#dick ic

[dramatisperscnae]

@thecreativeforge from here bc tumblr is dumb

Breathe. He had to breathe. Nothing had happened, they were fine, just breathe, Grayson. And try not to think about how Roy's hand had felt, there in the small of his back. How it might have felt if it had landed a few inches lower.

The hand on his shoulder made him jump, though he didn't pull away; instead his own hand came up to hold it there as he looked over at Roy, hoping the flush on his cheeks had faded a little even as he found some comfort in the fact that Roy's hadn't. At least Dick wasn't the only one suddenly feeling awkward right now.

He managed a wry grin at the teasing, giving Roy's hand a squeeze but still not letting go. "I'd…call it a tie. Would've been my win if that old brownstone had still been here." He was trying to tease back, but as Roy glanced over and blue eyes met green any further comments died on Dick's lips. His heart was still pounding, albeit a little softer than it had been a few seconds ago, though he wasn't afraid; behind the uncertainty in his eyes absolute trust was shining through.

[stars-and-branches]

He's using the batarang as a spoon to eat ice cream

[dramatisperscnae]

It was nice, having Roy in his arms, Roy's head against his chest. Dick settled into the mattress comfortably, still toying with Roy's hair idly. He still didn't like the quiet, the silence, but having someone else there - having Roy there - made it easier to deal with. He could listen to Roy's breathing, focus on the shared warmth and the feeling of Roy's hair against his fingers, and then the silence didn't seem quite so heavy.

And then Roy spoke.

Just three words, but they made Dick go still, his breath catching for a moment. It wasn't surprising, honestly - Roy had made it fairly clear he felt some kind of way pretty much since he'd hauled Dick out of Atlantic City - but actually hearing it…it changed things. Made it more real. Sent a rush of icy fire straight through Dick that he wasn't at all sure what to make of.

Did he dare say the words back? He knew he felt some kind of way, too; his feelings for Roy went deeper than just friendship, but how long would that last? There was still far too high a chance that it was simply Dick scrambling to feel wanted after what had happened, to feel needed if not desired, and it was only natural after trauma to cling to someone showing kindness and compassion, wasn't it?

Stifling a sigh Dick pressed a kiss into Roy's hair, holding him closer. "I…can't say it yet," he said, going for total honesty, "but…you mean a lot to me, Roy. You do. Just…give me some time…okay?"

Roy knew Dick was probably right, and he was in no condition to do much but sleep. If the pain in his side continues, he would have to see the doctor again, hopefully not having made it worse; Catalina did throw a mean hit to the place, though he doubted one was enough to do anything. He took some aspirin and laid down in bed, wrapping his arms around Dick in turn as Dick held him close, thoroughly enjoying the fingers running through his red hair.

"Good night, Dick." He murmured before contemplating a long moment. Was it too early? Was it too sudden? No, he felt strongly enough to do all this for him and more, and he would do what he did tonight a thousand times if he had to. He knew what he felt for Dick, and actually having him at his side only affirmed it. Screw it. If this was going to end, let it end with Dick knowing the truth.

"I love you."

[ditzybat]

just imagining a teeny tiny tim being absolutely devastated about jason’s death, that he manages to get on to dark forums to contact a mercenary for a hit on the joker’s life.

and who happens to be that mercenary? deathstroke.

tim wires money from his (admittedly very high) allowance to slade, who finishes the job within the week — news outlets are going crazy as nobody knows who pulled off such a stunt — bruce is confused, and dick is both grateful, that someone took the bastard who killed his baby brothers life, and angry, because bruce wasn’t the one to do it.

slade however? wants to investigate, someone finally had the gall to order a hit on the joker and he’s a little curious to see who it is.

only come to find a little boy all alone in a big house who spends his nights following around a vigilante in a furry suit.

and, well, slade hasn’t been the best parent, and probably doesn’t know how to deal with an average kid, but who can blame him when he begins to train tim into becoming a mercenary just like him — after all, how else is he gonna defend himself on the streets of gotham when he gallivants around with an expensive camera, a sign basically saying ‘kidnap me!’ strapped to his chest?

so what if the kid becomes robin and uses those skills in the cape? that’s batman’s problem to figure out.

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closed starter for @cxpedcrusxder and amnesiac!bruce

It's something they all quietly live in fear of. That one night, someone won't make it back. That some day The Call will come through and they'll be left with one less name in their lives, one less voice to hear. It's a fear, but it's a given. What they do is dangerous, and every night there is always the risk that they won't make it back. Dick knows this. He's known it since he was nine.

That hadn't changed the sudden ice-cold rush of panic he'd gotten when Alfred had called him over a week ago.

He'd just been finishing up his own patrol when the call came through over his comms. The Bat had fallen, badly. Possibly permanently. Dick hadn't hesitated - hell, he hadn't even stopped to pack; he'd just thrown a long coat on over his costume, hopped on his motorcycle, and raced to Gotham with his speedometer pushing 200mph the whole way. By the time he'd arrived Bruce was already in the hospital and Alfred - bless Alfred - was in the waiting room with a cup of coffee and a worrying grave expression.

In the days that followed Dick refused to leave the hospital. It was only at Alfred's insistence - and with his help - that Dick even bothered changing into proper clothes rather than remain in his working gear. Bruce wasn't dead - yet - but he was hardly out of the woods and there was no power in this or any other universe that could pry Dick away from his father's side. Sure their relationship hadn't been the best over the past few years, but none of that mattered. Not now.

At this point the nurses seem to have realized the family is not going to leave, given they've stopped bothering to remind Dick and the others about visiting hours. Only discussion - okay, an argument - between himself and his brothers pulls Dick from Bruce's bedside, and that only occasionally; they've set up a patrol rotation, picking up the slack while Batman is incapacitated to ensure that neither Bruce nor Gotham is left untended.

Tonight it's Dick's turn at Bruce's side, Tim and Damian having charge of the city under Alfred's guidance - and with some quiet help from Jason, not that anyone will openly say so. Dick's pulled his chair right beside Bruce's bed, a book open on his lap as he reads quietly aloud. Maybe Bruce can hear him, maybe he can't, but either way it's something, isn't it? It's at least doing more than just sitting there worrying and praying Bruce wakes up.

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@the-mocking-robin

A phone call. From an unfamiliar number. The voice at the other end of the call is small, young and more than a little scared sounding. "H-hello? Mister Dick Grayson? Hi. I don't know if you remember me? You talked to my brother about your car. Uh — I'm sorry, I got your number from Jason's phone." "Uh. My mom said... Well. Jason. He's not doing too good. Mom said he's sick. That his brain isn't... Right... Right now. And I heard him yelling and things broke and..." "I know it's late. I'm just scared for him. I don't know what to do. It was hard just getting him down from the roof... He didn't speak or anything. And no one knows who else to call."

Dick isn't generally in the habit of answering his phone if he doesn't know the number. Telemarketers, daring reporters, it's just more hassle than it's worth. Of course, it's incredibly difficult for anyone to get his number without his giving it to them in the first place, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen.

Tonight, when his phone goes off with the ringtone reserved for strangers - Rockwell's 'Somebody's Watching Me' - he eyes the thing for a few seconds before shrugging and actually answering it. He's bored, he might as well fuck with whoever's on the other end before going on patrol.

Except that whoever's on the other end is a kid. A scared kid. Who knows his name and - more importantly - knows Jason. And Jason is…in trouble. Just what kind Dick has no idea, but the kind that has the tenement kids worried for him and that's enough for Dick.

"I'll be right over. Okay? Take a deep breath for me. It's gonna be okay." God he hopes so. "You can stay on the phone with me if you want, okay? While I drive over there." Dick's already moving, not even bothering to change out of his casual shorts and t-shirt; he barely even bothers sliding shoes on before heading down to the garage. He's not taking the Nightbird this time; she's fast, sure, but she's not as nimble as his motorcycle. On the bike Dick can take shortcuts through alleys and weave through Gotham's constant traffic.

"Just keep me updated on what he's doing, can you do that? I'm switching you over to Bluetooth so I can drive, but I'm still here, I promise."

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@thecreativeforge [Forehead touch prompts || accepting]

[ EXHAUSTION ]:     having just overcome a massive obstacle (e.g. using a massive display of their powers, fighting through a sizable army, embarking on a perilous journey, writing up a PhD thesis etc.) the sender and receiver reunite, and the sender drops their head forward to rest against the receivers, thoroughly exhausted but glad to be reunited at last.

Why did hell have to break loose so damned often? After a certain point, shouldn't there be no more hell left to break loose? Dick took a few seconds to look around, leaning against the remnants of what had been a wall until about ten minutes ago. Yet another fight that left half a city in rubble and had needed some serious heavy hitters to resolve…but they'd come through it. He was eexhausted, bloodied, bruised, but still standing.

Pushing off the wall Dick started off through the wreckage of the battlefield, eyes scanning for a flash of red. Not the red of blood - there was more than enough of that as it was - but a brighter, distinctive shade. He'd seen the arrows, heard the smart-assed comments over the comms, knew the man was here somewhere; he just had to find him.

It took a good few minutes, given he had to pick off a few stragglers, but soon enough the man he sought was there at the end of the street. Blue eyes brightened behind a dust-stained mask, exhaustion forgotten as he broke into a run.

"Arsenal!"

Dick threw his arms around the archer, pulling him into as tight a hug as he could - one shoulder had been dislocated in the battle; he'd reset it but it was still angry at him - before pulling back enough to rest their heads together out of sheer relief. "…still the proverbial bad penny, huh?" he asked with a warm smile. "Just can't get rid of you."

[dramatisperscnae]

@therebetterbepie [-drops a half-dead Dickiebird at your feet like a cat-]

He's tired. He's been pushing himself nonstop for days, ever since the cemetery. Since Jason. Since learning his baby brother hates him. He's always assumed that would be the case, of course - why the hell would Jason think otherwise? - but to have it confirmed…to know that Jason is alive and well, somehow, and wants nothing to do with him. Has disowned him. After everything else he's lost over these past few months, what else does Dick have left but his work?

He can't even go back to Bruce. Not now. Not after Blockbuster. After Bludhaven. And if Bruce knew about Jason? Knew and didn't tell him? What does that say about their relationship? More than enough. The weight of his failures is crushing him, each one parading through his head almost non-stop. Getting fired from the 'haven PD. Losing Babs. Killing Blockbuster. Catalina, god he wishes he could forget her; every time she crosses his mind it makes his skin crawl. Sophie, and Slade, and Chemo falling on Bludhaven, and now Jason, back from the dead…

The only thing that stops the parade is his work. It gives him something to focus on, something to do, even though a part of him knows this is stupid. Self-destructive. Dangerous. The rest of him doesn't care. Hell, it almost welcomes the pain. How many fights tonight alone? Six? Seven? He's lost count. Took a couple bullets here and there. A knife, once. And now he's finishing up on a herd of Talons that damn near came close to ripping him to shreds. But he's still standing, somehow.

Still standing.

Barely.

A part of him is disappointed by that.

Arm tucked over his stomach Dick stumbles his way out of the alley, fetching up against a wall once or twice and leaving a streak of blood behind each time. He should probably call for help. He has to keep moving. Get to the next fight. There's always a next fight. But maybe…

Is there a chill in the air?

Maybe this time there won't be. He runs into the wall again, slides down it. Tired. Getting darker. Light must be out here; happens sometimes in these alleys, no one bothers to check the bulbs on the regular. Footsteps approaching. Should reach for his sticks. Sit up. Too tired. Sticks already in hand. Doesn't matter. Can't move. And this is Gotham. Maybe the footsteps will just pass by. Just leave him here. It's dark, he's in black. Easy to miss. Right?

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[my muse was unexpectedly kidnapped, found a year later barely alive, injured, and bound.]

@lazaruspitreborn

Where there would be some snarky commentary there was silence and cautiousness when Red Hood found frigging Nightwing dumped inside what he could only consider a murder shack at the outskirts of Gotham. A scene so shocking he couldn't even bring any words out of his mouth or brain. No, he scanned the place a second and third time with his scan-bug (one of his latest creations) and upon not finding anything that called for extra caution, rushed to Dick. They never stopped looking for him. Never! They lost Bruce too soon, couldn't lose Dick as well! But as the days went on, hope dwindled in spite of the Babs', Tim's and Jason's efforts. And with criminal activity rising again, their time became more and more limited, only making their search even harder. "H-Hey, hey, hey! It's fine. It's me, Bluebird." Jason's voice was hushed and way softer when he stopped what he thought was an attempt on a punch. "Holy shit! You're alive... Dick! Dick, no, no, no! Do not fucking go dead on me!" Gods! Jason slided on his knees to take a better look at Dick, craddling his head and face against his own chest while he measure his pulse - weak, but still there. "I'm here. I'm here Dick. You're safe." A wave of relief washed over him, so powerful that Jason completely forgot to send word back to the Belfry for quite a few minutes while he checked Dick's wounds and ascertained himself that he didn't have anything broken.

Cold. So cold. What was left of his suit wasn't nearly enough to keep the cold out. Wrists hurt. Ankles. Everything, just one constant dull ache. Where was he? Had they moved him again? They kept moving him, never too long in one place, never more than a few days…weeks? He didn't know. Time had stopped meaning anything a while back. Impossible to tell time without clocks. Without light. Without anything to go by. He could only guess.

How long had he been gone? Weeks? Months? How long since they'd taken him? How long until they came back? They always came back. Every time he though it was over, every time he woke up on a new chair, a new floor, every time he thought he'd made it out, they always came back. What would it be this time? Gas? Injection? Or going old-school with blades and blunt instruments? Or a combination of them all?

Breath rasped in his chest, the sound of hurried footsteps making him twitch. Here it came, all over again, and he didn't have the strength to fight them off. He barely had the strength to struggle against the hands pulling him from the floor, trying to pull away until his arms were immobilized and a hushed voice spoke.

It's me, Bluebird.

He looked up to see a red mask, featureless but for white lenses, looking back at him. Talking to him. Red. Not white. They didn't use red masks. And their masks didn't look like this, not remotely. It wasn't them. It wasn't them. He sagged, what little energy that had been driving him flowing out as his eyes slid closed again.

And then he heard his name. His real name. And he was being lifted, cradled against a broad chest. Forcing his eyes open again he looked up, hazily, at the red mask - no. Red helmet - above him. A helmet he knew. Voice he knew. Assuring him. Safe. He's safe. Bluebird. "…Jason…" His voice was weak, barely a whisper, hoarse from overuse or underuse or some unholy combination of both; as dry as his mouth felt, he was surprised he could speak at all right now.

There was nothing broken - at least, not recently, though from the looks of things at least one or two fingers had been broken and forcibly reset a few times. Around his wrists and ankles his struggles against his bonds had left clear tracks in the flesh beneath that had never gotten a chance to heal, while beneath the shreds of what had once been his suit were scars - some fresh, some months old, none of them clean or pretty - scattered amongst bruises and fresh wounds while his arms bore the tell-tale marks of needles. IV, syringes, his captors had regularly introduced various things into his system, though whether to keep him alive or to torment him further - or both - was anyone's guess.

[dramatisperscnae]

closed starter for @cxpedcrusxder's Grim, because why tf not >w>

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He's not exactly sure just what good coming here will do, but he's got to know. He's got to see for himself. After that very public arrest, after everything…the media's had a field day with this, but even at fifteen years old Dick knows the media doesn't always give the full picture.

So here he is. Sneaking into Gotham's most secure mental hospital in the dead of night, to do…what, exactly? Satisfy his own curiosity? Maybe. The man he's coming to see has a pretty twisted view of how things should be in this city, and Dick wants to know why. No one else will tell him. Possibly no one else can.

The people at the orphanage tell him not to ask questions like that. They worry about him. They'd probably worry a lot more if they knew where he is now, what he's doing. They'd definitely worry if they knew he's been sneaking out regularly since he'd cme to live there in the first place, but that's a different issue.

The hallways are quiet as Dick slips carefully down them. They always are at this hour; he's been watching the guard rotation and routine for a while now, taking stock of the various security measures. He won't have much time to talk, once he finds the right room, but he'll have some.

And there it is. Arguably the most secure room in this entire facility, due to the nature and abilities of the man it holds. A man who may or may not actually be awake at this hour, but Dick's going to find out. He knocks at the door - a transparent affair made of reinforced, just-about-everything-proof glass that removes any sense of privacy this man has - and steps back a pace, arms folded. "…Anyone awake in there?"

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adding to @normaltothemax's draft count for reasons >w>

It's been a week. Maybe longer, it's hard to say; the days seem to blur together sometimes. Have ever since he got the news. Clint dead. Killed in action. Natasha told him, quiet and serious, and for all she's got a better poker face than he does Dick could still pick up on her agitation. She'd clearly been upset. That meant it was real.

He hasn't taken the ring off. Not yet. He can't bear to. It's all he has of Clint right now, until he's allowed to go back to Clint's apartment, start packing up his things. SHIELD thinks he's a civilian, won't let him in there until they've made sure nothing confidential is left. But Natasha had at least brought Lucky over; it's the least Dick can do, to make sure Clint's dog still has a home

Besides, having Lucky to take care of means he has something outside of his work to focus on. Which he needs. He knows from experience that living the life 24/7 is a bad idea, but it's his natural response to a situation like this. Lucky keeps him from doing that.

It's been a long few days, though; even without his throwing himself into his work, he's been unable to really sleep. His bed feels far too big, too empty now, with Clint gone. Stupid, maybe, since they hadn't always shared a bed as it was, but…well, they won't ever be sharing a bed again, will they? Clint's gone.

Dick runs a hand through his hair as he drags himself back up to the Wayne Tower penthouse, pulling his mask off and preparing to catch an excited Lucky as he usually does when he gets home from patrol. When he steps inside the penthouse, though, there's no sign of Lucky at all…and the television's on. It hasn't been on for days. And it's playing Dog Cops; he recognizes the theme song with a pang. Clint loved that show.

Surely Lucky hasn't figured out how to use the remote, has he?

Confused and cautious, he peers into the living room, not sure what he expects to see. Whatever it is, it's not a far-too-familiar blond man lounging on his sofa, drinking coffee straight out of the pot with his feet on the table and Lucky tucked against his side.

That can't be possible. It can't be. Dick's not even aware he's taken a step or two forward, staring in mute shock. This has to be some trick, or he's finally just snapped, or something; that can't be Clint Barton just sitting in his living room like nothing happened at all. Can it…?

[dramatisperscnae]

@messeduphood [x]

"Seriously? At least wine me first, bitch," Jason Todd muttered under his breath as he found himself locked in a fierce battle with Dick Grayson. The tension crackled in the air, each blow exchanged fueling their rivalry. As the fight raged on, Jason's back pressed against the unforgiving ground, pinned beneath Dick's weight. The pain surged through his body, but Jason refused to let it break his focus. Summoning every ounce of his physical prowess and mental fortitude, Jason's muscles coiled like a tightly wound spring. The anticipation built as he prepared to strike, channeling the power of a cobra ready to strike its prey. Then, with an explosive burst of strength, Jason arched his body forcefully, mirroring the lethal grace of a cobra in motion. His goal was clear: to catch Dick off guard, pushing him against the wall with a force that would leave him reeling. The element of surprise was on Jason's side as he propelled himself off the ground, his muscles screaming with exertion. The maneuver was audacious, an audacious attempt to gain the upper hand and assert his dominance. In that moment, the clash of their bodies against the wall echoed the intensity of their rivalry. Jason's unyielding determination and calculated moves sent a clear message to Dick: he was not one to be underestimated.

Sparring with Jason was always a test. Big as he was, it was easy even for Dick to forget just how fast Jason was. Most bruisers on the streets weren't all that quick, either in thought or in body, but Jason? Jason was fast. Almost as fast as Dick himself. The one thing Dick had to his advantage was his agility, and even that wasn't always enough.

That was why he hadn't been able to help the grin when he'd finally pinned Jason down, astride the other's waist, mind already working on how to keep him down. If he couldn't think of something fast, Jason was going to break free. Dick might be strong in his own right, but Jason was a goddamn wall of muscle; in a test of pure strength, Jason was going to win.

Okay. So count on him breaking free and use that to some advantage. Dick shifted, unable to help the grin as he tried to get his feet under him enough to be ready without sacrificing any of his hold on Jason. A tricky order, that, and one he didn't quite manage; when Jason bucked, Dick went flying.

He had managed to get some traction, but not enough to actually steer himself; the wall knocked the breath out of him long enough for Jason to be on his feet and against him. Not that he planned on surrendering just yet; it would take more than this for Dick Grayson to throw in the towel. This was half of why he enjoyed sparring Jason, after all; it kept him on his toes. Underestimating Jason Todd wasn't something anyone did more than once.

Dick braced himself against the wall, considering which angle to try for in his own attempt at escape. Going straight forward was just stupid, given he currently had a 6'4" wall of muscle blocking his path, but trying for an angle? That he could do. Just as soon as he found a good opening for it.

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@thecreativeforge [x]

Deliciously remarkable dinner and a pleasant walk through the luscious green gardens at the local park, and yet nothing compared to the absolutely stellar of Dick Grayson's. Roy and Dick scarcely had the chance to have evenings like these all to themselves, especially with his princess Lian getting her fair share of Roy's attention, but finally being able to be out an about with his bluebird... It was an absolute treat, and Roy had a terrible sweet tooth. Their heated kiss finally broke, and Roy took a soft breath himself, forehead pressing against Dick's as he cackled to the sound of his question. "Why do you think I wanted to skip dessert?" He teased and keaned in to press another featherlight kiss to those addictive lips in spite of his breathless tone. "Had I not been a polite gentleman, I would have considered taking the main course right there and then." Crass, maybe, but it was intentionally exaggerated, and he knew Dick was aware he was just being blunt to make a point across. He pressed another firm kiss before inhaling sharply through nostrils and pulling back, flashing Dick a more tender smile. "You ok? I didn't hit your head too hard on the wall or something, yeah?"

Dick's cheeks, already faint pink, flushed darker at Roy's words, an eager light in his eyes. His hand tightened a little in Roy's hair, pulling his archer that much closer. Main course, was he…? "In public? Scandalous even for you, Roy," he teased back, knowing full well it had been exaggeration to begin with. Didn't make it any less fun to joke about. All just a part of the game.

He leaned eagerly into Roy's kiss, letting out a soft hum of pleasure before the hand in Roy's hair slid down to cup his cheek. "I'm fine," he assured the other, thumb brushing over Roy's cheekbone softly. "More than fine." Another kiss, then Dick leaned forward to nuzzle against Roy's ear, lips just brushing over it as he continued, "…now are we gonna stand here all night…?"

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@thecreativeforge [x]

Jason's gaze returned to the pistol at hand when Dick seems to have snapped out of his ogling daze, continuing to swipe a cleaning swab against the slide, frame and chamber, eyes focusing back on each particular part and checking for any lint, dust or dirt particles that can jam the weapon during use. He paused for a moment at the second comment, said so casually as if it wasn't anything special, before his fingers gripped the swab a little tighter and continued to move along the frame. He knew that if things were the other way around, he would probably stare all the same. He had done so in the past a couple of times, watching the older man work and train and feeling the bite of jealousy and admiration nipping at the edge of his thoughts. He inhaled sharply through flared nostrils at the memories resurfacing and the feelings it stirred within him, mingling with confusion and uncertainty. Deep down, he liked it when Dick watched him. Because he knew he was there, watching, and he wasn't entirely alone. "Fetch me the gun oil and a few more swabs, will you?" He asked quietly, not lifting his eyes to meet Dick's again.

His question was going to go entirely unanswered, it seemed. Oh well. Jason didn't seem that bothered by it, though Dick was still a little confused. What kind of a way had he apparently been looking at Jason that was so distracting? Or had it just been the fact he'd been looking at all? Could just be that Jason didn't like having an audience, which was fair enough.

"Sure." Dick pushed out of his chair to grab the items requested, setting them within easy reach. He didn't immediately sit back down, though; he'd been sitting for a while, and Dick had never been one to sit still for very long unless he had to. It wasn't that he was restless right now, though; he was simply wondering if he ought to find something else to do besides watch Jason clean his guns.

Honestly, Dick would've offered to help, but the way Jason handled those weapons he was pretty sure no one else would be allowed to touch them at all. Which was fair enough.

So instead Dick occupied himself in the apartment's small kitchen area, making them both a cup of tea. Even so, as he waited first for the water to boil and then for the tea itself to steep his eyes kept drifting over to watch Jason at work.

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@therebetterbepie [xx]

Dick had been a light sleeper for most of his life. It simply came with the territory of being a vigilante, and one trained by Batman to boot. It never took much to wake him unless he'd been pushing himself particularly hard; even just the shifting of the mattress would do it.

Except when he was with Dean.

Sleeping beside Dean, sharing a bed with him, had given Dick more restful sleep than he usually got. He slept deeper with Dean there, with fewer dreams to trouble him, and wasn't quite so easily roused. Which is probably why he slept through his bedmate jolting awake and getting up with just a quiet, unintelligible mumble as he shifted into the warm space Dean left behind.

It was that shift that woke him up, actually; he'd reached out for his hunter only to find empty sheets and cold air where Dean should be. Sitting up he rubbed some of the sleep out of his eyes and looked around in muzzy confusion. No light in the bathroom, no sound of running water, bedroom door open, Dean gone…a little after 4 AM, by the clock on the nightstand…

Dick pushed himself out of bed, padding into the living room to see Dean on the couch looking…well, more than a little rough. A nightmare? Probably; they both had their share of those, and Dean had warned him about them the first time they'd shared a bed. Quietly Dick just moved to join the hunter, settling down on the couch and pulling Dean to him in a hug.

He held the hunter close, not saying a word, just offering silent comfort. Comfort that was sorely needed, if the way Dean latched onto him in return was any indication; it must have been one hell of a nightmare, to rattle him this badly.

Gently Dick just combed his fingers through Dean's hair, not letting go even for a second. "…I've got you," he said softly. "I'm here. I'm right here. I got you. Just breathe, I've got you…"

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@the-mocking-robin [x]

"Don't worry about the where," Jason brushes it off, waving a hand as if shooing the concern away. Depressive episodes don't need to be talked about extensively. And. Well. No. Jason doesn't like the answer he gets. In fact, he frowns a little more the more he thinks about it. No time away from Nightwing. Just more of the same? More of Batman, more of things mostly just being the same. Of course, they all want a quieter Gotham, but does nothing else change? Is there not more? "What about after Nightwing?" Jason asks a little softer, almost embarrassed. "Even just in some small capacity. Outside of being a costumed vigilante. Anything." Anything.

"After…?" The echoed word is soft, Dick blinking in surprise. After Nightwing. Has he ever really thought there would be an 'after'? Sure he's thrown the costume away a time or two, but it's never stuck. He's always come back to it. Hasn't been able to stay away. Not really. It's just…what he does. What he's always done.

In many ways - in all the important ways - it's the only life he's ever truly known.

He's had a life outside of being a vigilante, of course. At least, of a sort; joining he Bludhaven police department had more been in addition to rather than outside of.

"…I dunno. Like I said, I don't really think about it…" He shrugs, feeling almost guilty in some strange way. Or maybe ashamed, like it's something he should be thinking of and isn't.

"Maybe I'd go back to the circus," he says after a few seconds, voice quiet, eyes distant with melancholy thought. "Get it back on its feet, back up and running, back on the road. Get back in the air-…"

His voice cuts off as he recalls what happened the last time he'd tried that, when he'd been asked to fill in after one of the aerialists had been found dead. A burned-down circus, twenty lives lost…because of him. Can he really go back, after that?

Not a chance.

"...I guess I've just always thought it wouldn't matter," he admits quietly. "That there wouldn't really be an 'after'. That I'd probably go like...like Bruce." Fallen in the line of duty. God knows he's come very close a time or two. "This isn't exactly a life you retire from, y'know...?"