#crypt's asks

Small. Almost insulting. All that power packed into something so tiny, chalky and harmless-looking, like a chip of the moon. It did not look like it could sand you down until laughter came late, anger showed up muffled, and joy felt distant, waving from behind thick glass. It did not look like it could make you lose your keys three times before noon, or make you stare at Dick while he talked and realize, with heat crawling up your neck, that his words had slipped right through you. It did not look like it could turn breakfast into a fight with your own throat.

You closed your fingers over it.

The doorframe creaked softly, not from weight but from the old building settling. Dick didn’t step in right away. He had learned that too, the careful geography of your bad mornings, how close was too close, how concern could feel like surveillance if it came at the wrong angle. In the mirror, you saw him leaning against the bathroom doorway in sweatpants and a faded blue hoodie, hair damp from the shower and falling over his forehead, eyes soft but awake enough to notice everything. He held a mug in one hand and a plate with toast in the other.

“Hey,” he said.

You looked down at your fist. “Hey.”

“Ginger tea,” he said, lifting the mug slightly. “And toast. Very glamorous. Michelin star breakfast for the man who once ate cereal out of a saucepan because all my bowls were dirty.”

“That was one time.”

“It was majestic.”

“It was depression.”

His smile flickered, not gone, just gentled. “Yeah. I know.”

Your throat tightened, worse than the pill ever could. You hated when he did that, caught the joke and the bruise underneath in the same breath. Dick Grayson could make care feel like nothing until it was everything, until his hand was under your elbow before you even noticed your knees had started to give.

You turned from the mirror and leaned your hip against the sink. “I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t have to eat the whole thing.” He came in slowly and set the plate on the counter, careful not to crowd the pill bottle, careful not to look at your closed fist too long. “Just a few bites so your stomach doesn’t declare war on the entire eastern seaboard.”

“My stomach has a right to protest.”

“Sure. We respect organized labor in this household.”

You almost smiled, despite yourself. Almost. It slipped away before it could settle. Your fist clenched until the pill left a mark in your palm. "I hate it."

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” The words came out sharper than you meant. You saw him absorb them, saw the tiny shift in his shoulders, the way he stayed loose on purpose. Acrobat’s body. Big brother’s patience. Boyfriend’s hurt tucked neatly out of sight because he knew this wasn’t really about him. That made you feel worse. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“You don’t have to clean it up that fast.” Dick’s voice stayed low. “You’re allowed to be mad.”

“At what? My brain? The bottle? The fact that everyone keeps telling me stability is worth it like I’m not the one paying for it?”

His eyes moved over your face, and you hated how naked it made you feel. Not exposed cruelly, exposed to being loved by someone who had memorized the weather of you. “Yeah,” he said. “All of that sounds worth being mad at.”

You let out a laugh, dry and empty. "It makes me numb, Dick. I know I need it. I know what happens when I skip it. I’m not trying to be stupid. But sometimes it feels like I have to pick between being sick and being erased."

The rain thickened against the window. Somewhere outside, a siren rose and fell, Gotham singing through its broken teeth. Dick glanced toward the sound by instinct, then back to you, choosing you again in that small, quiet way that always undid you more than grand gestures ever could.

“You’re not stupid,” he said. “And you’re not erased.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t know what it feels like from inside your head. I’m not going to pretend I do.”

Your eyes burned. You looked down quickly. The pill was still in your fist, damp now from your skin. “Sometimes I forget things you tell me. Important things. And you get that look.”

“What look?”

“The look where you’re pretending it’s fine.”

Dick’s mouth parted, then closed. He leaned back against the opposite wall, giving the words room to land. “I’m not upset because you forget. I get scared because I know you hate yourself for it before I can even remind you it’s okay.”

That was worse. Kindness always made it worse. You set the pill on the counter, the click sharp in the quiet. "Maybe I don’t want to take it today."

The bathroom went still.

Dick didn’t lunge for the bottle. He didn’t scold you. He didn’t do the thing some people did: the immediate panic dressed as authority, as if your diagnosis made you a locked door they had permission to force open. He only looked at the pill, then at you.

“Okay,” he said carefully. “Tell me what today means.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Not forever. Not the big scary future version. Just today. What happens if you don’t take it today?”

You hated that question because it was real. He was asking you to look past the first rush of relief, past the small rebellion of leaving the pill alone, into the long stretch after. You scrubbed your hands over your face. "I don’t know. Maybe nothing."

“Maybe.”

“Maybe I feel better.”

“Maybe,” he said again.

“Maybe I feel worse,” you snapped.

“Maybe.”

You glared at him. “Stop being reasonable. It’s annoying.”

His lips twitched. “I’ve been called worse by scarier men.”

“I’m very scary.”

“You are. Terrifying. My knees are doing jazz hands.”

Another almost-smile, this one sharp enough to sting. You looked away before he could catch it. "I just want one morning where I don’t have to swallow proof that I’m broken."

Dick’s expression changed then. Not pity. You could not have survived pity. It was something steadier, something with steel beams under it. He stepped closer, not all the way, just enough that the warmth of him entered your space like a light left on.

“You’re not taking proof that you’re broken,” he said. “You’re taking something because your brain chemistry likes to play chicken with traffic. That doesn’t make you broken. It makes you someone managing a hard thing every day, which is exhausting and unfair and not a moral failure.”

You stared at the sink drain. “You sound like a pamphlet with nice shoulders.”

“Thank you. I’ve worked hard to become Gotham’s most emotionally literate pamphlet.”

You let out a breath, almost a laugh, almost a sob. Dick’s eyes softened, but he did not move in. He just reached for the plate, broke the toast in half, and held out a piece.

“Tiny bite,” he said. “Not because I’m ordering you. Because nausea is a goblin and we can bribe it.”

You hesitated, then took the toast. Butter, honey at the edge, because he remembered you liked it that way when mornings were bad. The first bite was cardboard until the honey found your tongue, small and gold. Your stomach twisted, grumbled, then went quiet, waiting.

Dick offered the mug next. “Tea?”

You took it in both hands. The mug was hot enough to sting your fingers, almost nice. Steam curled up, ginger and lemon, sharp and clean. You sipped, careful. The heat slid down your throat, and for a moment you could focus on that instead of the pill, the bottle, the shame crouched in the corner with its claws tucked in.

“I don’t want you to have to do this,” you said, your voice rough.

“Make toast?”

“Dick.”

“I know.” He leaned against the counter beside you now, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his. “But I’m your boyfriend. Checking in on you is not a prison sentence.”

“It turns you into my caretaker.”

“Sometimes,” he said. “And sometimes you take care of me when I come home with bruises I pretend are not that bad.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it. He had you there, the bastard.

Dick tilted his head, studying you with that blue-eyed gentleness that made lying feel both possible and pointless. “Taking care of each other doesn’t mean you become a burden. It means we build systems for the parts of life that keep trying to trip us in dark alleys.”

“Systems,” you repeated flatly.

“Yes. Very romantic. Calendars. Pill organizers. Check-ins. The erotic thrill of hydration.”

“Please never say that again.”

“Noted.”

You rubbed your thumb over the mug. “And what, you just… ask me every day if I took them?”

“I can,” he said. “Or I can not. We can make it less weird. I can text you a bat emoji at nine.”

“That’s worse.”

“A pill emoji?”

“Threatening.”

“A little circus tent?”

“Because you’re a clown?”

“Because I’m delightful.”

“You’re something.”

His grin warmed the room for half a second, then faded into something quieter. “We can make it your choice. Maybe I check in without asking directly. Maybe I bring breakfast when I’m here. Maybe we make a note on the fridge. Maybe you tell me, ‘I’m having a bad med day,’ and I know that means I stay nearby but don’t hover. And we call your doctor about the numbness and nausea, because suffering through side effects in silence is not actually a personality trait, even though both of us have tried to make it one."

He paused, considering. “And you’ve got other things too. That playlist you made for the mornings that start rough. The notebook by your bed where you write down what you actually remember. Therapy appointments on Thursdays, your group texts with Steph and Cass for days when you need to talk about anything but meds. Steph, who sends you bad puns and memes until you roll your eyes so hard it resets your brain, and Cass, who somehow knows when just to send a single heart or remind you to look out the window, no pressure, just presence. The reminders stuck to your laptop: drink water, breathe, make coffee before decisions. We’ll use whatever helps. You never have to figure it out alone.”

Your grip tightened around the mug. “I don’t want them to change everything and make it worse.”

“I know.” His voice dropped. “But you don’t have to decide that this morning. This morning is just tea, toast, pill, and me standing here looking devastatingly handsome.”

You snorted softly. “You ruined it.”

“I saved it.”

“You really didn’t.”

“I’m choosing to remember this differently.”

The word remember clipped something tender inside you. Dick noticed. Of course, he noticed. His teasing softened into an apology without him needing to say it. He reached out, slow enough for you to refuse, and touched two fingers to your wrist.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Come back here.”

“I’m here.”

“More here.”

You swallowed. The pill waited by the sink, patient and awful. You hated that you would take it. You hated that some part of you wanted Dick to make you, so the choice would not be yours, so that you could be angry at him instead of afraid of yourself. You hated that he knew you too well to do that.

“I need help,” you said, barely audible.

Dick’s fingers curled around your wrist, gentle pressure, an anchor without a chain. “Okay.”

“I hate needing help.”

“Yeah.”

“I might hate you for helping.”

“That’s okay.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “No, it’s not.”

He shrugged with one shoulder, but his face was serious. “You can feel whatever you feel. I’m not made of sugar glass. I can handle you being angry because something hurts.”

You looked at him for a long moment. His hair was still a mess. A bruise lingered on his jaw from patrol, yellow at the edges. He made you tea. He did not yell. He did not turn your fear into a lesson. He just stood there and made the world small enough to fit inside one breath.

“I’m scared I’ll stop feeling things,” you said.

Dick’s thumb moved once over your pulse. “Then I’ll remind you what you feel like.”

“That sounds impossible.”

“I do impossible before breakfast all the time.”

“You’re such a show-off.”

“Guilty.”

Your hand shook as you set the mug down. Dick said nothing. He picked up the pill, set it in your palm, then closed your fingers around it with both his hands, like he was giving you something precious instead of something you hated.

“One step,” he said.

You stared at your joined hands. “One step.”

“Toast first?”

You took another bite because you could not find a reason not to. You chewed, swallowed. Your stomach twisted but stayed quiet. Dick handed you the mug. You took the pill, let it sit on your tongue, bitterness blooming at once, your whole body tensing with the old urge to spit it out, to refuse the deal. Dick’s eyes stayed on yours, not the pill, not your throat. Just you.

“You’ve got it,” he said softly.

You swallowed.

For a second, nothing happened. Of course, nothing happened. The world stayed whole. The bathroom stayed ordinary. You were still in Dick Grayson’s apartment, rain on the windows, honey on your tongue, dread under your ribs. The pill was gone. The choice was made. Your knees went weak in the aftermath of a fight no one else would notice.

Dick took the mug before your shaking hands could spill it. Then he opened his arms, slow again, always asking even when he did not use words.

You stepped into him.

He wrapped around you with careful strength that made your chest ache. One hand between your shoulder blades, the other at the back of your head. You pressed your face into his hoodie, breathing in soap, rain, the faint metallic ghost of Gotham rooftops. For a minute, you hated him a little. For being kind. For being here. For making it harder to vanish into your own worst instincts. For knowing how to hold you without making you feel trapped.

Then the hate thinned, flimsy as wet paper, and underneath it was just fear.

“I don’t want to do this every day,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Then we don’t solve every day at once.” His chin rested lightly against your hair. “We solve today. Tomorrow can take a number and sit down.”

Your laugh broke against his chest, small and wrecked. “That’s stupid.”

“Very. Did it help?”

“A little.”

“I’ll take it.”

You stayed there until the nausea passed from a wave to a low tide. Dick didn’t rush you. His hand moved slowly over your back, tracing a rhythm steadier than your thoughts. When you finally pulled away, your eyes felt swollen, but his face didn’t do anything horrible with that information. No pity. No triumph. Just love, quiet, and a little tired, standing barefoot on the tile.

He reached past you for the pill bottle and turned it in his hand. “Can I set up the organizer for the week?”

You grimaced. “That makes me feel ninety.”

“I’ll get you a cool one.”

“There are no cool pill organizers.”

“There are if I put stickers on it.”

“Please don’t.”

“I’m hearing ‘maybe.’”

“You’re hearing wrong.”

He kissed your forehead, smiling against your skin. “Then no stickers. Unless they’re tasteful.”

“Dick.”

“Fine. No stickers.” He paused. “What about a tiny Nightwing logo?”

You stared at him.

He lifted both hands in surrender. “Cruel but fair.”

Something in you loosened. Not fixed, not cured, not rewritten, just loose enough to let air in. You leaned against the counter and watched him rinse your mug, watched the easy way his hands moved through the kitchen, setting your bottle by a glass of water, putting toast on a plate, scribbling a note on a napkin because he knew reminders on your phone made you feel hunted. 

You tried to remember the last time a morning felt this gentle. Still, your mind was already circling future hurdles: the way sunlight hit your desk too hard at noon, that hollow pressure in your chest during meetings, the sticky-fingered anxiety that came clawing at you on the subway home. 

The pill was only one part of the fight; sometimes the struggle felt like a relay baton passed through every hour, carried in the little stutters of your daily life, pushing against every ordinary thing until bedtime. Dick knew this, too. He did not try to solve it all at once. Just today. Just this ritual, small and temporary, in the middle of the bigger, messier days. 

Still, something in you wondered if repeating these small efforts- tea, toast, pill, another morning survived, could shape the edges of tomorrow into something softer. Maybe not easier, but possible. Maybe, in time, the days would stack into something that felt like hope.

Today only, the note said. Tea. Toast. Pill. You. Me.

You picked it up when he wasn’t looking and folded it once, then again, small enough to fit into your pocket.

Dick glanced over his shoulder. “You stealing my very official medical documentation?”

“It’s evidence.”

“Against me?”

“Maybe.”

His smile softened. “Good. Keep it.”

So you did. And later, when the day blurred at the edges, and your stomach complained, and your mind tried to convince you that needing help made you less of a man, less of a boyfriend, less of a person, Dick sent you one text from across the room because he was ridiculous and because sometimes ridiculous things worked.

Just a circus tent emoji.

Then another message.

Dick: Still here.