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The rain drowned out everything. It hit hard against the roof’s concrete and against Dick’s skin, and muffled the sounds of cars and sirens in the city. He wished it could have drowned him too. He wished it could have made the sensations of skin against his go away, that it could have taken his mind captive, if only so he wouldn’t have to endure this.

Catalina pushed herself off him. She was saying something but Dick couldn’t focus on her words. He could only watch as she patted his cheeks like he was an animal who had behaved well and walked away, leaving him lying on the roof, soaked to the bone and vulnerable.

The cold rain sank into his limbs. Catalina hadn’t bothered to zip his suit back up after she was done with him, and he was exposed for the whole world to see. Shame inflamed his cheeks, and his breath came in ragged inhales. He should move. He should cover himself, pull his suit back on, get away from here and what had just happened.

He couldn’t move. His brain shifted sluggishly from one thought to the next, so slow it was useless. Dick would have preferred if it had shut down altogether. At least, he wouldn’t have had to be present for what Catalina had done. For the… assault. It’s what it was, wasn’t it? An assault.

Dick wasn’t sure how he felt. Nausea stole what little breath he had and the familiar lump of tears formed in his throat, but his emotions struggled to make it past the fog that had taken residence around his brain. Catalina had assaulted him. Catalina had killed Desmond. Dick had been there and he had let her do this. He had stepped aside. It was his fault.

He needed to move. He was too vulnerable here, suit open, lying limp on an empty roof. Anyone could see him and decide to take advantage, and he wouldn’t be able to stop them any more than he had stopped Catalina. His body refused to cooperate.

How long had it been since Catalina had left? Perhaps she would come back for him. Ugly panic surged in his chest at the thought. The last person he wanted to see at the moment was Catalina. He’d take any villain over her.

Desmond’s corpse was probably still in the staircase, skull blown up. Someone should take care of that. That someone was most likely Dick; he doubted Catalina cared much about disposing of the corpse or alerting the police. Maybe one of the building’s inhabitants had heard the gunshot and called the police. Or maybe, like Gotham’s residents, they were accustomed to gang wars and had decided it was safer to pretend not to have heard anything. He couldn’t hear any sirens coming his way. Truth to be told, he couldn’t hear much of everything, sound drowned out by the rain and the shocked haze that had taken hold of him.

He should move. He lay there instead, under the rain, wishing he could erase the past hour and have another go at it. Do things right this time around.

It was closer to morning than night by the time he arrived at his apartment. It had taken him a long while to peel himself off the roof and make his way back. Thankfully, no one had called the police. Dick should have done that, then waited for them to arrive, but he neither had the strength to speak nor the strength to wait. So he left, silently apologising to whoever would find Desmond’s corpse.

Bruce would have disapproved of everything about that night. How he had teamed up with Catalina. How he had stepped away to let her kill Desmond. How he had let her assault him. How he had lain there for too long, practically begging to be assaulted again.

But Bruce wasn’t here, and he would never know about what had happened.

Dick fumbled with the lock on his window, perched precariously on the ledge. On any other night, he would have felt as secure on the ledge as on solid ground; he was born to fly and defy gravity. Right now, though, the world seemed to tilt on its axis, trying to unbalance him and make him topple down the length of the building. It was as if Catalina had taken more than her pleasure, as if she had robbed him of everything that made him himself, leaving only a hollow shell in the place of Richard Grayson.

He finally opened the window and slipped ungracefully inside his apartment. Another sloppy job. Anyone could have looked out their window and noticed him coming inside the apartment. It wouldn’t be difficult to come and look for his name, to ask around and discover his identity. He was endangering everyone associated to him by letting himself be careless.

It would be so easy to bring about everyone’s downfall by knowing only one name. If someone could piece together that he was Nightwing, they’d understand that Bruce was Batman and that Jason had been Robin. Babs was distant enough from the Waynes that she could perhaps hope to escape scrutiny, but the Justice League would fall one by one if people kept looking. Tim had proven that there were clues out there for anyone smart enough to pick them out, and once the first identities were revealed, it no longer took a genius to unravel the rest of that thread.

Dick was pathetic. He didn’t deserve to call himself a vigilante, and he had half a mind to throw out his suit and never don it again. But Blüdhaven needed him. There were people who counted on him, and a sloppy vigilante was better than no one at all. The police was either too corrupt or overwhelmed to be of any help, and Dick was the only vigilante working in Blüdhaven. He couldn’t abandon these people. He needed to put himself back together.

Tonight had been a spectacularly bad night, the likes of which he hoped never to encounter again. Tomorrow would be a different day. For now, Dick simply needed to change and shower. He looked down at himself. He was sopping wet, dripping water on the floor of his living room, and his suit was stained with Desmond’s blood. He had a couple of spare suits, but he would need to clean that one before the blood became encrusted.

It felt like too much to do. All he wanted was to curl up in a ball and pass out, then sleep for the next year or ten. He wanted to pretend that tonight had been nothing more than a bad dream, that he would wake up gasping in his bed to find out that Desmond was still alive and Catalina had not… done that. He wanted to retreat into the haze still clinging to his mind, where he could ignore the reality and be somewhat safe from the world.

Dick might have done exactly that if his mind had let him. Instead, he told himself tonight had been enough of a disaster, and he would be better off cleaning his messes now rather than leave them for future him to find. Reluctantly, like his limbs were weighed down by lead, he moved to the bathroom. He cursed his decision to wear a skin-tight suit as he took it off painfully slow, trying not to stare too long at the blood on it, trying not to think of Desmond’s corpse that he had left in a random staircase for someone else to find and be traumatised about.

Being naked was not much better than being in the suit. The cold air of the room grated against his skin and raised an army of goosebumps. His face was speckled with blood. Blood that didn’t belong to him. Blood that shouldn’t have been there. Desmond may have been dangerous and a serious thorn in Dick’s side, but who was Dick to decide who deserved to live and who deserved to die? Who was he to decide death was a better form of justice than a trial? Blüdhaven’s justice system was no better than its police force, and Desmond wouldn’t have been put behind bars no matter what, but Dick couldn’t go around killing every villain and thug in the city just because the justice system was failing.

Death wasn’t justice.

And here he stood. He was safe in his apartment, whereas Desmond was rotting away in a staircase, skull blow up by a bullet. His body was the body of a killer, his hands had blood on them. This was the body of someone too weak to stand his ground when his partner had decided to kill Desmond. This was the body of someone who had stepped aside and watched death be handed arbitrarily. This was the body of someone who had been violated. This was the body of someone too weak to do what was right, too weak to stop Catalina from killing Desmond, too weak to stop her from assaulting him.

Assault. He had been sexually assaulted. He had been raped . He knew what rape was; Bruce had made him learn how to identify and help its victims. Dick had told Catalina ‘no’. He hadn’t given his consent.

But he had only said ‘no’ once. Why hadn’t he protested more? Why hadn’t he pushed her off? He had enough strength to overpower her and ensure she would never approach him again. Was it still rape if he could have stopped it and didn’t?

Dick almost didn’t make to the toilet in time. He threw up everything he had eaten for dinner, then retched bile until his throat was sore and tears rolled down his cheeks in fat drops. He tried to remember everything he had learned about sexual assault. Had it been anyone else in his situation, he would have deemed it rape. He had told her no, and she hadn’t listened. He had been in shock, barely coherent, and she had taken advantage of that.

He wasn’t at fault.

That didn’t make him feel any better.

His skin was bright red when he emerged from the shower, rubbed raw for nearly half an hour and further abused by the scalding temperature of the water. There was so much steam in the room that he couldn’t see himself in the mirror, which was for the better. He didn’t feel cleaner than when he had entered the shower, like Catalina had forever tainted an essential part of him.

Exhaustion dragged his bones down, anchored so deep inside himself he wasn’t sure he would ever recover from it. It wasn’t the first time he had been sexually abused. Mirage had been there first, and Dick hadn’t received much support then either. Experience didn’t change anything, as it turned out, in terms of sexual assault. He didn’t know what to do now any more than he did then. He had been trained to handle such situations when the victim was someone else ; how did handle it when the victim was himself?

He should probably tell someone, but he didn’t want to be told again that he was a slut and had probably wanted it. That men couldn’t get raped, that he could have stopped it if he truly hadn’t wanted it. That he was a cheater, that he slept around too much. As if any of that mattered in the grand scheme of things.

Bruce would maybe believe him but Dick hadn’t spoken to him in weeks.

He dragged a tired hand over his face. This was a problem for future Dick. Right now, what he needed most was sleep. And maybe when he would wake up tomorrow, he would feel a bit better, a bit less on the edge of a cliff, about to topple to his death.

Dick woke up abruptly, a sob already lodged on his lips. A gunshot echoed in his ears and a phantom weight pinned him down on the mattress. He threw himself off the bed, vision blurred by tears, and retched into the toilet, although nothing more than burning bile came up.

So he was not better, he mused as he sobbed over the toilet bowl. He was not better and sleeping had not changed anything to how he felt a few hours ago. Dick wanted his dad, he wanted his parents, he wanted his grandpa. He yearned for people he could lean on, people who would take care of him and assure him that everything would be alright. People who would make him believe it. He wanted to be a child with not a care in the world who could simply relegate his problems onto adults.

But Dick had no one, and he was an adult who had to deal with his problems on his own.

He tried to put on the Nightwing suit that night, and threw up as soon as he held it in his hands. He decided he could afford to take a night off. Part of his mind whispered to him that he was failing Blüdhaven even more than he already had, but he also knew that going out distraught as he was would only endanger himself and the people he attempted to rescue.

Dick had enough blood on his hands; he didn’t want any more.

Nightwing successfully went back to patrol three days later, and if he spent an hour curled up on his bed trying to calm himself down from a panic attack once he came back, no one knew about it.

Eventually, patrol became just another part of his routine again. He could don the suit without remembering Desmond and Catalina, he could stop on rooftops without tensing up and waiting for someone to drop from the sky and try to take advantage of him again. He was back to normal.

Dick had not taken the rain into account.

A storm had been brewing the entire day, the sky darkening as the hours passed, the air so charged it was only a question of when it would break and rain would fall upon the city. Rain made patrol harder, but it had never stopped any of them from going out, for the simple reason that rain didn’t stop crime from happening.

It hadn’t rained in the month since Catalina had killed Desmond and assaulted him, he mused, then shoved that thought down because he didn’t want to think about one of the worst moments of his life. He had been in a good mood today, and he intended to carry it throughout patrol and until the moment he went to bed.

The Nightwing suit made him feel slightly uneasy tonight, like his skin was only a few seconds from crawling off, but he shrugged the feeling away and put on his domino mask.

He was on the fire escape below his window when he felt it. The smell of the rain in the air. There was a word for it, but Dick couldn’t remember it in this instant. All he was attuned to was the rain, the hit of droplets on his skin, each one feeling like a hammer.

A gunshot echoing in the night, warm blood sprayed on Dick’s face and suit. The world blurring around him, saccharin words murmured in his ears. Moans of pleasures that weren’t his own, a body pressed against him.

Dick couldn’t breathe. He took a step back, and hit the building’s wall. He was still on the fire escape, but he couldn’t stay there. He needed to move, he needed to go somewhere safe, where Catalina couldn’t get to him.

He barely registered climbing back through the window and shutting himself inside his apartment. The suit clung to him like a skin of shame, but his hands shook too hard for him to take it off. Catalina wasn’t here, he whispered to himself. Catalina wasn’t here, she was in prison for the other crimes she had committed, and she couldn’t hurt Dick anymore. He wouldn’t let her hurt him again.

He was safe.

Dick longed to call Bruce, to hear the low rasp of his voice, the promise that everything would be alright. Once upon a time, Bruce would have dropped everything to come and comfort him if he had asked. Today, as it were, Dick would be lucky if Bruce even answered the phone.

What would he even say if Bruce picked up? He couldn’t explain that he had let Desmond die and then had been raped. He couldn’t admit it had been a month and he hadn’t said a thing, he couldn’t admit it was fucking him up so badly he couldn’t even patrol. He couldn’t say that he had tried to patrol even though it should have been obvious that the rain would have been a trigger.

He could already imagine Bruce’s disappointment, his disapproval, palpable in the air.

Dick didn’t call. He calmed himself down, clinging desperately to the same mantra that Catalina wasn’t here and couldn’t hurt him, until the suit felt a little less like a prison.

He didn’t try to go out again that night.

Dick hoped it would be a one-time thing. He knew it was foolish hope; trauma didn’t work like that. He couldn’t afford not to patrol when it rained. The weather in Gotham and Blüdhaven was hardly known for its outstanding amount of sunlight, and Dick remained the only vigilante patrolling in Blüdhaven. Had he been patrolling solely in Gotham, he may have considered the matter differently. But here, there were people counting on him. He was the only alternative to a failing police force, the only thing keeping crime and corruption from completely overtaking the city.

He had failed too many times already, he couldn’t fail anymore. He couldn’t let trauma get in the way of protecting those who needed it. And if he had to do things the hard way to ensure he could patrol as well as he ever had, then so be it.

It rained again the following week. Dick could feel the memories in his bones, and he discarded the idea of patrol as soon as the first drops of rain started to fall. To go out in the wrong mindset could bring about more destruction than salvation, but he refused to simply give up. Catalina and Desmond had taken too much from him already, he wouldn’t let them take away from the people of Blüdhaven too. He wouldn’t let them overrule his life.

He went up to the roof of his building, hands shaking at his sides. As he had expected, it was empty. The rain fell hard on the concrete, drowning out most of the city’s sounds. It was almost exactly the same setting as a month ago. Except this time, Dick was only Dick, and not Nightwing. Desmond was long dead, and Catalina behind the bars. Nothing could hurt him.

His brain didn’t get the memo. He sat down on the roof, and the memories assailed him instantly. He could hear Catalina murmuring in his ears, and a gunshot killing Desmond over and over again. Coming up here had been a bad idea, Dick mused as he rocked back and forth under the rain, curled up in a ball.

He stayed there until his panic attack had passed and he was soaked to the bone. He could have stood up and stumbled back inside any moment, but he needed to do this. He needed to get over this stupid trigger.

Getting reaccustomed to the rain without getting triggered was a frustrating, weeks-long process, but Dick was nothing if not determined to finally be able to patrol no matter the weather. His efforts paid off nearly four months after Catalina’s assault.

Dick saved six people that night, and if he ended up having a flashback when he returned to his apartment, it was no one’s business but his own.

He still hadn’t told anyone about what had happened. If Bruce had learned about Desmond’s death—he almost certainly had—he didn’t bother mentioning it to Dick. Most likely, he didn’t know that Dick had been involved in the man’s death. Catalina probably hadn’t spoken up about that, and if she had, it was unlikely she had been believed. Dick’s secret was as safe as it could be.

It weighed down on him nonetheless. He had somewhat gotten over the guilt of his participation in Desmond’s death, but he couldn’t get what Catalina had done to him out of his mind. Shame clung to him like a second skin, poisoning everything if he thought about that night for the barest of instants.

He wanted nothing more than to forget, and, failing that, he wanted nothing more than to be able to confide in someone. To be comforted and told it really hadn’t been his fault.

Bruce and Dick still weren’t on speaking terms. The last time they had said anything to each other, they had been arguing about Jason’s death, and Dick could hardly call Bruce to reveal what had happened when the last words he’d said to his dad were awful ones about how Bruce was always too late to prevent any kind of hurt and Jason’s death was his fault.

It had not been Dick’s best moment, admittedly, but he had yet to apologise. Bruce wasn’t innocent either, nor had he apologised. It left them in a painful stalemate they might never get over.

Part of Dick was convinced that Bruce would listen no matter what. That if Dick called and explained what had happened, Bruce would be here for him. That Dick could even show up to the Manor and demand a hug, and Bruce would give it.

The other part, the one that was made up almost solely of shame and self-blame, thought that he couldn’t risk Bruce being disgusted by him because it would shatter him. It didn’t matter much that Bruce had never shown any sort of disgust towards sexual assault victims or that, on the contrary, he was one of their firmest defenders. It was Dick who was the victim this time, and maybe it meant that Bruce’s reaction would be different. He couldn’t take that risk.

Alfred and Tim were equally out of the question. They would listen, undoubtedly, but Dick couldn’t bring himself to put that kind of burden on their shoulders. He needed his dad, and he couldn’t have him.

Jason came back from the dead. Jason came back, and the family felt more broken than it had before, a feat Dick hadn’t known was possible. He spent more time in Gotham, now, patrolling with Tim and Bruce, attempting to mend his relationship with Jason. Amidst all that, he did not have time to take care of himself.

No one was paying attention, anyway. If there were cracks in his mask and armour, if anyone noticed that something had happened which he wasn’t talking about, they didn’t say anything. They didn’t seem to see his flinches when someone touched him unexpectedly, or the fact that certain things still made him tense, even if he had managed to mostly suppress his trauma responses.

They didn’t care. It was fine. They all had a lot on their plate, and Dick had chosen to remain silent for a reason, after all. In an ideal world, he would have told them. In an ideal world, he wouldn’t have been raped in the first place. This was not an ideal world, and the last thing Dick wanted was to be faced with his family’s reaction.

(It didn’t matter that on the nights he woke up sobbing, he craved comfort from this very family. It was just out of reach, visible and yet unattainable.)

Dick had always excelled at pretence. At lies and masks and deception. He could act like he was fine, like he was unaffected by the fact that he and Bruce were barely on speaking terms even now, like nothing had happened to him aside from the usual crime-fighting. He could act like he had his shit together even though he was a push away from crumbling and never getting back up.

No one noticed. Or they didn’t care. At this point, he wasn’t sure which was worse.

The family progressively, tentatively, pulled itself back together. Jason agreed to work with them, apologised for having beaten Tim up in the Titans Tower, and though he grumbled a lot, he eventually accepted not to use lethal force as much. He could be in a room with Bruce without trying to punch him, and Bruce could be in a room with them without provoking him. Things were not good, but they were better.

Dick was getting better, too. His trauma had been repressed, but at least it wasn’t bothering him so much anymore. And he figured a healed family meant he could perhaps try and heal, too.

He had spoken too soon. He should have known that things never stayed quiet and idyllic for long. Before he could muster the courage to open up to his family about what Catalina had done to him, Cass and Damian arrived in Gotham, Steph and Duke became part of the family, Bruce died, Dick had to step up as Batman, argued with Tim, Tim left and found Bruce, Bruce came back.

It could not be said that Dick coped well. He didn’t so much as cope as he ignored every traumatic event that happened to him in favour of pretending he had control of the situation. He didn’t let himself mourn when Bruce was believed to be dead, he didn’t let himself cry when Tim left the Cave, then Gotham and stopped giving signs of life. He didn’t let himself despair when Damian didn’t listen or when Jason refused to respond to his messages. He didn’t let himself be affected by the rain the first time he put on the Batman suit, didn’t let himself flinch to the sound of gunshots, didn’t let himself sob after vivid nightmares.

Dick had to be there for his family, even if it meant he couldn’t be there for himself.

Even if it felt like no one was here for him.

He could have said something once things went back to normal. Once Bruce came back and Dick had a heartfelt conversation with Tim. Once Jason started working with them once again, and the family was bigger and healthier than it had ever been before.

But they were happy. They were happy and Dick was happy too. He didn’t want to risk it all for something that had happened several years ago. He was over it. (He very much wasn’t.)

It wasn’t rare for them to all patrol Gotham on the same night, but it was rare for all of them to work on the same case together. Rarer even for Jason to ask them for help. Yet another drug trafficking ring had settled in Gotham, and though it was nothing out of the ordinary, the ring was large and well-organised enough that Jason alone couldn’t dismantle it.

Not so long ago, he wouldn’t have asked for their help. He would have called the Outlaws, or he would have stubbornly tried to tackle the case alone, consequences be damned. That he was asking for their help before having reached the desperation stage, and that he was willing to work with all of them, including Batman, was revolutionary. None of them even thought of turning him down.

The family had prepared together for tonight’s operation for several weeks. It had gone surprisingly smoothly, with only a couple of arguments that had been settled quickly enough. They worked well together, when they put aside their annoyances and grievances. It was a shame, Dick thought, that they didn’t put this efficiency to use more often. If they did, maybe Gotham would truly be rid of most crime.

He had been looking forward to tonight. Any excuse was good to spend time with his family, but there was something about fighting alongside one another that warmed him even more. It was about trust and having each other’s back, about knowing that there was someone to catch him if he fell and that in return, they had enough faith in him to believe he would do the same for every single one of them.

It started raining early in the afternoon. The clouds had been gathering in the Blüdhaven sky since the morning, and Dick had little hope the weather would be any different in Gotham. He had woken up this morning with a heavy sense of dread in his stomach and Catalina’s touch lingering on his skin, the memory so potent he had nearly thrown up. It hadn’t been this bad in a long time.

The dread coiled in his stomach worsened as the day progressed and the clouds in the sky turned darker and darker until finally the first droplets hit the city. His instincts screamed at him that something was wrong.

Had it been any other day, he probably would have listened to his body and abandoned the idea of patrol. But he had promised Jason, and he refused to fail his little brother more than he already had. He would be fine, anyway. He hadn’t relapsed in months, and the last flashback hadn’t even been triggered by rain.

Dick would be fine.

He had been right to come, he told himself as he watched his siblings discuss animatedly at the dinner table. He would have missed out on this if he had stayed in Blüdhaven, and this family needed all the bonding it could get to stay somewhat functional. They were still chaotic—they would never be a normal family—but they were a family. They bickered and argued they laughed together, and in a couple of hours they’d be fighting back to back. Bruce was smiling, his eyes crinkling with joy, and even Alfred took part in the conversation. There had been no bloodshed yet, no attempt at violence, no screams or barbed words.

And Dick was here to enjoy it. The discomfort crawling under his skin from the rain and the weight of memories pressing down on him had receded, and Dick was fine, like he said he would be.

Tonight, the Nightwing suit made him want to rip his skin off. There was no mistaking why, even for someone as good at lying to himself as he was. So he’d underestimated just how uncomfortable his suit would make him. It was nothing to make a big deal out of, and certainly nothing to warrant backing out of patrol.

Admittedly, the smart thing to do would have been to back out. To announce that he wasn’t feeling well and would stay in so as to not compromise either his mental health or the operation. He would be subjected to his family’s worry, then to their suspicion when he would refuse to tell them what this was about, but he was fairly certain none of them would try and force him to patrol.

It wasn’t them the problem. It was him. He didn’t want to miss out on this important night, he didn’t want to give his family the impression that he cared more about himself than he cared about them. Selfishly, he also didn’t want to give them any reason to pry into his past and find out what had happened with Catalina.

He could push through the discomfort of his suit. Sure, it was raining outside, but Dick wasn’t in the same city as when he’d been assaulted, he would be with his entire family, and Catalina had been behind the bars for years. His brain may be paranoid, but it didn’t have any reasons to properly panic. (Dick wilfully ignored the fact that trauma didn’t agree with logic or rationality.)

Bruce approached him while Dick was alone, watching his siblings bicker about something inane from a distance.

“Are you alright, chum?” he asked hesitantly.

Dick gave him a tight smile. “I’m great,” he said. Bruce didn’t look like he believed him.

“Right. I know I’m not great at communicating and I should’ve talked about this with you before, but I’m aware it must have been hard on you to deal with everything that has happened these past years and I want you to know I’m here if you want to talk. About anything. Even when we argue.”

“Thanks, B,” Dick replied, and he didn’t know whether he wanted to cry or scream.

The night started out well despite everything. His performance was subpar compared to what he was used to; the combination of his suit and the rain made him jumpy and easily distracted, and tried to drag him inside his own head. If his family noticed, they didn’t comment on it. They all perched on the roof facing the abandoned building where the traffickers had taken residence, like a flock of birds, and waited for the right moment.

Dick’s breath came shorter than he would have liked, his heat thundering in his chest. If he stayed still long enough, his hands started to shake, and he knew the tremors would join the rest of his body sooner or later. Catalina’s weight draped over his shoulders like an anchor waiting to drag him down to the bottom of the sea where he could drown, and each press of the rain against his skin felt like a punch.

Bruce shot him a glance where he crouched next to him, but the cowl made it undecipherable. Was it worry or disapproval? Was it calculation or exasperation? Had his concern earlier even been real? Dick didn’t want to know; he’d disappointed his dad enough times in his life. Tonight had to go right, or Jason would refuse to work with them like this again. Dick would not be the one jeopardising his reconciliation with the family.

Movement came from inside the building. The goons had started moving towards the goods, blissfully unaware of the Bats watching over them, even as they regularly checked the streets for witnesses or cops. No one ever thought to look up, even after years of having vigilantes who preferred the sky to the earth.

A couple of minutes later, the trafficking ring’s leaders arrived in the main room. Jason had intercepted plans of a meeting and decided to stage the operation right during this meeting, when they could hope to catch both the leaders and as many goons as possible. A few minutes more, and it would be their cue.

Shouts irrupted into the room when the Bats came crashing in, dropping from the sky. The leaders shot to their feet immediately, undoubtedly trained for this kind of situation and ready to flee. Unfortunately for them, the Bats had come as a whole, and blocked very single exit with their sheer number. Dick didn’t waste a second throwing himself into the fray. All around him, his family did the same.

As usual, the goons knew how to fight well enough not to be disposed of in a matter of seconds, but not well enough that they could pose an actual challenge to the Bats outside of their number. It was routine, at this point. The only difference was the Bats’ number. Dick had never fought with his entire family by his side. It made matters a lot more simple, and it was almost enough to make him forget about the itchiness of his skin or the rain hitting the sides of the building.

From the corner of his eyes, Dick saw a couple of henchmen—the right hands of the leaders, if he remembered correctly—dashing up the stairs towards the roof. He knocked out the woman he had been fighting against and ran after them, meeting with Jason halfway through. Together, they chased them up to the roof. Had it been any other henchmen, they might have let them go, but these held important positions in the trafficking ring, and they might have valuable information to offer the police should their leaders not speak.

The rain had not died down in the time they had been inside the building. On the contrary, it seemed to pour more heavily than ever before, dragging Dick back to the meanders of his past. He pushed the memories aside and ducked a punch. Jason was already fighting the other one. A second later, more goons, followed by Tim and Damian, decided to relocate the fight to the roof.

Dick landed a kick to the henchman’s head that successfully knocked him out, and turned to see where he could help.

A gunshot echoed in the night at the same moment. Dick froze.

He wasn’t in Gotham anymore. He was in Blüdhaven, several years back, on another roof, assailed by rain, speckled with blood. He couldn’t breathe. Desmond’s corpse was still warm in the staircase Dick had left him in. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, but he might as well have, and this was a mistake that could not be fixed.

Someone called his name. Dick flinched away and stepped back hastily. His foot hit the roof’s edge.

Jason saw the goon too late. He was engrossed in the fight, enjoying the thrill of it, the knowledge that he had the upper hand, that the operation was going well and they would successfully dismantle the trafficking ring. Any leftover excitement vanished the moment he turned and spotted a goon about to stab Tim.

Tim, who didn’t have a spleen. Tim, who was busy fighting another henchman and hadn’t noticed the goon either.

Jason didn’t stop to think. He acted on instinct, knowing only that he wouldn’t have time to warn Tim before it was too late. His movement had been practised thousands of times and the weight of the gun in his hand was intimately familiar. He aimed in a split-second and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

The goon crumpled to the floor with a cry. The gunshot was deafening on that roof, all other sounds muffled by the heavy rain. Life came to a stop as everyone froze to find the direction and recipient of the gunshot.

Jason’s eyes landed on Dick, who had stopped too and stood immobile, shaking like a leaf. His skin was pallid, and Jason would have bet anything that under his mask, his eyes were wide and unseeing. The fight resumed, though there weren’t many more henchmen standing and able to fight. It would be over soon, and Damian and Tim could handle themselves while Jason took care of their older brother.

He stalked towards the other end of the roof and reassured himself all the goons were taken up by Damian and Tim, and that none would try anything against Dick while he was vulnerable and apparently unable to defend himself.

“Nightwing,” he called softly when he arrived in front of him.

Dick flinched violently like Jason had burned him, and took hasty steps back. Too hasty, too far. His foot hit the roof’s edge and Dick pitched backwards. Jason lunged forward with a cry and grabbed onto Dick’s arm just before he could topple off. He yanked him back up and away from the edge.

Dick was properly sobbing now, guttural, wrenching sounds that had no business coming out of someone who was usually so cheerful. “Please,” he muttered. “Please, don’t. Catalina, please, I don’t want to. Stop touching me.” Another violent sob broke the litany of pleas. Jason let go of his brother, nausea churning in his guts.

Dick continued muttering under his breaths, his words broken by heaving sobs, and for a minute, Jason could do nothing but watch. It wasn’t the first time one of them was triggered during patrol. They all had too much trauma never to be, but Dick usually kept everything under wraps. He was no better than Bruce in that regard and to see him break down so completely was harrowing.

Then, as Dick’s words finally computed into Jason’s brain, came the blood-curdling realisation that his older brother had been assaulted. The litany of pleas continued, Dick too far gone to realise there was no one touching him anymore. Bile rose in Jason’s throat. He had heard similar pleas from too many victims in his vigilante career. He had heard them come from his own mouth, when he had been homeless and too young to stop predators from taking what they wanted from him.

Someone approached on his side and Jason barely kept himself from flinching. His skin had begun to crawl with memories he thought he had dealt with a long time ago, but Dick was more important at the moment. He could handle his own trauma later.

“Don’t crowd him,” he ordered Tim and Damian. “Give him space, or he’s only going to panic further.”

They couldn’t leave him like this. He would pass out eventually from how little air was getting into his lungs, and letting him stuck into the flashback was cruel. Jason didn’t know what to do that wouldn’t make everything worse.

“Nightwing,” he tried again, putting on the voice he used to speak to victims. Dick didn’t seem to hear him.

“I’m sorry,” he was saying. “It’s my fault. It’s my fault, I’m sorry. I killed him, I killed him, please stop touching me, I’m sorry.”

So there was more to the puzzle than sexual assault. It was missing essential pieces, and the picture it formed was a jagged, hole-filled one. Was it possible that Dick had truly killed someone, or did he unreasonably blame himself for someone he hadn’t been able to save, like he was prone to do?

“Nightwing, you’re safe. You’re in Gotham, you’re with us, and no one is touching you.”

Nothing. Near-silent footsteps arrived behind them and Jason turned just in time to see Bruce stop a couple of feet away.

“What happened?” he growled. Dick cowered away and curled tighter onto himself. He begged for forgiveness for an unknown crime with renewed, desperate vigour.

“He’s been triggered,” said Tim. “We don’t know what he’s seeing and he doesn’t seem to hear us.”

Something passed across Bruce’s face and he came a few steps closer, crouching down in front of Dick. “Hey, chum,” he said. Jason remembered that voice from when he was a terrified kid who had just arrived at the Manor. He hadn’t realised how much he missed it until now.

It did the trick. Dick finally raised his tear-stained face towards them, breaking off his frantic muttering. “Dad?” he asked, and he had no right sounding so tiny. Bruce didn’t have time to reply before Dick threw himself at him, nearly making him fall backwards. Bruce caught him in a steady grip and immediately started whispering reassurances in Dick’s ear.

Dick melted into Bruce, still crying, but listening to Bruce’s promises of protection. Jason ached for the boy who had once had that, too, and the man who maybe could have it again. He could do nothing but watch, surrounded by all his siblings, as his big brother cried out into his dad’s shoulders, as he panicked and slowly calmed down. His mind reeled with the newfound knowledge that someone had touched Dick without his consent, that something that never should’ve happened to Jason had now happened to his brother too. His tongue burned with questions he didn’t want to know the answers to. One more push, and Jason would be dissolving into a panic attack too.

Finally, after an eternity, Dick’s sobs died down. He still clutched Bruce’s armour as well as he could, but his chest had stopped heaving with those terrible cries.

“I’m sorry,” he said, so low Jason barely heard him. Jason had the sudden urge to shake his stupid older brother who didn’t know how to take care of himself, but he still couldn’t make himself move or speak. He felt too much like a kid again, scrawny and powerless to stop others from taking what they wanted from him.

“You don’t have to apologise, chum,” replied Bruce. It was his dad voice, at odds with the harsh Batman suit he still wore, like a visual illusion that split itself in half the longer you stared at it, until you could no longer tell what exactly you were looking at.

Jason wasn’t sure he was breathing anymore. No one seemed to have noticed.

How long had Dick been hurting? Did the others know what had happened to him or had he been keeping this to himself? Jason hadn’t noticed a thing. He hadn’t been paying attention . He should have noticed that something was amiss, he should’ve caught onto the signs. He was trained to see them, to put the clues together and help the victims, and now that his own brother was the victim, he had been blind to his suffering this entire time.

“Let’s get back to the Cave,” said Bruce. Jason heard him like he was underwater. Around him, the others moved to get off the roof, but he was rooted to the spot.

He was suddenly all too aware of the rain hitting him, plastering his hair to his face, soaking him to the bone, and he was thrust back to another Gotham night, several years ago, of broken wood and upturned earth.

He was on a roof, he was alive, he was long past fifteen. He was in a coffin, waking up alone and panicked, he was digging through the earth, he was taking in mouthfuls of air as the rain ruined his fancy suit.

He had to get a grip. This about Dick, not about him, Jason couldn’t make this about him. He couldn’t make this about him, he couldn’t make this about him, he couldn’t—

He couldn’t breathe.

He was on a roof. He was on a roof, he was on a roof, wood splintered his nails and blood trailed down his forearms. He couldn’t breathe. Was it a panic attack or was he in this fucking coffin, running out of air and destined to die a second time?

Rain ran down his face and no one answered when he called for his dad, for his grandpa, for his brother.

Voices around him, and everything was hazy. He remembered the lash of a whip when he was bad, he remembered hands holding him down, pressing his face down on a bed. Jason didn’t know how old he was anymore. Was he ten and unable to defend himself or sixteen and trying to survive no matter the cost?

He couldn’t breathe. Was he drowning in earth or in green waters?

Someone pressed a hand to his chest.

“Don’t touch me,” he managed to choke out. Or thought it did. The hand receded.

“Okay, chum, I won’t touch you.” He knew this voice. It was his dad. He had come, after all. He had come. “Can you breathe with me?”

Jason wasn’t sure he could. He tried anyway. Again, and again, and again, until he wasn’t lost to the throes of panic anymore and the situation reminded itself to him.

Fuck. He had made it all about himself, in the end. Everyone surrounded him in the same manners they had surrounded Dick a couple of minutes earlier. His older brother stood a couple of feet away, haggard and teary-eyed.

“I’m fine,” Jason croaked out, and convinced no one. Bruce’s mouth was creased with worry.

“Let’s go home,” he said, and they followed like obedient, if shaky, ducklings.

They piled up in the Bat mobile. Bruce and Duke sat at the front, while Damian took the middle seat, sandwiched between Dick and Jason. Tim had already taken off in the direction of the Manor on his bike, and Jason had begrudgingly accepted that Steph and Cass drive his own bike back to the Cave, as he was in no condition to drive.

In the car, no one spoke. From where he sat, Jason could see the clench of Bruce’s jaw, though he couldn’t tell whether it was worry or anger. Not knowing made the anxiety come back. Dick’s eyes were vacant again and he sat huddled against the car door, looking nothing like the mighty, talkative Nightwing.

Damian alternated between staring at Dick and staring at Jason, looking for what might very well be the first time in his life, like his age. Like a child, vulnerable and scared. He had just witnessed two of his older brothers break down, one after the other, and had likely hated being unable to do anything about it.

It wasn’t his fault in the slightest. For years now, none of them had been caring for Dick the way they should have, but Damian was only a kid, despite his insistence of the contrary. It wasn’t his duty to care for his elder siblings and check that they were taking care of themselves. But Jason and the rest of his siblings were adults. They had the maturity to take on that weight on their shoulders. Family cared, and they had failed at that.

Jason didn’t know how to fix this. He didn’t know how to comfort Dick or Damian, or any of his siblings, and no matter how much he cared now, it wouldn’t make up for past neglect. The wounds had been inflicted, too deep not to scar, and he doubted they had even begun closing yet.

Bruce parked the car in the Cave. Tim, Steph, and Cass were already there, standing next to Alfred, to whom they must have explained the situation. Jason’s limbs were weighed down by lead, and he wanted nothing more than to continue to exist in the liminal space that was the car, where they wouldn’t have to talk about it.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? They hadn’t been talking about it before, and it was what had brought on this whole fiasco in the first place. Silence wasn’t an option anymore.

Slowly, he dragged himself out of the car. His heart thundered in his chest, like it was his trauma they were about to discuss. His own panic attack was inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things. He hadn’t been able to help it, and everyone here was well aware of his trauma and triggers. Dick’s trauma was a different matter.

He stopped a few feet away from Alfred and turned. Dick had gotten out too, his steps devoid of their usual grace. His held himself like he was hollow and about to break. Jason figured it was probably the case. He wanted to hug his brother so badly he ached for it but their relationship hadn’t been like that for… well, ever. Jason wasn’t much of a hugger, especially after trauma episodes, and Dick would not want to be touched now. Jason wasn’t even sure his attempt at comfort would be welcome, whether it involved a hug or not.

Everyone had joined the small group Tim, Steph, Cass, and Alfred had formed and stood awkwardly as they waited for someone to say something. None of them seemed inclined to do so, and for a couple of long minutes, only silence hung between them. Jittery energy coursed through Jason under the weight of that silence, and he would have another panic attack if it went on for too long.

“Are you two alright?” Damian finally asked, in an uncharacteristically timid voice.

Jason’s heart broke. Judging by the face his siblings made, it wasn’t the only one.

“I’m fine,” Dick started to say, but his voice broke on a guttural sob and he folded in half, cementing his words. Dick had always been the sort to hide his feelings behind a perpetually cheerful mask, and Jason really should have known better than to take it at face value. He knew that his brother hid from them and yet he had done nothing to make sure Dick actually was fine. He hadn’t cared and now it was too late.

“Chum,” said Bruce gently, taking a step forward, “what happened?”

It only made Dick cry harder. “I’m sorry,” he babbled in-between sobs, “I should’ve told you sooner. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Jason finally found his voice. “It’s not your fault,” he said. Dick continued his frantic, half-incoherent apologies. “Dick,” he repeated, louder. “Dick, it’s not your fault.” His brother finally looked up at him. Jason swallowed hard, willing his words not to get stuck in his throat again. “We weren’t there for you and we made you feel like you couldn’t tell us. It’s not your fault.”

Dick sniffled. “You were still dead, Jay,” he whispered. Jason felt like he had just been slapped. Had he still been dead, or was he already training in the League? Either way, whatever had happened was several years old. Jason couldn’t have known.

He couldn’t have stopped it.

Maybe he didn’t fail his brother that much, then. He didn’t notice he was unwell, but he couldn’t have stopped it. He couldn’t have stopped it.

It felt like a failure anyway.

“Jason,” someone called. It was Bruce, who was standing right in front of him. “Breathe, Jaylad.” Jason obeyed and took in a stuttering breath. He looked back up at Dick.

“What happened?” he asked hoarsely, even though he already had an inkling as to what the answer would be. “Dick, what happened?”

“You don’t have to tell us,” added Bruce. “But seeing as you were just triggered during patrol, I think it would be safer for all of us and especially for you if you at least informed us of your triggers.”

A heavy silence fell over the group as Dick looked at them one by one then back at the floor, hugging himself. “Alright,” he said eventually. “I’ll tell you.”

And he did. He told them about Tarantula and all the trouble Dick had been experiencing in Blüdhaven at the time. He told them about Desmond’s power. He told them about a rainy night, an empty staircase, and a gunshot.

He told them about Catalina and her refusal to heed his ‘no’.

Dick was sobbing again by the time he finished, apologising over and over again, though Jason wasn’t quite sure what he was apologising for. His mind and body had gone numb. Around him, Steph was crying into Cass’s shoulder, Bruce and Duke stood frozen, and Tim had pulled a pale Damian into a hug.

Jason couldn’t believe they had missed something this big for so many years. It mattered little that he had still been in the grave when it had happened. Even alive, he couldn’t have anticipated and stopped this. But they all should have been there for the aftermath.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bruce said finally.

Dick shook his head. “I should have stopped her from killing Desmond. I should have stopped her from… And I ruined tonight. I knew it was going to be a bad night but I went out anyway. I could have put you all in danger.” He choked on a sob. “I feel disgusting. I’m so sorry.”

Jason’s muscles finally unlocked and he lurched forward. “Do you want a hug, Dickie?” Dick looked up at him with wide, watery eyes, and all but threw himself at Jason. Jason caught him in a firm grip and rested his chin on top of his brother’s head.

“I’m sorry,” Dick sobbed into his shoulder.

“It’s alright, Dick. None of it was your fault. Desmond fucking had it coming, and Tarantula should’ve listened when you said ‘no’. You aren’t disgusting and it’s not your fault.”

“I triggered you.”

“Dick, I’m not upset about that. Shit happens and everyone knows I’ve got a whole army of trauma ready to pop out at any moment. You couldn’t have predicted that and neither could I. I’ll be fine, especially because I, unlike you, actually try and process my trauma instead of repressing it into the pits of hell. I am definitely upset that you ignored your own triggers. You gotta take care of yourself, Dick. I’m sorry we weren’t there for you when you needed it and I promise you I’ll do better. But you have to be there for yourself too. No more going out if you’re not feeling well. None of us will hold it against you.”

Dick nodded weakly against him. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too, Dickie. Me too.”

They relocated to the movie room, where the armchairs were the most comfortable. Tim put on a movie in the background, but none of them were paying attention to it. Dick had curled up alone in one of the plush armchairs, after having asked shyly that none of them touch him for the moment. Sooner or later, Jason knew, he would wake up from a nightmare. They would be here for him then.

Damian was plastered to Jason’s side, fast asleep, his tiny hand clutched into Jason’s hoodie. He wouldn’t be surprised if the little bat refused to leave either of their side for the next few days. Next to them, Tim, Steph, Cass, and Duke were a haphazard, dozing pile of limbs.

Jason refused to sleep. After tonight, nightmares were unavoidable, and his tended to err on the side of loud and violent. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally hurt or scare his family. It meant he was still awake—and valiantly trying to fight off sleep—when Bruce stepped into the room. He had ushered them up to the Manor less than an hour ago, promising them he would be with them shortly. Jason was certain he had wanted to make sure loose ends were properly tied up. And if they weren’t, he would make sure they were.

Bruce stopped next to the pile where four of his children could vaguely be made out and pressed a kiss to each of their foreheads. He did the same to Damian, stopped himself before he could get too close to Dick, and finally turned to face Jason.

“How are you feeling?” he asked as he sat down next to him.

Jason shrugged. He didn’t know how to put the maelstrom of his emotions into words. Bruce, in an astonishing display of emotional maturity, simply waited. “I hate that none of us noticed Dick was doing badly,” he whispered finally. “I hate that we missed something so big and that we can only try to do better but we can’t fix the past. We fucked up, B. We really did.”

“We did,” agreed Bruce. “The fault is mainly on me. Dick is an excellent actor, and if he didn’t want you to know, there was little you could do. But I should have made more efforts back then. I should have checked up on him even when we weren’t on speaking terms and I should have worked on my issues sooner.” He glanced wistfully at Dick. “Maybe then he would have felt like he could come to me. You’re right, it’s too late now, and we can only try and do better. What about your own panic attack? What brought it on, if you don’t mind talking about it?”

Jason barely stopped himself from wincing. He had hoped to evade this conversation in the midst of Dick’s trauma reveal, but he should’ve known better than to simply think Bruce would forget. “Dick’s flashback,” he stated slowly, “brought back some memories and past trauma. And then the rain reminded me of… well, I’m sure you can guess. Everything was too much, and all my trauma got jumbled together.” He passed a hand over his face. He didn’t know how he was going to successfully resist sleep until he could go back to his safehouse. “It’s going to be a tough week, but I’ll be fine eventually. It’s not repressed trauma, just resurfacing one.”

Bruce seemed to read right through him. “You can sleep, you know. We’re not going anywhere.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Bruce guided his head to rest on his shoulders. The gesture brought tears to Jason’s eyes. “You won’t. We’ll be here for you if you wake in a panic. I’m not leaving, Jay.”

There was that gentle tone again. Jason had missed it like a lost limb, and he found he couldn’t refuse it anything.

It had been a long time since Dick had come to the Manor’s roof. It had stopped raining at some point during the night, but the tiles were damp and slippery, and the smell of rain still clung to the air. Dick wasn’t sure why he was here. After last night, it seemed like an exceptionally bad idea.

He had woken up warm, curled up in a blanket in the movie room, feeling not quite rested, but not as exhausted as he usually was. Like something had reset itself in his chest and he could finally move forward. Everyone else had been asleep, and they had not stirred when Dick had tiptoed out.

They knew, now. All these years keeping it a secret, and a stupid patrol had uncovered it all in the worst possible way. He was lucky no one had gotten injured because of his panic attack, but he had still managed to cause damage. Jason had been triggered not once but twice, and Dick hadn’t missed the crestfallen expressions on his family’s faces. He had hurt absolutely everyone. He was a pitiful excuse of an older brother.

Nothing would be the same anymore. They wouldn’t look at him or treat him the way they did before. Everything Dick had feared about telling them was unfolding and it was too late to stop it.

They hadn’t judged him last night. Jason had promised they weren’t disgusted by him and that it wasn’t his fail. (As if.) And even Bruce hadn’t said anything about Desmond’s death. He didn’t know what to make of it. Was it an act, or good sentiments that wouldn’t last?

The door to the roof opened and footsteps joined him. Dick knew without looking who it was. Bruce sat down next to him, close but not touching. Dick wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to throw himself at Bruce and pretend his dad’s embrace could keep everything at bay.

“Your siblings are looking for you,” Bruce said. “Should I tell them I’ve found you?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“If I tell them I’ve found you but not where, they won’t stop pestering me, and they’ll eventually find us and be very clingy. If I tell them where you are, we can expect an invasion within the minute. I suppose you came here for peace, and not for the enjoyment of sitting on cold and wet tiles. So I’m asking you what you want me to do.”

“Tell them you’ve found me, and that we’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Bruce obliged. “How are you feeling?” he asked once he’d put his phone back into his pocket.

Not ‘why didn’t you tell us’, or ‘are you okay’, or ‘why did you leave the movie room’. Dick felt like crying again and he hated it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, which was the wrong answer.

“I’m not sure what you’re sorry about, but I’ll repeat what Jason said last night. None of it is your fault. Tarantula… assaulted you, and that’s on her. I understand that you were reluctant to tell us, and I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t come to me about it. That I made you feel like you had to keep it a secret. It’s not your fault, you aren’t disgusting, and she’ll never even come close to you ever again. As for Desmond, I realise that I enforced my moral code with too much intensity when it comes to you and your siblings. I won’t ever stop following it myself, but I shouldn’t have led you to believe my love for you was conditional on your respect of that code. I’m not angry at you for Desmond’s death. You were put in a difficult and exhausting situation, and you made a choice. It’s not up to me to judge you for that.”

Dick lost the battle against sobs. “Everything was so hard,” he said. “And I was just so tired. I didn’t know what to do.”

“I’m sorry, chum, that I wasn’t here for you. I am so, so sorry.”

Dick leaned his head against his dad’s shoulder. They stayed like that for a few minutes, until Bruce spoke up again. “How about we go back inside? I don’t know about you, but the wet tiles really aren’t doing it for me.”

Dick chuckled wetly and said, to test the waters of this newfound peace, “I’m not patrolling tonight.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to, and I’m pretty sure your siblings would chain you down if you were to try to.” Bruce hesitated for a second, then added, “I’ve been thinking… If your suit is a trigger, we could design a new one together. If that’s what you want.”

Dick allowed himself a small but genuine smile. “Thanks, dad. That would be amazing.”