Chapter Text
Dick didn't get the mail that often.
If somebody needed him, they'd call; like a normal person in this decade. The only thing he actually needed to look at from the mail was the rent for his shitty apartment each month.
So one day every moth he'd go through all the mail, send out the money for his rent, and throw everything else away. He had enough clutter as it was. And this Thursday shouldn't have been any different.
But it was.
When he sat down at the counter in his apartment, wearing one of Roy's old t-shirts and a pair of Flash pajama pants, something caught his eye.
The date was from two days ago. It was addressed to him by Alfred's handwriting.
That was strange. But Alfred did prefer more traditional things. He was probably just writing a letter to check on Dick instead of calling him. He could get behind that.
Opening the envelope though, he suddenly felt sick. He stood up so fast he got a headache and the chair he was sitting at got knocked tp the floor. He didn't notice. His heart had sunk into his stomach and he thought he might vomit. His body went numb; the invitation fluttered to the floor.
It had to be a joke. Bruce, he--he couldn't die. Batman didn't die.
He couldn't. He didn't. He didn't. And suddenly, Dick couldn't breathe. He couldn't feel anything. He couldn't thing, there were black spots in his vision. And then everything went dark.
Eight months ago, Dick was fired from Robin.
It was the worst feeling in the world because Robin was his. Or at least, he had thought it was. And yet Bruce took it away from him.
Things were rough for a while. He pretended like everything was fine for a bit. Alternated between staying on the streets and at the Titan members' houses. They were his friends. He didn't tell them.
Wally and Donna figured it out soon enough though. They kept quiet about it and offered as much support as Dick's pride had allowed.
He celebrated his eighteenth birthday two months after moving out at the Tower with all his friends. Even Babs, who gave him an update on Bruce. He was doing fine, and Dick refused to hear more than that.
He got an apartment right after that and quickly took up a new hero title; "Nightwing." Nothing could describe how amazing it was to be back out there as a hero. He looked after Blüdhaven; things were shitty there. It felt familiar.
He started talking to Bruce over the phone. Even visited a few times.
Then they got into an argument, and Dick cut contact. He needed a break.
That was two months ago.
When Dick's eyes blinked back open, he vaguely registered he had a panic attack and passed out. Damnit. He definitely could have hit his head on the counter or chair and seriously hurt himself.
The first thing he did was call Barbra. Her silence answered for him.
The second thing he did was get in the car and drive straight to Gotham. He didn't stop. He didn't turn on the radio. The ride was completely silent.
Alfred answered the manor door after thirty seconds of Dick banging on it harder than he probably should have. He didn't care. The butler had a grim expression, only adding to Dick's sick feeling.
"Alfred." He croaked. No 'hello,' no 'how are you.' "Please tell me it was a lie. A joke. Something else. Anything else." He was pleading at this point. He still didn't care.
"I'm sorry, Master Dick." Alfred said softly, placing a hand on Dick's shoulder. For the first time since reading that damn funeral invitation, Dick had the urge to cry. He resisted though.
He didn't cry when he went in for tea. He didn't cry when Alfred explained how it happened; how he died in the cave. He didn't even cry when he saw Bruce's empty eat at the table and threw a glass vase against the wall, smashing it to bits.
No, Dick didn't cry until he was sitting in his apartment hours later. Until Wally West and Donna Troy climbed through the window and found him on the floor of the bathroom after throwing up multiple times.
He didn't need to tell them that not all of those times happened on accident. They already knew. His throat ached.
Wally and Donna stayed the night right there, in Dick's messy, cheap apartment. Wally blabbed on and on about whatever so Dick didn't have to speak while the Amazonian braided his hair. He'd been growing it out as a sort of defiance to Bruce. Maybe that was why he turned around to Donna and asked her to cut it. Her eyes widened.
"Dick, are you sure?" her voice was as soft as the fingers running through the black, silky strands of his hair.
"Yeah."