Dick doesn’t remember landing.

One second he’s in the air, the next his boots hit solid ground and he’s already moving—fast, purposeful, like if he slows down even a little, something will slip through his fingers again. The world feels too bright, too loud, too alive for what he’s been living in.

“They’re here?—where are they?”

His voice cuts sharper than he means it to, breath uneven as he pushes past a medic, eyes scanning, searching—always searching.

Then he sees you.

Everything else drops away.

Dick stops.

It’s not graceful. It’s not controlled. It’s abrupt, like he’s hit something invisible again, but this time it’s different. His chest tightens, breath catching hard enough it almost hurts. You’re there. Not a screen. Not a report. Not a ghost in his head.

“...Hey.”

The word barely makes it out. Softer than anything he’s said in weeks.

He takes a step forward. Slower now. Careful, like approaching something fragile.

“You’re—”

Alive.

He doesn’t finish it. Can’t. His jaw tightens instead, eyes scanning you quickly—checking for injuries, for anything wrong, for proof you’re real. His hand lifts halfway, like he’s going to touch you, then hesitates.

“…You’re okay.”

It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

His fingers curl slightly before he lets his hand drop. A breath leaves him, shaky but real, shoulders loosening for the first time in months.

“I—” He huffs a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, I had this whole speech, you know? Real dramatic. Thought I’d stick the landing.”

It falls flat. He knows it does.

Because something’s off.

Dick notices it the way he notices everything—too fast, too instinctive to ignore. The space between you. The way your body angles—not away, but not toward him either.

And then—

Movement.

His gaze shifts.

The kid—no, not a kid. Young. Too young. Standing close enough to matter. Close enough that it sets something tight and unfamiliar twisting in Dick’s chest.

“…Who’s that?”

It’s not accusatory. Not yet. Just… careful.

But his eyes don’t leave him now.

He watches the way the guy—Trace—positions himself. Not protective exactly. Not possessive.

But connected.

And something cold slides under Dick’s ribs.

“…You weren’t alone out there.”

It’s quieter this time. Less a question, more a realization forming in real time.

His posture shifts subtly—straightening, shoulders pulling back, instinctively grounding himself. Not aggressive. Not hostile.

But bracing.

“Months,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You were out there for months…”

Dick runs a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly, trying to keep everything level, everything steady.

“Yeah. Okay. That—makes sense.”

It doesn’t.

Not really.

But he gets it. He has to.

His gaze flicks between you and Trace again, sharper now, piecing things together with the kind of clarity he usually reserves for crime scenes.

“…You did what you had to do.”

There’s no judgment in his tone. Just something tight. Something restrained.

His jaw flexes.

Another breath.

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, recalibrates. “I’m not here to make this harder on you.”

That part’s true. Even if something inside him feels like it’s splintering.

He takes a small step back this time, giving space instead of closing it.

“But don’t… don’t look at me like I didn’t come.”

His voice dips, softer, rougher around the edges.

“Don’t do that.”

His eyes meet yours fully now—no deflection, no humor to hide behind.

“I searched every inch of that ocean. Every lead. Every—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head once. “You don’t get to think I gave up on you.”

Silence stretches for a beat.

Then his gaze shifts again, back to Trace. Measuring. Not with anger—but with something heavier. Something complicated.

“…He kept you alive.”

It’s not a question.

Dick nods once, slow.

“Then I owe him.”

The words are steady. Meant.

But his hands curl slightly at his sides anyway.

A pause.

Longer this time.

“…Guess we’ve got a lot to figure out, huh?”

There’s a faint, tired attempt at a smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.