Chapter Text
He didn’t remember waking up.
Only the heat.
A fire, unbearable and searing, burrowed deep into his shoulder, branding muscle and bone. It wasn’t pain like he'd ever known. Not the sharp agony of injury or the ache of exhaustion, this was cosmic, a celestial torch being driven through him. A punishment. It left him trembling, tasting smoke at the back of his throat.
Then came the airless panic.
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. All he knew was that he needed out.
Frantic hands clawed into darkness. He felt walls too close, too solid. They groaned under his fists as he slammed against them, splinters biting into his knuckles. His legs kicked weakly beneath him, tangled in cloth and cold earth. He pushed upward, fingernails shredding as he dug, burrowed, ascended.
Then his fist punched through something thin and wet, snow.
He broke the surface with a gasp that sounded like a drowning man tasting the sky. His body lurched upward from the grave like it had been spit out by the earth itself. Snow clung to his lashes. His mouth gaped, drinking in air so cold it burned. He coughed, wheezed. Tried to sit up.
He blinked. The stars above seemed wrong. The sky was so open.
For a moment, he lay sprawled in the snow-dusted grass, not moving. His chest heaved, the thrum of a heartbeat roaring in his ears.
Then, trembling, he rolled onto his side, coughing. The snow under him hissed, steam rising in soft curls from where his body had emerged. Around him, in a perfect circle several feet wide, the ground was blackened, steaming, and devoid of ice. Melted. Scorched. As if something too powerful, too other, had seared its mark into the earth just to reach him.
The grave was behind him, half-collapsed, dirt piled around its edge like vomit.
He stared at the ring of thawed, steaming earth. Snowflakes continued to fall gently around the perimeter, refusing to touch the heat. The trees beyond the cemetery stood motionless, their limbs bare and skeletal.
He was alone.
Shivering, Dick forced himself up to his knees. His suit, a black one, sleek, now soaked with earth and melted snow, hung off him. His teeth chattered. He fumbled with the buttons of his dress shirt, prying it open with shaking hands.
No scars. No wounds. Not even bruising. His torso was smooth, unmarred.
It should have been torn apart.
He remembered the motel in Montana. Remembered the growl, the snarl, the ripping of flesh as claws and teeth dragged him across cheap carpeting. The blood. His blood.
He should be dead.
But the burn on his shoulder still radiated heat. He touched it with trembling fingers and winced. It pulsed beneath his skin, hot and undeniable. A message. A mark.
A bark echoed from somewhere in the distance. Thin. Familiar. He flinched violently and spun.
Just gravestones.
Then he saw it. The headstone directly in front of where he’d emerged.
Richard John Grayson
Beloved Son. Brother. Friend.
19XX – 20XX
The words blurred. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but the engraving didn’t change.
To the left and right, two more names caught his gaze:
John Grayson. Mary Grayson.
His throat closed. He pressed two trembling fingers to the side of his neck.
A pulse. Alive.
Or something that mimicked it. He didn’t feel like a ghost. There was no rage, no cold detachment. Just confusion. Exhaustion. He felt sore and bruised, his body aching in ways that were real. He felt very much alive.
So he stood. Slowly. Groaning with the effort. The cemetery stretched around him like a forgotten dream, hushed and still beneath the snow. His shoes squelched as he staggered toward the office near the cemetery gates. A warm rectangle of light spilled from its small window.
He knocked. A pause, then the door creaked open. A man with a grizzled beard and a wool cardigan squinted at him through wire-rimmed glasses. He looked Dick up and down then gave a slow nod. "Been there."
He opened the door wider, gesturing him to come inside. Dick stepped forward, unsure if the warmth that met him was real. It smelled of old books, burnt coffee, and wood polish.
"Who were you visiting?" the man asked.
He hesitated. "My parents," he said, the lie bitter and easy.
The man nodded. "Coffee?"
Dick took it with both hands. The heat grounded him. He drank it fast, ignoring the burn.
"What can I do for ya?"
"Phone," Dick said, gesturing to himself. "Had a... rough night. Didn’t think through how I’d get back."
"Of course." The man reached beneath the counter and slid over a battered rotary phone.
"Take your time. I’ll be out making rounds."
He disappeared out the back, coat tugged over his shoulders.
Dick grabbed the receiver and dialed Jason’s burner. No answer. Another number. Nothing but static. He then dialed the manor.
He sighed in relief as he heard the familiar voice of the Wayne family butler. "Wayne residence, to whom am I speaking to?"
"Alfred, it’s me, Dick–."
Click.
He stared. Dialed again.
Alfred spoke immediately "Listen here. I will not tolerate such indecency of prank calls. Cease calling this house. For your sake."
Click.
He lowered the phone slowly, his breath catching. Then he glanced around. The front desk sat empty, the door to the back propped open with a rock. He saw a key ring hanging on a hook, a set of gloves, and a wallet. Thick and worn, resting atop a coat rack shelf.
He didn’t think. He just moved, quiet and quick. He slid it open. A couple twenties. He hesitated, stomach churning. Then he took one and replaced the wallet exactly as it was.
He didn’t need much.
Then the hum of the TV in the corner pulled at his attention.
It looked like the news, but something about the interviewee looked almost familiar. "...what possessed you to take over the Iceberg Lounge?" The screen flickered, static threading its edges.
A familiar voice answered, smooth and cocky. "Well, the opportunity came out of the blue, and I took it."
Dick stepped forward.
Jason. Alive. On television. In a pressed suit.
The reporter, blonde, and bright red lipstick, grinned. "Well folks, that is Jason Todd, the new owner of the Iceberg Lounge!"
Dick’s eyes narrowed. What the hell was going on? Where was Oswald? What reality was this?
He glanced to the corner of the broadcast. December 28th.
He died in June. He had been gone for six months.
What had he missed? Was Jason responsible for bringing him back? If he was, he was going to kill that kid.
Then the tv went mute, he looked over as the screen went black. Static burst across the glass, loud and violent. He stepped back, instincts tensing. The overhead lights exploded, raining hot glass across the tile.
Then came the sound. A high-pitched ringing filled his head. Pressure built behind his eyes. It was like someone had plunged a tuning fork into his skull. His legs gave and he dropped to the floor, palms pressed over his ears.
Fear was instant. Ancient. He thought for a moment his head might split open. The sound wasn’t just loud, it was inside him. Scraping against his brain, digging into language, rewriting something in his blood.
Then, just as suddenly as it began… Silence.
No static. No lights. No sound. He lay panting, ears ringing with absence.
The door opened.
The man looked down at him a little worried and full of pity. Like a parent who caught their child with a fever. "Hey, kid. You alright? Want me to call you a car?"
Dick nodded slowly, still on the floor. "Yeah. Please. Thank you."
Minutes later, he slid into the backseat of the car, eyes distant. Snow tapped softly against the windows. He bet he looked like a hungover bachelor.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
Dick didn’t answer immediately. He looked down at the hand resting over the burn on his shoulder. The heat still pulsed, steady as a drum. He pulled the bills out of his pocket and handed them to the driver.
"Is this enough to get me to the Iceberg Lounge?"