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He feels hands all over him. Fingers curling around his hair, rough hands caressing his cheek. His shoulders being pushed back until he felt the gravel and stones on the rooftop pushing into the skin on his back. Sharp fingernails clutching at his arm so hard he feels the skin begin to break.
He can’t see anything but her. Her face, her hands, her suit and suddenly it doesn’t feel like he’s anywhere, because the only thing that’s there is her. He isn’t there, not really, because his whole body feels like it’s numb and on fire at the same time. He says something – he must be saying something because he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want her, and she’s in his ear and she’s whispering to him and she’s so incredibly everywhere that he can’t feel anything else.
“Shh. Quiet, mi amor.”
And suddenly Dick jerks upright in his bed, covered in sweat and tears and his heart feels like it’s going a million miles an hour. He glances furiously around his room, looking for something to remind himself that he’s here, and he’s real. His eyes catch the digital clock on his nightstand, and the glaring ‘4:37 am’ leaves him with an empty feeling in his chest. He sighs, and slumps back down. Another night of just over four hours of sleep. Awesome.
Dick turns onto his side. In the pitch black of his room, there’s nothing to focus on besides his own thoughts. If he were a better man, he would talk about the sudden resurgence in memories of Blockbuster and Tarantula. He would call someone – Bruce, maybe, or Wally or Artemis or Roy or hell, even Jason, and tell them that he keeps remembering what happened. And Dick would tell them why (something he hasn’t even let himself think about yet), tell them that she’s being released from prison in four days.
But he isn’t a better man. So, he lies awake in his bed at the asscrack of dawn. Alone.
Tax fraud. Out of all the things they could have gotten her for – out of all the murder and theft and the… out of everything, it was tax fraud. Dick isn’t sure if he wants to start laughing or scream into his pillow, so he does neither. He just stares into the darkness of his apartment.
Of course, it isn’t as if he could do anything about it even if he did come forward and testify against her. It happened right after the murder of a civilian, and he was, at the time, a uniformed officer. On the wildly unrealistic condition that it was overlooked, there’s still the matter of convincing a court of law and a jury. And preferably not drawing enough attention to the case that reporters and journalists would take notice. The last thing he needed was for his entire family to find out about Tarantula through the news.
Assuming the universe worked in his favour for long enough to allow that insanely improbable sequence of events to occur, it would only buy him about 6 or 7 months. Maybe 9, maximum.
So, all in all, it just wasn’t worth all the trouble. He would just deal with the terrible onslaught of memories as they came and try to forget about Flores the moment they were gone again. This had happened before, after all. After Blockbuster had been murdered by the two of them, Dick started having the same thing he was having now. Constant nightmares, replaying the situation in his head over and over. Looking at it from all angles, agonising over it, until one day they just… stopped.
Babs called it repression. Dick called it natural. The world kept turning.
The sun was beginning to rise. A few rays of light were illuminating Blüdhaven, casting brightness and shadows over the city Dick came to think of as his home. He could see parts of his bedroom now. His dirty, off-white walls that Dick doubted had ever been properly cleaned. A small, constantly growing pile of dirty laundry next to his wardrobe, which was held together entirely by tape and prayers. The little table next to his bed, home to his clock (now reading 5:08 am), two books Jason had recommended to him and a small bottle of pain meds for when any injuries he had were kicking his ass in the night. They were almost out. He needed to refill them soon. They came in handy often when your night job consisted of fighting criminals for hours.
Dick stares at the bottle. He wonders, has a thought that crosses his mind often when he feels the avalanche of memories overwhelming him. What if he had stood in front of Catalina when she shot Blockbuster? Would the three of them all be alive and free? Would what happened after still have happened?
Maybe it would have gone better. For everyone – maybe Catalina would be free. Maybe Blockbuster would still be alive, and Dick wouldn’t have to think about that night every time he drank too much or let himself get lost in his own thoughts.
He wonders if she would have shot him. He thinks maybe it would have been preferable to whatever was going on now.
The daylight has completely lit up his apartment. He can see everything clearly, and he knows that it’s probably a good time to get out of bed. Dick still has time to go for a run this morning, and he knows that the burn in his muscles, the distracting pain that comes with a run would serve as a good distraction from the crushing weight of the avalanche.
His phone vibrates. He picks it up, checking the notification and its origin. A message from Damian that reads: Hello Richard. Please contact me back if you would be willing to bring me from the manor to the Blüdhaven museum. I wish to complete an assignment via historical artefacts stored there. Signed, Damian Wayne.
Dick laughs and tells Damian that he’ll be over at 9 to pick him up. For the first time since he got the news about Flores, he isn’t thinking about her. He’s thinking about his younger brother, and which restaurant to take him to after they’re done with the museum.
He rolls out of bed with a small smile on his face.