❝warm winter❞

The sound of static coming from his radio is what wakes Dick up from his one hour nap. He's been growing increasingly tired everyday, as well as irritated, ever since news of that masked vigilante parading around in a Halloween costume showed up. Called himself the Batman or something.

Dick didn't particularly care about his presence at first, until it became evident the Batman was becoming a nuisance. It's not like the guy was evil, no, Dick's problem with him is the fact that more and more people are getting hurt as casualties of whatever war the Batman's waged with Gotham's rogues.

As it turns out, the dispatch call wasn't for an individual, but — as Dick guessed it — an emergency call for the Upper West Side of Gotham.

Really, Dick should be grateful that someone was even brave enough to stand up to the corruption, but can the guy do it in a way where innocent civilians don't get caught in the crossfire?

As it turns out, the dispatch call wasn't for an individual, but — as Dick guessed it — an emergency call for the Upper West Side of Gotham.

"—reporting multiple casualties—" the voice cuts in and out. Dick grabs his walkie talkie off the table as he rushes to put his shoes back on. "—the Batman—in a confrontation with—" More static, but Dick didn't need to hear the rest. If the Batman is involved, it never means a good thing.

He wakes his partner, Nico, with a gentle nudge. Dick presses the button on his radio and responds, "A41 on the way. ETA five minutes."

Dick Grayson was only eight years old when billionaire Bruce Wayne took him in. It was scary at first, living under the roof of a man who was a stranger to him. It certainly didn't help that the Wayne Manor, in all its glory and fancy furnishings that Dick used to only be able to dream of living in when he was at the circus, was so daunting and so…empty.

Back at the circus — despite the cramped spaces in tents and the lack of privacy sometimes — Dick felt safe. He felt comfortable. He knew he had his parents to come home to, and friends his age to hang out with after rehearsals. No matter which city they toured, Dick knew he had a family to come home to.

But the Wayne Manor was huge for only three people living in it: just little Richard, Bruce, and a British butler named Alfred whom Dick had a hard time getting along with at first. Bruce, he rarely ever saw (Alfred would say he was busy, that his company needed him, but Dick had nagging suspicions that the old butler may not be telling the truth, not entirely), so he spent most of his days hanging out with Alfred.

It wasn't even that he wasn't allowed to leave the manor — no, in fact, Bruce encouraged him to ("You should be making friends, not stay cooped up in this big mansion all by yourself all day," he'd say), it was just simply that Dick couldn't bring himself to leave.

"You'll be safe here," Bruce had told him, that first night they went home together. "The people responsible for your parents' deaths — they won't get to you here, okay?"

That was what Bruce said to him, and yet, somehow, Dick found himself alone anyway. With Bruce gone most of the day — and sometimes, Dick would notice that Alfred would be gone during the wee hours of the night, when the old butler thought Dick had gone to bed — there was not much to do.

But that was the thing: Dick struggled to fall asleep most nights, what with his dreams often plagued by his last, gruesome memories of his parents. He found himself wandering the manor halls at times in an attempt to drown out the bad thoughts. Mostly though, he was seeking comfort. Comfort he couldn't seek through his parents. Comfort he couldn't find or ask from Bruce (for what right did he have?).

And then one night, he accidentally stumbled upon a secret room. A secret room with a long, winding path of stairs that led to only god knows what. It was late at night, and Dick's feet (and curiosity) led him to the main study. Something about this room always called to him, but he didn't know what. Perhaps it was the grandfather clock that stood tall and proud next to the shelves. Dick found himself drawn to the clock and he approached it — he couldn't remember what he was doing, but he must've fiddled with it enough that he heard a click! and the panel slid off, revealing a secret entrance.

There, Dick found what seemed to be a secret base of operations hidden in a cave under the manor. He gingerly took a step towards the bridge leading towards a platform at the center of the cave, when he heard a loud SCREECH and a cauldron of bats flew in his direction. Dick dropped to the ground instinctively.

What the heck was that?

Once the screeching dissipated, Dick rolled to his feet again and made his way down the bridge.

Dick doesn’t remember how he ended up in some random back alley in Blüdhaven with a knife sticking out of his stomach. His head is spinning, and his domino mask is barely covering his face. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to do much of anything.

Ugh… What was he doing again…? Right. He’d stormed out of the manor a few weeks ago because he got into another stupid fight with Bruce, this time over Damian.

Damian, whose body is probably growing colder and colder under the dirt they buried him in.

Damian, whose little body is being broken down and used as a feed by earthworms, with bones that are slowly getting reduced to dust.

Damian, who still had his whole life ahead of him, who didn’t deserve to die so brutally the way he did.

Damian, the boy Dick raised like he was his own son when Bruce Wayne “died.”

Damian, Dick’s little brother.

Damian, the Robin to his Batman.

Damian.

Losing Damian opened an unresolved can of worms Dick wasn’t aware he still had – well, no, it isn’t so much that he wasn’t aware of it, but more so that they were feelings he had buried long, long ago. Feelings of guilt that he would try for the rest of his life to atone for. Feelings of guilt that followed him wherever he went, through Tim, and now Damian. Guilt that he would rather forget about (but fail miserably).

So of course it’s no surprise that Dick would spend his nights beating up thugs like there’s no tomorrow instead of dealing with the grief of losing Damian. Fortunately for Dick, he is very good at ignoring his own feelings; he doesn’t become cold and calculated and emotionless like Bruce so often does. But unfortunately for Dick, he is in every way much like his father in that he will push himself, obsess over his targets, and put himself at risk even when he is in no condition to fight.

Which is how he ended up here. Bleeding out in some dirty alley with no back up, no comms, no nothing. Because of course the one time Dick decides to go on patrol without Oracle in his ear looking out for him, is the one night he fucks up and gets himself stabbed.

Dick is careful not to pull the knife out as he gets to his feet again. His apartment shouldn’t be too far, so he figures he could just… go home. Besides, with that major fight he just had with Bruce, he is not about to tuck tail and run to the manor for help over some stupid stab wound he could just stitch up by himself.

He shakily gets to his feet and launches himself into the air.

Richard Grayson wasn’t always a picky eater. Growing up in a family of acrobats, Dick knew that maintaining his figure was important to his and his family’s profession. He knew his parents followed a strict diet — maintaining the perfect weight and ideal figure was crucial to their performances. But John and Mary Grayson never forced Dick to eat anything he didn’t want, nor did they ever stop Dick from eating anything he did want. He was, of course, still a growing child. And though his parents were never strict about Dick’s eating habits, he still tried his best to be mindful of what he ate.

This was something he’d brought with him well into adulthood. Eat properly, but not too much. Just enough to stay healthy, to stay fit. Just enough to not get sick. Just enough to be efficient. Just enough.

So it didn’t make sense to Dick now, why he sat at his kitchen counter, staring at a bowl of cereal he doesn’t have the appetite for. After a night of patrol in the streets of Blüdhaven, he thought he would have been hungrier when he returned home, but… He sighs, opting to look through the fridge instead of forcing himself to eat something that makes his stomach churn and his anxiety spike.

But when he opens his fridge, he finds nothing but old leftovers and empty containers. Truthfully, Dick has been too exhausted to clear out his fridge, much less clean his apartment if the empty dishes he’d left out were any indication. Since returning from Spyral, Dick hasn’t really done much of anything. Alfred would swing by to clean up and leave food for him sometimes, but it’s been weeks since the old butler had visited him.

Dick doesn’t blame him, not really. Maybe his siblings’ contempt for Dick for faking his death got to Alfred, too. Or maybe he wanted to stay out of it. Or maybe he was just too busy getting strung along with one of Batman’s missions. Whatever the reason was, Dick didn’t hold a grudge against the old man and he didn’t question his whereabouts either. Dick is an adult. He can handle himself.