Meaning: Trauma, transformation
People say after a certain amount of pain it all begins to feel the same. But he disagrees, because he still remembers the sting of every single scar he's been given.
Everyone handles grief differently. Bruce takes it out on himself, and Barbara takes it out on others. Alfred chooses to keep it to himself, but Dick's a little different. When Jason died, he left Gotham. He didn't know where he was going, and he didn't know what he was planning to do. He just wanted to get as far away as possible, and he didn't tell anyone because he didn't want them to stop him.
It's been two weeks now. Most days have been spent wandering around random cities, keeping to himself and never letting anyone get close. He doesn't even know what city he's in right now, and he can't remember when exactly the drinks started flowing. But ever since he picked up that first bottle, it's just been one after the other - an endless river that washes the guilt, the grief out of his system.
Last night was spent with some blonde. He can't even remember what color eyes she had, much less her name. A few nights before then was a redhead, and a couple before then was…he forgets. Maybe it was another blonde, maybe it was two or three brunettes. He likes brunettes.
But today is like most days. Alone in the dark.
His apartment is a mess, random crap all over the floor. And the worst part is probably the smell. Of course, he can't really smell anything with how much liquid 'courage' he's poured into his system. He couldn't even stand up if he tried.
Dick squeezes onto the bottle, lifting it up weakly before his arm finally gives out and drops it to the floor. It shatters into what feels like a million pieces, and he shakes his head weakly, eyes completely lost and mouth hanging open without any remorse. He groans and struggles to stand back up; this chair is getting really uncomfortable. But he can't. He just doesn't have the strength.
He hears the distant wailing of sirens outside his window and turns his head to see the familiar blue bird poking out of a half-opened duffle bag. A small voice - the responsible voice - tells him to put it on. But he just scoffs and shakes his head before closing his eyes.
He's been responsible his whole life. It's never gotten him anywhere. And neither has that suit.
Nightwing couldn't save his brother. Nightwing couldn't save his parents. Nightwing couldn't save him.
Maybe it would be better if he just stopped trying to be a hero and started accepting what he really was.
A failure.
He, Dick Grayson, is an utterly pathetic, eternally lonely failure.
And those are the last words that echo through his brain before he feels his consciousness drift away into the dark…
Dick's eyes slowly begin to flutter open, and he groans as he takes in the blinding light of the hospital room and the throb of the headache pulsing through his forehead. He struggles to sit up but quickly regrets that decision. He reaches to his face, realizing that it's been cleanly shaven, and shakes his head in confusion as he looks around the rather empty room.
His eyes eventually find their way to the companion seat right next to his bed, currently occupied by a familiar face.
He raises an eyebrow and attempts to sit up once more before silently giving in to his wounds. "Hi…"
She rolls her eyes. "Hi."
"What am I-"
"If you weren't lying in a hospital gown and hooked up to several machines right now, I'd slap the shit out of you." He smirks weakly, still very confused with what's going on.
"Well, thank you for your thoughtfulness. Why am I here?"
Zatanna reaches forward to take hold of his weak hand. "You seriously expect me to just sit there and not look for you after you vanish off the face of the Earth?"
He doesn't respond, too embarrassed to come up with so much as a snarky comeback.
"I thought I'd give you a couple days, but you never called. So I started to look for you. Guess I found you just in time."
"Why am I here?" He repeats his question, and she shakes her head in annoyance.
"Four broken bones, possible alcohol poisoning, physical and mental stress beyond any sane breaking point, and did I mention an overdose?" He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose while she just nods. "Yep. Looks like billionaire playboy Dick Grayson certainly had his fun."
"Okay, I didn't think it wou-"
"You didn't think. Period. Because if you had, you would've come to me, to Wally, to any number of other friends who were just waiting for you instead of running off on your own and getting buzzed on the streets of some deadbeat city looking to kill yourself." He finally tears his face out of his hand to stare at her and immediately notices the cold, barely held-back anger in her eyes and lips.
Something lights up in him. He knows it's probably just the last of the alcohol talking, or maybe it's because he's finally had it with the world, but he can't stop himself from talking back.
"Well, I'm sorry." The tone in his voice immediately tells her to prepare herself, and his face quickly morphs into a scowling fury in a matter of seconds. "I'm sorry I don't have the answers, I'm sorry I'm not the perfect role model who always knows what to do, and I'm sorry I decided to run off instead of talking to a goddamn shrink! I'm fucking sorry, Zatanna! Is that what you wanna hear?! I lost my brother, the only brother I've ever had, and I'm so fucking sorry that I didn't cope in the healthy, socially acceptable manner like all of you expected me to! Because, newsflash, maybe I'm not the perfect kid that everyone keeps making me out to be! Maybe I'm sick of pretending to be for all of your sakes, and maybe I just want to fucking live my life and let myself feel something for once! So I'm so sorry that I didn't live up to everyone's world-shattering expectations, Zatanna!"
The longer he goes on the harder it gets to speak, and pretty soon streaks of thick, powerful tears stream down his face as his voice starts to break and his bottom lip starts to quiver. On instinct, she reaches out to grab his hand, gently squeezing it in a futile attempt to keep him from falling apart. But he's already crumbling and she doesn't think she can stop it.
"I'm s-sorry…I'm so sorry…" The anger's left his voice entirely, now replaced by genuine sorrow, so she knows it's safe to move in. But even if it wasn't, she probably still would've gone for it.
He's crying so much that he can barely get the words out, and she shushes him as he begins to sob into her chest. She gently cradles the back of his head and closes her eyes, whispering soft reassurances into his hair that she doesn't even know for sure that he can hear. A kiss planted to the top of his scalp seems to do the trick, and his whimpers slowly devolve into small pleas as his chest turns sore from the ragged breaths he's forcing out.
Zatanna doesn't leave her seat, she hardly moves a muscle until he's ready to go with her. She makes up her mind to bring him back to her apartment after he's checked out, no matter what dumb excuse she knows he's gonna give to try and get out of it. He can stay there for a few days, maybe more if he wants to. She doesn't mind. She also keeps a mental note to cancel her shows and take a sick day or two from the League. He'll need someone to be with and she wants to make sure he doesn't backslide. But she won't tell anyone. She'll certainly never tell anyone about the drinking, and she won't tell the others he's back in town, much less that he's staying with her. Not until he asks her to.
Because right now Dick needs a friend, not a pity party, so a friend is all she wants him to have.
