It’s been a week since everything ended. A week since Brainiac’s control was broken.
Having your mind hijacked, your powers twisted into weapons against the very people you swore to protect — that wasn’t something you could just walk away from. You remembered it all now. Every strike, every explosion, every scream. You were his weapon, a puppet of destruction.
And now that the strings were gone, the guilt remained — coiled tight in your chest, refusing to let you breathe. You told yourself it wasn’t your fault. Everyone said the same thing. But late at night, when the world was silent, you could still feel his voice crawling through your thoughts, could still see the faces of those you hurt.
You woke up again that night, choking on the memory. Your body trembled, sweat clinging to your skin. The sheets were tangled around you, and for a heartbeat, you weren’t sure where you were. Then the warmth beside you grounded you — Dick’s arm, heavy and steady across your waist, his breath slow against your shoulder.
He always seemed to know when you were trapped in a nightmare. He never said anything right away, never forced you to talk.
Dick understood what it was to carry guilt. To lose control. To be someone else’s weapon. Years under Batman’s command had taught him that silence could be both armor and prison.
So, he just tightened his hold, pulling you closer until your heartbeat began to match his.
He had been there when you were taken — had watched you turn your power on your friends, on him. He’d fought you, bled for you, and still, when your mind cleared, his first words were your name, soft and broken with relief.
Now, he was still here, grounding you in a world that suddenly felt too fragile.
You didn’t tell him about the dreams. You didn’t have to. He could read it in your eyes when morning came — the shadows under them, the tremor in your voice when you said you were fine.
But he didn’t call you out on it. Not yet. He just waited, patient as ever, knowing that sooner or later, the silence would break.
He woke the moment you slipped out of bed.
He didn’t open his eyes right away — just listened. The faint rustle of sheets, the soft pad of bare feet against the floor. The balcony door creaked open, letting in the cold air.
Dick sighed quietly, running a hand over his face. Another nightmare. He could always tell. The way your breathing changed, the way you curled in on yourself afterward.
You thought you were being quiet. You always did.
He sat up slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the faint glow of city lights bleeding through the curtains. It wasn’t the first time you'd left like this — it probably wouldn’t be the last. He didn’t blame you. When your own mind turns against you, silence can feel like the only safe place left.
He slipped on a t-shirt, grabbed two mugs from the counter, and poured what was left of the hot chocolate they’d made earlier that night. You didn’t need caffeine — you needed warmth. Something simple. Something human.
When he stepped out onto the balcony, you were already there. Leaning on the railing, hair tousled, face turned toward the horizon. The city was still half-asleep, painted in grays and bruised blues. You looked like part of the night itself — fragile and fierce in equal measure.
“Couldn’t sleep again?” he asked softly.