Dick's Zitka plushie tighter and clicked on a Nightwing-specific compilation video. The video started with Dick and Tim sparring on a rooftop, Dick's laughter carrying clearly across the night. He did a back handspring away from Tim's low sweep with his bo staff.

"You're supposed to be the quick one, Red. Catch up!"

Tim lunged forward and tried to get a hit in on his flank, but Dick bent back almost to the rooftop, dodging the hit, and lashed out with his leg at Tim's ankle. Tim went down, but rolled with the fall and back onto his feet in a crouch. Dick swung an Escrima Stick down at his neck at the same time Tim jabbed the end of his bo staff at Dick's chest, and they both stopped just short of making contact.

Tim grinned. "What was that about catching up?"

"It's a stalemate, don't get cocky," Dick said, holding out a hand to pull him up. He ruffled Tim's hair, and Tim tried to duck away from it. "Excellent footwork though, very clean."

"Thanks. You gonna teach me to do a Zapata now?"

"Nice try, Red, but you didn't win."

Tim pouted. "We both won, so technically…"

Dick laughed. "Why do you wanna learn it so bad? You're not gonna be able to put it to any practical use."

"Yeah, but I can hold it over Robin's head that I can do it and he can't. He can do a double layout too now."

Dick laughed again. "Oh that's so petty," he said, sounding delighted. "You know he's just gonna learn this too, though."

"Yeah, but in the meantime…"

Dick shook his head fondly. "Alright, next weekend if you're free. We'll need to use the Cave, because neither of us have nearly enough room."

"Lit." Tim held his hand up for a high-five, and Dick complied. "Catch you later!" He shot off his grappling gun and swung away.

Jason smiled fondly at the screen, as the clip transitioned to another. He'd almost forgotten how alive Dick used to be, how vibrant and bright instead of the dead, empty shell he was now...

Jason shook his head again and refocused on the video. He wasn't supposed to be thinking about depressing stuff. 

The next clip was kind of grainy, clearly having been zoomed in from far away, but it was still clear enough to see who it was. Dick was leaning back on one hand, drinking coffee and dangling his legs over the edge of a building.

A little annotation popped up, saying, 'Just wait, it's worth it'.

A few seconds later, Jason saw himself swing up onto the building. This clip had no audio, but Jay could almost hear his, "Hey baby," even if he didn't remember this exact night. 

Dick got to his feet, abandoning his coffee on the edge of the roof as Jason popped his helmet off, letting it drop from his hand, and they eagerly headed toward each other, clearly saying something that the camera couldn't pick up. They met in the middle, Jason's hands immediately going to cradle Dick's face and Dick's hands grasping at his waist, both of them stumbling across the rooftop as they kissed passionately. 

Ah, this had clearly been from early in their relationship, when they'd hardly been able to keep their hands off each other.

His chest ached a little, watching their past selves so caught up in each other, unburdened by the troubles that plagued them now and the impossible distance between them. 

He watched a few moments more, before skipping forward to the next clip with a sigh. This whole video thing wasn't doing a very good job at cheering him up. Everything just seemed to be making him more sad.

◇◇◇

Jason was visiting again, in the morning this time, and Dick couldn't stop zoning out. 

Dick had been complaining about being afraid his physical fitness and his detective skills would both atrophy while he was stuck in the hospital, and Jason had told him not to worry about it, but he just couldn't stop thinking about it. 

He had taken to doing stretches and some smaller exercises in his room — sometimes earning very surprised looks from whatever nurse came in to do checks and caught him doing freestanding handstand push-ups, or reading a book while in a split or twisted in any number of contortionist poses on the floor — but it didn't feel like enough. He wasn't able to do any running or flips or sparring, and he was afraid he was going to end up getting his ass kicked once he finally got back in the field. 

Jason was saying something now about his patrol last night, but Dick found his attention wandering again without his permission, Jason's voice fading out. 

His nightmare from that morning took advantage of his wandering thoughts, and started to shove its way back into his mind.

I just want to make you feel good…

Dick shuddered and tried to force himself to listen to what Jason was saying, stroking his fingers over the scars on his forearm to try to ground himself, but all he could hear was his voice from That Night.

I want you. You're so gorgeous, look at you babydoll…

It's not happening, it's not happening, it's not happening right now. His fingers pressed harder against his skin, running up and down, up and down, up and down.

He vaguely registered Jason's voice turning up in a question, but he didn't think he'd have been able to answer even if he'd heard what it was. All he could catch was that familiar rough baritone that was sinking its claws into Dick's lungs, tearing as it clung to him. It wasn't Jay, it wasn't Jay, his voice was just stolen. It wasn't Jay. This is Jay. This is the real Jay.

Dick grabbed frantically, blindly, for Jason's hand, snatching at anything to ground himself here in the present. As soon as their fingers linked, though, Dick knew that was the wrong move. His world tilted dangerously on its axis, and his stomach dropped. Without realizing it, he ripped his hand away almost as soon as he'd made contact with Jason.

Dick felt himself trip slightly, and oh, he was walking now, stumbling his way quickly down the hall, his vision still tilting and his ears still ringing with Jason's voice.

He almost made it to his bathroom before he threw up, still barely able to see with the way his vision was twisting and starting to blur, but he was in his room at least. His knees hurt, and he realized that he was on them, one hand braced against the floor as his body heaved again. There was nothing to come up, though, just burning bile. He hadn't eaten anything yet, he thought vaguely.

Dick felt his arm start to tremble, and managed to push himself back to sitting before he ended up face first in a puddle of vomit. He felt a tapping on the tops of his thighs and belatedly registered wet. Tears. Of course he was crying again.

Silent tears continued to pour from his eyes as he tried to focus on the bathroom door in front of his face. He couldn't tell if it was just his vision or if his body was swaying.

"Richard?" he heard a nurse ask, from somewhere close by.

Let me take care of you… his head whispered.

"Dick?" came Jason's soft, concerned voice, and Dick made a choked sound, his head shaking no before he gave it permission.

"Shh," he managed to get out, bringing a finger to his lips, clutching at his head with his other hand. "Shh."

It doesn't feel like you want me to stop, now does it? 

He could feel phantom hands grabbing at him, a thigh firm against his groin, a leather glove tracing over his lips.

You feel so lovely just like this...

Dick vaguely registered his head falling forward, his neck apparently unable to hold it up any longer, and he sat there, crying on the floor in silence for who knows how long until the whispers in his head quieted. 

He took a deep breath in and held it for a count of eight, before slowly, slowly letting it back out. He repeated the process. And again.

"I need to be alone," he finally whispered out, wiping in vain at his wet face.

"Do you think you can move to your bed for a few minutes so I can clean up the floor?" the nurse asked.

Dick nodded numbly. 

He took a few moments to mentally gear up, and then hauled himself up off the floor, walked the few steps to his bed, and sat down on the edge. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jason still standing in the doorway waiting, but he couldn't bring himself to look at him while the nurse cleaned up the dried puddle of bile on the floor.

It was dim in the room, he realized. Huh. Guess nobody had turned the light on while he was having his little breakdown. Part of him was grateful — the last thing anyone needed was a better view of that.

"Alright, there we go," the nurse said, tossing the paper towels in his trash bin. "Do you want to talk to someone, Richard? I can talk to you, or I can find somebody else to talk, maybe one of the therapists?"

Dick shook his head.

"Are you okay to be alone right now?"

Dick nodded.

"Do you need anything?"

Another head shake.

"Okay. I hope you feel better soon, Richard." She left the room.

Jason stepped forward, and leaned on the doorframe. "Sweetheart?"

Sweetheart. Not babydoll. This was the real Jason. Everything's fine. It's not him. It's not him.

"I need to be alone," Dick repeated quietly.

Not him.

Even so, Dick didn't think he could handle much more of Jason's voice today.

"Okay," Jason said softly. "Okay."

Dick got up and started to close the door, and Jason stepped back to let him.

"I love you."

Dick nodded and shut the door.

Alone. Nobody else here. Nobody could touch him. Nobody could look at him. Alone.

Dick wished the door had a lock.

He turned to the bathroom and started the shower. He ended up scrubbing his skin raw trying to get the feeling of hands off of him, and he'd started crying again at some point during it — probably around the time a nurse came in to do fifteen minute checks, though they thankfully didn't open the bathroom door — but somehow he felt like he was breathing a little easier at least by the end of it. 

He brushed his teeth, got into pajamas, and got in bed. Maybe a nap would help him reset.

His pillow was wet with tears by the time he finally drifted off.