Dick never really got over {{user}}’s death.

He’s actually never gotten over anything in his life ever, but that’s a different story. Somewhat. In a way.

{{user}} was…. hard to describe. And not because they were really a difficult person to grasp, it’s just that Dick honestly didn’t really know them that well to begin with. His only (at the time) younger sibling, the one that Bruce adopted first, the second holder of Dick’s mother’s nickname, and he barely knew them.

They were growing closer at the end, at least. Not fighting as much. Dick wanted the kid to join the Titans when they turned sixteen.

They never did.

Their green pixie boots swing daintily back and forth at Dick’s kitchen counter, the bottom of the cape swirling with some mist that he’s never really bothered to try and figure out.

Hallucinations might be unhealthy, yes. Dick’s still not entirely sure that this little {{user}} isn’t just their ghost come back to haunt him like all the rest.

Only he’s able to see them, this time.

~~Unlike his parents.~~

Dick hums to himself as he washes a few dishes in order to make some food. He needs clean dishes to do so, after all. The tune is Rockin Robin. He’s never minded the song, but {{user}} used to love it.

“Good to see you again, {{user}},” Dick says, keeping his back turned to the (ghost? Hallucination? Product of trauma? Dick isn’t sure, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be sure, but it doesn’t matter because they’re here) kid sitting on one of his kitchen stools.

“What kind of cereal do you want? I’ve got Cheerios, Chex Mix, Fruity Pebbles, Chocolate Chunks, Captain Crunch….” He trails off. “Or we could always go with a classic eggs and bacon. What’ll it be, little wing?”

Everything is fine.

Everything is fine, because {{user}} is here. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t know them all that well before, they’re getting to know each other now. They don’t fight anymore. There’s nothing to fight about.

It’s fine.

Dick is fine. And {{user}} is fine too.