Archive of Our Own

Dick crouched low on the edge of a crumbling rooftop in Crime Alley, elbows on his knees, the faint stink of alley trash curling up to meet the cold. His mask adjusted for low light, but he didn’t need tech to know the pattern of this place. Same broken bottles. Same busted fire escapes. Same rusting graffiti tag from three summers ago still curling on the water tower across the street.

He kept watch on the alley below, where a known fence had started showing up again. The kind who disappeared after big moves. Now he was back, and Dick wanted to know why.

The stakeout had been quiet, just the occasional drunk yell a few blocks away and the hum of a flickering streetlamp. Then there was a whisper of leather, and Dick stiffened—not movement from below, but behind.

Then someone dropped beside him. Heavy boots. A scuffed jacket.

"This is my side of town, ya know?"

Dick squinted. “Jason?” His voice came out cautious, like he didn’t quite trust it. “You’re… older.”

He blinked slowly. Of course he’s older. If this was a hallucination—and he was pretty sure it was—then it made sense his brain would factor in some aging. He didn't question the outfit, the attitude. Jason had always belonged to Crime Alley more than anywhere else. If some new vigilante had popped up and Dick hadn’t seen their face yet, it wasn’t crazy his tired, overworked brain would decide to slap Jason’s face on the guy. That kind of stuff had happened before.

He sighed. “Alright, I guess.”

Jason tilted his head. “That’s it? You don’t care that I’m here?”

Dick shrugged, still watching the alley below. “Well, I’m kind of on the job, so it isn’t the best time to break down.”

Jason blinked. 

“Can we like… delay this?” Dick added, his voice dry. “Show up in my kitchen while I’m eating cheese out of my opened fridge?”

He didn’t look over, didn’t want to meet his own reflection, or ghost, or whatever the hell his brain was conjuring tonight. But the line landed a little too close to home. That’s when he realized he wasn’t just humoring the vision—he was bargaining with it.

He always ate cheese when he was tired. And Jason—well, Hallucina-Jason used to call it "sad snacking." Dick had half a memory of Hallucina-Jason leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, judging his shredded mozzarella diet like it was a felony.

“I’m sorry,” Jason said, and there was a hesitation in his voice. “You want me to show up at your house?”

Dick glanced at him, brow furrowed. The line caught him off guard. That wasn't how hallucinations usually played it. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t wait for confirmation.

He hesitated. Probably a terrible idea to indulge it. But also? His night had already gone off the rails. “...Yeah?”

Jason smiled, a soft and brief thing, then nodded. “Okay.”

He turned, jacket catching the breeze, and walked to the edge of the rooftop. He dropped down without a sound.

Dick stayed there, watching the space where he’d been.

He didn’t reach for his comms. Didn’t log the sighting. He just sat with the quiet and the distant buzz of the alley light and the ridiculous mental note: Call therapist. Again.

But first… he needed to get home. And maybe leave the fridge light on. Just in case the hallucination decided to finish the conversation over cheese.

Jason showed up just after two in the morning, quiet as a shadow but not bothering to hide his footsteps in the hallway. If Dick was asleep, he'd knock. If he wasn’t—well, then he was already expecting him.

The apartment door wasn’t locked. Jason rolled his eyes at that. Gotham was still Gotham, even when you used to be Robin.

Inside, the place smelled like old wood, coffee, and that weird citrus cleaner Dick used on everything. Lights were dim, a single lamp glowing warm in the corner.

And there he was.

Dick, shirt rumpled, standing in front of the open fridge in boxers and a t-shirt that probably hadn’t been washed since the last nightmare. He had a handful of shredded cheese pinched between his fingers and was chewing like it was gum.

Jason stared for a beat, then snorted. “You were serious about the cheese thing.”

Dick didn’t look up. “Told you.”

Jason leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, helmet still missing—he hadn’t bothered to fix or replace it yet. There was something kind of strange about being in Dick’s kitchen, like stepping into a dream you didn’t know you had. It was familiar in that not-familiar way. Coffee mugs mismatched. Knife block organized with military precision. A crumpled grocery list on the counter with ‘apples’ crossed out and ‘more cheese’ added in a rushed scrawl.

Jason didn’t question the quiet. They were just... vibing.

He watched Dick toss a few more strands into his mouth before he asked, “Did you tell Bruce?”

Dick laughed. A low, tired thing. Then his face went cold. Still, quiet. “No. I don’t need him more worried than he already is.”

Jason blinked. “Huh.”

That caught him off guard.

“I’m… glad,” he said, slower this time. “Last thing I need is the big bad bat breathing down my neck again.”

Dick looked at him sideways, the corner of his mouth twitching. “What the hell would you even be doing to make Bruce mad at you?”

Jason frowned. “I’m the Red Hood.”

Dick paused. Head tilted. Brow furrowed. Like he hadn’t heard right. Then he reached for his phone from the counter, thumbed a note into it: ask dr. R about increased dose. still seeing jason. more real than usual.

Jason’s expression twisted. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” Dick waved him off, phone already dropped again, and moved toward the sink to fill a glass of water.

Jason watched him, tension curling in his shoulders. He couldn’t tell what was off—just that something definitely was .

And still, no hug. No drawn-out speech. No emotional earthquake.

Just shredded cheese and tap water.

Jason couldn’t help but feel like this was going suspiciously well. Too well. Normally, he'd be wrapped up in a patented Dick Grayson octopus hug by now. He braced himself for it.

Any second now.

Dick just stood there, sipping his water, idly chewing shredded cheese like it was popcorn during a boring movie. He looked tired. Not the usual tired that came with patrol, but the kind that settled behind the eyes. Deep and quiet. The kind that didn't talk unless it had to.

Jason shifted his weight, uncrossed his arms, recrossed them. He wasn’t used to this version of Dick. He didn’t know what to do with it.

“You good?” he asked finally, trying to keep it casual.

Dick nodded like he’d been asked if he wanted toast. “Mmhm.”

Jason squinted. “You sure?”

Dick looked up at him, eyes sharp but not really here . “Yep. You being here’s actually the least weird part of my night.”

Jason’s eyebrows climbed. “Wow. Okay. Either that’s an insult or you’ve really lowered your standards for weird.”

Dick’s smile was a faint, flickering thing. “Little of column A, little of column B.”

Jason rubbed the back of his neck. Still no hug. No anger either. No lecture. No punch.

Just… weirdly chill cheese-eating vibes.

“So,” he tried again, casually leaning against the opposite counter, “do you want to know what I’ve been doing? Or are we just skipping the whole moral inventory part of the reunion?”

Dick’s phone buzzed on the counter, and he glanced at it, barely reading the screen before tapping it off. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Jay.”

Jason blinked. “I don’t?”

“Nope.” Dick grabbed a spoon, finally giving the cheese a break, and dipped it into a half-eaten tub of peanut butter on the shelf behind him. “Not tonight.”

“Okay, what the hell is happening here?” Jason said, finally. “Where’s the part where you hug me and cry and try to fix me?”

Dick frowned, mid-chew. “Why would I cry?”

Jason opened his mouth, closed it, pointed vaguely. “ Because I’m alive? ”

Dick just gave him a long, slow blink. Jason hesitated. Something was off. The math wasn’t mathing.

“You—you do know I’m actually here, right?” he asked carefully.

Dick raised a brow. “Sure, Jay.”

Jason squinted. “That wasn’t a yes.”

Dick yawned, stretched a little, not even looking guilty. “Look, I’m tired, and you’re being surprisingly low-maintenance tonight, so just let me have this, okay?”

Jason didn’t know what this was. But suddenly, he didn’t want to move too fast. He didn’t want to pop the bubble. If Dick was cool with pretending everything was fine, maybe he could be too.

Still. No hug.

Jason stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. “Well… I’m not gonna lie. Kinda thought you’d be more dramatic.”

Dick shrugged. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

Jason smirked, but the corner of it twitched uncertainly. “Maybe you’re losing it.”

Dick gave him finger guns with the spoon still in hand. “Or that.”

“You sure you’re good?” he asked again, quieter this time.

Dick nodded without looking. “Yeah. Or close enough.”

Jason leaned back against the opposite counter, fingers tapping against the edge. “You’re taking this weirdly well.”

“You’ve said that.”

“Yeah, well. Still true.” Jason ran a hand through his hair, restless. “You don’t even wanna ask what I’ve been doing?”

Dick gave a noncommittal shrug. “If you want to tell me, you will.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you won’t.”

Jason squinted at him, head tilting. “You always this zen now?”

Dick turned to rinse his spoon in the sink. “Not really. Just… tired.”

There was a quiet between them. The kind that felt less like silence and more like a held breath. Something unsaid and fragile sat right there on the tile floor between their feet, like it might skitter off if either of them moved too fast.

Jason crossed his arms again, then uncrossed them. He didn’t like this version of Dick. Not because it was worse, just… different. Like someone had opened up the hood and rearranged the wires.

He watched the older man move around the kitchen, deliberate and slow, like someone trying not to wake ghosts.

“You’re not gonna hug me,” he said finally.

Dick glanced at him, then turned back to the fridge. “Nope.”

“You always hug people.”

“Maybe I’ve changed.”

Jason didn’t respond to that. Just stood there, vaguely uncomfortable in his own skin, like the floor was off-balance. He shifted his stance, then looked at the light over the sink. Buzzing faintly, one of those yellow old bulbs that made the place feel more like a hideout than a home.

The kind of place you returned to when nowhere else made sense.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “You know, I didn’t really plan on coming here.”

Dick didn’t say anything. He sat at the edge of the table, spoon resting loosely in one hand, watching something far away that wasn’t in the room.

Jason waited a beat. Then another. “I was gonna keep going, actually. Just... didn’t.”

He laughed, short and dry. “Don’t know what that says about me. Or you.”

Dick’s eyes flicked to him, but there was no reaction. No warmth. Just the flicker of someone cataloguing a moment like it was evidence. It made Jason pause.

He pushed off the counter, stepping closer, but not too close. Careful. Like even he knew instinctively not to break whatever this was.

“You used to get mad,” he said, almost lightly. “Remember? Back when I’d show up unannounced. When I’d screw up and vanish for weeks. You’d get all big-brotherly about it.”

Dick hummed faintly. “I remember.”

“You’d pace. Talk with your hands. Get all that Grayson moral-clarity thing going.”

“Maybe I’m tired of speeches.”

Jason narrowed his eyes, trying to read him. “You’re different.”

Dick didn’t flinch. “Aren’t we all.”

Jason let that hang. It wasn’t the words that threw him—it was the flatness. No heat. No edge. Just… static.

“You really aren’t gonna ask why I’m here?”

Dick gave the smallest shake of his head. “I figured if it mattered, you’d tell me.”

Jason exhaled, stepping back again. He opened his mouth like he might push anyway—then stopped. He wasn’t sure if it was restraint or caution. Maybe both.

Instead, he nodded toward the fridge. “You got anything besides cheese and peanut butter in there? Or are you just surviving on a preschool diet and spite?”

Dick didn’t smile, but something about his expression shifted. A tiny crack in the mask. “There’s yogurt. Probably expired.”

Jason snorted. “Awesome. Gourmet.”

He moved toward the fridge, opened it, squinted. “This milk is definitely a war crime.”

Dick leaned forward, elbow on the table, head in his hand. “It’s been a week.”

“Since you grocery shopped or since you’ve slept?”

“Yes.”

Jason grabbed the yogurt anyway and flopped down into the opposite chair with the kind of familiarity he didn’t fully earn—but didn’t get stopped either.

He peeled the lid slowly. “You really not gonna ask if I’m staying?”

“Nope.”

“You okay with it?”

“You’re sitting there, aren’t you?”

Jason studied him for a second, spoon frozen halfway to his mouth. “You’re not acting like someone who expected company.”

Dick didn’t look at him. “I didn’t.”

Jason frowned, but let it drop. He took a bite of the yogurt—instantly regretted it. “Okay, that’s sour. You’re trying to kill me.”

“You found it. That’s on you.”

“Right, my bad,” Jason said, setting it down and wiping his mouth. “Should’ve brought my own snacks to the world’s weirdest slumber party.”

Dick stood slowly, walked to the sink again. Just rinsed the spoon. Methodical. Like he needed something to do with his hands.

Jason watched him. Then, quieter: “I thought you’d be pissed. Or at least... something.”

Dick didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, water running low over the metal. Then: “I don’t have it in me tonight, Jay.”

Jason heard the quiet strain under that. The edges worn down—not gone, just dulled. He didn’t know what had happened or how long it had been like this, but he knew the feeling. Like some part of you had gone into low power mode and you weren’t sure it’d turn back on.

He leaned back in the chair, arms folded loosely.

“Then I guess I’ll shut up for once.”

Dick looked at him, and for the briefest moment, something flickered. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything. Just the trace of someone still in there.

Jason didn’t press.

He just sat there, breathing the same air, letting the silence settle.

The fridge hummed. The sink dripped.

And somewhere between the spoon and the sour yogurt and the sharp, buzzing light, they made a kind of peace neither one of them had words for.

Somehow, in the last two weeks of Jason lingering around Dick’s apartment—eating his food, hogging his couch, making sarcastic comments during reruns of Jeopardy! —they hadn’t touched. Not once.

It wasn’t intentional. Not at first. No handshake when Jason showed up, no casual shoulder bump in the kitchen. No pat on the back or shove to the arm after one of Jason’s snide remarks. It just… didn’t happen.

It became habit, that distance. That careful orbit.

Jason moved like someone who expected to be shoved away. Dick moved like someone who wasn’t sure what was real. The space between them filled up with dry banter, microwave meals, and flickering TV light—but never contact. Never that grounding, tangible thing.

It didn’t seem strange until it suddenly was. Like two magnets hovering close but never quite clicking together, repelled by some silent charge neither wanted to name.

Jason didn’t push. Dick didn’t reach.

And that was that.

Until tonight.

Dick stumbled through the apartment door just after one in the morning, one hand pressed to his thigh and blood already soaking through his suit. He didn’t slam the door shut, just eased it closed with his shoulder, jaw clenched, breath shallow. The wound was bad. Not fatal, but messy—jagged and deep, and it burned in that sick, slow way that told him he’d been stupid.

He left a thin, broken trail across the hardwood. Red, vivid against the dark grain. A streak here, a drop there, the heel of his boot smearing it all into a ghost of a footprint.

Stupid.

Distracted.

He should’ve seen the knife coming. Should’ve moved faster, cleared the alley with more focus. He’d been thinking too hard, mind fogged from too many nights without sleep and one too many therapy sessions that left him hollow instead of grounded.

He dropped his gear in a pile by the door, peeled his suit halfway down, and limped to the bathroom, towel pressed tight to his leg. It was the kind of injury that should’ve ended the night in the med bay. But going to the cave meant questions. And more eyes.

And Dick wasn’t up for eyes right now.

He flipped on the bathroom light, the harsh white making everything sharper, too loud in its own way. He opened the cabinet, pulled the med kit down like he’d done a hundred times before, and sat on the edge of the tub, thigh already throbbing.

No hesitation. No panic. Just the calm, clinical efficiency of someone who had stitched themselves back together more times than they could count.

He didn’t call out.

Didn’t ask for help.

You don’t ask a hallucination for help.

He had the thread already looped and the needle pinched between his fingers when Jason walked in, the front door clicking shut behind him. The sound of a paper bag hitting the counter echoed down the short hallway, followed by footsteps.

“Yo, I got whatever brand of chips you pretend not to like—”

Jason’s voice cut off when he reached the doorway.

He stopped cold. Just stood there for a second like he’d stumbled into a murder scene.

“What the hell—? Dick, you’re bleeding.”

“I noticed,” Dick said, flat, not even glancing up.

Jason dropped the bag. It crinkled loudly as it hit the counter.

Then Jason was moving, fast and hard steps across the tile. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Dick’s hand froze for half a breath, fingers tightening around the needle. Then, quietly, like it didn’t matter at all, “Didn’t think it mattered.”

Jason’s brows pulled together, like he couldn’t process the sentence. “What?”

Dick didn’t answer. Just dipped a piece of gauze in antiseptic and began cleaning the edges of the gash. His hands were steady. Too steady. Like all the emotion had been drained out already and this was just muscle memory now.

He reached for the needle again.

But Jason was already in front of him.

Jason didn’t think.

He just dropped to a crouch, voice low and clipped. “Move. Let me do it.”

Dick’s hand jerked slightly, the needle wavering between his fingers. “I’ve got it—”

Jason reached out anyway, instinct taking over. He pressed his hand to Dick’s leg, fingers firm, steadying the bleeding limb like he’d done a hundred times before.

And Dick flinched.

Not the normal kind of flinch—no wince or twitch of pain. This was full-body, reflexive. A jolt like he’d touched a live wire.

Jason froze.

His hand hovered just above Dick’s skin, the heat of it still lingering where they’d made contact. He looked up, eyes narrowing, locking onto Dick’s face.

“What was that?” he asked, not unkind, but sharp—concern masked with frustration. It was the only way he knew how to show it.

Dick didn’t answer right away.

He just stared, eyes wide but not panicked—more… stunned. Breath shallow. Shoulders tight. Like Jason’s touch had cracked something open he hadn’t meant to disturb.

Jason waited, pulse drumming somewhere behind his ears.

Then Dick spoke.

Quiet. Hoarse. Like the words hurt coming out.

“…You’re real?”

Jason’s brow furrowed. “Of course I’m—”

But Dick was already shaking his head. Once. Slow. Not dismissing him—just… processing.

He didn’t explain. Didn’t try to cover it up.

He just pressed the needle and thread into Jason’s hand with fingers that trembled, then leaned back against the sink like his body had nothing left in it. He reached blindly for the bottle of painkillers on the edge of the counter, popped the cap with too much force, dry-swallowed two pills like he was taking a shot of something stronger. Then he chased them with a half-glass of water, tilting it back like the taste didn’t even register.

Jason watched all of it in silence.

Something in his chest pulled tight.

He gave a soft, humorless chuckle. “Okay. That answers nothing. But I’m gonna patch you up before you pass out and I have to figure out how to carry your bleeding ass to a hospital.”

Dick didn’t respond. He just tipped his head back, eyes closing for a second, the tension still there in the line of his jaw.

So Jason went to work.

He peeled the towel away, wincing at the gash. The bleeding had slowed, but it was still bad—ugly, raw, threaded with dirt from wherever Dick had taken the hit. He cleaned it as gently as he could, but still got a hiss between Dick’s teeth when the antiseptic hit. Jason didn’t comment. Just kept going, hands steady but mouth running—quiet sarcasm and half-hearted insults to fill the silence.

“You ever heard of armor, genius? Or planning?”

Dick grunted. “You want me to flex while you stitch or just sit here and bleed?”

Jason smirked but didn’t stop. “You just sit there and be a pain in the ass. You’re good at that.”

The room settled into a weird rhythm—soft curses from Dick, muttered jabs from Jason, and the rhythmic pull of thread through skin.

By the time he tied off the last stitch, Jason’s back ached and his hands smelled like antiseptic and gauze. He wiped them off, stood slowly.

“Done. You’ll live. Unfortunately.”

Dick grabbed a towel from the side and pressed it lightly over the stitches, testing the pain with a practiced hand. He didn’t say thanks. Jason didn’t expect him to.

With a grunt, Dick pushed himself up and limped out of the bathroom, dragging his leg like a man auditioning for a dramatic reenactment of his own injury.

Jason followed at a slower pace, watching as Dick dropped onto the couch like gravity had finally caught up with him.

Jason leaned against the bathroom doorway, arms folded tightly across his chest, watching Dick sink into the couch like someone who’d finally run out of fight.

Not the theatrical kind of collapse—no groan, no exaggerated sigh. Just a slow, silent surrender. Like gravity had finally won. Dick eased himself down, one leg stiff with fresh stitches, the other planted to keep him from tipping. His back hit the cushions, and his head tilted back, eyes closed. One arm slung across his face, shielding him from the too-bright ceiling light. The other rested limply across his bandaged thigh, fingers curled but useless.

“I am simply too sober for this conversation,” Dick muttered, voice muffled, flat. Like it wasn’t meant to be heard. Like it was just a release valve for the pressure building in his chest.

Jason didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just stood there. Watching. Frowning.

Something about the way Dick looked in that moment—stripped of his usual armor, raw in a way that had nothing to do with blood or bruises—made Jason pause. Made something slow and tight settle deep in his chest.

The bleeding had mostly stopped, but the towel beneath Dick’s leg was still damp with it. It spread out in uneven blotches, already turning brown around the edges. Jason’s stitches had held, but that wasn’t what he was paying attention to now.

He wasn’t seeing the injury anymore. He was seeing the way Dick hadn’t made eye contact during it. The way he’d flinched— actually flinched—when Jason touched him.

And then Jason remembered the moment in the bathroom. That split second of disbelief, the whisper like a prayer or a curse.

You're real?

It hit him like a gut punch.

Dick hadn’t meant it like a metaphor.

He hadn’t been talking about the surrealness of seeing someone from the past. He hadn’t been exaggerating.

He had genuinely not known if Jason was real.

Jason’s jaw tensed. The thought bounced around in his skull like a ricochet.

All at once, the last two weeks unfolded in front of him again, but differently this time. Recolored. Reframed.

The weird distance. The way Dick had never quite looked at him for too long. Never touched him, never got close. The polite neutrality, like Jason was a stranger borrowing his space instead of a brother crashing on his couch.

He hadn’t asked for help with the groceries. Hadn’t asked Jason to get the remote when it fell off the coffee table. Hadn’t commented when Jason borrowed his hoodie or burned the eggs. He hadn’t even rolled his eyes the way he used to when Jason made a terrible joke.

Not once.

Because none of it had been real for him.

Two weeks of eating dinner at the same table. Of watching the same dumb game shows. Of Jason talking about rooftops and patrols and backup plans.

And Dick had been thinking he was hallucinating the whole time.

A ghost in Jason’s shape.

Jason exhaled slowly. The sound came out shaky.

He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in a few measured steps. No sarcastic remark. No mocking grin. Just quiet resolve. He sat down next to Dick on the couch, slowly and carefully, as if trying not to disrupt the fragile shape of the air between them.

This time, he let his knee bump Dick’s.

On purpose.

Contact. Proof.

And Dick didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift away. Didn’t even open his eyes.

He just let out a breath—quiet, rough—and muttered, like it was cracking out of his chest, “Fuck… you’re real.”

Jason let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Should I be offended or concerned?”

Dick didn’t move his arm. “Probably concerned.”

Jason swallowed, eyes still on him. “Okay…”

The room was still, lit only by the low lamp in the corner and the cold buzz of the fridge in the kitchen. The outside world might as well have been a different planet. Everything here was suspended, just the two of them in this quiet, strange gravity.

Dick let out another breath—slower this time. More like a release than a collapse.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “I asked my therapist to increase my prescription.”

Jason blinked, startled. “Why?”

Dick finally lowered his arm, rubbed at his face with the heel of his palm like he was trying to rub away a bad dream. “Because if you’re real,” he said, voice low and raw, “that’s not necessary.”

Jason’s eyes sharpened, the pieces clicking together with too much clarity. “Wait… have you—” his voice caught, then steadied again. “Have you hallucinated me before?”

Dick laughed. Bitter, quiet. No humor in it.

“Far too many times,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “You’re kind of my greatest hits reel. Angry ghost version, disappointed ghost version, sad-smile-while-I-eat-cheese version. Take your pick.”

Jason leaned back, stunned. “Jesus.”

He stared ahead for a second, not seeing the room. Just seeing that . The idea of Dick, sitting here alone, bleeding, talking to someone who wasn’t there. Someone who looked like him. Sounded like him. Probably said the same things he would’ve said.

Finally, Dick turned his head, looked at Jason full-on. Really looked.

His eyes were bloodshot, but focused. Clear in a way that hadn’t been there before.

“Did you know I’ve been calling you Hallucina-Jason this entire time?”

Jason blinked. “What, in your head?”

Dick shrugged, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And once out loud. Pretty sure I did it while offering you peanut butter.”

Jason snorted, despite everything. “You absolute lunatic.”

“Yeah, well,” Dick muttered, letting his head drop back against the couch again, “you kept showing up.”

Jason tilted his head, the smile fading into something quieter. He didn’t say anything for a beat, just watched him.

His voice came softer. “So what now? You believe me?”

Dick didn’t answer right away. He looked down at their knees, still touching. Like he was checking. Like he needed to make sure the connection was still there, hadn’t disappeared.

He reached out slowly, almost absently, and nudged Jason’s arm with his elbow. Not hard. Just a brush. A test.

Still there.

His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“I think I have to.”

Jason sat there, letting the weight of that last sentence settle in his chest.

I think I have to.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a moment from a movie. It was quiet. Grounded. Like something fragile finally allowed to land after hovering too long. Jason didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded slowly, lips pressed into a line as he stared at the coffee table like it might help him sort through the tangle in his head.

After a long beat, he asked, “Do any of the others know?”

Dick didn’t move, still leaning back, eyes half-lidded like the ceiling was telling him a story only he could hear. But his mouth twitched, the corner curving into something dry.

“You mean the little bats?”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “Any of them. Tim, Steph, Cass… hell, even the mutt. Or the big bat himself?”

Dick gave a soft, rough chuckle. “Bruce pays for the prescription.”

Jason blinked. “Wait—he what ?”

“He’s got that blank check Wayne Foundation insurance, right?” Dick said, tilting his head just enough to glance over. “Therapist bills go through that. So does the med delivery.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “So he’s footing the bill but doesn’t know what he’s paying for?”

Dick shrugged. “Probably assumes it’s for stress. PTSD. Whatever flavor of trauma we’re all marinating in.”

Jason’s jaw ticked as he processed that. “So… he doesn’t know you’re hallucinating people?”

“Nope.” Dick’s voice was almost cheerful now, in that kind of bleak, self-deprecating way only he could pull off. “Definitely doesn’t know I’ve been having casual conversations with Ghost-Jason while eating string cheese in my underwear.”

Jason shook his head slowly. “And the others?”

“No one asks,” Dick said simply. “They see me and assume I’ve got it together. Or they don’t want to deal with it. Take your pick.”

Jason leaned forward, forearms on his knees, brow furrowed. “You haven’t told anyone? At all?”

“Do you know what happens when the ‘stable one’ admits he’s seeing people who aren’t there?” Dick asked, dry now. “They start assigning you handlers. Or looking at you like you’re glass.”

Jason didn’t respond. He just stared at him, silent.

Dick sighed, softer this time. “I didn’t want it to be real. That’s all. You. Showing up. It felt… safe to think it wasn’t.”

Jason’s voice came quieter. “Why me?”

Dick turned his head toward him again. “What do you mean?”

Jason held his gaze, eyes sharp but quieter now. “Out of all the things your brain could conjure—why me?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and unflinching.

Dick didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him a way out. His jaw worked slightly, like he was chewing on the truth, trying to decide if it was worth saying out loud.

Then, finally—softly, like it hurt—he said, “Because you're my little brother.”

Jason blinked, caught off guard by how simple and brutal that sounded.

Dick let out a slow breath, like he’d been holding that line in his lungs for years. “You died. And no one let me talk about it. Not really. We mourned you like a soldier, not a kid. Not my kid. Bruce shut down. The others got quiet. And I—”

He paused. Swallowed.

“I kept seeing you. Because I think part of me refused to let go. Hallucina-Jason didn’t argue with me. Didn’t hate me. He just… sat on my windowsill. Made stupid jokes. Stayed.”

Jason looked away for a second, throat tight. “And the real me?”

Dick gave a hollow laugh, no bite in it. “The real you came back wearing body armor and a grudge.”

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, but didn’t deny it.

“I needed you to be okay,” Dick said, voice barely above a whisper now. “So my brain made a version that was. Because I missed my brother. And I couldn’t stand the silence after you were gone.”

Jason looked at him again—really looked—and something in his face softened. Not pity. Not guilt. Just… understanding.

“I'm not that version,” he said finally.

“I know,” Dick replied. “But I’ll take real over perfect any day.”

There was a silence that followed. But it was different now. Less sharp. Less fragile.

After a minute, Jason asked, “You still seeing a therapist?”

“Yeah,” Dick said, without hesitation this time. “Weekly. Tuesdays. She makes me talk about things I’d rather launch into the sun.”

Jason nodded. “Good.”

Dick turned his head, raised an eyebrow. “What, concerned I’ll replace Hallucina-Jason with Actual-Therapist-Jason?”

Jason smirked. “Please. I’ve got way better hair.”

Dick rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. Didn’t deflect either.

Instead, he let the silence return, leaned his head back again, and let their knees keep touching.

He didn’t flinch.

And Jason didn’t move.