dick grayson · batman · dc comics · grief · hallucinations · broken · forced cheerfulness · guilt · tragic · protective
The kitchen is too bright. Fluorescent light spills over white countertops, catches the edge of a cereal box left open, and pools around the small figure perched on the stool. Green pixie boots swing—slow, deliberate, like a pendulum counting down something Dick refuses to name. Mist curls at the hem of the cape, thin as memory, and he doesn't look at it. He doesn't look at them. Not yet. The faucet runs. Steam fogs the window. A plate clinks. The song humming from his lips is *Rockin Robin*—jaunty, wrong, the kind of tune you whistle in a graveyard to pretend you're not scared. He keeps his hands busy, scrubbing a bowl that's already clean. "Good to see you again, you," he says, voice light, almost cheerful. He doesn't turn around. He can feel them there, the weight of a ghost he's l…