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Dick Grayson has always loved the rain (and the people that came with it).
Dancing under cool showers after a strenuous bout of trapeze practice with his Daj and Dat ; catching fat droplets on his tongue after patrol with Bruce; jumping in puddles with the Titans until their pants are soaked and their cheeks are flushed.
There was something comforting in the way the water would slowly saturate his clothes with each soft drip-drip-drop , something soft in the subtle chill of his skin—the sweet, cloying scent of petrichor—that left him feeling refreshed and at peace.
Usually, anyway.
Right now, though, the usually gentle kisses of raindrops are more like bullets pelting his limbs, promising to leave his skin red and raw. His suit sticks to his skin so tightly, it’s as if it intends to suffocate him. Briefly, he wishes it would, if only to escape the overpowering sickly-sweetness of the rain, which has become nauseating, now melded with jasmine and honey.
But most importantly, he’s alone. ( There’s little he hates more than being alone. )
He thinks— knows —he’s going to be sick. Can feel the bitterness of bile bubbling its way up his throat, but it stops short of his mouth, leaving only the faintest taste of acid on his tongue. Why, he questions quietly, has the rain chosen to betray me.
It’s a fitting punishment for his crimes, he supposes, for the rain to turn against him (as everyone always did). After all, he had chosen to betray Blockbuster, to betray his morals, to betray Bruce. Ever the coward, he had chosen to stand aside and let Catalina shoot him, watched uselessly as slow drips of crimson spilled from the hole in Desmond’s forehead and his body collapsed lifelessly onto the rooftop, corrupting both of them irredeemably with a single press of a finger.
All because he had been tired, cowardly, selfish, not good enough. Never good enough.
How he wishes the rain could drown him, swallow him whole, but he didn’t deserve that kind of relief. He deserves to be alone, just as Desmond had been alone in death. Perhaps in isolation he can find some form of repentance, albeit small. Atone for his sins with a lifetime of suffering.
Oh.
Oh.
Suddenly numb, he registers as something, some one, claws at his bare chest (why is it bare?). It seems he’s not as alone as he originally thought.
Through the haze of rain, he can make out the curving swoop of a mouth, painted crimson and filled with sharp teeth. Sharp nails scratch lower and lower, dipping further under his (unzipped? when had he unzipped it?) uniform. He feels too wet , too hot, it’s too much, but he can’t move. Has he been poisoned? He has to warn whoever is above him, before it can spread to them, too. He can’t afford to fail again.
“Poison,” he croaks, wincing at the grittiness of his voice. “I’m poison… ”
But he has to tell them the truth. Everything he touches is fated to die. They have to get away while they still can.
He has to save them, has to do this one thing right.
“Hush,” a voice floats down from above. “Quiet, mi amor, callado. ”
So, he is quiet.