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Dick absolutely hates galas.
Ever since he was banned from climbing on the chandeliers (which is fair, he guesses – that chandelier must’ve cost a fortune to replace), he's been skipping them as much as possible.
So much so, in fact, that he was targeted .
Okay, maybe not targeted. But one of Bruce's rich friends had wanted him to make an appearance at the next gala. Proof of life, or something. Dick put up a valiant fight, but gave in after Bruce promised him extra cookies after patrol.
It's always the cookies…
So now Dick is in his room, throwing on whatever suit he can find that doesn't restrict his airways too much because he will not sacrifice his ability to breathe for aesthetics.
His room is honestly a little bit of a mess – dirty laundry piled up in the corner, clean clothes strewn about his closet floor, a couple of cinder blocks residing under his window – don’t ask. It was a dare.
It takes him a while, but he finds a nice, dark blue suit (which he keeps unbuttoned, obviously – he just wears a random white shirt underneath) and some decent pants. And even a bowtie! Most of it isn’t even that wrinkled, so Dick counts it as a win.
He heads downstairs to find Bruce waiting at the doorway, tapping one foot on the ground and checking his watch. He looks up when Dick gets down and offers him a slightly impatient half-smile. “Ready to go?”
Dick grins, giving Bruce a thumbs up. “Yep! I call shotgun.”
Bruce's smile becomes something a bit more genuine as he replies, raising a singular eyebrow, “Dick, you and I are the only people going.”
Dick looks surprised for a second – then his face breaks out into a grin. “Wanted to spend time with your favorite child, hmmm?”
“That’s not–”
“No, no, it’s okay, dad. I know I’m not your favorite…” Before Bruce can say anything, Dick chuckles. “Just kidding. Race you to the car!”
Then he takes off.
Bruce sighs, slowly following Dick. These kids are going to kill him someday.
The gala is full. Dick wonders, for a moment, why Bruce didn’t rent out a bigger space for the hundreds of guests present – but oh, well.
Whenever Dick turns, he runs the risk of bumping into some random rich person and spilling their drink everywhere. Frankly, he’s a bit annoyed. He doesn’t like the feeling of confined spaces – he’d rather be free to run and jump and do whatever he wants without consequence. Which is not possible, he knows. So he just deals with it!
On the bright side, they do have a lot of sweets. The table of food is wide and sports an array of different snacks – from cheeses to pastries to slices of ham arranged in the shape of a rose. Weird, but that’s what rich people like, Dick guesses. He’s seen worse before, he’s pretty sure.
He’s at the end of the table, sipping on a tiny plastic cup of soda – they really should invest in something more earth-friendly – when someone finally approaches.
“Are you Dick Grayson?” They ask. Then continue talking without waiting for an answer. “Your father told me you might be here.”
DIck slurps obnoxiously on his soda, making uncomfortable eye contact with the poor person, before answering, “that’s me. What’s up?”
“Oh, just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Janice Hayes, nice to meet you.”
Janice, huh. “Nice to meet you, too.”
“Is there any reason in particular you wanted to attend after all this time?”
“What do you mean?” He’s trained in talking like a rich person by now. Not that he ever uses his training. He doesn’t really have to, normally – apparently, he’s a naturally nice person. But anyone who’s said that has obviously not seen Dick when he’s angry.
“It’s just that – well, you haven’t really been an active presence for the past few months,” says Janice, snapping Dick back to the conversation.
“…What?”
“Oh, nevermind,” Janice says, looking a little embarrassed. Well, good. Stay embarrassed. Weirdo. “I do have one favor to ask of you, though.”
Dick raises an eyebrow, prompting Janice to finish. Janice opens her mouth, but then her eyebrows furrow and she falls silent again, gazing at a spot near Dick shoulder.
“What?” Dick looks down at his shirt as well. “Do I have crumbs on my shirt or something?”
Janice doesn’t reply, still staring at his shirt. “What is that?” She points at his shirt collar.
Dick stares at the spot, confused for a moment, then his eyes lock on the black ink poking out from underneath his shirt. He pulls it down slightly, exposing the tattoo fully. “This?”
Janice looks slightly scandalized. “Yes, that.”
“It’s a tattoo,” Dick says simply. He got it a couple months ago – him and Jason went out for chili dogs and passed a tattoo shop. Jason pulled Dick inside excitedly. They both got a tattoo that day: Dick got one of Medusa, a metaphor for surviving sexual assault, Jason said, and Jason got an ouroboros in the shape of an infinity sign. Something about death and rebirth, Dick doesn’t remember.
“Yes, but why that? It’s… quite unsettling.”
“It’s really not.” It’s literally just a Medusa tattoo – Medusa isn’t unsettling.
“Yes, it is. Why would you choose such a… grisly thing to have permanently tattooed on your body?”
“Because it sends an important message.”
“I know that. I searched it up the first time I saw one. But isn’t that tattoo only for women?”
Dick shifts, a little uncomfortable now. “Why would it only be for women?”
“Because, well, only women can get, y’know. Assaulted.”
Dick freezes. “Come again?”
“Only women can be sexually assaulted,” Janice says, sounding a little more confident than before.
“That’s… not true,” Dick says, backing up a little. Janice doesn’t seem to notice; she keeps going.
“It’s okay if you didn’t know the true meaning of the tattoo, but–”
“I knew the meaning. Before I got it.” He tries to keep his tone as neutral as possible. He fails.
“Then why would you get it?”
“Because–”
“Men can’t get assaulted, right? And the tattoo is only for women.”
“Why can’t men get assaulted?” He crosses his arms, heart wallping in his chest. “You keep saying that but you aren’t giving me any reasons.”
“Because – it just isn’t, well.” Janice thinks about this for a moment. “Men are much stronger than women. They could just say no.”
Dick opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out.
He said no.
Didn’t he?
“Don’t… touch me.
I’m…
Poisonous.
Numb.”
He said no.
She didn’t listen.
Dick steps backward again, nearly tripping on the long tablecloth. Someone grumbles from behind him, but he doesn’t notice because he needs to get out of here.
It’s… too confined. Too tight. It’s squeezing his lungs together. He can’t breathe.
A strangled gasp escapes his mouth and he turns, nearly sprinting out of the room.
He gets outside and slowly sinks to the floor, curling into the tightest ball he can.
It’s not real it’s not real it’s not real–
He can hear her – phantom memories, tickling at his brain – it hurts and he can’t – breathe – and she’s touching him – getting closer – the rain hammering at his back – the smell of metallic blood in the air – the cold stone of the rooftop – her hands – on him and touching him and cold and strong and overpowering him and he can’t–
“Dick?”
Dick’s head shoots up, banging against the stone wall. He squints up at the person, rain hammering against the ground, drowning out the blood rushing in his head.
“Dick,” the person says again, and Dick flinches at the sound – it grates at his eardrums and–
Fuck.
He has to get out of here.
He scrambles up, and the figure moves back a step, startled.
“Dick, what–?”
Dick makes it about five steps before sinking back, hands clapped over his ears, Catalina’s voice echoing in his head.
“Quiet, mi amor. Callado.”
The person’s voice becomes startlingly close– “Dick. Hey, what're you sayin’?”
Dick doesn't respond, rocking back and forth with his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. “…Never gonna stop… never gonna… never .”
“Hey, Dickhead.” There's a hand on his shoulder – touching him – the contact burns and he lets out a choked whimper, and suddenly the hand is gone. “Listen to me. Y’gotta breathe.”
But he can’t breathe – his lungs are full of rain and dirt and poison and her and he can’t–
He hears footsteps – her boots, rain splattering again his face as she gets closer and closer and closer and it’s never gonna stop never –
A figure swims into his vision – broad shoulders, a mop of black hair with a little white tuft in the middle – bright green eyes – not her.
“Take a deep breath,” the figure instructs. Dick takes a short, hitched breath in on instinct – then another whimper escapes from deep in his throat.
The figure – Jason? Dick recognizes him now, it's his little brother – nods shortly. “Good. Can ya do that again?”
Dick tries – he's trying – but chokes on air and starts coughing. Jason startles, but then one arm reaches out to pat Dick's back slowly but firmly. The touch is – it's too much – but it's warm and comforting and so unlike her.
The hand retreats, “you good Dickie?”
Dick leans forward, and the hand moves farther away – come back, Dick wants to scream. He wants the touch – he doesn't care that it burns because it's his little brother and he's safe.
He falls against Jason's chest and curls up. The arm is back – and there's another – wrapping around Dick protectively.
Jason must be uncomfortable right now – half crouched on the ground, hugging Dick and supporting both of their weights. But Dick doesn't care – he just wants the burning touch of his little brother, keeping him safe, keeping him away from her ice-cold hands and her loud boots and her sickly sweet voice.
After about a minute – Dick can still hear the blood rushing through his head, it’s too loud – Jason stands, lifting Dick with him. It's kind of silly how easily Jason can pick him up, but Dick doesn't really think about it. His thoughts are mostly reduced to her.
They start moving, Dick thinks – he can feel wind rushing past, ruffling his hair. He doesn't care.
Jason gets into a car – Bruce's car – setting Dick down in the passenger seat. He doesn't care.
They start driving, bumping up and down every time they pass over one of those super tall speed bumps that are definitely not supposed to be that big. He doesn't care.
They reach the manor. Jason gets out and opens the door for Dick.
“C'mon, Dick. ‘S get inside.”
Dick follows numbly, shuffling behind Jason slowly and nearly tripping over his feet once or twice.
They're heading to the bathroom, Dick realizes dully.
He doesn't really care.
The tiles are blindingly white, and the lightbulbs are bright enough to give Dick a headache. Jason too, probably. It's fine, though.
Dick doesn't care.
The shower starts, and soon steam comes pouring out from behind the curtain. Jason motions to Dick's ruined suit.
“Want help changin’, or…?”
Dick shakes his head and starts slowly undressing. Jason turns away, shifting from side to side awkwardly – which, normally, would make Dick laugh, but he's too dazed to really notice.
“I can wait outside,” Jason says after a minute. Dick is still working on unbuttoning his pants, and he shrugs. So Jason stays, turned towards the wall, humming a tune to himself as he waits.
After a while, Dick gives up on the button and steps into the shower. He immediately gets back out, stumbling on the tiles in his haste. He just can't – the water – the rain hammering against him – it's too much, right now.
And the noise, it's – loud – he can feel himself spiraling again and, like every other time, he can't stop it because it's never going to stop –
“Hey, Dick, hey. Look at me.” Dick's eyes dart around before finally making contact with Jason's. His mouth opens but nothing comes out, not until Jason's voice finally registers.
“I'm sorry,” is all he says, and then he says it again. And again. And again, and again and again and again and–
“Stop that, Dickhead.” Jason's voice is firm, but gentle at the same time. How is that possible? “Right now. Y’got nothin’ to apologize for.”
“No, nono no, y’don’t… you have to leave,” Dick gasps, clawing at Jason’s arm.
“Dick, she’s dead. Dead ‘n gone. An’ if she comes back, I’ll kill ’er again. Got it?”
Dick shakes his head rapidly, but then, suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder, warm and burning and fiery hot–
“Dick. Listen to me. Focus on my voice. What do you see?”
Dick’s eyes dart around the room. “B – bathroom. And you.”
“And not her. Right?” When Dick doesn’t respond, he repeats it: “ Right?”
“Yes,” Dick whispers quickly, shutting his eyes tight and falling against the floor. Upon impact, he curls up tightly, letting his head rest on the cool tile.
Tile .
Not stone.
He’s safe.
He’s
safe.
“You good?” Jason sounds hesitant – as if Dick will snap and start throwing another tantrum if he speaks. Which he might. He probably will, because he doesn’t know how to stop it.
It’s been years. And healing takes time, he knows, but it’s been years. He’s so sick of this – all the panic attacks and meltdowns and his siblings practically tiptoeing around him because they think he’s unstable and he’s – he is.
He’s sick of feeling like shit every time it rains. Sick of hearing her voice all the time. And he’s really fucking sick of scaring his siblings .
“I’m okay,” he replies, voice shaky and thick. “Sorry.”
“Don’t even start that again.” Jason’s voice is both exasperated and relieved. “Told ya – nothin’ to apologize for.”
Dick hums uncertainly, getting to his feet slowly. His hair is still dripping a little from the shower, and his pants are uncomfortably soaked. Dick doesn’t really notice, though – everything is swimming and dull and it's kind of hard to register things that would normally warrant his attention.
Jason seems satisfied with it, though, and gets up as well, staying near Dick. They move, slowly, down the hall. Dick leans heavily on the wall the whole time, feeling the small bumps and spots where the paint is peeling with his palm.
His vision feels hazy and his eyes are unfocused as they slide around his surroundings. And he can still hear the phantom rain pouring onto hard stone, and a light, seductive tone, and the feeling of poison rushing through his veins. He screws his eyes shut and lets Jason guide him the rest of the way.
He opens his eyes when they reach Dick’s room and he crawls into his bed, curling up tightly. He’s so numb, still, but now that the initial shock is wearing off, the feeling morphs into pure, raw exhaustion and it leaves Dick utterly drained. He sprawls out on his bed, not noticing Jason perch on the edge of the bed, and closes his eyes again.
He still feels dull. Lifeless. But it’s better with Jason here. Jason’s warmth, his firm, grounding touch, his bright green eyes. His little brother.
As sleep washes over Dick, he feels Jason’’s hand slide under the thick blanket and make contact with his own. A moment passes before their fingers intertwine, and Dick hums softly, pulling Jason’s hand close to his chest. Warm. Safe.
He’s finally safe.