Possible triggers for depression.
Sometimes, Dick feels like a zombie. Like he's the walking dead. Like nothing will ever be good again. Sometimes, he takes too much weight onto his shoulders, and he never puts it down. There's a point where he crumbles to dust underneath all that weight, and there's nothing for him to do but ride the breakdown and wait until he can bear the weight and start the whole process over again.
Most of the times, when he's all but dust, he ends up at the manor. The living room couch, watching old black and white films with Bruce's arm curled around him. The Cave, discussing a case with Bruce like Dick's Robin again. Bruce's bedroom, curled up underneath the covers with Bruce—and sometimes Tim or Cass—where the nightmares can never seem to touch him anymore.
In the end, though, it doesn't really have to be the manor. As long as he's with Bruce as he picks himself up and puts himself back together. As long as he can sit with Bruce (dadbrotherfriendfamily) and not have to do anything but be for a couple of hours.
Because Bruce will never ask. Dick knows that Bruce sees right through him, but Bruce will never find the words to ask about what happened. And maybe that's because Bruce doesn't really know how, but Dick doesn't mind. Because all Dick needs is Bruce to be there.
That's all Dick needs. Just Bruce by his side. After all, they're Batman and Robin, and Batman and Robin never die, right?
Wrong. Wrong.
It figures that when Dick's standing on the edge of a metaphorical cliff, Bruce up and dies on him.
"Are you quite alright, Master Dick?"
Dick blinks up at Alfred from the case file he's looking over. Alfred's frowning at him from across the room, and Damian's absolutely nowhere to be seen. There's two full plates of food on the table. Neither of them have been touched.
"Fine," Dick says as he finally grabs his fork and eats, feeling as far from fine as can be. But Alfred has a lot on his shoulders, too. Maybe more than Dick does, and Dick doesn't want to upset anything right now. He hasn't quite crumbled yet, even though he's just on the brink, so he'll wait it up. Maybe he'll call Clark or Wally. Maybe if he calls Tim again, Tim will finally pick up. Or maybe he'll just ignore it until it goes away.
Never worked before—for him or Bruce, but it's worth another shot, right?
The food is like cement in his mouth, but there's nothing to be done about it. He eats mechanically. Scoop into mouth, chew, swallow, and start all over again. He gets about halfway through his meal before he can't eat anymore, but that's more than he thought he'd manage.
It's more than Damian ate. He'll have to address that soon, too. Another thing on his growing how in the hell did Bruce handle this list.
"Thanks for the food, Alfie," Dick makes sure to say as he excuses himself for the table and heads for the Cave, where Damian is sure to be tinkering with something.
It's time for patrol, and he hopes that this time won't be a complete disaster.
He's wrong, of course. Because Dick is always wrong nowadays. There's nothing he gets right when it comes to filling Bruce's footsteps, and training a new Robin seems to be failure number one. Right on top of his list.
At least he managed to get a protein bar in Damian before they left. That's something, right?
Still, with Damian still refusing to listen to a word Dick says, Dick's having a hard time not crying out of sheer frustration right now, so all he says when they get out of the batmobile is, "Go to your room, please. We're done for tonight."
Damian sneers—the little brat, but he's growing on Dick, and Dick can't help but feel something. It's only been a few weeks but already Dick's famous tempering is being tamped down by this ridiculous fondness that just makes him fond and terrified and sad all at the same time, and he's not sure he even understands how he's feeling.
That topped with all the other crap he's got to deal with, it's honestly surprisingly that Dick hasn't already broken down into tears.
(At night, alone in his bed, doesn't count. Not really.)
But Damian goes without a word to him or Alfred, and Dick doesn't know how to handle anything right now, so he does what he does best: work.
Slumping into the chair in front of the computer, Dick pulls up some files for the most recent case and starts going over them. The case needs solving, and quick. Before there's another murder on Dick's hands that he can't handle. And because he doesn't have time in the day, it has to be looked over now.
"It's almost three in the morning, Master Dick," comes Alfred's voice from behind him. There's an uncharacteristic sadness to it that has Dick turning towards the butler to shoot him a small, sad smile. Alfred looks troubled, though, when he continues, "Bed may be the best option now. You have that meeting in only a few hours."
"I'll go to bed soon," Dick promises, facing the computer soon. "Just give me an hour or so. I need to make sure that I have all the details memorized."
Alfred sighs, but he doesn't protest anymore, and for that Dick's grateful. And as promised, Dick goes to bed at the time he said he would, except—
Dick wakes up shaking. He doesn't scream or yell, but his heart is about to beat straight out of his chest, and he's soaked in sweat. His hands won't stop trembling, and he doesn't dare get to his feet, for fear that he'll only collapse to the floor and be unable to move.
In order to distract himself, Dick fumbles for his phone and starts scrolling through the case information he'd sent to himself. He scrolls and scrolls and scrolls, until it hits seven am, and he's running on two hours of sleep. But he's worked on less before, and he can do it again.
Eventually, he knows he's going to crash. He's dangerously close. But there's nowhere to turn. No way to relieve this building pressure. The weights getting to be too much, but there's no one to help him share it.
He feels like he's on his own. Without Bruce here, though, it might even be true. He might actually be alone.
Two hours of sleep doesn't take him very far, and before Dick knows it, it's six in the evening, he's been awake for over twelve hours, and he's pretty sure he's downed more coffee in a day than Tim has in his entire life. There's a buzzing under his skin, and a thumping in his brain, and Dick can't focus on the words in front of him anymore. He needs to get back home, but he doesn't think he could possibly drive.
He does anyways, skilled and careful enough that nothing happens, but he probably shouldn't do it again.
By the time he gets home—home. It's not really home anymore, is it? Home has always been defined as family, ever since he was a little boy traveling from place to place. There's never been a house he's called home before the manor, just the people around him. His family. And now his family is gone. Bruce and Tim and Jason aren't here. It's only him and Alfred and Damian, and Dick's never around the two of them enough to say that he's home.
But when he gets home, he's exhausted. His thoughts are all over the place, and there's this distinct feeling that if one more thing happens that he can't deal with right away, he's going to burst into tears.
Alfred takes one look at Dick and his face falls.
"I'm not going out tonight," Dick whispers as he slumps into the couch of the living room, curling in on himself and burying his head in his knees. He feels Alfred's hand on his shoulder. "I'm exhausted, Alf. I don't know if I can keep doing this."
Alfred doesn't respond to that. Just holds onto Dick a little tighter. Dick appreciates it, because he's not sure that anything can be said that won't sound superficial. Because there's really no other option other than doing it. And they both know it.
"Dinner will be served in an hour," Alfred tells him. "Rest until then."
Dick shakes his head and looks up. "Where's Damian?"
"The Cave. Training, the boy said."
"Okay," Dick says, and even though he doesn't want to do anything but collapse on the couch for the rest of the night, he stands up and heads downstairs to find Damian. Alfred lets him go, and Dick pretends like he can't feel the sad gaze burning into his shoulders.
"Impressive," is the first thing out of Dick's mouth when he looks in on Damian's training.
Damian scoffs, but his sword strokes don't falter in the least. "Of course it is."
"You gonna stop for dinner?" Dick asks, leaning against the nearest wall as he continues watching the boy. "Alfred says it'll be about an hour or so. And his cooking is super good. Best food I've ever had. I've been all around the world, and I can definitely say that Alfred's cooking is ranked number one, even over—"
"I won't be joining you," Damian interrupts.
Dick blinks. And then he frowns, because, "You didn't eat last night."
"I did eat. Just not with you."
Dick ignores the heaviness in his chest at that comment. "Okay. Well, I guess it's good that you're eating, at least. What about tonight? Is there something wrong with Alfred's cooking?"
"No," is all Damian offers, and he continues training.
Dick feels like he's banging his head against a wall made of diamonds with how tough this kid is to get close to, but there's something in the back of his mind that won't let him give up. Where usually he might get mad if Bruce had done something like this, Dick just smiles wanly and says, "Okay. Well, if you change your mind, we'll be right upstairs."
Damian says nothing else, so Dick leaves it, glad that the kid isn't starving. One problem down, another to deal with.
Except Damian's less of a problem, and more of a puzzle that Dick is determined to figure out. And maybe it'd be easier if he could spend more time with the kid. But between Bruce's work schedule and sleeping, the only time Dick ever really sees Damian is during training and patrol.
And speaking of patrol—
"Damian?" Dick calls, and he waits for Damian to make a noise of acknowledgement before continuing. "We're going to stay in. Just for tonight. Okay?"
Damian turns towards him quickly, and if Dick hadn't been expecting it, he probably would have jumped. He looks infuriated.
"Why?" Damian demands. "Is this punishment for listening last night?"
"No, Damian—"
"Then why wouldn't we patrol? Is that not what Batman and Robin are for?"
"We're not machines—"
"But we are supposed to be protecting the city, yes?"
"Yeah, but it doesn't have to be every night," Dick tells him, trying to push down his irritation.
Damian clicks his tongue at Dick and swings back around to continue his training, saying, "I bet my father would have gone out as many nights as it took to protect Gotham as the Batman."
Something inside Dick snaps, and for the longest time, he can't find it in him to say anything. The Cave descends into pure silence, and the buzzing under Dick's skin intensifies. His temper is completely gone, and in its place is this sort of blankness. Numbness, maybe.
"Okay," Dick says. Just to say something. He says again, "Okay."
And then he turns on his heel and drags himself back upstairs.
At some point, he finds himself in Bruce's old room, curled up under the covers, room only lit by a single dim lamp. He doesn't move. Doesn't sleep. Just stares blankly at the wall and wonders why he thought he could do any of this. Why he thought he was good enough to be Batman when he can barely be Dick Grayson.
Everything's a mess. He's making a mess of Bruce's life. He's the worst son, and he's sure that if Bruce were alive, he'd find a way to love him anyways.
That thought makes him feel worse.
Alfred comes in a while later, knocking politely while he pretends that standing so near Bruce's bedroom doesn't hurt him to the very core. After all, Dick lost a father, but Alfred lost a son. They're both hurting. And Dick's just going and making it worse.
"Dinner is ready."
"Okay," Dick says.
He gets up from the bed. He eats dinner (without Damian, unsurprisingly), and he's almost halfway through when Alfred announces, "The batsignal is lit, Master Dick."
Dick puts down his fork, hides his face in his hands for three, four, five, and then he's standing up and heading down to the Cave, grabbing a protein bar to throw at Damian as he calls, "Suit up." And then he meets Gordon at the GCPD with Damian as his Robin, and they pretend they can work together seamlessly for the Commissioner's sake.
And everything is absolutely exhausting.
By the time they get home that night, it's four in the morning and Dick has to be up in another two.
Instead of sleeping, Dick finally cries. He curls up underneath Bruce's covers again and stares at the wall as the clock counts down to his next work day, silent tears spilling onto the pillow beneath his head. He cries. He doesn't sleep.
And the day begins again.
And because he's Dick Grayson—because he's Batman—because he's Bruce Wayne's son, Dick tries again. He keeps moving. Even though he feels like he's falling in slow motion, he picks himself and tries to fly again and again and again.