Dick froze with the door nearly closed, a lifetime of fighting crime and ingrained wariness telling him there was something wrong with his apartment, something off and different.
He heard it then, a familiar whine, and ice poured through his veins as he slammed the door shut and took off running, sure he had finally cracked, was imagining the entire thing.
He skidded into his room, and had to stare for a moment, blue eyes locked to brown.
Titus stared at him from where he was curled up on the floor next to Dick's bed, head on a pile of yellow fabric.
"Bad dog!" Dick shouted, rage nearly choking him, fists clenching at his sides.
Dick could see his closet door ajar, could see the box Titus had ripped open, the green mask just peaking out.
He stalked towards Titus, furious, not able to even question what he was doing here, how he had gotten to his small Chicago apartment. Who of his family had dared to intrude on his solitude, and why. He was simply intent of retrieving one of the only remainders of his Robin he could hold to him, besides the memory of his broken and limp in their father's arms.
Titus whined and held his ground, lowering his nose into the fabric that must still smell like his master.
Dick found his rage transmuting fast enough to leave him breathless and choking on sobs as he fell to his knees and buried his face against the dog's warm flank, one hand fisting in yellow, the other curved around Titus' neck, envying the dog's superior sense of smell with all his soul.
"I miss him so much." Dick whispers into Titus' fur, like a secret, like a lie for how little it expresses the burning chasm that opened within him when his little Bat breathed his last.
Man and dog lay entwined, tangled around a bright yellow cape, morning their friend, their almost-son, the boy they both loved, and lost.