#silverwhump

It’s fine, Dick thought, it’s fine.

Your fingers are bruised , said that incredibly negative voice in his head, so are your toes, and your back and your bu—

Shut up , Dick thought back firmly, I’m not bruised, see? He looked down at his arm. No bruises. I can’t see them so they’re not there.

Liar, hissed the voice.

Memories flashed through his mind, courtesy of the crazy witch lady that had captured him two weeks—no, two days ago.

Just because it felt like two weeks and she said it was two weeks and my body is missing two weeks worth of breakfasts and lunches—doesn’t mean it was two weeks.

Afterall, the newspaper and his phone and the nice old lady across the hall said it’d only been two days.

So, Dick concluded, he had no right to be acting as he was. Kneeling on his living room floor, barely clothed, holding his weak and shaky arms out awkwardly as if keeping them from touching anything would make them hurt less.

Which, he thought, it might.

But it was all in his head, the bruises weren’t actually there. It only felt like they were. Just because he’d seen them with his own eyes didn’t mean they hadn’t gone away when he’d escaped.

Even so, Dick couldn’t bring himself to move, let alone stand up and actually do something productive. Any time any part of his body so much as touched something, it would hurt. Not to mention, his muscles were sore and achy, and he was very thin and malnourished. Stupid witches and their pain-in-the-a** magic. Dick smirked bitterly to himself at the pun.

You’re pathetic, said that incredibly motivational voice again.

Fine, Dick thought back, I’ll get up.

So he did. Well...he tried to at least. He made it to his feet, staggered a bit, and collapsed against the side of his couch. Progress.

Oh but how it hurt . His feet couldn’t handle the pressure of his body weight--lessened though it was--and when he hit the couch, it was as if every breath of air left him at the pain.

Dick groaned.

—

He didn't notice it at first, through the agony, but a couple hours later he could really feel it.

The cold.

Oh, f*** his life. The one time when his skin felt so tender he felt like a mild breeze might send him crashing to the ground—and now he was feeling cold.

It was ironic.

His blankets were heavy and soft, but it was the heavy part his brui—body didn't agree with. Dick dragged himself onto his couch, pressing against the cushions. Stars seemed to spark in his vision, pain radiating from his shoulder and arm, where he was putting the most pressure. His legs sank into the scratchy fabric as well, creating a sharp ache in his shins.

Dick shivered.

It felt as if he were trapped in a freezer. He breathed heavily, trying to control his breaths, looking ahead of him as if he might see the product of frosty breath in the air.

Relax, it's nothing, it's all in your head. He thought to himself.

Dick shivered again, tried to keep his teeth from chattering. It wasn't a very successful attempt. Against his better judgement, Dick rubbed harshly at his arms. He felt as if he was tearing through his own skin, though he did feel a very brief flash of warmth.

When was the last time I had a hug? It was three weeks ago—no, just a little over a week.

Dick sighed into his couch. He was a grown adult now, there was no reason for him to be sitting there, wishing for a hug as if he were some hopeful, naïve child.

Just as he was in the process of making himself pass out from pain, the door opened, and in walked two of his younger brothers.

"I'm telling you, brat, Goldie is probably fine. It wouldn't be the first time he'd run off without telling anybody. Besides, it's only been..."

"Tt, something doesn't feel right, Todd. He would have answered my calls by now, if he were oka—"

Jason saw him first, then Damian. Both of them freezing in place, staring at him with wide eyes.

"Hey, hey Dickie?" Jason asked slowly, "You alright?"

Damian burst into movement, hurrying towards Dick's side. He knelt on the floor, hesitantly putting a hand on his shoulder.

Dick held perfectly still, trying not to flinch away or show any kind of pain. But Damian knew him better than that.

The kid's warm palm against Dick's skin felt wonderful, and there was hardly any pressure behind it.

Dick felt his eyes water at the relief.

Behind them, Jason scoffed, shuffling his feet as if uncomfortable. Finally, he began heading towards Dick's kitchen, muttering curses under his breath.

Not long after and there was a loud exclamation from the kitchen, Jason had probably found out just how much food Dick...didn't have.

"Richard?" Damian asked him, completely ignoring Jason in the background. "What happened to you?"

"It's—it's nothing," Dick stuttered out, "N—Nothing happened."

He shivered, instinctively clutching Damian's arm, bringing it up to his face.

Damian's expression was solemn, yet concerned. "It's alright, Grayson. You needn't have to tell us."

"You're so warm," Dick shuddered, running tender fingers along Dami's arm.

"Richard? Where are you injured?"

"Everywhere." Dick felt the words slip through his usual defenses. He would've felt surprised, but all he could feel was numb except for that one spot where his little brother's hand lay on his cheek.

Baby Bird pulled back, and the previous warmth was gone, taken from him. Dick whined at the loss. Damian froze yet again, startled expression trained on him.

"Dami..." Dick whispered, drawing out the "e" sound. "Come back."

His arm flopped out, reaching out half-heartedly for the kid. It hit the edge of the couch, sending a wave of pain through his arm and back to his chest.

"What is wrong with you, Grayson?"

Dick closed his eyes, muttering tiredly about physical touch and feelings of cold--likely caused by starvation, he might add. Not because he needed a hug or anything. He hoped Dami would get the hint without him having to actually say it.

"You...of all people..." Damian stared at him in disbelief. "I consented to such physical atrocities just last week!"

Sighing, Dick turned his head away. "It's a long story."

He opened his arms as wide as they could go (which wasn't very), and tried to look inviting.

With mild grumbling, Damian stood, slipping onto the couch to join Dick there.

He sighed, content, wrapping his arms around the boy and burying his face in the kid's hair.

—

"Geez, what happened here?" Steph took in the disorganized mess before her.

Jason scowled. He wore a stained, ugly-yellow apron around his waist, and looked like he'd been in the middle of cleaning up something nasty.

"Dickface went and got himself starved in the two days he went missing—how is that even possible? And he seemed to be all drugged up on some sort of cuddle concoction. He was in the middle of snuggling the demon spawn when his fever started."

Steph winced. "How bad is it?"

"He's been lucid exactly twice since the first time he woke up and spat out parts of his stomach that I'm pretty sure should still be in there. The little sh** there though," Jason nodded to where Damian was adorably curled up within Dick's embrace, "Somehow Dick doesn’t splatter him every damn time he expels little bits of his organs. And he won't let go of the kid. I swear the universe is getting back at me from the last time I flipped it off..."

Steph cracked a smile, "So why am I here then? You're obviously being overdramatic about Dick's health, I can tell you're not that worried, you know."

The man just chuckled, tossing her the mop that had been in his hands before. "The next time Goldie wakes up, I'm gonna have some soup all ready for him. You, young lady, are here to clean up the rest of this mess."

Steph looked around, opening her mouth to argue.

Jason just raised his eyebrows, shooting her a pointed look as his phone seemed to materialize between his fingers.