Prompt: Past prompt of your choice - Psychogenic Fever/Stress Induced Illness

i loosely remember the plot line of the comics but also when have i ever cared for canon potentially ruining the fanfic - I'm actually Nightwing so this is canon what're you gonna do? tell me it's not? I already said it is. Descartes 

what's funny is I'm thinking of doing whumptober but in a different month even though this was a piss take to get through lol. I saw other people were combining prompts and i was like oh...should've done that but heyho we're here now

After spending so long knowing everyone thought he was dead but also being the only one who knew the truth of what happened, Dick shouldn't be surprised when the stress finally got to him. He'd spent his entire life in a heated game of cat and mouse with death but it felt all the more critical when the world already thought he was gone. It felt even worse knowing that if he failed, all the people he cared about would be brought down with him. Not that they cared much for him now. 

It was easy to attribute the beginning of illness to guilt. His family saw him as a traitor and a hypocrite and he couldn't really deny the accusations either. Even if he did set the record straight with them, at the end of the day he agreed to go and he was starting to feel like it didn't matter that he'd agreed under duress. He didn't reach out until he thought Bruce abandoned him. Although he had reason not to, he could've done it anyway. He could bring up the truth now and lay all his cards on the table but what good would it do? Bruce didn't remember what happened despite his memory coming back and his siblings would either be enraged by his neglect or question him further on why he didn't do anything else. Dick was no stranger to denying his mentor so why would he choose not to do so? He wouldn't have an answer so he couldn't risk the question.

As he got more exhausted and disgusted by his current standing in life, the thought of food made him turn away and he was stuck in bed. Logically, he knew he wasn't stuck. He could leave the covers and go about his day as he had been doing since he got home yet he didn't. Well, it wasn't really his home. There was a bittersweetness to getting a new apartment but at the time, he appreciated the fresh start. He thought he did at least. Then he started missing the small things, how close he was to this hole-in-the-wall cafe that was always empty but somehow stayed open and hearing the little kid next door excitedly ask his mum where they were off to today. The place felt lived in. 

Then he missed the memories. The times when he wasn't held at arm's length in fear he'd leave again or cause some new hurt. The times when he was the saving grace, the neutral zone where people could meet and know they'd be listened to. What was the point in going on with his day when the world kept turning when he was gone? His family had already grieved his absence and when something new came along, he was pushed to the back of their minds. Maybe he had a right to stay there. 

The sickness he felt was probably hunger but he couldn't eat. His brain was a fuzzy mess for the same reason with the addition of sleep deprivation. Despite being trapped in bed, he hadn't been able to sleep that much. The aching was probably from being in the same position too long. Perhaps he'd get bed sores. The risk wasn't enough to make him so much as turn over. The fever could be attributed to not even having the energy to throw back the covers to let some cool air touch his skin. The most he could do was stumble to the bathroom since he didn't fancy laying in his own mess but he always left it until the last moment or when it got too painful. He had just enough lucidity to know the sun was rising and setting but not the ability to know how many times he'd seen it happen. 

Sometimes his eyes would drift to his wardrobe that housed his Nightwing suit. He knew he shouldn't be missing patrols when nothing was wrong with him. He'd just woken up one day and didn't make any plan to leave. Things were so fragile right now that playing hooky was the equivalent of playing with fire. It just felt like all the love he had for his hero career died when his heart stopped. Maybe his heart never restarted. If it did, he didn't feel it anymore. 

When his window opened and a figure slipped inside, he welcomed it without knowing whether it was friend or foe. He didn't move or great it but he appreciated that something could witness him at his lowest. Strange how many times he thought he hit rock bottom and somehow found another lower point in time. The figure rounded the bed and stood in front of him. 

Damian, he identified. Hallucination, he added after a moment. Though the real Damian was happy that the acrobat was not truly dead, the excitement had morphed into a sting of abandonment. He wouldn't come looking for Dick again. Only disappointment would greet him. 

"What're you doing?" Damian asked. Dick always found it weird that his hallucinations took their hero forms. It was never the bare face of someone he knew, it was his colleagues. 

"Resting," he answered, humouring the illusion with a response. Jason's hallucination, when it wasn't berating him, worked as some sort of self-help mixed with torture. Perhaps this would be the same and he'd find some energy to keep going.

"You look ill," it told him in that same serious his youngest brother used. "You weren't answering us. You haven't been Nightwing. What's wrong?"

"I'm resting," he reiterated. 

"You're not resting, you're rotting," it countered. He mustered a shrug. "What are your symptoms?" He didn't reply. It asked him a few more questions before slinking back to the window and leaving. He mourned the company but he couldn't do much to stop it. Story of his life. 

A familiar conjuring visited him next. Jason, donned as Red Hood rather than as Robin, was visibly irritated and didn't show the same concern as its predecessor. It squatted down with a look bordering on disgust. He must look bad so his mind chose to reflect his discomfort in something else. 

"You scared the kid. Whatever mopey bullshit you're pulling, you need to cut it out ASAP," it snarled. Although it changed appearance, it hadn't changed tact. He didn't offer a reaction and hoped it would go away despite that never working. He'd rather Damian come back. "You did this to yourself, you don't get to act all depressed about it because you're dealing with the consequences." 

"Didn't really though, did I?" he mumbled. It scoffed.

"Oh because you're good for that? Or should we just not be pissed off with you making us think you were dead because it was supposed to be for our own good?"

"Bruce said it was." It watched him for a moment, studying his inexpressive face. Weeding out a lie he wasn't telling.

"What do you mean?"

"Was his idea."

"You still agreed to go," it argued.

"Didn't really agree."

"Stop being cryptic for two fucking seconds and give me a straight answer. What happened?" Dick sighed, too tired to fight with the imaginary figure but too exhausted to be yelled at. His brain might be trying to make him see a new point of view or something. If only it was ever that helpful. 

"He wanted me to go. I didn't. We fought and I left."

"What did he say?"

"Not much," he replied. He couldn't remember half of it now, Bruce couldn't remember any of it. It was lost to time. "We fought." It seemed to click then for the hallucination.

"He beat you until you agreed to go," it said. Its expression crumpled for a moment. "After your heart attack, he beat you until you agreed." He would argue that he got some good punches in there too but he lost at the end of the day. It didn't matter what moves he pulled.

"Didn't wanna waste an opportunity, I guess."

"Why didn't you say something?" it shouted. "Why the fuck did you let us think it was your idea?"

"He doesn't remember. May as well have never happened." It stood up and ran a hand through its hair stressfully.

"Well it did happen and if you're lying to me right now, bed rotting is going to be the least of your concerns." He hummed. The figure left and this time, he was grateful for the peace.

"So what's wrong with him?" Tim asked when Jason returned. The night before, Damian had come home as distressed as he allowed anyone to see. He'd told them there was something seriously wrong with Dick and whilst they weren't on the best terms, there was history between them. They couldn't help but care about him. Jason was nominated to knock some sense into him and they half expected him to return dragging Dick by the ear until he apologised for the unnecessary worry. When he came back empty-handed, they knew something was actually wrong and this wasn't a stupid play for sympathy.

Jason walked straight past Tim without uttering a word and shoved Bruce away from the computer. He pulled up the footage from the day Dick 'died' and began to fast forward through it with a face like thunder. He only slowed it down when he saw the first punch was thrown. Audio wouldn't be available without a few extra clicks but they didn't need it. The fight was clear as day. They watched in silence until the end of it, not knowing how or if they should break the quiet.

"Lie to me and you're dead. Do you remember this?" Jason asked Bruce, his voice low as if daring him to call the bluff. 

"I don't remember this," Bruce answered with enough horrified confusion to be genuine. "What's this from?"

"Before Dick left for Spyral. Before you picked out a casket you knew would be empty when you buried it."

"I didn't- I wouldn't. How could I do that?"

"Because you needed Dick to go otherwise we'd all be at risk. With everyone thinking he was dead already, you had the perfect cover."

"Why would Grayson keep it from us? Why allow us to believe he was willing to go?"

"Because Bruce wouldn't remember. It may as well have never happened," Jason answered. "Bruce couldn't apologise and we'd be pissed at the amnesiac instead. Idiot thought it would be worthless to even try to set the record straight."

"How did you know to look for it?" Bruce asked. 

"He told me you made him go and I know you're too paranoid not to keep footage from inside the cave even when you're being an asshole in it."

"Why would he admit it now?" Tim inquired, his eyes fixed on the frozen frame of his brother finally relenting.

"I don't think he knew who he was admitting it to."

"He didn't recognise you?"

"No, he recognised me just didn't know it was actually me," he responded grimly. "I think he's been there for a while. I don't know if he's really sick or not but he's definitely not well."

"We should deal with this discreetly," Bruce announced as he got up. He should've kept his mouth shut.

"Because you want to keep your little dirty secret from getting out? I don't give a fuck if you can't remember doing this to him but you can do one if you think you're getting away with it. You may not remember but it fucking happened. You did it."

"Jason, he doesn't remember," Tim reasoned.

"I couldn't care less! I'm sick of him playing us so we never once blame him for something without a bunch of infighting. He fought Dick when he was still recovering and then he had the fucking balls to pretend as if he was grieving without telling us a thing. He didn't need to tell us where Dick was, what he was doing. All he had to do was say he was still alive and that would've been the end of it." 

He began to storm out before stopping. He thought he was done but he couldn't leave without speaking his mind further. 

"And another thing, you could've gotten him killed that way. Mr Contingency Plan forgot to wonder what would happen if he got taken out of commission. We could've actually lost him and we'd be none the wiser. Deal with this discreetly- you're lucky I'm not telling everyone what happened right now and that's not for your sake. It's for Dick's because he doesn't need a bunch of people flooding his phone or apartment."

"I never said no one can know about this. I'm saying right now we keep it between us until he's okay," Bruce said in a cool tone. "It'll come out when it comes out. It's just at the bottom of the list until we get him looked over. Understand?"

"Don't condescend to me. Yeah, I understand." 

A bowl was thrust in front of Dick's face, the spoon clinking against the porcelain. He started at it for a moment and wondered why on earth he was hallucinating a bowl now. Perhaps it was the hunger getting to him. 

"You need to eat," Jason ordered. Great, Jason was back. He did his best to pretend the bowl wasn't there and neither was the person accompanying it. There was an exasperated sigh. "It's like he's catatonic or something."

"He was like that when I got here," Damian commented. Oh, two of them at the same time? Usually, his hallucinations came alone rather than in pairs. It was rare but not unfamiliar. He wondered why they had come so suddenly but he guessed he must've been asleep or somewhere far off in his own head to notice their entrances. 

"Goldie, you in there?" it asked, giving his shoulder a shake. He frowned. Tactile hallucinations. 

"What if he's having a stroke or an ambient seizure?" Tim fretted. Tim was new to the hallucinations. He wondered if his brain knew that the teen was too logical to conjure his form. Unless these weren't hallucinations. He couldn't ask them for something only they would know because he would also know it. He couldn't ask for something he didn't know because he wouldn't know it. 

"He's not having either," Bruce assured him. The bed dipped and arms pulled him until he was sitting with his back against the headboard. "Dick, you need to eat something. You're making yourself sick," his mentor told him as he popped into his field of vision.

"Okay," he agreed numbly. Jason passed over the bowl and he found soup inside. The warmth spread through his fingers and palms in a way he wasn't sure his brain could replicate. If his brain wasn't creating this then that would mean they were all really here. Was this the first time they'd be in his apartment or had the previous encounters also been real? He spooned some of the soup into his mouth and swallowed thickly. It was then that he finally recognised he was hungry and not just in pain. "Are you here?"

"Yeah, we're here. I'm here."

"Oh," he mumbled. "Were you here before?"

"We were," Jason said, thumbing to himself and Damian.

"So you know?"

"We know."

"Oh. Should we talk about it?"

"Not until you're better. You're looking sick, chum." He hadn't heard that nickname in a long time. "I think you were bound for it."

"I think so too," he admitted. "Can we pretend things are normal for a bit?"

"Yeah, we can do that," Bruce returned, gently tucking some of the greasy curls out of his son's face. There was dread for the conversation to come but for now, they could focus on making him better. They could pretend they weren't shattered and patch up the cracks with scotch tape until they got around to fixing it.