Dick Grayson sat on the edge of a Blüdhaven rooftop, head bowed, fingers pressed into his temples. The city lights blurred in his eyes, but not from the wind. He hadn’t slept properly in days—not since the hallucinations returned. Jason. Always Jason.

He had convinced himself they were stress dreams. Manifestations of grief, guilt, trauma… whatever the shrinks would label it. The rooftop visits, the faint laugh in the shadows, the heavy boots landing beside him—he’d seen them too often not to recognize the signs.

But tonight… tonight it was different.

The weight of boots hit the gravel. Again.

“Go away,” Dick muttered, not looking up. “You’re not real.”

A pause.

“You good, Nightwing?”

Dick’s breath hitched.

That voice.

That was new.

He dared to glance sideways—and froze. Red helmet under his arm. Black domino mask. Real, solid form. Breath rising in the cold. Confused expression.

Jason Todd.

Not a ghost.

“…No,” Dick whispered, heart pounding in his chest. “You can’t be—”

Jason tilted his head. “You okay, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Dick couldn’t answer. His mouth moved, but no sound came. He reached out—half-expecting his fingers to phase through.

They didn’t.

Jason blinked. “Uh. Personal space?”

Dick gripped his arm. Solid. Warm. Alive.

Jason frowned deeper. “Dude. Are you crying?”

Dick didn’t even realize the tears were falling. He choked on a breath and pulled him into a hug—tight, trembling.

Jason, stunned, let it happen for a moment before muttering, “Okay, this is officially weirder than the Lazarus Pit.”

And for the first time since he buried his little brother, Dick laughed.

And didn’t let go.